Sören let out a low whistle as he came outside and saw a black Audi A7 sitting in front of his apartment building. He wasn't entirely a stranger to nice cars - Mark had driven a Jaguar - but it had been quite awhile since Sören had been in something this spiffy himself. He felt a twinge of apprehension as he climbed in the passenger seat, thinking to himself, This is how Alice felt as she started to fall down the rabbit hole.
"Hi," Anthony said when Sören climbed in.
"Hi." Sören glanced over.
Anthony wasn't in a suit anymore - he was wearing a forest green cashmere sweater that brought out the green of his eyes, and faded jeans. He was still wearing the Rolex, and still managed to look somewhat elegant in more casual clothing. He definitely looked handsome, and he smelled good - Sören caught a whiff of cologne, not overpowering, a citrus-mint-evergreen scent. Sören liked it.
Sören himself had gone with a black button-down long-sleeved shirt and black cargo pants. He neither wanted to dress up too much nor dress down too much, and felt he'd struck a good compromise. Sören's shoulder-length black curls hung loose to his shoulders, and he'd given his beard a little trim after he got home from work, and conditioned it with beard oil; he could still smell the lavender.
They spent the first few minutes of the journey in a somewhat awkward silence, like they didn't quite know how to break the ice, and when they hit a light and had to wait, Sören took a deep breath and said, "I hope the rest of your day wasn't too terrible. I know dealing with my outburst was probably the last thing you needed on your break -"
Anthony waved a dismissive hand. "Thursdays are my slowest day of the week, most of the time. I usually don't have court then. Even so..." Anthony looked over. "Life happens, and doesn't run on a neat and orderly schedule. I imagine you've had a far worse time of things the past seven days or so, than I have."
Sören sighed. "Well, thank you again for offering to get me out of the house, and out of my head, tonight. I appreciate it."
"You're welcome." Anthony gave him a wry smile. "Thank you for not hating me."
"Oh, I don't know that I've made up my mind on that yet," Sören teased. Then he quickly added, "Your offer to take me out means you're probably not terrible."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." Anthony smirked. "There are some who'd likely disagree with you."
"'Let's kill all the lawyers'," Sören quoted Shakespeare. "So... you're part of Lincoln's Inn, I take it? You're a... solicitor?"
"Barrister," Anthony said.
"Ah, right." Not having had much opportunity to deal with lawyers in his lifetime, apart from the divorce, Sören still had difficulty distinguishing between the two. "I should have realized that when you mentioned court."
"It's all right."
"What specialty of law?"
"Criminal defense."
That explained Anthony's reaction when Sören first confronted him: Was one of my clients someone who personally wronged you, or someone in your family?
Sören took it that Anthony got a lot of flak for his line of work, because Anthony quickly followed up with, "The police disproportionately target people of color and the poor. I use my privilege to fight for people with less."
Sören nodded. "So you're not an ambulance chaser."
Anthony snorted. "No. Sometimes I wish, that would make my job easier." Anthony grinned, then he got serious again. "My most recent case was a woman who attacked her partner in self-defense. It's heartbreaking some days."
"I bet." Sören frowned. He didn't want to like this guy, but he admired that sense of conviction. A modern-day paladin. "So is that why you got into law, then? Were you one of those liberal activist types when you were in uni? Not that there's anything wrong with that, I'm pretty liberal myself."
Anthony nodded. "I was part of a Marxist discussion group when I was in uni, but I kind of 'sold out' when I got older and accustomed to a certain standard of living expected among my brethren. But to answer your question about the whys, no, it was a bit more personal than that." Anthony took a deep breath. "My uncle was a Gulf War vet and came back with PTSD. He had a flashback in public and ended up going off on someone and he could have done jail time if he hadn't had a good barrister who argued to keep him out. I was very close to my uncle - he was gay, he knew I was gay, he was one of my few sources of compassion and understanding back in the 1990s. So that left an impression on me."
