第 48 页

Not even bothering to hang up, Aredhel dropped the phone to the bed and began searching for her pants. She located them and hopped around pulling them over her hips as Elenwë quietly hit ‘end’ for her.

“What’s going on?”

"Disaster, potentially." Aredhel found her shirt but failed to find her bra, so went without. “I’m really sorry to just fly out, but…I gotta go.” She pulled the scarf from the lamp and wound it around her hair. “I think I’m needed.” She gave Elenwë one last, lingering kiss, said, “I swear I’ll make this up to you,” and was gone.

* * *

Caranthir pulled a rolling paper from the pack in front of him and laid it flat on his desk so he could shake the requisite amount of weed into it. He rolled it up meticulously, wetting the paper with his tongue to seal it. Mindless, repetitive, vaguely tedious work that he could be needlessly meticulous over - it was times like these that he felt he could most identify with Curufin. I can see why it helps to be obsessively focused on dumb little things sometimes – it keeps you from thinking about the shit you’d rather not think about.

Curvo would agree.

For some reason, whenever he tried to think about his younger brother, all he could see was Celegorm’s white, stricken face, the numb horror wiping his expressive face blank.

It was somehow a more disturbing image than the bruises and blood, though that was disturbing enough… Caranthir shook his head, trying to refocus, and returned to his task.

There was a light knock on the door, and he looked up as it was pushed open. He had a feeling he knew who it was going to be, and he wasn’t wrong.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” said Finrod softly, closing the door behind him and pausing briefly, hands clasped behind him, holding the doorknob.

Caranthir ran his tongue over his teeth before answering, thoughts flickering. “Nah,” he said. “It’s fine.”

Finrod crossed the room, and briefly looked as though he wanted to reach out for Caranthir, but didn’t. Caranthir wasn’t sure if he felt bothered or relieved by this restraint. “It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Caranthir said awkwardly. “I’ve been wicked busy…”

“It’s okay, so I have I.” Finrod sat down, rather heavily, on Caranthir’s bed and swung his legs around so he could stretch out. Caranthir licked the paper on another joint and pressed it down. It was clearly going to be one of those evenings, when Finrod had that exhausted look in his eyes and wasn’t his usual bright and wicked self, where he would curl up on Caranthir’s bed and watch Caranthir as he worked, perhaps drifting into sleep. Caranthir got the sense that Finrod was not always good at being alone, and sometimes simply needed another body in the room. He couldn’t say he minded, honestly. Especially when Finrod’s quiet presence grew closer and turned into…Caranthir blinked and lined the joints up so they were in a perfectly straight line.

Careful.

“You’re a very diligent distributor,” said Finrod, clearly trying for lightheartedness and only achieving mild weariness, as he watched Caranthir set the newest joint in a row with the others.

“It’s just to keep my hands busy,” said Caranthir, and felt the need to be honest. “I’ve been all…twitchy, ever since…you know.”

“I know what?”

“The…accident thing.”

Finrod sat up, pushing himself up on his elbows. “The what?”

Caranthir stared at him. “Uhh. Didn’t Turukáno tell you? I thought for sure he’d…”

“I have a missed call from Turno,” said Finrod, looking blank. “I know I need to call him back, but I haven’t yet. Carnistir, what happened?” He got to his feet and crossed the room, laying a hand on Caranthir’s shoulder. He tilted Caranthir’s chin up slightly so he could search his eyes. “Are you all right? Did something happen?”

Caranthir slid his eyes away from the concern in Finrod’s face. “Not to me.”

Finrod seemed to relax slightly, but he still looked worried. “To whom, then?” His fingers stroked absently against Caranthir’s cheek before dropping to his shoulder.

“Curvo. He – ”

“What?” Whatever Finrod had been expecting, it wasn’t that, because he went dead white, and his fingers clutched spasmodically at Caranthir’s flesh. “What do you mean? What happened? Is he okay? Where is he, is he – ”

“He’s upstairs,” said Caranthir, a little perplexed. “He’s okay, or at least Turno says so.”

Finrod didn’t seem to realize his fingers were digging into Caranthir’s shoulder. “What kind of accident? What exactly happened?”

Caranthir pulled out of Finrod’s grasp, wincing, and Finrod, seeming to notice at last he’d been gripping Caranthir painfully hard, dropped his hand to his side. But his skin was still pale and his eyes flickered between Caranthir and the ceiling over his shoulder, as if he could see through the floorboards and across the house to Curufin’s room.

“It was Tyelko,” said Caranthir slowly. “Yesterday. He lost it. I dunno if you’ve ever seen Tyelko lose it, but…”

“I’ve heard stories.”

