Sören took a deep breath as he pulled his Vespa scooter into the driveway. All the other vehicles were there, which meant everyone was home unless someone had gone for a walk. Of course, this was the expected time they'd be home - it was after seven PM - but even so, it added to the weight on Sören's shoulders. As much as he loved his partners, he was not in the mood to deal with other people right now.
He took off his helmet, and came in as quietly as he could. The cats began to hover, wanting attention. They followed Sören down to the bathroom, where he scrubbed his hands.
Sören heard Anthony's cane clacking down the hall. "Shit," he said under his breath.
Before he could duck out of the bathroom, there was Anthony, smiling so sweetly. "Hey, lovey."
Sören attempted a smile. "Hi, elskan."
Anthony limped forward for a kiss. Sören put his arms around him, leaning in, not wanting to reject him... wanting to let himself accept comfort, even as he was still feeling brittle, reactive, from his last patient of the day.
When they pulled back, Anthony noticed. "You OK?"
"Jæja, I'm fine." He wasn't fine, and as much as Sören had criticized Anthony's stiff-upper-lip tendency, here he was doing it too. "Need to get out of these clothes."
Sören took his hair out of his man bun, shaking his curls loose, and then walked down to the master bedroom. He fished out a heather grey T-shirt and red plaid flannel pajama bottoms, taking off his scrubs and putting those on... and then he just curled up on the bed in the fetal position, face in his hands. The upset of his last patient was intensified by being embarrassed that he was this upset, too sensitive, knowing that his patient would have lashed out at anyone, not just him. He didn't want to take it personally, he didn't want it to hurt - and this wasn't the first time a patient had gone off on him. But this whole situation with Mark being here, feeling like it was a time bomb being defused all too slowly, was putting him more on edge. All the conflicts in the world, amplified.
A reminder of the way it was before. Finwë's hatred and resentment of him for "killing his own mother". Morgoth's hatred and obsession. The punishment of the Valar for calling out the truth, that Manwë had failed in his job. Born into a vulnerable mortal body, abused and bullied during his formative years. Now he was an adult, and one patient made him feel like that hurt little boy all over again, wondering what he'd done wrong when he was just trying to be good.
"Fucking fuck." Sören held back a sob, but the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Brrr?"
Sören opened his eyes and saw Miss Balls sitting on the floor by the edge of the bed, looking up at him. The old brown tabby gingerly hopped up on the bed, and, with her tail raised in greeting, she came over to Sören and brushed against him, rubbed her cheeks and nose against his arm and hand, then came over to his face, nuzzled, and gently nipped his nose.
Sören laughed and began to stroke the cat, soothed by her purr. Miss Balls settled into a loaf next to his head, and he continued stroking and skritching. The cat leaned into his touch, smiling. Sören leaned in and kissed the cat's head, rubbed his nose in her fur... buried his face in the soft, warm fur and let himself cry a little, trying to keep it down.
He heard the clack of Anthony's cane down the hall again, and then there was a knock on the bedroom door. "Sören?" came Nicholas's voice.
"Jæja."
Nicholas opened the door and walked in, Anthony following. They paused when they saw Sören laying there in the fetal position, petting Miss Balls. Sören blinked back tears, but he knew they could see his face.
"I knew you weren't fine." Anthony pursed his lips.
Sören looked away, his jaw trembling.
"Do you need us to leave you alone?" Nicholas asked.
Sören sighed. He didn't like crying in front of other people, even his partners who had seen him cry many times, but he didn't want them to feel rejected... and he knew it wasn't healthy to isolate. "You can come in," Sören said in a small voice.
Anthony came around the side of the bed, climbed on, and got behind Sören, spooning him, Anthony's chest against his back, strong arms around him, holding him safe. "I've got you," Anthony whispered, nuzzling Sören's neck. The soothing embrace undid him and Sören cried harder, letting it out.
Nicholas sat on the edge of the bed. "What is it, little one?" He started to rub Sören's shoulder, then Sören's tummy, in slow, lazy circles. "Did you have a bad day at work?"
Sören nodded. "At the end." He snuffled. "A patient, uh, blew up at me."
"Oh, sweetheart." Nicholas rubbed Sören's scalp, skritching his curls, sending delicious tingles and shivers through him. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"It might help to talk, love." Anthony played with a curly lock, and leaned in to kiss Sören's cheek.
"OK." Sören took a deep breath. He looked into Nicholas's sad dark eyes.
Nicholas scooped up Miss Balls and climbed onto the other side of the bed, facing Sören. Miss Balls settled onto Sören's hip, kneading and purring, and Sören continued to weep as Anthony and Nicholas held him, pet him.
At last Sören found his words, replaying the scene in his mind's eye. "Last case of the day was a woman in her forties, two teenage kids. MRI and CAT scans say she has a brain tumor. I talked to her about the test results, and the course of treatment - surgery. Well, she started yelling at me, told me she wasn't having surgery... that she was just going to pray and do Reiki and take herbs. I told her that if she doesn't have surgery to remove the tumor, it's going to get bigger, it's going to spread, and eventually it will probably kill her. She said it wouldn't, and called me a quack -"
"Someone who thinks prayer and Reiki will cure a brain tumor thinks you're a quack," Anthony mused.
Sören nodded. "And she said I should have my license revoked for 'pushing' surgery on her, and she compared brain surgery to rape, and... and..."
"Oh my god."
