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“And why – ”

“To remind me where I came from,” Ríanellë echoed. “I thought I was a fuckin’ prodigy at that age, I thought I was a lyric genius, the next Mozart. And I wrote a song about a flying pig whose snout grows when he lies – TOTAL Pinocchio rip-off, though I would have denied it at the time.”

“So you tattooed it on your arm…”

“To keep my ego in check. Every time I start to think I’m hot shit, I look down and am reminded of what I thought was genius once upon a time. And it keeps me humble, to think that one day I might look back at whatever angsty song I’m writing about pretty dark-haired boys and cigarettes,” Maglor shot a quick look at her face and then dropped his eyes resolutely to her wrist again as if he were studying the next lines, “may someday look about as brilliant as Ye Olde Flying, Lying Porker.” She shrugged and flicked her wrist so that her bracelet slid up and partially obscured her tattoo. “Same theory as yours, different practice.”

“Interesting approach.”

“I thought so.”

Maglor tried to think back to the first piece of music he’d ever written. Had he been six? Younger, surely. “I’ve burned most of my early music; it’s so embarrassing now, and seems so weak…”

“Yeah, I get that temptation, but honestly, I like being able to track my own evolution – even though burning certain things would feel really, really good.”

“It does. Though I’d be lying if I said I never regretted it. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t destroyed some of the things I wrote for ex-girlfriends and so on. Now that I’m not emotionally compromised by them, it would be nice to actually have some of that work – some of it wasn’t half bad, it’s just the subject matter that I was being melodramatic over at the time.”

“But it’s hard to totally destroy music you’ve written, isn’t it? I have songs I really never want to look at again, but the damn things still get stuck in my head even when I’m determined to forget them.”

“Oh god, so true.”

“Right? Dang, change the subject, quick, I can feel one of sixteen-year-old me’s Amy Lee rip-offs welling up as we speak.”

“Oops,” said Maglor and thought. “How far back do you remember songs you wrote?”

“Pretty far.”

“Then the only thing to do now is to share the tune to Ye Olde Flying, Lying Porker with me. So we can sing it all the way to New York.”

“Oh, shit, that’s diabolical. God save us all.”

“Is that a no?”

“No.” Ríanellë cleared her throat in a businesslike manner and switched the stereo off. “Okay, it starts in G and the refrain has a lot of oinking, I hope you’re comfortable with that.”

“Bring it on.”

* * *

Fëanor’s study was growing dim as the light faded, the sun dropping behind the hills visible through his west-facing window. He didn’t turn on his light, though, sitting very still at his desk, lost in thought. In another hour, it was going to be only the second time in five years that he and Curufin hadn’t spoken, on the phone or in person, between 5 and 8pm on Friday evening.

The first time had been the week prior.

It had originally become tradition almost by accident; when Curufin, most of his brothers either off at school or otherwise preoccupied on Friday nights, would wander into Fëanor’s study and sit in the corner, curled up with a book, until Fëanor finished his own work and turned to ask him about his latest project or schoolwork. Soon it became a weekly tradition: Friday nights were when they exchanged ideas, troubleshot issues that had sprung up in their respective undertakings, or debated the readings that Fëanor would recommend, leaving printouts and books by Curufin’s door. Soon, Curufin started leaving his own offerings in turn, articles and books he’d found through study or curiosity, and they would each read the other’s recommendations and then sit together and debate them.

When Curufin left for college, Fëanor had assumed their Friday night talks were done, but the first week Curufin was at school, Fëanor’s phone had rung at exactly 7pm Friday evening, and Curufin’s voice had been on the other end, brisk and casual, asking if Fëanor had seen the latest Lawrence Lessig piece.

“You know,” Fëanor had said once, “if you have other things to do with your Friday evenings, I won’t be offended.”

Curufin had snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he had said. “You think I’d rather be doing what your other sons do on Friday nights? Getting drunk in some frat house where my feet stick to the floor, or getting high with a bunch of people who haven’t realized that hackey sack is horribly passé, or maybe getting ticketed by BUPD for public urination?”

“That’s what my other sons do on Friday nights, eh?”

“No, definitely not. They’re upstairs with me now, reading Kant.”

“I don’t even want to know.”

“No, you don’t. And you heard none of this from me, by the way.”

