these, our bodies, possessed by light by atlantablack  

Imagine standing in a constant cone of light.
Imagine surrender.
Imagine being useless.

A stone on the path means the tea's not ready, a stone in the hand means somebody's angry,
the stone inside you still hasn't hit bottom.

Seaside Improvisation | Richard Siken

☀︎

Let's start the story with something important: 

There was never a plan.

Curufin did not look around at the destruction of Himlad and think it an opportunity to slide into Finrod's good graces. Nargothrond was never meant to be anything other than a temporary inconvenience. Going there should never have spiraled into a situation so large and overflowing that it left Curufin drowning in the aftermath. 

If Curufin had been forced to admit to a plan, he would have said the plan was to get in and get out. To keep his people safe. To scrabble together some measure of control so that it stopped feeling as if everything was once again crumbling beneath his hands.

But if there had been a plan, it would never have included Finrod at all.

☀︎

When they crash onto Nargothrond’s doorstep, Finrod is exactly as Curufin remembers him—overly pleasant, all placid smiles and feigned grace. It grates at his nerves, makes him want to dig his fingers into all that unchallenged gentleness and find out what's hiding beneath.

Though, had Finrod not always been so? Even in Tirion, tree light filtering through the air, Curufin had wanted to sink his fingers beneath all that perfection and pull out the ugliness that must be hiding beneath. Still, despite Curufin’s belief that it is a mask, he does not truly believe Finrod would ever turn them away. He believes truly that the doors of Nargothrond will open to any in need. 

So there is Curufin, tired and trying to hide it, saying, cousin, we seek shelter. There is Finrod, wilted but still golden, opening both hands in greeting, and somehow, that’s enough.

He had known it would be, and yet, the simplicity of the request and the easy acquiescence still take him by surprise.

☀︎

There is still no plan. 

In a rare moment of foolish hope, Curufin dares to convince himself that their presence in Nargothrond is a temporary thing. That they will soon be back in their own space, commanding their own people and only their own people. He dares to believe that the Bragollach is something they can come back from. 

He manages to hold onto that belief for a full two months, and then Maedhros dashes the entire idea to pieces. 

For all that he is relieved to be holding proof of Maedhros and Maglor's continued existence, he rather preferred living in a world where he was not forever stuck relying on his cousin's generosity. But Maedhros is clear in his orders, and so Curufin sets about putting down more permanent roots. 

He inserts himself more heavily into council meetings and the running of the city. He maneuvers his way through the court until many of his people are firmly entrenched in minuscule day-to-day operations of keeping the city running. He makes them as indispensable as possible. He finds problems and crafts solutions, carves open new spots for them to slot into until it feels less like reliance on an impermanent generosity and more like a genuine relationship between two rulers. 

And through it all—Curufin’s plotting and crafting and silver words dipped in poison and ever-growing irritation—Finrod continues to smile that fucking placid, knowing smile. It drives Curufin mad. It makes him want to start a fight just to make Finrod lose composure. 

It makes him mean. It makes him cruel. Really, it was always just a matter of time before it all escalated. 

That isn’t the surprising part. 

It’s everything that comes after the escalation that leaves him reeling. 

☀︎

The first time Curufin kisses Finrod, it is to provoke. 

There is no deeper meaning to it. Only a cousin with a pleasant smile and mild words; only Curufin's unending need to break things and a violence that has been hanging from his fists since they stepped into these caves.

He expects Finrod to reel back with disgust, expects him to be scandalized, to be offended, to narrow his eyes, maybe even to threaten. He does not expect for Finrod's mouth to open beneath his, Finrod's hands coming up to fist in his robes and pull him close. He bites at Finrod's lip savagely, and Finrod bites harder, smiling into the kiss when copper bursts bright between them.

"What do you expect to happen here?" Finrod murmurs against his mouth, the amusement in his voice bright and cutting. "Do you expect me to run? To call your bluff?"

Curufin shoves Finrod against the wall, sliding his fingers into Finrod’s hair and pulling hard. Lust coils around his throat quick as a snake at the breathless moan it pulls from Finrod's throat. "I do not bluff, Findaráto," he returns, pushing his fingers into Finrod's robes and digging them brutally into the bare heat of his hip.

"Good," Finrod breathes, arching up against him, eyes dark when Curufin meets them. "Do your worst then. I assure you, I will take just as much as you give."

