PROMPT: "You're seriously like a man-child."
It would seem Lothiriel had been rightly wary about her brothers and cousins wanting to "properly" welcome Eomer to the family. Apparently, the fact that their families have been intertwined since Boromir had finally gotten his head out of his ass about Theodred some six years previously is irrelevant when it comes to "male bonding time".
"Come on, Thiri," Amrothos had swindled, one arm thrown around her shoulders as he made puppy-eyes only in the way he can. "You both owe us for sneaking around behind our backs for months. And, yeah, we've known Eomer for years, but never as your boyfriend. Can't have him thinking he just gets to ride Theodred's coattails into bro-time."
"Bro-time," she'd groaned. "Honestly, Amrothos, it's like you're fifteen instead of twenty-five. You're seriously like a man-child."
"You love me," he'd argued. "Maybe not as much as your lion-maned boyfriend, but enough to not stop me, either."
Now, blinking awake to find eighteen missed texts on her phone, she wishes she had.
The most recent, coming in at about 3:45 AM, was from Faramir, with the ominous message of: I tried to stop them.
Well, at least he'd been coherent enough to send a grammatically correct text.
Amrothos, it seems, had not been so fortunate.
Am, 9:30 PM: Bro-time is commencing!
Am, 11:07 PM: Your boyfriend can hold his liquor annoyingly well. Trying a new tactic.
Am, 12:45 AM: Whisey did t'trick. I luv drunk Eomer.
Am, 2:00 AM: Don't luv Drunk Eomer. Made fun myyyyy hariof! Mean!
Am, 3:30 AM: ur my favorite sis the best sis pls dont kill me tmr pls thank u
"Oh, Elbereth," she mutters, opening the accompanying picture. It's Eomer and Amrothos, both looking incredibly intoxicated, in a tattoo parlor.
Surely not, she thinks. Most reputable places wouldn't even begin to think of tattooing people as clearly drunk as the pair of them, but something about the cracked leather of the chairs tells her that this place may not have been as discerning.
There are a few intermittent texts from Eowyn-We still on for brunch tomorrow?-and one from Pippin-Di finally said yes to a date!-and a rather alarming one from Naneth: Why are your brothers texting me about their health insurance policies?
The remaining nine messages are from Eomer.
Eomer, 9:25 PM: It's too late to turn around and come over to your apartment, isn't it. It is. Dammit.
Eomer, 9:45 PM: Amrothos just bought a bottle of tequila and drank at least half of it in the 15 minutes we've been here. How he survived to adulthood remains a mystery to me.
Eomer, 10:30 PM: It doesn't seem fair that Boromir and Theodred get to have couple time in the middle of "bro-time". I smell a conspiracy.
Eomer, 11:42 PM: You told them about my weakness for whiskey, didn't you? Traitor.
Eomer, 12:30 AM: Miss you. Muchc ratherr be at home w/you.
Eomer, 1:15 AM: Loth Loth Loth talk to me, brothers are buying more alc n left me alone w/ Borodred.
Eomer, 1:45 AM: Did not mak fun of Am's hair. Not as ncie as urs. Sall I said.
Eomer, 3:00 AM: U like tattos rite
Eomer, 3:15 AM: Luvu#3333
Muffling her laughter into her pillow, Lothiriel quickly types How are we feeling this morning, sunshine? Not expecting a response-given that it's only 9 and she imagines all of them save maybe Faramir will be sleeping off the after-effects for a good while longer-she texts Eowyn as well, confirming brunch.
Eowyn, 9:15 AM: Meet at Fangorn in 30? I'm sure you have as many interesting texts as I do.
Lothiriel can only agree.
Eowyn is practically vibrating in anticipation when Lothiriel seats herself across from her at the table. It's their favorite brunch spot, Fangorn Cafe, with a lush, leafy outside eating area and the best mimosas in town.
Eowyn flutters her fingers in her direction once they've both ordered. "Alright, spill, Lothiriel."
Gamely, Lothiriel hands over her phone, but motions for Eowyn to hand over hers too.
Eowyn's messages tell a similar story-Faramir had remained mostly sober, texting her to complain about the increasing volume of Theodred's voice, Boromir's disastrous attempt at karaoke, Amrothos's drunken antics. She has fewer from Eomer, but the last one isn't so jumbled that Lothiriel can't make out its meaning.
"Why did he ask you if I like flowers or not?" She asks, lifting her head to meet Eowyn's similarly amused expression.
"Maybe he felt guilty for texting you so late?" Eowyn offers.
"It's possible," says Lothiriel, "but I don't know if he, or any of them, were capable of feeling anything other than drunk last night."
Eowyn snorts. "An accurate assessment." At this, she lifts her glass and waits for Lothiriel to clink hers against it. "You up to torment them after we finish?"
"I can't think of anything else I'd like to do more," she answers with a grin.
It's 11:30 by the time they've finished eating, which Lothiriel deems an acceptable time to check on their assorted family members and significant others. Theodred and Boromir's apartment is an easy five block walk from Fangorn, but Eowyn's legs are a good bit longer than hers, and Lothiriel finds herself nearly out of breath by the time they reach the lobby doors.
"Valar, Eowyn, did we have to run?"
"The quicker we get there, the more likely more of them are still asleep," Eowyn says, smirking. "And thus vulnerable to torture."
The "torture" begins as soon as they get to the door. Eowyn pounds on it, as hard as she can, and shouts, "Room service!"
Lothiriel can just make out the sound of pained groaning. Eowyn's smirk is sharklike as she knocks again.
Faramir appears a few seconds later, looking fondly exasperated but not too terribly green. "Why am I not surprised," he sighs, though he accepts Eowyn's kiss in greeting.
