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The September afternoon is cold and gray as Frodo and Faramir ride into Minas Tirith, their long journey back from Edoras finally behind them. The City's white walls have never looked so tall and forbidding to Frodo; they tower high around the lovers while they make their way to the seventh circle.
Frodo's heart beats in time with the clip-clop of his pony's hooves, and he looks over at Faramir for reassurance. The man smiles at him, the corners of his mouth curving gently.
"It's good to be home again," he says.
Frodo blinks hard and nods.
My home.
Faramir's footsteps ring against the stone floor as they walk to his rooms. The Tower of Ecthelion always preserves a cool quiet, but without the King in residence, it is even more pronounced. Today the Tower seems deserted.
Frodo shivers. "Shall we light a fire when we get to your rooms?"
"Our rooms," Faramir says. "Good idea."
Now Frodo feels a warmth rise from his belly at Faramir's words. He takes his lover's hand in his, pulling the man along in his eagerness.
"Come on, you slowcoach! Do I have to carry you?"
Faramir's laugh bounces off the walls. "Yes."
Faramir slumps heavily against the door.
"Just like the day we told Aragorn about us," Frodo thinks as he stands in the middle of the room. He glances quickly around him, always returning his gaze to Faramir standing so still. It seems to Frodo that the solid wood of the door is the only thing keeping Faramir upright.
Faramir walks to Frodo and kneels, burying his mouth against Frodo's throat. "So tired."
Wrapping his arms around Faramir's neck, Frodo pulls him close. "Bath."
"Too tired."
"Sshh … come …" Frodo takes Faramir by the hand again and tugs him into the bathroom.
"Mmm … you were right," Faramir murmurs.
"Of course I was." Frodo perches on Faramir's lap in the foggy warmth of their bath, the blessed hot water lapping around his shoulders. Though he wrinkles his nose and sticks out his tongue at the man, Faramir doesn't see and Frodo doesn't mind. Not at all.
Another thing he doesn't mind is the sight of Faramir lying with his head tilted back against the bathtub's smooth marble—his eyes closed, his pulse beating slow and sure in the hollow of his throat, his body limp as a rag doll under Frodo's loving hands.
"You missed some." Frodo is so drowsy and content that his lips barely move.
When Faramir's breath tickles his neck with the answer—"Did I?"—Frodo laughs.
Faramir's thumb hovers just above the opal trail glistening on Frodo's belly; he rubs the salt seed into Frodo's bath-moist skin, smiling when Frodo wriggles under his touch.
After a moment, Faramir slides down to rest his head on Frodo's shoulder and sighs, closing his eyes when the hobbit wraps his arms around his shoulders.
I could stay like this forever.
"What shall we do while we're waiting for Aragorn to return?"
It all comes rushing in on Faramir: the long ride back from Rohan with the guards muttering quietly amongst themselves; the too-quiet Tower; exile to come …
He rolls away from Frodo and curls in on himself, shivering though a bright fire is burning in the hearth.
A hesitant touch on his shoulder.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing … go to sleep."
A long minute of silence is broken only by the crackling flames, and then a fury descends on Faramir, pummeling him with hard fists and even harder words.
"Don't you dare … don't you dare turn from me like this after everything …"
"You're a good fighter." Rubbing his jaw gingerly with one hand, Faramir draws Frodo close with the other.
"Only when I'm backed into a corner." Though Frodo smiles up Faramir, his face is still tense with anger and hurt.
"Do you think we'll ever learn?"
"Learn what?"
"Not to hurt each other so much."
Frodo's heart skips a beat at the crack in Faramir's voice. "It only hurts because we love so much." Now Frodo's eyes fill with tears as Faramir tucks the bedcovers around his shoulders carefully. There are only two possible outcomes for them: hearts broken or hearts healed.