FIC: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show - G to NC17 19/?24
Happy Birthday, Bilbo & Frodo!
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Third - Morning (19/?)
Summary: In which Rides are shared, Daisy’s warnings prove not unfounded and the Inevitable inches ever closer
Rating: *waggles hand and encourages imagination*
A/N: Unfortunately, Bilbo doesn't actually appear here, but I hope his birthday is as happy as I *know* Frodo's will be...
My beloved Notabluemaia has excelled herself with the pic that she drew for me for this chapter - which is also, of course, her offering for our two dear hobbits on their special day. Like Frodo and Sam, it's been a long time in the coming (entirely my fault, none of hers; and don't get your hopes up for F/S just yet...) but it is wonderful now that it's here - thank you so much, dear! *huggses*
The jangle of the giant music box seemed much louder today, its cheerful invitation almost irresistible. Cajoling, wheedling, coaxing, it reminded all hobbits present on the Showground that today was their last chance for a Ride and that they’d better make the most of it. Neither Sam nor Frodo had any intention of resisting its call.
It seemed best to make a start at the Rides, to get in at least one before the worst of the day’s crowds had arrived. Frodo said quite firmly though, that Sam could try the Joywheel again if he liked but he would sit that one out, for he’d not like to be so disrespectful to Mrs Smallpeace’s breakfast. Sam shook his head; setting aside the matter of disturbing his digestion, it just wouldn’t be the same without Frodo. They passed the wheel by, barely pausing to notice its accustomed scatter of hobbits in a fringe of flailing arms and legs.
The line for the swing-boats, though long enough, was rather shorter than they had expected and they reached the front more quickly than they’d thought. Since each boat would take four hobbits (so long as age and good cooking hadn’t yet got the better of any one of them), it was really no more than sense for pairs to team up or singles to merge with groups to fill each one. Turns came round far quicker that way, so as many folk as wanted could have a go or maybe two before the bell - at four on this final day - put an end to the fun.
Sam found himself sitting beside Frodo, pulling rope against Lin Oldburrow and Daisy. This third turn was different again - neither the frenetic hauling to satisfy Pippin’s need for height and speed nor the dream-cushioned floating of their first. There was indeed some competitive pulling to start with but then, height gained, the effort from the other pair suddenly slackened as Daisy’s hand crept up to cover and thread with one of Lin’s, so they’d only the outside hand apiece to spare for the rope. Sam blushed red when she caught his eye with a look he’d have sworn were challenging. Daisy couldn’t know just how much he’d have liked to do the same, could she? And with a nosey sister right there, let alone all them hobbits below, watching carefully to see when their own turns might come, he didn't dare to imagine even so little as that, this time around.
Then Frodo said that, to make all fair, they should each use only one hand to pull, and his left hand on the rope slid down to meet Sam’s right and… Well, no-one could really make aught of that, now could they? Except that Sam would have sworn to a swiftly pointed look and the barest flutter of a wink from Daisy. He shifted his gaze to the swoop of Bywater’s far-off chimneys behind her, or the patched Green Hills away beyond Lin’s right shoulder, and just let himself feel the warmth of Frodo's hand almost clasped around his as they pulled steadily together. He didn’t dare look when she giggled aloud, to see whether she were laughing at him or if Lin had indeed stolen a kiss - and he definitely didn’t let his thoughts stray there, neither.
It hadn’t been what he’d had in mind for their second go, here, and despite the nearness of Frodo and the touch of his hand, he couldn’t be entirely sorry when it were over.
‘Where to next for you then, Mr Frodo?’ Lin asked as he guided Daisy carefully down the steps.
‘With luck, a turn on the Merry-go-round.’
‘We had ours already. First place we went when we got here and even then we’d to queue a fairish while afore we made it to the front,’ Daisy said. ‘Did you manage a go yesterday?’ Sam thought there might be a bit of a point in her artless question, too.
‘I rode with my cousin Pippin, which made it twice as exciting - well, twice as noisy, at least!’ Frodo said as he stepped down to the well-trampled grass.
‘I’d a little lad called Ranly with me,’ Sam said, jumping the last two steps (a good deal more nimble in his descent than he had been after the first time, which could only be a good thing in the circumstances), and quite convinced that he weren’t imagining Daisy’s suddenly disappointed air.
‘Verbena Hurcombe’s little brother?’ Raised brows and a sharply inquisitive tone now - would she never give over?
‘Now, that I couldn’t tell you,’ he said, glad that it were truth and nothing less. ‘Copper-headed lass with at least a couple of older brothers?’
