I'll Be Yours If You'll Be Mine by NelyafinweFeanorion

---

Chapter 34

This chapter was a struggle to write-I had all the ideas but I was planning on opening with Fingolfin's POV and he was just not cooperating! I finally switched the initial POV to Feanor and that seemed to make Fingolfin behave enough to be part of the chapter.

my thanks as always to cheekybeak for her beta work on this and also to ziggy for letting me vent about this chapter and Fingolfin!

---

---

 

Even after all these years the sight of Nerdanel could still take his breath away.

Fëanor had been at work in her studio, Moryo and Curvo assisting him, putting finishing touches on the surprise he had planned for her there. The work now complete, he had left his sons to clean up while he sought out his wife.

He had found her in the kitchen and he had silently paused in the doorway, gazing at her as she sat, unaware of his presence. Fëanor's eyes caught the tumble of her brilliant red hair as it cascaded down her back, the sharp angle of her profile, the curve of her hand as she rested her chin on it. Her attention was fully focused on the cookbooks in front of her.

It had never been easy—not since the early days. But despite the hardships they had experienced, the tragedy, the pain—having her by his side had made it all surmountable. As long as they had each other they could meet adversity and defeat it.

Even the times when they were at odds with each other, rather than the outside world, they had still managed to come through it together.

They were in a good place again now and the sight of her warmed him. He moved to wrap his arms around her waist, grinning at her surprised huff of breath and dipped his head down rest it on her shoulder.

Nerdanel leaned back into him. "Are you finally done? Am I going to be allowed back into my studio?"

"All in good time," Fëanor said, as she turned to face him. "Moryo and Curvo are tidying up and I am here to escort you there."

She had no idea what he had been up to—the studio had been commandeered by Fëanor for the weekend and made strictly off limits to her. She itched to get back there. Nerdanel had been somewhat disconcerted at the invasion of her space by the men in her life. Fëanor had stonewalled all of her questions, maintaining all would be made clear in time.

"Well, let's get on with it then!" Nerdanel said. "It makes me twitchy having you boys among my things."

Fëanor laughed. She tugged on his hair in response. "You know how you hate me tidying up your workspace," she pointed out.

His eyes widened in mock horror. "You don't tidy up—you wreak havoc!"

"Which is why I don't go in there anymore," Nerdanel responded. "You should do the same. The Valar only know what mischief you have stirred up in my space."

"Oh, stop fussing," Fëanor said. "We couldn't make it any messier than it already was—dust and clay and bits of stone all over the place." He pulled her close and rested his forehead on hers. "I promise it's just as untidy as you left it. Moryo and Curvo are just clearing away my tools and removing all evidence of our trespassing."

"I'll be the judge of that, I suppose," Nerdanel said. "I can't imagine what possessed you to spend the weekend messing about in there."

"I never 'mess about'," Fëanor said stiffly, then broke into a grin again as she rolled her eyes at him. "Come on, then. Don't you want to see it?" He pulled her after him to the attached studio he had built for her years before, when they had first moved into this house with their five young sons, the twins not yet part of the family.

His own workspace was more sequestered—a separate structure away from the house and with its own backup generator. With five children under the age of ten when they had first moved in, Nerdanel had not been about to risk any childhood calamities. Her chisels and mallets could be locked up. Fëanor's more flammable experiments needed to be well away from curious small hands.

As she and Fëanor walked to the studio they passed her two sons, carrying Fëanor's toolbox and a giant trash bag as their made their way out of her sculpture workspace. Moryo and Curvo didn't speak to her, just shuffled past into the house itself, matching grins on their faces.

Fëanor stopped her before she entered the room itself, dark and dim, before her. "Don't touch the light switch," he said, motioning her into the room. She gave him a puzzled look but stepped across the threshold, surprise crossing her face as all the studio lights came on at her entrance.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"Just some modifications," Fëanor linked their hands as he explained. "Things I should have thought to do for you long ago. The technology has finally caught up with my ideas." He waved his free hand around the room. "The lights are motion activated. You don't need to touch the switch—if your hands are full or covered with clay."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I like it." Her gaze caught sight of something on the far wall. "New blinds as well?"

"Remote control. One touch to go from natural light to artificial. You can keep the remote in your smock pocket while you work."

It was a thoughtful gesture—attuned to her needs and undoubtedly faultlessly executed, seeing it was Fëanor doing the work.

"Thank you," she said, going up on tiptoe to brush her lips to his.

