Between the Shadow and the Soul by sallysavestheday

Between the Shadow and the Soul

It is Fingon -- again -- who leaps the gap that yawns between them, when Maedhros is certain that they have passed all possibilities, have shaped instead some new form of friendship out of Ice and fire and betrayal, found a tentative peace in rescue and reward.

It is Fingon who looks up from his hand when Maedhros grinds out a laugh at the cards he has played, his eyes dark and half-focused as though seeing both grimly weathered Maedhros and lighthearted Maitimo-who-was, his brows folding together in the look that has promised trouble since he was old enough to crawl.

It is Fingon who lays his cards down, who leans forward smooth as water to capture Maedhros’ laughing mouth with his own, who catches Maedhros’ lip lightly between his teeth as he gasps, the sharp hint of that bite turning the gasp into a moan.

It is Fingon who slides into Maedhros’ lap, chasing more kisses, the long line of his thigh taut and smooth when Maedhros reaches down to – what? caution him? push him away? – and instead finds himself stroking his hand back to the hinge of Fingon’s hip.

It is Fingon who shifts his weight to prompt Maedhros to reach further, to coax him to cup the sweet curve that fills his palm so perfectly. It is Fingon who leans into Maedhros with such purpose that he can only pull closer and shudder and gasp again while Fingon rocks to the rhythm of his half-bewildered, half-pleading clutch and release, clutch and release.

It is Fingon who hums as they move together, his hands weaving through Maedhros' hair, tugging him into shivering wonderment as Fingon’s mouth persists in its plundering and the heat between them builds and builds.

It is Fingon whose fingers make short work of Maedhros’ shirt laces, his belt, the points of his hose, as his lips slide soft across Maedhros’ skin, asking yes? with each kiss, each touch, the rough music of his voice so deep and sweet that Maedhros can only answer yes, and yes, and yes.

Oh, and Fingon’s hands, and Fingon’s mouth, the satin skin of Fingon’s thighs and belly, the warmth and the weight of him!

Maedhros surrenders. He allows himself to be drawn into that astonishing heat, into Fingon’s fierce and tender and pitiless grasp. He sets aside his chilly poise and lets his cracked voice break open as he is touched and tasted and wrung to a completion beyond fear, beyond hope, beyond any ever-imagined delight, with Fingon’s braids clutched in his fist and Fingon’s heart juddering against his own and Fingon’s panted breath in his ear, burning.

Tomorrow he will put on his smooth diplomat’s face and look his uncle in the eye, warding his mind and heart – he hopes – with the knowledge that it was not he who began it.

But, having begun, there is the rest of the night ahead of them, and Fingon is laughing down at him with his brows lifted and his eyes so bright, all soft golden skin, shining.

How can Maedhros refuse him? He is so clearly asking to be tumbled over into the tangle of furs and discarded clothing and crumpled playing cards and taught what Maedhros has already learned from him: that Beleriand is full of surprises; that time will wait for none of them; that there is nothing more precious than the touch of a feared-lost, miraculously-saved, tenderly, sweetly unflinching lover’s hand.