‘That’s the one - they live not far from Lin’s Aunt Tilda.’ Grimaces from both told Sam that it weren’t only Frodo as were unlucky in the matter of aunts, if nothing more of whatever else Daisy might be thinking.
‘Well, we’re off for a cup and a bite,’ Lin said. ‘I’d milking and all to do afore I came, and first breakfast were hours ago!’ Lin was of full age and had a good start to a proud hobbit belly on him already.
Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the crowd closed behind them. He said, heartfelt, ‘There’s times I could wish for fewer sisters!’ and Frodo smiled almost as if he’d an idea of the disquiet Daisy’s hints and looks were causing him.
‘You know, I think we might have done better to begin here too, Sam,’ he said, as they joined the ever-swelling queue for the Merry-go-round. A group of Basriggers had set up a perimeter rope today and were marshalling would-be riders along a roped alley, its start some distance from the Ride itself. It was the most sensible way to ensure that no hobbit took a turn unfairly - even place-holding would be frowned upon today except for the very youngest hobbits. Well, it’d keep the aisle from getting clogged up to glory right enough, Sam thought, but going by all the bits and bobs that Pippin had bought while they queued the day before, there’d be a fair few stallholders more than a bit disgruntled at the loss of their captive market.
The long, noisily expectant line funnelled slowly between the ropes, jostling and joking, each hobbit with at least a word or three to say of what he or she had seen or won or eaten at this year’s Show. To ease the waiting, clustered groups played I-spy, and when that became boring, a wave of thumb wars rippled along the line. It provided another nice opportunity to take Frodo's hand, though Sam found himself losing far more often than ever he did when playing against anyone else.
When the mood of the queue suddenly changed to rock, paper, scissors instead, Sam couldn’t be too disappointed at the loss, for now he’d a proper excuse to stare into Frodo's face - to work out his next move from what he saw there. Since Frodo was looking right back at him, Sam’s hands moved more and more slowly as he rather lost the will to play. But if he was - in fact, they both were - smiling rather a lot, well, so was everyone else, in anticipation of the Ride.
The wait hadn't seemed too long at all when the Basrigger in charge set aside the rope and a carefully assessed section of the line was permitted to surge forward in a ragged, eager wave, every hobbit intent on a seat if not on a particular pony.
‘Come on, Sam!’
Agile as the little monkey whose cage Pippin had invaded, Frodo scarcely waited for the Merry-go-round to cease its spin before he was up there, laying claim to a ferocious-looking stallion. Coal-black and haughty, it stalked the outer ranks caparisoned all in scarlet, with twirls and flourishes gilded everywhere there was excuse to paint them.
Its previous passenger was barely out of the seat before Frodo was astride, but Sam just stood and looked at Frodo above him. His left foot was so close that Sam could have stroked it in an instant, dark hair flowing lithe and silky over the carved red stirrup at the pony’s side. His gaze travelled up the swell of calf to a firmly muscled thigh gripping as tight in the saddle as if this had been a flesh-and-blood mount. Frodo’s hands reached forward, fingers threaded neatly about the barley-sugar-twisted pole. His face was alight and laughing, and in the mirrored pillar that held the centre firm, his white shirt and dark hair were reflected clear and again…
Somehow, Sam quite forgot to join the frantic scramble aboard.
Then it seemed that every pony already bore at least one hobbit, often two and sometimes three, the Ride packed tight to give everyone a chance. The sturdy team of pony power that moved this wonder was beginning its new circuit, and Sam remained on the ground, watching as Frodo began to draw slowly away from him.
‘To me, Sam! Jump!’
No second command was needed, for Sam was up and clinging fast to the pole before he’d even thought about it.
‘Get up behind, Sam - you can’t Ride there like that!’
‘But, sir- ’
A bigger 'but' came in the person of the hobbit with the money bag. Obviously a Basrigger, he swayed easily towards them between his wooden charges, collecting pence as if he stood on firm ground. His brows were distinctly beetled against a would-be rider who was not astride a mount.
One look was sufficient to convince Sam that, whatever the propriety, he must obey; such disapproval would not long remain unvoiced. He paid over his penny, struggling meekly to hoist himself up onto the pony’s back. Frodo tendered his own dues, then hitched forward. A sudden jerk in the rhythm as a new set of cogs was engaged, a cautious hand flung out to Frodo’s shoulder to steady himself, a helpful tug - and Sam landed safe within the wooden saddle, Frodo tight before him.
