"Heads up, Sparky."
Sören was on his way to the restroom to go before today's filming started, and there was Anthony, striding past to the set. Anthony was carrying something and he tossed it at Sören, who put his hands out and caught it. A rolled-up newspaper.
"So what, I can hit you with this?" Sören brandished the newspaper.
Anthony chuckled. "No. Read it. I left it on the page of interest to you."
Sören was surprised people even still read dead-tree newspapers, and he wondered what was going on - he felt the pit of his stomach rise, hoping that there wasn't a negative article about him, or perhaps worse, that they'd somehow been seen together after all and the rumor mill was churning. He took the paper with him to the bathroom and after he was done with his business, before he washed his hands, he unrolled the paper and took a look.
The headline caught his eye: Justin Roberts, the golden boy of FC Arsenal, had died of COVID in the hospital on a ventilator, with doctors assuming he'd been exposed to COVID following his recent arrest, while he was in police custody.
Sören's jaw dropped. He remembered Justin's refusal to wear a mask or get vaccinated, and the way Justin had scoffed at Sören's long-term chronic illness after his bout with COVID. Justin had been strong and healthy, but Sören knew it could be serious in anyone.
Sören's heart beat faster, a shiver down his spine. His hands shook as he rolled the newspaper back up, tossed it, and washed his hands. He splashed cold water on his face, breathing harder, as waves of complex emotion rolled over him. Relief, then guilt for being glad Justin was dead, then irritation with himself for feeling guilty considering what a monster Justin was, then grief for what he'd endured - horror that it could have been worse; Sören wondered how many other people Justin had abused - then anger with himself for getting involved with Justin at all, and more relief that Justin was dead, that Justin would never abuse anyone else, and Justin wouldn't be able to stalk him and abuse him further.
Sören started babbling to himself in the mirror in Icelandic. "Hann er dáinn. Sá skítur er dauður. Hann er dáinn. Ég trúi ekki að hann sé dáinn. Hann er fokking dáinn."
Sören took some deep breaths - holding it and letting it out as Anthony had suggested the day Sören had a panic attack on set. Sören didn't want to have another reaction on set, so he needed to get himself together.
As coincidence would have it, today they were making medical-theme cakes for frontline NHS workers. Sören didn't know whether to find the timing hilarious or sad, and after racking his brain for design ideas, he decided to make a sort of fucked-up tribute to what happened, where no one would know the deeper significance of the cake except possibly Anthony, if he figured it out.
After a long day - one that seemed longer and more grueling than usual, as if the news had hit Sören with exhaustion - it came time for the NHS party, and then afterwards, the judgment. Sören was on pins the entire time, trying not to panic, trying not to dwell on the fact that Justin was dead, trying not to have a rollercoaster ride of emotions up and down.
The elimination cake was by a thirtysomething brunette named Kate, who broke down crying as Anthony made a face at her cake, a disembodied pregnant-belly-and-boobs complete with a popcorn-texture bra and stretch marks, flesh jaundiced, having an ultrasound.
"I'm expecting an alien to pop out of that thing and eat her face... well, I suppose she doesn't have a face, does she." Anthony shook his head. "Sorry, no."
Vivian's cake, by contrast, was a tasteful light blue scrub top with scissors, stethoscope, needle, pills, and bandaid.
Josiah went for humor, making a cake based on the board game Operation. It had been a hit with the NHS staff, and Anthony chuckled as he viewed the photo gallery before it was cut.
Last to be judged was Sören's cake. He'd made a chocolate-ginger cake, with a fondant petri dish of cute cartoon bacteria with googly eyes and silly faces, sitting on top a display of frosting test tubes collecting blue, purple and green liquid.
Anthony raised his eyebrows at Sören with a smirk - Sören beamed back, knowing Anthony got it - and Anthony let himself laugh out loud, face lit up, shaking his head.
Sören got the gold star.
There were ten contestants left, and it would still be a hard fight to the finish. But Sören had won another round, and he felt that warm glow of pride and confidence.
And the way Anthony smiled at him as he stepped back from pinning the gold star on Sören's apron, made Sören feel even glowier. Shinier. Like he was about to burn up in the light of the sun.
