Work Text:
He is wonderfully, gloriously drunk when he stumbles into Ecthelion's room.
Well, study. Music room. Thing. The sound-proofed, low-ceilinged den with bookcases lining up every wall (and filling half the space besides), a pedal harp and other assorted instruments, and cherrywood burning merrily in the fireplace. In Glorfindel's opinion, it is quite possibly the most private place that their Lord of the Fountains owns; for one, there is an entire absence of the color white. Even the carpet and draperies are a rich, red-tinted brown, and in a city famously known for its color scheme, something like that takes intent and care.
For another, it's impossible to take a step in any direction without tripping over a plump cushion.
"Ow," he says, and falls right over Ecthelion's lap. Hands tangle almost immediately in his hair. There's a peal of low laughter, mixed with the sound of a book sliding down. Thick carpets and pillows are generally reserved for Telerin-style solaria, but it's not as if Glorfindel is complaining. Lying on the floor is a wonderous notion right then, with how his head is spinning, and all.
"You've been in your cups too deeply, my friend," says Ecthelion. "How you managed to drag yourself here, I simply cannot fathom."
"Well," says Glorfindel. "Wheresoever my love dwelleth, so dwell I." And his accent has taken the straight road off the coasts of Vinyamar, right into the glinting city of Valmar, and he and Ecthelion are both aware how this has been the precursor to . . . several events, in the past.
"That is," Ecthelion stumbles mid-sentence, his fingers flitting across Glorfindel's cheekbone now; "awfully sweet, even for you, Lauro."
"Only for you," he says and takes Ecthelion's hand, only to press kisses atop his knuckles. Ecthelion has beautiful hands; his fingers are long and straight, calloused in just the most delicious spots, and his palm fits against Glorfindel's jaw as if one had taken a molding ere the first dawn of the world. Under his grip a pulse throbs, strong and sure, and at that moment there is no music in the world Glorfindel would rather listen to – save, perhaps, for Ecthelion's voice. A voice that is now curiously silent. Glorfindel raises his eyes to investigate, and the gaze that meets him is dark, intent, and utterly, absolutely stricken.
A gaze like that is an invitation he cannot refuse. He surges up, wrapping both his arms around Ecthelion's neck, and even as he feels Ecthelion shifting to support his weight he searches drunkenly for those lips, that soft mouth. It's rather sloppy work after he does, but he doesn't hear Ecthelion complaining. Somehow they end up almost prone upon the cushions. Ecthelion makes a sound that might have been, under other circumstances, considered a grunt; as things are, it's unmistakably a moan.
"How is it," he says, "that we never actually do this in the bed?"
"Pretty sure last time was."
"In Ilweran's bed! I am never going to be able to look him in the eye again!"
"Egalmoth doesn't know," Glorfindel says, nipping his way down Ecthelion's throat. Ecthelion's dressed in just a white shirt, as is his wont at this time of the night, and the laces are ridiculously easy to undo; Glorfindel files that away for another day. Even as he closes his mouth over the tip of the clavicle, he knows this won't get any further than some rumpled clothes and bite marks – there's a certain reluctance in Ecthelion that's as likely to have been caused by his drunkenness as it's not.
Ecthelion worries too much.
But Glorfindel worries too little, and maybe, just maybe, between the two of them they could strike out a balance that'll be enough to keep them going through the dark years ahead.
"Wheresoever thou dwellest," he repeats, and Ecthelion's lips graze the top of his head, and then his brow, as slender hands shift him back until there is space enough for them to kiss properly. Wheresoever thou dwellest, he thinks again.
"There I shall dwell," says Ecthelion, almost right into Glorfindel's mouth, and that is good; Glorfindel is hungry for those words. They're barely more than a murmur, but Ecthelion's diction has always been crystal clear, whether in song or speech. "Oh, Lauro," he says, "dearest of hearts, come here."
The laces are all undone, and the front of his shirt is open; in the dim light, lying on his back like one of the Lesser Powers of the world, there's no doubt in Glorfindel's mind that he is the fairest thing he would ever see. He presses his hands flat against Ecthelion's ribs and stops an inch short of drowning in the embrace. Fingers card gently through his hair. He can smell the wine on his own breath: white it had been, shimmering golden under the stars, served in a feast Ecthelion had left far too early and he himself had stayed at until far too late. And Ecthelion kisses him as if he means to take back every last drop.
There's no urgency here now, not that there ever has been. The room is silent save for their languid breaths, kissing and grasping hands and generally making a right mess of themselves – somehow Glorfindel loses his own tunic and shirt entirely, but he knows full well whose clever hands are to blame – and then Ecthelion speaks again, his voice gone low and sweet, so terribly sweet.
"My love," he says, and he says it like he is only now learning the shape of those words. Something in Glorfindel's chest clenches with fondness at that, at the careful way Ecthelion enunciates them.
"Of course I am," and even so his own words seem pale, inadequate, in comparison.
"Wheresoever thou dwellest," says Ecthelion, like an oath, like a vow, as if he could make it true simply by speaking it clearly enough. His eyes are the sheen of steel. There's a small crease quarter-inch deep between his brows. "Wheresoever thou dwellest, so dwell I."
And no amount of wine could possibly stop Glorfindel from answering.
"Whither thou goest," he says, "so I shall go, my love, my love. So I shall go."
Somehow that is enough.