don't go blindly into the dark by atlantablack  

---

I tell myself // I’d follow him anywhere

Chapter title is from the poem, The World at Its Beginning by Dustin Pearson

---

There wasn't a time / I didn't have / a brother. By the time / my eyes
opened, / he was already here, / but there's so little / time between
us, / he also can't remember / a time before me. / Our origins blur /into
a single birth / between us / and so between us / is a world / and its
beginning. / I tell myself / there's not a world / without my brother in
it. / I tell myself / I'd follow him anywhere / to keep the world / from 
ending.

The World at Its Beginning | Dustin Pearson

☀︎

Fëanáro says, I am not incapable of learning, and Ñolofinwë knows that this is true, but he cannot believe Fëanáro. Not about this. Had, in truth, half-believed that Fëanáro would simply change his mind and decide to ignore the matter until Ñolofinwë was forced to reveal the sickness to the rest of their family.

He discovers the following day that, to Fëanáro, learning seems to mean barging into the palace before breakfast has even concluded so that he may drag Ñolofinwë out into the gardens. Anairë and his children stare after them with perplexed looks that leave Ñolofinwë dreading having to figure out how to explain why Fëanáro is willingly spending time with him.

He carefully places all his emotions inside a box, tries to think of nothing but what is directly in front of him. For all that Fëanáro seems genuinely intent on trying, he does not believe this first attempt will be anything less than disastrous.

Fëanáro leads them to the eastern corner of the gardens where a fountain is hidden. It is a small pavilion, the north entrance nearly obscured by a weeping willow. It is not an area he has often visited. It is, however, very private, and he can easily see why Fëanáro chose it.

He waits until they are settled side by side on a bench, staring at the fountain so that they do not have to look at each other, to ask: “Well, what is your plan to fix this then?” For all that he does not believe this will work, does not believe Fëanáro is capable of loving him, he still finds himself curious as to what exactly Fëanáro plans on attempting. Curious as to how long Fëanáro’s resolve to pursue a solution will last. 

Fëanáro is quiet for a moment, fists clenched tight. “We must talk, must we not?” he says in a low voice; trying to hide the distaste at the thought, Ñolofinwë is sure. “The solution is for me to… the desired outcome is for me to be able to say that I—” he pauses for so long that Ñolofinwë is not sure he is even capable of finishing the sentence. But finally he spits out, “—that I love you. That I view you as a full brother in heart.”

“And mean it,” Ñolofinwë tacks on, staring at the fountain and trying to imagine Fëanáro ever saying any of those words and meaning them. Cannot picture it even as a mockery. 

"And mean it. Yes. You know I do not lie about these things, Ñolofinwë. If I say it, I will mean it." He sounds deadly certain of himself in this, and Ñolofinwë does not doubt him, not in this of all things.

As it turns out, neither of them seems to know how to speak to the other when honesty is demanded. Ñolofinwë cannot think of anything to say that Fëanáro will not take offense to or twist into an insult. Cannot think of anything to say that would not make it seem as if he is trying to guilt his brother into loving him. Fëanáro is silent as well, likely unable to think of anything to say that is not insulting. Unable to think of anything to speak about when he does not care about Ñolofinwë, and he is not in the habit of bothering with small talk. But despite the awkward silence, despite the pressure slowly making itself known in his chest, it is nice to have Fëanáro next to him while the air is mostly peaceful.

Fëanáro breaks the silence with a frustrated noise, standing and pacing, agitation clear in his shoulders. He spins toward Ñolofinwë on the fourth pass, pointing aggressively. “I do not like you.” 

“I know,” he says dryly. “That is rather what has gotten me into this mess.” 

Fëanáro scowls at him. “I do not. So, tell me something about yourself that will change my mind. We must start somewhere.” 

Ñolofinwë stares at him. Wonders how offensive it would be to break down into laughter. “I do not know what I could tell you that you do not already know,” he says, reluctantly amused at the way Fëanáro is attempting to blindly charge through this. “I am the same person I have always been. Nothing about me has changed.” 

“Something must have,” Fëanáro says, giving him a look that clearly says he has missed something obvious. “If you have always felt this strongly, then why is it only now that you have developed the flower-sickness?” He raises an eyebrow and nods decisively when Ñolofinwë can do nothing but stare at him. “Precisely. Something in the way you feel about me has changed and caused this.”

