how real hunger has a real taste by queerofthedagger  

Sometimes, you just want
something so hard you have to lie about it,
so you can hold it in your mouth for a minute,
how real hunger has a real taste. 
—Ada Limón

*

It starts, ironically, at the Feast of Purity and Renewals, held in Varda's honour.

Nolofinwë has admittedly been too liberal with the wine. Has, once the food had been served and the dancing commenced, let himself be swept along in the revelry, has, for once, let himself ignore the presence of his sharp-cast brother.

He dances with Elenasto, Ingwë’s son, the two of them once close when Nolofinwë had spent an apprenticeship at Ingwë’s court in Valmar. They stay tangled, in the aftermath; find more wine and drift to the sidelines of the ballroom, trying to find a pocket of quiet amidst the celebrations.

Time slips them by as they talk, and it is almost enough to block out the silver-flint eyes that keep finding him, the inexorable presence of his brother that fills up any room to the point of bursting.

Almost; unfortunately, Nolofinwë has never once learnt how not to mark Fëanáro’s presence. Perhaps that is why he had enjoyed the years in Valmar as much as he had—a certainty, at last, that Fëanáro would not be found at the turning of any corner, across a crowded room, amidst any group of people.

Nolofinwë has grown well-skilled at ignoring the burning itch between his shoulders, though, and so he spends a marvellous night; talks, and dances, and lets the wine go to his head, until Telperion wanes, and the first couples say their goodbyes.

Until the first weight of tiredness begins tugging at his limbs, and Nolofinwë is not yet ready to end the night, but he needs—a moment. A second to breathe. He bids goodnight to Elenasto and drifts from the ballroom towards a balcony on the first floor, overlooking the palace’s courtyard.

Voices and music still drift up here, and anyone walking past would mark his presence, but it is enough for a short reprieve; to let the night settle, shake off his weariness, and return to his place at his father’s side.

Which is, of course, why Fëanáro finds him. One moment, Nolofinwë soaks in the peace, the lingering joy of a delightful night. The next, the air against his neck shifts and his brother is there, right in his space, the heat radiating off of him like a brand against Nolofinwë’s back.

His fingers clench against the white marble of the bannister. “Fëanáro,” he says, and does not bother to hide the annoyance in his voice.

They are alone, after all; ever has it meant that any pretence they kept up for everyone else’s sake—their father’s sake—would be stripped away.

In a way, it is thrilling, the lack of scriptures and masks; the stark, naked truth of their disdain. Tonight, though—

Tonight, Nolofinwë wishes his brother would allow him to pretend, just for a little longer, that family did not always have to mean battleground.

“Are you not ashamed?” Fëanáro asks, close enough that his breath brushes Nolofinwë’s ear. His voice is full of scorn, and Nolofinwë marvels at the contrast; keeps himself still, lest he sway into Fëanáro's proximity, or land an elbow in the soft parts of his brother’s stomach.

“I would not know of what,” he says, voice mild. He tips his head back, looks at the stars spinning high above Taniquetil. “Are you?”

“A son of Finwë, whoring himself out—and you do not know what to be ashamed of? I always knew Indis’ brood—“

Nolofinwë whirls around before he can stop himself, rage like a blaze inside his blood. “Keep my mother’s name out of your filthy mouth.”

“Or what?” Fëanáro asks, the smirk that is curling his mouth as devastating as his disdain. “Is it not true? Ingwë must only let his son loose on you, and suddenly all of your night is spent wrapped up in him, as if you could not wait to climb into his bed like Tirion’s cheapest whore.“

“It is called having friends, Fëanáro; you should try it sometime,” Nolofinwë spits, and it comes out sharper than he means it to, but he is—

Lord, he is tired; of Fëanáro’s vitriol, of how easily he himself still unravels at the slightest push. How effortlessly Fëanáro slides beneath his skin, and Nolofinwë wants to dig his finger into the unmarked flesh, wants to hurt, wants—

He wants; that is perhaps the most terrible part about it all.

