A Birthday Fic-gift from Me to You: GAFFS Reaches its End at Last!
Series Title: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show
Author: Tiriel_35
Rating: G to NC17
Word Count: 125,000
Status: Complete!
Summary: GAFFS lasts for days, but Frodo has never wanted to stay over before
Title of Part: Show Day the Third - Night (26/26)
Summary: All good things must come to their end, yet for some there may be new beginnings…
Rating: NC17
A/N: The first part of GAFFS - Prologue and first chapter in one - appeared on March 3rd 2005; my birthday offering to you then as now. It was actually posted as 1/4, the intention being to cover each day in a single chapter… Sam had other ideas - he wanted you to really see the Show! Thank you so much to those of you who have stayed with us to the end of this very rambling tale. I apologise for its extremely sporadic posting (though I haven’t missed Frodo’s birthday in 4 years!) To anyone who put off reading until s/he could be sure of a completed tale - welcome, and I hope it gives you as much pleasure in the reading as I have (mostly…) had in the writing. I shall miss it :-(
This story is dedicated to notabluemaia, with much love and huge respect; without her friendship, hard work and dedication to the cause (plus an incredible ability to put up with the laziest perfectionist ever) my Showfic would be much the poorer (and possibly a WiP for the next five years, too!)
Sam drifted back into the world, unsure quite what had woken him. Something was tickling softly at his cheek and he looked down. Frodo’s head was a weight on his shoulder, his breath barely stirring the hair on Sam’s chest. Fast asleep, he realised with a smile, when maybe they should be moving; perhaps putting in an appearance before the end of the ball. He could hear music still playing in the distance, and there may even be a share of the supper left to be eaten.
He’d some small experience of waking Frodo, back at Bag End, but hadn’t really believed he’d ever have the chance to do so from such wonderfully close quarters. Usually, if second breakfast time approached and Frodo had not yet appeared, Mr Bilbo would bustle along the passage and hammer mightily on his door. Only occasionally would circumstance depute the task to Sam.
Knocking - at the sort of volume Sam thought proper - rarely had any effect whatever, and he was thus obliged to enter the room, and call Mr Frodo! a goodly number of times; not that Sam was in the least unwilling to perform the task, of course. He’d find himself drawing closer and closer to the hump of ruckled bedclothes with each call, until eventually his own name - sounding quite different when filtered through fine wool blankets and a satin eiderdown; softer somehow and quite melodious - his own name repeated once or twice would prove Frodo to be awake, if not exactly ready for the day. He never seemed to make it out of his dormouse nest of covers, though, before Sam felt he really must leave, for propriety’s sake. It’d not do to be caught by Mr Bilbo, lingering avidly for more of a glimpse of Frodo than dishevelled curls - barely visible on the pillow, or on a sprawled foot escaping the covers - before bright day could claim him.
Now, moonlight leached softly through pale canvas to gather upon Frodo’s skin, caressing it to a subtle, lustrous glow. By that light, Sam had seen of him almost all there was to see, and it was far more glorious than he ever could have imagined. He hoped he’d soon get the chance to look again, but with light and time enough for a truly detailed appreciation of his Frodo.
His Frodo… and didn’t that sound wonderful? But-
Over the thin and distant jollity of fiddle, pipe and drum, Sam heard a voice approaching through the darkness now - and only one word could he make out clearly:
‘…Frodo…’
The voice belonged to Mr Bilbo.
‘Frodo!’ Sam repeated it with far more urgency, and a gentle shake to a shoulder that showed pure, cool cream under canvas-filtered light.
‘Mmm?’ A sleepy question accompanied by the kiss of soft lips to Sam’s chest. It was scarcely the ideal way to keep his mind on a threat that was getting ever closer.
‘Frodo, wake up! Listen! It’s Mr Bilbo and he’s coming here!’
‘I do assure you, MAYOR WHITFOOT-’ Bilbo’s voice was louder already, setting aside any emphasis on the name; not here as yet, maybe, but a deal too close for comfort for all that - with a distinct note of warning in it, to Sam’s ear, and more than a touch of desperation, too, ‘-that it will be perfectly safe left in there overnight. As I said, I sent FRODO here, not long ago, to set our belongings in safekeeping.’
‘Where… is… he… then?’ His Worship’s effort-filled response proved him to have little breath to spare for conversation when there was walking to be done. It was, after all, a fair distance from the food and the dancing to this little tent, almost lost on the far side of the Showring; so completely secluded from the night’s festivities.
There were several parts of Sam that could have answered that question with a joyful, Here! for Frodo was most definitely awake now; all of him, as he proved in a delightful, if - given the present circumstances - completely unhelpful wriggle.
‘Oh, I expect FRODO will be back at the dancing by now!’
Sam gathered what attention he could to Mr Bilbo’s supposition - which, volume aside and by his way of thinking, was one in which Mr Bilbo did not for a single moment believe. ‘They’ll be here any minute - no keeping them out, neither! What do we do?’ he whispered, his usual practicality submerged for the moment by embarrassment and a returning guilt.
Surprisingly, Frodo was on his feet almost before Sam had finished asking. ‘Hide, of course - no time for anything more!’ he whispered back, smothering a laugh. Already he was collecting their clothes, thrusting them into deepest shadow behind the line of chairs, though still with a due care for his corsage.
‘Well… we’ve… arrived… at last…’ the Mayor said, his panted words right close, but coming more easily now he’d reached a standstill. ‘And since I’ve… walked all this way… rather than drag anyone else… from their enjoyment… I really don’t know why you… insisted on coming with me, Bilbo… I’m not so fat that I need help to walk… you know!’
‘No, but if I hadn’t accompanied you with the lantern, you might well have tripped over one of the guy-ropes, and then where would you have been, hm? Out here all alone, with a broken ankle, like as not. I’d never have forgiven myself,’ Bilbo said, his voice hovering somewhere amidst worry, suppressed amusement and smug righteousness.
Sam gulped in alarm as he dragged the sheets as far beneath the table as possible. ‘A lantern!’ He mouthed the words almost silently now. ‘They’ll see us for sure!’
