It was short work to grab the small bottle and set to his task, but Thranduil was loathe to make it clinical, rushed or hurried. He dropped the bottle to the bed eyes devouring before he kissed Celegorm, gentling him with palms skating his sides, arms, shoulders. "Shhhhhhh," he murmured. "I have you, meleth. Allow me?" What he was asking permission for, he had no clue, but the question was weighted, heady, and important in ways that made no sense. Nothing made sense with this one.