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“The Elf can’t hold his liquor.”
-- Gimli, Return of the King
"This is the most curious sensation," Legolas muses, focusing bleary eyes on his waving fingers.
Eomer watches in ill-concealed amusement as he takes another long draught from his mug. The ale – hearty and strong on this night – courses through him with sluggish heat. "I thought Elves didn't feel the effect of drink the way humans do."
"Is that what this is?" Legolas frowns, and even the slight wrinkles between his eyebrows are elegant. Eomer's long since given up on understanding how even mundane aspects can seem otherworldly when Legolas is doing them.
"Tell me how you feel," he encourages, doing his level best to ignore Gimli's deep snores and the revelry around them. The Hobbits are dancing and drinking all of the men under the table, earning the respect of every warrior. The laughter and joy serve as a reminder that all is not lost.
"I'm not sure." Legolas sounds more than a little confused, and Eomer smiles once again. For such ancient beings, Elves could be remarkably innocent at times.
"Come," he says, and sets down his mug. "A walk will do you some good."
"Will it stop the sound of the drums beating in my head?" Legolas asks as he obediently follows Eomer out of the Great Hall and outside.
"Drums?" Eomer repeats.
Legolas nods. "A dozen, at least."
"A dozen, eh?" Eomer winces in sympathy, and slings a companionable arm around slender shoulders. "You'll feel that in the morning."
Guileless, pale eyes stare back at him. The light from the waning moon has turned blond braids into strands of silver, casting perfect, pale features into shadow and mist. "You truly are a lovely creature," Eomer murmurs, barely aware he's spoken aloud.
"Am I?" Legolas asks, guileless, and gently brushes his lips along Eomer's jaw.
Eomer's lashes flutter at the touch, and he tilts his chin up, seeking more contact. The kiss that's pressed upon waiting lips is lighter than air. "Legolas, I do not think..."
"So do not think." The next instant, Eomer's back is roughly scraping the stone wall as his lips are devoured in a hard, thorough kiss. Legolas tastes sweet and addictive, like honeyed wine, and Eomer opens his mouth, his tongue moving with Legolas' in an age-old dance.
"Thought...you were...drunk," Eomer gasps, and moans again when Legolas takes advantage by taking his mouth in another wet, open-mouthed kiss.
"I'm an Elf. I could drink you and everyone in the Hall into a stupor and not feel it." Normally light eyes are dark with some indefinable emotion. Eomer shivers when he feels them caress over his skin.
"Then why the ruse?" He lets out another gasp as sinfully soft lips trail along his nape.
Legolas presses against him in one long, fluid movement, all sinuous grace and silken fingers on eager flesh. "To lure you into a private corner," he replies.
His next kiss is just as sharp, just as sweet, and finally, Eomer stops asking questions.