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

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2. lay down my resentment (I got better things to hold)

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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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