January 2016
London, England
Sixty-seven-year-old Nicolae Dooku stepped out of the kitchen of Doi Capaci, the restaurant he owned in Bermondsey that offered both traditional Romanian cuisine as well as unique fusions. He was not just the proprietor but also the master chef, as he had been at the restaurant he'd owned in Sweden, but he felt like he had really come into his own over the last ten years in this business, and Doi Capaci had the rave reviews to prove it.
Dooku also liked to ensure he kept getting those rave reviews by personally making the rounds twice an evening to ask how everyone was enjoying their food - if someone had a complaint, he wanted to know about it and see what could be done better. But complaints were rare, and in addition to the warm glow of pride he got from in-person compliments, it also made him happy to see other people happy; he very much liked the energy and atmosphere of a place where friends, family, and lovers gathered to share a meal.
After a nod to his sous-chef, who knew the drill, he first headed outside to get some fresh air, since the kitchen was always warm. The crisp January evening quickly cooled him, and he watched his breath mist on the air as he looked at the two trees the restaurant was named for; on a whim he'd draped one with a set of gold fairy lights, and the other silver, which he had on the trees year-round, and the restaurant had gold and silver lamps, wooden tables and booths, tree patterns on the dishes and glasses, and the bottom of the silverware was shaped into trees. It was a tribute to Fëanor, wherever he was, who'd been so enamored with the light of Telperion and Laurelin that he'd created the Silmarils. He hadn't found Fëanor yet - he was starting to wonder now if he ever would - but at least here, in this place of happiness and comfort... and the heat and fires of the kitchen... he felt like he had a little piece of Fëanor close to him.
I can create things too.
He wasn't the only one. As he stepped back inside and made his way into the silver and golden glow of the dining area, he smiled at the strains of harp music. Maglor played harp and sometimes even sang at the restaurant twice a week, which tended to draw more customers.
Maglor was continuing to use the Mark Lowry alias that he'd been using in Sweden, but the Mark Lowry in Sweden had been a British expat, and here in the UK he pretended to be an American expat; he'd explained awhile back that since his escape from American government "research" in 1976 one of his safety protocols was not to assume a local identity, since that could be more easily caught in a lie than pretending to be from a country other than the host. Even nearly six years into their stay in the United Kingdom, it still threw Dooku to hear Maglor speak with an American accent, as he did when Dooku passed by.
"Hey there." Maglor smiled.
Dooku smiled back. They didn't bother to hide their relationship at the restaurant, nor would the average customer necessarily know that Maglor was his partner, as "this is the workplace" so there was some degree of professionalism. This wasn't Maglor's only job - he owned a shop specializing in vinyl records - but Maglor liked having an outlet to perform for a small audience.
"Do you have any requests?" Maglor raised an eyebrow.
"Hmmm." Dooku thought for a moment. "Some Elton John, perhaps."
Dooku began to visit each table as Maglor started playing "Your Song" on the harp, singing along in his rich tenor.
At the end of his rounds, a more private table by the indoor waterfall, with lanterns and around the table, his attention was caught by one of the most beautiful men he'd ever laid eyes on. Young, from the looks of him, probably not much older than thirty if even that. Nape-length curly black hair, soulful brown eyes with a rill of long lashes. Beard and mustache, neatly trimmed, framing full, soft lips. A smouldering, sensual look to him, but more pretty than handsome. Slim and pale. He was wearing a ruffly black shirt and a silver chain; there were two small silver hoops in each ear. No rings on his fingers.
He was sitting with a taller man - though Dooku was still taller, at six-five barefoot. The other man was tanned, short-cropped sandy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. A dimpled chin, and a bit of a roguish look to him. He was wearing an off-white button-down shirt with a dark grey tie, and there was a white gold ring on his right hand and a Rolex on his left wrist but no other jewelry.
The preppy, clean-cut blond contrasted with the rock-star-looking brunet, but even more sharp was the contrast of attitude. The one with the curly dark hair gave Dooku a shy, sweet smile as he approached, where Dooku couldn't help but smile back, and the blond just glared, like he was intruding. The look in the blue eyes gave Dooku an unpleasant chill.
Nonetheless, Dooku had a job to do. "Good evening," he said. "How is everything?"
