don't go blindly into the dark by atlantablack  

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somebody say a prayer for me

Chapter title is from Amen by Shaboozey & Jelly Roll

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This is what I want: I want to grab my
brother's hand and run back through
time, losing years like coats falling from 
our shoulders.

I'll Give You the Sun | Jandy Nelson

☀︎

Ñolofinwë does not wish to tell Anairë. 

He dreads the entire conversation. The heartbroken look that he knows will carve its way onto her face, the way he will be able to offer nothing to soften the pain. He does not wish to harm her, and yet, when the conversation arises, he is unsure how he will be able to do anything else.

Still, no matter how little he wishes to have the conversation, he cannot keep it from Anairë forever. For no matter that Fëanáro seems to be genuinely trying, nothing has truly changed, and every day it grows just a little harder to breathe. It is inevitable that he will make the mistake of thinking for too long on the entire matter, on Fëanáro and how sometimes the effort that he seems to be putting in almost hurts worse than if he had put in none at all; the knowledge that he is capable of trying scalding. It will inevitably linger in his thoughts, and so the coughing fit that suddenly overtakes him as he prepares for bed is inevitable as well. It is awful enough that it leaves him clutching at the nightstand as he doubles over trying to breathe, though not so awful that he ends up on the floor, a small mercy. The flower that finally falls into his hand is no bigger than the previous one, a cold comfort, but the terrified disbelief on Anairë's face when he manages to straighten makes it all far worse.

“It is not you,” he says, and then wants to slap himself when her face breaks open with hurt. “No, I am sorry, no, I mean that you are my wife and I love you. It is not a slight against you. You have done nothing wrong. It is—“ he falters, throat closing up at the threat of having to speak the words aloud.

“It is who?” she asks quietly, fingers clenched tight around the comforter.

"It is not always romantic," he says softly. "Did you know that? And he, that is, I am of course destined always to be undone by the way I cannot hate him in return."

It takes her only seconds to understand. She knows well the way Fëanáro has always been a sore spot for him. “Fëanáro,” she says flatly, eyes flashing. “Of course.” She runs a hand over her face, sighing as she reaches for him.

He goes, feels as if a weight has lifted from his shoulders with the confession. They curl in against each other, and for a while she simply traces his face with her eyes, reaching out to place one hand on his cheek. "You will not have it removed?" she asks quietly, her eyes already overflowing with grief, for she knows the answer.

“He is my brother,” he says tiredly. “If I take away the love I hold for him, bitter though it may be, who do I become?” 

“Would it matter so long as you live? You are capable of learning to be someone who does not love Fëanáro to the point of death.” 

“Am I?” He swallows hard, tries to imagine having his fëa ripped apart only for it to be put back together void of a love he’s held since childhood. Cannot. “Would the person I become be one that you wish to know?” 

To her own detriment, she hesitates. “I cannot imagine you without it,” she admits, eyes closing in defeat. “But I would much prefer to learn you anew and have you alive than to lose you completely.” 

“I am sorry,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. “I cannot do it. I cannot give it up.” 

“He will not thank you for it.” 

"He has not, and he thinks me a fool, but he is trying to fix this.”

Her eyes snap open, lashes damp and eyes full of shock. “Fëanáro knows?” 

"Have you ever known him to mind his own business? He found me out, for of course he did. And he has insulted me and called me foolish and implied a great many negative things about my character, but—" he pauses, thinks of Fëanáro pressing two fingers to his pulse, to the promise that he would not be left to die alone "—but he is trying. And he is scared, even if he will not say as much aloud."

“That, I have trouble believing,” she says, though some of the tension in her face eases. “He is trying to learn to love you in return? Truly?” 

“Truly. It is quite strange.” He does not manage to hide the foolish affection that creeps into his voice. 

"Well, let us hope then that Fëanáro succeeds in this as he does at everything else he sets his mind to," she says quietly, leaning in and kissing him. "I do not want to lose you."

“I do not want to go,” he responds, pulling her in closer. 

"And yet, if Fëanáro fails, you will." There is nothing particularly accusing in her tone, but Ñolofinwë knows her and knows that if he were to reach across their marriage bond he would find far more anger than he is being shown.

