Anthony's heart hammered as he stood outside the doorway of Mark's dorm and prepared to knock. Before his knuckles could connect with the door, Mark opened it, smiling. "Anthony, hi. Come in."
Anthony still couldn't get over how tall Mark was - at six-two, Anthony was used to being the tallest person in the room most of the time, and Mark had almost a foot on him. Today Mark was wearing a Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon T-shirt and light blue jeans. Anthony tried not to stare at the veins in Mark's forearms as he stepped inside. Then he tried not to stare at those silver eyes, watching him intently.
Anthony made himself look around. Both he and Mark had single rooms in their respective colleges, but Mark's room was at least twice the size of his. Anthony just had a bed with drawers that pulled out of the bottom, a dresser bureau, a desk, and a shelf unit. Mark had a bed, a taller dresser bureau, a desk, a love seat, and an armchair and coffee table. Above the bed was a framed painting of "Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog" by Caspar David Friedrich; above the couch were framed posters of Bob Marley, Pink Floyd, and Led Zeppelin. By the bed he had a slender five-story bookshelf crammed full of hardcover and paperback books. Opposite from the couch, he had a shelf unit of vinyl records and crates of CDs, with a record player and a stereo system. Between the desk and the window were Mark's musical instruments: his harp, an acoustic guitar, a synthesizer.
Anthony let out a low whistle. "You've made yourself at home here."
Mark gave a small, sad smile. "I wouldn't go that far." He glanced in the direction of his kettle. "Do you want some tea while we wait? Dinner's almost ready."
"Please."
Anthony took a seat on the armchair and propped his feet up on a leather ottoman, trying not to look at Mark's ass as Mark set about making tea for both of them. After Mark came back with the tea and Anthony took a sip of perfection, it occurred to him he hadn't told Mark how he took his tea, it was like Mark just seemed to know.
Anthony racked his brain, trying to think of a way to break the ice. He found himself glancing over at the instruments again and bristling with curiosity, so he decided to start there. "You play all of those?" He felt like an idiot - it was doubtful Mark would take up limited space in a dorm with something he didn't play.
"I do," Mark said.
"Sorry, that was an obvious question. I told you I'm bad at this." Anthony gave a nervous laugh. "Are those the only instruments you play?"
"No. I can also play violin, but I don't consider myself as... fluent... with it as piano, guitar, and harp. Harp is my first love."
"How long have you been playing?"
"A very long time. Since I was old enough to walk. I was making up songs as long as I can remember and my father set me up with lessons. He was very encouraging." Mark gave a fond, wistful smile.
"I would hope so. You're bloody good. I'm surprised you're not famous."
Mark laughed softly. "Fame isn't what it's cracked up to be. Just ask Kurt Cobain. Or Janis Joplin."
"Yeah." Anthony sighed. He wanted to say I'm glad you're here but that sounded trite, and too familiar when they were still getting to know each other. Nonetheless, Anthony felt like he was in orbit of a very bright light, and without people like Mark the world would be a darker place. "Still."
"Besides, it's like I said, I have a bit of performance anxiety. I could play in front of a large crowd at an amphitheatre, but I would probably need to self-medicate to get through it and I've seen too many go down that path to want to take it myself. I like more intimate settings." Their eyes met.
Anthony stared into his tea, trying not to fixate on Mark using the word "intimate" and the ways he'd like to give Mark an intimate setting for a very private performance indeed. His face was on fire now. If I get through this evening without making a total arse of myself it'll be a bloody miracle. "Do you play anywhere else besides the cafe?"
"I haven't in awhile, but I've done gigs at small clubs. Around England and... all over, really."
Anthony's eyebrows raised. "You've done a bit of traveling?" Mark got more fascinating by the minute.
Mark nodded. "I've been around the world. Every continent except Antarctica." Mark's lips quirked. "Might end up there too, eventually. But yes, I've had some adventures."
"Is that why you're an older student, then? I know a lot of people take a gap year - my uncle was on me to take one and see Europe, but I didn't. Sounds like you took gap years, plural."
"Something like that. And honestly I agree with your uncle - you should have taken the opportunity to travel. It's good life experience."
Anthony shrugged. "I might someday. I considered it, but by the time the semester started I wasn't much in the right headspace to enjoy myself."
"Oh?" Mark cocked his head to one side. "This was the uncle who passed on, yeah? Earlier this year?"
