25 April 2011 | 1167 words
Title: Laughter Lines
Warnings: Mild slash.
Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. All written in good fun with no offence intended!
Author’s Note: Credit and thanks go to the lovely December who posted 25 Writing Prompts that sparked my imagination from the word go! This little scene was inspired by prompt #24: First Wrinkles. It may take me a while, but I will endeavour to work my way through the rest of the list :)
I do not know who Lady Firiel is, and by the sounds of things neither does Faramir. Also, this takes place twelve years or so from the events in the books, and though we know that our King and Steward’s particular bloodlines mean that they will enjoy long life, there are still issues that crop up now and again, namely vanity ;) Enjoy!
“No, look. Right here.”
“I see not why this bothers you so.”
Aragorn sighed in laughter and crossed over to the looking-glass, book reluctantly set aside. Faramir stood before it making a variety of expressions as he studied his reflection. Aragorn put his hand upon the Steward’s shoulder and raised his eyebrows.
“Look.” Faramir squinted and pointed at his eye. “I am getting old.”
Aragorn looked at him blankly. “I am afraid you will need to elaborate a little.”
“Lines, Aragorn. They are even worse if I smile.” Faramir grinned at himself in the mirror, and Aragorn laughed.
“How old are you, Faramir?”
Faramir pulled the skin downward below his eyelid, smoothing out the creases and garnering for himself a rather lopsided look. “Forty-seven.”
“Still considerably younger than me, then.”
The Steward folded his arms and frowned at Aragorn’s reflection.
“’Twould be a pertinent argument indeed were it not for the fact you have no wrinkles.” He turned back to studying his own face, leaning closer to the glass and regarding himself in profile. “You make me feel quite ill sometimes.”
“Come now.” Aragorn placed a hand upon Faramir’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “There is nothing I can do about that.” He shrugged. “You do not look your age, if that is any consolation.”
“Indeed, I look older.”
Aragorn laughed again, shoving Faramir gently. “Hush.” Stepping behind the Steward, he looped his arms around his waist and hooked his chin over Faramir’s shoulder. They looked at one another in the mirror. “Wrinkles or no, I still love you.”
Faramir made a face, but his hand came to rest upon Aragorn’s absently. “Does it not worry you?”
“Does what worry me?”
The Steward swallowed. “The fact that you will outlive me.”“Faramir-”
“No, listen.” Faramir pulled away, turning to face his King properly. He took Aragorn’s hands in his own, running his thumbs across the knuckles. “I know the blood of the West runs in my veins too, but your lineage is the purer. There will come a day when we shall be separated beyond recall.”
Sobered, it was Aragorn’s turn to frown. “That day is far off yet.”
“It will come though.” Faramir looked at him, the lines around his eyes set in serious concern. “It enters my thoughts often of late.”
“Faramir, when the day comes that we must part, you know what I would do-
“I would not ask that of you!”
Aragorn raised Faramir’s hands to his lips, kissing each one softly in turn. “I would not be parted from you.”
Faramir lowered his gaze as the King released him. “I would not ask that of you.”
“It is my choice to make. And, forgive me, but you shall not exactly be in any position to argue about it.” Aragorn dared the subtlest of wry smiles, and Faramir’s eyes flashed up in understanding and shock at his audacity.
“How can you say such a thing?” Despite himself, the Steward was fighting a grin. Aragorn shrugged again.
“’Tis a King’s prerogative.” He turned toward the looking-glass, brushing an errant strand of hair from his eyes.
“Your wit is black indeed, my King.” Faramir shook his head and folded his arms once more. “Even so, when I am gone you must not give up life for me. The dead can wait. I will wait.”
“Hush, Faramir, please. Let us not speak of such grim things.” He ran his hand through his hair, aware Faramir was looking at him incredulously from behind. After a moment, when it was clear the King was now occupied with his reflection, Faramir stepped over to the couch and lifted up Aragorn’s book.
“What is this- The Loves of Lady Firiel?” He flicked through the pages and snorted. “Ha! You mock my bookish nature and yet you are too busy reading sonnets to address my concerns in the mirror!” He opened the book properly at random and began to read aloud, laughter in his voice. “’The winter’s sun doth melt mine heart as gently as the early snow-’ The gods only know what this was doing in the library.” He looked up, grinning. “Or did you bring this from Rivendell yourself? Aragorn?”
The King seemed suddenly distracted, combing his fingers through his hair. Faramir discarded the book and returned to the elder man’s side. “Losing your hair?”
“Do you think I am?” Aragorn frowned, pulling back the hair at his temple for easier examination. Faramir laughed and tousled the King’s hair thoroughly.
“No, but it is nice that you can see my point of view.”
“Hmm.” Aragorn did not seem convinced. His reflection, messy haired and frowning, offered no advice either.
Faramir squinted. “Is that a grey hair?”
Aragorn stared at him. “Where?!” Faramir snorted.
“I think I might begin to enjoy this aging business if only for the exploitation of your paranoia…my lord.” He made a face and dodged Aragorn’s hand as he attempted to bat him across the head. Undeterred, Aragorn stepped after him, backing his Steward slowly up against the window sill. “Aragorn-”
“Faramir, that was not very nice.” The King’s eyes were full of poorly concealed mirth, and just enough feigned ire to keep Faramir from laughing in his face.
“You did not take my concerns very seriously, I seem to remember. My memory is still with me, I might point out.” Faramir placed his hands flat against Aragorn’s chest, holding him back from whatever it was the King was going to do to him.
“So, you are saying I should be more sympathetic to the aged and infirm?”
“You are funny.” Faramir smirked. “But I love you. Grey hairs and all.”
Aragorn swept Faramir’s hands away, pulling him close. “I love you. And I promise I will not mention your wrinkles again.”
Faramir had just enough time to look considerably outraged before Aragorn kissed him, fervently and with ardour. The retort could wait, Faramir thought as he was pushed further back against the shutters. He kissed back, running his tongue over Aragorn’s and closing his eyes.
After all, whoever said passion was a game only the young could play?
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Thank the author
The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: kitty , LN Tora , Mira Took , December