these, our bodies, possessed by light by atlantablack  

---

2. we're shooting the scene where I swallow your heart

---

Let's jump ahead to the moment of epiphany,
in gold light
as the camera pans to where the action is, lakeside and backlit, 
and it all falls into frame,
close enough to see the blue rings of my eyes 
as I say something ugly.

Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out | Richard Siken

☀︎

"You know all of Nargothrond whispers of how often you go to Finrod's chambers," Celegorm says lightly one day, slouching against the wall of the forge. Curufin glances over and finds sharp eyes set under judgmental eyebrows.

"And?" he asks, rolling his eyes. "You say that as if it is to be our downfall. It only helps safely cement our position here."

Celegorm scoffs. “As if that is the reason you go to his bed every time he calls. Fuck, you go even when he doesn’t." There's a brutal pause in which Celegorm waits for Curufin to look at him before saying, "He has you well trained,” a mean, derisive smile accompanying the words. 

Curufin bites back the instinctive response to punch his brother. It is not even true, which is perhaps the most insulting part. Finrod has rarely called for him in the way Celegorm means. Curufin goes because he wishes to, which is far more damning even if less humiliating. If he does not go, then Finrod comes to him. This is also damning, but at least leaves them on equal footing.

“I am happy that you have so little concern for our standing in this city,” he says tightly, digging his heels in and clinging to his reasoning. It is not fully a lie, even if it has very little to do with his reasoning for sleeping with Finrod. 

Celegorm laughs harshly, shaking his head in disgust. "You do not have to whore yourself out to gain us political security. Nelyo would take us in if Finrod kicked us out. You just seem to enjoy being Finrod’s pretty little lapdog.” 

"Have you considered," he bites out through gritted teeth, "that it is both none of your concern and that I am sleeping with him because I want to?”

Celegorm blinks, surprise flitting across his face and lingering in the lines around his mouth. "Yes," he says simply, some of the vitriol fading away. He tilts his head, a curious glint in his eyes. "I certainly didn't expect you to admit it. How interesting."

If Curufin clenches his jaw any tighter he is going to crack his teeth. Finrod suddenly stepping through the doorway on Celegorm's right does not exactly improve his mood, as it is easy to piece together that Finrod must have been eavesdropping. "Findaráto," he greets, voice tight and irritated. "What are you doing all the way down here?"

Finrod does not even look at him, eyes locked on Celegorm, and Curufin has the sudden realization that Finrod’s eyes are far too bright, too wild. He would place money on Finrod having stopped by his study before coming down here.

"You have such interesting opinions of me," Finrod says to Celegorm, voice so mild and soft that it sends an uneasy shiver down Curufin's spine. "I would think you, of all people, would realize that a trained dog can tear a person's throat out just as easily as they can be called to heel."

Bitter, disgusted offense sweeps through him, leaving a snarl on his face. Despite this, there is also a small, minuscule part of him that goes blisteringly hot and bloodthirsty; a part of him that is suddenly desperate to set his teeth against Finrod's skin.

"Though, I must say," Finrod continues, voice still dangerously mild, "I am touched that you have such faith in my abilities to train your brother in such a way."

Celegorm's eyes are glittering with fury, and Curufin is quite sure this is going to escalate to violence if not stopped now. "Drop it, Tyelko," he says sharply. "Drop it and get out." He has the belated realization that he should have sent Finrod away, not his brother. Does not retract the words, for he is still stuck on Finrod's wild eyes, on what that means.

Celegorm gives an ugly laugh and slants a glare his way but, shockingly, does move to leave. Though not before pausing next to Finrod and murmuring something too quiet for Curufin to hear. Finrod watches him leave with an inscrutable look before turning to Curufin expectantly.

"Well? Have I terribly offended you?" Finrod asks lightly, amusement thick in his voice. 

Curufin considers him for a moment, the biting fury on his tongue thick and cloying. Considers what Finrod has come to him for the past two times he has looked wild and untethered to his own skin. Closes the space between them and grabs a handful of Finrod's hair, coiling it tight around his fist.

