Chapter Text
Boromir Ecthelion saw himself as a pragmatic man. Whether in business or personal matters, if something failed to show real, measurable results, then he would not be interested in it.
This was particularly true when it came to politicians.
He could not even remember when he had first heard of Aragorn Elessar, but he could recall the distrust when his brother raved about him. This one is different, Faramir said over a glass of beer one night. He started from the grassroots; he was fully funded by the community. He was supportive of low-income communities and firm against billionaires. This Aragorn man would make an impact, and Boromir would not want to miss being on the right side of history.
Yeah, right. He sipped his beer. How long until he reveals his support for the wars, and you all act surprised that a politician is a politician?
Faramir tried to debate him, but Boromir was not to be moved—for the burden of proof was with the other side of the house.
That was the attitude he kept in mind until last Thursday.
He was at a glitzy, five-star hotel downtown for a business conference. The consultancy that he worked for was a sponsor—they were launching a new report that he presented onstage. All a matter of routine, honestly. By 7.30 PM, after the networking dinner in the ballroom, all of the constant handshakes and small talk became too much to bear, so Boromir just had to sneak away.
On his way out, he learned that there was a bar on the rooftop—right next to the swimming pool—and immediately headed to the location.
It was hard to believe this bar was inside a hotel bustling with conference activities. When Boromir arrived, there was no one but a friendly old bartender who welcomed him with a smile. The semi-outdoor facility was dim, but the light from the swimming pool cast funny-looking shadows on the wall. It created a certain ambience but was nothing compared to the city view that Boromir got to see if he shifted for a bit. Suffice it to say, Boromir was content. He ordered a glass of single malt whiskey and sat down.
The bartender only made a minimal attempt at small talk, even though Boromir would not mind a little conversation. When the bartender turned away to get busy with chores, Boromir noticed a promotional matchbook in a nearby ashtray. He picked it up to light a cigarette—he had never been into vaping—and took off his suit jacket. With the cigarette still hanging from his mouth, he folded his sleeves before he took yet another drag.
With every exhalation, Boromir could feel the tension slipping off his shoulders, feeling more like himself with each passing second. He closed his eyes and listened closely to the sounds. There were the sounds of the city—the traffic below, live music from far away—combined with the sound of running water from the pool.
It also allowed him to hear footsteps.
Sadly, Boromir was fully aware that he could not keep this place to himself—he was lucky that there seemed to be just one person. With a heavy heart, he turned to see who was coming. Perhaps he would also find it in him to talk to the newcomer.
The first thing he noticed was that he had seen this person before. The next thing that came to his mind was holy shit—he better get his phone out and text Faramir.
Because Aragorn Elessar was standing next to him at the bar.
Their gaze met. Boromir found himself wanting to turn away from those deep, grey eyes for reasons that had nothing to do with getting his phone out. He bit his lips and picked up his courage—and saw Aragorn watching him with a trace of a smile.
“Long day?” Aragorn asked.
Boromir forced a smile. “At this rate, it’s just Thursday.”
“Ha! Good one.”
“Thanks.”
The bartender appeared and Aragorn quickly got busy talking to him. This actually gave Boromir a chance to observe the man and his looks—something about that dark suit and long, greying hair. He was also quite surprised to learn that Aragorn was soft-spoken. For some reason, he expected every politician to be loud and obnoxious.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having, then,” Aragorn told the bartender, taking a quick glance at Boromir’s drink.
“Certainly, sir.”
Boromir just could not wait to tell his brother about this.
—
“Are you here for the thing downstairs?”
The two men did a toast once Aragorn’s drink arrived, and soon the questions began. For a split second, Boromir wondered if he should speak like he knew who Aragorn was: that the man was running for Congress. It might make it easier for him to ask for a selfie later. Bet his brother would be envious.
But after a day of exchanging name cards and speaking on behalf of an institution—instead of himself—Boromir longed for … normalcy. To have a real conversation with people. To get to know them for who they were, not what they represented.
