always feel like home to me by queerofthedagger

The summer day is hazy and golden, hanging heavy between the ancient trees of the forest.

Sweat is running down Maedhros’ neck and down between his shoulders. Even the light armour has long since passed from mildly uncomfortable to a constricting nightmare.

Beside him, Fingon looks as happy as in days long past, though; his hair is a mess, his brown skin glistening in the sunlight, but he is smiling, brimming with energy, so wonderfully alive that Maedhros cannot resent the heat as much as he usually would.

Still, when they finally reach a shady clearing deep in the forest, a lake lying dark blue and promising at its edge, Maedhros is all but ready to sink to his knees and offer gratitude to Ulmo himself.

He does not—most likely, it would be in some form of bad taste—but he does discard his armour and boots the moment they have rid their horses of their gear and left them to graze.

It is a luxury of incautiousness that he would not usually allow himself back East, no matter how rare attacks are happening, these days. Here, though, in the south of Dor-lómin, the odds of trouble are impossibly low.

When he looks up, Fingon is in the process of stripping out of his tunic and breeches, too. Maedhros looks away, grateful, for once, that the heat has already flushed his pale skin.

He finds a place on the shore and lets his feet hang into the cool water, lying back on the flat rock.

Overhead, the sky shines blue through softly swaying treetops, the droning noise of the forest comfortable in its quiet familiarity.

The calm is broken when Fingon runs into the lake, never able to do anything at leisure. The splash is loud, and Maedhros smiles to himself, even as he keeps his eyes fixed on the deep, lush green above him.

In some ways, the scene is reminiscent of sweltering summer afternoons in Aman; when he and his family were back in Tirion, and he would disappear entire days with Fingon from the city, hunting trips and exploration easy excuses.

They did very little actual hunting, not that anyone seemed to pay much attention, back then. Instead, they spent endless days at lake shores such as this one, in hunting lodges up in the mountains, in deep forest glades with only each other for company.

Instead, they spent endless days learning and relearning beloved bodies, sinking into each other until the rest of the world faded away.

It had been simple then, in Laurelin’s light, the future as bright and golden as the tree itself, as their afternoons, the wordless pledges bitten into warm, supple skin.

It has not been that simple, since. Fingon had rescued Maedhros, and many things Maedhros thought lost, they regained—their friendship, the trust, the companionship.

Others, not so much. Others have been lost, between Alqualondë, the Helcaraxë, Thangorodrim. Between the ruin that Morgoth has made of Maedhros’ body, and the mismatched pieces that their healers stitched back together.

In that time before he had taken himself and his brothers East, taking Fingon back to his bed had been the last thing on his mind. After, in his cold fortress and alone with his thoughts, he had almost been grateful for it, for never having asked. As if this was something Fingon would still want—the ruined body, the betrayals like landmarks etched into it.

It is better, most of the time, not to have that question answered. They do not see each other often enough for the longing to grow so unbearable that Fingon might see, and Fingon—

Fingon has given up enough for Maedhros; it is a kindness not to make him spell this out, too.

And so Maedhros stays at the shore, stays with his tunic sticking to his back and his hair wet with sweat at the roots; stays, and averts his eyes from where Fingon is floating in the lake, the sun upon his skin like benediction.

Maedhros has, of course, wrought all these careful plans without taking Fingon into account.

“Are you just going to stay there?” the nuisance in question asks, splashing water in Maedhros’ direction. There is warm laughter in his words, and in a different world, Maedhros could learn to resent him for how it makes him want to get up and join him immediately.

In this, he sighs and props himself up on his elbows. “That was my plan, yes; I am quite content here, thank you very much.”

“You hate the heat,” Fingon says, his brow ticking up. “You love swimming.”

Maedhros shrugs gracelessly. “I am fine, Finno; do enjoy your swim, will you?”

He says it lightly, easily. It is not as if he does not have conversations like this regularly and successfully with his brothers, his servants, anyone whom he would rather not share the sight of his mangled body with.

Of course, it is Fingon who would narrow his eyes, swimming closer. Who would take in Maedhros’ face, stripping him bare with nothing but a glance, and say without pity or judgement, “Do you not want to, or do you think that you ought not?”

