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“Curvo was going to send you a text,” said Caranthir and Celegorm together, while Maglor dropped his armful of pillows and pretended to examine a framed poster on the wall.

“That’s funny.” Fingon glowered at Curufin. “Because I received no such text.”

Curufin gazed at the ceiling, rolling a bit of apple skin between his fingers. “Ah, yes. I forgot I don’t have Findekáno’s phone number.”

“Surely you have Maitimo’s.”

“I am afraid not.” Curufin blinked at their incredulous stares. “What, it’s a new phone, I only have the essentials.”

Celegorm shook his head as he stretched out on the couch. “Kid, you got that thing like a year ago.”

“My point stands. Anyway, I sent Nelyo an email.”

“I just got it.” Maedhros had come back in wearing a different shirt and holding his phone.

“You don’t always keep your phone close to hand?” Curufin shook his hand sadly. “Always worth doing, even while humping your – I mean, ‘making love.’”

Maedhros scowled. “You sent me this maybe thirty minutes ago. You didn’t want to ask permission – sorry, ‘inform me’, seeing as you never actually asked if it was okay – a little more in advance of your arrival?”

Curufin shrugged. “I figured it would be harder to say no in person. We’re homeless, Nelyo, are you really going to throw your little brothers out into the street while toxic mold is being removed your former home?”

Fingon and Maedhros exchanged hopeless looks.

“Exactly.” Curufin nodded briskly, and set down the denuded apple. “I knew you would understand, Maitimo, your perspicacity has always been terribly underestimated. Now that that’s taken care of, I think I shall lay claim to the spare bedroom.”

“No, you won’t,” said three voices at once.

“Like hell you get the one bed.”

“If anyone deserves the floor, it’s you.”

“You’re the smallest, you would be fine curled up on a pillow in the corner.”

“Makalaurë gets the spare bedroom,” said Maedhros, and was greeted with an equally loud chorus of protests. “Because he is the only one who’s looked even mildly repentant this whole time.”

“Just because he pretended not to notice you had your boyfriend’s jizz on your chest,” Celegorm said, “doesn’t mean it’s acceptable to play favorites.”

Fingon turned to Maedhros. “I’ve just decided we’re never having children.”

“Be fair,” said Caranthir, sitting on the couch next to Celegorm. “It coulda been his own jizz.”

“Not judging by the size of the boner he was concealing. Fin, you want us to give you a moment to finish off Mae?”

“May the toxic mold take you all,” said Fingon, as Maedhros buried his face in his hands. “How long did you say you’ll be here?”

* * *

Maedhros knocked lightly on the door to the spare bedroom, and slipped inside after Maglor’s quiet “Yeah?”

Maedhros was surprised to see Fingon sitting beside Maglor on the floor with his guitar in his lap. Maglor was stretched out next to him, scribbling something in a notebook, and both of them looked up as Maedhros came in.

“I thought you’d fled,” Maedhros said to Fingon, as Fingon played a chord progression and hummed. “I was half expecting you to seek refuge with Turno tonight.”

“It’ll take more than a bushel of Fëanorions to chase me from my home,” said Fingon, and plucked the D string for emphasis. “Did you get the supplies you needed?”

Maedhros held up the bag of pencils and notebooks in one hand, and then sat down on the floor with them.

“A-minor is overused,” Maglor murmured, resting his chin on his fist. “Would you judge me if I scrapped the bridge entirely and started over?”

“I’d judge you terribly. No, do it. You’ll be unbearable if you don’t.”

Maglor jotted something down and Fingon bent over his shoulder, studying the notes and then picking them out on the guitar.

“Are the others all set up?” Maglor asked, finally looking up at Maedhros. “Finno was going to set up the air mattress for them, but I told him after we were so rude they could set up their own bedding.”

“I forgive you,” said Fingon, stretching out his legs. "Only you, mind."

“They’re all in their pajamas,” said Maedhros, and a broad smile broke over his face. “I honestly think they’re playing truth or dare.”

“Oh my god, such slumber party shenanigans. Are they braiding each other’s hair and gossiping, too?”

“As far as I can tell, Curvo is just boycotting all dares and objecting to the concept of truth on principle.”

Maglor scrambled to his feet. “Let’s go watch.”

* * *

“What? I don’t believe in it.” Curufin held up a blanket defensively as Celegorm tossed a handful of popcorn at him.

“Prat. Truth-hater.”

“Stop being such a weirdo and play the game!”

“I can’t play a game wherein a key premise is essentially flawed!” Curufin drew his knees up under the blanket and folded his arms over them. “There is no such thing as ‘truth’, it is inherently subjective.”

