Work Text:
Art by Zhie
Finrod spent most of his time in Doriath engaged in meetings of one sort or another. After the initial audiences - to be scrutinized for trustworthiness, to tell lies and be told lies - he was let loose into Menegroth's high society. The new meetings were balls and luncheons and midnight social clubs. There, he told more lies and was told more lies. How like Tirion it was, he thought to himself, for all nosy people were nosy in the same way. Still, he soaked it up. It reminded him painfully of his mother’s house in many ways - bits of food, the social air, parallel colloquialisms.
The interest died down eventually, and he was invited thereafter only to such gatherings that required his attendance or to those hosted by someone with whom he had formed a connection. He again spent his time in meetings - now he begged supplies and concessions, and everyone told fewer lies but also made fewer promises. He intermittently ran into one of Thingol's kinsmen, Thranduil, usually at parties - he didn't seem to sit often on the council. Finrod liked him well enough and they didn't see each other as much as they might like, so when Thranduil offered to show him about the city, Finrod said yes.
Finrod knew when he was being handled. One could not take issue or offense with Thranduil's itinerary of museums, gardens, and edifices of note if one tried. It was not that these things were of no interest to him. Rather, Doriath captivated him with its endless novelty. In such a curated delivery, however, they lost a good deal of their charm and the whole deal of their nuance. Thranduil was doing exactly what a young noble at court would do to befriend the nephew of the king - play it safe, curry favor.
On the third such afternoon, Finrod derailed the entire schedule by declaring he would like a bowl of questionable stew, a pint of the most serious ale Thranduil could recommend, and the company of someone who would cheat a prince at darts. He set out to find an establishment that could provide him with such fare and Thranduil followed him, rather than risk having to admit to losing Thingol's eldest nephew in the wider metropolitan Menegroth.
As it happened, Thranduil was quite pleased with this turn of events. He had not expected the prince to be so forward; he must have had it in him to cross the Ice, but Thranduil had always seen him with his collar starched and well-fastened. Thranduil did know where to find a serious ale, and he knew better than to admit to cheating at darts.
The pair of them ended up in a busy cider house on the far side of the city. It was packed wall to wall with people, and it took Thranduil wedging his way in for them to commandeer a small (sticky) table diagonal from the bar.
Finrod did not drink to inebriation, but a carafe of wine between the two of them relaxed him considerably. The lively crush of bodies in the cider house overwhelmed the passive cooling of the stone walls, and the pair stripped down to their plain robes. They sat poking at bowls of noodles in spicy broth, served over crisp greens.
"What do you do when you are not playing tour guide for visiting princes?" Finrod asked.
"By way of my kin I have a seat in court," Thranduil replied, "Though I find it less stimulating than you - I wager - thus my father remains the unchallenged envoy of our house. I have spent some time on the border. You would be hard pressed to find a young noble who has not, as a matter of their upbringing, though some make it a more permanent residence than others. Architecture most captures my interest, as an art, as a narrative, and as a history. And I like to sample the yearly vintage."
They fell to talking about making use of passive heating and cooling, and architecture fitting the environment. Finrod found he had a lot to say about sea breeze and the chimney effect of a good clearstory window. It helped that the wine had loosened his tongue and that this was something that interested him and did not pertain to any of the meetings he had sat through this week.
The conversation turned to the style of Menegroth, and how it was similar and dissimilar to Alqualondë. Finrod made a few observations about how certain motifs of design he'd seen were familiar to him. He had a few theories about stylistic evolution that he put forward, comparing and contrasting the impact of the Sea Journey versus the founding of Menegroth and the Girdle.
Thranduil nodded along for most of it, put in one or two refining comments, and contradicted very little. At one point, he pulled a scrap of parchment from his robe and began diagramming a portico with a bit of grease pen. Finrod liked his easy demeanor and he talked as Thranduil scribbled, making comments on what he saw.
”I doubt the colonnade of that period would have scrollwork of that sort; it’s two hundred years or so out of fashion for post-Journey naturalism.”
Thranduil shrugged one shoulder. “Relative isolation exerts a not-insignificant dampening effect to trend diffusion.”
At this point, the carafe of wine was empty, and Finrod got up from the table to request another. He shouldered between two giggling lushes camped out at the bar and waited to catch the proprietor's attention. One of the rougher men at the bar - not unclean, not unkind, solid in a way that indicated he belonged to the marchwarden set - sidled in next to him. Finrod flushed at the proximity - or perhaps his air of command.
