FIC: The Half-Elf, the Elf, and the Closet (R, Legolas/Elrohir)
Despite my neglect, I haven't completely forgotten about LOTR :-)
Title: The Half-Elf, the Elf, and the Closet
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Elrohir/Legolas
Prompt: 008 (“Do not touch the water!”)
Word Count: 3, 971
Rating: R
Beloved Beta: Dear, sweet anorielle
Summary: . He does not remember Legolas’ voice being that low, and the sound sends a strange shiver down his spine, despite the excessive warmth in the enclosed space.
Author's Notes: This is what happens when you have an LOTR writer who goes on a QAF vacation.
“Do not touch the water!”
Startled, Elrohir nearly drops the pewter goblet that he had been absently poised to drink from. He looks around the room, which he was certain had been empty when he had entered.
“Elladan?” he calls out uncertainly.
“In here!” A large broom closet in the corner parted its door; Elrohir’s sharp eyes make out the familiar outline of the face peering through the dark thumb-long gap. It is most definitely not his brother.
In his stomach, something that feels like the apple he had eaten for breakfast executes a flip-over.
#
Despite the distance between the great Forest of Mirkwood east of the Misty Mountains and the hidden vale of Rivendell to the west, information and gossip still managed to travel between the two Elven settlements located there. They usually came by way of the wandering companies, though important news would be sent by fast messengers. So it was well-known in Rivendell that the Elvenking of Mirkwood, Thranduil son of Oropher, had many children; some claim his brood to be large enough to rival the offspring of the oversized arachnids that were their mortal enemies. Another well-known fact was that, save for the eldest and heir apparent- it would seem that they didn’t hold with formal titles, save for the King, if one could believe it!- little of Oropher’s Sindarin heritage survived the generations, and Thranduil’s children were as fair and fierce of spirit as their Wood-Elf kin.
Yet, Elrohir had to admit that all this did not really explain his reaction at the first sight of one particular Thranduilion. It was not even a proper eyes-meeting-fatefully-across-the-room scenario. He had been hurrying down the corridor towards the private residential wing of the Last Homely House, his mind still poring over the map of the surrounding terrain he had been discussing with Glorfindel, when his temporarily vacated forgotten body snagged on a low, unnoticed object and which resulted in a very abrupt encounter with another body that had been moving at the same speed in the completely opposite direction.
“Ai!”
“Ooof!”
His first proper sight of Legolas was, to be frank, his chin. He had barely enough time to register even that, as half a heartbeat later said chin collided painfully with the bridge of Elrohir’s nose.
Jolted back into full awareness, the younger son of Elrond instinctively reached out to steady the Elf. His larger brawn had often been more of a hindrance than a help, but in this case it made him more stable, compared to the more slender frame of the Elf.
“My apologies!” he exclaimed, feeling a slight warmth touch his cheeks. His eyes dropped to the ground where he had tripped over something, and saw an overturned tortoise looking up reproachfully at him. Elrohir groaned. “What are you doing wandering around where people can trip on you?” He picked up the small creature and returned his attention to the Elf. “Are you hurt?”
“Nay,” answered the Elf, though he rubbed his ribs where Elrohir’s elbow must have driven into him. “Is- is that your pet?” he nodded towards the tortoise.
“She is Glorfindel’s, and seems to have an inherent ability to turn up when you least expect her.” Elrohir gave an exasperated sigh.
The Elf grinned. “I say the same of my sisters.” The comment made the Peredhel chuckle in agreement, and pay closer attention to his new acquaintance, whose garb and manner marked him as a visitor to Rivendell.
The voice was a clear, melodious tenor, which seemed to fit his overall appearance. Of the average height for one of the Firstborn- Elrohir was probably the taller, by a couple of inches- there was something strikingly... golden, about the Elf. His hair was lighter than honey but darker than metallic gold, his skin had a tinge that spoke of the sun’s touch- in blatant disregard of the fact that Elves were not supposed to be affected by the elements- yes, a Wood-Elf’s colouring, but the bone structure was finer and more angular, and the eyes... a sharp cool blue, incongruous with the rest of him, they ruined the effect that he was rich gold, fresh from the earth, beaten into shape by the elvensmiths of legend…
#
He hears heavy footsteps going down the corridor outside. Those, too, had become quite familiar over the weeks they had all spent in the stone city of Men. It is clear that the Dwarf is heading for the room they were in, which was a sort of common room adjoining the sleeping chambers of the twin sons of Elrond and the two lesser-known members of the Fellowship.
Elrohir grins and quickly replaces the goblet on the centre table where Legolas had left it. He is still thirsty- the weather is particularly warm today, for some reason, which the son of Thranduil must have been banking on- but he has not forgotten the spirit of his childhood, and what was a dry tongue in the face of making mischief?
“Come here, quick!” Legolas whispers loudly from his hiding place. “Before he gets here!”
