January 2024
"Sören, sit down and try to take some deep breaths, OK?"
Sören had been pacing around the treatment room where they'd been waiting since Huan went into surgery, and getting more and more agitated. Now he was muttering under his breath in Icelandic, which Mark had learned over the last five years was a precursor to a meltdown.
It wasn't that Mark wasn't also worried. Huan was his dog first, after all, he loved Huan as if the dog were his own child. But seeing Sören in distress was adding to his own distress. If there was one thing Macalaurë Fëanorion could not abide, it was feeling powerless, helpless while the people he loved were suffering.
And it also added to his feeling of guilt. Huan wasn't just any old dog. "Mark Lawrence" had arrived in New England when it was still a British colony in the 1600s, and he had been in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and both World Wars. He had a combat veteran's PTSD on top of the trauma from the Years of the Trees through the Third Age, on top of the trauma of wandering from place to place to avoid being exposed as immortal and non-human, and all of the mortal friends and lovers he had lost. In the 1990s, "Mark Lauer" had adopted a service dog to help with his PTSD - a tan-coated "Wolfadoodle", Irish wolfhound/poodle mix, which reminded him of a much smaller version of his brother Celegorm's dog, though still considerably large. As it turned out, two weeks after the adoption the dog had spoken to let him know he was the very same dog, reincarnated.
Though Huan was a Maia, and had been healthy and active for almost thirty years, he was still a dog, and prone to doing... dog things. A long time ago, Maglor had taken up embroidery as something to do with his hands when he wasn't playing music, and also as a way to honor his late grandmother Míriel Þerindë. This morning while he was embroidering, one of their cats had knocked the pincushion to the floor, and before Mark could pick it up, Huan had run off with the pincushion like it was a ball and swallowed a couple of the embroidery needles. Now they were here - they'd been at the veterinary hospital all day - and Maglor was struggling with that feeling of having failed his family all over again.
Sören knew. Sören was one of the few people Mark had ever confided in with the full, honest truth. Of course, there were reasons for that which went beyond their intimacy.
Please. Mark used ósanwe this time, speaking directly into Sören's mind.
Their eyes met, and Mark pointed to his lap, then held out his arms. Sören obediently went over and sat on Mark's lap, and Mark held him and rocked him. But a few minutes later Sören was restless and began pacing again.
"Sören." Mark sighed. "Baby -"
Sören paused and bit his lip, as if he was suddenly aware of what he was doing - and Mark realized that it was mostly involuntary, like one of his stims - and then Sören said, "OK, look, let me try to do something productive with all this nervous energy. You want something from the vending machines?" The veterinary hospital had two vending machines - one for soda and water, and one for snacks.
Mark wasn't particularly hungry or thirsty, but he knew it would make Sören feel a little better if Sören felt like he was doing something helpful. "Ummm, maybe a ginger ale?"
"OK." Sören opened the door, just in time to almost collide with their attending veterinarian.
"Oh, hello. I was just coming in to give you an update."
Sören stepped aside and took a seat next to Mark, as Dr. Anthony Hewlett-Johnson entered the room.
Mark knew that everyone who worked at the clinic was a trained professional, but he once again found himself glad that Dr. Hewlett-Johnson was the one in charge of handling their emergency. He had a gentle, reassuring, nurturing sort of energy, able to be empathetic with clients while detached enough to be the calm in the eye of the emotional storms. In fact, that silk-and-steel vibe reminded him of his uncle Finarfin - as did the green eyes - even though Dr. Hewlett-Johnson was first of all human, and also had black hair that was starting to turn grey.
The veterinarian also had a pleasant voice, deep and resonant, with a British accent - London, if Mark had to place it - which made him curious about how he'd ended up here in Maine, but Mark kept those questions to himself.
"Your dog... Juan?" Dr. Hewlett-Johnson checked the chart again, furrowing his brow.
"Huan," Mark corrected.
"Huan made it through surgery. He'll need to spend the next 1-2 nights here so we can keep an eye on him, but he should make a full recovery." Dr. Hewlett-Johnson smiled, crow's feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes, his boyishly handsome face lighting up with sincere relief and happiness.
"Oh, thank fuck." Sören clapped his hand over his mouth and made a muffled "meep"; Mark couldn't help laughing. The veterinarian chuckled too. "Sorry, language -"
"It's all right, I've heard worse." Dr. Hewlett-Johnson smirked. "I've said worse, during the surgery."
Mark wondered if Huan had said worse before the surgery and any of the attending staff thought their mind was playing tricks on them.
