Faramir Fiction Archive

You and I (R)

Written by Eora

22 February 2011 | 3455 words

Title: You and I
Rating: R (it’s mild)
Warnings: Slash, mild sexual scenes.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. All written in good fun with no offence intended!

Author’s Note: Wow, it’s been a little while, hasn’t it? :) This is a little short something that I wrote over the past couple of days while taking a break from a longer piece; it’s basically a spin on the same premise as Blemishes but I picture Faramir as being younger here, maybe mid-twenties. I wanted to write him as confident to the point of defiance, but not unlikeably so. It gets a bit shmaltzy near the end but it was fun to write and I hope you enjoy! :)

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It is different this time and the hope burns in Aragorn’s heart; it has been so long and he himself longs for affection. Until now there have been no kisses, no coy glances, no words whispered into soft hair. There is perhaps one look, a nod, a silent agreement and then there is the act itself, a hurried tangle of legs and wordless voices, the thrust and the moan and the blinding explosion. And then Faramir will barely allow himself even a minute to bask in the afterglow before he clambers off and begins to dress. And then he will be gone, closing the door quietly behind him, perhaps looking up at Aragorn before he slips away and perhaps Aragorn will pretend that Faramir smiles at him, but it is only the shadows playing upon his features. It is always the shadows.

But this time, tonight, hope flickers within Aragorn’s chest. Faramir sleeps beside him, dead to the world, lying on his belly with eyes closed and expression peaceful. Aragorn loves him, he knows, but dare not, must not speak of it. He loves him, and Faramir will not even smile at him.

Surely now is the chance. The opportunity to wind himself around Faramir in an embrace, and blame his dreams for this untoward affection. Why does Faramir come to him if he feels nothing? He can have any man he chooses, so why toy with one whose desire is becoming confused with something deeper? It is because I am King, Aragorn thinks. That is all. He has cowed me and bent me to his will and I follow him because my heart commands it. He does not think of Faramir as cruel, but it is almost cruel what he is doing. Perhaps he does not know. Or perhaps he likes fucking the King and leaving him knowing that there is nothing I can say to bring him back without exposing our…our what? Relationship? Liaison?

Faramir murmurs softly and the hope burns brighter. Do not leave after you awaken. Not this time. This time Aragorn will halt him, say the three words he has been longing to say.

Stay with me.

Aragorn lies on his back and waits. There is a soft ache within his body that is not wholly of the heart; their lovemaking is rough more often than not and this time was no exception. Despite the dull pain, his cock stirs even now as he looks at Faramir and remembers their voices mingling earlier in blissful anguish. I would end this if I could bear to be parted from you. Gods, I could banish you even, but I cannot even talk to you. He closes his eyes and lets the warmth from Faramir’s body radiate against his side. He could reach over, shake Faramir from sleep, demand that they make love again, but he does not. It is not who he wishes to be. His hand finds its way below the covers, between his own legs. It is all he dares do.

Faramir shifts beside him but he dare not look. He pictures instead in his mind the Faramir he wishes were here, and pushes away as best he can the shame that comes with such a notion. He loves Faramir, despite his indifference. But if he were kind, if he smiled at him, if he stayed, then Aragorn knows he would be truly lost. He screws up his face, hand moving more rapidly. I love you and you will not smile at me. Why are you still here? He looks over and loses rhythm completely when he sees a pair of blue eyes watching him from beneath a tousled mass of auburn hair. Faramir’s face is half hidden by the bedcover, and Aragorn opens his mouth but no words come.

“You stopped.”

A statement both unnecessary and unexpected; Faramir has never spoken to him afterwards before. Aragorn fumbles for an intelligent response.

“You…gave me a fright.” Well, it was true, was it not? Why are you still here?

A stifled yawn, eyes half-closing. “Sorry.” And then, after a moment of awkward silence; “Do you want me to…?” Stay? Smile? Love you? When the familiar hand snakes its ways across Aragorn’s abdomen and downwards, he has his answer. Carry on.

Aragorn nods, eyes closing as Faramir picks up where he left off. He begins to shudder, and tries futilely to comprehend what is going on. There is never anything afterwards, no words, no smiles, no touches. No sleeping it off. No kisses. He opens his legs wider and Faramir responds by drawing a finger further down over his balls to brush against his opening. He has never touched him like this. There is no affection between them, usually.

