(For @mallornblossom, who deserves the best things, and for @fingons-rad-harp, who helped me think of some soft Russingon situations...and for me, because I need it right now.)
He lay across his husband's chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Every thump, thump was another reminder, another reassurance that this was real, that Russandol was really here with him, that there was no losing him again. Russo's arms were tight about him, his grip firm yet gentle, clinging to him with the same desperate relief Finno felt in his own heart, in his own fëa.
Their bond was still frayed at the edges, its threads tangling in their eagerness to reacquaint themselves with one another's spirit, not weaving together with the ease they once had known. It would take time to braid that light and song that made up their souls into the harmony that would bring them the most joy -- not again, for their first lives had been full of such pain and grief and creeping horror that the respite they found in their hidden places and passionate moments was not strong enough to balance the weight of their inevitable doom -- but for the very first time, with all the wonder and unknown fulfilment it could bring. But though the strings were stitched clumsily, as if picked apart by an anxious child and pulled back into place with trembling hands, they had every tool available with which to work, every note in the scale to sing. They would get it right, eventually; until then, Findekáno marveled that there was more to be discovered in this reforged connection, that the happiness filling his entire being paled in comparison to what lay ahead.
Russandol's heartbeat slowed steadily, his breathing growing deeper as he drifted into sleep. Findekáno knew he would follow his husband soon to Irmo's domain, but for now he basked in the warm glow of love that Russo radiated even unconsciously. His embrace loosened, and Finno snuggled even closer to his beloved, beyond grateful for Russo's trust and comfort around him. It had been hard won, and he was determined to treasure every moment his husband let it show.
Thump...thump... Findekáno smiled sleepily, wrapping his limbs around his husband's ridiculously long torso. He never wanted to let Russandol go -- and it was only with the reassurance that he never had to, if only in spirit, that he allowed himself to slip into a dream.
He woke to a slight tugging at his scalp, not insistent enough to forebode physical excitement, but rhythmic and repetitive. The right side of his head was a frizzy mess; the left was tightly braided, with steady hands (hands!) working to finish the job.
The feeling was soft, soothing, sensual -- not arousing, exactly, but so comforting and grounding that Findekáno thought he might burst from all the love within him.
"Love you," he mumbled, his eyes half-opening to see the concentrated frown on his husband's lips turn upward into a smile. Russandol leaned forward to kiss him, as gentle as the movement of his hands, and Findekáno memorized the feel of his husband's lips against his own.
"Love you," Russo echoed. "I dreamed of you. I didn't want it to end, at first -- so many of my dreams, they were of you, and coming back to reality broke me every time. But this time I opened my eyes to see you, feel your weight on my chest, your limbs sprawled all around me...it was the best feeling. I need it always. I need you always."
"You have me," Findekáno promised, and as his husband finished one braid and moved to the next he reached out a thread of gold to Russandol's copper, strands of their fëar mingling and melding in their minds. He felt his own fingers at work in his hair, felt his own weight on his chest; he felt the relaxation reverberating through him with every gentle pull at his scalp, felt his own body move up and down with each of his breaths. They were one in that moment, united in heart and soul, melting into one another's bodies as much as they did their spirits.
It wasn't perfect; it wasn't forever. After a moment the sensation faded and Findekáno fell back into himself... but the pattern stayed, in both his hair and his fëa, and he knew with a certainty born of sacrifice, of peace, that it would always remain.
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