第 25 页

“So where’s the alcohol?” said Caranthir, leaning on the counter, and Celegorm broke away from flipping through Fingon’s DVD collection to clap his brother on the back.

“Asking the right questions. Where’s the booze, Nelyo? Well, the rest of it. I brought tequila.”

-

Time sped up, after that, then blurred.

Somehow, Caranthir found himself on the couch with Finrod, doing what had to be his third or fourth shot of tequila.

“Best house warming party I’ve been to,” murmured Finrod, licking salt from his fingers in a way that made Caranthir feel twitchy.

He occupied himself with leaning back and peering around at the rest of the party. Fingon and Celegorm were in the kitchen, doing bartending tricks. About an hour before, there had been a knock on the door – “Come in!” Fingon had yelled, as Celegorm tucked a party straw behind his ear, “Door’s unlocked!” – and two people had shown up with a keg. One of them, a bearded man with two impressive full sleeves of tattoos, had actually lifted Maedhros off the floor with the enthusiasm of his hug.

“Azaghâl!” Maedhros had laughed and hugged him back. “What on earth did you bring?”

“A keg of his latest,” said the woman who’d accompanied him, smiling. She was dark-haired, with gauged ears, and her tattoos were restricted to a dragon twining over her collarbones, but she had the same strong shoulders and well-muscled arms as Azaghâl.

“You remember my cousin Telchar, don’t you?”

“I remember your rum,” said Maedhros, warily, and Telchar had laughed, a low, infectious laugh, and tweaked at Azaghâl’s beard.

“I’ve heard stories of that,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “He convinced you to sample some of my experimental batch, eh? I owe you a bottle of my finest in apology.” She reached into her satchel and drew out a bottle of amber liquid. “Happy housewarming, friend.”

Soon, Azaghâl and Telchar had tapped the keg and were surrounded by an admiring crowd. Aredhel was eyeing Telchar’s tattoo appreciatively.

Caranthir felt the couch shift next to him, and saw Finrod sit up a little straighter as the door opened once again.

“Hello!”

It was Elenwë, still in her dance clothes and holding a bottle with a bow. “Sorry I’m late…”

Aredhel swooped down on her immediately and kissed her, as Elenwë laughed and managed to hand the bottle to Maedhros before she dropped it.

“Where’s Amarië?” asked Aredhel, pulling back at last.

“She has a team meeting early in the morning,” said Elenwë, trying to resettle her disheveled curls, which had gotten rumpled in the exuberance of Aredhel’s greeting. “She had to go to bed, but she sends her apologies.” She craned her neck, and waved to Finrod. “She says she’ll text you, Ingo.”

Finrod raised a hand in appreciation. “Thank you.”

Caranthir dropped his gaze to his hands. Beside him, Finrod fumbled at his pockets.

“Where is my cell phone?” He lifted his hips, searching his pockets and the couch underneath him, and Caranthir looked away, cheeks burning, Finrod’s posture suddenly horribly evocative.

“Oh, here it is.” Finrod located his phone and stared at it a moment, before swiping the screen dark. “Right.” He shook his hair out of his eyes and dropped his phone to the table. He turned bright eyes onto Caranthir, and Caranthir jumped at the sudden warmth of Finrod’s hand on his thigh. “I think I need another drink. How about you?”

-

Time blurred again.

Azaghâl settled down on the living room floor with a foaming pint of his own beer, and soon he and Caranthir were engaged in an interesting conversation about hops and the benefits of wood casking. In the kitchen, Telchar was leading an impromptu rum tasting, holding up her glass so it caught the light. “Children, you are about to learn about good liquor.”

Caranthir was trying to listen to what Azaghâl was expounding on – when had they moved from beer brewing to bicycle maintenance? – but he was distracted by the warm press of Finrod against his side. By all appearances, Finrod was wrapped up in conversation with Turgon, who’d flopped down on the couch with his fifth beer and was murmuring about transplant rejection to anyone who would listen.

When for the fourth time Caranthir had lost his train of thought because Finrod had, apparently thoughtlessly, laid a light hand on his leg, or had stretched in a way that made his shirt pull tight against his chest, he was close to convinced he’d have to excuse himself to the bathroom to recover his composure. He was arrested, however, by yet another arrival.

“Artanis!”

Aredhel and Elenwë pulled a laughing Galadriel into the crowd in the kitchen, and Finrod cleared his throat lightly. “Well, that’s my cue,” he said, so quietly that Caranthir was sure no one but he had heard, “I’m going to head to the bathroom,” he said, louder, and patted Turgon on the leg. “Good luck with studying, Turno.”

