these, our bodies, possessed by light by atlantablack  

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3. you swallow my heart and flee

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Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist.
Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me, and here
is the center of me,
which is a lake,
which is a well that we can drink from, but I can't go through with it.

I just don't want to die anymore.

Saying Your Names | Richard Siken

☀︎

It is several months after the conversation that was not a conversation that the entire situation once more gets turned on its head. Curufin is preparing for the day as Finrod lounges in bed and watches. He is sated and satisfied, which would usually mean that he is unlikely to move for another hour. It is surprising then, when Finrod does rise; the dressing gown he dons hangs loose around him, a mocking charade of modesty. 

"Come," Finrod says lightly, grabbing his wrist and directing him toward the vanity, "let me fix your hair."

"There is nothing wrong with my hair," he says, frowning and resisting the urge to touch the simple braids self-consciously. "Has your sight finally gone along with your sense?”

"Come," Finrod says again, hands unyielding as he pushes Curufin into the seat.

He considers arguing, brushing Finrod off and going about his day, but curiosity keeps him seated. Finrod undoes his braids swiftly, running gentle fingers through his hair. Finrod's eyes are fixed on Curufin's hair as he braids and pins, plucking various ornaments from the table here and there to weave into the design. Curufin's eyes stay locked on Finrod's face in the mirror, bottom lip caught between teeth in a rare show of uncertainty. 

"There," Finrod says after a while, fingers brushing their way over Curufin's ears and down his neck, before grabbing the hand mirror and holding it up behind Curufin. "What do you think?"

Curufin looks and loses his voice entirely. 

Finrod has braided half of his hair into several loose braids and wound them into a high half-knot; a multitude of small, tightly woven braids wound around the knot and left cascading down his back. It will keep his hair out of the way easily enough, is not so elaborate as to be truly eye-catching, though it is not a style commonly seen on any of the Noldor. No, if that were all there were to it, then Curufin would be content, if not confused by Finrod's insistence on doing his hair. What causes his voice to freeze in his throat is what Finrod has woven into the braids. Tiny, shining beads, those that would blend nicely with Finrod's hair but stand out sharply against the darkness of his own. Many hold simple patterns or symbols — flowers, shells, stars — but the rest, the rest are all perfectly marked with the symbol of Finrod’s house, the eyes of the snake adorning each bead a brilliant, poisonous green. 

It is a statement. 

It is as good as a collar around Curufin's throat, proclaiming for all to see, your king has spoken for me.

Finrod is watching his face in the mirror, tension lingering in the creases of his eyes. "Will it suit, do you think?" he asks softly, trailing his fingers down Curufin's throat once more.

He catches Finrod's wrist, turning his head and pressing his mouth to the center of Finrod's palm. Curufin thinks of Celegorm saying, you are going to get hurt, and knows it is true. Knows that he is fated to mourn this when the doom finally catches up to them. 

He turns in the seat, drawing Finrod into his lap, all tempting skin, silk slipping down his shoulders, and drags him into a kiss. Finrod melts into it, hands coming up to frame Curufin's face as he presses in close. Curufin could die in this spot, and he might count it a blessing. A beautiful ending to a tragedy he's always known he'll likely die in.

"You cannot take this back," he murmurs. 

"Why ever would I want to take it back?" Finrod asks, voice light and satisfied. His eyes though, when Curufin meets them, are burning with hunger.

He breathes out slowly, brushing a kiss over Finrod's shoulder, his mad pulse, the satisfied curve of his mouth. There are words stuck in his throat, begging to be released, but he swallows them back down. Lifts Finrod and switches their positions. Finrod settles in the seat, making a surprised noise as Curufin goes to his knees.