Since Sören had been raped, in 2010, he was very sensitive about things that weren't rape, being compared to rape. "She wanted to talk to my supervisor, so eventually Ed came in and she told him I was 'forcing' her to have surgery and..."
Nicholas rolled his eyes, huffed, and kissed Sören's forehead. "That's terrible."
"I don't even understand why someone would go to all the trouble of having tests done if they were just going to refuse the treatment protocol," Anthony said, sounding indignant. "That's wasting time that could be spent on patients who actually want to be treated. It's not like the NHS has a plethora of neurosurgeons available."
"Right, that's part of why I'm upset, I feel like my time was wasted. But she was just so... hateful. You know, for someone who seems to be into all that 'natural' woo stuff, those peace and love types, she was so nasty." Sören shuddered. "I started having flashbacks of my aunt Katrín yelling at me." He wept afresh; Anthony's arms tightened around him. "And I hate it. I'm thirty-three fucking years old, and it's like being thirteen again. It makes me feel so small, so helpless... it makes me feel unprofessional, to let a patient bother me like that."
"It's a normal human reaction to get upset when someone is overreacting and scapegoating you," Nicholas said, rocking Sören. "If someone cuts you, you bleed. It's the same with the heart."
"I still feel like it shouldn't be like that." Sören sobbed into Nicholas's shoulder. "I shouldn't be so sensitive."
"You actually give a damn about your patients," Anthony said. "That's why you're a good doctor. Your sensitivity is a feature, not a bug." Anthony put a hand on Sören's heart. "Your heart is one of the things I love about you."
"Me too." Nicholas stroked Sören's face, and began to kiss his tears. "I'm sorry you had to deal with that. But you're home now. You're with people who love you. You're safe."
"I just try to help people." Sören closed his eyes, feeling drained and defeated, like that last patient had been a microcosm of his eternal struggle, like there was something inherent in him that made people respond in such an extreme way sometimes.
"You were a good boy," Nicholas said softly. "You're Daddy's good boy."
That broke Sören. He wept so hard the sobs tore at him, doubling over, sides heaving, face hurting, eyes stinging with the salt of his tears. He needed so badly to hear that, like cleaning a festering wound.
Nicholas continued petting and rocking him. "My good boy. Daddy's good boy. Daddy's here, little one. You're safe with Daddy and your brother. We love you. You're such a good boy."
"Sweetheart." Anthony's arms were so tight. "It's OK, lovey. You're home now. The mean lady isn't here. It's just us."
"Just us and the kitty." Nicholas gave Miss Balls some pets, and then Miss Balls walked up Sören's side, perched on his shoulder, and started cleaning Sören's face. Her sandpaper-like tongue tickled, and Sören laughed through his tears.
"Cat," Sören said.
"That's a good cat." Nicholas skritched Miss Balls's whisker pads.
"Thanks, cat, now I don't need to exfoliate." Sören kissed the cat's cheek.
Then Mark was in the doorway. Sören hadn't even heard his footfall down the hall. He startled, and Mark gave a sheepish, apologetic smile before he cleared his throat.
"Sorry," Mark said. "I just wanted to let you know dinner's ready."
"All right, we'll be out in a few minutes?" Nicholas nodded at him.
"That's... that's fine. Take your time." Mark looked them over, and his shoulders fell with a sigh. It seemed that Mark looked a little wistful, and Sören ached for him - enough to fight the urge to invite him over and join the cuddle pile. He knew that would probably be awkward for Anthony.
Mark walked away, and Sören's tears were subsiding. He still lay there for a few minutes, sandwiched between their partners, walled in their loving arms, like a living fortress. He drank in the safety, the comfort, letting it drive away that raw, vulnerable, helpless feeling. Miss Balls got down and walked out, presumably going to the kitchen. Sören thought about getting up and following her, but he lingered in that tight embrace, leaden, not wanting to move. Letting himself take from them what they were offering.
"Good boy," Nicholas repeated, stroking his hair. "Daddy's good boy. Daddy's good, special boy."
That was starting to get Sören a little horny, and he didn't want dinner to get cold. "Will you show me how good, later?"
"Oh yes. I think Daddy's got a sweet for you. And maybe a horsey ride."
"Yay, horsey ride." Sören crinkled his nose and bit his lower lip.
Anthony laughed, and swatted Sören's bottom. "Then when he's done, your brother wants to play."
A shiver went down Sören's spine. Already, he was feeling a little better. "Good."
"Shall we go to dinner, before thinking too much about dessert?" Nicholas's lips quirked.
"Yes, Daddy."
Nicholas got up, took Sören's hand and helped him up, and then they helped up Anthony together. The three walked out to the dining room. Miss Balls chose then to walk from the kitchen to the dining room - Tobias was waiting for them, and he came forward to touch noses with Miss Balls. Sören squeaked with delight - he thought it was so cute when they did that - and then he covered his mouth, self-conscious of the ridiculous noise he made, but Nicholas just gave him another hug and some more skritches, chuckling. Anthony gave him a kiss.
Mark rose and watched the display of affection, once again looking a little sad, a little wistful, but he tried to smile. "Hi."
"Hi," Sören said, taking a seat. He smiled at the beef bourgignon, hearty on a cold January night. "Looks good."
"Mark used my recipe," Nicholas said.
Sören couldn't help going there. That's not all he used, Sören spoke into Nicholas's mind, sharing mental images - wicked memories of eons ago, threesomes and foursomes with Maglor.
