It was past midnight certainly.
Having returned for one of the best days in recent memory at Thranduil's manor, Bard found that sleep was, once again, evading him. This would not normally have been the case; after all, he had three very excited children to get to bed and the day had been nothing short of wonderful (and tiring) for himself. Tonight, however, he found himself feeling too excited to sleep.
The moment he was finally the last one awake in the house he brewed himself a warming mug of tea and retreated to the privacy of his own room. As he set the steaming mug on his bedside table to cool, his eyes caught sight of his discarded jacket. He knew that, inside the right hand pocket, there was a small as-yet-unopened bundle. A secretive bundle that could either alleviate some of his rising anticipation for this "surprise" or heighten it to the point of unbearability.
Bard usually considered himself immune to temptation. Clearly he overestimated himself.
Striding across the room and snatching the jacket from it's hanger, he delved into the pocket and produced a folded package of paper. Squeezing it lightly told him that the contents were soft. He breathed deeply, trying to put all expectation from his mind, as he opened it. What he saw brought that warm sensation flooding back through him.
The paper unfolded to reveal a pink flower - the same ones from the special flower crown that Tilda had made for Thranduil only hours earlier. It tumbled onto his open palm and allowed him to read the message written on its wrapping.
'I couldn't have you thinking you weren't special. Until tomorrow - T'
For some reason, Bard felt his eyes begin to prickle.
While he would be the first to admit he had his sentimentalities, he had never expected to feel so deeply moved by those words. He thought about Thranduil, how he had always been so meticulously caring and charming to a fault. How they shared so much in common. How they laughed and talked and lost track of time in each other's company. How, no matter what the situation, they always seemed to be comfortable with the other around.
Bard, sat on the edge of his bed and was alarmed to find a sense of panic setting in. He was well aware that his friendship with Thranduil had developed rapidly and that they shared a mutual respect and affection for each other. He now wondered - if he dared to do so - if that friendship had begun to evolve into something else. Something closer. He could not speak for Thranduil, and would never presume to do so, but he was startled to find that, the more he considered everything, the more he recalled the feelings of romantic attachment. Feelings which scared him. Feelings which he sensed were on the verge of returning to his life.
Surely not. He was not so naive to allow himself to be open to such heartbreak again.
But was heartbreak a certainty? His late wife had captured his heart in its entirety and, when she died, he thought all romance and love had gone with her. Rather like Thranduil, he mused. Exactly like Thranduil, and that was all the more reason to not allow himself to get carried away by butterflies and loneliness. It was an affront enough to even think that Thranduil could harbour such an affection towards him, and worse, he was not the only one of the two whose heart had been left fragile. He would not hurt Thranduil for the world and certainly not because of a foolish flight of fancy.
Carefully wrapping the flower back in its paper and resolving to press it as a memento of a beautiful day, Bard forced all thoughts of passion from his mind. He could not, however, force Thranduil from it. As he sat back against the pillows of his bed and sipped his cooling tea, he thought about what tomorrow could hold and, despite himself, felt that excitement begin to rise again.
It was seven on the dot. Exactly when Thranduil had promised to collect Bard. Ever since Bard's first journey to the manor, when he had been kept waiting for some time, Thranduil was very careful not to allow a repeat of such tardiness. So, as Bard's kitchen clock chimed the hour, the crunch of tires on gravel could be heard from the driveway.
Due to his revelation/panic the previous evening, Bard was much more nervous than usual as he opened the door. He found Thranduil standing at the passenger side door, holding it open for him. Perhaps it was the excitement of this surprise but he noted that Thranduil looked particularly handsome that evening. He was not dressed overly formally but his black trousers, burgundy shirt and black suit jacket showed a want to make an effort. His hair was once again loose down his back. Bard glanced down at himself and hoped desperately that he was not under dressed in his white long-sleeved top and blue trousers. With Thranduil who knew what this surprise could be and the last thing he wanted was to appear foolish or conspicuous.