The silk parts easily and Finrod moans so beautifully when Curufin takes his cock in hand and swallows him down. He works Finrod to hardness quickly, before slowing and hiking one of Finrod's legs over his shoulder. Finrod is still wet and loose from earlier and gasps as Curufin fucks two fingers in, back arching, fingers digging into his thighs since he cannot clutch at Curufin's hair without ruining it. He takes his time, relishing every moan, every choked whimper, the trembling of Finrod’s thighs, the shaking fingers trailing along his jaw as he takes Finrod’s cock all the way down into his throat. 

“Curvo,” Finrod chokes out, voice rough. Curufin glances up, feeling nearly sick with want, and finds Finrod watching him as if he has handed over far more of himself than he’d meant to. Finrod swallows hard, holding his gaze and pressing a finger to the corner of his mouth, shivering when Curufin fucks his fingers in hard. “Beloved,” he says gently, eyes blown out with greed and a want so deep Curufin could lose himself in it. 

He hears himself make a choked, high-pitched, desperate noise that would be embarrassing if he had any thought to spare for the emotion. Finrod makes a pained noise in return, heedlessly shoving fingers into his hair and pushing his head all the way down, choking him as Finrod spills down his throat with a moan. He swallows as best he can, coughing harshly when he pulls off and catching Finrod in his arms when he immediately slides off the chair and into Curufin's lap, pulling him into a desperate kiss. 

They are neither of them in a very balanced position, and it is rather inevitable when the kiss grows too desperate, and they end up tumbling backwards onto the floor, saved only from a truly uncomfortable fall by the plush rugs Finrod has in his rooms. As it is, they merely reposition themselves and continue kissing. Curufin is hard and aching in his breeches, and Finrod is a long line of sinful warmth as he grinds down on Curufin's cock. 

“Beloved,” Finrod murmurs against his mouth, grinding down again and swallowing down the moan that tears out of him. 

“Stop,” he manages to bite out, attempting to pull Finrod back into the kiss. 

Finrod pays him no mind, kissing his jaw, and then biting down savagely on his throat, working a bruise high enough on it that Curufin will either have to sing it away or leave it visible for all to see. “Beloved,” he says again, repeating the word again and again as he rocks his hips and marks Curufin up like it will kill him to leave any skin unbruised. 

Curufin wants him to shut up, to say it louder, to mean it. Feels a little as if there is something deep inside of his chest that is close to shattering if Finrod does not shut up. Finally succeeds in pulling Finrod back up and kissing him, which rather effectively shuts him up. It does not last though, as the pleasure begins to spiral higher and higher, and he grips Finrod’s hips tight, rutting up against him as he chases the fall. 

“Dearest one,” Finrod says softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Beloved.” Another kiss to the other cheek as he ignores Curufin’s muttered orders to stop. And then, like a sword against the aching veins of his heart, “My love.” 

His vision goes black as he spills, gasping and overly sensitive, Finrod’s mouth a brand against his skin. He does not stop shaking for several long minutes as the pleasure tears through him, Finrod’s words ringing in his ears. He makes no move to get up once he regains his senses, only tightens his arms around Finrod, and keeps his eyes closed so that he does not have to see whatever it is that Finrod’s face is doing. 

"A bath, I think," Finrod says after a while, running his fingers along the bruises he has left scattered all over Curufin's neck. "I am in need of one and, despite my best efforts, we have messed up both your hair and your clothes. So, you may as well join me.” 

He snorts, twisting them and pinning Finrod to the floor, fragile bones and a racing pulse caught tight in his fists. Finrod stares up at him, eyes as endless as the sky, and filled with a tentative hope. The words are stuck in his throat, waiting to be said, but—

—Curufin cannot say it back. 

He cannot. 

He breathes out in a rush, pressing his forehead against Finrod’s. “Okay,” he says softly, wishing they could stay in this bubble of fragile intimacy forever. “Okay. Let’s go bathe, Ingo. You can sing these bedamned bruises away while we’re at it.” 

Finrod’s laugh is a fragile, shaking thing, but his kiss is warm and sure and full of promise. Curufin should not, should try to tear the roots from the ground and flee, but he only kisses back. 

