YES, YES THAT IS A TAYLOR SWIFT SONG I HAVE TITLED THIS WITH. Ugh I don't even.
SO HERE IS THAT SILMARILLION HIGH SCHOOL AU I WAS TALKING ABOUT. MY SHAME HAS DRIVEN ME TO CAPSLOCK.
Title: He's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers
Fandom: Silmarillion? This is so AU that it probably doesn't deserve to be listed as Silm fic.
Pairing: Angrod/Caranthir
Rating: Barely PG, ahahaha.
Summary: High school AU. In which Caranthir is a nerd who suppresses his emotions, Angrod is head cheerleader, Celegorm is captain of the lacrosse team, and Maedhros' life is probably very hard.
Notes: I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD REALLY PUT SOME EXPLANATIONS HERE. Um. Okay, 1) la la la everyone is the same age! By which I mean, they are all in the same two years of school despite being related! Because I am lazy. 2) No one has parents who are actually around! Just like in glee! :D? :D? 3) Elf high school exists in a magical world that is a mix of British and American school systems. Because I grew up on an unhealthy diet of American teen movies.
Other than that, I actually feel a little guilty posting this fic just because it is so self-indulgent. Like. It is pretty much coppertone and I's personal canon that goes back years, with wacky AU hijinks pasted on. WHAT I AM SAYING IS: YOU CAN ALL BLAME CLAIRE FOR THIS OKAY.
He’s Cheer Captain and I’m on the Bleachers
On the second day of term Celegorm is made captain of the lacrosse team and Angrod is made head cheerleader. Essentially, this makes Celegorm some sort of horrific godlike figure and Angrod some sort of horrific god-knows-what, and Caranthir thinks he might as well just try and get expelled right now seeing as this year is going to be awful.
Valinor High is deeply weird, in Caranthir’s point of view, because it takes its one sport ridiculously, incredibly seriously and if you’re going to take a sport seriously then lacrosse, of all things, is perhaps not the most obvious choice. Also, it clearly does not need cheerleaders. Let alone cheerleaders who are also Caranthir’s useless cousin who will not go away no matter how much Caranthir makes it clear that he pretty much hates him.
Caranthir just wants to be able to concentrate on his maths homework and his extra-credit research for physics class. He does not want to have to listen to most of the school trading gossip about his varied family members and their stupid antics. Not even when it’s gossip about Maedhros which is always entertaining simply because as head boy Maedhros is supposed to do absolutely nothing wrong. Especially not hide in empty classrooms with their cousin Fingon and do things Caranthir really, really does not want to think about.
*
The thing about Caranthir and Angrod is that they always seem to be fighting. It’s not like Finrod and Celegorm who just ignore each other stonily every time they come across one another. Something about being within the same twenty feet of each other is enough to cause some sort of perceived slight and that’s it, they’re fighting. They’ve been fighting since they were children and sometimes it seems to Caranthir like they’ll never stop, especially now Angrod has decided to become best friends with Celegorm which is something Caranthir will never, ever understand because they might both be thick as two planks of wood but that doesn’t seem like a very sound basis for a friendship to him.
*
On Tuesday afternoon Caranthir walks out of the library and straight into his brother. “What are you doing?” he asks, startled, because Celegorm near the library this early in the term is practically unheard of.
“I was looking for you, actually,” says Celegorm, eyeing Caranthir’s maths textbook like it might bite him, and “do you want a ride home today? I’ve got practice but if you wanna wait an hour we’ll stop for pizza on the way back.”
“Sure,” says Caranthir, because while he might think Celegorm and his lacrosse obsession are stupid he’s also pretty much his favourite brother. Also, he’s not going to say no to pizza. This is how he finds himself hunched on the bleachers after school watching Celegorm and Angrod flirt horribly down on the lacrosse pitch. Next time, he thinks, he’s walking home. Even if he is promised pizza.
*
On Wednesday Angrod throws a pencil at him in their chemistry class and Caranthir glares at him in a way which he hopes implies ‘I hate you and if I could I would hang you by your feet from the fire escape at the top of the humanities building’.
Judging from the way Angrod just grins at him and flips his hair, like he’s some sort of stupid style icon or something, the message hasn’t got through.
*
On Thursday Caranthir takes himself to the library and spends all his lunch and free period working on his algebra equations. It’s the best day of the week.
*
On Friday Angrod looks at Caranthir funny so he punches him in the face. They both get detention, but Angrod is the one with the bloody nose so Caranthir counts it as a win.
*
Considering all of this it’s not really surprising that a month into the school year the text Fingon gets from his sister halfway into the fifth year’s lunch hour and his free study hour simply reads “They’re fighting again”. “Shit,” he mutters and forwards it to Maedhros and Finrod as he hurries out of the library.
It is not hard to find his cousins; he just has to follow the sound of raised voices. It’s not exactly a large school, after all. He rounds the corner to see them standing in front of Caranthir’s locker, both yelling fit to burst. Caranthir has his hand curled tightly around the strap of his bag, knuckles white, and he’s shouting “at least my mother brought me up properly!” when Fingon gets close enough to hear.
That’s about the time when Angrod throws the first punch. Fingon sees it about to happen and dives for him, grabbing his arm and pinning it to his back.
“Back off, Fingon,” snarls Angrod, and Fingon knows he must be really mad because since when does Angrod snarl. Caranthir’s face is flushed and angry and Fingon thinks wearily, oh god, it’s going to be like this all year.
“What is wrong with you both?” he says, keeping his hands firmly on Angrod’s arms, and he can feel Angrod start to physically deflate at the reproachful tone.
“He started it,” he says, glaring, and Fingon can feel his sigh of relief right down to his toes when Maedhros comes around the corner a moment later. He looks at Fingon, holding Angrod back, and Caranthir, colour high in his cheeks and mouth twisted cruelly, and makes a face that Fingon is pretty sure says you are in so much trouble.
“You both have detention for a month,” says Maedhros, and holds up a finger as Caranthir bursts out with “but I’m your brother!”, “and if I catch you fighting again I am getting you both grounded too,” he finishes. Angrod and Caranthir both look utterly betrayed at that, and it’s almost funny, really. Fingon lets go of Angrod, finally, and Angrod immediately jerks away from him. “Fine,” he says to Maedhros, anger lining his face, and stomps away down the corridor towards the gym.
Fingon, Maedhros and Caranthir are left staring awkwardly at each other. Caranthir opens his mouth as though he is about to complain and Maedhros rubs his forehead tiredly, saying “go and get some lunch, Caranthir,” before his brother can say anything. Caranthir looks at him for a beat longer, almost regretful, and then turns away silently. Fingon edges closer to Maedhros and gently tangles their fingers together.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, and Maedhros gives him a weak smile. “I suppose so,” replies Maedhros and squeezes Fingon’s hand and then starts to tug him along the corridor. “Come on,” he says, “we still have half an hour before class and I have an office now,” and waggles his eyebrows.
Fingon nearly chokes he’s laughing so hard.
*
Essentially, Caranthir hates everything. Even Celegorm. Especially Celegorm because if it wasn’t for Celegorm he probably wouldn’t be sitting in the rain waiting for lacrosse practice to finish (again). Between thinking about how much he hates everything and trying to read the chapter on phases of matter in his physics textbook without it getting drenched he doesn’t even notice Angrod until he’s right beside him.
“You know,” says Angrod, sitting down and moving his umbrella so that it coves them both, “it’s sort of counterproductive to do your homework in the rain.”
“Go away,” mutters Caranthir, jerking away so his thigh is no longer pressed up against Angrod’s. Angrod scowls at him.
“I was only trying to be helpful. If you want to sit in the rain and sulk then that’s fine by me,” he gets to his feet again and stalks back down the stairs, mostly obscured by the umbrella.
“Good,” glowers Caranthir to the air, rain starting to drip down his neck.
*
In the next month and a half Caranthir and Angrod have three fights and Caranthir gets suspended for three days. In his opinion this is deeply unfair because Angrod being a cheerleader should absolutely not exempt him from suspension like it appears to have done.
*
“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” mutters Aredhel, “we are going to have so much detention.”
“No we’re not, I’m hall monitor and you’re a prefect.” Fingon peers around the corner and prods his sister in the side, “he’s here, go” he says over her complaints. Aredhel rolls her eyes at him and strides out into the hall, grabbing Angrod by the arm and saying cheerfully, “Angrod, there you are! I need you to come and consult about cheer practice times.” Fingon waits until she’s led him around the corner and then heads off to waylay Caranthir. Five minutes later Aredhel is locking the door of the art supply closet, grinning broadly as Angrod shouts “You cannot do this to me! I AM CHEER CAPTAIN!” through it.
“I can do whatever I want, now talk to each other or we’re not letting you out,” she says through the door. Caranthir’s enraged shriek is probably the most hilarious thing Fingon has heard so far this year, and when Aredhel turns to high five him he grins madly at her.
*
The thing about being locked in a supply cupboard with your worst enemy is that there really isn’t a lot of room to get away from them. Or to hide the fact that you don’t really hate them that much at all really. Caranthir groans and shuffles around, trying to make more space; any space really so long as he isn’t pressed up close to Angrod anymore. He’s almost succeeded in shifting a giant roll of what feels like card out of the way when Angrod grasps his wrist, fingers fluttering over his pulse point, and says quietly, “you don’t hate me.”
“Yes I do,” spits Caranthir and for a moment it’s even almost true, because Angrod sounds so sure and calm and he has no right to just state things like that, like he knows everything about Caranthir and the itchy, desperate feeling under his skin.
“No you don’t,” Angrod grips his wrist a little tighter, “and I don’t hate you. So why are we always fighting?”
“Because you are an insufferable, egotistical git,” spits Caranthir, wrenching his wrist away and trying to press himself further into the wall.
