Peculiarity by Nibeneth

Chapter 1

“Somehow it feels as if I should be doing this for you, instead of the other way around.”

“Why?” Fingon grinned. “I may be the king, but you are the one with a beard.”

A peculiarity of my grandfather's house, Maedhros called the red-gold stubble that became long enough to shave every season or so. If he was a proper Aulendur, he might have let it grow in similitude of his master's favorite form, but hundreds of years and thousands of miles lay between him and the halls of Aulë now, and even in the days of bliss he had never been all that devoted.

For his part Fingon sometimes wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through a proper beard on Maedhros' face and to feel it tickle his lips as he kissed him. But Maedhros insisted on shaving it off, and Fingon would not dream of telling him not to modify his appearance as he saw fit. Besides, he enjoyed shaving him as much as Maedhros enjoyed being shaved. It was a small indulgence for both of them in these days of rationing and uncertainty.

Maedhros was still pink from the bath, his hair damp and darkened against the sun-bleached linen robe he wore. He was the very picture of relaxation, reclining in his chair with his feet up and his head tilted back, a hot towel draped over his face and neck. Fingon smiled down at him as he lathered soap in a bowl. The small table at Maedhros' elbow already held the freshly-sharpened razor and a small pot of fragrant balm for afterward—all gifts from Fingon, because Maedhros spent so much time finding gifts for Fingon that he never thought to get anything for himself.

“Your dwarf friends might like the sight of a full beard on you,” Fingon remarked as he straddled Maedhros' thighs and settled into his lap. Under the towel, Maedhros gave a muffled chuckle.

“Azaghâl would likely taunt an insufficient beard even more than no beard at all. To have no beard is simply the misfortune of the elves, but an insufficient beard is a personal failing.”

“Nothing about you is insufficient,” Fingon said fondly. He lifted the towel and kissed Maedhros' fuzzy chin. “Ready?”

A nod. Fingon started lathering up his cheeks with the soapy brush. They said nothing for a few minutes, only the creamy sound of the shaving foam filling the air between them. Maedhros' eyes were closed, his body slack under the attention. His robe had fallen off one shoulder, exposing the soft, sparse hair on his chest, another “peculiarity” of his bloodline that Fingon did not share. Fingon continued building the foam up on his face and neck and smiled when he gave a contented sigh.

“It feels like an age since you did this last.”

“Alas, the privations of our day. Ready for the razor?”

Maedhros hummed his assent. Fingon lifted the silver blade to his cheek. He stretched a patch of skin taut with two fingers and gently scraped away the soapy stubble, being careful around the old scars he had carried back from Angband. It occurred to him, as it always did when he shaved Maedhros' face, how much trust his lover placed in him, that he could wield a razor against his neck and still feel no tension in his body. He was soft and warm, a shaggy red bear at rest, and Fingon was the only person in the world who was allowed to see it.

“I've been practicing braiding yarn,” Maedhros said when Fingon paused to wipe the razor. “My prosthesis will never be perfect but I could probably braid your hair again, even if it takes longer than it used to.”

“I look forward to it,” Fingon replied. His hair was still too short to braid since he hacked it all off in a fit of grief for his father's sacrifice, and he had twisted it into locks once it started to grow back in. He tilted Maedhros' head to the side to begin shaving his other cheek. “Once I've mourned enough to wear gold in my hair again, you'll be the first to braid it.”

Maedhros did not ask when that would be.

The two of them fell silent once again as Fingon continued working. Freckled pink skin revealed itself as he shaved away the foam and stubble, and soon all was smooth. He wiped away the last flecks of soap before patting some balm onto Maedhros' tender skin, and then he kissed his neck, right where his pulse beat slow and strong. “There we are,” he said. “All done.”

Maedhros' left arm came up around Fingon's waist. “Thank you. I will never get tired of you doing that.”

“Good. I don't intend to stop.”