Chapter Text
The day before is perfectly ordinary. Maedhros spends far too long adjusting the fonts on his powerpoint presentation and not nearly enough time slogging through his grant proposal; drafts a polite response to Thingol Greymantle’s refusal to participate at the convention, finds a reason to punt the grant proposal over to Amlach, and sits for some time aimlessly scrolling up and down his inbox and liking Maglor’s posts on Instagram. Fingon texts him at four-thirty.
F, 4:30 PM: ETA?
M, 4:30 PM: Early for once. Gonna wait until ten till and head out.
F, 4:32 PM: then i better go . longer ride
M, 4:35 PM: Want me to just pick you up?
F, 4:37 PM: nah then its gonna be a whole thing getting the bike tomorrow. think i work early
M, 4:37 PM: 👍
F, 4:38 PM: what are u wearing
F, 4:41 PM: jk. leaving now
The later two texts Maedhros does not see until 5:01, because Ulfang calls him. The call contains absolutely nothing of substance, but somehow manages to take up the remaining twenty minutes of the workday. Even as he tries to transfer the call to bluetooth and make his way down to the parking he has to dash back up, to check something on the computer.
For a moment he thinks he recognizes the only other person in the parking lot with him; a young human man in a dark hoodie and jeans, facing away from him. Ulfang’s son, he thinks, but when he tries to get his attention the man does not turn, and he begins to think he was wrong. Easy enough mistake to make, with Ulfang on his mind.
He turns his attention back to his phone, and thinks nothing of it.
M, 5:02: Might not be early after all. Sorry. Had a call.
M, 5:02: Love you.
M, 5:02: Light gray sweater-vest, white shirt, black jeans. Striped boxers. Don’t be mad.
His car tosses up some hazard light when he turns it on, flashing a few moments longer than he is used to. For a moment he imagines he might be quite badly inconvenienced, but then it is gone, and he thinks nothing of it.
He turns on the radio, listening with little interest to a news anchor interviewing Beleg Cúthalion about the upcoming summer games. On the turn he feels like he has to brake harder than usual and thinks with some annoyance that he might have to bring that in to get checked out.
Piece of junk.
But it’s a short drive, and the car’s been a piece of shit before often enough, and nothing’s come of it. Their reservation is for five-twenty, and if he speeds he might make it. The place is out on the lake— the rural roads aren’t busy, though it ought to be peak hours, and he weaves easily in front of the single car slowing him down.
He has forgotten Fingon’s tendency to run to five to ten minutes late to anything and everything. On the last leg of the journey he sees the single figure on the dark blue motorbike, and knows at a distance it’s him. Fingon’s insisted on decorating the motorcycle with silver star decals, which he thinks looks fucking awesome, and Maedhros insists makes him look like a children’s party wizard. If he couldn’t see that, the long braids hanging out of the back of the motorcycle helmet would tip him off.
He speeds up, smiling, and lays on the horn. Fingon turns, one quick glance, then Maedhros can see his shoulders shake—he must be laughing. Without turning back he blows Maedhros a kiss.
Then the light ahead flicks yellow, and Fingon slows. Maedhros’ foot finds the brake—in truth he is going too fast. He taps on it, and the car slows, though not fast enough. Maedhros presses harder, slams down, slightly worried now.
Something pops. There is no resistance at all to the pedal, now; it flops underfoot as a untethered thing. With a strange, disconnected feeling, as though watching himself from the outside, Maedhros sees his speed crank up again, carried by momentum, by the downhill turn of the road.
Later he will curse himself, will find his reaction time horrific, will wonder how the hell he had not thought quicker. But now his first thought is to lay on the horn and try again to slam the brake, his foot hitching against the pedal.
He swerves, but Fingon swerves also.
His car is upside down. The car had hit a tree, at some point, after the motorcycle, and now it is upside down. When he undoes the seatbelt he tumbles down, slightly, against the airbag, because the fucking car is fucking upside down.
Then he is out and he’s standing on the side of the road next to his fucking upside down car and the world spins around a little and a chunk of his windshield is in his arm and there’s blood running down from him in the pavement and nothing really hurts and he’s running towards Fingon, who is some eight feet away from his bike, and the bike is on fire and there’s something white sticking out of Fingon’s leg and Fingon’s blood is all over the dust of the road and when Maedhros closes the distance between them and lays his hands flat on Fingon’s chest Fingon looks up at him and his brown eyes are black with pain and there’s bubbles of blood on his lips and Maedhros thinks he’s trying to say something and doesn’t know what it is.
Then Maedhros says something like “Elbereth I am so fucking sorry” or “easy, easy” or “please don’t die” or “holy shit there’s blood coming out of a crack in your skull I think” and he isn’t sure which one and then he takes out his phone and calls 9-1-1 and the very nice lady on the other end of the line asks him for an exact address and tells him he’s not allowed to pick Fingon up even to carry him of the road and then he’s checking for breath and a pulse and they’re there which means he’s not supposed to do CPR.