"So he's... he's doing OK?" Mark felt sheepish for asking, considering what the doctor had just said, but the question was pure reflex, needing those extra reassurances.
Dr. Hewlett-Johnson nodded. "As well as can be expected considering he just had surgery. But there were no complications, and he seemed to be in excellent health otherwise. I can tell you take very good care of him."
Sören broke, sobbing. Mark reached out to him, pulling Sören against his shoulder and petting him - feeling a bit apprehensive doing so, since societal acceptance of LGBT people had been very recent, but Dr. Hewlett-Johnson passed over a box of tissues. Mark pulled out a few tissues for Sören, making soothing noises as he held back his own tears.
"Thank you," Mark said, his voice shaking.
Sören nodded. "Thank you so much. You saved our dog's life. You're a hero."
Dr. Hewlett-Johnson gave them a sympathetic smile and waved his hand. "Not a hero, I'm just somebody who loves animals and knows what a light they can be in our lives."
Mark braced himself, expecting Sören to reply with something like "Hi Just Somebody Who Loves Animals..." as he usually did - and instead what came out of Sören's mouth next threw him for a loop. "I still think you deserve something... nice... after working tirelessly all day to save our dog's life... coming here day in day out to help animals," Sören said. "How would you like to come to dinner? A nice, home-cooked meal, whatever you want, or we can take you out to dinner to say thank you..."
Mark's eyebrows shot up. While they weren't complete hermits, they were both introverts, and there was an additional caution about interacting with people considering Mark's need to protect his elven identity, as well as the fact that they were both trans men living stealth and transphobia was on the rise. But he knew Sören tended to be impulsive when he was emotional - much like Fëanor.
Sören caught himself and turned to Mark. "I'm sorry, I should have checked first -"
"No, it's fine. I agree, he deserves something nice." Even though Mark was cautious of strangers, he had still extended hospitality and help over the ages, and this was no different. He was sure the veterinarian put in long, tiring hours and his fingers were ringless, suggesting he had no one at home, though Mark reminded himself that didn't mean for sure he was alone. As he observed that the veterinarian didn't appear to be married, that was when Mark finally noticed the silver Star of David around the veterinarian's neck. "Wait... can you eat with us?" Mark asked. "I assume you keep kosher...?"
The veterinarian blinked as if surprised Mark knew anything about kosher restrictions, and then he said, "Well, I do but I'm not strict about it. So I could eat at your house or a restaurant so long as it wasn't pork or shellfish, or mixing meat and dairy. I'm not Orthodox where I'd need separate dishes and utensils or can't eat food cooked by Gentiles in a non-kosher kitchen. And thank you for asking. That said, it's not professional for me to take tips or gifts from clients..."
Mark wasn't sure if he should be relieved or disappointed.
Then Dr. Hewlett-Johnson went on, "But OK, I'll accept. And a home-cooked meal sounds lovely. I get takeaway more than I should, honestly."
Sören's smile threw away whatever reservations Mark had, and the comment about takeaway let Mark know he was probably correct in his observation that the vet was single... not that it mattered.
"But let's wait two weeks until after your followup appointment just to make absolutely sure Huan is OK, yeah? I would hate to make you go to all that trouble just for..." The doctor didn't finish the sentence.
"Completely understood. Besides, that gives us time to prepare," Mark said, and Sören nodded eagerly.
"Brilliant. So let's go over the aftercare your dog will need once you take him home..."
Mark stopped at a McDonald's drive-thru on the way home - both of them were too tired to cook tonight, and they needed fat and carbs and cheese at a time like this. The deep relief he felt that Huan survived surgery and would be OK gave way to exhaustion, enough so that he kept silent once he'd ordered and they continued on the highway from Portland to Bentham.
Unfortunately, Sören interpreted his silence badly. After they'd gotten in, fed the cats, and then fed themselves - though they'd eaten their fries in the car - Mark went to the bathroom and found Sören waiting once he'd done his business and opened the door. Sören was frowning, and looked on the verge of tears again. "I'm really sorry I didn't ask you before I invited him -"
"Oh, honey, no, it's OK." Mark immediately took Sören into his arms.
They held onto each other as they walked down the hall to the bedroom, and as soon as they were sitting on the bed together Sören fell apart, sobbing into Mark's chest. Mark's eyes tightened around him and he finally gave into his own tears, after being strong all day. "I promise you, I'm not mad at you for asking him over," Mark said. "Your kindness is one of the things I love the most about you." Mark kissed the top of Sören's head and rubbed his nose in the mop of dark curls.
