Chapter Text
„Okay, guys: Family meeting has begun.“ Maedhros punctuates this dictate by placing a six pack of beer on their interim coffee table (an empty amazon box which had once shipped a vacuum cleaner). It escapes no one’s notice, that there are nine individuals, eight of them adults, clustered around said six pack.
Maedhros says he is above conducting experiments on his own family – but then Fëanor used to say the same thing.
„See, that was a great example of a performative speech act“, one of the Ambarussa says, excitedly swatting Maglor on the arm. „He declares the meeting has begun and by doing so the meeting is begun.“
Maglor tries and fails to raise one eyebrow at him. Maedhros and Curufin are currently the only ones of the siblings who can do it, but Maglor will learn or die trying.
„Seriously I feel like you could really profit from reading Butler, Mags. It’s not as hard as everyone says, you just need to do some basic preliminary reading: John Austin and Foucault, a lil Althusser if you’re feeling it.“
Maglor remains calm. „I don’t need a philosophy professor to validate my identity.“
„Ah, but that’s the fundamental misunderstanding! Butler is actually opposed to identity politics as a central tenet of queer activism. You see, there is no essentialist, authentic Maglor, who exists prior to society’s conceptions of gender and-“
„Guys, can we stay on track please?“ Maedhros requests. „I’m taking orders of business now.“
„First order of business“, Celegorm mumbles around a mouthful of pretzels. „More and better snacks for Family Meetings.“
Maedhros rolls his eyes, but not even his position as eldest allows him to defy the sacred laws of Family Meetings, so he jots down Celegorm’s contribution as requested.
Fingon, wearing a beaming smile and a T-shirt from the pole dance studio he works at with the slogan eat clean, dance dirty, is clearly thrilled to be attending his very first Fëanorian Family Meeting. He digs through his massive backpack decorated with many pins. “Oh right, I brought some Capri Suns for Tyelpe and anyone who’s not drinking.”
Tyelpe perks up visibly at this news. The poor boy is finally reaching that age when you become aware of the awkward unspoken things between adults that cause tension in a room and Maglor privately wonders why Curufin had decided to drag his kid into a situation that is bound to be a headache. Well, Maglor is probably never going to have kids, but if they do, maybe they’ll understand then.
Tyelpe briefly relinquishes his tight cuddle of the stuffed Vulpix on his lap (questionable, Jigglypuff is clearly the superior Pokémon) to receive his Capri Sun, but Curufin intervenes, plucking the silvery juice pouch of temptation out of Fingon’s hand. He scans the list of ingredients on the back with undisguised disgust before handing it back.
“No thank you. We can do without the sugar water infused with carcinogenic food coloring.”
Tyelpe – an uncommonly well behaved child – does not whine or argue, but instead regards the juice pouch with newfound wariness. It would be cute, how he has such unwavering trust in his father, if it didn’t bring up all sorts of uncomfy feelings in Maglor that they usually reserve for therapy or 3AM vodka deep talks.
If Curufin thought he’d thwarted Fingon’s attempts to kill him with kindness, he has clearly underestimated his foe.
“No problem! I can go get you some of my vitamin water, kay?” Without waiting for confirmation, Fingon bounds out of the room, thus revealing the back of his T-shirt. It shows a hot pink silhouette of a dancer artfully dangling upside down from a pole with the subtitle: I do it in heels.
Maglor would facepalm, but they currently cannot move their arms, as they are sandwiched tightly between the twins. Amrod and Amras are wearing near identical outfits of slacks and turtlenecks. The one on the right has a cigarette stuck behind his ear, the one on the left wears a silver bracelet. Other than that there is no distinguishing them. It would be pretentious twin fuckery, but the absurd truth is that they usually end up dressed the same without even trying.
Caranthir raises a hand. His black nail polish is chipping, no doubt shedding microplastics or some shit all over the environment he supposedly cares so much about.
“Second order of business. Why is Fingon here?”
