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When Thorin is first introduced to Thranduil, he hates him.
Thranduil is everything he despises in a person. Cold, narcissistic, vein, arrogant, smug, and calculating; no redeeming features whatsoever. Because as much as the asshole claimed it is, beauty does not count as a redeeming feature.
And yet, despite these characteristics, everyone adores him.
Thanks to his long curtain of golden hair, chiselled cheekbones, and long, lean frame; he is admired worldwide – not so much for his acting talent, but more for his striking appearance and penchant for getting himself in trouble. Apparently falling out of nightclubs unconscious and having a universal reputation for being difficult is something to aspire to.
Thorin meets him on set for a film they are working on together. It’s a great script, interesting, somewhat of a challenge, and Thorin is looking forward to the work. He finds out Thranduil is his co-star only weeks before filming begins, and although he’s aware of his reputation, nothing quite prepares him for their meeting.
Thranduil shows up for read through looking as though he’s been dragged through a bush backwards. Thorin is expecting a glamorous creature that the newspapers depict, but Thranduil only looks sickly – tottering on slender legs unsteadily and slumping sideways in his seat. He does not greet anyone else, only blinks bemusedly at the tabletop. His skin is smooth, pale, and his eyes striking indeed – a pale icy blue.
Despite his ruggedness, Thorin can see why he’s so famous – his cheekbones are sharp and his hair a glossy waterfall. He looks the part, certainly, but that doesn't mean he can act.
He blinks at Thorin after a moment, seemingly sensing the stare, and smiles – wolfish and insincere. Thorin bristles.
“I’m Thranduil,” he says, holding out a dainty hand.
Thorin takes it, although reluctantly. For all Thranduil’s angles, his skin is surprisingly soft. “I know who you are,” Thorin replies, unable to disguise his distaste.
Thranduil arcs a brow, slightly taken aback by the hostility but undeterred. He leans forward, and Thorin can see his eyes are bloodshot and the bags beneath them heavy. He’s hung-over. Thorin doesn’t know why he’s surprised.
“And you must be Thorin,” Thranduil guesses, with a smirk. “What a pleasure to meet you.”
Even his voice is poisonous.
It turns out, however, that although Thranduil is lazy and difficult, he can actually act. Thorin enjoys their scenes together, because they push boundaries, test each other, and the director is practically foaming at the mouth at their chemistry.
Thorin did not know why or when it happened, but it’s not long into filming that they start sleeping together. He knows it’s a bad idea, but Thranduil oozes sexuality and charisma – Thorin hates him a little bit, but is fascinated at the same time.
Thranduil riles him like no other, with his flinted eyes and quirked lips, his sharp wit and suggestive smiles, and before he knows what’s happening he’s bending him over the make-up chair, mouthing into his neck and coming over his thighs. It gives him some satisfaction, and eases the tension between them, if only for a while, but it’s never enough – Thorin’s had a taste of him now, and cannot go back.
The promotional tour for the film is difficult. Thranduil is all over him, in a way that does not seem entirely genuine, always watching the cameras and always aware. Thorin knows there are rumours about them, and Thranduil just loves fanning the flames - flirting outrageously in interviews, squeezing his knee and batting the long sweep of his eyelashes.
Thorin, mostly, ignores it, as he often does when Thranduil is being ridiculous, but his antics do not go unnoticed.
One particularly brave interviewer dares to mention it.
“What was it like working with Thranduil?” he asks, leaning forward on his chair, his eyes bright and challenging. Thorin can feel Thranduil freeze beside him, turn slightly to peer at his profile, awaiting his answer – far more interested than his casual demeanour would suggest.
Thorin laughs, shrugs, and replies honestly, “Unforgettable.”
Even after they finish the film (and the press tour), Thorin finds that he just can’t get rid of him. He’s at his London apartment, reading, months after they’ve wrapped on shooting, when there’s a sharp rap on his front door.
It’s late, and it takes him a long time to reluctantly shuffle to his feet, cursing under his breath, only to come face to face with Thranduil – decked out in sunglasses (it’s eleven at night) and surrounded by suitcases.
The valet must have brought them up for him.
“What do you want?” Thorin grumbles, because the last he heard, Thranduil had been in South Africa filming a movie. Indeed, his nose is reddened and flaking slightly, although the rest of him looks as ghostly white as ever.
“Hello, darling,” Thranduil mumbles, breezing past him. Thorin does not get so much as a hug (not that he wants one), but an air kiss instead – as though the real thing is just not worth the effort.
