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Sometimes Faramir and Frodo cannot seem to get things right between them in the night. The weight of Faramir's arm curved around Frodo's waist, usually so comforting in its warmth and solidity, is too heavy for Frodo. Onerous in its assumption of ownership. He feels trapped, barely able to breathe though he tells himself it is what he wanted. What he still wants. Doesn't he?
And sometimes everything moves more smoothly and sweetly for Frodo, but not for Faramir. It shames Faramir to admit it to himself and his face flushes hot with it, but Frodo thinks it is only passion and presses closer with a wordless cry of delight. It's just that … every now and then (not often, Faramir swears) he feels he cannot let himself go completely with Frodo. It doesn't matter that whatever force he brings to bear is met with gasps of pleasure and the long drawn-out moan that always thrills Faramir no matter his doubts. Nevertheless, Faramir is sure that one day, if he is not vigilant, he will give Frodo a hurt that will not dissipate with the morning light into that secret smile Frodo wears when he is sore and likes it.
But when they lie together on their balcony overlooking the Bay of Umbar and the summer night is hot and fine …
… oh, those warm southern nights when their skin slides so smoothly that it cannot just be the fine sheen of sweat gilding their bodies …
… when the night is so humid that they pant and gasp in their twisting, turning dance and neither of them can tell one's breath from the other …
… when the air is heavy with the salt of Belegaer and their mingled sweat and seed …
… when Frodo's breathing hitches just so because of a sudden jerk in Faramir's steady thrusts and that little catch at the back of Frodo's throat makes Faramir smile up at the sky …
… when the cobalt sky opens wide and all Elbereth's stars shine down on them and they laugh with the joy of their release …
… when all that happens, each one quickly thinks to himself, "It will be all right …"
… and their unspoken longing slips in and around them, coiling just tightly enough to reassure Faramir but not oppress Frodo. Too spent to walk the few paces into their stone house that gleams white from moonlight and starlight, they lie in each other's arms on their terrace high above the waves. The faint rush of the surf on the beach lulls them with its sure rhythm, and finally they sleep, nose to nose, breathing each other's dreams through the night.