Chapter Text
Suggested listening:
Meet me in the woods//Lord Huron
Sleep on the floor//The Lumineers
Heavy//Birdtalker
Ends of the earth//Lord Huron
Shotgun//George Ezra
“The thing is,” Frodo says, looking quite pale, “the treatment might not even work, and September seems an awfully long time from now and. Well, I don’t want to—that is, I want to see things. I want to go out into the world and—” he tosses a hand in the air and lets it drop, suddenly choked up. Beside him, Sam leans stoutly into his side and squeezes his hand.
Legolas looks over at Aragorn. He has such an expression of tenderness on his face, of restrained grief and care. He doesn’t look at Legolas, so there is no comfort to be found in that quarter.
Legolas looks down instead at Gimli, and Gimli is looking back, tipping his head up to meet Legolas’ gaze. Trust Gimli to notice and hone in on Legolas’ upset. Legolas takes a deep breath, and Gimli gives him a minute nod. They’re all scattered around the living room, Frodo and Sam on the couch, Gimli and Boromir on the armchairs, and Legolas and Aragorn lounging against opposite walls. The three bedroom is a tight fit for the four kids by themselves, let alone with all the rest of them there, but right now it feels less cramped and more familial.
Frodo is speaking again. “It might all be for naught. But I want to see the world. I want to see beauty and nature and sunrises and flowers and—” he stops again, regains his composure. “I wish it didn’t happen this way. I wish it was just a big fun adventure and not because I’m scared. But all the same. I’m asking. Would you come with me?”
Merry speaks up first. “Of course we are, Frodo. How could you think we’d not?”
Frodo looks up swiftly, naked hope on his face. “You would? Truly?”
“Of course we will,” Pippin chimes in. “Merry’s already got a packing list on his phone.”
Merry smacks Pippin’s thigh with the back of his hand.
“Ow!”
“Shut up! He’s not supposed to know that yet!”
Boromir chuckles fondly.
“How did you know?” Frodo asks.
“Frodo, you’ve been moping around the apartment for a week. You created a new Pinterest board called ‘road trip.’ And Sam’s been talking to himself about gas mileage and how much he can fit in a cooler and what he can cook over a campfire,” Merry says. “It wasn’t exactly hard.”
Frodo flushes, but he looks pleased, almost, that his request was so easily granted.
“We will all come,” Aragorn says firmly. He casts his gaze around at the gathered group of them, and all of them—Legolas, Gimli, and Boromir, are nodding.
“What’s the plan?” Boromir asks. “We can’t simply hare off into the wilderness without a plan.”
“You have my camping gear, for what that’s worth,” Gimli says. “Got a tent, tin pans, battery powered lanterns, first aid kit.” His beard wobbles as he talks, a sure sign he’s got a lot of feelings running through his system right now. Legolas alights on the arm of the couch to subtly put a steady hand on Gimli’s broad flannel-clad back.
“I have a large tent,” Boromir adds, “and some extra backpacks. George Foreman grill.”
“Ooh, that’s handy,” Gimli says.
“And I have an old van,” Aragorn says. “It’ll take some work to get it fixed up, but I imagine we can manage.” He trades communicative glances with Gimli and Boromir.
“I’m very good and planning ahead,” Merry says. “Packing lists, destinations. Between Sam and me, we’ll get it all worked out. Sam will plan the food anyway, I won’t have a say in that.” He leans back in his chair, deeply content.
“And I make good playlists,” Pippin chirps, but is met with groans from the Hobbits.
“You have shit music taste!” Merry snorts. “Don’t even start!”
“I have the best music taste,” Pippin says with a shit-eating grin. “You just haven’t seen the light yet.”
“Haven’t seen the light,” Sam grumbles. “Haven’t seen the light my foot. You’ll have us sitting through songs from SpongeBob and Cocomelon.”
“Cocomelon! You wound me!” Pippin strikes a hand to his chest. “No, I have much more refined taste in memes. The Duck Song, for example.”
Sam groans. “I’m not listening to the fricking lemonade grape song! It’s not up for discussion!”
Cheerfully, Pippin says, “Actually we should have a discussion about how you won’t say ‘fucking’ when you clearly want to say ‘fucking.’”
