evidence of a love that transcends hunger by atlantablack

We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero's shoulders and a gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it. The lawn drowned, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backward through the glass
of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger. 

Snow and Dirty Rain | Richard Siken

☀︎

Most of his fights with Fingolfin these days, Fëanor will freely acknowledge, he starts. Lately, he has found reasons to start them for no reason other than to watch Fingolfin flush with irritation, to work him up so that it tastes even sweeter when he goes beautifully pliant beneath him. It makes something deep in his chest shiver with satisfaction every time he watches Fingolfin’s eyes lose focus because he’s too lost in the pleasure to care about anything else.

There’s a certain air about them now though when they fight. Tension still, yes, and a great deal of genuine irritation, but also an air of anticipation that coils tight around them as they snap at each other. It is not that Fingolfin has stopped irritating him, is not that there isn’t still a great well of resentment inside of him, it is only that he finds it rather hard to stay truly irritated when in the back of his mind during their fights, he’s mapping out the locations on Fingolfin’s body that he wants to bruise with his mouth.

There is none of that this time.

Fëanor has invited himself over, thinking nothing of it. Has done so many times the past month. The house that Fingolfin had moved into after failing at fixing his relationship with Anairë was situated on the outskirts of Tirion, high on a cliff, with huge windows looking out in the direction of the sea. It makes it easy to visit often without anyone asking questions about his sudden uptick in visits. It makes it more obvious how little Fingolfin leaves his house these days unless it is for some formal function that they have both been summoned to. Though Fëanor is perhaps not the best judge of that considering the only times he leaves his workshop are for the same formal functions or to come bother Fingolfin.

It is not unusual for him to arrive and find Fingolfin sitting in an armchair, feet curled beneath him, and a book dangling from his fingers as he absently stares out the window. Always dressed in loose, summer clothing that billows out about him when he walks and slides off him so easily. It is, however, unusual for Fingolfin to already be so clearly agitated before he even has a chance to say hello. He stands up when Fëanor enters, as if he’d thought to bolt and then realized Fëanor would only follow.  There’s tension evident in every line of his body and he is holding himself very stiffly; he so very obviously does not want Fëanor there. Has not even said hello.

Fëanor likely should know better to push. Not, that knowing better has ever stopped him before. But still, for all that things have softened between them now that they have found a way to work out the tension always hanging between them, there are still times that it snaps tight. Still times he avoids Fingolfin because the venom that pools beneath his tongue will not be the kind that leads to pleasure. He recognizes that tension in Fingolfin now and he should know better, is quite confident that goading him is not a good idea. But he has not been told to leave and he’s never quite been able to resist prodding at Fingolfin’s boundaries until they gave way.

There’s something almost cruel in the slant of his mouth as he watches Fëanor from across the room, something a little too icy in his eyes that Fëanor hasn’t seen since his first week of being re-embodied. Since that first disastrous meeting after being re-embodied where they’d screamed such cruel things at each other they’d only created more problems to work through.

But, despite his better sense, he still crosses the room and gets in Fingolfin’s space. Says, with all the smug condescension that he can muster, “What has gotten you in such a fucking awful mood? Upset that—”

He does not even get a chance to finish being annoying before Fingolfin’s eyes flash with something far too dark to be only fury and his hand snaps out to grab a handful of Fëanor’s hair. He wrenches Fëanor’s head back in a move that is so surprisingly painful it throws him off balance. In the same moment he kicks Fëanor’s feet out from under him and slams him to his knees. He forgets sometimes he thinks, feeling a bit dazed, that Fingolfin had not only fought Morgoth, but lasted an impressive amount of time against him.

Fingolfin pulls his head back until they lock eyes, says, “Why must you be so—” his voice cracks, anger seeping out of every fracture line cracking through his body. He studies the ice in Fingolfin’s eyes and thinks, we never talked about the boats. Not in truth. They have yelled and insulted and sniped at each other for months but they have never truly discussed any of it.

He knows what he needs to do here. Knows what part he needs to play even if it is not a part he’d thought to play when it came to this. When it came to them. He is not sure if he is even capable of playing such a part. But Fingolfin has already given him this, has gone loose and trusting beneath him over and over again, giving Fëanor everything he asks for and then still offering more. If he does not offer the same, does any of this even matter?

