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“Are they married?”
“Not in the way that matters.”
“Don’t be crude!”
“What? It’s true. I have a reliable source.”
“Oh, please. If they aren’t married, then why do they live together?”
“Who knows with these people?”
“None of them has taken a wife…”
“True, not even a husband.”
“So they are married.”
“They haven’t had a wedding. The kinslayer went to him straight from the Halls.”
“Do you think it’s a condition of Námo’s? That he could leave the Halls only if he lived under supervision?”
“Why would the Valar burden poor Findekáno with it?”
“He’s a kinslayer himself. Why does everyone forget that?”
“Oh, right! Perhaps he thought no one else would have him but another kinslayer?”
“Perhaps… Or perhaps they truly wanted to be together.”
---
Fingon left his horse in the stables and walked to the doors. The leaves whispering high above and the soft fall of his footsteps on the grass were the only sounds he could hear. This kind of quiet wasn’t uncommon in their residence. Their household employed few people, and they had all gone to Tirion for the Festival of Gil-Estel. Fingon had left with them to see his family and friends but hadn’t stayed for the entire festival, returning alone. Maedhros had opted to go north to visit Caranthir. Fingon didn’t expect to see him for at least another week, and that was why he was surprised to find him lounging in the bath, his hair twisted on the top of his head and held together by a hairpin.
“Welcome back, my light,” Maedhros said, opening an eye.
The corner of Fingon’s mouth quirked at the nickname. Maedhros seemed to be in high spirits.
“What are you doing here?” Fingon asked. “I thought you had gone to visit your brother.”
Maedhros smiled lazily. “I changed my mind. Decided to have a few days to myself. How was the festival?”
“Quite uneventful with only your mother representing your house.”
“I’d say that’s a good thing.”
Maedhros stood and stepped out of the tub, ignoring the towels and clothes. He put a damp kiss on Fingon’s nose and laughed when Fingon grimaced.
“There is some warm water left,” Maedhros said. “How about I run a bath for you too and help you wash and braid your hair?”
“I would love that, but maybe washing and brushing only, braiding tomorrow.”
Maedhros sighed dramatically. “You just love making my life difficult.”
“So terribly unfair.” Fingon crossed his arms on his chest. “To think I’ve brought you a gift.”
“Oh, did you? What is it?”
“The freshest Tirion gossip, for one.”
Maedhros stared at him in mock reproach. “Gossip? Who do you take me for? Your brother’s stable boy?”
“Fine, I will relay the latest news from the court. Is that better?”
“Much.”
Fingon snorted. Maedhros blew him a kiss and went on preparing the bath.
“I have another gift,” Fingon said. “You will like this one best. My brother has postponed his visit.”
“Now that’s a wonderful gift,” Maedhros said, smiling at Fingon over his shoulder. “What inspired the decision?”
“I didn’t ask, didn’t want to make him reconsider, but I believe it was because he saw me already in the city, and he wants to see you just as much as you want to see him. That is not even a little.”
“That’s not nice, Findekáno. I do want to see him. Preferably, from afar and only for a moment, but I do.”
“You are just holding a grudge because you think his stable boy was spreading rumors about us.”
“He was!”
“Do you really care?”
“No, but it’s a matter of principle.”
Fingon shook his head fondly. “All right, principled one, there’s a third gift too. My mother has sent you a package with some baked goods. I hope they are still in one piece.”
Maedhros’s eyes sparkled. “Why didn’t you start with that? Your bath is ready. Get in. I will be back shortly, as soon as I see what you have brought me.”
He grabbed a towel, dried himself off quickly, and put it away.
“Are you planning to strut around completely naked?” Fingon asked, amused.
“I will have you know—”
“Yes, yes, you survived Angband, so you can do whatever you want.”
Maedhros grinned. “You cannot sound so annoyed when you are the one who kept repeating that to me.”
“At the time, I didn’t know this would be your interpretation of my wisdom.”
“Once a word leaves your mouth, it is no longer yours. It may fall on barren earth; it may grow into a weed or into a fruit tree,” Maedhros said, his sage expression betrayed by an uncontrollable smile.
“How do I put up with you?” Fingon wondered, breaking into his own smile.
“I ask myself the same question every day.”
It was a jest – most of what Maedhros said when he was in such a mood was a jest – but Fingon had no doubt that it reflected a part of his true feelings. He chose not to argue this time, so he wouldn’t spoil the mood, but it still made his mind tumble into other concerning thoughts. He touched Maedhros’s forearm to stop him before he would walk out of the door.
Maedhros looked at him, a smile on his lips and a question in his bright eyes.
“Have you eaten today?” Fingon asked, trying not to sound too serious.
Maedhros raised a brow. “I see you have brought not only your mother’s baking but also her spirit,” he said. Fingon kept staring at him. Maedhros clenched his jaw. “Yes, I have. Did you spend your entire time away worrying about me?”
“No, I assumed your brother would,” Fingon said, realizing as he spoke that it was the wrong thing to say.
“Was it too much to hope that you would assume I am capable of taking care of myself?” Maedhros asked, his face neutral.
Fingon winced. “I’m sorry, I know you are. It’s a bad habit, sometimes I cannot help it.”
“Well, you overcame it once,” Maedhros said after a beat. “I know you will overcome it again.”
Fingon bit the inside of his cheek. “I ruined your good mood, didn’t I?” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
“You didn’t.” Maedhros dropped a kiss on Fingon’s hairline. “I am always in a good mood when you are around.”
His smile looked genuine, and Fingon was comforted. He squeezed Maedhros’s hand as an apology and leaned his head against his shoulder for a few moments before going to bathe.
