Author's Note: Stupid me, posting another story. I don't know where this goes, if there will be more or not, tell me what you want. Idk.
Thranduil's song is Lady Gaga - Alejandro, for Thorin I chose Arctic Monkeys - Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High and for the writingthis little story I listened to Panic! At The Disco - Girls/Girls/Boys.
Enjoy!
Legolas about Thranduil
Whenever people saw Legolas with his father they either asked him who his pretty girlfriend was or why he hadn't told them he had a sibling. Of course that was now, with him being an adult. When he was younger, they mistook Thranduil for his 'mommy' or older sister. While Legolas always answered with a resigned "This is my father", Thranduil was the one who grinned evilly at the faces people pulled when they really looked at him for the first time. He would make a funny remark then, wave the incident off, but Legolas knew that his father didn't like being mistaken for a woman. He always prided himself with his beauty, of course, why else would he start a career as a model. But as Legolas got older, Thranduil would complain more openly how people only saw that and not him. That people complimented him on his hair or his smooth skin, but not on his wit or intelligence. And Legolas knew how sharp his father was. He had seen him tear apart some critic with less effort than he put into brewing tea – and Thranduil made horrible tea.
Legolas remembered all this, and he made sure his friends remembered it too, especially Tauriel Woods, with whom he lead a medical practice. When Legolas had told his father that he wanted to become a physician, there had been a flicker of surprise in Thranduil's blue eyes, before pride and admiration settled down and held themselves until this day. Whispered into the right ears the name Greenleaf opened doors, and it enabled not only Legolas to go freelance, but also his friend from university, Tauriel, whom he just dragged along with him. Thranduil had money and influence enough to get them everything they needed.
"I don't need the money," he had said and made a gesture as if he was throwing something over his shoulder.
Even though Thranduil had not been the best father there could be – and they both knew it – Legolas had always felt protected and supported. Sometimes he might have been gone for weeks, for some fashion week in Europe or a photo shooting in Asia, or wherever a contract took him, leaving him in the care of a nanny or a neighbour. But he always came back, and he never really felt like he was really gone, anyway. In some ways, Thranduil was his older brother and not a parent.
And sometimes our roles are reversed, Legolas thought with a sigh, readjusted the straps of his backpack and knocked for what felt like the thousandth time on the door to his father's apartment. He felt annoyed and a little bit angry, but since he had definitely received a message saying that Thranduil was back in New York, he was also a bit concerned. He knew what a toll work took on him, and it wouldn't be the first time Thranduil forgot to eat more than a cracker for days and ended up unconscious on the floor because of it.
"Isn't he answering?"
Legolas turned and smiled at Mr Brown, the elderly neighbour.
"I'm afraid not. And I still don't have a spare key."
"Ah," Mr Brown held up a finger. "I can help with that. Let's just hope he didn't leave his key in the lock."
"This is very kind of you," Legolas said, as the older man waddled past him, key outstretched like a weapon. "I'll bring you a cake next time I visit him."
"Oh, no, no need for that, young man. Just give my regards to your father, I hope he's alright. There we go."
"Do you have reason to believe he is not?" Legolas hesitated, with his hand on the door knob.
"He did look a bit spooked when he arrived, but …" Mr Brown shrugged.
"Thank you."
Legolas took a deep breath and entered the small, but cosy and bright apartment. There was no noise, the air was still, and the wooden floor groaned under Legolas' shoes. There were two suitcases and a large bag, and a dark green coat thrown on the floor behind them. A bit further was a pair of shoes, carelessly discarded. The short trail lead to the couch, and as Legolas quietly approached it, he heard faint breathing. Two feet hung over the arm rest, and the rest of Thranduil's body was curled into a tight, comfy ball. Legolas grinned and grabbed a woollen blanket, which he gently spread over his father.
He knew there would be nothing in the fridge, so he had brought a few things, so Thranduil could at least survive until he found the time and energy to go grocery shopping. Legolas pulled out a self-made loaf of bread, butter, milk, water, and a handful of apples. There would be some other things in the freezer as well – mostly frozen pizza or lasagne, he presumed. But Legolas knew that Thranduil would be hungry as soon as he woke up, so he cut a few slices from the bread and put them in the toaster. While the machine did its work, he started to brew some tea as well.
