Life, Like a Face Between Your Palms by gaydhros  

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Chapter 9

As Fingon falls back into the work of kingship, the time soon comes for Maedhros to return to Himring. On the eve of his departure, he comes to Fingon in the throne room.

Content warnings for this chapter: Moderately explicit sexual content

The feeble weeks of spring rain gave way to the heat of early summer, and gradually, Fingon began to find some semblance of a routine.

What was left of Beleriand had not crumbled in his absence. His father’s men— his men— had held the line. Though Fingon’s heart remained heavy, when he returned to his post ready to work he felt as though a measure of his strength had returned to him, enough that he could hold his spine straight and his shoulders squared. He could do what needed to be done. He could be what his people needed.

Grief still pressed near to his heart in every waking moment. Indeed, there were times it felt like it might swallow him whole. For all that black cloth was now draped over every portrait of Fingolfin in the fortress, his spectre seemed to lurk around every corner. It waited for Fingon behind every door, and in every seat he occupied. Each night Fingon slept in his father’s bed, and each day he took counsel with his father’s lords on decisions that should have been his father’s to make. How could it ever be possible to forget his grief, even for a moment, if all day long he walked around wearing his father’s skin?

At least there was Maedhros, who lingered at Barad Eithel as long as he could. Maedhros knew the goings-on in the East as no other yet did, and Fingon was glad to have his counsel to draw on as they set to the arduous task of beginning to rebuild. More than that, the burden felt somehow lighter to bear, with Maedhros so near.

Neither of them had acknowledged their argument since it happened. Maedhros seemed intent on forgetting all that Fingon had said to him, and for Fingon’s part, he was trying hard to forget that he had gone about saying it in perhaps the most hurtful way he could have. The memory made shame churn in his stomach.

Yet he would not bring it up now only to ease his own guilt. The fragile peace they had won was good. There was comfort to be found in this age-long, unspoken truce they had been cultivating for nearly as long as they had loved one another. There was no guesswork in this— Fingon knew the steps to the dance, he knew just where to put his feet. The shadows of the hurts they had dealt one another darkened their hearts, and the lingering echos of the feud of their Houses clung to them like smoke, but there was love here— this, at least, Fingon knew beyond certainty. Surely that counted for something.

But Maedhros’ presence was borrowed, and in time there came a day when he could be borrowed no longer. On the eve before he was to set out, he came to Fingon in the throne room, just as Fingon’s final audience was ending.

Maedhros waited quietly at the end of the long room, leaning against the far wall. Fingon’s scribe hastily gathered his parchments before taking his leave alongside the chief advisor. When Fingon bid his guards leave also, the sturdy doors fell shut, and they were alone.

“Have you come to be received?” Fingon asked as Maedhros crossed the room in unhurried steps. He had been aiming to tease, but his tone lacked the levity the term implied.

“That depends.” Maedhros came to a stop at the foot of the dais. “Is my King willing to receive me?”

Always, Fingon wanted to say. I would receive all of you, or as much of you as you would give me, at any moment you would give it.

Instead what he said was, “There is nothing of you I would not take if it was offered,” which was perhaps no better than the first thing.

A small smile twisted Maedhros’ lips. “I am but your vassal, Lord.” He dragged his gaze slowly, intentionally, up Fingon’s body. “I serve at your pleasure.”

A sudden frisson of desire cut through Fingon. He glanced to the far doors, fearful that someone might enter, but these days Maedhros did not like to be spontaneous unless everything else was already irrevocable. If there was a chance of their being discovered, he would not be here like this, looking at Fingon the way he was.

Fingon allowed his legs to fall open with ease. His robes parted, and when he dared to drag his palm indulgently over the bulge between them he watched Maedhros’ eyes darken.

“If you have come to serve,” Fingon said, resting his hand on his inner thigh, “then serve.”

Maedhros climbed the short flight of steps, and sank to his knees.

This was good, Fingon decided, as his legs spread wider to accommodate Maedhros’ shoulders. This felt right— Maedhros knelt before his throne, forced for once to be the one looking up. Maedhros leaned in and set his mouth to the bulge in Fingon’s hose. He mouthed him hotly through the fabric, and a soft, punched-out sound left Fingon’s lips without his permission.

Maedhros took his time with him. He let his saliva dampen the fabric, coaxing Fingon to full hardness with only the teasing heat of his mouth. Fingon’s hand moved on instinct to card through his hair, locks of copper and silver slipping through his fingers. Finally, Maedhros freed him from the confines of his clothing and peppered quiet, indolent kisses up the length of his shaft. Fingon tried to let him do as he pleased, but eventually his desire grew too hot and he tugged gently on Maedhros’ hair to urge him on.

