May 2018
Mark and Sören had decided to go to their favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican place for Cinco de Mayo, which was having a dollar special on tacos as well as a karaoke night. Mark had to leave Huan at home, since the restaurant didn't allow service animals, and he looked a little ill at ease as he got out of the car, but then Sören stroked his face and gave him a little kiss and Mark relaxed.
It seemed that the reservation was prescient, as the parking lot was already close to full and it wasn't even six PM yet. There was a lobby to wait to be seated, which was also full with standing room only, and Mark cut ahead to tell the maître d' that they had a reservation.
They were seated in a cozy booth in the corner, where they sat next to each other so they could cuddle. As they looked over their menus, a waiter came over with ice water, freshly made tortilla chips and fresh guacamole and salsa. Sören looked at the cups of salsa and then at the waiter and said, "What's the heat rating on that?"
"It's all mild, señor."
Sören made a face and Mark said under his breath, "Oh Hells." Sören grinned and told the waiter, "Bring me your hottest salsa, please." Mild salsa was like water to Sören; he liked it hot enough to clear his sinuses.
"Sí, señor."
When the waiter took off, Mark raised an eyebrow and Sören nodded. "I don't understand it either, except for, yanno." Sören was still uncomfortable with "the Fëanor thing", even though they couldn't deny it, either. "I come from a people who think putting dill in sour cream makes it 'heavily spiced'. But AS YOU KNOW, I have a really high tolerance for, and taste for, heat in my food."
"I remember that time we went to that Eritrean restaurant in Portland," Mark said. "I thought I was gonna die. I think I understand now what women mean when they talk about hot flashes in menopause because WOW."
"That place is amazing and we should go there again sometime. Plus it's an excuse to go back to Powell's, and Voodoo Doughnut."
"God, Voodoo Doughnut. Where you stand in line for an hour to get passably OK donuts and look at a velvet painting of Kenny Rogers."
"That's part of the fun, is how overhyped the place is for what it is. I'm not a hipster, but I enjoy it ironically. The donuts are better than OK though, I'd argue. You're just a food snob."
"Maybe because I haven't burned away all my taste buds." Mark gave him an impish grin.
"Oh, I think you know I have some taste buds." Sören wiggled his eyebrows, and Mark almost choked on his water, turning pink.
Sören and Mark both got soft chicken tacos for the special, which came with a choice of soup; Sören ordered black bean soup and Mark got the abondigas. The waiter, when he came to take their order, came back with hot salsa as Sören requested, and once their order was taken Sören tore into the tortilla chips. He frowned. "This still isn't as hot as I like it but it'll do," he said.
Mark dipped a chip into Sören's salsa and winced as he tried it. "Jesus Christ, Sören."
"You can't complain too much, I gotta fuel that furnace that keeps you warm at night." Sören twined a lock of his hair affectionately around the index finger of his free hand. "You like using me as your personal space heater."
"You throw off a lot of body heat, yeah." Mark smiled at Sören and leaned against him.
"It's nice in the winter, hell in the summer. It's why I needed to go someplace coastal last year." Sören smirked. "Although it seemed fate had a hand in that as well. Needed to push me a certain way."
"You helped me find my way again." Mark kissed the top of Sören's head, and Sören looked up at him, feeling worship that he hoped showed through his eyes.
"You helped me feel safe again." Sören took Mark's hand under the table.
Their soup came, and the first round of tacos. The mariachi band started up, and it put Sören in the mood to look at the little menu of alcoholic beverages, even though he could only have one with his medication. When the waiter came back to bring more tortilla chips and salsa, Mark ordered a Dos Equis, Sören asked for a "Dirty Shirley".
The drinks came back with the second round of tacos. The "Dirty Shirley" was an alcoholic Shirley Temple, and when Sören put the cherry in his mouth, Mark's face turned as pink as Sören's drink.
Later Mark had a second bottle of Dos Equis; he looked at the bottle and said, "It's been awhile since I've had this much."
"Do you think we should get a cab, and have your car towed?"
Mark shrugged.
