Title: Truth Serum
Word count: 620
Summary: Erestor looks at a familiar view from a different angle, but he might regret it in the morning. Fluff for lauand who suggested the prompt G/E and vodkacon, or, as the case may be dwarvenmeadcon.
And many thanks to levadegratchets and questails who put up with me, sentence by hair-pulling sentence, every day.
The mead had been chilling all day in the stream that flowed past Erestor’s bedroom window. Skillfully crafted by dwarves, the rare drink had been left in Imladris as a weary traveler’s token of thanks and Erestor had hidden it behind the other stock, stashed it away for an early spring evening when the chill of the air was soothed by the lazy warmth caught up in the rocks. He was not surprised to find that the mead tasted like liquid sunshine. It also tasted like Glorfindel’s hair, but maybe that was because Glorfindel’s hair was in Erestor’s mouth when he reached for the flask to take another sip. Luckily, he hadn’t swallowed.
He picked the strand free from his lips and examined it inscrutably by the fire light before his eyes closed again. At some point a pillow had appeared beneath Erestor’s head and he welcomed the warmth of it, deep warmth like the mead, like Glorfindel’s voice coming from a spot just behind him.
Erestor reached back to adjust the pillow and his palm collided with an implacable hardness of a knee.
“Your leg makes a serviceable pillow,” Erestor said, and sighed. Everything was altogether too warm; Erestor’s head on Glorfindel’s lap, the rest of him sprawled across the stony floor in front of Glorfindel’s hearth.
“I’ve been told worse,” Glorfindel said from somewhere not too far away from Erestor’s eyes, a puff of breath against his eyelids. He opened them a crack and discovered that either the room had been diffused by a mead-golden veil, or Glorfindel’s hair hang to either side of Erestor’s face. Maybe the latter, because Glorfindel’s own face hovered, upside down, above him and if Erestor lifted up, just so, he could bring Glorfindel into focus.
“How did you get there?” Erestor asked, but there wasn’t any time for an answer.
It was the warmth that made him do it. It had to be the warmth, because Erestor had been so cold, ages of cold, cold as long as he could remember, and if he lingered here long enough he could soak it all up like the stones beside the river.
Glorfindel’s lips tasted like the mead, or Erestor tasted his own lips on Glorfindel’s, it was hard to tell with their mouths mixed up together, and weight of it all rushing through Erestor from his toes to the tips of his fingers.
When Glorfindel drew back, just a space, and they stared at each other, forehead to chin, a slightly delirious perspective, Erestor reached out and groped blindly for the flask because he wanted to taste it forever.
“You’re a fair kisser,” Erestor said, very quietly.
“I’ve been told worse,” Glorfindel replied, an inverted expression at the corners of his mouth, and took the flask from Erestor’s hand, the thief, and downed the last of the drink. Erestor watched him swallow.
And that was the last he remembered. It had been too comfortable, too warm, and then Erestor woke to find the sunlight slicing like infernal blades across the unfamiliar bed he half hung off of. He opened his eyes to find a pair of upside down boots on the floor beside the bed and allowed his aching gaze -- had he received a blow to the head? -- to follow the boots up, up to a very familiar face.
Erestor winced and smiled weakly.
Glorfindel bent low and whispered in Erestor’s ear, “It could be worse. “ And he lingered there a moment before he pressed a kiss to Erestor’s cheek and turned to walk loudly across the too-bright room.
As the door closed behind him, Erestor righted himself on the pillows and cursed the practicality of the dwarves.