It is not a challenge Curufin can resist.

It really only continues escalating from there.

☀︎

It is meant to be a one-time thing. Or rather, it was not meant to be a thing at all, but since it had been, it was meant to be a one-time occurrence. He had spent an enjoyable few hours fucking Finrod, pleasantly satisfied with how sharp he became when pushed, and that had been that. Curufin had not intended to make it a habit.

He had not.

Yet they fall into bed again and again as it very, very quickly becomes a thing. Curufin always so quick to press and press now that he has irrefutable evidence that Finrod's pleasantness is at least in half a front. With neither of them willing to back down, it always ends in him pressing Finrod up against the nearest wall and biting the words from his lips. Always ends with him trying to find the exact point of pressure needed to make Finrod truly shatter.

Finrod gives as good as he gets. Leaves Curufin's back bloody, leaves marks just high enough that Curufin must be conscious of his movements or his collar will slip and show them. Given half a chance, Finrod will push Curufin against the wall and tease him with light touches and slow kisses until he ends up losing his patience and bodily hauling Finrod to the bed.

It makes him wonder if his pushing only makes Finrod sharper, if he is going about breaking Finrod in the wrong way. He wants to find out. Wants to catalog all of the different ways he can find to peel Finrod open and leave him shaking.

He wants and he wants and he fucking wants.

It is alarming how the hunger only grows. How it is never sated no matter how many times Curufin pins Finrod down, no matter how many times he is the cause of Finrod falling apart, no matter how many times he spills into the hot clench of Finrod's body.

He only ever wants more. 

It is a damning thing to want. 

☀︎

"You spend a lot of time with our dear cousin these days," Celegorm remarks idly one night. He's lounging in front of the fire, head pillowed on Huan's back. He always reminds Curufin of a particularly pleased cat the way he delights in lying in front of fireplaces.

"Do I?" he asks lightly, looking up from the correspondence he's writing.

Celegorm narrows his eyes, glancing down at Curufin's neck, and he becomes aware that his collar has slipped where he was fidgeting with it as he thought. There is a dark bruise still right above his collarbone where Finrod had sunk his teeth in, worrying at the skin until it had hurt.

"He must be very good with his mouth to keep drawing you back in." There is nothing particularly accusing about the words, nothing particularly mean, yet Curufin gets the distinct feeling that Celegorm does not approve.

"Our dear cousin has many talents," is all he says, returning to his writing. Celegorm scoffs but does not pursue the topic. Curufin does not allow himself to think too deeply on the implications of this becoming such a thing that his brother has felt it necessary to comment on it. In general tries to not think about what he is doing with Finrod at all.

It has been several months of them consistently sleeping together, and Curufin has not even begun to lose interest. He knows well that he has a humiliating tendency to grasp at excuses to take himself to Finrod's rooms, knowing that any time spent alone in Finrod's presence will end with them in bed. He knows as well that the few weeks he had managed to grasp back onto a modicum of self-control, Finrod had taken to seeking him out, finding reasons to invite Curufin back to his rooms.

He does not know what he is doing. Knows that it is a mistake no matter what angle he looks at it from. Still cannot seem to bring himself to stop now that he's started.

If it were only good sex, then perhaps he could put an end to it easily enough. It is not as if there aren't others in this city who would gladly go to bed with him. But the push and pull of it, the way his palms smart from cutting himself on Finrod's hidden edges, the way they sometimes spend hours doing nothing but speaking or playing strategy games as they slowly work each other up—

—it makes the end result so, so sweet.

It makes him want to burn the imprint of Finrod's name onto his palms. Capture the way his own sounds dripping from Finrod's mouth, coated in pleasure. Trap in a crystal the exact sequence of moans that falls into the air when Finrod clenches tight around him and spills hot over his fist.

He is making a mistake. Breaking rules he set for himself when they came to this accursed land. That should matter. It should.

In the face of Finrod's blood-sweet smile, it does not.

☀︎

They may well have continued in that vein for years, only ever touching each other with barely concealed violence. Always teeth and blood and bruises, always a rapid pulse caught beneath his mouth. But six months after Curufin first took Finrod to bed, he slips into Curufin's study, an almost wild look about him. A tension rather, that’s been strung tight and looks ready to be let loose at any moment. 

