#firemight

MONA!!! HI! sorry this took me so long i was having a mental breakdown over it <3 But here it is!!! <3

Also everyone read the tags they hold important info, thank you <3

Prompt 28: As a lie.

Pairing: Fëanor/Melkor

They meet under the starlit sky and the mingling light of the Trees.

It is easy for them to slip unnoticed into one of the secluded gardens of Tirion, known only to a select few. Fëanor, draped in his black cloak, conceals the colors of his Father's House. Melkor, clad in darkness, blends seamlessly with the night.

It has become a habit. A pastime of sorts that both of them seem to enjoy. They sit together in the dark of the night, exchanging ideas and thoughtful words. Despite Melkor's past transgressions, Fëanor feels a sense of ease around the Vala. Each time, he allows himself to get closer to him, to get entangled in Melkor’s words.

Melkor is nothing like he had first thought. He is everything a Vala should be, majestic, just, and regal. He speaks and Fëanor listens, each word is like a gentle breeze against his face in the endless heat of the summer. Melkor moves gracefully across the garden, as if he can’t contain his restless energy, not after three ages of imprisonment. 

Fëanor leans against one of the walls of the garden and observes him as Melkor's fingers hover near the flowers, hesitant yet lingering. His hands possess the power to create and to destroy—a duality Fëanor has come to understand well. 

"Isn't this exquisite, Fëanor?" Melkor inquires softly, his fingertips brushing the petals of a flower. Fëanor watches, unsurprised, as the petals wilt and fall, the flower decaying slowly before his eyes. "How fragile they are."

“I've never had much interest in flowers,” Fëanor answers truthfully. His hands bear the marks of his work in the forges, his palms and fingers rough and calloused from the hours spent holding a hammer. 

“I know,” Melkor says, cutting the dead flower by its stem. “But surely, you can appreciate the beauty of decay.” 

He turns to face Fëanor, his eyes glinting in the faint glow of the Light. He reaches his hand out to give the flower to him, yet Fëanor pushes away from the wall and walks towards him. He stands in front of Melkor, craning his head back to meet his gaze. He is tall but the Vala towers over him. Fëanor reaches out, their fingers brushing as he takes the flower from Melkor's hand.

“Indeed,” he answers, and his voice comes across as a whisper. They are so close that Fëanor can finally look upon his face closely, his eyes wandering over the lines between his eyebrows and the curve of his nose. Melkor’s eyes, he realizes, have speckles of dark gray  beneath the red. 

Fëanor's gaze lingers on Melkor's mouth, contemplating the curiosity that has stirred within him for so long. He hesitates. He shouldn’t be doing this. Yet he leans in, so close to Melkor’s mouth that he can feel his breath on his lips. 

Melkor’s lips twitch in a smile and his hand comes up to cradle Fëanor’s cheek, the scent of the flower lingering on his fingers. It's an intoxicating scent that loosens Fëanor's inhibitions, drawing him nearer as Melkor closes the distance between them.

But just before their lips meet, Melkor pauses, a mere whisper separating them from what they both have been waiting for.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs, and his voice reaches Fëanor slowly, as if it is miles away.

“I don’t,” Fëanor lies.

Before he can regret it, he closes the distance between them, pressing his lips against Melkor’s in a tentative kiss. Melkor meets his kiss with shared passion, pushing him back against the wall he was leaning on moments ago. 

The flower is long forgotten.