Anthony was surprised Mark remembered that. "June." Anthony swallowed hard. The memory of receiving the news of his suicide was still raw, like it had happened yesterday instead of six months ago. Anthony felt the tears coming on and he did not, did not want to cry in front of this man, even if being a musician - and a shy one - predisposed a person to sensitivity, even if Mark understood grief was a normal emotion, Anthony still didn't want to come off as a crybaby, nor did he want to ruin the relaxed atmosphere. He was finally, for the first time in his life, making a friend. Don't fuck this up, Anthony told himself, trying to get it together. Do not.
Mark looked at the clock hanging above his desk. "I'll be right back." Mark quickly rose from the couch and stepped out of the dorm.
Anthony felt weird sitting there by himself - it took a certain amount of trust on Mark's part to leave Anthony in the dorm alone, and Anthony was grateful for that but also a little perplexed as well. He continued to look around, studying the little details of the dorm, like the crocheted bedspread with granny squares in different shades of blue, a matching throw on the faded grey couch. He looked at the contents of the coffee table - some magazines like National Geographic, composition notebooks, and a hardbound copy of Pablo Neruda's collected poems. Anthony was trying to expand his literary repertoire and he'd heard Neruda was exceptionally good, but instead of reaching for the Neruda book he found himself picking up one of the notebooks, and immediately wishing he hadn't done that because Mark would be back any second now and this was a definite invasion of privacy. Nonetheless, Anthony opened the notebook. To his surprise he found gibberish, or at least, it was to him - something that looked a cross between Norse runes, the Hebrew alphabet, and Devanagari, yet, was none of those things. He probably writes in a code precisely because of prying arseholes like you. Anthony carefully put the notebook back exactly in the spot he found it, and sat back, trying to look casual when Mark came back a few seconds later, carrying a tray.
Mark had made mashed potatoes and roasted carrots to go with the chicken cordon bleu. Mashed potatoes was one of Anthony's comfort foods - his mum liked to make it when Anthony was feeling down - and Anthony almost blurted out how did you know but of course, he didn't, because it seemed ridiculous that Mark would know something like that. He's not psychic. Those aren't real. Yet, Mark had known how Anthony took his tea without asking. Because half of England takes their tea the same way.
And then there had been that first open mic night, with Mark playing exactly the right things.
Anthony tried to keep the weird, Mark-knows-things feeling at bay as he waited for Mark to set up the record player. They ate as they listened to Offramp by Pat Metheny Group, one of his mother's favorite albums, something she tended to play when she was sketching building plans. Anthony was familiar enough with the CD to be able to notice a difference with a vinyl record.
After the second song, "Are You Going With Me?", Anthony remarked on what he was observing. "It's subtle, but... it's more nuanced. I can hear the different instruments more clearly. It's fuller. Richer."
"Yes. Exactly." Mark nodded. "With CDs, the sound gets compressed. And if you've heard of something called 'loudness war', CDs also try to make the sound as loud as possible, and not every instrument, every part of a song, is meant to be at the same volume. It's like the musical equivalent of giving every character in a book equal time whether or not they're the star." Mark frowned a little as he stabbed the chicken cordon bleu like it had personally offended him and ripped it with his teeth like he was killing it.
Anthony found Mark's grumpiness over sound quality to be endearing and even a little sexy. Heat flooded his cheeks again. "I can tell you have strong opinions on this subject."
Mark snorted. "Yes, you could say that. I have a lot of strong opinions on music in general. Like half of what's being put out these days doesn't deserve to be called music." Mark narrowed his eyes. "When I was doing laundry earlier today someone was playing Britney Spears down the hall very loudly. Whoever it was, I wanted to hit them."
Anthony laughed, not able to help it. "Hit me baby, one more time?"
Mark gave him a death glare. Anthony's stomach fluttered and his cock twitched. "Sorry," Anthony said, with a smirk.
"You're not sorry."
"No. I share your opinion of Britney - though I hate the Spice Girls even more -"
"GOD."
"But..." Anthony raised his eyebrows. "I like some popular music myself. Like Jamiroquai."
"They actually have talent. I don't hate all popular music, either - I'm a big fan of Elton John. And... I have my guilty pleasures too." Mark looked off to the side. "I like hair metal."
Anthony almost choked on his food. He was only a child in the 1980s, but his father's other brother Grant was a mullet-wearing hair metal aficionado back in the day. Grant did not speak of it now. "Wow."