He considers that carefully for a moment, splitting himself into parts and then placing them back together. If Fëanáro never lies about his feelings toward a person, then Ñolofinwë matches him only in how he never lies to himself. “I do not believe anything has so significantly changed in my own feelings,” he says slowly, holding his hand up when Fëanáro opens his mouth to interrupt. “No, I believe it may be some combination of sudden extended exposure to you in a way I have not had to deal with in a very long time, and that lately, your feelings toward me have noticeably darkened.” He does not say, in a way that feels a little as if we are, over and over again, standing in a pool of sunlight as you snarl that you are not my brother, that you will never be my brother, not in any way that matters. Thinks maybe Fëanáro hears it regardless, if the way his face twists is any indication. 

Fëanáro shakes his head as if in denial. “You hate me,” he mutters. “You wish to insert yourself into spots that are not yours, into positions that do not belong to you.” 

“I believe it is rather demonstrably obvious that I do not hate you,” he says with a sigh, rubbing at his chest where an ache has begun to make itself known. 

“But do you deny the rest?” Fëanáro demands harshly. “You wish to take my place as heir. To steal Atar’s love.” 

“Love is not a thing that can be stolen. If it were, do you think I would not have already tried to steal yours so that I could rid myself of this problem? I wish for Atar to love me, of course, do not give me that look,” he snaps, for Fëanáro’s scowl has gone dark and cruel. “It is not unreasonable or strange for one to want their father's love. But I have no desire nor need to deprive you of such.” He breathes in deeply, pressing hard on his chest as the tightness worsens. 

“You are avoiding the question of the heirship,” Fëanáro says dangerously, taking a step toward him. “Speak true, Ñolofinwë. I will know if you lie."

“I have not lied to you,” he says evenly, forced to pause and focus on drawing in another deep breath, the slightest tickle taking up residence in the base of his throat. “I am not trying to steal anything from you. I would not. I will admit to believing that I would enjoy the duties of your position far more than you seem to, but I am not aiming to steal it from—”

Ñolofinwë must break off to cough, has the pointless desire to bang his fists against the bench in helpless frustration. 

He thinks that perhaps he can escape with only a small coughing fit, one that involves no flowers at all, only a terribly tight chest that threatens to turn on him. Thinks that until he gets himself under control and looks up to find Fëanáro watching him with suspicious, worried eyes. 

It is, of course, the suspicion that his body decides it cannot stand. He has only a second to register what is about to happen before he is bent over, violently coughing as the flowers fully lodge themselves in his throat.

Fëanáro curses, moving to sit next to him, a hand settling on his back as he fights to breathe. It is easier this time, thankfully. Perhaps because of the knowledge that this is Fëanáro trying, even if he is terrible at it, perhaps because Fëanáro's presence alone eases it if only the slightest bit. The flowers, though they cling to his throat and make him gag terribly as they come up, do come up without too much trouble.

He is left, in the end, with a handful of lavender flowers in his hand, and Fëanáro's hand a burning brand on his back.

Fëanáro sighs heavily after a moment, reaching over to pluck one of the flowers from his palm. "Lavender," he murmurs, running his thumb over the petals. "Distrust. A bit on the nose perhaps."

Ñolofinwë would have something scathing to say in response if his throat did not burn. Instead, he crushes the rest of the flowers in his fist before dropping them to the ground. "No more accusations then?" he asks hoarsely after a minute.

"And what else should I accuse you of?" Fëanáro asks, his hand still pressed to Ñolofinwë's back. "Faking this sickness? Such a thing is not possible. I could say that everything you have said to me today is a lie. But to what end, when we both know how this will go if I cannot fix this?"

“To what end,” he echoes, swallowing around the lump of emotion threatening to choke him in place of the flowers. What end indeed. For there is no end to this but one that ends with him in Mandos, sundered from his loved ones for the crime of loving one person too deeply. How absurd that there can even be such a thing as too much love. 

The silence stretches for a long time, the sound of the water fountain a soothing melody, the breeze blowing through the gardens cool against his skin. Fëanáro's hand never leaves his back, and Ñolofinwë still finds the idea of Fëanáro caring in any capacity so novel that he cannot bring himself to shake it off.

“You truly have no designs to usurp the heirship?” Fëanáro asks after the peace has begun to lull Ñolofinwë into a sleepy trance. 