‘Trust to Bilbo.’ Frodo answered in the same way, kneeling to crawl back onto the very much narrower bed Sam had contrived. ‘He’ll cover for us if he can!’ Frodo sounded so sure, that Sam squelched down on his panic and put his trust in Mr Bilbo; he’d sent them here, after all.
‘Oh, all right,’ said the Mayor, only a trifle grudgingly, ‘perhaps it was for the best and I thank you. But now I have come all this way, I’ll collect what’s mine and feel the happier for it. I should never have taken the dratted thing off in the first place, but that it gets heavy after a while, and it clinks every time I move.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Today’s been a very long one, and I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready for my bed. We simply cannot go off to the inn, though, and abandon the symbol of my office all the way out here, wrapped up in a towel!’
Before this ramble was ended, Frodo had pulled another of the dust sheets free and folded it to cover them. He lay carefully down with a breath of huffed laughter. It sharpened suddenly to a hiss, then, as skin slid wonderfully against skin once more - soft and hard at once, sweaty-damp and needing to be stroked. But he didn’t lie beside Sam, as he’d expected.
Sam’s welcoming gasp was really far too loud as Frodo settled on top of him, dragging the sheet to hide them completely. Sam’s thighs spread wide - seemingly of their own accord - and Frodo slipped easily between, just as Bilbo said, with a hint of impatience and very close by, ‘Take the lantern a minute, would you? I’ll need both hands to undo the lacing. I wish lads didn’t feel the need to show off at this sort of thing. I didn’t even know that Frodo-’ the volume was almost excessive, now, ‘-that FRODO knew how to do it!’
Whatever Frodo did or did not know about the ways of twine and canvas, he possessed great expertise, Sam discovered now, in almost completely passive stimulation.
‘Perhaps it was that gardener lad of yours,’ the Mayor suggested. ‘I expect he was here too - never one without the other, the whole Show, you know!’ He sounded indulgent - possibly even nostalgic for his own carefree (and comparatively slender) youth amongst such friends.
Sam had caught sight of Mayor Whitfoot more than once over the past few days, but he’d never thought the Mayor would notice Sam Gamgee, much less recognise him. Not when it’d be Frodo Baggins, nephew and heir to the Mr Baggins of Bag End, that he was really seeing.
‘If this interruption lasts much longer,’ Frodo murmured into Sam’s ear, with a low wriggle that more than proved his point, ‘I think I may explode like one of Gandalf's famous elf-fountains! And it would be such a waste,’ he added slyly, with a lick that brought Sam perilously close to that state, ‘for this time I want to do it with you inside!’
For a second, Sam froze. Frodo wanted that, too! ‘Oh, yes!’ he said, low but very intent. ‘Please!’
They buried their faces in each other’s neck and kissed speeding breaths onto skin to keep the clear sounds of suddenly increased desire from escaping, telltale, into the air. Such tiny movements as their bodies stole without volition were as arousing as anything Sam had ever felt, checked only a little by the possibility that their hiding place (amongst other things) might shortly be laid bare.
‘Sticklebacks!’ said Bilbo - inside the tent now, his imprecation quite unnervingly near. The spill of light that had accompanied him, however, was suddenly extinguished; he must’ve reclaimed his lantern while Sam’s attention was elsewhere. ‘Just when we could have done with it, too!’ he said, almost convincing Sam of a real regret.
‘Dratted thing must have a faulty wick or something. Still, there’s moon enough to see by if you can remember where you left it. On the table, I expect? Tread warily, though - I think the sheets the lads used for their little performance were bundled together under there, to be out of the way. I must remind Sam to collect them in the morning, but just you take care you don’t catch a foot in them now, in the dark!’
Frodo quivered violently over Sam, hiding a snort in the hair at his neck. Sam too had a sudden picture of Will Dumpling toppling right over, and of the shock in his face should out-stretched hands meet what may be discovered beneath those sheets, so naked and so prominent. His helpless, breathless snigger was drowned by a hoarsely nervous whistling, almost over their heads it seemed, of Bilbo’s favourite tune.
Mayor Whitfoot sniffed deeply. ‘My goodness, you can tell the two of them were here just before us! There’s the trophy of course,’ he pinged a finger against it, ‘he deserved that, the lad did. But that rose must have a really powerful scent to linger so - you’d almost swear it was still here somewhere! There’s a hint of clove carnation, too - and-’
‘The chain?’ Bilbo interjected hurriedly.
‘Yes, of course - now, where in the Shire did I-?’ He sounded worried now - ‘I thought I’d left it just-’ then relieved - ‘Yes, here it is!’ - then slightly annoyed - ‘Oops - butter-fingers!’
There was a metallically slithering sound, and something that could only be the Mayoral chain of office landed in the grass, barely an inch or three from Sam’s right knee. The latter was, perhaps, protruding a little further than was wise; but with Frodo's hips well-settled between his thighs now as if they belonged there, it was unavoidable, really. And somehow, Sam had become increasingly detached from the fear of discovery.
The whereabouts of that chain may very soon pose a distinct problem, however, and one to which he must give what little of his attention might be spared right then. He peered cautiously from beneath the sheet, to the reassuring thought that there was, at least, not the slightest danger of the Mayor kneeling to seek out his property. Reassurance vanished immediately, though, replaced by instant alarm as His Worship’s right foot thrust forward into their hiding place. Toes that showed surprisingly shapely in the half-dark were questing perilously close to Sam’s middle, and neither he nor Frodo could raise a hand - nor anything else appropriate - to prevent their approach.
The whistling ceased abruptly, and Bilbo’s voice said, ‘Not to worry, I’ll find it!’ His face appeared abruptly below the level of the table top and despite all shadow Sam would have sworn to an anxious glare as Bilbo took up the errant article. Frodo had twisted his head from under the sheet and he spoke an almost unvoiced, ‘Thank you!’ to his uncle. It was swallowed up by the deliberately rattled clink of decorative metals, as Bilbo heaved himself to his feet and out of sight once more.
Sam blew out a breath of quiet gratitude. He noted only vaguely that Mr Bilbo paused to lace up the tent as they departed; wishing, he proclaimed loudly enough to penetrate the haze of pleasure that was rapidly overtaking at least two of his auditors, his belongings to remain undisturbed here. He barely noticed at all when Mayor Whitfoot, fully recovered for the moment, wondered aloud if they might not address a further bite to eat - and maybe a small sup - to sustain them while his trap was fetched up for the short drive to the Farthings Inn.
