Lay the Heart Bare, Leaf by Leaf by IdleLeaves  

Stay

Fingon, Finrod, and Maedhros, after Thangorodrim.

Maedhros has only just fallen asleep when Finrod manages to talk his way inside, past Fingon's father and the healers who continue to come and go. The door closes with a muffled thud behind him; he neither greets Fingon nor meets his eyes, but comes to an abrupt, speechless stop two paces into the room, laying a hand on the wall to steady himself.

Even with the worst of the blood and horror cleaned away, Maedhros looks half-alive at best, death-pale and unsettlingly still save for the weak rise and fall of his chest. A long, silent moment passes before Finrod seems able to look away. Shock softens into grief, and Fingon thinks, briefly, that Finrod is going to cry - always, of the three of them, he has been the easiest to move to tears.

Instead, Finrod takes a deep breath, and comes to stand at Fingon's side. They haven't been the three of them - in any way that matters - for some time. Even their names are different, now.

"How angry are you?" Fingon asks, quietly.

"Furious," Finrod says, without so much as a sideways glance. Fingon reaches out, after the slightest delay, to thread their fingers together; Finrod's hand twitches at the touch, though he allows it. "Why couldn't you have told me?" he asks, and it's not anger, but a deep, raw hurt that's in Finrod's eyes when he turns.

Fingon's heart tightens in his chest, but still, his answer is honest. "Because you wouldn't have let me go alone."

"Why did you even want to?" Finrod says, louder than he must have intended. Maedhros stirs in his bed, and Finrod returns to a strained whisper. "You're not the only one who-" He stops, then, and leaves the last two words hanging in the air, unsaid.

"I know," says Fingon, rubbing a hand over his face. "I know." He's suddenly weary down to his bones; his head aches, and it takes what strength he has left to keep from sinking to his knees. It doesn't go unnoticed: Finrod slowly releases Fingon's hand, then pulls him into his arms with a muted sigh. Fingon lets his head fall onto Finrod's shoulder. He can't remember the last time Finrod - or Maedhros - had held him like this.

Finrod's fingers slide into Fingon's dark hair, working through the tangles. "You need rest," he says.

"I'm not going anywhere," Fingon protests, despite his exhaustion.

"Yes, you are," insists Finrod, and steps back far enough that Fingon has to look him in the eye. "Take care of yourself," Finrod says. "Sleep, at least for a while, then eat, if you can. Please," he continues when Fingon shakes his head. "I'll stay with him."

Even in sleep, Maedhros' face is twisted in pain or distress; he's hardly moved since Finrod arrived, his jaw set in a tight line and his remaining hand in a fist. "Will you?" Fingon asks.

"Of course I will," says Finrod.

Fingon can't help but believe him. He grants himself, then, no time to hesitate, and leans in to kiss Finrod on the mouth. Finrod does not react, at first - he holds himself as still as Maedhros beside them; when he finally kisses back, hands on Fingon's face, Fingon feels he may suffocate under the weight of it. Finrod leaves him gasping, near-unable to draw breath.

"He'll be all right," Fingon lies, as much to Finrod as to himself. "We'll be all right."

Finrod smiles without joy. He offers no reassurance, but sits carefully on the edge of Maedhros' bed, as tentative and uncertain as Fingon has ever seen him. He lifts a strand of matted hair from Maedhros' face and tucks it behind his ear, then casts a glance over his shoulder where Fingon still stands. "Sleep well," Finrod says; Fingon nods, and forces himself to walk away.