Legolas tunes them out. What can he contribute? He’s so useless, at times like this. Frodo is going through so much, and what is Legolas doing? Standing there like an idiot, watching it all go down. He’s outdoorsy, but not so much as Aragorn or Gimli; and he’s not handy at all, like Boromir; nor is he very good at cooking or planning or first aid. He might be able to put together a decent playlist, but why would he rob Pippin the joy? Well, there is one thing he can do. “Frodo,” he says quietly, catching the boy’s eye even through the jabbering of their friends. “If there’s any way I can contribute financially, just let me know. Consider my wallet yours.” It might be a foolish offer, leapt into without consideration or forethought, but leaping first and thinking later is what Legolas does best.
Frodo looks embarrassed and awkward. “That’s really unnecessary—”
“Are you kidding? Road trip on daddy’s money? Hell yes!” That’s Pippin again.
Frodo dips his head. “Thank you, Legolas, we’ll try not to be too extravagant.”
It’s the least he can do, really. His father has racked up hundreds of thousands of points at hotels, undoubtedly, and if Legolas asks nicely enough, he can use them, he’s certain. Thranduil might not be happy about it, but he can get over himself. He should have asked before offering, but—rather forgiveness than permission.
“Boy’s trip!” Merry whoops, throwing a fist in the air. He hoots again like it’s a war cry. “This is going to be the best summer ever!” He leaps up and tackles Pippin in a hug, slaps fives with the rest of them, and finally, gently, wraps his arms around Frodo. “We’ll do anything you want to, Frodo. Anything.”
Frodo’s eyes fill with tears.
Legolas looks away. Gimli is looking up at him again. Understanding passes between them for a moment.
It’s part of why Legolas has always liked Gimli; he understands him, even when Legolas barely understands himself.
Later, Legolas pulls Frodo aside to speak privately. “If there’s anything my father can do, you need only ask. I’m sure he’d—“
“Legolas,” Frodo stems the tide with a gentle hand on his arm, “who do you think it was that put us in touch with the doctor in the first place?”
Oh. Well, he supposes that makes sense. Thranduil has always had a soft spot for Frodo’s father. Bilbo has a way of endearing himself to anyone and everyone he meets. And Legolas guesses that affection was enough to override any lingering hatred Thranduil had for Frodo’s other father, Thorin.
Thorin beat Thranduil in a state senate race years ago, but honestly that was probably a good thing, because Thranduil had been busy enough without politics thrown in; he’d barely been home as it was. Legolas was raised by a small army of nannies, housekeepers, and tutors; and Laerophen. The age gap between them put undue responsibility on his brother back then. Perhaps that was the reason for their distance now.
Still, it’s a good thing Legolas isn’t his father, because if he was, he never would’ve made the friends he has now. They have a weird little friend group, entwined in a dozen odd ways, almost like it was fate they were all meant to meet. Three are cousins save Sam, who’s Frodo’s childhood best-friend-become-boyfriend. Except boyfriend seems too little a word to encompass what Sam and Frodo are to each other. Partners. Comrades. Support. It’s very sweet and admirable, even enviable. (Wouldn’t Legolas love to have a person like that.) The rest of them met at college mostly, and Aragorn has a way of drawing people together into fellowship. He’s good at gluing groups together, and wherever he goes, he has friends.
He pulls up to Fíli and Kíli’s autobody shop in his sleek black Lexus, always a little self conscious rolling up in such obvious luxury next to beat up mini vans, old farm trucks, and cars older than a decade. Gimli raises a hand in greeting, barely looking up from where he’s elbow-deep in the guts of a vintage VW van. Legolas might not know very much about cars, but he does know this one is old. He stands just behind Gimli, careful to stay out of the way of his busy friend.
“Hand me that crescent wrench will you?” He indicates the wheeled tool tray a few feet away. Not one for meaningless small talk, Gimli.
Legolas hovers his hand over one, then the next, as Gimli grunts, until he finds the right one and Gimli nods. He hands the tool over and goes back to quietly observing.
Gimli works with an unbothered unaffected steadiness, tightening, loosening, examining, humming and mumbling to himself. It’s like watching an artist paint, how he makes it graceful and rhythmic.
“Yo, Legolas,” Kíli says, doing one of those heavy handed bro slaps. Legolas rocks with the impact. “Sah dude. What brings you to this side of the tracks?”
“The trip,” he says, vaguely indicating the van.
“Ah! Should’ve known. Tauriel’s real pissed she’s not invited. Says those best friend perks aren’t good for much if she doesn’t get to come along.”
Legolas holds up his hands in a wordless shrug. “I’ll tell her I’m sorry, but it’s not really my call.”
