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A long time ago, Nolofinwë might have been guilted out of confronting Fëanáro by the livid scars making patterns on his skin.
These days, he still manages to afford his half-brother (his treacherous, idiotic, dangerous fool of a half-brother) one small kindness.
"Leave us," he says to Turukáno and Findekáno and the few others that stood by him, and nods at Fëanáro’s men, "and if you would ask them to leave, as well… I would prefer to speak in private."
Fëanáro looks at him sharply, but murmurs the same command to his sons and the warriors who have accompanied him; for a moment Nolofinwë thinks that Curufinwë will not leave, for he lingers by his father’s side with angry eyes fixed on Nolofinwë, but at a second sharp glance from his father he finally heads for the door.
The shelter - not much deserving to be called a house - that they stand in is small, but at least with only the two of them there was room to breathe. Nolofinwë goes to the door and ensures that they were not being spied upon, then closes it and turned to his half-brother.
"I will not force you to apologize in public," he says, as gently as he could, for Nelyafinwë has already impressed on him that Fëanáro had suffered at the hands of Morgoth’s forces before his sons had rescued him - mere hours later, but they had feared for his life.
Fëanáro has not turned towards him; only moves his head a little, listening, so that Nolofinwë can see the red, raised line that wraps around his jaw and leads up his cheek, turning silver at the edges.
"How generous of you." There is a bit of extra harshness to the mocking edge in his voice. "You are so certain I will apologize?"
"It is necessary," Nolofinwë says quietly, crossing the room and taking up position in front of his half-brother again. He thinks of sitting in the chair that served him as throne - rough work, but good, for Turukáno poured his heart and soul into what he did with his hands - but decides against it; best not to do anything to provoking. "My people were deserted by yours, at your command. Many of them, or their loved ones, died in the crossing of the Helcaraxë."
Fëanáro laughs low under his breath, still not quite looking him in the eyes. Nolofinwë notes that his hair is oddly short, cropped above his shoulders, and unbidden a mental image rises to mind - a fiery Maiar siezing a handful of Fëanáro’s hair and dragging his head back, the locks in its hand scorching.
"I could argue that you are to blame for that, brother." He pauses for a moment, seeming to worry the last word upon his tongue, before speaking again. "You made the decision to follow, to attempt to cross the Ice. I did not guess you would try it."
"I tried - and succeeded," Nolofinwë says, a little coldness leaking into his voice. "And you should know best why I and my people would not remain in Valinor, and guessed that we would not. Nelyafinwë tells me that you were raving as you burned the ships, saying I would betray you if I came to this land."
Nelyafinwë had put it in much kinder terms. Nolofinwë takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself; he would not lose his composure first, he would not give in to the anger bubbling inside him.
"Do you pretend you do not want power?" Fëanáro asks, glancing up at him; his grey eyes are oddly piercing, as if he were fevered. "Would you have me believe that what you says to me that day was true - you shall lead and I shall follow - that you would keep to those words?"
"Even if you feared that, burning the ships was… an overreaction," Nolofinwë says, keeping his tone low and even now. "But I do not want to argue over it, and I do not see the need. We have both suffered from the decision, and our forces are weakened when separated. If you would merely agree to make amends, apologize -"
"No,"Fëanáro says.
Frustration is bubbling up within Nolofinwë again. “If your stubborn pride will not allow you to -“
"Not that," Fëanáro says, and it is the odd quietness of his voice that gives Nolofinwë pause. There is something… odd in the way he is not meeting his eyes.
"I regret it," Fëanáro finally says, raising his eyes to Nolofinwë’s; Nolofinwë stares back, unable to reply. "I regret what I did, and I have wondered often if it was wrong, if I had made a mistake. I am almost sure I did." He straightens himself a little. "But an apology is not what you truly want, and I will not give it to you and allow you to continue playing at perfection."
Nolofinwë wets his lips, searching for how to react; there was true sorrow in his half-brother’s voice, he seemed sincere, but he still refused to apologize?
"Pray tell me what I am hiding, then," he says, barely trying to keep the anger from his voice; he hates the way Fëanáro is looking at him now, distant-eyed and quietly sure of himself.
A small smile touches Fëanáro’s lips, the first Nolofinwë has seen on him, and it makes th anger in his chest flare even hotter. How dare he look at him like that, as if he were a child or a fool, when Fëanáro was the one who had done wrong, who had made so many terrible mistakes?
"You want to punish me," Fëanáro says.
Nolofinwë laughs, a strange and stifled sound that surprises him. “What?”
Fëanáro’s eyes remain serious, cutting into Nolofinwë, and he tilts his head to the side a little. Nolofinwë’s eyes are drawn to the spiraling red lengths of scars, edged with the silver of healing skin, that draw taut over his neck and vanish down into the front of his shirt.
"You feel guilty at it, of course, because I am already injured," Fëanáro says, jolting Nolofinwë out of his momentary reverie. "But if I was scarred with whip-marks from your hand, you would delight in it." There is a strange dark touch to his voice with the last words, and it makes Nolofinwë’s stomach churn strangely.
