True to his word, Marcus was there waiting for him in the cafe at noon the next day. Dooku tried to keep his expression calm and neutral, not wanting to give away the excited puppydog feeling he had on the inside, not wanting to scare the man away, and he was embarrassed by how he was reacting. It's just coffee. You're just friends. You might be starving for connection, but you need to control yourself.
Over coffee they talked about music, books, movies. Dooku was delighted that his new friend had similar tastes, and it seemed a not dissimilar personality as well, with Marcus admitting he too felt uncomfortable in crowds and preferred activities like reading on the weekends. "I play at the pub because I need an outlet for performing so others can hear it," Marcus said, "but I prefer to be mysterious about it. I come and I go. I don't interact with the audience."
"And yet, you're interacting with me."
"You cried." Marcus calmly sipped his coffee, but his eyes were riveted on Dooku's.
After coffee, Marcus took them to what remained of the Wall. It was one thing to see it on television and another thing to see it in-person, and Dooku found himself getting choked up, feeling self-conscious about it, but Marcus didn't seem put off by his reaction at all. There were a few small pieces of rubble on the ground, and Marcus picked one up and handed it to Dooku.
They continued walking, with Dooku rubbing the piece of the Wall between his thumb and forefinger like it was some kind of good-luck charm. Here and there Marcus stopped to give money and a kind word to a street performer, then a derelict-looking homeless person. Dooku found himself going to a food cart to get a hot meal and drink, and marched Marcus back to the homeless man. Marcus translated the profuse thanks in German.
"That was good of you," Marcus said as they resumed their walk.
"You were good too."
"I do what I can, when I can. And it's wintertime, this is the worst time of the year to be on the street."
Marcus led him into a museum, a little out-of-the-way place that Dooku wouldn't have known was there, not listed in the tour guides. He envied the casual familiarity Marcus had with where everything was, and when they stepped out of the museum back into the wintry winds, Dooku asked, "You're a native Berliner, I take it?"
"Nein." Marcus shook his head. "I'm Swiss, I came here seven years ago because of the scene here. Art, music. Not much of that in Zürich."
"I see."
"You're a native Londoner?"
"Yes."
"But your surname... it's..."
"Romanian. My parents came to the UK after World War II and before Communism. Our surname got mangled to hell in the immigration office but it's just as well."
"So the fall of the Iron Curtain must be of great interest to you."
"Yes. I can visit Romania now, which I've wanted to do since I was a child."
"You have family there?"
Dooku swallowed hard, and looked straight ahead. "I haven't had the concept of 'family' since childhood." Being ignored, insulted when not ignored, beaten... he'd had very little contact with his parents since he left for university, and they were dead now, and he couldn't say he missed them.
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. But I don't mean to bore you with all of that."
"You don't." Their eyes met again. "I told you last night I knew you weren't a happy person. It's OK. I'm not a happy person either. This city, it isn't a happy city. It's wounded. And so we're here, walking around a wounded city in the cold of winter. We take what comfort we can."
Those words were deep - soul-deep, touching Dooku on a visceral level. His own wounds. He didn't want to start crying again. He wasn't used to this, the kindness, the compassion and understanding. He'd become a barrister out of a sense of justice, and he'd found that his colleagues were more interested in money, power, and prestige. His job sucked the life out of him, and yet he remained to do what good he could, as one of the few who cared. He'd been in the closet, alone, for the sake of that job. Suddenly, here was connection to another person and already he was thinking what if I stay here.
His reaction terrified him. They were just friends, and had barely met. What the hell is wrong with you? Dooku chided himself.
We take what comfort we can.
At the hotel, in the lobby, Marcus said, "I play again tomorrow night."
"Ah. Would you like me to come by and watch...?"
"Would you like to join me for dinner first, and then accompany me to the pub? Same cafe we met today?"
"All right." Dooku didn't think it sounded like a date, and he found himself disappointed at that, but he wasn't going to push his luck by revealing attraction. It was enough, for now, just to have someone to spend time with. Someone who seemed to get it, in a way. That was more than what he'd had.
_
They met for dinner, with Dooku following Marcus's recommendations for the menu and not being disappointed. They walked together to the pub, and Dooku felt more at ease than he did last time, as Marcus kept glancing at him through the performance. "Moonlight Sonata" almost undid him again, the feeling of longing.
Wanting what I can never have. Dooku wondered, as he listened, heart aching, if it was entirely his own reaction, or if he was picking up on Marcus's feelings, too. Marcus looked almost ready to cry himself, at the end.
The mood quickly whiplashed as Marcus played more pop songs on request, going from "Moonlight Sonata" to "Heart And Soul" by T'Pau, and Dooku tried not to laugh; Marcus also was trying not to laugh.
