Five Gold Rings by Lifetime by AdmirableMonster  

---

Aftermath

---

The hospital was for him, it turned out.  He needed stitches.  The doctor told him that he was lucky the blade hadn’t gone through his right eye, because he probably would have lost it.  Then she cleaned the injuries, stitched them, bandaged him up.  

Mairon was trying to order an Uber when the guy who had helped him out popped up out of nowhere—apparently, he’d been waiting for him, which was—it was way too nice, for someone he didn’t know, who had no reason to help.  It made Mairon want to cry again, but he couldn’t.  Poor guy—his name was Hal, apparently?—had already put up with more than enough on his account and didn’t need Mairon losing it on him.

The Uber thing didn’t work, because someone had put a freeze on his account.  Shared account with Melkor, which meant either Melkor had frozen it himself, or maybe the cops had arrested him and done something.  Mairon was kind of hazy on how that worked.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Hal asked worriedly.  

“Um,” said Mairon.  He thought about texting Tyelpe.  But he couldn’t.  He couldn’t ask.  He knew that Tyelpe would want to help, but he was thousands of miles away, and they didn’t know each other that well, and it was a lot to dump in someone’s lap all at once, and Mairon just, he couldn’t.  He didn’t think he could.  And then, after all that had flashed through his head, he realized he didn’t have his phone, didn’t know how to get it, and didn’t have Tyelpe’s number memorized, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach so hard he thought he might throw up. “Not really?” he said, voice wobbling slightly.

“Oof.”  Hal shuffled.  “I mean I’m probably not going back to the apartment tonight either.  Do you want to crash at my boyfriend’s house for a few days?”

Oh, god, oh fuck.  If he hadn’t said boyfriend—if he hadn’t been so casually, randomly open about being queer—Mairon might have said no.  But he couldn’t.  He was too tired, and if he said anything but, “Thanks.  Yeah.  Thanks,” he was going to fucking lose it, so he just said that and then stood there with his mouth working kind of funny.

He followed Hal to the car without saying much and stood there a little vacantly as Hal pulled out his phone and had a short conversation with the boyfriend—“Max,” apparently.

“All good,” Hal said cheerfully

They were already on the freeway when it occurred to Mairon what he really should do.  He didn’t want to do it, but he sort of did at the same time.  Everything felt like a mess.  But that number he did know.  And—

“Can I borrow your phone?” he asked Hal.  “I—there’s someone I should call.”

“Sure.”  Hal passed it over to him.  “Oh, fuck, yours was back in the apartment, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Mairon agreed, which was all he could say about that.  He pulled up Hal’s keypad, dialed the number, and put the phone to his ear.

The phone rang.  Mairon’s throat hurt.  Too tight.  Too impossible.  He shouldn’t be doing this, but what else was he going to do?

He picked up on the third ring.  “Aulë’s Forge and Crafts, how can I help you?”

“Dad,” Mairon choked out, and then he had to stop, because a sob fell out of his throat and couldn’t be stopped.  There was silence on the other end of the line, shocked and terrible.  “Dad, I’m so—I’m so sorry, but I, I—is, is there any chance you can, like, wire me some money or—I won’t ask for anything else, I’ll—”

“Mairon.  Kiddo.  Shut up.”

He shut up, biting down on his tongue till it bled.

“Are you safe?”

“Uh…”  Mairon looked across at Hal as the landscape sped by out of the window.  “Y-Yeah, I think so.  I think so.  For now.”

“Where are you?”

“Outside DC.  I’m gonna—I’m gonna stay at a friend’s house.  Well, a friend’s boyfriend’s house.”

“I’m going to book a plane ticket.  I’ll be there in twelve hours or less. Can you give me an address?”

It was like Mairon’s entire world rearranged itself.  He had to take the phone away from his ear to stare at it.  Hal raised an eyebrow at him.  He shook his head, the bandages shifted, and he made a soft little pained noise.

“Mairon?” said Aulë’s voice, sharpening with an edge of panic.  “Are you still there?”

He put the phone back to his ear.  “Y-Yeah.  Yeah.  Sorry.  Sorry.  Aren’t…aren’t you mad?”

“Furious,” his dad replied.  “God, I’ve been so worried about you.  But I love you, Mairon.  Don’t you know that?”  He paused briefly.  “You don’t have to answer.  It’s okay.  Just—if you’re all right with it, can I have an address?”