Fingolfin is watching him, mouth pulled into a thin, unhappy line as he waits for Fëanor to react; and while it would be very satisfying to snap back and start a real fight, he instead very purposefully relaxes his body and tilts his head back a little more. Offers himself up and watches Fingolfin’s eyes go very wide, his grip on Fëanor’s hair loosening. “Oh,” he breathes, and his eyes do not soften, the cruel slant to his mouth remains, but there is an unbearable gentleness despite that in the way he sinks to his own knees in front of Fëanor and kisses him.

He does not let Fëanor move his head, the clench of his hand in Fëanor’s hair firm even now that it’s no longer painful. His free hand he delicately curls around Fëanor’s throat as they kiss, which serves to punch the breath out of him despite the lack of pressure. It is an unbearably vulnerable position and everything within him recoils and begs to shake Fingolfin off. He curls his hands into fists until the bite of his nails against his palms hurts and does not allow himself to move. He does his best to narrow his focus down to only Fingolfin’s mouth, to the familiar warmth beginning to build up in him. Wants to give Fingolfin whatever it is he needs from this.

The thing is, Fëanor tries very hard to not think about what it is they’re doing. About what they have been doing for a month now. About all the messy complications it will introduce to their lives if anyone ever finds out. Had spared only a few moments to be pathetically thankful that Nerdanel had not wanted to rekindle their relationship and that he did not have to deal with what a mess that would have been. But he tries so carefully to not touch the topic. Skirts around it and thinks of anything else; except for the times when he has Fingolfin pinned to the mattress, skin mapped out with bruises, eyes full of such an unbearable trust that Fëanor wants to break something, and then he can think of nothing else. He can only take and take and let the furious rush of emotions wash over him as he watches Fingolfin shake apart. He could break Fingolfin this way he knows. Could break him and leave him in so many pieces that there would be no recovery for them possible. He is not unaware of what he is being handed.

He tries very hard to not think about it, because if he thinks about it he’ll have to acknowledge how his feelings have softened, how the hatred is slowly burning itself out, and it’s so much easier to simply not acknowledge any of that. He has never existed without the hatred and has no idea what will be left when it’s gone. But here, with Fingolfin slowly kissing him, Fëanor unable to do anything but accept what’s given, he can acknowledge very quietly to himself, that he wants to give Fingolfin this. Is perhaps only surprised that it had taken a full month for Fingolfin to snap. It does not necessarily make it any easier to stay still, but it makes easier to remind himself why he is forcing himself to do so anyway.

Fingolfin pulls back eventually and stares at him, presses his thumb to Fëanor’s pulse and exerts the slightest pressure, listens to Fëanor’s breath hitch, and blinks slowly, gaze considering. “Sometimes, I think…” he says quietly, trailing off and leaving Fëanor to wonder how the sentence was meant to end. Then, voice low, half-want, half-dare, he says, “Go get on the bed.”

Both of his hands fall away and Fëanor could simply leave. He thinks Fingolfin is waiting for him to do so. Instead he stands and holds Fingolfin’s gaze for a moment. This position is more familiar to him. Him standing, Fingolfin at his feet. His hand automatically reaches out to touch Fingolfin’s cheek but is batted away before it can make contact. “The bed,” Fingolfin says again, lips curling into an unpleasant smile. “Are you capable of listening to me at all?”

Fëanor considers this. Considers again the boats and all the smoke that always floats between them. Dips his chin in acknowledgment and turns and walks into the bedroom. It is not in his nature to submit, not for anyone, not for anything. The numerous apologies he’s had to make since he returned had been genuine but he’d still made them with his head held high. What he wants to do is go poke and prod at Fingolfin until he breaks. Until it erupts into true violence. But he has spent months doing that and it has solved nothing. Has only made far too many people wary of being in the room if they are both present. This has been solving things even if it is not exactly in a way anyone at all would have recommended they solve it.

He strips off his clothes when he enters the bedroom and insolently sprawls out on the bed. Is not at all sure what it is Fingolfin plans on doing and is not enjoying being unable to anticipate his moves. Does not have to wait long for Fingolfin to enter the room but that is, as it turns out, the only thing that he does not have to wait on. Fingolfin pauses a few steps away from the bed and simply stares at him, gaze heavy as he drags his eyes down Fëanor’s body.

