The Ice Between by Nibeneth

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Chapter 2

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Present

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“These are the Marches of my cousin. It won’t be long now!” Fingon called to his company. He turned forward again in his saddle, unable to keep a smile from his face, as he looked out at the hills rising before them. The last weeks of travel over roads and flat plains had been easy if tedious, and though the way became more difficult it would soon come to an end. The well-kept road became a dirt path, and the clear horizon became packed with trees as they passed into a wood. Sometimes the branches were so low that they had to duck out of the way as they rode, and the land grew steadily steeper until they reached the crest and could see out across the Marches’ rolling hills.

When Maedhros called Himring a "hill" in his letters, Fingon pictured a gentle, grassy slope like the rest of them, but he now saw that it was more of a butte, with steep sides to help repel attacks. The woods thinned as he and his guards rode up the best path, giving way to rocky ridges and short, tough bushes clinging to stones amid the yellow grass. The sky was clear, almost so brilliantly blue that it hurt to look at, and the autumn sun shone brightly upon their mail coats though a stiff wind picked up their cloaks and braids in the open air. The fortress of Himring was all hard lines with a bristle of sharpened stakes at its base. The flags flying from the towers made it marginally more festive, but they all bore the eight-pointed star in black and red, a stern warning for the unwelcome. He counted archers in the towers and guards on the inner and outer walls, and only one way to access the fortress by way of a series of steep switchbacks. It was not an especially inviting sight on its own, but to Fingon who had been traveling for weeks to meet someone he hadn't seen in years, it looked like the best ending to any journey.

They had to take the switchbacks slowly. Fingon made a mental note to offer alternatives. Later. He could worry about that later. Right now, he was at the gates, he was so close to seeing Maedhros again, and he could hardly think of anything else.

The great gates opened for them and they rode through with renewed spirits despite their fatigue. The bustling town that greeted Fingon’s senses immediately charmed him—the castle’s martial exterior hid paved streets, comfortably sturdy houses, good food smells, and smiling folk. He could hardly believe that this was the forlorn hill that Maedhros had picked for his keep and then described in a long series of dismal letters as he and his people labored to make it livable.

My dear Fingon, we only just put up enough wooden shelters before the rains came, began one wrinkled, smudged letter. It is still so very cold and damp. My fingers are hardly able to hold a quill, but I am determined…

…the rye and barley crops have both failed. I am beggaring my house in order to trade with the Avari and the Khazad when we can make contact with them. No one will go hungry, but I worry that Caranthir’s generosity runs thin…

…have heard strange noises in the night, and my people fear the worst no matter how much I try to rally them. The palisade offers some comfort, but we will all rest easier once we have stone between us and the darkness…

"Make way!" someone shouted. "Make way for the Crown Prince!" A crowd was gathering as Fingon and his retinue rode down the wide center street toward the keep, a guard ahead of them to lead the way, though there was only one way to go. He wanted to dig in his heels and ride ahead to find Maedhros as soon as he possibly could, but he restrained himself. He was the Crown Prince, and as long as all these eyes were on him, he had to play the part.

The keep rose up, tall and strong, in the center of the fort. Upon seeing it in person for the first time, Fingon had to pause: the design was his own work. He recognized every crenel and casement as if he had drawn them in stone instead of ink. His eyes followed the lines of the peaked roof and the stone walkways all around it all the way down to the main door, in front of which stood Maedhros, surrounded by his advisers. From that moment, he could see nothing else.

“Prince Fingon,” Maedhros said when Fingon brought his horse close and dismounted. He took a knee, kissed the back of Fingon’s hand, and then looked up with a wide, brilliant grin on his face. Literally brilliant, as it was so wide that Fingon could see each one of his gold teeth shining in the sun. “My dear friend. It is such a pleasure to welcome you to my home at last.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Fingon pulled him up and into a tight hug. He was warm and firm and smelled good, but they were still in public, so the hug was chaste and altogether too brief. It seemed an eternity before the requisite formal greetings were out of the way. Maedhros welcomed him as the crown prince and the king’s representative and Fingon thanked him for the hospitality. Grooms came for their horses and porters for the little cargo they’d distributed among the riders. Fingon wanted nothing more than to be alone with Maedhros at last, and soon enough, Maedhros brushed his hand, smiled, and inclined his head in the direction of the keep. Finally.