Nicholas's cheeks turned pink. He kicked Sören under the table as he reached for the ladle in the stew pot. You seem to be somewhat recovered.
Sören kicked Nicholas back. As you know...
The next day went much more smoothly, if one could define a twelve-hour complex spinal surgery as "smooth". Sören felt like all the life had been sucked out of him on the ride home, but he was still in better spirits than he'd been yesterday, and this time after he scrubbed and changed, he went out to the greatroom and sat between Nicholas and Anthony on the couch.
Anthony was working on a Duolingo lesson, and Mark and Nicholas were playing chess. Anthony put an arm around him and Nicholas began skritching his scalp, as Miss Balls hopped up onto his lap, purring.
It would have been the picture of contentment except for Mark, who merely looked serious as he concentrated on the chessboard, but now had that wistful look in his eyes again as he glanced over at the three of them.
Nicholas seemed to notice it too. While he waited for Mark to make his move, Nicholas got up, patted Sören, and headed off to the kitchen.
From Anthony's laptop came a voice: Paret reiser gjennom landet på ei flygende ku.
It was Norwegian, not Danish, but it was similar enough that Sören's mind translated it into his third language and he doubled over, snorting, scaring Miss Balls off his lap.
"What in the actual fuck is with that Norwegian course," Sören choked out, wiping his eyes, shaking, sides cramping up.
"Oh, that's not even the weirdest one." Anthony grinned and then he said, "Kriminaliteten falt etter at kyllingen ble statsminister."
"I mean, a chicken would do a better job than Theresa May."
"Yeah." Anthony cringed.
Now even Mark laughed. It was so good to see his face lit up. "You liked languages in your life as Arafinwë," Mark said softly. "You picked up Telerin very quickly."
Anthony nodded. "Linguistics make sense. People, and the way they say things, not so much."
Mark looked away and squirmed in his seat a little.
Just before Sören could get up, drag Mark by his pointy ear, and knock his and Anthony's heads together, Nicholas came in with a tray of mugs. Sören clapped with happiness as he saw whipped cream floating on the mugs.
"Hot chocolate," Nicholas said, putting the tray down, and handing Sören the first mug. "I thought it would be cozy after a long day, yes?"
"Very much." Sören gave Nicholas a kiss as Nicholas sat back down beside him. "It's a good start to unwinding."
"How about... some music?" Mark looked over at his acoustic guitar, resting by the door in its case - he liked to take his guitar down to Greenwich Park - and then looked back at Sören. He gave Nicholas an apologetic little smile. "I can't concentrate on the game right now, sorry."
I wonder why. Sören kept that thought to himself, giving Anthony a raised eyebrow before he slurped at the whipped cream floating in the hot cocoa.
"Music would be lovely," Nicholas said, then turned to Sören and said, "If you think it would help, of course."
"Oh, sure." Sören nodded. "I love it when you play, Mark." Sören's eyes locked with Mark's, letting Mark know that statement was loaded with innuendo.
Mark's cheeks turned pink. He ran a hand through his hair - Sören couldn't help smirking a little, enjoying the obvious fluster - and then Mark cleared his throat and went over to the door. Sören watched the tight ass in those jeans, remembering what it looked like unclothed. Remembering what it tasted like, the way Maglor moaned when -
Mark grabbed his guitar, and sat back down, opening the case. "Do you have any requests?" he asked. He looked at Sören again and cocked his head to one side.
Sören stroked his chin, thinking. Decisions were hard, and it seemed almost impossible to think of a song to request. But then the answer flared within him, a curiosity since he'd looked at The Silmarillion.
"Can you play the Noldolantë?"
It wasn't an immediately obvious choice for a relaxing song - indeed the song of their people's sorrow seemed the opposite of relaxing - but Sören knew it was Maglor's magnum opus, and he wanted Mark to be able to share.
Mark nodded. He put the guitar on his lap, took a few deep breaths, and began to play a lovely, haunting progression of notes.
The song seemed familiar to Sören, even though it had been composed long after Fëanor died. It took him a minute and then he recognized it -
"You're playing 'Careless Whisper'," Anthony said, before Sören could say it aloud. Anthony put down his mug, folded his arms and gave Mark an exasperated-but-amused look. "You're taking the piss -"
Mark narrowed his eyes, looking equally exasperated. "Here we go."
"What do you mean, 'here we go'?"
Mark continued to play like Anthony hadn't just called him out. "For your information, I had this running in my head when I was at a pub where George Michael happened to be. We had a one-night-stand, and I suppose I passed on the song in my head without meaning to."
"You had sex with George Michael?" Sören's jaw dropped. "Was it good?"
Mark facepalmed, turning beetroot. Anthony had started to pick up his mug of cocoa and he laughed so hard he had to put it back down. "Sören, even after all these years you still amaze me."
"Don't tell me you're not curious."
Now it was Anthony's turn to go pink.
"Can I play the bloody song, or are we going to play 21 Questions?" Mark asked.
"Can we do both?" Sören gave Mark an innocent face that wasn't innocent at all.
Mark resumed playing like it was the most normal thing in the world. The sax solo from "Careless Whisper" played on the guitar gave it a haunting quality, and despite having heard the pop version of the song many times, there was something about the way Mark played it - like he was speaking through his guitar - that went straight to Sören's heart. He really didn't need to cry again, after his meltdown yesterday that left him feeling exhausted all day.
