The first time I saw him without clothes, I was a child. I must have been. He was so small, and my mother held him as she washed him. And I stood there, watching. I remember very little, the candlelight and the water splashing, mostly. He did not like the water, splashed until she lifted him out, and she asked me for the towel to dry him. I helped. I rubbed his skin with the towel, and helped her dry his wet skin. Whenever she bathed him, I was there. So many nights, all running together in memory, muddled in my mind.
The next time I remember him without clothes, we were older. He was nearly four, and we went to the river, swimming with uncle and friends. We all left our clothes under the tree, before going in the water. It was warm that day, the water felt good against my arms as I swam away from shore. When I turned back, he was there, starting to walk along the river’s edge, staying close to the shore with his footing secure. He had never been in the river before, and the dark water scared him. I swam back to land, and stood up next to him, which startled him a little. Then he smiled, and I smiled back, and the sunshine of the day broke through the clouds to hit the water. We went back to the river often, after that.
A few years later, I went to the baths, and saw him there, without his clothes. He was lying in the pool, his head above the water, his arms and legs swirling back and forth to keep afloat. He had his eyes shut, and I was just taking off my clothes to join him in the water. Then he rolled his head towards me, opened his eyes, and smiled. Suddenly, I could feel the flesh between my legs stiffen. I looked down, and saw the skin had swollen and hardened, until I hardly recognized my own body. He had gone back to floating, eyes shut, and I wondered, will this happen every time he smiles at me from now on? I made a feeble excuse, and left, hurrying back to my room before any could notice.
I stayed away from the baths, whenever I knew he would be there, fearing my own embarrassment. But I could not avoid seeing him without clothes. When he was twelve, he began to train in arms, first with wrestling and swords, later with archery and spears. I went to the practice grounds that day and saw him wrestling with another boy his age, both of them without shirts. Tumbling in the dirt, they came up laughing and grinning, and I saw his thin form, lithe and quick. I could see, in an instant, how he would grow, how his body would change. I knew that soon, he too would feel the hardness of his own body, the tightening of flesh near his groin, the strangeness of physical need. And I did not need to see him without his clothes to imagine him wearing nothing. I could look at him, flushed and grimy with sweat, and know what he would look like in bed, eyes clenched shut and hand working hard, taunting his own flesh until he triggered its release.
I tried to avoid the practice grounds after that, knowing he would be there each afternoon, and two years later I left Minas Tirith on my first extended patrol. I no longer had the torment of seeing him without his clothes, though my mind carried dozens of perfect images of his body—eating, resting, speaking, reading—and each of them could be stripped of clothing faster than thought. Nights were long, unless I took myself in hand, closing my eyes and remembering his flawless flesh, stretched out in bed and eager. Eager for his companion, his lover. Eager for me.
After six months, our troop returned to the White City, and I knew I would see him again. With or without clothes, it would make no difference. He would look in my eyes, and he would know my shame. So I returned, and greeted him, though I kept my eyes cast down when I did so. Afterwards, I stayed away, made myself scarce, avoiding the Great Hall, the practice grounds, my own room. I went to the stables, found a darkened corner lit only by a single window high above, and relieved the pressure of my body, letting my hand and my mind touch his flesh. If only in imagination, I could hold him, touch him. It took no time at all to reach a desperate conclusion. I gasped his name when I could stand no more, thinking of him without clothes: “Faramir!”
“Yes, brother?” My head whipped around in the near-darkness, seeing the huddled form on the hay bale, hidden from my eyes when I had first entered the stall. A voice came from that corner, a voice I knew better than my own. “Boromir, I know what you do here, for I have come on the same errand.” And Faramir stood up, to walk near me, and I saw his tunic gone, breeches pushed down, his stiff flesh protruding and ready for his hand. He stopped when he was only a few inches away, his chest slowly expanding and contracting. “You called my name, brother. Call again. Please.”
Not sure why he wanted this, I obeyed his command, looked into his eyes, and showed him my need; if he saw shame, it was too late, for I called him. “Faramir.” He nodded, and said, “Again. Please.” As I started to obey once more, I saw his hand come up, to touch his swollen erection while I spoke. I said his name, and his eyes shut; he swayed as his hand began to gather speed, and I called his name a third time. “Faramir.”
The tension in his body increased, as the blood-gorged flesh in his hand demanded more from him. His speed, his every muscle seemed to respond when I spoke; my voice urged him on, my words did not embarrass him. And knowing that, I could not withhold the truth. “Faramir. I want you.” His head flew back as his hips jerked, his erection twisted in one hand as the fluids hit the bare flesh of my stomach. And then I realized. He wanted to see me as I would see him. Without clothes.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.