It was Tuesday the seventeenth and Sören was at Mark's for the evening. Mark was cooking in the kitchen for their evening meal, as he did, and Sören was curled up on the couch with Huan, lazily petting him as he zoned out to Star Trek: The Next Generation reruns. At some point Sören had to get up to use the bathroom, and he found himself looking around Mark's bathroom like he was seeing it for the first time even though he'd used it dozens of times before. Mark's house overall tended to be done in a black and white color scheme, and the bathroom was done in shades of grey, with marbled tile on the sink countertop, matching the tile of the floor. Natural seashells held cakes of soap by the sink, a piece of driftwood that had been hollowed out and shaped into a rough tumbler held toothbrushes. On a wall Sören finally noticed a framed print of what he recognized as Sea and Rain by James Abbott McNeill Whistler, from the 19th century, feeling dumb that he'd just mentally skimmed over this until now, struck by the lone melancholy figure wandering the bleak shore.
Sören went more slowly down the hall than he normally did, peeking inside the light-grey-walled guest bedroom, never used, with its futon and black-and-white furniture and rugs, then Mark's dramatic black-walled bedroom with its canopy bed and candelabra and William-and-Mary style furniture. When he went back to the living room, glancing across the open plan to where Mark was busy at the counter in the rustic-yet-modern looking wood-finish kitchen area, Sören didn't sit down right away but made the rounds of the living room.
Sören was finally at a place of visiting Mark often enough to relax, to feel a bit more at home in his house, enough to look and touch. When he'd first begun coming over, even after he and Mark had heart-to-hearts in Sausalito about the future of their relationship, Sören still felt like the sword of Damocles was hanging above his head ready to drop at one false move in Mark's territory, his refuge, where he could be himself unglamoured and indulge himself in the simple pleasures and creature comforts of his time in this world. It wasn't that Mark was unreasonable or made Sören feel uncomfortable at all, it was that Sören was so very not used to being a guest in someone else's home, Dooku's notwithstanding. Sören knew logically that a large amount of this feeling could be attributed to being raised by his aunt and uncle, who were rather resentful of it suddenly becoming their job to take custody of Sören and his siblings when their mother died. Until the day Sören left them he was constantly reminded that he was a guest in their home, and a very poor one. His aunt Katrín would backhand him for spilling a drink by accident. Einar yelled at Sören for having loud asthma attacks that he couldn't help. When Sören did chores there was always something to find fault with. Sören found it hard to relax in other people's spaces, even when they were obviously nothing like his guardians. Mark the Elf felt like home, but his house was still foreign and strange territory that Sören feared would become a war zone if he looked, touched, lived.
It was a good feeling to be bolder about looking and touching, now. Sören was very tactile and there was something about putting his fingers and hands on the different surfaces and textures around Mark's house that was comforting, seemed to build intimacy somehow, sharing space with him rather than just occupying it. Sören smiled fondly at the flamboyant replica of George Lynch's guitar, Mark's huge collection of vinyl records, Mark's war harp, Mark's KISS posters...
...and the KISS action figures. Sören remembered when he'd first seen them.
"You have KISS dolls," Sören said.
Mark was indignant. "They are not dolls. Those are KISS action figures."
Sören had to bust his ass some more. "That's quite a collection of KISS dolls you have there."
"Hells, Sören."
Sören's smile broadened at the memory of seeing Mark's house for the first time. Well, Kanafinwë, you said to make myself at home, so time to put your money where your mouth is.
One by one, Sören began carrying the KISS action figures to the shelf unit where they were on display, over to the coffee table. He put them in reclining positions, as if they were finally getting some time away from performing onstage to just relax, as Sören was relaxing. Sören had been drinking a non-alcoholic mojito mocktail with a bright pink flowered umbrella in the glass - a nice festive touch from Mark - and now Sören put the umbrella in Gene Simmons's hand like it was a parasol.
Huan smiled, tongue lolling as if he were laughing, as if he were in on the joke.
Sören got back on the couch and waited. Every now and again he shot a glance over at the coffee table where the KISS action figures were sitting and laying in different postures, and stifled a howl at Gene Simmons with a pink umbrella.