"That's not all," he answered and she caught that look of subtle pride on his face, the one he reserved for those times when he managed to catch her by surprise.

"There's more?" she asked.

He pulled her over to the sink and she noted the shiny new fixtures. "They're lovely, Fëanaro, but you know they'll be caked in clay within the week."

He shook his head, his smile becoming a bit more of a smirk. "I don't think so. They're automatic faucets. You'll never have to touch a handle again." He waved his hand over the faucet and watched the water turn on automatically.

He was outright grinning at her now. Nerdanel loved it when he was like this—simply enjoying what his creative mind and skill had accomplished.

"Moryo and Curvo helped?" Fëanor nodded. "Curvo's always loved doing work around the house with me and Moryo is as reliable as they come." His eyes widened. "The twins would have likely flooded they place changing the fixtures out but not Moryo. He may not have the ingenuity to come up with ideas but he is flawless in execution."

She waved her hand over the faucet to turn the water off. Turning towards Fëanor, she slipped her arms around his waist. "Thank you. It seems my Christmas gift came early this year."

His arms went around her and pulled her closer. "Nonsense," he said. "This isn't your gift. I just finally had some time and two willing assistants. I was going to get it done over Thanksgiving but I didn't have all the parts I needed." He kissed her forehead. "You haven't even seen the best part."

"There's more?"

He walked her toward the utility closet and she saw a circular device embedded in the wall next to the door. "What's that?" she asked.

"Central vacuum. More accurately an in-wall vacuum. No more having to drag the vacuum cleaner in here to clean up all the dust and particles you scatter everywhere. The canister is in the closet. All you have to do is hook up the hose. You should be able to reach the whole room." He definitely looked pleased with himself although she caught him looking at her, trying to gauge her response. He'd never gotten over his need to please her, her opinion of his work the only one that mattered, other than his own.

"You know me so well, Fëanaro," she laughed.

"I would hope so, after all this time, Nerdanel. I would think I'd finally figured you out."

She poked around the workspace a while longer, assuring herself that they hadn't done any irreparable harm to her equipment; her mind finally at ease they walked back to the main house hand in hand. Nerdanel made coffee for them both and they settled themselves at the kitchen table.

"The house is so quiet this morning," Fëanor said. "I suppose it's not actually morning any more. Where are they all?"

Nerdanel tilted her head. "Maedhros and Tyelko are out. Maglor's at work." She ticked her sons off on her fingers. "I assume Moryo and Curvo went up to shower. I sent the Ambarussa to the store. I'm sure they'll forget to buy half the items on my list but it got them out of the house for a while."

"Did Maedhros even come home last night?" Fëanor asked. "I don't recall hearing him come in or seeing his car this morning."

"No, he didn't," Nerdanel said, her eyes shining. "He was out with that young man of his. I really can't wait to meet him."

"He hasn't said much about him, has he?" Fëanor said. "At least not to me. Has he said much to you?"

"Not much. I just get the feeling that this relationship with Fingon is far more serious than his previous ones. There's a softness to him when he mentions his name, something I haven't seen from him before." Nerdanel leaned back in her chair, hands cradling her coffee cup. "It's good to see him happy."

"Fingon, you said? That's his name?" Fëanor frowned.

"Yes, Fingon. Maglor says they've been spending a lot of time together lately. I hope that means we get a chance to meet him soon." Nerdanel's face turned thoughtful. "It's been so long since he's brought someone home."

"Fingon," Fëanor repeated.

"Yes," Nerdanel's eyes narrowed as she regarded her husband. "What is it, Fëanor? You've got that look on your face."

"It seems unlikely," Fëanor said to himself then he looked up at her, his eyebrows drawn together.

"What's unlikely?"

"Fingolfin's son is named Fingon. But it couldn't be him, could it?"

Nerdanel felt her stomach roll at his words. "What's the likelihood of that?" she said, keeping her voice as nonchalant as she could.

"Where did they meet?" Fëanor asked. "I haven't heard him say much about it."

"You know that's how Maedhros is, Fëanor. He rarely talks much about this kind of thing. Maglor's the one who usually can't stop talking about his relationships—the good ones and the bad ones."

"Seem to have been more bad ones than good," Fëanor said, under his breath, before continuing in his regular tone of voice, the crease between his brows becoming more pronounced as he spoke. "But what if it is Fingolfin's son, Nerdanel?"

"So what if it is? It's not your concern, Fëanor."

"It most certainly is my concern."

"It is not," Nerdanel said, her tone sharp. "He's free to choose as he likes."

