Archive of Our Own

Just got to Euston. Takeaway?

Already ordered. Should arrive just as you do.

You didn’t think to ask?

This late? Cheeky bugger. You’ll take what you’re given.

Anyway, after all these years I think I know what you like.

A string of Chinese characters appeared on the screen of Boromir’s phone.

Show off

False modesty. You’re as good as I am.

Like Dad would have let either of us get away with anything less.

Project Mini Me not really working, though. Not for me anyway.

Well, the old bastard’s not around to worry about that.

True. See you in about half an hour.

Boromir’s prediction turned out to be a good one. His little brother did indeed arrive at almost exactly the same time as the take-away delivery driver. Bonus – that meant he ended up paying for it. Boromir took the carrier bag from his hand in the hallway, and carried it into the kitchen while Faramir disappeared into his bedroom and dumped his small rucksack. Boromir heard the flush of the toilet, then the sound of water, then Faramir appeared and slid onto the bench seat behind the kitchen table.

Boromir got a couple of plates and bowls out of one of the pine cupboards, then retrieved chopsticks from a drawer. Then produced a couple of bottles of beer – a pale, golden ale he’d become fond of the summer before last. The sort of ale he generally couldn’t get in the sort of places he spent much of his life.

“So,” said Faramir, peeling back the lid of a container of chow mein, “Where have you been?”

“Can’t tell you.” Boromir grinned, paused, leaving space for both of them to say in unison, “Well, I could, but then I’d have to take you outside and shoot you.”

“We should really retire that joke. It’s past its sell-by date.” Faramir scooped noodles into his bowl and shovelled a few mouthfuls into himself in the manner of a starving man who hasn’t seen food in a week.

“Where do you put it all?” asked Boromir, eyeing his brother’s rangy frame.

Faramir simply shrugged.

Boromir reached across the table and ladled out some fried rice and sweet and sour pork. It sat in his bowl glowing in all its glutinous fluorescent orange glory. No sane person would eat that. Definitely no-one East of Kyrgyzstan. But the strange British bastardised version of whatever its original recipe had been was one of the things he’d craved, lying in a shallow fox-hole on an arid, exposed hill, watching the movements in and out of the ramshackle compound at the end of the dusty country road. He picked up a lump of pork and popped it into his mouth, and chewed contentedly, the sweet sauce spreading across his tongue in a comforting wash of additives and E-numbers. Even better than his hillside imaginings.

The brothers ate in companionable silence for some time. Boromir hadn’t realised how hungry he was, and he knew that Faramir was always hungry. He suspected his brother’s spirit animal of being a Labrador – an amiable, easy-going beast (for the most part) with an unquenchable desire to please the people he loved and an equally unquenchable fixation for food. Although, unlike his spirit animal, Faramir seemed, miraculously, never to put on weight.

“So how come you ended up getting the train so late?”

Faramir swallowed a mouthful of chicken and bamboo shoots. “I’d promised to watch a friend play in a concert. Strauss 1st horn concerto – it was really good. But in honour of you, I skipped the symphony in the second half.”

“I still don’t know why you buggered off ‘oop North’ for your master’s degree.” Boromir tried for a Sheffield accent and failed.

“Thorin Stone. He’s a cantankerous old sod to work with at times, but his interpretations of Lizst are some of the best ever. I wanted to learn from the best.”

“But you’re settling in, from the sound of it.”

“Yeah. It’s a nice place. Gritty and northern…” (It turned out Faramir’s Manchester accent wasn’t any better than Boromir’s Sheffield accent.) “But it’s got this kind of busy, active feel to it. A bit like a miniature London. And most of the people in college are nice. Did I tell you Beregond was there? You know, Beregond who was at school with me?”

Like I’d forget Beregond, Boromir thought. Without Beregond you wouldn’t be sitting there... Out loud, he said, “Yes, of course. How’s he doing?”

“Fantastically well. He’s principal cello in the college’s symphony orchestra, and he gave a brilliant performance of Shostakovich 2 last month. Oh, and Sam’s there as well, doing the session music course. And Frodo’s just over the road at the university, reading history. And of course our baby cousin is doing the opera course.”

“A veritable home-from-home,” Boromir observed. “How’s Lottie doing? Is she taking it seriously, or being her usual dilettante self?”

“Usual dilettante self,” said Faramir, unfolding himself from the bench and heading for the remainder of the bottles of beer on the counter. He held two up. “Do you want another?”

“Yes please.”

“Actually, thinking of Lottie’s dilettantism, did I tell you about the boxing? I can’t remember when I last managed to face-time you.”

