terrified on this side of a conversation by atlantablack  

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terrified on this side of a conversation

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How much of a cruel year can you call my fault? 
Not even the memories are immortal
Terrified on this side of a conversation
A conversation we'll never come back from
I'll never live it down if I never get around it
'Cause goddammit, I did it to myself in hindsight

Waco, Texas | Ethal Cain

☀︎

Curufin knows that something is wrong before he even opens his eyes.

He had gone to sleep on their indulgently soft bed that Finrod loves so dearly, Finrod a long line of heat pressed up against him, and Finrod never wakes before him. Not without good reason. Not without Curufin knowing to expect his absence. In a way, opening his eyes to a ceiling that had haunted his dreams for longer than he cares to admit is less surprising than it should be. He breathes in, the damp air of the caves hitting him like an avalanche as he sits up and looks around the room. 

He looks around the room again. 

Looks again. 

His traveling pack is sitting on the floor, half-full and lying on its side, where he'd thrown it at the wall in a fit of rage. Curufin has not felt true panic in a very long time, not since his grandfather's murder. Anything after that could not be classified as true panic with how the rage clung to every breath. But he thinks that perhaps the bubbling, frothing emotion rushing through him now may be true panic. He knows this day. He remembers this as he remembers most of the days following Finrod's departure from Nargothrond — in excruciating detail, every memory drawn out as if to taunt him. He had packed and then unpacked, had done so several times over the course of the first three days. He would never have been able to bring himself to follow; he knows that now, and had known it then, it had not stopped him from itching to do something.

But, he thinks slowly, the realization coming to him as if through a dense fog, there is nothing stopping him now. 

Nothing, but that he does not know how he came to be here. Nothing, but that he does not know why he is here. Nothing, but that he does not know how permanent this is. Nothing, but that he does not know what happens if he changes a single thing; if he will destroy what happiness he has managed to scrape together for himself in the new age, if he will be stuck in Beleriand with blood on his hands once more. Curufin is, at his core, a deeply selfish person, has always been so. He had, in the end, managed to claw his way into a mostly happy ending despite everything. Had managed to sink his teeth back into Finrod's heart despite everything. Is he willing to risk jeopardizing that?

But how can I not, he thinks as he stares fixedly at his traveling pack. I promised him that this time I would try, and I have. Does the promise dissipate now that I am back here? Do I so easily get to throw it away? There is a distinct note of hysteria wrapped around the thought that he does not know how to get rid of.

He does not know how long he would have sat there, stuck in his indecision, half-waiting to wake up, if not for the bedroom door slamming open and Celegorm barging in.

“Curvo, what are you doing? Why are you still in bed?” Celegorm asks, pausing two steps into the room to stare at him, the confusion in his voice painfully loud.

It is jarring, seeing Celegorm once again as he had been in Beleriand — raw and wild in a way he has never quite managed to duplicate while in Aman. Jarring to look at his brother and know the future, know the blood that will stain their hands, know the ways they twist themselves into monsters and regret nothing. “Tyelko,” he hears himself say, realizing too late that his voice had come out too blank. From a purely practical standpoint, he is likely in shock. Knowing this does not fix anything. 

Celegorm's face creases in concern, eyes darting around the room and lingering on his traveling pack for a long moment. "Is this about Finrod?" he asks, looking no less confused by the possibility.

There is something about hearing Finrod’s name bled out into the air that causes everything to go painfully clear in his head. What does it matter whether or not he screws the future up? The future is, as always, not a guarantee. He does not know why he is here or how it came about, but he knows that the odds of being returned to where he should be are not to be counted on. He knows that Finrod is gone and that soon he will be dead. He does not know if he can change that but fuck, he has to try, doesn't he? To have kissed Finrod in their bed and held him so close, is he not now required to at least try? 

He does not know what his face is doing, but Celegorm is beginning to look very alarmed. "Yes," he says finally, voice coming out strange and strangled. "Yes, it is about Finrod." He is out of bed and packing before Celegorm can respond.

“About— Curufin, what are you doing?”

He does not bother responding, feels it is rather self-evident. 

Curufin is dressed and moving for the door in what feels like very little time, everything else around him seeming to blur. Celegorm is still firing questions at him that he is ignoring, but it is rather difficult to ignore Celegorm standing in the doorway, refusing to budge. “Move,” he snaps. “I need to leave.”

“You cannot mean to go after him!” Celegorm exclaims, laughing wildly. “After what we did? You cannot truly mean to go after him.”

"If you would move, then I suppose we would find out."

“What is wrong with you? What about the oath, Curvo?" Celegorm asks, voice low and furious, eyes blazing so much like their father's. "You cannot go after him."

And Curufin — who has seen the endpoint of what that oath cost them, who has reunited with their father, who has listened to their father curse himself for what the oath brought upon them all — finds it the easiest thing in the world to bare his teeth and snarl, "Fuck that god forsaken oath.”

