I can't believe I'm doing this.
Mark takes a deep breath as he climbs out of the Prius and looks across the parking lot at the bowling alley and the arcade. He's never been bowling, and he hasn't been in an arcade since the 1980s when Pac-Man was new.
Even though Mark has been wandering Middle-Earth for far longer than he lived among his own kind, and he's been here in the US since before it was the US, coming over on the Planter in 1635, he still has moments where he feels acutely aware of being non-human, acutely aware of being ancient, looking no older than thirty-five but being close to eleven thousand years old...
...and afraid that his secret will be found out.
This is one of those times. It isn't that he's against going bowling and to the arcade with Sören and Anthony - just the opposite, he thinks it will be fun and he's glad they want him to come along, he likes being included; if he didn't want to they would have been fine with him staying home, and he likes that they're laidback about it - but he feels like it'll be really obvious he's not used to doing a thing that so many Americans and Canadians have done without thinking twice about it and that might start to poke holes in his human disguise.
Do you REALLY think they're going to think you're an alien or a mythological creature just from being a little awkward at bowling? Mark tries to reason with himself.
But sure enough, Mark feels weird when they step inside the bowling alley - on a Tuesday afternoon they're the only ones there - and an attendant immediately directs them to take off their shoes and gets hideous replacements in their foot sizes.
Mark winces at the neon-and-burnt-orange oxford bowling shoes that the attendant hands him. When the attendant walks off, Mark can't help but ask "Why... what are these for?"
And immediately feels like an idiot for doing it, like it should be obvious and he missed the memo.
"Everyone has to wear bowling shoes here," Anthony says. "It's the rules. It's to help you move better, without getting injured, and it keeps the bowling lanes slick."
Sören smirks. "You said slick," he says under his breath.
Anthony blinks and then he catches whatever was funny about that - it goes over Mark's head - and Anthony facepalms, chuckling, turning beetroot. "Goddammit Sören, Omegaverse stuff in public? Really?"
Mark's relieved that Anthony didn't seem to think his question was weird or stupid... and now he has another question. He tries to be funny, to make it less weird. "What's Omegaverse? Is it like vore?"
The attendant is walking around and gives them a funny look at the word "vore". Anthony cracks up laughing while Sören whistles innocently as he puts on his fire engine red bowling shoes.
"It's... a genre of fiction. Mostly fanfiction. It's like wolf packs, with Alphas and Omegas, but made of humans. And the male Omega humans can go into heat and get pregnant. They self-lubricate, they produce something called slick." Sören glances over at the attendant who's putting away shoes several meters away, then grins as Anthony turns even brighter red, shaking with a full-bodied laugh.
"Wow," Mark says. He thinks about the times he's encountered Tolkien fanfic, and he wonders to himself, I wonder if there's any Omegaverse fanfiction about my family. I bet someone is fucked up enough to write it.
Then Mark squirms as he puts on a bowling shoe. And I'm fucked up enough to think that kind of sounds hot.
"So it's not like vore," Sören says.
At the word "vore", the attendant looks at them again, then starts laughing too as he resumes putting away the shoes.
"A man of taste," Sören says, and even though the attendant moves farther away, Sören still lowers his voice. "I wonder if he's gay."
"Oh my god, Sören," Anthony says, laughing again.
"He's kind of hot, don't you think?" Sören looks around to make sure the attendant isn't listening, and he claps his hand over his mouth. "Jesus, I have no brain-to-mouth filter when I'm high." Sören and Mark smoked a joint before they left; Anthony abstained as the designated driver.
Mark cracks a joke. "His name isn't Jesus. It's Mitch." Mark reads the name on the tag from across the bowling alley.
"You have good eyes," Sören says. "Mitch." It comes out like "meetch" with his accent. "Interesting name, Mitch."
"His name is Mitch and he looks like Gene Wilder," Anthony says. "You think that's hot?"
