a promise of midsummer skies by queerofthedagger

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a promise of midsummer skies

Written for Day 2 of the Silm Smut Week, along the prompts of Seduction, Hook-Ups, Olivia Rodrigo's 'get him back', and the Oscar Wilde quote of "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." Thank you so much to the mods for running this! <3

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In retrospect, Maedhros should have known that he never stood a chance.

He has been dreading the aptly named Mereth Aderthad ever since Fingolfin’s messenger arrived, but no matter how many times he turned it over, there was simply no way to decline the invitation without insult.

Maglor’s dry suggestion of sending their brothers instead, then, had done the rest, and so here they are, approaching the sprawling camp with nervous anticipation sitting like a stone in Maedhros’ throat.

Perhaps the worst part is that all his better judgment aside, a part of him cannot wait to see Fingon again.

A foolish notion, and one that Maedhros tries to ignore as best as he can. If Maglor’s knowing looks are anything to go by, he is not overly successful.

Despite that, their reception passes well enough. Fingolfin greets them personally and kindly, but without his children present.

“They are out hunting with Finrod and his brothers,” Fingolfin says, unprompted. “Come, let me show you to your tents. I have no doubt that you will see them later.”

If Maedhros feels like the comment is pointed, he puts it down to paranoia. It will be fine. It has to be fine.

---

It is not fine.

The feast starts with a dinner, all of Finwë’s disgraced house crowding around the High Table.

Fingon sits across and two chairs down from Maedhros, which is far enough away that it is not impolite to avoid making conversations, and still close enough to catch his eye. Fingon smiles when he sees him, inclines his head; as if they were acquaintances, not—

Whatever it is that they used to be. It is easier these days not to put a name to it.

Still, Maedhros clenches his jaw as Fingon laughs at something Finrod says, throwing his head back and exposing the long line of his throat. Pretends that he does not see Maglor’s knowing look from beside him.

“You could just talk to him,” Maglor says, once he grows tired of being ignored.

Maedhros does not grace that with an answer, and makes his way through the food methodically, barely tasting any of it.

He makes it a point not to look over, and is still all too aware that Fingon does not, either. That he makes it look considerably more effortless than Maedhros feels.

“You know I cannot,” he finally says quietly, when the last course has been cleared away.

Maglor sighs and takes to refilling Maedhros’ goblet, rather than arguing the point again.

Maedhros has explained himself often enough—about how Fingon was better off without him, really. How even if Maedhros wanted to change his mind, it was a bit late to do so, after twenty long years of ignoring letters, and their subsequent dwindling to nothing. Of no visits, no word, no explanation aside from the one Maedhros had given on the last night before he had removed himself and his brothers East.

Fingon had not understood it back then, when Maedhros had claimed that he deserved something better, something brighter—not only someone unmarred by Morgoth but someone who had not abandoned him for exile, for his father’s madness. To the Grinding Ice and Beleriand’s Doom.

Fingon had not understood it, but then, he would not be Fingon if he had. He would not deserve so much better then, and in a twisted, breathtakingly painful way, it only proved why Maedhros was right to leave; Hithlum, Fingon, all that they used to be to each other, long before Morgoth and their families came between them.

Maedhros had thought that it would be all right, that he would grow used to the aching emptiness. That he could return and face Fingon, and not have it feel like all the old wounds are splitting open all over, their festering rot exposed for all to see who cared to look.

He thought that it would be all right, but Maglor is abandoning him to dance, people are starting to mingle, and before Maedhros knows what is happening, Fingon drops into the empty chair beside him. He refills his own and Maedhros’ goblet, the motion casual as if there were not twenty years and endless hurt stretching between them.

“Russo,” Fingon finally says, his face carefully neutral. “It is good to see you.”

Maedhros has never considered himself a coward, but right then, it is all he can do not to run back east, shut himself away in his cold fortress, to try and forget that he was ever stupid enough to come here.

“Fingon,” he says, tipping his goblet towards him. “Likewise.”

Something flashes across Fingon’s face, there and gone again; despite the time and distance between them, Maedhros still recognises it as hurt.

He swallows. “I trust you have been well?”

