Many Journeys by Elleth

Hair and Ink

15_minute_fic, some silliness for a change. Warning, language, slash and non-con incest of a very mild nature that should render it completely harmless.

"He without a doubt thinks that Fingon is the most beautiful being in the world, and Fingon is not so different. All those gold braids must take hours each morning, and who would have so much patience for their looks if they were not an arrogant prick?"
"Only because you cannot stand your surly face in the mirror for more than three minutes, don't go taking it out on us beautiful people!" Curufin shot back and laughed, sticking out his tongue when he found his bottle of wine to be empty. "Not that I have any reason to complain, mind you, looking like father, while you're really only taking after mother's side of the family."
"As I said, prick. And you're the epitome of arrogant pricks, Curvo," his brother replied. Not even Fingon is that bad. Even if you don't spend hours staring at the mirror openly. You probably hide it under the pretense of working, gazing at all those shiny surfaces in your workshop and trying to cut the perfect reflecting crystal. Careful, one day soon it will come back to bite you." Caranthir leaned back and groped for his own bottle, lifting it to hear the wine swish around with a satisfying glug: half-full at least, and Curvo could never hold his liquor very well. Smirking, he passed the bottle to his younger brother, who (rarely displaying that lack of control even when drunk) had turned a very deep shade of red.
"Here. You look like you could use another drink."
"Thank you, Moryo. You're the best brother."
From across the fire, Maglor raised an eyebrow. Caranthir smiled and put a finger to his lips, and for once the bard complied. Instead, they watched with growing amusement as the fifth son of Feanor grew progressively drunker.
"He will kill you for this in the morning and you know it," Maglor cautioned eventually, and that sent Caranthir roaring with laughter.
"How, if he cannot even walk straight, much less abide sunlight? Besides, I daresay he will be too busy!" Curufin only blinked, half asleep and tipping precariously to one side.
"I am not even going to ask," said Maglor, hiding his face in a hand. "I am not even going to ask. Keep me out of it, and don't come running."
"Don't be such a sissy, Makalaurë, I will need your help."
Maglor finally caught on. "Oh, no. No, I will not be helping with something that would jeopardize our every claim on good relations with the Fingolfinian camp. Whatever the outcome, this harebrained thing will. Or at least it will severly strain every relationship that ever existed between you two. But knowing you, you will go ahead with it anyway. You never listen, Moryo."
"Ne'rlissens." Curufin agreed. A thin dribble of drool was hanging from his lower lip – he had long since given up on preserving his princely dignity and was now curled on the floor, the second bottle near-empty beside him. He looked about to pass out.
"Besides, none here but you will clean up any... bodily discharges associated with increased alcohol consumption. That is to say, if Curufin is sick, you wipe it away."
"That is not fair! I did not make him drink that first bottle!"
"He is right about that, love," said the woman next to Makalaurë, resting a delicate hand on his arm and leaning close happily. Maglor's arm snuck around her and pulled her closer. "My beautiful wife. Always the voice of reason," he said softly and leaned down for a kiss. Caranthir rolled his eyes. "Are you two quite done?"
"Yes indeed, there is not even a little privacy with little brothers visiting. But I will hold you to my word. He is sick, you clean it up."
"We'll see what happens in the morning," Caranthir said and rose to his feet, hoisting Curufin up as he went, and rousing him into a state resembling consciousness. Together they made their way across the courtyard and into the keep. Smiling and shaking his head at the antics of his younger brothers, Maglor turned to his wife again.

The night passed uneventfully. The sons of Fëanor that had come together at Himring slept. Only one window remained lit into the early hours of the morning. At some point there was muffled cursing in the keep, of the kind that occurs when trying to maneuver around a severely drunk man without waking anyone else.

In the morning, there was a shriek, then a yell, the patter of steps, and the slamming of a door. In the bathroom adjacent to the bedchamber, there was the sound of frantic scrubbing, and the strong smell of the herbal paste that the Noldor used to clean their teeth issued from beyond the door.

"I WILL KILL HIM! Both of them! ... ow." In the bedroom, Curufin fell back on the bed, and ran a hand through his hair. Or tried. He tugged, and blinked, and tugged again, distangling his fingers from what felt disturbingly like braids. He groaned and grasped a handful of his black tresses, holding them up before his face and willing his eyes and mind to focus out of the alcohol-fumes of the previous night. The braids felt strange. Heavy. And there were distinct glints of gold among the dark hair.

A dim echo from the night before... something about Fingon's prick?, came back to Curufin. He groaned again as his mind picked up speed. His thoughts by now were moving with the force of a half-awake slug. "Wake up, sweet prince, Maitimo? I'll be quite happy to sleep on a little longer." The sound of Maedhros brushing his teeth grew more severe, there was no other answer. He let himself fall and curled up, pulling up a blanket to shut out the early sunbeams coming through the window. It smelled profoundly of his eldest brother and activities he did not want to consider, and he sat up again with a jerk as the pieces clicked into place.

"Maitimo! Tell me all you did when you mistook me for your lover was to kiss me awake in the most sappy, slobbery way!" he yelled at the closed bathroom door. The smell of toothpaste had since grown stronger. "And didn't change your sheets in a while. I won't kill you. I promise. I need you to help me kill Moryo."

He curled up in bed again when there was no answer from the Lord of Himring, but on second thoughts (now moving at the speed of a slightly more awake slug) he discarded the blanket and padded, barefoot, to Caranthir's room. He never stopped working, and for writing his accounts of trade, he always kept that well of black ink...

Chapter End Notes

No, toothpaste is in fact not so much of an anachronism. The Egyptians had it in the 4th century AD. Heh.