Technically, Elrohir could have retreated to his room, but he finds himself quite reluctant to do so. Besides, it had been a while since he had allowed himself such entertainment. He hurries over to the closet. With characteristic grace, Legolas throws open the door, reaches out and grasps Elrohir’s wrist, pulls him hard so that he literally falls right into the closet, and closes the door just before Gimli’s boots reach the room.
#
Since their rather memorable introduction in the hallway, Elrohir found himself taking a keen interest in the visitor from Mirkwood. He could have guessed his origin from the Elf’s appearance alone, but later in the evening his father had formally introduced Elladan and himself to the small delegation sent by Thranduil. In the midst of the usual exchange of courtesies, the younger sons shared a smile of secret conspirators.
Just before they went into their adjoining bedchambers that night, Elladan bemusedly asked his younger brother if his jaw muscles had started cramping yet from the smile that appeared to have been permanently fixed onto his face.
The following days were enough to return his lips to their more customary frown, however. Between the frantic search for Frodo, the securing of Rivendell’s borders, the discovery and guidance of a rather travel-worn Man of Gondor, even more activity after Frodo finally turned up- with the whole band of Nazgul literally on his tail, no less- on top of helping his father with even more arrivals- at the rate of visitor influx, he wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the Great Eagles dropped by as well- Elrohir would probably have forgotten all about a certain Wood-Elf.
Only, said Wood-Elf had a disturbing tendency to be where Elrohir was, at least within the Last Homely House. They kept encountering each other in the corridor- in a more dignified manner than their first time, of course- in the library, in the gardens, in the training grounds… and when Gandalf finally turned up, he suddenly had a great deal of very important things to discuss with Elrond- even during dinner- so that there was a quick re-arrangement of seating and Elrohir found himself right next to Legolas.
Still, despite the strange feeling of happy warmth that bubbled up inside him after a conversation with the son of Thranduil, he would have dismissed it all as a mischievous Wood-Elf methods for friendly platonic bonding. Until Legolas began touching him.
It commenced with a few seemingly accidental brushings against the back of Elrohir’s hand. Then the Elf started clapping him in a friendly manner on the shoulder, or gripping his upper arm. Slowly, subtly, those deceptively slender hands stayed in contact a little longer than they should have, until they clearly lingered, leaving with a trace of caress.
Things being what they were- not just the restrictions of society, but also the world teetering on the edge of change- Elrohir did not dare think about what these gestures could mean. His mind, ever inquisitive and even more tenaciously analytical than his brother’s, for once cooperated with the rest of him. He welcomed them, reciprocating with warm smiles and speaking eyes, and Legolas understood, seemingly satisfied with the meagre payments. It was this that made him tentatively wonder, in the dead of night and at the very edge of sleep, if this meant more.
On the eve of the Fellowship’s departure, two figures- one, the Sun’s gold; the other, the Moon’s silver- stood companionably in Celebrian’s garden. Speech was like soft background music- pleasant, but not overly necessary. The important thing was that they were together; the distance between them hovering at that perfect point between painful comfort and so near that we might as well close the distance.
As they moved to return to the well-lit House, Elrohir caught a flash of clear wide eyes just before firm, slightly dry lips pressed against his own for a single second that would be replayed over and over in the following months until it lasted forever.
#
Grinning into the darkness inside the closet, the younger son of Elrond is momentarily transported back to a childhood spent in hidden niches and convenient nooks. Elladan had earned a reputation of being more rambunctious than his twin, but that was only because Elrohir was far more cunning in his activities. When they decided to work together, the younger would be the planner, the elder the executer.
Outside, the boots- and, presumably, the one wearing them- stepped into the room and stop approximately where Elrohir had earlier- in front of the center table. The wood of the closet door is quite thick, but he is sure he catches a very faint scraping sound, like a filled goblet being eagerly lifted off a table-top. He didn’t hear the Dwarf’s characteristic belch after a deep intake of victuals, but that might be due to far more important matters reaching the forefront of his conscious mind and drawing his attention to them with big bright red proverbial flags.
The most immediate of which being that he, Elrohir, son of Elrond, is, at present, pressed very intimately against one Legolas, son of Thranduil. He had been in such a position many times before, of course, as he specialises in unarmed combat and had probably pinned to the ground nearly all the fighting ellyn of Imladris, but in none of those occasions had he been so acutely aware of the other’s sinewy body, lithe limbs... and speaking of limbs, there is a hand tracing lazy patterns down his back...
“Legolas?” he whispers uncertainly. Wasn’t darkness supposed to be cold? Surely the two of them cannot generate this much heat.
He receives a chuckle in response. He does not remember Legolas’ voice being that low, and the sound sends a strange shiver down his spine, despite the excessive warmth in the enclosed space. “Elrohir.” His name is said in a cordial manner, as if in greeting, but with a strange breathlessness that made Elrohir worry if he had slammed into the Elf when he was pulled into the closet, though he remembers catching himself just in time. “I wondered if you still remembered my name.”
