"Arwen," Estel's voice hushed, but Arwen sees the trembling in his eyes, throat, the flutter of his pulse like a tiny bird's under her touch, "we must not—"
"Must we?" Her fingers trail from his throat, trace his jaw. Arwen aches to follow the same path with her lips and contents herself with pressing her mouth just below his ear, reveling in his shiver. "Forget you that my hearing is keener than yours?"
His head turns. "How can I," he murmurs, and Arwen shivers now, to feel his warm breath on her cheek, "when you see fit to remind me every time you pull me into the shadows?"
Rueful, but there's no disguising the quiet pleasure, and Arwen pulls back to study his face: older than it was, and wearier, but Arwen doesn't recoil, doesn't shy away, what causes scorn in some of her kindred only making her love him all the more keenly. Fine lines and wrinkles are least of what the years have wrought and it pierces her heart as surely as the hesitant joy that rises in his face, transforming his visage into that of one less weathered, less wearied.
Lay down your burden for a while, she does not ask. Could never. But they can steal away moments in the dark; can lead him to an alcove, the fluttering of her gown, the beckoning look in her eyes, a tease; can press him against the wall and wait for tension to ease from him, for his breath to loose in a sigh and his body to sag against her, the years leaving one by one as shadows hide them, cradle them well.
She brushes the hair from that beloved face. "There would be no need for reminder if you would only remember."
Estel's lips quirk. "Forgive me," he says. His hands drag over her hips, tugging her close. Arwen's breath hitches. She thinks that she was wrong; shadows do not cradle her half as well as his body does.
Lips press to the hollow of her throat. Arwen gasps and can feel Estel's satisfaction in the smile against her skin. He keeps mouthing at her throat until she curls her fingers into his hair and brings that dark, shaggy head up to kiss him. Long, lingering, tongue slick and hot. She is a being of grace and light, but she wants, oh, she wants. His skin scorches hers.
They draw apart but stay close enough to share each other's breath. Her fingertips skim his temple. The hair there will one day grey. Arwen only hopes that he will live long enough for it to.
"You are beautiful," Arwen says, because it always makes Estel's smile go sweetly crooked.
"If my lady Undómiel says it then it must be true," Estel says, eyes laughing, and catches her wrist, bringing the inside of it up to his mouth. Arwen's breath is gone in one fell swoop.
Moments, moments, fleeting sparks of brightness that they cultivate, hoard. Arwen kisses Estel in the shadows of her father's halls and tries not to think about tomorrow.