@magic-ramen is feeling less than stellar so here’s a scene from this EPIC ROMCOM that may or may not get finished. :p
Like Sigrid herself, the reception was anything but formal. She trotted around the guests, barefoot in a slimmer version of her lustrous white gown, Fili in constant tow.
Bard couldn’t have been happier. He could, however, had been more comfortable. Near the bar, Thranduil a short distance away, he fidgeted, wondering if the elf had played a harmless joke on him by claiming the suit was perfectly cut. It clung too close and he felt squeezed, as though never able to draw a full breath.
He sighed and lifted his champagne flute. Not much longer, right? He wondered if Sigrid would be put out if he slipped away to change into his more comfortable clothing.
Never mind that those clothes prompted this ridiculous idea in the first place, he admitted. A few more hours was an easy sacrifice for his eldest. Maybe if he drank enough he’d forget he was in such trappings.
He jumped at the sharp whistle, spilling a bit of liquid down his lapel. He smiled at Haldir though it slipped quickly. His friend had that look. The one that rarely ended well for Bard. The elf was up to something and doubtful anything good would stem from it.
“Bard,” he mused, his eyes making a show of dragging the length of Bard, “you certainly clean up well.”
Bard chuckled as he dabbed as his lapel. “Well, anything for Sigrid.”
He stiffened when Haldir leaned closer. “Reminds me of college. You remember? Finals week?”
Bard blushed at Thranduil’s question. The elf’s silver eyes were warm but wary. And Bard’s heart stuttered at the look. He swallowed and batted at Haldir, fumbling at the other elf’s shoulder. “Er, it’s nothing.”
Haldir snorted. “Nothing?!” The elf took a long pull of his beer before he sighed, wistful. “How can you say it was nothing?” He reached out with one hand, pinching Bard’s chin gently between thumb and forefinger. “Seeing you like this, reminds me of why I enjoyed that night.”
Bard’s heart shriveled and dove for his knees. “Uh, H-Haldir,” he tried to laugh, making more an odd wheeze. “Th-that was . . . years ago,” he protested.
“What was ‘years ago,’?” Thranduil asked. It was clear the question was meant to be curious but Bard knew his old friend; there was a bitter edge to the brief words.
Bard turned to face the elf. “O-oh. You know. Er, youthful . . . indiscretion?” Rather than appease him, it seemed to annoy Thranduil given the faint downturn of his lips. Gods help him, Bard wanted a hole to crawl into. Here Thranduil was deliciously resplendent in expensive silks and cotton, blond hair in a loose ponytail, and Haldir was revisiting that?! He smiled weakly as he batted away Haldir’s hand. “Nothing, honestly. Just . . . um, old friends.”
Old friends. Old friends?! He took a deeper gulp of his champagne, nearly draining the glass. Why don’t I just say to him, ‘you know, like us?’ Kill any chance of anything.
Giving him no quarter, even as Bard silently begged him to bloody well shut up, Haldir went on. Bard gave him a sharp glare, catching sight of Legolas and Galion approaching. He didn’t need one of his oldest friends recounting a romp in front of his crush and said friend’s husband.
“Bard, did I ever tell you how much I treasured that night?”
The wheeze turned into a hiss. Was it possible to see one’s life flash before their eyes? “What are you talking about?” he whined.
Haldir’s eyes turned toward the ceiling as he sighed again, fanning whatever nostalgia he seemed to be carrying. “You were . . . gods, so . . . responsive.”
Bard’s vision went blank. What are you talking about, you bastard?!
“Responsive.” Thranduil’s presence loomed an inch or so behind Bard. “You . . . were lovers?”
Not thinking, Bard spun, his hand slapping Thranduil’s chest. “No! I mean, it was . . . one night. We were . . . curious and --” he stopped, his tongue turning to wool. What is happening here? When did Haldir decide to become his mortal enemy?
He scrunched up his shoulders when Haldir’s nuisance fingers tangled with the curls at the nape of his neck. “I suppose . . . curious is accurate. Oh, but Bard . . . I’ve never really forgotten. It was such a lovely and . . . long night.”
“Haldir,” he bit out, turning back around. “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”
Haldir’s hand stroked his cheek and Bard stumbled. “It’s never been that good with anyone else,” he pointed out.
Bard pinched his nose, trying not to hyperventilate. “You’re married,” he reminded him.
Haldir shrugged. “There’s always your first.”
Bard’s face could set the curtains on fire at this point. What was he getting at?! From what Bard recalled, it was two nineteen-year-olds fumbling with their cocks and barely understanding what went where and for how long. A messy, silly, frustrating night. Not . . . whatever the hell Haldir seemed to be thinking.
“So,” Thranduil mused, voice thick, “the two of you were . . . quite close after all.”
I am literally in hell, Bard whined.
“Ooh, are we recounting one-night stands?” Eredhon chirped as he bounced up, dragging Feren and Lindir along with him. Given his overly bright eyes, Eredhon had been to the bar repeatedly already.
The elf preened and said, “Did I ever tell you about the night Thranduil rawed me stupid one night?”
Bard blinked and glanced over, surprised to see Thranduil’s face white as a sheet. Thranduil . . . and Eredhon? He blinked again, imagining his taciturn friend with someone as over-the-top as Eredhon. And . . . Thranduil on the giving end. His cheeks burned hotter and he threw back the last of his champagne in an effort to distract himself.
Galion raised an eyebrow but said nothing, even as Eredhon chuckled in near-manic glee.
“Oh, Arda, yes! He was . . .” Eredhon’s grin turned wicked, “insatiable.”
Thranduil cleared his throat, a touch of color high in his cheeks. “I hardly think that is appropriate --”
Eredhon fluttered his hand before Thranduil, clearly not caring. “I couldn’t walk for days!” He gave Thranduil a coy look. “Who knew you had that in you.”
A synapse in Bard’s brain flared and automatically reached for two flutes of champagne as a waiter wandered by, downed one and gripped the other tight. He certainly did not need an image of a . . . ravishing Thranduil driving into . . . into . . . he choked and coughed, nearly dropping his two glasses.
And he did not whimper when Thranduil’s familiar hand patted his back. “Are you all right?” the elf whispered, leaning in.
Bard turned slightly, staring into those familiar, icy eyes. That warmth he’d always known turned them to soft steel and Bard smiled, weak though it was. “I’m o-okay,” managed, swallowing air. He smiled again, stronger now. “Possibly a bit tipsy.”
“Oh, you know, Bard never could hold his liquor.”
Bard’s smile dropped and he glared at his friend. “That’s not true.”
“Oh?” Haldir preened. “I seem to remember one night, you wasted and suggesting things.” He winked. “Involving . . . cuffs and . . . a whip?”
Bard’s mouth dropped open.
I have died and gone to hell. I am dead.