He led him through a hall, down two corridors, and up a flight of stairs, finally coming to a stop at a carved door. “I've had rooms prepared for you, of course,” Maedhros explained as he opened it and showed Fingon into his chambers. “In case you wish to be discreet.”

“I appreciate the consideration, but I would much rather be indiscreet,” Fingon laughed. He felt a little giddy—after so many months and such a long journey, he could hardly believe he was here at last and that Maedhros was right in front of him, and his words came out in a tumble. “Discreetly indiscreet. With you. If you will have me.”

“Have you? My dear Fingon, I would have you in any way and in any place you wanted. Come here, I want to kiss you.”

Fingon went straightaway into Maedhros' arms and squeezed him tight. He was so close all of a sudden, his soft hair tickling Fingon's cheek and his thick muscles shifting under his hands as he pulled Fingon in and kissed his mouth, warm and lingering. Fingon almost forgot to breathe, his head was so full of joy and the intoxicating pleasure of Maedhros' lips on his. They stayed like that for a long time, Fingon on his toes and Maedhros with his neck steeply bent and both of them with their arms around the other.

“I lost track of how long I've wanted to do that,” Fingon breathed against Maedhros' chin when they drew apart a little. He couldn't keep from laughing. “How long have you been watching for me, really? Have you been peering out from your highest tower since I said I was coming?”

“I did no less than my duty,” Maedhros replied. He leaned down to kiss him again. “Of course I watched. I missed you so much.”

Fingon cupped Maedhros' face in both hands and took a long look, trying to memorize him again after too long spent apart. His soft smile extended to the corners of his eyes, which were traced with lines that hadn't been there in Aman. His hair was bright and silky and interrupted by thick streaks of white where it grew in around scars on his scalp. Fingon stroked the largest one, starting at his temple and curling around the back of his head to the tie holding it out of his face.

“You look very well,” he said. The wildness of the East indeed looked good on him. Instead of court silks he wore wool and leather in muted reds, blues, and browns, cut for comfort and durability. A lovely plaid was wrapped around his neck and shoulders, both for warmth and to hide his painfully-sloped right shoulder. His only ornament was a twisted silver ring around his neck, just visible under the plaid.

“So do you,” Maedhros replied. “More than well. Magnificent.”

“I've been traveling for weeks!” Fingon laughed, plucking at the front of his dusty surcoat. He really was dusty from head to toe, and trail-worn, and in need of a nap, but Maedhros just stroked his braids—also in desperate need of a wash—and smiled. “You really do look well,” Fingon repeated. “Much better than I’ve seen you.”

“Thank you. I've been sleeping better.” That was something he had mentioned in his last few letters, which Fingon had read over and over again, stroking the edges of the pages absently until he could almost believe he was stroking Maedhros' hair. It is past midnight at the moment. I can see your worried face already, my dear, and I will not waste ink by trying to convince you not to worry, but I hope that by writing this my mind will be put at ease and I will not sit yet another all-night vigil. The truth is that I miss you. Just knowing that you are nearby brings me comfort, but you are so very far away... “I find if I completely exhaust myself during the day, I don't have any trouble.”

“Maybe I can help with that while I'm here,” Fingon teased. Maedhros grinned and twined his arms around his waist, pulling him in.

They started slow. A tender kiss, a whispered invitation, a word of consent. Just figuring out how to touch each other was a book written by two authors in a language that neither of them spoke fluently. Mostly figuring out how to touch Maedhros—Fingon had his own issues, but Maedhros had whole sections of his body that made him shut down in terror, and they seemed to change frequently and without warning.

