do you remember when by yletylyf

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One

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570 First Age, or roughly halfway through the War of Wrath

The battle was three-on-one, and the three Valaraukar were winning. Their opponent was exhausted, faltering and off balance, his movements sluggish and ungraceful.

"Stop this at once," Sauron ordered, materializing into shape at the edge of the battle. "This fight is meaningless and likely endless. It serves no strategy whatsoever. You're needed at Barad Eithel; we're on the verge of losing the fortress."

The Valaraukar drew back a little, but radiated reluctance and confusion. Once engaged, they were disinclined to stop until their opponent was burnt to ashes.

"Go," Sauron snapped, raising his arm to evoke the threat of his sorcery.

There was more reluctance and grumbling projected into his mind without words, but they went, huddling together as they headed south and casting disgruntlement back at Sauron.

Sauron ignored them. But he didn't approach the remaining figure on the battlefield any closer. He lowered his arm and stood very still, taking stock of the situation.

Eönwë was looking back at Sauron with a distant wariness. Eönwë was embodied in the shape he had always favored, meant to resemble one of the Eldar before the Ainur knew what the Eldar quite looked like. He was taller than any of the real Eldar, more lithe and sinewy. His wispy white hair had a strange glint to it. His limbs were a little too long and his skin was decorated with swirling patterns of color. Many of the Ainur had adjusted their shapes when the Eldar arrived to dwell in Valinor, to look more like them. Eönwë had not.

By that time, it had been much too late to ask him why. Sauron and Eönwë were no longer on speaking terms.

At this juncture, however, Eönwë looked terrible. He had clearly run into the limits of his ability to repair his fana. His right ear and half his scalp was burned; his side was sliced open and the flesh blackened; he was barely standing on his own feet, leaning heavily on a staff. He'd lost his sword; Sauron spotted it on the ground at least twenty feet away.

He should have abandoned his fana and fled, but he no doubt feared the Valaraukar might have pursued him even still. Sauron had no idea what sort of damage three Valaraukar could do to another Maia's spirit. He would bet Eönwë did not know either, and that no one was eager to find out.

"Will you be all right?" Sauron asked cautiously. He spoke in Vanyarin Quenya, rather than the eclectic mix of ten different forms of Orkish, primitive Quenya, and debased Valarin that was the Angband vernacular he had used with the Valaraukar. He doubted Eönwë would understand the latter very well. And he had heard Eönwë's host speaking in Vanyarin, even those who'd not come with him from Valinor.

Eönwë turned his head to the side and spat blood on the ground.

"What are you doing here?" he asked instead of answering the question.

"Nothing," Sauron said, clasping his hands behind his back. "I certainly have a long list of other things I could be doing. It is only that I should not like to leave you alone here. There are worse things than orcs in these parts."

It was a desolate, unforgiving land. They were far north of Angband, where the Anfauglith met the Helcaraxë, at the northwestern edge of the Iron Mountains. Sauron suspected Eönwë of having attempted to sneak around to approach Angband from the rear—not that such a tactic would have given him much of an advantage, since the fortress was crawling with orcs and other monstrous creatures and dreadful traps of sorcery in any direction.

"Such as yourself?" Eönwë retorted, raising his chin. His tone was not quite hostile, but nor was it friendly.

"I did not mean myself," Sauron said, but without taking offense. "I am not going to hurt you. Will you let me help you?"

"Why would you do such a thing?" Eönwë asked, and suddenly he did look hostile. His grip on his staff tightened, as though he was considering wielding it.

Sauron tilted his head to the side. "There was a time we would have done anything for each other."

"Is that time not long past?" Eönwë spat. "What would your new Vala say if he saw you with me now?"

Sauron shrugged.

"I can depart on my own," Eönwë said stiffly, after Sauron did not answer the question. He turned his back on Sauron, seemingly without fear, and took one step using his staff as a crutch.

