Eisenknall, or Iron Bang by Moringottocake  

Melkor Bauglir, the co-owner of Silmaringen’s hardware store and a small scale building company Bauglir & Finsterweber, is on his way to Aulë’s Smithy to personally inspect and receive five boxes of the finest custom-made ironmongery to stock up his shelves. Those gizzmos sold like hotcakes and that certain Smith at Aulë’s just knew how to fabricate them most preciseley. The product was a case of doing it properly, or half-assing a mediocre device that promised a lot but delivered headaches to DIYers and professional builders alike.

Melkor parked his car on the customer parking strip. He did not want to turn off the radio yet. His random playlist had decided to bless him Ella’s rendition of “Stormy Weather”. So he treated himself to sit through the entire song before finally getting out of his car. The sun had come out again after a mostly rainy day and the ground was gradually drying.  Before stepping inside the workshop area, he had to remind himself again that Mairon was not going to rip him another one just for existing in his workplace. This place was his supplier and his customers loved him for stocking the best hardware and ironmongery a person could get, but doing business with these people was something else.

It was Aulë and his family that depended on his business, but that special feeling of entering the principal’s office after being called out in class still crept up on him every time he drove out to pick things up. Mairon was brilliant, so he accepted the volatility and the thrill that came with these visits. He had been discussing “bitey Mairon” with Gothmog over many Feierabend (after work) beers.

“Bauglir!” he announced himself, trying his best to sound casual and exactly like the self-assured mover and shaker he actually was. “I am here to pick up the stem-bolts!” There was some banging in the back, where Aulë had his tools for making small hardware pieces. Mairon appeared, removing his protective goggles. The skin around his eyes was clean, making him look like one of those posh tourists who came here to ski in winter. “I swear to the stars, Bauglir!” Mairon placed his goggles on a palette full of boxes. “If I have to make one more of your fussy self-sealing stem bolts in the foreseeable future, I will come and let you have it!”
“Let me have what?” Melkor thanks himself for reacting quickly. 
“My fullest attention.” Mairon snaps back, but is smiling. A genuine smile, not one of his snide sarcastic lopsided smirks.
“Is that a threat or a promise?” Melkor plays the ball right back with a grin of his own. 
“That depends on you taking your order with you and me for a drink.”

Did that temperamental metalworker just ask him to ask him out on a date? Melkor had braced for almost anything, but Mairon approaching him on a personal, even private level was not on his bingo card today, or ever.

What an honor?!

Mairon sat perched next to his discarded goggles, still smiling. Melkor had nothing else to to do today, since this chore had been the last item on his to-do list for today. Apart from having another  conversation with Ungoliant back at the office how to expedite her sabbatical she was so eager to take, he could not think of anything else that might be waiting for him at work. The prospect of doomscrolling at home on his sofa was also not the most appealing thought either. So why not risk a drink or two with Mairon? He was feeling brave today.

“If you help me carry those boxes to my car, I can show you a nice place close to the station that has a whisky menu worth it’s salt.” What if he thinks I am an alcoholic builder? Melkor pushed away that fear quickly. He had been asked about “a drink” and not “coffee”, so suggesting a good stiff drink should not be out of the question. 
“Irmo’s on Bahnstraße?” He heard Mairon ask for clarification, instead of dishing out more condemnation. “Sounds good to me!” 
Melkor felt a certain satisfaction, that Mairon already claimed to know of the place. “I have never seen you there.”
“Your orders keep me stuck in this place.” Mairon’s grin widened. “Now it’s up to you to make up for this injustice with something smoky and peaty.” With one of his reddish eyebrows raised, his dirty face looked quite cute when he was opening up, Melkor noted with a tiny butterfly finding it’s way into his stomach. Also, that snarly smith seemed to share his taste in whisky. That’s something to build on!

“I take those and you the others,” Melkor indicated with his head towards the boxes in question “and then we can be on our way.” Melkor suggested,  himself picking up three of the boxes containing his precious self-sealing stem bolts. “Also fine with me.” Mairon lifted up the remaining two and they made their way to his car. “I secretly enjoy seeing your car with those two extra stars on.” Mairon commented about Melkor’s old black Mercedes.

“Ha!” Melkor enjoyed hearing that confession. A lot. “Ungoliant keeps threatening to break them off because she thinks it’s stupid to drive a Mercedes, especially one with three stars.” 
Mairon fitted the two boxes he had carried into the back of the car. “Hasn’t she gone full hippie and wants out of your company?” Melkor closed the rear door over the boxes, its opaque black window hiding the content. “Ugh! Don’t mention it. She wants to remain co-owner, but her sabbatical thing is starting to make me want to go on one myself.” He chuckled.

