Tensor by Adoraincerta

Plane

His arms beginning to quiver, his heartbeat louder than ever, physical exhaustion engulfs and covers mental resistance. He cannot sleep right now, right here, for it’s not yet a safe zone, though safer than anywhere else in a long time.

A mug in his hand is taken by someone, who supports his forearms through soft warm wool, and lowers his back, letting his head fall on a throw pillow. He becomes disoriented and tries to reach out before yielding to unconsciousness.

“You really should treat your heart better and sleep more.”

When Maglor wakes, the first thing he checks is the striped blanket still on his legs. He turns to see Elrond put down the same mug, the sky outside already darkening.

His throat tightens, the lingering soreness constricting his reply.

“That doesn’t make a difference.”

Elrond sighs deeply, with an expression half stern and half knowing.

“Even you cannot endure staying awake more than 72 hours. So please… just stay there whenever you want.”

He points to the space in front of the couch, and not until then does Maglor notice the coffee table with four legs has vanished, replaced by a higher but smaller 3-story cart. Elrond pushes the cart aside and pulls another half of the couch from below to form a bigger plane.

“You see, it’s a sofa bed now, and don’t worry about the space. I still have my single bed.”

Maglor sips some hot chocolate from the mug. The friction in his throat goes instantly, but the giddiness before sleep comes back and blurs his brain.

“Sorry for missing your graduation.”

He pauses for a moment, though the words still come out before elaborately designed. “And I’m sorry for a lot of other things.”

Elrond freezes and almost blushes. The city is now in its best seasons of the year and the indoor heat was turned down a month ago, so he cannot claim the rising temperature of his cheek is because of that. It would be lying to say he never expects Maglor’s attendance, but it’s a long shot after all. He’s not sure what Maglor is referring to either, leaving him and Elros behind after settling everything down and never sending a message again, or the blood and massacre of a previous generation.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

At that moment, an imperative need to divert topics surges, to avoid discussing the past he can’t face either, or stop Maglor from blaming him and Maedhros for disappearing. But in such circumstances, Elrond’s mind sets up a barrier between petty things to chat about and his throat. Silence for a minute, the only words he comes to say is, “I should pour more water for you.”

When Maglor falls into sleep, as he originally wished, the effect of aghast and excitement has also overwhelmed him. Elrond tries to gulp icy water to keep awake, but both his mind and body tell him otherwise.

The second morning, along with his set up, Maglor again restores all furniture to their original positions and leaves not a note. Anxiety wells up inside him. He sits all morning waiting for Maglor to return, hoping that Maglor meant his apology, unless he didn't actually intend to come back at all. The only thing he can do to relieve his anxiety is mechanically making prefabricated meals enough to fill the fridge and provide for the following week. So it is also during his wandering in mind that Maglor catches a gap to sneak in from the patio soundlessly.

Before he can react, Maglor's already fallen asleep.

Elrond changes the habit of napping long ago, so he just watches the wax and wane of Maglor’s chest, his nape between the pillow and the sofa cushion, where he knows is full of past scars, indented and embossed. Elrond imagines the touch of kissing it, holding them so smoothly that Maglor won’t be squeamish, ends with pulling the blanket upper to cover both  Maglor’s shoulders.

Never does he anticipate the second temptation comes more fiercely.

In the first month after his graduation, Maglor barely follows his fixed schedule. It’s a new thing to come back to the condo during daylight, though most of the days he spends it in the public library. One day he recalls his file still at home, there is no other choice but to return during lunch break: he doesn’t mean to disturb Maglor, admitting only a small chance of him being there.

Maglor’s on his bed, covered with his quilt, head on his pillow and facing the side wall. He gets it by the shape of the quilt-Maglor buried his head, and only the forehead can be seen.

It feels like his heart is gripped and tossed on the ground, knowing Maglor, willingly or unconsciously, repeats what they’d done so many times in his childhood: sharing a bed. They built a tent under the quilt, told a fairy tale (that is, an adapted version of how Maglor survived) under dim light, and messed up the sheet until Maglor cleaned it the next day.

He forgets his file and runs away. The door doesn’t make any noise, which takes him 30 seconds to close.

His mind is as disordered as the boxes he has never dared to open and organize, caught between wakefulness and sleep in a way he hasn't experienced for a long time. He’s walking, to where he doesn’t know, though certainly as far from his condo as possible.

That night, when he comes back and realizes Maglor has just gotten up and is ready to leave, he blurts. “Should we buy another bed?”