He is invited to Fëanáro's wedding, as is only fair as his brother (half as he may be). He's not surprised, not really. It is obvious to everyone that Fëanáro adores Nerdanel, and would surely craft the most adored of all gems for her if given the chance.
Choosing to attend is only marginally harder. He thinks of Fëanáro's voice in his ear, of the circlet that sits in a box in his chambers, and perhaps most damning of all, the warmth he felt when Fëanáro had held him at the waist. But it is his expectation, as son of Finwë, as brother, to attend, and so he does.
He smiles politely at the other guests, and compliments Nerdanel quite genuinely. He likes her, what little he has seen. She is spirited and brilliant, and willing to put up with Fëanáro which is itself, an impressive feat. She is good for him, and whatever his personal thoughts about his brother, he can acknowledge that.
He watches as they dance across the pavilion, lost in each other, and tells himself the slight pang is a desire for his own happiness with a wife, and nothing more.
Maitimo is born, with her red hair, and Arafinwë loves the child from the first moment he holds his nephew. Fëanáro looks at the child with all the same pride he looks at his best completed projects.
He plays peacemaker between his brothers, because distracted and exhausted as Fëanáro is, that is something Arafinwë has come to expect. He does not play peacemaker between his brothers and their father.
He marries Eärwen out of friendship and responsibility. He could love her, he thinks, if he tried, if in his thoughts— his fantasies— it wasn't dark eyes, dark hair, and skin that lived up to the name of being a spirit of fire. He is never certain how much she knows. More than he tells her (which is nothing, which is the same amount he is willing to admit to himself more often than not). He writes her letters from Tirion to Aqualondë, she writes back.
It is stasis, if only that.
It is not Fëanáro who invites him to his marriage bed, it is Nerdanel. He accepts.
Soon enough, their room becomes more familiar than his own.
He doesn't know whose idea it was originally, and he won't ask. Some questions are best left unanswered.
Nerdanel calls him 'pretty', which he can admit, in comparison to his brother and his wife, that he is. Fëanáro has a blazing intensity in him, some find it charming. Dark hair, dark eyes, wreathed in gems of his own creation. He's not pretty, he commands respect and attention in very different ways. In the same way Nerdanel, for all her beauty, has devoted herself to her craft. The pieces of stone had toughened her hands, and like Fëanáro, there was an intensity in her gaze. He can see why his brother loves her, but it does not make her pretty. Some of the other elves had questioned why Fëanáro had married her at all, and Arafinwë thinks it has far more to do with her than any surface level opinions of anyone else.
He has never taken a trade in the same way. He can fight, but he takes no great joy in it. He can perform rudimentary smith craft, courtesy of Fëanáro's teachings, he can draw, he can dance, he can play instruments. There were those who said he was more Vanyarin than Noldorin, like his mother. He is not certain they're wrong.
"I should carve him," Nerdanel says, running a finger along his collarbone, like he's a particularly aesthetically pleasing flower to be admired.
Fëanáro sits on the other side of the bed, and looks at her. "Just like this?"
Nerdanel hums, adjusting the blankets just slightly, to achieve some desired drape. "Wouldn't you?" She says, and it's… strange, Arafinwë thinks, to be spoken about like a piece of art. Again, he is reminded that there is no doubt of the match between these two being fitting. He could envision no relationship more suited for one another.
"I doubt even the Valar would blame me for wanting to preserve something so stunning," she says, and Fëanáro kisses first her, and then him. The fact that he can do this at all has not stopped feeling unbelievable to Arafinwë.
In the end, she carves two. One gets presented as a gift, a gesture of good will. It captures a likeness to his father, a look that is irrefutably Noldor- a statue that quiets the rumours for a time. It is public, and displayable, with an amount of detail that is true to life.
The second is not seen beyond the three of them. He is garbed in sheets, and looks… he would almost say delicate for something carved in stone. It is like looking into a mirror image.
