It seems surreal to Mark that the Silmaril he'd thrown into the sea during an emotional meltdown ages ago, has finally washed back up. Of course, it makes a certain amount of sense that in the presence of Fëanor and Finarfin, it would return. There is magic in their love. There is power. Just as they'd found their way back to each other against all odds, now one of the three Silmarils had returned.
And yet, it's April - two months away from the "decide to stay, or leave before we get more attached and it hurts even more" deadline - and Mark still hasn't decided yet to stay.
He's been thinking about it a lot. He wants to stay. But Anthony is forty-two, and Anthony's recent major surgery has made Mark think a lot about Anthony's mortality - and Sören's, who's only twenty-seven but not in robust health, with asthma and long COVID. Mark had already watched Fëanor die once. Watching Fëanor and Finarfin die more slowly, aging and frail, sounds like torture.
He doesn't want to hurt them by leaving by the end of June. And, while he's saved up enough money to put a deposit down on an apartment, that also requires ID and he doesn't have any and doesn't want to risk criminal contacts to acquire fake ID, so he is very likely going to return to living in his van if he leaves, and that thought doesn't appeal to him, after many months of creature comforts. He doesn't want to go back to being alone, keeping others at an arm's length... being touch-starved, and sleeping by himself.
He would miss the cats, too.
Mark knows he might get twenty more years of happiness with Sören and Anthony if he stays, and then more trauma, the loss of Feanor and Finarfin more painful for having been found again. Homelessness and loneliness is something Mark was familiar with, as loath as he is to return to that.
There are no easy decisions, and there are no really good decisions.
He still has another two months to decide, but already the time since Halloween - when they'd taken the big step forward and become a triad - had flown by. June is right around the corner.
It hurts, and it's putting a damper on his joy at the return of the Silmaril, his Oath fulfilled. Because the Doom still hangs over them, like a shroud. No matter what he decides, he will pay for it in tears, one way or another.
On work days, it's easier to put the painful thoughts aside and distract himself with waiting on customers and seeing to cleaning and organizing the store and keeping track of inventory, revenue and expenses. On days off, it's a lot harder. Not even a good book can help Mark escape, today.
Anthony is still experiencing fatigue and pain after the total hysterectomy, and taking a nap. Sören is attempting to draw or paint on his tablet, but he keeps giving Mark concerned looks, like he can sense the distress even though Mark is trying to hide it... and finally Sören puts his tablet down, folds his hands in his lap and says, "What."
Mark sighs. "It's almost the end of April."
He doesn't need to explain it further than that. Sören leans back in his seat and folds his arms. "Oh."
"Yeah."
"And I take it you're..." Sören makes a vague hand gesture. "You haven't decided yet."
"No." Mark gives a sad, apologetic little smile. "I'm really sorry. It's a lot."
"No, I... I get it. If our situation was reversed I think it would be tough for me too." Sören looks down.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"I know."
Their eyes meet and hold for a long moment. Mark feels like he's about to cry - in a way it would be easier if Sören was angry with him and trying to argue about it, but it's precisely because Sören is so understanding and empathetic that it makes Mark feel even worse. This is not the Fëanor who had died fighting, raging against the gods themselves; this is the Fëanor who had seen where all that fury and fire had gotten them in the end and was exhausted and burnt out. This is the Fëanor who was devoted to his sons to a fault and would have let his sons eat him if they needed food; Fëanor would have forsaken the Silmarils if it would spare his sons.
Mark gets up and stretches. "I feel like going out and getting some air. You want to come with me? Maybe we can go to Craig Beach?"
And that's how Mark ends up doing what Maglor had always done to cope - taking his harp to the ocean to play sad songs. This time he isn't alone, and this time he isn't lamenting the loss of the Silmaril - Sören brings it with them, in a box, as insurance against something supernatural attacking Anthony if he sleeps home alone with the Silmaril. Mark thinks Sören is probably being a bit paranoid - it seems like most of the magic of the old world has died, and there isn't much chance of Morgoth, or someone aligned with him, breaking into an apartment in small-town Maine to steal a Silmaril. On the other hand, the stories of Lovecraft and Stephen King suggest they perhaps shouldn't be too dismissive of that possibility anyplace in New England, and in any case, Mark completely understands why Sören isn't taking any chances, after Finwë.
