Not in Love by AdmirablePrecious  

Not in Love

He hears the rumors hanging from the trees, from the branches, from the leaves. They fall around him like the floral petals carried in the wind. He sees himself spinning around them more confused than graceful.

”Preposterous!” Is all he can say as the rumors spread the embers in his forge.

”He’s in love.”

”Annatar will give his heart to you. Yet another gift for you.”

They go round and round again. Here they go again. Celebrimbor can only shake his head.

“A Maia cannot give like that,” he tries telling everyone but he is not heard. At least he doesn’t think so. “He cannot be like the one who did.”

Yet he remembers brushes against him. The smiles. The beautiful man in the beautiful clothes standing way too close. Even the apron is beautiful in its simplicity as his beautiful hands craft beautiful things. Celebrimbor knows the look on his own face, remembers his heart fluttering. He remembers the catching of his own breath.

“Here we go again,” Celebrimbor whispers as he is taken by Annatar one way or the other. Fascination ends. Fascination begins. “If we are lovers, we can’t be friends.” Not true, not true and he knows it. Sometimes dizziness takes over and Celebrimbor needs some tea. Then Annatar draws near in black sparkling crystals patched with gold. He is lovely in the light. Lovely in the dark.

Annatar is warmth when it’s cold outside. Annatar is cold when it’s hot outside. The rumors rise and fall with the sun and moon. Soon they sprinkle among the stars.

”He’s in love.”

”I’m not in love,” Celebrimbor insists.

Who is in control here? He wonders, feeling like he shouldn’t have to answer that. “I cannot take him as far as the rumors would love.” Celebrimbor shakes his head. “I am in control.”

Not in love. Not in love. Not in love. Who holds the reins in this relationship? “I am in control.” Celebrimbor tries to spread his own leaves. “I am in control. I’m not in love.”

When there is snow, there is fire and where there is fire, there is Annatar in the eyes of Celebrimbor. “Here we go again.” He is way too close again. He is pushed against the wall. Annatar is too close, but the hands are beautiful as they graze across his chest. His lips are liquid fire, easily let in. Celebrimbor can only slump after he is left breathless in a climax he never thought he’d have. He tells himself he is in control when he finds himself sharing his bed with the Lord of Gifts.

He does not believe this. The hair is lovely against the pillow, but Celebrimbor does not believe this.

“We are not in love,” Celebrimbor talks, but no one listens. “We are not in love.”

Yet the cold eyes are full of fire not born from a forge. The lovely face smiles when there is devotion only to him. The lovely face is a steel blade when devotion is even thought of being elsewhere.

“We are not in love!” Celebrimbor’s insistence. Annatar merely smiles as his lovely leather boots whisper against the floor along with the golden hem of his robes. “We are not in love.”

Not in love. Not in love. Celebrimbor’s heart beats true against Annatar.

“We are not in love.”

Celebrimbor feels like spinning around the blossoms, around kaleidoscope lights. He is not in love when he finds himself in a dance with Annatar among the lamps that glow in shades of blue. He is not in love when Annatar fixes his hair. He is not in love when he fixes Annatar’s hair. He is not in love when he offers gifts of his own that are Annatar’s to keep.

“We are not in love.”

Celebrimbor says it to the flowers, to jewelry he crafts, to the rainbow lamplights he creates. He never says it to Annatar.

He can’t.

“We are in love,” Annatar whispers, his beautiful hand gliding through Celebrimbor’s hair as rings are overseen as gems spin across silver and gold. Annatar’s hand is firm as he takes Celebrimbor under distant trees where the only witness to their tangled limbs is the sunset that falls as they rise while remaining on the cool, damp earth.

“I am in control.” Annatar talks and everyone listens.