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“That’s the other thing,” said Fingolfin, as Fingon hopped over a puddle. “I know the rent was good, but Findekáno, does it really have to be the backroom behind a falafel shop?”

“Are you kidding?” Fingon was a little ahead of his father now and he turned around, walking backwards so he could smile at him. “That’s why I chose it. You know how many long days and nights we’re going to be holed up in there? We need immediate access to good, cheap, 24-hour takeout! It’ll save us.”

“Oh,” said Fingolfin. “Goodness, Finno, you do think of everything.”

“See? Nepotism sometimes pays off.” Fingon spread his arms as drops of rain started to fall. “You didn’t just hire a good campaign manager, you actually made him from scratch.”

“Ask your mother about that part,” said Fingolfin, but he was smiling too, affected by Fingon’s infectious enthusiasm. “I think she would likely describe it with a little more technicality than ‘from scratch’.”

“I think I’ll pass. But hey, dad, I was thinking.”

“That’s what I pay you for,” said Fingolfin, reaching out to ruffle up his son’s curls. “Or is this an unpaid thought?”

“It’s both a son thought and a campaign thought.” Fingon ducked his father’s hand and tugged the hood of his jacket up over his hair against the rain. “We were in such a rush with filing deadlines and press releases and hiring campaign staff…”

“Yes?”

“We totally forgot to have a launch party.”

Fingolfin laughed. “I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“Listen,” said Fingon, as Fingolfin opened up his umbrella, “I’m afraid to tell you this, but you did not raise a son who believes that parties are unnecessary.”

A bus roared by, and Fingolfin angled his umbrella defensively against the spray of water it sent up. “Isn’t that what your cousins are for?”

“Please, every Fëanorion party would turn into either arson or five hours of alt-mellow Maglor if it weren’t for the Nolofinwion party presence.” Fingon tossed his head. “Everyone knows that we’re the ones who bring it. No but seriously, it doesn’t have to be anything big, but come over to our apartment and let’s have some beers at least.”

“I was supposed to be meeting your uncle for a drink,” said Fingolfin, trying to check his watch.

“Have your drink at our place! I know Uncle Arfin was going to be with Findaráto earlier, let’s get them both to come. Findaráto will probably be able to dig Turno out of his books and bring him too.”

Fingolfin hesitated. “Well…”

Fingon folded his arms. “Candidate, I told you that if I was going to accept your job offer, I would need to be listened to.”

Fingolfin shook raindrops off his glasses and tried to look sternly at his oldest son. “Imp.”

“Father.”

They stared at each other a moment in the quickening rain, until Fingon arched an eyebrow in such an uncanny imitation of Anairë that Fingolfin broke eye contact to laugh.

“Oh, okay.” Fingolfin sighed, and then smiled as Fingon whooped. “I suppose there’s no harm.”

* * *

Curufin had walked from the bus stop for only a couple blocks, but by the time he reached Hithlum Ave, he was soaked to the skin. Seething, he climbed the stairs and pounded on the door to Maedhros and Fingon’s apartment. There was loud music coming from inside, and it did nothing to improve his mood. He pulled his bag around to examine the damage done to its contents and then, cursing under his breath, he knocked loudly again. He kicked at the door for good measure, his shoes squelching unsatisfyingly.

The door was pulled open, and Curufin planted his hands on his hips, already launching into the scathing speech for his brother he’d prepared on the way up the stairs.

“I don’t care what hideous debauchery you have going on right now, you have no excuse for not answering my texts and not coming to the door sooner whilst I seep like a gangrenous wound onto your doorstep. I don’t care if you have our cousin three feet up your – ” He stopped talking abruptly.

It wasn’t his brother who had opened the door, but a very tall, very blond man wearing argyle, whom Curufin had only seen a handful of times before.

“Oh, hello,” said Finarfin, smiling. “You must be Curufinwë.”

Curufin hunted for words, and found none. He considered stepping back to re-check the apartment number to make sure he was in the right place, because no explanation he could think of accounted for why Finrod’s father would be answering Maedhros’ door. Then he closed his eyes briefly, replaying his words, and only pride kept him from retreating back down the stairs at a run.

Someone appeared at Finarfin’s elbow, and Curufin felt almost wobbly with relief to see a familiar face.

“Uncle Arfin, is it the pizza?” Aredhel peeped around the door, and then waved. “Oh, hey Curvo! Did Maitimo send out an invite to you guys?”

“An invite?” said Curufin weakly.

