Chapter Text
"Maedhros?"
"Mm?" Maedhros set aside his abacus and looked up at Fingon with sharp grey eyes.
"Could you maybe..." Fingon bit his lip, suddenly ashamed of the image that had seemed so enticing but a moment ago. "No, never mind."
"What? Ask! It cannot be more shameful than the time I made you strike me about the face and address me as your thrall."
That had been less embarrassing and more extremely concerning. Fingon shuddered at the memory but this request was rather designed to help him put that aside. "Could you perhaps...swoon for me?"
Maedhros cocked his head, eyes narrowing in consideration. "Is this about Thangorodrim?"
"...Maybe. Thangorodrim and Alqualondë -"
"I did not swoon at Alqualondë - would that I had! Six Teleri might yet live."
"I-" Fingon stuttered, trying to put the feeling into words. "I want to save you."
"I would have thought you'd have had your fill of that by now," Maedhros said with a strange edge to his voice. "But far be it for me to deny you." He closed his eyes and suddenly went limp, sliding from his chair so suddenly that Fingon jumped.
He opened his eyes when he felt strong arms around him, and looked up into Fingon's distraught face.
"What? I did as you asked. Did that not arouse you?" He made to pat around in Fingon's lap to check, but Fingon just hung onto him tighter.
"I did not mean for you to actually hurt yourself! The crack when your head hit the floor - Maedhros, I swear I thought - "
Maedhros had actually been rather pleased with that effect. It had heightened the drama and added to the verisimilitude - not to mention giving him a sharp burst of pain similar to what he'd been aiming for with the thrall-play, and actually caused him to briefly lose consciousness.
"Added realism," he said, and stopped at the look on Fingon's face. "So me being wounded is not part of the titillation for you?"
"No!" Fingon looked almost angry. "That is not my preference, it is yours. I get quite enough of you being wounded in real life for me to demand your pain in the bedroom - no, shut up, I will bring out the knives later if you really want - but I'd rather… I don't want to hurt you, I want to rescue you."
"You have rescued me."
"I want to do it again." Fingon bit his lip. "Better."
Maedhros could on occasion be fairly dense when it came to reading his cousin, traumatic brain injury notwithstanding, but Fingon's thoughts now were as plain as the strong, rather handsome nose on his face.
I want the chance to hold you in my arms and comfort you, rather than you screaming and bleeding and cursing me. I want to catch you before you hurt yourself, pillow your head tenderly in my lap rather than hearing the dull thud of bone as you strike the rock. I want to gather you from your swoon and have you thank me, not roar at me in a language I cannot understand. I want you to blink awake in my arms and feel safe, rather than wake fighting me in the night, screaming not again -
"And now you're crying," said Fingon, woebegone, touching Maedhros's face. "We really need to work on your stage falls."
"I'm perfectly well," Maedhros said. He sniffed, scrubbed at his eyes and then left his hand dramatically draped across his forehead. "By which I mean my head aches terribly and I am much too dizzy to walk."
He closed his eyes and went limp in Fingon's arms. And then cracked one eye back open, apparently to check that Fingon was satisfied with his performance.
It was not, in truth, a very good one. For someone whose own sexual proclivities seemed to revolve so much around being bound and injured, Maedhros was astonishingly bad at letting himself be vulnerable.
He was trying though, for all that lying still seemed to take a great deal of effort, and Fingon's heart swelled with affection for the fierce, stubborn idiot he'd fallen in love with.
Gently - and he could be gentle now! - he ran his hands through Maedhros' hair, making a show of feeling for abrasions. It was difficult not to be distracted by the softness of it running through his fingers or by Maedhros leaning into the touch with slightly more vigor than was appropriate for an invalid.
"Does this hurt?" he asked, cradling the back of Maedhros' head in his spread hands.
"N- Yes," Maedhros said weakly.
"There is no healer - I must tend to you myself," Fingon lied.
"I trust you."
That at least was painfully sincere and Fingon smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his temple before scooping Maedhros up into his arms.
"Careful," Maedhros said, wrapping an arm about his neck. "I'm heavier than I was last time you did this." And then he remembered himself and looked absurdly guilty.
He was heavier indeed but that was no bad thing and Fingon's bedchamber was not far. Navigating the doorway with so awkward a burden was not easy but his arms were burning only a little when he laid Maedhros down upon his bed.
