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It's strange, how we are changed
By things that seem so small
One look can write a book
One touch can say it all ...
...You're here, that moment's near
I'm almost in your arms
- Almost In Your Arms - Sam Cooke
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There is a pool nearby and Legolas suggests they go swimming. It is a tempting thought for Aragorn - the day is hot and they have encountered no evil things for the past two days of this patrol - still it is his first instinct to decline. He is a ranger; he is not inclined towards leisure. Legolas just regards him coolly. Aragorn can feel Legolas’ gaze, but doesn’t return it, doesn't look at him at all. Aragorn scans the horizon instead.
For Aragorn, Legolas’ eyes are becoming a weakness; the elf has a certain way of looking at him from under his eyelashes when he wants something, and that look is becoming ever harder to refuse. Some strange magic from the Wood, Aragorn thinks, some bewitchment the elves there have. Aragorn hardens his resolve before turning back to his companion. The elf is no longer appraising him and that is a blessing - yet, something in the young ranger’s chest falls at this lack of attention.
Legolas glances nonchalantly about. “Are you never any fun?” He asks. It is almost teasing, but there is a genuine curiosity there too.
Aragorn squares your shoulders, “I am a ranger on patrol. These are serious lands, sometimes treacherous; this is no holiday retreat.”
Leoglas hums, considers that. After a pause, “No danger lurks nearby and I’ve seen nothing for these past hours - no orcs, no wolves.” He throws a quick look at Aragorn, “I hear nothing either.” Aragorn keeps his demeanor stoic and the elf continues airily, “If something is about then it is a soundless, unseen thing - some ghost or spirit perhaps - alas, but I do not think either of us would be well-matched against such a foe.”
Aragorn ventures a sidelong glance at the elf. Legolas’ face is turned away from him, but Aragorn can still make out the small smirk on his face, the gentle curve of his lips turned upward. In all their months of travel together Aragorn has yet to see the full glory of Legolas’ smile. He has seen him smirk, mischievous - a recent phenomena - and dole out small polite smiles to the innkeep and company men; but more often than not his smiles are sad and solemn, almost mournful.
This shouldn’t matter to him, Aragorn thinks. Most of his company are grim men, usually cheerless unless drinking. Still, it is a sorrowful thing that one so fair should be so somber. It is a sorrowful thing also that he should be out here in these lonely, desperate lands so far from home…
Legolas turns to look at him again - smirk gone, face neutral - and their eyes lock in that way that Aragorn always tries to avoid. There is an energy that occurs when that happens and he is not yet comfortable with it. Legolas’ eyes are cornflower blue. They are framed by dark lashes and set in a face as white as lily petals. They are unnervingly expressive for an elf. Aragorn feels his heart beat and his face flush. He blames it on the heat.
“I suppose,” Aragorn says, with what he hopes is calm authority, “that we could stop for lunch there. It is well past midday and we have covered much ground. Perhaps when we are done, whatever ghosts or spirits linger here would have grown bored and moved on.” He winks at the elf and grins when Legolas turns his face away just as color blossoms on his cheeks.
They walk the rest of the way in companionable silence. Aragorn hears the pool before he sees it; hears the splash of the waterfall that births it and the rush of the creek that bleeds it. They make a quick camp at its banks. Aragorn digs through his pack for his pipe. He can hear the rustle of fabric behind him as Legolas strips off his shirt. Aragorn does not watch him; he finds his pipe then goes to perch on one of the large flat stones that encircles the pool. He respectfully turns his attention elsewhere until he can hear Legolas wade into the water.
“Not coming in?” Legolas calls to him.
Aragorn sweeps his gaze across the water, eyes landing and lingering on Legolas. The elf is up to his waist in the water, long blonde hair falling loose over his shoulders. He has his back to Aragorn, is undoing a last braid. Legolas’ shoulders are wide, his arms strong and lean. He turns to peer over his shoulder when Aragorn doesn’t answer him and his gaze is striking even this distance away. He is a vision, out there in the water and for a moment Aragorn considers joining him…stripping bare and following him into the dark cool of the water; a reverse of Legolas gearing himself to follow Aragorn into these wilds. Why the elf came here seeking him and why he stays with him still remains a mystery.
Aragorn shakes his head, dispelling his thoughts. Legolas sees the gesture and just shrugs, lovely white shoulders rising then falling. Aragorn smokes his pipe and watches the muscles in the elf’s back move as he finishes loosening his hair and begins to wade further out before disappearing under the mirror of the pool.
