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zhieYou + Me = I Love You
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“What are you staring at?”
“Your writing over there, on the door.” The office doors had been constructed of slate, and it provided a perfect surface for scribbling notes, or in the case of Glorfindel, working equations. At the moment, however, he was compiling a book, and his lists of chapters and subheadings appeared to baffle Erestor. “Trying to determine how much is real and how much you made up.”
“I did not make any of it up,” scolded Glorfindel. “Everything relates to important mathematical terms, from basic arithmetic to calculus and statistics. Which words are you not understanding?”
Erestor frowned. “All of them.” He scanned the door again. “Alright, triangles, I understand what those are, just not what you probably plan to do with them. Oh, and circles, that word I have seen before.”
“Oh, come now, you know what a fraction is,” admonished Glorfindel.
“No. Not really. Or perhaps more, it is not something I care at all to know about,” Erestor corrected himself. “I deal in whole numbers. I do not catalog half-books or quarter-books, I catalog whole books. If there is an eighth of a scroll lying around, it does not mean that seven-eighths of it are hiding on the other side of the equal sign, it means we have mice. And just why are you looking so smug?”
“You do too understand some of the things I talk about,” answered Glorfindel appreciatively.
“Blasphemy.”
Glorfindel came around behind Erestor’s chair and placed his hands on the librarian’s shoulders. “Using terms like ‘whole numbers’ and knowing that one-eighth from the whole leaves you with seven-eighths.” He loudly kissed the top of Erestor’s head while Erestor scowled.
“By my calculations,” continued Glorfindel as he commandeered a quill and wrote on a sheet of nearby blotter paper, “I will have you solving trigonometric equations by the time you are… 74,523 years old. Fear not,” Glorfindel added, “even at such an advanced age, I am sure you will have time to work through individual equations between naps.”
“I hate you,” Erestor growled.
“Oh, but you love me,” cooed Glorfindel in return.
“But I also hate you,” warned Erestor.
“As long as you still love me,” murmured Glorfindel as he kissed the top of Erestor’s head. “Shall I come for you at six, or would you prefer I spend only half as long at practice and join you for lunch at two and a quarter hours before late tea?”
“If you purposely try to get me to do math, you can forget lunch.”
Glorfindel chuckled. “You cannot blame me for trying - math is so sexy,” he purred into Erestor’s ear.
“No. No, I am fairly certain it is not,” argued Erestor.
“Sure it is,” he argued, his voice a whisper, lips brushing Erestor’s ear. “Just listen to it. Integers. Exponents. Logarithmic functions. Vectors.”
“Are you done?”
“Quadrilaterals,” Glorfindel drawled, drawing out every syllable of the word. He looked down at Erestor’s lap, at the librarian’s bright cheeks, and straightened up with a smile. “I suppose I should be off. See me to the door?”
Erestor gave his husband the darkest glare he could muster. “Go away,” he said simply.
Glorfindel chuckled, swooped down for a brief kiss, and waved to the third person in the office on his way out. As Erestor attempted to return to his work, Fingon looked up and studied the elder elf. When he cleared his throat, Erestor looked his way. “You spent how many years sharing an office with him?”
“Probably..” Erestor shrugged. “More than two thousand.”
“Uh-huh.” Fingon twirled an un-inked quill between his fingers, then asked, just as Erestor was settling down again. “Are you really that deficient in arithmetic?”
Erestor finished writing the sentence he was transcribing. “Am I… what, sorry?”
Fingon pulled his chair a little closer to Erestor’s desk. “Are you that bad with math?”
For a moment, Erestor studied Fingon. “Sure,” he finally said.
Fingon crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He scrutinized Erestor until finally Erestor sighed and pulled the blotter page that Glorfindel had written on a little closer. Fingon craned his neck to see what Erestor was writing.
(yS x 8766) / 84000 = yT
“What’s that?” asked Fingon when Erestor slid it over to him.
“The conversion equation for Years of the Sun versus Years of the Trees,” answered Erestor.
“Is that one of Glorfindel’s?” Fingon asked.
“Exactly.” Erestor pushed the paper away and went back to his work. Confused, Fingon returned to his desk and several minutes went by. “I was using that equation fifty years before he was born, at least,” spoke Erestor, breaking the silence. “When I arrived in Gondolin, all anyone could talk about was some youth who was inventing things and figuring out mathematics and science as if he had invented those, too. When I skimmed over the papers he had written, and I saw that among his achievements, I.. decided not to be good at math.”
“How do you..” Fingon watched Erestor return to his writing. “You do love him,” he finally said, with a hint of envy in his voice.
“One hundred percent,” answered Erestor.
---
“What are you staring at?”
