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

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Chapter 43

 

Tyelko irritably pulled the sweater off and tossed it away. The growing pile of discards on his bed did nothing to improve his state of mind.

He glanced at the clock—five forty-two. He was supposed to pick Aredhel up at six-thirty. Dinner reservations were at seven. He had already double checked both the app on his phone and the email confirmation he had received. And called the restaurant as well.

What the hell was wrong with him? He slammed his hand against the closet doorframe. What was he, sixteen again? He ran his hands through his already disheveled hair and groaned.

“Shouldn’t you be dressed by now?” Curvo’s cool voice interrupted Tyelko’s swirling thoughts. He turned to glare at his younger brother, who was leaning against the bedroom doorway, arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

 “Shut up, Curvo. I’ve got plenty of time,” Tyelko retorted but he was unable to keep his eyes from darting to the clock again. Five forty-six.

 Curvo shook his head, his expression amused. “You’re a mess.” He looked around the room critically. “You’ve been home less than a week and you’ve already trashed the room. No wonder Moryo has that pinched look.”

 “Moryo always has a pinched look,” Tyelko countered, as he scrabbled through the small pile of clothes on the bed again.

 Curvo detached himself from the doorway and shook his head. “Put on that hideous Christmas sweater of yours. May as well let her know what she’s getting into early enough that she can bail.” Curvo had made his exit by the time said sweater was hurled at him.

 Tyelko yanked one of the drawers open and rummaged through the contents. Nothing there. He gave another despairing look at the closet but all the items hanging were Moryo’s neatly organized clothes.

 The sound of a throat clearing behind him made him growl, “So help me, Curvo, don’t you say another word to me.” He directed his glare at the doorway.

 It was Moryo, not Curvo, although the expression on his face was not much different. “Are you packing? I thought you had a date tonight.”

 “I’m not packing,” Tyelko said through clenched teeth. “I’m getting dressed.”

 Moryo walked into the room and inspected the jumbled pile of clothes on the bed. “More like undressed but whatever.” He eyed his older brother and sighed. “Just pick something, Tyelko. It’s not like this is your first date with her.” Tyelko settled for just glaring at him.

 “I found your Christmas sweater in the hallway,” Moryo said, causing Tyelko to groan. “Please tell me you’re not going to expose her to that hideous Christmas tree light-up monstrosity.”

 “Ugh. You sound just like Curvo,” Tyelko responded.

 “That’s an unfortunate coincidence but for once I have to admit he’s right,” Moryo said. He came into the room and cautiously began to poke through the pile of clothing on the bed, extracting the dark blue pullover Tyelko had just discarded. “Here. This one makes you look somewhat respectable.” He tossed it to Tyelko, who caught it midair. “What time are you supposed to meet her?”

 “Six-thirty.”

 Moryo looked at his watch. “Then move it, Tyelko, or you’re going to be late. You’ve still got to tame that rat’s nest on your head.”

 Tyelko pulled the sweater over his head and eyed himself critically in the mirror. It would have to do. Moryo wasn’t wrong. It did actually suit him.

 

 

 

Tyelko had chosen the same Mediterranean restaurant they had eaten at the night they had met, a sentimental fact that was not lost on Aredhel. The two of them were lingering over their shared dessert, in no rush to leave.

But there was an undercurrent of tension. Initially Aredhel had thought it was her own apprehension at raising the subject of Maedhros and making her confession but she soon realized there was an uncharacteristic agitation to Tyelko as well. She could feel the vibration from his jiggling leg coming through the table.

“I didn’t know if you wanted to go dancing at Nargothrond again?” Tyelko asked, as the waiter walked by their table yet again in a thinly veiled attempt to dislodge them.

 Nargothrond was crowded, loud, distracting. Definitely not a place for a serious or revealing conversation, Aredhel thought. “Sounds perfect,” she said, welcoming the reprieve.

 It seemed the dancing had helped a little, as far as their nerves went. Aredhel leaned back against the brick wall behind the dance club, inhaling the cold night air, Tyelko’s shoulder rubbing against her own, the heat of his body palpable through his body-hugging sweater.