He should not, of course; his entire sorry plan hinges on avoiding Fingon as much as possible without causing a diplomatic incident. And yet—

And yet, it makes Fingon smile, the small quirk of his lips that once belonged to Maedhros; that he used to press his mouth to, drinking down that quiet fondness as if it could sustain him.

“I have,” Fingon says, and he sounds like he means it. “Beleriand becomes me. Something in the air, I suppose.”

“You mean the chance to spend more time on horseback than not, hunting Orcs rather than being made to recite poetry before Manwë himself?”

Fingon has always brought it out in him, whatever careful restraint he can usually muster crumbling in the face of all that golden laughter.

Right now, Fingon is grinning, his eyes flashing in the dim light. “You said it; although these last few weeks were more preparations for the feast than anything else. It is a wonder my father has not had a nervous breakdown yet.”

“He outdid himself,” Maedhros agrees, letting his eyes move through the tent, taking in the details properly for the first time tonight.

Coloured lights are strung up along the walls, catching in subtle glass baubles and getting reflected in kaleidoscopes of colour and motion. Tapestries mute the stark white of the canvas, depicting scenes of Beleriand and the heraldry of all the folk who are here tonight.

To one side, the tent is thrown open towards the Pools of Ivrin and the mountains beyond, letting in the mild night air. Outside, people are mingling, music and laughter spilling from the tent.

He finds Fingon watching him when he looks back, still smiling.

“He did,” Fingon says, emptying his goblet. “And on that note, I will find someone to dance. Do not think that I will not come to beg at least one of you as well, but I shall let you make your way through another pitcher of wine first.”

His grin turns cheeky at the end, and he clinks his goblet against Maedhros’ as he rises, disappearing into the crowd before Maedhros can find his wits to protest.

The prospect settles heavily into his limbs. If coming here has been a mistake, it has nothing on dancing with Fingon. And yet, the idea of denying him is inconceivable.

Maedhros had expected Fingon to be wroth with him. He certainly had been, that last night they had spent together, arguing and pleading, cursing Maedhros until they had tired themselves out.

They had not said goodbye the next morning, Fingon refusing to see him off.

Maedhros had been glad, until the letters started, one every other week. The poor messengers took the brunt of it—Fingon writing of his days, the land, the horses—and Maedhros refusing to answer, feeding his words to the fire instead. Telling himself, over and over, that it was for the best, sending the messengers back empty-handed.

Eventually, the letters too had ceased. Maedhros had been glad, or at least that is what he told himself.

He knew that it was for the best. Knows it still, and yet somehow, it is considerably harder to remember all the reasons when he watches Fingon drag Finrod into a dance. As he watches them together, their movements and contrast graceful, almost mesmerising.

Fingon has always been most stunning in motion, the gold in his braids catching the light, his movements fluid. He and Finrod are speaking with their heads close together, and even over all the noise, Maedhros catches the sound of Fingon’s laughter.

He downs another goblet of wine and gratefully immerses himself in a conversation with one of Fingolfin’s lords.

At the end of it, he can barely recall what the topic was, but some of his stinging agitation has settled.

That is until he lets his gaze move through the tent and finds Fingon once more, inevitable. He is still dancing but it is Maglor with him now, their dark heads close together as they talk more than they dance.

They look good together, Maedhros thinks, and then he cannot quite bear his own misery any longer, the way his heart seems to sit in his throat.

Pushing away from the table, he mutters a brief apology to whoever it is that he has been talking to, and then makes his way out of the tent as fast as he can without drawing attention.

The night air is a relief against his heated skin, and Maedhros breathes deeply, wandering down to the lake shore. Light and music barely reach down here but when he turns, he can see the moving bodies, the sway and living, breathing dance of them.

It feels like standing on the outside, looking in. The effect of the wine fades with the fresh air, and in its place, something heavier and sadder settles.

He misses home, he thinks. Not the cold north of Himring, not the cracked land of Beleriand, but his father’s halls, the smell of metalwork and sawdust. Misses his mother’s workshop, her loud laughter and patient honesty. How Finwë would always find time for each of them, even amidst the growing tension between them all.

