Chapter Text
It had been weeks of work. Weeks of nonstop, brain melting, back breaking work.
And now Fíli was standing in the little sound studio Gloin used and staring, awe-struck, at a bit of metal in his hands.
“Well done, m’lad,” Gloin said, smiling. They were the only two there, as the others had been sent home to rest. They’d all been working hard, though Fíli’s contribution had been the most overwhelming; he’d been there quite literally every step of the way, from hiring the small orchestra to the rehearsals, to recordings, to sound quality – his heart and soul were imprinted on every groove of the disc. “We’ll get copies to everyone else in the morning.”
“There’s a sound system at Gimli’s place,” Fíli said quietly. “We’ll meet there.” Gimli lived fairly cheaply, elven “roommate” on Fíli’s payroll notwithstanding, but his sound system was a thing of beauty. They’d always agreed they’d meet there when the day came.
The album wasn’t finished, but the disc in Fíli’s hands had four songs on it, complete. Their songs.
“Go get some sleep,” Gloin said with a smile. He felt honored to be a part of this day, his son’s as much as his cousin’s. Gloin has watched Gimli work himself to the bone and fall in love (strange and awkward as that might still be) while making this all happen. He’d never been more proud. “I’ll see you on Monday, and it’s back to work.”
Fíli thanked him again, tucked the disc into the inner pocket of his jacket, and hurried out of the studio.
For reasons related to sound and building codes, Gloin’s recording studio was located in Dale proper, necessitating a jog in the drizzling rain for the mountain. Fíli could’ve easily hailed a cab – even with paying most of the band so they could work full time for the last five months, Fíli and Kíli weren’t hurting for money – but every nerve in his body told him to run, to feel the rain on his face the wind against his cheeks, and who was he to disobey? As long as the disc was safe and dry, the familiarity of one of his steady runs kept his heart pounding and his excitement on a razor’s edge.
Kíli he thought, a grin on his lips, because he was taking the disc home to Kíli
A thrill ran down his spine and pooled in his stomach, defying every ounce of exhaustion in his body.
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The door opened with a bang and Kíli looked up at the sound of his brother’s voice, warm and a little wild. It was late – near midnight – and Kíli had a word or three he wanted to say about Fíli staying at the studio so long after Kíli went home. He stretched as he stood and took his sweet time meandering to in the direction of the front door.
Fíli was at the epicenter of their music system, feet already bare, wet jacket tossed to the side. Silver gleamed in his hand. “There you are!” he said, and the look he sent Kíli’s way erased every thought of chastisement from Kíli’s mind.
Frankly, it erased every thought from Kíli’s mind.
Fíli’s voice dropped, all purr and promise. He raised his hand and beckoned Kíli closer, a lord to his concubine.
“Come here.”
The sound system whirred and clicked softly as Fíli’s forefingers slid into the belt loops of Kíli’s jeans-an ancient pair, soft and a little loose at the waist – and tugged him close. The kiss was a tease, a light brush of lips, teeth pulling delicately at Kíli’s bottom lip. Those familiar hands, the rough callouses from hours every day on the violin, stroked down Kíli’s bare back and into the back of the jeans, nails biting in at Kíli’s waist.
Kíli moaned and stole a proper kiss, tongue stroking, hands tangling in wet golden hair and twisting in braids. Then there was a swift sense of disorientation and he found himself pressed to the wall, the metal rods at his nipples biting cool against his skin, cheek against the stone.
And Fíli, pressed fully against his back, pinning him there.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” his brother whispered, breath hot against Kíli’s ear. Kíli felt his knees go a little weak and he grabbed at the wall uselessly.
Fíli laughed and rolled his hips, already hard against Kíli’s ass. “Listen,” he said, and with a soft spoken command, a slow, steady rise of drums filled the air and vibrated under Kíli’s cheek.
Kíli’s eyes widened. “That’s me,” he breathed, delighted, and then-
The violin, soaring in counterpoint, and Kíli knew it.
“You didn’t tell me-!”
Teeth bit into the back of Kíli’s neck, and he keened as the guitars came in, as the music thrummed through the system and into the wall and through his skin. “Four songs, Kíli,” Fíli breathed, his voice rough. “Our songs.”
