The accommodations are nothing for someone of his stature, but they aren’t what troubles him. There are many still worse off than him. All he can do is bundle himself in as many blankets as are left and huddle in the back of his small tent, while his children slip into others to offer what encouragement they can. He’s wearied of words. He marched as long as he could, set up as many tents as he could, helped oversee rations and checked the headcounts and did everything within his power, and now he just needs to sleep and slip away from this infernal cold.
But everything on the Grinding Ice is cold. Even unconsciousness won’t save him. He’s fastened the ties on his tent flap tight and wants to snarl at the intruder who suddenly pulls them open. Ñolofinwë bolts up in his makeshift cot, sprawled ungracefully across the snowy ground, but it’s only Findaráto that slips inside to see him.
Findaráto turns as quick as he came and fastens the ties closed again. It mercifully cuts off the wind, but little else—Ñolofinwë’s still icy to his bones. Sometimes he fears he always will be—that this pain won’t melt away, even when he’s reached the Western shores. But he can’t afford to think like that. Even Findaráto, who’s always been such a beautiful creature, looks clammy and frozen blue-grey when he comes to Ñolofinwë’s side. The light here blares off the white surroundings and pierces even through the tent walls, washing Findaráto pale.
He sinks to his knees, and Ñolofinwë quickly tosses one of the blankets around Findaráto’s shoulders. His coat isn’t as thick as it should be—he’s given too many of his coverings away. He always had such a large heart. And now he, like Ñolofinwë’s own sons and too many others, have been doomed to this wretched fate by Ñolofinwë’s foolish trust in Fëanáro.
Findaráto carries no blame in his eyes. He never does. He sidles up to Ñolofinwë in the blankets, burrowing deeper, and Ñolofinwë relinquishes layer after layer to try and warm his nephew up. It’s a futile effort, of course—nothing can ease this gnawing cold. But at least when Findaráto’s made his way right up against Ñolofinwë’s side, he seems thawed enough to part his lips. His body heat still pulses weakly beneath his taut skin, which is more than Ñolofinwë can say for himself. He’s sure he offers no relief. Right into Ñolofinwë’s ear, with a puff of steam that ghosts along the shell, Findaráto murmurs, “You are waning, uncle.”
Another time, Ñolofinwë might harden and resist. He has strength still and will lead while he can. But now he only snorts—his spirit means nothing in this place, while his flesh and bones are as brittle as any other’s. Findaráto wears a sad frown that makes Ñolofinwë’s heart sink worse. Findaráto presses his body flush against Ñolofinwë’s, only their robes and coats between them, and sighs, “You are our great leader. Your accommodations in rest are as meager as everyone’s, but you are still the one they all look to for hope—you cannot afford to waver.”
Ñolofinwë grits his teeth and nods. He knows, but that changes nothing. If it were Fëanáro, or even one of those seven sons, Ñolofinwë would think this a means to shame him. But he knows Findaráto would never come for that. Findaráto came into the world small but smiling, and he’s remained kind, honourable, through all that they’ve been put through. He probably always will. For him, Ñolofinwë pulls together and hisses through near-chattering teeth, “I will lead the pack and inspire what I can when next we move.”
“I did not come to you for them,” Findaráto says quietly, “but for now, in those moments where you do need rest, and peace, and relief more than anyone.”
Ñolofinwë turns his head to eye his nephew. They’re close enough that it bumps his nose against Findaráto, who shuffles around to Ñolofinwë’s front, long hair catching in the blankets and depositing small clusters of snow. The bright yellow is diminished somewhat in a white overlay, but Ñolofinwë marches all he can to see it shine gold again.
Practically atop Ñolofinwë’s lap, Findaráto lifts both hands from their safe cocoon of blankets to cup either of Ñolofinwë’s cheeks. The touch is jarringly cold at first, but then his palms seem to melt against Ñolofinwë’s flesh, and Ñolofinwë can feel the pulse racing quick beneath them. Findaráto buries his fingertips in Ñolofinwë’s dark hair, and before Ñolofinwë can ask what he’s doing, Findaráto has closed what little distance lies between them.
Their lips brush, a sudden burst of sparks go off in Ñolofinwë’s middle, and the sheer softness of Findaráto’s mouth forces Ñolofinwë’s to yield. He opens, both to gasp and moan, and Findaráto tilts minutely to press them better together. Ñolofinwë’s eyes have already fallen closed, but he can feel Findaráto’s lashes fluttering against his cheek. He can feel Findaráto’s nose digging into the side of his. He’d thought his nostrils long since rendered useless in this changeless place, but now he can smell the faint musk of Findaráto under it, no different than used to be in their once-welcome home.