His brother shifts to look at him, hand finally falling away, and Ñolofinwë blinks at him. Fëanáro stares back with a furrowed brow and a mouth that seems to only ever frown when in Ñolofinwë's presence. "Fëanáro, tell me, what would I have to gain from doing such a thing? A heirship is only any good if there is something to inherit, and if I in truth, decided to take up the foolish task of usurping your position, rest assured that there would be a revolt in Tirion." He cannot help but sigh at the perplexed irritation on Fëanáro's face. "I do not wish to steal it from you, brother. But even if I did wish to, even if I were willing to ignore our father’s wishes, I am not foolish enough to think that the resulting political mess would be worth it.” 

Fëanáro considers him for another minute through narrowed eyes. “You do not wish to steal it,” he says slowly, his talent for narrowing in on the pieces Ñolofinwë least wants him to pay attention to unmatched. “But you do wish for it.” 

He sighs, considers his options, considers lying. But as they had said, to what end would lying accomplish anything at all? "Yes, Fëanáro. Yes, I wish for it. Wishing for something does not mean I intend to act on such desires."

"Then what," Fëanáro asks quietly, eyes bleeding venom, "is the point of wishing for such things? The heirship is mine. You will not find it so easy to oust me —"

"Do you listen to me when I speak at all?" he snaps, standing and moving out of reach. "Is it not abundantly clear that I have no wish to deprive you of anything? That I have no wish to oust you from anywhere you wish to be? My reasons for wishing for such are my own, but they do not involve harming you." He pauses, glances over his shoulder to find Fëanáro still watching him with a dark expression. Shakes his head and says in disgust, "I do not know why you are even bothering with this. I will leave you to your suspicion."

He leaves quickly before Fëanáro can think to stop him and immediately ducks into a different corner garden, heading for the back hedge and feeling a surge of victory when he finds a thin area where he can slide through and disappear out into the forest. He is sure Fëanáro has already moved to follow him, but hopefully he will not think to check for such things.

Ñolofinwë cannot stand the sight of Fëanáro's face any longer. His chest is still unbearably tight, and he is sure that there will be more flowers expelled from his body before the day is over. He has no desire to have Fëanáro see it happen again. Does not like the strange looks—half-pity, half-genuine care—that he receives when the coughing is witnessed. 

It is nice, in a way, that Fëanáro wishes to fix the unfixable. It is also the worst thing in the world, for how terrible to have proof that Fëanáro has always been capable of putting in the effort if he only wished to. How absolutely fucking humiliating that Ñolofinwë was not worth the effort until he was dying. 

He should not be so surprised. He should not. But he lowers himself onto the ground next to the river, stares at his reflection in the water, and cannot help but wonder—

—is there something more I could have done to make you love me?  

☀︎

Fëanáro does not give up, though Ñolofinwë had not truly expected him to. He would not be Fëanáro without his specific brand of bull-headed stubbornness, always convinced he is right and that he can do anything he sets his mind to. Normally, Ñolofinwë would agree, for it does seem unlikely that there is anything you could put in front of Fëanáro that he would not master, given only a bit of time. But this, this, he does not believe is within even Fëanáro's capacity. 

He would be amused by being the obstacle that Fëanáro finally cannot overcome, if not for the tragic ending of it all.  

Still, Fëanáro barges into the dining room the next morning to once again drag him out to the gardens, and Ñolofinwë, despite believing this is a pointless exercise in frustration, follows. He does not believe this will work, but oh, there is a little corner of his heart that so desperately wants it to. Fëanáro points at the bench when they arrive at the garden and immediately takes to pacing once Ñolofinwë has humored him and sat down.

“You ran away yesterday,” Fëanáro says after a moment, slanting an accusing glare his way. “We will accomplish nothing if you run every time you become upset.” 

Ñolofinwë has several things he’d like to say to that, ranging from the rude—perhaps if you were not such an insufferable, suspicious asshole, I would not feel the need to run—to the rather pathetic—I do not want to see the pity in your eyes when I begin choking on my foolish love for you. Swallows all of it down and instead says, "The conversation had reached its limit of usefulness. We were not going to accomplish anything when you were only interested in accusing me of things I am not doing and do not wish to do."

Fëanáro pauses his pacing to stare at Ñolofinwë with narrowed eyes. “You have admitted in your own words, you wish to have the heirship. Why should I not accuse you of that which is true?” 

There is a split second where Ñolofinwë genuinely considers punching his brother, for there is nothing to lose at this point, and it would be so very satisfying. “If you will recall,” he says through gritted teeth, “I also clearly stated I have no intention of ever attempting to obtain it.” 

