rotten seed, rotten bloom by queerofthedagger  

In truth, Fëanáro is unsurprised when the door to his rooms is pushed open, long after the rest of the palace has gone to sleep. Is not sure that he could claim coincidence for still being awake, without being made a liar himself.

Regardless, he leans back in his chair and raises a brow at Nolofinwë, because, well—

What else is there left to say?

“You are still up,” Nolofinwë says, eyes sweeping the room before landing back on Fëanáro.

Rising from the desk, he watches where Nolofinwë stands just inside the door. His face is carefully blank, his braids neat and untouched. Fëanáro’s fingers itch.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, because he likes to see Nolofinwë wince. Because a part of him wishes for an answer other than the truth. Because it makes the air go out of the room, and Nolofinwë’s eyes darken.

“Náro…“

Crossing the distance between them, Fëanáro invades his brother’s space; pushes his fingers into his hair, and watches as the braids come loose, gems and pearls Fëanáro had put there himself, running like water through his fingers.

“Does your lovely bride-to-be not demand your company?” He pulls Nolofinwë’s head back, forces him to look at Fëanáro; catalogues the way his eyes darken and narrow, desire and insult and, beneath all that, something almost unguarded burning bright.

The tension brims, lingers. At last, Nolofinwë sighs, and sways against Fëanáro. “You know why I am here. It is—I wanted to see you. One last time, like this. Do you not…”

Words die out once more, but Fëanáro hears the question, all the same. Hears the plea, that demand for an assurance neither of them can give, has ever given.

It has been years of this—of pressing in close, decidedly not like a brother. Of kissing Nolofinwë, with teeth and tongue and an ever-insatiable hunger that only seems to grow. Of pushing his thigh between Nolofinwë’s legs, pinning him to the door, and forgetting, briefly, briefly, the numerous reasons why they were running on borrowed time—a cataclysm, waiting to happen.

Of orchestrating whatever it is that they are doing into the routine of a careful dance—teeth that draw blood with the same mouth that bestows tenderness; hands that leave bruises, as much as they bring pleasures. Words that, ever since the beginning, edge each other on—to fury, to hubris, to illicit meetings in darkened rooms that neither of them could refrain from, once they started.

With firm hands on Fëanáro’s hips, Nolofinwë pushes him away. His cheeks are flushed, and there is a light in his eyes that says he will not be so easily distracted. That he knows what Fëanáro is doing, and in a wild, nigh-hysterical moment, Fëanáro thinks that perhaps, that is a good thing. It is more than can be said for himself,

“Náro,” Nolofinwë says again, his voice heavy. “I will be wed tomorrow.”

Despite himself, Fëanáro’s jaw clenches, his fingers flexing. “I am well aware. The preparations are hard to miss. So was the invitation, and half of Tirion talking about it, and my father’s—“

“Náro.” A third time, and now Nolofinwë sounds truly irritated, the stern furrow between his brows forming that ever Fëanáro has been most skilled at drawing forth; that most often, to his delight, prefaces a thunderstorm. “This will be our last—we must stop. We must stop doing this. Can you not—“

Fëanáro knows what Nolofinwë is asking. Knows that what they have both long since feigned to ignore is split wide open between them, and that it is only wilful pretence that lets them continue to act like this means nought. That this is a game, a pushing of boundaries, a mixing of fighting and pleasure, at whose end they still cannot stand each other any more than at the beginning of it.

But how to admit that he considers a brother whom he fucks behind closed doors? How to admit that he fucks his brother, and it is not mere need to prove something of which he has long since lost sight? How to admit—

“Can I not what?” he asks, at last. “What do you want me to say, Nolvo—oh no, brother, please do not wed, so that we may continue our ill-advised perversion behind closed doors? Do you want me to fuck you slow and gentle, tell you that it has always been you? That I will ruin your wedding and leave my wife, so we may run away to live life—“

Nolofinwë reverses their positions with such force that Fëanáro is slammed into the wood panelling, all air punched out of his lungs. This is more like it; this is how they began, what they know; what is, in the end, all they ever ought to be to each other—Nolofinwë’s features contorted in fury and hurt, Fëanáro baring his teeth like he is just waiting to cause more of the same.

