Lay Down in the Tall Grass by Agelast

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

They were walking leisurely through the tall grasses of the plain, already yellowing in the summer heat, when Fingon turned to Maedhros and said, “Ha! Got you at last!” The wind whistled around them, almost stealing the words from his lips.

Still, Fingon wrapped his arms around Maedhros’ waist and brought them both down to the ground, crushing the grasses beneath as they went. He was utterly intent on his object, his mouth on Maedhros’ mouth, on his skin. He pressed his face against Maedhros’ hair.

“I’ve missed this, I’ve missed you,” Fingon said, his voice muffled.

Maedhros reached up, cautiously, and touched Fingon’s. “Káno,” he said quietly, “your men will hear, and come looking for you.”

“I have told them that I wished to speak to you urgently, of matters of grave importance. We will only be interrupted if a whole howling battalion of orcs should suddenly appear. And besides, the wind is blowing away, not towards them.”

“And this grave matter you wished to speak to me about, what would that be?”

Fingon kissed him again, his heavy braids falling across Maedhros’ face. They carried with them the scent of pine, fresh and faintly astringent, and even a whiff — ever so slightly! — of gold polish. Fingon narrowed his eyes. “You really didn’t miss me at all?”

Maedhros closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again —they swept across the whispering grasses, waving in the wind, the blue sky, almost painfully blue and cloudless, and Fingon, whose hair had begun to come loose from his elaborate braids, whose chin pointed sharply downward, whose face was fixed into a thoughtful frown.

From this angle, he looked rather frighteningly like Fingolfin.

“It is better not to wish for things you cannot have,” Maedhros said carefully. It was important to feel as little as you could, for as long as you could. That had been a sharp lesson to learn, and one that he had learned well and early.

“You have me,” Fingon said firmly. “You will always have me.”

Maedhros pulled himself halfway up, letting Fingon slide roughly downward and stopped, until they were sitting, flush against each other. Maedhros’ breeches, and the armor that covered them, though they had felt comfortable at the onset of his journey, now felt quite close and confining. There were two spots of color on Fingon’s face, and Maedhros’ felt a similar flush on his own. “You are the very best friend I could have ever had.”

Fingon raised his eyebrows — he could never do just the one — and said, “You flatter me.”

Maedhros said with a loud groan, “And you flatten me! You are heavier than before.”

“It is all muscle, I assure you,” Fingon said smugly.

“Hmph.” Maedhros’ hand traveled down Fingon’s side, and he wished, not for the first time, that they did not have so many layers between them. Fingon seemed to have the same idea, and it took several minutes of fumbling —Maedhros’ instructions, though no doubt kindly meant, played a part in the delay —to free Maedhros’ cock into the soft summer air. Thoughtfully, Fingon rubbed his thumb over a long, thin scar that slashed across Maedhros’ stomach. It was an old wound, grown silver-white with age.

In Valinor, of course, they had had no scars. But Beleriand scraped at their skins and ground at their bodies, and time wore at them, like water on stone.

But Fingon thought of this no more, and instead wet the bottom of his lip with a quick flick of his tongue, his brow furrowed. Maedhros watched him intently, his mouth opening and closing without uttering a single word.

He only wished to know what Fingon planned to do, though he was reluctant to say so.

What Fingon did was to kiss him again, a long, slow kiss, as if they had all the time in the world, as if the sun had not already begun to dip slowly down behind the mountains, staining the sky with faint washes of purples, reds, and golds.

Maedhros looked up to him, almost dreamily, until Fingon, the rude creature, bit at the bottom of his lip and made him jerk up and reach for him, but Fingon evaded his grasp easily enough, sliding down until he came to settle in between Maedhros’ legs.

Grinning something fierce and little feral, Fingon gripped hard against Maedhros’ leather-plated thighs. He said quietly, “Ai, Maitimo! I’ve missed you at least.”

Maedhros groaned at that, and then another, when Fingon licked the head of his cock. He meandered, leisurely wasn’t the word for it, but slowly, deliberately over his ministrations. His tongue, his mouth, so often imprudent, were now wholly occupied. Fingon’s fingers, long and thin, closed over the crisp red curls that adorned Maedhros’ sex, and then wandered to his balls, and gave them a squeeze.

Maedhros did not have the words to speak, he could only make soft moans that bloomed and dropped, quite unwillingly, from his throat. He scrambled for something to anchor him, lest he fly to pieces all around, a wine glass falling on a stone floor. His right arm pawed uselessly against the dirt, but his left hand grabbed a few of Fingon’s braids and wrapped them around his hand. He pulled them and they seemed to ring around his fingers, the gold twists digging into the palm of his hand.

Fingon looked up and they exchanged a glance that would not be out of place in a council room or across a throne; they were both very passionate debaters, after all.

He thrust, almost without thinking, into the wet heat of Fingon’s mouth. And then again, harder, as Fingon rocked back and took it, fucking his mouth against Maedhros’ cock. It was unbearable, this pleasure, too much for anyone to take.

Maedhros gasped, “Káno, I’m going to --”

Fingon hissed in acknowledgment, but did not pull away.

Maedhros came, with a rough exaltation and lay still under the sky, as the sun set now in earnest. Fingon pushed himself away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and seeking out a bit of cloth to clean themselves with. He crawled to where Maedhros lay, still unmoving. They were face to face now, dirt-grit cheek to cheek, their bodies still humming with energy and love.

Maedhros thought his heartbeat surely found its echo in Fingon’s, and he took Fingon’s hand and entwined their fingers together. He kissed Fingon then, licking the edge of his mouth. Fingon pushed his head closer, a whine low in his throat.

Maedhros delighted in the taste of himself on his cousin’s tongue. A bright spike of happiness cut through him, and he felt himself (and Fingon too) to be a vessel of light. Less pure than a Silmaril, true, and less bright, but beloved still, and holy for all that. That was heresy, surely. Thoughts like that would get one exiled.

He turned back to share this thought with Fingon when he saw that he was moving away, getting up and dusting himself off. It was near-dark, the sky was colored deep purple, with dark fringes of red, like blood, streaking the western horizon.

“Ah, here come the pride of the Noldor,” Fingon said, helping him up and dusting his shoulders. There could be no doubt as to what they had done. Fingon’s braids were mostly undone and half of the golden twists had disappeared. His face was marked by dirt and other, less seemly things. Maedhros thought, still in a haze of love, that he had never looked more beautiful.

Playfully, Fingon bumped against his shoulder, as they made their slow way back to the camp where their men waited. “I did have something to tell you, a matter of some importance.”

“Yes?”

Fingon rested his head momentarily on Maedhros’ shoulder, a natural fit, and sighed. “I’ve forgotten it now.”

“Oh, Findekáno! What shall I do with you?”

Ahead, someone had lit a fire, and it smoked and threw sparks into the dark sky. The light flickered over Fingon’s face and set Maedhros’ hair into a fierce red burn. Fingon drew a long piece of grass out from Maedhros’ hair and flicked it away.

“Whatever you like, Maitimo. You know that.”