Thranduil says nothing as Thorin drags his bags over the threshold - only marches into Thorin’s room, and falls facedown on his bed, fully clothed, and starts to snore without explanation.
Thorin stares at him from the doorway, bemused, and wondering whether he should be angry.
Indeed, he finds Thranduil is his apartment often, when he’s least expecting it, but never thinks to ask where he got the key.
When he gets back from a day of endless interviews, some months later, he finds Thranduil slumped across his armchair, smoking, and working his way through a packet of chocolate digestives.
It’s sudden, considering he hasn’t seen Thranduil in weeks; only the occasional emoticon text and photos of him falling out of clubs on the Daily Mail to confirm his continued existence.
Thorin marches over, feeling angry all of a sudden, and stubs out Thranduil’s cigarette on a coaster. “Smoking’s bad for you,” he snaps, in lieu of a greeting. “Do it outside.”
Thranduil smirks, unwrapping his sinfully long legs from the armchair he is lounging on, and tilts himself upwards to breathe smoke on Thorin’s face. Thorin bats him away with a grunt, and a deadly glare, but as always, Thranduil is undeterred.
He pushes Thorin down on the sofa, and straddles his hips, leaning his head down for a breathy kiss and bracketing their faces with his curtain of golden hair. It’s as glossy and immaculate as it looks on magazine covers, always, and if it weren’t for the heap of hair products sitting next to Thorin’s sink, he would wonder how Thranduil achieves such perfection.
Thranduil’s mouth however, although plump and soft, is not quite as appealing. It tastes earthy, and of ash, and sometimes with the sharp twang of alcohol.
And yet, Thorin cannot help but kiss back. It feels like an addiction. He knows that Thrandhuil is bad for him, but he just can’t stop.
Until, “What’s that?”
Out the corner of his eye, he sees it: a ceramic of unusual shape and startling colour, sitting on the edge of his coffee table. It’s gold and green and patterned with… flowers?
He pulls away from Thranduil lips to stare.
“It’s a vase,” replies Thranduil, deadpan.
“Yes, I know that,” says Thorin, narrowing his eyes as he always does when Thranduil plays stupid; because Thranduil is many, many unflattering things, but stupid is not one of them. “Why is it here?”
Thranduil quirks a brow, shrugs an innocent shoulder. “It promotes vitality.”
It’s not really an answer, but with Thranduil rocking into his thighs, with small and sinful rolls of his hips, Thorin decides that it can wait until later.
The next week, Thorin finds a new painting attached to his bedroom wall.
It’s an indistinguishable mess – hideous really – some sort of modern art, but he cannot bring himself to try and get rid of it. Thranduil looks pleased with himself (even more than usual), and seems to take Thorin’s silence as agreement to continue; various decorations and household appliances show up over the next few months, and Thorin stubbornly ignores them.
They make Thranduil happy, and Thorin begins to get used to them. He feels strange warmth in his chest when he returns from his travels to find Thranduil has left his unique mark on his apartment – it makes it feel more like home.
Of course, he never tells Thranduil that.
Thorin is watching the TV and eating a pop tart, on an unremarkable Saturday, when his phone rings.
When he answers it, he’s surprised to find that it’s not his agent, or a news outlet, looking for a statement. Oh no, it’s something far worse: it’s the ever-allusive Thranduil himself.
The line is crackling, but Thranduil’s voice is distinct – it’s usual effortless drawl. “I’m in prison,” he announces, as soon as Thorin picks up the phone.
“I know,” Thorin says, munching on his pop tart and reaching for the TV remote; he switches stations, already tired of looking at Thranduil’s bleary mug shot. “I saw it on the news.”
“I’m posting bail this afternoon,” Thranduil replies, with an expectant pause.
“Right,” says Thorin, unyieldingly, because god knows he’s going to make Thranduil work for this. It’s the least he deserves.
Thranduil sighs. Then implores, in his softest voice, sooth like silk but twice as dangerous, “Can you come and pick me up?”
Thorin is not impressed. “I’m sure you can afford a taxi.”
“Thorin,” Thranduil breathes, and there’s something in that quaking voice that makes Thorin pause. “Please.”
Damn it.
The car ride is strained. There are paparazzi outside, snapping photos through the windows, the lights bright and blinking, and Thranduil is curled in the passenger sleep, sunglasses slipping down the slope of his nose. He looks tired, his face wane and hair matted – but Thorin is all out of sympathy.