On his second step, he fell, hard, his leg twisting out from under him. Eönwë collapsed, and cried out in heart-wrenching pain.

Sauron rushed forward to kneel by Eönwë and extended a hand towards him. Eönwë managed to maneuver his staff and rap Sauron hard across the hand with it, even as he lay on the ground shaking with pain.

It stung. Sauron snatched his hand back, but he did not move away. "It's amusing that you still fight with a staff," he said, trying not to laugh in Eönwë's face. Eönwë would probably think Sauron was laughing at his pain.

"This is more than a slight upgrade from the staffs you invented for us to spar with in Almaren," Eönwë said repressively. "And I still do not need your assistance."

"Your leg is broken. Your fana is under too much strain. You are about to lose it violently, and I can personally attest how difficult that is to recover from. Please, let me help you."

"If you want to help, leave me alone," Eönwë rasped. "I will recover eventually."

Sauron frowned. "I already told you why I don't want to do that."

He was fairly certain there were hungry ice-bears to the north, dragons to the east, and the Valaraukar now lurking to the south. If Eönwë wanted to preserve his fana, he would be in trouble.

"Why do you care what happens to me?" Eönwë asked again, his voice low and urgent. "We are enemies, Mairon."

Sauron started at that name. He had fully and unironically embraced the moniker the Noldor had given him and had not heard his original name for many centuries. He swallowed down his reaction to Eönwë's use of the name, and focused on his question.

"It would grieve me to learn that is so," Sauron said. "I have never had cause to regret anything there was between us."

Eönwë's knuckles were white on his staff, his sharp face looking even sharper in that moment. "Then why did you leave?" he asked, his voice hoarse and strained.

"I was dying there," Sauron said. He met Eönwë's gaze steadily. "It was not because of you. But you could not have saved me."

"You never said a word to me." Eönwë did not have an expressive face, and he looked stiff and cold now as always. Yet once upon a time, Sauron had been able to read him better than anyone. Something was flickering behind his eyes. Sauron realized that Eönwë's feelings were, quite genuinely, hurt.

Sauron bent his head and stared at the dirt, unable to meet his eyes any longer.

"For that, I am sorry," he admitted.

Eönwë abruptly reached out and gripped Sauron's wrist. Sauron stared at Eönwë's hand. The contact was startling and electrifying and warm and strange. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him.

"It's not too late for you," Eönwë said.

Sauron looked up into his face. His eyes were warm and sincere.

Sauron did not answer. He used the skin contact Eönwë had initiated to pour his strength into the other Maia. Sauron gave his energy, health, willpower—everything within him he could share without risking the integrity of his own fana.

It was not precisely that Sauron was healing him; more that he was giving Eönwë the strength to heal and reform himself. The results were dramatic: Eönwë's head healed from the burns and reformed into its usual sharp crispness; the huge gash in his side sealed itself up; his leg bone snapped back into place; the lines of exhaustion and weariness etched into his body slowly eased.

But instead of being grateful, Eönwë looked stricken.

"Mairon," he said, his voice thick and pained. "Why are you doing this?"

Sauron leaned forward slowly, by inches. Eönwë mirrored his movements, until their foreheads were pressed together. They breathed in perfect sync for a few long moments. Sauron closed his eyes and inhaled Eönwë's once-familiar, fresh-pine scent.

Eönwë tilted his head to the side and pressed his lips to Sauron's. They kissed, as they had before, bodies and spirits recognizing one another beyond anything the present circumstances could mar.

Then Eönwë ruined it.

"Come back. If you still love me, come back with me."

Sauron pulled back, tugging his wrist out of Eönwë's grip, and scooted away until there was a several-foot gap in between them.

"It's not possible," he said coolly. "Don't be naïve."

Eönwë drew back as well, affronted. "Is it not you who is naïve, Mairon? What does the Dark Vala offer other than destruction? When did you come to value such a thing?"

