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It was amazing how they were so different, eldar and men. Finrod was always enamoured with them, always cataloging and recording the differences, from the tips of their ears, to their number of teeth. Though it amazed him even more how similar they were.
Finrod pressed his hand against Bëor's, their palms flush together, and studied the way their fingers fit together as he locked them between Bëor's. The warmth of it against his own was a greater comfort than the one of the fire that burned beside them where they sat, alone together in the camp of men. It had not been long since they'd known each other, and they still struggled to communicate smoothly, but Finrod felt a certain pull to this man, and felt nothing short of wholly comfortable by his side.
He closed his eyes, and tried to remember what he'd learned of Bëor's words, "Your hand… is warm," He smiled, and when he opened his eyes, Bëor was smiling back. He unfolded their fingers, and stretched them against each other. Finrod’s fingers were far longer, able to bend the tips down over Bëor’s, but Bëor’s hands were wide, and his fingers were thick.
“Yours, soft.” Bëor replied in Sindarin, with much less confidence, if it was possible. Finrod had focused more on learning than teaching, but Bëor was catching up to him quickly despite the fact. Finrod laughed softly, and then took Bëor’s hand between both of his own, palms together with one, and stroked the back with the other. One thing that interested Finrod greatly was the difference in body hair. Soft black hair crept up the back of Bëor’s hand, and Finrod loved to feel it tickle under his fingertips.
He lifted Bëor’s hand closer to his face, tracing over the lines and marks, playing through the fine hairs and stopping to dot every freckle. The fingers of his other hand curled under Bëor’s palm, feeling its roughness, and he laughed at the tickle. Finrod smiled and hummed, tickling him more before pressing his lips gently to the back of Bëor’s hand. The softness of the gaze that Bëor fixed him with made his heart thump in his chest, and he pressed his lips more firmly across each of his knuckles.
The hair on his fingers brushing against Finrod’s chin and cheeks made him long for more. Made him wonder what the hair of his beard felt like against his lips, or the hair of his chest or arms, or-- Finrod suddenly wanted to kiss him everywhere, to become familiar with every new and exciting sensation this man had to offer.
Bëor reached his other hand out, and cupped Finrod’s cheek, who leaned into the touch. He rubbed against it, feeling the softness of Finrod’s face against his rough palm. Finrod turned Bëor’s hand in his again, and massaged both his thumbs over the palm, while Bëor stroked his thumb over Finrod’s cheek, and then his lips.
Finrod swallowed, and kissed the pad of Bëor’s thumb. He knew his cheeks must be flushed, he felt warm all the way to the tips of his ears, and Bëor just smiled at him in a way that made him squeeze the hand he held, and lean forward, just close enough that they shared breath.
Bëor closed the space between them. His lips were large and warm and seemed to pull the very breath from Finrod’s lungs. It was too-short a time before he pulled back, looking somehow sheepish and daring at the same time, and Finrod, unable to resist, kissed him again. Now that he knew the feeling of those whiskers on his face, the feeling of Bëor’s lips, which were soft where the rest of him was rough, he couldn’t hold himself back.
Bëor’s fingers entwined back around his, and the hand on his cheek slipped away to hold the other likewise. Finrod’s fingers were stretched apart where Bëor’s thicker ones slotted between them, and he couldn't help but try to open his hands more, to hold as much of Bëor as possible. He could practically feel the thump of their pulses where their palms touched, and his hands twitched and clenched, unwilling to let go, even when he finally pulled himself away.
They sat silently, no need for words, and held each other’s hands beside the fire for a time. Finrod had no word for the emotion that thrummed through him in those moments, like love but so much sharper and narrower, a satisfaction that at the same time only made him want more. He had no word for it, but he was addicted to it already.