Caranthir smirked. “For someone who supposedly hates philosophy…”

“Shut up.”

“I think Findaráto is rubbing off on you.”

“If you comment on that,” said Curufin warningly, as Celegorm started to open his mouth, “I will destroy you.”

“I’m quaking in my slippers, man. Truth or dare?”

“Fine. Truth, I pick truth." Curufin curled his lip challengingly. "You want truth? I’ll give you truth. Bring it on.”

"Hold on, lemme think of a good one to ask." Celegorm ruminated, whispered briefly with Caranthir, and then winked. "Try this on for size."

Curufin listened, unflustered, as Celegorm laid out the question, and then nodded. "Right."

Twenty minutes later, Celegorm and Caranthir were sitting on the floor, their mouths hanging open, while Fingon, Maedhros, and Maglor watched rapt from the hallway.

Curufin finished his sentence, cleared his throat, and smiled pleasantly at all of them. “And there you have your ‘truth’.”

“No,” said Caranthir blankly.

“I cannot unhear that,” said Maglor, burying his face in his hands.

Fingon, who had been listening to increasingly shocking revelations with a look of intense interest, raised his hand. “Query: What did you do after the leg broke?”

“It was about then that the janitor returned, so,” Curufin shrugged. “It wasn’t my problem anymore.”

“Jesus, Curvo,” muttered Maedhros.

Celegorm closed his mouth, still staring in shock at Curufin. Then a suspicious look crossed his face. “So…”

“Yes?”

"Upside-down, huh?"

"Oh, yes."

"And a stolen floor buffer?"

"Borrowed."

“Pretty intimate stuff to let us in on."

"I am simply obeying the rules of the game."

"Yeah, right. After years of never opening up about anything, you decide to let us in on your darkest secrets now? Just because we threw a ‘truth’ at you? Uh uh. You never let anyone in on anything without good reason.”

Curufin yawned and covered his mouth with one hand.

“Either something big has shifted, or,” Celegorm laughed suddenly. “Or you are trolling the fuck out of us.”

Curufin’s eyes widened and he pulled back, looking shocked and hurt. “You think the only possible explanation for me confiding in those I hold dear has to be that I am messing with you? I’ve been working really hard on being okay with vulnerability, Tyelko, you know it’s not easy for me to – ” Curufin’s hold on wide-eyed injury slipped, his lips twitched, and he broke off, grinning. “Twenty minutes! I was only aiming to have you believe me for ten.”

Caranthir swore and fell back on the air mattress, while Maedhros gave an exhale of relief from the hallway.

Curufin was still chuckling as he examined his nails with a pleased air. “I can’t believe I got you to buy the thing about the wig and the werewolf mask.”

“In our defense,” said Fingon. “That totally sounds like something Findaráto would be into.”

* * *

Mablung was nodding off at Beleg’s bedside when the door to the hospital room opened, revealing the last two people Mablung expected. His head jerked up in shock as an unusually tall man with silver hair and a long, patrician face walked through the door. Behind him was an even taller woman with ink-black hair streaked with a single strand of white.

“Hello,” said Thingol, noticing him. “We are here to check on Mr. Cúthalion’s condition.”

“He’s alive,” said Mablung, too exhausted and confused to figure out how best to be courteous to the President and Dean of Beleriand University. “He’s going to stay alive, they think.”

“I heard he had lost a lot of blood,” said Thingol, looking down at Beleg from behind elegant half-lens glasses.

“Yes, that happens when you get stabbed in the lung.”

Thingol looked at him, a penetrating stare from behind his glasses and that long, elegant nose, and Mablung reddened. “We are here,” said Thingol, after a pregnant pause, “with Mr. Turambar.”

Mablung looked over Thingol’s shoulder, half expecting to see Túrin ghosting through the door, but it remained closed. He looked back at Thingol, waiting.

Thingol removed his glasses and polished them on a handkerchief. “This is a stopover for us; we have arranged for his bail, and are taking him home.”

“Mîm’s his home.” Mablung hadn’t meant for the words to come out so loudly, and the conviction with which he spoke them surprised him.

“We think it better that he be out of that neighborhood. Mîm understands this.” Thingol slid his glasses into a pocket. “Túrin will too, I am sure. But in the meantime he has not stopped asking that he be able to see Beleg – he is quite forceful in his insistence. I did not think the visit was advisable, but it has not been disallowed.”

