Disclaimer: These characters are JRR Tolkien's and not mine.
A/N: I scrapped my other fic in progress (I might repost, or not) and switched on over to Modern-Day AU. It will be kind of weird.
He likes how invigorating the wind feels against his face. How he thinks he's not contributing to air pollution. And his topmost, and secret, motivation; it keeps him out of the gym.
He has always hated the gym. He has not a singular pleasant memory from gym class in high school.
And even though high school felt like eons of years ago to him, Legolas Greenleaf has managed to stay the same way he did during the most part his youth. At twenty-four, he is still a free spirit who refuses the pressure of society's mandate. He loves camping, fronts a heavy metal band, and is deeply attached to his Superfly FS 8 bike.
Complete with helmet and his rugged old bag, the same one from high school, he whistles as he tears down the winding streets of his hometown in Thousand Oaks, California on his preferred mode of transportation.
One day as it clicked altogether when he was roughly nine years old, he figured out Thousand Oaks was not really his hometown. That he was displaced from another part of the state, possibly the more affluent side. And the parents who raised him clearly do not have the same impossible blue eyes; porcelain skin and immaculate bleached blond hair that he naturally possesses.
He sticks out in every family and class photo like a sore thumb.
Regardless, he held his adoptive parents very dear to him.
Three years prior, both died from a car accident which nearly drove him into depression. After inheriting a fair amount of money, he sold their beautiful house on Potrero Road because he couldn't find things to put in the extra rooms, and the sights, scents and memories tied to his parents lingered and it did nothing but crush his heart. He flagged himself a humble apartment away from the lake but still close to the foot of the mountains.
He is an arbourist. Climbing trees and lifting heavy logs have earned him hard muscles and lean physique. It allows him to be surrounded by nature. Nothing gives him more comfort than the expanse of the outdoors.
He arrives at his destination and jumps from his bike, lifting it off the road and onto the grassy elevated fields of the city cemetery. With a steady hand on the handlebar of the bike, he reaches for his bag behind him with the other one, pulling two small bouquets of mixed wild flowers.
There's a patch of stubborn tall grass that grows wildly around the area where his late parents lay that the maintenance crew always seems to overlook. Peering down at his mother's and then his father's tombstone with glossy eyes he holds back a tear, hiccupping as he bends over to place the flowers on the earth.
The epitaph simply reads:
In Loving Memory of Inwen and Saeros Greenleaf
"Merry Christmas, mom, dad."
On the eight floor of an old apartment building, the elevator door struggles to slide open and Legolas steps out with his bike in tow. Even the kind of ding the elevator bell makes is questionable but it doesn't bother him anymore. He quickly runs a hand over his pocket to ensure his iPhone is intact and adjusts the volume of his earphones as he listens to a familiar voice on the other line.
"I'm thinking this year you should come tomorrow before midnight. We'll have a Christmas Eve dinner and then we'll open presents while we're stuffed."
Tauriel is Legolas' girlfriend, partner in crime, and college sweetheart. Her hair is red and tousled, oftentimes braided. She has mossy green eyes and a mousy face, dimples that dig deep. They initially met in a college library fighting over a used book.
Legolas wrinkles his nose at the invitation he knew was coming his way.
"I don't know, Tauriel. I'm not feeling the holiday spirit. I downloaded a couple of movies to re-watch and was just planning to stay in. Make some popcorn. Double butter," he invites her, breathing heavily at the word 'butter'.
"Paranormal Activity and Blair Witch Project?" she asks coyly.
This highly impresses Legolas. "You know what I like."
"Legolas, honey, my mom is making your favourite lasagna for Christmas. You have no choice but to come over," Tauriel smiles into her cell phone.
She got him. Mama Tauriel's homemade, ground chicken lasagna with feta and ricotta cheese is one of his weaknesses. He shakes his head and chuckles. "This would be my fourth holidays with your whole family. I feel like I'm intruding and I always end up eating most of the food." He turns the key in the lock. "I have no shame."
