prompt: (Trick) One of them lives in an old lighthouse AU. And when I say 'lives'… Does he really [...]?
Fíli’s bones groaned as he sat up, swung his legs over the side of his narrow bed and planted his feet on the rug on the floor beside it. It was a thin, ratty thing that absorbed the cold that seeped through the concrete, rather than protected from it. A chill ran up from the soles of Fíli’s feet and settled as an ache in his knees. He felt haggard, spread well beyond his thirty-six years, but duty called, and it was ingrained in him to answer.
He’d been here for as long as he could remember. The small island had been his family’s responsibility for generations, and it was his turn to take up the mantle of keeper. As soon as Fíli had been old enough, his uncle – who had replaced Fíli’s late father – had moved on to take over a fishing enterprise in the shoreline village.
Dale appeared to have climbed out of the sea, a densely packed cluster of damp stone structures, as grey as the landscape that surrounded it. The smell and taste of brine had sunk into the pores of its people, clung to them wherever they went so they would always be reminded of where they came from. They were hardy, grown on temperamental waves, giving and receiving life from the depths, and Fíli was no exception.
Though, now, in the strained, evening, mid-October light, Fíli’s joints creaked as he stood, and his spine popped like a zipper.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been ashore, though it couldn’t have been too long ago. His mother wouldn’t have had it, making the short journey to the island herself if he’d been gone awhile. Time passed strangely there, one day washing into the next and into the next and so on, like waves over sand.
Dressing quickly in a wool sweater that needed darning at the elbows, a pair of thick trousers that should’ve been replaces ages ago, the hems curled and frayed, and his double-breasted sack coat, Fíli didn’t waste time shuffling toward the stove to boil water for coffee. His nights were a slow routine of shaking the coffee tin, jotting down a note on his supply list to get more when Bard made the trip over; then he sat for a few minutes, warming his hands around his mug, letting the stiffness in his body recede enough that he could comfortably climb the stairs to the light room.
Earlier, Fíli had seen signs of an oncoming storm and he wasn’t disappointed to hear the roar and crash of waves against the crags. As soon as he finished half his mug, he ambled to the stairs and made his ascent.
***
Outside, the fog was thick and the air so cold it pinched Fíli’s cheeks and neck. He’d forgotten his scarf again, somewhere in the bedroom. It was odd that he’d misplaced it in the first place, given that there wasn’t much filling the small spaces within the lighthouse. Hardly anywhere it could’ve hidden itself. No matter, Fíli had a job to do and so he set about doing it. It was nearing the end of October and the light was thin by four. He hobbled up the stairs to the light room, made his tour and inspected what needed inspecting, winding the lens and ensuring it moved correctly.
***
Fíli sighed, the unmooring sensation of isolation squeezing his chest, as if someone’s boot was bearing down on him. It had definitely been too long since he’d been home. Thankfully, he only had a week left, his cousin Dori taking his place for the month of November. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of his bed and planted his feet, tilted forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
His back protested, but he ignored it, hunching forward. Then, scrubbing his hair back, Fíli stood and moved to his wardrobe, pulled on his wool sweater that needed darning and his trousers that needed replacing and shoved his feet into two pairs of socks which he then shoved into his boots.
Next, stove, boiled water, coffee.
Christ, what day was it?
***
October 31st. He didn’t know how he knew today was October 31st, only that it was. The same way he knew when it was time to get up and time to go to sleep, when he was hungry or thirsty.
Fíli hauled his legs over the side of his bed with a groan, feet on the rug. He stretched his arms and scratched his furry belly and then marched to his wardrobe to dress. While he didn’t particularly enjoy the monotony, he had to admit he liked the simplicity of wearing practically the same thing everyday. The sweater with the elbows that needed darning, trousers that needed replacing, socks in socks and boots and coat.
It was when he was bending to sit, a movement the required his legs to be spread at exactly the right angle and his arse to stick out in order to hit the seat before the rest of him fell into the chair, that something very…unusualhappened.
