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There are two things Eönwë learns about Finarfin: he is so smart it is downright scary, and he is deeply, undeniably afraid.
It is not the sort of fear Eönwë would expect: the King flinches not at violence and danger, covers not from enemies and war. He is sharp like a diamond; delicate like the deadliest steel. And he is afraid. Eönwë wonders, sometimes, how come he has not yet crumbled beneath it.
Few see it, of course: there are few whom the King lets so close as to even catch a glimpse of it. But Eönwë sees deep; knows deeper. Sees the sharpness with which Finarfin's words are cut. Notes the slightly faster beat of his heart.
It is tempting, sometimes; to look past the barriers of Finarfin's mind, to touch the tangles of his thoughts and reach deeper, seeking the darkest parts of his being; to pick him apart, thought and body alike, to subject every piece of him to judgement, see his worth, name his price—but it all stays safely concealed behind Eönwë's thought, always hidden, always kept quiet. Still the desire to know is ever-present; the wrongness of feeling something hidden is almost disturbing.
How tempting it is, then, to reach and take when Finarfin opens to him, when his mind is so bright around Eönwë's own and when his eyes look at him with such tender, vulnerable hope.
Eönwë watches Finarfin unfurl before him, layer upon layer upon layer. Finarfin gives, and gives, and gives; it does not take long for Eönwë to realize there is nothing he could ask of Finarfin that he would not let him have.
"You are tired," he says, watching Finarfin in the tent. He studies the features of the king before him; studies his face, pale with war and worn with sleepless nights.
The night is quiet, the light of the lamp dim, the shadows soft and almost tangible. Eönwë's mind is aware, terribly aware of every single one. His eyes are sharp.
He comes over to Finarfin. Circles him, assessing from all angles; puts a hand on his shoulder, claws cold against soft skin.
Finarfin yields to him without a question. Lifts his head, lets Eönwë kiss his lips.
"Lover," Eönwë says. "You need rest. Come lay with me."
Finarfin hums. His movements have not lost their sharpness; his long fingers dance from map to map, tracing patterns known only to him. "As much rest as I can need, anyway," he says. "Which is not a lot."
Eönwë does not argue; but the silence hanging between them is expectant, if not judging.
Eönwë purses his lips. It is the part where he presses on; asks Finarfin again, and again, until the king gives in. But he knows it will not be so today; too proud Finarfin's face, too crooked his smile.
He traces his talons down the side of Finarfin's face, looks into his eyes nonetheless. "Not even for me?"
Finarfin looks up, and his mouth quirks. "Is it really rest that you are offering."
Something rises within Eönwë in response, something dark and angry and frustrated. He steps away; heads out.
"Will you be back soon?" Finarfin asks, in his perfectly light, perfectly composed tone, with his perfectly bright smile. Eönwë looks back at him, and does not respond.
He needs a rope.
It is not hard to find in the camp, and not hard to take unnoticed. He looks for one of elven craftsmanship - the ropes of Men are too thick, too rough; good for everyday use, but not suited for his purposes.
They do not use rope in lovemaking often, and most times it is Finarfin whose hands are tied above his head, or behind his back, or to his ankles—it was he who taught Eönwë the knots. It is he, too, who coaxes Eönwë into actually touching him every time they do so: if it was up to Eönwë, he would be more than content with watching him just lay there, body straining against the bonds and shivering on the cold air; would be more than satisfied with the sound of his breath, the taste of his skin. It is enough for him, more than enough.
Finarfin is moved from the table when Eönwë returns, and smiles at him. He is by the chest with his belongings, having already changed into his night wear. Eönwë catches a faint smell of soap.
Finarfin comes to him, takes his hands into his own. "Dearest," he says. "You are tired. Come lay with me."
"Word for word, what I said," Eönwë says, looking as Finarfin turns his hand, presses kisses to his palm, his wrist, his fingers. "Do you think it makes me softer?"
Finarfin chuckles, and brushes Eönwë's pulse-point with his lips. "The opposite of softer, I hope. I did not miss the rope you brought in."
Eönwë grits his teeth. Counts his breaths; takes Finarfin by his hair and wrings his head back, wraps another hand around his neck. Finarfin tenses at the touch of talons, but Eönwë cannot will them back; will not will them back.
Still, in the part of Finarfin's mind that is open to him, Eönwë can feel his desire only spark at the touch, can feel his heartbeat fasten before the danger. Finarfin's mouth quirks in a smirk.
