He hears Mahtan call his name, the word tinged with surprise and concern, but he doesn't slow. His feet carry him across the forge's stone floor, past the cooling vats and supply shelves, through the heavy wooden door and into the relative coolness of the evening beyond.
The shock of temperature change hits him like a physical blow, but he welcomes it, uses it to center himself as he runs. His boots strike the packed earth of the path leading away from the forge complex, each impact jarring through his body. The sensation is grounding, pulling him out of the storm of his emotions and into the immediate physical reality of flight.
Wind whips his hair back from his face, drying the remaining tears on his cheeks. He has no destination in mind, only the desperate need to put distance between himself and the witness to his breakdown. Trees blur past him as he leaves the main path, cutting through a stand of silver-barked birches that whisper secrets with each breeze.
Fëanor runs until his lungs burn and his legs tremble, until the emotional pain is temporarily overshadowed by physical exertion. Only then does he slow, one hand reaching out to steady himself against the smooth trunk of a tree. His breath comes in ragged gasps, heart hammering against his ribs like a prisoner demanding release.
Embarrassment clings to him like a second skin, making him acutely aware of every interaction with Mahtan that will follow this humiliation. How can he face his mentor again, knowing what Mahtan has witnessed? How can he stand before that steady gaze, those perceptive eyes, without remembering the pathetic figure he must have presented, huddled on the forge floor, weeping like a child?
The image makes him wince, fresh mortification washing over him. Mahtan, who embodies everything Fëanor admires—skill and patience, strength without brutality, passion tempered by wisdom. Mahtan, whose approval means more than it should, whose praise feeds something hungry in Fëanor's spirit. Mahtan, who has now seen him at his weakest, his most vulnerable.
A branch snaps behind him—deliberate, a warning of approach rather than an accidental sound. Fëanor tenses, knowing without turning who follows him. For a moment, he considers running again, losing himself deeper in the woods until night falls and his shame can hide in darkness.
But he has run far enough to regain some semblance of composure, enough to face what comes next with at least the illusion of dignity. He straightens, squares his shoulders, and prepares to turn around—to face Mahtan with whatever fragments of pride he can muster.
Before he can complete the motion, however, Mahtan's voice reaches him, carrying a single word that stops Fëanor's heart mid-beat.
"Cub."
The word floats through the air, gentle yet arresting. Fëanor's breath catches, the familiar endearment striking him like a physical touch. No one else has ever called him that—only Mahtan, and only in their most private moments. It's a name that strips away his titles and expectations, reduces him to something simpler, something young and unfinished. A creature still learning, still growing, still permitted its mistakes.
Fëanor remains frozen, back still to Mahtan, afraid that turning will shatter whatever fragile thing stretches between them. The forest seems to hold its breath around them—the rustling leaves quieting, the evening birds pausing their songs, as if nature itself recognizes the gravity of this moment.
"You don't need to run from me." Mahtan's voice comes closer now, the words carried on a breath of evening air. "Not ever."
The promise in those simple words makes Fëanor's throat tighten anew. He wants to believe them—wants it with an intensity that frightens him. His fingers press harder against the tree bark, seeking stability as the ground seems to shift beneath his feet.
"Look at me." Not a command but a request, soft with understanding.
Fëanor slowly turns, his movements stiff with residual shame and exhaustion. His eyes lift reluctantly to meet Mahtan's gaze. The older elf stands mere paces away, close enough that Fëanor can see the individual strands of auburn hair that have escaped his tie, can count the subtle variations of grey in those steady eyes.
Mahtan's expression holds none of the judgment Fëanor fears, only a profound tenderness that makes something twist painfully in his chest. One hand reaches out, hovering in the space between them—an invitation rather than a demand.
"I shouldn't have run," Fëanor admits, the words raw with honesty. His pride, usually so fierce, feels distant now, worn thin by emotional exhaustion.
"Perhaps not," Mahtan agrees with the ghost of a smile. "But I understand why you did."
That simple acceptance—the acknowledgment of his feelings without dismissal or ridicule—loosens something knotted tight within Fëanor's chest. He takes a halting step forward, then another, closing the distance between them until Mahtan's outstretched hand brushes his shoulder.
The contact is light, tentative, but it sends a current of warmth through Fëanor's body, awakening every nerve ending along its path. He fights the instinct to lean into the touch, to seek more of that reassuring connection.
