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Title: A Day Without Sunshine (2/2)
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9700 (21500 total)
Summary: “Let Faramir have the shop,” Boromir argues. “He knows flowers. He knows the business. And he loves what he does, something you stopped doing since mom died.”
A/N: Flower Shop AU. Inspiration for the flower shop and the floor above it drawn from Natsuyuki Rendezvous, seen here and here. Title from Alan Jackson’s That’s What I’d Be Like Without You.
~
The bed is empty when Faramir wakes up.
He can’t deny it leaves him feeling a little disgruntled and annoyed; one of his favorite things is to find that they’ve somehow shifted during the night. That Boromir’s become the little spoon in their cuddling, so Faramir can press small, skittering kisses along the nape of his neck. Can trail his fingers along the side of Boromir’s arm, to trace the scar where a nail gun backfired and nicked him in the shoulder a year ago.
Faramir still remembers it as one of the few times he’d fought with Boromir about something; he’d wanted Boromir to quit the building business, to find a profession where he’d be safe, away from the dangers of slipping off roofs and being hurt by nail guns.
What if the nail had gone a few inches left? Faramir had argued. What if, instead of your shoulder, it had been your heart?
Boromir had simply pulled Faramir to him, settling his arms about Faramir’s waist. I can’t quit. We need the money.
Money that they have now, Faramir supposes. He spares a moment to be glad that his brother can work with him in the flower shop now, where the biggest danger is a paper cut from filing bouquet orders. Or pricking a finger on a flower thorn. Faramir sighs and turns over in the bed, throwing the blanket over his head to simulate the last dregs of nighttime, in spite of the glaring sun. Spies as he does so, a note.
It’s written on a piece of white cardstock, one that’s folded in half and perched on his night table.
Thought I’d give you some time to recover after last night. Went down to open the shop for you. :) – B
The note sits on top of a covered tray, which Faramir finds contains a plate of scrambled eggs, and bacon, chewy, just the way he likes it. Faramir laughs, what little annoyance there was dissipating, though he still wishes he woke at the same time as Boromir so they could cook breakfast together.
He’s never told Boromir, but he loves to wind his arms around Boromir’s waist from behind while he’s cooking. To hook his chin over his brother’s shoulder and watch him work his culinary magic.
After making his way through quick mouthfuls of the breakfast Boromir’s left him, Faramir pads downstairs in his bare feet, clad in nothing more than Boromir’s red plaid shirt—a little loose on him—and a pair of soft flannel pants.
Through the side window of the shop, he spots Boromir looking pleased as punch, and a customer, a man with dark shoulder-length hair, walking away with a large wrapped parcel in his hands.
That’s odd, Faramir thinks. We don’t have anything that big for sale, do we?
And even though he recognizes the man, knows he comes in on occasion for flowers for his pale, waifish girlfriend, he doesn’t like the way Boromir was smiling at him. It’s the expression Boromir reserves for him, that bright, guileless curve of lips.
When Boromir turns to him through the window and tips him that exact expression, the knowing grin Faramir wants to hoard for his own, he realizes Boromir’s wearing his shirt beneath his apron. That it’s a little tight on him, so he’s left the top couple buttons undone.
The sight of it stirs a new wave of desire in Faramir, and he swallows, hard. Licks his lips, before he realizes what he’s doing.
“You’re up early,” Boromir grins, when Faramir pushes the door to the shop open. He shifts a bucket of petal clippings to the side as he comes out from behind the counter. Hums, appreciative, as he plucks at his shirt on Faramir. “I didn’t expect you for another hour or so.”
Faramir throws a mock scowl at him, but has to bat his hand away when Boromir makes to slip it around his waist. “There’s a customer coming,” he whispers. When it turns out they’re only passing by the shop, Faramir reaches out to flip the shop sign to CLOSED. Sidles up against Boromir, like a pampered feline. “Let’s pretend it’s still your birthday,” he murmurs into Boromir’s ear. “And take the day off.”
“Oh?” Boromir chuckles. “What do you want to do instead?” He takes in Faramir’s flushed expression, the way he’s fidgeting at the sleeves of Boromir’s shirt that he’s wearing, and laughs. “Oh my god, you are insatiable,” he says, slipping his arm around Faramir’s waist, this time successfully. Lets his fingers wander over the jut of Faramir’s hip and squeeze, playful.
“Wait, wait, I have something to show you first,” Faramir says, reaching for the cooler display. He’d forgotten his arrangement in the heat of the moment last night, and because the timing’s right, it can even double as a thank-you for that breakfast Boromir made for him. He nudges several rose vases aside and digs around in the back, but it’s—
It’s gone.
Faramir stands there, disbelieving.
“Faramir, what is it? What’s wrong?” Boromir asks, coming to stand behind him. Circles his shoulders with an arm, worried.
“There’s—there was an arrangement here,” Faramir tries, his throat tight. “I was going to—it was supposed to be—”
“Oh,” says Boromir, sheepish. “That guy that was just here? He bought it. I didn’t know how much it was, so I just priced it with the thing closest to it.”
“You what,” says Faramir. He feels something like hysteria rising in him, because no, Boromir did not just sell the arrangement he’s been working on for weeks.
“It was a big sale, too!” Boromir adds quickly, an attempt to reassure. “So if you want, we can go out tonight for—” He stops, taking in Faramir’s stricken expression. “I’m sorry. Faramir, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were—were you saving it for someone? Was it the pricing?”
“It was priceless,” Faramir snaps. He shakes Boromir’s arm off his shoulder and pushes out the door. Sprints up the stairs, each grip of the banister a tight, awful clench, like the vise around his heart, and throws himself on their bed, where he lets out an ugly sob into the pillow.
He’d put his heart and soul into that arrangement, and Boromir had thoughtlessly sold it.
Faramir had specifically grown and arranged stalks of salvia flowers to say I’m thinking of you. The cluster of primroses for I can’t live without you. And the red roses, artfully assembled in the middle, for I love you, an overt gesture just for Boromir.
And now Boromir would never know.
It doesn’t matter, Faramir decides, sullen. He’d never appreciate it anyway.
It’s not long before he hears footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the door to their room.
“I’m sorry,” Boromir whispers. He settles behind Faramir on the bed, on top of the blankets. Tries to curl behind him. “Faramir, please. Whatever I’ve done, I—”
“Get out,” Faramir croaks. “Out.”
“This is my bed too,” Boromir tries to joke, but there’s something hurt in his voice, and it hurts Faramir too, that he’s put that emotion there. But it’s not fair, because it doesn’t come close to how much Boromir’s hurt him.
“I hate you,” Faramir whispers. He doesn’t mean it, but it feels inexplicably good to say the words. And when he rolls crabbily into the blanket, bunching it around himself until he’s curled into a petulant lump, Faramir says with more conviction, “I hate you.”
He half expects Boromir to bully his way onto the bed and throw his weight on top of Faramir until they’ve made up, until they’ve talked it over, like they did when they were kids. A habit that’s carried over even until now.
So it hurts that much more when Boromir just leaves without a word, and closes the door, gentle, behind him.
~
When Faramir decides that he’s had enough of lying about in bed like a petulant lump—because he’s heard about how communication is key in any relationship—he slips downstairs to see if he can talk to Boromir. Like a reasonable person.
Boromir’s reopened the store though, and is busy helping a cluster of teenage girls, so Faramir makes his way to the greenhouse out back. Occupies himself with pruning dead leaves from the sweet pea plants. Absently rearranges the ceramic planters they’re supposed to put on display, once the spring-green and lilac Mother’s Day vases are sold.
From the greenhouse, he watches Boromir sell long-stemmed roses to the girls, coupled with bowls of bamboo clusters for luck. Watches the girls flock around him, fawning.
It’s times like these he remembers how good Boromir is at being the front face of the shop; people seem to come in just for a browse and a chat, and end up leaving with bags and wrapped parcels in their hands, whether it’s single flowers, bouquets, or even one of Faramir’s full-sized arrangements.
If Faramir knows flowers, then Boromir knows people, and it’s a wonder how they managed to scrape by in the time before Boromir worked at the shop.
One of the girls, tall, freckled and blonde, bats her eyelashes at Boromir now, and Faramir rolls his own eyes. Resists the urge to gag. Something about it—maybe the action, maybe the girl—bothers him, even when he knows it shouldn’t. Riles the part of him that believes Boromir is his; his brother, his lover, just…his. And it’s funny how that one word’s come to mean everything.
He doesn’t like the way that the ogling gaggle of girls, with their too-thick makeup and their mothers’ high-heels, tries to flirt with Boromir. The way Boromir pretends to flirt back in return. So when his brother calls him over, having to fill more orders from their supply of roses out back, Faramir grudgingly steps up to the counter. Suffers their too-loud giggles and clumsy seductions with a frosty smile.
Somehow Faramir’s irritation spurs him into believing that he can flirt too; that he’s just as good as Boromir is at this. In fact, anything Boromir can do, Faramir can do better. Like flirting. Talking with customers. And not stupidly selling off flower arrangements without price tags hidden behind rows of vases.
It’s childish at best, but he’s feeling oddly vindictive.
Faramir spies the girl with waist-length blonde hair, the one that visits once every two weeks, buying white lilies each time, though lately she’s taken to buying an assortment of orchids and marigolds as well. Excellent—his first test subject.
“Just the marigolds for you today, then?” he says, nodding, when she comes to the till. This is a good start.
“Why, do you have something else to recommend?”
“Uh.” Already he can tell his flirting technique is far clumsier than Boromir’s. “Our—” Faramir casts his eyes about for something, anything, and spots some of the girls from earlier, leaving with their single, long-stem roses. “—long-stem roses are very popular right now. Do you have someone you’d like me to wrap a rose up for?”
“There’s no one I…” She gives Faramir a sidelong glance, before laughing. “Is this your way of asking me out for dinner? Because I wouldn’t say no.”
Oh. She’s got an unbelievably no-nonsense approach, and admittedly, her bluntness is refreshing. None of the coy looks and shy, eyelash-fluttering glances.
Faramir feels his face flush; he’ll feel terrible if he turns her down now. “Yeah. That’s what I was asking.” He’s digging himself deeper and he knows it, but there’s no one to bail him out. Maybe he’ll just see it through and—
“Oh, but I thought you and your boss were, you know. A thing.”
“My boss?” Faramir laughs. He chances a glance back at Boromir, who’s humming as he rifles through their back displays and clinking vases together audibly as he goes. The phrase bull in a china shop comes to mind, and a tickle of affection rises in Faramir’s chest at how endearing that is, before he quashes the thought. “No,” says Faramir. “We’re not…” There’s never been an agreement that they’ll be exclusive to each other. Just because they’re brothers, that they live together, that they fu—
Faramir’s face heats up further at the thought, before he cringes inwardly; it’s true they’ve never agreed aloud to be faithful to each other, but there’s an unspoken promise there that Faramir’s taken for granted until now.
It’s that same promise that tells him this petty revenge against Boromir will backfire on him. That it’ll only end up hurting them both.
“We’re not together,” he finishes lamely. It strikes him then how much easier it is to lie, than to tell the truths that need telling. Truths like I love you and I’m angry at you but I forgive you.
The girl laughs, the sound of it clear, like hand bells, and not the deep, throaty laugh Faramir’s used to. Her eyes are bright and sharp, like fine-cut sapphires, her hair like spun gold; nothing like the soft, honey-blond of Boromir’s, the dark sea-blue of his eyes with its fathomless depths.
“People usually ask for a name first, before a date,” she says, snapping him from his wandering thoughts.
“Oh,” Faramir says stupidly. “I thought…right, yes. What is your name?”
“It’s Éowyn,” she smiles. He notices Éowyn doesn’t ask his name, until he realizes it’s only emblazoned across the nametag pinned to his apron, something he hasn’t had time to make for Boromir yet. “You don’t do this much, do you?” she says kindly. “This dating thing?”
“No,” Faramir admits. Things have always been so easy with Boromir; Boromir leads and he follows, and he’s never questioned the way things have gone until now. “And it doesn’t have to be a date,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Just—just dinner.”
“Uh huh,” Éowyn says, uncapping the marker they use for writing appointments and taking down messages for cards and arrangements. She pens a number on his wrist, the digits scrawled wide and loopy on his skin. “I’m free at six tonight,” she says, with an odd half-smile.
“Great,” says Faramir, trying to sound enthusiastic, but he’s already racking his brain for a way to let her down easy later. “I’ll, um. I’ll call you.”
When Boromir comes back out with the roses he went to get, he says, “Everything okay out here?”