Fëanáro scoffs and returns to pacing. Ñolofinwë sighs and slides off the bench onto the grass, crossing his legs and making himself more comfortable. He is sure that he will not be able to get away with running off so easily this time, and it does not look as if Fëanáro truly has a plan other than blindly charging at the problem and hoping for the best. Which is, he thinks, mildly amused, one of the reasons he believes he would be better suited to the heirship, for this is not an uncommon way for Fëanor to approach problems. He watches Fëanáro pace for a while longer before tilting his head back against the bench and closing his eyes, turning his attention inward and slowing his breathing, counting each inhale.

They stay in this stalemate for a good while, the silence almost peaceful but for the nearly tangible agitation rolling off Fëanáro. Ñolofinwë keeps his eyes closed, his breathing steady, and thinks of nothing but the fact that Fëanáro is here. He did not leave Ñolofinwë to suffer alone. He did not write Ñolofinwë off as a lost cause. He did not immediately go tell their father and shift the problem to someone else's shoulders. He did not curse Ñolofinwë out or rejoice in the idea of his death. No, instead, he has decided to try to fix things. No matter what Ñolofinwë believes the inevitable outcome of this to be, it does not discredit that Fëanáro is trying. 

Fëanáro abruptly makes a sharp, frustrated noise and throws himself onto the ground near Ñolofinwë, shoving at his knee to get his attention, as if he could somehow have forgotten Fëanáro’s presence.

“Have you come up with some sort of useful plan then?” Ñolofinwë asks, not bothering to open his eyes, attempting to keep a tight hold on both his breathing and emotions. 

“Perhaps if you were not so deeply aggravating to be around, this would be easier,” Fëanáro snaps. 

Ñolofinwë does not sigh or throw his hands up as he wishes to. Instead shrugs, says as casually as he can, “You are welcome to leave. I am not holding you here by force.”

There is a beat of silence before Fëanáro says, low and cruel, "You seemingly wish to put so little effort into this, that if I did not know better, I would almost think that you want to die.”

He does open his eyes at that to glare, irritation coating his tongue. “I do not wish to die. I simply do not understand why you are even bothering with this,” he snaps. “It is not as if you actually wish to care about me.” 

Fëanáro stares at him for a blistering moment, something far too close to true hate flashing through his eyes. “I will not look Atar in his face and tell him that I freely allowed you to die, when I am capable of fixing this,” he says, fists clenched tight where they sit atop his thighs. 

He says it so evenly that the air punches out of Ñolofinwë, a tight, wretched emotion crawling up his windpipe and trying to close off his throat. For of course Fëanáro is not doing this because some scrap of affection for Ñolofinwë managed to squirm itself into his heart after all these years. In the back of his mind, he knew this; of course he knew this already. But oh, how it stings to have it thrown directly in his face. "The problem, is that I do not believe you are capable of it,” he tells Fëanáro, taking a savage pleasure in the irritation that bursts across Fëanáro’s face. 

“I am,” Fëanáro grits out, an angry flush spreading across his cheeks. Ñolofinwë does not think Fëanáro even believes himself. 

“How? Tell me how, Fëanáro. You cannot learn to love someone when it is not something you wish to do. That is not how this works.” 

Fëanáro stares at him with glittering, furious eyes for so long that Ñolofinwë begins to think he will get no answer at all. He holds his brother's gaze and does not allow himself to reach up to rub at his chest where an ache has begun to build.

“I do not want to do this,” Fëanáro admits, a quiet fury still hiding in his voice. “I do not care for you, and I do not wish to. But I will still not allow you to die. I will simply have to find a reason, to find something about you that will make me wish for such things.” 

“You make it sound like such a simple thing.” His chest aches terribly at the confession, even Fëanáro’s stubborn insistence that he can fix this doing nothing to lighten the ache. “What could I possibly do that would convince you to want such things? Nothing about me has changed. I am still the same as I was before this sickness took root in my chest. If you did not care for me then, why should you suddenly find yourself capable of caring for me now?” 

“That is a lie,” Fëanáro says, though there is no malice in the accusation, only simple fact. “You are more honest this way.” His mouth actually quirks up in a smile when Ñolofinwë stares incredulously at him. 