It was especially poignant given that Boromir was talking to a politician. I mean, come on. Who was this Aragorn person, really? Behind the facade and all? Why were people so enchanted?
“Well, yeah, I was one of the speakers, actually. The company I worked for had a slot—we’re launching this new report.” Boromir moved his hands in a hyperbolic manner. “‘The state of Asia Pacific fintech’ and some shit.” He slurped his drink. “You know. The usual stuff. Can do this with my eyes closed.”
Aragorn nodded politely. “What are the non-usuals then?”
“Sorry?” That was completely unexpected.
“You speak of routines.” Aragorn swirled the contents of his glass. “Which makes me wonder. What would your day look like outside of them?”
Oh, he wanted to talk about hobbies. “Ah. The gym, family. Not married, but I have a nephew. Try to meet him every week.”
Aragorn smiled. “You adore him.”
“Oh, the kid is brilliant! Takes after my brother—he’s a researcher, by the way. He—my nephew—is at the age where he wants to be really helpful, putting things inside the trash can … but sometimes he also throws his parents’ phone and keys into it.” Boromir ended it with a chuckle, but it was not long until he sighed and began again. “But yeah, I … I feel most alive in the kitchen, I guess.”
“The kitchen.”
“Yeah, I love to entertain. Having guests over. Tweaking recipes.” Boromir took a sip of his drink. “What do they call it these days, love languages? Mine is definitely cooking.”
“Do you consider that your calling?”
Boromir had to consider that briefly. “I mean … I started out because we lost our mother so young. And my brother just depended on me for these things.” He shrugged. “But … there is just this … flow, you know.”
Aragorn nodded.
“But yeah, life happens. After football and Ivy League, I joined the Big Four, got promoted … and the kitchen is just … not forgotten, but also not prioritised.”
After everything that he just spewed out in the last minute, Boromir felt embarrassment kicking in. He overshared even when he did not want to. Why was he behaving like this? He wondered as he chugged down his drink. He did not even get to ask the other guy anything in return. So much for wanting real conversation. “And how about you? Is, uhhh … politics your calling?”
Aragorn laughed softly. “Never intended to go this far.”
“Oh?”
He changed his sitting position. “After med school, the plan was to continue doing community health. So I travelled for a bit. Doing work in rural areas, before returning to the city.”
“Sounds very … Motorcycle Diaries or something.”
Aragorn chortled. “Funny you should mention that, ‘cause I did use my motorbike.”
“Oh!?”
“Yeah. It’s a vintage Kawasaki.”
“Oh. Okay. I’m more of a Jeep guy myself.” He wanted to ramble more about cars, but his mind redirected to the original question. “Anyway, what happened then?”
“Well.” Aragorn swirled his drink. “I was reminded of what was possible.”
“That is?”
“That you can fight the uphill battle endlessly … or you can be in charge.”
The two men sat in silence, letting the words hang in the air—processing what it meant. Aragorn gave that subtle smile again, before taking another sip of his drink. Meanwhile, Boromir was no longer able to avert his gaze from Aragorn. The fixation became overwhelming, and he knew he had to break it off, so he coughed and forced himself to speak. “So, the non-usuals are your usual now?”
“You can say so,” Aragorn replied. He took out what seemed to be a pack of cigarettes from the pocket inside his suit jacket.
For a moment, he seemed to be searching for something until Boromir responded by offering him the matchbook he had used earlier (“Here, let me help you.”). He switched the match and cupped the flame with a hand as Aragorn leaned closer …
Words just came out of his mind. “How does it feel though …”
“Hm?”
“To live beyond that boundary …”
“Hm.”
“To truly live?”
Boromir observed closely as Aragorn took a long drag of his cigarette. He watched as the man threw his head back—presumably contemplating the given question. But then his gaze returned to Boromir, and the message was clear: Boromir was not the one receiving the answer here.
Instead, he was given a different question.
Though no words were said, Boromir knew what was asked of him—and what he was going to respond—by the time Aragorn began speaking again. “It feels like …”
Whatever that felt like, there was no need for words to describe it.