He spends himself over Faramir’s hand and his own stomach, hips lifting from the mattress, a soft, strangled cry leaving his throat. Slumping back into the pillows he lets the warm fog and the exhaustion wash over him. Now, now he will leave. When the mist is broken by a tender kiss upon his temple, Aragorn’s eyes fly open and he turns his head sharply to regard the man beside him.

Faramir looks back at him, hair still half-shielding his gaze. When Aragorn madly reaches over to brush the hair from his eyes Faramir begins to duck his head, but then allows it. It is almost sweet, were it not so seemingly out of character. Aragorn turns onto his side, facing Faramir, but he cannot think of what to say. Stay with me. I love you. Stay. In the end, it is Faramir who breaks the silence with quiet words and eyes averted.

“Do you want me to go?”

Aragorn almost laughs. He wants to take Faramir by the shoulders and shake him. Instead, he finds his voice, and to his surprise finds also that it does not waver.

“Why would I want you to go?”

“I kissed you.”

“I know.”

Faramir looks increasingly uncomfortable, hiding his face in the sheets again. “We…we don’t usually. Kiss, I mean. You and I.”

Intrigue now overcomes surprise and Aragorn raises his eyebrows. They certainly never speak of these things, refer directly to their…whatever it was. Not to each other, not to anyone. Aragorn bites his lip. “No, we don’t.”

“I…” But Faramir’s nerve has seemingly gone and he turns his head away, gaze skating over the room, landing on the side-table, the curtains, anything. He is so solemn, so quiet. Aragorn does not think he has ever heard the young man laugh. Not since that first night, but even then it was probably more to do with the wine than anything else.

What can I say to make him stay? And then Aragorn reasons that since they are now apparently talking about this he might as well ask his most pertinent question. “Why are you still here?”

Faramir ponders this silently for a moment before suddenly pushing the bedcovers away and sitting up. “I will go.” He half turns his head to glance at Aragorn, mumbling; “Sorry. About the kiss.” And before Aragorn can say anything else Faramir has located his smallclothes and is stepping into them without so much as a blush, for the sun blazes upon him from the window and leaves nothing to the imagination. Aragorn cannot help the path his own eyes trail across the young man’s body and he finds it hard to both tear his gaze away and find his tongue.

Faramir has one leg in his breeches by the time Aragorn manages to catch his arm in his hand, leaning over the foot of the bed, blankets and pillows scattered in his wake. “You misunderstand, I think. I don’t want you to leave.” There. I’ve said it now. Faramir looks at him, belt in hand. Aragorn swallows, suddenly aware that he too is very much exposed. “I meant only…I wanted to know why you stayed this time…you’ve always left before. Right afterwards. We never even speak. I wanted…I…” He releases Faramir’s wrist and sits back on the bed, words suddenly failing him. Sighing, he rubs at his eyes. “I can’t stop you from leaving, if you want to go.”

To his utmost surprise, Faramir abandons his breeches and sits beside him, fingers worrying at the buckle of his belt. After a moment, in a very quiet voice, he asks; “Have you always wanted me to stay?”

For the second time that morning Aragorn wants to shake Faramir silly. Instead, he manages somehow to keep his voice level and his expression gentle. “Yes.”

Faramir grimaces. “I didn’t know.” He runs the tooth of the buckle beneath his thumbnail, cheeks colouring. “I thought…I didn’t think you…I mean, I didn’t expect it to be like that.”

“Expect what to be like what?” Aragorn’s tongue trips over itself, but Faramir understands.

“Us. To be…like how you would expect a man and a woman to be. Affectionate.” Faramir looks away. “I didn’t really think there would ever be an ‘us’ either.”

Aragorn lifts his hand, reaching to place it-…where? On Faramir’s shoulder? His arm? But Faramir speaks again before Aragorn can make his decision, and his hand falls back into his lap at the words.

“You know it cannot be like that. With us. If there is an ‘us‘. I…shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Why?” Why?

Faramir looks at him as if he is an idiot, and Aragorn doesn’t take offence. Perhaps he is missing something here. But he still would kiss him wildly if given half the chance. Speak softly to him. Run the tips of his fingers down through the coppery hair between his legs. He loves that difference between them in particular; his own hair is as dark as pitch in the shadows of night. Aragorn shivers at the thought, and tries to drive such things from his mind. But it is not easy with Faramir so close.

