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i-did-not-mean-to · 2 years ago

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Rituals/Tradition

With art for this from @the-red-butterfly 💖💖💖 (Please show her some love!!!)

In the tradition of Cursed Cards, have some more photograph shenanigans...

Characters: Maedhros x Fingon (yes, still half-cousins!)

Words: 2 240

Warnings: pure fluff, no warnings

“Finno, are you coming?”

Fingon was about to let his phone drop to the low coffee table in his parents’ living room when the soft chime of a text message caught his attention.

Have fun skiing with your family! <3

Rereading the message while sweating profusely in the heavily padded costume, Fingon gripped the device a little harder when a second chime announced an addition to Russo’s parting communication.

The yearly family trip to the mountains was a well-established and cherished tradition, but Fingon would have gladly skipped it if his beloved had been amenable to staying home with him instead.

Alas, his lover—just as fond and faithful where family traditions were concerned—spent the winter holidays first on a boating trip, even though none of his six brothers was a particularly good seafarer, and then holed up in a remote cabin in a picturesque forest.

“You are very welcome to come to the cabin later in the week, if Tyelko’s shanties are not to your liking,” Russo had joked, and—afraid of intruding—Fingon had smiled warmly and declined.

A part of him regretted not having jumped at the opportunity from that very moment on, and—breaking with tradition little by little—he had purposefully dawdled when leaving for his own family holiday so he could take his own car to the ski resort.

He wondered whether his siblings had missed him on their rowdy, noisy, exasperating drive; Fingon truly felt sorry for not spending more time with them and for letting his mind drift away whenever he actually was by their side.

“Are you coming or not? No phone!” Turgon repeated, his stern, noble brow creased with impatience and annoyance.

“I don’t know how Elenwë—or anyone else, for that matter—bears your endless nagging,” Fingon grumbled, sensing that his whole plans were about to be derailed as his thumb slid across the screen towards the little envelope, decorated by that alluring red dot. “I won’t be a minute.”

He should go, he knew it, but he could not bear to leave a message from his lover unopened. What if he needed help? What if it was an emergency?

Clicking on it, he sealed his fate. A quiet gasp escaped him, and his cheeks darkened with delight.

“You’re not coming, are you?” Turgon snapped bitingly. Following his oldest brother’s darting eyes—the door to the bedrooms, the sprawling front window, back to the door—he instinctively divined his erratic thoughts. “I’ll pack your gear; get the necessities and go. I’ll tell the others when we meet at the foot of the mountain.”

Shooting a quick glance full of gratitude at his stolid, taciturn younger brother, Fingon all but jumped out of his elaborate suit and stumbled towards the door in a flimsy sweatshirt and his rattiest, thinnest sweatpants.

“Keys,” Turgon groaned, snatched them from the tangled mess in the beautiful ceramic bowl by the door, and tossed them over effortlessly. “Greet Maedhros from me.”

Stalking away with enviable dignity, he refused to add any other parting words.

“But look at the picture!” Fingon whispered and held his phone aloft, waving it slightly at Turgon’s retreating back. “Eh, your loss.”

The caption said something about Tyelko having spiked the punch, but that was of little importance to Fingon—he was too entranced by the photograph itself, showing his sweet redhead in an uncharacteristically deep blue sweater.

As he hurried towards his car, almost slipping thrice because he couldn’t pry his gaze off the wavering screen in his numb hand, Fingon grinned like a lunatic to mirror the wide, happy smile his sweetheart was sporting.

He loved all of his boyfriend’s smiles—the tiny quirks making the corners of his mouth dance as much as the polite, subdued curve his fine lips assumed at times—but the open-mouthed grin knocked the very breath out of his lungs with amazement so rare and marvellous did it seem to him.

Russo, he thought fondly, didn’t stomach liquor well, especially not if it was in a hot beverage, and the tell-tale flush as well as the brightness of his eyes told him all he needed to know.

Suddenly, the ever-gnawing yearning in the pit of his stomach became positively unbearable as he thought of the strong, seemingly endless arms of his partner, wrapped a little too tightly around his waist.