“I was honest before as well,” he says, miffed at the implication that he has been lying to his brother when he has not. He has, perhaps, bent the truth occasionally when needed, or quietly let Fëanáro’s assumptions work in his favor as they may, but he has never lied. 

Fëanáro scoffs. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But you would not have snapped at me so easily nor admitted to wanting the heirship. You are more honest whether you wish to admit to it or not.” 

Ñolofinwë finally allows himself to reach up and rub at his chest, drawing in a deep breath. “I have nothing to lose,” he murmurs, closing his eyes once more. “What does it matter if I anger or upset you? None of it will matter sooner or later.” 

Fëanáro has snapped his hand out and grabbed Ñolofinwë’s wrist before the last word even fully finishes leaving his mouth. His grip on Ñolofinwë’s wrist is brutally tight, nails digging into soft skin. “You will not die,” he snarls, grip tightening until Ñolofinwë meets his eyes. “Stop speaking as if your death is an inevitability. It is not. Have some faith in me that I can fix this.” 

He smiles, a little sad, a little amused. “Oh, Fëanáro, why should I put any of my faith in you? I love you, that does not mean I trust you or am capable of putting any faith in you.” He does not bother trying to gentle the words, and Fëanáro does not flinch, but he still drops Ñolofinwë’s wrist as if burned. 

“Then what does it mean?” his brother asks, eyes burning. “What is the point of it if you do not trust me?” 

“Who told you that love had to have a point to it? You are my brother. No matter that you have never called yourself such, no matter that you deny it, no matter that I am not yours. You are my brother. And so I love you. I am no more capable of changing it than I am capable of changing the color of the sky. It simply is.” 

There is a moment of silence, Fëanáro’s eyes going to the sky as if to check the color, and then resting on the spot where Ñolofinwë is still absently rubbing at his chest, the ache not growing worse, but also not abating. This is the longest conversation they have had without a fight erupting in a very long time, and it is as temptingly hopeful as it is painful. Fëanáro is, as usual, right in his assertion that Ñolofinwë is being more honest than he would otherwise be. It is almost shockingly relieving to let the words that have festered inside of him for so long spring free. To put the words out there and not have Fëanáro throw them back in his face would be a dream if not for the circumstances. 

"Fine," Fëanáro says finally, meeting Ñolofinwë's eyes. "Fine. I believe you."  His voice is threaded through with so many emotions that Ñolofinwë cannot begin to single any one of them out.

“Believe me? About which part?” 

Fëanáro shrugs. “That you love me is undeniably true, as I have seen the flowers come from your body myself. If I am to believe that, then I must also believe that you are being truthful when you say that there is no point to it, you simply do—” he looks more and more uncomfortable the longer he speaks, but does not stop “—and if I believe that, then I suppose I must believe that you speak true when you say you do not wish to steal what is mine. For what type of brother would do such a thing to a sibling that he loves?” 

Ñolofinwë stares at him a while. Stares a while longer. Breathes in shallowly around the hope that so desperately wants to grow. "Just like that? All these years, and you finally believe me, just like that?"

“You make it sound like such a simple thing,” Fëanáro tosses back at him, mimicking his words from earlier. “These are exceptional circumstances, are they not? I believe you capable of lying to me if the mood suits you, but you are not capable of faking the flower-sickness. And if that is real, then I must follow the logical progression of thought that follows,” he says, raising an eyebrow expectantly, “which leads me to the conclusion that you do indeed mean what you are saying.” 

“The logical progression of thought,” he echoes. Something about the idea of Fëanáro applying logic to his feelings when it comes to the matter of any child of Indis is so unbearably absurd that he finds himself hiding his face in his hands and laughing. He laughs until his stomach hurts and then makes the mistake of looking up and meeting Fëanáro’s eyes. His brother looks so befuddled and annoyed all at once that it sends him into another helpless fit of laughter. 

He still does not truly believe this will work, but the laughter is cleansing in a way, and when he finally straightens he finds that the pressure on his chest has lightened the slightest bit. “You are utterly ridiculous,” he tells Fëanáro, not even attempting to keep the affection from his voice. “I still do not believe you—no, do not give me that look, I do not. I do not know how to believe you. But if you are willing to believe me, I will follow your lead and try to believe you in turn.” 

“How kind of you,” Fëanáro says dryly, a strange look in his eyes as he watches Ñolofinwë. 