Fëanáro leans in even closer, a hairbreadth of space left between them. “Friends, is that it? The same way we are only brothers, and yet your body cannot help, whenever I press this close, cannot help but—“

Something within Nolofinwë snaps. He twists a hand into Fëanáro’s hair, the loose fall of his braids, gems and artful arrangement crumbling easily within his fists.

His grip is tight enough that Fëanáro’s head snaps back, that a hiss escapes from between his teeth. His eyes stay dark and fixed on Nolofinwë.

It is a dangerously heady feeling, and a part of Nolofinwë is screaming at him to pull himself together, to remember that any challenge put to Fëanáro will always, inevitably, be answered with much worse. That they are in public; anyone could walk past, and that alone should be enough to make Nolofinwë stop.

Except. Another part, one much more alike to his godforsaken brother than either of them wants to acknowledge, is spitting mad; is thinking how divine it feels, to have Fëanáro before him like this—throat bared, eyes blown wide, and surprise still carving lines into his perfect, obnoxiously handsome face.

Nolofinwë is still drunk, he thinks in some distant corner of his mind. For some reason, that only makes him tighten his grip, makes him press closer until Fëanáro is a long line of heat against his front, and Nolofinwë feels like everything is spinning out of control, all of Aman dropping away beneath them.

“Is this what you want?” Fëanáro murmurs, and despite the grip Nolofinwë has on his hair, he strains against him, presses in closer until their faces are so close that Nolofinwë can no longer make out his features. “Is this why you bait me all night? Your own brother, in the most depraved fashion, to pay your worship to?”

He says brother like he means curse. Nolofinwë swallows past the dryness of his throat and laughs, a harsh, discordant sound.

“If you think I would be the one to pay worship, Fëanáro, you have not been paying attention.”

It is meant to anger, to provoke. It is meant to follow well-worn patterns, even as none of this encounter, so far, has done so.

Fëanáro merely smiles, though, something dark and terribly knowing in his eyes. Nolofinwë still has his fingers twisted into his hair, but Fëanáro lifts his hand, at last; lets his fingers brush Nolofinwë’s cheekbone, his jaw, settle idly around his throat—an unmistakable threat.

“Have I not?” he asks, breath hot against Nolofinwë’s face. His fingers around Nolofinwë’s throat tighten, just enough to be a warning. Nolofinwë’s grip falters. Fëanáro presses closer, closer, just close enough to press his mouth against the corner of Nolofinwë’s mouth. “It is not me, Nolofinwë, who is losing breath at the mere suggestion of this, after all.”

“Fëanáro,” he gets out, his voice, despite his best intentions, a wreck. “Fëanáro, anyone could see.”

Fëanáro merely lingers, presses his smile against Nolofinwë’s cheek like a brand. “But that is what you want, is it not, dear brother?”

And then he is gone, between one blink and the next. Then he is gone, and Nolofinwë is left to dig his fingers into untainted marble, and pretend that his heart is not trying to slam right out of his chest.

The next time that they run into each other is at one of Makalaurë’s plays in Tirion.

Ever has Nolofinwë enjoyed the performances of Fëanáro’s second eldest, and he had thought—

He had thought that surely, whatever strange mood had come upon his brother during Varda’s feast must have passed, must have been an exception, an anomaly. That they could simply return to pretending that the other does not exist, right until they could not.

Truth be told, Nolofinwë would take thinly veiled animosity for the rest of their days over that strange, ruinous heat that tried to nestle between them when Fëanáro had cornered him. He refuses to look at it as anything but the languid, heady temptation that their father’s wine is bound to instil in any of its subjects.

And yet.

Makalaurë’s performance is a riveting delight, his voice casting the entire auditorium into a spell that leaves Nolofinwë reeling, leaves him teetering on the edge of something he cannot quite name.

Hair like his father's, voice like nothing else, and every single person in that audience walks as if dazed, searches their partners, looks on with eyes glazed in the dim, red-tinted light.

And Nolofinwë, Nolofinwë—

He stays behind in the suite set apart for him and his family; stays staring at the stage, his blood rushing in his ears; stays, images of his eldest brother before his mental eye that he should not entertain but cannot shed, and buries his nails into his thighs until he can feel the sting up to his fucking stomach.

