Night grew long in the low hum of Mark’s studio, where insomnia painted songs in blues and greys, not in notes but in ghosts of memories. They sifted through him like sand in the hourglass, grains catching and twisting on the tangles of his past. He wrote them into the music with bold black strokes, a history heavy enough to cleave his heart. Maglor. Warrior. Murderer. He lived those long ages over again, and the pain was the same, no less sharp, as it was the first time. Composing should have distracted him, given him solace. But he heard only the silence and the secrets underneath the notes.
Once, he’d have kept a candle burning. Now, the soft white glow of a lamp spilled across his paper and outlined his guitar in gold. Mark strummed and hummed a little, just above a whisper, trying to find his way into the music, hoping to hush the past that pressed in on all sides. It clung to him, even more so at this hour. Its echoes lived in every melody, rang out in the words he tried to compose. When he wrote them, they seemed like letters to a ghost.
Once, there were no ghosts. He remembered that time clearly, even though it seemed like he should have worn those memories thin with use by now. Valinor, he thought, and his fingers brushed the strings. Those ages had a rhythm and sound that felt almost foreign now. Brightness, innocence, beauty. He lingered on those images, felt them in his music as surely as he had felt them in his heart, long ago. He played a few soft notes and listened to them fade, watched the shadows take them back.
But that perfection had not lasted, and neither did his peace. Even thinking of it, even now, brought the old ache to life inside him. There was more silence than song in the room, and he knew what lay beyond it. Fire. Blood. Oceans of it. Maglor. Brother. Betrayer. He sighed and set his guitar aside, a temporary surrender. The Oath was part of his history. Part of his soul. In the stillness, he could almost hear it beating. It pounded a frantic rhythm. Demanded. Dominated.
It killed his father first. Then the rest, one by one. By the end, Mark could barely remember the names of all the bodies left behind. So many lives. So much destruction. His brothers went before him, and he lost each of them to their own brand of madness. Maedhros fell first and furthest. Celegorm and Curufin went down in a blaze of pride and jealousy. The twins were still almost children when they died, in each other's arms. Caranthir, consumed by his temper, left Mark the last and most broken of all.
As much as he tried to shake those memories, they clung to him with the stubbornness of children, and a painful kind of love. It all felt close enough to touch. He supposed that a few thousand years didn't matter so much, in the grand scheme. But each year stretched on forever when it was his. Each was an eternity.
He found his way back to the guitar and ran his fingers over the strings, picking out notes in soft patterns, improvising a gentle melody. He didn't play loudly enough to fill the space. Just a whisper. He hadn't learned his lesson, after all those centuries. Still pretending he could hide from the past. Still pretending he could hide from himself.
And it wasn't the First Age that haunted him most. It was the rest of them. The wandering. He wrote the music, half a song already in his mind, but stopped before he found the words. They were forming, but he knew the shape they would take. He'd lived them. Written them before. Loneliness. Mark was in that state again. Alone, as he'd been since he cast away the last Silmaril and lost his family for the final time. He fled Middle Earth, but time and distance weren't enough to ease his mind.
Mark, vagabond, drifter, used a thousand names in a thousand places. He disguised himself as one of the race he'd hurt so much. Pretended to be human, lived among them. Taught himself to blend in. In the end, even he forgot the bright details. They faded. Anthony called them "Maglor," and Mark forgot the sound of his own name.
But Mark forgot other things, too. More than names. More than faces. He forgot his family. A modern lifetime ago, he left them behind. They'd taken him in, just as he took in Elrond and Elros when they were boys. The memories came back suddenly, full and rich and sharp. The way they'd clung to his hands as children. The way they watched him go, that last time.
Mark took a deep breath, held it, let it go. He returned to the music, willed himself back into the present, and tried to stay there. The words refused to come, and he left the song unfinished. He remembered every note. He'd only been fooling himself when he thought composing might offer a distraction.
It had never worked in the past, and it didn't work now. He lived inside his head, full of regrets. A long time, and he'd made nothing of it. That was what Anthony told him. That he hid. Mark didn't see it until the accusation. Until the challenge. Mark didn't see how far he'd fallen, until Anthony said goodbye.
