Chapter Text
Fourth Age 3
Fingon does not like spending time in his father’s office in the royal wing of the palace in Tirion. Setting aside that it brings back uncomfortable memories of both the Years of the Trees and of Beleriand, Nolofinwë only summons him here rather than to his quarters when it’s business. Fingon has worked very hard in the centuries since his Return to avoid palace business, especially the kind that is currently causing his father to hedge and hesitate before he gets to the point, going on about the recent fight in Goldworkers’ Square and what Fingon might have heard about it, given that one of those involved had once been part of Fingon’s own guard in Barad Eithel.
Finally, though, Nolofinwë says, “Ara and I have been talking, and we think, well… Suffice it to say, yonya, we would not ask this of either of you if we had any better ideas, but… Findekáno, would you consider marrying your cousin?”
Fingon stares at his father. He opens his mouth to say, I’ve already married my cousin, and then remembers that he’s kept that secret for three full Ages and counting and at this point plans to keep it to the breaking of the world. He closes his mouth again.
Nolofinwë winces. “I realize it is not exactly an orthodox request. However, the state of unrest in the city has grown worse in the past few decades, and partisanship is largely to blame. If we are to avoid Tirion tearing itself apart—”
“You wish to unite the remaining branches of the House of Finwë,” Fingon summarizes.
“Yes.”
“Right.” Fingon takes a slow breath, thinking the idea over. His father and uncle aren’t wrong, exactly. Here at the dawn of the Fourth Age, the flow of the Returned from Mandos has slowed and few are left to Sail who will ever do so; it is becoming clear to the elves of Aman that this is going to be it for the rest of time. Those who surround them will not substantially change; those that they miss are, at this point, very likely going to stay missing. They are going to need to learn to live with their neighbours.
Unfortunately, not everyone likes their neighbours, especially here in crowded Tirion amongst the Noldor. Fingon has heard harsh sentiment from friends and acquaintances about the refusal of the Fëanorian faction to assimilate, their stubborn, prideful insistence on keeping to their own quarter and to their own company, but in practice that is not much of a source of friction. The Fëanorians keep to themselves, which causes disdain but not conflict.
On the other hand, as Fingon’s father has just pointed out, those who support Arafinwë’s continued rule and those who would prefer that Nolofinwë reclaim the crown are perfectly happy to get into fistfights in the street about their opinions on the matter. That there’s no contention between the brothers Finwion themselves is irrelevant; it is equally irrelevant that they are effectively co-rulers, for all that Arafinwë is the one with the title. For better or for worse, the Noldor have never been accused of failing in their loyalties, and the meaningful divide in preference has been causing problems. Why this is Fingon’s problem—well, he knows why: he had the fortune (or misfortune, at the present moment) to be born the first son of the House of Nolofinwë.
“Why not found a separate kingdom?” Fingon asks. He has been back for about a thousand years at this point, watching the tail end of the Third Age and doing his best to keep his own nose entirely out of politics, and has been politely not asking this exact question for most of that time.
Other realms have of course sprung up, or continued in robustness from the Years of the Trees—Ingwë and Olwë are still enthroned in their own cities, and notably Thingol upon his Return had founded a renewed forest realm west of the Pelóri. Gil-Galad, when he had Returned, had settled first in Avallónë but had had to make a quite public effort to avoid being appointed to a council seat there and subsequently attempted to retire to the countryside. He remains popular, however, and those who had been born in the elven kingdoms of Eriador and beyond in the Second and Third Ages mostly continue to rally to him, so a small village has appeared in the general vicinity of the small country home he had built for himself northwest of Alqualondë, in the foothills there. And of course there is Fingon’s own brother, who has not yet managed to refound his mountain city, but has been visibly champing at the bit to vanish back into the cliffs for several hundred years and has enough of a faction of his own that he could probably do it. How exactly their father has prevented him, Fingon isn’t sure, and also isn’t sure why Nolofinwë has bothered.
Nolofinwë sighs through his nose. “It is probably past time that another city of the Noldor is founded, with its own rulership. But the economic consequences would be significant and would need the entire attention of whoever does it, which would therefore require someone not currently closely involved in the governance of Tirion, unlike myself.” And unlike Turgon—that might explain both the means and motivation of keeping him leashed in Tirion, Fingon supposes, which is really what he gets for sticking his nose into Tirion’s governance in the first place. Fingon is coming to the rapid realization that he has not been paying much attention to his family lately, and has probably benefited from it immensely. “And it would not entirely diffuse the problem of partisan arguments over who reigns as King of the Noldor.”
“There are many Kings of the Noldor,” Fingon points out. “Including me. No one is starting a civil war in my name.”
“They might,” Nolofinwë says grimly. Then he looks away, his expression shifting. “I also… do not want to leave Tirion. It is perhaps selfish.”
Fingon purses his lips. It is somewhat selfish. But he also understands. They were exiles for centuries. His father, just as much as anyone, has a right to be at home.
