A/N. This is my first slash peice (hee hee, slash in so many ways). Feel free to flame. There's no sex.

Would You Hate Me If I Said I Loved You?

The blade brushed lightly over his skin; he took a deep breath and pushed down, slicing into his inner fore arm, just below the elbow. The pain seemed far away, not real but at the same time it was everywhere, all over him, pain. How he wanted to take the blade and push it into his heart. How ironic, he thought. As if his heart was not in enough pain already.

The pain of his heart dwarfed that of the long cut, bleeding slowly, on his arm. It was, ulitmately, his heart that made the pain spread from emotional to physical. The only way, it seemed, to take away from that pain was to transfer it to a woung. Wounds of the body heal.

Wounds of the heart do not.

For so long he had cursed himself for feeling this way. He, Prince of Mirkwood, should not feel such a way. All his long life he had been waiting for his lobe, this true love, the one he would love more than life, to come along. Every day he had prayed that when it did, it would love him back.

The love had come, but he had forced himself to turn away. He should not love the one. It seemed so wrong...and yet, when he looked intothose eyes, he felt it was right. More right than anything he ever felt, more than he could handle. For Aragorn was but a man, a human, and a male. Both were wrong by the elves. Legolas did not like to be wrong. He was scared. What if he gave into what he felt? He would lose everything and gain nothing.

Aragorn did not love him, Aragorn would never love him. He was only yards away, sleeping in the moonlight. He could run and kiss him, he realised with a shiver. He could run and kiss him and show him how he felt. That filled him with fear; he was barely in control of his feelings, what if he lost control of his actions too? Then Aragorn would hate him forever.

Aragorn did not love him. Legolas let out a small cry of hurt and anger which was cut off by a slash of the blade. More pain, more blood.

He had his back to Aragorn; somtimes it was painful to look upon him. Sometimes it was painful not to look upon him. There was always pain, and such confusion. Love, and not love. Right and wrong. Happiness and sadness. Everything he thought true, marrying a lady and having children, seemed so far away and a distant idea now. There had been ladies, yes. But he felt nothing for them next to what he felt for Aragorn. He was so strong, and yet so gentle. So brave, but still caring. Trusting, but always waring, watching. He would be a great father someday, Legolas thought miserably. The perfect father to Arwen's children.

Another low cry, another slash, more pain, more blood.

He had looked upon him so much, so often that Legolas was beginning to wonder if he suspected anything. He was so smart...But Legolas could not smile at him, for fear the smile would not be returned or, if it was, what it would mean.

He raised his arm, watching with a strange wonder as the blood dripped onto the ground in small red spots.

"Legolas." A strong, but gentle, beautiful voice said. It was not a question, it was a statement. Legolas quickly stood up, clutching the knife. He forced himself to look into Aragorn's eyes, wordless. The Aragorn's gaze moved to his arm, then the blade. Concerned, his eyes flicked up to Legolas's face, questioningly. A single tear was threatening to spill over onto his smooth pale skin.

With one swift moment, Aragorn moved forth to embrace Legolas, as a friend, as a brother. Nothing more. Legolas wanted more, he couldn't stand to be so close and not have more. His touch, his smell, his dark hair drove Legolas insane. He gave in and pressed his mouth against Aragorn's, letting all him pin, fear and worry drift away.