He’d lost all track of their voices long before the two were truly out of earshot, what with Frodo laughing silent kisses onto his skin. Sam’s awareness began and ended in the here-and-now, with hands that cupped his shoulders possessively, pulling him nearer; with a slow, damp glide, warm and very hard against him.
His hands smoothed downward, skimming the hollow of Frodo’s hip to claim the tightly rounded flare of his bottom. Frodo, beneath his hands like this…but had he really meant…? Sam ran a finger down the cleft between - not insistent, in case Frodo had changed his mind; just a subtle pressure to remind him of what had been half-promised. And Frodo moved - not away from Sam’s gentle hint, but with the supple writhe that’d convinced Sam already that eight had to be the most wonderful number he’d ever felt scribed so urgently against him. His finger slipped inward quite naturally, and he heard Frodo’s breath catch as wrinkled skin slid beneath his touch.
It were one thing to want this, though; quite another to dare the step from wanting to taking.
‘Frodo?’ he said, dragged suddenly from his haze of pleasure by the loss of Frodo’s warmth against him.
Frodo had left him again, but Sam was not worried now, only disappointed. He stroked a tease up Frodo’s thigh as he knelt to reach up onto the table. Sam heard a hissed intake of breath and the scrabbled shifting above his head was suddenly more hurried. ‘Frodo, what-?’
He needed no other answer than Frodo settling back on his heels to open an unclaimed jar of Mistress Earthy’s finest salve. Sam swallowed. For all the many times he had dreamed - waking or sleeping - of taking Frodo for his own this way, there’d been no reason then for salve, nor for the care that was needed now. This jar was proof beyond anything that this was real, at last.
‘What-’ he broke off to wet suddenly dry lips with a tongue that felt to have lost all power for speech. ‘I don’t really know-what must I do?’
‘You’ll have to go slow for me, Sam,’ Frodo said quietly. ‘I haven’t done this in a long time, but I want it, with you.’
Sam swallowed again, so loud he reckoned any hobbit stood outside the tent must have heard it. ‘I can do slow,’ he said then, nodding so earnestly that Frodo choked on a laugh. ‘How do I-?’
Frodo held out the jar. ‘Fingers first,’ he said, ‘one, then two. Use plenty - there’s no such thing as too much, for this.’ He kissed Sam hard, then turned away to lie on his side, drawing his top leg forward and up. Sam watched the pale shape of him slide easily into place before he scooped salve with one finger, setting the jar aside but close to hand. He realised that Frodo was shivering now, and he knew it was not with cold.
‘Frodo, are you-’
‘Sure? Yes. Ready? Oh yes! Do it, Sam!’
Sam felt clumsy as never before, but the salve spread soft and wide from the heat of his hand, and Frodo’s breathless, ‘Oh!’ merely from the circling of Sam’s fingers, was encouragement enough. It wasn’t only Frodo’s breathing that quickened as the circling drew toward to its centre, and Sam gathered his courage to push, finally, inside.
His finger slid easily into a startling satin heat. He watched in awe, his hand working firm and dark against the rounded cream of Frodo’s bottom. Frodo began to move, pushing back, drawing away, pushing again, and then he was talking, the same disjointed murmurings that had surprised Sam earlier. When you didn’t really know what you were doing, Sam thought hazily, it were good to have this constant reassurance. He took the hint now, speeding up until Frodo gasped and said quite clearly, ‘Two, Sam!’
Two fingers made him gasp in a different way and Sam remembered Slow. He changed direction to a gentle twist, a steady round and back, waiting for tight to ease into snug, waiting for Frodo to tell what more he needed.
Then his fingers brushed against something different, something that stood slightly proud of the smooth satin, and Frodo tensed and said ‘Ah!’ his voice high and sharp.
Sam felt a moment of panic. He’d no idea what he’d done - but whatever it was, Frodo had liked it. He was panting, begging, writhing back for more. Sam gave it to him gladly, stroking blindly, somehow finding just the right touch to keep his Frodo beautiful and desperate like this. Almost as desperate himself now, he shuffled closer, not caring that it was as much his own hand as Frodo that he was rubbing against, as long as he could answer his own need and still do this for Frodo.
Frodo must have felt him though, for he said, ‘More than ready, Sam - need you now! Use-’
Sam didn’t need the telling, though his own hands upon him - slippery slick with salve enough for him to dare what he’d wanted for so long - were almost too much. Slow, he told himself as he moved into position behind Frodo. Slow!
He gritted his teeth against his own need and pushed forward tentatively - slowly - into a heat that was tighter than he’d ever imagined. But, after the first gasped shock, Frodo’s need seemed no longer to be for slow, after all. He lunged suddenly back toward Sam and Sam slipped home in one glorious burn of pleasure.
Frodo flung a hand back in warning, but Sam knew enough not to move until the hard clutch on his thigh eased, and Frodo proved that, given time, he could writhe as well or better in this position, too.
Oh, the difference when you were inside! And when you moved too, finding a rhythm to match his pace…
The sounds that Frodo made were more intense for this. His continuous murmur of naughty, loving half-words and desperate begging was broken now, time and again, with the sharp cry that proved Sam had found that place once more. Frodo’s hand left Sam’s thigh and grabbed for his hand instead, lacing it with his own and bringing both around to form the tight clasp that Frodo also needed.
And oh, the difference then!
Sensation everywhere, faster and harder, a rushing thrust and pull back, the tightening clench inside and out, on him, on Frodo, threaded with the hum of Frodo’s words that soon were clearer and more demanding, fiercer - more persuasive, though how Sam could have resisted that final, triumphant cry, he’d never know, for he fell before the sound was ended - in Frodo’s wake, as always.
For long moments, Sam’s world was all darkness shot through with stars, and the dizzying aftermath of pleasure; of harshly panting breaths and heartbeats you could almost hear. He held Frodo to him and they simply breathed together until the quiet returned. Sam pulled away then, turning Frodo to lie on his back and leaning to kiss him lightly. Neither of them seemed to have words but it didn’t matter. Sam smiled down at Frodo, and Frodo smiled back at him. For now, it was enough.