Sören found himself getting up - Mark was still playing - and he dashed down the hall to the bedroom, to the wardrobe of Anthony's suits and barrister robes, where Sören knew Anthony kept his wig. "Hi George," Sören said as he took out the wig. He carried it down the hall, and once he was back in the greatroom, before he sat back down he put George next to the gold aluminum pineapple Anthony had given him as a gag gift a few years ago, that Sören had affixed googly eyes to - now holding wrapped hard candy rather than the Faberge egg with the Silmarils... and a wooden kazoo that Anthony had also bought for him. Sören opened the lid of the pineapple bucket to take out the kazoo, and once the lid was on, he sat down, and played the sax solo of "Careless Whisper" on the kazoo along with Mark's guitar.
"Hells," Mark said, stopping the song.
"I'm sorry." Sören doubled over - so did Anthony - and teared up. The look of aggravation on Mark's face was so exaggerated as to be comical... which was quickly replaced by confusion.
"Why did you put that wig next to the pineapple, and..."
"Jæja, they're boyfriends. George, Ananas, this is Mark. Macalaurë, this is George, the wig, and Ananas, the pineapple. Please, resume serenading them."
Mark continued, and then a moment later Sören accompanied him again on the kazoo. Mark stopped playing, gave Sören a deadly serious look, and then he gave into laughter of his own.
"Atya, you're a shit," Mark said.
"Takk."
Mark sighed, shook his head, and leaned back. "Are you going to behave yourself?"
Sören put down the kazoo, folded his hands as if in prayer, and batted his lashes. Mark laughed again, then a pillow floated out from behind Mark and flew in the air, aimed at Sören. Sören dodged just in time, but spilled hot cocoa on his shirt.
Sören and Anthony composed themselves and let Mark continue. The song sounded a lot like "Careless Whisper", but not exact... and Mark singing in Quenya made Sören break out in gooseflesh. He could see a movie in his mind's eye, like Mark was either sharing what he was thinking of as he wrote the song eons ago, or projecting. He saw the exile, the hunger and cold and fear and despair on the Helcaraxë. He saw, he felt, the madness of Fëanor, turning Finarfin away, as Fingolfin withdrew from him. The burning ships. Maglor and Maedhros clinging to each other, feeling utterly alone. Maedhros throwing himself into the chasm. Maglor tossing the Silmaril into the sea. Wandering alone. Never going home again. Never finding home, wandering endlessly.
Maglor thinking of taking his own life as Maedhros had done, but needing to keep the memories of his family alive - needing to keep the love alive - through the Song. Like a torch burning, to try to light the way home.
Sören's eyes filled with tears. His heart broke for Mark all over again. My son, if I could have spared you. He ached to go to him, hold him, tell him he was home and safe now...
...and there was Anthony, stern-faced, bristling with grief of his own. Not yet ready to let Mark back in, even after he knew Mark had been alone - and so hungry for love, so starved for touch - for so long. Because Mark had it, and had broken him. Had sent Anthony into his own mental form of exile, afraid to come home, afraid to let himself need somewhere, someone, to belong to.
You idiots. Sören once again wanted to knock their heads together. This was getting ridiculous. He wanted to scream.
When the song was over, Nicholas stood up and applauded. Sören and Anthony applauded as well. Mark took a small bow.
Sören grasped at levity again, trying to avoid a meltdown. "This isn't helping to disprove my theory that there's an alternate universe where you're the other guy from Wham."
Mark gave him a look, then he laughed too.
Nicholas put a hand on Sören's shoulder. He looked at the clock, then at Sören. "It is past time for me to start dinner. As you know, I still insist on doing it some nights, I shan't have Mark do everything."
"I'm still doing dishes, though," Mark said.
"Of course." Nicholas walked off to the kitchen.
Mark looked at Anthony, then at Sören. "Any other requests? Something happy this time?"
Sören took a minute, then he said, "Queen?"
A flourish, then Mark strummed and sang:
This thing called love
I just can't handle it
This thing called love
I must get round to it
I ain't ready
Crazy little thing called love...
With the way Mark was looking at him as he played - and wiggled his eyebrows during the chorus - Sören got the feeling Mark was flirting with him. His cheeks flushed and his stomach fluttered. Two could play that game, even as it was playing with fire, with Anthony right there, and Sören's promise not to pursue Mark until and unless he and Anthony had reconciled. There was a little bit of whipped cream still floating on Sören's cocoa, and he licked it up with long, slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue, wanting Mark to think about what else that tongue was capable of.
Then Anthony started shaking, trying to keep his face serious, but his eyes sparkled, and when Sören gave him a confused look, Anthony let himself laugh aloud. He waited until the song was over.
"You have whipped cream on your nose," Anthony said.
"Oh."
Before Sören could dab it off, Anthony leaned in and licked it off Sören's nose - his tongue playful, sensual, caressing, making Sören shiver, his cock stirring. All the more for knowing this was Anthony's response to the flirting, his own subtle form of domination, reminding Sören who he belonged to.
Mark had that sad, wistful look on his face again.
Just then, Nicholas came back in the greatroom, frowning. He walked over to the coatrack without saying a word, and reached for his trenchcoat.
"Nick, you OK?" Sören asked, wondering if Nicholas had felt the tension from the kitchen.
"I'm out of potatoes," Nicholas said.