“Yeah,” Mairon whispered, looking back at Hal.  “What’s Max’s address?”

It turned out to be an address in a relatively nice suburban area.  Mairon relayed it.  “I—Dad,” he said.  “I’m—”

“Save it,” Aulë said, abrupt but kind.  “I love you, kid.  I’ll be there as soon as I can.  Call me if you need anything, all right?”

Mairon swallowed another sob.  “Okay,” he managed.  “Thanks, Dad.”

He put the phone down and wished he could curl up on the seat.  “Um, listen, thanks again,” he mumbled.

“It’s not a problem, man,” Hal said with impressive equanimity.  Mairon wanted to snarl that it was obviously, absolutely a problem and not to fucking lie about it, but he bit his tongue and slumped down instead.

Fortunately, since Mairon was getting to the point of wanting to pull off the bandages and look at his face—even though he knew that would be a bad idea—it didn’t take much longer before Hal pulled into the driveway of a nice-looking little suburban home set well back from the road.  Somewhere, a dog was barking loudly.

Mairon hovered as Hal got his bag out from the back seat, wondering what the fuck he was going to do for clothes.  Once the police apprehended Melkor, he supposed he could go back to the apartment to pick some shit up, but the thought made him physically ill to even contemplate.  Okay, he’d wait till his dad showed up and beg for a little more money to buy jeans and a t-shirt or something.

To his unending gratitude, Hal didn’t ask if he needed any more help.  Mairon thought he’d probably have fallen apart on the spot.  He trailed behind the other guy up the driveway to the house, where the door opened and a little streak of white came pelting out, barking and howling excitedly, wagging its entire body along with a stubby, kinked tail.

“Three missed you,” said an amused sounding voice that was oddly familiar, and Mairon looked up to see a pair of dark eyes that for half a moment—

It wasn’t Tyelpe, but god it looked like him.

“Shit,” he breathed, realization hitting him like a freight train, “You didn’t say Max.”

Maglor Finwion was probably the most high-profile of all eight brothers, with a successful career as modestly famous pop star in addition to his part-time work as a model for his father.  Mairon was used to seeing him decked out in both very well-tailored suits and some of his father’s most fantastic, outlandish creations.  Almost as much as Mairon himself, Maglor’s angular face, high cheekbones, and lovely dark eyes suggested something fey and otherworldly, and his stage presence did nothing to harm that impression.

Usually.

Mairon had never seen him in jeans and a flannel shirt, wearing a frilly, flour-covered apron that said, “I only work to support my accordion addiction,” on it.  He wasn’t wearing makeup, and his straight black hair was wet with water, pulled up in a messy manbun on top of his head.

“Well,” drawled Maglor, after the first moment of silence.  “Look what the cat dragged in.”

* * *

The kitchen was—nice.  Ordinary, kind of.  Not beautiful and gleaming from top to bottom, the way any kitchen Melkor set foot in was expected to be.  In fact, currently, it looked like a tornado had hit it, because Maglor was in the middle of baking a pineapple upside down cake, and apparently he wasn’t much for things like “cleaning up as you go” or “not getting flour absolutely everywhere including the ceiling.”  It was like a war zone.  It appalled Mairon.

But what really hit him was the way Hal sighed, laughed, shook his head, and said, “I should know better than to come back while you’re baking.”

Maglor grinned at him, with a smudge of flour on his nose, and said, “Nonsense.  I need you to help me clean up.”

Hal kissed his cheek and said, “Nope.  I’ve had a terrible day.  You’re on your own.”

Maglor’s eyes went from Hal over to Mairon, who didn’t know what kind of expression was on his face—it was probably partially hidden by the bandages anyway.  He stared down at the mug of hot cocoa that Maglor had made for him and wondered what he was doing here.

“Oh, um.  Can I borrow your phone again, Hal?” he said abruptly.  Then, swallowing hard, “Um.  Maglor.  Can I get your youngest brother’s number?”

Those shrewd dark eyes narrowed.  “How do you know Tyel—oh fuck.  No way.”

Mairon tried for an innocent expression.  “I met him during last year’s New York Fashion Week.”

“You did not,” Maglor told him forcefully.  “He picked you up in Chicago during that awful snowstorm, and he’s been mooning over you ever since.  Oh, fuck.  No wonder he’s been so weird about Dad’s—oh, shit.”  He passed a hand through his black hair, leaving it smeared with dusty white.