"It's lovely," said the dark-haired man, who had a charming accent, obviously not British. Dooku tried to place it, and it was failing him. "The sarmale is to die for." His plate was almost clean, working on the last few bites of the cabbage rolls.
"Eh." The blond had the ciulama de pui, and it was only half-touched; he didn't look impressed with it.
Dooku folded his arms and furrowed his brow. "You sound unsatisfied. Is there something wrong with it?"
"Yeah. Too Romanian." The blond made a face.
Dooku narrowed his eyes. That's my heritage, you insolent little shit. But he said nothing. Nor did he have to - the dark-haired one glared. "Justin, that's so rude."
"I don't know why we had to come here."
"Well, I wanted to surprise you, someplace you've never been before." The brunet looked down and ran a nervous hand through his curls before taking a sip at his drink and glancing up at him with sad puppydog eyes.
"Yeah. I know." Justin snorted and also took a sip of his own drink. "Typical Sören, when you think you're doing a good thing and it turns to shit."
Dooku opened his mouth, wanting to say don't talk to him like that, and the indignation in him just grew stronger at the wounded look on Sören's face, whose full lips parted into a little "o". Before Dooku could say anything, however, Sören turned to him. "I, for one, think the food is fabulous. I took a look at the dessert menu and everything there looks wonderful too."
"Oh." Dooku pulled a pen and paper out of his pocket. He was the master chef, not a waiter, but he felt like he personally needed to see to the service here. "Do you have anything in mind?"
"Hmmm." Sören stroked his beard for a moment, then he said, "The papanași caught my eye. If we could have two plates of those... also... it's Grumpypants's birthday over here...?"
Dooku wrote it down and gave a curt nod. "I'll bring that out shortly."
"Also I need a refill on my drink." Sören gave that shy little smile again, the one where Dooku couldn't help but smile back, even though he was still annoyed with Justin.
"What were you drinking?"
"A Shirley Temple." It was a non-alcoholic beverage, and the "girliness" of it surprised Dooku - he'd already figured out they were gay but now I know which one is the bottom, and heat immediately flooded Dooku's face for even thinking like that. Sören's eyes glanced over at the alcohol list then, before glancing back at Dooku. "Actually, make that a Dirty Shirley." With that, those luscious lips wrapped around the straw again, finishing off the pink ginger ale cocktail, and Dooku's mind once again went back in the gutter, thinking about what those lips would look like wrapped around -
"Coming right up." Great choice of words there.
"I'll have a gin and tonic," Justin said.
Sören's eyebrows shot up. "You're driving -"
"I'll be fine."
Sören gave him a doubtful look. Dooku, again, wanted to say something, and his eyes met Justin's, hearing the unvoiced Go on, then, like Dooku was his to order around.
Dooku gave a withering look over his shoulder as he stalked off.
Maglor picked up the unease across their Force bond. Is everything all right? Maglor spoke into his mind.
Not really. Dooku showed him a mental image of the table in question, before he ducked back into the kitchen.
Dooku came out awhile later with a tray of the two drinks and two plates of papanași, one of which had a single birthday candle in it. Ordinarily only the birthday dessert would be free, but he felt bad enough for Sören that he didn't mind making them both free, making a note to himself on the way out. Sören, of the Swedish name, yet his accent wasn't Swedish, making Dooku wonder where in Scandinavia he was from. Why am I wondering like this about someone I don't even know?
Dooku came over with the desserts and drinks - Maglor had taken a brief pause with the harp - and in his basso Dooku began to sing
Happy birthday to you,
happy birth -
"Can it, old man," Justin said.
"Justin." Sören's eyes narrowed again. "Knock it off."
"No, you'll knock it off if you know what's good for you," Justin spat as he snatched the plate of papanași and quickly blew out the candle. "You picked out this instead of one of the usual places I actually like -"
"Well, this is what I could afford." Sören looked sheepish.
"Right, because you work a shite job so you can have time to do your shite 'art'" - Justin made air quotes as he said art - "and a place like this is what you can afford."
Dooku cleared his throat loudly. My restaurant is not exactly cheap, either... more than I can say about you. He held his tongue.
"Check." Justin glared back at him.