But then Findaráto’s tongue swipes along Ñolofinwë’s bottom lip, and though it awakens a heat in him he hasn’t felt in far too long, he still pushes away.
Findaráto obediently parts them. He’s grown tall and strong and could fight but doesn’t, instead retreating to the few centimeters’ different between them. The blankets are still pulled all the way up to their shoulders.
Ñolofinwë traces his lip with his tongue and takes a moment to puzzle aloud, “What have you done?”
“Please,” Findaráto breathes. There’s a fire in his eyes too, a deep lure that’s too easy to fall into in this wretched place. “I... I had thought that the weight of our own family’s betrayal was the worst of our burden, but I was wrong. This... this ceaseless cold is almost more than I can bear, and I am not the one who must warm all the others. For you... when your wife has left you and your own brother is gone... I cannot stand to think of you facing this alone without respite.” He pauses, then, to hesitate while Ñolofinwë reels, only to add in a hushed but desperate whisper, “Please, let me soothe it for you.”
It takes a good moment for Ñolofinwë’s tongue to unstuck from the roof of his mouth. So close like this, Findaráto’s presence is unrelenting. When Findaráto fidgets slightly, Ñolofinwë can feel those long, slender legs rearranging across his own lap, tangled in a web of fabric. He finally manages hoarsely, “She did not leave me so that I could find comfort in the arms of my nephew.”
“But you admit it would be a comfort?” Findaráto counters. Ñolofinwë can hardly believe how sure he looks.
Ñolofinwë can’t answer. He doesn’t make a habit of lying, and his body, mind, and heart, have grown confused in the oppressive weather. When the silence stretches so long, Findaráto leans forward again to nuzzles his face into the side of Ñolofinwë’s, offering what little warmth is left, and begs, “Please, if you will not do it for yourself, then do it for me—I need my greatest uncle to hold me now.” He’s never been the greatest, but he appreciates the compliment. Findaráto noses at his cheek and rasps next to his ear, “Please?”
That, at least, is easier to answer. Ñolofinwë’s arms lift and reach for the slim figure before him. He wraps tightly around Findaráto’s middle, pulling him all the closer, legs spreading to accommodate and torso arching forward; Ñolofinwë crushes Findaráto tightly against him like it’ll chase the snow away. However small, there is a difference in temperature, even though he knows this isn’t the sort of embrace that Findaráto asked for. Ñolofinwë buries his face in Findaráto’s silken hair and breathes in—that scent, at least, isn’t frozen over. Into Findaráto’s neck, he murmurs, “I will always hold you when you need it.”
“That is worth more than you know. ...But in these forsaken lands, I am afraid that it alone is not enough.” Findaráto squirms lightly, thighs scraping along Ñolofinwë’s, and he presses a kiss to Ñolofinwë’s cheek. Ñolofinwë doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move, and Findaráto rains another down, held too tightly to reach Ñolofinwë’s lips. He begins to writhe in Ñolofinwë’s grip, not struggling for freedom but grinding them together, too graceful to be lewd but far from proper, and when Findaráto bites at his ear, it’s all Ñolofinwë can do to not rut back—there’s a relief in Findaráto’s feverish rhythm, in the press of his lips, in the strength of his arms around Ñolofinwë’s body.
The more Findaráto nibbles at the delicate shell of Ñolofinwë’s pointed ear, the more his face defrosts, the more blood rushes up, the more flushed he becomes. It’s shameful, but Findaráto is shameless now; he slides them together like he alone will bring Ñolofinwë back to flames. He curls his tongue around Ñolofinwë’s tip and pleads, “Please... I know I am far from your prime choice... I am not even your favourite nephew... but I am here now, and I want you, beyond just this, but this is where I can be most useful to you...”
“That is not true.” The false judgment finally startles Ñolofinwë to words. His arms tighten around Findaráto’s waist as though to crush it home: “You have always been precious to me...” He knows he hasn’t visited as much. Findekáno’s love for Nelyafinwë has lead him there more often, and he has often reason to visit Curufinwë at the forge, and Kanafinwë and he have much in common, but, he tries to explain, “others I would teach, where I could, but you have the least need of it, my Findaráto. You have always been strong, always been good, and never had a need to scold or correct. But I do treasure your visits. You are all the best qualities of our kind in one.”
Findaráto nuzzles into him again, and Ñolofinwë can feel the smile. He can hear the pleasure in Findaráto’s voice when he asks, “But am I handsome?”
Ñolofinwë can only sigh. There are few more so in all of Valinor. Perhaps now in all the world. Ñolofinwë has seen Valar themselves that did not come close to the sheer beauty in Findaráto’s face. Even as he thinks it, Findaráto is pressing a fervent kiss against his jaw, and Ñolofinwë finally breaks.