The stranger waited until Finrod had flagged down another carafe before speaking. "You know, the pretty young lord you think you've been mentoring all evening is near twice your age. Quite pretty, but not so young. And as for the topic of your mentorship, you might find that his is the definitive treatise on differences in Sindarin architectural motifs pre and post girdle."
Finrod flushed again, this time in embarrassment. He looked back toward Thranduil, then again at the man beside him. "What would you know of architectural motifs?"
"A woodsman often benefits from a trip to the library for selected works before voicing his opinion." Though blunt, he did not seem mean-spirited, and his proximity was easy but not licentious.
The carafe of wine came, and with it Finrod's excuse to escape. Holding it up by way of explanation, he nodded. "Thank you."
Thranduil looked up at him from his scrap diagram as he approached. "Ah! You've brought the wine!" he said with a smile. "And I've finished my illustration of my previous point. You can see the columns are designed to refract the ..."
Finrod again sensed that he was being minded. Thranduil had said little to contradict him all evening, and equally little in accession. it reminded him of his father when Finrod was a child, nodding absently along to the excited lecturing of one of his children newly-learned in some layman's knowledge and desperate to share. Thranduil had let Finrod ramble with a smile about the intricacies of Amanyarin architecture without letting slip that he knew as much if not more.
His greatest frustration lay in the time wasted this evening on layman's topics. As embarrassed as he was to have made a paternalistic fool of himself, he was seized by the wild desire to plumb Thranduil for every scrap of his knowledge. He cursed that he had spent so much time talking tonight; he could pass another three in Thranduil's company without opening his mouth to interrupt his instruction.
Finrod sat back down at the table rather woodenly. His eyes drifted over Thranduil's shoulder to the marchwarden at the bar.
Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "He's aiming high," he said.
"Pardon?"
"Mablung seems to have taken a liking to you. I spent some of my younger years out on patrol with him; he's a fine soldier, and a fine man. You could do worse."
Finrod grunted in panic. He tried to pour himself a little wine; in his disequilibreated state, he slopped some onto the table.
"He's a solid sort, worldly; good for someone who likes a mentor."
"I doubt he has any interest in me; I don't even know him."
"Knowing needn't be a prerequisite for interest, thought knowing generally fosters it."
Finrod tried to take a steady sip of wine. "He was offering me a bit of advice, that's all."
"You, in need of advice?" Thranduil let his polite demeanor slip, a jesting bite creeping into his tone. Finrod's insides folded in upon themselves.
"Unlooked-for, but not un-needed, yes." Finrod looked Thranduil in the eye.
Thranduil, his mask of deference back in place, took a sip of his wine.
Finrod begged off meeting Thranduil for their next scheduled engagement. He claimed he had business to attend to; in truth, he was still embarrassed. At the earliest possible moment, Finrod visited the library. Mablung told the truth: Thranduil had written the bulk of the essays on Doriathrin architecture. He left carrying half a dozen texts and half a dozen more reference items for context. He spent the better part of the week studying them.
Then, the next issue was that he didn't know how to approach Thranduil with an apology. His eager nature had already drawn him into deep water once. Finrod knew that Thranduil went from his colloquium to his social club. After that, he was free - this was, after all, the time Thranduil usually offered to meet. The social club was next to a rock garden. It was not uncommon for people to sit and enjoy the tranquility of the space. It would serve as a perfect location for Finrod to station himself while appearing unstudied.
Finrod took a seat on one of the carved stone benches and opened the folio he had brought. It was on the integration of organic styles and principles into subterranean architecture and the popularity of arboreal realism. Finrod found it to be an enjoyable read, and he almost missed the echoing shuffle of boots in the corridor as the seminar let out.
He threw a furtive glance toward the open doors, then put his attention back to the folio. He resisted the urge to glance at the congregants; he was within eyesight and Thranduil would see him when he left. The folio was interesting enough to aid this distraction, and he did not notice Thranduil approaching until he sat down on his bench.
"What a nice surprise!" Thranduil said as he sat. "I had not expected to see you today."
Finrod snapped the folio closed. Realizing at once how childish and eager this looked, he carefully smoothed the cover flat. "I like this little garden," he said, aiming for a natural tone. "It is a lovely place to read, or to rest the senses."
Thranduil glanced down at the folio in his lap. "Ah, you've found my work, have you?"
Finrod looked him in the eye. "I cannot believe you would not direct me to it sooner, as there is no doubt over your mastery on this subject, and you know of my personal interest in it."