 She turned to look at him, admiring his profile as he gazed up at the stars above them, even dimmed and distant as they were by the city lights. “That color suits you,” she said, bumping his shoulder so that he turned his face towards her.

 The grin he gave at her words warmed her even further. “I’ll be sure to thank my fashion consultant,” Tyelko said.

 Aredhel snorted.

 “Fine. I’ll admit it. This was in the discard pile until Moryo stepped in.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. “I’m not usually fussed about what I wear,” he said hesitantly. “But for some reason I was stressed about it tonight.”

 She had been much the same—brushing her hair until it crackled with static electricity, finally giving up and bundling it into a thick braid for the night. The unspoken issue of Maedhros still hung between them. This wasn’t how she and Tyelko usually were and she didn’t like it. She owed him an apology for her harsh words. And probably an explanation as to why she had been so fierce about it.

 She slipped her arms around his waist and tipped her chin up to look at him. “Let’s get out of here. It’s too crowded inside for me.”

 They had finally ended up at an all-night diner, a shared plate of fries between them. The relative ease of their interaction at Nargothrond had faded and the tinge of tension between them still lingered.

 It seemed she would have to be the one to broach the subject.

 “Listen, Tyelko, I want to talk about Maedhros,” Aredhel finally said, after the most recent silence between them had stretched too long for her comfort. She could feel Tyelko’s leg jittering again.

 His eager expression instantly closed off, his eyes wary now. She reached across the table and took his hand. “No, listen. I talked to Fingon and I’ve been an ass about the whole thing. I realize that now.”

 “What did Fingon say?” Tyelko asked, frowning.

 “He told me about what happened, what happened to Maedhros to make him react that way. Turgon was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I get that now.”

 Tyelko’s face didn’t relax. If anything, he expression grew sterner, his tone outraged. “It’s not Fingon’s story to tell, Aredhel. He had no business telling you any of it.”

 “Tyelko,” she interrupted, grasping his clenched fist. “It’s ok. Maedhros told Fingon to tell me. I promise you he did. Fingon never would have said anything otherwise. Fingon told him what a shit I was being about it all and Maedhros gave him clearance to tell me the backstory.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry I was such a bitch about it. I was just worried for Fingon.”

 Tyelko still hadn’t unclenched his fist or softened his expression. “It’s not like Mae to do that,” he said curtly. “How much did you pile on Fingon for him to tell Mae about it?”

 She shifted in her seat. “A fair bit,” she admitted. The next part was going to be the challenging part. “Listen, Tyelko, I’m protective of my brother. Like you are about yours. But there’s more to it than that.”

“What do you mean?” His frown lessened slightly.

 “I think. . . I think some of it was me projecting,” Aredhel said.

 “Projecting?” Tyelko’s expression shifted to puzzled, his fingers unclenching enough to link with her own.

 Aredhel shifted uncomfortably again. She had told Fingon she could do this but now that the opportunity had come she just couldn’t follow through with it. Not now. She clenched his fingers momentarily and shifted in her seat again.

 “Listen, Tyelko. I overreacted, ok? It’s just that sometimes people aren’t quite what they seem. Sometimes it seems like they are saying one thing or behaving a certain way and that isn’t their reality.” Aredhel knew she probably wasn’t making any sense but she was not ready to come clean with the whole miserable story. “And I just wanted to be sure Fingon wasn’t in over his head and that Maedhros wasn’t . . .” She didn’t want to offend him by using some of her own trigger words but there seemed to be no choice. “Wasn’t dangerous or a control freak.”

 Tyelko blinked at her. “Mae’s the furthest thing from dangerous—especially to those he cares about. He’d fight anyone who tried to hurt someone he loves, make no mistake about that. But Maedhros would never intentionally hurt anybody. Never. And someone he loves? He’d rather suffer himself than do that. Trust me.”

 She stared back at him. “You think he loves Fingon, then?”