"Yes," he sighs, uselessly apologetic as he kisses her once more. "Yes, I will leave, and I will hate it and miss you, miss my family, the entire time. I wish I could say differently, but I cannot."

She stares at him for a long minute, nails briefly digging into his face, before she sighs and tucks her head beneath his chin. "You would not be yourself if you made any other choice, and yet, I still wish you would, if only because I do not wish to be left alone." Her voice just barely trembles on the last word, and Ñolofinwë's heart clenches painfully.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs again, “I am so sorry.” The words fix nothing, but he has nothing else to give.

☀︎

“You finally told Anairë,” Fëanáro says dryly the next day when he walks into Ñolofinwë’s study. 

He looks up from the list he had been writing to frown at Fëanáro. “I did. How have you learned of it?” 

“Your wife has a sharp tongue and is startlingly free with her words when angry,” he says, sounding mostly amused, though there is something else lurking beneath the words that Ñolofinwë wonders if he should worry about. 

“I see,” he says slowly, studying Fëanáro’s overly casual posture as he leans his hip against the desk. “Do you wish to tell me what you spoke of with her?” 

Fëanáro snorts. “Spoke with,” he mutters. “That implies that I was allowed to say much at all. No, it was merely an observation. Do not worry yourself about it,” he says, waving his hand dismissively and craning his neck to look at what Ñolofinwë had been working on. 

He considers pushing, but does not particularly feel like looking for problems where there truly are none. Instead turns his paper so that Fëanáro can easily see it. It is a list for the festival he hopes will have a chance to occur. Contests that could be held, various performances that could be put together, food planning, specific ways to integrate his supporters with Fëanáro's, to fully erase the gap that has been growing between them.

Fëanáro hums in consideration, plucks his quill from his hand, and without so much as a by-your-leave, begins crossing lines out and scribbling new ideas down. Ñolofinwë huffs in annoyance only to find himself blinking in surprise when Fëanáro turns the paper back toward him, offering him the quill. 

“Well?” Fëanáro asks, shaking the quill impatiently when Ñolofinwë only stares at it. “Are we going to plan this or not?” 

Ñolofinwë stares at Fëanáro for another moment, throat tight as he realizes what is happening. Fëanáro is attempting to appear casual, as if this is a common occurrence between them, but his fingers are clenching the quill a touch too tightly, his shoulders tensing as he shifts uncomfortably under Ñolofinwë's stare. Ñolofinwë clears his throat, taking the quill from Fëanáro. "Are you going to loom over me the entire time? There is a second chair for a reason."

Fëanáro rolls his eyes even as his entire body relaxes. He grabs the chair and, instead of sitting across from Ñolofinwë, pulls the chair around so that they may sit side by side. A rush of overwhelming affection rushes through Ñolofinwë at the gesture, giddy hope trying so desperately to infuse itself in his veins. 

“Go on then,” Fëanáro says once he is seated. “You have a vision for this festival, do you not? Speak of it to me. I will help you fix—help you complete it.” 

“Thank you,” he says without quite meaning to. It comes out far too raw and vulnerable; they both know he is not thanking Fëanáro for his help with the festival. 

“Do not thank me,” Fëanáro says quietly, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Not for any of this. Especially not for this.” 

“You do not have to do this,” he points out reasonably. “I did not expect you to do any of this.” 

Fëanáro tilts his head, a strange, almost melancholy look in his eyes. "You were so small when you were born," he says quietly, sending Ñolofinwë reeling. "Atar handed you to me often, as if proximity alone would change my mind about you. It did not, but…" he trails off, reaching out and gently shoving at the side of Ñolofinwë's head. An affectionate gesture from Ñolofinwë's childhood when he had not yet even reached Fëanáro's hip. "You were so small," he says once more. "You say I do not have to do any of this. Do I not? If I am not your keeper, then who is?"

It is perhaps his imagination, but for the briefest second, it feels as if the pressure on his chest falls away completely. "I do not need you to be my keeper," he manages after a speechless moment. "I only need you to be my brother. And," he says, holding up his hand when Fëanáro opens his mouth, "I will thank you if I wish to. Perhaps you believe I do not realize what this is costing you, but I do. I had good reason to believe you could not give this.”