He knows he is going to get hurt. He’s long past caring. 

☀︎

Finrod puts the braids back in Curufin's hair before he leaves the room, and Curufin lets him. Gently touches the beads, mind already spinning through options on how to best lay his own claim on Nargothrond’s king. 

Celegorm’s outraged expression when he sees Curufin’s hair would have been almost funny, if he did not know that he would have to hear about it at length later. Celebrimbor’s face cycles through shock to disbelief to dim horror before settling on disbelief. He does not say a word though, and Curufin has no interest in hearing other people’s opinions on the matter, so he does not ask. 

Still, looks follow him around the city all day and then all through the week, despite the braids no longer being in his hair. The statement has been made with a vividness that will not fade. Finrod had spent that first day looking insufferably pleased whenever his gaze landed on Curufin, preening like a cat that has just successfully made a particularly difficult kill. The look becomes only slightly less insufferable once the braids have left his hair. 

He should likely mind this far more than he does, but he is quite sure, that in the end, it will be him having the last laugh. Everyone seems to be under the impression that Finrod has collared him, claimed him as one would claim someone beneath them, that it is a scale tipped only in Finrod’s favor. Whether this is because they simply do not think Finrod will allow himself to be claimed in the same way or because they do not think Curufin will have the nerve to attempt to claim him, he does not know nor care. 

It will be less amusing for them when he has placed his own claim around Finrod’s throat. 

☀︎

“Are you in love with him?” Celebrimbor asks him abruptly one day as they’re working together. 

Curufin tries to spend at least a couple of days a week in the forge with Celebrimbor and almost regrets that now as he nearly takes his finger off in surprise, instead shattering the delicate filigree he'd had set to the side. He curses, setting his hammer aside and glaring at his son, who grimaces back at him apologetically. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding it at all, “I should have waited for you to put your tools down.” 

“Or,” he says dryly, “you could mind your own business and not worry about mine.” He frowns at the shattered filigree before sighing, resigned to melting it down and starting over. 

“Are you in love with him?” Celebrimbor asks again, a distinctly stubborn tone to the words. “Or,” he continues, shoulders tight and anxious, “is this some political maneuver where you do not actually care for him at all?” 

Curufin does not answer for a moment, busying himself with setting the silver to melt again. “What does it matter?” he asks finally, unwilling to admit the truth, and not entirely sure what has made his son so worried about the second option that he has felt it necessary to bring it up. 

Celebrimbor makes a choked noise, face pained when Curufin glances at him with a raised eyebrow. “Tyelko said that you are—”

He sighs explosively, gesturing sharply. "Ignore whatever Tyelko has said in his stupidity." He hesitates, eyeing his son, and then looks to the silver shimmering as it melts. "I am not going to hurt him," he says after another moment. It is entirely possible the words will end up being a lie, but he does not have any intention of purposefully doing so. 

"You let him do your hair," Celebrimbor says, and it is not quite an accusation, but it is close. "You wore his sigil." 

“I did,” he agrees, for it is a simple fact. 

“And you are in love with him?” 

He grits his teeth, breathing in and out slowly. “Whether I am or am not is irrelevant,” he bites out. “It is not for you to worry about, Tyelpe.” 

His son laughs, a full-belly laugh, and he still does not look quite at ease, but he does look very, very amused. "Atar," he says, slightly apologetic, "If you were not, you would have said so already. I would not have needed to ask a second time."  

“It does not matter," he snaps, skin prickling uneasily, stomach turning over with nausea. "Go back to your work; do not worry about my relationship with Findaráto.” 

Celebrimbor frowns at him but turns back to the lanterns he'd been engraving. Curufin does not apologize for snapping, but he does hug Celebrimbor tight before they leave the forge that night.

Celebrimbor sighs and hugs him back, says quietly, "You seem happier these days. I'm glad."

Curufin does not acknowledge the words, but they settle in the back of his mind and haunt him.

