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Boromir watched as Aragorn took out his pipe and his pouch of pipeweed. He watched as Aragorn put a bit of the weed into the bowl of his pipe and pressed it down with his fingers. Smoking, Boromir had learned, was a sacred ritual among all who practiced it, especially the hobbits. If any of the hobbits were awake, no doubt they would have something to say about Aragorn’s technique. The most vicious areas of debate for hobbits, if one could call hobbits vicious, was food, drink, and smoking. Boromir wondered at and envied their simple existence, recalling the cacophony of the councils he had attended, his own voice among the most strident, deciding on things that would send men to their deaths—or worse. How could the world in which Merry and Pippin debated the shape of pipes and the world in which Boromir screamed at Aragorn for his foolishness, for his cruelty in abandoning Gondor be the same world?
A transformation came over Aragorn when he was preparing to smoke his pipe. Aragorn was the ever alert ranger, eyes and ears open for the slightest hint of danger. Yet when he was packing his pipe, he worked with such a single minded determination that there could be a warg slobbering and howling right beside him and Aragorn wouldn’t pay it any heed. Not that it was necessarily a good thing, Boromir chided himself. But it was good to know that Aragorn was at least capable of devotion to something, even if that something wasn’t Boromir or Gondor. Even if it would never be Boromir or Gondor. Even if that knowledge made a burning sensation in Boromir’s heart.
Aragorn added a little more pipeweed to his pipe and tamped it down again with the attention one would give a lover. Would Aragorn make love like he prepared his pipe? Would he give Boromir that single minded intensity as he ran his hands over Boromir’s body? Would he savor the taste of Boromir’s skin like he savored the taste of pipeweed?
Aragorn took an experimental draw of his pipe, made a face of dissatisfaction, and tamped the pipeweed down harder. He drew on the pipe again, this time with a satisfied nod. Aragorn lit a match and let it burn for a few moments. It was a bright point of light in the early night. Aragorn lit his pipe, and soon the whole bowl gleamed cherry red. The scent of pipeweed filled the air. Had Boromir once thought that it smelled unpleasant? He supposed he had gotten used to it, had conflated it in his mind with the scent of Aragorn so he enjoyed it now. Aragorn let this first fire go out and then relighted the pipeweed. Only then did Aragorn start really smoking. Puffs of smoke gathered around Aragorn’s head and he blew a smoke ring, satisfied.
He continued to puff on his pipe, but he lost that air of singular concentration. He noticed that Boromir’s eyes were upon him and met Boromir’s gaze. Even though he had been caught staring, Boromir refused to lower his gaze. To give up. To submit. So the two men stared at each other for a while, Boromir defiantly, Aragorn calmly.
Aragorn removed the pipe from his mouth and blew a smoke ring. Boromir’s eyes shifted from Aragorn’s eyes to his pursed mouth. The smoke ring that he blew at Boromir would be the closest thing that Boromir would ever get to a kiss from Aragorn.
“Would you like to try?”
“What?” Boromir asked, startled. He hadn’t expected Aragorn to shatter their silent rivalry.
“I asked if you would you to try,” Aragorn said, brandishing his pipe.
“I…have never used a pipe before,” Boromir said hesitantly. Aragorn got up and sat down beside Boromir. Boromir took the proffered pipe and sucked gently on the stem. He was rewarded with a lungful of smoke and coughed.
Aragorn chuckled. “Not like that. You’re not supposed to inhale it. You’re supposed to savor it.”
Boromir took another cautious draw from the pipe. It worked much better this time, the foreign taste of Old Toby filling his mouth. This would be closest Boromir would ever get to knowing the taste of Aragorn’s mouth. Boromir took another draw on the pipe.
“Careful. Don’t go too fast. You’ll burn your tongue.”
Boromir puffed slower. It was a strange sensation, being wreathed in smoke, having his mouth and nose filled with the essence of pipeweed. Would Aragorn’s essence fill him so completely, until it was only thing he could sense? Boromir would never know. He took the pipe from his mouth and handed it back to Aragorn.
“Did you enjoy it?” Aragorn asked as he resumed smoking his pipe.
Boromir shrugged. “It was…interesting. Not as great as the hobbits make it out to be.”
“I will be sure to tell them you said that.”
“And let me be lectured for the next week on the merits of smoking? Surely you are not that cruel?” Boromir groaned.
Aragorn’s mouth quirked upward. “They will harangue me as well for making such a poor introduction to their illustrious art, and endeavor to give you a better one.”
“I don’t think I could handle that,” Boromir said. Aragorn laughed. It was nothing but the tiniest exhale of air and a soft noise in his throat, not even a real laugh, but Boromir’s heart was warmed.
Aragorn continued to smoke and they fell into a companionable silence. There was no reason for Aragorn to be up, really. Boromir was the one on watch. Aragorn should be sleeping like the others, asleep before their heads hit their non-existent pillows. Yet Aragorn had chosen to stay up and smoke. With Boromir. Boromir tried not to dwell too hard on that fact, tried to not demand it confess itself like a prisoner Boromir was interrogating. Because it would do like prisoners did when repeatedly questioned, intimidated, threatened, twisted out of shape—give Boromir whatever answer he wanted. Aragorn had wanted to smoke. That was all. A pipe was just a pipe. The fact that he had decided to share it with Boromir meant nothing. Nothing.