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Boromir pours a full goblet and downs it without pausing for breath. He refills it and drinks that, too - but sees Aragorn quietly move the bottle away.
Boromir frowns and reaches for it a third time, but Aragorn places his hand on the man’s arm.
“My general, I would like you conscious,” the King says, kind but firm.
Boromir frowns. “Do you - do you feel no shame at all for this?”
As Aragorn considers him, Boromir wishes yet again that Aragorn’s gaze were simpler to bear. The calm, unhurried power in it, the heavy heat, the knowledge of everything that Boromir would…
“Tell me what it is that you would be ashamed over, Boromir,” the King asks. And even though Boromir sucks his teeth and shakes his head at the embarrassment of such a self-answering question, Aragorn presses, “The crown upon my head - or how I am made between the legs? Is it your ambition or lust that you shrink away from? Because I would have both, they look equally tantalising on you.”
Fun question though. Would it not be less dishonourable to desire for himself a queen, of royal blood he himself does not possess, but at least a woman? Or someone of more equal standing to him, but a man. One way or another, Boromir knows it is no crown princess and no captain that he would rather have, but this one man alone, to absolute ruin.
He is painfully aware of Aragorn’s hand still planted on his arm, burning through the fine fabric of Boromir’s lordly attire. Boromir is quite certain though that were he kitted in his trusted hauberk and the rest of his armour, this inevitable heat would penetrate it just as easily.
He stands up, and so does Aragorn.
The same heady rush as right before battle floods Boromir, but confusingly without a raging melee to throw himself into, for there is no opponent other than himself. And alas, Boromir can barely even feel the protection of the wine in his veins, eclipsed by whatever narcotic spell is Aragorn’s presence.
Part of him wishes they could skip all of this and get right to the moment where Aragorn has just fucked him, where it is done.
Surrendering to Aragorn the dominion over the entire realm had been child’s play compared to this. By that point, Boromir had been happy to follow the man, trust him with his own life and those of everyone in Gondor. He did not even want the new stewardship, tending to the lands while the King wielded his sword abroad. No, the sensible and genteel Faramir would love that job much better - and for Boromir to command Gondor’s armies. Because warfare is his calling and glory, where he shines and delights - and certainly not at all also because it would put him into an uncountable number of tents in the close company of the King on all those lengthy campaign trails, with their makeshift strategy councils flowing into dark, long nights.
Aragorn had not even cared. Aragorn had said, Boromir, my heart, I shall give you whatever it is you desire, only name it. So, chief commander it was.
But being General of all Gondor is of no help to him now, nothing is.
Aragorn is only looking at him, square into his eyes. The older man need make no gesture, speak no word, with his gaze alone he already takes Boromir.
The sweet fire it burns up through Boromir’s thighs, the ravenous ache in his chest… It would be so much easier if he could desire Aragorn with just one part of his body, but it is as though everywhere. This implacable need lives in him and becomes him, as though to have Aragorn is all that he is.
He had resisted such wicked urges, mostly successfully, all of his life. But that struggle had been fairly straightforward, when all he was up against were some rushed, clumsy fumblings by other troubled men, equally as mortified as him, avoiding his eyes and ready to fall away at the first sign of rebuke from the proud Lord Boromir. Aragorn has never given an Orc’s arsehole about disapproval from Boromir, be he a proud lord all he may like.
To be so aggressively, unapologetically desired - and to be so openly challenged to desire back… This, Boromir could not have known to brace for.
Just as Boromir realises he is staring at Aragorn’s lips, the corner of Aragorn’s bewitching mouth moves. A grin. His majesty is amused.
Aragorn cares not that kings should be - stately, and virtuous, and serious, and whatever else was expected of kings. And for sure, Aragorn may indeed govern them with humility, and patience, and all this other sage wankery - but that is not at all what he brings to bedsport. And least of all he seems to care that men, any men, are not to engage in such bedsport at all, and especially so upstanding, valiant warriors.