Maedhros straightens. He rehearsed for this.
“As my long-term partner, Fingon is my chosen family. He is also a significant factor in planning my future, fiscally and in terms of career and accommodation. In philosophical, colloquial, legal and in fact all but genetic terms, he is Family.”
Celegorm cracks open his second beer with his teeth and asks: “If you can bring Fingon, can I bring Huan next time?”
Maedhros furrows his brows: “How is your dog comparable to my partner?”
A whoop of laughter escapes Maglor before they can stop it. “You don’t want us to answer that!” They gasp, fluttering iridescent nails in front of their grin.
“Please don’t bring Huan”, the right hand Ambarussa pleads, “The apartment is crowded enough already.”
“And Huan sheds!” Adds the left hand Ambarussa. “The apartment will smell like dog for the next week.”
Maglor does not mean to be catty, but really, they cannot be expected to resist a good read. It’s simply out of their control: “Whereas Fingon sheds only vanilla protein powder and makes the apartment smell of Christina Aguilera’s Touch of Seduction for a week.”
“Oh is that what that smell is?” Moryo makes a face. “I thought he must bathe in a raspberry smoothie every time he comes over.”
Maedhros’ voice is plaintive: “He brought Capri suns! Why are you guys so mean to-”
“Shhh, he’s coming back!” Maglor warns.
Fingon lopes back into the room, carrying not one, not two, but nine bottles of vitamin water in his bulging biceps. He deposits his loot on the ground, then digs into the capacious pockets of his sweatpants and produces a packet of trail mix and a bar of chocolate. It’s the kind of super dark, bitter chocolate that is Maedhros’ favorite, and no one else’s.
“I had to run to the parking lot to get stuff from my car, sorry it took me a while. But this means we can cross off the first order of business, right?”
Maglor takes this opportunity to redeem themselves in Maedhros’ eyes and nods supportively.
“Right. Thank you, Fingon.” Maglor wrenches one arm free of the Ambarussa sandwich to grab a raspberry-flavored vitamin water off the floor. Maybe it will mix well with Vodka? Or Gin?
“Awesomesauce!” Fingon resumes his seat, perched on the arm of Maedhros’ chair. “What’d I miss?”
Celegorm stops chugging his beer to speak: “He called you a significant factor. Fiscally.”
Fingon slings an arm around Maedhros’ waist and looks up at him adoringly. “Aww, babe. You’re so sweet.”
Somebody makes a gagging sound.
Tyelpe whispers loudly to his father: “Dad, is “fiscal” a swear word?”
“Yes”, answers right hand Ambarussa, while left hand Ambarussa answers: “No.”
„Third order of business!“ Maglor declares, a fierce glow in their eyes, „I have an announcement.“
Maedhros nods, evidently relieved to have the attention drawn away from his relationship, and scribbles something down for the meeting minutes that no one will actually ever read. It just makes Maedhros feel better.
“Go for it.”
Maglor throws back their hair, catching left-hand Ambarussa in the face. Maglor is not fully confident that they are pulling off “regal”, because it is difficult to be regal when your gesticulation is limited by twins on either side and an open bottle of vitamin water held between your knees. They do their best. After all, as Maglor’s mentor Olórin used to say: If you cannot serve in a bare face, pyjamas and no props – you don’t deserve to be worshiped at peak legendary Queen.
“I will be performing at the Thigh Gap on November 14th, 9 PM. You will each find a stack of fliers on your pillows. I expect them to be distributed at your regular haunts before the end of next week. Thank you, that is all.”
Maglor’s brothers display a range of reactions from groans, defeated nods, to an upward jerk of Maedhros bandaged hand which Maglor knows means “thumbs up if I could”.
“What kind of performance is it, Enty Maglor?”
Maglor feels their heart melt like butter at Tyelpe’s honest enthusiasm. They aren’t sure about “Ent” as an alternative to “Uncle” or “Aunty”, but it was the most palatable option available. Curufin vetoed “Cunty”, of course, because he has no sense of style or humor.