“Very, yes. But,” and here he must pause to smile, the hope getting caught in his throat and stealing his voice, “perhaps you could come up with an actual plan. Something that relies on things other than us sitting out here and hoping for the best.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Fëanáro snaps, scowling at him, but for once there is no malice in it.

Ñolofinwë does not want to have hope, but it settles beneath his tongue and winds itself around his ribs regardless, makes a home of his body. The problem with hope, is that it is as impossible to escape as despair. And how much worse will it hurt at the end, if he has allowed himself to hope, only for it to all go rotten regardless of their efforts. Is it not easier to not hope at all?

For hope, when he is unable to picture a happy ending, only feels a lot like fear.

☀︎

Their appearance in court the next day draws more attention than usual. In part because it is unusual for Ñolofinwë to have been absent for so many days without a word of explanation. In part, he’s sure, because Fëanáro had been absent as well, and the Noldor are not a foolish people. A coincidence it could be, but they all must know it is likely not. The strange, almost peaceful, council meeting that follows only puts more attention on the matter, for it is painfully obvious that Fëanáro is biting his tongue at times, a practice he does not usually bother with. 

Ñolofinwë speaks, and Fëanáro does not immediately attempt to discredit his thoughts. His brother speaks and does not plant barbed attacks inside his words. Ñolofinwë, at one point, out of pure curiosity to see how Fëanáro will react, brings up an idea he has been idly thinking on for many weeks. He puts the proposal for a festival on the table. It is one he has designed to help mend what seems to be an ever-growing rift within the Noldor. He sits back when he is done speaking, waiting to see what will be said in response.

It is not surprising when everyone’s eyes immediately move from him to Fëanáro, for it is clear to everyone what exactly is causing the rift, and if it were any other day, Ñolofinwë would say that it is just as clear how Fëanáro will react to the suggestion. If it were any other day. But this day, Fëanáro only stares at him silently for a long, tense moment, both of them perfectly aware that Ñolofinwë’s body is always only one slight away from sending him into a coughing fit. 

“The suggestion has potential,” Fëanáro says after another moment, tension evident in his brow and shoulders, though his tone is perfectly even. “The details can be improved. If we are going to hold a festival, it will be one to be remembered.” 

Shock goes visibly rippling around the table. Their father is looking between them with a furrowed brow, eyes cautiously hopeful despite the confusion. Ñolofinwë knows that if they are not careful, the secret of his sickness will get out to his family far quicker than he wishes. He cannot quite bring himself to care when he is having the long wished for experience of engaging in an actual conversation with Fëanáro during council, instead of a badly disgused war of barbed words.

There is nothing decided at the council that day, but tentative plans are proposed, and careful discussions are had that do not end in fighting. When council breaks, and everyone else files out looking vaguely dumbfounded by the lack of arguing, Ñolofinwë finds himself thinking that it will be a pity if this does not work, for the festival is a good idea, and he would rather like to be around to see it. 

☀︎

Anairë gives him a queer look when Fëanáro shows up after dinner to drag him outside once again. He knows that one way or another he will have to tell her soon. She knows him too well to think that Fëanáro suddenly being present so often could be caused by anything other than extenuating circumstances. But for now, he slips away and follows Fëanáro outside, breathing in the fresh air and hoping that it is a good sign that he has made it through the day without yet coughing up any flowers.

Once they reach the garden, Fëanáro sinks onto the grass, crossing his legs, foregoing the bench entirely, and Ñolofinwë, after a second's hesitation, follows suit. They sit there, silently considering one another for a long minute, the entire week having been so strange that it feels as if they surely should look different to accommodate for the sudden changes between them. But they are still simply themselves. Fëanáro's shining eyes, burning with a fire unquenchable; Ñolofinwë's spine of steel, always refusing to melt beneath his brother's fire.

“Tell me then, of what it is you enjoy doing when you are not speaking of politics,” Fëanáro says, breaking the silence. When Ñolofinwë just stares at him uncomprehendingly, he scowls and says, with clear discomfort, “You told me to make a plan. I have been told that a good way of encouraging affection is to take an interest in the other person’s hobbies.” 

Ñolofinwë blinks. Raises an eyebrow. “You have been told? Who in the expanses of Arda have you asked for advice on such things?” 

Fëanáro's gaze does not waver, but his cheeks go slightly pink. "Nerdanel had many words of advice for me after the situation was explained."