"Bed, then?" he asks, rising his eyebrows, and Eönwë thinks that for someone with a hand on his throat Finarfin is far too smug.
Finarfin gasps when Eönwë tugs sharply at his hair, wringing his head further back. Wasting no time, he closes his mouth on Finarfin's pulse; lingers there, sucking around it and soothing the marks with his tongue, until he finally decides to bite down. Finarfin's pulse races, and Eönwë feels, with some satisfaction, Finarfin's body tremble beneath his touch.
It is not enough, because with Finarfin it's never enough. He knows his hold on Finarfin's hair is painful; still he tightens it, so that Finarfin hisses in surprise, so that his fingers dig into Eönwë's forearm as Eönwë squeezes his neck, moves to his lips. There's nothing gentle; the kiss is rough, and he knows it hurts.
"Fine, fine," Finarfin gasps, managing to pull away. "Not bed, then."
Eönwë lets go of him, slowly, looking at the marks he left with some satisfaction. Looks at the faint blush spreading over Finarfin's face and chest; at his dishevelled hair, unsteady breath.
How easily I undo you.
There it is, in his eyes: wariness, calculations. This is not like you; something is changed.
It is not war or death or bloodshed that Finarfin fears: it is the cold, paralyzing loneliness.
Eönwë eases his touch, and the next kiss is softer, steadier. Eönwë puts Finarfin's arms around his neck, lets their bodies press as close as they can be pressed. Brushes at Finarfin's mind and makes sure it is only him now that Finarfin feels; only his scent, his touch, his lips.
He does not respond when Finarfin brushes against his mind in response, and Finarfin does not press.
Eönwë kisses him, his ear, his jaw, his neck, despite the ache still being there from before. Slowly he feels Finarfin's mind relax; slowly Finarfin yields into the touch, soft and malleable beneath his hands. Eönwë knows he has him now; knows that all of Finarfin's thought is now just him. His taste, his voice, his smile; his touch, his presence, his warmth. He upholds it, chooses to leave it like that.
Eönwë knows that, were Finarfin's mind clearer, he would look for something else; would push through the pretence and reach right into the ugliest parts of his being. Would see his anger, his grief, his wrath; would find them magnetic, would reach into them and get drunk on them. Always it is so, with Finarfin taking the worst parts of him and making them worth of worship, with Finarfin seeing right through the layers of fairness and justice and mercy Eönwë has wore ever since the beginning—why does he always see so deep, why does he see his rotten core and decides this is what is worth his love?
They are on the furs now, and with each passing second Finarfin gets softer, Eönwë gets rougher; but who is he to deny himself this, really. He should stop, he thinks, this is not right. But how easy would it be to break him, to prove him wrong. How easy, to fix his mind on this eternal worship; how easy, to replace every thought of his with Eönwë.
He would not even resist, Eönwë thinks. He would submit, just as he always submits. Would give himself up, like he always does, without resistance, without a word of objection.
The thought of it should make Eönwë softer, but it does not; should make Eönwë treasure him, but it only makes him want to tear him apart, bone from muscle, blood from soul, until there is nothing but those eyes left, blue as the sea, true and soft. He lets his talons dig into Finarfin's skin, lets them draw blood. Takes Finarfin's hands and binds them above his head, and does not mind that the knots are too tight, that Finarfin hisses at the sensation.
His rage, his wrath, his hatred. Finarfin loves them, so let him love them here, too.
"Eönwë," Finarfin gasps, half-gone, "Eönwë."
And Eönwë stops.
It takes some time. His mind is still away, in the place of concepts and metaphors through which he sees. But then there are Finarfin's arms, starting to bruise beneath Eönwë's hold. Finarfin's clothes, messy and dishevelled, half-off. Finarfin's face, his swollen lips, his trembling breath.
Valar, he should have stopped.
"No, no," Finarfin half-gasps, half-begs, and throws his bound hands over Eönwë, pulling him closer. "Do not stop, do not stop, please. I love you. I'm sorry."
"You'll burn," Eönwë growls, and pushes him away. "King, you'll burn because of me."
But that is Finarfin, is it not. Welcoming Eönwë when everyone covers in terror. Looking inside his many eyes and giving it all, leaving nothing to himself. Wiping the golden, toxic blood off his face and not minding the burns left on his own skin.
"Please," Finarfin breathes, "please."
"You should leave, you should run. You should look at me and see me for who I really am, why, why do you always see the opposite?"