Sören fought the urge to give Anthony a hug. He admired Anthony even more now. He also sensed there was a lot more substance than the flashy rich boy exterior showed, and found himself intrigued. "That's... heartwarming. Well... not heartwarming that your uncle was in such a bad way, but you get what I mean, I hope. It's beautiful to see someone passionate about what they do, wanting to be a force for good in the world." The word "beautiful" felt a bit strong and Sören immediately felt awkward about its choice, but Anthony's smile put him at ease. "Do you still keep in touch with your uncle?"
"He's gone." Anthony exhaled sharply. "He killed himself in 1998."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
Another awkward silence hung between them. They arrived at the restaurant and were promptly seated. Sören had a hard time deciding as he looked at the menu, everything sounded delicious, but Anthony said, "I highly recommend the panang, or if you like shellfish, the lad nah taley."
They both went with chicken panang, and tom yum soup with shrimp. As they waited for their food, Anthony said, "I feel like I've been rude, talking about myself so much, and haven't asked anything about you."
"It's OK." Sören gave a nervous laugh. "I don't think you're rude, but I'm probably not a good judge of that because I'm terrible at small talk."
"Me too." Anthony smiled. "Honestly, I don't socialize much. Or at least I don't anymore. Hence the Grindr app, because I don't know how to go out and meet people, and bars and clubs are, um, fraught."
Sören thought about asking why, but he didn't want to pry. "I'm kind of a lone wolf too. I'm casually friendly with a couple neighbors, but..." Sören shrugged and leaned back in the booth seat. "I met Justin as a complete fluke, I was going for a walk in the park and he was playing frisbee with a couple of his mates and the frisbee hit me by accident."
Anthony raised an eyebrow. "That seems almost symbolic in hindsight."
Sören snorted. "It does, doesn't it. He should have fucking come with a warning sign."
Anthony gestured. "How long were you guys together, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Four months."
Anthony nodded. "So not terribly long."
"No. Just long enough to hurt but not long enough to get invested." Sören scowled.
"I feel that." Anthony also frowned. "The guy I told you about, the one who cheated on me, I was with him for two years."
"Ouch."
"Yeah." Anthony gave a rueful smile. "I spent a few months licking my wounds and then I got a Grindr account to try to move on, but it's... not been terribly satisfactory. I'm at that age where I feel too old for this shit."
"How old are you? Er, sorry if that's -"
Anthony shook his head. "It's fine. I'm thirty-eight."
"I'll be thirty-four next month."
"Really? I thought you were younger."
Sören didn't quite know how to take it, but he said, "Yeah, I'm old for a barista. Most of them are uni kids."
"That wasn't what I meant," Anthony said. "And I'm not judging you. It's honest work."
Sören thought about telling Anthony about his art, but he held off. "Justin thought I was a loser."
"Justin's a bloody loser." Anthony's lips quirked, coolly amused. "Can I be very blunt with you? He was a fucking lousy lay."
Sören almost spat his drink. "Wow." His sides hurt, shaking with laughter.
Anthony grinned. Sören loved the way Anthony's face lit up when he smiled like that, stomach fluttering. Cut that shit out, he scolded himself. Just because he says he doesn't judge you for being a barista, that doesn't mean he wants one for a partner, and it doesn't mean you're his type. Justin was clean cut, you're a bit rough.
"Yeah." Anthony sipped his ice water, looking smugly satisfied. "Hence why I deleted his number immediately. He was a very selfish lover, after he got off he didn't care if I came or not."
Sören sighed and looked down, remembering all the nights he lay there frustrated as Justin dozed off. "At first he was less selfish with me, but as time went on, he... yeah." Sören exhaled. "I settled. I didn't want to be alone again. I was content just to have another warm body in the bed. It was stupid."
"It was understandable." Their eyes met. "See also, me hooking up with people on Grindr these last few months, asking myself why I bother. But grief often clouds our logic."