Sam propped himself on one elbow, to trace aimless patterns with a single finger on the skin of Frodo’s belly. It’d be hoping overmuch to raise more than a twitch in either of them again for a while - setting aside the fact that there’d not be a scrap of supper left if they didn’t make a move soon. But he liked the contrast of his hand moving there - dark shadow over pale; workaday fingers with hard callouses over soft, unblemished silkiness.
‘I’m glad one of us had done that before,’ he confessed suddenly. ‘I’m not sure I’d’ve dared without you knowing how!’
‘It was quite a while ago - and it was nothing like this. I wasn’t that much older than you, and it was just…games and learning.’ Sam had a fleeting thought that either Frodo been an exceptional pupil or that his teaching had been of the best. Or both. ‘It didn’t matter to me, Sam, not as this matters.’
‘Who-?’ he bit off the rest of the question. It was wrong to ask, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.
‘No-one you know. No-one I know any longer, really.’
‘Was it-?’ Frodo’s hand covered his mouth before Sam could finish the guess.
‘I didn’t love him, Sam - that’s all you need to know. Not the way I love you - and definitely not the way I want to love you.’ Frodo’s voice was low and rich and satisfied. Sam let go his lingering jealousy and believed.
There were still things he could ask, though. There had to be other ways to make love, of course, just as there were with a lass. Sam had dreamed them, but you could do a lot of things in dream that you’d never manage in real life. Sam could ask, now, all those things he’d wanted to know but couldn't ask of anyone else - and not just for fear of sounding the innocent fool. Frodo would tell him, though. He wouldn’t mock.
‘Frodo? Can we-I-’
‘Anything, Sam - whatever you want, we can do together.’
‘I don’t even know if…can we do that so we can see each other? I-I’d’ve liked to see your face.’ He blushed, glad most of the redness in his cheeks would be swallowed up by shadow.
‘We can - I just thought it would be easier like that, this first time. And of course we can - in fact, Sam, I’d very much like to-’ Frodo hesitated, and Sam’s heart stuttered at the thought.
‘Oh yes,’ he said at once, ‘please! I want you to! I want everything, with you.’ He blushed again, at his forwardness, but Frodo’s kiss said he was not alone in his wish.
‘I suppose,’ Frodo said, echoing Sam’s earlier thought, ‘we really ought to go, or we’ll be sleeping supperless tonight. I seem to have worked up quite an appetite, somehow - have you?’
Sam laughed and nodded, and reluctantly they scrambled out from beneath the table, dragging the sheets with them. They’d to use them for a quick clean up, of course, and then reassembled them into something that looked, at least, like a tidy pile.
Dressing each other could never be quite as agreeable as undressing, of course, but there was still enjoyment to be found along the way. In fact, given that there were a good many kisses and a deal of soft touching, it was rather moot, once or twice, as to whether the whole notion of leaving here might not be abandoned altogether. But supper was calling more loudly now, and eventually the two were back in shirts and trousers.
Sam was buttoning Frodo’s right cuff when he noticed the pair of GAFFS stamps, side by side. They were a little smudged, to be sure, but still clear enough on the back of that hand. He lifted it to kiss them.
‘Sam?’ Sam turned the hand and kissed its palm to show he was listening. ‘Sam, when I was in the line to be stamped, I caught sight of Betony Meridew-’
He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help it - Sam tensed just from hearing the name. Frodo pulled him close and stroked his back comfortingly. ‘You didn’t really think I was interested in her, did you? The way she spoke about you-’
‘About me?’
‘Oh yes, Sam. Remember the first day, when Bilbo sent me to find whatever it was? I met her then, and she was full of your praises. She told me all about the very special rose you’d given her, and what a wonderful gardener you must be - and how remarkably handsome she thought you, into the bargain!’ Frodo wrinkled his nose at the memory.
‘I explained about the rose already, and how she wheedled me into parting with it!’ Sam protested, beginning already to worry that Frodo may-but then Frodo laughed.
‘I know, Sam - and it doesn’t matter any more, does it? But at the time, it seemed to me very likely that it was you she had her eye on!’
Sam shook his head. ‘She could look all she wanted, but there were never the least risk of me casting eyes back at Betony Meridew! But I thought-I did think you might, what with her being such a good match for you and all.’
‘Oh no. We were rather more than friends once, but very briefly. We’d never have suited, and so she told me! But listen, Sam. You know how she can be…a little forward?’ Sam’s reply was a disbelieving laugh, snorted into his beloved’s neck.
‘Well, when I saw her tonight, she wasn’t, not at all! She had a smile on her face that was as soft and gentle as I’ve seen on any lass’s. Nearly,’ he said, lifting Sam’s face to his with a finger beneath his chin, ‘nearly as loving as yours is, right now!’
Sam caught hold of the finger and drew it mischievously into his mouth. He closed his lips around it and sucked.
Frodo drew a sharp breath and his voice dropped to a choked whisper. ‘She was looking at Arbie Dilnott. Do you know Arbie?’
‘Of him, more like,’ Sam mumbled, around the finger. The Dilnotts were a well-to-do hobbit family from a grand smial up above Budgeford; not the sort of folks that the Gamgees of Bagshot Row, Hobbiton, would really know.
‘Well, Arbie was getting his hand stamped for the two of them, so he told me, and when he went back to her, she sort of melted against him. Pasco was looking rather pleased about it, too!’ Frodo reluctantly reclaimed his finger now, and leaned for a proper kiss instead.
Mr Meridew couldn’t possibly have been as pleased as Sam was, right this moment; but then, rather more than not of Sam’s satisfaction had absolutely nothing whatever to do with Betony Meridew - nor with any lass whatever, and never would.
Their kiss dissolved into laughter when Sam’s stomach chose that very moment to put in a loud complaint of emptiness, with Frodo’s in complete if more restrained agreement. With only a swiftly pecked kiss more, they parted, Frodo to pick up and put on his coat, still with a careful regard for his corsage; Sam to shrug into his waistcoat, re-settling the carnation over his heart, just where Frodo had pinned it.