They had more chips and salsa, and groaned at the bad singing of the restaurant patrons who were doing karaoke with the band. Mark looked like he was in physical pain from anyone singing off-key, and finally said, "Fuck it, I'm going to show this place how it's done," and walked over to the band.
"Yup, he's definitely a little drunk," Sören said under his breath, grinning.
A few minutes later there was the dramatic flourish of a guitar, and a song Sören wished he didn't recognize, that had been all over the pop stations and turned into a meme. "Oh god," Sören groaned, cracking up laughing as the guitar started.
Mark walked over to Sören, mic in hand, and began to sing.
Tú, tú eres el imán y yo soy el metal
Me voy acercando y voy armando el plan
Sólo con pensarlo se acelera el pulso
Ya, ya me está gustando más de lo normal
Todos mis sentidos van pidiendo más
Esto hay que tomarlo sin ningún apuro
Despacito
The restaurant started to clap along, encouraging him.
Quiero respirar tu cuello despacito
Deja que te diga cosas al oído
Para que te acuerdes si no estás conmigo
Despacito
Quiero desnudarte a besos despacito
Firmo en las paredes de tu laberinto
Y hacer de tu cuerpo todo un manuscrito
Sören actually got up and started to dance - someone handed him a bright, garish oversized sombrero and he put it on, knowing he looked utterly ridiculous, but otherwise his moves would not have been out of place if there was a pole on stage. Sören came to Mark and danced up on him as he sang, trying to look as seductive as he could but ready to lose his straight face any moment. At the end of the song with the final Des-pa-cito, Sören grabbed Mark and kissed him, which elicited wild applause and cheers from some of the crowd...
...and then someone threw a beer bottle at them. "GET OUT OF HERE, YOU FUCKIN' F*G***S!" someone screamed, using the homophobic slur.
Sören and Mark dodged another bottle, and then a plate hit Sören in the shoulder and that was it. Mark went to the table where the bottles and plates were being thrown and sucker punched the man throwing them, and then picked him up like he weighed nothing, a gleam in his eye. For an instant, Sören saw Mark's hair flood to his thighs, the silver eyes now like labradorite, inhuman. And then when he blinked Mark was back to normal; Sören thought that the adrenaline rush as things escalated must have caused Mark to temporarily drop his glamour, and he hoped nobody else saw that.
"You need to learn some manners," Mark growled.
"Mark. Put him down, let's get out of here before they call the police and there's... problems." Sören took a deep breath.
Mark shoved the man back in his seat and then backhanded him, and when another man at the same table got up to accost him, throwing a punch and giving a shove, Mark took one of the empty beer bottles and broke it over the man's head and backhanded him as well. Sören grabbed Mark and started dragging him out of the restaurant.
"We need to go now," Sören said to Mark.
"But... we haven't paid..."
Sören took out his wallet and left a hundred-dollar bill on the table - well above and beyond the cost of their meals - and then resumed dragging Mark out.
Even though Sören had been unable to drive for well over a year after Seth put him in a car accident, Sören found himself grabbing Mark's car keys, getting behind the wheel of Mark's car, starting the car, and pulling out as quickly as he could, barely breathing, not even thinking, just needing to go before the police came... or that guy came after them. When they were safely on the highway, he heard himself breathe out.
"Sören." Mark blinked with disbelief. "You're... you're driving."
Sören looked at the steering wheel, then the road, and realized what he was doing. "Oh Jesus."
But the way the accident had affected Sören's PTSD was far from cured. He managed to make it all the way to his house without pulling over, but it helped that they didn't have a long trip. And when they did finally pull in at the curb outside Sören's house, the meltdown finally came, Sören shaking, starting to cry, breath coming out in little gasps as his heart hammered in his ears. He hadn't been ready to start driving again - he was going to need to take another hiatus from driving after this; he'd accepted some time ago that hiatus from driving was probably permanent - but he'd made himself push past to do it, not dissimilar to stories he'd heard of a hundred-pound woman pushing an overturned car off her baby.
"Oh Eru." Mark put his arms around Sören and began rocking him; Sören felt Mark shaking a little and knew he was crying too. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry..."