"Oh, sorry, I used the last of them yesterday and forgot to add them to the grocery list," Mark said. "It's still not something I'm used to, having to make a list, sorry -"
"It's fine," Nicholas said, buttoning up his coat.
As Nicholas sat to put on his shoes, Mark asked, "Do you want me to go to the store for you, so -"
"That isn't necessary. I don't mind. As I keep telling you, I need to do some things still. I am old, but I am not an invalid." Nicholas's tone had a bit of an edge to it. Then Nicholas looked over at Anthony. "Would you like to come along and keep me company?"
"Sure," Anthony said. He gave Sören a little kiss then rose up on his cane and limped over to the coats and shoes.
Once Anthony and Nicholas were out the door, and Sören heard Nicholas's car start, it was just him and Mark. Sören was still worked up from Anthony licking his nose - so silly and yet so hot - and he felt like he had to do something to make Mark feel better. Like flirting.
"Any other requests?" Mark asked.
"Sade?"
Mark's lips quirked. He took a deep breath and strummed a sexy rhythm.
If I tell you
If I tell you now
Will you keep on
Will you keep on loving me?
If I tell you
If I tell you how I feel
Will you keep bringing out the best in me?
You give me, you give me the sweetest taboo
You give me, you're giving me the sweetest taboo...
Sören melted to Mark's husky tenor, smooth and sensual. He knew the choice of "The Sweetest Taboo" was deliberate, teasing at the taboo of what they had been to each other before. Sören's face was on fire by the time the song was done, heart racing. It was all he could do to not undress and beg Mark to take him.
Mark launched into another song without being asked - slow, sad. His lashes swept down, like he was reflecting on the past again, coming out in each note.
He told me sweet lies of sweet loves
Heavy with the burden of the truth
And he spoke of his dreams
Broken by the burden
Broken by the burden of his youth
Sören's breath hitched. The words went right to his heart, breaking it all over again.
Mark continued to play and sing, with Sören barely able to keep from tears. And then, at last, the tears came.
I remember his hands
And the way the mountains looked
The light shot diamonds from his eyes
Hungry for life
And thirsty for the distant river
Like the scar of age
Written all over my face
The war is still raging inside of me
I still feel the chill
As I reveal my shame to you
I wear it like a tattoo...
Though the song was by Sade, it might as well have been by Maglor himself. Sören wondered if Maglor had influenced the song the way he'd influenced "Careless Whisper".
He couldn't stop staring at Mark's burned hand, scarred by the Silmaril. The tears rolled down his face and when the song was over, Sören heard himself bubble out, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry..."
Mark put his guitar down and went over to the couch, sitting next to Sören. Not yet touching him. "I don't blame you, Atya. I blame Morgoth. I blame Manwë... and myself."
Sören finally reached out to touch Mark's face. His other hand took Mark's burned hand, thumb tenderly stroking the scar. "What you went through. You've suffered so much, for so long. And I'm sorry that you're here now and the promise of comfort is dangling right in front of you and you still can't -"
Mark grabbed Sören, and for an instant Sören wondered if Mark was going to kiss him as he kissed Nicholas - Sören wanted that, even as he knew he shouldn't, he knew it would hurt Anthony after the promise made - and instead of a kiss, he pulled Sören close, held him tight. Mark started to shake with silent tears, and when Sören fell apart, weeping, Mark sobbed with him.
"I know you need this," Sören said. He looked up and took Mark's chin in his hand. "Don't you?"
"It's been so long since I've been held," Mark said. "Not since..." Mark let out a shuddery sigh, then another sob.
Sören broke again, crying into Mark's chest. "Not since Anthony." He finished the sentence for him. "That's a long time."
"And longer before that. I've had one-night-stands, but I hadn't allowed myself an actual partner in many years." Mark's voice shook as he explained. "I don't age. I can glamour an older appearance but that still only works so long before I have to reboot my life, reinvent myself... go someplace else where I won't be recognized. With the dawn of cameras, that shelf life has gotten a lot shorter. It's not a life I want to inflict on somebody else. But I let a few people come with me, over the years. And watched them age, watched them sicken and weaken, watched them die. I couldn't let Anthony throw away his education, his career, to follow me in exile around the world. And I couldn't bear to watch him die. I didn't know back then who he was, consciously, but a small part of me knew, knew it would be losing Arafinwë all over again -"
"So you pushed him away."
Mark nodded, and let out a plaintive wail, doubling over, crying as brokenly as Sören had ever heard someone cry.
"Mark. Macalaurë. You have to tell him."
Mark sighed. He closed his eyes, the tears spilling more silently.
Sören decided to stop pressing it for now. Mark needed comfort, not a lecture. Now it was Sören who pulled Mark against him, held him close, held him tight, pet the glorious flood of raven hair. Sören tucked a lock of hair behind Mark's pointy ear and tenderly kissed the tip. The way Mark shuddered - the way Mark's breath hitched - let Sören know he probably shouldn't do that casually. Once again, Sören's mind raced with the desire to get naked and let Mark claim him, offering Mark release. But he knew it wasn't the right time.
And sometimes, people needed to just be held. So that was what Sören did, hugging him, rocking, petting. The cats joined them on the couch, purring in stereo. Sören found himself whispering what Nicholas had said to him many times before, when he needed to hear it:
"My good boy. Such a good boy." Sören kissed the top of Mark's head, rubbed his nose in Mark's hair. "Atya's good boy. My good boy. Good boy."