He wanted this; he longed to be there to run his fingers along the intricate pattern of exquisite knitwear in his own colours and watch Russo flush under the onslaught of messy, cinnamon-flavoured kisses and the soothing effect of mulled wine.

“Moryo made the sweater for me; isn’t it lovely?”

Fingon started the car, weighing the pros and cons of texting while driving and stopping almost instantly again.

“It’s beautiful. You’re gorgeous,” he typed quickly.

“I might be a little tipsy. I miss you. The twins said that I am to be the tree this year—father didn’t find one he liked. Everyone agrees that I am tall enough. Hence the decorations. Do you like them?”

Swiping his thumb blindly across the screen, Fingon pulled up the picture again.

He wasn’t sure whether it was acceptable to call while Maedhros was with his family, but he felt as if he would die in the white hell of swirling snow if he didn’t hear that warm, serious voice telling him that everything was all right.

His father, of course, had raised him better than this, but Fingon nevertheless fiddled with his phone until he heard the clangourous ringing sound cut through the unnerving static of the engine purring in the background.

“Hey,” Maedhros said. “Are you not on your way down a slope right now? Are you being safe? Is everything okay? Are you hurt?”

“Slow down, Red,” Fingon laughed, the weight on his chest dissolving into a puff of warm air, and turned the heating on. “I am indeed not skiing. Does your invitation still stand?”

A pensive hum resounded, mellow and satisfied, and then a sharp inhalation.

“Where are you, Fin?”

“I am in my car. Does your invitation stand, Russo?”

“Yes,” the other laughed. “I would warn you not to come—my brothers are in high spirits which is always a dangerous thing—but the idea of having you here is too alluring…”

“Tell me about your gifts,” Fingon pleaded softly as he raced out of the resort at twice the recommended speed. “I love the sweater. Is that a new prosthesis I’ve glimpsed?”

Gurgling with laughter, his swain confirmed. “Yeah, Curvo made it. It’s very good, very comfortable.”

“Can’t wait to feel it on my—wait, I am not on speakerphone, right?”

“No, of course not,” Maedhros exclaimed indignantly—his voice was so powerful and loud that he had single-handedly eliminated any need for such an accommodation anyway, but just hearing him sound so light-hearted was worth any and every indignity to Fingon.

“Maglor gave me a mug saying ‘Tall Ass Bitch’, which is funny because I got him a tiny blanket that said ‘Short King’. Isn’t that hilarious? He also made it himself—Mother was ecstatic.”

It was, as a matter of fact, hysterical, and Fingon had to focus hard not to drive off the road because he was shaking with laughter. “It sounds as if you’re having a marvellous time,” he wheezed. “I am glad. Turno is mad at me—I got your pic and just took off. Haven’t even said goodbye to the rest of the family.”

“You are disgusting,” Caranthir hollered from somewhere in the background. “I am moving my stuff into the movie room—no way I’ll sleep in the same room as you two.”

“Awww Moryo, don’t be like that,” Maedhros harrumphed. “Have another glass of glogg!”

“When I see what it’s done to you, no thank you,” came the reprobative answer, and then, there was silence once more.

“Please stay as you are,” Fingon beseeched his lover. “I want to be the one to pluck those pretty glass ornaments from your silken hair. Also, my fingers are itching to peel you out of this very nice sweater—not your usual colour palette, though, is it?”

“Moryo can say what he wants,” Maedhros replied smugly, “but he did choose your colours for my sweater, so he can’t object all that much, can he? He gets better every year, you must feel that thing—you couldn’t buy that kind of quality in just any regular shop.” The warm pride ringing in every word warmed Fingon’s heart as he pushed relentlessly through the rocky, snow-covered panorama of his holiday destination to reach the milder climates of the region surrounding the cute cabin his love’s family rented every year.

“Will he rat us out?” he then asked, slightly nervous. He liked Nerdanel, and he had taken his fair share of silly pictures of himself and his siblings to satisfy her addiction to cute but embarrassing photographs, but he did not want to crash her cosy getaway with her beloved children.

