Author's Note: I am SO sorry about this hiatus. I have a shitload of f*cks going on in my personal life and uni isn't helping. I took a small break from writing, and last afternoon was the first time I wrote something in ... about a month. I hope this little chapter isn't shit.

For those of you who are reading any of my other fics will have to remain patient, I'm afraid. As I said, I only started writing again yesterday.

Still, enjoy!


Cream/Crimson

He had been back from Paris for almost two weeks now, and his grace period was over. No more lounging around wearing pyjamas or too big sweaters, no more stuffing food like a starved animal, no more … Well, it seemed like there would be no more Thorin either.

Thranduil sighed and fiddled with the strap of his bag, before he rang the bell to his agent's apartment. Usually he was glad that almost all the people he dealt with job-wise were also his friends, but right now he would have appreciated someone less … perceptive, regarding his thoughts and feelings. His agent, Erestor Roberts, and his partner, Glorfindel Gondolin, had both been his friends since his adolescence. After Glorfindel had a car accident that kept him from continuing being a model, Thranduil hired them to be his agents – with Erestor's training as a manager and Glorfindel's contacts inside the world of fashion, they were a perfect team, after all. But it also meant they could see right through him like through a polished window.

The door buzzed and he quickly stepped inside. The elevator took him to the right storey, where he was met with a suspicious eye that glared at him through a small crack between door and frame.

"Password?"

"Fin, you're an ass," Thranduil laughed.

"Correct!" someone shouted from the background, and Glorfindel grumbling let him in.

"That was not the correct password," he complained.

"Hello to you too, tall, blonde and grumpy." Thranduil snickered, but gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Yes, yes, and you're tall, blonde and …" Glorfindel hesitated, scanning his face with narrowed eyes. Suddenly, long fingers wrapped around Thranduil's chin, despite his protests. "… troubled? Fuck's sake, can't we leave you alone for a few days? Didn't Legolas check in on you?"

"Yes, he did." He tried to pry Glorfindel's fingers off, but they wouldn't budge. "Let go of me, there's nothing wrong with me."

"I'll be the judge of that," Erestor said and stepped into Thranduil's field of vision. "Hello, by the way. Oh, and I'm afraid Fin is right, you're totally off the track – you've got knots in your hair, too."

"What?" he shouted and tried to run his hands through his hair in search of the knots. Dammit, there really were knots, how could he have missed them? Did he walk around like that?

"What got you all riled up like that?" Erestor asked with a concerned frown. "You should have called. You know we can always talk."

Thranduil finally managed to get Glorfindel's fingers off him and glowered at both men.

"I came here to discuss dossiers to choose from, not my personal life. Please."

"Fine, if that's what you want. Follow me." Erestor shrugged and turned around, ponytail of pitch black hair swaying with the movement.

"There are each nine dossiers from the New Yorker and Londoner Fashion Week – it's too early for Milan or Paris yet, and I discarded the Berlin ones anyway, I know you don't like it. Choose at least five designers for New York, and at least three for London." Erestor showed him two piles of black folders. "I also got you a few offers to bridge the time. Two are photo shootings, three are magazines, and three more are adverts. Choose at least two of those."

"Don't forget those two," Glorfindel added.

"Ah, yes. One is an offer from the New York Fashion Week itself – they would like you to be part of an advertising campaign. Look at it, I think you should consider it. I heard Celebrían already signed her contract. The other one is … not really a dossier, it's more of a … letter?" Erestor picked up an envelope and handed it to Thranduil.

"From whom?" he asked with a frown, picking at the frayed paper and examining the writing on the front that said To Thranduil Greenleaf.

"It's from Carlos Manzanares."

Thranduil froze.

"What?"

"Yeah. I took the liberty to peek at it. To, you know, make sure it wasn't hate-mail or something like that." Erestor and Glorfindel exchanged a quick glance. "I didn't know you … befriended him; I would have added him to the list of 'first priority' designers. His dossier is somewhere here as well, I think."

