The Ice Between by Nibeneth

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Chapter 6

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Fingon dreamed of the Helcaraxë.

The stifling darkness, and then the relentless light that made the ice blaze like a white-hot forge, but it was so cold that his eyelashes froze together every time he blinked. His family and their followers were dark, vague shapes against the brightness, indistinguishable from other another in their bundled sealskins. Ribbons of blood shone bright on the dead white shore, flowing from the crushed skull of a seal. Dozens of seals hauled from the ocean, staining the ice rusty pink with blood and bits of gore. A hot meal for the first time in weeks. The wind whistled through towers and fortresses sculpted by the elements, whole cities and mountain ranges and forests devoid of any life, built as if by an unknowable civilization and then abandoned, unused. Flat stretches of nothingness as far as the eye could see. The ice was polished mirror-bright by the wind, which came in a relentless wall of force. Snow and ice bit into eyes and throats and flesh, stripping warmth and moisture, drowning out cries for help. He dug himself out of a cave-in, unsure whether he was panicking or truly running out of air as he clawed upward toward the light, only to find no one digging down to meet him when he finally tasted frigid, salty air. His breath froze in his throat and burned in his nostrils. Cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck like fingernails and he gasped—he could not let it out again, as if the nails had become fingers at his throat.

He was awake.

For a moment he could not move, anchored to his bedding by the chill outside, but the sheets were cold and his body was cold and he sat up, clawing the chilled linen away from his neck. Every breath he drew stuck in his throat—he groped for the bed curtains, and not finding the opening he pulled until the rings tore free and a corner of the curtain came down. Panicking, he fought his way out of the thick wool only to find that it was just as dark and cold outside. The fire had gone out, and no moon shone through the window. He cried out in shock when his feet sank into a thick layer of snow on the floor and the sudden cold sent splinters of pain through his toes, an echo of the agony of frostbite he carried with him across the Ice.

This can’t be happening, it’s over, I survived it, this is a dream, it has to be—

The window burst open and suddenly a blizzard of knives filled the room, a driving force of frigid, howling wind and snow that snatched the air right out of Fingon’s lungs. He could not draw breath to scream—he could barely stand upright in the snow and the wind cut straight through his thin nightshirt.

“Maedhros!” he cried, unable to stop himself. He waded toward the door. The cold iron of the handle burned his fingers, but still he managed to pull the door open and escape into the darkened corridor, letting it slam shut behind him.

He ran. His numb feet left a trail of icy puddles as he followed a familiar path to the only place he ever wanted to be, and only when the door slammed shut behind him did he stop.

“Maedhros,” he said again. The room was warm and filled with low golden light from the fire, but he couldn’t feel it. He stood with his back against the door, dripping and shivering and trying to breathe, not trusting his legs to hold him upright. An iron band seemed to be squeezing his chest in tighter with each attempted breath. The shrieking wind was in his ears and the ice was in his heart and all he could feel was the cold and desolation that had followed him across the Helcaraxë.

Maedhros was sitting on the couch in front of the fire, clad in a shirt and leggings. He looked up slowly, confusion plain on his freckled face. He rose halfway, hesitant. “Fingon?” he said. When Fingon did not move, he took a few steps toward him. “I was just going to see how you were, but I wasn’t sure you would want me to.”

Fingon’s teeth chattered so hard that he could not speak. Maedhros had come very close, and he lifted his hand to Fingon’s face, carefully, as if one wrong move would offend him.

“Why are you so cold? Why are you wet ?”

“I am—” Fingon swallowed. “An unfit architect. I failed. I am a hack.”

“You are not, what kind of talk is that?” He stroked Fingon’s cheek and, emboldened when he did not pull away, wrapped him in his arms. “Come closer to the fire and get warm. And then you can tell me what happened.”

Fingon could not resist. Did not want to resist. Their argument was still on his mind, as it had been these past days, but it made him weary, and he did not want to bring it up just now. He couldn’t. He let himself be led to the couch. Sensation was returning to his feet and he winced in pain with every step.

“Here, put this on.” Maedhros plucked a nightshirt off the back of one of the chairs next to the fire. Fingon stripped off his own damp garment without hesitation and replaced it with the one Maedhros offered him. It was warm and dry and Fingon let himself breathe in the scent of Maedhros’ body that clung to it as Maedhros gingerly draped a blanket around his shoulders and nudged him to sit down on the couch. “May I… may I warm your feet?” He looked nervous to ask. Fingon nodded once.

He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself and watched Maedhros fumble about for towels. Finally he knelt before Fingon, pulled off his freezing, wet socks, and smothered his feet in a clean towel. He cradled one foot somewhat awkwardly in the crook of his right arm and began to rub gently with his left hand, eyes scrunched in concentration. Fingon winced—his toes tingled sharply as blood began to flow again and feeling returned to his chilled flesh. As much as he tried not to think about it, images of the skin ballooning with blisters, oozing, and then peeling away from frostbite ulcers assaulted his memory, and he half-expected to see his feet frozen and blue-black when Maedhros pulled the cloth back. But all he saw was normal, healthy brown skin, a little tender and a little scarred, but healed.

Fingon flinched again, and Maedhros looked up sharply. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“ You didn’t. I just have trouble warming up.” Fingon gripped the arm of the couch when Maedhros moved on to his other foot. No matter how gentle he was, Fingon’s old frostbite damage didn’t care. “On the Ice we thought we were not subject to the elements like Ilúvatar’s lesser creations. We were swiftly proven wrong.”

“That seems to be a common experience.” Maedhros continued to give Fingon’s feet his most dedicated attention. “What were you saying about being a hack? I don’t believe it for an instant.”