"I have no interest in debating this with you," Sauron said disdainfully. "You would not understand."

"You cannot think of rescuing me and healing me and then going back to him," seethed Eönwë. "What will he do to you?"

Sauron laughed. "Are you afraid for me? That's cute, but unnecessary. Melkor would never hurt me."

"Then cease all this foolishness and come back with me," Eönwë said urgently, extending his hand towards Sauron almost as though he did not realize he was doing it.

Sauron ignored the hand. He stood up, brushed his hands off on his shirt, and shook his head. He backed up a few steps.

"I'm going east. I strongly advise you not to follow me, unless you want to tangle with several dragons at once, to follow your show of provoking several Valaraukar at once. And for future reference, trying to sneak into Angband is a suicide mission."

"Mairon," Eönwë protested, his voice choked up.

"Good-bye," Sauron said, gently but firmly. He turned on his heel and headed east.

Eönwë did not follow.

 

587 First Age, or the end of the War of Wrath

Ancalagon the Black had fallen. All resistance was broken. The host of the Valar had prevailed, and now spilled into Angband.

The host of the Valar and all the heroes of Beleriand trailed behind Eönwë, but despite that, Eönwë was on his guard. He felt sure they were unprepared for all of Melkor's tricks. Yet there was one solitary figure left in the halls of Angband, past the ruined gates.

He was lounging against the wall, carelessly, almost insolently, a faint smirk gracing his face as his foes approached. A silver crown spiked with horns set crookedly on his head, and he was dressed in black garments threaded with silver. He had no armor, no sword, no weapon that Eönwë could see.

"Why are you still here?" Eönwë asked the lone figure.

Eönwë drew within an arm's length of Sauron and then stopped.

Sauron had altered his shape slightly since leaving Valinor: he'd conformed to the size of the Eldar, and smoothed over some of the unnaturally fey looks of the Ainur from back then. And yet: he was recognizable. The eyes that shone orange, like bright-colored tree leaves in autumn, or the palette of a rich sunset. His bright red hair, overlaid and interwoven with silver, left loose and unbraided in a manner the Eldar never would. The smooth, perfect, pale lines of his face, softened and rounded with a beauty that belied the evil underneath.

"Perhaps I just wanted to see you," Sauron said coyly, ducking his head slightly so that he could gaze up at Eönwë through his lashes. The dark eyelashes and the brows above his eyes were harsh-looking, and did not match the flaming red hair.

Eönwë inhaled sharply and took a step back as though he'd been burned.

"Do not mock me," he said, and found to his own horror that his voice was shaking. "Whatever else you've done, can you not spare me this much?"

"Fine," Sauron said, sounding testy. He stood up a little straighter and tilted his chin up to fully face Eönwë. "I'm here to surrender. Obviously."

"To surrender what, precisely?" Eönwë asked cautiously. He could not imagine Melkor giving Sauron the authority to surrender on his behalf.

"Myself," Sauron said with a shrug.

"I accept your surrender," Eönwë said with a straight face. "You will not be harmed if you mean it, and cause no trouble."

"What else could I mean?" Sauron asked, sounding irritable again.

"Where is Melkor?"

Sauron turned, and gestured gracefully towards the stairwell behind them, leading down into a deep dark void.

"How many foul things await us in between here and his presence?" Eönwë asked.

"Nothing," Sauron said. "Angband is empty. You will be unimpeded. Assuming, of course, that you can take him."

"I hope you are not lying," Eönwë said grimly.

Sauron managed to look affronted. "Have I ever lied to you?"

Eönwë let that pass with no answer. Sauron had not affirmatively lied to him, as far as Eönwë knew. He simply was home one day, and gone the next. From Aulë's service to Melkor's without so much as a note.

Eönwë cast his eye back on his host and found Fëanor's sons in the ranks. "Stay here and keep an eye on him," he ordered.

A startled look that could have been fearful passed over the eldest son's face, but it disappeared too swiftly for Eönwë to fully decipher it.

