Faramir Fiction Archive

To Learn You All Over Again (NC-17)

Written by Faramir_Boromir

16 September 2004 | 45422 words | Work in Progress

Title: What Are You Thinking?
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Part: 1/?? of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: Just ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Disclaimer: None of characters belong to me originally, all are JRRT’s. All homage to JRRT, but I’m sure he’d be spinning in his grave if he read this. Sorry.
Synopsis: Being totally and spontaneously honest is fine when one has no secrets to hide. For almost thirty years, Faramir and Boromir shared total honesty. But now, both have a secret.
Thanks to Elandae, beta extraordinaire.

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What Are You Thinking?

The Future

With a ragged edge to his voice, Faramir said “I…I think…I think that…that you have entirely too many clothes on, brother.” When Faramir finished stumbling over those words, then blushed furiously, Boromir’s heart started to race. He wants me. He wants me. But then he paused, reconsidering what the blush meant. Is he embarrassed because he meant it? Or because he didn’t mean it? Faramir, still flushed, stirred beneath him.

‘Come now, Boromir, your turn,” Faramir prompted, “You know the rules.”

“I think…,” Boromir replied slowly, stalling for time, “that…you should take them off me.”

“I think…I will.”

The Past

Since childhood, they had played the Thinking Game. It began, really, with Faramir pestering Boromir. “What are you thinking?” was seven-year-old Faramir’s way to pry inside his brother’s expanding world. Boromir was changing so much, doing so many more interesting things, from Faramir’s perspective, and he just wanted to be included. He was used to them doing everything together. But now, Boromir had weapons practice, and Faramir could not go. He could not go to the practice grounds at all, and it seemed unfair to the boy. So when Boromir came back from his new lessons, ready to wrestle or go exploring, Faramir was waiting with the same question every time. “What are you thinking?”

And Boromir would tell him.

They turned it into a game at Boromir’s command. After two weeks of being asked the same question every day, even by a brother he loved dearly, Boromir said, “We need a rule. We should take turns. If I tell you what I’m thinking, then you have to tell me what you’re thinking. Okay?” Faramir nodded happily. It wasn’t a game about winning, it was a game about being together, and that was a game Faramir liked.

For two young boys, the questions led to lots of mischievous conspiracies. “I’m thinking…we could sneak down to the kitchen and get some more of the sweet cakes we had at supper.” “I’m thinking…we would need cider to go with the sweet cakes.” “I’m thinking we should use the back staircase.” “Right, let’s go.”

About three years later, when Boromir was nearly fifteen, the game got a little more complicated. He’d spent part of the morning standing behind his father’s chair, listening to various officers make reports in the Great Hall. Most of the information was ordinary, but one report contained dreadful news. Orcs had overrun a settlement in Ithilien, leaving none of the inhabitants alive. Soldiers who’d found the bodies began describing some of the more gruesome remains before Denethor silenced them.

When the session ended, Boromir started walking to his room, lost in thought. He didn’t see Faramir come out of the library and start walking with him, and he barely heard his brother ask the familiar question, so Faramir repeated it. “I said, what are you thinking? Boromir, tell me.”

“I…can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t? Tell me, I want to know.” By this point, they’d reached the door to Boromir’s room, and Faramir trailed his brother inside, clearly curious.

“I mean, little brother, that what I was thinking about is something very bad that I heard during morning reports. I love you too much to tell you what I was thinking about, because it would just give you bad dreams.” Faramir dreamed vividly, and sometimes so terribly that he would awaken crying. Boromir had no intention of putting horrible ideas into his beloved brother’s mind. Enough children had been tortured already in that village, he was not going to let his brother’s sleep be murdered as well.

“Oh.” A pause, then “Boromir, we need another rule. We’ll call it the honesty rule. We both have to answer the question ‘what are you thinking?’ honestly. I don’t care if I get nightmares; I’d rather have bad dreams than not know what you’re thinking. How would you feel if I didn’t answer you, or I stopped telling you the truth, just because I thought it might hurt you, or you wouldn’t like hearing it?”

That made Boromir stop and consider. Although the game had sometimes been an irritation when his brother was much younger, after three years, Boromir found he had grown to enjoy it. As he aged, he realized that people lied to him quite often, just because he was the Steward’s son; it made Faramir’s honesty that much more important to him. And he realized he knew his brother much better because of all the times Faramir had answered that simple question. What would happen if Faramir stopped answering, or answered but didn’t tell the truth? He wouldn’t like that at all. And what would even be the point in asking the question, if one only heard the truth sometimes?

Slowly, Boromir nodded his head. “All right, we’ll have the honesty rule. We both have to say what we’re thinking about, honestly. Do you still want to know?”

“Yes. What were you thinking about in the hall?” And Boromir told him, honestly.

Faramir didn’t sleep well for the next month, but at least he stopped screaming after the first few nights.

In the years that followed, a few other rules got added to the Thinking Game. No stalling or hesitating. Nothing but the whole truth, no evasive answers. And the privacy rule: no one else can know—this is between you and me.

This last rule became more and more important as the two got older. As he neared his eighteenth year, Boromir started to question some of his father’s decisions. He was grateful that he could tell Faramir and know that his doubts would remain secret. The question ‘what are you thinking’ could start the two youths talking about politics or horses or anything, with their conversations lasting long into the night, drawing the two brothers even closer together.

With the privacy rule in place, that one simple question let the boys talk to each other about everything, even sex. Faramir’s body started changing in adolescence and when he had his first dream of a sexual encounter, he woke up in bed wet with sweat and something else. When Boromir asked the thinking question after breakfast, Faramir told him all that happened. When Faramir asked Boromir in return what he was thinking, Boromir told him about the first time he had had the same experience. This opened the door to a long discussion about how their voices sometimes sounded funny, and hair was growing in some pretty unexpected places.

When Boromir began his military service outside the city walls a few years later, the brothers’ game changed again. Now the constant give and take of questions and answers they’d grown used to was interrupted, silent for months at a time. When Boromir returned after his first long absence from Minas Tirith, Faramir met him at the gates, threw his arms around his best friend, and before saying anything else asked the familiar question: “what are you thinking?”

“No word of welcome, that’s what I’m thinking, little brother. I’ve been gone three months, and this is the greeting I get?” Boromir answered in mock indignation.

“Now it’s my turn. Ask me,” Faramir demanded, even as he stopped pounding his brother on the back.

“Alright, alright. What are you thinking?”

“That this is the happiest day I’ve had in three months, because my brother is with me again,” he said, grinning warmly. Boromir’s face broke into a big grin, too.

For the next twenty years, at each brother’s homecoming, it became their private ritual to ask the question first, instead of using an ordinary greeting. It let them express the joy that both were home, safe, and together again.

Who knows when and why the heart turns from friendship to love? For some people, the change is too subtle to recognize themselves, while others who know them well see it plainly.

Boromir had watched his brother grow from boy to man, so he realized something was bothering Faramir when his brother came back from his post in Ithilien one autumn and was…cranky. Restless. More moody than ever. When Faramir asked him what he was thinking, Boromir said a little gravely, “I think you are behaving strangely these days. Well, more strangely than you usually do,” attempting to make light of his serious comment. But Boromir’s words struck home: Faramir knew he was not himself. But he could not put his finger on the reason for the changes in his behavior.

Lying in bed that night, Faramir went over the problem one more time. He’d lost his appetite. He was irritable, and he was never irritable. And he couldn’t seem to sit still, he kept pacing, even in his room. What’s the matter with me? I’m acting as bizarrely as a man does when he’s chasing a woman!

That’s when all the pieces began to fall into place. He was acting like he was in love. But not with a woman—he’d never been attracted to women, although at thirty-five, he found he had his share of female admirers. It had been several years since he’d found himself attracted to another man, but he’d not acted on his desires. Well, if he was in love, who was the most attractive man he knew? And in a flash, he knew exactly which man he wanted: Boromir. Those green eyes, and his hands…oh Eru, not Boromir.

Faramir’s mind flew back to the day Boromir would not tell him about the tortured children in the soldiers’ reports. How he had forced Boromir to agree to the honesty rule by threatening not to tell him the truth, always. And now he knew exactly how Boromir felt that day: Faramir feared he would say something that might hurt his brother. Sever their bond. And he wanted to stay silent.

He knew he would have to choose: to break faith with the game they’d played since childhood, and lie if he had to, or be honest and tell Boromir what he was thinking the next time he got asked.

That night, Faramir did not go to sleep at all.

Faramir could recall the few times he’d been truly afraid in his life. The time he’d seen his brother, pale and unconscious, lying wounded at the Houses of Healing, sure that Boromir would die. During that ambush in Ithilien, when the man next to him had died from an ax stroke that would have killed Faramir too if he had not dodged in time.

But those were fears in the past. This was a fear about today. Faramir rose to go to breakfast, and knew what his choice was. He would tell his brother the truth, if it was what he was thinking about, the next time his brother asked the question. He had to. If he did not, it would make a mockery of the long years they had shared each others’ thoughts, and each time Boromir continued to ask him and he did not speak the truth, he would feel like a hypocrite.

Faramir realized however that he need not cower, waiting for the question to come. He could go on the attack, and maybe prevent Boromir from discovering his secret, if he were just clever enough. As a captain of Gondor, Faramir knew something about tactics. First, Boromir need not ask “what are you thinking” if Faramir told him without waiting to be asked. Boromir might not probe at the wrong moment, if Faramir volunteered his thoughts more often—volunteered all but one particular piece of information, that is. Likewise, Boromir might keep prying if he thought Faramir was still acting strangely. Faramir made a silent vow to behave as normally as possible around his brother.

And if those strategies do not work, what then? he pondered, certain that they would not work forever. Two more existed: avoid Boromir, or get him drunk. Boromir rarely asked “what are you thinking” when he was in his cups. Avoiding him would be easy, once they were sent out on patrol again, but in the meantime, Faramir began thinking about ways he could conceal himself in Minas Tirith without turning into a hermit.

Boromir had not seen his brother most of the day. Faramir seemed to be his old self at breakfast, and had even surprised him by offering the comment that he felt much more at ease that morning. Boromir was glad, though their conversation ended a few minutes later when Faramir left, headed for the library.

Boromir spent much of the morning closeted with his father, and had been looking forward to seeing Faramir at the noon meal, but his brother never appeared. By mid-afternoon, when Boromir finished a practice session with the weaponsmaster, he decided to ask Faramir if he wanted to go down to the second level of the City to see some new buildings being constructed there.

He could not seem to find Faramir. He went first to their bedrooms, then to the kitchens, and finally to the library. He couldn’t see Faramir in the book-lined room, but he did find some papers piled on his desk there, along with two books. Boromir picked up the first, a manual of defensive military tactics. Boromir remembered it well: the writer focused on evading the enemy, concealment, and deception.

Odd choice, brother. I thought you disliked this sort of thing. Then Boromir picked up the other volume, one he didn’t recognize. Intrigued, he leaned against the edge of the desk and started reading. A page or two was enough to learn the book’s theme: love poetry.

Another odd choice. You usually have books of lore and Elven stories piled here, he thought, as he kept reading the small volume. The poetry was tender, if a little maudlin. None of the pairs seemed happy, Boromir realized, putting the book down and walking out of the room.

As he went down to the practice grounds, hoping he might find Faramir taking target practice, Boromir had a sudden flash of insight. Was Faramir reading love poetry because he was in love?

It might explain things, quite a few things, actually. The lost appetite…the distracted behavior…the pacing. Brother, I believe I know what’s happened to you, even if you say you don’t. Who is it, that has you tied up in knots this way?

As Boromir strode across the courtyard, he found himself thinking about Faramir’s moustache and beard. Your witless lover, brother mine, will probably make you shave them off; you would do it if your lover asked. Boromir thought about the short curls around his brother’s mouth, and let out a long breath. They were one of the most attractive things about Faramir’s face, really, after his soft blue eyes.

That pulled him up short. When had he first thought of Faramir as attractive? Then he realized that standing stock still in the middle of the courtyard might look odd—he needed to keep moving.

Boromir discovered, suddenly, that he didn’t want to find Faramir after all. He turned around and headed back to his room, up the stairs taking the steps two at a time, arriving at his bedroom in almost record time. Once he got the door shut behind him, he even locked it—something he never did in daylight.

He’d reached his refuge, and now he could think on the question again without interruption. When had he first thought of Faramir as attractive?

Throwing himself down on his bed, Boromir discovered, to his horror, that his mind had been keeping memories of an attractive Faramir for a very long time. Faramir wet, in the river, laughing. Faramir walking beside him on a sunlit day in the public gardens, quiet, thinking. Faramir, fallen asleep in the chair near Boromir’s fire, with his head gently thrown back. His neck exposed. His face pink, warmed by the fire. Looking for all the world like a lover asleep in my bed after…Right. Just picture Faramir kissing his mystery lover, that should get rid of all this nonsense.

But that didn’t get rid of anything. All it provided was proof. When Boromir tried to imagine his brother with a woman, with anyone at all, he began to feel angry. Jealously angry. Possessive. It made Boromir want to hit something.

Desire. Where did this come from? Jealousy. He’s family. Passion. No. I will not think that way.

But he could not stop thinking, now. His mind raced: he actually desired his little brother, wanted to pull him into bed this minute and…. His mind flooded with all the things he wanted to do to Faramir. Undress him. Touch that neck. Kiss those lips…What things might those lips do to him?

Boromir’s eyes snapped open at that idea, then he realized his breeches suddenly felt too small. There was a fairly obvious bulge stretching the leather, and Boromir’s face reddened with shame. He’d found his brother so beautiful that he was aroused. Incredibly aroused. Boromir realized he had two choices: leave his room, stupidly attracting attention to himself in his current condition, or stay in his room and cope with this new…reality.

Think, Boromir, think. How do you stop these feelings?

Maybe I can’t stop them. How will I manage them until they go away?

First things first. Hide the evidence of what you’re feeling.

There was an obvious way to rid himself of his arousal. A grim smile crossed his face when he realized that the door was already locked. He’d locked it, after all.

After unlacing his breeches, Boromir wrapped his fingers around the tender engorged flesh, and began thinking about Faramir’s lovely mouth again. I may feel guilty about this later, but at least I’ll enjoy it now was the last clear thought that crossed his mind as he shut his eyes and started moving his hand.

Having missed lunch deliberately, Faramir knew he ought to go to dinner. To vary his tactics, as the manual suggested, he considered trying to get Boromir so drunk that he wouldn’t start asking questions Faramir didn’t want to answer. It had seemed like a good idea this morning, but Faramir recognized that Boromir had a much higher capacity for mead that he did—there was a risk that if he tried to get Boromir drunk, he would be the one who ended up drunk instead.

Well, it’s either get him drunk or take dinner in my room, so drunk it must be.

Faramir was a little surprised when his brother showed up looking as if he had already indulged in some drinking. It was out of character. Boromir never drank before supper, and rarely drank to excess here in the Steward’s house—he saved his imbibing for the taverns of the fourth level. Boromir landed a little unsteadily on the bench beside him, and after a brief “hello Faramir” immediately began eating the food that was waiting for him. Smelling of drink, no conversation at all—it was very unlike Boromir to act that way.

Faramir started to ask Boromir ‘what are you thinking’ to find out what was making him behave like this, then bit his tongue. If he asked Boromir the question, Boromir would be able to ask him the same, and that would never do. Faramir pulled the jug of mead to a spot between them, and poured a mug for them both.

“Thanks, brother. I’ve decided that this evening should be dedicated to making a better acquaintance with the liquor in the cellar, since father’s eating up in the tower room. No disapproving glances.” And Boromir then started proposing a series of toasts that Faramir had to drink, so as not to give offense or draw too much attention to himself.

This is going better than planned, Faramir thought. Apparently Boromir wanted to get drunk. Faramir began proposing a few toasts himself, just to get in the spirit of things.

An hour or two later, when Faramir began slurring his words and wobbling a bit in his seat, Boromir quietly congratulated himself—his plan to get Faramir drunk at dinner had worked to perfection. Faramir wouldn’t be able to ask him questions about his behavior if he were face down in his own bed at the end of the evening from too much liquor. That is not helping. Stop thinking about him face down in bed. His pretense, of being drunk when he came down to dinner, made it easier for Faramir to drink with him—he knew Faramir deliberately drank less because his tolerance for mead was lower than Boromir’s. But if Faramir thought Boromir had already been drinking, he would be less mindful of how much liquor he had, and that was precisely the outcome Boromir wanted.

Having emptied the three jugs on the table, Boromir turned to Faramir and said, “I think we should go to bed early tonight. We’ve both had a lot to drink, right?”

Faramir seemed to have a hard time framing a reply. As if his mind were…slow, and everything was a little out of focus. He nodded, “Yea…Early night. I worked hard ‘saffernoon.” The slurred words sounded a little odd coming from Faramir, who was leaning heavily on the table before him.

“Where were you? I couldn’t find you when I went looking.”

“Down the second, helping…helping the…men…new buildings. Re…Remember ‘t was happ’ning t’day?” Faramir’s words were a bit muddled, but Boromir understood. Faramir had gone to help the builders, the very place Boromir intended the two brothers to visit: no wonder he hadn’t been able to find Faramir anywhere in the Steward’s house.

“Time to go up to our rooms. Come, brother, I’ll help you, and you can tell me all about it.” Boromir felt a twinge of guilt about getting Faramir in this state—he would surely wake with a sore head tomorrow—but if he could just keep Faramir occupied for a few more minutes…Faramir began a rambling account of two men and a block of stone, but it didn’t make much sense.

Faramir’s legs seemed so unsteady that Boromir had to put an arm around his waist, practically carrying him along to Faramir’s bedroom This will not make it easier for me to sleep tonight. And Faramir was a lot heavier than he looked, he thought. Next time, I get him drunk in his own room—not so far to carry him.

Finally, Boromir maneuvered his brother into the room, where Faramir readily collapsed, sprawled on his stomach crosswise on the bed. The light thrown from the banked fire was barely enough to see by.

”Thas betterrr.” Then Faramir shifted, rearranging himself, clumsily. He will wake up tomorrow sore in every joint from how he is now, dangling arms and legs off each side, Boromir thought.

Always he had taken care of Faramir, and he did not intend to stop now. Boromir went to work, taking off his brother’s boots and shirt, putting them on the chair next to the bed. He pulled Faramir’s legs around from the side, and laid them straight out in the bed. Next he grasped Faramir’s shoulders and rearranged the younger man until he was more or less lying in the bed the correct way, though still face down.

Boromir stopped, and looked at the firmly muscled back and realized that Faramir must have helped the builders before. He could not help staring at his brother’s body, and thought he must have memorized each inch of skin he saw. His eyes raked up and down Faramir’s back, the curved shape of his buttocks, and Boromir found himself thinking deliciously erotic thoughts.

That won’t do. Stop looking he reprimanded himself. Boromir turned away, found the jug of water and poured a glassful to put on the stand next to the bed, if Faramir wanted it in the night. With that, he intended to leave, and had taken a few steps toward the door when he heard his brother mumbling something behind him.

“Shoulders…rub….mmmh…please…”

Should have known it would not be that simple Boromir thought. His muscles are sore and he wants me to massage the aches away. Faramir had once told Boromir that he liked his backrubs better than anyone else’s because Boromir had such strong wrists and hands. All those hours wielding a sword had their advantages, he supposed. But with the new-found knowledge of his attraction to Faramir, this might not be such a good idea. Still, if Faramir was pretty drunk and close to sleep….

Boromir returned to the bedside and considered. Earlier today, I thought of this very thing when I could not leave my room. You in bed, asking me to join you. Eru, what have I done to deserve such torment? Shaking his head, Boromir pulled his boots off. Placing his left hand and knee next to Faramir’s waist, he rolled his weight forward and sideways, up and over Faramir, straddling his brother’s waist. His brother shifted slightly beneath him.

Now he could look down the spine, see the arms resting awkwardly on either side. Gods, Faramir really was perfectly formed. With his rear resting gently on top of Faramir’s, Boromir leaned forward and began to press his fingers into Faramir’s left shoulder blade. Up, out, down, repeating the pattern, slowly moving his hands across the skin, then up to the top of Faramir’s shoulder where it joined his neck.

“Mmmh…than…thans, Bo’mir.”

Boromir moved to massage Faramir’s left arm, kneading the muscles and pushing the tired flesh around in his warm hands. This doesn’t hurt him, it helps. It only hurts me Boromir reasoned. And he seems to be sleeping now. Faramir’s features had relaxed and the tenseness in his body had begun easing a little, under Boromir’s strong fingers.

Moving up the arm and into the center of Faramir’s back, his fingers pressed firmly, moving the muscles so that any remaining tension disappeared. For a while, he was able to concentrate on soothing the muscles beneath his hands. But once he returned to rubbing the knobby ridge of his brother’s spine, his mind started to wander, seeing Faramir, eager, even begging him for more than this.

The images became so vivid that he found himself taking shorter breaths, and the heat began to gather, swirling and growing at the base of his abdomen. Not again. No, not again he thought, as he found himself gradually stiffening. His hands paused near the nape of Faramir’s nape, and he went still, trying to will the erection away with his mind. Although he couldn’t do it, he resumed working on the bunched muscles in Faramir’s right shoulder, hoping that things would go back to normal in a moment if he just kept his mind on rubbing Faramir’s muscles and nothing else.

Lying face down in the bed, Faramir thought that the evening certainly couldn’t get much stranger. He’d wanted to get Boromir drunk, and Boromir had obligingly helped himself to more ale than Faramir had ever seen his brother drink before. But it also meant that he had to drink a lot himself, so he did. And somewhere in the haziness of the second hour of drinking, Boromir said something that frightened him—it was so clear, so lucid a statement, that Faramir knew with utter clarity his brother wasn’t drunk at all. For whatever reason, his brother was only pretending to be drunk, and was in fact perfectly sober.

Which meant he might ask his brother what he was thinking at any moment, and that scared Faramir: it was precisely what he was trying to prevent.

Faramir’s muddled brain scrambled for a solution, and he remembered a tactic suggested in the manual he’d been reading: think like your enemy. If Boromir could fake being drunk, so could he. Faramir stopped swallowing the mead when he pretended to drink, and started to exaggerate his movements, leaning too far forward when he put his mug back on the table, almost knocking the jug over. After a little more time passed, he began slurring his speech, and he stopped keeping his eyes wide open. When Boromir announced that they’d had enough and should go back to their rooms, Faramir almost grinned that his ruse was working.

Stumbling in the hallway was a masterstroke. Boromir had to put his arm around his brother to hold him up, and Faramir thought his face might flame red from the excitement of feeling his brother’s hand clutching his waist and pulling his weight over to lean against his shoulder. Maybe I could pretend to take up drinking, so he’d have to put me to bed like this every night he thought, just a little wickedly.

While Boromir maneuvered him into the room, Faramir thought about all the drunken soldiers he’d seen in the barracks. They never went to bed like anyone else; they ended up tangled in a mess of their own clothes, or lying in their bed facing the wrong direction. He decided to imitate them, and fell heavily across the bed, legs dangling off one side and arms off the other. There now. He’ll leave me and go off to bed, thinking I’m hopelessly drunk.

But he hadn’t reckoned with Boromir’s need to take care of him. When Boromir started to undress him, pulling off his boots, and then his shirt, Faramir had to stop himself from saying something. When his brother began moving his legs and arms so that he would lie in the bed properly, Faramir wondered for a moment what Boromir would do next. With his head facing away from the door, he couldn’t see what was going on behind him.

He heard rather than saw Boromir pouring the water, and then the soft footsteps walking away, and suddenly he felt bereft. Boromir couldn’t go, not now. Where before, all Faramir wanted was for his brother to go away, now, irrationally, he couldn’t stand the thought of Boromir leaving. What could he do to get Boromir to stay with him?

An idea: he could ask to have his shoulders rubbed down. This wouldn’t seem too odd, since he’d been moving building materials half the day, and really, he was sore from all the work. He mumbled the request, but it worked. It worked!

Boromir moved onto the bed with him, and began massaging his tired muscles. He imagined Boromir looking intently at his back, his shoulders, and felt his hands move the skin and muscles around so masterfully. He could feel Boromir pressing down on his buttocks with all his weight—and that did it. He sensed blood rushing to his groin, and a sharp tingling, the beginning of arousal. He bit down on his lip, to keep from groaning at the sensation.

I shouldn’t feel like this. He’s my brother. It’s not right. But that didn’t stop his body from responding, his mind from flipping through dark images. Boromir was so….so good at this. Faramir strained to keep his breathing even, to relax his muscles, to maintain the appearance of a man asleep so that Boromir would keep pressing, rubbing, massaging.

Then he felt Boromir’s hands stop, and his weight shift ever so slightly, and he wondered what was wrong. He couldn’t ask, or Boromir might use that as an excuse to go. But then Boromir started to work again, leaning forward to soothe the knotted muscles in his right shoulder.

There was something different this time, though. Faramir felt something brushing the small of his back, where before there had been no sensation at all. Every time his brother leaned forward to push on the muscles of his shoulder, he could feel this new…thing…graze the skin just above the waist of his breeches. A moment’s thought, then he knew: his brother was…hard.

Faramir’s eyes flew open, and his body overrode any command to stay relaxed—his entire body tensed at feeling Boromir’s erection. And now…now he knows I’m awake.

When Boromir saw his brother’s eyes open suddenly, all he could think was He knows. He must know. He could feel it when I bent over him. What now?

Through strands of hair that partly obscured his vision, Faramir looked over his shoulder at Boromir, questioning.

Green eyes met blue, locked for a moment, uncertain, nervous. And Boromir found that he couldn’t stand the tension. He had to know.

“What are you thinking?” he blurted out.

And Faramir, having decided that morning to tell his brother the truth, answered him, though he stumbled on a few of the words.

A ragged edge to his voice, Faramir said “I…I think…I think that…that you have entirely too many clothes on, brother.” When he blushed, Boromir thought it one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. His heart started pounding at double speed, even as he thought He wants me. He wants me. But then he paused, thought again what that blush meant. Is he embarrassed because he meant it? Or because he didn’t mean it? Faramir, still flushed, stirred beneath him.

‘Come now, Boromir, your turn,” Faramir prompted, “You know the rules.”

“I think…,” Boromir replied slowly, stalling for time, “that…you should take them off me.” There. It was in the open now, a declaration that he agreed with Faramir’s desire. Now I find out if he means it or not. What if I’m wrong?

