this is the dirty eden by atlantablack  

This is the dirty Eden, stalked by envious angels.
This is the land of Isaac, and of knives.

We are the wish imperfectly granted, and this is the well.

Family Portrait as Lullaby | Traci Brimhall

☀︎

Later, Ñolofinwë will look back on the entire mess and be unable to decide if it would have simply been better for him to have stayed in Tirion and never tried to reconcile with his brother at all. He never quite manages to convince himself that it would have been, for how can he possibly regret anything that has softened the air between them?

Ñolofinwë watches his father and brother leave for Formenos, the crown heavy upon his head, and a great stone of dread settles in his stomach. He knows well that this will not solve anything in the long term; knows that Fëanáro will likely only think himself into a deeper well of hatred when it comes to Ñolofinwë.

He should not care.

He should not.

Fëanáro had put a sword to his throat, and Ñolofinwë had seen his eyes, had seen the rage, and he knows, he knows, that for just a moment, Fëanáro had meant it. Would have let the sword slide home and not regretted it until some later point. He has to believe that his brother would have regretted it eventually, for it becomes too difficult to breathe if he allows himself to consider that Fëanáro might never have regretted it at all.

He should not care, and yet, he watches his brother leave, and all Ñolofinwë wants is for him to come back. 

It should perhaps not be so surprising that he only makes it three years before waking one day and riding for Formenos. 

☀︎

His father is delighted to see him, the terrible hope in his eyes likely the only thing that stops the fury lurking in Fëanáro’s from exploding outward. He rather expects the entire matter to end with them shut in some room together as their father attempts to mediate between them. It is how things have often gone when their father attempted to build a bridge between them, not understanding that you cannot build a bridge when the foundation has been rotted from the start.

This time however, their father looks at them and, without a single note of compromise in his voice, orders them to spend a few days in the woods riding and hunting together. He is not sure if it is because their father is simply tired of trying to mediate, or because he does not wish to listen to them to fight, or because he truly believes time spent alone will fix things. Supposes it does not matter in the end. Their father says go, and they go, heading into the forest with no true goal other than to try to approach something resembling peace before they return.

Ñolofinwë should maybe be worried about the idea of spending any extended amount of time completely alone with Fëanáro, but he is quite sure that if there is one thing Fëanáro does not want to do, it is disappoint their father more than they already have. He does not hope for this to solve anything, for he does not believe it will. He does not allow himself to hope for anything except a lack of violence. Shameful though it may be, he had not come to Formenos believing reconciliation a possibility; he had come, because he missed his brother.

For all their fighting, for all the violence and the fury and the hurt slid beneath his skin like a thousand shards of glass — Despite it all, it has been so long since he had to go this long without seeing Fëanáro; his absence had settled in Ñolofinwë’s chest and haunted him.

He had come to Formenos because he missed his brother. 

It should not feel as shameful a truth as it does. 

☀︎

They ride farther north, and then, because Fëanáro decides he wishes to see the sea, they ride east, through the forest and toward the cliffs.

They speak little, for neither of them knows what to say if it is not to start a fight. Fëanáro would care little about this, Ñolofinwë is sure, but the weight of their father's hope is stifling.

Ñolofinwë tries once. "We should speak of what occurred. Of the—"

"Of your treachery," Fëanáro says savagely, the words seeming torn from him, as if they have been blistering his tongue this entire ride. "Speak then, brother, tell me how it was not what it seemed."

There is such violence in the words that Ñolofinwë instead falls silent. He cannot tell Fëanáro that, for it is exactly as it seemed. That does not change that they should speak of it, of the poison Melkor wove through Tirion, of how many of their actions were due to that poison, and how many were just them trying to harm the other.

They stay silent for hours, the fury rolling off of Fëanáro in tangible waves. It dims to a low flame eventually, even Fëanáro unable to maintain a full inferno of rage forever. His brother tries once to start a conversation, and the attempt itself is so surprising that Ñolofinwë does not even fault him when Fëanáro says, "I will acknowledge only—" and then immediately breaks off, a snarl tugging once more at his mouth.

Ñolofinwë wants terribly to know what Fëanáro is willing to acknowledge. Does not feel it is a good idea to ask.

They halt midway through the day in a small clearing to set up a camp. There is a gentle waterfall cascading down into a lazy river, and it would be serene if not for who he is with. They set up camp quickly enough, and he does not ask how long they are going to stay in this spot, though he wishes to. He also does not ask how long exactly they will be out riding together before returning, for he is not sure he wants to know. Either Fëanáro will say three days, the bare minimum needed to still be abiding by their father's words, or he will say nothing because he does not want to say, until we are reconciled as he wishes us to be.

