#matingmarch

“You clear the table. Then go upstairs. There’s school tomorrow.”

The tone left no room for argument. Bain stood at once, and Legolas followed without a word. They gathered the plates, glasses, and cutlery.

“Good night.”

Each of them kissed Bard, but only gave Thranduil a curt nod before leaving the room. The sound of their footsteps faded on the stairs and then disappeared completely. Bard stood in turn, took what remained, and went into the kitchen. He turned on the tap, plunged his hands into the warm water, and began doing the dishes. Behind him, Thranduil’s presence arrived before any sound announced it. More precisely, it was the sudden grip of his hand on him, rough rather than gentle. Bard barely inhaled, kept going, though his movements slowed almost imperceptibly. The touch lingered, then grew firmer.

“Thranduil…”

Thranduil’s body pressed against his without hesitation, and his hand slipped beneath the fabric with unsettling certainty. Bard froze; his hands stopped moving in the water. Thranduil continued, his breath finding Bard’s ear, his voice dropping, slow and warm.

“This… is mine.”

Bard closed his eyes briefly, then his hand came down around Thranduil’s wrist, trying to stop him. He turned his head slightly and their eyes met.

“No.”

Thranduil did not step back.

“Of course it is. And this too.”

Bard felt the pressure change, becoming more diffuse, harder to resist. His grip loosened slightly—only slightly—but it was enough. Thranduil’s hand resumed its touch, undoing his trousers, sliding over him, his warm palm stroking and claiming. Bard’s hand remained on his wrist.

“You’re mine…”

Bard did not answer. He stayed still, letting Thranduil tug his trousers down in feverish haste to his ankles. He winced when Thranduil pushed too far, too quickly, driven by an excitement that bordered on violence. It did not last long; Thranduil was too aroused by the situation, the position, the fact that they could be caught at any moment. Bard, meanwhile, could not lose himself in it. His body barely responded to Thranduil’s breath against his ear, to the light kisses pressed to his nape and the side of his neck.

When Thranduil withdrew, Bard pulled away, turned fully toward him, his expression hard.

“You don’t do that again. Not like that. Not without giving me a choice.”

He got dressed, furious. Thranduil watched him.

“You’re overreacting.”

Bard let out a sharp laugh.

“Oh yeah? I never said yes, you go ahead anyway, and I’m the one overreacting?”

“You didn’t stop me. You never said no.”

“Are you serious?”

Bard ran a hand through his hair, irritated.

“Do you actually not understand, or are you pretending?”

“I understand perfectly.”

Thranduil’s voice remained calm.

“I wanted you. And I gave in.”

He caught Bard’s wrist, pulling him slightly closer.

“You’re with me. You share my bed, my body, my life. Don’t act like this is new.”

Bard tore his wrist free.

“No. I’m not an object you set aside and pick up whenever you feel like it.”

“You’re playing with words.”

“And you’re pretending this is normal.”

Silence fell again, heavier. Bard spoke again, lower.

“With the way you’ve been acting lately, it doesn’t make me want to stay.”

Thranduil froze for a second.

“What does that mean?”

“You think we’re happy, Thranduil? Me, the kids, even you? Are you happy like this? With this awful atmosphere all day long?”

Thranduil briefly looked away, a small, almost invisible movement, then brought his gaze back to Bard. He inhaled slowly. His voice was low, controlled, but less steady than usual, as if it were still searching for balance. He took a step in the room—not toward Bard, not away either, just to avoid standing completely still.

“Happiness has nothing to do with it. I’m raising my son.”

He lifted his chin, finding a more familiar posture again.

“And yes, that involves tension. It means he won’t always be happy. It means you won’t be either, apparently. I’m not going to start letting everything go just because you don’t like the atmosphere.”

“So you don’t care that everyone is miserable in this house? And you think I want to stay with someone who doesn’t care about my son’s happiness, his, or mine?”

His jaw tightened, visibly this time. He looked away briefly, ran a hand over his face to contain what was rising, then turned back to Bard more sharply than before.

“Don’t twist what I’m saying.”

His voice was sharper, lower, threaded with a new tension. He stepped closer, closing the distance without trying to overpower him, but unable to stay away.

“I don’t ‘not care’ about anything, and certainly not about my son. Or you. But I refuse to base everything on…” He made a vague, irritated gesture, searching for words. “…moods that change every two weeks. You think that’s what being a good father is?” he continued, lower. “Giving in as soon as it gets difficult? You think I enjoy this?”

Bard pressed himself slightly more against the counter.

“Yes! Yes, it feels like you do, like you actually get something out of torturing your poor kid who’s never done anything wrong! That’s not being a good father, Thranduil! Being a good father means supporting your son!”

“You really think I take pleasure in that?”

Bard shook his head slightly, incredulous, unsure whether to get angry or just exhausted by hearing this.

“You don’t see anything.”

The accusation slipped out, quiet but deep. Thranduil paced a few steps, unable to stay still now, running a hand through his hair before turning back to Bard more abruptly.

“Supporting him doesn’t mean approving everything he does, or letting him believe everything is simple, that everything is allowed, that his choices have no consequences. I’m stopping him from doing something reckless. I’m setting limits because no one else will do it for him. And you… you come in, you comfort him, you hold him, you give him exactly what he wants…”

His voice rose slightly.

“…and then I’m the problem?”

He stood there, facing Bard, too close, too tense, as if he had crossed a point he couldn’t easily come back from. Bard pointed a finger at his chest.

“Him being with an elf from a good family who loves him, who he loves, that’s ‘reckless’? Me loving him like he’s my own son, that’s reckless? Do you hear yourself?”

Thranduil’s gaze flicked briefly to the hand against his chest, as if he were only now registering it, then returned to Bard’s face. His breathing was no longer as steady, subtly but undeniably altered.

“Keep going, and you’re really going to lose me. I won’t leave, because I refuse to leave your son alone with you, and I refuse to let my son lose his brother—but you’re going to lose me.”

The finger pressed against his heart. Something cracked in Thranduil’s expression. His face closed off, his jaw tightened, and his hand came up abruptly to seize Bard’s wrist—not violently, but firmly enough to stop the gesture, enough to regain some semblance of control.

“Don’t talk like I’m a danger to him. You’re crossing a line.”

His eyes didn’t leave Bard’s.

“You think I’m going to destroy him, that I’m going to… hurt him? You have no idea what it means to be responsible for him.”

He loosened his grip slightly without stepping back, still too close, still tense.

“And you have no idea what it costs me.”

Bard didn’t pull away, but kept staring at him.

“I know what it’s like to be a single father. But you’re not alone anymore, Thranduil. And your son… anyone would dream of having a kid like him. He’s kind, he’s healthy, he’s perfect. Haldir is good for him, makes him happy. He’s a good kid too. I know you’re afraid they’ll break up, that Legolas will get his heart broken—but you elves don’t break up, do you? When you love, it’s for life. He knows that. He’s sure of himself. You should see him when he talks about Haldir, the way his eyes light up. Trust him. He deserves it.”

Every word seemed to land, without Thranduil being able to push them away as he might have moments earlier. His gaze stayed on Bard, but softer, less closed. Then, slowly, he looked away. His hand passed over his neck, slid to his shoulder, trying to release a tension that wouldn’t ease.

“You’re simplifying. Just because we… just because we don’t break up doesn’t mean we don’t suffer. Do you think I haven’t thought about it? About what it could be… for him? What it implies? He’s young. He thinks it’s simple. And I… I know it’s not. You’re asking me to trust him. When I…”

He stopped, hesitated.

“…I’m not even sure I know how.”