He went over and began to unravel Bilbo’s surprisingly competent lacing of the doorway, which was always that bit trickier from the inside. P’raps not such a surprise really though, he thought; it were Mr Bilbo after all; Sam’s respect and admiration for his employer had increased even further this evening.
They ducked outside together and Sam reached for the topmost loop of twine.
‘Let me try, Sam. I really ought to learn how,’ Frodo said. ‘Can’t have Uncle Bilbo telling too many fibs for us!’
‘Thread each one through its matching eyelet, then through the loop from above, and pull down tight so you’ve got a loop there, ready for the next - that’s the way,’ Sam directed, watching as deft fingers quite quickly picked up the repetitive task.
He turned toward the distant lights. The dance was still going on, and there didn’t look from here to be any fewer hobbits enjoying themselves than there’d been when he and Frodo left. Maybe it weren’t all that late, and supper not such a lost cause after all.
Sam stood, then, simply looking. There was time now to notice the vast emptiness that contained this small portrait of hobbit revelry.
Neatly framed - half in darkness, half in the angle formed by two vast, moon-whitened tents - the glitter of coloured lights shone down on a brightly moving picture set to music.
But beyond that - out here, where the main business of the Show had been conducted - all was silent and deserted. Around the edges of the Showring only a scatter of the larger booths remained, and the Rides were closed up, waiting to be dismantled come the morning. Beyond them the other marquees showed white in the moonlight, the space between them dark as dark. There was still an occasional rustle of movement from the area where the livestock were penned, as they shifted in sleep or pulled contentedly at hay, but less than half of them remained now. There’d likely be a dawn start for the rest, when those hobbits who’d stayed on for the ceremony and the ball set off for home; hoping to be there - or at least a good piece along the way - by evening.
Frodo finished his lacing and came to stand at Sam’s shoulder, saying nothing. He looked out into the quiet darkness of the Showground as Sam was looking.
‘It’s all to take apart again, tomorrow,’ Sam said quietly, as much to himself as to Frodo. ‘I’ve stayed right to the end, more than once, and it’s sad, in its way. Shouldn’t really be aught more than the opposite of what we did the first day we was here - it’s the same job after all, just in a different order. But there’s no fun to it no more, ’cause you’ve naught to look forward to. Getting your entries in and then seeing if you might’ve got a rosette or even a card. Enjoying the Rides and trying the games. It’s all over for another year, and all that’s left is the shadow of something good, being taken to pieces.’
Frodo took Sam’s hand now, threading their fingers together, but still he said not a word.
'It takes longer too, somehow, no matter how many of you there are to each job. You watch Rides and tents come down, one by one, and you see it get carted away, section by section. The very few last folk are in a rush to finish packing up their bits and bobs, and you wonder why the sudden hurry to get home, when they must’ve left their leaving late a’purpose. The wagons have been streaming out of the gate from early on, o’course. You could track the lanes for miles around, I reckon, by the dust that rises above ’em, if you were only stood somewhere high enough to see. And the field’s getting emptier all the time - less and less hobbits needed as time goes on, so they’re taking theirselves off, too, a few at a time. It’s not till right late in the day, though, that you notice just how quiet it’s got.’
Sam shook his head slowly. ‘And all at once, it seems, there’s naught left but a few scattered bales and those hobbits with the muck carts that clean up where the stock’s been kept. Maybe one or two more, going round collecting up what’s been forgotten, but that’s it, really - all done, all gone.’
A soft squeeze to his fingers told him Frodo understood what he was trying to say.
‘Day after tomorrow, there’ll not be much more than scattered shapes of yellowed grass and bits of blown straw to tell the Show was here. And given a good drop of rain, in a month all will be as it was.’
‘Not all, Sam, not-’ Frodo paused for a deep breath, ‘-not unless you wish all to be as it was?’
‘Mr Fr-’ Sam got no further, Frodo’s fingers suddenly firm against his mouth.
‘Not when we’re alone like this, Sam, please!’
Sam nodded. ‘Can’t promise it, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve called you Mr Frodo so long that, in my mind, I sort of made it-’ he blushed, squirming a bit now, ‘-made it into…like a loveword! When I use it for you, it sounds - well, to me it does, anyway - it sounds just that bit different. Enough for me to know it’s you I’m saying it to, and not Mr Bilbo or Mr Underwood or anybody else at all - only you. It always will be, Frodo. Only you.
‘So, the short answer would be - no, I really don’t want all to be as it was.’
Frodo hugged him so tightly that Sam was breathless all over again, then he took Sam’s hand and they set off walking.
‘The Show may be ending for the year, Sam, but other things have made a good beginning. Most importantly, you and I being together, but Betony seems to have made up her mind to have Arbie Dilnott, and I did wonder,’ he paused and squeezed Sam’s hand, ‘about May and the Whittier lad - what’s his name?’
Sam stopped and tugged Frodo round to face him. ‘Jem Whittier? You really think-?’ It were one thing to suspect it yourself, another to know that anyone else had noticed - even Frodo with his sharp eye for detail; that it may not be just as vague a possibility as you’d hoped.
‘Sam, they’re both older than you are! It’s good that you want to protect May but I’d leave the pair of them - if they are a pair - to Daisy and Gaffer if I were you. They’ve managed well enough between them, so far - and quite wonderfully well, at times!’
Sam blushed as he realised the compliment. ‘There’s Til and Rafe too,’ he offered, ‘and them maybe not having to be apart the whole year through. You could see how much that hurts Til. Well, Rafe too, I expect, only we don’t know him so well.’
‘As yet, Sam, as yet! If I know my Uncle, Til and Rafe will soon be much happier hobbits, even before Yule, and-’ he wiggled his fingers before Sam’s face and lowered his voice to sound mysteriously all-knowing, ‘I foresee… Rafe Boswell’s face becoming quite well-known around Hobbiton!’ he finished with a laugh.
Then hand in hand, talking of the Show, of the people they’d met and the things they’d seen and done together, they crossed the moonlit field to where supper and bed - and tomorrow - awaited them.
The End
~~~~\~~~/~~~~
The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show
One last glimpse
~~~\~~~/~~~~
Author: Tiriel_35
Rating: G to NC17
Word Count: 125,000
Status: Complete!