They stay there for a moment, both breathing harshly, a precipice that is only waiting for them to fall.

Nolofinwë exhales in a rush, but the grip he has on the front of Fëanáro’s tunic does not lessen. When he meets Fëanáro’s eyes, defiance burns bright and vicious in the sea-grey of his own. “Pretend all you like, but we both know—it was not nothing. It is not right, and we need to stop, but it is not nothing.”

With a sigh, Fëanáro pushes his fingers back into Nolofinwë’s hair; traces his jaw, down his throat, along the collar of his already disarrayed robes. He does not speak. Only memorises the sharp lines, the dip of Nolofinwë’s collar bone, the way he unravels so easily beneath Fëanáro’s touch.

Or he used to. Now, he keeps watching Fëanáro, his eyes dark. Takes the silence, the lack of denial and acquiescence both, and looks on as if he can see right through all that Fëanáro is not saying.

At last, he sighs. Stills Fëanáro’s hand and smiles as if he had received an answer, all the same. There is no joy in it, edges brittle and serrated. His voice sounds much the same when he says, “I will perform the ritual tomorrow, before the ceremony. It is for the best.”

Fëanáro inhales sharply. The cleansing ritual, usually a rite particularly preferred by the Vanyar—on paper, a lot of incense and smoke, purifying bride and groom before their holy union with prayer and goodwill. In practice, it certainly purifies; strips memories and marks of past transgressions that may have occurred outside of sacred matrimony, locking them away as if anything past could only ever mean lesser.

If such past transgressions had occurred, it is said to be painful; a stoic endurance a sign of commitment to the spouse-to-be.

Finwë, for obvious reasons, had been the first to refuse the ritual. Fëanáro, on a matter of principle, had followed his example. Nowadays, the strict custom has loosened among the Noldor; leave it to Nolofinwë, ever utilitarian and tenacious, to set his mind to it.

“You do not need—“

“I do,” Nolofinwë cuts him off, steel glinting in his voice. “This cannot continue. This should not have continued, for as long as it did—and yet, neither you nor I have ever successfully stopped. It should not be, Fëanáro, you said it yourself. This is the best solution.”

Unmistakable, beneath the conviction of Nolofinwë’s words, burns the fire of their house. Burns his pride, his desire to be set apart from Fëanáro and Finwë both, his never-flinching sense of duty. It is a personal decision as much as it is a principled one, is both a defeat and a victory. There is no convincing him now, no argument or reason that could bring him to change his mind.

Fëanáro sees it for the inevitable conclusion that it is—Nolofinwë had asked him, had offered one last opening that they both knew they could not take. Fëanáro had refused as he must, and so, Nolofinwë had no other choice left. It was as neat a construction as any, to not break upon the contradictions of their desire.

With a snarl, he kisses Nolofinwë—too much force, teeth clashing, Nolofinwë pushing up against him as if even pressed together like this, it is not possibly close enough. As if, even if they were to crawl beneath skin and bones, make a home in the other’s ribs in self-imposed delivery, the distance of matter would still be one obstruction too many. Their hands tear at clothing until they find skin, Fëanáro’s nails burying into flesh, closer, closer, closer, as if the violence of it may supplant what neither of them can, what neither of them should say.

Arda Marred, the Valar call this world, a title falling every so often to explain what stains the untainted smokescreen of Valinor’s scriptures. Ritual to cleanse past transgressions whose existence is a contradiction to what laws state as natural order; impossible deaths that require verdicts when, despite all supposed impossibility, death comes knocking; brothers who are not brothers, with desire so sharp between them it belies the piousness of such a thing. Ever, it seems, a gap between what should, and what is. Ever, it seems, what is marred burrows its seeds in the gardens of his father’s impudence; ever, it seems, it is Fëanáro who is meant to swallow the rotten blooms.

Arda Marred—blame cast and dismissed, an answer ever simple but without any substance. Fëanáro bites Nolofinwë’s lips until copper bursts across his tongue, and lets the rot take root in the cavern of his chest anew.