The only thing that felt worse than the panic from driving was Mark blaming himself for Sören having to do that - Sören felt Maglor beat himself up too much - and now Sören threw his arms around Mark and hugged him tight. "Shhhh. Shhhhh..."
They made it out of the car and immediately got into their pajamas, climbed onto the bed together and held each other, crying silently.
"Dammit, this was supposed to be a fun night out." Mark kissed Sören's forehead. "I fucked up. I'm sorry."
"You didn't fuck up," Sören choked out through his tears, giving Mark a stern face. "That fucking homophobic asshole fucked up, starting shit with us..." His fists clenched. "I wish I hadn't chosen 'flight' instead of 'fight'. I'd have liked to get a few punches in." Sören grit his teeth. "Maybe set him on fire."
Mark chuckled and wiped his tears. "I'm just glad we didn't get arrested, but then he did start it, and could be charged with a hate crime."
"His fucking existence is a crime."
Mark patted Sören and tousled his curls. "Don't change, Ada."
"Well..." Sören scowled. "I have, in some ways. The fucking PTSD..."
"I know." Mark's voice was soft. "We both have it." Mark took Sören's chin and looked into his eyes. He had dropped his glamour and the labradorite eyes were back, one of the most beautiful things Sören had ever seen. "Did I scare you?"
Sören shook his head. "I was more afraid of him - or the police - than I am of you." His voice lowered to a whisper. "That was so hot." He meant it; Maglor was glorious when he was furious.
Mark gave a weak smile. "I worry that you'll... think I'm some sort of monster. Especially with this, after all I've done, that you'll worry this sparks off a rash of violence -"
Sören hugged him tight again and silenced him with kisses. "You're not a monster, Kanafinwë. You are my Song."
Mark's eyes widened and now he wept. His tears had been silent till now, but here he was, sobbing so plaintively that it broke Sören's heart, making Sören cry again too. He couldn't bear to see Mark beating himself up like this - Mark worrying that Sören would judge him and leave. He needed to do something to make it stop, make Mark OK again, soothe his pain, get his mind elsewhere. Just initiating sex wouldn't quite work when Mark was like this.
Sören had an idea. He got up. Mark gave him a confused look and Sören said, "Wait here."
Sören kept his stash of googly eyes in the kitchen drawer with emergency supplies like tealights and a flashlight. He'd bought a big bag of googly eyes to troll Mark for April Fool's Day, and still had plenty left over, which he kept in case he felt the urge to randomly troll Mark again. This seemed like the time to do it, to shock Mark out of the angst... but the question was what.
And then Sören Sigurðsson had the worst idea of his life, even worse than his adventures with Hells and the KISS dolls.
Back in November, Sören had reclaimed the first of the three Silmarils, at Cannon Beach. He kept it in the glass box Mark had given him last fall. Sören went back to the bedroom to take the glass box - Mark didn't see, as his face was buried in the pillows - and then Sören brought the glass box out to the kitchen and placed it on the counter next to the bag of googly eyes. He opened the box and the Silmaril floated up and into his hands, glowing like a tiny sun, casting rainbows on the walls and ceiling. Sören's breath caught every time he saw it, and a shiver went down his spine. I made this.
In his mind's eye he saw himself as Fëanor, laying on furs before a fire, tangled up between his two brother-lovers. Basking in the afterglow of orgasm. Basking in the light of their love. A moment of perfect joy, perfect peace, when all felt right with the world. Fëanor played with a strand of Finarfin's silver-gold hair, even lovelier in the firelight, and thought of the Trees. Thought of a way to preserve this moment, preserve this feeling. A testament to his love for them, their love for him, and its power. A light that could conquer all darkness.
It was here now, in his hands, warm without being too hot. Sören knew he needed to reclaim the other two at some point, though he didn't have the foggiest idea how. But in the meantime he had this. A piece of his ancient past... a key to the future, perhaps.
In the present, a way to make Mark smile.
Sören walked back into the bedroom with his hands behind his back, whistling innocently. Mark sat up and raised his eyebrows, giving Sören an I know you're up to something look.
"I have something for you," Sören said.
"Oh?"