“You’re not simplifying, you’re overcomplicating everything. You talk to him, you let him talk, you explain the risks without giving orders. You watch him. That’s what trust is. Communication is the key to every relationship, family or romantic.”

“You talk like it’s obvious. Like I’ve never spoken to him, like I don’t know what that is. I talk to him, but he doesn’t listen anymore. Or rather… he doesn’t hear me. And when I let him speak, he tells me exactly what you just told me. You really think I don’t see that he’s slipping away from me?”

“Then make an effort! You’re the adult. It’s up to you to go to him. I know what you’re afraid of—you don’t want to give in, you don’t want to ‘let him win.’ But no one’s asking you to change overnight. You take it step by step. You give him his phone back, first. You take a step toward him, and he’ll take one toward you. He’s a good kid.”

Thranduil’s gaze closed for a second, then he looked away with a frustration no longer entirely directed at Bard, but at himself, at that part of the truth he hated admitting. He ran a hand slowly over his mouth, then his chin, buying himself a few more seconds before answering.

“I know he’s a good kid.”

He said it without irony, with a kind of weariness; it had never been in doubt. Then he looked back at Bard, and there was something more exposed in his eyes, less guarded.

“That’s exactly why it’s unbearable. You talk about effort like I’m refusing out of pride. That’s not it. Yes, I don’t want to give in. Yes, I don’t want him to think he’s won, because that’s exactly how it feels to me. The moment I let something go, I can’t take it back. Giving him his phone…” He repeated it as if weighing it for the first time. “You say that like it’s a simple gesture.”

His voice carried that underlying tension of someone who had never learned to step down, only to hold or tighten, never to release.

“For you, it’s a step. For him, it’ll be a victory. For me…” He paused, searching for the right word, or the least painful one. “…for me, it means admitting I went too far, and I hate that.”

The word was simple, but it held pride, fear, habit, and that almost physical inability to make the first move without feeling like he was losing something essential.

“If I give him his phone back…” He hesitated slightly, then continued more quietly. “You’re convinced he’ll come back to me?”

It wasn’t quite a question, nor quite a statement. It was more fragile than that. He was asking for a guarantee he knew no one could give. Bard didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Yes. I’m sure of it.”

He stepped closer, embodying perfectly that idea of “you take a step toward me, I take one toward you,” and placed his open palm against Thranduil’s cheek, warm, steady. His thumb immediately brushed over his skin. Thranduil’s gaze dropped briefly to the hand on his face, then returned to Bard’s eyes. He could have pulled away, broken the contact. Instead, his fingers lifted slightly, hesitant—almost clumsy—before coming to rest briefly against Bard’s wrist, just to feel it, his presence.

“You’re very sure of yourself. I’m not.”

His hand tightened slightly around Bard’s wrist, a small, almost unconscious gesture, as if he needed something tangible to hold onto while saying it. Then, after a second of silence, without looking away:

“If I take that step… and he doesn’t come back…”

He didn’t need to finish. He wasn’t speaking as an authoritative father anymore, but as a man who was afraid. Unexpectedly, Bard seemed to lose patience.

“Stop. You’re driving yourself crazy. Stop. Go upstairs, I’ll finish here and come join you, okay?”

Thranduil’s hand left his wrist. He stepped back once, then again, not breaking eye contact right away.

“…Alright.”

He remained there for another second, facing him, hesitating—whether to add something, to take control again. In the end, he looked away slightly, ran a hand through his hair, the gesture more tired than tense this time, then headed for the door. He paused briefly on the threshold without fully turning back.

“Don’t take too long.”

Bard watched him go upstairs, then stayed still for a moment after he was gone, his gaze still fixed on the doorway as if the scene had imprinted itself there and refused to fade. He inhaled slowly, ran a hand over his face, and set himself back in motion, almost mechanically. The water was still running in the sink, now lukewarm. He plunged his hands back into it and resumed the dishes where he had left off, one movement after another, unhurried, without trying to go faster than necessary. Plates were rinsed, dried, put away; glasses aligned; cutlery returned to its place. He wiped down the counter, lingering a little longer than usual over invisible traces. When everything was finally clean, orderly, he remained there for a few more seconds, hands braced against the edge of the sink, his gaze unfocused. The conversation had shaken him—and what Thranduil had done even more so. He couldn’t quite put a word to it. Or rather, a word came to mind, but he refused to accept it.

After a long moment of stillness, he turned off the kitchen light. Darkness closed in behind him at once, leaving only the dim glow of the hallway to guide his steps. He went upstairs slowly, quietly. At the top, he paused for a moment outside their bedroom door. It wasn’t fully closed; a strip of warm light slipped through. He set his hand on the handle, hesitated a fraction of a second, then pushed gently. The room was bathed in soft light, almost too calm after the tension that had just passed through it. Thranduil wasn’t lying down. He sat on the edge of the bed, slightly hunched, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped. But this time his shoulders moved, faintly, in an uneven rhythm, and his hand kept coming up to his face in a gesture that had nothing controlled about it. He was wiping at his eyes, again and again, as if that might be enough to erase what kept spilling over. Bard said nothing. He closed the door quietly behind him and crossed the room with the kind of careful slowness one uses around something fragile. He stopped a few steps away, watched for a moment without intervening, making sure what he was seeing was real, then turned slightly toward the dresser. He picked up a tissue—simple, ordinary—and yet in that moment it carried weight. When he came back, Thranduil must have sensed him more clearly, because he spoke without fully turning.

“Bard… leave it.”

The warning was there, but weakened, resting on very little. Bard didn’t answer. He stopped in front of him, crouched to his level, and raised his hand without rushing, leaving Thranduil time to turn away if he wanted. He didn’t. His body tensed slightly, a reflex, his shoulders tightening—but it went no further. He stayed there, motionless, gaze fixed somewhere ahead, unable to meet Bard’s eyes yet unable to fully flee either. The tissue brushed beneath his eye, slow, precise, without insistence. Thranduil drew in a deeper breath. That simple contact brought something up he hadn’t managed to contain, but he didn’t move. He didn’t turn away, didn’t push the hand aside—just stayed there, tense at first, then gradually less rigid, his resistance giving way on its own. Bard continued, wiping one trace, then another, his movements just as measured, almost attentive, never going further than necessary. After a few seconds, Thranduil lifted his eyes slightly—not fully, but enough to meet Bard’s. His fingers came up, briefly, to rest against Bard’s wrist, and he lowered his gaze again. His breathing slowly steadied; his shoulders stopped trembling. Bard lowered his hand in turn, still holding the tissue, without commenting. He stayed there another second, then drew back slightly, without breaking the fragile connection entirely. He set the tissue down on the dresser without thinking about it and turned away, his gestures becoming simpler again, more grounded in something familiar. He took off his shirt, let it fall over a chair, ran a hand through his hair. The rest of his clothes followed quickly, and he slipped under the covers, the mattress dipping under his weight. He lay on his back at first, staring at the ceiling without really seeing it, his breathing slower than usual, then turned his head slightly toward the other side of the bed, saying nothing. Behind him, Thranduil didn’t move right away. He stayed seated for a few seconds longer, held there by something invisible, gaze fixed on the floor, hands still clasped. But little by little, the silence of the room, Bard’s presence in the bed—and perhaps what had just passed between them—overcame that stillness. He inhaled slowly, stood, removed his jacket and set it aside with almost automatic care, unbuttoned his shirt without rushing, unconsciously avoiding looking at Bard. Each movement seemed slightly out of sync, as though he weren’t entirely present in what he was doing. When he was finally undressed, he stood for a moment beside the bed, gaze lost somewhere ahead, then slipped under the covers as well. The mattress dipped again. They didn’t touch at first. Thranduil lay on his back, eyes open in the dim light, his breathing still a little uneven despite his effort to control it. Bard stayed still for a few seconds, listening to that uneven rhythm, then slowly turned onto his side. The soft rustle of sheets barely accompanied the movement as he closed the distance between them. He didn’t try to hold him. He simply moved closer, enough to feel his warmth, until only a few inches separated them. He took his time. His hand first rested on the mattress near him, without touching, then slid slowly until it found his arm, stopping there without pressure. His gaze settled on him in the dimness, searching his features, trying to read something in that tense stillness. He leaned slightly, his breath brushing his skin before his lips did. The kiss he placed on his shoulder was slow, warm. He lingered a fraction of a second longer than necessary, then drew back just slightly, without really pulling away. His eyes never left Thranduil.