Faramir rolled underneath him, from face down to face up, placing his hands on Boromir’s thighs to keep him in place, astride Faramir’s waist. Once he finished turning over so he could face his brother, Boromir had his answer: he could feel the swollen firmness in his brother’s breeches, matching his own.

“I think…I will.” Faramir reached up and pulled on Boromir’s shirt, tugging it over his head and tossing it on the floor. His hands moved quickly to the laces of Boromir’s breeches, then stilled for a moment.

“Unless…you don’t…want me to.”

“Oh Faramir…what I want…” Boromir’s voice cracked, then he put his hands on top of Faramir’s, guiding them to undo the laces, then drawing them up to rest on his chest. I want…I want everything. With you.

At this response, Faramir’s face lit up, but Boromir was shaking his head, as moisture began pooling, welling up to turn his eyes sad. For a moment, Faramir was confused, and when he saw a small tear roll down Boromir’s cheek, his confusion quickly gave way to concern. He pulled Boromir down into his arms and pressed him hard against his chest. The simple gesture, to hug his brother close, caused Boromir to shudder briefly, before raising his head so his green eyes could look into Faramir’s worried blue ones.

“Well, brother, that settles it. You are a braver man than I will ever be.”

“That’s nonsense. Why would you say such a thing, Boromir?”

“Because I would not have told the truth. If you had asked me the question first, I would have lied rather than risk your scorn or the loss of your love. I would never have voiced my true feelings. But you dared to. For that, you’re braver.”

Faramir cocked his head to one side, as if considering this, a small smile curving on his lips. “Well if I’m braver, am I entitled to a reward?” Faramir gently teased.

“What sort of reward did you have in mind?” By now, Boromir was smiling, almost in disbelief, and he moved one of his hands to rest on Faramir’s chest. He wants me. He wants me kept running through his mind.

“I will decide on that later—but we are both agreed I deserve one, yes?” Boromir nodded, even as he sat up again, raising himself so that Faramir could continue undressing him, while he moved to unlace Faramir’s breeches himself. Now that he knew he was safe, that Faramir still loved him, he felt as if he could do anything.

Busy hands sent clothes flying from the bed, as the two men started scrambling to see who could undress the other one faster. It was if they had returned to their childhood, running a race to see who would win. But as more and more flesh was exposed, the race slowed, and stopped, each brother looking intently as though seeing the other for the first time.

“You’re beautiful. My beautiful brother.” “Handsome, surely.” “That too, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

They sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, just staring. Then Faramir pushed himself back onto the bed, and stretched out his legs, while reaching out to touch Boromir’s thigh, inviting him closer with his eyes. Boromir moved, shifting until the two were lying side by side, eyes and hands searching features of the other. Faramir grazed his hand along Boromir’s arm, skimming the surface. Such a small gesture, but it forced Boromir to clench his eyes shut. He opened them again when Faramir began to run his hand gently down Boromir’s chest in the same manner. At the touch, Boromir thought his heart might stop.

Letting out an uneven breath, Boromir raised a hand to brush his brother’s face, touch his hair. He slid his fingers behind Faramir’s head, and started rubbing his hand slowly up and down the nape of his brother’s neck, urging his head nearer, drawing his mouth nearer. Hand and neck grew warm, as both men inched closer, nose to nose, then mouth on mouth.

Tender hands grew strong, demanding: Boromir tangled his fingers in Faramir’s hair, holding his head so that he could not pull back, could not withdraw from the kiss. Hardly necessary—he could sense his brother’s hunger as Faramir kissed him back, strong, passion-filled. So like my dream this afternoon, brother, so like my dream. Faramir pressed his tongue against Boromir’s mouth, demanded entrance, then groaned when Boromir’s lips parted. Both tongues met, a brief touching of tips, then questing beyond.

Shyly at first, then growing in confidence, both men’s tongues moved past teeth, sensing unfamiliar surfaces, searching out the innermost parts of each mouth. Emboldened, the tongues matched and fought a sensual duel for domination. Faramir flicked the tip of his tongue along the roof of Boromir’s mouth, making his brother moan. Boromir countered by nibbling on Faramir’s upper lip, drawing lip and hairs into his own mouth, sucking on the flesh at first, before giving his lip gentle, and not so gentle nips.

The sensation was making him melt with desire, but Faramir roused his self-control, pulled back, breaking the contact. He waited until Boromir opened his eyes as well, then whispered softly. “No marks, love, where others can see.”

“No marks,” Boromir repeated, then closed his eyes again and sought Faramir’s mouth once more. Those yielding lips, aaahh, Boromir thought he could never taste them enough. With Faramir’s mouth secured once more, he withdrew his hand from Faramir’s neck and began sliding it down his shoulder, then arm, then waist. Slowly he drew his fingers along the ridge of a firm hipbone, moving his hand around to Faramir’s lower back, where he began to trace a slow looping pattern in the hollow above his brother’s rear. That brought an agonized groan from the back of Faramir’s throat, which Boromir could feel with his tongue as well as sense with his body.

Faramir shifted his hips away from the questing hand, bringing his lower body closer to Boromir’s. When their hardened flesh gently brushed together, the hair on the back of Boromir’s neck stood on end, the contact causing him to shiver with pleasure. He forgot his own strength for a moment, and crushed their bodies together in a vice-like embrace. “Unnnhhhh,” Faramir growled in protest against his mouth, enough to get Boromir to relax his grip just a bit, though he kept his arm around Faramir’s waist and did not let him pull back.

He needn’t have worried—Faramir had no intention of moving his hips away from Boromir’s. Instead, he started to rub himself slowly against Boromir’s arousal, grinding himself into Boromir, impatient with need. Now it was Boromir who groaned into Faramir’s mouth, as pinpricks of light began to dance behind his eyelids. I will relive this moment a thousand times in my mind he thought, as the haze of desire made him less and less coherent. That he should hunger for me as I burn for him.

Faramir’s hand pushed against Boromir’s shoulder, pressing him onto his back, while his mouth left Boromir’s and moved down to his neck. Rolling on top of his brother, he reunited their erections, and made a gentle circling motion with his hips to send the message that he was not done tormenting Boromir just yet.

With his mouth he began to nuzzle the soft skin along Boromir’s neck, trailing warm breath everywhere his lips went. When he moved his head a little, his beard brushed the sensitized skin, light as a feather, and he heard Boromir moan softly. Like that, do you? How much, I wonder? Faramir experimented, alternating kisses with grazing the tip of his beard over Boromir’s neck and shoulder, and his brother twisted beneath him with pleasure. I will not forget that, brother mine he mused as he rearranged himself so that he could lick and nuzzle the other side of Boromir’s throat in exactly the same way.

Eyes shut, enjoying all the imaginative things that Faramir was doing to him, Boromir slowly glided his palms up and down his brother’s back. Gently, he slid one hand up to trace the path of his spine, remembering how it had looked when he first gazed down at the beginning of the back rub, now so long ago. He moved his fingers over Faramir’s ribs, feeling along the length of each one, skating the tips of his fingers back and forth. His other hand he slid down until it rested on Faramir’s rear, which he could feel tensing and relaxing as Faramir continued to writhe sinuously against him. How good it felt, to sense his brother’s thrusting from both in front and behind, against his hand and against his flesh.

Faramir wrapped his arms around his brother, pining his arms to his sides, then rolled onto his back and pulled his brother over on top of him. Boromir’s eyes opened in surprise, as he found himself looking down into Faramir’s laughing ones. “I couldn’t wait any longer to see what it feels like,” Faramir said. Puzzled, Boromir asked, “What what feels like?”

“What it feels like to have all of your weight on top of me, doing this.” And Faramir grinned while he wriggled his hips a little, giving Boromir a hint of what he wanted him to do.

“You always were a little impatient about getting your own way, as I recall,” Boromir said with a hint of irony. And he moved one hand up to brush the hair back from Faramir’s face, so that they could see each other clearly, before he started to press his hips…

Aaaa, Boromirrr

and weight

That’s so good…

into Faramir’s groin. Boromir continued to stroke Faramir’s hair, while Faramir’s eyes closed when the sweet sensations began to carry him away. Boromir just kept looking down at his brother’s face, warm with sweat, slowly rolling from side to side, thinking My beautiful brother over and over again. My Faramir. He felt his brother straining upwards against him, struggling to press their two bodies even closer together, if that were possible. I guess I’ve wanted this for a long time and never knew. Strange.

Faramir felt the blood rushing toward his abdomen, the tensing at the base of his manhood, all the signs that he was getting so close. He squirmed, pressing upwards into his brother, shifting his hips back and forth beneath him, feeling Boromir hold him down. The restraint, the very weight of his brother above him was delicious, so right. One more grind of Boromir’s hips against his, and suddenly Faramir couldn’t contain himself any longer: his seed spurted into the space between their two bodies, trapped and mingled with sweat caught there as well.

Boromir stopped brushing the hair away from Faramir’s face, and just touched the side of his face, quietly stroked the jawline through his beard. So beautiful, especially now, relaxed, happy. After a few moments, Boromir rolled off to one side, creating a space between the two, then moved his hand down to his stomach, and wiped a few fingers through the liquid there. As Faramir rolled his head towards him, and opened his eyes slightly, he could see Boromir bring the fingers to his mouth, licking each one, slowly, eyes on Faramir.

“I was wondering how you taste, Faramir.”
“And?”
“A little salty, but it may taste better like this.” And then Boromir shifted down the bed so that he could run his tongue over Faramir’s stomach, cleaning the skin a little bit at a time.

When he finished, he said,“Yes, much better. I prefer that flavoring.”
“Wha…what flavoring?”
“The flavor of you, wanton and willing,” Boromir teased.
Faramir rolled his eyes, feigning disgust. “That’s fine talk coming from you, brother. You got aroused just giving me a back rub! What did I do? I was just lying there…and you…you took advantage of me,” he replied playfully, punching his brother in the arm.
Boromir let out a mock sigh and shook his head. “That’s unfair. If I’m so debauched, little one, then how come I’m still in this state and you’re the one lying there wearing a smile?”

Faramir’s grin, if anything, got bigger on hearing these words. “What should I do to relieve your distress, Boromir?” Then growing more serious, his voice going lower, he said, “I would do anything to help end your misery.”
“Anything?”
“Of course, brother. Would you like me to…?” and Faramir placed his hand around Boromir’s erect flesh. He squeezed gently before stroking a bit, causing the older man to roll on to his back, his breathing suddenly shallow and his eyes growing distant, dreamy, closing. “Wanton,” he heard Boromir mutter.
“Or perhaps you would prefer something a little more…engaging?” And with that, Faramir moved down to his brother’s waist, so that he could run his tongue up the underside of Boromir’s member. That elicited a groan. Then Faramir shifted back up the bed, so he could look into his brother’s face, and he waited for Boromir to open his eyes. “Well, brother, I need to know: what are you thinking?”

Boromir wasn’t sure he wanted to answer, but the honesty rule compelled him. He had something else in mind. “I’d like you to…roll on your stomach, so that I can…” leaving the thought unfinished. He wondered what Faramir would think of him now, and then realized, he had every right to ask.

“What are you thinking, Faramir?”
A smile appeared on his brother’s face, as Faramir said, “That you must be a mind reader.”

The younger man took a pillow, placed it next to him on the bed, and rolled on top of it such that his rear was slightly up in the air. Then he looked over at Boromir, who was still slightly dazed at Faramir’s ready acceptance of his suggestion. I imagined you eager, little brother, but I never imagined you this eager. The “what are you waiting for?” look that Faramir threw at him only confused him more, but he began glancing around the room, hunting for something he could use as lubrication. While he took the glass of water off the stand and used it to moisten his thick shaft, he said, “Brother, I’m beginning to think I don’t know you at all. If you had told me yesterday that we’d be…doing this…I would have denied it.”

Faramir looked at Boromir with love and said, “So would I. I would have called you a liar without hesitation.” As he said this, Boromir moved so that he knelt behind him, between his legs. Faramir could feel his brother slip a moist finger into the opening at the cleft in his rear. He tensed briefly, then breathed out, and relaxed for a moment, as a second wet finger joined the first, and then a third. Faramir closed his eyes, and leaned back into the fingers that began to stroke him gently, dampening his entrance, and said in a voice roughened with emotion, “I thought I knew you better than any man in Gondor, but it seems…nnhh…I was still missing some…vital information.”

Boromir nodded in agreement, though he knew Faramir wouldn’t see him do it. Using his other hand, he brushed some more water on to his hardened flesh, and around his brother’s rear while he said, “The same is true for me. I’ve known you better than anyone else, but I’m beginning to think that I will have to learn you all over again.”

Then he withdrew his fingers, and wasting no time, slid himself part way into the wet entrance they’d just vacated. The intrusion made Faramir groan, and say in a uneven voice, “Boromir, I think…you are making…nnnhh…an excellent beginning.” Boromir pushed in a bit more, pulled back, then thrust farther in until he was fully surrounded. Only then did he place his hands on Faramir’s hips, and setting the pace, he began to press forward while pulling Faramir back against him. The tightness of Faramir’s opening felt so amazing that Boromir found he could barely control himself, as he pushed, then thrust, faster. Harder…a little sooner this time…deeper…punishing. Again. Again. His mind narrowed to this one sensation, the only part of his body that mattered. His eyes half-closed, the blood thundering in his ears, he was not even hearing Faramir beneath him anymore. His only thoughts were There. Right there. Quicker. Now. Now. And he sensed the familiar oncoming rush, the sign it would end in a second or two. Too soon, too soon, he thought, as he plunged one last time into Faramir’s tight spaces and felt his own swollen shaft jerk, shudder. Even as he came back to himself, only now heard Faramir whimpering with pleasure, he sensed the fluids surge out of him, inside his brother, the final pressure causing Faramir to groan again. As he let go of his brother’s hips, Boromir fell forward, collapsing almost on top of Faramir, so that he wouldn’t have to break this most intimate contact. He wrapped his arms around his brother’s shaking form, trying to comfort him, keep him safe.

“Faramir?” he whispered, concern in his voice, as he felt Faramir tremble once more.
“What, love?” came the somewhat broken reply from beneath him.
Have I hurt him? Please, no. I didn’t mean to. Faramir, forgive me. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted you too much.

Boromir had to know.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, waiting, fearing the worst, that his brother now despised him for inflicting pain in what should have been an act of love.

As if from afar, he heard Faramir say, in a voice choked with emotion, “I’m thinking, that it isn’t possible for me to love you more than at this moment.” A shudder, as he drew breath. “Boromir, please…please, don’t ever leave me.” And Boromir felt his brother shiver again, as the last wave of pleasure passed through his body.

A pause, then Faramir asked, “What are you thinking Boromir?”

“I’m thinking…that if I left you, little brother, I’d die. I’ll never go, unless by your leave…I need you too much.” And Boromir tightened his embrace, holding Faramir more firmly against his chest, as silent tears rose up in his throat, threatening to overwhelm him. He closed his eyes, buried his face in Faramir’s hair, and swore again, softly this time, “I’ll never go.”

END

*For those of you wondering, no, water would probably not be enough lubrication in this situation…leaving a strong possibility of physical damage. To be discussed in the next installment.

Title: To Learn You All Over Again: Bond of Blood
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Part: 2/?? of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. Also, blood (not for the squeamish). Hurt/comfort. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: Just ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Disclaimer: If I owned the characters, my name would be Tolkien. It isn’t. They’re not. All homage to JRRT, but I’m sure he’d be spinning in his grave if he read this. Sorry.
Synopsis: The consequences of a rushed first encounter (see Part One). Boromir & Faramir develop a better understanding and new set of rules for their evolving relationship.

---

Bond of Blood

“Faramir?” he whispered, concern in his voice, as he felt Faramir tremble once more.
“What, love?” came the somewhat broken reply from beneath him.
Have I hurt him? Please, no. I didn’t mean to. Faramir, forgive me. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted you too much.

Boromir had to know.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, waiting, fearing the worst, that his brother now despised him for inflicting pain in what should have been an act of love.

As if from afar, he heard Faramir say, in a voice choked with emotion, “I’m thinking, that it isn’t possible for me to love you more than at this moment.” A shudder, as he drew breath. “Boromir, please…please, don’t ever leave me.”

Boromir lay atop his brother, remembering his fear, when pain knifed through him. “Mmmh,” he heard Faramir groan, at almost the same moment. Pleasure spent, Boromir could sense his flesh contracting within his brother, and the pain came again—from the place where their two bodies were still connected. And at his slightest movement, Faramir cried again, though the sound was muffled. Something’s wrong.

Boromir began to remove his dwindling member from his brother, and with every movement, the agony increased. Gods, what have I done? Unnhhh. Pain. Boromir sat up, just enough to look down between their two bodies, sweat still slick on Faramir’s back, his own chest its twin. The very motion of sitting up brought another stab of pain, but his shaft had finally withdrawn from Faramir, and he looked down. With only faint firelight, it was hard to see, but he could see enough.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

The water was not sufficient. I should have known. The abrasions he felt on his tenderest parts were not the worst. His removal had drawn another cry from Faramir.

“For pity’s sake, Faramir, you’re bleeding.”

“I thought…as much. It felt like you were twisting a knife inside me, at the end. But the pain’s less, now that you’re…gone.”

“I felt nothing wrong at first. Why didn’t you stop me? I didn’t—”

“I tried to. I called your name, when the pain seemed too much, but you did not answer.”

Without another word, Boromir stood up, snatched a blanket to wrap round his midsection, and strode to the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get something I should have thought of before.” Boromir opened the door, peered around the corner, then hurried across the hall to his room, quietly shutting the door behind him. The jar was on the table, next to where he hung his sword and round shield. Grabbing it, and a cloth from his washbasin, Boromir went back to the door, opened it a fraction, and glanced up and down the passage. Closing his own door softly, he crossed the hall and reentered Faramir’s room, sliding the lock into place.

He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, saying, “I’m a fool, Faramir. I’ve hurt you because I did not stop to think.” Boromir took the cloth, dunked it in the water jug, wrung the water out, and started to clean the reddened flesh of his brother’s rear. So much blood. Why didn’t I hear you?

“Boromir—”

“Faramir, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. All I could feel—”

“Boromir, stop. Yes, it hurts, but no, don’t apologize. I wanted this. I wanted to feel you within me.”

“Not like this.” Boromir had risen again, located Faramir’s washbasin, and brought it to the bedside. The blood from the cloth turned the basin water red. “Not like this. I’ll never forgive—”

“You will. You must. I do not blame you. For once, I have seen my brother’s passion. It is worth the pain, worth much more pain than this, to have shared that with you.” Faramir rolled onto his side, reached out a hand, placing it on top of Boromir’s. His brother’s hands were shaking slightly, Faramir noticed.

The gesture stopped Boromir, but he kept his eyes downcast. He’d hardly been able to look at Faramir’s face since he’d realized what he’d done.

Faramir raised a hand to Boromir’s chin, lifting his brother’s face so he could look into his eyes. The green eyes he loved so well…filled with remorse.

What startled Boromir was how much love he saw in Faramir’s face. He doesn’t hate me. Thank the Valar, he doesn’t hate me. And a little of the shame crept out of Boromir’s eyes.

Taking the cloth out of Boromir’s hands, Faramir began cleaning himself, so that Boromir only saw the cloth each time it was dipped in the basin. The water went dark, then a darker red, and Boromir sat thinking, hard. I’ve hurt him. How could I do such a thing, to him of all people? Every so often, he saw Faramir wince slightly, as he touched some tender place.

While he moved the cloth, Faramir spoke. “I don’t even have to ask. I know what you’re thinking; I’ve seen that look before. You’ve already settled in your mind that it is your fault, and you have to shoulder the blame. I know you, brother. But this time, you’re wrong.”

The words made little impression, he could tell. Boromir sat staring at the basin and could not see past the bloody water there. Faramir tried once more. “Boromir, look at my face.” The older man shifted his gaze from the basin to his brother. Shame painted every feature. Faramir said, “The blame, if there is any, is also mine. I wanted you. I still want you. The pain will pass, we’ll be more careful next time—”

“There’ll be no next time, Faramir.”

Faramir dropped the cloth in the basin, and swung his legs over the bed’s side, so he could sit next to his brother. He flinched a little as he sat upright, but said, “Yes, there will.”

“No.”

“What right have you to make that decision alone, Boromir? We are lovers now, and we must choose what we do together.” He placed an arm around Boromir’s waist to emphasize the point.

Lovers, you say. True. But what I did to you was not loving.

“Faramir, I…when I entered you that I could barely see, I wanted you so badly. The water I used was not enough. And all this,” gesturing at the ruddy water in the basin, “You must have called my name. But I did not hear.” Shaking his head, he reached in the basin, withdrew the cloth, and started to clean the blood from his own body. As he touched the abrasions on his shaft, pain flashed across his face.

“You’re injured, too, Boromir. I see it. You were caught up in the fever of the moment. You would never hurt yourself that way, unless you were beyond reason. Just as you would never hurt me.”

“Faramir, I have hurt you. Deeply.”

“Brother, you’ve never hurt me before. And I know you did not mean to hurt me now. You’re the only person I know who never would.”

“But I did.”

Faramir knew Boromir would only grow more stubborn if the conversation continued in the same vein. Change of tactics, brother. Holding Boromir’s waist firmly in one hand, he reached over to turn Boromir’s head so he could see his face clearly. Then he leaned forward, capturing his brother’s mouth with his lips.

Eru, the taste of him. I will never get enough he thought, as he twisted his fingers in Boromir’s hair. When Boromir tried to pull his head back, Faramir wouldn’t let him. Instead he deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue into Boromir’s mouth, even as he leaned his weight into Boromir’s body, using it to push his brother back on the bed. Can’t you tell how much I want you, Boromir?

Boromir struggled against Faramir, could sense his brother was becoming aroused from their kiss, but the remorseful part of Boromir’s mind rejected any intimacy. He managed to get his hands onto Faramir’s shoulders and pushed the younger man back.

“No, Faramir, I will not do this. I swore I’d always take care of you, and I haven’t. I’ve hurt you in the worst way possible.”

“No, the ‘worst way possible’ would be to deny me your love.” Looking up, Boromir could see Faramir’s eyes were a little angry, his face flushed from the kiss. “I need you, Boromir. Even if you don’t need me.”

Boromir let out a breath, said reluctantly, “I need you too, little one, but I refuse to hurt you again. There will be no ‘next time.’ I might forget myself once more.”

“So you would deny us both, because you fear what you might do to me?”

“Yes, Faramir. For the sake of my peace of mind, I would.”

“Then I have a plan.” As Boromir started to shake his head, Faramir put up a hand across his lips. “Hear me, brother. You worry that if you take me, you will cause more blood between us. We rushed, because we were too eager, but we won’t have to rush in future.” Faramir’s eyes darkened a little as he spoke, thinking of that future. “We must have rules for this love, just as we have when we ask “what are you thinking.” And the first rule is, never doubt that I want you. I will always want you.”

He leaned forward, replacing his hand with his lips, and gave Boromir a gentle kiss, sweet this time, not demanding. Boromir’s lips stayed shut, but he returned the kiss, closing his eyes for a moment as he did. My loving Faramir. Forgiveness is your nature.

When Faramir finally pulled back, breaking their kiss, he looked down into his brother’s green eyes. “Can you agree to that rule, Boromir? Is it a good one?”

And Boromir slowly nodded his head. The shame and remorse were beginning to clear from his eyes. “It is the truth, for me at least. Never doubt that I want you. I will always want you.” With those words, he wrapped his arms around Faramir and pulled him close.

As he did, though, he whispered in Faramir’s ear, “But even wanting you, I can not do this again. I am afraid of myself and what I might do.”

Faramir pulled out of the embrace and rolled to one side, so that his weight was no longer pinning Boromir to the bed. He said, “I know. And for at least a week, you can not have me in that way. It will take that long to heal.” He gave his brother a wry smile. “But that does not mean there are no pleasures left to us, brother. Surely your imagination is at least as good as mine.”

Against his will, Boromir’s mind began to envision erotic alternatives, and he shut his eyes. “Faramir, even if we explore other…options…I will not let you be hurt by my desire. Or my errors.” Green eyes opened, and looked into blue ones. “If we make a mistake, you know what will happen.”

“Mistake? What mistake? You’re talking in riddles, Boromir. I meant other delights we might find with each other,” pulling Boromir’s hand over to touch his half-hard erection.

Boromir pulled his hand back swiftly, shaking his head. “Father. If he learns of this, by any means…I don’t know if I can hide what I feel, so that we won’t be discovered. And you would take the blame.” His eyebrows raised, Boromir shot his brother a knowing look.

Faramir let out a long sigh. “You’re right. If he suspected, he’d marry me to some noblewoman far off, to separate us forever. Exile by marriage.” His brow creased, thinking.

“Or worse. He might kill you, or arrange it so you would die while in Ithilien on patrol.” Boromir swallowed hard, disgusted at the thought. “That’s why there can be no next—”

“No, I don’t think he would go so far. If you die in battle…” Faramir’s voice shook. “If you die, someone must become Steward, when Father eventually dies. As much as he hates it, I am his protection against the day anything happens to you…. But exile would be worse.” And Faramir closed his eyes, rubbing the lids with one hand.

By now, it was nearly the middle of the night. The two brothers moved to prop themselves up at opposite ends of Faramir’s bed, and Faramir lit a candle on the bedside table, casting a little more light. Talk of death and exile had both men lost in thought for a while.

Eventually, Faramir spoke. “We must have another rule. No risktaking. Both of us understand the dangers. We will have to be careful, so none can see us in an unguarded moment.”

“No risktaking.” Boromir snorted and rolled his eyes in bemusement. Shaking his head once more, he began smoothing the blanket beneath his fingers, absently. “Little one, while you are away, I might build a fortress around my feelings such that none would know, but if we are in the same room…I may betray us.”

“You will not. We will find a way.” Faramir moved his foot along the side of Boromir’s leg, caressing his thigh. Boromir responded, moving his foot along Faramir’s thigh, returning the caress, even as he spoke.

“Faramir, this is a maze without exits. My heart demands that I hold you, love you, but my mind says we must not do this again—you must not be hurt.

“There must be a next time, Boromir, because I want you too much,” Faramir said, a little sternly. “Whether we act upon it or not, our feelings will be there. I will still need you. That will not go away. Remember our new rule? I will always want you.”

“And I will still desire you, brother. But I blame myself for the harm I’ve done this night. I could not live with myself if I caused more.”

“Would you have us know the risk, but fail to act? If a stray glance could reveal us, it will happen whether we are lovers in reality or lovers only in our thoughts, Boromir. For myself, I would rather have the pleasure before the exile.” Faramir smiled grimly at his brother as he said this.