"On your knees," he orders, voice deadly soft, emphasizing the words with a sharp tug on Finrod's hair.

Finrod smiles and opens his mouth, something cool and pointed likely waiting to fall off his tongue. Curufin jerks Finrod’s head back before he can speak and smirks at the hissed-out breath earned in response. "On, your knees," he says again.

Finrod blinks, gaze flickering to the side and then back to Curufin’s face, indecision clinging tight to him, before he draws in a deep breath and sinks to the floor. He tilts forward, resting his forehead against Curufin's thigh, and it is so obvious, even like this, the way his shoulders loosen from a tension Curufin could barely tell he was holding until it was made obvious in its absence.

"If I am a trained dog at your beck and call, teeth bared for your pleasure, then what does that make you, Ingoldo?" he muses quietly, crouching and tugging Finrod’s head up so they may look at each other.

Finrod stares at him, eyes dark and endless as the treacherous ocean. "Do you not believe I too could be a beast trained for your pleasure?"

"No.” He leans in and kisses Finrod harshly, biting at his mouth. "What could you do for me that I could not do myself?"

"I did not realize you had grown so proficient at fucking yourself," Finrod says wryly.

"Wretch," he murmurs, feeling irritatingly fond despite himself. He pulls Finrod back to his feet, guiding him to the chair set in the corner of the forge. "Sit and be quiet while I work. I will take you to bed afterward."

Finrod stares at him for a long while, rebellion lingering in the lines of his body, before he sinks onto the chair, leaning against the wall with a sigh. He is still holding onto Curufin's wrist tightly, and he knows well what it is Finrod wants, but he was truly in the middle of something before Celegorm interrupted him. "Be patient, and then I will be yours for the evening."

Finrod looks up at him, eyes softening. "Only for the evening?"

The air freezes in Curufin's chest, the implications of such a question too large to be borne. In lieu of an answer he cannot give, he leans down and kisses Finrod long and slow, stroking his thumb over soft skin and wondering how it is that for all of Finrod's softness, it still feels as if he'll slice Curufin's palms open if he breaks. "Patience," he murmurs again when he pulls back, the admonishment for himself as much as for Finrod. It is tempting to abandon his work and take Finrod to bed immediately; his eyes are still closed, mouth parted, and Curufin wishes to continue kissing him. Instead makes himself pull away and return to his work.

He loses himself in his work quickly, glancing over at Finrod a few hours later, and finding him still quietly leaning against the wall, watching Curufin through half-lidded eyes. He places his tools down, moving across the room to tilt Finrod's face up and kiss him. Finrod sighs quietly into the kiss, wrapping his fingers around Curufin's wrist. When he pulls back, he finds that he has left soot staining Finrod's skin, blatant evidence to any who may see them of what they have been doing, and the smug possessiveness that strikes through him is concerning in its intensity.

"Curvo," Finrod murmurs, sounding tired, "take me to bed."

He wavers, caving when Finrod strains upward to capture his mouth again. "If you insist," he says, trailing his hand down and carefully wrapping his fingers around Finrod's neck, leaving sooty fingerprints behind. "Go and wait in my room. I must clean up first."

Finrod shoots him a suspicious look but does rise and wander out of the forge. Curufin should perhaps feel bad about sending Finrod out into the halls with his fingerprints marked clearly on Finrod's skin. Can only bring himself to feel pleased and terribly smug.

When he arrives at his rooms, he finds Finrod naked in the bed, lying on his stomach, face hidden where he has it buried in one of the pillows. Curufin traces the line of Finrod's spine with his eyes, feeling another spark of curiosity at what is causing these strange days where Finrod's mood is inexplicably changed.