“It was only a bit of coke,” Thranduil explains, as they arrive back at Thorin’s apartment. He changes into some jeans and one of Thorin’s old hoodies, and slopes into the kitchen as though it’s no big deal. He makes himself at home at the counter, stealing a banana from the fruit bowl and wriggling onto one of Thorin’s posh stools.
Thorin makes him a coffee in stony silence – makes it twice as sweet as Thranduil likes it, just out of spite.
Thranduil sips at it anyway, and peers at Thorin over the brim. “You’re not mad, are you?” he asks, after a long pause.
Thorin does not even dignify that with an answer. “It there’s any in this apartment, get rid of it,” he orders, in a tone that brokers no room for argument. “I mean it. If I find any, you can pack your shit and get out.”
Thranduil blinks at him in surprise.
They don’t speak for days.
Thorin’s next project is hard work. It’s a blockbuster, with a lot of stunts, filmed in increasingly exotic and far-flung locations. Usually, Thorin enjoys travelling, but he’s been away for months and the strain is beginning to get to him.
He’s tired, when he heads back to his trailer at the end of the day, his limbs aching and chest bound tight with emotion. He feels the bleed of the character, seeping into his veins, and needs a long, hot shower and a whole pack of biscuits to shake it off – to feel even remotely human again.
He opens the door and immediately goes about shedding his costume, unaware of the unexpected presence in the corner.
“And here I thought I was the one that was going to give a show,” comes a familiar voice, and Thorin fights free of his shirt to spot Thranduil, on the other side of the trailer, quirking a brow at him suggestively.
If it isn’t for the chocolate wrappers now strewn over Thorin’s floor and the suitcase emptied over his chair, Thorin might think that Thranduil is a figment of his imagination.
He looks ethereal in the half-light, his hair a golden waterfall, his eyes glinting playfully, and the sharp planes of his face casting shadows over his skin. He is wearing Thorin’s robe, parted at the front, to reveal a generous peak of white chest and a slender collarbone.
“What are you doing here?” Thorin croaks, because his heart is racing in something like excitement, and all the blood in his body is rushing very swiftly south.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Thranduil purrs, slinking towards him with a dangerous grin – tottering on what looks like very precarious stilettos.
Once he’s edged into the light, where he’s sure Thorin can see him, he opens the sash of the robe and slides silk off creamy shoulders. Underneath, he’s bare, except for lacy black underwear, hugging his hips, and a garter, attached to his thighs.
Thorin chokes slightly on his own spit.
Thranduil beams, throws his arms open to embrace him, and cries, “Surprise!”
It’s not often that Thranduil’s surprises are pleasant, and so Thorin makes the most of it, mouthing kisses into the white skin of his thighs and spreading his gloriously long legs over his shoulders.
He likes it most when it is just the two of them – away from the world and lost in each other’s arms.
There are lounging in Thorin’s balcony, some months later, sipping wine, when Thranduil edges into his side, pointedly, and nudges his nose against Thorin’s temple. It means he wants something.
“What?” says Thorin irritably, knowing he’s not going to like the answer.
“I’m doing a shoot tomorrow,” Thranduil explains, his breath fanning against Thorin’s ear. He kisses the sharpness of Thorin’s jaw once, twice, before taking a long lick of along the line of Thorin's stubble. Thorin yelps and tries to push him away, but Thranduil only seems to find it amusing – his limbs are like poison ivy, and only cling to him more tightly.
Thorin glares.
He’s not entirely sure where the conversation is going. Thranduil’s photo shoots usually involve a lot of make-up and very little clothes, and although Thorin wishes he would trust himself to rely solely on his talent (because Thranduil really is talented), it doesn’t really have anything to do with him. He never gets involved with Thranduil’s work.
“So?” he prods, when Thranduil doesn’t elaborate.
“So… would you like to come?” asks Thranduil, his gaze intense on Thorin’s face, trying to read his expression.
Thorin blinks slightly in confusion. He has never attended one of Thranduil’s shoots before, nor does he want to now. But then, Thranduil has never asked before. “Why would I want to come?”
“I came first in this year’s 100 Sexiest,” Thranduil explains, as though that’s legitimate reasoning. Thorin tries not to be offended that he came 14th. "Don't you want to celebrate?"
He does not want to celebrate, but does end up going to the shoot regardless, if only to stop Thranduil from pouting, and watches from the sidelines in minor disorientation.
He’s done some magazine spreads himself, when promoting a movie, but nothing quite like this.