 Tyelko permitted himself a small smile, a brief moment of relaxation in the tense interchange they were having. “I don’t think so, Aredhel. I know he does.” He placed his other hand over their clasped ones. “I know he does,” he repeated.

 Aredhel managed to adroitly steer their conversation away from the subject after that, their talk drifting to Fingon’s time at Formenos. Tyelko regaled her with some of the more humorous moments in their home life there and she breathed an inner sigh of relief. She had dodged the topic tonight but she recognized she couldn’t dodge it forever. It was only a matter of time before it would come up, somehow. The closer she got to Tyelko, the more chance of something triggering her. She knew that—that’s why she had tried to keep things light and casual.

 Tyelko was fun and exhilarating and seemed the perfect partner for a casual fling. She could do casual flings. What was so unsettling was the fact that she found herself wanting more.

 She treasured the moments she caught the softer side of him—the adoring looks he would give her, the tender expressions on his face, the gentle flush that came over him when their physicality became more heated. The way he pulled himself back at those moments when things seemed to be moving fast. It was endearing and that was the problem.

 Her concerns weren’t only in regard to Maedhros, although she couldn’t let Tyelko know that. There was so much that seemed so good, so comforting, so real about Tyelko. He seemed too good to be true and that was sending her alarm system into overdrive.

 She had been entertaining the idea of staying at school for the summer, not coming home to Tirion for more than a few days, if that, over the summer holidays. Aredhel had always appreciated the distance from Tirion that Elmoth gave her—until now.

 Now that plan was in tumult. There was nothing drawing her to Elmoth other than the distance. Being home this time had made her realize just how much she missed the easy interactions with her parents, the warm steadiness of her brothers. Those were good reasons to come home.

 But it also raised the question of how much she would miss Tyelko, in just a few weeks, when she returned to Elmoth. How many free summers were left to her? Why not spend this one as she liked, at home in Tirion.

 With Tyelko.

 She sucked in her breath. That was a far more questionable reason to come home. Was she really letting herself put her feelings for Tyelko into her decision making? Not a good idea.

 How could she be so sure she would even be involved with Tyelko still, five months from now?

 It sounded preposterous when she phrased it like that—Aredhel told herself she was being foolish but she couldn’t help the surety that somehow arose with those thoughts on the future. She was surprisingly confident that Tyelko would still be there if she didn’t actively chase him away. She wasn’t sure she wanted to chase him away. And that fact concerned her even more.

 “Aredhel?” Tyelko’s voice interrupted her internal monologue. He was looking at her inquiringly, a small frown of concern on his face. “I think I lost you there for a minute. Are you ok?”

 She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Sorry. My mind drifted off there for a bit.” Here was her golden opportunity to put this particular conversation to rest for the night and get home to sort out what was going on in her mind. “Sorry, Tyelko. I think I’m more tired than I thought.” She rested her head on his shoulder, eyes closing. “I think I’m done for the tonight. Take me home, will you?”

 

 

Tyelko dropped Aredhel at her house and made his own way home, somewhat unsettled by their evening. Something was off. Their usually easy banter had been more strained and stilted tonight. He knew he sometimes chose the wrong words or failed to pick up on subtle signals but even as he wracked his brain he could not pinpoint anything he had done, other than being at odds over the Maedhros issue.

Things had been noticeably tense earlier in the week, after Maedhros’ outburst at the game. But Aredhel seemed more at ease on that front tonight, likely due to Fingon’s revelations. But somehow it still hadn’t completely relieved this underlying unease between them.

Tyelko had been surprised that Maedhros had given Fingon clearance to tell Aredhel his backstory. Shit, it had taken him and Maglor harping about it for weeks and Maedhros publicly freaking out on Turgon for Maedhros to actually tell Fingon what was going on. And now he was letting Fingon tell his family? The whole thing must have been putting a significant wedge between Aredhel and Fingon, for Mae to suggest something like that.

But something still wasn’t quite right about this. There had to be more to it. But damn if he could figure out what exactly he was missing.

