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“Yeah, whatever, I can be an adult if he can be an adult.”

“What if he can’t be adult?”

“Then he’ll pull an Aiko and vanish,” said Andreth. “He’s good at that.”

“We’re here. 1495, right?”

The three girls stopped outside the house. The last of the light was fading, and they could smell the smoke of a grill.

“I hope they have some tofudogs left.”

There was shouting coming from the backyard, and they cocked their heads, listening.

“It’s unnatural, I don’t hold with it, it goes against my beliefs! I’m a traditionalist! Beef or pork, fine, but the dreaded soybean is an abomination and an affront to my values!”

Two figures raced around the corner of the house, one swinging a sausage threateningly.

“Take it!” Aredhel yelled. “TAKE MY TOFUPUP.”

Celegorm vaulted over a wheelbarrow and somersaulted onto the lawn. “Nooooo.”

Aredhel whirled the sausage and let it fly. It just missed Celegorm, who jeered and vanished into the house with a wild laugh, slamming the door behind him. Aredhel gave a banshee howl and leapt onto the sill of an open window.

Amarië turned to the others, eyes huge. “Can we just sit on the sidewalk for a little while? And prepare for this?”

“Sure.” Andreth pulled a flask from her back pocket. “I brought preparation juice.”

“Preparation juice is something very different, I would think,” said Galadriel, dropping down on the grass, and wincing again as her shorts went north. “Something you might use to lubricate your – ”

“If there’s something I’ve learned about Arafinwions,” said Andreth, tipping the flask down her throat and taking a healthy swallow, “it’s that you have the weirdest ability to be genteelly crude at unexpected times.”

“That is SO true,” said Amarië, remembering numerous incidents attesting to this, and to her own surprise, laughed.

-

In the time it took the three girls to ‘prepare’ to go in, a dozen or more people passed them on the sidewalk, turning up the walk to the house. The noise from inside started to hit a certain gleeful pitch, and shortly thereafter, the blare of bass began to thunder throughout.

“Are we ready?” asked Galadriel, unfolding her long legs with only the slightest wobble.

Amarië, who alone of them had declined the flask, hauled Andreth to her feet. “I think we might be.”

“Arrr,” said Andreth. “Let’s bitch this bitch.”

They stepped into the house, and despite her renewed good humor and secure between her two friends, Amarië once again tugged self-consciously at her hem.

“Oh my GOD, Amarië!”

She froze at the loud voice as Celegorm thundered down the stairs.

But all he said was, “I can’t believe we wore the same shirt!” and then dashed past in a flash of bare midriff, calling, “Someone stop that fucking dog, he took my beer!”

“I mean I’m proud of him,” they heard him say as he vanished, “it means he’s learning good habits from me. But dude, seriously, steal Káno’s.”

* * *

Maedhros had urged most of the active drinking games outside, relegating a small circle of relative quiet in the living room, while from the basement, the raucous thud of music signaled the forming of a dance floor.

He dropped down on the couch next to Maglor, who had emerged from his room pale and tired but smiling once he had heard Maedhros was there, fresh off the bus from New York. They were wearing matching shirts. They didn’t even look up as Caranthir and Haleth disappeared into Caranthir’s room with a bong and a Monopoly box. Maedhros propped his head on his hand and eyed his brother. “So what’s the deal with New York? Are you done now? Like, completely?”

“Yes,” said Maglor, pulling an absent hand through his hair. It was quite long now, and his usual red bandana was not in evidence. “The album is fully recorded, which is something. Granted, those last two weeks Daeron and I barely spoke to each other outside the studio, but hopefully the music will speak more than enough.”

“Now when you say ‘barely’ spoke,” said Fingon hanging over the back of the couch and draping an arm around Maedhros’ neck. “Does that not include speaking with other parts of your body? Or, like, were your mouths full and therefore not – ouch!” Maedhros had pinched him.

“Finno, you’re drunk, hush.”

Maglor flushed. “I knew I’d regret telling you that.”

“Angry blowjobs are compelling shit.” Fingon looked vaguely repentant. “I tried to forget you told me it, but I couldn’t. It lingered. I take it this means you didn’t work out your artistic differences, then. And, uh, monetary differences.”

“That wasn’t the half of it,” said Maglor, and stared down into his wine glass.

Maedhros frowned and sat up straighter. “Wait, it wasn’t? When we talked, you said the issues with contracts and whatnot had gotten really bad, and you were fighting over songwriting credits. Was there more?”

Maglor drained his wineglass and poured himself another from the bottle on the end table. “Yes.” He took another long drink. “There was the Ríanellë of it all.”

---

It had been the week before Maglor left, and early evening. They were in the apartment, more or less cordially ignoring each other, which had become the norm. But Maglor knew he had to break the silence.