Finrod decisively strides across the room, ignoring Curufin’s sharp words and irritation, and pushes Curufin’s chair out of the way so that he may duck beneath the desk. Curufin blinks down at him with a raised eyebrow, belittling words already building on his tongue, when there is a sharp knock on the door. He glares furiously, unable to imagine why he is being bothered yet again. Rimhir, one of Finrod’s councilors, opens the door and pokes his head in, flinching at the sight of Curufin’s glare. 

Curufin lies and says he has not seen Finrod, malicious annoyance coating his tongue. The pieces are easy to connect, and if these idiots have driven their king to wish for respite so badly that Finrod has resorted to hiding beneath Curufin's desk, then he will gladly lie to their faces. If there is also a small spark of concern that lights in his chest as to what could have possibly driven Finrod to wish for respite so badly, then that is his own business. It is strange though, out of character, for perfect, golden, benevolent Finrod to grow so obviously tired of being around his people. For all that he believes much of Finrod's pleasant demeanor to be a front, Curufin does not doubt his love for his kingdom, his people. He seldom seems to truly grow tired of them and never to such a point that he actively hides away from them.

Finrod stays kneeling under the desk even after Rimhir has left, and Curufin pushes his chair back in, bracketing Finrod between his legs as he returns to his work. He huffs in amusement when Finrod leans his head on Curufin's thigh, idly brushing his hand over the crown of Finrod's head as he works through calculations. He does not allow himself to think about the rush of hunger that wishes to spill through him, just from knowing that Finrod is on his knees. 

He does not think on it, but it takes very little time before Finrod has shuffled forward, hands sliding up Curufin's thighs as he undoes Curufin's laces and takes his cock in hand. Curufin does not stop him, only hums slightly in pleasure, the wet heat of Finrod's mouth a blissful, perfect home for his cock to live in. Hunger fizzes slightly in his veins, but he does not allow it to escalate quite yet. Instead runs his fingers through Finrod's hair, sinking his fingers into it and holding Finrod's head still. Continues to hold him there when yet another councilor comes by asking if Curufin has seen their wayward king. Falothir looks irritated when Curufin evenly says he has not seen Finrod, and Curufin scowls savagely, pleased when the irritation morphs into an uneasiness that leaves him retreating quickly. 

In a strange move though, which he will later realize is what had damned him for good, instead of things immediately escalating into him fucking Finrod’s throat as is the norm, he only continues holding Finrod’s head still. Runs his fingers through Finrod’s hair soothingly once it becomes clear he will hold still on his own. The arousal simmers low in his belly as Finrod softly sucks on him, swallowing around him as his cock hardens, but Finrod seems happy to simply have Curufin’s cock in his mouth, whimpering softly only when Curufin stops petting his hair. 

He waits until enough time has passed that he knows everyone will have given up their search and gone to dinner; waits until his focus has blurred to the point that all he can think on is the heat of Finrod's mouth; and then he pushes his chair back, catching Finrod when he wavers, muscles stiff from kneeling on the hard floor. Finrod looks blissed out and half-gone, mouth a bright red warning, and it punches directly through Curufin’s chest, stealing any cruelty from his hands before he can inflict it.

“Come here,” he murmurs, pulling Finrod to his feet and into Curufin’s lap.

Finrod comes easily, knees pressed on either side of Curufin's thighs, face hidden against his throat, arms wound around his neck, and fingers tangled in his hair. He works a hand between them, freeing Finrod's cock, and stroking them both slowly, drinking in Finrod's hitched breaths and quiet moans. It is completely at odds with how they usually go about sleeping together, but he does not hate it. Finds himself instead viciously satisfied by how Finrod has utterly given himself over after kneeling at Curufin’s feet for hours.

Finrod moans low and long when he spills over Curufin’s fingers, the sound reverberating against Curufin’s throat and sending him over the edge as well. He keeps his arm looped around Finrod’s waist after, holding him steady as Finrod’s body relaxes even further.

“We cannot sleep in this chair,” he murmurs once the position begins to become truly uncomfortable, pressing a kiss to the side of Finrod’s head as he shifts. He receives no answer and huffs after a moment, resolutely pushing himself to his feet. He does not bother acting surprised when Finrod’s legs go around his waist. He should not allow it, should drop Finrod into the chair and leave him to gather himself together. But Finrod is still so loose in his arms, breath warm and steady against his throat. He knows that it is not trust, but it feels a little like that regardless. "Shameless," he mutters, tightening his grip on Finrod's waist as he moves toward his bedroom.