“Do you really think that?” Angrod sounds downtrodden and Caranthir feels a little bad that he apparently did that. He thinks about apologising, but instead he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck and mutters,
“I’ve thought that since you stole my train set and then dropped it down that rabbit hole.” Caranthir can’t see very well in the dark of the cupboard but he’s pretty sure Angrod is staring at him.
“Caranthir, we were five” states Angrod, disbelief clear in his voice.
“It was my favourite train.”
There is silence, and then Angrod mutters, “This is stupid, there has to be a light switch in here somewhere.” There’s the sound of Angrod shuffling around and things shifting, and then the cupboard is filled with light. Caranthir squeezes his eyes shut, mostly so he doesn’t have to look at Angrod. Angrod is touching his wrist again, though, and saying “I can’t believe you’re still mad about that. Honestly, Caranthir,” and Caranthir can feel his breath on his cheek. He almost, almost keeps his eyes shut, and then his sense of reason kicks in and he opens them, diving away from Angrod, whose face is very close, and banging on the door.
“We’re done now,” he shouts, “let us out,” and after a moment of silence that sounds suspiciously like suppressed giggling Aredhel’s voice says “Fine,” and the door opens suddenly so that Caranthir almost trips.
“No more fighting, boys,” she says serenely, and Caranthir feels like he might as well just go and die because this is possibly the most embarrassing thing ever. Instead he just glares half-heartedly at her and takes off out of the art building before anyone can stop him.
*
Apparently Angrod has had some sort of brain failure the next morning, because he appears from nowhere as Caranthir is heading to his locker and says hurriedly, “don’t hit me. I just want to talk.”
“... All right,” Caranthir looks at him warily.
“I need tutoring in maths,” admits Angrod, looking pained at the admission, and Caranthir blinks at him.
“And you’re asking me?”
“Well. Aredhel seems to be on a vendetta to make us get along, and you know what she’s like. And you’re best at maths. So I just thought. You know.” Angrod looks hopeful and, really, Caranthir wants to know what he’s been taking. Though he does have a point, Aredhel is terrifying when she puts her mind to it; Caranthir privately thinks it has something to do with being one of only two females in her entire family. There’s got to be something causing her mad power trips, anyway. He’s going to say no to Angrod but when he opens his mouth what comes out is “okay then,” and he claps a hand over it before he can say anything else stupid. Angrod looks delighted, though, and Caranthir can’t bring himself to take the decision back, especially when Angrod smiles wide and says,
“Thank you. Seriously, Caranthir. Look, I have to get to class but I’ll call you later. Thank you.” He claps him on the shoulder in a gesture he must have learnt from Celegorm, and bounds away, leaving Caranthir standing in the middle of the corridor completely befuddled.
*
Angrod is terrible at maths. Caranthir doesn’t understand how they can be related, how hard is a goddamn equation to understand? They’re sitting in the library one day, knees touching, when Angrod throws down his pencil and says frustratedly, “forget it. Let’s go get McDonalds.”
“You won’t learn that way,” Caranthir points out
“I don’t care, I want a burger.” Angrod is already packing his textbook away and Caranthir knows it’s a lost cause.
“Aren’t you worried it’ll ruin your svelte cheerleader figure?” he asks, arching an eyebrow, and Angrod actually laughs, smile bright and broad.
“Why, how nice of you to think of my wellbeing” he teases and Caranthir snorts a little, trying not to focus on the way Angrod is smiling because it’s a little unnerving how charming he suddenly finds it.
*
After four tutoring sessions Angrod seems to have decided that he and Caranthir aren’t enemies anymore, even if they’re not friends, because Caranthir has started waking up to flurries of midnight text messages that all read along the lines of ‘Caranthir, my feet hurt’, and ‘did you know that kfc at 1am is super creepy?’, and ‘omg this english assignment is such bullshit’. He’s sort of disconcerted that Angrod seems to think that this is appropriate behaviour, and even more disconcerted that he actually kind of enjoys it. He is smart and studious and going to go to Oxford, he does not have time for Angrod and his frivolity. Unlike some of his siblings he actually plans to get into university for more than being good at some stupid sport.
On Saturday afternoon Caranthir is lying on the sofa reading Salinger’s Nine Stories when Celegorm and Angrod come in from the lacrosse game Caranthir had purposefully not attended. Celegorm has a purple-yellow bruise blooming underneath his temple and Caranthir scrunches up his face in distaste.
“What did you do to yourself?” he asks because it’s practically his job to laugh at Celegorm.
“Your brother is a hero,” replies Angrod, flopping down next to Caranthir and toeing off his shoes.
“I highly doubt that,” says Caranthir dryly, glancing sideways at Angrod and giving up his book as a lost cause.
“No, really. We won, if you care at all.” Angrod picks up the discarded paperback and looks at it speculatively, “I think this one is much better than Catcher in the Rye,” he adds and Caranthir gapes at him.
“Like you’ve read Salinger,” he chokes and Celegorm, forgotten, sticks his head out from the kitchen doorway and says disgustedly,
“Don’t get him started. He’s so pretentious about it.”
“Right.” Says Caranthir and blinks at Angrod, who is looking unbearably smug. There’s a pause while Angrod leafs through the book and then Caranthir thinks oh, fuck it and grabs Angrod by the wrist to pull him up again. “Come on,” he says, “let’s go for coffee and you can tell me all about how pretentious you are.”
Angrod looks startled and pleased and Caranthir has to bite his tongue to stop himself breaking into a grin. From the kitchen Celegorm swears loudly and then shouts, “I am going to kill Aredhel for making you two friends” as they head out the door.
*
So apparently they’re friends now. Or at least everyone else seems to have decided that they’re friends, even if Caranthir still isn’t quite sure about it. He can’t be friends with Angrod, it’s ridiculous. And as if to prove this point, the cheerleading team seem to have adopted Caranthir. There is probably nothing in the world Caranthir hates more than the idea of what is essentially a dance squad for the lacrosse team, no matter how many times Angrod insists that cheerleading is a sport, and now everyone on the team keeps waving at him in the corridors and asking him things like whether or not he’s coming to the party someone Caranthir could not care less about is throwing. It would be completely insufferable if it weren’t for the fact that half the time when this happens Angrod inexplicably pops up at his elbow and starts chattering about everything under the sun and makes Caranthir drastically less likely to commit homicide at school. Still though, apparently being friends with Angrod automatically means complete social acceptance and that freaks Caranthir out for several reasons, but mostly because the idea of Angrod having that much power is kind of terrifying.
*
It’s only when the Christmas holidays are over and Caranthir is sitting in his physics class trying to concentrate and ignore the stupid notes Angrod has written in his textbook that he realises that he spent most of the break with Angrod. More specifically, watching shitty horror movies with Angrod. He didn’t open his books once, it is horrifying. Caranthir is ashamed of himself, and not only because he’d probably understand this class a whole lot better if he’d done any of the reading they’d been assigned. When the teacher’s back is turned he sends a text to Celegorm that reads ‘oh my god how do you put up with him he has RUINED MY LIFE’ and it’s only when Celegorm replies with a characteristic ‘wat???’ that Caranthir starts to really comprehend how utterly fucked he is.
“I’m trying to study,” he says curtly when Angrod calls him later that night, after four unanswered text messages, and Angrod sighs down the phone. “You’re always studying,” he points out and Caranthir scowls at his workbook. “You’re always at cheer practice,” he counters.
“That’s different!” protests Angrod and Caranthir can’t help but laugh. “Listen,” he says consolingly, “let me study now and I might actually make it to your stupid lacrosse game next week.”
“Oh fine,” huffs out Angrod, and Caranthir is still grinning when Angrod hangs up. Not that it lasts long, because within three minutes Celegorm barges into Caranthir’s room, god forbid he learn to knock, and says pointedly “You never come to lacrosse games when I ask.”
“So?” Asks Caranthir, desperately trying to appear nonchalant.
“I’m your brother!”
“Whatever,” Caranthir scowls and then shouts “oh my god get OUT, Celegorm!” and childishly throws a shoe at the door when Celegorm starts to say “you have got it so bad, Caranthir”.
*
As it turns out Caranthir does not make it to the lacrosse game. Neither does he make it into school for two days because Maedhros, who never gets sick usually, has given him the death plague. He spends most of the week coughing disgustingly and the rest of it asleep, so he’s already more than slightly disorientated when late on Friday night he hears someone climbing through his window. He thinks for a moment that maybe he’s running a fever too now and is actually just hallucinating, and then he flicks on the light and sees Angrod scrambling to his feet looking ridiculously dishevelled. “What are you doing here?” he hisses, climbing out of bed and almost tripping over his blankets in the process.
“I brought you a smoothie. It’s got ginger in it. I thought it would help your cold.” Angrod shivers slightly and Caranthir blinks at him.
“It’s one am,” he says.
“Yeah, I was on my way home. I thought -” Angrod breaks off and Caranthir blinks at him some more. What is my life he thinks.
“Did we win the game?” he asks instead of ‘what the hell are we doing?’ because the latter just seems too presumptive for him to handle when he is sick and it is the middle of the night. Angrod’s face breaks into a grin at that and Caranthir can’t help but feel pleased that he’s said the right thing for once.
“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, we did.”
“You didn’t bring Celegorm a smoothie,” Caranthir says carefully after a pause, edging closer to Angrod, concentrating on the frayed sleeves of Angrod’s hoodie.
“Why would I?” Angrod looks genuinely confused and Caranthir’s heart catches somewhere in his chest. He reaches out and takes the cup, and smiles. Angrod positively beams back. “I knew you’d appreciate it,” he says, “I knew I didn’t climb up your drainpipe in vain.”
“How the hell did you manage to get up that thing with a cup?” asks Caranthir, smothering the laughter that is bubbling up inside him. Angrod barely even cracks a smile when he says,
“I have very good balance. You’re asking all the wrong questions.”
“Am I?” Angrod is edging closer to Caranthir and Caranthir feels like he might actually shatter if Angrod comes any nearer, even though they must be centimetres apart by now. Then Angrod touches his wrist and smiles a little ruefully at him.