"Morning."
Legolas turned and smiled, watching Thranduil stretching lazily.
"Welcome back. It's past 5pm, by the way, and Mr Brown sends you his regards."
Thranduil groaned and threw his legs over the back rest, hanging upside down on the couch.
"Damned jetlag."
"I am making you a butter toast and tea," Legolas said, turning back to said toast. He heard some shuffling behind him, so Thranduil was probably trying to get to his feet right now.
"You're an angel … How did I ever deserve you?"
"You don't, actually," Legolas teased while smearing butter onto the toasted bread. He felt Thranduil stepping behind him, not touching him, not saying anything, but he knew, he knew he was smiling.
Dís about Thorin
Dís was not surprised at finding a man sleeping on her couch after coming home from work. Fíli and Kíli, her boys, were home as well, and they stood around the couch like little birds inspecting something curious. They didn't move when they noticed her, only flashed a quick grin and went back to staring at the man.
"He looks old," she heard Kíli whisper.
"It's the beard," Fíli whispered back, an all-knowing, serious frown on his little face.
She set down her bags, filled with groceries, slipped off her shoes, hung her jacket and went to kiss her boys' cheeks in greeting. The three of them stood there for a moment, looking down on the dirty, slightly reeking, bearded man that was her brother. She had wondered how long it would take him this time to admit his defeat and come to her for help. Again.
She crouched and took in the sight of Thorin. He looked weary and tired. There were wrinkles around his eyes and the beard was really, really ugly. His hair looked greasy and matted, and his clothes were mud stained and ripped open at some places. She had never seen Thorin this miserable before. And even though she knew Thorin hated it, she was glad he was here. Even though Thorin hated 'obtruding' her home and family, she would always be here to catch him whenever he fell. It was no strain on her, despite reminding her of how their mother had to suffer under their father's falls. All those times he vanished without any sign or message. And came back with masterpieces, jewels caught on canvas, fireworks of paint. If Thorin needed the knowledge that Dís would be there to catch him in order to paint masterpieces, then she would be glad to do so, however long it took.
So far it hadn't been enough, though. Thorin was still searching for his 'Arkenstone', the thing, person, place or state of mind that would enable him to paint life in its purest beauty. Dís was here, though; his home, his foundation, his safety net, his crutch, until he found his Arkenstone.
"Come on boys, we should let him sleep," she whispered after some time and wound her arms around the boys' small bodies, guiding them away from the couch and to the kitchen. They silently helped her unpack her groceries, putting them into the fridge, the freezer or the cupboards. They pretended they were ninjas, moving stealthily around the kitchen, making funny faces, and the boys were giggling under their breaths, when their mother hopped onto the counter and did a few moves. But they were silent enough that when they went back to the living room, they saw that Thorin was still lying on the sofa.
Dís sent the boys to go and play something in their room until she had prepared dinner, asking them to keep it down. They promised and rushed off, giggling and grinning.
"You can stop pretending you're asleep," she said then and sat on the armchair, facing the couch.
"I'm sorry," Thorin murmured, looking at her with hooded, tired eyes. She just shook her head.
"You're always welcome here, Thorin, and you know that."
He sighed and pushed himself into a sitting position.
"I only need a few pieces of paper and a pencil, Dís. I was waiting for you, and the couch was too soft to resist."
"Are you going to sell sketches again?"
"What else is there to do?" Thorin scratched his head and groaned. "God, I look terrible, don't I?"
"I'm going to make dinner now," she said and rose, "and afterwards you'll take a shower and I'm going to cut your hair."
"Thank you," he said, but it sounded resigned. She stepped up to him and gently touched his cheek, until he looked at her.
"Don't give up, Thorin. I believe in you."
He bit his chapped lip and blinked away a few tears.
"You are so good to me. How can I ever repay you?"
"Find your Arkensone," she answered and pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. "And then paint."
She knew that he still doubted himself, when she turned to go into the kitchen, but it had always been this way. After their parents passed away and Frerin died in that horrible accident, only Dís was left to believe in him, and she tried, she tried so hard, but she knew she wasn't enough. She wasn't Thorin's Arkenstone. But she would be his substitute, until he found it.
Author's Note: So, what do you think? Good? Bad? More? No more?
