The rain continues after Sören and Anthony return from their anniversary weekend, all week long, and now it's the end of September and the trees are turning. The cool, grey, damp weather and the fiery trees make a lovely contrast, but it's also a reminder that harvest season is starting and very soon, Mark will have to get a move on.
He's been looking at farms in the area to see if any are hiring. He's prepared to go to another state in New England if he needs to, but the farther away he goes, the harder time he'll have coming back to Bentham, Maine if Anthony and Sören were to let him stay with them for the winter - and he's afraid to ask. Not just out of a sense of pride, and feeling like he'd be taking advantage somehow, but he's already too attached to them. He can't afford to get attached to people, with his rambling life.
He also doesn't know how to break the news that he'll be leaving in a few days, as soon as one of the farms gets back to him. But he still hangs around in Phoenix Books, partly to beat the rain, partly to drink up what human companionship he can before another long stretch of loneliness, keeping strangers at an arm's length.
Mark is exhausted. He's starting to feel like he can't do this anymore; it gets harder and harder every year.
After Sören and Anthony have been back for a full week, it's a rainy Monday where it's really coming down. Mark has finally gotten a bite, from an apple and pumpkin farm in Vermont that's willing to hire him without proof of identification and pay cash. He starts in five days. Sören looks exhausted when the shop opens, and Mark feels a touch of concern, moreso than usual, enough that he decides to put off telling them till this evening. Instead, he opens conversation by asking Sören if he's all right.
"Jæja, didn't sleep well," Sören says.
"I bet," Mark mutters under his breath. They try to keep it down when he's in the guest room, but he heard a few stray moans.
Sören turns pink, catching that, and then he says, "Well, besides that. I had a nightmare."
"Oh. Do you want to talk about it?" Mark can't find it in himself to start distancing from them, even if he's going to leave them behind in less than a week.
Sören shrugs. "Just, you know. A nightmare about burning to death."
Mark's mouth opens. He glances over at the painting in the gallery of what he's very sure is a Silmaril glinting in the waves, then he looks back at Sören. His hair stands on end and he feels a frisson down his spine, his arms gooseflesh under his long sleeves. It was already a very big coincidence to be semi-adopted by the first other trans people Mark has ever knowingly met. An even bigger coincidence that Sören has dreamt of the Silmaril, and now, of burning to death. Mark wonders if Sören is possibly one of his descendants via the lover he had in Iceland in the 1500s, that produced a Peredhel daughter, and if Sören is experiencing some sort of genetic memory.
Of course, he can't tell Sören that, even if he's getting a move on in less than a week.
Mark reads while Sören works on his Wacom tablet. Mark fights the urge to ask Sören if he can see the work-in-progress. Every now and again Sören gets up to wait on a customer in the cafe, serving coffee or making sandwiches - the coffee shop has expanded to serving a new line of breakfast sandwiches all day, and Mark can hear the sound of Sören frying eggs, bacon and sausage. After each order Sören moves more slowly to get back to his chair, looking more and more uncomfortable. By the fifth order of the morning Sören is breathing a little harder when he goes to sit down and Mark can't help asking, "Are you OK?"
"Jæja, I'm fine," Sören says with a tight smile.
Even though it's a rainy Monday, the cafe gets a rush at twelve-thirty. Mark has his usual sandwich and watches as Sören gets wave after wave of customers getting food to go - once he thinks he's getting a break with a few quiet moments, more come in and Sören has to get up again and wait on them. Three at a time, four, two, another set of four, a couple individual stragglers, then a group of six. Just as Sören is finishing up the group of six - who all have modifications on their sandwiches, making extra work - and trying to catch his breath, a group of eight come in. Sören starts having an asthma attack, and as he puffs on his inhaler, one of the customers glares and taps her foot.
Mark can't take it anymore. He gets up, goes behind the counter, and washes his hands. "Sören, sit down," he says.
Sören's eyebrows shoot up. He opens his mouth and tries to protest, but has another coughing fit. Mark marches Sören over to where he was sitting at a table in the cafe, and then he puts his hands on his hips and looks the eight office workers in the eye. "What'll it be?"
When Mark is finished making sandwiches and coffee for the eight customers, he sits down with Sören. There is a long silence as they look at each other; Sören squirms in his seat like he's ashamed of himself.
"I'm sorry," Sören says finally.
"Don't be sorry. That was a lot to deal with. I'm glad I could help you." Mark leans back in his chair. "Why don't you take the rest of the afternoon off and let me work the counter?"
"That... doesn't feel right," Sören says. "You're our friend, not our slave -"
Mark waves a hand dismissively. "As a friend. I don't want to see you collapse." Mark folds his arms. "Pride kills." He thinks of his father, and if Fëanor would still be alive if he hadn't made Finarfin go back... if he hadn't burned the ships and kept Fingolfin from coming with him.