“You’re the King, Aragorn. How do you think the people would react if they knew their Steward loved-” Faramir’s hand flies to his mouth and his eyes clamp shut. Aragorn gapes at him.

“You…”

“I should go.” Faramir jumps to his feet, hurriedly attempting to dress while deftly avoiding each of Aragorn’s attempts to halt him with an outstretched arm. Not to be foiled so easily Aragorn launches himself from the bed, catching a hold of Faramir’s forearm as the younger man pulls his shirt over his head. “Aragorn!“

“Be quiet, there are guards outside.” Aragorn does not release him, but grants Faramir’s dignity a blessing by dragging the shirt the rest of the way down so that they may at least argue face-to-face.

Faramir scoffs, struggling. “As if we didn’t make enough noise earlier on. Let me go.” He pulls away half-heartedly but he knows Aragorn grips him with his sword-hand and is not likely to be escaped so easily. Defeated for the moment, Faramir stands squarely in front of his King, and would have folded his arms were one not still entrapped in Aragorn’s fingers.

Now that he has his audience captive, Aragorn doesn’t know what to say. It makes for a comical scene, to be sure, what with Faramir in only a shirt, which appears to be on backwards, and his smallclothes, and Aragorn himself in no smallclothes at all. He releases Faramir’s arm and to his relief the young man does not flee. He does fold his arms however, and looks at Aragorn with the feigned confidence of someone who has not just blurted out something he perhaps should not have. The defiance of youth, or something like that, and Aragorn loves him all the more for it.

“You said-”

“I know what I said.” Faramir’s response is quick, interrupting Aragorn and the young man quickly colours and looks away. “Sorry. For interrupting. And for saying-…you know.” And then suddenly the floodgate opens. “I just…the first time, I left because…well I was so drunk I didn’t know who started what in the end. And when I woke up you were still asleep and I thought it best to leave in case you woke up and threw me out. And all the other times…” He looks down, flexing the toes on one foot. “When you came back to me I couldn’t believe my luck…but I didn’t want to press you or…bother you with my notions. So I never stayed. I thought that was what you wanted in the end. The physical aspect, I mean. And you came to me in particular because we had already crossed that line.”

“Faramir…” Aragorn begins, lifting his hand to touch the younger’s cheek. But Faramir will not be silenced, and he deflects Aragorn’s touch unintentionally with the sudden turn of his head.

“I do love you, Aragorn.” The plea is heartfelt, so suddenly forlorn. “You…you allow me such liberty, such familiarity. I should not be so bold as to insult you with my emotion but I have said it and I say it again, now. I love you.” His eyes lower and he mumbles, in afterthought; “Far more than I should.”

If Faramir finds it quietly amusing that his honest speech should be delivered to a man, a King, who is still yet to find himself undergarments he makes no indication, but Aragorn fights a smile as he finally manages to frame Faramir’s young face between his hands. His blue eyes are wide and look up at him without fear, and though Aragorn’s own heart thunders in his chest his voice is still somehow steady. The words come easily enough, now that he knows he is allowed to say them.

“Don’t you think it strange that two people can fall in love without either one knowing of the other’s feelings? Without so much as a kiss passing between them?” He draws his thumb across Faramir’s cheek softly and the young man bites his lip. “It’s not proper, nor is it what the people will like to hear. But I did fall in love with you Faramir, many moons ago.” His hands fall gently to rest upon Faramir’s shoulders. “Coincidence, perhaps, that both the King and Steward should have such similar tastes. I don’t know if I truly believe in fate, but if it is what brought us together then I will believe in anything.”

“Truly, I think it was more the wine than fate…” The corner of Faramir’s mouth twitches, but it is not yet a smile. Aragorn cannot help it though and the grin he has been suppressing so wilfully finally wins the battle.

“I believe we need to level the playing field a little.” At Faramir’s puzzled look Aragorn only smiles more widely, grabbing the hem of Faramir’s shirt and pulling it upwards and over his head once more. A delightfully tousled Steward glowers at him as he lets the shirt fall to the floor, but Aragorn is in no mood for defiance now. He grasps Faramir’s hand and pulls him toward the bed, clambering onto it backwards, ushering the young man closer as sorrel shins bump gently against the footboard. When Faramir hesitates, Aragorn sits up. “What is it?”