“Hey, so I thought I should give you a head’s up about this.” He took a breath, and sat down at the table next to Daeron, who was eating a bowl of cereal for dinner and reading the New Yorker with one eye and his texts with the other. “I know we’ll be wrapping up soon and I’m headed back north to Beleriand.”

“Yeah.” Daeron didn’t look up.

“Right. And when I get there, I’m…I’m thinking about asking out Ríanellë. For real.”

“Good luck,” said Daeron, still scrolling through his phone as the New Yorker drooped against his juice glass. “You’ll need it.”

“I know, the ‘I don’t date musicians’ thing.” Maglor allowed himself a small smile. “But I kind of think we might be past that, you know? After – ”

“Doesn’t date musicians? She doesn’t date anyone, dude.”

“Not recently, no, but I actually think that might be in my favor. I know she likes me as a friend already, and obviously we have a good physical chemistry, and – ”

“Yeah, I know, I thought the same thing.” Daeron chased a cheerio around his bowl. “But still, no dice when I asked her.”

“When you – Wait, when you did what?”

“When I asked her out.”

Maglor tried to process this. “Hang on. You asked her out. You asked Ríanellë out. When?”

“Before she left.” Daeron was utterly blasé. “Thought I’d try my luck, you know.”

“Are you kidding me? You didn’t think I might want to know that? You knew I liked her, you knew I had feelings for her!”

“Uh, no. I knew you had a crush back in the fall or whatever, and that you’d fucked her. While I was there, in case you forgot that part. You didn’t have dibs or anything, and I thought you were over her.”

“Well, I’m not.” Maglor felt the all too familiar sensation of fury rising up in him.

“Good to know. But hey, it doesn’t matter, right? She turned me down. And she’s gonna turn you down too, because she doesn’t do romance.”

“What?”

“That’s what she told me, when I asked her. She doesn’t do romantic relationships. Not her bag, never has been. Friendship, fine, sex, fine, but she’s not, like, interested in being someone’s girlfriend.”

Maglor grabbed Daeron’s phone away from him so that Daeron had to look him in the eye. “You’re bullshitting me. Or she’s bullshitting you. Are you saying this because of that time she complained about all of our songs being about romantic love? Honestly, I agree with her. Even though love is the universal human experience, it doesn’t mean we have to be unoriginal in our song content – ”

“Actually, I think she was saying romantic love ISN’T the universal human experience. Because she doesn’t experience it.”

Maglor stared at him. “She doesn’t experience it for you.”

Daeron rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t a brush off, dude.”

“Right, because no girl could ever brush you off. Why are you so reluctant to admit you got rejected?”

“Look, you asshole, call her and ask if you don’t believe me.” Daeron was losing his patience.

“Maybe I will!”

“Then DO.”

---

“And did you?” Maedhros was watching Maglor with a mixture of deep curiosity and sympathy.

“No.” Maglor finished his wine again. “I just came home instead.”

“To ask her in person?”

“No.” Maglor sighed. “I just really needed to be home.”

Maedhros squeezed his knee, and Fingon shifted over to wrap an arm around his head and give him an affectionate hug. “Well, we ain’t gonna complain about having you back.”

“Are you really not going to talk to Ríanellë?” asked Maedhros softly, and Maglor shrugged.

“I think I’m too much a coward. I almost had my nerve up before I talked to Dai, but now I’m second-guessing myself.”

“Well, look, at least if she says no, it’s not because she doesn’t like you, it’s just ‘cos she doesn’t want a relationship, nothing personal,” began Fingon, but Maglor shook his head.

“Can we talk about something else? Please?”

“Sure,” said Maedhros easily, even though Fingon looked like he was about to ask another question. “Let’s talk about how Tyelko frenched my boyfriend and I’m going to kill him.”

“Again? Oh, Tyelko.” Maglor sighed.

“Again? Wait, hang on, when was the first time?”

Maedhros was starting to look thunderous again when someone flicked him in the ear with a playing card. He ducked and bit back a swear. “What the – ”

“Hey, Asshole.”

“Excuse me?” Maedhros started off the couch, but Celegorm dodged behind tall and lanky Argon, whose shirt displayed a bulked out Abraham Lincoln and read ABOLISH SLEEVERY.

“Hey, neutral zone! And it wasn’t an epithet, yo, it was an announcement.” Celegorm, who was a head shorter than Argon, but much broader, peeked out around his shoulder. “We’re gonna play a game of Asshole. You in?”

“I’m still not speaking to you,” Maedhros started to say, but Fingon cut him off.

“Yeah, sure. Who’s dealing?”

-

Some time later Celegorm settled his shuttershades over his eyes and leaned back on his elbows. “All right, let’s take stock. Where we at?”

