Planting Seeds, 2/2
The first part.
III. In Which the Seed is Watered
*
January:
"The Gaffer won't permit it?"
Sam kissed Frodo again, hard and quick. "He says he's getting old, and someone needs to tend Bag End's gardens, even this time of year."
Frodo pulled Sam back in for a longer, wetter kiss. "I don't think the garden needs much tending right now." Not as much as I do, he thought, and leaned into the warm pressure of Sam's body against his, pinning him against the wall of one of the cellars of Bag End.
Sam smiled as if he'd heard Frodo's errant thought, and stroked his hand down along Frodo's free arm. "Not at this time, no, sir. But I can't well tell my Gaffer I'd be going to Buckland to tend to you."
Frodo thought of several very bad jokes about tending to Sam in return, and what sort of gardens they would plant on the road to Buckland. But he squeezed Sam's hand with his instead, and said nothing.
February:
"Holman's come home."
"Mmm," Frodo said disinterestedly, far more absorbed by the way Sam shivered when Frodo slipped his hand under Sam's shirt.
"From the North Farthing. Mr. Frodo, you've not heard a word I've said, have you?"
Frodo sighed and stilled his hand for a moment. "Your older brother Holman is visiting from the North Farthing," he recited.
"And wants to share his news - ah! - with the whole family," Sam said, clapping his hand over Frodo's when Frodo began to slide it out along Sam's belly.
"So you can't come up to Bag End for dinner." Frodo shook his head. "I'm beginning to wonder if your Gaffer is doing this deliberately."
"He doesn't know," Sam said firmly, letting go of Frodo's hand and arching his back to allow Frodo better access. "No more than Mr. Bilbo does."
"Bilbo does know," Frodo corrected him, and feathered a kiss along Sam's neck. He felt Sam stiffen against him. "He saw me kiss you, remember?"
"And he doesn't mind, sir?" Sam reached up and began petting Frodo's hair.
"I wouldn't say that," Frodo admitted, stepping away reluctantly. "He called me on the carpet some months ago. I don't think I've ever had such an embarrassing, uncomfortable conversation in my life."
"Then...he doesn't approve." Sam's eyes were dark and troubled.
"He doesn't approve of me," Frodo said instantly. "He thinks I'm taking advantage of you."
"I was the one as asked, sir."
"I know, Sam. And I'm glad you did." Frodo leaned in to snatch a kiss. "Don't worry about Bilbo. He won't help, but he won't hinder us either. He promised."
"I'd rather the help," Sam grumbled, and pulled Frodo close again.
March:
Frodo looked up from his papers at the sound of banging on the front door. Not a knock, that, but a banging. Gandalf? he wondered, setting aside the property ownership lists he'd been trying to struggle through. No, it hadn't sounded like a staff against the wood of the door, more like --
"Sam! Here, let me take that."
"It's all right, sir, I've got it." Sam heaved the full sack over the threshold, then let it rest on the floor as Frodo closed the door behind him. A dusting of white, on Sam and on the floor, betrayed the sack's contents.
"Why didn't you tell me you were going down to the mill to get our flour?" Frodo asked, coming around to Sam's side and eying the sack warily.
"Didn't intend to do so," Sam said with a shrug. "I went with my Gaffer to fetch our own flour, and old Sandyman mentioned he'd yours ground as well, so I volunteered to bring it up." He looked up at Frodo through his lashes.
Frodo tried not to smile, and failed utterly. "Then I hope you'll stay long enough for me to repay you somehow. Bilbo's out on one of his walks at the moment, but if you'll trust my cooking instead, I can make apple dumplings."
Sam looked down at the sack of flour, then hefted it up off the floor again and over his shoulder. "Actually, sir," he said quietly, "I hoped you'd invite me to dinner." He headed for the kitchen.
Frodo blinked after him a moment, then hurried to catch up. "You're welcome here for supper whenever you like, Sam. But I thought your Gaffer wouldn't permit it."
"No more he might," Sam said, swinging the flour down off his shoulder and setting the sack on the kitchen table. "But between this flour -- and the seeds I heard Mr. Bilbo talking about getting -- I reckon I've reason enough to stay." He met Frodo's gaze again. "Reason enough for the Gaffer's ears, anyway."
"Why, Sam," Frodo said, reaching out to catch Sam's arm. The muscles flexed in his grip. "You've lost your patience with me?"
"Your plans don't seem to have got anywhere, sir," Sam said, not looking away. Frodo could have dived into those eyes, dark with frustrated hunger. "Begging your pardon, but I've no mind for any more teases."
Frodo couldn't help himself. He laughed, low in his throat, and pulled Sam to him, body against body. "You're a fine one to talk of teases, Sam Gamgee." Sam opened his mouth as if to protest, but Frodo clapped his free hand over it. Sam's eyes darkened even more, and Frodo spoke quickly. "After dinner, Sam, whatever you want, I swear it." He took away his hand and leaned in to kiss Sam, sweet for all its haste. "You're not the only one tired of teasing."
Sam closed his mouth and swallowed, nodding before he finally looked away from Frodo. "Yes, sir."
Frodo stepped back and took a deep breath. His heart was stuttering in his chest as he blindly looked around the kitchen. His very blood seemed to sing: tonight, tonight, alone with proper sheets at last and all the time you like, tonight...
"Frodo?"
The sound of his name drew Frodo's gaze back to Sam like a lodestone.
Sam looked up from his feet, his face flushed as if he stood by the fire. "Whatever you want, too," he said softly. Then he fled the room, leaving Frodo to sit down abruptly before his wobbly knees gave out.
Tonight, Frodo told himself firmly. Dumplings now. Gardener later. Bilbo will be home soon. Wait until tonight.
***
Sam yawned as they walked down the hall to the guest room. Frodo opened the door for him, and hesitated. Bilbo had left the dining room early, while Frodo and Sam lingered over the seedcake Bilbo had made for afters, and Frodo could see the fruits of his hasty labors in the crisp sheets new-laid on the bed, and the candle sitting on the bedside table, its light blending with the light from the candle in Frodo's hand to create an uncertain twilight of mingled shadows across the floor. Sam walked straight in, but slowed to a stop after a few steps.
"Are you awake, Sam?"
Sam turned to blink at Frodo as if he were asleep on his feet. Then he mustered a tired smile. "Depends on what you're after, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo glanced over his shoulder. The hallway was dark, with only the hint of light peeping out from under a door down near the far end to betray that Bilbo was still awake himself. But Bilbo's already gone to bed, Frodo argued to himself...Oh, why bother worrying over it? He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. "I don't think you're up for a general seduction," he said. "But if you'll permit me --"
"I said whatever you want," Sam interrupted. He yawned again, but his eyes brightened in the light of Frodo's candle.
Frodo felt behind him, and turned the key in the lock. He set down his candle on the nearest flat surface, the dressing table not two steps from the door. "I want to look at you," he said.
It took Sam a moment to realize what Frodo meant, long enough for Frodo to close the distance between them, so they both stood in the uncertain, wavering twilight of the candles. Frodo took a deep breath (Sam smelled of Frodo's own lavender soap, and wine, and Sam-ness), reached up and began to undo Sam's shirt. He noticed, as if through a long tunnel, that his hands trembled.
"Here now, Mr. Frodo," Sam protested belatedly. "You can't--"
"I can if I want to," Frodo said, watching his own hands move down the buttons, exposing more and more of Sam's skin. "Please, Sam. Allow me this?"
"I --" Sam subsided. Frodo dared a glance up, and saw Sam's forehead creased in puzzlement.