Summary: GAFFS lasts for days, but Frodo has never wanted to stay over before
Title of Part: Show Day the Third - Night (26/26)
Summary: All good things must come to their end, yet for some there may be new beginnings…
Rating: NC17
A/N: The first part of GAFFS - Prologue and first chapter in one - appeared on March 3rd 2005; my birthday offering to you then as now. It was actually posted as 1/4, the intention being to cover each day in a single chapter… Sam had other ideas - he wanted you to really see the Show! Thank you so much to those of you who have stayed with us to the end of this very rambling tale. I apologise for its extremely sporadic posting (though I haven’t missed Frodo’s birthday in 4 years!) To anyone who put off reading until s/he could be sure of a completed tale - welcome, and I hope it gives you as much pleasure in the reading as I have (mostly…) had in the writing. I shall miss it :-(
This story is dedicated to notabluemaia, with much love and huge respect; without her friendship, hard work and dedication to the cause (plus an incredible ability to put up with the laziest perfectionist ever) my Showfic would be much the poorer (and possibly a WiP for the next five years, too!)
Sam drifted back into the world, unsure quite what had woken him. Something was tickling softly at his cheek and he looked down. Frodo’s head was a weight on his shoulder, his breath barely stirring the hair on Sam’s chest. Fast asleep, he realised with a smile, when maybe they should be moving; perhaps putting in an appearance before the end of the ball. He could hear music still playing in the distance, and there may even be a share of the supper left to be eaten.
He’d some small experience of waking Frodo, back at Bag End, but hadn’t really believed he’d ever have the chance to do so from such wonderfully close quarters. Usually, if second breakfast time approached and Frodo had not yet appeared, Mr Bilbo would bustle along the passage and hammer mightily on his door. Only occasionally would circumstance depute the task to Sam.
Knocking - at the sort of volume Sam thought proper - rarely had any effect whatever, and he was thus obliged to enter the room, and call Mr Frodo! a goodly number of times; not that Sam was in the least unwilling to perform the task, of course. He’d find himself drawing closer and closer to the hump of ruckled bedclothes with each call, until eventually his own name - sounding quite different when filtered through fine wool blankets and a satin eiderdown; softer somehow and quite melodious - his own name repeated once or twice would prove Frodo to be awake, if not exactly ready for the day. He never seemed to make it out of his dormouse nest of covers, though, before Sam felt he really must leave, for propriety’s sake. It’d not do to be caught by Mr Bilbo, lingering avidly for more of a glimpse of Frodo than dishevelled curls - barely visible on the pillow, or on a sprawled foot escaping the covers - before bright day could claim him.
Now, moonlight leached softly through pale canvas to gather upon Frodo’s skin, caressing it to a subtle, lustrous glow. By that light, Sam had seen of him almost all there was to see, and it was far more glorious than he ever could have imagined. He hoped he’d soon get the chance to look again, but with light and time enough for a truly detailed appreciation of his Frodo.
His Frodo… and didn’t that sound wonderful? But-
Over the thin and distant jollity of fiddle, pipe and drum, Sam heard a voice approaching through the darkness now - and only one word could he make out clearly:
‘…Frodo…’
The voice belonged to Mr Bilbo.
‘Frodo!’ Sam repeated it with far more urgency, and a gentle shake to a shoulder that showed pure, cool cream under canvas-filtered light.
‘Mmm?’ A sleepy question accompanied by the kiss of soft lips to Sam’s chest. It was scarcely the ideal way to keep his mind on a threat that was getting ever closer.
‘Frodo, wake up! Listen! It’s Mr Bilbo and he’s coming here!’
‘I do assure you, MAYOR WHITFOOT-’ Bilbo’s voice was louder already, setting aside any emphasis on the name; not here as yet, maybe, but a deal too close for comfort for all that - with a distinct note of warning in it, to Sam’s ear, and more than a touch of desperation, too, ‘-that it will be perfectly safe left in there overnight. As I said, I sent FRODO here, not long ago, to set our belongings in safekeeping.’
‘Where… is… he… then?’ His Worship’s effort-filled response proved him to have little breath to spare for conversation when there was walking to be done. It was, after all, a fair distance from the food and the dancing to this little tent, almost lost on the far side of the Showring; so completely secluded from the night’s festivities.
There were several parts of Sam that could have answered that question with a joyful, Here! for Frodo was most definitely awake now; all of him, as he proved in a delightful, if - given the present circumstances - completely unhelpful wriggle.
‘Oh, I expect FRODO will be back at the dancing by now!’
Sam gathered what attention he could to Mr Bilbo’s supposition - which, volume aside and by his way of thinking, was one in which Mr Bilbo did not for a single moment believe. ‘They’ll be here any minute - no keeping them out, neither! What do we do?’ he whispered, his usual practicality submerged for the moment by embarrassment and a returning guilt.
Surprisingly, Frodo was on his feet almost before Sam had finished asking. ‘Hide, of course - no time for anything more!’ he whispered back, smothering a laugh. Already he was collecting their clothes, thrusting them into deepest shadow behind the line of chairs, though still with a due care for his corsage.
‘Well… we’ve… arrived… at last…’ the Mayor said, his panted words right close, but coming more easily now he’d reached a standstill. ‘And since I’ve… walked all this way… rather than drag anyone else… from their enjoyment… I really don’t know why you… insisted on coming with me, Bilbo… I’m not so fat that I need help to walk… you know!’
‘No, but if I hadn’t accompanied you with the lantern, you might well have tripped over one of the guy-ropes, and then where would you have been, hm? Out here all alone, with a broken ankle, like as not. I’d never have forgiven myself,’ Bilbo said, his voice hovering somewhere amidst worry, suppressed amusement and smug righteousness.
Sam gulped in alarm as he dragged the sheets as far beneath the table as possible. ‘A lantern!’ He mouthed the words almost silently now. ‘They’ll see us for sure!’
‘Trust to Bilbo.’ Frodo answered in the same way, kneeling to crawl back onto the very much narrower bed Sam had contrived. ‘He’ll cover for us if he can!’ Frodo sounded so sure, that Sam squelched down on his panic and put his trust in Mr Bilbo; he’d sent them here, after all.
