Archive of Our Own

It would certainly take him a while to get used to this new apartment, even though the place did— to a certain extent— meet his standards. Three of the walls of his new room were a light grey in color while the other was a rich, dark blue. They were completely bare, except for one random art piece of shiny silver hung in one of them as decoration and a rather calming ocean landscape settled right over his broad new bed.

The television in the living room kept on producing noises, voices of various people coming off an on as the scenes changed and the program went on. Eventually, Thranduil heard that annoying jingle that announced the start of the segment that he was dreading to watch. Against his better judgment, he would follow Tauriel’s advice and just get it over with.

He stood from his bed, stretched his bad leg and then started to make his way to the living room broodingly, where the bluish light of the television cast a rather cold glow over his scarce furniture. He would’ve drawn the curtains, but he found that he actually enjoyed the false sense of privacy the darkness granted him.

As he settled upon the faux-leather couch, the announcer’s words finally started to make sense to Thranduil, his attention reluctantly focusing on the flat screen. The scene changed, a man sat at a table facing three different microphones, all with different logos signaling the channel they belonged to. His hair was dark and reached almost down to his chin, wavy and a bit too wild for Thranduil’s taste, although he had nothing to say about his impressive sideburns. On the screen appeared a legend that informed the viewer the man’s name was Bard Bowman, and below, it read Esgaroth Captain.

Bard seemed troubled, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line as he nodded, signaling he understood the question and was trying to find a suitable answer for it. Thranduil knew it was just an act. Bard had known he’d be asked that particular question, and appearing thoughtful and preoccupied did not mean Bard didn’t already have an answer prepared since the day before.

“I believe that his input will be very beneficial to the team,” he started. His voice was deep, highlighted by a peculiar accent that made Thranduil’s lips stretch slightly. “He’s very experienced, having been a player of such outstanding level. So— and he absolutely knows what he’s doing, I mean, he— he did amazing things while coaching the Woodland team. Esgaroth has a lot of potential— we do— and I think he will be capable of,” he paused, his eyes focusing on one of the microphones as he bit his lower lip. Thranduil’s eyes had been wandering about the brand logos crowding the background, but the gesture pulled his attention back to the young player. “Of pushing us forward. Of turning us into a better team, and raising our chances of winning the League, of course.” He laughed then, small wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes as he nodded again, and the scene changed back to the announcer just as Bard was standing from the table.

Thranduil sighed, leaning against the backrest of his couch and letting his head fall back. Nothing but good things to say about the whole situation, as anticipated, but Thranduil suspected he would eventually hear a more sincere opinion on the matter from Bard— in the flesh— as he would be seeing him frequently from then on.

The whole ordeal had been a messy thing.

Esgaroth had been a powerful team in the past, however that now lay buried below hundreds of newspaper headlines and harsh comments from both critics and fans alike. Ever since Masters, a self-centered, arrogant bastard had taken upon the role of manager, things had begun to go downhill for the team. Thranduil assumed that the only reason the team still had any form of structure and could still hold their ground against important teams— like Erebor— was because Bard acted like the glue that could keep the players together. Thraduil doubted Bard was even conscious of it.

A few months back, it was found that Masters had been stealing money from the Esgaroth Club, and his discharge had been a well sounded torment that seemed to follow the team members like a heavy cloud everywhere they went. In any interview, they would be questioned, and mentioning the team equaled to mentioning Masters and the collective failure they all now seemed to be regarded as.

That Thranduil had refused to coach the Woodland Realm team for another season had been a shock, but a greater shock still had been the announcement that he would be, instead, coaching Esgaroth.

Tauriel had nearly had a heart attack when she learned the news, and she could ask all she wanted, but Thranduil wouldn’t tell her the real reason why he had done something as stupid as that. It was for him alone to know and for his assistant to lose her mind over. It didn’t matter, anyway, what was done was done and that was the end of it.

Thranduil’s cell phone vibrated over the crystal table in front of him, pulling his attention back from his thoughts and he barely glanced at it, groaning as he observed Tauriel’s name displayed on the massive screen. He taped on it to answer the call, and then again to activate the speaker mode, but he didn’t say anything.

“You watched it, didn’t you?” She knew he’d watched it, she wouldn’t be calling otherwise. “What do you think?”

Reluctantly, he replied. “I think he lies, and I think I’m going to encounter a pack of rebels tomorrow ready to gut me alive.” He sighed through his nose, ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.

“I won’t let that happen. Legolas won’t let that happen.”

Thranduil laughed humorlessly. “Tauriel, dear, Legolas will be leading the whole thing. He’ll only feel truly happy once my intestines are on display, framing his front door.”

Tauriel made a long pause. “That was… disturbing.” She sighed, went on. “He’s your son, Thranduil, as much as you two insist on denying you’re related. I think you should—”

“Lovely talking to you, Tauriel, as always.” Thranduil interrupted before she could say what Thranduil knew she was dying to. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then he hung up, and around him the silence seemed to grow thick enough to suffocate him.

--

His alarm jolted him awake at precisely 7:30 in the morning. The sun was already shining behind his closed curtains, a beam of sunlight shyly penetrating into the room through a slim slit between them.

Bard rolled over, groaning, and the movement was followed by a loud yelp and then a fit of giggling.

“Da! You’re squishing me!”

“Tilda, tell the sun to go back to sleep.” He produced, groggily, rolling back and throwing his arm over his eyes. A pair of tiny hands shook him slightly and Bard could only grin.

“You need to get up, Da!” Tilda squealed. “Sigrid’s gonna pull your ears if you don’t.”

Bard had to laugh at that because he had to admit that there was something funny— or perhaps very wrong— in knowing it was absolutely true his adoptive daughter would use unorthodox methods such as ear pulling to coax him into turning into a functioning member of society.

He tucked four-year-old Tilda below his covers and kissed her forehead, then he walked out of the room to find Sigrid half asleep leaning against the doorframe of her own room, her arms crossed over her chest and hey eyelids fighting against gravity as they pleaded to close again. Bard swung an arm around her shoulders and guided her back into the warmness of her bed, kissing the top of her head before she disappeared under the haven of her light green covers.

“I’m awake, I swear. Thank you.”

“See you tonight, Da.” Sigrid whispered, and Bard just nodded. He walked silently out of the room and headed for the kitchen to make himself something light to eat before he had an actual breakfast at the training ground.

Sigrid would later prepare breakfast and get her little siblings to school, all while Bard trained hard, far away from them. She would pick them up afterwards, once she too was done with school, but Bard would be back home by the time they returned, and he would make the most of the afternoon with them because everything he did, he did for them. No one could question that.

For now, he had to resign himself to only being able to kiss them good-bye in the mornings and trying to make up for all the time he was away by being with them as much as he could.

Being a professional football soccer player and a single father of three at twenty seven wasn’t the easiest thing, it seemed.

--

Legolas was, as usual, the first of the team members to arrive to the training ground. He parked his motorcycle near the front door and walked straight towards the cafeteria to get something to eat. He wasn’t exactly fond of animal derived products, but as a high-performance athlete he couldn’t do much about his diet as it was carefully designed by expert nutritionists that had already had enough of his attitude. He found out that the more he cooperated, the better, as the nutritionists did seem to have a heart and let him get away with eating what he wanted from time to time. As long as it didn’t affect his performance, they said, and Legolas would not let them down if it meant less animal blood being spilled on his behalf.

This morning, however, that wasn’t the reason behind his lack of appetite, and he had to force his breakfast down his throat as it seemed to be the proud holder of a tight knot that also kept his jaws clenched and his brow furrowed. He was going to be an adult about this, though, as much as his true wishes dictated he should be throwing a fit around the building, flinging chairs and smashing windows.

Because Thranduil had to get his nose in every single one of Legolas’s businesses.

But Legolas was a professional, and he was not going to let his manipulative bitch-attitude problem father know he’d rather get hit by a truck than let him coach Legolas again. The team came first, and the team was everything, and he would scalp Thranduil before letting him mess with the single most important thing for him in the world.

Legolas respected his father, but he also respected himself, and he had enough experience in dealing with the man to know how things could go really bad, really fast.

Having Tauriel around again, though, that he was looking forward to. Perhaps she had finally found a way to make Thranduil wear a muzzle to keep him from voicing his ridiculous opinions, but he could only wish.

Just as he was finishing the last of his scrambled eggs, Bard made his appearance and walked somberly towards him. If misery were a man, Legolas thought, he would wear Bard’s face.

Legolas, who usually kept to himself, quite enjoyed Bard’s company, but if Bard came with the intention of complaining to him about his father, he had news for him: he could get enough of that without trying, courtesy of his very own traitorous brain.

“He here yet?” Bard half mumbled, looking around like he expected Thranduil to pop out from behind one of the various ornament plants scattered around the area. Legolas shrugged, careful to swallow before opening his mouth.

“Probably. He’s always on time.” Bard gave him a pointed look, and he didn’t have to say anything for Legolas to understand the message he was implying. ‘Just like you’, his eyes accused, and if Legolas hadn’t been a civilized man, he would be stabbing Bard’s face with his fork for dear life. Instead, he cleared his throat, took a final sip from his orange juice and excused himself. He’d walk a bit, to cool off, and then he would hit the gym so hard it would be the machines, and not his muscles, the ones who’d be sore afterwards. And that, that was a promise.

--

Tauriel had come to pick him up. They hadn’t seen each other in over two weeks, and yet, Thranduil could’ve gone another month without this. This, of course, meant Tauriel running her mouth off about the team and its members.