“Maybe Ungoliant simply wants your car stars to hang round her neck during her time away?” Marion asked after they had sat in silence through several traffic lights. 
“As if!” Despite the partially irritating subject they had now touched on, Melkor was looking forward to see what this sudden date would turn into. “She just hates my car, because it’s not like the BMWs she and her brood prefer.” 
“Bavarian?” Mairon giggled, his tone conveyed rolling eyes.
“Bingo!” Melkor had found a spot just in front of the bar, he could not believe his luck today. He reversed in and looked over to Mairon and the situation inside the bar. It was not quite full yet. So much luck was making him want to be suspicious. “It looks like Gothmog is not here, so we will not be talking shop tonight.” Melkor felt better laying down one ground rule. He was not going into this evening with that redhead without setting some symbolic boundaries. 
“That’s fine with me.” Mairon closed the car door, Melkor hit the close button on his car key and they walked up to the bar, where Melkor held open the door for his date. “After you!”

***

Inside, the usual jazzy lounge music wafted around in the background, and Irmo was wiping the bar where two people had apparently just left. “Sit down! I got something in today you might like!” 
“Which one of us?” Mairon asked, hanging his jacket over the back of the barstool. 
“Both, actually.” The bartender answered, putting down two of those stemmed whisky glasses that made the actual liquid smell and taste somewhat more intense than from crystal tumblers. “Guess what?!” Irmo made sure to cover the bottle’s label with his hand and a dish towel while he poured each of them a sample to try. 
“Aren’t you driving home after this?” Mairon quipped while smelling out the content of his glass. 
“I live right up the road.” Melkor answered while inhaling a very welcome salty, smoky aroma. “I’m not moving that car again today.” He took a sip and Mairon did too. “This is the good stuff, Irmo!” 
The bartender just grinned and put the bottle out of sight. “What do you two reckon you are drinking?
“It’s got to be from Scotland!” Mairon insisted. 
“It’s probably from an island?” Melkor narrowed Mairon’s guess down, looking for a look of approval. 
“You are both wrong.” Irmo grinned. “Come again!”
Mairon sniffed again. “It’s a dead ringer for some island.” He said, and took another sip. “Is it maybe one of those distilleries from central Europe that age their casks at sea?”
“You are getting warmer.” Irmo doled out a top up for both. “Melkor, you should hold on to this friend. He knows his stuff.” 
“So you come here more often?” 
“As I said, my schedule due to your orders does not always allow for spontaneous drinks after work. Also I have bike tours on lots of my weekends.” Mairon stuck his nose back into his glass. “So I have a feeling you are giving us something local.” He sipped again and put down his glass with a light thump, as to not break the precious stem. Melkor caught his gaze. 
“You have a point, some of those up in the Black Forest have really started to churn out some astonishing results.” He looked over to Irmo who had put the uncovered bottle on the bar for them to marvel at. The silhouette of a large black raven dominated the label. 
Nachtkrapp! Melkor struck a hand to his forehead. “Whatshisface from that Scottish island had been their master distiller for a while now?” 
“Fëanor MacFinwë, is the name to that face you are grasping for.” Mairon held up his forefinger, stabbing the air in mockery of a teacher. “And he’s such a smug asshole, I met him at a distillery tour last year.” 
“Look who’s talking.” Melkor smirked while signaling to Irmo to pour them both a full glass of Fëanor’s finest each, and Mairon held out his glass to receive his refill. “You think me arrogant?” 
“Whenever I visit your smithy it’s as if you are scrutinizing every twitch and breath of mine, to be honest.” Melkor hoped this morsel of scrutiny he threw at Mairon would not get him chewed up. 
“Thank you. I do very much enjoy scrutinizing you.” Melkor did not want to say anything yet, but that short flicker in Mairon’s gaze was surely a case of being undressed in the observer’s imagination. 
“Besides that, I know what I am doing and what I want.” Mairon said to his defense. “That MacFinwë may be good at making that impression,” Mairon held up his glass in salute to the absent master distiller. “But he is not of my caliber.”
“What caliber may that be?” Melkor was fascinated by Mairon’s ability to appear approachable while still oozing that authoritative appeal. Minus the heebie-jeebies.
“I for one like to talk about my craft.  Locking heads with like-minded individuals who hold themselves to high standards is my lifeblood, if you might not have already guessed?” Mairon paused. “I was brushed off when approaching him with questions about the shape of his pot stills and who made them.” He continued. “And of course we all have our trade and craft secrets, but come on!  What’s so horrible about chatting about the ins and outs of copper stills with a metalworker?”
“Are you like that when you visit a winery? Do you ask them questions about their steel tanks?” Melkor enjoyed seeing this side this former casual adversary. 
“You bet I am. With some of them I have to be careful not to become their permanent person to call for advice for any metal tool or container, payable with complimentary boxes of wine on the house.” Mairon put his glass down. “If that were the case, I could just as well build my own wine cellar.” 
“I’m not stopping you!” Melkor thought Mairon would be just the type to own his own wine cellar. “You couldn’t, even if I wanted to.”