Maedhros let himself be laid down with care, and loved Fingon well enough to ignore Fingon's sleeve getting stuck under him and the ungainly tugging that ensued. Fingon smoothed Maedhros's hair back from his forehead and looked so tenderly at him that for a moment Maedhros wondered if he had forgotten he was not actually injured.
But maybe, he thought, in a burst of enlightenment, this was how Fingon always looked at him.
And he wondered what else he may have missed along the way.
He shifted against the coverlet and remembered to groan softly as he did. Fingon's eyes brightened appreciatively and Maedhros groaned a couple more times, allowing Fingon to make concerned, soothing noises.
"You are hurting," said Fingon tentatively. "May I touch you to feel for where the injury may be?"
Maedhros nodded and tried to decide where his 'injury' was. A shattered groin, he almost thought, hoping Fingon would try touching him there. But logic decreed he wouldn't be able to use anything that was broken, so he ruled it out. Legs were unlikely to have been damaged swooning from a chair, and his head had already been palpated, so...
"Ouch," he said automatically, before he ran out of options. And then, as Fingon froze, realized that Fingon's questing hands were on his right forearm.
"I mean," he tried to correct himself. "It's not so bad there. Actually more of a spasm. Check the other si-"
But Fingon was cradling his right arm, his fingers gently massaging the knotted muscle and tissue, and Maedhros felt furious with himself for making the pain in Fingon's eyes so real. He almost ended the game by sitting up and saying, "Let's just have a drink instead," but Fingon was speaking again.
"Lean back, sweetheart."
Maedhros winced - pet names were one of the things he usually protested - but then let his mouth soften and did as Fingon said.
"Don't move too quickly or too much, let me...let me take care of you. Make yourself comfortable, and let me help."
Maedhros nodded, wondering if Fingon was going to go so far as to bandage him - an intriguing prospect - but instead Fingon merely slid closer to him on the bed. Maedhros shifted about, getting comfortable as instructed. His instinct was usually to stretch out as much as he could, Fingon's bed being one of the few in which he could actually do so without drooping off the edge. He kept himself relatively still, however, and ignored the muscle memory that told him to put his arms above his head so that he could be bound to the lined leather straps that hung from the bedposts.
Tonight was not for him.
When Fingon bent down to kiss him softly, Maedhros managed not to bite nor to open his lips and urge Fingon to ravage his mouth. He was an invalid, after all, and invalids preferred - not looking not making eye contact no kisses no tenderness rough from behind no NOT THERE stop kissing me stop gentling me stop lo -
- invalids preferred gentleness.
Fingon kissed him like they were young again, like they were true and chaste and unsullied in the Light of the Trees. Fingon kissed him like they were innocent, like Maedhros was worthy.
And Maedhros kept his eyes open, so he could watch.
It was strange, very strange, for Maedhros to be looking at him so intently. Or, Fingon realised with an unhappy twisting in his chest, to be looking at him at all. When he did not insist upon a position that prevented Fingon from seeing his face or demand to be blindfolded, Maedhros still refused to meet his eyes and, now that Fingon had what he had so earnestly desired, he could not help but feel self conscious.
"I need to undress you now," he said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt. "If that is alright?" He pressed another light kiss to Maedhros's lips because that much he was sure of.
Maedhros looked equally uncomfortable, though at least he had the excuse of being, ostensibly, injured. "I thought I was a better actor than this," he said with a small, embarrassed smile. "Please. Help me."
And so Fingon did, slowly and very carefully so as not to jostle Maedhros more than he had to. No frantic rending of fabric this, no force or bruising or lost buttons. The fastenings were designed to be worked one-handed and sprang open easily at his touch and Maedhros, after some awkwardness, found the right balance between being unhelpfully lax and too helpfully active, letting Fingon move him as he willed.
There was joy in the task - not the white-hot searing of desire that normally filled him when he drew open Maedhros's jerkin to show the fine skin beneath but a warm, quiet pleasure, long denied to him. Years ago, when Maedhros was still recovering, he had refused all Fingon's offers of assistance, allowing only servants dress him under the transparent pretext that this was a continuation of their normal service to a prince. Fingon could not blame his cousin too much for wanting to cling to what scraps of pride remained to him but it had hurt more than he would ever admit to see one he loved struggling and to have his aid so vehemently rebuffed.