"It does." Sören looked away. He felt self-conscious telling a near-stranger his life story, but he found himself saying, "After my ex-husband left two years ago I didn't date anyone for awhile. Justin was... an accident, and then I got used to having someone there again." Sören shook his head. "I won't make that same mistake again."
"So you were married?"
"To a guy." Sören nodded. "We got together in 2009, were married in 2013. He's the reason I moved out here."
"I was going to ask where you were from. One of the Scandinavian countries, I take it?"
"Iceland."
"Nice. That's one of the only European countries I haven't visited, but I want to, someday." Their eyes met. "I like your accent."
"Takk." Sören smiled. "From what I've been told it was a lot stronger when I first moved here."
Anthony nodded. "It's just a touch, but noticeable."
"And you're from London? I'm sorry, I'm still terrible with placing English accents."
"It's fine. Yes, I'm from London. Blackheath. I lived in Kingston for a bit but I moved to Holborn six months ago."
"Closer to work?"
"In part, though I didn't mind the drive so much. My flat in Kingston felt haunted after the breakup." Anthony raised an eyebrow. "I live three streets over from you, so we're practically neighbors."
"That would explain why Grindr suggested you to Justin, I don't have an account but I saw online it tells you how many feet away someone is."
Anthony nodded, laughing. "Hopefully by now Justin is many, many feet away. I hope I never see him again, or I'd be tempted to punch him in the face."
The thought of Anthony punching Justin sent a frisson down Sören's spine. Sören felt himself biting his lower lip. Then Sören remembered the night he threw Justin out and told him to come back in a week for the rest of his stuff. It had been exactly seven days; Sören had since put the remainder of Justin's things in garbage bags, which were waiting in the kitchen. Sören hoped Justin would just forget about it for at least a couple more days and not show up tonight, he was in a good mood and he didn't need Justin to snap him out of that.
Anthony swirled his straw around in his ice water, looking like he was collecting his thoughts, deciding what to say next. His eyes looked up at Sören again and he said, "Pardon me if this is an insensitive question, but... I'm curious. You're a barista, how can you afford to live where you do?"
It wasn't a great question, but Sören supposed it wasn't an unfair one, and he suspected that Anthony's curiosity - and concern - was due to his background as a lawyer; they lived within short walking distance of each other, it seemed likely they were going to come away from this encounter as friends if nothing else, and Anthony was taking a risk assessment of a potential friend, to see if perhaps Sören was up to something shady. "I'm not offended, no. To be honest, my ex-husband deposited a sizeable amount of money in my bank account just before he left. I actually don't have to work, or at least, I could get away with not working for several more years yet, but I'm working as a barista to make the money last a bit longer, and so I can have enough time and energy left per week to work on my art." Sören felt like an idiot about bringing up his art, face on fire.
"I see. And he just... left?"
Sören nodded, not wanting to relive the painful memory. "I woke up one morning and he was gone. Phone number disconnected, no new contact info, nothing. After seven years. I still don't understand it. We rarely argued, and when we did, we quickly made up. There had been no arguments for a long time, in fact, when he left. We'd never been unkind to each other. We were good. I just..." Sören looked down, steeling himself. Anthony had already seen him cry once today, and he didn't want to go there a second time.
"That's terrible." Anthony gave him a sympathetic look. "I hate to say this, but it sounds like he was probably involved in something criminal, maybe a mafia or cartel -"
"Yeah." Sören sighed; he'd suspected that too and he didn't want to go down that route, as it would make him wonder what else Mark had been lying about, if their entire life was a lie. The alternative was that he'd been rejected - Sören wondered that often, his self-esteem had taken quite a beating in the wake of Mark's departure - and if Mark had left him the money out of pity, a sense of obligation to a man he no longer loved. Sören didn't know which scenario - criminal or just not in love anymore - was worse. "The amount of money he left me was... surprising. I knew he was well off, he said his father was an inventor. We traveled, we lived in a nice place in Chelsea... and no, I wasn't with him for the money."