☀︎

It is only two days later that his captain, Axohatal, approaches him, the beads seemingly having signaled the topic as something it is now acceptable to bother him about. 

"Shall I take this as an indication that we will be residing in Nargothrond permanently then?" she asks smoothly, face free of any judgement. If she had not been with Curufin when they arrived in Beleriand, he might even have believed the facade of neutrality. 

“You ask me this as if we were planning to leave soon,” he says, raising an eyebrow. 

“No, but we were planning on leaving, were we not?” 

He sighs, running his thumbnail over the pad of his index finger as he thinks. “Yes, I suppose we were.” He does not wish to admit that he has not given it any thought as to whether this changes things in that regard. Imagines he should probably start thinking about these things. 

Though, in truth, even that is a lie. He knows. He knows the answers to all these questions; he just has never explicitly let the thoughts drift through his mind. He prefers the not knowing. Prefers the pretense that this is a temporary thing that can be easily discarded when needed. 

“And now?” Axohatal asks, eyebrows raising only slightly. 

“And now, it seems as if it is unlikely we will be leaving, the state of Beleriand being irrelevant to the decision.” 

“I see.” She shifts as if to leave and pauses, studying him. “Some are uneasy with the idea of you and your cousin being so closely linked.” 

It is nothing Curufin had not expected. It still nettles him to hear. “That is unsurprising. Are they uneasy with it to a degree that I should be concerned?” 

“Not yet. I will report if it reaches that point.” 

“Good. And, do I need to be concerned about you?” 

“No, my lord. I will not pretend to understand what it is you are doing, but it is not for me to concern myself with.” 

He nods, waving a hand dismissively, and she bows before leaving. 

He sits at his desk for a long time after she leaves, carefully clearing his mind and doing his very best to think on none of it at all. Later, he promises himself. First, he will place his own claim on Finrod, a return statement. Then, then he will think on the rest. 

☀︎

The necklace Curufin makes is a necklace, though he had been tempted to make a proper collar. It is subtle, in much the same way the beads are when Finrod braids them into his hair.

Delicate silver chains interlocking like lace to wrap around Finrod's throat thrice and waterfall across his collarbone and upper chest. Tiny jewels placed along the chains to shimmer in the light, many colorless diamonds or yellow and green garnets that match Finrod's sigil nicely. But what makes it a claim, a near collar regardless of the design, is the brilliant blood-red jewel etched with the Fëanorian star, with Curufin's sigil, that will rest in the hollow of Finrod's throat for all to see. Not so large as to be gaudy, just the right size for the sigil to be easily marked and visible, to draw the eye without pulling attention fully from the necklace.

He stares at the necklace for a long time when he finishes it, asking himself if he truly wishes to place this around Finrod's neck. Such a large claim — the king of Nargothrond; Curufin's beautiful, golden cousin; and himself still married in the eyes of Eru — and he knows it turns this into something far closer to a promise of permanency than he had ever intended to give. A promise that has been building in his throat but that he has not been able to speak.

He takes the necklace with him to Finrod's rooms.

Of course he takes the necklace with him. He should perhaps stop trying to fool himself into thinking this is anything other than what it is. Curufin greedily trying to sink his teeth into Finrod's heart and keep it.

Finrod is not there when Curufin arrives, and he places the box containing the necklace on the vanity, going to lounge on the bed as he waits. He must doze off, for he wakes some time later to Finrod's hand on his cheek and the warm press of his mouth. He hums into it, covering Finrod's hand with his own.

"It is always a nice surprise to find you waiting for me in my bed," Finrod murmurs, affection thick in his voice.

Curufin kisses him again, tempted to draw Finrod into bed and leave the necklace for later, but the desire to see it around Finrod's neck is too strong.

"Come, I have something for you," he says, rising and directing Finrod to the vanity.

Finrod says nothing when Curufin opens the box, only stares at the necklace, mouth parted in thought. He pulls his hair out of the way a moment later, glancing up at Curufin with ocean-dark eyes, and says, half-dare, half-hunger, "Go on then."