Mark starts with the Noldolantë, getting it out of the way like a shot in the arm... pouring out his grief. Sören gets choked up during the performance, and Mark almost feels bad, but he knows that Sören needs to grieve also, for what he remembers of his life as Fëanor, and what he'd learned had happened to his kin after Fëanor's death. Sharing the grief, however, seems to intensify it, like an empathic feedback loop, and by the time Mark is done, he's visibly shaking and his eyes blur with tears.
Mark doesn't want to go home just yet, and he still feels the urge to play, despite the length and complexity and emotion of the Noldolantë. So he goes with a couple melancholy instrumental songs - "Lothlórien" and "Watermark" by Enya, and then Sören comes close and gives him a tight, fierce hug, his head on Mark's shoulder. Mark returns it with a squeeze and holds him, rocking him, petting his curls, still silently shedding tears as he watches the waves, breathes the salt breeze, feels the wind in his hair.
After a little while Sören picks his head up and says, "I know you haven't decided yet and I know it's still a bit of a ways off..."
Barely, Mark thinks to himself, but doesn't say it aloud.
"But I want you to know, whatever you decide, even if you leave... I will always love you." Sören puts his hand on Mark's cheek; Mark leans into his touch, feeling more tears slide down his face. "No matter how long or how far..." Sören's free hand takes Mark's hand and puts it on his heart.
Saying a mere "me too" feels trite - Mark decides it's time for another song. After some more rocking and petting and soft little kisses, Mark turns back to his harp and Sören sits next to him in the sea grass, looking on adoringly.
Every night in my dreams
I see you, I feel you
That is how I know you go on
Far across the distance
And spaces between us
You have come to show you go on
Near, far, wherever you are
I believe that the heart does go on
At the end Sören gets that impish look on his face that lets Mark know he's up to no good, and Sören joins in:
You're here, so please hold my beer
And I know that my fart will go on
We'll stay forever this gay
You aren't safe from my farts and
My fart will go on and on
Mark loses it, doubling over. Now he's crying from laughing too hard. "Goddammit, Fëanor." The name just slips out.
Sören takes a bow, grinning.
When they get back home, Sören follows Mark into the studio, putting the box with the Silmaril back on its shelf as Mark puts his harp away. Then Sören and Mark linger, and hug again.
Mark tousles Sören's hair affectionately - his spirits are somewhat lighter for Sören's ridiculousness on the beach, making him laugh. He laughs again, thinking about the ruined Celine Dion song. "You're terrible, you know."
"Takk."
Mark playfully swats Sören's ass, and squeezes it. He kisses the tip of Sören's nose, and then Sören smirks and says, "It could be worse. Much, much worse."
"Oh god."
Sören walks across the room to one of his drawers of art supplies - and pulls out the yodeling pickle Mark had given him back during Anthony's hysterectomy. He hits the button on the pickle and makes it yodel and Sören starts singing:
You aren't safe from my farts and
My fart will go on and on
The mismatch of the yodel and the melody of the song makes Mark cringe, but he starts cracking up again.
Anthony yells "FECK! ARSE!" from across the hall and then there's a loud snore.
Sören and Mark look at each other, and laugh even harder.
One of the things Mark loves most about Sören - about Fëanor - is those moments of laughter, like light through clouds. Overcome by that intensity of love, Mark pulls Sören into a kiss. One deep, passionate kiss becomes another, and a few kisses later Mark and Sören are tugging off each other's clothing, still kissing, walking to the door of the studio room to close it.
"We have to keep it down," Mark whispers. Anthony has no objections to them having sex as a dyad during the six weeks he can't - and to keep making videos and bringing in OnlyFans money; Mark gets to keep half instead of a third while Anthony's laid up - but Mark doesn't want to wake Anthony from his nap, knowing he needs more rest with the amount of pain he's in.
Sören nods, and kisses Mark again.
Once they're naked, Mark takes the Fëanorion star necklace off and put it around Sören's neck. Sören kisses him hard and Mark pulls him by the pendant like it's a leash, over to the futon.
On the futon, they kiss and reach between each other's legs to play with each other - Sören is already engorged and soaking wet, and so is he. The grief has sharpened Mark's appetite, hungry for touch, for passion, to bask in Fëanor's flame while he still has it. Mark needs to make each time count, more than ever.
