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Fingon is called away from the council by the head healer's assistant. There is only one reason they would disturb him during the council - something is wrong with Maedhros. Well, there are a lot of things wrong with Maedhros, but this means there is something the healers require Fingon's assistance with.
He finds three of them before the door of the healing house, whispering among themselves, but they all fall silent when they see Fingon.
"What happened?" he asks, his throat a little dry.
"He refuses to eat," the head healer says.
She is holding a bowl of porridge, which she puts into Fingon's hands.
"You have to convince him, my prince," she says. "We have tried everything, but he is so stubborn. He needs to eat."
Fingon nods and takes a determined breath, walking inside. Maedhros is propped against pillows, his cheeks sunken, his eyes glazed. He looks at the bowl in Fingon's hands with something akin to despair.
"The healers tell me you refuse the food," Fingon says slowly. "You know you have to eat, right, Russandol? The healers think that this porridge is what you need right now. You have to eat, so you will recover."
Maedhros' eyes flash in anger. He seems in one of his dark moods. Fingon sighs inwardly but keeps a smile on his face.
"Stop talking to me like that!" Maedhros spits out. "I am not a child."
"Sorry."
"You are not."
This time, Fingon can't hold back a sigh. Sometimes he indeed has to speak clearly and carefully whenever Maedhros loses himself in his visions and memories, but he has never thought it would anger Maedhros.
"All right." He waves his hand. "Russo, why did you refuse the porridge?"
"I told them," Maedhros mutters.
"What did you tell them?"
"I have told them so many times. I hate it! I don't want to eat it!"
Fingon looks inside the bowl. "It is just rice, water and some herbs, Russandol."
"I hate it!" Maedhros repeats through gritted teeth. "I hate the taste. I hate the texture. I hate how it feels sliding down my throat. It makes me nauseous, and I throw it back up more often than not. And I am too weak and too slow to grab the bucket, so I throw up all over myself, and then I have to be cleaned and changed." He falls back against the pillows, breathing hard. "Are you satisfied? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"Russandol, I—"
"Every day, I am poked and prodded, undressed and touched, spoken about and spoken down to. I have no control over my own body. I have to rely on others for the basest functions. I have no control over my own mind. It tricks me, terrorizes me, torments me, and I can do nothing. Am I not allowed to have a say at least in this one little thing? Is it too much to ask for?"
"Russandol—"
"You refused to grant me the mercy of death," Maedhros says. "Am I not allowed to keep even a shred of dignity?"
Fingon's blood freezes in his veins because of the fear that Maedhros may see his refusal to kill him as deliberate cruelty. At the worst moments, when Maedhros isn't himself, screaming and struggling, when his suffering seems too great for one person to bear, Fingon wonders if it was not cruel of him to make Maedhros go through it, if he would not be better off—
He stops himself as he always does, disgusted with himself for those thoughts. He puts the bowl away.
"If you refuse to eat, I cannot make you," he says.
Maedhros' suspicious gaze is fixed on the bowl for a moment and then on Fingon.
"But you could," he says. "You could force my jaws open, pour it in, clap your hand over my mouth and pinch my nose, so I would swallow it even if I choked, which I wouldn't because I know better."
Fingon cannot help the shudder going down his spine. He doesn't know if this is a test or if Maedhros truly believes him capable of doing it. He feels sick either way.
"I would never do that to you, Russandol," he says.
Maedhros' breathing is fast and shallow. "What if I kept refusing to eat?" he asks. "You would have to do it."
"No. I would speak to you and ask you to eat. I would beg you on my hands and knees if I had to, but I wouldn't force you."
"What if I still said no?"
"I would find another way to convince you."
"What if I still refused?"
"You would not."
Maedhros lets his head fall back. He closes his eyes for a minute, then opens them and looks at Fingon.
"I will eat," he says. "But only as much as I want to."
"Deal," Fingon says, trying not to sound too excited.
Maedhros makes a face and turns his head away only after three spoonfuls, but Fingon reckons it is better than nothing.
"How is your stomach?" he asks.
Maedhros shrugs his left shoulder and slides down the pillows a little. Fingon slowly raises his hand until it hovers above Maedhros' stomach.
"May I?" he asks.
Maedhros freezes for a moment, then gives a curt nod. Fingon lowers his hand, rubbing slow circles over the thin sheet Maedhros is covered with.
"My mother used to do that," Maedhros says suddenly. "When I was little and ate too many berries."
Fingon chuckles. "So did my mother," he says. "For a longer time than I would care to admit."
"How long did it take you to regulate your berry intake?" Maedhros teases.
Fingon looks at him and is shaken by the familiar keen but tender gaze of his lover.
"She didn't do it only when I had an upset stomach," he explains. "But also when I was... upset. It would calm me down and make me feel safe and loved."
"I didn't know that about you," Maedhros says, a ghost of a smile on his lips. Then his look is suddenly obscured by doubts. "Did I?"
"No," Fingon says. "You did not."
He keeps rubbing circles over Maedhros' stomach until he feels him shiver. Then he gets up and covers Maedhros with a thicker blanket.
"We will find a way," he whispers as he settles back by Maedhros. "We will find something that you like and which will not upset your stomach. Maybe we will modify the porridge in a way that will not make you nauseous, but I promise no one will force you to eat it. All right?"
"All right," Maedhros agrees tiredly.
"Russo, I-I am also very sorry for speaking down to you. I will do better."
"Never mind it," Maedhros says. "Look at the state I am in. There is no way to speak but down."
He gives Fingon a weak smile, but it is not returned.
"No," Fingon says. "It is not a joking matter. You are right. You deserve better than that. I apologize for not realizing my mistake sooner."
"Fine, then I apologize for getting angry."
"You had every right to get angry. Do not apologize for it."
"Hmm," Maedhros says sleepily. "What then? I feel like I should apologize for something, so we would get even. Cannot let you do all the apologizing."
"Oh shush," Fingon says, smiling.
Maedhros smiles too and closes his eyes.
"You know my mother used to play with my hair, so I would fall asleep," he murmurs. "And now I have almost as much hair as I did when I was a small child."
For a moment, Fingon can't bring himself to believe what Maedhros is asking for. Then he slowly raises his shaking hand and passes it over Maedhros' short hair.
"Tell me whenever you want me to stop," he says when he swallows the lump in his throat.
"Mhmm," Maedhros says, half-asleep already.
Fingon smiles through tears and keeps caressing Maedhros' hair as the remainder of the porridge gets cold on the bedside table.