thank you for the tags, @ffigwit @starspray @riding-with-the-wild-hunt ! enjoy a scrap of curufin (whom i always find so hard to write) and celebrimbor from the prayers!au finale, narrated here by celebrimbor… no pressure tags @gaydhros @zealouswerewolfcollector @tobermoriansass @isilme-among-the-stars @feyandferal ❤️
“What I still don’t understand, Celebrimbor,” sighing, my father leaned back against the easy-chair. “Is why, when you first spoke to me of your homosexuality all those years ago, was I not the first you told. Why I wasn’t even the first Fëanorian you told. Why you told your uncle before you told your father. You never even liked Maedhros much, often implied how much you hate his brand of thuggish, offensive, and outdated hypermasculinity, so it’s not even like you expected any advice on homosexuality from that end. Yet still, Celebrimbor, it was him you turned to first. Why, hm? Have I given you cause to assume I am prejudiced?”
I laughed, hoping he wouldn’t catch on to how the airy, dismissive hand I waved was in fact an anxiously clenched fist. “Well, there is the KK Express. Maybe that engine still whistles through my brain.”
Baba glared at me, and frankly fair enough, because the excuse sounds weak even to me. Of course my not-telling-him had nothing to do with the KK Express, which was a bizarre joke Celegorm and Curufin had developed in their adolescence and carried on into middle age, involving the two facing the same way and thrusting against each other whilst making train noises, in a mimicry of both the Kerala-to-Karnataka express train as well as the sex lives of Maedhros and Finnu. I was not so much traumatised by the KK Express as I was perplexed by its direction, confused as to why the fuck anyone would do that. I thought it was almost funny!
My not-telling-him wasn’t because I feared he would be unkind, disown me, or thrash me. He wouldn’t, and he didn’t. When I told him at last, he was kind, hadn’t even expressed surprise, never once treated me any differently. Hell, he even decommissioned the KK Express. He was nothing like Finnu’s father, nothing like his own. If I were not the son of Curufin Fëanorian, I would have assumed that he was fine with it. That he was understanding, and that I was incredibly lucky, because what Indian father would ever swallow such a pill so smoothly? But I am the son of Curufin Fëanorian, and Curufin Fëanorian proved that his son was indeed right to instinctively withhold this truth from him for years.
He was kind, like I said. He told me he was happy with my decision, nodding along politely, albeit gingerly, whenever I spoke about my boyfriends. He seemed the paragon of acceptance, a father first and foremost, a dusty spinning wheel saluting the birth of a progressive new millennium. Never have I found even a shred of disgust in his eyes. He did right by me. But ever since the day I told him I was gay, Curufin Fëanorian never once turned up for Eid at the cliff-house, never once stepped foot in the house his father built. He would often invite his brothers to come stay at our place instead, three at a time. He would send presents for the twins’ birthdays, but make Maglor hand them over. He would go on disastrously exciting extended holidays with Celegorm at least twice a year. He never spoke to Maedhros-uncle again.
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