“Do you want to make love?”

He stayed there, close, gaze fixed on his, his hand still resting lightly against his arm, waiting—leaving Thranduil the space to answer, or to refuse.

“…I don’t know.”

He paused, his features tightening slightly.

“I want to. But I don’t know if…”

He stopped, searching for words—a rare thing for him—then shook his head faintly, abandoning the attempt to phrase it properly. His hand lifted, came to rest against Bard’s wrist where it had been earlier, the contact light but deliberate this time.

“I don’t want it to be… like before.”

Bard’s faint smile had an immediate effect on him.

“Then let me rephrase: do you want me to make love to you?”

Thranduil’s hand tightened slightly around his wrist, a small but deliberate gesture—not to restrain, but to answer.

“Yes.”

Bard’s hand left his arm to frame his face, fingers sliding along his skin with deliberate slowness. Their lips met—simply at first—then deepened gradually, finding a shared rhythm without forcing it. Thranduil responded, his hands coming to Bard, hesitant at first, then more certain, holding onto him, onto something he no longer wanted to push away. Bard left his lips and let his face drift over his skin, his neck, his shoulder, taking his time, lingering, returning, placing slower, deeper kisses as if he wanted to erase what had come before and replace the tension with something else. His hands followed, guiding, accompanying, inviting rather than directing. He slipped beneath the sheets in a slow movement, disappearing from view beneath the white fabric, with only the shape of his body betraying his presence. He settled between Thranduil’s legs, taking the time to adjust, to remain close, to preserve that unbroken thread of contact between them. Every movement seemed to answer the one before it, like a silent conversation in which neither of them sought to gain the upper hand. He pressed lightly against Thranduil’s legs, and Thranduil lifted them at once, understanding without either of them needing to say a word. He closed his eyes a second, as Bard’s lips and entire mouth got him ready. The gentleness of it stood in stark contrast to his own earlier roughness in the kitchen, and he had to swallow hard to keep back a sob of regret, of shame. His hands slipped into Bard’s hair, holding on lightly, as if to keep that connection, as if to make sure it wouldn’t slip away. Bard slowly made his way back up to him, finding his face again, his lips. When he guided himself in him, everything remained in that same quiet continuity. Thranduil drew in a deep breath, his body tensing for a brief moment before giving in to something he would never have allowed himself only hours earlier. His hands held onto Bard more firmly, his forehead nearly resting against his, needing that closeness to stay present, fully there. They found a rhythm that was slow, steady, soothing—each movement shaped not by urgency, but by the need to last, to preserve the fragile bond that had just begun to mend between them. The sheets shifted and slipped away with each motion, until they gathered at the foot of the bed, no longer needed, their warmth enough to hold them together. Bard didn’t look away from him for long, and when he did, his gaze always returned. Thranduil, in turn, stopped looking away as well. He held onto him—his presence, what he was giving without forcing it. He closed his eyes briefly, his fingers tightening slightly against Bard’s back, drawing him closer without trying to guide him, only to keep him there. Their foreheads stayed together, their breaths mingling, their lips brushing without ever fully parting.

“…Bard…”

The name slipped from him, softer, more fragile. Bard understood—through the shift of his body, the way Thranduil held onto him—and didn’t rush, didn’t slow, simply remained exactly where he needed to be. When their orgasms came, they did so like waves —deep, overwhelming, both fierce and tender at once—moving through them together, drawing them closer rather than pulling them apart. Thranduil’s breath caught, almost startled, his body tightening for a second before letting go completely against Bard, without restraint this time. His hands clung more tightly, then slowly slipped, unable to hold on with the same intensity. Bard stayed close, not pulling away right away. Their breathing took time to settle, still uneven, still shared, their bodies close, nearly still now. After a moment, Bard let himself sink down against him, his weight settling naturally over Thranduil’s chest, his ear pressed against his racing heart, still beating too fast, too hard, as though it hadn’t yet understood that everything was over. With an almost absent-minded gesture, he drew the sheets back over them—first with his foot, then with his fingers—pulling them slowly up until they were both covered again, enclosing them in something softer, more intimate, shut away from the rest of the world.

For a few seconds, it seemed to settle. Then Bard felt it. The breathing changed again—faster, uneven. The calm fractured. He stayed still, listening, feeling Thranduil’s hands tense and release without finding stability. Soft, restrained sounds broke through, impossible to mistake. Bard lifted his head slightly, kissed him—slow, grounding—and wrapped his arms around him more firmly, guiding his hands to his back, holding them there.

“Was it really that bad?”

The tone was deliberately light. Thranduil let out an unsteady breath, something between a laugh and a sob, and shook his head against him.

“Stop… it’s not that…”

His voice trembled.

“It’s you… and me… earlier…”

He struggled to breathe evenly.

“I… and you act like I did nothing…”

His grip tightened, almost desperate.

“I don’t understand how you can still be like this with me…”

The rest broke free. He buried his face against Bard, shoulders shaking more visibly now, unable to hide it anymore, clinging to him as the only stable thing in the contrast overwhelming him. Bard held him tighter.

“I love you. I know it’s complicated for you right now. And I hate that things are complicated. I haven’t been great with you lately. You haven’t either, let’s be clear. But it’s like with your son: I take a step toward you, you take one toward me. And we meet here… like this. And I missed this. I missed it a lot.”

He pressed soft kisses against his chest.

“Your life is mine. Your happiness is mine. I can’t be happy if you’re not.”

Thranduil stayed still for a few seconds, then breathed in deeply. His hands slid along Bard’s back, less tense now, more grounded.

“You’re right.”

His fingers moved to the back of Bard’s neck, pulling him closer.

“I hate making the first move… but I will. Not to prove anything… just so I don’t lose you.”

Their foreheads brushed.

“And because I don’t want to relive tonight.”

Bard smiled faintly.

“And because you love me a little too?”

“Stop.”

His thumb brushed Bard’s cheek.

“You know it’s not ‘a little.’”

Bard’s expression shifted again—light, teasing.

“Oh? Then what is it?”

Thranduil sighed softly.

“You know exactly what it is.”

He drew him closer.

“It’s you. It’s not a little. It’s everything.”

Bard let out a low, satisfied sound.

“Good answer.”

He kissed along his jaw, his neck.

“You still make me want you when you talk like that…”

Thranduil inhaled, then gently stilled him.

“Stay. Just… stay like this.”

Bard frowned slightly.

“You don’t want to?”

“I do. I want you.But I want this more. Calm. Without losing control again.”

“…Okay.”

Bard lay back without argument.

“Wake me if you change your mind.”

He closed his eyes. Thranduil remained still, watching him, unsettled by how easily he let go. After a moment, he moved closer, wrapped an arm around him, pulled him in without force, his face resting against his neck.

“…I prefer this.”

Bard murmured, half-asleep:

“Either do something or shut up and sleep.”

A faint, tired breath of amusement escaped Thranduil. His hand moved once, hesitated… then stilled.