"You don't need to hide your tears from me," Mahtan says, his voice dropping lower, meant only for Fëanor's ears though no one else is present to hear. "They don't diminish you in my eyes."
The words pierce Fëanor's carefully constructed defenses, finding the vulnerable places he tries so desperately to conceal. His breath catches on an inhale, shuddering in his lungs. "They should," he manages, the words barely audible. "Weakness should diminish me."
Mahtan's hand tightens slightly on his shoulder, the pressure both reassurance and rebuke. "Is that what your father taught you?" The question holds no judgment, only a quiet sadness. "That emotion equals weakness?"
Fëanor doesn't answer, can't answer. The truth of the observation strikes too close to home, exposing the roots of pain he's buried deep. His silence is answer enough.
With gentle pressure, Mahtan draws him closer, until barely a handspan separates their bodies. His other hand rises to Fëanor's face, callused fingers brushing back a strand of dark hair with unexpected delicacy.
"My cub," he murmurs, the endearment softer now, intimate in a way that makes Fëanor's heart stutter. "So brilliant, so fierce, and yet so blind to your own strength."
Something breaks inside Fëanor at those words—not the violent shattering of before, but a quieter collapse, like a wall worn through by persistent water rather than demolished by force. He sways forward, forehead coming to rest against Mahtan's shoulder, his body surrendering what his mind still resists.
Mahtan's arms encircle him without hesitation, strong and secure, one hand moving to cradle the back of Fëanor's head while the other spans his trembling back. The embrace is careful at first, as if Mahtan fears Fëanor might still bolt if held too tightly.
"I've got you," Mahtan whispers into his hair. "I've got you."
The simple affirmation undoes the last of Fëanor's resistance. His arms wrap around Mahtan's solid form, fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic as if afraid he might vanish if not held fast. A sob rises in his throat, different from before—not the desperate, solitary cries of the forge, but something shared, something almost like relief.
Mahtan holds him through it, his embrace tightening as Fëanor's control dissolves. There is safety in these arms, security in the steady heartbeat Fëanor feels against his cheek. The beard that fascinates him so—rare among their kind—brushes against his temple as Mahtan bends his head closer, murmuring words too soft to distinguish but whose tone conveys comfort nonetheless.
Fëanor weeps again, but without the earlier shame. These tears feel cleansing rather than degrading, washing away layers of pretense and pride to reveal something truer beneath. Mahtan's hand strokes his hair in a soothing rhythm, the motion so tender it nearly breaks Fëanor anew.
Time loses meaning as they stand entwined beneath the silver birches. The light shifts around them, the golden glow of Laurelin deepening toward Telperion's silver dusk, casting long shadows across the forest floor. Neither moves to break the connection, as if they've found something precious that might dissolve if acknowledged too directly.
Fëanor's tears eventually slow, then stop altogether, leaving him drained but somehow lighter. His breathing synchronizes with Mahtan's, their chests rising and falling in matched rhythm. He becomes acutely aware of every point of contact between them—Mahtan's fingers tangled in his hair, the pressure of strong arms around his back, the solid warmth of the chest against which he rests his cheek.
"Better?" Mahtan asks finally, the word a gentle vibration Fëanor feels as much as hears.
Fëanor nods against his shoulder, not yet trusting his voice. Better doesn't begin to describe the transformation within him—the relief, the strange new lightness, the sense of connection that runs deeper than words can express.
Mahtan's hand moves to Fëanor's chin, gently tilting his face upward until their eyes meet. The intimacy of the gesture sends a different kind of tremor through Fëanor's body, one that has nothing to do with grief or shame.
"There you are," Mahtan says softly, his thumb brushing away a lingering tear from Fëanor's cheek. "I was wondering when you'd come back to me."
The simple statement holds layers of meaning that Fëanor feels unequipped to unravel in his current state. He swallows hard, finding his voice at last. "I'm sorry for running."
Mahtan shakes his head slightly, the movement causing a strand of his auburn hair to brush against Fëanor's forehead. "Never apologize for what you need. I just wish you'd let me help sooner."
"I didn't want you to see me like that." The admission costs Fëanor, pride still struggling against vulnerability even now.
"Like what? Like someone who feels deeply? Who cares enough to be hurt?" Mahtan's expression grows serious, his eyes holding Fëanor's with unwavering intensity. "That's precisely who I want to see. The real Fëanor, not the mask you wear for others."