“There is a belated campaign launch party being held for my brother,” said Finarfin. His voice was warm and clear; when Curufin wasn’t looking right at him, he could almost swear it was Finrod speaking. “It has turned into a gathering of family, mostly. It was apparently a last minute idea of Findekáno’s.”

“And Findekáno being Findekáno, he invited everyone in shouting distance at the last possible moment,” said Aredhel, rolling her eyes fondly. “So Maitimo came home to a surprise mob scene, but he’s being very cool about it, possibly because of beer and also what Findekáno promised to do to him in the bathro – ” She clamped her lips shut as if just remembering her uncle was standing next to her.

Finarfin raised his eyebrows with a faint smile, a gesture that also felt eerily familiar.

Curufin shivered involuntarily on the doormat.

“Oh, I’m such an asshole. Come in!” exclaimed Aredhel, touching Curufin’s sopping sleeve. “Gosh. You poor drowned kitten, what were you doing?”

“I was trying to retrieve a book I left here,” said Curufin, letting Aredhel tug him inside, too wet and flustered to summon offense at being called ‘kitten.’

“Was that while you were staying here during the house construction?” asked Finarfin. “I hope you’ve been able to resettle comfortably now that the renovations have wrapped up. Would you like me to take that for you?”

Curufin hung onto his bag. “I can just pick my book up and then I should really – ”

“Oh, but you must stay," said Finarfin earnestly. “Findaráto will be so happy to see you, and I have been looking for an excuse to get to know you better.”

“Ingo – Findaráto’s here, is he?” said Curufin faintly. The music was quite loud, and while there weren’t as many people as he’d thought, it was crowded enough that the small living area was overly warm and stuffy.

Aredhel was watching him with some sympathy. “Yes, he is. Let me grab him.” She cupped her hands to her mouth and called, “Yo, Ingo, your boy is here!”

Everyone looked around, and Curufin shivered, dripped, and considered burying his face in his bag.

Finrod extricated himself from the crowd in the kitchen and made his way over, his face lighting up. “Curvo! I didn’t know you were coming!”

“I didn’t either,” muttered Curufin. “I just needed to retrieve a book from my brother.”

“But you must stay and celebrate with us! Have a drink, have something to eat, we can – ”

“Ingo,” said Aredhel out of the corner of her mouth. “The poor kid is soaked through. Take him back to Mae and Finno’s room and find some of Mae’s clothes for him to change into.” She appraised Curufin briefly. “Actually, Findekáno’s might be a better fit.”

“Oh, goodness, yes.” Finrod finally seemed to take in how wet Curufin was, and immediately looked repentant. He took Curufin gently by the arm, heedless of how Curufin dripped onto his shoes. “I’m so sorry, Curvo, I was being thoroughly unobservant. You must be freezing. Will you excuse us, Father?”

“Of course,” said Finarfin graciously, and then as another knock came, “And I believe that really is the pizza. Do you think the delivery fellow will be able to break a hundred?”

Curufin went only with extreme reluctance into the bedroom, tracking water down the hallway as he went. He emerged a little while later having been cajoled into one of Fingon’s sweaters, looking thoroughly nettled despite Finrod’s hand on his low back and the way he was murmuring something into his ear.

“I just came to get a book,” he hissed, twitching as Finrod urged him down the hallway. “I had no intention of acquiring a party, much less this party. I do not have a history of enjoying parties in this house.”

Finrod’s face fell. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, just say goodbye.” Curufin dragged at his collar. “To me. I’m out.”

“But,” said Finrod softly, “but I would so love to have you around, I haven’t seen you all week. And I’ve been meaning for you and my father to spend some time together…”

“Oh, we’ve already spent time together, and as he now has the measure of me as a short-tempered, foul-mouthed, and unprepossessing ‘drowned kitten’ – I am going to kill Irissë – I think I have been humiliated enough.” Curufin shoved his wet clothes into the plastic bag Finrod had given him and tried to smooth his damp hair. He only succeeded in slicking it straight back, which he knew from experience made him look like pictures he'd seen of his father in the '80s.

“You won’t be humiliated,” said Finrod, catching Curufin’s hands and pulling him to the side before they came into the living room so they stayed out of sight of the others for another minute. “I promise. I won’t force you to stay, but it would mean a lot if you hung around for...just a little while? My father really is incredibly kind and friendly; he won’t judge you for having to walk four blocks in the rain and being in a bad mood when you arrived, he’d just love to get to know you.”

He looked so pleading that Curufin rolled his eyes, defeated, and said, “Fine,” and did not protest when Finrod pressed a grateful kiss to his cheek.

