It was the middle of September now, and the fall rain was off to an early start. On a rainy Saturday, there were still plenty of people at Wax On Wax Off - Mark had learned through owning record shops across different states that Saturdays were usually the busiest day - and Mark was glad they closed early on Saturdays, not because he "went out on Saturday night" like so many people, but because he didn't enjoy crowds.
A half-hour before close, Mark got a head start on putting records back in their places...
...and had a startle when he saw someone from the back with a high ponytail of sleek black hair down to their waist, tall and with a willowy, androgynous figure. Just like Daeron.
Daeron's dead, Mark told himself, and his fist clenched reflexively. Fucker.
Daeron had been Maglor's first serious relationship. The longest one. The worst one. The pit of Mark's stomach rose - even though literal Ages had passed, he still froze at the visceral, full-body memory of Daeron fucking him doggy style, except it wasn't sex, it was rape. It was a regular occurrence. "No" was not a word in Daeron's vocabulary. Daeron had stalked Lúthien, like the incels of today bitter over being "friendzoned".
The person with the ponytail turned around - a woman with brown eyes, not grey like Daeron's, and a pixie face with freckles, while Daeron had been clear-complexioned and had the chiseled features of a supermodel. Mark forced a smile, not wanting the customer to see how scared shitless he had been for an instant there, even though he logically knew Daeron was long gone. Most of the time Mark could forget about it and focus on other things. But part of him never forgot, and in moments like this that part of him was loud.
Mark swallowed hard and bolted to the single-occupancy bathroom to splash water on his face and run water over his hands to try to ground himself back to the present. It didn't work too well. Mark looked into the mirror and he could see the same terrified look in his eyes that he'd seen in a mirror long ago, when Daeron had made him watch. Mark doubled over the sink, shaking, hearing his ragged breath, and a few minutes later he found himself curled up in the fetal position in the corner of the bathroom.
He got annoyed with himself for reacting this way - after all this time, Daeron still took up space in his head, it felt like Daeron still owned him, in a sense - and then angry with himself for being annoyed, he didn't judge survivors of rape or other traumas for still being affected years later and he knew it wasn't fair to judge himself.
It was a complicated mess of emotions, and it had to happen here at work, leaving Russ out there to close by himself. Mark buried his face in his hands and tried to breathe, tried to pull himself together, and as his breathing slowed his mind went numb. He was only aware of being barely there when he heard a loud knock on the restroom door.
"Bro? You OK?" came Russ's voice.
Mark sighed, rubbed his face, and got up. He quickly unlocked the bathroom door and Russ poked his face in. And immediately frowned.
"Dude, you look like shit," Russ said.
"Thanks," Mark said - his brother's candor helped. Just Russ being there, helped. Maglor had always felt safe with Maedhros.
Russ led him back to the shop, which was closed now. Russ started vacuuming while Mark continued to put away records. When everything was in its place and the vacuuming was done, Russ leaned against the register with a hand on his hip and Mark looked off to the side, feeling called out by the stern look on his brother's face... knowing Russ wasn't going to let it go, trying to stall for just a minute more.
"What happened?" Russ asked. "And don't bullshit me and tell me you're fine. You're not fine."
Mark exhaled sharply. He reflexively looked around the shop, even though the CLOSED sign was on the door, some of the lights were off, and it was just them; the street was quiet on a rainy late Saturday afternoon.
"I saw someone who looked like Daeron from the back," Mark said.
"Oh. Oh." Russ pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ai."
"Yeah." Mark didn't need to explain further; Russ knew everything.
Russ let him be, giving him silence and space as they cashed out the register, turned off the rest of the lights, locked up and headed out. They stopped at the bank to make a deposit at the ATM, and then Russ said to Mark, "I feel like Starbucks. I'll treat."
Mark had a feeling the Starbucks was more an excuse for Russ to do something nice for him, in a way that wasn't obvious and wouldn't make him feel pitied. As much as Mark didn't want to keep making a big deal over what happened, wanted to forget the last hour or so, he still accepted and made a detour.
