if i push, will you pull a little harder? by atlantablack  

I sent you away, set our forest on fire
Said I didn't want you, I'm a goddamn liar
I'm still yours

(Don't let me look down)
(I want you around)

Save The Bullets, Baby! | Xana

☀︎

Fingolfin, when he hears that Fëanor has been re-embodied, does not go to see his brother. 

He sends no letters. 

He makes no announcements. 

He does not acknowledge Fëanor’s sons riding to Tirion to celebrate their father’s return. 

He gives no acknowledgement at all that he has heard. It is easy, in the new Barad Eithel that he has built miles and miles away from Tirion, to pretend that he has no knowledge at all of his brother’s return.

He had tried thrice while in Mandos to find his brother. Had wanted to look Fëanor in the eyes and ask him why. Fingolfin would not have asked for an apology, for he had not, and still does not, believe Fëanor would give one. But he had wanted to be told why and finally have the words come from his brother’s mouth. He had just wanted something other than silence and the memory of years on the ice wondering what his brother would offer him as an excuse, if he would bother offering an excuse at all, which Fingolfin would admit is not likely.  

He had never managed to find Fëanor, which could mean only that Fëanor had felt him searching and had not wanted to be found. Something that should not have surprised him and yet, even then, even centuries after Fëanor's death, it had still stung as if he'd stuck his entire hand in a bed of nettles.

That was over a thousand years ago. He had left Mandos and had, after a few centuries, managed to quiet all the ugly feelings his brother inspired in him. He had gathered his people and grieved Beleriand and rebuilt Barad Eithel in a land he loves, even if the love is less than that he held for Beleriand. He had tried his best to make peace with never making peace with his brother. To accept that Fëanor will forever be a loose end he must live with. Most days, he is sure he has managed it, and he sees no reason to go to Tirion where he would be forced to face Fëanor and prove otherwise.

He sees no reason to open a wound that has only just barely managed to close.

Fëanor, of course, does not subscribe to this field of thought. Something which Fingolfin becomes painfully aware of a couple of months after Fëanor has been re-embodied, when he retires from the training grounds one afternoon, flushed from the sun and covered in a well-earned sweat, only to find Fëanor sprawled across his reading chair waiting for him.

He goes very still, the door closing behind him with an ominous click, and takes in the sight of his brother whole and alive. It is the first time he has seen his brother since the night he had been abandoned. The first time he has ever seen his brother in the light of the sun. Fëanor is studying him silently, face carefully neutral in a way that does not suit him, eyes strangely dark without the light of the trees in them. Fingolfin wants him gone. Meets Fëanor’s eyes and feels a great ripping pain go through his chest.

“Get out,” he says without even a moment of thought. Takes three steps to the side so that the path to the door is clear. “I don’t care who let you in. Get out.”

Fëanor’s mouth twists with mocking amusement as he does not even bother standing. “Such a cold greeting for your newly returned brother.”

Later, Fingolfin will not be able to tell you which part exactly sets him off so spectacularly — perhaps Fëanor calling him brother finally only to goad him, perhaps the simple use of the word ‘cold’, perhaps his smile or his face or his propensity for never knowing when to shut the fuck up — but he has drawn his sword and crossed the room before the thought to do so even forms. When Fingolfin presses the tip of his sword to the hollow of Fëanor’s throat, in the exact spot Fëanor had once pressed his against Fingolfin’s, Fëanor has the nerve to look shocked and then amused.

"Will you kill me then?" Fëanor asks, eyes dancing with amusement. "Send me back to Mandos so quickly. Force the Valar to decide what to do with you now that the option of exile from Aman has been quite thoroughly taken away as an option."

Fingolfin tilts his head to the side, chest aching, and very, very carefully presses the tip of his sword in just enough to draw blood but not death. “Do you think I could not?”

Fëanor smirks at him, looking so damnably sure of himself when he says, “I think you love me too dearly to do so.”

His vision blurs with a rage so strong he must force himself to throw his sword to the ground for fear that he will, in truth, commit yet another kinslaying. "I wish you had stayed in Mandos until Arda broke," he hisses. "Whatever love I still hold for you has rotted and I have no care for it. Leave." He turns and stalks off, meaning to lock himself in his bedroom until Fëanor leaves, but Fëanor follows too quickly, grabbing his arm before he has even made it halfway across the room. It is pure instinct that has him twisting around and grabbing Fëanor by the throat, freezing them both in place.

“You have grown violent since we last saw each other,” Fëanor says, that awful amusement still dancing through his eyes. “It suits you.”

Fingolfin is genuinely unsure if that is meant to be an insult or a compliment. Does not know how he feels about either. “Why have you bothered coming here?” he demands. “Simply to mock me?”

The amusement does fall away at that, Fëanor grimacing, his eyes briefly darting away before meeting Fingolfin’s once more. It is a strange second of hesitation he would not have expected from his brother. “I did not come here to fight,” Fëanor says wryly, lips quirking upward at the disbelieving scoff Fingolfin gives. “I did not. I came to apologize.”

He stares. Tightens his grip on Fëanor’s throat just enough that he can feel his brother’s breathing hitch in distress, then lets go, jerking his arm out of Fëanor’s grip. “I do not want empty apologies,” he snaps. Steps back and narrows his eyes at the way Fëanor steps forward, following him.

“And why must they be empty?” Fëanor asks, mouth tight with displeasure. “You believe I changed so little while in Mandos.”

“I believe you hate me,” he says, feeling the truth of the words in his bones. “I believe you have always hated me. What in Mandos could have changed your feelings on me when we did not speak even when I was there?”

Fëanor laughs harshly, a dark flicker of emotion there and gone in his eyes. "You truly think so little of me that you believe I am wholly incapable of self-reflection. I made mistakes. Do you think I do not know that? After all that befell, you think I do not know that?”

"I do not pretend to understand how your mind works." He wants to believe that what Fëanor says is true, but cannot. Does not know how he is meant to believe that Fëanor feels any true regret when he had shown up in Fingolfin's room and immediately begun baiting him.

Fëanor studies his face for a moment and then takes another step forward, putting himself in Fingolfin’s space fully. “I am sorry,” he says lowly, never breaking eye contact. “I regret my actions against you.”

“Do you? Or do you only regret what they lead to?”

There is a brief hesitation, Fëanor scowling at him. “They are the same.”

“They are not,” he manages, throat tight with emotion. “If what you did had no direct consequences on your sons, on your people, would you still regret it? If the only people you hurt had been me and mine, would you still regret it?”

“I regret hurting you,” Fëanor snaps, nostrils flaring in annoyance. “Is that not enough?”

Fingolfin stares, something far too close to panic writhing in his chest. Takes several steps back, stopping only when his back hits the wall, Fëanor’s presence suffocating. “I do not know,” he says, tensing when Fëanor follows him once more, getting right back in his space. “I do not believe you.”

Fëanor frowns, eyes roaming across his face. "Nolvo—" his hand raises as if he means to touch Fingolfin, but he grabs Fëanor's wrist before he can.

“Do not,” he says softly, squeezing Fëanor’s wrist brutally tight. “You have no right to call me that.”

Fëanor's eyes flash. "Ñolofinwë then," he says in a low croon that can only be a mockery. "Or do you prefer Fingolfin these days?" His tongue curls around the Sindarin name as if savoring it as it slips from his mouth ever so slowly. He steps even closer, and Fingolfin can feel the heat of him now, his pulse fluttering like a trapped beast beneath Fingolfin’s fingers. “What do you wish of me then? I have come to apologize and I speak no untruth. I wish to make amends. So tell me, what do you wish for that will make you believe me?” He sounds deadly serious, eyes fixed with an unnerving intensity on Fingolfin’s face.

He reaches up as if through a dream and slowly wraps his fingers once more around Fëanor's throat. Fëanor, who simply stands there and allows it, watching Fingolfin with dark eyes. "I do not know," he says softly, pressing his thumb to Fëanor's pulse and finding it racing. "What could you offer me that I would be able to believe?"

“All these years, and you have truly thought of no punishments you wish to inflict on me?” Fëanor’s voice matches his in softness, his chin tilting up to better bare his throat and sending a trickle of heat down Fingolfin’s spine. “I will not hand you an answer. Tell me what it is you wish for me to give.”

Fingolfin has the uneasy feeling that they are standing on an unsteady precipice, nothing but danger waiting at the bottom of the cliff. Strokes his thumb over the thin skin of Fëanor’s neck and tracks how Fëanor shivers in response. “Anything?” he asks. Does not know what he wants. Knows that there is a thick, dark, heavy emotion slowly crawling up his throat. Knows that he wants to see Fëanor crying because of him, though he does not believe that is possible. But would even his brother’s tears be enough to convince him that this act of regret is true?

Fëanor's eyes narrow, and he hesitates briefly, but still says, "Anything," a strange mix of trepidation and curiosity laced through the word.

He considers this carefully. Lets go of Fëanor’s wrist and brushes his knuckles over Fëanor’s cheek. Considers the merits of simply punching him and calling it enough. Of getting Fëanor out of his rooms as quickly as possible before whatever is coiling around them snaps tight. He should. He has the sure feeling that he should. That they are both getting ready to step off a cliff where the drop is too far to survive. Instead, he releases his hold on Fëanor's throat, draws in a deep breath, and says, "On your knees."

Fëanor goes very still, a barrage of emotions flashing through his eyes. He hesitates for so long that Fingolfin thinks this will end before it has even begun. Thinks that and then watches as his brother’s jaw clenches and he slowly sinks to his knees, chin tilted up as he holds Fingolfin’s gaze. There’s heat threading through his ribs and pooling in his stomach as he looks down at his brother on his knees. His heart is pounding in his ears and in the back of his mind, trying to scramble free from where he’s swiftly buried it, the little thought that he knows exactly where he wants this to go.

He reaches down and carefully slides his fingers through Fëanor’s hair, still feels a little like he’s moving through a dream, every movement drawn out in excruciating detail. Fëanor’s hair is soft and slides easily through his fingers; Fëanor’s eyes flutter close for a brief moment before opening and meeting Fingolfin’s again. It is the display of pleasure at the touch that makes it all the more satisfying when he abruptly tightens his grip and wrenches Fëanor’s head back hard enough that it must hurt, far enough for it to be uncomfortable. He expects Fëanor to make a noise in response — a snarl, or perhaps a curse, something pained and sweet — what he does not expect is the strangled groan that rips itself out of Fëanor's mouth. He does not expect Fëanor's eyes to flutter shut again, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and when he opens his eyes again, his pupils slowly edging out soft grey.

He does not expect it, but it sends a bolt of undeniable lust through him. He very much wishes to deny it. Cannot when he is already half-hard from nothing but his brother submitting to him. He lets go of Fëanor’s hair, asks one last time, “Anything? Are you sure about that, brother?”

Fëanor's mouth twists with amusement and he laughs roughly. "You ever were trying to find a way to force me to submit. This will please you greatly, will it not? To have me on my knees. To have me taking instead of giving."

“This does please me,” he agrees quietly. “That did not answer my question. Anything?” He grips Fëanor’s chin, pressing his thumb to Fëanor’s bottom lip. Thinks of what they are both talking around and feels exhilarated, terrified — still wants to see Fëanor cry, to be the reason for the tears.

Fëanor nips at his thumb in answer, brushing his hand away and shuffling forward on his knees, closing the space between them. His hands are warm, sliding up Fingolfin's thighs, his mouth a damp heat as he traces the outline of Fingolfin's cock, sucking through the fabric when he reaches the head. Fingolfin sucks in a sharp breath, fingers tangling once more in Fëanor's hair as reality crashes back into him. Fëanor groans when Fingolfin pulls at his hair, the sound vibrating through Fingolfin's cock, and this is a terrible idea. Retribution is one thing, but no one at all would ever call this a reasonable retribution. If retribution it even is for Fëanor certainly seems to be enjoying it as well.

A terrible idea, but Fëanor is still leaving open-mouthed kisses along his cock even as his hands climb higher, aiming for Fingolfin's laces. He mouths once more at the head of Fingolfin's cock, sucking hard, and his breath hitches. He pulls Fëanor's head back even as his brother pulls his cock free. "Put your hands behind your back," he says instead of anything reasonable.

Fëanor blinks up at him curiously but does as he says. He does not know if this counts as retribution when Fëanor’s eyes are blown out with desire, when he can clearly see the tenting of Fëanor’s own cock straining against his breeches. But he does know that greedy, dark desire is still threading through his ribs and coating his throat. Knows that having Fëanor on his knees, obeying him, is making him only want his brother more.

"Open your mouth," he says softly, heart skipping a beat when Fëanor complies easily, mouth falling open for his use. He uses his free hand to guide his cock into Fëanor's open mouth, holds his head steady, and slowly fucks into the wet, willing warmth. Fëanor's eyes keep fluttering closed, and again and again he forces them open to continue holding Fingolfin's gaze. He fucks in only shallowly at first, relishing the sensation of Fëanor sucking and curling his tongue around Fingolfin’s cock. Pulls completely out of Fëanor’s mouth and feels a rush of heat go pouring through him when Fëanor automatically tries to chase after his cock.

He holds Fëanor's head in place, slowly strokes himself, and watches Fëanor watching him, a hungry look in his eyes that makes Fingolfin want to ruin him. “You’re so easy for it,” he says, quiet and thoughtful. “Did you come here hoping for this?”

Fëanor looks up at him and scowls. Opens his mouth as if to say something and cuts off with a groan when Fingolfin clenches his fist tight and pulls meanly at his hair. “You asked for this,” Fëanor grits out regardless, only for his mouth to fall open and his eyes to flutter shut for a moment when Fingolfin pulls sharply at his hair again.