“Yeah.” Faramir swallows. If Boromir finds out he accidentally scored a date he wasn’t expecting, he’ll never live it down. Besides, it’ll probably be good for Faramir to get out of the shop for a bit. To clear his head. “Just fine.”
“Fine,” Boromir echoes, nodding. His eyes stray to the door of the shop, where Éowyn’s still making her way across the street, but he doesn’t say anything after that.
~
“I need the truck,” Faramir lies, later. “To make some deliveries.” He’s loaded the backseat of the old Chevy with a few bouquets that he’s going to pretend to deliver.
“Deliveries.” Boromir raises a brow. “Right. That’d be a good idea, except we’ve never offered that service before.” He half-crowds Faramir into the wall, boxing him in with an arm. “Look, Faramir, can we just. Can we talk about—”
“I’m going now,” Faramir says, too loud and unnatural, and he ducks beneath Boromir’s arm, pushing through the door of the shop before Boromir can get another word in.
He drives aimlessly for the better part of an hour, just thinking and brooding about how best to talk things over with Boromir—he can’t avoid his brother indefinitely—before picking Éowyn up at six from her cousin’s. It’s a little flat in the city that she stays at when she’s in town, within walking distance of the flower shop.
Faramir decides to take her to an Italian place five blocks down from the shop, called Pacino’s or Pacina’s, an authentic-sounding name he can never remember, that does an equally authentic linguine and baked seafood lasagna to die for. He’s tried taking Boromir to this place on numerous occasions, but Boromir’s never liked it.
Real food is thick layers of pasta with meat. Not tiny bowls of tossed spaghetti with miniature meatballs that cost a fortune, Boromir had said each time, folding his arms over his chest, like that was the end of it. And any of Faramir’s further attempts to inject ‘culture’ into Boromir’s routine had been met with his bullish stubbornness.
Éowyn is the complete opposite, however, thumbing through each page of the menu repeatedly. “There are so many choices!” she exclaims. “I can’t choose just one.” The cluster of apple blossoms Faramir gave her when they met up sits to the side, their petals plump and pink, indicative of a promise. They complement her carnation-pink cardigan perfectly.
She finally settles for the gnocchi with Arrabbiata sauce, and Faramir orders a simple seafood linguine for himself. While they wait for their food, Éowyn leans forward, hands clasped together, intrigued.
“So?” she says, her eyes bright. “Your parents must be huge fans of the Lord of the Rings series, to name you after the one of the characters. Do you have an older brother named Boromir, too?”
Faramir grins. “I do. And you? Do you have a brother named Éomer?”
Éowyn cringes. “Yeah. And after him, any dreams of having a normal name went out the window. I might have been…I don’t know. An Elizabeth. Or an Ella.” She shrugs.
“It could’ve been worse,” Faramir laughs in response. “You could’ve been named Elephant. Or Eggplant.”
That’s the ice broken in the work of a few seconds, and they end up moving on to other topics, like the flowers she buys when she’s in, white lilies, for her uncle who’s in the city hospital, ill; her brother, who runs the ranch their uncle used to own, just outside the city, breeding horses and arranging horse-riding lessons.
He starts to notice how often she talks about her brother, and the way her face brightens when she mentions how proud she is of him, of having mastered the goings-on of the ranch with just a little help from a few friends. Can’t help but wonder if she’s a little bit in love with her brother, the way Faramir is with his. Except in his case, it’s rather a lot, and all their conversation does is remind him of how much he misses Boromir, even in the span of the hours they haven’t talked. How he misses Boromir so much it hurts.
And he likes this, the ambience, the food, Éowyn’s company, and she’s stunning and lovely, but her laugh is light and not the deep, genuine rumble of Boromir’s; her hand is small and pale when he dares to cover it with his, and not the broad, warm palms that Boromir will curl around his when he’s sure no one is looking.
“Faramir,” she says, suddenly.
Faramir startles and looks up. “Yeah?” he says, before he realizes how terribly impolite that seems, as if he hasn’t been paying attention.
“You seem kind of distracted,” Éowyn says, with a smile that seems almost knowing. “Thinking about something else? Or,” she adds, “someone else?” And either she’s that astute, or Faramir has just been that utterly obvious.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wander off,” Faramir says, embarrassed, resolving to pay more attention.
They talk about the ranch Éomer runs, and Éowyn slips him a card, in case Faramir ever wants riding lessons, or knows anyone who does. Faramir’s convinced by now that she is in love with her brother, and wonders if she hasn’t noticed it herself yet. Wonders if it’s reciprocated, though the way she talks about him, it seems like it is.
It doesn’t take long before Faramir’s thoughts wander to Boromir again, and he wonders what Boromir’s doing. If he should order something extra to bring home, even if Boromir isn’t fond of this place’s tiny portions. Faramir hopes Boromir’s all right; he’s probably laughed off Faramir’s earlier I hate you, the way he usually does with things that are meant to hurt him. Lets them roll like water off his back.
Surely he hadn’t taken the words to heart.
Faramir feels a knot of guilt build at the base of his stomach at that thought; Boromir’s always bore the brunt of their father’s attacks, and taken what abuse was hurled Faramir’s way, whether from within the household or without. But this time it’s Faramir who’s hurt him, because he was mad about the sold arrangement. And he knows now that it was a callous thing to do, to blame Boromir for doing something he didn’t know not to. To have flung I hate you in his direction so easily, when I love you should have come first and foremost but remains yet unsaid. To come out on this date, or whatever this is, leaving Boromir to worry, to make his own assumptions about what’s going on.
“—said you were going to tell me about your boss,” Éowyn says suddenly, and Faramir’s so glad for the diversion from his thoughts, that he jumps into his answer without thinking.
“I’ve known him my whole life,” says Faramir, before he realizes that’s too close to the truth, and switches tracks. He doesn’t correct Éowyn on her assumption that Boromir’s his boss; if anything, Boromir’s more a business partner—a partner in every sense of the word, in fact. But that’s too much information, and again, too close to the truth. “He’s—he’s still new to the flower business, though,” Faramir says instead. “Sometimes he puts the flowers away improperly. Sells the wrong flowers to people. One time I caught him selling crocuses to a customer asking for tulips.”
Faramir chuckles, fond, at the memory, though he remembers the customer had been less than impressed.
Éowyn hums, amused. “Must be frustrating having to work with him.”
“No, never,” Faramir says immediately. “Never that. He might still get things wrong, but he always…seems to know what people need. Knows what flowers will be best for whom, just from their explanation.”
“Hmm. That’s true,” says Éowyn. “He’s the one who suggested I buy something other than white lilies for my uncle. Said he needed something other than the color of hospital whites in his room, and suggested marigolds to brighten up the place. A potted orchid to give the room a splash of color.”
“Did he now?” Faramir grins, having almost said, Boromir did that? It’s only further proof of how his brother might mix flowers up, but he knows just what people need.
When they’ve nearly finished their dinner, Faramir flags down a waiter to order a pizza to take home. Requests extra cheese and Italian salami, sausage and bacon. Boromir might not like their pasta, but he can’t say no to a pizza loaded with extra toppings, even if it’s one of their “pretentious” thin-crust pizzas.
“It’s for later,” Faramir lies, when Éowyn raises a brow. “In case I get hungry.”
Éowyn lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug and smiles. “Sure.”
Once the pizza arrives, safely packed away in a takeout box, they head back to Faramir’s truck. The atmosphere in the drive back to Éowyn’s cousin’s place is easy and effortless: he listens to her chatter about the new self-defense class she’s taking evenings at the local college; she giggles at more of Faramir’s amusing anecdotes about Boromir’s mishaps at the shop, and Faramir’s own occasional blunders.
When he falls silent before sharing Boromir’s latest mishap, Éowyn nudges him in the ribs. “All right, something’s eating at you. What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” says Faramir. “It’s just, I’ve wanted to work with my boss for ever. And now that we are, it’s great. Even if he makes mistakes, they’re just little things. Things I can easily overlook, or fix, or teach him the right ways about. But recently, he sold this arrangement I’d been working on for ages.”
“That’s good though, isn’t it?” Éowyn quips. “More money for the shop?”
Faramir huffs, impatient. “It would be good, except I was saving it. You know, for a special occasion.” He’s careful to leave the words special someone aside. “And because of that, I…I said things to him that I shouldn’t have.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Terrible things.”
“In all fairness,” Éowyn frowns, “you didn’t tell him not to sell it, right? And you didn’t put a big RESERVED sign on it or anything, I’m guessing. Besides, maybe he was just thinking of the shop when he sold it.” She pauses. “Thinking of you,” she dares.
“I guess,” Faramir says absently. Boromir had seemed unusually thrilled. Had even suggested that they go out, after the sale. “When you put it like that, it seems like a pretty stupid thing to be mad about.”
Éowyn settles back in her seat. “Well, no,” she says. “The arrangement was important to you. But it sounds like your boss’s opinion of you matters more than the arrangement. Or you wouldn’t feel this guilty about the things you said to him.” She shrugs. “Just saying.”
“Right,” says Faramir. “You’re right.” It’s something he mulls over for the rest of the drive, and even when they move on to another topic, he’s grateful for her amazingly sharp insight on the matter.
“So,” Éowyn says slowly, when they arrive at the apartment complex. “I really enjoyed dinner.” Her fingers fidget at her hair, the way she does when she’s about to impart an awkward truth, as Faramir’s noticed. She pauses for all of three seconds, before adding, “But I think we’re better off just being friends.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Faramir breathes out, before he realizes he’s said it aloud.
Éowyn socks him in the shoulder. “Okay, I knew you were thinking the same thing, but it doesn’t mean you should say it out loud. Not in front of a lady.” She wrinkles her nose, and Faramir laughs.
“I did have a good time, though,” Faramir says, honest. “So, thanks.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. After a moment’s deliberation, she says, “I still think you should make up with your other half.”
“I don’t…” Faramir begins stubbornly, but Éowyn just snorts.
“Do us both a favor and admit it,” she says. “You’ve only been thinking about him—what, the entire time? If it was a fight, make up with him. And if it’s distance, close it. So that next time maybe we can actually have a real conversation. You know, when you’re not so busy mooning over him, in your lovey-dovey haze.” Éowyn pauses. “Is it love?” she asks, soft.
Faramir feels his mouth go dry. No one’s ever asked him this, point-blank. “No. I mean, I don’t—I don’t know.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Maybe.” Except it’s a lie, because he does know.
He’s always known.
He knows it from the way Boromir pads downstairs in his soft flannel pants early in the morning, sweeping up petal clippings Faramir trails on the floor, when he gets carried away making arrangements. The honest, heartfelt way he suggests Faramir’s bouquets or arrangements to clients, somehow knowing what they need, whether it’s for forgotten anniversaries, sympathies, new lives, or just-thinking-of-you’s—even if he can’t name every flower in them. The sweet, clumsy manner in which Boromir makes Faramir stay in bed a little longer, by pretending to be asleep while he wraps his arms about Faramir like an octopus.
All the little things, little habits and nuances of Boromir’s that make Faramir helpless to do anything but love him.
What he and Boromir have is many things, but love has always been the root of it, no matter what forms it’s blossomed into over the years.
“Yes,” Faramir whispers finally, hoarse. “Yes.”
Éowyn’s smile is kind, even as her eyes shine with a spark of mischief. “Then don’t tell me,” she says. “Tell him.” When Faramir bristles slightly, she laughs as if she’s just uncovered the secrets of the universe. He only notices then how subtly she’s slipped the pronoun ‘him’ into their conversation and he didn’t even think to correct her. “It is your boss, isn’t it? Though I could’ve sworn you said he was your brother, at one point.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Unless he’s both.”
Faramir goes very, very still; he doesn’t remember having shared that. Maybe it was the atmosphere, the company, that had loosened his tongue. He makes a side note never to mix alcohol with unproven company ever again.
Éowyn blinks. “C’mon, ‘I’ve known him my whole life’? ‘I’ve wanted to work with him forever’?” She sighs. “Look, your secret is safe with me,” Éowyn says, patting the hand he’s rested on the stick shift. “I, too, with my brother…” She laughs a little too self-consciously for it to be a joke. “I thought, with you, we might—but it doesn’t look like it’ll work. For either of us.”
“Oh,” says Faramir. Oh. With that, she’s confirmed what he suspected all along. And now that they know each other’s secret, he’s glad too, that her love is reciprocated; he doesn’t know what he’d do if Boromir didn’t feel the same way. The thought of that reminds him of how Boromir took care to assure him his love was returned, early on. Never left him to doubt or worry, or pine fruitlessly for years.