“And you believe now that I can?” Fëanáro asks, eyes darkening, the bitterness trying to sneak back in. 

He wants to say yes. He wants to believe that there is a happy ending at the close of all this. “I do not know,” he says, smiling sadly. “Let us hope so.” 

“Let us hope so,” Fëanáro echoes, and they speak of it no more. 

☀︎

They do continue attending court, though less often than before. Something that he knows is causing suspicion amongst their families. For Ñolofinwë to have suddenly abandoned his long-held schedule would have been suspect enough. For Fëanáro to have so suddenly joined him in doing so only causes the rumors to spread faster. 

When they do attend meetings, Fëanáro tries to be less condescending and disdainful. He even manages it the majority of the time, an act which gains strange looks from many people and is surely setting the rumor mill of Tirion ablaze. He still slips here and there, his instinctive reaction to Ñolofinwë still scorn, but even his scorn is a pale imitation of his former venom.

“Is there anything you would like to tell me, Arakáno?” his father asks, stopping by his study one day, his mouth set in a solemn frown. “You have been less present at court the past month.” 

“I am fine, Atar,” he replies with an easy smile. “I believe that I simply overworked myself and so, I have finally yielded to Anairë’s advice to take a step back for a short while.” 

His father does not look as if he believes Ñolofinwë, but he also clearly does not know what to accuse Ñolofinwë of. He does not get a chance to decide, for Fëanáro strides into the room, frowning down at something in his hands. "Ñolofinwë," he says, not looking up, "did you write these notes while half-asleep? Or after one too many glasses of wine perhaps? Your handwriting is atrocious and—" he looks up, going painfully still and silent when he notices their father watching them with a furrowed brow.

Ñolofinwë, however, is busy frowning, for he recognizes the papers in Fëanáro's hand. "Where did you get those?" For Fëanáro has somehow found his notes on succession rights. Though, to call them 'notes' may be a generous statement, for he believes he had been slightly drunk when writing them. They are less true notes, and mainly annoyed ramblings about the uselessness of succession rights when it is unlikely their father will ever step down from the throne. It was customary, of course, for one to do so in the times before the great journey. However, their father has never given any indication that he plans on following that tradition. There had also been, if he remembers correctly, half-drawn plans for new cities outside of Tirion. The thought that the simplest way to resolve this feud would be for them to both simply build and lead their own cities had briefly taken hold of him. It is not as if there is a lack of room in Aman. He had discarded the idea the next day, but he had kept the notes.

“They were in one of the drawers of your desk,” Fëanáro answers, glancing over at him, not looking at all remorseful for having just admitted to snooping through Ñolofinwë’s desk. “Atar, what are you doing here?” 

Their father’s eyebrows go up as he looks between them. “I was speaking with Ñolofinwë about his increased absences from court,” their father says slowly, before turning his gaze fully to Fëanáro. “I intended to speak with you about the same.” 

“I have been unexpectedly busy,” Fëanáro says tightly. “I apologize.” 

"I see," their father says after a moment when it becomes clear that Fëanáro will offer nothing more. He looks between them once more, and though Ñolofinwë can tell that he wishes to push, he does not. Perhaps because the idea that Fëanáro had come here of his own volition to speak with Ñolofinwë is so strange that their father does not wish to disturb whatever fragile peace may have settled between them. Perhaps because of how painfully obvious it is that Fëanáro wishes for the conversation to end, his entire body angled toward the door as if he wishes to flee. He only bids them both farewell and leaves, clapping Fëanáro tightly on the shoulder as he passes.

The action only causes Fëanáro to tense further. He stares after their father for a long moment when the door closes, so tense that Ñolofinwë wonders if he will not also leave.

He should simply wait, give Fëanáro a minute to gather himself. Instead, he leans back in his chair and says snidely, "If you are incapable of handling Atar knowing that you are capable of speaking to me with something other than contempt, this will never work."