Ñolofinwë cares for neither option.

☀︎

Fëanáro paces the clearing several times once the camp has been set up, agitated and clearly trying to restrain himself from yelling at Ñolofinwë.

"Let us walk," he says after Fëanáro's third pass. He will start the fight if he is forced to sit here and do nothing while watching Fëanáro pace.

Fëanáro throws him an annoyed look but does not argue, the best response he will receive, and they set off in a random direction. After five minutes of walking, Ñolofinwë says mildly, "You know this entire endeavor is pointless if we do not actually speak."

Fëanáro turns on him with such fury that Ñolofinwë must bite down the instinct to step back. "I did not ask you to ride out here," he snaps, violence clinging to every word, eyes blazing, “I do not care to speak with you at all, and yet you have put us in such a situation that I must. I will speak when I am ready and not before." He storms off, and Ñolofinwë is left blinking after him, feeling a bit as if he had been suddenly buffeted about by a strong gust of summer wind.

He still follows after another moment, does not know what else to do. He catches up easily but hangs back a couple of paces, giving Fëanáro some space, and so it is that he does not get the full brunt of the glittering, yellow cloud that erupts around them when Fëanáro shoves his way through a path of hanging vines that had clearly concealed a wild batch of elysium.

Not getting the full brunt means little, other than it does not get directly in his eyes, for he has enough time to squeeze them closed. It is still everywhere. The air, the ground, his clothes, and his hair. He swallows and realizes it is in his mouth as well; the tacky, syrupy sweet taste lingers. When he cautiously opens his eyes and steps farther into the clearing Fëanáro had found, he finds that it is a veritable garden of the stuff. There are flowers everywhere he looks, and it is with a sick, sinking feeling that he looks down at himself.

“Well,” he says blankly, staring at the fine dusting of glittering gold pollen on his skin. “This is a rather embarrassing way to die.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Fëanáro snaps from behind him, still sounding pissed off. 

Ñolofinwë turns to look and finds that Fëanáro is truly coated in the pollen. It is glittering in his hair, clinging to his eyelashes, his skin shining in the light. They have so little time before the effects will begin to kick in he thinks as his stomach turns over. With such a high quantity of the stuff in the air and in their lungs and on their clothes, he is mildly surprised the effects had not kicked in immediately. “You know as well as I do that the aphrodisiac is never meant to be consumed in such a high quantity,” he says evenly. “It is well known to be lethal in such a high dosage if there is no one around to lay with.” 

Fëanáro shoots him a scathing glare, as if Ñolofinwë has said something incomparably stupid. “I am well aware of the properties of the plant,” Fëanáro says flatly, shrugging his jacket off and glaring at the pollen on it. “But I am not alone, am I?” 

It takes a moment for Fëanáro's meaning to hit him, and he does not quite stop himself from gaping when it does. "We cannot lay together!" he exclaims, voice going humiliating high with horror. "You are my brother!"

The words earn him nothing but a disparaging snort; Fëanáro only half paying him any attention at all as he glances around the clearing. "You are not my brother," he says, and the words are not even cruel, only a simple fact. "I am not going to die because of your useless morals." He begins heading back the way they came, shaking his head irritably as pollen continues drifting around them.

Ñolofinwë stares after him in mute horror for only a second before following. Fëanáro begins stripping the moment they reach their camp, dropping his glittering clothing into the river. Ñolofinwë watches him silently, taking in each piece of exposed skin with a dull horror that only sharpens as the sight of Fëanáro’s skin also causes the prickling beneath his skin to quicken the pace with which it is making itself known. 

“Strip,” Fëanáro says, impatiently waving a hand at him. “Clean yourself and your clothes while you still have the mind to do so.” 

"Fëanáro…" he says, a little helpless, a little horrified. "You cannot mean for us to— even if you do not see us as brothers, that does not change that we share blood. We cannot.” 

Fëanáro looks at him fully, eyes dark with fury. "I am not going to die because of your qualms with such a thing," he says very slowly and clearly. "Besides, it is not as if your qualms will matter to either of us very soon. Make use of your time to try and rid us of the pollen while we can still think to do so."