As they pulled out of the drive-thru, Russ tapped Mark's shoulder. "Hey, is that the guy next door?"
Mark looked out the window of their truck and sure enough it was Sören, rolling his suitcase of laundry down the sidewalk, in the rain.
Mark glanced over at Russ and their eyes met. "That's him," Mark said.
Russ pursed his lips. He hadn't formally made Sören's acquaintance yet - Russ was even more skittish of new people than Mark was. So what came out of Russ's mouth next was surprising. "Pull over and offer him a ride," Russ said.
Mark would have asked - and felt weird about possibly imposing, knowing how Russ got around new people - so he was relieved Russ was making the call. Mark pulled over, rolled down the window, and yelled, "Hey! Sören!"
Sören froze and flinched - Mark briefly wondered if Sören had trauma issues himself - then Sören turned to see who was calling his name, and gave a nervous, sheepish smile and a little wave. Mark wondered if his smile had looked that fake to the customer, and he felt almost guilty for startling Sören. But then Sören relaxed slightly. "Hi," he said.
"Get in," Mark said.
Of course, Sören had his cane, and Mark quickly realized the big step up into the back seat of the truck - and trying to maneuver his suitcase - was easier said than done. Mark and Russ both got out of the truck. Sören tried not to stare at Russ's stump as Russ took the suitcase and put it in the bed of the truck, and Mark tried not to stare at Sören's ass in those jeans - and tried not to feel a tingle - as he helped Sören into the back seat. Once Sören was in, Mark and Russ returned to the front seat and Mark watched for traffic before pulling back onto the road.
"You're going home, right?" Mark asked.
"Jæja. I went to the laundromat today, I was headed to the bus stop. Um, thanks." Sören leaned in, appearing in the rearview mirror. "You're Mark's brother, right?"
"Yeah, I'm Russ. Nice to meet you." Russ turned around slightly and put out his left hand. Sören shook it.
And then, even though it had been a treat for the ordeal of his flashback, Mark still passed his iced pumpkin spice latte back to Sören, who looked like he'd also had a rough day, wrangling laundry in the rain. Sören looked like a drowned rat in the rearview mirror. "Here," he said.
Sören's eyes widened. "Oh... takk... are you sure?"
Mark noticed Sören's slip into his native language and knew emotions were running high. "Yeah, I'm sure," Mark said. "You look like you're done with life."
Sören chuckled and accepted the drink. "Thank you, again."
Mark put on the classic rock station and they listened to music on the way home - no chit-chat; Mark was bad at small talk and he was glad and relieved Sören seemed to be the same way. Every now and again Mark glanced into the rearview mirror to look at Sören, sipping his drink and looking out the window, watching the rain. Mark wondered how many rainy days of laundry on the bus Sören had to endure, and while he knew Sören was from a rainy climate originally and probably didn't mind it much - Mark rather liked rain himself, enough to live in Seattle during the late 80s through the end of the 90s - it still bothered him.
And so as they pulled into the driveway of the duplex, Mark said, "Hey Sören? Next time you need to do laundry, I can bring you. We'll have to fit it around my work schedule, but -"
"Oh my god. I... I don't want to impose," Sören said.
Mark shook his head. "It's not like I have to drive a long way to get you." He tried to give Sören a reassuring smile in the rearview mirror. "It's really not a lot of trouble, OK? Winter is coming... sorry, I had to..."
Sören rolled his eyes and let out a loud groan, but he laughed too.
"And I don't want you, like, slipping on the ice on the way to or from the bus stop, OK?" Mark immediately felt self-conscious about saying that, not wanting Sören to think he thought Sören was fragile or incompetent, but...
Sören exhaled and nodded. "All right. That's a really generous offer. I insist on giving you gas money, though."
"A reasonable amount, and only if you insist." Though Mark knew Sören had a job - he was impressed with Sören working for Rolling Stone - he still felt guilty taking money from a disabled person, but then he knew from eons of living with Russ that it was a matter of pride. "Just a couple bucks, don't try to pay me like an Uber or something."