"Yes, lord," the Elda said in a Noldorin accent, making a respectful gesture. He drew his sword and planted himself at Sauron's side. A dozen other Eldar also fell out of rank and took positions by Sauron's side.

Eönwë turned his back on Sauron and led the way down towards Melkor, into the dark.

 

Hours, days, weeks later: Eönwë did not know. He stumbled up into the main hall of Angband, wearier than ever before in his entire existence, and having nearly forgotten about the Maia who'd surrendered and been left in this hall.

Eönwë swayed, leaning heavily on his staff, and for one moment, considered running and leaving this responsibility to someone else.

He did not, of course. He was not Manwë's herald for nothing. He drew himself up straight and approached Sauron.

"It is done, then," Sauron said quietly. He looked pensive, even sad. "I felt the earth shake as he fell."

"The Dark Vala is on his way west," Eönwë agreed, just as quietly. "The earth will shake yet more before he is fully extracted from it. He bound his powers into it."

"What will be done with him?"

"Ilúvatar's will," Eönwë replied, piously but unhelpfully.

Sauron scowled, and Eönwë had to struggle not to crack a smile.

It had been a long time since he'd struggled with any such impulse.

"I do not know," Eönwë admitted.

"You look rather worse for the wear," Sauron said, letting his eye rove over Eönwë's injuries from the battle with Melkor.

An uneasiness settled over Eönwë as he wondered if Sauron was considering breaking his parole and attacking Eönwë in his weakened state. Eönwë was not quite alone, but he had lost a great deal of the power of his host, as they were busy keeping watch on Melkor.

But they only stood and looked at each other in silence. Sauron did not move.

"Are you… do you intend to listen to me if I tell you to go to Valinor?" Eönwë asked, clearing his throat. "I do not have the authority to punish or pardon you; you must speak to Manwë."

Sauron looked at him for a few long moments without speaking. Finally, he ventured: "Can we talk? Just the two of us?"

Eönwë nodded at the Eldar, still standing guard after all this time. The eldest son of Fëanor bowed and then he and his companions practically ran away, out of the gates of the fortress.

Sauron laughed a little at the retreating figures, then turned to Eönwë with a bright smile.

Most inadvisably, the smile made Eönwë's stomach do flipflops.

"May I offer you some mead? I made it myself."

Mead from Angband. Delightful.

"Come on," Sauron said, far too cheerfully, when Eönwë went flat-faced and refused to respond. He reached out and grabbed Eönwë's hand, choosing the mostly uninjured one. Sauron pulled him down the hall and up a spiral staircase.

Eönwë followed, too tired to resist.

He probably should have resisted. Everything about this was unwise. But… Eönwë remembered the moment Sauron had healed him, given up his strength for Eönwë's fana, in the midst of the clash between their respective armies. He'd asked for, he'd wanted, he'd gotten nothing in return.

And so Eönwë followed, up the very long staircase, down another corridor, and through an ornate stone door.

They entered a lavish bedchamber, done up in golds and reds and blacks, with sumptuous furniture and beautiful carvings on the walls and an entire wall of windows overlooking the plains of Anfauglith.

Sauron opened a cabinet, took out a bottle and a couple glasses, set them down on a small round table, uncorked the bottle, and filled each glass with a generous pour. He picked one up and offered it to Eönwë.

"Welcome to my home," Sauron said.

Eönwë gave him an unamused look, but took the glass and sipped from it. It tasted of cool mint, like a refreshing swim on a hot summer's day. Not at all what he'd been expecting.

"It is good," he said in surprise.

"You are surprised that I create nice things?" Sauron said, his head coming up sharply to stare at Eönwë.

"Mairon," Eönwë said, his voice thick with everything he could not say. There was a lump in his throat. He took another sip of the drink, and realized it, too, had healing properties of some kind. His weariness was easing, the cuts on his face losing their sting, his mangled right hand feeling slightly less mangled. Why was Sauron so determined to help his enemy?