Thranduil is scantily clad, in a pair of tight black boxers (more speedos, really) and a leather jacket, his fair hair stark against the blackness. He looks unbelievably hot, Thorin will admit it, but not at all like the man who huddles against Thorin at night and presses his bleary face into the crook of his neck when he’s cold.
Thorin feels uncomfortable being there. The make-up women spend unbelievable amounts of time plying him with foundation, and mascara – pointless, for it’s not as though Thranduil needs it. Thorin sees him half asleep in the morning, sluggish; his face soft and slack with sleep, and finds it hard to believe it’s even the same person.
Thorin knows that he should be delighted he’s sleeping with quite officially the hottest man in the world, but he finds he prefers the unguarded Thranduil, who craves affection and eats bowls of ice-cream when he's upset.
Thranduil turns then, to take a break, catches his gaze, and beams – the most genuine expression Thorin has seen on him all day. He looks far more striking like that, in Thorin’s opinion – when his face is open, honest and glowing with emotion.
It’s actually real.
Thorin likes to think he knows Thranduil – the real Thranduil – not the one who preens up at him from the front cover of magazines. But every once in a while, something happens to remind him that although he’s known Thranduil for a couple of years now, he still doesn’t know him – not really.
It’s always a rather unpleasant reminder.
It comes in the form of a newspaper spread; eight pictures of Thranduil, from a couple of nights before, when Thorin had been away with work. They’re incriminating in the worst way, but like a car crash, Thorin cannot stop staring at them.
One shows Thranduil smoking outside a club, his head lolling against a man with dark hair, who is clutching possessively at his hip; another with Thranduil, almost unconscious against an alley wall, wearing a jacket that is not his own; and finally, there’s one of them together again, holding hands, Thranduil slumped listlessly against his side, getting into a taxi.
“Thorin, I didn’t – he was all over me,” exclaims Thranduil, in terrible haste. He looks ghostly white – almost sick with fear. “I swear. Nothing happened.”
Thorin blinks down at the paper, and something feels heavy in his chest, like he can’t breathe. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” he says, sounding distant, even to his own ears.
Thranduil looks panicked now, a foreign expression on the sharp lines of his face. His eyes are wide and pleading. “Please, Thorin, I would never,” he gasps, and in other circumstances Thorin might enjoy seeing him so discomfited. “You’re the best thing to ever happen to me. I wouldn’t.”
Thorin doesn’t know if he believes him.
Things go back to normal after that night, or as normal as they get, because what else can Thorin do? Are they even in a relationship? Should Thorin have expected Thranduil to be faithful to him? He isn’t sure. He feels confused, angry, and hurt – like Thranduil has run a blade through his heart.
As much as he tells himself that he doesn’t care, and that Thranduil was never his in the first place, Thorin cannot rid his mind of the images. They haunt him, when he’s asleep next to Thranduil in the darkness – studying the sharp lines of his face and the soft slope of his eyelashes. And they haunt him even more when he’s alone, on location, without Thranduil’s familiar warmth, and wonders, without him, where Thranduil is sleeping.
It’s hard to know what Thranduil is thinking, such control the man has over his emotions, but sometimes – sometimes there are glimpses that what they have is genuine.
Thranduil goes out, as always, with little or no explanation as to where he is, who he’s with, and what he’s doing, but at the end of the night, he always comes back. He slinks into the bedroom, at two in the morning, slurring and smelling of alcohol, strips off all of his clothes, haphazardly, and burrows himself into the duvet.
Thorin pretends to be asleep as he watches him through squinted eyes, his chest tight, but does not pull away as Thranduil curls up against him, inhaling the scent of his hair. Thorin can feel the rapid flutter of eyelashes against his skin, and Thranduil’s arm tightening around his waist.
“Love you,” Thranduil mutters, into Thorin’s hair, and Thorin wonders why Thranduil doesn’t tell him this in the light of day, and why he never says it in return.
Thorin’s next project is a short one – a guest spot on a well-known TV show. He enjoys the distraction, while it lasts, and likes his cast mates, who are light and fun and welcome him with open arms. When the season ends (with Thorin’s character dying a painful death) they invite him to the wrap party, and Thorin accepts with only some token reluctance.
He’s getting dressed, into a shirt and tight black jeans, when Thranduil wanders in, unannounced, and flops himself onto Thorin's bed, arms spread, with his shoes dangling off the edge.