Mark finally came in to tell Sören, "Dinner will be ready in ten minutes."
"Awesome," Sören said.
Mark raised an eyebrow. "What's so funny?"
Sören gave him an innocent face. "Nothing."
"Sören, you can't fool - oh, Eru."
Sören let out that howl now as Mark saw what was on the coffee table. "Sören Sigurðsson," Mark yelled, hands on hips, brow furrowed.
Sören almost rolled off the couch.
"Sören, what did you do to my action figures?"
"Your KISS dolls told me they need a break from performing all the time. 'I don't think this is how the Song works,' Ace Frehley told me. 'When we said we want to rock and roll all night and party every day, we didn't mean non-stop, forever.'"
Mark's glare intensified.
"So," Sören shrugged. "I helped your KISS dolls escape their slave labor -"
"Sören Sigurðsson, those are KISS action figures and they are not performing slave labor -"
"Your KISS dolls beg to differ."
Mark facepalmed. "I cannot believe I am having this conversation with you."
"I can't believe it either. You should be having this conversation with Gene Simmons or Ace Frehley or one of the others. That's far more respectful." Sören grinned.
"HELLS." Mark went back into the kitchen.
That's a great idea, Mark, next time your unicorn can play too. Sören giggled to himself as he pondered different scenarios for the action figures' taste of freedom.
When dinner was served, Sören joined Mark at the table. Mark had made skewers of marinated pieces of chicken, steak and shrimp grilled with pineapple, mango, peppers, mushrooms, and potatoes. Sören loved it, and especially the nod to Mark having made skewers on the grill semi-regularly over their summer in Sausalito. Mark also clearly wasn't angry with Sören, romantic music playing in the background, candles lit on the table, Mark playing footsie with Sören under the table.
The sensuality and flirtatiousness of the meal was enough that Sören was good and ready for sex, wishing they would go straight to the bedroom, but he and Mark had already planned to get in at least a few hours of creating together, something they'd started doing in Sausalito, energies playing well even before they became intimate.
And so it was that Sören set up the canvas and easel and paints he'd brought over, continuing work on the painting he'd started of Karen in the seaside garden, while Mark sat at his war harp. Some nights when Sören had painted as Mark played, Mark would improvise, making sound recordings of his spontaneous compositions to play back and make notations of later. Tonight, though, Mark was playing all cover songs on his harp - all metal, which seemed a good fit for Sören's painting of a battle scene. Mark started with "Thunderstruck" by AC/DC, which impressed Sören with the lightning speed of his fingers.
As Sören fleshed out the painting, more and more details and little touches he hadn't foreseen were creeping in - and the painting suddenly turned darker, edgier than first intended. Karen was holding a wand in her hand, and a silver-blue energy was coming out of it, conjuring a swan made of silver-blue light. It reminded Sören for all the world of something out of Harry Potter, and sure enough there were shadow-demons like Dementors coming at her, silver-blue energy coming back at them, fighting them off. There was a wild look on Karen's face, her mane of platinum hair blowing in the breeze. The elegant blue dress and swan feather cloak made it look like for all the world she was coming back from a concert or theatre or perhaps a nightclub; Sören added a multi-strand necklace of pearls around her neck.
Karen did magical battle against the Dementors with her swan companion, the walled garden by the sea behind her looking like it was made of starlight in the silver-blue energy conjured from her wand, to Mark playing AC/DC, Metallica, Slayer, on his harp. Sören broke out in gooseflesh to "Enter Sandman" on the harp as his brush painted the Dementor, feeling the chill of the negative energy, met by Karen's own passion and fire. Not tonight. Not today.
After close to four hours Mark had to take a break to flex his fingers, at which point Sören stopped painting. The canvas wasn't quite finished, but it was well on its way there, and Sören was pleased with it so far, shaping up to be one of his best pieces.
And yet, he felt a touch self-conscious about it, moreso when Mark came over to him, putting an arm around him as he looked at the painting.
"Wow," Mark said. "Is that a present for your TA? She'll love that."
"Oh god." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls. "I feel like such a stupid fanboy, making fucking Harry Potter art..."
"It's not stupid! That painting is very well done."
