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“You look well,” Legolas says from the doorway, voice echoing quietly amid the muffling quiet of the stone walls.
Gimli’s eyes snap to his, awareness surging and settling again even before his gaze can mark who has intruded upon his reverie. His ears ken now when Legolas speaks. It’s how well they’ve come to know each other in this span of months.
A short time, really, in the context of how long an Elven or even Dwarven lifespan is. And yet, such a bond between them has been forged.
Legolas leans against the wall- built of stone by hands of men long-passed, and as the coolness of it creeps into him, he finds he has greater appreciation for the work of mortals like Men and Dwarves than he used to. It’s an enterprise of risk and hope to build something you intend will outlast you.
Perhaps he’s come close enough to death in battle of late to appreciate that courage. Or perhaps it’s because he’s considered things from a different stance of late, since joining the Fellowship… and since knowing a particular Dwarf.
The Dwarf in question regards him steadily.
“I suppose you’ll want me to return the compliment, then.” Gimli’s voice is rough and resigned in his amusement, the deepened burr belying the exhaustion that comes when a battle has been won but the true losses hardly begun to be counted. Yet his gaze travels over Legolas’s form- newly bathed to cleanse him of the filth of the battlefield, and clad in borrowed raiments of Men- with appreciation, at least to anyone who knows him well.
Legolas knows him well.
There’s gentleness in his eyes to match the tenderness in Legolas’s own.
“Only if it’s truly meant.” Legolas lips curve, yet he’s aware of how tired his own smile must be also. In truth, he feels the weariness through his spirit as much as in his body. Yet the effect of that weariness waned appreciably once he stood upon this threshold and glimpsed the ruddy braids of his companion’s beard.
He recognizes invitation in the subtle tip of the dwarf’s sturdy head and takes that invitation, stepping smoothly into the room, conscious of the deliberate grace with which he moves. Traveling this long as the only one of his people among the company, finding kinship among so many who are not of elfkind, has made him at once more appreciative of what skills come to him with ease, and less preoccupied with making measurement of the comparisons.
“It would be, Princeling,” Gimli allows from his seat of stone below the window in his chamber. “It’s an honest truth. You look well, even in weeds of Men.”
Amusement kindles in Legolas’s heart, the warmth of it blooming through his body and deepening the small smile that had already graced his lips.
“So you do like me in my Elven garb,” he teases, drawing close enough for the hem of his borrowed tunic to brush Gimli’s bent knee. Gimli takes just the hem of the woven garment between one hand’s calloused fingers, as though savoring the softness of it. The cloth is less finely-spun than even Legolas’s traveling attire, but those garments are stained with travel and battle, and it may be some time before they are returned to him. The laundry kettles here will have tasks of greater importance over the coming days- boiling bandages and bed linens for those recovering from the battle- than the laundering of his elven clothes. It is enough to have had a chance to bathe and to wash his hair, to don clean and serviceable attire.
“I suppose I do,” Gimli grudgingly allows, voice thick, fingertips still gentle on that borrowed cloth. His beard twitches with a wry smile. “Like you out of it too.”
He looks up at Legolas directly then, his gaze careful, but his meaning unmistakable.
Legolas’s heart soars, and there really is no choice in that moment but to close what little distance remains between them, widening his own stance until he can sink forward, straddling Gimli’s thick thighs to hold them between his own, relishing the way such an action spreads his legs wide and settles their bodies so intimately together. It brings their smiling faces near to a height with each other too, which is another welcome benefit.
“You’ve hardly had a chance to know,” he points out. There was, after all, only one time in their travels that they’d truly had opportunity for undressing before each other- one of their final, nigh-uncountable nights in Lothlórien, when they had parted from the rest of the company for a time and passed a night under starlight on a bed of grass and their own cloaks beside the banks of the Silverlode. The importance of that night had not been lost on either of them.
The other times they have claimed from each other, though no less welcomed, have been swifter and harder-won… moments stolen away from the campfire in the dark, or near-silent in their bedrolls so as not to rouse the other members of the ever-dwindling Fellowship, layers of clothing unfastened but never shed for reasons of practicality. They each know the press of twigs beneath their knees or tree-bark at their backs, rather than the comfort of an actual bed when they come together.
They know each others bodies better by feel than by sight- from days spent pressed together on horseback to the synchronicity of balancing and rowing a boat upon the water, the small pleasures of subtle touch and communication that others remain oblivious to, the caresses claimed when they have searched the woods for kindling and firewood together beyond sight of each campsite for weeks now, and the pleasures they have found together in those moments.
“I know enough,” Gimli tells him gruffly, hand settling steady on Legolas’s narrow hip.
They’ve talked of a future- of visiting glittering caves and ancient forests, traveling places they each desire to see. But a part of each of them throughout those talks of planning had always known they might not survive the battles ahead of them, that they might end the quest alone…or face an ending together at the hands of forces of Darkness.
Now, with the battle over and the One Ring destroyed…lives of unequal length spread out before them. Time will tell which hopes and promises are left, and which are shattered by the implications of victory. Elves do not often give their hearts without careful consideration and reflection, and dwarves are steadfast in the promises they make, so Legolas’s hopes are bright. But he has not had occasion to know Gimli’s mind since victory was assured, and he has wisdom enough to know that hope is not the same as promise.
Whatever fears Legolas might have carefully set to the side about Gimli’s desires on that front, however, are assuaged with the way that Gimli reaches for him, the hopeful tenderness in his gentle eyes.