He blinks up after a moment, seemingly noticing that Thorin is getting dressed, and asks, "Where are you going?" with a strange inflection, as though surprised Thorin is attending a social engagement. Thorin might not be a social butterfly like Thranduil – falling out of clubs on the regular – but he doesn’t mean he doesn’t like a couple of drinks.
He feels like telling Thranduil it's none of his business, but says instead, "The wrap party."
“I thought we might go to dinner.”
“Not tonight,” he says gruffly, only to see Thranduil’s face fall out the corner of his eye. Thranduil is most honest, most vulnerable, when he believes that nobody is watching him – Thorin always catches glimpses when he is least expecting it. With a reluctant sigh, he adds, “Do you want to come?”
Thranduil’s face lights up, and Thorin engrains the image in his mind forever. He may not know what's going on between them, but during moments like that, he finds he doesn't care.
“Really?” Thranduil asks, unable to conceal his eagerness. “You want me there?”
‘Want’ is a strong word, but Thorin cannot bring himself to ruin Thranduil’s strangely hopeful expression. He finds himself saying, “Of course,” and Thranduil beams, before disappearing into the closet to get changed.
When he returns, he looks nothing short of stunning – in a tight navy suit (no skinny jeans in sight), with his long hair sweeping down his back. Thorin blinks at him a moment, pleasantly surprised he’s made a genuine effort, unable to stop himself from placing a tender kiss on the soft bow of his reddened lips.
Thranduil grins. “Let’s go, before we spend the night in bed – I know you can’t resist me.”
Thorin rolls his eyes, but concedes the point, and leads Thranduil out the door.
The party is fun, more so than Thorin thought it would be. Thranduil chats with everyone so effortlessly, pouring on endless charm (and proving he can be polite and engaging when he wants to be), and stays glued to Thorin’s side, touching his hand, his back, and his thigh in brief caresses. It’s a light, instinctive affection, and many of his cast mates comment on what a beautiful couple they make.
Thranduil smiles, flashing his pearly teeth, and thanks them; Thorin says nothing, staring into the depths of his wine glass, as though hoping it will provide some answers for him.
He doesn’t know what they are - but he knows now that his feelings for Thranduil are very real and very deep.
Sometimes, he even thinks Thranduil feels the same.
He’s flicking radio stations on the treadmill when he hears it; it’s Thranduil’s smooth and velvety voice, haunting him, even at the sanctuary of the gym. Nowhere is safe.
He’s giving an interview, on a local radio station, and instead of throwing his headphones into the swimming pool, like he probably should, Thorin waits and listens. For some godforsaken reason, he wants to hear what Thranduil has to say.
“So tell us about your love life,” says the interviewer, and Thorin groans, hoping that nobody is listening to him. He takes a peek over his shoulder to make sure. “There are plenty of rumours about you and Thorin Oakenshield.”
“Are there?” says Thranduil, coy. Thorin can almost picture his smug smirk over the radio waves.
“Are you officially a couple? There have been rumours of trouble in paradise.”
“We are still a couple, of course,” replies Thranduil, which is news to Thorin – who’d never dared assume they were even a couple in the first place. “He’s the most important thing to me.” Which is also news to Thorin. “He’s amazing and I’m lucky to have him.”
The words sound sincere, and Thorin slows to a walk, panting, as he hangs upon Thranduil’s every word.
“And what of the pictures of you with your male friend recently?” presses the interviewer, and something catches in Thorin’s throat. He doesn't breathe then, only listens for Thranduil's reply.
Thranduil’s voice is no longer like velvet – it’s sharp and cold. “A so-called friend took advantage of me for publicity," he replies, sounding as though he wants the conversation to end. He sounds angry and betrayed. "That is all.”
Thorin can feel his heart pounding rapidly in his chest, and knows it has nothing to do with exercise.
He doesn't know whether Thranduil is acting (if it is, he really is very good), but finds himself believing him anyway.
Things between them get easier afterwards - Thorin decides to stop thinking about what might have happened, and concentrate on what's happening now. Thranduil seems to sense his change of heart and is quick to embrace it.
"Stop it," Thorin grumbles, as Thranduil wriggles in his lap, tilting his head into Thorin's temple and beaming upwards at the camera. They're both on a break from work; they’ve just finished promotional tours, and Thorin is trying to make the most of his freedom by watching terrible TV in peace.
It's a useless endeavour with Thranduil around, because the man likes to be the centre of attention, even in a quiet apartment, and cannot seem to stop himself from draping his long limbs all over the upholstery.
"You're no fun," Thranduil complains.