"No, Mark's an Unter," Russ joked.
Mark facepalmed. Sören groaned and chuckled again.
Russ got Sören's suitcase out of the bed of the truck, and Mark came around to help Sören down. Once again Mark felt that tingle and thrust in his loins when he touched Sören, and once Sören was down they lingered for a moment and Mark got a good look into Sören's sweet brown eyes. His breath hitched and his heart beat a little faster. Shit, he's really cute.
Mark swallowed hard and made himself look away, not wanting to go there.
Russ wheeled Sören's suitcase to his door for him, and Mark walked Sören to the door. The porch was a shelter from the rain and there was another moment of just lingering - hanging around awkwardly. Then Sören took a deep breath.
"So, uh. Thank you guys, again, for the ride in the rain. Um... how would you guys like to come for dinner tonight? I can make you a home-cooked meal, or we can get pizza or something, my treat..."
On the one hand, Mark liked the idea of not having to cook tonight - it was his turn - and he liked the idea of having company besides his brother, for a change. On the other hand, Mark felt like Sören was going a bit overboard for an act of common decency. Mark had a feeling that Sören either had trauma issues and tended to fawn when anxious - something Mark used to do himself, after growing up with Nerdanel's emotional abuse, and then ending up with Daeron - or that Sören didn't have a lot of friends and he was starved for companionship enough that he was willing to go to a lot of trouble. Or perhaps a bit of both.
Still, Mark didn't want to refuse, and before he could answer, Russ said, "Sounds good to me." He looked over at Mark, who nodded.
"We have to feed our critters first, but we'll be over in... a half-hour?" Mark asked.
"That works for me. I was going to make a vegetarian curry tonight, if you like that, if not I'm flexible with whatever does delivery." Sören jangled his keys.
"That sounds awesome," Mark said. It had been awhile since he'd had curry, and he remembered Sören's homemade lasagna had been good so he was confident Sören wouldn't fuck it up.
Mark and Russ went to their side of the duplex and after feeding their dog and three cats, Mark quickly checked his e-mail. While he had a little time to kill, he opened his Spam folder to see if anything important had accidentally been sent there, and sure enough, he'd gotten a message on FetLife, and his e-mail had decided it was spam. Mark selected "Not Spam" and told himself he'd look at the message later, even though it appeared to be a couple weeks old.
Sören already had dinner on the stove when Mark and Russ arrived. As it cooked, they watched an episode of Our Flag Means Death together - Mark was glad Sören enjoyed the show too, and that meant he probably wasn't homophobic. Halfway through the episode Mark's bladder prompted him, thanks to the rain, and he hadn't taken care of business like usual when he got home, having been distracted by the cats and dog, then his e-mail. Mark waited till the show was over to get up and use Sören's bathroom.
Sören's bathroom looked like theirs - nondescript off-white walls, cream-and-grey tile. Mark and Russ had a sea motif in their bathroom, with a framed print of Wanderer above the Sea of Fog and a driftwood shelf displaying seashells and starfish, sand-colored bath mats and towels. In Sören's bathroom he had a whimsical ceramic frog toothbrush holder and a matching bath mat that made Mark smile.
Then Mark's smile faded when he saw the box of syringes in one of the open cubbies just below the mirrored cabinet over the toilet. He didn't want to assume drugs - Sören might be diabetic and insulin-dependent - but unfortunately, while Sören was a music reviewer and didn't seem to be a musician himself, Mark knew from past experience that there were a lot of drugs in the music industry - it wasn't just the artists but their managers, roadies, and other personnel. Seattle, itself, had been the heroin capital of the 90s, and Mark had been there for it. Mark felt the pit of his stomach rising and reflexively took a step back.
