auta i lómë.

Send my muse lies about people they care for.

His cousin’s statement is met with barely a scoff as the Fëanorion began anew to walk away, he doesn’t deserve a reaction. The side of his face still pulsating with pain is a reminder to the reason why. 

He shouldn’t have trusted Fin to even think this had any importance, his father was right: after all.. The hand grabbing him is not really unexpected, but nonetheless its grasp is violent enough to force him to turn, at least it fans the rage and not the pain. Nelyo’s first instinct would be to turn and punch his cousin, but the Fëanorion forces his fist not to swing closing his hands in tight fists; the son of Nolofinwë is entitled enough without cause, he’ll not give him a reason to think he was justified in his rashness. Nor will he give him a step stone to better his position to the detriment of his own, as his father managed to do. But as soon as he is faced with Fin’s eyes he sees more under the rage and  all he came to say comes back into his mind.

His eyes narrow and Nelyafinwë tightens his jaw, he reminds himself there would be no point now, Findekàno is clearly too busy feeling wronged, the pain of his fingers digging in his arm makes abundantly that clear. Keeping his gaze icy he opens his mouth to speak when Fin’s lips rush and press against his. It’s not much of a kiss, it almost resembles a blow in its unyielding force and Findekano keeps pressing against him as is his intent were to make him take a step back. For a second Maitimo’s body goes completely rigid as his lips tingle with the pain of the wound opening some more under the pressure of his cousin’s lips. He can taste a fresh dribble of blood. Then, with a quiet growl he grabs both of Fin’s shoulders in his hands and forcibly pushes his cousin away, the hand that held his arm contracting painfully around his bicep before being yanked away.

Breathing slowly the Fëanorion casts a glance around. The small street seems empty in the burning light reflected by the marble walls. Eyes going back to Findekano’s face Nelyafinwe grits his tweets before suddenly  yanking him towards the servants’ entrance of the smaller guest houses. He knows the rooms are empty and will remain relatively unattended today. Thanks to the uproar at court. The thought makes him squeeze his cousin’s wrist with renewed force. The hiss of pain coming from Findekano would make him sorry if he couldn’t already feel bruises blooming on his forearm. Inside he drags his cousin through the corridor and opens, almost violently, the first door they encounter.

The room is small but its windows are closed and its position is isolated enough.

With a firm shove Nelyafinwë throws Fingon on the bed before slowly removing the sheathed dagger he is wearing from his belt and placing it on top of a closet, where his cousin wouldn’t be able to take it. He never breaks eye contact, a strange light in his gaze while his expression remains otherwise tense but blank.

"I don’t know what you think you are doing." There is a hint of growl in his voice and he starts to remove his riding gloves in brisk, automatic fashion. 

Maitimo’s reaction might have been less than Findekáno hoped for, but it’s nothing less than he expected. He stumbles a bit as he’s pushed away, but he does not struggle to keep his balance. Hesitantly, he lifts a hand to wipe at his lips; it’s odd to know that it’s Maitimo’s blood he tastes. He's reluctant to think it, but it seems almost... intimate. Unless that's merely his intentions interfering with his process of thought, which is also likely at this point.  

He's about to push for another kiss, being disinclined to accept refusal, but Maitimo moves first. His grip is also strong, and Findekáno hurries after him, furrowing his brow as they move beneath the awning of the servants' door. However, they have taken refuge here before, and once he recalls that fact, he finally allows a shiver of anticipation to travel down his spine---

It's broken by the forcefulness of Maitimo's hold. It isn't a good kind of roughness this time, which he nearly points out, but he's already been manoeuvred backwards and onto the small bed in the centre of the room by the time he resolves to protest. For a moment he lies still; there's a new lump in his throat that wasn't there before, but he swallows a few times to clear it. 

Why in Manwë's good name is he wearing a dagger? Perhaps to use it against traitorous relatives as Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë-- 

Findekáno's glare is wholly petulant. "What does it look like I am doing?" After struggling to sit up, his fingers are clawing at the brooch at his throat and the clasps on his doublet, at his sleeves. There's something almost weary about his voice now. But Maitimo is removing his gloves, and the younger prince's eyes watch his long, pale fingers. He swallows; how has his cousin any right to look so fair while he acts so cruelly? 

"Come here." Findekáno adjusts his position as he says the order, as already there's a growing tightness at the front of his breeches. "Let me help with the rest." 

  “——— If  one hundred men arrived at our gates armed, the king would       declare it an act of war,” she snickered. Tauriel cast a wary look       towards the elf, as though she was certain that he was of no immediate       threat, there was no guarantee that he would stay true to his word. 

     Her hand rested on the hilt of her dagger as a warning, and managed       a weak smirk. 

“ A rather curious question to ask a guard. Tell me, what do you wish        to gain from my answer? ”

          Fingon blinked. 'I suppose that would be fair.' But he'd had      many times that number appear at his fortress, and they were      but struggling refugees, not warriors with minds for conquest.      Perhaps these guards were capable of distinguishing, but a      cold reception was still a cold reception.  

          'You are so quick,' he continued, 'to assume my intentions      are ill. What does anyone wish to gain from conversation? I ask      because I am curious, not because I want to expose a weakness.'      Maybe his words were a bit careless, but that was beside the point.