"I didn't say that."
"No, but some people assume." Like Justin. "We met when I was living in Reykjavik, I was an artist, he was a musician, and we just meshed." Sören put his fingers together. "We were each other's muse." And it was beautiful. "I would have come back with him to London whether he was a millionaire or a pauper."
Anthony nodded. "Money isn't everything. I've found dating the sort of people I'm expected to date with my background gets tedious. I want someone who stimulates me mentally, someone I can have a conversation with." Their eyes held.
Oh god, this really is a date, isn't it. Sören didn't know how to respond to that, and he chugged his ice water. His face burned even hotter, and he felt his nerves acting up, like he was in his late teens and early twenties again, dating for the first time. Unlike many Icelanders, Sören didn't drink often, he could take it or leave it - he had been raised by his aunt and uncle, who were vicious drunks - but now he felt himself wanting a little bit of alcohol as a social lubricant, not enough to cloud his judgment, just enough to take the edge off. There was only one beverage menu per table and Sören pulled it out of the menu holder now to take a look. When he decided what he wanted, he offered the menu to Anthony.
"No, thank you. I don't drink."
Sören raised an eyebrow - that was something he didn't hear every day. "Are you religious?"
Anthony laughed. "No, I'm agnostic."
Oh thank fuck. "Me too."
Anthony took a deep breath. "We just met and I normally don't disclose this sort of thing off the bat, but, I'll be four years sober next month."
Sören blinked. He had been feeling a little weird about telling Anthony some of the sad story of his life, like he was coming off pathetic, but now he felt the ground was more even, and he had a feeling Anthony was giving him this information to help level that ground and put him at ease somewhat. Sören put the beverage menu back in the holder, deciding against ordering something with alcohol, not wanting to trigger him.
"Oh, you don't need to hold off on my account," Anthony assured him. "Admittedly, this is why I don't go to bars or clubs, but just one-on-one there's not as much of a temptation."
"Still. I don't drink much, so I don't really need it." Sören cocked his head to one side, wanting clarification. "So you... when you say sober, was it a drinking problem?"
Anthony nodded solemnly. "And a coke problem. It's a known issue in my profession, a disproportionately high number of barristers are substance abusers. When I first got clean I considered going into another line of work altogether, like going back to school and maybe becoming an archaeologist or something, but..." Anthony shook his head. "I'm married to my job." He gave a wry chuckle.
"Well, congratulations on close to four years."
"Thank you."
"What was the turning point?" Now Sören felt like he was being the rude one, not wanting Anthony to feel like he was on trial. "Er, sorry."
"It's fine." Anthony smiled. "Do you mean of when the addiction started, or when I got clean?"
"Uh... either. Both." He had technically been asking about what inspired Anthony to get clean but he found himself curious about how someone like Anthony ended up struggling. Anthony seemed to have it all - looks, intelligence, from a comfortably middle-class background. Sören knew it wasn't easy to grow up queer in the 1990s, but even that didn't seem to account for how Anthony could slip through the cracks.
"I didn't have much of a social life growing up, I was a nerd. When I finally made a group of friends, they used coke recreationally, and I didn't think too much of it, I was so lonely and desperate to have friends that I was like, OK, fine, what the hell, I'll try it. Then my parents died seven years ago, both at the same time, plane crash -"
"Oh god, I'm sorry."
"- and I was in a toxic relationship that ended badly within a couple months of that, so I found myself drinking more and, well, coking up a bit more than recreationally, and entered three years of hell. I never hit rock bottom the way a lot of addicts do where I was homeless and jobless and that sort of thing. I was what you would call a functional alcoholic and addict. I didn't let it get in the way of my job, I never came in fucked up - hungover yes, drunk or high, no - and I managed to avoid most risky behavior, like I didn't drive under the influence. But I blew through most of my inheritance, and finally, when I realized I was going to have to sell my parents' house to continue my cocaine habit - the house my mum redesigned, remodeled herself when I was a lad - I had a meltdown and I felt like such a piece of shit that I thought I was better off dead. I attempted suicide and woke up in the hospital. They got me some help, and I took it from there. I almost fell off the wagon when my ex cheated on me last year, but I managed to keep my sobriety."