“Snow came down my chimney and the window blew open just before I came back here. I designed the keep—or at least that specific window—poorly against driving winds. It should have stayed closed and the chimney should resist snow coming in downwards…” he angled his hand in front of him, visualizing the construction of the room. Thinking in terms of plans and drawings and diagrams helped to ground his thoughts. There were right and wrong answers in architecture. “The chimney was capped, I remember drawing it. It should not have done that, unless it was damaged somehow. I’ll need to take a closer look.”

“That can wait. It’s snowing a little.” Maedhros’ smile was crooked.

“Raemben said they were tracking a storm… this morning? Last night? Earlier.” Fingon rubbed his eyes. “What hour is it?”

“About midnight. Raemben did say they saw you in the bath. They said you looked unwell.” He let his hand rest on the top of Fingon’s towel-wrapped foot. He glanced upward briefly and then back down, shame clear in his face and in the set of his shoulders. “Fingon, again, I am sorry for what I said. I do not really believe it. I was just… frustrated…” he cast his eyes to one side, and Fingon let out the breath he had been holding. He said nothing for a few heartbeats. It must have felt an eternity to Maedhros—he could see him trying not to fidget.

“Look at me,” Fingon said quietly. Maedhros looked up with guarded eyes and a tightness around his mouth. Fingon thought for a moment before he spoke. “I am not always forthcoming about what happened on the Ice. I know that. You were right that my people made me their scapegoat, and that it made me colder than I was before.” Maedhros’ cheeks flushed and his eyebrows arched in poorly-concealed anger. Righteous anger on Fingon’s behalf, but it was unnecessary. “They survived because they were united,” he continued. “They blamed me for everything. The Kinslaying. The Doom. The Ice. Turgon blamed me for Elenwë's death. And my father let them do it, because he knew that they needed a tangible, common enemy. Otherwise they would turn on each other in their misery and perish without ever reaching Beleriand.”

“He could not have known that!” Maedhros’ fingertips pressed into Fingon’s leg. “How dare he—”

“I have chosen to accept this narrative,” Fingon cut him off. “And I have chosen to accept their apologies. That is my right. It is your right to know why I am the way I am, and to choose a different lover if my personality no longer pleases you. I will be the first person to admit that I’ve changed.”

Maedhros was quiet for a moment. He nodded once, his face softening. It took him a visible effort and a chorus of crackles in his joints as he straightened up and settled next to Fingon on the couch. “You say that as if Angband didn’t change me at all,” he said. “I will have no other lover.”

“Nor will I.” Fingon allowed himself a small smile, and he saw it reflected in Maedhros’ gentle lips.

“I cannot believe I was so cruel to you.”

“I will not remember it, as long as you do not say it again.”

Maedhros was nodding as they reached for one another. Fingon relaxed into the embrace, the warm strength surrounding and protecting him against anything that might threaten him. It was so very real, so very comforting, that he could have fallen asleep within the circle of his arms.

“You still have a warm heart,” Maedhros said against Fingon’s hair. “You still have passion and humor and valor. Be assured that your personality pleases me very much.”

“Sometimes I feel like a loveless husk,” Fingon muttered at Maedhros’ collarbone. It was the first time he had admitted it out loud, and it seemed that a weight lifted from him as he shared that fear with the one he loved instead of letting it poison his mind in the solitary hours. Can I feel love like I used to? Am I losing the very ability? He deserves better than me…

“You are not!” Maedhros pulled back slightly. He looked strangely young and vulnerable, more than he ever allowed himself to look, and the sight stung Fingon’s heart: his wide eyes, his creased brow, his slightly open lips. Fingon stroked his knuckles with his thumb and scooted in closer. “Your love saved me from a terrible torment and gave me the strength to recover. If anyone else thinks you loveless, well… they can answer to me.”

“I’ll have to tell myself that the next time I’m in a mood.” Fingon rested his hand on Maedhros’ side. “I believe we left our discussion unfinished.”

Maedhros nodded again. “I want to say that I understand and respect your answer, even though I don’t like it,” he said in one breath. “I won’t repeat my invitation. But know that there is always a home for you here if you want it.”

Fingon cupped Maedhros’ face and kissed him softly, forgoing words for the moment in favor of the warmth of his lips. “Likewise, my home is always open to you,” he said. “We should set aside time to be together.”

“Yes. Shall we say one month out of the year? At least? It’s a bit conservative but it will give us something to look forward to.”

“And more if we can manage it.” Yes, this was good, and it felt even better now that they had cleared the air. “We could switch off years between Hithlum and Himring.”

“And we could always meet halfway—we discussed building more outposts off the king’s road, we could put one right in the middle and meet there if we wanted to.”

Fingon chuckled. “Yes! And of course I will write you. I will tell you everything, so that it will feel like we never parted.”

“I will write you back. I need the practice,” Maedhros said, grinning.

“You are so stubborn. You have scribes who want more work,” Fingon teased him.

“My letters are for you alone. And if I am stubborn, it’s only because my father’s script deserves better than a child’s scrawl.” He stroked Fingon’s cheek. The fine work of writing elegantly did not come easily to his left hand, but his fingers were anything but clumsy on Fingon’s skin. He traced the delicate point of his ear and followed its outer curve down to the lobe with its gold rings. “And if my poor left hand fails me, I will just send you gifts.”

Fingon smiled and leaned into his touch. “I will treasure it all.”

They sat for a while, saying nothing. Fingon realized he had not noticed the sound of the blizzard outside Maedhros’ chamber, and now he realized that it did not bother him. He was in a warm, sturdy room with a blanket and the man he loved next to him on the couch. Their fight and his breakdown in its aftermath had faded in his mind like a healing bruise. Even his panicked waking seemed to have been a nightmare or something that happened long ago, the last tremors soothed away by Maedhros’ hand on his cheek. That gentle hand slid down his arm and clasped his hand in invitation.