Fëanáro turns to him with such a filthy, dark look that Ñolofinwë nearly flinches. Has not had such a look directed at him since Fëanáro began attempting to fix things. To have it sent his way once more leaves his chest insistently aching. “That is not my issue,” Fëanáro grits out. 

Ñolofinwë raises an eyebrow, not believing him in the slightest. Still, he does not push, instead motions at the papers in Fëanáro's hand. "Shall we speak instead then of your snooping through my things?"

“I was bored,” Fëanáro says, expression lightening the slightest amount. “These notes are… interesting.” There is nothing particularly accusatory in his tone, but Ñolofinwë thinks that is perhaps because he does not know what to accuse Ñolofinwë of. There is nothing incriminating in those notes. Only bitter ramblings and half-legitimate plans. 

“I believe I was, in fact, drunk when I wrote those,” he says, holding his hand out expectantly. “I imagine they are quite interesting.”

Fëanáro hands him the paper back, studying him intently for a moment before sitting down. He immediately begins drumming his fingers against the arm of the chair as he continues to stare at Ñolofinwë. He does not know what it is his brother wants him to say and cannot be bothered to puzzle it out. Instead turns back to what he had been working on before he was interrupted. It is not a task he is enjoying. 

Findekáno has been trained, of course, on what is both needed and expected from the lord of a house. He knows the details of managing the household, ensuring that those directly under their care continue to be cared for, what is expected of him at court. All his children know these things, even Írissë, though she will never have to make use of them. Findekáno is not, however, expecting to use his training so soon. Ñolofinwë has been writing notes on any details he can think of that may not seem immediately obvious. His leaving will be a trial on his family already; if he can lighten the weight the slightest bit, he will.

Fëanáro rises at one point as he is writing and begins restlessly pacing. Ñolofinwë ignores him. His brother can either speak his mind or remain silent. He will not waste his time attempting to guess what Fëanáro is troubled by. He is preoccupied enough with his writing that he does not notice when Fëanáro's pacing leads him to Ñolofinwë's shoulder until he makes an agitated noise.

“You are not going to die,” he snaps, stalking away and then turning back around to point at Ñolofinwë. “You are doing yourself no favors by viewing your death as an inevitability.” 

"And you are doing neither of us any favors by pretending that my survival is one," he responds coolly. "I hope that these notes are not needed. But I would rather have them prepared and unneeded than leave Findekáno to figure it out alone in his grief."

A look of such intense fury passes over Fëanáro’s face that Ñolofinwë finds himself tensing. He does not understand why Fëanáro should be so angry. He has not said anything particularly outrageous. Fëanáro, after a breathless moment of staring at Ñolofinwë as if he wishes to punch him, shakes his head in disgust and storms out of the room. 

Ñolofinwë stares after him, feeling rather befuddled by the entire encounter. He is quite sure that there was more to that than he is grasping, something hiding beneath Fëanáro's words that he simply is not privy to. That knowledge does nothing to stop his chest from dully aching. Does nothing to stop him from later coughing up another carnation when he spends too long reflecting on the utter fury in Fëanáro's eyes.

He does not know what was going through Fëanáro’s mind, but he does know that the entire encounter did nothing but make him more doubtful this will have a happy ending.

☀︎

Later, he will not be able to tell you why the entire encounter builds itself up into an insurmountable wall inside his mind. Knows only that the look on Fëanáro's face has not stopped haunting him and that his chest has not stopped aching since.

He does not go to court the next day. Does not go to his study or anywhere that Fëanáro may easily find him. Instead, he slips out through the back of the gardens and into the forest. Has not done so since Fëanáro found out about the sickness but he finds himself craving the solitude. He does not wish to deal with Fëanáro's whiplash moods or the argument that is sure to happen the next time they are in the same room.

The forest is quiet and stepping beneath the canopy of leaves sends the slightest ripple of calm through him. He stands perfectly still for a long while with his head tipped back, simply listening to his own breathing and enjoying the silence. Continues down to the river a while later, walking slowly as he focuses on his breathing. It is… distressing, how terribly his lungs ache by the time he reaches the river. It is not as if he is unaware that the sickness is progressing, but it is still unsettling to have such obvious proof.