As Sören was in the restroom, getting ready to head back to the hotel, his cell phone went off with a text notification chime. Sören pulled out his cell and saw an unfamiliar number.
Wait for me out in the back. Make sure nobody sees you. -A
Sören exhaled. At first he was confused how Anthony had gotten his cell, since he couldn't recall giving Anthony that information, then he realized Anthony had probably gotten it from records kept for the show. Either way, Sören once again played with fire as he took the risk of heading to the back of the studio, glancing around to make sure he wasn't being spotted or followed, not wanting people to get the wrong idea. A moment after he stepped outside, Anthony's Audi pulled up.
Sören got in. "So what, are you my chauffeur now?"
Anthony chuckled. Then he sobered, giving Sören a sympathetic look. "I wanted to make sure you were all right after the news."
"Jæja, I'm... I'm OK, mostly."
"Mostly."
Sören nodded. "I've got a lot of feelings. Most of them relief. I feel like I'm a bad person for being glad he was dead, but he was a bad person..."
Anthony nodded. "That's why I wanted to check on you. I can only imagine it must be difficult, even if the news is welcome, and I thought I'd ask if you wanted company. I understand if you'd rather have your space, but sometimes it's not good to be alone when -"
"I... I think I'd like that." Sören couldn't believe he was accepting another invite to spend time with this guy, like Anthony wasn't sort of his boss right now but they were becoming friends. It felt surreal.
It felt lethal. Sören didn't want to like him. Sören wanted to keep things professional. He believed what Anthony said about being impartial with his contestants, and Sören demanded it, wanting to win on his own merits, not as a popularity contest. And Sören definitely didn't need any more fuel for this stupid crush he still had, the crush he'd had for years, that not even being called "Sparky" could diminish. Sören didn't want to fall for him, and he knew after the way they'd clicked last week that he was dangerously close to going there, if he wasn't there already.
"Good. Dinner at my place again?" Anthony smiled.
"You're spoiling me." Sören bit his lower lip. He felt a small twinge of guilt at having a world-class, Michelin-starred chef cook for him for free, even though Anthony had invited him as a guest. "At least let me do dishes or something -"
"No."
"I feel like I ought to give you something in return -" Sören realized how that sounded, and his cheeks burned. His face burned even hotter when he admitted to himself he was kind of hoping that was what Anthony wanted.
"Your company is payment enough but if you absolutely insist on giving me something for my time, we could take a detour to the Hilton and you can grab your paintings and show me."
Sören groaned, but he nodded. As afraid as he was of having his art judged by someone known for being highly critical and not exactly nice about it, he knew Anthony wasn't going to let it go. So they stopped at the Hilton for Sören to fetch his plastic-wrapped canvases, and then they were off down the motorway to Anthony's home in Kingston.
Anthony made skewers of lamb, zucchini, red pepper, eggplant and onion, with a beautiful, bright Greek salad on the side. They ate on the terrace tonight to watch the sunset, and to avoid the cats begging. The sunset was especially lovely tonight, a dramatic blaze of sapphire, magenta, orange and gold, every shift of colors creating new and breathtaking patterns.
"I wish I could simultaneously eat and paint," Sören said, and then he sighed. "I wish I could just paint. I left my art supplies behind at Justin's place and he broke my Wacom tablet when he was having one of his tantrums. I lost a shitload of art on that thing, I should have backed it up."
"He should have been a decent human being and not broken it in the first place." Anthony scowled. He reached across the table and put his hand on Sören's wrist for a moment - not too long, but just long enough to send a frisson through Sören's body. "He's dead now. I know that's cold comfort after what he put you through, but he's gone, and good riddance." Anthony raised his glass.
Sören raised his own with a smirk. "Good riddance."
They clinked glasses, then Anthony chuckled.
"What?" Sören raised an eyebrow.
"That cake you made today." Anthony laughed harder. "It was like a celebration cake for Justin's death."
Sören grinned. "I mean, COVID isn't funny, I had pneumonia, lots of good, innocent people have died from it or become disabled from it..."
