Anthony's cell phone chimed again with yet another text notification from his mum, Elaine.
Are you sure you don't want to come home for Christmas?
Anthony sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before he fired back a response. I'm sure. I'm fine, Mum. Really.
There was still time to change his mind - it was only December twentieth, Christmas was a few days away yet - but as guilty as Anthony felt for not joining his parents for the holiday, he knew he'd feel even guiltier once he was actually there, moping about.
Still moping about. It had been six months since the breakup, and if anything Anthony was doing worse than he had when the breakup was still fresh, now that it had time to sit in. As the holidays approached, Anthony felt even lonelier... and angrier.
William had been a Beta, two years his junior, an accountant like Anthony's father. The bland day job of number crunching concealed a party boy who was fun to take to the events Anthony was expected to go to as a lawyer. Even though he was an Alpha, Anthony was very bad at people outside the courtroom - he was good at faking it, a survival skill he'd learnt early on - but William on his arm made schmoozing more tolerable. Until it didn't. William's seeming joie de vivre was fueled by cocaine and he tried to drag Anthony down with him. At first, Anthony tried to reason with him, not wanting to let go so easily. But when he let himself in William's flat one day and found him having a coke-fueled fuck session with another Alpha, it was done.
And it was a blow to his pride. He'd been out-Alpha'd. Anthony knew of course that it had more to do with the drugs than with him personally, but he still felt like his inadequacies of being socially awkward, cracks in the "mask", had tipped William into cheating.
At least it had been a Beta and not an Omega. Anthony had yet to partner with an Omega. He'd been very cautious - as much as he craved an Omega of his own to nest with, he'd heard that when Alpha/Omega relationships went bad, they went bad, and William had been the latest in a string of disappointments. He didn't need even more drama.
Instead of sulking at his parents' house for Christmas, or sulking alone in his flat in London, Anthony had decided to travel for the holidays. He'd always wanted to see Iceland, falling in love with the beautiful landscape through photos in magazines and on the Internet, and now he was here, in Reykjavik, to drink, to watch the northern lights...
...definitely not looking for someone to hook up with. Definitely not an Omega. Not at all whatsoever.
His first two drinks had been poured by a female bartender, strawberry blonde, blue eyes - pretty, but not Anthony's type, since he was gay. Now, as he went up to the bar for a third shot of Brennivín, there was a different bartender.
And he was gorgeous. Unruly black curls to the back of his neck, a short beard that framed full lips. A cute nose, sweet brown eyes. He was wearing a black Joy Division T-shirt that revealed sleeve tattoos - flames of fire going up his right arm, waves of water going up his left arm. Two small silver hoops in each ear. Only a little shorter than he was, slim build. If Anthony had to guess, the bartender was early to mid twenties, not older than thirty.
He smelled as delicious as he looked. It was like nothing Anthony had ever smelled before - notes of cherry blossoms and an anise-like spice, touched with musk and woodsmoke. Anthony wanted to bottle that scent and huff it like it was a drug. The sweetness of the scent suggested strongly that the bartender was an Omega.
The bartender's voice was deep, soft, smoky. "Hvað get ég fengið fyrir þig?"
Anthony replied in English - though he spoke several languages fluently, none of them were Icelandic. "A shot of Brennivín." He added "takk" to be polite.
The bartender nodded and stepped away to fill the order. Anthony tried not to watch the way the bartender's faded jeans clung to his tight, firm bubble butt. He tried not to breathe in that intoxicating, magnificent scent. He was failing very hard.
When the bartender came back with the drink, Anthony expected that would be over and done, but instead the bartender lingered, shifting his weight from one hip to the other, like he was choosing his words carefully - it seemed almost like the bartender "masked" the same way he did in public - and finally the bartender asked, "So, you're British, já?"
Anthony nodded. "London, born and raised."
"This your first time in Iceland?"
Anthony normally detested small talk and would have under other circumstances tried to politely excuse himself from the conversation, but the bartender's accent was charming - he loved the breathy lilt, the gently rolled r's. And that scent. Those eyes. Anthony nodded.