An ocean, Mark thought. So much water, when there was nothing left of fire. But water wasn't always life. Water wasn't always gentle. He'd drowned himself for years - alcohol, pills, whatever let him forget. Maglor. Drunk. Wretch. Until it left him more broken, even, than before.
The air in the studio was still and thick and far too silent. Mark reached for the guitar, held it a moment, then set it down. This, he thought. Just like this. Empty. He felt hollow and dry, the notes sucked away by a force he could never quite understand. When he looked at the music, it seemed like someone else's.
Mark thought he might be empty forever. It would have served him right, after everything. But Anthony came back. Not like a ghost. Not like anything else he lost. It had been Anthony, flesh and bone and heart, waiting for him at the end.
And now, there was more than just the two of them. Sören, that brilliant flash of will and determination, another stray Mark let into his life. An echo, he thought, and wondered how he never saw it before. Sören was Fëanor. Sören was him, reborn. Stubborn. Defiant. Talented. Proud. The realization left Mark chilled, breathless, and hopeful, all at once. It frightened him.
After all these ages, all those lifetimes, he'd lost everyone and found his way back to family. He'd held them and lost them again. He thought he understood it, finally. Time gave him another chance. He wasn't sure what to do with it. Maglor. Fool.
He stood, pushed the chair away, paced the quiet room. Mark's steps were loud against the silence, louder still against the screaming fears that took hold in his mind. He was bound to lose everything. He'd see them fade away or drown in blood or water. That was the story. That was the song.
The strings hummed faintly as he picked the guitar up again. He hadn't noticed his hands were shaking, not until he touched it. He held it, breathed in, out, counted those breaths, and closed his eyes. His head bowed over the instrument, fingers brushing the strings like a benediction, Mark imagined they were part of something larger. Imagined he was part of it, too. It felt strange, fragile. But he'd take it.
At last, Mark needed a break - like coming up for air after a deep dive - and made his way to the kitchen to get a snack.
As he stood, chewing on a handful of fresh grapes, the chill from the open fridge touched Mark's neck. He turned, and Sören was already drinking, straight from the pitcher, gulping water like a dying man. Mark had been so absorbed in his own memories that he didn’t notice Sören approach, didn’t even realize he'd left his post in the studio until he felt the cold air, saw the bare bulb light the corners of the room, heard the clang of glass against the metal shelf.
Mark watched, a little amused, a little concerned. His mouth opened, and he caught himself before he asked Sören if he was thirsty. Obviously. Instead, he just said his name.
Sören jumped, splashed water down the front of his shirt, and almost dropped the pitcher. He set it on the counter and ran a hand over his mouth, wiped his fingers on the side of his jeans. "Shit, you scared me."
"What are you doing up at this hour?" Mark’s tone was half reprimand, half worry.
"I could ask you the same thing," Sören said, recovering quickly, already trying to turn the encounter into a joke. It wasn't a very successful attempt. His voice came out tight and strained. His eyes were unfocused, lost somewhere on the floor, somewhere other than Mark's face.
Mark crossed his arms and stood there, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "I should have known you'd go right for the fridge."
Sören made a sound that was halfway to laughter. He ran his hand through his hair and pulled it over his shoulder, a nervous gesture, and Mark noticed just how bad he looked. Worse than usual. He leaned on the counter, his arm like a crutch, and exhaled slowly. His eyes squeezed shut, opened again, and seemed just a bit more alert.
Mark let the smile go, tried for sympathy instead. "Sören, you need to sleep."
Sören shook his head, eyes darting away from Mark’s. He picked the pitcher back up, but only made it an inch or two off the counter before setting it down again. "I can't," he said.
He let out a sigh that held more weariness than any simple breath should, and Mark thought he saw a tremor ripple through him. But the counter kept Sören upright. At least for the moment.
"It's been two weeks," Mark said, more gently than before.
The effect was instantaneous. Sören tensed and narrowed his eyes, and the air between them filled with the threat of anger. Mark knew that the spark was easy to ignite and hard to put out, and he took a step back, hoping to avoid the flames.
"Yeah," Sören said. The one word seemed like it took more effort than it should have, and Mark could tell it wasn't all sarcasm. Not this time. Not in his current state. "Two weeks."
"I just mean—"
"I know what you mean."