“For my part, I know enough,” Gimli repeats.
“As do I,” Legolas breathes, and then he cannot wait any longer- he must kiss the dwarf.
He means to seek the kiss gently, and indeed it starts that way. But shortly after the first sweet press of lips, the embrace grows hungrier and his hands thread through Gimli’s thick russet hair, laying claim and asking to be claimed in return. He is indulged in that desire.
He’s grown accustomed to to the feeling of Gimli’s beard tickling along his own chin- one that never needs even so much as the consideration of a blade. He welcomes the sensation now, craving the feeling it stokes in him… and is well aware, from their whispered words and confessions, that Gimli has the same fascination with the smoothness of Legolas’s jaw.
“So soft,” Gimli marvels anew even now, his thumb deliciously rough on smooth skin even as his mouth charts a course of pleasure at Legolas’s throat.
“I promise you,” Legolas laughs breathlessly with a flex of the muscles he has well-honed in all these days of riding upon horseback, “It’s the only part of me that is.”
“Like stone,” Gimli agrees sagely, tipping him forward even as he presses higher, rocking their bodies together where they are each hardest. “No wonder you appeal so to my Dwarven nature.”
“You need not mine me, Master Dwarf,” Legolas jests, breathing in the scent of Gimli’s beard, washed and newly braided, with the familiar scent of him still lingering heady beneath the sharpness of the soap. He allows himself an audible moan, rolling his hips to savor how Gimli’s broad thighs spread his own, marveling at the power in them when Gimli plants his feet and presses up against him, raises him up as though he’s riding a sturdy mount. He laughs at the pleasure in it, the reminder of the power of Gimli’s body, and the desire it wakes in his own.
“Not that I’ll protest your attempt at the delving,” he gasps, mirth in his tone. “But you need not mine me, for I am already yours.” His reward is growled, stifled moan.
“How I came to be so fortunate, to lay claim to a treasure more precious and fair than silver, gems, or gold,” Gimli tells him, “I do not know.”
Legolas lowers his mouth to Gimli’s again, dragging his hand down Gimli’s stout chest, feeling the hammer of his heart as they embrace, the warmth of his flesh even through the cloth.
“I might be invited to speculate as to our mutual fortune,” he murmurs, “were I not so distracted by the heat of my desire, and the fact that we are, for nearly the first time in our journey, in a private chamber with a proper bed.”
“That does bear consideration.” Gimli looks to the bed in question. “The bedclothes look soft enough, I suppose,” is his wry observation.
Legloas laughs and brings their mouths together once more, kissing him slow and deep though a smile never leaves his lips.
“Softness remains beyond the realm of my current concerns.”
“So you say,” is Gimli’s rejoinder. “But Dwarves enjoy being certain.” He hauls Legolas down to him to even greater degree, thrusting up so that the friction has them both panting despite their mutual endurance.
“This Elf is very certain, I assure you.” Legolas plucks at the laces of Gimli’s tunic, spreading the cloth until his fingertips drag through crisp, ruddy chest hair.
“This Dwarf is too,” Gimli’s eyes lock with his. “As certain that I mean to walk my path with yours, as I am that if I get you in that bed, I have no intention of either of us us leaving it for several hours.”
“My heart sings to know it,” Legolas tells him gravely. He brings his fingertips to trace Gimli’s lips now, because he hungers for every type of contact. “Though I fear you underestimate our abilities.” He leans close, whispering hotly in his lover’s ear. “I believe we could last days in that bed.”
Gimli nips at his throat, the sting nothing but pleasure to him.
“Careful now, “ Gimli chastises him, voice deep as a river. “You’re nearly asking to be carried to that bed and tossed down upon it.”
“I certainly am,” Legolas agrees. He feels Gimli’s entire being tense with interest, and then they’re surging into movement. He’s being lifted by those powerful Dwarven arms and well-made legs and is being carried the handful of steps to the bed.
Rather than being tossed though, he is laid upon the great bed with care, and then slowly- so slowly, he is divested of his garments. They undress each other, moving with reverence, taking care to touch, and taste, and marvel as they go.
They make a competition of the undressing- who can draw it out the greatest length of time, making the object of their adoration and desire gasp and shudder and and clench their hands on the other’s shoulder, wrist, or hip in turn.
By the time they are bare- laid out beside each other in the filtered light from the windows, twilight is near, and Legolas’s heart lifts with joy.
They are hours in the sating of each other- first one and then the other, then lingering caresses to rouse again and spend together. A star glimmers in the deepening dusk beyond the window when first Gimli muffles the shout that accompanies his release in Legolas’s shoulder, and night has fallen when Legolas’s back arches and he cries out, the barest gleam of sweat gleaming on his limbs by the starlight.
His lips are half-numb from trading kisses when they move together as one, and though they rest between, with long conversation and lingering caresses, they greet the dawn by drawing pleasure from each other’s bodies yet again, the novelty of being able to look their fill still dazzling their eyes. Heart full to overflowing, Legolas murmurs the promise of his love in Sindarin. Le annon veleth nín, are the words he chooses, and Gimli, whose chest his temple rests upon, returns the sentiment with words Legolas has never heard before. It thrills him to realize that Gimli had stated the same sentiment in his own language- an act of trust from an oft-secretive dwarf.
A hundred promises they have made to each other now, he thinks as he lays twined in his love’s embrace, and he intends to use all the time they have left in Middle-earth in the keeping of them.