Chapter Text
oOo
He is what Aragorn has never thought to want.
He is the lasting fields of the forests, he is the mist of the mountains. He is the gust of the distance, he is the ice that dots in his hair as he sprints through the storm and scales up the high-tops.
He is the water of the lakes of which they sometimes pass, he is the sun of the dawn, examining Gimli's axe and helmet with the insatiable curiosity of a sheltered lamb. He is puckish, but he is also pure. He is the haunting allure of the Fangorn Forest, he is the freshness of grass. He is the hot humid air which begins to exert them the closer they are to the malignant borders of Isengard.
He is the lissom roots of young trees. He is electric, magnetic. He is light.
But Aragorn learns this late, and is instead left with a wonder that he can no longer place. The hard journey derives him, however, from perhaps reaching and touching, just once, stops him from admitting a mannish absurdity that would indeed drive Legolas far. It is his own fault, Aragorn thinks. His own fault for wanting and wanting what is not for his claim, nor for the transgression of his calloused hands. And though Arwen may yet think of him in all of her grace, Aragorn fears only that such deviancy would not entirely fade even if he were to be in her light in this moment, that he is doomed to a lust—an animal need arising long as Legolas continues to swing his hips as if he knows well of their wicked results.
Aragorn fears for himself. So he suffers his appetite whilst watching the Elf as he leaps through the trees, as he laughs alongside Gimli, breathing, living, moving, and seeming to dance as a clover would sway in the midst of high winds as he slaughters Orc by the score. And the Elf will never sweat, will never arise filthy from the killings; always lucent, always lovely, and Aragorn knows not how he stays his hand with each fevered moon that passes.
But it is the Elf who has surely carved this witchery upon him. For Legolas had arrived into Aragorn's world with all of the cruelty that his long pallid limbs had allowed him, what his pale soft hair had allowed him, and with a set of guiltless eyes that shone and shone—his youthful impetus. And he looks horrifically young—too young—to be giving himself to such a perilous journey, but it is his gift of deathlessness that will forever feign his age of centuries.
Indeed Legolas' presence lends a fire to the remainder of the company, his constant verve and spirit. And he is wise. Silent and knowing, and Aragorn does not understand why such a being should want to exist so close at his side. It is the gleam of Legolas' smile, he thinks, that tempts and flirts, that worries a dent in his promise to the Evenstar. It is the hue of his lips, of his coltish gazes across their nightly campfires, of the unblinking stare from the branch of a tree after the fire has died. Oh, and it coaxes, makes Aragorn ache where he sits, longing to create a space for himself between those long legs—against the crudeness of the ground, inside the concealing fog of the lake, in some place dark and unspoken. He is sick and wasted inside where others cannot touch, appalled by his wishes. But he sustains a levelled demeanor. He is a warrior or he is nothing, heir of Isildur, and forces himself to not look when he knows well that Legolas stares, perhaps watching his thoughts unfold, foreseeing his own nakedness from the reflection of the fire.
The craving goes unquenched just as it goes unsaid, and they travel instead in mostly silence, if not for Gimli's merriment for the more dangerous side of things. So he watches—as Legolas and Gimli banter and laugh and sometimes sing silly songs—whilst he counts and counts the Elf's countless virtues. And so he loses himself in songs of heroism, of sword and bow and dagger, because, after all, Merry and Pippin depend on them still for a valiant rescue—
Oh, but he is the rain, a whirlwind of leaves, cool water and fearless alacrity. He is as able as he is beautiful, as kind as he is brave. He is lithe, tall and honest, he is weightless. Aragorn runs his ruthless gaze over him, the lasting length of his hair, as he stands watch on the limb of a tree, gazing ahead.
Aragorn is thankful for the distance that separates them, for it redirects his senses from imagining just how soft his skin must be. The swells underneath the hem of Legolas' doublet are distracting, and Aragorn knows that even if he had known Legolas when he, too, had been young and handsome and unfastened from the binds of duty, he would have yet been a tongue-tied, weak-kneed fool. He would have fretted, would have sputtered, would be smitten. And perhaps he would have been toyed with, anyway, lured without a promise of keeping, but at least he would have had a chance. As he is now, he can offer Legolas nothing. He is broken, twisted in places where the snag cannot be undone.
For he wants to take his friend by the hair and bring him someplace unseen, to tear what there is to tear so that he may see the body beneath. He wants to fuck beneath the moonlight, dark and deep within some cave. He wants to turn him over and mount him like a dog, a thing possessed. He wants to hear the sob, then the plea for more despite it. He wants to watch him, touch him, to make use of his infuriating mouth. He wants to tie him down, he wants to kiss him through the efforts of wanting to escape it. He wants his whines, his lips wrapped around his cock—all, an ache so cruel and fierce that he can almost hallucinate it like a hot and forceful brand.
A part of Aragorn is glad that there is so much standing between them, for he would never be sated with the things that Legolas would give. No fulfillment, no end. He would devour instead, pour himself in so that no space is left, then take him, and take him, and take him—
No, there would be no end.
oOo
It grows cold and black one night. Aragorn knows that they must rest.
His lungs burn from having covered many miles in just one morning, and many more throughout the dying light, and now Gimli is heaving with exhaustion. Legolas, of course, stands unvexed. He does not sweat, does not take in deep and desperate breaths. Instead, he raises a single dark brow, as if surprised by the utter fatigue of his companions.
"Must we rest?"
"Aye, laddy," says Gimli, huffing as he collapses backfirst aside a boulder. "A step more and I place by the Durins that I'd be left with no legs."
Aragorn nods, exhaling hot air through his nose. He goes over to the opposite rock and crumples against it. Gimli is a balm. Gimli, in a way, has kept him sane.
Legolas stands there a moment, hair lurching in the air before he, too, resigns himself to sit. Aragorn dares not look at him. They sit in silence until eventually he notices Legolas reach for his bow, laying it carefully beside him. He counts without thinking. Only four arrows left in his quiver.
"Growing tactless, I see," Aragorn finds himself saying.
Legolas looks to his quiver and smiles. "One dares not carry an assortment of arrows unless one knows how to create new ones." He takes one into his hand and traces it with a single white finger. "But I deem these should last a good while. I enjoy a challenge."
Aragorn allows the conversation to die as soon as it starts. He does not trust himself to continue when Gimli is not there to listen. As it is now, Gimli has collapsed onto his side, snoring in earnest. The air grows still. The crooning of nearby trees grows louder. They are together in the dark. There is no fire, only stars in the shimmering sky. Legolas looks at Aragorn for a long moment, then turns away just as gently. His eyes are a weapon. Vast waters in them, and Aragorn has already drowned.
He invites Legolas to a mutual gathering of wood, for a campfire. It is treacherously cold, and Legolas agrees that it would be best for the sake of a better start in the morning. Gimli continues to sleep, and so both Legolas and Aragorn stand and disappear into the nearby treeline without a sound.
oOo
When at last he has him alone, Aragorn grows bold, and he hungers.
He feels like a beast that lurks in the shadow, and he cannot stop himself from cornering his friend. Brought aback, Legolas drops the bundle of wood that he’d gathered in his arms. His back rests onto a tree; his wrist is snatched into a grip. He looks to Aragorn, faint perplexion in his brow.
"You test me." Aragorn searches Legolas' face. "You must know that."
And Aragorn knows that Legolas must be just as strong as him, if not stronger, and that the hold he has on his wrist could not possibly compare to the strength that Legolas keeps dormant as he stands doe-eyed and still. The fire will win. Aragorn knows it the moment he feels himself falter, totter, and brush his mouth against Legolas' cheek.