“It’s none of your business,” Mairon retorted coolly, staring down at his hands.

“Bullshit it isn’t,” Maglor sighed.  “I’ll get you his number.  Do you need anything?”

“What?”

“Water, snacks, peace and quiet, whatever.”

It was hard for him to process the question.  After a minute—after a minute that stretched far too long, he shook his head.  “No, just—phone.  Number.  Please.”  He paused.  “Maybe a glass of water,” he said faintly, after a minute.

“Sure.”

When Mairon was actually faced with the blank screen of the phone, he discovered he was in some difficulty.  What he wanted to type was, I love you, thank you for everything, I left him, can I date you?

What he wanted to do was throw himself into Tyelpe’s arms.  But—he couldn’t do that.  Not now.  Not yet.  He knew he needed time, time for quiet, time to sort shit out.  Time to figure out what getting subpoenaed to your ex-boyfriend’s trial for assault meant.  Because that was presumably going to happen.  Finally, he put together a message that said, Hey.  I’m safe.  I’m out.  I think I’m going to need some time to put my life back together (and get a new phone), so if I’m not very responsive for a while, that’s why.  (This isn’t my phone, but I’ll text you once I’ve got one.) — Mairon

The text he got back made the phone blur in front of his eyes with stupid, useless tears.

Whatever you need <3

After a moment, Mairon replied, <3, as well, because at the very least, he could do that much, couldn’t he?

* * *

He woke in the middle of the night to the noise of someone groaning too loudly, a horrible, painful sound that made him want to slap whoever was making it.

“Hey.  Hey, Mairon.”

Fuck, it was him.  Maglor’s voice brought him the rest of the way out of sleep, and he sat up to find himself on the couch beside the TV.  He’d sweated so much that his borrowed pajama shirt was soaked at the neck and armpits.  His face was stinging sharply, and he thought he might have been crying.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, too tired to even try to put on—god, what face did he even have left to use?  He was so used to waking up next to Melkor, to having to be quiet—occasionally, recently, reaching for his phone to text Tyelpe.  But now there was just him and his friend’s tired-looking second-oldest brother, hair braided down the back of his neck, holding a hot cup of something.

“Do you want this?  It’s hot milk with a little brandy.”

“You…um, I mean.”  Mairon didn’t know what to say to that.

“I’ll make another one for myself if you want it,” Maglor told him.  “Don’t worry, Hal always sleeps like a log, he won’t hear us.”

“Thanks,” Mairon said, stumbling awkwardly out of bed.  

“Come on,” Maglor told him.  “Walking off the nightmares helps, sometimes.  The kitchen’s bright, and you don’t exactly have anything you need to do tomorrow.”

Mairon trailed after him, still bemused and half-asleep, following Maglor into the bright, warmly-lit kitchen.  Three was stretched out on the rug in front of the island, asleep on her back, and making soft little huffing noises.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Maglor asked, sliding the mug over to Mairon as he clumsily sat down in one of the high-top chairs in front of the island.  “I’m no therapist, but I’ll listen if you need me to.”

Mairon stared at him, scrambling to find some kind of response, and finally said, dazedly, “What the fuck?”

“Hm?” Maglor was in front of the stove again, measuring milk into another mug.

“Why…are you being…like this?” Mairon asked.

“Like what?” Maglor drawled, turning on the stove and beginning to stir the milk.

“I, I don’t—nice,” Mairon finished finally. 

“I see you have gathered that my general state is unapologetic bastardy.”

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—” He was shivering violently, his hands clutched around the ceramic mug.  His eyes and throat were tight and hot.  

“No, it is, actually.”  Maglor flashed him a dizzyingly beautiful smile that reminded him awfully of Tyelpe, but sharp-edged and diamond-hard, the kind of smile Mairon might have given someone.  Then it softened slightly.  “Tyelpe really cares about you,” Maglor said quietly.  “He really cares about you, and oddly, I think you make him very happy.  And besides—” he sighed, running a hand through his hair.  “I figure I owe it to all the people who’ve spent their time dealing with all of my shit.  You’re not the only one who has nightmares, Mairon.”