Fëanor had not realized how very accustomed he’d already become to Fingolfin’s gaze either softening or going hot when they looked at each other. Is unsettled to find that he hates the ice in them now, the way it seems to spread from Fingolfin’s eyes to the sharp cut of his mouth, to the carefully still way he’s holding himself, like he expects something to give if he lets himself move. Fingolfin meets his eyes again and Fëanor is struck with the sudden knowledge that had he lived, had he survived to see Fingolfin arrive in Beleriand, this is the shadow of the half-brother he would have met. Only fresh off the ice and so much colder; full of nothing but anger for Fëanor.

Fingolfin’s hand twitches and then he turns and disappears into the closet. Returns a moment later with fabric clenched in his hand. “Sit up,” he tells Fëanor, kneeling on the bed next to him.

Fëanor does so slowly, eyeing the fabric as a suspicion takes form in his mind. Fingolfin lets the fabric unspool in his hands and it is, as he’d suspected, a silk sash from one of Fingolfin’s formal robes. A deep blue one that he suspects was chosen in that color on purpose. A second blue one shot through with silver lies pooled in Fingolfin’s lap. He looks away from the fabric and meets Fingolfin’s eyes, finds a long familiar challenge in them, one that he’s never backed down from. But this. This.

“Hold your hands out,” Fingolfin says softly.

He clenches his jaw. Looks at the sash again. He does not want to. Cannot stand the idea of being so completely bared and vulnerable before anyone. Knows that Fingolfin knows that. Knows that’s why he’s doing this. Fingolfin does not rush him, simply sits there, silk laid across his palms. Fëanor does not have to do this but. But if he does not, where does everything go from there? He is not foolish enough to think that he can walk away from this now and still expect Fingolfin to go to his knees for him again.

He meets Fingolfin’s eyes again, finds the lines around them slightly softer. Steels his spine and does not let himself think too hard on why this feels so devastatingly important. On why failure is not an option. Curls both his hands into fists and holds them out, wrists pressed to each other. A spark of surprise flashes across Fingolfin’s face and Fëanor takes a vicious satisfaction in having proven him wrong.

The silk is cool against his skin as Fingolfin loops it around his wrists and then between them, knotting the fabric firmly. He tugs at it when Fingolfin lets go and curses the weavers for being so good at their craft. It is not tied so tight as to hurt but there is no give to it at all. He does not get a chance to dwell on it before Fingolfin is pulling him into a harsh kiss that he cannot help but instinctively meet.

“Lie down,” Fingolfin says against his mouth, eyes wild and dark. “Head on the pillows.”

Fëanor only hesitates for a few seconds this time. Has already pieced together what it is Fingolfin plans to do and does not like it. But he has already made it this far, it would be folly to quit now. It is still somehow alarming when Fingolfin straddles him, the clothes he hasn’t bothered to take off soft against Fëanor’s skin, and loops his finger through the silk around his wrists, pulling them above his head. A kiss is brushed across the back of each hand as Fingolfin uses the second sash to knot his hands to the headboard. A kiss to the strip of skin directly above the silk. Fëanor breathes in very slowly, breathes out the same.

Fingolfin pulls back and stares down at him, runs a finger down his cheek, satisfaction written all over his body. Fëanor wants to punch him. “I did not think you would give me this,” Fingolfin says, as his finger continues its trail down Fëanor’s neck and chest, pausing only when it settles on his nipple and then it simply rests there.

Fëanor is going to crawl out of his skin if Fingolfin does not get the fuck on with it. “Well I have,” he says, voice coming out far more strained than he would have liked. “Are you going to fucking do something with it?”

Fingolfin has the nerve to laugh at him, a distinctly smug note to the sound. Fëanor reflexively pulls against the bonds in irritation and goes tense all over when it does not give even an inch. Something in Fingolfin’s face does soften at that, enough to at least ease the paranoia trying to creep into his thoughts. He leans down to kiss him and does not let up this time. It is always so easy to get lost in kissing him, to the point of eclipsing all else. If asked, Fëanor would not be able to give a reason for why that, out of all the things they have done, is the one that so easily distracts him the most. Knows only that they’d both spent centuries using their mouths only to spear hate beneath the other’s skin. To have that same mouth now on his feels like some kind of benediction.