That got Boromir to smile weakly in return. “At last, I take your meaning. The emotion will still be there, and could be discovered. Even having you for a lover in my mind is…dangerous. I cannot get rid of these thoughts; I’ve already tried,” he admitted ruefully. “We will have to hide it well, Faramir. Alright, I agree to your rule. No risks.”

“So you also agree that there will be a next time, Boromir?”

A long pause.

“Yes.”

Finally.

Faramir knew there was more. “You’re still worried.”

“I’m worried about what I might do, when we’re together this way. Faramir, I was so wrapped up in my own needs a few moments ago that I couldn’t even hear you. That’s how strong the feelings were, for me.”

“For me as well—”

“You don’t understand,” Boromir cut in. “I felt as if I had lost control. I did not know what you were feeling anymore, Faramir, and if I do not know what you are feeling, I could hurt you again.”

“Boromir, pleasure is supposed to make you do that—lose yourself for a time. That is how it should be. You sound as if you have never felt that way before.”

“Never.”

“Never? I may regret asking this, but did you never have lovers who made you feel that way?”

“Faramir, I have had several lovers, but I have never been in love. They were men who were nearly strangers, for ought I knew, and you are closer to my heart than anyone alive. What you and I…I have not felt before.” Boromir let out a long breath, as he moved his hand to stroke Faramir’s ankle.

Boromir’s words warmed Faramir’s heart—then he thought of something troubling. “You never told me about them. When I asked ‘what are you thinking?’ you never spoke of them once. How could that be, through all these years?” Faramir found it hard to keep an accusing tone out of his voice.

“I never spoke of them because I did not think of them while I was with you.” He could see the suspicion, uncertainty in Faramir’s eyes. “I have never lied to you, brother. I’ve always told you the truth when you asked, I swear it, and always will. I knew the two who mattered most when I was posted on the frontier, about twenty years ago with Tenedor, and twelve years ago with Darmil. Tenedor is married now, and Darmil dead. Each left me after only a few months, and I came home knowing there was no future with them; the others were…unimportant. In truth, I never thought of them because I did not love them. Desired, yes, but not loved.”

The frown left Faramir’s brow, as he considered all that Boromir said. “I understand. And you have done the same as I: men in the field, women here. Bawded a wench or two, to blind Father’s eyes, but never given your heart.”

“Not until now.” The swift retort made, Boromir’s face flushed crimson. I’ve said too much.

The words rang in Faramir’s ears. Not until now. The younger man shifted from one end of his bed to the other, coming near to his brother’s face. Lifting a hand to Boromir’s jawline, he stroked the bearded skin. “Nor have I. Until now.” Then he closed the distance to Boromir’s mouth with his own, and brushed the lips with a delicate kiss. If I am exiled, so be it. I will never give you up.

Lips entangled with his brother’s, Boromir brushed his hand against Faramir’s chest, a gentle touch full of meaning. As the kiss lengthened, Boromir gripped and shook the younger man’s arm to get his attention.

Faramir pulled back, breathing heavily, and said, “I’m in no mood for interruptions.”

“Faramir, I did not want to interrupt you, but we still have things to discuss. Remember, no risks?” Boromir chided, while gesturing to the basin and bloodied cloth. “We must make decisions, before morning comes. There will still be time for us, afterwards.” He leaned forward to kiss Faramir quickly as an apology. “The basin water can be dumped out the window onto the garden below. The cloth…”

Faramir finished, “Is small enough to burn. No one will comment on its absence.” He rose, took the cloth to the fire and pressed it into the embers. A moment later, the fabric caught fire, casting more light into the room. He came back to the bed, sat looking at Boromir from its edge.

“Done, then. And the blanket?”

“I’ll get out the other one from the cupboard to put on the bed, and lock this one in my chest. We will have need of it again.” And the eyes of the brothers met, thinking about how the blanket would be used in their nights to come.

Boromir nodded. “So much for the physical things that might expose us. What shall we do about keeping this from others?”

“The servants come rarely to this corridor, usually only in early morning or during daylight. If we each wake in our own bed, none should know, and if we confine ourselves to the night, none will hear. Whichever room we are in, we must lock the door. No matter how unlikely that a servant may enter, it must be bolted.”

His brother nodded again. “And Father?”

Faramir shook his head, placing an arm around Boromir’s shoulders, resting his forehead against his brother’s. “That will be harder. We must avoid being in the same room with him together. On some occasions, we must both be there, but as often as possible, we must see him separately. A glance might be enough for him to suspect something.”

“He’s taken to eating nearly all his evening meals in the tower. Those will not be a problem. Morning and noon, though, he may expect us.”

“Yes. I was not at midday meal today, so I should be there tomorrow or he may notice. I will have the morning meal in the kitchen, and pass through briefly to bid him good day only when you are nearly finished.”

“I will not linger; I’ll be gone by the time you arrive. In the morning, I will tell him I’m going to take one of the new horses out for a series of trials, to test its battle fitness. I had thought to do that later this week, I can do it tomorrow. On such an errand, he will not expect me back by noon, and you can be there.”

“Tomorrow’s planned, then. We will have to plan this, each day, for the next few weeks until you go back to your troops.”

“No risks.”

“No risks.”

The candle had almost burned down to the stump, flickering as it neared its end. Faramir rose again, went to the cabinet, collected a new one. He lit it, and returned to crawl into the sheltered space of his brother’s arm. Propped up, Boromir enfolded him in a comforting embrace, fingers firm along Faramir’s ribcage. Faramir’s hand moved up and down along Boromir’s waist.

“What’s in the jar next to the basin?” Faramir asked.

“Some salve, for your…new bruises. The weaponsmaster got past my guard two days ago,” Boromir replied, raising his other arm to reveal an ugly cut near the elbow, “and the warden gave me something to help it heal.”

“You should not get too close to Old Folly’s blade. He would do worse, if he could.”

“Old Foldaran trains every man hard, because the enemy will not go easy. I would rather have the scar than lose an arm in battle from lack of honest training. Come, we should dress your…wounds.”

Faramir reached down to the floor and retrieved the jar. Opening the lid, a faint smell of sweet herbs and oil reached his nostrils. Dragging a few fingers through the ointment, he said, “I will take care of this myself,” and began gingerly to stroke the bruised patches he could see forming on Boromir’s shaft.

“Wha…Faramir, stop. I should do this.”

“I want to. You are bloodied, as I am. We are already kin, but consider this…our bond of blood. I will tend your wounds and you will tend mine.” Boromir winced slightly, at his touch in one place, but let Faramir do as he intended. The younger man continued with the gentlest touch to slide the salve on the bruised skin, moving carefully around a cut at the crown, stopping when he had covered the damage.

“Besides, you will be able to see what you are doing as you tend me, and I could not.” Boromir moved over, so that Faramir could roll onto his stomach. Taking the container from his brother, Boromir slid down the bed until he was beside his brother’s waist. He placed the jar on the bed, and used one hand to pull the cheeks of the buttocks slightly apart. Now that the blood had been washed away, he saw cuts in three places around the puckered circle at his brother’s rear. With a heavy sigh, he began to dab a little of the salve on the first one, as gently as he knew how. Faramir only flinched when he began working on the third.

After he finished the outside, Faramir looked over his shoulder, and said simply, “Now the inside.”

Shaking his head, Boromir took more ointment on the end of one finger, and pushed, reluctantly, into the opening. Faramir winced again, but he did not take his eyes off of Boromir.

Boromir rubbed the fingertip inside Faramir until he thought all the salve was gone, then carefully withdrew his finger. Blood was on it. He took some more ointment and repeated the process twice more. Each time Faramir flinched when he entered, but after two repetitions, Boromir sensed that he had probably covered all of the damaged patches that he could reach inside his brother.

Faramir visibly relaxed when Boromir stopped, and watched as his brother stood up, rinsed the blood off his hand and carried the basin to the window. Once there, he opened the casement, and dumped the water outside before closing it again. He refilled the basin with water, and placed it on its stand before coming back to the bedside.

Faramir put a hand on his arm, to pull him down so that the two were lying next to each other, their faces close together. “Truly, you are the bravest of us both,” Boromir said. “To endure such pain, not once, but twice.”

Faramir reached out a hand, to stroke his brother’s hair. He pushed a few drifting strands back behind his ear, then rested his palm against Boromir’s cheek. “No, brother, pain does not prove bravery. You know that as I do. Courage was telling you the truth, when you asked what I was thinking. I spent all of last night seeking some way never to tell you. In the end, I could think of few useful tactics, and only one of them worked.”

“Hence, the manual of defensive tactics in the library; you were seeking alternatives. Which one worked?”

“The one that took me down to the second level to work with the builders. Away from you from you for the afternoon, so you could not question me.”

“Concealment. What others did you try?”

Faramir listed them: acting more normally, volunteering his thoughts readily, getting Boromir drunk. Hearing the last, Boromir started laughing. He leaned closer, and gave Faramir a kiss as his laughter subsided. With the chuckling still echoing in Boromir’s chest, Faramir thought, This is love, this joy we’re sharing. Love.

“So that’s why you were so eager to drink with me at dinner.” Boromir laughed again, and Faramir noticed his eyes had finally lost their haunted look. More like the Boromir I know, thank the Valar.

“Then I realized you hadn’t become drunk at all, and that made me change my tactics again.”

“What did I say that gave me away?” Boromir asked, his eyes merry.

“Something about meeting with father yesterday, and how he expected you to develop new strategies for the eastern campaign. You spoke about which ones you would propose, and you were just too…sober. A drunk could never have said what you did.”

“I thought you had had too much liquor at that point. I did not imagine you would notice.”

“I did, and that’s when I decided to act like you. If you wanted to play at drunkenness, then I would sham as well. From then on, all was an act, even stumbling in the hall.” Faramir looked a little pleased with himself, at having fooled his brother.

“So you forced me to half-carry you up the hall, and then asked me for a shoulder rub, pretending to be in a stupor?” Boromir snorted with mock disgust. “You had me totally blind. You could fool anyone.”

“Only you, only because I thought I had to, or risk losing your love and respect.” Faramir leaned closer to his smiling brother, whispered, “Have we finished discussing everything important, Boromir? Because I want you to kiss me again, and without interruption.”

“Yes, little brother, we have settled things for now,” he whispered back. “We can talk more…tomorrow night.” With that, Boromir reached out, putting his hand into Faramir’s hair, pulling his head nearer so that their lips brushed together lightly. “Faramir,” he breathed against his brother’s lips, as they parted briefly, then rejoined.

Boromir pressed his tongue against Faramir’s lips, as his hand urged his brother’s shoulder backwards. Faramir let his brother guide him on to his back, opened his mouth to grant Boromir’s tongue entrance. Eyes closing, Faramir felt his brother’s hand pushing the hair off of his face, then move to clasp his shoulder. Everything I want is here, in this moment. Remember this.

Boromir moved from Faramir’s mouth to the rest of his face, leaving warm kisses in a trail through his beard, next to his ear, then along the brow that he knew so well. He paused only to drop two light kisses on each of his brother’s eyelids, before claiming his lips again, this time not in a quiet kiss, but one that conveyed his hunger. Brother, I would have you burn for me again.

Faramir strained upwards to capture Boromir’s tongue, drawing it back into his mouth, sucking on it as it moved deeper into him. His hand tracked downwards, from Boromir’s neck to his chest, stopping to glide over the erect nubs that stood out on his brother’s torso. The motion was rewarded with a slight growl against his mouth. You enjoy that also. Another thing to be remembered.

Boromir shifted his weight, breaking the kiss, but kept a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, holding him down. Blue eyes drifted open, looked up, waiting. “Lie still, brother. Just lie still and do not move. In honor of your bravery, I have something to please you. You deserve this tribute from your…lover.” Boromir could tell the words delighted Faramir, especially the last. They reassured him there would be more nights like this one.

Seeing his brother’s eyes shut once more, lips curved to a smile, Boromir moved so that he was crouching over Faramir, his hands propping him up on each side. He began at Faramir’s neck, kissing the soft flesh in a downward track to his collarbone. He paused to lick the skin pulled taut over the right collarbone, then the left, before progressing southward, alternating kisses with intricate spirals drawn with his tongue. One pattern near Faramir’s right hipbone drew a writhing motion from his brother, who rolled his head backwards when Boromir’s warm breath grazed the skin. Vulnerable there. I mark the place on your map, Faramir.

Faramir lifted his hands to rest on his brother’s shoulders, one hand roaming onto Boromir’s strong back. He felt the solid muscles flex as Boromir shifted his weight over Faramir from one side to the other, licking and kissing his brother’s torso.

Boromir moved to Faramir’s left side, tasting and taunting the soft skin next to his hipbone, and was rewarded as Faramir squirmed again, head jerking back into the pillow. Both sides. Easy to remember, brother mine. He continued to nuzzle the responsive flesh, alternating tongue and teeth, as he rested his weight on one forearm, freeing his other hand for the next advance.

Stretching out his free arm, Boromir reached down between his brother’s legs and rested a fingertip along the inside of Faramir’s knee. The soft flesh quivered for a second. You always were ticklish there. Let’s see what happens when I…. He drew a single light finger along the skin, from the tender part at the knee halfway up Faramir’s inner thigh. He repeated the gesture, this time using a fingernail to increase the sensitivity. Twice, three more times, with each track allowing the fingernail to brush farther up the thigh, then the third time, he flicked the nail against the fleshy sac between Faramir’s legs. He could hear his brother’s breath becoming labored, harsher now. “Boromir, don’t…stop, I….” Faramir’s hands dropped from his shoulders to the bed.

“No, Faramir. You said you wanted no interruptions.” With that, he gently brushed the soft flesh on the other inner thigh, then began stroking from knee to thigh, repeated the loving torture until he could see all the hair standing at attention above the dimpled gooseflesh he had provoked. He also saw Faramir’s hands clenching fistfuls of blanket, knuckles white.

Abandoning the skin he had been nuzzling at his brother’s waist, Boromir raised his mouth to find the stiffened nubs on his chest. Even as he flicked another fingertip from knee to thigh, he caught one of the pale pink buds in his mouth, sucking slightly on it before grasping it between his teeth. He gently pulled on the tip, teasing it with his tongue, then released it, even as his finger continued to stroke his brother’s thigh.

“Brother…you can…stop now.” Faramir’s breathing was heavier, and he released the blanket to grab futilely for his brother’s arm. “That’s enough, Boromir…I beg you.”

The very words I wanted to hear, brother. “Did you know, Faramir, that this afternoon,” capturing the other nub between his teeth, and teasing it with his tongue, then freeing it, “that this afternoon I had to lock myself in my room, because I had a vision of you in bed, begging me to join you?” He returned to the first bud, now reddened from his mouth, and reclaimed it for a moment.

Between gasps, Faramir panted, “Boromir, have pity…what happened…in your vision…”

Keeping a tight grip on the nub with his mouth, Boromir replied by allowing his finger to rise this time from knee to thigh to thickened shaft. He only grazed the lightest touch up Faramir’s hard length, and the moisture he felt at the tip he spread around the crown, before moving his finger back down again. He heard Faramir groan faintly, and he released the bud within his mouth. Boromir responded by moving his head down to Faramir’s waist so that he could touch the end of his tongue to the top of the stiffened shaft. This brought a tormented “nnnhhh” from his brother’s lips, making Boromir smile.

A little more, I think. Shifting to lie between his brother’s legs, Boromir ran a tongue tip along the places his fingers had been stroking, from knee to thigh, each time coming a little closer to the apex of his brother’s thighs. Boromir alternated sides, first one thigh then the other, until his tongue finally reached the soft underflesh of his brother’s erection. Running his tongue around the sensitive skin, he gently pulled the pouchy tissue hanging there into his mouth and sucked lightly until he heard Faramir’s agonized “annhh,” then released it. Faramir’s back arched slightly from the movement; when his back bowed, Boromir slid an arm beneath his brother so that he could support his weight.

Boromir used the fingers on his free hand to imitate everything his tongue did, but in reverse. If his tongue slid up Faramir’s shaft, a gentle finger stroked in the opposite direction. When his fingertip circled the top of his brother’s engorged flesh, his lips kissed its base. This new form of teasing was excruciating for Faramir. “Boromir…that is…almost …painful. What are you…thinking?”

Boromir raised his head, to look at the rest of his brother’s body, head thrown back, a sheen of sweat on his chest. “I am thinking that I tasted you before, brother, but not from the source. When I do, it will be your turn to tell me what you are thinking.” With those words, Boromir moved his hand to cup the base of his brother’s erection, circling it with two fingers, while he captured the top with his mouth. Eyes closed now to all but his task, Boromir carefully slid Faramir’s length into his mouth, until lips met fingers wrapped around its foundation. Then hand and mouth began another torturous dance of opposites: Boromir pulling his head up and back while pressing gently downwards with his fingers, together then apart, over and over.

“I think…Boromir…I’ve nev— …

Brother, mercy…that again…yes, that…

Faster…please, Boromir…

Yes…there.“

Faramir’s words guided Boromir’s fingers and lips, while his sharp warning was matched by a spasm inside Boromir’s mouth. The warm surge against the roof of his mouth came as Boromir moved downwards again on Faramir’s shuddering erection, and he slid his lips one last time down his brother’s contracting length, sucking hard until he removed all the salty liquid he could swallow.

Opening his eyes, Boromir saw the reddish skin subsiding to rest against Faramir’s groin, and he bent to place a delicate kiss on his brother’s shrinking flesh. One last stroke of his tongue up the spent shaft, he next removed his arm from beneath Faramir’s back and rearranged himself so that he could lie beside his brother, Faramir’s arm underneath his neck. A lazy hand began brushing his shoulder blade, but Boromir had eyes only for his brother’s face—the skin glowing, features totally relaxed, beard glinting with sweat.

As he brushed a damp strand of darkened hair away from Faramir’s face, Boromir said teasingly, “That was the most incoherent thought I have heard from you in nearly thirty years.”

Faramir half-raised his eyelids, blue eyes drained from exhaustion, and replied, “I defy you, brother, to speak your meaning plain in…similar circumstances.” I do not want to say this but I must. Sadness marked his gaze. “Dawn approaches, Boromir. Much as I would have you stay—”

“I may not. But there will be other nights for us, Faramir” Matching smiles passed between the two. “Look for me at the evening meal, when we will discuss our plans for tomorrow night.” Boromir pressed a firm kiss to brotherly lips, then rose to gather clothes and boots.

He dressed at speed, slowing only to take care when pulling his breeches up around his partially erect shaft. As he relaced the leather, Boromir saw his brother was watching all. He picked up the jar of salve and came back to the bedside.

He bent over Faramir once more, kissed him swiftly. “Remember: no risks.” Quietly unbolting the door, he left Faramir in bed, alone with memories of his brother’s passion.

Title: To Learn You All Over Again: Privacy and Moonlight
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Part: 3/?? Of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: Just ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Disclaimer: If I owned the characters, my name would be Tolkien. It isn’t. They’re not. All homage to JRRT, but I’m sure he’d be spinning in his grave if he read this. Sorry.
Synopsis: The brothers try to find privacy and discuss where it will be safe for them to be together.

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Privacy and Moonlight

I lie on my side in the bed, watching the moon rise through the open window. It glides away, higher, until an edge disappears, sliver by sliver. In the distance, the mountain top of Amon Dîn is barely visible, a pleasant sight, yet it troubles me. I cannot see the moon rise from my own window at this time of year—only from my brother’s room can one glimpse a summer’s moon recede in the night sky, for the windows of his room face west, while mine face east.

Another way to know I am not in my own room. As if my brother’s body resting behind me were not evidence enough.

“What are you thinking about, Boromir?” comes a lazy voice, near the nape of my neck.

“The moon, love. The moon.”

With their father absent and servants dismissed, the two brothers sat with heads drawn together, speaking quietly of all they had done that day while apart, and what must be done to prevent others from discovering their secret. The conversation might have been delayed until they were out of the public hall, but there seemed little need. With no one in earshot, they kept voices low and gestures to a minimum.

The cavernous space dwarfed the two, seated across from each other at one end of a planked table. The remains of a roast chicken lay between them. Candles lit the hall, throwing shadows on the wall.

“Faramir, I will miss the morning and midday meals tomorrow, so you may be here for both.” With that, Boromir lifted a mug of mead to his mouth, washing away the taste of the simple meal.

“Where will you be? With your lieutenants?”

“Yes, the new eastern strategy must be planned, as Father requested, and I would have them speak their minds freely, which will only happen away from this house. Meetings over food will get their views with fewer reservations to hold them back, and give me another reason to miss meals with Father. You will have him to yourself tomorrow.”

Faramir finished draining his mug of cider before setting it back on the table and replying, “My thanks, Boromir.” That he delivered this comment with a hint of sarcasm was only to be expected. What could he anticipate but more criticism from their father? Yet the love they now bore for each other made it essential not to appear together in Denethor’s presence.

Boromir noted Faramir’s tone but said nothing. A heavy price you pay, brother. You gained my love but lost my shield against Father’s temper.

Faramir seemed a little distracted, but roused himself to speak directly to his brother. “I’ve been thinking about last night.”

The comment made Boromir laugh, a marked contrast to the room’s quietness before. “I’ve thought of little else this day, Faramir. Which part?” Smiles met across the table, each man remembering.

“The part where I said we must bolt the door of either room we are in. Will our two rooms be the only places we are together?” Faramir glanced at his brother speculatively, the question hanging between them.

“I thought we agreed, no risks? What would you have us do, lie naked beneath the White Tree—“

“No, Boromir, as pleasing an image as that is to my mind. I would know if our love is barricaded in those two rooms.”

“What are you proposing, Faramir?”

“There is a bolt on the door to the roof.” There, ‘tis said.

“And there’s a bolt on the door to the stables, but that does not make it a fit place for us to…indulge each other. Or would you have us go there now to ‘discuss tactics’ instead of your room?” Boromir’s face became stern, his eyes a little hard.

Holding up hands in submission, Faramir yielded. “Peace, brother. I did not mean to provoke you. I simply wondered what other places may be safe enough for us to have some…privacy.” The single word contained a wealth of new meaning for the two.

“I would be happy with you, your bed, and ‘privacy’ for a whole night. Have we need of any other?”

“Not so many, Boromir. But I would know your passion…by moonlight, for one.” Faramir’s face went pink once he finally said the words out loud. I care not if he thinks me unwell. It is important that he know.

The smile on Boromir’s face spread slowly, crinkling the edges of his eyes. Turning to the empty room, he made a loud announcement that mimicked those of grander gatherings. “Lords and ladies, my brother has declared his fondest wish.” More quietly, so that only the two could hear, he said, “Faramir, you will have your moonlight.”

The first two places they thought would be lit by the moon were both disappointments. The library had a door that could be bolted, but its windows faced south, not west, so seeing the moon would be nigh on impossible. Next, they scaled the narrow staircase from the servants’ quarters up to the roof, a darkened passage they knew well from younger adventures, lit now only by the candle Boromir carried before them.

After the long climb up the stairs, they discovered that access to the roof was denied them. Someone had secured the door with a key and taken the key away. “We will find out who has it tomorrow, and come here another night, brother.” Boromir placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezed gently, then led the way down the steps. Faramir smiled at the words “another night,” and turned to follow his brother.

Retreating through the kitchens, Faramir reached out and tugged on Boromir’s tunic, drawing him towards the pantry. “Forced marches for no purpose make me thirsty.” Boromir nodded in agreement, following him into the small room off the kitchen. Finding mugs above the barrels, Faramir had just finished drawing some mead and cider into them, when he heard a gentle click and the room filled with darkness. The candle must have gone out.

“Boromir, go light anot—“

“Later, little one. In a moment.” And lips ringed by soft curls closed over his mouth, an arm wrapped around his waist. Even in the dark, Faramir’s eyes closed to focus his other senses on the man standing next to him. As Boromir’s mouth moved to trail kisses onto his throat, Faramir found his voice.

“No risks, brother. Our rule.”

Raising lips from skin, Boromir whispered, “I locked the door after me, and it is black as night in here. I will go no further than kissing you; there is no risk.”

You put out the candle deliberately. Mind beginning to drift, Faramir said hoarsely, “My hands are full, have a care.” He tilted his head back so his brother could nuzzle his throat more easily. The strong hand holding Faramir’s hip stopped him from swaying.

No marks. Leave no marks. All Boromir’s senses focused on kissing the soft skin leading from neck to ear, but he was lucid enough to remember his brother’s warning from the preceding evening not to mark him any place where others might see. Indeed, their activities from the preceding evening had bruised Boromir in ways that made arousal painful, but any pain he felt was overridden by other, more compelling demands his body was making on him.

Minutes passed as Boromir’s mouth roamed behind his brother’s ear, down to his throat. Faramir’s breath began to quicken as his brother licked a path from furred jawline round to the nape of his neck, pressing light kisses onto the boundary where hair stopped and open skin began. Madness. I can think of nothing else but kissing you.

Faramir felt his knees might buckle if Boromir persisted. “Enough, Boromir. Lead us out of here, before I drop these.” He put a firm elbow into his brother’s chest, to get his attention.

Boromir opened his eyes, but in darkness saw nothing. Running a hand down his brother’s arm, he found the mug in Faramir’s hand, and took it from him. Reaching for the door with his other hand, Boromir slid the bolt back and pushed, pale firelight greeting him from the kitchen hearth. He picked up the candle he’d doused, and relit it from glowing coals in the fireplace. He felt Faramir’s hand upon his shoulder and turned to see his brother gazing at him intently.

“My room. Now.” The hand on his shoulder steered him to the passage that would take them to their rooms by the shortest route. Boromir thought wryly, I’m no longer the only one who found dinner insufficient. Good.

The two men strode swiftly through the corridor, Faramir behind his brother, shoulder still under his fingers. Boromir pushed the door to his brother’s room open and moved inside only a foot or so, leaving barely enough room for Faramir to enter after him. The room was cold, the fire out, he noticed. As soon as he was beside Boromir in the room, Faramir shoved the door shut with his shoulder and leaned his back against it. With his free hand he grabbed a handful of Boromir’s tunic to draw him close, close enough to see by the sputtering candle his brother held.

“If you do that again…” Faramir warned, arm now around Boromir’s waist, holding him tightly. His lips seized his brother’s, a kiss needy with pent-up emotion. Boromir found it hard to respond with both hands occupied by candle and mug, but he met Faramir’s hunger as best he could. Eventually he pulled his head back and asked, voice deeper than normal, “If I do that again, what?”