Tyelpe really cares about you.  The words mixed with the gentleness in Maglor’s tone were too much, suddenly.  Mairon couldn’t find anyone to be other than himself, and himself was apparently crying now, no matter how much he tried to stop, his breath coming out in short, sharp sobs, the tears overflowing his burning eyes and leaking down over his cheeks, coursing across the healing cuts and sending little shocks of pain running through him.

“Been wondering how long it was going to take for that flood to happen,” Maglor said, but his tone was soft, almost teasing.  “Do you want to cuddle Three?”

“I want—” Mairon cut himself off, not sure what he did actually want, too sleepy and miserable to come to a proper conclusion.  “Sure,” he whispered. 

“Come here, you,” said Maglor, scooping the sleeping dog off the floor.  She gave a startled little growl and then relaxed as he deposited her in Mairon’s lap, yawning and wagging her tail.  “She’s very friendly, don’t worry.”

The deposition of a pile of wriggling fur did not serve to abate Mairon’s tears.  If anything, he cried harder.  Three looked at him with concerned dark eyes and tried to lick him, though the bandages appeared to confuse her.

“Ah, I’m afraid you can’t do that, girl.”  Maglor rubbed her head, and Mairon pulled her small body close and held it.

“You have a very good dog,” he said hoarsely, after a long minute.

“Yeah.”  Maglor smiled and rubbed her back.  “She gets me back to sleep most nights that Hal isn’t here.”

“What do you have nightmares about?” Mairon found himself asking, not quite sure he wanted to share what he had been dreaming of.  Maglor’s smile widened and turned crooked.

“You’re not my therapist either,” he said archly.  “No—it’s all right.”  He went back to the stove and poured milk and brandy into a second mug, bringing it back to the island to sit across from Mairon.  “The car accident, mostly,” he said after a moment.  “You know.”  He waved his right hand.

“I thought that was just your older brother.”

“Everyone forgets,” Maglor said, his mouth tugging to the side.  “Everyone forgets, because I got out without a scrape.”  He sighed.

It didn’t feel right to just listen to that and not respond, so Mairon hunched his shoulders, sipped the milk, and said the first thing that came to mind, which turned out to be, “He only beat me when we were fucking.”

“Stellar catch,” Maglor said dryly.  If he was shocked, he didn’t show it, for which Mairon was unutterably grateful. 

Mairon sniffed and sipped at the hot milk.  There was a lot of brandy in there, though personally he’d probably rather have had a Xanax.  That was back at the apartment too.  He shut his eyes, wishing he could force the tears to stop.  This was humiliating.  “I thought…if it was something that had been negotiated—” He hunched his shoulders again.  “I thought he would listen to a safeword.  But somehow I never—safeworded.”

He got a sympathetic look.  “If you think it’s all your own idea…”

“I know how to manipulate people,” Mairon said sharply, then paused.  Sighed.  “I know…how to manipulate myself.  Don’t I?”

“Ah,” said Maglor, raising his mug in an ironic salute.  “Probably both, let’s be honest, but I do think you’re genuine about Tyelpe, and that’s what matters to me.”  He gave Mairon another look, half-shrewd, half-sad.  “Just how drunk would you like to get tonight?”

Mairon put his mug down heavily.  “Honestly?  Very.”

* * *

The hangover the following day didn’t quite make him regret it.  It did make him stay on the couch, hidden under a blanket to combat the raging headache that was made worse by even a pinprick of light.  Maglor, with either the aplomb of a performer or possibly just significantly more experience, was appallingly cheerful and went around whistling to himself as he made breakfast.  He wasn’t supposed to be a morning person, Mairon thought bitterly.  Certainly not after how much he’d had to drink.

He heard Hal get up a little later, the two of them murmuring to one another in the kitchen, their voices too quiet for him to make out the words, but the tones were clear enough, and listening to them made him scrunch himself up further under the blankets.  If that was how Tyelpe’s brother talked to him, too, maybe his kindness wasn’t so surprising.  There were moments when he could hear something sharp-edged rise up—usually Maglor’s voice, lifted cuttingly—but Hal’s response was measured, quiet, amused, and then the two broke into laughter.  Mairon found himself caught between impossible jealousy and a kind of quiet happiness.

He was just lumping himself up under the blanket to get up, try to plaster a smile on his face, and plead for coffee, when the doorbell rang loudly, and he moaned and stuffed his fingers in his ears.  Three ran for the door, barking angrily at the top of her lungs, and then Mairon heard Maglor’s footsteps crossing out of the kitchen and through the living room.

