Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

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Chapter 12

A conversation, centuries overdue, is had at last.

Content warnings for this chapter: Explicit sexual content

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The revelry lasted long into the night.

In the end, it was not nearly so unbearable as Fingon had feared. There was good food and good music and, for the most part, good company. He endured many a tedious conversation, and forced a great deal of polite laughter, but as the hours lengthened and the drink flowed freely, true laughter began to come with ease. When the dancing began, Fingon let Finrod drag him out onto the floor.

He liked this, he soon remembered. He liked parties and people and dancing. In spite of the day’s exhaustion Fingon felt alive, and his blood was hot in his veins.

As the music grew more lively Fingon danced with countless partners, so many they all began to blur together, as many as he could possibly get his hands on, so that by the time he came upon Maedhros in conversation with his brother it was nothing at all to take him by the arm and whisk him away, leaving Curufin startled and suddenly alone.

Maedhros yelped, his hair whirling through the air as Fingon dragged him immediately into a spin. An exasperated smile split Maedhros’ face. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his hand coming up to clutch Fingon’s shoulder as he allowed Fingon to take the lead.

Fingon, who had been fully expecting Maedhros to slip his hold almost immediately, could have wept for delight. Maedhros was here. Maedhros was letting Fingon dance with him in front of everyone. Maedhros loved him, and they were going to talk as soon as the night was over, and all was going to be well.

“Yes, actually.” Fingon’s cheeks ached from smiling. “I rather am.”

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With the coming of the early hours of the morning, the festivities began to wind down. It was around this time that Maedhros made a silent exit, but Fingon was trapped in a conversation with several of Finrod’s lords and did not manage to escape until nearly an hour later, shortly after the three o’clock bell. Upon trudging back to his apartments, he found Gwánthon awaiting him just outside his door.

“You’re still up!” Fingon exclaimed. “You must be exhausted.”

“Not nearly as exhausted as you must be, Lord,” said Gwánthon. “I wanted to see that you were well before I took my leave.”

“I am, yes,” Fingon assured him. He wanted nothing more than to escape this conversation as quickly as possible.

“Is there anything that you require? Tea?”

“No,” Fingon answered too quickly, and then immediately felt a little bit guilty. He put a firm hand on his esquire’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, Gwánthon, for your support today. It meant a great deal.”

“It was my pleasure, Lord,” Gwánthon smiled bashfully. “If there is nothing more that you need, then I shall allow you to retire.”

“Goodnight, Gwánthon.”

“Goodnight, my King.” Gwánthon only made it a few steps down the corridor before he turned back around to say, “Oh, and your cousin awaits you in your chambers.”

“Yes,” said Fingon, smiling. “I was expecting him. Now go and rest.”

With a soft chuckle Gwánthon did as he was bid, and his footsteps receded down the corridor. Finally, after one of the longer days of Fingon’s very long life, he let himself into his apartments.

Maedhros looked up at him from the couch. He was lying on his back with his legs outstretched, a book held open above him. He had not changed out of his formalwear, but his sleeves had been rolled up, and his collar loosened a little.

“Made yourself comfortable, I see.” Fingon slid the latch into place.

Maedhros raised his eyebrows. “Is it the will of my King that I be in discomfort?”

“It is the will of your King that you take your boots off my couch.”

Maedhros snorted and sat up. He laid his book down on the table. When he opened his arms, Fingon fell into them gratefully. He let Maedhros embrace him for a moment, but the position was awkward and uncomfortable, and it had knocked his crown askew. Fingon groaned and sat up. Just as Maedhros had set the crown upon his head hours earlier, he lifted its weight from him now and set it aside.

“You made it through,” he said, readjusting to give Fingon room to lean into him properly. Fingon did so without hesitation, resting his head on Maedhros' chest. “How are you feeling?”

“Mm,” Fingon hummed. “Tired.”

Maedhros’ low chuckle resonated underneath Fingon’s cheek. “Unsurprising. Anything besides tired?”

“Hopeful,” said Fingon after a moment. “Moreso than I was, at least.”

Quietly, Maedhros kissed his hair. “I am glad to hear it.”

“And you?”

“It was good to see you happy,” said Maedhros, after a long silence.

It was not the answer Fingon had been looking for. “Are your brothers well?” he asked, changing the subject. While Fingon had made a point of speaking publicly to all seven of Fëanor’s sons throughout the evening, in most cases it had only been for precisely as long as was necessary.

