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He can feel them looking at him the moment he walks into the cafeteria on Friday morning. He can’t see them yet but their eyes seem to prickle on the back of his neck and he wishes he had settled for a substandard cup of coffee from the machine near Student Services, but he is fussy about hot brown drinks and three days in Geneva have just made him fussier. The coffee there had been divine, as had the food, and the thought of bitter water in a plastic cup is just intolerable. The cafeteria stuff is just good enough to make him risk running into his friends, and now they have seen him, and he is going to have to talk to them.
But first, he is going to stand in this queue and he is going to order a cup of coffee and he is going to pretend that Aragorn and Gimli are not staring holes into the back of his head. He hasn’t spoken to either of them since Saturday morning—he hasn’t known how—and he is sure they will have questions. He isn’t the sort of person who just disappears for days on end, he definitely isn’t the sort of person who ignores his friends’ text messages, and he absolutely isn’t the sort of person who has to cover inappropriate bruises.
The lady who takes his money glances at his neck with open curiosity and he wraps his scarf a little tighter. The soft fabric brushes the damaged skin and he shivers. Tries not to smile as he remembers his father’s apologies, fails miserably when he thinks of the kisses Thranduil has spent the week feathering against the spot where he first lost control. Remorse, guilty arousal, pride.
He thinks there had been a conference; he definitely remembers sitting at the back of a luxurious hall and listening to his father speak about cutting-edge medical research, but mostly he remembers their room, all blond wood and white linen. He remembers looking out over the lake with strong arms around his waist and soft, thrilling whispers in his ear. He remembers stretching out on fragrant sheets and giving himself up to a man who had let go of his fear and given in to his desire to take his son apart with methodical hands and a filthy mouth.
He remembers a spa, herbal steam and hot skin, a heated pool that had been delightfully deserted, and extravagant room service that had seemed to cater to his every desire. At least, the ones that hadn’t been completely satisfied by a man who has turned out to be so much more than his elven king. The details are still wonderfully hazy and he has no idea how any of this is going to work out in the long term, but Legolas feels as though he is walking through a dream. He had wondered if it might all disappear the moment they came home, but a night spent sleeping in his father’s bed, wrapped in his arms, has left him feeling warm and loved.
Because Thranduil does love him. He has told him with his touch, with his smile, and this morning, just before Legolas left for campus, he had drawn him close and stroked his face so gently, eyes bright with anxiety as he had whispered, “Las, I love you. Have a wonderful day.”
And of course he had not wanted to throw himself into his father’s arms like a lovesick teenager, but it had happened anyway, because he is glittering with happiness and in way over his head, and to his utter delight, Dr Thranduil Oropherion had just laughed and held him as he’d murmured the words back, letting them sink into his father’s beautiful hair. And then he had put on his fancy coat and picked up his fancy case, and he had stepped back to allow his son to leave the house first.
And now, one lecture down, Legolas is holding a hot cup of coffee far too tightly and looking around for the source of the ‘we see you’ tingle that is creeping down over his shoulders. He never should have said anything about Geneva, he certainly shouldn’t have told Gimli that he was right about him, but he had just had the most brilliantly intense orgasm and his brain had not been working properly. The trouble is, the last time he had seen either of them, he had been dancing with an ethereal man in black leather, and now…
… there they are. Legolas takes a deep breath and walks with as much nonchalance as he can muster to the plastic table near the stairs where his friends are sitting, eyes fixed firmly on him.
“Hi,” he says, because he’s got nothing else.
“Where. The fuck. Have you been?” Gimli demands.
Legolas lowers himself into the seat opposite him. He sets his coffee down and forces himself not to fiddle with his scarf.
“I’m sorry I’ve been quiet,” he says, looking at Ari in the hope that his face will be softer, but his friend’s dark eyebrows are drawn down in an uncharacteristically stern fashion.