They had started to address it, at the diner, at least for a minute--before their conversation had gone off track again. What was it Aredhel had said? ‘Projecting’ that was the word. But what did she mean by that? What was she projecting onto Maedhros?

He parked the car on the street, not quite ready to go inside yet. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he thought. Aredhel had been concerned about Maedhros and his relationship with Fingon. Dangerous and controlling—those were the words she had chosen.

It was easy to characterize him as volatile, after the Turgon incident, Tyelko could give her that. Well, controlling wasn’t too far off either, he had to admit, but not in a bad way.

It was Maedhros who had tried to give them all a steady stability when they were young, when their parents chaotic interactions had spilled into their day to day reality. It was Maedhros who kept them organized, clean and fed, when Nerdanel and Fëanor became too caught up in their own pursuits to keep track of mealtimes or laundry day.

And there was no way Tyelko could blame him for wanting to exert some semblance of control over his surroundings after the incident. Controlling? Yes, Maedhros was controlling but assuredly not in the menacing way that Aredhel had intimated.

She had mentioned people not being as they seem. On the surface that might be true for Mae—he appeared quite well adjusted if you didn’t know the back story. But there was nothing about him that was dangerous or malignant.

He frowned. Something wasn’t adding up. Tyelko wished Maedhros was home. He really needed the analytical reasoning his older brother so readily applied to situations like this.

He made his way up to the garage door, punching the code to let himself in. He was on the verge of stepping into the laundry room when the icy realization came over him. Did Aredhel think he was not being forthright? Was there a chance she doubted his motivations in this relationship?

He had not considered that. He had been candid in his regard for her. But maybe he hadn’t made it clear that this was far more than just a casual flirtation to him. Maybe her words about Maedhros weren’t only directed at his older brother.

He squared his shoulders and went into the house. Well that was a topic easily remedied. He didn’t need an older brother’s advice for that. If there was one thing Tyelko could manage on his own it was being plain spoken.

  

 

 

The house was dark when Aredhel went in. She was relieved at not having to talk to her parents but she really wished Fingon was home and not at Formenos. She needed his steady presence right now.

She made her way up to her room and sat on her bed. She hadn’t done it. She couldn’t bring herself to open up to Tyelko tonight.  The vulnerability of doing that was dismaying. She slammed her fist on her thigh. Damn it.

Aredhel took a deep breath. Tyelko was nothing like him, she told herself. Not like him at all. 

But he hadn’t been unsettling at first either, she recalled. Intriguing, unusual, alluring because he was unlike anyone she had ever dated before.

Tyelko was different too, a voice whispered in her head. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists again.

Yes, but not in that way, she told herself. Tyelko was open. Tyelko was cheerful. Tyelko was funny and loud and brash and obnoxious.

He had been none of those, not even at first.

He had been intense, arresting, devoted and mesmerized by her. Or so it seemed.

Tyelko was mesmerized by her, the voice whispered again. She clenched her jaw.

No. Tyelko was attracted to her. There was a difference.

Tyelko enjoyed her as she was, encouraged her to speak her mind, let her take the lead in their encounters. Pulled back rather than pushed. It never felt dangerous or rebellious, with Tyelko. It felt warm and nice.

The warning signs last time had been there from the start, she could see that now. The gaze that had seared her from across the room. The attention to detail about her likes and dislikes, what seemed like surprising insight and devotion at the time but was far more sinister as to the level of attention that had gone into the whole seduction, before she even knew it was taking place. The relentless distancing from her friends, her teammates. The questions, the demands, the persistent adherence to rules she was expected to follow. Or else.

She shivered. It was over. That part of her life was behind her.

She knew what to look for now. Or at least she thought she did.

Tyelko was so forthright, so easy to read.

Or so he seemed. Maybe there were signs she didn’t know to look for, even now.

Her heart rate sped up and she forced herself to take slow, even breaths to calm herself. Damn it, why did Fingon have to be in Formenos tonight? She purposely slowed her breathing even more.

It would be fine. She would talk to Fingon tomorrow. He was not unsettled by Tyelko. He liked Tyelko. Surely if there was cause for concern Fingon would have noticed? He had gotten to know Tyelko, was practically living in his house. If there were any red flags Fingon would have told her. Fingon would have noticed.