Their conversation carried on in the same vein and they soon found themselves each enjoying a glass of something 16 years old and very peaty. Because they had not eaten anything before going straight for the spirits, Melkor suggested they ask Irmo if they could order something from Ristorante Angamandi next door. 
“I’m not having pizza!” Mairon held up his hands, warding off the very idea. Melkor realized that this man was not one for big, flat, cheesy pizza anyway. “But Angamandi makes that mean Penne all’Arrabiata.” 
Instead of ordering now, Mairon went on to study the menu Irmo had produced from behind the bar. Melkor sat back and watched him browse the pages, eyes flitting up and down, a snort here, a huff there. He could work with that. “I’m buying, if you tell me why you scared the shit out of me for years whenever I dared to place an order with Aulë that would go through your capable hands?” Mairon snapped the menu shut and placed it on the table for Melkor to look through. “You’re the Mayor’s brother, and Pastor’s grandson!” Mairon was looking at Melkor again like he was born yesterday. “Why should bloody Manwë and my god-fearing Father have anything to do with me, apart from being related to me?” Melkor was caught off-guard, even though he very much could have worked that issue out by himself. “I get it, he can be intimidating, but I’m not a politician and have never been moving and shaking in his circles, thank you very much.” Melkor handed Irmo the menu back “We’ll both have the Penne all’Arrabiata” he hoped that was what Mairon actually wanted to eat, and was glad to get no signs of protest. “Anyway, so I had to suffer your ire because of my brother?” Melkor kind of understood, but was very curious to know more details now. Mairon remained silent for the moment, so he added a jovial “if you want to share of course” to hopefully soften the mood in case he had pried to much. He would hate to see this evening fall apart because he was too pushy. Mairon looked thoughtful and he decided to just give him space to think through whatever was on his mind. Irmo was giving him an upwards nod and Melkor ordered a big bottle of sparkling water. After all that whisky he would not have the usual heavy red he usually enjoyed when ordering from Angamandi. And then he remembered. “Two pieces of Torta Moringotto afterwards.” He said loud enough for Irmo to catch before he disappeared in the back room to make the call for their food. “Of course!” the barman confirmed. Mairon, still silent, lifted one of the corners of his mouth. “I like chocolate.” He uttered. “He speaks!” Melkor was delighted to hear that voice again.

“I must admit, that I was a bit of an ass.” Mairon began, not looking at Melkor. “It’s just complicated to be honest.” He conceded. Melkor could accept that in this moment. “I get it, anything or anyone associated with Manwë Sulimo can be intimidating.” Melkor said to acknowledge Mairon’s confession. “But if I may pry?” Mairon asked. “Of course!” Melkor was happy to answer any halfway reasonable answer Mairon had about his bloody brother. Maybe this night would move into territories he had not even dared to dream about this morning while he was dreading the pickup of his stem bolts. “Why do you brothers have different last names?” 
Now this was so basic, Melkor was a little disappointed that Mairon’s question was not juicer. “You bore me!” Melkor dared to nudge Mairon a little who had moved closer to him after ordering food. “Our parents never took on a joint surname, It was a huge scandal back in the day.” He was glad that he was too young to have had to live through all that scrutiny, thank you very much. “And so Serfina Bauglir Sulimo converted from catholism to the Lutheran church, got married to Pastor Eru Illuvatar and then had two sons. As kids our last name was Illuvatar-Bauglir-Sulimo. As soon as I was old enough to decide for myself, I changed my last name to Bauglir, and Manwë chose to go by Sulimo.” The explaining Manny and he had to do in school or elsewhere after their name change was worth it though. Filling out forms had become much less time consuming. 
“Did Pastor Illuvatar mind his sons not taking on his name?” 
Melkor had never been much of a believer, he preferred making informed choices. That attitude hat lead to many discussions and misgivings at home, so his choice of last name seemed almost insignificant to him. “He had bigger fish to fry with me.” Melkor admitted. “And my brother enjoyed frying them with him.” 
“Ouch!” Mairon almost flinched. “I should have anticipated that.” 
“Not to worry.” Melkor smiled. “I am glad we are talking about this here, because I might have thought you scary, but also enjoyed tension between us.” The whisky must have encouraged him to let that spill out of his mouth. 
Mairon folded his hands in front of him, looking sideways to Melkor. “And there was I, wishing to ask you out since I first saw you enter my workshop to discuss your first set of those stupid stem bolts!” He managed to utter through several giggles. “And when I realized who you were, I got my head all up my derrière because I did not want to become attached to anything or anyone remotely resembling a public figure.” 
“So Mairon the admirable, genius craftsman does not seek fame and glory?” Melkor teased his new friend. 
“Being good at something is not essentially tied to having your face plastered everywhere.” Mairon smirked. “Also, my dearest father is a big fish in a little pond like yours, so I was more afraid of wagging tongues in town, than maybe you saying no.” Melkor rolled his eyes. “Tell me something new!” He raised his glass and emptied the last contents. The smoke did taste even better now, the aftertaste brought out welcome notes of sweetness. Mairon did the same, clinking with Melkor’s empty glass on the bar. “To not giving a shit about what people say!”