He hesitates only briefly before laying Finrod in his bed. It is always him in Finrod's bed, never the other way around, and it unnerves him to have it this way, though he could not say why. Finrod makes an utterly pathetic noise when Curufin pulls away, and he should not care, should leave Finrod and go to dinner. But Finrod blinks up at him, eyes still hazy and mouth pulled into an enticing pout, hair spread around him, all haloed light, and Curufin sighs, resigned to staying. 

"Come, you wretch, take your clothes off if you intend to sleep here." He tugs Finrod upright so that he can pull his robes off of him, pausing only to frown briefly at how bruised Finrod’s knees look from kneeling on the floor for so long. 

Finrod wraps himself around Curufin like a leech when he gets in the bed, and he would complain if not for how soothing he finds the weight of Finrod's body atop his. They do not usually, either of them, allow for such softness between them, but Curufin supposes this once cannot hurt. It is hard to remember why he would wish to do otherwise when Finrod is soft and sleepy against him. Hard to remember why he would want to do anything other than hold Finrod when all of this feels a little too much like trust he hadn’t expected to be given. 

He knows it isn’t. He knows. 

Knowing doesn’t stop a hunger from awakening in his chest now that he’s had a taste.

☀︎

They both wake early the next morning, and though they spend a long time in bed lazily kissing, they do not talk about it. Finrod looks more settled as he leaves for his rooms, all of the tension having seeped away and left behind that irritatingly calm demeanor he carries about him as a shield. 

Curufin watches him go and does not allow himself to think on any of it at all. They have been in Nargothrond for barely a year, and he had not arrived in these godforsaken caves with any intention of seducing his cousin. Had not arrived with any intentions, in truth, other than to get the fuck back out of the caves as quickly as possible, something that seems less and less likely to occur at all. 

He knows not what he wants from Finrod these days, all of his conflicting wants a tangled ball that he dislikes studying too closely. He wants most of all to continue ensuring his position in Nargothrond’s court if he is to be stuck here. It is his utmost wish. It must be his utmost wish. He is not allowed to want any of the other disgusting things that keep trying to take root in his chest. He is already toeing a line he had not meant to test, and if he is not careful, he will have stepped over it without even noticing.

For all that he tells himself this, it is impossible to miss the way things begin to soften between them in increments following Finrod staying in his bed. They are both still sharp words and violent greed, teeth pressed to thin skin, Curufin pushing and pushing until Finrod goes razor sharp, all his softness lost. But Finrod begins to quietly curl into him afterward, murmuring soft nothings until Curufin agrees to spend the night. They spend many early mornings slowly kissing with no ulterior motive involved at all.

He knows he is making a vital mistake. He knows that there is no way for this to end in anything other than more doom. Thinks perhaps Finrod knows it as well if the melancholic way he watches Curufin sometimes is any indication. He knows. And he tries and tries to convince himself to put a stop to it, to cut the tie before it becomes an anchor unable to be cut without sending everything crashing down. But if it is to all end in doom regardless, should he not grab what small happiness can be attained for the time being? 

They are all pointless musings, pointless rules, pointless questions.

It is, in the end, too late for him to do anything other than continue on the way he has been. He has had a taste of Finrod and will not be giving him up now. This is what he tells himself as he gathers several soft pillows and places them in the bottom drawer of his desk. It is what he tells himself when Celegorm raises judgmental eyebrows as he leaves for Finrod’s rooms for the sixth night in a row. It is what he tells himself when Finrod smiles at him with true pleasure, and he feels his own face soften in return. 

It is too late. And if he is to be doomed, then let him be doomed with Finrod’s mouth on his.  

☀︎

It happens for a second time a couple of months later, Finrod slipping into his study, eyes uncomfortably wild. Curufin had begun to wonder if it would or if that had simply been a one-time thing. But here is Finrod, body strung tight with tension, and this time Curufin is ready.

He moves his chair back as Finrod stalks across the room, and sure enough, Finrod does not even pause before ducking beneath his desk. It is truly absurd, the sight of Finrod beneath his desk in his opulent court robes, hair still elaborately braided, jewels dripping from his ears and around his neck. Absurd and yet, the sight of Finrod on his knees still sends a rush of heat through him. 