Ñolofinwë wants to continue arguing, wants to turn and disappear into the woods so that Fëanáro cannot touch him at all. Unfortunately, he is well aware that what Fëanáro has said is true. Soon enough, he will not be able to remember why he cares about the who of it all, he will only be able to focus on the pleasure his body demands of him. He has only ever had elysium when it was diluted into a wine or lightly sprinkled over delicacies eaten with intent. Even those small doses had left his mind so muddled and soaked with pleasure that it had been difficult to think of anything else. 

With the undiluted amount they have both inhaled and swallowed merely from it being in the air, he does not know if he will be able to remember his own name, let alone why he has reservations about fucking his own brother. His skin is already beginning to feel too tight, his clothing rubbing against it unpleasantly, and he knows they do not have much time. He swallows around the dread and does as Fëanáro had bid. 

He does not even make it halfway through the task before his hands begin shaking, the water feeling suddenly frigid against his skin, and he must stumble out of the river before he falls over. He does not look toward Fëanáro, as if not looking will make their nakedness a thing imagined, as if it will make the entire thing disappear into nothing but a terrible dream. He stands there shaking, so very hot suddenly, trying desperately to think of any other solution to the predicament. He accidentally grazes his fingers across his thigh as he shakes, sending a sharp burst of desire coursing through him, and he finds himself dimly surprised that Fëanáro has not already appeared before him to force the matter. 

No sooner has he had the thought than fingers carefully curl themselves around his hip, Fëanáro pressing up against his back, already hard and wanting. It is not pleasure that goes pouring through him, so much as it is an overwhelming heat that erupts everywhere their bodies touch. He cannot even think to stop himself from tipping his head back onto Fëanáro's shoulder, an embarrassing gasping noise tearing itself from him when Fëanáro's mouth settles against the side of his throat. For a moment, just a moment, that is enough. The heat curls between them like a house fire, and they simply sway there, pressed together and burning.

Only a moment, and then Fëanáro's other hand slides down his side and takes his cock in hand. His vision blurs for a moment, mind going utterly blank, before he twists and pulls Fëanáro into a desperate kiss. There should be more ceremony to it, more care given to his brother's mouth meeting his for the first time. Instead, it is open-mouthed and messy, Fëanáro making a hungry noise, and it all goes a bit hazy from there.

When he tries to remember later, everything directly after that first kiss will be a muddled, hazy blur that refuses to coalesce into full memories. It is only impressions of heat and pleasure ripping through him, the grass against his back and Fëanáro’s tongue in his mouth, the slide of their cocks against each other, and the way it hurts in some bone-deep way the first few times that he comes. As if when he comes, it is less about pleasure, and more about loss, something torn from him instead of something gained. 

He knows they had spent a long while lying in the grass, unable to tear their mouths apart as they rutted against each other, every touch so overwhelming that they could not think to do anything more. He cannot remember if either of them said anything or what noises they made. Remembers only that it had felt like being burnt alive, and he had been half delirious, wondering if maybe they had truly consumed so much that the pollen would kill them anyway.

Eventually, the haze retreats the barest inch so that they can bring themselves to move from the grass to their bedrolls, can drink some water when they find they are both desperately thirsty. They still cannot stop touching, both of them clinging to the other the entire time. Fëanáro drinks the water while sitting in Ñolofinwë's lap, and he trails his mouth over every inch of skin he can, licking up the stray water droplets that go sliding down Fëanáro's chin and neck.

Fëanáro pushes him back down onto the bedroll after, fingers disappearing between Ñolofinwë’s legs as he begins marking up Ñolofinwë’s skin with his teeth. Every bruise causes pleasure to lash through him, the press of Fëanáro’s teeth to his skin sharp and endlessly alluring. When Fëanáro’s fingers press against his entrance, he only just manages to rasp out, “Oil, we have no oil,” barely caring even as he says it. He is not sure he will even properly notice the pain with the way his body is burning, or if it will simply be transmuted into more pleasure. 

He does not know if Fëanáro hears him, if the words pierce through the haze, if Fëanáro cares about Ñolofinwë’s well-being enough to give the words any weight, even if he did hear them. One of Fëanáro's fingers presses in slowly, dry skin against dry skin, and he finds that it does carry the promise of pain if they go any farther, but it also makes the edges of his vision go white as the heat seems to press directly inside of him, trailing along everywhere Fëanáro touches. He thinks he makes a noise, does not know what, knows only that when Fëanáro pulls away, the sound he makes is a terrible thing, panicked and desperate and raw with desire. Fëanáro kisses him hard, licking the sound from his mouth before sliding down his body.