"I would not go so far as to name myself master of anything," laughed Thranduil, "though I will take the compliment as you offer it."
Finrod paused. "If it would not be too much to ask, I would beg of you a more personal lesson into your work. As nice as our other meetings have been, I regret that I haven't learned of Doriath's architecture, your specialty, from your own mouth."
"It would be my pleasure," Thranduil replied. "Though, I had assumed we had no engagement today, and thus planned to visit the bathhouses at this time. If you wanted to come with me, you could consider it an informal opener; you won't judge me too harshly if I use the time to gather my thoughts."
"I must admit I have not ventured to the central baths. A private bath adjoins my suites, so the need has not come upon me. Even so, I have heard the central baths are a marvel to behold, and I would like to see them. I regret I have not made time until now."
Thranduil smiled again. "Were you to explore on your own, you would no doubt learn much. I would recommend them to you even if I were not at liberty to escort you. Though, I find going anywhere with someone as your guide to be more enlightening."
Their course decided, Finrod straightened his belongings and followed Thranduil to the baths. They emptied out into one of the wide main corridors, which teemed with courtiers at this time in the afternoon. The hall wound down into the belly of the mountain. It did not become hot or damp as they walked, so much as the air took on a heaviness and a presence that Finrod associated with deep forest, and growing things. Greenery lined the walkways, and Finrod noted gravity-fed aqueducts flowed through channels in the walls.
The hall opened into an enormous cavern. Causeways connected theirs and similar halls to the bath house, which sat in the center. Under the causeways were deep cisterns, glittering and still, and rising to meet the ceiling of the cavern were great hewn pillars girdled by creeping vines and blossoms.
The baths themselves lay behind a series of doors. "To keep the warm air in," surmised Finrod.
He touched the hewn stone blocks of the bathhouse walls - they were warm to the touch. "Passive heat retention," said Thranduil. "Steam channels in the wall cavity aerate the baths and heat the stone."
Thranduil led them into a foyer lined with cupboards. He placed his belongings in one such cupboard and began to undress. There were some curtained stalls off to the side, likely for this purpose, but Finrod did as Thranduil did and undressed where they stood. From a communal shelf they took towels for later, and with these in hand they went in to the central baths.
Finrod paid close attention to the interior as he walked, trying to suss out the principles upon which it was constructed. He felt the need to notice something, to point out an astute observation, to indicate his grasp of some concept which would impress Thranduil and draw him into conversation. The stone floor was warm beneath his feet, warmer than it would be from the ambient temperature of the air alone. This, he knew of.
"Do you have a hydronic system under the pavers?" he asked as they walked. "My cousins' old home is the same. My uncle heated a boiler with his forges and steam-pumped the water through the radiant system that way. It was efficient; they ran almost constantly, such that diverting some heat to the boiler was incidental, and the pavers held heat even when the forge was cold."
"It must be a great undertaking to heat the baths," remarked Finrod as they slipped into a steaming pool.
"In truth, the only great undertaking was in its construction," Thranduil replied. "The dwarves discovered a geothermal vent during the excavation of Menegroth, and being the experts in utilizing such vents in their own cities, asked if we would like them to design our baths."
Finrod hummed. "Heated bath houses were slow to catch on in Valinor. But then, what volcanic activity we had was by design, and thus less common. Among my grandmother's House, cold bathing in the style of Cuivienen was always the most popular. Even most of the bathhouses of the Noldor are cool for practicality's sake, with heated basins being a separate luxury."
He paused. "I am talking overmuch. It is a habit of mine, as I am sure you have noticed. I have made myself quite the fool in front of you."
"I would not consider it to be too much," said Thranduil. "It's interesting stuff, hearing about the innovations of my kin. Though I must say, even with a healthy appreciation for history and tradition, I prefer my baths warm. But there you have it; the sweetest things in life often come to us from other people."
The bathhouse was not busy, but there were a number of parties soaking in identical pools. Finrod, mollified somewhat by Thranduil's easy forgiveness but not trusting himself to speak yet, cast his eyes over them. If he paid less attention, he would have thought that two bathers, heaving themselves onto the deck, were simply getting up to dress. But they didn't head back toward the communal cupboards, instead making their way to an adjoining chamber deeper in the bathhouse.
"What lies through those doors?" he said, pointing.
Thranduil turned, catching a glimpse of the two men before they disappeared. His lips curved upward. "Private steam rooms," he replied, settling back down.
