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There wasn’t a word in in any language Legolas knew of which could describe the pure adoration he felt for Aragorn.
He’d never payed much attention to whatever words were thrown around by those who understood love better than he, Legolas wasn’t fated for anything of that sort. His own father had even once told him so.
All that to say, he wasn’t unaware of the concept, in general terms. He’d simply never experienced the feelings the words described, so after hundreds of years, he’d assumed all of that was something he just couldn’t experience. He didn’t have the capacity to love someone, whatever the reason for that may be.
Then he had met Aragorn and had felt instantly what all of those words meant, and then some.
It hit him in a millisecond, watching the way he fought with more skill than Legolas had ever seen any man capable of—though perhaps it was common amongst men, but he’d never had the interest to notice, until Aragorn.
The way he held his emotions in the palm of his hand, like it was nothing, like it was normal, he didn’t need to hide what he was thinking, feeling. It was… beautiful. Everything about him was beautiful, ethereal.
It was no wonder that Arwen had so easily fallen in love with him, been willing to give up her immortality for him (though Legolas couldn’t imagine doing that for someone, not even Aragorn). It was a sacrifice Aragorn had never wanted nor asked for, he admitted when Legolas had questioned him. He was scared of everything that large of a sacrifice entailed—a perfectly fair anxiety to have, in Legolas’ thinking. Giving up something so precious, it was dangerous. Putting such a burden on the other person even if it was unintentional. What if their feelings changed, if something untimely happened to either of them, or—
“Legolas.”
He blinked, realizing he’d been thinking about something that couldn’t matter less at the current moment, staring into space and lamenting the fact that someone he was in love with was already in love with someone else. “Yes?”
“Be ready to leave before sunset. We’ll ride to Mordor then.”
Legolas nodded, feeling lost in the moment and attempting to recollect himself without losing his calm facade.
Aragorn was staring at him, his face a mix of concern and something else Legolas couldn’t quite place. “Are you…” Aragorn began, before trailing off, brushing a hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes.
He was staring at Aragorn’s hair again, watching him push it away from his face before it fell back to where it had been moments before. Legolas smiled, beckoning him to come closer, not sure what exactly he wanted to say, trying to form words but coming up empty. Instead, he reached up, fingers hesitating, brushing against Aragorn’s hair, barely touching it before he pulled away again.
“You should do something with this,” Legolas finally said, letting his hand fall. “How can you see to fight your enemies with your hair covering your eyes?”
Aragorn smiled, tilting his head. “How do you see?”
“Braids,” he offered, silently wondering what it would be like to braid Aragorn’s hair. It was long, not as long as any elf’s hair, but long for a human, and soft, smooth, and—
“Then that’s what I’ll have to do.” Aragorn paused with a glint in his eye that signified he was about to do something completely unexpected and unprompted that would likely knock Legolas right off his feet, “in fact, I’d like you to do it for me. I’m not sure how well I could braid my own hair.”
Knocked off his feet and left heaving for breath. “It would be my pleasure.” Perhaps it was mildly self-serving—or very self-serving—to jump at the opportunity to run his fingers through Aragorn’s hair, but Legolas wasn’t going to feel guilty about it, after all, he’d been asked to do it. So really, it was… fine. It was fine.
It was fine that they were sitting next to one another in an otherwise empty room, faces so close and at the same time, so far from each other. It was fine that Legolas was slowly, languidly running his hands through Aragorn’s smooth hair. It was fine that they were moving closer to each other, that Legolas was trying as hard as he could (he wasn’t trying at all) to break away from the way they stared at each other, to ask Aragorn to turn his head so he could braid the back.
His arms were resting on Aragorn’s shoulders, he was leaning forward, so painfully close. It was like a thick fog surrounded them both, every movement and noise made amplified by their closeness. Everything was happening at a pace half as slow as it should, every time Aragorn blinked it felt like a gust of wind rushing past him.