“I did,” he agrees, pushing his foot between Fëanor’s spread legs and pressing up against his cock, startling a moan out of him. “But you seem to want it just as badly.”

He does not give Fëanor a chance to argue or come up with some other clever comeback; instead guides his cock back into Fëanor's mouth. He is not gentle about it this time; not that Fëanor particularly seems to mind the way Fingolfin fucks down his throat without warning if the way he moans around Fingolfin's cock is any indication. His brother has given up the battle of keeping his eyes open, has let them fall closed as Fingolfin fucks his throat with quick, sharp movements. He watches his cock disappear in and out of Fëanor's mouth and feels as if there is glass pressed beneath his skin. Something sharp and jagged, pressing outward and trying to break free.

He fucks all the way down Fëanor’s throat and stays there for a long moment, does not pull back until Fëanor twitches, throat convulsing around his cock and dragging him closer to the edge. He pulls out and lets Fëanor cough as he gasps for air. Fucks back in all the way again and stays there, cock blissfully enveloped in the tight warmth, until Fëanor whines high and desperate, throat convulsing, shoulders twitching as he clearly fights to not move. Pulls out and loosens his grip on Fëanor’s hair enough that he can tilt forward as he coughs and gasps for air. The sound of Fëanor whining seems to have carved through him, branded itself on his eardrums. He wants to hear it again. Wants Fëanor desperate for it. Wants to be able to look at his brother and believe what he says, to not always be waiting for another betrayal.

“Okay,” he says softly, running a finger down Fëanor’s cheek when he looks up, and loosening his grip on Fëanor’s hair fully. “Go on then, show me how very sorry you are.”

Fëanor is watching Fingolfin as if he’s starving, cheeks flushed, mouth painfully red. Fingolfin is not entirely sure he was that terribly far off when he asked if Fëanor had come here wanting this. “I am sorry,” Fëanor says, voice hoarse though no less intense for it. He wraps his fingers around Fingolfin’s cock and takes just the head into his mouth for a moment, swirling his tongue around it before slowly taking more into his mouth.

Fingolfin leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes, allows himself to simply sink into the sensations — the wet heat, Fëanor’s left hand running up his thigh, the vibrations that travel though him as Fëanor groans every time Fingolfin tugs at his hair, the scrape of teeth that has him gasping silently and thrusting forward and down Fëanor’s throat before he can stop himself. But for all that the pleasure is searing; for all that he opens his eyes and the sight of Fëanor with his eyes closed, looking blissfully content with Fingolfin’s cock down his throat sends a rush of breath-stealing heat through him; for all that he can feel it all beginning to coil tight around him, Fëanor just as talented in this as he is with everything else — he still does not allow a single sound of pleasure to escape from his mouth. Refuses to give Fëanor the satisfaction of hearing his enjoyment.

It is difficult though, keeping the sounds locked behind his teeth. Made more difficult by the way Fëanor keeps making muffled, pleased noises around his cock and groaning in pleasure every time Fingolfin thrusts forward and down his throat. He clenches his fingers loosely in Fëanor’s hair, says, “You are so, so easy for it,” voice coming out both hoarser and softer than he’d meant for it to.

Fëanor glances up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure. He pulls off for just a moment to say, “Fuck you,” voice wrecked, before taking Fingolfin back into his mouth, and reaching down as if to bring himself off.

"Don't touch yourself," he says, tugging sharply at Fëanor's hair. He receives the quietest whine in response, and Fëanor reaching up to dig his nails into Fingolfin's thigh. The easy obedience leaves him swallowing around an overwhelming desperation to have Fëanor mean all of this fully. A choking desire to press Fëanor down into a bed and take him apart slowly, for this to be something more than misplaced retribution. He wants to believe Fëanor, but he does not think he knows how to.

Fëanor hollows his cheeks, sucking hard, before once more taking Fingolfin's entire cock down his throat, and this time he stays there without Fingolfin holding him in place. His nails are digging into Fingolfin's thigh to the point of pain, he presses his teeth lightly against the base of Fingolfin's cock as he swallows around him, and this time Fingolfin fails to hold back the moan that rips out of him. He tightens his grip on Fëanor's hair, holding him in place as Fingolfin spills down his throat. It is a violent, biting pleasure that leaves him shivering as Fëanor struggles to swallow around him. He does not allow Fëanor to pull back until he has fully spent himself, until the heat of Fëanor's mouth begins to border on too much, until Fëanor whines once more, a distinct edge of desperation to it that makes his blood sing. Tilts his head back against the wall after and struggles to catch his breath, listens to Fëanor doing the same, his forehead pressed to Fingolfin's thigh.

He looks down when Fëanor shifts, once again moving to bring himself off, and tightens his grip on Fëanor’s hair warningly. “I said not to touch yourself.”

Fëanor goes still and then sits up straight, jerking his hair from Fingolfin’s grip without flinching. He is a sight to behold on his knees with his legs spread, cock straining against his breeches, eyes hazy and cheeks flushed, mouth so beautifully red. “Ñolofinwë.” It is only Fingolfin’s name, but hearing his father-name said in such a singularly desperate tone that he has never once heard from Fëanor, it sends him to his knees.

His hands are steady as they frame Fëanor’s face, as he brushes his thumbs across Fëanor’s heated cheeks. “You asked what you could give me,” he says quietly, having the temerity to lean in and press their foreheads together. “I want this.”

Even when his mind is hazy with lust Fëanor has no trouble catching what he means. “My obedience,” Fëanor says quietly in turn, raising his hands and wrapping his fingers around Fingolfin’s wrists, squeezing until Fingolfin can feel all of the little bones in his wrists creak beneath the pressure. “And how long do you plan to demand such a thing from me?”

“How long will you give me?”

Fëanor pulls in a shuddering breath, tilts his face slightly up, his nose brushing Fingolfin’s. “I suppose we will find out.”

It is not an agreement on either of their parts. There is no guarantee that even this will be enough to quiet the vicious doubt that chews through every apology Fëanor gives him. It does not stop him from grabbing onto the opportunity with both hands. “I suppose we will find out,” he echoes and kisses his brother.

Kissing Fëanor is a whiplash revelation that leaves his tongue smarting as Fëanor burns himself onto Fingolfin’s tastebuds.

It is a slow, exploratory kiss at first, this somehow, more than anything they've done so far, feeling far bigger and more damning. But their lips brush and slot together so easily, Fëanor's mouth opening so willingly for him. He makes a soft noise as Fingolfin licks into his mouth, chasing the taste of himself. There's the slick slide of Fëanor's tongue against his as Fëanor tries to turn it desperate, and Fingolfin pushes back, drawing it back down to a simmer. The way Fëanor presses in closer, pushing Fingolfin back against the wall and onto the floor as the kiss deepens. He keeps pressing in closer until he is fully seated in Fingolfin's lap, pressed all up against him warm and wanting. Fingolfin holds Fëanor's hips still and lets himself drown in the kiss; sits on the stone floor with his brother in his lap and feels a great golden swell of emotion lodge itself beneath his ribs. He does not know what to do with it; slips a hand beneath Fëanor's tunic and traces the jagged lines of his spine.

Fëanor does not try to get himself off, does not ask again, but his hips keep restlessly shifting, his cock still hard where it is pressed up against Fingolfin’s stomach. There is a small part of him that rather violently wants to see what Fëanor looks like lost to pleasure that Fingolfin has bestowed upon him. Wants the satisfaction of seeing Fëanor fall apart and know that it is his doing. But the larger part of him just wants to see how long Fëanor will obey him. Cares about nothing other than whether or not Fëanor means a single word he’s said.

He pulls away, gripping Fëanor's hair and holding him still when he tries to chase after Fingolfin's mouth. Fëanor's eyes are still blown out with want, and it causes smug contentment to curl up in his stomach that it is him that look is directed at. “I was going to bathe before dinner,” he says, stroking Fëanor’s cheek again and marveling at how well the flush suits him.

Understanding flashes over Fëanor's face, followed closely by an irritation that settles into the lines around his mouth. He banishes it a moment later, but Fingolfin still saw it, still knows it was there. Fëanor does not move for a moment, runs his fingers through Fingolfin's hair, traces a slow line from the middle of his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over the seam of his mouth. "My obedience," he says thoughtfully, something darker beneath the words that Fingolfin cannot quite grasp onto. "That is all you are asking of me?"

He cannot help but snort at that. “You say that as if it is so small a thing to ask.”

Fëanor hums as he considers Fingolfin. “And if I refuse?”

Fingolfin must close his eyes for a moment at the pang of preemptive, bitter grief that spears directly through him, the sensation so much worse with Fëanor warm in his lap. "Then you can return to Tirion and tell atar that you tried. I'm sure you remember well enough how to twist things so that you come off as reasonable and I as the difficult one." His mouth twists unwillingly at that. The idea of returning to the way things were before the darkening completely unfathomable to him. Not in the least because he cares little these days as to whether his father's opinion is approving or not. If he cared, then he would never have rebuilt Barad Eithel. Would not have left Tirion once again without a backward glance.

"I did not tell Atar I was coming here," Fëanor says, still studying him intently when Fingolfin opens his eyes in surprise. "He did not seem to think you would want to see me."

Fingolfin raises an eyebrow. His father had been correct on that point, and Fingolfin is grateful that he had tried to honor that. Fëanor's mouth quirks in amusement for a moment before he leans in and presses their foreheads together once more. "I will try," Fëanor says softly, the words ghosting across Fingolfin's mouth. "I mean all that I have said.”

Fingolfin still does not believe him. This does not stop him from kissing Fëanor once more. Does not stop him from making the choice to try.

☀︎

For the thinnest veneer of propriety, if one were to ask, Fëanor has rooms only a hall away. Something that was not even Fingolfin’s doing, for he learns later that it had been Fingon, at the request of Maedhros, who let Fëanor into his rooms. It is such a predictable explanation that he can only pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance as he weighs the merits of having a conversation with Fingon about it. Decides against it in the end since he does not particularly enjoy wasting his breath.

Fëanor has his own rooms, but when Fingolfin does finally stand to bathe, Fëanor simply follows him into his bedroom and sprawls across the bed as if it is a given that he belongs in it. Fingolfin traces the outline of his brother in his bed and swallows around the panic that desperately wants to bubble up his throat.

He is not a fool. He does not know if this will work for them. If he will be able to look at Fëanor and truly trust in his brother’s intentions ever again. But he does know that if this goes badly, if it ends with him once again watching Fëanor walk away, it is going to tear him open in a way he does not think he can bear to fathom. He should attempt to maintain some boundaries between them. Something so that if this falls apart as he fears it will, then at least there will be some part of his life left sacred and only his.

But Fëanor sprawls across his bed, still visibly, achingly hard, and Fingolfin leaves him there as he goes to bathe, and somehow, that's that. He lets his brother into his bed, and Fëanor simply never leaves.

☀︎

That first night, Fëanor stares at him challengingly from across the bed as he hesitates to get in it. It is one thing to fuck his brother; it is another entirely to lie down in bed with the intention of doing nothing but sleeping. This has already long gone past what he could believably pass off as retribution only, but if he allows this, if he curls into Fëanor as they sleep, their bodies no longer separate continents, it becomes something bigger, something he cannot, will not assign words to.

Fingolfin, despite his better sense, gets into the bed regardless. And it is strange, raising an eyebrow in return and slipping beneath the covers only for Fëanor to settle next to him seconds later. Strange not only in that there is another body in his bed, but also in that Fingolfin is usually chilled at night, no matter how many blankets he piles on top of himself, and now, suddenly, he is not.

This body has never known the ravages of the Helcaraxë, but his mind still vividly remembers, and that is, as it turns out, all he needs to feel chilled when he stops moving for too long. But now, Fëanor presses up against him, pressing a leg between his, neatly wrapping Fingolfin in his arms before Fingolfin can think to argue. He shifts Fingolfin's hair out of the way, pressing his mouth to the curve of Fingolfin's neck, and a violent shiver goes through him. Fëanor is so warm that for the first time in far too many ages, Fingolfin thinks he will perhaps need fewer blankets, instead of more.

He allows himself to sink into the embrace, focuses on the feeling of Fëanor breathing steadily against his back, a hand caressing his hip, and falls asleep feeling so very warm.

 ☀︎

Fingolfin wakes the next morning to find that he has turned in his sleep and is half-sprawled across Fëanor, who is lying on his back still asleep. He stays as he is for a while, listening to Fëanor breathe; presses his hand to Fëanor’s chest and counts the beats of his heart. He still feels a little like he’s in a dream, the pale early morning light just barely filtering through the window doing little to dissuade from the feeling. Like this, thoughts still muddled and hazy, Fëanor sleep-soft and willingly in his bed, it is easy to think that perhaps this will actually work.

He sits up carefully after a while, doing his best to not disturb Fëanor’s sleep, and sits cross-legged next to his brother considering him. Traces the lines of his face, that even softened with sleep are proud and haughty. He brushes his fingers across Fëanor’s collarbone, down his sternum, softly runs his thumb in circles across each nipple. Fëanor makes a soft noise in his sleep and Fingolfin moves on. Runs his hands over the planes of Fëanor’s stomach, traces a burn scar above the jut of Fëanor’s left hip. Cannot help but laugh quietly to himself at the idea that Fëanor has been back for barely two months and has already managed to scar this new body.

He traces each hipbone, down the crease of the thigh to the soft skin behind the knee. Runs his hand back up the front of Fëanor’s thigh firmly, humming in pleasure at the sensation. By the time he reaches Fëanor’s cock he is already half-hard from Fingolfin’s explorations. A glance at his face reveals he is indeed still asleep, though his breathing less steady.