For Boromir soon discovered what lies beyond the boundaries—right after he learned that the other man had a booked room upstairs.
—
He did not even wait until they arrived in that room.
As Aragorn got busy with the keys, Boromir sneakily traced down the other man’s thigh, not giving a damn about other guests passing them by in the corridor. He was delighted to sense a reaction: a hope-inducing, momentary pause Aragorn took before he opened the door.
This was why Boromir did not hesitate. Once the door slammed shut, he pushed the man to the wall and began to hungrily taste him, dragging kisses down his neck. His opponent’s rushing breath hinted encouragement, so Boromir groped his way up to the man’s crotch, but Aragorn signalled him to back off.
Lifting both hands like he was under arrest, Boromir was quite puzzled. Did he misread anything? Either way, he could only step back.
He waited as Aragorn lifted a finger and gestured for Boromir to be quiet. Then, as carefully as it began, he landed that finger on Boromir’s lips—an indirect kiss—before he spoke again. “There’s no need to hurry.”
“…”
“We have all the time in the world.” Aragorn’s rough palms were soon on Boromir’s cheeks, forcing him to keep eye contact as he was guided to the gentlest kiss he had ever had.
This was not how Boromir usually did it. His body tensed; his eyes refused to shut. His mind rushed to form words of negotiation—things he could say to bring back control into the situation—for no lover had ever done this to him. No one was ever supposed to.
But Aragorn ended the kiss before Boromir could get them out. “Let me admire you,” he whispered. His fingers had moved down to Boromir’s shirt, unbuttoning it one by one without waiting for permission.
“The romantic type, are you?” Finally, he could say something. Boromir could feel himself smirking, but even that was not enough to regain his composure.
He was completely blown—drowning helplessly in desire—when Aragorn ended his movement with a whisper of “Only what you deserve.” His shirt was soon on the floor, and Aragorn gently made him face a large mirror on the wall.
Certainly, Boromir was familiar with his own reflection. He had seen it countless times: the chiselled abs he worked hard to maintain, the lily of the valley inked on his upper arm in memory of his mother. However, that night in the hotel room, he saw what Aragorn saw in him. From the careful kisses on his broad shoulders to the hands circling his waist, dangerously inching closer to the button of his trousers.
When his trousers were eventually unzipped, Boromir gasped in pleasure at the sensation of the cold breeze touching his skin. Soon, he was consumed by the other man’s desire. He could sense kisses and touches on every part of his body, from his exposed back to his erect cock. Soon, even standing up became such a chore.
He eventually found his way to the king-sized bed. Lying down there, Boromir took a breather as he watched Aragorn take out a condom from his wallet. When he undressed, Boromir learned that Aragorn had even more tattoos than him—he felt an urge to trace them one by one, preferably with his tongue. He also watched Aragorn’s movement closely and loved how he was a combination of both strength and agility—durable but also flexible.
When he crawled towards him, Boromir could only say one thing: “You’re so beautiful.”
Aragorn unwrapped the condom. “Not the only thing you’ll say about me … after this.”
“Please. Please, I can’t … I … I need you.”
Aragorn stopped to observe Boromir. He seemed to consider something as he caressed the man’s messy, damp hair. Then, his smile grew. “You use your words. I like that.”
The praise resulted in a panicked rambling from Boromir, who promised Aragorn that he would do it—anything Aragorn liked—as long as he climbed onto him now. Boromir just needed his touch, and his full attention, and oh—he shouted as Aragorn began doing things to him that he would not name. There was only one destination after this, and he hoped Aragorn would see it without being told.
The order came in a whisper: “Spread your legs.”
There was a hint of pain and humiliation in this sweet surrender. But just as he thought he was losing himself in the sensation, Boromir opened his eyes—and found himself receiving a little kiss on the forehead from his lover.
“You take it so well.”
—
“Then I told him it’s not really that far, and that I could even see it from here, and his response? ‘Yeah, sir, and I can see the fuckin’ moon from here!’”