Curufin fastens the necklace around Finrod's neck, pressing up against his back and curling his fingers around Finrod's throat after, right above where the red jewel sits stark against Finrod's skin. "Well," he murmurs next to Finrod's ear, "I suppose I must keep you now."

Finrod shivers, breath catching. "I suppose so," he says back quietly. In the mirror, Finrod's eyes are blown out with want, and Curufin tips his head back, kissing him slowly. Finrod responds beautifully, a low whine slipping out of his mouth when Curufin squeezes his throat slightly.

He presses his mouth to the side of Finrod's throat, against the necklace still cool to the touch. Finrod makes a ragged noise as Curufin slowly begins undoing his robes, slipping them off one shoulder and then the other, hunger hooking itself irreversibly inside of his lungs.

The necklace is beautiful against Finrod's bare skin, glittering and saying everything Curufin cannot bring himself to put into words.

"Keep me," Finrod says softly, meeting his eyes in the mirror, "For how long do you plan on doing so?"

He must be mad, for without any conscious thought given to the words, he says, low and fierce, "Until the stars go out."

"When the world is made anew, there will still be stars, do you not think so?"

"Yes," he says, chest aching, "I believe there will still be stars."

Finrod's eyes slip closed as he shivers again, swallowing hard. Curufin feels a little like he's moving through a dream, something too boiling sweet for him to be allowed to touch.

He takes Finrod to bed, fucks him slow in front of the mirror, watching the light glittering off the necklace and the way Finrod melts, eyes locked on Curufin's face.

"Just look at you," he murmurs, ghosting his fingers over Finrod's cock, and down to the place where they're joined. He pulls Finrod's thighs apart even farther, giving himself a better view of his cock pressed inside of Finrod's body. "What would your kingdom think of you if they knew how eagerly you spread your legs for me?" He kisses Finrod's neck, biting down gently, and smiling at the breathless noise of want that slides from Finrod's tongue.

"I imagine they would understand, if they knew how very lovely your cock was," Finrod chokes out, voice cracking when Curufin grinds up into him.

"Using me for my body then I see. How crass of you."

Finrod meets his eyes in the mirror, says very clearly, "The heart is also a part of the body. Am I being granted use of it as well?"

Curufin cannot speak; his throat closed up, tongue turned thick and clumsy in his mouth. What can he possibly say to that? He says nothing in the end, cannot, only fists Finrod's cock and takes him apart piece by piece until he is shaking and shattered in Curufin's lap.

If Curufin could, he would trap this moment in amber, a perfect memory captured forever in time. He wants Finrod always this close, always blissed out with Curufin's name his foremost thought. He wants to twist them so close together they are never apart, always soul pressed to soul. A dangerous, impossible wish.

Does it make him a fool that he wishes it regardless? He has never been in the habit of entertaining foolish thoughts; what a disgusting thing to have so easily succumbed to them now.

☀︎

"It is a dangerous claim to make," Finrod says later, running a finger over the necklace as Curufin holds him, mouth pressed to the back of Finrod's neck.

"Is it?"

"If you aren't careful, people might start to think you actually care."

"Indeed," he murmurs, kissing Finrod's shoulder. "How presumptuous of them."

Finrod twists in his arms, eyebrows drawn together as he studies Curufin's face. "Is it?" Finrod asks, bringing his hand up to cradle Curufin's cheek. "Beloved," Finrod says gently, eyes gone soft as summer rain.

Curufin shudders and closes his eyes, turning his head and kissing Finrod's palm. Finrod only tugs him back around, kissing him so gently it hurts. A slow cut through an already open wound.

"Would it be so terrible a thing to admit to?" Finrod asks quietly, their lips still brushing with every word. "Or will you tell me there is nothing to admit?"