The words strike something deep within Fëanor, a longing so profound it aches. To be seen—truly seen—and not found wanting. To be valued not despite his intensity but because of it. He leans slightly into Mahtan's touch, permitting himself this small indulgence.
"My father says—"
"Your father," Mahtan interrupts gently, "is not always right. Especially about you."
The heresy of this statement—that the High King might be mistaken—should shock Fëanor. Instead, it offers a strange comfort, a permission to trust his own perceptions over those imposed upon him.
They remain close, neither fully willing to break the intimacy of their embrace. Fëanor becomes intensely aware of Mahtan's scent—metal and leather, sweat and something uniquely his, a combination that feels inexplicably like home.
"What do we do now?" Fëanor asks, the question encompassing far more than their immediate circumstances.
Mahtan's lips curve into a small smile, warm enough to chase away the evening chill settling around them. "Now, cub, we go back to the forge. We work. We create. We do what we've always done—only perhaps with fewer walls between us."
The simplicity of this answer soothes Fëanor's complicated heart. No dramatic pronouncements, no awkward dissection of the moment they've shared. Just a gentle acknowledgment that something has shifted, and a path forward that honors that change without demanding immediate definition.
"I'd like that," Fëanor admits, the words emerging easier than expected.
Mahtan's arms loosen slightly, creating space between them without fully breaking contact. One hand slides down to grasp Fëanor's, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy. The touch sends a fresh wave of warmth up Fëanor's arm, centering in his chest like a banked ember.
"Come," Mahtan says, giving Fëanor's hand a gentle squeeze. "The day's not lost yet. There's still light to work by."
As they walk back toward the forge, hands still joined, Fëanor feels a curious mix of exhaustion and exhilaration. Something fundamental has shifted between them—something he lacks the words to name but feels with every fiber of his being. The ground beneath his feet seems steadier now, the path ahead clearer, as if his tears have washed away not just his pain but also the dust clouding his vision.
Mahtan's thumb traces small circles against the back of Fëanor's hand as they walk, each movement a silent reminder of connection, of understanding. Of acceptance. For now, that's enough—more than enough. It's everything.
The forge welcomes them back with its familiar heat, the space transformed now that they enter it together. What was once a chamber of solitary grief has become something else entirely—a shared sanctuary lit by the orange glow of banked coals and the silver light of early evening streaming through high windows. Fëanor moves toward his abandoned workstation, suddenly self-conscious of the evidence of his earlier breakdown—the scattered tools, the half-finished pendant still lying on the anvil. Mahtan follows a step behind, his presence both comforting and disquieting in ways Fëanor has yet to fully understand.
"Leave that for now," Mahtan says, nodding toward the pendant when Fëanor reaches for it. "I have something else in mind."
Fëanor's hand hovers uncertainly above his abandoned work. "It needs to be finished by—"
"It will wait." Mahtan's voice is gentle but firm. "Tonight calls for something new, I think. Something we create together."
The suggestion sends an unexpected thrill through Fëanor's body. They have worked side by side countless times before, but something in Mahtan's tone suggests a different kind of collaboration, something more intimate than their usual master-apprentice dynamic.
"What did you have in mind?" Fëanor asks, curiosity pushing aside the lingering embarrassment of earlier events.
Mahtan moves to a cabinet near the far wall, his movements fluid and purposeful. Fëanor finds himself tracking the play of muscles beneath the thin fabric of his tunic, the way his hair catches the forge's light as he moves. He has always admired Mahtan's form—the physical embodiment of the strength and skill he hopes to one day match—but tonight, that admiration feels charged with something new and dangerous.
"I've been saving these," Mahtan says, returning with a small wooden box. He places it on the worktable between them and opens the lid to reveal a collection of uncut gems—raw crystals in various hues of blue and purple, ranging from pale aquamarine to deep amethyst. "Found them during that expedition to the eastern mountains last summer. I thought they might speak to you." Mahtan smiles. "Blue for your favorite color, purple for mine."
Fëanor's breath catches at the sight. The stones are extraordinary—not for their size or even their clarity, but for the unusual color variations within each crystal, layers of blue and purple swirling together like captured waves.
"They're beautiful," he murmurs, reaching out to touch one tentatively. The rough surface catches against his fingertip, a pleasant friction that grounds him in the physical world. "What do you envision for them?"