The phone flashes even as Thorin glares. "I'm not going to be part of your publicity stunts," he informs him, leaning away from the lens.
Thranduil huffs, tosses his curtain of hair that hits Thorin squarely in the face (on purpose, no doubt) and takes a gleeful picture of Thorin's disgruntled expression. He glides out of reach, before Thorin can throttle him, and sniggers over his phone for the next half an hour, as Thorin tries desperately to ignore him.
When Thorin looks later, pretending he's stumbled across Thranduil's Twitter by accident, he sees it has been posted online. Along with it (between the endless shots of Thranduil pouting) are various photos of them together - some, Thorin doesn't even remember Thranduil taking.
There's one of them on location, on the film set where they'd first met, in full costume, peering up at the camera. There’s another, of them at a bar – Thorin sipping a beer as Thranduil (hair mussed and cheeks pink) places a sloppy and drunken kiss on his cheek.
He wants to be angry that Thranduil is using him for attention (like the bastard doesn't get enough of it already), but looks at the pictures and feels a strange pang of something unidentifiable in his chest. Thorin shuts down his laptop with a sigh and pretends he hasn't seen anything.
When Thranduil tries to take a picture the next day – as Thorin reads a script on the sofa with Thranduil sprawled against his side – he does not protest.
Thorin is busy attempting to cook pasta over the stove, a couple of months later, peering at a cookbook in incomprehension, when Thranduil bursts through the apartment door with a bang and causes Thorin to drop a whole tomato into the pan. He swears, tries to fish it out, burns his fingers, and swears again.
Thranduil looks remarkably windswept, as though he’s bound up the seven flights of stairs, and there’s something strange shining in his eyes. Thorin is taken aback – Thranduil’s never enthusiastic about anything. It's simply not in his nature.
“Guess what?” he asks, breathlessly, as Thorin prods sadly at his pasta with a spoon.
Thorin blinks up at him, feeling more confused than ever, and shrugs.
Thranduil rolls his eyes, but it’s without feeling – he’s rocking back excitedly on the balls of his feet. Thorin peers at him carefully, hoping he’s not drunk at five in the afternoon.
“I’ve been nominated,” he exclaims, after a dramatic pause, “as Best Actor!”
“Congratulations,” says Thorin, and actually means it, because Thranduil is talented and deserves success.
Thranduil smiles at him, his face proud and glowing – so different to his usual unfeeling frown. “What are you going to wear to the ceremony?” he asks, with a cock of his brow.
Thorin stares at him blankly.
“Well I can’t go alone!” Thranduil exclaims, when Thorin says nothing. “What would people think? My partner should be there.”
Thorin does not know exactly when they became partners, but does not find the word unpleasant, and so simply nods, unable to voice anything due to the clog of his feelings in his throat.
When he walks the red carpet, with Thranduil at his side, he is unbelievably proud. Although Thorin struggles to articulate his feelings, he hopes Thranduil understands, as he squeezes his hand and brushes his fingers over the small of his back. Thranduil looks gorgeous, perhaps even more than usual – dressed in a tux and beaming with happiness.
As the award is announced, Thranduil clutches at Thorin’s thigh, his breathing laboured and brow shining with sweat. Thorin curls his hand around shaking fingers, and gives them a tight squeeze, hoping it portrays his support. Thranduil turns, smiles at him in thanks, just as his name as called as ‘Best Actor.’
He gasps, throws himself into Thorin’s arms, and buries his face in his partner’s neck. Usually, Thorin would frown at such a display, roll his eyes at the dramatics, sure to be in tomorrow’s paper, but this is genuine – he can feel Thranduil’s wet tears against his skin.
He pries him away after a moment, nudging him forward, and Thranduil stumbles onto the stage, looking as though he doesn’t know how he got there. He breathes heavily into the microphone, to regain his composure, before gasping, “Thank you. This means so much to me. I can’t believe I’m going to be in the news for something good.”
The wryness in his voice makes the audience laugh. Thorin smiles.
“I’d like to thank everyone who has supported me – whether it be fans or friends. Thanks to the director for trusting me, when not many others would.” He clasps at the golden statue, tilts it towards the audience in a salute, and adds, “And thank you, most of all, to Thorin, who I love endlessly – who accepts me as I am, but makes me want to be better.”
Thorin is pretty sure his heart is in his throat.
"I hope he understands," Thranduil continues, looking towards him, through the sea of faces. "That I'm trying - and I'll keep trying for him."
THE END.