Finarfin's lips twitch, and his face grows cold. "Do you really want me to," he says. When Eönwë tries to brush at his mind, he finds it locked, and the rejection stings more than it should.
Eönwë is silent. He brushes Finarfin's cheek, in what he hopes is a soothing way.
"I'm sorry," Eönwë whispers, "I'm so sorry, King."
"Don't say it," Finarfin whispers, "you shouldn't say it. Will you keep kissing me, now. Please." Please stay, stay with me.
"Your kiss is not the only thing that makes me stay."
Finarfin is silent. Eönwë tugs him down on the furs. Turns a bit; moves so the press of his body is comforting. Not possessive, not threatening.
Finarfin parts his lips, and Eönwë kisses him. Long, slow, soft. He kisses the bruises he left earlier; wipes the tears off Finarfin's face.
"I do not want you to leave," Eönwë whispers, kissing his forehead. "Despite my better judgement, I could never give you up."
Finarfin turns his head, and throws his hands around his neck again. Eönwë thinks it must hurt; thinks he must ease the knots.
Finarfin's face is pale, and tired. Still he reaches for Eönwë, tugs him down until their lips are pressed together, until they are kissing again.
Eönwë wants to stop, needs to stop. It is not right; he does not want to do this while Finarfin is still so shaken, while it is so obvious he is doing nothing but escaping—his thoughts, his fears. Does not want to do this when he lost control just before.
"You feel guilty," Finarfin whispers, "you shouldn't feel guilty."
"I hurt you, and I enjoyed it."
"It wouldn't be the first time," Finarfin smiles, "you know I enjoy pain, and enjoy what you give me."
"It was not out of love," Eönwë says. "I was being cruel. To you, whom I am supposed to treasure above the world itself."
"Well, that only means you don't," Finarfin cuts, and Eönwë knows that was it not for the rope still binding his hands, he would trace the lines of his face, his touch soft and gentle as a morning's breeze. "And that is right, for I am not the world. Please, Eönwë. If you don't want to take me apart, cherish me, then; but do not leave me waiting."
"Always you underestimate your worth," Eönwë says, "always you call yourself a fake while being the most precious of diamonds." He traces his face; brushes away a strand of his hair. "Valar, how could anyone have you and not treasure you above all else." How could I look at you and only think how would it feel to devour you, to break you, to reign you like a puppeteer reigns a puppet.
Carefully Eönwë untangles himself from Finarfin's hold; reaches for the knife and cuts through the bonds despite Finarfin's disappointment. The rope leaves angry red marks, drawing blood in some places; Finarfin winces when it comes off.
"You should have left it," he says, "I rather liked it."
Immediately he uses this newly-gained freedom to grab Eönwë by the collar of his shirt, to tug him down, once again on top of him. Kisses him before Eönwë can think, with more passion than he expects, his thought bright against Eönwë's mind: stay, stay, do not deny me this.
Eönwë has never been the one to refuse him.
"You should have left me bound," Finarfin breathes. "Now I don't know where to with my hands. May I undress you?"
Eönwë opens his mouth to answer, but Finarfin's hands are already under his shirt, already mapping the plane of his muscles. Eönwë shudders at the touch, steadies his breath.
It is at that moment that he, perhaps, gives up. Lays down, lets Finarfin roll him to his back, trail his lips down his neck. Lets him undo his shirt and tug it off, kiss his chest, toy with the piercings in his nipples.
It takes twice the effort, to make himself feel, to shudder when Finarfin flicks his tongue or to hiss when he teases with his teeth. Still it is better than their first times, when the sensations were as strange to Eönwë as any physical touch; Valar, Finarfin would laugh, I could lay with a corpse and get more response from it than you.
There are enough corpses outside for you to lay with, Eönwë would bite, yet it is my bed I find you in. Is it because I stench of rot?
"No, the stench is just a pleasant side," Finarfin sighs, and cups Eönwë's face, and Eönwë realizes he has drifted away. "Come, lover. You were so eager earlier, where did your vigour go?"
"Earlier," Eönwë says, "I imagined tearing you apart, coating my hands in your blood. Earlier I thought it my birthright to own you, to do what I please with you. Makes it difficult, to focus the mind on the do."
Finarfin sighs. Straightens, sitting on his heels.
"The thing is," he says, "if you wished to break me, I would not mind; if you wished to spill my blood, all you had to do was simply ask. You know I value it not."