A faint touch to his neck makes him jerk back a little. He cannot see it, but Elrohir knows that Legolas was smiling now, that soft secret smile he would wear when he knew that the Half-Elf was discreetly peering at him out of the corner of one eye. A single finger- the middle one, his healer-training helpfully supplies- trailes over his collarbone, then goes up to the bulge on his throat, more prominent than an Elf’s. The rest of the hand joins it, sliding under his hair to the back of his neck.
“Of course I remembered,” he replies, belatedly realising that a response was expected. His voice sounds hoarse; he had come to the room in search of water, after all. Thirst is pushed aside as a trifling concern compared to the thumb slowly rubbing the sensitive skin below his earlobe.
“Then why have you never said it, since you brought the Dúnedain to Aragorn in Rohan?”
Elrohir blinks. The enclosed space seems to amplify the sound of his heartbeats, which he distantly registers as being somewhat more rapid than normal. “I... I do not know.”
The unseen smile shifts, softens, becoming almost tender. “I do,” whispers the golden Elf. The hand on his neck pulls him towards its owner, a motion oddly similar to drawing back a bowstring.
#
It was not a part of Elrohir’s nature to be shy, but seeing again in life the fair face that he had been guiltily conjuring up in his mind for months had seared through the stony fort of self-confidence in which he had lived his life up to that moment. His terror of Legolas discovering the extent to which he had infiltrated Elrohir’s mind surpassed any that could be inflicted upon him by mortal men, living or dead; he felt even more embarrassed to be acclaimed brave by the Dúnedain, who had only seen that he was not the slightest bit affected by the shady inhabitants of the Paths of the Dead.
So he had avoided the son of Thranduil, keeping any conversations brief and all encounters in open daylight with a dozen grimy men around them. His uncomplicated warrior’s mindset had accordingly labelled Legolas as “potential threat”, which meant that even after Elrohir became comfortable once more with the thought of the archer being a matter of paces away rather than leagues, he would still subconsciously keep track of the other’s location, and any time Legolas came too near, his heart-rate would quicken and his muscles tense, as if in preparation for fight or flight.
Much later on, he would look back and call this a very good example of issue-avoidance.
#
In the dark, they come together wrong, with noses bumping into each other and neither quite knowing which way to tilt their head. But eventually they must have figured it out, because soft sinuous lips are pressing against Elrohir’s drier pair; the opposite of the last time, when Legolas had been the thirsty one. The Half-Elf’s mind goes suspiciously blank, as if Rivendell’s night-sky had just decided to move in.
The previous one had been quick and simple, cut short by time. Elrohir had had only time enough to think: This is not so different from kissing an elleth. This one begins like that- so much so, that it was almost as if they were simply picking up the thread and carried on, as if everything that had happened in between was a dream compressed within a second- but then Legolas’ slender form flexes its hidden strength, and suddenly Elrohir is the one pinned against the back of the closet, with a half-Silvan princeling growling as he crushes him.
Obviously, a fully-grown Elf and a Half-Elf descended from Eärendil could not be very comfortable inside a closet. But this is thrown to the bottom of their list of immediate concerns, along with the fact that a comparatively insubstantial wooden door was all that stood between them and a potentially highly embarrassed person.
Elrohir is breathing hard when his lips are finally released, but is effectively distracted when his long legs are summarily parted by a deftly inserted knee. He gasps as the limb deliberately strokes a very sensitive part of him. His lips, half-parted by the release of air, are not given the opportunity to close because, by the Valar, Legolas’ tongue is in his mouth, and archer’s hands are on his abdomen and slipping lower; but the most important thing, the thing which draws a whimper from his throat, is Legolas rubbing against his- his groin, and he can feel through the thin fabric that the Elf is hard.
So is he, more than he had ever been in his life, but that is hardly- hah ha!- the point. The point is- the point is that Legolas very clearly wants this too, it is not just wishful thinking, and who is he to stand against a son of Thranduil?
#
The kiss that was recently recalled in the confines of a broom-closet occurred the night before they reached the Black Gates.
He had known it would be Legolas even before the Elf entered the tent that he shared with his twin. Elladan had gone off to talk with Estel. Elrohir would have gone with him, but for a pensiveness akin to what he had felt that final night in Rivendell, and if he had dared to, he would have hoped that a certain similar exchange would occur as that which had taken place in his mother’s garden.
Perhaps a secret part of him had dared, for he felt a burst of joy and relief when the familiar shadow fell on his tent-flap.
Legolas hesitated at the entrance, gazing at Elrohir- who was bursting with the effort of keeping himself seated on his pallet- as if trying to read something in features. He must have found whatever he was searching for; he was suddenly moving forward, all confidence and grace again, dropping down next to Elrohir. The meeting of lips was slower, less of an ambush, than the one shared under the stars, but it was brief enough that the younger twin got the impression that Legolas was also holding himself back.
“Do not fall, tomorrow,” he had whispered.
The archer’s answering smile shamed him with his cowardice, made him want to call back all the days since their reunion, because now he could not bear the thought of dying, even in a last stand, much less the thought that the other would die and leave him to live with what might have been.
