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I headcannon that after 3rd Kinslaying, and especially after Elrond and Elros left them in whatever fashion, Maedhros was a total dick to Maglor.
You know how sometimes old or sick people are nice to neighbours/nurses/strangers, but are horrible to their primal caretakers? That's them.
People aren't dicks to their caretakers just to be dicks - it's because they are often frustrated with themselves or their situation and don't know how else to deal with it or they can't deal with it the usual way. It also happens because, paradoxally, they feel safe around their caretakers - you can be a dick because you know they won't leave just because of that.
And boy, did Maglor cast himself in a role of caretaker (let's not kid ourselves, he wasn't qualified, and with his own problems to boot), and BOY, did Maedhros resent him for it. He did not NEED help, he did not DESERVE help, he's not another kidnapped child MAGLOR, I'M the older brother, I should take care of YOU YOU WRECK, WHY DO I ALWAYS HAVE TO BABYSIT YOU GROW UP ALREADY and leave me Nothing is EVER your fault, even when you left me to Angband as you should Why would you care now, it amounted to NOTHING before, it's WORTHLESS
And about half the time Maglor just takes it, actually likes it even. Mostly because of his guilt complex about how he deserves it, but also because Maedhros is only like this with him - he's trying his best to pretend to be fine and be a leader to few followers they have left, because they deserve better and that's the only thing he can give them now, and their brothers are all dead and would always be Too Little to act like that around them anyway. Maedhros would behave himself even around Fingon, to make him think rescuing him was worth something. So by being a dick to Maglor, Meadhros sees him as an equal, a safe haven. Maglor basks in that.
But obviously no one could just take such abuse like it's nothing, and Maglor is a Feanorian too, is prideful and stubborn, with his own laundry list of complains about Maedhros, and also unwell, and also thought of a new insult while lying awake at night and just wants to yell too. So half the time Maglor yells back and their yelling matches would bring orcs to tears, with hate and blame dripping from every word. I don't have enough imagination to picture it realistically, and actually I don't want to, it's too heartbreaking.
And sometimes, one or the other just starts crying. They don't talk about these times.
After some time, their arguments and insults are just a noise, something to repeat endlessly to the point of boredom.
By then, what actually hurts are the words that were not meant to harm.
Example 1:
Maedhros: 'did an all-night inspection of their stores cause he couldn't sleep' I found a herb you always liked to wash your hair with.
Maglor: 'doesn't remember last time he washed his hair, no less scented them'
Maglor: 'choked up' Appreciated.
Example 2:
Maedhros: 'feels like he's dragging Maglor to damnation with him' You could go with the twins, you know.
Maglor: 'doesn't want to upset Maedhros today so decides to pretend as if that was actually an option' Vanyar would probably like my singing but you know they would get mad at you for having better battle plans than them.
Maedhros: 'now KNOWS he's dragging Maglor to damnation with him'
If instead of JD leaving he’s just like WE ARE GOING HIKING and throws premade camping bags at each of the brothers and he makes them all go hiking together (he wasn’t going to include Branch cause Branch doesn’t have issues with anyone and he’s a baby but Rosiepuff was all like haha no he’s going with to keep the peace) and instead of radio silence for 20 years, Branch’s abandonments issues and John Dory thinking everyone is dead for years, we force them to take a walk for their mental health and get some fresh air and fresh perspective.
y'know what I haven't said shit about this cause I literally wasn't involved but the finger pointing has to fucking stop. I just woke up an hour ago. mox has been asleep and is still asleep. (she has a queue running !!!!) she's not sending shit. it's not cute. it's festering a negative space for no reason. stop posting about it. believe it or not you're the one acting like a child here. move on
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“Ready?” Tim asked. He took a last look over the microphone on the desk in front of him, then sideways at Dick and Damian, arranged on either side of him, a few feet away, with their own microphones.
Dick held up a sheet of paper. “I have the question list.”
“I think that’s it, then.”
“Are we supposed to do some kind of intro?”
“Uh, unclear.” Tim snapped his fingers and leaned into his microphone.
“This is a podcast-interview thing,” he said. “We’re answering questions. Okay, I nailed the intro, so let’s hear the first one on the list.”
“Can somebody please explain Bruce Wayne’s family?” Dick read. “I know he has a bunch of kids, but I can’t figure out how many or where he got them from.”
“Interesting phrasing on the back half of that,” said Tim. “I feel like something expensive that went on sale.”
He clutched a hand to an imaginary necklace in feigned admiration. “Why Bruce! You must tell me where you got those!”
“You were never expensive,” said Damian. “Perhaps a grocery check-out display?”
Tim sighed and turned sideways, so he could look Damian in the face. “Being honest, I didn’t think you knew enough about shopping to make that joke.”
“Understandable.”
“I would never set you up on purpose.”
“I know.”
“Let’s get back to the question,” Dick suggested. “Can somebody please explain Bruce Wayne’s family?”
“I don’t know,” said Tim. He swung back towards the microphone, grimacing. “Maybe? It’s complicated.”
“Complicated,” Dick repeated, flatly.
“Yeah, complicated.”
“It’s your own family.”
“That doesn’t make it simple,” said Damian.
“Do we get time to make an outline?” Tim asked, emboldened by the unexpected support. “Before we do our presentation?”
Damian half-smiled at that, while Dick looked the two of them over with a skeptical expression.
“Are you telling me you don’t understand our own timeline?”
Tim waved a hand in a why-are-you-looking-at-me kind of gesture. “What, does anybody?”
“I do.”
“You experienced it linearly! We came in partway through, it’s different.”
“Unbelievable.”
“You take the question then.”
“If the two of you can’t manage it,” said Dick, with a distinctly sarcastic shrug.