 It took her a long time to finally get to sleep.

 

 

Fingon woke up slowly, warm in the circle of Maedhros’ arms. He tilted his head up and found silver eyes warmly observing him. “Good morning,” Maedhros said, his hand making a gentle circle on Fingon’s back. 

“Mmph,” Fingon tucked his head under Maedhros’ chin. “What time is it?”

“Just past eight. I’ve nowhere to be today so no rush to get up.” An amused expression crossed his face as he heard Fingon’s stomach growl. “Unless you’re hungry, that is.”

Fingon groaned. “I don’t want to move.” He snuggled closer, his arm tightening across Maedhros’ chest. “I want to bask in every minute we have like this.” He tilted his head up to look at him again. “It was a good night.”

“It was a good night,” Maedhros agreed, a grin on his face as he spoke.

Fingon poked his side, eliciting a laugh and a shift in position. “I didn’t mean that way, although I’m not going to disagree with you.” He rested his chin on Maedhros’ chest as he spoke, his face serious. “We made it through another night. With no issues.”

Maedhros’ hand brushed the back of Fingon’s neck, fingers sinking into his hair. “That we did.” He ran the index finger of his other hand over Fingon’s jawline. “If you had asked me two weeks ago if I thought it was possible I would have said no.” His expression became more solemn. “We’re not free and clear, Fingon, just because we had one or two good night though. I’m grateful for the reprieve but I know it will happen again.”

“I’m not saying it won’t,” Fingon agreed. He moved up onto one elbow to regard Maedhros eye to eye. “But what I am saying is that we can manage it. Together. Whether they come or not is immaterial. I know what to expect and what to do and you know I’ll do whatever I need to do, to make you comfortable with it.”

A slow smile crossed Maedhros’ face. “I know you will.” He rolled up onto one elbow, his face so close that his silver eyes filled Fingon’s whole vision. “You’ve made me trust again, Fingon. You have no idea what that means to me.”

Fingon’s lips found Maedhros’, his hand sinking into that auburn cascade of hair. “You’re not the only one who has, Maedhros,” he whispered against those soft lips. “You’ve made me find it too.”

 

 

 

It was close to noon before they finally wandered down to the kitchen, hand in hand. “Can we just stay here for lunch, Maedhros?” Fingon asked. “I don’t want to go anywhere. I’d rather just be here alone with you.”

“I’ll make us something,” Maedhros said. “I don’t want to go out either. I’m far too selfish to share you with anyone right now.” He pressed a kiss to Fingon’s forehead. “Help me with lunch?”

“Are we making pasta?” Fingon asked, raising one eyebrow expectantly.

Maedhros swatted him on the shoulder. “No.” He opened the refrigerator and peered at the contents. “Omelets,” he replied, carton of eggs in his hand. “You any good at those?”

“Hmm. I can fry an egg and scramble one.”

“Time for your first cooking lesson then,” Maedhros said.

It was less of an actual cooking lesson and more an exercise in close quarters—Maedhros standing shoulder to shoulder with him as they chopped vegetables, standing behind Fingon with his arms around him as he demonstrated the proper technique of flipping an omelet, stolen kisses as they watched it cook.

“What time do you need to get back?” Maedhros asked, as he did the washing up, Fingon drying the dishes as they were handed to him.

“No particular time. You?”

“Dinnertime, I think. Our last night in Tirion. I’ve got to work the weekend and I think Tyelko and Maglor have both had their fill of family time,” Maedhros replied. “I’d like to get the tree down before we go, if you don’t mind helping me.”

“I’d love to,” Fingon answered. “It’s so lovely though, I hate to see it come down.

“It was half dead when I got it—it won’t last too many more days. And I’ve got the time and willing help to get it down today,” Maedhros said, bumping Fingon’s shoulder affectionately.

