Five Gold Rings by Lifetime by AdmirableMonster  

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Escalation

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The lights were too hot, and Mairon’s head was aching, a sharp, spiking pain like a drill on one side of his head.  Incipient migraine, maybe.  But the show must go on.  Head up, shoulders back.  New York Fashion Week was important, after all.  It was probably the most important moment of the year, so this was a perfect opportunity for him to show Melkor how committed he was to the relationship.

And yet, his chest was still tight with misery.  Probably because he still hadn’t told Melkor about the texting, but he also hadn’t stopped.  He knew he should, but he couldn’t bear it.  They weren’t doing anything wrong, he thought fiercely.  They were just talking, and they were good friends, and he couldn’t stand the thought of losing one of the best friends he’d made in years.  He couldn’t give this up.  He couldn’t.

The only reason he had been able to sleep last night was that he’d spent an hour before bed texting ideas back and forth with Tyelpe over Tyelpe’s newest campaign idea.  Tyelpe seemed stressed as well, too bright, too sharp-edged, almost manic, but Mairon wasn’t going to push.  If talking about CRs and the Drowned CR errata was enough to calm them both down, why not?

The outfit he was wearing was gorgeous, he knew, and very striking.  It was a crimson robe or dress consisting of three long pieces of stiff, crenellated fabric falling symmetrically from a thick brown belt at his waist and trimmed with red-brown fur on the ends.  Underneath were soft red leggings rounded at the bottom like the stereotypical belly-dancer pants.  Underneath that, Mairon wore strappy black heels that made him seem even taller than he was.  The top half of the robe consisted of a piece of black brocade with a pattern of gold and dark red flames fastened with golden buttons right up to Mairon’s throat—unusually high for one of Melkor’s pieces, Mairon had noted, but it meant they could be less careful with the flogger, he supposed.  Two light floating pieces of cloth like wings were afixed to the shoulders, and about his neck was a spiky black collar.

“I want everyone to know you’re mine,” Melkor said, his rich voice throaty with an emotion Mairon couldn’t quite read.

“I thought we didn’t do the BDSM thing in public,” Mairon had pointed out.  

“Is it a problem?” Melkor asked, and Mairon, wondering if it was a test, shook his head.

“I just…didn’t think you liked that kind of thing,” he finished with a shrug, and Melkor smoothed his ash-blond hair back from his forehead and dropped a kiss on it.

“Well, maybe I changed my mind,” he said and pulled Mairon in for a deep kiss.

Usually, he quite enjoyed all the eyes on him, but today—or tonight, it was the last show of the day, and it was nearly nine P.M.—he was getting old, Mairon thought to himself, with some rueful self-deprecation.  And he had the oddest feeling he was being watched.  Which really made no sense, because of course he was being watched.  All eyes were on him, as he revolved slowly in the light and tried not to think of the changes he would make to this outfit—replace the sharp edges of the metal collar with a ruff of fur, add ruffs of fur along the sleeves as well as the skirt.  

Thulsa Doom, tamed by a barbarian.

Fuck.  No.

He pushed the thought away as he floated along the catwalk, trying instead to worry at what it meant to feel like he was being watched.  It was—he’d been at dinner earlier, hanging on Melkor’s arm.  He’d felt watched then, even when he was wearing something subdued, even when he was barely recognizable as Melkor’s exclusive.  Like someone kept stealing glances at him.    At one point he’d escaped to the restroom, all of the noise and tantalizing food smells too much, and he thought he’d passed someone in the hallway who turned to look at him, but he’d been too dazed to pay attention.  He never ate much during Fashion Week.

Finishing his final turn, he made his way gratefully towards the exit.  He went down the steps at the edge of the cat-walk, knees shaking.  He had a little time to himself, he thought.  If he remembered correctly, Melkor was having a quick press interview now, and he never liked Mairon talking with them too.  It used to annoy Mairon, but now he was just grateful for the thought of some time alone, maybe back in the hotel room.

As he floated wearily out from under the too-hot lights, he came face to face with the shadow that had dogged him all evening.  It was Tyelpe.