Eönwë stifles a growl, and sits. "Do not think my intentions were loving. I would have broken you, and done it again, and put you back together like puppet with limbs popping at wrong angles and smile so crooked it makes you shiver. There is no love in that."
"You would have put me together, and kept me at your side," Finarfin says, his voice earnest, and reaches to put his hand on Eönwë's arm. "That is what matters."
Eönwë looks down. Sees the marks of the rope, beginning to grow purple. Sees the wounds he left with his talons still bleeding.
"I could talk to a wall and find more understanding than you," he growls, and shakes Finarfin's hand off. "Is it so hard to accept I hurt you?"
"Is it so hard to accept I don't care?"
"That," Eönwë says, "is the heart of the issue."
"Can we leave this for later," Finarfin sighs, and moves forward, his hands on Eönwë's neck, his lips just shy of Eönwë's own. "The night is not endless, we can argue tomorrow."
"No," Eönwë growls, and pushes Finarfin away, perhaps more sharply than he ought to have. "No, not tonight. Stop asking."
He puts his shirt back on. When he rises, he is battle-ready, armour clinging to him, breathing in tact with him; his wings fold behind his back, and his hair is neatly braided.
"Think, King," he says, eyes gleaming with ancient light. "Wise they call you, and yet you are one of the fools. Think why I leave now; look at yourself and see to what I turn you."
Finarfin makes no move to stop him. Eönwë does not look back as he leaves.
Finarfin wears wraps around his wrists and hands the next day. Not that Eönwë looks.
The king himself is proud and sure as ever; his voice rings clear with command, and his eyes do not lose their sharpness. If his face is pale—well, so is everyone else's.
Eönwë does not feel disappointment that his expression does not falter when their eyes meet, and does not mind that the king's voice is laced with ice. There is plenty to do, instead of dwelling on things so insignificant. There are areas to scout, stray orcs to kill, foul creatures to strike down.
When Eönwë is done, he sees that barely an hour has passed, and grits his teeth.
He is back in the camp, and sees it barely changed. The place is defendable, and the troops are tired; Eönwë is not so foolish to make them march to their exhaustion. In the chaos of war, rest is the price of gold.
Not to Finarfin, of course. When he's not hovering over the maps, he's helping the healers; when he's not with the healers, he's in the forges; when he's not in the forges, his hands find other tasks, ones that keep him through evenings and nights alike.
"Sometimes," he says, "it feels you think this place will fall apart without you, king."
It is unfair, to approach when Finarfin is around his people, when he cannot just send Eönwë away without too many ears listening. Unfair and unworthy, for had Eönwë even some honour, he would wait until Finarfin must have not upheld his royal mask, when his words would be sharp and angry and bitter.
But the truth is, Eönwë hates to see king's wrath turned upon him, and the thought itself makes him purse his lips.
Finarfin looks over to him, eyes sharp and piercing. The next stab of the needle through tent-cloth is pointedly forceful.
"Never too many hands," he says, and despite his eyes, his voice is bright and clear. "I believe they need help with soaking and fleshing the furs, if you wish to occupy yourself, lord." Leave, I dare you.
Eönwë hums. Finarfin focuses on the work, lips pursed tightly.
"I hear there might be use for you somewhere else, majesty. The scouts have returned."
"So I hear. I commanded Móronil to see to them. Their tidings shall be discussed on today's briefing." Do you not have anything better to do?
Despite everything Eönwë is, he is unable, apparently, to take a cue. But so is Finarfin. Speak to me, I am giving you an exit. Leave me, I wish not to see your face.
Finarfin grits his teeth and looks back to Eönwë when he does not move an inch. "Is there anything else you wish to tell me, lord?"
Eönwë tilts his head, and leaves.
Fun things, bodies. The incarnates only have one; the lesser Maiar are limited to a few at most. Eönwë, the Herald of Manwë, the Lord of Ilmarin, has never been restrained by one before: his form is liquid, shifting to suit his will, from many-eyed, many-winged warrior, to the commander Eldar learned to love, to the smallest of sparrows. Sometimes, he is all of these at the same time.
One part of him races through the forest, alert of every single sound, every single movement. A guard, a protector: the people rely on him. Other parts of him are split, hawks and owls and eagles, all watching and spying and hunting and guarding. Nothing escapes Eönwë's eye.
And somewhere around all of it, himself. He is not very sure of his body, when he is split between so many places; but he thinks he must look acceptable, since no one casts him looks that are too wide-eyed. Maybe a loose limb, he thinks. Or an eye.