However, here Boromir is, facing one such warrior, and is one himself, yet when Aragorn breaks the quivering tension of their standoff by taking the first step forward - with the same sure, aggressive grace as he does when bearing a bared sword - no deed of battle valour is the King’s goal.
But to fall this low takes a sort of courage as well, and Boromir feared that Aragorn would judge him a coward were Boromir to flee from confronting their disreputable predicament. Evidently, his unchaste thoughts had not been quite as discreet as he had hoped, and so he found himself being asked outright.
And he agreed - to one night only, which did not need clarifying aloud, for anything else was simply unthinkable, as surely Aragorn would know.
Boromir makes no movement to meet Aragorn as the King comes around the table’s corner to him, for he understands that his face alone is invitation enough. Even when trying to grab the Ring off Frodo he had probably looked less like a possessed madman than he does now. That memory, by the way, is set to soon be deposed as the most shameful of his entire life.
Even as he turns towards Aragorn, Boromir takes a step back, until the edge of the table pushes into the back of his thigh and there is nowhere further to retreat.
The man before him may look so regal as though he never set foot outside the highest halls of Minas Tirith, but Boromir still senses in him, not even that far beneath the surface, the same inscrutable, maddening Northern ranger he had first laid eyes on. He can even smell it on him, his pipe-smoke, his wild herbs, the leather and steel, all now mixed in with the razor-sharp scent of arousal.
Still, Boromir leans backwards at the waist and puts his hand behind himself for purchase. But even as he does, his hips betray him and push forth at Aragorn who is now completely upon him. Aragorn’s own hips meet him greedily, and grind at him with… he cannot even think… with that spellbinding bulge that Boromir had spent months on the road trying not to accidentally glance at. Which now is a whole different thing altogether, so hard and long in Aragorn’s breeches - right against Boromir’s own matching hardness. Just the prospect alone of what is yet to happen is enough to have him engorged rigid with carnal want.
He raises his hand to Aragorn’s breast - to stay him, so he tells himself. But the sensation of the hard chest muscle against his palm, which velvet of no royal tunic will ever soften, the powerful beat of Aragorn’s heart beneath, he forgets what he was doing. And Aragorn’s own hand is not idle, and is now on the nape of Boromir’s neck, sliding up into his hair. Aragorn turns him, steers him like some tame beast at his beck and call. And Boromir does not resist, only lets his eyelids flutter shut as Aragorn’s cheek grazes his, as Aragorn’s rapid breath so close to his lips drives him…
He makes some sort of noise as Aragorn’s lips, as though only fleeting, but in passing, brush against his. It is not a noise that gives him any more self-respect.
The soft, thoughtful touch returns, and Boromir grasps for it, jumps at it with no semblance of noble restraint. He captures Aragorn’s lips in his, and feels them smile at his eagerness, before Aragorn moans into his mouth and conclusively undoes him.
How is Boromir to now share the cup with him in the hall of feasts, before the eyes of many, when he knows what that mouth can do to him. If Boromir had thought Aragorn’s eyes shameless, his tongue is something else again. Aragorn kisses him like a lover. Why would he do that? Boromir means to tell him not to, to keep this whole bloody thing within reason, but instead only dives right into the hungry, wet kiss, so hypnotically slow. It rolls through him like the surf of the sea, pulling him in with every push of Aragorn’s tongue, for when Aragorn rolls back, it is Boromir who now inconceivably must go into the King’s mouth with his own tongue.
And Aragorn lets him, so easily, opens right up, and Boromir’s hand on his chest becomes something else, not a warning but a claim.
Aragorn in turn is hungry for the feel of Boromir’s physique, roving over his shoulders, arms, chest, digging into, revelling in the curves of his muscle through his clothes. Every immodest glance of those icy grey eyes Boromir had caught on his body and told himself he was imagining, is now irrevocably confirmed by the zeal of his king’s hands.
