The Closet
Maedhros' visits always put the whole household into an uproar. Elves resenting it, elves demanding that none of the other sons of Fëanor come, and elves that were nervous and giggly around the tall, noble prince.
Fingon had mixed feelings. Fingolfin was never particularly happy with his nephew visiting; there was little he could do, of course. The truce between their houses was still withstanding, and he dared not threaten that. Alliances were crucial in the fight against Morgoth, and the Fëanorians were strong soldiers.
A letter had been sent: a personal note to Fingon from Maedhros himself declaring (among other things) that he would arrive in Mithrim in six months and four days from the time the letter reached Fingon. Four days! The son of Fingolfin had laughed aloud when he had read it. So specific, and if he arrived in three days plus six months, or five, he would be in a sour mood. That was the way Maedhros was, though. He hated the vague.
Afterwards, Fingon burned the parchment. If it were to be read by anyone other than him… The scandal! Word would not only be buzzing, but roaring with what was already rumored to be taking place between the cousins.
Early on the fourth day of the seventh month since the note had come, it was reported that fiery-haired rider with a small brood behind him was approaching, and would most certainly be at the gates by evening.
By the time the sun was setting, Fingon was dressed in his best attire. The silver threaded, jewel-encrusted, cobalt-colored tunic seemed like a little much for the occasion.
"By the Valar, he shall blind anyone who looks upon him if he stands directly in the sunlight," Fingolfin muttered, casting a look at his beaming son as they approached the Fëanorians. He feigned a smile.
Maedhros returned it, bowing low. His companions followed in a similar suite.
"Well met, my king," he greeted, eyes fluttering over to Fingon for just the briefest moment. He returned to his full height, sticking out like a hammered thumb in the middle of the white marble. "Helping my brothers settle into lands of their owns proved a more tedious task than I had expected. I have not seen Mithrim for quite some time."
The politeness was almost unnerving. The second son of Finwë glanced at his chamberlain who shrugged. Usually this elf had an air of hostility around him when he came.
Of course, any attention he was receiving was quickly turned to his son; Maedhros bowed again (even lower!), and he flashed a rare smile. "And greetings to you, my lord prince."
The rumors had not been lost of him, even if nothing had been said straight from Fingon's mouth. Fingolfin saw the glances. He saw the sneaky touches and he saw how often they disappeared into one of their bedrooms. He could not accuse anything. Not only would it ruin his firstborn's reputation, but his own as well. Ruining Maedhros' was never much of a concern. Maedhros couldn't even claim to have a reputation any more.
Fingon returned the smile as could have been predicted.
"It has been much too long, my friend."
"Yes, it has. I apologize for not visiting sooner."
And such idle conversation went on like that all through dinner, and even afterwards, before it was polite to be excused for bed. Yet it was with great distaste that Fingolfin nodded when a certain duo excused them selves for bed at the same time.
"He was glaring at me all night."
"Maitimo…"
"Do not tell me you did not see it! He knows."
"He couldn't."
"I think he caught you with your hand on my…"
"Maedhros!"
The look on his cousin's face brought his mouth up into badly hidden smirk.
"You are losing your subtlety, Findekáno."
A grumble was his only response. He ignored, coming close to nibble softly on Fingon's ear. "Oh, I am only teasing. I am very happy to see you." The dark-haired elf drew away.
"As you well should be. Five years?"
"I sent you letters."
"And I had to burn them because of what you wrote in them."
Maedhros put on a mock frown. "I thought my suggestions were quite creative."
"Have some shame! You have never made suggestions. You have only been blunt in saying what you plan for us to do."
Silence reigned for a few moments, until it was suddenly broken by the melody of both their laughs. Then they kissed, softly, at first, and then deeper and rougher until they landed in a large armchair. Fingon had lavish furniture in his quarters.
It was a bit awkward, the way they were sitting: Maedhros sprawled upon the cushion, with Fingon on his lap with his head contorted and turned in order to keep contact between their lips. His hands, too, somehow managed to wander over the body below him.
Fingon was not the only one making use of his fingers, though. The tall elf was having a grand time keeping his handless arm wrapped securely around his lover's midsection, while his practiced hand began to undo the clasps of the princely attire.
"Why don't you wear a robe next time you greet me, instead of these blasted formal outfits? I have never seen so many jewels." Fingon did not so much appreciate the break in their kiss. He ignored him, beginning to work himself at his tunic. It came off after several minutes of strained kissing and strings of curses.
An ache began to form in his neck. The younger of the two turned, kneeling with his bent legs on either side of Maedhros in a way that made him raise an eyebrow.
"You're taking initiative of this."
A smirk.