It is only in the ringing silence that follows that he realizes, he has grown so used to the absence of the oath, that it had not occurred to him to be shocked that it was still gone. He is still free of it, against all logic, he is still free of it. Which means, nothing is holding him back from doing whatever he damn well pleases. Nothing, of course, except his annoying, well-meaning brother.

“Get out of my way, Celegorm,” he says quietly. “You cannot hold me in here forever.”

Celegorm’s face is a mess of furious confusion, his grip on his knife so tight Curufin half-thinks he will actually pull it. “Fine,” Celegorm says finally, voice laced with rage. “Fine. Go get yourself killed. What the fuck ever. Give our cousin my very best,” he spits, spinning on his heel and stalking off without another word.

Curufin dearly hopes that will not be his last conversation with his brother in this iteration of life. But one way or another, he supposes they will speak again. It is a comfort in a way, to know with surety that they will not be lost to the everlasting darkness, to know that they will have a chance to heal eventually, no matter that it is such a long way away.

He makes it halfway out of Nargothrond, ignoring the stares that he is receiving, before he rocks to a stop, belatedly recalling Lúthien. He scowls at the wall, having no desire to deal with the princess a second time, but after running through the events lying ahead of them, he is forced to admit that it will be extremely beneficial to have her with them. He runs through the events several more times from several angles, checking that there is nothing else he is forgetting, and then whirls back around as he goes to find Huan.

Huan is with Celebrimbor, exactly as Curufin had expected him to be. He does not allow himself to do more than nod at Celebrimbor, does not have time for all that conversation would entail. It is a conversation that will have to wait.

It is easy enough to explain to Huan in clipped sentences where the princess will be and when. It is harder to impress upon him that he must go and fetch her and speed her along to Beren without sounding utterly insane. He is not, in the end, sure that he actually manages it, but Huan barks as if in agreement, so he will simply have to hope for the best. He hugs Celebrimbor tight on his way back out, which rather effectively cuts off the questions that were being thrown through the air. He is gone before his son can regain his equilibrium.

From there it is easy enough to speed out of Nargothrond, ignoring the questions that get thrown at him, and take off after Finrod. He does not know if he will be able to catch up before Finrod is taken by Sauron. Dearly hopes so, as stalling them for a bit and hoping that Lúthien shows up would be far easier than attempting to figure out a doomed rescue plan.

He runs. Counts his breaths and stops only when he absolutely must. He runs and runs, and though he still cannot bring himself to pray even all these years later, he sends all of his desperate hope out into the universe and hopes that it is enough.

It takes nearly two days but he does catch up. Crests a hill and in the distance sees blonde hair; his heart stutters so badly that he nearly stumbles. He registers several heads turning toward him as he approaches, but he only has eyes for one. Finrod's face has gone carefully blank as he watches Curufin approach, the thinnest line of tension present in his shoulders, and the relief that goes rushing through Curufin upon seeing him alive is staggering. There had been a small part of him that was still waiting for this to be some horrendously vivid nightmare in which he arrived too late and was forced to see Finrod dead.

That this is not a nightmare, that it has been days now, and he is still stuck in the first age, only leaves him with the sinking feeling that he truly is going to be forced to live through this all again. No matter that it is a chance to do things better, he does not want to do this all again. He does not want to watch the slow desolation of Beleriand unfurl, does not want to figure out what he must try to change and what he must not, he does not want to do any of it. He wishes only to be back in the fourth age where peace had finally become the norm once more, where Finrod smiles easily at him, where his brothers no longer looked haunted, and his parents can smile at each other once more. 

If he ever finds out who is responsible for his renewed presence in this age, he is going to break their fucking neck.

He comes to a stop on the outskirts of the group, a cursory glance showing that Edrahil looks as if he would quite like to slit Curufin’s throat and be done with the matter. Considering Curufin still has not managed to earn a single bit of goodwill from the bastard in the fourth age, this does not particularly surprise him.

"Cousin," Finrod says mildly, and Curufin's attention snaps back to him. Finrod's eyes are shuttered as they stare at each other and it is making Curufin's chest ache in a disgustingly unpleasant way. "I hope you have not come all this way with the intention of trying to stop us."

“I would not waste my time on something so foolish,” he says, taking a step forward and ignoring the way several hands settle on the hilts of their swords. “I wish to speak with you.”

Finrod's brow furrows in confusion for just a moment before smoothing out once more. "We are both here, are we not? Speak."

He only just resists rolling his eyes, feeling steadier now that he has Finrod within his sight. “Alone.” He jerks his head toward the forest, the trees shrouding everything in darkness as the sun begins to set.

“How dare you—” Edrahil starts before falling silent at Finrod’s raised hand.