“Come to bed?”

Fingon nodded and stood, pulling Maedhros up with him. The ache in his feet had subsided into subtle tingling, but Maedhros could not hide a grimace as he stood. Fingon held his arm to steady him. “Are you in pain today?”

“Some. I had a bit of cannabis bread but it hasn’t set in yet.” He went straight to the bed and arranged himself into a position that didn’t look especially comfortable while Fingon retrieved a dry pair of socks and put them on. When he settled next to him in the nest of blankets, Maedhros pulled him in and wrapped his arms tightly around him. “More than anything, I fear losing you,” he said, unprompted.

Fingon smiled and ran a hand through Maedhros’ hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Maedhros’ mouth curled up just enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes. They were all right.

Fingon was starting to relax enough to fall asleep, but he still had much he wanted to say before this moment ended and he retreated again behind his usual reserve. “I would marry you in an instant if I could,” he whispered. “I would live with you and rule with you and we would never be parted as long as the world lasts. You are my one and only love, and I am so, so sorry.”

“Shh.” Maedhros kissed his forehead. “You are much smarter than I am. Do not apologize for that.”

Fingon huffed. “I am not smarter than anyone.”

“Hush. You are brilliant. And anyway we are already married, if you ask anyone's Vanyarin great-aunt's opinion. Even if it has been a while...”

“Sex doesn't make a marriage, no matter how many Vanyarin great-aunts you ask. I would know, I have five of them.” Fingon traced Maedhros' cheekbone. “And its lack certainly doesn't nullify anything. Besides, I'm not certain that 'marriage' confers anything to a relationship that wasn't already there.”

“You are so wise,” Maedhros said. His eyes were shining.

“I am not.”

“Wiser than I am, at least.”

“Stop! Come here,” Fingon said. He squeezed Maedhros and wished he never had to let go. “I love you. I am so happy to be here with you.”

“I am happy to have you. I know it sounds strange, but…” Maedhros paused. Fingon stroked his chest. “This might be the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Fingon let out a short hah !

“I know! I know it’s mad, but I—” he grimaced, clenched his teeth, and then stretched his right shoulder with a hideous series of pops and cracks. “Sorry. That’s better. Even though my body is wrecked and I’m in almost constant pain and everything up here is a mess…” he gestured vaguely at his head. “I am… happy. Even with the Oath. Maybe I’m working hard enough on everything else that it doesn’t seem as immediate as it once did, and so I can almost put it out of my mind. Maybe because I know what it truly means to be miserable…” his face clouded over at that, and Fingon knew better than to ask what he was remembering.

“I am glad that you’re happy,” he said. He burrowed deeper into the blankets and rested his head on Maedhros’ good shoulder. That seemed to draw Maedhros back into the present, and his arm came up around Fingon’s waist.

They were silent for a long time. Fingon nearly drifted off to the sound of Maedhros’ breath and his steady heartbeat under his fingers, and then Maedhros spoke again.

“It feels like freedom. I have my home, and my people, and my work, and it almost feels as if anything is possible. Anything .” His eyes were bright when Fingon lifted his head. Bright and filled with a strange fire. Fingon still could not understand him. How could an Oathbound watch in the wilderness make him not just happy, but the happiest he had ever been? Happier even than he had been in Aman, before everything went bad? How could such a thing be possible? “Someday... the Oath will be fulfilled. I can promise you that, for I have no other choice.”

Fingon opened his mouth to tell him to stop making promises, but stopped himself. They had argued over this enough. Instead he buried his face in Maedhros' neck and breathed him in—the fresh scent of herbs and the warm linen of his shirt. This was all right. In this moment they could take comfort in that possibility, no matter how remote it was, and let it warm them when the alternative was so utterly cold and bleak. With Maedhros next to him the cold had melted out of his bones and been replaced with soft contentment. Eyes closed, he tried to hang on to every detail of this moment to carry with him through the long months of their eventual separation, but before he could even begin, he was asleep and so soundly out that he did not even notice Maedhros kissing his forehead.

 

Fingon was warm and rested when he woke again. He could still hear the wind howling outside, but the thick cover of blankets tucked around his ears helped to muffle it. There were more blankets than he had gone to sleep with, and he realized that Maedhros must have gotten up to get him more while he slept. He had the sound of Maedhros’ breath in his ears too, chasing away the chill. He was dozing next to him with wide, dreamy eyes and a small smile in the corner of his mouth. Fingon brushed his sleeve and he blinked.

“Fin? Is everything all right?”

“Yes. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Fingon slid his hand under Maedhros’ arm to caress his chest. He was delightfully warm and soft.

“You didn’t.” Maedhros rolled onto his side and gathered Fingon into his arms. Fingon, still sleepy, melted into the embrace and breathed in his rich, comforting scent. The skin of his throat was creamy and sprinkled with freckles, just like the rest of him. Fingon kissed it. A pleased hum rumbled through Maedhros’ chest—Fingon pulled him in closer.

“Are you sure you’re not cold?” Maedhros whispered. He was stroking the parts between Fingon’s braids.

“How could I be?” he laughed. “You must have swaddled me in every blanket in the castle.”

“Nearly,” Maedhros laughed in turn. Fingon found that especially funny for some reason and the two of them spent a few minutes just chuckling in each other’s arms. It was so easy, so peaceful, that Fingon could almost forget the raging blizzard outside.

“I am never cold with you.” He lifted his head to kiss his mouth. Maedhros was still for a moment. Fingon briefly worried that he had done something wrong, but Maedhros’ hand on the back of his head kept him from withdrawing too far.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Whether you are far or near, I will love you until the end of days. Nothing will ever change that.”

