there are terrors in your halls

More often than not, Fëanor sends Melkor away from Formenos as soon as they are finished. Tells him in whispers even as their bodies are still pressed together to get out, be gone, go far away from here and never return, long-burning hatred fueling the words till his voice cracks from yelling. And Melkor abides by the elf's words, dresses and leaves without a word (but returns like clockwork to an open door). This is their usual arrangement, because Fëanor can hardly stand the sight of the vala, can hardly bear to have him walk the halls that he calls sanctuary.

Tonight it is different; Fëanor is silent, distracted, busying himself with meaningless touches. Drifting slender fingers across a pale shoulder, combing knots out of silver hair with none too gentle tugs. Melkor tips his head to one side in a mimicry of childish curiosity, cold though his eyes remain.

"Is something the matter, Finwion?" he asks, and Fëanor pauses briefly in the motions; nods yes, switches to plaiting slender tresses with deft movements.

"Let me braid this for you, Belegûr," and it is not so much a request as a command--Melkor laughs and says nothing, but neither does he move away. The actions of a lover--he is as repulsed as he is amused by the thought, but it is better than being sent away, and anything that keeps him in these halls, keeps him close to his flame (he hardly knows himself if he means the jewels or the elf) is worth enduring.

The vala can feel more than see the elf threading something into the plaits as they form, but every time he turns to see Fëanor holds his head in place, reaching round to grip his jaw with bruising force and glaring wordlessly at the back of his head. But the craftsman works swiftly, and before long Melkor is able to run his fingers through loose braids and see the almost-perfect gems glinting in the dawn light radiating from Laurelin's boughs. They have been here a while, he remarks in distant thought, as his blood runs cold and then fiercely hot at the sight of this--mockery, taunt, shameful show of power and superiority, a baited hook that Melkor cannot help but take.

Fëanor lets out a peal of laughter as the vala's jaw clenches. "Are they not lovely?" he remarks idly, rolling a spare between his fingers and peering with a critical eye at their facets. "I made them just for you."

Melkor lurches to his feet despite himself. He had forgotten, in amongst the touches and the soft words, distracted by how much gentler the night had felt. He had forgotten Fëanor's dangers, forgotten how much the elf despised him, forgotten all that drew them together in the first place. And now Fëanor is laughing at him, is smiling beatifically up at him as though he were blameless. The vala has never hated him as much as he does in this moment, and he knows that the feeling is mutual, and he knows that as much as he wants to leave that he will return.

So he goes.

And the next day he sears the skin on his palms till it singes, and he finds himself with his back pressed hard against the floor and his dear Finwion's fingers clenched tight around his throat, and he knows from the fear behind the elf's burning eyes that he has won.