Author's Note: To Dina (Guest): Mee tooo! OMG, exactly, his profile is soooo beautiful I could stare at it 5ever ... *sigh* Thanks so much for reading and commenting!
I'm sorry for the slightly longer than usual wait, but some personal stuff came crashing down and I still need to sort that out first. Also, uni started this week. However, I have many ideas for this fic, and a new laptop as well, so ... Maybe I'll be able to maintain a weekly/10-days/2-weeks update rhythm, maybe not. I just wanted to warn you. Also sorry for this short chapter again, it came out shorter than I thought.
Enjoy!
Cyan/Azure
"Can I touch your nose?"
For a second he was surprised, of course. A bit suspicious maybe. And slightly offended. It took him a few moments to realise that he had hoped, Thorin would be someone to look past his body and recognise his worth as a person – but apparently that wasn't the case. How stupid of him. Why should a painter see something else than a pretty face? Anger threatened to gain the upper hand in his mind, and there were already sneering remarks boiling up, ready to shoot, ready to hurt, when he saw Thorin's face. He looked stricken, embarrassed. Muttered words, like curses, fell from his lips, and he hit his forehead with his book.
"I'm sorry," Thorin rasped and stood, clutching his utensils to his chest like a shield. "That was stupid. I didn't mean to offend you."
Something in Thranduil shifted, replacing his disappointment and anger with a far softer, yet unnamed feeling.
"You didn't offend me," he replied softly, holding out his hand, as if to pull Thorin back onto the couch. He blinked. "Well, yes, you kind of did, but that's not the point."
"I'm sorry, I'm not very eloquent." Thorin sat again, but avoided touching Thranduil's still outstretched hand by sitting further away from him. "What I meant is … Well, seeing with the eyes is one thing. But to truly capture a person one needs to know … what is beneath. And touch helps with that. It builds a literal, physical connection."
Thranduil unconsciously sucked in his breath at that. Maybe his hope wasn't unfounded after all. Maybe Thorin would see both. Thorin could be that person in his life – apart from Legolas – who knew him in his entirety, inside and out, dark and bright.
"Painting is very intimate, so I'm afraid there will be other requests like that in the future. I will try to formulate them less … blunt, though" Thorin continued, fiddling with a rough patch on his jeans.
"It's just …" Thranduil hesitated, searching for the right words. "Why? Why would you want to paint me? Why did you follow me? Why are you here? Why do you paint? I would like to understand, Thorin." I want to understand you, just as I want you to understand me.
Thorin nodded.
"Of course. There is much to tell, though you may always ask me questions if you are uncomfortable or confused. Sometimes I lose myself in the images that flood my head." He sighed long and deep, setting his painting utensils onto his knees again, gently going through motions that must be as familiar as walking or breathing. "You asked why. Why you. Well, to properly answer that I also have to answer why I paint."
Thranduil twisted into a position that was more comfortable and allowed him to look at Thorin at a less awkward angle. He leaned against the backrest of the sofa and crossed his legs, nodding once, when Thorin looked at him questioningly.
"You already know that my father was a painter too, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, as was my grandfather, and his father and grandfather before him. Some of my ancestors were more or less famous, they all painted or drew different things, developed different styles." Thorin dipped his brush into the water, gathered some paint and drew the rough shape of Thranduil's body in his current position, yoga pants, sweater and all. "What they all had in common though, was a … focus. Something, that made them see more clearly. Something that inspired them and refined their art. Our family calls it the Arkenstone."
Thranduil hummed.
"You mentioned something like that, yes."
"One of my ancestors first used that term, because his focus was a jewel he called the Arkensone – a diamond, or an opal, we do not know. It was lost long ago, though its beauty inspired him greatly. And like a gift, the concept of the Arkenstone was passed from father to son. My grandfather's Arkenstone was heroin. My father's was the solitude only found in untouched lands."
"And yours?" Thranduil asked silently, resting his head on the soft cushions of the backrest.
Thorin sighed and set his brush aside to look at his newest little painting.
"I have been looking for mine for many years now. But I think I just recently found it. Him."
Thranduil blinked, confused at the meaningful look Thorin gave him.
"So it can be a person," he said slowly.
An almost painful expression flitted over Thorin's face then, before he sighed and rubbed his face. Suddenly, like a light had been switched on, Thranduil realised the implication and made a shocked noise.
"What, you mean me? I am your Arkenstone? But … that's …"
"I'm not sure yet," Thorin said and held up his hands, as if to pacify Thranduil. "And it doesn't actually mean anything to you, so you're always free to say you don't want to do this anymore."