And it would be easy still to get lost in kissing him if Fëanor did not keep reflexively trying to reach for him, a reminder to himself over and over that he cannot. There is something singularly overwhelming about not having his own hands to rely on. The silk is soft around his wrists and Fingolfin’s hair is tickling his collarbone, falling around them as they kiss and blocking out much of the light. One of Fingolfin’s hands has gone back to lightly resting around his throat and the feeling of fabric between them still is just abrasive enough that it makes Fëanor hyper-aware of all the places it is touching him. It is not necessarily an awful sensation overall except for the way that the lack of control makes his skin crawl. It is not an awful sensation except that there is nothing he could do to stop it even if it was.

When Fingolfin pulls away, taking the most uncomplicated part of this away from him, he finds himself cursing and trying to follow Fingolfin’s mouth. Does not realize how tense he is until Fingolfin runs a hand up his arm, a frown on his face. He kisses him again, soft and short. Presses his forehead against Fëanor’s so that all he can see are Fingolfin’s eyes, a thin ring of ice blue edged out by want. “Do you need me to untie you?” he asks quietly. He still has his hand resting on Fëanor’s arm, thumb moving in a slow, soothing circle, as if Fëanor is a spooked animal that he needs to calm.

Fëanor would love to be untied. Hates losing. Hates even more that in the back of his mind he has worked out the equation of what this is giving his brother. If he had not, if he did not know precisely what it is he would be throwing away, then maybe he could squash his pride in favor of being untied. He closes his eyes, draws to mind an image of Fingolfin splayed out on the bed, staring up at Fëanor dazed and mouth violently red from how long they’ve kissed. Draws to mind the trust that echoes through Fingolfin’s entire body every time he lets Fëanor hold him down. If Fëanor had any interest in tying him up like this he would let him without question. If he tells Fingolfin to untie him, it is as good as looking him in the face and saying, your trust doesn’t matter because I don’t trust you, I never have, I never will. He doesn’t think they’re capable of coming back from that again when they haven’t even yet recovered from the first time.

He also, it should be noted, really fucking hates losing.

He carefully releases the tension in his muscles, forces his body to go loose, and tilts his chin up to kiss Fingolfin. Curses himself for caring about any of this to begin with. “No,” he says back, just as quietly. “Take what you need.”

A harsh sound tears out of Fingolfin’s throat and then he is kissing Fëanor in earnest, messy and like he’s trying to crawl down Fëanor’s throat. He curls his fingers around the silk and kisses back, makes himself focus on nothing but the warmth of Fingolfin’s mouth on his, nothing but the feeling of Fingolfin’s hand on his throat, on the burn that goes blooming across his ribs as Fingolfin scratches a set of harsh red lines across his chest.

“Find your own tricks,” he bites out. He cannot tell, with the way his body feels like a bow string strung tight, whether he enjoyed the sensation or not. Knows only that it was overwhelming.

Fingolfin hums, presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Slides his hand down Fëanor’s throat unbearably slow, his mouth following the same path. “If you insist,” he says against Fëanor’s collarbone, the press of his teeth only a threat, never a pain like the way Fëanor delights in biting down. His eyes are glittering when Fëanor raises his head to look down at him, all that ice in his eyes shattered into a thousand sharp shards. He fails to fight back the shiver that trembles down his spine. Knows danger when he sees it.

Fingolfin continues a slow trail down his body, everywhere his hands touch his mouth follows. Bites down only once when he gets to the curve of Fëanor's hip, sucking a bruise onto the skin and digging his thumb in afterward. Fëanor, though still putting a good deal of conscious effort into not focusing on his hands, has relaxed enough for Fingolfin's touch to go directly to his cock, the one piece of him that is avidly being ignored. He will not ask for it but he badly wants to be touched. His skin feels overly sensitive, every spot that Fingolfin's mouth touched still prickling. He feels Fingolfin's teeth against his hip, mouth so terribly close to where he wants it, and make a noise he'll never admit to, a strangled whine that he only half manages to swallow down.

He can feel Fingolfin smile against his hip at the noise before sitting up and reaching for the oil that he's taken to keeping in the drawer of his bedside table. They have not done it this way before, but with how beautifully Fingolfin begs for it he has been finding himself curious about how it feels from this end. Easily lets his legs fall open. And then for a long moment there is no movement, only Fingolfin's hand on his thigh and his own shaky breathing.