Slender fingers, covered with innumerable scrapes and small cuts, pushed a lock of hair away from his face. “Now I won’t.”
#
Those same fingers, now healed, take hold of Elrohir’s hands and splay them wide against Legolas’ chest. Beneath his own fingers he can feel the other’s pectorals rising and falling with each breath, and the thundering heartbeat beneath that, and his hands develop desires of their own and slip beneath the Elf’s light tunic to explore the equally heated body of a fellow warrior. The groan Legolas makes into his mouth as the Peredhel’s fingers encounters hardened nipples sounds like the sweetest music.
Then- Elrohir’s body bucks when long deft fingers wound about his most intimate and sensitive length of muscle. His throat invents new sounds that have nothing to do with words but are very intelligible in conveying needs; Legolas drinks in each and every note and tries to incite him to create more. It had been so very long since he had taken pleasure with another male, the practice being quite inviolable in Imladris and not worth, in Elrohir’s opinion, the prospect of bringing shame and scandal to his family.
That was why, after the Dark Tower was cast down, he had once again felt uncertain about his situation with the son of Thranduil. Death had brushed too close for him to return fully to their former distance, but it was not until the long-awaited wedding of Arwen and Aragorn that something cast by his people as an act of perverse pleasure alone could be, depending on the participants, something greater.
He wondered now, as Legolas finally relinquished his lips to suckle wetly on his neck, the sound of his harsh breathing and half-moans filling the enclosed space, if they were seeking the same thing, the same unnameable state of affairs that their very nature prevented them from having with ellith.
“You think too much, son of Elrond,” growled Legolas before nipping at the soft junction between neck and shoulder.
In lieu of an answer, Elrohir reaches down for his boot-knife and carefully cuts the laces of the Elf’s breeches. Legolas gasps as his own hardened graceful arousal springs free, and twin moans filled the closet’s pitch interior when the archer pushes his hips forward and slides the swollen lengths against each other, generating sparks of delicious friction.
There is a dull thud when the Elf grabs the small knife from Elrohir’s unresisting fingers and buries it into the wood diagonally above the Half-Elf’s head. Using it for leverage, Legolas settles into a hard rhythm as he grinds himself against the moaning Peredhel. Eventually deciding that this was not enough, the younger twin uses one hand to grip both their prominently erect lengths whilst the other steals around the slim hips to slide down beneath the loosened fabric of the open breeches and grip a meaty buttock. Legolas lets out a sharp gasp, thrusting faster, harder, his remaining hand joining Elrohir’s to create an imitation of a tight, clenching passage around their weeping arousals. Their mouths meet again, hungrier now, and Elrohir pushes his tongue into the golden warrior’s mouth, imagining burying himself into the Elf’s taut body, a finger from the hand on the archer’s firm posterior reaching between the crease to lightly circle the puckered opening it found therein.
Something in him snaps, like a string releasing its white arrow of ecstasy; Legolas’ mouth on his barely muffles his roar, though the Elf joins him but a heartbeat later. Sticky, warm wetness spurts over their torsos and hands as they continued thrusting, riding out waves of rushing pleasure.
When they finally stop, the archer slumps against Elrohir, the mouth pressed against the tender skin of the other’s neck curving up in a sated smile. Carefully keeping him supported, Elrohir reaches up with his clean hand and tenderly pushes back silk-like hair, pressing a kiss against the Elf’s temple.
“Will you stop running, now?” Legolas asks, and for the first time in their relatively short acquaintance Elrohir catches a glimpse of vulnerability.
“If you do not let me go,” he answers, putting forth his own hope.
The son of Thranduil lifts his head, kisses him, like he had in Rivendell and in the Morannon, but now with the sweetness and care and- and love, that he had kept back before.
Suddenly, before either of them could move, the closet-door swings open. Two pairs of eyes, one grey, the other blue, swiftly turn.
Faramir, looking decidedly uncomfortable in heavy many-layered robes that appeared far more fitting for a Steward of Gondor than his usual simple garments, stands staring at them with wide eyes. The shocked tableau lasts for precisely three heart-beats, finally shattered by a rather violent hiccup from the Man.
“I- I do apologise,” he mumbles before backing away, clasping one hand to his mouth as several hiccups came out in quick succession.
“Oh dear,” said Legolas. Keeping his body protectively in front of Elrohir so that certain exposed areas of anatomy had a modicum of coverage, he says over his shoulder, “I must apologise also, Prince Faramir. That brew was meant for Gimli! I have an antidote- erm- if you could wait but one minute; I shall come out and fetch it for you.” The Prince, of course, has no choice but to nod, and by a commendable feat of flexibility Legolas manages to close the closet door without turning his body around.
For three-quarters of a minute, the sound of two people being overcome by a violent fit of laughter sounds from within. Then the doors re-open and a relatively presentable Elf and Half-Elf come out of the closet, smiling suspiciously brightly and casting soft looks at one another. From the slightly ajar door of his room, an unseen Elladan smiles in relief, as much for his brother as for finally being able to put back all the brooms and cleaning equipment he had had to empty the closet of.