"Never mind," Sauron said, throwing himself theatrically onto the divan, somehow without spilling a drop of his glass. "Let's talk about something else. Was it amusing to you to have Maedhros stand guard over me? Or do you not even know who that is?"

"Maedhros?" Eönwë asked, furrowing his brow at the unfamiliar word. "Ah, Nelyafinwë, Fëanaro's eldest son. The descendants of Fëanaro have been more helpful and steadfast than I expected them to be. Not much like their father in temperament. You did not give him any trouble, I hope?"

Sauron snorted. "You really didn't know. That's cute. Never wondered how he lost that hand?"

"Right," Eönwë said, deflating a little. "He's the son you held captive here when the Noldor first arrived. Did he give you any trouble?"

"Melkor held him captive, not I," Sauron said, sipping at his glass. "And no, he does not have that sort of temperament. I only wondered what you meant by it."

"Certainly not your humiliation," Eönwë said quietly.

"Then what? You singled him out very specifically."

Eönwë's thoughts strayed to the pouch at his side, where the jewels he'd taken from Melkor's crown rested. He decided to confide the truth to Sauron.

"It was about the Fëanorians, not you. I did not want them seeing the Silmarils."

"Oh," Sauron said, in a tone of complete understanding. His demeanor softened considerably.

"There is no reason for me to seek to humiliate you, Mairon," Eönwë said carefully.

"Why do you call me that?" Sauron asked, looking up at Eönwë through his lashes again. This time, he did not look coy. He looked earnest and even vulnerable. Eönwë's stomach flipflopped again.

"Would you prefer the Valarin?" Eönwë asked, puzzled. Given that they were holding this entire conversation in Quenya, the Quenya name had seemed apt to Eönwë.

"Everyone else calls me Sauron these days," Sauron said slowly, as though he could not believe he had to spell this out.

"It… I thought the name an insult," Eönwë said. "You cannot think I seek to insult you, either."

"I suppose it was intended as such," Sauron said easily. "But I do not mind it. I've claimed it as my own."

"You would," Eönwë said, looking away for a moment in an attempt to hide the naked, raw fondness in his eyes and his voice.

"Eönwë, once dearest light of my heart, what awaits me if I take your advice, and repent, and go west?"

Sauron was still so earnest, appealing, and looked so much like his old self that it physically hurt.

Eönwë shouldn't tell him the truth; it was not going to be much of an incentive for Sauron to cooperate with the Valar. But in that moment, he could not bring himself to do anything else.

"Three ages of servitude," Eönwë said quietly. "In proof of your good faith."

"What kind of servitude?" Sauron asked sharply. "To Aulë, or Manwë? Or in Mandos?"

"I do not know," Eönwë admitted, staring at the floor.

The room was silent for a long time. Eönwë finished his glass of mead, feeling refreshed and healthier than he likely deserved.

"Do you repent?" Eönwë asked, finally raising his eyes to Sauron again. He looked easy and unconcerned, sprawled on the divan, and thoroughly unrepentant. But Eönwë did not pretend to himself that he could easily read the truth in Sauron anymore.

"Of what?" Sauron cried, sitting up and sweeping an arm around the room. "Melkor was mighty and unafraid. We created great things together. Yes, I am proud of every one of our creations! They are sentient beings, strong and beautiful in their own right, and have as much entitlement to exist in Arda as your precious Eldar."

"If only they could co-exist with the Eldar without wanting to murder them," Eönwë said. He kept his expression perfectly flat, careful not to betray his reaction to watching Sauron talk animatedly about his passions, reminding him so much of his old lover.

"Is that a joke?" Sauron asked, lighting up. "Did you just make a joke? You have changed."

Eönwë looked at him, unblinking, and did not answer.

Sauron huffed at his silence, and flopped back down on the divan. "Oh, your precious Eldar! They are beautiful as well, and fun to play with."