Legolas could feel Aragorn's breath on his lips, was there a reason he was breathing so hard? Was Legolas breathing that hard too? Did it even matter—did anything matter when they were this close, when he could just lean forward a centimeter and their lips would—
“Beads,” Legolas suddenly said, pulling back as far as he could without actually standing up or letting go of the braids.
Aragorn blinked, staring at him. “Beads?” He repeated, and maybe it was Legolas projecting, but he sounded just as lost in the moment and dazed as Legolas felt.
He nodded, turning and reaching into his pocket, carefully taking out a small handful of sparkling, white beads. “I can thread them in your hair. If you wouldn’t—wouldn’t mind.” Hesitation crept into his voice, that was likely too much, it was one thing to braid Aragorn’s hair in the same style as his own, another thing entirely to intertwine the braids with his own beads.
“Please,” Aragorn said easily, turning his head to the side so Legolas could more easily thread the beads through his hair. “I’d like to have something to remind me of you on the battlefield.”
Legolas let out a soft gasp, one that wasn’t really warranted, but he couldn’t contain it. No one said things like that to him, no one. “Of course.”
There was silence again, nothing Legolas could hear but the rhythmic beating of Aragorn’s heart and the scattered, flustered beat of his own.
“Done,” he finally said, although his hands didn’t move from Aragorn’s shoulders. “They suit you quite well. Though… I may be biased.” In a stunning feat of bravery, he lifted a hand and brought it to Aragorn’s chin, slowly turning his head to face him. He was so beautiful, soft hair and clear, shining eyes, an aura of strength surrounding him that Legolas wanted nothing more than to bathe himself in.
They stared at each other, or rather, Aragorn stared at him, while Legolas let his eyes wander across his face, taking in every feature and flicker of emotion that passed across him. It was enthralling to be this close, almost intoxicating, and though Legolas wasn’t exactly capable of getting drunk, he imagined this was what it would feel like. Despite all of this, all of the closeness and intimacy and frantic heartbeats, Legolas’ face remained neutral, one eyebrow arched, the barest hint of a smile, as he studied Aragorn.
“And why might you be biased?” Aragorn finally asked, looking at Legolas like he was attempting to solve a terribly complicated puzzle.
Legolas breathed in, slowly, like it was possibly his last breath in life, gulping in air without letting it leave his body. Keeping it inside him as his last moment, last breath of air taken with this level of closeness to Aragorn. “Easier to show you than say it,” Legolas whispered, releasing the breath he’d been holding in and taking one more, breathing in, leaning forward, closing his eyes.
Their lips touched, melting into each other, Legolas’ hand moved to cup Aragorn’s cheek, the other still resting against the back of his neck, not holding him there, only wanting to, asking to.
Time slowed down, so far down that it seemed the sun had set and risen again by the time Legolas pulled away. His eyes flickered open of their own accord, and Aragorn was staring at him still. Had he moved at all? Was time still frozen in place, doomed to keep this moment of the one time Legolas had lacked the self control to keep his emotions in check forever on repeat, just to mock him?
Or, more likely, Aragorn simply didn’t know what to do.
Or, maybe he did.
Or, maybe, at this exact moment, he was kissing Legolas. He had moved. His hands were in Legolas’ hair, and Legolas was too busy playing catch up with the concept of time to realize what was happening.
The next breath he took was one taken straight from Aragorn’s lips, swallowed up along with any words either may have tried to say if given the opportunity, covered and pushed away by lips connecting with each other again.
It was as if time really had frozen, come to a screeching halt to allow them both this one moment of peace, one moment of pure love and and nothing more, before it all came rushing back in a windstorm.
Aragorn spoke first, quietly, eyes still closed, forehead resting on Legolas’. “Almost time to leave.”
Legolas hummed in agreement, curling his fingers into the fabric of Aragorn’s shirt before letting go. “If I’m not able to speak to you after this battle-”
Aragorn quieted him with a finger on his lips. “You will. We will return, I swear it.”