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The first time he and Thranduil share a bed, it is a decidedly odd thing that worries Bard. For all intents and purposes, he has completed what should have been the hardest parts of the evening. He has successfully reawakened the passionate interest the Elvenking bestowed on him weeks ago in the ruins of Dale, and following that, he has bedded him - rather, skilfully, he would like to think, if Thranduil's reactions are anything to go by. But now, even with the peaceful afterglow of their tryst cocooning them both, Bard feels a schoolboy-like nervousness fluttering in his stomach.
Next to him, Thranduil is all long limbs and ethereal grace. He has folded himself into a position of luxurious relaxation, comfortably settling in for the night. After the passion has died down between them, Bard suddenly feels awkward and clumsy alongside such a being of beauty. He has no idea how to treat Thranduil now; and he certainly doesn't want the elf to think this was just another quick rendezvous, before they part in the morning. No matter what he says, Thranduil has carved his way too deeply into his heart already.
The opulent chamber is wide about them, and the temperature seems to have dropped. Sitting against the headboard (which has just taken quite a substantial beating, Bard thinks with a blush), the bowman feels shivers starting to ripple through him. They had not had time earlier to light a fire or any candles, so the only warmth is from below the sheets and their own bodies. He looks down upon Thranduil, curled elegantly in the blankets, and wonders if he is feeling the chill. He doubts it - all the time he has spent with the elves and not once have any seemed at all affected by the cold, nor the heat. They must have some kind of inexplicable inner regulator, he surmises.
He can sense the alluring heat coming from Thranduil's form as he shuffles down the fine bed. It is large enough to fit at least two more people in, but he makes a point of wiggling close to the king. Some part of him still feels curiously hesitant. It is ridiculous, he scolds himself. He has just fucked Thranduil into the mattress on which they now lie. There is no room for any more qualms. But he cannot help feeling that how he behaves for the rest of this night will be important for the future.
And Bard most definitely wants a future with this glorious elf.
Slowly, he eases himself against Thranduil's smooth back and places a hand upon his hip, hoping his fingers aren't too cold. When Thranduil doesn't protest, he moves nearer, coming to affectionately twine his arms about the king. Thranduil is warm and soft in his embrace, the expanses of creamy skin extremely satisfying beneath his touch. He could certainly get used to this.
But then, as he rests his head between the elf's strong shoulders, a stillness comes over him. A confused-looking face is suddenly peering at him. He fears he has done something wrong.
"What are you doing?" Thranduil asks in deep, husky tone.
Despite their former very intimate encounter, Bard feels as though he has somehow just crossed a line. He looks to his arms, wound about Thranduil's slim waist, and then back to his lover's questioning eyes. "I-I'm sorry...?" he starts, though he doesn't quite know what he is apologising for. Still, he reluctantly finds himself pulling away, opening a distance between him and the elf. Thranduil is watching him curiously.
"I have seen the race of Men do such things sometimes," he says thoughtfully. It is not what Bard has expected to hear. "Embrace each other like that... But I thought it was merely a greeting."
Bard frowns. So that was what Thranduil was confused about. The notion of such an ancient, wise figure being perplexed over something as simple as a hug almost makes him laugh. Relief comes over him. He had thought he had offended Thranduil somehow.
"Oh my king," he smiles, and suddenly all hesitation has vanished from him. "You truly are a rarity."
Thranduil raises an eyebrow in silent question. He still seems to be contemplating the conventions of human displays of affection. Bard can't help but chuckle, slipping back down into the bed. He opens his arms, indicating Thranduil to move between them. He seems vaguely unconvinced about the whole thing.
"Come on, us humans find it quite pleasant," Bard assures.
Thranduil remains still for a moment longer, then, seeing the promise on Bard's face, sighs and places himself against the bowman. Bard's smile widens. Thranduil is in the perfect position to be held against his chest, his head resting upon his shoulder. Doubt stiffens his body for a little while, but soon, Bard is stroking his silken hair and rubbing little circles onto his back. His muscles gradually relax, a pleased hum escaping his lips. "There, it is not so strange, is it?" Bard grins.
Thranduil does not reply. For a while, they lay there contended, and his companion even comes to return the embrace. Nothing disturbs their serenity, apart from, as the night draws on and Thranduil shifts more and more in his arms, a slowly awakening desire between them. Bard can feel the damn elf smirking playfully against his neck. Fingers skim up and down his spine.
"Master Bowman," he teases irresistibly. "Shall I show you how elves display their affection?"
And it does not take long for Bard to admit that Thranduil's way is even more pleasant than his own.