Mahtan's smile is warm, approval lighting his eyes in a way that makes Fëanor's chest tighten pleasantly. "That's for us to discover together. I thought perhaps a set of matched pieces—something that tells a story when viewed as a whole."
The creative challenge pushes aside the last vestiges of Fëanor's emotional turmoil, replacing it with a familiar and welcome excitement. His mind begins to race with possibilities, designs forming and reforming as he examines each stone in turn.
"We could cut them to enhance the color variations," he suggests, lifting a particularly striking specimen to the light. "Perhaps a series that shows the progression from shallow waters to depths? Like looking down through layers of a lake or sea."
"I was thinking something similar," Mahtan agrees, leaning closer to examine the stone in Fëanor's hand. His breath warms Fëanor's wrist, raising gooseflesh along his arm despite the forge's heat. "Though I imagined it more like the transition from twilight sky to sea at the horizon line."
Their ideas merge and evolve as they discuss possibilities, sketching rough designs on scraps of parchment, arranging and rearranging the stones in various configurations. The creative process has always energized Fëanor, but tonight it feels especially vibrant, as if the earlier release of emotion has cleared a channel for his inspiration to flow more freely.
They settle on a design for a set of seven matched pieces—brooches that could be worn individually or arranged together to form a larger composition. Each will feature one of the stones cut to emphasize its unique patterning, set in silver work that complements and extends the natural formations within the gem.
"You begin the cutting," Mahtan suggests, gesturing to the small grinding wheel set up near the window. "Your hands are steadier than mine for the initial shaping."
Fëanor nods, selecting the first stone and moving to the wheel. He adjusts the seat, positioning himself to catch the best light, and begins the delicate work of bringing form to the raw crystal. The familiar rhythm of the task soothes him, the focus required pushing all other concerns to the periphery of his awareness.
He becomes so absorbed in the work that he startles slightly when Mahtan appears beside him, leaning in to observe his progress. The older elf stands close enough that Fëanor can feel the heat radiating from his body, distinct from the forge's ambient warmth.
"Beautiful work," Mahtan murmurs, one hand coming to rest on Fëanor's shoulder. The touch, casual as it seems, sends a current of awareness through Fëanor's body, making him acutely conscious of every point of contact between them. "You have an instinct for finding the heart of a stone."
The praise warms Fëanor more than it should, pleasure uncurling in his chest at Mahtan's approval. He tries to focus on the gem before him, but his attention keeps sliding sideways to the hand still resting on his shoulder, to the presence so close behind him.
"I learned from the best," he says, wincing internally at how stilted the words sound to his own ears.
Mahtan's chuckle vibrates through the space between them, rich and warm. "You learned the techniques, perhaps. But this—" he gestures to the partially shaped gem "—this understanding of the material's essence, that's innate. A gift uniquely yours."
Before Fëanor can respond, Mahtan reaches past him to adjust the angle of the grinding wheel, his arm brushing against Fëanor's in the process. The contact is brief but electric, sending a jolt of sensation up Fëanor's arm that settles as a tight knot in his stomach.
"Sorry," Mahtan murmurs, though he doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "The light caught the facet wrong from where I was standing."
Fëanor nods, not trusting his voice. The space around the grinding wheel suddenly feels too small, too intimate, charged with an energy he can't quite name but feels with every fiber of his being.
They work like this for some time—Fëanor shaping each stone in turn, Mahtan occasionally leaning in to offer guidance or simply to observe. Each time Mahtan moves close, Fëanor's breath catches, his body responding to the proximity with a heightened awareness that makes even the simplest tasks more challenging.
When the cutting is complete, they move to the metalwork—the silver settings that will cradle each stone and connect the pieces into a cohesive whole. This requires them to work side by side at the main forge, sharing tools and space in a dance of collaboration that feels both familiar and strangely new.
"Hold this steady," Mahtan instructs, positioning a delicate silver wire against the backing plate Fëanor has prepared. Their hands meet around the metal, fingers brushing as they adjust the components into perfect alignment. The contact sends another of those unsettling jolts through Fëanor's system, a pleasant discomfort that pools low in his abdomen.
Mahtan seems to notice his reaction, a subtle smile playing at the corners of his mouth, though he says nothing. Instead, he shifts slightly closer, his shoulder pressing against Fëanor's as they bend over the workpiece together.
The intimacy of shared creation has always been part of their relationship, but tonight it feels charged with new meaning. Fëanor finds himself hyper-aware of Mahtan's every movement—the flex of his forearms as he works the metal, the way his hair falls forward when he bends close to examine a detail, the occasional brush of his fingers against Fëanor's own.
