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The guards outside the prince’s chambers no longer bat an eyelash when Aragorn slips between them. He opens Legolas’ door without knocking, half hoping to find Legolas in a compromising position, but alas, Legolas is already changed into his night robes. He glances up as Aragorn quietly shuts the door again and strolls into the dark chamber, lit only by the flicker of candles. Legolas rises from the desk he was seated at, leaving his brush on the counter. He drifts towards Aragorn, and they meet in the middle.
Aragorn has half a mind to finish the job and run his fingers back through Legolas’ hair, to finger-comb it as he’s done on so many occasions before. But he needs both hands to hold his robes together, so he must keep them to himself. Legolas delicately takes hold of Aragorn’s shoulders, leaning in to brush a kiss over Aragorn’s cheek. He lingers an extra few seconds afterwards, drawing his chin along the line of Aragorn’s jaw. Aragorn knows why; he shaved this morning, as he will tomorrow, in honour of the occasion.
As Legolas withdraws, he purrs, “Is it not a custom of Men not to see their intended on the night before the wedding?”
“It is,” Aragorn admits, “But I couldn’t resist your charm.” Legolas smiles warmly, laughter in his eyes, and Aragorn neglects his explanation in favour of leaning forward and kissing Legolas properly. Legolas tilts towards him, their lips meeting, and Aragorn has to restrain himself, straining to keep it light, chaste. Again, he wants to reach for Legolas’ face, to cup it and to thumb his soft cheek, to weave into his silken hair. When Aragorn pulls back again, he murmurs against Legolas’ lips, “Actually, I was trying on the ceremonial robes I’ve been given... and for the life of me, I cannot seem to get them on.”
Now Legolas does laugh, lilting and lovely. He gives Aragorn another peck, then steps back to behold the mess. The silver robes are indeed held together, but only because Aragorn holds them so, one hand around the waist and the other at his chest. The sash strung about his waist trails on the ground behind him. He doubts that it’s meant to mimic a mortal veil, and it’s more likely that he simply doesn’t know how, or where, to tie it properly. The robes were delivered while he was in the bath, the messenger gone before he could ask.
He imagined his prince would know, and besides, he’s never spent a night in the Woodland Realm not in Legolas’ bed. It seemed foolish to be given his own guest chambers at all.
Legolas obligingly reaches for his sash, tugging it instantly free. It melts in Legolas’ hand, as all things seem to do for him. Then he adjusts where Aragorn holds himself, overlapping the ropes across the other side. He ties the sash along Aragorn’s waist and shoulder, knotting it into several loops that Aragorn swiftly loses track of. He imagines he’ll have to have help being dressed in the morning, but if he spends the night here, that shouldn’t be a problem. When Legolas finishes, he steps back to examine his work.
He smiles wide, clear eyes slowly tracing the lines of Aragorn’s body. Hooking a finger beneath his chin, he deems, “You look quite handsome, my love.” It’s the pot calling the kettle black; especially in the flimsy robes meant for the night, loosely tumbling over one of Legolas’ fair shoulders, Legolas is a vision of pure beauty. The luck and joy of having him strikes Aragorn anew. When his gaze reaches Aragorn’s, he adds, “Although you would look equally so in the garb of your own people. You are a king among Men. Why should you not marry me as such?”
“I will,” Aragorn concedes, “at the Imladris ceremony. But this is for your people, and your father dislikes me enough without another flagrant disregard of your culture.”
Reaching out again to smooth Aragorn’s robes, Legolas murmurs, “You have never once shown disregard for my culture. ...And my father likes you well enough. He is simply... skeptical... of the difference in our races. He does not wish to see me mourn at the loss of you.”
It’s a sobering thought that Aragorn tries not to think of, but he pushes through and mutters, “I have many years left. And I will not begrudge you another lover after.”
“There will be no need of that,” Legolas insists dismissively, now tugging Aragorn’s collar into place, “once we reach the Western shores.”
Aragorn sighs but doesn’t argue. They’ve had that one too many times. The way of the elves was never meant to be open for him, and he hardly thinks that Legolas changes that, especially when Legolas himself has too much here to leave. And Aragorn has his own destiny. He has no delusions that their future together will be an easy one.
But they will have a future together, whether his way or Legolas’. Legolas’ eyes flicker up to his as though to press the point, but Aragorn gently says, “I will not fight before our wedding. That would truly be a bad omen.”
Legolas’ smile flitters back into place, and he finishes his doting by bringing his lips to Aragorn’s again. It’s another warm kiss, less chaste than Aragorn means it to be, bordering on lewd, even, when Legolas arches into Aragorn to flatten their chests together. He clutches Aragorn’s broader shoulders, and Aragorn’s finally free to hold Legolas in return, wrapping thickly around his slender form. In between a growing set of kisses neither of them can seem to stop, Legolas huskily asks, “Is there any belief against the consummation of wedded partners before the ceremony?”
“Probably,” Aragorn chuckles, “but none strong enough to keep me from you.” Then he finally lets his tongue into Legolas’ mouth, and they begin to wander for the bed.