Sören seems to feel the same way, getting on his knees before Mark sitting on the futon, spreading Mark's legs. He dives in, eyes riveted on Mark as his full, lush lips wrap around Mark's hard little cock, slurping away, watching Mark tremble, breathing heavily. Mark strokes Sören's face, pets his curls, and throws his head back, his breath hitching as Sören's sweet mouth pleasures him, sucking harder.
As much as he loves watching Sören suck on him - and looking into those beautiful warm brown eyes, so full of love - he wants to taste his beloved, too.
They lay with their heads between each other's legs, Sören on top, sucking harder at him as Mark's tongue flutters to tease Sören's swollen cock nub, then Sören tongue-fucks him as Mark takes Sören's cock into his mouth, sucking. They eat at each other, licking and sucking, soft moans muffled by each other's cunts. Mark savors the taste of him, the feel of that cock in his mouth, the way Sören's thighs quiver as he gets closer, closer. He wants to remember this forever.
They finger each other as they reach that point of no return, sucking each other as hard as they can. They come together, Sören's cock twitching in Mark's mouth, his cunt contracting on Mark's fingers, in time with Mark's pulses. Mark sighs with contentment as his lips let go of Sören's cock and he watches those delicious contractions.
Sören's sexy little flower contracting still blazes through his mind as they sit up and kiss, tasting their essence together. Mark wants to fuck him, and after Mark starts kissing Sören's neck, it doesn't take long for Sören to be ready again, too.
Sören lays on his back, left leg hooked over Mark's shoulder. Sören reaches up to caress him as Mark rides him, rocking his hips, their boypussy lips kissing, cock sliding against cock. Sören rolls his hips, and they find that perfect rhythm, cocks flirting, teasing, fucking.
Sören's palms brush Mark's biceps and chest and the planes of his stomach, his strong thighs and back up. Mark's fingers trace lines and swirls and circles over Sören's body, arms, shoulders, nipples, sides, stomach, navel, thigh and calf, needing to touch him, feel him, commit every inch of him to memory. Mark leans in to lick up and down Sören's left leg, even sucks on Sören's toes one at a time, wanting all of him.
Their wet pussies smack and suction together as Mark works his hips harder, pressing more firmly into Sören, cocks rubbing faster, building luscious pleasure. The decadent, sensual bliss explodes into fierce, frenzied animal need, cunts rutting harder, both of them panting, letting out little growls as they fuck hard.
Mark can hear Sören's voice in his mind. More, more... Sören arches to him, rubbing for all he's worth; Mark matches Sören's rhythm, pussy slapping Sören's furiously. He mashes in and moans softly as he feels Sören's cunt lock with his. More, more! Moremoremoremore...
Mark pinches Sören's nipples and Sören bites his lip and whines.
Mark desperately fights back his release, wanting to make Sören come first, wanting to take care of him, wanting to love him. At last Sören takes Mark's hand and squeezes, letting out a soft, urgent whimper, a desperate look in his eyes, and Mark knows Sören is about to come. The feeling of Sören's cunt contracting against his sets Mark off with shuddery gasps as he comes too, feeling his juices gushing into Sören, who moans with delight.
Mark sank down and they kiss; Sören throws his arms around Mark and Mark kisses Sören with all the fire of his being, rains fiery kisses down his neck and back up. The fire between them burns down to softer light and Mark nuzzles him, kisses his nose, and they giggle and snuggle closer.
"I love you," Mark says softly.
A little while later Mark and Sören put their clothes back on and head down to the open plan kitchen and living room. Anthony is up, drinking tea.
"Hi," Sören says, going right over to give him a hug. "How did you sleep?"
"OK," Anthony says. "I didn't expect to nap as long as I did, but I guess my body thought it needed it." Anthony shrugs. "I'd ask if you and Mark had fun today, but I already know the answer to that."
"Sorry, Daddy. We tried to keep it down," Sören says.
"I know, but I can still smell it, and I could hear the, um. The wet..." Anthony's voice trails off, cheeks pink.
"Macalaurë in a pot, that's some wet-ass pussy?" Sören smirks.
Anthony facepalms and shakes with silent laughter. "Jesus Christ, Sören."
Mark comes over, reaches out and pats him. "I know you said it was OK if we did it while you were recovering, but if it's going to make you feel left out, we can wait -"
"No, I don't expect you guys to be celibate this entire time, and besides..." Anthony gives them a wicked grin. "That just means I can punish you for being sluts when I get cleared to have sex again. Which hopefully will be in a couple weeks."
Even though May puts them ever closer to June... Mark can't wait.
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