“Nah man, she gets it. We all do. It’s for Frodo.”
Legolas nods, his throat tightening a bit. “I guess Tauriel and the rest of the girls will have to take a girl’s trip.”
Kíli snaps a finger and points at him. “Not a bad idea. Except for the part where they’d decide they don’t need any of us and fuck off together. Or Tauriel would kill someone.”
Legolas chuckles at that. “Yeah, someone might die.”
“Probably me, honestly,” Kíli says.
“Kíli!” Aragorn calls. “Come help us with this. Maybe Gimli too.”
“Not me?” Legolas calls teasingly, grinning.
Aragorn shrugs. “If you want.”
He trails them to the backside of the van where Aragorn and Boromir are trying to remove the last row of seats, which should be totally possible, except the prior owner apparently secured them in some unorthodox way, possibly with superglue or something stronger.
“If you could just pull there,” Aragorn indicates to the Durin cousins, “and Boromir and I will push from here.”
Legolas steps up beside Gimli and grabs a corner. He might not have muscles for days like the Durin family, but he’s decently strong. He runs, and he used to do archery (one of his ‘insufferable rich people hobbies’ as Gimli put it) so he’d like to think he’s not totally useless. (Being “not useless” is his goal much of the time. It’s one he fails at regularly.)
With a great deal of huffing, grunting, and tugging, the row of seats comes free. A horrible snapping and cracking sound accompanies this, and after the row is settled on the ground, Aragorn surveys the damage. The row had indeed been fastened in a way it surely hadn’t meant to be; ripping it out has damaged the floor of the van and likely made it impossible to put the row back. “Well, I wasn’t planning on putting those back in anyway,” he says. “Can you do something with that, Kíli?”
“Um…Fíli?”
“Yeah!” The answering shout comes from the direction of the office.
“Do we want a row of van seats?”
“Why the fuck would we want a row of—oh.” Fíli exits the office, setting his hands on his hips, like he’s practicing the dad stance for when he and Sigrid have kids.
“We want them for reasons,” says Kíli, “say yes.”
Fíli eyes his brother mistrustfully. “Why am I instantly suspicious.”
Kíli spreads his hands innocently. “What? What did I do?”
Fíli sighs, scratching his buzzed blond head. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Yay!”
“Okay,” Aragorn says. “Let's see about the luggage rack.” He looks up at the roof of the van.
Legolas vaults neatly up to the roof with as much catlike grace as he can muster. Thank you, childhood gymnastics. “Hand ‘em up, I’ll attach them,” he says.
Aragorn looks amused, but it’s Gimli who hands him the luggage rack, lifting it as though it weighs nothing, even though when Legolas takes it, it’s quite heavy. He may have made a mistake, leaping up here.
“We’ll leave you to it,” Aragorn says.
Legolas, proud that he’s useful and needed, trades nods with Gimli. “Dream team, amiright?”
“Remains to be seen.” Gimli quirks a brow. “Line that up and tell me how many screws you need.”
After much handing of tools and screws and repositioning and screwing in and readjusting and one minor disagreement that ended with Gimli tossing up his hands and saying ‘do it by yourself then!’ leading to a hasty apology from Legolas, the rack is attached, and ready to carry the immense bag of gear. It wasn’t a mistake, but it was a near thing.
“Coming for dinner?” Gimli asks as he scrubs grease and dirt from his hands.
“Am I welcome?”
Gimli snorts. “Everyone is welcome, you know that. But you particularly.”
Flattered and touched, Legolas agrees.
He follows Gimli on his motorcycle over to the Durin-Baggins house. Weekly family dinner is an open invitation, though the requirement is if you attend and you eat, you assist in the cleaning up—though the definition of “cleaning up” is loose, and Bilbo often strong-arms them into doing minor home repairs or moving furniture.
Legolas has come before, but he always feels strange about it, like he’s not quite welcome or doesn’t quite fit.
Tonight, it’s him, Gimli, Sam, Kíli, and Tauriel; and of course Bilbo and Thorin and Frodo. Fíli and Sigrid have other responsibilities, and Merry and Pippin are off on some harebrained adventure.
Bilbo embraces him the minute he walks in the door. “Legolas, my boy! It is delightful to have you here, delightful! How is working for your father? He said you’re an invaluable asset to him!”