"I do not want to hurt you," he says, more angrily than he meant to. "I want you to apologize, that is all, and I can forgive you -"
"-and it will fester within you, and you will grow to hate me underneath your smiling face," Fëanáro interrupts, taking a step closer. There is anger freely showing in his face, a contrast to the quietude of a moment ago. "There is no true forgiveness for a betrayal that is not bought without pain, or some payment besides empty words. If you want our people to be one again, you will see that!"
"You would have me punish you, when you are already hurt?" Nolfinwë gestures furiously to the scars. "Your sons would never tolerate that!"
Fëanáro looks him directly in the eyes, and his expression makes Nolofinwë’s breath catch (for a reason he cannot quite name).
"The punishment would not need to be public - as you intended to be the case for an apology," he says, and there is something strangely tempting in that. Nobody need know.
Nolofinwë draws a long breath, trying to steady himself. “If I accepted what you say, how would you have me punish you?” he says, trying to buy himself some time to think.
Fëanáro scoffs, his eyes disgusted. “You would try to put the decision upon me even now? I have had to tell you that you want it, and now I must tell you what you want to do? Leading and following should not run so deeply, half-brother.” The prefix was clear and sharp in his mouth, the intention obvious. “If I told you what you wanted you would keep telling yourself that it is only I who want it, and you are humoring me - and I will not stoop to supporting that delusion, Nolofinwë. Take what you want, or let the Noldor remain divided, but I will not make your choice for you.”
"I…" Nolfinwë trails off. What more can he say?
"Don’t try to talk your way out of this," Fëanáro says, voice low, as if he can read his mind; and perhaps he is, perhaps Nolofinwë’s mind is whirling too much for him to recognize the brush of another’s against his own.
Confusion and anger are a potent mixture, and after a moment Nolofinwë exclaims aloud, half-turning away.
"By Elbereth, Fëanáro, I do not know what to do!" he spits. There is a rising pressure within him, all the emotion he has battled down and kept hidden on the Ice, and years before, rising to the surface; but he is… he is…
Fëanáro scoffs again, and finishes his mental rambling aloud.
"Afraid?"
And the rough boiling of anger grows beyond control, and Nolofinwë spins back towards his half-brother and reaches out to grab his neck.
Fëanáro chokes a little, but Nolofinwë does not use the hold to strangle; merely drag him towards him, be briefly grateful that Fëanáro was not much taller than him, kiss him roughly. Their teeth scrape together, jarring, before Fëanáro’s jaw falls slack and Nolofinwë can freely ravish his mouth. It is intoxicating, feeling muffled sounds against his lips and tongue, clenching his half-brother’s shirt in both hands now to hold him in place, making sure he sees Fëanáro’s eyes slowly shut before he closes his own.
He breaks the kiss with equal sharpness, pushing Fëanáro back and causing him to stumble. Still, he does not even seem to try and hold his balance, but falls to one knee, looking up at Nolofinwë. His grey eyes are glittering now, his lips and cheeks reddened, and Nolofinwë feels his cock stir at the sight; he can’t avoid acknowledging his arousal any longer.
"Shall I take this, then, half-brother?” Nolofinwë asks, his voice ringing out more loudly than he intended.
Fëanáro stares at him a moment more, then dips his head.
"If this is your punishment," he says, an edge of strange wild laughter to his voice, "I accept it."
Rage is blurring Nolofinwë’s vision now, with a strange incoherent rush of thoughts - how dare you laugh how dare you leave me how dare you - and he strides forward and winds his fingers through Fëanáro’s newly short hair, jerking his head back. Fëanáro makes a small sound in his throat that made Nolofinwë’s cock stiffen further, and when he speaks he finds his voice taking on a commanding note.
"Very well, then. You will obey every order I give, and when I am satisfied you will have my full pardon."
"Understood," Fëanáro says, but there is still that damnable grin on his face, the obvious enjoyment of being right, and despite the livid scar that traces his jawbone (a fiery claw tracing his face, a mock-caring gesture?) Nolofinwë is not inclined to be gentle.
"Come," he snaps out, and drags at Fëanáro’s shirtfront; it might rip, but he does not care, he does not care for caring anymore, now that he has a chance to take something from his half-brother in return from what Fëanáro took from him. The throne (for, for all its simplicity, that is what it is) creaks under him a little as he sinks into it, pulling Fëanáro with him. It is not a wide seat, not enough for the two of them; Fëanáro stumbles, awkwardly catches himself on the back, looks down at Nolofinwë with curious eyes.
He looks back breathing quick but lips twisting into a ghost of his usual calm smile; an idea has taken root in his mind, a vague memory bearing belated, strange fruit.
"You recall when I found my way into your workshop once," he said, "and broke one of your tools, and although I protested I was too old for it you took me across your knee?"
Fëanáro’s eyes flicker with an unidentifiable emotion. “Yes.”