Fingon found his tongue too slow to meet the depth of emotion in Maedhros’ words. Instead of responding he kissed him again, his hands moving up Maedhros’ long, strong body to cup his face. Maedhros leaned in and opened his lips and held him close while he kissed him back. It was slow and sweet and perfect and Fingon’s eyes fell closed as he let himself be lost in the sensations of Maedhros’ warm breath and his long hair and the solid but gentle touch of his hand behind his head. Under the covers their legs twined together, and Fingon breathed in deep when Maedhros’ fingers slipped down to stroke the tender spot under his ear.

He opened his eyes. Maedhros’ lips were red from kissing and his eyes shone in the half-light. Fingon ran his thumb over his freckled cheekbone and grinned when a bright blush began to spread across his face. “You are so wonderful,” Fingon said, which only made him blush harder and grin so wide that his eyes crinkled at the corners. He dove in to kiss Fingon again, urgently. It was with soft touches and whispered words that they rolled into a more advantageous position, Maedhros half-sitting with pillows behind his back and Fingon straddling his lap. As soon as they were settled, Maedhros wrapped both arms around Fingon’s waist and Fingon melted into his body and their kissing took on a different quality. Fingon felt it deep in his heart and bones and in the growing bulge of Maedhros’ cock against his hips. His own nightshirt suddenly felt too restrictive, too hot even, with the fire and the blankets now only covering his feet and Maedhros as warm as a banked flame under him. He sat back on Maedhros’ thighs to pull the now sweat-damp linen over his head. Maedhros’ eyes lingered on his body—he licked his lips and smiled when he looked back up at Fingon’s face.

“Come here.” His hand slid up Fingon’s chest to the back of his neck, pulling him down into a hot, needy kiss. Fingon’s body responded to the rhythm, his hips grinding down and his breath coming in time with Maedhros’ and his cock growing harder as Maedhros nipped at his lower lip and ducked his head under Fingon’s chin to suckle at his neck. He fumbled for the hem of Maedhros’ shirt where it had gotten bunched up between their bodies.

“Do you want to take it off?”

“Just pull it up a little, and we’ll see how that feels.” Maedhros ran his tongue along Fingon’s collarbone. Fingon gasped and clutched at him but still managed to tug his shirt up to his waist. He slid his fingers under the waistband of his leggings and pulled them down his hips before Maedhros wriggled to get them the rest of the way off. Freed, his cock lay full and heavy against his belly, and Fingon grinned.

There was so much of him that Fingon wanted to kiss and touch all at once. He ran his hands up his chest and caressed his hair and lapped at his tongue. It was so good to feel him like this, the heat and friction of their cocks and Maedhros’ solid muscles bunching and smoothing under Fingon’s roaming hands. They moved with long centuries of practice, unflinching, unashamed. Fingon realized with a thrill that he was unafraid: if they failed now, as they had so many other times, he would not worry. They would try again, they would always try again. And if they decided this failure was the last and they never tried again, well, that would be all right. They always had each other, no matter what they did or didn’t do in bed, and for his part Fingon knew his love wasn’t based in sex.

But the sick rush of anxiety or the sudden disinterest or any of the other obstacles never came. Maedhros made a beautiful laughing gasp when Fingon set to kissing his throat in earnest. His hand did the work of two, stroking all of Fingon’s sensitive spots and gripping his hip tight to control the rhythm. They were all right.

“May I touch you,” Fingon whispered.

“Always.”

Fingon kissed him again. He stroked his hipbone and then took him in hand, and Maedhros’ short gasp went straight to his head—he nipped his neck and began to stroke him faster, still rolling his hips and whispering love against his skin.

“Fin, I’m—” he bucked up against Fingon’s body and his hand curled tight in his braids. “Ah! Sorry!”

For one dreadful moment, Fingon thought he was asking to him to stop. But he was not pushing him away, and when Fingon called his thoughts to order, he realized his hand was sticky. He lifted his head and saw that his face was pink with simple embarrassment, not the sick shame that had plagued him for so long. His eyes were very wide.

“Maedhros…?”

“Sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t mean… so soon after you started…”

Fingon wrapped his arms tight around his neck. His heart was beating so fast, or perhaps that was Maedhros’. “Do not apologize for that. I’ll take it as a compliment.” He couldn’t help but laugh. Love, amusement, and relief flooded his body and he spent several helpless moments giggling into Maedhros’ hair. Best of all, he was laughing back.

“It’s just… been such a long time!” That same rush of relief was more than obvious in Maedhros’ own voice. Fingon kissed his ear.

“I know. I know, dear one.”

They laughed and kissed and touched, still basking in the heady warmth of success at last. Maedhros hooked his left arm around Fingon’s waist and flipped him over like he weighed nothing—the yelp that escaped Fingon’s throat was surprised but not at all displeased. He always used to sweep him off his feet and into his arms with his hugs, and Fingon would never, ever tell him to stop.

“And now,” Maedhros said, leaning over Fingon, “I intend to finish what I started in my workshop. If you have no objections.”

“None.”

Maedhros just smiled. His hair was mussed and his shirt hung off one freckled shoulder and Fingon’s cock twitched at the sight. Maedhros kissed him with exquisite care, his lips, his neck, his chest, his stomach, his hips. At last he settled between Fingon’s legs and ran his fingers up the inside of his thigh, chased by his lips. Fingon bit his lip in anticipation, but Maedhros just drew back and laughed a little.

“Nice socks,” he teased gently.

“Huh?” Fingon lifted himself up on his elbows. His right leg was bent and Maedhros was holding the back of his thigh, but he was looking at his foot with an expression of exquisite amusement. “You sent those to me!” Fingon said, somewhat defensively. The socks were green and white with a pattern of leaping deer and were, in Fingon’s opinion, not unattractive.