Then Aragorn’s touch goes lower down Boromir’s front, and lower again, slipping under his tunic so there is only the one layer of Boromir’s breeches left between skin on skin, until Aragorn’s palm lands, cupping, right on… Boromir groans against Aragorn’s mouth, tries to bite at Aragorn’s lips. Aragorn’s strong fingers are exploring the shape of him, trying as though in earnest to get a full grasp of his throbbing girth through the fabric, which naturally is impossible but Boromir’s hips do not know this. His whole body is moving, straining, humping at Aragorn in a rhythm not of his own making.
Then Aragorn’s other arm wraps around him, pressing them into each other till no space is left between their bodies, so their hips lock in on each other and they move as though they are riding the same horse together, in effortless sync. Aragorn’s hand slides over onto the taut swell of Boromir’s arse, so unspeakably close to where the two halves could be pried apart… And Boromir is caught in between, needing both touches at once, polar opposites as they are, both forbidden in their own way.
“Boromir… ” He hears that grin on Aragorn’s lips again. “Would you we took this to the bedroom, or shall I fuck you right on this table?”
He cannot tell if the King is being dead serious or ruthlessly teasing him. Perhaps both.
Then Aragorn half leads, half shepherds him to the next room over. Where stands the royal four-poster, with its curtains, and cushions, and coverlets - and pristine snow-white sheets where Boromir shall leave his honour. At this point it feels like a foregone conclusion and Boromir just as eagerly pushes his liege towards the bed, undressing each other as they go.
They are both stark naked by the time they reach it, but he dares not glance any lower than Aragorn’s mouth, as he tries to find refuge in kissing him again.
He hopes at least for the mercy of a cover of darkness, and makes to draw the heavy drape, before Aragorn stops him with his eyes.
“But I would wish to see you.” And when he says ‘you’, it sounds like so many things. Your beauty, your loyalty, your desire, your loss of any rule you hold over yourself.
Once, in private conversation, Faramir had in passing referred to how excruciatingly handsome Aragorn was - and Boromir had sucked in his breath and chastised his brother. But Faramir had only laughed and said, what, are we all now meant to feign collective blindness till the end of our days, have you not seen the man?
Boromir sees the man now all right.
Tall and lean he stands, battle-hardened in every muscle and sinew. Designed to endure, command, conquer. With one word, one glance rule thousands upon thousands of mounted knights in bright armour, and courts of wise lords, and entire kingdoms, and lead them all to glory indescribable. Which is what Boromir ought to think as the first among his sworn vassals. But rather ahead of all of that Boromir sees that Aragorn was designed to fuck him senseless. And the way Aragorn’s eyes are on Boromir… so dark from the dilated pupils yet blazing with a feral light, as if all he can think of is to ravish his unresisting warden.
The hearth must have burned up all the air in the room, for Boromir is breathing aloud with his mouth open.
As Aragorn fells him onto the sheets on his back and climbs atop him, like some predatory animal from the Southern jungle upon its prey - there is yet another truth to face.
This is - exactly - how Boromir craves it.
Hopefully, this is simply how Aragorn always does it - which as a man, he should. Hopefully, Aragorn does not perceive the depth of Boromir’s weakness.
Indeed, Aragorn asks how Boromir would take his pleasure, and would seem happy for any reply that Boromir would give. But if one of them is to be unmanned tonight, by rights it cannot be the King. And Boromir lets him stay on top exactly as he is.
Aragorn straddles his hips as Boromir lies underneath him nearly flat, propped up only on his elbows in some pointless, futile last line of defence. Which puts him exactly at eye level with all the might and majesty that is Aragorn’s fully erect cock.
It appears that Aragorn means to lean in to kiss him again, which Boromir is far past avoiding, but the younger man’s eyes keep sliding there, drawn inexorably. To where the dusting of dark hair turns to a curl, whence the musky scent of Aragorn’s desire rises dense and hot. Unthinkable, but since they only have this one night, might as well give himself a range of things to haunt him later. He has had this service done for him, in a clandestine dizzying rush, but to offer it himself… To become precisely the type of commander who soldiers say earned his place with his mouth though not by the wisdom of his counsel.
