A Fleeting Glimpse of Shadow

Faramir sat on the bench in the corner of their stateroom. He was dressed in jeans, a bulky green turtleneck sweater – SO not his color, it must have been Éomer's – and wool socks, and his dark hair was slicked back by saltwater; one strand clung to his forehead, a black curving line across the caramel skin, just begging for Michael to lean over and brush it back. But Faramir rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward a little, his face grim; his pale gray eyes were fixed on his lover. Michael sat on the edge of their bed and watched Faramir watch him. He felt nervous, as nervous as he'd felt the first time he'd gone into Faramir's – Frances' – apartment – when had Frances become Faramir? – he didn't know, didn't really care. He had that same tight, fluttery feeling in his stomach, the same acute awareness of Frances' proximity, the same consciousness of each breath, turn of the head, shifting of the feet. It was as though he was seeing this man for the first time – this man with whom he'd lived, slept, eaten, listened to music, hidden, run. The broad forehead, intelligent eyes that kept the soul safely secreted, aristocratic nose, full lower lip crowned by a thin bow of flesh, the hint of a cleft in the strong chin. Michael swallowed and looked at Faramir's hands – his strong, long-fingered, broad-palmed hands with their light dusting of black hair; the nails were broken, and he had a cut on one knuckle – so different from the perfectly manicured hands Frances Steward had sported – workman's hands, sailor's hands. Those fingers had touched him, explored him, caressed and excited him for eight months, and yet at that moment they seemed to Michael to be the hands of a stranger. It was a frightening thought, but a titillating one as well.

Aside from that first compulsive embrace, and the following entwining of limbs after Legolas had fallen asleep, Faramir had barely touched him. They had left Éowyn and Legolas' stateroom with Doris, Gimli, Aragorn, and Éomer, and Faramir had graciously allowed Doris some Michael Time – Michael's robe was still wet from her tears – odd that he was wearing a robe, but then again, Legolas was wearing one too – and it was then Michael discovered how long, exactly, he'd been away, and where, exactly, he was. It was Unnerving.

Three weeks. And they were in Whitehaven.

Three weeks – to Michael it had felt like three hours. For three weeks Faramir, Doris, and everyone else had simply sailed on, after watching him get sucked under, watching Legolas dive in, to not resurface – at all. The only thing, Gimli said, that floated back up was Michael's coat. They had fished it out, dropped anchor and waited for two days, and when nothing happened, they had taken counsel with one another, and moved on. After all, the north Atlantic was a big place, and Ahn was still on the loose. And hadn't Michael accepted his fate? He'd known, as everyone else had known, that Ossë was going to drown him. The fact that Legolas refused to accept it was also acknowledged. So they'd assumed Ossë had won, and Legolas had lost; they mourned Michael, figured Legolas would return eventually, and weighed anchor. For three weeks, everyone believed Michael dead and gone. For three weeks, they'd sailed with heavy hearts toward Scotland, watching Faramir closely, to make sure he didn't make away with himself. For three weeks, Doris whispered, Faramir had stood at the stern, face bleak and pale, staring out at the green-black, white-capped water, waiting, seeking, searching. For three weeks he barely spoke to anyone, occasionally to Éowyn, but for the most part silent, eyes ravaged by grief. For three weeks, Michael had been gone.

And now he was back, and Faramir was trying to deal with that.

That was why Michael was nervous. Bad enough he'd just broken Faramir's heart by disappearing into the crushing black depths; now, just as his lover was starting to move, breathe, find reason for getting up in the morning, back he comes. Granted, the impulsive "I love you"s were encouraging, but the look on Faramir's face – shuttered, wary, much like the Frances Steward of Not-Discussed-Land, made his heart race – and not necessarily in a good way. Not entirely in a bad way either, as they were, after all, alone in their cabin with the door locked – a Good Sign, really – but Michael desperately wished the stiff façade would crack, so Faramir could come back to him.