The bartender looked down at the shot glass then back up at Anthony with quirked lips and a raised eyebrow. "Usually the foreigners, they don't want Brennivín. They go for whisky or beer or other bullshit. I'm impressed."
"When in Rome - er, Reykjavik. I can have whisky or ale anywhere." Anthony raised his shot glass and downed it in one gulp. He didn't particularly care for the taste of it - it reminded him a bit of cough medicine - but it was helping to get him out of his head. It was harder to think about William. It was harder to think, period.
The music playing in the background felt more intense; colors seemed more vibrant. Anthony found himself studying the sultry face of the bartender, watching him knock back his shot. "Another?" the bartender asked.
Anthony nodded.
Three shots of Brennivin and he was having a hard time keeping his balance on the stool. The bartender noticed him wobbling a little and before he poured the drink, he pointed to an empty table in the far corner of the bar. "Go sit over there before you fall," the bartender scolded him. "I'll bring it to you."
Anthony thought about arguing with him that he was perfectly capable of sitting on the stool, but he knew better. Besides, there was a busty blonde making eyes at the sexy bartender and she was either wearing way too much perfume or she was a fucking Alpha. Anthony was tired of other Alphas.
What do you even care if she's flirting with him. He's probably not even gay. Anthony had learned the hard way over the years that men interested in men were few and far between; he wasn't just tired of other Alphas, he was tired of having crushes on straight guys.
He sat at the empty, secluded table, and leaned back, relaxing a little now that he wasn't swarmed by people. The music was a bit more clear here. Anthony smiled at "How Soon Is Now" by The Smiths, one of his personal theme songs. He was drunk enough to start singing along.
I am the son
and the heir
of a shyness that is criminally vulgar
I am the son and the heir
of nothing in particular
Suddenly the bartender was there with his drink, singing along in a husky, bluesy tenor reminiscent of a R&B singer.
You shut your mouth
how can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does
Anthony's eyes widened. The bartender gingerly put the drink down on the table.
"I'm glad somebody appreciates my music," the bartender said, looking Anthony up and down.
Anthony gave a nervous chuckle. He wanted to crawl under the table and die. "This is your selection?"
The bartender nodded solemnly. "When it's my shift, I pick out the music."
"I normally don't sing, least of all in public. I guess the music took me back." Not just the music but his loneliness - he was feeling like that lost, lonely teenage goth kid all over again.
The bartender opened his mouth as if to reply and then there was a yell of "Sören!" from the bar and the bartender said, "Shit, gotta go," and ran back to the bar.
Anthony guessed that the bartender's name was Sören. He swirled his drink around before he took a sip, trying to nurse it this time instead of sucking it down. He'd already had too much, though, and he wasn't done yet.
When his drink was done and Siouxsie and the Banshees was playing, Anthony staggered back to the bar for another shot. The bartender - Sören - gave him a long look, not complying immediately. Anthony found himself narrowing his eyes and growling, a typical Alpha dominance gesture. One that Anthony disliked, and he knew then he'd definitely had way, way too much if he was falling back on primitive behavior. And Sören's response confirmed he was an Omega, immediately looking down, bowing slightly.
But Anthony wasn't a typical Alpha and Sören didn't seem to be a typical Omega. Their eyes met, and there was steel in Sören's voice as he challenged him. "Sit back down over there and I'll bring this to you. I don't need you falling on the floor and suing the place. By the way? This is your last one."
"I can pay for more. I can afford a round of drinks for everyone in the pub -"
"I. Don't. Care." Sören bared his teeth.
A shiver went down Anthony's spine and his cock stirred uncomfortably in his jeans. He wondered what Sören was like in bed. Submissive Omega tendencies... but also probably a bit of a brat, a wild one to tame. He was guessing Sören was a real firecracker.
Like it matters.
Anthony wobbled back to the table. Even just taking a seat in a regular chair felt like an ordeal - he had to try twice before he planted himself. A few minutes later Sören came with his fifth shot of Brennivin and gave him a stern look as he downed it. That serious, predatory look on Sören's face was as sexy as his smile, if not moreso.