"It's stupid." Sören remembered Seth belittling his art, Seth belittling the things Sören was interested in, like Sören's love of the Harry Potter world. Sören remembered one afternoon when Seth was over and they were both reading, with Sören engrossed in one of the Harry Potter novels that he'd re-read and still enjoyed. That's for babies. Grownups don't need unrealistic fantasy worlds, Seth had sneered over his copy of Atlas Shrugged.
"It. Is. Not. Stupid." Mark glared. "Sören, I can feel the energy in this painting. It drew me right in, like... looking into another world."
"I felt like I was transported there," Sören admitted. "But I mean, like... Harry Potter is fictional, right?"
Mark shrugged. "I'm fictional, supposedly."
Sören grasped at humor, not liking where this was going. "Hi Fictional Supposedly -"
"Brat." Mark gave him a playful swat and tweaked his nose. Then Mark went on, "But yes, supposedly the works of Ronald Tolkien are fictional and you and I both know -"
"As you know..."
"That they are not." Mark pursed his lips. "And if they are not, who is to say that this is strictly fictional and not 'real', either?"
"Oh come on, Mark, you really think that there's something like... fucking... Hogwarts... over there in Scotland? That there's witches and wizards walking about?"
"Probably not in this world. But maybe in another."
Sören's jaw dropped. "So you believe in... like... alternate universes."
"Isn't your brother the astrophysicist one of the biggest proponents of this idea? It makes sense. As unsettling as that is." Mark shrugged. "Once in awhile, I have dreams, very vivid dreams, where I am living or observing events that feel real - and Elves tend to only remember our lives when we dream, we don't have the regurgitation of subconscious thoughts and issues - except whatever's happening isn't anything that I've lived through, here. And there are subtle and sometimes, not-so-subtle differences about where it's happening. I can't prove anything definitively, but I wouldn't be surprised if I'm getting..." Mark searched for the right word and made a vague hand gesture. "Echoes, I suppose you could call it, of other places. And it may be that some creative people are also experiencing these echoes and weaving it into story form whether they know what they're doing or not, and just like Ronald Tolkien didn't get everything right in his narrative, maybe 'canon' isn't strictly canonical... but there's some truth to it nonetheless."
Huan came over for pettings, as if he sensed the tension in the air. Sören scooped him up and Huan kissed his face over and over, his tongue even going inside Sören's nose, warm dark eyes understanding. "You have the best dog," Sören said, and sighed, feeling wistful for a cat.
"He's such a good boy, aren't you, Huan?" Mark rubbed Huan's head, and Huan licked Mark's hand. Then Mark said to Huan, "You wanna go for walkies?"
Huan yipped as if he understood Mark and leapt out of Sören's arms, waggling his tail frantically, panting and barking.
"In today's episode of How Is My Life Even Real, Maglor Fëanorion just used the word 'walkies'," Sören said, and then he realized he'd spoken aloud. He needed some more levity to get out of the place he was in mentally. "I suppose that's not weirder than Maglor Fëanorion having a collection of KISS dolls."
"Mhm. Sören, I think you should come on walkies too." Mark gave Sören a look, mischief in his eyes.
That was how Sören found himself walking through Mark's neighborhood late at night, with Mark pulling Huan on the leash on one hand, and Sören on a leash in Mark's other hand. Sören was indescribably turned on by Mark walking him on a leash, especially when Mark playfully tied Sören's leash to a mailbox while he took Huan aside for Huan to do his business, and politely scooped it up, Sören waiting. Sören loved it when Mark got dominant with him, and he loved being on the leash in particular. Being on the leash outside, in public... it was so brazen, so naughty, so kinky, so delicious. The only way this could be better is if it were broad daylight and people around, Sören thought to himself, hard as a rock and aching for Mark's touch.
After they got inside, Sören took his meds, they washed up and brushed teeth, and then, still on the leash, Sören was marched down to Mark's bedroom. Mark undressed Sören himself, and then he had Sören get on the bed and tied him to a bedpost while Mark undressed slowly, teasingly, Sören's eyes feasting on him with that glorious flood of raven hair and his sculpted body, a wicked look in Mark's silver eyes.
