The council had been a disaster; and now with all his father's lords left, he alone with the cause of said disaster… his thrice damned half-brother stood barely even acknowledging him, with all the arrogance he'd done less than nothing to deserve.
"If you'd wished them to take up your position, I would have advised speaking less harshly," Ñolofinwe intoned. His voice was smooth, sound of the exact same courtier's duplicity and mildness that had brought Feanáro here in his anger to begin with.
And Feanáro hissed out a forceful breath all in a rush, while the core of him churned. Half-brother, usurper, pathetic excuse for a charlatan - as though he did not hear the claims leveled at him by what must be half the court, echoes of the disparaging remarks that followed him like a cloud of flies throughout his childhood - inappropriate emotional outbursts; far too solitary for his own good; your son is blunt and disrespectful and will not even look at me when he speaks; that boy must have something ill in him if he would induce his mother to such a condition -Ñolofinwe was no innocent of their proliferation, not sitting here in Tirion at Finwe's side, so proficient at the near-lies and manipulations required in the halls of the palace, so much better a son able to be the presentable prince his father had wanted…
His mouth twisted into a scowl and his eyes burned coals. "I spoke what is true, and you seek to make of me a raving sputtering creature of baseless rage, as you always have, presenting silken words that you can conjure as a substance unto itself as though they would not unravel at the slightest scrutiny!"
A small fraction of his own fire came reflected from Ñolofinwe's eyes, though he kept himself so damnably controlled in body even then - or no; there was tension in his torso and his jaw, Feanáro could see it when he concentrated, thoughts racing through the flames of his anger into his brother's own manner now, manifestation of precisely what he detested. He could not quite say if it was a savage, bitter pleasure that Ñolofinwe turned out to not have that perfect composure he'd cultivated as he'd grown, grown to manhood, grown to a height surpassing Feanáro's own.
That height was salient indeed as Ñolofinwe strode toward him, plucked up to action for once more direct than giving snide words to his myriad allies, by the anger Feanáro had found. His gaze descended the slope of his nose to meet Feanáro's own; Feanáro hammered the fury in him like steel and refused to look away.
"Were you not such a narcissistic child with no notion of subtlety or consideration of propriety, you would not be giving any such an impression to the entire room to see - there is no work of mine that creates such an impression of you if that is how you are seen, but your own doing entirely!" More venom burned on Feanáro's skin than he had seen so naked from his half-brother in years, and the pain of it stung hot and sang a cacophonous discord in his blood. He bared his teeth, just as Ñolofinwe grasped him about his shoulders, fingers digging sharply as if wishing to throw him bodily to the floor.
"I do not want to think of the years where I tried to make some friend of you as well as brother, as naught but wasted time," he hissed, "yet you do nothing but push me further toward wishing it."
Feanáro wrenched his arm, clamped a hand about the back of his neck, and pulled him down to kiss him; a meeting of open mouths panting and clacking bared teeth; a sharp bite to Ñolofinwe's lower lip just as he began to kiss him back.
Breath weighed heavy and hot in the space between them, barely any space save for the hollows of their mouths, for Feanáro found they had closed whatever distance had been left, and now stood flush against each other. Flush, or closer; there was tension enough in the both of them that spoke almost of attempting to press through the other, overcome his form until hroa was dust and he had dominated him entirely. In this, they were alike.
But Ñolofinwe's body against his own was hard, lithe, enticing in form and feel, and in the image Feanáro conjured for himself in his mind - undressed and spread against the floor of his forge, black soot staining marks along his limbs where Feanáro held him pinned.
Yet he was not at all pinned now, and with one violent motion he wrenched Feanáro away, lips spilling some few words too quick and harsh for him to catch, and a trickle of blood alongside. Feanáro's mouth remained opened in his shock at the force with which he'd been pushed aside; a small moan escaped at the sight of his half-brother so undone.
The voice in his head that never, never stopped, prodded back that he, himself, was fair undone as well.
Feanáro had no time to think on this beyond the instant self-loathing that shoved itself in alongside the arousal that had curled in his belly, before Ñolofinwe twitched and with a snarl of his own grabbed hold of him again, so unable to keep away -
- they fell, Ñolofinwe tumbling him to the ground and making his hands and tailbone sting where he'd landed.
Feanáro grabbed at a hank of hair, several of the perfect braids Ñolofinwe had wound it into, pulled him closer despite his struggling. There was warmth, a body filled with blood and a spirit coursing with hate… good, he thought, satisfaction in anger more than pleasure that he could do as much even now. When he spoke, "You shall never be one I could call friend," - it needed only to be a harsh and voiceless thing.
Ñolofinwe's retaliation was his teeth closing on Feanáro's lips then, digging nails into his skin wherever they found purchase and scratching deep gouges - and his lowering his hips until they thrust into each other together, panting. Feanáro shivered with overstimulation, fingers twisting tight in the braids he still held, and Ñolofinwe winced each time through the flush risen on his cheeks. He had thought - thought to be - the one controlling, releasing his own anger upon his half-brother's form, but with this he felt split open wide and unable to stop it even as Ñolofinwe seemed, when he could manage to look, much the same. But there was nothing to be done (nothing he wanted to be done - )
His trousers were unlaced and pushed open, and he gasped, shoving his hips forward, as Ñolofinwe's hand (so fine and uncalloused, so strange to feel this way) wrapped about both their cocks, giving rough strokes. This was not how he'd intended it, Feanáro thought, in what small part of him still deigned to think - he'd wanted Ñolofinwe below him, howling in pain and pleasure both, giving up his admission, his defeat and subservience, some promise to no longer meddle and steal…
Feanáro's head fell back and hands ran along the length of Ñolofinwe's body, the only taking in what sounds he could wring, what ephemeral marks he could score in flesh. Each stroke felt like wringing, as Ñolofinwe's hand joined them together tighter than the tangle of their limbs. Neither won. Neither won.
There was no further sound but moans and breath that passed between their hairsbreadth-separate mouths.