He misses a time when things used to be easy, when he used to be easy. Down that road lies madness though; Maedhros knows it better than anyone.

Laughter sounds from the entrance of the tent, warm and unrestrained. He would recognise the sound anywhere and turns on instinct, watching as Fingon stumbles down the narrow path, leaning half of his weight on Maglor.

They are not drunk, just merry, Maedhros can tell. Still, jealousy flares bright and sudden within him, and he almost laughs at himself, the absurdity of it all.

He is such a fool, standing at the lake shore feeling sorry for himself. As if they have not brought all this upon themselves.

“Russo!” Fingon calls, closer than Maedhros expected him to be—closer, always closer, than Maedhros knows how to handle, these days.

He meets Maglor’s eyes across Fingon’s shoulder and finds them knowing. Before he can protest, Maglor flashes him a grin, gives Fingon a little push, and then turns right on his heel to walk back inside.

Fingon does not stumble, too graceful for such a notion, but he comes to a halt in front of Maedhros with only two feet of space left between them, allowing Maedhros to catch the scent of the oils he uses for his hair—still sandalwood and lavender, a hint of citrus underneath.

Behind his back, Maedhros grabs his right wrist with his left hand; buries his nails into skin until he no longer feels like shaking apart.

“Are you drunk?” he asks when Fingon stays silent, watching—mostly to say anything at all.

Fingon huffs. He does not answer for a moment, looking across the still surface of the lake, the way it reflects the stars and the lights from the feast behind them.

“No,” he finally says, slanting a glance at Maedhros. “Are you?”

Maedhros is not as sober as he ought to be, but he shakes his head. The wine is a pleasant buzz at the base of his skull, but the longing—well, the longing is all Fingon.

“A pity,” Fingon says, and his grin looks only a little forced. “Will you dance with me regardless?”

Maedhros first instinct is to say no. Elbereth, he should say no. But he looks at Fingon with his flushed cheeks, the braids coming loose, the banked hope in his eyes. The way the slant of his mouth reveals that he expects a rejection, and how he asks regardless.

Maedhros has always been terrible at denying him anything. It is why he had put half a continent between them, why he knew that coming here was a mistake before he so much as left Himring’s walls.

He cannot stand the thought of making Fingon sad again.

“One dance,” he says, and pretends that the smile he gets in return does not soothe the serrated edges of his heart.

Fingon takes his hand, his palm warm, and drags Maedhros back into the tent—as if he expects Maedhros to change his mind if he is given time to think about this. They do not speak as they move through the crowd, until they reach a bit of free space somewhere in the centre of the floor.

For a moment they stand in front of each other as if they have both forgotten how to do this. Then Fingon huffs and pulls Maedhros close, settling his other hand on Maedhros’ hip.

“You do still know how to dance, don’t you?” he asks, his voice low. He is close enough that Maedhros can feel the heat of him, and he nods mutely, his throat dry.

It is awkward at first, his limbs grown unfamiliar with the motions. Eventually, though, he forces himself to relax into it, to remember what once came as natural as breathing. He pulls Fingon close until he can rest his cheek against the side of his head, and lets his body remember how to move with him, too.

It is no elaborate dance, nothing like the fast-paced measures of skill that the Noldor were known for. They move slowly even as it works not at all with the music, and Maedhros closes his eyes, glad, at least, that the position means that Fingon cannot see his face.

“I missed having you close,” Fingon says, almost casually. His fingers brush along the exposed skin of Maedhros’ neck, light enough to pass as accidental.

Maedhros suppresses a shiver and bites his tongue. It is no use, though.

“Yeah,” he says, and presses his nose into Fingon’s hair. “Yeah, I did, too.”

Fingon sighs quietly and pulls his hand out of Maedhros’ grasp, looping both arms around Maedhros’ neck. It brings them close, Maedhros’ hand dropping to Fingon’s waist.

He has lost his coat at some point, wearing only a sleeveless tunic. Through the thin fabric, Maedhros can feel the sharp jut of his hipbone, the corded muscles of his back.