He senses with his skin Aragorn watching him look. He knows the expression on the King’s face already.
Boromir feels his lips part, perhaps a little suggestively, for Aragorn says, “I shan’t protest...” And in his voice is a husky, strained note. Now Boromir simply cannot not do it.
Aragorn shifts forward along the length of Boromir’s body, until Boromir would only need to crunch forth but a little more. What is even wrong with him, that in his liege’s arousal he sees above all a strength that demands to be tasted. A delicious beauty, the upward curve in its length so elegant, the flushed head such a gorgeous colour. Boromir’s face is already perfectly aligned with Aragorn’s crotch, so all he really has to do is open his mouth, and with one push Aragorn slides right in.
Aragorn moans - but surprisingly, Boromir moans also. Or at least, whatever sound a man can produce with his mouth full of cock. It would appear he is physically unable to do this… thing, without making a noise in his throat. Like some sort of a hungry hum, which oddly enough delights his king to no end.
Aragorn’s hands are on his shoulders, then the back of his head. In a true stroke of tactical genius, what a vulnerable position he has put himself in, where Aragorn could easily hold him down and beat right into his throat - and in truth, the threat is not without a strange sort of appeal. He stills for a moment, waiting for it to happen, but Aragorn meets him in a manner that is sensuous but not violent, only flexing with his hips to go but halfway, leaving to Boromir to cover the rest of the distance as he would.
Boromir’s hands go up Aragorn’s thighs, grip him on the hips for easy purchase. Aragorn is in turn supporting Boromir’s weight, holding him up more than enough, and Boromir can relax, think of nothing but pleasuring him, which makes his own cock so hard it hurts. Licking, sucking, delighting in him. Basking in everything that makes this moment: the stretch at the corners of his lips to fit Aragorn’s girth, the shaft’s silky hot glide against his tongue, the meek objection of his own throat at the stab of the unbending stiffness. Which objection Boromir gleefully overrides as he gulps in as much as he can take. Take till the bridge of his nose is mashed into Aragorn’s abdomen and Aragorn’s balls into Boromir’s chin. Boromir’s eyes are shut so all he can do is feel him, taste him, breathe him.
And when eventually the King’s long fingers do tighten in his hair, it is - to halt him. “I wish to last when I take you,” Aragorn explains through gritted teeth.
And so Aragorn draws back, until the taut tip of his manhood only hovers just at Boromir’s parted lips, glistening with a clear drop of pre-pleasure leaking forth. Irreverently, Boromir makes to lick it off, but Aragorn would not allow it. And he holds, breathing hard and deep, waiting for the mounting wave of release to subside and roll back without cresting. Only when that is safely behind, he allows Boromir to resume his worship. Twice more the King tempers his arousal so, like steel in a smithy.
And after that Aragorn slides back along Boromir’s body, and makes a point to kiss Boromir deep, deep on the mouth, delve into him as though seeking to glimpse an echo of his own presence.
Then Aragorn reaches over and gets a small bottle of something which Boromir understands must be oil. The oil. Apparently, Aragorn had had the presence of mind to plan, and place this in a handy location.
But when he lies down next to Boromir, he does not put it on his own manhood. Instead, Aragorn's hand, coated smooth and slick with the liquid, slips in between their bodies and then back, further, into Boromir’s buttocks.
Boromir’s pulse jumps painfully in his chest, the flush of colour stings his cheeks.
“What are you doing,” he mutters, shifting backwards, away.
Even putting a cock in there is a savage madness he can reconcile himself with while in the fog of lust. But a hand - his king’s hand, his fellowship companion’s hand, the hand that has gripped a sword’s hilt beside him in combat… That is far too personal, too intimate, too real.
Yet Aragorn seems to see it as nothing special. “Just going to prepare you. Unless you’d rather use something other than my fingers to stretch?”