“Ages ago… Boxing, though? Lottie? In the same sentence?”

“Some misguided member of the faculty thought it would be a good idea for her to get some experience of trouser roles, you know, when a woman sings a male character. Her voice isn’t really quite high enough to be lyric soprano, so she’ll probably need to sing those if she wants to make a career of it.”

“Okay, Lottie in drag, already struggling with that one…”

“Yeah, well rather than start her on something easy, I dunno, Cherubino in the Marriage of Figaro or something like that, someone on the singing staff pointed her at the role of Julius Caesar.”

“Really?” Boromir’s eyebrows headed towards the stratosphere.

“Yes, really. Anyway, we were trying to do a run through of one of the arias – me on harpsichord, the horn player from tonight doing the obbligato part.”

“I’m not even going to ask what an obbligato is…”

“Just think of it as part of the accompaniment. Anyway, Lottie was totally unconvincing. So the horn player, who does a bit of boxing to unwind, suggested going to the gym and getting Lottie boxing to get her moving like a man.”

Boromir buried his face in his hands and howled with laughter. “That must have been ridiculous.”

“In fairness, she gave it a good shot, and she did get a bit better. By the end of it she was somewhere in the vicinity of 90s ladette. But yes, still somewhat ridiculous.”

The take away was finished. Boromir felt pleasantly full, despite the inescapable impression that his little brother had, as usual, eaten more than his fair share. Faramir didn’t so much eat as inhale food. Yet again, Boromir found himself contemplating the eternal question of how his brother remained so skinny. The answer was anyone’s guess. They had retired – Boromir felt that was the appropriate word – to the sitting room. Faramir was sprawled on the leather couch, Boromir had taken the armchair. On the low table between them, there stood two crystal whisky tumblers and a brand new bottle of single malt. It glowed golden in the light from their mother’s Art Deco table lamp.

“Isle of Raasay. New distillery. Only opened up in the last few years, but I was very favourably impressed when I first came across it.”

Faramir nodded slightly at this encomium, then held up the bottle for inspection.

“Pretty. Is that an ammonite?”

“Yes. The bottles are designed in honour of the Jurassic sandstone. They claim the sandstone and the volcanic rocks filter the water and make it better.”

Faramir gave a slightly sceptical snort. “Every drinks manufacturer ever has some sort of tall tale about the rocks giving their particular beverage its distinctive flavour.”

“Still, I think you’ll like it. Not quite in the Islay class, but pretty good. Much better than Talisker, in my opinion.”

Faramir poured himself a couple of fingers, and took an investigative mouthful.

“Mmm. Yes. Nice. Got that slightly iodine-ish kick of the Islay malts, but a bit lighter somehow.”

“Pour me one, little brother.”

Faramir handed him a glass. Boromir took a sip, and gave a contended sigh.

“So, how does one entertain oneself in Manchester?”

“The course is pretty full-on, to be honest. And when I’m not playing music, usually I’m listening to it.”

“Like tonight.”

“Yes. Like tonight.” Faramir paused for a bit. “Though I did go for a yomp in the Peak District last weekend. Bloody cold. Horizontal rain. But a good day out all the same.”

“Sometimes horizontal rain makes for the best days out.”

A few moments passed in companionable silence while they drank their whiskies.

“So, solo yomp, or have you found someone mad enough to go with you? And fit enough to keep up with you? I remember how bloody long your legs are, once you get let loose on a hillside.”

“Yeah, the horn player from tonight.” Faramir kept his gaze on his glass, admiring the way the facets of the crystal cast light in a multitude of directions, adding to the amber glow of the whisky.

Boromir eyed him suspiciously. There was an evasiveness here. And – it suddenly struck him – Faramir seemed to be being very careful not to attach a name to this very talented, suitably outdoorsy horn player.

“Kept up with you alright?”

“Mmm hmm. Grew up on a farm.”

Still no name. Boromir had twenty-five years of practice in reading his brother, and right now, the suspicion dial on his brotherly bullshit barometer had shot up to eleven. Still, it didn’t do to rush these things. He poured himself another measure of whisky.

“What else are you up to?”

“Oh, this and that. Beregond and I have been playing piano trios with one of his violinist friends. Oh… And I don’t know if you remember him. I think he might have been in your year at Cambridge. Aragorn Walker. Anyway, I’ve been doing some violin and piano sonatas with him.”

“Oh yes, went into Halbrand Mairon’s chambers.” Boromir’s expression darkened.

