Chapter Text
Maedhros trails after his father and mother as they walk up the porch steps, looking warily at the mansion before them. His uncle Fingolfin’s house reminds Maedhros of a home that would be featured in a puzzle: white with a wrap-around porch, a wooden swing at the front, a green door with an old knocker, ribbon wreaths at each wide window, and warm yellow light streaming from the inside. From the windows, Maedhros can see the fireplace, and he can sense the happiness in this household. Apprehension floods him, whispering in his ear that maybe his father was right: their families might be better off if left to their own devices. For Maedhros, though proud of his own family, isn’t sure that mixing the wild passion of the Fëanorians with the obviously ostentatious tradition of the Nolofinwions will end well. The tension of his father’s shoulder, the quiet of his brothers, and the way his mother nervously wrings her hands tells Maedhros that his family senses this also.
Fëanor rings the doorbell. (Even that rings musically, perfect.)
“Coming!” a cheery voice calls. Maedhros stands up straighter. The door opens soon after, and Maedhros blinks in surprise at the person before them. The young man wears a lovely blue dress that compliments his dark skin, and Maedhros looks in awe at his gorgeous curly hair that frames his face and drops just above his shoulders. The young man grins at him, and exclaims, “Hi! I’m Fingon! It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Fingon’s dress swishes about his knees when he throws his arms around Fëanor, and Maedhros bites back a laugh at the way his father stiffens then awkwardly pats Fingon on the back without returning the hug. But Fingon seems undeterred, his wide smile and bright eyes roaming over the Fëanorian brood before Nerdanel approaches, and they, too, hug. “Come in, come in,” Fingon urges, stepping aside.
Fëanor and Nerdanel walk in, but Maedhros lets his brothers go first, giving the Ambarussa a stern look. But the twins behave, and shake their cousin’s hand without comment on his attire; Curufin and Caranthir control their expressions of distaste at having to touch another human; Celegorm gives Fingon a crooked smile, the type he gives when he respects someone; and Maglor asks, “Hey, I’m Maglor. I use he pronouns; do you have a preference?”
Fingon’s smile gets even wider. “I’m good with he pronouns. Thanks for asking – and giving your own. People always forget to do that.”
Maglor rolls his eyes. “Someday people won’t be assholes.” Fingon laughs, and Maglor goes inside, and suddenly, Maedhros is left outside alone with Fingon. He steps forward to shake Fingon’s hand and realizes that Fingon is so short, he only reaches Maedhros’ chest. His eyes are a winsome light brown. Fingon extends his hand, and Maedhros takes it. Fingon’s hand is warm, and his fingers are thicker than Maedhros’. They don’t move. Maedhros’ eyes linger on his cousin’s face, drinking in each detail: his chipped front tooth, his flat nose, the slight bags under his eyes, the shimmer of his cheeks, his delineated eyebrows. Maedhros’ eyes return to his cousin’s. Fingon’s smile is gone. His eyebrows scrunch a little like he’s trying to figure something out.
“Um, it’s nice to meet you…” Fingon says slowly.
Maedhros realizes he’s been holding onto Fingon’s hand and jerks his own away. “Maedhros,” he replies hurriedly. He gives Fingon a quick smile. “It’s nice to meet you as well. I’m glad our fathers set up this dinner,” he continues smoothly. “I look forward to getting to know you and your siblings. Aredhel and Turgon, right?”
Confusion flits across Fingon’s features, but he replies with a hint of a smile: “Yes. You’re the eldest?”
“For better or worse.” Maedhros pauses. “Probably for the better,” he amends, getting a chuckle out of Fingon. Unconsciously, Maedhros’ hand twirls a lock of his hair around his finger, as his eyes drop to look more closely at the necklace Fingon wears, a square with squiggles like rays of sunlight. It’s beautiful.
A piano starts playing. Maglor. Maedhros smiles, all apprehension drained away, and his eyes return to his cousin’s questioning look. “Shall we go inside?” Fingon prompts.
“Let’s,” Maedhros smiles. Perhaps his father is wrong. Perhaps this meeting iss the beginning of something beautiful.
Indeed, dinner is an altogether pleasant affair. His uncle, Fingolfin, and his wife Anairë welcome them into the home as eagerly as Fingon – though Maedhros notes the tension with which Fëanor and Fingolfin exchange smiles. Maglor immediately impresses Anairë and Fingolfin with his chatter about the latest Broadway shows. Aredhel and Celegorm bond quickly over their sports interests. At the far end of the table, Turgon, Caranthir, and Curufin seem content to eat in silence. Maedhros catches his mother’s eye, and they exchange approving glances. Dinner is going better than either of them would have predicted.
His eyes wander to Fingon – again. Fingon is a gracious host. He listens intently to conversation and asks meaningful questions that demonstrate his attention has been on the speaker. He eats neatly, cutting each piece of food into a bite-sized chunk, before putting it into his mouth. He does not, Maedhros notes, have any meat on his plate, and he must be wearing lipstick because his cup has a little bit of rouge on the rim.
Suddenly, Fingon looks up at Maedhros, who quickly looks away. Fingolfin seems to notice Maedhros’ unease and asks kindly, “Do you play any sports?”