“Yes, ask the right ones next time” he says and leans in and kisses Caranthir softly at the edge of his mouth, and then he moves away and says, grinning, “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Don’t you dare,” says Caranthir somewhat hysterically, “you are coming over tomorrow or I will break your nose.” Angrod blinks at him for a moment and then laughs, bright and pleased. “Okay,” he says, “okay, sure.” He looks like he’s going to say something else for a moment and then he just shrugs and starts to climb back out the window.
He’s already on the ground by the time Caranthir thinks to lean out of the window and shout after him “You could have just used the door, you idiot.”
*
As it turns out Caranthir is asleep when Angrod comes over the next day, and he wakes up at four in the afternoon to find Angrod sitting next to him on his bed reading On the Road. “Dean is such an ass,” he comments as Caranthir sits up, and puts the book down.
“Yeah,” says Caranthir, scrubbing his hand across his face sleepily.
“I can’t believe you own a special edition of this, by the way,” adds Angrod gesturing towards the book, “You are such a hipster.”
“What!” squawks Caranthir, “no I’m not.”
“You sort of are,” says Angrod, as though he is breaking terrible news.
“I do not own a shred of plaid, don’t you tell me I’m a hipster,” protests Caranthir haughtily, and then spoils the effect by coughing horribly. Angrod makes a concerned noise and when Caranthir turns his head they are suddenly nose to nose.
“Oh.” Says Angrod quietly but doesn’t move and Caranthir thinks oh my god and then he says, “oh for crying out loud,” and leans the few inches forwards to kiss Angrod. Angrod makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and Caranthir thinks this is brilliant and smiles stupidly into Angrod’s mouth. And then he has to cough again and Angrod starts to laugh, so Caranthir really has no other choice but to throw his Kerouac special anniversary edition at him.
*
On Monday Caranthir is still looking for his Classics textbook when Angrod’s car pulls up outside. He falters for a moment, looking out of the window, and then thinks that it’s probably too late to start second guessing himself now, and takes off down the stairs. When he hops into the car Angrod grins broadly at him as they pull away from the curb. “Sleep well?” he asks, leering in a way that Caranthir would bet anything Celegorm taught him.
“Fuck off,” says Caranthir, hiding his grin behind his hand. He’s a little horrified at how affectionate he sounds. He waits for Angrod to laugh at him for it but Angrod simply smiles at him, softer this time, and turns the radio up.
Caranthir has never felt more awkward in his life walking into school with Angrod, especially not when Angrod’s hand brushes lightly against his. Before he has time to completely freak out, though, the bell goes and he practically bolts from Angrod’s side towards class, shouting “bye!” over his shoulder as he does so because his mother did teach him some manners. Unlike Angrod’s, who apparently taught her son it was just fine to creep into people’s bedrooms at night and kiss them and then just continue to be charming and ridiculous.
From behind him Angrod shouts, “I’ll see you at lunch!” and Caranthir cannot help but smile at that, even as he makes a rude gesture over his shoulder.
*
For the first time since he was ten years old and disastrously pushed her face into the birthday cake, Caranthir finds himself going to one of Aredhel’s parties. ‘Being dragged to one of Aredhel’s parties’ might be a better term, really, because Caranthir hates parties and he hates teenagers and he’d much, much rather be at home watching Planet Earth or, god forbid, doing his homework than here, but Angrod and Celegorm had ganged up on him. And now they’ve abandoned him to go and do whatever popular people things they do, and Caranthir is sitting in the library of his uncle Fingolfin’s house drinking a beer he doesn’t even want and squinting at a shelf of accountancy law books that he didn’t know existed. Uncle Fingolfin is clearly a dark horse and Caranthir needs to spend more time with him.
What could be ten minutes but is probably more like an hour later Caranthir is completely engrossed in the index of the thickest book of the set and it’s not until he hears Angrod say exasperatedly “god, Caranthir, only you would be reading at a party,” that he realises he’s there at all. “Fuck you,” he says mildly, blinking up at Angrod who is leaning against the doorframe and looing deeply amused.
“No, really,” says Angrod, coming over to Caranthir and plucking the book out of his hands, “you need a life.”
“No, I really, really don’t.” Caranthir’s protests seem stupid even to his ears as he leans into Angrod’s shoulder, and Angrod laughs indulgently into Caranthir’s hair, tapping out the bass line of whatever awful song Celegorm - and it’s bound to be Celegorm, Caranthir knows, because no one else has that bad taste in music - is playing on his arm.
“Yes you do,” he says firmly, and grabs Caranthir by the hand to pull him out of the room, much to Caranthir’s displeasure because not only was that book fascinating he had also just been getting around to sticking his hand up Angrod’s shirt.
“Can’t we just stay here?” he tries futilely, wondering if he’s really shameless enough to grope Angrod for personal gain.
“No. We are going to go and socialise, Caranthir,” says Angrod and marches them back towards the kitchen
Three hours later Caranthir is throwing up cheap vodka in Fingon’s bathroom and cursing Angrod to hell and back, Celegorm sitting next to him with a hand warm on his neck and shouting translation of Caranthir’s obscenities to a deeply amused Aredhel.
*
When Angrod comes into his room the next day looking deeply apologetic Caranthir tells him to piss off and throws a slipper at him for good measure. He doesn’t delete the text messages that are mostly different variations of ‘:(‘ that Angrod sends him through the rest of the day, though.
*
“Stop wearing sunglass indoors,” Caranthir says, prodding Angrod ineffectually in the leg. Angrod kicks his feet against the sofa from his seat on its arm and peers judgementally over the top of his sunglasses, sliding them slightly down his nose.
“Sunglasses,” he says, “are cruise control for awesome. And I, Caranthir, am awesome.”
“Your ego is awesome,” says Caranthir, snorting, “if by awesome we mean massive and ridiculous”.
“Your mum’s ego is massive and ridiculous,” retorts Angrod and then cackles wildly as Caranthir tackles him off the couch.
“Not cool, Angrod.” Caranthir is sitting on Angrod’s legs and Angrod reaches up to twist a hand in his shirt, thumb skimming the skin above Caranthir’s hipbone.
“Totally cool,” he says, and Caranthir laughs gently, reaching out and pulling the sunglasses off.
“Sunglasses indoors,” he reiterates, “are stupid.” He reaches out to flick Angrod in the head and ends up brushing his hair out of his face instead. Angrod makes a funny smile sort of thing at him and Caranthir tries valiantly to ignore the way his breath catches a little in his throat. He leans in, still marvelling a little at how hey he is totally allowed to do this now, and kisses Angrod carefully. Angrod laughs into his mouth and kisses back not at all carefully, wriggling closer to Caranthir. Caranthir makes an undignified noise when Angrod shoves his hands up Caranthir’s t-shirt and Angrod just laughs more. Kissing is, Caranthir thinks, pretty great. Kissing Angrod is pretty great. He curls his fingers around Angrod’s arm and bites at his lip, letting Angrod run his tongue across the roof of Caranthir’s mouth, and Caranthir really thinks he might be going to die and go to heaven. It is, of course, at that moment that Celegorm walks in.
“Ew,” he says, grimacing as they spring apart, and turns to walk out again. Caranthir can feel himself going red from the neck up and busies himself with rearranging his t-shirt so he doesn’t actually have to look Angrod in the eye.
“Well,” says Angrod, measuredly after a moment of silence, “at least maybe now he’ll believe me when I tell him I’m going to take you to Vegas and get hitched.”
Caranthir stares at him for a minute and then says disbelievingly, “If you think for one second that I am going somewhere as tacky as Vegas then you are incredibly deluded.”
“Oh come on, you know you want to be pronounced husband and husband by Elvis,” retorts Angrod, and then shies away as Caranthir tries to kick him in the shin.
*
Obviously, and Caranthir thinks later that he really should have seen this coming, everything was going far too well. Not fighting with Angrod was one thing, and getting along with him was another, and, clearly, getting fond of him was just a step too far. They haven’t actually fought since they became friends months and months ago so really they’re well overdue for one; and exams are coming up along with the inter-school cheer competition that Angrod is so dead set on winning, and they’re both sort of looking for a fight.
What does it, though, what really does it for Caranthir, is walking into Chemistry class and Angrod saying to him, “Let me borrow your history homework, will you.”
“No,” says Caranthir, petty, “you had plenty of time to do it.”
“I didn’t, I didn’t, cheer practice ran over.”
“That’s not my fault! Maybe you should have concentrated more on studying than some stupid dance routine.” Angrod’s face pales, and Caranthir doesn’t even know why he said it really, except that he’s tired and stressed and that homework was difficult. Just because Angrod is his boyf- his friend doesn’t mean that Caranthir should just let him get away with stuff like that, right?
“Is that really what you think?” asks Angrod, voice clipped, and Caranthir winces.
“No,” he tries, but the damage is done. Angrod pushes his chair back with a scrape and walks out of the room. Caranthir watches him go, torn for a moment, and then stands up and follows him. Somewhere in the background he can hear their teacher calling after them ‘gentlemen, my class is not optional’ but Caranthir doesn’t really care about that right now. He catches up with Angrod half way down the corridor and catches his arm, but Angrod pulls his elbow away and hisses at him,
“Leave me alone, Caranthir.”
“No.” Caranthir keeps step with him and says breathlessly, “that was - I don’t think it’s stupid. Really.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” shouts Angrod, turning to face him finally, “I never was good enough for you, was I? You’re going to have to do something about that superiority complex, Caranthir, or they’ll eat you alive at fucking Oxford.”
“You think I’ll get into Oxford?” asks Caranthir, startled and thrown off-base.
“I don’t think anything about you” snarls Angrod, “I’m done with you, Caranthir. We’re done, got it?” he turns away again and this time, shell shocked, Caranthir doesn’t try to follow him,
*
It’s childish but Caranthir spends the whole weekend after that hiding in his room. Celegorm doesn’t even try to talk to him about it, knowing him too well, and even Maedhros stops trying after Caranthir throws him out of his bedroom and shouts that he wants to be left alone. Weirdly enough it’s Maglor, who Caranthir has never been close to, who cheers him up. He brings him a sandwich on Sunday evening and doesn’t say anything when Caranthir comes into his room and curls up in his bed, miserable.
