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Language:
English
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Published:
2015-01-05
Completed:
2020-04-30
Words:
12,439
Chapters:
8/8
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82
Kudos:
188
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Suggestive in movement, sight and sound

Summary:

There was a line. On one side, the righteous and good: their honored forebears, tireless sentinels against the destruction of Morgoth and his protegé. On the other, the wicked: betrayers, deceivers, Kinslayers—and kin-lovers. They would not cross the line, but sometimes they walked on it like a tightrope.

Notes:

I read a Elladan/Elrohir fic recently that was not my thing, but had an offhand mention of an idea I found intriguing: that they wouldn't touch each other in a certain way because it was 'going too far.' This is what came of that rolling around in my head.

(Title is from "Pandora" by Splashdown. The song seems very apropos for this fic.)

Chapter 1: Identical

Chapter Text

Say what you will about Maeglin the Traitor, Elrohir thought, but I am grateful for his mistakes.

They had first heard his tale as elflings in Glorfindel’s lessons. When it came to the matter of Idril—Maeglin’s cousin, and their own ancestor—Elrohir’s eyes had met Elladan’s. Pay attention, I think this is important. (Their shared thoughts weren’t exactly in words, but that was the gist.) But it hadn’t been necessary—Elladan was listening just as hard, and they both knew when the lesson was done what it meant.

There was a line. On one side, the righteous and good: their honored forebears, tireless sentinels against the destruction wrought by Morgoth and his protegé. On the other, the wicked: betrayers, deceivers, Kinslayers—and kin-lovers; servants of the dark and villains of the history books. Goodness was no guarantee of a good end, but wickedness was an assurance of a bad one.

Unlike poor Maeglin, they had begun life on the right side of the line, raised as they were by champions of the light; but even so, it seemed they had been born very close to it, and would have to mind their steps to keep from straying over.

It was lucky that they learned then, when romance was a dim adult notion and the desires of the flesh were not even within their scope of knowledge. Their coming of age had been difficult enough without stumbling unknowing into the condemnation of the Valar. Those years had been marked by moodiness, sulking, picking fights with one another; but they both knew it could have been so much worse.

As adults, Elrohir and his brother were in perfect accord. They moved like dancers, synchronous in everything; people understood that. What they did not understand was how literal the comparison was—how choreographed their every action was.

Which was not to say their synchronicity was manufactured. They fell into it naturally, as easily as breathing; but the only time they left it entirely to instinct was when they fought side-by-side. At any other time, sleeping or waking, in company or alone, they were being... careful. Measured.

There was a line, and they must keep on this side of it.

~

Elrohir lay awake, aching.

It was not lost on him that Elladan—friendly, jovial, but absolutely-untouchable-by-almost-everyone-else Elladan—only slept soundly when he was curled close at Elrohir’s back, hand outstretched between them, palm resting lightly against his spine. They didn’t always sleep side-by-side, especially when they’d drawn too close to the line and things were dangerous between them; sometimes Elladan slept in his own bed. Those were the times when he thrashed in his sleep and rose too early, unrested.

Tonight he slept peacefully in his accustomed place. He had shifted a little in slumber, so only his fingertips were still in contact; Elrohir’s skin burned beneath the touch, regardless. At the moment, he was skirting close to the line and he knew it. Maybe not too close, though, if Elladan stayed asleep.

He unfastened his sleep trousers and took himself in hand, keeping as still and quiet as he could. His strokes were slow and measured, less from any particular wish to draw things out than in an attempt not to disturb his twin. Just for the moment, he let himself relax a little, indulging in the thoughts he typically kept submerged.

To be honest, the things he imagined were almost laughably tame. They had long since agreed that thoughts didn’t count—or rather, if they did, they had both been damned since birth anyway. But being so careful became a habit, and besides, he did crave the simple things of his imaginings—sometimes so acutely it felt like dying of hunger, or thirst.

He didn’t dream of his brother’s fingers wrapped around his cock. No, instead he imagined lying on his back, touching himself just the way he was now; but with Elladan’s mouth on his, deep desperate kisses stealing his breath. Elladan’s fingertips stroking the point of his ear. Elladan gathering him up into his arms, holding him close until he gasped and came, murmuring against his temple all the things they never gave voice to.

Despite his best efforts, Elladan had come awake at some point—the fingertips against his back flattened into a whole palm again, and Elladan shifted closer. They didn’t touch, except at that one point, but Elrohir was fiercely aware of his brother’s proximity. He could have stopped then, awful though it would have been; but then Elladan kissed the point of his shoulder, and the window for discretion had passed. They would not cross the line, but sometimes they walked on it like a tightrope.

Elrohir shuddered, his breath catching in his throat, as Elladan kissed inwards along the ridge of his shoulder. The kisses were not inherently unchaste; he did not linger too long, or brush along the skin, only pressing closed lips briefly and firmly to one point before lifting away and moving on. He could have come up behind Elrohir in any hallway of their father’s house, grabbed him by the upper arms, and pressed such a kiss to his shoulder without raising a single eyebrow. He probably had done at one time or another.

But this was something different altogether. With no shirt to separate lips from skin; with Elladan’s kisses moving inward from the safety of Elrohir’s shoulder towards the very dangerous territory of his neck; with Elrohir’s trousers pushed down over his hips and his cock in hand, the difference was as vast as that between sparring with a wooden sword and marching into battle with it.

Elladan veered off course at the last moment, pressing a last long kiss to the knob of Elrohir’s spine where neck and shoulders met, another relatively safe spot. Elrohir was relieved; he was close now, and he hadn’t wanted Elladan to stop, but he certainly couldn’t have continued on his previous path. But then an image came to him, unbidden—he couldn’t tell if it it was from his own mind or from Elladan’s. Vividly, he imagined Elladan pushing his hair to one side, leaning in, biting down on the nape of his neck.

For one intense, fraught moment, they both thought he was actually going to do it. That alone was enough to send Elrohir over the edge, though Elladan flung himself away at the last second, sitting up at the edge of the bed facing away from his twin as he fought to get his breath back.

After a few moments he stood and crossed the dark room. Elrohir cleaned himself up, burning with guilt, expecting to hear the door at any moment. He lay down again, castigating himself for his selfishness, for ruining Elladan’s rest and his own. But the sound of the door never came; and just as he was slipping into sleep, there came again the warm press of a palm against his back.