"You always ask for so much," Curufin replies, tilting his head slightly, their noses brushing as he presses his lips to the corner of Finrod's mouth. "I have put the work of my hands around your throat. I have allowed you to put the sigil of your house in my hair. What more do you wish of me, Ingo?"

Finrod makes a noise like he's been punched and presses in closer until Curufin can feel Finrod's heartbeat racing next to his own. "Oh, don't you know, Curufinwë? I want everything, to scrape you hollow until I have learned all there is to know of you.”

"You will have to work harder to earn all of that," he murmurs, though he knows Finrod can feel his racing pulse giving him away. "You always ask for so much."

Finrod smiles, sliding his fingers into Curufin's hair and pulling tight. "You let me claim you," he says, voice low and thick with satisfaction, "you should not have done such a thing if you did not want me to reach for the rest of you as well."

There is a peculiar, sour mix of greed and anxiety and want all swirled together in his chest. A sticky, uncomfortable feeling that slowly drips through him, polluting every one of his veins. If he could, Curufin would pluck Finrod's heart from his chest and swallow it down, make sure no one else can ever touch it. Finrod wishes to scrape him hollow, but Curufin wants to devour Finrod. Wants to hoard every piece of him away so that no one but Curufin may ever proclaim to truly know him. And oh, Curufin knows this will not last, knows it is all doomed to end in pain and broken hearts; he knows.

Knowing does not stop him from tapping lightly on his sigil where it is resting against Finrod's skin and saying, "It suits you. Will you wear it to court tomorrow?"

“Are you asking me to?” 

“Did I not just do so?” 

Finrod smiles, a private, secret smile—a small twist of the lips that says, I see you. “I will wear it for as long as you allow me the same liberties with your hair. You may collar me if you wish, and do not deny that a collar is what you see when you look at this necklace, but do not think that I have forgotten that when I called you my dog, you did not deny it.” 

Curufin’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears, each breath feeling far too shallow to do his lungs any good. He tells himself to deny it now, to tell Finrod he is being preposterous, that allowing a claim on his body does not mean that Curufin is a trained dog for Finrod to bring to heel. He tells himself that, but his tongue feels thick and clumsy in his mouth, and he instead only watches Finrod, waiting for something, though he could not say what. 

His silence only causes Finrod’s smile to grow, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “It is in your eyes,” Finrod says, kissing Curufin very gently. “If I told you to berate Nordhir at tomorrows council for his latest guild proposal, would you not do so?” 

“You like that proposal,” he returns, everything feeling muted and warm. 

“I do,” Finrod says, stroking his thumb over Curufin’s cheek. “That does not answer my question.”

“No,” he says after a minute, voice almost steady. "If you had a good argument for why I should do so, I would consider it. But I will not be led about as if I have no opinions on such matters." 

Finrod laughs, delighted as he twists and pins Curufin’s wrists above his head quick as a blink. “Would you not?” Finrod asks quietly, mouth hovering over Curufin’s. “If I took your pretty cock and let you fuck me until I bruised, if I asked you to do so while you were too consumed by the pleasure my body gives you to care, would you not do so?” 

“You would let me fuck you until you were begging me to stop with no reason needed at all,” he says in return, sinking his teeth into Finrod’s bottom lip and smiling at the taste of blood. 

Finrod hums quietly, licking his lips and nosing at Curufin’s cheek. “A different type of dog then, perhaps I am approaching this at the wrong angle.” 

“There is no—”

“If someone hurt me,” Finrod says quietly against his ear, “if someone laid hands on me, and I asked you to kill them for me, would you?” 

The word is not so much pulled from him as it is ripped. “Yes,” he says harshly. “You would not need to ask me to do so.” 

He can feel Finrod smile against his cheek. “And if I asked you to keep your sword sheathed and your tongue leashed? Would you do that for me as well?” 