That’s more than Legolas has heard from Thranduil, but Legolas keeps it to himself. “It’s good,” he lies. “He keeps me on my toes. I’m never bored.” In truth, he’s miserable trapped in that tall building all day, surrounded by button-up shirts and tight dress shoes and paperwork. He’d much rather be outside, but you can’t make any money being a hippie, his father said, and so he’d gone to work. In truth, Laerophen is far more useful to Thranduil than Legolas, as Thranduil reminds him often.
“Hm, well I still think he’s underusing you. You’re very smart, you know, quite talented!”
“Thanks, Bilbo. It’s nice to have a secure job.” Bilbo pats his shoulder affectionately. “Bilbo…” Legolas trails off, words getting all tangled. How does he even begin to ask? “Is Frodo…?”
Bilbo sighs, sorrow crossing his face. “Some days are easier than others, you know. But he’s coping, I suppose. This trip you’re planning, it means a lot to him. I think it will be good for him to get out some! Health issues, you know, can really…well, they can really slow you down.” Bilbo twitches his nose self-consciously, then brightens, “He said you’re booking some hotels?”
“Yes, as soon as Merry gets me some dates. And—do you and Thorin want a hotel in D.C.?” Legolas offers.
Bilbo’s face lights up. “Oh, that would be lovely! Would you really?”
Legolas laughs. “Consider it done. I think some of us will be staying with Boromir’s brother and his wife, but I’ll make sure there’s plenty of room.”
“That’s too kind of you. Do you think you could book it a bit early?” Bilbo looks only minorly abashed at this request. “I would like to go to the Smithsonian, you see. I’ve always wanted to, but it’s never quite happened.”
“Extra days for the study of history,” Legolas agrees.
“You are too kind!” Bilbo expresses his joy with a pleased little sound, then bustles off to check in on the kitchen, where Sam is presumably tending pots and pans and sauces. Bilbo trusts very few people in the kitchen while cooking, but Sam is one of them.
Legolas gives Tauriel a side hug. “Hey, T. Kíli drive you crazy yet?”
“Every damn day!” she responds fondly, wrapping her long limbs around him. “Man, I haven’t seen you in ages. We need to get coffee, catch up. Maybe play some pick-up.”
“Oh, for real,” Legolas agrees. Since his graduation in December, he’s spent the winter and spring working, and hasn’t emerged from paperwork hell long enough to breathe, let alone get extended catch-up coffee. Besides, Tauriel moved in with Kíli and that added a whole new level to her schedule. Now she has to ‘check the calendar’ and ‘make sure I don’t already have plans with Kíli’ and ‘see if Kíli wants to come.’ Legolas doesn’t begrudge her happiness, truly, but he can’t deny their friendship has changed with the introduction of a serious partner. Then again, they’ve always had that pick-up-where-we-left-off friendship.
“How about you? Thranduil sucked all the joy out of life yet?”
Huffing in resignation, Legolas nods and says, “It’s not as bad as all that! It’s a steady job.”
Tauriel clicks her tongue. “I see right through you.”
Beside him, Gimli snorts. “Thranduil can suck my dick, frankly.”
“Gimli! Ew!” Legolas disentangles himself from Tauriel to shudder dramatically. “I never want to think about that again.”
Gimli is nonplussed. “After the way he treats you? Ignored you through your childhood? Forced you into a soulless job? Yeah, he can suck a dick.”
“Just not yours.”
Gimli shrugs. “I’m not opposed to getting my dick sucked.”
At this, Legolas is struck speechless, and Tauriel dissolves in such an explosion of giggles so she’s no help. It’s Thorin who saves them, looming in the doorway and looking between them with mild grumpy bafflement. “Dinner,” he says, gives one more unimpressed look at a helplessly giggling Tauriel, and vanishes.
They sit down to dinner, which for Legolas is a fabulous huge green salad with boiled eggs, cheese, diced veggies, sesame seeds, and a delicious dressing; fresh baked rolls, asparagus sauteed with lemon and garlic, and broccoli baked in the oven with a coating of breadcrumbs. Everyone else partakes in a roasted chicken that does look very juicy, but Legolas is pescatarian. (Most of the time. He makes exceptions for pork street tacos and tamales when the lady who sells them door to door comes knocking. He appreciates good Mexican food too much to let it go fully. He lives in California, so being a pescatarian is easy, but occasionally the Mexican food craving hits him.)
