Chasing Storms
"Let's take a walk," Boromir suggests. Legolas quirks an eyebrow at him. They're sitting quietly together, listening to Merry and Pippin discuss dinner. It's quite restful under the giant trees, surrounded by the endless chorus of Lothlorien rising and falling about them. The elves have built a lovely pavilion for those not comfortable in flets, with trickling fountains and statuary blending into the background. Boromir was raised with walls, he misses them.
Boromir sees the quick glance that passes between the hobbits, an unspoken comment on the proclivities of these two unlikely friends, and ignores it. While Merry may be wishing for pheasant instead of venison, Boromir doesn't care if their hosts serve rainbows on toasted bread. He needs to deal with the hardness that has crept into Legolas' eyes once again.
The elf shrugs and stands, nodding at the hobbits, and leads Boromir through the towers of trees that surround them on all sides.
Boromir follows the elf over a path he can't see. Legolas seems to understand instinctively just where to place his feet, and Boromir does his best to keep up, not wanting to scramble over the giant roots that rise up like boulders. Boromir doesn't know how long they walk, he won't know their destination until they get there, until that shadow leaves the elf, gives him a moment of peace. He just wants to get him away from the singing. He doesn't speak Sindarin, never will, but there's one word that keeps exploding out of the songs, washing over the elf in tides of agony. Mithrandir.
Bloody elves, Boromir thinks, caroling their grief to the skies. He pictures Aragorn, trying to shift into Gandalf's role like one of his discarded robes. It won't fit, Aragorn is not the wizard, does not inspire that confidence. He may guide, but he does not yet lead. Frodo understands more than the others, he catches the meaning in the elegies, but Frodo has Sam to comfort him. Legolas is his concern.
Legolas stops, finally, turns to look at the man. He leans against the great root of a tree, arms folded across his chest. His gaze is steady and his face has softened, just a tiny bit. But his eyes are brilliant, brittle. Boromir can't see through that blue glass, to the pain he knows lies behind them.
"Is this far enough for your purposes?" Legolas asks him. He sees the confusion flit over Boromir's face, and in some deep part of him, he gloats. He knows what Boromir wants, to comfort him, to lift the darkness that is smothering him like a moldy blanket. Legolas does not want that comfort, does not deserve it.
"Purposes?" Boromir asks, lifting a brow. "We could have gone back to the house for that." He almost wishes they had. That he would understand. Comfort for Boromir is to be wrapped in the elf's hair, his limbs, his scent, until everything but the elf disappears from the world. He is learning that Legolas needs something different.
"What happened in Moria..." Boromir begins, tentatively, seeking some way in past the clouds that surround the elf, hiding him.
Legolas cuts him off with a swift gesture of his hand. "Is not something I wish to discuss." There's a quiet finality in his voice, Boromir can hear bricks going up in the elf's walls. He won't talk about this. He can't, not in the face of that soft sympathy, that easy absolution. Failure on such a scale deserves a much more severe penance.
"Was not your fault," Boromir continues, as if the elf has said nothing, has encouraged him instead of dismissing him. "There is nothing in the world that could have destroyed that devil. Gandalf gave us our only chance."
Legolas looks at him with scorn. He can't believe Boromir is actually trying to rationalize this. He does understand that the man thinks this is going to help. He can't keep a caustic laugh back. "Glorfindel," he says. "The Balrog-Slayer?" He pushes down the disgust he feels with himself, but can't keep it out of his voice. "An elf?"
"Forgive me, I forgot," Boromir says, narrowing his eyes. "You elves are so much better than we common men. So noble, so pure." He sees the shot go home, and now there's a bitter gleam in Legolas' gaze. "You've forgotten your duty, Legolas."
"Don't you speak to me of duty," the elf hisses. "My duty was to destroy that filth." He gives up all pretense of calmness, his hands begin to shake, and he pulls them into fists. He can hear the hiss of flame, smell the char of the monster. Sees Mithrandir fall again, again, again. He can't get rid of the visions, the implications, the guilt.
"Your duty," Boromir snaps, "is to protect Frodo. At all costs. You swore an oath."
"To protect Frodo, we need Mithrandir!" Legolas howls in frustration. "I could have distracted it, let the rest of you get away. I should have! But I ran."
"You did not run," Boromir says ferociously. He takes the few steps between them and stands, solid as the stones of his homeland. "You covered the retreat with your arrows, you made sure everyone got out alive. That counts for nothing, I suppose?"
Legolas hisses at him, furiously, wordlessly. Boromir can never appreciate the panic he felt when he saw that monster. He twists, getting ready to run. Boromir blocks his path, unless Legolas decides to run straight up the tree he will have to run over Boromir. And Boromir is not moving. Legolas may bash himself against this rock until Aragorn comes to take them onward on their quest, Boromir is not moving. Some small part of Legolas that isn't whipping himself into an ecstasy of agony is comforted by that.