“I’ll see you around,” Éowyn says finally, and she kisses him on the cheek, chaste and cool. From that, Faramir knows it’s over, this thing between them, before it’s even begun. He’s glad he’s found a friend at least, even if this isn’t what he envisioned for the night—that he’d pour his heart out to someone he’s only talked to in passing.
As an afterthought, Faramir says, “I’m sorry. For…” He gestures between them. “For all this.” At least now that they know the truth about each other, they can start anew as friends.
Éowyn laughs, even if it is a little sad. “So am I,” she says. “Who knows, maybe in another world we might’ve made it.”
Faramir nods. “Another time.”
And as far as pseudo-dates go, this wasn’t half bad, but when Faramir pulls away from the curb, he hightails it on home, because now that he feels lighter, happier, he’s got something to say. Something he thinks he’s finally worked up the courage to put into words, instead of trying to say it with furtively left flowers with breakfasts, misinterpreted, and misused arrangements.
Boromir’s never left Faramir wondering about his affections, and Faramir can only hope it’s not too late to do the same.
~
By the time Faramir returns to the shop, most of the street is dark, lit only by the wan glow of streetlamps. It’s a sharp contrast to the lights still on in the shop, too bright and fluorescent-white against the backdrop of the street.
He finds Boromir dragging a dustpan and hand-broom along the floor, sweeping up stray petals and spots of spilled earth. It still takes some getting used to, watching Boromir putter around in his forest-green apron, instead of his plaid shirt and jeans, the informal uniform of his previous trade. Faramir likes it best when they wear the aprons together, like their mother and father did. As if they’re a matching set, with their embroidered sunflowers and stars, like those couples with identical jackets and sweaters.
He’s still working up the courage to ask Boromir to wear it with nothing else on underneath.
“What are you still doing up?” Faramir asks, setting aside thoughts of Boromir naked in the apron for now. “We never stay open this late.”
Boromir shrugs. “I was waiting for you.” He pitches what rubbish he’s managed to sweep up into the bin on the side, and straightens up, before turning to tidy the front counter. It’s starting to look suspiciously like busywork, as if Boromir’s not sure how to approach him anymore. As if he’s waiting for Faramir to make the first move this time.
“You didn’t have to,” Faramir says. When Boromir does another awkward half-lift of his shoulder, Faramir holds up the carryout bag from the restaurant. “I got you pizza.” He shakes the bag a little, hearing a satisfying rattle from within. “Extra meat and cheese, the way you like it.” He holds it out like a peace offering. Advances toward Boromir little by little, as he would a skittish animal.
“Pizza,” Boromir nods, standing stock-still. “Right. Yeah. How was dinner?” he asks tonelessly.
It’s strange, this, because their conversations have never been this stilted before. Usually when one of them returns, the other will be waiting so they can immediately hug, and if no one’s around, they’ll kiss, and Boromir’s mouth will be warm and soft and lovely against his. And if they haven’t been swept up in their passions—Faramir still remembers the time Boromir took him on the back table, and Faramir accidentally swept a twelfth of their inventory to the ground while his mind was completely blanked out—they’ll talk about their day, the customers. Maybe the odd bit of gossip that’ll affect their business, like who’s getting married and who’s planning to have kids.
“Dinner?” Faramir pauses, caught in his lie. Clearly that excuse about making bouquet deliveries didn’t fly. “It was all right.” The tick tick tick of the clock behind them fills the silence, the dead air between them.
“Is she nice? Everything you hoped for?”
Faramir looks up sharply. “She?”
Boromir rolls his eyes. “Please, you smell like eau de chocolat, what else am I supposed to think? Plus I saw her giving you her number.”
“Boromir.” Faramir sets the bag down on the counter. He’s noticed the tight set of Boromir’s jaw, the squaring of his shoulders, like he’s trying to stand strong against something. “It isn’t what you think—”
“Hey, no,” Boromir says, slapping him on the back, too clumsy and awkward both. “I’m just glad you’ve found someone.” His voice breaks on someone and Faramir can see the apple of his throat move too prominently. The way Boromir is swallowing, hard.
“Boromir, that’s not—” he tries, but Boromir only pats him harder, like Faramir’s a baby that’s choking and needs a sharp slap between the shoulder blades.
“No, I get it. I do,” he says with this insincere smile, ugly in all its falseness, and Faramir feels something crumple in his chest, tight, from the emotion he sees in his brother’s face. Of hurt, betrayal and everything else in between. “You’ll be with someone who can give you a proper life,” Boromir nods. “Picket fence, dog, kids and all that.” He smiles, wider, unaware of the tear that’s escaped, a mutinous thing that rolls down his cheek into the chiseled line of his jaw. “Two point five kids; pretty sure that’s the average.”
And this—this quiet acceptance—isn’t what Faramir expected. He’d expected Boromir to be angry, to be livid and spiteful, to be—
He doesn’t know what he expected.
Because Boromir’s never thrown him against a wall, to breathe You’re mine, and no one else’s, never forcefully laid his claim where Faramir didn’t want it, but he’s said I’m yours, in everything he does: from the way he’s given everything to support Faramir’s dream, like his time and money, right down to the little things, like bringing packets of rare seeds home, and flowers to brighten Faramir’s day.
Boromir’s always been the type to take what he wanted, to fight for what he wanted—in everything but this.
He thinks I’ll leave him, Faramir realizes, his heart twisting in his chest. He thinks he no longer has a place in my life. And the thing that breaks his heart most is that he can see Boromir really will let him go, if this is what Faramir wants. As if Faramir’s happiness matters more than his own.
He reaches for his brother then, clasps Boromir’s face in his palms. “Stop it,” Faramir says. “Stop it right now. That is not going to happen.”
The words seem to trigger something in Boromir, and instead of one tear, there are two, then twin rivulets streaming down his face, and Faramir feels something break inside him, because Boromir doesn’t do this; Boromir doesn’t cry. He’s always the strong one, always has been, but this time Faramir’s the one who’s done this to him. The one who’s hurt him so utterly and deeply.
“Boromir,” he says, trying to kiss the tears away as fast as they can fall. “Nothing happened at dinner. This life of mine you’ve imagined into being, with a woman? It won’t happen. That’s not what I want.”
“What do you want, then?” Boromir says, trying to scowl, as though looking irritated will cancel out his sorrow. He manages to look like a scowling kitten, but Faramir suspects now’s not the right time to share that.
“You,” says Faramir, smoothing out the furrow in Boromir’s brow with his thumb. “I want you.”
And even that’s inadequate, because what he means is I want you, and the life we have, and the home we share above this little shop. I want our creaky bed and sleepy kisses in the morning and your breakfasts of scrambled eggs and half-cooked bacon. I want to spend days in the sunlight with you, in our shop, or anywhere, as long as we’re together. I want the way you curl around me at night, like you’re my shield, my protector, my lionheart, and I want it all forever, if only you want it too but he can’t get his mouth to work, can’t say what Boromir needs to hear, to tell him what’s in his heart.
Boromir laughs, bitter, and pushes him away. “You say that now, but who’s to say you won’t change your mind later? Maybe you’ll get married, and bring your wife and kids to live with us upstairs.” He sucks in a breath of realization. “Oh. But there won’t be an ‘us’ by then, will there? That’s it—I’ll just have to go.”
At the mention of upstairs, Faramir thinks of the home Boromir’s built for him above the shop. Of the way he’d said It’s ours, like it was their new beginning, like they were a new couple and it was their starting homestead.
Then he remembers Boromir’s earnest Will you have me?
It’s the moment he realizes, the moment he berates himself for being such a fool. That Boromir wasn’t asking Will you have me for right now, wasn’t asking for the next day, the next year; he was asking Will you have me, for good or ill, in sickness or in health, for all the days of our lives? But he can’t ask the way everyone else does, with ring and bended knee, so he asks with a flat above the flower shop, and breakfasts in bed, and little favors like opening the shop in the mornings so Faramir can sleep in.
The thought of that stuns Faramir where he stands, and all he can breathe is, “Oh, Boromir.” Draws his brother forward, to kiss him again and again, pressing lips to his brow and cheeks and lips. “Forgive me, I didn’t see—I didn’t know—”
But for all that, he can still see Boromir doesn’t believe him: there’s doubt and fear in his eyes, like he thinks Faramir will give him up, even after all they’ve been through together. Will trade him for a wife and kids and a picket fence, for the chance to be normal and average and all the things Faramir should want, but never has. So he says the words he’s been holding back all this time, for nothing, when he should have said them all along; the words that would have given Boromir the reassurance that he is wanted, he is treasured, he is precious.
“I love you,” he says, pressing his face into Boromir’s neck and looping his arms around Boromir’s waist, tight. “I love you, and don’t you forget it, because it’s you, it’s only ever been you, and I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I was mad, because I’d been working on that arrangement for you for weeks, for your birthday, and it’s gone, but it doesn’t matter, because I have you and the flowers don’t matter, just, please, Boromir, please, don’t go because I can’t bear to be without you, don’t go somewhere I can’t follow—”
“Slow down, slow down,” Boromir says, drawing back and tipping Faramir’s chin up. “Didn’t I say I would never leave you behind? That I would never—”
Faramir’s voice nearly breaks at that. “You still remember. You promised. You promised,” is all he can say, useless.
Boromir shakes his head, as if he’s caught something else in Faramir’s litany of words. “The arrangement—is that what this is all about? Oh, Faramir,” he says, folding Faramir into his arms. “I’m so sorry; you made it for me.” Boromir huffs a laugh, short, relieved. “I should’ve known. It was beautiful.” He slides his fingers into the base of Faramir’s neck, into his hair. “So beautiful. But not,” he murmurs into Faramir’s mouth, “as beautiful as you are, when you walk in the sunlight, watering our flowers. When you hum to yourself as you arrange them to perfection, row upon row of effortless precision, and beauty, and color. When you sing to—”
“Enough,” sputters Faramir, laughing. “If you tell anyone I sing to the plants, I’ll kill you myself.” But it touches something deep in his heart, that Boromir’s noticed these things. That he loves the little things about Faramir, too. “Idiots,” he laughs again, pressing his forehead against Boromir’s. “We’re both idiots.”
“I’m sorry,” Boromir whispers, again and again, into the shell of Faramir’s ear, the hollow of his throat, the curve of his lips. Makes promise after promise, to be more careful, to ask before selling things. “The arrangement you made for me, you must’ve worked so hard on that. Faramir, I’m so—”
Faramir loops his arms around Boromir’s neck, shushing him with a kiss, long and slow and deep. “I’ll be better at labeling things too,” Faramir promises. He breathes in, once, trying to work up the nerve to bring up his other request. “While we’re at it, could you …” Stop flirting with our customers, he can’t say. Even if it doesn’t mean anything.
There must be something in the way his face flushes, though, or the way his eyes dart away, and damn it Faramir needs to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve, because Boromir draws him up for a softer, sweeter kiss.
“Faramir,” he says, gentle. “What happens down at the flower shop—that’s just business. You know that, don’t you?” He nudges his nose against Faramir’s when Faramir doesn’t respond. “You know that I’m yours, don’t you?”
“Mmhn,” Faramir mumbles, which is no answer at all. It’s a selfish request he’s making, and he knows it; whatever Boromir does, he does it for the shop. For them. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier to meet Boromir’s eyes.
Boromir presses more kisses, lingering and soft, to Faramir’s eyelids, as he cups Faramir’s cheeks in his hands. “I can see it bothers you, though,” he says. “So I’ll stop.” He wags a finger in Faramir’s face, teasing. “And in return, you won’t go around dating our customers?”
“It was only the one time,” Faramir says mulishly. “And I didn’t even mean to. I was just trying to be like you, when it happened—”
“Faramir,” Boromir says. He squeezes Faramir’s hip, reproachful. “Promise.” There’s something darker in his voice and surer in his grip that sends a tremor of anticipation skittering down Faramir’s spine.
“All right, all right, I promise,” Faramir laughs. It’s good, this, to know that Boromir’s regained his spark. That he won’t just roll over and accept it if Faramir’s somehow taken from him. That they’re being honest with each other and communicating.
They stand there together, silent, simply breathing each other’s air. Share their affections through wordless warmth, and soft, stroking touches, to hair and neck and hip.
“Are we okay, then?” Faramir asks finally.
Boromir sucks in a soft breath. Kisses the tip of Faramir’s nose. “We’re…we’re okay.” Then, with a grin too wide to be anything innocent, he tugs Faramir to the door, toward their homey flat above. “And if you’d like, we can be more than okay.”
