Disclaimer: I took the lyrics 'If you want to kiss the sky, better learn how to kneel. On your knees, boy.' from U2's 'Mysterious Ways' as inspiration. Thank you to them. Also, none of these characters are mine, obviously. All belong to Tolkien.

Absence

He had been in a fey mood since he arrived. His gaze was darker than usual, and he murmured words under his breath. Even his brothers seemed edgy around him. Caranthir, who was usually countering every word that came from any other mouth besides his own, had done everything Maedhros had asked without word. Fingon was troubled. And now, as he sat on the bed in the room that had always been his cousin's quarters, apprehension welled in his stomach.

Maedhros was calm as he went from wardrobe to table and back, setting his cloak down, followed by his startling arsenal of weapons: daggers, knives, and throwing stars among others. And, of course, his sword, which he laid down gently. When he lowered a hand as if to unbuckle his belt, Fingon began to get up.

"Let me help you—"

"No."

The tone in which the refusal was spoken was startling. It was cold, and as sharp as the blade that the belt was set down over. He had become more skilled at every day tasks with just one hand, the younger Elf noted.

There was a long pause when neither of them moved. "Are you well, Mai—" Seemingly, Maedhros had acquired an aptitude for interrupting. He straightened immediately, casting a strange smile at Fingon.

"How do fair with kingship, Findekáno?"

He furrowed his brow. The son of Fëanor had not even greeted him earlier. Maglor had done so instead.

With a reluctant sigh, an answer came: "Well enough, though I feel confined."

"Confined?"

"Yes. I miss the freedom I had. I desire to kiss the skies again."

Another long silence. Maedhros gazed at him. He shifted uncomfortably, and a smirk touched the redhead's lips. "What is wrong, my love? Can you not even bear for me to look at you anymore? I see. I am sure she would not even raise her eyes to look at you unless you wished it." He chuckled, though Fingon was less than amused. Once, Maedhros might have flinched if his lover glared at him.

"Stop."

"Why?" The High King resisted the urge to draw back as the other approached and ran a gentle touch over his cheek. "Does my touch also repulse you, my lord? Then I wonder why you followed me to my bedroom. For in the past you would be under me already, and you be asking me to take you. And I would kiss you. But now you would rather kiss the heavens than my lips, wouldn't you?"

At last Fingon did draw away, unpleasant shivers running up his spine. "You are frightening me." He stood, trying to slip past Maedhros; but an arm slunk around his torso before he could move very far.

"Good. Perhaps you will begin to feel the kind of pain you make me feel." His grip tightened and Fingon could feel his heart quicken. Why was he being like this? Had he gone mad? The thought was blood chilling. Insanity was a just fear among Fëanorians. He uttered a silent prayer, reaching up to tangle his hands in the red locks. Hoping that perhaps his cousin was just angry, he tried to pull him down for a kiss. It was met with an angry growl.

Why couldn't he understand that an heir was necessary? Why couldn't he understand that after three decades of absence he had assumed him dead?

I hate you, Maitimo. I hate your mind, and your heart, and your every bone.

And, as if a reply:

I love you, Findekáno.

Maedhros must have had a change of heart. His tight, near violent grip relaxed, and he was willingly pulled down for a kiss. Nipping, biting, bruising. Breathless. Three hands made fast work of discarding their tunics, until two pale chests were left bare and heaving.

Fingon moaned quietly as their carnal kiss was broken. He was unaccustomed to this passion. Their encounters were usually so gentle, so careful. It rooted back to when Maedhros was still physically unable to partake in anything too rough. It was only after long intervals of time away from each other did they love each other fiercely, though never such as this.

"I cannot bear your children, but I can give you freedom like she could not." A new kind of shiver now ran down his back at the hot breath at his ear. "However, if you want to kiss the sky, you better learn how to kneel." Maedhros' almost chantingly sweet voice abruptly turned into a hiss. His fingers slipped down to his own leggings, whereat he began to unlace them. "On your knees, boy. I will bow to you in court."

A registered expression of surprise crossed his face. The harsh command was unexpected. Not knowing how to refuse, he slowly lowered himself down, hooking his fingers into the waistband of the breeches, pulling them down with the care that had been previously lacking. His lover was very much aroused; it pleased Fingon.

He took the heated column of flesh into his mouth. It drew a long, almost pained moan from Maedhros' mouth. "Ai, Elbereth." It was whispered. Slender fingers stroked the dark hair tenderly, coaxing him on.

And so Fingon continued, savoring the gentle touch on his head. He wondered if anything past this would continue down this path, if it continued at all. Maedhros might just be happy with these ministrations.

"Enough," he murmured gruffly, softly pushing at his shoulder. The younger Elf took the hint and drew away.

I hate you for belittling me like this.

I love you, Findekáno.

"Have you lost your mind, Russandol?" It was an earnest question; it was not meant to be malicious. Had he meant it to be an attack, he would not have asked it when his head was resting against his lover's hip.

Maedhros looked down at him, and he reminded Fingon of a kind of broken item of beauty. There was a new, ugly scar above one of his red eyebrows; it was not healed yet. There were scars, old ones and new alike, that were scattered about his chest and stomach, and he looked paler than usual in the room lit only by the moonbeams shining through the window. He trailed his gaze back up to his face. There was that fire, burning as blue flame in his eyes.

"If I have, does it matter?"

I hate you for your insanity.

I love you, Findekáno.

"No."

I hate you for making me lie!

The son of Fingolfin began to rise, stopping only to take a nipple between his teeth, to which the redhead growled at. He fisted a few locks of the raven hair and pulled Fingon back up to his full height. In a matter of moments they were kissing again, shedding their remaining clothing before falling back into the bed. Maedhros had taken the lead again, stroking and kissing with the ardor he only showed in battle. Fingon, for though he was still unnerved by this strange behavior, felt himself craving more of the rough treatment, if only so his partner would return to normal.

Fingon slung a leg over Maedhros' waist. "There's oil… under the pillow." He realized how strange that must sound. But he had missed him… missed this… and when scouts reported the Fëanorian brood was approaching he had gotten his cousin's chambers ready immediately. The strange look that the servant gave him at the request that a vial of oil be placed under his pillow had not been missed. It mattered little; over the years their relationship began to lose its secrecy.

Whilst in his reverie, the body covering him had drawn away to make good use of the slippery substance. He coated himself with it as Fingon looked on with parted lips. A smirk played on the tall Elf's lips. "Have you forgotten?"

"Yes."

A tumble of flesh later Maedhros was sheathed inside of him, sweat gleaming over his brow.

He had thrust into the body below him almost brutally; it pained the other, he knew, from sharp hiss he heard. "You hurt me," Fingon murmured, closing his eyes against the tears.

Maedhros leaned down to brush their lips together. "You hurt me." That said, he began to move, drowning his lover's whimpers with hard kisses. The High King was willing, though. He dragged his nails over any skin he could, eventually meeting the thrusts. The eyes above would not meet his gaze.

Neither of them lasted long. The elder came first, choking out a strange cry; Fingon followed after a hand grasped him, stroking him to completion. The near dead weight collapsed on him.

There was barely any breath coming from Maedhros, and one may have thought him dead if he hadn't dragged himself down his cousin's body. Fingon felt the head of damp red hair come to lie on his breast. Their searing skin was slowly cooled.

But then hot moisture burned non-existent holes into his flesh. He looked down, startled, amazed to hear strangled sobs. "Maitimo?"

Maedhros tightened his grip on the shoulder that he was clutching, the tears coming more heavily now. "I love you, Findekáno."

Fingon furrowed his brow and touched him soothingly on the head.

I hate you, "my love."