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“You won’t answer me!” yelled Celegorm. “If he had been the one to make a move, instead of me, would you have ended up with him?”

Oromë stared at him, and his expression was suddenly stony. He got to his feet and Celegorm bolted up after him. “Where are you going?”

“To the living room. I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to go to bed with you like this.”

“Hang the fuck on.” Celegorm grabbed his arm and pulled him around. Oromë stared down at him, his eyes hard, and Celegorm felt something like excitement mounting along with his fury. He had seen Oromë angry before, but never directed at him. “Why do you think you can just walk away?”

“Tyelko,” growled Oromë, “Let me go.”

Celegorm bared his teeth. “I’m not gonna let you just run away ‘cos you don’t like what I’m saying.” Celegorm caught the front of Oromë’s shirt and pulled him down so their faces were inches apart, so that Oromë couldn’t loom over him. “You make me so fucking angry,” he whispered. “Why don’t you just – Why can’t you just – ” He could feel Oromë’s breath on his lips and he felt lightheaded with sudden ferocious desire. “I want you to go to hell, you asshole, but I don’t want you to leave.” He rose up on his toes and pressed his lips fiercely to Oromë’s, more of a bite than a kiss, and Oromë made a faint noise of disbelief.

Celegorm hung onto Oromë and kissed him roughly, pressing himself to Oromë’s chest. “You gonna try to shut me up now?” he whispered. “You know you want to.” He ground his hips against Oromë’s thigh. “You gonna fuck me quiet?”

For a moment, Oromë raised his arms and gripped Celegorm hard, dragging them close together. Celegorm felt a fierce satisfaction as Oromë’s hands tightened on his waist, fingers digging into his flesh. But when Celegorm snarled and kissed him again, Oromë released him and stepped back, so abruptly that Celegorm staggered.

“No.”

Celegorm dragged a hand over his mouth and glared, his breath coming fast. “What the fuck, Oromë?”

“You are not going to talk me into this. I am not going down this road with you,” said Oromë flatly, and turned away. “We are not having sex angry.”

Celegorm grabbed his arm again. “Why the hell not?”

Oromë stared down at him, his eyes quite unreadable. “Because I’ve been down that road before, and I am not going there again. Not with you.” Pulling free of Celegorm’s hand, he vanished down the hallway, leaving Celegorm in the dark, his chest tight with anger and throbbing with something like shame.

He went to sleep alone, or tried to, tossing and turning in the familiar bed in which he’d never slept by himself. He couldn’t stop thinking about Oromë, still and silent on the couch down the hall, the first time they’d gone to bed angry but in the same house, and he thought of himself, sleeping alone on that same couch two years ago, longing for Oromë.

He almost got up then, almost flung himself down the hall into the dark living room to kneel next to the couch and whisper Oromë awake, to crawl into his arms and beg forgiveness, to kiss his throat and feel Oromë hold him close and kiss him and stroke his hair and murmur that all was okay.

The first time he had made that trip down the hallway, in the other direction, Oromë had not turned him away.

But he never answered you.

Celegorm sat up, punched a pillow into shape, and flung himself down again. Mindless fear clawed at him, the fear that the bitter truth would be revealed to him someday, the truth he had always suspected.

It didn’t have to be you. It could have been someone else. If Mablung had come to him that night, instead of you… It’s only luck that you’re with him. You just happened to get to him first.

Just like Mablung got to the Foundation first.

“Not a vengeful man, are you?”

Celegorm swore and threw the pillow across the room. He lay flat without it as Eonwë’s words echoed in his ears again, burning a hole in his chest with anger and humiliation.

“It wouldn’t be a bad tactic…to get close to someone you might wish to confront.”

Everywhere, everywhere he went, no matter how he tried to flee it, his father’s long shadow followed. Even when he rejected the connection, people insisted on making it for him, and as much as he tried not to care, he did. He cared so much he ached with it, was made furious by it, and now his anger had thrown him against the person whose love he treasured more than anything.

There’s nothing special about you. You weren’t the first to want him, you weren’t the first to have him, and the main reason the Foundation is interested in you is because of your father.

Why would anyone want you for you?

Just before dawn, driven wild by restlessness, Celegorm rose from the bed and crept down the hall. He stood for a second over Oromë’s sleeping form, unhappiness and longing warring within him, and though part of him yearned for nothing more than to slip onto the couch at Oromë’s side and curl up – he forced himself on, and out of the house, not waking the figure asleep on the couch.