The look Maedhros gave him when he had cast the last sock aside was nakedly hopeful but Fingon, too aware of the chill in the air, caught up one of the soft woollen blankets from the foot of the bed and wrapped it around him, drawing him in close.
"I'm going to light the fire," he said. "Will you be alright? Lie still," he meant to add again as Maedhros shifted in his arms, but it seemed he had caught the idea at last for he was only turning a little so that his head was tucked snugly beneath Fingon's chin, pillowed against his breast.
It was with no small regret that Fingon kissed his brow and set him down to go busy himself with the kindling, but Maedhros needed to be warm and Fingon too - his fingers did ache miserably in the cold.
When the flames had caught and grown enough to fill the room with warmth and rosy light, Fingon returned to the bed. Maedhros was still watching him, eyes shining in the firelight. Wordlessly he reached out and made a small, plaintive noise that made Fingon's breath catch as he folded Maedhros into his arms again.
The blanket had slipped free of one shoulder and Fingon kissed him there, feeling roughened scar tissue beneath his lips. Maedhros was covered with old wounds and with fresher ones from battles and from Fingon's hand at his command. Some were still raw and Fingon traced one cut, as gently as he could, with the tip of his finger.
Maedhros whined and, after a moment in which Fingon knew he was resisting the urge to press for more contact and discomfort, pulled away.
"This will not do," Fingon said, guilt and pleasure warring in his heart. "I must finish seeing to your arm and then to these." His chambers were very well supplied with soothing oils and lotions after all.
The light outside was long gone, but the flames leaped merrily in the grate, casting the room in flickering shadow. Maedhros shuttered his eyes to keep from spoiling anything; there had been times in the past when he’d looked too quickly at Fingon in certain lights and seen Fingon blanch at the glow.
Fingon’s chest was very comfortable, however, and despite the maddening tease of fingers on his skin, prodding just at the edge of delicious pain, Maedhros was actually enjoying the sensation of being curled against his cousin's warmth.
And so he could excuse the protesting noise that came from him, however pathetic, when Fingon extricated himself.
"I'll be back," Fingon promised, and went off to fumble in a cabinet.
There was a clinking of bottles, and Maedhros tried not to go rigid at the prospect of ointments and unguents. But when Fingon returned instead with a familiar cedar-smelling oil, he relaxed.
That was one that had not been used by the stern faced healer during his recovery, as she rotated his shoulder and made him act like a windmill ‘to retain mobility.’ The oil in the small gold decanter was not one commonly found in the infirmary, and Maedhros had enjoyed its benefits in the past. (It looked very well, he knew, spread across heated, dark brown skin, and kneaded into supple, begging flesh.)
Reflexively he spread his legs, but Fingon’s attention was fixed elsewhere. He worked the oil into the skin of Maedhros’s arm and shoulder, and Maedhros had less trouble than he’d thought keeping memories of the hatchet-faced healer from his mind. It was especially so when Fingon’s fingers traced the lines of his collarbone, and dug into the sensitive muscle of his neck, and followed up with a distinctly un-healer-y swipe of his tongue. It was maddeningly gentle and pleasurable, and Maedhros had tossed himself free of the blanket before he knew what he was doing.
“You’re feverish,” said Fingon softly, and Maedhros turned his growl into a pleading whimper halfway through.
“I’m so hot,” he whispered, forgetting to hood his eyes and gazing up at Fingon. Fingon shivered and his hands moved over Maedhros’s chest, digging into the scant muscle of his pectoral. “Oh – ”
“You’re shivering,” Fingon observed, and ran his thumb over Maedhros’s nipple – the right one, the one that was more than a mass of scar tissue. Maedhros shocked himself by keening; the touch sent something electric straight to his groin, and he knew he was spreading his legs wantonly now, arching his hips off the bed.
“I’m delirious,” he said quickly. “Mad with fever. Ahh, Fingon!”
Fingon had slid his other hand down Maedhros’s ribcage to the canyon dip of his pelvis. “Shh,” he murmured, “calm yourself. I am here.”
Maedhros swore fervently until Fingon narrowed his eyes and he stopped.
“Please,” he said instead. “I beg you – some relief.”