Sören was trembling, already leaking precum, breathing hard, when Mark joined him on the bed. Mark untied the leash from the bedpost and pulled Sören towards him, eyes intense, looking at Sören like he was the only thing in existence.
"You," Mark said to Sören, "are a brat."
"Takk." Sören grinned.
Mark swatted Sören's ass hard, and Sören cried out, cock throbbing.
"Sometimes I think it's not Huan who needs to go to doggy training..." Mark raised an eyebrow, smirking. "But you." Mark kissed Sören, and then began kissing Sören's neck, breath hot on Sören's sensitive skin, giving him gooseflesh. "But you'd like that too much, wouldn't you?" He licked Sören's neck. "Naughty puppy."
Sören's cock jolted and he whimpered. "Oh god, Mark..."
"Mmmmm, does my puppy like that?" Mark nibbled on Sören's neck. "Bratty, naughty puppy..."
"Oh, fuck." Sören shuddered, going out of his mind with sexual hunger. "Please, Mark." Sören gave a little whine. "Please..."
"Get down on your hands and knees like a dog, Sören."
Sören did as he was told, cock throbbing, hole twitching. Sören shook his ass at Mark, who pulled out the plug and gave Sören's ass another hard slap. "Such a pretty ass my puppy has. All of you is beautiful, but your ass is so very shapely." Mark rubbed Sören's ass, and slapped it again, and again. "And it looks so fuckable when it's all red."
"Oh. God. Mark. Please. Fuck. Me." Sören whined again, shook his ass, feeling like he was going to die if Mark didn't stick his cock in him soon. Sören could hear himself panting for it, feel himself trembling, almost ashamed of how strong his need was... but he was shameless. Wanton. Reveling in it, taking back his sexuality more and more from the clutches of Seth, going ever deeper into sweet surrender.
"Oh, I don't think brats should get what they want right away, love..."
With that, Mark got down on his knees and maneuvered Sören so that Sören, still on all fours, had his ass against Mark's face. Sören cried out as he felt Mark's clever tongue lick slowly around his opening, around and around and around, and he cried out again when Mark's tongue pushed inside.
Mark teased him and teased him, rubbing his tongue inside Sören as slowly as could please, making little hums of pleasure. Mark's tongue slowly brushing his prostate was the darkest of magic, Sören's cries getting more and more broken as Mark drove him crazy with sensation, pleasure, frenzy. World War III could be happening right in Mark's yard and Sören would only care about that sweet tongue sensually dancing inside him, the promise of Mark's hard cock pounding him. Mark ate him for a long time, continuing to toy with the leash, until Sören was almost sobbing, every last shred of dignity gone as he begged "Please. Please. Mark, please, please give me your cock, put your cock in me, fuck me, I need it so bad, I need it so fucking bad, please, Mark, please, please, PLEASE, fucking PLEASE!"
Mark laughed softly and withdrew his tongue. He slapped Sören's ass again and then he said, "Scoot to the middle of the bed, face down, ass up."
Sören did as he was told. He could feel the precum pooling from his cock as he repositioned, his hole twitching again.
Mark got on the bed and on his knees behind Sören. Sören gasped at the feeling of lube pouring into the crack of his ass, dripping into his hole, and he whimpered at the wet squishing sound of Mark readying his cock. Then, finally, Mark was pushing into him an inch at a time, with Sören whimpering all the way, pushing out around him to help him in, wanting this so badly. When Mark was all the way inside he pulled the leash hard.
"There," Mark rasped. Sören could hear the catch in Mark's breath, heard Mark breathing harder, and that was so sexy to him. Sören moaned, and Mark slapped Sören's ass again. "Your ass isn't just beautiful, and delicious, but it feels fucking incredible." With the leash wound around his hand, Mark grabbed Sören's hips and began to thrust, slowly. "It feels like coming home."
Sören gave a shuddery sigh. If only you knew, my Kanafinwë. Again, that urge to tell him everything. But...
Mark went slowly for a couple of minutes, teasing them both, and then, after slapping Sören's ass again he started to go harder, faster. "Oh god, yes, like that," Sören cried out, fisting the sheets, letting out a wordless cry as Mark's cock rubbed his prostate just right.