He sits next to the river for a very long time, doing his very best to think of nothing at all. Not the anger or the grief or the desperation that sometimes tries to carve itself into his bones. He watches the water flow downstream and counts his breaths. Eventually finds himself idly thinking of skipping rocks across the lake as a child. Of how Findis had taken him to the lake by herself when she should not have, both of them still too young to be so far from the palace alone.

They had stayed out there for hours as she patiently showed him how to skip the stones correctly, how to find the best ones to throw. They had been arguing about the usability of several stones when Fëanáro had walked into the clearing, looking cross. Fëanáro had, of course, been roped into the search for them when they could not be found in the palace, and he had been quite put out about it. But he had still listened to Findis explain what they were doing without yelling. And when Ñolofinwë had stuck his hands out, palms full of stones, demanding to know which Fëanáro deemed best, they had both been treated to a lecture on aerodynamics and water density and why the stones skipped the way they did.

In the end, their father found them all still by the lake several hours later, Fëanáro having thoroughly forgotten that there were others worried about their whereabouts. But what Ñolofinwë remembers most about that afternoon, golden as it had been, was how very happy Fëanáro sounded when speaking of things he was passionate about. How brightly he had smiled at them when they managed to ask a question he deemed worthy, and how there had been no hate, no badly hidden resentment behind it.

It was those moments, rare as they had been, that had hurt the most. The ones where Fëanáro briefly forgot that he was not allowing himself to love them. 

Ñolofinwë thinks sometimes that it would have been easier to not love Fëanáro at all, if it were not for the way he almost knew what Fëanáro's love would have felt like in return. But he cannot imagine it, not in truth. Can scarcely imagine anyone having the full weight of Fëanáro's blinding joy turned on them and coming out of the encounter doing anything but loving him.

"Have you been out here all day?" comes Fëanáro's voice suddenly from behind him.

Ñolofinwë jerks, had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not heard the footsteps approaching. Fëanáro is standing off to the side, arms crossed and frowning as he watches Ñolofinwë. "How did you find me?" he asks after a moment of blank staring.

Fëanáro raises an unimpressed eyebrow and sits down cross-legged near Ñolofinwë. “Tyelko saw you out here last month. He mentioned it to me.” 

The answer is terribly obvious now that he has heard it. “Well, you have found me. You can leave now that you have accomplished such.” 

“I will not,” Fëanáro says sharply. “Why have you been out here all day? We were supposed to speak.” 

"I did not want to speak." He is being stubborn; he knows this. Yet, the idea of sitting through another conversation with Fëanáro, in which he must once again have his brother's anger directed at him, is not one he wishes to confront. Ñolofinwë is tired of the hatred and anger and the resentment. He is just… tired.

Fëanáro is watching him through narrowed eyes, only the thinnest sliver of confusion visible. “What has happened that you are so suddenly avoiding me?” 

Ñolofinwë can only stare at him in disbelief.  “Have you forgotten the events of yesterday so quickly?” he asks incredulously. 

“We did not quarrel,” Fëanáro says, frown deepening. “I was… irritated. That I will admit. I do not see why that should cause you to avoid me.” 

“Irritated,” he repeats disbelievingly. “No, it does not matter. I do not wish to speak with you. Go away.” 

“No.” There is a pause in which Fëanáro tilts his head, mouth turning down at the covers, a leaf having fallen from the tree hanging in perfect balance on his shoulder. “You are being foolish. I am trying to help,” Fëanáro says, words perfectly crisp and clipped. 

The leaf wavers and falls. 

“Just go away,” he snaps. He is so very tired of fighting the urge to cough, sick of coughing, sick of his chest constantly aching when Fëanáro looks at him. 

“My leaving helps nothing,” Fëanáro snaps back. “We must keep speaking—”

“You do not want to speak with me! That is the problem, Fëanáro! You cannot accomplish something when you do not want to succeed, and you do not want to view me as anything other than your hated half-brother. Just go away!” 

Fëanáro’s lips thin, nostrils flaring in anger. “You are not going to die.” 

"You do not truly care if I live or die," he sneers. "Rest assured, you can tell Atar that you tried, and I will say nothing to contradict you."