"I don't like the idea."

She shook her head and reached across the table to grasp his forearm. "I don't care who it is, Fëanor. And neither should you. He's happier than he's been in a long time. And if that's because of Fingolfin's son then I'm fine with that." Her grip tightened. "And you should be too. We've both wanted him to be happy for years now. I'm not going to question it."

"I believe I have some questions for Maedhros when he gets in," Fëanor said. "He's spending nights with him now?"

"Fëanor, stop it." The genial mood of moments before was gone. The mention of Fingolfin was enough to disturb Fëanor but the added concern regarding their respective sons wasn't helping any. The last thing Nerdanel needed was a confrontation between her eldest son and her husband regarding this relationship. Not when Maedhros was finally looking better, when he finally seemed to be content, as Maglor had said. She was not going to let Fëanor affect that. "You are not going to confront him about this, I won't allow it."

"I never said I was going to confront him, Nerdanel. I said I had questions."

"I know what you are like, Fëanor. It will be more like an inquisition." Her gaze hardened. "You aren't talking to him about this without me there, do you understand?"

His lips thinned as he returned her gaze, openly frowning at her. "I do not need a chaperone to talk to my son."

"You do this time. I am not going to let your dislike of Fingolfin taint this relationship, Fëanor. You don't even know if Fingon is Fingolfin's son. But it doesn't matter if he is or isn't. Maedhros is an adult. Your opinion is not relevant in this." She glared at him.

"Fine. Join me if you like. But I need to know, for my own peace of mind," Fëanor replied.

"Why can't you let it go, Fëanor? Fingolfin's never been anything but helpful and caring to us, to you. Keep your distance, if that's what you need to do for yourself but don't expect the rest of us to do so. There's no rational reason to dislike him so."

"No rational reason? You can seriously say that, Nerdanel? Knowing that he could have put Morgoth away for what he did to Maedhros? For what he did to my father? Fingolfin let that opportunity slip through his hands. I'll not forgive him that." Fëanor slammed his hand on the table, making their coffee mugs rattle.

"You know that's not how it went. You know he didn't have the evidence to bring him in, not for Finwë or for Maedhros. He got them to settle, he kept Maedhros' name out of the papers, kept his ordeal private and ended the impasse." She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "You should be grateful for that."

"I would be grateful if he brought the perpetrator to justice. But it seems he can't even do that properly." Fëanor stood up.

"You will not talk to Maedhros about this without me, Fëanor."

He walked away from her, towards the kitchen door.

"Fëanor," she repeated.

He stopped, his shoulders bunching up as she watched him. "Fine. Be there if you must. But if this is Fingolfin's son . . ."

She interrupted him. "If this is Fingolfin's son you will be pleasant about it. Because he means something to your son, Fëanor. Your son, who has never quite been the same since it happened. And if this boy in any way makes life better for Maedhros then I wouldn't care if he was Morgoth's son himself."

---

Fingolfin wandered into the kitchen to find Anairë. She was poring over a cookbook, pen in hand. He walked up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders gently. She looked up at him. "Hey you."

"I just met Aredhel's boyfriend," he said.

She spun around in her chair. "Tyelko! Isn't he sweet?"

"I don't know that I would choose the word 'sweet' to describe him," Fingolfin said crisply. "Loud, maybe. Brash, perhaps."

"Oh, come on, Fin. He's a nice boy. Stop trying to find reasons to dislike him."

"I'm not."

She leveled a glare at him.

"Fine, fine. I suppose he seems like an agreeable young man," Fingolfin grumbled. "He seemed quite taken with Aredhel, at any rate."

The smile was back on Anairë's face. "She's quite taken with him too."

"I noticed."

"Oh, Fin," Anairë laughed. "Stop trying to be all glum about this. You probably liked him more than you want to admit and that's why you're making such a fuss."

He really never could get anything past his wife. Fingolfin sighed. "You're right," he admitted. "He did seem like a nice kid." He made a grimace. "If only he wasn't Fëanor's son."

"Oh, stop. It's not that big a deal. It's not like they're getting married, so stop moaning about it. It's just a boyfriend." She tilted her head as she looked at him. "And you know the best way to get Aredhel to dig her heels in is to tell her not to do something."

"I know. If I question her about it too much she'll likely run off with him just to annoy me."

Anairë laughed. "Tyelko doesn't look much like Fëanor so at least you won't be reminded of him when you look at him."

"No, no he doesn't," Fingolfin said thoughtfully. His eyes got a distant look.