The clock – which had once occupied Finwë’s desk, and now sat on Fëanor’s – chimed softly as it struck the hour. The light was truly gone now, and Fëanor closed his eyes, letting the shadows press against his eyelids, accepting, with a hollow resignation, that his phone wasn’t going to ring. There was a creak of floorboards behind him, and the sound of light footsteps. Familiar, calloused hands settled on his shoulders, smoothing down his collar.

“It’s dark in here.”

Fëanor nodded, but didn’t say anything.

One calloused hand ran light fingers through his hair, and then he felt Nerdanel’s arms settle around his chest as she leaned forward, resting her cheek against his.

“You could always call him, you know,” she said quietly, after a long pause.

Fëanor opened his eyes. “He’s made his choice very clear. I’m not going to harass him.”

Nerdanel sighed. “This is one of those instances where it’s okay to harass your son, Fëanaro.”

“He wouldn’t pick up, Nerdanel. Don’t you think I know how determined he is?”

“I know he’s as stubborn as his father.” Nerdanel released Fëanor and flicked on the desk lamp before perching herself on the edge of the desk. “This isn’t working, sweetheart. Freezing each other out is not an effective conflict resolution strategy, or particularly effective parenting, for that matter.”

“You would rather I practice détente by compromising my beliefs in what’s right?”

“This isn’t the Cold War, this is family. And I’m saying that maybe nothing should be off the table when it comes to two of our sons cutting themselves out of our lives.”

Fëanor shifted in his seat. “Not ‘our’ lives, just ‘my’ life. Neither Turkafinwë nor Curufinwë has said anything about not speaking to you.”

“And yet neither have spoken to me.”

Fëanor played with the tail of the men’s shirt Nerdanel wore half tucked into her work jeans. “Turkafinwë drove the twins home the other day.”

“I know.”

“Did you see him?”

“He dropped them at the end of the driveway so I didn’t actually see him or get a chance to say anything. The twins know what’s going on, by the way.”

Fëanor rested an elbow on the desk and sank his head into one hand. “I thought we were hoping to keep them out of this?”

“They worship their older brothers, you know they do – and Tyelko in particular. Of course they know what’s going on, they always know more than we want them to. They seem fairly unfazed, but I don’t imagine they grasp the full implications.”

“Wonderful,” Fëanor muttered. “Now we have two fifteen year old boys who have always yearned to imitate their older brother thinking he’s still some sort of hero…Check and see who their climbing instructor at the gym is, Nerdanel, lest we learn one of them is involved in some clandestine relationship with – ”

“That’s not funny,” said Nerdanel sharply. “And their instructor at the gym is your younger sister, Fëanaro, so bite your tongue.”

Fëanor winced. “My apologies.” He put a hand on Nerdanel’s leg. “I am not trying to make light of this, love, I only – ”

“I know.” Nerdanel laid her hand over his. “But we need to talk about next steps, because I don’t see anything that we’re doing currently working. I refuse to accept that we are simply losing our sons…”

“We aren’t.” Fëanor was vehement. “This will blow over, I swear it will. Turko will cool off, he always does, and Curvo will realize he is neither behaving rationally nor maturely, and – ”

“How long do you see this taking?” demanded Nerdanel. “A month? A year? Their 30th birthdays? Whether we like it or not, Tyelko is in love and unlikely to shift his thinking and ‘cool off’ anytime soon, not when you are working on bringing a suit against his lover – ”

“Don’t call him that!” Fëanor’s voice rose. “That man – ”

“Oromë.”

“Nerdanel.”

“You’re being as childish as Curvo. Do you think if we don’t say his name he’ll evaporate? I think it’s time to reevaluate.”

Fëanor stared at her, disbelieving. “Are you joking? You think we should accept this appalling situation, this sick dynamic at play…”

“I’m not saying we should accept it, or like it, or want it to be so, but the fact remains that it is, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. And if we want to continue a relationship with our sons, something is going to have to give.” Nerdanel took a deep breath. “The university is going to conduct its investigation regardless of you – he came forward to admit to it all before you could even file a formal complaint. Perhaps…perhaps the lawsuit is overkill.”

Fëanor opened his mouth, furious.

“Listen to me, Fëanaro,” Nerdanel said urgently. “Aldaron is almost certainly going to lose his job and be censured for what he has done – as he should be. But if we hope to mend our relationship with Tyelko, I don’t see how we’re going to do that if, in addition, we personally drag his lover through a vicious court battle and thousands in legal fees and everything else. I don’t like it any more than you do, but at least if we leave it at the University’s consequences, then…”

“Then it will seem like we have done nothing at all,” said Fëanor savagely.