* * *

The water of the fountain cooled Mairon’s hot feet, and the lights of it glittered soothingly, like the stars that you couldn’t see in the middle of NYC.

“I just want to talk,” Tyelpe said quietly.  

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Mairon told him wearily.  He didn’t even know why he’d let Tyelpe pull him out here.  He knew it was a bad idea.  What if he slipped up again?  No, it was fine.  They were just friends; besides, he was too tired for his sex drive to be anything other than a flat zero right now anyway.  Besides, they probably wouldn’t be friends for much longer, anyway.

“Not even whether I should add a couple storm elementals to the encounter we planned last night?”

“Are you crazy?” Mairon looked up at him, shocked out of the slump.  “Do you want to kill your players?”

Tyelpe grinned at him, and he crossed his arms.  “Not fair,” he muttered.  Despite the exhaustion and the situation, he already felt better, just  from being near him.  And he shouldn’t.  That was dangerous.  Besides, he’d fucked up Tyelpe’s life enough.

“Tyelpe…”

Tyelpe sighed.  “Your name isn’t Annatar.  Yes, I’m not a complete idiot, Mairon.  I’ve known for months.”

Mairon, confession derailed, stared at him.  “You—what?”

“You do show up in fashion illustrations, you know,” Tyelpe pointed out.  “I was sort of attuned to it, after we—after the night you spent at my place.”

Mairon’s cheeks went warm.  “Then why did you keep texting me?” he whispered.

“I mean, I don’t really care, it’s not like it was a particularly meaningful lie.”  Tyelpe shrugged.  “And I suppose I didn’t want to scare you off after I finally got you talking to me again.  Maybe I should have told you?  And—” he sighed.  “You don’t have to talk to me,” he said, after a long minute.  “This is a mess.”

“I want to,” Mairon blurted.  “I love talking to you, Tyelpe, it’s—” He bit the inside of his cheek and cut himself off.  “You need to leave,” he said dully.

“No, I don’t.”

“Okay, then I’ll leave.  I shouldn’t be here.”

“Wait.  Please?”  Tyelpe cut himself off.  “No, look.  You can go if that’s what you want.  You don’t have to listen to anything I have to say, and I’m sorry that I’ve kind of been creeping on you today.  It’s probably sketchy of me that I didn’t tell you that I knew or that I was going to be here, but I really, really wanted to be able to talk to you face to face at least once more.  So when Dad said he had an open spot, I—I took it.”

“Tyelpe…” God, he felt sick.  He wanted so badly, and he knew he shouldn’t, and he knew…there were tears pricking at Mairon’s eyes.  “Tyelpe, sweetheart—” No, he hadn’t meant to say that, fuck—he reached out and grabbed Tyelpe’s hand before he could think.  “Listen.  It’s not just my name I lied to you about, okay? I’m,” he swallowed, “I’m not being abused, I just cheated on my boyfriend because you—you seemed like such a nice guy and I wanted to know what it would be like—it was stupid and awful and I’m sorry, but you really, really need to leave.  He can’t catch you here.”

I just want to be able to keep texting you.  He just didn’t want to lose Tyelpe, even though it was so fucking selfish of him.  There wouldn’t have been a problem if he’d just kept it in his pants.  Snow day, what a fucking lie.  Although…there was still the slight issue that he didn’t think Melkor would take kindly to him being friendly with Fëanor’s youngest son.

“Annatar—”

“My name is Mairon.  You said you’ve known that for months.”

“Mairon.”  Tyelpe’s lips thinned.  “You wanted to know what it would be like?”

“Yeah, I—”  Fuck, that had come out wrong, hadn’t it?  “I’ve been a sub for forever, okay?  I just.  Please go?  I finally fixed everything with Melkor.”

“Oh, did you?” Tyelpe’s voice sounded crisp and slightly bitter.  “You fixed things with the man who left a handprint—”

“Jesus, I’m a masochist, okay?  That’s all.  It’s not physical abuse if it arouses you!”  Tyelpe’s eyes went slightly wider.  Mairon’s breath was so shallow and tight in his lungs.  He knew it sounded bad, but he couldn’t figure out how to word it so it would sound right.  “It was a perfectly normal punishment game between two consenting adults.  I lied to you.  Now leave.”