Thranduil knew them, he had spent the last few weeks getting acquainted with everything that concerned Esgaroth: their technique, their strengths and weaknesses, their roles, their wins and defeats and their performance in past seasons. And yes, he also knew their names and faces, for god’s sake.

An exasperated sound escaped his mouth, and he leaned forward to turn the volume up on the radio. Good thing Tauriel preferred classic music over heavy metal, because if there was one thing Thranduil wanted to avoid, it was to arrive to the training ground on his first day with Black Sabbath blasting from the speakers of her crimson Audi.

“Hey, I’m just worried!” Tauriel blinked at him, turning the volume back to a low hum by pressing a button repeatedly on the steering wheel. “You need to make a good first impression.”

“They already have their impressions of me, and I could show up today in drag offering them pot brownies and it wouldn’t change. Let’s just not bother.”

Even though he was purposefully looking out the window, he could practically feel her roll her eyes at him. Thankfully, the rest of the way was made in complete silence except for the sweet melody of Andrea Noferini’s cello making his morning slightly more bearable.

--

Their new manager was a serious man, there was no denying that. Thranduil Greenwood was regal and stoic, observed much yet said little. Light on his feet, he strolled towards them flanked by two men that belonged to the team’s administration group and the team owners’ agent. Bard tried not to stare, however, he couldn’t control his eyes from quickly glancing at Thranduil’s legs. Perhaps he did observe the faintest of limps, or perhaps it’d been just his imagination.

He knew what had happened, even if it was an unspoken rule among players to never talk about it. He had heard about the accident that had crippled him. Thranduil had lost his wife and his career in a terrible car accident almost sixteen years ago. The physical wounds he had recovered from— he had got a full knee implant that allowed him to walk again— however the emotional ones were another story entirely. People said many things, though Bard preferred not to believe them until he had proved them himself, and perhaps Thranduil’s coldness had nothing to do with it, perhaps his known solitude was not related to his past.

Thranduil introduced himself briefly, thanked the team for agreeing to have him as their new manager— the polite thing to do, honestly, it wasn’t like they’d had an actual choice— and listed a few things he would like to achieve together with the team. He didn’t specifically mention winning the Middle-Earth League, though he did imply it with air of sufficiency, and Bard felt like patting his back and serving him some coffee because if someone had high expectations, that was Thranduil, and as much as Bard loved his team, he was also realistic.

Thranduil sent them off to the field to begin training— they had warmed up and stretched at the gym, but a mild jogging session never hurt anyone— yet asked Bard if he could talk to him privately before turning to the administrative group and exchanging a few words with them.

As he waited, awkwardly standing just out of earshot, Bard let his eyes wander over Thranduil’s form and unintentionally picked up a couple of details he hadn’t noticed earlier, like the broadness of his shoulders and the perfect fit of his expensive-looking coat over them; like the sheer contrast of his blond hair over his dark clothing and his powerful yet somehow relaxed stance. He had seen Thranduil plenty of times on television and few in real life though he had never had the chance to speak to him.

Averting his eyes before he could get caught staring, Bard tried to conceal his nervousness as Thranduil bid the other men farewell, turned towards him and silently made his way over to him. Thranduil was a bit of a legend, and though Bard was far from being a die-hard fanboy, he would be lying to himself if he said he was completely calm and unaffected by his presence. Especially when Thranduil’s hand came to rest upon his shoulder to guide him forward, following the path the other team members had walked through just mere seconds before.

“I heard what you said yesterday,” he started, and Bard had to think hard before he realized Thranduil meant the interview. He hadn’t said it yesterday, it had been recorded before, but he faintly remembered being told when it would air. “I need to know if you meant all that.”

Now that was a tricky question, because Bard had an idea of what he had said, but he couldn’t perfectly recall it word for word. He had said something about Thranduil being very capable and some other thing about thinking he’d be good for the team. Did he believe it? He did. Sort of.

“Of course.”

Thranduil stopped all of a sudden, turned around and stood directly in front of Bard. His other hand was placed over Bard’s free shoulder and, in all honesty, the last thing crossing Bard’s mind was questioning the need for so much physical contact. Rather, his brain was focused on the intensity of Thranduil’s light blue eyes— a perfect match to his tie—, his judgmental squinting, his long hair falling flawlessly down his shoulders. He smelled like heaven, too, and Bard could start to choke on his own saliva because this was just ridiculous.

“Do not lie to me.” He whispered, low so Bard had to pay double the attention. “I need to know you’re on my side, because this is not going to work unless you help me out.”

“What isn’t?” Bard was surprised to hear his own voice, calm and collected like Thranduil’s mere existence wasn’t tearing his composure asunder.

“I can make this team great,” he announced, and he pulled back slightly, his hands squeezing Bard’s shoulders gently. “But I need you for that. This team needs you.”

And that was a bit of a big statement to make right out of the blue, but Thranduil said nothing else. His hands fell from Bard’s shoulders, and saying his heat was missed was not a statement Bard would like to make himself. Therefore he remained silent, glancing at the floor once, and then back into Thranduil’s eyes.

That seemed to be the wrong move, for Thranduil pursed his lips and turned right around, walking on without waiting for Bard to catch up.

“Wait, wait!” He called out, trying to hide the wavering in his voice. The manager only half-turned back in his direction. “Why did you do it?” At Thranduil’s raised eyebrow, Bard elaborated. “Why did you choose our team? Why Esgaroth?”

Bard was regarded intensely for a few seconds before Thranduil opened his mouth to say something. However, he seemed to think better of it and closed it again before he had produced any sound. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers, Thranduil faced the field’s entrance once more, and moved forward, leaving Bard behind, a bit frustrated but overall very confused.

--

Bard arrived home with sinking sense of strangeness gliding over his back and settling there like heavy exhaustion after a particularly nerve-wrecking game. Strangeness because of what, he was ashamed to admit even if he was largely conscious of it.

Thranduil was his problem.

Thranduil and his sharp eyes studying him, following his every movement across the field. Thranduil, who acted as if he’d known Bard his entire life, who called him to his side in the middle of practice, casually leaning into his space and whispering infuriatingly clever things by his ear, making shivers run down Bard’s spine even if what he was hearing was but tactic-related words that shouldn’t have had that effect on him. Bard rationalized it really wasn’t his fault, not when Thranduil had a way of making everything he said sound personal, like he was sharing his most profound secrets, his silky voice slithering, coiling around Bard’s senses and he felt like shoving his head inside a toilet and flushing in an attempt to rid his mind of those thoughts.

Thranduil, Thranduil, Thranduil, on repeat in his head like a broken record that he was getting very tired of.

Bard tried to focus on other things, though it proved mostly futile and found himself often wondering when exactly his mind had decided to turn against him and betray him in such a dirty manner.

In the end, Bard gave up and decided to accept he had a problem— a problem named Thranduil— and supposed that thinking the color of his cooked pasta was the same as the color of Thranduil’s hair was a perfectly normal comparison to make.

He was nearly done with dinner by the time he heard the door open, and he turned around just in time to prevent Tilda from crashing against his knees, catching her instead and scooping her up in his arms to kiss her cheek before she could pull away.

“Your beard, Da! It tickles!” She laughed. Bain, only two years older than Tilda, impatiently tugged on Bard’s pants until he got the attention he deserved from his Da. Bard bent down and let Tilda run away to her room, probably to greet every single last toy she owned as was her habit.

“Da!” Bain said, excitement present in his voice. “Guess how many times I scored today?” He was bouncing up and down like there was a fire under his little feet and Bard put his hands over his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down and raised his chin, prompting Bain to continue. “Five times, Da! The coach even congratulated me and everything.”

A smile appeared on Bard’s lips then, broad and bright, mirroring the one on his son’s face, and Bain’s bouncing came back with renewed strength.

“I keep telling him he’s going to make you lose your job if he keeps that up, Da.” Sigrid added, walking past them both to check on the pot Bard had left unattended on the stove.

“No! I don’t want Da to lose his job, I just wanna play with him in his team!” Bain retorted, slightly upset, to which Bard just chuckled.

“Bit too young for that, don’t you think?” Bard laughed even harder at Bain’s almost offended stare.

His eyes opened wide and he was quick to shake his head to then pout before saying, “Nope! Legolas is twenty-one!”

“But you’re only six, Bain.”

“I’ll be twenty-one soon.” And he said it with such confidence Bard thought he could have convinced Thranduil himself.

Bard and Sigrid exchanged an amused look but neither said anything, which Bain interpreted as a triumph. He smiled sheepishly, leaning forward into Bard’s arms, hugging him tightly, a gesture which Bard returned with a low, content sigh. “I missed you,” he whispered. Bain nodded, then pulled away and replied he had missed his father too. “Go wash up and tell Tilda to do it, too. Dinner’s almost ready.”

“Okay!”

Bard remained crouched for a little longer before standing back up and leaning on the counter by the stove where Sigrid had taken over the duty of making sure Bard’s pasta continued to be edible and at least somewhat tasty.

“So, it’s been a week.” Sigrid said but left her words hanging in the space between them without attempting to complete her thoughts. Nonetheless, Bard knew what she was asking, even if he took his time to give her an answer.

“It’s been interesting. He is,” he started but then faced a wall that prevented any more words from leaving his mouth. He wondered what he should tell her, exactly. Glancing at her, he discovered genuine interest in her gentle eyes and for a brief moment he felt like being the most honest he had been in a very long time and admitting he actually, weirdly enough, didn’t know how he felt about Thranduil at all. He made his stomach clench and his senses awaken, but he also confused Bard. He found him attractive, true, but that wasn’t particularly important. It wasn’t as if Bard had never developed a feeling of attraction towards someone. The problem was he’d never had the urge to act upon those feelings before. Never, not since his wife. He settled with something a bit less self-condemning and more like the answer Sigrid was expecting. “Strange. But good strange, you know?”