Boromir frowns. “Is that how you do this? With - ‘stretching’?” Valar, as if the ordeal could be any more undignified.
Aragorn raises his brows. “You prefer to take a cock in unstretched?” He looks almost impressed - in the way he does when he thinks Boromir is needlessly doing something fearless and beef-witted. Boromir has always wanted to fuck that look right off his face.
“I don’t prefer to take anything in,” he snaps instead. “What do you think, I’ve let other men go up my arse?” Other men besides you…
“Oh,” says Aragorn, surprised but clearly not discouraged.
“Don’t you - treat me as some damsel because of this!”
Aragorn laughs, a little too merrily to Boromir’s liking. “My general, you are about as far from a damsel as ever I did meet.”
He even says something to the effect of it being an honour for him, and Boromir barely abstains from rolling his eyes, what honour is there in this.
As he lies on his back with knees bent, he expects of it an awkward, demeaning discomfort, perhaps a bit like being probed by the family physician - if physicians did this instead of sticking a wooden stick at the base of his tongue.
But Aragorn kisses him again and with his other hand, which is also slicked and slippery, takes hold of Boromir’s cock to caress it for distraction, which is very effective indeed. And so Aragorn’s fingertips circling the hidden would-be entryway to Boromir’s body, they are… something Boromir can almost neglect, for this moment, and for the next, until…
The breach, carefully as Aragorn makes it, has Boromir gasp, and tense up, and lose track of his turn in the kiss.
“Shh,” Aragorn murmurs against his lips, “easy, easy there…” as slowly but inexorably he dips his finger even further in. Pulls out and then pushes right in once more.
Boromir wishes to experience it as intrusive, something his body would rebel against and finally snap him back to his senses, but he is all out of luck tonight. The strange sandpapery sensation is confronting, almost too intense, searing and raw like skinning his knee. He tries to hold his breath and endure. But it feels so uncannily good and who even cares about skinned knees. He finds himself sighing. Then again, harder. And the sigh that comes after that, lifts from his lips into a moan.
He can do nothing else while this is happening to him, and he just lies there, with Aragorn raptly watching with parted lips. The King’s stormy eyes, nearly black by now, are as though admiring him, transfixed by Boromir’s response to the indecency Aragorn’s hand is committing between the cheeks of his arse.
Boromir would rather not be watched, and a cowardly part of him wishes to roll over or at least turn his face away, which he does not do, but he cannot quite bring himself to hold Aragorn’s inebriated gaze either. He grows acutely aware of still tasting the marine bitterness of Aragorn’s pleasure on his tongue. He exhales with relief when Aragorn tucks his face into the crook of Boromir’s neck, to kiss, and lick, and nibble - as down lower he works, opening his way into him.
Boromir permits himself disrespectful, disloyal thoughts to take his mind off the unfolding of his own undoing. As Aragorn’s other hand is still lightly fisting Boromir’s rigid cock, he wonders how else Aragorn would be willing to touch it, which hole he would have Boromir push it into. Would his majesty go on all fours for his general? Perhaps Boromir should voice these thoughts, so that Aragorn could be outraged and punish him duly.
But although Aragorn makes no pretence of his ministrations being idle dalliance without a brutish end-goal, still he is not ungentle. It is intolerable. And so Boromir grips Aragorn by the forearm, makes him push in harder, deeper. Something in him wants it to hurt, believes he only deserves that much.
But Aragorn shows him that rather than going all in with one finger, the one can be made into two. And here Boromir understands the meaning of ‘stretch’.
Suddenly, this is getting serious. It twists a different kind of noise out of him, not even a groan, more like a laboured grunt. And just as he thinks he has managed, more is added into the fray, and two become three. Oh. How… how can he… He feels his teeth show, his breath go shallow and quick. He shuts his eyes, licks his lips, almost thinks to ask Aragorn to…
When Aragorn turns, rotates his hand inside him so the palm faces up, and as though makes to try and curl his hand into a fist with his fingers still inside Boromir.