Fingolfin lightly wraps his fingers around Fëanor’s cock, his thumb tracing a vein on the underside. He fists Fëanor’s cock, swiping his thumb over the head with deliberate slowness, and watches entranced as Fëanor’s cock hardens and fills out in his grip. It seems only natural to shift and move between Fëanor’s legs so that he can lean down and take Fëanor’s cock in his mouth. He hums around it curiously at the taste before drawing back and looking up at Fëanor when his hips make a half-aborted movement, his hand coming up to brush against Fingolfin’s hair.

Fëanor is watching him sleepily, eyes dark and face so strangely soft that Fingolfin has the nonsensical urge to snap at his brother until he looks properly angry. Instead, he tilts into the touch and takes Fëanor's cock back into his mouth, listens to his brother moan quietly, and feels as if he could be happy simply staying in his bed forever as long as Fëanor were here with him making such pretty noises.

All too soon he can feel Fëanor beginning to tense up, breathing hitching, his fingers curling in Fingolfin’s hair as if he wishes to pull, and Fingolfin pulls off, squeezing tight at the base of his cock. Fëanor makes a sharp, distressed noise, hips jerking as he tries to thrust up into the grip. His eyes are still locked on Fingolfin, wide and as easy to get lost in as the mist had been on early mornings in Dor-lómin. Fingolfin straightens and holds Fëanor’s gaze as he begins fisting his own cock. He feels overheated and painfully turned on from the feeling of Fëanor so intently watching him. A feeling which only intensifies as Fëanor makes a breathless noise and reaches down to wrap his hand around Fingolfin’s, tangling their fingers together as they jerk him off.

“You look like a dream,” Fëanor murmurs suddenly, voice hoarse with sleep and lust, and Fingolfin, who had already been teetering on the edge, jerks and spills across Fëanor’s stomach and chest, a strangled groan escaping him, Fëanor’s name clenched tight between his teeth.

He collapses back down next to Fëanor afterward, making no move to grant Fëanor release. Fëanor twists toward him, burying a hand in his hair, his other hand cradling Fingolfin’s cheek as he kisses him. He pays no attention to the fact that they are now both sticky messes, only continues kissing Fingolfin, pressing him down farther into the bed, his cock twitching against Fingolfin’s thigh. “Do not come,” he says against Fëanor’s mouth. 

“This is cruel of you,” Fëanor says, nosing at his cheek and kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Good.” And the thing is, the worst part of it all — he means it. Feels that dark, twisted satisfaction crawl up his throat and coat his tongue at the idea that this could match even the smallest fraction of the cruelty he was dealt at Fëanor's hands. It is nowhere near the same, but it is enough that it satisfies him for the moment.

Fëanor must be able to hear the truth of it in his voice, for he says nothing in response, only kisses Fingolfin again and obeys.

He obeys. Fingolfin wishes that could grant him hope.

☀︎

There is a nearly visible ripple of interest that goes through Barad Eithel at Fëanor’s presence, or more accurately, at his extended presence.

If he had come and gone in only a day or two, people would likely have paid it no mind. Assuming, rightly, that it was Fëanor making his rounds as he makes amends in this new age. But Fëanor does not leave. He roams around Barad Eithel examining the build and the various rooms. Praises the parts he can visibly tell his sons had a hand in helping build. Criticizes the parts that he knows they did not. Walks through the library with bright eyes, muttering to himself excitedly about the various new tomes that have come into being in the last few ages. Goes to the forge and harasses the smiths until he has gained their extreme annoyance but also their unabashed awe.

He pokes and prods at Fingolfin as to why they still openly make weapons and practice fighting when in Tirion the mere idea of anyone once again owning a sword is enough to earn you a glare. It is why Fëanor had returned from Mandos to find that a large majority of his people had fallen back into the familiarity of following Fingolfin and helped build Barad Eithel anew. Why most of his sons had not initially been in Tirion to greet him. For all that most of Fëanor's sons hold no specific love for Fingolfin, they hold the idea of being forced back into peaceful complacency in pure contempt.

Maedhros had needed no prompting to follow, of course, his footsteps perfectly in step with Fingon's. Fingolfin is sure Celegorm would have simply disappeared into the forest if not given another option, perhaps falling back in with Oromë's hunt, but given the choice of helping rebuild Barad Eithel, he'd simply flung an arm around Aredhel's shoulders and asked when they could start. Curufin had not necessarily voiced his support, but he had followed Celegorm, which Fingolfin was well used to and was good enough. Caranthir had scoffed at him, seemed to disappear from Valinor itself for months, and then suddenly shown up in the middle of the day while Fingolfin was studying the building plans and launched into a scathing commentary of everything that was wrong with Fingolfin's planning. Fingolfin had not been able to get rid of him after that, and he had in fact tried. The Ambarussa had shrugged and gone to stay with Nerdanel for a while instead. Had shown up a few months later to help with building, and then disappeared for another stretch of time to other places. They still seldom stay long in one place, though they are welcome in many.

When Elrond had arrived and Fingolfin had finally gotten to meet his grandson, it was to find that Elrond had dragged a clearly reluctant Maglor along west with him. Though Elrond is, and will always be, welcome in Barad Eithel, he had gone on to build his own settlement, one that is similar to Rivendell, Fingolfin is told. He had taken Maglor with him. Celebrimbor, who had been re-embodied only shortly before Elrond had arrived, had gone with him as well.

His father was not pleased with his insistence on holding onto many of the customs they had formed for themselves in Beleriand. Believes that it does them no good to bring remnants of that marred first age into this new one. And it is not that Fingolfin begrudges the people of Tirion their peace, their illusion that war cannot and will not touch them. He believes they are likely even correct. But they had also not thought war would touch them before, and he believes he would be foolish indeed to fall back into a haze of complacency.

It is also half-habit that pushes them to continue crafting weapons and practicing with them, he explains to Fëanor, who has been listening to him speak with narrowed eyes. It is enjoyable now in a way it had not been in Beleriand. It is no longer a matter of survival to be the fastest and strongest in a fight, only a matter of pride as to how quickly you can place your sparring partner on their back.

Fëanor considers this and then proceeds to throw himself into sparring matches the same way he does everything else, full-tilt with the intention of besting everyone around him. A feat he, for once, does not accomplish quickly or with ease. Fëanor is talented and quick as a whip, but the vast majority of the people in Barad Eithel have centuries of fighting experience beneath their belts. To say nothing of the ones who had not died at all but had sailed after several ages. There are warriors within these walls that Fingolfin still struggles to beat in a fight, which makes it all the sweeter when it is managed.

This knowledge does nothing but make Fëanor burn brighter with excitement at the challenge. Fingolfin finds himself often standing on the edges of the training grounds, watching Fëanor fight, flushed and viciously pleased as he spars. Looks at Fëanor in his city, peacefully co-existing with his people, and feels a lurching sensation in his stomach that would normally preempt waking up from a dream of falling through an icy void. And then Fëanor will catch sight of him watching and grin, looking so very smug at having Fingolfin’s attention, that he must leave before he does something terribly foolish like drag Fëanor into a kiss in the middle of the day where everyone can see.

Instead, they take turns pressing each other up against the walls of his rooms in the evenings, licking the salt and sun from the other's skin. Fëanor murmurs his apologies each day against Fingolfin's skin like he's committing a sacrifice, slicing himself open, and the bloody vulnerability of each apology is the offering he keeps placing at Fingolfin's feet. The warmth of his mouth around Fingolfin's cock, the way he steadily grows more and more on edge as the days pass and Fingolfin refuses to let him come, the way he keeps obeying — it all just feels like an offering.

Fingolfin cannot help but think that he is missing something. That it makes no sense for his brother to have awoken in this new age, so set on earning Fingolfin's forgiveness that he would offer this much of himself up. He is missing something. He just does not know what to do about it. 

☀︎

In a rather shocking turn of events, it takes a full week of Fëanor being in Barad Eithel for them to get into a true fight. He does not believe Fëanor is even attempting to start a fight.

Fëanor is examining one of the various written personal accounts of the first age that they have collected over the centuries, and says rather absently, “It was a foolish, stupid endeavor to cross the Helcaraxë. It is not as if we did not already know it was not meant to be crossed. Yet all of these accounts seem to be so shocked by how terrible—”

“Watch your tongue,” he hisses, snatching the book from Fëanor’s hand and swallowing the rest of the scathing retort down, terribly aware that there are others in the library, though thankfully none close enough to have heard Fëanor’s insensitive words.

Fëanor stares at him with glittering eyes, a mean smirk beginning to pull at his mouth that Fingolfin has not seen since Fëanor arrived. “I had not realized it was so frowned upon to speak the truth.”

Fingolfin breathes out very slowly, puts the book away, and leaves. He is unwilling to give the rumors he knows are floating around any more kindling. Fëanor's footsteps follow behind him, his brother drawing even with him seconds later. They do not speak on the way to his rooms. Fingolfin's mind has gone eerily blank, a blanket of fresh snow coating his thoughts and allowing none to escape. Trepidation is sitting tight and bitter at the base of his spine, no matter that he is doing his best to ignore it. He does not look at Fëanor as they walk into his rooms, moving to stand next to his desk, his back to his brother.

“You are unnecessarily annoyed about this,” Fëanor says, and Fingolfin is sure from his tone that he is rolling his eyes. “It is not as if I have said anything that is not already known.”

It is the complete lack of remorse in Fëanor’s voice, of any feeling other than annoyance, that sends the rage carving through him. That has him abruptly picking up the glass inkwell on his desk, turning, and hurling it at the wall near Fëanor’s head. Glass and ink sprays through the air, some of both catching Fëanor on the cheek and leaving blood mixing with the dark ink. Fëanor does not flinch, only watches him with narrowed eyes.

“People died,” he snaps, nearly breathless with fury. “Do you have no respect for that?”

“Many people died in the first age,” Fëanor says flatly. “And many more in the ages that followed.”

“But the rest of those people did not so directly die because of you. You left us. If you had not done so, none would have had to die on the ice at all!"

Fëanor sneers at him, carelessly swiping the bloody ink from his cheek. "You are the one who made the choice to lead them across the ice, not I. You may pretend that your hands are clean of their blood if you wish, but we both know they are not."

If Fingolfin had not carved those same words into his fëa while crossing the ice, he may have flinched. It does not change that the host of the blame lies with Fëanor still. "I swore to follow you and I did," he says lowly, throat tight. "My people pledged to follow me, and they did. I know you think your oaths and your promises are the only ones that matter, the only ones that hold any weight, but in my experience, yours are the most useless of all the ones I heard before I died.”

His brother does not flinch. Does not even look particularly offended, but his eyes are glittering in a way that is reminiscent of nothing so much as it is of the years leading up to Formenos. It makes Fingolfin's chest ache with the memory of fury, of a bitterness that had infested his heart until Fëanor's name had twisted into a curse.

“I do not see what it matters if I state simple facts,” Fëanor says in a clipped, even tone. “Would you have me apologize for my perceived misdeeds every time I speak of that time. A constant degradation of my pride.”

Fingolfin stares at Fëanor for a long moment, the tight knot of emotion in the base of his throat coiling tighter and tighter. “Do you care at all about the elves who died on the ice? The ones that hearkened to your words and then died trying to reach a land you promised we could make beautiful.”

"It is a pity it happened," Fëanor says, not sounding as if it matters to him either way. He must see the thought on Fingolfin's face, for he makes an irritated noise. "I have told you already, I know that I made mistakes. My groveling for forgiveness will not change those mistakes.”

“And what then, are you doing here, if not groveling for forgiveness at my feet?” He feels very far removed from his body. Cold and walking across cracking ice, waiting for the water to steal him away.

Fëanor falters, the haughty bitterness dropping from his face. “This is not the same,” Fëanor says, finally stepping toward him, voice gone carefully soft. “I regret hurting you, Ñolofinwë. That is truth.”

Fingolfin does not believe him at all. It makes no sense. “Get out.”

Fëanor frowns, stepping closer to him, and he takes a step back. Shakes his head. "Nolvo—"

“Get out!” The words emerge so much louder than he’d meant for them to, echoing off the walls.

Fëanor’s entire face shuts down. He stares at Fingolfin for a minute, fists clenched tight at his side, before nodding sharply and turning on his heel. The door slams shut behind him with an aching crash. Fingolfin sits down right there on the floor, watches the ink run down the stone wall, the shattered glass glittering in the sunlight, and wonders if Fëanor will wait till morning to leave for Tirion, or if he is already on his way down to the stables.

Closes his eyes and wishes Fëanor had never come to Barad Eithel at all.

☀︎

Fingolfin does not leave his rooms again that day. 

He is not willing to be faced with the news that Fëanor has already left. Is just as unwilling to be faced with the news that he is instead taking his time and is preparing to leave in the morning. Fingolfin is simply not willing to deal with any of it. He feels raw and bruised. He wants Fëanor to come back, but would not be willing to follow and ask for that even if he did regret his words.

A chill begins to creep over him as he sits on the floor, and he forces himself to rise and build a fire. Cocoons himself in blankets afterward and curls up in his reading chair. Would be more comfortable in his bed, but cannot quite bear the weight of having to sleep alone once more, all of Fëanor's warmth gone. It is such a disgusting, terrifying emotion that ropes itself around his throat at the knowledge of how very, very easy it had been to slot Fëanor into his life. How much harder it will be to rip him back out.

He tries to distract himself by reading, but instead spends most of the evening simply watching the shadows play across the walls and thinking about Fëanor. About how he isn't even sure why he's surprised. It had been such simple Fëanor logic. The tragedy is over and done with, so why spend time regretting it any longer? Why bother caring individually about those you do not know, those that are not directly in your care? It still does not explain Fëanor's strange insistence that he wishes to earn Fingolfin's forgiveness. It does not explain his obedience, the way he had gone so pliant beneath Fingolfin's hands, the way he had curled around Fingolfin at night as if he was trying to turn them into a single entity.