"Your hands are trembling," Mahtan observes quietly as Fëanor struggles to position a particularly delicate wire. There's no judgment in the observation, only a gentle curiosity.
"The light is poor," Fëanor lies, knowing full well that the forge's illumination is more than adequate. In truth, his hands shake for reasons he's not ready to acknowledge even to himself—reasons connected to the man standing so close beside him, to the strange new awareness that has awakened between them.
Mahtan doesn't challenge the falsehood. Instead, he moves behind Fëanor, his chest pressing lightly against Fëanor's back as he reaches around to guide his hands. "Like this," he murmurs, his voice close to Fëanor's ear, his breath stirring strands of dark hair. "Steady now."
The position is ostensibly practical—a master guiding his apprentice's hands—but Fëanor can't help feeling it crosses some invisible boundary they've never before approached. Mahtan's body forms a warm cage around his own, solid and secure. His larger hands engulf Fëanor's, steadying them with gentle pressure.
Fëanor's heart hammers against his ribs, loud enough that he fears Mahtan must hear it. He forces himself to focus on the task at hand, on the delicate manipulation of silver wire rather than the overwhelming presence surrounding him.
"There," Mahtan says after a moment, his voice lower than usual. "Perfect."
He doesn't immediately move away, and Fëanor doesn't ask him to. They remain frozen in that intimate tableau for several heartbeats, neither willing to be the first to break the connection. When Mahtan finally does step back, Fëanor feels the absence like a physical chill despite the forge's persistent heat.
The work continues, each piece taking shape under their combined efforts. The creative flow serves as both distraction and catalyst, giving them a shared purpose that justifies their proximity while simultaneously heightening the tension between them.
As they set the last stone in its silver cradle, a sense of accomplishment mingles with something bittersweet in Fëanor's chest. The completion of the project means an end to this strange, charged evening—a return to normal interactions that suddenly seems like a loss.
"They're beautiful," he says, surveying the seven completed brooches arranged on the workbench. Together, they form a gradient from palest sky blue to deepest violet purple, the silver settings linking them into a harmonious whole.
"They are," Mahtan agrees, his gaze fixed not on the jewelry but on Fëanor's face. "Though no more beautiful than their maker."
The compliment, so unexpected and direct, sends heat rushing to Fëanor's cheeks. He looks up sharply, searching Mahtan's expression for any sign of teasing or mockery, but finds only sincere appreciation in those grey eyes.
"I—thank you," he manages, the words awkward on his tongue. "Though you deserve equal credit. They're our creation, not mine alone."
"Indeed they are." Mahtan's smile deepens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that makes Fëanor's stomach perform a peculiar flip. "I think that's what makes them special—this blending of our styles, our visions."
There's a weight to his words that suggests he speaks of more than just metalwork. Fëanor finds himself unable to look away from Mahtan's gaze, caught in some invisible current that draws them toward each other.
The moment stretches between them, taut with possibility. Fëanor sways slightly forward, drawn by an impulse he doesn't fully understand but feels with every fiber of his being. Mahtan remains still, watching him with patient eyes that hold both invitation and restraint.
The distant toll of a bell breaks the spell, announcing the late hour. Fëanor blinks, taking a half-step back as reality reasserts itself around them.
"It's late," Mahtan observes, his voice slightly rougher than usual. "We should clean up and rest. Tomorrow brings new work."
Fëanor nods, grateful for the practical suggestion that gives his hands something to do besides reach for what he's not sure he's permitted to touch. They move around the forge in companionable silence, returning tools to their places, banking the fire, preparing the space for tomorrow's labors.
As they finish, Mahtan pauses by the door, one hand resting on the frame. "Take these with you," he says, indicating the set of brooches they've created. "A gift to remind you of tonight."
"I couldn't possibly—" Fëanor begins, but Mahtan cuts him off with a gentle shake of his head.
"Please. I insist. Consider it..." he pauses, searching for the right words. "Consider it a reminder that beauty can emerge from difficult moments. That what begins in tears can end in creation."
The sentiment strikes Fëanor deeply, echoing his own transformation over the course of the evening. He inclines his head in acceptance, carefully gathering the brooches into a small leather pouch.