Mark cried a little more, then sighed again, his breath slowing; Sören could feel him practically melting. The background Fëanor part of him felt like it was glowing, warm, like an inner fire. It was the best feeling in the world, to hold someone he loved, to love them.
"Good boy," Sören whispered, rocking Mark harder, who had stopped crying now. "Good boy. My good boy. Such a good boy."
Sören kept holding Mark, and Mark kept clinging, letting himself be soothed, until Nicholas's car pulled into the driveway again. Mark got up, bent down to kiss Sören's brow - that gentle little kiss made Sören's cock throb - and Mark took his seat before Nicholas and Anthony walked through the door.
"We got a few extra things," Nicholas said. "Including ingredients for a cake for our birthday boy."
"Right, Anthony's birthday is soon." Sören facepalmed; it was less than a week away, coming up on February fourth. He had exactly one day off between now and then - February first. "How about we go shopping on the first, after you guys get off work? I haven't bought anything yet and if I order something online I don't know if it'll get here on time."
"All right," Nicholas said, nodding. "Where would you like to go?"
Sören needed a place that had everything. "Selfridges?"
Nicholas made a face like he was in pain, but managed to smile. "As you wish."
Sören cackled; Nicholas was such a snob sometimes. I love you too, Ñolo.
"We should split up," Nicholas said as he found a place to park at Selfridges. "Anthony, if you pick out something you want, I'll buy it for you. Left to my own devices, I wouldn't buy anything here, I'd prefer a more independent shop, or antiques, something with more character -"
Sören snorted and rolled his eyes, but truthfully, he found Nicholas's affectations endearing. Most of the time.
"But Sören, I know you want to surprise him, so you and Mark can team up."
That caught Sören off guard, but he wasn't opposed to it. It was a chance to spend more time with Mark. Continue getting to know him.
Get to look at him.
Sören's heart beat a little faster, his stomach fluttering, his mouth dry. He desperately fought back the old memories of Maglor seducing Fëanor, bodies writhing, sweating, feverish kisses, hands exploring, teasing, tasting each other, taking turns inside each other, the breathy cries...
Even though Mark blended in about as well as a near-seven-foot-tall man who was strikingly gorgeous, with long, luxurious black hair and startling silver eyes could blend in, he still looked around like an alien who had just landed, not knowing what to make of Selfridges. Sören found himself reaching out to pat Mark, that old paternal instinct kicking in, wanting to be comforting, reassuring... though touching Mark was like touching fire. Fire that went straight to his cock.
"It's OK," Sören said. "I get nervous in crowds."
"I do too." Mark nodded. "I enjoy performing, but there's always that anxiety beforehand, thinking about all those people. Here..." He waved his hand, gesturing at the people coming and going. "There's no thrill of sharing music and touching others to serve as a reward for offsetting the anxiety."
"No," Sören said, nodding in agreement. "But we're here to get stuff for Anthony's birthday. Hopefully making him happy is enough of a reward."
"Yeah." Mark looked down.
Sören knew he'd hit a nerve without meaning to. He put an arm around Mark - again, regretting it a little as it made him tingly, made his cock throb - and the familiar touch was to offset the stern look and words that came next. "You know, you need to talk to him about what happened in 1999."
"I know. I will. Just... in due time."
Sören scowled. "I know maybe you think 'proper timing' is everything but on the human scale of things, where 'in a little while' doesn't mean five years, the longer you let this go, the longer it's going to fester. You've been living with us almost a month. You -"
"His birthday is very soon and I really don't want to ruin his birthday with emotional fallout of a heavy conversation." Mark gave him an equally stern look. A sexy look. A shiver went down Sören's spine. He didn't want to find Mark this attractive, especially not with Anthony hurting, it felt disloyal.
"Fine. But I'd really like you to do it before Valentine's Day." Sören had to go there. "Then maybe you and him can spend Valentine's -"
Mark groaned loudly. He facepalmed, but he was smiling and shaking with silent laughter. "You're terrible, you know that?"
"Takk."
"And you sound so very sure of yourself that he and I will go back to the way things were."
"I'm pretty sure you want that," Sören said, looking him in the eye, "and I know Anthony, and I know a part of him still loves you. Just like he still loved me, when we were apart. That doesn't mean things will be easy. But -"
"OK, could we not have this discussion right here and now?" Mark put up his hands. Then he pointed to a display of men's clothing. "Let's look around for something for Anthony."
Sören browsed through the cashmere jumpers, knowing it was the sort of thing Anthony would wear. But it was too easy, and not special enough. Sören decided if he didn't find something else he'd come back to that as a last resort, but he was hoping he wouldn't have to.
Sören had the same reaction through the rest of the menswear, and looking at various accessories. When he'd had enough, he and Mark walked away from the clothing.
Sören's stomach started to growl - it was after six PM, and Sören hadn't eaten since breakfast, even though he'd been home all day and there was food in the house. He realized his body was reacting to the smells of the different restaurants. Nicholas had suggested they should eat at home rather than here, and Sören was regretting having agreed to that.
To try to get away from the tempting smells, Sören and Mark walked in the opposite direction. And that was how Sören found himself standing in front of Tiffany & Co, the sort of luxury brand Sören would never see himself browsing in a million years, and here he was now, deciding it couldn't hurt to look around this once.