He wanted to say something, to break the awkward silence. Things had been fine until the cabin door had closed – he had been speaking easily with the others, shaking Éomer's hand, hugging Lottie and Doris, enduring Gimli's and Aragorn's crushing shoulder-grips; Faramir had seemed calm, at ease, perhaps a little eager to get Michael alone, which the others had accepted at face value. But as soon as the door closed, and Michael had turned to bury himself in Faramir's embrace, his lover had walked quickly to the corner of the room, sat with abrupt violence in the chair, and with an brusque gesture motioned Michael to the bed. And there they had sat, not speaking, for ten minutes – ten minutes that felt like ten years to Michael. And worst of it was, the longer they sat in silence, the harder it was to break that silence – the stronger and thicker the silence became. Even trying to open his mouth to speak was unthinkable. So he sat there, watching Faramir, and Faramir sat there and watched Michael watch him.

When it got to the point Michael was afraid to scratch an itch on his nose for fear of disrupting the heavy hush, he took mental stock of himself, and summoned what courage he possessed. This was ridiculous. Honestly. Three weeks – or hours, depending upon your perspective – without one another, and here's a nice comfy bed, and a nice locked door, and a nice tacit approval from their friends to Get It On, and what were they doing? Sitting and looking. Ridiculous. Michael wasn't sure what Faramir's problem was, but if it was Lack of Sex, simply sitting and staring wasn't going to solve any problems, and as soon as Michael got his hands into Faramir's tighty-whiteys, the sooner this snit could come to a satisfactory conclusion. He braced himself. Faramir would probably try to shut him down – he was so good at that – pushing Michael away, putting up that cold, stony wall between them, making Michael beg for it. It was mortifying, but Michael did it sometimes – because afterwards, when the castle walls had been breached, and Faramir made love to him, Something Wonderful happened between them, and Faramir would soften, relax, open up. It might only be temporary, but at least Michael would get the affection and attention he craved, and Faramir wouldn't be quite such a bear to live with. Granted, it had been quite a while since Michael had had to resort to tactics like that – months – since Legolas' precipitate entry into their apartment, oh, it felt like years ago – but Michael, good Sub that he was, was quite adept at Aesthetically Creative Begging, and his Alpha needed to lighten up. He had just prepared himself to start to move, shifting a little on his backside which, he admitted with chagrin, was getting a little stiff and prickly from sitting still so long, when Faramir stirred, a quick twitch to one side, and his chin went up. The pale eyes studied Michael carefully.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice flat.

Michael fought down the cold uprising of panic in his chest – it sounded so like his father, when Michael would come in late from the gay nightclubs – as though Dad could smell the testosterone on his skin, smell the drinks and the smoke and the heady scent of male sex. The cold glare, the disgusted shake of the head, turning away, arms folded across the chest. "Disgusting," he'd say, and Michael would stare at the floor, at the gold-patterned linoleum of the entryway, his face burning, the delightful buzz dashed to pieces. But Faramir wasn't his father, he was his lover, and after three weeks of Living Hell deserved a little consideration.

"I was in Mandos," said Michael, fighting back the urge to roll his eyes and say, "Duh!" Where else would he have gone? Hell, perhaps. Well, maybe he'd been there after all, conversationally speaking. Three hours, three weeks, what of it? Death was death. At least Michael hadn't mourned much. Poor Faramir! Michael remembered the agony of Faramir's dream of Nienna, and his heart turned over. "I didn't know – " he began, but Faramir turned away, waving his hand dismissively.

"I know you were in Mandos," he said, his voice a little rough. What was that; was he CRYING? SO unlike his Alpha, so unnerving. "I meant, where in Mandos?"