 

 

 

They had dragged the boxes back down from the attic and carefully packed away the ornaments one by one. “I’ll take the tree out,” Maedhros said, as he dolefully regarded the thick covering of fallen needles on the carpet. “I told you it was half dead.”

“You take it out and I’ll vacuum this mess up,” Fingon offered.

They were soon on their way back to the attic, to stow the boxes away. The sunlight came in the small attic windows, dust motes swirling at their movements, boxes carefully shelved one by one.

Fingon pushed the last box onto the shelf, accidentally dislodging a book that fell back behind the storage unit, to the shelf below. He got on his hands and knees to retrieve it, pushing bins on the bottom shelf aside to better reach for it when his eye caught sight of something in the bin itself. “What’s this?” he asked Maedhros, pointing to the bin he had spotted.

Maedhros peered over his shoulder. “Looks like some photo albums. I thought most of these had gone up to the Tirion house with Dad.” He pulled the bin out and toward the light. “I wonder how Dad missed these.” He pulled the topmost album out of the bin and his expression faltered as he saw the cover photo that had caught Fingon’s attention.

It was an old photo album, far older than the ones of Maedhros and his brothers that Fëanor had brought to the Tirion house after Finwë’s death. The cover of this album featured a photo of young Fëanor, smile on his face and arm around the shoulder of an even younger boy who was sporting a wide grin of his own. “I’ve never seen this one before,” Maedhros said, studying the photo intently. “That’s my father.” He pointed to Fëanor in the photograph.

“And mine,” Fingon added quietly, pointing to the younger boy. “That’s my father in the picture.”

Maedhros turned to him with a startled look. “That’s Fingolfin?”

Fingon nodded.

They found themselves on the dusty attic floor, the photo album on Maedhros’ knees, Fingon leaning into him as he slowly turned the pages. The two boys were in almost every photo—from a young Fëanor peering curiously at an infant Fingolfin to photos of the two of them as young boys—fishing, swimming in the lake, laughing on board a boat that Maedhros recognized as his grandfather’s. Always together--both grinning at the camera in almost every shot.

“I didn’t realize they had known each other that long,” Fingon said tentatively.

Maedhros didn’t reply. He had known the families had once been close, that Fëanor and Fingolfin had been friends as children. But he had never seen actual evidence of it, never seen these photographs, had never seen how truly close they had been as boys.

“Did you know?” Fingon whispered.

Maedhros tapped a finger on the photo in front of him—Finwë and Miriel, with Fëanor on her lap, seated next to a glowing Indis holding a sleeping baby in her arms that could only be Fingolfin. “I’ve never seen these photos.  I didn’t know they were this close, no.”

“I recognized my dad, from photos my grandmother has at her house. But none of them had your father in them,” Fingon said.

“Are there more albums in the bin?” Maedhros asked.

There were. Photos of Finwë and Miriel with Fingon’s grandparents, when they were all young. Wedding photos of both couples, candid shots of them laughing together. Vacation memories—in Paris, in London, in Tirion, here on the lake in Formenos.

The rays of the sun slanted further down, the light changing to golden as the time passed. Maedhros looked up toward the window, then squinted down at his watch. “We should probably get cleaned up and go,” he said, depositing the current album back in the bin and pushing it onto the shelf again.

Fingon reached for the bin and pulled an album out—it was the one he had first spotted, with Fëanor and Fingolfin on the cover. “Would it bother you if I borrowed this, Maedhros?”

Maedhros frowned. “Borrowed it? What for?”

“I don’t know if my father has ever seen these photos. I know I’ve never seen them at the house or at Grandmother’s place. Would you mind terribly if I borrowed the book for a few days and had some of the photos copied for Dad?” He ran a finger under the photo of the two smiling boys. “I think I’d like him to remember when things were like this between them, you know?”

Maedhros stood behind Fingon and put his arms around his waist, resting his head on Fingon’s shoulder as he looked at the photo again. “I think I’d like that too,” he whispered.

 

 

Lovely art my friend mellaril/dolias created for the previous chapter of this fic (chapter 42) thanks my dear!

 maedhros and fingon chapter 42

 

 

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