It explains nothing, and he cannot bring himself to trust Fëanor's out-of-character behavior when it is clear that his attitude has changed little in regard to much of anything else. Not that any of it matters now, he thinks quietly, letting his eyes slip close, his chest aching, aching, aching. The last time he had seen Fëanor’s face shut down so thoroughly had been at the trial when he’d been exiled to Formenos. He knows that look. Knows his brother even when he wishes he did not. It was not a look that promised any second chances.

Fingolfin keeps his eyes closed and breathes in very slowly, Fëanor's scent still clinging to the blankets he's wrapped himself in, all ash and fire and iron. He thinks of Fëanor's mouth upon his and allows himself to sink into the memory as he drifts asleep. He will work on forgetting tomorrow. For now, he clutches the memory close and lets it lull him to sleep.

He dreams of ice and the stars wheeling above.

Of hairline fractures creeping beneath his feet. 

The freezing water always a threat. 

A grave without a body.

Fire blazing across the water.

Endless, endless snow. 

He is only half-sure if the hand brushing his hair from his face some time later is dream or reality. Cannot convince his eyes to open, still half-caught in the dream, the biting taste of snow fresh on his tongue. The hand is warm though, as it cradles his cheek, the lips that press to his forehead warm as well. He leans into it, sighing, the snow melting, everything hazy and pink with the coming of the sun glittering off the ice.

It is not until an arm slides beneath his legs, another beneath his back, lifting him from the chair, that he drags himself from the dream enough to blink his eyes open. Recognition washes through him instantly, Fëanor far too distinctive and warm to be mistaken for anyone else. He could say something, should say something. Instead, he closes his eyes again and presses his face to Fëanor's chest; breathes him in and ruthlessly fights down the urge to clutch at him.

He hears Fëanor nudge the bedroom door open and does not quite manage to hold back the distressed noise that slides out of his throat when he’s placed in the bed, the warmth vanishing.

Shhh, Fëanor murmurs, tucking the covers around him, it’s going to be fine.

He’s left the bedroom before Fingolfin can manage to cobble together more of a thought than, no, if you leave how can it be fine? Has returned before Fingolfin can do more than draw in a single hitched breath. He feels the weight of more blankets being added to the bed and then the sound of Fëanor shuffling about the room. He turns toward the sound, eyes seeking his brother, and finds Fëanor removing his clothing. Preparing to join him in the bed, he realizes, heart lurching with a desperate relief.

Fëanor slides beneath the covers, and Fingolfin does not have to decide whether or not to reach for him as Fëanor wastes no time before tugging Fingolfin in close. If he had not only just woken, if he had not fallen asleep wanting Fëanor near him, perhaps he could be stronger and push Fëanor away, maintain some distance until they've finished their fight. Fëanor pulls him in, tangling their legs together and running a hand up his side before tangling fingers in his hair, pressing their foreheads together, breath sweet against Fingolfin's mouth. Fingolfin does not know how he could be expected to do anything other than try to pull Fëanor in tighter; digs his fingers into Fëanor's shoulder and drags in a shuddering breath.

“I am sorry,” Fëanor says quietly. “I don’t— I would do none of it again, not like that, but I— Nolvo, do not ask me to split my regret between all of your people. It is all for you, for my sons, my father, Nerdanel, your— our siblings. I do not have more than that to give.”

Fingolfin is not anywhere near coherent enough to respond to that, to the overwhelming emotions hiding in each word. Instead, kisses Fëanor in response and lets himself be pressed down into the bed as Fëanor surges into the kiss as if he has been starved for months instead of mere hours. “Just, stay,” he says into the kiss, trying to pull Fëanor closer, as if they are not already pressed together from mouth to heart to hip. “Stay.”

“Do not send me away again then,” Fëanor says in return. “I cannot both obey you and stay if you send me away.”

“Yes, okay,” he murmurs, chest aching with relief and something far brighter that he is too scared to name. Fingolfin kisses Fëanor again, pretends he doesn’t taste salt. He falls asleep later with Fëanor wrapped around him, his mouth pressed to the back of Fingolfin’s neck, his fingers splayed wide across Fingolfin’s stomach. He knows he’s still missing something but cannot be bothered to care. There will be time later to discover what Fëanor is hiding if only he will stay. 

As long as he just stays, then Fingolfin can figure out the rest.

☀︎

The first time Fëanor opens him up, eyes dark and intent on Fingolfin's face as he presses his fingers in, Fingolfin has the half-hysterical thought that perhaps this is all an elaborate illusion. For it seems absurd that his brother is kneeling between his legs, periodically placing open-mouthed kisses up and down his cock, swirling his tongue around the head as he fingers Fingolfin open. But he does not think this is a thing he would have been capable of making up. Not when it is far, far more than he could ever have fathomed Fëanor giving him, even in a dream.

It is cruel perhaps, to have Fëanor press inside of him, body shaking above Fingolfin as he adjusts to the tight heat, and take Fëanor’s face into his hands only to quietly tell him once more, “Do not come.”

Fëanor makes a ragged noise that will haunt Fingolfin's dreams, but does not argue. It has been nearly two weeks, and Fingolfin still has not relented. Thinks it would have been kinder if he'd fucked Fëanor instead, but he selfishly wants his brother inside of him. Fëanor pulls out, fucks back in slowly, and Fingolfin's chest seizes, struggles to draw in air at the sensation. It is overwhelming having Fëanor above him, inside of him, watching him as if Fingolfin holds answers to some question he hadn't even heard asked.

He pulls Fëanor into a messy kiss, biting sharply at his lip when he speeds up, fucking into Fingolfin with quick, hard thrusts that leave Fingolfin gasping and digging his nails into Fëanor’s shoulder. Fëanor makes a choked noise against his mouth as he arches his back, fissures of pleasure crawling up his spine, and purposefully clenches tight around Fëanor’s cock. He slams into Fingolfin once more and goes still, eyes clenched shut, shaking as he fights down the pleasure Fingolfin can see washing over him, his cock twitching inside of Fingolfin.

“Náro,” he murmurs, kissing him gently. Fëanor kisses him back, still shaking as he slowly pulls out. Fingolfin cannot help but whine at the loss, feeling empty and on edge from the pleasure being taken away.

“Cruel,” Fëanor says, kissing the corner of his mouth, and then softer. “It suits you.”

Fingolfin is almost sure it was a compliment this time, does not get a chance to think on it before Fëanor slides down his body and takes Fingolfin's cock in his mouth, pressing three fingers inside of him. He presses into it, moaning as Fëanor takes him all the way into his throat and shifts his fingers until he finds the spot that leaves Fingolfin gasping as he pushes down on Fëanor's fingers. It does not take long from there for him to spill down Fëanor's throat.

Fëanor curls up against his side after, breathing shaky against Fingolfin’s collarbone, cock still hard against his hip. He reaches down and lightly wraps his fingers around Fëanor’s cock, strokes him only once before Fëanor grabs his wrist. “Don’t,” he says, voice hoarse. “I can’t— don’t.”

"You can," he returns, tugging his wrist from Fëanor's grasp. He lightly strokes Fëanor's cock for several minutes, pets Fëanor's hair with his other hand as he listens to Fëanor's breathing turn erratic, a quiet whine cutting through the air, and then another as he half-thrusts into Fingolfin's grip before stopping himself.

He does not stop until Fëanor drags in a breath and it audibly hitches, his cock twitching in Fingolfin’s grip. Let’s go and moves his hand to Fëanor’s hip instead, lightly stroking it as Fëanor fights to come back down from the edge Fingolfin’s left him at. “Nolvo,” Fëanor says, the closest thing to a plea Fingolfin has managed to pull from him so far. His eyes are glassy when Fingolfin meets them, and it makes his heart twist and dark satisfaction curl up beneath it that he's dragged Fëanor so very close to tears.

"You're alright," he says gently, kissing the corner of Fëanor's eye, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. He still does not understand why Fëanor is so willingly giving him this, but he finds that at this point, he cannot picture it as a trick of any kind, not in the least because he cannot fathom what sort of trick it could be.

Fëanor releases a shuddering breath and presses his face to Fingolfin's neck, does not ask again. Fingolfin continues petting his hair as he hums an old lullaby quietly; thinks of standing in the middle of the Helcaraxë and staring up at the stars, cursing his brother's name and missing him so fiercely regardless it had been like a knife to the throat. It is soothing to have Fëanor pressed up against him now, a long line of trembling heat. Soothing to have all this power placed in his palms and be nearly able to believe that Fëanor would truly listen to any order he gives.

He has no intentions of abusing the power, but oh, it is heady to think that he could. To think that Fëanor would let him. Fëanor's fingers flex against his stomach as he turns farther into Fingolfin's embrace, tossing a leg over his and kissing his neck gently. Fingolfin closes his eyes and holds his brother close. Has the audacity to hope that this will all turn out alright.

☀︎

“I did not think he would stay here this long,” Fingon says idly to him one day, sliding up next to Fingolfin where he’s watching Fëanor spar.

Fingolfin chooses his words carefully in response. Is sure that it must have been noted by now that Fëanor does not sleep in his own rooms, though none have pointed this out to his face yet. “He is intent on repairing what was broken between us.”

Fingon hums and is silent for a moment as they watch Tintallo laughingly knock Fëanor onto his back. Fëanor scowls and rises to go again, narrowing his eyes as Tintallo lightly taunts him, a bold choice on his part. “Can you repair something that was not there to begin with?” Fingon asks, voice mild, as if the question is trivial as an inquiry about the weather.

"Perhaps not," he returns evenly. "But in that case, there is nothing stopping us from building something new. Something unmarred."

“Unmarred,” Fingon echoes, laughter in his eyes when he glances over. “I do not believe most people would name it as such, atar.”

He purses his lips and does not answer. Fingon stands silently with him for the rest of the training session, observing as Fëanor comes closer and closer to almost being able to best Tintallo. "You look less haunted with him here," Fingon says as Fëanor begins gathering his things together. "I am happy for your sake. But please, do not let him start another rebellion over this when it gets out. I am rather tired of fighting.”

He walks away before Fingolfin can think of a response. He cannot help but grimly take note of how Fingon had said when, not if. Fëanor grins at him as he crosses the courtyard, and he feels his face imperceptibly soften despite himself. Sees, out of the corner of his eye, Tintallo looking between them with sharp eyes. Knows Fingon is right. Does not know what he is meant to do about it when he refuses to kick Fëanor out of his bed.

My people pledged to follow me, he had said to Fëanor. He wonders if, when this comes out, that pledge will hold.

☀︎

The first time he fucks Fëanor, he takes his time. Spends a long time simply kissing his brother and running his hands over every inch of Fëanor's body. Wants the knowledge of every dip and scar memorized. Fëanor is so on edge after two and a half weeks that by the time Fingolfin has finished exploring Fëanor's body with both his hands and his mouth, his brother is already painfully close to the edge.

Fingolfin spends another stretch of time simply holding Fëanor, giving him a while to pull himself back down from the edge before Fingolfin begins opening him up. Is not sure the time mattered at all when the first finger he presses inside of Fëanor leaves him with his eyes clenched shut, shivering as Fingolfin fucks in and out slowly. The second finger draws forth the prettiest whimpers as he bears down on Fingolfin's fingers and then tries to get away from the pleasure, his entire body slowly beginning to flush red as he gasps for air. Fingolfin presses a kiss to Fëanor's hipbone, wraps his fingers tight around the base of Fëanor's cock, slicks his fingers, and slowly works in a third. Watches Fëanor's face contort, nearly pained as he tries to decide whether to push into the pleasure or pull away.

Fingolfin should let him come. It is cruel of him to keep drawing this out.

He should. 

He does not.

He continues fingering Fëanor open, scissoring his fingers apart and sucking a bruise onto Fëanor's hip while his brother gasps and whines, desperate and past caring what he sounds like. But he still will not beg. He still does not cry. One particularly hard thrust of his fingers has Fëanor trying in earnest to squirm away as he whimpers, his cock twitching in Fingolfin's grip. He relents slightly, pulling his fingers out and moving back up the bed. Spends a while slowly kissing Fëanor and stroking his cheek as Fëanor digs his nails into Fingolfin's waist hard enough that it stings as the skin breaks.

“You’re okay,” he says gently when he pulls away, taking in the sight of Fëanor staring up at him, eyes filled with such want it makes his heart hurt. “You’re doing so well.”

Fëanor closes his eyes, breathing in shakily before letting his thighs drop open a touch wider. It is a clear invitation, and a sharp, jagged emotion goes ripping through him at the clear acquiescence. “So good,” he repeats softly, brushing his knuckles down Fëanor’s cheek before moving back between his legs. He hikes one of Fëanor’s legs over his shoulder, reaching up to cradle Fëanor’s cheek. “Look at me.”

Fëanor's eyes are wide and endless and painfully soft when they meet Fingolfin's. He is watching Fingolfin in a way he cannot quite comprehend. In a way he would swear he recognizes, if not for the absurdity of such a thought. He holds Fëanor's eyes as he slowly pushes inside. The pleasure is searing. Tight and warm and slick, Fëanor clenching around him near immediately, throwing his head back and exposing his neck. The moan that rips out of him going straight to Fingolfin's cock.

