Disclaimer: I don't own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
Aragorn is as silent as possible as he creeps through the forest, avoiding broken branches and shifting behind trees.
He's half-sure he's already been spotted. Legolas' senses are better than his, but Legolas doesn't once stop or point him out. Legolas continues off through the leaves like a panther, alone and still utterly graceful. The forest is mostly dark, and the stray bits of starlight that trickle down through the branches highlight Legolas' long, golden hair beautifully. He isn't hunched like Aragorn. He's naturally elegant and drifts down by the small stream like a ghost.
When Legolas pauses at the edge, Aragorn ducks behind a particularly hefty trunk. The running water drowns out the quiet lull of Legolas' breathing. The footsteps have all stopped. Aragorn doesn't have any good reason for following Legolas other than a keen interest in Legolas, and he vainly hopes he won't be caught.
He won't out himself anyway. He isn't sure why Legolas has crept away from the others, but Aragorn won't be the first to ruin it. After several minutes of nothing, he peeks around the edge of his tree—Legolas is still looking across the water. His hair and clothes flow gently in the breeze.
Legolas doesn't even turn around when he murmurs quietly, "This forest is beautiful."
With a bit of a sigh, Aragorn steps out of his hiding place. He nods and replies, "Yes, it is." Even though Legolas is the beauty that has Aragorn's eye. The thick underbrush of plants and exotic growth of ancient, aged trees are nothing to the slender angles of Legolas' figure. The rich greens and browns can't match the blue of his irises. When Legolas glances over his shoulder, there's a faint smile on his plush lips. His eyes are half-lidded; he looks relaxed and at home, even so far away from where he belongs.
But then, elves belong in any woods. Aragorn is the intruder. Legolas slowly looks back, and this time Aragorn follows his gaze to an enormous fallen tree in the distance. There's a cut out slice of the trunk that makes it look like a cave, and it's nestled away in the hills, awash in a thin beam of moonlight. Perhaps they should've gone a bit further and picked that for a campsite. Feeling it keenly, Aragorn steps closer, muttering, "You want to go there." It isn't really a question. It isn't anywhere special, but Legolas nods carefully. "...Why have you stopped?"
"It... is far from the others," Legolas looks to the side, head tilting. Aragorn walks until they're side by side, looking over at Legolas.
They all need rest for tomorrow. But Aragorn only finds himself muttering, "That is no reason."
A grin creeps onto Legolas' face. He says, "You would laugh." He glances over, and Aragorn shakes his head sternly. Legolas' eyes flicker up and down him before deciding, "...I was hoping to go with you. I was not quite sure how to ask."
There's a fire in Aragorn's chest.
He just nods. Even though he can't imagine Legolas being unsure of how to phrase anything; he's as masterful in the common tongue as the Sindarin one they share.
Nevertheless, Aragorn slips his hand into Legolas', their fingers intertwining. Together, they step towards the water, leaping over it without too much trouble. Aragorn ruins the leaves on the other side, but Legolas leaves everything pristine. They make their way around the trees without another word and what Aragorn hopes is a silent understanding thick between them. Not even a bird dares break the silence as they climb the small hill before them, falling into the shadows of the rising ground.
When they reach the ancient, hollowed tree, Legolas bends to climb inside. The ground is cushioned with moss, and Aragorn sits across from him, close enough that their knees touch. The old bark hides them from the rest of the world, and stray bits of the stars creep in through cuts in the top, illuminating odd patches of Legolas' handsome face. They sit in the quiet together.
And Aragorn is only mortal. He breaks the radiance by breathing, "A perfect moment."
Legolas glances downwards, replying softly, "It could be better."
Aside from all the madness and chaos outside of just the two of them, right now, Aragorn couldn't see in what way. Peace is such a welcome thing, and no one's ever been able to make him feel as at peace as Legolas. Hands relaxed on his knees, Aragorn asks, "How?"
For a moment, it looks like Legolas is going to answer.
Then he's leaning across the empty space between them, practically crawling into Aragorn's lap, and Aragorn's eyes fall closed as their mouths are pressed together.
Legolas' lips are as soft as every other part of him. And they're just as talented. Legolas' hands land on Aragorn's shoulders, and Legolas presses further forward, their chests colliding. Legolas shifts so that his legs are to either side of Aragorn's lap, their thighs brushing; Legolas is completely atop him but seems to weight nothing. It's as though one of Aragorn's dreams has leapt to life. He almost can't believe it's real, except that he can very much feel that it is. It's chaste, at first.
Then Aragorn loses control. It's been too long, and Legolas is too tempting. He grabs a handful of that long, silky hair, and he tilts Legolas' head, pressing his tongue insistently against Legolas' lips. Legolas parts them easily, and his own tongue comes out to meet Aragorn's, wet and warm. Aragorn's other arm wraps around Legolas' waist, pulling his lithe body close. A few seconds into the kiss, Aragorn finds himself moaning, and he holds Legolas down while he ruts upwards—Legolas arches sensually and rolls his hips back. Aragorn is practically growling. When Legolas tries to part their lips, Aragorn won't let him.
Aragorn keeps them going until his head is foggy from the lack of oxygen and the pressure to his lungs. He keeps holding Legolas tightly close, and Legolas doesn't struggle. Legolas kisses with grace and leisure—Aragorn tries to claim Legolas like an animal. He tries to go slow, but he can't help it.
Legolas is too beautiful. He's too warm and too soft, and too easy in Aragorn's arms. When Aragorn throws him back onto the floor, Legolas goes without a word, simply shrugging off his bow and pushing it to the side. Aragorn's sword is jutting out at his hip. Legolas' arms slip back to Aragorn's shoulders, his eyes glistening up through the darkness.
Aragorn wishes they were in the middle of an empty field, right in the midst of the day. He wishes he had the light to see every glorious centimeter of Legolas' magnificent body, and he wishes he had all the time in the world to ravage it.
Instead, they both know they have to get back to camp. They have to rest for the journey tomorrow, and the journey after that—the one that grinds down the soles of their feet and makes them long for a cot. Legolas deserves more than a quick round in the dirt, but it's all Aragorn can give. He waits for Legolas to tell him to stop, but Legolas simply watches him.
With trembling shoulders, Aragorn smashes their lips back together—just the way they belong.