Sören took a bite of his papanași. "Oh my god, Justin, you could at least try this. It's soooo good." He took a sip of the Dirty Shirley. "Dirty Shirley's good, too." He pulled the maraschino cherry out of the drink and his lips wrapped around it, eyes meeting Dooku's; Dooku could have sworn there was a little twinkle in Sören's eyes, suggesting he was amused by the innuendo of what he'd just said, and Dooku felt his face flush again.
Reluctantly, Dooku's attention turned from the delicious Sören - just in this brief span of time Dooku thought Sören could do much, much better than this Justin - as Justin took a bite of the papanași, looking as angry as one could be while eating dessert, before his glare left the papanași and returned to Dooku. "I said, check."
This was not something Dooku typically handled, though he was reluctant to disengage from the table, wanting some way to tell Sören his boyfriend was a loser, offer apologies somehow, maybe even a sympathetic ear. As he talked to one of his waiters to take care of it, explaining the desserts were free, he continued to keep an eye on the table from the distance, hovering near Maglor at the harp.
Maglor was continuing to play Elton John, just finishing up "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues", and now he was playing "Sacrifice".
It's a human sign
When things go wrong
When the scent of her lingers
And temptation's strong
"That old geezer was checking you out," Justin hissed.
Sören pulled an inhaler out of his pocket - Dooku finally noticed Sören was wearing leather pants - and he took a few puffs, saying nothing; his hands were shaking a little.
"And you were flirting with him."
Sören's jaw dropped. "I... what?"
"Yeah, you were." Justin shook his head and sipped his drink. "You take me here to this place with shitty Romanian food - which is still better than your shitty cooking, I guess - and then you have the fucking nerve to flirt with an old man?"
Cold, cold heart
Hardened by you
Some things looking better baby
Just passing through
Sören's eyes were tearing up. Dooku suddenly could feel it - Sören wasn't just being affected by Justin's behavior, but the music was particularly relevant to the moment, and affecting him. Dooku's heart ached at the sadness on the young man's face. Nobody that young should feel that sad. Sören carried some deep grief with him, he could feel it... as someone who himself had been that sad, that young.
"Justin. Please. I was just trying to do something nice for your birthday." Sören took another puff on his inhaler. "I don't know why you always have to make such a big deal -"
"Because you always fuck up everything, that's why. I don't even know why I bother with you." A leer. "Well, I do know why, because you're a hot little piece of arse."
Even though their table was in a more private location, they weren't completely alone, and Justin's voice had raised enough that people at nearby tables were looking at them. Sören turned red.
"But not even that makes up for it, sometimes." Justin's leer turned back into a scowl. "This has been such a crap birthday. And it's all your fault."
"I'm sorry." Sören was blinking back tears. "I tried..."
"Yeah, that's the problem. You tried."
And it's no sacrifice
Just a simple word
It's two hearts living
In two separate worlds
But it's no sacrifice
No sacrifice
It's no sacrifice at all
Sören was crying openly now. Dooku had already had it - he hadn't wanted to make a scene, but now he was slowly moving across the restaurant, six feet five inches of fury.
"Are you fucking crying?" Justin gave him a look of disgust. "God, Sören."
"It's the music, too -"
"Of course it is. You're enough of a crybaby to cry over some shitty harp music."
"It's not shitty. And it's not like you can play harp, you know how fucking hard that is to do -"
Justin laughed mockingly. "You know what, Sören?"
"What."
Justin threw his drink in Sören's face, still holding the glass as Sören sat there, drenched, giving a gasp of shock before quivering and letting out a broken sob.
"That's what. You want to cry, I'll give you something to bloody cry about -"
"Get out." Dooku was right at their table now, and it was taking him every ounce of his restraint to not Force throw Justin out of his seat and start choking him. That would cause a scene, the kind of scene that would likely bring the police and unwanted notoriety to his business establishment. But he was damned if he was going to follow "customer is always right" protocol with this măgar -
"Excuse me?" Justin raised an eyebrow.
"I SAID GET OUT." Dooku's voice was a roar. "NOW."
The harp and singing had stopped. Maglor was watching. The entire restaurant was watching. I should have intervened long before now. Dooku could have smacked himself.
Justin got up, pulled on his winter coat, hat and gloves, and then he took his plate of papanași and threw it at Dooku, making a mess all over Dooku's white chef outfit, with the plate clattering to the floor and smashing upon it; Justin walked off before Dooku could react.