See the Prompt Table.
Title: The Half-Elf, the Elf, and the Closet
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Elrohir/Legolas
Prompt: 008 (“Do not touch the water!”)
Word Count: 3, 971
Rating: R
Beloved Beta: Dear, sweet anorielle
Summary: . He does not remember Legolas’ voice being that low, and the sound sends a strange shiver down his spine, despite the excessive warmth in the enclosed space.
Author's Notes: This is what happens when you have an LOTR writer who goes on a QAF vacation.
“Do not touch the water!”
Startled, Elrohir nearly drops the pewter goblet that he had been absently poised to drink from. He looks around the room, which he was certain had been empty when he had entered.
“Elladan?” he calls out uncertainly.
“In here!” A large broom closet in the corner parted its door; Elrohir’s sharp eyes make out the familiar outline of the face peering through the dark thumb-long gap. It is most definitely not his brother.
In his stomach, something that feels like the apple he had eaten for breakfast executes a flip-over.
#
Despite the distance between the great Forest of Mirkwood east of the Misty Mountains and the hidden vale of Rivendell to the west, information and gossip still managed to travel between the two Elven settlements located there. They usually came by way of the wandering companies, though important news would be sent by fast messengers. So it was well-known in Rivendell that the Elvenking of Mirkwood, Thranduil son of Oropher, had many children; some claim his brood to be large enough to rival the offspring of the oversized arachnids that were their mortal enemies. Another well-known fact was that, save for the eldest and heir apparent- it would seem that they didn’t hold with formal titles, save for the King, if one could believe it!- little of Oropher’s Sindarin heritage survived the generations, and Thranduil’s children were as fair and fierce of spirit as their Wood-Elf kin.
Yet, Elrohir had to admit that all this did not really explain his reaction at the first sight of one particular Thranduilion. It was not even a proper eyes-meeting-fatefully-across-the-room scenario. He had been hurrying down the corridor towards the private residential wing of the Last Homely House, his mind still poring over the map of the surrounding terrain he had been discussing with Glorfindel, when his temporarily vacated forgotten body snagged on a low, unnoticed object and which resulted in a very abrupt encounter with another body that had been moving at the same speed in the completely opposite direction.
“Ai!”
“Ooof!”
His first proper sight of Legolas was, to be frank, his chin. He had barely enough time to register even that, as half a heartbeat later said chin collided painfully with the bridge of Elrohir’s nose.
Jolted back into full awareness, the younger son of Elrond instinctively reached out to steady the Elf. His larger brawn had often been more of a hindrance than a help, but in this case it made him more stable, compared to the more slender frame of the Elf.
“My apologies!” he exclaimed, feeling a slight warmth touch his cheeks. His eyes dropped to the ground where he had tripped over something, and saw an overturned tortoise looking up reproachfully at him. Elrohir groaned. “What are you doing wandering around where people can trip on you?” He picked up the small creature and returned his attention to the Elf. “Are you hurt?”
“Nay,” answered the Elf, though he rubbed his ribs where Elrohir’s elbow must have driven into him. “Is- is that your pet?” he nodded towards the tortoise.
“She is Glorfindel’s, and seems to have an inherent ability to turn up when you least expect her.” Elrohir gave an exasperated sigh.
The Elf grinned. “I say the same of my sisters.” The comment made the Peredhel chuckle in agreement, and pay closer attention to his new acquaintance, whose garb and manner marked him as a visitor to Rivendell.
The voice was a clear, melodious tenor, which seemed to fit his overall appearance. Of the average height for one of the Firstborn- Elrohir was probably the taller, by a couple of inches- there was something strikingly... golden, about the Elf. His hair was lighter than honey but darker than metallic gold, his skin had a tinge that spoke of the sun’s touch- in blatant disregard of the fact that Elves were not supposed to be affected by the elements- yes, a Wood-Elf’s colouring, but the bone structure was finer and more angular, and the eyes... a sharp cool blue, incongruous with the rest of him, they ruined the effect that he was rich gold, fresh from the earth, beaten into shape by the elvensmiths of legend…
#
He hears heavy footsteps going down the corridor outside. Those, too, had become quite familiar over the weeks they had all spent in the stone city of Men. It is clear that the Dwarf is heading for the room they were in, which was a sort of common room adjoining the sleeping chambers of the twin sons of Elrond and the two lesser-known members of the Fellowship.
Elrohir grins and quickly replaces the goblet on the centre table where Legolas had left it. He is still thirsty- the weather is particularly warm today, for some reason, which the son of Thranduil must have been banking on- but he has not forgotten the spirit of his childhood, and what was a dry tongue in the face of making mischief?
“Come here, quick!” Legolas whispers loudly from his hiding place. “Before he gets here!”
Technically, Elrohir could have retreated to his room, but he finds himself quite reluctant to do so. Besides, it had been a while since he had allowed himself such entertainment. He hurries over to the closet. With characteristic grace, Legolas throws open the door, reaches out and grasps Elrohir’s wrist, pulls him hard so that he literally falls right into the closet, and closes the door just before Gimli’s boots reach the room.