"Jæja, I like dorky guys." Sören tweaks Anthony's nose.
Mark's eyebrows shoot up but he tries not to react otherwise. He's surprised that Sören is being so blatant about ogling another man in front of his husband... and that Anthony seems amused by it rather than annoyed. Mark wonders if they might have an open relationship, like some of the hippies who used to ride in his van in the 1970s. Group sex had happened in that van, and sometimes Mark had participated - though times were rough for trans people in those days, some of the peace-and-free-love crowd were accepting.
And then they launched a war on the same drugs they'd had their fill of in the 70s. And some of them who had bi experimentation have helped pass bigoted legislation...
Mark takes a few deep breaths. You're here to have fun, not get angry about politics.
...Or think about whether or not Sören and Anthony have ever had threesomes. Or moresomes. The mental image comes to him unbidden, these two gorgeous men exploring, teasing and pleasuring other men's bodies, sucking, fucking...
...what it would be like to join them, if they were open to sharing a lover.
Stop that. Mark grits his teeth. Do not get hung up on these guys.
Sören goes first, and Mark tries not to look at Sören's ass in those jeans as Sören gets into position. Tries not to watch Sören's fingers in the holes, thinking about...
The ball rolls down and knocks eight of the ten pins. "Not bad," Anthony says, giving a polite little clap.
Sören takes a bow. He goes again, and only gets one of the two remaining pins. As Sören walks back over, Anthony says to Mark, "So... I take it you've never done bowling before?"
"No," Mark says.
Anthony nods and gives an encouraging pat before he gets up and takes the ball. Mark is relieved Anthony doesn't make a big deal over him having never bowled before... and also feels sheepish that he was so worried how it would come across.
Anthony hits four of the ten pins the first time, and two more the second time. Anthony glares at the screen recording his score, then Mark rises, feeling strangely nervous.
His feet slide on the polished wood, and Mark tries to compose himself. He stares at the ten pins, and he thinks of Fëanor's hammer on the anvil... his fingers plucking harp strings.
All ten pins fall. Mark reflexively takes a step back. Then he glances over his shoulder. Anthony and Sören are both open-mouthed, and Mark gives a nervous little laugh. He wasn't even trying.
The next frame Sören hits seven pins, then no pins. Anthony hits six pins, then three more pins. Mark rolls a second strike without trying.
Mark can barely concentrate on what Sören and Anthony are doing for the third frame, his heart pounding, thinking about lying and saying he feels queasy so he can sit in the car, not wanting to arouse suspicion if he rolls a third strike. The queasiness isn't even a lie when it's his turn, and he gets the urge to bolt, but he doesn't want to ruin Sören and Anthony's fun.
This time Mark tries... to fail. He still hits eight of the ten pins, but when the other two pins don't fall the next roll, Mark breathes a small sigh of relief.
The rest of the game goes as "normally" as possible, with Mark deliberately trying to fail, and even so, he still does better than average, and ends up winning at the end of the ten frames. They decide to play another two games, and Mark rolls a few more strikes, but the third game is won by Sören, and Mark is genuinely glad. He feels a little guilty that he has to try to lose, which feels like a form of cheating, but he's committed worse white lies before for the sake of protecting his identity.
On the way out Sören flirts a little with the attendant. "Byyyye, Mitch. Have a nice day." Sören attempts a wink that's more of a clumsy blink.
Anthony leans on him in hysterics when they step outside. "I can't even with you, ogling that guy. Weirdo."
"You don't think he's hot?"
"No?"
Sören looks over his shoulder to take one last glimpse of Mitch in the window. "You're right, he does kind of look like Gene Waldenbooks. I mean. Gene Wilder."
Anthony facepalms and has to pause because he's laughing too hard. "You keep that shit up, and Waldenbooks is going to be our new safeword."
Sören does that adorable failed wink again. "Don't threaten me with a good time." Then he and Anthony both glance over at Mark, as if they realize something they've said.
