and love is not a victory march by atlantablack  

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now I've heard there was a secret chord

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Baby, I've been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

 ☀︎

Fëanáro thinks of many things during his exile for he has nothing but time and a chest full of fury.

He thinks of his hatred for Melkor. He thinks of his children and the toil the exile is taking on them even if they will not voice it. He thinks of his father and the disappointment he’d just barely been able to see hidden beneath the concern. He thinks of Nerdanel and cannot help but wonder if she saw this coming. More often than not though, he finds his thoughts dwelling on Ñolofinwë.

On how wide and endlessly blue his eyes had gone when Fëanáro had set the point of the sword to his throat. He thinks too of how earnestly Ñolofinwë had said, I will release my brother. As if Fëanáro needed to be released by anyone. As if Fëanáro cared for anyone’s forgiveness, least of all his half-brother’s. But it still nags at him, sits in the back of his mind, paces around. He still finds himself restlessly wandering the halls of Formenos, itching to finish his argument with Ñolofinwë and unable to. Finds himself sometimes entering rooms and automatically searching for his half-brother — to keep him in sight, a threat to always be watched.

There is much time to think and for lack of better things to do, he spends most of his time in the forge as he thinks. He spends hours painstakingly crafting the finest, most delicate jewels. Finds himself one day holding a thin chain strung with pale silver gems that glitter and blend in with the light of Telperion so that they nearly disappear when held within its light. He stares at them for a while, admiring his work, before nonsensically realizing that Ñolofinwë’s begetting day is only week away.

It has been nearly a year since the exile began and he had not been present for Ñolofinwë’s last begetting day. Had not cared and had presented no gifts. It was no larger an insult than any of the others he handed out and Ñolofinwë had made no mention of it. But he finds himself picturing pale blue and silver set against Ñolofinwë’s dark hair and has set to work delicately adding tiny sapphires to the chain before he fully finishes thinking through the implications of such a thing.

Does not stop even after he has fully thought them through for here is what he knows—

Melkor, thrice-cursed fiend that he is, has spent decades weaving a web of lies throughout Tirion. Whether the lies Melkor spoke and the lies the Valar say he spoke are the same is up for debate, but he has no doubt that Melkor did lie. Many times and with much malice. He must, for all that he does not wish to, take stock of the idea that he has fallen for some of the lies. That they have poisoned his thoughts. And if Melkor has poisoned his thoughts then he has no doubt that he has poisoned the thoughts of everyone else as well, including Ñolofinwë.

He does not care for his half-brother. He never has. But there had once been a plot of civil land between them, safe topics to speak on such as their children and the mischief they seemed to always get into. He does not care for the idea that the land was burnt away due to anyone’s thoughts but his own. Does not care for the idea that the blatant hatred now lying between them is of anyone’s making other than their own. If he is going to hate Ñolofinwë then it will be done for his own reasons and no one else’s.

There is, in the very back of his mind, the barest whisper of a thought that perhaps there is no need to hate Ñolofinwë at all. He smothers it. Finishes the chain of jewels and carefully attaches it to a set of hairpins so that it can be set in the hair and woven through braids. It takes him very little time to find an appropriate box to put the gift in and find someone to take the box to Tirion. The messenger gives him a concerned look as he takes the box but nods his head and heads for the stables.

It is not until he sways on his feet that he realizes how long he has been awake and he thinks no more of the gift to his half-brother after that.

—

Three weeks later when Ñolofinwë comes galloping into the courtyard, jewels glittering against his hair just as beautifully as Fëanáro had known they would, and a furious expression on his face, he realizes that he should probably have given more thought to how Ñolofinwë would react to the gift. He had thought only of how others would perceive such a gift, the implication of an apology he does not care to make, the implication of forgiveness he has not given — he had sent it anyway — he had not given much thought to how Ñolofinwë himself would react.

He leans against the doorway of the main building as Ñolofinwë strides across the courtyard, careful to keep his face neutral until he at least has an idea of what has sent Ñolofinwë galloping out here. He would say it is that Fëanáro had sent a gift at all but the jewels braided through Ñolofinwë’s hair seems to nullify that theory. Out here, where the light of the trees is so much dimmer, and set against Ñolofinwë’s dark hair, the jewels seem to almost give off their own light, though he knows he had not imbued them with any of Telperion’s light.

Ñolofinwë stops a few paces from him and stares for a long moment, gaze furious. Fëanáro stares back expectantly. “What brings you to Formenos oh King of the Noldor?” he asks sardonically when it becomes clear Ñolofinwë will say nothing. Bitterness causes the words to come out harsher than he’d quite meant for them to.

Ñolofinwë’s face shuts down immediately, the fury locked away and leaving nothing behind other than the infuriating placid agreeableness Ñolofinwë so often uses at court. “Interim king,” he says softly. “Is there somewhere we can speak?”

Fëanáro is terribly tempted to tell Ñolofinwë to leave. That he has no wish to speak with him. But that would not be wholly true as he is curious as to what his half-brother could have to say to him while the jewels that Fëanáro made are strung through his hair. “If we must,” he says after another moment of consideration. He turns and leads the way through the building, thankful that there is no one around to interrupt them. He leads them to his study and leans back against his desk with his arms crossed. Watches Ñolofinwë silently.

Ñolofinwë stares back for a moment, tension evident in his shoulders. “Why did you send me these?” he asks finally, gesturing at the jewels in his hair, his voice low enough that Fëanáro cannot decipher the exact emotion in it.

