Restoration
Boromir curses inwardly as the words leave his lips, as the comfortable laughter
he has been sharing with Aragorn fades and the Ranger looks at him with
curiosity. A few weeks of sharing blankets and the occasional evening escape
into the woods—plus some late afternoons while hunting, one rushed noontime
while waiting for the others to catch up and one early morning when Boromir was
supposed to be on watch, mere feet away from where Gimli was sleeping—have
not completely erased the previous months of distance and distrust. He did not
mean to sound so demanding, obsessed with Aragorn's past.
"I was much younger," Aragorn says thoughtfully. "And not sure I liked it, at
first. It disgusted me, and yet I enjoyed having it done to me so much that I
grew to appreciate the power in the act. And the intimacy. Are you sorry I did
it to you?"
Boromir hesitates for a long moment before shaking his head, afraid that a
spoken disavowal might reveal too much enthusiasm on his part. Aragorn is very
close to him, not quite touching, but leaning on an arm at his side. Soon,
Boromir knows, they will do what they came here to do, but the past few times
they have crept away together, they have spent as much time talking as touching.
Now he finds himself being studied again. Suddenly suspicious, Boromir demands,
"Were you testing me?"
Aragorn's eyes widen. "Testing you?" When Boromir remains silent, he frowns. "I
did it for pleasure, my own as well as yours. I enjoyed myself quite thoroughly.
Did that escape your notice?"
"It did not." Ever since the first time they lay together, Aragorn has been less
restrained, both vocally and in terms of his physical responses. The previous
night, Boromir had feared that Aragorn would wake the others with his groans.
Yet, much as he enjoys this power to affect the other man, Boromir cannot escape
the feeling that his own control is being challenged as well. "I did not know
what you enjoyed...whether it was what we did, or the fact that you could
persuade me to do it."
"Perhaps both," admits Aragorn with an unabashed smile. "Why did you want to
know where I learned it?"
Boromir shrugs. "Curiosity. I wondered how often...I do not believe that it is
common practice in Gondor, especially between soldiers on the march."
"I am sure that it is not." The Ranger smiles again, mouth curling with what
might be embarrassment or wistfulness. "You remind me of the man who taught it
to me."
"Did you love him?" Boromir asks quietly, not certain that he wishes to know the
answer. He expects Aragorn to glance over to see whether he asks out of envy,
and to gloat when he discovers that it is so. But the Ranger looks pensive,
studying the sky rather than Boromir's expression.
"He is special to me."
"He is. Still." There is a touch of rancor in Boromir's own voice that he cannot
keep quiet.
"He always will be." Now Aragorn gazes back at him, eyes narrowed. "He is a very
dear friend."
"A dear friend with whom you...yes."
The gaze upon Boromir still seems to be assessing him, but the voice is gentle.
"Not for a very long time. Perhaps before you were born. I do not remember."
"I imagine not." This is perhaps an opportunity to learn more of the secrets of
his companion's long past. "You said that you had met Arwen...how many years
ago?"
"We met in Lórien thirty-eight years ago."
"Thirty-eight years!" It is beyond Boromir's imagining. "I have never had a
lover for more than a few months, save one." Musing on this, he adds aloud,
"Perhaps this is why I am not certain what it is you want of me. Nor, in truth,
what I want of you."
"Who is this lover?" With an uncomfortable jolt, Boromir realizes that he had
not expected Aragorn to express the same sort of interest in his life as he had
shown in the Ranger's. This is not a question he is ready to answer.
"He is someone I have known nearly all my life," Boromir says dismissively. "We
have always known that we could not stay together. But knowing has not made it
any easier."
"I am sorry." Aragorn's voice is low and empathetic. "And as for what I want
from you...I do not desire you take you from him, if that is what you fear."
Of course not, Boromir nearly says, and finds it necessary to hold back an
ironic laugh. To say so would mean to suggest a lasting arrangement between the
two of them, and Boromir is certain that Aragorn sees him as a temporary
diversion, nothing more. "I did not fear that you did."
"Good. I do not wish to have that sort of worry between us."
