all's fair by queerofthedagger  

It is late by the time Fingon enters the bathhouse.

He got surprised by a foaling mare, and then, after all went well, taking care of both of them. Now, exhaustion drags at his limbs, and he is in dire need of a hot bath—something his small house on the outskirts of Tirion will not provide him with, without a long-winded process of heating and lugging water.

In truth, he does not mind. This late, the bathhouses are empty, and his shoulders loosen at the familiar scent of oils.

It should not surprise him, then, that when he enters the main room in only a towel, he finds Maedhros already there. He is sprawled against the edge, head tipped back, eyes closed. Fingon’s heart instantly wants to crawl right up his throat.

They have seen each other a couple of times since they both returned from the Halls, but things between them are… difficult. Fingon is not sure if anything else is even possible; is not sure if it is his lingering anger or Maedhros’—well. Whatever it is that keeps Maedhros from searching him out, beyond that first and only time after his return.

Maedhros has not noticed him yet, and Fingon cannot stop himself from looking. The long line of his throat, bared and unmarked; the fall of his hair, no longer short and streaked with the grey Fingon had come to love, but full and blood-bright as in distant days.

Even in Beleriand, Maedhros had ever been the most beautiful in any room. Now, here, hale and at ease once more, Fingon almost tastes the same feeling he used to be so familiar with in his youth—desire so sharp it bleeds into resentment, a flushed kind of outrage that comes with looking at something so magnificent that it hurts.

He should leave. The second he thinks it, Maedhros opens his eyes, finds Fingon’s eyes instinctively. Most of the ease vanishes, well-formed muscles tensing under alabaster skin.

There is no way to hide anything here, and Fingon should leave. But a beat passes, two, and Maedhros is still watching him; still has not said anything, and Fingon almost expects him to leave, almost expects him to yield the space and flee, which would be the decent thing to do.

Never once in his life has Maedhros cared for doing the decent thing, no matter what people used to believe before the world went dark. So it is less surprising than perhaps it should be when, at last, Maedhros tilts his head; grins, mirthless and like a dare, and says, “Do not let me stop you, cousin; if my presence makes you uncomfortable, I will be gone in a moment.”

Fingon returns the smile, just as sharp. “You have made me many things, Russandol, but afraid of you is not yet one of them.”

It lands like a blow, Fingon can tell. He quells the regret that wants to come with it and drops his towel, stepping into the pool.

It is large enough that they can easily keep distance between them, and Fingon tries, he does. If ignoring Maedhros was something that came easily to him, though, some things would have been much simpler.

Others, far less good, but it is—

Fingon cannot think about it. Has, in fact, done his best not to, ever since he returned. Ever since he learnt of Maedhros’ return, and it is not that he hates Maedhros, no matter how much he should; is not that Maedhros has done atrocious things, even though he had.

It is that, too. But more than that, it is how it had been obvious, for anyone who cared to look, that it was Fingon’s death that sent Maedhros on his ultimate downward spiral, to his death, into endless, endless years in the Halls. Is how Maedhros never says but thinks that if Fingon had just killed him on that accursed mountain, none of this would have happened.

It is, above all else, how Maedhros had not once tried to come back, once he was re-embodied. He had found Fingon once, had apologised without apologising, and then left Fingon alone. Had gone on to live his life, rebuild himself, to sit in a bathhouse on a late night in spring, at ease and comfortable and without so much as blinking at Fingon’s unexpected presence.

Meanwhile, Fingon feels like he is about to come apart at the seams.

It is nonsense, he knows. Even at their closest, most intimate, Maedhros has ever been skilled at keeping the parts of himself concealed that he wanted no one else to see. It is just that once, Fingon was used to being allowed within the walls, rather than being left on the outside like everyone else.

I have not done anything, Fingon wants to snarl (except for dying, except for being the one to leave you for once, and isn’t that an unfair fucking accusation; as if anything between them has ever been played fair). Instead, he scrubs the bar of soap over his arms, his chest, his stomach until his skin stings. Until the tension between them feels like an animal thing in the room, and Fingon can no longer bring himself to keep his back turned.

The moment he turns, he finds Maedhros’ eyes on him, silver-bright in the dim light of the bathhouse. He is unapologetic about his watching, and there is nothing they have not seen of each other. And yet.

And yet, it feels new, feels more intimate than it should. Maedhros’ scars are gone, as are Fingon’s own—centuries of war and survival vanished, as if removing their physical evidence could somehow erase their lingering memory.

As if hearing his thoughts, Maedhros lifts his right hand, and runs it through his hair. He slants a rueful grin at Fingon and shrugs. “Strange, is it not? I still have not got used to it, even though it is annoyingly useful at times.”

This, from Maedhros, who had refused to admit even once when he was struggling, makes Fingon snort. It breaks some of the bristling unease between them, and Maedhros’ shoulders loosen.