Which is, of course, when Fëanáro walks into the suite, his steps confident, everything about him so utterly perfect that Nolofinwë wants to rage, to mar him, bring him low and break him open.

“Brother,” Fëanáro says, the word flung like a taunt. “I have been told that the performance is over; what, then, are you still doing here?”

Scorn and derision are thick in the air, but there is something else, too. And perhaps Nolofinwë just wants to believe it to be there, but then, he has also been watching his older brother since the day he could remember, and so—

And so, he does actually know Fëanáro in some strange, incomplete manner, no matter how little Fëanáro enjoys the thought. Pushing out of the plush seat, he walks toward him until they are face to face. Until he can see the dark of Fëanáro’s eyes, the wicked slant of Fëanáro’s mouth.

Until he can feel his own heart hammering inside his chest, and this time, he has no excuse of drunkenness, of surprise, of being out of his own mind.

This time, all Nolofinwë has is the challenge cast between them, and the way Fëanáro’s eyes darken when Nolofinwë breaches his personal space. The way the beast inside his own chest is a howling, demanding thing that makes him press Fëanáro up against the nearest wall, and marvel at how, at the end of the day, there are only a few inches of height between them.

Fëanáro, who had always felt so much larger than life, felt unreachable, unconquerable, and now here he is—back against the wall, Nolofinwë caging him in, and his expression—

Well, and that is the crux, is it not? Because Fëanáro does not look like one conquered. He looks like someone who is exactly where he wants to be; who had tricked his prey into following right into the trap.

Fëanáro’s fingers tangle into the front of Nolofinwë’s robes. His eyes are dark and full of heat.

“Now what, dearest brother?” he asks, adjusting his stance. Slots a thigh between Nolofinwë’s legs, the slant of his mouth like a dare, and there is nothing, nothing Nolofinwë can do, except—

“You want this just as much as I do,” he grits out, even as his cock betrays him, hardening against the pressure of Fëanáro’s thigh between his legs. “You keep searching me out; you keep wanting this, you—“

“Ah,” Fëanáro says, his hand coming up to frame Nolofinwë’s face as if in tenderness. “But you forget, little brother, that I am proving a point. No matter what I ask of you, you will always give it, will you not?”

A thousand voices within Nolofinwë’s head rise in protest, a shrill cacophony of denial urging him to pull away. But then, Fëanáro presses the pad of his thumb to Nolofinwë’s bottom lip; then, he changes the angle, meets Nolofinwë’s aborted thrusts, meeting him just so; then, he leans in, puts his perfect, traitorous mouth right beside Nolofinwë’s ear, breathes out, hot and damp and full of promise, and Nolofinwë—

Nolofinwë finds himself choking on his protests. Finds his own fingers clenching against Fëanáro’s hips for purchase, head spinning, and Fëanáro is watching him, is urging him on, meeting his movements with a roll of his hips that has Nolofinwë spiralling out of control much faster than he has in a long time.

“Look at you,” Fëanáro says, his voice low. “Anyone could see, brother, and yet—“

“Stop talking,” Nolofinwë snaps, even as the thought of hundreds of eyes on them makes him shiver, desperation rising like heat into his face. He wants to pull away, to save whatever shreds of dignity there are left for him to save, but Fëanáro is having none of it. His fingers are bruising against Nolofinwë’s hips, are finding their way beneath Nolofinwë’s robes, and he’s pulling them closer together, his nails leaving marks, Nolofinwë can tell.

They change the angle, just a bit, but it is enough that through the haze of shame-fuelled lust, Nolofinwë can feel Fëanáro’s cock press against his hip. The mere feeling has him biting down on his tongue, and he looks up at his brother, notes the flush on his face, his wide-blown eyes.

“You can pretend all you want,” he gets out, and his own voice is wrecked, but it doesn’t matter, not with static filling his head. With Fëanáro pressed between himself and the wall, with the distant voices and laughter invading their space, and how the threat of discovery only makes Nolofinwë’s blood rush louder in his ears. “You can pretend all you want, but you are just as desperate, brother.”