“It was your begetting day,” he says, raising his eyebrows pointedly. “That is typically what gifts received on that day are for.”

“But why?” Ñolofinwë insists, face tight with some emotion fighting to break free. “You sent nothing the year before. Or the year before that. It is not as if things have gotten better between us. Why now?”

Fëanáro considers this. Does not think the appropriate answer is that he had simply done it on a half-asleep whim. That it had not been so much about the day as it had been about the image in his mind of how the jewels would look when placed in Ñolofinwë’s hair. He creates things, he always has, and the act of creation brings it with the art of knowing where the thing you’ve made will look best. He uncrosses his arms and moves closer, stepping to the side of Ñolofinwë to get a better look at the jewels.

Ñolofinwë has strung half of the jewels through his braids and left the excess to run down his hair like water. He reaches out and touches one of them thoughtfully, ignoring the way Ñolofinwë inhales sharply. Drags his fingers through Ñolofinwë’s hair and watches the jewels shimmer, almost like tiny stars caught within the darkness of Ñolofinwë’s hair. The effect would be even more potent if there were more strands of jewels, all of varying lengths, so that a true cascading effect could take place. Even tinier jewels and more spaced out.

“Would you stop designing stuff in your head and answer my question,” Ñolofinwë says sounding incredibly exasperated.

He is also, Fëanáro notes when he blinks and looks away from the jewels, holding himself very, very still. Has not, despite his words, made any attempt to jerk his hair away from Fëanor’s curious touch. “They suit you,” he says, curiously running his fingers through Ñolofinwë’s hair again. Partly to admire the way his work glimmers and partly to see what Ñolofinwë will do.

There’s a very long silence in which Ñolofinwë closes his eyes and visibly takes several deep breaths. “You always do this,” Ñolofinwë says lowly, something tight and furious hiding in the words. “Why can you not simply— by the fucking gods I do not know why I continue to bother.”

The vulgarity of the statement from Ñolofinwë is shocking enough that he finds himself stepping backward, Ñolofinwë’s hair slipping through his fingers. “What are you talking about?” he demands. “I have no patience for your riddles, Ñolofinwë. Speak plainly or not at all.”

Ñolofinwë’s eyes, when they meet his, are still so endlessly blue, the light behind them making it seem as if one could fall into them and never surface. “You say all these terrible things. You do all these terrible things. You make me believe that you have rid your heart of me. And then you do something just kind enough to make me question it,” Ñolofinwë says, mouth twisting into a miserable, bitter smile. “It is a cruel cycle, Fëanáro.”

The words are plain enough but he still feels as if Ñolofinwë is talking in riddles. Ñolofinwë must be able to see the thought caught in his frown for he sighs, says quietly, “You never did manage to figure it out,” and without waiting for a response he closes the space between them, slides his fingers into Fëanáro’s hair, and kisses him.

He does it so smoothly that Fëanáro does not even get a chance to process what is happening before Ñolofinwë’s mouth is on his. He does not close his eyes, too startled to think to do so, and so he can see the gentle brush of Ñolofinwë’s eyelashes against his cheeks, a startlingly vulnerable seeming thing to see. Ñolofinwë kisses him so gently, a soft pressure that asks for nothing but acknowledgement. He pulls away after only a handful of seconds and sighs so quietly Fëanáro is only aware of it because he can feel the brush of exhaled air against his mouth. Has stepped back again before Fëanáro manages to decide on a response.

Ñolofinwë is staring at him with a vaguely resigned air about him that is at odds with the splash of pink highlighting his cheekbones and the way he licks his lips, like he’s chasing the taste of Fëanáro’s mouth. He does not think anyone has managed to so thoroughly blindside him since he was very, very young. Has the vague idea in the back of his mind that he is not reacting the way he should be, for surely he should have torn himself away the moment Ñolofinwë had touched him, but his thoughts have gone syrupy slow, unable to take this information and slot it into place with the bitter, biting anger and resentment from the last century. He wishes to call it a trick but it would have been a trick best used long before this, when they were still arguing in the courts. It’s nonsensical is what it is.

He still finds himself mirroring Ñolofinwë and licking his lips absently; watches Ñolofinwë’s gaze dart to his mouth, interest flaring bright and keen in his eyes for a moment. It’s nonsensical. But it is no more nonsensical than the strange urge that had gripped him to put jewels in Ñolofinwë’s hair. He can see only a glimmer of them from where he is, but he trails his gaze over Ñolofinwë’s ears, down his throat, his arms and wrists. Twists his imagination in a direction he has not before and imagines his half-brother in nothing but jewels made by his own hand and feels a pit of hunger rip itself open in his chest.

The resigned air has dropped away from Ñolofinwë in the face of Fëanáro’s continued silence and has left behind nothing but wary curiosity. He does not think that this is a wise idea but that has never stopped him from playing with fire before, from experimenting with things he would have been advised it was best not to touch. “You did not give me a chance to respond,” he says softly, not quite willing to break the strange air that’s settled around them. He tilts his head invitingly and watches in amusement as Ñolofinwë’s eyes go wide with disbelief.

