Fingolfin did not have time to react before he was grabbed from behind and shoved against the nearest wall. He did not even have the breath to shout. A hand took him by the shoulder and spun him around.
"You," Fingolfin breathed, as the hands that had seized him dived into his long loose hair. Fëanor took hold of Fingolfin's hair at the root and pulled hard, trying to make tears come into Fingolfin's eyes.
But it was having a rather different effect, once the initial shock of the attack faded and the nearness of Fëanor's body became apparent; Fingolfin struggled to conceal his erection, trying to turn his hips away from where Fëanor was pressed up against him, teeth bared, all but growling at him.
"So it comes to this, half-brother," he said, low and heated. "Are you now so base and low that you would turn a father against his son in your quest for power?"
"No!" Fingolfin exclaimed breathlessly, resisting the urge to moan as the slight pain set a fire in his blood. He settled for a quiet groan, hoping Fëanor would think it pain rather than need. "I hoped only for the truth. I feared for you, for you are prone to rash actions, and you are proud and stubborn. Our feud causes me grief and anguish." He looked up into Fëanor's eyes, trying to convey the depth and complexity of what he felt in a single look. "I do not desire to supplant you, my brother, but to be beside you, as befits the both of us."
Fëanor did not slacken his hold on Fingolfin's hair, but something in his eyes softened a little at the look on Fingolfin's face. He twisted his hand a little, pulling harder, but from curiosity rather than malice.
Fingolfin could no longer resist; a low aroused moan escaped him and his eyes fluttered shut. Even with his eyes closed he seemed to feel Fëanor's smirk.
"So is it this then, half-brother?" Fëanor's voice had gone from furious to mildly inquisitive in the space of a few seconds. Like a craftsman with a new tool, he experimentally tightened and loosened his hold on Fingolfin's hair several times, carefully watching the look on his brother's face.
Fingolfin let the sensations Fëanor was provoking in him take hold of him utterly. He spared a moment to be grateful that Fëanor had chosen this out-of-the-way dark location to confront him, as he walked home from the court in the silvery light of Telperion. Tirion was quiet at this hour, and they were hidden in the shadows of a dark alleyway; it was unlikely anyone would come upon them there.
"It is," he said, leaning forward, lips just a breath away from Fëanor's. The hands in his hair went slack, and he brought up his own from where they had been splayed against the wall, putting his arms around Fëanor's waist and rocking into him, no longer hiding. "I see you, not with eyes blinded by your beauty or mind cozened by your charm, but with all your faults intact - nay, do not interrupt me, admit that you have faults at least! - and I love you even so." He took a breath. "I have always loved you, and always shall, no matter what dark roads we may walk down, or what may come between us."
For a moment Fëanor just stared at him dumbstruck, hands limp in his hair. Then his hair was seized again, but this time it was to drag him down the few inches that separated their lips, and kiss him hard. Fingolfin, breathless, gladly surrendered, utterly, blissfully, overcome.