Pairing: Maedhros/Fingon

Word count: ~1,600 words

Some keywords: romance, emotional hurt/comfort, implied sexual content, secret relationship

A/N: Another three-year-old fic that I haven't dared to post on ffnet before.

Because I always want to warn for everything that anyone might find triggering or upsetting, I'll say that there is some stuff in the dialogue and the whole situation that can be interpreted as (internalised) homophobia. However, in my opinion at least, a more likely interpretation is that Maitimo and Findekáno are desperate to keep their relationship secret primarily because they are half-cousins and their fathers have become each other's worst enemies, not because they are both men. In any case, they certainly have a lot of problems, and my intention is to leave it to the reader to decide which one they consider the worst.

And though this is angsty, there is tenderness and sexiness here too, not just misery.

Let's pretend and be wildfire

'Let's pretend', says Findekáno as soon as he throws open the door of the hunting lodge that is their meeting place this time. A little startled, Maitimo rises from the table where he's been waiting and comes to take off his lover's wet cloak. He looks at Findekáno questioningly.

'Let's pretend that we're not us', Findekáno continues frantically, his usual steadiness nowhere to be seen. 'That our fathers don't hate each other, that we don't have to pretend that we're not even friends anymore, that our love wouldn't cause the greatest scandal and crisis in the history of our people if anyone found out –'

Findekáno's speech is far from eloquent and his fingers that have begun unbuttoning Maitimo's tunic at a speed likely to cause damage to the fine garment are shaking, far from nimble, but Maitimo understands both the words and the actions and agrees with it all.

Heart aching, he takes both of Findekáno's trembling hands into his own and kisses the knuckles. 'Yes, let's pretend', he says quietly. 'Let's pretend that I didn't bite my tongue and look away when my father called you and your brother fools, and worse, in the council meeting yesterday. I'm so sorry, my love.'

'Don't be. I told you to stop defending me, didn't I? When we last met like this.' Findekáno pulls his hands away and looks around the one room of the modest hunting lodge, one of their many secret meeting places. 'It does no good, just makes the arguments messier.'

Maitimo closes the door Findekáno left open in his hurry. 'Who shall we pretend to be, then, if we are not to be ourselves for tonight?'

Findekáno resumes stripping Maitimo of his tunic and undershirt, a little less desperation in his movements than before. 'Finno and Russo', he says to Maitimo's collarbone. 'Those young fools in love we used to be, whose biggest worry was how not to leave footprints in the flowerbed beneath your window, who snuck into dark corners to kiss during boring parties, and bickered about whose younger siblings were the most annoying…'

Maitimo closes his eyes as memories flood in, conjured by Findekáno's uncharacteristically quiet words. Then he opens his eyes again, because it will not do to waste even a moment when he could be looking at his beloved with the open adoration he must hide at all other times.

They used to think they had it difficult, having to sneak around their homes to spend nights together, but it was so much more than these few nights far away from Tirion that they dare to claim for their love now.

'Finno', he says, his voice rough. He tries to summon some frivolity to it. 'Your clothes are all wet from the rain, so I think it's more important that I remove them than that you take off my shirt.'

Findekáno looks up at him, wordless gratitude in his eyes. 'Nothing could ever be more important than getting you naked', he says. His attempt at light-hearted flirtation is more successful than Maitimo's, as it ever was.

The buttons finally undone, Maitimo shakes the tunic off his shoulders and pulls his undershirt off for good measure. 'I disagree, but let's just compromise by both getting naked.'

'Wise as ever', Findekáno compliments and twines his arms around Maitimo's neck. 'But absent-minded, for you've forgotten to do something.'

Maitimo shivers from the feeling of Findekáno's damp hunting leathers against his bare chest but doesn't pull away. 'What have I forgotten?'

'Young, besotted Russandol would never have gone this long without kissing his Finno.' Findekáno's pouts as if terribly disappointed; when Maitimo bends down and kisses him, it is with lips curved into a smile.

It is a familiar feeling to begin a kiss with a smile, for Findekáno has always been able make Maitimo smile, and smiles and kisses used to be inextricably woven together for them.

Not so lately, and though they are supposed to be pretending now to be young and carefree again, soon the smile in the kiss fades away and the touch of their lips becomes desperate. Lips press hard, hands hold tight, and they don't break for breath.

Findekáno's fingers twisting into his lover's hair painfully tight make Maitimo pull away just far enough to speak, his breath warm on both their faces. 'Let go, Finno', he says quietly. 'Let go of my hair.'