Sören's mouth opened. He felt his eyes mist. While he despised his guardians for their alcoholism and the violent behavior they were prone to while drunk, he also understood the kind of pain that Anthony had described, pain that had needed medicating, and he couldn't hate Anthony for it. If anything, Sören knew his own grief over the various tragedies of his life could have sent him down the same path, which was a major reason why he was only an occasional drinker. His heart ached for Anthony and he fought the urge to get up, go over and give Anthony a big hug. He didn't.
"And, there's been some trade-offs. My coke-using friends aren't my friends anymore. Like I said, this kind of makes it harder to date because I don't do bars and clubs, and a lot of gay guys want to party - I've actually turned a few Grindr hookups away at the door because they came over high. But my life isn't terrible for its lack of people. I have a garden out on my balcony. I have a couple of cats -"
"Kitties!" Sören liked him even more now.
Anthony smiled. "I read."
"Oh? Me too. What do you like to read?"
"Fantasy, mostly, some sci-fi and horror. Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, N.K. Jemisin... Ursula Le Guin is my favorite author."
"I love her." Sören was pleased. "Stephen King is my favorite author, but she's right up there. The Hainish Cycle -"
"Yes." Anthony's smile became a grin again. He went on, "I'm an armchair archaeologist, even it's a career path I'll never pursue, I still find museums and periodicals interesting. I work on different languages on Duolingo. Aaaaaaaaaand I took up yoga."
Sören giggled, then his face burned again at the mental image of Anthony in yoga pants, hugging him all the right ways. Fuck. He wondered how flexible Anthony was. Stop that.
"Anyway." Anthony raised his glass of ice water. "There was such sadness in your eyes earlier today that I could just tell you'd seen some shit. When I said solidarity, I meant it."
"I... I guess so." Sören picked up his own glass and they clinked glasses.
Their food came - Sören was relieved, because they both needed the distraction before things got too emotional. The chicken panang was incredible, and Sören ate with gusto. "I'll have to come here again." He glanced over at Anthony. "Do you come here often?"
"I get takeaway from here about once a week." Anthony smiled. "My usual Saturday night routine - Thai, a good book... a begging cat or two."
Sören chuckled. Then he sighed, feeling wistful. "It's good you have cats."
"Do you have a cat?"
Sören shook his head. "I did. He died a year ago. He was fourteen years old, came with me from Iceland."
"My sympathies." Anthony reached out and patted his arm. Sören got all tingly again. "Do you want to see pictures of my cats, or will that be too sad for you?"
"I'd love to see pictures of your cats. Honestly, I'd been thinking about getting another one, but Justin didn't like cats..."
Anthony snorted. "Of course he didn't." Then Anthony muttered, "Wanker," before he took a bite of his curry. Anthony took out his phone, opened the gallery, and passed the phone over to Sören. For the next ten minutes Sören flipped through pictures of Anthony's two cats, a grey spotty tabby with large paws, and a brown striped tabby who was more diminutive, with big owl-like chartreuse eyes.
"They're adorable," Sören said sincerely. He passed the phone back over when he was done. "What are their names?"
"Seamus is the grey one and Solly is the brown one. Solly is an old girl - I adopted her after I'd passed six months of sobriety, and got Seamus two years ago. I'd have more, but my lease would only allow me to have two."
Sören smirked. "More?"
"Like a third or fourth cat. Yes, I know I sound like one of those crazy cat people."
"No, it's sweet." And cute. Sören was trying very hard not to fall for this guy, and it seemed like an exercise in failure.
"Maybe soon I'll invite you over and you can meet them. Solly is a bit shy with new people but Seamus is kind of an attention whore. But before that..." Anthony's eyebrows went up. "You said you're an artist?"
