With a Shiver, Without a Word by IdleLeaves

The sun has set by the time Fingon frees himself of obligations and knocks at Maedhros' door. He waits for a response from within before entering, then closes the door behind him without being asked.

No fire has been kindled on the hearth. The room is lit by candles only, clustered on the mantle and on Maedhros' bedside table, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Maedhros stands at the window in his nightclothes, leaning against the sill; the shutters are open to clear skies and crisp, cool night air. Already the leaves are turning from green to gold - though none have yet fallen, summer has begun its slow slide into autumn, and winter will follow.

Maedhros closes the shutters, one by one. "You're late," he says, voice low but not unkind.

"Again," Fingon says. "You would not believe-"

"Yes," Maedhros interrupts, with a trace of a rare smile, or as close to one as he can manage, these days. "I would." He leaves the window and crosses the room to his bed. One of the fireside chairs is still beside it - it has not been moved since yesterday.

Fingon does not rush to Maedhros' side when he briefly puts his hand on the wall to steady himself; he knows better, now. Fingon had made that mistake only once - the first day Maedhros had left his bed. He'd stumbled, and Fingon had instinctively flung his arms out to help. Maedhros had abruptly recoiled, shoving him away so quickly that Fingon had nearly lost his footing.

He's hardly touched Maedhros since. Few have, save for the healers, and some days even they keep their distance. Fingon does not know how long Maedhros was held captive in the blackness of Angband before the shackle was fitted to his wrist, nor what he endured there. Maedhros hasn't spoken of it. Fingon hasn't asked.

Maedhros seems tense and reticent, tonight; he sits on the edge of his bed with a shiver and without a word, hand in his lap and bandaged arm held close to his chest. Eyes closed, he lets out a long, deep breath.

"Cold?" asks Fingon, and Maedhros' answering nod sends him to the hearth. The fire is slow to start, but Fingon stokes it until it blazes. He turns back to Maedhros as the room begins to warm, and takes a step toward the bedside chair.

"Wait," says Maedhros. Fingon pauses mid-stride.

Maedhros shifts on the bed, making room for Fingon beside him. It's Fingon's turn, then, for a soft, drawn-out exhale, and Maedhros does not look away.

An uncommon caution slows Fingon's movements as he takes the space he's been offered. Maedhros' breaths are shallow yet steady, and Fingon can sense the effort it takes to keep them so. For a time, Maedhros does not speak; muffled footsteps pass in the hall, and the fire crackles as it burns. The candles on Maedhros' table - little more than stubs, now - begin to go out.

Maedhros raises his hand, then lets it fall again to his lap. A second attempt yields the same result. This time, Fingon reaches out, hesitating in mid-air for a moment before laying his hand over Maedhros', fingers curling into Maedhros' palm with a careful squeeze.

Maedhros flinches, but does not retreat, when Fingon touches his face. He sweeps stray hairs behind Maedhros' ear, then strokes Maedhros' cheek with his thumb, fingers curving along his jaw. Maedhros closes his eyes and tips his head forward, resting his forehead against Fingon's with a bone-deep sigh.

Fingon's heart constricts in his chest. They're close enough to kiss. It would only take a slight tilt of his head - and Fingon wants to. He wants to take Maedhros by the shoulders and kiss him, over and over, until neither of them remembers their names - the old or the new.

Instead, he lays a hand on Maedhros' neck, and draws him gently in until Maedhros' head rests on his shoulder. Maedhros' arm settles around Fingon's waist; the tension bleeds out of him one breath at a time.

"Stay," says Maedhros.

Fingon does kiss him, then - just a light, tentative brush of his lips against Maedhros' brow. Maedhros makes a soft, wordless sound, his arm tightening around Fingon for a brief moment before he moves to arrange himself under the bedcovers. Fingon blows out the candles on the mantle and leaves his boots by the hearth. He comes to bed fully clothed, lying face-to-face with Maedhros in the firelight.

"Sleep well," Fingon says, as Maedhros' eyes close yet again. Maedhros' hand finds Fingon's under the covers, and he raises it up, clasping it to his chest against his still-beating heart.

Leave a Comment