He lifts his head to find Fingolfin sitting back on his heels between his legs, staring at Fëanor, looking cut open. A great swell of emotion is playing across his face that Fëanor cannot identify. "Nolvo," he says, proud of how even his voice is.

The ice in his eyes is flickering as he meets Fëanor's eyes. "I want to hear you scream," he says softly, digging his nails into Fëanor's thigh.

He cannot help but scoff at the idea. "I wish you luck with that," he says. Realizing too late that it's exactly the response Fingolfin had wanted. He does not just want my trust, Fëanor realizes, trepidation sliding through the thought. He wants my surrender.

Fingolfin smiles at him, a deceptively gentle thing that causes Fëanor to tip his head back against the pillows once more, blindly staring at the ceiling as anticipation and unease both go sparking through him. There's a gentle kiss pressed to the side of his knee, the inside of his thigh, the crease of his hip. A ghost of air across his cock that sends a shiver through him.

He hisses out a shocked breath as the first finger slips inside of him. Tries to decide how he feels about the sensation and gets as far as, strange, before Fingolfin is gripping his cock at the base and swallowing him down in one smooth motion. A thin moan tears out of him as he fucks up into Fingolfin's mouth. He distantly hears himself gasping but cannot bring himself to care when it feels as if every nerve ending in his body has been struck. Fingolfin slowly fucks him with one finger and then hollows his cheeks and sucks hard as he adds a second.

Fëanor's body cannot decide if it wants to focus on the wet heat of Fingolfin's mouth or the slight burn as Fingolfin fucks him with two fingers or the silk that he's clutching at in effort to maintain some form of self-control. Finds himself bearing down, searching for more. Lifts his head again to look down and a bright surge of lust goes pouring through him at the sight of Fingolfin still in his clothes, with Fëanor's cock down his throat, and his hand moving between Fëanor’s legs. Sucks in a desperate breath and then another; sticky, honey sweet heat pooling in his stomach and at the base of his spine.

Fingolfin glances up, eyes very dark, and then pulls off with a lewd pop right as he feels himself getting close, the warmth spreading out through his body in waves. Squeezes the base of his cock and smirks at him. "Not yet," he says, his fingers slowing to a glacial pace.

He knows he makes some kind of noise but cannot hear it over his own heartbeat. Fingolfin buries his smile against Fëanor's hip, his breath shaking against Fëanor's skin. Scissors his finger apart and then crooks them upward. The breath punches out of him as a pleasure spears through him; he tries to reach for Fingolfin, cannot, and chokes on a moan that tears out of him.

"Nolvo," he says, half-plea, half-want. He feels Fingolfin breath out against his hip, this breath shakier than the last. "Nolvo."

Fingolfin's fingers disappear and he only narrowly swallows down the whine that wants to follow, drops his head and clenches his eyes shut as he tries to breathe. Moans low and long when they’re pressed back in, fingers slick as Fingolfin works a third one in. Fëanor wants more. Does not want to ask. Bites down on the noise that wants to rip out of him when Fingolfin once again fucks into him and sends pleasure spearing through him. There’s a rhythm to them now, Fingolfin fucking his fingers unerringly against that spot, and then he leans in and once again takes Fëanor’s cock in his mouth.

Fëanor bites his lip until he tastes blood, wonders if the whimpers leaking out from between his teeth are more or less humiliating than the scream that Fingolfin wants to hear. The heat goes rippling out through him again, humming beneath his skin. “Nolvo,” he says, right as the pleasure starts to rush together, and then he yanks against the silk so hard he hears the bed frame creak, for Fingolfin has once again pulled off, his fingers going completely still.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Fingolfin says chidingly, a wicked glint in his eyes when Fëanor glares at him, the pleasure hovering unsteadily for a moment and then slowly retreating.

“Fuck you,” he rasps out, voice shaking despite himself. Fingolfin smiles sharply at him and twists his fingers, fucking into him hard just once; he shivers, feeling the motion rock through his entire body as a strangled moan slips out.

“You should see yourself,” Fingolfin says, the smile slipping away. His voice has gone terrifyingly soft, wonder threaded through the words. “I could keep you here for hours.”

