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Aragorn had asked in such a simple, straightforward way. As if inquiring about borrowing a piece of gear, nothing to it.
Think on it, he said, you need not answer now. But when this war is over, if we have both made it to the other side, it would honour me greatly if you would consider the possibility to become my lover.
His lover.
Honour him.
How did these two things coexist in one sentence?
Then Aragorn had leaned in, still with no embarrassment at all, looking Boromir straight in the face as he did. With those impossible stormy eyes. Did all Númenorean kings have such eyes?
And Boromir had closed his own eyes and let him. Let him brush his lips against his, and open him up, and slide his tongue in Boromir’s mouth. And Boromir had cautiously kissed him back and let their mouths glide together for a time, and Valar, had it not felt so good and so right.
Perhaps Aragorn would have gone further then, if invited. He had seemed loath to pull away, and had rested his temple against Boromir’s for a long, torrid moment.
Boromir did think on it, for many, many nights.
What a seemingly uncomplicated offer. In a life that had been filled mostly by peril with an occasional sprinkling of glory, and was often bare and lonesome, was it so unthinkable to seek a deeper companionship? They had already learned to respect and trust one another, to carry shared burdens together, and find moments of humour even in darkness. This would be just another step on that path, surely.
But the deep, hot shame of congress with another man… The reality of their bodies beneath the leather and armour: muscle and sinew, cock and arse. It would eventually come to that, and how could he…
But maybe here, too, like in many other things, Aragorn was an exception? All who met him seemed to grow to love him one way or another. Men warmed and eased up around him. The wood-Elf, for one, did not look like he would need to be asked twice to come to the Ranger’s bed. Would it be truly a disgrace to lie with a high king if the king himself asked for it?
Then again, it was easy to think so when they were out in the freedom of the wilderness, so far from home. Father would scorn him unto the end of days. Even Faramir, ever kind and understanding, so forgiving towards the aches and desires of people’s hearts - what would he say?
In truth, the prospect of disappointment in Faramir’s clear eyes was so much worse than any of Father’s many shades of wrath.
Yet the memory of that kiss… It lodged in him - and possibly even sustained him. Especially during Boromir’s long recovery from the Orc arrows, confined to a bed at Edoras. Even as his wounds festered for a time and he fell into a sort of delirium where even the sense of time and space disappeared - still Aragorn was there with him in his thought. Holding him, moving with him even as the heat of Boromir’s fever crested with drenching sweat and a pounding heart, and it all blurred in his mind. The awful throbbing ache in his wounds, the sweet throbbing ache for Aragorn’s touch…
Then the world changed.
Aragorn was crowned King, and Boromir made the renewed version of Steward.
Aragorn ascended into his birthright so naturally, kingship befitted him so strikingly. Where before his hypnotic appeal seemed rooted in rugged toughness, somehow his new aloof majesty managed to sharpen it only to new heights.
Fear took Boromir again. Now that things were finally beginning to come right after centuries of darkness, was he going to recklessly put this newborn balance under risk with this dishonourable undertaking? And the sovereign ought to focus his attention on finding a queen - Boromir, too, had the question of continuing the stewards’ noble lineage.
Perhaps it would have helped if he could dare unburden his troubled heart to his brother. Faramir had ever been a master of untangling difficult things, making handleable and tameable what Boromir did not know how to even begin to name and comprehend.
But besides Boromir’s general reservations about the highly delicate nature of the matter, Faramir had seemed to have enough on his own mind. His fair face oft bore a strange expression, his thoughtful eyes far away. Perhaps Faramir was still feeling responsible for Father’s death, no matter how much Boromir tried to talk him out of it.
At last, Boromir went and gave Aragorn his answer.
Afterwards, Aragorn treated him no differently, did not withdraw his friendship or confidence.
In fact, it irked Boromir how well Aragorn took his rejection, how calmly.
An admittedly petty part of him wished that the King would have had the decency to look a little hurt, ask why, maybe even try to convince him or speak a word in anger. But Aragorn had been most respectful, and even thanked him - for what?
Worst of all, this immediately made Boromir want him twice the more.