‘Oh, all right,’ said the Mayor, only a trifle grudgingly, ‘perhaps it was for the best and I thank you. But now I have come all this way, I’ll collect what’s mine and feel the happier for it. I should never have taken the dratted thing off in the first place, but that it gets heavy after a while, and it clinks every time I move.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Today’s been a very long one, and I don’t know about you, but I’m more than ready for my bed. We simply cannot go off to the inn, though, and abandon the symbol of my office all the way out here, wrapped up in a towel!’
Before this ramble was ended, Frodo had pulled another of the dust sheets free and folded it to cover them. He lay carefully down with a breath of huffed laughter. It sharpened suddenly to a hiss, then, as skin slid wonderfully against skin once more - soft and hard at once, sweaty-damp and needing to be stroked. But he didn’t lie beside Sam, as he’d expected.
Sam’s welcoming gasp was really far too loud as Frodo settled on top of him, dragging the sheet to hide them completely. Sam’s thighs spread wide - seemingly of their own accord - and Frodo slipped easily between, just as Bilbo said, with a hint of impatience and very close by, ‘Take the lantern a minute, would you? I’ll need both hands to undo the lacing. I wish lads didn’t feel the need to show off at this sort of thing. I didn’t even know that Frodo-’ the volume was almost excessive, now, ‘-that FRODO knew how to do it!’
Whatever Frodo did or did not know about the ways of twine and canvas, he possessed great expertise, Sam discovered now, in almost completely passive stimulation.
‘Perhaps it was that gardener lad of yours,’ the Mayor suggested. ‘I expect he was here too - never one without the other, the whole Show, you know!’ He sounded indulgent - possibly even nostalgic for his own carefree (and comparatively slender) youth amongst such friends.
Sam had caught sight of Mayor Whitfoot more than once over the past few days, but he’d never thought the Mayor would notice Sam Gamgee, much less recognise him. Not when it’d be Frodo Baggins, nephew and heir to the Mr Baggins of Bag End, that he was really seeing.
‘If this interruption lasts much longer,’ Frodo murmured into Sam’s ear, with a low wriggle that more than proved his point, ‘I think I may explode like one of Gandalf's famous elf-fountains! And it would be such a waste,’ he added slyly, with a lick that brought Sam perilously close to that state, ‘for this time I want to do it with you inside!’
For a second, Sam froze. Frodo wanted that, too! ‘Oh, yes!’ he said, low but very intent. ‘Please!’
They buried their faces in each other’s neck and kissed speeding breaths onto skin to keep the clear sounds of suddenly increased desire from escaping, telltale, into the air. Such tiny movements as their bodies stole without volition were as arousing as anything Sam had ever felt, checked only a little by the possibility that their hiding place (amongst other things) might shortly be laid bare.
‘Sticklebacks!’ said Bilbo - inside the tent now, his imprecation quite unnervingly near. The spill of light that had accompanied him, however, was suddenly extinguished; he must’ve reclaimed his lantern while Sam’s attention was elsewhere. ‘Just when we could have done with it, too!’ he said, almost convincing Sam of a real regret.
‘Dratted thing must have a faulty wick or something. Still, there’s moon enough to see by if you can remember where you left it. On the table, I expect? Tread warily, though - I think the sheets the lads used for their little performance were bundled together under there, to be out of the way. I must remind Sam to collect them in the morning, but just you take care you don’t catch a foot in them now, in the dark!’
Frodo quivered violently over Sam, hiding a snort in the hair at his neck. Sam too had a sudden picture of Will Dumpling toppling right over, and of the shock in his face should out-stretched hands meet what may be discovered beneath those sheets, so naked and so prominent. His helpless, breathless snigger was drowned by a hoarsely nervous whistling, almost over their heads it seemed, of Bilbo’s favourite tune.
Mayor Whitfoot sniffed deeply. ‘My goodness, you can tell the two of them were here just before us! There’s the trophy of course,’ he pinged a finger against it, ‘he deserved that, the lad did. But that rose must have a really powerful scent to linger so - you’d almost swear it was still here somewhere! There’s a hint of clove carnation, too - and-’
‘The chain?’ Bilbo interjected hurriedly.
‘Yes, of course - now, where in the Shire did I-?’ He sounded worried now - ‘I thought I’d left it just-’ then relieved - ‘Yes, here it is!’ - then slightly annoyed - ‘Oops - butter-fingers!’
There was a metallically slithering sound, and something that could only be the Mayoral chain of office landed in the grass, barely an inch or three from Sam’s right knee. The latter was, perhaps, protruding a little further than was wise; but with Frodo's hips well-settled between his thighs now as if they belonged there, it was unavoidable, really. And somehow, Sam had become increasingly detached from the fear of discovery.
The whereabouts of that chain may very soon pose a distinct problem, however, and one to which he must give what little of his attention might be spared right then. He peered cautiously from beneath the sheet, to the reassuring thought that there was, at least, not the slightest danger of the Mayor kneeling to seek out his property. Reassurance vanished immediately, though, replaced by instant alarm as His Worship’s right foot thrust forward into their hiding place. Toes that showed surprisingly shapely in the half-dark were questing perilously close to Sam’s middle, and neither he nor Frodo could raise a hand - nor anything else appropriate - to prevent their approach.
The whistling ceased abruptly, and Bilbo’s voice said, ‘Not to worry, I’ll find it!’ His face appeared abruptly below the level of the table top and despite all shadow Sam would have sworn to an anxious glare as Bilbo took up the errant article. Frodo had twisted his head from under the sheet and he spoke an almost unvoiced, ‘Thank you!’ to his uncle. It was swallowed up by the deliberately rattled clink of decorative metals, as Bilbo heaved himself to his feet and out of sight once more.
Sam blew out a breath of quiet gratitude. He noted only vaguely that Mr Bilbo paused to lace up the tent as they departed; wishing, he proclaimed loudly enough to penetrate the haze of pleasure that was rapidly overtaking at least two of his auditors, his belongings to remain undisturbed here. He barely noticed at all when Mayor Whitfoot, fully recovered for the moment, wondered aloud if they might not address a further bite to eat - and maybe a small sup - to sustain them while his trap was fetched up for the short drive to the Farthings Inn.