Frodo breathed a silent sigh of relief. He couldn't have argued long, not when his tongue felt swollen in his mouth and his mind sluggish as a Boffin after luncheon. Words fled his mind in the face of feeling, rough linen and wooden buttons under his fingers, smell of warm Sam, Sam's chest exposed to the candlelight in a wash of gold. Once he'd loosed all the buttons, he pushed Sam's shirt and waistcoat together back over Sam's shoulders, and tugged the shirt free of Sam's trousers.
Sam made a startled sound, and attended to his wrists himself. Frodo knelt and busied his hands with belt buckle and the hook and eye that fastened the waistband. A moment, and Frodo had those undone as well, quickly followed by the buttons beneath. He pulled the trousers down Sam's legs, so they landed on the floor at the same time Sam's shirt fluttered down to cover them. Sam shifted his weight, kicking his feet free of the entangling cloth.
Frodo stood up slowly, drinking in every inch of Sam. Not a poetic body, this, but strong and capable and beautiful in that strength, half-roused just from Frodo's eager undressing of it. Sam was blushing when Frodo at last stood facing him eye-to-eye.
Frodo nearly laughed. Beautiful, beautiful -- did he think the words or say them aloud? He felt giddy, head bemazed by this thing more powerful than any wine he'd ever tasted. "Come here," he whispered, and without waiting for agreement, pulled Sam forward into a kiss.
Sam hesitated a moment, startled, or just unsure of himself without his clothing on. Then his hands closed on Frodo's back and his mouth opened against Frodo's. When Frodo pulled back, gasping for breath, heart pounding in his ears and his groin, Sam's face was twice as flushed as before.
"Come to bed, Sam," Frodo said. His voice came out hoarse, and he swallowed as he stepped around Sam, tugging him along by the wrist.
Sam didn't move, trapping Frodo's arm around his waist. Frodo wound himself around so he held Sam from behind. This close, he could feel Sam trembling, but Sam shook his head, nearly knocking Frodo in the nose as Frodo stepped in behind him. "You're still dressed, sir."
"Then fix it," Frodo suggested, murmuring the words into Sam's ear just to feel Sam tremble harder at the touch of warm breath.
"I can't reach you while you're back there," Sam protested.
"Then move." Frodo stepped backwards toward the bed, guiding Sam with him. He could feel Sam's belly warm and tempting through the fabric of his shirt, and resisted the urge to let go of Sam's wrist and let his hand stroke downward.
Sam pulled free and ducked around Frodo. Frodo turned, and saw Sam turning back the coverlet, pulling the blankets down to the bottom of the mattress to leave the sheets exposed. Sam sat down on the sheets, then looked up at Frodo, pale and defiant.
Frodo's breath caught. He reached out and carefully, carefully laid one hand on Sam's chest, pushing him back to lie down against the white sheets. Sam lay back, watching Frodo with that same sweet crease of a frown between his eyes. Frodo leaned in and kissed it away, then reached over to tug Sam's legs up on to the mattress. His waistcoat fell forward, and he pushed it back out of his way, behind his hip, only to have it fall forward again as he tucked Sam's ankles up. Frodo growled in frustration, straightened, and shucked off the blasted thing. He tossed the waistcoat carelessly behind him, then crawled onto the bed himself.
Oh, where to begin? "Beautiful," he heard himself murmur, and Sam's eyes flickered. Frodo laid his fingers against Sam's lips to keep him from protesting, and felt them curve into a smile. Frodo smiled back, and without looking away from Sam's gaze, dragged his fingers down Sam's chin, under his jaw and along his neck to the hollow of his throat. Sam's breath caught, and he shivered again, but he didn't look away.
Frodo bent and kissed him, a quick brush of lips, then watched his own hands as they skated back and forth across Sam's chest, winding down to his nipples. Sam tensed at the brush of Frodo's fingertips there, then relaxed with no more than a stutter of breath. Not as sensitive as Frodo's own, then. Frodo lingered a moment longer, running his fingers around and round the little nubs, then jumped at the feel of fingers pinching one of his own nipples. His gaze flew to Sam's. Sam's smile widened, to almost a smirk. Frodo laughed despite the bursts of sensation Sam's knowing fingers sent through him, chest to groin, rippling out to the edges of his body. He hadn't even noticed Sam undoing his shirt. "Impatient?" he asked softly.
"I'd see you, too," Sam said, letting his hands fall away from Frodo.
Frodo sat up again and allowed the shirt to slide down his arms in a slow glide. Sam watched it fall, his mouth open; Frodo wasn't entirely certain he was breathing. He tossed his shirt to the floor to join their other clothing, and leaned forward to lay his hand on Sam's chest. "Sam?"
"Beautiful," Sam breathed. One hand made an abortive movement as if to touch Frodo, but subsided back to the coverlet.
Frodo hid his amusement by burying his face in Sam's neck. Next to Sam's sun-darkened gold where he had worked without a shirt this past summer, Frodo felt washed-out and pale. But he had no mind to debate the matter, not when he had naked Sam to explore, and the feel of Sam's touch upon his own skin like echoes of fire.
The world faded in the face of the wonder beneath his hands. No matter where he touched Sam, Sam's breath caught, or he moaned aloud. Here -- or here -- or especially here, like silk against his palm, Sam's groans shooting straight to Frodo's own arousal --
"No," Sam gasped abruptly, and reached up to scrabble at Frodo's belt. Frodo's muscles involuntarily contracted, but Sam didn't take advantage of the gap, concentrated on unfastening Frodo's belt. Frodo gritted his teeth, and turned his attention back to the heat and hardness under his palm.
They fought, then, silent wrestling with each other, Frodo holding Sam tightly, taunting him with the rhythm he'd learned on himself, and Sam entirely focused on buckle and laces and freeing Frodo from the press of cloth. Sam won, but as he pushed Frodo's trousers back and down Frodo's hips, Frodo slid his grip up, swirling his thumb through the moisture there.
"Ah --" Sam's head fell back against the pillows, and his eyes squeezed shut. His hips pushed up against Frodo's hand in a silent plea for more.
Frodo gave it to him, never looking away from Sam's face, not daring to look down at what he was doing. Just the feel, just the knowledge of what he did and with whom, had him teetering on the brink as well. Up - and again -- every muscle trembling, Sam biting his lip, Sam's hands fisting in the sheets next to Frodo's leg. "Frodo!"
Smell of salt and musk, unfamiliar but instantly addictive. Frodo at last let himself look down at the white fluid all over his hand and Sam's belly. He let go, one finger at a time: his hand had cramped into that position and he'd not even noticed. He brought his hand up to his nose and sniffed, then tentatively licked. Bitter, not like vinegar, just strong.
"Frodo..."
Frodo looked up again. The sound had been slurred. Sam's eyes were still closed, and his breathing had evened out. He'd gone and fallen asleep.
Frodo sighed, and got off the mattress. He needed to rinse off his hand, and get something to wipe off Sam, too. Perhaps he should fold their clothes. They'd get very wrinkled from a night on the floor.
He kicked off his trousers, turned and looked back at Sam, asleep. Beautiful, he thought. Belly still sticky with release, arms and legs relaxed into a wanton sprawl, and a faint, sated smile upon those sleeping lips.
Frodo's own arousal throbbed, reminding him that he hadn't been sated. Frodo ignored it, going to the wash basin. He'd tend to that once he'd finished the small practicalities. If he fell asleep before...well, Sam was an early riser, and Bilbo was not. And Frodo intended to sleep in Sam's arms, no matter how tortuous it might be.
