Less Than Memory
by
Keelywolfe
It has been only months since his brother's passing and already Faramir
knows he has lost precious moments, memories fading like water poured into sand.
His brother's face is blurred around the edges of remembrance; details captured
and held only by love, not the truth he wishes still remained.
He finds that he must close his eyes to truly visualize Boromir, to remember the
sound of his voice, his laughter, the brightness in his eyes whenever they met
Faramir's behind their father's head. He clings to each slender thread of memory
with the grim resolve of one who would cheat death in any manner that he may,
even if only in his own thoughts.
Clearest, always, are thoughts of Boromir's hands. The hands of a Man, strong
and large, and yet still so capable with all matters of delicacy, and also in
swordplay or barehanded fighting, both. An old scar in the cup of his palm from
a sword slipping in his grasp, the line and edge of each callus, skin kissed
brown by the sun in warmer months.
Strong hands that had nonetheless trembled in the darkest moments of the night,
when they slid along his brother's paler skin and Faramir did not have to close
his eyes to bring those memories to the fore, to remember the sweet taste of
guilt in his brother's kisses. That he does it regardless, closing his eyes in
the darkness of his rooms while hands touch and stroke his skin in the palest of
false memory, is the cruelest of lies but a lie to oneself is barely a mark to
ones honor. A worse stain is that the memory exists at all.
He cannot bring himself to feel shame, not even in his regrets that he will
never feel his brother's touch again. Sweat slick hands beneath the curves of
his knees, holding him still, his brother's voice hoarse and thick and cursing
him with every breath for willingness, his pliant delight in everything Boromir
offered. Each slow push inside him, the aching stretch of flesh not often used
in this fashion and he would bite his lips, holding every moan, every whimpered
declaration of his love within so that they might not be discovered.
Every frantic moment, every fearful touch. Every shadow of shame in his
brother's eyes, even hidden as it was by love. This, Faramir will never allow
himself to forget, for they are now his memories alone.
And when he weeps, harsh tears, bitterly pained by every droplet that seeps from
his eyes, other arms hold him and whisper soft words of comfort that he only
knows by tone, the language strange and wonderful to his ears. Words said in the
voice of his King, and though his hands are slimmer, softer, he knows they once
touched his brother as they touch him and a cold comfort is better to hold in
the darkness than nothing at all.
-finis
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