Mark is clueless. "Safeword? Is that like vore?"
Anthony and Sören have a gigglefit so hard they snort, which Mark finds even more adorable, getting flutters, face on fire. "Come on," Anthony says - each of them take Mark by the arm and march him into the arcade.
The arcade has games from the 80s that Mark recognizes - Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, Q*bert, Super Mario, Zaxxon, Tetris. After they buy their tokens, Sören runs right for the Tetris machine, while Anthony goes to Super Mario. Playing Pac-Man makes Mark feel nostalgic, his mind's eye replaying vivid memories of the 1980s, happy and sad. He wouldn't want to go back there - it was a harder time to be queer - but he liked the fashion, he still likes hair metal... and being homeless post-9/11 and needing ID for everything has been a struggle.
Eventually they switch machines so other people can play. Mark takes over the Donkey Kong machine while Anthony plays Q*bert and Sören plays TRON. Then Mark plays Frogger while Anthony plays Centipede and Sören plays Tempest. Finally, Anthony and Mark face off in Joust, while Sören watches. Mark keeps beating him without trying much, and after a few games Anthony gives him a weird look and Mark swallows hard. Oh shit. He feels like he can't breathe... he gets the mental image of a deer in headlights.
Anthony looks around to make sure nobody other than Sören is paying attention, then he says softly, "Were you a sniper?"
Mark hates lying, but the alternative of admitting he's not human is worse. "Yeah," he says. In a way he's not lying - he's been in numerous wars over the centuries and millennia, he's been a lookout as well as an attacker.
Anthony pats him and smiles. "Thought so." Anthony's touch makes Mark tingly, and Mark once again flutters and feels his face flush.
Sören grins. "You have mad skills." He puts out his fist, and Mark fistbumps him.
"We should take you to a fair," Anthony says, "let you win those ring toss contests or whatever so Sören here can add to his stuffed animal collection."
Mark can't help grinning himself with relief - and finding Sören's love of plushies precious, and that giddy rush of once again being included in future plans. He feels a twinge of guilt at the lie about the Canadian armed forces, but it is what it is.
The arcade also has skee ball, and a ball pit. They buy some more tokens and play skee ball - once again Mark intentionally tries to fail so he doesn't keep out-performing them, and he still gets higher scores more often than not.
But the last part is the most fun. Mark has never been in a ball pit before, and he feels a bit nervous and wary as they approach the pen of bright rainbow balls... and once they slide in, Mark feels like an elfling again. And he loves the joy on Sören and Anthony's faces, smiling so beautifully as they swim around in the balls.
When they finally get out of the ball pit, Sören hugs them both and Mark's heart beats faster, a frisson down his spine. "That was fun." Sören bites his lower lip. "I mean... maybe not the safest thing to do in a pandemic..."
"Well, we're vaccinated and cases are slowing down," Anthony says with a shrug. "I'm sure we'll be fine."
"I hope so. I don't ever want to get COVID again." Sören makes a face.
Mark wonders what it was like - the thought of Sören suffering tears at him. Which leads to the thought of Sören dying. He finds himself hugging Sören back, fiercely, aching, not wanting to lose either of them. And it scares him, how much he needs, how much he's gotten attached, in this short time.
As they head out to the car, Anthony pauses and smacks himself in the forehead. "We need cat litter," he says.
They walk over to the Target. Once they have cat litter in their cart, Sören makes a noise, and Anthony says "Hm?" and Sören looks away, turning pink.
"What? Is Mitch here?" Anthony elbows Sören and winks. "Miiiiiiiiiiiiiitch."
Sören narrows his eyes and shakes his head. A few steps out of the aisle, Sören makes that noise again and pauses. "Oh shit," he says under his breath.
"What, honey?" Anthony gives Sören a concerned look and puts an arm around him. "Anxiety? Don't feel good...?"
"My packer," Sören hisses.
Anthony cocks his head to one side.
