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Aragorn wakes up almost the same time he usually does, at least he thinks so. It’s hard to say because for once sunlight isn’t streaming into his eyes as he takes his first blinks - and although there is birdsong the place he’s in. Although, whenever you're deep enough in elven lands there always seems to be music of some kind coming from the woods. The ranger is normally quite good at getting the time (years of the wilderness will do that to you) but for some reason he can’t place it.
Aragorn thinks of citing the lack of sunlight, but then his body gives him a new reason. A headache begins to come on, insistently knocking on his skull in an effort to make him acknowledge it. In response, Aragorn shows his maturity and groans slightly while rolling over, hoping a cool side of the pillow will help slightly. Instead he is greeted with the cause of his problems, and a sudden (partial) recollection.
The sweet, floral smell of elvish wine is stronger on Legolas’ side of the bed - and probably because the elf has had more. Something in Aragorn chimes in that he should stop trying to drink with elves just because of his heritage, and Aragorn wishes it would have showed up hours earlier or the day before. He doesn’t smell too badly of alcohol, for his part, but from the dryness of his mouth and general discomfort he’s certainly had more than was entirely wise.
There’s no water in reach, and Aragorn’s mouth is beginning to become uncomfortable, so he begins to try and shift out of the bed to fetch some. Almost immediately a hand shoots out to grab his waist, although Legolas does a remarkable job of pretending to be asleep after. The fact the prince still has his eyes closed is enough to make Aragorn laugh, and he leans in slightly closer so he only has to whisper to Legolas (the elf’s hearing sometimes makes it painful after drinking), “Please let me go, my love.”
Legolas mumbles something that Aragorn can’t quite understand into the pillow, mainly because his mouth is pressed against the sheets but also because Legolas mutters in nonsensical elvish. The words are Sindarian but, as Aragorn puts it together in his mind, the grammatical structure is Westron. Keeping the volume, Aragorn asks again, “What was that?”
“I don’t want you to go.” Legolas’ voice is deeper and raspy with sleep, but to enunciate he’s shuffled slightly so that he’s facing Aragorn. His eyes open, sleepy but full of love, and the elf moves again to fully cuddle up to Aragorn, “Stay with me, please.”
“My mouth is dry,” Aragorn protests, but there isn’t much heat to it.
“We didn’t drink that much, did we?” Legolas’ confusion comes mostly from being barely awake, although he’s just confused enough to make Aragorn slightly worried. Arms envelop him to hug him properly, “We can stay here, anyway.”
Every muscle in Aragorn’s body wants to melt into the elven embrace, but if he does he won’t come out. Stretching, he tries to free himself from the grip and this time groans as his muscles begin to protest. They only feel slightly sore, with some areas protesting more than others. He doesn’t have it in him to try and pull away a second time, so he stays in Legolas’ arms.
It’s nice, and his muscles do begin to feel a little less tense as Legolas wraps his arms around them.
“My love?”
For all the benefits of elves, Legolas is still less awake than he is, “Mm?”
“What time is it?”
Legolas finally opens his eyes, and they flicker to the window before shutting again. “Getting towards midday, although it is still morning?”
“Midday?” A spike - a spike that isn’t just from a hangover - comes into Aragorn’s mind again and he fights to get it back. To figure out what it is. “Legolas- Legolas, I have a meeting I should be in.”
Both men’s wills are stronger this time, and although Aragorn makes it to the edge of the bed Legolas is still firmly attached to him. “If you ‘should’ be there, then you’ve already missed it. So stay.”
“My love.” Aragorn’s hands go down and begin trying to loosen Legolas’ clamp into his waist, “You are not the one who will have to explain his absence to King Thranduil.”
“I’ll explain for the both of us.”
Somehow, Aragorn doesn’t think that the King of the Woodland realm will be overly thrilled at the explanation that a mortal has spent the night in his son’s chambers as the two of them got progressively more drunk. “I am not entirely sure what you can say to make this better, Legolas.”
The elf is finally coming round a bit more, and the first hand finally lets itself go as Aragorn peels it off. Before interlocking fingers with Aragorn, and having them hold hands. There’s a sleepy smile on Legolas’ face, “Diplomatic immunity."
“That’s… that’s not an explanation for my lateness, or a way of getting out of showing up on time to a meeting.” Aragorn thinks for a moment more, “And I am not being a diplomat if I miss all of my meetings.”
“Just this one.”
A pleading comes into Legolas’ voice, one that he knows Aragorn can never quite resist. There’s another moment of battle between the two before Aragorn’s eyes flicker to the window and realise just how late it is. And when Legolas realises he’s won.
Shuffling, Legolas goes back to his side of the bed again and waits for Aragorn to lie down beside him. As soon as Aragorn does, he can feel Legolas wrap him in a hug again, and begins to try his best to go back to sleep. Gently, he can hear Legolas whisper in his ear, “Royal immunity, perhaps?”