"Listen, a lot of those guys were classically trained singers and musicians, and you can tell. Metal is much more complex than most people give credit for, the arrangements are on par with old classical compositions."
"I'll take your word for it." That was when Anthony finally noticed it, on display between the record player and the CD stereo - a set of four KISS action figures, set up like they were playing a concert. "Metal is very serious business. Especially when it involves KISS dolls."
"Hells," Mark muttered under his breath, and for a brief instant Anthony worried he had been too cheeky and crossed a line and was going to get thrown out, but to his relief Mark grinned. "Action figures."
"OK." Anthony still felt like he needed to smooth any hidden ruffled feathers. "I'm just taking the piss out of you. It's OK to like things. I'm not judging you."
"It's all right. It's..." Mark gave a rueful smile. "It's been a long time since I've had someone roast me. I've missed it."
Anthony wondered then about Mark's life - family, friends. He remembered the loneliness in Mark's music - a loneliness he understood deeply - and he wondered if Mark was as lonely as he was. That hardly seemed possible. Mark was gorgeous, talented, and had the good fortune to see the world, and had developed a taste for finer things like vinyl records. Even so...
Anthony shut up and continued listening to the album. It was like hearing it for the first time. The music touched him more deeply than it had before, enough that he teared up a little, but held his tears in check. When the album was over, Mark changed the record, putting on First Circle by Pat Metheny Group. "This won a Grammy," Mark said before he sat down.
It was easy to see why. Anthony zoned out, everything melting away but the music, touching the core of his grief and stress and pain, taking him inwards, then out, far away where nothing else existed. Anthony felt a surge of panic when the album was over - the night was still young and he didn't want to go back yet.
He didn't have to say anything. Mark got up and looked through his albums. "Have you ever heard Alice Coltrane?"
"I've heard John Coltrane. Are they related?"
Mark smiled over his shoulder. "She's his widow. She's also one of the few jazz harpists. Experimental, groundbreaking, phenomenal work." Mark found what he was looking for. "This is an album called Illuminations, a collaboration with Carlos Santana."
It was the second track, "Angel of Air / Angel of Water", that hit Anthony, where the tears came again and this time Mark just quietly passed him a box of tissues, no judgment. Anthony let the tears flow silently for a moment - not wanting to sob aloud and ruin the song - and then after a few deep breaths, he leaned back and closed his eyes, breaking out in gooseflesh as the flute danced. In his mind's eye he saw the sea, and a cliffside walled garden overlooking the sea, climbing roses. A trail through a forest, birds in the trees, leading out to a beach, with wild roses and swans, a silver sky touched with gleaming gold. The colors seemed more ramped up, like a place that didn't exist, and yet it felt real, it felt like he was there, transported. He could smell the roses for a moment. The harp and guitar cascaded and swelled like the ache within him, a feeling of something lost that he didn't understand.
When the album was over Anthony couldn't speak for a few minutes, and neither could Mark. It was like Anthony had witnessed something sacred, and it was almost terrifying that another person had been there, as intimate as sex, not that Anthony knew anything about it, still being a virgin.
Finally Mark said, simply, "I love her." It was almost as if he knew her.
"Shit. Yeah, that was... amazing."
"She did more albums, but..." Mark looked at the clock. "I don't want to burn through her entire catalogue in one night." Their eyes met. "I'd be happy to have you over again if you'd like to hear more of her work."
"I would." Then Anthony quickly added, "Not that... that's the only reason to come over..." He didn't want Mark to think he was being used for his vinyl record collection.
Mark smiled. "No, I know. But it's nice to spend time with someone who... sort of gets it."
Anthony felt almost stung by the "sort of", but of course, his piano-playing was only a hobby; he was in school for linguistics, not music. It was hard for a non-musician to fully comprehend the machinations of a musician. "Sort of" was good enough. Anthony got the sense that "sort of" for Mark was still a lot.
And he was going to see Mark again. As sad as he was for the night to be winding down, there was the promise of another day. Mark brought him back to Cripps Court and they made plans on the way there.
If this was only going to be a friendship, it was still beautiful. For the first time in too long, Anthony had a smile on his face as he drifted off to sleep.
Wednesday the sixteenth was Anthony's next-to-last day of school before winter break - tomorrow he would be receiving his exam results and he was all nerves, so his plans with Mark were especially welcome.
Anthony arrived at Mark's dorm at four PM, and after they had tea, Mark asked, "Do you want to go for a walk? I have a roast cooking and it'll be awhile yet."