Fingon, on the other hand, would actually love to go found a city somewhere else and get the fuck out of Tirion, now that he’s thinking about it. He likes the city well enough, but has come to prefer more independence and less oversight than palace life permits, and even keeping to his house in the city or spending long stretches riding the wilds hasn’t entirely solved the problem. “Which cousin am I marrying, in this scenario?”
“Findaráto.”
Obviously. Fingon nods. “I need to think about it. And talk to Findaráto.”
“Of course,” Nolofinwë says, looking relieved.
“I’m going to… go do that now,” Fingon says, and before Nolofinwë can say anything more, he rises, bows, and hurries out of the office. He needs to talk to Finrod.
Fingon has not been subtle at any point in his life and he doesn’t plan to start now. He marches directly to the Crown Prince’s rooms, and ignores the footman who tries to waylay him in the hall as he passes into the private family wing to ask where he’s going. When he arrives, he throws the doors open and shouts, “Finrod! We have a problem!”
“I’m doing well, Fingon, thank you for asking,” Finrod says dryly, turning away from his desk. He seems to be answering correspondence, but lays down his pen to give Fingon his attention. “And how are you on this fine afternoon?”
“Have you spoken to your father?” Fingon asks, instead of acknowledging the sarcasm.
“Yes. Shut the door and come sit down.” As Fingon does so, Finrod rises and crosses the room, padding over the rich carpet on bare feet to the small seating area to one side of his central chamber, choosing for himself a handsome leather armchair.
Fingon elects to sprawl on the nearby chaise, which is piled with a slightly excessive number of cushions, preventing him from flopping fully onto his back. He covers his face with his hands.
“That excited to be married, I see,” Finrod says, still drier than a desert, but a little amused now.
“Did you agree at once?” Fingon says into his palms.
“No, I told atar I would need to speak with you first.”
“Good. The same.” Fingon lets out a breath and lowers his hands, staring at the ceiling. In the relief he feels he finds the realization that he had worried that Finrod would have agreed without question, which was not particularly logical. Finrod has shown no indication that he’s any more willing to be his father’s pawn than Fingon is.
“Will you look at me, Finno?”
The affectionate nickname takes Fingon by surprise, enough that he turns to look at once. Finrod has a solemn look on his face, much more so than is usual for him, and his frown pulls at the lines of the claw-mark scars across his cheek that have never fully faded. Few elves have Returned so ravaged—but then, Finrod had Returned unusually quickly after his death. Fingon has heard it in cruel whispers that Finrod’s early emergence from Mandos had been a failed experiment on the part of the Valar, and since him all others have been held longer to heal properly. Fingon personally wonders how many are hiding scars beneath their clothes; he was himself upon his Return, though they have all faded almost to nothing now, as he settled into life.
After a moment, though, Finrod smiles, and light comes again to his eyes. “You look so very worried, dear cousin.”
“Don’t call me cousin when we’re discussing marriage,” Fingon says, exasperated. It’s not that he isn’t aware, but…
“Does our relation bother you?” Finrod asks with a raised eyebrow.
Fingon shrugs. “Not as such. But it feels strange to think in such terms when in some short span of time we might be obliged to marry for politics.”
Finrod’s look at the emphasis suggests that he understands full well what Fingon means. “Is it the marriage that bothers you, then, or the politics?” he says. “It is clear that something does.”
“The marriage,” Fingon says. He swallows hard, shoving down the feeling of his heart in his throat, and at last sits up, glancing at the door, and lowers his voice. “Before you agree, you must know something.”
Finrod raises his other eyebrow to join the first and gestures for him to go on.
“I am already married. To Maedhros.” That the marriage yet stands is obvious: Fingon feels it every day, a hollow, cold place in his fëa where the bond had once been a font of warmth.
There is a pause. Then Finrod laughs, tossing his head back. “Of course!” he cries. “You two were ever close. How did you manage to keep it a secret?”
“Mostly by never seeing each other,” Fingon says, long-suffering. “We were apart more than together.”
“When did you marry?”
“After the rescue.” Fingon lets out a breath through his nose, trying not to remember what those days had been like, and at the same time longing for them. “We did not want to be so parted again. Not that it—well.”
“That makes sense.” Finrod reaches up and runs a hand over his hair, currently elaborately plaited though not adorned with his usual selection of glimmering golden jewelry. “So what in the world are we to do? We cannot marry, then. What will we tell our fathers? Or did you tell yours when he proposed this plan?”
“I told my father nothing,” Fingon says. “And as our existence attests, we could marry.”
There is a pause. Then Finrod says, carefully, “You would need permission. And he would—”
“He is never coming out of Mandos,” Fingon says. He does not expect until he speaks how bleak his tone will be, but his voice rasps in his throat like wind over desolate land, long burned to ash.
“You don’t know that.”
