"Hey, I'm going out to get the mail."
Russ put down his video game controller and looked up. "I thought it was my turn."
Mark shook his head. "You did it last time, I'm pretty sure."
"OK, well... have fun." Russ snickered; the mailbox was just a short walk down the block, a dozen boxes, one for each duplex in the neighborhood. "Don't get lost."
Mark rolled his eyes. "It'll be hard, but I'm sure I'll manage."
"...That's what he said."
Mark facepalmed and chuckled.
Then Russ put up a "wait here" finger and dashed into the kitchen. He came back with the covered casserole dish that had been left on their doorstep yesterday evening, with a hot vegetarian lasagna inside - an apology gift from their new next-door neighbor, Sören, for the loud music. The lasagna was delicious, and the pan was clean now; Russ had washed it. Russ handed him the pan.
"Maybe I should jot down a thank you note," Russ said.
Mark shook his head. "I'll take the opportunity to introduce myself."
"Like, in person."
"Like, in person, yeah."
There was a long, awkward pause.
Macalaurë Fëanorion and his older brother Maitimo aka Russandol went by Mark Lauer and Russ these days, and spoke English, even at home, to help further blend in and keep up appearances. They'd been living in Middle-Earth through literal Ages, and had come to America in the 1600s; apart from a few trips to the UK and Europe, they'd stayed put ever since, though Trump had made it very, very tempting to leave the country. They moved around once per ten to twenty years to avoid arousing suspicion with their lack of aging and to preserve the integrity of their fabricated "pass as human" backstories. Earlier in August they'd moved to Maine after five years in Florida - a much sooner departure than they'd been anticipating, but Russ had attracted some notoriety drunkenly wrestling an alligator that wandered through their trailer park, his gator wrestling made the more notable for only having one arm, and they were supposed to be keeping a low profile.
Because of the necessity of keeping a low profile, an the difficulty of moving around so much and sustaining the web of lies to keep their non-human identities secret, they hadn't made many friends, and even fewer partners - there had been nobody in Russ's life since Fingon, and Mark had been single since the 1970s. They tended to live in lower-income to working-class neighborhoods to avoid nosy, meddling neighbors - this duplex felt like a mansion compared to some of their prior living arrangements.
So the idea of actually meeting one of their neighbors was fraught, but it seemed potentially more fraught to ignore someone who'd been nice enough to make a delicious lasagna - and thoughtful enough to make it vegetarian. And there was keeping a low profile for safety's sake and there was outright being rude, and Fëanor had raised them with some manners.
Mark was hoping he wouldn't have to argue with Russ about it. They didn't fight often - they weren't just brothers but best friends. Both of them had seen what family bickering had got them, and they both carried enough trauma to not enjoy conflict, life was hard enough.
But Russ relented with a small nod. "OK. Just, you know. Be careful."
Mark couldn't resist being a little cheeky. "Florida Man is telling me to be careful."
"Oh, fuck you. I saved us all from that gator. Besides, you just wish you were awesome like me."
Mark took the casserole dish, chuckling, and grabbed his keys on the way out.
Mark loped down the three steps off the porch and out to the walkway... and promptly froze in his tracks when he heard a "...motherfucker."
Mark slowly turned around, hoping this wouldn't be trouble - and that was when he saw the man next door, trying to carry bags of groceries with one hand, and wield a cane in the other, from the far edge of his porch by the steps.
This was Sören, of the loud Deftones on repeat and the vegetarian lasagna. He looked like a short-haired Jon Snow, with his dark curls threaded with silver, short dark beard, full lips, and sad puppydog brown eyes. He was somehow prettier than Jon Snow, if such a thing was even possible, and despite the touch of grey in his hair and beard, he had a young face. And a beginning dad bod dressed in jean shorts and a black Nine Inch Nails Pretty Hate Machine T-shirt, revealing sleeve tattoos - flames on his right arm, ocean waves on his left; he had two small silver hoops in each ear, and was wearing Doc Martens, interesting metal rings on his fingers and thumbs, and elbow and knee braces.
Mark's breath caught. Sören was gorgeous. Not perfect - but Mark liked that about humans, finding beauty in their imperfections.
Mark's mouth opened, and he felt flustered, both because Sören was hot, and because he saw how hard Sören was struggling with his groceries and he didn't know what to do - Russ had a lot of pride and didn't want to be coddled about having one arm, but that didn't mean Sören was the same way.
Sören dropped a bag as he tried to balance himself, and then their eyes met. Sören looked off to the side and grit his teeth, cheeks flushed.
Mark cleared his throat. Even if he was going to get chewed out for asking, he didn't feel right about just standing there doing nothing. "You want some help?"
Sören took a deep breath and gave a curt nod. "Jæja, if you don't mind."