In between sittings, he wears a tunic of Fëanáro's that slides incessantly down one shoulder from his brother's work in the forge giving him broader shoulders.
In that time, he learns more about Nerdanel than he ever expected to, even accounting for the nights spent between her and her husband. Her wit is sharp, and her views insightful. Part of him would call it love.
It is during one of the long hours spent posing, thay Fëanáro enters, to see him wrapped in a red sheet, with an appreciative look. "I always said it was a good colour on you, Arafinwë," he says, leaning in to kiss Nerdanel. "Now if only you both would wear it more often," he says, andArafinwë laughs at the same time Nerdanel responds with a level expression.
"I'm always wearing it, or have you failed to notice my hair colour?" She says, and this time, it is Fëanáro who laughs.
It is a far more enjoyable time than any of the hours spent sitting for royal portraits.
Tyelkormo is born with hair shades too golden to be from Míriel. He doesn't need either Nerdanel or Fëanáro to tell him what he already knows to be true. It changes nothing.
Nolofinwe holds the child with a soft smile. "Fëanáro continues to have a truly admirable number of children." He says, and Arafinwë laughs, looking at his brother. Uncle either way, part of him thinks, looking down at the child.
Tyelkormo wakes up crying and Arafinwë soothes him back to sleep, before curling up under the corner of the blankets that Nerdanel holds up.
Macalaurë wakes up screaming and Arafinwë offers to sing him back to sleep. His lovers are exhausted, it seems only fair. Several minutes later, as Macalaurë begins to settle back into sleep, Fëanáro wraps his arms around Arafinwë's waist, hooking his chin on his shoulder. Arafinwë leans back against him, still gently swaying to lull the child back to sleep.
"They like you,"
"I think they'd like anyone at this point." Arafinwë returns easily, voice soft with sleep.
Fëanáro laughs quietly, running a hand along his son's head. The child soothes that little bit more. Fëanáro takes the child from Arafinwë's arms, tucking him back into his cradle, and pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "Back to bed, for him and us,"
Nolofinwe asks why he's been so tired lately, and Arafinwë answers each day with a rotating collection of answers: bad dreams, caught up reading, lost track of time. His brother doesn't question him, and each day, Arafinwë whispers a prayer of gratitude that no one guesses the truth of his relationship with Nerdanel and Fëanáro, or Tyelkormo's true parentage.
The children grow, and Arafinwë has his own, who mostly live with Eärwen in Alqualondë. Macalaurë's first music lessons are with him, and Fëanáro and Nerdanel look so very proud, as first, they both sing, and then as he gets older, Macalaurë alone does.
Carnistir is born, and looks more like Fëanáro than Tyelkormo. Curifinwë is born and earns his fathers name.
"He looks like Fëanáro," Nerdanel says, almost passing him his bowl before she sees how he balances the youngest two children on his hips.
"And it would be useful if Tyelkormo looked as much like you as Maitimo does." He says, and Nerdanel kisses his cheek, and the tops of her sons heads. It's one of those things that none of them have ever outright said, that Tyelkormo is his. He is more surprised that no one else has realized.
"How many do you have now?" She asks, and he adjusts the children to a slightly more stable position for walking. Carnistir opens his eyes briefly, already mastering his father's look of disapproval, before returning to sleep.
"Two," he answers, thinking for a moment, of his own children, both blond, both loved dearly by him and Eärwen. Nerdanel passes him his bowl, taking Curufinwë from him. "Is Fëanáro still in the forge?" He asks, changing the topic, and she nods.
"Always; I think if none of the children take to it, it will be the worst possible thing for him." She says, as they sit at the table, it is becoming an increasingly normal occurrence. He tends to the children as she cooks, and Fëanáro joins them soon after.
Arafinwë would call it domestic, and say it is home.
The good can never last. Fëanáro kisses him hard enough to bruise, and Arafinwë is struck with the feeling that this marks the beginning of the end.