“I’m leaving now,” said Turgon, struggling to get up. “For real this time.”

Finrod smiled and stood and picked his way neatly through the crowd to the hallway, leaving Caranthir with the lightest brush against his shoulder.

In the kitchen, Celegorm roared, “Are you crazy, woman? I could drink you under the table!”

“Big words, sunshine!” Telchar called back, laughing. “You want to go?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Who’s your second?”

“Irissë,” said Celegorm promptly, and seized Aredhel by the shoulder as she passed.

“Yo,” said Aredhel, raising her beer. “I’m in. Wait, what are we doing?”

“Azaghâl!” shouted Telchar. “Get your ass over here; we’re going to show these children how we do it in the Blue Mountains!”

In the uproar that followed, Caranthir got quietly to his feet and slipped away.

-

Curufin leaned against a wall, arms crossed, drumming his fingers as he watched the cacophony unfold before him. Celegorm and Aredhel were going shot for shot with Telchar and Azaghâl, while Caranthir had long since vanished in that way that Caranthir always did. Curufin couldn’t blame him, tonight. The music and the babble of voices were beginning to drum painfully against his temples, and he wished he could escape. He looked briefly to Maglor, wondering if he could talk his brother into driving him home, but Maglor was curled up on the couch deep in conversation with Maedhros. As Curufin watched, Maglor laid his head against Maedhros’ shoulder and Maedhros laughed and draped an arm around him. Curufin grimaced. He knew how much Maglor had been missing their older brother; he should give him a bit more time, at least.

“Hey, Curvo,” Fingon called, from the kitchen, where he was still mixing drinks behind the counter, “want something to drink?”

“No, thank you,” said Curufin, and Elenwë nudged Fingon’s shoulder. She was perched cross-legged on the counter, watching him bartend.

“Some of us actually abstain,” she said, smiling at Curufin.

“Yeah, yeah, you only abstain because last time you got drunk you ended up – ”

“Oh, hush, we’re over that...”

“Come on, now that you’ve dated more than half my siblings, aren’t I entitled to make a little fun?” Fingon dodged as Elenwë aimed a kick at him. “Turukáno can even be in the same room as you and Irissë without looking like he’s sucking a lemon. I have so much teasing saved up from that whole episode.”

“I liked you better when you were too uncomfortable to be anything but polite to me.”

“You’ll find that never lasts long,” said Fingon, sticking a cocktail sword into his hair. “All right, if I’m not making any more drinks, I’m going to go watch my sister give herself alcohol poisoning.”

“Dibs not cleaning up if she pukes,” said Elenwë, sliding off the counter.

“Isn’t that basic girlfriend duty?”

“It’s definitely a big brother duty. I’ll hold her hair back and make soothing sounds. You scrub.”

“Awesome. This sounds like a good deal for me.”

Curufin sighed and dropped back against the wall with a thump. He would never understand the appeal of these kinds of events. When it was too loud to hear anything anyone was saying, and everyone was too addled to say anything interesting anyway… Why would anyone intentionally dull their intelligence for an evening, literally drinking poison that would guarantee misery the next day? He wondered if Finrod was still eloquent while intoxicated, and decided he probably was.

Curufin caught himself and scowled. That was the third time this evening he’d broken his promise not to think of Finrod. Though granted, it was hard not to think of him when he had been there in the room, color high on his cheeks, laughing at something Caranthir had said, his bright hair falling into his eyes…Curufin shook himself, angry again, and jumped when someone touched his arm.

“Hello, Curufinwë,” said Galadriel. She smiled at him, but Curufin looked up at her distrustfully. Even though she’d never been anything other than kind to him, there was something about Galadriel that unsettled him.

“Hello,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets, and then taking them out again when he realized what an obvious sign of discomfort it was.

“I thought I should ask one of the sober people first,” said Galadriel. “But have you seen my brother? He vanished after I arrived and I wanted to talk to him.”

Curufin frowned and looked around, realizing that indeed, he hadn’t heard Finrod’s laugh in a while now, and he was nowhere to be seen. Had he left already?

Without saying goodbye?

Disgusted at the disappointment rising in him, Curufin settled for shrugging and saying, disinterestedly, “No. I haven’t seen him.”

He turned away from her then, and headed into the back of the apartment, away from the heat of too many bodies and the babble of too many voices, and Galadriel’s eyes, that saw too much of him…

He’d already sought refuge in the bathroom once that night, but knew he couldn’t hide out there long before someone would be hammering on the door. Maybe he could slip into Fingon and Maedhros’ room and wait out the next hour in relative quiet. He had some articles he could read on his phone, anyway.