Michael didn't understand that in the least. Where? He didn't know where. How on earth would he know? It wasn't as though there were a mall map set up by the gate with "You are Here" blazoned on it, pointing out the fastest way to Neiman Marcus. He had been on a white shining floor, with a house and three chairs and two Highly Dysfunctional Aliens. It could've been anywhere, really – well, anywhere in the Astral Plane. Certainly not South Dakota or anything like that. Roswell, perhaps. He could see it having occurred in Roswell. But under the circumstances, it was Highly Unlikely.

His puzzled expression must've convinced Faramir he had no idea what the question entailed, because Faramir looked away, biting his lip – Michael knew that expression; it was a combination of I'm-upset-but-I-don't-want-to-show-it and oh-my-god-I-can't-believe-he-doesn't-get-it. This annoyed Michael. HOW could he answer the question when he didn't know WHAT Faramir wanted?! Any consideration as to the possible sexual outcome of this encounter went out the window with the surge of indignation. Get laid be damned. This was obviously not about sex anyway.

"Who were you with?" asked Faramir abruptly; there was a flash of something – shame, fear – that glimmered through the stony wall. Beneath his confusion something clicked with Michael. Faramir knew people who had died – knew lots of them, mourned at least one in particular – the other man in the boat, Boromir. His brother. Dead, very Manly too – when exactly had Faramir Come Out? Had his brother known? Well, if Boromir had died before Faramir had divorced Éowyn, obviously not. That was it, then. Faramir was afraid of where Michael had been – who he'd been with – what he'd said. That explained it. Faramir was afraid, and his fear was making him defensive and cold.

"I wasn't with your brother, if that's what you're asking," said Michael a little acerbically. Really, who'd died here, after all? Who'd been sucked into the inky black depths and drowned and thrown into Hell and ripped back out and dumped on an icy deck? Didn't he deserve ANY consideration? Then he saw the stricken look on Faramir's face, and his heart turned instantly to water. He'd HURT Faramir!!! When, oh when would Michael EVER learn to keep his mouth SHUT? He opened his mouth to apologize, but the expression of relief and confusion mingled on his lover's face distracted him. When had he ever seen Faramir look like that? It was so Cute, so Endearing – Michael sat forward, reaching one shaking hand out to him; Faramir could only sit, paralyzed with emotion, staring open-mouthed at him.

"When – How – "

Michael's pity reached a breaking point. "I saw him in a dream," he blurted. "You were mourning him, he was lying in a boat with arrows all over him. I've seen him before that even. I watched him die. Boromir, your brother."

Faramir could only stare. "Yes," he whispered. His hands, gripping the seat of the chair, were shaking, the knuckles white. The expression on his face, the look in his eyes, was wounded, battered, crushed. What on earth had his family DONE to him? Had it been Even Worse than how Michael's father had reacted? That Faramir had loved his brother was a Given – had Boromir loved his brother back? Ah, that was the difficulty – to desire fraternal love and acceptance at any cost, to fear that disapproval, the grimace of disgust. "I was with Gil-Galad and Oropher," said Michael. His words tumbled out, cracking the silence, breaking the wall. "They knew I was gay and they didn't care. They didn't care, Faramir. It didn't matter there, in Mandos, whether you were gay or straight. Oropher and Gil-Galad didn't care at all. And Boromir wouldn't have cared either. I KNOW he wouldn't. It was different there, Faramir. People didn't care about things like that. Boromir would have been happy, he would have wanted you to be happy, too."

Faramir's adam's apple was bobbing up and down and he was blinking rapidly. Michael could see the muscles in his jaw, clenching and unclenching. He was fighting it, fighting the crumbling of Jericho's walls, but it was no use – Michael's voice was the trumpet, the walls were falling, there was no stopping him.

"He – " Faramir's voice cracked; the gray eyes were occluded with a film of tears. "He – would have wanted me – to uphold the honor of the family." Such an empty phrase; it made Michael want to bite someone, to hit whoever had bound Faramir's soul in so stiff a corset. You couldn't breathe that way; you couldn't laugh.

