It had been precisely
nine weeks and three days since Bard had kissed him for the very first time, not
that he was still obsessing over it.
(He was most definitely still obsessing over it).
Bard had just done it
so easily, they had been enjoying some wine in the evening in his little house
in Dale, Thranduil had laughed at one of Bard’s amusing anecdotes about his
life in Laketown and then Bard was smiling at him and before he knew it Bard’s
lips had been on his.
And then it had
happened the next day as well, and the next, and the next, and it just became
normal for Bard to do it because they were…them.
Bard was just so free
with his affection, never hesitating to kiss him or hold his hand and pull him
into a hug and Thranduil wasn’t used to it. He loved it, but he wasn’t used to
initiated it, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was a little
Thranduil had never been
shy, in all of his years on arda shy had never been and apt adjective when
describing him, and it wasn’t even really shyness now. It was almost
insecurity. No, that was exactly what it was.
And there was another
word that could never have been used about him before, and it was just because
he didn’t quite understand.
Because Thranduil knew
he was beautiful, he was well aware of the way he looked and he had often used that
to his advantage in the past. But he was also well aware that Bard did not care
about the way people looked. He called Thranduil beautiful (and never before
had that compliment made him blush, but it was just so sincere when it came from Bard) but Thranduil knew for a fact that
Thranduil could be unable to hide his scars and Bard would still kiss him, he
could be completely unattractive and it wouldn’t matter to Bard.
And that confused
Because take away his
beauty and what was he really?
Cold, selfish, impossibly
old, static in his ways, vain, manipulative, and broken.
That was what he was.