It rains in the evening, and all fifty of Eönwë's bodies are wet and miserable, and he feels like the most wretched thing in this world. All he wants is to slip into Finarfin's tent, hear his voice, feel his touch.
Except, well. He doubts he will be met with a warm welcome.
But they have fought before, many times. Finarfin's anger is sharp and bitter and painful, but Eönwë had faced it time and time again; time and time again he finds himself like this, irritable and gloomy and all because of a single elf and a few sharp words.
Or maybe it is different, now. Maybe Finarfin will listen, will cut him off like a rotting limb. That is what Eönwë wanted, in the tent, was it not? It would be wise.
Eönwë wishes to tear his wisdom from his heart and throw it into mud. Which he promptly does, though wisdom is a metaphysical concept. He slices his chest open with his talons, more out of stubbornness than anything; feels muscle tear beneath, hears bones crack and blood wrap itself around his hand, soak into his skin as he finds his heart, sewers the arteries, pulls it out.
In the back of his mind, he thinks this must be very, very wrong. But there is nothing but indifference and spite as he looks at the organ in his hand, pulsing and beating and so black it looks like rot.
"Would you mind putting that back," Finarfin says, tone lacking any intonation. "That really is supposed to be inside."
Eönwë looks up, not moving. Feels bone and muscle growing back, a heart beating as it should. The one in his hand gives a few last pumps, and then stops.
They stand so, night above them. Finarfin's face is cold. Eönwë feels his heart shrink and wither, until he drops the dry husk to the ground.
"It is raining outside," he says. "Will you let me in."
Finarfin purses his lips. "Is that what you want me to do, now."
Eönwë tilts his head. Finarfin turns around and walks into the tent.
Eönwë follows.
It is quiet inside, the lamp giving off a dim light. Warm, too, though of course Eönwë is not affected by temperature, or weather.
Finarfin throws his coat onto the chair. Sighs, straightens his back. In the dim light it is easy to see how tired his face really is; Eönwë feels the itch to take it into his hands, feel the shape of it, the warmth of it.
But he is still at the tent flap. The sound of rain is dull, and his mind is clearer, his breath slower. It is all Finarfin, he knows, his presence a bright anchor, a warm hearth Eönwë wishes to submit to.
Will they speak about what happened, he wonders, and does not know what answer he would prefer.
Finarfin does not look at him, his back turned as he leans on the table. Eönwë walks up to him, lays a hand on his shoulder.
"Lover," he breathes. "I am sorry."
Finarfin hums. "You better be."
Eönwë does not say anything. Wraps his arms around Finarfin, presses him close to his chest. Brings his wings around them, hoping they bring some warmth, some comfort.
"What are you sorry for, in truth?" Finarfin asks. He has not pulled away, has not rebuked Eönwë's touch; Eönwë finds relief in that. "Your words are always so vague."
Eönwë purses his lips. His hands rub circles into Finarfin's back.
"I will not apologize," he says, "for my words."
"That is not how apologies go."
"Alright," he whispers. "I am sorry for yesterday. For leaving."
Finarfin scoffs, but does not push away.
Eönwë lets go, lets Finarfin free from his hold. Takes his hand, undoes the wraps, already loose around Finarfin's wrists.
The skin is almost healed now. Finarfin sighs.
"I did not bother with the claw marks," he says. "They still hurt, if you want to know."
See, Eönwë wants to say, I told you so, I was right. Instead he touches their heads together, closes his eyes, exhales slowly. I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.
He is not a healer. Never was. But he knows how to dull the pain, how to make the injury bearable. So it is easy, to touch Finarfin's spirit; to mend his mind just enough for it to stop the pain.
Finarfin hums, swaying in his hold. Eönwë presses a kiss to his forehead.
"Lover," he whispers. "You are tired. Lay with me." I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.
Finarfin sighs. "Help me undress," he says. "And I am too tired to wash myself, just so you know."
"As if it ever stopped me," Eönwë responds, and sees Finarfin's face ease.
Finarfin lets Eönwë linger, and what should have been a quick change of clothes lasts minutes.
Eönwë lets his mind wander as he traces his hands and eyes over Finarfin's scars, each committed to memory. Finarfin closes his eyes at Eönwë's touch; his mind is an open thing, reaching into past with every inch of skin revealed. Battles, skirmishes, healers. Eönwë. Eönwë's voice, guiding him through pain and fever, a steady thing despite the chaos around.