"Mmmmmmm. Ohhh, Sören. Fuck, you've got such a hot ass, baby."
"Mark. Mark. Fuck me. Oh god, fuck me. Need you so bad..."
"That's right, Sören. You need this, because... you're mine." Mark slapped Sören's ass again and Sören's cock jolted. Sören gave a whimper into the pillows, trembling, and he felt himself rock his hips back at Mark, fucking himself on Mark's cock. "Oooh, that's it, baby. Back that ass up onto me."
"Fuck..."
The rhythm of their bodies felt so incredibly right. Sören lost himself, fevered, consumed with his lust, his passion.
"You've been such a bratty boy today," Mark husked, giving Sören's ass another little swat. "You come in, you touch my things and move them around like they belong to you. Like what is mine is yours, somehow."
"Isn't it?" That response came directly from the part of him that was Fëanor.
Mark slapped Sören's ass again, harder. "Well, my little flame, not even Huan in his worst moments is that bratty. You're a special kind of bratty. A very, very naughty puppy. But it's OK." Mark spanked Sören's ass again. "Because what's yours... is mine too. Like this ass. Isn't it?"
"God, yes. YES..." Sören rocked against Mark harder, faster.
Mark matched Sören's rhythm. "You're mine... and I'm going to take what's mine. Every time you act like a little brat, I'm going to put you in your place..."
Sören grinned, loving it, wanting to goad him. "Hi Going To Put You In Your Plaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace ohhhhhhhhh SHIIIIIIIT!" Then Sören let out a wordless scream as Mark began to pound into him, fucking harder and harder. Sören heard himself making wild, inhuman high-pitched noises, not able to make words anymore. Mark gave deep, delicious grunts, primal and male, and that and the filthy smacking of their hips drove Sören right to that edge, ready to come.
"Mine," Mark growled. "Mine. Mine."
Sören found his words again. "Take it. Take it. Fucking take it..."
A moment that felt like an eternity of Mark hammering away inside him, Sören's insides rubbed so sweetly his entire body sang, as if he were a musical instrument and Mark was playing him. And then, at last, the release, the endless perfect note of joy, Sören shaking, gasping for breath as he contracted and pulsed with wave after wave of relief, euphoria. A few seconds after Sören began to climax he felt Mark shooting, heard Mark's triumphant shout.
Mark was laying on top of Sören's back now, nuzzling his shoulder, petting his curls, the two of them trembling together, trying to catch their breath.
"That," Sören said, the smile hurting his face, "was fucking awesome."
"We're good together, my love." Mark tilted Sören's face and kissed him softly.
The kiss quickly heated, the fire in them rising again. "More," Sören begged.
Mark pulled out, and Mark rolled next to Sören, laying back against the pillows then sitting up a little. Sören climbed onto Mark's lap and began to ride, more slowly than before. Mark's long, elegant sensitive fingers played over Sören's body, worshiping him, and Sören worshiped Mark right back, playing with Mark's hair, exploring the sculpted muscles, the chiseled face. They kissed and kissed, looking into each other's eyes. And when Mark pulled the leash Sören rode harder, faster, each tug of the leash making him speed up until Sören was riding him like a wild bull, both of them moaning and crying out together louder and louder. Sören shooting all over Mark's chest and stomach made Mark come again, and Mark grabbed Sören and pulled him close, kissing him through their climax like their life depended on it.
They didn't always stop at two orgasms, sometimes going for more, but the two were shattering enough that Sören found himself dozing off in Mark's arms, cradled against his chest. While he was still half-awake, not quite yet in the land of sleep, he felt Huan get on the bed, and Huan licked Sören's face all up before curling up with them; Sören felt his hand reach out to pet the pup, finding it incredibly soothing.
I love this dog. Sören sighed. I really need a cat. He thought of Beowulf, keeping Dooku company across town, Beowulf who had given him so much comfort when he'd been staying at Dooku's house after the car accident last year.