“And you said I was the insatiable one,” Faramir snorts, but he lets Boromir herd him upstairs into what he’s realized is, effectively, their very own love nest. The thought of that makes him laugh; makes him twine his hand into Boromir’s and kiss him hard, because Boromir’s anticipated his—their needs just like he has those people in their shop, and for this, Faramir’s never been more grateful than now.
~
They manage to make it up the stairs, both wound into a breathless mess of rumpled shirts and half-unzipped jeans, and as soon as Boromir’s kicked the door closed behind them, he crowds Faramir backward. Kisses him hard, again and again, until he’s driven Faramir into their bedroom.
Faramir falls back onto their bed, the impact driving the air from his lungs, and Boromir lands on top of him, unsteady, his hands tangled in Faramir’s hair, lips pressing a fierce trail of kisses to mouth and jaw and throat.
He’s forced to stop briefly, to undo the buttons that’ll expose Faramir’s chest, but the moment Boromir reaches skin, he returns with full fervor, mouthing hungrily at Faramir’s nipples. Sucks the pert nubs, eager, until they’ve reddened into blushing cherry peaks. Bites rose-red bruises into the line of Faramir’s sternum, belly, down past his navel, harder and far more in number than the one or two Boromir usually leaves.
And maybe it’s that Boromir’s never fought for him in this sense before, never staked his claim on Faramir like this, so much and so desperately, but it sparks something in Faramir—the way Boromir dares now to mark him, to bruise him, in a way that declares how much Faramir is his in the way that he is Faramir’s—and he surges forward, dragging Boromir into him for a kiss. Pushes him back against the bed, pressing Boromir’s shoulders down until he’s flush against the mattress, and straddles Boromir’s hips.
“Let me, too,” Faramir hisses, because it’s not fair for Boromir to be the only one to mark his property. His territory.
With a nod, Boromir lies back. Cedes control to Faramir, though his hands don’t leave Faramir’s hips, still stroking, petting, greedy.
Faramir doesn’t even bother with the buttons on Boromir’s shirt, just slips his hands beneath, inverting it as he goes, and pulls it over Boromir’s head. Lays his own path of bruises in the wake of his kisses, wine-dark marks that stipple the column of Boromir’s throat. The ridge of his collarbone. The curve of his shoulder. Faramir smirks as he draws back, darkly satisfied that any interloper will see them. Will know Boromir is his.
Boromir seems to sense his intent, and presses fingers against the marks he’s made on Faramir in return. “Mine,” he whispers. The pads of his fingers brush against Faramir’s chest and trail lightly over his belly, before bearing down, hard. Like eagle’s talons, dark and possessive.
“Yours,” Faramir nods, relishing the dig of Boromir’s fingers into skin. He lays his own hand along the trail on Boromir’s pale skin. Sinks nails just the right amount of sharp into the junction between neck and shoulder. “Mine.”
Boromir hums, pleased. “Yours,” he agrees.
And with this mutual affirmation, Faramir returns to blazing a trail of hot, hungry kisses over Boromir’s chest and belly. Urges Boromir’s hips up and tugs his jeans off, to stroke Boromir’s cock, teasing, through the thin cotton of his boxers. Draws it out, slow, and touches his tongue to it, licking away the perfect pearl of precome that’s beaded at the tip.
“Faramir, wait,” Boromir breathes. He reaches for Faramir, as if to reciprocate, because it’s usually an equal exchange between them, more or less, but Faramir presses him back to the bed firmly.
“There’ll be time for that later,” he says. “Right now, this is all for you.” This is for Boromir’s pleasure only, to show him how much, how deeply Faramir feels for him. To reassure him of the depth of Faramir’s affection.
He laves his tongue along the underside of Boromir’s cock, tracing a vein, teasing, as he licks a warm, wet stripe along the shaft. Swirls his tongue over the tip, relishing Boromir’s groan, the insistent wriggle of his hips, before taking all of Boromir into his mouth.
“Faramir,” Boromir groans, mashing a hand into Faramir’s hair, his fingers tugging just the right amount of hard. It takes only another swipe of Faramir’s tongue at the slit before Boromir’s fingers tighten, nearly painful in his hair. “Wait,” he gasps, “not yet. I don’t—I want to, inside you, Faramir, please—”
Taking his meaning, Faramir slips his mouth off Boromir’s cock and shifts his way back into Boromir’s arms. “Yes,” he whispers, his breath hot against Boromir’s ear, as he gives voice to his desires, the murmur of them low and wet and filthy. “Want you inside me.”
He presses a close-mouthed kiss to Boromir’s lips, before kicking off his own jeans. Lets Boromir wrench his boxers from his hips, then grinds his half-hard cock against Boromir’s, already at full hardness. Dips his fingers into the precome that’s started pooling on Boromir’s belly, mixed with his own, and slicks Boromir’s cock with it.
“Want you to come inside me,” Faramir whispers, fierce. He guides Boromir to his entrance, relishing the slow, satisfying slide as his brother fills him, stretches him, until he’s feeling too open, exposed, and raw. Until the sweet ache in his hips and ass more than he can bear. “Boromir,” he says, helpless, biting down on a whimper. “It’s too much, I can’t—”
He’s been too eager for this, thinking they could do without the lube, without fingers to ease the way first. Damn it.
Boromir rubs Faramir’s back, gentle, warming him. Lets his fingers trace small, relaxing circles into each knob of Faramir’s spine. “It’s okay,” he says. “Take your time.” He soothes a hand over the line of Faramir’s hip as he presses soft, fluttering kisses to Faramir’s eyelids, his lips. Lets Faramir lie unmoving in his arms, to catch his breath, allowing him the time he needs to rest, to let his body adjust before they start to move.
When he’s grown used to having Boromir inside him, Faramir sits up cautiously, to rock his hips a little. Braces his hands on the bed frame to get more leverage, until he decides it’s not enough skin, not enough contact, and sets them on Boromir’s chest instead, his shoulders. Claws his hands into Boromir’s body as he rides his brother, slowly at first, then harder, until he’s bucking against Boromir’s hips like a bronco at a rodeo.
“Whoa there,” says Boromir, laughing, his hands coming up to cover Faramir’s, as if to gentle an untamed horse. “Whoa.”
Faramir tears his hands free of Boromir’s, twining their fingers together instead, their clasped hands leverage for Faramir as he bounces in Boromir’s lap. His fingers tighten almost cruelly on Boromir’s, the grip vice-like, but Boromir lets him have this, lets Faramir have control where and when he needs it the most. “Yes,” Faramir manages, between soft gasps. “Yes, good.”
“Then ride me,” Boromir encourages. “Ride me.” He loosens a hand and wraps it around Faramir’s prick, angry and red and slick, encouraging the buck of Faramir’s hips against his. Cuts a breathy cry from Faramir short by slipping fingers into his mouth, pushing them past his tongue and deep into his throat, in time with his thrusts, a mirror of what his cock is doing below.
And when Faramir starts trembling, gasping, “Boromir—so close—almost there—”, Boromir knocks Faramir’s arms out from under him, pulling him down for a kiss, hot and wet and hungry. Winds hands into Faramir’s hair to deepen it, until his tongue feels like it’s halfway down Faramir’s throat, before slinging hands low on Faramir’s waist, fingers pressing into his hips, hard. Flattens his palm over where his cock presses into Faramir, pushes Faramir down, forcing him down further onto his cock as he shoves upward, and buries himself to the hilt, hitting deeper and harder than ever with each thrust, until Faramir has to curl arms under Boromir’s shoulders, tight, and sink teeth into Boromir’s neck to muffle his howls.
It takes only one more hard, unforgiving dig at his prostate before Faramir cries out, nearly sobbing as he comes, because it’s never been so good, and he spills over Boromir’s stomach, collapsing into a limp pile while Boromir thrusts into him once more, twice, and spills inside him, warm and liquid and wet.
Faramir clenches tight around him, wanting Boromir in him. Wanting all of him. Coaxes each drop of his brother’s essence from him with a greedy, gliding slide that has Boromir gritting teeth and digging fingers into Faramir’s hips, hard.
When their breaths have evened out, Boromir strokes a hand slowly through Faramir’s hair. Traces the curve of Faramir’s shoulder to the crook of his elbow, before skittering to the line of his hip, with fingertips feather-light and fond.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a bath,” Boromir says. He presses tiny, nibbling kisses to Faramir’s nose. The corners of his mouth. Tugs just the slightest bit with teeth, when he gets to the fullest part of Faramir’s lower lip. As if he’d start there, if Faramir was a dessert and Boromir could eat him up.
Faramir concedes the point about the bath; they’re both sticky and soaked with sweat, and there’s also the potential for bath sex, which he decides comes third only after birthday sex and makeup sex. “Okay,” he mumbles into Boromir’s neck. “Bath.”
With a weary grunt, Boromir nudges at him to get up but Faramir only burrows deeper into his arms like a spoiled cat. “Carry me,” says Faramir. In the same imperious way he used to toddle toward Boromir and demand Up! with his stubby arms outstretched for a piggyback ride.
Boromir laughs, and after some careful maneuvering, carries him to the bathroom, his forearms hitched under Faramir’s knees. Faramir loops arms around Boromir’s neck, clinging to him like a limpet as they share lazy, open-mouthed kisses, Boromir’s cock buried deep inside him all the while. He chuckles when Boromir hitches him higher, trying to reach around him to turn the tub faucet.
“I can’t draw up the bath like this,” Boromir says after a moment. He kisses the tip of Faramir’s nose in apology.
Faramir grumbles, but lets Boromir slip out. Sits inside the tub, knees drawn to his chest as Boromir lets the water run, then scuttles over to make room for him. Squeezes a dewdrop’s worth of soap into a bath sponge, lathering it up and sweeping long, steady strokes along his own arms and Boromir’s.
It isn’t long into their cleaning before Faramir sits astride Boromir again, nudging his rump into Boromir’s lap. Enjoys the way Boromir’s cock stirs at his touch, with an interested twitch, as it slides against the cleft of his ass. Kisses Boromir again and again, in encouragement and daring both.
“Okay,” says Boromir, giving in with a nod. “Okay.” He startles Faramir into a yelp by pinching his bottom in the water, playful. Suffers Faramir’s scowl and the reproachful swipe at his shoulders with a laugh, before bodily lifting Faramir up and pressing him down against his cock.
And when Faramir takes Boromir within him again, he giggles as he presses prune-fingers into the dip of Boromir’s belly to anchor himself. Relishes the sensation of their slow, easy lovemaking in the warmth of the soapy water, hoping he’ll never have to know life without being connected to Boromir somehow.
When they finally make it back to the bed, when Boromir presses into Faramir’s back and noses the curls at the nape of his neck, to breathe words of affection, Faramir turns in his arms, to kiss first. To say the words first.
“I love you,” he says softly, touching his lips to Boromir’s. It’s not out of desperation or panic, and Boromir hasn’t guilted him into this; it’s the warmth and affection that fills his chest at the sight of Boromir, with his towel-dried hair spread out against the pillow. The softness of his fluffy, flyaway hair that Faramir smoothes a tuft of back behind his ear. “So much.”
Boromir’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, before he tightens his arms around Faramir’s waist. “I know,” he says. “I’ve always known.”
“But I—I haven’t always said,” Faramir mumbles, guilty. Cuddles closer into warm, damp skin.
“I knew anyway,” says Boromir. He settles his forehead against Faramir’s, his eyes slipping shut.
It’s then that Faramir remembers the dinners he’d keep warm, waiting for Boromir to come home. The blankets he’d heap on Boromir when he fell asleep in the back room, exhausted. And most recently, the flowers he’s left with breakfasts, hoping Boromir would know their meaning, would realize what Faramir was trying to say.
His heart does a funny flip-flop in his chest at that, a little oh of realization—that even when he stopped saying the words, he didn’t stop showing it through his actions. That what they have isn’t always about grand, sweeping gestures, but a love built upon little things; little affections that grow into something bigger, and brighter, and somehow more.
“Oh,” he says out loud. “Boromir?”
“If you nudge me with either your hips or your butt and ask, ‘Again?’, I will kick you,” Boromir grumbles, his eyes fluttering open. “Now go to sleep.”
Something in Faramir’s expression in the muted moonlight must give him away, though, because Boromir huffs a soft laugh and brushes their lips together. “Oh, Faramir,” he says, as if he’s just realized what Faramir’s hoping for. Smiles, fond, as if these are the words he’s wanted to say in return, for so long: “I love you too.”
