consider the hairpin turn by atlantablack  

The sun shines down. It's a beautiful day.
Consider the hairpin turn.
Do not choose sides yet.

You Are Jeff | Richard Siken

 ☀︎

The moment they are released from Máhanaxar Ñolofinwë flees. His father announces that he will be following Fëanáro to Formenos and Ñolofinwë uses the ensuing to chaos to slip away. Does not give any of his family a chance to grab hold of him. Should, as the one who will be left behind to clean up this mess, stay and address their people. But he is quite sure he is going to start screaming if he does not get one moment to himself immediately.

The silence from Fëanáro is still ringing so very loudly in his ears and though he knows it is but a phantom, he could almost swear he still feels the cool steel of Fëanáro’s sword against his throat. He walks and walks, leaving behind the crowds and their appalled exclamations, walks until he finds a garden that is far enough way that he cannot hear anyone at all. Keeps going until he is at the very back of it where there is nothing but a small pond and a bench that he sits down heavily on.

He is breathing too fast, he knows this. He hates this. Is quite sure, that despite his lack of physical threats, he should be held to the same standard of punishment as Fëanáro. Was it only Fëanáro who had secretly begun stockpiling swords for reasons no one would name? Was it only Fëanáro viciously scrabbling for purchase in the courts as if their father’s approval was so important they must carve each other open for it? He had not held a sword to his brother’s throat, this is true. But he is not sure if that is because he is, and has always been, weak when it comes to Fëanáro, or if it is only that he had not had a sword upon him to hold. He wants to blame this all on his brother. Does not know how he can when his own shoulders feel so burdened.

He slumps on the bench, burying his face in his hands. He wishes that he had been asked, as the one the crime was committed against, what should have been placed upon Fëanáro as punishment. Does not know what he would have said but he knows it would not have been this. Would not have been even more space between them. Would not have been the crown falling into his lap and proving Fëanáro right. He does not have the gift of foresight as Artanis does, but that does not stop him from feeling as if a great doom is upon them. An unbreakable wave of malice already having crashed upon Tirion, leaving them all gasping for air. The tears, when they come, are hot and furious. He makes no move to wipe them away as they slide down his cheeks.

Despite all that they have learned, despite the practical knowledge of knowing that Melkor has been weaving webs of malice and deceit around them for centuries, he still cannot quite seem to understand how everything went so very wrong. He casts his mind back, back, back to the year before Melkor’s arrival, and calls to mind Fëanáro beaming with joy over once again have new children to show off. He was always so pleased, always so eager to have others delight in his children’s existence as well that it was no matter to him if the person sharing in the delight was his half-sibling or not. He had dropped one of the Ambarussa in Ñolofinwë’s arms and said proudly, we have done it again! Are they not perfect?

Ñolofinwë had stared at the child in his arm and melted just as he had every time one of his nieces or nephews was placed in his arms. Fëanáro had smiled at him when he’d looked back up, nothing but happiness in it, and he had thought maybe, maybe given time, maybe given a few more centuries, maybe they could become friends if not brothers in truth. Stupid of him clearly.

“How long do you plan on being disgustingly maudlin out here?” Fëanáro asks suddenly from behind him.

He tenses. Does not bother raising his head. “You are welcome to leave,” he says, cursing how watery the words sound.

His brother is strangely quiet, though he can hear footsteps coming closer instead of leaving as he had hoped. Still does not bother looking up. If Fëanáro has been following him this entire time then saving his composure is already a lost cause. He is sure many would tell him to look up if only to keep Fëanáro within sight for surely he should be wary of his brother once again trying to take his life. But Ñolofinwë, for better or worse, still cannot believe that Fëanáro had in truth meant to kill him. Threaten him, of course. Scare him, definitely. Perhaps even the small scar at the base of his throat had been intentional. But he does not truly believe that Fëanáro had intended to kill him. Cannot believe it. Will not believe it.