“Shut up…Sleep.”

His arm tightened slightly around him, just enough to keep him close. He stayed awake for a while, listening to Bard’s steady breathing, letting it anchor him. Gradually, the tension in him eased, his thoughts blurred and dissolved. His hold grew heavier. Without realising it, he fell asleep like that, pressed against him, as if he had never been anywhere else.

Challenge by @monthlywritingchallenges that I really enjoyed doing as usual. On to AUpril with various LOTR/Hobbit ships!

Bain had come downstairs first, still half-asleep but already closed off, his shoulders slightly hunched, his gaze avoiding Thranduil’s whenever it met his. He had served himself without a word, sat down, eaten quickly, without lingering, without commenting on anything. He hadn’t asked any questions, hadn’t said anything, and above all, he hadn’t tried to start a conversation.

Legolas had come next, even quieter, his eyes often lowered to his plate, trying to take up just enough space not to draw his father’s attention.

Thranduil hadn’t pointed anything out. He observed without comment, without intervening. But nothing escaped him.

The drive to the school followed the same pattern: Bain had settled in the back without a word, gaze turned toward the window, shut into a silence that was unusual for him, deliberate. Legolas, beside him, sat upright, hands resting on his thighs, impatient at the thought of seeing Haldir again.

When they arrived in front of the building, Bain got out first, without turning back, without another word. Legolas took a second, just one, before closing the door carefully.

“See you tonight.”

Thranduil answered in the same coldly polite way. The boys walked away and he remained alone, motionless for a few seconds, his gaze fixed on nothing, the image of the two of them walking away continuing to replay behind his eyes.

He started the engine again. The car merged into traffic with the same smoothness as a few minutes earlier. Nothing in the way he drove betrayed any change. And yet, at the first intersection, he did not take the road toward his office. The movement was simple, almost imperceptible. A turn signal, a slight movement of the wheel, and the trajectory shifted without rupture.

The drive back to the house lasted only a few minutes, but he made no attempt to fill them. No radio, no call, no distraction. The silence of the car suited perfectly what he was doing—or rather, what he had already chosen to do. When he parked, his hands remained for a moment on the steering wheel, not out of hesitation, but as if marking an invisible transition, a line he had just crossed with no return. Then he got out. He opened the front door, stepped inside, closed it behind him, and the sound of the lock turning had something clean about it. The air inside still held traces of the morning—coffee, residual warmth—but everything was different. Usually, he was never alone in the house. Never. He took off his jacket, folded it carefully, set it down, then took out his phone. His secretary’s number was dialed without hesitation.

“Yes. It’s me. I’ll be working from home today.”

A brief pause, just long enough to listen to the reply.

“No, nothing urgent. I’ll remain reachable.”

A slight silence.

“Very well. Thank you.”

He hung up, slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Then he went upstairs, without detour, without slowing, without sparing a glance for the other rooms. His objective was clear, and he did not hide it—from himself, at least. When he reached Legolas’s bedroom, he placed his hand on the handle and entered without pausing. Daylight filled the room, sharp, without softness. The bed neatly made, the sheets smoothed, the clothes put away, the surfaces clear: nothing out of place. Nothing lying around. Everything was clean. It was almost hard to believe a teenager spent most of his time here.

He closed the door behind him, fully this time, and moved through the room slowly, letting his gaze drift without lingering, as though confirming something he already knew. He went straight to the desk, pulled the chair, sat down, briefly placed his hands on the surface, then withdrew them and opened the drawers.

There were sheets of paper in the fourth drawer: a simple stack, slightly uneven, left there without thought—or perhaps with too much of it. He took one. The paper was slightly creased, the quick strokes forming a face—Haldir’s. He took another, then another, and each time the same certainty imposed itself, without variation. The angles changed, the expressions too, but the presence remained identical, insistent, repeated with a constancy that left no room for doubt. Thranduil did not rush. He looked for a long time, continued methodically, not leaving a single one aside. The sheets on top, those beneath, the ones barely started, those reworked with unusual precision. Some bore several attempts at the same line, the same gaze, his son’s hand refusing to stop until what it sought was reached. On every page, the same face, the same body: Haldir’s. His gaze shifted to the drawer below. He placed his hand on it, opened it slowly, without a sound, and found more sheets, older ones, more marked. The paper was more worn, sometimes folded, sometimes covered in heavier strokes, almost insistent, the gesture more urgent, less controlled. Again him. Always him.

He closed the drawer firmly, remained seated, motionless. His jaw tightened slightly, without anything outward betraying it, then he stood, took a few steps through the room without really seeing what he passed, before returning to the desk, drawn back despite himself. He gathered the sheets, aligned them carefully, and closed the drawer.

He drew in a slow breath, and a thought settled within him, a promise made as much to Legolas as to himself. I will not let you slip away from me.

He turned away, left the room, closed the door, and went to his office. He dropped into the luxurious leather chair, turned on his computer, and tried to push from his mind what he had just seen.

His day could finally begin.

Legolas opened his eyes without knowing exactly why. He hadn’t woken abruptly, nor been pulled from sleep by a noise or a vivid dream; it was more diffuse, more insidious. Sleep had simply withdrawn from him, leaving behind a consciousness too sharp, too lucid to be comfortable. He lay there for a few seconds, motionless, staring at the dark ceiling, vaguely trying to grasp the thread of what had slipped away from him. But his mind refused to go back. The image of Haldir came immediately, without filter. The warmth of his hand in his, the pressure of his fingers, the way he had drawn close without hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world; the shopping mall, their laughter, that stolen moment behind a pillar — too short, too intense, too real to be reduced to a mere memory. Then, brutally, the contrast with the house: the silence, the absence. He closed his eyes briefly, shielding himself from that harsh divide between a dreamed life and reality, breathed in slowly, tried to soothe what was rising in him — but nothing eased. The gap was too wide, too violent, and he had no way to bridge it.

So he gave up. He sat up slowly, pushed the covers aside with care, and placed his feet on the floor; the cold contact of the wood grounded him immediately. He remained sitting at the edge of the bed for a moment, shoulders slightly hunched, hands resting on his thighs, as if still weighing the possibility of falling back asleep, of fighting it, of pretending. But he already knew it wouldn’t work. He stood, opened the door carefully, avoiding the slightest creak, and stepped into the hallway. The dimness there was soft, enveloping, the familiar outlines oddly reassuring, and he went down the stairs without turning on the light, guided more by habit than by sight, one hand sliding along the railing.

Downstairs, a faint bluish light illuminated the living room. He slowed instinctively, that single detail enough to shift something in him, then approached in silence. When he reached the doorway, he stopped.

Bard was there. Sitting on the couch, slightly slouched, one leg bent, the other stretched out, his gaze turned toward the screen where an old film was playing, the volume low enough not to wake the house but present enough to keep the silence from becoming too heavy. Yet he didn’t seem to really be watching; he was there without truly being there, absorbed in something more distant, more inward. Legolas remained still for a second, making sure he wasn’t disturbing him, before finally stepping inside. Bard turned his head slightly toward him, without surprise, as if he had sensed him before even hearing him.

“You’re not sleeping?”

His tone was low, steady, without judgment. Legolas shook his head slightly.

“No.”

The word came out softly, without any need to elaborate. Bard didn’t ask anything else. Legolas remained standing for another second, then moved forward and sat down, not far, not particularly close either. Bard didn’t comment, didn’t move; he simply let him settle in, without rushing him.