"Uh... yes." Sören shifted uncomfortably in his seat and shoved curry in his mouth. Even though Mark had been his champion with art, Justin's negative reactions to his art had made Sören feel stupid talking about it; Justin's attitude reinforced his aunt and uncle's growing up, and some other people he'd known over the years who thought art wasn't "a real job" and he was "wasting his life".
Anthony wasn't going to let it go. "I'd like to see your work."
Sören looked down. He stopped himself from making the knee-jerk response of it's not very good. He hadn't been like that before Justin. Even after Justin's indifference and occasional insults, Sören still felt compelled to create, still felt consumed by the visions in his mind's eye whether anyone else liked them or not. He looked back up and met Anthony's eyes. "I have some paintings hanging in my flat. I normally don't invite strangers over but... you're not a stranger anymore, not really. So you can come see my work tonight if I get to meet your cats next week or something." He couldn't believe he was inviting Anthony to come over tonight, now, spur-of-the-moment, but he figured it would be better to get showing the art done and over with, like a shot in the arm. This way if Anthony was rude about it like Justin, Sören could walk away without having invested too much time in the friendship.
"You've got a deal." Anthony held out his hand to shake.
_
Sören's heart beat a little faster as he led Anthony up the stairs to his flat. He knew where Anthony lived, and he knew Anthony's flat was probably bigger than his studio. At least his flat was clean - it helped that Sören wasn't very materialistic, and didn't own a huge amount of possessions. And the paintings hanging on the walls and the pieces of pottery around the apartment - a vase of dried flowers on the coffee table, a bowl with fruit on the kitchen counter, pots for hanging plants - added a more personal touch to the pre-furnished, black-and-white, very sleek and modern studio.
Anthony looked around. His attention focused on a vertical painting hanging by the door, which was of a door in the middle of a forest, and a gathering of deer, squirrels, foxes, birds, butterflies, faeries, gnomes, and wood-sprites, watching the door and waiting, light streaming through the door opening a crack. "That's lovely."
"Takk." Sören smiled. "Justin thought it was stupid."
Anthony scowled. "The more I hear about Justin, the less I like him."
Anthony took the tour - there wasn't much to the flat, just an open-plan kitchen and living room - the couch in the living room folded out to a bed - and a bathroom, and a balcony. But Sören did show him the other paintings hanging up. Above the couch-bed, a large horizontal painting of an aurora in the shape of a phoenix at the black sand beach of Reynisfjara, and something shimmering in the waves, a hint of a glowing orb. "Mark really liked that one," Sören said. "Liked" was perhaps not the right word for it - Mark had called it "magnificent", but also seemed haunted by it.
"Mark?"
"The ex-husband."
Anthony nodded.
By Sören's bookshelf, and adjacent stereo system, there was another vase of dried flowers on top, and next to the shelf unit was a painting of a woman with fiery red hair and bright green eyes, dancing ballet in a tutu that looked like it was made of fire, wearing a cloak of fiery feathers, and a rainbow of jewels on her wrists. As she danced, colors swirled around her like energy.
"Someone you know?" Anthony asked.
"Um, not exactly. I dreamt about her." It always feels like I know her, but I have no idea. Sören gave a derisive snort. "Justin used to call her... well, never mind."
Anthony glared again. "I have some words I'd like to call Justin."
"I bet."
In the kitchen there was a painting of a man with long silver-white hair and fierce grey eyes, clad in black leather armor and a grey cloak, bearing a glowing sword. The man had a handsome, proud, chiseled face and he was frowning; his gaze seemed to peer right into your soul. In the background, there was fire and blood. "I don't know him either, but again... dreams." Sören felt like a raving lunatic.
"That sword must be inspiring when you're cutting vegetables and the like."
"Yeah, totally killing those sandwiches." Sören laughed.