The footsteps come to a stop in front of him and he does not have a moment to wonder at his brother’s intentions before fingers are sliding into his hair and tugging his head back. He glares up at Fëanáro, tears on his cheeks, heart racing like a plea. Fëanáro stares back, expression strangely blank as he studies Ñolofinwë’s face. And despite his thoughts, despite his belief, he still finds himself smiling mirthlessly and asking, “Well, have you come to kill me in truth? Make your exile worth it?”

Something flickers through Fëanáro’s eyes too fast for him to catch and the fingers in his hair tighten painfully. “I would have thought that upon successfully usurping the crown you would be far more pleased,” Fëanáro says darkly, lip curling in disgust.

“Pleased,” he echoes, feeling the wild, inappropriate urge to laugh. “Should I feel pleased that my brother has threatened my life? Should I feel pleased that my father is leaving and I will not see him until your exile ends?” He pauses, considers the twisted emotions writhing in his chest. “Should I be pleased that I will not see you until your exile ends? That I must argue with your shadow until you return and show me how much your resentment toward me has grown?”

Fëanáro smiles coldly, a look so at odds with the blazing warmth of him that it sends a chill down his spine. “Ah, but the Valar have sent me away to reflect, do you not suppose that I will return and rejoice to see you?” The mocking tone would have been obvious even if it were not laced heavily through every word.

He closes his eyes, feels so very exhausted of all the hatred as he says quietly, “I will rejoice to see you.” He leans forward and rests his forehead against Fëanáro’s hip, ignoring the way the hand in his hair clenches brutally tight. “I do not wish for you to leave,” he says, wishes that he could turn time back and clear the air between them of hatred. “I have wished for many things but never that.”

Fëanáro does not say anything for some time, his grip on Ñolofinwë’s hair loosening in increments as the silence stretches until his touch no longer hurts at all. Ñolofinwë simply breaths, tries to not think of what a disaster the next twelve years will be. The crown has never been the point. Fëanáro thinks it is. Many people probably think it is. But the crown has never been the point, only the easiest symbol for which to rally his point around. He wants to be given the crown freely and in good faith as the symbol it is. A symbol of his father’s love and trust. A symbol of Fëanáro’s acceptance, even if it is, in the end, a begrudging acceptance.

Which of course leads them back around to the beginning, to what he has always wanted — Fëanáro’s acceptance. He does not particularly care what shape the acceptance comes in as long as it there for him to reach out and grab.

He does not fight it when Fëanáro pulls his head back up again, stares back as Fëanáro studies him with a frown, something dark swimming in his eyes that Ñolofinwë cannot decipher. Fëanáro drags a finger down his cheek, following the tear tracks dried upon them, his frown deepening. His eyes track down to Ñolofinwë’s throat, to the small scar now marring his skin, and Fëanáro rubs his thumb over it, eyes sharp as Ñolofinwë shivers. He does not know how to feel about how close Fëanáro is to him now. This is the most Fëanáro has touched him in a very, very long time and he is not quite sure what to do with it.

“Will you bow to me when I return to Tirion,” Fëanáro asks lowly. “If you will so rejoice in seeing me once more. Will you bow?”

He blinks. Turns the question over in his mind. “Why would I? When you return so will our father and he will take the crown back up. Neither of us will be king. Why would I bow to you?”

“Because,” Fëanáro says, fingers tightening in his hair once more as he leans down and gets right in Ñolofinwë’s face, “I am asking you to.” His eyes are burning, some realization having caught fire behind them.

He is so close that Ñolofinwë can feel the warmth of Fëanáro’s breath against his own mouth, can see nothing but the grey of Fëanáro’s eyes back-lit by burning light. Ñolofinwë’s pride is a jagged, barbed thing that crawls up his throat and tries to block it off. He does not want to bow to his brother. He wants Fëanáro to look at him and see him as an equal, as one to be respected if he cannot be one that is loved. But. But Fëanáro is asking. Soon Fëanáro will be miles away, with nothing to do but let resentment grow in his heart, but in this moment he is in front of Ñolofinwë asking for something that it is so, so easy for him to give. Will it gentle Fëanáro’s heart the slightest bit if he has the memory of Ñolofinwë bowing to keep him company?