Anthony didn't really wear jewelry; he had a Rolex watch that he wore every day, and that was the extent of it. Nonetheless, Sören looked at the men's jewelry, thinking a jewelry gift from Fëanor might be poignant. Nothing really seemed like something Anthony would wear, however, and the background Fëanor part of him was mostly unimpressed with the very bland, minimal designs.
Then something did catch his eye - the rings. At Christmas 2012, Anthony had given Sören an engagement ring - a platinum band, with little diamonds around the band in an eternity setting. Anthony had kept the ring after the engagement was broken, and gave it back to Sören after they'd gotten back together; Sören wore the ring on a chain as a promise that when Nicholas passed on, Sören would marry him - out of loyalty to Nicholas, he didn't feel right about doing it sooner.
Now Sören was looking at the engagement rings, and realized this was why he was here, even though consciously he was just getting away from the food smells and ended up here without meaning to. Subconsciously, background Fëanor was guiding him.
Anthony had gotten Sören an infinity band in part for the symbolism and in part because of the NHS dress code - a ring set with a single larger stone would not have been permitted. Anthony had no such restrictions at his job. Sören flagged the clerk to get prices on the engagement rings. One in particular, with sleek curves and a small but brilliant diamond, spoke to him. That one was set in platinum.
Sören and Anthony had hands the same size, so Sören was able to pick out the ring size from his own hand. As Sören took out his bank card, he couldn't believe he was about to do this - the ring was one of the most expensive things he'd ever purchased - but this was what he wanted to do for Anthony's birthday. He wanted to give him the tangible evidence that they were mated for life.
That there would be no running, no pushing away.
Mark's expression was neutral but as Sören paid for the ring he caught that wistful look in Mark's eyes again. Enough that on their way out, Sören stopped and gave Mark a hug.
"What's this for?" Mark asked, returning the hug, giving Sören a squeeze.
"Because I know," Sören said softly. "You feel like you're on the outside looking in, still."
Mark sighed and looked down.
Sören held him tighter and started rocking him a little. "It's OK. And you know..." Sören put his hands on Mark's shoulders and looked up into those silver eyes. "It's OK to ask me for a hug, when you need it. Or just... come over and hug me. Anytime."
"Not anytime." Mark shook his head gently and pursed his lips. "There are times when it wouldn't be appropriate. Especially when..."
Sören finished the sentence for him. "I'm cuddling with Anthony." Sören pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't force Mark to sit down with Anthony - or he could, but he risked making the situation even more awkward, as well as being resented for interference.
"So no, not anytime." Mark led the way out from Tiffany. "Anywhere else you want to look before we go to where we're supposed to meet up with them?"
Sören needed a silly gift to offset the serious weightiness of the engagement ring. He went to someplace he'd always wanted to go, but never had the balls to before now - Build-A-Bear Workshop. Years ago, Anthony had given Sören a stuffed tiger named Tony, that Sören still had. Anthony had a stuffed lion from his childhood, and Sören had a stuffed bunny that Nicholas had repaired.
"You're getting him a soft toy." Mark chuckled.
"And one for me too. Bláberja needs a friend."
As Sören looked around the seeming-infinite display of assorted plush animals, it occurred to him that he should get a friend for Mark to hug when Mark needed someone to hug. It wasn't the same as hugging another person, but it was better than nothing.
While Mark was in another aisle looking at the stuffed animals with an incredulous look on his face, like he couldn't believe he was doing this, Sören thought about what would be appropriate for Mark. He decided Mark needed a mythic, cryptic creature.
Anthony did as well, having been Finarfin in a past life. And Sören couldn't leave Nicholas out. He picked out three dragon plushies, one for each of the Finwion brothers. Three heads of the dragon, he thought to himself as he collected the dragons for assembly. As he walked around with the three dragons, a passing woman started humming the Game of Thrones theme song at him. Sören gave her a look.
A fourth dragon would have been the easy choice for Mark, to go along with his father and uncles, but it didn't seem right somehow. Then the idea came to Sören like a flash of light. A unicorn! Unicorns were a symbol of virtue, only revealing themselves to the pure in heart. It was a way to reinforce to Mark that he was a good boy, that Sören knew his heart was still good, after everything.
Sören plucked a purple unicorn with a glittery pink horn and a rainbow mane and tail. He got to work with stuffing the toys, and picked out different outfits for them.
When Sören met Mark outside the shop, Sören saw that Mark had bought something from Build-A-Bear as well. Sören wondered if it was for Anthony. He didn't ask.
At last they met up with Anthony and Nicholas, and walked out to the car together to go home. Once in the car, Sören's stomach growled again. Anthony heard it.
"Wow, your stomach sounds like a dragon," Anthony said.
Sören gave a nervous laugh and scooted his legs closer to the Build-A-Bear bag he was hiding. "I'm kinda hungry, yeah." Sören sighed, knowing nothing had been cooking in the crock pot during the day and that meant dinner would take at least one or two hours from the time they got home. He decided to test his luck. "Do you think we could stop at a drive-thru and get a snack to tide me over?"
Anthony's eyebrows shot up. "McDonald's?" He liked chicken nuggets, though he didn't indulge often.
That sounded perfect to Sören. "McDonald's."
Anthony and Sören began to chant together. "McDonald's! McDonald's! McDonald's!"
Nicholas made an exasperated noise. Mark looked over his shoulder and said, "As you know, we have food at home."
Sören and Anthony refused to give up. "McDonald's! McDonald's! McDonald's!"