"Thank you," he says simply, knowing the words encompass far more than just the gift of jewelry—gratitude for the comfort, the distraction, the unspoken understanding that has grown between them.
Mahtan's smile is soft in the forge's dying light. "Sleep well, cub," he says, the endearment sending another of those pleasant shivers through Fëanor's body. "I'll see you tomorrow."
With that, he turns and disappears into the night, leaving Fëanor alone with the cooling forge and a tumult of unfamiliar emotions. His body hums with awareness, skin still sensitive where Mahtan's hands had guided his own, mind replaying each moment of contact with embarrassing precision.
He presses a hand to his chest, feeling the rapid flutter of his heart beneath his palm. The sensation is both alarming and exhilarating—this giddiness, this persistent awareness of another's touch. It's not an entirely unfamiliar feeling, but never before has it struck with such intensity, such specificity.
Never before has it been directed at Mahtan.
The realization should perhaps disturb him more than it does. Instead, Fëanor finds himself smiling into the empty forge, a private expression of something too new and fragile to name. Whatever has awakened between them this night, whatever path now opens before his feet—it feels right. It feels like possibility.
It feels like hope.
Fëanor's private chambers welcome him with silence and solitude, a stark contrast to the charged atmosphere of the forge. He secures the door behind him, the soft click of the latch oddly final in the quiet room. The leather pouch containing their jointly crafted brooches weighs heavy in his palm—a physical reminder of the evening's transformation. He places it carefully on the bedside table before beginning to undress, his movements mechanical even as his mind replays moments from hours before: Mahtan's hands guiding his own, the press of that solid chest against his back, the low rumble of "cub" that still echoes in his ears.
The day has been one of extremes—from the depths of vulnerability to heights of creative communion—leaving him exhausted yet strangely alert, his body humming with an energy that defies his mental fatigue. He slips his tunic over his head, the fabric dragging across sensitized skin, raising gooseflesh in its wake. Even this simple sensation feels heightened tonight, as if his earlier breakdown has left him raw, receptive to even the most mundane stimuli.
The cool air of his chambers kisses his bare chest, a pleasant contrast to the forge's persistent heat. Fëanor moves to the washbasin, scooping water to rinse away the day's grime—soot and metal dust, dried tears and lingering sweat. The water tracks down his chest in rivulets, following the contours of muscle and bone. He watches its path absently, mind still caught in the web of memory—Mahtan's grey eyes softening as they held him, the unexpected tenderness in hands more accustomed to shaping metal than offering comfort.
"What is happening to me?" he murmurs to his reflection in the small mirror hanging above the basin. The face that stares back is familiar yet somehow changed, as if the day's events have subtly altered his features. His silver eyes seem darker, pupils expanded in the dim light, and a flush of color stains his cheeks despite the cool water he's splashed there.
He moves to the bed, sitting on its edge to remove his boots and trousers. The simple task becomes an exercise in awareness as each movement draws his attention to his own body in ways he typically ignores. The flex of muscle as he bends, the brush of fabric against thigh, the sudden freedom as his legs are bared to the night air—all register with unusual clarity.
Clad only in his undergarments, Fëanor reclines against the pillows, too restless for sleep despite his exhaustion. His mind circles back to the forge, to moments that seemed innocent in their occurrence but now take on new meaning in reflection. The way Mahtan stood too close, the lingering touch of those strong hands, the warmth in his voice when he spoke Fëanor's name—or that particular endearment that sets his pulse racing even now.
"Cub." Fëanor whispers the word into the darkness, testing its shape on his tongue, recalling the rumble of Mahtan's voice as he said it. The memory sends a pleasant shiver through his frame, settling as a low heat in his abdomen.
His hand moves without conscious direction to his chest, fingers tracing idle patterns across skin still damp from washing. The touch is innocent at first, a physical grounding as his thoughts continue their drift. But when his fingertips brush across a nipple, the unexpected spark of pleasure makes him gasp aloud in the silent room.
Fëanor freezes, startled by his body's response and the direction of his thoughts. This... awareness of Mahtan is not entirely new. He has always admired his mentor, has found comfort and validation in his presence. But the nature of that admiration has shifted this night, taking on dimensions he's not sure he's ready to explore.
And yet his body seems to have made its decision already, responding to memory and imagination with unmistakable arousal. He glances down at himself, at the visible evidence of his desire straining against thin fabric, and feels a flush of something between embarrassment and exhilaration spread across his skin.