*
IV. First Harvest
*
The one thing that puzzled Frodo was how little anyone else seemed to notice. Bilbo knew, but only because he'd seen them kissing with his own eyes, and besides lived with Frodo day in and day out. But then, the Gaffer lived with Sam day in and day out as well, and if he knew anything more than polite words passed between his son and his employer's heir, he'd said nothing of it to Frodo, nor had Sam mentioned any scoldings. And none of Frodo's friends remarked on more than a certain absence of mind.
Then, as March melted into April, Fatty Bolger brought up the subject.
"My mother thinks I should be getting married."
"Married? Already?" Frodo turned his gaze from the dance floor (where he'd been watching Sam whirl around with some young lass). "You're not even of age!"
"Oh, Father silenced her quickly enough. 'A lad's got to sow his wild oats,' he said."
"That's good, isn't it?" Merry said cautiously, lowering his mug of punch.
"It would be better if I had been sowing wild oats," Fatty said mournfully. "I haven't so much as kissed a lass yet."
"Neither have I!"
"You're not in your tweens, yet, Merry," Frodo reminded him. "Plenty of time for kissing."
"You can say that," Merry objected. "You've found someone, I know you have. You smile when you think no one can see you, and you sing all the time. And don't tell me you were watching the dance floor just now to keep an eye on your uncle, because I shan't believe you!"
Frodo felt himself blush bright red, as Fatty chuckled. "You never said anything," Frodo protested, lowering his voice. "I'd thought--"
"That you'd gone unnoticed?" Fatty said, voice still rich with amusement. "Who is she?"
Frodo hesitated, and glanced back out at the dance floor. The music had just finished, and Sam was bowing to his partner. If he couldn't tell his dearest friends... "It's not a her," he said, lowering his voice again.
"Not a --" Merry followed Frodo's gaze, and swallowed the rest of his sentence.
A moment's silence. Fatty and Merry exchanged glances, while Frodo forced himself not to look at Sam again. Sam would know something was wrong in a moment if he noticed this little group, and Frodo wanted to defend himself, if he needed defending.
"Sam," Fatty said at last.
"Yes."
"You're with Samwise Gamgee."
"Yes," Frodo repeated patiently.
"Not just a flirtation. With him. Like Melilot Brandybuck is with Bungo Sackville."
Feel of Sam beneath his hand, Sam's eyes screwed shut. Waking up the next morning, Sam's fingers on him light as butterfly wings, helping Sam hold a pillow over his mouth so he wouldn't wake Bilbo with his cries. Had that been only a week ago? Too long, far too long.
"Never mind," Fatty said wryly. "I think I have my answer."
Merry looked back and forth between Frodo and Sam, frowning in concentration. "Are you lovers?"
"Keep your voice down! Yes, we are. Mostly."
"Mostly?" Merry bounced on his stool. "Oh, that's right, Sam's birthday is in another week! What's he giving you?"
"Never you mind," Frodo said, using his best repressive older cousin voice and trying not to blush again at the innuendo lacing Merry's question. "He hasn't told me."
"Will you tell me afterwards?"
Fatty nearly choked on his ale. "Merry!"
"It might be useful," Merry defended himself. "I might find someone like Sam when I'm older. Pippin Took says he wants to marry me."
"Peregrin Took is eight," Frodo said, trying the repressive voice again, though it hadn't worked last time. "Give him time to grow up, Meriadoc."
Merry just blinked up at him. "Sam's looking for you."
Frodo sighed, tried not to laugh, and headed off toward the punch bowl in search of his Sam.
***
"My birthday," Sam repeated thoughtfully, lacing his fingers through Frodo's. They walked home from the dance, only a last rime of moon to light their way. "I've not decided yet, to tell you true. The Gaffer's happy enough with a new hoe or summat like, and Daisy's always after me for some pretty piece of knick-knackery, and Mr. Bilbo insists on no more than a slice of my mam's honeycake. But I can't think of anything grand enough for you, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo wet his lips, and wondered if this was how Sam had felt six months ago, daring to ask for a kiss. "I thought...perhaps we could try a different custom," he said, tightening his grip on Sam's hand. "One where the birthday hobbit receives the presents, rather than gives them."
He felt, more than saw, Sam glance over at him in the near-darkness. "I've no more desire for that mathom than Mr. Bilbo had, sir."
"Not that kind of present," Frodo said, forcing the words out one by one. "I promised you whatever you want."
"You gave me that."
"Then I'll give it to you again -- no, not like that," Frodo added at Sam's soft chuckle. "I'll make the promise again. Whatever you want. Anything."
Sam slowed down, making Frodo slow his steps too. "Anything, sir? That's a dangerous thing to promise, even to me."
"I wouldn't make the offer if I didn't mean it. What do you want, Samwise Gamgee?"
Sam stopped short, head tilted to one side as if thinking hard. "I -- I don't know, Mr. Frodo. I don't have fine words for it."
"It needn't be in poetry," Frodo said. "Just tell me."
Sam hesitated a long moment. The faint moonlight gave Frodo hardly more than the shape of his friend's outline against the sky, no hint of his expression. At last Sam let go of Frodo's hand, and turned to face him. "You," he said. "Not courting-like, but longer and deeper. I want to tup you in the garden, and kiss you in the cellar, and -- and lie with you all night wherever we can sleep, until I'm old and worn-out and can't do no more than lie there and watch you sleep."
Frodo swallowed hard. "But that --" I can't give you that, he wanted to say, not in a single night. "That's sweet," he said.
"It's not sweet," Sam contradicted fiercely. "Sweet is like Rosie Cotton and my sister Daisy, playing at brides with lace and dainties. It's not a dainty, it's hunger worse than I've ever known, eating me all up inside."
Frodo reached out to him, but his fingers only brushed Sam's waistcoat as Sam stepped back away from him. "I'll wait," Sam said. "I don't ask that you give me anything on my birthday, sir, but you asked me what I want, and that's the truth."
Frodo let his hand fall back to his side. "You have me, Sam."
"Not the way I'm meaning, Mr. Frodo. Good night."
***
The next week crawled by. Frodo got very little sleep the first few nights, his mind churning upon the subject of courtship and promises made. He got hardly any more sleep the remaining nights, but not because of deep thoughts. No, instead, as if sensing Frodo had come to a decision, Sam teased him. Nothing Frodo could put his finger on, nothing certain, but Sam paused in his work just as Frodo looked out the window, and stretched himself sinuously as a barn cat, or came in overheated from the unusually warm early spring sun, asking for a cup of tea, his shirt unbuttoned half-way down. The day before Sam's birthday, Frodo caught him down in the garden and kissed him. Sam kissed him back, one hand tangled in his hair, but pulled away long before Frodo had drunk his fill of the taste of Sam's mouth. "There's this whole row still to transplant," Sam explained, eyes lowered, modest as a lass before her wedding. "And the Gaffer's like to come down here to see how I'm doing."
"Very well. Tomorrow night," Frodo said, pulling Sam into a last quick embrace. "If I don't go mad before then."
Sam only offered him an awkward smile, and went back to digging.
At last Sam's birthday arrived. Bilbo gladly hosted the party, though not without raising an eyebrow at Frodo, and a dozen or so young hobbits from the neighborhood helped the Gamgees and the Bagginses polish off four bottles of Old Winyards and two of Shirebourn Rose, not to mention a fine roast, potatoes with butter and salt and gravy, the first greens of the year, mashed turnips, and of course Mrs. Gamgee's honeycake for afters. Frodo ate sparingly. He could feel Bilbo's eyes on him every so often, watching him curiously, but he could also feel Sam watching him, and the butterflies in his belly hardly let him take a bite.
By the time the other hobbits left, calling cheerful birthday wishes after them, butterflies had become near-terror. Frodo led the way down the hall, feeling as though the sound of his heart must surely drown out the sound of his feet. Where were all his fine plans now, he wondered bitterly, and for one frightened moment, he wanted to turn around, tell Sam he'd changed his mind, they couldn't do this, they mustn't do this.