"No, COVID's not funny." Anthony nodded solemnly, then he grinned back. "But Justin dying is hilarious."
Sören couldn't help laughing too. He facepalmed and groaned, feeling that twinge of guilt again, followed by being annoyed with himself for feeling guilty. "I feel like I shouldn't be glad he's dead, but -"
"But he abused you. Now he can't abuse other people. It's OK, I'm not going to judge you for feeling relief at the news. Remember, I gave you the newspaper so you could see it, I thought it might help if you knew what happened." Then Anthony smirked with a little shrug. "Of course, people think I'm a heartless bastard so I'm maybe not the best person to comment on his demise."
"Well..." Sören exhaled. "You're a dick, but you're not a heartless bastard. A heartless bastard wouldn't have given me an expensive coat for free."
"You needed a warm coat. I had more than one. It didn't seem right to just let you go without." Anthony chewed lamb thoughtfully, and when he was done, he said, "Actually, I want to replace the art supplies and tablet you've lost -"
"Oh Jesus Christ, Anthony." Sören's face burned. "I appreciate the offer but I... I'm not your charity case -"
"Didn't say you were. But it's also a drop in the bucket for me, whilst it's harder for you since you're saving up for a place of your own."
"I still..." Sören took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat, feeling like he'd just stepped into some alternate reality. He wasn't used to people being kind like this, Eiliv had been the exception rather than the rule in the people he'd dealt with over the years. "I feel weird about just taking money from you for nothing."
"There are no strings."
Sören found himself a little disappointed by that, and he wanted to kick himself in the face. He didn't want Anthony to be his sugar daddy - his crush on Anthony had nothing to do with how much money he had, and had everything to do with those sexy green eyes, that smile, that body, his deep voice, his talent, his humor, and his passion for the causes he believed in. The kindness underneath the snarky surface. Anthony's mind turned him on just as much as Anthony's looks, cooking was an art form for Anthony and Sören respected artistry, he loved creative people. He had sat in the kitchen while Anthony worked, wanting to watch, and it had been like watching a rock star play their instrument, the way Anthony was on fire, the intense look in his eyes as he lost himself in his craft. And that was just making a simple dinner for the two of them.
Sören swallowed hard and squared his shoulders. "Even if that kind of money isn't a big deal to you, it's a big deal for me. I come from nothing. And I'm not used to people just giving me things."
There was a long, awkward pause. Anthony continued eating, and so did Sören, and for a moment Sören worried he'd offended Anthony by refusing such a generous offer, but then Anthony said, "Tell you what. Those paintings that you brought over, that I'm going to look at after dinner. I might tentatively be interested in buying one. If I do, that would give you more than enough money to buy paints and brushes and a new tablet, and have some left over. And it's not charity - I do want more art, and as I told you before, I'm not going to hang something in my own home I think is an eyesore."
Sören still felt weird about it, but less weird than if Anthony just gave him money. "All right. Can't promise you that you'll like any of them -"
"Oh, I doubt that very much."
They finished up their dinner and Sören felt like someone on Death Row walking to the execution chamber. "Can we go for a little walk, enjoy what's left of the sunset?" That was a genuine request - Sören loved to look at the sunset, and it was nice to have someone to share it with - but Sören also wanted to stall the viewing of his canvases.
Anthony put on a cap and a hoodie so he wouldn't be recognized, and Sören pulled up his own hoodie, and they walked along the river, pausing to look at the swans gliding serenely in the fading sunset. "This is why I chose this location," Anthony said, gesturing to the swans.
Sören smiled. He found it adorable that Anthony had a weakness for swans. "Pretty birds."
"Yeah. I've always been really fond of swans since I was a boy." Anthony folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. "They're not just beautiful, graceful creatures, but it appeals to the sentimental, romantic idiot side of me that they mate for life. I suppose that's why I haven't gone out looking much since Mark left. I don't want to settle for just a fling here and there. I want depth and connection, someone I can share my life with, and that's hard to find for someone like me. I'm like a swan." Anthony chuckled to himself. "Though, swan courtship is ruffled feathers and aggressive hissing and grunting and most people frown on that sort of thing." He gave a cheeky grin.
