Fëanor looked over his shoulder again and then down at his feet - noticing he was tapping his foot impatiently. He grit his teeth, annoyed with himself for being so needy.
But at least he was trying to be considerate. He had been re-embodied in a new era of Aman, one where consenting adults were free to do as they liked with other consenting adults, it was no longer against the Laws. As such, Finarfin no longer needed a soundproofing ward on his living quarters, but he kept it there anyway to not disturb all of the palace residents with his activities. Yet even though Fëanor and Finarfin had not been intimate since his re-embodiment, they had enough of a lingering empathic bond where, as Fëanor came down the hall to Finarfin's suite he could sense Finarfin and Maglor making love. Fëanor had thought about turning around and going back to his own quarters, but he already was going to get a talking-to from the guards he evaded, so he thought he might as well make this little escape count.
It was bad enough that Fëanor had to be under surveillance since his re-embodiment - not so much because people didn't trust him not to get into trouble, but to protect him from any Telerin here at Alqualondë who might wish to avenge their dead kin. Fëanor felt stifled, and being watched constantly was interfering with his ability to create in the forge. But even worse, he was touch-starved. He knew Finarfin was wed to Maglor now, and he wanted to be happy for them - though Maglor had never spoken to Fëanor of his love for Finarfin, it had been obvious to Fëanor, and the pining was mutual, he had given Finarfin his blessing to take Maglor as his consort when they reached Middle-Earth... which never happened. They were together now, after so long, and Fëanor could not, would not deny them that. But every day that passed he hungered more and more for his youngest brother, who had been such a comfort to him before the Darkening, light in his own personal darkness. It seemed like re-embodiment was a cruel joke, to be minded like a child, living this loveless, lonely life.
So here he was, at his brother's door like a beggar. Having to wait for Finarfin to finish with Maglor, which felt like adding insult to injury. Even moreso when Fëanor felt Finarfin's ecstasy across their empathic bond, and his cock began to stiffen in response.
Images of Finarfin and Maglor in the throes of passion burned in Fëanor's mind. He tried desperately to shove them away - it was one thing to lust for his brother, another to lust for his own son, even though the Laws had changed. Yes, Maglor was a grown man - and a beautiful one at that, the perfect combination of strength and grace. But Fëanor still felt ashamed for his lust...
...and it made that feeling of loneliness, of hunger, even worse. Fëanor looked down at the floor, heart pounding in his ears, feeling himself rocking back and forth like he often did to calm himself. There was no calm to be had. His cheeks were on fire, and just as he was ready to abort the mission and head back to his quarters, the door opened and Finarfin poked his head out. "How long have you been standing there?" Finarfin asked, eyes narrowed.
Beautiful green eyes, that complemented the silver-gold of his hair. Finarfin was a living work of art that took Fëanor's breath away.
Despite once again being enthralled by his youngest brother's radiance, Fëanor found his words. "Long enough."
Finarfin gave a wry chuckle and then gestured for Fëanor to come in. Fëanor stepped in gingerly and his nostrils twitched at the scents of musk and sweat. The aroma of sex. Maglor was sitting up in bed with a sheet covering his lower half, but even the sight of his flushed cheeks and disheveled blue-black waves of hair and his sweat-glistening bare torso and arms seemed obscene, those sculpted muscles, hard nipples...
Fëanor looked away, cock stiffening even more. Soon it would be obvious he was tenting his robes. Of course, he had come here to ask his brother for relief. Maybe his brother and his favorite son could -
Stop that.
Then Finarfin glanced over at Maglor and their eyes met and Maglor gave a short nod - Fëanor had a feeling they were using ósanwe - and Maglor rose from the bed. Maglor quickly turned around, too fast for Fëanor to see his cock, but the glimpse of Maglor's peach-like arse made his cock pulse with longing. Fëanor's mouth went dry and only when Finarfin cleared his throat did Fëanor realize he was staring, and Maglor was already gone to another room of the suite.
Finarfin himself was wearing a white silk robe embroidered with golden flowers and green leaves that left little to the imagination, and after they each sat down, Fëanor noticed the patterns of spend on Finarfin's chest. Fëanor almost came in his breeches, once again pushing away the delicious, forbidden fantasy of Maglor in the throes of climax...
"It's late," Finarfin said quietly.
Fëanor sighed. "Hello to you too."
"I'm sorry." Finarfin rubbed his face, got up from his chair, and walked over to where there was a bottle of wine. He came back with it and two cups, and poured one for each of them. After he handed Fëanor his cup, there was a long, awkward silence, both of them sipping the wine, tension in the air. "I didn't mean it to sound like your visit is unwelcome, brother."
Isn't it? But Fëanor kept that thought to himself, and now the fire of lust gave way to a stronger fire, thinking of his latest quarrel with Fingolfin. Feeling scorned all over again. Remembering the way they'd come together in secret during the feast of reconciliation, then after the Darkening and the murder of their father, Fingolfin was convinced their affair had cursed them and when Fëanor had tried to reach out for comfort during the exile, Fingolfin had pushed him away. Now this, with Finarfin's more formal manner around him, as if the feelings had gone cold there as well. Fëanor's fist tightened around his cup and he took a deep sip, waiting for Finarfin to go on.