"Good morning, Fara!" Lothiriel chirps. "How was bro-time?"
"Ask your brother," he tells her after dropping a welcoming kiss to her forehead, "or yours, for that matter, Eowyn."
"With pleasure," says Eowyn, moving passed him into the living room. It smells like a brewery, with a number of bottle visible on the counter, and various shoes and shirts strewn across the floor.
Lothiriel spies Elphir in the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, but looking relatively unscathed, much like Faramir. Erchirion, on the other hand, looks decidedly worse-for-wear from where he's sprawled across one of the couches. He groans in protest as she smacks a loud kiss to his cheek.
"Mercy, mercy," he mutters, shoving his head back under a pillow. "I haven't earned your wrath, Thiri, I promise."
"That remains to be seen," she says, smiling to herself as he shivers in mock-horror. "There's aspirin on the table next to you, if you want it."
"Do I have to move to get it?"
"Only a little."
"It can wait until my head feels less like it's been trampled by an Oliphaunt."
Lothiriel gives his arm a gentle pat before continuing on through the living room. The door to Boromir and Theodred's room is still shut, and she has little desire to walk in on anything, like poor Amrothos had back when he'd stayed with them for a week over the summer. Speaking of Amrothos…
There's a familiar set of legs poking out of the guest bathroom. Muffling her laughter into her hand, Lothiriel opens the door, revealing her youngest brother, snoring loudly with his face pressed up against the base of the toilet.
"We tried to move him," comes Elphir's voice at her shoulder, colored by grudging fondness, "and he told us to, and I quote, 'fuck off and let him worship the porcelain throne in peace'."
"He has such a way with words, our brother," she whispers back.
A sudden burst of cursing, followed by Eowyn's laughter, comes from the next room over.
"I think that's your cue," Elphir murmurs, grinning.
Lothiriel follows the sound, pushing the door open to find Eowyn, pillow hoisted above her head, clearly ready to hit Eomer with it again.
"This seems like a fairly mild form of torture," she says, causing them both to jump.
Eomer looks-well, he's looked better, that's for certain. His hair is a wreck, eyes bloodshot, and more than a little pale in the low light filtering through the blinds. Still, her heart lurches traitorously at the sight of him.
"Lothiriel, make her stop," he begs.
Eowyn, with pillow still aloft, says, "I will, if you tell me why you asked me about flowers last night."
Eomer's face turns red at an alarming rate and he curls further under the covers. A muffled 'no' is all Lothiriel can make out. Eowyn winds back, but Lothiriel stops her.
"I think I might have more luck getting it out of him," she says in a low tone, "go pester Erchirion for me?"
Eowyn purses her lips, but reluctantly tosses the pillow back towards where Eomer is hidden. "Fine. But I want answers, Lothiriel."
Giving her a jaunty salute, she waits until Eowyn's footsteps have faded to perch on the edge of the bed. Gingerly, she reaches over to run a hand through Eomer's tangled hair, and bites her lip to keep from smiling when one of his arms emerges from his cocoon of blankets to drape around her waist.
"So," she says, keeping her voice soft, "how was bro-time?"
Eomer's groan is muffled. "Your brother is a menace."
"I'm well aware," Lothiriel says. "Both his texts and yours were evidence enough of that."
"Oh, Bema," he says, his face coming back into view. "What did I say?"
"I believe you referred to Boromir and Theodred as 'Borodred'. And told Amrothos that my hair was nicer than his. And," at this, she slips her other hand over, to cradle his jaw, "asked Eowyn about me liking flowers."
Lothiriel's only ever seen Eomer nervous a handful of times-at Eowyn's rehearsal dinner, on their first date, when he'd been waiting to hear back from the stables about being promoted-but he looks it now, pale and wrapped in blankets as he is.
"Amrothos is a menace," he says again. "And we, uh-"
"Went to a tattoo parlor?" She offers.
Eomer nods, eyes flicking away from hers. "Did...did anyone tell you what we got?"
Lothiriel shakes her head, suddenly anxious. Knowing Amrothos-especially drunk Amrothos-it could be anything, ranging from the odd-if-appropriate to the truly bizarre. Lost in her thoughts, she doesn't realize that Eomer's slowly inching himself into a sitting position, though the pallor of his face only grows worse as he does so.
"Valar, Eomer, it can wait, there's no sense in you puking all over Boromir's guest bed-"
Eomer manages to roll his eyes at her. "I'll be fine. Might as well get this over with without an audience."
"Get what-" And then she sees it. The right side of Eomer's chest is wrapped neatly in plastic-as any new tattoo should be, to avoid infection-but through the layers she can just make out the design. It's a white daylily, not entirely unlike the one he'd given her for their sixth month anniversary. Flowers for my flower-garlanded maiden, he'd said, and she'd laughed. But now...now she doesn't feel much like laughing.
"All I remember is Faramir telling me to get something I wouldn't mind having on my body the rest of my life," he says, looking a little anxious as she stares at him.
"I really, really wish you weren't hungover right now," she says, gently laying a hand as close to the tattoo as she dares, "and I really, really wish we were at home and not in my cousin's guest room, so I could show you just how much I like this-"
Eomer's kissing her before she can finish the sentence. She hums happily, despite the slightly stale taste of alcohol on his tongue, and lets him pull her into his lap for a few minutes. Valar, how she loves him, weakness for whiskey and all.
(Later that night, slightly sweaty and sprawled across Eomer's chest, she thinks to ask, "and what did Amrothos get?"
Eomer snorts. "A swan. On his ass."
Lothiriel laughs so loudly the next door neighbor bangs on the wall for them to shut up.)