That was it, he thought.  That was the end.  Tyelpe was never going to talk to him again, which was probably better for both of them.

Something squeezed his hand, and he looked down to realize neither of them had let go, even during all of that.  Mairon’s heart dropped into his shoes.  Tyelpe was looking at him with a question in his dark eyes. “I’m…glad you fixed things up with your boyfriend,” he said slowly.  “Did you talk it out?”

Mairon didn’t quite hold back his flinch, and he couldn’t understand why.  They’d just had sex.  They had talked it out.  But he could still feel Melkor’s hand heavy on his mouth.  His back twinged.  Tyelpe’s dark eyes went distant and very, very sad.

“It’s.  It’s not.  It’s not like—” Oh, God. “I was lying,” Mairon said blankly.  “I was lying to you.  Because I’m a…”

Why do you always have to lie about where you’ve been, Mairon?

Why can’t you ever tell the truth?

Do I have to back you into a corner to get you to tell me what’s really going on?

Not just Melkor who’d said that, but his father’s wife too.  He hadn’t thought—he hadn’t thought.  Static roared terribly in his ears.

“I, um,” he said faintly.  “I need a little time, I think.”  And maybe several therapists?  He wanted to laugh.  And cry.  And scream and throw things.  Shit.  Fuck.

“Of course.”  Tyelpe squeezed his hand again.  “I’m probably doing this all wrong, but…you know I want to be your friend, right?  I mean, I—yes, I like you like that.  But if you don’t like me back, or if you don’t know, or—whatever you need, is what I’m trying to say.  Whatever you need, I want to be there for you.”

Mairon nodded and took a deep breath.  “Thank you,” he said.  “It—means a lot.”  He looked down at their joined hands and managed a smile.  “I gotta go get some sleep,” he said.  “We’re heading back home to DC tomorrow.  I have some things I should get.”  And then what?  He didn’t know yet.  He needed to think.  Apparently, he had a lot to think about. “I’ll text you?” he said finally, uncertainly.

“Please text me.  Whatever you need,” Tyelpe repeated, and he gave him such a heartbreakingly tender smile that Mairon had to lean forward quickly and kiss his cheek, chaste and quick.

Then he pulled his feet out of the fountain, snagged his heels, and started to limp back to the hotel.  Time to get some sleep and then spend some time thinking.

* * *

Melkor had been quiet the whole trip, for which Mairon was grateful.  He didn’t want an argument right now.  He didn’t really want to interact with Melkor at all right now.  Vaguely, he considered the possibility that he was being overdramatic, that if he took a week’s vacation somewhere by himself, he’d want back in, but he snuck a glance at Melkor—still as gorgeous as he’d been when they first started going out—and felt nothing.

He’d googled around last night, and he didn’t like what he was finding.  Isolation.  Control.  Making you feel like everything was your fault.  Making you feel like you had to work harder.  Maybe he had screwed up when he’d fucked Tyelpe, but Melkor’s response—he’d nearly ignored their safeword.  So he wasn’t a monster, but Mairon was starting to think that it was time to stop mending a relationship that was obviously broken at this point anyway.

He was still debating with himself as to whether it really made sense to call it abuse—and whether he wanted to have a break-up conversation in person or just leave—when they got back to the apartment.  Mairon hauled his suitcases up the stairs and stepped inside, and Melkor entered after him, shutting the door and driving the bolt home.

“So,” he said in clipped, too-heavy tones.  “Telperinquar Finwion, Mairon?”

Something very cold seemed to freeze Mairon’s lungs.  He coughed reflexively; then, keeping his face blank, turned.  “What?”

“I saw you last night at the fountain.”

“The fountain?” Mairon shrugged and laughed.  All right, he was at least a good liar, still.  “I ran into a fan.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” Melkor snarled, and he grabbed Mairon’s shoulder.  Startled, Mairon found himself being steered towards the bedroom.  “I went through your phone.”

“You—what the fuck, Melkor?”