Snow was falling, and the sun was just beginning to set, with streaks of gold painting the blue sky, giving way to light pink that got brighter, until the entire sky was a fiery orange and magenta, with clouds of indigo. It was one of the most intense sunsets Anthony had ever seen, and the colors reflected a lovely iridescence into the snow. Loveliest of all, though, was Mark's hair collecting thousands of glittering snowflakes, like tiny diamonds. In his long black leather trenchcoat, it was easy to picture Mark with strands of diamonds in his hair, wearing a solemn dark robe and tunic, like an elven prince.
"This is magnificent," Anthony said, looking back at the sky, pausing in his steps to really take it in.
"I knew you could use the stress relief of a walk, but I didn't expect the sky to put on a show for us like this." Mark's lips quirked.
Anthony tensed. "Oh god, is it that obvious?"
"To me."
"I find out how I did on that big test tomorrow." Anthony sighed and looked down at his shoes.
"I'm sure you did fine." Mark patted him.
Anthony shrugged and looked up. "It feels stupid, stressing out this much, when I'm only taking linguistics so I can convert my diploma for law in a few years."
"Oh, you want to be a lawyer?"
"Yeah." Anthony was used to people giving him weird reactions - he knew law was a hated profession, lawyers seen as inherently untrustworthy. He couldn't blame them, but at the same time he was pursuing an eventual law career precisely because of his conscience.
"That's interesting."
Anthony didn't know if Mark meant that as a good or bad interesting, but he decided to head off any criticisms right here and now. "When my late uncle got back from the Gulf, he had PTSD. A barrister helped him avoid jail when he had a flashback meltdown in public. I want to help people like my uncle."
Mark put an arm around him for just a minute. Anthony's cock stirred, making him grateful he was wearing a greatcoat. He hated that his entire body thrilled to a simple touch like this, that he was fighting off the urge to kiss Mark - who probably didn't like men that way. Anthony's face was burning again and he resisted the urge to bolt.
Mark withdrew his arm. "The world needs people like you, Anthony Hewlett-Johnson. You have a good heart." Mark smiled then. "And good taste in music."
"I suppose. We can't let the world be overrun by Britney fans."
Mark's laughter rang out, which delighted Anthony, and now Anthony grinned, relaxing. They resumed their stroll and Anthony resisted the impulse to take Mark's hand. Mark cleared his throat, leaned in and asked, "On that note, I have a question for you."
"Oh?" Anthony's heart skipped a beat.
"You were very enthralled by Alice Coltrane when I played her for you on Saturday. It happens that she's holding a concert in London in January, and I have two tickets. Would you like to come with me?"
Anthony nodded eagerly, overjoyed, then he pulled himself together and nodded more solemnly. Mark chuckled. "That's... very generous of you."
"I'm just glad I have someone to go with, and won't have to attend by myself. Music is most enjoyable to me when shared." Mark raised an eyebrow. "I did want to ask, though... how do you feel about camping that night? Sharing a tent with me at Lee Valley, on the outskirts of Chingford -"
"I know where it is." Anthony used to go camping there with Nigel and Steve when he was a teenager - though it was in the summertime, this would be his first experience with winter camping. "Yeah, I could go for that. Though if you'd rather stay in a hotel, I have money..." Anthony didn't know what Mark's financial situation was like; he knew a lot of musicians struggled with money, and Mark was a full-time student.
"I have money too." At Anthony's bemused look, Mark said, "My father was an inventor."
Now Anthony had even more questions - it sounded like Mark had lived quite a colorful life, and Anthony wanted to hear all about it. But he also didn't want to be rude by prying; he thought of the scarring on Mark's right hand, the pain in Mark's voice as he sang, the haunting compositions. There was something beneath the surface that told Anthony to tread carefully, if at all.
Mark went on, "We could stay in a hotel if you'd prefer, but the reason why I suggested camping is because her music deeply affects both of us, and when I'm in that state I'd rather be in the woods than at a hotel filled with people. That gets... too loud."
Anthony had only been in a hotel a few times in his life, and hadn't been disturbed by noisy neighbors. But he knew that Mark wasn't talking about that - there was a certain kind of mental noise that happened in a place with a lot of people, which was part of why Anthony didn't like crowds. He had always thought it was just him and his brain being weird like all the other ways his brain was weird - Anthony was fidgeting with his scarf and Mark either didn't notice or didn't care - but to know Mark had a similar reaction was strangely comforting. "Camping is fine with me," Anthony said.