Sigrid chuckled, taking a final sniff at the pasta and deeming the food acceptable with a brief nod. She turned the stove off and then twisted fully around to face Bard. It didn’t mean anything aside from the fact that he obviously had her full attention now, however Bard felt suddenly exposed, like he was standing under a magnifying glass.

 “How so?” But he couldn’t elaborate there because he didn’t feel ready to tell her about the furtive stares and the lingering touches and it was all probably in Bard’s head anyway. Therefore, Bard tried to reply with a vague hand gesture and a shrug that he expected Sigrid would accept as a suitable answer. However, his daughter only gave him an analytic squint.

“Maybe I just find it weird that for once in many, many months, our coach has been there to evaluate our performance?” He said— half-lied— at last. “He doesn’t say much, but I don’t think he ever does.” And his words were not what affected Bard the most, anyway, it was what he didn’t say, what he left to Bard’s imagination as he pierced Bard’s composure with his gorgeous eyes and his taunting lips, and Bard needed to stop before his mind went down that dangerous road right in front of Sigrid. “Oh, and he did mention something about organizing a... get-together. All of us, with our families. I don’t know why he wants that, he really doesn’t look like the partying type.”

Sigrid just blinked at him for a moment, then frowned before what her father had said finally sunk in. Then she glanced around in a comically paranoid fashion before whispering, “Don’t tell Bain yet! He’s going to piss his pants when you tell him he’s going to see Legolas again!”

--

As the weeks went by Bard became convinced of three things. The first was that Thranduil was indeed quite fond of parties as he often found the way to make the team get together and enjoy an afternoon in each other’s company. For what purpose, he couldn’t be sure, although he guessed Thranduil’s plan was to develop a deeper sense of companionship between all the tem members.

The second was that Thranduil was a better manager than Bard could have ever imagined, for slowly, but surely, he changed the team; switched their roles and formations into a new arrangement that better suited each players capacities. Thranduil had the ability to perfectly define what a player’s strong point was, and even if the player was convinced otherwise, Thranduil eventually made them see his point. Not forcefully, too, but in a mentoring approach that made the change easier for Bard’s teammates to assimilate.

And the third thing… The third thing Bard was completely convinced of was that Thranduil was flirting with him.

There was no other way to put it, no other thing to confuse the man’s actions with. Thranduil was flirting with him and Bard was ashamed to admit that, more often than not, he flirted right back.

It wasn’t really his fault. It wasn’t as if he was going to just let Thranduil get away with being a huge tease without putting up a fight of his own, and therefore, when Thranduil’s hand came to rest upon his lower back, Bard would push into his touch, glance up at him and smirk, letting Thranduil know he was very conscious of what was happening.

The other man would then chuckle, maybe, or shake his head and move onto another topic. Yet, his heat lingered on Bard’s skin, his smell hung onto his clothes, his eyes chased him in his memories and before long Bard became conscious of a fourth, very important thing.

He was falling for him.

He was falling for Thranduil.

--

The incident happened a week before their first eliminatory match, one that was to be had against Erebor.

Tauriel didn’t really know what was happening, except that there was a lot of screaming and a tight congregation of sweaty men in the middle of the field in what appeared to be a heated conflict.

Thranduil rushed to where the disturbance was happening— as best as he could, since he couldn’t run, doctor’s orders— and Tauriel followed suit, a few steps behind his boss and looking over his shoulder trying to define what the whole situation was about.

Exasperated accusations were being thrown haphazardly, the collective enmity swelling until it overflowed in the form of shoving and more yelling and, finally, Thranduil made his way into the core of the conflict and put a harsh end to it by stepping between Legolas and Alfrid.

Tauriel kept her binder tightly pressed against her chest, still a couple of steps away, although she wouldn’t have doubted to let go of it and jump right into the fight if bad had come to worse. She had protected Legolas innumerable times when they’d been together in highschool, and she wasn’t about to stop now just because his opponents now were professional athletes that easily doubled her weight.

Holding Alfrid Lickspittle back was Bard, his arm shoved over Alfrid’s chest and his leg strongly planted in front of him keeping him balanced against the furious pack of brimming rage that was the man. And Bard was also probably the reason why poor Alfrid wasn’t covered in bruises and bleeding on the floor in a pool of his own saliva, because by the look on Legolas’s face, that scenario was probably playing on his heard on repeat.

“What happened?” Thranduil’s voice was composed, a fact that Tauriel found a bit terrifying for she could clearly tell how pissed his boss was. His jaw muscles were tense, his fingers twitching, though unclenched.

“Are you seriously going to let him play?” Legolas directed at him, fury dancing in his light blue eyes. “This worm doesn’t care about anything other than himself. He’s willing to jeopardize our plays just to take the glory.” His words dripped like poison from his flushed lips, like they’d burn through his throat unless he let them out.

“Are you trying to tell me how to manage this team?” Thranduil replied, and Tauriel felt a shiver run down her spine. Legolas was caught in a moment of confusion, one that lasted only a few seconds before it morphed back into pure, unadulterated rage.

“Excuse me?” Legolas yanked his arm free from the grasp of the teammates that had been holding him back, and turned to fully face his father. Tauriel gulped audibly, felt the need to step between the two and tell Thranduil to stop before he messed up beyond repair, to step out of his bubble for one moment and realize Legolas was right and that he wasn’t trying to antagonize him out of a weird sense of rebelliousness.

Thranduil seemed unfazed, invulnerable in the wake of Legolas’s murderous glare.

“I know what I’m doing.” Cold, definitive, unmovable.

“Of course you do. You always do.”

Then he advanced, right past his father without giving him another look. Tauriel knew what Thranduil would do then, because he couldn’t allow any of the members to be disrespectful like that and walk free of any charge. Legolas knew it, too, Tauriel could tell by the way he shrugged, as if in pain, by his expression of pure disappointment.  The next game was important to him, and Thranduil was going to punish him by not letting him play.

Tauriel didn’t stay to hear the verdict, she turned right around and followed after Legolas’s retreating steps.

--

Thranduil couldn’t really understand what idiot thought seats for the managers were even necessary at a stadium. He would never be able to sit still while a match his team participated in was taking place and he knew the same applied to every single manager he had ever met.

The feeling of anxiety was exponentially worsened by the fact that this game was finally an official one and not part of the set of friendly matches that were used to test the waters and begin to understand another team’s way of playing.

The energy ran too high, too charged. His heart beat fast, his nerves alive with apprehension as the referee blew his whistle and the entirety of the stadium broke into cheers and clapping and Erebor’s Fíli Durinson somehow made away with the ball almost effortlessly.

He knew there was a camera trained on him that would remain so throughout the match, so he made a mental note to keep a neutral expression at all times, except for when his team scored. Then— and only then— he would allow himself a little smile and a brief nod, but nothing else.

Thranduil followed the course of the ball with quick eyes, sometimes fixing his attention on one of Erebor’s players as he tried to figure out what their strategy was. Something that caught his attention immediately, though, was the fact their opponents seemed a little too confident.

And it made sense, to a certain extent, because even if Thranduil had had nothing to do with Esgaroth at the time— Legolas had been recruited, but he still hadn’t debuted as an official player— he had heard everything about that unforgettable match.

The Desolation of Smaug, the commentators liked to call it, and the Desolation of Smaug had been Esgaroth’s worst performance in so long, people couldn’t remember if they’d ever done worse in a match. The final score had been 6 to 0, an outrageous score taking in account this was a professional league. Two of said goals had been scored in the first half of the game, one more in the first few minutes of the second half, and by then Esgaroth had been so upset and frustrated that the team’s harmony dispersed into utter disarray. And then Smaug Dragoe swept in and scored three more goals while Esgaroth’s fans watched aghast and their spirits shattered into a million pieces.

The memory was still fresh and the humiliation as Esgaroth was eliminated from the League on the first round was not something that could be shaken off easily. The last season had been devastating for them and the fact that their first eliminatory match of this season was, ironically, against Erebor appeared to Thranduil like a sick joke from whatever deity liked to reign over them. Or perhaps, precisely the chance he— the whole team— needed.

--

Forty-seven minutes slipped between their fingers in what felt like the blink of an eye. In forty-seven minutes, they had achieved nothing, except for almost miraculously managing to block Erebor’s attacks and somehow keeping the ball from entering their goal all but one time. It had only been forty-five plus two additional minutes of stoppage time and yet Bard felt it had been enough to tire him for a lifetime.

At the moment, they were losing.

He could feel his team’s spirits slowly sinking to the ground and even if he’d wanted to cheer them up, the truth was that his mood was in no better shape. They made their way to the side of the field where Thranduil waited, his hands in his pockets, his face completely blank and devoid of emotion.

Bard sighed. Well, what was he expecting, anyway? Esgaroth was still a failure, with or without Masters. The issue wasn’t the manager, the issue was the team itself and Bard found that he couldn’t make eye contact with his manager even when he felt Thranduil patting his shoulder and guiding him inside with the others towards the private dressing room they’d use to discuss their strategy from then onwards.

As he disappeared from sight, he heard Sigrid and the children’s cheers from the side and he forced himself to look in their direction and smile brightly, give them a thumbs-up if only to keep up appearances.