---
Warm and rested after the bath, Fingon was sitting on the divan, in his hand the first book he had pulled out from the bag he had brought with him from Tirion. He was dismayed to discover that it was Turgon’s choice, authored by Fingon’s brother himself and detailing the first years of the construction of Gondolin. To Turgon’s credit, it didn’t bore Fingon to death, but he was still glad to put it aside when Maedhros approached.
He had bothered to put on some pants and a loose shirt. Receiving Fingon’s silent agreement, he draped himself over the divan, resting his head in Fingon’s lap. Fingon took out the hairpin to let Maedhros’s hair free only to see that it was no hairpin.
“A stick?” he exclaimed. “Really? Did you break it off a branch, or did you find it in the grass?”
“In the grass,” Maedhros mumbled against his thigh.
“Russandol,” Fingon said, torn between amusement and exasperation. “You know you may take mine if you don’t like the ones I’ve given you.”
“I do!” Maedhros said, looking up at Fingon with a smile. “They are beautiful. The stick was just closer.”
“You are ridiculous,” Fingon announced, twirling a lock of Maedhros’s hair around his finger.
Maedhros shrugged, unapologetic. Fingon flicked his ear and pushed his long hair away from his back. It fell down the edge of the divan, almost brushing the floor. Fingon slipped a hand under Maedhros’s shirt, drawing complicated patterns on the skin. Maedhros sighed; his shoulders relaxed. Fingon couldn’t see his face but knew that he was smiling blissfully. He ran his fingertips along Maedhros’s shoulder blade.
“Mmm, thank you,” Maedhros said, his voice muffled.
Fingon laughed. “You are like a cat,” he said. “A big, red cat.”
Maedhros raised his head. “So, a tiger?”
Fingon rolled his eyes. “If you say so.”
“You say so.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Maedhros laughed and lay back, purring exaggeratedly when Fingon resumed stroking his back. Fingon flicked his ear again and took his book, putting it on Maedhros’s head and flipping through the pages one-handed.
“Keeping your brother’s wisdom all to yourself, I see,” Maedhros said.
“Do you want me to read aloud?”
“Of course. I always want to hear your voice.”
A gentle warmth spread through Fingon’s chest like the first rays of the sun falling on bare skin through open curtains. He had heard many similar disarmingly honest admissions of affection from Maedhros, and they never failed to have this effect on him.
“If you fall asleep, I will shove you off,” he threatened.
“No, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t.”
He began reading, his fingers still wandering absent-mindedly over the smooth skin. Maedhros did take a short nap, but Fingon still kept reading aloud and earned a fond smile and a kiss on his palm for it when Maedhros woke up. He sat up, coiled his hair over his head, and secured it with the stick again, winking at Fingon.
“Do you want some of your mother’s famous pastries?” he asked, getting to his feet. “They are mostly in one piece.”
“No, I’ve had a bellyful of them in Tirion. She sent those for you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, go ahead.”
“Don’t complain later that I haven’t left you any,” Maedhros called, already in the kitchen.
“I won’t,” Fingon said, though he knew that when he checked in the morning, half of the pastries would be there, carefully wrapped and waiting for him.
He went for a short walk outside, watching the clear sky full of stars and catching the faint sounds of Maedhros humming in the house. He took a deep, full breath. The trip had been pleasant, and he was sure that soon he would feel the call of the road again, but for now, it felt right to be home.
When Fingon returned, Maedhros was ready for bed but was waiting for him, sitting on the divan and looking through Turgon’s book.
“I suppose you want to sleep in your bed tonight,” he said.
“Yes, I have been riding for almost the entire day, I want a bed all to myself.”
“All right.”
“But I might sneak into your room by the morning.”
Maedhros’s face brightened. “You will be welcome.” He grinned slyly. “Though if you wake me up again, I might kick you out.”
“Again? You never wake up when I come!”
“I always do.”
“No… What? I wake you up every time? I was so proud of how careful I was! Why didn’t you tell me anything? I would stop.”
“Because I knew you would feel guilty,” Maedhros said. He took Fingon’s hand and brought it to his lips. “Don’t. I fall back asleep almost instantly. I don’t want you to stop either. That’s a Good Moment. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Whenever Maedhros enunciated the words that way, as if in his mind they were written in red ink instead of black, Fingon knew it was important and he shouldn’t argue. Maedhros always used the simplest words for these instances – Good Moment, Nice Place, Happy Day, Bad Thought, Sad Memory – but his voice painted them with bold lines and delicate twirls.
Fingon circled his forefinger around the slightly protruding bone at the base of Maedhros’s palm.
“I will come then,” he said.
Maedhros stood, pleased, and pulled Fingon into a firm hug. “Until morning,” he said into his hair. “Rest well.”
Something stirred within Fingon, as it sometimes happened when Maedhros was so close. He dropped his head on Maedhros’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.
Maedhros hummed and pulled him closer. Fingon breathed in, then threw his arms around Maedhros’s neck and started rocking him from side to side faster and faster until they broke off, laughing.
Fingon went to his bedroom, flopping face down on the bed. His lower back ached after spending so many hours on horseback. He could hear Maedhros moving in the next room, putting a jug with fresh water and two cups on the nightstand. He would be sleeping on the left side of the bed, leaving the right side free for Fingon, even though in his sleep, he inevitably twisted and turned until he was lying across the bed.
Fingon smiled to himself and rolled on his back. Sleep was slow to come for him tonight the way it had come for Maedhros. Ordinarily, it was the contrary. He got up and opened the curtains, then lay back down, looking at the stars visible from his window and listening to Maedhros’s deep breaths from behind the wall, until he too drifted off.