They stood there in silence for a moment, the atmosphere heavy with Sören's frustration. He tried to be defiant, but even that felt like it took more energy than he had. Finally, he sunk down into a chair, elbows on knees, head in hands, and spoke without looking up.
"You have no fucking idea what this is like."
It came out louder than Sören intended. Mark didn’t flinch at the volume, but at the way the words cut through the room. Even after all those years, he was still surprised at how deep some pains went, how they could catch him off guard.
A moment passed, another. Sören sat, head bowed, back bent, everything about him collapsed and surrendering. Then Mark let out a short breath, almost a laugh, and leaned over to rest his arms on the table. "I think I know a little more than you give me credit for," he said.
He was more serious than sarcastic, more reassuring than flippant. And Sören looked up, hair falling across his face, eyes finding Mark's. "Yeah?"
Mark nodded, but didn't say more. He thought of empty bottles, empty rooms, empty lives. Empty chairs, like the one Sören had all but fallen into. "Yeah," he said again, almost as soft as the silence itself.
He pulled out the other chair, sat facing Sören, and waited. Mark had patience on his side, something Sören didn't know how to handle or respond to. After a long pause, one that Mark barely noticed but that must have seemed eternal to Sören, he finally answered.
"It's just—" He shook his head and started again. "It's hard, you know?"
Mark reached out, laid his hand on Sören's shoulder. He expected the younger man to pull away. Maybe yell again. But he sat, looking fragile and pained and exhausted. Mark nodded, once, then asked the question Sören couldn't bring himself to answer.
"Still having withdrawals?"
"Yeah," Sören said again, and Mark knew he wasn't being sarcastic. Not now. He was past that. His voice cracked and his composure fell apart, and he sat like a discarded puppet with cut strings. His hand touched the counter for support, but this time it didn't look defiant. Just desperate. "And I can't sleep, and I can't stop thinking, and I don't know if it's ever going to—"
"It will," Mark said, and moved from the chair to the bench, close enough to Sören that their arms almost touched. Close enough to tell him it was going to be okay.
Mark wanted to say it again. But Sören just nodded, just this side of defeat, and Mark didn't press.
"Do you want me to play?"
Sören's eyes met his, and Mark could see the fight in them, burning through the haze of exhaustion. He didn't answer. Not right away.
"Sören?"
There was another long pause, a breath and a half, before he nodded. "Okay," he said. The word didn't sound happy or willing or easy, but it was the first one Sören had spoken without anger or hopelessness behind it.
Mark took the acceptance for what it was: tentative and quiet.
He turned the light off on the way out, and the dark felt softer and warmer than the room they'd left behind. Sören was just a few steps ahead of him, just out of reach. Mark watched, waited, took the silence as a sign of his own.
It wasn't long until they got to Sören's room. They moved through the hall like shadows. Just as he reached the door, Sören hesitated, stopped, turned.
"What is it?"
Sören said nothing.
Mark opened the door.
"I—"
It was as close to a confession as Mark would hear tonight. He paused, left the space wide open for more, but Sören said nothing.
Mark waited again, then shrugged his understanding and headed toward the studio. He took his time, gave Sören the chance to follow or to stay, to do whatever it was he felt he needed.
But before long, Mark heard footsteps behind him. He was glad for the darkness. It gave him an excuse to hide his expression. It gave Sören an excuse to hide his own.
They didn't say anything on the way to Mark's studio, not until they stood just outside the door. Not until they were ready to enter. Mark took a step back, gave Sören a path inside, and spoke softly.
"Okay?"
Sören didn’t look at him. Didn’t look at anything. "Yeah," he said. His voice was clear. His eyes were heavy. His spirit was worn, but Mark knew better than to underestimate the wayward spark. It was just a matter of time. He let Sören through the doorway first, took one last look toward the kitchen, toward the empty counter, and turned off the light.
Mark brought his harp and followed Sören, quiet at first, neither of them saying anything, their shadows crossing the doorway and pooling in the corners of the small room. Mark noticed every detail, more so than before. It had changed since the last time he came in. The way Sören shifted and looked around, Mark could tell he was noticing, too.
Sören took a step toward the far wall, almost stopped to do something, and instead reached for the light. He flipped the switch, blinked, and stared at Mark, watching to see how he'd react to the way Sören rearranged the space.