"I can get off if you want."Maedhros growled so fiercely that he even startled himself. He'd be damned before he let that happen.
Yes, well, he was getting awfully warm himself. The lack of skin-to-skin contact was nigh driving him mad, and so he began to unlace his tunic. He had planned his dress for this day.
One thing he had not planned was a loud knock at the door.
Fingon yelped, jumping off Maedhros' lap, a deep blush over his cheeks when he realized just how jumpy he was being. The visitor knocked again.
"Findekáno? A rainstorm is coming in. Are your windows closed?"
When had Fingolfin ever come to his door so late himself to ask him of the state of his windows?
But as he went to stand, and opened his mouth to answer, a strong grip wrapped around his wrist and pulled him back into the chair and on the warm lap. "Mm, ignore him. You are busy."
Maedhros smiled at the glare he received, turning the beginnings of a protest into mew as he let go of Fingon's wrist and traveled his touch down to a much more sensitive area. He stroked him through the soft fabric of his leggings, enjoying the whimpers he heard.
Another knock came. "Findekáno, are you in there?"
An almost painful cry was emitted from the darker elf's mouth. He smacked away the hand between his legs, jumping back to his feet. "Get in… the closet."
The red eyebrow that rose looked as though it might touch his hairline.
"The closet?'
"Yes, yes, go!" And before Maedhros knew what exactly was happening, he was being pulled up and pushed into said closet, the doors shutting after him. Darkness enveloped him, but at least the musky scent of his partner's clothes was comforting.
Not quite comforting enough to keep him from scowling profusely, though.
Once his cousin was safely hidden, Fingon first went to the bed, rumpled the covers, and then slowly shuffled over to the door. He opened it a creak, yawning.
"I am sorry, father. I was sleeping quite heavily."
He had to suppress a twitch at the skeptical look his sire gave him.
"Well, then I am sorry for waking you," Fingolfin apologized, wondering at his son's flushed cheeks. "Are your windows closed?"
"Yes."
"Where is Maedhros?"
"In his chambers, of course. He was quite weary from his travels." He could have sworn he heard a snort from the direction of his closet. "I am sure he closed his windows too; I should hate for him to be woken up." Another sound of distaste seemed to ring in his ears.
"Very well, then. I shall let you sleep, then, my son." Fingon smiled perhaps a bit too brightly, and shut the door a bit too quickly; but over the span of the conversation he realized how physically obvious it was what his previous activities had been. He cursed silently Maedhros' skilled touches.
Once he heard the figure outside the door retreat, and the footsteps slowly waning, he went to retrieve his surely seething lover. The glare, scowl and even veiled sulk he was met with caused a very wide grin to spread over his visage. Even more amusing was the fact that Maedhros was far too tall to be standing in such a small space, and he had to crouch down at least three inches to even begin to fit.
"May I come out now, my lord?" His tone was snide, but laced with enough amusement that the younger elf let out a breath. He took his cousin's hand gently, pulling him out.
"I thought you mentioned a closet in one of your letters."
"…I will not be sorry if you have no oil in this room, Findekáno."
Fingon shrugged. "You're overdressed."
So he was. Soon, they were both naked from the waste up, and their form-fitting breeches left little to the imagination. Maedhros was not at all subtle in noticing this fact. "I think you would have been most embarrassed if your father had come in." To his surprise, Fingon genuinely frowned.
"I do not want to talk about him. He knows of us, and yet he pretends he does not. And worst of all is that he keeps asking about marriage." His tone fell soft. "He knows damned well that I love you, and should at least accept that badgering me about producing an heir will not change that."
His words received a sympathetic look. Despite the teasing and jest, the Fëanorian knew well how much Fingolfin's disapproval bothered Fingon. And if he said anything, it would prove disastrous for them both. He knew his brothers had a clue of what was going on. If it were to be proven, however, he knew at least three of them that would use it against him. He sighed.
"Your father will never understand. He loves you, but he does not love me. Even if I were a young, pretty maiden with only the noblest of causes he would hate me still." A dark look fell over steely eyes. "He is unreasonable."
Fingon was hardly comforted. His gaze lowered. "At least he says nothing. I can only imagine what your father would have done." Maedhros immediately drew away, sending the other a scathing glare.
"Speak not of him, Fingon."
He sighed again, nodding. He understood.
"Very well."
Another silence flooded the rain-scented room. The dying fire flickered helplessly. A moist breeze drifted through the open window. The two elves breathed slowly, both contemplating whether or not their need was strong enough to help rekindle the mood. At last, Fingon took a few steps forward, hooking a few fingers teasingly over the waist of his cousin's breeches.
"About that closet…"