He traces the line of Fëanor’s neck and sucks in a deep breath, thinks, I should be kind. Feels a pit of vicious greed burst open inside his stomach as he pulls out and fucks back in, drinking in the sound of Fëanor moaning. He should be kind to balance out the cruelty. Instead, he lets Fëanor's leg drop, leaning up and burying one hand in Fëanor's hair, clenching tight as he says, "Put your legs around me." He kisses Fëanor once after he does so, says very softly, "Don't you dare come,” and then pulls out and slams back in. Fucks Fëanor hard and fast until it earns him a high-pitched keening sound, Fëanor’s lashes damp with tears he still refuses to shed.

Fëanor’s nails are digging into Fingolfin’s shoulders painfully. When he bends his head to nip at Fëanor’s throat, his nails scratch down Fingolfin’s back, burning as they draw blood, but Fëanor gasps and whines so beautifully. Fingolfin only bites harder, fucks Fëanor with all the brutality he has burning through him. Thinks of walking into Beleriand with a chest full of rage and finding that there were no feet to lay it at. Raises his head to press his mouth to Fëanor’s, drinking in every hitched breath, the sound of a sob caught in Fëanor’s throat that he’s fighting down. “Look at me,” he says fiercely, pulling at Fëanor’s hair.

Fëanor’s eyes are glassy when he opens them, lashes wet, and he’s still looking at Fingolfin as if he holds the answer to a secret question. “Nolvo,” he says, voice wrecked and choked in a way Fingolfin has never heard. “Nolvo.”

His name on Fëanor's tongue in that tone, the way he clenches even tighter around Fingolfin only a second later — it is abruptly too much, and he buries himself in Fëanor once more before spilling inside of him, the pleasure so violently overwhelming that he can only press his forehead to Fëanor's and soundlessly gasp around it as it rushes through him.

The sob he could hear in Fëanor’s voice finally breaks free as he slowly eases out. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, pulling Fëanor into his arms and stroking a hand down his back. “You’re alright.”

Fëanor's fingers are bruising where they've wrapped around his arm, and he's trembling just slightly in Fingolfin's arms. "Cruel," Fëanor says against his collarbone, even his voice trembling. "I did not think you had it in you."

“You always did underestimate me,” he says, pressing a kiss to Fëanor’s hair as he continues stroking his back soothingly. “Do you still?”

Fëanor snorts, pressing himself in closer despite the way it causes his cock to brush up against Fingolfin's stomach and leaves him hissing out a breath. He's silent for a long while, his grip on Fingolfin's arm loosening slowly as he drags himself back down from the edge. "I believe I enjoy underestimating you," Fëanor says quietly. Sleep is already tugging at Fingolfin and he hums slightly in response, not understanding Fëanor's logic, but rather used to that. "I enjoy that you can still surprise me," he says, sounding unbearably fond.

He swallows around the lump in his throat that Fëanor’s tone has invoked. “And if I stop surprising you one day? What then?”

Fëanor makes an amused noise, kissing Fingolfin's collarbone before tilting his head back to steal a kiss from Fingolfin. "Then I will have unraveled you, will I have not? That will bring me pleasure as well."

Fingolfin’s heart twists painfully at what nearly sounds like a promise to stay. There are other words abruptly pressing against the back of his teeth that he forcefully swallows back down, instead kisses Fëanor again and tries to impress the words upon him through nothing more than their mouths pressed together. He does not know if Fëanor understands, but his brother kisses him back and stays.

He stays.

He stays.

☀︎

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If I push, will you pull a little tighter?
To you, I wanna bе a little nicer
Baby, shake me when the bad thoughts take me
And take me 'cause I'm needing it lately

Save The Bullets, Baby! | Xana

☀︎

“There have been rumors,” Laireló says during their council meeting three weeks after Fëanor has arrived in Barad Eithel.

“I was not aware our council meetings doubled as gossip sessions,” he says evenly, staring Laireló down, daring him to say what he means to Fingolfin’s face.

Alatista makes a disparaging noise from the other end of the table. “I do not believe it counts as gossip when it pertains to the people’s trust in you.”

"And why should their trust in me waver?" he asks, carefully setting the papers he'd been holding down. "In what way has my running of the city faltered?" There is no answer given, though none will meet his eyes. "Everyone in Barad Eithel knows that if they have grievances to air, they are welcome to bring them to petition when we hold open court. None have shied away from doing so, even when their grievances may offend me. I see no reason to believe they will stop now. If you have your own grievances to air, say them plainly or hold your silence until court.”

There is another long, tense silence until Eärránis straightens her shoulder and meets his eyes. He supposes he should not be surprised; she has ever been the one most willing to say to his face that which they all know he would greatly prefer to not hear. "The forges are filled with whispers that Prince Fëanor has taken a lover." She pauses, watching him expectantly, and he raises an eyebrow in return. "Those who work in the castle all whisper that you have taken one as well.”

“In what way are either of these things relevant to this meeting?” he questions coolly when she makes no move to continue.

Alatista clears his throat uncomfortably even as Eärránis narrows her eyes. “Is it not relevant to the governing of a city, when its king takes his brother to bed?”

The words fall heavily between them all. Most of the councilors look as if they dearly wish to be anywhere else, and he imagines most of them had not wished to bring this up at all. Fingolfin considers her, runs his gaze over the faces of every elf sitting at the table. Most will still not meet his eyes. The ones that do have an air about them that indicates they are very dearly hoping he will deny the accusation. He should likely do so. Still, he cannot help but think that lying, when it is both abundantly clear that he is lying and when this is sure to get out in another manner eventually, would be somehow worse.

“Have I bedded him in public and broken the bounds of indecency? Has taking him to bed hindered my ability to read? To make decisions on trading? On the guild issues? Has it in any way impeded the actual running of the city?” The silence, if anything, grows even heavier at his confirmation of the act. “Tell me,” he prompts, when the silence holds, “where in my duties of running the city have I slipped? Who here can hand me an example?”

“It is not right,” Míríta snaps, arms folded and a glare firmly fixed upon his face when Fingolfin looks to him. “It goes against nature. It is marred and indecent and especially not befitting of a king.”

Fingolfin finds the audacity to laugh. "We are all marred, Míríta. Dreadfully and forever until Arda breaks. The time in Mandos did not cleanse us of it. What do I care if I am marred a bit more? It has no bearing on my ability to lead or govern the city."

Míríta glares at him and looks to the rest of the councilors. None seem to know what to say to his words. To his easy admittance of such things.

“This is a waste of our time,” Elenasto says after another minute passes. “Do any here wish to make an official motion against King Fingolfin?" No one speaks. "Then stop wasting my time with this until you have all decided to do something other than complain. Now, the weavers' guild has been speaking about wishing to expand their main building. Shall we speak on that and actually accomplish something today?"

Fingolfin does not allow himself to smile, only dips his head in a barely perceptible nod toward Elenasto. It should not surprise him that Elenasto has decided to simply ignore Fingolfin's doings in favor of simply getting work done. He has stubbornly followed Fingolfin since before the trees went dark, and it is not likely at this point that anything short of a kinslaying would convince him to turn on Fingolfin. He still finds himself secretly, pathetically grateful. Grateful that at least one of his councilors will not be causing him unnecessary problems.

No one speaks of it again during the meeting. Not that day and not the next or the next. He is sure it will come up again, but for now, they are holding their silence in front of him. He will deal with the fallout when he must.

In the meantime, he considers Fingon's words and despairingly wonders how he is meant to stop Fëanor from starting a fight if that is what he decides he wishes to start. Wonders too, if their relationship is truly so important to Fëanor that he would bother starting a fight at all. Though he cannot help but sigh, as it is likely that even were it not important, Fëanor would start a fight simply because someone else dared to tell him what to do.

He does not have the slightest idea how this can possibly end well, and yet wants to believe in a happy ending regardless. Is not sure if that makes him hopeful or a fool. Both, likely. He should perhaps take that as a sign to end this, to kick Fëanor out of his rooms and out of his city, but he does not want to. He does not want to. 

And so he does not. 

☀︎

It takes three weeks and two days for Fëanor to break beneath his hands. It is a testament to both Fëanor’s self-discipline and stubbornness that it takes so long. The day it finally occurs, Fingolfin has pulled Fëanor into his lap. Fëanor has his fingers clenched tight in Fingolfin’s hair as they kiss, Fingolfin slowly fingering him open. These days, that alone is enough to send Fëanor stumbling toward the edge. It leaves Fëanor pulling at Fingolfin's hair every time he shifts his fingers the correct way, a low whine caught in the back of Fëanor's throat, and breaking free with an increasing regularity as Fingolfin works him up. Fingolfin will never grow tired of the reactions he is able to pull from Fëanor, will never be less in awe that his brother hands himself over so easily to Fingolfin's touch.

Normally, Fingolfin would give Fëanor a moment to pull himself off the edge and prepare before fucking him. But with the way Fëanor is straddling him, it is so, so very easy to simply pull his fingers out and line himself up, before pulling Fëanor down onto his cock in one smooth motion.

Fëanor chokes, clenching his fingers in Fingolfin’s hair painfully; a thin, keening noise clawing its way from his throat as he arches his back, head thrown back, chest rising and falling rapidly. Fingolfin groans at both the sight Fëanor makes and the way he feels clenching tight around Fingolfin’s cock. He shifts, grinding up into Fëanor the slightest bit, and Fëanor makes a wretched, whimpering noise as he curls in toward Fingolfin, his forehead pressed to Fingolfin’s shoulders, his fingers moving to dig into Fingolfin’s sides.

“Don’t,” he chokes out, whimpering when Fingolfin shifts. “I cannot, Nolvo. I cannot.”

Fingolfin hums, strokes Fëanor's hair for a long stretch of time, pressing his mouth to the side of Fëanor's head and waiting. Once Fëanor's breathing has grown the slightest bit steadier, Fingolfin grinds up into him again, gripping his hip tightly to hold him still. Fëanor moans, breath hitching as Fingolfin does it again.

“Go on,” he murmurs, lightly pulling at Fëanor’s hips. “Fuck yourself for me.”

Fëanor shivers, breathing shaky against Fingolfin's skin, but shifts after a moment and slowly begins riding Fingolfin, pained whimpers slipping through the air every time he drops back down onto Fingolfin's cock. He runs his hands up Fëanor's sides, lightly twists one of his nipples, and relishes the tight clench of Fëanor's hole around him, groaning quietly in pleasure when Fëanor rolls his hips slightly as he sinks down. The next time Fëanor lifts up, Fingolfin—a little mean, a little curious—shifts his hips and fucks up into Fëanor hard as he drops down.

Fëanor sobs. Goes utterly still and then begins shaking beneath Fingolfin’s hands, another sob ripping out of him as Fingolfin shifts and pulls him in tighter.

“Oh,” he breathes, tugging Fëanor’s head up so that he can look at his brother’s face. There are tears steadily falling down Fëanor’s cheeks, his eyes clenched shut as he struggles to breathe, his cock twitching against Fingolfin’s stomach. His entire body feels lit up at the sight of Fëanor’s tears, pleasure coiling through his ribs. He cradles Fëanor’s face in his hands, gently wiping the tears from his cheeks, murmuring again and again, shhh, you’re okay, you’re doing so good. 

He shifts and eases out of Fëanor as gently as he can, but even that causes the shaking to grow worse, Fëanor choking on another sob that tries to break free. He moves them so that they're lying down facing each other, Fëanor curled in against him. Spends a long time alternating between petting Fëanor's hair and stroking his cheek, kissing the tears away, the salt on his tongue nearly sweet. The shaking slowly fades as Fëanor, inch by inch, drags himself off the edge. His tears slowly stopping as his body calms. His eyes though are still glassy when he finally opens them, the piercing gray muted and soft.

"You're beautiful like this," he says quietly, different words entirely hidden beneath his tongue. A tired smile tugs at the corner of Fëanor's mouth, and Fingolfin kisses him. "Why are you giving me this, Náro?"

“You asked for this,” Fëanor responds hoarsely.

“I know, but why are you giving it to me? I asked. You did not have to give it.”

Fëanor blinks at him, turning his face into Fingolfin’s palm and kissing the center of it. “You asked me for it,” he says once more. Curls in farther and hides his face against Fingolfin’s throat.

“Náro,” he says helplessly, his throat feeling far too tight.

“It is you,” Fëanor says, the words muffled against his throat. “It is for you.”

Fingolfin still does not understand, not really. Still says, “Alright,” and presses his face to Fëanor’s hair. “Alright.”

What he does not say, cannot say, the words hiding beneath his tongue like a poison waiting to be sucked out — I think I am in love with you. He does not know how to say such a thing when he is only half-sure he understands what Fëanor is trying to do. When Fëanor will not admit it, or worse, has nothing to admit.

Thinks again, I am in love with you, and does not know what to do. This is no longer about forgiveness. Fingolfin had forgiven his brother when they fought, and instead of leaving, Fëanor came back to him. Of course he has. How could he not? Fëanor is trying to fix this, even if Fingolfin cannot figure out what his brother wishes the end result to be.

If he lets Fëanor find release, if he admits to the forgiveness, does Fëanor leave? Flushed with pleasure at having accomplished what he’s set out to accomplish, walking back out of Fingolfin’s life? His heart says, no, of course not, of course he will stay. Look at how he is trying to make your body his own, of course he will stay. His heart says, no.

His mind, however, his mind does not know how to trust that Fëanor will stay if he does not say it to Fingolfin's face. And he does not know how to ask without spilling his own heart across the sheets for Fëanor to see. Fingolfin has forgiven his brother. Loves him to the point of defiance.

This fixes nothing.

☀︎

"What have you been doing to atar?" Curufin demands a few days later, striding into Fingolfin's study without so much as knocking. "He is not well and will not tell me why, but I know it is your fault.”

"I would advise you to drop this topic, Curufin," he says coldly, holding Curufin's gaze. He had thought they were rather past baseless accusations. "My business with Fëanor is none of your concern."

