This story is rated «R», and carries the warnings «angst, somewhat AU, hurt-comfort themes, implied het relationship.».
Since you have switched on the adult content filter, this story is hidden. To read this story, you have to switch off the adult content filter. [what's this?]
Remember that whether you have the adult content filter switched on or off, this is always an adults only site.
04 November 2016 | 11924 words | Work in Progress
The taste of sweat, tears, blood he knows all too well. Intense but straightforward, unequivocal like primary colours – blood is red, sorrow is blue. Simple alchemic components of all earthly things – water, salt, metal.
He knows not what to expect, however, from the thick turbid syrup of a man’s pleasure. The scent is deep, heady, with an inciting, provocative note – yet carries no warning. And so the explosive sharpness upon his tongue takes Faramir aback, catches the breath in his throat.
But even more so than that, Faramir is astounded by the complexity. No more than he could assign one hue to the shimmering iridescence of translucent pixie wings, one shade to the ancient jewel-sheen of dragon skin – or one name only to his King Elessar Telcontar, Elfstone the Strider, Envinyatar the Healer, Estel the Hope – no more so could he put one name on the essence of Aragorn’s ardour.
He tastes to Faramir like a song. A fierce melody that unfolds, evolves, pulses with life. Claims him, spreads through him, and sweeps him away – on a wild journey through strange uncharted realms, full of savage magic, rough but wondrous. As it melts away at last, dissolves into silence, it rings on in him still, like the sweet after-burn of hard liquor.
Such stark, feral beauty. He wants to tell Aragorn this, to share his joy and wonderment – but he is embarrassed. Afraid it will come out profane, dirty tavern banter. He wonders whether his little stealthy foray has even been noticed. Maybe it be best it is not, maybe he has gone too far.
Beside him, Aragorn stirs, props himself up, and Faramir can feel the man turn his face towards him in the dark.
So much for escaping a weathered ranger’s notice.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Did you…? Did you just…?”
“I did, my lord,” he admits matter-of-factly. Might as well own it.
To his relief, Aragorn’s primary reaction is puzzlement more so than bewilderment.
“I may betray my lack of worldliness here, forgive me if so,” the king begins carefully, “but do tell me, is this the done thing? Am I missing something…”
“Do you mind?” Faramir is quick to ask.
“Well, it…” the question seems to confuse Aragorn further. “It’s not so much that, and if that’s what one does, then I suppose… But it does seem…”
“It does seem –” Faramir is about to call him lord again, but all at once this persistent formality of address feels in poor taste, no longer fitting. So he catches himself and finishes, “Aragorn, what does it seem?”
“Isn’t it…” The king rakes for the appropriate term, and at last offers, “Isn’t it awful?”
His tone is clearly intended as humours, light-hearted, almost as though he is not quite committed to this choice of vocabulary. But his voice trips and cracks, and the last word tumbles forth like a granite boulder down a mountain-side.
Isn’t it awful.
They both hold still in the wake of it crashing past.
“Aragorn,” Faramir whispers in gentle reproach, and reaches to stroke the king’s cheek, his neck, his taut arm, with the tips of his fingers, so lightly. To convey how completely non-awful, how un-awful, how exquisite, how delightful everything in him is. He feels the man tense up, ready to shy away from his touch. “Aragorn, please don’t speak so. The only thing awful is that you would imagine to call yourself that.”
“But surely the taste?”
“And what of it? ‘Tis how we are made, you and I both. Not exactly marmalade, true that,” he concedes, “but then again if one were after marmalade, one needn’t go to all this trouble. Besides, one would also need toast, and toast in bed is a sure path to swift regret.”
“Faramir, don’t give me that,” Aragorn says very seriously. “Why in the world do people do this? One would think a towel?”
“Who is to know what people do? If the great library has a section on this, I’m afraid we have yet to find it. I am equipped with little other than my own experience, and one man’s tale can hardly be a reliable yard-stick.”
“This is not standard practice then?” Aragorn insists, with growing agitation.
“Please,” Faramir puts his hand squarely on the man’s shoulder. “Please, I did not mean to upset you. If it will ease your mind, I shall go and wash. But I wouldn’t say…” he takes a vast breath, o how to explain. “I don’t believe in standard practice, that it necessarily exists – nor that it should. Some pleasures would be more common than others, I’m sure – but that’s not to say we should be obligated to grant prevalence a say in how to do certain things, if at all.”
“Then why did you?”
“I wanted to,” he says simply. “It feels good, and right, and true to be with you, and this is you, and everything about you I love.”
Aragorn shifts a little closer.
“Is that so?” he murmurs, playful almost, as though he is only asking for the pleasure of hearing Faramir say it again.
“It is,” Faramir confirms. “And I think it must have always been so, only I did not know to see it.”
He feels Aragorn’s hand sidle up to his cheek, practising a caress, tentative, exploring. In all their nakedness, Aragorn is yet to lay hands on him, and Faramir inhales deeply, closes his eyes. He can feel his own coarse texture against the back of the man’s hand, the sand-papery beginning of a stubble, and he knows the old ranger must feel it, too. Just as he wonders if the man would mind, Aragorn’s hand opens and the fingers slowly follow the line of Faramir’s jaw, by some unseen string pulling him to arch into the touch.
“When I think of hope,” Faramir needs to explain, while he still can, before his mind abdicates, before he melts. “When I think of light, when I think of kindness, of laughter, and joy, and quiet companionship, of grace, humility, and high nobility… Of everything I have ever longed for in the nigh-forty years of my life… When I think of tomorrow and the rest of my days – in my mind’s eye, ‘tis always you that I see. When in my duty I come across a thing of beauty or wonder, ever my first thought is, I wish Aragorn saw this, I should tell him. And when I ache with my own pain, it cuts nothing like when I ache with yours.”
“But I am your king,” Aragorn offers as if for the sake of the argument, shifting closer still. “Surely, any good lord would have a measure of devotion to his king.”
“There is that, yes,” Faramir agrees. “Indeed we must all have that in very good measure for such a very fine king.” He smiles, and as though riding on the crease and the dimple of his smile, Aragorn’s hand glides to brush the corner of his mouth. He feels the man’s knuckles go over his lips, and he opens up, lets Aragorn feel the softness of his mouth. “Let fealty be my excuse for why I did not know sooner.”
“You need no excuse,” Aragorn breathes into his ear, “I did not know sooner either.”
Faramir turns to him, feels the tips of their noses touch in the darkness, feels the sweet heat of Aragorn’s uneven breath on his lips, feels himself tremble.
As excitement and trepidation swell in him like a tide, as he is about to drown in the glory and the unknown, no less avoidable than the impending rise of the blazing sun, he wants to say more. So much more, all that he feels, all that he understands now, all that he yearns to give. Think fast, for he is running out of words. Or else there are no words big enough, pure enough, brave enough.
Aragorn’s hands are in Faramir’s hair, on his neck, down the chest, over the ribs, so daring all of a sudden. His touch is like liquid sunshine, joy incarnate, a revelation, a call to rise. The hands of a King, Faramir remembers, as the man sets his warm palm low in the curve of his waist, both a question and a claim.
You have brought me back. I am yours. I always was.
“Please,” he whispers. “Make love to me,” as hungrily Aragorn seals their mouths together.
To be continued…
NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]
Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at http://www.faramirfiction.com/Fiction/all-colours-are-born-of-grey. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!
Thank the author
The following people read the story, enjoyed it, and would like to thank the author: alecia , ebbingnight