Scandinavian, it sounded like. A deep, husky voice. Mark quickly bounded up the steps, set down the casserole dish on the top step, then picked up the fallen bag, held out his arms, and Sören handed over the bags of groceries he was trying to carry one-handed. Mark carried them to the door, then he went back to the edge of the porch for the others.
"I'm sorry," Sören said. "I have delivery instructions telling them to leave it right at the door because I'm disabled but this kind of thing happens on a regular fucking basis anyway. At least they brought it to the right fucking house this time." Then Sören covered his mouth and looked off to the side again. "Sorry, language."
"It's all right," Mark said, then he added, "Not your fault they're fucking incompetent and can't follow instructions."
Sören gave a small smile.
"You want me to bring these inside?" Mark asked.
"If you don't mind."
"I don't mind."
Sören opened the door, and Mark carried the bags of groceries in. The duplex was set up like his, there was a very small front entry with a coat rack, and then the living room. Mark took a right and walked through the living room to the kitchen, where he set the groceries down on the counter. A chartreuse-eyed tuxedo cat was eating at a dish of food and bolted off down the hall towards the bathroom and bedrooms.
"Sorry, again," Sören said.
"No need to apologize. It wasn't really an inconvenience. I was going out to check the mail and return the casserole dish. Now I can thank you in-person for the delicious lasagna." Mark gave him a reassuring smile, and Sören smiled back, his face lighting up. "And vegetarian, too. My brother, who I live with, is vegan, and I'm flexitarian -"
"Jæja, I'm flexitarian too," Sören said. "So I never assume that people are meat-eaters."
"Right, most people would, though, so it was especially appreciated. Um... I left the casserole dish outside, I'll bring it in."
Mark went back out to the porch, and when he came in, Sören was putting perishables away in his fridge. Mark fought the urge to ask Sören if he needed help with that, knowing that was probably overstepping his bounds too much, and it was easier to load things in the fridge with everything on the counter. Sören paused to take the casserole dish. "Oh, you washed it, thank you."
"It would have been rude not to," Mark said.
"Well, you know, I was rude for playing my music so loud. I didn't realize you guys were home, or I would have kept it down. The place has been empty for the last few months, like I've seen a moving truck but it didn't seem like you were living there just yet -"
"That was our first night in the new place." Mark nodded. "And anyway, water under the bridge." He could tell Sören was a good person and meant well. "Besides, you have good taste in music."
"You're a metalhead, já? You look it."
Mark kept his hair long - even though it made both him and Russ more conspicuous, now that long hair wasn't fashionable anymore, it was their vanity. Mark's raven-black hair fell past his shoulders, hiding his ears, and wire-rimmed glasses helped disguise and humanize his eyes, which had a flash like labradorite when unglamoured. Today he was wearing a Metallica T-shirt and black cargo shorts. Mark threw the horns, and Sören threw them back.
"Always glad when kids your age like my generation's music," Sören said, and then he facepalmed. "I'm at that age where I call everyone under thirty a kid, sorry. And I probably shouldn't assume your age -"
Mark chuckled. He was closer to ten thousand - he'd stopped counting his exact age a long time ago, but knew it was in the ballpark. "I'm twenty-seven," he lied.
Sören nodded. Then he grinned. "Hi Twenty-Seven, I'm Sören."
Mark groaned loudly. "And you're at that age for dad jokes, I see."
"Forty-two."
Mark couldn't resist. "Do you know where your towel is?"
"You're a hoopy frood." Sören laughed, and his face lit up again, and Mark felt his heart beat just a little faster. Wow, he's hot. Mark slapped himself internally, not wanting to notice his next-door neighbor like that - they had to live in this neighborhood; good fences make good neighbors.
"Um..." Sören put out his hand. "Do you want anything to eat or drink? I feel like I should give you a tip for helping me bring my groceries in, you deserve it more than the asshole who didn't follow instructions."
"I don't need anything for being a decent human being," Mark said. "And listen, if it happens again and you see my truck parked outside, you can ask me for help." Against his better judgment, Mark pulled out his cell phone. "I'll give you my number so you can text me and not have to deal with the steps -"
"Oh jeez, thank you. I don't want to be a pain in the ass -"
"You're not."
They traded cell numbers, and then Mark shifted his weight from one foot to the other, feeling awkward - he did want to stay for a bit, he felt surprisingly hungry for contact with another person, Sören seemed nice, he liked the "aging metal dad" vibes, but... "I better get the mail," Mark said, "before my brother thinks I got abducted by aliens or something."
Sören snickered. "Well, I am technically an alien."
"I was gonna ask where you're from but I didn't want to be rude."
"Iceland." Sören walked Mark out to the living room and they paused in front of the fireplace - New England winters were cold, and Mark's duplex had one too - and hanging over the mantle was one of the most exquisite paintings Mark had ever seen in his life, a choppy dark sea with basalt columns rising out of it, crashing onto the black sand, and an aurora shaped like a phoenix in the starry night sky, glowing in shades of cyan and green. "I painted that. That's Reynisfjara, from my home country."