_
It's a winter night, snow on the ground, deep plum starry sky above. Sören's breath steams in the night air. Sören is wearing a black leather trenchcoat over a sweater and jeans, and he is with a man in a black wool greatcoat that looks World War II era but this isn't World War II. The man in the greatcoat is a couple inches taller than him and looks to be only a little older than he is, the first show of grey in his short, perfectly styled and gelled black hair. Clean-shaven, pale, classically handsome, watchful green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. It is not a man Sören recognizes from the world outside his dream - not Mark, not Dooku, not Seth, not anyone Sören has ever seen before. Someone different.
Someone he loves, who makes his stomach flutter every time the man smiles at him, no matter how many times it's been.
The man is on a cell phone. "OK, takk for at du ga beskjed, jeg vil være der første om morgenen." He ends the call and then with an eyeroll and a little smile he says, in English, "Muggles. Seriously." He has a London accent, well-bred, a deep, commanding baritone - not quite as deep as Dooku's, but pleasant to listen to.
"Your parents were Muggles."
"Yes, of course, and I heard all the 'mudblood' nonsense to boot and it made me angry every time. They have no idea what our life is really like, though, and what's practical for us."
They have a house somewhere semi-rural, yet close enough to the city to do what they need to do. The Northern Lights are shimmering in the sky now, green and violet, lighting up the white snow on the evergreens, and Sören and his companion stop for a few moments just to watch, in wonder. This isn't Iceland, much more forested, but it feels like home. And dream-Sören is from this place, familiar with it. Waking-day Sören guesses Norway.
As the Northern Lights play in the sky and they hold each other's hands, they watch a shooting star fall. Sören's breath catches. He squeezes his companion's hand and whispers, "Make a wish." His accent is different here than it normally is, but still thick.
The man closes his eyes for a moment and then he opens them, smiles at Sören, and ruffles Sören's curls. The fire of the aurora begins to die down and they decide to head inside.
As soon as they do they begin getting each other out of their coats, then their clothes pool to the floor, kissing feverishly. Already they're hard for each other. They reach into their pockets and pull out wands, as they do by force of habit.
A black-and-white tuxedo cat with chartreuse eyes and a pink nose comes out to greet them. "Prrrp?"
"Yes, you always like attention at the most inconvenient times, don't you?" the man laughs as the cat walks around their ankles in circles, rubbing against them, purring. They keep walking, trying to be mindful to not trip on the cat, down to the bedroom. They kiss on the way there, hands sliding over each other - Sören enjoys the feel of the dark chest hair on his fingers.
Their bedroom is dark. "Lumos," Sören says, pointing his wand, and lanterns placed around the bedroom cast an eerie but romantic silver-blue light, which makes them both smile. Sören is pulling his lover along to the bed but before they can go there, his lover stops - wand in hand - and he points down the hall and says, "Wingardium leviosa." Sören watches with amusement as the clothes move from the floor down the hall to the laundry hamper.
"So romantic," Sören teases before he pulls his lover into another kiss.
"Well, one of us has to think of these things, and it seems to default to me." His lover's lips quirk, before he removes his glasses and puts them in a case on a dresser; they put their wands on the dresser, side-by-side. "They won't be so badly wrinkled now."
"Ja, Mr. Fabulous." Sören crinkles his nose and bites his lower lip, moving in for another kiss. "Well, you look pretty fine without clothing, too. Better, actually."
"And you, darling, have a one-track mind." His lover kisses him back, smiling. "Not that I mind."
"You're beautiful," Sören husks, stroking the man's cheek, looking into those teasing eyes, meaning it.
The man walks them a few paces, closer to the mirror on top of the dresser that the glasses case and wands are sitting in front of - the mirror that is an exact match for the one Sören owns in the waking world. In the blue glow of the room, Sören watches as the man's arms wrap around him from behind and his hands run over Sören's body. "You yourself are beautiful, elskling." The man pets Sören's curls, strokes his beard, kisses Sören's neck, licks, making Sören shiver and moan at the talented mouth on his sensitive spot. Sören moans again as his lover's fingers brush a nipple, pebbling it. His lover plays with the nipple ring, giving Sören gooseflesh. Then his hand rests on Sören's heart. "Especially here."
"What did you wish for?"
The man steps to Sören's side and takes Sören in his arms again in the mirror. "To grow old with you." He rains tender little kisses over Sören's face. "I'm the luckiest man in the world, to have you. To marry you, soon."