“I know. You look adorable in them.”

“You were in the middle of something?” Fingon reminded him with a laugh. “We can discuss my socks later— ooh .” Without further delay, Maedhros took him in deep. Fingon fell back against the pillows and curled his fingers in Maedhros’ hair. Everything, his tongue, his hand, his lips, were dedicated to Fingon’s pleasure. He stroked him and sucked him and Fingon couldn’t have stopped himself from crying out for anything in the world. He knew how much Maedhros enjoyed this and that knowledge only made it better and his body more desperate, and as he felt his release beginning to build inside him, he arched his back and pulled tighter at Maedhros’ hair and tried to hold on just a little longer so he could have his fun.

“I—Maedhros, I’m going to—” He was pulling his hair so hard it had to hurt, but Maedhros just kept it up and hummed in encouragement. When Fingon finally broke, it was with a cry that was halfway between a laugh and a sob. Maedhros released him and swallowed once. He held him while he caught his breath and after a moment, he rested his head on Fingon’s stomach. Fingon had to take some time gather his mind back up. His body suddenly felt tired and heavy and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he got cold again, but in that moment he was too comfortable to move. He stroked Maedhros’ hair where he had been pulling it. “Was it as good as you remember?” he said at last.

“Better. Thank you.” Maedhros kissed his navel softly.

They lay in silence for a moment, breathing, touching each other, and Fingon’s mind was only just beginning to catch up.

We did it , he kept thinking. We did it. We didn’t have to stop. We came. He’s holding me, he’s smiling… Maedhros was smiling, soft and satisfied, and he pressed more tender kisses to Fingon’s body, following the contours of his bones and tracing his fingers over his hip. His bright hair spilled over his face and it was silky to the touch as Fingon kept stroking it. He could not have pulled his hand away for anything in the world.

We did it.

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.” Maedhros was silent for another long moment. “Do you want some toast?”

“Huh?”

“Toast. Are you hungry?

Fingon laughed a little. “I suppose. I wasn’t really thinking about it.”

Maedhros leaned over him, kissed him thoroughly, and then got out of bed. He shed his shirt and walked naked over to the rack by the fire where his robe was hanging. Fingon laced his fingers behind his head and watched him, smiling and enjoying the view. Maedhros took after the house of Mahtan much more than the house of Finwë: instead of slender lines he was blessed with broad shoulders and thick legs, just perfectly proportioned with a little extra , and Fingon bit his lip at the sight of his back muscles rippling as he stretched and then shrugged on the robe. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he teased him. Maedhros turned back around and grinned as he tied the robe closed with his left hand and his teeth. He said nothing, which told Fingon that he was indeed doing it on purpose, and returned to the bed. He shuffled on his knees to lean over Fingon again.

“Come on. I draw the line at eating it in my bed.” His smile was gentle and easy as he extended his hand and drew Fingon out of his pile of blankets. He wrapped the two warmest ones around his body and followed Maedhros across the room, where coals glowed dimly in the hearth and the air was as pleasantly warm as it was in the bedchamber. “I know I have some bread around here somewhere.”

“On the sideboard.”

“Oh, of course, exactly where it’s supposed to be.” He gave a distracted-sounding laugh. “If you will slice it, I will poke the fire.”

The bread was a little stale from sitting out but fine for toast. Fingon cut them thick slices and set them to brown on the grate over the merrily-crackling coals. Fingon and Maedhros retired to the couch in front of the fireplace. Maedhros melted against Fingon’s body, resting his head on his bare shoulder where the blanket had slipped down. Fingon wrapped his arms around his back and pulled him in close. They held each other and listened to the wind and the fire and each other’s breath for a long time.

“You are so good to me,” Maedhros said, unprompted, against Fingon’s skin. “What have I ever done to deserve it?”

“Irrelevant. Love is not a transaction.” Fingon closed his eyes and commenced running his fingers through Maedhros’ hair. “I love everything that you are. Everything you choose to be—you are just and brave and strong and I would not change a single thing about you.”

“Not even the Oath?”

Fingon sighed. “That is something you did, not something you are.”

“Where is the boundary?”

“Sh. Stop that.” He kissed Maedhros’ brow. “Let me love you.”

Maedhros squeezed him tighter. His hand slid up the blankets and rested on Fingon’s chest. His fingers stroked the smooth, brown skin wonderingly as if he still wasn’t sure this was all happening. He was still for a moment, and then he grinned and flicked Fingon’s nipple. “Beautiful.”

“Play with it as much as you like,” Fingon laughed. He rolled a few strands of Maedhros’ hair between his thumb and forefinger. Touch, and the lingering memory of what it had felt like to pleasure each other at last, was as heady and rich as old wine. Maedhros ducked his head and replaced his fingers on Fingon’s nipple with his tongue. Fingon gasped and arched his back under the attention, and Maedhros bit down gently. “Ah! Yes!”

“It’s not too sensitive?”

“No. Keep doing that.”

Maedhros’ lips closed around his nipple again, sucking gently, his tongue circling it and flicking it as Fingon guided him by the hair. He found himself being laid back onto the couch by Maedhros’ steady hand behind his neck. He lifted his feet onto the couch, let his blanket fall away from his body, and gazed up at Maedhros’ rapt face. His robe had fallen further, exposing more of his shoulder and chest and stomach. His flushed chest was sprinkled with a little red-gold hair, and it was very soft when Fingon stroked it.

Maitimo , his heart said, but if there was any word that was sure to distress him and undo everything they had worked for, that was it.

