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Aragorn grits his teeth.
Distantly, he is aware of himself. The stiffness in his limbs, the aching curve of his spine as he clutches his knees to his chest where he’d sunk to the ground.
He knows they are safe in Caras Galadhon; that isn’t the issue. The issue is.
It is. Everything. He can string a thought together but he cannot open his mouth. He can barely make his fingers twitch. He did not want any of this to come to pass, but it has. He must lead.
Adrenaline had kept him present and moving, but in taking a quiet moment to himself he had quickly become overwhelmed. The loss, his grief. His fears. Boromir’s pleading for him to return to Minas Tirith. It would be so simple. It would be the most difficult thing in the world. He has not been taking the time to keep himself grounded, and he tries to recall the tools Lord Elrond had taught him as a child, when his peculiarities became painfully evident and he would often lock up like a statue.
He does not taste, does not smell.
His tunic feels stifling, irritating his skin even though he has done his best to keep the fabric soft through the hardships of their journey.
He hears… footsteps, perhaps, as if through cotton.
Aragorn doubts it is an elf, the sound too heavy, though he doubts whoever it is will find him, sequestered as he is. He will need to raise himself, muster the self-control to move his trembling limbs and rejoin the others. His wrist jerks as he tries to move his hand and he hisses through his teeth.
The footsteps pause.
He hears the rustle of branches, a voice. He sees Boromir’s boots.
He sees Boromir’s face, or rather his jaw and his neck. He is surprised and grateful when Boromir does not raise his voice or urge him to make eye contact, the gentle tone of Boromir’s voice telling him that Boromir has dealt with something similar before. Aragorn had not known others who shut down the same way as he, and the thought that Boromir knows another like him is oddly comforting. Slowly, as if that soggy cotton is being pulled from his ears, he is able to tune into Boromir’s words instead of simply drifting along with the gentle rumble of his low voice.
“…I touch you?”
Aragorn is uncertain if Boromir will understand mátengwië, vaguely aware that Men tended to give the gestures different meanings. He cannot move his jaw; he lifts one hand, edge towards Boromir. The man studies him for a moment, as if racking his brain for the solution to some obtuse equation. Finally, his brow relaxes and a slight smile graces his too-oft stern features.
“…Someday, I’ll introduce you to Faramir. You can thank him for teaching me a little of the Eldar’s language of hands.” Boromir chuckles, one hand settling on Aragorn’s upper arm. He rubs steadily up and down, broad palm circling Aragorn’s stiff shoulder. Slowly, feeling returns to the joint; Aragorn lets out a shuddering breath. His shoulder slumps as Boromir’s ministrations focus on his locked elbow. Aragorn holds a hand out, palm facing upwards.
“A gift?” Boromir asks; Aragorn shakes his his head. “…A question?”
Aragorn gives a jerky nod; Boromir’s hand moves from his elbow to the back of his neck, thumb gently stroking over Aragorn’s pulse.
“…My brother had similar difficulties in his youth. He would stand, silent and stiff, while our father berated him for his failures. He moved as if in a trance, and would eventually hide himself away in some private place until he had calmed down or could detach himself from his emotions. Occasionally, he was not successful. I would find him and help him rub life back into his limbs.” Boromir explains. When Aragorn nods in understanding, the movement aches but is much more fluid.
“You would like him, I think.” Boromir continues; “He captains the rangers of Ithilien. His scouts are much of the reason my own efforts have been successful. Our father refuses to see it, but were it not for Faramir’s knowledge of the enemy’s movements, Osgiliath never would have been reclaimed. Perhaps I- perhaps we could… visit you in Imladris.”
The words seem to catch in Boromir’s throat as he speaks, tinged with bitterness and longing. His touch remains gentle as he rubs between Aragorn’s shoulder blades. Aragorn’s mouth works for a moment before he is able to unstick the words from his chest, to vocalize them. Boromir looks up in surprise at the rough voice.