“On the bed,” Nolofinwë says, his breath short. His eyes are blown wide, and his hands, too, have forgotten their gentleness, their restraint and reason, as he tears at Fëanáro’s robes until the fastenings loosen, the buttons snap. They stumble through the room, discarding clothing as they go, until Fëanáro can push him down to the bed, wrists above Nolofinwë’s head, his back bowed beautifully, and Fëanáro atop of him as if they were meant to fit like this.

“Stay like this,” Fëanáro orders. He wraps a hand around Nolofinwë’s cock, already hard; watches, too hot in his own skin, as Nolofinwë does as he is told, as his eyes flutter, as he writhes on the sheets with every swipe of Fëanáro’s thumb over the head of his cock.

He runs his free hand up Nolofinwë’s ribs, catalogues the quiver of his muscles; traces his nipples until they stand up, then keeps playing with them until Nolofinwë whines, sounds like confessions dragged from the back of his throat.

He is a sight like this, and Fëanáro could lose himself if he allowed it—their bodies dragging against each other, all sensation and sound, none of the world outside encroaching onto this sacrilegious pleasure of theirs. Could keep Nolofinwë in his bed for days and never tire of him, of dragging sounds from him that outside, his proud brother would never dare to utter. How Nolofinwë is his, in these stolen hours; how, come morning, he no longer will be.

Leaning forward, Fëanáro kisses him again, licking into his mouth until Nolofinwë is shivering beneath him, both of them rocking against each other.

“Náro,” Nolofinwë breathes, and oh, such a different cadence to it now, all earlier severity stripped away in favour of this—skin and flesh, no more words but all honesty, this irreverent moment where none of Aman’s strict constraints can keep their hold on them—no past, no family history, neither of their futures on the line.

With a sigh, Fëanáro sits back between Nolofinwë’s legs and grabs the oil from the nightstand. Watches closely as he sinks two fingers into his brother’s body, and finds himself watched in return—Nolofinwë shivering on the white sheets, his mouth red and obscene where he sinks his teeth into it to keep from making too much noise.

It kindles something beneath Fëanáro’s breastbone, and he adds a third finger, too soon; moves them in and out, committing every shiver, every grudging noise to memory until he is certain that nothing, nothing will be able to extricate this from his mind again.

“Come on,” Nolofinwë gets out, his voice rough. His eyes are bright where he holds Fëanáro’s gaze, a dare even as he stays as Fëanáro had arranged him. “It is enough, Fëanáro; just fuck me already.”

With a snarl, Fëanáro hooks his arms beneath Nolofinwë’s legs and drags him close; kisses him, one hand wrapping loosely around his cock once more until he knows, until he can taste how close to begging Nolofinwë is, and then withdraws. “Turn around.”

Dazed, Nolofinwë blinks at him. Frowns. “I would—“ he starts, and Fëanáro knows what he is about to say, to ask; knows that he cannot let him speak because he is not certain what he will agree to, emotions usually so carefully contained wreaking havoc within his chest.

“On your stomach,” he repeats, and does not wait for Nolofinwë to comply before he grabs his hips and flips him. Presses one hand to Nolofinwë’s neck to keep him there, the silk of Nolofinwë’s hair wrapping beautifully around his fist.

He does not want to think what might be splayed across his face, once he forgets to control his expression; does not want to think what he might find on Nolofinwë’s, if he were to look.

“Brute,” Nolofinwë laughs, his voice muffled by the pillows. The strange familiar tenderness of it makes Fëanáro clench his jaw; makes him settle between Nolofinwë’s legs, free hand to his hip, and then push into him with one rough stroke that makes Nolofinwë curse and thrash, his breath coming in harsh pants between the broken syllables.