Blue eyes opened, hazed over, unfocused. “I will have to find a new way to thank you.” And Faramir leaned forward once more, securing Boromir’s mouth, a questing kiss this time. Seeking, searching for the same need in his brother. The desire flooding through Faramir’s kiss caught Boromir with such force that he dropped the candle, put his hand against the door, began pressing his chest into the younger man’s. Faramir felt Boromir press a leg between his and he parted his legs, their arousals now close enough to rub against each other through layers of clothes. Long moments passed as tongues entwined, mouths slid against each other, heat built between them.

“Mbormrhhh,” Faramir said into his brother’s mouth, minutes later.

A tug on the back of Boromir’s shirt. I’m busy. Tongue far back in Faramir’s mouth, Boromir’s mind was no longer focusing.

“Mbormrhhh” again.

What? And he tore his mouth from Faramir’s. Impatiently, he said through ragged breaths, “What must you say that will not wait?” The room’s near darkness made seeing anything but the closest objects difficult.

“Stop spilling your mead.” And Faramir motioned to the floor with his eyes.

Boromir looked down, saw the wet patch down the side of Faramir’s breeches, the candle quenched in the puddle beneath their boots. Boromir quickly righted the mug, saving some of the contents.

“Oh.” And he looked back up into Faramir’s dancing eyes, a warm mixture of love and humor there. Both men grinned, Boromir with a touch of embarrassment. “Sorry.”

The mood between them broken by this discovery, Boromir pulled back from his brother, fingers inscribing a soft salute on Faramir’s cheek before he turned to walk into the room. Despite the room’s darkness, he found a cloth near the hearth, returned and knelt to wipe up the mead, putting his tankard on the floor while he did so.

Meanwhile, Faramir bolted the door and placed his mug on the bedside table, along with other things pulled from his pocket. He stooped to pick up the mug of mead from the floor, and stood it next to his own on the stand. Then he knelt beside his brother, a hand stealing across Boromir’s broad back, drawing green eyes to his blue ones.

“That can wait. I cannot.” He leant toward his brother, pressing his face into Boromir’s hair, moving his nose behind his brother’s ear, planting a kiss there. “Come.” Placing a hand under Boromir’s arm, he drew his brother up from the stone floor, took the cloth from him so it could be dropped on the floor.

Side by side, the two walked to the bed, Faramir turning when he got to the edge so he faced Boromir. Grasping his brother’s shirt by its hem, he pulled it up and over Boromir’s head, tangling his arms in the sleeves only briefly. A whole day spent in thoughts of this moment.

Boromir did the same, tugging Faramir’s tunic off of him, eyes lingering on his brother’s taut chest as it was revealed. Strong. My handsome Faramir. And he bent his head to lay short kisses across his brother’s torso.

Callused fingers pushed hair away from his face, wove into his unruly mane and caressed the back of his head. Looking up, he found Faramir’s eyes fixed on him, happiness, joy radiating there. Smiling, he returned to exploration, kisses interspersed with tongue trails. Hands locked on Faramir’s waist for support, he moved to kneel in front of his brother, the leather stretched tight across Faramir’s bulging form.

As Boromir began unlacing the breeches to release him, Faramir looked down, trying to restrain his impatience. Brother, you know my thoughts before I have them. Boromir’s mouth kept busy, licking the skin above the waist of Faramir’s breeches, while his hands fought the laces, which seemed to have knotted. His fumbling fingers made little headway. Finally, he pulled back and glanced up at Faramir, frustrated. “Help?”

Nodding, Faramir took charge of his own clothing, saying, “I’ll grapple with this knot, but I want to see you as you undress. Come stand by the window.” He walked to the casement, the one part of the room with any light, where he worked to free the snarled laces.

Boromir moved slowly towards the window, still shut against the night air. Mottled beams flowed in through diamond-shaped panes, some clear, others dimly opaque. Moonlight, he realized. Is this why he thought of moonlight?

While unlacing his own breeches, Boromir questioned his brother. “You have moonlight through this window. Why did you want to go elsewhere for it?” His boots came off with two faint thuds, followed by the rest of his clothes. He stood closer to Faramir, pushing his erect shaft so that it rubbed against his brother’s clothing, closing his eyes briefly as he did so.

“Because I dare not open this window to let it fall upon you. There are others who would see, if enough light came from this room.” Hands still busy, he gestured with his head towards a watchtower, a distant slender spike in the western night sky.

Boromir observed it briefly, before turning back to regard his brother’s face. “Light out or casement shut, we remain hidden. Still studying concealment, I see.” He leaned his forehead against Faramir’s, releasing a long breath, closing his eyes again. Faramir renewed his efforts to remove the knot Boromir had created in his laces and finally untangled it.

Faramir said, “At least on the roof, I know no one could see us.” His earlier passion had waned some, as emotions were overrun by new thoughts. A pause, then a little forlornly, “I wish…”

“What do you hope, Faramir?” The muted ache in Faramir’s voice caught at Boromir’s heart, any desire secondary to his brother’s wish.

I think of things that cannot be. Voice strong again, Faramir dismissed the fancy. “I wish again for something I should not. Yesterday I wanted you; tonight I have you. I should rest content with that.” Faramir bent down to remove his boots, tossing them next to his brother’s before sliding the breeches down and stepping out of them. The cold stone floor beneath his feet started to chill him.

Boromir spoke as a commander, though not loudly. “Faramir, look at me.” The younger man straightened to attention, stood before his brother. Faramir had to smile, the order so at odds with their state of undress. “What are you thinking? Tell me your wish, little brother.”

Faramir’s head started to drop, then he raised it again, looking directly at his brother. “I wish…I could tell everyone how I feel about you. It’s a foolish thought, I know. But…my heart is pained, knowing we can tell no one. Ever.”

Secrecy. Another price you pay for loving me, Faramir. For me, you are worth any number of lies, but for you…. Truthtelling is your nature. Small lines crossed Boromir’s brow, as he looked down at his brother’s hand.

“And you, Boromir? What are you thinking?” A loving touch upon his chest, Faramir’s fingers glided softly over his heart.

The older man hesitated before answering. “That you deserve better than me.” Faramir rapidly shook his head side to side, instantly disagreeing, but Boromir continued, “Someone who would shout your name from the battlements, love you openly. You should not have to hide what you feel. Someone who could protect you. After only one day, I loathe that you must withstand Father’s taunts at meals without me beside you.” He gripped Faramir’s upper arms, then released them to pull his brother into a loving embrace.

Faramir spoke quietly into his brother’s ear. “His words do not wound as they used to. And you are mistaken, love, about what I deserve.” Faramir pulled back, so he could see his brother’s face washed in moonlight, set his mind at rest. “There is none better, and I will have no other. You are everything to me, Boromir. Everything.” Wrapping his arms around Boromir’s waist, he kissed his brother’s neck, offering reassurance.

“Deserved or not, your love is all in all to me, Faramir. I did not know how much I needed it until yesterday.” He nudged his brother away from the casement, toward the bed. “I will open the window. If we use no light, it should not matter. The bed is not high enough to be seen anyhow.”

Faramir reached the bed, sat down, and watched as Boromir opened the window so that moonlight now streamed into the room, though it did not yet cross the bed. Whispering, he warned, “There is risk in this, Boromir.”

Boromir responded just as softly. “If we are quiet, no sounds will carry. Without lights in the room, none will see. No risk.” He crossed the room to sit on the bed beside his brother, and placed an arm around Faramir’s firm shoulders. Their exchange continued in hushed tones.

Faramir said, “I remember your words, brother, about learning me all over again. It seems I must do the same and learn you again as well. You enjoy skirting the edge of risk, don’t you?” He reached over to the bedside table, picked up one of the two small jars he placed there earlier.

Boromir replied. “Sometimes. When the goal is worth the risk. I would see you by moonlight also, for selfish reasons.” Puzzled, Boromir sat watching his brother open the container. As the faint scent of fresh herbs and oil reached him, he knew what it was. You’ve been to my room, collected the salve.

“What reasons?” Faramir pushed his brother back onto the bed, then crouched over him, waiting.

“That I might remember the two of us together, like this, in moonlight. No matter how far apart duty takes us, I can look up to the moon and know you see it also, and know you think of me.” Boromir reached up to stroke his brother’s face.

Dark though it was, enough light was cast in the room for Boromir to see Faramir’s reaction. Surprise, followed by bewildered happiness. Boromir, how did you know?

I guessed, brother. Knowing you love me beyond all else.

Faramir whispered, “That was why I wanted us to go to the roof also.” And he lowered his head to kiss Boromir tenderly, as if his whole heart were contained in one kiss.

When their lips finally parted, Faramir asked in a low voice, “Boromir, can you tend my wounds again? Even by moonlight you will see more than I.” The older man nodded, and moved from beneath him, so that Faramir could lie on his stomach.

Sitting up, Boromir grasped the open-topped jar, put ointment on his finger, and began applying it as he had done the night before. The three cuts were much smaller, and Faramir did not flinch at his touch. Better. He smeared more of the salve on his fingertip, and carefully moved it inside his brother, gently spreading the substance until he could feel it no more. When he removed his finger, there was no blood. Another improvement from last night.

A second application of salve in his brother’s opening had Boromir thinking very different thoughts. Seeing Faramir’s slicked rear, and his finger inside his brother gave rise to carnal notions that caused him to stiffen again. Hand shaking a little, he withdrew the finger after he had finished smearing the ointment as far within as he could reach. As he did so, he heard Faramir release a heavy breath. He leaned over his brother, close to his ear. “Pain, Faramir?”

“Its opposite, brother.” Faramir rolled onto his back, revealing a firm erection. “You were careful. Feeling you within me is what I crave, but that must wait a few days more. Get the blanket, Boromir.”

Boromir rose, retrieved the key from its customary hiding place, unlocked Faramir’s chest and withdrew the blanket. Walking back to where his brother now stood, he realized that the moonlight had edged closer to their resting place. He laid the blanket across the bed, then saw that Faramir held the second jar in his hand. “What is that, Faramir?”

“My thanks for your tribute of last night. If you will accept them.” Faramir smiled a little shyly as he spoke. “Lie down, Boromir.” You will enjoy this. Sweets are a weakness with you.

“I need no thanks, but if you offer them, I accept, little brother.” Boromir slid onto the blanket, resting his head on one of the pillows. Faramir took the lid off the jar, slid a few fingers into it. Boromir could not see the jar’s contents. What is he doing?

Faramir moved one finger to his mouth, then placed the finger on the crown of his erection. With the rest of his hand, he grasped his shaft and began to rub up and down, a sight Boromir could not take his eyes from. “You said you liked the flavor of me, but that I was a little salty. I need you to discover if I taste the same way tonight.” Faramir placed one knee beside Boromir’s waist and moved so that he straddled his brother. His eyes were already on Boromir when the older man spoke.

“I will like how you taste, salty or not. What would you have me do, Faramir?”

Moonlight now played at the fringes of the bed, slowly creeping across the pillow where Boromir’s head rested. Boromir’s question joined the brothers’ eyes to each other, Boromir expectant, Faramir slightly amazed. Both men recognized Boromir’s question as something new, a subtle change to their love.

He could have commanded an answer from Faramir—in truth, Faramir had been waiting for this—by asking “what are you thinking?” In the Thinking Game, it gave the questioner power, the right to a truthful answer in exchange for the promise of the same. But Boromir chose otherwise. “What would you have me do?” was the reverse of their familiar query: the questioner now offered obedience, with none required in return.

A hint of gratitude mingled with the desire in Faramir’s face. He looked down at his brother, answering, “Something I hope you will want as I do.” Faramir placed one hand on the headboard and shifted his knees forward bit by bit. When they were pushed beneath his brother’s arms and could go forward no farther, what Faramir wanted was obvious. Taste, Boromir. Boromir reached back and bunched the pillows behind his head, raising his eyes level with Faramir’s waist. Placing a hand on his brother’s hip and guiding him closer, he lifted his head even more, mouth open.

When Boromir’s lips gained their prize, the sweetness surprised him. Honey. Faramir, you tempt me enough without this, but…how good this is. At first, his tongue swept lightly up the shaft that Faramir had rubbed with a thin layer of honey, catching some of it in his beard. Then Boromir decided Faramir’s gesture deserved one in return.

Boromir did not remove all the syrup at once, but used his lips and tongue to clean only a small part near the base. He alternated licking Faramir’s stiff flesh with gentle sucking on the tissue hanging beneath his erection, slowly working his way up the thickened shaft, but avoiding the top until last. Advance and retreat, little brother. You will recognize it, surely.

His slow progress provoked exactly the reaction he wanted. Long moments passed as his tongue teased his brother. Finally, his goading caused Faramir to hiss, “Deliberate…provocation will bring…retaliation, Boromir.”

As his mouth sucked the last of the sugary flavor from the tip of his brother’s erection, the mixture of sweet with a few drops of salt struck him with renewed force. I’ll never eat honey again without thinking of this night. Eru, Faramir, the taste of you!

His ears barely caught the small sounds Faramir made in his chest, but he heard nothing more from his brother’s mouth. Looking up he saw Faramir, face now visible in the moonlight, eyes clenched shut, teeth biting down hard on his lower lip while he struggled against himself to make no sound.

Boromir reached up with his hand, grasped Faramir’s arm and tugged on it, indicating with hand and head he wanted his brother to lie beside him again. Faramir let go of the headboard, and moved to stretch out in the shelter of Boromir’s arm. The feelings his brother had roused were so strong, Faramir could not resist rolling on top of Boromir to press their bodies together. But the contact brought a wince to the older man’s face, evident now as the moon’s brightness lit his features. Repentant, Faramir knew he should have remembered Boromir’s injuries from their first time together mirrored his own.

“Sorry, Boromir.” And Faramir gingerly lifted his weight from his brother, shifting so that he could take hold of the other open jar on the bedside table. I should have done this sooner.

With the container of ointment laid on Boromir’s chest, Faramir dipped a few fingers in it, then placed them carefully on the few bruised patches he saw remaining on his brother’s solid erection. Once, he heard Boromir’s abrupt intake of breath as he pressed too firmly near a bruise. But the salve was working: the abrasions and cut on his shaft were nearly healed. Tomorrow, perhaps, might I touch you without fear of hurting you. Boromir said nothing as Faramir ministered to the hurt places, simply rested there, watching.

Turning blue eyes to meet Boromir’s green ones, Faramir drew out a little more of the salve. He waited to gauge his brother’s reaction as his fingers slid down, past the slick engorged shaft. Will you want this? I am still discovering your passions, Boromir. His fingers sought and found the small opening, beneath his brother’s erection, sliding slippery fingertips gently around the circle. Green eyes widened, then settled back on Faramir’s face, searching it. This is your desire, Faramir…something else I did not know. But should have guessed.

Their words came in sharp whispers. “Boromir, if you do not want—“

His brother cut in, “I know what you are thinking, so I need not ask what you want. But you need not ask me either. Remember? Never doubt that I want you.

“I do not doubt, Boromir. I only want to know what you desire. What would you have me do?” Faramir’s question deliberately repeated Boromir’s earlier request, showing that he understood their new language of submission rather than command.

“I would have you never stop, never give ground, until your desire is sated.” With those words, Boromir took a little of the ointment on his fingers, and lowered his hand until he felt Faramir’s erect flesh and began to cover his length with a firm caress. Two days ago, I could not have imagined us together thus. Now I cannot imagine us parted for the world.

Faramir moved the jar from his brother’s chest to the table, taking a last fingerful of salve as he left the container behind. Now, as moon glow bathed his brother, he saw the wariness in Boromir’s eyes. “Tell me, brother, what you doubt.”

“Faramir, I doubt only myself. Long years have passed since I was last….” He frowned, then pressed onward. “I have grown used to finding my pleasure as we did last night. I would not disappoint you, that is all, in something I have seldom done.”

So that is your concern, Boromir. “You could not displease me. And I will try not to disappoint you either.” And Faramir pushed the fingertip with ointment within his brother’s opening, slowly, carefully spreading the substance. “We must each learn the other anew, as you said.”

With those words, Faramir leaned forward and caught Boromir’s lips in a slow kiss, one that possessed and demanded a response. The answer came almost instantly, as fire leaps when fuel is added. Boromir captured his tongue, pulled it to the back of his mouth, hungry for more. A hand on Faramir’s shoulder guided him to move between Boromir’s legs, parted, waiting.

Faramir tried not to take his lips from his brother’s, but could not, as he knelt where Boromir had urged him. He pulled Boromir’s thighs towards him, draping them over his own, erections reuniting again briefly. He reached a hand out to touch Boromir’s chest, looked at his brother, stretched out in moonlight, ready, expectant.

I desire this. But only if you do as well. I would please you, Boromir. Using his salve-coated fingers, he guided the tip of his erection to his brother’s slicked opening. Slowly, he nudged the crown inside, paused, looked quickly to his brother’s face for a reaction.

Boromir nodded, a silent affirmation to proceed. Faramir pushed forward, stopping at intervals, deliberately waiting for Boromir to become accustomed to the growing intrusion. I knew you would be a considerate lover, Faramir. I did not know how considerate. That feels…oh, Eru. Faramir… Once Faramir was fully seated within his brother, he turned again to Boromir for approval.

This time, Boromir did not nod. “As lovers, we are equals, Faramir. Do not await my consent for all you would do.” Comprehending, Faramir nodded and leaned forward from the waist, the added pressure pushing him deeper within his brother.

Wrapping both arms around the older man’s chest, Faramir used his strength to pull himself forward then back, forward again, rocking slowly inside Boromir. The steady thrusts gained force and speed for a time, then resumed a slower rhythm. Advance, withdrawal.

The moon’s glow no longer on his own face, Boromir watched the light fall on Faramir’s shoulders, his powerful back glistening from the exertion. My beautiful little one. I do not deserve you. The tension in their bodies marked the room, a trace of musk growing in the air.

As he thrust and pulled back, Faramir licked Boromir’s chest, the sweat from it merging with the moisture beading on his own face. Every so often, he looked up the well-lit torso, seeking Boromir’s face, before shutting his eyes and falling into the rhythm again.

The slickness of his brother’s torso caused him to slip, losing his leverage. He withdrew his arms from under his brother, and placed them on top of Boromir’s arms, using them to pull his weight forward. The changed feel of his brother’s hands brought Boromir’s eyes open, readjusting to the bond between them. He began using his strength to pull Faramir towards him, hands gripping sweaty arms tightly. Breathing ragged, labored, echoed in the silent room. The two men now watched each other, worked together, urging each other towards a goal only the two of them could reach.

Each thrust of Faramir’s felt slightly different, as the angles of his body changed inside his brother’s. One movement found a welcome spot within Boromir, wresting a strangled “nnhh” from his lips. Having found it, Faramir never intended to leave. He strained, kept his motions identical, concentrated every muscle to repetition. Not there. There. Yes. Again, brother. I would see your passion once more.

One idea, alone, over and over: Faramir. No longer coherent, Boromir’s lips stifled little words Faramir hardly heard. Soon. Mmmhh. Faster. Faramir’s body, slotted so firmly into his, seemed closer than his own. With every push, his brother’s body brushed the hard erection; within, the pressure grew, each plunge driving him nearer the edge. The familiar sharpening, tensing, as his release approached. Insistent. Overwhelming. Blinding.

“Faramir.” Arrived. Pressure gone, a flood across his stomach.

A thrust, one last gentle blow, then his ears filled with Faramir’s exhausted cry. A sharp spasm within, a final touch of his brother’s desire.

Boromir laid in the bed, watching the moon rise through the open window. It glided away, higher, until an edge disappeared sliver by sliver. In the distance, the mountain top of Amon Dîn was barely visible, a pleasant sight, yet troubling, for him. From his own room, he would not see the moon rise at that time of year—only from Faramir’s room could one glimpse a summer’s moon recede in the night sky, for the windows of his room faced west, while Boromir’s faced east.

It reinforced the strangeness of it all for Boromir, proof that he was not in his own room. As if his brother’s body resting behind him was not evidence enough.

“What are you thinking about, Boromir?” came a lazy voice, near the nape of his neck. Boromir knew Faramir wasn’t asleep, for their fingers had laced together above the blanket a few moments earlier. Faramir knew Boromir wasn’t asleep from the sound of his breathing. How could he be, with a heart still racing from what Faramir had done to him only minutes before?

“The moon, love. The moon.”

“Are you grown poetic, brother?”

“No, Faramir, though sometimes I wish I had skill enough to write poetry as you do. You are the only wordsmith in the family. But if I could, I would invent a new way to praise your gifts.”

“What do you think on, when you see the moon?”

“That I should not, Faramir. From my room, I do not see the moon rise at this time of year.”

“Ah.” Faramir’s grip on his hand tightened. “I would have you see them all, from this bed or the roof, in your passion.”

“That would please me, little one.”

Faramir raised himself on one elbow, so that he could look down on his brother’s face. Boromir rolled onto his back, seeing Faramir by the little moonlight that remained in the room.

“Rest here a while, Boromir, that I may watch you in the privacy of our moon.”

Title: To Learn You All Over Again: Exploring Unknown Territory
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir, Faramir/OMC (Dorig)
Part: 4/?? Of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: Just ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Disclaimer: If I owned the characters, my name would be Tolkien. It isn’t. They’re not. All homage to JRRT, but I’m sure he’d be spinning in his grave if he read this. Sorry.
Synopsis: Faramir discovers how little he knows about himself or his brother, now that they are lovers.

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Exploring Unknown Territory

Having attended to my duties this morning, I have earned part of the afternoon for myself. I take a much loved book of ancient history from my room and walk outside, seeking solace in a remote corner of the back garden, a refuge for reading and thinking I have used many times.

One passes through the Steward’s garden by a slender gravel path, winding between high walls, past blooming flowers of many kinds. The variety of flowers always astonishes visitors, though few are invited to the garden these days. A few rare blossoms come from my mother’s home in Dol Amroth. As I stop to take in the fragrance of a particular bloom, I think for a moment of her loving face. Mother.

Releasing a sigh, I resume walking toward my destination, the section of the garden that faces west. People rarely go so far into the garden, and I have frequently taken advantage of that fact, as I do now. The absence of passersby grants this place the silence I welcome.

I slide onto the bench that looks out over the White City, toward Mindolluin¹ and the White Mountains. A faint smile starts, as I think of a few hours in solitude. The space granted me this afternoon is uncommon, and I look forward to the small reprieve from work.

It has been many months since I read any portion of this volume, and I flip the pages to find one of my favorite parts. Stories of the Second Age captivated me as a youth, and I return to the tale I remember well, expecting to lose myself in it as I have often done before.

Today, however, my mind will not focus on the words. I am reading and not reading all at once, eyes skimming lines though taking in nothing. After scanning the same page for the third time and seeing none of it, I admit defeat: this will not be an afternoon in the company of books.

Boromir, it is not just you I must learn again. I think I do not know myself any longer.

Rare, that my mind rejects reading. Only when I am troubled with pain behind my eyes will I lay aside a book willingly, and I have been spared any such aches this day. If I can no longer concentrate enough to read, then…then at least I may enjoy an afternoon nap. Time spent with Boromir has meant little or no sleep for many nights in a row. This bench is a comfortable one, and the afternoon sky is filled with a warm sun that brings no rain. Sleep will find me here as well as in my bed.

I close my eyes, safe in a soldier’s knowledge that with fatigue like mine, I should be asleep in five minutes, sitting, standing, or lying down. But time slides by and sleep evades me, for my thoughts are restless. No nap either. What ails me?

Eyes open once more, I look at some of the nearby plants, a tree on my left, as I consider the week gone past. The preceding week, with Boromir, has had the quality of a dream to it. A good dream, but a dream nonetheless.

So much has changed in the last seven days, and the greatest change is one I can scarcely believe: within myself. I love, and am loved in return. I, Faramir.

I am not unkind, or unhandsome, if others are to be believed. Do I not merit such happiness in life? Yet somehow, the notion that I love and am loved in return is astonishing to me. I find my thoughts drifting across things I have not considered for years.

Lovers approached me in younger days, men and women both, but always I found it hard to give myself to another. I shared few evenings with others in hunting passion, probably many fewer than men of my years. Seldom have I stopped to consider why. But in light of this week, I find my mind drawn to this puzzle.

Have I held myself back from loving others?

Was I afraid to love?

Did some part of me want only Boromir?

I slow these thoughts, and try to unravel each in turn.

“Have I held myself back from loving others?” Saying the words aloud like this makes the notion real. Perhaps I had. As a youth, I certainly knew little about pleasure-seeking.

My first taste of passion came at a time when most men would already be well-experienced. On patrol, in Ithilien for the third or fourth year, I began to learn a little. A dark-haired man, bearded, older by some years—Dorig—sat beside me during one evening meal, looking speculatively at every mouthful I ate. Eventually he spoke. “Captain, you are troubled. Would you ease your cares by…walking with me? I could listen.”

In truth, I was troubled that night. News of two men dead, scouts I had sent in search of the enemy, made the meal a difficult one. I welcomed the chance to leave our gathering, to be captain no longer, a mere man once more.

We walked beneath the trees, never far from the safety of our camp. Its fire remained the fixed point we circled at a distance, watching it wink between trees. Darkness falling, I spoke of my concern for the men now gone, my remorse, my failure to foresee the danger I placed them in. Dorig listened to all, and as I returned again to the men who had died, he caught one of my hands with his own, squeezed it. In sympathy, I believed. How unlearned I was!

Slowly as we walked, I became aware that his kind feelings and soft glances to me were not for my comfort alone. He conveyed more by not speaking than most I have met since. But his intent was clear. His desire. And I did not trust my voice to speak my mind. Even troubled, I found something in him that made me curious to know more. So I returned his touch, hesitantly at first. Another brushing of hands, a glance, a nod was enough to signal willingness. Within moments, our mutual needs found expression, though not in many words.

Dorig was kind to me, even as I made clear that I knew not what to do. His hands and eyes showed me what I should learn; his mouth helped me better know what I wanted. Always wanted. Our steps never took us nearer the fire that night, as we lay beneath the trees finding quiet paths to ecstasy.

That evening remains engraved in memory, but the days that followed were instructive in ways I cannot forget either. I had to discipline my thoughts, show no favoritism, reveal nothing to the other men who might consider this a weakness in their captain. And though necessary, those actions hurt Dorig. He knew well why I distanced myself from his side, yet he could not help wanting more. As did I.