Maedhros acquiesced. He set himself to his task with single-minded focus: hollowing out his cheeks, sinking deep, pulling back to concentrate pleasure right where Fingon was most sensitive until he was gasping out and swearing, the sound of it loud and too revealing in the cavernous chamber. Fingon tipped his head back against the throne. Breathing faster, he tried not to let his thoughts turn to their coming parting.

“Most beloved of vassals,” he breathed out, and earned a low groan from Maedhros. “How well you serve your King.”

Maedhros’ eyes closed as he redoubled his efforts.

“Yes— you feel incredible, Russo,” Fingon sighed. “You’re always beautiful on your knees, taking me so perfectly.”

Maedhros gave a full body shudder and moaned. The vibration made Fingon’s toes curl and his fist closed harshly in Maedhros’ hair. A second later he eased his hold, an apology already on his lips, but Maedhros reached fumblingly for his hand and guided his grip to tighten again.

Maedhros was relentless in his pursuit of taking Fingon apart. Very soon Fingon could only gasp, and try not to squirm, and let Maedhros do as he would. It was as though Maedhros was intent on overwhelming him completely; on giving Fingon everything he could possibly give.

Which was exactly what he was doing, Fingon realized with a feeling of his heart swooping and then sinking in his chest.

“Russo,” he called, breathless. “Russandol, look at me.”

Maedhros looked up and met his gaze. His pink lips were stretched wide and his eyes were all too revealing, and Fingon knew it to be true.

“I am your King,” Fingon said. “You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you? You would carry any weight. You would give me anything I could ask for, so long as it was within your power to give.”

Maedhros drew back to breathe and trailed messy, open-mouthed kisses up Fingon’s shaft. His eyes were downcast when he answered, “Yes, anything. Anything.”

“Anything,” Fingon repeated in a whisper, his heart in his throat.

Like a child who never learned that the kettle was hot no matter how many times they burned their hand, Fingon reached out with his thoughts. Maedhros was not reaching back. Of course he wasn’t. The burn came, just as Fingon had known it would.

Maedhros took him back into the searing heat of his mouth. He sank low, low, all the way down. Fingon pushed the back of his wrist against his mouth to stifle a cry and every horrible thing he wished to say.

Liar, he thought; desperate, anguished. Tormentor. Look how much you love me. Look how much you desire me. How close you press, as though you cannot get enough of me inside you. Do you still not understand that you could have all of me if only you would take it? You could have me in the space of a single heartbeat, if only you would give yourself in turn.

When Fingon spent himself on Maedhros’ tongue it was with hoarse, too-loud cry. Maedhros swallowed all that Fingon gave him. As he pulled off and lay his head on Fingon’s thigh, panting, it was all that Fingon could do not to weep.

The following day, they stood together in the courtyard of Barad Eithel. The grey sky above was bright, Arien already nearing the middle of her journey, for all that the cover of clouds blocked her rays from reaching the ground.

Maedhros was checking the buckles on his pack for the fifth time. Waiting behind him, already on their mounts, was the small guard Fingon had insisted on sending with him. Maedhros had fought him hard on this point, but Fingon had refused to relent– it had been unspeakably reckless for Maedhros to have travelled alone in the first place, and Fingon would not see him do it again, not even though he would be taking the longer and safer route around Doriath.

They had said their true farewells that morning. Now, surrounded by watchful eyes, the masks had come back on. When eventually Maedhros ran out of excuses to tarry longer, Fingon stepped in to embrace him. It was a chaste thing, a far cry from how they had held one another an hour before, alone in his father’s apartments. Even so, Fingon could not help but let his face crumple for the briefest of moments when he buried himself in Maedhros’ chest and felt Maedhros’ arms envelop him. It was only a moment; soon Fingon schooled his expression and pulled back, letting Maedhros go.

“Be safe,” he said as Maedhros swung himself up upon Anaroch. It was only through centuries of practice in diplomacy that he was able to keep his voice from wavering. “Be careful.”

“I am always careful.” Maedhros was trying to lighten the mood, but at the look on Fingon’s face he softened. “I will. Next autumn, I will be here.”

“You had better be. It is a summons from your King.”

A smile graced Maedhros’ lips. “Then I swear upon my life that I shall be here to see you crowned.”

“That’s better.”

Fingon watched from the doorway of Barad Eithel as Maedhros led the borrowed company out of the courtyard and down the pathway that led into the South. Maedhros did not look back; not until he reached the bend in the road that would take him out of view. Only then, so far away Fingon could barely make out his features, did he turn and look back. A single moment’s hesitation. Then he turned away again and continued on into the East, disappearing from sight.

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