russingon + either Doomed or Reunion kiss? (or both, given that they’re already Doomed by the time of reunion :’) )
Maedhros is delirious when he comes down from the wall, lacking his hand and his sanity. He’s burning to the touch, and Fingon worries for a moment that he’s simply lost the will to live and is beginning to waste away.
He holds him, even when the eagles come and would have taken him away, if Fingon had let them.
“He is mine to care for,” he says, and the eagle nods and spreads its wings for him to carry Maedhros onto its back.
He holds him all through the long night as they fly back to their home, gently dripping water into his mouth from his waterskin to keep him hydrated. When he slightly rouses, his eyes focus on Fingon.
“Not again,” Maedhros mutters as he begins to wake.
“Maedhros, love,” Fingon says. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Maedhros says, and slips back into delirium.
The sky lightens. Maedhros wakes.
“My love,” Fingon says, not caring if the eagles hear. They keep their discretion, and keep flying at a steady pace.
“Fingon,” Maedhros says as his eyes open.
“Maedhros,” Fingon says, caressing his face with infinitely gentle hands.
Maedhros looks down, and for a moment looks shocked before schooling his face into practiced calm.
“Hmm,” he says. “There were never eagles before.”
“Before?” Fingon asks.
“Don’t play the fool with me,” Maedhros says. “Last time, or the time before, or the time before that, or… You remember.”
“I don’t understand what you mean.”
“The faked rescues before,” he says. He holds up his arm and looks at the stump where a hand used to be. “This is new too, the hand. Or lack thereof.”
“What rescues?” Fingon asks.
“When you manipulated my mind. Don’t be coy, Sauron. It doesn’t befit you.”
“I don’t understand,” Fingon says, in growing horror. “What do you—”
Maedhros cuts him off. “Please, just give me a moment to pretend I’m really going home.”
He reaches up with his free hand to pull Fingon in, hand tangling lewdly in his hair, kissing him hard and bruising and oh-so-sweet. Fingon lets himself get lost in it, in the flutter of breath against his face, in the way Maedhros darts his tongue in between lips that go slack when he pulls his hair ever-so-slightly. He wishes the moment would never end.
But all things come to an end, and Maedhros pulls away and looks at Fingon with cold, hard eyes.
“You kiss differently,” Maedhros says. He laughs, hard and bitter. “You’ve gotten better at pretending.”
a/n: i have not actually read the silmarillion but i tried my best please forgive me