Ñolofinwë hesitates for only a second, gaze scrutinizing, and then closes the space between them once more. He presses in closer this time, nudging Fëanáro back several paces until he’s trapped between the wall and Ñolofinwë. He would object on principle but Ñolofinwë’s hold on his waist is so light it would be easy to break away, the hand pushing into his hair and cradling his cheek equally as gentle. Half of him, the louder half, wants to snarl and twist them around. Wants to take and take and take, wants to see how much Ñolofinwë will give him. He has never imagined anything such as this but if he had it would not have been these strangely gentle touches, it would have been anger and violence mapped out with teeth. But the jewels that he made are glimmering in Ñolofinwë’s hair like a claim already made and he is terribly curious about this gentleness, about how far it extends.

He finds it is easier to shove the louder half of himself down than he would have thought. Mirrors Ñolofinwë and grips him by the waist, tangles his fingers in Ñolofinwë’s hair, careful to not disturb his braids and the jewels. They are pressed tightly enough together that he can feel Ñolofinwë’s breath hitch, cannot help but smirk a bit at how easily he’s affected.

Ñolofinwë continues to stare at him for a moment, some question in his eyes that Fëanáro cannot decipher, before leaning in and carefully brushing their noises together, his mouth just barely touching Fëanáro’s. “This is not a trick?” he asks softly, the question in his eyes suddenly becoming clear.

He lets his eyes slip close, digs his fingers into Ñolofinwë’s waist the slightest bit harder. “No,” he replies, equally soft, heart racing with anticipation, “there is no trick in this.”

Oh, Ñolofinwë whispers, more air than sound, and kisses him. It is at first still a gentle pressure, a test he thinks, to make sure this is truly no trick. He goes along with it, still curious to see what Ñolofinwë will do, idly catalogues the feeling of Ñolofinwë’s lips, the slightly chapped texture from the wind outside. Ñolofinwë tilts his head slightly, lips parting, his thumb stroking across Fëanáro’s cheek as he coaxes Fëanáro’s mouth open. He cannot help but sigh into it even as he fights down the urge to take control, to move things faster. This slow, meandering pace is so at odds with how quickly he moves through life that he is not quite sure what to do with it.

He hums quietly into the kiss, works his hand beneath Ñolofinwë’s tunic, finds an expanse of warm skin to explore. Ñolofinwë makes a noise low in his throat, tries to press in closer as he deepens the kiss and licks into Fëanáro’s mouth. He fights for a moment to take control of the kiss just to see if Ñolofinwë will let him. Tries to fuck his tongue into Ñolofinwë’s mouth and cannot help but smile into the kiss as Ñolofinwë’s grip on his waist goes brutally tight and he nips sharply Fëanáro’s bottom lip.

“Is this what you’ve always wanted then?” he asks roughly, breaking away from the kiss to voice the question. “To be in control of me? To have me at your mercy?”

Ñolofinwë huffs out a laugh, nosing at his pulse and pressing a kiss to the center of his throat. “I do not believe I would call this having you at my mercy,” he says, sounding amused. “Though neither of those things are what it is I’ve wanted.”

“Then what is it you want?” He tightens his grip in Ñolofinwë’s hair, feels a jewel brush his finger and swallows around the vicious hunger trying to crawl up his throat.

There’s a moment of silence, Ñolofinwë still gently nuzzling his throat. “Mostly,” he says quietly, “I simply want you to want me back. Though some days, and more often this past century, I will admit to also wanting to see if this could be a good way to shut you up.”

Irritation at the words tries to stir to life in his chest and he strangles it. The words had not been said with any particular malice and Ñolofinwë is seemingly content to stay as he is with his face hidden against Fëanáro’s neck. He wants to take that confession and use it as a weapon. Yet wants Ñolofinwë’s mouth back on his. Wants to call the hate back up and turn this into a fight. But does not want Ñolofinwë to stop touching him as if there has never been any violence between them. “You are not doing a very good job of testing that theory,” he says dryly instead.

He can feel Ñolofinwë smile against his throat before straightening and kissing him once more. He wastes no time deepening the kiss this time. Hard kisses that steal all the breath from between them, his tongue darts into Fëanáro’s mouth, tasting, teasing. He tightens his grip on Ñolofinwë’s hair until it earns him a choked moan. Maps out the plains of Ñolofinwë’s stomach with his hand, runs his fingers over each rib, down the bumps of his spine, digs his nails into Ñolofinwë’s lower back and greedily memorizes the sound he makes low in his throat in response.

It’s thrilling, the power he holds over Ñolofinwë now. Thrilling the way Ñolofinwë bites at his lip, pulls his head back and deepens the kiss. He could break Ñolofinwë with this. Could ruin his name. Is not sure he wants to do either of those things. Wants Ñolofinwë to keep kissing him until it is easy to stop thinking of how wrong everything has gone. He forcefully pushes the cruel thoughts down, instead tries to memorize the tempo of Ñolofinwë’s breaths as they kiss. The way they speed up every time Fëanáro makes a quiet noise of approval against Ñolofinwë’s mouth. The way his breath hitches every time Fëanáro’s grip on his hair tightens.

When Ñolofinwë pulls away it is only to trail his mouth down Fëanáro’s neck; wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave behind damp skin which prickles against the cool air. He thinks it surprises them both when Ñolofinwë lightly bites down, worrying at the skin with his teeth, and Fëanáro moans, the sound tearing itself from deep in his chest. Ñolofinwë hums in interest, kisses the bruise he’s just left, and then bites down a little harder, a little meaner on a spot high on Fëanáro’s neck. He does not mean to arch up into Ñolofinwë but his body has done so before he can stop it, a strangled moan getting caught in his throat as he pulls sharply at Ñolofinwë’s hair.