And I could find no middle ground. Could I command someone I desired? Hardly. With two dead scouts still before my eyes, how could I not think on what would happen if I sent Dorig to his death, or sent others because I tried to shield him? My mind groped in the dark for solutions.

Eventually, I spoke with him, explained in halting words my concern, my decision. Either he must move to another company, or I must. My voice sounded strange in my ears as I made clear the choice we faced, and Dorig made it for us both. “I will go. You are right, though I do not like saying so.” A few days later, he went. And I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from me, even as my heart mourned to see him go.

After that, I knew no men of my own company as I had known Dorig. Always I remained mindful of what would happen if I repeated my mistake. Wiser now, I struggled not to let the same error occur again, and reserved any baser thoughts I had for men beyond our band. In the wild for months at a time with only my men, I suffered a self-imposed exile from my own desire.

The question returns: did I hold myself back? Yes. I was always a quick learner, and the lesson of Dorig was one I did not need to study twice.

A western gust stirs the garden, flipping a few pages of the book I still hold. The wind lifts younger branches of the tree, leaves rustling as the breeze floats by. Warm sunlight of this summer’s afternoon is chilled for a moment, then returns to heat the skin of my face and hands. Shutting the book, I stare into the middle distance, questions demanding to be answered, if only for myself.

Was I afraid to love? One might well ask, what did love mean, in a family such as mine? Beloved mother—dead before I might know her well. My father—a man who would not weep if he learned I died in Gondor’s defense. And how did Denethor love Finduilas, or she him? From childhood, I had no parents to teach how others should care about me, or how they might love each other. Empty, the storehouse of parental love.

My youth taught me little better. “A Steward’s son must never forget his position,” Father drummed into me, again and again. Reserve, formality became second nature to me in younger days. Where my age-mates most likely saw this as arrogance or disdain, I simply behaved as Father instructed. Forsaking closeness to any below my rank, seeking my father’s approval, a love never granted. And in truth, my devotion to reading made any lost companionship seem small; books and scrolls were companions who cheered days and nights, never leaving my side.

As a young man, though, I began to comprehend how narrow a world my father would have me live in. Cut off from friendship and fellow-feeling, something no living being should endure. Rank and reserve might be his cloak against the world, but they did not suit my temper as I aged. Slowly, slowly I reached for something more. A tutor, a weaponsmaster, another ranger in training—I took the wall of my own reserve apart, one man at a time.

Afraid to love? Perhaps, as it was unknown until so late in life. And fear renewed itself once I left Minas Tirith behind. Even had I never met Dorig, Ithilien taught me the risks of love. So many dead. Men I fought with who died protecting our frontier. Having few intimates, the loss of even one was a blow to the spirit, and I lost more than one in that land.

One further question: “Did some part of me want only Boromir?” Even in a whisper, the words are an answer in themselves. Yes.

Boromir is the exception to every question I ask of myself. The one I have never held myself back from, the one I have never been afraid to love. The one who has loved me without limit and told me so, though not in words as often as by his steadfast care. My brother’s love, of infinite value.

For a lifetime, his love has meant security, safety. What had I to fear, when he wrapped me in strong arms and called me little brother? Nothing. Until this week, nothing. Always he stood between me and harm when he could, when Father would let him.

Silently, my mind instructs. You compared all with him, and none could stand the comparison. This truth brooks no denial. Who could match Boromir? Lone childhood companion. Fearless ally. Comforter in times of sorrow. No other could best him, when love hung in the balance.

So few lovers for Captain Faramir—and Boromir himself the answer to the question ‘why?’ And why lie, when confronted with the wealth of what I have learned about myself this week? It was not ‘some part of me’ that wanted him: I want him with my all, my entire being.

But until seven days ago, I had not realized.

A new puzzle rises up to snare my troubled mind. Why was I so slow to realize this truth about Boromir? Why did my mind admit it only now? The same question, in truth.

It is not as if Boromir has undergone some transformation that opened my eyes to his nature. My brother’s character, his very being is unchanged, the same now as it was ten years ago, or twenty. I love him all the more for his unaltered goodness and strength. So this change has come from within me. I was slow to awaken.

Slow to awareness, perhaps, because I rejected the possibility of romantic love even in my youth, though not by my own choice. I might be only second-born but I knew I did not command the future of my love. Father expected to make political matches with us both, and we were told this from an early age. The freedom to give my heart, save in dalliance, was never present, and I deliberately put away thoughts of that kind.

And Boromir? Twenty years and more have passed since he told Father he had no wish to marry, though he would do so if his lord commanded it. Well I remember the day he spoke those words—sun streaming through the high windows of the council room, vacant but for the three of us after all others had taken their leave. Boromir’s reluctance that afternoon earned him one of the few frowns I have ever seen Father give him. The moment passed quickly enough, for Boromir shifted the discussion to war and maneuvers; his worth as a soldier so obviously outshone any value he had as a bridegroom that Father’s displeasure faded as quickly as it came.

My mind could not see the truth about Boromir for other reasons, though. I have concealed my preference for the company of men since I became a youth. At all costs, Father could not learn of my secret desires, or it might bring even greater wrath down upon me. So I went to courtesans while in Minas Tirith, as my brother did, to shield myself from any barbed comments Father might make. In this, I did not know Boromir any better than he knew me. Each thought the other taken with the charms of women: how well we guarded our true selves from one another!

What else delayed self-knowledge, that I desired my brother? Another reason forces its way into this hall of crowded thoughts: duty. Since Boromir became a man, duty has taken one or both of us away from Minas Tirith for months at a time, even for a year at a time. Rarely have we been together so much as we used to be in days of our childhood—and I have to force my mind away from sorrow, remembering Boromir will leave in ten days for yet another patrol on our frontiers.

I reconsider these reasons, though: neither obedience to Father, the façade of willing women, nor duty would have stopped me from recognizing the depth of my emotions where Boromir is concerned. These could not be enough.

Something more kept me in darkness this long. Something else was at work here.

It was, I think, his nearness. His nearness to me obscured him from view, as when one comes too close to an object and it fills one’s vision to the edge; stepping back, one regains true perspective. Even as a boy, Boromir’s closeness filled my sight so completely that there was no one else.

And distance, the distance of being away from Minas Tirith and not seeing Boromir day after day, finally permitted me to recognize him for what he is. I nod my head, acknowledging the truth at last. Though I cherish the days we spent together as children, would our feelings have become more than brotherly if we had been constantly in each other’s presence as we grew older? Perhaps I could only realize Boromir’s rightness after long absences from him. If that is true, my debt to Ithilien is greater than I can repay, for I take his measure at last.

No longer brother only. Lover and brother both. Boromir, what you have done to me…

My mind hurtles backwards over the week gone by, to mind-drugging kisses, the wildness of feeling Boromir’s body within mine or mine within his. The book drops to the bench, unnoticed. Here, now, heat swirls near the pit of my stomach, gathering force, speeding my breath, to think of seven nights spent exploring my brother’s passion. Eru, such a week… I close my eyes for a moment, as my groin begins to tighten and flex, though Boromir is nowhere near me. In thought, I relive our nights, the invisible ties binding me tightly to my brother.

Four nights ago. To think about that evening makes my mouth go dry in an instant. That night, I first used my hand to encircle his blood-gorged shaft, to drag that silken flesh between my fingers until Boromir could last no longer. Eyes open, I look down at my lap, my right hand there. I pick it up, turn it over and back, stretch the fingers, slightly amazed that they are here. This hand.

It was this hand, four nights past, that Boromir covered with surging liquid, this palm that sensed his skin shaking lightly as the last of his juices sprayed between us. These fingers that spread Boromir’s seed on both our chests, brought the taste of it to both our mouths. I could not tear my eyes away from this very hand, as Boromir stretched out his tongue to wash its surface, to watch as he took each finger in his mouth to lick it clean. My own body, somehow new even to me.

Three nights past. An evening we spent before the fire in Boromir’s room, lying on pillows, talking as we used to do, up until the sun’s rising. But new gaps appeared in our familiar conversation, brief bursts of quick kisses and quicker takings. And special for another reason: it was the night Boromir asked—with a shyness, almost, I did not expect—that we stay in his room rather than mine. He said he wanted to experience our pleasure in the place he remembered second-most when he thought of Minas Tirith, and I readily agreed.

I considered it strange that his own room was not first when he thought on the White City, then reckoned he might dwell more often on the Great Hall or the White Tree when absent from our home. Eager to have his thoughts, I asked him what place was first, that he remembered most when far away. His cheeks flushed slightly as he blurted out, “Where I think you are happiest: absorbed by a book in our garden.” I smiled at this admission, filled with its silent acknowledgement of love for me.

Glancing at my surroundings, I think How well you know me, Boromir. But no longer, perhaps: here I sit in the garden, book discarded, eyes looking past the blooms and trees into vacant space. Your description of the place where I am happiest is no longer accurate, brother. I would exchange every garden in Minas Tirith for a night spent with you.

Two nights ago. Two nights before, when Boromir placed me beneath him, concern marking every part of his face as he slowly entered and stretched me for the first time since my injuries. In his eyes, I saw an odd mixture of fear and surrender: fear he would harm me when he loved me that way again, surrender to the hunger compelling him to act despite his fear. Our need for each other required no less.

I knew this was his strongest desire, to be within me, though he had not said so. His whole body spoke it for him nonetheless. For myself, I hungered to have him inside me again, to see him face to face this time, as we had not in our first coupling. Perhaps he saw fear in my eyes when he came near to enter me. He said he did not, called me brave, which I denied. “Impatient,” I teased.

My brother swallowed hard, as he placed the tip of his stiff flesh at my opening; the restraint on his needs a battle he waged only with himself. Crossing this last threshold, fighting not to harm me as he had done before, Boromir moved cautiously, eyes never straying from mine as he slowly inserted his thickened shaft into me.

Watching for the least sign of pain—thank the Valar, there was none this time—when he realized I wanted more, wanted him, slowly he began to slide his weight forward and back. After only a few strokes, I could sense my brother’s desire begin to overwhelm him. His waking mind lost control as instinctive need claimed all. Boromir’s speed increased, the fullness of him within me swelled. When his eyes gradually shut, removing him from me, he began to drive his weight into my body with a frightening intensity. Never before had a lover been so single-minded in demanding that my body yield to his—and my chest tightens, recalling the feel of Boromir’s total possession.

His beard shook droplets of sweat onto my chest as the ferocity of his love pushed me further and further into the mattress, imprinting his body on mine over and over and over. The quickness of Boromir’s thrusts, the force and length of my brother inside me were intoxicating, overpowering, and I felt the base of my own erection beginning to tingle, the slight contraction, close to release yet not quite ready. Two more furious, strong plunges and Boromir arrived there before me, half exhausted from the passion of his own body pounding against mine. Collapsing on my chest I heard him gasp out, “Mine. Mine.”

The surge from my arousal covered both our stomachs a few instants afterward, but I could think of little else save wrapping Boromir in my arms, hugging him tightly against me. Dawn was so close it seemed I could see each new streak of light stealing up into the sky—something I never saw in our home save from my brother’s room, facing east as it did. We roused ourselves, rushed to put all right before servants arrived, and I stole a kiss from him at the door before I returned to my own room. In our haste, I did not have time to ask him what he meant.

Last night. Dinner taken on trays in my room, with the whole night spread as a feast yet before us. And I could ask the question that had plagued me all day. “Boromir, last night, you said, ‘Mine. Mine.’ I feel I ought to know the answer to this, but I’m no longer sure I do. Why did you say that?”

Boromir lowered his eyes to the barely eaten meal, pushed the tray away and walked to the window. His body radiated discomfort from the question. Trouble. Something is wrong. Why couldn’t I just leave it be? Eventually, he let out a low breath and walked back to where I sat, pulling his chair even closer before he sat down across from me.

“Faramir,” taking my hands within his, “When we walked from the barracks back to the upper levels yesterday, I noticed for the first time how some people watch you. They watch us both, true, but yesterday was the day I perceived how some of them look at you. And a few I saw had such expressions on their faces….” Boromir looked to the floor as he shook his head, strands of hair falling from behind his ears to shadow his face, then he looked up again. Another deep breath, then, “One or two looked at you as I now do: with desire. With such open longing that it made me angry.” His eyes dropped to the ground once more, sadness in his voice. “And I could not stop myself, when I took you last night. I would deny you to everyone else, Faramir. That is selfish, I know, and unworthy, but I cannot help it.”

I might have asked Boromir the question “what are you thinking” a thousand times, and never discovered this about him. How others saw me had driven him to a frenzy of mind and body. “Not selfish, Boromir. Jealous.” I took my hands out of his, and instead placed his hands within mine. I rubbed the backs of his hands with light strokes, keeping us close.“It is a state I know well. I have lived with it a lifetime, it seems, and learned to master it.” Boromir’s disbelieving eyes flew up to mine, the words “I never knew” in his mind though he did not utter them. No matter, for I read them in his face. Something else you did not know about me, brother.

“Boromir, when Father praises you, I’m filled with pride. Pride for the House of Húrin, proud that we still keep the trust of the stewards intact. Proud that you do all in your power to keep Gondor safe. But in a corner of my mind, hidden away, there is a small part of me that has always been jealous. You know better than anyone else why this should be so.”

“Yes, but…you never spoke of it before now. Not even when I asked what you were thinking.”

“There was no need before, for by the time you asked the question, it was always buried beneath that pride—and that I told you of, freely. Now there is need and I should speak of it. To crave another’s love is natural, especially from a family member who should love you—as Father should love me, or as I do love you. For many years, my jealousy of you caused me to believe Father’s poisonous words about my lack of worth—that I was selfish, and unworthy. That jealousy made me think the same as you do now. But those things are not true.”

“Of course not, Faramir. You, selfish?” Boromir snorted. “You are the most generous man I know, brother. You help others, and never seek the credit for doing so. As for unworthy…that is also unjust. I knew Father’s words wounded you, and he gave you every cause to be jealous. Although…I do not understand something.”

“What?”

“You said you mastered it.”

“Yes, love. Or perhaps I should say, I grew wiser, with Mithrandir’s² help. He explained something to me, on a visit he once made here. Somehow he knew—for I would never have told him—that I suffered from jealousy Father was poisoning me with. And the Grey Pilgrim showed me how to escape it.”

“How can it be done?”

“Mithrandir told me to imagine you in a room by yourself, without Father, without anyone else. ‘In your mind, you see your brother standing alone. How does that make you feel, young Faramir?’ he asked, and I told him. ‘Sad. I’m not there. He’s alone.’”

So Mithrandir asked again, “Suppose you and he are in the room alone with each other. Then how do you feel?” And I said, “I love him. I feel pride. I am grateful for all he has done for me.” Then Mithrandir told me, “When you hear your Father speak to Boromir again, imagine the room is empty but for you and Boromir. Your father’s words will…fade away.”

I look into Boromir’s eyes, see the light of comprehension dawning in them. “Mithrandir was right. The next day in council, hearing Father praise you again, I imagined the room empty except for us. And the jealousy…each day it became a little smaller. Now, when he speaks well of you and poorly of me, there is almost none left.”

A crooked smile lit upon Boromir’s mouth. “It seems I’ve learned something new about you every day this week. That you could feign drunkenness. That you loathe the thought of marriage as I do. That you are ticklish near your hipbones.” I smile at this, as Boromir continues. “That you have become a master in the arts of stealth and secrecy. That you make an excellent accompaniment to honey.” He raises his eyebrows at the memory, while I am grinning openly. “Now I learn from you how to put aside jealousy. What more, I wonder?” And he leaned forward to capture my mouth with his own, our eyes closing as we joined.

My eyes reopen, seeing the garden again, hearing the words echo in my mind. “What more, I wonder?” What else is there still for us to learn in each other? If Boromir has discovered so much he never knew of me in a week’s time, can I say I have learned as much I did not know about him? I could.

Boromir’s needs are lightning in a rain storm, unpredictable flashes, swift bursts illuminating the night. He waits for no soft words, no whispered seductive phrases to spark his enthusiasm for our pleasure. I know that now. A fierce kiss or a slow lingering one is enough to stir him. A single look from me five nights ago had him pressing my back to the floor as he stripped the clothes from himself, permitting no words, no delays. Fire you are, consuming the two of us until only cinders remain.

Yet there is another truth to Boromir’s loving, once our fires have burnt out: he does not want me to leave him. Either I must fold him in my arms or he must wrap me in his, after we have spent our passion. More often than not, he has bundled me before him, his chest solid behind my back as we waited for night’s end. No longer a child, I am still safe in his embrace, never alone.

I relax, leaning back on the bench, the sturdy wall bracing me. It is warm from the afternoon sun, and its warmth seeps through my clothes, burnishing me with faint heat. My mind has been unsettled because I no longer know myself. But in the quest to find my lost peace of mind, I am not alone. Boromir will aid me, just as I will help him. And that comforts me.

Before, perhaps, I held back from loving, fearing the consequences, duty, Father, politics. No longer. This love will not fail me, because Boromir will not fail me.

Looking down to the book, I finger a corner of the cover, while I consider what took me away from its contents, long special to me. Few things could draw me from this text, yet it could not hold my attention this day and I understand why now. A smile settles on my face, replacing the worried frown that has been there most of the afternoon. I close my eyes to soak in the last of the summer sun’s heat.

Footsteps crunch gravel in the distance, coming closer, rounding a corner on the other side of the wall from where I sit. With another ten paces, the boots’ owner will turn a second corner and come to the end, the path that runs before my bench. Ranger training has me listening for patterns after the first footfall I hear. With a few strides more, I recognize the gait: Boromir. He knows my favorite spot to sit in our garden; we came here regularly as children. I open my eyes, looking right, expectant, waiting for the moment when he will appear. My brother rounds the second corner, I see him, and my heart leaps. Boromir.

A wide smile breaks across his face as he strides toward me, glancing quickly from side to side to see if there is anyone else in the garden besides we two. Seeing this action, I know what it means better than I would have done four or five days ago—he is not ashamed, as I might once have thought. No. He wants only to kiss me, if he can in safety.

“We are alone, it appears.” Then he leans forward, grips my shoulder with a firm hand, and brushes his lips across mine. The kiss is the merest taste that makes me want more than I can have of him this instant, and he knows it well. It is an old game between us, played this week by new rules: my brother teasing, my lover now teasing me also.

Breaking the kiss, he sits beside me, looks first at my face then to the closed book beside me. Though I have not learned his every mood as our love is refashioned, this look I know of old, and from it I glimpse his thoughts.

“You came to see if I was brooding, didn’t you, Boromir?”

“Not brooding, but…thinking too much about this week.” He slides his left arm around my shoulders, a gesture anyone else venturing into our garden might misinterpret as brotherly alone. The two of us know better, as my brother’s left hand begins to slide up and down the sleeve of my tunic.

The setting sun is a mantle about the mountains, the peak of Amon Dîn in the far distance lit from behind by a fireball sky. The sight cheers me: another day passes, and the Enemy still kept at bay. A good day? Yes. Boromir once said that any day which passed with the Enemy still held in Mordor must be counted a good day. For that and other reasons, today has been a good day.

“And have you been? Thinking about this week?” Inquisitive grey-green eyes roam my face, seeking signs that I am unhappy, relieved to find I am not. Always my protector, even from harms I would do myself, brother.

“Yes. And other things as well. My men in Ithilien. Mithrandir. The past.” I cross my arms across my chest to screen the movement of my right hand, as it reaches up to grasp the fingers of Boromir’s hand now draped over my shoulder. Concealment, always concealment. Our fingers tangle in a hidden knot, the reassurance of love given and reciprocated.

“And what have you concluded about the week?” Boromir leans his head back to one side, to see me better, perhaps, as I answer. The fading sunlight glints off a few rogue strands of his hair, the right side of his face in sunlight while the left is cast in growing shadows.

My answer is given softly, so only he may hear. “That if I am a little lost….” I stop, then start the thought again. “That if I do not know myself, or you, as well as I thought I did seven days ago, it matters not—we may yet find ourselves again. For we are together.” The look of love I send him, coupled with a smile, sets his mind at ease. I squeeze the fingers of his I hold, as my brother smiles at me, a little indulgently.

“Faramir, when was the last time you got lost?” Kindly eyes chide me, as I remember easily. Four years old, wandering the hallways of the Steward’s house, turning into a dusty corridor, farther and farther into the darkness until I could not find my way back to the light. I backed up against a cupboard, frightened, terrified I would be lost forever, crying with hands balled up against my eyes. And Boromir found me. Held me, kissed tears away, and gave me his hand to lead me back to our waiting mother. Yes, Boromir, I remember. You found me.

In Boromir’s eyes, I read his unspoken thought. I would always find you, Faramir. You know that.

“I am in a mood to celebrate, little one.”

“Celebrate what, Boromir?”

“Our ‘drunken’ discoveries of a week ago. Never have I been so inclined to honor a night of sobriety as I am right now.” With his right hand, Boromir reaches into a pocket, pulling out something that he holds tight in his fist.

“I have brought you a present, Faramir.” He turns over his hand and opens it, revealing a key in his palm. From its looks, the key fits a large door. Suddenly I know what door it unlocks. The roof!

“It appears to be a present for us both,” I respond, with a short laugh. Boromir’s fingers tighten in mine, a silent signal that he agrees.

“Cook found it, finally, after hunting through all the chests and drawers in six different storerooms. Shall we take our evening meal on the rooftop, brother?”

“That would be the ideal ending to a very good day, Boromir.”

“I have some thoughts on that matter, brother. Food alone will not be enough for me.” We rise from the bench, Boromir keeping his left arm about my shoulder. I swing my right arm behind us both, wrapping it around his waist as we stride down the graveled walkway. Ten paces along, I realize my mistake.

“I’ve left my book. Wait here.” And I retrace my steps to the bench, pick up the forgotten volume, then rejoin my brother. When I do, Boromir is shaking his head, a little perplexed.

“You never do that. I can’t recall you ever forgetting one of your books.” When I show him the title of the book almost left behind, he lets out a low whistle—he knows how important this particular book is to me.

“I told you, I was feeling a bit…lost from myself this afternoon. But my mind is much calmer now.”

“If you say so, little brother.” Looking somewhat askance at me, he was clearly not convinced.

I try to explain once more. “I was thinking about too many things, my usual complaint. Mostly…that all we’ve done made me lose…my sense of who I am. But I’m not so worried about being lost anymore.” I’m not alone. And I smile, to give him confidence I am well.

Seeing my smile, Boromir’s returns as well, for now he knows I am in better spirits. He throws an arm about my shoulders again. As we walk, he hands me the key to the roof and says, “Faramir, just remember: if you intend to get lost again, I’ll need to come with you.”

¹ Mindolluin is the easternmost peak of the White Mountains, and lies closest to Minas Tirith.

² Mithrandir or the Grey Pilgrim is the name most commonly used by Gondorians for Gandalf the Grey. (With thanks to seasalt for helping me sort this out.)

Title: To Learn You All Over Again: Memories Past and Future
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Part: 5/?? of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: tolkienfanfiction.com. Others, just ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Disclaimer: If I owned the characters, my name would be Tolkien. It isn’t. They’re not. All homage to JRRT, but I’m sure he’d be spinning in his grave if he read this. Sorry.
Synopsis: The brothers return to the rooftop of the Steward’s House after an absence of many years.
Thanks to elandae and gladio for the beta!

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Memories Past and Future

One last turn of the passage, and we reach the top of the staircase leading to the roof. Through the window slits, faint light guides our steps to the final landing, where a short stool sits abandoned next to a small table. Stale air is everywhere; this hallway has not been used for ages.

After Faramir hands me the key, I place it in the lock and try to turn it, but nothing happens: despite my strength, I cannot make the door open. But this seems to be the right key—it is the right size, and turns a little, now that I try again. I hear some scraping, and the key turns a little more. Rather than risk having it snap within the lock, barring the door completely until a locksmith might free it, I stop twisting the key, withdraw it from the lock, and think.

Turning back to Faramir, I see he gives me a questioning look. “Well?”

“This needs some help. Wait here.” I start down the stairs past my brother, his face going from curious to confused. “Boromir, where are you….”

His words grow fainter as I move quickly down the staircase, stirring up more dust with every step. In a few moments, I am back to the ground floor, and after passing along two other corridors, I arrive in the kitchens.

“Where’s Cook?” My voice is a little too loud for such a modestly sized room, but I hope it will bring the cook at a run if he lingers nearby.

“Speaking with the butcher, Lord Boromir. May I assist you?” A helper steps forward, his face streaked with soot but hands clean at least.

“I’m trying to open a lock that is jammed and rusty. Do you have cooking grease, or anything else that would free the lock, friend?”

Without even answering, the cook’s helper moves to a container near the fire, mutters, then scurries into an adjoining room. Returning, he carries a small brown pot with mesh covering its mouth. He places it carefully in my hands, then backs up a step or two before speaking.

“The container should have more than enough for the task. We always keep plenty at hand, for it has many uses. That,” nodding towards the pot at the fire’s edge that he checked first, “has not cooled enough yet for use. If you need anything else, please, simply ask, Lord Boromir.”

“My thanks,...?” I do not know his name, so I suggest he should tell me by pausing and reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.

He quickly backs up a few more paces, out of my reach. “Beormen, sir. My clothes are dirty from tending the fire all day. You should stay clear of them, Lord Boromir.”

I smile my lack of concern to him, and say with a shake of my head, “I’ve been much dirtier myself in the field, Beormen. But now that you make me think of it….”

“What, my Lord?”

“Do you have some cheese and bread? My brother and I are not going to eat in the Great Hall this evening, and would like food for later.” I know what reaction this request will bring. With no further prompting, the helper and his mate rapidly assemble a veritable feast of cheese, meats, mead, sweet cakes, and more food than four men could eat, much less two. In moments, the food is bundled into a heavy cloth, the jug of mead under my arm, and I am striding back toward the staircase leading to the roof.

Faramir has heard my tread on the stairs before I reach the top, and comes partway down to meet me. He’s lit a torch in the passage that gutters and flares—probably not much fuel left to keep it burning, but at least it will light our steps for a time. He takes the jug and bundle from me, leaving me with only the pot of grease for the lock.

“Our evening meal’s arrived, I see. My thanks, Boromir. I should have thought to collect this when we came in from the garden earlier, but I was eager to come here.” Knowing eyes capture mine: We were both in a hurry, brother. For the same reason. He asks, “What’s in the pot?”