(tbc - Epilogue)
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9700 (21500 total)
Summary: “Let Faramir have the shop,” Boromir argues. “He knows flowers. He knows the business. And he loves what he does, something you stopped doing since mom died.”
A/N: Flower Shop AU. Inspiration for the flower shop and the floor above it drawn from Natsuyuki Rendezvous, seen here and here. Title from Alan Jackson’s That’s What I’d Be Like Without You.
The bed is empty when Faramir wakes up.
He can’t deny it leaves him feeling a little disgruntled and annoyed; one of his favorite things is to find that they’ve somehow shifted during the night. That Boromir’s become the little spoon in their cuddling, so Faramir can press small, skittering kisses along the nape of his neck. Can trail his fingers along the side of Boromir’s arm, to trace the scar where a nail gun backfired and nicked him in the shoulder a year ago.
Faramir still remembers it as one of the few times he’d fought with Boromir about something; he’d wanted Boromir to quit the building business, to find a profession where he’d be safe, away from the dangers of slipping off roofs and being hurt by nail guns.
What if the nail had gone a few inches left? Faramir had argued. What if, instead of your shoulder, it had been your heart?
Boromir had simply pulled Faramir to him, settling his arms about Faramir’s waist. I can’t quit. We need the money.
Money that they have now, Faramir supposes. He spares a moment to be glad that his brother can work with him in the flower shop now, where the biggest danger is a paper cut from filing bouquet orders. Or pricking a finger on a flower thorn. Faramir sighs and turns over in the bed, throwing the blanket over his head to simulate the last dregs of nighttime, in spite of the glaring sun. Spies as he does so, a note.
It’s written on a piece of white cardstock, one that’s folded in half and perched on his night table.
Thought I’d give you some time to recover after last night. Went down to open the shop for you. :) – B
The note sits on top of a covered tray, which Faramir finds contains a plate of scrambled eggs, and bacon, chewy, just the way he likes it. Faramir laughs, what little annoyance there was dissipating, though he still wishes he woke at the same time as Boromir so they could cook breakfast together.
He’s never told Boromir, but he loves to wind his arms around Boromir’s waist from behind while he’s cooking. To hook his chin over his brother’s shoulder and watch him work his culinary magic.
After making his way through quick mouthfuls of the breakfast Boromir’s left him, Faramir pads downstairs in his bare feet, clad in nothing more than Boromir’s red plaid shirt—a little loose on him—and a pair of soft flannel pants.
Through the side window of the shop, he spots Boromir looking pleased as punch, and a customer, a man with dark shoulder-length hair, walking away with a large wrapped parcel in his hands.
That’s odd, Faramir thinks. We don’t have anything that big for sale, do we?
And even though he recognizes the man, knows he comes in on occasion for flowers for his pale, waifish girlfriend, he doesn’t like the way Boromir was smiling at him. It’s the expression Boromir reserves for him, that bright, guileless curve of lips.
When Boromir turns to him through the window and tips him that exact expression, the knowing grin Faramir wants to hoard for his own, he realizes Boromir’s wearing his shirt beneath his apron. That it’s a little tight on him, so he’s left the top couple buttons undone.
The sight of it stirs a new wave of desire in Faramir, and he swallows, hard. Licks his lips, before he realizes what he’s doing.
“You’re up early,” Boromir grins, when Faramir pushes the door to the shop open. He shifts a bucket of petal clippings to the side as he comes out from behind the counter. Hums, appreciative, as he plucks at his shirt on Faramir. “I didn’t expect you for another hour or so.”
Faramir throws a mock scowl at him, but has to bat his hand away when Boromir makes to slip it around his waist. “There’s a customer coming,” he whispers. When it turns out they’re only passing by the shop, Faramir reaches out to flip the shop sign to CLOSED. Sidles up against Boromir, like a pampered feline. “Let’s pretend it’s still your birthday,” he murmurs into Boromir’s ear. “And take the day off.”
“Oh?” Boromir chuckles. “What do you want to do instead?” He takes in Faramir’s flushed expression, the way he’s fidgeting at the sleeves of Boromir’s shirt that he’s wearing, and laughs. “Oh my god, you are insatiable,” he says, slipping his arm around Faramir’s waist, this time successfully. Lets his fingers wander over the jut of Faramir’s hip and squeeze, playful.
“Wait, wait, I have something to show you first,” Faramir says, reaching for the cooler display. He’d forgotten his arrangement in the heat of the moment last night, and because the timing’s right, it can even double as a thank-you for that breakfast Boromir made for him. He nudges several rose vases aside and digs around in the back, but it’s—
It’s gone.
Faramir stands there, disbelieving.
“Faramir, what is it? What’s wrong?” Boromir asks, coming to stand behind him. Circles his shoulders with an arm, worried.
“There’s—there was an arrangement here,” Faramir tries, his throat tight. “I was going to—it was supposed to be—”
“Oh,” says Boromir, sheepish. “That guy that was just here? He bought it. I didn’t know how much it was, so I just priced it with the thing closest to it.”
“You what,” says Faramir. He feels something like hysteria rising in him, because no, Boromir did not just sell the arrangement he’s been working on for weeks.
“It was a big sale, too!” Boromir adds quickly, an attempt to reassure. “So if you want, we can go out tonight for—” He stops, taking in Faramir’s stricken expression. “I’m sorry. Faramir, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were—were you saving it for someone? Was it the pricing?”
“It was priceless,” Faramir snaps. He shakes Boromir’s arm off his shoulder and pushes out the door. Sprints up the stairs, each grip of the banister a tight, awful clench, like the vise around his heart, and throws himself on their bed, where he lets out an ugly sob into the pillow.
He’d put his heart and soul into that arrangement, and Boromir had thoughtlessly sold it.
Faramir had specifically grown and arranged stalks of salvia flowers to say I’m thinking of you. The cluster of primroses for I can’t live without you. And the red roses, artfully assembled in the middle, for I love you, an overt gesture just for Boromir.
And now Boromir would never know.
It doesn’t matter, Faramir decides, sullen. He’d never appreciate it anyway.
It’s not long before he hears footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the door to their room.
“I’m sorry,” Boromir whispers. He settles behind Faramir on the bed, on top of the blankets. Tries to curl behind him. “Faramir, please. Whatever I’ve done, I—”
“Get out,” Faramir croaks. “Out.”
“This is my bed too,” Boromir tries to joke, but there’s something hurt in his voice, and it hurts Faramir too, that he’s put that emotion there. But it’s not fair, because it doesn’t come close to how much Boromir’s hurt him.
“I hate you,” Faramir whispers. He doesn’t mean it, but it feels inexplicably good to say the words. And when he rolls crabbily into the blanket, bunching it around himself until he’s curled into a petulant lump, Faramir says with more conviction, “I hate you.”
He half expects Boromir to bully his way onto the bed and throw his weight on top of Faramir until they’ve made up, until they’ve talked it over, like they did when they were kids. A habit that’s carried over even until now.
So it hurts that much more when Boromir just leaves without a word, and closes the door, gentle, behind him.
When Faramir decides that he’s had enough of lying about in bed like a petulant lump—because he’s heard about how communication is key in any relationship—he slips downstairs to see if he can talk to Boromir. Like a reasonable person.
Boromir’s reopened the store though, and is busy helping a cluster of teenage girls, so Faramir makes his way to the greenhouse out back. Occupies himself with pruning dead leaves from the sweet pea plants. Absently rearranges the ceramic planters they’re supposed to put on display, once the spring-green and lilac Mother’s Day vases are sold.
From the greenhouse, he watches Boromir sell long-stemmed roses to the girls, coupled with bowls of bamboo clusters for luck. Watches the girls flock around him, fawning.
It’s times like these he remembers how good Boromir is at being the front face of the shop; people seem to come in just for a browse and a chat, and end up leaving with bags and wrapped parcels in their hands, whether it’s single flowers, bouquets, or even one of Faramir’s full-sized arrangements.
If Faramir knows flowers, then Boromir knows people, and it’s a wonder how they managed to scrape by in the time before Boromir worked at the shop.
One of the girls, tall, freckled and blonde, bats her eyelashes at Boromir now, and Faramir rolls his own eyes. Resists the urge to gag. Something about it—maybe the action, maybe the girl—bothers him, even when he knows it shouldn’t. Riles the part of him that believes Boromir is his; his brother, his lover, just…his. And it’s funny how that one word’s come to mean everything.
He doesn’t like the way that the ogling gaggle of girls, with their too-thick makeup and their mothers’ high-heels, tries to flirt with Boromir. The way Boromir pretends to flirt back in return. So when his brother calls him over, having to fill more orders from their supply of roses out back, Faramir grudgingly steps up to the counter. Suffers their too-loud giggles and clumsy seductions with a frosty smile.
Somehow Faramir’s irritation spurs him into believing that he can flirt too; that he’s just as good as Boromir is at this. In fact, anything Boromir can do, Faramir can do better. Like flirting. Talking with customers. And not stupidly selling off flower arrangements without price tags hidden behind rows of vases.
It’s childish at best, but he’s feeling oddly vindictive.
Faramir spies the girl with waist-length blonde hair, the one that visits once every two weeks, buying white lilies each time, though lately she’s taken to buying an assortment of orchids and marigolds as well. Excellent—his first test subject.
“Just the marigolds for you today, then?” he says, nodding, when she comes to the till. This is a good start.
“Why, do you have something else to recommend?”
“Uh.” Already he can tell his flirting technique is far clumsier than Boromir’s. “Our—” Faramir casts his eyes about for something, anything, and spots some of the girls from earlier, leaving with their single, long-stem roses. “—long-stem roses are very popular right now. Do you have someone you’d like me to wrap a rose up for?”
“There’s no one I…” She gives Faramir a sidelong glance, before laughing. “Is this your way of asking me out for dinner? Because I wouldn’t say no.”
Oh. She’s got an unbelievably no-nonsense approach, and admittedly, her bluntness is refreshing. None of the coy looks and shy, eyelash-fluttering glances.
Faramir feels his face flush; he’ll feel terrible if he turns her down now. “Yeah. That’s what I was asking.” He’s digging himself deeper and he knows it, but there’s no one to bail him out. Maybe he’ll just see it through and—
“Oh, but I thought you and your boss were, you know. A thing.”
“My boss?” Faramir laughs. He chances a glance back at Boromir, who’s humming as he rifles through their back displays and clinking vases together audibly as he goes. The phrase bull in a china shop comes to mind, and a tickle of affection rises in Faramir’s chest at how endearing that is, before he quashes the thought. “No,” says Faramir. “We’re not…” There’s never been an agreement that they’ll be exclusive to each other. Just because they’re brothers, that they live together, that they fu—
Faramir’s face heats up further at the thought, before he cringes inwardly; it’s true they’ve never agreed aloud to be faithful to each other, but there’s an unspoken promise there that Faramir’s taken for granted until now.
It’s that same promise that tells him this petty revenge against Boromir will backfire on him. That it’ll only end up hurting them both.
“We’re not together,” he finishes lamely. It strikes him then how much easier it is to lie, than to tell the truths that need telling. Truths like I love you and I’m angry at you but I forgive you.
The girl laughs, the sound of it clear, like hand bells, and not the deep, throaty laugh Faramir’s used to. Her eyes are bright and sharp, like fine-cut sapphires, her hair like spun gold; nothing like the soft, honey-blond of Boromir’s, the dark sea-blue of his eyes with its fathomless depths.
“People usually ask for a name first, before a date,” she says, snapping him from his wandering thoughts.
“Oh,” Faramir says stupidly. “I thought…right, yes. What is your name?”
“It’s Éowyn,” she smiles. He notices Éowyn doesn’t ask his name, until he realizes it’s only emblazoned across the nametag pinned to his apron, something he hasn’t had time to make for Boromir yet. “You don’t do this much, do you?” she says kindly. “This dating thing?”
“No,” Faramir admits. Things have always been so easy with Boromir; Boromir leads and he follows, and he’s never questioned the way things have gone until now. “And it doesn’t have to be a date,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Just—just dinner.”
“Uh huh,” Éowyn says, uncapping the marker they use for writing appointments and taking down messages for cards and arrangements. She pens a number on his wrist, the digits scrawled wide and loopy on his skin. “I’m free at six tonight,” she says, with an odd half-smile.
“Great,” says Faramir, trying to sound enthusiastic, but he’s already racking his brain for a way to let her down easy later. “I’ll, um. I’ll call you.”
When Boromir comes back out with the roses he went to get, he says, “Everything okay out here?”
“Yeah.” Faramir swallows. If Boromir finds out he accidentally scored a date he wasn’t expecting, he’ll never live it down. Besides, it’ll probably be good for Faramir to get out of the shop for a bit. To clear his head. “Just fine.”