He half thought Fingon might refuse, but Fingon only bent to kiss the hollow of his belly. Maedhros stared at the ceiling, mentally planning his next invalid move, or perhaps a contrivance to get Fingon to give up the game and fuck him for –
“Eru’s balls. Fingon, hn – ” Maedhros choked, feeling Fingon massage the inside of his thighs, his mouth still pressed to Maedhros’s stomach. It was impossible for him to avoid the thin cuts that traced up Maedhros’s rawboned legs to his groin, and Maedhros growled his satisfaction. Fingon had made the cuts himself, not three nights before, and Maedhros closed his eyes and pictured Fingon crouched between his legs with a knife, blood and seed mingling as he let Maedhros’s cock drop from his lips –
“Am I hurting you?” Fingon’s lips moved against the skin of his stomach.
“Yes,” groaned Maedhros. “ More – ” And when Fingon abruptly released him, he realized he had failed the test.
Fingon snatched his hands back, acid burning at the back of his throat. All the years he had indulged Maedhros's wants without begrudging him, finding pleasure and shame in equal measure, and this one thing was too much for Maedhros to grant? The tentative warmth, the feeling of relief was gone, replaced with the same cold weariness he felt whenever Maedhros turned away from him after they made love ('fucked' as Maedhros always put it), his hurts and fears held tight to his chest where Fingon could not ease them.
"I'm still delirious," Maedhros offered, looking unhappy but not entirely repentant. "I don't know what I'm saying. You could restrain me," he added, offering up his arms. "I'm very sick and I might hurt myself."
"I'm not going to force you to do this." Though Maedhros might prefer it if he did, that was not what Fingon wanted. He took Maedhros' arms and turned them so that he could stroke the delicate skin inside his wrists. "I only wish to give you what you deserve."
Maedhros shivered. "So do I."
There was an argument to be had there but it was one that they'd gone over far too many times before. Time for a new approach. Not for nothing had Fingon fought his people's war these last centuries; he had learnt his tactics well and knew that sometimes you needed to give ground to gain the greater victory. He let his voice grow firmer. "Which of us is the healer here?"
"You are," Maedhros said, dark eyed and suddenly very serious despite the enormity of the lie.
"And which of us knows what is best for you?"
"You do."
"So when I tell you to lie still and let me tend to you, you will?"
"Do as I'm told." He yielded to the pressure of Fingon's hand against his chest, lying back once more.
Fingon took up one of the other jars that he had taken from the cabinet, one that contained an ointment for soothing wounds and reducing scarring which smelt, only faintly, of beeswax.
As a challenge to himself, and to Maedhros, Fingon started where he had stopped, at the cuts between Maedhros's thighs. One hand on his knee to hold the leg open while the other stroked over the fine tracery of cuts, smoothing the hurt away with careful touches.
Maedhros shuddered which had, Fingon was certain, nothing to do with the coolness of the ointment but he stayed, obediently, very still. His arousal was quite obvious but Fingon ignored it, keeping his touches far too soft to do more than tease him. He moved on to the other leg, feeling his own desire rise as well. "You're safe. I have you," he whispered, and grew harder still when Maedhros relaxed against him, long legs ceasing to strain against his touch.
As a reward Fingon kissed his mouth - still softly but allowing the briefest brush of their tongues - and gave his cock a brief stroke. It was firm in his hand, slick with the grease on Fingon's hand and the precome gathering at the head.
" Fingon!" Maedhros snarled in what was decidedly not the voice of an invalid, but his body stayed relaxed and receptive to Fingon's care.
"Ssh. Be easy. I have all of the rest of you to tend to."
Maedhros did not look at his own naked body if he could help it, but he knew that it was a winding river delta of braided scars and wounds, old and new.
"If you give each such thoughtful treatment," he said, "we will be here an age."
Fingon looked down at him, and there was a tension in his jaw that said he might quite like to hit Maedhros, if that hadn't been so patently what Maedhros desired.
"But," said Maedhros, reaching up to touch the hinge of Fingon's jaw until it eased and his lips unthinned, "I will gladly lie here any number of ages and let you tend me if you deem it necessary. I trust you," he said, and he knew that meekness was beyond him but sincerity at least he could give.