So much progress though. Not always smooth or linear or easy like it had been in Aman when they were young and stupid, but it was progress, and it was worth it.

"You are wearing... a lot of clothes right now," Maedhros whispered against his forehead. His hand roamed down Fingon's chest, searching for buckles, and Fingon busied himself with Maedhros' plaid. It was pinned with a round brooch, and his fingers seemed to be tied in knots as he tried to unfasten it.

"Alas, the dangers of the road." Fingon let the plaid drop to the floor. "A moment, sorry." He took a step back, smiling at the way Maedhros pursed his lips, and began to work his mail shirt over his head. It was heavy, and his braids got caught in the links as he bent forward and let its weight do the work. With a final wriggle, it lay in a heap on the floor, and he started on the ties of his gambeson. He really was quite dusty and smelly, but Maedhros was not deterred. He started kissing him even as he continued to undress. "A moment, I said!" Fingon laughed.

"I cannot wait. I have missed you for so long..." There was a little desperation in his voice. Fingon let the sweaty gambeson drop behind him, and while Maedhros diligently stripped him of everything that could be unfastened with one hand, he resumed undressing him in turn. Fingon kissed him, pausing at his clothes for a moment to cup his face in both hands and take him in, from his bright eyes to the way both his upper and lower teeth showed when he smiled. He looked so happy, that was really the only word for it, and Fingon had not seen him truly happy in a long time. There was always a shadow, a lingering doubt or regret or fear, even when they were together. But now, even if it was temporary, he was happy.

"I have missed you too," Fingon said, and kissed him again. His mouth was so soft and warm, his arms so strong as they wrapped around his back.

The hint of impatience returned to Maedhros' face. "Shall we get on with it?" He tugged at Fingon's sleeve.

"Hmm." Fingon grinned and stripped off his shirt. This really was taking too long. The road was dangerous this far east, unsupervised as it was, and he was equipped to fight if necessary with cuisses and greaves under his mail. They were a bother to put on and take off, especially when he had a particular incentive to get naked. But he had had plenty of practice, and soon all lay in a pile next to him, and he loosened the buttons on his trousers while Maedhros bit his lip in anticipation.

“Come here.” Maedhros, now wearing only his braies, sat on the couch, pulled Fingon between his knees once he had taken off his trousers, and then ducked his head to tug at his loincloth with his teeth. Fingon laughed, but the sensation of Maedhros’ teeth and lips and breath on his skin made him even more desperately hard. He curled his fingers in Maedhros’ hair, being careful not to pull too hard. He bit his lip in anticipation when Maedhros managed to slide the cloth down one hip using just his teeth.

“Been wanting to do that for a while, have you?”

Maedhros just grinned up at him and slid the loincloth the rest of the way off with his fingers. But instead of immediately diving in, he placed his hand on the small of Fingon’s back and pressed gently—Fingon obliged him and settled into his lap, straddling his thighs. It brought their faces into a much more advantageous distance for kissing. Fingon, still caressing Maedhros’ hair, leaned in and nibbled his lower lip. Part of his mind was screaming at him to take it slow, and another part demanded that he take control and urge them on until they were both drained and gasping, and everything went blank when Maedhros’ fingers trailing up his spine made him break off with a groan.

“Too much?” Maedhros cupped the back of his head and drew him down for another kiss.

“Just right.”

They kissed and caressed and Fingon ground his hips down against Maedhros’ linen-clad cock. Maedhros sighed and arched his back and Fingon kissed his neck, suckling gently, not hard enough to leave a mark. His scent filled Fingon’s head like a fine wine.

“Wait. Stop.”

It came so abruptly that Fingon didn’t register it right away. He lifted his face from Maedhros’ neck to see his eyes shuttered and his skin pale—then he realized, and quickly lifted his hands from his body.