Fingon smiles up at him, a little sweet, a little sharp. He does not say anything though, and it is all Maedhros can do not to kiss him then, the soft curve of his mouth, the faint freckles dusting his nose.

He feels both warm and content for the first time in twenty years, and flayed open down to the bone, his heart an open display of ruin and haemorrhagic hope.

The music fades, proclaiming the end of the song. Fingon looks at him, patient and waiting as Maedhros fights with himself.

In the end, though, he has always loved Fingon more than he loved himself, and so he gathers the tattered remains of his self-restraint. Takes Fingon’s hands from around his neck, squeezes them lightly; brushes a kiss to his forehead, quick and chaste, and then he steps back. Turns around, and looks no more at Fingon until he is safely back at the High Table, a goblet of wine in his hand and his heartbeat betraying any notion of having made it out of this unscathed.

---

If Maedhros thought that that would be the end of it, he would be made a fool.

They have always had more similarities than differences, and the worst of those has always been their stubbornness. Whatever Fingon had read on Maedhros’ face during their dance, it had been enough to put him on the warpath.

He gives Maedhros an hour. An hour to talk to Fingolfin and Finrod, to let the heavy wine settle his heart. To convince himself that perhaps, he might be fine, that he can survive these couple of days and then return to Himring to lick his wounds.

After an hour, he meets Fingon’s eyes across the room and finds him smiling. A moment later, images are pushed into his mind, vague impressions, more memory than anything else.

He jerks, the intrusion unexpected. For the most part, he guards his mind like he guards Himring these days, but he has never thought to do the same against Fingon—and so, here he is, left reeling as he can feel Fingon’s hands in his hair, can see him stretched out beneath him, can see the flush high on his cheeks as Maedhros kisses him.

When he finally shakes himself, Fingon is watching him, some mixture of uncertainty and mirth in his eyes. Whatever it is that he finds on Maedhros’ face, his grin grows, and he flicks his tongue against his bottom lip before disappearing into the crowd once more.

Maedhros feels hot under his collar, hears his blood rushing in his ears. He bites his tongue until he tastes copper, both to stay where he is and to not laugh out loud, because—because of course, Fingon would. Maedhros should have known.

Whatever it is that Fingon thinks he is doing, it becomes a game after that; one that Maedhros clearly missed the rules of.

Or perhaps, that is not true. He could shut his mind after all. Fingon clearly takes the fact that he does not as encouragement, and at this point, Maedhros is not even sure that it is not.

He cannot stop watching Fingon, moving across the dance floor, his flying braids, his lithe body. Cannot stop and meet his eyes, let him flood Maedhros’ mind with images and memories, with impressions of touch and smell and sensation.

He should not, a small voice in the back of his mind keeps insisting. With each hour, with each new image of Fingon pressed up against a wall, stretched out upon white sheets, writhing beneath Maedhros’ touch, he remembers less why he ever thought this to be a bad idea.

---

In the end, it is easier than it should be to disentangle himself from whatever conversation he has been having. To make his way through the thinning crowd, and tug Fingon away from the Sindar Elf he has been dancing with.

“That was rude of you,” Fingon says mildly, once they are out of the tent. Dawn is already breaking across the Midsummer sky, and the air is smelling of bygone days and heady promises.

“I am no expert,” Maedhros says, stopping to pull Fingon flush against him. He goes willingly, tipping his head back to meet Maedhros’ eyes. “But I think seducing your allies through the misuse of Ósanwë is not exactly considered the polite thing to do either.”

“I think it is only considered rude if it does not work,” Fingon laughs, snaking an arm around Maedhros’ waist. “And I dare say it did.”

Of course it did, Maedhros does not say. How could it not?

He wraps an arm around Fingon’s shoulders instead, moves them until he can tug Fingon against his side. Asks, trying and failing to sound casual, “Where to, then?”

“It did work,” Fingon laughs, but he too wastes no time to drag Maedhros along, past rows of tents until they reach the royal corner of the setup. “My tent, come on; I do not want to be disturbed tonight.”