Finrod could feel Thranduil's eyes upon him. He thought more on the two men, the way one's hand lingered on the other's hip as they slipped through the door, the slide of wet skin against wet skin as they jostled each other, laughing, hair tangling and pasted to each other where they touched. He jerked his eyes away from them, realization setting in.
He took no issue with public nudity, had thought nothing of getting into the bath with Thranduil. Casual nakedness reminded him of home so strongly that he was glad for the easy community. Now, Finrod looked around furtively, as if he might spy a more daring couple enjoying themselves openly in one of the pools. Those rooms - the close, humid air, redolent of wet cedar and sweat and other things upon whose scent he could only speculate - insinuated themselves into his mind.
Desire rolled over him, bringing him to half-readiness. He felt so exposed, but this did nothing to quell him. The rising steam and the light ripple of the water obscured anything a cursory glance might reveal, as much as it drew his eye down again. His only comfort was that if he could not see Thranduil, then Thranduil could not see him. He struggled to keep his eyes above the surface of the pool.
Thranduil laughed a little to see Finrod's quick investigation. "This is the general bath," he said, "so you won't find any of that here. But if that were to be your fancy, the communal adult bath is where one goes when that is the truer purpose of one's visit."
"What other features does the bath house offer?" Finrod's brows drew together immediately after the words crossed his lips. He thought of a crush of bodies, the splashing of water and the sliding-slap of damp skin echoing off vaulted ceilings. "I mean to say, it's quite large."
Thranduil smiled. "There is a salt water soaking pool, as wide as this room and almost as deep, lit only with bioluminescent plankton and offering minimal sensory stimulus. The spring room employs tiered pools with swift currents and waterfalls; it evokes the peacefulness of being drowned in noise and the natural world. Many such features are intended to allude to eras of existence and our place in the natural world - a lightless sea, a stream so loud it renders conversation useless, an invocation of the desire for anonymity and basic pleasures. The leisure pool and the saunas you know of. For every major attraction there is another gem tucked away waiting to be discovered. I won't take you about to see them all; I think they are best appreciated at one's own pace."
Finrod nodded. He could hear the exit offered to him in Thranduil's reply, and he took it. "I appreciate the way you speak of design," he said. "Your focus on the emotive and communicative purposes of design, and design as a call and response between builder and resident is intriguing. I think I lack the context to appreciate most of the nuance of Menegroth on my own, as much as it makes sense with a little guidance. If you had to pick something to show a novice, something emblematic of your work or your principles of design, where would you take them?"
"I would show them the Old Wing," said Thranduil. "Would you like to see it?"
Of course, this meant they had to get out of the bath. Finrod did his best to be normal about it, but it wasn't until he tried that he realized how many elements to it - standing up, covering himself, toweling off, looking at and then looking away from his companion, remembering how to walk - were easy to screw up. The walk to the entrance seemed longer than before. The air pebbled Finrod's damp skin.
They made themselves ready, and Finrod gathered his things. Seeing that Thranduil was ready as well, he made to leave, but the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Finrod felt rather than saw Thranduil behind him. His presence made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His hands, warm against Finrod's clammy, pebbled skin, drew forth a shiver from him. His fingers slipped below Finrod's collar, damp where he had failed to towel dry, lifting stray hairs and fine braids free. Then it was over, and Thranduil smoothed the braids flat along Finrod's back.
Thranduil led Finrod through back out of the bath house. The walk back purged something that had been weighing on Finrod. Rising away from the rich, moist dark was like rising through deep water toward air. He seemed to expel confusion like a vapor from his lungs until, when they emerged in the rock gardens again, his head again was clear. Looking about him at the people going on with their day and Thranduil as sedate as ever, Finrod felt changed, introduced to an unforgettable knowledge.
The Old Wing wasn't far. As the name suggested, it was one of the first pieces of royal Menegroth to be constructed, and boasted both the richest cross-section of architectural history and the most interesting remodeling. Finrod new that this was where Thranduil lived, along with kin and courtiers of similar importance. It was quieter than newer wings of the city; almost heavy under the weight of its own history, it was a favorite among those who valued privacy.
"I am happy that you suggested this, of all places," said Finrod as they walked.
"You mentioned that you feel that you lack the information needed to appreciate the significance of everything you see. I thought that the Old Wing would be a good place to start. You are here with me, which is a help to you already. Additionally, the Old Wing features the largest sample of motifs from the great journey, which, provided they remain current in Valinor or are remembered by your artisans, are a good springboard for discussion. I am sure you will recognize some things without prompting."