***
The crash and clamor hadn’t been what had spilled Fíli’s coffee all over his boots, it had been the very sudden interruption of a body falling through the door, soaked in the sea and pale as a ghost. Fíli shot forward, thoughts stuttering to a halt as instinct took over. He dropped to his knees and rolled the stranger over by the shoulder to get a better look at what he was dealing with.
He gasped at the sight.
A boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen with features that would mature into a striking handsomeness. He was wet from head to toe, lips blue and lashes starred and stuck together by globs of something resembling black tar. Fíli hurried to strip the boy of his wet clothes, an unusual combination of hideous green and purple and black-and-white-stripes; half-carried, half-dragged him to the armchair in front of the stove and piled the boy in blankets.
Two hours later, after Fíli finished the chore of winding the lens, the boy woke up and gave Fíli his name.
“Kíli,” He said it like a secret, “What’s yours?”
***
Kíli told Fíli a harrowing tale of dares between friends and how Kíli had swum from the shore to the island, emboldened by something called Sour Puss.
“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” Kíli admitted, looking small and lost and very ashamed.
When Fíli didn’t say anything – he didn’t feel there was anything to say, honestly – Kíli again filled the silence, nattered on about this and that and—
“Mobile?” Fíli interrupted as soon as Kíli had said the word. It wasn’t as though Fíli didn’t understand the concept of the word, he did; it was simply that in the context Kíli used it, it didn’t make sense.
Kíli scrunched up his face in confusion, “Yeah?” Fíli lifted an eyebrow in the hopes of prompting Kíli for clarity. Instead, Kíli continued his story, telling Fíli how he’d decided it was about time his dumb friends learned that I’m not the kind that doesn’t follow-through.
“So, you’re a knob’ead.” Fíli concluded, deadpan and stone faced. He couldn’t keep it up for long, though, the mask cracking at Kíli’s gull-like guffaw. Fíli doubled over, sucking in large breathes and holding himself around the middle. Kíli’s stricken expression was priceless and by far the funniest thing Fíli had ever seen.
“Oi!” Kíli leaned back in the armchair and kicked out, striking the side of Fíli’s thigh. “Don’t be an arse! I almost died!”
Which sent Fíli into another fit of laughter.
***
A year later, Kíli returned, again on October 31st. He’d said he’d been ‘round sometime in between, but Fíli hadn’t been there. Fíli figured Kíli made the journey during one of the months Fíli was ashore and so Fíli rectified that by giving Kíli a better idea of the rotation he, Dori and Nori had created for themselves.
Kíli had looked puzzled, the straight line of his mouth giving him a severe look. He’d been quiet for most of the night, brightening later when Fíli promised to show him how to wind the lens so it turned clockwise.
***
Over the years, Kíli grew into himself, and Fíli had been right, his features only improved with age. He was striking and dark and emotive, the position of his brows determining his whole expression.
Somehow, Fíli didn’t feel as though he was outrunning Kíli in age. Rather, Kíli made him feel young; his joints protested less, his skin warmed, his chest lightened. He had a regular skip in his step in the days leading up to Kíli’s arrival. And then, one year, Kíli came with something familiar wrapped around his neck.
“Where’d you get that?” Fíli asked, trying his best to keep the suspicion out of his voice.
“Huh?” Kíli tucked his chin into his chest, peering down the long line of his nose, going crosseyed as he gazed at the scarf he’d chosen for his visit. “Oh, this?” He glanced him, big, cheerful smile lighting up the dull interior of Fíli’s living space. “My nan was cleaning out her attic, this was tucked away with some of her grandfather’s things. S’nice, innit?”
“Yeah.” Fíli said, eyes fixed on a coffee stain he was certain he recognized. “S’nice.”
***
“You know, one of these days, you’ll have to come to me on the shore.” Kíli wheezed, dragging himself up the rest of the stairs and through the door.
Fíli chuckled, large hand pressed into Kíli’s lower back where it belonged. “One of these days, I might.”
Kíli cast him an odd look over his shoulder.
“What? I’m on shore a few months during the year, you know. We could meet then. You just,” Fíli hesitated, realizing a little late that he didn’t want to have that conversation, “Never suggested it before.”
***
Fíli never sought Kíli out on shore.
Kíli never mentioned it.
And they continued the way they were until Kíli never left again.