A couple seats down, Celegorm laughs. Maedhros manages to produce a smile. People always mean well when they ask, he reminds himself. “Not at all. The coaches made me try out for basketball when I was a freshman – I didn’t last ten minutes.”
“Nelyo fell down one time trying to swing a baseball bat,” Amrod offers. Amras stuck his tongue out at Maedhros, who glared at the twins. Thankfully, none of Fingolfin’s family laughed, though Aredhel looks amused.
“But I think the worst one was when he scored a goal on himself,” Amras smirks.
“Oh, that time he was playing goalie?” Celegorm grins. Maedhros closes his eyes.
“Not every boy’s strengths are in sports,” Nerdanel jumps in. “Maitimo is an excellent student.” Maedhros glances gratefully at his mother.
“Yes, he is not as smart as Curufin, but he will make an excellent accountant for the company someday. He pays very close attention to detail,” Fëanor interrupts. Maedhros twirls his hair around his finger. His father shoots him an irritated look, and he immediately drops his hands back into his lap. “And the day Maglor gives up his ridiculous ideas of music as a career and grows a backbone, he will likely make a tremendous human resources officer.” Across the table, Maglor continues eating as though nothing has happened, but Maedhros recognizes the slump of his brother’s back as his resignation to their father’s statement.
Yet Fingolfin’s family looks uncomfortable, so Maedhros gives them a smile to let them know he has not taken offense at his father’s words. His father is not wrong. His father knows each son’s strengths and their weaknesses well, and it is no secret in their family that Fëanor favors Curufin and is grooming him to become the head of research at the laboratory. Maedhros, with his attention to detail, will become an accountant; Maglor, with his ability to build relationships, will become a part of the HR department; Celegorm, with his confident charisma, will become a consultant. His father means well, Maedhros wants to explain; he wants them to be successful, to use their strengths productively rather than follow their passions blindly.
The Nolofinwions stay silent.
Maedhros’ father raises an eyebrow, looking directly across the table at Fingolfin now. “Do you not have futures in mind for your children?” It comes out more taunting than Maedhros thinks, hopes, his father intended.
Fingolfin’s eyes narrow slightly, but his voice is even when he replies, “Nothing more than a happy, financially comfortable future.” He turns his attention to Maedhros and gives him a warm smile that reminds Maedhros of Fingon’s. “Don’t worry, Maedhros. You know what they say, assumptions make an—” he pauses, looking amused at the eager look on the twins’ faces, “—out of you and me.” Fingolfin straightens up, looking towards Fingon. “In fact, you wouldn’t think it, but Fin’s actually the athlete among our boys.”
“I’m not a boy, dad,” Fingon corrects, rolling his eyes. “I do play pretty much year-round, though. Football in the fall, basketball in the winter, and tennis in the spring,” he continues conversationally. Maedhros looks at Fingolfin, expecting him to reprimand or at least contradict Fingon, but Fingolfin looks unperturbed. “And while I don’t have any dreams of playing professionally, I wouldn’t discount others who do.” Fingon looks at Fëanor, and Maedhros leans forward in disbelief at Fingon’s obvious retort to Fëanor’s earlier commentary. “After all, shouldn’t we pursue what makes us happy? This get-up,” Fingon gestured towards his dress, “gets me called a faggot and a he/she and whole host of other shit all day long, but I feel happy when I wear it, so I do. If music makes Maglor happy, why would it be a mistake for him to pursue that passion?”
Maedhros quickly scans the table. Nerdanel’s hand is on Fëanor’s knee. Maglor looks as shocked as Maedhros feels. Celegorm is nodding slowly; he agrees with Fingon. Curufin watches Fëanor intently; he’s waiting for Fëanor to tear Fingon down. Caranthir has just rolled his eyes; he couldn’t care less for Fingon’s opinion. Aredhel smiles at Fingon; she probably thinks the same as Celegorm. Turgon continues to eat; he seems indifferent. The Ambarussa lean forward in their seats; they are eager to know how their father will respond to such contradiction.
Fingon’s head cocks to the side, his hair bouncing with the movement, and Maedhros realizes that Fingon thinks Fëanor wants to have a conversation about this.
“First—” Fëanor starts, but Anairë cuts him off.
“Oh! Fin, darling, can you help me grab dessert from the kitchen?”
Fingon frowns, but Maedhros exhales with relief. Thank goodness for Anairë, Maedhros thinks to himself, watching as Nerdanel rubs circles into his father’s knee, trying to catch his eye. Anairë and Fingon excuse themselves, and Maedhros watches as his father brings his back to his chair, fury brought down from a boil to a simmer.
“I can see that we have very different opinions on how to raise children,” Fëanor says tightly to Fingolfin, who smiles.
“Indeed. Tell me more about this music of yours, Maglor. Do you compose? Write?”
Maedhros hides a smile and decides he likes his uncle. Maglor blossoms into conversation, and the rest of the table follows suit. With the bomb defused, Maedhros decides now would be a good time to excuse himself.
“Aredhel,” he asks quietly, “Where is the bathroom?”