"This is madness," he tells the empty room, even as his hand continues its explorations, trailing down from chest to stomach, muscles tightening in anticipation beneath his touch.
The rational part of his mind argues for restraint, for careful consideration of consequences. But tonight feels untethered from normal constraints, as if his earlier vulnerability has opened a door to other forms of surrender. His hand slips beneath the waistband of his undergarments, and the first contact with his aroused flesh draws a soft moan from his lips.
His eyes close as he gives himself over to sensation, to the physical reality of his desire. But darkness only intensifies the images his mind conjures—Mahtan's hands on his body, not guiding but exploring; Mahtan's voice in his ear, not instructing but encouraging; Mahtan's strength surrounding him, not merely supporting but possessing.
The fantasy builds as his hand establishes a rhythm, slow at first, almost tentative. In his mind's eye, it is not his own touch but Mahtan's—those skilled fingers that shape metal with such precision now shaping pleasure from his responsive body. He imagines the weight of Mahtan pressing him into the mattress, the scratch of that unusual beard against his throat, the heat of breath against his skin.
"Mahtan," he whispers, testing the name in this new context, this forbidden invocation. The syllables feel different now, charged with meaning beyond respect or friendship. His hand moves faster in response, his body arching slightly into his own touch.
The physical sensations intensify, pleasure building in predictable yet still astonishing ways. But it's the emotional component that truly overwhelms—this sudden certainty that what he feels for Mahtan transcends the boundaries of apprentice and master, of friendship or mere admiration. The revelation should perhaps frighten him, but in this moment of vulnerability and need, it feels like clarity rather than confusion.
Fëanor's free hand grips the bedsheet, knuckles whitening as tension builds within him. His breathing grows ragged, shallow gasps punctuating the silence of his chambers. Sweat beads on his forehead despite the cool evening air, his body generating its own heat now, fueled by desire and fantasy.
In his mind, Mahtan whispers that endearment against his skin—"cub"—the word transformed from affectionate to erotic by context and need. He imagines those strong hands holding him down, holding him close, providing both restraint and freedom in their uncompromising grasp.
His movements grow more desperate, less controlled as pleasure spirals toward its inevitable peak. The rational, analytical part of his mind—that constant companion that observes and dissects every experience—falls silent, overwhelmed by pure sensation. There is only this moment, this need, this inescapable truth of desire.
"Mahtan," he gasps again, louder now, heedless of who might hear through stone walls. The name becomes both plea and affirmation, acknowledgment of a want too powerful to deny any longer.
Release, when it comes, crashes over him with unexpected intensity—a wave that sweeps away thought and reservation, leaving only raw feeling in its wake. His body tenses, back arching off the bed, a cry escaping lips parted in pleasure. "Mahtan!" The name tears from his throat, desperate and reverent all at once, as his climax pulses through him in shuddering waves.
For several moments after, Fëanor lies motionless, catching his breath as reality reasserts itself around him. The ceiling above comes back into focus, the sounds of night beyond his windows returning to his awareness. His body hums with satisfaction, the pleasant fatigue of release replacing the earlier restlessness.
Yet as physical pleasure recedes, emotions rush to fill the space it leaves behind—complex, contradictory feelings that defy simple categorization. There is contentment, yes, but also uncertainty; relief but also trepidation. He has crossed a threshold this night, acknowledged a truth he cannot now un-know. Whatever happens next—between himself and Mahtan, within his own heart—nothing can return to what it was before.
Fëanor cleans himself methodically, the practical task grounding him after the intensity of his experience. His movements are unhurried now, the frantic energy of earlier dissipated through release. A pleasant exhaustion settles into his limbs, eyelids growing heavy as emotional and physical exertion finally claim their due.
As sleep approaches, his gaze falls on the leather pouch still resting on his bedside table. Within it lie the brooches they created together—tangible proof of what can emerge when vulnerability and skill, passion and patience combine. Perhaps, he thinks as consciousness begins to fade, perhaps the same alchemy is possible between individuals as between elements—transformation through fire, through pressure, through the courage to risk breaking in order to become something new.
His last conscious thought before dreams claim him is of Mahtan's smile, of the warmth in those grey eyes that saw him at his weakest yet found him worthy nonetheless. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges, its own revelations. But for now, in this moment of perfect exhaustion, Fëanor finds a peace he rarely experiences—the quiet certainty that whatever path opens before him, he will not walk it alone.
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