Sören gave a look of horror as he climbed out of his chair - Justin was walking on ahead - and Dooku restrained the urge to put a hand on Sören's shoulder, wanting to say don't go with him. He watched Sören put on a jacket and then reach into his pocket and pull out a thin, battered wallet that had seen better days. He pulled out what looked like the only money he had and handed it to Dooku with a trembling hand. "I'm so sorry," Sören husked, looking down. "This is all my fault..."
"This isn't your fault at all, dear. You did nothing wrong." The dear slipped out - Sören's eyes met his with a bit of shock, as if the slip gave it away that he was looking at another gay man - and Dooku gently pushed the money back at him. "Keep it." Sören looked like he needed it more than him.
"No... it isn't right for me not to pay. You went to all this trouble. I insist." Sören took Dooku's hand and pressed the money into it again.
And then Justin was back, grabbing Sören by the arm and marching him forward. "Jesus Christ, Sören."
Dooku wanted to go after them, yank Sören away. Not my place, not my place...
By the partition leading from the dining hall to the lobby, Dooku heard Justin snarl, "You couldn't help yourself flirting with that old man again... fucking slut..."
Dooku stormed back into the kitchen. He was so angry he was shaking, and he heard himself rasp "La naiba. Futu-i." He hardly ever swore in his parents' native tongue, and knew that meant he was past a certain point of rage. He washed his hands and picked up a knife to chop vegetables, and the look on his face while holding the knife must have been fearsome, because his sous-chef, Natalia, shook her head and said, "Dooku. It's all right if you need to go early."
Dooku sighed. He put the knife down. "What did you hear?" He imagined there was enough of a scene that the waitstaff had been gossiping with the cooks.
"Enough." Natalia frowned. She had been in an abusive relationship herself.
"I think I need some air. I might be back but if not... it's late enough that you all should manage, I suppose, and thank you."
Yet as Dooku left the kitchen - his chef outfit was still a mess from the thrown papanași - he knew he wasn't just going out to get some air. He wouldn't necessarily catch up with Justin and Sören, depending on where Justin was parked, but...
Maglor was walking beside him, now. They looked at each other for a moment before looking ahead, both of them scouring the long strip of parking to see if...
"Ah." Maglor pointed. They were some meters ahead, small in the distance, but...
They walked faster, not wanting to run in case there was surprise ice on the parking lot. As they got closer they could hear Justin's voice carrying, continuing to berate Sören, and when they started to close in, they were just in time for Justin to backhand Sören. Then Justin shoved Sören, who toppled to his knees on the pavement, and Justin slapped him again, this time hard enough for Sören's nose to bleed.
That did it. Maglor rushed Justin and tackled him to the ground, and when he had Justin pinned he threw a few punches, pure murderous rage on his face.
"What the fuck?" Justin took a swing at Maglor, who stopped the incoming fist with his palm and decked him again, and then Justin's other hand landed a punch to Maglor's solar plexus.
Dooku pulled Sören up and, without thinking about it, took Sören's chin in his hand. He produced a handkerchief for the bleeding nose. Sören cried. "It's silk... it'll be ruined..."
"I don't want to ruin your coat or your shirt." Dooku glanced back at Maglor and Justin, who were in an all-out brawl.
Dooku went over to Maglor, not wanting Maglor to kill him out here in public, even though there was no one else around, that was something they didn't need right now. Justin had landed a few more punches and was kicking now too, but Maglor was continuing to beat him, like what Justin had done was a personal affront to him in some way. Dooku pulled Maglor off Justin. "All right, Mark. That's enough."
Maglor wiped his jaw, eyes still murderous as Justin lay there on the pavement, breathing hard.
Then Maglor turned to Sören. "You're not going home with this asshole, I hope."
"What's it to you?" Justin spat. Then he looked at Sören, and at Maglor. "Wait, are you fucking him?" He sat up. "Are you fucking both of them? Is that why you chose -"
"No. I don't even know... Jesus, Justin, stop." Sören's voice shook. "Stop. Stop it." He started to have a coughing fit, and Dooku's eyes widened as the inhaler flew out of Sören's pocket into his hand for Sören to take a puff, then Sören's eyes widened with alarm when he saw Dooku looking at him.