"Hells," Mark said.
Nicholas relented. He drove to the nearest McDonald's and pulled into the drive-thru queue. When it was their turn to order, Nicholas ordered a single black coffee.
After Nicholas received his black coffee, Sören started kicking Nicholas's seat. "You twat!"
Nicholas smirked at Sören in the rearview mirror. "As you know, Fëanáro, you're a dick. It was time I paid you back for some of that." He raised his cup in salute.
Sören kicked Nicholas's seat harder, and Anthony jeered, "Fuckin' BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO."
Nicholas chuckled, and when Anthony attempted to stick a wet finger in his ear, Nicholas laughed harder and pulled back into the queue.
Sören said "fuck it" and just ordered a meal with cheeseburgers; Anthony ordered nuggets. Mark passed the bag back to them and Nicholas tutted... harder when Sören and Anthony started eating out of the bag right in the car.
"Barbarians," Nicholas teased.
"Jæja, I'm descended from Vikings and he's part-Scottish," Sören said through a mouthful of fries.
Back at home, Nicholas made croque monsieur for himself and Mark - Sören felt slightly envious, but he knew he'd already eaten and Nicholas was making a lighter meal for two people. When dinner was over, as Mark rinsed dishes and loaded the dishwasher, Sören came up to him to give him another hug, and asked, "Can I see you upstairs for a minute?"
Mark went up to his room, and a few minutes later Sören came up with the Build-A-Bear bag. He was going to wait till Anthony's birthday on the fourth to unveil the dragons, but he wanted to give Mark his present now.
Sören took a moment to look around at Mark's room, the way it had changed in the almost-month since Mark had come back with them to London. He hadn't painted the room yet, so the walls were still a dove grey, but he had a canopy bed with a black gauze curtain strung with fairy lights, and colored lanterns hung from the ceiling in different shapes and sizes. He had a dark grey plush rug by his bed, presumably so his feet didn't touch a cold floor first thing waking up, a few silver-trimmed black area rugs, and along one wall there was a Danish modern rosewood desk with a laptop and some notebooks, a matching bookcase of what looked like very, very old books... and the piece de resistance, a matching shelf unit that held a record player with a state-of-the-art speaker system, including subwoofers.
The room still seemed a bit on the spartan side - lived-in, much moreso than Sören's flats when he was single in Bromley, then Holborn - but like Mark hadn't completely settled in yet. The space of someone who looked like he felt he might be here longer-term, but everything could be packed up on a day's notice.
Sören frowned a little. The room needed more personal touches, like art on the walls, and other decor. This wasn't quite decor but it was the first step to making Mark's room more his own. Mark watched as Sören set the Build-A-Bear bag down on his desk, Sören's heart racing, hoping Mark didn't hate it.
Mark's eyes widened with surprise as Sören took out the purple unicorn, wearing a sparkly, glittery rainbow tutu, and a flower crown.
"What in the world?" Mark started laughing.
"It's for you. I. Ah. Wanted to get you a friend to hug, when I'm not available to hug you. And I thought something mythological would be appropriate." Sören made the unicorn hop around. "Unicorns only show themselves to the pure in heart, so this is my way of telling you -"
Before Sören could finish his sentence, Mark grabbed Sören, hugged him tight, and spun him around. He kissed the top of Sören's head, and then he accepted the unicorn, giving it a few loving pats... before he gave Sören a few loving pats that made Sören tingle, wanting to throw Mark down and ride him.
Then Mark was laughing again, hard enough to tear up.
"What? What's so funny?" Sören was confused.
"Unicorns are associated with virgins, Sören."
"Oh. Oh god." Sören facepalmed, feeling like an idiot. "Jæja, you're... obviously not a virgin." Sören's face burned - he knew that all too well, Fëanor's memories flashing through his mind, deliciously obscene. "Well, I can take it back if -"
"No, it's... it's fine." Mark hugged the unicorn. "It's a gift from you. It's a very... fatherly thing to do. Thank you."
"You're welcome. I know it's kind of ridiculous -"
"You're kind of ridiculous - always have been - so it's appropriate." Mark grinned and booped Sören's nose. Then his voice got softer, huskier. "Really, it means a lot that you wanted to give me something to cuddle with when I need it."
"Someone," Sören corrected. He gave Mark a mock stern look. "You should name your friend."
"I should, yes. But a proper name takes time -"
Sören grabbed Mark and started shaking him, giggling. "Give him a name. It's not that deep. Just name him. He needs a name before you can start hugging him. None of this 'takes time' shit because I know Elven Standard Time will take weeks, months, years."
"So adamant."
"Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaame hiiiiiiiiimmmm."
Mark rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Hells..."
"That's it!" Sören made the unicorn nod its head. "Hells!"
Mark facepalmed. "No, I -"
"Hi Hells." Sören gave the unicorn a hug, then thrust the unicorn at Mark.
Mark swatted Sören with the unicorn, then kissed his brow. "I stand corrected. You're not ridiculous." He grinned again. "You're super ridiculous."
Sören gave him another hug... fighting the urge to give him a kiss as well. I love you too, Sören thought to himself, and hoped Mark didn't hear it. It wasn't the right time for a confession of feelings yet.
Hopefully soon. As he felt Mark's lean, muscular, strong body against his, Sören's cock stiffened, every nerve in his body screaming for that last piece to fall into place.
chapter 12 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index