#
Since their rather memorable introduction in the hallway, Elrohir found himself taking a keen interest in the visitor from Mirkwood. He could have guessed his origin from the Elf’s appearance alone, but later in the evening his father had formally introduced Elladan and himself to the small delegation sent by Thranduil. In the midst of the usual exchange of courtesies, the younger sons shared a smile of secret conspirators.
Just before they went into their adjoining bedchambers that night, Elladan bemusedly asked his younger brother if his jaw muscles had started cramping yet from the smile that appeared to have been permanently fixed onto his face.
The following days were enough to return his lips to their more customary frown, however. Between the frantic search for Frodo, the securing of Rivendell’s borders, the discovery and guidance of a rather travel-worn Man of Gondor, even more activity after Frodo finally turned up- with the whole band of Nazgul literally on his tail, no less- on top of helping his father with even more arrivals- at the rate of visitor influx, he wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the Great Eagles dropped by as well- Elrohir would probably have forgotten all about a certain Wood-Elf.
Only, said Wood-Elf had a disturbing tendency to be where Elrohir was, at least within the Last Homely House. They kept encountering each other in the corridor- in a more dignified manner than their first time, of course- in the library, in the gardens, in the training grounds… and when Gandalf finally turned up, he suddenly had a great deal of very important things to discuss with Elrond- even during dinner- so that there was a quick re-arrangement of seating and Elrohir found himself right next to Legolas.
Still, despite the strange feeling of happy warmth that bubbled up inside him after a conversation with the son of Thranduil, he would have dismissed it all as a mischievous Wood-Elf methods for friendly platonic bonding. Until Legolas began touching him.
It commenced with a few seemingly accidental brushings against the back of Elrohir’s hand. Then the Elf started clapping him in a friendly manner on the shoulder, or gripping his upper arm. Slowly, subtly, those deceptively slender hands stayed in contact a little longer than they should have, until they clearly lingered, leaving with a trace of caress.
Things being what they were- not just the restrictions of society, but also the world teetering on the edge of change- Elrohir did not dare think about what these gestures could mean. His mind, ever inquisitive and even more tenaciously analytical than his brother’s, for once cooperated with the rest of him. He welcomed them, reciprocating with warm smiles and speaking eyes, and Legolas understood, seemingly satisfied with the meagre payments. It was this that made him tentatively wonder, in the dead of night and at the very edge of sleep, if this meant more.
On the eve of the Fellowship’s departure, two figures- one, the Sun’s gold; the other, the Moon’s silver- stood companionably in Celebrian’s garden. Speech was like soft background music- pleasant, but not overly necessary. The important thing was that they were together; the distance between them hovering at that perfect point between painful comfort and so near that we might as well close the distance.
As they moved to return to the well-lit House, Elrohir caught a flash of clear wide eyes just before firm, slightly dry lips pressed against his own for a single second that would be replayed over and over in the following months until it lasted forever.
#
Grinning into the darkness inside the closet, the younger son of Elrond is momentarily transported back to a childhood spent in hidden niches and convenient nooks. Elladan had earned a reputation of being more rambunctious than his twin, but that was only because Elrohir was far more cunning in his activities. When they decided to work together, the younger would be the planner, the elder the executer.
Outside, the boots- and, presumably, the one wearing them- stepped into the room and stop approximately where Elrohir had earlier- in front of the center table. The wood of the closet door is quite thick, but he is sure he catches a very faint scraping sound, like a filled goblet being eagerly lifted off a table-top. He didn’t hear the Dwarf’s characteristic belch after a deep intake of victuals, but that might be due to far more important matters reaching the forefront of his conscious mind and drawing his attention to them with big bright red proverbial flags.
The most immediate of which being that he, Elrohir, son of Elrond, is, at present, pressed very intimately against one Legolas, son of Thranduil. He had been in such a position many times before, of course, as he specialises in unarmed combat and had probably pinned to the ground nearly all the fighting ellyn of Imladris, but in none of those occasions had he been so acutely aware of the other’s sinewy body, lithe limbs... and speaking of limbs, there is a hand tracing lazy patterns down his back...
“Legolas?” he whispers uncertainly. Wasn’t darkness supposed to be cold? Surely the two of them cannot generate this much heat.
He receives a chuckle in response. He does not remember Legolas’ voice being that low, and the sound sends a strange shiver down his spine, despite the excessive warmth in the enclosed space. “Elrohir.” His name is said in a cordial manner, as if in greeting, but with a strange breathlessness that made Elrohir worry if he had slammed into the Elf when he was pulled into the closet, though he remembers catching himself just in time. “I wondered if you still remembered my name.”
A faint touch to his neck makes him jerk back a little. He cannot see it, but Elrohir knows that Legolas was smiling now, that soft secret smile he would wear when he knew that the Half-Elf was discreetly peering at him out of the corner of one eye. A single finger- the middle one, his healer-training helpfully supplies- trailes over his collarbone, then goes up to the bulge on his throat, more prominent than an Elf’s. The rest of the hand joins it, sliding under his hair to the back of his neck.
