Maitimo rolled his eyes. “This again? Finno, you know—”
“Swear to me, Russo!” Findekáno rolled over on top of him, grabbing his wrists and pressing them into the soft, grassy earth. “Say it. I want to hear it.”
Maitimo sighed, still not seeing the point of this foolish endeavor. “I swear,” he intoned, only for Findekáno to laugh and silence him with a kiss.
“Don’t sound so serious about it,” he teased. “Just tell me. Tell me you love me.”
“I love you,” Maitimo said simply. It had been hard to say at first, but it came naturally now. Of course he loved Findekáno. How could he not? How could there be a world where he didn’t?
“Swear it,” Findekáno murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive tip of Maitimo’s right ear. “Mean it.”
“You said not to be so serious—”
“Russo.”
“I love you, Findekáno Astaldo,” Maitimo murmured, baring his neck for Findekáno to bite, should he desire. He was rewarded immediately with a soft kiss, deepening slowly as those beloved lips traced their way down to his collarbone. “I swear it. I love you.”
“To the ends of Arda?”
“And back,” Maitimo promised, his voice going raw, and not just because Finno had begun to grind against his hip.
“To the ending of the world?”
“And its remaking,” Maitimo vowed.
Findekáno growled softly, his hröa hot and eager against Maitimo’s. “That’s right. You love me. Always. You promised.”
“I promise,” Maitimo whispered. “I love you.”
“And I you,” Findekáno swore in return. “Though the Valar themselves cast us out; though the stars cease shining; though the Trees should fall—”
“Speak not of such things,” Maitimo said, his hands coming to grip his lover’s waist. “So long as I have hands with which to hold you, nothing so dreadful can happen. So long as you are with me. I swear it.”
Findekáno kissed him, hard this time. “I am with you,” he rumbled. “As you swear, so do I. In Eru’s name.”
Maitimo shivered. It was too close to blasphemy—nay, too close to a promise they never could break. And he wanted that, he did, but...
But what?
“In Eru’s name,” he vowed, caring not what anyone thought but his beloved and the One. Was it marriage, or no? He did not care. Not so long as Findekáno was with him. “I love you, Finno, I...”
He did not finish his sentence, with Findekáno atop him, their love binding them together. He did not need to, not with Eru smiling down upon them from above.
so @thatfeanorian proposed a scenario in which one of the younger brothers walked in during firstborn bro’s imitation games which i really liked!! (thank you sm for your ask again!) and i wanted to try my hand at it so here’s curufinwe atarinke being an absolute snitch like the favourite son of feanor he is 🤧 (for context the og scenario this is referencing is here !)
bonus image bc i felt guilty not including the rest of the feanorians:
NUMBER 3 OR NUMBER 8 for russsinnngonnnnnn???????? 👀👀
Whumptober 2021
No. 8 - pneumothorax
Fo.A. 2
Elrond thought it was a fishbone caught in the wrong pipe first.
That had happened before, in fact; he loved his foster father dearly and had come to be just as fond of Maitimo’s husband in those rare meetings they’d managed to have since Elrond had finally made his journey west. But neither of those two could cook for their life. And they allowed too few guests up here in their little hilltop lair to change anything about that, apparently.
Luckily, things were starting to calm down in Tol Eressëa, so Elrond wasn’t exclusively busy catching up with other new and old family members or spending all day in bed with his wife, to make up for even more that he’d been missing in the last few centuries. Therefore, he was determined to increase the frequency of his rides up here to this small but very cozy little hut by the coast that not many people even knew about and give his foster father a hand with things.
With everything that Maitimo especially had been through and had done in his life, Elrond could very well understand, he needed his time in reclusiveness, to get used bit by bit to more company than his beloved’s again. Also, to finally start to accept in his heart that there wasn’t hate and mistrust for his family waiting wherever he went these days.
In here, the past was a lot more present than in all the places of Aman Elrond had had a chance to see since his arrival. He wanted to help bury it, and his own melancholy and yearning for a world that would no longer have the elves with it, while he was on it. If that included teaching two elves who had a couple of Ages on him to get by on more than meat and fish grilled over the fireplace, at least they would have a little fun between hugs and tears.
And maybe at their next dinner, he wouldn’t have to choke down such a sad excuse of a too-dark crusted filet, the bitter taste of which only very faintly reminded that it had started its life as a bass originally. Not to mention the sloppy preparation.