“Quiet?” Gimli repeats. “You have not been quiet. You have been completely off the map for nearly a week. We’ve been frantic, haven’t we, Ari?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say frantic,” Ari murmurs. “But we’ve been… concerned.”
“Guys,” Legolas tries, attempting a smile, but Gimli folds his arms.
“Where have you been?”
“Um… Geneva,” he says after a moment, because it’s the truth, and he’s always been a terrible liar.
“You actually went to Geneva?” Ari asks, astonished, just as Gimli elbows him and demands:
“Who with?”
Legolas hesitates, trying to calm the nervous roiling of his stomach. “Would you believe… no one?”
“Nope.”
“Hardly.”
“Listen, I’m really sorry I freaked you out,” he says. He holds onto his hot cup until it burns his fingers. “That was a dick move, I get that. But I’m fine and I promise to never do it again.”
“What, ignore us or fuck off to Switzerland with some random guy you met in a club?” Ari says.
“You’re one to talk,” Legolas mutters, but he can feel the flush creeping up the side of his neck. He’s not going to touch it; he’s not going to press his fingers to the place where his father bit him right as he… he’s not going to touch it.
Gimli’s eyes narrow and he reaches out, tugging the scarf away from Legolas’s neck before he has a chance to react. He has always been maddeningly fast, and now he is staring openly at the marked spot with his mouth slightly open.
“Holy fuck,” Ari breathes. “I knew that guy was intense… wow.”
“It wasn’t…” Legolas starts, and then closes his mouth. It wasn’t him? Was it? Which answer makes him sound less insane?
“Did he hurt you?” Gimli asks. “Do I need to fuck him up?”
He shakes his head and pulls the scarf back over his neck. “No. But thank you.”
Gimli grunts and glances at Ari, who shrugs. He rubs his beard and gazes at Legolas, eyes narrowed.
“You said you found something better. You said I was right about you.”
“I say a lot of things,” Legolas mumbles.
“Why Geneva?” Ari asks, leaning back in his chair with catlike grace.
Legolas shrugs. He feels as though an enormous net is closing in on him, and he has nowhere to run. Unless he literally gets up and flees the cafeteria. It’s not a long term solution, but it might give him enough time to figure out what to do next. He is halfway out of his chair when a strong hand grips his wrist and pulls him back down hard.
“Tell me what I was right about.”
Legolas stares at him, heart pounding. He tries to focus on his friend’s searing gaze but all he can think about is his father’s hands on his skin, his warm mouth, the way he had drawn his tongue over those inked words over and over until Thranduil had gasped and pleaded for him. He tries to stop, but the images wash around him like warm honey and he has to bite down so hard on a smile that he can taste blood in his mouth. He is crazy in love and Gimli is looking right into him, and there is nothing he can do.
“Legolas, you didn’t,” he says. His eyes flick to Ari and then back again.
“I didn’t what?” he asks, but he knows he’s fucked.
“Don’t make me say it.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, and he stares down into his coffee because he cannot look his friend in the eye any more. Gimli has been joking about him and his father for the longest time, but the reality of it is something else entirely.
“You fucked him, didn’t you?” he says, just as Ari offers:
“The guy in the club was your dad, wasn’t he?”
Legolas freezes, every muscle in his body pulling tight, and then he sags into his chair. He sighs. “Yep.”
Gimli lets out a rough breath. “Which part?”
“Both parts,” he says, tipping his head back and staring at the ceiling. “All of it. I’m sick, I know. Just… let me have it. Quietly, though, okay? We’re still in the middle of the cafeteria and I’d like to keep coming here, even if neither of you ever speak to me again.”
“How?” Gimli asks. “I mean… I don’t know what I mean.”
“I went home, and I found him in the kitchen, freaking out and drinking. He didn’t recognise me until he heard my voice, and he ran off.” Legolas addresses his words to the flickering strip light above his head. “We just… we wanted…” He sighs. “We wanted to, so we did.”
