Late Nights and Coffee in Bed - Chapter II
Thorin was convinced that he had chosen the single most pretentious restaurant in town, and Thranduil couldn’t even see the decor. He spent the first ten minutes of their date grumbling irritably about just this fact. “I’m even wearing a tie. I could have taken you to Pizza Hut and you wouldn’t have known the difference.”
Thranduil laughed. “I would have been able to smell it, you know. Pizza Hut has a very distinct smell. Besides, I think I’d probably figure it out when you ordered pizza off the menu.” He was wearing a gorgeous shirt the color of bluebells, a sharp well-tailored jacket fitted neatly over it. Thorin knew, on some level, that it was ridiculous of him to think that Thranduil must have help dressing himself each morning, but he was envious of the ease with which the man seemed to look put-together and at ease in his clothes on any occasion.
Meanwhile, Thorin kept tugging at his tie, the sensation that it was tightening around his throat increasing with each moment. He hadn’t worn one since college recitals, and he wasn’t sure that he missed them. He fiddled with the menu, unsure what the best choice might be. What if he wanted to kiss Thranduil later? He should probably avoid garlic. But this was an Italian restaurant. Everything had garlic. Perhaps he could talk Thranduil into dessert or coffee. It would mask the scent of the garlic. Then they could kiss. He might have been overthinking it. He was actually definitely overthinking it.
“What are you getting?” he asked suddenly, an excuse to break the silence that had settled over them like a blanket. “Anything look good?”
Thranduil’s menu lay on the table, and he huffed out an amused breath. “I’m not sure. Nothing looks like much of anything to me,” he teased.
Thorin’s face went hot. “Oh, god, I’m sorry. Do you want me to read you the menu choices? I can do that, if you like.”
“No. Choose something for me.” Thranduil’s hand inched across the table, and Thorin watched it for a moment before sliding his fingertips over his knuckles, then tucking their palms together. “I’m allergic to shellfish. But anything else is fair game.”
“No shellfish,” Thorin confirmed with a nod, still embarrassed but warmed by their hands linked on the table. “I’m lactose intolerant. Now we’re even.”
Thranduil smiled at him. “My dreams of sharing a milkshake at the soda fountain are dashed.”
Thorin didn’t expect Thranduil to make him laugh as often as he did - or at all really. He seemed such a stoic person, a stern individual, hard to approach. This side of him, with his shoulders relaxed and his smile easy, made him seem like a different person. “I know almost nothing about you,” Thorin realized as they ate their pasta. (Thranduil had also insisted on garlic bread. Now dessert was a must.)
Thranduil paused in twirling his spaghetti onto his fork. “That’s not strictly true. You know how I take my tea - and that I’m blind.”
“Shut up. You know what I mean.” Thorin nudged his leg under the table. “Do you have family? Siblings?”
“No siblings. My parents died years ago. I have distant cousins somewhere. I also have a son, Legolas - about your nephews’ age.”
Thorin’s eyebrows lifted. “Divorced?”
“Not strictly speaking, no. He was… unplanned.” Thranduil twisted up his mouth like he tasted something sour, as if he found the word distasteful. “But very welcome. His mother and I are friendly, but were never serious with each other.”
“I should probably tell you that I almost suggested a play date between him and Fili and Kili, like they’re children.” Thorin chuckled.
“Well, yours are. Legolas is almost too serious for his own good, if I’m quite honest. I wouldn’t mind him having a less wholesome influence in his life.”
“Are you implying my nephews aren’t wholesome?”
“I would like you to repeat that question to yourself and hear how ridiculous it sounds.”
“Fair enough.” Thorin tried to imagine what Thranduil’s son might look like - found himself conjuring the same carved jaw and distinct cheekbones, and even the steely blue eyes, perhaps the blonde hair. He wanted to meet him. That was only mildly terrifying. “Is he blind?”
“You don’t pull punches, do you?”
“Sorry.” Thorin winced. “That was inappropriate, I suppose.”
“No, I appreciate it. Too many people try to be delicate about it. But the fact is, I’m blind. It’s part of my identity.” He shrugged in that same nonchalant way, taking a bite of his pasta and chewing it slowly. After he swallowed, he continued, “I had a pretty serious case of the measles as a child, and that’s how I lost my vision. It’s not hereditary, and Legolas has perfect vision, as far as I know. He doesn’t even wear glasses.” He bent his head. “He was always a help to me growing up. I’m sure that’s part of the reason he’s so responsible and so serious.”
“I’d like to meet him at some point.” Thorin almost bit his tongue on the words. Was that too much, too soon? Oh, well, it was said now. “It might be nice to know someone who actually does show he can be responsible. I have no idea how my nephews are going to end up at this point.”