Fëanáro does not give him time to recover; takes his hands and pins them to the sides of his head once more, and then rolls his hips—pulls out almost all the way and then slams back into him, his vision going white at the edges, his skin prickling. Nolofinwë moans, the noise like punched from him, and Fëanáro does it again, again, again. Bows over him low, sinks his teeth into Nolofinwë’s virgin-white neck—anything, anything to leave a mark. To burrow himself so deeply within Nolofinwë’s flesh that no ritual, no Valar-decreed magic, no expectation or law or self-imposed sanctimony will scrub him from beneath his brother’s skin. Nolofinwë may choose to forget him, but this, this fact of the primordial stain, will always exist; Fëanáro, at least, will always know that it once did.

Nolofinwë meets him for every thrust as if a part of him is desperate for the very same; pushes back, fingers clenching like brands around Fëanáro’s hands, and says, over and over, “More, Náro, come on, I need—“

Fëanáro pulls him up, back to chest, their bodies feverish with sweat and want. Wraps an arm around Nolofinwë’s chest, a hand around his cock, and fucks him roughly until he is a shuddering thing, mindless and animal with want. Until he chants Fëanáro’s name like it is the only thing to ever make a home within his mouth, and spills hot and white all over Fëanáro’s hand.

He slumps against Fëanáro in the aftermath, but Fëanáro does not stop; lays him back down, one hand between the well-wrought shoulders, and keeps fucking him until his own release shuts down his mind, blissful moments during which there is only this—the body beneath him, familiar and beloved; his name on Nolofinwë’s tongue, pliant and seeking, vowels caressed like an oath. His pleasure cresting, breaking, nothing to stain the moment—just heat, and want, and the uncomplicated unravelling of both.

It lasts, as ever, not nearly long enough. He collapses beside Nolofinwë and catches his breath, eyes fixed on the ceiling as, already, his mind is returning to the endless turn of questions and facts, of the reality they have so recklessly wrought for themselves.

With a low sigh, Nolofinwë shifts beside him. Turns until he lies to face Fëanáro, his forehead resting against Fëanáro’s shoulder.

They do not speak. Outside, Telperion begins to wane, night retracting its fingers. Tomorrow, tomorrow—

“May I ask one thing of you?” Nolofinwë asks, at last, breaking the silence of the room. His voice is less like that of one seeking a favour, and more like someone putting down a verdict.

Fëanáro, very carefully, does not tense. “You may certainly ask whatever you like.”

A huff, exasperation threaded with fondness. Nolofinwë shifts until he can look at Fëanáro, the weight of his gaze a tangible thing.

“You will not admit that this—meant something, in whatever capacity that is true. Perhaps it did not, to you; by now, it hardly matters.”

Words crowd against the back of Fëanáro’s teeth. He swallows them down. Stays silent. Keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and ignores the sigh that Nolofinwë lets escape. He does not think of Anairë, bedecked in perfect white.

“The ritual is one meant to be done on one’s wedding day. The magic of it, though, is independent of such traditions. You must have heard of it, surely.”

Of course, Fëanáro had—a tool to shut off certain parts of one’s memories. It is not often used, little in Aman that people consider upsetting enough to warrant such a violation, but it is not unheard of. Those who partook in the Great March; those who transgressed in different ways.

Those who had advised Finwë of such a thing, when the grief did not leave him, or his sole son.

He wants to be furious. For Nolofinwë to request such a thing, from him of all people—

But then, what point to it; perhaps it meant nothing, to you. If it did not, what cost to him to lay such memories to rest? And is it not a clever thought? Is it not a liability for Finwë’s second son to have his half-brother loose in Aman, with memories so incriminating of the two of them, that he himself no longer owns?

“Ask, if you must, Nolofinwë,” Fëanáro says, his voice level. He still does not look at his brother.

“I will not ask anything else of you,” Nolofinwë says, and he curls his fingers around Fëanáro’s wrist, a familiar gesture. “Just—will you do as I do? Lay this to rest, move on; forget that this ever was—whatever it was to you.”

“Do you think I will use it against you, if—“

“No,” Nolofinwë cuts in, and there is a note of insult to his voice that makes Fëanáro almost, almost believe him. “No such thing. You said it meant nought, and perhaps it did not. And yet, it grieves me to think of you carrying this forth alone, that all these years shall be yours to remember alone.”