The first touch of Fëanáro’s tongue to his entrance, pressing inside of him, has him coming again, and Fëanáro takes immediate advantage of how loose his body goes after to press a finger back inside. He slides shaking fingers into Fëanáro’s hair and grips it tight, a pained moan pulled from him in response to Fëanáro's moan vibrating against him. Fëanáro works him open with far more patience than Ñolofinwë would have expected, circumstances considered, and he cannot comprehend it. Does not understand where Fëanáro is pulling such patience from, not until he pulls hard at Fëanáro's hair as he comes again and Fëanáro's body jerks as he does the same, moaning and sinking his teeth into the sensitive skin of Ñolofinwë's inner thigh before returning to his task eagerly. If he could form the thoughts to do so, he might have teased Fëanáro for enjoying the act of servicing that much. Though, if he were able to form thoughts, they likely would not even be in this situation to begin with. 

Fëanáro gets three fingers in, Ñolofinwë impatiently rocking back against them as he whines, before his brother's patience finally runs out. For all that Fëanáro has done a shockingly thorough job of opening him up, it is still equal parts pain and pleasure as Fëanáro's cock presses inside of him. Fëanáro tries to go slow, Ñolofinwë can tell he tries, panting against Ñolofinwë's shoulder as he presses in, but he makes it only halfway before Ñolofinwë inadvertently clenches around him, and Fëanáro groans, fucking the rest of the way in quick and hard. 

It all dissolves into blind heat again from there. Fëanáro fucking him hard and fast, him pulling Fëanáro into a desperate kiss that only half muffles the pained, needy sounds spilling out of him. Fëanáro goes still briefly as he comes, pressing his forehead to Ñolofinwë’s as he shakes, and for what feels like the first time since this started, their eyes fully meet. Fëanáro’s eyes are blown out with desire, two dark pools of greedy want waiting to swallow Ñolofinwë up, and he knows, he knows, that this will haunt him. That if only one thing is to stick with him, it will be the memory of having Fëanáro look at him with desire, as if he is no longer a hated half-brother, but someone his brother truly wants. 

The way is eased now that Fëanáro has spilled inside of him, and while it is still mildly uncomfortable, it is merely a footnote, all of Ñolofinwë’s attention given to how good it all feels. He does not know how long they spend wrapped up in the pleasure, wrapped up in each other, does not know how many times they come, how many times he says Fëanáro’s name as a plea. He knows that they are well into the mingling by the time they work enough of the pollen out of their system that they become aware of their bodies as more than just tools for pleasure. No matter that every touch is still overwhelming, it does not change that they are suddenly aware of how sore they are from the constant fucking, of how very sticky and disgusting they are, of how they have not eaten in so long Ñolofinwë’s stomach cramps with hunger the moment he remembers to be hungry. 

They have not yet worked enough of it out of their systems that Ñolofinwë can muster any care for who it is he’s fucking, only enough that he has remembered that he should care. But it is impossible to be bothered when all his mind wants to focus on is how to best fit their bodies back together. 

They drag themselves to the river and bathe, becoming distracted several times by the incessant need to be pressed together. By the time they drag themselves out of the frigid water they are clean but also shivering. They eat while pressed up against each other, thigh pressed to thigh, Fëanáro's mouth finding the bare skin of his shoulder every other bite, unable to resist the temptation. He runs his fingers up the inside of Fëanáro's thigh, thoughts blurring as he forces himself to finish his food. The longer they go without properly touching, the more it feels as if there is glass beneath his skin, pressing against it and begging to be allowed to cut its way out. It is easy to tell how they are still balanced on a knife's edge, the pleasure always ready to twist into pain if they do not continue touching.

He does not give Fëanáro the chance to push him back down once they have finished eating, instead twisting and placing himself in Fëanáro's lap, dragging him into a kiss that goes on forever. Ñolofinwë twists Fëanáro's hair around a fist and pulls his head back, hovering over him as Fëanáro's hands roam his body. They are both breathing heavily by the time Ñolofinwë pulls back to whisper, "My turn I believe." He pushes lightly at Fëanáro's shoulder, and even like this, even drugged and as desperate as Ñolofinwë himself is, Fëanáro hesitates.