Fingon does, in fact, know that. He has asked. He had searched for Maedhros in Mandos and not found him, and from that alone it had been clear then that his husband would remained unhealed for a long time. But a long time had passed, even by the slow and uneven reckoning of time in the Halls. Eventually, Fingon had begun to feel ready for life once more himself, and then more than ready, restless in a way that had bitten and clawed at his spirit until he knew he could delay no longer, not without surety. He had gone then to Námo to learn whether he should wait for Maedhros or if he should go, for he had known without asking what Maedhros’ preference would be and simply needed to know the terms on which he should choose to be stubborn. He had gotten a clear answer: stubbornness would be useless. While the Oath stood unresolved, Fëanor and his sons would be barred from Returning because they posed and still pose a danger to Arda and to themselves.
At the last, Fingon had bowed his head before necessity and given up on waiting. He had Returned, and has simply been living with it since. Still, to put that into words… he can’t. The silence stretches.
Finally, Finrod sighs. “Do you have any idea how to go about asking for permission?”
“Prayer?” Fingon shrugs. “Or maybe pilgrimage would be better. I could ride west to the place where the Returned emerge from the Halls and make my request there. I don’t know if that would work, but if it takes a trip to Máhanaxar, I’m not doing it.”
“No, that would be far too obvious.” Fingon tilts his head side to side, gold hair sliding over his shoulders with the motion, thinking.
After a moment, watching Finrod mull it over, Fingon says, “You’re more ready to assist me in keeping this secret than I expected.”
“You have a right to your privacy,” Finrod replies, fiercer all of a sudden than the sentiment seems to require. “Our fathers are making a large enough demand on the both of us, on our personal lives. If you—” he cuts himself off, then looks away. “I apologize. You are not—I shouldn’t shout.”
“You weren’t shouting,” Fingon says, cautious. “You have no less right to be angry about this than I do to be secretive. May I… ask what that was about?”
Finrod rubs a hand over his face, a startlingly Mannish gesture. “Your father might well be solely motivated by politics, but mine wants me out of his hair. Or at least to be in his hair in a way that he approves of. In case you hadn’t noticed, I have been rather problematic as crown prince—I have a faction of my own, not that I have tried to encourage them, whom my father believes are encouraging me to hold onto older ways and older times. They would be happy to see me seize more authority, though I have no interest in it; still, I do associate with my friends of old, and am an emblem in the palace of them and of what they want. Atar wouldn’t banish me or otherwise punish me, not when I have done nothing strictly wrong, but I think he is tired of my unwillingness to let go of… of everything.”
Fingon had been aware of the moderate cult of personality surrounding Finrod, but frankly hadn’t considered the political implications. As it is, he feels his mouth twist. “Ah. Yes, the good old ‘it has been two Ages, yonya, let it go’. I have heard it plenty myself.”
“I started hearing it the moment I emerged from the Halls,” Finrod says, in a tone that Fingon can only label miserable. “Perhaps if they had given me—given me time, given me a chance, it might have been different. But it has been two Ages, and I…” He sighs. “Much as my parents would prefer it, I have not by magic reverted to the person I was before I crossed the Ice. Nor can I pretend I was never king—nor will some certain others do so.”
“I have changed too,” Fingon says. He hesitates a moment, but allows his tactile instinct, often suppressed, to carry him to reach across the small gap between their seats and lay a hand on Finrod’s arm. At the touch, Finrod shudders then turns toward him like a flower to the sun, and Fingon opens his arms without hesitation. Finrod rises from his chair and comes over, sitting down close by Fingon’s side and folding into the offered embrace. “Ai, Ingo…”
“Don’t Ingo me,” Finrod mutters into Fingon’s shoulder, dropping into Sindarin. “I’m fine.”
“I doubt it,” Fingon chides, matching the change in language. “Or at least you’re no better or worse than I am these days. I understand.”
It is hard to be a person shaped by the First Age in these late days. The world is coming to rest, but they have not had a hand in its righting, the way Fingon had once imagined he and his cousins would. If anything, the wounds that are now slowly healing are ones inflicted by their own family more than anyone else, and yet their parents’ generation seems inclined to pretend that none of that matters any more, here on the other side of the sea.
They linger for a few moments in the embrace. Finrod is warm in Fingon’s arms, a comfort unlooked-for, nearly forgotten. His body remembers best how to hold a longer, lankier form, but he settles quickly into the simple pleasure of holding nonetheless.
Softly, Finrod says, “Do you think it would work?”
Fingon considers that. “The politics or the marriage?”
“Either. Both.”
“The politics would work. Better even if we settled a city ourselves in a few years, maybe a decade. If I took the primary role in the marriage, as I think would be necessary given I’m older, we’d be able to siphon some of the Nolofinwean partisans, and of course we’d have your faction. We would bring along with us a large enough slice of the younger generations and of the former Exiles, those who are restless and ill-content here under Uncle Ara’s rulership, but who have no loyalty to Gil-Galad or Thingol or Olwe or… whoever. It would reduce the pressure.” Tirion in the Fourth Age is an immensely dense city, urban in a way that the other, smaller settlements are not. The city has carved itself into the mountains, climbing high, and become a place of innovation and growth; life feels busy, which is sometimes at odds with the meandering pace at which the Eldar tend to live. Some prefer it, and it has become what it is for good reasons, but it has certain inherent problems. “I think the gesture would be effective, too, in making clear the will of the House of Finwe as a royal family, rather than a disparate bunch of rulers connected in flimsy branches.”