No, Elrond wasn’t awfully surprised that Maitimo’s husband on the other side of the table poked around on his plate quite dully, grimacing from time to time and even coughing up some leftover bone at some point.
Only when that quiet coughing fit wouldn’t stop, Elrond realized, Findekáno’s too-tense position, the conspicuous distance he kept to his chair's high backrest and how he shifted his weight constantly as if there was something giving him pain, did not result from an upset stomach or maybe from a little arguing about kitchen duties earlier.
In a habit hard to lose, he put his cutlery down – not without relief – and took a closer look over the edge of his wine glass at the other elf’s face. Elrond cursed silently when he realized, in the weak light of a few torches, he'd not spotted the greyish tone of Findekáno’s dark skin immediately. Not to mention that Nolofinwë's son usually put more than just moderate efforts in his appearance, even if it was just for occasional visits to his parents’ house, and for his husband. Elrond should already have paused at the sight of his hair hanging loosely down his shoulders, not a single gold-studded braid in it.
At this point, he knew the two of them better than to pry openly, but that he didn’t have a lot to do these days didn’t mean, he could just forget about a calling he’d devoted himself to all his life.
“Do you need help getting that bone out, Findekáno? You’ll end up with a sore throat if you keep that cough up.”
“No bone. Probably just a bit of pepper where it doesn’t belong,” Findekáno got out between two coughs, with not very convincing grin.
When Maitimo leaned closer to him, frowning, making a move to pet his husband’s back, Findekáno quickly got up and waved his empty glass. “Stop fussing, I’ll live. I’ll just get some water.”
Rolling his eyes at his husband, slightly unnerved but very lovingly, he turned away and then startled, his free hand instinctively moving to the side of his chest, at the same moment when Maitimo gasped in shock and Elrond jumped up, the rest of that meal forgotten for good.
"Finno, what did you do?" The irritation in Maitimo's bright voice was clearly mostly directed at himself for not noticing earlier how off things were. The freckles on his sharp cheekbones stood out from his suddenly very pale skin when he hurried over to his husband, just in time to catch him when another coughing, far louder and deeper, now that Findekáno did no longer try to suppress it, almost brought him to his knees.
The tremors shaking Findekáno's lithe shape visibly made that pain in his side worse of which Elrond now had a very clear idea where it came from. It also had that deep-red stain forming on the back of his bright blue tunic grow bigger alarmingly quickly.
"Finno, talk to me!" The panic was growing in Maitimo by the second. His hands were shaking so badly suddenly that he could hardly help Elrond lead Findekáno to the sofa in the corner, and cut that tunic off his husband's body.
Findekáno was still too busy coughing for an answer, a wet cough that started to leave drops of blood on the grey leather of the couch. A development no longer surprising once they'd turned him on his side and spotted the bandage soaked through with red that someone must have put on him at some point today. Judging by the amateurish fit on the lower half of his ribcage, hardly even covering all of the nasty cut there, the margins of the wound alarmingly swollen and red already, it had probably been himself.
"Who was that?" The rage of an exploding sun darkened Maitimo's grey eyes. His hand clenched almost painfully around Findekáno's arm as he tried to hold his husband still while Elrond ripped the useless bandage off of him and felt down both his wound and his heaving chest, wrecked by far too irregular breaths. "Did you run into Tyelko again? Or did something happen at the harbors? Tell me, Finno, please …"
Elrond had been right with his earlier musings about these two not being quite ready to properly rejoin society yet, he found. If people had seen Maitimo like this, ready to pull out a forbidden weapon from somewhere and hunt down whoever had dared to lay hand on his husband before he even knew where to look, there would have been a lot of nightmares in these lands tonight.
"The question is what, not who," he remarked, with as much calmness as he could muster up himself in the light of such a serious injury, one of a kind he had not treated in a very long time. A sharp nod down towards that ugly wound, far too ragged for a blade and carrying an unmistakable scent of stale salt water, along with a leftover piece of alga or two caught in the raw flesh, now had Maitimo understand, too, that there was no one to blame for this little catastrophe. Only his husband's damn stubbornness.
"Needle-fish?" he asked with tight lips, seeking Findekáno's tear-stained gaze and finding with growing concern that it was becoming clouded by the growing lack of air.