“Fine,” Boromir echoes, nodding. His eyes stray to the door of the shop, where Éowyn’s still making her way across the street, but he doesn’t say anything after that.
“I need the truck,” Faramir lies, later. “To make some deliveries.” He’s loaded the backseat of the old Chevy with a few bouquets that he’s going to pretend to deliver.
“Deliveries.” Boromir raises a brow. “Right. That’d be a good idea, except we’ve never offered that service before.” He half-crowds Faramir into the wall, boxing him in with an arm. “Look, Faramir, can we just. Can we talk about—”
“I’m going now,” Faramir says, too loud and unnatural, and he ducks beneath Boromir’s arm, pushing through the door of the shop before Boromir can get another word in.
He drives aimlessly for the better part of an hour, just thinking and brooding about how best to talk things over with Boromir—he can’t avoid his brother indefinitely—before picking Éowyn up at six from her cousin’s. It’s a little flat in the city that she stays at when she’s in town, within walking distance of the flower shop.
Faramir decides to take her to an Italian place five blocks down from the shop, called Pacino’s or Pacina’s, an authentic-sounding name he can never remember, that does an equally authentic linguine and baked seafood lasagna to die for. He’s tried taking Boromir to this place on numerous occasions, but Boromir’s never liked it.
Real food is thick layers of pasta with meat. Not tiny bowls of tossed spaghetti with miniature meatballs that cost a fortune, Boromir had said each time, folding his arms over his chest, like that was the end of it. And any of Faramir’s further attempts to inject ‘culture’ into Boromir’s routine had been met with his bullish stubbornness.
Éowyn is the complete opposite, however, thumbing through each page of the menu repeatedly. “There are so many choices!” she exclaims. “I can’t choose just one.” The cluster of apple blossoms Faramir gave her when they met up sits to the side, their petals plump and pink, indicative of a promise. They complement her carnation-pink cardigan perfectly.
She finally settles for the gnocchi with Arrabbiata sauce, and Faramir orders a simple seafood linguine for himself. While they wait for their food, Éowyn leans forward, hands clasped together, intrigued.
“So?” she says, her eyes bright. “Your parents must be huge fans of the Lord of the Rings series, to name you after the one of the characters. Do you have an older brother named Boromir, too?”
Faramir grins. “I do. And you? Do you have a brother named Éomer?”
Éowyn cringes. “Yeah. And after him, any dreams of having a normal name went out the window. I might have been…I don’t know. An Elizabeth. Or an Ella.” She shrugs.
“It could’ve been worse,” Faramir laughs in response. “You could’ve been named Elephant. Or Eggplant.”
That’s the ice broken in the work of a few seconds, and they end up moving on to other topics, like the flowers she buys when she’s in, white lilies, for her uncle who’s in the city hospital, ill; her brother, who runs the ranch their uncle used to own, just outside the city, breeding horses and arranging horse-riding lessons.
He starts to notice how often she talks about her brother, and the way her face brightens when she mentions how proud she is of him, of having mastered the goings-on of the ranch with just a little help from a few friends. Can’t help but wonder if she’s a little bit in love with her brother, the way Faramir is with his. Except in his case, it’s rather a lot, and all their conversation does is remind him of how much he misses Boromir, even in the span of the hours they haven’t talked. How he misses Boromir so much it hurts.
And he likes this, the ambience, the food, Éowyn’s company, and she’s stunning and lovely, but her laugh is light and not the deep, genuine rumble of Boromir’s; her hand is small and pale when he dares to cover it with his, and not the broad, warm palms that Boromir will curl around his when he’s sure no one is looking.
“Faramir,” she says, suddenly.
Faramir startles and looks up. “Yeah?” he says, before he realizes how terribly impolite that seems, as if he hasn’t been paying attention.
“You seem kind of distracted,” Éowyn says, with a smile that seems almost knowing. “Thinking about something else? Or,” she adds, “someone else?” And either she’s that astute, or Faramir has just been that utterly obvious.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wander off,” Faramir says, embarrassed, resolving to pay more attention.
They talk about the ranch Éomer runs, and Éowyn slips him a card, in case Faramir ever wants riding lessons, or knows anyone who does. Faramir’s convinced by now that she is in love with her brother, and wonders if she hasn’t noticed it herself yet. Wonders if it’s reciprocated, though the way she talks about him, it seems like it is.
It doesn’t take long before Faramir’s thoughts wander to Boromir again, and he wonders what Boromir’s doing. If he should order something extra to bring home, even if Boromir isn’t fond of this place’s tiny portions. Faramir hopes Boromir’s all right; he’s probably laughed off Faramir’s earlier I hate you, the way he usually does with things that are meant to hurt him. Lets them roll like water off his back.
Surely he hadn’t taken the words to heart.
Faramir feels a knot of guilt build at the base of his stomach at that thought; Boromir’s always bore the brunt of their father’s attacks, and taken what abuse was hurled Faramir’s way, whether from within the household or without. But this time it’s Faramir who’s hurt him, because he was mad about the sold arrangement. And he knows now that it was a callous thing to do, to blame Boromir for doing something he didn’t know not to. To have flung I hate you in his direction so easily, when I love you should have come first and foremost but remains yet unsaid. To come out on this date, or whatever this is, leaving Boromir to worry, to make his own assumptions about what’s going on.
“—said you were going to tell me about your boss,” Éowyn says suddenly, and Faramir’s so glad for the diversion from his thoughts, that he jumps into his answer without thinking.
“I’ve known him my whole life,” says Faramir, before he realizes that’s too close to the truth, and switches tracks. He doesn’t correct Éowyn on her assumption that Boromir’s his boss; if anything, Boromir’s more a business partner—a partner in every sense of the word, in fact. But that’s too much information, and again, too close to the truth. “He’s—he’s still new to the flower business, though,” Faramir says instead. “Sometimes he puts the flowers away improperly. Sells the wrong flowers to people. One time I caught him selling crocuses to a customer asking for tulips.”
Faramir chuckles, fond, at the memory, though he remembers the customer had been less than impressed.
Éowyn hums, amused. “Must be frustrating having to work with him.”
“No, never,” Faramir says immediately. “Never that. He might still get things wrong, but he always…seems to know what people need. Knows what flowers will be best for whom, just from their explanation.”
“Hmm. That’s true,” says Éowyn. “He’s the one who suggested I buy something other than white lilies for my uncle. Said he needed something other than the color of hospital whites in his room, and suggested marigolds to brighten up the place. A potted orchid to give the room a splash of color.”
“Did he now?” Faramir grins, having almost said, Boromir did that? It’s only further proof of how his brother might mix flowers up, but he knows just what people need.
When they’ve nearly finished their dinner, Faramir flags down a waiter to order a pizza to take home. Requests extra cheese and Italian salami, sausage and bacon. Boromir might not like their pasta, but he can’t say no to a pizza loaded with extra toppings, even if it’s one of their “pretentious” thin-crust pizzas.
“It’s for later,” Faramir lies, when Éowyn raises a brow. “In case I get hungry.”
Éowyn lifts her shoulder in a half-shrug and smiles. “Sure.”
Once the pizza arrives, safely packed away in a takeout box, they head back to Faramir’s truck. The atmosphere in the drive back to Éowyn’s cousin’s place is easy and effortless: he listens to her chatter about the new self-defense class she’s taking evenings at the local college; she giggles at more of Faramir’s amusing anecdotes about Boromir’s mishaps at the shop, and Faramir’s own occasional blunders.
When he falls silent before sharing Boromir’s latest mishap, Éowyn nudges him in the ribs. “All right, something’s eating at you. What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” says Faramir. “It’s just, I’ve wanted to work with my boss for ever. And now that we are, it’s great. Even if he makes mistakes, they’re just little things. Things I can easily overlook, or fix, or teach him the right ways about. But recently, he sold this arrangement I’d been working on for ages.”
“That’s good though, isn’t it?” Éowyn quips. “More money for the shop?”
Faramir huffs, impatient. “It would be good, except I was saving it. You know, for a special occasion.” He’s careful to leave the words special someone aside. “And because of that, I…I said things to him that I shouldn’t have.” His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Terrible things.”
“In all fairness,” Éowyn frowns, “you didn’t tell him not to sell it, right? And you didn’t put a big RESERVED sign on it or anything, I’m guessing. Besides, maybe he was just thinking of the shop when he sold it.” She pauses. “Thinking of you,” she dares.
“I guess,” Faramir says absently. Boromir had seemed unusually thrilled. Had even suggested that they go out, after the sale. “When you put it like that, it seems like a pretty stupid thing to be mad about.”
Éowyn settles back in her seat. “Well, no,” she says. “The arrangement was important to you. But it sounds like your boss’s opinion of you matters more than the arrangement. Or you wouldn’t feel this guilty about the things you said to him.” She shrugs. “Just saying.”
“Right,” says Faramir. “You’re right.” It’s something he mulls over for the rest of the drive, and even when they move on to another topic, he’s grateful for her amazingly sharp insight on the matter.
“So,” Éowyn says slowly, when they arrive at the apartment complex. “I really enjoyed dinner.” Her fingers fidget at her hair, the way she does when she’s about to impart an awkward truth, as Faramir’s noticed. She pauses for all of three seconds, before adding, “But I think we’re better off just being friends.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” Faramir breathes out, before he realizes he’s said it aloud.
Éowyn socks him in the shoulder. “Okay, I knew you were thinking the same thing, but it doesn’t mean you should say it out loud. Not in front of a lady.” She wrinkles her nose, and Faramir laughs.
“I did have a good time, though,” Faramir says, honest. “So, thanks.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. After a moment’s deliberation, she says, “I still think you should make up with your other half.”
“I don’t…” Faramir begins stubbornly, but Éowyn just snorts.
“Do us both a favor and admit it,” she says. “You’ve only been thinking about him—what, the entire time? If it was a fight, make up with him. And if it’s distance, close it. So that next time maybe we can actually have a real conversation. You know, when you’re not so busy mooning over him, in your lovey-dovey haze.” Éowyn pauses. “Is it love?” she asks, soft.
Faramir feels his mouth go dry. No one’s ever asked him this, point-blank. “No. I mean, I don’t—I don’t know.” He wets his lips with his tongue. “Maybe.” Except it’s a lie, because he does know.
He’s always known.
He knows it from the way Boromir pads downstairs in his soft flannel pants early in the morning, sweeping up petal clippings Faramir trails on the floor, when he gets carried away making arrangements. The honest, heartfelt way he suggests Faramir’s bouquets or arrangements to clients, somehow knowing what they need, whether it’s for forgotten anniversaries, sympathies, new lives, or just-thinking-of-you’s—even if he can’t name every flower in them. The sweet, clumsy manner in which Boromir makes Faramir stay in bed a little longer, by pretending to be asleep while he wraps his arms about Faramir like an octopus.
All the little things, little habits and nuances of Boromir’s that make Faramir helpless to do anything but love him.
What he and Boromir have is many things, but love has always been the root of it, no matter what forms it’s blossomed into over the years.
“Yes,” Faramir whispers finally, hoarse. “Yes.”
Éowyn’s smile is kind, even as her eyes shine with a spark of mischief. “Then don’t tell me,” she says. “Tell him.” When Faramir bristles slightly, she laughs as if she’s just uncovered the secrets of the universe. He only notices then how subtly she’s slipped the pronoun ‘him’ into their conversation and he didn’t even think to correct her. “It is your boss, isn’t it? Though I could’ve sworn you said he was your brother, at one point.” She pauses, thoughtful. “Unless he’s both.”
Faramir goes very, very still; he doesn’t remember having shared that. Maybe it was the atmosphere, the company, that had loosened his tongue. He makes a side note never to mix alcohol with unproven company ever again.
Éowyn blinks. “C’mon, ‘I’ve known him my whole life’? ‘I’ve wanted to work with him forever’?” She sighs. “Look, your secret is safe with me,” Éowyn says, patting the hand he’s rested on the stick shift. “I, too, with my brother…” She laughs a little too self-consciously for it to be a joke. “I thought, with you, we might—but it doesn’t look like it’ll work. For either of us.”
“Oh,” says Faramir. Oh. With that, she’s confirmed what he suspected all along. And now that they know each other’s secret, he’s glad too, that her love is reciprocated; he doesn’t know what he’d do if Boromir didn’t feel the same way. The thought of that reminds him of how Boromir took care to assure him his love was returned, early on. Never left him to doubt or worry, or pine fruitlessly for years.