“It is,” Fingon agrees, taking the olive branch. He should not, but he cannot help it—never has, when it comes to Maedhros, and he knows it is the same the other way around because ever has it been so. Because Maedhros is still here, eyes on Fingon, even though—if Fingon is honest, beneath all the painful anger—he knows that this must be as hard for Maedhros as it is for him.

Knowing this does not fix anything, but—

But. “Make yourself useful then, and help me with my hair?”

Ever has his father despaired over his impulsiveness, but this, Fingon thinks as the words hit the warm air, must be a new low. Can see it, too, in the widening of Maedhros’ eyes, and the way he goes still.

Fingon has cast down the gauntlet, though, so there is no backing down. He raises a brow. “I spent the entire day in the stables, and my braids are a nightmare. You can help, or you can keep watching me, while we both pretend that this is not incredibly awkward, charged, and—“

“Alright,” Maedhros cuts in, doing them both a kindness, for once. Fingon would have a greater appreciation for it if it did not leave him with the results of his own folly, Maedhros moving through the water with a grim set of determination to his jaw that Fingon recognises from the battlefield.

He wants—oh, Fingon wants so many things. To flee the bathhouse, first and foremost. To meet Maedhros halfway, forget about the ruin they have made of each other—slowly, meticulously, over centuries—and kiss him until their lips are bruised and their lungs empty of breath. Wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and perhaps wrap his hands around Maedhros’ throat, ask if he still prefer that Fingon kill him, bloody his own hands once more in ways that can never come off, if only it will bring Maedhros his much-sought salvation.

Fingon wants; ever has it been his greatest vice, that hunger that gnaws through him, makes him reckless, selfish, rapacious.

For once, he swallows it down. Turns back around, hands to the edges of the pool, and tilts his head in invitation.

What theatre, what frail play; as if the thought of Maedhros’ hands back on him does not make the blood rush in his ears, a shiver like fear eager to run down his spine.

Maedhros, at first, is careful; takes up Fingon’s braids and keeps his distance, his hands deliberate and slow as he begins to unpick the braids.

It is fine, at first. No brush of fingertips, of skin against skin—just the light, consistent pressure against Fingon’s skull, and the bristling awareness of Maedhros’ naked body close enough that Fingon can feel it without feeling it.

He closes his eyes and keeps his breathing even. Maedhros continues unpicking his braids. Lets strands of hair fall, and they brush Fingon’s shoulders, his back, his ears, until Maedhros’ fingers reach the nape of his neck, electric current straight to Fingon’s stomach.

He swallows the noise that wants to make it out of his throat, stays still. Maedhros brushes the skin behind his ears, his neck, the side of his throat, and it might have been an accident, at times. It is deliberate, just as often.

Fingon, after all, knows his touch, the minute detail of it. He should say something; should not, as he does, tilt his head and bare his throat. Oh, he should not, but Maedhros moves a little closer, runs his fingers through the undone braids, and Fingon wants, and wants, and wants.

“Hand me the oil?” Maedhros asks, his voice low and rough. It nestles into the space between them like a caress, and Fingon swallows, swears he can feel the weight of tension down to his toes.

He hands Maedhros the oil and does not look across his shoulder to see the expression that Maedhros wears; does not look, because he is not sure what his own face is doing. If he can bear revealing himself like that.

The scent of lavender fills the air, and then Maedhros’ hands are back, steadier now. Run through Fingon’s hair, slow and firm, working their way upwards until Maedhros is running his fingertips along Fingon’s scalp; until he wraps his hand into Fingon’s hair and pulls, and Fingon can no longer suppress the shudder that goes through him, his entire body alight with it.

He is growing hard beneath the touch, and Maedhros makes a noise low in his throat, moves closer. His fingers never still, and Fingon knows his touch, but amidst the savage thrill of it, he had forgotten that Maedhros, too, knows him like the back of his hand. Knows exactly how to touch Fingon, to make him unravel; how ever, his hair has been his weak spot, and he can feel Maedhros’ breath against his shoulder now, the heat of his body almost, almost, almost close enough to touch, and Fingon—

Fingon is so furious that it burns. Bares his throat regardless when Maedhros pulls his hair once more, the motion now unmistakable; one fist wrapped firmly into Fingon’s hair, knuckles grazing the back of his neck. Fingon’s own fingers have gone white-knuckled against the marble edge of the pool.

“Findekáno,” Maedhros says, and it is the way he says it—rough and breathless in a way Fingon has heard a thousand times—that has the last of Fingon’s self-restraint dissolve amidst the lavender steam.

“Fuck.” He pushes back until they are pressed together, and Maedhros is hard against him, his cock pressing against Fingon’s lower back. His free hand immediately settles on Fingon’s hip, fingers splaying wide.