He loosens his grip enough to turn his head and catch Findaráto’s mouth. Findaráto surges instantly back to meet him. A hundred warnings ring in Ñolofinwë’s mind, but none are as compelling as the heat and want trapped under Findaráto’s skin. They are all kin of one kind or another amongst the Noldor. He would not be the first to give in to such allure. Whatever strength he had to resist isn’t enough to face the sight of this fair creature cutting through the snow.
And Findaráto kisses him back with such ardor. Findaráto’s mouth seems to seer along his own, and Findaráto’s hands trace around Ñolofinwë’s sides to smooth up his chest and catch in the bindings of his robes. Ñolofinwë wraps the blankets higher where he can but has to do so without sight—he can’t tear his mouth away once he’s started—he tries, but Findaráto follows him, and it’s a living furnace that Ñolofinwë can’t possibly resist. Findaráto is good at this, like he is all things, but he stills follows Ñolofinwë’s guidance when his tongue is pushed one way or another. He parts the collar of Ñolofinwë’s robes and adjusts his legs to climb over Ñolofinwë’s legs, settling properly into his lap, and from there he can cup Ñolofinwë’s face and look down into it whenever he manages a break between kisses.
He presses two quick ones in and stops to purr, “Let me warm you. We will banish all the cold.”
Ñolofinwë nods numbly, though such a thing can’t be possible. He still lets Findaráto part his robes. His bare chest feels no cooler for it. He catches himself in the midst of returning the favour, but by then it’s too late to stop—his body’s taken over, and he parts Findaráto’s just the same, so they can press their bodies flush together and feel the delicious slide of skin on skin. It’s a burning, velvet-soft brush that sets Ñolofinwë’s pulse racing. In this moment, Findaráto may as well be a Maiar of the molten earth.
Ñolofinwë would take it no further, no matter how loud his instincts clamour for it, but there’s no stopping Findaráto. He finds Ñolofinwë’s breeches next and plucks deftly at the strings, untwisting them by touch alone—his mouth, again, becomes swiftly lost in Ñolofinwë’s. They quickly surpass chaste kisses and fall into messy, debauched things, full of spit shared between them and too-desperate tongues; the Helcaraxë has driven them all to the edge, and Ñolofinwë needs to feel everything while he can. He plunders Findaráto’s mouth with a force he would never use if not for this. But Findaráto only meets his intensity with more and wrenches his breeches open.
There is no moment to be shocked by the loss of clothes to such a sensitive place—as soon as Findaráto’s pulled his cock out, Findaráto flattens it between them, most of the shaft flush against Findaráto’s breeches but the tip digging into Findaráto’s soft belly, and that’s enough for Ñolofinwë to release a raunchy moan. He hasn’t felt anything that soft there in ages, and he knows what’s coming, knows there’s more—he can feel Findaráto frantically fiddling between them to get his own breeches down. The second Findaráto rises, Ñolofinwë mutters, “I will not hurt you, we must prepare—”
But Findaráto insists breathlessly, “I came prepared,” and swallows any protests in another kiss. It’s just as well. Ñolofinwë’s not sure he could stand to stop this now. Findaráto positions himself, drags Ñolofinwë’s hard cock back between the plush cheeks of his ass, each moment of it an exquisite thrill. Ñolofinwë would give almost anything to explore this perfect body in better conditions—in a warm bed, by the firelight, able to kick the blankets away and see and touch and taste everything, but there’s no room for it now. His tip is pressed to a puckered hole, and he can feel how it’s been stretched and slicked with liquid. Findaráto presses in, at the same time pushing down, while Ñolofinwë fights not to buck up all at once and impale his gorgeous nephew in one fell swoop.
Bit by bit, Findaráto takes it, and the first pop inside is everything. It seems to be the one place the Grinding Ice can’t touch. The lubrication squelches around him and eases the way, Findaráto’s walls insanely tight but fluttering to part, and Findaráto pants and whines and gasps, each new noise an aphrodisiac in itself. Ñolofinwë is grateful for every centimeter he gets. A final push, and he’s all the way in, buried to the hilt, and Findaráto wilts against him; Ñolofinwë holds Findaráto tight.
It’s so good. He’s missed this. He didn’t know how much he needed it. He’s not sure he’d pick any other partner for it. Findaráto shudders against him and groans into his neck, then rises up again to find Ñolofinwë’s mouth. They share a long, languid kiss, bristling with anticipation, and then Findaráto pulls back enough to murmur against Ñolofinwë’s lips, “I knew you would feel this right inside me. You make me whole, Uncle.”
“You honour me,” Ñolofinwë answers.