“Business,” Curufin sneers, eyes narrowing. “As if this entire city is not aware at this point of what ‘business’ you two have with each other.”

“It would seem you already have your answer then.” He cocks his head to the side, smiling rather cruelly, and having no patience at all for this. “Unless you wish to hear in detail about my business with your father, I would suggest you drop it.”

“You are hurting him.”

“I am not.” The words do nothing to ease the suspicion on Curufin’s face. He presses his lips together tightly, clearly not wishing for details, but certain that Fingolfin has done something terrible to Fëanor. Though what he thinks Fingolfin could do without Fëanor’s consent, Fingolfin cannot imagine. "What makes you believe he is not well?" He asks, curious.

Curufin's frown deepens, and though he does not break away from Fingolfin's gaze, his eyes say that he would rather like to. "He is… on edge," he says slowly, each word more reluctant than the last. "Easily distracted. I brushed against him by mistake earlier as I reached for a tool, and he flinched. My father flinched." The words could not be more accusing if Curufin had spat at Fingolfin's feet.

Fingolfin had not realized that Fëanor had hit such a point that it was so clearly visible to everyone. Should perhaps not be surprised after a month of drawing this out. Knows that Fëanor has been quieter, softer in the evenings. Desiring only to lie together, one of them wrapped around the other, or to sit himself in Fingolfin's lap and hide his face against Fingolfin's neck. He knows he is pushing Fëanor to a breaking point he is not sure either of them is prepared for the aftermath of. Knows that Fëanor is allowing himself to be pushed.

 "He is not hurt," he offers. "I swear on my life, I have not hurt him. But what we are doing is not your concern, and I promise that you do not want to know."

Curufin considers him for a moment, frown only deepening at Fingolfin's words."What you both are doing is vile," he says finally, voice low and disgusted. "I do not want to know, but you are harming him with whatever it is you are doing."

"I would suggest speaking with Fëanor about it then," Fingolfin says, already knowing that Curufin will not, the uneasy flicker in his eyes only confirming it. "You are a fool if you believe anything that is happening between Fëanor and I could happen if he did not want it to."

“Yet, nothing is stopping you from putting an end to it. This is your city, is it not?" he questions, sneering even as he gestures toward the window and Barad Ethel laid out below. "You care so little for the example you set for your people?"

"And why," he asks quietly, "would I want to stop, Curufinwë? I am not fucking him in front of you, so I fail to see how it concerns you."

Curufin recoils, both at the use of his father name and the vulgar confirmation of what is occurring between Fingolfin and Fëanor. He stares at Fingolfin, lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line. "I could tell grandfather," he says quietly, venom laced through the words. "Do you want to find out which of you he will choose, even now?"

Fingolfin keeps his face perfectly calm even as a cold trickle of fear slips down his spine. "Do you want to face Fëanor's anger if he finds out you have done such a thing?"

Curufin caves as Fingolfin had known he would. He says nothing else, only glares, as if he wishes he could commit another kinslaying then and there, and storms out of the study.

Fingolfin sits down heavily in his chair and tries very hard to not think on what will happen if their father hears of this. Something that is becoming more and more likely considering how quickly the rumors have spread through Barad Eithel. He does not, in the end, particularly care if his father chooses to blame him over Fëanor. Though he does not believe even his father's blind love is enough to distract from the fact that Fëanor is too headstrong and spiteful to ever allow himself to be pressured into doing that which he does not wish to.

He closes his eyes, tries to imagine what he will say if his father arrives in Barad Eithel demanding answers. Can picture only disappointment and stern demands to cease at once. Another thing his father will ask of him in this new age. Another thing he is not willing to grant. Fingolfin wonders sometimes how Finarfin stands it. To have ruled Tirion for so, so long — through the aftermath of the kinslaying, through the scrambling to figure out how to exist in the aftermath, through the War of Wrath, through the constant restructuring and rebuilding as more and more elves returned or were re-embodied — and then have been asked to hand it back over. Knows, of course, that Finarfin could not have refused without causing a far larger scandal than he likely wanted to deal with, but Fingolfin can still not fathom it. He cannot fathom it now, and he could not fathom it when he had returned and his father had expected him to simply fall back into place in Tirion's court as if nothing at all had changed since he had last stood within it.

Fingolfin's decisions no longer hinge on his father's approval, but the disapproval still lodges itself in Fingolfin's belly like a serrated knife. He cannot imagine how much worse the sensation will be when that disapproval turns to anger. When it twists into a disgust painfully similar to what he has seen on Curufin’s face.

Perhaps this, of all things, should be a true indication, an incentive, to stop. But Fingolfin thinks of sending Fëanor away, and it is not a knife that lodges itself in him, but instead a slow and painful crumbling of the self. A rupturing of his heart, his body.

He doesn’t know what to do with that. Should listen to sense and send Fëanor away.

He should.

He should.

He cannot.

☀︎

Fëanor continues to grow shakier and more on edge outside of their bedroom as the days pass. It is not so noticeable if you are not in close quarters with him, if you are not directly speaking to him, but it is noticeable. A small part of Fingolfin thinks that he should just end this, for it is easy to see why Curufin had been worried enough to confront Fingolfin. The larger part watches Fëanor shiver whenever Fingolfin brushes up against him, watches his eyes go distant as he tries to focus, watches as he begins to retire to their rooms far earlier than he used to, seeking the comfort of Fingolfin’s body against his — the larger part watches and curls up tight in smug contentment.

He has forgiven his brother; this is true. Forgiveness does not erase that there is a part of him that still wants Fëanor broken and begging. It is a part of himself that he could silence if he wished to, for it is small despite how sharp it is. He could be perfectly content to live with such a thing never happening. But.

But Fëanor is giving it to him. Is letting Fingolfin push and push toward what they both know the outcome must be. The longer Fëanor stubbornly holds out, the more Fingolfin wants to see him break. He wants Fëanor absolutely shattered in his bed, Fingolfin's name the only thing in his mouth, in his thoughts. He wants to break Fëanor down to his most basic essence, a flame hiding in the body of an elf, and then slowly build him back up again as if feeding a fire on a windy night. Wants to make himself an integral part of the rebuilding so that he can never be erased, never be shoved out. He wants to be fully given what he was always denied—

—Fëanor's trust.

Until then, until the moment Fëanor gives in, he is content to savor this other side of Fëanor he has never been allowed to experience. All soft edges, gentle kisses, Fëanor’s body pressed up against his for no reason other than to be held. This too he craves, and in the back of his mind, hidden with the words he will not let himself say, is the fragile hope that this part he will get to keep even after they have finished this test of wills.

The truth of all his desires, all his hunger, all his greediness, all his fear — it can, in the end, all be peeled down to one simple fact. He wants his brother to stay in Barad Eithel, to continue to call these rooms theirs, to continue haunting the forges and the training grounds and driving people to exasperation as he tries to improve upon stuff no one had asked for improvements on.

Fingolfin wants Fëanor to stay.

It should not be such a terrifying thing to want.

But regardless of the fallout, of the judgement, of the fights sure to come, Fingolfin just wants Fëanor to stay. 

☀︎

A month and a half later, Fingolfin finds himself just as enchanted with Fëanor's reactions as he was when this first started. He does not fuck Fëanor often, not since Fëanor hit the point where simply having Fingolfin's cock inside of him is enough to make him sob. Most days, he only uses his fingers and his mouth to tease Fëanor until he's flushed all over, cheeks wet as he desperately clings to his self-control. Some days, he fucks Fëanor's mouth and watches in awe as even that works Fëanor up enough that he still cries.

But there is a special delight now to be found in taking his time working Fëanor open, starting and stopping in bursts as Fëanor hovers on the edge and then backs off again and again. A special delight in the way Fëanor is so sensitive that Fingolfin’s fingers inside of him are enough to leave him shaking. In the way Fingolfin can see the pleading in his eyes, can see the desire to beg for it written all over his body, and yet Fëanor continues to swallow it all down.

“Tell me why you are so set on obeying me,” he murmurs as he sinks inside of Fëanor, wiping away the tears that are steadily falling down his cheeks. “What is it you are trying to gain from this?”

Fëanor swallows thickly, nails digging into Fingolfin’s back; he is sure there will be bloody marks once more on his back after this. “You asked me to obey you,” Fëanor says, voice just barely trembling. “That is what you asked for. I am giving it.”

“But why does this matter so much to you?" he demands, fucking in hard and drawing a wordless cry from Fëanor as he arches up against Fingolfin, biting his lip as he fights with himself. "Why do you wish my forgiveness so badly that you would keep giving me this?”

He does not receive a response, though that is likely because Fëanor cannot find the words to speak. He pulls out slowly, fucks back in the same, watches avidly as Fëanor gasps and whines.

"Tell me why," he demands again, wiping more tears from Fëanor's cheek. He brushes his thumb along Fëanor's lip and exhales in a rush when Fëanor catches his wrist and takes his thumb into his mouth, holding Fingolfin's eyes as he sucks, hollowing his cheeks. "Tell me," he says again, pulling nearly all the way out and shuddering when Fëanor makes a low, pained noise, his heel digging into the small of Fingolfin’s back as he tries to force Fingolfin to fuck back in. 

"It is for you," Fëanor says, arching up against him and moaning as Fingolfin pushes back in and fucks him harder at the non-answer. "All of it, it is for you."

There is something hiding in those words that Fingolfin has not yet grasped. Something he perhaps has grasped but cannot believe until Fëanor says it plainly. He does not ask again; instead takes his time fucking Fëanor. Fast and hard until Fëanor shakes and sobs. Slowly and gently enough that Fëanor is left gasping for air, his body torn between wanting more and wanting so much less. The pattern repeated several times until even the slow and gentle worsens the shaking and draws forth choked sobs, Fingolfin's back burning from the bloody scratches Fëanor has left.

He relents when Fëanor gasps his name out in such a tone it may as well be begging, allows his own pleasure to wash over him, fucks in only twice more before spilling inside of Fëanáro with a moan, the rush of pleasure searing, drowning out everything but the sight and feel of his brother beneath him.

He curls around Fëanor afterward, back to chest, Fëanor too sensitive to have Fingolfin pressed up against his front as he'd like to be. Fingolfin holds him tightly as he shakes and places a gentle line of kisses up and down his shoulder as he slowly calms. He says Fingolfin's name only once more, still so desperate it sounds as if he's begging for absolution. You're alright, he whispers, pressing his lips to the back of Fëanor's neck. It's okay, you did so well, so beautiful.

Fëanor makes a pathetic, keening sound, and Fingolfin holds him tighter. Continues murmuring quiet praise against his skin until he calms and drifts asleep, too exhausted to stay awake. I love you, he mouths against Fëanor's skin once he is asleep.

I love you.

Does that matter? 

Does any of this matter?

☀︎

"You are aware that your relationship with Fëanor is making people uncomfortable," Aredhel says lightly one morning during breakfast. The table falls quiet, and he supposes he should simply be happy she chose a day when the only other people in attendance are Maedhros, Fingon, and Celegorm.

“You will have to be more specific,” he says mildly. “I’m sure many things about our relationship make them uncomfortable.”

Fingon snorts and then coughs into his hand when Aredhel shoots a glare his direction. "Apart from the obvious," she returns just as mildly, "the bruises you insist on leaving on his neck are forcing people to acknowledge what it is you're doing. It is much easier to keep the city calm when people can ignore things and feign ignorance."

There is truth to the words. In all honesty, it would have been far smarter to put effort into concealing the relationship. But even if it was not too late to do such a thing, Fingolfin has no wish to do so. He has no intention of spending the rest of his life hiding something he very much wishes to last just as long. He is not quite brazen enough to flaunt it openly in public, does not think anyone's tolerance would extend to him kissing Fëanor in plain view, but he has no intention of attempting to keep the entire affair a secret.

 "Their desire to feign ignorance is not my problem," he says, ignoring how she startles. "Besides, I have not asked for anyone to acknowledge what is going on between Fëanor and I. They are welcome to pretend the bruises are from other sources."

There's a moment of silence, all of them staring at him, before Celegorm barks out a laugh. "Leave them be, Íryë. He is far more interesting like this than he was with that stick up his ass during the tree years."

Fingolfin sighs. Is thankful that Celegorm will not be causing trouble as it should, if it comes down to it, make it easier to keep Curufin from doing so. He still wishes it did not come with Celegorm’s specific brand of back-handed compliments. Reconsiders how much trouble Celegorm will be causing as he leans across the table toward Fingolfin with a bright, feral glint in his eyes.

"You are more interesting this way," Celegorm says conversationally, baring his teeth in what is maybe meant to be a smile, "but that means that if whatever it is you are doing to atar ends up becoming a true problem, you'll be far more entertaining to kill as well. I have no problem becoming a kinslayer thrice over if it becomes necessary."

It is the damning silence from Maedhros that gives away that this entire encounter must have been planned. Fingolfin dearly wants to know what exactly everyone thinks he could be doing to Fëanor that would warrant all this fuss. He is aware that it is easily visible these days to anybody who looks at him that Fëanor is struggling. But it is Fëanor; if something were being done that was unwanted, he would not remain quiet. His brother would sooner set himself on fire again than endure being coerced into something that he does not want.

"Fëanor is not being harmed, or whatever else it is you think that I am doing to him," he says evenly. “I am sure though, that he would thank you for your concern."

Maedhros does snort at that but says nothing else. After another moment of heavy staring everyone returns to their food and Fingolfin is allowed to eat in peace. Maedhros stays seated when the others rise to leave, gently pushing Fingon toward the door when he pauses and gives Maedhros a questioning look. Fingolfin sighs inwardly and dares to hope this conversation will be less painful than the others, Maedhros always having been the more level-headed of his brothers.