Before Fëanáro can answer, Nolofinwë presses his hand against Fëanáro’s cock. There are layers of clothes between them, but Fëanáro shudders; snarls, at the reaction, and then makes a sound like punched when Nolofinwë moves his hand, presses close, the two of them rutting against each other in a tangle of limbs and bitten-off curses, with rough hands and swallowed noises.

It is over as quickly as it began, which is somehow the most humiliating part of all of this. Nolofinwë comes with his face pressed into the crook of Fëanáro’s neck, Fëanáro’s fingers once more twisted tightly into his hair. Comes with Fëanáro’s name on his tongue and his mind blank, and it would be nice if that lasted, but it does not.

Fëanáro follows shortly after, his entire body going rigid against Nolofinwë; he feels Fëanáro’s cock twitch, feels the spot of damp growing against his palm, and it is almost enough to get him hard all over.

Fëanáro allows them a few moments to catch their breath. Allows them to linger in the aftermath, strange, bristling intimacy that only gets heightened by snatches of conversation that drift up to them, here in that dark, secluded space.

Waits, in fact, until Nolofinwë can no longer bear the humiliation, and pulls away.

He is met by the pleased grin on Fëanáro’s face, a smile cut from glass.

“Until next time, then, brother,” Fëanáro says, and then, once more, he is gone.

All that is left to Nolofinwë in its wake is to swear bitter, bitter retribution.

Twice now, Nolofinwë has been caught off guard. No more.

His father’s family dinners have grown rarer over the years, not even Finwë’s indomitable spirit capable of enduring the constant passive-aggression and fighting. It has got much worse in the last decade or so, and it would be easy, so easy, to cast all the blame at Fëanáro’s feet, but Nolofinwë knows, deep, deep down, that that is making it too simple.

It is, after all, never any of his other siblings who find themselves at the centre of those conflicts. These last couple of weeks are begging to be taken into consideration as to why this is so, but Nolofinwë has ever been well skilled at not looking at that particular part of himself. He is not about to start now.

This is about evening the score; about taking the challenge Fëanáro posed and answering it. About re-establishing their stalemate, something not quite a truce but not anywhere as disastrous—

Nolofinwë cannot think about it too much, is the thing; cannot look at his wife and his children, at his father and his siblings, and put them right next to those illicit moments of crashing into each other, trying to pick them apart in the light of day.

Whatever game Fëanáro has decided to play, Nolofinwë will end it. And then they will speak of it no more—no matter how the memory of it, sensation and taste and whispered dares, follow him into the dim of night, into his dreams, into shameful moments with his hand wrapped around himself, and his brother’s name lodged into the back of his throat.

Dinner itself passes almost peacefully. Fëanáro, for once, seems happy to ignore Nolofinwë, and Nolofinwë is happy to let him. He talks to Arafinwë instead, only recently returned from his usual summer stint at Alqualondë; talks to his father, and ignores the brush of Fëanáro’s gaze, the way it makes heat prickle down his spine.

There is time for entertainment and mingling before the desert course. As always, Fëanáro uses the chance to slip away to his room up in the palace, most likely having had three new ideas and at least one epiphany while being made to socialise with his family.

Nolofinwë stays where he is for a while longer. His brother, for all his genius, can be a predictable creature; the rhythm of family dinner has not changed in an age, and for all that Fëanáro enjoys them little, he rarely takes the risk of disappointing their father through his outright absence.

As such, it is no hard feat to roughly know when he will tear himself away from his work. By the time he does, Nolofinwë has excused himself and meets him in one of the many corridors leading back to the dining room.

Their father’s palace is a masterpiece of Noldorin craft, but the sections that are only for family are so on a less ostentatious level, dark, polished wood and comfort replacing the cold and glorious stonework. Endless corners and alcoves used to provide the perfect labyrinth for children to get lost in.

It is such an alcove that Nolofinwë repurposes now, making use of the split-second of surprise that Fëanáro is not quick enough to smother, to drag him into the wood-panelled nook. It is not a particularly shielded place; there is no curtain sequestering them off, nothing but shadows and attention lying mostly elsewhere.

Anyone walking past would see them. Anyone walking past outside, looking into the window from the wrong angle, might recognise them.