A few seconds passed. Legolas moved closer, slowly, almost imperceptibly, until his shoulder brushed Bard’s, and, as if that contact alone allowed the rest, he shifted further, his body naturally settling against his, his head coming to rest on his shoulder, his arm folded between them in a gesture that had nothing calculated about it. It was simple, instinctive, almost childlike in its sincerity. Bard breathed in softly, very slightly, accepting the weight against him, then placed his hand on his arm; not to hold him there, not to pull him closer, simply to be present, steady, solid. Legolas moved closer still, and Bard wrapped an arm around his shoulders. They stayed like that for a long time, without speaking, while the light from the screen shifted slowly, casting moving shadows across their still faces. Legolas’s breathing, at first uneven, gradually slowed, deepened, and his body, tense only moments before, relaxed little by little. He wasn’t asleep yet, but he was no longer fighting. 

Upstairs, Thranduil opened his eyes slowly, without a start. His body had registered an anomaly, something subtle but impossible to ignore: the space beside him was empty, cold, the sheets barely disturbed. Bard wasn’t there. He remained still for a few seconds, letting that realization settle, then turned his head slightly toward the bathroom door.

“Bard?” he called quietly, even though he had heard neither water nor movement. Only silence answered him. He sat up, left the bed, ran a hand through his hair, and stepped out into the hallway. It was dark, but the faint light from downstairs guided him. He moved without a sound, stopping before entering the living room. And he saw. Bard on the couch. And Legolas, against him, his head resting on his shoulder, his body relaxed, Bard’s hand resting on him in a simple, protective, natural gesture. Their closeness was obvious, easy, gentle. Thranduil remained motionless, his gaze fixed on them, watching for a long moment this scene that did not belong to him, unfolding without him, without his intervention, without even requiring him. His chest tightened painfully at the realization that his son no longer came to him. He no longer sought his gaze, he didn’t even resist anymore. Legolas had shifted, instinctively, toward someone else. Bard moved slightly, adjusting just enough not to wake him, an unconscious gesture. Thranduil stayed a few seconds longer, then looked away. Continuing to watch had become unbearable, and he went back upstairs without a word. He lay down again with the same precision as before, settling into the cold bed, pulling the sheets over himself, closing his eyes. But he did not sleep.

Downstairs, the television played on for a few more minutes, then Bard turned it off, plunging the room into a deeper, calmer darkness. Legolas didn’t move; his breathing had become slow, steady. He had fallen asleep without realizing it. Bard remained still for a moment, making sure he wouldn’t wake, then slipped one arm under his legs, the other behind his back, and lifted him carefully. Legolas let out a soft breath, settling against him without waking. Bard climbed the stairs slowly, entered the bedroom, laid him down on the bed, adjusted the pillow, pulled the covers over him, tucking him in with a care that spoke more of habit than thought. He watched him for a second, then turned off the light. He then passed Bain’s room, pushed the door slightly, and glanced inside: he was sleeping deeply, sprawled without restraint. Bard allowed himself the faintest smile, stepped in briefly, pressed a kiss to his hair, adjusted the blankets, and left. When he returned to his own room, it was completely dark. Thranduil was lying there, motionless. Bard undressed in silence, slipped under the covers, and lay on his side, leaving a measured distance between them.

A few seconds passed.

Then Thranduil moved slowly. He turned toward him, drawing slightly closer, reducing the space, desperately trying to recreate something that was slipping away from him. Bard tensed, closed off. Thranduil felt it immediately. It tightened his chest in a way he didn’t even try to deny to himself. Still, Bard did not push him away. He stayed there, but he did not move closer either.

Thranduil remained still for a moment, gauging what he felt, what he should do with it, then his hand slid slowly between them, gently, the way Bard liked, coming to rest against his lower stomach, barely brushing his skin as if testing for a reaction, as if checking whether that connection — at least — still existed. His lips pressed against his bare shoulder, his hand slipping between his thighs. He remained still, but nothing came back to him. No hand answered, no movement extended the touch. Bard’s body accepted the contact without welcoming it.

Thranduil stayed like that a second too long, suspended in a gesture that led nowhere, then his hand stilled completely, going no further. He understood without needing words, without needing an explicit refusal. It was already clear. So he withdrew his hand slowly, without a word. He turned onto his other side, his back pressing lightly against Bard’s. He thought of the many times Bard had been the one to press himself against him, the indecent way he would move his hips, their passion, their tenderness when they made love. Had they really lost that? He lay there, motionless, hoping despite himself that Bard’s body would move closer to his, but it didn’t happen. Bard’s breathing changed, grew deeper, calmer. He had fallen asleep. Thranduil knew he wouldn’t. So, to hell with it — he turned again, wrapped an arm around Bard, pulling him closer, earning a faint groan of protest. But he refused to let him drift away. Bard didn’t wake. Thranduil buried his face in the thick mass of his dark hair, fully intending to stay like that all night if he had to.

Legolas had spent the morning in that floating state, neither truly still nor really active. He stayed in his room, came downstairs when he had to, answered properly, then went back up. He had done his homework, listened to music while thinking about Haldir. He did exactly what was expected of him, without arguing, without asking questions, without even trying to negotiate anything.

School had been a parenthesis, an almost brutal breath of air in how necessary it had been. Haldir, his voice, his presence, that immediate and obvious connection—everything had been real, concrete. Now, in this large house, there was nothing left. He didn’t even know if Haldir was okay, what he was doing, or even if he was thinking about him at that exact moment. That absence, total and without escape, was far harder to bear than the rules, than the silences, than the looks—even the most hostile ones.

By mid-morning, Legolas remained sitting on the edge of his bed longer than usual, his hands clasped between his knees, his gaze lost somewhere on the floor without truly focusing on anything. Slowly, almost as if the decision didn’t entirely come from him, he stood up. He left his room, walked down the hallway, and stopped in front of his father’s office door. He stayed there for a second, motionless, weighing the two options before him: knock or turn back. He chose the first.

“Come in.”

Thranduil’s voice, on the other side, was perfectly composed. Legolas opened the door and entered. His father was at his desk, upright, focused, absorbed in what he was doing. He lifted his eyes toward him without haste, just enough to acknowledge his presence.

“Yes?”

Legolas closed the door behind him. The simple sound of the wood shutting felt too loud, too sharp in the surrounding calm. He stood there for a moment, hesitating over the distance he should keep, the posture he should adopt. He eventually took a few steps forward and stopped, his hands slightly tense.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Thranduil observed him briefly.

“I’m listening.”

Legolas inhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully.

“Are you…”

He paused, reformulated.

“Are you satisfied?”

Thranduil’s gaze sharpened.

“With what?”

Legolas held his gaze, briefly.

“With me. With my behavior this week.”

Thranduil paused, almost imperceptibly, before answering:

“You did what I asked.”

It wasn’t really an answer, but it was enough. Legolas gave a slight nod.

“So yes?”

“Yes.”

Legolas inhaled again, more difficult this time.

“Okay.”

He lowered his eyes slightly, then lifted them again.

“So… can I have my phone back?”

Thranduil didn’t answer immediately, already measuring his response.

“No.”

Legolas didn’t move, but something in him tightened, visibly.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

His voice was still controlled, but more fragile now, almost trembling.

“I did everything you told me.”

“Yes.”

“Then why?”

Thranduil replied with the same implacable calm:

“Because the rule hasn’t changed.”

This time, Legolas felt it rise—something unstable, diffuse, beginning to crack what he had been holding together for days.

“I’m not asking you to cancel everything.”

He took a step forward.

“I’m just asking…”

He faltered, searching for words.

“Just to be able to talk to him. I won’t bring him here. I swear. I won’t do it again.”

His voice trembled now.

“But I need to talk to him.”

Thranduil remained perfectly still.

“No.”

Legolas froze.

