Title & Chapter Number: An Arrangement of Thorns 5/36
Author(s): - Author's Index
Fandom: Middle Earth
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own these settings or characters, and am making no profit from the writing and sharing of this story.
Warnings: BDSM, twincest, angst
Betas: None
Cast: Erestor/Elladan/Elrohir
Timeline: TA AU
Spoilers: None
Summary: Elrohir has a rough day at the office. Elrohir and Elladan have a talk.
Notes: This was an idea that struck me a while back when I was tossing around ideas on what to do when I'd finished with Glorfie and Erestor. Seems I haven't quite gotten Erestor out of my system. This is NOT the same Erestor as the one I wrote in my previous series.
He did not want to spend his day indoors, envied his brother's time spent with Glorfindel in sparring and practicing the routines of a soldier and leader of soldiers. It could just as easily have been him in Elladan's place; he had chosen to learn the diplomatic, political end of Imladris's operation when their father had suggested it was time for them to take on new responsibilities. Of course he would eventually learn both, just as he had learned to handle a sword as well as a quill, but at the moment the last thing he needed or wanted was quiet, confinement, dignified restraint. He wanted a strong, unyielding opponent upon whom he could unambiguously vent the plethora of mixed, confusing emotions that made the papers set before him so difficult to concentrate on.
Across the room from him Erestor sat at his own desk. He had once thought that it was an excellent idea to share Erestor's office space since this work was, in a way, an extension of his classroom education. He was not yet called upon to handle the higher priority correspondences between Imladris and Mirkwood and 'Lorien, nor with the human and dwarven leaders, but he was often asked to review such matters, to give his opinion. There was much history behind many of the seemingly simple offers and requests that made their was to the Lord of Imladris' desk, and Elrohir had often found Erestor's knowledge invaluable. In the classroom he had learned history in broad, panoramic swaths, but here he was learning the nuts and bolts of it, the small things that did not make it into the history books but were essential to the ongoing, amicable relations of kingdoms.
He did not want to call Erestor over today, not for more background on an issue with King Thranduil, not to ask him what exactly had happened at the midsummer festival five centuries past, not to ask him why there wasn't any more ink in the supply closet and where he should go to find more. He didn't even want to look at Erestor, who was going about his business as if nothing untoward had happened between them, as if the events of the previous night had never happened.
He was sore in places he had never even considered before, and he was running dangerously low on black ink. Elrohir never would have believed that such circumstances could relate to one another, or that they could cause such a great degree of consternation.
Elrohir had awakened to the touch of Erestor's lips upon his own, Erestor's hand sliding through the unbound tangles of his dark hair. He had responded in sleep languor, slow and lazy against the warmth of Erestor's body, eyes closed against the sting of morning light. He had opened to the kiss with unthinking trustfulness, only registering that something was wrong when he had tried to dominate, tried to push back, to taste the warm, wet confines beyond his partner's lips. Elrohir's hands had moved to slide around a back that was too broad and too strong, and then his hands had been caught, held over his head. Memory had returned, and his body had grown still beneath the chief advisor's. It had seemed to him that he could almost hear the blood rushing in his veins, but, inexplicably, he had not struggled away from the kiss.
Eyes of liquid darkness had stared into his when their kiss broke, and Elrohir had gasped for breath, his lips had formed soundlessly around a word spoken far too late and now irrelevantly. There had been nothing between them but a kiss, a kiss that was somehow more deeply personal and intrusive than anything that had gone before. Erestor had smiled, kissed him again, gently, on the forehead. And that had been all.
He had not seen Erestor at breakfast. The chief advisor was already at his desk when Elrohir had stepped through the office door, and the younger elf's heart had momentarily frozen at the sight of him. They had exchanged greetings, Erestor had commented idly on the weather, and Elrohir had made his way to his own desk on legs that felt as if they were made of jelly.
His head jerked up at the sound of a soft thud before him. A fresh jar of ink sat on the blotter, and Elrohir's eyes darted upwards to Erestor's. The advisor's lips were curled in a smile that was imperfectly reflected in his eyes.