Fingon's mouth softened, and Maedhros let his fingers rest on the full lips he loved so well. "I am glad to be back with you," Maedhros said, and did not know quite where it came from. He hesitated a moment in confusion, trying to remember if they had established the backstory for his injuries, real or imagined. "I missed you," he said, even though falling from a chair could hardly count as being parted. He was no longer speaking of their game, and they both knew it. "Thank you for coming for me. Thank you for saving me, I know it was not easy. Help me," he pulled in a breath, struggling now with the words, stilted as they were, "help me recover."
Fingon's eyes were full of tears as he bent down to kiss Maedhros again, and then again, and then not letting them break for words. Soon he was half on top of Maedhros, using his forearms as a brace to keep his weight from crushing him, and Maedhros tangled his hands in Fingon's hair and murmured, "Be careful of my hurts."
Fingon hiccupped and nodded and kissed him once more, then sat back, gently settling himself over Maedhros's hips to retrieve the ointment. He traced the salve onto Maedhros's scars like he was writing Tengwar on his skin, and Maedhros closed his eyes and enjoyed the punctuating rock of Fingon's hips. It would feel even better if Fingon could get out of his clothes, but Maedhros was wary now of breaking the rules of the game. He let his fingers rest lightly on the waist of Fingon's breeches and said, "Please stop."
Fingon froze immediately and looked down at him, alarm clouding his features, his fingers still smeared with ointment.
Maedhros bit his lip and dropped his eyes. "It is only," he said huskily, "that my fever has made my skin so sensitive, and the material chafes unbearably..." He waited, wondering if this would be deemed within the parameters of the game.
Fingon's face lit with understanding and appreciation, and he nodded. Sliding free of Maedhros so that he could wriggle out of his clothes - Maedhros heard several buttons pop free in his healer's haste, and tried not to smile - Fingon was soon naked and as fine a panacea as Maedhros had ever beheld.
"Thank you," he said. "I think I shall be able to endure your treatment without discomfort now."
Now when Fingon re-settled himself over Maedhros, his heavy cock rested atop Maedhros's. Now when Fingon bent to his task, his fingertips moving over Maedhros's chest and ribs, Maedhros could press up against him and feel him throb in response. Maedhros closed his eyes and let breathy sounds escape him.
"I'm out of ointment," said Fingon in a stifled voice and Maedhros replied, as faintly as he could manage, "I think you've gotten the worst of them. Please, distract me from the pain."
He wanted Fingon inside him, wanted the slick drag of Fingon's cock to turn into pressure and penetration and - roughness, intensity, force - but he refused to fail, yet again, at Fingon's desire. Instead he let Fingon press back his knees and fold him up, one strong hand now around them both, stroking with slow deliberation. He tucked his face into Fingon's neck and let his hips open, his muscles relax, his breathing deepen - and it took him a moment to realize that the low, eager moans he could hear were his own.
"Is this alright?" asked Fingon, his voice gone deep in Maedhros's favorite way.
"Yes," said Maedhros, deciding to tremble a little. "But go...go easy."
Fingon groaned and gathered him close and Maedhros tried not to grin in satisfaction at having found the right thing to say at last.
Although there was not enough ointment left for even the thin pretense of salving wounds, there was enough that Fingon's hand slid slick and easy over their cocks. Maedhros clung to him, rocking his hips into the movement but not fighting him for more friction and more force. His face had been pressed to Fingon's shoulder but now Maedhros pulled back to look up at him. His pupils were blown wide with arousal but it was a softer darkness than Fingon had ever seen.
He was also grinning and doing a very poor job of hiding it. Though it lay far outside the purview of the game, Fingon was too delighted to think of scolding him or masking his answering smile. Nowadays when Maedhros looked pleased with himself it was usually because something was about to die - indeed, he had worn a sharper version of that same smirk before tearing out an orc's throat with his teeth, which had made kissing him afterwards an awkward and rather messy experience. This look was softer and to see him uncomplicated happy - happy because he was pleasing Fingon and, Fingon dared to hope, being pleased in turn - was all that he had wanted out of this.
"Tell me," he said, "If you need me to go slower."
Maedhros bit his lip, no doubt trying to stifle the smile, but the effect was very charming. "Please. Please do. Your ministrations have helped much but- Ah! I am still very fragile."