Thranduil’s hand didn’t leave his shoulder. More than that, Bard felt him squeeze the tense muscles there, the weight of his hand an ever present reminder of the fact that he wasn’t impressing anyone with his faulty performance. Yet, when he finally couldn’t avoid Thranduil’s eyes for a second longer, he found no accusation, no reproach in them. Only a certain gleam that Bard could’ve catalogued as amused if it weren’t for the fact that the thought alone was ridiculous.

“That was an interesting first half,” he said. His hand left Bard as did his eyes to focus instead on each of the members gathered around him in the room. “How’d it feel?”

Various groans exploded throughout the small crowd, hands were shaken in exasperation and Bard was surprised to find Thranduil’s amusement started to show in his expression, too, as his lips stretched slightly, his head tilting to one side in what could be considered a playful manner. Bard took the towel one of the volunteers offered him and proceeded to dry his neck, his sight never leaving his coach’s figure.

“The problem is, boys,” Thranduil started, clasping his hands behind his back. He paused for a moment, building up anticipation. “The problem is that Erebor thinks they’re superior, and you’re falling right into the trap.”

Bard felt the tension escalate around him, emanating from all his teammates. He even felt it swell inside himself until it nearly burst right out of his mouth in the form of angry accusations and retorts. He had to take a few breaths to control the tone of his voice before he could speak, before he could even start to try to defend his team.

“Perhaps that is because they actually are superior.” He informed Thranduil. Ice-blue eyes immediately zeroed in on him, almost crushed him with the intensity of their stare.

“Since when?”

Bard sighed out loud. He let the damp towel sit around his neck and massaged his nape. “They’ve been training hard, they know what they’re here for.”

“And you don’t?” Bard was getting tired of Thranduil’s rhetoric questions. He shot him a glare that seemed to slide right off Thranduil.

“What you need to keep in mind, Esgaroth, is that Erebor thinks they can intimidate you just because they feel powerful. They’re not. They’re the same they’ve always been. Whatever happened is in the past and you can’t let that slow you down now.” Their manager said. His voice flowed around the team like a gentle current, his tone was warm yet firm and even if Bard wasn’t in the best state of mind, he felt himself calming down slowly. “You had a bad experience, that’s true. They’re taking advantage of the fact that they are convinced you’re insecure. And you need to get this into your heads: You’re not. We’ve been training hard, we’ve made adjustments that have increased our performance, we’ve tested this, and we know it’s true, and what I need you all to do is prove that to them.”

The team remained silent. Some of the players had adopted a pensive expression, some others nodded faintly as they took in Thranduil’s words.

“They’re using their usual formation, perhaps they will try to press offensive, but I don’t suppose they’ll change it too much.” Thranduil added. “They think they have us all figured out. Baggins is dangerous, but you’ve been doing a good job at keeping him at bay, for the most part. Keep doing that. However, we’re making a few adjustments to our own formation. We’re empowering our offensive.”

Bard wanted to contradict him, make him see that was a stupid strategy for it would make their defense weaker, and if Bilbo Baggins trespassed into their territory… well, there was only so much their poor goal-keeper Brett could do to keep him from scoring again.

“Let Erebor’s pride be their downfall.”

Thranduil proceeded to explain what exactly he expected from the team, what the new formation should be, and the substitutions he was planning to make— probably as a timewasting strategy once the game was settled to their favor, he added, and Bard had to contain from rolling his eyes at Thranduil’s positivity. Finally, he made sure to enounce a few more encouraging words and to make eye contact with all the members as he talked to them.

The team felt different then, Bard noticed, and he was impressed. They all started to make their way back to the field, and they seemed much more cheerful, more confident. They joked and shoved each other playfully, their enthusiasm high and contagious. After all the time he’d known Thranduil, even though he was aware of his methods, he still found he couldn’t quite believe he had that kind of power. Except Bard seemed to be immune.

“Bard,” The alluded turned at the sound of his name. Thranduil pinned him to the spot with his eyes, a faculty Bard still couldn’t explain. “Where are you?”

“Excuse me?” The last one of his teammates walked out of the room, leaving him alone with his thoughts and his urges and Thranduil who ignited the weirdest feelings inside of him.

“You’re not here, you’re not listening to me.” He walked closer and Bard forced himself to stand his ground, to not take a step back. God, he looked good in that suit. “I need all of you on the same channel. We don’t need interference in our wavelength.” He gave him a pointed look, his voice low though Bard didn’t have to strain to catch it since Thranduil was so close a mere whisper would have sufficed.

“I just don’t believe it’s that easy.” Bard defended himself. His eyes found Thranduil’s, he fought against the need to stare yet failed. They were beautiful, truly so. “I don’t think a pep talk will make up for all our deficits.”

“Believe it can.” His hand rose, it settled upon the back of Bard’s head and the pressure of Thranduil’s long pale fingers closing around his hair made his breath catch in his throat, his knees tremble. Thranduil was in control, he was and Bard loved it. “Lie to yourself if you have to.”

“I’m not a good liar.” He whispered, prompting a smirk to stretch over Thranduil’s lips. His fingers loosened around his hair, his hand slid down until it gently cupped the back of his head.

“I’m going to tell you something.” The other man said, nodding, and perhaps it was just Bard’s imagination but he thought he felt Thranduil’s thumb gently trace over the heated skin of his neck. “But later, once you’ve won that match, alright?”

“Is that supposed to be an incentive?” Bard laughed, he was convinced this time, Thranduil’s thumb was a wandering thing and it liked to caress Bard’s skin apparently. He grinned in a somewhat impertinent fashion and Thranduil chuckled under his breath. “You think you can just dangle a price in front of my nose and expect me to do the trick to obtain it?”

“I don’t think so,” Thranduil retorted. “I know so.”

That bastard.

And perhaps… perhaps Bard wasn’t immune to Thranduil’s brain-washing after all for he felt an unusual kind of energy pump through his bloodstream, clear his head and rinse his fatigue away from his muscles. He nodded, smiled, and then jogged right back onto the side of the field where his teammates were already waiting.

The second half started, and somehow, he was determined to win.

--

The following series of events were a mixture between a dream and a nightmare.

Erebor did maintain their usual formation, that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Balin, Erebor’s manager, probably had a higher degree on pep talks because there was no other explanation.

Erebor was on fire. They coursed like an unstoppable river from one side of the field to the other, leaving a path of destruction on their wake and Thranduil thought that if he hadn’t made such a good job— he had to recognize his own merits— at changing his own team’s gloomy state of mind, they’d be losing the game by another three goals. Esgaroth didn’t even try to press offensive once the game restarted and fell back into their former positions after a particularly harsh attack in the first few minutes of the game. Probably not on a conscious level, although Thranduil firmly believed Alfrid screaming like a madman in the middle of the field had something to do with it. Perhaps losing 1 to 0 was a thousand times better than an event like the Desolation of Smaug happening for a second time in the span of a year.

Thranduil understood. He understood, however, that was not was he had asked the team to do. Not taking risks was going to be their ruin.

“Tauriel,” he called. Tauriel was by his side in an instant. “Let the referees know we’re making a substitution.”

“Yes?”

“Alfrid out, Legolas in.” He didn’t turn around to see what Tauriel would do, but he assumed she made a signal to Legolas for a moment later he stood right beside him. “I know you don’t agree with my methods most of the time.” He said, Legolas remained silent. “But I need you to go out there and remind them what I asked of them. They fell right back where Erebor wants them, so I will need you to pull them out.”

“Into offensive?”

Thranduil chanced a glance at his son’s profile. He seemed calm though his brow was furrowed.

“Yes. Into offensive. Go warm up, tell Marin and Grimod to do it, too. You’re entering the game in three.”Legolas nodded, no reluctance present in his features. Right before he stepped away, though, Thranduil stretched his arm out and wrapped his hand lightly around his son’s arm. “I’m— trusting you, Legolas.”

Legolas blinked fast, his sight switching from where his father was touching him to Thranduil’s eyes. He nodded again, returning the gesture by gently squeezing Thranduil’s forearm. And then he was gone.

A moment later the game was paused and Legolas jogged into the field. Alfrid gave Thranduil a hurtful look as he walked past him, and he very carefully ignored him. The whole stadium seemed to vibrate with excitement, cheering and chanting, and for a moment Thranduil wished he could be watching as another spectator, feel the thrill as an outsider and actually enjoy the progression of the game instead of wanting to press his face into the grass and maybe asphyxiate for he doubted he could take a second longer of his team being manipulated like puppets.

Erebor’s Dwalin, a bulky man with the top of his head shaved off for fashion reasons Thranduil would never understand, accidentally crashed against Bard, sent him rolling to the floor and then Legolas quickly rushed to help him up. They exchanged a few words before they parted, and right afterwards Bard glanced at Thranduil from across the field. He nodded, yelled something to the team members closest to him. Then magic started to happen.

Thranduil registered three things. The first was Tauriel screaming beside him, screaming for dear life as if her objective was to tear her own throat into shreds. The second was the crowd behind him, the other members of his team, everyone involved, exploding into applauses and cheers like a crowd that had gone completely mad. The third, and most important, were Bard and Legolas all the way in Erebor’s territory, Bard dodging every single player by turning and twisting, always in control of the ball. He stopped, tricked Erebor’s Nori into thinking he’d escape through the right then twisted to the left and kicked the ball. It went flying, fast as a bullet right towards Legolas who was in such a perfect and open position it almost seemed schemed by a higher power.

Then they scored.

And perhaps Thranduil’s reaction wasn’t as schooled and composed as he’d calculated, but he didn’t quite care when a pile of Tauriel slammed against him, seizing him in a crushing hug, or when the camera caught him throwing his fist in the air. Balin, a few meters to their right just stared agape, and way to the left, in Erebor’s territory still, a dogpile hid Legolas from view.