Tonight, Dooku's request was "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd. He cried again. This time he went to the restroom to pull himself together, but he still wasn't quite OK on the way out.
Marcus noticed when they were in the park. They sat for awhile, saying nothing, and finally, Marcus said, "When's the last time anyone gave you a hug?"
Dooku didn't know the answer to that question.
Hesitantly, Marcus put an arm around him, then the other. Dooku could tell it was awkward for him as well, getting the sense nobody had hugged Marcus in a long time, either.
"I'm sorry," Dooku said when they pulled apart.
"For what? Being sad?"
Dooku nodded. "I'm not used to letting my guard down around other people."
"It's OK to feel things, Nicolae. You don't have to 'be a man' or some such nonsense around me. Just be yourself." He patted Dooku's knee. "You want to come over to my flat tomorrow? I'll play for you. I'll pick you up at the hotel."
_
Marcus lived in a small flat above a bookstore. He made them dinner, and a pot of hot chocolate.
Marcus's flat was small enough that Dooku could see the kitchen space as he sat in what doubled as a living room and bedroom. "The couch folds out," Marcus explained when Dooku sat on it. It was cramped, but clean, and not entirely spartan - there was a woven rug that matched throws on the couch and armchair, colors of the stormy sea. A print of Van Gogh's "Starry Night" hung above the couch. A small bookshelf was stuffed with worn-looking, well-loved books, and on top of the bookshelf was an interesting-looking glass sculpture, like a crystal ball, but dark, and colors seemed to swirl inside the glass. The coffee table held a number of magazines in different languages, as well as notebooks. There was another shelf just for vinyl records, and a record player. He had a good sound system, which Dooku should have expected for a sound engineer but was impressed with anyway.
The bathroom was done in beige, also clean, and Dooku smiled at the seashells and driftwood on a shelf that held the mirror. He felt the urge to snoop, and opened up the medicine cabinet and the shower curtain. The man had scented soaps of different kinds and even a loofah, which screamed "gay stereotype" in addition to the apartment being prettily decorated - though his voice and mannerisms were otherwise not the stereotype, and the glam rock look meant nothing since a lot of people dressed that way in 1989 - but there was none of the other telltale signs of the lifestyle, no condoms, which every non-suicidal sexually active gay man would need in these days. Dooku wondered about that, and decided he needed to stop.
Dooku came back and finally had hot chocolate. Dinner was almost ready. When it was, Marcus took the armchair. He can cook, Dooku thought as he nibbled the schnitzel.
When they were done eating, Dooku gave his compliments and insisted on doing the dishes. As he washed dishes, he noticed Marcus retrieving a keyboard from the hall closet, and then Marcus sat down and started doing warmup exercises.
The offer of hot chocolate became beer as Dooku sat and watched Marcus play his own work. He started with a lighter song, bright major chords, with Dooku getting the mental images of a garden, flowers opening in golden light, warmth and contentment and peace. Then there was the storm again, a descent further and further into sadness, wild grief that died into muted hopelessness, the mental image of wandering through desolation, lost in a fog.
Dooku was in tears by the end of it. So was Marcus.
That was when Dooku finally noticed that Marcus had a horrible burn on the palm of his right hand. He hadn't really seen it before now because it was wintertime and they'd been outdoors most of the time with Marcus wearing gloves, and he tended to wear fingerless gloves indoors as part of his glam rock look. But here and now his hands were bare - he otherwise had elegant hands with long, slim fingers, hands Dooku wanted to touch, or be touched by, and held back. And there was that one scar, it looked oddly geometric. Dooku was trying very hard not to stare, but Marcus saw him looking at it.
"What happened?" Dooku asked.
Marcus looked down, and away.
"Is that why you composed that?" Dooku's voice was a hush. "Is it why you're in Berlin, away from home?"
"I think you better go now."
"You know, you can tell me. I won't judge you. It's like what you told me yesterday. It's OK to feel things -"
"Go." Marcus didn't even look at him.
_
Marcus wasn't by the next day, or the next. Dooku worried he'd never see him again, that he'd really put his foot in it without meaning to. Dooku went back to the tourist routine without Marcus around, and it felt even worse now.
Two nights after Marcus told him to go, he showed up at the pub where they'd met, and sure enough, Marcus was performing there that night. Dooku sat at the usual table, with a pint of beer. This time Dooku made no requests, and at the end, Marcus dedicated his last song to "a friend".
It was "Comfortably Numb" by Pink Floyd.
Dooku met him outside.
"We've both been comfortably numb for too long," Marcus said. "I wasn't expecting..."
"To be asked about it? I shouldn't have asked. It was rude."
"Telling you to go was rude." Marcus ran a nervous hand through his hair. "I'm really shit at this people thing."
They walked through the park and got hot chocolate at the cafe like nothing had happened, in companionable silence. They got free Christmas cookies, even though Christmas was still just a week away.