"But doesn't it mean I am kind of responsible for your art?" Thranduil lifted his head off the backrest and uncertainly hugged himself. "I'm always crap at being responsible, you can't be serious."
"No, it doesn't mean anything like that. An Arkenstone just … heightens a painter's creativity and focus. I can still work without you, but with you here … special things can happen," Thorin tried to explain, but even he could tell the man had a hard time putting this into words, and it made him so relatable that Thranduil felt a warm fondness towards him.
"It's okay," he reassured him with a soft smile. "I think I understand now."
"Thanks. For … not freaking out, I suppose."
"Maybe this Arkenstone-thing affects me after all," Thranduil mused jokingly. "Maybe I'll start getting really creative too."
Thorin chuckled.
"You are already a creative person, just maybe not a conventional one."
"What do you mean?" Thranduil asked curiously. He'd never considered himself an artist or anything.
"Well, you are a model, right? I'd say modelling is the art of presentation, and it is a kind of performance, like acting. So I think you are creative in some way."
Thranduil hummed, thoughtful.
"I never counted my job as something that needs creativity. It always came naturally to me."
"Then you are just incredibly lucky and talented, and also you obviously have the looks to do it," Thorin insisted.
From someone else Thranduil might have waved this comment off as bootlicking falseness, and he almost reflexively did so with Thorin too, but then he saw the open, honest, almost serious expression on his face and felt his cheeks heat up. Thorin really meant it. He'd just complimented him.
"Uh, thanks," he replied, but his voice came out several octaves too high.
Thorin tilted his head, still serious.
"One would think you are used to praises, but it seems not."
If anything, this just blew Thranduil's head off. That sneaky bastard had flattered him again, but this time so subtly; less than a minute after he barely brought out any words to describe what an Arkenstone was. It took Thranduil a few seconds to gather himself.
"I get a lot of compliments, you are right. But most people don't mean them, or they are just shallow and boring. I- … I was just surprised to find that you were sincere." He shot him a shaky smile. "Also I don't get complimented by men very often, so that's always exciting."
Now it was Thorin's turn to be flabbergasted.
"I didn't mean it in any way … I mean, I didn't want to create the expression that I'm … Not that I wouldn't, of course you're … It's not …"
And there was inarticulate Thorin again. It was almost cute how he fought with the words and Thranduil had to forcibly keep himself from giggling – how disgraceful. They both were silent for a second, but then their eyes met and they broke into undignified snorting and laughing anyway. Somehow Thorin's hands ended up framing Thranduil's face, and suddenly, like waking from a dream, they sobered up again.
"You know, in the museums they always say 'look but don't touch'," Thorin said tonelessly, as if his thoughts were somewhere far away. "But you're not an exhibit, you're a living and breathing person."
At some point Thranduil realised he was holding his breath and staring into Thorin's azure eyes, but that didn't actually matter, because Thorin was looking at him too, and he was very, very close, almost close enough to- … To kiss?
His eyes were closed, but that was insignificant, considering the warm, soft lips that gently pressed against his. A warm sigh fanned his cheek and Thranduil chased it, chasing the warmth that suddenly let him feel at peace, until contact was re-established. But then Thorin was pulling back and cold reality rushed back in, making them both gasp in shock.
"I am … so sorry," Thorin whispered, tucking his hands firmly under his arms. "That was very unprofessional of me. Just … Please just forget that ever happened."
Thranduil blinked, still lost somewhere between the peaceful bliss and the cold shock.
"No, of course, it's okay, already forgotten," he blurted before his brain caught up with his tongue, and only realised what he'd said as he heard it out loud. They both stared at each other again, taken aback and shaken.
"I, um," Thorin stammered and cleared his throat. "I wouldn't want to keep you any longer. I have some drafts now, maybe … I can come back whenever it suits you to … finish them."
"Of course," he replied automatically. "Tomorrow I am meeting my agent, but … the day after?"
"That would be perfect. Same time?"
"Yeah."
They both got up a bit mechanically, and Thranduil numbly watched as Thorin packed his things. He led him to the door and bit his lip, unsure what to say.
"Until then," Thorin said with a small nod, but all Thranduil could reply was an embarrassing squeaking sound – words had left him somehow, but thankfully the other man didn't comment.
He leaned against the closed door, listening for the elevator carrying away the man who had just kissed him. And he had kissed back. And then they had both gone into denial.
Oh fuck.
Author's Note: Thoughts? Comments? I hope you're not disappointed :P