It is quiet for a time with only the sound of the water and the occasional chirp of a bird. Legolas floats in the water, meditative; Aragron watches him silently, contemplative. He finishes his pipe, turns to dump the tobacco. When he turns back to the water, Legolas is gone, the water still. Aragorn waits for him to resurface, then stands to peer into the water when he doesn’t. The water is dark, surprisingly deep in places. He calls out the elf’s name - no response - but there is the sound of a splash beneath him. He crouches down, peers under the boulder he is perched on. He has only a second to register the space beneath him before he is struck by a dash of water. He yelps, leaps back, curses, the water shockingly cold against his sun-warmed face. He hears laughter ring out, light as a bell and the movement of water below. When he peers back over the edge Legolas is there, wading innocently in the water. His expression is coy, but there is a mischievousness in his eyes and in the set of his mouth.
There is a short pause, then another splash of water. This one catches him in the side of the head. Aragorn shakes his now wet hair out of his face, stares back at the elf, tries to look stern.
“I suppose you find this very amusing?” Aragorn can hear the smile in his own voice, despite himself.
Legolas hums, looks thoughtful, splashes water at Aragorn again. Smiles when he has to wipe his hair back.
“Stop that,” Aragorn says.
Legolas does it again. “No.”
“You will regret it.”
“You will do nothing.”
Aragorn straightens. A challenge then. He stands up, defiant, and begins to strip, fingers working at the clasps of his tunic. Legolas stares at him so openly and unabashedly from below that Aragorn has to step away, self-conscious. Out of view, he disrobes quickly then takes a running leap into the water.
He hits the water hard, with a loud splash that makes the elf chirp in surprise. Righting himself underneath, he swims a quick wide arc under the water and surfaces right behind the elf. He grabs Legolas by both shoulders before he can turn and react and dunks him under the water. Under the water, Legolas slips from his hands like snowmelt only to pop up an instant later, just an arms-length away. The elf moves to swat water at him again, but he grabs the elf’s hand, intercepting the attack. There is a brief struggle as they each try to force the other under the pool. Legolas is quick and hard to maintain hold of, but Aragorn is determined to win this battle. He manages to grab hold of the elf by both arms. Legolas twists in his grasp to free himself, but Aragorn uses this momentum against him - the elf twists to the right and Aragorn spins him around thusly; Legolas is free for one brief moment before Aragorn grabs him again and sends him under.
Aragorn backs away quickly before the elf can resurface. He readies himself, expecting retaliation.
Legolas bobs back up, wipes the water from his eyes with both hands. “You are a fiend,” he declares, laughingly.
Aragorn tries not to laugh back. “I warned you, you would be sorry,” he admonishes, amused, “but your willful elf-ways got the better of you.” He tosses water at Legolas, who throws water right back. For a while they play in the water like younglings, splashing water back and forth.
Eventually Legolas retreats, paddling away gracelessly. “Surrender,” he calls out, laughing, “I surrender!”
Aragorn, more adept in the water, easily overtakes him. “Not just yet,” the ranger warns. He grabs the elf by the waist and moves to lift him. He means to toss the elf further out, one last win in their game, but Legolas throws his arms around Aragorn’s neck at the last moment and bares his weight down and they both go under in a tangle of limbs.
It is dark under the water, cool and quiet and he lingers just a moment longer than Legolas, enjoying the feel of water all around him before floating back upward. He resurfaces to sunlight, to the bright trilling sound of Legolas’ laugh. Legolas laughs full-bodied, without care or restraint. He laughs so hard his cheeks color, so hard it makes Aragorn laugh back. When he calms down he flashes Aragorn with the biggest, most brilliant smile Aragorn has ever seen. Legolas’ teeth are white, the canines slightly pointed; his lips are pink and still wet with water. His hair is wet-darkened and sticks to his still-flushed face. He is the most beautiful thing Aragorn has ever laid eyes on.
They float for a moment, staring at each other, smiling. They are close in the water, the only ones here for miles. The water in Legolas’ hair glitters under the sunlight and Aragorn reaches out slowly, instinctively to brush back a lock of damp hair. His fingertips graze Legolas’ face when he does this, trace the shell of his pointed ear as the wayward lock of hair is tucked back neatly in place.
He draws his hand back, surprised at himself. He doesn’t know why he did that; only knows that it is something he has wanted to do for some time now.
Legolas’ face is still painted pleasant, but he stares at him now with such an intensity that it sets Aragorn suddenly on edge. There is a challenge in his blue eyes and a question forms between them, unsaid. And there is that energy again; that current that passes between them at times. Aragorn can feel it in his gut and in his chest and just under his skin. He could kiss Legolas right now, here in the water. And Legolas would kiss him back. He knows this now with the same certainty that he knows the sun will rise and - suddenly - what was distant and impossible feels dizzingly near and inevitable.
He sinks deeper into the water then, shrinking from the enormity of that revelation, and wades backward and away from Legolas, their eyes locked still. When he is a calming distance away he sighs and floats on his back. He needs to gather his thoughts, to reorient himself; to be alone again the way he has been alone before.