“…he wasn’t mad at Curvo, it was something to do with dad, and…it doesn’t really matter what, I guess. But he was trashing the kitchen, totally batshit crazy, and Curvo went in to try and talk to him.”

“And?”

“And Tyelko caught him with a plate, right in the face.”

Finrod sucked in a breath and sat down very abruptly on the edge of the bed.

“He didn’t mean to,” Caranthir hastened to add. “Fuck, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so…when he saw what he’d done. But anyway, it took Curvo OUT.”

“Oh, god.” Finrod’s hands clenched in front of him, like he was trying to keep them from shaking.

“That’s why we called Turukáno. Curvo flat out refused to go to the hospital, but Káno said we had to get someone to look at him…Turno says he probably doesn’t have a concussion, and he taped up the cut and all.”

“Surely he needs stitches.” Finrod’s voice was sharp, almost angry. “Surely…”

“Turno said it’d be good to get them, but it’s not necessary. And, well, you know Curvo. He said he was fine and wouldn’t let us do anything more.”

“The stubborn little idiot,” said Finrod tightly.

Caranthir shrugged. “Yeah, he is. But we can’t FORCE him.”

“You could try.” Finrod took another breath and seemed to be steadying himself. “No, but if Turukáno didn’t see a need to take him to someone for real…No, I’m sure it’s not that bad then. Turno’s very conservative about that kind of thing. He plays it safe.”

“That’s what we figured.”

Finrod closed his eyes briefly. “He’s upstairs, you say?”

“He didn’t get much sleep last night - well, who would, with Makalaurë popping in every five minutes to check if you’re still breathing? But I think he finally passed out tonight and Káno’s letting him sleep. He was in Tyelko’s room a while…”

Finrod nodded, but he appeared to be thinking hard.

“It was fucked up,” said Caranthir quietly. “I’ve never seen Tyelko like that – not that bad. But it was even scarier when he saw what he’d done…I’ve never…I didn’t think he could even….I can’t imagine what he must feel like right now. I can’t believe Curvo went to talk to him. I’d be so pissed…”

“They’re close,” said Finrod absently.

“Yeah, I guess that’s why I can’t relate,” said Caranthir, his bitterness returning. “I don’t think I have anyone who cares enough to forgive me if I walloped them with–”

“Don’t be silly,” said Finrod softly. He reached forward and laid his hand on Caranthir’s knee. “Any one of your brothers would forgive you under such circumstances.”

“I dunno.”

“I would.”

Caranthir smiled crookedly. “Guess if I’m gonna hit anyone with a projectile, then it should be you, huh.”

Finrod gave him a wan smile in return. “I’d appreciate if we didn’t test the theory, however.” He sat back again, and dragged his hand through his hair, his bangs falling into his eyes as his hand dropped to his side again. “Would…would you mind if we shared one of those?” He gestured to the neat row of rolled joints.

Caranthir glanced down. “You wanna get high?”

“Just…something to take the edge off. I’ve been a little tightly wound. Unless I’m cutting into your inventory, of course.”

“Nah, that’s fine.” Caranthir selected a joint and held it out to Finrod, who looked almost queasy and whose fingers were tapping fitfully on his knees. “I wouldn’t mind, myself.”

He flicked a lighter open as Finrod held the joint to his lips and breathed in deeply, a simple gesture that was unexpectedly stirring. He held the smoke in his lungs a long time, eyes closed, before turning his head and blowing out a long stream of smoke.

Caranthir realized he was staring at Finrod’s mouth. “Hey, that was a waste.”

“What? Oh, sorry.” Finrod gave a ghost of a smile, and took another drag. This time, instead of blowing out the smoke, he leaned forward and covered Caranthir’s lips with his own, exhaling against Caranthir’s intake of breath.

Caranthir let his eyes close. “Yeah, that’s better.”

“It is, isn’t it,” murmured Finrod. He pulled back slightly, his forehead still tilted against Caranthir’s, the hand holding the joint between them.

Caranthir let the smoke linger for a while before bending down and taking the end of the joint in his lips, brushing against Finrod’s fingers in the process.

The shadows seemed to grow longer with the swirling smoke, and Caranthir and Finrod slowly grew more interested in each other’s mouths than the joint, enjoying long, lingering kisses as they exchanged breaths, Caranthir eventually pulling Finrod astride his lap. Despite the languorous effects of the weed, there was still something wound tight and sharp in Finrod, and though his lips and tongue were lazy against Caranthir’s, there was a desperation in the way his hands fisted in Caranthir’s shirt and hair.

“I want you to fuck me,” he breathed, at last, as Caranthir, lightheaded off his most recent hit, dragged open-mouthed kisses against Finrod’s neck.

