like only a brother loves by atlantablack  

make me
Better, brother, love me
Like only a brother loves.

The Glimmering Room | Cynthia Cruz

☀︎

Fingolfin is, at best, half-sure of how exactly he has ended up in the predicament he is currently in. Knows that it is, of course, Fëanor’s fault. No matter that it is a new age, it is still, somehow, always Fëanor’s fault. Though, of all the situations that Fëanor has led him into, this is by far the most benign, if not the most confusing. 

The situation being that he has somehow found himself sitting on the floor of Fëanor's rooms in the palace, while his brother pulls bottle after bottle of wine out of the two crates he had enlisted Fingolfin's help in carrying upstairs. It is not just the quantity of wine that is giving Fingolfin pause. It is that his brother has seemingly gone through Finarfin's collection and pulled out only the most expensive wines in the cellar. Fingolfin is quite sure Fëanor had gone so far back in the cellar that he had found some of the Valar-blessed wines that were originally bottled before the darkening.

"What, exactly, do you plan on doing with all of this?" he asks after five minutes have gone by with Fëanor neither explaining nor telling him to leave.

Fëanor hums, holding a bottle up to the light and watching as the golden liquid inside shimmers. “I will be getting drunk. You may do whatever you wish. Leave. Stay. It does not concern me.” 

“Fëanáro, you cannot mean to drink all of that alone!”

In a strange move, Fëanor looks over at him, raises an eyebrow, and says challengingly, “Then stay, and I will not be alone.” 

It has been only three weeks since Fëanor was released from Mandos, and Fingolfin has not yet grown accustomed to the way Fëanor seems to have emerged from Mandos, all of his hate washed away. Would once have thought this a trick but can see no reason for it to be one now. He will also admit to being worried about this strange desire to get so drunk that his brother would need this much wine. But, foolishly, instead of doing anything reasonable, Fingolfin moves closer and picks up a bottle as well. "If you wish me to stay, I will. Though I think the idea of drinking all of this by ourselves is a foolish, absurd idea."

Fëanor smiles at him, a crooked thing that cuts through Fingolfin with its genuineness. “I am sure, that after a bottle or two, you will feel differently,” he says, and it is perhaps Fingolfin’s imagination, but for a second he would swear that Fëanor looks so genuinely pleased his eyes shine with it. It is gone in the next moment as Fëanor uncorks the first bottle, not even bothering with a glass as he takes a swig, as if it were some cheap drink. 

“Oh, Aro is going to kill us,” he murmurs, even as he follows suit. Cannot stop himself from humming with pleasure at the first mouthful. Fëanor had truly taken the best of the wines. 

Fëanor drinks what must be nearly half of the bottle in one go and then raises an eyebrow at Fingolfin's horrified expression. "Keep up," he says, moving closer so that he may tap his bottle against Fingolfin's. "It is a new age, is it not? Let us drink together."

If not for the bitterness that had briefly shot through Fëanor's voice, he would perhaps be touched. Is perhaps touched despite himself. "Oh, very well." He toasts Fëanor and follows suit, drinking as much as he can in one go. Feels the wine hit his belly and is sure that it will not take long at all for them to be well and truly drunk.

Fëanor says nothing else until they are both two bottles in, though he has been watching Fingolfin with a rather single-minded intensity. Fingolfin has simply been staring back, waiting. The wine is truly buzzing through him now, everything gone soft around the edges, and he is in no state to guess Fëanor's mind when he cannot truly even do such a thing sober.

"Another bottle, I believe," Fëanor says softly, almost to himself. He pushes another into Fingolfin's hands and takes one for himself. Has begun drinking before Fingolfin manages to even uncork his bottle.

He hums at the first sip, this one sweeter than the last. Licks his lips absently and looks up to find Fëanor watching him again. “Here, try this one," he says, knowing this is the only bottle of this particular flavor. He leans forward and without thinking presses the bottle to Fëanor's mouth.

