Memoirs of a Northern Bastard (Series)

Pairing: Sean Bean/Marton Csokas
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sean meets Complication.
Warning: AU, Homophobia
Note: As this is currently un-betaed, any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

As stories went, the most important element would be the Conflict, the Tension, the Complication or whatever you would have it called, I care not. Therefore, in this chapter, I suppose Complication would manifest itself in measurements of about six foot three, with dark, curly hair and eyes of indefinable colour.

I first took notice of him one Friday night – that solitary figure at the bar perched upon a stool, nursing his martini. It was hard not to notice him really, him being so tall and so well-groomed. “Club 40 Below” was not a place that attracted the patronage of one such as he. It was, after all, more of a place where the college kids hung out. You know the type, I suppose – kids clad in jeans and t-shirts, attempting to look older than they were and all that?

Still, there he was – pants, shirt, watch, loafers, cream in his hair and all – exuding an air of refined indifference, sitting with his head slightly bent over his drink and his eyes turned down upon his hands. It was all an act, of course, because in reality, those very eyes were fixed upon me.

I could not understand why he took an interest in me. Sure, I was good-looking (I got complimented loads of times by women and even Viggo grudgingly admitted that they were right), but I thought anyone with half a brain would be able to see that I was also not gay. I did not talk like, walk like one or dress like one. And I certainly did not look like someone who enjoyed being sodomized. At all. So what the fuck was he doing, looking my way?

I gave various hints about my being not-gay. I flirted openly with the women, allowed them to run their fingers through my hair and boldly looked down their cleavages. Hell, I even shared an olive with some girl, delicately nibbling off the fruit from between her lips. Not that it discouraged him or anything. In fact, I feared I might have actually encouraged him because he came back, night after night, when I was working at the club on Fridays and weekends, disappearing again any other days. The very thought disturbed me in more ways than I could possibly imagine, upon which I hope that the Readers would be able to commiserate over this stormy confliction of my emotions.

“Why are you over-reacting? He’s just looking. Can’t a person look at another anymore without being ‘gay’?” Viggo replied after I complained to him about Complication’s continual perusal of me. Then he glanced up from the paper that he had been writing and gave me a look of such perplexity, such confusion, that I was forced to throw my hands up in the air and walked away from his room, shaking my head in disgust.

I did not think Viggo fully understood the importance of what I had to say and it annoyed me for some reason. He did not frequent the club on those weekends as he left the running of the club to me. He certainly did not experience what I did; Complication watching me intensely and then abruptly dropping his gaze towards his hands when he thought I was looking in his way.

It was so simple to me because ultimately, my understanding of the situation that I found myself in was this: Men could not possibly look at other men in that persistent manner and not be gay. Period. What the hell was wrong with them anyway? I never did understand that lot of people, really, and I suspected I never would nor would I ever want to.

Still, somewhere along the line, I realized that Viggo had a point (no matter how small it may be). Perhaps I was over-reacting and perhaps he wasn’t really looking at me. Perhaps. A man could hope for that much, couldn’t he? So I ignored it as much as was possible and Complication continued with the staring for several days.

Two weeks passed and slowly I began to have by doubts about my judgement of Complication. Perhaps he wasn’t really gay because other than looking, he gave no further indication of his interest towards me. He certainly seemed pleasant enough though, keeping mostly to himself, bending his head every now and then to scribble in a little notebook I saw him carrying around with him whenever he came into the club.

It not until the following week that I became thoroughly convinced that he was actually straight. I did not know how I could have misunderstood his intentions towards me because I suddenly realised that he studied anyone and everyone of interest to him; men and women alike. And of course I found out that the only reason why he was staring at people was because he was sketching pictures of them – Complication was (of all things) an artist of sorts.

The customers took notice of him after a while, eagerly peering over his shoulder as he sat absorbed in his art, contented as he was to watch the world go by while he sat at its peripherals. He smiled occasionally and talked less, a fact that fascinated me to no end until it came to a point in time where I finally decided to introduce myself to him on my own accord.

It was then I found out his name was Marton. Marton Csokas, aged 27, dark-haired, dark(?)-eyed Caucasian who was a former student at the University of New York some years back. I also found out through word-of-mouth from regular customers that he had received a scholarship to study art in Paris or something of that nature. Do not ask me how they knew. They just did. Everyone knew everyone else here at the Village. It was that small and we were practically living in each others’ backyard. Literally.

In any case, I found Complication (who shall henceforth be called Marton) to be an excellent conversationalist. He was patient with my youth, amused by my cockiness, engaging in his manner of speech, so on and so forth until such a time when I became so ashamed of my former misjudgement of his character that I endeavoured to be twice as nice to him as he was to me.

Thus, it was no wonder then that we began to grow close. Me and Marton. He wasn’t like Viggo in many ways because when I spoke to Marton, every single word that I said seemed important. Marton made me feel important, and less of insecure about expressing myself. Less like a fool, less like a boy, more like a confidant. It was intoxicating… this attention that was bestowed upon me and those dark eyes that fixed attentively upon my face while I spoke animatedly about whatever that took my fancy at that point of time.

And I spoke to him whenever I could – whenever he dropped by to see me – always eager to hear about his art, the people he had met and the places he had been to. It all happened so quickly until it came to a point in time where the inevitable occurred (as the more intelligent readers amongst you out there could easily surmise even without conclusive statements). In short, dear Readers, he invited me back to his house.

It happened after five shots of vodka and a joint. No. Actually, that’s a lie. I would have loved to say that I was stoned or drunk, but it did not happen the way people expected it to. There was nothing worst than having the protagonist make the most life-changing decision of his life under the influence of cigarettes and alcohol, I think, because how then could you believe in the complete change in his perception of the world? And I did. Change I mean. Marton did that much to me as such was the extent of our friendship.

Still, it was odd really – me, Sean Bean, a man’s man, accepting an invitation from another man to go to his house (to get my picture painted no less). It sounded gay-ish I suppose, but at that point in time I didn’t give really a damn. The exact details of what led to that moment still remained fresh in my mind and solely with the intention of lengthening my story, I shall condescend to impart to you the details of what happened the day Complication changed my life forever... in the next chapter of course.

to be continued...