“Why?”

“Because you haven’t yet proven that you can hold this over time. One week is nothing. You saw him every day at school. That’s more than enough.”

Legolas inhaled sharply.

“How do you expect me to prove it if you don’t let me?”

His voice was already slipping.

“I’m doing everything you want!”

He took another step toward the desk, toward his father—but the distance still felt impossible to cross.

“I don’t talk anymore, I don’t go out, I don’t have a phone, I don’t have anyone—”

He stopped too late. His breathing quickened, uncontrollable. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I just need to talk to him… just that.”

Thranduil didn’t yield.

“No.”

Legolas didn’t answer right away. The pressure had reached that precise point where he could no longer contain it. His throat tightened, his eyes burned, and he turned his gaze slightly away to regain control. But it didn’t work. So he begged.

“Please. I’ll do anything.”

His voice was shaking openly now.

“Anything you want. Just let me talk to him.”

Thranduil stood firm.

“No.”

Legolas took a slight step back. He inhaled once, then again, unable to find a steady rhythm. His hand rose to his face, brushing quickly over his eyes. Breathe. The room was becoming too small. The door opened abruptly on Bard. He had heard the conversation. His gaze moved immediately from one to the other.

“Come on.”

He was speaking to Legolas. He didn’t move right away. Bard stepped closer, placing a firm but calm hand on his arm.

“Come with me.”

His tone softened.

“Bain needs clothes. You’re coming with us. You need to get out of here.”

Legolas gave a small nod, almost mechanically, and walked out without looking at his father. Bard followed him, ignoring Thranduil’s increasingly furious calls.

They went down the stairs almost at a run, slammed the front door, and got into Bard’s car. Bain was already sitting in the back, waiting for them.

As soon as the car doors closed, Legolas folded forward, his hands rising to his face, and the sobs came out all at once—raw, violent, uncontrollable, shaking his entire body as if he had been holding them back for far too long. Bard reacted immediately. He turned toward him, grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in without hesitation, holding him firmly, solidly, as if it were less about calming him than preventing him from collapsing entirely.

“Go on, boyo, cry. Cry, it’ll help.”

From the back seat, Bain leaned forward, wrapping an arm around Legolas’s shoulders, pulling him even closer into the contact. Legolas shook his head, unable to respond, his breath broken between sobs.

“I can’t take it anymore…”

The words came out with difficulty.

“I can’t take it anymore…”

Bard tightened his hold, his hand sliding into his hair, keeping him grounded, present, steady.

“I know. I know.”

Bain stayed pressed against him, silent now, his forehead resting against his shoulder. They remained like that, the three of them, crowded into the confined space of the car, the engine still off, the world suspended around them, giving Legolas all the time he needed. The sobs didn’t stop immediately. They slowed, gradually, his body still refusing to fully let go of what it had held in for too long. His breathing remained uneven, breaking at times, his shoulders still trembling under Bard and Bain’s arms. No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Bard kept his hand at the back of Legolas’s neck, not tightening, but not letting go either. Behind them, Bain remained leaning forward, his arm still around him. Little by little, the sobs became heavy breaths, then broken silences. Legolas eventually lifted his head slightly, not fully straightening, his hands falling back to his thighs. His eyes were red, still wet, his features drawn, as if he had just run too far. Bard looked at him for a second without speaking, then ran his hand through his hair one last time, a slow, almost automatic gesture.

“Better?”

Legolas gave a slight nod without answering. He wasn’t sure—but he didn’t have the strength to say otherwise. Behind him, Bain loosened his hold slightly without pulling away. Bard inhaled softly, then straightened.

“I’ll be right back.”

He got out of the car, closed the door carefully, then walked a few steps away, letting fresh air enter the car for a moment before everything closed again. Legolas stayed still for a moment, looking at his hands as if he didn’t quite know what to do with them, then he inhaled slowly, trying to regain a normal rhythm. Bain watched him without speaking right away, then finally muttered softly:

“He’s really an idiot when he gets like that.”

“Yeah.”

His voice was still rough. A small hiccup escaped him as he saw Thranduil near the car, facing Bard, pointing toward the vehicle—toward his son. They could hear raised voices: Thranduil demanding that Bard make Legolas get out, Bard refusing. It only lasted a few seconds, just long enough to hear Thranduil shout, “He’s MY son,” before the car door opened again. Bard’s gaze rested on Legolas for a second. He closed the door, got behind the wheel, turned the key, and started the engine immediately.

“We’re going.”

Bain watched Thranduil’s figure grow smaller as the car left the driveway and joined the road. For a few minutes, no one spoke. The scenery passed by, steady, almost soothing. Bain eventually settled back into his seat, legs slightly drawn up again. Bard drove calmly, without music, without rushing. Beside him, Legolas looked out the window, his eyes still marked but more present now, as if something inside him had finally loosened.

The shopping mall was already visible in the distance when Bard slowed slightly, finding a parking space easily before cutting the engine.

“We’re here.”

The tone was simple, deliberately normal. Bain opened the door first, getting out almost immediately. Legolas stayed a second longer, then inhaled slowly before stepping out. They walked toward the entrance.

Legolas stopped abruptly. Haldir was there.

Standing slightly back, hands in his pockets, clearly waiting. Beside him, his mother, Eirien, stood calm, composed, with that gentle, maternal presence. For a brief second, Legolas didn’t understand. His gaze shifted to Bard. A whole question passed silently through his eyes. Bard held his gaze for a second, perfectly calm, then gave the slightest shrug.

“What?”

The tone was completely—falsely—innocent. Legolas didn’t hesitate anymore. He closed the distance in one movement, grabbed Haldir and pulled him into a tight embrace, almost rough. His arms wrapped around him without hesitation, his face burying briefly against his shoulder. Haldir responded immediately, holding him just as tightly. His hands anchored in his back, pulling him closer. They stayed like that for a few seconds. When Legolas pulled back slightly, he didn’t really step away. One hand remained hooked on him instinctively. He turned briefly toward Bard and mouthed silently: thank you. Bard didn’t answer. The faintest movement at the corner of his mouth was enough. Eirien stepped forward with that same easy calm.

“Hello.”

Bard inclined his head slightly.

“Thank you for coming.”

Bain watched the scene with a mix of amusement and relief.

“Okay… that, I didn’t see coming.”

Legolas, meanwhile, had already completely changed posture. His shoulders were no longer tense, his gaze no longer evasive, his movements fluid, natural, alive.

“Shall we?” Bard said, gesturing toward the entrance.

“Yeah.”

The shops followed one after another, much to Bain’s delight.

Legolas walked beside Haldir, their hands naturally finding each other without any attempt to hide it. He talked, laughed, commented on clothes, teased Bain without restraint.

“Seriously, that?”

Bain rolled his eyes.

“You don’t know anything.”

“No, I just have taste.”

Haldir let out a soft laugh. Legolas looked at him immediately, with that regained ease, that simple attention that was no longer tense. He was smiling—a real smile. Happy. At ease. Bard noticed immediately. Beside him, Eirien watched as well, her gaze moving quietly from one detail to another. They slowed slightly, letting the boys walk ahead. Naturally, their voices dropped.

“It’s night and day when those two are together,” Eirien murmured. Bard exhaled softly.

“Yeah.”

He kept his eyes on Legolas.

“That’s exactly what drives me insane.”

Eirien turned slightly toward him.

“Thranduil doesn’t see it?”

Bard let out a humorless laugh.

“He sees what he wants to see. And mostly what confirms he’s right.”

Eirien watched the boys again—their joined hands, their looks, the way Legolas leaned slightly toward Haldir while talking. Ahead of them, Legolas grabbed an elven outfit and held it up against Bain.