"I was only observing the time because you're not sleeping and you're not in your forge."
"No." Fëanor squared his shoulders. "I can't sleep, and I'm having a hard time concentrating on my projects right now." Which made him even angrier. Most of the time, he could lose himself in his craft, giving himself an escape from the ugliness of his pain through beauty and enchantment. But when he hit a particular place of upset, he couldn't work at all - like the creative fire had been stolen from him, and being under constant surveillance only made that worse.
"I see."
Fëanor took a deep breath, all of his pride crashing in a mighty fall as he spelled out what he came here for. "I thought maybe you could... help me with that. If you understand what I'm saying." Though Fëanor knew Finarfin had finished with Maglor just a few moments ago, he also knew from their past history Finarfin was capable of going many, many rounds. As was he. And he was hoping that the perceived coolness was just his insecurities.
Finarfin put his cup down and leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands in his lap and looked down for a moment and Fëanor knew without Finarfin saying a single word the answer was no.
Fëanor exhaled sharply and got up, and began heading for the door. He only got a few paces when Finarfin asked, "Where do you think you're going?"
"Back to my room." Fëanor looked over his shoulder and sneered. "It's obvious you don't want me anymore. I don't begrudge you my son, I know you love each other. But I suppose you don't have time for me and Ñolo both anymore, and it's also obvious you chose him -"
"Curufinwë." Finarfin's nostrils flared. He only called Fëanor by his given name in the tender moments after sex... or when he was exasperated and stern. Fëanor didn't have to guess which it was now. "I will thank you to not put words in my mouth."
"But -"
"Sit down."
Fëanor's eyebrows shot up. He wasn't used to being ordered around like this outside of the sex games they used to play. He didn't like it.
Finarfin repeated the command. "Sit down. I am your King."
Fëanor blinked. What Finarfin said was, of course, technically true - Finarfin had become the High King once he returned to Aman, and he still was; Fëanor's release from Mandos had been contingent on forfeiting his right to rule. But it still made him bristle anyway, a reminder of how things had changed, that there was no going back to the way things once were.
Fëanor did as he was told.
"For the record," Finarfin said, "I have not been with our brother either. I would feel disloyal, touching either of you while you were quarreling, knowing both of you would see it as taking sides. So until you work things out -"
Fëanor snorted. As much as it hurt, he had written Fingolfin off as a lost cause. Fëanor downed the rest of his wine and sat back in his chair. "If you will not lay with me, then at least give me the Silmarils, so I may remember the light and warmth we once shared."
Finarfin pinched the bridge of his nose.
"They are mine," Fëanor said. "I made them. I have been re-embodied for months and -"
Finarfin put up a hand. Then he shook his head. "And you know, as their maker, they have power. Power enough that the Valar wanted them to replace the Trees. I was asked not to give them back to you until enough time had passed that it was decided you could be trusted with that power."
Fresh fire boiled through Fëanor. "Those. Are. Mine -"
"And you are mine - we may not be intimate right now, but someday, if you and our brother can pull your heads out of your stubborn arses, that will resume. But you are still mine. And I have concerns about you... handling... the Silmarils when you are in this state." Finarfin shook his head.
"And yet, you will do nothing to help me out of it?" Fëanor pursed his lips.
Finarfin cocked his head to one side, and a moment later Maglor stepped back in, wearing a blue robe that clung to him all the right places. That shade of blue also reminded Fëanor of Fingolfin - and Maglor's resemblance to Fingolfin.
"Atya, Ara has a vacation home on Tol Eressëa. I would like to take you there for a few weeks. A change of scenery might do you some good," Maglor said.
Finarfin nodded. "I agree."
Fëanor wanted to refuse, but now Maglor's eyes were on him and Fëanor could not deny his favorite son. As much as Fëanor had tried not to have a favorite son - he loved them all fiercely, and he tried to show it - he nonetheless had always been a bit more fond of Maglor, with his musical artistry and his sensitive heart. It was good of Maglor to want to give him a break for awhile, and so, Fëanor found himself nodding. "All right."
Maglor's face lit up and it melted Fëanor's heart. "We'll spend tomorrow packing for the trip and leave the day after tomorrow, if that works for you?"
"And it's just going to be the two of us?" Fëanor glanced over at Finarfin. "And you're... going to be alone, without your husband -"
Finarfin waved his hand. "I'll manage. Your well-being is important to me, and I know Kanafinwë is looking forward to spending time with you."
Maglor nodded eagerly, a touch of boyish exuberance in the solemn, regal man.
The very handsome, tempting man. Spending a few weeks alone with him seemed more like torture than a holiday. But once again, Fëanor's love for his son won out. "As you wish."
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