"The, ah. The... silicone adhesive. It came unglued." Sören grimaces. "My dick is sliding down my leg."
Mark tries very hard not to laugh at that mental image - and feels guilty - but also he feels badly for Sören, knowing how humiliating that is. As they keep walking, Mark glances over and sees the bulge in the pant leg, and Sören has such a pained expression on his face that it makes Mark hurt for him. As the packer continues its slide, Anthony finally jumps in front of Sören and they walk single-file, Sören holding onto Anthony's waist making a "caboose", as Anthony leads the charge to the single-occupancy family bathroom.
Once they reach the family restroom, Mark and Anthony wait outside with the cart as Sören dashes in and the minute the door closes, Mark's sensitive hearing picks up the sound of something squishy hitting the floor and Sören swearing softly in what sounds like Icelandic. The swearing gets so loud Mark can hear it through the bathroom door. "Haninn minn mun ekki vera á fokking stað. Verðlaust fokking lím, rangur fokking tími og staður! Ég trúi ekki þessu kjaftæði! Helvítis mæðraflagari!"
When Sören comes out of the bathroom, the anger on his face is almost comical, but also kind of sexy. It reminds Mark of Fëanor losing his temper - not the first time the young Icelander has reminded Macalaurë Fëanorion of his father - and he doesn't like that surge of lust it produces, the same lust he felt for his own father, Laws be damned.
The fire in their blood, calling to fire.
Mark can't help stealing a glance as they make their way from the bathroom to the registers to check out the cat litter. Sören's cargo pants are noticeably de-bulged, and Mark guesses Sören put the packer in his messenger bag rather than attempting to put it back in place. That guess is confirmed when they're finally in the car and Sören unzips his messenger bag then holds out the packer at Anthony like he's trying to shake hands. "Put 'er there," Sören says.
Anthony facepalms, shakes with silent laughter, and shakes Sören's packer. Then Sören reaches over to do the same to Mark. "How do you do," Mark says.
Sören turns back to the front, and Mark's face burns. I just touched his cock. I just touched something that was up against his crotch a short while ago...
Mark doesn't want or need to think of that. He especially doesn't need to think of sucking a strap-on... or just burying his face in Sören's bush and looking at his -
Anthony puts the car stereo on; it's tuned to the classic rock station. The familiar opening of "Livin' On A Prayer" starts and Sören begins playing air guitar with his packer, strumming it as he headbangs, making Anthony crack up laughing, and Mark does too.
It gets worse as the song goes on. Sören belts out:
Sören's got his six-inch in hock
Now he's holding in what he used to make it talk
So tough, it's tough
My penis dreams of running away
When it slips down my pants, Anthony whispers
Baby, it's OK, someday
Sören grips his packer tighter and shakes it as he sings, louder:
We've got to hold on to what we've got
It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not
We've got each other and that's a lot for love
We'll give it a shot
Anthony and Mark join in with the chorus:
Whoa, we're half way there
Who-oa, livin' on a prayer
Take my hand, we'll make it I swear
Who-oa, livin' on a prayer
And then they all crack up laughing. Sören tears up and wipes his eyes. "Jesus."
Mark reaches up and pats him, then Sören grins and keeps strumming his packer like a guitar. Mark finds it adorable - he really loves Sören's way of turning such a situation into humor... just like his father once did. Nerdanel hadn't appreciated Fëanor's jokes, after a time, but Maglor always had.
Another frisson goes through Mark, this time raising his hair, gooseflesh under his long-sleeved T-shirt. Mark swallows hard as the realization hits him like a bolt of lightning.
Eru help me, I am in love with Sören Sigurðsson.
While Anthony makes dinner, Mark and Sören take turns riding the adult trike up and down the street, the sunset burning pink, orange, red and gold. Sören is able to do more laps this time, though he's still easily winded and eventually has to stop, puffing on his inhaler.