“Don’t you dare."

Fingolfin, worryingly, does not respond. Idly fucks his fingers into him and smooths his hand up Fëanor’s stomach, leaning up so that he can cradle Fëanor’s cheek and run his thumb across Fëanor’s mouth. Fëanor, horrifyingly, feels his chest go tight at the gesture, as if a great hand has reached inside of him and squeezed his lungs. Turns his face and kisses the center of Fingolfin's palm so that he does not have to look at the wonder in Fingolfin’s eyes. Fingolfin makes a soft, punched out noise. He kisses the corner of Fëanor’s mouth and then, when he turns to meet the kiss, eagerly opening his mouth, Fingolfin kisses him deep and slow. Doesn’t let up until Fëanor has gone completely lax beneath him, lost in the simple pleasure of Fingolfin’s mouth on his. 

"How far do you think I can push you?" Fingolfin whispers when he pulls back. "How much can you take?"

Fëanor, for once, swallows down his instinctive urge to proclaim that he can take anything. His control has already gone slipping down a hill he hadn’t realized he was standing on. He feels like a lightning strike has struck through his body and left part of itself behind. Can think of nothing to say that will not be taken as a dare. Still refuses to beg for anything but strains forward, chasing Fingolfin's mouth. Hears his voice crack when he says Fingolfin's name again and wonders if there is any meaningful difference between begging and the way all he can think of to say is Fingolfin's name.

Fingolfin gives him the kiss that he wants and then leaves another string of kisses down his body as he retreats. Worries at first one nipple, then the other as his fingers speed up again, and Fëanor jerks at the silk once more as the wave of heat crests, so close to crashing, before dissolving as Fingolfin once again slows down just enough to deny him what he wants.

He thinks he loses track somewhere around there. Can only jump from one sensation to the next — the press of a fourth finger added, the sensation of feeling too full and yet wanting more regardless, the slick oil dripping down his thighs, the tight circle of Fingolfin's fingers around the base of his cock, Fingolfin's tongue pressed inside of him, his teeth against Fëanor’s hip. He does not know how many times he gets so close to spilling before being denied, knows only that it happens again, and this time it rips a sob out of him. He thinks he’d be embarrassed about that if he had the wherewithal left to care.

This earns him a brief reprieve, Fingolfin leaning up again to kiss him, and it is not until he gently kisses Fëanor's cheeks that he realizes there are tears staining his face. "You're doing so well," Fingolfin says, voice horribly, wondrously gentle. "Once more I think."

Fëanor is too desperate to care about the whine that slips out of him. "Nolvo," he says and does not recognize his own voice, the wrecked, desperate pleading infused in every syllable. "Please, I— Please."

Fingolfin's mouth parts in shock and for a moment he looks as if Fëanor has torn something from him, a great weeping wound so clearly visible in his eyes. "Yes," he says softly. "Okay." And for all his softness, the kiss he leaves Fëanor with is hungry and desperate and steals all the air out of the room.

It takes so little for Fingolfin to push him to the brink again. He swallows Fëanor's cock all the way down, humming around it, and fucks into Fëanor at a brutal pace, twisting his fingers until he hits just the right spot and this time there is no warning before the wave of pleasure goes ripping through him. For a moment everything goes white, and he does not scream as he arches off the bed, but the desperate, shaking moans falling out of his mouth do not make this feel like a fight he has won.

Fingolfin fucks him through it and swallows everything Fëanor gives him. Keeps fucking into him until Fëanor is gasping and trying to squirm away, too sensitive, the sparks of pleasure starting to border on pain. Fingolfin presses his face against Fëanor's hip, breath coming out in shaky gasps. Pulls away to straddle Fëanor, cradling his face between both hands and kissing him. Fëanor shivers at the hunger he can still feel in the kiss, at the shocks of pleasure still echoing through him. Still pushes into it, the wet heat of Fingolfin’s mouth on his as comforting as it is pleasurable.

"Can you take a little more?" Fingolfin asks, voice remarkably steady considering the way Fëanor can feel him shaking, cock hard and heavy against Fëanor's stomach.

Can he? He does not know. He feels lit up. He feels boneless, everything pleasantly hazy in the afterglow. Feels like his heart still hasn’t left the home it’s made of his throat. He tries to think of an answer, comes up only with, "I told you, take what you need," mind too fuzzy to think of anything else.