Ñolofinwë stares, completely befuddled by all that implies. Nerdanel has not spoken to Fëanáro in months; for her to be aware of the situation can only mean that Fëanáro had intentionally sought her out for advice. All of which seems absurd to him. Fëanáro must misinterpret his expression, for he frowns and adds, "She will not tell anyone. I have full faith in her ability to keep such things secret."

“I was not worried about such,” he says, for it had not even occurred to him to worry about Nerdanel. “I am only surprised that you asked for advice.” 

Fëanáro tenses, offense written across his face. “I am perfectly capable of having figured it out myself,” he says tightly. “It seemed only prudent, however, to ask for advice, considering the time limit we are under.”

“I am not judging you,” Ñolofinwë says gently, strangely touched that Fëanáro has done something so out of character, all to help him. “I was merely surprised.” 

"Yes, yes, very well. Answer the question," says Fëanáro, brusquely waving the words away, cheeks still tinted pink. 

Ñolofinwë hums, considering the question. "I take pleasure in aimlessly riding around the countryside, though I seldom seem to find the time do so. I suppose most often these days, when I have time to relax, I simply read. Oftentimes, Anairë will join me. Other times, I will draw if the mood strikes me."

Fëanáro makes a strange face at him, mouth pulled up on one side in disgust. “Is that all you do? Nothing else?” 

“We cannot all attempt to learn every craft in Arda,” he says dryly. “But that is not all I do, only the things that I do with the most regularity.” 

"Fine, what then do you read?" Fëanáro asks, looking impatient. For all that this line of conversation was his idea, he seems to have tired of it already.

He sighs, turns over in his mind whether responding to the question is worth it. They could sit here for the next hour as he painstakingly lists every book he’s read and every picture he’s drawn and every route he enjoys taking when he goes out riding. He could recount his entire life in excruciating detail, and he does not believe it would do them any good. If his hobbies were enough to catch Fëanáro’s attention, they would have already done so long ago. “This is a pointless line of conversation,” he says, bracing himself for the argument he’s sure will come. “You do not care about the books that I’ve read or the things that I’ve drawn. I am not a checklist you can mark off. Ask me questions on topics you care about, or ask none at all.” 

Fëanáro's mouth does indeed twist into a bitter, mocking smile. "You said to make a plan, and I did. Now you do not like it. Do you have any better ideas?" he sneers, derision bright in his eyes.

“Tell me that you truly care about any of that,” Ñolofinwë demands. “Speak true. Is there any part of my life that you truly wish to hear about?” 

“Of course there is not,” Fëanáro snaps, “is that not why we are here? To try and find a part of it that I may care about?”

He blinks rapidly. Knows that he is the one who voiced the sentiment. Is aware that he had already known the answer to the question. It still feels a little like a slap to the face to hear Fëanáro so easily agree that he cares not at all for any part of Ñolofinwë's life. "Will you miss me at all when I die? Even a little bit?" he hears himself ask blankly.

“You are not going to die,” Fëanáro snarls, fingers digging into his thighs as he glares at Ñolofinwë. “Stop speaking of it—”

“That did not answer my question. Phrase it however you like. If I die, will you miss me?” 

Fëanáro hesitates, the anger sliding from his face as he studies Ñolofinwë. “It would be… strange… to have you gone,” Fëanáro says slowly, carefully weighing each word. “I believe the days spent in that council room would be somehow more boring than they already are if you were gone.” 

Ñolofinwë almost wants to smile at that, just a little. It is likely the closest thing to a compliment he will ever receive. Breathes in. Breathes out slowly, heartbeat loud in his ears. Finds himself wondering once again how badly it will hurt at the end, when he cannot force the flowers up his throat, when the roots fully sink into his lungs. “I do not understand you,” he says, feeling very tired, chest tight and pained. “How is it so easy for you to not care? Not only about me, but about any of us. Findis, Lalwen, Aro. How do you simply not care?” 

There is an even longer hesitation this time, a complex ball of emotions flashing through Fëanáro’s eyes. “You followed me everywhere when you were little,” Fëanáro says eventually, voice low and tight. “You would follow me to lessons, to the library, to my discussions with Rúmil, on my walks through the garden, everywhere I allowed it, you followed me for as long as you could. Even when you became aware that I did not want to like you, that I did not care for it, you persisted in doing so.” He pauses, studying Ñolofinwë through narrowed eyes. “Do you believe that it was easy for me to not allow myself to care? You were young and trusting and hung on to every word I said. Of course it was difficult to keep you at a distance.” 