“I’ll see you around,” Éowyn says finally, and she kisses him on the cheek, chaste and cool. From that, Faramir knows it’s over, this thing between them, before it’s even begun. He’s glad he’s found a friend at least, even if this isn’t what he envisioned for the night—that he’d pour his heart out to someone he’s only talked to in passing.
As an afterthought, Faramir says, “I’m sorry. For…” He gestures between them. “For all this.” At least now that they know the truth about each other, they can start anew as friends.
Éowyn laughs, even if it is a little sad. “So am I,” she says. “Who knows, maybe in another world we might’ve made it.”
Faramir nods. “Another time.”
And as far as pseudo-dates go, this wasn’t half bad, but when Faramir pulls away from the curb, he hightails it on home, because now that he feels lighter, happier, he’s got something to say. Something he thinks he’s finally worked up the courage to put into words, instead of trying to say it with furtively left flowers with breakfasts, misinterpreted, and misused arrangements.
Boromir’s never left Faramir wondering about his affections, and Faramir can only hope it’s not too late to do the same.
By the time Faramir returns to the shop, most of the street is dark, lit only by the wan glow of streetlamps. It’s a sharp contrast to the lights still on in the shop, too bright and fluorescent-white against the backdrop of the street.
He finds Boromir dragging a dustpan and hand-broom along the floor, sweeping up stray petals and spots of spilled earth. It still takes some getting used to, watching Boromir putter around in his forest-green apron, instead of his plaid shirt and jeans, the informal uniform of his previous trade. Faramir likes it best when they wear the aprons together, like their mother and father did. As if they’re a matching set, with their embroidered sunflowers and stars, like those couples with identical jackets and sweaters.
He’s still working up the courage to ask Boromir to wear it with nothing else on underneath.
“What are you still doing up?” Faramir asks, setting aside thoughts of Boromir naked in the apron for now. “We never stay open this late.”
Boromir shrugs. “I was waiting for you.” He pitches what rubbish he’s managed to sweep up into the bin on the side, and straightens up, before turning to tidy the front counter. It’s starting to look suspiciously like busywork, as if Boromir’s not sure how to approach him anymore. As if he’s waiting for Faramir to make the first move this time.
“You didn’t have to,” Faramir says. When Boromir does another awkward half-lift of his shoulder, Faramir holds up the carryout bag from the restaurant. “I got you pizza.” He shakes the bag a little, hearing a satisfying rattle from within. “Extra meat and cheese, the way you like it.” He holds it out like a peace offering. Advances toward Boromir little by little, as he would a skittish animal.
“Pizza,” Boromir nods, standing stock-still. “Right. Yeah. How was dinner?” he asks tonelessly.
It’s strange, this, because their conversations have never been this stilted before. Usually when one of them returns, the other will be waiting so they can immediately hug, and if no one’s around, they’ll kiss, and Boromir’s mouth will be warm and soft and lovely against his. And if they haven’t been swept up in their passions—Faramir still remembers the time Boromir took him on the back table, and Faramir accidentally swept a twelfth of their inventory to the ground while his mind was completely blanked out—they’ll talk about their day, the customers. Maybe the odd bit of gossip that’ll affect their business, like who’s getting married and who’s planning to have kids.
“Dinner?” Faramir pauses, caught in his lie. Clearly that excuse about making bouquet deliveries didn’t fly. “It was all right.” The tick tick tick of the clock behind them fills the silence, the dead air between them.
“Is she nice? Everything you hoped for?”
Faramir looks up sharply. “She?”
Boromir rolls his eyes. “Please, you smell like eau de chocolat, what else am I supposed to think? Plus I saw her giving you her number.”
“Boromir.” Faramir sets the bag down on the counter. He’s noticed the tight set of Boromir’s jaw, the squaring of his shoulders, like he’s trying to stand strong against something. “It isn’t what you think—”
“Hey, no,” Boromir says, slapping him on the back, too clumsy and awkward both. “I’m just glad you’ve found someone.” His voice breaks on someone and Faramir can see the apple of his throat move too prominently. The way Boromir is swallowing, hard.
“Boromir, that’s not—” he tries, but Boromir only pats him harder, like Faramir’s a baby that’s choking and needs a sharp slap between the shoulder blades.
“No, I get it. I do,” he says with this insincere smile, ugly in all its falseness, and Faramir feels something crumple in his chest, tight, from the emotion he sees in his brother’s face. Of hurt, betrayal and everything else in between. “You’ll be with someone who can give you a proper life,” Boromir nods. “Picket fence, dog, kids and all that.” He smiles, wider, unaware of the tear that’s escaped, a mutinous thing that rolls down his cheek into the chiseled line of his jaw. “Two point five kids; pretty sure that’s the average.”
And this—this quiet acceptance—isn’t what Faramir expected. He’d expected Boromir to be angry, to be livid and spiteful, to be—
He doesn’t know what he expected.
Because Boromir’s never thrown him against a wall, to breathe You’re mine, and no one else’s, never forcefully laid his claim where Faramir didn’t want it, but he’s said I’m yours, in everything he does: from the way he’s given everything to support Faramir’s dream, like his time and money, right down to the little things, like bringing packets of rare seeds home, and flowers to brighten Faramir’s day.
Boromir’s always been the type to take what he wanted, to fight for what he wanted—in everything but this.
He thinks I’ll leave him, Faramir realizes, his heart twisting in his chest. He thinks he no longer has a place in my life. And the thing that breaks his heart most is that he can see Boromir really will let him go, if this is what Faramir wants. As if Faramir’s happiness matters more than his own.
He reaches for his brother then, clasps Boromir’s face in his palms. “Stop it,” Faramir says. “Stop it right now. That is not going to happen.”
The words seem to trigger something in Boromir, and instead of one tear, there are two, then twin rivulets streaming down his face, and Faramir feels something break inside him, because Boromir doesn’t do this; Boromir doesn’t cry. He’s always the strong one, always has been, but this time Faramir’s the one who’s done this to him. The one who’s hurt him so utterly and deeply.
“Boromir,” he says, trying to kiss the tears away as fast as they can fall. “Nothing happened at dinner. This life of mine you’ve imagined into being, with a woman? It won’t happen. That’s not what I want.”
“What do you want, then?” Boromir says, trying to scowl, as though looking irritated will cancel out his sorrow. He manages to look like a scowling kitten, but Faramir suspects now’s not the right time to share that.
“You,” says Faramir, smoothing out the furrow in Boromir’s brow with his thumb. “I want you.”
And even that’s inadequate, because what he means is I want you, and the life we have, and the home we share above this little shop. I want our creaky bed and sleepy kisses in the morning and your breakfasts of scrambled eggs and half-cooked bacon. I want to spend days in the sunlight with you, in our shop, or anywhere, as long as we’re together. I want the way you curl around me at night, like you’re my shield, my protector, my lionheart, and I want it all forever, if only you want it too but he can’t get his mouth to work, can’t say what Boromir needs to hear, to tell him what’s in his heart.
Boromir laughs, bitter, and pushes him away. “You say that now, but who’s to say you won’t change your mind later? Maybe you’ll get married, and bring your wife and kids to live with us upstairs.” He sucks in a breath of realization. “Oh. But there won’t be an ‘us’ by then, will there? That’s it—I’ll just have to go.”
At the mention of upstairs, Faramir thinks of the home Boromir’s built for him above the shop. Of the way he’d said It’s ours, like it was their new beginning, like they were a new couple and it was their starting homestead.
Then he remembers Boromir’s earnest Will you have me?
It’s the moment he realizes, the moment he berates himself for being such a fool. That Boromir wasn’t asking Will you have me for right now, wasn’t asking for the next day, the next year; he was asking Will you have me, for good or ill, in sickness or in health, for all the days of our lives? But he can’t ask the way everyone else does, with ring and bended knee, so he asks with a flat above the flower shop, and breakfasts in bed, and little favors like opening the shop in the mornings so Faramir can sleep in.
The thought of that stuns Faramir where he stands, and all he can breathe is, “Oh, Boromir.” Draws his brother forward, to kiss him again and again, pressing lips to his brow and cheeks and lips. “Forgive me, I didn’t see—I didn’t know—”
But for all that, he can still see Boromir doesn’t believe him: there’s doubt and fear in his eyes, like he thinks Faramir will give him up, even after all they’ve been through together. Will trade him for a wife and kids and a picket fence, for the chance to be normal and average and all the things Faramir should want, but never has. So he says the words he’s been holding back all this time, for nothing, when he should have said them all along; the words that would have given Boromir the reassurance that he is wanted, he is treasured, he is precious.
“I love you,” he says, pressing his face into Boromir’s neck and looping his arms around Boromir’s waist, tight. “I love you, and don’t you forget it, because it’s you, it’s only ever been you, and I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I was mad, because I’d been working on that arrangement for you for weeks, for your birthday, and it’s gone, but it doesn’t matter, because I have you and the flowers don’t matter, just, please, Boromir, please, don’t go because I can’t bear to be without you, don’t go somewhere I can’t follow—”
“Slow down, slow down,” Boromir says, drawing back and tipping Faramir’s chin up. “Didn’t I say I would never leave you behind? That I would never—”
Faramir’s voice nearly breaks at that. “You still remember. You promised. You promised,” is all he can say, useless.
Boromir shakes his head, as if he’s caught something else in Faramir’s litany of words. “The arrangement—is that what this is all about? Oh, Faramir,” he says, folding Faramir into his arms. “I’m so sorry; you made it for me.” Boromir huffs a laugh, short, relieved. “I should’ve known. It was beautiful.” He slides his fingers into the base of Faramir’s neck, into his hair. “So beautiful. But not,” he murmurs into Faramir’s mouth, “as beautiful as you are, when you walk in the sunlight, watering our flowers. When you hum to yourself as you arrange them to perfection, row upon row of effortless precision, and beauty, and color. When you sing to—”
“Enough,” sputters Faramir, laughing. “If you tell anyone I sing to the plants, I’ll kill you myself.” But it touches something deep in his heart, that Boromir’s noticed these things. That he loves the little things about Faramir, too. “Idiots,” he laughs again, pressing his forehead against Boromir’s. “We’re both idiots.”
“I’m sorry,” Boromir whispers, again and again, into the shell of Faramir’s ear, the hollow of his throat, the curve of his lips. Makes promise after promise, to be more careful, to ask before selling things. “The arrangement you made for me, you must’ve worked so hard on that. Faramir, I’m so—”
Faramir loops his arms around Boromir’s neck, shushing him with a kiss, long and slow and deep. “I’ll be better at labeling things too,” Faramir promises. He breathes in, once, trying to work up the nerve to bring up his other request. “While we’re at it, could you …” Stop flirting with our customers, he can’t say. Even if it doesn’t mean anything.
There must be something in the way his face flushes, though, or the way his eyes dart away, and damn it Faramir needs to stop wearing his heart on his sleeve, because Boromir draws him up for a softer, sweeter kiss.
“Faramir,” he says, gentle. “What happens down at the flower shop—that’s just business. You know that, don’t you?” He nudges his nose against Faramir’s when Faramir doesn’t respond. “You know that I’m yours, don’t you?”
“Mmhn,” Faramir mumbles, which is no answer at all. It’s a selfish request he’s making, and he knows it; whatever Boromir does, he does it for the shop. For them. Still, it doesn’t make it any easier to meet Boromir’s eyes.
Boromir presses more kisses, lingering and soft, to Faramir’s eyelids, as he cups Faramir’s cheeks in his hands. “I can see it bothers you, though,” he says. “So I’ll stop.” He wags a finger in Faramir’s face, teasing. “And in return, you won’t go around dating our customers?”
“It was only the one time,” Faramir says mulishly. “And I didn’t even mean to. I was just trying to be like you, when it happened—”
“Faramir,” Boromir says. He squeezes Faramir’s hip, reproachful. “Promise.” There’s something darker in his voice and surer in his grip that sends a tremor of anticipation skittering down Faramir’s spine.
“All right, all right, I promise,” Faramir laughs. It’s good, this, to know that Boromir’s regained his spark. That he won’t just roll over and accept it if Faramir’s somehow taken from him. That they’re being honest with each other and communicating.
They stand there together, silent, simply breathing each other’s air. Share their affections through wordless warmth, and soft, stroking touches, to hair and neck and hip.
“Are we okay, then?” Faramir asks finally.
Boromir sucks in a soft breath. Kisses the tip of Faramir’s nose. “We’re…we’re okay.” Then, with a grin too wide to be anything innocent, he tugs Faramir to the door, toward their homey flat above. “And if you’d like, we can be more than okay.”