He glanced over his shoulder. Sam followed him with head down and hands clasped in front of him, looking more like a prisoner brought along by the shirrifs than a hobbit on his way to his lover's bed. Frodo's own nerves faded in the face of this evidence that he wasn't alone. Sam didn't know what he was doing either.
This made the first few moments alone no easier. Frodo closed the door to his bedroom behind them, locked it, and stood there mired in his own uncertainties. Sam tugged him away from the door and attended to his clothing, undressing Frodo as though he were made of fine Elven pottery that might break if Sam breathed too hard upon him. Frodo allowed it, keeping the same silence as Sam did. Once naked, he shivered, and looked around the room, unable to muster the courage to reach out to Sam immediately.
The soft sound of a throat being cleared made him look back to find Sam also naked, his clothing in a small pile beside him. "Frodo?"
"Yes, Sam?" Now that he'd looked, he didn't seem to be able to stop looking. Sam surely hadn't looked so beautiful, ruddy, and strong two weeks ago. If he had, then Frodo deserved to be cried down as a thrice-cursed fool for ever allowing Sam out of bed.
Sam cleared his throat again, his face even redder than before. "Did you -- that is, was there anything in particular you'd be wanting? Because I've no ideas."
"This is for you," Frodo said, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. Three steps took him to his bed, and he sprawled over the coverlet, letting his legs fall open in an attempt at invitation.
Sam's gaze dropped to the part of Frodo thus exposed for a long moment, long enough to make it plump up and begin to take an interest despite all Frodo's nervousness. Finally Sam looked up to meet Frodo's eyes again. "And the most royal gift I've ever been given, sir," he said, shifting his weight a little. "But I don't know where to start the taking, if you follow me."
Frodo could only smile, and reach out to take Sam's hand. "You can start by kissing me," he said firmly.
Sam came over willingly enough, and knelt over Frodo, one knee between Frodo's legs. But this kiss held none of the anguished fire Frodo expected. Oh, the taste of Sam's mouth still warmed him, and Sam's tongue against his roused thoughts of more intimate tangling. But it touched Frodo's heart more, gentle with promises neither he nor Sam had spoken aloud, sweet as honeycomb.
Sweet, Frodo thought. He didn't want sweet. He wanted the silver hunger Sam spoke of. He wanted not to think. He pulled Sam down on top of him, then rolled over quickly, pinning Sam in place with his weight, hands holding Sam's wrists to the coverlet. "If you won't explore me, Samwise, then I shall explore you."
Sam smiled up at him, eyes wide and dark. "I never said nothing about not exploring. Sir."
It didn't feel like exploration. Though he'd only touched Sam once, skin to skin, he knew the feel of him beneath his fingertips, smooth as rose leaves, not strange any more. If he didn't know all the places that made Sam gasp and moan beneath his hands, well, that would come in time. He knew enough to turn things into a merry wrestling as Sam's hands skated over him. They rolled around on the bed every which way, both of them laughing breathlessly like a pair of children, Sam trying to touch every inch of Frodo, and Frodo reciprocating with equally rough caresses. Frodo cried out despite himself as Sam's touch slid up his chest. He tried to move away, but Sam followed, wriggling after him. One hand landed in the middle of Frodo's back. The other --
Frodo went absolutely still. He lay on his side, at the very edge of the bed. Any movement and he might fall. Any movement and he might dislodge Sam's hand, right there, right over the half-forgotten swollen proof of his arousal. "Please," he heard himself whisper.
Sam pressed up behind him for a heartbeat, then moved away entirely, the brush of his hand as he removed it enough to make Frodo whimper again. "Lie back, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, the words coming out husky and deep.
Frodo obeyed.
All traces of hesitance were gone. Sam had learnt torture in the last twenty minutes. Blunt nails and gentle bites left Frodo panting: along his inner thighs, across his belly, his chest (but without touching the yearning nubs of his nipples), the insides of his arms, his neck just below his ear, the backs of his hands --
"You," Frodo gasped at last, bucking up against the momentary press of Sam's leg. "Not without you."
"No more it is," Sam said. A gentle push against Frodo's thigh proved how much he was enjoying this.
Frodo gritted his teeth. Still not enough, not just Sam giving him pleasure. He let go of the blankets, caught Sam by the shoulders, and before Sam could protest, rolled them over one more time. Sam's eyes went wide, but Frodo laid a finger against his mouth. "Do you trust me?"
Still wide-eyed, Sam nodded, and kissed Frodo's finger.
Frodo took a deep, hiccuping breath, and leaned forward to retrieve the flask he'd stowed atop the headboard three nights ago. As his hand closed around it, a spark of arousal made him jump and his arm jerk so he nearly dropped the flask again. He frowned down at Sam. Sam had licked at his nipple -- he'd learned that spot too well.
"Just stay still...a moment longer..."
Slippery lotion, rubbed between his hands a moment to warm it, then smoothed all over Sam's arousal. Sam's breath caught, but the little line of puzzlement appeared between his brows. Frodo met his eyes, so fully dilated Frodo could hardly see their color anymore. Without looking away, he gave himself a hasty swipe with the lotion, two fingers inside to smooth the way, then swung his leg over Sam's so he sat astride Sam's hips. Up onto his knees, a moment's fumbling behind him, Sam's every muscle tensing and his eyes impossibly wider --
Burning, almost but not quite pain. Deep breaths, trying to relax. Down a little bit farther, up and down, thighs already beginning to ache with the effort --
"You'll hurt yourself," Sam protested.
"No," Frodo said through dry lips. "Just -- slowly. Slowly." He pushed back again, taking more of Sam into himself. One sort of burning melted into another, leaving a feeling of fullness, a pleasant heavy feeling that spread through his entire belly. Just a little bit farther, and he could feel Sam's legs against him. All the way inside.
"Please," Sam whispered. He looked where their bodies were joined, glanced up to Frodo's eyes, and his hips pressed up, almost involuntarily, just a little bit more, a little deeper. "Please."
Frodo forced himself to rise up, then sink back down again, and his eyes widened. The friction -- Ah, but that felt more than pleasant, burning again from this touch deep inside. Up -- and down -- and up again. He threw his head back, panting rapidly. Sam's hands closed on his hips, helping to guide his rhythm. Down and up and down and --
Frodo couldn't have said when Sam began to speed up his thrusts, nor when he himself forgot the burning of his thighs for the burning between them, wanting only Sam hot and deep. Sam's grip on his hips tightened to the point of pain, and then Sam's face contorted. Once -- twice -- warmth inside, hot and liquid, Sam's seed spilled at last. Without a touch, Frodo spilled his own, lost in Sam's pleasure.
It took a little while for the haze to clear from his eyes. At last, Frodo blinked to find himself lying flat on the bed. He ached in places he'd never thought about before, but the thrum of satiation all through his body soothed the ache. He turned his head to say something to Sam, and only then realized Sam lay with his back to Frodo. Sam's breath came in hitches, as if he were crying.
"Oh, Sam." Frodo curled up behind him, stroking his arm, wishing he could think of better comfort to offer. "Oh, my Sam..."
"Frodo?" Sam turned awkwardly in Frodo's arms. His eyes were clear of tears, though his breath still caught in near hiccups.
"Oh, Sam," Frodo said again involuntarily. He reached up and laid one hand on Sam's cheek, remembering a day long ago when he'd asked to pay courtship. Sam was right, they'd gone far beyond courtship now. "How shall I ever let you go?"
Sam kissed him, and mustered a smile. "Don't," he said.