“Yes.” Finrod pushes back slightly, but allows his hands to linger on Fingon’s arms, stroking softly with his thumbs. “And what about this?”
At that, Fingon smiles. “Why don’t you kiss me, Ingo, and we’ll see?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Finrod says, laughing, and leans forward without hesitation.
Fingon had never before today seriously considered kissing this particular cousin, but as their lips meet he finds it feels surprisingly natural. Finrod is smiling against him, unfamiliar but joyful, and his mouth is soft. Fingon slides his hands up Finrod’s back, smoothing over the silk of his robe, and feels another of those small shivers. Then by mutual unspoken agreement they draw away from one another once more.
“Yes,” Fingon says, looking into Finrod’s glittering eyes. “I think this will work.”
“Oh good,” Finrod replies, a little breathless. “As it happens, I concur.”
Fingon is tempted to kiss him again, to taste him properly, perhaps get his hands under Finrod’s clothes just to feel the heat of his skin. It has been a long, long time, and though Fingon has not exactly felt the absence as such—not with the lover he wanted locked away—his body is remembering quite abruptly how good closeness can be. But they should be responsible. “Not that I think either of our families are under any illusions about our respective states of virtue,” he says, somewhat regretful, “but we probably should not be caught in any compromising positions.”
“We’ll sneak out later,” Finrod replies, and lifts himself away from Fingon to return to his chair. Probably wise. “That, or—you said you thought you should make your appeal for Maedhros’ permission from the outskirts of Mandos?”
“It makes the most sense to me,” Fingon says with a shrug. “I cannot think of any better way; prayer from the privacy of my home feels too informal. Not enough of a… a gesture, I suppose.”
“That makes sense to me as well. Why don’t we tell our fathers we’re going on a hunting expedition together, west of the mountains, to see where we stand and if we think this will work? That would buy us plenty of time and give you a reason to vanish. I wouldn’t need to come with you, even.”
“No, you should,” Fingon says, without expecting himself to say it. Once he does, however, it seems right. If they’re going to do this, they should do it together from the very start. “You should. The excuse can be honest, as well as a screen, and… I know not if Námo or his Maiar will convey our words, but in case they would you should come as well, that your part in this be known. I would like to believe that he… that Maedhros would be comforted to know it was you, and to know that you know of him in turn.”
Finrod nods. “Alright. Then we’ll make plans to depart… soon. Not more than a week, let’s say.”
“Yes, I’ll need time to wrap up some loose ends in town—I expect you’ll need to do the same.”
Finrod grimaces. “And I think, in the interest of avoiding any further familial drama, that both of us should take charge of informing our siblings before we leave.”
“... Fuck.”
“Mhm.”
It is entirely a relief to ride out from Tirion with only Finrod by his side and only as many things as they could reasonably pack onto two horses. As they pass over a hill and the city’s gates vanish behind them, Finrod tosses his head back with a sigh that tells Fingon that they are feeling rather the same, and Fingon laughs. “Two entire weeks to ourselves, Ingo! Whatever shall we do with such freedom?”
Finrod turns to grin at him, one hand caught loosely in his horse’s mane. “I’ll race you to the next hilltop!” he says, and at once kicks his horse to a gallop.
“Ai!” Fingon cries in protest at the cheating, and is after Finrod in a moment. His own horse has already broadened her stride, glad to chase her companion. As they reach a gallop, the wind blows Fingon’s braids back away from his face, gold-ribboned black whipping behind him, and he laughs again.
They reach the hilltop nearly at the same moment, so close that they are inclined to bicker lightly about who won as they slow their mounts to a walk and amble down the other side once more, westward through winding western tail of the Calacirya as it rises and falls, trailing through the foothills of the Pelóri. Túna rises behind them at a distance, visible at times when they glance over their shoulders and at other times hidden by the rolling of the land. The growing distance feels to Fingon like relief, the slow cutting-away of binding threads.
In time playful argument lapses to silence, and they listen only to the wind and the tap of their horses’ hooves on the paving-stones of the path. A bird flies above them, singing, and Finrod raises his voice to join it in song, calling it down to him. The small songbird, a brownish sort that Fingon cannot name, circles and comes to alight on Finrod’s shoulder, its claws digging in between lines of swirling silver embroidery that trace over the green of his long riding coat, and for a while they sing a sweet duet, wordless and full of the joy of spring. Then it flitters away again, and Finrod finishes the musical phrase on his own, his lovely tenor in gentle mode ringing from the rising stones of the boulder field they are currently riding through.
“Your voice really is beautiful,” Fingon says, when Finrod falls quiet again.
“If I recall correctly, you are not so bad yourself!” Finrod says. “Will you sing with me?”
“Later, maybe.” Fingon offers a wry smile. “I am somewhat out of practice.”
“Easily rectified.”
Fingon just hums an ambivalent response to that. “I suppose.”
“You suppose?” Finrod says, turning to give him a look. “Finno.”