“Is there a difference?”

“A great one,” Fingon says, his voice mild. He pushes himself up onto the rock, endless stretches of bare skin meeting the warm air.

Water is running down his chest and stomach, gathering in the hollow of his throat, the dips and valleys of his collarbone, along the arteries along his arms. His braid is a mess, dripping water and glinting in the light.

Maedhros wants to kiss him so badly that it burns.

“I—“ he tries, famed rhetorical skill failing him. His throat is dry. “I am fine, Fingon—“

Cool fingers wrap around his ankle, Fingon’s thumb pressing into soft skin. He looks at Maedhros with something between solemnity and discontent. “You need not be concerned with me, Russandol. Who, if not I, knows what you look like beneath all those layers you wrap yourself into?”

Curse Fingon and his ability to always hit the heart of the matter. All possible excuses have dissolved like sweets in the midday sun, and Maedhros turns his face away, raw and stripped bare. “That is not the reassurance that you think it to be, cousin.”

The desperate emphasis on the last word only makes it worse, the confession as glaring and unforgiving as the sunlight.

Fingon stills, his head tilting. “I did not think…”

He lets Maedhros go when he pulls his ankle out of his grasp, knees to his chest. Tilting his chin up, he meets Fingon’s eyes, ignoring the shamed heat in his cheeks. “It is nothing, Fingon, truly. Don’t—“

“If I kiss you, will you let me? Do you want me to, still?”

Maedhros’ heart trips, and kicks against his ribs like an animal caught, at last. He wants to run. Wants to tell Fingon no, to scrape the tattered remains of his pride together and leave with whatever dignity is left to him.

It had been easier, truly, when he did not have to face the rejection. “You do not have to—“

“That is not what I asked,” Fingon cuts in. His eyes are very dark and intent; despite the heat, it sends a shiver down Maedhros’ spine.

He knows that look, the hunger of it; once, it had thrilled him as much as a successful hunt, a fast sparring match, as the flying high of victory.

“I—“ he tries again, and gathers himself. He trusts Fingon; trusts that after everything, this will not break them either. Perhaps, it is easier to face rejection once. Certainly, it is better than to lie, than to miss the chance, no matter how small, that Fingon could still want this, too.

“Yes,” he says, confession on an exhale. “Yes, of course; how could I not?”

Fingon’s mouth curls into a smile, sadness gathering at the edges of it. “I thought if you did, you would come to me. I did not want to make you uncomfortable.”

Fools, both of them. Maedhros does not have time to contemplate all the implications of that before Fingon leans forward, one hand on Maedhros’ knee to steady himself, and kisses him—soft, gentle, a light brush of his mouth that races all the way down Maedhros’ spine.

“All right?” Fingon asks, and his voice cracks.

Maedhros nods, barely believing that this is real. But then, Fingon pushes his fingers into Maedhros’ hair, tilts his head up; kisses him again, properly this time, all teeth and tongue and stuttering breath, and it is all Maedhros can do not to shake apart beneath him right then and there.

His hand finds skin—Fingon’s arm, his shoulder, the back of his neck until he can pull him closer. Until Fingon settles into his lap, still gloriously naked, kissing Maedhros as if he had been dying of thirst and Maedhros is salvation.

A sacrilegious thought. One that mercifully vanishes when Fingon’s fingers find the seam of Maedhros’ tunic, and Maedhros freezes.

Fingon pulls back, taking in his face. “Do you not want to, or do you think that you ought not?”

It is the same thing, Maedhros wants to say, and knows it to be a lie.

“It is no longer a beautiful sight,” he says, matter of fact. “It does as it should; that is as far as its usefulness extends.”

For the most part, that is, but this is difficult enough as it is. He does not need yet another discussion about pain and endurance and the things he should not push his body to do.

“I do not care,” Fingon says, uncharacteristically serious. “I know what you look like, beloved; I knew it back in Aman, and I know it now, too. It does not change anything. So, will you let me?”

There is no demand behind the question, no pressure, even as Maedhros can still read the desire in the curve of Fingon’s mouth, in the gleam of his eyes; can feel it against his stomach, and perhaps, Fingon is right—

Who, if not Fingon, would know what Maedhros looks like? He doubts that it can be worse than whatever it was that Fingon cut off the mountain, and he is wise enough not to say that out loud.