The game went on. Legolas’s goal seemed to multiply Esgaroth’s confidence by infinity. They dominated, played with Erebor like they had done with them for the most part of the game and the only reason why Erebor weren’t losing yet was because of how capable they actually were. Esgaroth assumed Thranduil’s original strategy, offensive, and turned the game right around.

Another twenty-five minutes went by, the referee granted them three minutes of stoppage time, and Bard appeared to be a force that was unstoppable.

Not even the rain, which had intensified in the last ten minutes, seemed to prove an obstacle to him as he stole the ball from Erebor and made a long pass that put Esgaroth again in a perfect position to attack.

The clock ticked, the audience clapped, the rain hit Thranduil’s face like a thousand little needles piercing into his skin but he couldn’t mind one bit. Not when his team had penetrated into Erebor’s territory once more. Not when Dane made an amazing pass that put the ball right in front of Bard’s feet again; and especially not when Bard dodged Smaug and his clear attempt at fouling him, Erebor’s last defense, and aimed towards their goal.

He scored.

The spectators roared with unleashed emotion, Tauriel shrieked by his side again but he didn’t get the chance to celebrate as his eyes were still trained on Bard, who stared at the goal like he couldn’t believe what had just happened and completely unaware of his surroundings. Just as he was turning around to seek his teammates’ approval he found himself begin tackled onto the floor by a furious Smaug.

Thranduil heard himself shout out in anger but a second later the referee’s whistle was blowing, breaking into the series of yells both teams were throwing at each other. The referee broke into the mass of furious players that had congregated around Bard and Smaug and the only thing Thranduil could see from where he stood was his team nodding energetically, gathering closer still to the source of the conflict.

Then a hand rose among the commotion, a hand which held a red card for everyone to see. The whistle’s cry was heard again, and to his left, Thranduil could see Balin shoving his face into his hands in defeat.

The events after that happened in a blur that Thranduil couldn’t, even in his wildest dreams, have ever imagined. Smaug was booed out of the playing ground, Esgaroth were granted a penalty kick which Bard managed to turn into another goal, then the referee’s whistle signaled the end of the game.

Two to one. They had won.

--

Sometimes Bard was amazed at what the commentators could come up with based on events that were mostly random occurrences. He wasn’t going to deny, though, that getting a fancy nickname was something that deeply pleased him, especially when said nickname actually referred to one of his most amusing experiences yet.

And Bard wasn’t mad at Smaug for what had happened. He understood what he’d felt then, and even if he wasn’t condoning his actions, he couldn’t hate him for thanks to him, his ego now sported a brand new title that he actually loved.

Dragonslayer, they had begun to call him.

He especially loved when Thranduil used his new title.

Dragonslayer, pronounced by those sensual lips, with that excruciatingly alluring voice.

Dragonslayer, oh and if he could hear him whispering that name right against his ear… But perhaps, just perhaps, he was getting ahead of himself.

--

On the Sunday after Esgaroth’s triumph over Erebor, Thranduil woke up to a bunch of junk e-mails, as usual.

Technically, even if the e-mails came from his bosses, he still catalogued them as junk for they hardly had anything interesting to say most of the time. However, that day in particular gifted him with an especially trashy e-mail, consideration he took once he read Tauriel as the name of the remittent. After sighing profoundly, a habit that he was now convinced he would never be able to shake off, he opened the e-mail to find the most annoying message he had ever had the disgrace to read.

:P whooooa calm this kid’s whoremones, please. Obvious much?

Which was followed by a YouTube link that Thranduil was more than just reluctant to open. At least it was a YouTube link because Thranduil wouldn’t have known if he could have looked Tauriel in the eye ever again if she sent him porn, something he thought Tauriel perfectly capable of.

The link, however, took him to a video titled “Morning, Morning: The Dragonslayer reveals shocking interests!”. Thranduil stared at the title for a few seconds while the information sank in, and if he’d had his doubts about watching the video before, now he wanted to toss his phone across the room hoping his aim was good enough to send it flying out the window. It didn’t have much to do with the fact that he absolutely despised Morning, Morning and its stupid hosts with their ridiculous topics that only idiots could even begin to care about, but rather that Bard was the main attraction that day and that by the sound of it he had messed up beyond repair.

Thranduil could only guess what the young player could have said that made Tauriel want to laugh about it right in Thranduil’s face. Therefore, he tapped the play button and tried to sink further into his mattress while Morning, Morning’s annoying tune poisoned his neurons and dried his mouth up.

And there was Bard, as charming and disheveled as ever, with his dark hair for once tamed into a high ponytail and wearing a shirt that should probably not be called a shirt for it was more cleavage than anything else.

He sat on one end of a stiff-looking beige couch while an interviewer— blonde, cheeky, gorgeous like TV interviewers tended to be— sat at the other end, facing him, her legs crossed and her skirt almost up to her crotch.

“But, game details aside, Bard… We’re all dying to know—” the interviewer laughed. It was a childish, coy laugh that was hid behind a slender hand with a perfect manicure. “What do you like in women?”

“What do I like in… people?” Bard repeated, he shifted, leaned closer to the interviewer and she giggled delightedly. The interviewer opened her mouth, probably to correct him, but Bard proceeded before she could get a word out. “What? Nothing too hard to find, I suppose. I’d like someone who is smart and funny, and interesting. Who is confident, who can lend me their strength when I feel like giving up. Someone who cheers me on and is there for me, you know? Umh, and physically, in case you’re curious, I like long noses and thin lips.”

“Is that so?” The girl laughed again to which Bard only nodded briefly, raising his eyebrows. “What else, physically, what can you tell us? Do you like brunettes, redheads?” She shook her head, her light blond hair following the motion with a volume that was unnatural. Her flirting felt like a slap across Thranduil’s face, and it stung even worse when Bard shared a knowing smile with her, like they were both aware of a secret no one else would ever understand.

“If I’m completely honest,” he said. “I have a thing for long, platinum blond hair.”

Like the interviewer’s. Bard, that filthy little—

Oh.

Oh, Tauriel must be drowning in her own tears of laughter.

Long nose, thin lips, blond hair. Bard could have just casually added the person’s name should start with a T and that the perfect job they could have was manager of the Esgaroth team for how stupidly telling that had been.

The video ended, the interviewer’s hand had somehow found Bard’s knee and the young player had done nothing but lean backwards, his arm stretching over the backrest and a playful smile dancing over his lips. And Thranduil was pissed off.

He swiped down to the comments section and he avidly started to go through them.

People were stupid, and people were blind, and people were now questioning if Bard and the interviewer— Carly, her stupid name was Carly— had met somewhere before because they looked too comfortable around one another, because they seemed to know each other well. People were even saying they were glad because Bard’s children were in desperate need of a mother, and Carly was just so cute and adorable.

No one even remotely suspected Bard was referring to someone else— him, Bard was talking about him—, and though that should have been something to be grateful for, it actually pissed him off.

Tauriel’s name was flashing in his phone’s screen before he even realized he was the one making the call and when she answered with a simple “Yes?” Thranduil just groaned aloud like the mere act of existing was exhausting.

“Why would you send me that? You know I hate Morning, Morning.”

“Thranduil, that kid is head over heels for you.” And Tauriel dared sound joyous as if it wasn’t nine in the morning on a god-damned Sunday.

“That kid is a huge flirt and he was playing the interviewer, Tauriel. He knows he’s attractive and he likes to flaunt it.” And Thranduil should have known better than to talk to Tauriel before he’d had his morning coffee for the fogginess in his brain made him say perfectly incriminating things that would surely be used against him.

“So he’s attractive?” Tauriel asked, her smile traveling through satellite signal all the way to Thranduil’s dark bedroom.

“Go play match-maker somewhere else. You might have better luck trying to get Legolas to seduce Gondor’s Gimli, in all honesty.”

And he hung up, although not fast enough as he could still hear Tauriel’s melodic laughter ringing in his ears and breaking the absolute silence of his bedroom.

Stupid Bard.

--

“I believe you promised me something.”

Thranduil turned around, half-surprised at hearing Bard’s voice, even if he pretended to be unaffected. He raised an eyebrow and hummed, as if he was trying to recall when exactly that had happened. “Did I?”

Bard gifted him with that smirk that turned Thranduil’s knees to pudge and he had to clear his voice to remind himself of the fact that other team members were still around, close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation he and Bard were having.

Bard nodded, shrugged one of his shoulders as if he didn’t consider the matter particularly important. “You were going to tell me something if we won that match. Which we did. So whatever it is you have to say better be life-changing or I’m going to think all that effort was for nothing.”

“Hold on, not now.” Thranduil replied, glancing around him disinterestedly, although Bard understood that he meant he’d prefer if they were alone. Bard’s eyes opened wide, which was precisely Thranduil’s intention, then he bit his lower lip, trying to keep a smile from breaking over his lips.

“Sure, sure.”

He started to talk about something else then, and Thranduil followed his lead even if he wasn’t exactly paying attention to whatever it was they were saying. Something more important had nestled inside his head, and it was something that made his blood turn cold.

What was he doing?

It had all started as a game, because Bard had been an open book and reading him had been easier than reading a story aimed at children. Bard was attracted to him, and he wasn’t afraid to play along, however, Thranduil wasn’t sure how far Bard was willing to go, and that frightened him.

“So,” Bard’s voice, followed by the clearing of his throat and a purposeful look around. Thranduil then noticed they were finally alone.