Mark resisted the urge to grab Russ and bolt out of there. The curry was almost done and it smelled delicious, and once Mark had washed up and was out of the bathroom, he took a long look at Sören at the stove, stirring his creation. That didn't look like a heroin addict. Mark once again took a quick look around - the place wasn't pristine but it was clean and functional enough, and Sören's artwork hung in the living room; Mark once again admired the painting of Reynisfjara hanging over the mantle. He didn't live like a heroin addict, either, in chaos and filth. Sören's tuxedo cat, Snúður, came out from a nap and stopped to sniff Mark and accept pettings before going over to his dish. Snúður looked well-fed, well-cared-for. Not typical addict behavior.
And even so, Mark was concerned.
Mark decided to keep his mouth shut as they ate dinner and watched another episode of Our Flag Means Death. The curry was as amazing as it smelled - cauliflower, sweet potato, zucchini, peas and chickpeas in a piquant red coconut sauce. Each of them had a big bowl and there was still some in the pan; Sören insisted on them taking leftovers.
As Sören went back to the kitchen to put the leftovers in a container, Mark said, "I can help with dishes, if you want."
"You guys are guests," Sören said, wagging a finger. "Sit your ass down."
Mark snickered. He felt a little guilty about not fighting harder to do dishes, but he didn't want Sören to think he pitied him. Then Sören handed him the container of still-warm curry. "Wait. Here, take this."
Mark took the container and as he did, he stared at Sören's arms - both to admire the sleeve tattoos, flames on the right arm, ocean waves on the left, but also to try to check for track marks. He knew he was staring too long when Sören cleared his throat. "Yes, those are braces on my elbows. I have hypermobile joints."
"Oh. Oh god." Mark would have facepalmed, but his hands were full. "It wasn't that I was looking at. It was your ink."
Sören pursed his lips - he seemed to know that answer was a half-truth. "And?"
Mark exhaled sharply. He hadn't wanted to have this conversation, but he hoped Sören would understand if he meant well. "I saw the needles in the bathroom. If you. You know. If you... need help, I'd be happy to try to find you a rehab clinic, take care of your cat while you -"
Sören's nostrils flared and Mark shut up. Just then, Russ entered the kitchen, as if he heard everything and was there in case Sören had a temper. But instead, Sören said, "I'm not a fucking junkie."
"Oh god. I'm sorry. I didn't want to assume. I -"
Sören's nostrils flared again. "Because we watched the gay pirates show I'm going to take a risk that you're not a bigot and tell you something I normally don't disclose to people right off the bat, or at all. Those needles are for testosterone injections. I'm transgender."
Mark felt like an idiot. "Oh. Oh."
Sören gave him a look that could cut through granite.
Then Russ spoke up. "So am I."
Sören's eyebrows shot up and his eyes widened with surprise. "I wouldn't have clocked you."
Russ smiled. "Thanks. You pass pretty well too."
"Yeah, I didn't clock you either," Mark said. "You. Um. You look like a cis guy." That was true - Mark wouldn't have known if Sören hadn't told him.
"Your brother is trans and you didn't consider the needles might be for T?" Sören cocked his head to one side.
Russ wasn't on T, of course - his transition had been an act of magic while Maedhros was still young. Nerdanel had been very resistant to it, while Fëanor was proud and enthusiastic, calling his eldest "a living work of art". It made Mark miss Fëanor every time he thought about it. But there was no way to tell Sören they were elves, so Mark kept his mouth shut and Russ lied, "I'm on the patch."
Good save, Mark spoke into his brother's mind.
"Ah, OK." Sören nodded.
"I'm cis," Mark said, and then he felt even more like an idiot.
"Hi Cis," Sören said, and put out his hand. Mark's hands were full, but Russ took the container and Mark shook Sören's hand, laughing.
Then Russ turned to Mark and said, "I'm going back to our place to put this away and go take Dief for his walk." Diefenbaker was their Samoyed, who was four years old. He turned back to Sören. "It was nice meeting you today and thank you so much for having us for dinner. We'll have to return the favor sometime!" As Russ tucked the container under his left arm, he spoke into Mark's mind, Good luck.
Mark was a little annoyed that Russ was leaving him behind to do damage control, but he also understood that this was his mistake and thus his mess to clean up. Once the front door closed, Mark and Sören stood in the kitchen for a long, awkward moment.