Curufin is humiliatingly hard, cock aching from the mere idea of Finrod so blatantly using him as nothing more than a glorified attack dog. "If you asked me to, yes," he says roughly, mouth dry. It is not just a concession, it is a crumbling wall, a landslide, and an avalanche. It is Finrod finding the door to his heart and Curufin quietly handing him the key. It is a bell tolling, counting down the time they have left. Finrod makes a ragged sound and kisses him, digging his nails into Curufin's wrists when he tries to pull them free from Finrod's grip. 

Finrod rocks back against him, guiding Curufin’s cock back into his body, and they both moan, the edge of a whine to Finrod’s voice. There is no urgency to Finrod’s movements, for all that his kisses are hungry and burning. He fucks himself slow and steady on Curufin’s cock, making a punched-out noise when Curufin gets his feet beneath him and fucks up hard, twisting them in the next moment and breaking Finrod’s grip on his wrists. 

“You fucking bastard,” he mutters, fucking in hard again and watching entranced as Finrod arches into it, mouth parted with pleasure, his eyes blown out with desire and locked on Curufin’s face. He leans down, clasping the back of the necklace and pulling it tight enough around Finrod’s throat that he gasps, the whites of his eyes gone wild. “I am not your dog, Findaráto," Curufin says quietly, finally having recovered control of his voice. "You may think what you wish, but I am not here to do your bidding every time you tug on a leash." 

The laugh that spills out of Finrod is all breathless, jagged ice spearing through Curufin's belly and leaving him shivering. "You are whatever I say you are to me," Finrod says, smiling up at him, fully confident in his own words. "A guard dog is still a dog, no matter how loose the leash, and your body betrays you, dear one." 

He drops his forehead to Finrod's collarbone, trying to breathe around the choking want threatening to overwhelm him. He feels nearly as if he could spill from nothing but the hot clench of Finrod's body around his cock and Finrod's words echoing in his ears. Finrod squirms slightly beneath him, trying to encourage him into movement, and just to be spiteful, Curufin does not move. He focuses on his breathing and slowly, his thoughts begin to align themselves again. 

He does not look up until Finrod's hands slide from his shoulders, fingers tracing along the curve of his ears, the edge of his jaw, pressing to his rabbit-fast pulse. When he looks up, he finds Finrod watching him as if he will disappear at any moment. "It will be a shame…" Finrod starts quietly, before trailing off. 

Curufin swallows hard, pressing his mouth to Finrod’s and kissing him slowly. They do not speak much after that, only their names slid between them like a currency for pleasure, and their moans pillowing atop eardrums. Finrod whines when he grows close, his cock twitching in Curufin’s hand, the sound half-muffled and pleading. Curufin would deny Finrod what he wants if he thought himself capable of holding out. As it is, Curufin fists Finrod’s cock, relishing in the slick weight of it in his hand, and then spills with a startled moan as Finrod abruptly tightens around him, spilling across his fingers and keening softly. 

He carefully removes the necklace from Finrod’s neck afterward, laying gentle kisses along the red marks it had left where Curufin had pulled it tight. Finrod sighs and pushes in close until they are fully wrapped around each other. He buries his face in Finrod’s hair, breathing in the scent of roses that has clung to Finrod’s hair for the past few months and, hoping the doom cannot hear him, he finds himself wishing very quietly, that against all odds—

—his relationship with Finrod will be a thing that outlasts this age. That it will escape the doom despite everything telling him it will not.  

His father had told him, when he’d been much younger, that he spent too much time on the dreaming portion of a project, and not enough time thinking of the practicalities of what it was he wanted to create. He is sure he had retorted something that had seemed very smart at the time, but he knows that his father was right, knows too that he never truly grew out of it. Of dreaming so large it only hurt worse when he realized the dream could not be realized without changing it so much that it was not truly his dream any longer. 

Beneath his hands, Finrod feels a little like a dream, a little like a wish—a lot like the sick taste of fear. 

☀︎

---

Chapter End Notes

Curufin: ah. this is a nice moment. I should probably ruin it by reminding myself that we're doomed doomed super doomed :)

god forbid he let himself have nice things