“I think I made a stupid mistake,” he says quietly, and Maglor looks up from his viola and smiles ruefully.
“You wouldn’t be the first one,” he says gently. Caranthir eyes him morosely and then hides his face silently in the pillow again.
*
It ought to get easier after that, but it doesn’t. Caranthir is all ready for it to get easier but Monday is awful and Tuesday is even worse, and he hides in the library as much as possible, wielding his physics textbook like it’s a shield. It’s on Wednesday that things really get out of hand though. Caranthir is waiting outside the music building for Maglor and Maedhros when he hears the end of a conversation: “no, I heard they broke up and now he’s going to prom with the lacrosse captain.” “Well that makes sense; I mean he is the cheer captain after all.”
Caranthir sort of sees red at that, pain pricking somewhere in his chest, and if he stopped to think about it, really stopped, then he wouldn’t be so rash. But he’s always been rash so he gets to his feet and heads towards Angrod’s locker, the argument already building in his head.
“So, I hear you and my brother are a thing now,” he says snidely, startling Angrod into slamming his locker door with more force than needed and staring at him.
“What?” he says, confused, “why would you even think that?”
“Are you going to go to prom with him?” sneers Caranthir, undeterred, his face twisting with nastiness, “Is he going to hold your hand and buy you dinner?”
“Shut up, Caranthir.” Angrod’s expression is harsh, tension evident. Which was excellent. Caranthir was spoiling for a fight.
“Really,” he says bitterly, “I don’t know what he sees in you.”
“Caranthir, just drop it,”
“Why should I?” Caranthir is almost startled into the response by the crack in Angrod’s voice.
Angrod looks at him as if considering something and then says calmly, “I’m not going to prom with Celegorm, okay?” before turning and walking away.
When he’s far enough down the corridor not to hear Caranthir punches his locker and then swears loudly at the pain.
*
“What the fuck was that about?” shouts Celegorm, slamming the door to the art room where Caranthir is holed up.
“None of your fucking business!” retorts Caranthir, scowling determinedly down at his copy of War and Peace. Celegorm grabs the book out of his hand and drops it on the desk behind him, forcing Caranthir to look at him.
“He’s my best friend and you’re my little brother, you idiot, of course it’s my business,” he says, sitting down with a sigh.
“You’ve heard the rumours,” Caranthir turns his head away so that Celegorm can’t see how upset he is.
“Yes, but - oh come on, Caranthir, you don’t actually believe them?”
“Should I?”
“No! Of course not! Are you blind? I know that you’ve been all gross and smitten for months but you know I’ve been trying to get Aredhel to go out with me since we were fourteen.”
“I thought you’d given up on her,” says Caranthir, startled into a sensible retort.
“Yeah, of course, that’s why I asked her to go to prom with me last week,” says Celegorm sarcastically and Caranthir can’t help but laugh a little at that.
“You mean she said yes?” he asks after a beat and Celegorm grins stupidly.
“Oh my god I hate you,” mutters Caranthir pettily and Celegorm hits him gently over the back of the head.
“No you don’t. Now go and fix things, or Aredhel and I will both take him to prom just to spite you.”
“I actually loath you,” says Caranthir, deadpan, and Celegorm laughs at him again, kinder than Caranthir has any right for him to be.
*
It actually takes a full three days for him to get up the courage to go and see Angrod. Not only is he fairly sure that they’re going to fight again, but Finrod is pretty scary when he wants to be. Caranthir is small and unsporty compared to the rest of his lunatic family, and Finrod might have chosen the swim team over the lacrosse one but that’s no reason he can’t break Caranthir’s noodly arms.
Caranthir actually winces when Finrod opens the front door. “I’m here to see Angrod?” he says carefully and Finrod glares at him.
“I don’t think he wants to see you,” he says and Caranthir grits his teeth before he says “please.” Something in Finrod’s face softens at that and he sighs. “Fine,” he says and moves aside to let Caranthir into the house. “He’s in his room. You’re not going to hurt him.” It isn’t a question and Caranthir doesn’t answer it as one. Instead he simply nods, once, and heads up the stairs.
Angrod is sitting on his bed wearing what looks suspiciously like the grey sweater Caranthir had thought he’d lost and he scrambles to his feet when Caranthir edges into his room. “Get out,” he says, and Caranthir can barely breathe at the look on his face.
“I’m,” he starts uselessly and stops, holding out the banana milkshake he’d bought just for Angrod.
“A milkshake. You brought me a milkshake,” says Angrod, staring at him, and Caranthir nods, “I can’t believe you,” he says, but he takes it anyway. “So,” he says, fiddling with the straw, “everyone kept telling me ‘he doesn’t hate you, he just needs time,’ and I kept hoping they were right except that they clearly weren’t because it was days and you didn’t call me once or even give me any indication you were listening to my messages, and your brother was glaring at me every five minutes even though he’s my best friend, and I thought you were going to ignore me for the rest of our lives and -“
“Oh for fucks sake,” says Caranthir, and kisses him.
“Mmph,” says Angrod, almost dropping the milkshake in surprise.
“I don’t hate you,” says Caranthir, holding tight to Angrod’s hand, “of course I don’t hate you.”
“Oh,” says Angrod, and grips Caranthir’s hand right back. “You’re the most idiotic person I’ve ever met,” he says after a moment and Caranthir groans, leaning forward and hiding his face in Angrod’s shoulder.
“I know,” he says miserably, “I know. I should have just. I was awful to you, wasn’t I?”
“I think we were both pretty awful,” says Angrod softly, and Caranthir can’t help but love him for that.
“Yeah,” he admits shakily, and Angrod smiles and pulls him close to kiss him again and, really, Caranthir thinks, maybe things actually are going to turn out okay in the end.
Epilogue
“So are we going to prom?” asks Angrod down the phone and Caranthir stops trying to hold his keys and his can of coke and his phone all at once to blink at the wall.
“Um,” he says, “isn’t not going sort of social suicide for you?”
“Dude, I’m not that popular,” protests Angrod, and Caranthir thinks yeah right but just hums down the phone and says,
“I guess so. If you want.”
“Okay,” Angrod doesn’t sound particularly enthused but Caranthir has learnt not to read things into that. His boyfriend is weird. “You have to tell me what colour tie you’re going to wear, then, so I can get you a pretty flower to match.”
“You are not getting me a flower and I am not the girl in this relationship,” complains Caranthir and Angrod laughs at him.
“Yes you are. How do you feel about carnations?”
“I hate you and I’m hanging up on you now,” says Caranthir, and throws his phone at his bed.
“You know,” says Celegorm, sticking his head around the door a moment later, “you kind of are the girl in that relationship.”
Caranthir throws his keys at him and goes to sulk in the kitchen.
*
Caranthir already has his suit on and is hunting for socks when it occurs to him that actually he really, really doesn’t want to go to prom. “I don’t want to go to prom,” he says to Maedhros and Maedhros ruffles his hair and smiles.
“You’ll have fun once you’re there,” he says and Caranthir remembers that saying anything to his disgustingly in love older brother is pointless these days, and glowers at Maedhros when his back is turned.
He finds his socks and pulls his shoes on and borrows Celegorm’s Casino Royale DVD, and runs the fifteen minutes to Angrod’s house. Angrod is still barefoot and his bowtie is undone when he opens the door, and he starts to say “Hey, you’re early-” when Caranthir cuts him off to say, “Angrod, I really don’t want to go to prom.” There is a pause and he adds feebly, “I brought your favourite Bond movie?” and then Angrod grins at him and says,
“Oh, thank god.”
“What?”
“Caranthir,” says Angrod, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside, “I do not want to go to prom either.”
“Oh.” Caranthir feels a little bit stupid and a lot relieved, and Angrod is laughing at him but he can’t quite bring himself to be mad at him for it. “Oh good,” he adds, and Angrod smiles fondly at him.
“Come on, let’s go and watch Daniel Craig kill things at eat all of my brother’s M&Ms,” he says, tugging Caranthir towards the living room.
Later on, just when Angrod is simultaneously and enthusiastically trying to get Caranthir out of his suit and into his bedroom, someone knocks on the door. Caranthir already pretty much hates them for their timing and he hates them even more when Angrod opens the door and it turns out to be Celegorm and Aredhel.
“What are you doing here?” asks Angrod, and Caranthir hides behind him and tries to subtly straighten his clothes.
“I’m sorry, I told him we should just go home,” says Aredhel apologetically and Angrod shakes his head as Celegorm says, “Dude, where were you. It was awesome.” Then he sways slightly on the spot and vomits promptly into the shrubbery.
“You are drunk, Celegorm,” says Angrod, somewhat fondly, and Aredhel rolls her eyes.
“Now listen,” says Celegorm after a moment in which Aredhel looks like she is actually trying not to laugh and Caranthir thinks he might actually hate her enough to tell Fingon about all the times she definitely didn’t sleep on the sofa, “Angrod. You have to. You have to treat my little brother right, okay?” Angrod blinks at him and Celegorm looks oddly proud of himself, and Caranthir has definitely had enough.
“Oh my god go home Celegorm,” he says exasperatedly, and then adds “also, I hate you,” for good measure, and then shuts the door in his face.
“Whoops,” says Angrod, slumping back against the wall and laughing slightly.
“I hate you, too,” says Caranthir, feeling petulant.
“No you don’t.” Angrod reaches over and tugs on his shirt to pull him closer.
“No, not really,” Caranthir admits and Angrod grins stupidly at him. Caranthir can’t help but grin back, and then he adds “Don’t think I wouldn’t pick Daniel Craig over you, though,” mock serious, and Angrod hits him over the head and starts to laugh, and Caranthir has to kiss him then just to shut him up.