Eönwë feels he had no right to glimpse that, but Finarfin only hums, and leans onto his chest. Eönwë feels his feathers rustle in response, and huffs.
"Come," he says. "Don't fall asleep on me."
"Keep me awake, then," Finarfin says back, challenge in his voice; he raises his eyes to Eönwë's face. "I am half naked, that's already more than you managed yesterday."
Eönwë shakes his head, but deep down he is glad when Finarfin tugs him down until their lips meet. With the back of his mind he lays a spell of silence around them, a reflex now they've done this so many times.
(Finarfin laughed when he first learned Eönwë could do that, and asked why did he not tell him earlier. The memory of that night rang in Eönwë's ears for long afterwards, often coming to mind in the most unsuitable of moments.
Finarfin laughed when he learned about that, too.)
As always Finarfin's taste is intoxicating, and even more so now that Finarfin's skin smells of sweat, of soaked leather, of herbs and of blood, always of blood. Eönwë digs his fingers into Finarfin's forearms. Valar witness, he can lick him all clean.
He keeps control of his body, this time. Tries to, at least. Wills away his talons, keeps count of his hands, keeps track of his teeth, his tongue, his mind. It frustrates him, makes his movements clumsy, his brain sharp. No, no, no, he wants to say, get away, get away.
He pushes it in the back of his mind. Hopes Finarfin does not notice, and focuses himself on what he does best; Finarfin's pleasure in every touch, his shivers with every movement, his pale skin starting to blush. Devotes himself, lowers down and down until he kneels.
It is easy, to lose himself in this; to close his eyes and kiss the scars he knows so closely, to press his hands into the curves of Finarfin's body, to anchor his thoughts within Finarfin, to centre all of his being around him. The rest of Finarfin's clothes are soon gone; Eönwë hums when Finarfin runs his hands through his hair, the sensation tingling pleasantly down his back.
"I really meant it, when I said I didn't shower," Finarfin breathes, when Eönwë's lips move closer to his groin, and smiles, rubbing circles into Eönwë's scalp. "Not sure you want to touch that."
Eönwë looks up, raising his eyebrows—test me, or try me, or else I have sung in the chorus of Ainur, I have licked orcish blood off your neck, do you truly think I care about hygiene—but takes him in hand instead, leaving all of that hanging unsaid, and Finarfin laughs, breathless just for a second.
Eönwë strokes him, and through their bond Finarfin's pleasure is a song in the back of his; it is deeply pleasant, deeply satisfactory. Maybe he thinks he can set things right, after yesterday; his talons willed away, his mind under control. It all fades when he takes Finarfin into his mouth, his weight and taste familiar, his short gasp encouragement enough to Eönwë's ears.
He quickly falls into rhythm, and Finarfin's taste is all Eönwë wants to think of, his hands in his hair all he wants to feel. Despite the spell around them Finarfin keeps quiet, nothing but hums and sighs escaping his lips as he rocks into Eönwë's mouth, whispering occasional encouragements. It is different, so different from yesterday; and even if Eönwë's own desire is ignored and left unsatisfied, (good), (as it should be), Eönwë does not want to have it any other way.
But then Finarfin slips out of him, tugs Eönwë's head back to stop him; his breath is heavy, his face flushed. Eönwë hums, smiling up at him; they stand like this, one mind, one heartbeat. Then Finarfin steps away, and the spell breaks.
"Rise," he says, "rise. Let's get to the furs. I want to taste you."
Let me finish you first, Eönwë thinks, somewhat disappointed, and does not move, at least until Finarfin sits down at his resting place with no intention to get back. Finarfin leans back, relaxing his body; come, come, don't make me wait for you.
He sighs and rises, rolling his shoulders. Finarfin watches as he unclasps his cape and lets it fall to the ground; his eyes light up when Eönwë pulls his shirt over his head, and despite his annoyance Eönwë can't help but quirk his lips at want in Finarfin's eyes. He will give himself, if that is what the king desires; will let Finarfin's hands run over his chest, his lips toy with his nipples, his fingers slip into his mouth if so Finarfin wishes.
When he comes closer, Finarfin is quick to tug him down, to seize his lips in a hot, impatient kiss; is quick to roll him over, so Eönwë is once more on his back, and his feathers ruffle, trying to rearrange themselves. Finarfin pulls back, one hand pressing Eönwë down; runs his eyes over him, a starved man offered a feast.