'No', Findekáno says and tries to kiss him again, but Maitimo lifts his head away and grips Findekáno's forearms, stilling his movements. The reminder of the size and strength that Maitimo's mild manners make easy to forget causes Findekáno's eyes to grow dark, and he is ever more determined to kiss him again.

'No', he repeats. 'Why, Russo? Why would I let go?'

'So that I can carry you to bed', Maitimo says, and his voice is rough again, all light flirtation gone, replaced by fierce determination.

That voice, and the look on Maitimo's face, is more like his present-day self – a calm, serious facade hiding a conflagration – but Findekáno isn't about to complain. 'Oh', he sighs, loosing his grip on the red curls and allowing his body to grow lax in Maitimo's arms. 'That is a good reason', he would add, but he's already being heaved over a strong shoulder, carried a short distance and tossed on to the bed, damp clothes and all.

When Maitimo's considerable patience snaps it disappears like ash into the wind and Findekáno revels in it every time, in knowing he's the one – the only one – who makes his beautiful beloved lose control this way.

He pulls Maitimo down to the bed on top of him for another kiss, this one just as fierce and clinging as the ones that came before but clumsier, teeth clinking together and noses bumping, mostly because of Findekáno's impatience and upset.

Maitimo strips him, methodically and efficiently, until he is wearing nothing but his smallclothes. Findekáno tries not to tremble while having to go unkissed. When he pulls Maitimo back down for a embrace, Maitimo looks at him with concern.

'Are you crying, Finno?' he asks, his voice and his hands around Findekáno's face unbearably soft.

'No', says Findekáno, and it is just barely true.

'My valiant Findekáno', Maitimo murmurs, and both the look in his eyes and the touch of his fingers tracing the contours of Findekáno's face speak of reverence, intent and too gentle. Findekáno wants to squirm, and not for the right reasons.

'It is all right', Maitimo promises him, a forefinger on his lips to keep him from protesting. 'No, it really is, because it's just us, you and me, here and now. And there is nothing wrong with us, is there?'

The question is supposed to sound reassuring, Findekáno knows, but he can see the shadow of doubt in Maitimo's grey eyes. (How could he not, when he has memorised every single bluish speck in the iris, knows exactly what shade of dark russet are the long eyelashes, has been observing every emotion flickering in those eyes for years?)

'Of course there's nothing wrong with us', he says, his reciprocating touch on Maitimo's face softer now. 'We have always been just right together. It's the world that has gone all wrong.'

'And I don't know how to right it', whispers Maitimo, and that little crease that Findekáno hates appears between his eyebrows.

Findekáno rises on his elbows to kiss away the crease of worry. 'It's not your responsibility alone', he reminds the dutiful eldest son of Fëanáro. 'Don't let it weigh you down.'

Maitimo buries his face in Findekáno's shoulder. 'We're very bad at pretending', he says against warm, smooth skin.

Findekáno kisses his hair. 'It's all right', he echoes Maitimo's earlier words. 'It doesn't matter. Let's just – would you kiss me again?'

Maitimo does, working his way up Findekáno's throat with feather-light kisses, nibbling at the corner of his mouth so softly it can barely be felt, and finally pressing their lips together much too gently for Findekáno's liking.

He doesn't need loving touches and soft kisses, for he knows that he is loved. What he needs is something hot enough to burn away the sadness and worry and uncertainty that have settled inside him like some ugly, black, writhing thing.

'I love you, Maitimo', he whispers against warm lips, then tugs at red hair, the way that he knows usually causes Maitimo to blush and his eyes turn to steel and his touches grow rougher. This time it makes Maitimo growl, a delightfully low sound that makes Findekáno's stomach coil in delight and anticipation.

'I don't want you to take me slow and sweet tonight. I want us to be wildfire', Findekáno continues and rakes his fingernails down Maitimo's back, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough that he wishes he could see the red trails he must be leaving on the pale, freckled skin. 'Scorching and forceful and irresistible. Let's be wildfire, my love, burning so hot that we forget the world.'

Maitimo rarely refuses him anything so Findekáno isn't surprised when he pulls away only to divest him of the last of his clothes, and strips away his own after that. They go back to fierce kisses, ones that are like small battles for dominance though neither of them cares who wins, as long as they can keep kissing and touching.

When Maitimo's kisses move down his body, lower and lower, making Findekáno burn hotter and hotter, he closes his eyes and arches his back and hopes that by the time the silver hours are over he will be like a forest after a wildfire, silent and empty and cleansed of everything that used to be, ready for a new beginning.