"Fin?" Anairë questioned.

He shook his head, as if to clear it. "I just realized who he does resemble," Fingolfin said. He could see the portrait of Miriel, at the top of the stairs in his godfather's home; a position of prominence, visible from the foyer as soon as one entered the house. It had been years since he first laid eyes on it, Miriel long dead even when he was a young child. It had been something he and Fëanor had initially bonded over-the loss of Fingolfin's father and Fëanor's loss of his mother. Tyelko might have Fëanor's facial structure but his coloring was all Miriel. "He's so like Miriel," he said.

"Miriel?" Anairë repeated.

"Fëanor's mother," he explained. "She died long ago. Tyelko looks like her."

"You ok, Fin?"

He nodded. Unexpected memories but he pushed them aside. "Yes, I'm fine." He changed the subject. "I came to see what you were up to." He peered over her shoulder at the book on the countertop.

"Planning dinner. I'm going to go to the store in a bit to pick up some things. I think I'll take Argon with me. He's been holed up in his room all morning—it'll be good to get him out," Anairë said.

"I'll stay with Turgon. I haven't had much of a chance to talk with him one-on-one since he's been home," Fingolfin said.

"Make sure he puts some ice on his nose again," Anairë said. "Argon's been on him about it but it really is making a difference, I think."

"I'll make sure." Fingolfin leaned down to kiss her and went in search of his son.

He found Turgon in the family room, head bent over a book. "How are you feeling?" Fingolfin asked, leaning over the back of the sofa, eyeing his son's still swollen and bruised face.

"I'm fine. Headache's better today," Turgon answered, looking up at his father. Faint shadows of bruising were visible under both eyes.

Fingolfin settled down on the sofa next to him. "Sounds like an interesting game."

Turgon laughed. "You can say that. I wouldn't mind playing again, now that I know what to watch out for."

"Hmm. Maybe not right away though," Fingolfin recommended. "You should be presentable by the time your internship starts next month, at least."

"At least." Turgon's smile faded. He knew his father was disappointed at his shelved plans for law school. They had managed to avoid the topic so far this break but there wasn't an easy escape to the conversation now, it seemed. He had been cornered. May as well get it over with.

"Listen, Dad. I know you aren't thrilled about this whole internship and . . ." Turgon started.

"Hey," Fingolfin interrupted. "That's not why I brought it up. We've been over your reasons and I respect them, ok?" He put his hand on Turgon's shoulder and gripped it. "All I meant was that it's just not great for first impressions to show up for a job looking like you were just in a bar fight. It's a good thing you've got a few weeks is all I meant by it."

Turgon frowned. "You're really ok with it then?"

"I'm really ok with it," Fingolfin replied, a frown coming over his face. He paused, choosing his next words with care. "It's not my intention to push you to follow my path. I realize you need to make your own choices. I'm looking forward to hearing about your experiences once you start work." He watched his son's face closely.

Anairë had been right about this after all. Fingolfin had interrogated Turgon in detail when he had first mentioned the interest in Public Policy and he had questioned his son's decision not to apply to law school. He had done it to satisfy himself on Turgon's reasoning and to educate himself on the field.

He had not realized that his characteristic thoroughness had given Turgon the impression that he disapproved of the whole endeavor. He had scoffed when Anairë had mentioned it but it seemed that once again she was correct. It wouldn't do to have Turgon think that.

Fingolfin had never intended to be overbearing or forceful about the direction his children took in their lives. He had seen how Fingon and Aredhel had gravitated to fields that followed their interests and strengths.

He had encouraged Argon in his pursuit of something completely outside Fingolfin's own personal experience.

But Turgon had never been as focused as the others. He had drifted from subject to subject, none holding his attention for long. Fingolfin had suspected Turgon's law school discussions were more to give himself a goal and a touchpoint with his father rather than a true interest of his own.

He had been a bit lost between the dedicated, focused Fingon and brash, determined Aredhel. Argon's natural brilliance had only made Turgon feel even more overshadowed, Fingolfin realized.

Law school had been a way to draw attention to himself and keep his father's interest. Fingolfin was glad Turgon had recognized the folly in that before he was committed to that career path.

Truth be told there had been more spark in Turgon's eloquent reasoning for Ethics and Public Policy than in any of his previous interests. It was a welcome change.

How did he make sure his son understood that Fingolfin was supportive of his choice? He thought he had made it abundantly clear but Turgon's words made him doubt his own certainty.