The food arrived. Melkor did not wish to talk shop, but they eventually bonded over how much a certain group of Silmaringers protesting against any of Ungoliant’s projects that involved chopping down so-called beloved trees. “No one cared about those three sick chestnut trees that had to be removed to rebuild the beer garden!” Mairon snorted. 
“They were already sawing off some of the branches, lest they not break off and hurt any patrons!” Melkor said and scoffed. “Also, when I chopped down that oak to allow for more parking in front of the shop, no one was rallying for the rescue of those trees.” He shook his head. “I don’t want her to leave me here for a year, to be honest.”
“From how I saw you two from afar, you do seem like that type of ride or die type of company owners.” Mairon said before taking a sip of bubbly mineral water. “The stem-bolts are a pain to make but her idea to add a self-sealing mechanism to the pedestrian stem bolt is a stroke of genius.” Mairon paused to make brief eye contact. “The self-sealing part might be a nightmare for me, but it’s also a sign that people still believe in their craft like I do. And I love that.” 
Melkor smiled. “May I?” he asked and waited for Mairon to signal his okay to put his arm around those well trained shoulders he had wanted to touch for a long time. “Is that just your work in the smithy, or do you work out too?” Melkor asked. 
“I try to go to the gym at least once a weak.” Mairon leaned even closer into Melkor’s arm. “But you are also no stranger to weights and heavy lifting.” 
Melkor looked to the side at his arm draped over Mairon’s shoulder. “I could actually do something more tomorrow before I spend the day my office, so I don’t loose any of this.” 
The pasta was good, and they stuck to more of the sparkling water when their dessert was served.

“I don’t indulge a lot” Mairon said, cutting into his portion of glistening, dark chocolaty, almond based cake. “But this is as seductive as it can get.” 
“If I told you that Moringotto was my nickname in vocational college?” 
“Did you eat so much of the stuff that you smelled as delicious as this piece here?” Mairon held up his fork and Melkor could not hold back and stole the piece with his mouth. 
“Cheeky Bauglir!”
Melkor leaned away from Mairon to avoid repercussions. “Coffee here or at my place?” Mairon looked like he was about to pounce Melkor right now, but held back. “I would love to, actually.” He said. “But my brother asked me to help him repair his bike first thing in the morning.”
“Morning is a flexible word.” Melkor quipped, pulling Mairon back into his arm. There was no protest, so he squeezed a little just to make sure Mairon knew how happy he was. 
“Sadly, Curumo is an earlier bird than I. He insisted I do it tomorrow because he spontaneously promised his buddy Olorin to go on a bike tour this weekend.” 
Melkor knew that name. “You mean Olorin as in one of my brother’s aides?” 
“One and the same.” Mairon said with some strain in his voice. 
“Those city hall folks are their own type.” Melkor leaned back and took Mairon’s hand. “So you take care of that bike and I will see you again before you forget we are not at each other’s necks anymore?” 
Mairon grinned took Melkor’s other hand. “I would love to.”

Chapter End Notes

Will be added later, the notes are on Ao3. 