“Yeah, well, he gave up law, to go back to playing the violin – he’s a brilliant violinist, but a bit scatty, I’ve found. Technically superb, emotionally engaged but lacks the focus on the intellectual side of things…”

“You know, that’s the closest I’ve heard to you being catty.” Boromir paused. “Didn’t he have a stunningly beautiful girlfriend?”

“Still does – she’s on the course too. Absolutely brilliant soprano. Really nice woman as well, bright, funny. Better than he deserves.”

“Oh ho… Got a bit of crush, have we?”

Faramir gave a snort of laughter which Boromir was inclined to interpret as genuine rather than a distraction attempt. “God no. Beautiful, but not my type.”

“In which case, what’s he done to annoy you?”

“Oh he’s just a bit flaky.” This was delivered in a would-be casual tone of voice. Boromir was not fooled for a second. He waited for his brother to enlarge upon this line of thought.

“Having jacked in law, he’s now talking about going back to it to fight Mairon over the EHRC thing. So there’s that. And – rumour has it – that’s bollocksed up his girlfriend’s career. She moved away from her contacts in London to follow him up to Manchester, and now she’s going to have to trail back down there and try to rebuild all her contacts.”

Boromir reassessed his earlier verdict, feeling that he was triangulating in on the source of Faramir’s evasiveness. “Are you absolutely sure you’re not jealous, little brother? Beautiful, intelligent, funny and nice?” And romantically wronged by a man who doesn't deserve her?

Faramir shook his head. “God, no… Really, no. Nice woman, but no.”

For a moment Boromir took this as confirmation. The gentleman doth protest too much. Then he looked again at Faramir’s face. Hopeless at lying to people close to him (not that he lied to other people – but he might stonewall, and do so with an admirably straight face, providing he wasn’t emotionally engaged with the situation). Anyway, the long and short of it was that Boromir didn’t think Faramir was lying now. But… There was still something he wasn’t saying. More than that – something he was very carefully avoiding saying. Back to the drawing board.

At this point, Faramir made a rare tactical misstep, and actually offered up a crumb of information voluntarily.

“Though he does piss me off the way he flirts with other women. I don’t think he’d do more than flirt, but Arwen deserves better. So do the other women, for that matter.”

Other women plural or singular? Boromir scented a trail… A trail which led back to the anonymous horn player. But he knew his little brother well enough to know that one had to approach one’s quarry as if stalking a deer – crawl round in the heather, unseen in the lee of a peat hag, until you got well upwind of the beast, then take it unawares. It was, therefore, time for a complete change of subject.

“Anyway, how’s the piano playing going? On a scale from ‘might make it as a lounge-room pianist’ to ‘famous enough that I can boast about my little brother’?”

Faramir laughed. “It’s going okay.”

“I think I need to check this out for myself,” said Boromir, gesturing towards the piano.

“I’m half way to being pissed.”

“Well, you can play something easy.”

Faramir got to his feet with a show of some reluctance. “That couch is very comfy. No stealing my spot while I’m playing.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Boromir, sinking back into the armchair, glass in hand, and putting his feet on the coffee table.

Faramir opened the lid of the piano and made a show of adjusting the height of the stool. Habit, Boromir supposed. He presumed the stool was at precisely the same height as it had been last time Faramir played. It wasn’t like anyone else played the thing. Still, everyone had their little rituals, he supposed.

Faramir settled himself and shut his eyes for an instant. Boromir felt a wash of fondness; he was so used to his brother’s little mannerisms, and this particular one, the pause to collect himself before he played, had been in place since Faramir was a child.

Faramir began to play, long fingers coaxing a delicate melody out of the piano. Chopin, Boromir thought. You couldn’t live with a pianist for years without getting to recognise at least some of the composers he loved. The choice suited Boromir’s mood perfectly – a soft, gentle, elegaic piece helping Boromir to distance himself from the foxhole on the hillside, placing him back in London, back at home, back with his brother.

Faramir played for about twenty minutes – Chopin, Scarlatti, Mozart. Finally he paused, then looked at Boromir, then glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece.

“Oh god, I’d better stop. It’s gone 1.00 in the morning. The neighbours will be out for blood.”

He got up, made his way across the room, and flopped onto the sofa. Now it was his turn to help himself to another generous measure of whisky.

“So,” said Boromir. “Tell me all about this concert tonight.” He figured he was now upwind of his prey.

“It was brilliant – well the half I heard. Probably the best performance of Strauss’s 1st horn concerto I’ve ever heard. The soloist is an incredible musician, stands out even in a college full of superb musicians. She’s in the Dennis Brain league.”