When Oromë woke, Huan was asleep next to the couch but Celegorm was gone.

* * *

Maglor looked up from his notebook and caught a blaze of color out of the corner of his eye. Standing up, he could see properly out of his window to where the maple tree across the street was starting to turn, a scattering of leaves in its canopy flaring to red. He crossed the room and opened the window, ducking the batik cloth he had pinned up as a curtain and breathing deep as a fall-smelling breeze rushed in. Humming slightly to himself, he unlatched the screen and pulled it out of the frame. He propped it against the wall and hoisted himself onto the windowsill, being careful of splinters. After reaching back to grab a case from his desk, he swung his legs around and scooted forward to drop out of the window.

Crouching as he landed lightly onto the part of the roof that jutted out over the picture windows, Maglor sat down, his back propped to the shingles, and took his violin out of its case. He closed his eyes from a moment, smelling dried leaves and a hint of wood smoke as the wind lifted his hair, and then he set his bow to the strings.

Some days he leaned towards classical – springtime, for example, always put him in the mood for Vivaldi – but the joyous melancholy of fall called for fiddle music; foot-tapping cowboy tunes or lively Celtic airs, notes that spiraled down like the helicopter seeds across the street.

He played on through the sound of someone – Celegorm, by the weight of the footsteps – slamming through the front door, and later, the somewhat more subdued sound of Caranthir getting home. There was a brief sound of competing music from Caranthir’s room, but it was quickly shut off and followed by the sound of a window opening. Caranthir would never say as much, but he liked when Maglor played, especially fiddle music, and would open his windows to let the sound drift into his room. Maglor played on through the sound of the front door opening again, a quiet exchange of voices just beyond his range of hearing, and then the sound of the window above him being opened again.

He only opened his eyes when someone dropped down on the roof next to him, and he only paused his playing when he saw that it was Daeron.

“A regular fiddler on the roof, eh?”

Maglor didn’t answer, letting his bow drop to the strings once again with a slightly vengeful screech that made Daeron wince but not stop talking.

“It’s kind of sentimental, but it works for you.”

Maglor still didn’t acknowledge him, but let a few bars of “Sunrise, Sunset” drift from his violin. Daeron sang the lyrics quietly, and then smiled, looking at the scuffed toes of his shoes as he stretched his legs out in front of him.

“I always forget how good you are on violin. We really should have taken advantage of that when…” His voice trailed off, and Maglor finally took the instrument out from under his chin.

“When we were actually recording together? Before you screwed me over, of course.”

“Yes.” Daeron stared down the slope of the roof.

“You’re right, there’s a lot we could have taken advantage of. A lot of opportunities wasted.” He saw Daeron cast a quick, alarmed glance at him, and Maglor colored. “Not like that! I meant in terms of music. I could have helped you make that album legendary.”

“I know you could have. You already made it like ten times better than it was going to be, you and Ría both.” Daeron pulled in a long breath. “Look, Mags, I honestly never meant to screw you over like that. I just don’t…I wasn’t thinking about shit like logistics and contracts, I was wrapped up in the music.”

“So was I,” said Maglor, and then grew angry again. “But after a while, I was literally living on my non-existent savings, and then I couldn’t just think about the music! It’s easy to get ‘wrapped up in the art’ when you’re not thinking about your bank account or the fact that you’re living on your best friend’s dubious charity.”

“Listen – ”

“How hard would it have been to get me a paycheck?”

“I’m not good at that kind of shit, okay, I’m an artist, not an accountant, and – ” Daeron caught himself, and stopped. “But you’re right. You’re right, okay? I was a dick about it. And me being clueless about business and whatever is no excuse, I get it, I do. But that’s why I’m here, Mags – I wanna get you in the studio again.”

“Oh good,” said Maglor, and his bow dragged a Psycho shriek from his violin. “Me working with you again, what could possibly go wrong?”

“With a contract this time,” said Daeron firmly. “I talked with my producers and wrangled you a real contract, and payment – not just for new stuff, you’re gonna get compensated for what you’ve already done. And songwriting credit, well, co-songwriting credit – ”

“Co? You did NOT help me write ‘Salt Crusade’.”

“No, Ría did, she’s who you’re sharing credit with, dummy.”

“Oh.” Maglor closed his mouth, surprised. “Wow, Dai. Are you…”

“Am I what?”

“Cured of being a dick or something?”

“Oh, nicely put, thanks, Fëanorion.” Daeron dug an elbow into Maglor’s ribs, and Maglor smiled reluctantly. “But yeah, I am. Trying to be.”