Finarfin's mind is bright and hungry, and Eönwë can feel every little thing: his skin where Finarfin touches him, his heart beating erratically in his chest, his breath coming heavier.
"You said you wished to tear me apart yesterday," Finarfin breathes, and his eyes spark. "And I said I would like that."
"No," Eönwë says, "not tonight."
So he takes Finarfin by his hips, and flips them around, and pins his wrists above his head. Finarfin smiles.
"The rope," he says, "it is still here, somewhere. I didn't throw it away."
Eönwë breathes in annoyance. Your hands are still unhealed, you still bear wounds from me. I should not be even touching you.
"Keep them still," he says, "do not move them, or I will—by Eru, king, you are so difficult at times."
Finarfin watches him, watches closely: Eönwë's eyes blown wide, his breath coming short. Then, without warning, he rises his hand, tucks a strand of hair behind Eönwë's ear; traces his face.
"Tell me what ails you," he says. "I'm sorry. I will not ask again."
Eönwë sighs. Kisses him instead, deep and long and hopefully enough to satisfy him. When they part, Finarfin does not speak; but Eönwë knows the question is far from forgotten.
Finarfin fumbles around the furs, finds the oil. When Eönwë reaches to take it, he sees his nails are talons once more, and something dark overcomes him again. What use is of his bodies if this one he cannot control, what use is of his wisdom if his rage is always greater, what—
"Lover," Finarfin breathes, and Eönwë realizes his other hand has dug into Finarfin's thigh, blood flowing freely as his talons cut through flesh. He swears, and pushes away as if burnt.
"Calm down," Finarfin breathes, "calm down. It is nothing."
It is your blood, Eönwë wants to say, your body that I swore to love, and look what I did to it—how can you—
"It is alright," Finarfin says, kneeling in front of him, rubbing circles into the palms of Eönwë's hands. "Come, we don't need to do this. Let us rest."
No, Eönwë thinks, no.
"I am well," he says finally, "I am well. Lie back down, I will find something for the blood."
"Oh, just—" Finarfin sighs. "The bandages, they're still on the table. Are you truly well?"
Eönwë takes the bandages, turns around. "I am not the one who's—Valar, king, I'm sorry."
Finarfin looks at him with his unmoving green eyes as Eönwë washes the blood away with a damp cloth, bandages the cuts. "There," Eönwë says. "Lie back down, I kept you long enough, just—"
His talons are still there. No matter; he still has his mouth.
Finarfin takes the oil. "You did not answer."
"Answer what?"
Finarfin's hands are gentle as he pushes Eönwë down, settles on top of him, oils his fingers. "Are you well?"
"Am I—Valar, king, of course I am well." Eönwë tries to not let irritation settle in his body, tries to focus on Finarfin on top of him, his hair falling in short curls, his skin fair and soft to touch. "I am not the one who just bled."
"You seemed distressed by it," Finarfin says. "And do not say it was but worry; you made me bleed far too many times for me to believe that."
Eönwë does not answer, watching instead as Finarfin moves his hand behind himself, as he turns to find better angle. He bites his lip, looks back to Eonwe. "Come, Herald, I am waiting for answer."
Eonwe looks up at him. Knows Finarfin's hips are heaving like that on purpose, knows his head is tilted at that angle for a reason. "You're beautiful," he says. I'm sorry.
"You don't have to talk, if you would rather not to," Finarfin breathes. Hisses, throws his head back. A display, Eönwë knows, one that Finarfin enjoys way too much.
The king gathers himself once more, looks back down. "Show me, if that is easier for you."
Eönwë moves his hands up Finarfin's hips, sees Finarfin's eyes gleam from behind his lashes. He does not want to talk; the only thing he wants is to drive inside him, hear him cry and gasp and beg. "Do we have to do this now."
"When else? Will you be willing to talk when we're done? Tomorrow, maybe? The next time you feel out of control?"
Eönwë sighs. "You are so very difficult at times, king."
Finarfin hums. His thought reaches to Eönwë's, brushes at the edges of his mind.
Eönwë takes him by his hips. Lets Finarfin slip his fingers out, lean with both his hands on Eönwë's chest. Pushes in, slowly; Finarfin's eyelids flutter, and he takes an unsteady breath.
Eönwë remembers their first time; one of the first, anyways. Finarfin's chest rises the same slow way as Eönwë gives small, careful thrusts, as he heaves his hips to meet them, taking more of Eönwë each time; for a while it is quiet, the task at hand more significant than any words.