-end-
III. In Which the Seed is Watered
*
January:
"The Gaffer won't permit it?"
Sam kissed Frodo again, hard and quick. "He says he's getting old, and someone needs to tend Bag End's gardens, even this time of year."
Frodo pulled Sam back in for a longer, wetter kiss. "I don't think the garden needs much tending right now." Not as much as I do, he thought, and leaned into the warm pressure of Sam's body against his, pinning him against the wall of one of the cellars of Bag End.
Sam smiled as if he'd heard Frodo's errant thought, and stroked his hand down along Frodo's free arm. "Not at this time, no, sir. But I can't well tell my Gaffer I'd be going to Buckland to tend to you."
Frodo thought of several very bad jokes about tending to Sam in return, and what sort of gardens they would plant on the road to Buckland. But he squeezed Sam's hand with his instead, and said nothing.
February:
"Holman's come home."
"Mmm," Frodo said disinterestedly, far more absorbed by the way Sam shivered when Frodo slipped his hand under Sam's shirt.
"From the North Farthing. Mr. Frodo, you've not heard a word I've said, have you?"
Frodo sighed and stilled his hand for a moment. "Your older brother Holman is visiting from the North Farthing," he recited.
"And wants to share his news - ah! - with the whole family," Sam said, clapping his hand over Frodo's when Frodo began to slide it out along Sam's belly.
"So you can't come up to Bag End for dinner." Frodo shook his head. "I'm beginning to wonder if your Gaffer is doing this deliberately."
"He doesn't know," Sam said firmly, letting go of Frodo's hand and arching his back to allow Frodo better access. "No more than Mr. Bilbo does."
"Bilbo does know," Frodo corrected him, and feathered a kiss along Sam's neck. He felt Sam stiffen against him. "He saw me kiss you, remember?"
"And he doesn't mind, sir?" Sam reached up and began petting Frodo's hair.
"I wouldn't say that," Frodo admitted, stepping away reluctantly. "He called me on the carpet some months ago. I don't think I've ever had such an embarrassing, uncomfortable conversation in my life."
"Then...he doesn't approve." Sam's eyes were dark and troubled.
"He doesn't approve of me," Frodo said instantly. "He thinks I'm taking advantage of you."
"I was the one as asked, sir."
"I know, Sam. And I'm glad you did." Frodo leaned in to snatch a kiss. "Don't worry about Bilbo. He won't help, but he won't hinder us either. He promised."
"I'd rather the help," Sam grumbled, and pulled Frodo close again.
March:
Frodo looked up from his papers at the sound of banging on the front door. Not a knock, that, but a banging. Gandalf? he wondered, setting aside the property ownership lists he'd been trying to struggle through. No, it hadn't sounded like a staff against the wood of the door, more like --
"Sam! Here, let me take that."
"It's all right, sir, I've got it." Sam heaved the full sack over the threshold, then let it rest on the floor as Frodo closed the door behind him. A dusting of white, on Sam and on the floor, betrayed the sack's contents.
"Why didn't you tell me you were going down to the mill to get our flour?" Frodo asked, coming around to Sam's side and eying the sack warily.
"Didn't intend to do so," Sam said with a shrug. "I went with my Gaffer to fetch our own flour, and old Sandyman mentioned he'd yours ground as well, so I volunteered to bring it up." He looked up at Frodo through his lashes.
Frodo tried not to smile, and failed utterly. "Then I hope you'll stay long enough for me to repay you somehow. Bilbo's out on one of his walks at the moment, but if you'll trust my cooking instead, I can make apple dumplings."
Sam looked down at the sack of flour, then hefted it up off the floor again and over his shoulder. "Actually, sir," he said quietly, "I hoped you'd invite me to dinner." He headed for the kitchen.
Frodo blinked after him a moment, then hurried to catch up. "You're welcome here for supper whenever you like, Sam. But I thought your Gaffer wouldn't permit it."
"No more he might," Sam said, swinging the flour down off his shoulder and setting the sack on the kitchen table. "But between this flour -- and the seeds I heard Mr. Bilbo talking about getting -- I reckon I've reason enough to stay." He met Frodo's gaze again. "Reason enough for the Gaffer's ears, anyway."
"Why, Sam," Frodo said, reaching out to catch Sam's arm. The muscles flexed in his grip. "You've lost your patience with me?"
"Your plans don't seem to have got anywhere, sir," Sam said, not looking away. Frodo could have dived into those eyes, dark with frustrated hunger. "Begging your pardon, but I've no mind for any more teases."
Frodo couldn't help himself. He laughed, low in his throat, and pulled Sam to him, body against body. "You're a fine one to talk of teases, Sam Gamgee." Sam opened his mouth as if to protest, but Frodo clapped his free hand over it. Sam's eyes darkened even more, and Frodo spoke quickly. "After dinner, Sam, whatever you want, I swear it." He took away his hand and leaned in to kiss Sam, sweet for all its haste. "You're not the only one tired of teasing."
Sam closed his mouth and swallowed, nodding before he finally looked away from Frodo. "Yes, sir."
Frodo stepped back and took a deep breath. His heart was stuttering in his chest as he blindly looked around the kitchen. His very blood seemed to sing: tonight, tonight, alone with proper sheets at last and all the time you like, tonight...
"Frodo?"
The sound of his name drew Frodo's gaze back to Sam like a lodestone.
Sam looked up from his feet, his face flushed as if he stood by the fire. "Whatever you want, too," he said softly. Then he fled the room, leaving Frodo to sit down abruptly before his wobbly knees gave out.
Tonight, Frodo told himself firmly. Dumplings now. Gardener later. Bilbo will be home soon. Wait until tonight.
***
Sam yawned as they walked down the hall to the guest room. Frodo opened the door for him, and hesitated. Bilbo had left the dining room early, while Frodo and Sam lingered over the seedcake Bilbo had made for afters, and Frodo could see the fruits of his hasty labors in the crisp sheets new-laid on the bed, and the candle sitting on the bedside table, its light blending with the light from the candle in Frodo's hand to create an uncertain twilight of mingled shadows across the floor. Sam walked straight in, but slowed to a stop after a few steps.
"Are you awake, Sam?"
Sam turned to blink at Frodo as if he were asleep on his feet. Then he mustered a tired smile. "Depends on what you're after, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo glanced over his shoulder. The hallway was dark, with only the hint of light peeping out from under a door down near the far end to betray that Bilbo was still awake himself. But Bilbo's already gone to bed, Frodo argued to himself...Oh, why bother worrying over it? He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. "I don't think you're up for a general seduction," he said. "But if you'll permit me --"
"I said whatever you want," Sam interrupted. He yawned again, but his eyes brightened in the light of Frodo's candle.
Frodo felt behind him, and turned the key in the lock. He set down his candle on the nearest flat surface, the dressing table not two steps from the door. "I want to look at you," he said.
It took Sam a moment to realize what Frodo meant, long enough for Frodo to close the distance between them, so they both stood in the uncertain, wavering twilight of the candles. Frodo took a deep breath (Sam smelled of Frodo's own lavender soap, and wine, and Sam-ness), reached up and began to undo Sam's shirt. He noticed, as if through a long tunnel, that his hands trembled.
"Here now, Mr. Frodo," Sam protested belatedly. "You can't--"
"I can if I want to," Frodo said, watching his own hands move down the buttons, exposing more and more of Sam's skin. "Please, Sam. Allow me this?"
"I --" Sam subsided. Frodo dared a glance up, and saw Sam's forehead creased in puzzlement.