He's Force sensitive. The hair on Dooku's arms and the back of his neck stood on end.
Sören looked like a deer trapped in headlights, too afraid to run off but he began taking a few steps back, slowly.
"What the fuck was that?" Justin asked.
Sören's inhaler dropped to the ground.
"You filthy fucking slut -" Justin dragged himself to his feet and was about to lunge.
Without thinking about it, Dooku waved his hand and Justin was flung back several meters, landing hard on the pavement. Feeling the most intense surge of rage he'd ever felt in his life, like a wall of fire was rising within him and out of him, he watched as a bolt of blue lightning shot out of his index and middle fingers, striking Justin, who began to convulse as the web of lightning crackled around him. It was over a few seconds later, with smoke rising from Justin's clothing, and Justin was unconscious.
Oh shit. There was no one else around, but it didn't matter, people could come out any time and he didn't want to have to move an unconscious man -
"Wake up," Maglor said, the voice echoing like a thousand voices, and Justin's eyes opened. Justin looked at Dooku and Maglor looming over him and let out a defeated little whimper.
"We need to get out of here," Maglor hissed. He looked at Sören. "We need to get you out of here."
"I..." Sören gave an apologetic little shrug and looked at Justin, who was sitting up, looking dazed, still shaking. "I live with him..."
"Sören." Dooku put a hand on Sören's shoulder. "He's abusing you." He sighed. "You'll be safe with us tonight, you can sleep on our couch bed, get some rest and tomorrow we can figure things out."
"I don't know you..."
If I was going to hurt you, I already could have, you saw what I'm capable of. Dooku spoke directly into his mind. "I care. I don't like seeing people mistreated."
They led Sören to their Jaguar. Sören hesitantly climbed in the back seat.
Maglor got in the passenger's seat. He turned to take Sören's hand. "I'm Mark... Lowry. And this is my partner, Nicolae Dooku."
"Sören Sigurðsson."
"You're Scandinavian?" Dooku asked, getting behind the wheel.
"Jæja, I'm from Iceland."
"Oh, that's fascinating. I had a friend at Oxford, Icelander, haven't been in touch with him for some time." Which was why he hadn't recognized the accent right away. "Reykjavik?"
"I was there for awhile before I came here, but my hometown is Akureyri. In the north."
"I see."
"How long have you been in London?" Maglor asked.
"About two years. I came after... some stuff happened." Sören sounded like he didn't particularly want to revisit what "some stuff" was.
"How long have you been with Asshole?" Maglor was looking at him again, an eyebrow raised.
"Just over a year."
Too long. Dooku and Maglor looked at each other.
"We met on Grindr, just a hookup, was supposed to be, and it turned into more. Then a few months ago, we started living together." Sören made a moue. "Things have been kind of rough."
"We rather noticed that," Dooku said, as he maneuvered onto the road.
"I'm sorry. I really don't want to burden you or inconvenience you..."
"You're no trouble, dear." There it was again, the dear. "Let us help you."
_
Their house in Bermondsey wasn't far. It was a two-bedroom, but the spare bedroom was Maglor's studio, set up with the Fourth Age harp and other musical instruments.
Dooku's Norwegian Forest Cat, Dragos, greeted them at the door with an inquisitive chirp, tail held high.
"Oh, you've got a cat." Sören dropped to his knees to let Dragos sniff him, and gave him pettings. "You're so cute, yes you are, fuzzy cute little baby boy... oh, it's a he, já?"
"Yes." Dooku smiled at Sören. "And he seems to like you."
Dooku and Maglor folded out the couch into a bed, and made it. Maglor went into the bedroom and came back with a T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Sören was only about six feet tall, Maglor had a foot on him and Dooku close to a half-foot, so "These might be a bit big for you, but it's what we've got," Maglor said.
"Takk. I really appreciate it -"
"Bathroom's down the hall, any toiletries you want to use are fine," Dooku said. "Can I offer you something to drink?"
"Water?" Sören sat down at the edge of the couch bed and began pulling off his shoes - which Dooku noticed were Doc Martens, the same style and cut as Maglor's.
"Hey, we're shoe twins," Maglor said, smiling.