Fingolfin blinks at him, and it is not ice in his eyes anymore. He’s looking at Fëanor like he’s seeing the sun for the first time and Fëanor doesn’t know what to do with that. Thinks if he lets himself think on it for too long the amount of trust they’re trying to put in each other’s hands will make him do something foolish. Instead, he flexes his fingers around the silk and holds on as Fingolfin finally sheds his clothes. Fingolfin hikes one of Fëanor’s legs over his shoulder and then presses forward to kiss him, pressing their bodies together and the feeling of skin against skin sends another shiver through him. There's a feeling building in his chest, a well full to the brim, and threatening to overflow at the slightest provocation. Fingolfin pulls away, pressing his mouth to Fëanor's neck, and then, a blunt pressure slowly pressing inside of him, Fëanor's chest seizing as he tries to remember to breathe. It is not only that it feels as if his body is trying to turn itself inside out to mute the pleasure, it is also that he had underestimated the way it would feel to be so fully and completely filled and surrounded by his brother.

He's whimpering again, cannot seem to stop as Fingolfin slowly presses inside of him, every inch another explosion of pleasure-pain. He whines when Fingolfin bottoms out and pauses. Wants more. Wants it to stop. Wants. He wants, he thinks, to let Fingolfin live inside of his body. Maybe if they'd been born as one person instead of in separate bodies they'd have never torn themselves open trying to beat the world into submission.

Fingolfin breathes out shakily and then bites down on his throat right as he pulls out and slams back in and completely against Fëanor’s will a thin scream is ripped out of him as his back arches. When he had died in Beleriand, burns around his arms and legs and neck, he had felt as if he could feel every single cell of his body de-materializing and turning into sparks to be left on the wind. This — the overwhelming intensity of Fingolfin's mouth and the drag of his cock inside of Fëanor, and the press of their bodies together, the complete lack of control — feels nearly the same. Like there is something beneath his skin shifting and rearranging itself, shaking apart to make room for an overabundance of want and pleasure.

He doesn't realize he's closed his eyes, tears leaking down his face again, until Fingolfin slows and says fiercely, "Look at me."

He looks. Finds an ocean of grief staring back. And behind it, a slow rising sunrise, all awe and wonder as he takes in Fëanor's face. "Nolvo," he says, feels Fingolfin’s hips stutter.

And then, clenched between his teeth like a rotten seed, a name he has never said without resentment attached to it, “Ñolofinwë." Fingolfin's face goes blank with shock

And lastly, as a savage, biting pleasure goes coiling up his spine, "Brother."

Fingolfin's face breaks open, a strangled sob bursting out of him. He furiously kisses Fëanor, licking into his mouth just in time to swallow another scream that gets caught in his throat as he impossibly seems to come again despite not even having grown hard. He clenches tight around Fingolfin, near sobbing as it all spirals into too much, and Fingolfin gasps against his mouth, fucks into him hard, once, twice, and spills inside of him.

They both lay there for a long moment after, breathing in each other’s air as their hearts slow. Fingolfin eases out of him slowly, murmuring sh, sh, you did so well, as he whimpers at the feeling. The silk is untied and slowly unwrapped, Fingolfin kissing the inside of each wrist as it’s freed. You were so good, Fingolfin whispers as he wipes the tears off Fëanor’s face. You gave me so much. Fëanor wants to say back, you gave it to me first, but cannot quite summon the energy to do more than stretch and reach for Fingolfin.

Fingolfin makes him wait until he’s cleaned them both off, until he’s fetched a glass of water and made Fëanor drink it. Only then he does let Fëanor pull him close. Fëanor tangles their legs together, presses in until they’re completely pressed up against each other, faces only inches apart. Has the rotten need for them to keep breathing the same air until his body stops feeling like an open wound. Fingolfin hums softly, pulls the sheets over them, and runs his hand down Fëanor’s side, settles it on his hip, his fingers unerringly finding the bruise he’d left.

He drifts for a while, too wrung out to be anything but calm. Gathers his self-control back around himself in increments. Tries to summon up some shame at having broken so thoroughly beneath Fingolfin’s hands and cannot find any. Knows already that he’ll let Fingolfin do it again if that’s what is needed. There’s maybe something he should be taking away from that.