"I am so, so sorry for that faux pas," Mark said, face on fire. "Both... just now, saying I'm cis, and for bringing up the needles. That was rude -"
"Well, I know you were trying to be a Good Samaritan." Sören frowned a little. "I appreciate your offer to watch the kitty if I needed medical treatment, though. I have Ehlers-Danlos and I get sports injuries from doing completely normal shit. I don't want to be in the position of having to ask you if you can take care of the cat if I'm fucked up, but..."
"That's what neighbors are for." And then Mark added, "And friends." As wary as he was of letting someone in past an arm's length - especially his next-door neighbor, remembering the nosy people in the trailer park in Florida - he liked Sören and he enjoyed having dinner with him. He wanted to do it again.
Sören managed a smile.
"My brother's right, we should have you over for dinner," Mark said. He was glad Sören was OK with just casually eating in the living room watching TV, because he was bad at formally entertaining. Fëanor had no love for the pomp and grandeur of the royal court, preferring to hole himself up in his forge and work on projects - Maglor had been much the same way but with his harp instead of a smithy.
"I'd like that," Sören said, nodding. "Also, um... thank you for not being weird about me being trans. You seem like you support your brother and that's nice to see."
"I do. He's my best friend. I'm very proud of him. It sucks that trans rights are under attack now with the damn Republicans." Mark tried not to think about it too much or he got angrier and angrier, spinning his wheels.
"Yeah, it does. Like I told you when we first met, I've thought about going back to Iceland, but... no."
"You must miss it though." Mark looked over Sören's shoulder out into the living room and the painting of Reynisfjara. "Your love for your home country really shines through in that painting. It's gorgeous."
"I have more if you want to see them."
And that was how Mark found himself sitting next to Sören on the couch while Sören unwrapped a stack of plastic-wrapped canvases, and showed him a thick portfolio of prints. Sören had a real gift - the paintings were photorealistic but with a touch of surrealism: saturated, dreamlike colors, and hidden magic in the landscapes, fairies and gnomes, tree and rock spirits. Mark's hair stood on end, wondering if Sören had "the Sight", as they called it in the old days.
More than that, Fëanor would have loved this art... and the pride and passion of it was so palpable that it did, in fact, remind Mark of Fëanor himself, and made Mark miss Fëanor all over again.
A couple of hours passed, with Mark lost in Sören's art, and finally he went home, feeling lighter for having made a new friend... and heavier with the weight of grief more present.
It didn't help that Mark felt attracted to Sören, and Mark was not only concerned about getting involved with a neighbor when they had to stay here for awhile, having left Florida too soon after Russ's gator incident - moving was expensive and money didn't grow on trees - but Mark worried that if he asked Sören out on a date he'd be perceived as a chaser with a fetish and he didn't want to put his foot in his mouth more than he already had about the needles.
But also, Mark was attracted to other creative people. It had been a thing as long as he could remember. His first crush had been his own father; his first masturbation fantasies had been of Fëanor. Fëanor had never touched him, whether or not he was aware of his son's less-than-innocent feelings, and Maglor hadn't acted on it, much as he'd ached to once he was old enough. And yet, he still sometimes had fantasies of Fëanor, and he couldn't help but be drawn to that same kind of creative fire in Sören.
Mark rubbed his face like a wet cat, annoyed with himself. He remembered that he was overdue to reply to that message on FetLife, so he logged in for the first time in weeks.
The message was short and to the point.
Hi! I saw you were looking for a submissive daddy. I might be what you're looking for. Do you want to chat a bit and maybe meet up?
The message was from someone local, a 42-year-old submissive gay male, with Bugs Bunny wearing a crown and purple robe, sitting on a throne, as his profile pic and the username SpiritOfFire42069.
Mark almost spat his drink, doubling over. It felt like the universe's idea of a joke. "Goddammit."
Well, we'll see where this Bugs Bunny hole leads, Mark thought to himself as he began to type his reply.
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