Sören looked up, hearing the waver in Mark's voice. He cried harder at the sight of Mark crying. He touched Mark's face and stroked Mark's hair; Mark finally let his glamour down, waves of black hair falling from a few inches past his shoulders down to his waist, a faint glowing aura around him. Sören took the point of Mark's ear between his thumb and forefinger, a gesture of affection and acceptance, and Mark smiled through his tears.
The use of magic to mask his appearance in public - the true length of his hair, the iridescence of his eyes, the way he glowed, sometimes the points of his ears if he didn't have his hair down - added to fatigue. It had been worse when Mark was in situations where he'd had to glamour a penis, which only worked cosmetically and not functionally but had gotten him through exams needed for military service and sharing close quarters in wartime. At home with Sören he didn't need to glamour himself - he'd revealed his true nature to Sören early into their relationship. There were no secrets between them.
No secrets and no lies. That also meant Mark didn't have to act tough, he didn't have to perform a macho caricature of masculinity. They were two sensitive artists and their home was a refuge, a nest of comfort. They took care of each other. Mark had been trying to contain the flood of Sören's anxiety all day, and now Sören was picking up Mark's broken pieces - not just worrying about his dog all day, but the way Huan's emergency was a microcosm of all the losses Maglor had sustained in his life, elven family and mortal companions alike.
"The reason why I've been quiet is just... I'm wrung out from today. A day I could have prevented. I'm sorry I was so careless," Mark choked out, seeing Huan take the "ball" just before he could get it... his mind's eye playing a tormented vision of Maedhros dropping into the chasm.
"Elskan," Sören whispered. "I'm here, elskan. Don't beat yourself up." Now it was his turn to let Mark cry on his shoulder, petting Mark's hair, rubbing his back, rocking him. "I don't blame you for what happened with Huan." Their eyes locked. "I don't blame you for anything. Not then, and not now."
Sören was Fëanor, reincarnated as human - incest was wrong, but they weren't related anymore, they had a different relationship to each other now. Sören didn't like bringing it up much, due to his abuse history in this life - abuse that had made him flee to another country - and Sören thought it was healthier to focus on the here and now regardless... but in this moment, Mark needed to hear Fëanor's absolution, and Sören intuitively knew that. Mark wept harder, feeling like an ancient, festering wound was being lanced and washed.
"I love you," Sören said. "You didn't fail Huan, OK? You rushed him to the vet right away, and that guy is probably the best vet in the entire state."
Mark continued to cry on Sören's shoulder, and Sören kept holding him, petting him. Mark felt a fresh wave of guilt for Huan being alone at the vet hospital overnight, not wanting the poor dog to feel abandoned - though staff was there, and they'd gotten to visit Huan before they left the hospital, and they'd be back in the morning to see him again. Then guilt was nudged away by relief, that Huan was OK, and soon he'd be back home and feeling like himself. It wouldn't be yet another loss, not this time.
Mark cried and cried, and when he was all cried out Sören got up and took Mark's hand. "Shower?"
They undressed and took a moment to admire each other. Sören bore a close resemblance to Jon Snow on Game of Thrones, with his shoulder-length dark curls, a short beard framing full lips, and long-lashed brown eyes. He had full-sleeve tattoos - flames going up his right arm, ocean waves cascading down his left, leading out to a water phoenix and fire phoenix performing a mating dance on his back. His top surgery scars were faded but noticeable, and his nipples were pierced with captive bead rings. Two years ago Sören had also gotten a horizontal clitoral hood piercing for their third anniversary, which had a matching captive bead ring, this one's bead etched with the Star of Fëanor. Mark thought Sören was a work of art, and he let his lover's body distract him from the inner turmoil.
They brushed their teeth, then Sören started the water. The hot shower felt good after their long, difficult day. For awhile they just held each other under the spray, then they took turns lathering each other. The lathering led to sensual caresses, and kissing. When they both had prune fingers, Mark turned off the water and they stepped out into the steamy bathroom. They resumed kissing and running their hands over each other, groping, as they towelled off, and then they kissed their way down the hall to the bedroom.
They tumbled onto the bed together, and Sören climbed over him, kissing him deeply. "Let me take you to a better place for awhile, elskan," Sören said softly.