Kíli shivered, his lips parted and panted for air, Tauriel’s voice soared. The words were static in his ears as Fíli nibbled between his bare shoulders. “Oh,” he breathed, a moan, a prayer, “Oh fuck.”
Fíli’s laugh vibrated in countermeasure to the drums thrumming through stone. “That is exactly what I’m about to do, baby.” His hands grabbed Kíli’s wrist, pulling his arms up and pinning them to the wall. “Stay.”
Kíli shivered, hands curling into fists. The drums pulsed into his wrists. “Yes,” he breathed, eyes shut, obedient.
Fíli kissed his neck, his shoulder, his spine. Those rough-tipped hands popped the button on Kíli’s jeans and smoothly pushed them and his shorts down. Long hair tickled Kíli’s calves as Fíli knelt behind them, urged one foot up and then the other, tossed them. “Beautiful,” he said, his breath hot against the swell of Kíli’s ass, nails running delicately down his thighs. “My amazing, beautiful Kíli. That’s you, baby.” The brush of a beard against sensitive skin. “The very first sound they’ll hear is your drums, pounding.”
Kíli was already hard and he hadn’t been touched, just vibrations and that voice. The song ended and the next began – a high flute, a soft rumble of percussion. Lyrics in his Fingertips. “Please,” he whispered.
“Soon,” Fíli promised, nuzzling the soft swell of a buttock. His hand slid between Kíli’s faintly scratched thighs, fingers pressing. Kíli could feel the smile against his skin. “Someone’s easy.”
“Shut up,” Kíli growled, but what he meant was never stop and hurry up and fuck me. He beat one fist against the wall as drums exploded in the music, the image of himself dripping sweat and his own feral grin when he played.
Fíli answered easily. “No.” He stood slowly, hands sliding up Kíli’s sides, another faint bit of nails. “In just a moment,” he continued, a little lick behind Kíli’s ear, “I want you on your hands and knees.” Kíli moaned low in his throat, but still, Fíli was Fíli, and tender, and loving, and said, “This is all right?”
“Yes.” Breathless, honest, more than.
“Don’t move, love,” Fíli cautioned, and stepped away. Clothing rustled and Kíli tried not to roll his hips against the stone wall or throw himself to the ground too early or-
The violin. The violins came in, three of them, the orchestra, and Kíli had been there and watched as Fíli conducted the musicians they’d hired, gorgeous and serious and shining, and he whispered Fíli’s name.
“I’m here.” Bare skin, finally, it felt like hours, pressed along his back. He felt Fíli’s cock, hard and warm, against his thigh. “I’m here, baby. Come on.” He took Kíli’s wrists, pulled them down, kissed one, then the other. Then his hands were on Kíli’s hips, pulling him gently away from the wall.
The music pounded vibrated through the floor. Gimli’s voice growled. Tauriel’s soared. The piano fought with the drums for dominance and Fíli said. “On your knees, Kíli,” and Kíli collapsed, only Fíli’s hands at his waist keeping him from banging his knees as his hands hit the soft rug.
Another song, this one more growling guitar and woodwinds, and Kíli took a moment to catch his breath – or tried to, but Fíli was behind him, knees tucked inside Kíli’s, and he stroked firm hands down Kíli’s back. “Remember when you said I could do this without you?” Fíli asked, hands splayed across the sensitive spread of Kíli’s ribcage.
“That was…two years ago.”
“Do you remember?”
Kíli breathed, breathed. He shifted to his elbows. “Yeah.”
And then: the drums.
We begin where we end, she sang, and Kíli remembered rutting wildly against his parents’ front door, Fíli’s tongue in his mouth. A slick sound, a push.
“Nothing is possible without you,” Fíli growled, and Kíli’s breath disappeared in a curse and a prayer as his brother pushed into him.
“Fíli. Fíli. Fíli.” There were other words in his mind, but only that name on his lips. He thought he’d been forgiven for that day-but he was, he was, and this was-
“Good?” Fíli lay over his back, pushing him down. The rug was soft against his thighs, his groin. Fíli’s full weight was on his back and he was pressed so deep it ached. Kíli managed a nod, and Fíli pressed a delicate kiss to his neck. “I love you.”