No sooner was he in place than he’d to adjust himself with a discreet wriggle - one that he hoped, however unlikely, may go unnoticed by the hobbit in front of him - for there was suddenly rather more to accommodate than there had been just seconds earlier. This close to Frodo, the warmth and scent of him were almost overwhelming and Sam could no more avoid his reaction than he would deny his love.
He swallowed and thought hard about safety instead. He’d really need summat to cling to, and it’d be a stretch to reach that twisty, gilded pole.
Frodo had the answer already. ‘Arms around me, Sam - I’ll not have you tumbling off because you haven’t a proper hold!’
On an indrawn breath Sam held as he was bid. Though not entirely sure that this would remain a proper hold, he were nothing loath for now. He laced his fingers primly about Frodo’s waist and tried not to think too hard about what he clutched so tightly to him - that he had Frodo in his arms at last even if this weren’t quite the way or the reason of his dreams. No matter. He had Frodo here - could feel, snug against him, the rise and fall of his chest. He breathed in the heady mix of dust and sweat and excitement and a day at the Show, with that other he couldn’t name at all but would know amidst many a thousand to be always his Frodo, even if Frodo didn’t know it.
Sharing a pony was indeed as reckless a matter as Daisy had warned it would be. Yesterday’s Ride with Ranly - the long ago one with Frodo - each had been a Ride and nothing more. But now… they might again be sitting a painted pony, and the Merry-go-round was definitely doing its very same thing, but this were surely more akin to cuddling - and in full view of all!
They had gathered way without Sam even noticing; the spectators seemed now to sweep by, waving and calling to friends and relatives aboard as the latter waved and shouted back. For hobbits who rarely got to ride a pony at more than a sedate trot, this rushing glory of movement was a wonderful thing; the thrill from the wind in their ears and the giddying circles more exciting than almost anything else they could imagine.
But Sam’s excitement was far closer to hand, his spreading dizziness naught to do with the whooped happiness of others here. Had Frodo sat rigid and unyielding within the circle of his arms, Sam might have felt to be stealing his bright elation, deceiving Frodo, and guilt would heavily have tinged his joy. But Frodo was pliant against him, seeming almost to quiver beneath Sam’s careful hands, telling clearly his enjoyment of this Ride. He swayed with every shift of Sam’s body in their speeding dash around the one central point where mirrors flashed sunlight across every face, duplicating delight and spreading so much satisfaction.
They were going so fast now, surely no one else would notice - and happen Frodo wouldn’t mind too much - if Sam laid his chin upon Frodo’s shoulder for it’d help him feel safer (apart from aught else). He held his head stiffly at first, for Frodo had obviously noticed the movement. But when he seemed to ease backward into Sam’s embrace, Sam let his head sink a little, tightening his arms (lest Frodo should fall off at such a speed). They were so close, settled so tightly together in a carved saddle meant for only a single Rider - if a generously proportioned one - that Frodo could not fail to notice what was happening between them. But if he weren’t exactly going to nestle up to such incriminating evidence as to Sam’s state of mind, at least he didn’t squirm away.
Oh!
Well, if that weren’t a nestle, it were the nearest thing to one that Sam had ever felt. And, oh my! The things that Frodo’s firm bottom weren’t doing to Sam probably weren’t worth knowing about. He felt to be clasped - held - just there… Sam’s remembrance skittered at once to a number of somewhat related scenes he had played out in dream - waking or sleeping - in the darkness of his room or of The Hill. More times than once, if truth be told, and proceeding a deal further for being conducted without benefit of clothing between. And if astride had ofttimes been included in such action, painted pony had quite definitely not.
The greater part of his mind was hugging to itself every movement, every tremor, every sight and sound and scent and feel, knowing how frequently he would call upon them in the darkness of the weeks and months to come. The rest set itself the task of convincing him that Frodo may yet be completely indifferent to what lay between them now; that that had been no nestle at all but merely a wriggle designed simply to ease the discomfort he must surely feel, jammed here tandem in a seat designed for only one.
Frodo were probably just getting himself more comfortable. That would be it. Wouldn’t it?
‘Sorry, sir!’ Sam dared whisper.
The other only other time he’d had such near access to Frodo’s ears was when he’d washed the porridge from his hair, and he’d been distracted by other sensations right then. Now that night-dark silk whipped its softly wisped caresses across his cheeks, his nose, his lips… and Sam was kissing it whether he’d have meant to or not, and oh, he did and it were as wonderful as ever he could have dreamed. But his attention lit wholly now on Frodo’s ear, that lay mere inches from his mouth - near enough for Sam to truly appreciate how delicately shaped it was, how pearly pink, how beautifully intricate, how very tempting the delectable tip when your lips were just this close.