Finrod’s face scrunches in confusion when Curufin pulls several of the pillows from where he’s stashed them, and then melts into something painfully shocked and soft when Curufin says, “So that you do not bruise your knees again.” 

By the time the first bedamned councilor comes by asking after Finrod he is already back to working on his newest design; Finrod's head pillowed against his thigh. Nordhir scowls at him suspiciously when he denies knowing where Finrod is and then scuttles away when Curufin snarls at him. He scowls at the closed door, wondering once more what exactly it is that is happening to drive Finrod to wish for respite so terribly. 

He slides his fingers into Finrod’s hair, mussing his braids, and lets his hand simply rest there as he continues working. Finrod does nothing but lean against him for a long while before rousing himself and slowly beginning to undo his braids. It is only once his hair is free for Curufin to freely run his fingers through that Finrod reaches for his laces and pulls his cock free. He closes his eyes briefly in contentment as Finrod licks his cock and then swallows it down, continuing to run his fingers through Finrod’s hair as he works. 

It feels as if there are more people this time that stop to ask him if he has seen Finrod, a detail that makes him squint at the door suspiciously when the latest person departs. Finrod makes a low humming noise as he swallows, and the sensation trips through him, making him shiver as he tightens his grip on Finrod's hair. He leans back briefly, glancing beneath the desk, and has to stop himself from immediately dragging Finrod into his lap and fucking him. He is beautiful, kneeling between Curufin's legs, lips red and stretched around his cock. Finrod's eyes are closed, a look of contentment settled about him, and Curufin has never wanted him more.

Having Finrod snap back and fight with him is already a heady feeling, leaving a desire burning through him that only escalates into a full forest fire when he has Finrod pinned to the bed beneath him. But this—the surrender, what must be at least enough trust to believe that Curufin will not take advantage of this strange vulnerability—leaves him wanting to reward that trust with gentleness, which is far more dangerous. He reaches down and lightly presses his thumb to the corner of Finrod's mouth, shivering when Finrod glances up at him, eyes hazy.

"I should keep you down there every day," he murmurs quietly, running his knuckles over Finrod's cheek and watching as he leans into the touch. "A perfect mouth made to take my cock."

Finrod makes a low noise, sinking the slightest bit further onto Curufin's cock and swallowing convulsively. Curufin cannot quite stop his hips from jerking up, forcing his entire cock down Finrod's throat and choking him. 

He sucks in a deep breath and pulls Finrod off far enough that he can breathe easily again. Holds him in place and goes back to work, ignoring the quiet whine it earns him.

They stay like that for a while longer, until dinner time once again comes around. Finrod sways forward, following him, when he pushes his chair back. "Come here," he says, pulling Finrod to his feet. He allows himself the briefest kiss, biting indulgently at Finrod's red mouth and swallowing the moan it earns him. Pulls back all too soon and pushes Finrod toward the bedroom.

"Curvo," Finrod says quietly, even as he obediently goes.

"You're fine. Come on, clothes off, get in the bed." He softens the words by pulling Finrod into another kiss as they disrobe. Pushes Finrod onto the bed and feels a shiver of possessiveness run through him that cannot herald anything good. Finrod is all decadence, sunshine caught in his hair and his smile, words so sweet they cannot be anything but a trap, eyes like the sky at midday. Curufin used to stand on the plains of Himlad at times, staring at the sky stretching on endlessly, all that beautiful land his to keep and protect, and it makes him uneasy to find that same sky caught in Finrod's eyes.

It makes him uneasy that he finds himself wanting to keep it.

Finrod is still loose and pliant when Curufin settles on top of him, letting Curufin do what he will, and he spends a long minute kissing Finrod, biting at his mouth until Finrod whines. Leaves a string of bruises down Finrod's body, on his neck, his collarbone, above his heart, above his lungs, the curve of his ribcage, the soft skin of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbone, the tender skin on the inside of his thighs. Pulls back to survey his work after and smirks at how flushed Finrod is, his breathing unsteady, fingers tangled in the bed sheets and clenched tight. He’s watching Curufin through half-lidded eyes that have gone perilously dark and blown out with want. 