He means to ask, then, for permission to move, but finds he can’t wait—his hips stutter up, slamming them tightly together, and Findaráto cries out and digs ten fingers into Ñolofinwë’s shoulders. Findaráto buckles forward, only to gasp in breath and straighten again, begging, “Please, more, please, take me—” And like this, Ñolofinwë would deny Findaráto nothing.
He reaches for Findaráto’s hips and uses all the strength he can to lift Findaráto up, then throws Findaráto down, and Findaráto goes, screaming again and arching in a bawdy cacophony that won’t make it far past this tent in all the rapid winds. On the next thrust, Findaráto moves, rising himself to fall again, quickly catching on to Ñolofinwë’s rhythm, and Findaráto bounces with it—he’s all lean muscle, but he’s light enough, even in all the extra fabric still draped around him, though there’s a line of naked skin straight up his body that Ñolofinwë keeps trying to pause to ogle. When there isn’t enough room without displacing the blankets, Ñolofinwë only crushes him close to feel, to grind their bare chests together. Findaráto’s cock pulses thickly against Ñolofinwë’s stomach, and he spares one hand to squeeze between them and wrap around it. Findaráto writhes in delight and rewards him with more kisses.
Findaráto helps—lifts up and down where he can—but Ñolofinwë’s power has come back in full force, and he does the brunt of it. He slams himself hard into his nephew’s pliant body and drags himself out, pumping Findaráto at the same time, still catching Findaráto’s tongue and letting that other hand stray—he cups Findaráto’s ass, sliding down beneath the breeches to squeeze each round cheek—propriety means nothing now. He’s already fallen. He’s fucking his own nephew, harder than he ever has any other lover—Findaráto was right, he needed this. It rekindles everything. Findaráto’s body is a forge. He slams into it again and again and paws at Findaráto’s handsome frame—pinches his rear, runs up the curve of his spine, twists into his hair to tug it, then back around to feel all over his chest and thumb each nipple, perked already, down again to ruffle through the blond hair around his cock and back along his waist. Findaráto is a work of art. Ñolofinwë feels blessed to have this.
He feels rapturous. In this moment, there’s nothing else. He lets himself drown in the pleasure of it, the impossible, all-consuming pleasure, the heat and height freely given to him. When he feels himself nearing the edge, he tries to hold back, because he vaguely remembers the misery before this and wouldn’t go back—he’d stay in Findaráto forever if he could, make his entire existence fucking this beautiful being down into the snow—
But Findaráto’s love is too palpable. He kisses with it, he rides Ñolofinwë with it, and he purrs around the tongue in his mouth, “Ñolofinwë...” And that’s all there is left.
Ñolofinwë’s comes with a torrential roar, surging forward hard enough to throw Findaráto back into the blankets, but Findaráto only cries out delightedly and grips him all the harder. Ñolofinwë rewards him for it with steady pumps to his cock, still in time with the last thrusts of Ñolofinwë’s hips—he milks everything out, pours it all into Findaráto’s broiling rear. Ñolofinwë blankets him and crushes him and rides each wave of ecstasy to the end.
Even when there’s nothing left, Ñolofinwë still thrusts inside. His hips slow, the force taken out of them, but he can’t stop all at once, and Findaráto moans beneath him, spilling into his hand with the most erotic noises Ñolofinwë’s ever heard. Findaráto is enchanting, even through the post-orgasmic haze. Fingolfin grinds him slowly into the blankets until sheer exhaustion stops it.
Even then, head coming down, body cooling down, drenched in a thin layer of sweat, Ñolofinwë feels good. Their chests are still glued together. Ñolofinwë takes a minute to slide his aching cock out of Findaráto’s stifling body, only for Findaráto to whine and squirm beneath him. When he tries to get up on his hands and knees, Findaráto holds him down.
Findaráto holds their foreheads together, eyes shut, and seems to just drink it in. Ñolofinwë understands. He presses a light kiss to Findaráto’s panting lips and murmurs, “Thank you. ...That did help.”
Findaráto dons a weak smile. He sighs, “Then we should repeat it every time we rest, to ensure our king has the strength to go on.”
Ñolofinwë chuckles. He knows he should deny the offer but finds he can’t. He makes no promises, only mutters, “Let me worry of that.” Findaráto nods.
Findaráto curls into him. Ñolofinwë tries to adjust, to lie down beside Findaráto so his weight isn’t a problem, and they entangle themselves again, back into a safe cocoon. Even somewhat undressed and spent, it’s warmer with two. The endless path doesn’t seem quite so hopeless like this.
Findaráto is the first to fall asleep. It comes quick, all the energy gone, and it leaves Ñolofinwë free to promise, “I will get you through this.” Then he kisses Findaráto’s forehead and dares to close his eyes.