In the bathroom was another ocean scene, this one of burning ships. "Viking funeral?" Anthony asked.
"Um, I guess." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls. That hadn't been going through his mind as he'd been painting - he'd been irrationally angry when he painted the ships burning, almost as if they'd did something to offend him and he was the one burning them. "It was the first painting I made after Mark left. I think I was trying to express that feeling like I'd lost everything. That, ah. Madness."
Anthony put a hand on Sören's shoulder.
Anthony took another trip around to get a better look at the pottery. Sören preferred subtle earth tones with splashes of jewel tones, and each piece had cracks that had been lined with real gold. "There's a Japanese art called kintsugi - 'golden repair'. Cracks in pottery are repaired with a special lacquer made of powdered gold, silver, or platinum. They have a philosophy called wabi-sabi, seeing beauty in what is flawed or imperfect. There's something very symbolic about fixing cracks in pottery this way... like honoring the scars of where we've been. The scars that prove we survived."
Their eyes met. "That's beautiful," Anthony said, his voice husky. "Your work. All of it. Is beautiful."
Sören's face was on fire again. He felt like he couldn't breathe. "I have more canvases in the closet, but also I have a portfolio of prints. Some of my work has sold over the years, so I keep a record of everything."
"May I see your portfolio?"
Sören nodded. The album was on the top shelf of the bookcase and he gingerly took it down. Anthony sat on the couch, and Sören thought about sitting in the armchair and handing him the portfolio - being so close to Anthony was starting to overwhelm him with desire - but he decided it would be more personable if he sat next to Anthony and looked at the paintings with him.
All sense of time seemed to evaporate as they went through page by page of the portfolio. Most of Sören's paintings were landscapes, both alien worlds and Earthlike places with hints of magic. There were however a few more portraits besides what was hanging on the walls. Towards the end of the portfolio was a painting called The Wanderer, a zoomed-out view of high cliffs, a violent red-and-black stormy sunset sky, choppy dark waves, with Mark looking out to sea, his long black hair blowing in the wind. The final painting was a portrait of Mark playing his harp, black hair cascading down his back and over his shoulders, a blue shirt unbuttoned most of the way to reveal a sculpted torso, his handsome face in deep thought, thick dark brows intense, as golden light streamed from the harp and his fingers like his music was an act of magic and he was bringing the dawn. Anthony's jaw dropped and his eyes widened and he made a strangled noise.
Sören sat up with alarm. Oh shit. Now it got weird and he's going to ghost me. "Ah... are you OK?" Sören's heart started pounding. "You hate it?"
Anthony quickly composed himself. "No, it's. It's... amazing. It's... almost like looking at a photo." Anthony patted him. "You have a gift, Sören. You said some of your paintings have sold, yes?"
Sören nodded. "I've had some art shows. None since Justin and I got together, though." Sören sighed. "Really, I dodged a bullet. It's amazing how shitty he made me feel about my work."
Anthony nodded, frowning, and he put a hand on Sören's shoulder; Sören's cock stirred. Anthony said, "If my mum was still alive I'd offer to introduce you - she was an architect but she went to school in France and had a lot of connections in the art world. You deserve to be famous."
Sören blushed fiercely. "Awwww, you're too kind."
"No. I'm not being kind. Your work is..." Anthony's breath hitched. "I feel like I've been transported. It draws you in. So no, I don't hate that picture at all. I don't even have words that would do that painting justice."
Sören felt a compulsion to close the portfolio, like Mark was here instead of just in the painting. He and Anthony looked at each other for a long moment and then Anthony said, softly, "Justin was an idiot for not appreciating your art. He was an idiot for not appreciating you."
Sören felt tingly again. His lips parted, and he felt himself moving closer, closer, aching for a kiss. Then there were footsteps coming up the stairwell, and a loud, banging knock.
"Sören, I know you're in there, I see your lights are on. I'm here for the rest of my things," Justin called from behind the door. "And I'm not leaving until I get them."
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