Fingon shrugs. His voice is serviceable for prayer or certain minor workings of power, but plain in comparison to Finrod’s, to the voices of many of their cousins; for many long years no one cared to hear him sing, except—well. Almost no one, anyway. Except for those few occasions, the only times he has sung, he has done so for purpose rather than for joy. Not since their youth in Tirion has he raised it in song purely for pleasure, and is not sure he remembers how. “I prefer listening to others.”
Finrod’s eyes are narrow, and he opens his mouth. Then he closes it again and nods. “I won’t pry. But I would sing with you any time you pleased, Fingon.”
“... Thank you.”
They ride in silence then for a while, winding along the road. There is a breeze, sweet-smelling, from the west, and the afternoon is drawing along in warmth. Fingon retrieves a piece of jerky from his pack to gnaw on as they ride, vaguely peckish.
“Where shall we camp tonight?” Finrod asks, noting his snack. “I suppose we should try to make it through the hills.”
“Ideally.” Camping on the narrow road before they exit the last of what could be called the Calacirya isn’t the most pleasant, though Fingon has done it before. The cliffs are not quite so steep here as they are closer to Tirion, which is nestled into the lap of the mountains very closely, but still there is not much ground that isn’t rocky and harsh and full of tree roots until they exit fully onto the plains. “If evening arrives before we leave the pass, there are nicer spots to camp away from the road. And we won’t risk being trod upon by the dawn messengers.”
Finrod snorts. “Yes indeed. There’s a spot just west of the exit to the pass that I’ve spent the night before—a pool for swimming, if we wish.”
“That would be nice.”
“Yes, I remember you used to like it.”
Fingon offers a smile. “I often swim in the sea when I visit friends on Eressëa. Do you still go through to Alqualondë sometimes?”
“Oh, sometimes. When my mother gets it into her head to go visiting. Father usually deputizes me as escort.”
Fingon gives him a glance, then lets his smile slide toward teasing. “Do you swim naked, Ingo?”
At that, Finrod laughs. “Wouldn’t you like to know!”
“Maybe I’ll get to find out.”
“Oh, get to.”
“We’re all alone out here. Anything could happen.”
Finrod’s own smile slants at that, a hint of heat gathering in his expression. But he says nothing more, lets the teasing simmer where Fingon has left it. Fingon appreciates it, that his new maybe-betrothed knows when to riposte and when to let a blow land for later advantage. Fingon is going to enjoy sparring with him—in words and, hopefully, in other ways.
They keep a steady pace through the rest of the day, talking sometimes about inconsequential things, pausing once to admire a patch of bellflowers blooming out of a crack in a cliff wall, purple flowers stark and stunning against the grey-brown of the stone. They eat a late lunch there, breathing in the cool air that flows down from the mountains’ eternally snow-covered tops, and then ride on.
Evening reaches them just as they emerge from the lowest turn of the pass, and they debate briefly stopping there or continuing to the place Finrod knows. Eventually they settle on the latter even though it will mean making camp in the young darkness; their eyes are good and no danger lurks after nightfall here in peaceful Aman. The promise of a swim is enticing to them both, and Finrod says that the pool is fed by a mingled stream that flows partly from a hot spring in the stone just above it, so the water is pleasantly warm at all times of the year.
They come to the place that Finrod recognizes and turn off the road, and eventually come to a small clearing with soft grass. They dismount and make camp briskly, then turn their horses loose to graze and to seek their own rest, and together Fingon and Finrod hike a ways up into a rockier stretch of the hills, carrying clean clothes, a small kit of soaps and oils for bathing, and a lamp in case they decide they want more light. The path is a slow, meandering ascent, easy to navigate even in the growing dark. By the time they come to the pool spring, it is lit only by moonlight, which gleams pleasantly on the placid water. Around them, nighttime insects are singing, a complement to the faint gurgle of the spring that feeds the pool; a few fireflies drifting about, and those little starry lights are pleasant enough that they decide to leave aside the lamp for the time being to strip down under the cover of darkness.
Not for modesty, Fingon thinks, as he glances up to see even in the dark the glint of Finrod’s eyes fixed on him as he bares himself. No, the darkness is nothing more than an additional enticement. The air is mild, but he feels goosebumps rising even so, and with a sly smile in Finrod’s direction he steps down from the rocky rim of the pool into the waist-deep water. There are ledges under the surface near the sides of the pool, even enough that Fingon thinks they were placed or carved by visitors past. Convenient.
“Tease,” he hears Finrod murmur, and then the water ripples again.
Fingon just laughs and begins unbraiding his hair, setting the ribbons to the side. “Come, help me with this.”
Fingon can hear the soft sound of the water as Finrod moves closer, coming up at his back, and then fingers are sinking into his hair, gathering his braids up and pulling them from Fingon’s own grasp. He breathes in, not quite a gasp, at the faint tugging. Then Finrod takes over the unbraiding, working gently through the strands, letting the loosened coils fall to brush over Fingon’s shoulders and back and dangle into the water as he goes.