It has, all in all, turned out to be a much better evening than Caranthir had anticipated.
Title: He's cheer captain and I'm on the bleachers
Fandom: Silmarillion? This is so AU that it probably doesn't deserve to be listed as Silm fic.
Pairing: Angrod/Caranthir
Rating: Barely PG, ahahaha.
Summary: High school AU. In which Caranthir is a nerd who suppresses his emotions, Angrod is head cheerleader, Celegorm is captain of the lacrosse team, and Maedhros' life is probably very hard.
Notes: I FEEL LIKE I SHOULD REALLY PUT SOME EXPLANATIONS HERE. Um. Okay, 1) la la la everyone is the same age! By which I mean, they are all in the same two years of school despite being related! Because I am lazy. 2) No one has parents who are actually around! Just like in glee! :D? :D? 3) Elf high school exists in a magical world that is a mix of British and American school systems. Because I grew up on an unhealthy diet of American teen movies.
Other than that, I actually feel a little guilty posting this fic just because it is so self-indulgent. Like. It is pretty much coppertone and I's personal canon that goes back years, with wacky AU hijinks pasted on. WHAT I AM SAYING IS: YOU CAN ALL BLAME CLAIRE FOR THIS OKAY.
He’s Cheer Captain and I’m on the Bleachers
On the second day of term Celegorm is made captain of the lacrosse team and Angrod is made head cheerleader. Essentially, this makes Celegorm some sort of horrific godlike figure and Angrod some sort of horrific god-knows-what, and Caranthir thinks he might as well just try and get expelled right now seeing as this year is going to be awful.
Valinor High is deeply weird, in Caranthir’s point of view, because it takes its one sport ridiculously, incredibly seriously and if you’re going to take a sport seriously then lacrosse, of all things, is perhaps not the most obvious choice. Also, it clearly does not need cheerleaders. Let alone cheerleaders who are also Caranthir’s useless cousin who will not go away no matter how much Caranthir makes it clear that he pretty much hates him.
Caranthir just wants to be able to concentrate on his maths homework and his extra-credit research for physics class. He does not want to have to listen to most of the school trading gossip about his varied family members and their stupid antics. Not even when it’s gossip about Maedhros which is always entertaining simply because as head boy Maedhros is supposed to do absolutely nothing wrong. Especially not hide in empty classrooms with their cousin Fingon and do things Caranthir really, really does not want to think about.
*
The thing about Caranthir and Angrod is that they always seem to be fighting. It’s not like Finrod and Celegorm who just ignore each other stonily every time they come across one another. Something about being within the same twenty feet of each other is enough to cause some sort of perceived slight and that’s it, they’re fighting. They’ve been fighting since they were children and sometimes it seems to Caranthir like they’ll never stop, especially now Angrod has decided to become best friends with Celegorm which is something Caranthir will never, ever understand because they might both be thick as two planks of wood but that doesn’t seem like a very sound basis for a friendship to him.
*
On Tuesday afternoon Caranthir walks out of the library and straight into his brother. “What are you doing?” he asks, startled, because Celegorm near the library this early in the term is practically unheard of.
“I was looking for you, actually,” says Celegorm, eyeing Caranthir’s maths textbook like it might bite him, and “do you want a ride home today? I’ve got practice but if you wanna wait an hour we’ll stop for pizza on the way back.”
“Sure,” says Caranthir, because while he might think Celegorm and his lacrosse obsession are stupid he’s also pretty much his favourite brother. Also, he’s not going to say no to pizza. This is how he finds himself hunched on the bleachers after school watching Celegorm and Angrod flirt horribly down on the lacrosse pitch. Next time, he thinks, he’s walking home. Even if he is promised pizza.
*
On Wednesday Angrod throws a pencil at him in their chemistry class and Caranthir glares at him in a way which he hopes implies ‘I hate you and if I could I would hang you by your feet from the fire escape at the top of the humanities building’.
Judging from the way Angrod just grins at him and flips his hair, like he’s some sort of stupid style icon or something, the message hasn’t got through.
*
On Thursday Caranthir takes himself to the library and spends all his lunch and free period working on his algebra equations. It’s the best day of the week.
*
On Friday Angrod looks at Caranthir funny so he punches him in the face. They both get detention, but Angrod is the one with the bloody nose so Caranthir counts it as a win.
*
Considering all of this it’s not really surprising that a month into the school year the text Fingon gets from his sister halfway into the fifth year’s lunch hour and his free study hour simply reads “They’re fighting again”. “Shit,” he mutters and forwards it to Maedhros and Finrod as he hurries out of the library.
It is not hard to find his cousins; he just has to follow the sound of raised voices. It’s not exactly a large school, after all. He rounds the corner to see them standing in front of Caranthir’s locker, both yelling fit to burst. Caranthir has his hand curled tightly around the strap of his bag, knuckles white, and he’s shouting “at least my mother brought me up properly!” when Fingon gets close enough to hear.
That’s about the time when Angrod throws the first punch. Fingon sees it about to happen and dives for him, grabbing his arm and pinning it to his back.
“Back off, Fingon,” snarls Angrod, and Fingon knows he must be really mad because since when does Angrod snarl. Caranthir’s face is flushed and angry and Fingon thinks wearily, oh god, it’s going to be like this all year.
“What is wrong with you both?” he says, keeping his hands firmly on Angrod’s arms, and he can feel Angrod start to physically deflate at the reproachful tone.
“He started it,” he says, glaring, and Fingon can feel his sigh of relief right down to his toes when Maedhros comes around the corner a moment later. He looks at Fingon, holding Angrod back, and Caranthir, colour high in his cheeks and mouth twisted cruelly, and makes a face that Fingon is pretty sure says you are in so much trouble.
“You both have detention for a month,” says Maedhros, and holds up a finger as Caranthir bursts out with “but I’m your brother!”, “and if I catch you fighting again I am getting you both grounded too,” he finishes. Angrod and Caranthir both look utterly betrayed at that, and it’s almost funny, really. Fingon lets go of Angrod, finally, and Angrod immediately jerks away from him. “Fine,” he says to Maedhros, anger lining his face, and stomps away down the corridor towards the gym.
Fingon, Maedhros and Caranthir are left staring awkwardly at each other. Caranthir opens his mouth as though he is about to complain and Maedhros rubs his forehead tiredly, saying “go and get some lunch, Caranthir,” before his brother can say anything. Caranthir looks at him for a beat longer, almost regretful, and then turns away silently. Fingon edges closer to Maedhros and gently tangles their fingers together.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, and Maedhros gives him a weak smile. “I suppose so,” replies Maedhros and squeezes Fingon’s hand and then starts to tug him along the corridor. “Come on,” he says, “we still have half an hour before class and I have an office now,” and waggles his eyebrows.
Fingon nearly chokes he’s laughing so hard.
*
Essentially, Caranthir hates everything. Even Celegorm. Especially Celegorm because if it wasn’t for Celegorm he probably wouldn’t be sitting in the rain waiting for lacrosse practice to finish (again). Between thinking about how much he hates everything and trying to read the chapter on phases of matter in his physics textbook without it getting drenched he doesn’t even notice Angrod until he’s right beside him.
“You know,” says Angrod, sitting down and moving his umbrella so that it coves them both, “it’s sort of counterproductive to do your homework in the rain.”
“Go away,” mutters Caranthir, jerking away so his thigh is no longer pressed up against Angrod’s. Angrod scowls at him.
“I was only trying to be helpful. If you want to sit in the rain and sulk then that’s fine by me,” he gets to his feet again and stalks back down the stairs, mostly obscured by the umbrella.
“Good,” glowers Caranthir to the air, rain starting to drip down his neck.
*
In the next month and a half Caranthir and Angrod have three fights and Caranthir gets suspended for three days. In his opinion this is deeply unfair because Angrod being a cheerleader should absolutely not exempt him from suspension like it appears to have done.
*
“We really shouldn’t be doing this,” mutters Aredhel, “we are going to have so much detention.”
“No we’re not, I’m hall monitor and you’re a prefect.” Fingon peers around the corner and prods his sister in the side, “he’s here, go” he says over her complaints. Aredhel rolls her eyes at him and strides out into the hall, grabbing Angrod by the arm and saying cheerfully, “Angrod, there you are! I need you to come and consult about cheer practice times.” Fingon waits until she’s led him around the corner and then heads off to waylay Caranthir. Five minutes later Aredhel is locking the door of the art supply closet, grinning broadly as Angrod shouts “You cannot do this to me! I AM CHEER CAPTAIN!” through it.
“I can do whatever I want, now talk to each other or we’re not letting you out,” she says through the door. Caranthir’s enraged shriek is probably the most hilarious thing Fingon has heard so far this year, and when Aredhel turns to high five him he grins madly at her.
*
The thing about being locked in a supply cupboard with your worst enemy is that there really isn’t a lot of room to get away from them. Or to hide the fact that you don’t really hate them that much at all really. Caranthir groans and shuffles around, trying to make more space; any space really so long as he isn’t pressed up close to Angrod anymore. He’s almost succeeded in shifting a giant roll of what feels like card out of the way when Angrod grasps his wrist, fingers fluttering over his pulse point, and says quietly, “you don’t hate me.”
“Yes I do,” spits Caranthir and for a moment it’s even almost true, because Angrod sounds so sure and calm and he has no right to just state things like that, like he knows everything about Caranthir and the itchy, desperate feeling under his skin.
“No you don’t,” Angrod grips his wrist a little tighter, “and I don’t hate you. So why are we always fighting?”
“Because you are an insufferable, egotistical git,” spits Caranthir, wrenching his wrist away and trying to press himself further into the wall.
“Do you really think that?” Angrod sounds downtrodden and Caranthir feels a little bad that he apparently did that. He thinks about apologising, but instead he scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck and mutters,
“I’ve thought that since you stole my train set and then dropped it down that rabbit hole.” Caranthir can’t see very well in the dark of the cupboard but he’s pretty sure Angrod is staring at him.