“Of course I remembered,” he replies, belatedly realising that a response was expected. His voice sounds hoarse; he had come to the room in search of water, after all. Thirst is pushed aside as a trifling concern compared to the thumb slowly rubbing the sensitive skin below his earlobe.
“Then why have you never said it, since you brought the Dúnedain to Aragorn in Rohan?”
Elrohir blinks. The enclosed space seems to amplify the sound of his heartbeats, which he distantly registers as being somewhat more rapid than normal. “I... I do not know.”
The unseen smile shifts, softens, becoming almost tender. “I do,” whispers the golden Elf. The hand on his neck pulls him towards its owner, a motion oddly similar to drawing back a bowstring.
#
It was not a part of Elrohir’s nature to be shy, but seeing again in life the fair face that he had been guiltily conjuring up in his mind for months had seared through the stony fort of self-confidence in which he had lived his life up to that moment. His terror of Legolas discovering the extent to which he had infiltrated Elrohir’s mind surpassed any that could be inflicted upon him by mortal men, living or dead; he felt even more embarrassed to be acclaimed brave by the Dúnedain, who had only seen that he was not the slightest bit affected by the shady inhabitants of the Paths of the Dead.
So he had avoided the son of Thranduil, keeping any conversations brief and all encounters in open daylight with a dozen grimy men around them. His uncomplicated warrior’s mindset had accordingly labelled Legolas as “potential threat”, which meant that even after Elrohir became comfortable once more with the thought of the archer being a matter of paces away rather than leagues, he would still subconsciously keep track of the other’s location, and any time Legolas came too near, his heart-rate would quicken and his muscles tense, as if in preparation for fight or flight.
Much later on, he would look back and call this a very good example of issue-avoidance.
#
In the dark, they come together wrong, with noses bumping into each other and neither quite knowing which way to tilt their head. But eventually they must have figured it out, because soft sinuous lips are pressing against Elrohir’s drier pair; the opposite of the last time, when Legolas had been the thirsty one. The Half-Elf’s mind goes suspiciously blank, as if Rivendell’s night-sky had just decided to move in.
The previous one had been quick and simple, cut short by time. Elrohir had had only time enough to think: This is not so different from kissing an elleth. This one begins like that- so much so, that it was almost as if they were simply picking up the thread and carried on, as if everything that had happened in between was a dream compressed within a second- but then Legolas’ slender form flexes its hidden strength, and suddenly Elrohir is the one pinned against the back of the closet, with a half-Silvan princeling growling as he crushes him.
Obviously, a fully-grown Elf and a Half-Elf descended from Eärendil could not be very comfortable inside a closet. But this is thrown to the bottom of their list of immediate concerns, along with the fact that a comparatively insubstantial wooden door was all that stood between them and a potentially highly embarrassed person.
Elrohir is breathing hard when his lips are finally released, but is effectively distracted when his long legs are summarily parted by a deftly inserted knee. He gasps as the limb deliberately strokes a very sensitive part of him. His lips, half-parted by the release of air, are not given the opportunity to close because, by the Valar, Legolas’ tongue is in his mouth, and archer’s hands are on his abdomen and slipping lower; but the most important thing, the thing which draws a whimper from his throat, is Legolas rubbing against his- his groin, and he can feel through the thin fabric that the Elf is hard.
So is he, more than he had ever been in his life, but that is hardly- hah ha!- the point. The point is- the point is that Legolas very clearly wants this too, it is not just wishful thinking, and who is he to stand against a son of Thranduil?
#
The kiss that was recently recalled in the confines of a broom-closet occurred the night before they reached the Black Gates.
He had known it would be Legolas even before the Elf entered the tent that he shared with his twin. Elladan had gone off to talk with Estel. Elrohir would have gone with him, but for a pensiveness akin to what he had felt that final night in Rivendell, and if he had dared to, he would have hoped that a certain similar exchange would occur as that which had taken place in his mother’s garden.
Perhaps a secret part of him had dared, for he felt a burst of joy and relief when the familiar shadow fell on his tent-flap.
Legolas hesitated at the entrance, gazing at Elrohir- who was bursting with the effort of keeping himself seated on his pallet- as if trying to read something in features. He must have found whatever he was searching for; he was suddenly moving forward, all confidence and grace again, dropping down next to Elrohir. The meeting of lips was slower, less of an ambush, than the one shared under the stars, but it was brief enough that the younger twin got the impression that Legolas was also holding himself back.
“Do not fall, tomorrow,” he had whispered.
The archer’s answering smile shamed him with his cowardice, made him want to call back all the days since their reunion, because now he could not bear the thought of dying, even in a last stand, much less the thought that the other would die and leave him to live with what might have been.
Slender fingers, covered with innumerable scrapes and small cuts, pushed a lock of hair away from his face. “Now I won’t.”