Fëanor does not push him away as he would once have expected. Only watches Fingolfin with dark eyes and opens his mouth so that Fingolfin can carefully pour some wine into it. Later, he will not be able to tell you how he manages to not spill the entire bottle, for he feels dizzy as he watches Fëanor's lips wrap around the rim of the bottle he holds. 

"This is a terrible idea," he mutters as he sits back down, lifting the bottle to his mouth and shivering at the way Fëanor is watching him. It does not stop him from finishing the bottle. 

“I do not hate you,” Fëanor says suddenly, empty bottle clenched tight in his hand. “Not anymore.” 

Fingolfin blinks, stomach turning over, heart twisting painfully in his chest. “I had guessed,” he manages to say after a moment, voice strangled. “Or I had hoped at least, considering your temperament toward me since you returned.” 

Fëanor has set the bottle aside and closed the space between them before Fingolfin can blink. Fëanor’s hands are on his thighs, his brother’s mouth suddenly pressed to his neck, a knee between his legs. He was not prepared, could not have been, and flails just enough to end up on his back, Fëanor on top of him. “What are you doing?” he demands breathlessly, even as his hands settle on Fëanor’s shoulders, not pushing him away as would be appropriate, but holding him close. 

There’s a hint of teeth against his neck, Fëanor’s hands sliding slowly up his thighs before landing on his waist, and his breath catches, mingled horror and anticipation swirling through him. He still does not push Fëanor away. 

“Not hating you has made things very difficult for me,” Fëanor says softly against his throat, breath warm. The brush of Fëanor’s lips against his throat sends a shiver through him. 

"Fëanáro," he murmurs, not knowing what to say, but knowing he wishes to say something. He should push Fëanor away. Is not so drunk that he does not know what is happening. Is not so drunk as to think this is anything other than a massive mistake. He should. Instead, he lightly strokes Fëanor's hair with one hand, burying his fingers in it when Fëanor makes a soft noise and kisses his neck. Fingolfin does not know how he could be expected to do anything other than try to pull his brother closer.

“Easy enough to ignore while still in the halls,” Fëanor continues, one hand working its way beneath Fingolfin’s tunic, fingers splayed wide across his stomach. “Easy to acknowledge that I no longer hated you and see none of the rest, for in the halls you have no true body with which to feel desire.” 

He kisses Fingolfin’s neck once more, the underside of his jaw, his cheek. Fingolfin has rather forgotten how to breathe. Does not know if his head is swimming from the alcohol or from how overwhelming Fëanor is when this close. Fëanor brings both hands up to cradle Fingolfin’s face, pressing his mouth to the corner of Fingolfin’s. Nolvo, he murmurs, before pressing his mouth to the other corner and murmuring, my brother. 

Fingolfin thinks, I should push him away, thinks, he is going to lead us to destruction again. Instead does just as he had done before, and follows despite his better sense. Fëanor’s mouth hovers over his, waiting for him to make the final move, and Fingolfin tilts his chin up, their lips brushing. Sighs at how terribly easy it is to kiss his brother, as if this was simply where he was always meant to be. “Náro,” he says softly, looping his leg around Fëanor’s and urging him in closer.

Fëanor makes a low noise and kisses him. Tilts his head and licks into Fingolfin's mouth, and all he knows after that is heat. The warmth of Fëanor's body pressing against him, the slick slide of their tongues against one another, Fëanor's hands cradling his face and scalding his skin. He pushes a hand beneath Fëanor's shirt and charts his spine as they kiss, traces his name onto Fëanor's back, a letter assigned to each bone so that he can always be part of his brother's body.

They kiss until they run out of air. Slow, open-mouthed kisses that linger and leave the air feeling thick and heavy, time inexplicably slowing down. Fëanor shifts, grinding down against him, and swallows the moan that crawls up his throat. He had not truly realized how affected he was by this until the truth of it was brought into sharp relief. He arches up against Fëanor in return, their bodies pressed together as tightly as they can be. One of Fëanor’s hands trails down his neck, wrapping around it gently and resting there. 