“He has only been awake a couple times,” said Mablung, fighting the urge to place himself protectively between Beleg and his visitors. “He’s still really weak, and he's in rough shape. Those thugs that dumped him in the ER parking lot may have saved his life, but they weren't gentle with him, and he's still pretty fucked up - uh, battered,” he amended in a mutter, feeling embarrassed to swear in front of Melian, no matter his exhaustion.

“We understand,” said Melian, her voice almost as deep as her husband’s, but so melodic and pure in tone that Mablung felt goose bumps prickle over his skin. “And we know you are as close to family as Beleg can call anyone, so we will defer to your judgment.” She raised a hand as her husband made a movement at her elbow as if he was going to protest. “But Túrin will not be able to spend much time here as we get various things sorted out with our lawyers, so this may be his only chance for a while to see his friend.”

His victim, thought Mablung, though he could almost see Beleg’s reproving look.

Melian looked like she guessed what he was thinking. “Túrin has not slept nor eaten since Beleg woke up. While I do not wish to pressure you unduly to do something you disagree with, I truly believe he will do harm to himself if he cannot see his friend.” She paused. “We can remain in here – we can even ask for security to join us – if you do not feel comfortable leaving him alone with Beleg.”

“No,” said Mablung, and Melian tilted her magnificent head.

“You do not wish to allow it?”

“No, I mean,” Mablung took a breath. “You don’t have to stand guard or anything, and you don’t have to call security. But I’m sure as hell not going to leave. I’ll keep an eye on him. Will you – will you just give me a moment before you send Túrin in?”

“Of course,” said Melian, and she turned gracefully to the door. “Thank you.”

Thingol followed her, casting one last glance over his shoulder to the bed, where Beleg’s pale figure lay.

Mablung crouched by the bed and took Beleg’s hand – reassuringly warm – in his own. “Túrin’s coming,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to say yes, but I know it’s what you’d want. I could be wrong, but as far as I know, that knife didn’t stop you from being Beleg, and the Beleg I know would want to see Túrin no matter what, even if the last time you two saw each other…” Mablung trailed off and tried to stop the hot flow of fear and anger. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, when he could speak again. “I won’t let him hurt you again.”

When Túrin came in he was alone, gaunt and hollow-eyed and ancient-looking. Mablung tried not to recoil from him but didn't say anything, instead jerking his head towards the bed. Then he retreated and laid his back against the wall, fighting the urge to snap, "Don't try anything."

Túrin didn't even look at him. He moved like an automaton across the room, stumbling on legs that seemed only barely able to support him. When he reached the bed, a great tremor took his body as he looked down at Beleg’s form under the blankets, at the IV running its thin lines to the back of his hand. A sound came from him, something that might have been an attempt to articulate a word, or simply a sob. Túrin's throat worked convulsively, like he was trying to speak, or maybe, Mablung thought, like he was going to be sick. Then Túrin sank down beside the bed, his head bowed over the sheets, his hand resting next to Beleg’s on the coverlet as if he didn’t quite dare to touch him.

Mablung shifted, but made himself stay against the wall, waiting as Túrin stayed hunched at Beleg’s side, and Beleg’s slow, even breaths raised the sheet draped over his chest. There would be something almost peaceful about the atmosphere - the total silence but for Beleg's breathing and the steady beeping of machines - had it not been for the misery that spread from Túrin like a great shadow.

At long last, Túrin stirred - his knees on the linoleum must have been getting sore - and as he did, Beleg moved as well. Beleg’s eyes opened, right as Túrin raised his head to gaze into his face.

Their eyes met.

As Beleg focused on Túrin, his dry, cracked lips broke into a smile. “Túrin,” he whispered, in a voice like sandpaper.

Mablung pressed his palms flat against the wall behind him.

“Beleg,” croaked Túrin, still kneeling like a supplicant. He spoke like someone who hadn't used his voice in years, and his lips formed the name with a wretched reverence.

Beleg flexed his fingers and turned his palm upright on the blankets, never taking his eyes from Túrin's face. “I am glad you’re here.”

Then Túrin did take Beleg’s hand, holding it caught between his own as he bent his head and kissed the knuckles, one finger at a time, and Mablung turned his head away from Túrin’s tears.

You won't get better ‘til you're worse

Chapter Summary

Fëanorions 4 and 5 return to Formenos.

Chapter Notes

0. Warnings: The second scene contains discussion of weight loss and the physical/psychological after-effects of injury.

The quiet, tree-lined street was elegant even with its branches still winter-bare and the remaining piles of dirty snow pushed up against the muddy curb. The car took the last long curve and came into view of the house at the end of the lane with the curled and sleepy-eyed dragon statue by the mailbox.