Mark watched, too. It wasn't the room itself that caught his attention, but Sören. The expressions that fought for dominance on his face. Anxiety, hope, pride. They played out like a movie, and Mark saw it all before Sören turned away, just slightly, just enough to put the wall between them.
Sören gave him a look, waited for Mark to speak, but Mark stayed silent, studied the place, thought about how it was different from when they first brought him there, to the room with its bare floor, bare walls, and the barest chance at helping him recover. Sören fidgeted, folded his arms, gave Mark another look.
"What?"
Mark blinked and finally let his gaze settle on Sören's face. "Hm?"
"What," Sören repeated, voice flat and hard, covering uncertainty with the toughness that kept him standing upright in even the most desperate of times. "You never seen posters before?"
Mark ignored the bait and the defensiveness behind it. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, harp balanced beside him, and shrugged as casually as he could. "I like what you've done with the place."
A flicker of emotion passed through Sören's expression. Mark couldn't quite read it, but it gave him hope, for both Sören and for himself.
"You think I need interior decorating lessons or something?"
Mark shook his head. "I'm just trying to figure out if it's a crime to notice."
Sören leaned against the wall, let his eyes slide away from Mark. "Well, yeah. I mean, no. But yeah."
"I don't know," Mark said, pretending to think about it. "It looks kind of criminal to me." He gave Sören a sidelong look, then pointed at the prints taped up on the wall. "Where'd you get all these?"
The suspicion on Sören's face was replaced by a cautious kind of delight. He shrugged, but his expression wasn't as guarded as it was before.
"I ordered them from Amazon to replace what I had. Before."
Mark wasn't sure what to say to that. The way Sören paused after the word, the way he hung onto it like it might collapse without support. It felt like he was talking about something more than just the prints. More than just a possession. But Mark let it go, for now. He gestured again to the posters.
"Is this what you listen to, or just what you want people to think you listen to?"
"Yes," Sören said, but the brightness in his eyes told Mark it was more than a simple yes or no question.
"Yes what?"
"Yes, that's what I listen to." Sören raised an eyebrow. "You thought I wouldn't answer?"
"Not sure what to think. You still confuse the hell out of me."
Sören smirked, then ran his hand through his hair and gave Mark a more sincere look than he'd had on his face since they sat in the kitchen together. "I was just trying to figure out if you're the type of old guy who goes 'Gwar who?'"
"Give me a little credit," Mark said. "The music you've been playing since you moved in, I know most of those bands."
Sören said nothing, but his eyes widened just a little.
"You should see Anthony's collection. He could open a record store."
Sören thought about that for a moment, then laughed, a quiet kind of sound that didn't quite reach Mark's ears but that filled the room, just barely.
Mark leaned forward, touched his hand to the harp strings, brushed them so gently that they hardly made a sound.
"Playing or procrastinating?"
"I promised I would. Unless you don't want me to."
"Yeah," Sören said. "But I figured you—"
"I don't break promises," Mark told him, with more certainty than he felt. He believed it, hoped it, wanted it to be true.
Sören caught the hesitation in his voice and almost pounced. Mark saw it happen, watched Sören decide whether or not to make a joke of it, if only to keep himself from taking it seriously.
"But I have, too," Mark finished.
"Yeah."
"So," Mark said. "What'll it be?"
Sören fell silent, stayed that way long enough that Mark expected another shrug, another brush-off, another long night like the ones they'd had before, before he conceded and took the chance at being comforted. "I don't know," he said.
"Sure you do."
Mark meant it as encouragement, but Sören seemed to take it as an accusation. He crossed his arms and stared hard at the floor, at the wall, at the empty space that still lingered, faint and ghostly, between himself and Mark.
"Something old."
Mark let out a breath. Relief, surprise, and curiosity mixed together in his chest. "Old?"
"Yeah," Sören said, not looking up.
Mark's fingers were poised on the strings, ready, but he didn't play. Not yet.
"Stairway to Heaven," Sören said.
Mark gave a start at the unexpected request.
"Can you?"
The expression on Sören's face told Mark how much that one request meant. He was reminded of the way Sören opened up to him and Anthony, just a little, just enough. Enough to remind Mark of something he thought he forgot.
"Yes," he said, his fingers coaxing a sound out of the instrument that filled the room and spilled down the halls and into Mark's mind, where it felt as new and old as every other note he'd ever played.
