Different Kind by Calico t was rough and chill and desperate when Boromir lost his patience and darted forwards, nudging his mouth against Aragorn's, and it was rough and salty when Aragorn kissed him back, like the unbridled flicker of flames. Aragorn's mouth opened like it was natural and appropriate and good to put their differences aside on a sleepless night. At last, he thought: this is who you are, and then he pushed all that aside because Aragorn's hands were fevered in his hair, clenching and trembling, and this felt too valuable to risk wasting on deliberation. Just too exquisitely delicate, the sleek feeling of Aragorn easing his whole body closer, their mouths fitting together, working in a silent eloquence. This man knew it, knew their discreet isolation without needing to be warned. They had a shared knowledge, it felt like; that of temperance and hopeless need and no corner of Middle Earth to escape to except inside their own heads. Sometimes, not even there. Between them, then. They could forge a new space, one where blood flowed frantic through delight rather than rage. The taste of Aragorn's mouth was addictive, but there was no crime in that, not tonight. He wondered if he should worry that a curious hobbit might see them, but they had been asleep when Aragorn had said, "We should scout the road ahead, before dawn," and slept on while Boromir gazed for three long heartbeats before ducking his head, accepting to everything that lay between them. Legolas had been watching when he looked up again, but any judgement his eyes was eclipsed by backlight from the fire, and he merely nodded when the men got to their feet. He'd wake Gimli if there was any trouble, he'd assured them. Take as much time as they needed. "We won't be long," Aragorn had said softly, making the warmth rising in Boromir's stomach dash cold again, and then Aragorn had steered him away from the fire with an unnecessary hand, and Boromir had relaxed again. No pain to accept, tonight. They'd found the road, but there was little to apply themselves to, and Aragorn's words had echoed in his head more empty than ever. Entirely an excuse, Boromir had realised, the undeniable sweetness of it making his muscles clench uneasily. Even suspecting it didn't prepare him for knowing it, and even now, with Aragorn humming breathless against his tongue, he still couldn't swear it was real. That cold panic sliced back into his stomach when Aragorn's mouth tensed against his lips, when the hands in his hair seemed to want him to retreat rather than encroach, and then Aragorn was murmuring, "no, sir, brother, brother," and his mouth was merely working along Boromir's jaw, coaxing him to tip his head back, restless flashes of tongue and teeth igniting bright in Boromir's skin. Dangerous, a man's teeth at your throat. Dangerous, and other things. The folds of Aragorn's cloak were rich and damp beneath Boromir's hands, the strength of the hithlain familiar now that it had kept him dry three nights. He could have kissed Galadriel, dressing them in that fine cloth. Not least, it was easier to imagine they shared. It had kept him comfortable, too - substantially warmer than a man lying alone ought to be, sleeping on the ground with thoughts that could chill him right through. Tonight would be better, with memories of this warm flesh settled in his mind, dull coals needing the faintest breath to glow again. Lord, he thought, wrenching Aragorn as close as their armour would let him, my lord, hearing Aragorn panting in his ear, licking his neck, the heat of his mouth springing a dark joy in Boromir's stomach. It was time, was good; Aragorn's hips fitted into his hands when he found them beneath the cloak; Aragorn's fists tightened at the nape of Boromir's neck as Aragorn exhaled a tremor that slid a snaketrail down Boromir's spine. "My lord," Boromir heard himself whisper, lifting his hips to press them into Aragorn's, and Aragorn ground back and murmured something against the neck of Boromir's tunic, teeth pressing like a warm blade of bone. He thought about asking him to repeat it, but stayed quiet, because Aragorn's fingers were moving at his neck, and the heat of his mouth was faltering. Don't stop, Boromir thought, breathing hard, ashamed with his own vehemence. Not now. Their sword-belts made a muted thud in the grass, and Boromir realised Aragorn had done that, had dropped that weight from their shoulders, disarming them. Freedom, Boromir thought wryly, but it was chased by the strangest suspicion that Aragorn was putting distortion between this moment and the rest of their lives. He shuddered, tightening his grip on Aragorn's waist, wanting it material, solid, real - and then Aragorn was sinking, his torso sliding through Boromir's desperate hands, his fists unfolding to curve against the flat of Boromir's hipbones instead. Inhaling shivers, Boromir looked down, saw a king on his knees on the dirty moss and rock, the lank scrawl of Aragorn's hair caught damp in his hands. Aragorn's face tilted up, well-shadowed under this cloud-swaddled sky, and his lips moved, a plea that Boromir could not hear. It was enough, enough to spur one hand to push open buttons as the other palmed helplessly at the back of Aragorn's head, but Boromir still wished he could have heard it, been able to secrete another fragment of good memory away. "Lord," he said again, instead, almost a prayer although there were no higher powers left to adore. An even light caught in Aragorn's eyes as his lips parted reverently, and Boromir leaned forwards, his breath gliding out of him as Aragorn took him into his mouth. Then those lashes folded closed and it was a different moment altogether. Boromir almost swayed, his heel sinking into thick sedge to anchor him. His fingertips brushed each other in their clutch of Aragorn's hair. He pushed forwards, inside, and felt the grateful acquiescence of Aragorn's mouth, like a slippery piece of magic that bound his brain to his crotch and sewed heat endlessly through his skin. At last, his brain chanted. My lord, at last. He did not want to say it but it was hard to keep quiet, impossible to control