Finrod pointed to the arches in the arcade, carved in a relief of a coiled sea serpent, stone fangs poised to drip venom on those passing beneath it. "The arches, this is a relatively common older motif on the coast. It isn't usually so tense, though."
Thranduil hummed. "How would you make use of the sea serpent?"
"We would use it to represent the unknown," Finrod replied, stopping inside the arch to look up at the serpent's belly. "They mark the beginnings of voyages and forewarn, if not danger, then the lack of foresight."
"Of what use do you think the tension or lack thereof to be?"
"It had largely fallen out of favor, prior to my birth," Finrod murmured, "Perhaps because there's little mystery and little left to chance in a blessed realm. Though, there's been a neo-classic interest in it among those who came back over the sea... At any rate, the serpent uncoiled at some point in the few hundred tree-years, becoming more pliant, and more abstract. Some might confuse its incorporation by the more avant-garde for a wave motif."
"When would you date this one, then? And what can you infer from that about its significance?"
Finrod frowned in thought. "It matches the other old stone, so I would wager it's one of the original pieces in the wing. It is tightly coiled, tense, but drawn in on itself rather than lashing out. It reserves its poison as a weapon of defense. I would call this serpent grief - for loss, for the unknown, because of the unknown."
"Now look there in the cornices," Thranduil prompted. "See the detailing, the willow leaf scroll? When you consider them together, what do you see?"
Finrod thought back to his reading, thankful that he had taken it up before meeting Thranduil again. Willow shared a few meanings across cultures - mystery, prophecy, water. "Nothing that is unknown will be forever so. Out of grief comes a call for healing, or of waiting for a reunion."
Thranduil nodded. "That's very good," he said. "You have a sharp eye for these details, once you know what to look for."
Finrod pointed down one of the arcades as they passed. The flying buttresses, when viewed head-on, evoked a loose fan shape. At any other angle, it became clear that none of the piers were arranged equidistant from the others. The symmetry collapsed into a discordant mess.
"This is unlike anything I've seen here," he said. "It's quite... strident, but I'm not sure what it's saying."
Thranduil snorted. "Oh, we've taken to calling it Fern Anarchy. An old, popular school of thought championed order in design. They took to referencing ferns in everything - their neat, opposite arrangement, the perfect circles of their fiddleheads. A few renegades thought Fern Anarchy would be an amusing way to thumb their noses at it."
This drew a laugh from Finrod. "A peaceful society makes for the wildest academic discourse, I can attest to that."
"Well, I believe that order has its place, but breaking from the mold keeps life fresh. Nothing improves if nothing changes, as you know."
Finrod looked at him curiously. "Why should you suppose I know? My home is a land of perfection, even stasis."
"You're here. That's how I know."
They wandered deeper into the wing, avoiding the busier avenues in favor of poking in the darker, dustier corners for bits of history. Thranduil maintained that the most interesting things could be found where people least thought to look, and Finrod readily agreed. The residential halls were near deserted at this hour, and when they did not speak the only sounds were of their footfalls on polished stone and the reverberation of their passage off the walls. This too died when Thranduil paused in front of one of the doors, leaving them in silence.
Finrod looked at the carvings over the lintel and in the door jam. He ran a finger over the textured surface and realized that the geometric design of interlocking triangles was actually the pattern of an insect wing. "Butterflies, meaning change and transformation. As an abstraction, the meaning would pass over the uninitiated; recognition is a sort of password. This is fine work."
Thranduil tilted his head. He weighed Finrod's absorption of the day's lesson, and found it satisfactory. "Thank you. I did the work myself." No grand overture was made, but the invitation was apparent.
"With such skill adorning the outside of your door - which you only see upon your comings and goings - one can only imagine the discernment and attention given to the inside of your quarters. It must perfectly suite your tastes." It was not Finrod's finest work, but it was serviceable.
He swallowed. Now, the final plunge. "I do have an interest in the intersection of architecture and the private sphere - how, free from public mores, the home reveals more about the artist."
Thranduil smiled. "I find it to be truthful," he replied.
He said nothing more, but reached toward and past Finrod to unlatch the door. It swung open.
Thranduil did not press the invitation. He waited at the doorway for Finrod to decide. Finrod, looking through the doorway, could not see much further than the entryway. There was nothing to observe from which he might draw conversation, and his mouth had gone dry. His wit had deserted him.