“Artanis is president,” muttered Caranthir, who even while profoundly high had been the undisputed favorite at the game until Galadriel joined, and pushed the pile of cards over for her to shuffle. “Findekáno’s vice president.”

“Story of my life,” said Fingon, and heaved a melodramatic sigh.

“And I’m the asshole,” said Maedhros ruefully. “Again.”

“Hah,” said Celegorm, rolling onto his belly and taking the cards Galadriel dealt him. “Better you than me.”

“Tyelko’s perpetual asshole,” said Caranthir, “regardless of whether we’re playing a game or not.”

“This is mad boring,” said Argon, leaning on Fingon’s shoulder. “This game doesn’t have enough drinking.”

“I have a solution for you!” Aredhel appeared over Argon’s shoulder, and he looked up at her. “Tyelko, we’re finally up for beer pong. Grab one of your weak-ass brothers, I’ve got mine.”

“Hell yes,” said Celegorm, surging up and dropping his cards, while Galadriel tsked in annoyance. “Moryo, get your ass up, we’ve got a family grudge match to win.”

“No,” said Caranthir from the floor. “Don’t wanna.”

“Mae?”

“I’m the asshole,” said Maedhros sadly, holding his cards. “A hole in the ass. That’s me.”

“Okay, you’re drunk and weird, you’re out,” said Celegorm, putting his hands on his hips and scanning the room. “Seriously, am all I left with is Káno? Kid couldn’t throw a ball into a cup if his life depended on it.”

“Hey,” said Maglor, who’d been spectating. “I could too – Wait, why am I arguing? I don’t want to play.”

“Moryo,” said Celegorm cajolingly, crouching down and wrapping his arms around Caranthir’s shoulders. “Sweet thing. Best of brothers. Babycakes. C’mon. Kick some Nolofinwion ass with me.”

“Stop stealing my card players,” said Galadriel.

“I give up on this game,” said Argon and did a barrel roll through the circle, sending cards flying. “Let’s play pong and put on bad music.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” said Maglor, leaping up. “The stereo is MY purview now.”

* * *

The living room had long since been coopted by dancing and music, and to her surprise, Amarië was enjoying herself as she danced alongside Galadriel, whose pigtails were starting to come undone.

A slender figure with long pale hair, wedged himself through the crowd. “Um, excuse me, sorry, oh goodness, didn’t mean to touch you there, excuse me…”

Galadriel’s face lit up. “Teleporno!” She threw her arms around Celeborn’s neck as he squeezed himself through the press of bodies towards them. “You came!”

“Yes.” Celeborn hugged her back. “Ooh, your shirt looks interesting, what does it say?”

“Suns Out Guns Out.” Galadriel flexed illustratively, or tried to, tipping slightly against his side. “It’s about flagrantly displaying one’s triceps and related muscle groups while increasing one’s chances of melanoma. What are you wearing?”

Celeborn looked down at himself. “It said douchebag chic.”

“That’s a three piece suit.”

“Well, who’s douchier than the Man?”

“Too true,” said Fingon, appearing with Turgon at his side. “As a loyal minion of the Man, I can confirm this. Look, drunk Turno!” And he vanished again.

Turgon looked like all his joints were somewhat looser than usual as he beamed at them and waved one hand, sloshing beer over Amarië in the process. “Hallo! Oh, no, Amarië, I’m so sorry. Your pretty shirt…” He tried to blot the damage, but had only his hands to do so, and withdrew utterly abashed after he laid his hands over her breasts by accident. “I am so sorry.”

Amarië smiled, only a little embarrassed. Galadriel had wrapped herself around Celeborn and was kissing him enthusiastically. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Whatta klutz I am,” muttered Turgon, and very carefully set his beer on the floor, where it was promptly knocked over. “Oh, damn.”

Amarië grabbed him by the arms before he could cause another mess, and pulled him gently away from the worst of the crowd. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes.” He grinned at her happily. “I am Not Caring about things tonight.”

“I like that plan. Can I join?”

“Of course!” Turgon gestured expansively. “It’s a great club. Membership costs…nothing. Just willpower.”

“I’m going to try and manage it.” Amarië nodded decisively, and then her eyes lit up as the music changed. “Oh my god, I love this song.”

“Me too!”

“Really?”

“The summer this was on the radio all the time I was on a road trip with my family, and it played constantly.” Turgon groaned. “So me and my siblings decided to choreograph a dance to it in our hotel room each night at the end of the day. Our parents were too tired to do anything but watch.”

“Did they like it?”

“Hell yes.” Turgon beamed again, and Amarië was struck by how young – and how handsome – he looked when he truly smiled, with no worry line creasing his brow. “We are amazing choreographers, you know.”