Sören can't resist. "Hi, The Luckiest Man In the World -"
"Brat." The man nibbles on him.
Then the cat is yowling from down the hall. "MEOW? MEOW. MEOW. MEOWWWWWWW, MEOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW..."
Sören feels that something-is-wrong prickle, all too familiar in his career as an Auror. When they exchange glances he knows his lover feels it too, himself an Auror. Then they feel something else - a cold snap. Usually the room heats up whenever they make love together but now the temperature is starting to drop, enough to give Sören, who usually runs hot, a chill.
Hastily they throw on pajamas while there's still time. Sören's heart is racing, feeling panic, and also irritation. "Drit, faen, selvfølgelig må denne tullingen skje nå når jeg er i ferd med å få på meg faen..."
Just as they grab their wands, the lanterns go out in the bedroom, leaving them in complete darkness. Magic missiles are being hurled against the shields around the house, not quite penetrating, just enough to vibrate and be felt, and the feeling is ugly. They run down the hall, and as the door opens Sören feels a wave of terror, frozen in place. He wants to drop to his knees and lay on the ground, hands over his head. His lover's mouth is open, breath in a gasp, shaking - Sören knows he's feeling the same fear.
Glass shatters, and his lover grabs him and they push on ahead.
There are great whirling shadows in the sky. Sören is reminded of the painting The Scream by Edvard Munch but these are real and in the flesh, like clouds of ash in alien-human form, writhing, hideous, screaming, keening in a way that Munch's dark mind couldn't possibly conceive of.
"Dementors," his lover says just as one swoops towards them.
That wave of fear again, no fight, no flight, only freeze. Too weak. Sören knows that's bullshit, but his body is refusing to comply with the logic part of his brain. They're closing in now, the darkness pressing, crushing like a vise...
His lover raises his rowan wand, and commands, "Expecto Patronum!"
Sören watches as a beam of light shoots out of the wand and takes the form of a mighty falcon made of blue light, stardust dripping from him like drops of water from an ocean.
Sören raises his own wand made of elder, and shouts out "Expecto Patronum!"
Blue light blasts out of his wand and a phoenix flies to join his lover's falcon, made of blue-orange-gold-white flame but tinged with silver-blue in the light of the Patronus charm. Blue light mingles with orange fire like the sun at dawn. The Patronus falcon and phoenix begin to dance around each other, a mating dance, spiraling together. At last their tails entwine and the light between them grows brighter brighter brighter, like a white supernova. The Dementors give one last shriek as the white light swallows them up, as everything goes white like a nuclear flash.
Then it is just their Patronus birds, feathers flying, and Sören and his lover are in each other's arms, shaking. They kiss passionately, glad to be alive. The Dementors are gone. All is quiet. All seems to be well, apart from the glass shattered of the car windows. That can be dealt with tomorrow.
They stumble back into the house. His lover heads to the kitchen, turns on the lights. "I'll put on tea," he grumbles.
You are so British it hurts, sometimes. "Ja, takk." Sören shivers from being outside in the cold in nowt but his pajamas, though the cold snap from the Dementors is gone now, the room warming with both of them present.
The cat crawls out from where he's been hiding under the couch. Sören scoops him up and sits with the cat on his lap, kneading, flexing polydactyl paws, purring. Sören tries to breathe. They won that battle, but having Dementors just show up like that, well...
His lover comes back with tea and sits down. "Well, that was... interesting," his lover says.
"Ja, no shit." Their place is warded enough that what just happened wasn't supposed to happen, which suggests perhaps dark wizards are around somewhere...
His lover frowns. "I think we just entered another round of interesting times. Even by Auror standards. I'd rather hoped fate would cut us a break before the wedding, but..."
"Never a dull moment."
_
Sören woke up to Huan licking his face, and then saw Mark watching them with a fond smile. Sören laughed - there were worse ways to start a day.
After Huan got off the bed and Sören and Mark indulged in a "good morning" sixty-nine, Sören lay there thinking about the doozy of the dream he had. He wasn't surprised his brain regurgitated Harry Potter stuff, since he'd been thinking about it, but the dream was unusually vivid even for him, right down to the gorgeous Englishman he'd never seen before, and the Patronus birds dancing together, building light, being very much the same as the vision he'd had in his mind's eye when he made his first painting in the hospital in 2005 following his suicide attempt in late 2004 - the art he'd inked onto his back.
