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Legolas sat cross-legged with his bow in his lap, dark eyes scanning the starlit hills spread out around them. The night was peaceful, populated only by gentle wind and small animal noises, and yet something uneasy still stirred in his spine. He was happy to take more turns keeping watch over those who needed rest more than him, but lately these whisper-still moments of solitude in the dead of night had begun to fill him with restlessness. He had his back turned to his sleeping friends but his ears still picked up every breath, every sleepy movement rustling the grass behind him. In the intimacy of these vast wildlands, he could tell how each and every one of them was sleeping that night, could pick apart the little quirks of their being without even looking. And he found himself listening out for someone’s breath in particular, matching his own to its peaceful pace and willing his heart to slow down.
Gimli.
Apart from his initial curiosity about the dwarf whose father his father had spoken so bitterly about, for a long while after their meeting in Imladris Legolas had regarded Gimli with a cool indifference which only occasionally flared into heated annoyance at what were surely deliberate attempts to get on his nerves. He found humans only slightly odd and liked the hobbits fine, only Gimli could rile him up and make him wish wholeheartedly that he was back in his own forest with his own people. However, necessity and time had wakened in him warmer feelings of friendship towards the dwarf. Gimli had certainly proven to be trustworthy and courageous, if prideful, and Legolas had done his best to prove himself to the Gimli in return.
Then.
Legolas had started to take notice – or maybe he had all along – of other things. Like Gimli’s quick wits and endearingly gruff quips, his strong arms under rolled-up sleeves, the foreign, fascinating braids and rough-soft texture of his hair. The warmth of him, the scent of him, all smoke and shiny metal. The way he smiled, rarely, privately, the jokes he made and the way he watched Legolas smile in response. The way Gimli felt both safe and somehow dangerous at the same time.
Then.
Legolas had started to imagine things, to wonder – in these moments when everyone else was passed out from overwhelming exhaustion and his only options were to contemplate the gathering shadows and the impossibility of their mission, or let his mind go where it went these days to seek comfort, to something that was his only. He whiled away the solitary hours imagining Gimli’s rough hands against his skin, claiming him with a touch that was something else than camaraderie, than friendship as a survival tactic. Gimli’s beard-bristled mouth against his, the taste of fire and steel on his tongue. How Gimli’s muscles would move under sweat-sheened skin. How nimble fingers would work their way under his clothes and tangle in his hair, sure and steady from years of wielding an axe.
Legolas huffed out a breath and ran his hands over his face. It was easy enough to ignore these daydreams in daylight, and harmless enough to indulge in them in the vast expanse of lonely night watches, but sometimes the pull at his heart was almost too much, like a desperate sea-longing carving out his chest.
*
Gimli lay still on his back, staring up at the diamond dusting of stars spread out above them. Despite the exhaustion weighing down his body, he found his mind wandering further and further from the relief of sleep. With their days filled with so much toil and danger, being able to be alone with your thoughts in the privacy of darkness brought with it a different kind of relief. Legolas had again offered to keep watch for more than his share of the night, claiming that admiring the quiet, clear night was enough to restore him, but Gimli wondered whether he should offer to take his place nevertheless. Surely elves needed to sleep sometimes, too? He turned to look at the elf who sat rod-straight with his back to them, completely still but for the light breeze sending ripples through his molten-silver hair.
Lately, Gimli had found himself wondering about that hair surprisingly often. How it would feel to run his hands through the silky strands, touch his fingertips to the strange elven braids. Their relationship had had a troubled beginning, and no wonder, since Gimli’s family had suffered great injustice in the hands of Legolas’ father and Legolas still refused to admit the elves of Mirkwood had been in the wrong, as if he was deliberately trying to be as infuriating as possible. But at some point, Gimli had begun to notice the unsettlingly graceful movements of his companion and learned to read his changeable moods. He’d found ways to make Legolas smile, and pleasure in doing so. He’d started to wonder about Legolas’ long neck and smooth skin, and without his permission his mind had conjured up images of Legolas turning to him, a smile playing on his soft lips, and leaning in to kiss him. He’d taste of young green leaves and cool water, and that ceaseless elven tongue would know all the right things to do.