Dinner is delicious as usual - tonight they're having a curry of butternut squash and lentils over rice - and as Mark does the dishes, he remembers a snippet from earlier, Anthony telling Sören You keep that shit up, and Waldenbooks is going to be our new safeword and Mark had asked what a safeword was, and hadn't gotten a reply.
Once Mark sits down again, he quietly Googles "safeword" on his laptop. What he finds makes his eyebrows shoot up.
Fëanor and Finarfin had been kinky, though they didn't call it "kink" or "BDSM" back then. Fëanor had been disciplined by the Valar, and when he and Finarfin began an affair, Fëanor had asked Finarfin to discipline him as a way of taking back control over his body. Maglor had found out about this when he'd accidentally walked in on them one day after his fiftieth birthday.
...And he'd asked to join in, hard and wet and aching for them. And they'd let him, and he'd enjoyed it.
It occurs to Mark that Fëanor invented BDSM, just like Fëanor had invented porn with the palantir, so his lovers could watch him with his other lovers.
Mark's face burns at the memories. The delicious, delicious memories. Mark's cock throbs and he feels himself getting wet, as his mind's eye replays the threesomes... sometimes the foursomes with Fingolfin. He loved them so much. Their love had been beautiful in its brokenness, and love had torn them apart in the end.
Mark can't help but wonder now what Sören and Anthony are like together. He's heard sounds like spanking, but he didn't want to assume. Now he looks at the collar on Sören's neck, and remembers the Silmarils Fëanor wore on his brow; the Valar didn't know that was Fëanor's own tangible sign of being owned by three Masters.
Mark looks away, and reins in the impulse to rush off to his room and masturbate.
That night he does end up relieving himself as he lays in bed unable to fall asleep right away... aching for his father and uncles... aching for Sören and Anthony. He cries after he finishes - today has been such a beautiful day, he has family again, and here he is making it complicated by being in love with mortals who will eventually die.
He silently cries himself to sleep, and that night he remembers yet more as he dreams - this time he dreams of the Balrog ambush, of Fëanor mortally wounded, dying in his arms, going up in flames and smoke and ash. Mark wakes with a cry, and sobs into his pillow. He thinks he's keeping the noise down but then Seamus climbs on the bed and headbutts him aggressively and kneads on him, purring loudly, and that makes him cry even harder, not wanting to lose this taste of happiness he's found... especially not wanting to make it awkward with feelings that probably aren't returned. Just because Sören was ogling this Mitch guy while he was high, doesn't mean they're looking for a third partner...
"Mark?" Sören's voice is at his door.
"You OK?" Anthony adds.
"Oh god." Mark sniffles. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you -"
Sören comes right over and Anthony walks in more hesitantly. Sören gets down on the bed and gives Mark a hug, begins rocking him. Mark falls apart and Sören pets his hair, rubs his back.
The next thing Mark knows, Anthony and Sören are leading him across the hall to their bedroom. They get on either side of him on the bed and hold him together. "It's all right," Anthony says softly. "You're safe with us."
"We know everything has been hard," Sören says. "But you're here. And we're here for you."
Mark keeps crying, feeling like he's flushing out a long-festering wound. They keep holding him, rocking him, and all three of the cats curl up on him, purring. When Mark's tears subside, Sören sings to him.
There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold
And she's buying a stairway to heaven
When she gets there she knows, if the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for
Ooh, ooh, and she's buying a stairway to heaven
Then Sören cracks a cheeky smile and adds, slowly, turning it into a ballad:
We've gotta hold on to what we've got
It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not
We've got each other and that's a lot
For love we'll give it a shot
Anthony joins in:
Whoa, we're half-way there
Whoa, livin' on a prayer
Mark can't help laughing. He squeezes Sören and chuckles, "Kærar þakkir."
And keeps the rest of the sentence to himself: Ég elska þig, ástin. Now isn't the time. It will probably never be the time.
He sighs, closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep, safe in their arms.
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