Meadow

Fearghas watched him without moving for a long moment, and the bronze snake felt his insides going colder and colder, so that when his brother’s dark, speckled lips curled lazily up into a smile it hit him in the gut with confusion more than relief. His mouth, against his will, tried clumsily to smile back, but Varanduil leashed it viciously into obedience, unsure yet whether he deserved to smile at Fearghas. Unsure whether it would be an expression of true happiness or a filthy, cheap mimic intended to gloss over what he’d done without punishment. He wouldn’t allow himself to give his precious brother cheap platitudes of normality if he’d done what he had a creeping terror he had.

“Good mornin',” and Varanduil couldn’t judge what his brother’s tone was, though he was trying desperately to- trying desperately to see the look on his face as Fearghas angled it swiftly away.

“Morning,” he whispered, not returning the greeting but trying to parse out to himself what the little hitch of his breath had meant; hating that it had kindled a little spark of heat in his fear-cold belly. Fearghas started to roll out of his embrace then, with what could’ve been an accidental graze of his mouth against Varanduil’s flesh (but it made himself shiver all the same), and the urge to grab him and pull him back was so sudden and fierce that Varanduil’s open mouth was halfway to the nape of his neck before he caught himself and looked away, but from the corner of his eye he watched him- watched him stretch; watched the stiffness of his motions as he dragged himself up; watched the canvas of raised bruises and streaks of sweat and- was that specks of blood?- shift and roll over his big, soft muscles, and loathed himself for the sharp, sucking inhale of hunger and pride he couldn’t help. Fearghas turned back to him then, and Varanduil jerked his gaze away, guilty and squirming where he still lay heaped small and pathetic in the grass.

“ V, I-”

‘Oh, please, no,’ he thought, but his body was already beginning to ease, resigning itself to what he’d done. Resigning himself to losing his brother for it was much, much harder, and after a moment he risked an underhanded glance at him-

-He was smiling?! -And reaching for him- it was such a conscious effort not to flinch that he twitched as if Fearghas was charged with electricity when his mouth slid, velvet and wet and oh, swollen with bites and kisses, over Varanduil’s, and he couldn’t tell whether it was the similarly tender, bruised state of his own lips or the fact that it was Fearghas that made that soft brush of a kiss ache so much.

“I needed that,” his lyrical voice murmured into Varanduil’s twitching cheek, and he sounded so- he was still talking, what the hell was he saying..?! “But I ken you might not feel the same.” What the hell was he saying?! His brother’s shy, hopeful eyes were a shimmering andalusite kick in the throat, and he made a little choking sound as Fearghas forged bravely on, as if this was not absolutely backwards.

“It's okay if ye don't, V. But I canna pretend I dinna want ye by my side.”

“Wait-!” he gasped, bolting to get to his feet, his muscles screaming at him and dumping him back into the grass with a yelp before he could thrash inelegantly up into some semblance of a stand, as if Fearghas was threatening to leave, not gently asking him to stay.

“-Wait, wait, what are you-” His fur would hide most of the welts and marks when the sea washed the visible streaks of Varanduil’s mouth and body from Fearghas’ pelt, but where his hair was especially fine around his muzzle was painted dark with evidence of Varanduil’s violent adoration, and he was hypnotized into silence for a moment staring at them. He knew it already, but the thought, ‘I did that, those are my marks,’ rushed with a sudden renewed heat through his veins, and he licked his sore lips, trying and failing to swallow the desirous fraying texture of his voice back.

“You aren’t saying you... Liked it?” It made no sense, how could his beloved brother have enjoyed what Varanduil had to accept he’d done to him? That gentle boy who hadn’t trusted him but kindly reached out for him anyway. That soft creature who believed in goodness so powerfully that he stood face to face with Cullen and accused him, despite his fear. The only reasonable answer was that he’d- that he’d abused Fearghas’ gentle goodwill and forced him, and told himself it was a dream; told himself it was not just consensual but eagerly mutual. A universe where Fearghas was so deliciously this, and not only that, but wanted him had seemed so impossible he was reeling.

“-But you’re perfect!” he accused loudly, almost angry, motioning wildly at Fearghas’ proud figure with his head- his eyes stuttering longingly over his throat; his muscled back; the pink skin peeking through at the inside of his knee; the speckled ankles that were no longer clumsy boyish shapes but solid and strong, whose powerful joints Varanduil remembered taking in his mouth to lick the spots of, and it hadn’t been a dream.

Brittle with aches that begged to be repeated (aches that knew they were real), he prowled stiffly into Fearghas’ space, pressing himself stubbornly against his head, his own face a twisting mask of confused frustration. “You’re mad,” he whispered, growing uneasy the longer he looked into the stirring embers of his eyes and didn’t see revulsion; the longer he stood touching him and smelling himself all over Fearghas’ steady, passion-beaten body. “Or am I?” The slow, terrifyingly soft revelation that this was actually happening felt so horribly fragile, and oh, if he was still dreaming he could never wake up again or it would ruin him.

“Are you... Really the real one..?” he asked, so softly he could barely press it past his wonderfully-wounded, still-hungry mouth.