His heart hammered inside his chest, something he hadn’t noticed until that point, his palms felt cold and a bit sweaty, disgusting. He was supposed to be in control at all times. He was supposed to not feel anything he didn’t want to feel, just as he wasn’t supposed to fall right into his own trap and have his heart decide for himself that he wanted more from Bard than just a mild distraction.

“I’m in a very tight spot right now,” Thranduil confessed, sucking his lips into his mouth in a nervous gesture. A confused look was aimed in his direction, though he spoke again before Bard could say anything. “Because I sort of forgot what it was I was going to tell you then.”

“Are you serious?” Fortunately, Bard didn’t seem irritated. Quite on the contrary, he appeared amused as he gently shoved Thranduil’s arm. “So, what? You thought it’d be funny to just—” He waved his hand around, trying to explain what he was trying to get across before he found words to describe it. “Keep me on the edge of my seat for a whole weekend? Wondering what on earth was so important it had to wait until after we won the game? Is that it?”

“More or less, yes.”

“Ah, unbelievable!”

“But,” He needed to stop. He had to stop unless he wanted to ruin everything. “I got exactly what I wanted. We won that game and… you kept me on your mind all weekend.”

Bard’s eyes widened, his eyebrows curving in a clear display of surprise and his lips parted as if he was about to say something, except he didn’t, couldn’t.

And that had gone too far. Thranduil had been walking on thin ice, and all of a sudden, it was like had stomped over it. It cracked, he fell, he was drowning, drowning as he waited for what Bard’s response would be.

“If I’m honest,” His heart, thrashing, his breathing, shallow. “You’ve been on my mind for longer than that. Much longer.”

Thranduil smiled, he shook his head as a wave of contradicting emotions rushed to occupy the entirety of his chest. Guilt and melancholy mixing into what should’ve been only relief and excitement.

Bard couldn’t really tell what triggered his actions, what exactly made him step forward and wrap his fingers around the soft fabric covering Thranduil’s slender waist. He couldn’t tell what made him lurch forward, close his eyes and tremble all over as he felt Thranduil’s own hands settle over his jaw.

But his face never got close enough to touch Thranduil’s.

Pressure over his form kept him at bay and his eyes fluttered open to find Thranduil’s own eyes so close it made him dizzy, turned his knees into a wobbly mess and his coach’s warm breath over his cheek was enough to nearly drive him mad.

And yet, nothing was happening.

Bard was kept where he was, with his hands numb and his skin flushed and hot, with his stomach a knot and his heart beating so hard he could feel his own pulse everywhere in his body. And Thranduil allowed him closer, he let Bard’s lips wash in the warmth that was all his, only to tighten his grip on Bard’s jaw once more a second later. Then he took a step back, and then another, and Bard couldn’t do anything but follow until he felt Thranduil’s back collide against the wall directly behind him. A weary sigh escaped his thin, pink lips which prompted Bard to lick his own, and their eyes locked for a brief moment, loaded with doubt, before Thranduil slid his hands past Bard’s face and wrapped his arms around his neck.

Bard found himself flush against Thranduil’s body, his nose right in the crook of the other man’s neck, and when he inhaled that sharp, almost stinging smell of his cologne, he almost started sobbing with frustration. Somehow, he found himself defenseless again, against the overwhelming pack of sensations that was Thranduil.

“I’m sorry,” he heard a whisper against his ear, one which made shivers run down his spine in a way that was nearly cruel. “I’m really sorry.”

“Why?” His voice could’ve sounded chocked, or not. He stopped caring the moment he felt Thranduil tremble under the gentle caress of Bard’s breath over his neck. “Did I read that incorrectly? Were you going for a bro hug? I could’ve sworn you intentions were something else.”

Bard expected Thranduil to chuckle, shove him away and throw a smart comeback at him. Instead, he stiffened further, his breath halting for a moment, and he pulled Bard even closer.

“Listen, I don’t— You were not—” He paused, trying to catch his breath and maybe organize his thoughts into something he could explain to Bard aloud. “The last thing I’d do is hurt you.”

“Then don’t.”

“I can’t explain why, I was so sure I…” He tried to say, however he seemed to think better of it. He sighed, loosened his grip around Bard’s neck. “I’m not what you think. I could never, not since my wife—”

As those words filtered through his overloaded brain, something broke inside Bard’s chest, something that released a flood of a sickening feeling he couldn’t quite describe. All at once he was too awake, too conscious.

Bard took a step back then. Both physically and emotionally he stepped back, because the realization shook him deeper than an earthquake would have and the raw expression painted over Thranduil’s face spoke more than a thousand words ever would.

And Bard understood, perhaps better than anyone. Among all the people that Thranduil was close to, maybe Bard was the only one who could start to comprehend what Thranduil’s lost meant for him, what the pain that seemed to never recede completely meant for someone like him. He couldn’t invade that. He couldn’t play the intruder that messed with such a delicate part of Thranduil’s past.

So he took another step back as his lips stretched into an apologetic smile and he shrugged casually, trying to rest the matter of importance when his manager’s hand followed his retreating heat and Bard gently denied him the right.

“I understand,” he muttered, ignoring Thranduil’s deep sigh and the way in which he laid his head back against the wall and focused his sight somewhere else, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Bard felt like he should stop talking then, that his words were no more than a sharp blade severing any sort of connection he might have made with Thranduil over the months they had spent together. However, he was already a jumble of confusion. Thranduil had changed him, and there was not much Bard could do about it anymore. “I can wait.”

Thranduil muttered something under his breath, shaking his head slightly, and though he looked like he was about to refute what Bard had said, the younger man didn’t let him.

“Just tell me that I have a chance and I will wait for as long as you need. That’s all I’m asking for.” He said, and to him it sounded like the most sincere plea his lips had ever produced. “Tell me it’s not all in my head, tell me I’m not—” He paused for a moment, trying to gain control over his voice for it’d started to come out shaky, weak. He inhaled, went on. “You’re amazing. You’re the best thing that has happened to me in a very long time. I don’t want to let go of that, Thranduil. And you don’t have to say anything right now. Think about it, for as long as you need to. Please, tell me you’ll think about it.”

He had never seen Thranduil this shaken. The man blinked fast and kept his sight focused somewhere else, he kept his lips tightly pressed together and it took Bard a few seconds to realize he was trying to keep himself from breaking down. It broke Bard’s heart. It made him want to step right back into Thranduil’s personal space and hold him fast, keep him steady. He felt that would be inappropriate, he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t be pushed away.

“I don’t deserve this.” He heard him whisper. Bard shook his head, disbelieving. “I killed her, Bard.”

But he hadn’t. It’d been an accident. Everyone knew it’d been an accident.

“I killed my wife. Legolas’s mother. I insisted on driving that day. She was so young and sweet and full of life and I went and destroyed that. She died and it was my fault and it should’ve been me. Do you understand? It should’ve been me. ”

His expression had changed. He didn’t look like he was at the verge of tears anymore. His features had morphed into perfect vacuity, into a numbness that seemed to freeze the air between them. Bard discovered it hurt to breathe. His throat seemed to have collapsed while trying to keep his grief unvoiced.

And what could he even reply to that? What could he say to try to dissipate Thranduil’s pain when it was so real, so old? When it had taken over even the deepest part of his soul, heavy as lead, and sunk him into a kind of darkness that he didn’t think he could save him from?

Well, he’d never know if he didn’t even try.

“Thranduil, I— I can’t even begin to understand how you feel.” His heart beat against his ribcage, his tongue heavy inside his mouth. “But… can I share something with you?”

The other man nodded once, pushing his hair out of his face in what was probably a display of frustration at his own lack of control.

“My wife died shortly after giving birth to my Tilda, there were some complications… and I— You know, if I hadn’t got her pregnant...” He paused, breathed in deeply. He chanced a glance at Thranduil and then sighed with relief when he found wide open eyes attentively focused on him. He nodded, and Bard took it as his cue to keep going. “Most of all, I was afraid Sigrid would hate me. If it hadn’t been for me, her mother— I’m not even her dad, you know? I just came out of nowhere one day, a stranger that disrupted her whole life.

I figured maybe she’d want to go live with some of her relatives then, but instead she asked if she could stay with us, her siblings and me. I had to apologize to her. I broke down in front of her and said the same thing. That it was my fault, and you know what she said? She was barely thirteen at the time. She said she couldn’t blame me, even if she wanted to. We couldn’t have known it was going to happen or we would have certainly prevented it. I would have never hurt her mother on purpose, she knew it. And it was true, it’s always been true. She confessed she was sad, would be for a long time, but that she needed support and that she was certain that she could find it here with us. She said she— she felt that she was needed here. That I needed someone, too. That maybe it wouldn’t be perfect, but we both had our love for her mother and the children in common and that would be enough. And with time, we began to heal. The wound hasn’t closed. It never will, but we move forward. We all have each other.

I guess what I’m trying to say is,” He hesitated before stretching his hand towards Thranduil and reveled in his little victory as his manager allowed him to entwine their fingers. He squeezed, and Thranduil squeezed back. “Don’t punish yourself for something you had no control over. Don’t carry all the weight on your own. If you’d allow me, I’d like to be there for you, for whatever you need.”

Silence fell upon them, however, Bard didn’t feel it charged with anything dangerous. It just comfortably sat between the two of them, filling in the blank spaces, wrapping around them full of understanding. Thranduil straightened his back, squared his shoulders. A mask immediately fell over his features making Bard think he had imagined everything that had just happened because Thranduil somehow looked the same as ever. Calm, collected, cool. And closer than he had ever felt him.