The conversation that had been so warm seems to twist, becoming cool and
pragmatic. "What sort of worry?" demands Boromir. "That I might suspect you of
prying about my lover, while you might suspect me of resenting your fiancée and
all the others who stand between you and me? Is this a game, Aragorn?"
"A game?" The Ranger stares as if he had never heard the word before. "No, not a
game. I have enjoyed myself, certainly, but if you suggest that I am toying with
you or your feelings, then you are wrong."
"Indeed." Boromir is uncertain whether the relief he feels is appropriate. "How
would you describe what is between us, then?"
Straightening his clothing, Aragorn sits up, moving his eyes from Boromir's to
the ground. "I am not certain what purpose a name for it would serve. I hope you
do not think that we are merely using one another. I would be upset were you to
stop seeking my company."
"I see." He is not certain that he does, but Boromir is also glad not to have to
look at the other man, for he is certain that the leap of his pulse at Aragorn's
words is neither honorable nor appropriate. His hands twist the leather of the
belt that holds his scabbard as he wonders what the words mean.
"And when we come to the borders of Gondor, to the road that leads to my city?"
The sigh that escapes Aragorn's lips is loud enough for Boromir to hear. He
turns to meet Aragorn's glance, but instead of the uncertainty he hopes to see,
he is met with an implacably set jaw. "Do not start this again."
"I did not start it, Aragorn."
"No, but I will not carry the conversation there."
"Then perhaps we should end this...conversation. It seems that you feel free to
ask what you will of me, but like a dutiful Steward, I am not permitted the same
courtesy." This accusation is not entirely warranted, but Boromir finds himself
angry at the barrier between them that he can neither see nor name. And how can
he combat it, thus?
"It is unfair to bring any of that into this. Into what we share when we are
alone," insists Aragorn. "Can these private moments not be separate from our
burdens? I thought perhaps we might find respite in each other. "
Boromir knows that he should choose his words very carefully, waiting to speak
until he can ask a reasonable question rather than launch an offensive, but
Aragorn has forced his way past Boromir's guard, and he finds himself raising
his voice in defiance. "Then that is what I am to you—respite. Very well,
that is what you shall be to me as well."
"What is it that you want from me?" Aragorn demands angrily. "To tell you
that you are a convenience? That there is no love in our...arrangement? Then
when I kiss you, will you feel nothing?"
The tremor that wracks Boromir's body is enough to remind him that he cannot
hide the intensity of his true feelings. He cannot beg Aragorn for his love, his
kisses; he cannot even permit Aragorn to see how deeply they move him. All he
can do is to pretend that his passion is for the act rather than the man. "I
will feel the pleasure of the kiss," he confesses. "Is that not enough?"
"I suppose it will have to be enough."
Then, because he cannot hold back the words, Boromir blurts, "It would be easier
if I had never learned your name."
Aragorn sighs once more. "I will remember to kick Legolas the next time I have
the opportunity."
The sudden, unexpected change in tone makes Boromir snicker. "Perhaps you should
restrain yourself. His opinion of Men is already low enough."
The Ranger laughs with him, but when Boromir looks at him, Aragorn's face grows
somber. "I assumed it would be easier this way. I cannot imagine how you would
have reacted to finding out, months from now, who I really am. I much prefer to
live with your resentment now than with your spite later at not knowing until it
is too late to salvage anything between us."
"What is it you hope to salvage?" Boromir bursts out. "I am the son of the...but
I am not even permitted to speak of it." He glares.
"Perhaps we have spoken too much already," replies Aragorn in a calm, resigned
tone. "I have already told you that I have no desire to play games with you."
"Aragorn, what is this, if not a game! That is all it can ever be," snaps
Boromir, his clipped consonants emphasizing the frustration in his words. "You
wanted—what was your phrase—you wanted respite. If that is what you seek
in me, what more will there ever be?"