For the span of long moments, they stay like this; pressed together, Fingon’s head pulled back, his heart jackrabbit-fast inside his chest. Linger in that position after ages apart, just the sheer wonder of their bodies coming together once more, still fitting, still enough to turn the air thick and heady.

Then Fingon twists and turns, reverses their positions until he has Maedhros pressed against the side of the pool, one knee lodged firmly between Maedhros’ legs.

He smiles up at him, sharp and pleased. “I may be easy, beloved, but not yet that easy. Surely, you did not think—“

Maedhros laughs, and kisses him. It is harsh, too many teeth and too much urgency, his hands coming to frame Fingon’s face, but oh, it is good, so fucking good that Fingon almost forgets the anger still frothing within his chest.

He sinks his teeth into Maedhros’ bottom lip and revels at the noise it elicits; pushes in closer, digs his nails into Maedhros’ narrow waist, and smiles into the kiss when Maedhros’ hips jerk, his cock dragging against Fingon’s own.

They fight like this, bodies they know like a homeland, touch wielded like a weapon—Maedhros’ hand ending back in Fingon’s hair, making him moan, falter; Fingon’s fingers finding Maedhros’ nipples, making him tremble, mouth softening against Fingon’s like surrender.

Eventually, they find a rhythm, their touch gentling. Fingon says, “Do not think that I am not still furious with you,” and wraps a hand around both of them; Maedhros says, “Yes, yes,” teeth grazing the soft skin of Fingon’s throat, and falls easily into the rhythm Fingon sets.

They kiss again, again, again; Maedhros’ fingers stay in his hair, the other hand on his jaw, his shoulder, his hips, and Fingon follows, falls, comes apart. Everything is wet and hot, the lines between their bodies blurring, long-honed edges diluting in the heat as they move against each other.

Fingon runs his hand over Maedhros’ chest, his arms. Cups his jaw and pulls him into another kiss, and it has been so long, so fucking long. When Maedhros joins his hand to Fingon’s, quickens the rhythm and breathes hotly over Fingon’s ear, his orgasm washes over him without him having any power to stop it. His stomach tightens and he curses, his fingers digging into Maedhros’ wet skin. For a moment, everything goes quiet and bright, world narrowing down to Maedhros against him, his mouth to Fingon’s, the tight pull he has on Fingon’s hair.

Maedhros does not stop, keeps moving his hand in quick, rough strokes until Fingon is shaking with the sensation. It is almost too much, is just on the edge of painful, when Maedhros makes a noise like a punch; twists his hand into Fingon’s hair once more, too tightly, and then comes all over both their hands, pressing his face into Fingon’s neck like that is still, after all this time, right where he belongs.

On the come-down, the bathhouse is quiet, the scent of lavender and sex heavy in the air. Maedhros’ grip on Fingon’s hair finally lets up, but he keeps his fingers there, running circles into the nape of Fingon’s neck.

Fingon should let go. Instead, he rests his forehead on Maedhros’ shoulder and breathes. Runs his thumb in aimless patterns across Maedhros’ hipbone, traces the path of a thick, gnarled scar on the left that used to be there.

That he used to love, used to press his mouth to like a secret, and is that not what it all comes down to? Maedhros brushes his mouth against Fingon’s temple, and Fingon exhales with the weight of an age-old grief that wants to crush him where he stands.

“This does not mean that all is well,” he repeats, quiet now; trails his mouth up Maedhros’ throat, across his jaw, to the corner of his mouth. “You can’t just push all of my buttons and fuck me in a public bathhouse, and think that that fixes anything.”

Maedhros huffs a laugh and pulls back just far enough to look at Fingon. Frames his face between his large hands, pushing strands of damp hair away from his temples, and smiles, that small, private smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“I know,” he says, and kisses Fingon—his mouth, the bridge of his nose, his forehead. Grins, pleased and wicked, and says, “But it sure does help, does it not?”

“You planned this,” Fingon says, realisation washing over him. He does not know if he should be offended or pleased.

Maedhros shrugs. “Grovelling did not feel like it would suit either of us. Do you object?”

“An apology is not grovelling, you know.”

Humming, Maedhros twists his hand into the hair at the base of Fingon’s neck once more, smiling when Fingon exhales sharply.

“I will think about it,” he says, and then he kisses Fingon again, full of the same hunger that lives, always, right beneath Fingon’s breastbone. And Fingon thinks—

Fingon thinks that no, this does not fix everything. But then, he wraps his legs around Maedhros’ waist, pulls him in close once more; makes them rock against each other, a languid glide of wet skin, and thinks that they have all the time in the world to work on that.

For now, he lets himself fall into this, and marvels at how, for the first time in years, home does not feel like it has to equal drawing lines and battle plans.

Chapter End Notes

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