“Your writing over there, on the door.” The office doors had been constructed of slate, and it provided a perfect surface for scribbling notes, or in the case of Glorfindel, working equations. At the moment, however, he was compiling a book, and his lists of chapters and subheadings appeared to baffle Erestor. “Trying to determine how much is real and how much you made up.”
“I did not make any of it up,” scolded Glorfindel. “Everything relates to important mathematical terms, from basic arithmetic to calculus and statistics. Which words are you not understanding?”
Erestor frowned. “All of them.” He scanned the door again. “Alright, triangles, I understand what those are, just not what you probably plan to do with them. Oh, and circles, that word I have seen before.”
“Oh, come now, you know what a fraction is,” admonished Glorfindel.
“No. Not really. Or perhaps more, it is not something I care at all to know about,” Erestor corrected himself. “I deal in whole numbers. I do not catalog half-books or quarter-books, I catalog whole books. If there is an eighth of a scroll lying around, it does not mean that seven-eighths of it are hiding on the other side of the equal sign, it means we have mice. And just why are you looking so smug?”
“You do too understand some of the things I talk about,” answered Glorfindel appreciatively.
“Blasphemy.”
Glorfindel came around behind Erestor’s chair and placed his hands on the librarian’s shoulders. “Using terms like ‘whole numbers’ and knowing that one-eighth from the whole leaves you with seven-eighths.” He loudly kissed the top of Erestor’s head while Erestor scowled.
“By my calculations,” continued Glorfindel as he commandeered a quill and wrote on a sheet of nearby blotter paper, “I will have you solving trigonometric equations by the time you are… 74,523 years old. Fear not,” Glorfindel added, “even at such an advanced age, I am sure you will have time to work through individual equations between naps.”
“I hate you,” Erestor growled.
“Oh, but you love me,” cooed Glorfindel in return.
“But I also hate you,” warned Erestor.
“As long as you still love me,” murmured Glorfindel as he kissed the top of Erestor’s head. “Shall I come for you at six, or would you prefer I spend only half as long at practice and join you for lunch at two and a quarter hours before late tea?”
“If you purposely try to get me to do math, you can forget lunch.”
Glorfindel chuckled. “You cannot blame me for trying - math is so sexy,” he purred into Erestor’s ear.
“No. No, I am fairly certain it is not,” argued Erestor.
“Sure it is,” he argued, his voice a whisper, lips brushing Erestor’s ear. “Just listen to it. Integers. Exponents. Logarithmic functions. Vectors.”
“Are you done?”
“Quadrilaterals,” Glorfindel drawled, drawing out every syllable of the word. He looked down at Erestor’s lap, at the librarian’s bright cheeks, and straightened up with a smile. “I suppose I should be off. See me to the door?”
Erestor gave his husband the darkest glare he could muster. “Go away,” he said simply.
Glorfindel chuckled, swooped down for a brief kiss, and waved to the third person in the office on his way out. As Erestor attempted to return to his work, Fingon looked up and studied the elder elf. When he cleared his throat, Erestor looked his way. “You spent how many years sharing an office with him?”
“Probably..” Erestor shrugged. “More than two thousand.”
“Uh-huh.” Fingon twirled an un-inked quill between his fingers, then asked, just as Erestor was settling down again. “Are you really that deficient in arithmetic?”
Erestor finished writing the sentence he was transcribing. “Am I… what, sorry?”
Fingon pulled his chair a little closer to Erestor’s desk. “Are you that bad with math?”
For a moment, Erestor studied Fingon. “Sure,” he finally said.
Fingon crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He scrutinized Erestor until finally Erestor sighed and pulled the blotter page that Glorfindel had written on a little closer. Fingon craned his neck to see what Erestor was writing.
“What’s that?” asked Fingon when Erestor slid it over to him.
“The conversion equation for Years of the Sun versus Years of the Trees,” answered Erestor.
“Is that one of Glorfindel’s?” Fingon asked.
“Exactly.” Erestor pushed the paper away and went back to his work. Confused, Fingon returned to his desk and several minutes went by. “I was using that equation fifty years before he was born, at least,” spoke Erestor, breaking the silence. “When I arrived in Gondolin, all anyone could talk about was some youth who was inventing things and figuring out mathematics and science as if he had invented those, too. When I skimmed over the papers he had written, and I saw that among his achievements, I.. decided not to be good at math.”
“How do you..” Fingon watched Erestor return to his writing. “You do love him,” he finally said, with a hint of envy in his voice.
“One hundred percent,” answered Erestor.
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Date: 2014-01-14 06:53 am (UTC)I do not catalog half-books or quarter-books, I catalog whole books. If there is an eighth of a scroll lying around, it does not mean that seven-eighths of it are hiding on the other side of the equal sign, it means we have mice.
This is such a lovely story. I smiled and I too, envy :)
Thank you.