“You’re saying that to me?”  They were in the bedroom, and the door was slamming shut behind them.  Before he could even move, before he could even react, Melkor’s weight bore him down against the bed, and Mairon gasped—with alarm, not arousal, as he felt the erection pressing hard against his thigh.  “I thought you said you weren’t a rapist, asshole!” he snarled, anger he hadn’t known he still possessed suddenly flaring up from inside him.  Pure fucking anger, because he’d stayed and he tried to make this work—he’d pushed away someone who had let him—for fucking months—and here he was stuck with someone who wouldn’t and it wasn’t fucking fair—

“Shut up!” Melkor growled in frustration.  “You fucking slut, after you went and fucked your boytoy again—”

“I didn’t and I wish I had!” yelled Mairon, trying once again to heave Melkor off of him.  “He didn’t even try, because Fëanor’s kid understands the word ‘no’ better than you do!”  He writhed breathlessly as Melkor’s hands worked at his jeans and fly, yanking down the zipper so hard that Mairon heard cloth rending.

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, do you ever shut your fucking mouth?”

Mairon managed to get one hand free and promptly went for Melkor’s eyes, not even wincing as he felt his long nails dig in and tear open soft flesh.  Melkor howled and his knee hit Mairon hard somewhere in the midsection.  He choked, his lungs seizing up, dizzy with pain and not really capable of struggling anymore.

“You little fucking bitch,” Melkor growled in his ear.  “If you think he’ll want you when I’m through with you—”

The only retort that made it to Mairon’s lips came out as an incomprehensible pained mewling, and he just lay back limply, angry tears forcing their way to his eyes.  Whatever.  Let Melkor rape him.  He’d wait it out and leave afterwards.  It didn’t matter.  He heard the rattling scrape of metal on wood and opened his eyes again just in time to realize that Melkor had—fuck—a pair of scissors in hand and he wasn’t going for Mairon’s clothes, he was—

Mairon screamed as white-hot pain tore through his face.  He tried to struggle, but the attack had totally blindsided him, and Melkor was slashing wildly, one hand pinning Mairon’s chest to the bed, and it wasn’t enough, shit, shit, he was going to blind him, he was going to die—

As suddenly as it had started, the attack stopped.  Melkor’s weight rose from his chest, and Mairon gasped in a breath, the pain entirely gone beneath the buzzing terror filling every limb.  

“If you fucking move, I’m going to come back and kill you and then kill your fucking boyfriend—” growled Melkor, and then he was moving across the floor, and the door opened and shut.

Mairon registered the threat, considered lying still, and then decided he’d rather die trying to get away than keep doing what Melkor wanted.  Fuck it.

He rolled off the bed and scrambled over to the exterior balcony of their apartment.  Good thing the fire escape led away from the bedroom.  There were low voices on the other side of the door.  A distraction.  Mairon breathed a gasping thanks to whatever salesperson or girl scout was going door to door right now and tumbled out onto the iron grate.  He had to squint, vision obscured and dark for some reason, as if his hair had fallen into his face.  Swearing viciously, he started down the stairs to the landing below.

His foot slipped, and he hung on air for a moment.  There was rushing motion, and he flailed with his hand, then harsh, jarring pain, and a loud crash.  Mairon sobbed, curling into a fetal position as he desperately tried to find where his feet were so he could get back up.

He heard the noise of the sliding door.  No, no, no—

But it wasn’t Melkor’s voice that spoke.  It was a voice he didn’t know, quiet and deep and shocked.  “Shit.  Guys—not a false alarm.  Call 911.”  Gentle hands took his shoulders.  “Can you move?”

“I don’t—I don’t—”  Mairon gritted his teeth.  “Yeah.  Yeah, just.  Help me up, please, I don’t want him to find me—”

“I’ve got you.”  He was being helped upright and into—oh, he’d made it one landing down, this was the apartment underneath.  There were three people sitting around a table with dice and minis spread across the whole thing.  One of the players had gotten up and was on the phone, presumably talking with the 911 operator.  The DM’s screen had fallen over.

“I think we’d better get out of here,” said the guy who’d helped him into the apartment.  “Let’s go down the back stairs to the laundry room.  We’ll have to squeeze to fit in my car, but we can drive to the hospital that way.”

The hospital, Mairon thought dizzily.  Why the hospital, though?