Work Text:
Fingon sometimes wishes he didn't have to steal Maedhros away from all the meetings when he comes to Barad Eithel. There's the councils, of course, and the discussions of taxation and building roads, the state dinners, the bringing of news from the Marches. And there's also the private meetings he has with Fingon and his father, more personal but still, fundamentally, about politics.
So Fingon often steals him from his meetings, a beloved prince flying from councils with his dear friend. He takes him to his chambers, gives him trinkets and invites him on long walks tomorrow, half asking, half ordering. And he sits on the bed with him, Maedhros's head in his lap, talking for long hours, until day turns to night and to day again.
And if he cannot steal Maedhros, he steals moments, a whispered joke, a caress of his hand. And he dreams of stealing even more wild things, not moments, but centuries. The whole of Maedhros's future, once the war ends. They are not at war today, Maedhros says, always looking at a tomorrow darker than Fingon’s, but Fingon hopes, and plots, and steals moments that turn to hours to days to years to forever.