“There are so many things I want to do with you,” Maedhros said in a low, rough voice. He held himself over Fingon with just his left arm, and the sight of his taut muscles under his robe made Fingon’s mouth water. His gray eyes shone and his lips were beautifully swollen. “You have kept me company on so many cold nights alone, and now that you’re here…”

Fingon smiled. “Tell me.”

“I want to worship your body with all I have to give—and it will still not be enough to express how much I love you.” His voice was so low that Fingon almost felt it rather than heard it. “I want to make you scream with pleasure. I want to suck your cock until my name is the only word you can say. I want to be inside you, my fingers, my tongue, my cock, anywhere and any way you want. If you want it hard or gentle, fast or slow, just say, and I will make it happen.”

Fingon’s face grew hot. He lifted his hands to his cheeks, but could not tear his eyes away from Maedhros’. “Oh, stars, you remember what I like,” he said.

“How could I forget?” Maedhros kissed his nose. Fingon had to laugh then, and he wrapped his arms around Maedhros’ neck and pulled him in for a proper kiss. They said nothing for a while, only kissed and held each other and, for once did not worry about anything else in the world.

“You make me so happy,” Fingon murmured at last against the corner of Maedhros’ lips. Maedhros hummed and smiled and kissed him on the collarbone, moving his weight from his arm to his knees so he could trails his fingers down Fingon’s chest and stomach, just a whisper of a touch that made Fingon close his eyes and sigh contentedly. Maedhros’ hand closed around Fingon’s soft cock—he grimaced a little and covered the questing hand with his own.

“Sorry. That is still a bit sensitive.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Shh. Let’s try something else.” With a smile, Fingon gently pushed Maedhros up into a sitting position. He slid off the couch and settled between his knees, grinning up at him. “Is this all right?” he asked, stroking Maedhros’ long, freckled thighs before moving up to open his robe.

“Mmm, yes. I want you,” he breathed. “Your mouth, your hands, anything. I just want you. I trust you.”

Fingon's heart squeezed almost painfully at that. He kissed Maedhros just under his navel before moving down again to his hips and thighs. “Let me know if you want me to do something different.”

“I will.”

He started slow. He teased with his lips and tongue and fingertips, keeping one ear open for any signs of discomfort from Maedhros, but none came. Encouraged, he took him in deeper, and Maedhros' insistent hand in his hair spurred him on, and he licked and sucked and stroked until his lover's pleasure echoed within the stone walls and Fingon's head and heart and he knew, he knew this would work.

Afterward, Fingon leaned his head against Maedhros' leg and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand while they both caught their breath. He didn’t know why this was working this time when they had failed so many times before, but he found that he didn’t care. Maybe he would think about it later, but not right now, not when the taste and scent of sex made him feel almost drunk and their proximity drove everything from his mind but love and sated lust and his desire to not ruin this moment with his worrying.

The smell of something burning made Fingon’s nose twitch.

“The toast!” they both exclaimed once they realized what it was, and leaped up to survey the damage. One of the slices had started to blacken and smoke, and the other looked like it was about to.

“It’s not so bad!” Fingon said, snatching for the burnt piece. “See, it’s only the edge, perfectly edible. This one will be mine.” Holding it between two fingers, he grabbed Maedhros’ off the grate as well. Having salvaged their toast, they spread each slice with soft cheese and settled back onto the couch to eat it. Fingon snuggled against the side of Maedhros’ body and tugged one of his fallen blankets around them both. Maedhros, sighing, rested his cheek on the top of his head.

They ate in easy silence. Fingon stroked Maedhros’ thigh under the blanket and, when he had eaten the last bit, asked what hour it was.

“I don’t know, only that people will talk when they see us finally emerge, and together,” Maedhros replied, amused.

“Weren’t they already talking?”

“Well, yes. You know we’re not exactly a secret.”

“I do,” Fingon laughed. They hadn’t been a secret for a long time, not since they were very young and trying to avoid getting their fathers in the same room for any reason, though they had kept a habit of discretion since then. They did eventually get up and prepare to rejoin society, but reluctantly. Fingon washed and dressed and coiled his braids into a large knot at the back of his head and turned to face Maedhros, who was still working on his shirt. Fingon immediately covered his mouth and looked up into Maedhros' eyes. “Oh!”

“What is it?”

Wordlessly, Fingon touched the side of Maedhros' neck, where several bold red marks were already forming on his freckled skin. They trailed over his left shoulder and down his chest, and he grinned when he realized what Fingon was looking at.

“I am so sorry, I didn't mean to be rough...” His forehead wrinkled as he stroked one of the love-bites with soft fingertips.

“You weren't being rough. It happens. Besides,” Maedhros said, and his face took on a lusty smirk, “you have a few of your own.”

“What? Where?”

“Here.” He kissed him under the ear. “And here.” Another kiss to his throat. “At least as far as I can see right now. Probably more. You just—” he kissed his cheek. “—taste so good.” Another kiss on the lips, and Fingon wrapped his arms around Maedhros' waist, pulling him in closer.

It was a long time before they managed to get back to the task at hand. Maedhros finished dressing and arranged his plaid mantle around his neck to hide the marks, and Fingon let his braids back down and hoped for the best. It was as if they had returned to a long-forgotten memory of sneaking back into their respective houses after a night out, trying not to wake whichever baby sibling was liable to cry and alert their parents, attempting to hide any evidence that they had been anywhere but in their own beds where they were supposed to be. Someday we’ll have our own house and we won’t need to bother with all of this , they always said.

It was a melancholy thought, but Fingon considered how lucky they were to be here at all, and that knowledge made him smile.

At last, they emerged.