Sören looks away, scowling, and Mark braces himself for an argument. After another excruciatingly long, awkward silence, Sören gives a curt nod. "OK. I just don't want you to feel taken advantage of -"
"For fuck's sake, Sören. You guys feed me and give me a place to crash a few nights a week, let me do something nice for you."
Just then, another customer stands in the doorway of the cafe, looking at the menu, then at Sören and Mark sitting together. Mark jumps up and heads to the counter. "Hi," Mark says. "What can I get for you?"
Mark works the cafe until the shop closes. Anthony comes in during the late afternoon and gives Mark a look of surprise, but doesn't complain about it.
Mark also insists on helping with some of the cleanup, though Sören is proud enough to want to do at least a few things and not have Anthony and Mark do all the work. Three sets of hands make the store closing go faster, and after the lights are off and they head upstairs, Sören and Mark sit in the living room while Anthony makes dinner. Tonight they're having homemade lentil, carrot and potato soup with a side of seasoned greens and rice. Before dinner is served, Anthony and Sören go in the bedroom to have a private conversation.
Once they're eating, Anthony says, "Mark, thank you for helping in the cafe today. I've been worried since the shop re-opened that Sören would be overdoing it, with long COVID. I'm grateful business is good but I didn't expect it to get this busy."
Mark nods. "It wasn't a big deal."
Anthony clears his throat, puts down his spoon, and folds his hands. "OK. I have an offer for you."
Mark also stops eating. His heart beats a little faster, wondering what it is.
"I think it would be safer to have a second person work in the cafe, so my stubborn husband here doesn't end up needing to go to the hospital. However, the reason why I didn't hire someone else from the get-go and don't have a Help Wanted sign is because I can't really afford a legitimate employee in terms of hourly minimum wage, and the amount of red tape involved with having someone on the books and having extra taxes, providing insurance, all of that..." Anthony sips his sparkling water, then he says, "I feel like an arsehole asking you to consider working for me under the table, but you don't have ID, you'd be paid directly in cash, and I would still pay you an hourly wage, it just wouldn't be full minimum wage." Anthony pulls out his phone and goes online, taps some keys, and nods. He shows Mark. "Minimum wage in Maine is $12.15 an hour. How does eight dollars an hour sound, 20 to 30 hours a week - rotating cafe duty with Sören - plus keeping any tips you make?"
That's more than what the farm in Vermont is offering and for far less physical labor. Mark swallows hard, his eyes misting, a frisson through him. He won't have to leave, for awhile, if this works out. "I... I'll take it."
"Good." Anthony exhales and looks at Sören, who nods and smiles. Anthony looks back at Mark. "The other half of the offer - if you'd like to stay with us for awhile, our guest room is open. We won't charge you for rent or meals."
"How long is awhile?"
"At least through the winter. We don't want you freezing to death in your van." Anthony shrugs. "Longer than that we can talk about it, but we know your options for housing are very limited without ID, so we're not really planning on kicking you out. I don't want to say 'it's permanent', because life rarely works that way, but consider yourself adopted." Anthony grins, and Sören beams and nods vehemently, clapping like an excited little kid. Mark smiles back, heart soaring. Then Anthony sobers and says, "However... we have a few rules. No hard drugs, nothing stronger than weed. We don't really want strangers coming over, that's a safety issue."
"I don't really have friends," Mark says, "apart from you guys."
Anthony gives a sympathetic frown and then he goes on, "We don't really have a curfew, if you want to go somewhere in the evening, but we ask that you be quiet when you get in if it's after 10 PM."
"All of that sounds reasonable." Mark can't believe it. He fights the urge to cry. "I... Wow. Thank you."
"If you want to start moving your stuff up here, we can do that tomorrow during the day while there's daylight to work with, since we're closed on Tuesdays."
Mark's head is spinning.
Mark insists on doing the dishes, to give Sören and Anthony a break - and a little while alone, to breathe and process his good fortune. It still feels surreal, like he's in a dream or some kind of wish-fantasy. Of course he can't stay here forever, he doesn't age and sooner or later that's going to cause problems... but the thought of having a home and something approximating a family long-term...
Seamus hops up on the kitchen counter and headbutts his arm, rubbing against it, purring, and then he climbs onto Mark's shoulders, kneading and purring. That breaks Mark, crying the tears he's been holding back, a flood of relief. He tries to keep it down, but when a little sob escapes him, Sören and Anthony come over and pull him into a fierce, tight group hug... with Seamus still laying on his shoulders behind his neck, purring, kneading.
"Thank you," Mark chokes out, shaking, weeping. "Thank you..."
"Thank you for being decent enough to help Sören today," Anthony says.
Seamus migrates from Mark's shoulders to Sören's shoulders. Snúður and Solly come over, circling around their ankles, brushing against them.
"Thank you." Mark tries to pull himself together but ends up weeping harder, overcome.
"EWWWWWWWWWWWW," Sören yells.
Mark's eyebrows shoot up. He wonders if he's overdoing it, being too sentimental, but then Sören points at Seamus. "He farted," Sören says.