“You should give them more credit. They put up with you each day.”
“Ha ha.” Thorin rolled his eyes. “Still, the Mountain couldn’t run without them. It would fall apart.”
Thranduil hummed. “May I ask you a question?”
“Seems only fair.” Thorin had asked Thranduil enough personal questions to last a lifetime in the past few minutes. He deserved for him to return the favor.
He twitched the corner of his mouth up. “Why run a coffee shop? It doesn’t seem like something that makes you particularly happy, and now that I know you better, it seems like the last thing I’d expect you to do.”
“Ah.” Thorin scraped his fork on the edge of his plate. “It was my father’s, and before that, his father’s. I inherited it when he died a few years ago. It’s gone through a lot of changes over the years; my father kept it as a sort of bar-slash-smoke shop. His best customers were old men who came to drink brandy and smoke cigars, but he did alright. When he died, I think he wanted me to continue with it. I thought about selling it right away.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Fili and Kili, mostly. I was struggling financially a bit at the time, and they thought with a makeover, the business could be successful. They were right. The shop is their baby, so of course they’re enthusiastic about working there. Someday, I’m hoping to retire and let them run it, give them the deed to the building and just walk away.”
“Do you think you’ll miss it?”
“God, no.” He laughed. “It’s been a means to an end for me, and I’m grateful that my father gave me a way to earn a living. It was like he knew I would need one. I was a stubborn kid, to be honest. I always figured my life would just fall into place, and I didn’t make many plans for it. So when that didn’t happen, at least my dad left a failsafe for me.”
“Are you happy?”
Thorin considered the question for a long moment, because it wasn’t something that he had ever asked himself before. Was he happy? “I get restless sometimes,” he said honestly. “But for the most part, I’m content, and I think that’s more than a lot of people can say.”
* * *
They went to bed together that night.
Thorin briefly thought that they should wait, that they shouldn’t rush this. They didn’t know each other well enough yet, each didn’t know the other’s inclinations, and so this could be awkward; they could leave this feeling not satisfied but possibly uncomfortable, so that they were unable then to look each other in the eye.
But when Thorin walked Thranduil to his door, Thranduil’s hands crept their way from his shoulders to his face, and he let out a little surprised laugh. “You have a beard.”
“Yeah?”
“I wouldn’t have guessed it, from the sound of your voice.” He scraped his thumbs over the short hair, as if he was petting a cat. “I like beards.”
“Do you? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
He hummed, his eyes closed, his fingertips touching his cheekbones, the corners of his eyes, the tips of his ears. “Sensation is important to me, since I can’t see. I find different things sexy. I like how beards feel.”
If that wasn’t an invitation.
Thorin leaned up to kiss him, a firm, sharp kiss that had Thranduil’s hands tightening around his face, dragging him in closer. He was a few inches taller than Thorin, and pulling him in pronounced that height difference so Thorin had to crane his head up.
But they didn’t say there for long. Thranduil broke away from him, offered him a breathless smile, and turned to unlock the door. “I would ask you in for drink,” he said a little gruffly, “but I think at this point, that would just be a waste of time.”
He walked him through his well-kept house and to the bedroom so quickly that Thorin only had enough time to take in his hardwood floors and cream-colored walls before there was suddenly a bed and all he was really interested in was having Thranduil on it. They didn’t take their time. Neither of them were particularly interested in the slow striptease; they were too old for play.
Thorin found quickly that Thranduil really did like his beard. The scrape of it across his shoulders and neck had him pressing his fingernails into his back, arching into him, and Thorin couldn’t keep his hands still; he wanted to touch every lovely, creamy inch of him: the sharp outline of his ribs, the dip of his hipbones, the lean lines of his thighs and the dimples in the small of his back. He made him come with his fingers and his mouth, and he watched Thranduil’s cheekbones and chest go dusty pink, his eyelashes fanned out like little shadows on his face.
They kissed slowly, afterwards, and Thranduil’s hands moved quietly over Thorin, like he was cataloguing each curve of his muscles under his hands. He paid particularly close attention to his hands, tracing the ridges of his knuckles, the tips of his fingernails, the grooves of his fingertips, the lines of his palms. Thorin blinked sleepily at him. “What are you doing?”
“Do you play an instrument?”
Thorin hummed. “Yes. Violin. I don’t play as often as I used to.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that. Your fingertips are callused.” He nosed at Thorin’s cheek, and Thorin turned in to kiss him. “I’m a pianist.”
“Mmm? Yeah?”
“Yes. I play for the California Symphony.”