"I think it's making everything worse," Marcus said, looking down at the Christmas cookies. "The holidays."
"It's a dreadful time of year for me too. Was even before I started spending holidays alone. My father drank."
"I'm sorry." Marcus frowned. "I had a good father, and I always feel a little guilty about it when I hear how many other people did not."
"You shouldn't feel guilty. You're a kind person, even if you think you're 'shit at this people thing', it seems you learned it from somewhere."
Marcus nodded. "He was very warm, generous, loving. He's not with us anymore."
"Do you have other family to keep in touch with...?"
"They're dead."
It took Dooku a moment and then he said, "The scar on your hand..."
Marcus looked away. "I don't want to talk about it, but yes, it's connected."
Dooku found himself taking Marcus's bad hand and squeezing it. Marcus returned the squeeze and placed his other hand on top of Dooku's.
That was when the nice middle-aged lady who'd given them free cookies with their hot chocolate came over, snatched the plate away, and said, in heavily accented English, "Get out."
"Wh...?" Dooku's eyebrows shot up.
"We don't serve queers here," she snarled.
Rather than correcting her and saying we're not a couple, Marcus got up in a huff. He paused a moment and yelled, "Vielen Dank, dass Sie mich wissen lassen, wo Sie stehen. Ich möchte niemandem Geld geben, das so voller ignoranter, voreingenommener Scheiße ist." Then he put an arm around Dooku's waist - Dooku felt himself hardening at the touch - and led him out of the cafe.
"What fucking nonsense," Marcus said when they were outside. "Most of Berlin isn't like this," he added.
"Bigotry is a vile disease," Dooku said. "I'm a criminal defense barrister and so many of my clients have experienced some form of discrimination and prejudice their entire lives, which is why they turn to crime in the first place. I try to offer them a shoulder, kindness and understanding, and connections for when they get out, honest work... And then there are those who are innocent and most of the time they've been profiled. It's painful to see so much hatred in the world, especially in a place where -"
"Where a world leader decided to put people to death for things like that. Ja. I know." Marcus nodded.
"And people are dying of AIDS and it seems like nobody cares. One of my colleagues just died. He went very quickly. I was the only one from the office who went to see him as he was dying."
"You weren't..."
"No." Dooku took a deep breath. Then he asked, "Are you..."
"Not in a long time, but yes."
A few moments of silence passed, and Dooku finally said, softly, "Me too."
"I know."
"You..." Dooku didn't think he looked, sounded, or acted like the stereotype.
As if reading his mind, Marcus said, "It's not obvious, no, but I still knew." A soft sigh. "We tend to be sadder than most people, afflicted by the love that dare not speak its name."
They started walking again. Dooku felt like he was being dangled at the end of a string, not knowing what would happen next.
"We'll have to find someplace else to meet, that isn't that cafe with that... horrible... woman." Marcus paused in his tracks. "How much longer will you be in the country?"
"I go back to London on the second."
"So you'll be here for the holidays."
"And my birthday."
"Christmas baby?"
"Almost. Solstice baby, December twenty-first." A small, rueful smile. "I'll be forty-one."
"That's in just a few days..."
"Yes." They resumed walking.
"I was going to play the pub that night, but I'd rather play for just you again, if that's OK."
"That's OK with me, though... what you played the other night was very sad. Beautiful, but too sad."
"I understand. I have other songs. Or anything you want."
Dooku got the distinct sense anything you want wasn't just referring to music, but he didn't want to get his hopes up. Not to mention he was an almost-virgin, having received oral from a "lady of the evening" on his twenty-first birthday that he hadn't enjoyed, which helped clue him in to playing for the home team. There had been nothing since then. He'd been busy with school, then busy with work, then the AIDS crisis hit and he not only couldn't risk his health, but being outed in the wave of prejudice that went along with it.
They lingered at the door of the hotel. "I have a job at the studio the next few days, which will eat up most of my time and ability to deal with people," Marcus said, making Dooku's heart sink, already missing him, "but on your birthday, if you want to get together..."
"I do."
"Do you want to go out for dinner, or do you trust me to cook for you?"
"I like your cooking."
"All right. I'll see you on the twenty-first at three, we can go to a museum or a gallery, I'll cook for you, I'll play for you, if that all works for you."
"It does."
A hand on his shoulder, and a shy smile. "Good night, Nicolae."
Dooku wanted to hug him - he wanted to do more than hug him - but he reined in the impulse. Yet later, he brought himself to climax, thinking of Marcus, crying out his name when he let go.
He lay awake awhile after that, feeling guilty, like he'd done something creepy. Just because he's gay doesn't mean he's interested.
But Dooku could no longer deny his own interest. His own ache. For the first time, he had fallen in love.