Frodo breathed a silent sigh of relief. He couldn't have argued long, not when his tongue felt swollen in his mouth and his mind sluggish as a Boffin after luncheon. Words fled his mind in the face of feeling, rough linen and wooden buttons under his fingers, smell of warm Sam, Sam's chest exposed to the candlelight in a wash of gold. Once he'd loosed all the buttons, he pushed Sam's shirt and waistcoat together back over Sam's shoulders, and tugged the shirt free of Sam's trousers.
Sam made a startled sound, and attended to his wrists himself. Frodo knelt and busied his hands with belt buckle and the hook and eye that fastened the waistband. A moment, and Frodo had those undone as well, quickly followed by the buttons beneath. He pulled the trousers down Sam's legs, so they landed on the floor at the same time Sam's shirt fluttered down to cover them. Sam shifted his weight, kicking his feet free of the entangling cloth.
Frodo stood up slowly, drinking in every inch of Sam. Not a poetic body, this, but strong and capable and beautiful in that strength, half-roused just from Frodo's eager undressing of it. Sam was blushing when Frodo at last stood facing him eye-to-eye.
Frodo nearly laughed. Beautiful, beautiful -- did he think the words or say them aloud? He felt giddy, head bemazed by this thing more powerful than any wine he'd ever tasted. "Come here," he whispered, and without waiting for agreement, pulled Sam forward into a kiss.
Sam hesitated a moment, startled, or just unsure of himself without his clothing on. Then his hands closed on Frodo's back and his mouth opened against Frodo's. When Frodo pulled back, gasping for breath, heart pounding in his ears and his groin, Sam's face was twice as flushed as before.
"Come to bed, Sam," Frodo said. His voice came out hoarse, and he swallowed as he stepped around Sam, tugging him along by the wrist.
Sam didn't move, trapping Frodo's arm around his waist. Frodo wound himself around so he held Sam from behind. This close, he could feel Sam trembling, but Sam shook his head, nearly knocking Frodo in the nose as Frodo stepped in behind him. "You're still dressed, sir."
"Then fix it," Frodo suggested, murmuring the words into Sam's ear just to feel Sam tremble harder at the touch of warm breath.
"I can't reach you while you're back there," Sam protested.
"Then move." Frodo stepped backwards toward the bed, guiding Sam with him. He could feel Sam's belly warm and tempting through the fabric of his shirt, and resisted the urge to let go of Sam's wrist and let his hand stroke downward.
Sam pulled free and ducked around Frodo. Frodo turned, and saw Sam turning back the coverlet, pulling the blankets down to the bottom of the mattress to leave the sheets exposed. Sam sat down on the sheets, then looked up at Frodo, pale and defiant.
Frodo's breath caught. He reached out and carefully, carefully laid one hand on Sam's chest, pushing him back to lie down against the white sheets. Sam lay back, watching Frodo with that same sweet crease of a frown between his eyes. Frodo leaned in and kissed it away, then reached over to tug Sam's legs up on to the mattress. His waistcoat fell forward, and he pushed it back out of his way, behind his hip, only to have it fall forward again as he tucked Sam's ankles up. Frodo growled in frustration, straightened, and shucked off the blasted thing. He tossed the waistcoat carelessly behind him, then crawled onto the bed himself.
Oh, where to begin? "Beautiful," he heard himself murmur, and Sam's eyes flickered. Frodo laid his fingers against Sam's lips to keep him from protesting, and felt them curve into a smile. Frodo smiled back, and without looking away from Sam's gaze, dragged his fingers down Sam's chin, under his jaw and along his neck to the hollow of his throat. Sam's breath caught, and he shivered again, but he didn't look away.
Frodo bent and kissed him, a quick brush of lips, then watched his own hands as they skated back and forth across Sam's chest, winding down to his nipples. Sam tensed at the brush of Frodo's fingertips there, then relaxed with no more than a stutter of breath. Not as sensitive as Frodo's own, then. Frodo lingered a moment longer, running his fingers around and round the little nubs, then jumped at the feel of fingers pinching one of his own nipples. His gaze flew to Sam's. Sam's smile widened, to almost a smirk. Frodo laughed despite the bursts of sensation Sam's knowing fingers sent through him, chest to groin, rippling out to the edges of his body. He hadn't even noticed Sam undoing his shirt. "Impatient?" he asked softly.
"I'd see you, too," Sam said, letting his hands fall away from Frodo.
Frodo sat up again and allowed the shirt to slide down his arms in a slow glide. Sam watched it fall, his mouth open; Frodo wasn't entirely certain he was breathing. He tossed his shirt to the floor to join their other clothing, and leaned forward to lay his hand on Sam's chest. "Sam?"
"Beautiful," Sam breathed. One hand made an abortive movement as if to touch Frodo, but subsided back to the coverlet.
Frodo hid his amusement by burying his face in Sam's neck. Next to Sam's sun-darkened gold where he had worked without a shirt this past summer, Frodo felt washed-out and pale. But he had no mind to debate the matter, not when he had naked Sam to explore, and the feel of Sam's touch upon his own skin like echoes of fire.
The world faded in the face of the wonder beneath his hands. No matter where he touched Sam, Sam's breath caught, or he moaned aloud. Here -- or here -- or especially here, like silk against his palm, Sam's groans shooting straight to Frodo's own arousal --
"No," Sam gasped abruptly, and reached up to scrabble at Frodo's belt. Frodo's muscles involuntarily contracted, but Sam didn't take advantage of the gap, concentrated on unfastening Frodo's belt. Frodo gritted his teeth, and turned his attention back to the heat and hardness under his palm.
They fought, then, silent wrestling with each other, Frodo holding Sam tightly, taunting him with the rhythm he'd learned on himself, and Sam entirely focused on buckle and laces and freeing Frodo from the press of cloth. Sam won, but as he pushed Frodo's trousers back and down Frodo's hips, Frodo slid his grip up, swirling his thumb through the moisture there.
"Ah --" Sam's head fell back against the pillows, and his eyes squeezed shut. His hips pushed up against Frodo's hand in a silent plea for more.
Frodo gave it to him, never looking away from Sam's face, not daring to look down at what he was doing. Just the feel, just the knowledge of what he did and with whom, had him teetering on the brink as well. Up - and again -- every muscle trembling, Sam biting his lip, Sam's hands fisting in the sheets next to Frodo's leg. "Frodo!"
Smell of salt and musk, unfamiliar but instantly addictive. Frodo at last let himself look down at the white fluid all over his hand and Sam's belly. He let go, one finger at a time: his hand had cramped into that position and he'd not even noticed. He brought his hand up to his nose and sniffed, then tentatively licked. Bitter, not like vinegar, just strong.
"Frodo..."
Frodo looked up again. The sound had been slurred. Sam's eyes were still closed, and his breathing had evened out. He'd gone and fallen asleep.
Frodo sighed, and got off the mattress. He needed to rinse off his hand, and get something to wipe off Sam, too. Perhaps he should fold their clothes. They'd get very wrinkled from a night on the floor.
He kicked off his trousers, turned and looked back at Sam, asleep. Beautiful, he thought. Belly still sticky with release, arms and legs relaxed into a wanton sprawl, and a faint, sated smile upon those sleeping lips.
Frodo's own arousal throbbed, reminding him that he hadn't been sated. Frodo ignored it, going to the wash basin. He'd tend to that once he'd finished the small practicalities. If he fell asleep before...well, Sam was an early riser, and Bilbo was not. And Frodo intended to sleep in Sam's arms, no matter how tortuous it might be.
*
IV. First Harvest
*
The one thing that puzzled Frodo was how little anyone else seemed to notice. Bilbo knew, but only because he'd seen them kissing with his own eyes, and besides lived with Frodo day in and day out. But then, the Gaffer lived with Sam day in and day out as well, and if he knew anything more than polite words passed between his son and his employer's heir, he'd said nothing of it to Frodo, nor had Sam mentioned any scoldings. And none of Frodo's friends remarked on more than a certain absence of mind.