They sat in silence together, the breeze coming up again and blowing some strands of Daeron’s sandy-colored hair into Maglor’s eyes.

“What do you say?” asked Daeron quietly. “Willing to give it another shot?”

“I’ve got to think about it a bit,” said Maglor, after a pause. “No offense, but I’m not a hundred percent sure I trust you.”

Daeron didn’t say anything.

“But you know I want to, Dai, you know I live for it.”

“I do.”

And it was ultimately the fact that Daeron did know that made Maglor hesitate. He could so easily be convinced to go back, Daeron knowing that the music mattered more to him than money, and before he knew it, he could be falling into the same trap as before. He’d have to talk to Caranthir about it, he told himself resolutely, he’d have to see what Daeron’s people were actually offering. But his fingers itched with the desire to get back into the studio.

To fill the silence, Maglor plucked absently at the strings of his violin, and Daeron hummed something wordless and upbeat that sent Maglor’s toes tapping. He picked up his bow again and started to play, improvising a tune as Daeron started to sing.

After an interlude, the sun came out from behind a cloud, and Daeron’s voice trailed off. Maglor set down his violin, and Daeron let out a sigh. “I should probably be going, I told my parents I’d swing by for dinner.”

“Sure.”

Daeron got to his feet and Maglor did too, but stayed leaning against the wall as Daeron put his hands on the lip of the window and heaved himself back up.

“Hey, what made you come by?” Maglor asked, just before Daeron disappeared back into the house.

Daeron looked down at him. “I wanted to see you. I missed working with you.”

Maglor stared back. “But why else?”

Daeron chewed his lip for a moment and then dragged something out of his pocket. “This didn’t hurt.” He tossed a crumpled letter down to Maglor, and Maglor studied it, eyebrows drawing together in confusion at the complex legalese that confronted him. “It’s a letter threatening me, my producers, and my record label with legal action if we don’t ‘appropriately compensate you for services rendered.’” Daeron shifted on the windowsill. “But I’d been wanting to come see you anyway, right? This just…sped things along.”

Maglor still didn’t answer, searching the letter for a signature.

“Your family’s scary, Fëanorion,” said Daeron, shaking his head, and swung himself into Maglor’s room. “I’ll be in touch, okay? But call off the dogs.”

There was no signature – an odd omission, Maglor thought – but something about the letter felt…familiar. He was still studying it when a dark head popped out of the window.

“Tyelko wants to know if you wanna go down to the park with the rest of the crew for that ‘back to school cousin fest’ or whatever the fuck Irissë called it in the email. Hey, got some interesting mail there?”

Maglor looked up, saw Caranthir’s smug expression as he propped his chin on his hand, and his mouth dropped open.

“You did this?”

Caranthir smirked. “Did what? I never do anything, I’m notoriously lazy. Come on, get your ass back in the house.”

“I told you I didn’t want you to do anything! I told you I didn’t need help.”

Caranthir tapped his fingers on the windowsill and eyed the maple across the street. “I seriously don’t know what you’re raving about.”

“Is this fraud? Did you fake this? Or did you actually get some law firm to do this for you?”

“Oh Káno, you’ve never had a head for business. Get off the roof, you weirdo, and stop throwing baseless accusations around.” He reached out a hand and pulled Maglor up, while Maglor laughed despite himself, and slipped the letter into his pocket.

-

Celegorm was waiting for them downstairs by the front door, clearly impatient.

“Took you long enough,” he growled, when they came down the stairs.

“Should we wait for Curvo? Have you asked him if he wants to come?”

“This will come as a screaming shock to you, but he says he’s got homework.” Celegorm rolled his eyes. “So he’s out. But come on already, let’s get to this stupid thing.”

“If you think it’s so stupid,” said Maglor, as they headed down the front walk and turned onto the street,” why are you going?”

“Because Ireth planned it and she’d be pissed if I bailed,” said Celegorm, kicking at a rock and sending it skidding down a storm drain. “I don’t get why she’s organizing a ‘back to school’ anything, Christ, most of us have graduated at this point.”

“Nostalgia’s sake, maybe,” said Maglor. “Or just an excuse to get us all together in a scenario that doesn’t involve drinking, for once?”

“If Ireth doesn’t have a flask on her, I’ll eat my own ass. I’ll be pissed, too, because I could use some alcohol to get through a cutesy family afternoon in the park.” Celegorm kicked another rock, and Caranthir looked sideways at him.