Mark was the one to drop Sören off at campus today, and on break Sören had coffee with Dooku, who showed him some cell phone pictures of Beowulf being particularly snuggly and cute last night. Sören thought of the cat in his dream last night, feeling a sharp ache. He hadn't told Mark about the dream - he was still letting it sit, not knowing what it meant, what if anything to do about it. But he really wanted a cat now, and when Dooku was bringing him home, Sören texted Mark.
You think you can come early?
How soon? Mark replied.
Now.
When Mark got there, Sören explained, "I want a cat. Can you take me to the animal shelter?"
Mark's laughter rang out. "God, Sören, so impulsive. Swear to Eru, sometimes you're just like -"
Sören cut him off before he could say "Fëanor", because Sören wasn't quite ready to chime in with "Actually..."
"It's not that impulsive," Sören said, though he realized it did in fact look a damn sight impulsive. "I've been wanting a cat for awhile, it's just... you know. A big commitment. But I'm ready now."
At the animal shelter Sören spent awhile looking at the different cats, wanting to take them all home, but of course that was neither practical nor sanitary. He had to limit himself to one - for now. He went back and forth between the ones he liked the best, and then one came out that he hadn't seen yet, who had been sleeping inside the cat condo. The cat was the spitting image of the cat he'd seen in his dream last night, right down to the polydactyl paws.
The cat went right up to him, with Sören on his knees in the cat habitat. "Prrrp?"
"Oh my goodness, look at you." Sören began petting him all up, like the cat was a long-lost friend. The cat had a deep, rumbly purr, and promptly climbed on Sören like he owned him, settling in Sören's arms. Sören continued to stroke the cat. "Ert þú ekki dýrmætt barn. Þvílíkt sætt litla elskan. Ó, hvað góður, snaggi litli köttur."
Mark chuckled. "If you're losing your English, that must be the one."
Sören paid the adoption fee and bought a cat carrier on-site. The cat yowled in the carrier on the way back, not liking the ride home in Mark's Jaguar or Huan being so close by, though Huan was mellow, just looking at the cat.
"Shit, I'm gonna need, like... litter, and, ah. A litterbox. And ah. Food. And stuff." Sören facepalmed.
"But it's not that impulsive," Mark teased.
Sören bitchfaced and Mark booped his nose.
"I feel bad about making kitty sit in the car," Sören said, "while we run in and buy things."
"Well, I have a solution to that. You take kitty home - kitty needs a name - and get him adjusted and I'll go pick up cat supplies, and stuff for dinner - we can celebrate new kitty. Sound good?"
"You're such a love." Sören kissed Mark's cheek.
Sören let the cat out of the carrier and let him sniff around the house, inspecting it. He put out a bowl of water right away for the cat to drink if he was thirsty, then realized that might make the cat have to pee and the box wasn't there yet.
According to the shelter the cat was approximately two years old though they weren't sure on an exact date. He was male and neutered. Sören sat on the kitchen floor to watch the little guy drink, delighted and fascinated by the pink tongue lapping up water. Then the cat crawled right back onto him again, wanting to be held. Sören gave the cat more pettings, and kisses. He once again wondered what was up with that dream, and finding a cat just like his dream.
Well, I don't know if I want to poke at that shit right now. My brain can only handle so much of this at once.
The cat kneaded on him and began rubbing his face on Sören's hand, drooling. "Oh, aren't you such a good baby," Sören cooed, and then he lost his English again. "Sætasti kisinn alltaf! Þú ert bara dýrmæt snúður sem er of góð fyrir þessa jörð, já þú ert það." Then Sören squeaked and he switched back to English. "That's it! Snúður!" What Americans would call a sticky bun or cinnamon roll.
Carrying the cat, Sören walked down the hall and then put the cat down on his bed. Instead of settling down for pettings Snúður continued to sniff around, and Sören decided to just get in his pajamas, that the cat might find the flannel cozier to cuddle up to.