Finrod makes a soft noise when Curufin settles on his thighs, pushing into Curufin's hands running down his back and over the swell of his ass. Curufin leans forward and follows the same path with his mouth, sucking a bruise onto Finrod's lower back as he works Finrod open, slick fingers pressed into the tempting heat of his body. Finrod makes a discontented noise when he pulls away, attempting to push back against him, and Curufin places a hand on the small of his back to hold him still. Considers Finrod for a moment, torn between fucking him and continuing with his original plan for the evening.

There will be other nights to freely fuck him though. These days, where the wildness flickers beneath Finrod's skin, are rarer. He makes himself comfortable, sitting with his back to the headboard, before tugging Finrod into his lap and onto his cock. Finrod moans, grinding down, muscles flexing, tension rippling through him, and makes a questioning noise when Curufin forcefully holds him still. Curufin grips Finrod’s hips tight enough to bruise and captures his mouth in a slow kiss, humming in approval when Finrod slowly relaxes against him. 

“Good,” he murmurs against Finrod’s mouth, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, the curve of his jaw. “Relax.” He finishes arranging them to his liking, Finrod’s face hidden against his neck, the blankets tugged around Finrod’s shoulder, Curufin knowing how bitterly Finrod still hates the cold. Once he has finished that, he plucks his book from the bedside table and begins reading. 

Finrod's body loosens slowly, the hidden tension slowly seeping out of him the longer he stays seated in Curufin's lap. He cannot stop himself from grinding up into Finrod occasionally, the warmth of his body around Curufin's cock a constant temptation. The damp heat of Finrod's shaky breaths against his neck a delight. He keeps them like that long past the point his focus blurs, and he stops comprehending the words on the page. Keeps them like that until Finrod has gone completely and utterly pliant against him, not a trace of tension or wildness to be found anywhere. Only then does he twist them, laying Finrod out on the bed and fucking him slowly. 

Something goes shivery and tight in his chest at the sight of Finrod staring up at him, eyes blown out with want, all his defenses fully stripped away. There is something in his eyes as Curufin fucks him that he does not recognize. Something lingering in the soft lines of his mouth, the way his fingers stay tangled in Curufin’s hair, holding him close. Finrod’s mouth parts beneath his like an offering and Curufin drinks him down; gets a hand between them and slowly strokes Finrod’s cock in time with his thrusts. Finrod makes a gasping, strangled noise as he spills over Curufin’s fingers, his name a plea that slides so prettily off of Finrod’s tongue, and he groans, burying his face against Finrod’s neck as the pleasure crests and crashes down so viciously that the edges of his vision go white.   

They stay tangled together beneath the covers, Curufin’s cock slipping from Finrod’s body and dragging an unhappy whine from him. Curufin smiles, pressing another kiss to Finrod’s mouth. “You are utterly shameless,” he murmurs, burying his fingers in Finrod’s hair and holding him close. 

“You enjoy me shameless,” Finrod returns, the words slurred. 

Curufin does not deny it, only curls around Finrod and listens to his breathing as sleep slowly steals over them. Curufin has a terrible feeling that he has walked off a precipice without even noticing. That even now he is free-falling toward something he is not ready for, toward something he is not allowed to wish for. 

It is rather too late though, he thinks quietly as sleep finally steals him away; it is only a matter of time before he hits the ground. What happens after that depends on if anyone is waiting to catch him, depends on if his hands have gotten any better at holding onto the things he wants to keep. 

☀︎

They have been in Nargothrond for a year and a half when Celebrimbor looks at him over dinner and seemingly out of the blue asks, “Do you ever think about Amil anymore? 

It is lucky that he had waited for Curufin to be between bites, for he nearly manages to choke on air alone at the question. "Why do you ask?" he manages to get out, voice strangled. Celebrimbor has not mentioned Tiquiliel to him since they entered Beleriand. It is not a topic Curufin had thought to ever have to broach. 

Celebrimbor shrugs, eyes locked on his plate. “I had thought you were in agreement with Nóatar when it came to second spouses,” his son says, seemingly oblivious to the ice that slices down Curufin’s spine. “I only wondered if you ever still thought of her.” 