“What? I mean, yeah, hell yeah, I can do that.” Caranthir wrapped his arms around Finrod’s waist and leaned forward experimentally to see if he could stand. Somewhat to his surprise, he could, and Finrod clung tightly to his neck, legs wrapping easily around his waist as Caranthir carried him over to the bed and tumbled them both down on the blankets. The room swayed slightly, and he pulled free to shake his head, but Finrod made a protesting noise, dragging him back down into a rough kiss.

“I’m not gonna be able to take your damn clothes off,” he said finally, as Finrod continued to resist his attempts to pull back. “Leggo so I can get you naked already.”

“Fine,” said Finrod, a distracted and slightly disoriented tone to his voice, but he released Caranthir’s neck and Caranthir sat back, kneeling between Finrod’s legs and pulling his own shirt off before setting to work on Finrod’s jeans.

After an interval that felt too long to both of them, they could finally slide naked against each other, Caranthir unable to hold back a low moan as he settled easily between Finrod’s spread thighs.

“Yes,” breathed Finrod, his head falling back, inviting Caranthir’s mouth on his throat. Caranthir obliged him willingly, aching, as always, for more. Finrod had that effect on him; each touch made him crave a step further, hungry for exactly what Finrod always whispered in his ears – more, harder, deeper – and all of his uncertainty about intent, and what Finrod wanted of him was driven far, far away – because here, what Finrod wanted of him, he could give. And he wanted to give, so badly…

“I need you to be rough,” whispered Finrod, his fingers tight in Caranthir’s hair, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “I want it to hurt.”

“What?”

“Fuck me hard,” said Finrod, his voice hoarse, and his fingers digging hard into Caranthir’s back. “I want you to fuck me ‘til I can’t speak. I want you to make it hurt.”

“Why – ”

“Does it matter?”

It didn’t.

-

Caranthir was stretched out face down on the bed, his arms under the pillow, his breathing deep and even. Finrod, moving slightly gingerly as he sat up, gently disentangled their legs and slid from the bed, hand reaching out to click off the light by Caranthir’s bed. He pulled on some pants and a tee shirt, not even checking whether it was his or Caranthir’s, and slipped out of the room, closing the door very softly behind him. He crept up the stairs on bare feet, and stopped in front of Curufin’s closed door. He pressed his hands against the door for a moment, trying to slow his ferocious heartbeat. Then he dropped one hand to the doorknob and opened it as quietly as he could.

The room was dark, but there was a slant of moonlight coming in through the window, the curtains not having been drawn. It fell across the bed, and lit the figure lying there.

Curufin was fast asleep, his eyes closed, a faint line between his brows. He was on his side facing the door, keeping the bandaged side of his face from being pressed against the pillow, and Finrod caught his breath at the sight. Even in the faint, shadowy light, he could see the bruises, and the black eye blooming in Curufin’s pale face. His fingers twitched on the doorframe as he ached to cross the room, to drop to his knees beside the bed and take Curufin’s hand in his, to smooth the dark hair back from that creased brow, to…

Curufin sighed in his sleep, and Finrod slipped back behind the door into the hallway.

I shouldn’t wake him. He closed his eyes and shut the door as soundlessly as he could, leaning back against it. Especially not reeking of weed, and with the marks of his brother’s mouth on me…not when I still ache from his brother inside me, can still taste him on my lips… But he stayed, leaning against the door a long while, his throat impossibly tight, imagining he could count Curufin’s breaths even through the wood between them.

You must still be high. What are you doing?

But he couldn’t bring himself to leave, not yet.

Finally, he crept downstairs as quietly as he had come, and curled back into bed beside Caranthir. He fell into uneasy dreams in which it was he who’d hurled the plate; he who’d left Curufin fallen and broken into thousands of pieces, shattered like so much crockery… And then Curufin turned into Caranthir, bleeding on the ground, staring at him in accusation.

Finrod made a sound in his sleep, and Caranthir rolled over to tug him against his chest. Half awake, he mumbled, “Whadju say?”

Would you forgive me, if I broke you?

“Nothing,” whispered Finrod, and pressed his mouth to Caranthir’s hand, which was curled loosely before him.

* * *

Celegorm lay in bed, eyes open, unsleeping. He’d been in essentially the same position for almost two days now. He was in an exile, of sorts, Maglor and Maedhros having held an intense, whispered conversation outside his door about what they should do about him, but ultimately, it was his own will that kept him from leaving the room. Maedhros had come in once, briefly, and tried to convince him to eat, but Celegorm had turned away from him and rasped, “Fuck off, Nelyo.” Maedhros had stayed, sitting quietly on the corner of his bed for a couple minutes, but eventually left without saying anything.