Something terribly wild and scalding sparks to life in Fëanáro’s eyes. “I have tried,” he snarls, fists clenched tight atop his thighs. “I am trying. You are making it very difficult right now to continue doing so.” 

“Then do not.” He stands, no clear destination in mind, knowing only that he wishes to leave this conversation. Makes it only two steps before Fëanáro has followed, grabbing him roughly by the arm. 

“You are not going to walk away from this,” Fëanáro says, implacable and as confident as ever that he will be listened to. “I will not allow you to simply give up.” 

“Do not touch me,” he snaps, violently jerking his arm out of Fëanáro’s grip. “Just go back to the palace, Fëanáro. What does it matter to you if I die?” 

“I do not want you dead!” Fëanáro shouts, eyes blazing with too many emotions for Ñolofinwë to parse. "Stop attempting to place words in my mouth! I have never liked you, but I have never wished you dead.” 

Ñolofinwë’s body feels cold as he stares at Fëanáro, the words echoing through the forest so loudly that he finds himself distantly hoping that Tyelkormo is nowhere nearby. "That is not enough," he says, unsure if he wishes to scream or cry or perhaps punch Fëanáro. "It is not enough to not wish me dead. I need you to want me as your brother. To mean it."

"Do you think I do not know that? I am trying."

"You are not trying hard enough.” The words come out a little mean, a little desperate. He has only a second to register Fëanáro's entire face twisting with anger before his fist is flying at Ñolofinwë’s face. He just barely dodges and has grabbed Fëanáro’s arm and twisted on pure instinct before his mind catches up to what has just happened. 

Fëanáro trips him, and Ñolofinwë drags Fëanáro down with him as he falls, receiving an elbow to the stomach for his troubles. He half-expects Fëanáro to attempt to punch him again now that they are both winded on the ground, but his brother only makes an agitated sound and shifts so that they are lying side by side on the grass. He feels he should say something, but he cannot find any words inside himself. Can find nothing but the huddled shadow of his childhood self whispering, why does Náro not love me? Did I do something wrong? Knowing the answer to the question does not erase the emotion. 

“I should not have done that,” Fëanáro mutters sometime later. 

“What does it matter?” he asks dully. “It is not as if a broken nose would have been the thing to kill me.”  

Fëanáro makes a noise akin to a teapot whistling as he grabs Ñolofinwë’s wrist and digs his nails in painfully. “You are going to live,” he says to the sky, voice filled with an utter conviction Ñolofinwë cannot mimic. “I want you to live. I am very good at getting what I want.” 

That does startle a laugh from him. The idea that he could be someone his brother wishes to keep around is absurd, and yet, when Fëanáro phrases it in such a way, it sounds perfectly natural. Ñolofinwë breathes in carefully and thinks of the prior day, of Fëanáro's face so furious, the way he'd gone still as a hunted animal the moment he had seen their father watching. Steels himself and asks, "But will you be able to stomach loving me when our father takes it as your acceptance that this is your family? If you are to call me your brother in heart and mean it, does that not mean that you have two sisters and one other brother as well? Does that not make us all a family, though you have ever refused to see us as one?"

There is a long pause in which Fëanáro’s fingers go so brutally tight around his wrist that he is sure he will have a bruise to show for it later on. “Tell me,” Fëanáro says softly, “which is worse — my father looking at me with pride because I have accepted you, or my father’s disappointment and grief, and perhaps even resentment, that I have cost him a child?”

“He would not resent you,” he replies without hesitation, unable to imagine their father ever resenting Fëanáro. 

Fëanáro makes a soft noise and shifts next to him, fingers loosening around his wrist. “Would he not? If you were to lose a child to the flower-sickness, would you not resent the one they had loved?” 

Of course he would. Of course he would. But… it is Fëanáro. “He would not,” he says again, though the words come out far weaker. 

“You believe he loves you so little?” 

“I believe he loves you too dearly.” He almost believes the words. 

Fëanáro laughs; a bitter jagged noise that rips through the air. “Perhaps he would not admit to it. Perhaps he would never speak of it to me. But I would know. I would be able to see it. I do not wish to cause my— to cause our father grief. I do not wish to poison his love for me. Learning to love you seems to be the only acceptable option, does it not?” 