Curufin works Finrod open quickly, barely gets two fingers in before Finrod makes a desperate noise and reaches for him, saying Curvo pleadingly. He does not argue, only pulls Finrod into his lap, biting down on Finrod’s shoulder as he slowly sinks onto Curufin’s cock. Finrod moans and pulls him into a kiss, rocking his hips and whining quietly when Curufin gets a hand around his cock, slowly stroking him. Even with the lack of urgency, they have been drawing this out for hours, and it takes so little to send him over the edge. Takes only Finrod letting out a particularly loud moan and clenching tight around him before he has spilled, Finrod following only moments later as he speeds his hand up and swipes his thumb over the head of Finrod’s cock. 

He falls back onto the bed after, keeping Finrod held close, rubbing slow circles onto Finrod's skin as they drift. He thinks of the way Finrod said his name, all sweet, pleading syllables, the burgeoning threads of trust woven between them. He has often had Finrod begging beneath him, but it is the first time he has had Finrod plead so sweetly, and oh, it leaves Curufin feeling so very, very smug. 

It is all just another warning sign. 

Curufin closes his eyes to it and presses his face to Finrod’s hair, falls asleep sated and warm. 

☀︎

Sometimes, on days the resentment bubbles beneath his skin at their continued presence in Nargothrond, at the necessity of having to accept someone else as king, Curufin looks at Finrod on his knees for him, and dangerous thoughts try to creep into the back of his mind.

They are not true wishes, for Curufin has no true desire to harm Finrod, not when he desires to continue sharing his bed. But they still linger, whisper how easy it would be now that Finrod has handed him such a perfect opening. How easy it would be to make use of his inheritance and wield his father's silver tongue, weave his way through Nargothrond until the strings are all held in his hand, ready to be cut on a word. He has already set the starting threads in place; it would not be difficult to continue weaving them together. 

Curufin, however, in a move that would likely cause his brothers to stare at him aghast, steels himself and ignores the thoughts. He maintains the starting threads, but he makes no move to weave a larger web. It is horribly strange and uncomfortable, wishing to keep something so terribly. To look at Finrod and, despite the resentment, want him so badly it nearly eclipses the rest. It is not, necessarily, a feeling he enjoys, but it has stolen through him regardless.

Instead, he contents himself with pressing his teeth to Finrod's throat, marking his claim through bruises and blood. He will not do anything to harm Finrod's reign, but that does not mean he will not take every advantage to strengthen what little hold he has on Finrod's heart.

"Sometimes," Finrod says lightly one night, hovering over Curufin and pressing gentle fingers to his lips, "I wonder if this is not all one big con on your part. Tell me, Curufinwë, what is it you are trying to gain from this?"

Curufin shoots Finrod a narrow-eyed look and strengthens the walls of his mind. Finrod's hair is cascading around them, backlit by lamplight and burning, leaving them encased by fire. "Why must I be attempting to gain something?" he asks, dragging his fingers through Finrod's hair and tugging lightly.

"I am not a fool," Finrod says, something hard and wild flickering in his eyes, blood in the water. "You must want something from this."

He does. But to admit to what he wants is to admit to far too many other things he cannot bring himself to say. "Does it matter? Will you kick me from your bed if I do not tell you?"

"You know I won't."

"Then why bother asking?"

"Ah, Atarinkë," Finrod says, smile all teeth and sharp, brutal pleasure. "You tell me so much with all you do not say. Surely you know that?"

Curufin cannot name the emotion burning his throat and trying desperately to gain control of his tongue, whether because he does not know the answer or cannot bear to acknowledge it, he does not know. He brings his hands up to cradle Finrod's face and pulls him into a long kiss, all heat and promise.

"Do you trust me?" he asks later, as they lay curled together, forehead to forehead, heart to heart.

Finrod smiles, stroking his thumb over Curufin's cheek. "Not even a little bit."

"Smart of you," he says, unable to help smiling a bit as well. "It's nice to see you do have a brain in that pretty head of yours."

Finrod rolls his eyes and curls in closer, pressing his mouth to Curufin's throat before falling still. He tangles his fingers in Finrod's hair and does not think about how he should go back to his own bed for once. He does not think about the way he had wanted Finrod to say yes, yes I trust you, even when he knew Finrod never would. He simply does not think about any of it.

He pulls Finrod in until they are as close to one singular being as they can be. Falls asleep wanting and wanting and wanting to keep this, to keep Finrod, to close his fingers around things that are not meant for him. 

It is an old story. 

Curufin is so tired of the same pages on loss being read again and again and again. 

☀︎

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