Nerdanel threw up her hands, despairing. “We need to talk to our boys! We need to fix this! And we’re not going to get Curvo back without Tyelko!”

“I’m not going to be held hostage by the threats of an eighteen year old boy with a misguided sense of loyalty!”

“He’s your son! They both are!”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t do what’s right? Are you saying I should cave because my sons are throwing tantrums?”

“We need to talk to them, and we need to reevaluate our approach, because it’s clearly not working. And…” Nerdanel broke off, looking preoccupied. “…There’s someone else I think it’s time for me to talk to.”

Fëanor pushed back from the desk. “Surely not. You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?”

“I think I’ve earned the right to ask some questions,” said Nerdanel staunchly. “And there’s only one person who can answer them.”

* * *

Caranthir hastily minimized the chat window and hit mute so that Haleth’s continuing messages wouldn’t ping insistently. He turned in his chair to face the door, which Finrod had only opened a crack to announce himself after his knock and Caranthir’s ‘Who is it?’

“Come in,” said Caranthir, and Finrod stepped in, closing the door behind him. He hesitated for a moment, and Caranthir waited, as he always did, to see if Finrod would touch him on entering. Sometimes Finrod would be taken in a moment of affection and cross the room to squeeze his hand or press a swift kiss to his lips, but Caranthir always felt awkward when this happened. There was something somehow far more intimate in greeting each other with physical affection than there was in their midnight hook-ups, or when they’d get high and be unable to keep their hands off each other.

He would never totally get used to causal, tender affection from Finrod, Caranthir thought, and he closed his laptop with an absent hand, thinking of Haleth’s implications and wanting to push them far away.

“What’s up?”

“I have something I need to tell you.” Finrod took a deep breath and sat on the bed. Then he stood again and clasped his hands behind his back.

Caranthir wrinkled his brow, wondering why Finrod looked so oddly formal. Finrod was quiet for another long minute, and Caranthir waited, his heart starting to pound. Finrod looked like he was going to make some sort of profound proclamation, his face pale but for two spots of color burning in his cheeks.

What is it you’re so nervous to tell me?

He realized he hadn’t seen Finrod nervous before, and that was increasing his own discomfort.

What bomb are you working up the courage to drop on me?

He was finding it hard to take a deep breath, as past conversations flickered unwittingly through his mind, Curufin’s voice clear and confidential.

He was really serious about Amarië. For him to leave her he must have fallen for you hard.

Haleth, and her teasing.

Maybe he wants more…

Curufin, watching him with such knowing grey eyes.

I really like you two together. And now you finally have someone, don’t you?

Haleth, not just letting it lie, damn her.

…Your boyfriend...Won’t he mind　

The silence had gone on for far too long.

Oh Christ, Caranthir thought, desperately. Oh, Christ, Findaráto, what are you going to tell me?

“What is it? Spit it out.”

Finrod pulled his hands around in front of him and wove his fingers together, so tightly it looked like he was trying to snap his own fingers in half.

“Carnistir…”

“Yes?”

Finrod swallowed. “I’ve been seeing someone else.”

Caranthir blinked. “What?”

Finrod closed his eyes. “I’ve been…seeing someone else. I’ve been with someone else besides you, these past couple…weeks.”

Caranthir opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he let out a laugh, and dropped back in his chair. “Oh, thank fuck.”

Got no time for a mistake

Chapter Summary

Emotions run high, and Fingon is once again forced to be the responsible one.

Chapter Notes

0. Warning: This is a fairly emotionally fraught chapter, and deals with a lot of upset, sibling rivalry, discussion of cheating/fallout, and existential angst. It is also a long chapter, because I wanted to really deal with this series of interactions thoroughly – and at least manage to get to the next day – and being thorough ended up taking about 1500 more words than I anticipated.

1. Now, let's jump in right where we left off.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“What?” Finrod was staring at him, eyes wide with surprise – and something else, half like deep relief, and half like he was trying to keep from being offended.

“You’re seeing someone else.” Caranthir felt like laughing again. “That’s it? Seriously? You’re seeing someone else.”

“I…Yes.”

“Christ. I thought you were coming in to tell me you were in love with me or something.” Caranthir shook his head. “Dude, thank god.”

“You…you don’t mind?”

Caranthir shrugged. “We were just fucking, weren’t we? Distraction, like you said. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I really like fucking you, and you’re a good person to hang out with and all that, but I didn’t want to date you. Or any guy, really.”