Ñolofinwë is not sure if he is still offended by how little Fëanáro has factored Ñolofinwë himself into the decision. His chest still aches, just sharply enough to make him aware that he is terribly close to having a coughing fit at the slightest provocation, but his chest aches at most things his brother says, so that means little. “I am surprised you did not simply attempt to find a cure for the sickness. That you did not decide that would be easier than this.” Around his wrist, Fëanáro’s fingers twitch, the silence damning. He sighs in exasperation, should not be surprised. “You did try, did you not?” 

“It would have been foolish of me to not have at least tried,” Fëanáro says tightly. “Given enough time, perhaps I could do it. But time is not necessarily a luxury that we have.” 

“No, it is not,” he agrees quietly, shaking his wrist loose from Fëanáro’s grip so that he may instead clasp his brother’s hand tightly, trying to press everything he cannot bring himself to say into the gesture. “You really believe this will work?” 

“I would not have said so if I did not. Now, stop being so maudlin—” he has flung a handful of leaves directly into Ñolofinwë’s face before he can even blink at the tone shift “—it is not helping.” 

"You—" he splutters, sitting up and swiping the leaves away. He grabs a handful to fling at Fëanáro, but he has forgotten how close to the river they are, and before he can register what it is that he has grabbed, it has already left his hand, a perfect handful of mud and leaves flying directly into Fëanáro's face.

There is a terrible moment of silence as they stare at each other, Fëanáro’s eyes very wide, mud slowly dripping down his cheeks, leaves stuck in his hair. Ñolofinwë does not have time to muster a defense before Fëanáro has retaliated by grabbing a handful of mud and throwing it in his face.

It all goes rather downhill from there. It is ridiculously childish to be scrambling around the riverbank, throwing mud and leaves at each other. And yet, he laughs more in that one afternoon than he has in months. Fëanáro laughs as well, true joy in the sound, and for a brief moment in time, despite the pain and the anger, despite it all—

—everything is ok.

By the time they call a truce they are both soaked to the bone from falling into the river, covered in mud and grass stains. It lends a distinct air of secrecy to the entire thing as they try to sneak back into the palace without anyone seeing the state that they are in. He wonders if this is what his childhood could have been like if Fëanáro had not constantly tried to keep him at arm’s length. 

Anairë raises an incredulous eyebrow at him when he slinks into their rooms, but something in her face and posture also lightens in relief when he explains what had happened. Ñolofinwë cannot bring himself to believe this has a happy ending, is too scared of how badly it will hurt if he allows himself to hope, and is then proven wrong. Instead, he sinks his teeth into Fëanáro's vicious belief and tries to let that be enough for them both.

☀︎

Life carries on. The coughing fits do not stop. The flowers continue to grow larger. 

For all that their conversation by the river had felt like a turning point in their relationship, when it comes to the sickness, it is as if nothing has changed at all. 

Fëanáro continues to stubbornly try, and Ñolofinwë continues following his lead because he does not know what else to do. Above his head, the countdown slowly continues ticking down to the day the rest of his family finds out. To the day that he finally runs out of time. It is a constant thought in the back of his mind. The dread beneath the thought matched only by Fëanáro’s continuing stubborn insistence that he will live. 

Ñolofinwë wishes to believe his brother so badly that some days it causes the ache in his chest to worsen, the absence of hope aching in its emptiness. But no matter that Fëanáro’s attitude toward him is softening in increments, no matter that these days when Fëanáro speaks to him there is no hatred in his voice, no matter that this perhaps could work if only they had more time—

Ñolofinwë, deep in his heart, knows that he is still going to die. 

☀︎

The flowers continue to slowly grow in size every few days, matching his own continuing hopelessness. The coughing fits begin to come on even more abruptly, no warning, no time to prepare himself. Just a sharp pang in his chest and an abrupt lack of air.

The sicker Ñolofinwë grows, the more overbearing Fëanáro becomes. Having Fëanáro shadow him near constantly, irritation and worry and what may even be the beginnings of genuine affection caught in every movement, every word — he does not know if it is helping, or if it is making everything so, so much worse. 