Boromir hadn’t a clue who Dennis Brain was, but he homed in on the word she. Suspicions confirmed. He decided to do a bit more digging.

“So this is the horn player who took you and Lottie to a boxing gym, and managed to keep up with you on a yomp across the Peak District? She sounds quite a girl.”

Boromir almost burst out laughing at the look on Faramir’s face. He was so easy to read when he was drunk. His expression showed that he’d instantly realised just how much he’d given away in the course of the conversation – small fragments, yes, but he really should have known his brother would put the pieces together with consummate skill. Not only had he realised how much he’d given away, he’d also realised, with equal immediacy, that retreat was nigh on impossible.

Then, to Boromir’s delight, he turned bright red.

“She’s just a friend,” Faramir said, hastily. Retreat might be close to impossible, but his brother was still going to give it a go. Boromir decided to opt for the approach of ‘give a man enough rope.’

“Uh huh.” A non-committal grunt, leaving a conversational space aching to be filled. He took another sip of whisky. God, he was going to be wrecked on the plane tomorrow morning. This morning. Oh God.

“I mean, it’s all complicated, and she comes across as quite vulnerable, and I think she might like someone else, and she’s more-or-less said she wants to be friends…”

“Mmm hmm.” Screw it. Another sip of whisky. Anyway, on the plus side, the strategy of leaving space was working. Faramir was babbling now.

“But she is an incredible player.”

“Ah yes, an incredible player.” Boromir was struggling not to laugh. He knew that Faramir knew he was struggling not to laugh. He knew Faramir wanted to thump him at this point – in fact, when they were children, he probably would have resorted to some sort of ungainly scuffle.

“And she’s nice. And…”

Then it all came out in a flood.

“Brave, and fierce, and prickly, and underneath that, sensitive, and she’s been through shit, and she deserves to be treated right, and she’s staggeringly beautiful, and…” His voice trailed off, as if he realised that he was in fact making a complete tit of himself.

Now Boromir did laugh, but kindly (at least, he hoped it came across as kind.)

“Bloody hell, you’ve got it bad. I suppose you’re the man to treat her right, and appreciate her bravery and all the rest.”

“I wish… I’m not sure I’ll get a look in though…”

“Ah yes, Mister Walker and his tendency to flirt with women who aren’t his girlfriend? Am I in the right sort of neighbourhood?”

“Bang on. Bastard.” Faramir took a rather larger gulp of whisky, then topped his glass up.

“Hey,” said Boromir. “That stuff’s meant to be savoured, not used for self-pity. Anyway, pull yourself together. Faint heart and all that. For Christ’s sake don’t sit around like a wet lettuce going ‘But she likes Aragorn fucking Walker.’ Do something about it. Make a move. Tell her she’s brave and fierce and beautiful.”

“What if she runs a mile?”

“What if she does? You’d have lost your chance with her. It’s possible. But do nothing and you also lose your chance with her. Guaranteed in the latter case.”

“But how?”

Boromir laughed. “Haven’t a clue, mate. Why do you think I’m still terminally single?”

“You have girlfriends.”

“Yeah, plural, non-serious, as much their choice as mine. Never had the luck to meet a woman who makes me feel the way your face says you feel about her.”

Faramir rubbed his hand across his face. “Fuck. Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

“Oh god. Do you think she realises?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. My experience is usually the last person to realise is the person in question. Bet her mates have realised, though.”

“Yeah, her best mate does keep giving me suspicious looks. Specially when I got angry with Aragorn flirting with her.”

Boromir burst out laughing. “What did you do?”

“Buggered off out of there, then went and sang opera arias about revenge till I felt better.”

The laughter redoubled, until Boromir had tears running down his cheeks. “You… are… a total fucking weirdo… You… know that, don’t you?”

“Oh fuck off.”

“Not till you’ve got your act together and wooed my future sister-in-law.”

“This… This is why I don’t tell you about my love life.”

“Lack of love life. Pull yourself together, you fuckwit, and do something.”

Faramir swirled the glass of amber liquid, then drank another large mouthful.

“Maybe I will.”

Boromir hid his smile by leaning forward to reach for the whisky bottle. He’d had years of practice with this. Faramir, he knew, was capable of almost Hamlet-like levels of decision paralysis. But with the right goading, you could usually snap him out of it. He waited.

“Yeah. You’re right. When I get back, I’m going to ask her out.”

Boromir lounged back in the armchair and sipped his latest measure. Mission accomplished on the home front too.

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More soon. Disa needs her story told, Boromir is fighting for attention with the next episode of his story.

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