Faramir Fiction Archive

Dead Man's Curve (PG-13)

Written by Brigantine

31 January 2005 | 1198 words

Author’s e-mail: gidgetpup@netzero.net
Pairing: Boromir/Faramir
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Cold hands, warm hearts.
Warning for somewhat young brotherly love.
Author’s note: Based on a beautiful pic. at Theban Band. I’ve added a couple of years to the brothers here. The Plot Bunny got me while I was innocently sitting on my sofa watching Kim Possible. I am so confused right now.

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The door to Faramir’s sitting room burst open and Boromir bounded in, scattering bits of snow and the seemingly infinite energy of a twenty-one year old body.

“Faramir, what are you doing hunched in a chair? There’s two feet of new snow on Holy Man’s Hill, and fresh ice on Dead Man’s Curve! Let’s go!”

Faramir looked up from his reading and regarded his elder brother wryly. “You’re melting on my book, Boromir.”

The tall blonde relieved his brother of the dampening book, tossed it on the desk behind him, shoved his face close to Faramir’s. Long hair darkened and disheveled with slush, he was flushed rosy with crisp winter, green eyes gleaming into his brother’s grey. “Come on! You can’t sit in here huddled by the fire all day. It’s glorious outside!”

“And you want me to join you sledding the Hill? You’re trying to kill me.”

“I’ll be on the same sled, right behind you! It works better with two. Better control.”

“Last time we took Dead Man’s Curve we crashed spectacularly.”

“Walked away from it.”

“You broke your arm.”

“What are you complaining about? My broken arm, not yours, and I’m ready to tackle it again!”

“You see, exactly. It’s my turn to be mangled this time. There’s a good reason they call it Holy Man’s…”

“I know, I know, because you should pray at the top of it before you go down! Come on!” Boromir pulled his brother out of the chair, shoved him toward the wardrobe.

Making a great show of protest, Faramir groaned in a manner clearly proclaiming his impending doom. “Alright, alright, alright!”

Boromir flung open the doors of the wardrobe, plundered it for warm clothes, flung them at his brother, who caught them, just, laughing.

They courted disaster a hundred times. More. Part of a raucous gaggle of youth of varying ages, ignorant of rank, swarming the Hill, seething over merrily into the surrounding streets. They paused at a noisy pub for mid- day’s dinner only when their bellies were empty, their coats and shirts full of snow, and just long enough to restore themselves, then back at it again, everyone racing all challengers, tempting folly, being wildly, whoopingly, gloriously young and stupid, until it was full dark and the youthful crowd, happily exhausted, broke apart, its various pieces scattering to their homes for warm supper and well-earned beds. Tally for the day: one fractured wrist, two dislocated shoulders, one twisted knee, three slight concussions - none of these belonging to either of the gallant sons of Denethor - and a generous and even-handed disbursement of bruises and ice-burns. All in all, a triumphant day for the reckless youth of Minas Tirith.

The brothers took the stairs two at a time, Cook shouting up after them that supper and a hot bath waited in Boromir’s chambers. They clattered in, shedding caked snow in chunks and avalanches from their backs and shoulders, shaking their clothes out into the roaring fireplace, where the melting ice hissed and popped.

Half-naked, they snapped ravenously at cheese, bread and apples, washed them down with diluted wine.

Grinning with a sense of general satisfaction Boromir dabbled a bare toe into the bath water. “Oo. Hot, but not too,” he told his brother, shedding what was left of his clothes and sinking carefully into the great tub. He ducked his head, surfaced smooth and steaming.

Faramir flung his undergarments onto the damp, settling heap in the middle of the floor and followed, yipped at the heat on his cold skin, easing himself into the water.

“Where’s the soap?” he asked Boromir. “I’ll get your back.”

His elder cast about for it, sighted it on the hearth with two wash cloths. He rose, dripping, and reached for them.

Faramir watched the water run off his brother’s skin, glistening in the firelight, smoothly marking the lean muscle underneath.

Boromir settled down, turning his back, and Faramir lathered the pale skin, rubbing with strong, smooth strokes that soon had his brother rumbling with quiet pleasure.

He hesitated to break the mood, but his mind would not be quiet. “If Father finds out we still bathe together, he’ll sack Cook and skin us both.”

“Father is in Dol Amroth.”

“You know what I mean. We’re asking for trouble every time we’re together like this.”

“I understand that,” Boromir assured his younger brother calmly. “He’s not going to skin us.”

“Wouldn’t be angry?”

“Of course he’d be angry. But he’d never sack Cook. She’s irreplaceable. Faramir, don’t fret over it. Enjoy the time while we can. We get little enough time together on our own.”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to get into trouble. You’ll take the brunt of it, you always do.”

Boromir shrugged. “I’m older. That’s my job.”

“I can’t hide behind you forever.”

“You’re almost seventeen, coming into your own strength. And you have never hidden. It’s not your way.”

“The result is the same. Father shouting, you standing there and taking it like a good soldier.”

Boromir sighed heavily and turned, sloshing water, wriggling to untangle his long legs from his brother’s. “Faramir. You’re good with a sword. Better with a bow. The rangers in Ithilien have said you show promise. That is a compliment worth keeping!”

He took his brother’s solemn face in his callused hands, spoke firmly but gently, meeting troubled grey eyes. “You are your own man. Always have been. One of these days Father will appreciate that.” He grinned, imagining. “It will come to him of a sudden, some red dawn rising, watching you sitting easy in the saddle the way you do, while rangers follow you into the field. They will follow you, Faramir. They already see in you what I see, and one day so will Father.”

Faramir leaned forward and kissed his brother then, first his forehead, each corner of his smile, now turning to soft laughter, kissed him deeply, tasting wine and apples, and Boromir let his arms slip about his brother’s broadening shoulders, pulled him close, one hand tangled in dark hair. Faramir slid his mouth away, murmured into Boromir’s jawline. “You’re right. This is worth it.”

His brother’s eyes were half-closed, and Faramir felt the hum of his voice in his throat, “Mmmm?”

He smiled into the curve of Boromir’s shoulder, feeling the warm skin of his brother’s back beneath his hands, hearing his breathing deepen, knowing his beloved elder was already losing himself in their private world.

“This,” he repeated softly, slipping his fingers into his brother’s damp blonde hair as Boromir kissed the side of his neck, “is worth the risk.”

Out in the cold night fresh snow fell, covering the tattered slush on Holy Man’s Hill, making it whole and smooth again, while below, new ice layered slickly into Dead Man’s Curve.

-finis-

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