Kíli made a low sound, utterly pinned. Fíli found his wrists again, held them, tucked them close-and moved. Hard, deep thrusts, heavy rocking, too-deep-too-much and Kíli whined for more, tried to move, panted for air and hissed “Yes, yes, yes,” as his own cock rocked into the soft fluff of the carpet.
A blessed moment of silence and the last song-
“Gods,” Kíli groaned, because this was-
- A Symphony of Thunder and Violin –
Just the two of them.
Fíli shuddered against him. “Not enough?” he whispered. “You want more? You need more, don’t you, baby?”
Kíli bit his lip and gripped the rug and ground out, “Yes, you bastard,” and Fíli laughed.
“Not, and well you know it,” he said, biting Kíli’s shoulder and pulling up, pulling Kíli up onto shaky knees, his whole weight in those broad hands. “Go ahead, baby,” he said. “Move.”
His hand wrapped around Kíli’s cock, firm and knowing.
Kíli growled, hooked one ankle over Fíli’s calf for leverage, and shoved himself back, taking all of Fíli in.
A low pattering of curses fell from his lips as Kíli drove himself back and away from the length inside him, twisted his hips, found the rhythm and the angle and just fucked himself between Fíli inside him and Fíli’s hand around him and the music was all drums pounding and violin singing and that night, watching Fíli play against the storm.
He shuddered.
“Beautiful.” Fíli’s voice was reverent. Kíli tried to imagine-the arch of his back, completely wanton, pushing to his elbows and moaning, moaning. He imagined watching them together. “You’re so beautiful.”
He came, shuddering, panting, still desperately shoving back, wanting more of Fíli’s cock and Fíli’s hands and Fíli’s voice and Fíli’s love, his hips rolling, jerking in Fíli’s grip. “Fuck,” he spat. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck.”
Fíli’s voice was breathless, broken. “Kíli-baby-in or-“
“On me. On me.” Kíli shivered, cried out a little when Fíli pulled out, pulled away, but then-oh- bursts of heat across his back, the base of his spine, and the sounds Fíli made and the last notes of a song –their song, their music, their dream-like being branded and claimed and loved all over again.
Kíli’s knees shook, his arms gave out. He collapsed, hissing at the sudden pressure on sensitive skin.
Fíli’s breath was harsh behind him, but his touch – bruising a moment ago – was gentle and firm. “Kíli.” Kisses to his shoulders, his back, the dimple at the base of his spine. “Kíli.”
Kíli hummed and rolled to his side. The movement sent a little flurry of pleasure out from his groin and he shivered. He reached out a shaky hand, tugged at one of Fíli’s braids. “Kiss me. Kiss me properly,” he said, voice lazy, eyes sated, his body a mess.
Fíli came to him, kissed him, tucked him close, worshipped him, whispered adorations and delicate touches.
“We’re doing that again,” Kíli said, tucking Fíli against him. “Need to listen again.” He was young, and this was real, all of it, Fíli and the music and the future, and he knew he’d be hard again, and he’d want Fíli inside him again, one flesh for the length of four songs. He wrapped a leg around Fíli and moved against him, smiling fit for the devil. “Play it. Play it and do it again.”
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None of them bothered to fight tears when they heard their music for the first time.
Gimli and Legolas’s small flat was crowded with the full band. Their Hobbit’s eyes were shamelessly bright from Bofur’s arms. Bofur, despite having been down this road before, hid a tear or two in the soft curls of his husband’s hair. Tauriel closed her eyes, covering them with one trembling hand, leaning back against the sofa where Gimli and Legolas sat, hands tangled between them. Ori, usually so focused on any minor imperfection, sat with his eyes wide and his hand over his mouth, arm pressed to Dwalin’s side (Dwalin, who had tried to turn down the invitation, but they would hear nothing of it).
Kíli, aching and pleased, with Fíli in his arms, cheek against his hair, feeling the little catches in his brother’s breath.
It was happening.
It was real, their dream given voice, their Heirs of Durin.