But Fingon’s neck is at an odd angle and there’s blood on his lips and it comes out when he’s breathing and the girl starts walking him through how to monitor the airways when he hears the sirens of the ambulance and then the paramedics are there.
For some reason they make him go on the second ambulance. There they pull the chunks of glass out of his skin and ask questions he answers by route without hearing himself speak.
“Let me see your right hand,” someone says, “that looks broken.”
“Shucks,” Maedhros says, without any humor, “cost me a lot more than the left.”
Then he takes it off and chucks it on the floor and they laugh and he doesn’t.
At some point in the hospital he calls Maglor. He thinks its shortly after they come, while he’s waiting for something or other—a doctor or imaging or the nurse who promises she is going to see if he’s the emergency contact on file for Fingon and what that means about what she could tell him, or…
Maglor picks up on the second ring. “‘Ello?” He’s eating something. The baggie rustles.
“I hit Fingon with my car,” Maedhros says. He’s staring out the hospital window and there’s flowers on the tree outside. The building across from his reads Hithlum Surgery.
And Maglor says “what?” and “how?” and “it is bad?” and Maedhros chokes up and says nothing, only sits and cries and looks out the window, and then Maglor says things he wants to hear more, like, “which hospital are you at?” and “don’t worry about anything, I’ll call everyone,” and “I’m leaving my gig, I’m driving over.”
Then Maedhros says, “I think someone fucked with my brakes.”
Maglor is silent a few moments too long, and when he speaks again his voice is soft and very careful, like Maedhros has a razor blade in his hand, like Maedhros is going through one of his things. “I think you’re under a lot of stress right now,” he says, “I can see how it can seem like someone tried to hurt you.”
“Don’t give me that,” Maedhros says, “my fucking car—there were no hazard lights, Kano, it wasn’t normal.”
“I just really don’t think—” Maglor starts, then he breathes in deeply and seems to change courses. “Look, I can’t say anything, I wasn’t there. Do you feel safe where you’re at?”
“I’m fine where I’m at,” Maedhros snaps.
“Good,” Maglor says, “good. I’m going to be there soon, okay? I’m about an hour and a half out. We can talk about it after.”
“Okay,” Maedhros echoes.
“I love you,” Maglor says. He waits a moment, then hangs up when Maedhros doesn’t say anything.
He’s not Fingon’s emergency contact which means Fingon’s emergency contact is his dad. Maedhros shudders with the shame of calling Fingolfin, stares down at his phone. Sets it down, crinkling the thin white paper bed-cover under his hand, then picks it up again. There’s no other choice, except calling Maglor and asking him to play telephone on his behalf. Maglor would do it, but Maedhros can’t bear the thought of the wait.
He hits dial. Four rings. When Fingolfin picks up his voice is far away, like he’s connected through the car speaker or just speaker-phone. “Maedhros,” he says, then, “do you know—”
“Fingon,” Maedhros answers, “Fingon, yeah—they’re, uh. Think they can’t talk to me. What did they say, what do you know?”
“There was a car accident on the intersection.” Fingolfin says, his voice carefully without feeling. “He was on the motorcycle. Some car hit him at an angle, they said, going quite fast.”
“My car,” Maedhros says.
“What?” Fingolfin asks him.
“My car hit him,” Maedhros repeats. “We were meeting for dinner. I was behind him. The brakes—the brakes gave out, I was pressing down and there wasn’t anything. I hit him with my car.”
“Elbereth,” Fingolfin says.
For a moment they are both silent.
“Could you not,” Fingolfin says, “have moved out of the way?”
Maedhros swallows. “I moved too late,” he says, “I thought too slow, I spent too long trying to get it to work, I was honking—I swerved but it wasn’t enough and he was also moving and—”
“Alright,” Fingolfin says, “alright.”
Maedhros breathes shallowly, raggedly. “What’d they say?”
“Serious condition,” Fingolfin answers, “he’s in surgery. There are fractured bones but they are more worried about internal bleeding.”
“Did they say what they’re expecting?”
“Not in those words,” Fingolfin says, his voice still dry, far away, “I had the impression there was very little certainty. I am flying out in an hour.”
“Direct?” Maedhros asks.
“Private. Ingwë’s plane.”
“Be careful,” Maedhros says.
“I’m not flying it,” Fingolfin answers. Something clicks next to him. “I have to go.”
“Bye,” Maedhros says. The word feels wrong, too mundane for the circumstances around it. Fingolfin doesn’t hang up, so he adds. “Maglor can get you if you need a ride.”
“Very well,” Fingolfin answers, then is gone.