“Caranthir, we were five” states Angrod, disbelief clear in his voice.
“It was my favourite train.”
There is silence, and then Angrod mutters, “This is stupid, there has to be a light switch in here somewhere.” There’s the sound of Angrod shuffling around and things shifting, and then the cupboard is filled with light. Caranthir squeezes his eyes shut, mostly so he doesn’t have to look at Angrod. Angrod is touching his wrist again, though, and saying “I can’t believe you’re still mad about that. Honestly, Caranthir,” and Caranthir can feel his breath on his cheek. He almost, almost keeps his eyes shut, and then his sense of reason kicks in and he opens them, diving away from Angrod, whose face is very close, and banging on the door.
“We’re done now,” he shouts, “let us out,” and after a moment of silence that sounds suspiciously like suppressed giggling Aredhel’s voice says “Fine,” and the door opens suddenly so that Caranthir almost trips.
“No more fighting, boys,” she says serenely, and Caranthir feels like he might as well just go and die because this is possibly the most embarrassing thing ever. Instead he just glares half-heartedly at her and takes off out of the art building before anyone can stop him.
*
Apparently Angrod has had some sort of brain failure the next morning, because he appears from nowhere as Caranthir is heading to his locker and says hurriedly, “don’t hit me. I just want to talk.”
“... All right,” Caranthir looks at him warily.
“I need tutoring in maths,” admits Angrod, looking pained at the admission, and Caranthir blinks at him.
“And you’re asking me?”
“Well. Aredhel seems to be on a vendetta to make us get along, and you know what she’s like. And you’re best at maths. So I just thought. You know.” Angrod looks hopeful and, really, Caranthir wants to know what he’s been taking. Though he does have a point, Aredhel is terrifying when she puts her mind to it; Caranthir privately thinks it has something to do with being one of only two females in her entire family. There’s got to be something causing her mad power trips, anyway. He’s going to say no to Angrod but when he opens his mouth what comes out is “okay then,” and he claps a hand over it before he can say anything else stupid. Angrod looks delighted, though, and Caranthir can’t bring himself to take the decision back, especially when Angrod smiles wide and says,
“Thank you. Seriously, Caranthir. Look, I have to get to class but I’ll call you later. Thank you.” He claps him on the shoulder in a gesture he must have learnt from Celegorm, and bounds away, leaving Caranthir standing in the middle of the corridor completely befuddled.
*
Angrod is terrible at maths. Caranthir doesn’t understand how they can be related, how hard is a goddamn equation to understand? They’re sitting in the library one day, knees touching, when Angrod throws down his pencil and says frustratedly, “forget it. Let’s go get McDonalds.”
“You won’t learn that way,” Caranthir points out
“I don’t care, I want a burger.” Angrod is already packing his textbook away and Caranthir knows it’s a lost cause.
“Aren’t you worried it’ll ruin your svelte cheerleader figure?” he asks, arching an eyebrow, and Angrod actually laughs, smile bright and broad.
“Why, how nice of you to think of my wellbeing” he teases and Caranthir snorts a little, trying not to focus on the way Angrod is smiling because it’s a little unnerving how charming he suddenly finds it.
*
After four tutoring sessions Angrod seems to have decided that he and Caranthir aren’t enemies anymore, even if they’re not friends, because Caranthir has started waking up to flurries of midnight text messages that all read along the lines of ‘Caranthir, my feet hurt’, and ‘did you know that kfc at 1am is super creepy?’, and ‘omg this english assignment is such bullshit’. He’s sort of disconcerted that Angrod seems to think that this is appropriate behaviour, and even more disconcerted that he actually kind of enjoys it. He is smart and studious and going to go to Oxford, he does not have time for Angrod and his frivolity. Unlike some of his siblings he actually plans to get into university for more than being good at some stupid sport.
On Saturday afternoon Caranthir is lying on the sofa reading Salinger’s Nine Stories when Celegorm and Angrod come in from the lacrosse game Caranthir had purposefully not attended. Celegorm has a purple-yellow bruise blooming underneath his temple and Caranthir scrunches up his face in distaste.
“What did you do to yourself?” he asks because it’s practically his job to laugh at Celegorm.
“Your brother is a hero,” replies Angrod, flopping down next to Caranthir and toeing off his shoes.
“I highly doubt that,” says Caranthir dryly, glancing sideways at Angrod and giving up his book as a lost cause.
“No, really. We won, if you care at all.” Angrod picks up the discarded paperback and looks at it speculatively, “I think this one is much better than Catcher in the Rye,” he adds and Caranthir gapes at him.
“Like you’ve read Salinger,” he chokes and Celegorm, forgotten, sticks his head out from the kitchen doorway and says disgustedly,
“Don’t get him started. He’s so pretentious about it.”
“Right.” Says Caranthir and blinks at Angrod, who is looking unbearably smug. There’s a pause while Angrod leafs through the book and then Caranthir thinks oh, fuck it and grabs Angrod by the wrist to pull him up again. “Come on,” he says, “let’s go for coffee and you can tell me all about how pretentious you are.”
Angrod looks startled and pleased and Caranthir has to bite his tongue to stop himself breaking into a grin. From the kitchen Celegorm swears loudly and then shouts, “I am going to kill Aredhel for making you two friends” as they head out the door.
*
So apparently they’re friends now. Or at least everyone else seems to have decided that they’re friends, even if Caranthir still isn’t quite sure about it. He can’t be friends with Angrod, it’s ridiculous. And as if to prove this point, the cheerleading team seem to have adopted Caranthir. There is probably nothing in the world Caranthir hates more than the idea of what is essentially a dance squad for the lacrosse team, no matter how many times Angrod insists that cheerleading is a sport, and now everyone on the team keeps waving at him in the corridors and asking him things like whether or not he’s coming to the party someone Caranthir could not care less about is throwing. It would be completely insufferable if it weren’t for the fact that half the time when this happens Angrod inexplicably pops up at his elbow and starts chattering about everything under the sun and makes Caranthir drastically less likely to commit homicide at school. Still though, apparently being friends with Angrod automatically means complete social acceptance and that freaks Caranthir out for several reasons, but mostly because the idea of Angrod having that much power is kind of terrifying.
*
It’s only when the Christmas holidays are over and Caranthir is sitting in his physics class trying to concentrate and ignore the stupid notes Angrod has written in his textbook that he realises that he spent most of the break with Angrod. More specifically, watching shitty horror movies with Angrod. He didn’t open his books once, it is horrifying. Caranthir is ashamed of himself, and not only because he’d probably understand this class a whole lot better if he’d done any of the reading they’d been assigned. When the teacher’s back is turned he sends a text to Celegorm that reads ‘oh my god how do you put up with him he has RUINED MY LIFE’ and it’s only when Celegorm replies with a characteristic ‘wat???’ that Caranthir starts to really comprehend how utterly fucked he is.
“I’m trying to study,” he says curtly when Angrod calls him later that night, after four unanswered text messages, and Angrod sighs down the phone. “You’re always studying,” he points out and Caranthir scowls at his workbook. “You’re always at cheer practice,” he counters.
“That’s different!” protests Angrod and Caranthir can’t help but laugh. “Listen,” he says consolingly, “let me study now and I might actually make it to your stupid lacrosse game next week.”
“Oh fine,” huffs out Angrod, and Caranthir is still grinning when Angrod hangs up. Not that it lasts long, because within three minutes Celegorm barges into Caranthir’s room, god forbid he learn to knock, and says pointedly “You never come to lacrosse games when I ask.”
“So?” Asks Caranthir, desperately trying to appear nonchalant.
“I’m your brother!”
“Whatever,” Caranthir scowls and then shouts “oh my god get OUT, Celegorm!” and childishly throws a shoe at the door when Celegorm starts to say “you have got it so bad, Caranthir”.
*
As it turns out Caranthir does not make it to the lacrosse game. Neither does he make it into school for two days because Maedhros, who never gets sick usually, has given him the death plague. He spends most of the week coughing disgustingly and the rest of it asleep, so he’s already more than slightly disorientated when late on Friday night he hears someone climbing through his window. He thinks for a moment that maybe he’s running a fever too now and is actually just hallucinating, and then he flicks on the light and sees Angrod scrambling to his feet looking ridiculously dishevelled. “What are you doing here?” he hisses, climbing out of bed and almost tripping over his blankets in the process.
“I brought you a smoothie. It’s got ginger in it. I thought it would help your cold.” Angrod shivers slightly and Caranthir blinks at him.
“It’s one am,” he says.
“Yeah, I was on my way home. I thought -” Angrod breaks off and Caranthir blinks at him some more. What is my life he thinks.
“Did we win the game?” he asks instead of ‘what the hell are we doing?’ because the latter just seems too presumptive for him to handle when he is sick and it is the middle of the night. Angrod’s face breaks into a grin at that and Caranthir can’t help but feel pleased that he’s said the right thing for once.
“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, we did.”
“You didn’t bring Celegorm a smoothie,” Caranthir says carefully after a pause, edging closer to Angrod, concentrating on the frayed sleeves of Angrod’s hoodie.
“Why would I?” Angrod looks genuinely confused and Caranthir’s heart catches somewhere in his chest. He reaches out and takes the cup, and smiles. Angrod positively beams back. “I knew you’d appreciate it,” he says, “I knew I didn’t climb up your drainpipe in vain.”
“How the hell did you manage to get up that thing with a cup?” asks Caranthir, smothering the laughter that is bubbling up inside him. Angrod barely even cracks a smile when he says,
“I have very good balance. You’re asking all the wrong questions.”
“Am I?” Angrod is edging closer to Caranthir and Caranthir feels like he might actually shatter if Angrod comes any nearer, even though they must be centimetres apart by now. Then Angrod touches his wrist and smiles a little ruefully at him.