Ñolofinwë groans against his neck, kisses him again, a little messy, a little desperate. He can feel Ñolofinwë’s cock hard against his hip and cannot help but wonder, am I really going through with this? Am I truly not using this as a trick? For he could. For all that he has said it is not, he could still use it as such. It would be cruel and terrible but that is not something he typically cares about in regard to his half-brother. Ñolofinwë, as if he can hear Fëanáro’s thoughts, reaches down and lightly brushes his fingers over Fëanáro’s cock, palming it fully when Fëanáro, without even thinking, surges into the kiss with a strangled gasp, his nails digging into Ñolofinwë’s hip. It is not a trick. It is not.

“You must have a bedroom,” Ñolofinwë says hoarsely, wrenching his mouth from Fëanáro’s. “I am not fucking you against a wall.”

“You sound very sure I am going to let you fuck me,” he tosses back, even though the idea is certainly not one his body seems to have problem with.

Ñolofinwë shakes his head, pulling back solely to roll his eyes at Fëanáro. “I do not particularly care who fucks who as long as it is done on a bed,” he says.

A bolt of crackling heat goes through him at the thought of Ñolofinwë splayed out on his bed, wearing nothing but that which speaks of Fëanáro’s claim, and willingly taking Fëanáro’s cock. “Fuck,” he mutters vehemently. “Yes, fine, let us find a bed since you are too good to do it like this.”

He goes to move toward the door but Ñolofinwë forcefully pushes him back up against the wall ignoring the way he raises a brow in annoyance.  “You are always putting words in my mouth,” Ñolofinwë says mildly, eyes narrowed. His cock is still a hard brand of heat against Fëanáro’s hip. “I wish for a bed,” he says, getting right in Fëanáro’s face so that the words are ghosting across his mouth, “because I wish to see what you look like spread out underneath me taking my cock, or moving on top of me as you give me yours, whichever you prefer. If I am only to get one chance at this I wish it to be as memorable as I can make it.” The words pour out of him quick and fierce, so much longing pressed into each one that Fëanáro briefly feels dizzy.

He will not address the latter half of that statement right now. Tucks it away for later. Is finding it more and more imperative that they both be naked and pressed together as quickly as possible. “Yes, fine,” he says, the words only slightly strangled. “I— yes, okay. Let’s go then.”

Ñolofinwë’s mouth quirks briefly in amusement and he makes an irritated noise, grabs a fistful of Ñolofinwë’s hair none too gently, and kisses him. It is messy and a little more brutal and when he fucks his tongue into Ñolofinwë’s mouth he’s rewarded with a low whine that makes him desperately want to find out what other ways there are to draw that noise out. “Fuck,” he mutters, tearing his mouth away from Ñolofinwë’s and nearly kissing him again when he gets a glimpse of the mildly dazed look in his half-brother’s eyes. “A bed. If you want one let’s go.”

They do manage to make it to his bedroom and the moment the door is shut behind them he pins Ñolofinwë against the door and kisses him. Slots his knee in between Ñolofinwë’s legs so that his cock is pressed up against Fëanáro’s thigh. Ñolofinwë moans into the kiss, hands clutching at his shoulders, his hips making a half-aborted movement. “Go on,” he says softly, pulling back just enough to get the words out. “Show me how badly you want it.” He tugs lightly on Ñolofinwë’s hip in encouragement and kisses him again.

They both moan when Ñolofinwë slowly thrusts up against Fëanáro’s thigh. He does not know what he had expected to come of this when he'd let Ñolofinwë kiss him. Does not think it was this — his half-brother slowly grinding up against his thigh, a desperate whine caught in the back of his throat as Fëanáro kisses him, tries to memorize the exact layout of Ñolofinwë's mouth.

"Fëanáro," he says when their mouths part, a little desperate, a little wondering, all slick desire that makes Fëanáro want to pin him down, watch him beg.

"Could you get off like this?" he asks, hating himself for feeling so enchanted by the way Ñolofinwë looks, mouth parted around a moan, his eyes locked on Fëanáro's face, a thin ring of winter blue caught bordering desire.

"I will be so cross with you if you do not let us use the bed," Ñolofinwë mutters, stuttering over the words when Fëanáro grinds up against him.

He's terribly tempted to ignore that but the lure of losing their clothes is too strong, and so he reluctantly steps back. Glances at his jewelry box a moment later, a thought blossoming in his mind. "Close your eyes," he tells Ñolofinwë, who has moved next to the bed and is watching him. There's a moment of hesitation, Ñolofinwë's brow furrowing, but he does close his eyes, only the barest thread of tension in his shoulders. Something in Fëanáro's chest goes disgustingly tight at the display of fragile trust.

The jewelry he pulls out are all a deep crimson, some pieces marked with the star of his house. The arm bands he does not think will fit correctly, he will have to forge some for Ñolofinwë later. But the bracelets, the necklaces, perhaps even the delicate ear cuff — those will fit.

Ñolofinwë frowns at the clatter of jewelry when he places it on the bed, shifting uncertainly, and then goes very still as Fëanáro slides a thick bracelet onto his right wrist, several thinner bracelets following, slides the same onto his left. One of the necklaces sits in the hollow of Ñolofinwë's throat, the symbol of Fëanáro's house stark against Ñolofinwë's skin. Two others hang down his chest, dark gold chains, crimson jewels like water droplets. The delicately cut ear cuff fits, though not perfectly, he will have to make others, but it fits well enough to look like spun gold highlighting the curve of Ñolofinwë’s ear.