Seamus smiles and kneads harder, purring louder, looking very satisfied with himself. Mark chuckles... until the stench wafts over. Both Mark and Anthony make noises in unison.
Seamus headbutts Sören. "Nya!"
Mark can't sleep that night, despite being in a safe place - his new home. It's a lot to take in, after wandering alone for so long, and his mind plays a thousand different awkward scenarios where he might fuck it up and get thrown out.
Starting with - What if they see my ears? He keeps his ears hidden with his hair, but it's not outside the realm of possibility - if Seamus yanked off his towel, one of the cats might well mess up his hair enough to expose a pointy ear tip.
He worries about being caught in one or more of the little lies and half-truths he's woven as a plausible backstory to not have to explain "the elf thing".
He worries about making a social faux pas, or coming off as threatening or aggressive without meaning to.
So many things can go wrong. So many ways he could lose everything all over again.
He's aggravated with himself that he just can't relax, that he can't let himself enjoy the relief that at least for the next several months if not longer, he doesn't have to worry about food, shelter, and he can even start to save up cash for when he eventually does have to move on again.
He's just not used to letting people close to him, anymore, not for a long time. He's been so lonely and alone for so long that it's in some ways harder to let go of that and start to trust again, start to connect again, than if he kept on.
Morning comes, and Mark is tired, but too wired to try to sleep during the day, since he's going to be unpacking his van. They get to it after breakfast.
The small mattress Mark has in the back of his van, with a memory foam pad on top of it, can stay. Everything else goes in several trips upstairs. He has milk crates of clothes, some books, and notebooks of compositions. He has his acoustic guitar in its case, and some non-perishable food items like canned goods and rice, some pots and pans for cooking over a fire. He has a few decorative odds and ends from his travels around the US - and before he came here aboard the Planter in 1635, items from the Middle Ages, Dark Ages and before that would fetch a handsome price with antiques collectors... or possibly get him arrested for owning them. But they're of sentimental value, and Anthony and Sören seem fairly nonchalant about them; Mark guesses they think the items are antiques, possibly family heirlooms. In a way that's not entirely untrue; Mark personally sees to a box with Viking jewelry that was worn by an old lover of his in medieval Iceland.
The item that does make Sören and Anthony pause and stare is Mark's harp. Flowers and leaves carved into wood and touched with gold, the harp was made during the Years of the Trees and it is one of two things Mark has from Valinor, from the days when he was Macalaurë Fëanorion. The other is a mithril pendant of the star of Fëanor, set with a diamond inside a fire opal in the center, made by his father, rarely worn anymore because people tend to be less generous if a homeless person is wearing jewelry. Mark has never parted with the harp all this time, it has traveled around the world with him through the ages. It too could give him a very nice sum of money, but it would feel like cutting off one of his limbs, or a piece of his soul. It was bad enough when he had to sell the Stradivarius.
"I know what you're thinking," Mark says as he watches Sören and Anthony gape at the harp. "I could sell that and buy myself a house or -"
"No," Anthony says. "I get there's got to be reasons why you don't. It looks very well-made, I'm guessing it has personal value to you, not just money."
"My father made this for me," Mark says softly. His fingers caress the flowers and he remembers when Fëanor gave him the harp, weeks after his first public performance. "It's one of the only things I have left of him."
Just for an instant, Sören puts his hand on top of Mark's, then he quickly yanks it back as if he's worried the touch is offensive. But Mark takes Sören's hand again for a moment and squeezes, a silent thanks for his support.
"I get it," Sören says, and Anthony nods. "Some things you just can't sell even if you need the money."
"We wouldn't ask you to sell it. Honestly, it's fucked we live in a world where food and shelter isn't a basic human right." Anthony sighs.
Once the harp is set down in the guest room, Sören looks around. The room was already a bit cramped and cluttered with Sören's art supplies and projects, but now it feels even smaller with the milk crates and Mark's guitar and harp. Sören glances at Anthony, then back at Mark. "Maybe we should rearrange the living room and portion some of it off as a studio, so Mark can have space," Sören says, stroking his chin.
"No," Mark says - then his cheeks burn at how vehement he sounds. "No," he says more gently. "I like it. It reminds me of my father's workshop." It really does, and it's comforting. The room might be cramped but it also feels cozy in a way that's hard to describe. It feels familiar, as much as Mark is afraid of anything feeling familiar.
"OK. If that changes, let us know," Sören says.
Mark pats Sören's shoulder. He doesn't like the way his stomach flutters and his body tingles from the little moment of contact. "You guys are very kind, trying to make me feel at home... but I already feel at home."
And that is dangerous, because the people he cares about have a way of dying in terrible ways, as if his presence is a curse. Tears unnumbered ye shall shed. And yet, something tells him this time is different. Sören has strange dreams. Once again, Mark wonders if Sören is a distant descendant of his, or perhaps something else, Eru knows what.
Mark is afraid, but it's time to stop running. At least for awhile.
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