Boromir is uncertain what he hopes to gain, be it apology or simply greater
passion than this dull acceptance. He seems, at least, to have succeeded in the
latter, for Aragorn's eyes are suddenly lit from within, as if reflecting the
distant fire of their camp. "Perhaps you are right." The Ranger does not smile,
though he slowly extends an arm. From Boromir's position seated on the ground,
the look and the extended hand appeared to make a demand. "Come here."
So Boromir goes. When their mouths meet, it is as though they have never argued,
or maybe as though the argument has sparked a flame between them. The kisses are
hot and fiery, tongues combating as if in a duel to subdue one another and
fingers pressing greedily against one another's skin and hair. Aragorn's hands
make quick work of Boromir's clothing.
"You are breathtaking," Aragorn whispers between kisses. "Boromir. Let me look
at you..."
And suddenly Boromir cannot bear this, whether the Ranger calls it a game or
respite, these moments of the most powerful feeling he has ever known that he
knows mean something much less significant to Aragorn. "Stop speaking to me like
that!" he exclaims, much more bitterly than he intends.
"Like what?" The other man draws back, some of the color fading from his flushed
cheeks, though Boromir knows that his own are just as red. "I don't
understand..."
"I am not some elf maiden you are courting! Do not speak to me as if I were your
beloved." The moment the word escapes his lips, he wishes he had chosen another.
"You must not...let us just do what we came here to do."
"Shall I kneel for you, then?" Aragorn's half-lidded eyes are dark with passion
and perhaps, finally, with the same heated anger coursing through Boromir. "You
can fuck my mouth if I talk too much."
"Aragorn..." The Ranger has, in fact, slid to his knees, and is pulling Boromir
close with his hands. Though Boromir has spent much of the day fantasizing about
Aragorn in this very position, he suddenly cannot bear it—he cannot escape
the symbolism of the pose and the mockery it represents. "No," he protests. "Lie
down."
The words come out more like a plea than an order. Aragorn's eyes open wide, yet
he moves to obey. "Let us do this at the same time," Boromir tries to suggest in
an efficient, rational manner. Calm, respite, that is what Aragorn seeks. "Turn
around." With his hands he works free the rest of Aragorn's clothing, touching
the warm, rough skin of his legs and then the softness between them, the silky
flesh over muscle and the rougher texture of the sac.
Aragorn's mouth descends on him without warning, engulfing him in heat that
sucks and clings, seeming to seek to mark him. Whether Aragorn wants to please
him or merely demonstrate his mastery, Boromir cannot guess; nor does he know
whether his own urgent response is a reaction to the overstimulation of his cock
or to the complicated emotions making him ache more than his desires. He
trembles, gasping in shame, pulling his mouth from Aragorn.
"Oh. Stop, stop! I will not last..."
"Mmm." The hum vibrates against Boromir's flesh. Aragorn's voice is muffled but
he sounds soothing, even kind. "Stop fighting, love...there...let go..."
It would be all too easy to obey, yet Boromir forces himself to regain a measure
of control. "No. Stop. Not like this." It is unbearable, this sweet,
mutual...loving, that is what it feels like, though he dare not think of it as
such, when brutality would be easier to accept. For it cannot be—it cannot
last. He swallows. "Stop this and take me. Please."
Aragorn sits up slowly, gazing at him through wide, guileless eyes for a long,
painful stretch of time. "Are you certain that is what you want?" he asks
finally. Nodding, Boromir tries to hold Aragorn's glance but finds it easier to
lower his head, even if the other man might read he gesture as submissive. He
does not understand why Aragorn's eagerness has softened into caution.
Finally Aragorn nods in return. "If that is what you want...I can deny you
nothing." He moves, too quickly for Boromir to roll over, pinning him on his
back.
Boromir had wished to be taken from behind, pressed into the ground which would
accept his fury or his pain in silence, never allowing Aragorn to see whether he
weeps or grits his teeth or mouths words of joy that he will never speak aloud.
Damp fingers penetrate him, the stinging stretch almost a relief, allowing him
to flinch and turn his head to the side. Then Aragorn murmurs, "Don't close your
eyes."