Finrod stepped forward over the threshold. He passed close to Thranduil as he did so. Finrod noted again the specific gravity that proximity to him brought. He trained his eyes forward, looking ahead rather than at Thranduil. The door whispered shut behind them. The brief image of Thranduil's tongue - red, Finrod had seen it before - lolling in hunger came to him. He brushed it away, a phantom gnat of doubt.
"There are garment hooks on the wall, just there. Your shoes, over there."
Finrod nodded, slipping out of his shoes. He took careful time to unclasp his over-robe, collecting his thoughts. Thranduil moved about behind him. From the soft scuffle, he was doing the same thing. Finrod looked about the entryway again, and thought of all the times Thranduil must have come home just like this, removing his coat and shoes, tidying his things away, even calling out to greet another person. Finrod followed the ghost with his eyes until it reimposed itself over Thranduil, sinking into his warm and supple form, walking with him into the domicile. Finrod floated after them.
He had favored light garments all his life; enjoying the warmth of Menegroth, he returned to them again. When dressing that morning, Finrod had selected a pair of low slippers, to be worn without stockings. Now, the slate tile was cool under foot. He mapped the surface, the grounding roughness of it, as he walked.
Finrod talked as he walked. Thranduil walked behind him, always just outside his periphery, but exerting a force with his presence that called for Finrod to turn around. He did not turn, but followed the direction laid out for him.
"The space understands the value of beauty in simplicity, function perfectly considered and articulated. Statement pieces hold with the butterfly motif - the sconces are laid out to hang like chrysalises. Pieces that are not ornate still evoke it in abstract ways - for example, the flow of one space into another, separate beats that echo each past iteration. The space successfully cultivates the principles of transformation. It's a masterful display of storytelling."
Finrod came to a stop in a small study, set away from the main living space. Thranduil stopped behind him.
"Story telling?"
Finrod turned about, finally looking Thranduil in the eye. "A story isn't a lie, but it isn't the whole truth. I was right about one thing, though. In the end, the private sphere inadvertently reveals deep truths."
Thranduil tilted his head, amusement and uncomfortable honesty at war on his face.
"Your home has no doors."
"I would say that it speaks to flow, and adaptability. I reference the transformation of the butterfly, after all."
Finrod nodded. "It carries a sort of loneliness," he added.
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's not the design of a multiperson or even a partnered home. Even close partners of the heart want privacy, as all individuals do. A home without doors, a home where the front entrance is shield enough from the eyes of others, is a home with few long term occupants.
"It's the home of a single mind - your mind. I can see your mark on it."
It came to Finrod's attention that from where they stood in the study, he could see at an angle into Thranduil's sleeping quarters. It did not have a door, like most of the other rooms, though the angle of the entrance shielded the interior from direct sight, and Finrod glimpsed a sliver of Thranduil's privacy. The ease he had fallen into vanished, and a wave of heat rolled up his spine. Whatever he had intended to say died on his lips, his eyes fixed on the corner of yellow coverlet he saw.
"You are wondering if I make a habit of bringing young men back to my rooms."
Finrod turned sharply at that. He said nothing, because denying it would be very close to lying.
"To give you an answer: not as many as I take into the steam rooms."
Finrod found that this did not bother him. That Thranduil could do this for more than one person, that this freedom was open to Finrod too, kindled his curiosity. He had never explored further than kissing and soft fondling. He knew how soft breasts were in the palm, and of the pillow made by the belly when bent beneath a companion. That knowledge was sweet and he would have been content to have only that and what lay after that, but it was lost to him now, and he found he wanted to know what was done in bathhouses.
"Why not take me there, earlier?" he asked, drawing boldness from some untapped well. He thought again of the two men they had seen, and in his mind they took their place and it was Thranduil's hair plastered wet along his shoulder and Thranduil's hands cresting the slope of his hips in the damp cedar dark. He shivered.
"There's no one quite like you," said Thranduil. "I could have made you that offer, and no doubt you would have risen admirably to what was required of you. But it suites me well to have you as a companion of the mind, not just the body. I thought it might put you at ease to start here - or maybe I wanted you to myself for a little while."
Finrod smiled at the praise. He was no coward. He knew he was exceptional, for he would do anything and follow any guidance, even when he did not have the knowledge to take the lead. And there, the promise of something started here and continued later.
"It seems that you are the teacher and I am the student, in more than one way," he said, smiling. It was freeing to admit this, to surrender to his lack of knowledge and submit to the guidance of someone who, he realized, he trusted implicitly.