"I didn't befriend him," Thranduil said, voice carefully even. He didn't want his friends to find out just how much of the opposite had happened. The tremor in his hands certainly didn't come from joy, and neither did the sick feeling he felt cramping in his stomach.

"O-okay, whatever." Erestor quirked an eyebrow. "Do you want to take them home with you, or can you sort out some of them here already?"

"No, I-I want to take them all home." He quickly stuffed the envelope into the pocket of his trenchcoat and accepted the thick bundle of folders.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Glorfindel asked from behind him, almost making him jump.

"Sure, yeah. I'm fine."

"You don't have to rush off like that," Erestor protested weakly when Thranduil hastily turned to leave.

"I, um, I'm meeting Legolas for lunch," Thranduil lied.

"That's nice."

"Okay, bye. See you soon."

"Yes, see you." Both of his friends exchanged worried looks that didn't escape him, though let it slip. He'd been afraid that they would sense his distress over the catastrophe between him and Thorin, but life was never fair, so it just threw Manzanares on top of that stupid mess. He just didn't have the guts, nor the energy to deal with his friend's pity or worry right now, so he did what he did best: he fled the scene and hid in his apartment.

His trip through the city fortunately forced him to maintain his composure. From time to time he would scare himself by imagining a familiar brown coat in the periphery of his vision, and sometimes he felt almost claustrophobic – the people were standing too close to him, some even brushed his coat or bumped into his bag, and every single time he jumped and his heart raced uncontrollably by the time he could get off the metro. Only once he'd passed the threshold to his apartment did he feel safe. But that also meant he didn't have to compose himself anymore, so he didn't even bother to remove his shoes and coat and simply slumped on the couch.

A cracking sound stirred him, however.

Oh. The letter in his pocket.

Thranduil felt repelled by it – he would have loved to just throw it away, burn it, and scatter it in the wind. But he also knew the … consequences. He'd done it before, he'd ignored one of these messages, and paid a price too high to ever be paid again. No, he had to confront this, he had to confront his past and fears.

Breathing slowly and controlled he pulled the crumpled letter from the pocket of his coat. To Thranduil Greenleaf. The handwriting seemed far too beautiful to belong to Manzanares himself, so he overcame himself – he probably didn't even touch it, it's okay, he thought – and retrieved a card from the envelope.

Dearest Thranduil, it read. The ink was dark red and had a strange, coppery hue to it, almost like wine. Or … something else. Bile rose in this throat.

We send this message through Carlos, who, as we understand it, is a friend of yours. He has contacted you before, on behalf of us. Confused, Thranduil turned the envelope again, looking for a sign who might have sent this letter, if it wasn't Manzanares himself. The letter was signed very strangely – it didn't look like a name: S.M.A.U.G. But whoever or whatever it was, it felt bad. Thranduil felt his hands tremble as he continued to read:

We know you have no reason to trust us, therefore we would like to remind you of a few things: Firstly, your debt. You were so naïve and unknowing. But those people you owe, Thranduil? We know them, and they owe us. Imagine what we could tell them. Secondly, if you even think you are safe from us, remember your son, his lovely friend, and now his boyfriend. We know their names. We know where they live. We know how they like their tea or coffee. We know how to hurt them, so it hurts you. Imagine it, Thranduil. And thirdly, we are sure you would not like to see the nephews of your latest friend suffer. They are so young yet, and their minds are so eager to learn. It would be a shame if we had to do something to them. Thorin, too, as so far to fall yet, and if you think he has fallen low enough, we will send him tumbling again.

You see, it is only beneficial for you to help us. Carlos sends you his best wishes, and hopes to see you soon again. We assume you will sign his contract.

Do not tell anyone of this letter and get rid of it, permanently. Further instructions will follow.

We are looking forward to working with you.

Sincerely,

S.M.A.U.G.


Author's Note: Yes, I dropped the bomb! What do you think? :)