Finrod's name has not entered the room, and yet Curufin can hear it lingering loudly in the spaces between each of Celebrimbor's words. The topic is not something Curufin has given any thought to. In part, of course, because he has tried to give the entire thing very little thought at all. But also because the idea of spouses had never entered his mind in conjunction with Finrod’s name. It leaves something hard and bitter lodged tight in his throat now that it has. 

"I have not thought of Tiquiliel in many years," he says after what feels like an eternity of pained silence. It is the truth, for all that it is likely not what his son wishes to hear. Their marriage bond is still a tightly wound knot in the back of his mind, but it is something he gives little thought to. It is, in truth, more of an annoyance than anything else. A bruise that he can press on when he's feeling particularly annoyed by its continued presence. Something to dig into so that the resentment pooling around the bond can find new crevices of his mind to sink into. 

He does not think of Tiquiliel herself, not truly. These days, he’s only half-sure he remembers what she looks like. 

“So you do not agree with Nóatar then?” Celebrimbor asks, pushing at the topic. 

Curufin wants to say, of course I agree with him. Of course what Finwë brought about by marrying Indis was wrong. Of course I think that one is honor-bound to their marriage bond. Instead, he can only think of Finrod—his placid smiles, his bright eyes darting to Curufin's during council meetings, the sharp words that Curufin has had the pleasure of cutting himself against, golden hair and golden smiles. 

He cannot, in any true sense, say that he wholly agrees with his father. What a bitter truth to be faced with. 

“I agree with him on many things,” Curufin finally settles on. Celebrimbor frowns at him, opening his mouth as if he means to continue pushing, but Curufin cuts him off. “Enough. There is no need for you to concern yourself with this.” 

Celebrimbor's frown settles into a mulish, ugly thing, but he falls silent. Curufin wishes that brought him some measure of peace.

“I wish your mother no harm,” he concedes when Celebrimbor moves to leave, dinner having been finished in silence. 

Celebrimbor pauses, a hand on the back of the chair, eyes fixed on the door. “But you do not love her? You do not miss her?” 

"No. I do not love or miss her. I have not in a very, very long time." He does not say that he stopped missing his wife before the trees even went out, and Celebrimbor does not ask. Only gives one last jerky nod before leaving. 

Curufin sits at the table for a long time trying to decide if this changes anything at all for him. He thinks it should. 

He knows it doesn’t.  

☀︎

Finrod comes to him bright-eyed and wild twice more before Curufin broaches the subject.

"What causes it?" he asks, his thumb rubbing circles on Finrod's shoulder. They are lying in bed, and he is thinking of how different Finrod's body feels against his when normally sated versus when he has gone completely pliant after one of his strange moods.

"Causes what?" Finrod asks, sleep heavy in his voice. He is curled up next to Curufin, an arm tossed over his stomach, a leg tossed over his, face hidden against his shoulder.  

"The days that you hide from your advisors, your people, and come to me."

Finrod shrugs slightly, turning farther into Curufin's arms. "Do we not all have days where everything snaps tight and leaves the tongue more willing to wound?"

"My tongue is always willing to wound," he points out, humming with pleasure when Finrod laughs. "That is all there is to it? I expected something more scandalous."

"Scandalous? I would never," Finrod says in an exaggerated voice of offense, even as he smiles, tilting his face up and catching Curufin’s mouth in a warm kiss. 

He waits until Finrod has resettled before saying, “Do not think it escaped my notice that you did not answer the question.” He strokes his hand down Finrod’s spine, too comfortable and content to care overly much about the avoidance of the question. 

Finrod says nothing, only presses a kiss to Curufin’s neck and hums quietly. 

"Keep your secrets then," he murmurs, pressing his mouth to the side of Finrod's head and breathing him in. Has the absurd desire to promise things he should not. Perhaps he has had too few good things since arriving in this accursed land, and that is why Finrod is burrowing beneath his skin so quickly and with such precision.