“I’m sorry. Was it something I—”

“No, no. Not you.” His tone stayed light, but instead of pulling Fingon close, he pushed him gently away. Fingon swiftly removed himself from Maedhros’ lap and started fumbling around for discarded clothes. “I just… it felt…” He trailed off, and a frustrated line appeared between his brows.

“You don’t need to have a reason to stop,” Fingon reminded him.

“I know. I just hoped that all this time apart and all the anticipation would make it work.” Maedhros had wrapped both arms around himself. He looked at a spot on the floor in front of Fingon’s feet.

“It’s all right. I promise.” Fingon pulled his shirt over his head. He was, mercifully, losing his erection.

Maedhros was silent for a moment. He unfurled slightly. “Well, damn,” he said with a rueful smile. “Still further than we usually get.” He finally looked up at Fingon. His eyes seemed to say I’m sorry I’m still like this.

Fingon smiled back. “Do you want to just sit together instead?”

“I’d like that.” Maedhros had a generous nature in and out of bed, and as far as Fingon could tell, that hadn’t changed. For his part Fingon was not a selfish man, but he did greatly enjoy receiving Maedhros’ attentions. They had always been compatible in what they liked, and were apparently still compatible, but much had happened. That was the easiest summation of what was wrong that Fingon could come up with. Much had happened, and much had come between them.

Identifying that was one thing, fixing it was another. Sometimes it seemed that they were making no progress at all since that first try in Hithlum years ago.

Fingon sat down next to him. He dragged a woven blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around his shoulders. Now that he looked around at the room, it pleased him greatly: toward the front there was the couch and two chairs in front of a broad fireplace, as well as a table with apples and cheese. A folding screen divided the room into two, with the bedroom toward the back. Tapestries with geometric designs lined the walls to keep the room warm, and the overall impression was of comfort and intimacy. Maedhros had always liked living simply according to the habits of his mother’s family. “We’ll try again later,” Fingon said with a reassuring smile—Maedhros still looked discouraged. “Tell me about Himring! It’s much more hospitable than I imagined from your letters.”

That brightened Maedhros’ eyes considerably. “Yes, it is, and we’ve worked hard to make it so. A fortified market town breeds greater morale than a cold castle. It breeds greater strength, too, considering we produce almost everything we need.”

“I would like to see more of it.”

“Then I will show you.” Maedhros took Fingon’s hand. “My home is your home.”

“I have not had news from your brothers. Either Himring has fewer people than it seems, or their settlements are very small.” Not many of Fingolfin’s followers had gone east with them.

“Both are true. Himring has a few thousand, and Maglor’s Gap has another few thousand, and the others have their households and a little else. I took those who were willing and able to fight, and Maglor took those who desired what peace there is to be had on the frontier. The arrangement works well for now and trade benefits us all.”

Fingon grinned. “Have Fëanor's wild sons finally decided to settle down? I’ll have to tell the king gently, the news might kill him.”

Maedhros chuckled and got up. “I’m not sure I would say that, exactly.” He began putting his clothes to rights, using his teeth where he needed a second hand. “I’ve had a feast planned for your arrival. We have that to look forward to this evening, so if you want to wash before then, I can show you the baths. They’re very nice—we discovered hot springs as soon as we arrived. We might also have time for a nap if you want to rest.”

Fingon could tell that Maedhros was going to be his tireless guide from now until he left in the spring. Which was not bad, but he only hoped it didn’t regress back into Maedhros trying to convince him to leave Hithlum for the frontier. He put on enough clothes to be respectable in public and agreed to see the baths.

 

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Some years ago

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In the early days, when Maedhros regained some of his strength after his rescue, Maedhros and Fingon hunted together often. The herds and flocks were not so large that the Exiles could stop relying on game for their meat, and Maedhros leaped at the opportunity to join the hunters as soon as he could hold a spear. That no one wanted him on their team did not deter him.