"You cannot ask me that!" He looks up at Aragorn, whose face is much too open,
lips parted and eyes bright with tears that glitter in the dimness. "Please,"
Boromir begs, no longer caring what Aragorn thinks of his lack of honor. "Just
do it fast."
Yet Aragorn continues to stare with that same pained, soft expression as he
leans over Boromir, pressing excruciatingly close. "Why?" the Ranger asks
softly. "What are you so afraid of seeing?"
"I...ahhh!" The forward slide and steady push of Aragorn's cock take Boromir by
surprise, though he has been anticipating this feeling. He feels as though his
body is tearing open, the same way Aragorn is tearing truths from his heart. The
misery that surges in him is not only from the ache of penetration or the shame
of allowing himself to be taken like a woman by a man to whom he wishes never to
bow; it comes from a deeper place, from the understanding that he cannot hold
Aragorn even when Aragorn is pressed deep inside his body, for Aragorn is
neither friend nor lover but companion in a cause, and will be gone thereafter.
Yet alongside the pain runs another feeling which threatens to overwhelm all his
suffering—a blazing heat that starts in his loins and radiates throughout his
body like the joy of victory or the pleasure of conquest. That is what he cannot
share with Aragorn, more than the pain. Boromir grates out, "It is what you
would see..."
"What should I...oh! What should I fear?" murmurs the Ranger, gritting his teeth
as he fights to hold Boromir's eyes.
"You...oh...Aragorn...hurts." Boromir feels Aragorn hesitate, then pull back,
and quickly begs, "No, don't slow down! Don't..." The pain shifts, seeming to
lodge in Boromir's throat. Tears sting his eyes. He wants to tear himself away,
to flee and nurse his wounds, but even if pride would permit it, he could not
stand to lose the shocking pleasure of this intimacy, the momentary belief that
Aragorn is his...
"Boromir—now tell me you feel nothing. Tell me...ahh! Tell me I'm wrong!"
"I...I don't..." Boromir's voice is a sob. Aragorn's fingers wrap around his
cock and stroke him, the way Aragorn now knows Boromir liked to be touched,
rapidly and not too roughly, "Ahh—so close—"
"I...oh! Love! Tell me!" Aragorn cries out, and then, "Boromir!", followed by an
inarticulate howl that might wake the Fellowship some distance away. Even in
climax he maintains his touch on Boromir, and Boromir feels words welling in his
throat, on his tongue, the words Aragorn had asked for...
"No, no, no!"
Shuddering, the other man slows, then pulls himself out. His eyes on Boromir's
face are wild. "Did I hurt you? Let me..."
"Stop! Don't touch me..."
Aragorn hesitates, not understanding. "I thought you wanted this."
"Stop what you were asking!" Boromir pleads, knowing that if Aragorn asks again,
or calls him by that endearment again, he will answer, and tell Aragorn
everything. His breath comes in shudders. "Be silent. Please. Will you do that?
Silent!"
The Ranger's chest is heaving, and he looks as though he will say more, but
after a moment he swallows and nods. "Not a word, then." And he does not speak,
even when Boromir calls his name as he thrashes, and utters wordless pleas, and
finally shoots his seed into Aragorn's hands with a sobbing groan.
The Ranger moves as if he would pull away. But Boromir holds on to him, feeling
his hands close too tightly around skin that recoils from his touch. He knows
that his body is giving away his feelings, his wishes, yet in this vulnerable
moment he is unable to help himself. "Stay," he mutters. "Give me a moment.
Please."
With a long sigh, Aragorn yields to his desperation, resting in his arms. "Have
whatever you need," the Ranger whispers. Boromir knows that Aragorn can surely
feel him shaking. That he is lost, that he has already revealed to Aragorn all
that he longs for, he can admit; yet he has nothing but his honor, and his oath
to Gondor, to cling to now.
"I cannot be what you want," whispers Boromir. "I cannot give you what you
want."
"I don't understand. I want nothing." Then Aragorn lowers his head, pressing his
lips fiercely into Boromir's hair. "No, that is not true. You know that I am
lying when I say I seek only respite. I thought only...Boromir, if I were any
other man, would you deny me what I long for?"