Perhaps it is just Finrod being so beautifully golden that it scalds sticking his hands into the molten center of him. Curufin does not know. Knows only that he is cut through with longing and no longer knows how to close the wounds.

☀︎

Several weeks later, Curufin returns to his rooms to find Finrod sprawled across his settee, a wine bottle dangling from his fingers, and a blank look upon his face as he stares at the ceiling.  He wonders suddenly, if he should not have pushed harder at Finrod's obvious avoidance of any real answers given in regard to his strange moods.

“Findaráto,” he says evenly, closing the door and tossing his jacket aside. “I did not realize I had invited you into my rooms today.” 

Finrod does not answer, only continues staring at the ceiling, fingers tapping out an uneven rhythm where his hand rests on his stomach. Curufin frowns, glancing around his room and frowning harder when he spots another wine bottle carelessly lying sideways on the floor. He moves across the room, standing next to the settee and staring down at Finrod expectantly. Finrod stares back, mouth twisting miserably. 

“What is wrong with you? I do not recall hearing of any new tragedies having befallen today,” he says, an uneasy worry curdling in his chest and blunting any impatience he may feel. 

"How do you think this ends?" Finrod asks quietly, closing his eyes as if the sight of Curufin pains him. "It was easy to pretend before, was it not? That all of this would turn out well in the end, even if not quite in the way we wanted. But now—" his voice breaks and he half-sits up, taking another long drink of wine. 

Curufin plucks the bottle right out of his hand, ignoring the outraged noise Finrod makes. He seats himself on the settee, tugging Finrod's head back down and onto his lap. "What are you going on about?" he asks, even as he slowly begins undoing Finrod's braids. They're terribly mussed and tangled in spots, as if Finrod had been pulling at his own hair. 

“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed," Finrod murmurs, and a chill goes down Curufin's spine. "How do you think this ends? We cannot win." 

If Finrod were saying the words in scorn, in derision, in anger, then Curufin may have been able to kindle the rage sitting in his chest. As it is, he can only sigh as he carefully drags his fingers through Finrod’s hair, coaxing the tangles out. “You are being depressingly maudlin. None of this is new. What has brought this on?” 

"Always darkness," Finrod says, the words nonsensical. His eyes are still closed, and as Curufin watches, a tear escapes, slipping down his cheek. "No matter what we do, I look, and I see nothing but darkness." 

Curufin must close his own eyes as understanding sweeps over him. “You should not look then,” he says, voice coming out harsher than he’d meant for it to. It is one thing to hear that they are doomed when it is merely words from a forsaken land. It is another entirely to hear that it ends in darkness and doom because Finrod has seen it. 

Finrod does not answer, dragging in a shaking breath, and Curufin relaxes in his seat, still running his fingers through Finrod’s hair. Does not allow himself to dwell on the words at all. He knows there are few ways for any of this to end. He simply does not allow himself to dwell on the thoughts, knowing well that to give the thoughts power only hastens the enemy's triumph. 

“Sometimes,” Finrod says quietly, voice wavering, “I wonder if it would have been better to have never left Tirion.” 

Curufin’s chest goes brutally tight. “That sounds boring,” he mutters, tugging lightly at Finrod’s hair. “You cannot tell me you would prefer to still be in Aman.” 

Finrod makes a low, harsh noise and twists, burying his face against Curufin’s stomach. “Always darkness,” Finrod says, voice muffled. “Every path leads to darkness. We are doomed no matter what we do, Atarinkë.” 

“Perhaps,” he says evenly, refusing to acknowledge how ill he feels at Finrod’s words. “But it matters not. We must keep trying regardless.” 

Finrod makes another miserable noise, fingers tightening in Curufin’s robes, and he sighs, standing and lifting Finrod into his arms in one smooth movement. “You will feel better after you have slept this off. And then we will speak on your foolish decision to keep searching through a future that does nothing but upset you.” Curufin lays Finrod in the bed, brushing his hair out of his face and bending to kiss him. “It is not all bad, Ingoldo,” he says quietly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Finrod’s eye. “You are meant to be the optimist between us, should you not know this?” 