"Your idea of play is horrifying," Eönwë said forcefully.

Sauron laughed. "I have had my fun," he agreed, and drained his own glass.

"Three ages is not so long," Eönwë said, in a much quieter tone. "I would be there, after they were up."

"Don't be absurd," Sauron said sharply. "How can we ever again be what we once were to one another?"

"We would be something else, something new," Eönwë agreed. "But it does not follow that it would be unwelcome for being new."

Sauron raised his chin and gave Eönwë an intense, wordless, emotional stare. He seemed to be pleading for something, or trying hard to communicate a feeling without words or ósanwë, and Eönwë held his breath for the duration of the moment.

"You could not forgive me," Sauron said, with heartbreaking conviction. "For all that I've done."

"I have already forgiven you."

That wasn't true, it could not be true, Manwë should cast him out of Valinor if it were really true, but in that moment Eönwë overwhelmingly wanted it to be true. He loved Marion, and always would.

"Dearest Eönwë," Sauron said, eyes shining with affection. He put his glass down, stood up, and clasped Eönwë's hands. "I think you're lying to me, but right now I don't care."

Eönwë allowed Sauron to pull him up and lead him to the bed. It was a comfortable, luxurious bed; if someone had asked Eönwë to picture Angband's interior decorating, this would not have been it.

Sauron let go of Eönwë's hand and sprawled spread-eagle on the bed, limbs askew and hair flung wildly around, framing his head like a fiery halo.

"Mairon," Eönwë said, his voice coming out low and husky. He felt a heady lust spreading throughout him; it was warm and urgent and overpowering. How had he convinced himself he was just fine, actually, without this in his life?

Eönwë climbed onto the bed. He practically ripped Sauron's garments off him; pulling the shirt over his head with unnecessary force and shoving his pants down, then throwing them across the room.

"This is a new side of you," Sauron observed, lifting one eyebrow. He was so provoking and so beautiful.

He was also right. Eönwë and Mairon had been gentle with each other in Almaren, their absorption with one another's bodies slow and lingering and soft. There had been no hurry, no urgency, no sense that anything in their dynamic could ever change.

"It's been five thousand years," Eönwë pointed out. "Perhaps you do not know me anymore."

"I'm certain I don't," Sauron agreed, as Eönwë unbuckled his sword belt and divested himself of the armor he'd been wearing. He let it all fall to the floor piece by piece.

He didn't remove the lightweight clothing underneath the armor, or the jewel pouch attached to it. He shifted his weight to his knees and elbows and hovered over Sauron's prone form, leaving a small space between their bodies. Eönwë's hair swung down and tickled Sauron's face, but he didn't move away.

"Why did you heal me? Twice, now?" Eönwë asked, staring into Sauron's eyes. It was strange, conducting an interrogation with their cocks stiffening and inches apart from each other. This, thought Eönwë ruefully—this is what loving Sauron had reduced him to.

Sauron blinked, then licked his lips. Eönwë wondered if he was considering whether to lie.

"I don't like seeing you hurt," he finally said.

"Did Melkor punish you for it, last time?"

"No. I don't even know if he ever found out it happened."

"What is the real reason you stayed in Angband and surrendered?"

Sauron blinked again, then drew a deep breath. "I was giving everyone else time to get out."

"Everyone else?" Eönwë repeated.

"The survivors, the remnants. Orcs. Wargs. Dragons. Men who were our allies. The Valaraukar. Everything you would have slaughtered if you'd found them here."

"You did not distract me for that long," Eönwë objected.

"No," Sauron acknowledged. "But I ensured you did not tarry on your way to Melkor. And you had no space for anything else, once engaged with him."

Eönwë contemplated Sauron for another few moments.

"How selfless of you," he said flatly.

Sauron smiled, his smile beautiful and angelic. "If I repeat that I also wanted to see you, will you accuse me of mocking you again?"