“Nidhin… û harnad.”
Part of Aragorn hates that he cannot muster Westron, expecting anger at such a base failure to communicate with a man he already feels he has alienated. Perhaps not so much as he had thought, as Boromir’s warm touch stills as he puzzles over the graceless Sindarin. Aragorn sounds little like the elf-lord Boromir had once mistaken him for.
“Mean no… wound? Aye, I know you don’t. Rather, I hoped you didn’t.” Boromir fixes Aragorn with a rueful smile. “I am glad to hear you say it. I hoped… I had not considered how difficult… you have done well, leading us here.”
Aragorn’s expression turns doubtful and Boromir lets out a tired chuckle, shaking his head.
“I doubt I would find rest anywhere, do not mind me. It would do my heart good to return to Minas Tirith, but even there, my mind… it matters not.”
Aragorn gently clasps Boromir’s wrist. “Pesson o gin.”
“…Pes… pessa? Worry?” Boromir seems genuinely taken aback by the idea that Aragorn might be concerned for him. Aragorn’s expression clouds with bitterness at the thought that he might have failed so dreadfully at connecting with the man. He knows he had been harsh, but he had hoped he had not been cruel. Boromir’s calloused palm clasps the back of his neck, startling him from the spiral of self-deprecation.
“It is not your failing, that I did not see…” Boromir’s voice falters. “…I am weary, Aragorn. I feel a child, demanding to know when we will return home, that I might see something familiar and feel…”
He trails off with a vague gesture and Aragorn nods in understanding. He cannot bring himself to meet Boromir’s eyes still, gaze focused intensely on the slope of Boromir’s broad shoulder. The man is solid in a way Aragorn is not, as he gives into his own bone-deep weariness and lets his head rest against Boromir’s forearm as his eyes drift closed.
He hears Boromir huff out a breath, feels his thumb brush against the base of Aragorn’s jaw.
“Come here, then. Can you straighten your legs?”
Boromir gently urges Aragorn’s body to move, his muscles feeling like putty as he slowly bends to Boromir’s will. Once settled, Aragorn rests with his back to Boromir’s chest, head tucked beneath Boromir’s jaw as skilled hands continue to massage life into his unwilling limbs. The scent of Boromir is a comfort he cannot admit to desiring; Aragorn still allows himself a moment of weakness.
He buries his nose against Boromir’s collarbone and breathes him in.
He feels Boromir’s hands still.
“…You are a strange thing.” Boromir’s voice is not unkind, understanding seeming to dawn on him as he speaks. “You said you had seen the White City… it must have been stifling to you.”
That is certainly a word for it, when one’s desires leave one loathed amongst men, looked upon with disgust simply for the calling of one’s heart.
Aye, he is a strange thing.
Boromir’s arms wrap tight around him as his thoughts begin to drift and Aragorn is glad for the pressure, drawn back to himself by the lifeline of Boromir’s strength. He realizes he relies on this man more than perhaps he should. He turns and nuzzles his cheek against the supple leather of Boromir’s surcoat, feeling the soft rumble of laughter that catches in Boromir’s chest— the sound that leaves him is half a chuckle, half startled sigh.
“…I love her, Minas Tirith. I do, truly, but… at times I love the idea of her most. A beacon of freedom, steadfast… holding back the tides of Mordor… In truth, there are times I feel as if she is a tomb from which I can never escape. I cannot let her fall, I must do my father proud, but to do so is to erase myself. The core of me, that I might never be happy. Not wholly.”
“Ballog ‘lass.” Aragorn’s voice is muffled against the well-worn leather. Boromir’s hand leaves his arm, hovering for a moment before his fingers settle in the dark waves of Aragorn’s hair, gently combing through the unkempt locks.
“Do I? Sometimes I fear joy will never come to me. Not truly, not lasting. I feel as if it is my job to bring joy to my brother, to our people… should that not be enough? I wonder if I deserve to hope for more.”