#
Those same fingers, now healed, take hold of Elrohir’s hands and splay them wide against Legolas’ chest. Beneath his own fingers he can feel the other’s pectorals rising and falling with each breath, and the thundering heartbeat beneath that, and his hands develop desires of their own and slip beneath the Elf’s light tunic to explore the equally heated body of a fellow warrior. The groan Legolas makes into his mouth as the Peredhel’s fingers encounters hardened nipples sounds like the sweetest music.
Then- Elrohir’s body bucks when long deft fingers wound about his most intimate and sensitive length of muscle. His throat invents new sounds that have nothing to do with words but are very intelligible in conveying needs; Legolas drinks in each and every note and tries to incite him to create more. It had been so very long since he had taken pleasure with another male, the practice being quite inviolable in Imladris and not worth, in Elrohir’s opinion, the prospect of bringing shame and scandal to his family.
That was why, after the Dark Tower was cast down, he had once again felt uncertain about his situation with the son of Thranduil. Death had brushed too close for him to return fully to their former distance, but it was not until the long-awaited wedding of Arwen and Aragorn that something cast by his people as an act of perverse pleasure alone could be, depending on the participants, something greater.
He wondered now, as Legolas finally relinquished his lips to suckle wetly on his neck, the sound of his harsh breathing and half-moans filling the enclosed space, if they were seeking the same thing, the same unnameable state of affairs that their very nature prevented them from having with ellith.
“You think too much, son of Elrond,” growled Legolas before nipping at the soft junction between neck and shoulder.
In lieu of an answer, Elrohir reaches down for his boot-knife and carefully cuts the laces of the Elf’s breeches. Legolas gasps as his own hardened graceful arousal springs free, and twin moans filled the closet’s pitch interior when the archer pushes his hips forward and slides the swollen lengths against each other, generating sparks of delicious friction.
There is a dull thud when the Elf grabs the small knife from Elrohir’s unresisting fingers and buries it into the wood diagonally above the Half-Elf’s head. Using it for leverage, Legolas settles into a hard rhythm as he grinds himself against the moaning Peredhel. Eventually deciding that this was not enough, the younger twin uses one hand to grip both their prominently erect lengths whilst the other steals around the slim hips to slide down beneath the loosened fabric of the open breeches and grip a meaty buttock. Legolas lets out a sharp gasp, thrusting faster, harder, his remaining hand joining Elrohir’s to create an imitation of a tight, clenching passage around their weeping arousals. Their mouths meet again, hungrier now, and Elrohir pushes his tongue into the golden warrior’s mouth, imagining burying himself into the Elf’s taut body, a finger from the hand on the archer’s firm posterior reaching between the crease to lightly circle the puckered opening it found therein.
Something in him snaps, like a string releasing its white arrow of ecstasy; Legolas’ mouth on his barely muffles his roar, though the Elf joins him but a heartbeat later. Sticky, warm wetness spurts over their torsos and hands as they continued thrusting, riding out waves of rushing pleasure.
When they finally stop, the archer slumps against Elrohir, the mouth pressed against the tender skin of the other’s neck curving up in a sated smile. Carefully keeping him supported, Elrohir reaches up with his clean hand and tenderly pushes back silk-like hair, pressing a kiss against the Elf’s temple.
“Will you stop running, now?” Legolas asks, and for the first time in their relatively short acquaintance Elrohir catches a glimpse of vulnerability.
“If you do not let me go,” he answers, putting forth his own hope.
The son of Thranduil lifts his head, kisses him, like he had in Rivendell and in the Morannon, but now with the sweetness and care and- and love, that he had kept back before.
Suddenly, before either of them could move, the closet-door swings open. Two pairs of eyes, one grey, the other blue, swiftly turn.
Faramir, looking decidedly uncomfortable in heavy many-layered robes that appeared far more fitting for a Steward of Gondor than his usual simple garments, stands staring at them with wide eyes. The shocked tableau lasts for precisely three heart-beats, finally shattered by a rather violent hiccup from the Man.
“I- I do apologise,” he mumbles before backing away, clasping one hand to his mouth as several hiccups came out in quick succession.
“Oh dear,” said Legolas. Keeping his body protectively in front of Elrohir so that certain exposed areas of anatomy had a modicum of coverage, he says over his shoulder, “I must apologise also, Prince Faramir. That brew was meant for Gimli! I have an antidote- erm- if you could wait but one minute; I shall come out and fetch it for you.” The Prince, of course, has no choice but to nod, and by a commendable feat of flexibility Legolas manages to close the closet door without turning his body around.
For three-quarters of a minute, the sound of two people being overcome by a violent fit of laughter sounds from within. Then the doors re-open and a relatively presentable Elf and Half-Elf come out of the closet, smiling suspiciously brightly and casting soft looks at one another. From the slightly ajar door of his room, an unseen Elladan smiles in relief, as much for his brother as for finally being able to put back all the brooms and cleaning equipment he had had to empty the closet of.
See the Prompt Table.