Fingolfin keeps discordantly humming snatches of a song Fëanor can’t place, his fingers playing along Fëanor’s side, moving to a melody only he can hear. This is far from the first time that they’ve lain together after sex but it is the first time they’ve lain facing each other. Usually it is Fëanor plastered to Fingolfin’s back, and he finds that it is a much different experience being able to silently watch Fingolfin’s face. Finds himself, without quite meaning to, raising his hand to smooth out the frown lines beginning to appear on Fingolfin’s forehead. 

Fingolfin sighs and seems to try to press them even tighter together, as if their hearts are not already beating against each other. “I’m afraid you have caught me on a truly awful day,” he says, sounding tired.

Fëanor snorts. “Really? I had not noticed.” It is easy to close the mere inches between them and steal a kiss. Nothing more than a slow, lingering press of lips. “Tell me.”

It is perhaps the first time he’s given Fingolfin an opening to speak about all the things hanging between them and meant it. The first time he’s done so with the intention of truly listening. Fingolfin hesitates, searching his face for something. Must find it for he says haltingly, “Sometimes, I still dream about the ice. The way it cracked and the way I always knew when something had gone wrong because the screaming carried so easily on the wind. And then I wake up and I—” he breaks off, the ice flickering through his eyes again.

“And you want to punish me for it,” he finishes. Cannot blame Fingolfin for wishing to do so.

“And then I want to punish you,” Fingolfin agrees lowly, his fingers digging into Fëanor’s hip.

He had, when he’d first been released from Mandos, had every intention of having a perfectly civil conversation with his half-brother, where he apologized for the most obvious pains he’d inflicted, and then he’d planned on simply never speaking to him again to save them both the headache. He had, of course, forgotten how easily they stepped on each other’s nerves. How well practiced they were in pissing each other off. His apologies had never been made, instead he’d only said things — some that he meant, some that he didn’t — that created new apologies to be made.

“I shouldn’t have left you,” he says, tangling his fingers in Fingolfin’s hair and pressing their foreheads together. Finds that the confession rolls off his tongue easily. Fingolfin’s eyes close, a pained look painting its way across his face. “I should have listened to the oath you gave me and taken you with me.”

“You should have,” Fingolfin agrees softly. “And yet…” he sighs, opening his eyes and meeting Fëanor’s. “And yet, I find the idea of myself in Beleriand without the experience of crossing the ice incomprehensible. Would anything have been better? Would we have made it worse?”

He shrugs. Does not care to waste time on such thoughts. “It matters not. It matters only that I should not have left you. And I—” he hesitates, the words somehow feeling too large to be placed between them when there is so little space separating them. He pushes on regardless. “And I am sorry. For the pain it caused you and for the pain it brought upon your people.”

“Do you know,” Fingolfin says thoughtfully, pressing his thumb to the corner of Fëanor’s mouth. “I think I actually believe you. I had not thought I would if indeed you ever said those words.”

He cannot help but smile. “So, you are saying that if I had said those words when I first returned, as I intended to before you pissed me off, you would not have believed me?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Fingolfin’s shoulders shake with repressed laughter. “If I recall, the first time you saw me after returning, you called me quite a number of names and heavily implied that I hadn’t deserved the title of king at all.”

“You called me a fair few number of names as well,” he points out. And then, because it should be said, even if he had not planned on ever saying it, “You were a good king.”

Fingolfin blinks at him, mirth fallen away. And then, a challenging look flaring to life in his eyes, “Would you bow to me?”

“Have I not already?”

“No. Not willingly.”

Fëanor considers that. He feels the point has been rather effectively made but it is not as if it will cost him anything to prove it again when it had already been his intention to give Fingolfin this again if he wished it. “Then next time,” he says quietly, scared of how easy it is for him to offer this up, “instead of forcing me to my knees, ask, and I’ll go down freely of my own will.”

“Oh,” Fingolfin says faintly, and does not give Fëanor a chance to wonder at the reaction before he is being pressed back against the bed and kissed. Fëanor ignores the worries beginning to sprout in the back of his mind about the danger of this relationship, and against all sense, kisses his brother back and lets himself get lost in it.

☀︎

Chapter End Notes

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