“It’s not a personal slight, Nelyo,” Celegorm had said, as he and Aredhel packed their saddles with enough arrows and knives to kill and butcher every deer in Hithlum. “We have a settlement to feed. Come with us when you are stronger! I will be glad to have your company.” Fingon did not think he sounded like he meant it. Celegorm believed that it was the right of the strong to rule over the weak, usually citing the “laws of the wild” as he termed them, and what Maedhros lacked in physical strength he made up for in the raw desire to fight. It was a wonder that they managed to speak civilly at all.

“We’ll go together,” Fingon said, giving Maedhros’ arm a friendly cuff.

Aredhel narrowed her eyes. “We need your bow.”

You didn’t seem to need it when I was volunteering it on the Ice, Fingon wanted to snap, but this was not the time to dredge that up, so he just bared his teeth in the friendliest smile he could muster and walked away, motioning for Maedhros to follow.

Over long hours and longer months tracing a web of paths through the woods, Fingon watched Maedhros’ strength begin to return to him. It was slow and painful at first as he forced his skinny legs to carry him further than they wanted to go and his thin left arm to hoist a short spear they used for killing boar. They came back empty-handed time and time again, and their families—Celegorm in particular—loudly criticized them for wasting time and resources. As far as Fingon was concerned, it was worth it. Maedhros’ army of healers prescribed rest and gentle exercise and avoiding anything too strenuous, and it only seemed to frustrate him. When they hunted, he came back hungry and exhausted and grinning broadly. He devoured his dinner and slept like a rock. His hair grew long, his eyes became sharp, and his lips quirked with a smile as they tracked boar through the underbrush. He began to pack on muscle.

Fingon felt his eyes lingering on Maedhros’ body and he knew he was in very deep trouble.

So many new questions came with the thought of having Maedhros as a lover again. Whether Maedhros wanted him in return was chief among them, and it kept Fingon up at night. Most of the time Maedhros resisted being touched for any reason, and he hated to be vulnerable at all. His discomfort with his body as it was now, coupled with the relentless pain in his shoulder, seemed to Fingon like enough to push sex out of one’s mind completely. There were also the intangible complications to consider: the Oath, the new politics, and Maedhros’ plans to go East to the frontier, to bring war to the Enemy on two fronts and to keep his brothers out of trouble. So Fingon tried to keep his hopes and his late-night fantasies in check, with mixed results.

But, as it turned out, Maedhros did want him back. What a relief it was to have his desires reciprocated, and to not feel revolted at his one-sided lust as he touched himself to the thought of Maedhros’ skin against his.

That did not make it easy. At first Fingon had to force himself not to think about changing bandages every time he removed Maedhros’ clothes, and he was sure Maedhros sensed that struggle. He also had to force himself not to be disappointed when, time after time, they failed. Fingon also stopped them, not as often as Maedhros did, but sometimes a rush of anxiety or a sudden apathy filled him and he couldn’t say why, only that it did not feel right to continue.

They kept trying.

Maedhros grew cold and distant.

Fingon, at first, was worried. Then, after his gentleness and consideration only seemed to push Maedhros further away, he became annoyed.

“Have I done something to offend you?” Fingon asked as they followed a narrow trail through the trees. They still hunted together, though in an increasingly stony silence. “If I have, please tell me so I can stop it immediately—”

Maedhros whirled around, stopping him in his tracks. “Do I look like an invalid to you?” he demanded.

“What? No! No, you don’t.”

“Then why do you continue to treat me like one?”

Fingon’s mouth dropped open. He looked up at Maedhros—the silvering map of scars on his face, the white streaks in his hair, his golden replacement teeth, the chunks torn from his ears where he used to wear several fine rings—and saw not the emaciated creature he had retrieved from Angband, but a grizzled survivor.

“I don’t,” Fingon protested.

“You coddle me,” Maedhros hissed. “Nelyo, did you eat enough? Nelyo, are you warm? Nelyo, is your shoulder hurting you? Should we not go hunting today? Nelyo, how are you sleeping? Do you have nightmares?”