Finarfin's mind is a string of light around Eönwë's, and the echoes of it—so solid, so embodied—make him feel more than he himself can possibly imagine. Finarfin's breath is heavy now, stifled moans escaping his lips as Eönwë's grip on him hardens, as Eönwë gains more control; when Eönwë hits his prostate, he jerks and gasps.
Still the back of Eönwë's mind is terribly alert, and he makes no movement more than necessary.
Finarfin settles into a rhythm, and Eönwë follows his lead. Closes his eyes, lets the sensations take him, wash over his body in pleasant warmth. Yet between it all he can feel Finarfin's gaze; between it all he can feel the question lingering between them. Are you well, are you well.
He does not wants to answer, not now. Wants to make this last, to commit every second to memory, so he can have more memories that he is half convinced are dreams, so he has more things to think of when kissing Finarfin's skin, so he knows more about his pleasure when they lay together again. And also because this feels very, very good, more than Eönwë thought could be possible for him to feel.
He only realizes Finarfin had stopped when he feels his lips enveloped in a kiss, and when he breathes Finarfin's air, swallows Finarfin's tongue; when Finarfin's mind is all around him, bright and cool and soothing against his own, when the question rings again, loud and clear: are you well, are you well, are you well.
He is not well, never was. The drums of war ringing in his heart ever since the beginning, the songs of battlefield etched beneath his skin. Rage and fury festering within his heart, wrath and anger never let out, never seen. The fear at that inverted side of himself hidden away, and—talons drawing blood, teeth leaving bruises, Finarfin willing, so willing beneath him.
(Does he feel movement? He must; but Finarfin's spirit spreads like the finest net around him, the sparks of his thoughts electrifying, and Eönwë thinks he must have cried out—but it is all far, far away, and for now it is just Finarfin's lips, his tongue, his teeth, his—)
Always so willing, always so yielding, always so brilliant. Like clay, like molten gold. Always pushing, always seeking; stripping Eönwë bare (because you're brilliant because you're infinite because I drink of you and never have enough taste of you and only hunger more) but what is Eönwë if not just and righteous and fair? (loved loved always loved) what is Eönwë, if not raw and hurting and angry? (beautiful beautiful always beautiful—) and when he's split like that, when his shell is cast aside and the void within him let loose, what will he be left with? When I devour your blood and pop your limbs and cut your tongue what will I see when my mind is back? When my negligence destroys you, king, how will I put you back? How will I gather the pieces of you from every particle of the universe and stitch them back together?
(Silence is long gone, and they're loud and rough and Finarfin's throat is hoarse and Eönwë's teeth pierce through his skin. The spell still holds. Nothing disturbs the silence of the night.)
Safe, safe, you are safe and yet he takes and takes and never stops, sees the selfishness of himself and does not put an end to it. I don't think you must, I don't think you should. (You do not help.) Ainur do not want, Ainur do not lust. Made to create, he wishes to devour; meant to guard, he wishes to destroy.
Do you see now, he thinks, and Finarfin is beneath him, his hands on Eönwë's neck, his hair, or else his chest, his thighs, do you see why I fear.
And Finarfin is too distracted to reply; from the pitch of his moans Eönwë knows he is close, from the way he claws at Eönwë's arms, arches his back, gasps and begs and pleads for him to not stop. Still his eyes flash in the midst of it, mind struggling to remember, to hold on.
Do not run, do not run from me, he finally manages, and I love you, I love you, I love you, and when his though crashes through Eönwë he almost cries with the magnitude of it, shuddering with all his spirit—and he feels it, the way Finarfin does, the way he always feels—something bigger, greater, spreading infinitely like the enchanted spaces of Ilmarin, something magnetic, something beautiful, and realizes he is looking at himself.
He cries out. His arms give out, his breath shakes. He is spent.
The world stitches itself together gradually, without hurry. It rains outside. Finarfin's breath is faint over his ear.
Slowly, Eönwë opens one of his eyes. The angle is wrong, giving him a picture of them both, but Eönwë is way too exhausted to fit it back into place. He sees Finarfin's body, entangled with his own; sees places where he bit through his skin, where his grip was too tight, where bruises are beginning to form.
Finarfin is content against him, body and mind. Eönwë hums, brings him closer. You will hate me tomorrow, he thinks, and Finarfin mumbles something in response; then he scoots even closer, and says nothing more.
Eönwë closes his eyes, and waits for the morning to come.