“What do you think you are doing?” Fëanáro snaps, once he catches his breath. Nolofinwë is caging him in, hands left and right beside his head, his knee between Fëanáro’s legs.

It is a heady feeling. He understands why Fëanáro likes it so.

“Now you are confused?” he asks, pressing closer, pressing in until they are entangled chest to knee, one terrible, hungering creature. “You were proving a point, were you not?”

“And I did,” Fëanáro says, but his hands rest against Nolofinwë’s chest without pushing. His eyes are narrowed, but there is colour high in his cheeks. “I do not see—“

“Well, now so am I,” Nolofinwë interrupts, grinning. “You want this as much as I do, brother; will you deny it?”

“Yes, obviously. And our—my wife is here, what do you think—“

Nolofinwë sinks to his knees before him, never breaking eye contact. Not once in his life has he struck his brother speechless, and if he had known it would be this simple, he might have considered the option much sooner.

He runs a hand up Fëanáro’s calf, the back of his thigh. Uses the other to pull open the laces of Fëanáro’s robes and tilts his head. “You were saying?”

From his vantage point, he can see Fëanáro swallow roughly, can see the conflict play out across his face.

“Nolofinwë—“

Whatever Fëanáro would have had to say ends in a curse when Nolofinwë leans forward, brushes his mouth across Fëanáro’s small clothes, his hardening cock within.

Truth be told, Nolofinwë has absolutely no clue what he is doing. What has got into him, beyond the fact that he cannot leave things the way they were, cannot let Fëanáro walk away from this with his pride intact and blackmail material to the end of their days.

“I will see you come apart,” he murmurs, suppressing a wince when Fëanáro pushes a hand into his hair, pulling tightly. Looking up, he meets Fëanáro’s eyes. “Or will you tell me to stop? You and I both know that you could make me, if you wanted to.”

They both know, too, that Nolofinwë could have done the same at any point. That neither of them will, and it is easy enough not to consider the implications, with the scalding weight of Fëanáro’s full attention on him.

“Go on then,” Fëanáro says, failing to sound as daring as he clearly intended to, with the way his voice comes out rough. “Were you not about to prove a point, Nolvo?”

His nickname from his brother’s mouth like this, after all this time, makes anger race down Nolofinwë’s spine like ice. Pressing Fëanáro’s hips back against the wall with both hands, he runs his mouth across his brother’s clothed cock once more, smiling when it jerks beneath his touch. Does it again, open-mouthed, breathing hotly, and catalogues the minute shivers that run up Fëanáro’s legs.

Does it again, again, again until he is hard inside his own breeches, and Fëanáro is breathing harshly above him, his grip tight and painful in Nolofinwë’s hair.

“Nolvo,” he says, once more, and this time he sounds much closer to wrecked, the pleasure of it like honey on Nolofinwë’s tongue.

It is enough to crumble whatever resistance had still been warring for the upper hand within himself, and he finally hooks his fingers into Fëanáro’s small clothes, pulling them down. Above him, Fëanáro makes a sound that is half shock, half want, and it is a good thing he does because it covers the small noise that crawls up Nolofinwë’s own throat.

His, unlike his brother’s, is all sharp, unexpected, terrible want, his mouth watering at the sight of his brother’s hard cock. It is followed by a wave of instant shame because all this is a game, is a performance; is not something he should want with such sharp urgency. The fact of it makes him only grow harder, makes his cock leak within his small clothes.

Then Fëanáro’s hand tightens in his hair once more, the intent clear, and Nolofinwë looks up at him, his flushed cheeks, his red-wet mouth.

“Say it, then,” Nolofinwë says, only half conscious of it. “Say that you want this.”

As much as I do, he does not add. He has an inkling Fëanáro can hear it regardless, and for once has mercy enough not to point it out.

Or perhaps Nolofinwë is merely going soft, with the haze clouding his thoughts. Fëanáro’s mouth tightens, his eyes flashing—as if the position they are in is not confession enough. As if the fact that anyone could come across them, including their father, their children, their wives, is not a greater admittance than words could ever be.