"Bard," Thranduil greeted him with a smile, "To see you three days running is quite a treat,"
Bard blushed a little at his statement,
"The pleasure's mine. It's good to see you, Thranduil," he replied as he reached him.
Thranduil inclined his head in thanks and guided him into the car, closing his door and returning to the wheel.
"Don't worry, it's not very far," he said, reversing out of the driveway, "I only hope you approve,"
Bard smiled at his concern. Really, what had Thranduil ever done that he had not approved of? Except paying a ridiculous sum for his artwork, that is.
"I'm looking forward to this surprise of yours," he smiled, "I've been trying to guess at it all day,"
Thranduil turned his head and smiled at him endearingly.
"And do you think you've cracked it?" he chuckled.
"Not in the slightest," Bard replied with a laugh.
"I'm glad to hear it," Thranduil returned his vision to the road.
The drove on for a while in relative silence and in this time Bard became acutely aware that he had never been in Thranduil's car before. He had never been in any car like this before. An Aston Martin was a little out of the price range of a single father with three children. He felt a little out of place at first but, upon remembering who he was with and why he was there, he began to feel more at ease.
The more he relaxed into his surroundings the more he began to notice little details that he would never have noticed previously. For one, the car smelled like a pleasant mixture of musk, woodsmoke and berries. To Bard that seemed entirely appropriate to Thranduil; it was warm and comforting yet quite sturdy and sophisticated.
Another thing was that, poking out of a compartment on the dashboard, was a picture of his son, Legolas. It must have been taken a few years ago, perhaps when he was around fifteen, but it was still very recognisable. He was smiling and stood next to his father, both with their hair pulled back into long ponytails, and both mounted on horseback. Bard assumed they were two of the thoroughbreds stabled on the estate.
For some reason, and Bard really did wonder why, when he had spoken with Thranduil about each other's children the night they met at the gallery, he had expected Thranduil to be a distant father, more concerned with his business than his son. Now, of course, Bard knew that nothing could be further from the truth.
He thought of the close relationship of love and mutual respect that Thranduil and Legolas shared and, secretly, hoped that Bain might see him in a similar light. That would be a very pleasant thought indeed.
"Here we are," Thranduil said with a sly look to the side, breaking Bard from his reverie.
Immediately looking out of the window, Bard was very surprised to find that they were, once again, at an art gallery. Thranduil's art gallery: the Lasgalan Museum of Art.
He was open-mouthed as Thranduil opened his door for him - though he did have the presence of mind to notice that he had offered him his hand to help him out of the car. The building itself was a work of art; a towering Grecian structure with vast pillars, marble steps and a huge glass dome atop its roof. Bard almost envious of Thranduil being able to work in these beautiful surroundings. It was vast and stunning and….closed.
Yes, now Bard looked at it practically, he was very sure that the museum was, in fact, empty. Its lights were on but that was often the case with galleries at night. Not even a security guard stood on watch.
"Um...Thranduil?" Bard ventured tentatively, "Are we… supposed to be here? It looks empty,"
Thranduil simply chuckled and smiled at Bard as if he had something adorable.
"My dear Bard, I do believe you have forgotten that this building belongs to me. Come, let's get you inside before you catch a chill,"
Thranduil led Bard, not to the main door, but to a side entrance. He unlocked it and bade him enter.
He didn't get much of a chance to look around, or perhaps he did and there was just too much to look at, but he soon found himself propelled up a flight of stairs and then stopped in front of a entryway. Above the door in metal lettering it declared the room the home of "Modernism".
"After you," Thranduil bowed him into the room with a mischievous grin.
Whether it was because he had no idea what he was looking for or because there was just so much beauty around him, Bard completely missed his objective. He stared open-mouthed at the masterpieces lining the walls. There were originals from nearly every master of Modernist movement. Along one wall alone there were works by Matisse, Picasso, Dali and...him.
Bard had to look twice to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. There, in the centre of the far wall, lit by a spotlight and given pride of place above all others, was his painting of sea.