“Fucking hell, mate,” Gimli mutters. “I mean…. but you were drunk, right?”
“The first time,” Legolas says. “Sort of. But after that…” He forces himself to look at his friends, at their wide eyes and staggered expressions. “I wanted to. I think I always have.”
“You wanted to have sex with your father?” Ari asks, and to Legolas’s astonishment, his mouth quirks into a tiny smile.
“Tell me you wouldn’t,” he says, and Aragorn laughs softly.
“I definitely would.”
“You’re not related to him, you daft tart,” Gimli snaps. “You know, when I said those things, I was just messing around. I wasn’t trying to… give you ideas.”
“You didn’t. I just… I don’t know how to say this any other way… I did it because I wanted to,” Legolas says, feeling his resolve strengthening. His friends are shocked but they are not screaming, they are not running out of the building in horror, and he thinks he is going to survive this. “He wanted to. We kissed and we fucked and we… he was… it was amazing. I’m in love with him. Sorry. No, I’m not sorry. He had to speak at a conference in Geneva and he asked me to go with him and I did and that’s where I’ve been all week, but now I’m back, and you are both staring at me like I’ve got two heads and… that’s fair, I suppose.”
He rests his hands on the plastic table top and presses them down firmly. Lets out a shaky breath.
“Are you really in love with him?” Ari asks softly.
Legolas nods, skin heating again. “Yeah.”
Ari sighs. “Wow.”
Gimli stares at him. “Don’t encourage him.”
“What? I think it’s romantic,” Ari says, and his sly smile turns rather beatific.
“It’s… weird,” Gimli whispers, and then he mouths something at Ari that looks a lot like ‘incest’.
“Technically, yeah, but it’s also… just imagine it,” Ari says, and not for the first time, his gaze makes Legolas feel as though he is being undressed.
Gimli’s face turns red. “I don’t want to imagine it, thank you very much.”
“If everyone could stop imagining it, that would be great,” Legolas says, but no one is listening.
“Oh, god,” Gimli groans, and he drops his face into his hands.
Ari lifts an eyebrow. “What?”
“I just keep thinking… I don’t want to think it… I don’t want to have sex with my dad,” he mumbles.
Legolas snorts. Ari wrinkles his nose. “I don’t want to have sex with your dad, either.”
Gimli looks up, eyebrows knitted. “Hey,” he protests, caught between offence and bewilderment.
“Gims, your dad wears an anorak. He eats beans straight out of the tin,” Ari says, and he gestures at Legolas. “His dad is Dr fucking Oropherion. Come on.”
Legolas says nothing, but his stomach flips at the mention of his father’s name, and wow, he really does have it bad. Gimli scowls.
“Fuck off,” he mutters. “I still think you’ve lost your mind. How are you going to… how is this even going to work, mate? Are you just fucking or are you… in a relationship?”
“He’s my…” Legolas hesitates. “We’re in a relationship.”
Gimli groans. Ari smiles and puts his head on his shoulder, black hair spilling against red. Gimli heaves a deep sigh but doesn’t push him away.
“It’s romantic,” Ari whispers again. “Forbidden love. I’m here for it.”
“Thanks,” Legolas says, smiling despite the troubled look on Gimli’s face.
Forbidden love. He imagines what Thranduil’s face would look like if he heard those words—the arch of an impressive eyebrow, the flicker at the corner of that mouth. He bites his lip.
“You’re thinking about him,” Ari sings, slanting his eyes at Legolas and grinning slowly.
“I’m not.”
“You’re insane,” Gimli says.
“Maybe.”
“There’s nothing I can say to talk you out of this, is there?” Gimli sighs, and he sounds resigned.
“No,” Legolas says simply. He shrugs. “It’s okay if you don’t understand.”
Gimli rubs a hand over his face. “I was the one who told you to fucking dance with him. Fuck’s sake.”
“You should thank him for that,” Ari says helpfully.