“Remember the chicken we ate a week ago? I think this used to be part of it.” I place the container on the low stool and take the key from my pocket. Lifting the pot’s mesh cover, I’m surprised. The white grease has a faint animal smell but it is not strong or unpleasant. I take a bit of grease from the pot, smear both sides of the key, then try the key in the lock again.

The door still won’t open, but this time, the key revolves a quarter-turn. This is the right key; it just needs encouragement. I turn the key back to its starting place, take it out, and apply more grease to either side before trying it in the lock again. Turn, you little… With a little extra force applied near the end, the lock’s mechanism can be heard giving way, the squeal of metal on metal as parts slide against each other. Finally, the door opens. Success!

I gather the pot, stool and table, and carry them outside, Faramir trailing in my wake. Fresh air at last. The open air makes a welcome change from the stuffiness of the passageway we’ve been standing in. Faramir takes several deep lungfuls of air, as do I.

After putting down our food, he returns to the hallway, brings out the torch, and places it in a rusted holder near the door that takes it weight easily. In the dying light of day, the torch casts odd shadows across the rooftop, matched by similar beams thrown up from the courtyard torches newly lit below us. The setting sun is nearly gone.

The roof of the Steward’s House overlooks the entire city—no buildings or towers are so high in Minas Tirith, save the top of the Great Hall itself, and there is no access to its roof. As boys, we made many forays, but we found no passage higher than its second floor.

Walking onto this windy roof brings back a store of memories, happy ones, from childhood. All of Faramir and me, using the rooftop for games of every sort. I look at Faramir and see he is also remembering the same long ago days, each seemingly lit by a hazy sun.

“Do you remember—“ we both say at the same time, which starts us laughing.

I go first: “The time we tried to find out how far a rock could be thrown from the corner there?”

“Yes, Boromir. Yours went farther, but if I recall, breaking a library window earned you our tutor’s wrath for at least a week.” Faramir shakes his head, a wide smile on his lips as he recalls the day. The breeze catches his hair, blows a few strands across his face before he pushes them back.

“And the time you wanted to see how big a splash you could make in the courtyard if you dropped a wet rag from over there?” I point to another corner.

“Yes, the smith never could call me “Captain Faramir,” once I commanded a company, without tripping over the words.” Faramir is grinning at the memory. “Well, it did land on his head, so I suppose he should be forgiven. He seemed certain I did it deliberately.” The memory of the normally dignified smith looking up at us both, hair slicked across his face and the soaking wet rag in his hands, has me openly laughing now. Then I see a thoughtful look cross my brother’s face, and I know what he is thinking, though no words pass between us.

He is wondering the same as I. Are they still here? Together, we walk to the middle of the easternmost wall. Atop the waist-high wall, even in fading twilight my eyes find the place on the center stone: there they are, side by side. I’m a little surprised to see how fresh the chisel marks look.

Faramir runs his fingers in the crooked grooves of both our initials, the first letters of his name and mine. He looks across at me, to see my expression. I’m remembering Faramir, eight years old…

”When you’re steward, Borya, you will live here and the Great Hall will be yours. It should have your initials on it, carved like they do over the doors of all noble houses. We should get a mason to carve it, right here.” Faramir points to a stone in the center of the roof’s eastern wall, his expression serious at first. Then I see the teasing in his eyes—he’s testing me, to see if I accept his silent challenge: steal the tools, carve my own initial in the stone.

“Come on, Farya,” I yell over my shoulder as I run for the stairs. The two of us are flying down the staircase, Faramir just behind me as we reach the ground floor. He knows where I’m going, though I haven’t said a word. We still used nicknames for each other then, before Father forbade it.

The secrecy needed to attempt such petty mischief appeals to two boys like us, though we both know better. I sneak near the workmen in the courtyard, and when their backs are to us, I grab a hammer and chisel from the tool pile. Then I scramble back to safety in a doorway where Faramir has been keeping watch.

Atop the Steward’s House once more, it takes many swings for me to carve my initial’s crooked arcs into the stone Faramir pointed to. The noise alone should bring one of the older men to the roof, yet strangely, no one comes. I’m not used to a chisel; it slips in my hand more than once, and on a steamy summer day, the work is tiring. Sweat rolls down my neck after the thirtieth stroke, and I’m panting as I finish joining the last curve to the straight line.

When my initial is complete, though, I’m still not satisfied.

Something seems wrong. I puzzle through what I should do, seeking the solution. Then, the answer becomes clear. Obvious.

“Not alone. It doesn’t look right by itself.” I start chiseling another letter. “Besides, it was your idea to do this.” But my arms are weary, and I begin to pause between hammer strokes.

“I can do it.” Faramir takes the tools from my hands, continues cutting the straight lines of his own initial. “If someone finds them, at least we’ll get in trouble together.” It takes many blows on the chisel from both of us to finish the second letter, and the hot sun beats down on the rooftop, turning both of us sweaty and tired—but we don’t stop until the task is finished. Hard work has made the marks something more to us. There’s pride. Brotherhood.

When the last line of Faramir’s initial is finally done, we survey the letters carved side by side, our sweat and struggle mingled there. The smile I saw on Faramir’s face that afternoon

is the same smile I see on my brother’s face now. He’s remembering the workmen, the stolen tools, and our boyhood joy in doing everything together. Filled with emotion from the memory, his eyes seek mine, his love revealed in them. He reaches out to touch my hand, and I would respond by pulling him into my arms—but for one thought. No risks, brother. We play no child’s game now, Faramir: remember our rules.

I whirl and stride back to the door through which we just came. Shutting the door, I slide the bolt on this side of the barrier into its housing. Now we have the roof to ourselves. Safety assured, I turn, expecting to walk back to my brother.

What?! Surprised, I’m caught: silently, on quiet feet, Faramir has followed me. As I turn my back to the door, he’s hurled himself at me, catching my wrists with his hands. His shoulder, thrown into my chest, has knocked the wind partly from my body, stunning me. For a moment, I use shoulders, legs to throw off my captor, training overriding all conscious thought, until I realize: This is Faramir. No danger.

He senses when I relax, but he does not release me immediately. Faramir presses me into the door itself, his bearded mouth crushing mine, his body pinning me to the wood at my back. He knows, now. He knows what I would have him do. Brother….

No room for thoughts, no need to look. Eyes snapped shut, I still see him. Faramir. Hands released, he’s already got my shirt pulled up, off my arms and on top of my shoulders, stopped only because his lips won’t let go of my mouth. His beard rubs into mine, the stubble playing against my lips as he would kiss me into submission, raw, persistent. His groin seems fastened to mine, pressing together through clothing layers, rubbing our erections against each other so harshly that it is brutal, almost painful. “Mmmnnhh.”

I feel my brother’s hands scrambling to unlace my breeches, to push the leggings down, so he can run his hands beneath my rear and grind himself closer, push me harder against the door. Yes, Faramir, faster, just like that.

My lips are rough now from the scrape of his beard as he pushes his tongue past mine, insistent, demanding to have his own way. Do not stop. I might respond in kind, but not now. He’s taken charge, and I want him this moment, no delays. The pillaging goes on until I can feel nothing else but Faramir. Everywhere, Faramir. Please….

My brother’s mouth breaks from mine; I can’t stifle a moan. No, no, don’t go.

Breathing ragged, he grates out, “What are you thinking, Boromir? I want you to tell me. Tell me. All of it.” My mind can’t tell him everything: there are no words and there’s too much to say. He means to taunt me this way, because I did the same to him not long ago. Tonight, he takes a lover’s revenge, our game his weapon.

Without waiting to hear my answer, he bends, starts to kneel, running his hot breath and mouth over my chest. There, Faramir, brother…. He bites—not nips, but bites—each nub sticking up, before nuzzling his way down my torso. Words, like my breath, come in short bursts, choked out of me by force. “I am thinking…you are…all I would have, Faramir.”

Dazed, still, from his aggressive kisses, I reach hands up to touch his hair, a few curls falling back from his face as he returns to his previous conquests for another vicious kiss. “Please…Farya….” By now, Faramir is licking and kissing and biting and licking each bud, left then right then left again, until I think I will lose my senses.

No more words come, not from my mouth. I can make only sounds with no meaning. My eyes have been clenched shut for minutes now, but I know exactly where my brother is, what he is doing. His hands still clutch my buttocks, possessive. He grips them with most but not all of his strength: so strong from years spent clutching weapons, a knife, a bow, a sword. Your hands, brother. Controlling hands.

Those powerful hands begin to pull the flesh of my buttocks, kneading, pressing, grasping. I follow Faramir’s progress without sight, through touch, from chest to stomach. I can barely stand: his assault is devastating. More, Faramir, again.

“Faramir, I want…” I hear my brother’s other knee hit the paving stone, one of his hands leaving my rear so he can grasp my hardened flesh. “What would you have me do, Boromir?” Yet he has already decided his course: he speaks of submission, but intends to command. The feel of his hand, holding me fast, is one I can bear, just. Don’t move. No more, or…. I can barely get words out to answer him: “Please, brother….”

Faramir runs a slender finger down its length before he wraps his whole hand around the shaft once more, sliding the flesh up and down while bringing his tongue in to wind around the top. He opens his lips to surround the crown, slipping his tongue down the… Love you. I love you. Faramir, I want you. Faramir.

My chest is afire, air dragged into lungs fast and hot. Summer it may be, but mere air could not scorch me like this. The blood flows too swiftly, turning hands, face, all into a moment of heat. You have done this. I burn.

Right hand still working with his mouth, Faramir reaches up, pressing his left hand and forearm across my stomach, holding me down, trapped between door and his taut muscled flesh. He bears down hard, then harder with his arm, knowing I will try to tear loose if I can, when my time comes. Yes, pinned….

My shaft stiffens even more, sweet agony. My hips would fly forward, but the strength of Faramir’s arm across my stomach prevents me from moving far. He forces me back, pushing me with his forearm, using all his strength to restrain me. I could break free, but I do not want to.

I fall back against the door again, heedless of any other feeling but Faramir, his hot mouth sucking and pulling me deeper within. Tensing, the end is so close. I feel it nearing, proof I love you more than all else. Proof, brother.

But for the door, I would fall, even with hands gripping his shoulders, my nails biting flesh to show him I cannot stand much more. His mouth has undone me, mouth, tongue, arm, fingers pushing me until I have no reserves left. Now, Faramir.

The rushing in my ears, in my groin subsides in an instant. Finished. Drained.

I feel the softness of his tongue, supporting my spent shaft after I have emptied myself into his fiery mouth. Mind returning, I begin to sense things beyond my body’s needs once more. Rapid breaths slowing, my chest no longer heaving, now. My heart stops racing. Eru, Faramir, you would lick me clean after all this? Enough, my brother.

With firm hands, I push away on his shoulders, to let him know he has done all he needs to for now, then I begin to dress myself again, put shirt and all to rights. The bite marks on my chest will fade, given time. They are nowhere someone else might see them if I am careful. When I look down at Faramir, still kneeling while I dress myself, I see that he thinks my push a rebuke. “Did I do wrong, Boromir?”

“No, brother, I wanted you merely to stop. I am content. You did right.” And I place hands under his arms, raise him to stand in front of me, and pull him close. His look of doubt begins to fade. “More than right.” Why do I never have the words? I would not hurt him, especially now. I dip my head to bring my mouth to his, tell him through kiss and touch what I cannot seem to say.

As our eyes shut, I sense Faramir’s eyelashes brush against my face, soft wings. I would lose myself in you, brother. Our lips cling to their mates, tasting stubble and sweet flesh, mingled with my essence on Faramir’s tongue. The flavor makes me want to taste his own seed in my mouth; I move my hands to begin undressing him, to push his clothes out of my way. But his hands catch mine, hold them fast. What? Why not?

I open my eyes, to learn why he stops me. Blue eyes slowly open to face me, my brother coming into focus, the torch’s glare drawing him in stark relief. “Why stop me, brother? I would give you only what you have given me.” But Faramir shakes his head, still holds my hands, and I am confused. Then I remember: it is my turn in our game. “What are you thinking, Faramir?”

A pause, suddenly worried, but he answers. “That I was right.”

“About what?”

“That you would like…surprise. Enjoy being held back, restrained. Controlled.”

“I did. I did not know until you surprised me, but I enjoyed it. More than enjoyed. I would you might do that again, brother, another time.”

“I thought you might, Boromir. I thought so days ago, but could not find an occasion to surprise you until now.”

“You have been waiting for an opportunity, to use stealth against me.”

“Yes.”

“How did you know?” I am curious, for he has reasoned out something I did not even know about myself.

“I thought of it after you and I went in the pantry the other night. You doused the candle and surprised me—and it made me wonder, if you might like me to do the same. I already knew you would wish me to be fast.” A little smile settles on his lips. Pleased with himself. I smile back—he should be pleased. I am.

“And control, bracing me against the door with your arm? I liked it, would have you do the same again, but what made you think of that? I did not hold you fast in the pantry, Faramir.”

“I…I think…I would like that myself. And if I might take pleasure from it, I thought you could as well.” There is some uncertainty in his face, concern that he has said something I may not approve.

I stop to think now. Always, you are ahead of me, brother. Have I devoted so much thought to what would give you pleasure? In truth, I have not.

I realize, after a week spent in your bed, I have put my needs ahead of yours each night, my own pleasure guiding all I have done. “I already knew you would wish me to be fast.” ‘Tis truth—speed inflames me. But is it the same for you, Faramir? I do not even know, and I should. Selfish, Boromir. You can do better, for him.

“Faramir, are you…displeased with me?”

Confusion. I see it mark his forehead, his face. “No, Boromir, I am not, in any way. What makes you ask such a thing?”

“I have not spent…as much time as you thinking about…what you would have me do.”

Faramir’s features clear instantly. I may have few words to say, but he knows now what I mean. “Brother, I think too much, sometimes. I would not have you do the same.”

“No, Faramir, I ought to consider what might please you best. It is little enough to repay—“

My brother cuts in. “Boromir, lovers do not exchange favors, barter-like. I need no such courtesies from you.” He drops my hands, steps back, moving away from me. Again, my tongue fails my meaning.

I move from the door, following him. “Faramir, I’m hungry. Let’s eat, and I’ll try to explain myself better.”

Adopting my suggestion, Faramir moves to the low table we carried out here with us, picks up the bundle of food from the ground, places it on the table, and starts to pull out the contents. “Cheese, meat, bread, fruit, cakes—brother, did you tell them you had two men to feed, or six?”

“Two, Faramir. I even named us. They knew what they were doing. Hungry?”

“A little.” He takes some cheese in his hand, kneels, sitting cross-legged on the roof, and looks up at me once more as he takes a bite. I sit beside him, pull over the jug of mead, and take a round of bread in my hands. Stones warmed by the day’s sunlight form our resting place. Between bites of bread, and a few swallows of the honeyed mead, I try to match words to my scattered thoughts.

“Faramir, I should have known this already, but I only realized it now. We are not the same in everything. Look at us—you reach for cheese, I take something to drink. Our needs are not the same in food, or perhaps, in…privacy.”

I use this last word deliberately. After a week, we have a new language—a code devised for our love that only we understand: drunknenness, privacy, moonlight, keys. Faramir will know what I mean.

“Yes, Boromir. You are right. We are not identical in every need, every desire. Must we be?” The way Faramir says this last, I know he thinks we need not be. Any difference matters little to him, so long as love is sure.

I pause, considering this. “No, though I wish we were.”

“Why wish such a thing, Boromir?” The wind is dying now, the night grown still.

“Because then I would know best how to make you happy. I would always please you.” I fear I may not.

“Boromir, you please me exceedingly well. Any better, and I might not survive the experience.” Faramir’s face breaks into a wide grin, eyes dancing. But I am not so merry, or easily put off.

Must we have the same desires? No. Just that it would help me better know how to pleasure you, Faramir.

But I’ve already said this once, and I can think of nothing else to say. In desperation, I use a phrase he will know well. “Faramir, what would you have me do?” Our question, the new one asking for guidance, offering submission: tell me what you want, love.

“Brother, I know not how to answer you. I do not always want the same thing. And I do not know everything I might enjoy. I am not so…experienced as you are.” His face flushes at this last admission, embarrassed, though he should not be. Little brother, I wish I knew no more than you. Stars begin to wink in the distance, coming closer, as night falls around us.

I suppose there will always be differences between us. You are taller, I am stronger and heavier. You prefer cider, I like mead—yes, Faramir, I have always had a weakness for sweets. I know you do not. You are more like me than anyone else could be, yet we differ. Why would I erase every distinction and make us identical? Why?

Faramir finishes his cheese and reaches for some bread and meats, piling them together and wolfing them down, eyes on me as I take another long pull on the jug of mead. He is thinking again, a thing that bothers him: I see it in his face.

“What, Faramir? You think on something that troubles you.”

“You leave again in ten days to patrol the frontiers. I do not know how I will stand to see you go this time, of all times.”

“Nor I, brother. Nor I. Always before, I left behind brother and friend. Now it seems I must leave behind all.” His eyes brighten—so rarely the object of love, Faramir. And when I speak my love for him he savors every word when it does come.

The cheese is consumed, then the sweet cakes. Our talk turns to trivial matters, things done during the day, plans for the morrow. The torch near the door flickers out, eventually, leaving us beneath stars and a pale half-moon’s light.

Beyond the parapets, stray torchlight reaches up from the courtyard below, lighting my brother with half-shadows. With ranger’s eyes, he probably sees me more clearly than I see him, but at this distance I perceive enough.

And then, a slow intake of breath from my brother. “Boromir, I have thought of what I would have you do now. If you will, that is.”

“What? If it would bring you pleasure, willingly, you know that.”

Even in this weak light, I see his face darken, red color spreading from his neck up to forehead—another embarrassed look, like the day nearly twenty years ago when he sought answers from me about his changing body. Though Faramir will not falter now, as he did then. We may still shy from talking about our bodies, but he will not let false humility stop him from speaking, if it is something he really wants.

“Boromir, I know not what you do while you are in the field, but for long years I have had to…give myself pleasure rather than…hunt it in the company of others. Command is a lonely bedfellow, after all.”

I nod, the saying a familiar one to men who serve in Gondor’s forces. Though we have never spoken of it before, I am not astonished that my brother satisfies his body by himself; it has often been the same with me, and his reasons are similar to my own, I suspect. Steward’s son and a Captain of men? Few could ever approach him as an equal or aspire to be his lover. His loneliness probably rivals my own, once in the field.

“So, Faramir, what would you have me do?” I repeat the question, this time smiling to let him know I would do anything to help him, though I do not know what he intends.

“Once I return to patrol, a few weeks after you, I will be alone once more. I would make the nights pass more quickly, with your help.” He leans over, to whisper in my ear what he desires me to do, as starlight shimmers above us.

“I wish for you…to watch me, brother. Watch as I take myself in hand and seek my pleasure. I will do this so many nights when I am alone in Ithilien. I would take the memory of you watching me do this, so that every night when I repeat this act, I may close my eyes and remember you, now. Do not touch me, do not kiss me.”

I do not think Faramir could have shocked me more. We are together now: why would he forego my touch or my kiss? Why? But it is his wish and I will obey him in this, since I asked him what he would have me do.

“One question, Faramir. Must I only watch? May I touch myself while you do the same, or must I restrain myself?” I do not know which I would prefer more, for it has never occurred to me to watch a lover and take so little action myself.

“Touch nothing, brother. Keep hands from both yourself and me, and use only your mouth. Speak softly into my ear what you will, words I may take with me to Ithilien, when I must do without you and find pleasure by myself.” Faramir’s words are so compelling, I simply nod my agreement, and wait for him.

He unfolds his crossed legs and stands up briefly, pulling his tunic over his head. As a torch’s flare lights up the distant courtyard, I see clearly again what starlight has, until now, grudgingly revealed. Even lit from behind, his beauty catches me out. I regret now that I agreed not to touch him—what would have been the harm in undressing him? But he wishes for this to be as if he is on patrol, alone with his men, so I do nothing, for now.

Faramir takes the tunic, lays it lengthwise on the hard stones, a harsh surface for what he intends—but then, he has slept on less yielding surfaces many times while in the field. He catches my eyes, sees the uncertainty in my gaze, for I do not know how I will manage myself in this. “Can you do this, Boromir? Do I ask too much?”

“I can do it, brother, though I do not know how I will feel a few moments from now. This is…strange.”

“Imagine it with me: it is almost night, as it is now. Near darkness, things glimpsed only by indirect light. The end of a long day’s march in Ithilien, with plans made for tomorrow’s maneuvers. Most evenings, I lie down only after every man except the scouts is asleep. Even then, I do not sleep easily when I’m wrapped in my cloak and eager for rest.” I see the pattern of his nights, the same as mine: last to bed, restless to dawn, first to rise. So alike.

He goes on: “After this week, I will know sleep only if I help myself by what I would do now. Help me, Boromir—please?” There is a pleading note in his voice, one he knows I will not resist. I never have.

I strengthen my resolve. “Yes, brother. I will do as you ask.” I move to kneel beside his head when he stretches out on the tunic. Closeness makes it easier to see what he does. He unlaces his breeches, shifts his hips so that the leggings are pushed partway below his knees, granting him access to his hardened flesh once he releases it from the leather.

As he does, I cannot draw my eyes away from his erection—the thought of how he intends to touch himself there only moments from now has stirred the blood in my abdomen and made me stiffen again. But I am forbidden to do anything: I can touch neither him nor myself. What new torment have you devised, Faramir? Yet I would know how you do this, what aid you want from me. Yes, I am curious.

Lying back, Faramir closes his eyes—Ithilien is easier for him to see like this. But I see only him: my brother, handsome. My lover. The end of day has come, and beneath glittering stars I see his skin stretched out, a pale canvas of all I desire. Faramir.

Eyes closed, breathing more regular now that he is relaxed and lying on his back. Faramir raises his right hand, brushes hair from his face, trails the hand softly from face to chest. He pauses there, passing the hand over his chest, from one side to the other, while his head rolls slowly to one side. I hear his summons: “I am in Ithilien. Night has fallen, and I would sleep. Speak to me brother, ease my passage into sleep with your words.”

I move from my knees to stretch out beside him, propped up on one elbow so I can watch him, my mouth close enough to his ear that he can hear me, though no part of my body touches his. I think for a moment, what I would say, then I whisper, “Faramir, I am here. Brother, ‘tis time for bed. Come.” It is all I can do to keep my hand from stretching out to touch him. It takes an act of will, but somehow, I manage it.

Faramir’s left hand joins his right, stroking across his chest, slow patterns of hands touching the skin, then raising his hands slightly until only his fingertips can pass to and fro over his tensing body. I watch, amazed, as the faint gestures begin to make the nubs pucker and rise on his chest, the hair on his chest beginning to stretch upwards once the skin is excited to his touch. I remember feeling his fingers brush my chest in just such a gesture, and my breath catches. Eru, Faramir, I need you to touch me, like that, just so.

I speak the thought aloud before I can stop myself. “Faramir, I would that you touched me like that, just as you do now. Your hands brushing my chest, my skin.” My brother’s hands pause, then repeat the same movements again, the very ones that I loved seeing him do. Across, stroking the nubs, ghosts of touches above his skin. I realize that I can influence what he does. Of course! Faramir, I see your plan now. You would have me tell you what I wish to see, not just what you would do for yourself.

If only I can find the words. I must force them out, tell him what he must do next. “Brother, I would take your two rosy buds in my mouth and taste them myself. I would kiss you there, catch you in my lips. You know how.” He lifts one hand, unhurried, to his mouth, moistens two fingers and returns it to his chest, wetting the left nub and pulling at the reddening circle until I can see it strain against his very skin. The center has tightened and filled, an awful hardness against so much that is smooth.Gods, Faramir, you will kill me.

“The other one, Faramir. I must taste them both.” He gives a slight nod, eyes still drifted shut, though I sense beneath the lids that he turns his eyes to look toward my voice. “Yes, brother, I would kiss them and roll them on my tongue—you know what I would do when I taste you there.” Another mute nod, as wet fingers rouse the other bud to match its fuller twin. My hand moves down to touch the bulge in my breeches, but I catch myself just in time: my brother would have me wait, so I wait.

I hear a faint moan from Faramir’s lips, a small sound, then “Borrryyyaaaa….” as he moves his left hand down, making light strokes from abdomen to groin. His right hand he slides down between his legs, tracing from thigh up to waist. Each sketch of a touch brings his hands closer and closer to…He wants you to speak to him, not merely watch. Remember your duty.

“Brother, I would have you touch only your legs. Touch the skin of your thighs, in long strokes, as I did a week past.” His hands still, then go near to his knees, lightly grazing the skin of his inner thigh, each caress a little closer to his hardened member and its now glistening tip. I must keep talking. I must keep talking. Make him speak.

“Faramir, call my name. I need to hear you say it. Say it, for me.” Another nod, and he opens his mouth again. “Brother, I need you. Please come to me, love. Borommiirrrr….” The hairs on the back of my neck are now standing straight up: this drawn-out cry, his endearment that I asked for, chills me. I know he will do the same in Ithilien, where I cannot follow. Eru, you torture me. Faramir, how will we bear this?

“I would have you touch yourself, but gently, brother. Do not become excited too soon, love. Make this last, for us both.” Another nod from sightless eyes, then his right hand slips up to cover his erection, two long slim fingers barely gliding up and down the length from top to base.

Sweat begins to form on his forearms, I see a drop fall to his stomach as he slides fingers up, back, up again. He speaks, as if from a far off place. “Boromir, please, I long for you. Where are you, brother?”

“I am here, little one. I will never leave your side. Do you still go gently, Faramir?”

“Yes, brother, I wait. Command me.” Oh, Faramir, what I would do, if only you let me have control of my own body! I can see the strain he labors under, the cords in his neck straining with each light stroke. Sweat beads on his face, dotting his forehead, the warmth from the stones at his back matching the blood he has heated within himself.

“Then I release you. Tarry no longer, brother—forward. Hurry. I will be there soon, waiting to hold you.” I watch, spellbound, as he presses the lean fingers down more firmly on his hard length, places a thumb to hold the skin firm in his hand, then increases his speed. Faster, faster his hand flies up and down the taut erection, silvery white liquid trickling from the slitted top.

Even as his hand hastens, he finds strength enough to speak. Murmuring, he asks, “Whose am I, brother? Say it.” What question do you ask? Now? He repeats the question, a little louder this time. “Whose am I, brother? Tell me who I belong to.”

I cannot believe he wants me to say those words. My mind rebels against this, even as I am bound to obey him. Into his ear I say the words he bids me speak.