“This one’s for you.”

“Not a chance.”

“You’re just scared of being stylish.”

Bain nudged him.

“Shut up.”

Haldir shook his head, amused. Legolas kept laughing—free, simple. Bard looked away slightly, as if not to linger too much on the obvious. Beside him, Eirien murmured:

“You did the right thing.”

Bard breathed in softly.

“I know.”

Around lunchtime, they stopped at a fast-food place without really discussing it, as if the rest of the day had naturally fallen into place. The place was loud, alive, full of voices and movement and artificial light—and paradoxically, it was exactly what Bard and the kids needed. They sat at a table slightly apart, trays quickly piling up. Legolas didn’t think about how he should sit or what he should or shouldn’t say. He ate normally, spoke normally, laughed without holding back. Bain talked nonsense as usual, spinning pointless stories just to get a reaction. Haldir answered in small, quieter ways, and Legolas bounced off him immediately, rediscovering that natural rhythm he had completely lost these past few days. Eirien watched her son, then Legolas, then Bard, without intervening, but with that small smile of a mother happy to see her child happy. The meal stretched on without anyone trying to cut it short. For once, they had time.

The afternoon continued in the same rhythm. Shop after shop, fitting after fitting, the bags began to pile up. Bain got excited over nothing, changed his mind every two minutes, while Legolas rediscovered a simple pleasure in choosing, commenting, suggesting.

“That one, no.”

“Why?”

“Because you already have the exact same one.”

“That’s not true.”

“It’s exactly the same.”

Haldir rolled his eyes, amused, then leaned in to murmur something that made Legolas smile immediately. And always—their hands finding each other. Bard and Eirien followed at a reasonable distance, stepping in when it was time to pay, advise, or simply remind them they were still there. Between them, quiet conversations continued now and then, always stopping as soon as one of the boys looked back.

The day slowly began to fade, the light shifting, softening, and with it something calmer settled naturally. 

The moment to part came too soon. They gathered in the parking lot, Bard loading the bags into the trunk slowly. Haldir stood facing Legolas a second longer than necessary, hands in his pockets at first, then one slipped briefly against his.

“See you Monday.”

Legolas gave a slight nod.

“See you Monday.”

They didn’t kiss—not here. But a pillar a little further away shielded them from prying eyes. Eirien took advantage of the distraction to nod at Bard.

“Thank you.”

Bard returned the gesture.

“Thank you.”

She gave a faint smile, then turned away. Haldir and Legolas came back, hand in hand, lips flushed, almost bruised. Haldir lifted Legolas’s hand to his lips, pressed a long kiss to it, then they embraced again. Bard and Eirien waited patiently until the two boys naturally pulled apart. They got into their respective cars. Engines started. They drove off, following each other out of the parking lot before parting ways.

Bard drove calmly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gear shift. Bain looked out the window, tired but content, legs slightly pulled up. Beside Bard, Legolas remained quiet. After a few minutes, Bard spoke without taking his eyes off the road.

“Alright, boyos, let’s be clear.”

His tone shifted slightly, more serious.

“All of this… today…”

He made a vague gesture.

“It doesn’t exist. It never happened.”

Bain turned toward him.

“Obviously.”

Legolas nodded slowly.

“I won’t say anything.”

Bard gave him a quick glance.

“Never.”

“Never.”

Bard nodded, satisfied. Bain straightened slightly.

“Honestly… best excuse ever.”

Bard let out a quiet amused breath.

“Yeah.”

Then, softer, almost to himself:

“Had to be done.”

Legolas murmured:

“Thank you.”

Bard didn’t answer right away. But when Legolas’s hand came to squeeze his, he didn’t hesitate to return it. He kept driving for a few seconds, then shrugged lightly.

“It’s normal. Seeing you like that…”

He shook his head.

“That was unbearable.”

Legolas lowered his eyes slightly.

“I wasn’t okay.”

“I know.”

The car slowed as they entered the Greenwood estate. The gate came into view. Bard parked and cut the engine. Before they even got out, the atmosphere shifted subtly, as if reality was catching up with them—the reality waiting inside: Thranduil’s anger. Bard turned slightly toward Legolas and said, with a faint smirk:

“Now you look miserable.”

Bain stifled a laugh. Bard continued, perfectly serious:

“A little empty. A little depressed. Not too much—it still has to be believable.”

Legolas stared at him for a second, then a real smile spread across his lips.

“That should be doable.”

Bard nodded.

“Perfect.”

He opened the door.

“Curtain.”

Thranduil was already in bed. Reclined against the pillows, the sheets low on his hips, his bare torso exposed, he was still—but not relaxed. He was waiting. He had heard the water when he entered the room, then the silence as he settled comfortably beneath the sheets.

The door opened.

Bard entered, still damp, a towel tied low around his hips, water beading on his skin, tracing faint lines along his torso before disappearing into the fabric. His dark hair was pushed back with an absent gesture. He was beautiful. He closed the door quietly. His gaze met Thranduil’s.

He approached the bed without speaking, untied the towel without ceremony and let it fall to the floor, then slipped beneath the sheets. The mattress dipped slightly, even more when Thranduil turned toward him almost immediately, his gaze already fixed on him with that precise, almost tangible intent. His hand found Bard’s skin without hesitation, sliding along his still-warm side, slowly moving up to his chest. Bard responded to his touch. His hand came to rest against him, his fingers briefly gripping his shoulder before he leaned in, letting their bodies meet, familiar, inevitable. Their lips found each other without effort.

The kiss was simple at first. Then it deepened. Thranduil gave himself to it without restraint, as he always did, with that controlled yet real intensity, his hands moving along Bard’s body, rediscovering every line with precision. Every touch felt like a first time. Bard followed. His fingers slid into his hair, his mouth responded, his lips parted, his tongue welcoming Thranduil’s, soft, warm, comforting, returning the same care his hands were giving to his skin.

But something didn’t catch. It didn’t build. The gestures were there. The bodies too. But something was missing… the most important part.

Thranduil felt it. The rhythm didn’t settle. Bard’s response remained on the surface, never fully there. His hands moved, but without lingering. His breath didn’t follow. And yet, he was trying. He moved closer, pressed Bard against him, his lips leaving his to trail along his jaw, down his neck, tracing a slow line to his shoulder. His fingers anchored more firmly into his skin, trying to pull him back, to hold him there.

Bard inhaled. His hand came to rest against Thranduil’s chest. Thranduil thought he meant to draw him closer—but his palm lay flat against his skin: he was slowing him down, stopping him. The movement was subtle at first, almost imperceptible. Thranduil kept going, moving lower across his torso. Then Bard pressed more firmly. He turned his head slightly, breaking the contact of his lips against his skin, letting the silence fall back all at once, abrupt in its simplicity. Thranduil stilled.

“Keep going.”

Bard briefly closed his eyes, shook his head faintly.

“I can’t.”

Thranduil didn’t pull away immediately. His gaze remained on him, searching, analyzing, as if refusing to reach a conclusion just yet.

“I’ll help you.”

Bard let out a faint breath, almost annoyed.

“No.”

His hand slid slowly off his chest, falling back onto the mattress.

“How do you do it?”

Thranduil frowned slightly.

“What?”

Bard looked straight at him.

“To want it. Right now. With what’s going on with Legolas.”

Thranduil’s gaze did not waver, but it stilled. Bard continued, not looking away:

“You see how he is, don’t you? You see him like I do. He doesn’t talk anymore. He barely breathes. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. And you…”

He paused, searching for the words, then said it without softening:

“And you can still want this like nothing’s wrong?”

Thranduil’s gaze hardened slightly.