Boromir’s hips leap up, his legs fall wide apart, and he cries out - but not with pain. What even is this? But before he can think, Aragorn does it again. Valar… Why… why would such pleasure exist? He knows in a flash that he is not armed for it, no man can be armed against whatever this is, but… Abruptly, Aragorn’s hand is gone! For a terrifying moment Boromir is left devastatingly empty and dying with need, and groggily registers that he has become completely disoriented and has no sense of what is going on. But then more oil is poured indiscriminately on him. And Aragorn is climbing atop him, nesting his strong hips between Boromir’s spread thighs, hooking his elbows through Boromir’s knees to tilt him up. Line them up.
The blunt edge of him.
Stupidly, Boromir thinks about how a blunt blade always kills so much more cruelly.
Aragorn’s otherworldly eyes are wide open, staring right into Boromir as he pushes in.
Boromir cannot look away as he draws a long, gasping, shuddering breath, as his body arches up to Aragorn’s. It is the most wondrous, mad folly he has ever partaken in. Why should Aragorn be so atrociously beautiful?
It hurts and it does not. He cannot even tell.
Slowly, Aragorn sinks into him.
The hard weight of his body on Boromir’s is so hot and real. His intimate presence in Boromir burns as it fills him up, expands him in some uncontainable new way. It is so much, too much, and the only way to reckon with it, to survive it - is to move. And Aragorn moves with him.
The King of Gondor fucks him, and all he can do is help him. The rocking of their joined bodies - it shifts him into some other way of being… And there it is again, that feeling… the bliss that blossoms within… Boromir rolls his head from one side to another against it, pushes at it, grinds against it. He fights it, thrashes at it, whines at it. Nothing is enough. All he achieves is make Aragorn fuck him even harder. And Valar, Aragorn can go hard - and he is not a quiet lover, either.
Close to desperation, Boromir reaches down for his own cock, to throw in at least something familiar into the unholy fray. But Aragorn takes both his hands, and interlocking his fingers with Boromir’s, pins them to the mattress each side of Boromir’s face.
Boromir is left with nothing but the feeling of Aragorn having him, right inside him. The utter fatal glory of it.
And right with Aragorn’s gaze locked unbreakably on his, Boromir comes. Hard, and loud, and with the brilliant intensity of near-death. But not as it is for a man to come, outward and with the front of his body only.
This strange release opens some terrifying floodgate deep in him, an inescapable force that rolls through him like some dark throng, annihilating everything in its path. And it feels so impossibly, catastrophically good. As though his whole life now suddenly makes sense. The very definition of what life could be, expands.
His body collapses, folds in on itself, and even what is meant to be a forceful outpouring of triumph through his cock is somehow not quite there. And he has no strength left to work with, it all turns into this depraved pleasure. He can feel his features crumble and fold into a contorted grimace of absolute surrender. And the noises from his mouth: a whimpering, moaning mess that he would not utter even for a blade of cold steel driven right through him.
But it is right there for Aragorn to see, all of it, and the King sees it indeed. And in his own face there blossoms suddenly a sweetness, and wonder, and something absolutely unbearably tender. And when Aragorn shuts his eyes like it is too much, and shudders with his whole body, and cries out with almost a wail, that too is far from kingly or dignified, but it is as though he sees no need to rein or hide it from Boromir. Boromir feels everything as Aragorn comes inside him, into him.
And as Aragorn does, he untangles one of their pairs of hands. He reaches down for Boromir’s utterly confused, still throbbing cock, and even as he is pouring and pulsing his own seed into Boromir, quickly he fists him off and over the edge.
The pleasure slaughters Boromir. It compounds as it crushes him.
And this time at least, his cock does as it should. His bliss overflows, and floods the small sweaty space between their bodies, and drowns him - and he feels himself cling to Aragorn for dear life, and hears himself scream.
He loves Aragorn.
Never has loved anyone like this.