He closed his eyes, let the music take over. He didn't sing, but he imagined the words, the chorus, a winding and distant thing that made its way toward him and through him and Sören both. The last thing he saw before he gave himself to the music was Sören, curled on the bed, face hidden, eyes open, back to Mark.
He played until he found his way to the end of the song, to the end of a few other tunes he'd been working on, then to the end of a melody so simple and tender it surprised him with its presence, with how easy it was to remember and how easy it was to play.
And in the end, Sören was asleep, like Mark hoped, like he wished, like he'd imagined.
He stayed, a while longer, than he planned. Watched the even, rise and fall, of Sören's back, and felt a rhythm catch him, draw him in. Mark knew it was time to go. Knew Sören was going to be fine, at least until morning. But still he sat, motionless, guitar cradled in his arms like it needed a father’s comfort. Or like Mark did.
He wasn't sure what kept him there, eyes on the slow, quiet figure under the covers, other than his own hesitance to leave, his own reluctance to part with the sight.
Sören stirred. A sigh. An intake of breath. Mark was ready to grab the harp again, just in case, but there was no need.
Another soft exhale, then Sören shifted, and his face was visible at last. Mark thought he looked younger, now that the strain had left his brow. Or maybe it was more ancient, from Mark's perspective, knowing what he knew about Sören, seeing what he saw.
His breath was a gentle, constant song.
Mark stood, finally. His hands felt empty without the weight of the instrument. They itched for the familiar touch of strings, as though he had to play them to survive.
It was easier, before he learned how much he wanted to live.
He watched Sören. Knew he'd be fine. He was so like Mark's father. So much like Fëanor, like the strongest parts of Mark, himself, that it made Mark's heart hurt to see him asleep, so fragile and so stubborn at once.
It wasn't in Sören to surrender. Not even in dreams. Mark knew it.
He saw his old world in Sören's face, felt that same world stir to life in his chest, and wondered when the closeness began to feel so much like attachment. And why he was suddenly, fiercely, protective of this stray, so insistent on saving him from the darkness and the despair.
And so afraid.
Sören slept, and Mark worried. Watched, waited, looked for the tiniest of movements, for any signal that he'd wake again. But the room was still, and the music did its work, and Mark slipped into the hall.
By the time he reached his own room, he could hardly keep his eyes open. Sleep was a distant thing, and not only for Sören. Mark had been fighting it for weeks. Insomnia was another ghost he let in, a specter he played host to.
The studio wasn't the only thing he'd neglected.
He took a step toward the bed. Anthony was asleep. The light was on. Mark's breath hitched as he approached, almost reverently.
Mark loved him.
So much that it hurt, and so much that the pain felt good, because he thought he'd never feel it again.
He reached for the lamp. Before he got to it, he tripped over a stray book, stifled a curse, caught himself on the edge of the bed. He let the book fall. A deliberate carelessness. He told himself it was okay if he made noise.
He wanted Anthony awake.
Mark settled in, not sure if Anthony was dreaming. He looked at the ceiling. Listened to the slow, soft breath that reassured him. It wasn't as slow and soft as Sören's, but just as reassuring.
Mark's heart stuttered, skipped. He was so used to losing things, and so surprised, still, to find he hadn't lost Anthony after all. He waited for another breath. One that caught, then came out a little too steady, like someone trying to pretend they weren't awake, like someone trying to feign sleep until they knew what the situation was.
"Mark?"
"Hm."
Anthony turned toward him, propped his head on one arm, gave Mark a sleep-softened look that made him want to kiss the exhaustion away. "How's Sören?"
"I think he’ll be okay, tonight," Mark said.
"You think?"
Mark let out a long breath. "He finally went to sleep."
Anthony was quiet for a moment, then asked, "What did you do?"
Mark didn't know how to answer, so he didn't. He stretched instead, tried to play it off as nothing, and found himself relaxing into Anthony's touch as a warm hand reached to his shoulder.
"Tell me."
Mark felt himself give in to the request, heard his own voice answer, "Music. A little more Led Zeppelin than lullaby."
"Ah," Anthony said, and Mark could almost see the thought take shape behind his eyes. He opened his mouth, ready to ask something else, then stopped. A different look took over, a playful suspicion, and he asked, "Should I be jealous?"