“Stay,” Finrod says in return, voice fragile in a way Curufin has never been allowed to hear it. 

It makes Curufin's chest go even tighter, heart crawling up his throat and threatening to spill all over the sheets. He does not answer, but he kisses Finrod again before undressing and joining him in the bed. Finrod curls up against him, and this time Curufin is sure that this is trust he is being granted. Is sure that this has become something far, far bigger than he'd ever meant for it to. 

It is unfortunate, that he has no intention of letting it go now that he has managed to grasp onto it. 

☀︎

Following Finrod’s melancholy and Curufin’s allowing of it, his attempts at comfort, Finrod takes to watching him strangely. It is not a calculating gaze, which may have put Curufin on edge, only a perplexed look that he often dons when he believes Curufin will not see.  But he spies it out of the corner of his eye, in mirrors, when he turns quicker than Finrod can conceal it.

On this, Curufin does not push, not sure he wishes to hear what words pushing would draw forth. Instead, he works Finrod up about this policy or that courtier, pokes fun at the edain until Finrod slams him against a wall in a rare fit of true anger. He spends fewer and fewer nights alone. Allows Finrod to take more and more liberties with his body in bed, takes more and more in return. But he does not push at the emotion Finrod tries to hide from him.

Still, eventually, a couple of months later, Finrod approaches the subject.

“I am surprised you have not grown tired of this yet,” Finrod says idly one afternoon, sprawled across his bed, staring at the ceiling as he attempts to give the impression that the words mean little to him.

Curufin stills where he had been about to toss his cloak aside before joining Finrod. “What is there to grow tired of?” he asks, voice sharp.

Finrod hums, a high note that catches on the lights and causes their beams to waver. "I am simply surprised that you still come to my bed so frequently. I would not have expected it of you." His voice is so light and airy that if Curufin did not know better, he may have believed it.

Curufin has had many months to prepare for this conversation. It is an inevitable thing that must spill between them before they can continue as they are. This does not make him any more prepared to have it. This does not grant him the words to speak.

"Do you wish me gone from your bed then?" is what comes out, words biting and mocking. He does not like that he wishes to stay in Finrod's bed. Would prefer if this were merely a passing fancy so that he may shrug and leave without another thought.

"Did I say that?" Finrod asks, sitting up and finally looking at him. For all his attempted levity, there is a tight look to his face. "So defensive. It was only an observation."

Curufin scowls, hesitating before tossing his cloak aside as intended and stalking toward the bed. Finrod imperceptibly leans forward as he approaches, eyes fluttering closed when Curufin slides his fingers into Finrod's hair and tugs his head back far enough for it to be uncomfortable. "If you wish me to leave your bed, you may say so," he says harshly, even as he gently curls his fingers around Finrod's throat. "If you do not, then ask what you mean to ask."

Finrod swallows hard, meeting Curufin's gaze, a challenge in his eyes. "Why are you still coming to my bed? It has been nearly two years, Curufinwë. I expected you to grow tired of this months and months ago."

"And I will ask you again, what is there to grow tired of?" Curufin knows what it is Finrod wishes for him to say. He does not know if he wants to say it. Does not know if he could, even if he did want to.

There's a terribly long, crackling moment of silence, Finrod wrapping his fingers around Curufin's wrist and digging his nails into the thin skin. His eyes are very, very blue as he studies Curufin's face, and sometimes, when Finrod stares at him, Curufin almost feels he can catch a glimpse of the helcaraxë hidden in the depths of Finrod's eyes. The ice that had followed him into Beleriand, haunting footsteps and trying to find new skin to slide beneath, new blood to freeze. 

In the end, Finrod only sighs and says, "Come to bed, dear one," voice unbearably gentle as he curls his fingers into Curufin's tunic and pulls.