Stunned into silence, he walked towards the display.
An engraved bronze plaque proclaimed that the piece was indeed by "Bard Bowman". It rested behind a protective sheet of glass and was perfectly positioned to catch both the best of the lighting at all times and the eye of the viewer immediately.
He was truly lost for words.
"So, what do you think?"
He had been so immersed in his astonishment that he hadn't even realised that Thranduil had appeared behind him.
"I…" Bard began, searching for the words and finding nothing to fit every emotion he was feeling.
"Do you like it, Bard?" Thranduil asked with a very perceptible note of trepidation. Bard's silence was concerning him. Had he done something wrong? Had he in some way offended him?
"I...I love it! I do! It's wonderful…" Bard would be lying if he said he didn't feel a little like crying, "It's just that…it's me. Up there. With all of them…"
He gazed around at the Masters' work and couldn't help but feel like a fraud.
"Exactly," Thranduil said simply, moving to stand beside him, "Where you should be,"
"Thranduil…" Bard turned to looked at him, "Don't you think that you're...overstating it a bit? I mean, what about the people that come to your gallery? Won't they be a bit… shocked to see a painting by someone they've never heard of hanging next to all of this?"
His self-doubt and concern almost broke Thranduil's heart.
"Bard," he looked down at him, trying to decide how best to reassure him, "The only thing that separates your work from theirs is a few decades. Nothing else. You are just as talented, just a creative, just as skilled and as passionate as anyone represented in this gallery. And even if you were not, I would still insist on your work being displayed here. I would wish present the work of my favourite artist and, after all, it is my gallery,"
He smiled at Bard with genuine pride and, without any premeditation, took his hand in his own and squeezed gently.
Bard looked at their joined hands, which stayed entwined for longer than expected, before they released. Despite the crippling doubt and fear of approval, he found that Thranduil's words and his reassuring gestures were more than enough to melt away his discomfort.
"I'm your favourite artist?" he smiled, beyond pleasantly surprised.
"Of course," Thranduil nodded slightly, as if it were obvious. He met Bard's eyes and was amazed to find that they were a little red. It pulled at his heartstrings to see him so moved by such small gestures of affection. It occurred to him how starved of praise Bard must be and resolved to rectify the situation, "You deserve any and all appreciation. You have so much love for others, Bard, and expect nothing in are always so unaware of how much you… touch other people. How much respect you command and how much affection you draw out of others….particularly those who do not expect it…"
It would be a vast understatement to say that Bard was stunned by his words. There was such depth of feeling that he could not doubt their sincerity, regardless of how disbelieving he was to be hearing them. He truly believed that his heart might have stopped.
Bard stood silently, unable to look away from Thranduil. He had never expected this. Nothing like this. Thranduil, though he was by far the most caring and generous person Bard had met in many a year, had never shared his feelings with such openness before.
Perhaps it was time to share his own...
No.
No, how could he possibly? There was no reason to believe that Thranduil would even entertain similar feelings to his own. He had given him no reason to believe that his own foolish heart had not, as he very much believed, fallen for the unattainable. Thranduil was not for him. He was far, far above him. Too good, too kind, too impossibly beautiful.
And yet his heart pined.
He could feel it in his chest, trying to persuade him otherwise. And, true enough, no matter how logically he thought, no matter how sensibly he rationalised, he did yearn for him. And, he realised, it did not feel like a betrayal of his wife's memory as he believed it would. Rather, it felt new and exciting and so essential to his happiness that it terrified him. He was, he finally acknowledged, desperate for Thranduil.
Knowing that there was nothing else to be done and biting down his terror, he leaned in closer to Thranduil - close enough that he could feel the heat from his body - and leaned up on the balls of his feet. There was no time to slowness or trepidation. It was all or nothing now.
He kissed him.
Letting the tears fall freely down his cheeks, he poured as much of his unspoken passion as he could into the kiss. Carefully, he rested both violently shaking hands on Thranduil's chest, feeling the silken fabric and the hardness of the body below. He felt the pliant, perfect lips against his own and noticed that they…. were not responding.