“Second floor,” she spares him the two words before continuing her discussion on last year’s March Madness with Celegorm, and Maedhros excuses himself quietly. He walks back through the living room, pausing at one of the pictures on top of the fireplace. A little boy with a missing tooth and wide smile grins at him. It’s Fingon. Fingon with hair so short you can barely make out his curls, and he’s wearing a button-up shirt and a tie, and Maedhros reads the sign he’s holding: “It’s my first day of school!” Maedhros blinks. Fingon had been a very cute kid. He shakes his head at the thought, then strides past the rest of the family photos and starts ascending the steps when he hears Anairë’s voice, unnaturally stern.
“We told you to tone it down.”
Maedhros freezes but doesn’t hear a reply, so he takes a couple more steps before Anairë’s voice comes again. Maedhros stops completely, clutching the railing. “We want to support you, Fingon, but this is your first time meeting your extended family. Don’t you want it to go well?”
“Are you—” Maedhros, oddly enough, feels relieved: Fingolfin’s family seems so much more put together than his own, and it comforts him to see that even they have their arguments. “I’m not going to tone it down.” His cousin’s voice shakes slightly, but his tone is certain. “I’m not going to tone it down for people I don’t know. If they don’t like me, then whatever. I don’t have to see them again.”
There’s silence for a moment. Then, Anairë sighs. “Okay. Okay, Fingon.”
Maedhros decides it’s probably best to announce his presence, so he starts humming a song of Maglor’s as he slowly makes his way up the rest of the stairs. Fingon looks away from him, fists clenched. Anairë puts on a smile. “Yes, dear?”
“Aredhel said the bathroom was on this floor?” Though he’s speaking to Anairë, his eyes continue to flicker at Fingon, who stiffens and turns away. Anairë bites her lip, displeased by Fingon’s reaction.
“It’s just down the corridor, dear. Fin can show you.” Fingon gives her an outraged look, but Anairë ignores him and hurries down the stairs. Fingon gives him an annoyed look, and Maedhros recoils a little, wondering if Fingon knew Maedhros overheard their conversation, or if he’s just annoyed with Anairë and is taking it out on him; maybe, Fingon just needs a moment.
But when they reach the end of the corridor, Fingon yanks the door with such force he almost elbows Maedhros.
Clearly, his cousin needs more than a moment.
“Here you go,” Fingon says flatly, and Maedhros can’t help but hurt at how different Fingon sounds now than when he first welcomed them into his family’s home. Fingon turns to leave, but Maedhros gently touches his arm. “For what it’s worth,” Maedhros says softly. “I really like your dress.”
Fingon pauses, and when he turns, Maedhros sees his eyes are rimmed red and watery. His instinctual response desires to hug Fingon tightly, but Maedhros stops himself – and rightly so, for rather than looking uplifted, Fingon retorts, “You don’t need to lie to try and make me feel better. I know what you think. You think I’m a freak; and don’t even try to deny it. You’ve been staring at me when you think I don’t see you.”
Maedhros flushes. He doesn’t think it will make the situation any better to confess that he’s been staring at Fingon because, whatever his family might think of him, Maedhros thinks Fingon has the most beautiful smile, and the way his dress both wraps and swings around him never fails to catch Maedhros’ eye. “That’s not why I’m staring,” he finally mutters. Fingon scoffs, but he doesn’t move, and, finding nothing else to say, Maedhros blurts out, “I was staring ‘cause I think your hair would look even prettier with a gold ribbon in it.” Fingon stares at him. Maedhros feels a blush starting to creep across his face. “I’ve seen a lot of the girls at my school wearing their hair like that, with gold ribbon braided in. Not sure if you have any…I think it would look… nice…” he continues, feebly. Except Fingon’s facial expression flits from disbelief, to confusion, to surprise, and finally, a smile unfurls upon his features, and Maedhros feels himself relax.
Then he frowns, and Maedhros tenses.
“I do have gold ribbon,” Fingon replies slowly. “But…” He pauses, looking conflicted. “I don’t know how to braid my hair,” Fingon confesses. Maedhros’ shoulders relax again.
He grins. “I do.”
When they come down the stairs, Fingon keeps one hand on the railing of the staircase, and the other Maedhros holds gingerly as if they were prince and princess walking down the steps. They walk down slowly, carefully, giving their families enough time to take it in: Maedhros in his red button-up and black dress pants, long, wavy hair cascading down his shoulders, and Fingon in his blue dress with golden ribbons threaded into braids that frame his face, descending the steps of the staircase with pride.
Maglor, of course, begins whistling a tune; Fëanor looks outraged (but Nerdanel gives him a quick pinch, and he schools his face into a displeased expression); Anairë looks concernedly at Fingolfin, who seems taken aback by the turn of events; but it’s Celegorm who begins clapping, and so Aredhel and the Ambarussa follow suit, and it’s not long until they make it to the bottom of the staircase, and their families are smiling at them.
Maedhros tries to let go of Fingon’s hand, but Fingon quickly grabs it back.
Maedhros looks down at their intertwined hands, the apprehension he felt at his father’s displeasure vanishing. His eyes meet Fingon’s as he brings his head up, smiling, to hold his head high.