Thranduil's eyes glinted. "There is so much I would like to show you," he replied, "so much I think you would like to learn, and learn well." He stepped close to Finrod then, stopping a handspan from him. The swaying hems of his robes kissed the tops of Finrod's feet.
Thranduil took him by the hand and drew him up to the threshold into the bedroom. This was another one of the tests, the moments Thranduil offered for him to change his mind. Finrod stepped over the threshold, and Thranduil smiles.
Inside, Finrod took a moment to look around. His bed stood against the right wall, tucked into the corner. On the left wall, a nook for the morning toilet, concealed by a screen. Nearby, a seating area. Thranduil's simplicity of design was evident. It was beautiful, as Finrod knew it would be.
Thranduil led them over to the bed and sat down upon it. He took Finrod into his arms, kissing him gently. Finrod blossomed at this, and Thranduil knew it had been the right decision to take things slowly.
They kissed for a while and got to know the rhythm of the other. Then Thranduil brought Finrod's hands to the collar of his robes, pressed them over the buttons there. Finrod took this invitation and flicked them open, pulling his robe and then his undershirt aside. His trousers were more difficult and Finrod's hands fumbled over his groin while undoing the laces, but soon they were untied. Thranduil lifted first one hip and then the other, and Finrod wiggled them down and away. Thranduil relieved Finrod of a few of his own garments, but left him in his undershirt and small-pants. It would be up to Finrod to go further.
Now that Thranduil was bare, FInrod got back to kissing him, putting into play the little things he'd learned earlier. He let his hands run over him, felt the supple give of his flesh. Down they drifted to Thranduil's chest. A thumb rubbed over his nipple. Then Finrod grasped it and rolled it between his fingers. He squeezed it again when it perked up.
Thranduil laughed a little at that. "We've bathed together; this can't be the first time you've seen nipples."
"Of course I've seen nipples before!" Finrod replied, letting go of him.
"Sometime other than swimming or in the bath with your siblings."
"Well, I've seen yours, though I tried not to stare out of deference to you. And if it matters, I've had others in my hand."
"Oh? And what did you do?"
Finrod swallowed. "Just - just touching."
"Was it nice to touch?"
Finrod nodded.
Thranduil's voice was low and his breath was warm and sweet. "How about you keep touching - anything you like."
Finrod looked downward, pure reflex. Thranduil was half-hard and leaking a little. Without realizing, his hand flashed out to touch. He pulled back instantly. Thranduil took it in his own hand and brought it, with deliberate care, down over his cock again.
Finrod gasped to feel him so hot and alive. His hand twitched under Thranduil's grasp. He looked up as if to seek permission.
Thranduil nodded. "Just like you'd touch yourself. Show me how you would touch yourself."
Finrod was wickedly good with his hand, and eager to please. Thranduil got a good sense for what he liked - he favored a fast pace, with plenty of attention to the head. Thranduil wasn't afraid to be loud in bed but he didn't want to scare Finrod away so he kept it to the odd bit of praise or moan. Thranduil wanted to kiss him again, but Finrod seemed wholly engrossed in bringing him pleasure. The single-minded determination was sweet, and Thranduil simply rested their temples together.
Finrod surpassed himself and quickly began to deviate from Thranduil's instructions. He figured early in that Thranduil liked a tighter grip, and the occasional milking pump from root to tip. When he snuck in a squeeze, it did startle a groan from him, and he drooled precome over Finrod's knuckles.
Finrod looked up, very pleased with himself. "Isn't it good?"
Thranduil answered honestly, "good enough that you probably want to stop now." That was a high bit of praise, and Finrod relaxed into it having found his footing.
Thranduil helped him undress the rest of the way. Finrod was hard in his briefs and for long enough that they were damp and stuck to his skin. The two of them lay down on the bed. They kissed and petted some, settling into being flush against each other for the first time.
"Now what shall we do?" whispered Finrod. He was now open and sweet; how easy it was for Thranduil to pare away his pride and his talk and have him in his bed like this. He throbbed for the sweetness of him, for the curiosity winning out over everything.
Against Finrod's mouth, Thranduil murmured "I'd like to suck you, if you'll let me. And if you feel like it, you can finish me the same way. Or, if you prefer, I would not say no to one of your clever hands."
Finrod hesitated at the talk of finishing. "It won't ... It's not forever, is it?"
Thranduil wrinkled his brow up, trying to figure out what Finrod meant. At first, he wondered if Finrod was asking about exclusivity, though he couldn't tell if his apprehension was over the thought of it ending or the thought that it might not. Then, he remembered something said in passing by another of the Golodhrim, and caught on.
