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The flame swayed within the glass of the oil lamp just over Melkor’s shoulder where he sat sketching in the window-seat, enclosed by the bas-relief of the books slipped into their shelves and the folds of the curtain which let only the cricket’s symphony through their soft guard. A rather domestic scene to find the mightiest on Arda: warm orange light sinking like sweet sips of sunlight over his face and shoulders, his hair its own curtain of abyssal-softness, the late-night lending the moment a tender permanence to the senses.
Tyelpë paused for a moment, letting the scene sink into his memory like in amber. Melkor seldom seemed so content, none of his manic tensions or sombre melancholy harsh on his face: just the light falling over the shadows like honey and the sound of the crickets caressing the slow precession of time. But eventually he could not keep from the allure of the pencil-on-paper, the rare upturn of Melkor’s lips.
His steps seemed to melt into the late-night, the wood floor cradling the sounds with a hush, and Tyelpë was pleased that the sense of peace wasn’t disturbed with his gaze added to that of the lamp over his shoulder which flickered only gently as he leaned against the nearest bookshelf. Melkor finished with a quick signature before placing the pencil on the window’s sill, turning the book’s finished page into the light.
It had been a little while now since they had known one another: little in the time of men but long in the feeling of recall... In truth, it seemed to Tyelpë that he had known Melkor for whole lifetimes of men, though it was only really one or two: as if the mystery in the cloak of shadows that followed Melkor lended the senses a timelessness, as if their wars between the borders of hostility and acceptance turned them from foes into battlemates, a pair that had grown old in their own struggle of will. Now the peace that was left between them was one of aged and domestic souls.
Melkor handed him the sketchbook he’d been working on, and Tyelpë took it with none of the surprise he felt.
It was warm where it had been in contact with his lap, and the paper was scrawled with his loose and dreamy hand, the feathery shapes which came from his light grip of the pencil to keep from antagonising his burns. Despite this, the schematic was clear, as clear as if the finished piece were before him and resting on the paper: it was the design of a necklace on the neck of one who’s constellation of freckles was memorized by the both of them. Though done completely in charcoal, the cascade of gems that strung from gold wire was given such a vivid shimmer of reflection and brilliance that the effect was of falling fire that sent the light scattering along the shape of he who wore it.
Tyelpë gasped softly, unable to help it with the likeness of their husband captured on the page, with the simple but stunning effect of the necklace that he so sorely desired to see made in all its splendorously missing colour. Bloody garnets falling into tiger’s eyes curled with deeply red jasper and bright rubies which lit to a burning of carnelian and soft amber and sharp citrine, ending in small studs of translucent sunstone which rested like many flames above the valley of Mairon’s sketched navel.
“It’s exquisite,” he breathed.
Melkor nodded (ever modest), but his expression was one of careful thought, as if distracted from his work with some other imagining— perhaps the real finished piece and how it would send light through the glass of the gems and over the bronze of Mairon’s bare chest, complimenting the low light of his eyes. But perhaps not. Melkor takes his sketchbook back and holds it awkwardly in the air.
“Make it with me,” he says carefully, despite it sounding like a command rather than a question, looking aside and amending quickly with:
“For when Mairon comes back.”
And Tyelpë is taken aback for a moment, though what he gives Melkor is more of a quiet sort-of smile. The thought of making something with the Vala was a temptation he hadn’t let himself consider for more than fleeting moments of ‘perhaps he would...’ or ‘wouldn’t it be grand if...’ These thoughts never quite held within them the hopeful substance that they needed to be entertained further: surely Melkor had no desire to work with him! And truth be told... Melkor didn’t make much, to the point that Tyelpë thought their creative methods differed too greatly. He was always busy with the growing of moulds and fungi and curious reptiles, or with more cerebral pastimes such as writing prose in those strange symbol-letters he’d yet to teach anyone other than Anna, or in painting on large easels with curious patterns. Nevertheless—
“I would be honoured,” Tyelpë said, excitement filling out the syllables of his words.
(He wondered, vaguely, if Melkor would work how he painted: chaotically, picking unlikely stones for the hidden colours that only he could see, or piecing together the necklace in an asymmetrical allure much like the flames he captured. Tyelpë couldn’t help but notice the lack of measurements in his drawing, nor dedication to a particular species of gem— how different from Annatar his mind turned!)