He’s sitting between Gimli and Kíli, damn near squashed together. Bilbo and Thorin put the extra leaves in the table, but it’s still a tight fit. His elbow keeps jabbing into Gimli’s bicep, and Kíli keeps nudging his chair leg by accident. All in all, a bumpy ride, but tasty and worth it.
“That was delicious, my love,” Thorin says, kissing Bilbo’s forehead.
“Just wait for dessert,” chirps Bilbo, sparking a chorus of appreciative groans and belly patting.
“I don’t know if I have room,” Legolas moans.
“If I don’t have room for Bilbo’s dessert, assume I’m dead!” Gimli barks, and Kili agrees.
Dessert, as it turns out, is a damson plum crumble, with a delicious crunchy topping and fresh whipped cream.
“The plums aren’t quite in season yet so they might be a mite tart,” Bilbo apologizes, in the way of every seasoned cook convinced their food is poor, “but it’s one of Frodo’s favorites, so.” He slides a bowl to Frodo.
The silence that falls is a bit pinched.
Frodo clears his throat. “It’s delicious,” he says. “Not too tart at all!”
“Well,” Bilbo flaps his hands anxiously. “Anything for you, my boy!”
Frodo looks unbearably soft and fond, and Legolas turns his eyes away. His gaze catches on Gimli’s hand, clenched in a fist on his knee under the table. He knocks his elbow into Gimli’s bicep like it was an accident, and his friend relaxes. They trade a little understanding look.
Conversation turns to lighter things, and they devour the dessert. After, Legolas jumps up. “I’ll wash!” he proclaims.
“I’ll dry,” Gimli says, but Bilbo holds up a hand.
“Actually, boys, I need your help. We put our big suitcases up in the attic and we need to get them down.” He points at Kíli and Gimli.
“I told you, my love, I’ll get them,” Thorin rumbles.
“Not with your back! You need to stay down here and definitely off of ladders!” He lets out a fond huff. “Boys?”
Tauriel smiles at Legolas. “Shall I dry?”
“What, am I not strong?” Legolas grumbles as they clear away the dishes.
Thorin snorts. “I’m sure you’re plenty strong, but Bilbo likes to make the people with actual muscles lift things.”
“I have muscles,” he protests, curling his bicep.
“Sure you do,” Tauriel says, pinching him lightly. “Just not like Kíli. Or Gimli. Those Durin boys are cakey. Just delicious. Just want to—” she mimes licking a lollypop “—yum.”
Thorin flushes a brilliant red. Legolas has brief visions of his friend’s intimate life, and immediately wishes he could scrub his brain with bleach. “Ugh, that’s an image I’ll never get out of my head.”
Wrist-deep in soapy water, he scrubs at the glasses, and then the silverware and plates with the knitted rags the Baggins-Durin household uses. He rinses all the soap off and sets them on the rack, where Tauriel has a towel.
“Are you doing okay? It seems like you’ve been miserable about your job.”
Legolas shrugs. “It’s office work. Keeps the bills paid.”
“Doesn’t your dad pay for your apartment?”
“No. I pay for it! Although, he pays me, so I guess technically.”
“That’s good then. You need independence.”
I’ve always been independent, he doesn’t say. “It’s nice,” he says instead. “Actually, I’m going to need you to water my plants while I’m gone.”
“That is a terrible idea, I will forget and kill all of them.”
“No! My plant babies!”
She laughs fondly, taking a damp plate and drying it. The dishes go away with a clatter in the cabinet. “You sure you’re okay, though? Not isolating or anything?”
See, this is the problem with being friends since you were twelve. They know you too well. “No,” he says, and it’s not a total lie. “I’ve just been tired, you know.”
“Depressed.”
“Maybe? Not like, a lot. And busy. And in my spare time—”
“You’ve been with Gimli, I know.”
He must look guilty, because she giggles at him. “It’s okay, Legolas. I get it.”
He scrubs firmly at a pot.
“Gimli, like, gets you,” she says. “You like, share some brain cells or some shit, I don’t know.”
“You’re still my best friend.” He sets it to dry.
“A person can have more than one best friend. Love isn’t finite.”
It is for me, Legolas wants to say. If he loves too much, perhaps he’ll run out and he won’t be able to give what others need anymore, and then no one will love him back.
She stops working to swat him lightly with her towel and pin him with her stare. “Look, can you promise me you’ll call on your trip?”
“Yeah, I can do that.”
“Like, at least once. Proof of life. A photo every now and then. Please.” She sets down a stack of dishes with aggravated clanks.