Horrified, he startled back, stumbling as he retreated.
No. No, no, no!
How could he? How could he possibly have been so stupid? He had ruined everything! Finally, one ray of pure happiness in his life and he had snuffed it out with his own wishful thinking! Why had he-
Bard lost all capacity for thought when two hands seized him by the waist and pulled him into a burning embrace. He had no time to breathe when those rose-petal lips covered his own. There was a wetness against his skin that he recognised were not his own tears and, over the sound of his heart thundering in his ears, he heard a faint whimper. The hands at his waist wound around his back and pressed him flush against his solid body. The heat was swallowing him and, as he felt a tentative lick across his bottom lip, Bard gave himself over entirely. He could not hold back his moan of pure ecstasy as Thranduil deepened the kiss, tasting him for the first time. He reached up and buried a hand in that glorious hair, finally giving life to his fantasy. He didn't care that he was dizzy or that he could feel the last of the air leaving his lungs. This here was what it felt like to be alive.
When the need to breathe finally became too great, they separated. Thranduil's hands remained at his waist. Looking up, Bard saw that his eyes were ablaze. Tears had tracked down his pale cheeks and his breath was shaking.
"Bard…" he whispered, "oh, Bard…"
"I- I don't know how-"
"Where can I begin?-"
"Thranduil, I've... I've wanted… I didn't…"
"Bard, ever since that first night at the manor, I have dreamt…. I never dared to hope that you could possibly feel the same..." Thranduil confessed, a truly jubilant smile lighting his face.
"How could I not?" fresh tears sprung into Bard's eyes as he laughed with joy, "You're perfect! Oh my god…"
"Please," Thranduil begged, taking both of Bard's hands in his own and clutching them to his chest, "please let me take you out tomorrow. Please say you'll allow me to try to make you happy…"
Overcome with the entire situation, and now the confirmation that this was serious for both of them, Bard could only nod through his many powerful emotions.
Thranduil kissed each of his hands, never letting them go.
"Thank you… thank you, my dearest Bard…"
They stay this way for some time, both unwilling to allow this perfect moment to pass. Finally, Thranduil suggested that they return to the car. He escorted him there, all the while keeping one hand on his mid back, not wishing to break contact.
He opened the door for him as always and, upon sitting in the driver's seat, he let out a steady breath. It had been far too long since he had felt such a glow in his heart. As he drove, Thranduil had to remind himself to remain focussed and not allow his attention to drift, as it was so willing to, towards the beautiful creature in the seat next to him. Regardless, he did steal a sideways glance every mile or so, and found every time that Bard was looking back at him with equally happiness and disbelief.
They arrive at Bard's home far too soon for either of their liking. Neither wished to part from the other and Bard found himself being walked to his front door. Turning as they reached it, he looked up at Thranduil with nothing by elation in his eyes.
"So... tomorrow then…" he smiled.
"I'll be here to collect you at seven," Thranduil grinned, the words themselves adding to his happiness, "Don't worry, I'll let you know more in the morning,"
"I wouldn't want to be under dressed," Bard quipped.
"You are never any short of dazzling, Bard," was his sincere reply.
Taking his hand, Thranduil bent and brushed his lips across Bard's knuckles.
"Until tomorrow," he purred.
"I'll be waiting,"
Pausing to press a lingering kiss to his cheekbone and run his finger along the curve of Bard's stubbled jaw, Thranduil backed away.
Getting back into his car, he placed his hand over his heart in a silent gesture of his feelings - one that made Bard's own heart leap. He reversed back along the drive and disappeared into the night.
For what felt like the first time in hours, Bard breathed deeply. Unsure of what to do with himself or how to calm his euphoria, he stumbled indoors. He couldn't help the grin splitting his face as he called upstairs to Sigrid.
"What is it, Da?" she shouted back.
"I've got a date!" he cheered triumphantly.
"Finally!" was her reply.