Work Text:
Fingon:
To be honest, it is just a little bit ridiculous. After a night like last one, all any reasonably sane person would still want is a solid, sustaining breakfast—and maybe a chance to have an unobtrusive nap somewhere in a corner. But here I am—walking along a corridor in broad daylight—and I cannot stop myself wanting to trail my fingers gently down his spine once again and feel the response vibrate through his body like a plucked harp string and…
He clears his throat.
‘You know, during the siege,’ he says, ‘firewood became so scarce that we had to resort to using dung as fuel—dried cowpats and such, if we could get them. The vegetation that was destroyed then hasn’t had time to grow back yet and the poorer households still use it.’
What’s this, Maitimo? A diplomat’s topic of choice for morning conversation? Politics in bed—with Maedhros Feanorion, that’s only to be expected. But cow dung before breakfast?
He gives me a hint of a smile—and the tyelpilin drops: I recognize what he’s trying to do. So fuel shortages are the most unromantic subject he can think of?
My dear, I can do so much better than that!
‘Talking of cowpats,’ I say brightly, ‘have I ever told you how Laurefindil…’
I haven’t, of course: that rather unfortunate incident occurred after he and his brothers had left Mithrim. Maitimo’s clear grey eyes widen as I tell him all about it—and I’m careful not to omit a single revolting detail.
‘Poor Laurefindil!’ he murmurs, in pity and awe. ‘In his hair? That really is disgusting.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I say triumphantly.
He takes a look at my smug expression and bursts out laughing.
Unfortunately, for some reason, seeing him laugh like that makes me want to kiss him rather badly—and that means we’re more or less back to where we started.