“Of course.”
“And you’re turning your Life360 back on.”
“Okay, mom.”
“I’m not your mom. That’s Aragorn.”
And Legolas laughs, because it’s very true. Especially considering their friendship began when Legolas was a freshman in college and accidentally crossfaded and had to be rescued by this poor senior who took one look at Legolas’ disaster of a self and decided ‘yep, that’s my new friend.’ For the life of him, Legolas never understands why.
“I think this will be good for you,” she concludes, having to nearly shout over the banging of the pot she’s putting away.
“I am going to have the best time!” he says.
“Don’t worry, Tauriel,” Gimli says, appearing around the corner. “We’ll keep him happy. If we have to drag him by his ears!” He shoulders between Tauriel and Legolas and reaches up to tug Legolas’ ear.
“Stop!” he teases, brandishing a knife. “I will use this!”
“Oh, like you could take me in a fight,” Gimli says, dancing away.
Legolas finds himself laughing.
They have a planning session at the Hobbits’ apartment. Merry, Aragorn, Sam, and Boromir are hunched over an actual atlas on the kitchen table. They all have phones or laptops in front of them, googling drive times and places to stay and roadside attractions on the way. Pippin, up until he had to leave for an appointment, was darting in and out of the kitchen shouting random suggestions. “Disneyworld!” “Six Flags!” “World’s fair!” The planning crew rightfully ignored him.
Legolas left after two minutes, because they didn’t need his input anyway, and truthfully he didn’t really care where they went so long as they went somewhere beautiful. Instead, he lounges on the couch and scrolls mindlessly, knowing Merry will send him a list of locations and dates for him to book for them to stay. The trip is loose, less about getting places by a certain time, and more about enjoying the journey. They’ll book the important places—national parks, the places that will fill up—but leave the rest to free-spirited wandering. Their goal is D.C. by September first; that’s when Frodo’s appointment is. They’ll leave on Memorial Day weekend, and spend the summer wandering.
It should be hard for eight grown adults to clear their schedules like this, but for Frodo, they’ll make anything work. Besides, the Hobbits are still in college, and have the summers off, except Sam, but Sam was getting ready to quit his job at the restaurant anyway. Gimli works for Frodo’s cousin, so it’s simple enough for him, and Aragorn is going to law school and truthfully Legolas isn’t sure what he does most of the time. Boromir is the only one with a real, actual adult job, and he cashed in every single bit of his PTO for this. Legolas hasn’t talked to Thranduil yet, but he will soon. And really, how could his father say no? Frodo is too important to all of them.
Gimli plops on the couch with a groan. “Was under a car all day, looking up.” He rolls his head and pops his neck.
Legolas winces sympathetically. “I didn’t think you were so short that cars were above your head, but it appears you learn something new every day.” Gimli glowers at him, so he adds, “Sounds painful.”
“Takes more than that to get me down! And that’s your one short joke for the day!” Gimli says. “Have they decided how many mountains we’re hiking?”
“I’ve heard at least three,” Legolas says. “Unless you count the Grand Canyon as a mountain.”
“No, it’s a Canyon. It’s in the name, Grand Canyon,” Gimli grouses.
“Still, we will be hiking down and up it.”
“But it’s a canyon, not a mountain.” He emphasizes this with sharp hand motions.
Legolas laughs. He does so love aggravating Gimli.
“No!” Sam practically shouts from the kitchen. “And that’s final!”
A short silence falls. Frodo pokes his head out from the bedroom he shares with Sam. “Everything alright?” he calls.
“Just fine, Frodo!” Sam says. “Don’t worry about it.”
Frodo hesitates, but disappears again.
Legolas and Gimli trade a look. They enter the kitchen, and the tension rackets up.
“I didn’t mean—” Boromir says. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I just don't want you upsetting Frodo,” he says, “And death valley feels like a bad omen.”
Ah. Gimli and Legolas trade another look.
“There’s plenty of other desert out there,” Legolas says lightly. “I’m sure we’ll see lots of it.” He points at the map, where a highway passing through Arizona and New Mexico is highlighted. “I’m more excited about the trees myself,” he adds, sliding his gaze to Gimli.
“Of course you are!” Gimli almost roars. “Treehugger.”
Legolas plays offended, but this is an old argument between them. But they’ve broken the tension, which was the whole point of the exchange. Bless Gimli for always being on the same wavelength as himself.
