Maitimo says it with flowers, romantic that he is, knowing that his father will find the meaning in every blossom.
The first of them, a red camellia, Fëanáro finds on his desk one morning. As he picks it up, he is already running through the meanings of the flower, which is called by the common people flameheart. It becomes clear: he inspires someone, someone is devoted to him, someone considers him to have kindled a flame in their hearts.
It isn't until the next day, in the dining room just before dinner, that he finds the next one lying by his plate. He is alone in the room as he lifts it and presses it close to his breast, a red chrysanthemum, a message that means only one thing: I love.
So. He has a secret admirer. Not just someone who he has inspired, but someone who loves him. He pins the flower to his tunic and wears it all through dinner. If Maitimo is slightly more clumsy with his plates, if he lifts his head to speak a few times and then drops away, Fëanáro notices it only briefly in passing, and does not connect the flower he wears with Maitimo's blushes.
The next flower is a red carnation, and this time it is accompanied with a note. "My heart aches for you," it reads, in graceful, flowing script, using his own Tengwar. It is clearly the hand of a master scribe, and Fëanáro begins to wonder. Of those who could have written that note, and actually would have done, there are few.
Nerdanel would never do anything as subtle as leave flowers where he'd find them. Most of his apprentices or followers don't have as fair a hand as this. For a moment the word Maitimo crosses his mind, followed by a smile to himself. The thought of his well-formed firstborn never fails to make him smile, but surely he is not the one who is leaving him flowers, is he?
A day or two goes by, and then in his bedroom, lying on his dressing table, is one single red rose in full bloom, accompanied by a reproduction of the flower in gold, each petal painted a bright red, each leaf in green. It is a beautiful thing he has been given, and not only is his admirer a master scribe and educated to the sum of knowledge of all the Eldar, but a master crafter, too. And there is only one person he knows who matches all of these gifts, other than he himself, of course.
Maitimo. It has to be Maitimo. He settles back with the real rose on his bed, leaving the golden one on the dressing table, and ponders. That his own son would declare his love in explicitly romantic terms is...unusual. Forbidden, perhaps. But not unprecedented, and, to his own surprise, not unwelcome.
He raises the rose to his lips, inhaling deeply of its sweet scent, and decides to wait. He was, after all, not sure beyond any doubt, and Maitimo was still young, only recently an adult. Best to let affairs proceed at Maitimo's pace.
Still holding the rose in his hand, he falls asleep. Soft dreams overwhelm him, and he sees bright copper hair falling over him, Maitimo's voice whispering endearments in a tone he has never heard from his son before.
The memory of his dreams lingers throughout the following day. It is a dreary, cloudy, wet day, and despite the rain Nerdanel must go to Tirion to unveil her latest statue. She takes Macalaurë with her, and the house goes silent.
Maitimo is nowhere to be seen all day, and Fëanáro potters about, doing odd jobs here and there at his desk or in the forges. He becomes engrossed in a small fiddly project, a matter of a gem that will not sit right in its base no matter what he does, and when he's finally got it settled, the beginning of a headache creeping at his temples, silver light is spreading over the land.
He goes in the house, deciding he isn't hungry after all, and heads for his bedroom. A candle flickers from his dressing table as he pushes open the door, and he wonders who might have left one there. The door opens wide, revealing the bed, atop of which Maitimo lies in a short silver silken robe, asleep, and atop him, one last flower -- a brilliantly red poppy.
Fëanáro gently tiptoes over to the bed, looking down at his son with new eyes that seemed to caress the length and breadth of him, from the miles-long legs to the beautiful face, relaxed in repose, and all parts in-between. He could not help but linger on the bulge at his crotch with a sort of half-suppressed gasp of desire at his own thoughts, at the knowledge of what he wanted.
A poppy symbolised pleasure. This last gift was romance only by dint of how it was given, for this was not devotion or chaste love. This was need and desire. This was Maitimo's blush at every touch, at every soft word, for the last year. This was the softly-panted breath, the surreptitious hand over himself, that Fëanáro had witnessed a few weeks earlier as they sat together on a bench listening to Macalaurë play, Maitimo's body warm against his own. This was Maitimo in a soft silver robe, draped out over his bed like a gift to be unwrapped. Maitimo asleep with a poppy on his breast.
Fëanáro bends down and kisses him, taking his lips ever-so-gently, running his tongue along the edge of the slight pout he wears. Maitimo blinks bright grey eyes once, twice, and then wakes up.
"Ata..." He starts to speak but trails off, his cheeks stained red. He takes a moment to gather himself, clearly recalling whatever speech he'd prepared, and then mentally throwing it away.
"Fëanáro," he breathes, beginning again. "You read my messages aright? Do you understand what it is that I want?"
Fëanáro smiles. "Yes, my Nelyo, yes," he says.
Maitimo holds out the flower. "Will you give it to me?" His voice nearly breaks but he does not waver. "You will be the first."
Fëanáro takes the flower from him, raising it to his lips, before setting it aside on the bedside table and leaning in close. "I will give you every pleasure that you ask of me," he said, and to Maitimo's dawning smile he presses close for a kiss.
For a while they do nothing but kiss, trading them slow and warm between them. Fëanáro ends up crawling into bed next to Maitimo, clothed as he is, and holds him close to feel the length of him stretching out, taller than he is. Maitimo's kisses are eager and delightful, and though he may yet lack a first lover, Fëanáro is certain he has both given and received his fair share of kisses.
Maitimo is slowly starting to press their hips together when Fëanáro decides that it is time to strip them both. He stands, pulling Maitimo up with him, and swiftly yanks the robe down, baring him completely. He stands there like a statue, posed, roses on his cheeks, his hair tumbling loose down his shoulders, just watching, as Fëanáro takes off his own clothes.
They tumble together into the bedsheets, less deliberate now, and Fëanáro finds himself pressing bites into Maitimo's perfect throat, raising faint bruises against the freckled skin. Maitimo leans back, baring his neck, voicing little laughing gasps every time Fëanáro bites down.
With one hand, Fëanáro holds Maitimo close, and the other trails down his body to take hold of his cock. Maitimo's moans go up in pitch as Fëanáro works him slow and steady from root to tip, mouthing endearments against a pink nipple. The sight of his son lost in pleasure is almost overwhelming, and Fëanáro has much ado to avoid simply thrusting against him until he comes. Another time, he tells himself. Maitimo first.
Maitimo's head drops back and he strains upward, seeking desperately for more purchase, more sensation. Fëanáro slowly speeds up, giving Maitimo exactly what he wants. Suddenly his hips snap upward and he comes, warm seed spilling over Fëanáro's hand, breathless gasps spilling from Maitimo's mouth.
Maitimo goes limp, shivering all over with the release of tension. Fëanáro lets go of him, wiping his hand off on the bedsheets, and curls up close, patient enough now to wait for his own release. The look on Maitimo's face in the aftermath of pleasure -- indolent and satiated, fairer than a Vala -- more than gives Fëanáro reason enough to wait.
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