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Melkor sat with his laptop in front of him, unsure if he should laugh or cry. He was in a good mind to introduce the screen to his schnitzel hammer still sitting idly in the drawer, but that would mean going to the repair shop again.
Maybe stop looking at Tumblr would be a better choice. Also, he might as well start pounding those schnitzels instead of his screen. Mairon would be back from his trip in three hours and he wanted dinner to be ready. On the bright side, Melkor had remembered to make the potato salad last night before bed. Now there was the question if there was enough clarified butter to fry those schnitzels properly. Nothing was worse than the wrong fat or not enough to bathe the breaded meat to achieve that perfect crispy crust.
The fridge revealed that there was in fact no more clarified butter left, not even some stashed in the freezer, so it was time to put on a pair of shoes, check his armpits for any noticeable odours and tidy up that man-bun he was sporting, or just comb it back into a neat ponytail.
Melkor ended up taking a full shower, washing his hair and was out an hour later with a neat braid held together with one of Mairon's golden scrunchies. He ended up going for Ghee instead of the usual German Butterschmalz and also picked up some of those frozen strawberries enrobed in dark chocolate. Maybe he should also swing by the office and get a bottle of that Champagne that needed to be enjoyed before it turned into overpriced vinegar.
Just as he had lit the candle on the table, Melkor heard keys turning, a huff and a heavy object rolled over the threshold to their apartment.
"My flame!" Melkor left the kitchen door wide open behind him, eager to give Mairon a hand and a much needed hug.
"Your absence made me go coo-coo again!" Mairon's embrace was home returned.
"Good to be home, Chef!" Mairon's lips brushed his cheeks, one finger tugging at the front of Melkor's apron. Before anything more could be said, Mairon rushed off to the bathroom. "If my shirt is stained with fat, you are paying the cleaners!" He half sang on his way, before shutting the door behind him. 
Travellers returned. Melkor rolled Mairon's case into the bedroom, noticing that he had in fact made the bed with the smaller cushions on the bedspread and not underneath.
"Take that off when you are hugging me!" Back in the kitchen Mairon crept up on him from behind, untying the offending apron. "I do not like fat stains on my linen."
"Lucky for you, all the fat you are fearing has remained in the pan to make your dinner." Melkor pulled out a chair. "Would the master smith care for an aperitif before his dinner"?
"If it's not beer, yes!" Mairon sat, his head tilted backwards, staring at the ceiling. "Those folks in the Pott* know their metallurgy better than I do in some cases, but their taste in after work drinks are not my cup of tea."
Mairon's particularities had been unsettling at first, before they got to know each other, Melkor remembered that stem-bolt delivery at the very start of their relationship. But he had begun to agree with him, and found his own standards were not much different.
"I don't have any tea for you, but will Champagne do?"
Mairon watched him open the bottle and pour two glasses. "You shouldn't have!" A smile had spread all over his body, Melkor observed. That meant Mairon would also be able to actually appreciate the meal he had cooked and not merely chew through and be off to bed like some other times he had come home after a long day on the train.
After dinner they moved over to the sitting room to enjoy their desert with a cup of herbal tea. Mairon put his arm around Melkor. "So what made you go coo-coo in my absence this time?"
"Fandom skulduggery!" Melkor hated to admit.
"So you have been scouring Tumblr again?"
"Guilty as charged."
"Shippers just can't let a former ship exist in the past and allow their favourite character to move on with even more love in their heart, ready for a new partner!" Melkor growled into his teacup before emptying it.
Mairon collected their cups and got up to carry them into the kitchen. "You have a big heart, Bauglir!"
"Sometimes it's too mushy for my own sake!" Melkor called after Mairon, getting up himself. "Maybe I should save my mush for you!"
He turned off the lights and headed to the bathroom to clean his teeth. On his way, he gave Mairon a kiss on his neck, who was placing the dirty dishes into the dishwasher.
"What was that idea of yours again? Wood cabin for a week?"
Mairon closed the dishwasher and turned it on. "You were against that, because you need civilisation." Mairon snarked. "Just like you hate camping."
Melkor shivered at the thought of a tent and all the noise form outside that would keep him from sleeping. "If it's not a tent, but solid walls, getting away from all this hassle and overload might not be as bad as I previously said."
Mairon's expression looked satisfied, maybe just a little too much for Melkor's comfort. But it was late and he was maybe beginning to see the point of being unavailable and missing the news for a few days. So he let that smug grin on Mairon's face go uncommented. "So how about we look at that place near Lake Como you had in mind?"
"Wow!" Mairon handed Melkor the tea towel he had just used to polish the Champagne glasses. "At this rate, might be married in a year."
Melkor stood with the piece of linen in his hands, feeling wide awake.
"Was that a proposal?" Sometimes he could not tell if Mairon was joking or sneaking in truth to sew seeds for his machinations to take root in Melkor's mind.
Mairon's shocked expression was almost comical. "When you say it like that, I may not be quite prepared yet!"
"Quite prepared?" That choice of words stunk of a plan. 
"I still need to hear back from Celebrimbor if he has time." Mairon said, taking the dishcloth out of Melkors hands, hanging it up himself. 
Melkor stood silent, contemplating what to say next. Was Mairon intending on branching out into goldsmith territory to surprise him? "What has Celebrimbor got to do with all this?"
"I am tired, let's go to bed!" Mairon made a throwing away gesture, putting on a weary face. 
Melkor understood. "How about we both clean our teeth and then you can tell me all about your secret ring plans I seem to have uncovered?"
"You are too cunning for your own good!" Mairon mumbled, giving Melkor a clap on his backside. "First of all I want that in bed!" 
 

