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

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1. I always think the world is ending

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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.

☀︎