White Poppies
by
Keelywolfe
"Do you ever wish you could forget who you are?"
It was so idly asked that for a moment, Aragorn didn't look up. The small tear
in the knee of his trousers was in serious danger of becoming a large hole if it
wasn't repaired, and while he was no tailor, he was wearily familiar with sewing
a seam. But Boromir's question drew his attention and he hesitated, needle
poised as he considered.
"I..." For all its simplicity, it was a difficult question. He turned it over in
his thoughts, examining every angle. He could hear the crackle of the fire, just
on the other side of the tree he was leaning against. The Hobbits were already
huddled beneath blankets; they were growing more accustomed to the pace but
still eagerly sought their rest every evening. The sunlight was dwindling
rapidly and soon it would be much too dark for sewing. It was Boromir's face
that held him from finishing, solemn and curious in front of him.
"Perhaps," Aragorn finally admitted. "But even if I did not remember, it
wouldn't change who I was." Boromir frowned and Aragorn wondered what he had
hoped to hear. The man crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against
his own tree, eyes closed.
"That is true," Boromir's tone was grudging. Aragorn fought the urge to comment
further and returned instead to his sewing. Nothing he ever said seemed to
please Boromir.
The last rays were finally sinking into dusk when he bit the end of the thread
off and carefully tucked the precious needle back into its place in his pack. He
shivered slightly, hastily tugging his pants over his bare legs. It was too
chilly a night to sit with bare legs this far from the fire.
Hands caught his own at the tops of his thighs and he startled violently, hardly
soothed by the warm palms against his chilled skin. Blinking, he looked down
into Boromir's night-darkened face, more surprised that he had come so close
without him noticing.
"Nothing would change who you are, would it?" Boromir asked in low tones, and
what was there to say to that? Nothing could change the manner of his birth. He
had a dozen names he had answered to and all were his. Even if he were to fall
into a field of white-petaled forgetfulness he could still only be himself. It
was all he knew how to be.
The soft touch of a mouth on his bare skin stunned his thoughts into silence,
Boromir nuzzling a gentle kiss against the exposed curve of his hip and he
suddenly understood.
It was bound to happen, he told himself as he sank into Boromir's arms and let
him bear him down to the ground, his mouth as soft and damp against Aragorn's
throat as it had been against his hip. Could he blame Boromir for wanting this
when in the space of only moments he learned that he wanted it as well?
He cupped Boromir's head in his hands, learned the gentle curve of his skull
with the tips of his fingers. The darkness engulfed them and it was a shame, any
wish of brushing aside golden hair to see the loveliness of Boromir kissing his
belly to remain only a wish. Strong hands slid under his hips, holding him up
and away from the cold ground and it was all Aragorn could do to stifle his moan
of appreciation at the hot, inviting touch of Boromir's mouth as he took Aragorn
inside it. Too briefly, only a taste of wet heat before Boromir pulled back.
"Be silent," he murmured against dampened skin. Aragorn nodded blindly, knotting
one hand into his own hair and clenching tightly to keep from jerking Boromir
back down. He went without encouragement, softly sucking and it was simply
impossible that anyone could have such a skilled tongue. Aragorn couldn't help
but squirm, trying to arch into that knowing mouth but the arms wrapped around
his hips tightened, holding him prisoner for this sweet torture.
He wished he could say something, whimper his need, cry out with the pleasure of
it all, sounds catching at the base of his throat to be choked away to keep from
frightening nervous Hobbits. Or worse, to interest curious ones.
Instead, he closed his eyes and bit his lip when it all became too much and he
spilled his pleasure over Boromir's stroking tongue, sinking into this gift,
such as it was. Such a brief moment of forgetfulness.
Boromir's mouth tasted like salt, his lips too-hot against Aragorn's much colder
ones. He helped Aragorn finish struggling into his pants, easily fastening them
when Aragorn's fingers would have fumbled.
He wanted to say something, knew that he should but exhaustion was tugging at
him and Boromir's arms were warm and comfortable, and asked nothing from him.
"Nothing would change what you are." Boromir murmured into his hair. He sounded
so sad and Aragorn tried to struggle against sleep, wanting to say something
although what, he did not know. A hand was rubbing soothing circles against his
back and Aragorn finally surrendered, sliding into quiet oblivion of sleep.
-finis
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