Mark smirked, then grew serious. His lips touched Anthony's forehead, and the kiss said more than Mark thought it would. "Maybe," he said, then brushed another kiss, lower this time, then lower, until Anthony reached up and caught him before he reached his target.
"I mean it," Anthony said.
"So do I."
Anthony studied his expression, saw the sincerity behind the smirk, saw the worries behind the sincerity. He kissed Mark, firmly. "Tell me what's wrong."
Mark moved in, close enough to bury himself against Anthony's chest, close enough to feel the life and the heat of him. "I will," he said. "If there is anything wrong."
He wasn't sure if he was lying, and he didn't care.
Anthony pulled him tighter, but not tight enough. Mark wished it was possible to close the distance, to hold on so hard that the ages and the space between them simply ceased to exist. "You're being melodramatic," Anthony said. "Even for you."
Mark laughed, softly. "I just—"
Anthony shifted. The change in position moved Mark a few precious inches further away. "You're just trying to avoid telling me."
Mark thought that might be true. He thought Anthony might know him better than anyone ever did, in this world or the next, and that the fact made him both incredibly happy and incredibly frightened.
"Spill it."
Mark looked at him. Saw his heart, his soul, his past and his future, all at once. "It's been a long time since I had something worth losing."
"And now you do."
"Yes," Mark said. "I have you."
"You have us," Anthony told him, not even the tiniest flicker of jealousy or doubt.
Mark tried to put his heart into his expression, so Anthony would see what it meant, so he'd know. "You," Mark said again, then let out a small, shuddering breath. "And maybe—"
"Sören," Anthony said.
"Yes," Mark told him, surprised and not surprised at all.
Anthony had the nerve to look smug, then sympathetic, then a little sad, then hopeful. He ran a hand over his face, hiding his eyes just enough that Mark couldn't quite be sure what was happening behind them. "You're afraid to lose us."
Mark nodded.
"You have a good heart, Mark."
Anthony kissed him.
The kiss was soft and honest, like everything else about Anthony. Mark tried not to think of it as a promise. He kissed back. Let the simple gesture fill his mind, clear out the ghosts. He kissed again, a little harder, and tried not to be afraid of losing everything, including his chance at being happy.
He almost succeeded.
Mark let his fingers roam. They traced the line of Anthony's jaw, brushed down his neck, rested on his chest.
The next kiss, Anthony rolled on top of him, caught Mark's wrist, and pinned him down, held him in place, claimed his mouth and his heart and his soul.
He didn't intend for it to go like this, Mark thought, while another, smaller, more urgent part of his mind reminded him that he didn't intend for it to stop, either.
The softness was gone, replaced by something rougher, more demanding. Anthony’s tongue forced its way into Mark's mouth and stole the breath from him. And not just the breath, but the logic and the caution and the small voice that warned him about losing too much, too soon.
He knew it was going to be like this. Fast and frantic.
The whole world, Mark thought, until Anthony's weight pinned him back to reality. Pinned him to the bed. And that was as far as his thoughts went, before the heat between them burned them away.
Mark felt Anthony push down against him, and he answered by pressing back, every bit as intense and every bit as needy. His fingers slipped beneath Anthony's shirt, touched skin, touched hair, and Anthony inhaled sharply. The sound told Mark to keep going, so he did.
Anthony pulled back just far enough to tear the shirt over his head. He wasn't the only one, now, trying to get the last few barriers between them out of the way. They each struggled for the advantage, both trying to keep control of the situation while they lost control of everything else.
Mark didn’t even care if they were fighting or fucking. He only cared that it was Anthony and that he was there and that he was as desperate as Mark.
Before the shirt hit the floor, Anthony was on him again, mouth crashing down against Mark’s lips, thighs crashing down against Mark’s thighs. And they hadn't even gotten that far yet.
Mark made a noise, low and eager, into Anthony's mouth. It said everything they needed to say. They could wait, or they could give in. They could be careful, or they could be each other’s. They could have everything, right now, or they could hold on to fear.
Anthony reached between Mark's legs and rubbed. The contact almost pushed Mark over the edge. Almost made him scream. But not quite, and that was just as bad. Mark growled, and it was pure need.
