Unsnarl My Body by Agelast

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

Oh, who will unsnarl my body
into gestures of love?
Who will give my heart room
to fly free in its rickety cage?
Whose subtlety whisper apart my legs,
Thrusting quick like a snake’s tongue?
Who will nudge the dreams back into my head,
back into my bones, where rhyming with one another
like wind chimes,
they will make music whenever I move? 

From ”Insomniac's Prayer” by Vassar Miller. 

For a hundred years or more, he slept no more than a wink. There was always so much to do and night came too soon and he would stay awake even as the sounds of the fortress stilled and the wind was the only thing that had voice. With a little candle (he prefered the a warm flame to the cool light of his father’s lamp) he would pour over the papers on his desk, spending not a little a little time pouring over letters from a certain scapegrace cousin, who was, after all rather terrible at committing his thoughts to paper. 

Maedhros studied them anyway, trying to add more meaning to it. In any case, Fingon was always confusing when he tried to be subtle. And he was nowhere near enough for Maedhros to turn to him and say, what do you mean by this rubbish?

The night ground on, and his head sank into his hand for a moment or two. 

But he did not concede to weariness. When the sunlight broke reluctantly over the jagged mountain-tops and there was a knock at his door, announcing breakfast, he could at last go out into the world again. 

When necessity did drag him back to bed, he would lie on his back and examine the underside of his canopy, the weave of the fabric burning into his vision. Hour after hour would tick by, and he would be without sleep. His body felt knotted as a fist about to strike, but his arms lay rigid at his sides. A dry, croaking voice (he thought it could be his own) whispered into his straining ear, my sleep is a war against waking up, my waking up is a slow raveling again into dark. 

+ 

“That bed hasn’t been slept in,” said Fingon, as soon as he stepped into Maedhros’ room. 

“Astute as ever,” said Maedhros, from behind him, “but remember, it is re-made every day.” 

Fingon turned to him. “I knew that.” 

“Of course you did.” 

+ 

It was different when Fingon was there, not brighter, but different, as if there was finally more air to breathe, more room to move. Though, yes, there was always more than enough (cold) air in Himring, more than enough (empty) space. Maedhros found himself lapsing into old habits from their long-lost childhood -- like pulling Fingon’s braid when his attention drifted during council meetings. Fingon jerked up, and threw a startled look at Maedhros, who listened intently to Erestor’s report. 

Fingon’s revenge came as soon as the others had departed, and it left his braids almost undone and Maedhros’ face burned a dull, hot red. 

+ 

Later that night, Fingon came to him, hair unbound and still-sharp elbows poking out his robe. Same as he always was, complaining that he was hungry, and before Maedhros could do anything about it, he produced an apple from his pocket and settled into Maedhros’ bed as if he belonged there, eating his apple. 

“Don’t let me stop you,” he said, gesturing to Maedhros’ desk. 

Maedhros took that to heart, though his letters seemed to lose their interest, even Finrod’s surprisingly detailed explanation of Nargothrond’s sewage system. He got up and started pottering around -- no, no, he was prince, he did not potter, he strode, with firm purpose. And so he strode (with firm purpose) to his bed and then said, rather helplessly, “Findekáno...” 

But Fingon had finished with his apple (and the core was nowhere to be found), he pulled Maedhros down, his fingers sticky with the apple’s juices. Maedhros felt the stiffness of his body drain away, he was undressed and the ties and stays all unsnarled under Fingon’s knowing fingers, his eager mouth. 

It was appalling how lonely he had been, and his heart rattled in his ribcage to think of how lonely he would be again. But as soon as he began to pull away, Fingon was there to pull him back. “No, no,” he said, his voice low but urgent, “Maitimo, don’t think. Can you do that? For me?” 

And Maedhros smiled at that -- Fingon might as well ask him to stop breathing for a moment -- and at his old name too, the one everyone was forbidden to use (Fingon did it anyway); pretty Maitimo had died some time after landing on Beleriand, only grim and scarred Maedhros remained. 

But. It was an amusing illusion to pretend -- 

Fingon’s breath tickled in his ear, “Oh, how can you be just thinking of yourself when I’m dying for you?” 

Honesty was important -- “I always do.” 

With a soft laugh, Fingon pushed him onto his back and parted his legs. With a few mumbled words, nothing too subtle about them, and he climbed until they were eye to eye, chest to chest, cock to cock. Fingon rubbed against him, lazy rolls of his hips, teasing him with not nearly enough friction. Maedhros kissed him, a calculated kiss. He caught hold of Fingon’s hip and jerked him forward. Fingon pushed back, his arms anchoring him. 

They moved against each other and it was only a matter of time before Maedhros came and pressed his face against Fingon’s shoulder. Satisfaction, as deep as his bones, settled over him, contentment as warm as one of Maglor’s gentler melodies.

With a sigh, Fingon shifted and turned to lay next to him, fingers caressing Maedhros’ side. His voice was tender and only a little amused when he said,“Go to sleep, Maitimo, I’ll be here when you wake.”