“OH,” Maedhros giggled. “They all know already—I might have pumped my fist and danced across the living room, almost trampling one of the twins who was looking for something under the couch, no matter…so yeah, my parents know that you’re coming. It’s all good. Better than good. You know what? I am going to put aside a bit of the punch for us—for later.”

The quality of his timbre had taken on a sultry, seductive note now, and Fingon shivered despite the hot air blasting through his car. Why were they so far apart?

“You do that, my love,” he said when he realised that he had not given any answer to that suggestion, so enthralled was he by the idea of his Russo—warm, pliable, and utterly contented—sprawling on a narrow bed for which he was much too tall. “I’d follow you anywhere, you know that, right? Over the endless ice and across the raging ocean—I’ll always come for you!”

“I hope so,” came the soft, mumbled reply. “And I’ll always be waiting, ever scanning the horizon feverishly for the deliverance of your friendship and love. Are you still very far?”

“Yes,” Fingon muttered, frustrated with how long and tedious his road would be, but just as determined to make it into those desperately wished-for arms as fast as possible. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Bad weather conditions and adverse events delayed Fingon unduly but—just as the night grew pitch dark in the small, picturesque valley—he saw the majestic hill ahead. Nestled against its elegant slope stood a cottage—looking tiny from that distance—from which the brightly lit windows twinkled like golden stars.

“Soon, my darling,” Fingon hummed; he had not gotten an answer in at least twenty minutes, but the sound of his lover’s deep, regular breathing was nevertheless soothing and encouraging.

“Good evening, you must be tired. He…fell asleep. Do you want to go wake him, and I’ll make you a spot of dinner?” Nerdanel whispered as she opened the door, tutted at the glaring lack of sensible winterwear, and then pulled Fingon into a forceful, welcoming hug.

Nodding, Fingon kicked off his snow boots, and padded over to the couch on thick, woollen socks; he didn’t even mind the fact that several of Maedhros’s brothers were standing around, sniggering softly, as he bent over that curled-up form and breathed a tender kiss onto the chiselled jaw of his personal miracle.

“Good evening, sleepyhead,” he whispered, rubbing slow circles into the long, lean back of the peaceful sleeper. “Happy holidays, my love.”

When Maedhros blinked, dazed and confused, Fingon broke into a smile so deep and earnest, it made his eyes crinkle and his lips stretch taut over his flashing, slightly irregular teeth. “Hello, sweetheart.”

“Finno, I am so sorry. You—You are already here? I dreamed of you; it was such a good dream,” Maedhros mumbled, rubbing his eyes and extending his hand to his mug automatically to chase the stale, sticky taste in his mouth.

“Your mother is making dinner,” Fingon explained as he shuffled onto the couch beside the jumble of shapely limbs and slid his hand into Maedhros’s warm palm.

“I am so happy that you’re here,” the still rather dopey ginger sighed, leaning his head—Christmas tree decoration and knots—against Fingon’s strong, muscular shoulder. “Now, it is perfect.”

“I am afraid,” Fingon confessed in a conspiratorial whisper, “that I have forgotten your gift in my suitcase. You’ll get it after the holidays! I swear!”

“Hmmm, you’re all I need.” Humming happily, Maedhros slung his arms around Fingon’s waist and so they sat, lulled by the whispered conversations of the ever-present gaggle of brothers and seduced into hunger by the aromatic fumes of a late-night dinner about to be served.

“Sweetling?” Fingon prompted suddenly as his phone vibrated in his pocket. “Could you please send my mother the picture of you? I am sure she’ll understand why I fled so haphazardly once she sees it.”

“I highly doubt that,” Maedhros chortled, “but I will, of course, try. We should spend a day or two with them before we go back home, how about that? I shall suffer the mockery of your siblings with equanimity.” “My brave, slightly drunk, very beautiful, utterly bewitching hero,” Fingon laughed, wrapped his arm around Maedhros’s slender shoulder, and promptly dozed off himself.

Thank you so much for reading <3

-> Masterlist for November (by @cilil)