When he finishes, he doesn’t remove his hands from Fingon’s hair. Instead, he sinks them deeper, pressing his fingertips into Fingon’s scalp. Fingon tips his head back with a soft groan, and Finrod laughs a little, massaging his head.
“Been a while?” he asks.
“A long time,” Fingon murmurs. “You can—whatever you want.”
A pause. “Anything?”
Fingon smiles at that. “Well, there are some limits.”
“We can talk about that later,” Finrod says, and something in his tone sends a shiver down Fingon’s spine.
“Should we wash?”
Finrod hesitates, stroking his hands through Fingon’s hair, dragging another shudder from him. Then he says, “After.”
Fingon swallows hard. “Yes. Alright.”
That assent, it seems, is enough; in the next moment the faint warmth of the water is eclipsed by the heat of Finrod’s body pressed against Fingon’s back. His hands comes down out of Fingon’s hair to trace down his neck and over his chest, eventually settling below the line of the water to rest on his hips. Finrod, the taller of the two of them, bows his head to press a kiss to Fingon’s shoulder. “How do you like it?” he asks, voice low.
Fingon shakes his head, lost for words. “I… it’s been a long time.”
“Did you experiment much, back then?”
A flash, then: another tall form against his, broad and thick with muscle in the later days after recovery, always running so very hot, like the fire of his spirit was just waiting for a chance to burn right out of his skin. “I haven’t had many partners,” Fingon admits softly. “And with—when I had the most time to experiment, there were… things we couldn’t do. But we tried a lot, and I liked most of it.”
“Mm.” Finrod kisses Fingon’s shoulder again, higher this time, closer to the side of his throat. His lips are parted, and Fingon can feel his breath. “I didn’t expect that I might be the more experienced of the two of us, at least in terms of partners… Well, we can try things. See what we like.”
“Who—” Fingon cuts himself off. “No, never mind. We can talk about it later.”
“Not a worry.” A third kiss, a hint of teeth. Fingon shudders again, harder this time, hard enough that Finrod can feel it if the tightening of his fingers at Fingon’s hips is anything to go by. “Would you like to fuck me?”
“Ah,” Fingon says, breathless, surprised. Surprised by the words, and by how much he suddenly wants it. “Yes.”
Fingon turns and places his hands on Finrod’s chest, guiding him back until Finrod’s back is against the edge of the pool, and then Fingon presses their bodies together. When he slides a leg between Finrod’s thighs, he can feel the stir of Finrod’s cock, and he grinds in a little, teasing. “Kiss me,” he says.
Finrod does without hesitation. Their mouths slot together, open, tasting each other. Fingon hitches his hips up to make Finrod gasp, and gasp he does; Fingon takes shameless advantage, sliding his tongue into Finrod’s mouth. Finrod yields to the kiss, sweet and hungry, and his hands tighten where they lie, one on Fingon’s shoulder and the other resting now at his waist.
When they part to breathe, Fingon says, “Is there something good to ease the way in that bundle of soaps you brought?”
“Yes, ah—uh.” Finrod is grinding down against Fingon’s thigh in little jerks of his hips, his cock hardening between them. “Um. Yes. Red… red bottle, I think.”
“Alright.” Fingon pulls away, then ducks back in briefly to kiss the little bereft noise Finrod makes off of his lips. “I’ll be right back. Touch yourself? I’ll suck you while I get you ready, if you’d like.”
“Yes, please.” Finrod’s hand is already sliding below the water as Fingon moves away.
Fingon has to shuffle through the bundle for a moment but finds the red bottle swiftly enough, listening as he does to the soft swish of water and then Finrod’s sighs behind him as he pleasures himself. He tips a small amount of the liquid within onto his fingers and finds a slick, oily substance, scentless but pleasant on the skin—he’s admittedly used to making do with whatever’s at hand, but this seems well fit for purpose.
When he turns back around, he finds that Finrod has lifted himself out of the water to sit on the edge of the pool, his long legs splayed. He’s propped up on one hand, and the other is wrapped around his cock, now fully hard. He’s teasing himself, just working his grip lightly at the head, and his face and chest are flushed with arousal. He’s beautiful on display, more beautiful than Fingon remembers him from their shared youth; the scars, silvery in the moonlight, that trace the gold of his skin only add to his looks in Fingon’s admittedly biased opinion.
Fingon lets the heat he feels show in his face as he moves closer again, and Finrod groans when he sees it. “Come here,” Finrod says.
“Oh, I will,” Fingon replies. As soon as he’s within reach he places one hand high on Finrod’s thigh, and after he sets the bottle on the edge of the pool he wraps the other in Finrod’s hair, tugging his head back to bare his throat. Fingon leans in and kisses that pale stretch, Finrod’s gold-tanned skin heated by his flush and his pulse racing just below. He kisses again a little lower, where a puncture-wound scar puckers the skin just below Finrod’s collarbone. “Lean back.”
Finrod does, and Fingon leans in in turn, bracing his arms on either side of Finrod’s body and placing his hands on Finrod’s hips. Finrod pulls his hand away from his cock, and Fingon replaces it with his mouth, first kissing just the tip and then sinking down. Finrod’s cock is hot on his tongue, a little salty from sweat and precome and a little mineral-y from the water; Fingon hollows his cheeks and sucks.