Maedhros leans back in his chair and considers Fingolfin for a long while after the others leave. It is strange sometimes, looking Maedhros in the face and still being able to see shadows of the scars that had so terribly marred his face. So shallow and light it is almost possible to ignore them, but still having sunk so deep into Maedhros' fëa a shadow of them managed to follow him out of Mandos.

"You already know this is foolishness,” Maedhros says finally, tracing the edge of his goblet with a finger. "I will not belabor the point. But are either of you ready for the reckoning that will occur when this reaches grandfather? When it reaches the Valar? Do you have a plan?"

Fingolfin breathes out slowly. Has rather been trying to not think about either of those things, no matter that it is foolish for him to not have already begun doing so. "I do not believe a plan will be particularly helpful in either situation, as we have no true idea of what they will attempt to do in order to make us stop."

Maedhros throws him a deeply unimpressed look. "You have no plan. You intend to go into the situation blind."

"And what would you suggest then?" he asks, the absurdity of the discussion not lost on him. "I assume you have a plan in mind already since you brought this up."

Maedhros studies him for a moment, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling as he contemplates whatever plan he has cobbled together. "I do not have one," he replies, smiling slightly in response to whatever Fingolfin's face is doing. "I am, however, quite invested in my father not attempting to start a fight with grandfather over you. Or, Eru forbid, with the Valar again. So please, do come up with one."

"You believe that?" he asks before he can stop himself. "You believe Fëanor would defy Atar over this?"

Maedhros raises an eyebrow at him. "I believe that he was re-embodied and spent barely any time at all in Tirion before riding to speak with you. Against all advice, I might add. I believe he is allowing you to push him in a way he would not allow any other to do so. Yes, I have figured out what it is you two are doing." He sounds amused, none of the embarrassment on his face at the knowledge that Fingolfin is sure the other children would have. "I believe as well," Maedhros continues, voice softening, "that my father is prepared to do quite a lot to keep you. Is that not obvious to you as well?"

Fingolfin stares, throat tight with all the things he cannot say. "It is Fëanor," he says, keeping his voice steady through sheer force of will. "I do not pretend to understand the way his mind works."

Maedhros makes an amused noise. "I will leave you to figure that out for yourself. It will be interesting to see how this plays out." He nods once more before rising and leaving.

Fingolfin stares after him, the anxiety fighting with the hope that wants to spring forth. He hopes that Maedhros is correct in his estimation of Fëanor's decisions. He fears it in equal measure. For if Fëanor truly intends to fight to keep this, then Fingolfin does not know how he is meant to bring himself to stop it, not when he wants to fight for it as well. Fingolfin can defy his father easily enough if it truly comes down to it. But to defy the Valar once again, after he has so confidently proclaimed this is not hindering his ability to rule, that would be folly.

This is, in the end, why he has no true plan. For how is he meant to plan when he does not know his own mind? When he half-fears he will back Fëanor regardless of the consequences, half-fears he will not. 

Fingolfin wants to hope that everything will be okay. 

Is sure that the minute he allows himself to do so, everything will go terribly wrong. 

☀︎

Fëanor, more and more, begins to want nothing but for Fingolfin to be next to him, whining quietly in the mornings when Fingolfin forces himself to pull away.

It is calming, Fëanor had said when Fingolfin asked if it did not make it harder. I want you always, a never-ending ripple of desire beneath my skin. But having you next to me is also a comfort; it soothes my mind.

Fingolfin keeps replaying the words, I want you always. The simple, matter-of-fact way that Fëanor had said it, as if Fingolfin should have already known. Watches his brother walk through the castle, across the courtyard, pace through the library, and thinks, he wants me, right now, in this moment, he wants me. It should not be such a surprising thought, not when they have spent every night since Fëanor arrived in Barad Eithel in Fingolfin’s bed. And yet, it had felt like a palm struck hard against his cheek, the abrupt confirmation that Fëanor is not simply sharing his bed to gain his forgiveness, but because he wants Fingolfin.

It makes his throat burn, the words he keeps swallowing down branding their way onto his throat. Leaves him pressing Fëanor into the bed every day, trying desperately to communicate the words with his body alone. Fëanor always trying to drag him in closer despite the way it causes him to shiver and so easily overwhelms him.

This particular night he is straddling his brother, Fëanor’s wrists pinned to the bed, his pulse jumping beneath Fingolfin’s palms as they kiss. He spends a long time doing nothing else, the way Fëanor goes so easily pliant for him addicting in and of itself.

"Nolvo," Fëanor murmurs between kisses, "Do you have any idea the way you look?” He tugs one of his wrists free from Fingolfin's grip, reaching up and touching his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. 

He blinks down at Fëanor bemused. "How do I look?"

Fëanor's eyes track over his face, his thumb smoothing across Fingolfin's cheek as he cradles it. "Devastating," he says softly, brushing his fingers over Fingolfin's mouth. "Like you wish to flay me alive."

Fingolfin leans in closer, heart aching with the way Fëanor is watching him. “And this is a good thing?"

"Brother," Fëanor says, the word a caress, eyes burning, "do you think I would give myself in this way to anyone else? That I would do this for anything less?”

The desperate noise that scrapes its way out of his throat causes satisfaction to burst apart in Fëanor's eyes. Fingolfin wastes no time in erasing it. Working Fëanor up until he’s crying, every moan pulled from him edged with pain.

“I cannot,” Fëanor gasps when Fingolfin’s fingers graze his hole, his entire body flinching from the contact. “I cannot, Nolvo, I—” his voice breaks, his entire body shaking beneath Fingolfin’s hands.

"Shhh," he murmurs, moving back up to the bed to lie next to Fëanor. He pulls Fëanor into his arms, kisses the corner of his mouth, his neck. Strokes gentle fingers across his hip. "Not today then."

Fëanor clutches at him, nails digging into Fingolfin’s skin. “I want—“ he starts, voice choked before he cuts himself off.

Fingolfin’s breath catches. “What do you want?”

Fëanor shakes his head, hiding his face against Fingolfin's neck without answering. It is the closest they've gotten to Fëanor breaking, and he knows it won't be terribly long now. Fëanor is stubborn and strong-willed, but even he cannot endure this forever.

“Náro,” he murmurs, pressing his face to his brother’s hair. “Will you not tell me—” he falters, voice catching for a moment at the sheer enormity of all that he wishes to know “—tell me why? Why all of this?” He pauses, swallows hard as he runs his hand down Fëanor’s back. “Why are you giving me this much?” 

Fëanor makes a discontented noise and pulls back to look him in the face. His eyes are narrowed as he studies Fingolfin, and he abruptly twists them so that he is now straddling Fingolfin. "Listen to me," he says fiercely, cradling Fingolfin's face between his hands, "I would give this to no one else. I harmed you deeply, in many ways, for many years, the boats only the final severing gash between us. Why should I not give you what you wish?”

He wants to say, because you hate me, no longer believes that is true. Wants to ask, but what do you feel for me? Is this love? Guilt? Wraps his fingers around Fëanor’s wrists, finds himself asking, “But did I not harm you as well? Are the gashes I left between us so much lesser than yours?” 

Fëanor blinks, looking terribly taken aback. "You did," he says after a moment, studying Fingolfin's face, the curve of his mouth sharp as he frowns. "But I was the one who played the final hand, was I not? You said that I shall lead—"

“And I shall follow,” he finishes quietly. He had often tried to regret those words. Had never quite managed it. 

"And so you did," Fëanor says, leaning down and pressing their foreheads together. "You followed. Do not think I overlooked that while I was in Mandos. I saw. I saw all that you did. I paid no less attention to your life than I did my sons." There is something terrifyingly large hiding in those words. Fingolfin wants to believe he knows what it is.

He pulls in a slow breath, chest aching with the knowledge that all that time in Beleriand — all those times he’d stared out over the battlements of Barad Eithel and swallowed down furious screams, missing Fëanor like a lung — Fëanor had been watching. He does not know what to say. Has only one set of words clawing at the back of his teeth, begging to be set free. He swallows them down, says instead, “Stay.” The word wrenched from deep inside of him.

"Do not send me away and I will not go," Fëanor says, his voice promising great violence if anyone were to try to make him leave. The kiss that follows is desperate and hot and sweet.

It is not enough. Not a promise. Not a confession. But it is something, enough to cling to for a little longer until this all breaks apart.  

☀︎

“Rumors have reached Tirion,” Maedhros says, striding into his study, clearly having come directly to Fingolfin’s study from the stables. “Grandfather has asked me about them.”

Fingolfin stares, fingers gone numb. “What did you tell him?”

Maedhros raises an eyebrow. “I told him it was not my place to say.“

“So he will be visiting soon to question us himself,” he supplies with a sigh.

“He was quite irate about the entire matter. Whatever strange half-acceptance and avoidance of the matter you are receiving here will not extend outside of Barad Eithel.“

“I would not have expected it to, and yet, I had still wished for slightly more time before it reached Tirion.”

Maedhros smiles slightly, only the barest edge of pity to it. “Indis and Míriel are coming as well.”

Fingolfin does not groan aloud, though he would rather like to. "Wonderful, we shall have a family reunion. Are the rest of my siblings going to grace me with their presence as well?"

“If they plan on traveling here they made no mention of it,” he says, shrugging. 

That means so little considering Fingolfin’s siblings that he is not sure why he even asked. Fingolfin supposes he should simply be thankful that he is getting a warning at all. Would be more thankful if his father could simply ignore the rumors and stay in Tirion. Still does not know what he is going to do. What he is going to say. 

Perhaps this would be easier if he knew for sure what Fëanor wanted. 

Perhaps it would be harder if it is what Fingolfin is cautiously hoping for. 

Perhaps, he is the biggest fool in all of Arda to have started this at all. 

Please, he prays quietly without even meaning to, please, do we not deserve to keep this after all those centuries of pain and anger and hate? Do we not deserve this one thing? I know it is marred, but after all those centuries of fury, is this not owed to us?

Prayers had meant little to nothing in Beleriand. It had not stopped Fingolfin from praying anyway, sending out useless pleas to a god that would no longer look at them. He wonders if Eru listens now, even when the plea is for something so marred as this. Does not think it matters in the end, for he is surely destined to follow Fëanor regardless. As if when he was sung into existence, his song got merged with Fëanor's, and now it can never exist on its own.

“I’m sure it will all turn out well enough in the end,” he says as Maedhros turns to leave. 

Maedhros raises an eyebrow but does not dispute the words. Whether that is because he does not wish to trample upon Fingolfin's hope or because he simply does not want to bet against Fëanor is anyone's guess. Fingolfin sits in his study long after Maedhros has left and tries to decide what he will say when his father confronts them. Can think of nothing to say at all except—

—I love him. 

☀︎

Two months after Fëanor first arrived in Barad Eithel, he walks into Fingolfin's study and goes to his knees next to Fingolfin's chair. Rests his forehead against Fingolfin's knees when he turns toward his brother.

“Please,” he says, sounding as if he is already on the verge of tears, voice hoarse and broken. “Nolvo. I cannot— please.”

A burst of crackling satisfaction goes running through his body at the sight of Fëanor on his knees, finally giving in. With the knowledge of how close he is to achieving what he’s wished for comes also a sudden burst of patience. The desire to finish stripping Fëanor apart slowly smothering in its intensity. He reaches down and guides Fëanor’s face up, cradling it in his hands as he kisses Fëanor slow and deep. Fëanor presses into it desperately, hands sliding up Fingolfin’s thighs, one hand moving quickly to fondle Fingolfin through his breeches. He allows this for a moment as they kiss, running his fingers through Fëanor’s hair and soothingly stroking his cheek. 

"Alright," he says softly, pulling back and nuzzling Fëanor's cheek. "Go wait in our rooms, on the bed. I'll be there shortly."

Fëanor drags in a shuddering breath and stands, listening without hesitation. Fingolfin watches him walk out of the room and loves him and loves him and loves him. Feels nearly sick and feverish with how desperately he loves him. With how desperately he wants this to work. For Fëanor to break apart under him and for it to make things better, for it to make it so that things between them can work. What an audacious thing for him to want. To dare to wish for when he knows he should not. 

When he makes it back to their rooms, having ensured that no one will come looking for him for the rest of the day, he finds Fëanor lying on the bed. The sheets are clenched tight between his fingers, his eyes closed as he breathes very slowly, cock hard and flushed red against his stomach. Fingolfin takes a moment to simply stare, to trail his eyes down Fëanor’s body, and feels a shiver of anticipation go through him. 

Fëanor makes a soft sound when Fingolfin joins him on the bed, straddling his brother and leaning down to kiss him, pressing their bodies together. Fëanor does not truly need to be worked up, has been hovering on the edge for days, unable to fully bring himself back down, but Fingolfin still takes his time. Enjoys feeling Fëanor's body go loose and pliant beneath his, Fëanor opening his mouth eagerly and letting Fingolfin plunder it as he wishes.

"Do not come until I tell you to," he says once they pull apart.

Fëanor swallows hard as he jerkily nods.

"You would have me begging," Fëanor says, eyes dark as he watches Fingolfin. "That is what you wish from me, is it not?"

"Have you not already?"

Fëanor closes his eyes, his hands gentle as they run up Fingolfin's sides. "I suppose I have," he says quietly, the thinnest note of shame hiding beneath the words.

Fingolfin swallows down the endearment that wishes to fall out of his mouth and presses a kiss to Fëanor's throat, sucking a bruise high on it. Fëanor moans as he tilts his head back, and Fingolfin hums, sucks another bruise lower and then another onto his collarbone.

"Is it worth it?" he asks, kissing Fëanor again. “Will this have been worth it when it has forced you to your knees?” 