“They’re fine,” scoffed Maedhros. “They’re miserable company. This week has brought a lot of old arguments back to the surface, which is always pleasant.”

“They still blame you for abdicating.”

“Well, yes. Which means they blame you. Usurper of my heart and all that.”

“Usurper of your heart!” Fingon exclaimed, propping himself up to sit. “I haven’t heard that one.”

“Did you not know? You seduced and beguiled me into giving over both my heart and my crown.”

“Surely they don’t actually think that.”

“No,” Maedhros granted after a moment. “But it is easier to pretend they do than it is to accept that the decision I made was the right one, even if it would have made our father so furious he’d have struck me down on the spot for even suggesting it were he alive to do so.”

Fingon offered him a wry smile. “Then he should not have died and left the choice up to you.”

“You know, Káno said something very much like that to Curvo, once.”

“That must have gone over well.”

“Yes, he won himself a lovely black eye for his troubles.”

Maedhros was smiling, but there was a deep bitterness just below his surface. It could not have been easy, shouldering so much blame. Still, at least Maedhros’ siblings yet lived. At least he knew where they were.

It seemed Maedhros was having the same thought. “I am sorry that Turgon and Aredhel were not here.”

Resentment rose in Fingon’s throat like bile. “I care not,” he lied. “They have made their priorities clear enough; I don’t wish to dwell on it. What I truly wish…” He broke off with a hollow laugh. “It is a ridiculous thing to say. But all day long I have been wishing that my father were here.”

Maedhros smiled sadly. “I don’t think that’s ridiculous.”

“Is it not?” said Fingon. “If my father were here none of this would be happening. There would be no coronation. The crown would rest upon his head and not mine. It’s irrational.”

“Irrational is not the same thing as ridiculous,” Maedhros pointed out, which was an annoyingly rational point. “Grief is irrational, and yet it demands to be felt.”

“I suppose so,” said Fingon. And then, after a moment of gathering his resolve, “It is a lot like love in that way.”

Something in Maedhros both softened and grew wary. “Finno,” he began, in that tone that meant he knew best about everything and was about to tell Fingon exactly how wrong he was.

“No, I am speaking first.” Fingon left no room for discussion on the matter. When Maedhros pursed his lips but made no acknowledgment, Fingon said, “Yes?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

Fingon swallowed. His stomach was suddenly in knots, twisted up with trepidation and anticipation and the thrill of daring to hope.

“Love,” he said, “is not rational. Yet like grief, it demands to be felt. I should not love you as I do. I know this. It is irrational, after all the ways we have hurt one another and everything that should have torn us apart, that I would love you still. Yet even when I have hated you, even when I have been so furious with you I could not imagine ever finding it in myself to forgive you, the pull of my heart has never once changed. It has only ever belonged to you, even against my better judgment. Do you feel the same?”

“Yes." It sounded like it pained Maedhros to admit it. “But that doesn’t mean anything, Finno. Not really.”

Stung, Fingon said, “How can it not mean anything?”

“I love you because I cannot bear not to.” Maedhros explained it like Fingon was a child, too young and bright-eyed yet to understand the truths of the world. “And because I am too selfish to deny myself your love for as long as it is given to me. But you are good, Findekáno— you are good in a way I can never hope to be. I am bound to my father’s Oath before anything else; before life, before love, before even you. That will not change. You have already stained your soul for my sake far more than I should have let you. To do as you ask would be to ruin you for anyone else for the rest of time, and that I will not do.”

For a moment, Fingon was so furious he could not speak. “I don’t want anyone else! Were you listening? Do not flatter yourself to think that all that I have ever done has been for your sake. I have made my choices, and I have lived with them. Any stains on my soul are my own doing.”

“Alqualondë—”

“You did not force me to draw my sword, nor did you force me to go into exile. You assume I followed you and you alone? My heart may be yours, Maedhros, but I am still a person in my own right. You would seek to deny me both my heart’s desire and my agency in the same breath.”

“And yet there was a time you would have stayed forever in Aman if only I said the word.” Maedhros’ eyes were full of barely-restrained anger. “You would have given up everything, you would have run from your family and had me run from mine.”

Fingon’s throat burned with shame, even now. “I was naive,” he granted. “I know now that it would not have changed anything.”

“So you admit that I was right to deny you.”

“No,” Fingon snapped, “that is not what I said. I was naive to believe that us marrying would have solved anything or changed what was to come. That does not mean I was wrong to want it, or that you were right to deny it.”

Maedhros scrubbed his hand down his face. “But there was no point, Findekáno. So much risked, and for what?”