“And you said I was the insatiable one,” Faramir snorts, but he lets Boromir herd him upstairs into what he’s realized is, effectively, their very own love nest. The thought of that makes him laugh; makes him twine his hand into Boromir’s and kiss him hard, because Boromir’s anticipated his—their needs just like he has those people in their shop, and for this, Faramir’s never been more grateful than now.
They manage to make it up the stairs, both wound into a breathless mess of rumpled shirts and half-unzipped jeans, and as soon as Boromir’s kicked the door closed behind them, he crowds Faramir backward. Kisses him hard, again and again, until he’s driven Faramir into their bedroom.
Faramir falls back onto their bed, the impact driving the air from his lungs, and Boromir lands on top of him, unsteady, his hands tangled in Faramir’s hair, lips pressing a fierce trail of kisses to mouth and jaw and throat.
He’s forced to stop briefly, to undo the buttons that’ll expose Faramir’s chest, but the moment Boromir reaches skin, he returns with full fervor, mouthing hungrily at Faramir’s nipples. Sucks the pert nubs, eager, until they’ve reddened into blushing cherry peaks. Bites rose-red bruises into the line of Faramir’s sternum, belly, down past his navel, harder and far more in number than the one or two Boromir usually leaves.
And maybe it’s that Boromir’s never fought for him in this sense before, never staked his claim on Faramir like this, so much and so desperately, but it sparks something in Faramir—the way Boromir dares now to mark him, to bruise him, in a way that declares how much Faramir is his in the way that he is Faramir’s—and he surges forward, dragging Boromir into him for a kiss. Pushes him back against the bed, pressing Boromir’s shoulders down until he’s flush against the mattress, and straddles Boromir’s hips.
“Let me, too,” Faramir hisses, because it’s not fair for Boromir to be the only one to mark his property. His territory.
With a nod, Boromir lies back. Cedes control to Faramir, though his hands don’t leave Faramir’s hips, still stroking, petting, greedy.
Faramir doesn’t even bother with the buttons on Boromir’s shirt, just slips his hands beneath, inverting it as he goes, and pulls it over Boromir’s head. Lays his own path of bruises in the wake of his kisses, wine-dark marks that stipple the column of Boromir’s throat. The ridge of his collarbone. The curve of his shoulder. Faramir smirks as he draws back, darkly satisfied that any interloper will see them. Will know Boromir is his.
Boromir seems to sense his intent, and presses fingers against the marks he’s made on Faramir in return. “Mine,” he whispers. The pads of his fingers brush against Faramir’s chest and trail lightly over his belly, before bearing down, hard. Like eagle’s talons, dark and possessive.
“Yours,” Faramir nods, relishing the dig of Boromir’s fingers into skin. He lays his own hand along the trail on Boromir’s pale skin. Sinks nails just the right amount of sharp into the junction between neck and shoulder. “Mine.”
Boromir hums, pleased. “Yours,” he agrees.
And with this mutual affirmation, Faramir returns to blazing a trail of hot, hungry kisses over Boromir’s chest and belly. Urges Boromir’s hips up and tugs his jeans off, to stroke Boromir’s cock, teasing, through the thin cotton of his boxers. Draws it out, slow, and touches his tongue to it, licking away the perfect pearl of precome that’s beaded at the tip.
“Faramir, wait,” Boromir breathes. He reaches for Faramir, as if to reciprocate, because it’s usually an equal exchange between them, more or less, but Faramir presses him back to the bed firmly.
“There’ll be time for that later,” he says. “Right now, this is all for you.” This is for Boromir’s pleasure only, to show him how much, how deeply Faramir feels for him. To reassure him of the depth of Faramir’s affection.
He laves his tongue along the underside of Boromir’s cock, tracing a vein, teasing, as he licks a warm, wet stripe along the shaft. Swirls his tongue over the tip, relishing Boromir’s groan, the insistent wriggle of his hips, before taking all of Boromir into his mouth.
“Faramir,” Boromir groans, mashing a hand into Faramir’s hair, his fingers tugging just the right amount of hard. It takes only another swipe of Faramir’s tongue at the slit before Boromir’s fingers tighten, nearly painful in his hair. “Wait,” he gasps, “not yet. I don’t—I want to, inside you, Faramir, please—”
Taking his meaning, Faramir slips his mouth off Boromir’s cock and shifts his way back into Boromir’s arms. “Yes,” he whispers, his breath hot against Boromir’s ear, as he gives voice to his desires, the murmur of them low and wet and filthy. “Want you inside me.”
He presses a close-mouthed kiss to Boromir’s lips, before kicking off his own jeans. Lets Boromir wrench his boxers from his hips, then grinds his half-hard cock against Boromir’s, already at full hardness. Dips his fingers into the precome that’s started pooling on Boromir’s belly, mixed with his own, and slicks Boromir’s cock with it.
“Want you to come inside me,” Faramir whispers, fierce. He guides Boromir to his entrance, relishing the slow, satisfying slide as his brother fills him, stretches him, until he’s feeling too open, exposed, and raw. Until the sweet ache in his hips and ass more than he can bear. “Boromir,” he says, helpless, biting down on a whimper. “It’s too much, I can’t—”
He’s been too eager for this, thinking they could do without the lube, without fingers to ease the way first. Damn it.
Boromir rubs Faramir’s back, gentle, warming him. Lets his fingers trace small, relaxing circles into each knob of Faramir’s spine. “It’s okay,” he says. “Take your time.” He soothes a hand over the line of Faramir’s hip as he presses soft, fluttering kisses to Faramir’s eyelids, his lips. Lets Faramir lie unmoving in his arms, to catch his breath, allowing him the time he needs to rest, to let his body adjust before they start to move.
When he’s grown used to having Boromir inside him, Faramir sits up cautiously, to rock his hips a little. Braces his hands on the bed frame to get more leverage, until he decides it’s not enough skin, not enough contact, and sets them on Boromir’s chest instead, his shoulders. Claws his hands into Boromir’s body as he rides his brother, slowly at first, then harder, until he’s bucking against Boromir’s hips like a bronco at a rodeo.
“Whoa there,” says Boromir, laughing, his hands coming up to cover Faramir’s, as if to gentle an untamed horse. “Whoa.”
Faramir tears his hands free of Boromir’s, twining their fingers together instead, their clasped hands leverage for Faramir as he bounces in Boromir’s lap. His fingers tighten almost cruelly on Boromir’s, the grip vice-like, but Boromir lets him have this, lets Faramir have control where and when he needs it the most. “Yes,” Faramir manages, between soft gasps. “Yes, good.”
“Then ride me,” Boromir encourages. “Ride me.” He loosens a hand and wraps it around Faramir’s prick, angry and red and slick, encouraging the buck of Faramir’s hips against his. Cuts a breathy cry from Faramir short by slipping fingers into his mouth, pushing them past his tongue and deep into his throat, in time with his thrusts, a mirror of what his cock is doing below.
And when Faramir starts trembling, gasping, “Boromir—so close—almost there—”, Boromir knocks Faramir’s arms out from under him, pulling him down for a kiss, hot and wet and hungry. Winds hands into Faramir’s hair to deepen it, until his tongue feels like it’s halfway down Faramir’s throat, before slinging hands low on Faramir’s waist, fingers pressing into his hips, hard. Flattens his palm over where his cock presses into Faramir, pushes Faramir down, forcing him down further onto his cock as he shoves upward, and buries himself to the hilt, hitting deeper and harder than ever with each thrust, until Faramir has to curl arms under Boromir’s shoulders, tight, and sink teeth into Boromir’s neck to muffle his howls.
It takes only one more hard, unforgiving dig at his prostate before Faramir cries out, nearly sobbing as he comes, because it’s never been so good, and he spills over Boromir’s stomach, collapsing into a limp pile while Boromir thrusts into him once more, twice, and spills inside him, warm and liquid and wet.
Faramir clenches tight around him, wanting Boromir in him. Wanting all of him. Coaxes each drop of his brother’s essence from him with a greedy, gliding slide that has Boromir gritting teeth and digging fingers into Faramir’s hips, hard.
When their breaths have evened out, Boromir strokes a hand slowly through Faramir’s hair. Traces the curve of Faramir’s shoulder to the crook of his elbow, before skittering to the line of his hip, with fingertips feather-light and fond.
“I don’t know about you, but I could use a bath,” Boromir says. He presses tiny, nibbling kisses to Faramir’s nose. The corners of his mouth. Tugs just the slightest bit with teeth, when he gets to the fullest part of Faramir’s lower lip. As if he’d start there, if Faramir was a dessert and Boromir could eat him up.
Faramir concedes the point about the bath; they’re both sticky and soaked with sweat, and there’s also the potential for bath sex, which he decides comes third only after birthday sex and makeup sex. “Okay,” he mumbles into Boromir’s neck. “Bath.”
With a weary grunt, Boromir nudges at him to get up but Faramir only burrows deeper into his arms like a spoiled cat. “Carry me,” says Faramir. In the same imperious way he used to toddle toward Boromir and demand Up! with his stubby arms outstretched for a piggyback ride.
Boromir laughs, and after some careful maneuvering, carries him to the bathroom, his forearms hitched under Faramir’s knees. Faramir loops arms around Boromir’s neck, clinging to him like a limpet as they share lazy, open-mouthed kisses, Boromir’s cock buried deep inside him all the while. He chuckles when Boromir hitches him higher, trying to reach around him to turn the tub faucet.
“I can’t draw up the bath like this,” Boromir says after a moment. He kisses the tip of Faramir’s nose in apology.
Faramir grumbles, but lets Boromir slip out. Sits inside the tub, knees drawn to his chest as Boromir lets the water run, then scuttles over to make room for him. Squeezes a dewdrop’s worth of soap into a bath sponge, lathering it up and sweeping long, steady strokes along his own arms and Boromir’s.
It isn’t long into their cleaning before Faramir sits astride Boromir again, nudging his rump into Boromir’s lap. Enjoys the way Boromir’s cock stirs at his touch, with an interested twitch, as it slides against the cleft of his ass. Kisses Boromir again and again, in encouragement and daring both.
“Okay,” says Boromir, giving in with a nod. “Okay.” He startles Faramir into a yelp by pinching his bottom in the water, playful. Suffers Faramir’s scowl and the reproachful swipe at his shoulders with a laugh, before bodily lifting Faramir up and pressing him down against his cock.
And when Faramir takes Boromir within him again, he giggles as he presses prune-fingers into the dip of Boromir’s belly to anchor himself. Relishes the sensation of their slow, easy lovemaking in the warmth of the soapy water, hoping he’ll never have to know life without being connected to Boromir somehow.
When they finally make it back to the bed, when Boromir presses into Faramir’s back and noses the curls at the nape of his neck, to breathe words of affection, Faramir turns in his arms, to kiss first. To say the words first.
“I love you,” he says softly, touching his lips to Boromir’s. It’s not out of desperation or panic, and Boromir hasn’t guilted him into this; it’s the warmth and affection that fills his chest at the sight of Boromir, with his towel-dried hair spread out against the pillow. The softness of his fluffy, flyaway hair that Faramir smoothes a tuft of back behind his ear. “So much.”
Boromir’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, before he tightens his arms around Faramir’s waist. “I know,” he says. “I’ve always known.”
“But I—I haven’t always said,” Faramir mumbles, guilty. Cuddles closer into warm, damp skin.
“I knew anyway,” says Boromir. He settles his forehead against Faramir’s, his eyes slipping shut.
It’s then that Faramir remembers the dinners he’d keep warm, waiting for Boromir to come home. The blankets he’d heap on Boromir when he fell asleep in the back room, exhausted. And most recently, the flowers he’s left with breakfasts, hoping Boromir would know their meaning, would realize what Faramir was trying to say.
His heart does a funny flip-flop in his chest at that, a little oh of realization—that even when he stopped saying the words, he didn’t stop showing it through his actions. That what they have isn’t always about grand, sweeping gestures, but a love built upon little things; little affections that grow into something bigger, and brighter, and somehow more.
“Oh,” he says out loud. “Boromir?”
“If you nudge me with either your hips or your butt and ask, ‘Again?’, I will kick you,” Boromir grumbles, his eyes fluttering open. “Now go to sleep.”
Something in Faramir’s expression in the muted moonlight must give him away, though, because Boromir huffs a soft laugh and brushes their lips together. “Oh, Faramir,” he says, as if he’s just realized what Faramir’s hoping for. Smiles, fond, as if these are the words he’s wanted to say in return, for so long: “I love you too.”
(tbc - Epilogue)