They let him out once Maglor gets there. He has stitches where the glass had cut him, and a prescription for extra-strength iburprofen and a list of things to watch out for. Maglor takes care of that, and of the process of check-out, rattling off Maedhros’ insurance numbers from memory. Maedhros could not have named the carrier.
Then they’re in Maglor’s nice clean Prius with the recording equipment rattling around in the back while he drives and Maglor is on the phone with Turgon and Maedhros is staring out the window.
“Okay,” Maglor is saying, and, “I get it,” and, “I don’t know how. I don’t know.” and “yes, okay, no problem,” and “when?” and “did you see it already?” and “holy fuck.”
He hangs up by the time they get back to the apartment.
“What did he say?” Maedhros asks.
“Still in surgery,” Maglor answers, and not whatever the rest of it was. “We won’t be able to come for a while. Do you have your keys?”
“No,” Maedhros says. Maglor takes a key off his own keychain and unlocks the door to Maedhros’ apartment for him.
Fingon’s things are all over the apartment. This is natural enough, because he lives here more often than not—because they’ve moved in together in all but name—but right now there is something surreal about it. Maedhros stares at his running shoes by the doorway and his jackets on the coat hooks and his shitty thriller book on the coffee table and feels like they should be able to tell him something, to hold some clue.
Maedhros sits on the couch, listening to Maglor clang around in their kitchen, and thinks about who could have cut his brake lines. When Maglor comes back with broccoli and rice soup he says, “I think it’s ‘cos we went public about Angband.”
“Maedhros,” Maglor says.
“No,” Maedhros says, “no, it all makes sense. The shit—the shit in ’08 wasn’t random either, Maglor, I’ve known it wasn’t…” He reaches up, to run his fingers over the stump of his right hand. “They knew dad had the data, they must have hired him to—”
“Maedhros,” Maglor says again, firmly, “he’s in prison. He’s not going to hurt you again.”
“It’s not the right guy,” Maedhros says, “they didn’t get the right guy, Kano, or at least not the main guy, and now they’re hurting Fingon, ‘cos of me, ‘cos of Dad, ‘cos…”
Standing, Maglor bends down and hugs him. Holds him close to his chest, like he’s the smaller one, his head tucked under Maglor’s chin. Squeezes the panic out of him, or tries to. Then pulls back, smoothing Maedhros’ hair out of his face, and says, “I’m going to call your psychiatrist, ’kay?”
“Okay,” Maedhros says.
“Eat your soup,” Maglor says, “don’t turn on the TV.”
Then he walks over and unplugs it, just in case. Puts the remote in his pocket before he steps out onto the balcony.
Maedhros eats his soup.
Maglor leaves at five in the morning to get Aredhel from the airport. About half an hour later there’s a knock on the door, and when Maedhros opens it he sees two Edain police officers. Good, he thinks, good. Someone checked the car.
One of them flashes a badge, and Maedhros misses their introductions entirely. One is a woman, quite short; the other is a man with long blond hair, worn in a somewhat elvish style.
“Can we come in?” the woman asks.
Maedhros gestures them in. They sit at the table. If he were Maglor he’d offer them coffee, but he does not. “I’m really glad you came,” he says, “I was going to call. There was sabotage with the car. The brakes weren’t working, but the hazard lights didn’t turn on.”
The man writes something down and smiles invitingly. “That’s good to know,” he says.
“It’s a manufacturing company that hired someone,” Maedhros says, “my father leaked information about carcinogens they were letting get in the water. They tried to get me killed once before.”
“Alright,” the man says, “can I get a little background?”
“Yes,” Maedhros says, “of course.”
They ask him his name, first—his occupation, his address, his age. He hands over his driver’s license and lets them file it. Signs a release without reading it. It seems like paperwork, the same sorta shit he’d filled out at the hospital.
Then the man asks, “Do you know much about cars? Any mechanical experience?”
“Uh,” Maedhros says, “a little. My father taught me things when I was younger, but I didn’t keep up with it.”
“Okay,” the woman says, “and this was… your partner that you hit, or your cousin? We’ve heard both.”
“Uh,” Maedhros says. “Both. Half-cousin.”
“Okay,” the woman says, and writes something down. “Younger than you?”
“Not by much,” Maedhros says, taken aback by the question. “Thirty five—” he realizes that is likely close to the age of the man he is speaking to. “It is isn’t a lot for elven-folk.”
“Fingon purchased a gun about a week ago,” the woman says, “is that right?”
“Yes,” Maedhros says, “yeah, I think from a show.”
“For what purpose?”
“He likes to shoot,” Maedhros says, “at the range. He’s good at it.”
“Is the firearm in the apartment with us now?”
“Yes,” Maedhros says, “it’s in the safe. He has the key. Probably in—probably in the hospital.”
“You do not have a key.” The woman says.
“Yeah,” Maedhros says, “that’s not a good idea.”
“And why is that?”