“You are mine, Faramir. No one else’s, brother.” His head nods, as I continue. “My lover, mine alone. Tell me you know this, Faramir: you are mine.” His hips are lifting off the ground, now, the tightness of his thick shaft obvious signs to me: soon. Very soon.

“Yours…Boromir. Only…nnnhhh…yours. Brother!” With a last writhe of his hips, Faramir’s speedy hand draws out his prize: a uneven jet sprays through his fingers, onto his stomach and chest. His entire body seems to go limp in that moment, his breathing now through an open mouth, gasping for air.

I lie beside him, staggered by what he has done. What we have done. My brother wanted to hear me claim him, deny him to anyone else. You wanted me to say those hateful words again, and I do not understand why.

Yet, to hear his thoughts—“Please come to me…I long for you”—spoken from the depths of his very soul…. I have never known such closeness, such love. The nakedness of his need, voiced aloud. A single word—“Yours”—thrills me even in memory. Is this why you bade me speak, Faramir, when I was not master of myself? So you might know the extent of my desire? Brother, I will never have words enough.

His head rolled to one side, eyes still shuttered, my love lies exhausted before me. His labors past, I am freed from any restriction now. Faramir, I come. I seize his mouth with my lips, kiss him with all the passion I feel for him. For once, he responds weakly, as if he cannot summon the strength to give me an answer.

Before, I wanted to taste him, and he denied me, stopped my hands from touching him. Now, Faramir will not stop me. I bend over his chest, begin to draw away the moisture spattered across him.

A blurry voice: “Unnhhh, Boromir, you don’t need to—“

Raising my head, I quickly cut him off. “Need, no. Desire, yes. Do not hinder me, Faramir. This is my wish, and I have waited long enough.”

My tongue makes short work of what remains on his body, the flavor of my brother coating my mouth, filling my senses.

But as my lips linger on his chest, tasting him, I realize—when I pushed Faramir away from me earlier, did I deny him what he desired, what he wished to do? I thought he meant only to clean me, but it was an act of love, of passion, as mine is now. Faramir, I’m sorry. I didn’t think.

When I am done, he has come back to himself once again, begun to pull up breeches, raised himself to look at me. Questions. He has them for me, and I have a few for him.

“Well, Boromir? What would you know?”

“I was ashamed that I called you ‘mine’ the other night. Dishonored. Tonight, I find you want to hear me say the words again. Do you want to recall my failure? My unworthiness?”

Faramir’s hand reaches over swiftly, to grab my arm, hold it, then caress it. “No, brother. I do not think of those words as any failure, or dishonor. I…I want you to have me.” Swallows hard, then says, “To…to own me. There is no shame in words like that, especially when I want you to say them. They make me know, you love me. You protect me. You want me.”

I am confused, and admit it. “I do not understand, Faramir. Jealousy is wrong, a weakness. And you deserve—“

“I deserve you. I want only you. If it is jealousy, then I want you to be jealous.” I shake my head, denying him, even as he continues. “You heard my answer—even if you had not asked it of me, I would have spoken the same words. I am yours, Boromir, yours alone. Does my answer mean I’m weak? That because I desire you to possess me, I am less than a man?”

I had not thought about what his answer meant. Question and answer. Now I see the pair. Demand and submission. Mated, as we are. Mine. Yours.

Understanding at last, I nod, slowly. “No, Faramir. Not less of a man. Your answer is the only right one. And you will make the same demand of me, yes? Tell me who I belong to?”

He sees that I comprehend after all, and answers question with question. “What would you have me do?” Eyebrow raised, a small smile I see there. His question, now, is not one of obedience but a promise—he will tell me, whether I ask him to or not. And I will give him the same answer. Yours.

A small shiver runs down my spine: I want to hear him claim me with the same words. Simple words of possession do this, send a chill of infinite passion through me.

And another revelation: Faramir wanted to hear me say one word—“Mine”—so he might shudder with delight, as I did just now. Faramir, I made you feel that way, with a single word I spoke, didn’t I? I gave you this feeling, too! Eyes closing for a moment, I am bewildered, overjoyed. Brother, you lead me to pleasures undreamt of. Yes, tell me who I belong to, as I have told you.

“Tell me. Tell me tonight, Faramir, when we are in my bed. You will have your answer there.” I stand up, extend a hand to pull my brother to his feet, where he drags his tunic over his head.

“You don’t want to stay here.” Sadness.

“I do, Faramir, but for what I have in mind, we will both prefer the comfort of a mattress. I know it. You may be used to sleeping on bare rock, but I have not forgotten the softness of my bed. Where I may hold you until you fall asleep.” Smiles exchanged, we rapidly gather the food and other items from the table. Faramir holds most of our collection while I swiftly unbolt the door leading down from the roof.

As I shove the bolt free from its housing, I say, “I am glad we are not the same, Faramir.”

“Why, brother?”

“Because I would never have thought of what you just did…but I am glad that you thought of it.” I can tell he was still worried, wondering what I thought of watching him in the throes of his passion alone. My words reassure him, tell him he has pleased me. For Faramir, reassurance leads to boldness.

“You liked it?”

Though we step quickly through the door, I pause before answering. He should not know how eager I am to try this once more. Make him wait until we are back in my room, tell him there. I swing the door shut, begin to lock it from the inside once more with fingers fumbling in the dark.

Finally, I cannot resist telling him the truth, though it seems like weakness. In a low growl, I admit, “Yes, I liked it. Can we do it again?” The door now locked, I would not linger after I give the key to Faramir. Somehow, it seems right he should keep the key to our roof.

Standing in darkness, on the landing at the top of the staircase, I hear him answer. “Yes, on one condition, though.”

“Anything, Faramir.” By the Valar, what will you make me do next? But I am smiling as I take his arm, move him down the unlit stairs, closer to my room.

From the shadows, a faint kiss brushes my cheek. “Next time, we exchange places.”

“Done.”

The brothers would not have carved the letters “B” and “F” from the Roman alphabet but the appropriate Tengwar letters, the alphabet used by both Westron and Elvish (Quenya and Sindarin), common in the West. The letters are named: F is “Formen”, meaning ‘North’, and B is “Umbar”, meaning ‘Fate.’ For the complete Tengwar letter series, see URL: http://www.geocities.com/TimesSquare/4948/tengwar/sindar.htm

On Farya, Borya, and Elvish terms of endearment, see the use of this suffix as an endearment in UT:418, as in Anardilya (“dear Anardil” UT:174). Not to be confused with the verbal and adjectival endings -ya. For a scholarly essay on the subject, see URL: http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/affix~1.htm

With thanks to gladio on both subjects!

Title: To Learn You All Over Again: Limits
By: Faramir_boromir
Pairing: Faramir/Boromir
Part: 6/?? of To Learn You All Over Again
Rated: NC-17
Warnings: Brotherly incest. If this bothers you, read no further.
Archive: Tolkienfanfiction.com. Otherwise, just ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Disclaimer: None of characters belong to me originally, all are JRRT’s. All homage to JRRT, but I’m sure he’d be spinning in his grave if he read this. Sorry.
Synopsis: Two weeks into their new relationship, the brothers discover that there are some physical, mental, and emotional things that still separate them from each other.

With thanks to betas extraordinaire elandae, perseph2hades and AstrometricBinary.

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Limits

It had been a long day, one that fatigued Faramir until he thought he might not be able to stand. His work in the library that morning³ and at the training fields in the afternoon was tiring and rewarding, albeit in different ways. Reorganizing the books in the library would make it much easier to find what he wanted, and would only take a few more weeks. He had time for the task, since he needed that long to prepare the men who were joining his company. Training those new recruits was going well each afternoon; he would have no cause to complain of their skills once they went with him to Ithilien and joined the men who remained there. A brief detour through the kitchens let him collect a piece of fruit and glass of wine to stave off the worst hunger pangs and soothe the aches, at least until the evening meal.

Trudging up the stairs to the private wing of the Steward’s House, Faramir wondered if he would find Boromir waiting for him, but a quick check of his brother’s room showed it was empty. Probably for the best, Faramir thought, since Boromir might have some rather strenuous ideas about how to fill a few hours before and after their dinner together, and Faramir wondered if he would have the strength to match his brother’s ardor this day. After nearly two weeks in his brother’s arms on a nightly basis, Faramir would not mind a brief period of rest.

Rest. What he really wanted was peace and rest, just for a while. Yet if he were offered the chance to sleep all through the night, he would have declined immediately; each night brought Boromir’s departure a day closer. In just a few days, his brother must return to his duties, leading Gondor’s troops in the field…leaving Faramir alone once again. He decided that he could rest after Boromir left Minas Tirith.

A few more heavy steps before Faramir reached his own quarters, and pushed the door open. Tired as he was, it took his mind a few moments to register a new piece of furniture in one corner of the room. His room already had two chairs, a soft padded one near the fire that he sometimes used while he read, and a plain straight-backed chair that stood at his desk, but sometimes held his clothes while he slept. Yet the new chair was unlike both of them, and looked somewhat odd in its construction.

The chair was made of wood, with a seat fairly high off the ground, obviously built for a man with long legs. Painted black, it had the symbol of his family’s house, the Hurinianath, etched in silver onto the backrest’s top railing. The chair’s plainness appealed to him, for it lacked armrests; the thing was made for sitting, not useless decoration.

Faramir’s eyes were drawn to the base of the chair, which was unusual. Instead of four simple posts, the supports for the black chair were placed into curved wood that allowed the chair to tilt forward and back, in a simple rocking motion. A curiously simple design, but one he had never seen before.

He sat down in the chair, delighted to discover that it was perfect in its dimensions. The chair might have been built specifically for him, he realized; strong, made of solid timber, likely to last for many generations. Though he considered that whoever brought this piece of furniture to his room must have been very tired after doing so, for the chair was heavy: it was a sturdy piece of workmanship.

After looking at it for a time, Faramir dragged his new piece of furniture to a place in front of the fire, and picked up a book he’d been in the midst of reading. Before long, he was lost in the book, rocking gently without thinking, back and forth in his chair. The late afternoon sun streamed through windowpanes into the room, warming the air around him.

The rays of sunshine gradually slid farther up the walls of the bedroom, as late afternoon became dusk. Faramir hardly noticed the change, caught up in the book he was reading, turning every so often to throw more firewood into the flames keeping the chill from his room. The lore held him so tightly it seemed he could not put the book down. Page after page he turned quietly, as day became dark.

The door to Faramir’s room opened noiselessly, and Boromir entered without disturbing his brother’s reading. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, watching the younger man rock back and forth in the black chair, eyes scanning the pages, line after line. Faramir had missed their evening meal together, which annoyed his brother a little. He had looked forward to their meal all day, and once Boromir realized that Faramir was not going to appear for supper, he finished his own quickly and went in search of him. His search did not last long.

As usual. I might have known the reason you missed the evening meal. Yet the older man dismissed any annoyance when he saw how easily Faramir rocked the chair, how it fit him precisely and how comfortable he seemed. I have always carried an image of you asleep before the fire, head thrown back, with your face flushed and warm—sitting in the soft chair in my room. Now I have a new vision: seeing you content, here, now, in this chair.

When he closed the door, the sound roused Faramir from his reverie, his head lifting to see Boromir. “Good afternoon, brother,” Boromir said, a trifle facetiously as he walked closer to the fire. Faramir knew instantly from the twilight shadows he had missed having dinner with his brother. Too far gone in the past. I must remember to stay here in the present if I would spend all my time with Boromir.

Seeing the smile on Boromir’s face, now only a few feet from his own, Faramir asked, “Are you the one responsible for my new furnishings? For I must tell you, I approve of the design and think this may become one of my favorite places to read.” Discarding his book to one side of the chair, Faramir turned his face upward towards Boromir’s, tilting his head sideways to catch the silent kiss that his brother bestowed on him.

Breaking their kiss for a moment, Boromir looked down at his brother with love obvious in his eyes, then nodded and answered quietly, “‘Tis a gift for you, Faramir. I am glad it pleases you well.” He leaned towards Faramir again, placing a firm kiss on his brother’s cool skin, mouths meeting briefly once more in a tangle of lips and beards.

When their kiss ended, Faramir questioned, “Gift for what? My birthday is months away. What occasion does it celebrate?” He stood up, to join his brother and find their way to the bed or the floor. Wherever Boromir wanted them to go.

“It is in thanks for something you will do tonight.” Boromir’s answer brought a puzzled frown to Faramir’s face, which Boromir could not resist chiding him for. “Do not worry, Faramir, later you will know the reason. Later.”

With those words, Boromir placed his hands upon his brother’s shoulders, and it was that gesture that suddenly gave Faramir an idea. His eyes widened a bit, as he stood there looking at his brother, and then he decided to act upon his impulse. In a hushed voice, he commanded, “Bolt the door, Boromir. Now.”

A smile lit Faramir’s face as he watched Boromir walk back to the door then throw the bolt solidly into its housing. Boromir knew now what he wanted, for Faramir’s intentions were quite obvious: the door’s lock was only invoked to shield them from outsiders, those who would not understand their passion. The very sound of the lock sliding into place made Faramir’s member begin to stiffen, as the sight of his brother so often had during the twelve days they had shared as lovers.

Faramir turned to the cupboard next to the fireplace, and pulled out the small pot of cooking grease that Boermen had given his brother a few nights earlier. Returning to the chair, he placed the pot on the floor, and then started pulling off clothing, belt and tunic first, followed by boots, breeches, leggings.

Boromir walked closer, watching as his brother shed clothes in rapid succession, dropping them to the floor as he went. The sight of Faramir’s erection, as it came free from his breeches…Boromir’s mouth went dry when he saw the firm flesh, hardened evidence of his brother’s desire. He looked back up at his brother’s eyes, and saw the same eagerness there.

Bending down to retrieve the jar, Faramir removed its mesh cover. He dipped in two fingers and drew out the slippery substance, then set the jar back on the floor. He slicked the grease on to his hard shaft, and held out his other hand, beckoning for Boromir to join him.

Then he sat back down in the chair.

At that, Boromir stopped moving, a little stunned. Faramir’s intention was clear, although Boromir had never envisioned the chair used in that fashion. It could be done. Yes. I see what you want. Clever, Faramir. Yet as he unfastened his tunic and pulled it over his head, he had misgivings, silent words he would not speak.

You mean for me to sit astride you, so that you may take me. It will be bliss, but…why that, again, Faramir? You must enjoy seeing me that way, spread wide for your pleasure like a woman. Boromir tugged at the laces tying his breeches closed, his eyes still fixed on Faramir’s, his own hunger now revealed in them, while his hands worked rapidly. Boots and breeches soon tossed aside, leggings gone, Boromir straddled his brother’s lap and lowered his body until his legs draped on each side of the chair. Tall, well-formed like Faramir, Boromir’s feet grazed the floor until he placed them on top of the curved rockers, out of harm’s way.

Still his mind would not let go of the idea. Faramir, I only do this because I love you. Only you. ‘Twere it any other man, I would not be so used. The flashes of unrest in Boromir’s mind reached his eyes, for Faramir noticed something…not right in his brother’s gaze.

“Boromir, what is it? What’s wrong?” Faramir wrapped his arms around Boromir’s waist, drawing him closer until their chests touched, holding his brother as if he meant never to let go. Concern, already in his eyes, made his brow crease.

Faramir leaned in, to kiss his brother tenderly, and after a brief hesitation, Boromir returned his kiss, although he drew back his lips only a moment or two later. Even as he did so, he could not bring his eyes back to Faramir’s. You think this a sacrifice, a gift you give Faramir each time you let him enter you, but it is not whole-hearted. Your mind does not accept it, so the gift is flawed.

A combination of reluctance and shame eddied in Boromir’s breast, his thoughts of what they were about to do and the ecstasy he would know at war with his own misgivings. Brother, you turn me mindless when we do this, yet…yet the pleasure never seems to be enough. How can I submit so cravenly to let another take me, to use me like a wench? While Boromir’s mind fought this battle alone, his unease became all the more apparent to his brother.

When Boromir would not raise his eyes, Faramir took a keener interest in his brother’s condition. Something ails him more than he will say. What new trouble is this?

Reaching up a hand to push a few stray locks of hair away from Boromir’s face, Faramir drew his hand down along his brother’s cheek, until his fingers reached Boromir’s jaw. Faramir lowered his head, bending lower so that he could see into his brother’s eyes, even as his hand raised Boromir’s head so that, eventually, both pairs of eyes met on a level. Faramir left his hand at his brother’s jaw, caressing the short beard, touching the proud jaw with light strokes.

Shooting his brother a wry look, one eyebrow raised, Faramir asked, “Do you plan to tell me, or must I ask what you are thinking?” knowing the words would bring his brother to heel. You will tell me, Boromir. I will not see you like this without knowing the cause. Have I done something wrong?

My gift to him may be flawed, but he should not know why. To hide his discomfort, Boromir tried distracting his brother, going on the offensive with his best weapons. He ran a hand down Faramir’s chest, stopping first at a nipple to tease it with a fingertip before sliding further down to the smooth flesh at Faramir’s hipbone. I have not forgotten your weakness here, Faramir, Boromir thought, as he drew a gentle finger up and down the hollow, causing Faramir to close his eyes quickly, gasping at the sensation.

But Faramir was not so easily misled. You would hide from me, using our passion to conceal yourself. Blue eyes opened and looked knowingly into green ones. “Boromir, if you resist answering, you will force me to do the same.” With those words, Faramir moved his hand around to the cleft between Boromir’s buttocks, and began to tease the older man’s tender skin, drawing his deft and slippery finger over the puckered opening, pressing a fingertip into his brother’s entrance. Boromir’s eyes narrowed, his wandering hand near Faramir’s hipbone halting abruptly, as he could no longer control his body’s responses. When he sensed Boromir beginning to squirm in anticipation, Faramir said quietly, “You may not speak freely, but you will speak nonetheless. What are you thinking, brother?”

With those words, Boromir knew he was cornered. “Faramir, stop. I will speak, but please…stop.” Faramir immediately withdrew the troublesome finger, and waited for Boromir to reveal his thoughts. His older brother hesitated a moment, then plunged forward on a torrent of emotion.

“I am uneasy whenever you enter me, Faramir. I…I am not accustomed to other men taking their pleasure in that fashion, and were it…anyone but you, I would not allow it. That is what I am thinking.” Having said this much, Boromir retreated into silence, eyes watching his brother warily to gauge the effect of his words.

Faramir drew back somewhat, letting his weight rest against the chair’s back once more, looking at his brother’s face with a hint of wonder while he pondered Boromir’s words.

Conscious that his brother expected a reply, Faramir began to say something, but Boromir cut in. “Your turn, Faramir. What are you thinking? I would know the truth.” Faramir found himself unable to shape a gentler version of what he had been thinking. Their game now forced him to speak what had just passed through his mind.

“We have done this so many times, yet now is the first you speak of discomfort when I am inside you. And it is passing strange you do, for I have watched you enjoy it almost more than any other thing we do when we are together. I must have been…wrong.” His thoughts confessed, Faramir tried to pull away from his brother though they still sat chest to chest.

Boromir realized his earlier words had wounded Faramir, undermining his confidence, yet silently, he recognized the truth of Faramir’s words. Boromir did enjoy having Faramir enter him, stretching, possessing, claiming, but his mind still rebelled: he both loved and hated it. Finding words to explain his distress would be…impossible.

Boromir leaned forward, moving his hand up behind his brother’s neck, drawing their heads close together so that he could find his brother’s lips once more, give reassurance in the manner he knew best. Boromir tugged and teased, pulling Faramir’s soft skin into his mouth, gently sucking on a tender lower lip. The feel of their arousals, rubbing against each other, only intensified the building heat.

Against Farmir’s lips, Boromir whispered, “I do like it, I want it even now,” then his tongue resumed the search for sweetness deep within Faramir’s mouth.

Then why say you do not? I do not understand. As he responded, matching kiss for kiss and touch for touch, Faramir could not comprehend what his brother meant—his thoughts seemed to contradict themselves. Finally, eyes still closed, he leaned back from Boromir, broke their kiss, and asked exactly that. “If you enjoy it, why are you uneasy? Tell me, please; I want to know.” Slowly he lifted his lids, looking into Boromir’s hazy eyes, still clouded by the passion of their kisses.

With effort, Boromir gathered himself, tried to find clarity for an answer. “Little one, I…yes…yes, you give me great pleasure when you take me. You are not wrong.” At this, some of Faramir’s smile returned. At least I was not mistaken. Boromir continued, “But…but to be so…vulnerable makes me…uncomfortable. I wonder, am I weak?”

Ah, that is what disturbs him. Lessened in some way, not a man. Faramir nodded, although understanding his brother’s concerns did not bring acceptance, only fear. Insecurities awakened, Faramir had to ask, “Am I weak, then, when you take me? Do you think I should be uneasy too?”

At this, Boromir crooked his head, a furrow appeared between his eyebrows, and his reply came out instantly. “No. Of course not.” His mind only eventually caught up with Faramir’s reasoning: if I take pleasure in this, why not you? Why should you react differently from me? And why should you object to something I enjoy?

How can I explain this to you? I am not you…though in this, perhaps it would be better if I were. Boromir opened his mouth, began to phrase his answer. But Faramir was already there.

“So, I should not mind if you take me, but you are allowed to have misgivings? What sort of reasoning is that?” A small note of irritation entered Faramir’s voice as he spoke, which Boromir caught immediately. You worry I think I am better than you. Of course I do not, but I must tell you. He tried again to frame some words. But once more, Faramir was speaking ahead of him with a new complaint.

“If you do not enjoy it, why keep allowing me to do it? Why let me take you? If you think this…cheapens you, why do it at all?” Faramir’s tone made clear the man was now annoyed. Boromir knew he had to do something, quickly.

“Faramir, stop. Stop for a moment and listen.” Boromir took a breath, then went on. “In this, my mind…my mind is troubled. Yet I do enjoy it, my body must feel you inside of me. I take pleasure in the act too much to stop, and I do it because I need you. You must take me.” The spate of words seemed to empty Boromir’s mind. A few more came unbidden, his voice becoming huskier as he spoke. “And I know how much pleasure you get from taking me, filling me. I could not deny you that.” These last words were rushed, blurted out almost as an afterthought, but Faramir seized on them.

“You do it to make me happy? You permit it…as a…a kind of gift?” There was silence. Faramir just stared at his brother, amazed. Is it possible that you have done this nearly every night, hating it, just to give me fulfillment?

Faramir’s mind stalled at this revelation, but then started to move again. That cannot be all of it. My pleasure alone, ‘tis not enough. He puzzled a little more before he realized his brother’s dilemma. You do enjoy it, just as you say; ‘tis your nature, though, that prevents you from loving it too well, for it seems submissive, though we both know it is not. Faramir had the answer now. You cannot admit that being vulnerable gives you pleasure. You must ever be Boromir the strong.

As Faramir reasoned through this, Boromir still struggled with his brother’s words: You permit it…as a…a kind of gift? Slow to frame his answer, Boromir paused before responding honestly, still uncertain whether Faramir would want to hear his reply or not. “A…gift. Yes.”

The words, softly spoken, echoed in the quiet room. And Faramir knew that, beyond every other reason, this was truth. To be taken clearly gave Boromir the greatest pleasure imaginable, but he would deny himself, if his mind demanded it. So he spoke truthfully: he overcame his discomfort, his sense of vulnerability, for Faramir alone, and the realization sent a secret thrill up the younger man’s spine. Only for me! What a treasure you give, brother, to silence your mind in this. You are Boromir the strong.

While Faramir pondered his brother’s answer, Boromir bent over, stretching out a hand to the floor, where Faramir had earlier placed the small container of grease. Retrieving it, he straightened again and took some of the contents onto his fingers. Increasingly eager, he reached behind himself, rubbing the slick substance along the narrow divide of his buttocks, slicking his entrance in preparation for his brother.

His actions now obvious, Faramir caught Boromir’s wrist, as his fingers returned to dip into the jar. “No, brother. I would not take you against your will. Never.”

Boromir shook his wrist free from Faramir’s hold, and at the same time shook his head. “You could not take me against my will. No man could. My mind may object, but my body rules here. This is what I want. And what you want too.” With that, he placed the jar back on the floor, and started to rub slippery fingers along Faramir’s half-hard shaft.

Faramir’s eyes slid shut, his head leaning back as Boromir’s fingers eased up and down, the feel of a lover who was slowly but surely learning what Faramir preferred when he was caressed. Boromir gripped more tightly, gliding his thumb along the underside of Faramir’s warm flesh, knowing that…yes, there…he could make his brother begin to jerk, shudder involuntarily, and stiffen once more. And now that you are ready, little brother…. Boromir reached for his brother’s hand, brought it up to replace his own, so that Faramir could continue to stroke his own erection.

With that, Boromir raised himself off of Faramir’s lap, moving forward slightly, so that he could then lower himself downwards, closer and closer to his brother’s waiting hardness. When he felt the crown of Faramir’s full shaft nudge against his opening, he paused to look into Faramir’s eyes, now wide open, and slightly wondering at the sensation.

This joining was almost as their first had been, when secrets and new passion were revealed. The intensity this time came because Faramir could see the turmoil his brother was experiencing, and understood how precious this coupling actually was. What a gift, my brother. For Boromir, it was if his soul had been laid bare, his basest, most hidden thoughts open to Faramir’s inspection. And Faramir still wanted him. Unworthy it may be, but I would give you everything, even my unwilling mind. Take me, Faramir.

Faramir reached up with his other hand, along Boromir’s muscled back, and guided the older man down gently, then not so gently, until his hardened member entered Boromir. The tightness, the sense of being trapped, held firmly within his brother, felt so perfect that he leaned forward to place a kiss on Boromir’s throat.

And the chair moved.

Boromir gasped, for the subtle change caused Faramir’s stiff flesh to slide more deeply into him. The briefest advance, yet that was all it took. His face revealed the extent of his new pleasure, mouth opening slackly as no words came, a harsh breath quickly released. Then Faramir leaned forward again, this time knowing full well what would happen.

As his tongue lapped at Boromir’s throat, the chair tilted again, once more seating Faramir’s hardness slightly deeper within his brother. At this, Boromir leaned his head back and shut his eyes in ecstasy. His weight shifting, the chair began to rock forward even more sharply. And he felt Faramir press—Gods, is that possible?—even farther inside him.

Faramir wrapped his arms fully around his brother’s waist, and he locked them together tightly so that Boromir would know he could not fall. “Safe now. I have you,” he whispered, as he continued licking and kissing his brother’s throat.