There is something terribly overwhelming about the thought that once, Fëanor had held a sword to his throat and looked as if he had truly wanted Fingolfin dead; had looked as if he meant it. And now his hand is gently wrapped around Fingolfin's throat as he kisses Fingolfin like someone who has just tasted air for the first time. It's intoxicating, to have managed to gain his brother's attention in such a way.

They do not stop kissing for a very long time. Not until Fingolfin's mouth feels raw, his entire body overheated and overly sensitive. Fëanor is seemingly content to lie atop him, grinding down only occasionally and eagerly swallowing down the sounds it inspires, but otherwise content to simply keep their mouths pressed together. When he does eventually pull back, it is only to press their foreheads together as they catch their breath.

“Let us move to the bed,” Fëanor murmurs, standing and grabbing several bottles of wine as he goes. Fingolfin misses the weight of him as soon as he’s gone and follows without hesitation. Must truly be the greatest fool in all of Arda for how easily he follows. 

Fëanor does not remove his clothes before getting in the bed as Fingolfin had expected. He only sets the wine on the bedside table as he sprawls across the bed and holds a hand out for Fingolfin to take. It is the last chance to turn back; he knows this. The last chance to write this off as a drunken mishap. It is the last chance, and he does not even hesitate before taking Fëanor's hand and moving atop him, pressing his brother down into the bed and kissing his wine-sweet mouth.

"I will never understand you," he says quietly in between kisses. "All that hatred for so long, and now this?"

Fëanor laughs, hands slipping beneath his shirt. "Yet you kissed me back. Perhaps I do not understand you either."

"You never did." He nips sharply at Fëanor's bottom lip before turning the kiss slow and sweet once more. They stay as such long into the evening, slowly kissing, shifting only to drink more wine or for their positions to be changed so that it is Fëanor pressing Fingolfin down into the bed. 

If Fingolfin had given this any prior thought, he would have pictured a frantic, desperate coupling, desire burning hot and bright before being quenched. This is a meandering thing that leaves him melting into the bed, desire fizzing beneath his skin but never truly taking over. Fëanor pulls away occasionally to leave a string of open-mouthed kisses down his neck, teeth scraping against his skin but never biting down, though Fingolfin thinks he would enjoy it if Fëanor did. 

Eventually, they end up curled into each other, legs tangled, faces still so close together Fingolfin can feel every one of Fëanor's breaths against his own mouth. The room is awash with the sunset—blood red, sweet orange, brazenly golden—leaving the floor and walls flushed with color. Everything is pleasantly hazy and muted, nothing feeling truly real except for Fëanor pressed against him. Fingolfin is sure there will be a reckoning in the morning for how much they've both drank, but for now he is simply loose-limbed and content.

“You said, that you no longer hate me,” he murmurs. “What then is it that you feel for me?” 

Fëanor hums, pulling back slightly to study his face. Even as tired and as drunk as they both are, it still feels a little like pressing his hands to coals, having Fëanor's attention so fully focused on him. "It is a new age," Fëanor says eventually, "and we are brothers, half in blood, but full in heart, as you once said. But of perhaps greater importance, is that you are my equal."

Fingolfin startles so badly he feels nearly sober for a sticky second. "Your equal?" he says in surprise. Nothing could possibly have prepared him for such words, and he does not know what has inspired them. They are certainly not words he ever expected to hear.

“Indeed,” Fëanor says, shrugging lightly, as if the words mean nothing at all. “Not in crafting, of course, but who else in this age could proclaim to have given Morgoth seven blows? To have held their ground so long against a Vala?” 

There is an uneasy, queasy feeling that swirls through him at Fëanor’s words, but he pushes it away. Refuses to ruin the moment. Will let it be what it is and deal with anything else when he has his full mental capacities back. “As easy as that?” he asks instead, still half-expecting a catch. 

“Easy,” Fëanor says, scoffing slightly. “No, not easy, Ñolofinwë. But I stand by my words.”

Fingolfin breathes in, takes those words, and tries to integrate them into his worldview. Breathes out, kisses his brother, and somehow, despite everything, that is indeed that. 

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

I'm also on Tumblr! 

Leave a Comment