Curufin flushes hot at the endearment, desire choking him abruptly and viciously. He goes, pressing Finrod down into the bed and kissing the words from his lips.

It is not an answer, except for all the ways that it is.

☀︎

"You must know your little tryst with our dear cousin is not going to end well?" Celegorm says to him when the second year passes, and it becomes clear Curufin intends to continue on the way he has been. Celegorm is leaning against the wall of the forge once more, harassing Curufin in a place he cannot easily walk away from.

Curufin scowls, tossing his braid over his shoulder. "I do not understand why it bothers you so," he snaps, already annoyed with the conversation. "I was under the impression that you liked Findaráto. Has he not always been one of your more favored cousins?"

"He is," Celegorm agrees easily, flashing a smile that's all fang. "He's a vicious bastard even if he would rather not let on. That doesn't change that this is not going to end well."

He purses his lips and turns back to his work, ignoring Celegorm. It is not as if he does not know this. It is not as if Finrod does not know this. But it will end in hurt feelings and blood and darkness one way or another, whether they are in each other's beds or at each other's throats. Violence begets violence, and that is all this family has ever been at its core. It will not stop him from snatching what little happiness he can from the mess.

Celegorm sighs after a while, when it becomes clear Curufin will be giving no answer, and walks over, slinging his arm around Curufin's shoulders. "You are going to get hurt," Celegorm says, "and then I will have to tear Finrod's throat out, which will be inconvenient for everyone involved."

Curufin swallows down the words that had instinctively risen in his throat, a snarled threat to leave Finrod alone. If it comes to that, Curufin will handle it on his own. "I will be just fine, Tyelko. But I thank you for your concern."

His brother scoffs but knocks their heads together gently, so he is forgiven. He is sure this is far from the last time he will have to endure Celegorm's concern, but it is a small price to pay.

☀︎

Finrod grows less concerned with secrecy after the conversation that was not truly a conversation, though neither of them have put much effort into concealing their comings and goings from each other's rooms. If Celegorm is to be believed, and Curufin does believe him, then all of Nargothrond is well aware that they are sleeping together. Yet, they have still had a modicum of decency and kept their business behind closed doors.

But now, Finrod begins pulling him into shadowed alcoves to kiss for a few minutes as they pass each other by, heedless of any who may stumble upon them. Curufin thinks about counseling against it, about the implications of them being so open about sleeping together, and instead of uneasiness, all that rushes through him is a choking possessiveness. It is one thing for a city to know that its king has a regular lover, an open secret that, if not shamefully kept, is still kept close. It is another entirely for the king to treat their lover as one would treat someone they are courting. 

They do end up having people stumble upon them here and there. They are always greeted with wide eyes and an apology before the person leaves. Finrod is kind in this as well, smiling and assuring whoever it is that they've caused no harm, all sugary sweet as if he was not just moments ago biting at Curufin's mouth and pressing bloodless crescents into his skin. Curufin only stares until the people leave, before licking the sweetness of the words from Finrod’s mouth. 

Finrod has an ever-growing rotation of endearments that he begins to whisper against Curufin’s skin and against his mouth, each one leaving Curufin feeling overheated and terrified. Dear one, my song, my star, my fire in the night. It leaves words slamming against the back of his own teeth, words he will not, cannot say. He is not able to so sufficiently lie to himself that he is not aware of what it is they are doing. He knows. He knows. 

Finrod crawls into his bed and into his heart, and he is helpless to stop it. Would not, even if he could. He sinks his teeth into the heart of it all and tightens his fingers around Finrod's body until he can almost believe he will be able to hold onto the fragile relationship growing between them.

Almost. 

Always almost. 

But Curufin has never truly been able to hold onto a single thing his hands have touched with true want. It is only a matter of time before this slips through his fingers as well. 

☀︎

---

Chapter End Notes

Curufin: if I simply don’t look at it then the plot isn’t there and everything is very aggressively fine

The plot: 🤨