Boromir placed both hands on Faramir’s shoulders, kneading them and feeling their tension from bracing and supporting the weight of two men. The chair reached the end of its forward motion. Beneath his buttocks, he could feel Faramir’s legs planted firmly, their strength pushing against the ground to start the chair’s reverse motion.

I stood in that shop yesterday afternoon, and picked this one. Thank the Valar, I chose this for you, Faramir. As his weight shifted closer to Faramir’s, the chair tilting backwards, Boromir felt the angle of penetration change ever so slightly. The faintest withdrawal of pressure, yet it drew Faramir’s shaft downwards past Boromir’s sensitive spot, causing a tortured “Nnnnnhh” to escape his lips. Gods, you would kill me, brother. Faint moisture started to form on his chest, back, forearms, as the repeated stroking demanded a response from his body.

Faramir leaned into his brother once more, stopping the reverse and pushing the chair forward again. With his arms locked together, Faramir used his mouth to show his brother how he adored him. He knew Boromir enjoyed being teased near his shoulder by the play of beard alternated with kisses, so Faramir began to nuzzle his face against Boromir’s collarbone, then dragged the tip of his beard upwards along the softer skin of his brother’s neck. The response was immediate. “Aaaaahhh.”

As Faramir grazed beard and mouth along the side of the older man’s neck, Boromir could do little but lean back, secure that his brother would not let go. He ran a hand down Faramir’s arm, then back up to his shoulder, but sensations…that…yes, again… were coming so quickly now….please, brother, yes… that he could do little more than enjoy them. No longer coherent, his breathing quickened, each penetration, then withdrawal, seeming to press against his sweet bundle of nerves until Boromir thought he might lose consciousness from the intense feelings.

With the swaying motion of the chair, Faramir could feel his brother’s excitement growing. The tight grip Boromir maintained on Faramir’s shaft relaxed, then tightened, squeezing, then loosening, squeezing again, a steadily increasing spiral that made Faramir’s member thicken even more. The effect was almost as powerful as the press-release-press-release of the chair pushing him deeper into his brother. This may not last much longer….

Lips laid against Boromir’s skin, his nose took in the scent, senses flooded with Boromir’s musky smell overlaid by leather and heat. Once more Faramir drew his beard lightly along his brother’s shoulder, across the tender flesh that made his brother groan with desire. Another relentless pass”...Mmmmhh….” and then he buried his head into Boromir’s neck, the tension within his own erect flesh overwhelming all else.

The chair’s motion, Boromir decided, was to blame. He knew his body had never been deliciously tortured so well for so long as was happening right now. Back, forth, shift, shift again. “Aaaahh, brother….” Each advance, each new pressure from Faramir’s erection pressed to the utmost within him, brought another surge of pleasure, his nerves almost numb from stimulation.

Sweat began forming in patches, some of it running down Boromir’s spine, to rest on the fine hairs of his brother’s forearms, still holding tight around his waist. With what perception he had left, he felt the heat gathering in Faramir’s body, dampness rising along his arms and shoulders from the effort to clasp both men securely together.

Pressure building, he knew the steady brush-brush of Faramir’s moist stomach muscles against his own taut erection would bring him to an end soon. He groaned again from the steady advance and retreat of Faramir’s flesh within him, delicious, forbidden. Boromir felt the fluttering and tensing of nerve endings, readying his hardened shaft for what was to come. A last ”Nnnnhh” stifled in his mouth, he now sensed the rising force, its unstoppable progress overflowing all restraints, rushing through him….

NOW.

Pleasure so forcible and intense, his body went limp with exhaustion. Falling forward, Boromir’s weight came to rest against his brother. His head ended up jammed into Faramir’s neck and shoulder, his breathing broken by gasps.

Another push, leaning forward one more time, and Faramir was…so close. The moisture on his stomach, droplets across his waist told him that Boromir won their race again, though this was not a race Faramir minded losing.

A grim smile, eyes clenched shut, and Faramir’s own breathing was labored. He strained, so near to his needs he could almost taste them. A few more moments of pleasure ”...Aaaahh…” pushing, twisting ...a little more…yes there… His arms tightened around Boromir’s waist as if he meant to crush him, mouth open as he bit his brother’s shoulder, the salt on Boromir’s skin sharp, cutting.

Then, a subtle change, something clenching, gripping his deep-buried flesh…again, just there…Faramir knew, one more thrust, at that angle would trigger his release. Like that. That. His hips jerked forward, sweat-laden, as he shouted ”Yes!” at Boromir’s ear.

Eyes shut tight in his ecstasy, feelings so extreme Faramir barely knew where he was. A few heartbeats later, when he felt Boromir pressed close to him, chest still heaving, it all returned to him. Boromir. His brother. And their latest journey to the other side of finding one another.

The chair stopped rocking, the men still tangled in each other, too drained to move at first. Behind the chair, the fire popped, hissing as a log dropped and dislodged one underneath in a flurry of sparks.

Boromir shook his head, pulling back to face his brother, so that he could find the younger man’s eyes, still closed. When Faramir finally opened them, he saw Boromir’s face, a faint smile there. Faramir started grinning back, his enthusiasm spent, near giddy.

A few moments passed, then he could not restrain himself from saying, “Thank you for the chair, Boromir. It is the perfect gift, though you still have not said what occasion it marks.”

Boromir smiled, wrapped his large hands around Faramir’s face and pulled him close for another kiss, this one teasing. “I will tell you eventually, brother mine.” Then he rose from his brother’s lap, looking down at Faramir’s bemused grin, and walked over to the washbasin to get a cloth to clean himself. Running the wet rag over his skin, Boromir thought, He did it again. Made me forget who I am. Faramir, love, I will never tire of you.

Behind him, Faramir began chuckling under his breath. Boromir turned, and tossed the damp cloth to his brother. “What do you find humorous, Faramir? Tell me.”

The younger man nimbly caught the wet rag, and began wiping away the sweat and dampness that crisscrossed his torso. “Something I did not think I could do. Apparently I can.” He threw the washcloth back to Boromir and stood up, stretching his arms above his head to relieve some of the cramp. Boromir dropped the rag into the water and watched the beauty of his brother, now pulled taut as Faramir rolled his shoulders.

“What? What can you do that you did not know before?” Boromir came over to the chair and wrapped a strong arm around his brother’s waist, now that Faramir had finished stretching and stood quietly.

“I never touched you, Boromir. I held you, yes, but I used neither fingers nor tongue, brother. You finished before me, and neither of us used our hands.” There was a touch of pride in Faramir’s voice, something so rare that Boromir immediately noticed it.

What? You took me and…that was enough. No hands, no mouths. Just…you. Boromir silently groaned, and pulled out of the embrace, walking towards the bed. I want you, but not to be taken by you. Weak, again.

The look on Boromir’s face was one Faramir recognized instantly. Trouble. This does not please you as it does me. Faramir joined his brother, sitting down on the bed’s edge, although Boromir seemed not to notice at first. When Faramir put an arm around his brother’s shoulders, though, Boromir briefly flinched at the touch. Why, Boromir? This is…not right.

“Look at me, Boromir.” Slowly, Boromir turned his face towards his brother, though his eyes still found the floor. Faramir continued, “Something is wrong. Can you tell me what?” Faramir had a suspicion about what creased his brother’s brow, but he wanted to be sure before he spoke.

Shaking his head side to side, Boromir shrugged out of the embrace, pulling away so that he could recline onto the bed. Faramir stood so that his brother could swing his legs up on to the bed, then he sat down again. This time, Faramir also lay down, so that he was face to face with Boromir. He wrapped an arm about Boromir’s waist, and said quietly, “I think I know.”

Do you? Green eyes, a little bleak, lifted to find blue ones waiting, filled with compassion. Do you?

“It is as you said before. You are uneasy about having another man, any man, enter and control you.” Thinking back to what Boromir had told him earlier, Faramir remembered the two words that seemed to contain his brother’s fears. “Your body wants mine in that fashion, but it also makes you…uncomfortable. You feel…vulnerable.” Faramir gazed intently at his brother, trying to discover if his suspicion was correct.

Nodding gradually, Boromir indicated his agreement. “Just so.” And his eyes closed as he said, “Forgive me, Faramir, but I am not…comfortable…with you that way, not yet.”

Faramir paused, then offered, “This is like our night on the rooftop. The first time we went there, when you had to sit and watch me.” When Boromir looked at him, puzzled, Faramir responded, “You did not want to do that either. Just watching made you uncomfortable too, yes?”

Boromir considered for a moment, then said, “True. I did not want to sit there, forbidden to touch you, forbidden to do anything. You may chide me, brother, for I enjoy watching you and having you watch me in that way now, though the first time was very difficult.” Boromir shook his head again. “But this? This is different. You have taken me many times, and I still feel vulnerable. However—you wish it, so I do it …for you.”

Silence wrapped around the two, as Faramir digested what his brother had said. He could sense his own irritation growing, and finally he responded honestly, with what he felt. “Boromir, do you expect me to let you use me, take me every time? Just so you do not have to feel…uncomfortable?”

The tension in his voice caught at Boromir’s very core. Angry. My words made you angry. Wrong again. Boromir’s response came tumbling out, with no time to reflect. “No, that is not what I expect. Just because I’m uncomfortable…within myself, I do not want you to change.”

Then Boromir’s quick concession was countered by another emotion, just as powerful and demanding to him. “Wait. Why should I always agree to everything you want? Am I not allowed to feel as I do, what I do? Must I overlook my own misgivings, act as if they do not exist?”

Faramir tensed at these words, and Boromir could sense Faramir now withdrawing from him mentally, emotionally, unable to understand how Boromir could take pleasure from and still be uncomfortable from the very same thing.

Seeking to restore some of their earlier closeness, Boromir placed a hand on Faramir’s hip, drew the younger man to him so that they could at least rest their foreheads against each other. As they lay together, Boromir continued to cast around, to find something that might make his simultaneous desire and disquiet plainer to the younger man. Finally, he hit upon a possibility, something he had suspected for a few nights.

“Faramir, is there something we could do together that you prefer we never try? Something that would make you feel…vulnerable in the same way I do?” Boromir looked earnestly at his brother, waiting to hear the answer he expected. Then he remembered how to get the truth. “Tell me what you are thinking, brother.”

Faramir did not have to consider his answer very long. “Yes, Boromir, there is something I have always avoided. I would not be…vulnerable…in that way, so I have shied away.” Faramir raised his eyes to meet his brother’s across the pillow, waiting for the reproach he knew would follow.

Boromir caught the omission, and did not relent. “Come, brother, you know the rules: a full and truthful answer, when asked what you are thinking.” Boromir waited, anticipating Faramir’s reply.

The younger man let out a long breath, then said, “I do not want you to put your tongue…inside me.” Then Faramir went silent, worried. Please do not be angry, Boromir. This is the truth.

Boromir tried not to let any smugness show on his face after hearing Faramir’s answer. I was right all along. You have avoided this long enough, Faramir. Boromir brushed away a few stray strands of hair from his brother’s face, then decided to pretend deliberate ignorance of his brother’s intent. “You don’t want me to kiss you any more, Farya?” And Boromir reached for his brother’s lips, grazing them with his own for a moment before he deepened the kiss with his tongue.

Faramir responded to the hungry intrusion, placing a hand on his brother’s chest, then reluctantly leaned back, withdrawing from the soft mouth he loved so well. Struggling to find his wits once more, he answered before he had a chance to realize Boromir was teasing him. “No, Borya, I meant…you putting your tongue inside me…down…there.”

Then Faramir caught the hint of a grin in his brother’s eyes, and knew that he’d been mocked. A deep sigh, and a shake of the head in exasperation were his counterattack, hoping that his brother would continue to tease, rather than return to the subject at hand.

Boromir was having none of it. All mockery aside, he now asked in seriousness, “You always pull away, Faramir; you roll away from me when I bring my mouth anywhere near your lower back, or your rear. Why?”

Faramir’s blue eyes swept downwards, away from Boromir’s steady gaze. How does one find words to describe such a feeling? He fidgeted with his hand, tracing designs on Boromir’s chest, until Boromir brought his own hand up to capture his brother’s and hold it still. Aloud, Faramir said, “I think…I resist your kisses and…tongue there…because I would not want to do the same to you. I am not sure I could bring myself to…taste you the same way.” Fearing he had failed his brother with this answer, he needed to hear an honest reply. “Tell me what you are thinking, Boromir.” And he raised his eyes to Boromir’s green ones, expecting to see disappointment.

No disappointment, but surprise. “Is that what worries you? That if I did this for you, I would expect it in return?” When Faramir gave a tentative half-nod, Boromir continued, “I do not. Truly, brother, I do not.” Boromir’s face reddened a little as he spoke, but he pressed forward. “Faramir, I want to give you pleasure, and I think this would give you more than you realize. I have enjoyed it in the past, and I believe you would also.”

On a tiny flare of jealousy, Faramir could not stop himself from thinking, You did this with others, had them put their tongue into you and yours into them. Will you always compare me to them and find me wanting?

Not waiting for his brother to respond, Boromir sat up in bed and leaned over, looking down into Faramir’s face as he said, “You will take pleasure from this, Faramir. Let us put it to the test, find out. Now.” He put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, and rolled the younger man face-down on the bed, then bent to begin kissing and licking his way down Faramir’s back.

Gods, Boromir, when you touch me like that, I would do anything for you. Brother, I need you. Though Faramir’s mind and body responded positively when Boromir touched his neck, his shoulders, his ribs, they began to struggle as his brother moved lower, mouth spreading sweet kisses farther down his back. Squirming against the older man’s fingertips, Faramir could feel his brother pausing to stroke and slide his tongue along Faramir’s waist.

The younger man knew that his brother would not be deterred, but he tried to grab Boromir’s hand, to signal his distress. Boromir, stop. I know you will expect it of me in return and I cannot. Stop. But Faramir could not seem to make himself say the words in his mind, for he reveled in his brother’s touches and tongue too much to speak. Faramir could do nothing but lie there, twisted by the need for his brother, yet fearing what was to come.

He finally forced out the words, pushed them past the haze enveloping his mind. “Boromir, please, stop. Please.” His hands grasped the bed’s covering, pulling it in bunches while his distress and desire mingled. Faramir’s actions suddenly were cast into darkness, as the last light from the fireplace sputtered and died, leaving the two men in near-total darkness.

Boromir paused, but only briefly to raise his lips from his brother’s waist. “I want to touch you, to kiss you in this fashion. Faramir, for me?” And he returned to licking and kissing Faramir’s back, working his way farther down to the cleft of his brother’s buttocks, sliding his tongue between them just a bit, reaching down with the roughened tip to tease his brother’s smooth skin.

He felt Faramir trying to roll his hips away, trying to shift sideways, away from the older man’s tongue, and Boromir raised his mouth again, to whisper, “Try this only once, brother. If I cannot make you moan my name when I do this, I will never ask you again, I promise.” Boromir closed his eyes and returned to his devotions, thinking He will be calling my name the moment I begin in earnest.

Boromir began nuzzling and licking in alternation, moving from one fleshy mound to the other, until he brought his hands down Faramir’s back to spread the two cheeks slowly apart. That done, he could finally touch his tongue to his brother’s puckered entrance, rubbing the moist pink flesh up and down, waiting to see what reaction Faramir would have.

“Please, Boromir…please….” But it was no longer certain whether Faramir wanted his brother to continue, or to stop. His hips were twisting, but no longer to get away from Boromir’s mouth; instead, they writhed against the bedding, seeming to jump and squirm in time to his brother’s tongue. From the beginning, Boromir chose his tactics with care, knowing how much Faramir loved feeling hands holding or caressing his rear; he teased Faramir’s opening with a finger and tongue in alternation, until he himself could no longer stand the suspense.

With each tongue-swipe, Faramir felt his very grasp on reality slipping away. Wetness, pressure, and then the very insistence of his brother’s mouth made him begin to moan softly, cries muffled by sheets and shame. With each trail of dampness up and down, his resistance was weakening. When Boromir finally pressed a wet tongue into him, his defenses crumbled; he pressed backwards, pushed off the bed with hands and thighs to draw his brother more deeply within. The strangled half-cry in his throat gave way to sounds Boromir now knew well, his brother’s passion: “Mmmmmhhhh…yes, Boromir…please, please….” With each utterance, Faramir’s voice grew louder, stronger, more desperate. “There…yes, there…Borya….”

A victory, little brother. I was right. Boromir drew each stroke out, to make the licking, the tonguing as sweet as possible, to rouse Faramir to even greater pleasure. Thrusting more deeply, forward with eyes closed, he was lost in his own ecstatic feelings when he heard “Aaahh, aahh, nnnhhh” break from Faramir’s lips. Hold fast, brother. Soon. He pressed upwards to repeat the stroke, his outstretched tongue drawing another tortured “...Borya…uuunnhh, please….” from his brother’s lips.

Mercy is a virtue, Faramir, and I know its meaning. Pulling his tongue and lips back for a moment, Boromir rolled over onto his side so that there was now room between the two men. The sudden withdrawal brought a quick gasp of disappointment from Faramir, but the older man moved swiftly, a hand on his brother’s hip to roll him towards Boromir. With Faramir now on his side, facing away from him, Boromir resumed licking and nibbling near his brother’s entrance, while his hand reached forward to grasp the younger man’s stiffened member and tease it skillfully.

Confident now that Faramir would not stop him, Boromir used his other hand to press the cheeks apart again, until his tongue could find the ring of muscle, damp and sweaty. Once there, he did not pause, pushing his tongue inside once more, moving his tongue and hand in time to each other. Faramir’s hips flexed and rose off the bed, but Boromir used his arm to keep his brother’s weight pinned as he drew the torment out to its bittersweet extreme. The slickness on his hand told him Faramir was near, ready to give his all, with only a little more provocation.

Faramir thought the bones in his body had melted. Boromir’s tongue made him feel weak, needing that tongue to never stop, to never quit touching and sliding within him. “Boromir…” Faramir panted. A little more loudly, “Borya…please…now….” Boromir flicked his tongue forward, just when his hand was slipping downwards and past the point to pressure his brother over the edge. In full voice, “Yes, yes, now…,” Faramir’s words rang loudly off the walls of the room. A firmer squeeze of Boromir’s fingers, the tip of his tongue brushed sideways and Faramir’s hips spasmed away, his hard shaft jerking in Boromir’s palm, its fullness spurting as he shouted “Boromir!”

Boromir pulled his tongue out, and began drawing looping circles in the hollow of his brother’s back, his eyes still closed as he tasted the sweat spread across Faramir’s skin. Shifting his weight, Boromir rubbed his face upwards, nuzzling the light ridge of his brother’s backbone, until at last he lay his head on the pillow once more, hand still wrapped around his brother’s waist, both men silent in their exhaustion.

Faramir’s breathing was broken, but gradually steadied, became the even rhythm that Boromir knew from their childhood, the pattern that indicated his brother was thinking, not sleeping. Eventually, Faramir twisted, turned his body so that he could lie flat on his back, moist droplets still on his chest, though he seemed not to notice. Boromir rearranged himself so that he lay in the crook of his brother’s arm, Faramir’s steady hand gliding up his back. With his own moist fingers, Boromir swirled the damp patches on the younger man’s chest into lines, segments, maps of Faramir’s hidden territory.

In darkness, Boromir softly asked, “Was it what you expected?” Once more, Faramir’s hand swept up Boromir’s back, gripped then tightened its hold on his shoulder.

“No. And yes.” Exhaling, Faramir turned his head so that he could look at his brother, barely visible in the room’s dim light, faint moonlight their only illumination. “You were right, brother. I…I want you to do that again. And I do not.” His voice cracking on the last words, Faramir turned his face away from Boromir’s. “‘Tis a good thing the window was closed, or the guards would have heard me roaring your name.”

Always the quiet lover, my strong Faramir. Until now. Boromir was pleased he could push his brother to some new sensation, though he knew the younger man’s mind still harbored misgivings. Faramir’s body spoke of pleasure sated and something else, something that should not be there, just as his words contradicted themselves.

Echoing Faramir’s earlier words, Boromir whispered, “Something troubles you. Do you plan to tell me, or must I ask what you are thinking?” The words brought Faramir back from his musing, to look once more at his brother in the faint light of the room.

“I…my body wants yours, even in ways my mind does not.” In broken half phrases, Faramir struggled on. “What you just did…I cannot. My mind will…I am uncomfortable just thinking about it.” His hand found Boromir’s hand, resting in the sticky dampness on his chest, and he heaved a deep breath before saying, “Boromir, I want always to be able to kiss you, and I do not think I could bring myself to do that, now. And that makes me feel vulnerable, without your mouth to cover mine.”

Boromir thought he understood the depths of his brother’s discomfort, but realized in an instant there was another element he had overlooked. The faintly bitter taste in his mouth accused him as well. I…I cannot kiss him like this.

Considering his options quickly, he rose up enough to reach onto the stand beside the bed, where Faramir’s half-empty cup of wine stood. Boromir drank what remained in a gulp and put the cup back on the stand, then leaned over his brother. In the dim light, bending his head, he sought Faramir’s lips, but Faramir turned his head to one side, avoiding Boromir’s mouth. At this, Boromir’s eyes widened in surprise: his brother had never refused his kiss. Never.

Boromir peered down at him through the darkness, trying to see Faramir more carefully, gauge his response. “The truth. You would not kiss me now, would you?”

Rolling his head back to stare up at Boromir, Faramir admitted, “I cannot live without you. I will overcome this…thought that controls me. But…I can not do it now.” Guilt washed over him, as Faramir realized he was denying his brother the smallest favor after having been given tremendous joy. He faltered as he said, “Do you…want me to…do the same to you?”

No pause for reflection, Boromir answered honestly. “Yes. Uh, no.” Shaking his head, he tried again. “Yes, I want it, but I do not want it if it does not come from your own desire. If you do not wish it, then no.”

But Boromir recognized that his brother would overcome his reluctance—if it would provide Boromir with pleasure, just as he himself had done earlier, in the chair. “You would do that, for me, wouldn’t you? Even though you cannot stand to think about it, you would do it no matter how much you disliked it? Just as I gave myself to you, before.”

Faramir nodded, his movement barely visible to Boromir’s eyes. “Yes. I would. Because now I understand how much you do not want to be taken and yet you do it. You have done so repeatedly. The rapture in your face is why I want it, more than my own pleasure.”

Taking a deep breath, he continued, “And now that I know how…incredible it feels to have your tongue within me, I know I cannot deny that to you either. I will overcome this, Boromir, I will find the will to do it because I know it gives you fulfillment.”

In the darkness, Boromir shook his head back and forth. “Not tonight, brother. I would not have you do this tonight. Another time. Another time when you are ready, and not before. When you do not feel…uncomfortable.” Boromir leaned forward, and brushed his lips against his brother’s cheek, a kiss filled with understanding, and a promise for the future.

The soft swish of Boromir’s beard against his face caused Faramir to close his eyes for a moment, lost in the closeness he felt for his brother, but then a thought made him open his eyes again. “Boromir, you never told me why you bought the chair for me. Why did you?”

In the darkness, Boromir smiled, but said only, “Light a candle, brother.” He leaned back so that Faramir could get out of the bed unhindered.

Faramir was already halfway to the bedroom cabinet to get a candle before he realized that Boromir had not answered him. “Why do you want a candle, Boromir?” He retrieved one from the cupboard, pausing to light it from some embers in the fireplace, before he returned to the bedside, carrying the newly lit taper.

“I need a candle because I have to see your face when I tell you why.” Boromir’s answer seemed more and more cryptic, but Faramir simply put the candle in a holder on the bedside stand, then crawled back into bed next to his brother. He turned onto his side, facing Boromir, and said, “You have your light. Can you tell me now?”

Boromir nodded. “I bought the chair because I wanted to give you a gift, a gift in exchange for one of yours.” As Faramir wrinkled his brow in confusion, Boromir tried to explain. “‘Tis not for the gift you have already given me, though you have given me quite a gift tonight.” Boromir ran his hand along Faramir’s waist as he said this, and reached behind his brother to stroke his rear when he said the words quite a gift.

Faramir felt the caress of his brother’s hand and thought, Aye, brother. I shall not think of the word ‘gift’ in quite the same way ever again. You let me take you each night as a gift between lovers. Faramir brought a hand up to touch his brother’s chest as Boromir continued speaking.

“The gift is not for the past, but for what you will do in a moment or two.”

Faramir still looked puzzled, but replied, “Whatever your reason, brother, I agree that I love the gift you have given me, many times over.” And he repeated Boromir’s gesture, running a hand along Boromir’s waist, then reaching around to stroke his brother’s buttocks. “Now explain, Boromir.”

The older man took a moment, then started speaking. “You remember the new reports that arrived two days ago, from our spies in Umbar. They were confirmed later that night by a second set of dispatches that arrived very late. I discussed them with Father yesterday morning but no one else has learned of the second, confirming reports yet. The corsairs appear to have agreed to ferry Haradrim troops from Umbar, though their destination is still uncertain.” Faramir’s eyes widened a fraction: reports of this kind could only mean renewed threats to Gondor.

Boromir went on. “I cannot depart while the targets of these troop movements in the South are still uncertain. So I must stay here. I will be in Minas Tirith for at least another month.”

Faramir looked at Boromir incredulously, his eyes going soft and wide all at once, too happy, too full of love to take it all in at once. The news was almost too much to absorb: another month with his brother, Boromir. His lover.

Faramir’s reaction was all that Boromir expected, and more. Boromir watched the play of emotions over Faramir’s face, the love and relief lit by the candle’s flame. “And that is why I needed to find you a special gift yesterday. One that would remind you of this evening. Because whenever I think of this evening, I will remember the look in your eyes when I told you I could stay another month. What a gift you give me with that look: it tells me how much you love me, Faramir.”

For once in his life, Faramir was wordless. His emotions were too extreme for mere words. In an instant, his hands flew up to grab his brother’s face, pressing their faces close together so he could kiss Boromir with all of his being, all of his body. Faramir’s passion engulfed the two men; the younger man went on kissing Boromir, hard, and even tasting new flavors in his brother’s mouth, he did not stop. Faramir could not stop, he could not think of anything except having his tongue thrust as far into Boromir’s mouth as it could possibly go, something Boromir welcomed, eagerly.

The tangling of tongues and arms, chest pushed against chest went on for a long while. Finally, winded, breathless from their kiss, Faramir pulled back slightly, and said, “Thank you for the gift, Boromir. It is one I will treasure forever.”

³ Faramir’s mornings in the library are described in “Who Will Care?”, found here.

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