Sören wondered about that, why Anthony was going there, if he was just thinking aloud without a filter, or if there was more to that, perhaps Anthony hinting that he was viewing Sören as a prospective partner and these dinners were a form of courtship.
And our ruffled feathers and hissing and grunting. Sören's lips quirked.
He cautioned himself to not get his hopes up - and once again, he wanted a win to be on his own merits, not won on his back.
Sören looked up at the murder of crows flying overhead into the sunset, towards wherever they roosted for the night. "My late husband used to call me lille kråke - little crow - because he was almost a foot taller than me and I have dark hair and wear all black most of the time."
"That's adorable."
Sören laughed and felt that ache, missing Eiliv. He could almost hear Eiliv's gruff voice now. Keep flying, little crow. Find your way home. Sören broke out in gooseflesh under his clothes. He didn't want to think of Anthony as home. But Anthony put an arm around him for just a moment and Sören shivered, cock stirring, fighting the urge to kiss Anthony here at the river in the sunset, to touch that secret romantic heart.
They went back to Anthony's place and Anthony took off his cap, hair mussed, and took off his hoodie - he had on a navy blue button-down shirt and faded jeans, and he undid a couple buttons of his short, exposing dark chest hair. "I'm a bit warm after the walk," he explained.
Sören's breath hitched. He wanted to unbutton the rest of those buttons and run his hands through the chest hair. He wanted to rub his nose in it, he wanted to lick it. It didn't help that Anthony's slightly messy hair reminded Sören of sex, and his mind's eye conjured a delicious image of what Anthony would look like after a good romp, flushed and sweaty, hair tousled.
Jesus Christ, stop drooling over him.
Anthony brought out some sparkling water for both of them and then he sat next to Sören on the couch, as Sören finally unwrapped the canvases, heart beating faster.
Most of the paintings Sören still owned and hadn't sold yet were of the Icelandic landscape - waterfalls, fjords, volcanoes, the black sand beach of Reynisfjara - with ramped up, hypersaturated, dreamlike colors, and a touch of magical realism, with sprites and rock-trolls. One of the paintings was of a woman with wavy red hair past her shoulders, green eyes, dancing with color-shifting veils, and where she danced, flowers bloomed. "That was from a dream," Sören explained.
Anthony just nodded, but didn't say anything.
Another of the paintings had Viking ships but they resembled swans rather than dragons - this had been painted many years ago, before Sören knew about Anthony's love of swans - and some of them were on fire, under a stormy, ominous sky. Anthony's mouth opened and his eyes widened, but again, he said nothing. Somehow, saying nothing was worse to Sören than making criticism, and Sören squirmed, going out of his mind with wondering whether Anthony liked the paintings or thought they were horrible. And at least some of his discomfort was with the proximity of Anthony's body, smelling the intoxicating jasmine-musk of his cologne, wanting him.
The last painting was the most personal to Sören. Two phoenixes, one fire, one water, hovering together above flames and ocean waves, tails twined, over a background of space, stars and nebulas. Anthony studied this one the longest, then he said, "I want to buy this one."
Sören gave a nervous laugh. "That one isn't for sale."
Anthony looked at Sören and raised an eyebrow. "You haven't heard my offer yet."
Sören exhaled. He didn't want to be rude - and he really did need money - but... "There are reasons why it's not for sale."
"I'd like to hear them."
Sören rolled up his sleeves, revealing the flames on one arm, ocean waves on the other. Then he pulled his sweatshirt up over his head, to show the ink on his arms went all the way up to his shoulders... and led out to ink on his back, the very same fire and water phoenixes in his painting.
Then Sören turned around - he noticed Anthony staring at his pierced nipples - and Sören put his sweatshirt back on. Anthony looked a little sad as Sören sat back next to him.
Anthony took a moment to find his words. Sören wondered if seeing him shirtless for a minute had an effect on Anthony's brain; he hoped it did, even as he thought Anthony was out of his league and it was unprofessional and, and, and...