Fingon couldn’t stop smiling. He was sure that everyone who looked at his face would notice and immediately think yes, that is the face of a man who just had sex , but he didn’t care, and the deep-buried wild youth in him wanted to stand at the top of the stairs and announce it himself for everyone to hear. He refrained, gave Maedhros’ hand one more squeeze, and the two of them descended toward the hall with their shared secret glowing between them. The sound of the wind was not dimmed in the hall, but the hearth held a merry fire and its golden light made everything seem closer and softer and warmer. There were a handful of people lounging about the hall, advisers and others who lived at the keep, and they stood when Maedhros and Fingon joined them. Maedhros waved at them to take their ease.

“Where is Raemben?” he asked.

“I am here, my lord,” said a lump behind one of the window curtains. They stuck their head out. “Observing the storm.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Not much, only that everyone is stuck where they are until it lets up. I dispatched a team to check in with the guardhouse.” They retreated behind the curtain again. “They are going to flash a light back to me once they’re safe. Any minute now.”

Maedhros shrugged, apparently satisfied with that answer, and turned toward Fingon. “All right?”

Fingon nodded. A smile came easily to his face—much more easily it usually did.

“Ah! There it is.” Raemben came out from behind the curtain. “I can relax now.”

Nothwen was there, sketching by the fire. Eliadis paced back and forth along the side of the hall, occasionally lifting a curtain and peering out into the dark, gray nothingness of the storm.

“When is it going to stop?” she demanded when Raemben passed her.

“I can’t say. Hours? Days? We might as well settle in.” They descended in a flutter of robes onto the bench next to their husband, a short, soft-faced elf named Alwendion, whose company Fingon had come to appreciate since his arrival. He was a healer, and Fingon liked his orderly, scientific outlook on the world. Eliadis let out a frustrated sigh and resumed pacing. Fingon could not blame her. He did not know what state he would be in if he didn’t have Maedhros with him.

The keep seemed much smaller now that they were confined to it. Most of its residents remained in their chambers catching up on work, according to their servants. Fingon rather suspected they were whiling away the storm with their spouses—at least that was the turn his own mind had taken, and the soft press of Maedhros’ hand on his lower back only made that thought more prominent. They ate a light lunch with the others and then spent a few hours at conversation and board games, but Fingon’s eyes kept sliding over to the line of Maedhros’ jaw and the purplish bruise just barely peeking over the edge of his plaid.

“Oh, Alwendion is running a pool for how many babies will be given to Himring a year from now,” Nothwen said over a game of tafl. Fingon blinked and looked away from Maedhros’ neck to find her smirking slightly. “Care to place your bets, my lords?”

Maedhros gave a bark of laughter and flipped a coin across the table at Alwendion, who caught it and placed it into a pouch at his elbow. “Four, and no fewer!”

Fingon did not have any coins on him at the moment, but Alwendion accepted one of his golden hair clasps when he offered it instead. “I will say… three. Two girls and a boy. Have there been any babies born at Himring since you settled here?”

“There was one the first year, and none since then. Two of the weavers are expecting one next summer,” Maedhros said. “Now that everything is stable I hope there will be more.”

“I should think there will be,” Alwendion replied with a smile. “My grandmother did always call snowstorms ‘baby-making weather.’”

At that, Fingon inhaled a gulp of coffee and had to excuse himself to avoid spraying it across the game board.

He kept playing after he returned. People came and went, brewing more coffee and providing additional games for common enjoyment. Maedhros and Raemben lost interest in their nine men’s morris marathon, and Raemben hoisted Alwendion over their shoulder and carried him, laughing, out of the hall. Maedhros rested his head in his hand and watched Fingon as he faced Eliadis in a game of qirkat. She started beating him with her first move, and he quickly modified his expectations of victory into a hope that he would at least lose with dignity. Alas, she destroyed him, and afterwards went back to pacing while Fingon nursed his pride.

“I haven’t sat across a game board from Eliadis in… oh, centuries,” Maedhros chuckled. “Or faced Raemben in a wrestling ring. Either way, it’s not worth the humiliation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fingon muttered. He put his chin in his hand, mirroring Maedhros, and watched his face for a moment. He was calm, but there was a pinch of something in the corners of his eyes that made Fingon frown a little. He nudged his knee under the table. “Is something bothering you?”

Maedhros’ mouth twitched. “I don’t know.”

Something was bothering him. Fingon raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

He stood and immediately moved to leave. “Come with me?”

Fingon got up from the disgrace of the game board in front of him and followed Maedhros out of the hall. He kept walking faster until Fingon had to jog to keep up with his long strides as they went back up the stairs and through the halls to Maedhros’ chamber.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Maedhros whirled around to face Fingon. His hand gripped Fingon’s shoulder. He was very close all of a sudden, his breath fast against Fingon’s cheek.

“What if that was it,” he said in a rush. “What if it was a fluke? What if that was all we can do? What if we have to struggle for thirteen more years if we want to—”

“It was not a fluke,” Fingon said, but Maedhros was still talking.

“What if it only works when we fight? I don’t want that to be us, Fingon, I hate fighting with you.” His voice was raw and a line had formed at the corner of his mouth. Fingon brushed it with his thumb. Now that he was up close and he could taste Maedhros’ breath, Fingon found himself falling headfirst into thoughts of his warmth and his flesh and the sounds he made when he was touching him. The softness of his hair and skin, the heat of his mouth.

“That isn’t us. We’re all right,” he said, softer. He stroked the corner of Maedhros’ mouth again, not looking away from his eyes, and then kissed him.

“How can you be sure,” Maedhros replied. His voice was more breath than sound. He could feel it too, the proximity of their beating hearts and Fingon’s love and care in his hands on Maedhros’ face. Despite his uncertainty his own arms came up under Fingon’s, pulling them closer, close enough that Fingon could feel the shift in Maedhros’ long legs as he leaned in and the hitch in his chest when he kissed him again.