“Yes, ask the right ones next time” he says and leans in and kisses Caranthir softly at the edge of his mouth, and then he moves away and says, grinning, “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Don’t you dare,” says Caranthir somewhat hysterically, “you are coming over tomorrow or I will break your nose.” Angrod blinks at him for a moment and then laughs, bright and pleased. “Okay,” he says, “okay, sure.” He looks like he’s going to say something else for a moment and then he just shrugs and starts to climb back out the window.
He’s already on the ground by the time Caranthir thinks to lean out of the window and shout after him “You could have just used the door, you idiot.”
*
As it turns out Caranthir is asleep when Angrod comes over the next day, and he wakes up at four in the afternoon to find Angrod sitting next to him on his bed reading On the Road. “Dean is such an ass,” he comments as Caranthir sits up, and puts the book down.
“Yeah,” says Caranthir, scrubbing his hand across his face sleepily.
“I can’t believe you own a special edition of this, by the way,” adds Angrod gesturing towards the book, “You are such a hipster.”
“What!” squawks Caranthir, “no I’m not.”
“You sort of are,” says Angrod, as though he is breaking terrible news.
“I do not own a shred of plaid, don’t you tell me I’m a hipster,” protests Caranthir haughtily, and then spoils the effect by coughing horribly. Angrod makes a concerned noise and when Caranthir turns his head they are suddenly nose to nose.
“Oh.” Says Angrod quietly but doesn’t move and Caranthir thinks oh my god and then he says, “oh for crying out loud,” and leans the few inches forwards to kiss Angrod. Angrod makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat and Caranthir thinks this is brilliant and smiles stupidly into Angrod’s mouth. And then he has to cough again and Angrod starts to laugh, so Caranthir really has no other choice but to throw his Kerouac special anniversary edition at him.
*
On Monday Caranthir is still looking for his Classics textbook when Angrod’s car pulls up outside. He falters for a moment, looking out of the window, and then thinks that it’s probably too late to start second guessing himself now, and takes off down the stairs. When he hops into the car Angrod grins broadly at him as they pull away from the curb. “Sleep well?” he asks, leering in a way that Caranthir would bet anything Celegorm taught him.
“Fuck off,” says Caranthir, hiding his grin behind his hand. He’s a little horrified at how affectionate he sounds. He waits for Angrod to laugh at him for it but Angrod simply smiles at him, softer this time, and turns the radio up.
Caranthir has never felt more awkward in his life walking into school with Angrod, especially not when Angrod’s hand brushes lightly against his. Before he has time to completely freak out, though, the bell goes and he practically bolts from Angrod’s side towards class, shouting “bye!” over his shoulder as he does so because his mother did teach him some manners. Unlike Angrod’s, who apparently taught her son it was just fine to creep into people’s bedrooms at night and kiss them and then just continue to be charming and ridiculous.
From behind him Angrod shouts, “I’ll see you at lunch!” and Caranthir cannot help but smile at that, even as he makes a rude gesture over his shoulder.
*
For the first time since he was ten years old and disastrously pushed her face into the birthday cake, Caranthir finds himself going to one of Aredhel’s parties. ‘Being dragged to one of Aredhel’s parties’ might be a better term, really, because Caranthir hates parties and he hates teenagers and he’d much, much rather be at home watching Planet Earth or, god forbid, doing his homework than here, but Angrod and Celegorm had ganged up on him. And now they’ve abandoned him to go and do whatever popular people things they do, and Caranthir is sitting in the library of his uncle Fingolfin’s house drinking a beer he doesn’t even want and squinting at a shelf of accountancy law books that he didn’t know existed. Uncle Fingolfin is clearly a dark horse and Caranthir needs to spend more time with him.
What could be ten minutes but is probably more like an hour later Caranthir is completely engrossed in the index of the thickest book of the set and it’s not until he hears Angrod say exasperatedly “god, Caranthir, only you would be reading at a party,” that he realises he’s there at all. “Fuck you,” he says mildly, blinking up at Angrod who is leaning against the doorframe and looing deeply amused.
“No, really,” says Angrod, coming over to Caranthir and plucking the book out of his hands, “you need a life.”
“No, I really, really don’t.” Caranthir’s protests seem stupid even to his ears as he leans into Angrod’s shoulder, and Angrod laughs indulgently into Caranthir’s hair, tapping out the bass line of whatever awful song Celegorm - and it’s bound to be Celegorm, Caranthir knows, because no one else has that bad taste in music - is playing on his arm.
“Yes you do,” he says firmly, and grabs Caranthir by the hand to pull him out of the room, much to Caranthir’s displeasure because not only was that book fascinating he had also just been getting around to sticking his hand up Angrod’s shirt.
“Can’t we just stay here?” he tries futilely, wondering if he’s really shameless enough to grope Angrod for personal gain.
“No. We are going to go and socialise, Caranthir,” says Angrod and marches them back towards the kitchen
Three hours later Caranthir is throwing up cheap vodka in Fingon’s bathroom and cursing Angrod to hell and back, Celegorm sitting next to him with a hand warm on his neck and shouting translation of Caranthir’s obscenities to a deeply amused Aredhel.
*
When Angrod comes into his room the next day looking deeply apologetic Caranthir tells him to piss off and throws a slipper at him for good measure. He doesn’t delete the text messages that are mostly different variations of ‘:(‘ that Angrod sends him through the rest of the day, though.
*
“Stop wearing sunglass indoors,” Caranthir says, prodding Angrod ineffectually in the leg. Angrod kicks his feet against the sofa from his seat on its arm and peers judgementally over the top of his sunglasses, sliding them slightly down his nose.
“Sunglasses,” he says, “are cruise control for awesome. And I, Caranthir, am awesome.”
“Your ego is awesome,” says Caranthir, snorting, “if by awesome we mean massive and ridiculous”.
“Your mum’s ego is massive and ridiculous,” retorts Angrod and then cackles wildly as Caranthir tackles him off the couch.
“Not cool, Angrod.” Caranthir is sitting on Angrod’s legs and Angrod reaches up to twist a hand in his shirt, thumb skimming the skin above Caranthir’s hipbone.
“Totally cool,” he says, and Caranthir laughs gently, reaching out and pulling the sunglasses off.
“Sunglasses indoors,” he reiterates, “are stupid.” He reaches out to flick Angrod in the head and ends up brushing his hair out of his face instead. Angrod makes a funny smile sort of thing at him and Caranthir tries valiantly to ignore the way his breath catches a little in his throat. He leans in, still marvelling a little at how hey he is totally allowed to do this now, and kisses Angrod carefully. Angrod laughs into his mouth and kisses back not at all carefully, wriggling closer to Caranthir. Caranthir makes an undignified noise when Angrod shoves his hands up Caranthir’s t-shirt and Angrod just laughs more. Kissing is, Caranthir thinks, pretty great. Kissing Angrod is pretty great. He curls his fingers around Angrod’s arm and bites at his lip, letting Angrod run his tongue across the roof of Caranthir’s mouth, and Caranthir really thinks he might be going to die and go to heaven. It is, of course, at that moment that Celegorm walks in.
“Ew,” he says, grimacing as they spring apart, and turns to walk out again. Caranthir can feel himself going red from the neck up and busies himself with rearranging his t-shirt so he doesn’t actually have to look Angrod in the eye.
“Well,” says Angrod, measuredly after a moment of silence, “at least maybe now he’ll believe me when I tell him I’m going to take you to Vegas and get hitched.”
Caranthir stares at him for a minute and then says disbelievingly, “If you think for one second that I am going somewhere as tacky as Vegas then you are incredibly deluded.”
“Oh come on, you know you want to be pronounced husband and husband by Elvis,” retorts Angrod, and then shies away as Caranthir tries to kick him in the shin.
*
Obviously, and Caranthir thinks later that he really should have seen this coming, everything was going far too well. Not fighting with Angrod was one thing, and getting along with him was another, and, clearly, getting fond of him was just a step too far. They haven’t actually fought since they became friends months and months ago so really they’re well overdue for one; and exams are coming up along with the inter-school cheer competition that Angrod is so dead set on winning, and they’re both sort of looking for a fight.
What does it, though, what really does it for Caranthir, is walking into Chemistry class and Angrod saying to him, “Let me borrow your history homework, will you.”
“No,” says Caranthir, petty, “you had plenty of time to do it.”
“I didn’t, I didn’t, cheer practice ran over.”
“That’s not my fault! Maybe you should have concentrated more on studying than some stupid dance routine.” Angrod’s face pales, and Caranthir doesn’t even know why he said it really, except that he’s tired and stressed and that homework was difficult. Just because Angrod is his boyf- his friend doesn’t mean that Caranthir should just let him get away with stuff like that, right?
“Is that really what you think?” asks Angrod, voice clipped, and Caranthir winces.
“No,” he tries, but the damage is done. Angrod pushes his chair back with a scrape and walks out of the room. Caranthir watches him go, torn for a moment, and then stands up and follows him. Somewhere in the background he can hear their teacher calling after them ‘gentlemen, my class is not optional’ but Caranthir doesn’t really care about that right now. He catches up with Angrod half way down the corridor and catches his arm, but Angrod pulls his elbow away and hisses at him,
“Leave me alone, Caranthir.”
“No.” Caranthir keeps step with him and says breathlessly, “that was - I don’t think it’s stupid. Really.”
“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” shouts Angrod, turning to face him finally, “I never was good enough for you, was I? You’re going to have to do something about that superiority complex, Caranthir, or they’ll eat you alive at fucking Oxford.”
“You think I’ll get into Oxford?” asks Caranthir, startled and thrown off-base.
“I don’t think anything about you” snarls Angrod, “I’m done with you, Caranthir. We’re done, got it?” he turns away again and this time, shell shocked, Caranthir doesn’t try to follow him,
*
It’s childish but Caranthir spends the whole weekend after that hiding in his room. Celegorm doesn’t even try to talk to him about it, knowing him too well, and even Maedhros stops trying after Caranthir throws him out of his bedroom and shouts that he wants to be left alone. Weirdly enough it’s Maglor, who Caranthir has never been close to, who cheers him up. He brings him a sandwich on Sunday evening and doesn’t say anything when Caranthir comes into his room and curls up in his bed, miserable.