If anything were to happen to Aragorn, Boromir would be stricken on the spot and die.
He hangs on to him like he is falling. Then he feels his thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably. And then heat and moisture rise up in him once again - and this time come out right through his eyes.
He tries to turn his wet face away, at least to the side, for there really is nowhere much to escape to. And Aragorn gathers him in, and kisses his trembling mouth, and Boromir cannot help but stupidly kiss him back.
And Aragorn consoles, comforts him, tenderly whispers some inane postcoital reassurances to him. And Boromir believes them, but also does not, but also wants nothing more for rest of his days than for Aragorn to hold him and talk to him like this.
Life could be so beautiful.
So hot, and raw, and sweaty, and confusing, and completely blessed.
But the shame rises in him implacably just as all the extra blood begins to drain from his spent manhood, just as the shield of Aragorn’s presence in him wanes.
And when Aragorn kisses his tears away from his cheeks and whispers something like, no doubt I shall feel the same way when it is my turn to ride your glorious hardness, Boromir is already not listening.
Then with a shaking exhale Aragorn rolls off him, and although he turns right back to pull him in with a heavy arm - in the moment before he does, there is a taste of congealed, lonely dread.
Aragorn nuzzles warmly into the side of Boromir’s face.
“Mm,” he grins against Boromir’s cheek, “I knew it would be incredible with you - but this… Sweet Valar, what a fool I am for waiting this long.”
Boromir sighs.
How strange, to lie like this, with entangled thighs. It feels too close, these smoother, softer parts of their legs, unbronzed by the sun, touching in such a private way.
He is growing cold and clammy with their blended sweat cooling on his skin. Covered in grime spread all over him, and not the kind that can be washed off with any type of soap. He knows he should sit, and then stand, but does not yet trust his head not to spin and make him fall over.
No matter. He eases his way out of Aragorn’s dozy embrace.
His breeches fell close by the bed, and Boromir gets them and starts peeling them back on, packing his shaky thighs into the tight pant-legs with poorly obeying hands. Then his boots.
For some time no comment is voiced, but he can feel those icy grey eyes on his back, fully alert once again.
“Boromir, ’tis the middle of the night,” Aragorn says from back where he is still lying rather spent and immobile. “Where, my heart, are you going?”
Again with the obvious yet unanswerable questions.
Boromir sighs as he pauses with his elbows on his knees, hands hanging helplessly down. What is he meant to do with himself now?
His face itches where his tears had run, and he rubs at it irritably with the back of his hand.
He stands, and sucks his breath as the movement makes the evidence of the King’s pleasure leak out and go down his thigh. He breathes through the humiliation, makes a conscious effort to uncurl his fists back into hands. His arse is more than a little sore - what else had he expected.
He gets his tunic, pulls it back on. He is acutely conscious of all the noise the fabric makes. Getting dressed before Aragorn’s eyes is so much worse than the undressing had been.
Aragorn behind him sighs audibly.
Boromir shuts his eyes, squares his shoulders. He should - just leave.
But he glances back.
Aragorn is lying spread out amid the many pillows on his royally sized mattress, his body looking debauched and perfectly at ease. A victorious king resting, returned from a good hunt. What a warm, happy place to be.
And that bed is certainly big enough for two...
Boromir thinks he catches that look on his face again, as though Aragorn is mentally shaking his head at him.
He frowns and turns to face him squarely, to challenge him with his eyes, even though he has no articulable notion of what the challenge is. He knows only that it is something to do with the shame and Aragorn’s refusal to carry it.
Aragorn does not move to cover his nakedness, but his face grows serious, almost grave, sad even.
Boromir makes to say something, and for some reason it feels that he should address the older man properly. As what he actually is. As my lord or my king, even though Boromir seldom turns to those words and definitely has not used them tonight.
In the end, he does not say anything as he picks up the last pieces of his attire, lying discarded right by the door.
He will not think of it yet, but somewhere down, deep down, he knows that he might yet find himself in this room again.
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The End