Maedhros’ throat goes dry at the words, at Fingon moving against him, with him, the reality of the situation sinking in. It had been easy to let himself fall into Fingon’s game in the hazy dimness of the main tent, and he expects panic and doubt to raise within him now, except—

Except, Fingon is warm and familiar against his side. Is smiling, pleased and easy in a way Maedhros has not seen in many years, and Maedhros—

Maedhros does not have it within himself to resist any longer.

Neither, it seems, does Fingon. The moment they are inside the tent they collide, a scramble of urgent hands and flailing limbs, their kiss messy and graceless and too full of teeth.

Maedhros pushes his hand into Fingon’s hair, pulls his head back a little, holds him still; takes in his face, the naked want on it, and then he kisses him again, slow this time, all purpose.

They fit together then like they have done countless times, and this, more than anything, strips the air from Maedhros’ lungs. He sways where he stands, his eyes burning; the world finally, finally righting itself on its axis.

Fingon makes a noise deep in his throat and pushes closer, pushes Maedhros backwards until he is pressed up against a tent pole and Fingon is flush up against him once more, not an inch of space left between them.

When they break apart, both their breathing is ragged. Maedhros runs his fingers through Fingon’s hair, across his cheekbones, his jaw—somehow still half expecting him to dissolve right beneath Maedhros’ hand if he so much as blinks.

Fingon merely watches him, eyes bright and expression unreadable. Maedhros kisses him again, once, twice; takes Fingon’s bottom lip between his teeth and tugs lightly until he hears the hitch in his breathing, can feel the shiver running through Fingon beneath his hand.

“Off,” Fingon gets out, tugging at Maedhros’ overcoat. “Take this off, Russo, or so help me—“

Between them, they get the offending piece of clothing off of him, and Fingon walks them through the tent until the back of Maedhros’ legs hits the pallet. He collapses onto it, pulling Fingon into his lap, knees and elbows everywhere until they are both laughing, the sound just this side of manic.

They quiet down, forehead to forehead, breathing the same air. Fingon’s weight is grounding on top of him, his skin warm through the thin fabric of their clothes, and Maedhros presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. To his nose, the freckles across it, to his temple.

He does not speak, cannot find the words, but when he touches Fingon again it is deliberate, running his hand along his exposed neck, down his back; pushing it beneath his tunic until he finds warm skin, tracing his ribs, his spine, pulling him impossibly closer.

Fingon watches him through half-lidded eyes, his hands carding idly through Maedhros’ hair. He starts moving his hips, unhurried, and it is almost secondary, the simmering heat of it paling in the face of the fact that they are both here, that Fingon is kissing him, over and over. That Maedhros can touch, mapping out the familiar lines and ridges of Fingon’s body—finding new scars, stories he does not yet know, reminders that nothing lasts. That he can smell him, lavender and sweat; can feel him in the way that Fingon knows where to touch, how to rock against him, how to lick into Maedhros’ mouth until Maedhros is dizzy with it.

They rid each other of their remaining clothes piece by piece, the cool air of early morning making them shiver against each other. The light is dim in the tent, only a few braziers spending low light, and Maedhros lets Fingon push him back into the soft furs, eyes following him, planes of dark skin stretching above him.

“What do you want?” Maedhros asks, running a hand over Fingon’s thigh when Fingon sits back, looking down at him.

Fingon makes as if to speak, then shakes his head. Now that Maedhros looks at him he can see the emotion on his face, his eyes very dark.

He waits; runs his hand up Fingon’s leg, settles it on his hip. Watches silently as Fingon grabs oil from between the furs, some of the severity fleeing his face as he smiles at Maedhros, the slightest hint of teasing in his eyes.

Maedhros has always loved watching Fingon prepare himself, but there is a layer of trust to it now, Fingon holding Maedhros’ eyes as he fingers himself open, that makes it hard to breathe.

His cock jumps when Fingon moves closer, leaning over him. Fingon’s smile grows, and he wraps his oil-slick fingers around Maedhros, stroking him a few times until he is writhing on the furs, fingers digging into Fingon’s hip.

“Fingon,” he says. And, “Please. Please.”

Fingon kisses him, open-mouthed and slow. Lines himself up, and does not look away, still, as he sinks down on him, slow and torturous and so, so good.

