Courage of the Trembling Tongue by StarSpray  

Courage of the Trembling Tongue

Passing headlights sweep across the wall, yellow and striped through the blinds. In the distance a siren wails, and in the dark, quiet hotel room they lie facing each other, each curled toward the other like parentheses, with thousands of years of history tucked between them. Daeron is tired. He long ago stopped counting the years, stopped counting these encounters—whether they end in tears or in blows or in bed. All he really knows is that they end, just like everything else, and he is tired. 

Maglor reaches out to brush strands of hair away from his forehead. Daeron still wears it long; Maglor’s is different every time they see each other, curled or straight or in today’s case, long and dyed a bright rainbow of colors. “I missed you,” Maglor whispers. “Where are you going next?”

“I don’t know.” 

There’s a hesitation. Then, Maglor says, “What if you came home with me?”

Daeron catches his hand, laces their fingers together. Someone is playing music in a nearby room, just loud enough that the strains of a waltz are recognizable. He’s so tired, and he wants. “Do you have one of those?”

“Well—no. But we could make one.”