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It was one of those Tuesday evenings when Gothmog actually had time after coming back from the building site he was overseeing and Melkor was still in the office. 
“Any beer left in the fridge?” Melkor gleaned through a series of mostly tired grunts.  
“Stocked it up yesterday!” He called back, locking his screen to show the photo of that volcano on Iceland he had taken on his last holiday. That trip felt recent but it must have been over a decade ago by now.  
“I’ll join you!” He smiled, hearing a content hum from the kitchenette. 
“I’ll kill that Hurin if he were not lining our pockets!” Gothmog frowned, setting down his bottle, the late afternoon sun shining through the brown glass, revealing half of its contents were already gone. Gothmog’s smell confirmed the exertion he must have been put through today. 
“He sent me an e-mail asking about us turning that old French Military apartment block into luxury condos.” Melkor popped open a bottle of his own and sat down.
“As long as he decides on the details beforehand.” Gothmog huffed. “He wanted us to change the paint-job for the top floor, because the color he initially chose did not look good in the evening sunlight.”
“Has he ever heard of swatches to test colors in different light conditions first?” Melkor silently thanked Mairon for widening his knowledge on painting rooms beyond the technical, when consulting him on a new coat of paint for the bedroom. 
Gothmog chuckles and downs the rest of his beer. “Mr. Hurin von Thalion of Fancy Pants had our folks re-paint the entire top floor in a soft champagne because the Chantilly white was apparently too stark for today’s more mellow taste.”
“Rich of of him mentioning mellow.” Melkor felt relieved he did not have to deal with unfiltered client contact anymore like poor Gothmog did. 
“Isn’t there anything more pleasant we can talk about?” Melkor’s eyes glazed over briefly, and Gothmog got up. “Why not think of something until I am back from the restroom?” He stomped towards the stairs, Melkor’s ears followed the fading footsteps into the basement while he allowed his eyes to stare into the void a little. The most pleasant thing he could think of was Mairon’s birthday coming up next month. It was about time to take his love out to a seriously high end dinner. They had been to most decent places here in the region, even in the wider area. Not that he had ever been to any of those higher end places himself, so curiosity drove Melkor to grab his Laptop from the office next door and look for Restaurants with two or three Michelin stars. After a few scrolls he found a good target: Gondolin. It was just over the boarder in France, sitting by a picturesque stream, tucked away in a Vosges mountains valley under a horribly blue sky. It was perfect! 
The menus looked decent enough to satisfy Mairon’s lust for the highest quality and creativity possible, so did the pictures of the custom interior he found in a separate category on Gondolin’s website, touting the highest quality craft there could be for a restaurant of this caliber. This would could be a wonderful surprise for Mairon to immerse himself in. Melkor imagined hearing that undertone of satisfaction in his partner’s voice when beholding something or someone had met his high standards, especially if that something-someone was himself.
Melkor raised his eyebrow when he discovered that place even had a spa. They could both do with a good massage and pampering. 
So Gondolin it was.