As they made their way into the living room, Aredhel caught Curufin’s eye and gave him an encouraging wink. She mouthed, Check your phone. As Finrod went to fetch Finarfin, Curufin glanced at his phone to see he had a new text from her.

If you need an escape, just holler at me. I know from experience how to deflect Uncle Arfin if he’s getting too interested in every detail of your life.

Curufin edged through the crowd until he was near Aredhel. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Aredhel shrugged. “Because Tyelko isn’t here to rescue you, and I’m his proxy in these situations.”

“Oh, god.”

“Artanis will help too, if need be.”

“Why?”

“Because I care about my eldest brother’s partner being comfortable meeting our father,” said Galadriel, materializing on Curufin’s other side without warning. “I know how it can be, trust me. Teleporno had to go through the same thing, though he had to take on both Father and Mother at the same time, and I vowed to help prevent any future angoisse parentale." Galadriel sipped box wine from a solo cup and sighed like a queen. "Also Irissë said she’d rat me out about getting fired if I don’t help.”

Aredhel laid a hand to her heart. “I never.”

"At least Mother isn't here to make what she thinks are encouraging comments about your hair," said Galadriel, with a haunted look. "I did tell Teleporno to leave the headband at home."

“Yes, I suppose it could be worse,” murmured Curufin, without conviction, and then very quickly, “Keep an eye on your phone, Irissë.”

“Curufinwë,” said Finarfin, descending on him through the parting crowd like a tall, argyle ship. “Findaráto has told me so much about you. Come, sit with me on this charming sofa - Findaráto, don't hover, go congratulate your uncle while I talk to your young man. So, Curufinwë, you have your father’s mind for machines, I hear. Tell me, will you be considering grad school?”

Curufin found himself pivoted to the couch, casting a slightly desperate look over his shoulder as Galadriel tucked Finrod's hand under her arm to hold him in place.

“Godspeed,” she said.

“He’ll be okay,” said Aredhel, thumbing her ringer to vibrate and pocketing her phone. As Finarfin leaned in to listen more intently to Curufin's answers, Aredhel located her second oldest brother. Turgon was looking at the kitchen table with the gravity of a surgeon. Aredhel poked at him inquiringly.

Turgon looked at her, his heavy brows drawn together, and asked, very seriously, “Why shouldn’t we teach dad to play beer pong?”

* * *

What was Erasmus of the Netherlands known for, and what was his relation, if any, to the Brothers of the Common Life?

Amras spun his pencil between his fingers and chewed his lip. He tapped the pencil against the paper a few times, then looked out the window for a while, where the rain was drumming down. He busied himself following the trajectory of a single raindrop down the pane for a while, watching as it met up with and collected others on its slide downwards, until it rolled out of sight below the windowsill. Amras sighed and looked back down at his practice test.

What was Erasmus –

He flipped through some of his notes dispiritedly, but his own handwriting was so bad that he couldn’t tell if a certain section was on Erasmus or the Holy Roman Empire. Deciding to skip the question, he moved on to the next.

What thematic innovation –

In the tank on the desk, the old snake stirred and woke, bumping his snub nose against the glass. Amras hunched down to stare at him, pressing his finger against the glass and watching as the snake flicked its tongue out to see if it could taste him through the tank walls.

Up on the top bunk, where he was hunched over his laptop, Amrod coughed, and Amras pulled his hand away from the snake tank. Propping his head on his hand, he looked down at the next question.

What thematic innovation of the Renaissance artists does Michelangelo’s David best display?

“Dick and balls,” he mumbled under his breath, and giggled softly.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” Amras sketched an absent stick figure on his practice text, then scribbled ‘anatomy that actually looked like anatomy, finally.’ He thought a moment, his pencil between his teeth, before adding, ‘and being mad gay. Lol @church.’ Then he crossed this out, added a tongue sticking out of his stick figure’s mouth, and sighed loudly.

“Shh,” said Amrod, from his perch.

“I am doing my AP Euro practice test,” said Amras with dignity, “allow me a moment or two of audible existential angst.”

“Look who rolled under the table and came out with a vocabulary,” muttered Amrod. “I’ve been watching you: You’ve written one sentence in the past forty minutes.”

“Oh yeah? And while you were so busy watching me, smartass, how was your own homework coming?”

“I finished it,” said Amrod loftily.

“How peachy keen for you, Perfecto Kid.” Amras swung his legs around. “But good, actually, that means you can give me the computer.”