"I thought you might be needing this."
"Yes, thank you."
Erestor took the paper Elrohir had been looking at, glanced over it briefly.
"This was near the top of the pile." He said, and Elrohir glared. Erestor seemed unfazed.
"Perhaps you could use a small holiday?" There was sympathy in his expression, a softening of chocolate brown eyes. He touched Elrohir's shoulder, and Elrohir shrugged the hand violently away.
"Don't do that!" He spat. Erestor brought his hand back to his side, regarded Elrohir inquisitively, waited. At last the younger elf answered.
"Yes, I could do with a break." He muttered. Erestor nodded.
"Tomorrow, then."
~*~*~*~
Even Elrond might not have recognized the storm of emotion taking place within his youngest son, but Elladan saw it immediately.
It was not usual for Elrohir to be away from the house in the middle of the day, nor for him to be at the barracks. Nor was it typical for him to be standing in the armory looking over the collected weapons with a glare that seemed to indicate that they had committed some grave and personally injurious insult to him. Elladan watched as he chose a pair of matched knives, sliced the air in front of him in a graceful arc to test their weight and balance.
"Not much work today?" He asked, and Elrohir whirled, crouched, knives at the ready. Elladan raised his hands in mock surrender, and Elrohir let the weapons drop to his sides.
"I'm sorry, brother. I didn't hear you come in."
"I noticed." He shut the door and crossed the room. The two stood facing each other in the orange glow of the lanterns, their faces turned feral by the pagan flames. "Why didn't you bring your own? We could spar."
"I didn't think about it." Elrohir said shortly. He turned on his heel and re sheathed the weapons, set them aside. "I don't want to spar with you."
The words could be interpreted in a variety of ways. Elladan considered the live steel hidden in leather sheathes, thought about blood, about metaphorical steel that could likewise be sheathed. He thought about emotions running high and hot, and about how easily accidents could happen.
"Elrohir." He sighed, glanced down at his boots. "Do you want me to apologize?"
"No."
He sat down on a bench, elbows on knees, chin on hands. "I'm sorry, anyway, Elrohir. I don't know what to say to you."
Elrohir inhaled deeply, grappled with his temper, lost his grip.
"No? You don't know what to say? And it didn't occur to you that things might change, maybe just a little bit, Elladan?"
"I know I was being selfish." He bit the words off, lips stiff around their shape. He did not know if he had been being selfish or not, still didn't know if what had happened the previous night had been what he wanted.
"Do you know what you're doing? I mean, do you have any idea at all?" Elrohir said, rounding on his brother. Elladan glared up at him, eyes narrowed dangerously. "Or do you just say, 'Yes sir' and hope to Elbereth that everything comes out alright?"
"I don't recall hearing you argue."
Elrohir reacted without thinking, arm rising and falling, hand open. Elladan caught his wrist before Elrohir's palm could connect with his cheek, and for a moment they stared at each other, their faces made more identical by the look of shock they both wore.
"Elladan, I'm sorry." Elrohir whispered. Elladan patted the bench next to him, and Elrohir sank down beside him, head bowed.
"We're a sorry pair, indeed, this day." Elladan replied, chuckling mirthlessly. He glanced at his brother's profile, took in the closed eyes and compressed lips. "I didn't want to be alone. Sometimes it's rather... intense."
Elrohir barked laughter. "Oh, intense. Yes, that's a good word for it."
"You had a choice, I asked you and you said you would." He knew his words were lies as he spoke them. He had not really told Elrohir anything, only enough to pique his curiosity. And there was no choice after a certain point, not when the choice of refusal felt so much like cowardice, like running away. Not when remaining felt so good. Elrohir made no reply, but Elladan could see his recognition of the lie in the tightening of his features.
"Do you love me, Elrohir?" He asked simply, pathetically, falling back on an emotional tie that had existed since they had nestled together in their mother's womb. He felt a flare of self loathing within himself at the startled look in Elrohir's eyes, the immediate shift from tense, frustrated anger to soft contrition. "Of course, Elladan. I always will."
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