There’s no reason to sugarcoat. “I tried to kill myself once,” Maedhros says, “years ago. Still get thoughts sometimes. Don’t need the temptation.”
“How were things, between you?” the woman asks.
“Sorry?” Maedhros asks, taken aback. “Uh, fine—things were good. We were going out to eat.”
“No recent fights at all?” the woman asks.
Maedhros feels his mind go cold and grey, blank. “Not that I can think of.”
“I think all of us have had fights with our partners sometimes,” the man says, “are you sure you can’t think of anything at all?”
Maedhros is silent.
“Something two weeks ago, perhaps?”
“Oh.” Maedhros says. “Uh, yeah. He was unhappy with—my brothers had a fight with our cousin, he wanted me to cut them off, uh. It’s not—I mean, it doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Alright,” the man says, again, “you want to tell us a little more about that fight?”
Maedhros doesn’t. “I don’t remember,” he says, half a lie. “He went to sleep at the other house, but he was back in the morning. We talked it out.”
“You must have been pretty angry,” the man says.
Maedhros is silent. He studies the patterns on the table, faux wood. One of the officers smells too strongly of spray deodorant.
“I understand that,” the man says, “there’re all kinds of things I’ve wanted to say to my girlfriend, when I’ve been angry. Or to do, even.”
“I didn’t want to do anything,” Maedhros says, “I didn’t do anything.”
“Let’s talk a little bit about that anger,” the woman says, “you have an assault charge on your record. Is that right?”
“Misdemeanor,” Maedhros says, “simple assault, I—”
“Was that anger?” the woman counters.
Maedhros is silent.
“We can move on,” the man suggests, after a moment, “we wanted to ask about your history of suicidal gestures…”
At that point the key clicks in the door, and Maglor appears in the doorway, holding a brown paper bag and and two cups of coffee. He pales, to see the scene. Crosses the room.
“He’s not talking to you without a lawyer present,” he says.
“Now,” the woman says, “I think that’s up to him to decide.”
“He’s not,” Maglor says again, more firmly, “if you have a warrant I’m going to need to see it right now, ma’am.”
Maedhros looks between them. “I’m not,” he says, “you’re right. Excuse me.”
There is no warrant. He walks out of the room and barely hears the sound of Maglor shooing the officers out.
“What are the news?” he asks, when Maglor comes back in.
He’s carrying coffees again. He gives one to Maedhros, and Maedhros drinks without tasting it.
“He’s alive,” Maglor says, “he’s out of surgery, in the ICU. He’s not awake. His father’s in with him. One person in at a time, they’re saying.”
Maedhros nods. “They think I did on purpose,” he says.
“Yeah,” Maglor says, “you hit him in broad daylight going forty an hour. He was practically sitting still. And he turns, you swerve in the same direction. It’s on video and it looks bad, Ros. They’re playing it on the news, since he’s the son of a senator.”
“Oh.” Maedhros says. He feels far from his body, like he’s watching a different person sit on the couch with Maglor. The words don’t have any meaning at all.
Maedhros gives him a croissant, then has him sit so he can braid his hair. “At some point you’re going to need to shower,” he says, but doesn’t make Maedhros do it now.
“What are we going to do now?” Maedhros asks.
“I called the lawyer last night; I’m going to call them her again and tell her what happened this morning,” Maglor says, “you’re going to log into your work portal on your phone and request emergency leave, then you’re going to go and find a duffel bag and pack everything Fingon might want in the hospital if he wakes up.”
“Okay,” Maedhros says.
“Don’t forget his mp3 player,” Maglor says.
“I won’t,” Maedhros answers.
He takes out his phone; he hadn’t noticed before the screen is cracked. There’s 13% power left on it, and 83 text message notifications, and 15 missed calls. He’s had it in his pockets, on silent.
“Did you call Mom?” He asks.
Maglor looks up from his own phone. “Yeah. She’s driving out.”
Maedhros scrolls. “Curvo, Moryo?”
“Yeah.”
“Indis?”
“Yeah.”
“Finarfin?”
“Yeah.”
Maedhros stops scrolling and puts in for leave. With some trepidation he flicks on the ringer on his phone. Maglor goes again on the balcony to talk, and Maedhros tries not to watch him. Instead he’s flitting about the rooms, picking up items almost at random.
Fingon’s music player, his switch. The felt pajamas with the little suns on them. Socks, underwear. Makeup bag. The book on the coffee table. His hair stuff, or whatever Maedhros can find of his hair stuff. He’s squinting at the label of Fingon’s migraine medication when his phone begins to ring, and he pulls it out and sees Fingolfin’s name.
For a moment he imagines the worst. His hand shakes, and it takes him two tries to slide the button over to pick it up. “Hello?”
It’s Turgon on the line. His voice is rough. “Finyo’s awake,” he says, “he does want you here.”