Anthony cleared his throat. "There's a story behind that painting and your ink," Anthony said, his voice husky. "Unless you're just a body modification enthusiast -"
"Well, I am, I have my ears and nipples pierced, as you can see, and I have a Pri - ah, never mind." Sören's face burned, checking his lack of brain-to-mouth filter.
"A what?" Anthony's eyebrows went up.
"Ah ha, I. Ah. You don't want to know."
"I do, actually." Anthony gave a little smirk.
Sören's cheeks burned hotter, not able to believe they were even having this conversation. "I have a Prince Albert. A ring in the head of my -"
"I see." Now Anthony's cheeks were pink. He quickly looked away, but then their eyes met and Sören noticed Anthony was breathing a little harder. Sören was too, pulse racing, cock stiffening, fighting the urge to tell Anthony he could see it if he wanted.
Sören shifted focus back to why the painting was for sale. "But the ink on my arms and my back isn't just because I like body mods." He took a deep breath, preparing to confess something even more intimate than having a cock piercing. "So, both my parents are dead, and I was raised by my father's sister and her husband, who were abusive drunks. I was bullied in school. I self-harmed as a teenager, I struggled with feeling suicidal. I met Eiliv when I was nineteen, and we had fun together, he was good to me. Psychologists say that people with PTSD tend to have mental health crises when they're finally somewhere safe and they can finally start to process stuff they've been holding back in survival mode, and about two years into our relationship I started self-harming again, not because he did anything wrong, but I was having issues that someone loved and accepted me and I didn't feel worthy and..." Sören sighed, looking down.
Anthony waited quietly.
Sören went on. "Eiliv was very supportive of me. He got me to talk to a therapist, and he encouraged me to take up art again, which I'd done as a teenager and stopped after my uncle destroyed all my work and my art supplies, telling me I wasn't a real man. Eiliv said his little crow was a phoenix, starting my life over again from the ashes. From the time I was four, I had recurring nightmares about burning to death which made no sense because I hadn't seen it on TV, nobody had a fire in town or anything... and those dreams flare up when I'm having a hard time. It feels like I'm burning to death, on the inside. So I added a water phoenix to try to balance it out. I like to go to the ocean when I need to reset my brain, Eiliv and I used to go on holiday to the sea at least twice a year because he knew I needed it. I spent six years on the ocean on a cruise ship as one big long reboot, after Eiliv died."
There was another long silence, and for a moment Sören worried that he'd said too much, like he sounded unstable, but then Anthony put a hand on his arm - making Sören's cock throb; Sören hoped Anthony wouldn't notice he was getting hard - and Anthony said softly, "That's a beautiful story. Very touching."
Sören sighed with relief, and longing.
Anthony smirked. "The name Sparky is even more appropriate now. Sparky the Phoenix."
Sören narrowed his eyes, but he was more amused than annoyed. Anthony's smirk became a grin and Sören couldn't help grinning back, laughing. He gave Anthony a playful little shove.
Anthony chuckled, then got serious again as he studied the painting some more. "I won't ask you to sell it, then. I understand why you won't."
"Thank you."
"The rest of these are good. Better than good." Anthony took the painting of Reynisfjara out of the pile, where the basalt columns had faces like rock trolls, and underneath the stormy sky there was something glinting in choppy waves, a mysterious light. "I'd like to buy this one. How much do you think is fair?"
Sören quoted him.
Anthony laughed and then he frowned, shaking his head. "You're not charging enough." He made Sören an offer that was several times what Sören was asking.
Sören's jaw dropped. "That's too much -"
"No, no it's not. Not for something of this quality." Anthony put the painting on the coffee table and then he leaned back, an arm across the back of the couch, not quite around Sören, but getting there. "I have another offer for you, besides wanting to buy this. I'd like to commission you."
"OK, possibly maybe." Sören was picky about taking commissions because he didn't want to accept one, paint within someone else's guidelines and still be told he'd done it wrong and have the patron throw a fit. And Anthony was harder to please than most. "What did you have in mind?"
"I would like you to paint a mural at my restaurant in London. Carte blanche."