Gimli closed his eyes and sighed. He was perfectly content with the unlikely friendship they’d struck, and drew immense comfort from it, but sometimes he found himself hoping something altogether different would spark between them. Sometimes Legolas gave him a look that made Gimli feel like he’d come home, and like he was in great peril at the same time.
His heart stirred in his chest. Hell. He really wasn’t going to sleep tonight. He heard a low exhale from where Legolas was keeping watch and opened his eyes to see the elf sitting with his head in his hands, the slope of his shoulders against a sky of stars. Stupid stubborn elf, he clearly needed to rest.
As silently as he could, Gimli got up and grabbed his axe, padding over to Legolas. He reached out his hand and touched the elf’s shoulder.
“Legolas,” he said softly.
*
“Gimli,” Legolas breathed. He’d heard the dwarf approach – of course he had, his body had been attuned to nothing else – but the hand on his shoulder surprised him. The warm, heavy touch ran through his body in the cool night like wine on fire.
“I have slept enough, and it is almost dawn. I can take over.” The dwarf’s voice was quiet, and seemed to shake the very air around them.
“Thank you, friend,” said Legolas, struggling briefly to find the words in Common Speech. “That is kind of you.”
Gimli gave him a small smile. “Get some sleep, stubborn Elf.”
Legolas wrapped his long fingers around Gimli’s and relished the contact, the gentle tease of his low voice.
“How you take care of me, my dear Dwarf.”
Gimli looked at him with an odd expression in his dark eyes before squeezing his shoulder and sitting down next to him in the cool grass. The warm, rough hand slipped away under Legolas’ fingers. Too far, then. Too gentle. Legolas cursed the treacherous stones of an unfamiliar language, the wrong steps he could so easily take when not speaking in his native tongue. He got up smoothly, unable to resist brushing his fingertips against Gimli’s shoulder before walking away.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
Legolas found the spot where Gimli had lain, the darkened silver of the blades of grass marking the weight of the dwarf’s body. He wrapped his cloak around him and lay down, hoping to trap the memory of Gimli’s touch under his skin.
*
In the damp chill of the depths of late night, Gimli dreams of sunlight and of freedom to speak his mind. Of his elf’s golden hair and dazzling smile and breathless yes as his long fingers intertwine with Gimli’s.
Gazing at Gil-Estel, the brightest of stars, as it climbs over the horizon in the stillness before dawn, Legolas dreams of endless warm days and the impossibility of finding his unspoken wishes mirrored on Gimli’s tongue. He dreams of kneeling down on the ground as Gimli takes his hand and leaning in to taste the yes on his dwarf’s lips.
Gimli imagines Legolas’ cool lips against his, imagines sneaking his hands under the soft material of the elf’s clothes and touching the softer skin underneath, hearing endearments whispered feverishly against his mouth. My dear. He imagines whispering them back, feeling arms wrap around him and holding him tight. The sun warm on his back, the heat of the body pressed against him warmer still.
Legolas imagines running his teeth along Gimli’s lip, wild in a way he has never felt before. The heat of their bodies tangled together, the firmness of Gimli’s strong body against his fluttering, desperate heart. He imagines the moment suspended in time, stretched out to accommodate the immenseness of what he is feeling, a moment of sunlit grace for them and the unspeakable words they speak into the shared air. Of love Legolas is ready to speak, sure in his feelings for his dearest friend, steady like this is where he has always been heading.
Gimli loves Legolas, has made his peace with this. A love such as this has never before been, and perhaps it never can be, but Gimli would speak those words into being, in the perfect sunlit moment in the arms of his friend, lay his beating heart out in the open. He’s ready, if the moment ever comes.
Legolas wishes he could lay down on a sunny hillside with his head on the dwarf’s broad chest, dazed by sunlight and the sensation of Gimli’s fingers combing through his hair. He’d listen to the steady beat of the heart that belongs to him in Gimli’s chest and curl his body into him, tangling them so tight they would never again be apart.
Gimli wishes to feel the weight of the elf wrapped around and on top of him, just lying in comfortable silence, to be given permission to let his hands wander in the elf’s hair, absentmindedly weaving the golden strands into dwarvish braids to claim Legolas as his. Their bodies wound together, joined for life. Legolas would turn to press a kiss into his chest, and they both knew for sure.
The sun’s first rays sliced through the sky, rose-staining the world and marking a new beginning.