The second time Sören saw him was on a Friday.
“You’re coming to Anja’s party tonight, right,” Mari said.
Someone who didn’t know her as well as Sören did might have thought it was a question. He didn’t look up from his canvas as he dotted amber paint against it to add some texture to her hair. He had a small photograph of her clipped to the top of his easel for reference, but she had a free day and had accepted his bribe of Jonas’ homemade lussekatt to sit for him. Lussekatt were her favourite, but they weren’t as easy to find in March. While Jonas wasn’t always the easiest person to get along with, there were some advantages to living with him.
Sören really did hate doing portraits in oils. It was too particular, but this painting was worth half his grade. No matter how much he fussed with it, he didn’t think the painting looked half as good as the charcoal sketch he’d done first.
“I said I was, didn’t I?” Sören said.
“Good. Because her boyfriend’s band is playing, and their guitarist is very cute, very gay, and very single.”
The nice thing about Mari was that she could talk without actually moving. Her head barely twitched as she spoke. It didn’t hurt that she accepted food as payment.
“Despite what everyone seems to think, I don’t need help getting a date,” Sören said.
“I’m not saying you do. Also, before I forget, I wanted to ask if you’d design a tattoo for me. I really liked that bird drawing you did.”
Sören paused. As much as he loved looking at people’s tattoos, he’d never thought of using any of his drawings for one. But he wasn’t one to say no to trying something new.
“I can give it a shot, on one condition,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t try to set me up with this guitarist.”
Mari managed to stifle her laugh enough that she didn’t move. Her lips pulled up at the corners.
“All right, fine. But if he turns out to be your type, you owe me some more of those buns,” she said.
That seemed easy enough to arrange. Jonas was always looking for an excuse to bake instead of grade papers.
They fell into a comfortable silence as Sören shifted his focus from Mari’s hair to the shadows under her collarbone. She wasn’t underweight, but they still stuck out. It was hard to match with oils. The combination of hunger and the pain in his hand was starting to beat his perfectionism. He reached down for his mug with one hand, smoothing out the shadow with his other.
As soon as the mug reached his lips, he’d realized his mistake. At least he managed to turn his head away from the canvas before spitting out the paint water.
All of Mari’s professional composure broke. She burst into laughter, doubling over so hard that she fell off the chair. Sören only managed to be indignant for half a second before the absurdity sunk in. No matter how many times he made that mistake, it was still funny. Tears of laughter filled his eyes.
“I think— I can’t breathe. I think we’re done for today,” he said, wheezing a little.
Mari pushed herself up to sit with her legs half crossed on the floor. She wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands, smudging her eyeliner. Her mouth was still pulled into a broad grin.
Sören took a mental picture of the moment. This would make a much better painting. It was so much more dynamic than what the professor wanted. Maybe it would be a good personal project. It might be worth pulling out the oils again to try it.
“I’ll see you tonight,” Mari said.
Sören nodded. He was already drawing the lines in his head so he wouldn’t forget it. He wouldn’t have time to start it tonight. Even if he did, he really needed to give his hand a break. He could barely uncurl his fingers. He laced them together and bent them back until his knuckles popped. The sound made him wince. This was the last time he skipped hand stretches.
Which was the same thing he’d told himself last time he’d skipped hand stretches.
Sören spent the rest of the day working on a term paper in his room, typing mostly with his left hand. He hadn’t been able to resist the urge to trace out a brief silhouette of Mari laughing. As much as he wanted to finish it now, it wouldn’t be worth it if he couldn’t use his hand for three days after. Plus, this paper was due on Tuesday and he really didn’t want it hanging over him all weekend.
Why couldn’t his death date be tomorrow so he could just forget about it?
Mari’s house was already packed by the time Sören arrived. It didn’t take him much time to locate the band playing in the living room, and even less time to realize he needed to ask Jonas to bake some more lussekatt.
It’s him.
Fairly tall, but probably not taller than Sören, standing just over 6 feet or so. A shirt from that Blood Eagles band Aleksandr liked stretched over broad shoulders and chest. Strong arms and hands. Hair that shone from the lights above. A small, gold hoop in each ear. Wide grin and glittering eyes.
Sören mentally took down all the details he hadn’t been able to catch on the bus. His fingers itched for a pencil. He barely even noticed the music. All he could focus on was the pure joy on the man’s face as he played, and the bright laugh he wished he could hear. There was something about it that made him feel so heartbroken, it was almost overwhelming. His eyes watered a little, and he blinked them away before it turned into tears.
The music followed him through the house as he made his way to the kitchen to grab a beer from one of the many coolers filled with ice on the table. Two voices sang into the microphone. When Sören returned to the living room, he was unsurprised to find that the deeper, smoother voice belonged to the man from the bus. One or both of them messed up the lyrics, and the man from the bus scrunched his nose a little as he laughed.