The phone was picked up almost instantly. 
“Maeglin, chez Gondolin!” A heavy French voice answered. 
“Good evening, this is Bauglir from Silmaringen.” Melkor introduced himself.
“How may we help you, Monseigneur Bauglir?” The young man’s French flowed in to an otherwise pretty understandable German. 
“I would like to reserve a room and table for two for the 8th next month.” Melkor felt good that he thought of it at least 3 weeks in advance instead of a day before, so he awarded himself one brownie point for this effort and the act of remembering on time. 
“Your name was Bauglir?” 
“Indeed.” Melkor smiled into the receiver, waiting for the young man to offer him a time slot. 
“One moment.” It sounded like the receiver was put down and he heard typing noises and a faint snort. 
“Monseigneur?” The voice returned. 
“Yes?” Melkor had a feeling. 
“Since you are not on our list of regular guests, I can offer you the 8th of September next year, but it would have to be at 18:00, the late slots are already booked. But we can give you the corner suite.”
Melkor’s eyes nearly popped, noticing that Gothmog had returned from below, leaning back in his chair, eyes closed. 
“Come again?” Melkor had no other words to say, returning his attention back to the phone call at hand.  
“Monseigneur Bauglir, we can offer you a table for two for September 8th for the next year, together with a corner room in our lodging. 
“So what do I have to do to become a regular?” Melkor tried to cut straight to the problem at hand. 
“Accept this booking and we can talk about getting you in for the next Holiday Dinner that year too. That should suffice to get to know you as our new guest.” The French accent had a certain velvety quality that sounded scratchier than it should. 
“You make it sound like a cakewalk.” Melkor tried his best not to sound angry, thus endangering his chances of ever dining at wretched Gondolin. 
“What would you like me to do?” 
“Book me in for next year, but maybe try to make it 19 or 20 hours?” 
“We shall see, Monseigneur Bauglir. May I take your phone and credit card number?”
“Gladly.” Melkor reaches for his wallet in his back pocket and goes on to read out the credit card number Gothmog has overheard often enough. 
“Thank you Monseigneur Bauglir.” The young man sounded like he was opening a door for Melkor. “We will be happy to see you next year.”
“With whom did I have the pleasure of speaking with?”
“My name is Maeglin. I will pass your booking on to Monseigneur Glorfindel. He will see if you can be moved to a later time for dining.”  
“And you are the secretary I can call If I have any questions meanwhile?”Melkor was curious. 
“Non, I am the Sommelier.” Maeglin laughed. In future you will speak to Monsigneur Glorfindel who is in charge of all reservations.”
“Thank you” Melkor wrote down the Name, trying not to roll his eyes. It was what it was. 
“Thank you, Monseigneur Bauglir. Have a pleasant evening.” And Maeglin hung up. Melkor wiped his brow and theatrically mimicked banging his head on the table. 
“Of course it would be one of those!” he wailed at Gothmog, who was grinning too knowingly for his comfort. “What’s up?” Melkor did not like this look. 
“Do you want the good or bad news first?” Gothmog answered. 
“The bad, and then it’s over with!” Melkor said after rubbing his face with both hands. “I need some water? You too?”
Gothmog shrugged a half-assed yes. “Well, I know who is on that fabled list you are not on.” 
“Don’t say Hurin.”
“I’m afraid so.” Gothmog’s smirk morphed into a frown. “He could not stop talking about it last year finally making it on the list after going there for his birthday, his brother’s birthday, and then treating his wife to a weekend with full board and spa treatments for their wedding anniversary.” 
“So what you are implying” Melkor says following a feeling forming in his gut. “Is that I might stand a chance for an earlier date if Hurin recommends me, or where is this going?” 
Gothmog scratched his head. “If I recall correctly, Hurin boasted that his brother-in-law’s tennis partner’s sister got his reservation moved forward considerably, after she put in a good word with Turgon who runs the place.” He paused, cracking open a second beer, leaving the glass of water Melkor had given him untouched. “As if I care for those places, yet I still remember those blasted details.” 
Melkor was already picturing himself schmoozing with Hurin just to make Mairon happy. While he detested the thought of spending his free time with that upstart real estate monger from Cologne, he did not begrudge the effort in front of him for his beloved’s sake. “And what’s the good news?”
“The good news is, that you know someone who could get you an earlier date to take Mairon out.” Gothmog smirked.
“I figured.” Melkor preferred water and downed his glass in one go.  
“So you want to join me on the building site tomorrow to inspect our paint progress and make sure it’s up to Hurin’s exacting standards?” Gothmog goaded him. 
“The only exacting standards I truly adhere to are Mairon’s, thank you very much.” Melkor smiled. “But I suppose it will not hurt to show myself and look diligent for our dear Hurin.”

They spent the remainder of the evening raiding the fridge for leftovers to have for an evening meal and came up with a plan that might work to make Hurin not just feel their customer care was up to scratch, but Melkor might even be more than just someone he did business with. He should become more useful, more indispensable in Hurin’s life.  

And then Ungoliant came in. “Gentlemen, I see you have already dined?” She commented after seeing their emptied plates in front of them. “What are you two plotting?”
Melkor gave her a dirty look. “It’s a long story, but to cut it short, your Thuri might be able to help us.” He hoped she would have some capacities for a new client. 
“She is not going to re-do our company flyer again.” Ungoliant snapped. 
“No!” Melkor tried not to sound too defensive. He thought that fiasco had been forgotten. But of course she would not. “I might have a new client for her that also pays well.” 
Ungoliant’s eyebrows raised in a good way, leaning against the kitchenette counter. “Are we talking one big thing or a steady client?”
“Could be both, I have to see what Hurin really needs.”
“Doesn’t he have that Agency he uses up where he’s from that does his ads?” By the way she rolls her eyes Melkor deducts there might have been some attempts to get Thuri working with him already. 
“Actually, he was moaning about not getting enough social media exposure and news coverage.” Gothmog said, offering Ungoliant a beer, she took after he opened it for her. 
“So he might be in the market for a new agency.” She smiled, looking at Melkor for more answers. “So why are you two worrying about Hurin’s marketing dilemma? Is this some scheme to keep the gravy train going?” 
“That, and I want him to put in a good word for me at Gondolin, so that I can actually take Mairon out for dinner there this year, not next.” He sighed. 
“Always the scheming charmer, my Melkor.” Ungoliant clinked her bottle with his empty water glass. “So Thuri might be able to thank you for your wish to spoil your boyfriend.”
“He’s my partner, we’re not teenagers anymore!” Melkor protested, laughing. 
“You sure did talk like feeling like a teenager every time you had to pick up self-sealing steambolts from his smithy back in the day.” Gothmog did not spare him that reminder. 
“I have grown up since,” Melkor grunted. Adding “in his care.” to make his point clear and nip any further teasing in the bud.