“…You speak Sindarin well.” the Westron feels ungainly, foreign to Aragorn’s tongue; Boromir laughs.
“Nay, you are simply more patient than you ought to be with a bullheaded soldier.”
Aragorn snorts. He can see the corners of Boromir’s mouth lift in a genuine smile. It is a struggle for Aragorn to get the next sentence out, but Boromir is just as patient with him.
“I have not lied to you.”
Boromir’s fingers pause in his hair. “…I know you would not.”
“You deserve happiness, Boromir.”
His body feels boneless, cradled as he is in Boromir’s embrace. He had nearly forgotten how raw such fits left him; he would cling to whatever small comfort Boromir saw fit to grant him. As it is, he can think of no other place he would rather be than here, hidden from the world with Boromir’s arms to shield him. After a moment, Boromir resumes carding through his hair.
“And if the man I would seek happiness with does not desire me?” Boromir’s words are carefully detached.
“Then he would be a fool.”
“…Have I been blind?” there is a desperation to Boromir’s words Aragorn has rarely heard, and it makes Aragorn’s chest ache.
“No more than I.” Aragorn says; “I hid my desires well. As you said, the city was…”
“I am sorry.” Boromir’s voice is thick with emotion. “I long to show you her at her best. Perhaps…perhaps one day she could be a true haven.”
Aragorn feels the hand not currently in his hair curl against his bicep, gripping tight the fabric of his tunic. Aragorn gently breaks the grip, lacing their fingers together and lifting Boromir’s hand to his chest.
“I cannot… I am not ready to be king. However, I… if it is agreeable, you could teach me how to steward her.”
Boromir feels himself smiling before he’s even fully processed what Aragorn is suggesting, turning his cheek to press his lips against the ranger’s dark hair. He huffs out a soft laugh as the words fully sink in, for that is the truth of Aragorn. Leadership as a form of servitude, until he is so overburdened he collapses in on himself, crumbling into a statue of a man. The crown must seem an impossible weight, even a gilded noose. Boromir squeezes Aragorn’s hand.
“Aye, I’d be glad to. Might I make a suggestion?”
In the solace of this hidden chamber, Boromir finds he can trust his own thoughts, his words— when Aragorn looks curiously up at him, Boromir fixes him with a tired smile.
“You carry a greater burden than you let on. Lean on… somebody.”
All the same, he is uncertain how long this clarity will last. He has oft found his thoughts turning foul, rancorous; unjustly so. Boromir’s chest flares with warmth when Aragorn presses a kiss to his knuckles.
“And if yours was the shoulder I wished to lean on?”
“I would help you shoulder the weight of the world if you but asked.” Boromir admits. It is easy to speak his mind here in the dark, when he does not have to see Aragorn’s reaction clearly, to fear reading disdain or anger in the ranger’s sharp features. Even in such low light, Boromir knows with certainty he would find none of that. Aragorn’s lips are still pressed to his knuckles, and he can feel the other man smile.
“Mîr gelair en Edain.”
“I caught ‘of men.’” Boromir admits with a chuckle. “‘Mir gelair?’”
“Mîr,” Aragorn corrects, “you ought to know, Boro-mir. It means jewel. Brilliant jewel of men.”
Boromir feels his breath catch in his throat.
Aragorn feels his heart thud in his chest, the worry that he has overstepped some boundary making his stomach twist. Theirs is a new dance, a fight unchoreographed and clumsy, and he is suddenly unsure of his footing.
He cannot taste anything.
He can still smell Boromir, the soap provided by their hosts faint on his skin, the earthy, familiar scent of mud staining his surcoat.
He can feel the warmth radiating from the broad warrior still cradling him— feels Boromir’s fingers on his chin, tipping his head up to capture his lips in a kiss. Aragorn melts, opens his eyes when Boromir draws back.