He swallows his pride down, for it has gotten him nowhere, and instead of bowing he slides off the bench and onto his knees. Fëanáro’s fingers go lax in shock and Ñolofinwë blinks up at him for a moment; taking in the wide eyes, the bright spots of red blooming high on Fëanáro’s cheeks, his mouth slightly parted as he stares. Ñolofinwë looks away, bows his head and rests his forehead against Fëanáro’s thigh, drags in a shuddering breath and waits. There’s a sticky moment of silence before Fëanáro’s fingers slip through his hair, tangling lightly in the strands as he cradles the back of Ñolofinwë’s skull.

It is less humiliating than he would have thought to be on his knees in front of Fëanáro. It feels too, less demeaning than he would have expected it. He is not sure if that is because of the lack of mocking taunts or because of the gentle way his brother is touching him. Finds himself relaxing the longer the silence stretches, impulsively brings one hand up to grasp at Fëanáro’s tunic, driven by a sudden need to keep him close, and listens to him inhale sharply. Ñolofinwë will not admit to Fëanáro, of all people, of disagreeing with the Valar, but he cannot help but wonder if perhaps they should have just been left to sort themselves out. This will not fix everything, but he thinks that if Fëanáro were not exiled, if Ñolofinwë gave him this and then they both returned to Tirion, he thinks perhaps they could have at least begun to heal.

Fëanáro shifts, says quietly, “Come here,” and pulls him to his feet. He turns them smoothly around so that he can seat himself on the bench and without a word of explanation he pulls Ñolofinwë closer by his waist. Keeps insistently pulling until Ñolofinwë stumbles in his confusion and catches himself on the back of the bench with both hands, one knee balanced on the bench as he near straddles Fëanáro. Fëanáro tips his head back to look up at him and he stares back, breath caught in his throat.

“What are you doing?” he asks, voice strangled. Fëanáro still does not answer, only continues to pull at him until he is settled fully in his brother’s lap. He grips the back of the bench so hard that his fingers ache and tells himself to move, to tear himself away, to do anything other than stare at Fëanáro with his heart in his throat. Fëanáro is not holding his waist so tightly that he could not tear himself away but he cannot convince himself to move.

Fëanáro’s mouth tugs upward briefly in what might be a smile at Ñolofinwë’s continued silence. “Go on,” Fëanáro says quietly, half-dare, half-warning, “tell me to stop.”

He opens his mouth, cannot find the words. Can only ask once more, “What are you doing?”

“I am testing a theory,” Fëanáro says, curiosity bright in his eyes behind the strange, shifting emotion Ñolofinwë cannot identify. He does not give Ñolofinwë a chance to speak again, only tugs him downward and into a kiss.

There’s a ringing sound in his ears, his heartbeat painfully loud. He thinks he makes a sound low in his throat at the impact of Fëanáro’s mouth on his but can focus only on the softness of his brother’s lips, the way they part after a second, Fëanáro’s tongue pressing against his lips and asking for entrance. He means to pull-away, he does, but Fëanáro’s hand slips beneath his tunic, scalding against his skin, and his mouth opens on a gasp. Fëanáro licks into his mouth and all is lost from there. Fëanáro kisses him as if he has something to prove, as if each noise he pulls from Ñolofinwë’s throat is a victory in a battle that should never have been started. Ñolofinwë keeps telling himself to pull away but cannot bear to part from the wet heat of Fëanáro’s mouth. Kisses back just as hard and tangles his fingers in Fëanáro’s hair, pulling slightly and swallowing the groan it earns him from Fëanáro.

