It was one thing for Dooku to know logically that he'd stick out like a sore thumb at a working-class pub in Southwark, and it was entirely another to experience that firsthand. It was an unseasonably warm late October day so Dooku had left the cape at home, but even in black tunic and trousers he was overdressed, and got some odd looks as he walked in. He took a table in the corner - within sight of the door. He didn't know that Sören was already there - he gasped when he saw Sören turn away from the bar, carrying two pints.
Sören was wearing faded jeans and a Joy Division T-shirt, "goth" enough to stand out without being too conspicuous. Dooku noticed Sören's nails were still painted black, this time glittering with blue sparkles. Sören otherwise did not seem to be wearing any makeup, and Dooku doubted Sören could get away with obvious makeup in a place like this. It was also the first time Dooku noticed both the younger man's ears were pierced, wearing two sets of small silver hoops, and with a short-sleeved shirt, Dooku could see both of Sören's forearms were tattooed, his left arm with flames of fire, his right arm with waves of the sea.
After Sören put their pint glasses on the table, he pulled the handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to Dooku. It was neatly folded, and smelled freshly laundered. "Thank you very much," Dooku said.
A waitress came over. Sören ordered fish and chips, and Dooku decided to follow suit. "Two separate checks, please," Sören told her.
Sören raised his glass, and Dooku did as well. "Skál," Sören said.
"Skál," Dooku replied.
Sören knocked back his pint. Dooku wasn't much of a beer drinker, but he didn't want to be rude, so he sipped his more slowly.
"So you bought my paintings," Sören said. "All of them that were in the gallery."
"I did."
"Thank you," Sören said. "That will pay my rent for the next few months."
Dooku cringed despite himself. "What do you usually do to pay the bills?"
"I'm a barista." Sören gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Up until now, art hasn't really made money."
"Just a barista? You're cultured enough to be an artist, have you gone to university?"
Sören nodded. "I went to med school, actually." Sören closed his eyes and sighed. "I had a lot of anxiety when I was a med student and I... eventually had a bit of a breakdown when I did a clerkship. Didn't finish school. Couldn't. Art helped me survive."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I."
An awkward silence. Sören gestured to Dooku. "What do you do? Obviously something important."
"I'm a barrister," Dooku said.
"Figures. I would have otherwise guessed banker, accountant, corporate something or other, one of those suit types." Sören smirked. "Where do you live, somewhere posh, right?"
"Bermondsey."
Sören nodded. "Not as posh as I expected but still mad decent."
"Where do you live?"
"Greenwich."
That didn't surprise Dooku. But it also pleased him; it was a ten-minute drive from his place if they ever got that far. Already you want to see him again. You don't even know him. You fool.
"How do you like living in the UK?" Dooku asked, between sips of his pint. "How long have you been here?"
"I've been here two years now," Sören said. "And it's all right, I guess? I get homesick for Iceland still, but I came here hoping I'd have better success as an artist."
"Your English is very good."
"Uh, já, they teach English in our schools because most of the world doesn't speak Icelandic."
Dooku knew this - every Icelander he'd dealt with spoke excellent English - and he felt even more like a fool. His face burned.
Sören laughed, taking it in stride. "It's all right, at least you didn't ask me if I've ever seen a polar bear or which famous Viking am I descended from, or 'do you know Björk?' or whatever."
"Oh dear heavens, have people actually asked you that?"
"Yes." Sören nodded, continuing to laugh - Dooku couldn't help laughing too, it was infectious, and he loved the way Sören's smile lit up his face, seemed to light up the entire room. The pub atmosphere had been getting to Dooku, but now he was relaxed. "When I want to be a complete troll, I've answered such questions with 'Björk and I wrestled a polar bear together, once. Wearing Viking helmets and nothing else.'"
Dooku laughed out loud. He felt immediately self-conscious of how loud his laughter rang out, but Sören just laughed harder, and that made it better.
"Obviously," Sören said, "I don't know Björk, though I wish I did! Her music is amazing."
"I've never listened to Björk," Dooku admitted.
"I wouldn't expect someone your age to."
Dooku snorted. "Listen. I will have you know, young man, that I am much cooler than I look. As I was driving here, I was listening to Black Sabbath."
"Oh really?" Sören's eyebrows went up. "You like metal?"
"I do. I don't like all of it - like that rap-rock that calls itself metal, Limp Scone or whatever its name is -"
"Limp Bizkit." Sören cracked up laughing. "Limp Scone." He laughed so hard he started tearing up.
"But Black Sabbath, Judas Priest, Dio, Metallica... I like this. I own a motorbike and once in awhile I enjoy riding out into the country blasting metal as I ride."
"Wow." Sören's eyes widened. "That's... impressive."
Dooku could sense across the Force that Sören was picturing this, and wondering if Dooku wore leather pants when he did, and Sören liked that mental image. Dooku felt himself get flustered again. "Have you ever ridden a motorbike?"
"No, I have not," Sören said.
"I highly recommend it." Dooku smirked. "As you can see, you cannot judge a book by its cover."
"Clearly not." Sören smiled. "But you still seem pretty uptight."
Dooku nodded. "And you can tell."
Sören also nodded. "And you know that I can tell."