The conversation continues, little marks being made on the map and more roads being highlighted. Nothing more is needed, from Legolas. He’s no longer useful. He heads back to the couch again. Gimli settles beside him, easy as anything.
Thranduil’s office is huge, meant to convey to the visitors how important and official he is, and how small the visitor is. Immense desk of heavy mahogany, huge leather armchairs on the other side. It never seemed so huge to Legolas. He’d grown up sitting quietly on the loveseat in the corner, playing his switch or doing homework. He’d known the office as a place of silence and respect, certainly, but not intimidation. When he started his job a few months ago, it had only felt strange because the halls of the office he’d grown up in were now the halls that he worked in, whether he liked it or not.
He waits for Thranduil to hang up the phone. “Yes, Legolas,” he says, shuffling through papers in front of him.
“You know how Frodo’s going to D.C.?”
“I am familiar, yes.” Thranduil cocks a brow.
“Okay, he wants to go on a roadtrip, all summer.” Legolas steels himself. He’s not asking for permission. He’s not a child begging. He’s an adult, practicing his rights. “I would like to—I am taking the whole summer off. To go with him. To travel.”
“All summer?” Thranduil asks, without much emotion. No anger or lashing out, he’s never been like that. This cold remoteness, though, Legolas is familiar with. “Is this why you were asking about my hotel points?”
“Yes,” he admits. “Yes to both.”
Thranduil sighs. “We can manage just fine without you,” he says, “It’s what we’ve done for years.”
Legolas dips his head, trying not to let it show how that hurt. He’d done his best to be useful, he really had. It seems it wasn’t enough.
“I’ll book you a flight home out of D.C. for after Labor Day. You can get back to work then.”
“Okay.” Legolas twists his fingers in his lap, trying to hide his anxiety. “What do I need to do before I go?”
“Let Laerophen know. He can cover whatever it is we need.” Thranduil waves him off with his perpetual languid grace. “I do hope you have fun.”
Legolas stands. “I will,” he says. It’s a promise to himself.
Back at his desk, he fires off a text to Laerophen, letting him know the situation, and absently shuffles through his papers again. Outside, the sun is shining, and it looks like a gorgeous day. What wouldn’t he give to drop everything and cross the street to the park and laze about in the sunshine, maybe shoot some hoops. Instead, he’s filing papers about medical advancements and treatment, testing and lawyers. He’s not even particularly interested in medicine. But the job is here, and will always be here, and he’s always known he was expected to join the company when he was old enough.
Which isn’t to say he doesn’t test his luck sometimes. He’s wearing a polo shirt instead of a button-down, and he wears his hiking boots to the office sometimes for shits and giggles, just to clomp around on the nicely carpeted floors. He has a little Philodendron on his desk—well, not so little anymore, as it spills from the pot and covers portions of his workspace. He doesn’t mind. It keeps him company. He’ll take it home for Tauriel to water.
His phone dings.
L: a whole summer?
L: geez, dude
L: lucky
Legolas hesitates before typing back. Yeah, I’m finding myself.
L: don’t get lost.
And that is all. Legolas has nothing else to contribute. Laerophren seems to have very little use for Legolas, now that they’re older. Perhaps it was the age-gap or how often Laerophren was saddled with the care of young Legolas while Thranduil was attending business meetings or making calls. But truthfully, Legolas spent a lot of his childhood alone. It was what drew him to the outdoors initially. The silence, the solitude. The feeling like he was home and not a burden to anybody, and he can just be.
Going on this road trip is for Frodo, certainly. But selfishly, it’s for Legolas, too.
Gimli comes over the night before they leave, which is probably a terrible idea because they have to leave at approximately asscrack of dawn o’clock tomorrow to ‘beat the memorial day traffic’ according to Aragorn.
Still, they sit on Legolas’ couch and eat veggie pizza and play Super Smash Bros or Mario Party and jokingly annoy each other, shoving shoulders together and swearing. There’s such a simple joy in pretending they aren’t grown adults and playing kiddie games until after the sun is long gone.
After yet another victory from Gimli, he stands and pops his back. “I should go,” he says. “Need to rest up.”
Legolas almost asks him to stay the night—they’ll leave together in the morning anyway. But Gimli’s luggage is at his house. Instead he says, “It was fun to kick your ass.”
Gimli grumbles in dissent.
“You can redeem yourself next time,” Legolas teases.