Sören brought his hands forward, let go, and the Silmaril floated across the room to Mark. Mark's jaw dropped when he saw what Sören had done - he'd put googly eyes on the Silmaril.
"Ada." Mark facepalmed and fell over, laughing, shaking, wheezing. "GODDAMMIT ADA."
Sören got back on the bed. "They can come off, don't worry. But I -" Sören couldn't finish the sentence. Now he was laughing too. It was so ridiculous.
"Ada. ADA." Mark laughed harder, tearing up, face red. "Why are you like this?"
"You needed it."
Mark calmed down a little and reached up to touch Sören's face, smiling fondly. "Yeah, I did." He leaned up and kissed the tip of Sören's nose. "I need you," he husked. "You are my light. My fire."
"And whatever the hell this is." Sören picked up the googly-eyed Silmaril. "I should name it."
"YOU ARE NOT NAMING THE SILMARIL, ADAR."
"No, I'm not naming it Adar, why would I do that?"
Mark facepalmed and made noises. He tried to give Sören a stern look and failed, cracking up again. "Somewhere, Tolkien is rolling in his grave."
"Good, he painted me as the world's biggest asshole, he can be mad." Sören raised an eyebrow. "He was Beren, wasn't he? His, ah, self-insert character. No wonder he doesn't like our family, I think he was jealous of your brother and probably thought he was giving Lúthien the D..."
"I can't believe we're having this conversation." Mark howled with laughter again. "No wait, I can." Mark leaned on Sören, trying to catch his breath. "'Giving Lúthien the D.' Really? Really."
"Right, my bad, let me find a more elegant way to phrase that. ...Laying the pipe."
Mark was rolling on the bed again, in hysterics. When he tried to calm down, he saw the googly-eyed Silmaril and lost it all over again.
Finally Mark pulled himself together a little more. He sat up and rained kisses over Sören's face. "Thank you," he husked. "I love you, you know."
"I love you too." Sören stroked Mark's face and hair. He tucked a strand of hair behind Mark's ear to reveal the pointy tip and affectionately tweaked it. Mark moaned softly and Sören smiled; he knew the points of Maglor's ears were an erogenous zone.
"You know..." Mark gave Sören a hungry look. "I find you sexiest when you're being ridiculous."
"Good! I should go back in the kitchen and put googly eyes on my Prince Albert again, so the bead makes a nose -"
Mark pulled Sören into a deep, fierce kiss that left them both breathless and made Sören's cock harden to life. Mark's eyes were like silver flame when they pulled back. "I think I better prevent you from doing that." With that, Mark yanked down Sören's cotton pajama bottoms, freeing the hard cock, and drew the head of it into his mouth.
Sören smiled, and then he closed his eyes and moaned, Mark's mouth working its magic.
_
Several orgasms and a few hours later, Mark fell asleep, looking peaceful. Sören watched him, enjoying the way that looked - relieved that he'd gotten Mark to snap out of the self-loathing spiral.
But he knew that Mark wasn't cured from those attacks of self-loathing just because he'd had a distraction, just like Sören wasn't cured from his driving phobia just because he'd forced himself to drive in a bad situation. Sören knew it was only a matter of time before Mark had another bad night.
And it made Sören worry. Not that Mark would do anything to himself - he'd stayed alive thousands of years after all his family had died, Mark was a survivor - but that Mark would once again worry enough that Sören thought he was a "monster" that he'd decide to leave "for Sören's own good". The thought of Mark leaving him was almost unbearable, especially if it was because Mark condemned himself to be alone because he thought Sören "deserved better" than being with a "monster", a "violent maniac". Mark wasn't Seth; Mark was the opposite of Seth in many ways.
He wished there was a way for Mark to really see that. For Mark to know that, and for that knowledge to keep them together. He hadn't worried this much about Mark leaving since he'd gotten sick in February, but now those fears resurfaced with a vengeance, and Sören couldn't help but feel that maybe Mark leaving was inevitable.
Sören forced himself back to the present, watching Mark in sweet repose, hoping the calm after the storm would last, and it would be awhile before the next. He kissed Mark's brow and watched just a little longer, eyes heavy, as the Silmaril glowed like a nightlight across the room.