“You’re mixing things—”

Bard cut him off immediately:

“No.”

He shifted just enough so that their bodies no longer even brushed.

“That’s exactly it. I’m not mixing anything anymore. I want you. You know that.”

His gaze stayed locked on his.

“But not now. Not like this.”

He breathed in slowly.

“Not when your son is falling apart.”

Bard finally looked away, ran a hand over his face, then let himself fall back onto the pillow, lying on his back this time, staring at the ceiling for a moment.

“I can’t.”

Thranduil remained motionless beside him for a long time. His hand, which had rested on Bard’s skin seconds earlier, did not move right away, as if suspended in a gesture that had been cut short. Finally, slowly, he withdrew it. Bard eventually turned onto his side, his back to him, pulling the sheets slightly. He was cold. His side of the bed felt empty. Thranduil did not move. He stayed there, eyes open in the dim light, staring somewhere ahead, saying nothing. But he didn’t let it go.

“So this is how it’s going to be between us? The moment one of the children becomes a problem, we no longer have any intimacy?”

Bard exhaled through his nose, not bothering to hide it.

“In this case, Legolas isn’t the problem, Thranduil. You are. Not him.”

“I’m the problem because I’m raising my child?”

Bard turned toward him, trying to read his face, his expression.

“We’ve already had this discussion. This isn’t raising him, it’s conditioning him.”

Thranduil shrugged, his mouth twisting slightly in a sulky expression.

“That’s your point of view. Not mine. I didn’t realize we had to share exactly the same opinions to be able to have sex.”

Bard rolled his eyes and shook his head, disappointed.

“Drop the sarcasm. You know damn well this goes way beyond a simple disagreement. Does it please you to see Legolas like this? Sad, shut down, miserable?”

“He’s going through a teenage phase. It’s neither unexpected nor extraordinary.”

“I don’t understand why you’re minimizing this so much. Whether it’s his feelings for Haldir or what he’s going through.”

Thranduil hesitated, looked up at the ceiling, then met Bard’s gaze again.

“I’m not minimizing anything. If I give in, if I let him win, my authority is undermined. He won’t respect me anymore. He won’t fear me anymore.”

Bard shook his head again, incredulous.

“I should record you one of these days.”

He sighed and let himself fall back onto the pillow.

“It’s way too late for me to try and make you understand something that seems obvious to me. I need to sleep. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Good night anyway,” Thranduil said, with the same hint of irony.

In response, Bard simply exhaled through his nose again. Silence filled the room, despite the fact that neither of them was asleep.

This was not a peaceful silence. It was a restrained one.

His gaze settled on the living room. Bain was there, sprawled on the couch, phone in hand but not really using it. He looked up when Bard arrived, just enough to meet his eyes, and in that brief exchange, something clear, almost sharp, passed between them.

“Hey boyo.”

Bard stepped closer and kissed the top of his head.

“Hey Da.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Legolas is upstairs, in his room.”

He simply nodded, as if it confirmed something he already knew, then added without hesitation:

“And his father?”

“In his office.”

A brief silence settled, but Bard did nothing with it. He ran a hand through his hair, breathed in slowly, then headed for the stairs without another word.

Upstairs, the quiet felt even denser, as if the walls were absorbing anything that might have echoed. Bard stopped in front of Legolas’s door, remained still for a moment, simply there, then knocked. Two firm knocks, without hesitation.

“Yeah.”

The answer reached him, low, perfectly controlled. He opened the door. Legolas was sitting on his bed, back against the pillows, in a posture too straight to be natural, his hands resting flat on his thighs, motionless, his gaze fixed ahead as if he had chosen a point to anchor himself. He lifted his eyes when Bard entered.

“Hey.”

Nothing stood out. Not a crease, not a flaw. Bard closed the door behind him slowly, then stayed leaning against it for a few seconds, arms crossed, watching him without disguise. He made no effort to soften what he saw.

“You’re not okay.”

Legolas made a nearly imperceptible movement, like a reflex that failed to fully form.

“I am.”

Bard shook his head slowly, without harshness.

“No.”

The word fell calmly, but left no room for argument. He left the door, stepped into the room with measured ease, closing the distance without invading, and continued in a lower voice:

“I’m not going to make you say what you don’t want to say. And I’m not going to pretend I only half understand.”

Legolas’s gaze wavered slightly, then steadied again. Bard held it without flinching.

“I don’t agree with him.”

There was no hesitation in his voice, no unnecessary caution.

“Not at all.”

Legolas lifted his eyes to him more fully this time, as if those words had reached something that had been completely locked until now. Bard went on, without raising his voice, but with disarming honesty:

“It pisses me off to see you like this. You don’t deserve everything your father’s putting you through.”

Legolas looked away slightly, as if holding that was already too much.

“I don’t have a choice.”

Bard nodded slowly.

“I know. And I’m not going to tell you otherwise.”

Something shifted then. Barely. But enough that the tension wasn’t quite the same anymore. Bard stepped a little closer, leaned lightly against the dresser, and continued, more grounded:

“But that doesn’t mean everything else disappears.”

Legolas frowned faintly, without answering right away. Bard tilted his head.

“Him. Haldir.”

The name hung between them, simple, without unnecessary weight, but carrying exactly what it needed to. Legolas didn’t speak at once. But his eyes had changed—less rigid, less empty. Bard saw it, and continued in that direction, without pushing.

“What’s he like with you?”

The question wasn’t intrusive. It was asked as something obvious, direct, without judgment. Legolas hesitated. One second. Then another. As if he had to relearn how to form something that didn’t pass through the filter imposed on him these past two days.

“…he’s normal.”

The word came out softly. Bard let out a faint breath, almost amused.

“Normal how?”

Legolas lowered his eyes slightly, searching for his words, but this time without closing off completely.

“He doesn’t overthink everything.”

A very slight smile flickered, brief but real.

“He’s just… there.”

Bard nodded slowly, as if that alone was enough to understand.

“And you?”

Legolas breathed in more slowly.

“Same. I mean… I try.”

Bard watched that in silence for a moment, then went on, still with that same simplicity:

“And this weekend? What was it like?”

Legolas looked up at him, a brief tension crossing his gaze—then it eased. Bard wasn’t judging. He was just there. Legolas gave in a little.

“It was…”

He stopped, searched for the words, didn’t find them right away, then let it fall:

“great.”

The word was simple. But it carried far more than that. Bard’s mouth curved slightly.

“Yeah. I can tell.”

Legolas lowered his eyes, but this time it wasn’t to disappear. It was almost… to keep that for himself. Bard went on, more gently:

“Do you regret it?”

Legolas immediately looked up.

“No.”

Bard nodded.

“Okay.”

Then he added, with that same quiet certainty:

“Then hold on to that.”

Legolas looked at him without answering, but something in his shoulders had eased, just a little. Bard saw it, and didn’t push further. He simply straightened.

“I’m going to make dinner.”

He moved toward the door, hand on the handle, then paused for a second, as if something came back to him.

“Did you eat when you got back?”

Legolas shook his head.

“No.”

Bard let out a soft sigh.

“Figures.”

He opened the door. And that’s when Legolas spoke.

“Wait.”

Bard stopped, turned halfway toward him. Legolas hesitated for a second, as if forming the request took more effort than anything else.

“…can I help?”

Bard looked at him for a second, really looked at him, then a very slight smile crossed his lips.

“Yeah. Come on.”

Legolas stood up, not fully relaxed but no longer completely closed off either. He glanced at the still-closed door of his father’s office. Strangely, that reassured him. When they left the room together, it wasn’t much—just a few steps down a hallway that was too quiet—but it was already enough for the air, finally, to become breathable again.