"I would not lead you here so casually if that were the case, lovely as you are. Likewise would I never entrap you under false pretense nor tell you any lie."
"It's just that I haven't done this before."
Thranduil propped himself up on an arm. "Do you intend to marry me, right now, with your cock in my mouth?"
"No!" Feeling like that might be a bit rude, as Thranduil was imminently desirable, Finrod added, "I wouldn't ask that of you."
Thranduil shrugged. "Then you won't marry me. Simple as."
"Simple as?"
"I know the opportunity to have my mouth for eternity seems irresistible," Thranduil replied. "I understand; I've had lots of practice. But I do trust you to keep a lid on it."
"I can keep a lid on it," muttered finrod, stung pride creeping into his tone.
Thranduil flipped around so his head fit down against Finrod's hip. Finrod had flagged a little during their conversation, but he still had a bit of chub. Thranduil took him into his mouth, softly, tasting the evidence of his early desire. Finrod fattened out on his tongue. He was big - everything about this boy is big, from his bones to his heart to the cock in his mouth right now.
Finrod puts his hand on him again, mostly too distracted too touch with any degree of seriousness because Thranduil was tonguing beneath his head and driving him out of his mind. He pressed his face into Thranduil's thighs (he could feel his hot breath on his sac). A whined comment, complimentary, was muffled lost against his hip.
Thranduil felt pressure and then a flick of wet heat over his head and realized that Finrod was mimicking him. The kisses became long licks along his shaft and over his head. Thranduil let him play for a bit, and when his pleasure plateaued there he said "Now take the tip in your mouth."
With alacrity, Finrod popped it into his mouth like a piece of fruit. The pocket between tongue and hard palate was so nice that it forced Thranduil's breath out in a choked grunt. Finrod really was a quick learner, and he knew that Thranduil liked it tight and deep. He sucked Thranduil down his throat, and then he swallowed.
"You're doing very well," he said, pulling of Finrod's cock. "Most people cough the first time. I know I did."
"Swimmer's instinct," replied Finrod. "Never panic. You play a lot nicer than a king tide."
Thranduil laughed. "I don't always play nice."
When Thranduil hollowed his cheeks and gave one good honest suck for the first time, Finrod shouted. His hand on Thranduil's cock would have been uncomfortable if Thranduil didn't like it a bit rough.
"it's good, isn't it?" Thranduil asked.
Finrod nodded, nose pressed against his groin.
"There's nothing like it," Thranduil said. "Your hand is nothing compared to a hot mouth sucking you down."
Finrod's hips made short thrusts into the air as Thranduil spoke, chasing the palm he had on him. Thranduil could tell he was close, so he sucked him down again. He pressed his nose to Finrod's hip bone and swallowed like he meant to eat him. His nose was still pressed there when Finrod came hot across his tongue, far enough back that was all heat and no taste.
Finrod screamed around his cock but dutifully kept his lips closed about it. The vibrations he made were enough to snap the last string of Thranduil's self control. It was too hard to keep him pacing in check when such a good, pretty boy was in bed with him.
Thranduil did his best to hold his hips still as he came but the taste was surprising on Finrod's tongue and when his cock kicked it slips from Finrod's mouth. He ended up leaving a thick rope of come on the bridge of his nose and lashes of it across his swollen lips.
He craned upward to watch. He was ready to apologize when he saw the state in which he'd left Finrod, but finrod surprises him by licking his lips. He wiped the come from his nose with his thumb and, making sure Thranduil was watching, pushed it between his lips. Thranduil's cock gave another weak dribble at the sight. Finrod laughed, raw and satisfied.
He didn't really want to get up - first, his legs were weak with pleasure, second, he didn't want to leave finrod alone - but he got up to dampen a cloth in his washbasin. He brought it back to clean off Finrod's face. Finrod rolled towards him and sat up a little bit. He eyed Thranduil with curiosity, no doubt looking to see if he won his approval. When the rag slid over his cheeks, his eyes fluttered closed. Thranduil left the rag on the side table and slid back in to bed with Finrod, drawing the inner sheet over their waists.
Afterward, Finrod lay on the bed, looking at the scrollwork on the ceiling and gathering his thoughts. Thranduil, out of sight where he sat propped against the headboard, made himself known with the soft hand that swept his hair from his forehead. Thranduil did not say anything, and Finrod closed his eyes and turned his face into his palm.