“Why must there be a point? Would you have us tally up a score? I’m not going to sit here and litigate the costs and benefits of loving you, Russandol.”

“Is that not what you did when you denied me?”

Maedhros in the throes of fury was a terrifying sight to behold, but this was not that. One did not need access to Maedhros’ mind to feel the hurt radiating from him like heat from a woodfire. He stared Fingon down with his jaw set. 

“No,” said Fingon. “I denied you because I had the same thoughts that you have now: it would not have changed anything, you were to go East and I was to remain in the West, there existed already wounds between us so deep and vast they seemed insurmountable. And…” Fingon drew in a breath that was very nearly steady, and decided that now was the time for honesty, even if the truth was ugly. “You had hurt me, and I wanted to hurt you back.” His face burned with the admission, but Maedhros did not look surprised.

“Do you regret it?”

“Yes.” Fingon did not need to think about it. “But I do not like to look back on my past self with scorn. He acted as well as he could have under impossible circumstances, and I know the same is true for you. This is not about blame, Russandol. I am weary, and I am lonely, and I don’t want to do this any longer. Are we not allowed to just have one another for love’s own sake?”

“No.” The response was utterly resigned. “Not us. Not me.”

Heat prickled behind Fingon’s eyes. He blinked hard and ignored it. “You may believe yourself to be uniquely destined to suffer all you want,” he said, his voice terribly tight. “It isn’t true. It’s an excuse, and you know it. You are so terrified to let me in, you would rather hurt me a million times over than risk letting me see you fully, just in case I take one look at who you are underneath and decide that I no longer want you.”

It was harsh, but it was true, and from the look on Maedhros’ face they both knew it.

“I have seen you at your worst, Maedhros. You underestimate how bad it was." The things Maedhros had mumbled while delirious on the shores of Lake Mithrim, the nightmares he had woken screaming from, the frantic admissions in the dark of what had been done to him, what he had been made to do. “If that was not enough to turn me away forever, nothing will be.”

Cracks were beginning to form in Maedhros’ facade. He looked away and closed his eyes, but he could not manage to pull the mask back together once it had slipped. Fingon watched his chin tremble.

“I do not blame you for being frightened.” Fingon slid closer and reached for him. Maedhros let him cup his cheek and urge him back. “You have good reason to be. I do not doubt that the burdens that weigh on you are heavy; mine are as well.” Heavy, so heavy, ready to crush Fingon the moment he so much as gave them space in his mind to breathe. “We can share in their weight together.”

“Findekáno…” Maedhros’ blue eyes were an ocean of sorrow and grief and love— oh, so much love.

“If you would deny me,” said Fingon, fighting hard to keep the words steady, “then deny me. But do not pretend that it is for my sake and not yours. For my part, I would have you, Russandol. All of you, for as long as the world lasts.”

Let me in. Let me in. Give me all of yourself, and take all of me in turn.

Pained, Maedhros said, “You could have far better.”

“I don’t want better! We both know it would be a kindness for you to leave me free to take someone else. To claim me and allow me to bind myself to you would be cruel and selfish beyond measure. Good, I say. You are cruel. You are selfish.” Fingon kissed Maedhros’ still mouth. “Be selfish, Russo. There is no one else for me. Surely you must know it as well as I.”

A long, shaky exhale. “I know.”

“See?” Fingon breathed. He was clutching Maedhros’ face, he could not bring himself to stop. “Do not make me do this alone, Russandol. I can’t…”  No, can’t was not the right word. “I don't want to do it alone. Whatever comes, I would have you.”

“Finno…” said Maedhros, wretchedly, shaking his head. His hand came up to grasp Fingon’s sleeve.

“Stop thinking about what you think is best for me. Would you have me?” When Maedhros made no reply, Fingon said, “I know the answer already. I want to hear it.”

A long, agonized silence stretched between them. 

“Yes,” Maedhros confessed. “I would. Of course I would.”

“Then have me,” Fingon pleaded. “And give yourself to me in turn.” Maedhros’ fingers were trembling. “Give yourself to me,” Fingon said again, and kissed Maedhros’ mouth, hard.

Hesitantly, Maedhros kissed him back.

“Russandol,” Fingon whispered, stroking back his hair. “Maitimo. Give yourself to me. I want all of you, whatever comes.” Another frantic kiss. “Whatever comes.” Another. “Whatever—”

Like a cliff face breaking off and sliding into the sea, Maedhros shuddered and surged forward to crush their mouths together.

