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Maedhros woke early, as was his wont, but not with the abrupt alertness of his usual rising. Rather, he floated slowly up to the surface of sleep, warm and content and at ease. He was vaguely aware of some alteration in his surroundings, but was too at peace to wonder or complain.
He yawned, lazily, and opened his eyes.
Fingon was sprawled in the bed beside him, bare and beautiful amid the tangled sheets. His outflung hand rested lightly on Maedhros’ wrist - a warm anchor, and the source, with absolute certainty, of Maedhros' present comfort and delight.
Maedhros flushed from head to toe, suddenly awash in memories of the night before: of the taste of Fingon’s mouth and the fiery tenderness of his touch. Of all his shimmering energy bent toward the goal of their mutual pleasure, toward persuading Maedhros of the truth and depth of his love.
Yet now that fierce mouth was soft with sleep, lips parted in an o as sweet as any blossom. Maedhros could not help himself: he leaned down to steal another kiss.
Fingon’s eyelids fluttered and he sighed, opening to Maedhros easily, warmly, turning and reaching as he woke, chasing Maedhros' lips.
His eyes were gold amid the tangle of his braids: a hawk's eyes, the Eagle’s eyes, piercing. But their keenness was smudged with sleep and the lingering softness of loving, and when Maedhros drew breath to shape some awkward, foolish disclaimer, Fingon only laughed.
He slid into Maedhros’ embrace, silencing all protest, his lips warm and soft as the kiss grew deep, as he nipped and licked and tangled his tongue with Maedhros’, murmuring soft sounds of greed in the back of his throat and urging Maedhros on.
He had been bitter, in the evening, arriving unannounced from Hithlum, chilled and narrow-eyed and nursing a grievance, unplacated by the impromptu feasting or the unearthing of the finer wines from Himring’s cellars or the heat of the baths. Pacing on the carpet in Maedhros’ study, he had lashed out with a litany of Maedhros’ sins: isolation, evasion, desertion, inattention...all the bruises of their history on full display.
Maedhros had watched Fingon stalking and raging, outlined against the fire, remembering his silhouette at the foot of the mountain and tasting again the sour tang of despair.
"Why did you come, then?" he had cried, in misery, meaning that moment and Thangorodrim both, and Fingon had heard him, and stilled. Those golden eyes had flashed, and his hands had caught Maedhros’ shoulders. He had drawn a great, steadying breath, and then his mouth had found Maedhros’, answering both questions conclusively at once.
After that it was all heat: kisses and touches; the smooth expanse of Fingon’s skin; the low music of his moans; the fierce, fiery embrace of his welcoming body - indescribable, incomparable. Maedhros had buried his face in Fingon’s hair and given himself up to it, gasping and overwhelmed.
And in the afterglow, Fingon had gathered him close and kissed him again and whispered, "You are a very great fool, hiding away here on yet another miserable mountain. You cannot escape me; I love you far too much to stay away."
Then Maedhros had drifted into dreaming in Fingon’s arms, as he drew his fingers softly through Maedhros’ hair, over and over, humming.
And Fingon was all music now, singing his delight at Maedhros’ renewal of touch. Strong arms closed around Maedhros’ shoulders and a warm thigh slipped between his legs as Fingon’s mouth found his throat: tasting, exploring the marks of the night before and laying new tracks with teeth and tongue. Maedhros groaned and gripped him by the hips and rocked against him, helpless in that tender and determined clasp.
It was both a relief and a burden, to be held so and loved so, to feel Fingon’s skin soothing the edges of his anguish, Fingon’s hands seeking his most vulnerable and needy places and finding them, unerringly. Fingon looking teasingly up from between Maedhros' thighs, lips wet and full and red around him, was matchlessly beautiful. His mouth burned, and Maedhros could not look away from his knowing, smiling eyes.
But oh, it was not courteous, to lie back and take and take, and Maedhros had once been noted for his courtly graces. He drew Fingon up and tumbled him over, to be held down, laughing and breathless, and taken apart. Maedhros tasted every inch of that shining skin, committing to memory the firmness of Fingon’s chest and arms; the tender peaks of his nipples and the softness of his belly; his heavy warmth and the sweetness of his musk; the searing heat of him, thrashing and crying out at the insistent sweep and press of Maedhros' tongue.
Fingon surged up, then, to turn them again and settle astride, holding Maedhros' gaze and panting as he took him in. The slow, hungry clasp of his body was glorious and torturous and so much more than Maedhros had ever known to long for. What else was there to do but catch his waist, and pull him down to kiss him, and move together, and move, and move, and move?
Not in his darkest moments would he ever regret this, Maedhros thought, as Fingon shook apart around him, drawing him on to his own ecstatic ending. What the mountain had stolen from him had finally been returned. Wrapped in Fingon's loving arms, he could feel the bare stones of his battered heart growing soft and warm and green.
Time and distance meant nothing, now. Wherever he went, Fingon would be with him: laughing in his pleasure, gasping with that flushed and tender mouth. Calling Maedhros’ name and dancing like a shooting star out of the shadows.
Riding the wind of his devotion, fierce-eyed and singing.