Looking around, Sören realized he didn’t know many people here. Mari’s roommate was some sort of science major. Aside from her, there wasn’t much overlap in their social circles. It still didn’t take him long to start striking up conversations. The fact that he was almost never going to see most of these people again made it easier. He honestly didn’t understand half of what was said to him, but he understood the way peoples’ faces lit up when they talked about their favourite courses or thesis, when they joked about their professors, even when their complaints about group members were validated.
I’m going to miss this.
Sören watched the two guitarists sing at each other, and only half into the microphone. It was something English he didn’t quite catch. There was some scattered applause and cheers when the song ended.
“Play Nemesis!” a guy at the other end of the room shouted.
Sören’s guitarist — It’s dangerous to think of him that way, he warned himself. — laughed and flipped the guy off. He pushed his hair back with one hand, then shook it out again as the next song started. He nodded his head a few times, mouthing “ett, två, tre, fyra” in time to count himself in the same way Aleksandr always did before launching into what sounded like an incredibly convoluted guitar solo. He frowned down at his hands as he played. After a few seconds, he closed one eye and bit the corner of his lip in focus.
Yup. Sören definitely needed to put in a baking request with Jonas.
The guitarist’s focused expression broke into another grin. He tossed his head back, laughing again as he finished the solo. If the cheers that came this time was any indication, he did a pretty damn good job at it. Sören made a mental note to ask Aleksandr if he knew the song. The more aggressive ones were his area of expertise.
“One more song?” the girl behind the drum kit said.
Sören moved back to the kitchen to grab another beer. He didn’t think he could stomach watching them play again. Not because he didn’t want to. If he hadn’t already been a devout believer in the Old Gods, watching that guitarist play would have converted him right away.
It was hard not to react to the music, even from the other side of the wall. At least that meant the guy was actually a good musician and Sören wasn’t just blinded by attraction.
The song ended, and Sören was equal parts relieved and disappointed when the music was replaced with an upbeat pop song that he did actually know. He already missed listening to the guitarist. He made a few more rounds through the house, making friends with a guy studying earth science and a girl working on something to do with medical radiation. He found himself at one end of the dining table playing beer pong with the earth scientist against the guitarist and the drummer. The musicians were much better at the game. Still, Sören didn’t miss the way the guitarist knocked back a couple drinks as Sören walked around the table to stand in front of him.
“Good game. You’re really good on guitar, by the way,” Sören said.
The guitarist lowered his head, presumably to hide the way his cheeks flushed. He looked up again and smiled.
“Thank you. I’ve been playing a long time,” he said.
“Cool shirt.”
The guitarist looked down like he’d forgotten what he was wearing.
“Do you like them?” he asked.
“My brother’s a fan. I’m Sören.”
“Hale.”
Hale.
“Like the goddess,” Sören said.
Hale laughed softly. He tucked his hair behind his ear, but it was too short to stay there.
“I guess so, but I spell it a-l-e. H-a-l-e. There’s an h.”
He spoke with the slightest bit of an accent. It was almost more of a dialect thing, not enough to suggest he wasn’t a native Swedish speaker.
“I like it,” Sören said.
Hale broke out into another grin that turned into a laugh.
They made a few minutes of small talk. Hale was studying music, and there was enough overlap between his music history knowledge and Sören’s art history knowledge to find common ground. Apparently, he was more than just attractive. He knew what he was talking about. He was quiet, but not shy, and he seemed to think every sentence over before he said it out loud.
They moved through every room on the main floor, until they ended up outside. It was chilly enough that their breaths fogged in front of their faces, but Sören didn’t feel cold. Maybe it was the beer. Maybe it was the way Hale laughed.
“Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Hale said.
“Sure,” Sören said.
“Do you— Do you like… men?”
The last word was so quiet, Sören almost didn’t hear it over the car that went past.
Sören had to remind himself that this sort of thing was dangerous for him. Was there really any harm in one night? It wouldn’t have to mean anything. He’d had one night stands before. This would be no different.
Except it would be different.
Sören knew it. But just because he was going to die at 22 didn’t mean he shouldn’t get to live in the meantime. Everybody died. What difference did it make if it was in three years or thirty?
He wanted to live.
Even if it was only for a few minutes, he wanted to live.
“Yeah. Yeah, actually. I like men very much,” Sören said.
Hale’s flush deepened. He licked his lips. And Gods, if Sören had one less ounce of self-control and Swedish decency, he would have grabbed Hale and kissed him right there in the middle of the street.
“Maybe we should— Somewhere more private. If you want to,” Hale said.
Sören had never been so glad that he lived this close to Mari.
Hours later, as he watched Hale sleeping, he knew he’d made a mistake. He traced a spot on the back of Hale’s shoulder that would become mangled by scars one day. It was selfish to drag him into wherever his life was going to end up.
But then, maybe Sören deserved to be a little selfish.