“Beloved, the two of us are nothing if not stubborn in love.” He couldn’t help but chuckle. “In the best possible way, of course.”

At that, Maedhros’ face finally relaxed into an easy smile. His hand slid up Fingon’s chest, lingering at his collarbone before moving up to caress his ear. Fingon sighed and leaned into it and closed his eyes when Maedhros kissed him back.

“You’re right, you know. We are stubborn.”

“Hmm.” Fingon opened his lips wider and curled one hand around the back of Maedhros’ neck. His hair was so beautifully soft and his mouth was so delicious—they had had enough words for now. Fingon lapped at his tongue and laughed a little breathlessly when Maedhros’ fingers came up further to tangle in his braids. Mussing his hair was his privilege alone.

They stayed like that for some time, kissing against the door, caressing one another. Gently Fingon nipped Maedhros’ neck, just under his jaw where he knew it was sensitive. Maedhros rewarded him with a lovely gasp and clasped his hand. Their eyes met—Fingon knew that look. It made him warm all over, warm and wanting, the very reflection of Maedhros’ red cheeks and his dilated pupils. Maedhros stepped back, tugging gently on Fingon’s hand. Fingon followed him. They went and sat on the edge of the bed, which was still unmade and strewn with their discarded nightshirts. Once settled they returned to kissing, more urgently this time, with more teeth and more roaming hands. Maedhros undid Fingon’s top button, but suddenly Fingon stood and stripped, impatient. His cock was straining against his loincloth and for the moment, relieving the pressure was his primary concern.

“Beautiful.” Maedhros bit his lip and curled his hand around his hip to pull him closer. Once Fingon was standing between his knees, he slid his hand under his loincloth, teasing the cloth off his hips and stroking the firm skin beneath. He looked up—there was a dimple in his cheek that Fingon hadn’t seen in a long time. He was happy, just as he had been when they embraced upon Fingon’s arrival, so happy that it swept the pain from his eyes and made him seem, for a moment, free. Fingon captured his lips in an open-mouthed kiss and stroked his hair and his face and his neck as he stepped out of his loincloth at last.

“What do you want to do,” Maedhros whispered.

“First I want to get you naked,” Fingon said, grinning. He unwound the plaid from Maedhros’ neck and tugged his shirt and tunic over his head, leaving everything in a small heap on the floor. Maedhros kicked off his own boots and then Fingon returned to undressing him. As he pulled his trousers down, he found himself staring. He ran his fingertips along the supple, freckled thighs before him. They were already mottled with red marks to match the ones on Maedhros’ neck. Fingon would be hard-put to name his favorite part of Maedhros, because he loved all of him, from his silky copper hair to the spring in his step. But oh, his legs, they were miles long and shaped as if in marble by Aulë’s own chisel. Fingon loved to touch them as much as Maedhros loved to have them touched. “Would you like it if I went between your legs?” He bent to kiss the soft skin inside his thigh.

“I would like that very much.”

It took some fumbling to find a comfortable position, but with soft words and a little laughter, they managed. Fingon knelt at Maedhros’ back and settled his knees on either side of Maedhros’. He ran his fingertips over Maedhros’ upper back and found himself wondering at how, even considering all the other things Maedhros trusted him with, that he trusted him with his back and the suffering written upon it. Whips and irons and who knew what else had left deep scores, and over that, rough abrasions from the cliff face. Only through unpleasant experience did Fingon know which spots were safe to touch.

He gave his mind a small shake. Not now .

“Fingon?” Maedhros’ hand rested on his knee, gently questioning. Are you still with me on this ?

Fingon kissed his shoulder blade. “I’m here. Only I brought some oil from Hithlum.”

Maedhros chuckled as Fingon slipped off the bed briefly to rummage for the bottle among his clean underclothes. “You came prepared. Did you think we’d be able to use it?”

“I hoped.” He always hoped. Bottle in hand, he returned to the bed and settled against Maedhros’ back once more. He warmed a few drops of the oil in his palms before giving himself a preparatory stroke. “Ready?”

Maedhros squeezed his knee. “Yes.”

Fingon bit his lip. With an indrawn breath and his hands on Maedhros’ hips, he slid between his thighs and held him there just for a moment, listening intently for any signs that he should stop. None came.

The smooth, tight grip, the ripple of muscle as they moved together—Fingon closed his eyes and let himself be lost in the pleasure building in his own body, and the sounds Maedhros started to make again as Fingon caressed him. He held him close, hands roaming over his chest and stomach and cock, stroking him into full hardness again, heeding his whispered requests— touch me, please, Fin, make me come, I love you, you are perfect . Fingon buried his face in Maedhros’ hair, kissing him and whispering to him as he thrust between his legs, knowing that Maedhros liked nothing for himself quite as much as he liked being the cause of Fingon ’s pleasure, so Fingon freed his voice and let him hear just how much he was enjoying this. Between the sounds and scents and the impossible softness of his skin, it wasn’t long before Fingon found himself on the edge again, urgency pressing from the inside out even as he could feel the strain building in Maedhros’ body. Gasping, he spilled between Maedhros’ thighs, and only then did he feel the rush of Maedhros’ release in his muscles and his hand suddenly clamping down on Fingon’s over his cock.

For a long moment, they sat and breathed, saying nothing. Fingon looped his arms around Maedhros’ waist and squeezed him gently, his face still buried in his hair, and Maedhros stroked Fingon’s thigh.

“We are all right,” Fingon whispered. He kissed Maedhros’ back softly.

Maedhros remained silent for another moment. “I believe you,” he said at last, sounding almost surprised with himself, and then he turned to face Fingon and pull him down into the nest of blankets beneath them.