his hips and his voice at the same time. He started whispering helplessly, invoking, relieved to hear himself only using Aragorn's name as a curse and then, over and over, a plea. In his silence, Aragorn would have more memories to secret away, Boromir realised, more tiny jewels to brighten dark caves, but he couldn't resent him that, not when his blood was pounding so sweetly through heat-choked veins. It started raining, a steady slick chill against his face and neck, against his knuckles as they knotted Aragorn's hair. The wind picked up and pushed Boromir's own hair back from his cheeks, causing a different caste of shivers to scurry over his skin. The cold on his face made him feel naked in a way that Aragorn's mouth, even like this, would not. The cold on damp, exposed collarbones sent thrills through him, and he wanted to throw his hands wide, to shout defiance to the sky, and then Aragorn was letting him in deeper, and he needed his hands there, and the moment passed because this was good and warm, good and warm and infused with human corruption. It was opulent, almost, the slide of it - opulent and luxuriant, and sleek, getting sleeker the more he submitted his control, until he was pushing insistently and feeling Aragorn's hands scrabble and grasp in response, those broken fingernails leaving bright rivers of silver across the curve of his back. No protest, though, not tonight. His breath stuttered into a low hiss as the edge reared close, and then Aragorn was pulling him in deep as Boromir started to twitch and shudder - serviced by a king, my king - swallowing him and nuzzling the base of his stomach with his nose, making Boromir gasp and groan as loud as he dared. A staggered flash of it, ah. Molten mythril raced through his veins, splendid and beautiful and devastating like dark sorcery, and then he was sinking boneless to his knees, tipping Aragorn's face back with both hands, kissing his hot mouth with dreamlike exhilaration. At last. He wanted to proclaim something, to tell this man - something, something about allegiance or faith, or love, if all else failed. The salt lingering on Aragorn's tongue burnt through Boromir's mouth, firing his own desire somewhere deeper, sacred now. "Let me," he said, breathlessly, "let me, something for you," his hands roaming helplessly across Aragorn's broad shoulders, feeling the urgent strength of him, "anything. Choose. I want you to." His palm closed around something hard against the warm silk of Aragorn's throat, something like diamonds densely packed, warm from being worn ever against the skin, as Aragorn muttered, "just, your hand," and then, like a moan, into his mouth, "Boromir." "Just my hand," Boromir said, fear rising from the satiation in his stomach, a fear he hadn't noticed gathering. Aragorn tensed at his words, and his kiss turned uncertain. Boromir bit his lower lip sharply in passing, ignoring the sparkle that shimmered in him when Aragorn gasped. He nudged Aragorn's chin up roughly with his thumb, a soft ache behind his ribs bursting bright and acid as he saw the unmistakable ice-white jewels of the elves, the curves denoting immortality around this all-too-human throat. "A pretty trinket," he said distinctly, and it sounded like a curse. Aragorn twisted free of the hand at his jaw and faced him neutrally. Boromir couldn't stand that, couldn't stand that he'd almost professed a soul's truth to a man who used him for favours while his elf bride rode other paths. "Beautiful." He tightened his fist, pulling until the fine chain must have been biting into Aragorn's skin, a searing score across the nape of his neck. "And it won't snap, will it? Forged by elves." "Boromir," Aragorn whispered, and that was the plea of earlier, in the eyes and now the voice. It was fiercely distressing that he couldn't take comfort in hearing it now, couldn't store it away unsoured. "I must sleep now," he said, and then, "it is a pity," relentlessly, "that these fine antics couldn't continue," and then reached down cruelly and cupped the firm heat at Aragorn's crotch, "but I'm sure that memories of your beloved will aid you with this. Or will she come if you summon her, your Tinuviel, ride to rescue you from yourself?" Aragorn knocked his hand away, his eyes flashing fury. "Don't speak of her like that." "But she has bound herself to you," Boromir said, recklessly sweet. The ache of it was pounding, a messy agony playing in his chest. "I wonder that you are ever parted from her. I would have thought that you would want to make use of that body while it was still fresh to the touch." Aragorn's hand rose sharply, and Boromir saw the flicker through his eyes as his fingers closed around the space that used to hold the hilt of his sword. No, Boromir thought. You removed that when you were dropping to your knees. "I do not see her in the manner you suggest," Aragorn said curtly, settling his hand with undue diligence back on his thigh, "and I'd never treat her so--" "Forgive my mistake," Boromir murmured. "You save that treatment for me." Aragorn flinched. then held still. "She is my beloved," he said, eventually. "But you--" Boromir got to his feet. His chest ached - probably from the japes with the hobbits yesterday he decided, he decided, improving their swing. "I have to sleep." The words tasted of dirt. Aragorn looked up at him, silver-tongued pain in his eyes. Boromir looked away. An incubus is useless if you don't gaze upon them long enough to be ensnared. "Boromir," Aragorn said, and then, lower, "brother." "Brother-in-arms," Boromir corrected, taking a step back, then slowly, like he'd trained himself, turning away. "It's different love, but love nonetheless," Aragorn said quietly, behind him. The incubus' talent is to find a weakness and mine it, Boromir told himself. A dwarf of the finer emotions, and detestable with it. Yes. He waited until he heard Aragorn get to his feet behind him, then walked forwards carefully, subtle in the silent landscape. When he heard Aragorn's tread behind him, he picked up the pace. The rain was still sheeting down. He wanted to get back to the warmth of the fire. cal@yearningvoid.net