Melkor nodded brusquely, turning to place his sketchbook on the window sill with a lack of any better place to settle it, and Tyelpë could see the darker stain of amber that the fire teased on his cheeks, saw with a fondness the relief that was muted on the curve of his lips and the small wrinkles around his eyes. He briefly wondered if Melkor only needed help due to his hands and was blushing in that burning shame that was ever-present in the turbulence of his spirit. Or (if Tyelpë were so bold a dreamer!), perhaps Melkor secretly wished to work closely with him in the way Anna often did, late into the night, bent over each other with whispers of shared designs.
He smiled, more boldly now. When they had first started their relationship— a business transaction of necessity due to the sharing of a Love— Tyelpë used his openness as a weapon. Melkor was distrustful, reluctant to believe that Tyelpë had no motives other than being utterly devoted to the strange Maia, and his seeming truthfulness was abrasive. But now Tyelpë could tell that it was more of a curiosity to Melkor, an ease that soothed. There was at least this in their rapport: honesty.
And also, as it were, there was the bit of seat cushion unoccupied by Melkor, the way his shoulder cast a bluish shadow over his lap, the way Tyelpë could tell his brow was creased as he tried to keep the pencil from rolling off of the book, the strand of grey hair free from all the dark others, and the magnetism of his eyes that weren’t even looking at Tyelpë physically, but so obviously considering him, so obviously turning him over in the fathomless well of his mind.
“What are you doing?” Melkor asked, low despite his alarm.
Tyelpë would never admit this to his Anna, but he was impulsive. 'In a calculating way,' he swore to himself. He wouldn’t go so far as to say he blindly followed his heart, but he certainly walked hand-in-hand with it, letting it pull him into the direction of its swell and surges of affection. Such was one of these times, climbing onto the window-seat next to Melkor and leaning against him as he turned—
He kissed him. It was thoughtfully thoughtless: short and chaste, but the press against the surprised part of the Vala’s mouth was more insistent than some vague peck, rather, it was something that could be more should the other so wish.
“I’m kissing you,” Tyelpë murmured, no burden of shame or regret but still pulling back slightly, breath held.
(He had, after all, crossed a boundary that they had both been stepping on but never quite over, teasing what their relationship could be.)
Melkor’s dark eyes seemed to grow in their depth despite the narrowing of his long lashes, uncertainty swirling...
“Why?” he seemed to blurt out, a genuine question that made his jaw harsh in the light.
And Tyelpë knew then the need for reassurance, knew Melkor was close to retreat into the cold distance of his soul or even that he’d quickly become hurt and angry, stepping outside of himself for relief from the game he might have thought Tyelpë to be playing. Distrust was present again, the same he’d once felt in Annatar as they moved from associates to close friends, to letting the boundary of their Fëa blur... That distrust hurt, but it hurt Tyelpë in an impersonal way, one in which the possibility of manipulation wasn’t eliminated from possibility in Melkor’s mind. So Tyelpë did what he always did: he told the truth.
“Because I desire you,” he said, simply, honestly, without trepidation.
They were close, with Tyelpë leaning against one of Melkor's shoulders for lack of support elsewhere, their faces still near enough that the light fell between them like the sun does shining in valleys with obscured cliff-sides: the space between the rock-and-hard-place all gold, casting their eyes in shadow. He could feel, with no small sense of honour, the way Melkor seemed to grow in an unlight loosed from his spirit, his Power flung from him like shed clothes, a chaos that stepped out to breathe from the confines of a mortal skull in a glowering shape, his reclined form stark like boldface print on white paper in his anti-halo. The storm brewing within Melkor materialized, statically brooding before hiding itself again from view.
(But Melkor had let him see it and how Tyelpë shuddered to behold!)
“Mairon isn’t here,” Melkor said softly, as soft as he was able.
“I know.”
Melkor stared at him again as if he didn’t quite understand, as if the language Tyelpë had spoken wasn’t one he’d been acquainted with. Yet when Tyelpë moved his hand to push aside the lock of grey that shone silver, cleaving the ivory-pale of his cheek, Melkor didn’t pull back. And when his hand then rested on the breadth of his shoulder he didn’t pull back. And when Tyelpë leaned back inwards in a gravity they’d only seconds to pull from before there was no escape from this slowly winding pull...
This time, when they kissed, there was no question that Melkor desired him too.