He steps back to admire Ñolofinwë covered in things made by his own hand, covered in stuff declaring Ñolofinwë as his. Pauses, almost startled as he catches the thought. Sets it aside as something to exam later. “Look at me,” he says softly, running his finger along Ñolofinwë's collarbone. Ñolofinwë's breathing is unsteady when he opens his eyes. He looks down to his wrists, delicately touches the star on his throat, meets Fëanáro’s eyes and oh, he can tell that Ñolofinwë is trying to hide it, but there’s something very fragile and terrified hiding behind the desire. He had thought earlier that he had what he needed to break Ñolofinwë, but now, he’s just been handed something even better.

But, as he steps forward and threads his fingers through Ñolofinwë’s hair, the jewels whispering over his fingers, he finds that he has no desire to do anything with the knowledge but hold it. The anger is still there, a quiet fire always ready to violently blaze to life when needed, but seeing Ñolofinwë naked and vulnerable, covered in Fëanáro’s symbol, covered in the work of his hands, it makes a part of him quietly hum with pleasure. A secret chord that’s been struck and is now endlessly reverberating through the air, getting woven in with the music of the world. He can’t un-hear it.

He mimics Ñolofinwë’s movements from earlier, brushing their noses together, their mouths only just touching. Listens to the gentle murmur of the bracelets as Ñolofinwë runs his hands up Fëanáro’s sides, his breath just barely shaking against Fëanáro’s mouth. “I am going to forge a set of arm bands for you to wear. Ear cuffs to match the jewels in your hair—”

“Fëanáro,” his brother says hoarsely. “What are you—”

“Did you think,” he asks viciously, “that you could kiss me, that you could wear the jewels I made you and crawl into my bed, and I would just let you go afterward?”

“And if I do not wish to stay?”

He nearly laughs, swallows it at the last minute. “Will you tell me you do not wish to?”

There’s a long pause, Ñolofinwë’s hands restlessly charting his spine. “I cannot stay at Formenos for the next eleven years,” he says finally. Which is not, Fëanáro smugly notes, a denial that he wishes to.

“There is no reason you cannot," he says, pressing his advantage, wondering if it will work. Wondering if he truly wants it to. “Regardless, you could wear the jewels I’ve made you if you leave. And you can wear them when you return and sleep in my bed.”

“You wish to brand me,” Ñolofinwë says, something inscrutable in his voice. “To show Tirion that the throne is still yours for you have claimed me.”

He kisses his brother, pushes him back onto the bed and climbs on top of him, pins one wrist to the bed, the bracelets cool beneath his palm, keeps his other hand tangled in Ñolofinwë's hair. “I wish for no one else to touch you,” he says, carefully does not poke the writhing mess of emotions in his chest that statement sparks to life. Does not acknowledge that he had not thought the political implications through at all. Stares down at Ñolofinwë and catalogues the wide-eyed disbelief, his mouth kissed red, the flush sitting high on his cheeks.

"I cannot—" Ñolofinwë begins.

"You could," he counters, cutting him off.

Ñolofinwë closes his eyes, mouths something to himself. "You are so— I do not understand you," he says, sounding bewildered and tired but underneath it all, there is a quiet longing cut through every word.

"Do you not wish to mend things between us?" he asks, knows he has found the correct pressure point when Ñolofinwë's hand rises to his throat, to the spot Fëanáro had set his sword to, the spot his star is covering.

"You do not care for me, this, this is not the same as caring, as putting in effort to mend things."

"And you think I am incapable of putting in the effort," he accuses.

Ñolofinwë hesitates, searching his face. "Oh, I am a fool," he says softly, laughs quietly to himself, pulls Fëanáro into a hard kiss. "Fine," he says against Fëanáro's mouth, "fine, let us try it your way. But don't, if you don't mean this, if you are only—"

"I do not offer things I do not mean," he snaps, pulling back to look Ñolofinwë in the face. "I do not care for you, this is true," he says brutally, flexes his hands around the bracelets, around his brother's wrist, pulls a little meanly at his hair. "But I will not so easily let you go now that you have given yourself to me. I am not incapable of learning."

"No," Ñolofinwë says quietly, eyes gone soft around the edges, "I don't suppose anyone has ever been able to accuse you of that."

It is almost anticlimactic after that to kiss him again. To properly comprehend the feel of their cocks sliding against one another, the way Ñolofinwë keeps making tiny, bitten off whimpering noises against his mouth. Almost.

He reluctantly tears himself away to fetch the oil, stands next to the bed for a long moment when he returns, taking in the sight of Ñolofinwë splayed across his bed. He is a sight to behold, crimson jewels splashed across his chest like blood, glimmers of light caught in his hair, cock hard and leaking against his stomach, fingers clenched in the bedsheets. It is enough to make Fëanáro feel a little drunk on the beauty of it all. Enough to make him decide to do something foolish.

He straddles Ñolofinwë, kisses him slowly for a moment, feeling a little like he's swallowing light. “Okay," he murmurs against his brother's mouth, slips the vial of oil into Ñolofinwë's hand. "Take what it is you wanted." For what better way is there in this moment to prove that he is serious.

There is a moment of blank incomprehension, Ñolofinwë blinking up him, eyes hazy. A moment where Fëanáro almost takes it back because he wants to keep that look in his brother’s eyes. Wants to fuck him so well he cannot remember his own name. But he can see the exact moment the words pierce through the haze for Ñolofinwë’s eyes go sharp and he has twisted them in the space of a heartbeat.