"I am excited for you, Turgon. It's a field I'm not familiar with, as you know, so I expect to get an education on it from you. I'm looking forward to that. I can see how much it interests you." He held his son's gaze and nodded at him. "I want what's best for you, Turgon. It's what I want for all of you. If this is what you are passionate about then you have my unwavering support."

Even with the swelling and bruising Turgon's smile lit up his face. He bumped Fingolfin's knee with his own. "Thanks, Dad."

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments and then Fingolfin gave Turgon a sidelong look. "So, I want to hear more about this girl of yours," he said. "Are we going to get to meet her anytime soon?"

Turgon's face flushed. "Elenwë. She's home with her family for the holiday." His eyes softened. "She's amazing, Dad. I really do want you and Mom to meet her. I know we haven't been dating all that long but there's just something about her, you know?"

"You'll have to bring her around after break then. I'd like to meet her." He shook his head. "I've met Aredhel's Tyelko already and they haven't been together as long as you and Elenwë."

Turgon brow creased in thought. "No, you're wrong there." His face cleared and he smiled at Fingolfin. "It's funny, but actually Aredhel's first date with Tyelko was the same day as my first date with Elenwë. I hadn't really thought about it before." He laughed and continued. "Which means, for once, Fingon's been dating somebody longer than either of us."

Fingolfin looked puzzled. "Fingon?" he asked. "That can't be right."

"No, it is right. He had already met Maedhros—he and Maedhros were the ones who set Aredhel up with Tyelko." Turgon's face grew thoughtful again. "It might have actually been their first official date too, come to think of it." He grinned at his father. "How's that for coincidence—all of us going on our first dates on the same day. Weird."

"Weird," Fingolfin repeated. "So, it's been a couple of months for Fingon then?"

"Yeah, amazing, isn't it? I think it's a record for him—I can't remember him dating anyone this long," Turgon said, confirming Fingolfin's own thoughts. "But it's not like his previous relationships at all. He's totally gone over Maedhros."

"You really think so?" Fingolfin questioned.

"I know so." Turgon's eyes brightened. "It's the way he talks about him, the way he looks at him. I've not seen him look at anyone like that before. He makes time for him, which is completely unlike Fingon. Relationships were never a priority with him before, which is probably why they never lasted too long."

"Hmm," Fingolfin said diplomatically. Turgon seemed to be comfortable discussing his brother's love life and Fingolfin wasn't about to interrupt. This was useful information.

Turgon looked at him appraisingly. "I think you'd like Maedhros, Dad. He's a lot like you," he said, startling Fingolfin.

"We'll see if Fingon brings him around," Fingolfin said diplomatically. It wouldn't do for Turgon to find out that Fingolfin was already acquainted with Maedhros. Certainly not before Fingon found that out.

It looked like he was going to have to have a conversation with his eldest son. Sooner rather than later.

---

"You're sure you don't want to come in for a bit?" Fingon asked. Maedhros had driven him home and they were parked outside Fingon's house. There was plenty of time before he was expected home for dinner. Fingon had made sure to get back early, even if it meant cutting short his afternoon with Maedhros. It wouldn't do to have his parents irritated right at the start of the holiday break; not if he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Maedhros.

"No, I should get home myself. I've hardly been there at all. And your family is waiting for you," Maedhros said.

"All right. Next time then. I'd like you to meet my Dad. I think you two would get along splendidly." Fingon's smile lit up his face.

Maedhros had never mentioned the fact that he had already met Fingon's dad. It had been a few years prior but they had met. More than once, in fact. He debated whether he should reveal that fact or not and decided honesty was the best route with Fingon; it hadn't failed him yet. There was no good reason to keep this a secret.

"Um, you know, actually, I . . . ah . . . met your dad a few years ago, I think?" Maedhros said, stumbling over the words a bit as he spoke.

"You did? Really? You've never mentioned it . . ." Fingon looked puzzled and a little hurt.

"Yeah, I realized after you said he had worked on the case, way back when we first met. I recognized the name."

"Why didn't you say so?" Fingon asked, genuinely perplexed.

"I don't know," Maedhros said truthfully. "I really didn't know how to bring it up. We met under awkward circumstances, first with Grandfather's lawsuit and then again after . . . after my incident."

"My father knows about that?" Fingon asked slowly, his forehead wrinkling at Maedhros' words.

Maedhros nodded, his mouth dry. Had he made a mistake telling Fingon this? He should have told him before, he berated himself. He should have told him everything long ago.

"Oh."

