Aragorn × Legolas

The war is over.
But the world they had dreamed of for so long turned out to be surprisingly quiet.
The White Tree bloomed in the courtyard of Minas Tirith, its petals drifting slowly through the evening air, settling on the cold stones. Voices had long since died down in the palace—the feast in honor of yet another embassy had concluded several hours ago, and only the occasional guards' measured steps broke the silence.
Legolas stood on the battlements, gazing far beyond the Pelennor. Even from here, he could see the dark streaks of young forests sprouting where ashes had once lain. The world was healing. Slowly. Stubbornly.
He didn't hear any footsteps.

• Have you found a place again where no one will look for you?
  The voice was quiet, but painfully familiar.
  Legolas turned around. Aragorn was crownless, wearing only a simple dark cloak, as if for a moment he had ceased to be a king and become once again the very ranger the elf had once met in Rivendell.
  “They found me,” Legolas answered with a barely noticeable smile.
  Aragorn stopped next to him, resting his palms on the cold stone of the wall. For several long moments, they were silent. Once, such silence had signaled danger ahead, the need to listen to every rustle. Now it was... different. Awkward.
  Because now there was no war between them, which allowed them to hide their feelings behind duty.