So apparently I accident;y posted this in HTML, making it next to unreadable. This has been fixed, so sorry!
Where have all the graveyards gone,
Long time passing?
Where have all the graveyards gone,
Long time ago?
Where have all the graveyards gone?
They've gone to flowers every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Of all places, they meet in a cemetery.
The other boy is sitting on one of the headstones and staring off into space. Fingolfin wonders what he's thinking about; he has the makeup, piercings, and dress sense that Fingolfin has come to associate with fellow goths, but rather than the expression of untargeted anger or rehearsed apathy that he generally sees there's genuine thoughtfulness.
"Hello," Fingolfin says, and the boy looks up.
He never knew grey eyes could shine so brightly, but these ones do, making up for the fading light of sunset. "Hello. My name is Fëanor." He has a slight British accent, and when he smiles the light catches his lip piercing.
"Fingolfin," he says, and extends a hand. "Fingolfin Nolofinwe. What are you doing here?"
Fëanor shrugs. "Graveyards are quiet. It's a place to think." He raises an eyebrow, as if waiting for a response. Fingolfin has the impression that there's something Fëanor isn't saying, but he doesn't press the issue.
Fingolfin sits down at the base of the headstone. "Same as you, mostly. My family's busy and there's not a lot of quiet." While he loves his younger brother Finarfin, a smaller family would give him more space to breathe and think.
""I getcha," Fëanor says, and he's quiet after that.
Night is falling when Fëanor next speaks. "Do your parents know where you are?"
Fingolfin shakes his head. "They think I'm at a friend's house." He pauses. "Well, I told them I was going to a friend's house. They probably think I'm drunk at a party, but they're fine with that. As far as Finwe and Indis are concerned, any sign of a normal adolescence is a good sign." He tries to keep the anger out of his tone, and he almost succeeds.
Fëanor laughs, not harsh and bitter like Fingolfin usually hears from black-painted lips but light and genuine. "My dad thinks that too," he says, "the normal-is-good part, obviously, not the drunk part. He doesn't like it much but he knows I'm here." A wry smile and the moonlight catches his piercing again. "He gave up on normality when Mom recovered from her unfortunate condition of personhood.
What on Earth do you say to that?
Fingolfin stands and wraps his arms around Fëanor. The boy's skin - and while Fëanor is probably older that Fingolfin he is a boy right now, small and vulnerable - is icy cold. How long has Fëanor been sitting in this graveyard, on - and the realization hits Fingolfin like a punch to the gut - his mother's tombstone?
Fëanor doesn't respond at first but after a couple of seconds he hugs Fingolfin back, leaning forward into the warm touch like he'll never feel it ever again.
Don't let go," he whispers. And Fingolfin doesn't.