And when Legolas knelt before him, and that tongue tasting of mint invaded his mouth then he could almost forget the Ring, whose metallic touch was forever searing his skin like red hot iron, claiming him to the darkness. Almost.
Yes, they had their meetings, their short, hurried intimate moments, anywhere possible, any time possible, whenever they could escape from the scrutinizing gaze of Hobbits, Dwarves, Wizards and Men. They never spoke, neither in the company of the others, nor alone, as if fearing that the words would tear apart the thin veil they were both weaving to shield themselves from the bitter world.
Words have no significance, when there is sweat and heated skin, and you struggle to ditch your damned cloak and your back is slowly getting soaked in the muddy ground and a body slides over your own, tasting and seeking and finding. When silky strands brush over your bare neck and shoulders, when he is so close you can feel his heartbeats in your own chest, like a kettledrum in a cave, like a hammer striking on the anvil.
The pain of the first time, so intense Frodo though he was torn apart, torn into a thousand pieces, bleeding from every pore. A fair angel descending from the skies slashing him down with his razorblade wings. And when it was over, Legolas clutching him so tightly, rocking him back and forth, both on their knees on a carpet of decaying leaves. Mumbling that it was him, him he had been waiting for all those long, lonely years. And if those words were lies, Frodo didn't care, they were flower scented and candy sweet.