The young man fidgets awkwardly. “I have never…it has always been rough. I’m not sure I will please you by trying to be tender.” His blushes only make Aragorn’s pulse quicken, and he reaches out with both hands which Faramir meets with his own after a pause. Their fingers interlace and the Steward finally kneels on the bed. “I want to…but…we’ve never taken our time, have we? I know not where to begin.”

“I have an idea of where we should start.”

For someone so defiant, so confident, so young and sure and so apparently unversed in the art of tenderness Faramir’s lips part so very softly beneath Aragorn’s that the older man must hold himself back from claiming those lips with anything other than the slowest-burning passion. Faramir’s head tilts back as his fingertips come to dance across Aragorn’s shoulders and he forgets himself suddenly, sweeping his tongue into the young man’s mouth and pressing closer. Faramir yields fully and it is not long before he lies upon his back, hair in utter disarray, pushing his hips gently upwards as Aragorn sits astride him, their lips brushing together soft as breath.

Aragorn places his hands either side of Faramir’s head and opens his eyes to see Faramir’s features split by the most handsome smile. “I knew it.” He says, kissing the young man between the eyebrows.

“Knew what?”

“That you could be tender.” The smile is contagious and Aragorn knows he must look a grinning idiot but he doesn’t care.

“Pfft.” Faramir smirks up at him, then softens, that smile creeping back. He is growing hard, Aragorn notices belatedly, and the realisation sends shivers along his spine and heat rushing to the base of his belly as his own body begins to react. As if to compound this, Faramir gently moves his hips against his once again in gentle reminder. “I promise not to leave afterward.”

Aragorn laughs. “Eager, are we?” Faramir answers this by pulling him down again with a hand either side of the older man’s face.

“Stay with me.” He says, suddenly solemn and earnest, eyes searching Aragorn’s face for confirmation. His fingers weave into Aragorn’s dark waves and the King gazes down at him with eyes that are increasingly heavy-lidded. “I mean it, Aragorn. Or…I mean, I’ll even speak properly to you, call you your Grace, if you like. Just…stay with me. If you love me, we can make this work. I mean, I know you‘re the King and we‘re men and I don‘t even remember the difference in our age any more…” He halts, suddenly seeming very young, and Aragorn shifts so that he can lay a palm along Faramir’s cheek in turn.

“Where is all this nonsense about titles and such coming from?” It is meant in jest, spoken lightly, but Faramir lowers his eyes and Aragorn quickly runs his hand through the mass of auburn in an attempt to waylay misunderstanding. “We can make this work.” He whispers, echoing Faramir and causing the young man’s eyes to widen and the smile to dance across his face once more. “It won’t be easy.” Is it ever easy?

“I already suffer enough murmurings behind my back over how free I am with you.” Keeping track of Faramir’s rapidly shifting moods is futile and Aragorn has long ago given up trying; instead he lets the grin return unhindered.

“I like you free. Any who take issue with it can come to me about it.” Faramir smiles again at this and wraps his arms around Aragorn’s middle, pinning them together.

“It’ll be just like this, won’t it? Just you and I.”

“I’d like that.” He kisses the corner of the young man’s mouth, lest he disturb the smile he has waited so long to see. “To have you as free with me here…” He places his palm over Faramir’s heart, ignoring the face the young man makes; “…as you are at all other times. I’d like that a lot.”

“So, no titles?”

“No, my prince.”

Their laughter mingles together and Aragorn has almost forgotten his original purpose in dragging Faramir back to the bed when the young man sobers a little and slides his hands over the older man’s backside. Beneath his smallclothes Faramir is still very much aroused and Aragorn sets about removing this last barrier with fervour as his Steward tousles his hair.

“I’m glad I fell asleep now. Afterwards. I’m glad I had the nerve.” Faramir is actually blushing and Aragorn shakes his hair free of interfering fingers and kisses him deeply, rocking with him gently as they both let their eyes close and their tongues explore. When they eventually break apart Aragorn can no longer quash the fire down below and he manages only a ragged whisper into Faramir’s hair as the young man nips at his ear.

“I’m glad you did too.”

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