"Listen, I'm sorry. I know how this must look, like I've been keeping things from you. I mean, I know I have been keeping things from you. But no more. It was stupid to do it in the first place and I don't mean to anymore," Maedhros paused and took a breath. "I thought you should know," he finished.

Fingon just looked at him, his expression unreadable.

"Fingon?"

Fingon kept looking at him and then spoke again. "Is there anything else I should know, Maedhros?" he asked quietly.

Damn it. He'd managed to make Fingon question his reliability again. After everything he had done for Maedhros, his support, his own forthrightness; now Maedhros had made Fingon doubt him, once more. No, that wasn't true. Fingon had never doubted him. Fingon had always believed in him, believed him. He was the one who had doubted Fingon, who had strayed away from directness and candor once again.

"I'm sorry, Fingon. It's totally my fault. I should have told you from the start but I just couldn't, just couldn't bring myself to open up, not until I really got to know you, to trust you. And I do trust you," he said hurriedly, seeing the uncertain look on Fingon's face at his words. "More than I've trusted anyone in a long time."

"Is there anything else I should know, Maedhros?" Fingon said again, his voice lower.

Maedhros shook his head. "I met your father when Dad first brought up the lawsuit for grandfather. He came by the house one night—just a brief 'hello' nothing more." Maedhros continued. "He knows what happened to me. I spoke to him again after . . . when I was in the hospital, after everything. He was part of the legal team and he had questions for me and advice about what to do next. That's all." Maedhros sighed. "It's not an excuse and I'm not trying to make it one but that was not an easy time for me. I wasn't in a good place. I did my best to try to forget about it. But it wasn't right to keep you in the dark about it. It was all tied into . . . into the other situation. I'm sorry." He met Fingon's eyes and hoped the intensity of his gaze conveyed the seriousness of his emotions. "I can't think of anything else that I haven't told you."

"Ok." Fingon kept his eyes on Maedhros. "I can understand not wanting to talk about that time. I can understand not trusting me at first. I know it took a lot for you to open up, Maedhros, I get that." He sighed. "I'm grateful you finally did trust me." His brow creased. "But I need to be able to know I can trust you too. That you're honest with me, like I am with you. I'm not angry about it. I'm just surprised and disappointed, I guess."

"I know," Maedhros whispered, dropping his head onto the steering wheel.

He felt Fingon's hand touch his shoulder and start to rub circles onto his back.

"Hey." Fingon said, leaning so close that his breath shifted Maedhros' hair. "I said I was surprised and disappointed, not that I was angry or upset. I'm not sure I understand your reasoning but I know now and it's done."

Maedhros turned to look at him, their faces in near proximity. "And?"

"And I love you, you idiot," Fingon said, his blue eyes dark and intense. "Don't do that again. You can tell me anything, I've told you that. I mean it. Trust me, Maedhros. You can trust me with any of it and all of it. I love you, every part of you."

"I am an idiot," Maedhros said.

"Yeah, you are. But you're my idiot," Fingon said, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. Maedhros could feel his hand on his back still, the warm weight of it comforting.

"I'm sorry," Maedhros said again, turning to Fingon, his hand reaching out to rest against the side of Fingon's face, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached out.

Fingon's hand moved to cover Maedhros'. "No secrets. No doubts, ok."

Maedhros nodded and Fingon closed the distance between them, their foreheads touching.

"I love you," Maedhros whispered. "I'm so lucky to have you in my life, Fingon."

"Just don't shut me out, Maedhros. Let me in. Don't keep things from me."

Maedhros nodded, "I won't, I promise I won't."

"Shut up and kiss me," Fingon said, his lips meeting Maedhros'.

It was a few moments before Maedhros pulled back, resting his forehead on Fingon's again. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"I know," Fingon replied.

"We're ok?"

"We're ok."

"Ok. I should let you go in."

"Text me later, ok?"

"I will. I love you, Fingon."

"I love you too, Maedhros." Fingon's' fingers traced Maedhros' jawline and then he turned to open the car door to get out. He leaned down to look at Maedhros again. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow. I'll talk to you later tonight."

Fingon nodded and then shut the door.

Maedhros watched him make his way to the garage door and into the garage. He let out the breath he had been holding and dropped his head onto the steering wheel again. No more. He wasn't going to hold back anything anymore. It wasn't worth it—there was nothing worth holding back from Fingon. It had been stupid to not mention knowing Fingolfin. It had hurt Fingon and that was something Maedhros wouldn't allow himself to do again.