“You have a noble soul, did you know that?” Thranduil chuckled, stepping forward, away from the wall. Somehow his arm ended up around Bard’s shoulders, and before he could understand what was happening, he was being herded back into the building, away from the field, and the corridor, and the dark memories.

“Come on, Dragonslayer. It’s getting late and you family must be worried.”

“Probably not, they would’ve called. I mean, they know I’m here and—”

“Bard,” he was interrupted. He looked up at Thranduil, at his solemn eyes and peaceful expression. “You wanted me to think about it. I’ll do it. I’ll think about it.”

He could have fainted, the happiness invading his heart was a little too much to handle.

--

Thranduil did think about it, even if he didn’t make a conscious effort to have his mind engage in such tiring practices as finding good reasons why he shouldn’t give Bard Bowman a chance at attempting to make him happy. The problem was that he couldn’t find many that were not related to guilt, or to fear of what others might say or do if they found out. His son, his bosses, the media.

His own words came to bite him in the butt then, because he constantly assured people he couldn’t care less about what others thought of him. But he did care, he had always cared except he had convinced himself he didn’t in order to keep his sanity mostly intact.

It had almost destroyed him last time. When his wife had died, the news and the articles and the requests for interviews, the calls and the impertinence of people who couldn’t even begin to understand had nearly drove him mad.

And in this case, the rumors that would boom, the questions they’d be asked, the absolute lack of privacy it would all initiate, he didn’t know if he could take it. Scandalous, that was the only word Thranduil could find to describe the situation— for the media at least. If he was honest with himself, which he always tried to be, scandalous would be the last word he’d use to describe whatever it was that had blossomed between Bard and himself. Perhaps fantastic, maybe wonderful, probably lucky but mostly a goddamned miracle.

However, even if he tried to tell himself that was the main reason why starting a relationship with Bard wasn’t a good idea, deep inside he knew he was lying to himself.

His wife wouldn’t have wanted this for him, just as he wouldn’t have wanted anything similar to happen to her if their positions had been reversed. He would have wanted her to move on, to find someone else because being lonely definitely wasn’t healthy.

No one deserved to be miserable.

And Thranduil had to be stupid to slam the door right in the face of possibly unlimited happiness, there had to be something wrong with him.

So why did he care? Why was he set on finding excuses instead of motives? Why couldn’t he just let go, undo that lock and allow all the sorrow and all the remorse to drip from his heart and refill it with healthier emotions instead?

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to make a decision, he couldn’t let go, no matter how much he wished for the opposite. Somewhere deep within his being he firmly believed he was the exception to the rule. No one deserved to be miserable… except for him.

--

The decision to take a step towards true happiness came to him unannounced, unexpected, like a warm breeze right before winter recedes to let spring reign.

He bid farewell to the team for the week-end and just as Legolas was turning around to leave, he heard his own voice calling out to him. His son halted mid-step, then turned towards him dubiously, as if he thought he had imagined the voice of his father. Thranduil rushed towards him and before he could even process what he was trying to say, words were already rushing out of his mouth.

“What are you doing later today?”

Legolas stared at him for what appeared to be ages. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, finally deciding to just raise one eyebrow as he regarded Thranduil with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. “Why?”

“I wanted— ” Thranduil cleared his throat, he shoved his hands into his pockets and balanced on his heels, trying to act relaxed. “There is something I’d like to talk to you about.”

“Is something wrong?” He could read the worry in his son’s eyes, noticed his flickering glance at Thranduil’s knee.

“No, no!” He was quick to reply. “Nothing like that.” He took a tentative couple of steps towards the field’s exit, expecting Legolas to follow his lead. He did, falling into step right beside him. “Something’s come up, but I wanted to maybe discuss it with you first.” He valued his son’s opinion, after all, and he also didn’t think he would be able to live with himself if he did something that could potentially taint Legolas’s view on what Thranduil’s relationship with his mother had been.

Legolas looked like he wanted to find more about what the topic was, but he was also a man of few words and in the end he just nodded, agreeing to his father’s request. They then settled on a time and place and Legolas left, not without offering his father a brief smile before turning around and walking ahead.

--

A coffee shop had seen like an appropriate place to have this kind of conversation, although, once there, Thranduil thought better of it. There was a slight chance that Legolas wouldn’t take the whole Bard deal very well and Thranduil would rather avoid other people witnessing the scene. Legolas wasn’t like that, of course. Most of the time he managed to keep his emotions under control, however the topic was delicate and Thranduil had never addressed anything related to his late wife since the day they had lost her.

Legolas had been a talkative and open child before the accident, and the fact that he had become a lot like Thranduil in the sense that he much preferred to hide his emotions than let them flow with a bit of freedom, Thranduil completely blamed on himself and his inability to touch on the topic of feelings.

Legolas arrived five minutes later, yet twenty minutes before the hour they had agreed on and Thranduil had to smile at his son’s face of frustration. He had also learned that from him.

After paying for their drinks, Legolas guided him to the back of the shop and took a seat at a half-secluded booth. The cushions were clean and comfortable and the warm tea in his hands made Thranduil feel slightly less nervous than he had been the moment he walked past the shop’s glass door.

“So,” Legolas started, taking a quick sip and focusing his sharp eyes on Thranduil’s. “Are you kicking me out of the team?”

“Am I— what?”He was aware of his uncontrolled blinking, the probable shock reflected all over his features. Legolas grinned though, and shook his head, taking another sip and appearing overall amused. “Sorry, I’m not used to your sense of humor.”

“No, I wasn’t kidding. I was seriously concerned about that, but then your face told me I was being silly.” Legolas leaned against the backrest of his seat. “So, if you’re not kicking me out of the team, why do you have that guilty air about you? It’s like you gave my puppy away all over again.”

Oh. So it was that obvious.

“I just—” He hesitated, his eyes forcefully focusing on the table and its fake wood prints in an attempt to distract himself. But perhaps this was not the time to beat around the bush, and tackling the topic head on was probably the best approach to this awkward situation. “How would you feel if I started dating someone?”

This time it was Legolas’s turn to blink rapidly and for his face to adopt a vague expression of confusion. “I would… feel happy for you?” He stuttered, then cleared his throat. “I mean, why are you asking me this?”

Thranduil shrugged, tapped his fingers nervously against his cup. “Because,” a pause, a necessary pause in which he tried to gather courage from wherever his brain had decided to stash it for the time being. “Because I haven’t done that. Not since your mother died.”

And there it was. For the first time in sixteen years. For the first time since the accident, Thranduil was opening the wound, acknowledging his wife’s passing in front of his only son and it hurt. It felt as if he was breaking a promise he had made to himself. And yet, when his eyes flickered towards Legolas, there wasn’t shock or pain in his face. There was something worse, something that resembled pity.

“You don’t need to ask for my permission. You’ve never had to. You’re free to do with your life as you want, and I’m sure my mother would agree, too.” There was a solemnity on his face Thranduil didn’t think he had witnessed since the day they had to bury his wife, the day Legolas was forced to renounce to a painfully large part of his childhood.

“Well, but I didn’t want you think I am denying anything. I’ve always loved your mother, this doesn’t mean I’m going to forget her. I could never— ”

“Father,” and Thranduil couldn’t remember the last time Legolas had called him that. “I think you’ve punished yourself long enough. I’m happy for you, I really am.”

--

Practice that day had gone smoothly right up to the moment Thranduil distinguished the dark, fat storm clouds in the distance already darkening their otherwise perfectly clear sky. He decided to end practice early then, as he wasn’t particularly fond of storms and he much preferred all the team members to get home safely before the power of Mother Nature decided to strike at full force. The weather had been cool before that, a light breeze sweeping through the field in a manner that was both refreshing and encouraging, and the team members’ good mood improved to excellent at learning the news.

Even Legolas seemed content, nodding in Thranduil’s direction with a smile before rushing with the others back into the main building and Thranduil wondered why he’d always thought deep conversations were nothing more than a waste of time. The talk he’d had with his son had served more than one purpose, among which he could list mending their relationship a little bit and giving Thranduil a peace of mind he wasn’t sure he could’ve achieved otherwise.

When he least noticed it, Thranduil was already standing by the entrance of the training ground, ready to leave as soon as the taxi he had ordered arrived. He glanced back at the sky and frowned as he noticed the clouds we already over them, grey and menacing and promising a display of strength that would leave the earth rumbling afterwards. He sighed and wished his taxi would arrive soon.

 “Are you waiting for Tauriel?”

Bard’s voice wasn’t exactly unexpected, although Thranduil wished he wasn’t listening to it right then. He’d much preferred if Bard had already been home, safe under his own roof, enjoying the company of his family.

“No, she’s busy today. I’m waiting for a cab.” He replied, tensing just a little bit when Bard came to stand right beside him, his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and his damp, freshly washed hair darkening the fabric over his shoulders.

“Oh, do you want a lift?” Thranduil tried not to react to Bard’s eyes lighting up, his lips stretching into a pleased smile. He politely refused, to which, as expected, Bard insisted, “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t mind. Driving back home is boring, I could really use the company.”

 “Maybe another time. The driver is probably already on his way and I’d hate to cancel right now, but I really appreciate the offer.”

Bard shrugged, gave Thranduil another smile. “Well, do you mind if I keep you company for a while, then?”

And he should’ve said that yes, he did mind, he should have sent Bard on his way because the storm was practically on them already and there was nothing else Thranduil wanted but to keep Bard safe. “No, not at all.” But he was selfish, apparently.