Then, as March melted into April, Fatty Bolger brought up the subject.
"My mother thinks I should be getting married."
"Married? Already?" Frodo turned his gaze from the dance floor (where he'd been watching Sam whirl around with some young lass). "You're not even of age!"
"Oh, Father silenced her quickly enough. 'A lad's got to sow his wild oats,' he said."
"That's good, isn't it?" Merry said cautiously, lowering his mug of punch.
"It would be better if I had been sowing wild oats," Fatty said mournfully. "I haven't so much as kissed a lass yet."
"Neither have I!"
"You're not in your tweens, yet, Merry," Frodo reminded him. "Plenty of time for kissing."
"You can say that," Merry objected. "You've found someone, I know you have. You smile when you think no one can see you, and you sing all the time. And don't tell me you were watching the dance floor just now to keep an eye on your uncle, because I shan't believe you!"
Frodo felt himself blush bright red, as Fatty chuckled. "You never said anything," Frodo protested, lowering his voice. "I'd thought--"
"That you'd gone unnoticed?" Fatty said, voice still rich with amusement. "Who is she?"
Frodo hesitated, and glanced back out at the dance floor. The music had just finished, and Sam was bowing to his partner. If he couldn't tell his dearest friends... "It's not a her," he said, lowering his voice again.
"Not a --" Merry followed Frodo's gaze, and swallowed the rest of his sentence.
A moment's silence. Fatty and Merry exchanged glances, while Frodo forced himself not to look at Sam again. Sam would know something was wrong in a moment if he noticed this little group, and Frodo wanted to defend himself, if he needed defending.
"Sam," Fatty said at last.
"Yes."
"You're with Samwise Gamgee."
"Yes," Frodo repeated patiently.
"Not just a flirtation. With him. Like Melilot Brandybuck is with Bungo Sackville."
Feel of Sam beneath his hand, Sam's eyes screwed shut. Waking up the next morning, Sam's fingers on him light as butterfly wings, helping Sam hold a pillow over his mouth so he wouldn't wake Bilbo with his cries. Had that been only a week ago? Too long, far too long.
"Never mind," Fatty said wryly. "I think I have my answer."
Merry looked back and forth between Frodo and Sam, frowning in concentration. "Are you lovers?"
"Keep your voice down! Yes, we are. Mostly."
"Mostly?" Merry bounced on his stool. "Oh, that's right, Sam's birthday is in another week! What's he giving you?"
"Never you mind," Frodo said, using his best repressive older cousin voice and trying not to blush again at the innuendo lacing Merry's question. "He hasn't told me."
"Will you tell me afterwards?"
Fatty nearly choked on his ale. "Merry!"
"It might be useful," Merry defended himself. "I might find someone like Sam when I'm older. Pippin Took says he wants to marry me."
"Peregrin Took is eight," Frodo said, trying the repressive voice again, though it hadn't worked last time. "Give him time to grow up, Meriadoc."
Merry just blinked up at him. "Sam's looking for you."
Frodo sighed, tried not to laugh, and headed off toward the punch bowl in search of his Sam.
***
"My birthday," Sam repeated thoughtfully, lacing his fingers through Frodo's. They walked home from the dance, only a last rime of moon to light their way. "I've not decided yet, to tell you true. The Gaffer's happy enough with a new hoe or summat like, and Daisy's always after me for some pretty piece of knick-knackery, and Mr. Bilbo insists on no more than a slice of my mam's honeycake. But I can't think of anything grand enough for you, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo wet his lips, and wondered if this was how Sam had felt six months ago, daring to ask for a kiss. "I thought...perhaps we could try a different custom," he said, tightening his grip on Sam's hand. "One where the birthday hobbit receives the presents, rather than gives them."
He felt, more than saw, Sam glance over at him in the near-darkness. "I've no more desire for that mathom than Mr. Bilbo had, sir."
"Not that kind of present," Frodo said, forcing the words out one by one. "I promised you whatever you want."
"You gave me that."
"Then I'll give it to you again -- no, not like that," Frodo added at Sam's soft chuckle. "I'll make the promise again. Whatever you want. Anything."
Sam slowed down, making Frodo slow his steps too. "Anything, sir? That's a dangerous thing to promise, even to me."
"I wouldn't make the offer if I didn't mean it. What do you want, Samwise Gamgee?"
Sam stopped short, head tilted to one side as if thinking hard. "I -- I don't know, Mr. Frodo. I don't have fine words for it."
"It needn't be in poetry," Frodo said. "Just tell me."
Sam hesitated a long moment. The faint moonlight gave Frodo hardly more than the shape of his friend's outline against the sky, no hint of his expression. At last Sam let go of Frodo's hand, and turned to face him. "You," he said. "Not courting-like, but longer and deeper. I want to tup you in the garden, and kiss you in the cellar, and -- and lie with you all night wherever we can sleep, until I'm old and worn-out and can't do no more than lie there and watch you sleep."
Frodo swallowed hard. "But that --" I can't give you that, he wanted to say, not in a single night. "That's sweet," he said.
"It's not sweet," Sam contradicted fiercely. "Sweet is like Rosie Cotton and my sister Daisy, playing at brides with lace and dainties. It's not a dainty, it's hunger worse than I've ever known, eating me all up inside."
Frodo reached out to him, but his fingers only brushed Sam's waistcoat as Sam stepped back away from him. "I'll wait," Sam said. "I don't ask that you give me anything on my birthday, sir, but you asked me what I want, and that's the truth."
Frodo let his hand fall back to his side. "You have me, Sam."
"Not the way I'm meaning, Mr. Frodo. Good night."
***
The next week crawled by. Frodo got very little sleep the first few nights, his mind churning upon the subject of courtship and promises made. He got hardly any more sleep the remaining nights, but not because of deep thoughts. No, instead, as if sensing Frodo had come to a decision, Sam teased him. Nothing Frodo could put his finger on, nothing certain, but Sam paused in his work just as Frodo looked out the window, and stretched himself sinuously as a barn cat, or came in overheated from the unusually warm early spring sun, asking for a cup of tea, his shirt unbuttoned half-way down. The day before Sam's birthday, Frodo caught him down in the garden and kissed him. Sam kissed him back, one hand tangled in his hair, but pulled away long before Frodo had drunk his fill of the taste of Sam's mouth. "There's this whole row still to transplant," Sam explained, eyes lowered, modest as a lass before her wedding. "And the Gaffer's like to come down here to see how I'm doing."
"Very well. Tomorrow night," Frodo said, pulling Sam into a last quick embrace. "If I don't go mad before then."
Sam only offered him an awkward smile, and went back to digging.
At last Sam's birthday arrived. Bilbo gladly hosted the party, though not without raising an eyebrow at Frodo, and a dozen or so young hobbits from the neighborhood helped the Gamgees and the Bagginses polish off four bottles of Old Winyards and two of Shirebourn Rose, not to mention a fine roast, potatoes with butter and salt and gravy, the first greens of the year, mashed turnips, and of course Mrs. Gamgee's honeycake for afters. Frodo ate sparingly. He could feel Bilbo's eyes on him every so often, watching him curiously, but he could also feel Sam watching him, and the butterflies in his belly hardly let him take a bite.
By the time the other hobbits left, calling cheerful birthday wishes after them, butterflies had become near-terror. Frodo led the way down the hall, feeling as though the sound of his heart must surely drown out the sound of his feet. Where were all his fine plans now, he wondered bitterly, and for one frightened moment, he wanted to turn around, tell Sam he'd changed his mind, they couldn't do this, they mustn't do this.