He could not say how long they kiss for, only that Fëanáro keeps them pressed tightly together, his palm a scalding brand on Ñolofinwë’s lower back. He knows that Fëanáro’s other hand is cradling his cheek, so absurdly gentle that Ñolofinwë wants to pull back and scream. Knows that he’s marred his fëa irreparably now and cannot even bring himself to care for Fëanáro’s mouth on his tastes too much like possibility. Like his brother touching him without violence. Like the possibility of forgiveness.

Fëanáro pulls back first, pressing his mouth against Ñolofinwë’s neck, teeth scraping against his pulse. He shivers and tilts his head back, baring his throat as a breeze ghosts across his burning cheeks. Fëanáro makes a low noise against his throat, tugs his collar out of the way and sucks a bruise onto his collarbone. Ñolofinwë can barely breathe around the want, goes easily when Fëanáro pulls him into another kiss.

They kiss and kiss until Ñolofinwë’s mouth feels bruised, until they are pressed so tightly together he can feel Fëanáro’s heart racing against his own, and only then does Fëanáro pull back, flushed and far too beautiful, to say, “Come to Formenos with us.”

He stares. Must turn those words over in his mind far too many times before they make any sense at all. Still is not sure they make sense. “What?”

Fëanáro rolls his eyes, presses his thumb to Ñolofinwë’s bottom lip. “You wish to mend things between us?”

Ñolofinwë is not entirely sure he has not stumbled into a strangely vivid dream. “Of course,” he says, for even in a dream he would not turn his brother away.

“Then come to Formenos with us. We will work on our relationship while we are there.” His eyes keep flicking down to Ñolofinwë’s mouth and he is quite sure that his brother is only partly thinking of talking when it comes to mending things.

“And after?” He cannot help but ask. “You still wish to leave Aman. Do not tell me you do not.”

“I wish to leave,” Fëanáro agrees easily. “I am sure I can convince you of the benefits of doing so.”

Ñolofinwë carefully does not let himself wonder what he will do, if after twelve years spent sharing Fëanáro’s bed, he is made to choose between following his brother or remaining behind. “Tirion—”

“Atar does have one more son,” Fëanáro says, cutting him off. “I am confident Arafinwë can handle the crown for a short time.”

“Áro does not enjoy ruling,” he says doubtfully. Is sure that Arafinwë will be furious with him if he follows Fëanáro to Formenos and leaves him to rule Tirion.

“All the better then,” Fëanáro says, sounding nearly cheerful. “He will easily give the crown back over when Atar returns.”

Ñolofinwë is not sure that he won’t simply find a way to pass the crown off to Findis or Lalwen before the twelve years are up but that does not seem relevant. He studies Fëanáro’s face, looking for any sign that this is some convoluted trick to be used against him. Can find only heat and a flickering impatience. “You are truly willing to try and fix things between us?” he cannot help but ask. Had been sure Fëanáro would never say such a thing.

Fëanáro is silent for a moment, his finger tracing a path across Ñolofinwë’s forehead and down his cheek. “I will try,” he says finally, cradling Ñolofinwë’s cheek in his hand. That strange emotion is still swirling in his eyes as he watches Ñolofinwë sigh and lean into the touch. “I believe I will enjoy trying,” he says quietly before dragging Ñolofinwë into another kiss.

“Okay,” he says once they’ve pulled apart again. He rests his forehead against Fëanáro’s, watches the light behind Fëanáro’s eyes flare bright with emotion, and prays that he is not making a mistake. “Okay, I will follow you. Let us try.”

When Fëanáro kisses him again it tastes like hope.

 ☀︎

Chapter End Notes

I have a vague half-idea of how I might write a second one-shot for this specific universe but it's uhhh angst to the max. So not sure if I want to touch that. Let's not worry about it.

---

Fingolfin: I am going to Formenos with Fëanáro

The rest of the family: ...............

Fingon perking up: I will ALSO go to Formenos!

Fingolfin: what

Fingon nodding seriously while totally not looking at Maedhros: yes, it's very important that as your eldest I get along with Uncle's eldest. It'll be good for family relations.

Maedhros: yes, relations. Very important.

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