How Findekáno cast his eyes down, hiding his face against his husband's stomach, was enough of an answer. No new reason for trouble between the houses, no. Just an aggressive animal in the wrong place at the wrong time when Findekáno had swum out to hunt their dinner. When it came to weaknesses, sadly, Findekáno turned into a pufferfish, just like his husband. Usually, not out of pride or shame for his errors like Maitimo tended to, though.
"Didn't want you to worry …" he somehow got out, the movement of his lips leaving red stains on his husband's tunic, more of them when his lungs sent up another protest, the right one trying in vain to expand the way it should, with air filling a cavity where it didn't belong.
"Well, that worked splendidly, didn't it? You need to hold him still, ada."
Under different circumstances, Elrond would have called another member of two of his healer circle here, but the wheezing sound that Findekáno's breathing had become and how one side of his chest lagged behind, not moving as quickly as the other, let him know, he didn't have that time. He would have to try and remember that right song and trust in his abilities to get its effect where it needed to be.
He expected Maitimo to lean down heavier over Findekáno's writhing shape and paused in surprise when his foster father lay down by his husband's side instead, one of his far longer legs wrapped tightly around his lover's thighs, a soothing right hand pressed against his back – far from the wound – to hold Findekáno close to his chest. The other started to caress a soothing rhythm through Findekáno's sweat-matted hair.
He was singing his own song for him, Elrond noticed, almost inaudible, and there was no healing of the body in it, because that was a gift that far too many elves of Maitimo's generation had given away in their violent endeavors. But the words in a language Elrond had not spoken much after leaving his foster fathers seemed to reach Findekáno's mind, leading him away from the burning and the tightness in his chest until he buried his face with a quiet sob against Maitimo's neck, no longer fighting his grip even involuntarily.
Only now, Elrond dared to put his own hands to that fragile-looking back, left and right from that ugly wound, and call the white, the good magic he had been exploring all his life, to his muscles, his fingertips, his voice. It was a song of penetration and pressure and cleaning, and if even one of those notes went half an inch to the wrong side of his patient's chest, he might as well have stabbed him himself with that fish knife over there and let Mandos have another try at piecing Findekáno together.
If it had been hopeless, maybe, he would have. But he knew damn well how badly his foster father had missed his husband when they'd both been in the Halls and how much he needed him right now. There was never a telling how long a soul would rest in those Halls, and Elrond feared what it would do to Maitimo's still so fragile mind if his husband and he had to start all over before they'd even finished piecing their life back together.
So he went to work, with his eyes closed, and cleaned that wound before it could do even more damage, and then he sang some more, until the small chest under his hands finally started to move up and down the way it should be and he could sing that narrow but so highly dangerous hole in his patient's body close for good.
By that time, Findekáno had mercifully fallen asleep or blacked out, and that could only do him well right now, so Elrond got up with his own knees plenty shaking now, to find new bandages and a blanket for the next few hours of healing that he would no longer be needed for.
A large, remade hand on his wrist had him stop. Maitimo looked up at him from reddened eyes, looking for words in his head that would net yet come. This was not the time yet to talk about things between them, about Elrond's youth and the many fights the two of them had had about his future profession. They had much time left to recall, to rebuild, to regret and to regrow.
For now, a simple "Thank you" was all Elrond needed to hear.
He just nodded briefly. "Get him to my circle tomorrow to make sure, it will be alright."
Already on his way to the bathroom, he took a look back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. "And just for the record, next time, I'm making dinner."
A @tolkienrsb fanfiction by @thatfeanorian with art by @ohkamerov
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Characters: Fingon | Findekáno, Maedhros | Maitimo, Minor Characters
Additional Tags: A goodbye fic, Angst, a whole lot, Foreshadowing, Stargazing, Cuddles, Literal Sleeping Together, wistful fluff, bitersweet, these two are hopelessly in love and it breaks my heart, Loneliness, Declarations Of Love, Many of them, Slice of Life, Broken Promises, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship
Fingon's visits must always come to an end, no matter how much they both wish he could stay. Maedhros and Fingon say goodbye in their own way, even as they both cling to the desperate hope that they will someday be together permanently.
a fic for the @tolkienrsb 2024, written by me @arofili and featuring art by @thatfeanorian !
Russandol has asked Findekáno to a dance, but what does he really mean by it?
Rating: T | No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Fingon/Maedhros
Characters: Fingon, Maedhros, Aredhel, Turgon, Ecthelion
Word count: 2.6k (so far! will be at least 5k total)
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