"How can I answer that? You are not any other man," Boromir replies. His heart
is still racing, his thoughts clouded by conflicting needs, and he still cannot
make sense of Aragorn's question. "More to the point, what have I denied you
that you long for? You have had me. You have had me begging for you."
"Yes, I have had you begging. I have had you crying out, on your back, on your
knees—I have taken you so hard that I cannot remember who I am. But it is not
the same as having you. I cannot call you mine. You will not be mine."
"If I give you any more of me, there will be nothing left," Boromir gasps, left
breathless by Aragorn's words. "I will not remember where I owe my allegiance."
"But I would not ask that of you! For I already know where your allegiance
lies." Aragorn gulps in a breath, and Boromir finds scant comfort in the
recognition that the other man is shaking like himself. "Why are you here? Is
it not simply convenient for us to find relief together, when our own hands do
not suffice? If not for respite, then what?"
"For love." Surprise brightens Aragorn's eyes, and perhaps tears, but Boromir
can see no further for his own vision is blurring. He had not meant to speak the
answer aloud, but his tongue had found the words before his mind understood what
he wanted to say, and he could not recall it now. Swallowing hard and blinking,
he adds, "I too spoke falsely before. As you know. Perhaps for the same reasons
that you did."
"I did not think you wanted to hear the truth," sighs Aragorn. "But Boromir, I
will not lie anymore." His fingers grow suddenly tender, trailing through
Boromir's hair and down his cheek. "If this has become too complicated..."
"It has been complicated from the beginning," Boromir interrupts. "Nothing in my
life is my own to give. Nor yours, perhaps. I understood from the beginning that
there would be a price."
Leaning back, Aragorn lets his head drop into the grass as he gazes up at
Boromir. His fingers lift again, weave into Boromir's hair and pull his palm
flat against Boromir's cheekbone, cupping it gently. Boromir lets his lids drift
shut, but Aragorn presses his head up, forcing Boromir's eyes to meet his.
"I pay as high a price, I think," Aragorn whispers. "When this journey is over,
wherever our paths may lead us, you will have a part of me." His free hand seeks
out Boromir's, bringing the fingers to his lips, where he kisses the knuckles
before resting Boromir's palm against his cheek. "I am sorry. I meant to bring
you pleasure, not regret."
"But I do not regret this!" Boromir's fingers stroke Aragorn's face, fumbling
into his hair and around the back of his head to draw him closer. "I—I regret
that we are not free. That we did not meet at a different time, and in a
different place. Though perhaps it would not have mattered."
He pauses, considering his place and Aragorn's, and understands for the first
time that perhaps there is a way. If he is Gondor's destined Steward, and
Aragorn is the long-prophesied King...but Aragorn will not even discuss turning
to Minas Tirith until they have seen the Ring into Mordor, and Boromir cannot
imagine that his father will accept this Ranger from the North as his legitimate
ruler.
Moreover, Aragorn is betrothed to a Elven lady, and Boromir himself will be
expected to marry and continue the Steward's bloodline. No matter what fate lies
in store for them, there will be no simple enjoyment. Even so, he would not give
up whatever part of this he could keep; were it in his power to control his
destiny, he would remain at Aragorn's side.
Swallowing, Boromir meets Aragorn's eyes again. "I do not regret this," he
repeats. "And you have brought me pleasure, more than you can know. I can no
more be yours than you can be mine, but I love you nonetheless."
Suddenly Aragorn's mouth is on his, and Boromir feels himself pulled into a
tight embrace. "As I do you," the Ranger whispers. "When we disagree, when we
argue, my feelings do not change. And when I fear most for you..." He falls
silent and kisses Boromir again, hands tangling in his hair.
By the time they draw apart, Boromir has forgotten what, if anything, he meant
to ask, or to say. In spite of his turmoil, he feels content, even happy in this
moment—undivided, whole. "Stay," he whispers as he did before, and Aragorn
settles against him:
by Your Cruise Director and Ashinae
here did you learn to do that?"