He carefully leans his bike against the wall by the washroom after kicking his apartment door open, resting his bag on the floor.
"Alright you pulled my leg. I will come over to your place so we can still have our gift exchange, ok?" Tauriel suggests patiently.
"I love you," Legolas feels lucky and humble.
"I love you too, weirdo."
He hangs up and places his cell phone on top of a bookcase. On a shelf where he keeps his business course material from college, he eyes down a piece of folded white paper sandwiched halfway between an old Marketing book and a Macro Economics book.
Everyday that he enters his apartment, he blinks knowingly at this piece of paper, as if it is waiting to be yanked out. He knows what is written on it. He knows what he is capable of doing with it.
Today he takes a deep breath and snatches the paper awake from its dormant state. He flips it open and is re-acquainted with his late adoptive mother's cursive writing in ballpoint pen.
Back in the day when young Legolas underwent phases in which he was especially curious about his biological parents and his background, his mother always told him he was more than welcome to seek them. She was willing to be the bridge, even if it pinched her heart.
He stares at the ink and the curves, quietly waiting for them to come alive. Sprawled across the paper are the name and the phone number of an adoption services agency.
Sometimes she can't read him at all.
Tauriel sits on one end of the couch, elbows resting atop her knees, one hand running down her face. The conversation drifting in Legolas' living room keeps hobbling in a tired circle and so does Legolas.
He suddenly stops pacing back and forth and plops down on a black recliner by the window. This summons his pet cat Seven to spring up from nowhere and claw her way to his lap. Legolas greets her by generously petting her head.
"I'm going to do it. I should do it, don't you think?" he asks Tauriel but not for the first time. The cat helps her answer by purring and putting her paw on his kneecap.
"…Yes I encourage you to do it if you think you are up and ready for it," Tauriel says.
Legolas winces as if he is in pain, eyes darting between Tauriel's head and the wall behind her. He avoids the piercing on his right eyebrow as he takes a swipe across his temple.
"I don't know. What if they totally reject me again...like what they did in the first place...hence the story of my life?" he talks in broken sentences and barely a dash of confidence.
"But you don't know that, right?," she keeps both hands on her cheeks. "What if it works out this time?"
"And what if it doesn't. It will be twice the hurt."
"Alright then," she shifts in her seat and throws her hands up. "Don't do it. No pressure."
Legolas sighs, drawing loops in the gray fur of his cat. "Although, I've been thinking about it for quite a while now. It would be nice to meet them…" his face completely drops for a split second and Tauriel is able to catch it.
Feeling sad from realizing that this is giving Legolas a difficult time, she leaves the couch and saunters over to him, shooing the cat off his lap. She stands by his side and makes him look up at her by placing her pointy finger under his chin.
"Legolas, I know you've already made a decision in your mind. Don't let any doubt stop you," her green eyes dance with his blue. "Whatever your heart is telling you to do, you should follow it, and I'm here to support you. I wouldn't want you to regret anything."
The San Diego Freeway is nearly empty on a Saturday morning when Legolas strapped his bike onto the back of his black Prius and made a southbound trip to Beverly Hills. He does not quite know what to expect, or how to handle a bad reaction if his parents refuse to give him a warm reception.
However, he is mildly intrigued by the identity of his father. He remembers the looks he was given by some associates working in the adoption agency when they recognized his real last name as they handed him his documents.
Thranduillion. He is a "Legolas Thranduillion". He snorts at how silly it sounds. Almost like royalty, he thinks.
He shrugs at pretty much everything and turns left into a plaza to park his car in front of a Walgrens. He plucks the bike off the car and studies the map app on his phone one more time before he jumps onto the seat.
The December sun is blasting down and is well received by lineups of palm trees, casting funky shadows on the spotless sidewalks of such a world-renowned icon of sophistication that houses A-list celebrities and pompous socialites. Legolas ignores the condescending glances he is thrown by overdressed people and their army of shopping bags; brand names in big font slapped across the front.