Vivid, graphic dreams of the unspeakable things Aragorn would do to him, made themselves at home in his bed. Boromir would awake sated and spent, and wet at the crotch.
Serving as steward to Aragorn took on an excruciating undertone. At council Boromir would inadvertently catch a note of his warm scent, at feasts there would be an accidental passing touch or a comment that felt too personally affectionate. When Aragorn spoke to him, not to look at his lips - as if his eyes held any less peril...
Was all this agonising truly of benefit to anyone, was he putting himself through it in vain and for nothing?
The world was indeed not what it had been - in ways that were at times dizzyingly swift in coming and somewhat bewildering, but ultimately good. If in the reunited kingdom there was room for Elves, and Dwarves, and even trees that spoke, and new hopes, and oaths and allegiances, why not for this? The old guard with their judgements and their rights and wrongs no longer ruled the realm.
Spring had almost turned into summer when Boromir resolved to eat the humble pie. His hurt pride was probably all his own doing anyway, surely Aragorn would not smirk at him for changing his mind.
Still, choosing the right moment had been no easy task, and Boromir was glad when a private occasion arose. The King had ridden over the River Anduin that morning, to hunt. He had not told his attendants exactly where, but Boromir knew those parts well and could hazard a fairly solid guess.
His hunch was rewarded, he had not been looking long. There Aragorn’s horse was, tied up. And with it another - Faramir’s.
Boromir frowned, but quickly waved it away. No matter. He will only need five minutes alone with Aragorn - after all, as Steward it was no strange thing. Faramir would understand.
Of the two brothers, Faramir had ever been the one doing the tracking and path-finding in their ranger days in Ithilien. But after the rain of the past few days, tracing the hunters’ way through the grove was no challenge at all.
The forest was alive with birdsong celebrating the reemerged sun, and the river murmured not far out of sight. Still, he soon heard familiar voices, something like laughter, farther down the slope through the trees.
Then Boromir turned around the bend.
Down below some paces away, in a small clearing not far from the water, in the dappled shade of the trees, he saw them.
A large quilted blanket was spread out on the dark emerald of the still moist grass. And on the blanket sat Aragorn, naked. And in his lap, straddling him and embracing him chest to chest - Faramir, naked also. They were moving, together, and it was inescapable fact that their bodies were joined at the hips as one.
Struck to the spot, Boromir stood transfixed as his mind refused to process. Like a kaleidoscope of coloured glass shards, it all fractured into individual beats. Aragorn’s hands on Faramir’s white thighs, Faramir’s fingers in Aragorns dark hair, Aragorn’s mouth on Faramir’s throat. The look on Faramir’s flushed face, his half-closed eyes.
Hidden behind a patch of undergrowth and tall ferns, helplessly Boromir stood and watched maybe another minute more, until his legs would finally carry him away.
As he walked back, trying to keep quiet, trying not to hear the sounds of his brother’s private joy, his mind at last caught up and went on to mercilessly list for him everything it had taken stock of. As if how they were with each other had not been telling enough. The way their clothes, and gear and weapons, had been neatly folded and stacked in a dry spot under the tall pine. The glint of a jar of salve they had thought to bring. The blanket itself - who takes an entire damned bedspread to a hunt.
Dates and numbers lined up in Boromir’s head.
When he had finally gone to turn Aragorn down - Aragorn could have already figured out that on second thought, he would rather have Faramir instead.
Faramir who evidently had known what to do with the chance that was given him.
Faramir who would not have hesitated, who would have been glad and eager from the start. Faramir who had no trouble caressing Aragorn’s face with all the tenderness in the world, and showing his delight in Aragorn’s touch, and doing Valar knew what else, which Boromir really ought not to think about at all, ever.
He never will know if this was indeed how it had happened, for or course no word of it could be spoken with either Aragorn or Faramir.
Faramir who too had not thought to confide in his own brother about being wanted for the King’s lover.
They could not know he even knew.
Except…
As Boromir hastily untied his horse, his heart dropped into his stomach. He pressed his face into his mount’s warm flank and clenched his teeth until the wave of nausea subsided.
Unless his brother and his king bedded each other to the point of half-consciousness, how could they possibly not notice? But even a child would see a third pair of tracks from man and horse in this mud.
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