Finrod closes the distance between them, stopping only a handful of paces away. He's studying Curufin in a way that is all too familiar. A way that says he had been very confident that he knew how this was going to go, and now that someone has changed the course of the plan he does not know what to do. "Give me a good reason," Finrod says quietly, eyes never leaving Curufin's. "One good reason to let you speak with me alone."

Curufin, who has perhaps grown too accustomed to peace, too accustomed to trusting Finrod in an entirely unnatural way, finds it painfully easy to unclasp his scabbard and hold his sword out for Finrod to take. After a moment of stunned silence he adds Angrist to the offering.

Finrod opens his mouth and then closes it. His fingers are just barely shaking as he reaches out and takes the weapons from Curufin’s grasp. “Well,” he says, staring down at the weapons now in his hands, “I don’t know how I can argue with that reason.” His eyes though, when he meets Curufin’s again, are dark with suspicion.

They leave the rest of the group to set up camp for the night, and he follows Finrod into the trees, far enough away that none will be able to hear their conversation. Finrod turns and holds his weapons back out once they've halted, shrugging when Curufin stares at him. "I don't believe you will kill me. You wouldn't care to dirty your hands that way when it is easier to let Morgoth and his lot do it for you. Though I do find it an interesting display of trust."

He hates that he cannot refute any of that. Feels so utterly wretched, the brutality of the first age no longer a skin he can easily slip into. He ignores the weapons and crowds Finrod up against a tree, dropping his forehead onto Finrod's shoulder as he grips Finrod's hips tight. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, the words coming easier to him these days, when it concerns Finrod, than they had the first few centuries after he'd been reembodied.

Finrod has gone completely motionless, and if Curufin were less patient, he'd have already given up and stepped back. He does not move though, simply stays pressed up as close as he can get with Finrod's hands still raised between them. He does not count the minutes, only listens to Finrod's breathing and hopes that he can keep it from ever stopping this time. He wants Finrod to make it back to Valinor without ever having to learn what dying feels like. If he must do this all again, he wants to have at least one thing end better.

Eventually, when there is only the barest hint of light left in the forest, Finrod carefully clasps Curufin’s weapons back onto his belt. The hands that settle in Curufin's hair do not shake, but Finrod's voice is thin and bewildered when he asks, "What has gotten into you?"

He tilts his head, carefully pressing his mouth to Finrod’s neck, satisfaction bursting apart in his chest as Finrod shivers. “Would you believe me, if I said I had seen our future?”

“No,” Finrod says, his fingers tightening in Curufin’s hair even as he tilts his head back against the tree, better baring his neck. “You are no seer. I am afraid you will have to try harder than that.”

He leaves a slow trail of kisses up Finrod’s neck, halting only when his lips settle atop Finrod’s pulse and find it madly fluttering. “It is not a lie.” He carefully scrapes his teeth over Finrod’s pulse and smiles when it causes him to shiver and pull tight at Curufin’s hair. “Though, I suppose it may be more accurate to say that I have lived the future, not only seen it.”

“You are speaking madness,” Finrod says softly, but there is a thoughtfulness to the words that gives him away.

“Am I?” he asks, straightening so that he may press their foreheads together, his mouth hovering over Finrod’s. It is easier to feel calm once more with Finrod’s body pressed up against his. Proof that not all is lost yet.

“Tell me something else then. Prove it, Curvo.”

Curufin thinks of their bed, of Finrod spread out golden in the morning sunlight, body freely given for Curufin to mark and fuck as he may. Thinks of centuries and centuries of painstakingly learning to say out loud what Finrod demanded of him. Centuries and centuries of crafting their relationship into a thing that they were both comfortable with.

There is, in the end, really only one thing to say. 

"I love you," he says quietly, drinking in the hitched breath, Finrod's body going loose beneath his in shock. Finrod's mouth opens easily beneath his when he closes the space between them, and it is as sweet as it always is, leaving Curufin wanting to pin Finrod down and break him apart.

“You have either become a much better liar or you are, for once, telling me the truth,” Finrod says against his mouth. His eyes are wide and filled with an unfathomable greedy desire when Curufin pulls back to look at him. “Will you show me?”

It is a dare and one that Curufin grimaces at. He still has not come around to truly being comfortable letting Finrod into his mind, but if there was ever a good reason to allow it, he supposes this would be it. "If you ask me to," he says, trying to hide his distaste at the thought and likely failing, "then yes, I will show you."

“Later perhaps,” Finrod says softly, eyes roaming over his face. “Go on then,—” he laughs quietly, tracing a finger down Curufin’s cheek and over the seam of his mouth, “—kiss me again. Show me how well you learned to love me in this mysterious future.”

Curufin wastes no time in kissing the laughter out of Finrod’s voice. They do not make it back to the camp for a long while. 

☀︎

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Chapter End Notes

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