"You have," said Michael earnestly. He found the hand then, wrenched it off the edge of the bench it was gripping. The strong calloused fingers grabbed hold of his own small white hand, held it firm. "You're smart, you're successful, you're brave, you're doing the right thing. What could he complain about?"

"I love you," said Faramir. It wasn't a declaration of devotion; it was a confession made to a priest, an excuse for his self-loathing. "I love you and I can't help it. I can't help myself." The pale eyes overflowed; the face softened, crumpled, mouth pulled awry. A sob escaped Faramir's chest, a hiccup, a fracture. "I love you and I shouldn't. But I can't stop, I can't even though Boromir – "

"Oh, to hell with Boromir," exclaimed Michael, suddenly impatient. Faramir closed his eyes and lowered his head, still crying; Michael was holding his one hand in both of his own, rubbing it inconsequentially. "He's in Mandos, with the rest of the Edain I bet, complaining about how good the Eldar have it because they're all overcrowded and the Eldar have all the space they want. Let him bitch all he wants, darling – " Faramir opened his eyes; the tears were rolling down his cheeks, and his fingers were twitching convulsively. Michael was angry, but filled with pity and understanding all at once; he knew exactly what Faramir was thinking, and knew he shouldn't feel that way. "Boromir can't get between us, and frankly I don't think he would anyway." He gave a grin, lopsided, and squeezed Faramir's hand. "He'd be too impressed with how well you sail and program computers and kill people, and then I'd redecorate his dining room and everything would be fine."

The laugh came out more as an exploding snort, but it was sufficient; Faramir covered his eyes with his free hand and chuckled weakly through his tears, while Michael desperately rubbed and rubbed and rubbed the other hand. After a minute it occurred to him he was rubbing the Wrong Appendage entirely, and wondered if, now the Silence had been broken, a little subtle Celebration might be in order. Coming Out in the Afterlife was no joke, after all. But wasn't there something – something – he'd forgotten to do? He leafed through the incidents of what he saw as the past few hours. Let's see, coming back from the dead, Thranduil, Mandos, sinking and drowning –

Ah, yes.

"And by the way," said Michael, his courage girded up round his waist like a wrestler's belt. "What I was walking across the deck to tell you, when I was so rudely interrupted by the Valar, was that I love you."

The hand in front of Faramir's eyes moved; when Michael saw the expression on his lover's face his heart turned to butter in the sunshine. Broken, hopeful, filled with a tentative joy, bracing itself for disappointment but praying to everything sacred that happiness was, despite past failures, forthcoming. Michael could see the progression of thought behind those pale, intelligent eyes – the settling of ideas and preconceived notions, the shift of perspective and sudden appreciation. To Michael's surprise Faramir rose quickly and smoothly to his feet, still keeping hold of Michael's hand with one of his own, but reaching down to his lover, circling Michael's shoulders, bending down, bringing their faces together. Michael could hear their breathing, heavy and hoarse and a little uneven; he could see the tear-tracts on Faramir's face, the slight reddening of the eyes, could feel the sudden gust of hot breath on his chin, the heat of another body's proximity. Then the mattress creaked and shifted; Faramir had put one knee down on it, right between Michael's legs; everything in him leaped and his heart started to frantically pound. Faramir's face grew closer; Michael could see his lips parted, his eyes half-closed, the head tipped to one side – there was no question now; he was Committed – Michael closed his eyes and felt the hungry lips devour his own, felt the knee between his legs press forward, the arm round his shoulders tighten. A high-pitched buzz started up somewhere behind his eyes and he welcomed it; three hours, three weeks, what did it matter? He was pushed back, sinking into the mattress; there was the crunching sound of the boxspring adjusting to their weight, the rustle of fabric against fabric, a hot tongue requesting permission to enter, a hand trailing down the inside of his arm to his chest. He let out a pent-up breath of gratification, so loud it almost drowned out the last thing Faramir would say for several hours.

"Mine."