“I’ll be singing and playing the piano. And I made my own costume too.”
“Cool!” Tyelpe looks up at Curufin, and makes Vulpix look too, for maximum cuteness. That kid is going places. “Dad, can we go?”
Curufin, to his credit, looks torn. He’s been striving to be the “fun parent” ever since the divorce, but fun goes against his very nature. Maglor genuinely believes that Curufin doesn’t want to hurt their feelings either. He’s going to do it though, out of a lack of emotional awareness and tact.
So Maglor speaks up before Curufin gets the chance to say something insulting by accident: “The show is a little past your bedtime, sweetie. But if you want to and if your Dad’s okay with it you can come by during the day and help me get ready. I could show you around backstage.”
Tyelpe gasps excitedly. Curufin looks at Maglor, then, for some reason, at Maedhros? And finally nods at Tyelpe. “All right. I’ll come along.”
Maglor is irritated by the implication that they cannot be trusted alone with their nephew, but at least Curufin hasn’t decided that Maglor’s profession is something Tyelpe must be shielded from entirely, like the dangerous fruity temptation of a Capri Sun.
“I’ll take some fliers if you have extras.” Fingon offers brightly.
Maglor folds their arms with as much dignity as they can muster. “No offense, Fingon, but your place of business is mostly frequented by heterosexual women. I do not cater to the bachelorette party crowd.”
“Oh, ya, I get that. I meant, like, to hand out in my political circles, you know.”
“Aren’t you, like, super canceled right now? Who on the left is still talking to you?” Caranthir asks, one eyebrow raised. Damn it, when did he learn how to do that?
Fingon bristles. “Well excuse me, I didn’t realize Elu Thingol was King of the entire leftist movement in Beleriand! For your information, outside of Doriath House – which is a shi-”
Just in time, Fingon catches Curufin’s menacing look.
“I mean, a sinkhole of purity culture and hypocrisy, nobody cares about Thingol’s stupid bans. Talk to anyone interested in good faith, common sense, grassroots activism, I mean talk to Hurin Thalion, just last week we went-”
Maedhros urgently pat’s Fingon’s hand: “Shh, honey, anonymity!”
Fingon shuts up. His wounded puppy eyes remained trained on Caranthir. Maglor wonders if he uses that look and a wobbly bottom lip to disarm the neo-nazis before he kicks them in the kneecaps.
Impressively, even Moryo is mollified. “Hm. Well we’ve all been banned by Thingol at least once. I suppose it’s only a matter of time.”
“I haven’t!” Pipes up right hand Ambarussa.
“Uh, yeah you have.” Celegorm says.
See, Maglor thinks in Tyelpe’s direction, this is one of those moments where awkward unspoken things between adults make a room go tense.
“No, I haven’t!” Ambarussa repeats, frowning.
Celegorm, blessedly oblivious, is on his third beer. To be clear though – it is not that the beer is loosening his lips. He is simply always like this.
“Dude, you totally have! Rizzi told me, she and Fingon and Hurin went knocking skinheads together the other day, or night, really-”
“Plausible deniability!” Maedhros hisses, but no one listens to him.
“And then she was like, damn, Thingol’s getting out of control-”
“That’s bulls- I mean that’s nonsense, what did I even do? I haven’t done anything to be canceled for.”
“That’s what I said too, buddy.” Fingon hops off his perch at Maedhros’ side to offer Ambarussa a fist-bump and a vitamin water. Ambarussa, befuddled, takes neither.
“You’re being awfully quiet, Amras.” Curufin speaks in a tone so like their father that Maglor flinches and has to hide it behind an affectation of a flamboyant hand flutter.
Amrod, right hand Ambarussa, turns very slowly to face his twin brother. The cigarette tucked behind his ear quivers in indignation.
“What. Did. You. Do?”
Amras sighs. “I have a LinkedIn account. Is that a crime?”
Amrod shrieks: “What did you post with my face?”