And yet. Nolofinwë wants to hear it, wants to hear him say it, and there is little, clearly, that he would not do for such a thing. It is as good an excuse as any, either way, and so he takes Fëanáro’s stubborn silence and at last leans in; takes Fëanáro’s cock in hand at the base, and then wraps his mouth around him, clumsy and unsure but with the renowned determination of their house to make up for it with sheer stubbornness.

Fëanáro curses, his hips jerking forward, and he hits the back of Nolofinwë’s throat, rough and uncomfortable. Makes him cough, and Fëanáro’s grip loosens, but Nolofinwë’s own cock jerks in his breeches, and oh, oh, it’s—

He opens his mouth wider, takes him deeper; chokes again, but Fëanáro’s hand in his hair is insistent now, holding him fast. He runs his tongue along the underside, pulls off and sinks back down, using his hand to jerk Fëanáro off where his mouth does not reach. Fëanáro’s legs are shaking, his breathing ragged, and it is just about the sweetest thing Nolofinwë has ever heard.

With some effort, he pushes his free hand into his robes, taking himself in hand. Moans around Fëanáro’s cock, and is rewarded by his brother letting out a string of curses so filthy it makes Nolofinwë grow harder yet.

There is no finesse to it, no decent rhythm. There is spit running down his chin and he cannot breathe, Fëanáro using his mouth with little regard for Nolofinwë’s need for air, but it is—

It is so fucking good, Nolofinwë almost forgets that he has a higher objective here, forgets almost anything beyond the heady, sharp taste of his brother on his tongue, the noises he makes; anything but the way his head is swimming, the way the world narrows down to this—knees hurting from the hard ground, jaw aching from Fëanáro’s cock in his mouth, the sharp pin-pricks of pain where Fëanáro’s hand is wrapped tight into his hair. The way Fëanáro is coming apart, and how it is Nolofinwë who is the cause of it.

He may be the one on his knees, but it is Fëanáro at his mercy here, and the thought is almost enough to make him spill on the spot. Is enough to curl his free hand around Fëanáro’s hip, hold him against the wall, and pull off once more.

“Valar, don’t stop,” Fëanáro curses, and oh, he looks a mess, sweat standing on the bow of his lips, his eyes blown wide. “Nolvo—“

“Say it,” Nolofinwë says, smiling up at him sweetly. He keeps pumping his own cock, licks lightly across the tip of Fëanáro’s, where it is standing hard and flushed.

Fëanáro curses, shakes. Nolofinwë noses against the inside of his thigh, down to his balls. Runs his tongue along the underside of Fëanáro’s cock and pulls away when Fëanáro tries to guide him back to where he so clearly and desperately wants him.

“Say it, brother,” he repeats, wrapping his hand around the base of Fëanáro’s cock, keeping him there. “Do not think I will let you finish without it. We can stay here for another hour, if you please, but I will not let you finish before you admit it.”

“Anyone could see,” Fëanáro hisses, eyes narrowing. “What do you think—“

Nolofinwë moans, twisting his thumb across the head of his cock. Lets his head fall back, hair falling over his shoulder, throat bared. Fëanáro swallows, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“It is merely an admission of what is obvious already,” Nolofinwë says, working Fëanáro’s cock once, twice. “And you already have me where you want, do you not?”

But of course, it has never been that simple. With a sigh, Nolofinwë leans back in, takes him into his mouth once more; finds a rhythm as best he might, and when Fëanáro gets closer once more, lets him fuck into his mouth, tries to breathe around the urge to gag and cough; lets Fëanáro twist his hand into his hair, the hand on his own cock speeding up again, growing erratic.

“That is what you want, is it not?” Fëanáro says, his words slurred. “For someone to discover us, to be seen, on your knees for me. To finally—“

Nolofinwë’s orgasm catches him so utterly by surprise that he fails to control his movements, Fëanáro’s cock going down his throat. He coughs, tears springing to his eyes, but Fëanáro does not let him up; holds still, keeps him there, and Nolofinwë comes, and comes, his entire body shaking as his vision goes black at the edges.

He claws at Fëanáro’s leg, struggles; his cock jerks once more, last bits of his spend seeping into his breeches, and only when he truly thinks that the lack of oxygen will do him in does Fëanáro relinquish the iron-grip on Nolofinwë’s hair, letting him pull off.

