Inhalation by gaydhros  

A crescent moon hangs suspended over Barad Eithel. The sole source of light amidst a vast expanse of starless black, it casts the wide lands into strange and furtive shadow. Everything is utterly still. No breeze moves to stir the dense leaves unfurling upon the branches of mighty oaks, nor the sparse grasses that line the sands of ruined Anfauglith; even Yavanna's beloved creatures of the night, her frogs and her toads and her owls, have gone silent. All the world seems to hold its breath. Yet behind the stone walls of the fortress, safe within the chambers of the High King, Fingon is chattering on about something ridiculous with an easy smile on his face while Maedhros, half-listening, trails idle fingers over the bare skin of his waist.

They should be sleeping. At first light Maedhros will depart— earlier, if he hopes to reach his eastern forces at the appointed time— and it is already so terribly late, the hours slipping away from them as Tilion follows his appointed path across the heavens into the West. They each have much they must attend to over the coming days, preparations to oversee as their Union, many years now in the making, prepares at last to strike.

But how could they ever think to sleep on a night such as this? Their hours together are already so short, and in these days of encroaching darkness they only grow shorter. Tonight Fingon’s bed is warm, and Fingon is also, and Maedhros is loath to close his eyes even long enough to blink.

Fingon is restless. He always is before battle, shimmering with frenetic energy seeking any outlet it can find. So he talks and he talks, rambling on about nothing all that important, and Maedhros lets him. There is very little Maedhros need say in return; little he can say that Fingon has not said already, and even less that his body cannot say for him far better than his words ever could. A skilled orator Maedhros may be, but verbalizing honesty, tenderness, the wretched vulnerability of fear— these things come far more easily to Fingon than to him. Perhaps things were different, once, in the West. Much was different in the West. But Maedhros does not make a habit of dwelling on things he cannot change.

He lets Fingon talk at him about something carefully meaningless, and he strokes his hand down Fingon’s flank to feel his lungs expand with every breath, and with the brush of his fingertips over warm, sweat-tacky skin, Maedhros tells him I love you.

Fingon’s eyes on him are bright and endlessly warm. He squirms away from the ticklish touch with shining laugher and catches Maedhros’ hand in his own, brings it to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. When he reaches out to find the curve of Maedhros' jaw, the quiet turn of Maedhros’ cheek into his sword-calloused palm promises we can win, before the press of his lips whispers and even if we can’t, we must.

Eventually Fingon’s restlessness boils over. He rolls overtop Maedhros, eyes dark, and urges him down into the sheets. His hot mouth descends to take all that Maedhros offers. He bends Maedhros nearly in half, presses handprint bruises into the backs of his thighs, and when he finds once more his home inside Maedhros’ body the answering arch of Maedhros’ spine swears it’s only with you that I remember who I am, and the groan that tears itself from his throat begs Eru, keep him safe, and his fierce hold on Fingon’s right shoulder, brutal and unyielding, pleads if either of us is to die in this land, let it be me.

Fingon pins him down and takes him for his own, claims him with an urgency that leaves Maedhros gasping out and clinging to him without breath. Please, Maedhros thinks, desperately, urging Fingon closer and tipping back his head to let him bury his face in the curve of his throat. Please, let it be me.

Chapter End Notes

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