Mark lay back and Sören lavished love on every inch of him, kissing and licking and nibbling his neck, shoulders, armpits, arms, his sensitive nipples, his chest and stomach and sides, his hips, his thighs, his calves... and then back up. Sören's hands followed his mouth, rubbing in slow, lazy circles, fingers brushing, walking. Sören knew how to make his body sing, electricity through his veins as he lost himself in pleasure.
Sören rubbed his nose in Mark's thick bush, and began to lick at him, making his clit harden, jutting out like a small cock, almost painful in its need. Sören's finger stroked the hard clit, smiling approvingly, then he got to work sucking on it - those lush lips felt incredible wrapped around him, and Mark couldn't help moaning, his breath ragged as Sören sipped and slurped, sucking hard. Soon Mark was trembling, panting.
Through the haze of sensation, he noticed Sören was grinding against the mattress - he got as aroused giving pleasure as he did receiving it. So did Mark. "Hey," Mark said. He patted his shoulders. "I'm thinking of a number between one and seventy."
Sören looked up and smirked. "Forty-two."
Mark facepalmed and groaned. "Wow, Sören. Just... wow."
Sören cackled. "Well, we might need a towel."
Mark shook his head, shaking with silent laughter. "C'mere you hoopy frood, and let me sass you."
Sören laughed harder. He came up to kiss Mark, who moaned at the taste of himself on Sören's tongue, and then Sören got in position, straddling Mark's shoulders with his pert ass in Mark's face, laying down with his head between Mark's legs.
Time seemed to stop as they feasted on each other, lapping, sucking, their juices dripping, thighs slick. Mark was in bliss as he worshiped Sören's bottom growth, rolling it around in his mouth like a delicious piece of candy, occasionally pulling on the ring at his hood, and Sören's lips tugged at his own clit, making it swell even more. They moaned into each other's cunts, making deliciously lewd wet suctioning sounds... louder still when they finger-fucked each other. It wasn't long before Sören was riding his tongue, desperately fucking himself on Mark's fingers, creaming all over Mark's chin. Sören shook his head violently, and Mark felt himself rushing to the point of no return, closer and closer until he was right there...
They came together, Sören squirting on his face, swearing in Icelandic as Mark shattered with a fierce cry. Mark sighed, toes curling as his orgasm pulsed and sent luscious waves of relief through his whole body. He closed his eyes and for a brief instant he could see the light of the Silmarils, the light of the Trees, as his fëa and Sören's danced together in the Song.
He and Sören kissed, sharing their combined essence, and then he pulled Sören against his chest and kissed Sören's forehead, petting his damp curls. "I love you," Mark said.
"I love you." Sören looked into his eyes and smiled.
They cuddled for awhile, not really asleep but just resting after their day... just being. Eventually Mark kissed Sören's nose, feeling tender, and Sören returned the nose kiss and they nuzzled. They rained kisses over each other's faces, which led to a playful open-mouthed kiss, tongues teasing. As they kissed again, the passion stirred between them once more and they reached between each other's legs, slick fingers stroking each other back to hardness.
Sören was usually a submissive bottom, but once in awhile they switched, and Sören seemed to intuitively understand that tonight Mark just needed to let go. Sören straddled Mark's hips, propped Mark's right leg on his left shoulder, and both men cried out as their clits aligned. Sören rode him hard, their cunts slapping together, wet and sloppy. The feel of the captive bead ring in Sören's hood always drove Mark wild, besides the luscious feel of clit on clit, rubbing back and forth, up and down, in circles... the feel of Sören's cunt dripping into his. Their moaning, panting, whimpering was soon outmatched by the smacking, squelching sounds of their cunts fucking. Mark's hands roamed over Sören's body, enjoying the sight of him taking what he wanted, all raw aggression and power yet moving so gracefully as he worked his hips. Their clits fucked until they were both quivering, breath in shuddery gasps, their eyes locked, and Mark took Sören's hands, knowing they were going to come together again.
Sören squirted a second time, intensifying Mark's own climax, pulsing and throbbing in deep contractions, so good it almost hurt. Mark felt like he was flying, a rhapsody of joy - instead of seeing light this time, he was light, both of them, weightless and shimmering. When he glided back down, with Sören in his arms, he laughed with euphoria.
"Thank you." Mark made a little purring sound of contentment.
"Thank you." Sören grinned, and kissed Mark's cheek.
Now he was ready to doze off. Once they pulled up the blankets - both of them too out of it to put on pajamas - the cats gathered and sat on top of the blanket mountain of their people. Mark let his mind slow down, emptying - tomorrow was another day, and they would visit Huan in the morning and soon enough, things would be back to normal.
As normal as it got, anyway.
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