"You were mocking me," Eönwë said sharply.

"No," Sauron breathed. "I promise I was not, and am not. My dearest Eönwë, will you not touch me?"

And Eönwë, too, could stand it no longer. He lowered himself down until he was kissing Sauron; his lips tasted simultaneously of pungent fire and cool mint. Eönwë closed his eyes and lost himself in the sensations. It felt so good to be kissing him again, their bodies pressed together, everything in harmony and right with the world.

Sauron bucked his hips, dragging his cock against Eönwë's clothing.

Eönwë groaned, and broke off the kiss. "Is it sensible for us to be doing this?"

"No," Sauron answered, reaching down with a hand and grasping Eönwë's cock through the light layers of his pants.

"Oh, fuck, Mairon," Eönwë gasped.

"You're not indifferent to me at all," Sauron said with a smirk.

"Did I ever pretend to be?" Eönwë asked, a distinct and familiar hurt stabbing through his heart.

Sauron didn't answer the question. He tucked his head down, slid Eönwë's pants down just enough so that his cock sprung out, and put his mouth directly on it.

"Fuck, Mairon," Eönwë gasped. Sauron's mouth was wet and hot, and the sensations made Eönwë's eyes roll back in his head. Sauron gripped the base of the cock and sucked hard, his hair falling into his eyes and Eönwë's stomach, obscuring his face.

"I missed this so much," Eönwë panted, moving his hips ever so slightly as Sauron worked his cock. "This. You. Us. Mairon."

Sauron slid his mouth off of Eönwë's cock and pulled back to give him a crooked smile, his chin wet and shining. Eönwë's cock was so stiff and swollen, it almost hurt.

Eönwë leaned down and kissed him again, long and hard, tongues exploring each other without hesitation. Sauron tasted of sweat and salt, and the mint taste lingered still.

This kiss Sauron broke off first.

"Fuck me, Eönwë," Sauron whispered into Eönwë's ear. "Please. I want you inside me."

"Oh," Eönwë said, a startled gasp. "Now?"

"No," Sauron retorted, rolling his eyes. "Three ages from now. Eru above, yes now."

Eönwë sat up, grabbing Sauron by the shoulders, and turned him over. Sauron went readily, muffling his face in the covers, and tucked his legs underneath him.

Eönwë wasn't in a slow or gentle mood. His arousal was urgent, and his resentment over Sauron's behavior for the past five thousand years was unabated. He pushed his clothing further out of the way, took his cock in hand, and slid it inside Sauron, pushing into that tight, warm space. He groaned, and squeezed his eyes shut, and shifted his hands to grip to Sauron's hips.

Sauron made a series of muffled moans as Eönwë started moving. Eönwë lost himself in the feelings, forgetting the last five thousand years of despair and loneliness, forgetting where they were, nearly forgetting who they were. All that mattered was reduced to this—skin on skin, sweaty flesh, grunts and groans, and being with the only person he'd ever wanted to be with.

"Eönwë," Sauron murmured, breaking the spell. "I missed you too."

Eönwë shivered. He thrust a few more times into Sauron, hard and commanding, shuddering with the build-up of his need, and then collapsing on top of Sauron when his release broke over him.

Sauron slowly unfolded himself underneath Eönwë, shifting until he was holding Eönwë in his arms. Eönwë relaxed into his hold, feeling satiated and disinclined to move. Sauron smelled like freshly overturned soil in the woods. It felt like being home.

"I wish that were enough," Eönwë said. "I wish I were enough for you."

Sauron combed gentle fingers through Eönwë's hair. "I wish it were, too," he said, almost too softly to hear.

Eönwë knew what it would mean, if he drifted off to sleep here in Sauron's arms. But he didn't fight it. He was drowsy, and comfortable. The room was warm, and he did not wish to move. He would not be the one to leave. He would never be the one to leave.

When he woke, he was alone.