When he is fully seated, neither of them moves, the moment crystallising between them. Maedhros is trembling, or maybe it is both of them; a part of him still fears that he will wake up any moment.

“You will not,” Fingon murmurs, pressing the pad of his thumb to Maedhros’ mouth. “I promise, you will not.”

“Fingon,” Maedhros says, the name like a prayer; as if everything else has lost all meaning, and it may as well have, for how this—this is the only thing that matters, Fingon all around him, beginning to move, his hands on Maedhros’ skin, his eyes never leaving him.

Maedhros pushes himself up until Fingon is in his lap once more, until he can push deeper into him, one arm around Fingon’s waist, the other hand in his hair.

They both moan, and Maedhros lets his head drop to Fingon’s shoulder, holds him so close that he can barely move.

It does not matter; even with what little rhythm they manage, they both are getting closer and closer to the edge, no breath of space left between them. Fingon’s breathing is harsh and wet, and Maedhros lifts his head to kiss him again, to wrap his hand around Fingon’s cock and stroke him until he is shuddering and coming, pressing his face into Maedhros’ hair as if he cannot bear to be seen like this tonight.

His clenching around Maedhros is enough to make Maedhros follow, his orgasm washing over him almost lazily, only the noises spilling out of his throat, the way tension finally unravels, giving him away.

They stay as they are, so entwined it is almost impossible to tell where either of them ends. Maedhros is reluctant to pull away, even as his limbs ache, his back protesting.

Fingon sighs as if he can tell, and he presses a kiss to Maedhros’ nose, smiling. He does not speak though, simply moves and arranges them both until they are stretched out on the narrow cot, face to face and a fur pulled over them against the chill.

There are a hundred things that Maedhros should say. That he should do, really, and he waits for the regret, the anger at his own weakness, the shame.

Maedhros is so, so tired of regret.

With careful fingers, he pushes the hair out of Fingon’s face that has come loose from his braids. Smiles. Says, not bothering to hide his wonder or his uncertainty, “You seduced me.”

Fingon snorts, and kisses his fingertips. His humour is edged with something else though, something Maedhros cannot quite place.

Sadness, he realises a moment later when Fingon’s smile slips. It makes him feel all the more wretched for what he is about to say next. “Is that all there was to it?”

It is not as if he could blame Fingon. After all, it had been Maedhros who left, no matter his intentions, no matter—

Fingon does laugh then, and for the first time tonight, there is a hint of bitterness underneath it.

“Twenty years, Russandol,” he says. He is still holding Maedhros’ hand, fingers twitching against his palm. “If I have not found anyone supposedly better yet, I doubt that I will. Trust me, some days I despair over it as much as you do.”

“Findekáno—“

But Fingon shakes his head. Kisses Maedhros’ fingers once more and asks, “If I had led with how I missed you, would it have worked?”

Maedhros considers it. Shakes his head.

Fingon nods, as if he knew. “Do you miss me?”

Closing his eyes, Maedhros laughs, the truth of it so harsh that it threatens to scrape his throat raw. “Varda, Finno, every single day.”

With a hum, Fingon rolls closer and props himself up on an elbow until he can look down at Maedhros. “There you go then.”

It should not be that easy, Maedhros thinks, pulling him down into a kiss. But then, it always has been between them, even when everything else was not.

Fingon is still smiling when they break apart, but there is a glint in his eyes now, his voice holding a warning.

“All that said, if you do try to run again, I will convince my father that you really should take up more diplomatic duties in Barad Eithel. Just so that we are clear, love.”

Maedhros laughs, surprising himself. It unravels the last tattered remains of his doubt, and he pulls Fingon close until his face is pressed into Maedhros’ shoulder, until Maedhros can press his mouth to Fingon’s temple.

“I promise,” he says, heavy and true. “I shall not leave again for as long as this land does not yet tire of us, and then beyond. You are stuck with me now, and you will only have yourself to blame.”

Fingon snorts, as if the mere notion is ludicrous, and perhaps, Maedhros thinks, it is. Perhaps it always has been. Perhaps, in the end, that is really all that matters.

---

Chapter End Notes

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