"Holy shit." Mark let out a low whistle and a frisson went through him; it was as if he'd stepped through a portal and suddenly he was there. "And you came here, to this shitty country. I would have gone back, after Trump took office."
Sören gave a nervous chuckle. "I thought about it, fuck that guy, but... it's a long story." Sören ran a nervous hand through his hair and rubbed his beard.
"That's amazing art, by the way," Mark said sincerely. He liked Sören even more now. He wanted to see more of Sören's work, but he knew he'd end up staying for hours, and he'd just gone out to get the mail and didn't want Russ to get paranoid.
"Thank you." Sören smiled.
"OK, well... it was nice meeting you, and I mean it, if you need anything text me, all right?" Mark waved on his way out and then he came down the porch as fast as he could, before he got the urge to linger and stay longer. He was to the door of his duplex, getting out his keys, when he realized he had forgotten all about the mail.
He was acting like an overgrown ellon. That was not good. Get a hold of yourself, he scolded himself as he turned around and headed to the mailbox.
While Mark hadn't been gone for hours to shoot the breeze with Sören, he had still been gone longer than a quick trip to return the casserole dish and check the mail, and Russ knew it. Russ tactfully avoided the subject while they ate dinner that evening - Russ made a stir-fry with vegetables and crispy tofu, over rice - but when they were watching Our Flag Means Death, Russ finally said, "So, you met the guy next door."
Mark took a sip of his beer and braced himself. Here we go. "Yyyyyyyyyyyyyepppp."
"What's he like?"
Mark took a bigger swig and put the can down. One of their cats - Bernie, an orange tabby - came over for pettings. Mark stroked Bernie for a moment, attempting to compose his words, and then he blurted out, "He looks like Jon Snow."
"Really."
"Yeah." That hadn't been the answer Mark wanted to give, but there it was. "Shorter hair, though." Better-looking. Mark thought about those brown eyes, the sweet smile. Jesus Christ, stop that.
There was a long silence - Bernie wandered over to Russ for some love - and Mark hoped that would be the end of it, but then Russ said, "You need to get laid, dude."
Mark facepalmed hard. When he took his hand away from his face, Russ had that smart-assed little smirk. Mark narrowed his eyes. "Says the guy who hasn't even been laid since before the pyramids were built." Then Mark went there to soften the sting. "Unless you count that gator. Is 'wrestling' what you're calling it now -"
Russ threw a couch pillow at Mark. Bernie ran off with a chirp. Mark threw the pillow back at his brother, and Russ ducked out of the way. Mark picked it up again and Russ dodged, then he tackled Mark. They rolled around on the floor, grappling, until Russ spat on his finger and stuck it in Mark's ear. When Mark made a noise at the slimy feeling, Russ put him in a headlock and gave noogies with his stump.
They caught their breath and sat back down on the couch. They resumed drinking their beer, then Russ said, "No really, I mean it. I know you're lonely."
Mark shrugged. "We've been over this. Our situation isn't really conducive to settling down."
"I said get laid, not get married. Someone to have fun with. Just because I don't doesn't mean you can't."
There was still that touch of guilt - like survivor's guilt but not quite - but also, Mark had a lot of baggage from leaving partners behind, watching them die... and the whole thing with Daeron, which they tried not to talk about. Mark had gotten used to being alone, and his brain was weirdly resistant to the idea of trying to fit another person in his life.
But maybe Russ had a point. They had tried to frame this move as not fleeing the infamy in Florida, but a necessary reboot - their part of Florida had become increasingly toxic with its slide towards conservatism, and they'd felt like they were being drowned a limb at a time in miasmic sludge. Moving to the beauty of Maine, and Mark starting his record shop, was like a rebirth. Cleansing, healing. Maybe it was time to look into having a little more fun.
Later that night, as Mark lay in bed, alone, not able to sleep, he thought of Sören. Feeling curious. Wanting to know more. Knowing how risky that was.
He got up, turned on his desk lamp, and then booted up his laptop. He Googled "gay dating" and got recommendations for Grindr and Tinder.
A quick browse of both of those sites turned him off. While he knew that "just having fun" meant not being picky, he nonetheless was actively repulsed by the shallow people with "no fats, no fems" in their profile, and the racism, and people who looked like they'd never opened a book in their life.
But also... Mark had certain needs. Needs that he hadn't had an outlet for in a long, long time. He had learned over the last couple of decades there were people like himself, though 50 Shades of Grey did a bad job of presenting it.
There was a social networking site for this, too. It was called FetLife.
Mark sat there for a little while, staring at the screen, trying to figure out what to say, how to say it. He felt weird even considering this, but... he had to try to live again, at least a little.
Mark took a deep breath, and began to fill out his profile.
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