Fingon’s eyes tightened. Yes, he was concerned, and yes, he always tried to make sure Maedhros was getting everything he needed, but everything he did, he did out of love. It stung to have that love mocked by the very person he dedicated it to. “I want you to be comfortable!”

“You are my island, my oasis, and my castle keep, but I do not need you to be my nurse!” His single fist clenched by his side. He hesitated a moment before speaking again. “You do it even when we’re in bed.”

“I don’t want to frighten you,” Fingon said. “Or hurt you. Not again.” A chill ran through him at those words, which he had never spoken before, but that fear permeated him every minute of every day, though he could usually ignore it. He could not begin to imagine what horrors Maedhros’ nightmares held, but his own usually revolved around hurting him in some way and being unable to stop. “That is my greatest fear, and my greatest regret.”

At that, Maedhros’ face became very grave. “Do not regret saving me,” he said roughly. Then he looked away, his hair falling over his face. They were both silent for a moment, and then he spoke again. “Do you truly want me? Or are you just humoring me?”

Fingon frowned. “What?”

“When we have sex. Or try to have sex,” he added with a roll of his eyes. “Do you care at all for your own pleasure? Or are you only doing it because I asked you first?”

“I don’t want to be selfish!”

“Be a little more selfish,” Maedhros said, exasperated. “It will be an improvement. I don’t like to be the only one getting anything out of it, you know that already.” Fingon felt a little scolded. He bit his tongue and nodded. Maedhros clasped his hand. His face was softer as he looked down at Fingon. “Do you still want me?” he asked.

Fingon looked him in the eye. “Yes.”

“If my twisted, crippled body is too repulsive to you—”

“Don’t say that,” Fingon pleaded. He lifted Maedhros’ hand to his lips and kissed it.

“I mean it, Fin.” Lines like cracks formed at the corners of his eyes. “You fell in love with someone who was beautiful and carefree and without guilt. I am not ignorant of the ways I have changed—of the ways I have been changed—”

“I am not the same person you fell in love with either,” Fingon cut him off quietly. Memories flooded back to him, uninvited, bringing a hot wave of shame with them.

Over centuries he had become known as an aesthete, waxing philosophical about beauty and perfection at every opportunity like the naive idiot he was. Everything he did, from the clothes he wore to the structures he designed to the company he kept, revolved around beauty. According to the whims of Tirion fashion he changed his shoes and embroidery and jewelry—rings in his ears, his nose, his lips, anywhere it was popular to stick a needle. It determined whether he painted his eyes this year, or whether a bare face had become more desirable. And his hair, oh, the countless hours he spent combing and oiling and braiding and decorating it, because it drew many envious eyes as he drifted through the feasts and salons of elite society. His vanity became an identity, but what mattered most was not his own beauty but Maitimo’s, who was beautiful in entirely different ways. He was effortlessly perfect and wore deliberate simplicity like a cloak. He made an art out of looking like he didn’t care. He too made that his identity, and Findekáno practically worshipped it. Even then they were perfectly matched in their foolishness.

“I love you,” Fingon said at last, after a long silence that told him they were thinking of the same thing. “I loved you then, and I love you now.”

“What is it that you love about me?” Maedhros snarled. Fingon couldn’t help but flinch at his tone. He did not answer. Maedhros was not deterred. “Well? Is it the memory of Maitimo the Beautiful?” he said his own name with such mocking scorn that it tore at Fingon’s heart. “He is dead, and no amount of doting over his remnant will bring him back.”

“You have always been more than your beauty,” Fingon began, but Maedhros cut him off again.