He said something that sounded like Fingon’s name, choked and pleading. Then he said it again, in the ragged breaths between each frenzied kiss; a litany of Findekáno, Findekáno, Findekáno, more fair than any music. Fingon’s heart felt ready to burst out of his chest.

“Yes?” he asked. He needed to be sure, he needed to hear Maedhros say it.

“Yes,” sighed Maedhros. “Yes.”

It was all tumbling from there.

They stumbled together into the bedchamber, bumping into the doorframe as they went, kissing too furiously to be graceful. Whenever Fingon had dreamt of this moment in his youth he had always imagined something slow and tender; making love to Maedhros among the wildflowers, the world around them aglow with the radiance of the Trees in their mingling. Never in his life had he imagined this urgency. Fingon’s fingers were shaking with it as he fought with the clasps of Maedhros’ robes and groaned as his back hit the bedpost.

Maedhros crowded in close and slotted a thigh between his legs. When he broke the kiss it was only to aid Fingon in his errand, looking down to see what he was doing, his heat-stained breaths rushing across Fingon’s lips. Inelegant though their efforts were, gradually their clothing fell away. A seam was ripped in their haste, a few buttons were sent flying, but Fingon barely noticed. At the first brush of Maedhros’ bare skin he felt cleaved through by lightning and there was nothing else in the world, nothing else but this.

Maedhros pushed him back onto the bed and let Fingon pull him down over him. His hot mouth found the side of Fingon’s throat as his hand reached blindly into the drawer. When sharp teeth grazed Fingon’s pulse the brightness in Fingon's blood flared; his palms found Maedhros’ face and pulled his mouth back up to his, meeting him in a kiss that was heady and demanding, mouths open right from the start.

There was no trepidation, not any longer. For centuries now they had been trying to fight this, trying to pretend that this was not where fate was always going to lead them. They would waste no further time. Maedhros reached down, and Fingon’s thighs parted for him with ease.

Maedhros opened him with hasty, uncareful thrusts of his fingers. Fingon moaned through the stretch and urged him on. Above him Maedhros was splendid beyond measure: all beautifully coiled tension and flushed cheeks, his eyes dark, brilliant hair curtaining his face. Fingon felt like he had swallowed the sun. Soon he was full of three of Maedhros’ fingers and canting his hips down into each thrust, unable to help himself, his cock straining against his stomach.

He was growing frantic with need. Maedhros felt it, and he kissed Fingon's face as Fingon babbled his name in an endless chorus, the sound of it breathless and undignified.

“Now,” Fingon breathed as Maedhros withdrew his fingers and reached for the oil. “Now, Russo, do it now.”

“I am, I am.” Maedhros slicked his cock and pushed Fingon’s knee to open him wider. “Be easy.”

“I am easy,” said Fingon, and then he gasped and cried out, and then he said nothing at all as Maedhros sank inside and filled him in one long thrust.

It was so much. Nothing had yet changed, this was just the same as it had always been, and yet it was so much sharper and brighter and more. Fingon was shimmering with anticipation. He was bursting with love. He relished the breathless little noise Maedhros let slip against the side of his neck, the scorching kiss he placed just there where Fingon’s pulse was leaping. It was all Fingon could do to pant with the fullness of him and clutch at his shoulders as he began to move.

There was no effort to draw things out. There was only the frenzied pursuit of release, the solid ache of Maedhros inside him, the lewd sounds of skin meeting as Fingon was rocked mercilessly against the pillows. Fingon pressed one hand between Maedhros’ shoulder blades and felt the muscles there bunching as they worked. His other hand tangled in Maedhros’ hair and pulled. Maedhros’ choked whine got lost in the sweat-slick curve of Fingon’s neck.

Fingon hitched his legs a little higher about Maedhros’ waist, tilting his hips up to take him more deeply, and shuddered helplessly when the change in angle made everything all the more overwhelming. He had yielded himself entirely over to Maedhros, and even as he did Maedhros yielded to him in turn; an endless cycle of giving and taking, receiving and being received. Fingon could feel him everywhere.

“Look at me,” Fingon forced out in between breaths.

Maedhros raised his head. He was flushed and wide-eyed, mouth red and slick from kissing, stunning and unbelievable and Fingon’s. When Fingon’s eyesight blurred, Maedhros kissed the tears from his lashes.

