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The room is dark in the hours before sunrise. And the world is silent. Just for a moment, both the beasts of night and the ones of day are asleep. Glorfindel is the first to rise among them, as is his habit.
He likes to watch the way the sky changes before the sun crests the mountains and he likes to see the peacefulness of his lover's brow when he is yet asleep. Windows cracked just a bit, as to not let the spring chill wholly enter their room. Just enough to breath in the dim light, the quiet, the smell of winter still clinging to these hours beyond time. The first rays break beyond jagged rock and birds soon begin to sing, he reaches out and takes a flower off of the wild apricot Ecthelion had planted in front of their room here, whispers his gratitude and carries it to Ecthelion's bedside. He fills the shallow bottom of a tea plate with water, puts the flower in the middle.
Later, when he returns, Ecthelion will probably half-heartedly chastise him for ruining what could have become the fruit he likes in early summer, still fresh and sour. And every summer he bids Glorfindel to try it. And every summer he does and makes a face he does not attempt to conceal anymore and says "I cannot understand why I think they will change from year to year" and Ecthelion laughs and responds "We forget that which is not near, unless we keep it in our hearts" and he kisses him and he tastes sour and Glorfindel does not mind.
There is little to choose in life. Or perhaps there is too much. He closes the window, but does not close back the curtains. He gets dressed and brushes his hair and when he goes to kiss Ecthelion goodbye, he finds him awake. The sun colours his skin orange and red and the shadows it throws darken his eyes from deep blue to black. He squints slightly, as he looks at Glorfindel, waiting.
"Ah, morning, my love. I'm afraid I cannot greet you more soundly, we leave early." is what he comes up with this time around. It does not sound convincing anymore, even to his own ears. Glorfindel does not mind it. He bends down to kiss Ecthelion's brow and when he lingers, Ecthelion takes the hand resting on his cheek and kisses its palm, slowly and tenderly. He does not move it away.
"Good morning, love." His voice is rough with sleep and muffled in Glorfindel's palm. His eyes had closed with the kiss but when he opens them to look at Glorfindel and pats the bed in invitation, they are knowing. Glorfindel sits, of course he does. He gets back in bed and does not need to shake off his boots for he never put them on. Their faces are close. They feel each other's breath on their lips and neck.
They never speak of this, but the one leaving always feels the need to try and not have it. At first there was more resistance, more back and forth about time and people waiting. Now, there is none. And if someone is bothered by a few minutes late departure, they do not say it. Or at least, not to their faces. Sometimes people arrive later then them, but only by a bit. Everybody has duties they do not wish to forsake, but everybody also has people they do not wish to part with.
They speak little during these times, they try to memorize each other's faces, how Ecthelion's eyes crease at the inner corner (have you ever noticed there are little, thin eyelashes there too?), how two lines appear at the outer corner of Glorfindel's, when he smiles. Death has always been a warrior's shadow and they've lived long enough to trace its shape in the beautiful gardens of their houses, through the halls, on their way to meetings, on the pillowed couches at the many parties that stretch from dusk till dawn, in the quiet stillness of their room in early morning. The shadows, always there, always waiting, the grey, stark against a city of white, are known to them. They've held hands through the long walk across the ice though not much warmth had come from it, they've kissed as steel kissed steel and sparks were born of a want to harm and protect, brute force and skillful hands. The shadows are in the room now too, though they do not lay in their bed.
So they try and memorize each other's faces, before one goes away. They kiss each other slowly, so they don't forget how it feels to love and have and want still. They listen to the rhythm of their heartbeats and breath in the scent of their skin, but also the way Glorfindel's hair smells of olive and rosehip and the myrrh Ecthelion dabs on his pulse points. They hold each other so they know the shape of their love, when it cannot be held anymore and silently pray that when it comes to that, they will meet again in the halls.
When Glorfindel goes to rise the first time, Ecthelion gently turns his face towards him. "Stay. For a few more moments." He always tells Glorfindel that. And Glorfindel always obliges. And minutes gather to hours over the decades, to years over the centuries. And so you have a lifetime, made of stolen moments, ones when you should have been somewhere else. There is little to choose in life. Or perhaps there is too much.
"Yes, love. But only for a little while."
* * *
When Glorfindel is gone, not that long after, Ecthelion will see the wild apricot flower sitting in the middle of the plate of water, on the bedside table. He will sigh and leave it there for the days that come and before it's yet begun to wither, he will take it and press it in the pages of a book, among the others.