There is a moment where they can only stare at each other, for it is unthinkable, in truth, for Fëanáro to be allowing— no, encouraging this. To be pinned down by Ñolofinwë and feel nothing but a greedy lust melting through him is unfathomable. And yet. Here he is. Here they are. He reaches up and traces a slow line from the center of Ñolofinwë’s forehead, around the curve of his brow, down his cheek. Takes hold of the necklace around his brother’s neck and pulls him down into a kiss. Loses all his breath when Ñolofinwë's mouth collides with his and his mind finally narrows in on the word he has so easily been thinking.

Brother, he thinks, as Ñolofinwë kisses him and leaves a trail of kisses down his throat, his chest. It is all so unbearably gentle, and he is not, despite what others may think, unaware of the fact that he perhaps does not deserve gentleness from Ñolofinwë of all people. But his brother, his brother, is still so unbearably gentle. Ñolofinwë blows air lightly across his cock, sending a shiver through him, but does not touch him. Instead runs his hand up Fëanáro's thigh, presses a lingering kiss to his hipbone, sucking a bruise onto his skin. Fëanáro forces himself to match that gentleness. Reaches down and tangles his fingers in Ñolofinwë's hair and pulls only lightly,

Ñolofinwë opens him up slowly, spends what feels like an age simply fucking a single finger in and out as his other hand roams Fëanáro's body, his mouth a constant warm pressure on some part of Fëanáro's skin. By the time a second finger is slowly pushed in he can feel a humiliating whine caught in his throat. His entire body is pleasantly buzzing from Ñolofinwë's touch, his mouth, and Fëanáro's cock feels as if it is so hard surely if his brother would simply fuck him a bit harder, a bit faster, he could come without even being touched. It leaves a tight, desperate feeling crawling through his chest and up his throat. But still Ñolofinwë continues to move slowly, only two fingers still, in and out, until he cannot help but bear down, trying to get more friction, gasping around the whine he refuses to let out.

He goes to reach for his cock, desperate for something more, the slow pace maddening, but Ñolofinwë catches his wrist and pins it to the bed. "You said to take what I want," Ñolofinwë says quietly, leaning up so that he can nose at Fëanáro's cheek before lightly kissing him. "I want to see you fall apart and for it to be solely my doing."

"I thought you said you did not wish to have me at your mercy," he says, half accusing, mostly desperate.

"I do not," Ñolofinwë says easily, kissing him again. He lingers this time, catching Fëanáro's bottom lip with his teeth as he pulls away. "I do not wish to take control from you. I wish for you to give it to me." There is no particular force behind the words, but the blue of Ñolofinwë's eyes has gone sea-storm dark.

And this is what it always comes down to is it not? What concessions he is willing to give in this constant feud between them. The answer, before today, has always been none. He would give no concessions to the half-brother he hated, anything Ñolofinwë gained would have to be stolen. But he is here now, willingly on his back beneath his brother who he has called his brother, even if only in his mind. One more concession, especially one that will lead to nothing but pleasure, does not seem so big a thing to give.

He pulls Ñolofinwë into another hard kiss, mutters, “Fine, fine, yes, I will give it to you,” against Ñolofinwë’s mouth.

Ñolofinwë smiles into the kiss. “A less than graceful hand-off but I suppose it will do,” he says, pulling away and staring down at Fëanáro, a desperate fondness caught in the corners of his eyes.

He is helpless to do anything but return the smile, feels something inside of himself, some core pillar that he had not wanted to disturb, shake and shake and shake beneath the weight of how very genuine the smile is. He has the sudden urge to kick Ñolofinwë out of his bed entirely, out of Formenos, back out of his life before whatever it is shaking in his chest completely shatters apart. If you take away the hate, take away one of his core truths in the world, that he hates Ñolofinwë and always will, if you take that away — what is left?

Ñolofinwë is studying his face carefully, perhaps sensing that Fëanáro is on the edge of storming away. But he strangles the urge to ruin this fragile trust only just beginning to weave its way between them, shoves it so far down he can barely hear it whispering, run, run, run. Instead he runs his fingers over the star sitting in the hollow of his brother’s throat, pulls the necklace tight for a brief second just to listen to Ñolofinwë’s breath catch, and quietly says, “Go on then, brother. I have given myself up have I not?”

There is a thick, tense moment of silence where Ñolofinwë goes utterly still. The pure disbelief in Ñolofinwë’s eyes making something twist in his chest in return. Brother, Ñolofinwë mouths to himself, the disbelief only growing before shattering into a ravenous greed. Ñolofinwë’s fingers slide into his hair and clench tight as he crashes their mouths together, it’s messy and indelicate and Fëanáro groans into it, into the feel of Ñolofinwë’s fingers teasingly pressing against his hole but not doing anything. Ñolofinwë pulls away and mouths at his pulse for a moment, says very softly against his neck, “Say it again.”

Fëanáro drags in a shaking breath, quietly asks himself, do you mean it? Feels Ñolofinwë’s unsteady breathing against his neck; the hard warmth of Ñolofinwë’s cock against his hip; thinks, he is wearing the creations I formed with my hands; thinks, I told him I do not offer things I do not mean; thinks, without quite meaning to, by the gods I refuse to let him go now that I’ve had him. “Brother,” he says softly, digging his fingers into Ñolofinwë’s shoulder, a high-pitched moan escaping him when Ñolofinwë bites down sharply on his neck, worrying at the skin as he presses two fingers back inside, fucking them in a little faster, a little harder. Fëanáro, in the interest of breaking his brother’s self-control completely, waits until Ñolofinwë crooks his fingers upward and sends pleasure sparking up his spine, waits until another desperate moan is breaking free and sends with it, “Brother,” the word thick with desire.