Already tension was pulling together low between Fingon’s hips. Already his hitching breaths were coming faster and faster. He caught a hand around his cock where it strained desperately against his stomach, and at the squeeze of his own fingers he moaned, dragging his palm up and down his shaft. He screwed his eyes shut when Maedhros adjusted the angle to grind himself against that spot that made Fingon’s nerve endings sing, and then forced them open again, loath to miss even a second of this.

Maedhros whispered his name, upturned in question at the end. Fingon nodded rapidly. He could not speak.

As together they drew near to the precipice, Fingon dug his heel into Maedhros’ backside in fear that habit might drive him to pull away before they could finish, but Maedhros did no such thing. There was only the sweaty slide of skin and the hot, blistering pleasure and Maedhros— Maedhros, everywhere. So close now he could taste it, Fingon’s spirit tried as ever to reach out for him. Instead of forcing it back, instead of slamming shut the door, Fingon let it reach.

And Maedhros was there to receive him.

There was no wall. There was nothing at all to hold Fingon back. There was just Maedhros’ spirit, golden-bright and thrumming and strong.

Fingon choked on a sob. Maedhros met him in a damp, salty kiss. And then Fingon was falling, falling, spilling hot over his fingers at the same moment Maedhros’ hips stuttered and he spent himself deep inside Fingon, claiming him fully for the first time in all the years they had loved one another. Oh, it was glorious. There was naught for them to do but let their fëar do as they longed to do and join together in shining, eternal embrace.

Fingon felt the echo of Maedhros’ pleasure ripple through the nascent bond. His spent cock twitched weakly. His heart soared.

As the haze of orgasm receded and Fingon began to return to himself, it was with the awareness that Maedhros was everywhere, everywhere. All around and within him, filling his heart and mind even as he filled his body, unfurling to find every hollow place there was inside of Fingon even down to the empty spaces between his cells and curling up there to make a home. Maedhros’ fëa in all its stubborn, vibrant splendour, bound inextricably with his.

“Oh,” Maedhros breathed.

Just as Maedhros was in Fingon, so too was Fingon in Maedhros, flowing like water to fill and surround him. Fingon could feel the warm curl of Maedhros’ thoughts; his overwhelm, the lingering echoes of fear, and oh— love. Love, everywhere. Even more than Fingon had known. It was more than ósanwe. Every part of them was intertwined, made whole.

“Russandol,” Fingon whispered. His hands found Maedhros’ face and cradled it between his palms. “Meldanya.” He felt through the bond how the endearment warmed Maedhros.

There had never been any other path for them than the one that led them here. This only proved what they had already known.

Maedhros turned his face and kissed the centre of Fingon’s palm.

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Maedhros could not be spared long from the East. He lingered as long as he could, but all too soon it came time for him to depart.

So it was that on a day of rain not unlike the day Maedhros had come to Fingon in the wake of his father's death, they stood opposite one another in the courtyard of Barad Eithel. In spite of the rain's chill it was not so grey as it had been on that day; high above them in the heavens, Arien was fighting to break through the cover of clouds. There would be sun by midday, Fingon deemed.

Maedhros' spirit woven through Fingon's was bright and fierce and unyielding. His strength was lent to Fingon, and Fingon's to him, and though the burden of the crown upon Fingon’s head was heavy, he stood tall and was unbowed by its weight.

Maedhros bent to kiss Fingon's hand. Aloud, he said, “My King, it has been an honour.” In the privacy of their minds, he said I shall be counting the minutes until our next meeting. Fingon's heart fluttered and sang, feeling as though it could burst from all the love that it held. Maedhros, he knew, felt it too.

Fingon stood and watched as Maedhros led his company out the gates and down the path. Several times Maedhros turned and looked back. Each time, Fingon was there to receive him. Eventually Maedhros rounded the southern bend that took him out of sight. Even then, the golden bond between them thrummed like a harpstring plucked.

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There were times Fingon still woke with terror in the night. Once he would have succumbed to fear, tossing and turning until the sun rose. Now, he only reached out with his spirit through the bond that tethered one to another and nudged quietly at Maedhros’ thoughts. Maedhros’ fëa— steadfast and unfaltering, ever attuned to his own— answered back with a soft tug of its own, safe and warm and alive, and Fingon’s heart knew peace, and he slept.

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Chapter End Notes

They did it!! Whatever you do, don't think about how the Nirnaeth is only 15 years away :))

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Thank you for reading!

This was my first stab at a proper multichapter fic with an actual narrative (before now I've been almost exclusively a one-shot person), and while it was challenging it was also extremely rewarding and I had an absolute blast with it. I would love to know what you thought!

I’m also on tumblr @gaydhros <3