Then, for the first time since they started, Anthony gave in. He shifted position, settled in, a little more serious than before, but not any more gentle. His lips touched the soft, sensitive skin just above Mark's clit. Mark knew he should feel victorious, but Anthony had that effect on him. He couldn’t feel anything other than the urgency.
Anthony’s mouth was exactly where Mark wanted it to be, and Mark’s hands threaded into Anthony's hair, clutching, pulling, drawing him in and closer and never close enough.
He worked fast, lips and tongue and a few fingers rubbing, pulling, pressing, and Mark rocked against his mouth and came against his mouth, and for one incredible moment he had the entire universe, everything he’d wished for, right there.
Mark barely had time to come down before Anthony was on top of him again, holding him in place, working against him, teasing and grinning and rocking harder and faster and rubbing his pussy against Mark’s pussy until Mark couldn't hold back the sounds, the volume, the frantic noises he made.
They fucked until Mark felt he was on the edge again.
Then, just when he thought Anthony was going to let him go, let him finish, let him explode and take him along for the ride, Anthony drew back.
"Fuck," Mark gasped, grabbing for him, for any part of him, any part that would bring him back down and bring him back up to speed.
Anthony laughed, the sound as breathless and raw as Mark's voice.
"You bastard," Mark said, but there was no real accusation behind it. Only surprise. Only desire. Only everything else he had to give.
He waited for Anthony to start up again, waited for him to come back to the way they'd been, but Anthony didn’t. Not right away. He just hovered there, torturing Mark with the promise of another touch, the thought of it, the bare possibility.
Mark’s breath came fast, shallow, ragged, and he didn't care. It felt like relief.
"You—" Mark started, then tried to pull him back, to take what he needed, to give it. But Anthony resisted, shifted to one side, found a place against Mark's neck.
The touch was soft, like the kiss that started it all, and so completely unexpected that Mark's pulse went wild. He bit his lip, forced himself to stay still, to hold the moment and hold it forever, but it wasn't possible.
Anthony didn't move, and Mark couldn't stand it. He arched up, forced the contact, until it was Anthony's lip he was biting and not his own.
He tried to speak, but Anthony’s mouth found its way to Mark's again. They were tangled, bodies, limbs, tongues, and Mark whispered "I love you" into the knot, whispered it over and over, until the knot untangled itself and Anthony was above him once more.
Mark's hands found Anthony’s back, ran down it, pulled him in, pulled him tight. Then they reversed roles and Mark reversed them, used the strength and the desperation and the unexpected longing to hold Anthony exactly where he needed him.
When Anthony was finally pinned, when he was helpless and breathless, just like Mark, just like Mark wanted him to be, just like Mark had been, Mark sat back and saw how beautiful it all was.
Anthony was beautiful.
And so was this, the entire mess of emotion and hunger and tension and sex.
Mark's fingers were back in Anthony's hair, keeping him down, keeping him from moving or squirming or getting away. Keeping him from being anything other than his.
Anthony gasped, and it was the same, small, eager sound that Mark made a few minutes ago.
Mark liked the sound. He wanted more of it. He moved against Anthony, over and over again, clit fucking clit, harder and faster until Anthony was the one that couldn't hold back.
Anthony was the one that called out, screamed out, came like it was a surrender and a conquest at the same time.
It wasn’t enough, not for Mark.
He knew that Anthony wouldn’t leave him hanging, not this time. Not like before. He had too much at stake. So did Mark.
And Anthony gave it to him. He always did.
It felt like the end of everything, and the start.
Mark was wet and hard and aching, and Anthony, with the last of his energy and the last of his strength and the last of his breath, didn’t stop. He pushed them further, past the limits of themselves, until Mark had no choice but to give in to Anthony, to the impossible, incredible heat and pressure and the heartstopping intensity.
It took the fight out of Mark, finally, and he lost himself as Anthony came with him. Together.
Mark's hold tightened, and his fear didn't stand a chance. Not anymore. Not like this. Not while he was wrapped around Anthony. Not while Anthony was wrapped around him.
And not while Sören, just a few rooms away, was going to be fine.
The world was spinning and Mark’s head was spinning and everything, everything, was perfect.
When it all stopped, he closed his eyes and refused to be afraid of the dark.
"I love you, too," Anthony said. Then there was nothing but silence, nothing but sleep, and Mark let it claim him.