Gimli shrugs. “You’ll see more than enough of my ugly mug for the whole summer.”
“Ah, and I imagine you’ll be so tired of my skincare routine you’ll throw all the bottles out the van window.”
Gimli snorts. “And you’ll retaliate by taking my beard oil, I imagine. You aren’t the only one who puts great care into certain fripperies.” He grins, his teeth glinting through his beard.
Legolas stands to see him out, the years of etiquette training kicking in. He’s nearly a head taller than Gimli, being six-foot-four to Gimli’s five-foot-six. But looking down at his friend, he grins. “Then I’ll see you on the morrow,” he says.
“Bright and early,” Gimli moans. “Christ save me.”
“We’ll all be praying to the caffeine gods,” Legolas says. “Except Pippin.”
“Ugh, that boy has enough energy for twelve.” But his smile returns, fond. “At least there will never be a dull moment.”
“Indeed,” Legolas agrees, and smiles at his friend as he walks away. A moment later, the sounds of his bike roaring away drift through the closed door.
Legolas does a quick sweep of his apartment—tidy, neat, mostly clean. Dishes in the washer to start in the morning. Tauriel can unload them if she likes. When he comes home, he vows, he will be a different person. Someone braver, happier, and better at being alive.
Aragorn honks to announce his arrival, and Legolas rushes out the door, desperately hoping the neighbors aren’t pissed off. He’s wearing his heavy hiking boots, because they’re his largest shoes and didn't fit in his suitcase, and clomps out the door to lock it firmly behind him.
“Christ above!” Gimli says, hopping out of the van. “Did you pack your whole house?”
“No!” Legolas slaps the top of the suitcase. “This is all of it. Everything I need.” Not only does he have summer clothes to last him two weeks or so, shorts and tank tops and t-shirts; but a handful of warmer things for any places they visit that are chillier, like his favorite beanie and jeans, and a couple nice outfits if they decide to do a fancy dinner; he also has a full arsenal of his skincare and hair products, carefully packaged so if the change in air pressure gets to them they won’t leak all over the rest of his stuff. He also has his old summer camp gear, packed away for the last couple of summers—his hammock, a sturdy water bottle, his speaker.
“What’s that then?” Gimli indicates his backpack.
“That doesn’t count! It’s for hiking!” It’s mostly empty, at the moment, just a battered deck of cards and a paperback he probably won’t read. There’s a high chance Frodo will steal it for his own entertainment. His spare chargers, and scrap paper and pencils, because you can never have too many of those. Odds and ends that might be useful. And his weed stash.
“Yeah, sure. Give me that.” Gimli snatches the heavy suitcase, lifting it into the back like it’s nothing.
“He’s been like this all morning,” Merry says. “Very picky about packing. Here’s your coffee.”
Legolas takes the cup and takes a sip. “Thank you, Merry, prince among men. This will save me.”
Merry grins. “My pleasure. We saved you a seat.”
Legolas leans in the door. Aragorn is driving, and Boromir has shotgun, which makes sense, because they’re the tallest, save Legolas himself. Frodo and Sam are in the first row, with Pippin and Merry behind them. Frodo gives Legolas a sleepy smile. Sam is wearing his glasses, instead of contacts. Merry has a beanie on. All in all, they still look sleep-rumpled, but happy.
Gimli shoulders past Legolas to squeeze into the back corner. He pats the seat beside him. “Get back here, ya beanpole. If you sit crooked you can stretch your legs in the aisle.”
Legolas smiles at this thoughtfulness, and hunches over to climb into the van. “Here, Sam, for the snack stash.” He hands over a couple bags of apples and a bunch of protein bars.
“Thanks! I’ll just get this settled.” Sam rummages beside his feet, where the big crate of snacks is.
Legolas works his way to the back seat, hunched over. The ties of his hoodie dangle in his vision as he picks his way over the cooler and his friends backpacks. He settles in beside Gimli, who gives him a grin and a friendly punch to the shoulder.
“Ready for this? Let’s go see the world!”
Legolas smiles back, looking at the way the morning sun halos behind Gimli’s head.
Sam slides the door shut. “Wait, I need to take a picture!” He whips out his camera and snaps a picture, getting the men in the front to lean in. “First day pic!” he says in great satisfaction.
“Buckle up!” Aragorn calls. “First stop: Redwoods!”
The van turns out of Legolas’ parking lot and into the street. In moments they are on the highway, and on a life-changing journey.