Thorin felt a jolt of envy at that. “That was what I would have liked to do, if I was a better player. I auditioned years ago. Obviously, they didn’t care for me. They said I wasn’t technical enough.”
Thranduil snorted. “Sounds about right. God forbid anyone show a little passion for the music.” He traced his knuckles along Thorin’s arm. “I’d like to hear you play.”
“Sometime, maybe.” Thorin chuckled. “I don’t know if I could impress a concert pianist.”
“You already have.”
* * *
“Apparently, all you have to do to get free stuff from Thorin is have sex with him.”
“Kili.”
He fixed his uncle with his best look. “Tell me, really, truly, honestly tell me that you have charged Thranduil for even one cup of tea since you started dating and I will stop mentioning it.”
“No, you won't.” Fili leaned against the counter, his hands curled around his mug as he gently blew on the coffee. “You're way too gleeful about this whole situation.” That was true, and Thorin could certainly attest to it; Kili had been walking around the shop quite clearly pleased as punch at the idea of his uncle having a boyfriend. He seemed to think it would improve Thorin's mood.
Of course, Thorin was happy, in that soft way that made the tips of his ears sometimes feel hot, the back of his throat warm - but it certainly didn't change the fact that his nephews were unmanageable at best. “If Kili keeps it up, he's going to be out of a job before he knows it.”
“How dare you!” Kili yelped. “When my matchmaking is the reason for your happiness!”
Thorin ignored him, as any intelligent human being would, and took his tea and Thranduil's out to the table outside. Thranduil sat quietly there, his face turned up toward the warmth of the sun, and Thorin paused briefly beside the table, just to admire him. Thranduil cast a long shadow, with legs he had to constantly stretch out in front of him, since they barely fit under tables. His cheekbones “could cut glass,” as Fili liked to say, and the fingers tapping on the tabletop were those of a pianist. Thorin had watched him play, seated at the piano with his eyes closed, his hands stretched out over the keys. He liked classical pieces, which didn't surprise Thorin. Everything about Thranduil was classical: he read Hawthorne and ate steak for breakfast and more often than not, wore two-piece suits tailored to draw in at all the right parts of his body.
The corner of his sharp mouth quirked up. “I can smell the tea, you know. I know you're just standing there looking at me.”
Thorin cleared his throat, the back of his neck going hot, and he set down their tea a little harder than he intended to. “Well, you make it hard not to. Honestly, it's like walking by a supermodel sitting outside my cafe.”
“If only that were the case.” Thranduil chuckled, sliding his hand across the table to find his tea. “You're bringing your violin tonight, aren't you? When you come to my place?”
“I don't know. I'll have to check its strings. I might need to change them.”
“Which is what you said last week.”
He slumped back in his chair, chastised. “I haven't played in a long time. I have a strong feeling you have expectations higher than what I can deliver.”
“Of course I do.” Thranduil slid his dark glasses on. He'd told Thorin once that he especially preferred to wear them when the sun was bright, as not wearing them drew an uncomfortable amount of attention to the fact that he was blind. (“I can feel people staring at me,” he'd admitted one night while they were lying mostly naked in Thorin's bed. “They don't mean to, and they're not trying to be cruel, but that's exactly what's happening.”) “I have higher expectations for you than you have for yourself, which is why you find me so irritating.”
“I don't find you irritating,” Thorin laughed. “I don't tend to sleep with people I find irritating.”
“Yes, you do. It's how you get out all your frustration.” Thranduil reached out, ran his thumb across Thorin's knuckles. “At any rate, you can't use the excuse about your strings anymore. I replaced them for you.”
Thorin went still. “What?”
“Yeah,” Thranduil hummed around a sip of his tea. “I couldn't do it myself. I've never been much use at all with string instruments. But the other day, when you were at the shop most of the day, I took it with me to rehearsal. I had the first violinist string and tune it. He wasn't particularly pleased about it, but when I told him about you, he recognized your name. I didn't know you'd studied under Gandalf.”
“I didn't. Not officially.” Thorin lifted a shoulder in a shrug. He knew Thranduil couldn't see him, but it made him feel good to do it. “He came to watch rehearsals a lot, would sometimes pull me aside after we finished. He liked to give me five-minute lessons, usually to tell me that my finger positioning was off.” He ran his fingers through his hair, uncomfortable. “I didn't realize people knew that.”
“You were a prodigy.”
“That's overstating things a bit.” Thorin withdrew his hand, pushed himself to his feet. “I've got to get back to work.”
“Oh.” Thranduil frowned, and Thorin couldn't help but touch his thumb to the corner of his mouth, to lean down to kiss him. Thranduil leaned into him the same way a flower might “Let me know when you're on your way to my apartment.”