“I think I made a stupid mistake,” he says quietly, and Maglor looks up from his viola and smiles ruefully.
“You wouldn’t be the first one,” he says gently. Caranthir eyes him morosely and then hides his face silently in the pillow again.
*
It ought to get easier after that, but it doesn’t. Caranthir is all ready for it to get easier but Monday is awful and Tuesday is even worse, and he hides in the library as much as possible, wielding his physics textbook like it’s a shield. It’s on Wednesday that things really get out of hand though. Caranthir is waiting outside the music building for Maglor and Maedhros when he hears the end of a conversation: “no, I heard they broke up and now he’s going to prom with the lacrosse captain.” “Well that makes sense; I mean he is the cheer captain after all.”
Caranthir sort of sees red at that, pain pricking somewhere in his chest, and if he stopped to think about it, really stopped, then he wouldn’t be so rash. But he’s always been rash so he gets to his feet and heads towards Angrod’s locker, the argument already building in his head.
“So, I hear you and my brother are a thing now,” he says snidely, startling Angrod into slamming his locker door with more force than needed and staring at him.
“What?” he says, confused, “why would you even think that?”
“Are you going to go to prom with him?” sneers Caranthir, undeterred, his face twisting with nastiness, “Is he going to hold your hand and buy you dinner?”
“Shut up, Caranthir.” Angrod’s expression is harsh, tension evident. Which was excellent. Caranthir was spoiling for a fight.
“Really,” he says bitterly, “I don’t know what he sees in you.”
“Caranthir, just drop it,”
“Why should I?” Caranthir is almost startled into the response by the crack in Angrod’s voice.
Angrod looks at him as if considering something and then says calmly, “I’m not going to prom with Celegorm, okay?” before turning and walking away.
When he’s far enough down the corridor not to hear Caranthir punches his locker and then swears loudly at the pain.
*
“What the fuck was that about?” shouts Celegorm, slamming the door to the art room where Caranthir is holed up.
“None of your fucking business!” retorts Caranthir, scowling determinedly down at his copy of War and Peace. Celegorm grabs the book out of his hand and drops it on the desk behind him, forcing Caranthir to look at him.
“He’s my best friend and you’re my little brother, you idiot, of course it’s my business,” he says, sitting down with a sigh.
“You’ve heard the rumours,” Caranthir turns his head away so that Celegorm can’t see how upset he is.
“Yes, but - oh come on, Caranthir, you don’t actually believe them?”
“Should I?”
“No! Of course not! Are you blind? I know that you’ve been all gross and smitten for months but you know I’ve been trying to get Aredhel to go out with me since we were fourteen.”
“I thought you’d given up on her,” says Caranthir, startled into a sensible retort.
“Yeah, of course, that’s why I asked her to go to prom with me last week,” says Celegorm sarcastically and Caranthir can’t help but laugh a little at that.
“You mean she said yes?” he asks after a beat and Celegorm grins stupidly.
“Oh my god I hate you,” mutters Caranthir pettily and Celegorm hits him gently over the back of the head.
“No you don’t. Now go and fix things, or Aredhel and I will both take him to prom just to spite you.”
“I actually loath you,” says Caranthir, deadpan, and Celegorm laughs at him again, kinder than Caranthir has any right for him to be.
*
It actually takes a full three days for him to get up the courage to go and see Angrod. Not only is he fairly sure that they’re going to fight again, but Finrod is pretty scary when he wants to be. Caranthir is small and unsporty compared to the rest of his lunatic family, and Finrod might have chosen the swim team over the lacrosse one but that’s no reason he can’t break Caranthir’s noodly arms.
Caranthir actually winces when Finrod opens the front door. “I’m here to see Angrod?” he says carefully and Finrod glares at him.
“I don’t think he wants to see you,” he says and Caranthir grits his teeth before he says “please.” Something in Finrod’s face softens at that and he sighs. “Fine,” he says and moves aside to let Caranthir into the house. “He’s in his room. You’re not going to hurt him.” It isn’t a question and Caranthir doesn’t answer it as one. Instead he simply nods, once, and heads up the stairs.
Angrod is sitting on his bed wearing what looks suspiciously like the grey sweater Caranthir had thought he’d lost and he scrambles to his feet when Caranthir edges into his room. “Get out,” he says, and Caranthir can barely breathe at the look on his face.
“I’m,” he starts uselessly and stops, holding out the banana milkshake he’d bought just for Angrod.
“A milkshake. You brought me a milkshake,” says Angrod, staring at him, and Caranthir nods, “I can’t believe you,” he says, but he takes it anyway. “So,” he says, fiddling with the straw, “everyone kept telling me ‘he doesn’t hate you, he just needs time,’ and I kept hoping they were right except that they clearly weren’t because it was days and you didn’t call me once or even give me any indication you were listening to my messages, and your brother was glaring at me every five minutes even though he’s my best friend, and I thought you were going to ignore me for the rest of our lives and -“
“Oh for fucks sake,” says Caranthir, and kisses him.
“Mmph,” says Angrod, almost dropping the milkshake in surprise.
“I don’t hate you,” says Caranthir, holding tight to Angrod’s hand, “of course I don’t hate you.”
“Oh,” says Angrod, and grips Caranthir’s hand right back. “You’re the most idiotic person I’ve ever met,” he says after a moment and Caranthir groans, leaning forward and hiding his face in Angrod’s shoulder.
“I know,” he says miserably, “I know. I should have just. I was awful to you, wasn’t I?”
“I think we were both pretty awful,” says Angrod softly, and Caranthir can’t help but love him for that.
“Yeah,” he admits shakily, and Angrod smiles and pulls him close to kiss him again and, really, Caranthir thinks, maybe things actually are going to turn out okay in the end.
Epilogue
“So are we going to prom?” asks Angrod down the phone and Caranthir stops trying to hold his keys and his can of coke and his phone all at once to blink at the wall.
“Um,” he says, “isn’t not going sort of social suicide for you?”
“Dude, I’m not that popular,” protests Angrod, and Caranthir thinks yeah right but just hums down the phone and says,
“I guess so. If you want.”
“Okay,” Angrod doesn’t sound particularly enthused but Caranthir has learnt not to read things into that. His boyfriend is weird. “You have to tell me what colour tie you’re going to wear, then, so I can get you a pretty flower to match.”
“You are not getting me a flower and I am not the girl in this relationship,” complains Caranthir and Angrod laughs at him.
“Yes you are. How do you feel about carnations?”
“I hate you and I’m hanging up on you now,” says Caranthir, and throws his phone at his bed.
“You know,” says Celegorm, sticking his head around the door a moment later, “you kind of are the girl in that relationship.”
Caranthir throws his keys at him and goes to sulk in the kitchen.
*
Caranthir already has his suit on and is hunting for socks when it occurs to him that actually he really, really doesn’t want to go to prom. “I don’t want to go to prom,” he says to Maedhros and Maedhros ruffles his hair and smiles.
“You’ll have fun once you’re there,” he says and Caranthir remembers that saying anything to his disgustingly in love older brother is pointless these days, and glowers at Maedhros when his back is turned.
He finds his socks and pulls his shoes on and borrows Celegorm’s Casino Royale DVD, and runs the fifteen minutes to Angrod’s house. Angrod is still barefoot and his bowtie is undone when he opens the door, and he starts to say “Hey, you’re early-” when Caranthir cuts him off to say, “Angrod, I really don’t want to go to prom.” There is a pause and he adds feebly, “I brought your favourite Bond movie?” and then Angrod grins at him and says,
“Oh, thank god.”
“What?”
“Caranthir,” says Angrod, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside, “I do not want to go to prom either.”
“Oh.” Caranthir feels a little bit stupid and a lot relieved, and Angrod is laughing at him but he can’t quite bring himself to be mad at him for it. “Oh good,” he adds, and Angrod smiles fondly at him.
“Come on, let’s go and watch Daniel Craig kill things at eat all of my brother’s M&Ms,” he says, tugging Caranthir towards the living room.
Later on, just when Angrod is simultaneously and enthusiastically trying to get Caranthir out of his suit and into his bedroom, someone knocks on the door. Caranthir already pretty much hates them for their timing and he hates them even more when Angrod opens the door and it turns out to be Celegorm and Aredhel.
“What are you doing here?” asks Angrod, and Caranthir hides behind him and tries to subtly straighten his clothes.
“I’m sorry, I told him we should just go home,” says Aredhel apologetically and Angrod shakes his head as Celegorm says, “Dude, where were you. It was awesome.” Then he sways slightly on the spot and vomits promptly into the shrubbery.
“You are drunk, Celegorm,” says Angrod, somewhat fondly, and Aredhel rolls her eyes.
“Now listen,” says Celegorm after a moment in which Aredhel looks like she is actually trying not to laugh and Caranthir thinks he might actually hate her enough to tell Fingon about all the times she definitely didn’t sleep on the sofa, “Angrod. You have to. You have to treat my little brother right, okay?” Angrod blinks at him and Celegorm looks oddly proud of himself, and Caranthir has definitely had enough.
“Oh my god go home Celegorm,” he says exasperatedly, and then adds “also, I hate you,” for good measure, and then shuts the door in his face.
“Whoops,” says Angrod, slumping back against the wall and laughing slightly.
“I hate you, too,” says Caranthir, feeling petulant.
“No you don’t.” Angrod reaches over and tugs on his shirt to pull him closer.
“No, not really,” Caranthir admits and Angrod grins stupidly at him. Caranthir can’t help but grin back, and then he adds “Don’t think I wouldn’t pick Daniel Craig over you, though,” mock serious, and Angrod hits him over the head and starts to laugh, and Caranthir has to kiss him then just to shut him up.
It has, all in all, turned out to be a much better evening than Caranthir had anticipated.