The gasp was not in response to pain but to Fingon skimming a thumb over the head of his cock. "You must tell me if you feel any discomfort," Fingon said, though his own voice was going ragged. He was clutching Maedhros so tightly that it was a struggle to keep his hand moving, his own hips twitching from the effort not to rut up against him. He had slowed only a little in response to Maedhros's plea - Maedhros was gasping and glassy eyed and tonight was not about torture of any sort.
"Fingon," Maedhros said, with a hitch to his voice that Fingon did not think was feigned. "Please. Would you...?"
"Ask," Fingon said, his voice more a growl than was fitting for his role, but he was too close now to bite it back.
"Kiss me," Maedhros said, and Fingon did, soft and tentative as the first time they had done so, and felt Maedhros gasp into his mouth as his cock pulsed in Fingon's hand, and came against his stomach. Fingon stroked him through his climax, not breaking the kiss even as his own broke over him.
The urge to collapse atop Maedhros was very strong - Fingon knew the weight would not bother him - but he could not bear to let the game end and so pushed himself off to lie beside him, one arm still draped across his chest.
"Thank you," Maedhros said. His voice was rough as it ever was after they had lain together, despite the fact that this time he had not screamed at all, but there was a smile in it. "I feel much better."
Fingon had hoped that he might draw it out longer, enjoy this warmth and closeness while it lasted. But it would hurt less if he was the one to break the embrace and so he sat up and reached for a cloth so he might clean up the mess of oil and seed that lay between them. He drew the rag over Maedhros's belly in long, slow strokes, keeping up the pretense that he was still sensitive with fever - that he still needed Fingon - as long as he might.
But Maedhros did not pull away or roll over, not as Fingon finished tending him and started on himself, nor as he put the cloth away and lay back down, a careful hand's breadth of space between them. Instead Maedhros raised himself upon his elbow so that he might press a kiss to Fingon's damp cheek, and then the corner of his mouth gone soft with surprise. When he lay back, it was pressed close to Fingon's side and, when Fingon wrapped his arms around him, though he squirmed and fidgeted a little, it was seemingly only to get comfortable.
Though Fingon had not wanted to sleep at all, too desperate to enjoy every moment of this that he was allowed, the comfort of a body warm against his, the measured beat of Maedhros's heart and the slow, sure rise of his chest with every breath lulled Fingon into a peaceful slumber, Maedhros safe and snug within his arms.
Maedhros resolved to stay tucked into Fingon's embrace until he felt him fall asleep and he could carefully extricate himself and slip out for the night. Often he would make the effort to spend the night, if on the other side of the bed, but tonight he was sure the impatience he'd kept bottled up throughout their lovemaking - and lovemaking it had been, he thought, astonished - would make anything but his own quarters unbearable.
Until Fingon fell asleep, though, he curled up and nuzzled under Fingon's chin, feeling him sigh with contentment and draw him closer. His arms settled around Maedhros's waist, and Maedhros drew one of his knees between Fingon's thighs to get more comfortable.
To his amazement, he felt no urge to pull away.
Experimentally, he closed his eyes and tucked his face against Fingon's throat, his legs tangled with Fingon's.
It was...tolerable.
As Fingon's breathing deepened and turned into gentle snores, Maedhros told himself now was the time to get up and leave. He told himself Fingon wouldn't notice until morning, and he'd surely understand. He still had some accounts to finish, notes that had been interrupted by his untimely swoon. The beads of the abacus rattled through his mind's eye and automatically, he counted them. Winter stores from Thargelion, liens from Himlad. Five tonnes, ten, fifteen, twenty - and a new row - and a shipment from the east - ten, twenty - livestock, that had to factor in, and how many new horses - twenty-five, thirty -
A massive snore shook him from his counting, and he realized with a start it had been his own. He'd fallen asleep.
In Fingon's arms.
That’s new, he thought hazily. What sorcery, what fresh devilry, what -
He yawned.
He could get up, he acknowledged, but it sounded like an effort to rise, find his clothes, and leave, and besides, there was ointment on the floor and he might slip.
Couldn't let himself get hurt, he thought in some amusement. At least not until Fingon was awake and prepared to take care of him.
And so he nestled closer to Fingon's heartbeat and fell asleep, but not before he'd given his cousin's collarbone a sharp bite.
For appearance's sake.