He pushes once more, and this time Fëanáro goes, lying back against the blankets and staring up at Ñolofinwë with bright, expectant eyes, a challenge lingering in them. He strokes Fëanáro's cock slowly for a moment, watching entranced at the flush that works itself up Fëanáro's chest and neck, the way he tries to fuck up into Ñolofinwë's grip and groans in frustration when he cannot. His eyes never leave Ñolofinwë's face and it is a heady feeling to be the center of his brother's attention in such a way.

He reaches for the oil they had found in one of their packs when they went for food, forgotten about earlier in their delirious haze of pleasure, and slides down Fëanáro's body, intent on returning the earlier favor. He licks a stripe up Fëanáro's cock as he goes, an act that Fëanáro had evidently not anticipated, for he inhales sharply, his hips jerking as he chases the sensation. Ñolofinwë hums in interest and changes track, taking Fëanáro's cock into his mouth as he presses slick fingers to Fëanáro's entrance. He feels dizzy at the weight of Fëanáro's cock on his tongue, the hot clench of Fëanáro's body around his fingers, the sparks of pleasure-pain dancing through him where Fëanáro is gripping his hair brutally tight. He works Fëanáro open as slowly as he can, one finger after another as he swirls his tongue around Fëanáro’s cock and tries to take him deeper and deeper. He fails mostly, succeeding only in choking himself, but as this seems to please Fëanáro just as much, he does not overly mind. 

For all that Fëanáro had hesitated, had not seemed to want to give Ñolofinwë this even in their current state, he opens for Ñolofinwë beautifully. All blissed out moaning, and a body that eagerly presses down onto his fingers as he fucks them inside. Fëanáro spills down Ñolofinwë's throat twice, moaning his name in a way that nearly sends him over the edge as well. He wants to fuck Fëanáro terribly, but cannot bring himself to pull off of Fëanáro’s cock, feeling sick and feverish with how badly he wants both, wants Fëanáro in him and above him and around him and beneath him. He wants and is only half-sure it is a feeling fully induced by the pollen. 

Fëanáro finally loses patience and takes the choice from him, bodily hauling Ñolofinwë up and into a messy kiss. “If you do not get on with it,” he says fiercely, trying to sound angry but only sounding desperate. 

Ñolofinwë does not bother with slowness, could not even if he wished to. He presses inside of Fëanáro in one quick stroke and then has to take a moment to just breathe around the blinding pleasure, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as the searing pleasure carves through him. He loses track of time again, loses track of anything that is not Fëanáro's body arching up against his, Fëanáro's voice raised in pleasure, Fëanáro's eyes fixed on nothing but him. The world could begin breaking apart beneath them, and all Ñolofinwë would be able to see is Fëanáro beneath him, eyes wild with pleasure, mouth soft and bitten red.

At some point, Fëanáro drags him into a slow kiss that is at odds with the desperation still rippling through them both. The slow drag of their lips against each other, Fëanáro's tongue charting the inside of his mouth and twisting around his, turns the entire thing into something a little more tender, a little less forced upon them. They have both come enough times that Ñolofinwë can find the self-control to slow his thrusts, to rearrange them so that Fëanáro is sitting in his lap, slowly riding him as he fists Fëanáro's cock. They do not stop kissing. Ñolofinwë is not sure he will ever want to stop kissing Fëanáro, even when the pollen is purged fully from his system, he is not sure he will want to tear himself away.

What a horrifying thought, to think that this could have irreversibly burnt itself into the whorls of his fingerprints, become a part of his body, ripped open a hunger that would have been better left undiscovered. How terrifying, to think that he will blink his eyes open eventually, body fully his own, and look at his brother and still want him so desperately. 

Fëanáro shakes apart in his lap once more, lashes dark against his skin as his eyes flutter shut, and Ñolofinwë pulls him in closer, presses a kiss to the corner of each eye. Fëanáro stares, eyes half-lidded and still dark with desire but holding a spark of clarity to them that had been lacking. He does not say anything though, does not call Ñolofinwë out for the gentleness that has no place here. Fëanáro only kisses him again, pressing him back onto the blankets. They are barely even fucking at this point, their bodies exhausted despite the desire still running beneath their skin. They only kiss slowly for a long while, Fëanáro absently grinding down onto his cock when the heat tries to blaze out of control again. 