Ñolofinwë groans against his neck and leaves another string of kisses down his body, slowly pushes in a third finger and licks a stripe up his cock, taking just the head into his mouth as he fucks into Fëanáro. The whine he has been so carefully keeping locked away finally breaks free as he pushes into the twin points of pleasure. It is still not enough. Sensation aplenty to leave him feeling as if he is going to shake apart, the warmth of Ñolofinwë’s mouth an exquisite torture to match the way three fingers is enough to leave him feeling full but not full enough.

“Nolvo,” he says, the name coming out strangled and far more breathless than he’d meant for it too, “I swear if you do not—” he breaks off with a desperate gasp, another whine crawling up his throat whip-quick as Ñolofinwë abruptly takes most of Fëanáro’s cock into his mouth, groaning around it as he twists his fingers, crooking them upward once more, leaving Fëanáro shaking, and then he pulls away completely all at once. The half-desperate noise Fëanáro makes, as the pleasure frantically struggles to crest and cannot, would be more embarrassing if he could catch his breath long enough to care.

Ñolofinwë seems to have pushed his own patience to the brink as well for he wastes no time slicking his cock up, head thrown back for a moment as he fists himself, and Fëanáro thinks that if he were of mind to he could get himself off from nothing but the image in front of him — his brother, head thrown back, mouth parted around a moan, jewels dripping down his chest and highlighting all the spots Fëanáro will later need to bruise, his hand moving over his cock. Fëanáro has always loved beauty, has always loved finding ways to take a beautiful thing and make it even better, make it so blinding it hurts to look at. His brother has always been beautiful, this is a simple fact, but wearing jewels that mark him as belonging to Fëanáro, he burns to look at.

Despite the vision his brother makes, Fëanáro is nevertheless far more pleased when Ñolofinwë hikes one of Fëanor’s legs over his shoulder, leaning down to press their mouths together as he lines himself up and, as if in direct defiance of Fëanáro’s expectations for even this to be drawn out, he buries himself inside of Fëanáro’s body in one smooth motion that has him arching up against his brother with a startled groan. Ñolofinwë moans, shaking a little as he pauses, and Fëanáro greedily swallows the noise down.

He had not been prepared, does not think he could have been prepared, for the intensity of having Ñolofinwë moving inside of him. For how it feels like a punch to the gut to see his brother’s eyes blown out with a want so deep he wants to live in it. He slides his fingers into Ñolofinwë’s hair and drags him into a messy, open-mouthed kiss that devolves into them simply swallowing each other’s moans. Tightens his grip on Ñolofinwë’s hair until his hips stutter, a low whine carving through the air, and oh, it is exhilarating to find that even now, even like this, he could still wrench control of the situation away from his brother.

Ñolofinwë, as if sensing the thought, shifts his hips until Fëanáro tenses, a desperate whimper escaping into Ñolofinwë’s mouth, digs his nails into Fëanáro’s thigh a little meanly, and ignoring the way Fëanáro’s grip on his hair tightens further, leans down and sets to work sucking another bruise onto Fëanáro’s neck. It is too much, it is not enough, the sharp press of teeth to his throat, the drag of Ñolofinwë’s cock inside of him as he speeds up, unerringly hitting the perfect spot over and over now that he’s found it. Fëanáro cannot breathe around the pleasure bubbling up his throat, around the feeling of Ñolofinwë pressed so unbearably close to him, the biting, violent desire to never let his brother leave.

“Nolvo,” he chokes out, clenching his fingers in the sheets tightly enough he feels something give and rip beneath the pressure, does not reach to touch himself no matter how much he wishes to.

“Go on then,” Ñolofinwë says, kissing him again as he lets go of Fëanáro’s thigh to reach between them and take hold of his cock, “come for me, brother.”

This is apparently all it takes, Ñolofinwë fists his cock and fucks inside of him and says brother, and the trembling pillar inside of him crumbles to dust as pleasure goes sweeping through him. It fills up the empty space, spirals down his spine, turns Ñolofinwë’s name into something a little like an oath as it falls out of his mouth. Ñolofinwë curses as Fëanáro clenches tight around him, hips stuttering, throws his head back as he moans and Fëanáro gathers himself just enough to reach up and grab the necklace and pull it tight about Ñolofinwë’s throat. His brother makes a guttural, choked noise, fucks into him hard enough that it sends pleasure-pain aftershocks ripping through him, and moans loudly as he spills inside of Fëanáro.

The silence that spreads through the room after is calm and broken only by their own harsh breathing as Ñolofinwë collapses on top him and buries his face against Fëanáro’s throat. He hums quietly, gentles his touch as he runs his fingers through Ñolofinwë’s hair. His brother kisses his throat, leaves his mouth pressed to it as they listen to each other breathe. He would have been content to lay like that for a while, mind blissfully quiet and floating in a haze, but he shifts uncomfortably only a few minutes later, feels Ñolofinwë smile against his throat before he pulls himself up and eases out Fëanáro. He expects Ñolofinwë to lay back down but instead his brother makes an interested noise and slowly presses two fingers back inside of him.

