names of fire and flight and snow by atlantablack  

How do you love?

Like a fist. Like a knife.

The Good Fight | Ada Limón

☀︎

Fëanor spends more nights than he cares to admit to at Fingolfin’s these days. More time than he cares to admit to thinking about Fingolfin these days. Feels some days though as if Fingolfin is the only bit of this new age that is easy.

Which is not to say that they do not still argue. Of course they still argue. He is not entirely sure they will ever be able to truly co-exist in a way that does not invoke arguments. There is too much between them in which neither of them are willing to cede an inch. That they've found a less destructive way to take the anger out on each other does not mean that it has gone away. Only that their families no longer automatically tense when they enter the same room.

But their relationship is still easy in its own way. He knows the rhythm of their arguments. Knows the way Fingolfin tastes when Fëanor kisses the fight out of him. Knows the steps to going to his knees and giving things he never thought he would give. Knows the quiet way it soothes something inside of him to have Fingolfin sleep in his arms, the implied trust in the action loud even if it is still fragile. Knows that every time he breaks beneath Fingolfin’s hands and his brother looks at him as if he has set the sun in the sky with his own hands another spark of hatred quietly dies out.

He still has not found the correct starting point for fixing things with his children. Still has not figured out how to muffle the unease that sometimes slinks through him when he walks into his forge. That feeling that if he lets himself truly indulge in his craft as he wishes to he will somehow wreak more havoc upon his family. The nagging voice that says, do you think this will not turn to ash in your hands as well? He still has not adjusted to his mother being a loud, blazing presence in the palace when he visits, filling the halls with life, her smiles coming easy for both his father and Indis alike. Still has not figured out what to do with the way their flash-fire moods are so similar yet they still manage to not understand each other at all.

He does not know what to do with any of that.

But he has, in a way, figured Fingolfin out. Has found himself retreating to Fingolfin's house when he wishes to be free of others expectations. Though it is strange, the idea that Fingolfin is the one who will have no expectations of him. Or perhaps it is not so strange when he takes into consideration that Fingolfin rarely leaves his house and is not particularly in the position to be placing expectations on anyone. In the back of his mind he knows he should worry about that. Does not know what shape the worry should take or what to do about it but knows he should be worried. Even the novelty of worrying about his brother is strange.

It is a worry for another night though. In this moment Fingolfin is asleep and warm in his arms and Fëanor presses his mouth to one of the bruises he'd left on Fingolfin's neck earlier, wishes that he too could fall asleep. But no matter what has happened he is still himself and sleep has never come easily to him when he has too many ideas in his head clambering to be free. Which is to say that sleep has never come easily to him.

If he were at his own house he would simply go down to his forge, giving sleep up as a lost cause. And he could simply go elsewhere in the house and sketch some of the designs sparking to life in his mind. He could. Has in fact done just that before and has not moved until Fingolfin has come wandering out of the bedroom looking half-asleep, at which point Fëanor finds himself abandoning his sketches to push Fingolfin against a wall and kiss him until they are both breathless and wide-awake. It is intoxicating the way Fingolfin gives himself up so easily to Fëanor's demands. The way he goes loose and pliant, letting Fëanor do whatever he wishes with his body. It makes Fëanor greedy. Makes him want to find where the line is drawn.

Still, despite the ideas floating around in his mind, he finds that he has no particular wish to move. Fëanor is comfortable and warm and Fingolfin is a solid weight in his arms, a tangible reminder that despite the way it feels some days, things are getting better. He idly runs a finger down Fingolfin’s chest, presses his fingers against the bruises he’d left earlier and watches them bloom with color. Fingolfin makes a soft noise in his sleep as Fëanor gently rubs one nipple and then the other, toying with them until they are both flushed pink. Another soft noise, just on the edge of a whimper, sneaks out of Fingolfin’s mouth as Fëanor shifts them so that he can lean down and lightly bite at each nipple, worrying at them with his teeth.

He pulls back when Fingolfin shifts as if he may wake and instead spends a while simply stroking Fingolfin’s hip as he trails kisses down his neck and shoulder. Smiles when his brother sighs and presses in against him. The possessive fire that flares to life every time he has Fingolfin pinned down sparks quietly in pleasure at the way his brother moves closer to him even in his sleep. He cannot quite resist biting down on one of the bruises he’d left earlier on Fingolfin’s throat and gently worrying at the skin with his teeth. Lets go when Fingolfin whines low in his throat and presses his thumb to it, satisfied that it will take even longer to heal.

It is fascinating though the way that Fingolfin makes the sweetest noises even in his sleep. He bites gently at the tip of Fingolfin’s ear and runs his hand down Fingolfin’s side, cannot resist slipping his fingers between Fingolfin's thighs where he is still wet and loose from where they'd fucked before bed. He pushes two fingers in, fucks them in and out slowly, watching entranced as Fingolfin's face creases, hips shifting restlessly. A low moan slips out and Fëanor slows even further, takes his time simply appreciating the wet heat of Fingolfin around his fingers. Carefully scissors his fingers apart, twisting them and crooking upwards. Fingolfin whines, shifting against him, eyelids flickering as he dreams, and despite his better sense, it is so, so easy to shift and replace his fingers with his cock and fuck up into Fingolfin's sleep-soft body. Fingolfin groans, twitches as if he will wake, and Fëanor stills, waits until his brother settles into sleep once more. Leaves another string of soft kisses across his skin.