Ñolofinwë feels cold and numb. Is not sure if he cannot breathe because of the flower he can feel beginning to lodge itself in his throat, or because this, more than anything else Fëanáro could have said to him, stabs directly through him and cannot be healed. Of course there was never anything he could have done to be enough. Fëanáro was never going to allow himself to care about a child of Indis, and there is nothing he could ever have done to change that. His face must be doing something terribly tragic, for Fëanáro begins to frown in concern right as his body sends him into a violent coughing fit. There is no warning, no true build-up, only a throat that is mostly clear one moment and blocked off the next.

He doubles over, coughing as he chokes, only narrowly stops himself from scratching at his throat, for this flower is larger than the others have been, less malleable, less moveable. He coughs, and nothing changes. He lurches onto his knees, digging his fingers into the dirt as he bends over, hoping uselessly that gravity will help. It does not. There is only a sound like rushing wind in his ears and iron bursting bright and bitter across his tongue. The flower moves only the barest inch as he gags, and the panic that threatens to take over makes it only harder to breathe.

There is a dull noise in the background that he cannot make out, and then there is Fëanáro's hand pressed firmly against his back, running soothing circles across it. Stupidly, perhaps because of the grounding pressure, perhaps because of the fear he'd heard in Fëanáro's voice, the sensation does indeed help, and the next time he coughs, the flower moves halfway up his throat. A terrible position for it to be in, scratching at his throat where its soft petals hide deceptively sharp edges. He gags again, would have fallen as it finally leaves his throat but for Fëanáro's hands quickly gripping his shoulders and holding him upright.

He sucks in a panicked breath and then another, desperate and greedy for air. Stays bent over and curled in on himself as his lungs remember how to work. Stares at the yellow marigold on the ground, blood dotting the petals, and getting lost in the sharp red that fades up the petals. Fëanáro does not loosen his grip on Ñolofinwë's shoulders until he has eased himself upright and collapsed back against the bench, rubbing at his chest, his throat burning. He also does not move away after, instead sitting next to Ñolofinwë and pressing their shoulders together. While Ñolofinwë still refuses to let himself lean on Fëanáro, he also cannot bring himself to move away.

"Grief," Fëanáro murmurs, plucking the flower from the ground and turning it over in his hands. "Marigolds represent grief."

Ñolofinwë has nothing to say to that, to what he likely could have guessed if he'd tried. They sit in the garden for a long while after, Laurelin dimming as Telperion joins her, the mingling washing through the garden, leaving it hazy and tired. There is no sound but the quiet rustling of leaves, the slow fall of the water in the fountain, Ñolofinwë’s own shaking breaths.

Fëanáro reaches over at one point and grasps his wrist, pressing two fingers to Ñolofinwë's pulse as he breathes in deeply, exhaling in a rush. "I do not want you to die," Fëanáro says in a low voice, shaking his head sharply when Ñolofinwë opens his mouth to protest. "There is no greater reasoning behind it, I am not saying it merely to placate you. You know I do not do such things. I—" he hesitates, throat working around the words as he squeezes Ñolofinwë's wrist painfully tight. "I do not want to watch you die," he says, and Ñolofinwë is taken aback to hear real fear beneath the words.

“You would not have to watch,” he says hoarsely, wincing at how raw his throat is. 

His brother makes a low, derisive noise and looks over at him, face grim as he meets Ñolofinwë's eyes. "If I fail, if you are to die because of me, I will not do you the dishonor of leaving you to suffer it alone. One way or another, I will be at the end of this with you."

Ñolofinwë must close his burning eyes and tip his head back against the bench. He will not allow himself to cry. Has his pride still even if he has little else. He does not know if anything they are doing will matter in the end. Thinks it should, for surely all that they have confessed in the past week matters. Surely the effort that Fëanáro is putting in matters. But not wanting him to die is still a long way from love. 

Ñolofinwë is too tired and too heart-sore to have any hope, but he allows himself to lean against Fëanáro just the slightest bit. "One way or another then," he says, opening his eyes and staring at the canopy of leaves above his head. It is not enough, but there is a morbid comfort to be had in the knowledge that Fëanáro will be with him if this goes ill. A comfort to be had in knowing, that in the end, Fëanáro wishes for him to live.

Fëanáro's fingers flex around his wrist, and he closes his eyes, breathes in, and thinks, he wants me to live. 

Breathes out and wishes that were enough. 

☀︎