It was smelling a lot like jasmine all of a sudden. It took Anthony a moment to realize that smell was him, his Alpha pheromone signature, responding to Sören.
After his fifth shot of Brennivin, Anthony just sat, listening to the music, staring into space, his mind wandering. The upper half of his body felt like it was made of lead and his legs felt like they were made of jelly. All of Anthony's senses were stronger now, and it felt like space-time itself was dilating, people slowing down, Anthony feeling like he could predict random patrons' body movements and overheard words before they happened.
He was so deep in a trance-like state that he barely noticed when the pub's population of patrons trickled down, only when it was just him and a few other people. He looked at the clock and it was 1 AM; the pub was going to close soon. Sören was starting to wipe down the bar.
"A Forest" by The Cure came on and Sören sang along as he wiped down tables.
Come closer and see
See into the trees
Find the girl
While you can
Come closer and see
See into the dark
Just follow your eyes
Just follow your eyes
When Sören got to Anthony's table, instead of starting a wipedown or telling him to go, he sat down. Their eyes met and they stared at each other for a full minute before Sören cleared his throat.
"Jæja. So, you're not driving anywhere, I hope," Sören said.
Anthony vehemently shook his head. He knew better. "My hotel is two blocks away. I walked here."
Sören snorted. "I don't think you can walk two blocks, either. No offense but you're pretty fucked up."
"You can say that again," Anthony muttered under his breath.
He was hoping Sören didn't hear that - it came out before he could stop himself - but Sören's eyebrows went up and Sören leaned back in his seat and folded his arms, looking at him like well? go on.
Anthony's face burned. He didn't need to tell this hot, sexy-voiced, delicious-smelling Omega bartender the sad story of his life.
But Sören wasn't going to just let it go. "You came to Reykjavik for the holidays instead of... spending it with family and friends? So you could drink. And you're singing along with The Smiths. That sounds like you're not having a particularly good time of things."
"Not really, no."
"You want to talk about it? I've got time."
Anthony shrugged. "I feel weird opening up to strangers."
"Bartenders are cheap therapists. Seriously. Whatever's going on with you probably isn't the worst or the weirdest that I've heard."
"I had a breakup six months ago," Anthony said.
"Oh! Well, there's plenty of pretty girls in Iceland -"
"I'm gay."
Immediately Anthony wished he hadn't said that - Iceland seemed to be a progressive country on LGBT civil rights, but just ten short years ago it was common for someone even suspected of being gay to get beat up, shunned, discriminated against; Anthony wasn't in the closet but he was cautious about disclosing.
And then Sören's face lit up. "Hi Gay, I'm Sören."
Anthony facepalmed. Of all the reactions he could have had, Anthony was not expecting that. He laughed and groaned loudly.
When he pulled his hand away from his face, Sören said, "I'm gay too."
Anthony's heart leapt and beat a little faster. He felt like an idiot - just because he was in the presence of another gay man, and an Omega at that, didn't mean that Sören wanted him. And yet... there was that smell again. Anthony's cock throbbed, leaking a little precum.
Sören went on, "So you and your boyfriend broke up?"
"Yeah. He did drugs and cheated on me." Anthony sighed. "I thought I was over it and then of course early December is when the holiday parties start and people talk about bringing plus-ones and they talk about shopping for their significant others and... I got bitter again. So I'm here, keeping my toxic cesspool of emotions away from my family."
"That's rough." Sören nodded. "I've been cheated on too. It sucks."
Anthony didn't know how anyone mated to this gorgeous Omega would forsake that so easily. Anthony swallowed hard.
"So... you decided to come to Iceland. You like it here so far?"
"I only just arrived yesterday," Anthony said. "What I've seen so far yes, but I haven't seen much."
Sören nodded some more. He looked at the clock, and Anthony felt a twinge of self-consciousness - he knew how pathetic he sounded, and he guessed Sören was getting bored and was going to tell him it was closing time. But to his surprise and relief, Sören said, "OK. I normally don't do this, but... tomorrow, you want me to give you a tour of some things to see around Reykjavik? It's less of a corny obvious tourist thing than going with a guide."