***

2 Weeks Later
Melkor rested his forehead against the mirror. It was too hot and he would have rather have been decluttering his wardrobe with the cool breeze of the airconditioner and the company of Mairon. Instead, he found himself getting ready to go to the tennis club of all places to meet Hurin for “a quick catch-up”. Everything for that man is verbally “just quick” and “uncomplicated”, or “not a biggie”, when actually socializing with him feels like driving on a winding road with lots of intersections and you can’t read the roadsigns. Worst of all, the tennis club is Manwë’s territory. He does not want to meet his dear brother and risk enduring inquisitive comments. 
The things you do for love!
Melkor had even taken the trouble to do some dress code research utilizing the photos from last year’s tournament on the tennis club’s handcrafted website. 
His wardrobe was mostly black, divided into work, free time and formal. He did own sporty clothes for the gym, but nothing for prancing around Silmaringen’s well-to-dos at the tennis club. 

There were those mid-blue denim pants he had bought a while ago, trying to prepare himself for situations like this when it might have been necessary to cosplay as someone with different tastes. They still had the price tag and label on them and the sinking feeling he felt when the shop assistant complimented him after trying them on. They still fit, but sitting was like his abdomen was being crushed. Nope! How was he supposed to stay alert and cajole Hurin in this leg wear corsetry claiming to be the garment of utter freedom? Melkor never understood the whole concept of “Blue Jeans” anyway. He ripped the pants off himself and looked at the clock. The boutique up the road should still be open and being the busy businessman he was, Melkor decided to inform Hurin that he would be dropping in a little later. Hurin answered with a smile and a tennis racket emoji, so there no visible complaints from that side. Easy going then, Hurin!

After marveling at this new trend called “Quiet Luxury Health Goth” the young man at the boutique had a lot to say about, Melkor carried a paper bag with his new outfit back home to get properly dressed for his “date” with Hurin. Those black linen pants with thick stitching details on the seams looked excellent with that heavy cotton-silk blend shirt in deep teal. He looked dressed and chic enough without feeling like he was wearing another person’s clothes.

***

Melkor was thankful for the cool-ish breeze out here in the green, that made the bright sunlight somewhat bearable. The sunscreen he had applied still looked a tad too shiny on his forearms. Oh well! 
Hurin was sat on the terrace in a polo shirt that looked like Melkor’s worst nightmares from the 80ies. They ordered coffee and he listened to Hurin talk about his real estate ventures and how “that PR team I hired” was failing in today’s circumstances. “The markets have changed, you have to speak to younger customers.” Hurin ranted through a bleachy grin. “The heirs selling their grandparents houses don’t look in the newspaper, they need to be met on Isigrem!” Hurin’s fist met the table, almost knocking their coffee cups over. “Even on TukTuk we would have better exposure to the market!” Melkor blinked, grunted and gave a measured nod, trying his best to look like he was agreeing. “Morwen always says you need to keep your eyes on the young ones and get them early!” 
Melkor waited a few seconds. “We do have Atelier Wethil at our disposal.” 
“I have heard of them!” Hurin’s tone shifted towards curiosity. “They would need to focus on video content.” 
“They are the agency for Mayor Sulimo’s office and do his QuickClips, you know.” Melkor dropped, unsure if Hurin knew Manwë was his younger brother. 
“So if you and Finsterweber are not overworking Wethil, can you put in a good word for me?” Hurin waved the waiter to his side. “Get me a bottle of that Champagne I had sent from Gondolin.” He smiled handing over 20 Eros corkage fee. “It’s always good to have your own stuff here.” Hurin said to Melkor, who had not eaten enough yet to stomach French bubbly at this time. “I am driving!” 
“Morwen will take you home later, she will be back from her game any minute now.”

Melkor excused himself to seek out the restroom and texted Mairon for a pickup. “If you don’t mind my bike in the back of your Benz, I will be at the Tennis Club in two.” 
“Thanks, my flame!” Melkor shot back, enjoying the calm of his stall with no one else in the room.

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