He hisses, body torn between jerking away or pushing into the feeling. Ñolofinwë glances up at his face, fingers pausing their movement, before he looks back down, an enraptured look in his eyes as he so, so slowly fucks his fingers into Fëanáro. The pleasure-pain sparking through his body lodges another whine in his throat as he white-knuckles the sheets. Ñolofinwë pulls his fingers out and leans over Fëanáro, meets his eyes as he slowly presses the same two fingers into Fëanáro’s mouth. Bitterness bursts over his tongue and he thinks perhaps he means to pull away but instead he finds himself helplessly fascinated with the enraptured look in Ñolofinwë eyes; sucks lightly and licks Ñolofinwë’s fingers clean.

Ñolofinwë makes a low noise and kisses him, licks into his mouth and steals the taste away. Has moved back down Fëanáro’s body and buried his face between Fëanáro’s thighs before he properly comprehends what it is his brother intends to do. A strangled noise bursts out of him as Ñolofinwë circles his rim with his tongue and then pushes inside.

“Nolvo,” he says, half-plea, half-warning; pushes into the feeling of Ñolofinwë fucking his tongue inside, cleaning up the mess he left behind. Tries to pull away a moment later with a desperate whine when Ñolofinwë sucks at his rim, sending starbursts of pleasure spiking through him. But Ñolofinwë holds his hips still and keeps on fucking Fëanáro with his tongue until Fëanáro has a constant whine stuck in his throat. He cannot get hard again so soon but his entire body still feels lit up and overly sensitive. He pulls at Ñolofinwë’s hair eliciting a groan that sends vibrations through Fëanáro, and something in his chest snaps tight and shatters as a wave of pleasure breezes through him.

He pulls sharply at Ñolofinwë’s hair, a little too hard, a little mean, but he cannot stop gasping and is desperate; distantly, he realizes that his cheeks are wet, though he could not tell you when he began crying. His brother finally pulls away, pressing his face to the curve of Fëanáro’s hip, breath coming out in short, little bursts against his skin. He tugs lightly at Ñolofinwë’s hair once more, pleased when his brother finally moves up the bed and lays down, curling in toward him, one arm flung across Fëanáro’s chest. He turns into it, tangling them together properly, and slides his fingers into Ñolofinwë’s hair, kisses him. Still feels a little desperate, a little raw.

They lay like that for a long while, slowly kissing as their hearts slow. Fëanáro has a creeping suspicion in the back of his mind that he has perhaps started something far bigger than he meant to. But Ñolofinwë fits easily in his arms as he carefully wipes the tears off Fëanáro’s face, tears that Fëanáro can only half-believe he cried, for what an absurd thought, that he would permit himself to cry in front of Ñolofinwë. But he has and Ñolofinwë has cracked him open and is now quietly nuzzling his throat where the bruises his brother left behind lay. He does not care for his brother in any way that matters. This is still a truth even if it is now a weak one that feels close to shattering.

But Fëanáro is a quick learner and he fears it will take him very little time at all to learn to care for Ñolofinwë if he is faced with his brother in his bed every day. Is faced with a Ñolofinwë who smiles at him and kisses him so gently but still pushes and prods until Fëanáro breaks. Who earlier, had ridden Fëanáro’s thigh like it was something he was grateful for. He has not yet even gotten a chance to explore all the ways he can hold his brother down and pull him apart, for once with the intention of putting him back together afterward. No. He does not believe this will be something he struggles to learn. Though he struggles to believe that he is learning it all. But he is the one who said, stay. He will not renege the offer now.

“You are staying at Formenos,” he says quietly and it is not a question.

Ñolofinwë hums quietly, pulls back to blink sleepily at him. “I do not know how I will explain it to anyone but—” he hesitates, a multitude of thoughts flashing across his face before he sighs softly, “—but yes, I will stay if you wish me to, Fëanáro.”

He brushes his knuckles down Ñolofinwë’s cheek as an unbearably soft feeling goes skittering through his chest. Ñolofinwë’s eyes are endlessly, painfully blue, the light behind them making it seem as if he could simply walk into them the same as one would walk into the ocean, and Fëanáro wants him to stay with a ferocity that scares him.

He brushes his fingers over his star still sitting in the hollow of Ñolofinwë’s throat, moves it aside to look at the smooth, unmarred skin beneath where he knows he had pressed the tip of his sword. He will not apologize for pulling his sword on Ñolofinwë for he does not regret it, just as he knows Ñolofinwë holds no regret for the words he spoke in front of the court. He does not regret it but. But he will admit to being quietly relieved that nothing came of it. Leans down and presses his mouth to the spot, lingers as Ñolofinwë’s breath hitches. “Stay,” he says softly, against Ñolofinwë’s skin.

“Yes, Náro,” his brother says gently, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. “I am going to stay.”

Fëanáro breathes in deeply around the lack of hate that normally blocks his lungs, kisses his brother, and pulls the blankets over them. He had not meant to start something this big but Ñolofinwë presses in closer, body loose and trusting beneath Fëanáro’s hands, and something behind his ribs twists violently as he thinks, mine.

The truth shatters into a lie.

---

Chapter End Notes

The Number of Thoughts They Have Given To What This Will Look Like When Their Father + Fëanor's Kids Get Back From the Mysterious Plot Convenient Place They Are At: Zero 

Spoiler: it will look exactly like what it is & there will be much yelling <3 

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