Chapter Text
This isn't death. Boromir knows what death feels like, still wakes up some nights with the scrape of arrows in his chest and the ragged scrape of blood in his throat. He knows what death feels like, and he knows the twicefold agony of resurrection, as intimately as he knows his brother's smile or his father's hand on his shoulder, as intimately as knows Merry's laugh.
So he knows that what he's feeling right now isn't death, even as his hands grow cold and his heart seems to low in his chest. No, this is worse, and there is no redemptive miracle coming to save him.
Merry lifts his chin, back straight and head high. His face somber, and it's wrong, so fucking wrong to see him look like this, without a trace of a tease or a joke. When he speaks, his voice is tight, but doesn't tremble: "You can't stop me."
Boromir could, of course, stop him. Merry's a better fighter than most give him credit for, but his arm is fucked and no amount of training or experience can entirely compensate for how thrice-damned small he is. So yes, Boromir could stop him, and so could anyone on the battlefield, which is the point.
Problem is, Boromir won't be able to stop him for long, on account of the aforementioned battle he's about to go and fight in. He can't lock Merry up somewhere, won't leave him trapped to die if they fail. Which they probably will; yet another reason Merry should just stay behind.
"You will be needed to help with the evacuations," Boromir says, feeling ridiculous as he says it.
"There will be others for that," Merry shoots back. "You need every warrior you can get--"
"We have enough--"
"You really don't." Merry shakes his head, "There’s no time, Frodo and Sam might be dead already--"
"So you want to die with them?!" He knows it's a mistake as soon as Merry's face twists, a tight knot of anger and pain.
"I'm not completely helpless, you know." Merry's voice is painfully stiff, sharp as the arrows had been. And just like before, it sends Boromir crashing to his knees with a dull thud. He grabs Merry by the shoulders and Merry tenses, but doesn't pull away.
"It's not that, I...I can't--" He's floundering, drowning, a descent without end. "I can't lose you. I just can't, I, I'd break. You understand that, don't you?"
Silence, and then Merry's face softens, his good hand reaching up to brush Boromir's hair. They curl tight, dragging him forward, and pull Boromir forward. He lets himself be tugged up, letting Merry's breath warm his face before their slips touch.
They kiss softly at first, then sharper, clutching at each other's shoulders with a frantic greed. Merry tastes like the first gulps of air after rebirth, only more precious, and easier to lose. His tongue shoves down Boromir's throat, movements quick and hungry, like he's trying to cram a lifetime into this moment.
He can't, of course. They break apart, both gasping for air. Boromir's hands slip from Merry's shoulders and fall limply to his sides. He's tempting for a moment to reach again, grab on and never let go--but no, he's learned the consequences of that kind of greed from the Ring.
So instead, he says, "Stay by my side." Merry nods firmly, lips pressed tight like he doesn't trust himself to speak. He turns away, breath hitching for a single second, before he starts off towards the battlefield.
Chest aching, Boromir pushes himself to his feet and follows.