Never could wine, or any other drink truly, be as intoxicating as the looks he caught all too often in the recent days, or the polite interest that an elf such as Celebrimbor himself. Legolas had only heard stories, he had only heard the legends before now, and never, not even in his wildest fantasies and daydreams, had he thought he would get anything more but a passing glance, should they ever meet. And so he was charmed, drunk on the intensity of that attention — and truly, were Fëanorians ever anything less than intense? — and one touch and another was enough to have him lean towards the other elf like a flower would towards the Sun.

In that exact moment, he seemed to forget all about the world around them and the people who surrounded them on nearly all the sides. It was just them in an untouchable bubble where time flowed differently than everywhere else. And Legolas was pliant, easily parting his lips and responding in kind to the sweetness of the kiss, his tongue sweeping, light and teasing, over lips and teeth and tongue. Legolas needed little encouragement, really, to return the kiss. Unlike Celebrimbor, however, he could not so easily withhold a pleased little sigh — his breath hot on Celebrimbor's lips and mouth —, forced out of his throat by the heart beating wildly in excitement. Quiet as it was, luckily the music covered up the noise of it and nobody turned to look at them.

His hand found the back of Celebrimbor's head, pale fingers daring to wind into black locks, thumb brushing an ear, the jaw, the muscles in his thigh flexed beneath the touch and Legolas shifted ever closer.