"Have you forgiven me?" Fëanor asks softly, and there is, for the first time, a shadow of trepidation in his eyes.

"Oh, Náro,” he murmurs, so in love he aches with it, “I forgave you weeks ago. That is not what this is. Not anymore."

Fëanor laughs, tangling his fingers in Fingolfin's hair and pulling tight. "Cruel," he breathes against Fingolfin's mouth. "It is worth it. I will take what I wish for from you later. But this, this has been for you. It is worth it."

Fingolfin shivers, kissing Fëanor hard before sliding down his body and taking Fëanor's cock in his mouth, groaning in pleasure when Fëanor gives a strangled gasp and fucks up into his mouth. He works his fingers in one by one as he allows Fëanor to take what he wishes, every noise spilling out of his brother more desperate and pained than the last.

He pulls away only when Fëanor tugs sharply at his hair, a guttural noise scraping out of his throat, his cock twitching in Fingolfin's mouth. Moves back up the bed and gently kisses both of Fëanor's tear-stained cheeks.

He grants Fëanor a minute to calm, kissing him slowly and soothingly stroking a thumb across his cheek. Reaches down after a while and presses two fingers back in, swallowing the whine it earns him, and slowly continues fucking Fëanor open as they kiss. Does not stop until Fëanor tries to bear down on his fingers, desperation coating the moans slipping from his mouth.

"Nolvo, please," he says into the razor-thin space between, voice harsh and wild with desperation. "I need—" he cuts off with a strangled groan as Fingolfin pushes another finger in, fucking in hard several times before pulling away completely. Fëanor sobs, nails digging into Fëanor's shoulder.

He keeps Fëanor like that for a while longer, every sound sweeter than the last. He pushes Fëanor to the edge, eases him back off, does so again, and then again. Waits until Fëanor begs again, Fingolfin's name half-prayer, half-curse. "Tell me why you did all this."

Fëanor makes a wretched noise, straining toward Fingolfin's mouth instead of answering, and he pulls farther away even as he continues slowly dragging his fingers in and out. "Please," Fëanor whispers, arching with a broken moan as Fingolfin pulls his fingers out only to wrap them around Fëanor's cock.

He hums, tossing a leg over Fëanor's and continues slowly stroking his cock. Let's go and pushes his fingers in again, nosing at Fëanor's cheek as he whines. "Tell me why you did all this," he says gently, knowing he's going to let this end regardless, but still wanting the answer.

“Nolvo, I—” Fëanor’s voice breaks as Fingolfin pulls his fingers out, slowly circling his hole with gentle fingers.

“Shhhh, you’re okay.” He kisses Fëanor gently, says once more, “Tell me why, Náro. Just tell me what could possibly have inspired all this.”

Fëanor sobs, his entire body shaking with it. “I love you,” Fëanor gasps out, the words nearly soundless but for the way they stop Fingolfin’s heart. “By the fucking gods I'm in love with you, you fucking idiot.”

"Oh," he whispers, feeling lightheaded, the words ringing in his ears. He had, in the darkest corners of his mind suspected, had hoped, but it had been such an impossible thing to imagine. Such an impossible thing to believe in. And now here is his brother speaking the words into a truth undeniable. He kisses Fëanor hard, pressing him down into the bed, and does not let up until Fëanor has gone completely pliant beneath him, quiet whines being lost between their mouths.

When he finally pulls away, taking in the sight of Fëanor splayed out on the bed — eyes distant and hazy, mouth bitten red, a flush spread across his face and down his neck — he feels his heart seize painfully and knows he will never be able to willingly give Fëanor up. Not after this. Not after he's so painstakingly wrung this confession from his brother. “Wrap your legs around me,” he murmurs, settling between Fëanor’s legs. 

Fëanor reaches up and pulls Fingolfin’s head back down, burying his fingers in Fingolfin’s hair even as he obeys and wraps his legs around Fingolfin’s waist. “Nolvo,” Fëanor whispers against his mouth, shivering violently when Fingolfin’s cock presses against his hole. “Nolvo, what more will you ask of me?” 

“Nothing,” he whispers back, sinking into the tight heat and sighing in delight at the way Fëanor arches against him and whines, the sound laced with pain. “You’ve given me so much, Náro. So much. What more could I ask from you?” 

Fëanor pulls him into a kiss and bites harshly at his lip as he begins to move, fucking in slowly at first and relishing every whine, every half-bitten off whimper. He gradually begins to speed up, and Fëanor releases the painful grip he has on Fingolfin's hair, digging his nails into Fingolfin's back, the tears flowing quick and unrelenting. 

“Not until I tell you to,” he says once more, waiting for Fëanor to nod before shifting and fucking in hard. Fëanor makes a wretched, animal-pained noise, his entire body a bow-string pulled taut. Fingolfin does not intend to drag this out much longer; is not, in truth, sure how much longer even Fëanor's will can withstand this.

He fucks in hard and fast, not fighting the pleasure in the slightest. The fight that Fëanor is having with himself to obey obvious in every line of his body, and pleasure goes fizzing up Fingolfin's spine, spiraling through his veins, sending him reeling toward the edge faster than he'd expected. He fucks in hard once, twice more, and the pleasure crashes over him. He does not give himself even a second to recover. Takes Fëanor in hand and fists Fëanor's cock only once, swiping his thumb across the head as he leans in and puts his mouth next to Fëanor's ear, says very quietly, "Spill for me, brother."

Fëanor goes completely rigid beneath him before shaking violently as he spills across his stomach, clenching tight around Fingolfin's cock. He's crying still, eyes clenched shut as he shakes and moans, nails digging into Fingolfin's back and drawing blood. Fingolfin leaves a soft string of kisses everywhere his mouth can reach, easing out of Fëanor carefully when he unclenches enough to allow Fingolfin to do so.

Shhh, he murmurs when the movement causes another violent noise to rip out of Fëanor’s throat. You’re alright, you’ve done so well. He’s not sure Fëanor actually hears him. His brother’s eyes are still tightly closed, cock still weakly twitching as aftershocks go racing through him, chest rising and falling rapidly, his grip on Fingolfin still brutally tight.

He carefully shifts away, pulling Fëanor's hands from his body, kissing the inside of each wrist as he sets them on the bed, and forcing himself to ignore the quiet sob that follows when he's finally pulled fully away. He fetches the washcloth as quickly as he can, returning and gently cleaning Fëanor up before lying back down and pulling Fëanor into his arms. Fëanor latches onto him, curling in toward him until they are pressed fully together from heart to hip, legs tangled together, Fëanor's face hidden against Fingolfin's neck. He's still trembling slightly in Fingolfin's arms, breath shaking against Fingolfin's throat. He hums an old song from Beleriand quietly as he strokes Fëanor's hair, replays over and over in his mind, I'm in love with you, and feels filled to the brim with joy.

Fëanor falls asleep after a while, his grip on Fingolfin tight even in his sleep, and Fingolfin pulls the covers more securely around them. He cannot imagine what anyone could ever say to him that would convince him to give this up. There is nothing. He knows there is nothing.

He wishes that did not feel as terrifying as it is.

☀︎

Fingolfin wakes to the feeling of Fëanor drawing random patterns on his skin sometime after the final rays of sunlight have slowly begun to depart from the room. He hums quietly, pressing a kiss to Fëanor’s temple, and stays floating in that middle hazy ground between sleep and waking. Listens to his brother’s breathing and quietly marvels at the peace of it all. The way Fëanor is content to simply stay curled up against him, their bodies melting into each other. Fëanor tilts his head back after a while, brushing their noses together as he steals a kiss, and Fingolfin cannot help but try to pull him in even closer. 

Fëanor makes an amused noise low in his throat before twisting and pressing Fingolfin down into the bed. "You did not say it back," Fëanor murmurs between kisses, voice hoarse. He pulls back to look Fingolfin in the eyes, and it is not fear, necessarily, that is in Fëanor's eyes, but there is something uneasy lurking in the depths of them.

"Náro," he says softly, brushing his fingers across Fëanor's mouth before cradling his cheek. "Do you imagine that I am capable of feeling anything less for you? Do I not call this our bed? Our rooms? Yes, I love you. Of course I love you."

Fëanor makes a low, wounded noise; pressing his forehead to Fingolfin's as he pulls in a deep breath. "I will piss you off again, likely many more times between now and the breaking of the world."

"Atar is going to order us to stop," Fingolfin throws back. "Will likely order you to return to Tirion."

There is a terrible moment of stillness, Fëanor's eyes slipping closed. "Do you think," Fëanor says softly, sliding his fingers into Fingolfin's hair and tugging slightly, "that I did not anticipate such when I made the decision to come here?"

“Ah, so you did come here hoping for this." He has always suspected such, but Fëanor had never confirmed it, and he had not truly asked.

Fëanor snorts, lying back down on his side and pulling Fingolfin in close. “You know the answer to that already.” 

"Perhaps. That does not mean I do not enjoy confirmation still." It is almost shocking how easy it is to reach up and run his knuckles across Fëanor's cheek, to slip his fingers into Fëanor's hair. It is as if a great wave has finally finished crashing over them, and in the aftermath, he can finally breathe. He watches the corners of Fëanor's eyes crease with affection and searches inside of himself for any lingering doubt — can find none.

"Obviously, I did. Do you think I would have otherwise gone to my knees for you so easily?"

“I would not have expected you to go to them at all, no matter the circumstances.” 

“Yes, well…” Fëanor kisses him again, lingering for a long moment. “I had no guarantee you would give me a chance at all,” he says finally, “none in Tirion believed you would. None, but Anairë.” 

“Ah,” he breathes, the pieces more firmly clicking into place. “I see. I would not have expected you to ask her.” 

" I did not. She found me and gave her opinion on the matter quite decisively." Fëanor sounds mildly amused by the memory, and Fingolfin resolves to pull the details of that conversation from his brother later.

"And you listened."

Fëanor shrugs. "Of course. I wished to see you, and she was sure you would wish to see me. Who would know better than your wife, estranged though you may be?"

"Indeed. And what will you say to Atar, when he demands that you return to Tirion, when he demands that we cease our relationship?"

It is quiet for a long while, Fëanor's eyes slipping close once more, the uneasiness with which he considers the thought obvious. "I will tell him no," Fëanor murmurs. "What else is there to say?"

"So easily?"

"Do not be purposefully dense," Fëanor says sharply, nails digging into Fingolfin's skin for a second. "Of course it is not so easy."

Fingolfin is quiet for a moment as he studies Fëanor's face. Traces the curve of Fëanor's brow with his eyes and then follows the same path with his fingers. "All of this to stay with me? I believe you, that does not mean it is not still strange."

Fëanor's eyes are burning as he watches Fingolfin, a dark fire hiding in their depths. "I had many long years in Mandos to think on this," he says in a low voice, fingers clenching painfully in Fingolfin's hair for a second. "Do not think it is a decision so lightly made."

"And yet, when I too was in Mandos, you would not speak with me." 

"I could not speak to you," Fëanor says, though his face softens, "not then. I loved you even as I hated you still. I did not know what to say to you, nor what I wanted from you."

Fingolfin understands, though he does not particularly want to. He knows the way fury burns and curdles into an arrow on the tongue, the way you must mind yourself and avoid speaking for fear of the arrow being shot. If they had spoken in Mandos, it would likely have only made things worse. Shamefully perhaps, he still wishes they had spoken. "And now? Do you know what you wish of me?"

“Everything.” Fëanor says it so simply. Smooths his thumb across Fingolfin’s cheek and presses it to the corner of his mouth. “I wish for you to give me everything that you are. All that you were that I never bothered to learn of you. All that you are now in this new age. I wish for you to give yourself to me fully in all things.”

Fingolfin is happy that they are not standing, for he feels dizzy at the words. "And are you willing to give me the same in return? I will settle for no less."

“Have I not already proven that I am willing to do so?” Fëanor asks softly, mouth quirking up slightly at the corner. “I would not have given you this at all if I had not come here already intending to give you anything you asked for.”

"Then yes, you may have my everything. It is yours." He twists in closer, pressing Fëanor down into the bed and covering his brother's body with his own. Presses a kiss to the corner of Fëanor's mouth and softly says, "I love you," a thrill running through him at the way the words so easily slide off his tongue.

Fëanor shivers and kisses him, fingers dancing up his spine. Says, as I love you, so quietly Fingolfin can barely hear it, the words still sitting awkwardly on Fëanor’s tongue when not torn from him. 

“There will be many fights ahead of us,” he warns once more. “Ones that you cannot fight your way out of.”

"Then we will face them together, will we not? As we should have done so before." Fëanor's eyes are so painfully soft as he stares up at Fingolfin that his heart aches.

“Together,” he echoes, kissing his brother again and swallowing the contented sigh that flows from Fëanor’s mouth.

Fingolfin does not know how this will end, if he will still have a kingdom when all is said and done. The list of things he does not know is daunting, but he does know that his name has never sounded sweeter than when Fëanor said it, voice full of love. He knows that he loves his brother and is finally loved in return. That will be enough to get them through, it must be, it will be, he will make it so. 

“Stay,” he murmurs against Fëanor’s mouth.

Fëanor laughs, wild and beautiful and utterly confident in their ability to face everything that is thrown their way. “Forever, Nolvo. Past even the breaking of the world. I’ll stay.”

And somehow, despite his better sense whispering that it is folly, Fingolfin believes him.  

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

Could I have kept going? Sure. But then I'd have to deal with Finwë and Co. showing up and the absolute bullshit political fallout mess of all that and just, nope, no thanks. We're not doing all that. Lets just assume they steamroll all objections and live happily ever after <3 they deserve it <3

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