It still takes a gargantuan effort to find the resolve to take his tunic off. He drops it beside them and looks back at Fingon’s face, not sure if he wants to see whatever he is about to find.

Fingon lets his gaze roam over him, slow and deliberate until Maedhros shivers beneath it. Then Fingon leans in, kisses him again, presses close. His skin is cool, still, from the water, a relief against the heated flush that’s taken over Maedhros’ body. He arches into it helplessly, uncertainty warring with the need to touch, to feel, to pull Fingon close and never let him go again.

Fingon’s hands are gentle, though, fingertips tracing down Maedhros’ throat, over his chest, his arms.

“Lie down,” Fingon says, a request against Maedhros’ mouth.

He obeys. The stone is warm beneath his back and when he blinks his eyes open, the trees are swaying with the breeze.

Fingon kisses the corner of his mouth, the bridge of his nose. There are scars there, too, and Fingon follows them, slow and methodical as if studying a map; fingers tracing lines and dips, his mouth following—teeth, sometimes, a gentle scrape until Maedhros is shaking, something hot sitting in the back of his throat that refuses to dissolve no matter how often he swallows.

“Fingon—“ he tries, and does not know what he is asking. Fingon’s weight is both familiar and new, his touch light but certain. His mouth is still the same clever, devastating instrument that Maedhros was once familiar with, finding the spots of skin that make him writhe—his neck, now marred. His hip, bones once shattered. The inside of his thighs, a tapestry of scars.

And yet, Fingon touches, and tastes, and pulls forth sensations that make Maedhros forget to worry, to think about what he looks like and fall back into the sheer act of it. To sink his hand into Fingon’s hair and hold on, pull him back up so that Maedhros can kiss him—not because he minds Fingon’s position but because he wants to. To spread his legs so Fingon can settle between them, and arch into him when he can feel Fingon’s cock hard and heavy against his own.

Fingon rolls his hips in response and moans, unabashed and drawn-out. He does not tell Maedhros that he is beautiful, still, but his own pleasure sparks from every reverent touch, from the shaking of his muscles as he takes his time. It is evident in the way he looks at Maedhros when Maedhros can finally bring himself to meet his eyes, dark as the still waters of the lake.

“Kiss me,” Maedhros pleads, and Fingon does, wet and open-mouthed until Maedhros’ head is spinning, spinning, spinning.

After, once they have both come undone, Fingon loud and unabashed and Maedhros biting curses into Fingon’s shoulder, Fingon collapses on top of him. The vanishing tension turns him into a languid creature, making himself comfortable on top of Maedhros—face pressed into Maedhros’ neck, one hand curled loosely into Maedhros’ hair, and unheeding of the mess between their stomachs.

Maedhros is still flying too high to mind. He wraps an arm around Fingon and holds him close. Part of him still waits for the scene to dissolve beneath his tarnished hands, while the rest of him breathes Fingon in—scent of summer and fresh water, sweat and sex and something awfully close to home.

Eventually, the heat does get too much, and the stone starts digging uncomfortably into his back. He nudges Fingon, happiness bubbling helplessly in his chest when Fingon blinks up at him.

“Move,” Maedhros says, grinning so, so stupidly. “Please.”

With a groan, Fingon rolls off of him and stretches, finally sitting up.

The sun has moved, afternoon turning to evening and washing everything in burnished gold.

“Right,” Fingon finally says, turning his head to look at Maedhros. “Are you finally coming swimming with me, or do I have to drag you myself?”

His tone is playful, light. Maedhros hears the underlying questions all the same—about this, the past, the future. Where they are going from here, and if he even wants to.

It is a ridiculous notion, but then, perhaps he should know better than to take anything for granted, these days.

Ignoring the twinge in his back, he pushes himself up and drags Fingon with him.

“If you insist,” he says, and then pushes Fingon into the water ahead of him, taking the moment—brief, crystallised, stolen away from a peace that cannot last—to drink in the outraged laughter that awaits him as he jumps after him.

Chapter End Notes

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