The following weekend, Dooku was in his garden again harvesting - this time snap beans, carrots, leeks, basil, endives, scallions. It was the last of the harvest. In early October he'd be planting what few things could sprout in the winter, like shallots and peas, and would also be seeding garlic for a May or June yield.
Once again, it started as a quiet afternoon. Dooku relaxed as his hands and feet connected with the earth, the food he'd grown himself, the life in the plants he'd lovingly tended. He even managed to get through filling his baskets and bringing them inside. When everything was cleaned, he rewarded himself with a glass of wine, and decided he'd soak up more of the sunshine while he could, knowing the famous Pacific Northwest rains would be on their way soon enough.
Sören was sitting out in his yard now, drinking that barbarian concoction he called "tea" and listening to rap music. Dooku made a face, but he wasn't going to go back inside. He sat down, drinking his wine, trying to not stare at the young man reading a Stephen King book. Well, at least he has good taste in books. If things were less fraught, Dooku might have felt like starting a conversation with him about it.
But things were fraught. And as Dooku drank his wine, trying not to stare across the short picket fence over at Sören and failing, he thought about that. Sören had lived next door to him since late 2014 and had only been mildly annoying, with his neon green car and occasional loud music. Once in awhile Dooku would see Sören outside painting, but he'd be quiet then, or have music on earphones. Dooku hadn't seen Sören paint in awhile. Sören had been outside more often, reading. His music seemed angrier. Dooku wondered why that was.
It wasn't any of his business, really, but something about it prickled him in a way that was hard to explain.
Sören finally noticed Dooku looking at him. He raised an eyebrow. Dooku looked away, face burning, and sipped his wine. When he looked back, Sören was having another glass of that "tea" with ice in it. And then Sören turned up the volume on his stereo.
Dooku put his glass down. "Do you mind?" He could feel the scowl on his face.
Sören crinkled his nose and bit his lower lip.
It was adorable - even vaguely arousing, innocent-yet-naughty - and it enraged him. He did not want to find this insolent, ill-mannered brat attractive. He especially did not want to have thoughts of taking Sören Sigurdsson over his knee and spanking him into submission.
Dooku got up. This was war, the brat goading him like this.
There was a shelf unit on wheels in Dooku's living room, which had his vinyl record player and two large speakers. It was on wheels so Dooku could push the sound system down the hall to the spare bedroom when he wanted to work out without having to go to the gym, or meditate. Now he pushed it into the kitchen, towards the back door. He plugged in the power strip, and went back to the living room to his shelf of vinyl records. Classical was an option - kids these days seemed to not appreciate the old masters, finding it "boring" when it was anything but - and yet classical didn't seem aggressive enough. Dooku decided on rock, something from before Sören was born. The question was what.
He thumbed through the classic rock vinyl records, in their own category, and then he paused on something that he himself hadn't listened to in ages. A song that came out in 1968, when he was not yet twenty years old. He remembered when that song was new, he was a student at Oxford University.
He grabbed the record, and an extension cord.
Sören glanced up as Dooku came back out of his house, looking a little surprised, as if he hadn't been expecting Dooku to return, would just go away after turning up the music. Dooku tried to restrain the smirk as he pulled the shelf with his record player and speakers out the back door as far as the extension cord to the power strip would reach.
Sören continued sipping his "tea" as his music blared.
She's too fly for words
And where I'm at now I'm too high for birds
Shorty, what you think about my return?
Cause what he think about it ain't my concern
I ain't come for you, I came for your misses
I don't do it for the haters, I do it for the players
Well okay, I do it for the riches
But in the meantime and then between time
Shorty right there gon' get it if she with it if she ain't
And I know her partner down
Cause her partner throwing shots every time I turn around
And her partners bringing partners every time I come to town
I'm a G6 sir, a Maybach-er
You can tell the chauffeur he can park it right thurr
And I'm a walk up to the club upsturrs
And when I come down he can bring it back hurr
There was actual singing then.
She's 'bout to go in
She likes that low end
Damn, her ass is so big
Just keep it bumping
Peaches and cream
Dooku snorted. Peaches and cream indeed. Sweet for something souring his afternoon. He didn't want to think about Sören's shapely rear end, either. Hopefully he'd be seeing it on its way out, with what he set out to do.
Dooku began to play his record, and turned the speakers up as high as they would go. "Up to eleven," Dooku muttered under his breath, though they didn't go that high.
In-a-gadda-da-vida, honey
Don't you know that I love you?
In-a-gadda-da-vida, baby
Don't you know that I'll always be true?
Oh, won't you come with me
And a-take my hand?
Oh, won't you come with me
And a-walk this land?
Please take my hand
The lyrics were a bit of an odd choice for going to war with Sören, but the aggressive drums and guitar were not. Dooku sat down with his wine, watching as his music overpowered Sören's, whose small portable mp3 stereo was only loud enough to go so far, Snoop Dogg drowned out by Iron Butterfly.
Sören got up with a filthy look on his face - somehow even more attractive when he was riled up, not that I'm attracted to him or anything, Dooku thought, face burning - and Sören turned off his stereo, and carried his book and pitcher of iced tea inside. Dooku tried not to watch the firm ass in those jeans. When Sören came back to collect his stereo he shouted across the yard: "You win this time, old man."
Dooku smiled, and raised his glass of wine in salute. And for good measure, when the song was over he played it again.