Nolofinwë coughs, face wet with tears; shivers when Fëanáro runs his fingers through the mess on his face, tears and spit, and pushes his fingers back into Nolofinwë’s mouth.

“See—“ he starts, but whatever he is about to say is cut off when Nolofinwë pumps Fëanáro’s still hard cock once, twice.

“Say it,” he hisses, and his voice is a wreck, even more than the rest of him, but there is power in it. “Say it, or I will keep you here till we are found, until you are begging me for it, for all to hear; I will make you, one way or another, Náro; do you think I will not?”

And finally, at last, when their eyes meet, he can see the reality of it truly sink in; can see the desperation in the wake of it, the inner struggle that Fëanáro is so clearly having with himself. Leaning in once more, he runs his mouth down Fëanáro’s cock, runs his fingers over his balls.

“Come on, say it,” he murmurs, grazing his teeth across the jut of his brother’s hipbone. “Such a simple thing.”

Fëanáro’s grip on his hair softens, hands coming to frame Nolofinwë’s face, tilting it up until their eyes meet. There is something on Fëanáro’s face that he has not seen before; not tenderness, not even close, but a strange intimacy that is almost worse in its intensity than the disdain used to be.

“Oh, I do want this, Nolofinwë; and now that I have spoken it, you better believe that I will have it down to the last bit of it. Is that sufficient for you, brother?”

Hunger, Nolofinwë realises, with a pang almost like fear resonating through his chest. Fëanáro looks at him like he wants to devour him whole, and perhaps the worst part is that in the face of it, Nolofinwë knows that there is no part of himself that will not let him.

He turns his head, kisses Fëanáro’s fingertips, his wrist, the soft skin of his pulse. Thinks how simple a thing it would be to sink his teeth into it and not let go.

Fëanáro’s greatest mistake to date has ever been that he fails to see the power of surrender. Nolofinwë takes him back in mouth, swallows him down; as his brother comes down his throat, Nolofinwë’s own cock almost stirring again at the sensation, he thinks that that is alright. Clearly, after all, it is best if Nolofinwë keeps that particular secret for a while longer.

Once Fëanáro has spent, he sinks down the wall, coming to sit before Nolofinwë. His hair is a mess, his eyes glassy, and he slants a smile at Nolofinwë that is as devastating and sharp as the full, blazing glory of his anger.

On a whim, Nolofinwë straddles his lap, the act more audacious than anything else they have done so far. Fëanáro does not stop him, though. Reaches, instead, for his hair once more, and runs his fingers through the undone braids; stretches up and kisses him—corner of his mouth, his lips, his jaw.

It is a strange tenderness, something that feels more like a blade grazing his skin than true affection. It is enough to make Nolofinwë grow hard once more.

He ignores it; leans his head against his brother’s, and listens for the distant noises of their families, reality, inevitably, imposing itself into the space between them once more.

As such, it is no surprise when, eventually, Fëanáro says, "This cannot continue," even as his fingers are rubbing absent circles into the nape of Nolofinwë's neck.

"I know," Nolofinwë says, because it cannot.

"This changes nothing," Fëanáro says, even as Nolofinwë's spent is cooling between them.

"I know," Nolofinwë repeats, because it does not.

His brother kisses him, fully this time, all teeth and insatiable hunger, and Nolofinwë knows that they are long, long since beyond that.

When, days later, he enters his office in his father's palace, only to find Fëanáro leaning against his desk, legs crossed before him, thumbing through Nolofinwë's papers—when his brother looks up, dark eyes full of fire and mouth twisting into a smirk—

When Nolofinwë crosses the room and meets him, harsh hands and harsher mouths, he knows that they have made little more than liars of themselves. That things are only going to become worse, both of them incapable of stopping whatever cataclysm they have set in motion.

When Fëanáro kisses him, all blazing hunger with no one there to bear witness, Nolofinwë knows that he cannot regret it, no matter the price. That he will not. He will pay his due, and gladly.

He believes that; he does, he does, he does.

Chapter End Notes

Does this make things better? Does it make them worse? No one knows least of all me 😌

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