Sören was absolutely shocked. For a moment he couldn't breathe, and it felt like his sense of reality was being shattered. It was one thing to receive compliments on his art from someone like Eiliv, or the handful of people who'd bought his paintings over the years. It was another thing for a celebrity chef to give him this kind of exposure, and mean it sincerely.
It was also a dream come true. Sören enjoyed cooking, he enjoyed making cakes, and he wanted to win the show. But working in one of Anthony's kitchens if he won was means to an end, a way to support himself until he could retire early and focus on his art. If he won, but also took the commission, he could probably sell more paintings while he worked, enough to accelerate the retirement process.
"What do you say?" Anthony cocked his head to one side.
Tears came to Sören's eyes, his heart soaring, grinning so hard his face hurt. Caught up in the giddy rush of euphoria, he threw his arms around Anthony's neck, giggling, and Anthony hugged him back...
...and suddenly, their lips met, and parted, and their tongues were seeking, exploring, playing. Sören didn't know who initiated the kiss, and it didn't matter. They were kissing deeply, hungrily, Sören's face in Anthony's hands while Sören's hands slid down over Anthony's chest and arms, feeling his pecs, his biceps. They kissed again and again, and Sören's cock stiffened even more, thrilling to the way Anthony moaned and trembled as Sören's hands continued roaming, their tongues teasing.
It was Sören's turn to moan as Anthony moved closer and began kissing Sören's neck. Sören was so sensitive there, and a delicious frisson went through him, nipples aching. Sören's hands strayed lower, rubbing Anthony's stomach in slow, lazy circles, then lower still. Anthony was rock hard in his jeans. With shaking hands, Sören began to unbutton Anthony's shirt, slowly, fumbling a little, as their mouths crushed together once more, kissing fiercely. Sören kissed and licked at Anthony's neck and throat, making Anthony groan. Sören breathed in his cologne, rubbed his nose in the exposed chest hair, and kissed his way back up, trailing kisses along Anthony's clean-shaven jaw, and they kissed again. Anthony's thumb strayed to brush a pierced nipple through Sören's sweatshirt, and Sören nipped Anthony's lower lip. Their tongues licked together, before their lips met again and the kiss deepened, heated.
Then Anthony pulled back, breathing harder - Sören melted at the heat in Anthony's green eyes - and Anthony looked off to the side, shaking his head. "We can't do this," Anthony said. "You're a contestant. It's unethical."
"Yeah." Sören sighed, feeling like the sky was falling, the weight on his shoulders. He wanted to cry, even though part of him was still elated the desire was mutual. He knew Anthony was right. If they got involved, Sören would never know if he won on his own merits or not. Worse, if it leaked that they got involved while Sören was still a contestant, it would turn into a media circus in very short order, one that would hurt Anthony's reputation and possibly drive him out of business.
"Here, I... I'll take you back to the hotel." Anthony got up, not even looking at Sören as he walked over to put on a peacoat and grabbed his keys.
Sören also got up, cheeks on fire, feeling absolutely ashamed of his lack of control, and now they'd made things weird, and that probably destroyed any chance they had at either friendship or something more. Sören was in such a rush to get out of there that he didn't even realize he'd left the paintings behind at Anthony's place until they were three minutes away from the Hilton.
"My paintings," Sören said as Anthony pulled up at the door of the hotel.
"Shit." Anthony grit his teeth.
"Oh god." Sören held back the tears.
"In my current mental state, I don't want to have to turn around and go back and drive you here again. Do you want me to swing over tomorrow and -"
"I don't think I can deal with seeing you tomorrow," Sören said honestly, his heart breaking.
Anthony gave a curt nod. "Understood. How about next week, after filming, we figure out how to get your paintings back to you? I swear I won't sell them or keep them for myself or let anything happen to them."
As much as Sören had a hard time trusting other people, he had a feeling he could take Anthony at his word. "OK."
Anthony put out his hand to shake, and Sören took it, and then suddenly they were kissing again, hot and needy, shameless. Sören whimpered into the kiss and Anthony responded with a deep grunt.
Anthony pulled back, panting, eyes glittering with lust. "Go."
Sören got out of the car without another word.
go to Chapter 9 | go to story index | go to O-fic index | go to home page