"You think you know better than Gandalf?" Boromir asks him gently. "Are you really that arrogant?" There is a sort of calm amazement in the man's voice. Legolas freezes. "I've come to expect from the elves around here," Boromir continues, nodding to indicate every elf in the Golden Wood, "but you're different, aren't you?"
Legolas says nothing, can say nothing. Boromir steps back to look at him, wants to calm the black tempests in the elf's eyes, gentle the breakers that smash self-loathing and despair into Legolas with every breath.
"You did nothing wrong." Boromir says, definitely and defiantly. "Regardless of what yonder elf-Queen may have put in your head."
Legolas does strike out now, forces the man back against the tree root, forearm to throat, so hard the breath is knocked out of the man. "How can you say that, to me?" he snarls, pushing him as if he would bury him in the wood itself.
"Truth," Boromir struggles to get the word out. He pushes back, fighting for air against the pressure the elf forces against him.
Suddenly the elf lets go. Boromir tips forward, coughing, taking in deep breaths of the wood flavored air. Legolas stares at him, through motes of golden light flitting in the air under this canopy of green. He's drowning in it.
Boromir, hands still on his thighs, raises his head to stare at the elf. Legolas continues to shake, eyes wide, fighting down the hurricane in his soul. Then he lunges.
Boromir hasn't got time to duck, he waits, and realizes that he trusts as well. He doesn't care if Legolas beats him to pulp, he'll do anything to get rid of that storm, to see the calm blue light back in his eyes.
The elf slams his body against the man, digging his fingers into his arms hard enough to leave bruises. He hungrily searches for his mouth, and Boromir, reeling at the unexpected, unexplained action, raises his head to meet him. Their lips collide and he feels the elf shudder, feels as if he's being pulled into the sea.
For Legolas is subtle in love. Always. He seduces with the inflection of a word, a gesture of his gracefully deadly hand, the sideways glance of intimacy. He can and does leave Boromir craving and weak from across the room. Frequently. But he does not initiate touch. Ever. It is always Boromir who caresses, kisses first. Then Legolas unleashes the tender, eager, enthusiastic lover.
This is different. This is the desperation in his soul clinging to a broken anchor, wanting to reach the safety of deadly shoals before he is washed away completely. Boromir's head swims and he reaches to pull the elf down to him. Legolas recoils, wanting nothing of tenderness, of sweetness. He drags the man up the rough bark, wrapping one hand in his hair, pinning his leg with his knee. He savages Boromir's mouth, forcing his storm onto him, into him.
Lightning ignites Boromir, and he reacts, wildfire dancing through him, knowing instinctively what it is the elf demands, desires, and he will do anything for Legolas.
Thunder rumbles in his chest and he fights back, matching the elf's lithe strength with his own bulk and determination. What Legolas wants is dominance, he wants to prove his strength, his power, his vitality, but Boromir is not dishonest enough to hand it to him. He wants to wash away all the shame in his soul. It is not what the elf needs, and Boromir realizes that at some primal level. He kisses the elf with his own burning ferocity, pulls impatiently at clasps and buttons, mutters the elf's name into his neck, his hair.
Legolas is stronger, though, and Boromir suddenly understands how much the elf has always held back. Somewhere in the back of his mind, some tiny part that isn't white hot with desire, he briefly wonders if he'll come through this without broken bones, but the pleasure outweighs any pain, and suddenly he is on his knees before the elf. Legolas' face is feral with lust, and Boromir knows that the moment has come.
"Look at me," he orders. The elf snarls at him, and Boromir grabs the hand holding his shoulder down, twists, pulls the elf down to him. "Look at me!" he rages again.
It breaks through the fog in the elf's head, he has to concentrate to bring Boromir's face into focus. And what he sees there is...
Acceptance.
Complete and total. At this moment, with Boromir half naked and panting before him, he can do anything. And it will be okay. Boromir will accept him. The beast in Boromir has risen to greet, embrace its brother demon into itself, take it to its heart.
Legolas crashes to his knees. Boromir reaches out and grips him by the chin, forcing his gaze into those wild eyes. "Everything you are," he groans. "All of you. The gales and the chaos. I want it all."
The storm breaks and the elf cries out. Boromir wraps his arms around him, pushing his hair back, and whispers vehemently in the pointed ear, "Dammit, Legolas, give me what I want!"
There is a ferocity in their lovemaking, there between the roots of the malorn tree, that has never been there before. But when Boromir gazes into those blue on blue eyes as Legolas explodes into himself and the universe, there is only the cleansing rain of a summer shower.