melodies by hanneswrites

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melodies

Quenya Names:
Maitimo, Russo = Maedhros
Findekáno, Finno = Fingon
Makalaurë, Laurë = Maglor

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Maitimo was not someone who was particularly adept with the musical arts. This was something he had come to terms with early on in his life, as Makalaurë’s subsequent addition to the family had only highlighted just how much Maitimo seemed to be unable to carry a tune. His brother’s voice could move mountains, could sway the leaves of the tallest trees, could flow as peacefully as a solitary stream in the deep woods -- and Maitimo could certainly...hum along. Most of the time. If the melody wasn’t too complex. And if the pitch didn’t spring too high. And if the…  

 

He was proficient in a great many other things. 

 

His penchant to sing off-tune and his inability to sustain a steady rhythm was not something he thought of often, nor was it something he found himself fretting over. Any mention of music was typically either accompanied by a mention of Makalaurë or directed at his brother, seeing as they were frequently together, and generally followed by a long, drawn-out discussion that Maitimo could not (for propriety’s sake) excuse himself from. Thus, Maitimo found himself saddled with a habit of acutely tuning out after the first hint of the conversation turning toward melodies or instruments or songs. It was likely not the best solution, but it was effective in curbing the sheer boredom that flooded through him when anyone so much as alluded to harps or lutes or flutes or...whatever else someone may think Makalaurë was interested in.  

 

Which, Maitimo supposed, was how he found himself in the situation he was in now. 

 

“And Russo agrees with me,” Findekáno said, his tone triumphant, but teasing.

Maitimo hummed in affirmation at the mention of his name. As soon as Makalaurë and Findekáno had begun discussing the intricacies of finger placement and string tension of harps a while earlier, Maitimo found his eyes glazing over and his mind wandering to just about anything else. 

 

“Are you seriously taking his side against mine?” Makalaurë looked up at him from the pillows he was sprawled upon in Findekáno’s bedroom. His jaw was tight, mouth slightly agape in shocked exasperation. 

 

Maitimo blinked, refocused, his eyes darting over to where Findekáno was lazily stretched out along the end of his bed, head propped up on his hands and a smug little grin plastered on his face.  

 

“Were you listening?” Findekáno asked, rolling deftly into Maitimo’s space on the bed and draping himself over his shoulder. 

 

“Yes,” Maitimo lied, fingers weaving around Findekáno’s. He brought their twined hands up, lips brushing over the soft peaks of Finno’s knuckles. 

 

“Then which is superior? The arch harp grandfather gifted me or that dreadful angle harp Findekáno brought back from Alqualondë last summer?” Makalaurë narrowed his eyes at him, expectant. 

 

Ah, yes , as if Maitimo knew anything about harps and the little tuned complexities the two of them were discussing. But it seemed both of them were waiting for his opinion on the matter - a tie-breaker between the two of them, he supposed. He imagined that there was probably little difference between the two options, and thus the side he chose would be determined solely upon his own whims. Siding with Makalaurë would likely cause the least amount of fuss - Findekáno was passionate about this, but would likely concede once a conclusion was drawn, even if he may tease them about it for the rest of the afternoon. Siding with Findekáno, however, would most definitely annoy Makalaurë.  

 

“Finno’s angle harp,” Maitimo answered.

 

Findekáno laughed, bright and loud, and smirked down at Makalaurë, “Told you.” 

 

Makalaurë’s jaw dropped open, betrayal written plainly on his face. He slowly rose from the scattered pillows on the floor, eyes intent and focused on Findekáno, who had now rolled away from Maitimo, sprawling himself back over the middle of the bed. They locked eyes for a long moment, and Maitimo quietly shuffled himself away, leaning back against the headboard and crossing his arms over his chest as if bracing himself for the inevitable onslaught of argument that would follow.

 

And sure enough, it did come - with both Findekáno and Makalaurë launching into an impassioned speech that went on far longer than Maitimo had anticipated (and had hoped). As they argued back and forth over which instrument sounded better, which was easier to maintain, which looked better after being polished  - Maitimo quietly sat back and actually listened to it all unfold for once.

 

At first, Maitimo was just a bit concerned that the debate would become too heated, but he slowly began to realize that there was a playfulness to the discussion that he hadn't quite noticed. Makalaurë and Findekáno bantered back and forth, and as the argument went on, Maitimo found himself smiling in spite of himself.

 

The debate eventually devolved into a playful wrestling match where neither was able to gain the upper hand. Findekáno’s self-satisfied pride at having “won” their debate shined through in his laugh as Makalaurë simultaneously tried to lecture him and pin him down to the bed (as if winning a glorified wrestling match would make his argument for harp superiority more valid).  

 

Maitimo watched on, marveling at the way they moved together, their tunics ruffled and their hair mussed in their pursuit of victory. Findekáno locked his leg around Makalaurë’s and flipped them, swiftly entwining their hands and pinning Makalaurë heavily into the plush comforter beneath them.

 

Findekáno leaned down until their noses were almost touching, their breath mingling together, "Just admit defeat, Laurë ."

 

Makalaurë’s eyebrows knit together, his mouth drawing down in a frustrated scowl as he tried in vain to squirm out of Findekáno’s grip. Findekáno held strong, a teasing smile on his lips as he leaned down to kiss the tip of Makalaurë’s nose.

 

Maitimo couldn't help but laugh at the little strangled noise that Makalaurë let out in response. This was his second 'mistake' of the night. As soon as it left his lungs, both of their eyes snapped to him and he soon found himself drawn in, manhandled this way and that until he was securely entwined in their embrace, reveling in their warmth and closeness.

 

Maitimo laid flat on his back with Makalaurë flopped over half of his right side and Findekáno curled under his left arm, both of them resting their heads on his chest with their legs all haphazardly woven together. The debate over harps had long since settled, and they had now picked up a discussion they tended to agree upon: gossiping about Finrod's latest stage performance.

 

Maitimo had his eyes closed, content to just listen to the melodic sound of their voices as he let their conversation drift off like the tide of an ever-moving ocean. With a gentle smile, he reached up to brush his fingers through their hair. Findekáno leaned into it, twisting just slightly to press a kiss to Maitimo' palm, and Maitimo smiled as he felt Makalaurë relax into him as well.

 

The three of them stayed as they were for a long while, enjoying each other's company and laughing, until long after the waning Laurelin's light.