"Good. I look forward to it."
"Me too." Anthony sighed and before he could stop himself, he muttered, "At least I've got something to look forward to."
Mark furrowed his brow. "You're not happy for winter break?"
"Well, don't get me wrong, I miss my parents and will be glad to see them again, but..." Anthony scowled. "This holiday isn't exactly going to be joyful, with my uncle gone."
Mark stopped walking, and he gave Anthony a hug. "I'm sorry."
A shiver went down Anthony's spine at the feel of Mark's arms around him, Mark's body so close to his. The warmth of Mark's breath, the scent of peppermint, those pretty, long-lashed grey eyes. Anthony really wanted to kiss him, but even if Mark swung that way - and Anthony didn't want to risk trying to find out - Anthony had never even kissed anyone. But the frisson of desire was chased by that wound being touched by someone, the first time he'd really let anyone other than his parents know how badly he was doing, how much he hurt. Anthony's eyes stung with unshed tears. He set his jaw, not wanting to cry, but the compassion was melting the ice wall of crystallized grief.
"What about you?" Their eyes met. Anthony made himself focus on Mark, not wanting to fall apart. "Do you have plans over the holiday? Seeing your family?"
Mark gave a sad, tight smile. "My family's all dead."
"Jesus." The tears spilled a little; that sounded incredibly lonely, and Anthony hurt for him. "I didn't know. I shouldn't have asked -"
"It's fine. No, you didn't know, and asking was normal curiosity. I'll be here through the holidays but I manage. I usually do volunteer work, like feeding the homeless at a soup kitchen or going to a hospital to play music and sing to patients."
That made Anthony like Mark even more. Jesus Christ, I'm falling in love with this guy. "That's... wow."
For a few minutes, Anthony entertained the idea of dragging Mark back home with him to Blackheath for the holidays. He knew his mother would fuss over Mark and try to adopt him; Elaine was like that. What he was afraid of, however, was twofold - both that Mark would feel weird about it, since Anthony's family couldn't replace the family he lost, and beyond the strangeness of strangers, Mark might be reminded of his family and get sad... and also that his parents might assume they were a couple. While Anthony hadn't come out as gay to his parents, he had a feeling Elaine already knew, and hadn't raised the issue with him yet. His parents weren't exactly intolerant - they knew Nigel was gay and Steve was his partner, and while his father was sort of uncomfortable, he was still on good terms with his brother; it had been their other brother Grant who wasn't very accepting. But it was one thing for Nigel to be gay and another thing for Anthony to be gay, their own son, and Roger's mild discomfort with his brother's sexual orientation gave Anthony pause about disclosing his own to his father, who was looking forward to grandchildren to dote upon someday. If nothing else, Anthony knew Elaine would probably be able to pick up on his attraction to Mark, and he didn't want to open that can of worms right now.
So as much as it bothered him not to offer to bring Mark along to his parents', Anthony kept his mouth shut. He just returned the hug, giving Mark a squeeze before they pulled apart.
They headed back in the direction of the dorm. The fire in the sky was fading to a wash of softer colors, lingering swirls in a deepening blue. "We should walk like this when you visit," Mark said.
"Yeah, we should."
Mark smiled. "There's a quote from Alice Coltrane you might like. 'The piano is the sunrise and the harp is the sunset. All that energy, light, brilliance, and clarity that’s in the rising sun—or what we call ‘rising’. It’s actually us moving over toward the light—you can hear the piano. Then listen to the sonorities of the harp, the subtleties, the quietness, the peacefulness. That’s like our sunsets. But the sun is always the sun and a person is always who he or she will be.'"
Anthony felt his eyes mist again. He was impressed Mark remembered something like that, could quote from memory, but then, so could he. It was remembering where he'd left his pen or realizing when he'd stepped out the door that his shirt was on inside out, that Anthony struggled with. "That's... that's deep. Wow." He immediately felt like an idiot. "I don't know what to say. Sorry."
"You're fine. I didn't expect profound commentary. Sometimes we don't know what to say and that's OK."
Anthony smiled, and Mark smiled back.
"Come on," Mark said. "I've got a roast with your name on it, and I can introduce you to more of her work."
"Another sunset."
"Yes." Mark's smile got bigger - more dazzling. "Second sunset."
chapter 4 | return to Learning To Fly | return to Other Tolkien Fic | return to index