The noise that Finrod makes is resonant, a wavering moan nearly musical in tone. “Fingon!” he cries, and reaches down to cup the back of Fingon’s head with the hand he isn’t using to brace himself. He doesn’t grab Fingon’s hair, tug or pull or shove. He just holds tenderly, his smallest finger pressed against the soft place where Fingon’s skull meets his spine. It makes Fingon shiver; to distract himself, he swallows, then opens his throat as best he can remember how and attempts to take Finrod to the root.
It doesn’t go perfectly. Fingon chokes at first and has to pull back so that he doesn’t gag, though he thinks he trusts Finrod well enough that they might be able to play that game at some later time. For now, he eases in again, using his mouth to give pleasure, taking his own from the familiar sensuality of sucking cock. Finrod seems to appreciate it, anyway, from the volume of his noises.
After a minute, Fingon remembers that there’s something else he’s supposed to be doing if he wants to get inside Finrod at some point tonight, which he very much does. His own cock is hard, his body begging for attention, for touch. Blindly he pats around for the vial, and a moment later Finrod’s hand lifts from Fingon’s head to pass him the bottle of oil. Fingon draws back, panting, and grins up at Finrod as he pours a little onto one hand to slick his fingers. “Ready?” he asks.
“Whenever you are,” Finrod replies, and true to his word he relaxes with remarkable swiftness when Fingon presses a slick finger up into Finrod’s hole. He’s hot, tight, but so very ready to open himself and draw Fingon in; his body is begging just as much as Fingon’s is.
“Eru,” Fingon murmurs. “Another?”
“Yes, please.”
Fingon gives him another, and as he teases and touches with the two fingers inside Finrod, exploring and working Finrod up, he also leans back in to put his mouth back on Finrod’s cock. At that Finrod arches, his hips twitching up for the first time, and he shouts wordlessly. Mouth full, Fingon can’t easily smile, but the satisfaction he feels is immense.
Fingon doesn’t have a free hand to stroke the parts of Finrod’s cock that don’t easily fit into his mouth, but it seems his efforts just with lips and tongue are more than sufficient, despite the long span without practice; in no time at all Finrod is moaning near-constantly, his hips shifting back and forth between Fingon’s mouth and his fingers. Fingon takes his time, sucking only lightly, and with his hand he plays with Finrod’s rim, stretching him open slowly, drawing his fingers out to trace them around that sensitive opening, then delving inside once more to press at the hidden places that make Finrod’s voice waver and break. He ignores it the first time Finrod tugs at his hair, trying to urge him on, but the second time, as Finrod’s moans grow desperate, he pulls away.
“Ready?” he asks, a little hoarse for all that he hadn’t tried to take Finrod into his throat. It’s the force of desire that makes him so, and Finrod shivers at the sound of his voice.
“Yes, yes, please,” Finrod says, urgent. “In me, Finno. Fuck me.”
Fingon grins, meeting Finrod’s eyes, and stands up on the step inside the pool to line himself up. A little hazardous to be standing under water for this, he supposes, but he’s had riskier sex. It’s leverage enough, anyway, that he is able to press the head of his cock against Finrod’s hole, and then slowly push inside.
Finrod’s body is hot around him, tight and slick with the oil, and Fingon finds himself panting just from the pleasure of entering him. The pressure is intensely pleasurable, the slow slide a tease, and he’s so fixated on the sensation that he barely realizes that he’s all the way in until his hips press against Finrod’s ass. Below him, Finrod’s head is thrown back once more, red mouth laid open in mute pleasure. He’s stunningly beautiful.
The look on Finrod’s face is permission enough that Fingon doesn’t bother checking in again before he rocks out and then back in, a short, swift thrust. It feels… It’s overwhelming. The most intimate of embraces, a heat unmatched by any other touch that Fingon has ever known, a fire that paradoxically soothes the desperate longing that has been burning away in his belly since they disrobed.
“I’m not going to last very long,” Fingon says, and as he does realizes he sounds wrecked.
Finrod laughs, and as he does his body tightens, shifts in a way that makes Fingon fold forward over him, gasping at the feeling. “Oh, by all the stars—me neither! Come on, fuck me, Fingon!”
“Alright, alright.” Fingon is laughing too, he realizes, a release almost as needed as the peak he can already feel approaching. He tucks his head down to press a kiss to Finrod’s chest, then a second to a white scar that traces the curve of his pectoral down to his ribs. “Bossy.”
“Bossy! Coming from y—ah!”
Fingon interrupts the complaint with a hard thrust, and at once sets a fast pace, standing straight once more with his hands gripping hard at Finrod’s hips. If Finrod wants to be fucked, Fingon will fuck him, and they can talk about which of them is the bossier later.