"Oh, cool," Sören said. He looked Maglor up and down, wearing all black; Maglor was taking off his trenchcoat now. "You're a musician, já?"
Maglor nodded. "I also own a vinyl records shop -"
"Oh. Oh, I think I've been in there, with my friend Frankie." Then Sören looked like he was about to cry at the mention of her. "Shit..."
Dooku picked up distress in the Force, and Sören looked away, blinking back tears. "Dammit. I am a pathetic crybaby like he said..." Sören wiped his face with his sleeve.
Dooku handed him a bottle of water. "You're not pathetic, dear. If you need to cry, it's OK to cry here. You're safe."
Sören closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, tears silently streaming down his face. He opened the water and made a face when he sipped it. "This is water?"
It was Perrier. "It's mineral water."
Sören took another sip and made a face again, and it was so adorable Dooku couldn't help laughing at it. "You've never had it?" Dooku asked.
"I can't fucking afford that," Sören said, laughing nervously. "Though I don't know why people pay so much for it." He took another sip, wrinkling his nose.
Maglor was watching him intently, and Dooku noticed, then. You like what you see.
Maglor didn't even try to hide it. Yeah, I do.
Mmm, so do I. But he's been hurt.
Maglor glanced at Dooku and gave a little nod. Deeply hurt. I wasn't going to suggest we try anything with him tonight, if ever.
But they couldn't stop watching those full lips wrapped around the water bottle, just the same, and then Sören put it down and started undressing. Dooku was taken aback by how casual Sören was about it, and Dooku heard himself giving the assurance of "We don't expect you to -"
Sören facepalmed. "I keep forgetting you Brits aren't as comfortable with nudity as we are in Iceland. Sorry."
"It's all right." Sören wasn't quite naked yet, just in his boxer-briefs, but Dooku felt a little disappointed as Sören pulled the shirt over his torso - with pierced nipples. Dooku had also noticed tattoos on Sören's back, a firebird with a waterbird, and he had full sleeve tattoos on his arms, one arm bearing fire, the other ocean waves. He was quite interesting to look at, and from the way Maglor was blushing he could tell Maglor thought so too.
"Do you need some time alone? Do you need someone to talk to?" Maglor asked, folding his arms, giving Sören a concerned look.
"I think..." Sören sighed. He looked down, then back up. "I need to get out of my head for awhile, then maybe get some sleep. So I'll take a shower... um, do you mind if I watch telly out here?"
"We don't." Dooku showed him the remote. Then he put a reassuring hand on Sören's shoulder. "If you do change your mind and you need a shoulder, we're down the hall. And we'd like to be able to help you, if we can, so tomorrow -"
"Tomorrow is tomorrow." Sören looked away. "I can't deal with any more tonight, I'm sorry -"
"You don't need to keep apologizing."
"Já, I do, you're letting a stranger into your home, cramping your style -"
"Maybe that stranger could be a friend." Dooku patted him. "You're not an inconvenience. Please don't worry."
Sören sighed. "I hope he doesn't call the police on you..."
Maglor snorted. "What's he going to say, some old guy made lightning come out of his fingers? They'll want to know if he's on drugs."
I hope you're right, Dooku spoke into his mind; he hadn't been thinking when it happened, and that could have ended very, very badly if there were witnesses. I don't want this to be 1972 for you all over again.
Sören looked at each of them. "I... didn't know there were other people like me. I thought it was just something people in my family could do..."
"We're not common by any means," Dooku said, "but we exist. And it feels fated, somehow, that our paths crossed. We'll talk about that some more another time, though, if you just want to unwind now."
"Jæja, I do. Takk again, and good night..."
"Good night, Sören. Oh by the way - help yourself to anything in the kitchen."
"Sleep well," Maglor told him, and took Dooku's hand down the hall.
Dooku himself did not sleep well that night, waking up frequently to worry about Sören. Feeling the pain from him all the way down in the living room, the unvoiced screams, the fear of what came next, the fear that Justin would hurt him, would hurt all of them...
"You need to sleep too," Maglor mumbled in the middle of the night.
Dooku made a noise of protest into the pillow.
Maglor's lips brushed his forehead. "Sleep, you," he commanded.
Silver light enfolded Dooku, the tension rolling out of him like a tide, and he slipped into the mist, into the waiting dark.