When their movements have slowed to nothing but lazy kisses and soft nuzzling Fëanáro lies down, curling around him. The idea of no longer touching still cuts through them, but it is no longer a violent need, only a persistent yearning that demands to be acknowledged. Fëanáro reaches for the oil, working Ñolofinwë open fully, so that there is no pain at all when he finally fucks up into Ñolofinwë's pliant body. He fucks in a few times, humming with pleasure against Ñolofinwë's skin, and then falls still. They are wound close enough together like this that the heat ebbs and allows them to still. Ñolofinwë is so tired, body aching, and Fëanáro is so warm pressed against him, inside of him, a comforting weight that causes his mind to go quiet and still. Still, it is shocking how easy it is to fall asleep, how easy it is to sink into the feeling of Fëanáro surrounding him and let everything else fall away.

It is too easy.

He might remember to be scared of that soon.  

☀︎

Ñolofinwë wakes to a warm body pressed flush against his, the blankets tugged tight around them to block out the cool morning air, and gentle fingers slowly roaming his body. Everywhere they touch a pleasant tingling follows, and Ñolofinwë hums quietly, pressing back against the body, into the touch.

The pollen has mostly worn off, he thinks absently, relieved, and then clarity strikes him of who it is behind him, who it is touching him. He should pull away. He knows he should pull away. The pollen has worked its way out of their system enough that they no longer must be touching; it will linger as a quiet itch beneath his skin for a while longer before quietly dissipating. But— Fëanáro must feel much the same, and yet, he is still touching Ñolofinwë.

His brother is still touching him, fingers strangely gentle, mouth a warm brand against his shoulder, and Ñolofinwë does not pull away. He does not know how he could rightly be expected to pull away. He is so used to any attention from Fëanáro being a knife against his throat, another barb waiting to be sunk beneath his skin, and it is not that he does not grant the same in return, but to have Fëanáro now being gentle — he cannot pull away. 

Fëanáro kisses the curve of his shoulder, and Ñolofinwë tips his head back onto Fëanáro's shoulder as he slowly kisses a path up Ñolofinwë's neck, the curve of his jaw. Fëanáro raises himself just slightly, sliding his fingers into Ñolofinwë's hair and tilting his face to the side, pulling him into a long, slow kiss. It is different without the pollen driving them, without the fever-heat leaving everything blurred; absurdly soft, quiet like a slow song at the end of a long night. He sighs into it, reaching up and pressing his fingers to Fëanáro's throat, his racing pulse.

“Tell me,” Fëanáro says softly when he pulls back, “do you need to pretend that this is still the pollen compelling you, or will you give me this freely?” 

He laughs, cannot help it. "I do not think asking me that is a very good way to allow me to pretend such a thing." He pulls Fëanáro into another kiss before he has a chance to frown. "Keep touching me like this, speaking in such a way, and I will give you anything you want, Fëanáro." It is too honest. It is a truth that he should not allow to exist. He knows well though, how to deny his brother when it is harsh demands and uncompromising ultimatums, knows how to dig his heels in and demand compromise regardless. He does not know how to resist Fëanáro when he is gentle and touching Ñolofinwë as if he is still someone that his brother wants. 

“Anything I want,” Fëanáro repeats slowly, watching him strangely. “That is a very large promise, Ñolofinwë, when you do not know what it is I want.” 

“What is it that you want then?” 

Fëanáro hesitates, studying him for a while, fingers still absently trailing across his skin. “For now, only your body freely given without compulsion,” he says finally, leaning down to steal another kiss. 

It is so, so easy to melt into it, to open his mouth and let his brother take whatever he wants. “I find that it is strangely easy for me to give you that,” he says, shivering as Fëanáro wraps a hand around his cock. 

"Good," Fëanáro murmurs, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Give me what I want, and perhaps later, when we finally speak of more serious matters, I will be able to listen to you without only hearing more betrayal."

Ñolofinwë is half-tempted to turn that into a fight, is sure it will turn into a fight later on, but in the moment he only sighs and pulls Fëanáro’s body on top of his own. “You are infuriating,” he tells Fëanáro. “It is lucky for you that you are so good with your mouth.” 

Fëanáro flashes him a wicked smile, and it is so genuine in its humor, no mocking or insult behind it, that Ñolofinwë forgets how to speak. This is dangerous, his mind whispers, he will lead you to destruction, this cannot end well. And he knows, oh, he knows. What has his brother ever been but cliff rocks to break himself against? He knows. 

He still pulls Fëanáro in, kisses his smart mouth, and gives his own body over completely. Destruction it may well be in the end, but better perhaps, to face destruction at his brother’s side, than to face it by his brother’s hand. 

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

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