In truth, Fingon had not been kidding—he really isn’t going to last long. He can already feel the tension, the intense coiling of pleasure like a spring waiting to be loosed from his core. Carefully he restrains the feeling to his hröa, knowing what will happen if he allows his fëa to spill over when he comes; their fathers will be less than pleased if they return from this trip bonded before the wedding. The closeness of their bodies fosters a closeness of minds, and he can feel Finrod folding himself up similarly, so that the edges of their spirits touch no more intimately than at the point of the joining of their bodies—less, even. But the joining they do have is joyous and filled with pleasure all the same, two moving together as one, seeking the same goal.
When Fingon comes, he tosses back his head and cries his relief to the stars, striking a pitch with his voice that he hasn’t met in long years. Below him, Finrod laughs, gasps, and then wraps his hand around his own cock. A few trembling strokes are enough to finish him as well, and his groan seems almost to harmonize with Fingon’s panting moans as he comes down from the peak of pleasure.
“Ai, Finno,” Finrod says, when they both recover their breath. “That was good.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Fingon says, pulling back enough that his softening cock slides from Finrod’s body. Finrod makes a soft noise, a little uncomfortable, and on instinct Fingon brings a hand to the place where Finrod is still stretched and open, wet with oil and Fingon’s come. With gentle fingers he touches the rim of Finrod’s hole, not unlike how he’d opened him, and then slides two inside.
Finrod shudders hard. “Oh, ah—that’s—”
“Do you like it?” Fingon says, coming close again. His wrist ends up at an awkward angle, but he doesn’t mind; his other hand he lays on Finrod’s thigh, resting over one of the broadest bands of scar tissue. The flush that has come with pleasure has reddened some of the larger, more pronounced marks, and from the way Finrod shivers, Fingon thinks those at least might be a little tender. “Is it too much?”
“Maybe—not too deep. But…”
“Mm.” Fingon smiles, looking down at Finrod, sweat-slick and shivering a little, his eyes still dark and glazed. “They make devices for this, you know. It can be fun, to… prolong the sensation a little. To be full a while longer, afterward.”
Finrod makes a soft noise. “I’ve done many things, but not that.”
“When we return to Tirion, I’ll seek the artisan I know who specializes in toys for games of this kind. She and I met in Beleriand, and I—” There Fingon pauses. “Well. I had reason to become acquainted, once.”
“Ah, you’re going to get me hard again, and then what?” Finrod says. His voice is light, but he shifts beneath Fingon’s hands and his body clenches, a twitch of discomfort, so Fingon draws back and pulls his hands away. “Mm. Maybe not right now, though.”
“Perhaps next time,” Fingon says. He lets his hands fall into the water to wash away the worst of the mess and then steps back from the edge, holding out his arms. “Come, let’s wash. We should rest at some point.”
“Yes, of course.” Finrod slides easily down off the stone ledge and into Fingon’s arms, returning the embrace. He rests his head briefly on Fingon’s shoulder and kisses there, soft. “Thank you. You are very good at this. I almost cannot believe we never did this earlier. I suppose for that I ought almost be furious at Maedhros—he hogged your attention for all our youth, not to mention the whole First Age!”
It’s clearly a joke, but Fingon can’t stop his shoulders from tightening. “He would have had it otherwise, I suspect,” he says, trying for lightness to match Finrod’s tone, but he doesn’t quite get there. He can only remember a comment made once in the dead of night, when Maedhros had thought him asleep: If I had any honour, I would find a way to set you free.
Finrod draws away, studying his face, and says, “Ah,” very gently. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Fingon says. He’s not sure what Finrod is seeing in his face, and he doesn’t want to think any further about Maedhros right now. He turns away to find the soaps once more. “Would you like me to comb your hair, Ingo? I’m rather responsible for mussing it.”
There’s a pause, then Finrod says, “Yes, alright. I think I’ll wash it properly first. Dirt, you know.”
Fingon snorts. “More a problem for you Arafinweans with your sunshine locks than for the rest of us.”
“Oh, what, you would walk around with mud in your hair just because it doesn’t show against the black?”
“Maybe I would.”
“Please.”
Joking like that, the tension in the air smooths away as they bathe. Fingon puts Finrod’s comment out of his mind. No harm meant, no harm done.
Once they are both clean and Fingon has combed Finrod’s hair as promised—he waves away an offer of the same and yanks a comb through it as quickly as his curls will permit—they return to their campsite. Their bedrolls are laid out side-by-side near the fire, but they had not made their beds together. As they lay down, exchanging soft wishes of good dreams and easy reverie or gentle sleep, Fingon can’t decide if he wishes they were in each others’ arms. He feels cool, suddenly, in the night air, and thinks perhaps that an arm laid across his chest would warm him. On the other hand—he cannot even finish the thought, hearing it as he does in another voice. Those terrible jokes, always. And always too the wry and bitter commentary that had always burned Fingon on the inside, on why Fingon was wasted there, in that bed; why he deserved someone better, someone less marred; why he should be elsewhere in the name of maintaining the secret...
On the other hand, he hears in his mind, I am selfish to the last. Stay a while longer, Finno.
Fingon turns his face into his pillow, and though his mind is too turbulent for reverie, sleep eventually comes. By Irmo’s mercy, it comes without dreams.