He glanced over his shoulder. Sam followed him with head down and hands clasped in front of him, looking more like a prisoner brought along by the shirrifs than a hobbit on his way to his lover's bed. Frodo's own nerves faded in the face of this evidence that he wasn't alone. Sam didn't know what he was doing either.
This made the first few moments alone no easier. Frodo closed the door to his bedroom behind them, locked it, and stood there mired in his own uncertainties. Sam tugged him away from the door and attended to his clothing, undressing Frodo as though he were made of fine Elven pottery that might break if Sam breathed too hard upon him. Frodo allowed it, keeping the same silence as Sam did. Once naked, he shivered, and looked around the room, unable to muster the courage to reach out to Sam immediately.
The soft sound of a throat being cleared made him look back to find Sam also naked, his clothing in a small pile beside him. "Frodo?"
"Yes, Sam?" Now that he'd looked, he didn't seem to be able to stop looking. Sam surely hadn't looked so beautiful, ruddy, and strong two weeks ago. If he had, then Frodo deserved to be cried down as a thrice-cursed fool for ever allowing Sam out of bed.
Sam cleared his throat again, his face even redder than before. "Did you -- that is, was there anything in particular you'd be wanting? Because I've no ideas."
"This is for you," Frodo said, shaking his head in an effort to clear it. Three steps took him to his bed, and he sprawled over the coverlet, letting his legs fall open in an attempt at invitation.
Sam's gaze dropped to the part of Frodo thus exposed for a long moment, long enough to make it plump up and begin to take an interest despite all Frodo's nervousness. Finally Sam looked up to meet Frodo's eyes again. "And the most royal gift I've ever been given, sir," he said, shifting his weight a little. "But I don't know where to start the taking, if you follow me."
Frodo could only smile, and reach out to take Sam's hand. "You can start by kissing me," he said firmly.
Sam came over willingly enough, and knelt over Frodo, one knee between Frodo's legs. But this kiss held none of the anguished fire Frodo expected. Oh, the taste of Sam's mouth still warmed him, and Sam's tongue against his roused thoughts of more intimate tangling. But it touched Frodo's heart more, gentle with promises neither he nor Sam had spoken aloud, sweet as honeycomb.
Sweet, Frodo thought. He didn't want sweet. He wanted the silver hunger Sam spoke of. He wanted not to think. He pulled Sam down on top of him, then rolled over quickly, pinning Sam in place with his weight, hands holding Sam's wrists to the coverlet. "If you won't explore me, Samwise, then I shall explore you."
Sam smiled up at him, eyes wide and dark. "I never said nothing about not exploring. Sir."
It didn't feel like exploration. Though he'd only touched Sam once, skin to skin, he knew the feel of him beneath his fingertips, smooth as rose leaves, not strange any more. If he didn't know all the places that made Sam gasp and moan beneath his hands, well, that would come in time. He knew enough to turn things into a merry wrestling as Sam's hands skated over him. They rolled around on the bed every which way, both of them laughing breathlessly like a pair of children, Sam trying to touch every inch of Frodo, and Frodo reciprocating with equally rough caresses. Frodo cried out despite himself as Sam's touch slid up his chest. He tried to move away, but Sam followed, wriggling after him. One hand landed in the middle of Frodo's back. The other --
Frodo went absolutely still. He lay on his side, at the very edge of the bed. Any movement and he might fall. Any movement and he might dislodge Sam's hand, right there, right over the half-forgotten swollen proof of his arousal. "Please," he heard himself whisper.
Sam pressed up behind him for a heartbeat, then moved away entirely, the brush of his hand as he removed it enough to make Frodo whimper again. "Lie back, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, the words coming out husky and deep.
Frodo obeyed.
All traces of hesitance were gone. Sam had learnt torture in the last twenty minutes. Blunt nails and gentle bites left Frodo panting: along his inner thighs, across his belly, his chest (but without touching the yearning nubs of his nipples), the insides of his arms, his neck just below his ear, the backs of his hands --
"You," Frodo gasped at last, bucking up against the momentary press of Sam's leg. "Not without you."
"No more it is," Sam said. A gentle push against Frodo's thigh proved how much he was enjoying this.
Frodo gritted his teeth. Still not enough, not just Sam giving him pleasure. He let go of the blankets, caught Sam by the shoulders, and before Sam could protest, rolled them over one more time. Sam's eyes went wide, but Frodo laid a finger against his mouth. "Do you trust me?"
Still wide-eyed, Sam nodded, and kissed Frodo's finger.
Frodo took a deep, hiccuping breath, and leaned forward to retrieve the flask he'd stowed atop the headboard three nights ago. As his hand closed around it, a spark of arousal made him jump and his arm jerk so he nearly dropped the flask again. He frowned down at Sam. Sam had licked at his nipple -- he'd learned that spot too well.
"Just stay still...a moment longer..."
Slippery lotion, rubbed between his hands a moment to warm it, then smoothed all over Sam's arousal. Sam's breath caught, but the little line of puzzlement appeared between his brows. Frodo met his eyes, so fully dilated Frodo could hardly see their color anymore. Without looking away, he gave himself a hasty swipe with the lotion, two fingers inside to smooth the way, then swung his leg over Sam's so he sat astride Sam's hips. Up onto his knees, a moment's fumbling behind him, Sam's every muscle tensing and his eyes impossibly wider --
Burning, almost but not quite pain. Deep breaths, trying to relax. Down a little bit farther, up and down, thighs already beginning to ache with the effort --
"You'll hurt yourself," Sam protested.
"No," Frodo said through dry lips. "Just -- slowly. Slowly." He pushed back again, taking more of Sam into himself. One sort of burning melted into another, leaving a feeling of fullness, a pleasant heavy feeling that spread through his entire belly. Just a little bit farther, and he could feel Sam's legs against him. All the way inside.
"Please," Sam whispered. He looked where their bodies were joined, glanced up to Frodo's eyes, and his hips pressed up, almost involuntarily, just a little bit more, a little deeper. "Please."
Frodo forced himself to rise up, then sink back down again, and his eyes widened. The friction -- Ah, but that felt more than pleasant, burning again from this touch deep inside. Up -- and down -- and up again. He threw his head back, panting rapidly. Sam's hands closed on his hips, helping to guide his rhythm. Down and up and down and --
Frodo couldn't have said when Sam began to speed up his thrusts, nor when he himself forgot the burning of his thighs for the burning between them, wanting only Sam hot and deep. Sam's grip on his hips tightened to the point of pain, and then Sam's face contorted. Once -- twice -- warmth inside, hot and liquid, Sam's seed spilled at last. Without a touch, Frodo spilled his own, lost in Sam's pleasure.
It took a little while for the haze to clear from his eyes. At last, Frodo blinked to find himself lying flat on the bed. He ached in places he'd never thought about before, but the thrum of satiation all through his body soothed the ache. He turned his head to say something to Sam, and only then realized Sam lay with his back to Frodo. Sam's breath came in hitches, as if he were crying.
"Oh, Sam." Frodo curled up behind him, stroking his arm, wishing he could think of better comfort to offer. "Oh, my Sam..."
"Frodo?" Sam turned awkwardly in Frodo's arms. His eyes were clear of tears, though his breath still caught in near hiccups.
"Oh, Sam," Frodo said again involuntarily. He reached up and laid one hand on Sam's cheek, remembering a day long ago when he'd asked to pay courtship. Sam was right, they'd gone far beyond courtship now. "How shall I ever let you go?"
Sam kissed him, and mustered a smile. "Don't," he said.
-end-