He is dressed down to a simple blue windbreaker over a black shirt and ripped jeans, a smile plastered to his face as he continues to ride his bike in a carefree glow. Trendy people, so clean and beautiful, walking on the spotless sidewalks of Beverly Hills turn their noses up at him and it makes him want to pull up his sleeves to showcase his arms.
"Wait 'til they see my anarchy tattoo," he half-threatens them in his mind. "And my Libra scales…and my dream catchers…" he continues to list the tattoos that decorates the rest of his torso.
As he turns into the street of his destination, his train of thought is distracted by the sudden change in size of the houses. The mansions have sprung up grander than the other obnoxious mansions on the avenue where he started. The gates are higher and more solid. The number of driveways with parked Mercedes and Bentleys has doubled.
Finally he stares down a particular white mansion with towering pillars along the front patio, nestled deep inside a massive lot with a glamorous, oversized fountain smack in the middle of a roundabout.
He gapes at the golden address number "20" embellished with black trimmings against the nine-footer golden gates. He quickly pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket and glances to check the address again if he is stalking the correct house.
"No way," he thinks to himself, and begins to doubt if he even wants to continue and press the brass button that is supposedly the gate bell. He shoves the paper back into his pocket.
He takes in a deep breath before he turns on his heel with the other foot already poised over the bike pedal. He thinks the adoption agency might have screwed up his documents and he is ready to file the day away and drive back to Thousand Oaks.
But even before he is able to mount his bike, his eyes narrow at a white CLA 45 AMG Mercedes leisurely rolling down the winding pathway towards the residence gate where he is standing frozen in his tracks. Bogged by renewed curiosity, he waits until the car makes a full stop right in front of the gate and is inches from his front tire.
He stalls in silence and so does the car. Seconds stretch before the driver side window starts to roll halfway down in its full tinted glory. Legolas' hand is off the handlebar and is back into his jean pocket to fish out his document.
"You have ten seconds to get off my property," a man coolly says as his head appears behind the window, sporting long bleached blond hair that flows down well below his chest. His thick, dark eyebrows are slightly crunched behind a pair of designer aviator shades.
Legolas starts to fidget. Before he is aware of it, his hand holding the battered paper is shaking and his kneecaps are feeling funny. He tries to piece things together, bouncing looks between the paper and the man who seems he's already had enough.
"Umm…hello good afternoon," he begins, internally kicking himself for stuttering.
The man behind the wheel turns to the woman with long blonde locks sitting on the passenger seat, also covered in designer shades big enough that it takes up half of her face. "The paparazzi are getting younger. This is a concern," he says under his breath but loud enough for Legolas to hear.
The woman leans in and peers out of the driver window to smile lazily at Legolas.
"I want to be nice to the less fortunate, so I promised to be of decent manner towards the paparazzi," she says, struggling to talk in a louder tone. "Please no pictures."
"I am no paparazzi, ma'am," Legolas corrects her. This seems to bother the woman.
There is no indication of the man's facial expression except the slight movement of his eyebrows. "Then what in the world are you?" he asks condescendingly.
Legolas is oblivious to how big of an asshole the man is. On any other normal day he would've already punched him in the nose. "Are you Mr. Oropherion? Thranduil Oropherion, sir?"
"I asked you first. What are you, and what is your business on my property?" the man repeats, shaking his head magnificently.
More uneasy silence stretches the distance between the two, and Legolas now looks like he's about to keel over. Still peering from inside the passenger seat, the woman's face moulds into a slow realization as she gingerly takes the frame of her shades and lowers it down her nose, dark brown eyes scrutinizing the other bleached blond man standing close outside their car.
"Well?..." the man persists, straight-faced, ready to call security.
Legolas is anxious and beyond confused and he is not hiding any of it.
"My name is Legolas and I'm twenty-four and I drove all the way from Thousand Oaks and I'm here because I think you're my dad."