Even in the dim light, Aragorn can see Boromir’s cheeks flush.
“You must think me horribly greedy. First I wish to steal you away to Minas Tirith. Now I wish to keep you here for all time, away from the world.”
Boromir’s voice is barely more than a whisper. Aragorn’s palm settles against Boromir’s cheek, guiding him into another slow kiss.
“Much as I long to, we cannot… not for eternity, at least.” Aragorn answers Boromir’s curious look with a warm, lopsided smile; “The others can wonder where we are for one night. You are warm and the ground here is comfortable.”
“…I could be satisfied with tonight.”
There is an unspoken fear lingering in the air after Boromir speaks, one Aragorn quickly puts to rest.
“I wish for more than one night. If you do not want the others to know, we need not tell them, but now… I find I am unwilling to let you go.”
“If our paths lead us different directions?” Boromir asks.
“Then we part for a time, and I will make certain my path leads to Minas Tirith as soon as is feasible. I cannot very well learn to steward a city I am apart from, can I? Least of all if I’ve been separated from my wise teacher.”
Boromir chuckles at the playful teasing, his cheek resting against Aragorn’s hair as he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “No, I suppose you cannot.”
“…I must make a request of you, now.” Aragorn reaches up to stroke Boromir’s cheek, rough with stubble. Boromir hums in acknowledgement, leaning into the gentle touch.
“If I am to lean on you, you must lean on me. I will not run away from you, Boromir.”
He feels Boromir’s lips press to his palm as Boromir turns his head, catching Aragorn’s wrist— he presses a second kiss over Aragorn’s pulse.
“I will try. I am not accustomed to…”
“Neither am I.” Aragorn shakes his head; “We will try together.”
“I do not wish to overburden you. I must already trouble you greatly.” Boromir sighs. Aragorn’s palm lifts to rest against his cheek again, Boromir’s fingers still wound loose around his wrist; Aragorn enjoys the pressure of it.
“It is a welcome trouble. I care for you, even if I do not show it well.”
“Is that why you spent so much time staring at me like a hunter tracking his prey?” Boromir chuckles. Aragorn’s cheeks flush as he inclines his head in a slight nod.
“…I did not wish for my gaze to seem so intense. At first, I convinced myself I simply wanted to be aware of the fellowship, but… in truth, I craved the sight of you.”
Boromir hums, affectionately squeezing Aragorn’s wrist. “I’ve grown accustomed to it. It… almost bothered me, when I felt your attention drawn elsewhere.”
“So, I should stare at you more?” Aragorn breaks into a crooked grin as Boromir leans down to steal a tender kiss.
“Aye, if you wish. I certainly wouldn’t complain.”
Aragorn had been half-joking, so accustomed to others finding his intensity off-putting and unwelcome. The open invitation leaves his words caught in his throat. He closes his hand in a fist, tapping his knuckles to his chin before extending the hand, palm up but fist still closed.
“I ‘ell nîn.” Boromir answers in halting Gondorian Sindarin, and Aragorn can’t help but smile a little at the familiar dialect.
“Ci milui.”
“…I am not.”
“Tíron gin.” Aragorn says with a snort, smiling when he gets the desired result: Boromir laughs, even if the sound is worn.
“Aye, that you do.” Boromir rubs a closed fist up and down Aragorn’s back, knuckles brushing over Aragorn’s spine. The ranger instinctively melts into the firm touch, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn.
“…You will put me to sleep if you continue.” he warns, half-hearted and with little weight behind the words. His eyes have already closed, one arm draped across Boromir’s chest in a loose embrace.
“Good. You’ve earned the rest and we’ve talked long enough as it is.” Boromir’s hand stills for a moment before continuing to rub; “I will be here when you wake.”
It is with those words that Aragorn allows himself to drift off, Boromir’s heartbeat in his ear lulling him to a deep, dreamless slumber.
For the first time in what seems like aeons, Aragorn feels at peace.