Conversation followed after those words, light and amicable and Thranduil was surprised to notice that at no point did Bard try to guide the talk into the topic of feelings or relationships. Bard had said he’d wait, that he’d give Thranduil time and space to think things through and he was doing precisely that. He wasn’t pushing him, he wasn’t insistent. He acted normal, as if nothing had happened but showing enough interest to let Thranduil know he wasn’t giving up. Thranduil appreciated that, he appreciated it in a manner words could not describe.

He was in the middle of explaining why he’d never fully trust fast food restaurants when his phone interrupted him, the tune of an incoming call pulling him out of the daze Bard had lured him into. He frowned when he recognized the Taxi Services number displayed on his screen and answered the call with a light sense of dread.

“Another twenty minutes, are you serious?” He didn’t care if they were busy, he just wanted to get home before the storm hit. Bard stepped right into his field of vision, grinning, and Thranduil couldn’t do anything but sigh in defeat. “Just— never mind. Cancel the request. Yeah, just cancel it. Good afternoon.”

The grin turned into a playful smile as Thranduil ended the call and a moment later he found himself following Bard across the parking lot to where his Mercedes awaited. Its seats were ample and comfortable, and Thranduil sunk right into them with a content smile. It still smelled like new.

The engine purred as Bard started the car, soft music Thranduil couldn’t place flowing from the speakers in an enveloping fashion that managed to relax him almost to the point of forgetting the storm. However, not ten minutes later the clouds decided they could wait no longer and started to deliver their heavy package over the whole city like a wave crashing on the awaiting rocks by a shore.

Fortunately his home wasn’t far from the training ground and before he could go into an anxiety induced rant, Bard was gently sliding into one of the slots reserved for Thranduil in the underground parking lot of his apartment complex.

He turned to look at Bard before getting out of the car and stared until Bard deigned to look back at him.

“You’re not going anywhere in this weather,” he stated to which the young player just smiled.

“No, I know. I’ll just wait here for a while.” Bard’s smile didn’t go anywhere, playfully dancing over his lips like he already knew what Thranduil was going to reply to that. He probably did, the bastard.

“As if I’m going to let you stay down here in the dark. What kind of human being do you take me for?” He said, shaking his head. “Come on.”

--

Thranduil’s apartment looked like what one would find when glancing over a minimalist decoration magazine. It was ample, modern, leaning on cold with its grays, silvers and blues, pristine, nowhere near cozy and practically untouched.

Bard felt it hit him all at once when Thranduil turned the white lights on and only one thought circled in his head: Thranduil didn’t have a home. This wasn’t a home. It was a place to spend the night and a place to work but nothing more. Still, he smiled at Thranduil when he raised his eyebrows at him and walked into the main living room casually, trying to conceal his uneasiness.

A thunder’s cry reverberated through the vast emptiness of the room and Bard shuddered, taking a glance at the half-open curtains to notice the water now poured down the glass as if the apartment was submerged under a great river.

“You can stay here tonight, if you wish.” He heard Thranduil say from somewhere behind him, he heard keys clanking and footsteps walking away from him.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” Other things preoccupied him, like leaving all the responsibility of taking care of the kids to Sigrid.

“And I don’t want you to kill yourself out there, have a tree fall on your car or something.” Thranduil had come back, two glasses of water in his hands, one of which he offered to Bard. “Sorry, there’s not much here to offer my guests. But call your daughter, tell her you’re okay, she must be worried.”

Bard smiled at him, taking a sip out of his glass before walking over to the couch by his left and setting his backpack over it. A moment later he managed to fish his cell phone out of the mess inside his bag and dialed Sigrid’s name.

He pulled the device away from his face as the moment Sigrid had picked up, yells from his three kids had inundated his ears. “I’m alright, Sigrid. I gave Thranduil a lift home and I’m here still.” Sighs of relief, Tilda asking loudly when he was coming back.“Well, I don’t know when I’ll be coming home. I guess I’ll wait until— ”

“Da, can’t you stay there? The weather’s awful. Please, I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Sigrid sounded more worried than he had ever heard her, and his need to just make it better for her stepped right over his awkwardness.

“Well, he did offer but—” Loud protests again, being screamed right into his ear. “Alright, alright, I’ll stay here. Hey, but I feel terrible about leaving you guys alone. ”

“Da, it’s okay, we’ll take care of Sigrid! She’s afraid of thunders but Tilda and I are not!” Bain seemed to have taken a hold of her older sister’s phone, since he could hear the girls protesting in the background, Sigrid at the accusation and Tilda at Bain for taking the phone away from her.

“Thank you, young dragons. I love you, be safe.”

“We love you, too, Da! Night!”

And then the call ended, although Bard could catch a bit more of bickering before the annoying beep took over his kids’ voices. He looked fondly at his phone for a moment, and then focused his attention back on Thranduil, who had taken a seat at the kitchen bar.

“Well, I have my kids’ permission. Let’s get this slumber party started.”

Thranduil grinned at him, his finger sliding over the edge of his glass in a manner that Bard tried hard to ignore.

“So,” He said. Bard recognized that tone. He hadn’t heard it in a while, but he also could not have confused it with anything else. “It’s fair to say you’re all mine tonight?”

And Bard snorted at that. He hadn’t meant to, but his nerves were frying his brain, a series of shivers were coursing over his skin. He smiled, then bit his lower lip as he came closer to where Thranduil was and leaned forward until his elbows were resting upon the table. “Why, yes. All night long, it seems.”

Thranduil licked his lips, glanced away from Bard. “I’ve thought about it.”

“Oh?” Was that fluttering in his chest exhilaration, or was it a heart attack?

“I even discussed it with Legolas.” His eyebrows furrowed for a moment, like the memory was something he didn’t particularly want to remember at the moment. “An interesting conversation, to be honest. Long story short, he’s fine with it as long as he doesn’t get any details. A complete opposite to Tauriel. She does want all the details.”

Bard’s laughter filled the room. He supported the side of his face on his palm, looked at Thranduil through half-lidded eyes. “Well, she’s going to get disappointed because there are no details.”

“Not yet.”

 Thranduil rose from his stool, took a couple of tentative steps towards him and Bard felt like melting into a puddle right then and there because the expression on Thranduil face was something he couldn’t deal with. Determination, fondness, care and nervousness, things that probably reflected off his own features.

He turned to face him, straightened so his lower back rested against the table and placed his hands over it to find purchase. He noticed then he was shaking, and he had to look away for a moment or he was certain he would have produced a nervous laughter that would’ve certainly ruined the mood.

However, Thranduil didn’t falter. His hands found Bard’s chest, slid upwards until he reached his shoulders, and then flexed his fingers so he could caress the sides of Bard’s flushed face, then gently glide them into his hair. He pulled him closer, closed his eyes, and Bard instinctively did the same, softly releasing a long sigh when Thranduil’s forehead came to rest against his.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long.”

“What’s stopping you?” Thranduil breathed out, tilting his head. His nose brushed against Bard, his hair tickling his neck.

Nothing. Nothing would stop him ever again.

--

The following months happened in a daze.

They decided to keep their relationship a secret for the moment, at least from the media and from people who weren’t particularly important. Mainly because Thanduil was afraid their bosses wouldn’t take it very well and would think Bard was getting special privileges, which wasn’t true at all, but could definitely be presumed. For his part, Bard would have wanted everyone to know, although he understood what was at stake and he also respected Thranduil’s wishes.

Game after game, the team progressed. Every time Bard scored, he turned to his children and gave them a thumbs-up, and only them, probably, noticed how he would then look at Thranduil and direct at him a secret smile. He did what he did for him, too.

Thanks to their manager’s exceptional training, the team made it to the semifinals, an event that hadn’t happened since even before Masters had become their manager. However, though the team seemed unstoppable, stronger teams still abounded the League. They couldn’t make it to finals, but to the whole team, the season had been a victory all the same.

--

The morning light shone over Bard’s face, and he moaned, cursing as he rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.

“Your hair is a disaster,” he heard, and even though he wasn’t fully conscious yet, he replied with a mostly understandable ‘shut up.’

“I have good news for you, I’ll tell you if you get out of bed.” A hand gently settled upon his head, light fingers treading through his hair and if Bard had been a cat, the whole bed would be vibrating with how loud he’d been purring.

“Nowadays I can’t tell if you really have something to say or if you just want to take advantage of my innate curiosity to achieve your evil plans.”

“I swear I’m not playing you.”

Bard finally decided to pull the sheets away from his face and peeked at Thranduil, with a shirt that Bard was pretty sure belonged to him— and that he definitely wore better than Bard ever would— covering his chest, his hair tied up in a high ponytail and a look of adoration on his face.

“I renewed my contract. I’ll be Esgaroth’s manager for a another season.” Bard shot up from the bed at that, smiling broadly and squeezing Thranduil’s shoulder with excitement. “And something else. It’s just a rumor. I heard Dale’s going to make an offer.”

Bard’s smile died on his lips, his eyes widening. He could barely find his voice to ask, “For me?”

“And a big one, at that.”

“Are you serious? Dale?” Bard had to take a moment to contemplate the option. It was just a rumor, he shouldn’t get ahead of himself. But it came out to be true, it would mean a huge leap in his career. It would also mean something else. Something that at the moment was far more important. “Thranduil, we could— Do you know what this means?”

“Going public?” And Thranduil smiled, even if the gesture carried along a bit of worry.

“If you want, of course.” But Bard’s smile was contagious, his enthusiasm was contagious, and there was nothing else Thranduil wanted more in the world.

“I’ve been dying to let everyone know,” he replied, his smile turning into a cheeky smirk. “Especially those pesky interviewers.”

“Unbelievable!”