Boromir punched the water in excitement, causing it to spill over the bathtub in that lavish bathroom. He had been speaking animatedly about his past travel experiences, and the stories had induced laughter—both for himself and Aragorn. Eventually, Boromir got exhausted and had to lean back to the rim, forcing himself to calm down.
He felt so light and free, like a teenager again. Within the span of just a few hours, Boromir was no longer that burned out professional having a drink by himself, craving for a connection. That version of himself felt a hundred years away. The only thing separating himself and that person was Aragorn—who was sitting opposite him in the bathtub, resting head comfortably on the rim.
Even now, Aragorn seemed to be reading Boromir’s mind. “You want to tell me something.” His hand landed on Boromir’s knee, teasing it gently.
The water splashed again as Boromir moved his hands. “I don’t know how to say it … It’s so unbelievable. Hours ago, I didn’t even know you!” He changed his position. “Now it feels like … like it’s been forever.”
Aragorn smiled. “Did you have a good time?”
Boromir did not even know how to describe it. “Ah, I don’t know, man … I’m just … really happy.”
Hearing that answer, Aragorn leaned forward—his fingers teased Boromir’s knee even more intensively. He closed in the distance between the two of them, so much that a whisper would be sufficient. “I hope this won’t be the last time,” Aragorn said.
“Of course. You have my number.”
Aragorn nodded. “Things can get really, really busy, but I want you to know …” He refused to let go of Boromir’s gaze. “I’ll always make time for you. Even if it’s just for coffee, or something.”
Boromir felt like his heart was about to explode—again. Words formed in his mind, but before they could get out, Aragorn had spoken again: “Anyway, there’s something …”
But a familiar ring cut him short. The two men turned towards the direction of the room, where the sound came from. They were both familiar with it, but Aragorn was the first to get up.”Sorry, that’s mine …” He rushed to get a towel and leave the bathroom.
This got Boromir wondering about his own phone. Where was that damned thing? Also, what time was it? Pretty sure it was almost midnight. He was too tired to drive home; perhaps he should just stay and leave in the morning. It was not like he had anyone waiting at home. He even considered faking a medical leave tomorrow …
Either way, he needed to get out. So he rose and grabbed a towel.
Back in the room, he found Aragorn sitting on the edge of the bed, talking to someone on the phone—he still had the white towel on his waist. When he got there, Boromir squeezed his shoulder gently. Aragorn welcomed the gesture with a warm smile; he even reached out for the man’s hand for a bit. But Boromir was already busy picking up his clothes from the floor.
“The meeting went well. Asked the team to go home already, so now I have time to rest …” Aragorn spoke to the person in the phone call.
This made Boromir smile. Seriously, tonight was magnificent—and there would be more. The idea that this would become a thing they do, and they would become a regular presence in each other’s life … Ah, imagine the look in his brother’s face when he found out. Boromir would eventually told him, of course. That he and Aragorn knew each other, and that they were close—but even Faramir did not need to know how close they actually were.
“Oh, yes, that one is confirmed. I’ll check that out tomorrow.”
Boromir folded the clothes that he had gathered.
“Then afterwards, we can go to your parents. Anyway, love … that reminds me … are they going to be at our anniversary? Or, will it just be us?”
Boromir felt his ears perking up. He turned to watch Aragorn closely, but the man happened to go silent, listening to whatever the other person was saying.
Even from this distance, Boromir could vaguely hear the voice—it was distinctively feminine. A voice that got Aragorn to listen attentively, with a gentle smile that was way too similar to the one he gave Boromir moments ago.
Finally, he could not believe he just realised it now, but that ring on Aragorn’s finger was certainly more than just an accessory.
“Yeah, I agree. Alright, see you tomorrow. I have some good news, but will tell you in person. Alright? Love you. Bye.” After ending the call, Aragorn threw his phone onto the bed and began searching for Boromir.
He found the man standing by the door, already fully dressed and ready to go.
There was anger in his gaze when he pulled that door open.