Meadow

The tension of Fearghas' gloriously-beaten body was a worse agony than the perfection of it. Something he wanted so badly that it made Varanduil's head spin- something that couldn't be real- but he was, and it was torture to know it. The soft swells of his bruised, bitten, love-laced body were a hot flush through all of Varanduil's organs, tempered again and again by waves of unforgiving cold at the sight of the stricken look on his sweet, strong face and the shuddering twitches of his (sore; slick; sultry- he stopped himself with a wave of nausea) muscles.

-But he didn't jerk away when Varanduil pressed against him, and that was something, wasn't it? And he'd said- he'd said- Fearghas' vulnerable offerings made his eyes burn with a vicious dampness that he couldn't stand to let his little brother see, so he tried not to think about them. Even with Fearghas' breath rushing intimately into his nose; into his head; into his lungs, where it seemed to be gently touching parts of him that had never been touched before and didn't know what to make of it. The softness and trembling affection (oh, he was filthy and selfish, but let it be affection, please) of the large figure so trustingly letting him lean against him was a terrifying thing, and knowing he was real, it was really Fearghas- the brother he'd vowed to himself to protect despite his own fumbling uselessness and Fearghas' wise distrust- wrenched an awful little visceral noise out of him, and he selfishly pressed them harder together, trying desperately to think of ways to keep him without- without-

He'd already done the worst he could do, hadn't he..? -Or was it true, the things this... This too perfect Fearghas had said to him before? Could he trust that?

"I am. Are you?" whispered his brother, breath on breath, a humidly raw offering pressed lightly to Varanduil's parted lips and left to dribble thickly into his mouth like honey (or blood). He swallowed it with the same desperate thirst regardless, dizzy with adoration at the precious intimacy of Fearghas' voice softened to an undertone that was only for him.

"Are you okay with - with this? With me? I didn't make ye do something ye didna want, did I?"

...It took him a moment to process that, and when he did, his brow furrowed uncertainly. Had he said that..? -But, strangely, he could hear it in Fearghas' musical woodwind lilt. He hesitated, carefully watching his brother's tremulous face for clues, but the blur of Fearghas' tense, uneasy eyes this close told him nothing, and he dared not step back from him (as if this pitiful, anxious touch was all that was anchoring Fearghas to him still). Was he truly going mad..? -Not like this, please. He could go mad later; could die later- right now he had to be here, because his brother deserved better (an understatement that would've made him laugh if there had been anything left in him in that moment but crushing guilt and devastating adoration and ruthless, animal hunger- but there wasn't, and he didn't).

"'Okay'..." he repeated faintly, feeling woozy on the scent of Fearghas' breath. "I'm not... Okay," he admitted, and it felt like a stiletto jamming up into his body, splitting open organs swollen with vile black rot, starting a pulsing jet of ichor he couldn't stop. "I want... You-" he choked, knowing he should be stopping himself; knowing that his beloved brother would let him smear these disgusting, selfish desires on him, and it was up to Varanduil to spare him- but he cou- No, that was a lie. He could. But he wouldn't. With a determined, quavering hiss, he braced himself (to what? to be hit? to grab his brother when he tried to get away? he didn't know), and he continued.

"I want you," he growled again, his voice stormy with the knowledge that he was ruining everything. Any chance he might've had to convince his brother that it was a mistake; that he'd be better; that he'd be safe. "I don't care if I'm insane, or if you are, or if you're a dream, or if you're... -Not." The implications of that still made him dizzy with panic, and he stuttered in a couple of rabbit-gasps of breath before he could go on. "-It doesn't matter, I'd want you anyway. I can't- I won't ever be not this," he hissed in revulsion, his eyes wet and angry, because he'd tried. He really had. For Fearghas he'd tried harder than he'd ever bothered to for anyone else, even back when he believed he might be good (good at things; good to people; good enough- he did laugh, then, but it was a coarse little resigned bark that was more violence than mirth). -But, "There's something wrong with me," he whispered, shivering with fear and anger to be admitting this to the one he least wanted to know it, "I don't know how to be better than this. I don't-" he gritted his teeth, his miserable little face contorting into a resentful snarl against his brother's perfect, undeserving profile- "want to not want you this way. -But I don't want to lose you, either. I don't know what to do," he half-begged, crushing his brow to his brother's; twisting to smear his awful mouth against him.

"I want to tell you I'll be good, and not think of you this way, and not try to touch you in ways I think you'll like too much, and not try to hurt you because I want you to trust me to do it just enough- but it would all be a lie, and I don't want to lie to you, either. I don't know what to do," he moaned miserably, thudding his sweat-dark forehead into Fearghas' chest and grinding his temple against the pulse under his soft, muscled breast.

"-Just- tell me what I have to do for you to let me stay with you..."