"Bend over."
It takes a moment of fumbling for Fëanáro to find position, and Nolofinwë does not wait for him to get comfortable. The first blow connects with a gratifying thwack, and a soft hiss from between Fëanáro’s teeth; he shifts against Nolofinwë’s lap.
Doubtless those they had sent outside imagined the two of them deep in conversation, speaking of weighty matters, but not even knowing that can keep back the growing pleasure coiling in Nolofinwë’s groin. He is enjoying this, seeing Fëanáro’s shoulders hunch when a particularly hard slap lands, feeling his palm sting from the force - simpler than whipping, more suited to his anger.
And when he hears a choked groan escape from Fëanáro’s lips and feels the weight of his brother’s cock against his thigh, it fully dawns on him that Fëanáro is enjoying this too.
A sharp smile curving his mouth, he drags down Fëanáro’s breeches. His half-brother stiffens, but before he can move Nolofinwë brings his hand down again, and he doubles forward and moans aloud.
"Say my name," Nolofinwë says, the need for it rising within him; he wants to hear Fëanáro speaking it with something other than contempt, he wants to hear how it would sound from a breathless mouth. When Fëanáro does not respond, he slaps his ass sharply again, seeing the skin redden beneath his hand. "I gave you an order."
Fëanáro gasps for breath, then clears his throat.
"Nolofinwë," he says, with mocking, clinical precision, the most perfect diction and least emotion he can managed while bent over his half-brother’s knee. Nolofinwë is torn between anger and amusement, but one feeling rises above both.
"On your knees," he commands, feeling a heady thrill at how Fëanáro obeys him. With his half-brother kneeling on the floor before him, he know feels himself very much upon a throne; undoing the laces of his breeches, he pulls them down a little, freeing his cock, then leans back in the chair.
"Put your mouth to some use," he said, savoring the flash of anger - and hunger? - in Fëanáro’s eyes. "Suck me."
For a moment he wonders if he has gone too far, if his half-brother is too proud or too hurt (he can see the scars, winding down into the shadows of his half-open shirt, and wonders for a moment what Morgoth had planned for him). But then a cunning gleam comes into Fëanáro’s eyes and he dips his head and - “Elbereth!” Nolofinwë groans involuntarily, his fingers digging into the throne’s arms.
Because Fëanáro’s mouth is skilled in more ways than one, and Fëanáro can use his tongue like a lash and his teeth to perfection, and - Nolofinwë regathers some control by winding his fingers in Fëanáro’s hair, and nearly loses it when Fëanáro takes him in deeper, and after a moment he begins to drop his coldness altogether.
It is so much more satisfying to thrust into Fëanáro’s mouth freely, with almost a vicious pleasure when he choked or hesitated; to feel as if he were paying back in some small part what it was like to feel used, inconsequential, a tool to be minded to when needed and deserted when not.
"Hands where I can see them," he rasped when one of Fëanáro’s hands began to go to his cock, and watched the hunger on his half-brother’s face grow; reveled in moaning, letting his head fall back and his eyes half-close, because he could feel Fëanáro’s frustrated groan around his cock in turn.
It is that that finally sends him over the edge, hips jerking uncontrollably as he spills into Fëanáro’s mouth. Fëanáro chokes slightly, and then swallows and swallows until Nolofinwë is milked dry, shivering against Fëanáro’s touch. Finally his mouth lifts from Nolofinwë’s cock and he stands, and suddenly in Nolofinwë’s weakened state he seems much taller.
"Nolofinwë…" Fëanáro breathes, looking down at him; there is darkness in his eyes. "Do you have any idea how you look? Sated, wanton, with your legs spread wide…" He bent down, his fingers curling against the back of the throne, and his voice lowered. "I could take you now, while you were helpless to resist, and pay you back in full for the way you humiliated me; make you scream until your people came running, and saw you like this."
Nolofinwë looks up into his eyes, and felt strangely content.
"You are pardoned," he said softly. "Have you forgotten why all this began?"
A startled look crosses Fëanáro’s face, as if he truly did not expect Nolofinwë to follow through on his promise; he withdrew a little.
"To excuse my words," he muttered, "you seemed a bit carried away."
Nolofinwë laughed breathlessly. “You told me to take what I want!” Reaching up, he touched Fëanáro’s hair again - not to grab or wrench, merely stroking it gently. “I hold no grudge against you.”
It was strangely true, in the tiny hall where they almost seemed to see each other’s souls. And when Nolofinwë wrapped his fingers around Fëanáro’s cock, he finally relaxed a little, burying his face in Nolofinwë’s soft hair.
"What now, half-brother?" he murmured, his breath hitching at the end as Nolofinwë began to stroke.
Nolfinwë laughed at the strangeness of it all, and with the sweat-damp warmth of Fëanáro’s body against him felt that the Ice was now very far away.
"We tell our people we have reached an agreement," he said, tightening his grip and enjoying the soft noise Fëanáro made, "full brother of my heart."