The knowledge that Fëanáro is genuinely trying, he believes helps the slightest bit. The knowledge that Fëanáro cares enough to want to try, to want to help, soothes some of the bitterness. But trying is not the same as actually caring, and it is painful in its own way to have what he wants so close and yet so far away.

This particular day Fëanáro is pacing as he gets caught up in telling Ñolofinwë a truly embarrassing story from Maitimo's youth and looks over at him with a bright grin when he cannot help but snort. This would not have set him off, but Fëanáro seems to catch himself grinning a moment later, for his face visibly tightens, the expression disappearing, and before Ñolofinwë can do more than register the sharp pang in his chest, he has bent over as a painful cough tears out of him.

Distantly he hears Fëanáro curse, and warm hands catch him by the arms as he slips off the bench and onto his knees, violently coughing, chest heaving as the flower in his throat attempts to block off all air. He does not know how long he stays knelt on the ground coughing, copper heavy on the back of his tongue, nothing helping, the flower implacable and unmoving. By the time he gags hard enough that it forces the flower up his throat, his vision has gone spotty, head swimming, his entire body shaking as he desperately gasps and drinks in large gulps of air.

Fëanáro is rubbing circles on his back, and as his heartbeat slowly quiets, he realizes that his brother is also murmuring over and over and over, breathe, breathe, breathe, a distinct note of panic laced through every word. In any other circumstance, the idea of Fëanáro panicking over him might be funny. As it is, all he can do is half-collapse against Fëanáro as he sits up, his head still spinning. It is a testament to how badly he has scared Fëanáro that instead of being pushed gently away, Fëanáro's arm goes around his shoulder as he tucks Ñolofinwë more firmly against his side.

Once, he would have pulled away, tried to save himself from the even worse hurt of briefly feeling as if Fëanáro truly cared, only to have it pulled away from him later. Now, he is too exhausted to care and leans all his weight against his brother, relishing in the comfort being so freely given. Looks down at the ground and finds another bedamned carnation splattered with the same blood that is on his hands. His throat feels as if he has gargled gravel, so the blood is not necessarily a surprise, but it is as gut-wrenching to see as ever. 

“I am going to fix this,” Fëanáro says fiercely, wrapping his other arm around Ñolofinwë as well so that he is well and truly hugging Ñolofinwë for the first time in centuries. The last time they had hugged was when he had been so very small, young enough to not truly understand anything yet, before Fëanáro had ever snapped at him, and he had simply thought his big brother was the smartest person to exist. It is completely impossible for him to do anything other than lean into it and close his eyes. 

“You cannot fix everything,” he says softly, even that making his throat burn. 

Fëanáro is quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around Ñolofinwë as if daring someone to take him away. “Perhaps not,” Fëanáro says finally, voice flinty, “but I can fix this and I will.” 

He clenches his hands into fists, attempting to quell the tremors still running through him, and swallows around the painful swell of emotions Fëanáro’s words invoke. “I hope you are right,” he says, shifting slightly and leaning even farther into the embrace, resting his head against Fëanáro’s chest. He means to stop there, he does, but rather without his permission, the words torn from him, he finds himself saying, “I don’t want to die, Náro." It is the first time he has let the mask of acceptance falter, and it makes something in his chest crack open, a three-pronged grief spearing through his lungs and twisting. “I don’t want to," he says again, and it should maybe be freeing to admit it, to put it out there, but all it does is make the grief twist farther through him, leaving him shaking as he ruthlessly fights down the tears. He still has not quite lost all his self-respect. 

“Okay. Okay. I know,” Fëanáro says softly, hugging him tighter. They sit quietly for a long while as Laurelin dims and mixes with Telperion, the mingling washing through the garden and leaving the world feeling muted and far away. Fëanáro does not let him go, does not let his hold on Ñolofinwë loosen even an inch. “I am trying, Nolvo,” he says eventually, awkward and painfully earnest. “I am trying.” 

“I know you are,” he says, feeling so very tired. “It is a comfort to know that you care enough to try.” 

“But it is not enough.” 

“No. No, it is not enough.” 

☀︎