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As tensions in Tirion had worsened, Finwë the King took to throwing yet more extravagant garden-parties, as though hoping that if only the drinks flowed freely enough and the minstrels played sweetly enough that all would be well again, and his eldest sons would smile and be civil, and his family would be whole once more.
“Think how pleased he would be,” Fingon observed, “if he knew of us.”
Maedhros looked at him. It was getting on to the hour of the Mingling, and the gold ribbons in Fingon’s dark hair were shining in the light of Laurelin. He had been drinking, and his dark cheeks were a little flushed. He was very beautiful.
“I am not sure he would,” he said. They were a little apart from the rest of the throng, but he pitched his voice low anyway. “I think he has reason to believe that one inconvenient marriage was quite enough for our family.”
Fingon grinned at him. He was merry today, and carefree: or, at the very least, sensible of the need to appear so. Most thought Fingon the reckless, heedless sort, who paid little mind to all the tangled politics of the court: but beneath all his cheerful geniality there was a sharp and capable mind. Maedhros would not have loved him, were it not so.
And he did love him! He loved that Fingon was wild, and restless, and never afraid to reach for what he wanted; and he loved that he numbered first on that list, that Fingon wanted him.
“Russo,” said Fingon now, “for all your insistence on discretion you are looking at me most indecently right now.”
“Come here,” said Maedhros, a little roughly; he took Fingon by the wrist and tugged him around a garden-wall, where they were hidden from the view of the rest of the partygoers, and kissed him soundly.
Kissed, Fingon went all languid and dreamy in Maedhros’ arms. When they broke apart for air he ran his fingers admiringly through Maedhros’ hair, and looked up at him with liquid dark eyes. “You are very beautiful,” he said.
Here was the thing: in more innocent times Maedhros had dared to believe that it was a blessing, what they were to each other. That perhaps they might stand hand in hand before the King and proclaim that their hearts were bound, and all the tensions between their fathers would be mended by true love’s kiss. He had longed, perhaps, for loving Fingon to be more than selfishness, more than indulgence.
“I’d wed you,” Fingon said, picking up the earlier thread of the conversation again, or else just following Maedhros’ thought. “I’d plight our troth in front of all that meddling busybody court, and give them something to gossip about.”
“You cannot possibly think that would help matters,” said Maedhros, keeping his voice light. Fingon was speaking in jest, only in jest, after all.
“Perhaps not,” Fingon conceded, “but it would be funny. Think of the look on your father’s face! Indis stole his father from him, and now her scion lays claim to his son.”
His voice was edged with glee, but Maedhros could not bring himself to laugh. He stepped back, away from Fingon’s warmth. “You need not – you need not mock him,” he said. “I know he has not always been kind to you – but still, you need not mock him.”
Fingon looked at him, and then seemed, rather conspicuously, to let go of the argument before it could become one. Did everyone find him that easy to read, or was his heart only so open to Maedhros? “You are right,” he said. “I am sorry, beloved.” And he stood on his toes to kiss Maedhros again, and that was good – it was good! Perhaps loving Fingon was no cunning feat of diplomacy, but it was a true thing, and a pure thing, all the same.
Maedhros let Fingon kiss him into compliance, and yielded with a smile as Fingon’s warm fingers found their way under his tunic, to trace teasingly across his chest before coming to rest on his waist. He watched as Fingon wound his other hand again in Maedhros’ unbound hair, and admired the way it shone against his skin. In truth it would not be anything so terrible, to be claimed by Fingon, to say, My heart belongs to you, and you alone, and know that Fingon was his just as completely.
“Don’t go back to your father’s house tonight,” Fingon breathed against his lips. “Tell him something – that you are too drunk, or that you have urgent business with the King, anything – and then stay with me.”
“Finno,” Maedhros murmured. He was not actually very drunk – fights broke out at these gatherings often enough that he had learned it was best to keep a clear head during them – but perhaps that did not matter, for Fingon was intoxicating, the scent and taste of him, the warmth of him pressed against Maedhros, the hunger in his every kiss. Why should Maedhros not spend the night with him? It was well-known that they were friends; surely, no-one could object.
Fingon’s ears were sharper than Maedhros’; suddenly he pushed Maedhros gently away, and straightened their mussed clothes, and leaned casually against the wall, looking for all the world as though they were merely having a friendly conversation, just as Fëanor rounded the corner and spotted them.
Maedhros had no time to register the nearness of the miss, for his father said, “Nelyafinwë, good. Come: we are leaving.”
“So soon, Atar?” Maedhros asked, keeping his voice deferential. “I thought the gathering was due to last until Telperion was full-waxed.”
Fëanor had not deigned to greet Fingon, but his eyes on him were hard. “I am told that Melkor will shortly be arriving,” he said. “Some Vanya custom, I suppose, to invite every Ainu in the vicinity to what I believed to be an intimate affair. But I will not suffer any of my sons to remain in his presence. Let us go.”
Fingon gave Maedhros a brief wordless look. Tell him you will stay, his eyes seemed to urge, tell him you are not always his to command, tell him that your heart belongs to me.
But it was not true, was it? Maedhros’ loyalties had been claimed long before Fingon had first pressed their lips together. He did not forget who and what he was; he could not forget, with his father standing there awaiting him.
“Of course, Atar,” he said, and followed his father out of the garden, leaving Fingon standing alone by the wall.