Anthony hadn't come to Reykjavik to socialize - he'd thought about spending a lot of time alone watching the aurora, drinking and crying - but he'd had enough alcohol to wash away his reserve. He felt himself nodding. "That sounds very nice. And generous of you, thank you."
"It's Christmas. Well, almost Christmas. We could both use some holiday cheer, it seems."
Anthony thought about asking Sören what was getting him down, but he didn't want to be intrusive. As a barrister he knew he could come off strong when asking questions, and he'd already made an ass of himself growling at the bar.
Sören pulled a notepad and pen out of his jeans pocket and jotted down a cell number. Anthony then took Sören's notepad and wrote down his.
"How does one PM sound?" Sören asked. "Not much daylight left this time of year, but it gives you time to sleep off that hangover you're going to have tomorrow."
Anthony gave a wry chuckle. He hadn't thought of how hungover he was going to be tomorrow and he was already dreading it. "One PM works, yes."
"You want me to give you a wakeup call an hour before to let you know I'm coming?"
Anthony's mind immediately went in the gutter, wondering what Sören was like in the throes of orgasm. He shoved that thought out of his mind. He didn't need to walk out of here with an obvious knot. "Please do."
"And... who am I calling? I didn't get your name."
"Anthony. Anthony Hewlett-Johnson."
"So, Anthony. We don't really do surnames here."
That was one thing Anthony found odd about Icelanders. "You're... Sören?"
"Já. Sören Sigurðsson, if you need a last name, but it's. Not a surname." Sören smirked. "I'm surprised you remembered my name when you heard it."
"Sören like Kierkegaard. I'm in a pretty existential mood."
"Hi In A Pretty Existential Mood, I'm Sören."
Anthony facepalmed again. He needed to laugh; it felt so good he almost wanted to cry.
"So listen... Anthony... it doesn't sit well with me, you walking back to your hotel alone all fucked up like this. I can either call you a cab -"
Anthony had to get him back. "Don't call me a cab, call me Anthony."
Now it was Sören's turn to facepalm, and he gigglesnorted. Anthony found it adorable. And arousing. Margaret Thatcher, Anthony told himself, trying to kill his hard-on. Margaret Bloody Thatcher.
"Or I can walk you to your hotel, make sure you get there in one piece."
Anthony was tempted to invite Sören to his hotel room - but he was too drunk. He could barely walk or try to sit down, let alone attempt to fuck. Looking into those concerned brown eyes, Anthony got the sense Sören wasn't trying to take advantage of him. In any case, Anthony was willing to trust for two blocks, rather than faceplanting on the sidewalk or possibly being mugged.
When the pub was finally closed, after Sören did some more cleanup, he and Anthony headed out to the hotel. Sören put an arm around Anthony's waist to steady him, and his touch sent fire through Anthony's entire body. Snowflakes fell and the streets were quiet, almost peaceful, even as the city never really slept.
Anthony wanted to ask Sören about himself, but again, didn't want to come off like he was badgering, and it was challenging enough to put one foot in front of the other, never mind try to string words together as he was moving his body. The two blocks to the hotel felt like they took forever, as tired and drunk as Anthony was, but they made it, and at the door to the hotel lobby Sören clapped his shoulders and smiled.
"You made it! Yay!" Sören reached inside Anthony's jeans pocket, pulled out the paper with his cell number on it, and stuffed it back in. "I'll call you, but don't lose that. If you're too sick to go tomorrow call me and we can, ah, reschedule."
"OK, sounds good." Anthony tried to make a thumbs up.
"You gonna be OK to go to your room?"
Anthony nodded. "Thanks again for riding me. I mean, walking me. Oh god, fuck me. No, I mean -" Anthony clapped his hand over his mouth, not able to believe his fumbles.
Sören turned bright red, but he laughed, instead of running away. "The pleasure was mine." Sören winked and there was that spicy sweet floral smell again on the winter breeze.
As Anthony went up in the lift to his suite, he lamented the headache he would have when he woke up... but it had been worth it to meet Sören. His one regret of the evening was being too dazed and sleepy from the alcohol to jerk off to relieve himself.
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