Túrin is canonically hot af. It’s no wonder everyone wants to fuck him
Mîm mumbled to himself as he picked seregon on the hilltop. The red flowers had grown here for so many years now, all the years of all the generations of his people, but he’d never spent very much time actually stooping down to look at them. The flowers were small and very delicate- not very nice for bouquets, to be honest- with small triangular petals shooting thinly off the blood orange centers. He’d have to get quite the handful to have a decent-looking arrangement. That was going to take time, too, because he was /only/ picking the good flowers, the ones that weren’t missing any petals, the ones that shone the most brilliantly scarlet. The nicest ones that Túrin could spend the most time looking at.
“Nice flowers,” Mîm grumbled, tossing a few imperfect blooms away. “Good flowers for Túrin. Mîm always finds the best flowers.”
He’d gotten in the habit of speaking to himself sometimes, since Khîm went away. Ibun had never been one for complex conversation, and Túrin’s foul friends certainly weren’t worth talking to. So when Túrin himself wasn’t around, sometimes Mîm just talked as if there was someone out there who cared for the musings of an old Dwarf.
Túrin cared, though. Túrin always listened.
Mîm arranged the flowers in his hand until he had a nice and fluffy bundle he could tie off with a length of golden thread.
When he clambered back down into his halls, it took him some time to find Túrin, partially because he had to put so much effort into avoiding the gang of cutthroats and thieves living in his home, but also because Túrin wasn’t among them. When he finally did find the Man, it was just outside the secret doors, where Túrin sat alone, looking to the northeast.
When Túrin turned there was a heavy sadness on his face, but he put on a faltering smile for Mîm’s sake. He spoke no words, but patted the ground next to him, and returned his gaze to the distant mountains.
Mîm felt a nervous squirming in his belly when he sat heavily by Túrin’s side, flowers clenched in his sweaty hand. Before he had the chance to give them over, Túrin finally spoke. His voice had all the strength and conviction Mîm would expect from someone of his bearing. It was a good voice.
“Do you get ever get lonely, Mîm?”
The Dwarf shifted eagerly.
“Not so much anymore, Lord.”
“You don’t miss the ones that have left you?” Túrin asked, without turning his head. “Do you miss your son?”
“I miss Khîm,” Mîm replied shortly. “And all the rest of my kin. But I’m-“
“I wonder if he even thinks of me...” Túrin said with such raw pain in his voice that it gave Mîm pause. His fingers curled tight around the seregon, put on edge.
Instead of answering, Túrin sighed and finally honored Mîm with a glance.
“Your home is beautiful, Mîm. Thank you.”
Mîm shifted again, sensing another chance.
“Any friend of Túrin’s has my welcome,” he said with a practiced confidence he did not truly feel. “So long as he brightens my halls with his face.”
He bowed his head and held out the seregon with a flourish, trying to ignore how his old heart was hopping as if were some shy colt meeting a lass’s eye for the first time.
Túrin didn’t take the bouquet. And when Mîm opened his eyes, he realized that the son of Húrin had stood and passed inside, as if he had never been there at all.