With some effort, Fëanáro laughs. “How very selfless of you.”

“Náro—“

“If it bothers you so, why not retain your own memories? Surely, you do not think your self-restraint so poor as that erasing our indiscretions from your mind is the only way to lead a faithful marriage.”

Against his wrist, Nolofinwë’s fingers flex. The silence drags. His voice, when at last he speaks, is a bitter thing. “I force you not to speak truths you do not want to speak. So let me keep mine, and merely answer me—is this not the one thing you will do for me? I ask nought else; shall ask nought else of you, come tomorrow.”

Against Nolofinwë’s fingers, Fëanáro feels his own pulse. The cracks in the ceiling are familiar, even in the dimness before the mingling. Outside the window, the preparations for the royal wedding are nigh complete.

Inside, his brother breathes, shallow and tense, against Fëanáro’s shoulder.

He closes his eyes. “If you ask it of me, I will do it,” he lies, and forces a smile at the relief that rattles through Nolofinwë’s lungs.

“Thank you,” Nolofinwë murmurs, after a moment too long. He settles back down, his forehead to Fëanáro’s shoulder once more, and tangles their fingers—as if such a promise, now that it is spoken, eroded whatever careful barriers they had kept between them.

Fëanáro lets him. Does not turn onto his side; does not pull Nolofinwë close; does not think how this, come morning, will be the first insurmountable betrayal between them.

And yet. There is no other answer he could give. No other course he could take.

Nolofinwë may forget him, may relegate Fëanáro and their depraved blasphemy to a corner of his mind that, come tomorrow, shall remain untouched. May marry his holy wife, beget children, pursue their father’s throne. He may return to indifference and loathing of Fëanáro, and construct a rivalry that, ever, now, will keep them at a distance, all ambitious calculation, all carefully curated apathy.

Fëanáro will know, though. Will know he had left indelible marks upon his brother’s body, had sunk his teeth into the unblemished skin as the first one, had wrought noises from him that he shall not ever make again.

Fëanáro will know. He will remember, will meet Nolofinwë over each cast gauntlet, each unspoken challenge, each manifestation of indomitable ambition, and remember how, once, he belonged to Fëanáro. He presses his teeth to his brother’s tender wrist, and swallows the bitterness of such a truth like a secret to be kept beneath his tongue.

Come morning, Fëanáro wakes alone.

He lets his servants attend to him. He breaks his fast with his father. He meets Nerdanel and his children when they arrive in Tirion.

He notes and lets pass the time and place Nolofinwë had given him to meet the so-called healers. He dresses for the wedding, and inclines his head when his father smiles with pleasure at his deference.

He stands tall and blank-faced as the ceremony progresses. Watches as Nolofinwë speaks his vows; as Anairë answers.

He meets his brother’s eyes when he turns toward the crowd, and finds no recognition beyond the surface there, no spark of warmth, no dare.

From the rotten seed, the first shoot of bitterness unfurls.

Chapter End Notes

Look, do i think Fëanor is perfectly capable of doing All That @ canon with just the reasons we're give? Yeah sure 100%. Do I think the idea of there being some fucked up past between him and Fingolfin that only he is aware of and that is fuelling a lot of that resentment, animosity, etc. is incredibly fun to poke at? Good god yes. I'm very carefully not thinking about how this would all shake out down the line.

Alternatively: Dick so good it planted that first seed of Fëanor's rebellion. We've all been there buddy, twenty layers of repression and all; tough luck it was your brother or whatever.

Also, yes, Fëanor is a bit of a hypocrite, considering he's married already. How dare Fingolfin consider marrying someone though. Obviously. (Also I have very carefully not touched any of that re: Nerdanel. I think he could rationalize this to himself as some weird-ass not-infidelity because he's fucking a dude who is his brother where it clearly means nothing a la ancient Rome "as long as you don't bottom it's not gay dude I promise", but also man, what do I know. What does he know. Let's all hold hands and not think about any of that too hard.)

Anyway!! I did have an absolute blast writing this, so thank you for reading! You can also find me on Tumblr <3

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