“Thank you, Gimli,” Legolas says, and then he slides a tentative hand across the table to rest on his friend’s arm. “Please don’t hate me. I promise I know what I’m doing, as much as anyone ever does. I didn’t know I could feel like this. He loves me, okay? I don’t want to have to choose between you.”
Gimli blinks. He stares at Legolas’s hand for a moment, eyes coming to rest on the twisted silver ring that wraps around his thumb. It belongs to his elven king and he has been wearing it since his father put it there, right before they left for the airport on Monday morning. He had perched on the edge of the bed, all combed hair and smart clothes, and put on his rings for the first time all weekend, at the last moment picking up a piece from his fantasy costume and sliding it onto his son’s hand with a curious little smile. He hasn’t taken it off since, not even for a moment.
“You never wear jewellery,” Gimli says, and he meets Legolas’s eyes. He lets out a long, careful breath. “If he hurts you, I swear to god, I will tear him apart and no one will ever find the pieces.”
“I love you, too,” Legolas murmurs, and his chest fills with cautious warmth.
He releases Gimli, but he continues to stare so hard across the table that Legolas squirms under his attention.
“He will be watching you very closely,” Ari says. “And so will I. Possibly through a telescope.”
Legolas laughs and tries not to think too hard about the fact that he might mean it. He leans back in his chair and sips his coffee. It’s going cold but he doesn’t care, because it’s just possible that everything is going to be alright. The future is uncertain, but it will contain his Gimli and his Ari and his Thranduil, and for now, that’s more than enough.
His pocket vibrates and he pulls out his phone. He tries, god, he tries, but he cannot help his flush or his smile when he sees his father’s name on the screen.
219 emails and all I can think about is you.
He stares at the words, heart speeding. A second message arrives, containing a picture of his father’s hand, wrapped around a mug that Legolas is pretty sure he gave to him a couple of Christmases ago. Elegant fingers, solid silver rings, steaming black coffee. He bites his lip hard, tasting blood again. He’s not getting hard, not in the cafeteria, not in front of Ari and Gimli, and okay, he is, because he wants that man so very badly. And that man wants him right back.
“Look at you,” Ari laughs, leaning across the table and attempting to steal Legolas’s phone out of his hands. “It’s him, isn’t it? Is he sending you filthy pictures? I want to see.”
“I don’t,” Gimli says firmly.
Legolas holds his phone to his chest and attempts to stare his friends down. They both look so fucking smug that he gives in and shows them the picture. “Not filthy. See?”
“Oh, nice hands,” Ari sighs.
“Hands are just… hands,” Gimli says, puzzled.
Ari and Legolas share a look of understanding.
“He does have nice hands,” Legolas admits, and when he starts typing out a reply, Gimli groans out loud.
“You two are ridiculous. I’m getting chips.”
He heaves himself to his feet, and when he stomps past Legolas, he grips his shoulder for the briefest of moments.
Deal with 20 of them and I’ll send you a picture, he types.
Ari grins, watching him with his chin in his hands.
Deal, Thranduil replies.
Legolas finishes his coffee. He watches Gimli standing in line for the hot counter and fiddling with his wallet chain. He looks pensive, but he also looks hungry. Carbs always help him think. When Legolas turns back to Ari, his friend’s smile is dangerous.
“So…”
“Yes, Ari?”
“I’ve got to know… who was on top?”
Legolas rolls his eyes. He leans across the table on his elbows and meets Ari’s eyes. “Which time?”
“Oh my god,” he whispers, letting his head slide down onto his forearms in a fluid, theatrical gesture. “He’s versatile? That’s it. I’m dead.”
“You will be if you say anything like that in front of Gimli,” he says, just as his friend begins his trek back to their table, plate of chips in hand.
His phone vibrates again. I’ve deleted 20, does that count?
Legolas bites down on a smile and gets to his feet. “Back in a minute.”