Maglor suddenly has very little desire to be stuck in the middle of this. Gossip is their daily bread, true, but they are fragile, they are a delicate flower, and Ambarussa are no strangers to full contact sport.
“I need to network, okay? Is it my fault that Thingol thinks anyone with a business degree is a fascist?”
“Dad, what’s a fascist?”
“You corporate shill, I can’t believe- No, wait I know that look. You’re lying. What else did you do?”
“Who says it was me? Maedhros got canceled for, I don’t know, existing.”
Celegorm jumps in: “Nah, Rizzi says Maedhros got canceled cause Fingon told everyone Dad’s a landlord.”
Moryo’s eyes boggle. “Fingon told them what?”
“I know you said something bad, what was it?!” Amrod demands of his brother, ignoring this new revelation of betrayal.
Maedhros stops writing minutes (why hadn’t he done that sooner?) to lift his hand placatingly. “Now let’s not engage in hyperbole, this isn’t TikTok.”
Maglor jumps to their feet, popping free of the Ambarussa stand-off sandwich like a cork from a bottle.
“Family meeting adjourned. There, I performative speech-acted. It’s done.”
Amras, unfortunately, ignores him too: “I am getting a tattoo on my face! No, you’re getting a tattoo on your face, so post that to your stupid LinkedIn!”
“Oh yeah? And how are you gonna pay for that tattoo? Tell me, does mansplaining Adorno in sociology seminars pay well?”
“I do not mansplain!”
“You kind of do, sometimes”, Maedhros says, gently.
“Mansplaining is a specific term derived from Rebecca Solnit’s essay “Men explain things to me”, it’s not just a discursive weapon to wield against anyone you don’t agree with.”
“Dad, what’s a “discursive weapon”? Is it like a sword?”
“You literally did it just now!”
“Does Uncle Maedhros have a sword?”
“No, I did not, because there are no women here, and mansplaining is specific to mansplaining things to women.”
“Pizza!” Fingon exclaims, jumping into the fray, both hands upheld. “How about we get pizza, my treat, and we can talk about this some other time?”
The intervention is just unexpected enough to halt the raging course of the argument.
But now, seven full grown Fëanorians and one Fëanorian in training have shifted their focus to Fingon. Maedhros is desperate, Curufin scornful, Celegorm hungry and a little stoned, the Ambarussa are still angry and Moryo, as usual, seeks an opportunity to claim the moral high ground.
“And here I thought you eat clean and dance dirty”, Moryo comments, tone drier than Ard-Galen in wildfire season.
Fingon shrugs helplessly. “It’s pizza. There’s nothing dirty about loving pizza, it’s just- just-”
“Dad, can we have pizza?”
And thus, the stand-off is truly broken. Curufin, divorced Dad, who has already said no to fruit juice pouches and singing performances is left with no real alternative. Maglor sees him swallow his pride like a wad of chewing gum.
“Sure, son.”
Celegorm whoops and raises a fist for Tyelpe to bump. Tyelpe high fives him instead. Maedhros sighs and scribbles “postpone discussion of black mold in bathroom” onto his notepad before tossing the whole thing, pen included, over his shoulder.
Fingon’s smile is growing more and more pained as he mentally calculates the price of nine pizzas. Maglor feels a little bad for him, but not bad enough to resist a final touch, to lighten the mood. They pull up the shop listing for Touch of Seduction on their phone and read aloud: “An alluring swirl of sugared rose and raspberry, underlined by rich, velvety vanilla – smooth and seductive, all it takes is a touch to set inner passion stirring.“
All the brothers except Maedhros snicker. Fingon looks confused.
“Well, Maedhros”, Maglor teases, “can you confirm?”
“About the stirring passion”, Celegorm clarifies, because he’s crass.
Maedhros glares at them. “You two are paying for pizza.”
Fingon slumps, relieved. “Okay, I don’t know what’s going on. What is that, Maglor? It sounds delicious.”