He slipped down the hallway and tried one of the two closed doors – the first had been where Fingon and Maedhros had been putting people’s coats, so the other must be their bedroom. He opened the door and had to blink a couple times to register what he was seeing.

A slim blond figure was pressing someone tall and dark-haired against the wall. As Curufin stared, he registered the familiar tee-shirt the dark-haired figure was wearing.

It was Caranthir.

And, in his arms, kissing him fiercely, one thigh pressed between his legs, was Finrod. Finrod, who was letting out little sighs and moans as Caranthir gripped the curve of his ass, hauling Finrod up against him. As Curufin stared, numb, he saw Finrod drag a hand from Caranthir’s hair to fumble between them, and whisper roughly, “Pull down your pants.’”

“Are you crazy?” Caranthir whispered back. “There are people in the next room. What are you going to – ” He broke off with a groan as Finrod sank to his knees before him, tugging his fly open. “Fuck, Ingoldo.”

Finrod gave a murmur and leaned forward, one hand coming to rest somewhere between Caranthir’s legs, the other pushing against Caranthir’s waist. Caranthir’s head fell back against the wall, his eyes closed.

Curufin felt sick; some horrible mixture of revulsion and arousal churning within him. Watching Finrod so debauched, performing such acts both disgusted him and made something shiver low in his belly.

How much more vivid was this than his fantasies…

This was overpowered, though, by the devastating drop of his stomach, the coldness that flooded him, the bitter disappointment that rose in his throat and choked him.

So having a girlfriend was not so much of an impediment for him after all.

It’s just not you he wants.

His hand was still on the doorknob, he realized. He should step back, pulling the door shut behind him, closing it on the tableau of Finrod crouched before his brother, Caranthir’s hand tangling in Finrod’s hair, Finrod’s hand pressed to the bare expanse of Caranthir’s stomach as he shoved his shirt up.

He should…

…leave.

He moved, finally, hand twitching spasmodically on the doorknob, and Caranthir’s eyes opened. They met Curufin’s for one horrible second of realization, and then Curufin stepped back swiftly and shut the door. He let his eyes close for a black, furious moment, and then he wheeled and stalked back to the living room, back to the oblivious crowd.

He’d had nothing to drink, but his head was whirling and the room was unsteady and out of focus. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, but he felt certain that if he didn’t get outside, right now, he’d throw up.

“Curvo?” said Maedhros, raising his head as Curufin flashed past. “Are you okay?”

But Curufin didn’t stop, not until he was outside, leaning against the railing of the front steps, panting as if he’d run a mile. Every time he closed his eyes, the same images played before him.

Anguish surged, and he pressed it back, latching onto something darker, something more powerful.

Anger.

Chapter End Notes

1. Someone please send me more named First Age dwarves; yes I will turn them all into women.

Don't wanna live in fear and loathing

Chapter Summary

We exist in a perpetual state of mornings after here at 1495 Mithrim Lake Road

Chapter Notes

0. Warnings for the usual: fooling around, hangovers, Curufin being vicious.

The phone was ringing. Why was the phone ringing?

Caranthir groaned and pulled the pillow over his head, but the annoying buzz went on. “Noo,” he moaned. “Shut up.”

At last it stopped, and Caranthir let out a sigh of relief, burrowing beneath the blankets. There was someone warm – more importantly, someone naked – beside him, and he was just about to reach out and pull that warm body against him when –

The phone rang again.

Swearing, and trying not to open his eyes more than a crack, he leaned over the sleeping form beside him and fumbled on the bedside table for the cellphone. He dragged it back, one hand shielding his eyes from the offensive sunlight, and answered it.

“H’lo?”

“Findaráto?”

“What?”

“Is that – Who is this?”

“Who is this?” Caranthir was confused, and half wondered if he was having some baffling, hangover-induced dream.

“It’s Amarië. Where’s Findaráto?”

The name cut through the nauseous cloud shrouding Caranthir’s consciousness and his eyes snapped open.

“Hello?” Amarië said again.

Caranthir hit the ‘end’ button and dropped the phone like it had burned suddenly red hot. He watched it land on the sheets next to him, and then, for good measure, he pushed it off the side of the bed.

Beside him, Finrod stirred.

“Oh, god,” he groaned. “I haven’t woken feeling this terrible since I was an undergrad. Why are we awake?”

“The phone rang,” said Caranthir, still staring at where it lay innocently on the floor. “I answered it.”