And how, when you were really far too close and breathed your Sorry, sir! gently over it, that enticingly pearly tip flushed to a becoming red and Frodo shivered deliciously in your arms.
He almost missed Frodo’s low reply for the fact that he must turn his head to give it and their mouths had come so very near to meeting. ‘Nothing to be sorry for, Sam!’ he said breathlessly, turning back again right quick - though not before Sam had seen the tell-tale raise of colour in his cheek, had felt the breath hitch just that bit faster in his chest.
He knew! He knew, and he didn’t mind!
Don’t necessarily mean aught more, though, now does it? Sam reminded himself sternly. Just because Mr Frodo had a very forgiving nature, prepared politely to ignore what he might simply regard as tweenage over-enthusiasm, that weren’t no excuse to go reading into it what Frodo might still not mean, no matter how much Sam would wish him to. He were being kind enough to share his Ride with Sam, and that could be an end of it.
Sam knew he was arguing against himself now, not really believing his own doubts - needing so much to hope and fearing so very much to hope too far. And it took every single ounce of self control he’d never known that he possessed, to forbid his clasped hands a slow slide and settle, down low over Frodo’s belly, to see if he too… Even if it were just the excitement of the Ride as did it to him, Sam wanted to know, to feel… The only thing with power to stop him was knowing how very disappointed - stupid but true - how hurt he would be if Frodo were to lie as quiescent as Sam ought to be right now.
And if he weren’t? If Frodo were to be as much aflame as Sam, would that really confirm what Sam so hoped it might?
But the wisping of dark caresses slipped soft and lower against his cheek now, and the faceless blur beyond slowed into shapes once more. Their Ride was ending - the time had come when Sam must relinquish what lay warm and safe within his arms. He was suddenly very aware that he’d been holding the Master’s heir to himself as tight and as fond as any lovelorn lad his lass aboard their pony here; and that there were far too many interested hobbits down there to be treated to such a sight. He schooled his hands outward to hold only Frodo’s hips and pushed himself backwards, very carefully, over the carved cantle and onto the pony itself - putting a correct but lonely distance between them. And he couldn’t help but hope that the slump of Frodo’s shoulders reflected his disappointment, not simply his own imagining.
Even before the movement had completely ceased, Sam began to clamber awkwardly from the pony’s back, and down from the platform to ground level once more. He was surprised to find that Frodo had not immediately followed him. Only now was he slithering from the black stallion, moving belatedly through the press of hobbits all eager to take their seats for the next swiftly circular journey.
There was a silence between them as they walked through the crowd and away from the Ride - but a silence of waiting, only, not of discomfort. Sam was unsure what he could say. I really enjoyed that! or That were good! might easily be taken the wrong way. (Well, the right way really, but he couldn’t really blurt it out like that, now could he?) Naught like the Merry-go-round for a bit of excitement! might be accurate for most hobbits, but definitely not for him right then (and he couldn’t help the hope that Frodo would be feeling the same. He rather thought that there may be evidence, when he stole a quick peep, that Frodo was - but mere friction could do that to a hobbit, choose how, and Frodo's reason still might not be Sam’s.)
He looked aside to Frodo, then quickly down as Frodo’s head began to turn towards him. Seconds later he felt Frodo’s gaze flicker over him - and withdraw. Sam thought that one of them ought to say something, but he had no idea how to say whatever it was that so very much needed saying - and he didn’t think that Frodo were about to ask, right now, if indeed he meant to at all. He raised his head to see if Frodo might be about to speak, only to meet Frodo’s eyes - which shied away as quickly as his own.
Frodo took a deep breath, and Sam held his, waiting for what Frodo would say of this-of this thing that was definitely happening between them now, with a will of its own, it seemed, no matter who might say it nay. Not that Sam were such a fool as to deny the pull that coiled around him, through him - spun and woven from his hopes and dreams. Wherever it would lead him, lead them, Sam would follow, though the wreck of all lay at its end. A fall may be fathoms deep, but the other way… the other leapt up, swifter than any fantasy of swing-boats, eagles, stars, to Frodo - who was everything such dreams had ever promised to his waiting heart.
But if it had its own will, it had its own time too, which seemed to be not yet. Sam held the knowledge inside him, warm and close and shivery. He knew how to wait.
‘We really ought to get those toffee apples before it's too late,’ was what Frodo actually said, and the smile they exchanged was purposeful but shy.
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Chapter 20: Show Day the Third - Late Morning
Chapter 18 was here and the story began with The Prologue
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