Dooku continued nodding. "We should talk about that, but perhaps not here."
"I don't know what there is to discuss about it," Sören said. "It's not something I advertise, and I take it you don't either."
"No," Dooku said. "But it's always good to... know others. And sometimes, get tips from those who have been living with it a long time."
"I will take that under advisement."
Their food came, and Sören ordered another pint. Dooku did not, because he was driving. He cocked his head to one side and asked Sören, "How did you get here?"
Sören sat back in his chair, and between mouthfuls of chips he said, "Well you see, Nico, when two people love each other very much..."
Dooku almost spat his fish. "You know what I mean, you brat." This was also the second time Sören had called him Nico, and he was considering his response.
"I took the bus," Sören said.
"I'm driving you back home," Dooku said.
"I can take the bus. I'm not going to be too intoxicated for that."
"I know," Dooku said, though he wasn't entirely sure of that - he was a lightweight with alcohol himself, many Force-sensitives were. "But I'd rather drive you back home." Dooku's eyes met Sören's. "I'm not a predator. If I was, doing what you know I can do, you'd already be in trouble."
"It isn't that," Sören said. "You're really posh and I live in..."
Dooku shook his head dismissively. "I'm sure," Dooku said, "but that doesn't matter to me. You're you."
Sören nodded. "All right." Sören snorted. "You think I'm going to be too drunk for the bus."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't need to." You can do that thing, Sören spoke into his mind directly. "I'm an Icelander. I could drink anyone in here under the table."
"Is that right?" came a surly voice from a nearby table.
"Já, but not today," Sören shot back, with a discrete wave of his hand.
The would-be challenger went back to minding their own business, and Dooku gave Sören a look. Sören shrugged and began devouring his fish.
After they'd finished eating, and paid separately, Dooku and Sören walked side by side out to his car. Sören let out a low whistle at the ultrasleek black Jaguar before he got in the passenger seat, and Black Sabbath started up again when the car turned on.
"I told you," Dooku said.
"Indeed you did." Sören grinned.
When the car began moving down the street, Sören turned to Dooku and said, "Mind if we take a little detour?"
"Probably not. Where to?"
"Southwark Park. It's a beautiful day and I'd like to sketch for awhile."
Dooku had no objection to this. They walked through the park together, and Sören stopped at the duck pond. Dooku sat with him, enjoying companionable silence, the peace of the autumn afternoon. Every now and again he glanced at Sören's sketching, and after awhile he was watching Sören's sketching as much as he was watching the scenery around him, fascinated by the artist at work. He could practically see gears turning and bulbs lighting up in Sören's head, he could feel Sören's creative energy in the Force and found it intoxicating.
At last Sören got up to stretch, and he and Dooku walked into the gardens and sat there, for Sören to sketch some more. Sören asked Dooku to sit a distance away, and Dooku respected that, thinking maybe he was making Sören nervous by watching, but when they got up to head back to the car, Dooku stole a look at Sören's sketch pad and noticed that Sören had been sketching him. He didn't know what to make of that - he felt honored and shy all at once.
Sören gave Dooku directions for the way back to his place - he did indeed live in a more lower-class part of Greenwich - and as they pulled into the last street, before Sören could give Dooku the building number, his eyes widened with alarm. "I need you to pull over and let me out," Sören said.
"What? Why?"
"I just saw my roommate walking down the street. She's back earlier than expected and if she sees some posh guy in a Benz bringing me home there's gonna be weird questions."
It's a Jaguar, not a Benz. "Roommate? Or partner?" Dooku didn't like the note of irritation that had crept into his voice with the word "partner".
"Roommate. In case Leja didn't tell you, I'm completely fucking gay." Sören rolled his eyes. "I don't see why it would matter though unless -" Then Sören gave Dooku a knowing look, and Dooku's face burned.
Dooku could have smacked himself.
"Anyway, she'd be assuming I had a sugar daddy or... something... and I don't want her hounding me for money."
"Fair enough." Dooku pulled over. "We didn't discuss the commission."
"We can discuss it next time," Sören said. "You want to meet me at Southwark Park again next Saturday? Duck pond again? We can pack our own lunch, that way it's less awkward for you."
"That sounds good." Dooku smiled. "Saturday it is."
"Thank you, Nico."
Before Sören could get out of the car Dooku put his hand on the younger man's arm = he wasn't used to touching people, and touching Sören gave him a little bit of a shock, and not from static. Dooku's arm broke out in gooseflesh, and his cock stirred in his trousers. Sören's eyes met his, and Dooku's mouth suddenly felt very dry.
"Sören, why do you call me that? I told you everyone calls me by my surname, just Dooku. Not Nicolae."
"It seems so cold and... clinical... to call you by your last name." Sören gave a small smile. "And I'm not everyone. I don't want to be like everyone else in your life, there at an arm's length. When you appreciated those paintings, with the intensity you did, you saw my soul... fed my soul. And that means I can see yours. I can touch yours. That means... something. I don't know what, but I'd like to find out."
Sören got out of the car then, and Dooku had to take a minute before he could drive away. He felt like his head was spinning, and it wasn't the beer.
chapter 4 | return to Northern Lights | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index