Legolas circles him, quiet as a swan, his hair trailing in the water behind him. Aragorn closes his eyes to the sky. He can feel when Legolas floats up beside him. The top of the elf’s head bumping up against the top of his shoulder; the silk of his hair fanning out in the water to tickle his arm and cheek. Aragorn glances out of the corner of his eye at Legolas’ elegant profile, upside down. They are head to head, check to cheek. If he turns his head just so, his lips will brush the side of the elf’s face, but he doesn’t do that. He closes his eyes instead, feels the kiss of the late afternoon sun on his face. They have lingered here longer than he realized.
“This was a good day,” Aragorn states, softly, after a time.
Legolas hums, “Yes.” Then, shyly, “Thank you for it.”
Aragorn smiles with his eyes closed.
Legolas shifts beside him, moving to wade for shore. “I will finish setting up camp,” he says brightly. Aragorn watches him go, cutting through the water - a sharp bright thing - before turning to follow his form across the pool. Legolas reaches the shore before him, is already half-dressed by the time Aragorn emerges. The sun hangs low in the sky.
Aragorn collects his discarded clothes. He pulls on his leggings, shakes the dust from his tunic. When he moves to pull it on he catches Legolas staring and something in his gaze brings Aragorn to stillness.
Legolas stands from where he was crouched at the fire and moves gracefully to stand in front of Aragorn. He touches a knuckle to his lip, thoughtful, and studies Aragorn the way one would a tapestry or statue, trying to suss out its meaning.
Legolas is barefoot, unarmored. He wears only his leggings and a loose white linen shirt. His hair is still wet, uncombed and long, falling about his shoulders like cornsilk. There is nothing predatory or lustful in his gaze, but Aragorn feels the burn of those blue eyes nonetheless as they sweep over his chest categorizing his scars and burns and bruises. Legolas moves his finger from his mouth and reaches out in slow motion to trace a line from Aragorn’s collar bone, down, down his chest to just above his navel. Legolas’ fingertip is calloused, damp from where it had tugged at his lip moments before; it lingers over each cut and scar in its path. Aragorn holds his breath and feels a heat grow within him as he watches the white finger move across his brown skin.
Legolas draws his hand back to his mouth, taps his bottom lip once, twice, then steps back and declares, “You are beautiful.” His words are passive, matter-of-fact, but there is a softness in his blue eyes that makes Aragorn want to take him in his arms. What heat had been growing in his groin surges suddenly to his chest and he doesn’t know what to say. He has not been called beautiful before, would not describe himself as such. He is handsome enough, yes, but rough on the edges; weather-worn and battle-hardened. There is dirt under his nails and tangles in his hair. He has often been told he carries himself with the air of a much older man. Still, he is a young man, as young as he will ever be, and Legolas finds him beautiful.
He wants to tell Legolas that he is beautiful; that he is the most beautiful thing Aragorn has ever laid eyes on. That he loves his smile, his laugh; that his eyes are seas he could get lost in. That he wants to hold him in his arms and run his hand through his hair again and kiss him on the mouth…softly at first then fiercely…
Instead, he lets out the breath he has been holding and says, “Thank you.”
Legolas looks at him with a fierceness that must be mirroring his own. It sets his pulse to pounding. He gets the feeling that they are in the midst of a great hunt, but who is hare and who is fox, he cannot tell. Leoglas breaks the spell by blinking and turning away. “We have not eaten all day,” he says suddenly, lightly, “You must be famished.” Aragorn watches him return to the fire and unpack their food. For a moment he feels unmoored.
He tugs on his tunic, joins Legolas by the fire. He sits close, but not too close. He is not yet ready for this, this thing that has been growing between them these past weeks, this thing that has grown even larger this day. It is a thing, he knows, that will swallow him whole, and once devoured by it, he will never be the same. So he is not ready. Not yet . After they eat, Legolas goes to get his comb. He sits next to his pack on the other side of the campfire and brushes out his hair, which catches the colors of the fire - gold and orange and hazel. Aragorn watches him through the flames and grows tired.
“I will take the first watch,” Legolas says, “You are tired. Sleep.” Aragorn begins to protest, but is hushed when Legolas begins to sing softly and in elvish. The elf’s voice drifts to him over the flames, a Sindarin lullaby.
“Casting sleeping spells I see,” Aragorn notes, amused. “I am not so easily influenced though,” he adds, even as he moves to lay out his bedroll. Legolas smiles at him over the fire then rises to come sit next to him.
“Then I will sing closer to you, so that it’s effect is more potent.”
Aragorn looks up at him from where he is laid on his back. The sky is dark now and there is no moon out, but Legolas would have put it to shame if it were, the way his skin and hair lumens with the firelight. Legolas smiles down at him and starts to hum again. One day, he knows with surety, they will be like this again and Aragorn will reach a hand up to caress this face, to coax it down for a kiss. Tonight though, Legolas turns his face away - attention turned back to combing his hair - and they slip into another type of intimacy as Aragron drifts to sleep to the sound of Legolas’ voice.