The door opened, and Mairon heard a too-familiar voice saying, “Is Mairon here?”

Oh, god, he wasn’t ready.  He wasn’t ready at all.  How the hell was he supposed to face his father (estranged) in a pair of ratty boxers and a Conan t-shirt he’d borrowed from Maglor?  But what was he supposed to do, slip out the back door?

“He’s here.  He’s a little…” Maglor paused.  “A little under the weather, but he’s okay.”

Somehow, Mairon managed to sit up on the couch, wobble to his feet, and take a couple steps toward the door.  From here, he could just see the jut of Aulë’s gut, and his heavy beard as Maglor took a step back to let him in.  “Hey, Dad,” he croaked.  “I’m just hungover, it’s fine.”

His father stepped hesitantly into Maglor’s house and stared at him, eyes going up and down Mairon’s form.  Mairon shifted self-consciously, and as his father’s eyes widened, only then did he remember the bandages.  Only then did he remember what he looked like under the bandages, so it wasn’t as if he was going to be able to be super comforting.

Aulë took a step forward, then paused, just in the entryway.  “Mairon…how badly…ah, fuck.”

Mairon had heard his father say shit before; fuck—no.  Maybe once when he had dropped a hammer on his thumb.  Quickly bitten off, elided—not clear, not almost deliberate like that.

“They said it will probably scar.”  He heard his own voice from a long distance away, cool, almost clinical.  “It’s fine, though.”  

“Oh, god, Mairon,” Aulë said heavily.  “Was it your boyfriend?”

Mairon felt light, too light, as if he were floating—dizzy, detached, disconnected.  “Yes,” he said.  “Ex-boyfriend.”  He fought the craziest urge to laugh.  Had he imagined Aulë’s hesitation? “Arrested ex-boyfriend.”  And then, he didn’t quite know why, he said, “And how’s Mrs. Y?”

His father took another half-step toward him, halting again, and Mairon wished he’d make up his mind.  “Don’t really know,” he said, after a moment.  “Divorce was finalized six months ago.”

“Divorce,” Mairon repeated blankly.

“After you cut off contact…” Aulë shook his head.  

Maglor tiptoed awkwardly around him to shut the door, and then picked up Three, mumbled something, and quickly headed for the other room.

“Me?” Mairon repeated, blank and confused.  

“She said some—stuff.”  Aulë shuffled awkwardly, as if he wanted to move towards Mairon but couldn’t quite get himself to do so.  Mairon realized his arms were crossed, his body language entirely closed off.  His head was buzzing, with the hangover and the adrenaline, and he couldn’t make himself open up at all.  “About your lifestyle.  Specifics aren’t really—”  He shook his head.

“You divorced Mrs. Y because she was shit-talking me for being gay?” Mairon blurted.  “But she always—I thought you—”

“You…thought I what?”

“I thought that’s why you hated Melkor.”

Aulë’s face—changed.  It seemed almost as if it had lost definition, the lines of it sagging in a way Mairon did not like.  “Oh, Mairon,” Aulë breathed, and his hands twisted again and again, as if the knots that should have been in his face were there in his fingers.  “Oh, son, no.”

Mairon felt as if his world had shaken and upended.  “You…you don’t…” his voice threatened to crack open.  “You don’t hate me for it?  You were—”

“I was worried,” Aulë said, as if from a long distance away.

And hadn’t he had reason to be?  Mairon’s face stung, and he wondered if he was crying.

“Fuck, Mairon, I’m so sorry.  I never meant you to think—oh, son, no.”  He rubbed one big hand over his face.  “I’m so sorry,” he said again, helpless, ancient, weathered, and Mairon stared at the wreck and ruin of everything he had thought was true and watched it rearrange, as if he were watching a chessboard on which black had just revealed itself to be white.

“You were worried,” Mairon said, his voice shaking and distant.  “Oh.  That’s—” He swallowed, his mouth crooking up a little at the corner.  “Um.  I guess you were right, Dad.  I’m—”

“Don’t be sorry,” Aulë interrupted.  “Please.  Just, can I hug you?”

Mairon nodded shakily, and as he sank into his father’s arms, he reflected that honestly he’d take getting his face cut up again if he had to, for him to get this.  “Dad,” he whispered.  

“I love you, Mairon,” Aulë said, and he stroked his hair.  Mairon shut his eyes and let him.