He fucks into Fingolfin slowly, only a simple rocking off his hips. He is not interested in getting off quickly, only in watching the micro-expressions that play across Fingolfin's face, the whimpers that keep sneaking out of him. He reaches around and finds Fingolfin's cock half-hard, slowly pumps his hand around it as he rocks his hips and soon Fingolfin's cock is leaking as he moans, shifting as if he's about to wake up. Fëanor keeps his movements slow and steady until Fingolfin slowly blinks his eyes open, half-asleep and dazed, then without any warning, he speeds up his hand and begins fucking into Fingolfin in earnest.

His brother keens high and loud, gasping desperately as his hands scramble for purchase among the sheets. The desperate moans falling from Fingolfin’s mouth are the most wanton he’s heard yet, all slick with desire and unabashed need. Fëanor thinks he hears his name jumbled up in the noises and presses Fingolfin down into the bed, shifts to gain better leverage and fucks him harder. Fingolfin’s hands are fisting convulsively in the sheets as he pushes back against Fëanor. He bites down hard on Fingolfin’s shoulder, tastes blood as Fingolfin shakes apart, spilling over his hand and clenching tight around him, voice raised so sweetly as he moans Fëanor’s name.

He spills inside of Fingolfin with a choked groan, burying his face against the curve of Fingolfin’s neck as he rides out the pleasure. He could spend every day with his cock buried in Fingolfin's body and he would still not be able to adjust to how deeply it affects him hearing Fingolfin moan his name as he shakes apart.

They stay like that for a while, both of them breathing heavily as they come down. Fingolfin though squirms after a while and he pulls away, smirking as Fingolfin whines when his cock slips out. Fingolfin rolls toward him, still looking a bit dazed and Fëanor cannot help but kiss him. Straddles him and presses him down into the bed, kisses him until they both run out of air.

“It is not even morning yet,” Fingolfin says roughly when they pull apart.

“It is not,” he agrees, nuzzling Fingolfin’s neck and placing an apologetic kiss on the livid bite mark he’s left behind. He never means to bite quite as hard as he does. Can never regret it for the sight of Fingolfin’s body marked by his teeth makes his blood burn. He does not want anyone else to be able to touch his brother, wants his claim so clear that it is impossible to ignore.

He leaves a trail of soft kisses down Fingolfin's chest and stomach. His brother sighs softly, arching up slightly into the touch, and buries his fingers in Fëanor's hair. He does not stop until he reaches Fingolfin's cock, spends time slowly cleaning him off with his tongue. Relishes every gasp and moan. Pulls away only to bury his face between Fingolfin's thighs.

Fingolfin whines quietly as Fëanor presses his tongue inside, shivering beneath Fëanor's hands. He closes his eyes and commits it all to memory. His brother's thighs quivering beneath his hands. The bitter, salty taste on his tongue of his own seed. Fingolfin lightly stroking his hair. Fëanor's name caught between his brother’s teeth and attached to every moan. He licks and sucks and fucks his tongue into Fingolfin’s hole until he is gasping and squirming with how sensitive he is. It is only when Fingolfin pulls at his hair that Fëanor pulls away, pressing a messy kiss to the crease of Fingolfin's hip. He buries his face against Fingolfin’s stomach and spends a moment simply breathing him in.

There is so much he cannot fix, so much that feels as if it is still breaking apart beneath his hands. But Fingolfin's fingers are gentle in his hair and the hatred in his heart has burnt itself down so that only the barest embers remain. It is not enough in the grand scheme of things but it is still so much more than he had thought to have with his brother.

"Come here," Fingolfin says softly, tugging lightly at his hair.

He hums, leaves another string of kisses up Fingolfin's body, pausing only to worry at one of the bruises on Fingolfin's neck with his teeth.

"You are ridiculous,” Fingolfin says, rolling his eyes as he curls in toward Fëanor, tangling their legs together. “I believe you have marked me up quite thoroughly.”

Fëanor has many feelings about that statement, none of which he wishes to deal with. He does not wish to explain that it is never enough because it is never visible to anyone but him and he wants it known that Fingolfin is his. That he has set claim to his brother and no one else may touch him. Knows that is a foolish thought that cannot come to be for many reasons. Will say none of this, instead pulls Fingolfin into a kiss, licking into his mouth and sharing the mingled taste of their seed still on his tongue.

Fingolfin sighs contentedly into the kiss, pressing closer and charting Fëanor’s spine with his hands. Fëanor does not want to think about all the hungry, possessiveness that erupts into a wildfire whenever Fingolfin is near these days. Does not want to think about the way he wishes to press his brother against a wall and kiss him in plain view of others so that word may spread that Fingolfin is his. Does not want to think about how this was never meant to become something so big that he would wish to keep it until the world broke apart beneath their feet.

He does not, he does not, and so he doesn’t. He boxes it all up and sticks it in the darkest corners of his minds and focuses on nothing other than the warmth of Fingolfin’s body against his and the way his name sounds when said softly against his mouth. He presses his brother down into the bed and covers Fingolfin’s body with his own, tries to crawl down Fingolfin’s throat so that his name will be the only thing his brother can remember how to speak. He knows he is closing his eyes against a truth staring him in the face. He knows this is going to spectacularly blow up in his face. He knows he should leave.

But Fëanor is nothing if not deeply selfish and he wants his name to continue lingering on Fingolfin’s tongue. So against all sense, he stays.

Chapter End Notes

He's sooo normal about Fingolfin....so normal. No one has ever been more normal about someone ever. He's also definitely not using Fingolfin as a crutch to avoid dealing with anything else. Why would you think that? He's fine.

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