“Yes, what is there besides my beauty, which is no more? Dare I claim any particular intelligence or compassion or strength of will that shines brighter? If I did, it was before I swore an unbreakable oath, slew my kinsmen, dragged you into that mess, trusted my father not to abandon you, trusted Morgoth himself to honor the terms of his parley, and got my men killed and myself captured because of it!” He laughed a cracked, angry laugh, and drew his fingers through his hair in clear frustration. “Do I have any talents? Do you love me for my swordsmanship or my copperwork? That is gone too!” He held up the stump of his right wrist.

For a moment, his voice echoed through the quiet wood, and then all fell silent. Somewhere, a bird called out to another. Fingon struggled to breathe in deeply, and when he lifted his hands to touch Maedhros, they were trembling.

“Why do I need a reason to love you?” he said. His voice shook as much as his hands, which he placed on Maedhros’ waist. Tears started to prickle at his eyes, but he blinked them away. “After everything, I want to be with you. I want to see you happy. I want to be happy with you. I don’t need a reason.”

“So you have none.”

“I love everything you are.” As if defying all the pain he had ever felt on Maedhros’ account, Fingon smiled. “Enough to assault Angband alone on the slimmest chance I might see you again.”

At that, Maedhros said nothing for a long time. For a moment there was nothing but pain and confusion behind his eyes as he struggled to comprehend that yes, someone could love him as much as Fingon did. Then the anger and frustration he wore to hide the pain melted away, slowly, as he stared at Fingon and finally perceived nothing but the truth in his words. He seized him in a hot, desperate grip. He kissed him with teeth, hard and rough, and Fingon groaned into his mouth. Even with his bad arm, Maedhros was still strong enough to push and pull him wherever he wanted him to go, and Fingon loved it when he did.

“I still don’t understand you,” Maedhros said between kisses.

“Accept it,” Fingon breathed as Maedhros’ lips moved over his ear and down to his neck. “I love you and I’m not giving up on you.”

Their hunting gear lay abandoned. Belts and buttons came undone. Their hands roamed over one another’s bodies, caressing and squeezing and kindling sparks of pleasure to life. Fingon felt a tree at his back—he went up on his toes and balanced his weight on Maedhros’ leg, bent slightly and braced against the tree. Between the hand on his hip, the tree at his back, and the warm thigh between his legs, Fingon found himself completely in Maedhros’ control—the realization brought a flush to his face and he clutched at Maedhros’ hip and shoulder for support.

“Let me please you.” Maedhros breathed against Fingon’s throat.

“Yes.” He ground his hips forward against Maedhros’ thigh. “Yes.”

They fumbled for the laces at the front of Fingon’s trousers. He was hard already and panting and he groaned when Maedhros nipped at his lower lip. He couldn’t have stopped himself from rubbing against his leg and then his warm, generous hand for anything in the world, and Maedhros kept urging him on, kissing him and stroking him and whispering endearments against his skin.

They could have succeeded. Would have probably succeeded, if a spider had not picked the worst possible time to bite Fingon on the back of his leg.

“Is it gone!?” he said, hysterical, once he had dispensed with yelling and slapping at the spider. Already a painful welt had formed—Maedhros’ mouth drooped unhappily when he examined it.

“I think so. I’m sorry, Fingon.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Fingon shuddered, rubbed his hair vigorously, and pulled his pants up once he determined it wasn’t a dangerous bite. All thoughts of sex had been driven from his mind, but once he was convinced there were no more spiders anywhere on his person, he smiled a little and took Maedhros’ hand in both of his. “I think that was the furthest we’ve gotten so far.”

“I think so too.” Maedhros smiled in return. “If you are up to it, would you like to try again when we get back?”

“It was a spider, not a ballista,” Fingon laughed, and then kissed his cheek. “Yes. I would like that.”

They did try again, and it was Maedhros who ultimately stopped them. He rolled himself in a blanket again and Fingon held him and pressed his face into his hair. “We are going to be all right,” he said. Maedhros blinked and looked at Fingon through his pale eyelashes for a moment as if trying to read something else in his face, but closed his eyes and relaxed ever so slightly.

“We’ll figure it out soon.”