“Obviously I can do it,” said Tim, suddenly defensive. He knew Dick was trying to get a rise, but Dick was good at that, and it was working. “I’m just saying it’s a confusing story.”
Tim pointed in Damian’s direction. “Back me up.”
“Absolutely not.”
“We can take turns,” said Dick, apparently satisfied with his victory. “Okay. Thomas and Martha Wayne died when Bruce was eight years old. Nineteen years after that, when Bruce was twenty-seven, he attended Haly’s Circus the night two acrobats fell to their deaths during a trapeze routine. Bruce took in their surviving son, me.”
Dick held up a finger. “My name is Dick Grayson, and I was Bruce’s ward from age twelve until the day I turned eighteen.”
“Which is different that being adopted,” Tim put in, “so bear that in mind for later.”
“Right. At eighteen, I became an adult, so Bruce wasn’t my guardian anymore. A year after that, Bruce met and adopted Jason Todd.”
“The second child he took in,” said Tim.
“But the first child he adopted,” said Damian.
“Exactly,” said Dick. “In that moment, Bruce was thirty-four with one former ward and one adopted son— which again, are distinct concepts.”
Tim nodded. “Jason Todd passed away three years after his adoption, when he was fifteen.”
“I never met him,” said Damian, straight-faced.
“Me neither,” said Tim, like he hadn’t spoken to Jason that morning. “I did meet Bruce though, at around that time.”
“The next few years are… harder to explain, I guess,” said Dick.
Tim raised an eyebrow in Damian’s direction, shaking his head in mock disgust. “See? Now he admits it.”
“Unbelievable.”
“The nerve.” Tim grinned as smugly as he could manage, so that Dick could see. Was Tim being difficult on purpose? Absolutely. Was he going to change that? Absolutely not.
“Right, it can be my turn. I’m Tim Drake, and I met Bruce when I was thirteen years old.”
“I was…” Dick glanced upwards, like he was trying to remember— or, failing that, calculate. “Right now you’re…?”
“Do you not know my age?”
“I probably do.” Dick tapped a finger against the desk a few times, looking pensive. Eventually, he gave up.
“I’m blanking.”
“Congratulations, Damian,” said Tim. “You are no longer my least favorite sibling.”
“I was your least favorite?” Damian asked, with such innocence that Tim couldn’t stop himself from bursting out laughing.
It took him a few moments to regain control. “You looks so proud of yourself,” he told Damian, as soon as he could.
“Thank you, I am.”
“I’m writing you both out of my will,” muttered Dick, “as soon as we get home.”
“Shame.” Tim swiped a sweatshirt sleeve over his eyes, still grinning. “I had my eye on your terrible CD collection.”
“The estate in its entirety, I believe,” said Damian.
“Shut up,” said Dick. “Keep answering the question.”
“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute.” Tim held up a hand to count on his fingers. “We did circus, Jason, Jason’s death— oh right, me. I met Bruce when I was thirteen and Dick was twenty-two, which would make Bruce thirty-seven.”
“I would have gotten there eventually.”
“Go to hell. Two years after that, when Bruce was thirty-nine, he met our sister, Cassandra Cain.”
“She was seventeen then,” said Damian.
Dick nodded. “Simplifying, we met her through a family friend. That same year, Bruce adopted me.”
“Which puts Father at thirty-nine with two sons—”
“One deceased,” added Tim.
“Having already met Tim and Cass,” Dick finished.
“Now if you think that’s confusing,” said Tim, gesturing broadly, “you’re right, it is.”
Damian nodded. “It gets even worse.”
“Yeah. For another two years we were— again, simplifying— in roughly the same place. After that, Bruce adopted me—”
“—making my life even worse.”
“Shut up, you weren’t even around yet. At forty-one, Bruce had three sons, one deceased.”
“That’s Todd.”
“And then came—”
“Me.” Damian raised his own hand. “My name is Damian Wayne, and I am my father’s genetic son. We met for the first time when Father was forty-one, and I was ten.”
“Four sons,” said Dick. “By age it’s me, Jason, Tim, Damian.”
“But from Bruce’s perspective,” said Tim, “Jason, then Dick, then me, then Damian.”
“I’d note,” said Damian, “that I was born several years before Todd’s adoption, and since I have been a Wayne from the beginning, I am both my father’s youngest child and his first child, whether he was aware of me or not.”
“But wait!” Tim interjected. “There’s more!”
“We’re almost done,” said Dick. “We already mentioned meeting our sister Cassandra. Bruce adopted her formally after Damian arrived, while Bruce was still forty-one.”
“Which means,” said Tim, “that we can do a final tally. Damian?”
“Yes?”
“Assist me. We have Dick—”
“Alive,” said Damian.
“Jason—”
“Not alive.”
“Cass—”
“Alive.”
“Me—”
“Alive, regrettably.”
“And you.”
“Yes.” Damian sat back in his chair. Tim leaned forwards in his, so he could put his elbows down on the desk.
“That’s pretty much it,” he said. “I won’t say how old we are right now, because it turns out Dick doesn’t know, and I don’t want to help him.”
Dick rolled his eyes. “I barely know my own age.”
“You’re eighty. One thousand, nine hundred, and forty. Some other number. I don’t know, why would I remember a very basic fact about my own family member?”
“To be fair to him,” Damian put in, “you are very forgettable.”
“And you’re my least favorite again.”
“Shame. As a last fact, I’d also note that Martha and Thomas Wayne died when Father was very young, so he was primarily raised by the butler.”
“That’s Alfred,” Tim agreed, “and his formal title is butler, but he’s also, you know, our grandfather.”
“Can we move to another question now?”
“I guess?” Tim looked over at Dick for confirmation.