He’d lost all track of their voices long before the two were truly out of earshot, what with Frodo laughing silent kisses onto his skin. Sam’s awareness began and ended in the here-and-now, with hands that cupped his shoulders possessively, pulling him nearer; with a slow, damp glide, warm and very hard against him.
His hands smoothed downward, skimming the hollow of Frodo’s hip to claim the tightly rounded flare of his bottom. Frodo, beneath his hands like this…but had he really meant…? Sam ran a finger down the cleft between - not insistent, in case Frodo had changed his mind; just a subtle pressure to remind him of what had been half-promised. And Frodo moved - not away from Sam’s gentle hint, but with the supple writhe that’d convinced Sam already that eight had to be the most wonderful number he’d ever felt scribed so urgently against him. His finger slipped inward quite naturally, and he heard Frodo’s breath catch as wrinkled skin slid beneath his touch.
It were one thing to want this, though; quite another to dare the step from wanting to taking.
‘Frodo?’ he said, dragged suddenly from his haze of pleasure by the loss of Frodo’s warmth against him.
Frodo had left him again, but Sam was not worried now, only disappointed. He stroked a tease up Frodo’s thigh as he knelt to reach up onto the table. Sam heard a hissed intake of breath and the scrabbled shifting above his head was suddenly more hurried. ‘Frodo, what-?’
He needed no other answer than Frodo settling back on his heels to open an unclaimed jar of Mistress Earthy’s finest salve. Sam swallowed. For all the many times he had dreamed - waking or sleeping - of taking Frodo for his own this way, there’d been no reason then for salve, nor for the care that was needed now. This jar was proof beyond anything that this was real, at last.
‘What-’ he broke off to wet suddenly dry lips with a tongue that felt to have lost all power for speech. ‘I don’t really know-what must I do?’
‘You’ll have to go slow for me, Sam,’ Frodo said quietly. ‘I haven’t done this in a long time, but I want it, with you.’
Sam swallowed again, so loud he reckoned any hobbit stood outside the tent must have heard it. ‘I can do slow,’ he said then, nodding so earnestly that Frodo choked on a laugh. ‘How do I-?’
Frodo held out the jar. ‘Fingers first,’ he said, ‘one, then two. Use plenty - there’s no such thing as too much, for this.’ He kissed Sam hard, then turned away to lie on his side, drawing his top leg forward and up. Sam watched the pale shape of him slide easily into place before he scooped salve with one finger, setting the jar aside but close to hand. He realised that Frodo was shivering now, and he knew it was not with cold.
‘Frodo, are you-’
‘Sure? Yes. Ready? Oh yes! Do it, Sam!’
Sam felt clumsy as never before, but the salve spread soft and wide from the heat of his hand, and Frodo’s breathless, ‘Oh!’ merely from the circling of Sam’s fingers, was encouragement enough. It wasn’t only Frodo’s breathing that quickened as the circling drew toward to its centre, and Sam gathered his courage to push, finally, inside.
His finger slid easily into a startling satin heat. He watched in awe, his hand working firm and dark against the rounded cream of Frodo’s bottom. Frodo began to move, pushing back, drawing away, pushing again, and then he was talking, the same disjointed murmurings that had surprised Sam earlier. When you didn’t really know what you were doing, Sam thought hazily, it were good to have this constant reassurance. He took the hint now, speeding up until Frodo gasped and said quite clearly, ‘Two, Sam!’
Two fingers made him gasp in a different way and Sam remembered Slow. He changed direction to a gentle twist, a steady round and back, waiting for tight to ease into snug, waiting for Frodo to tell what more he needed.
Then his fingers brushed against something different, something that stood slightly proud of the smooth satin, and Frodo tensed and said ‘Ah!’ his voice high and sharp.
Sam felt a moment of panic. He’d no idea what he’d done - but whatever it was, Frodo had liked it. He was panting, begging, writhing back for more. Sam gave it to him gladly, stroking blindly, somehow finding just the right touch to keep his Frodo beautiful and desperate like this. Almost as desperate himself now, he shuffled closer, not caring that it was as much his own hand as Frodo that he was rubbing against, as long as he could answer his own need and still do this for Frodo.
Frodo must have felt him though, for he said, ‘More than ready, Sam - need you now! Use-’
Sam didn’t need the telling, though his own hands upon him - slippery slick with salve enough for him to dare what he’d wanted for so long - were almost too much. Slow, he told himself as he moved into position behind Frodo. Slow!
He gritted his teeth against his own need and pushed forward tentatively - slowly - into a heat that was tighter than he’d ever imagined. But, after the first gasped shock, Frodo’s need seemed no longer to be for slow, after all. He lunged suddenly back toward Sam and Sam slipped home in one glorious burn of pleasure.
Frodo flung a hand back in warning, but Sam knew enough not to move until the hard clutch on his thigh eased, and Frodo proved that, given time, he could writhe as well or better in this position, too.
Oh, the difference when you were inside! And when you moved too, finding a rhythm to match his pace…
The sounds that Frodo made were more intense for this. His continuous murmur of naughty, loving half-words and desperate begging was broken now, time and again, with the sharp cry that proved Sam had found that place once more. Frodo’s hand left Sam’s thigh and grabbed for his hand instead, lacing it with his own and bringing both around to form the tight clasp that Frodo also needed.
And oh, the difference then!
Sensation everywhere, faster and harder, a rushing thrust and pull back, the tightening clench inside and out, on him, on Frodo, threaded with the hum of Frodo’s words that soon were clearer and more demanding, fiercer - more persuasive, though how Sam could have resisted that final, triumphant cry, he’d never know, for he fell before the sound was ended - in Frodo’s wake, as always.
For long moments, Sam’s world was all darkness shot through with stars, and the dizzying aftermath of pleasure; of harshly panting breaths and heartbeats you could almost hear. He held Frodo to him and they simply breathed together until the quiet returned. Sam pulled away then, turning Frodo to lie on his back and leaning to kiss him lightly. Neither of them seemed to have words but it didn’t matter. Sam smiled down at Frodo, and Frodo smiled back at him. For now, it was enough.
Sam propped himself on one elbow, to trace aimless patterns with a single finger on the skin of Frodo’s belly. It’d be hoping overmuch to raise more than a twitch in either of them again for a while - setting aside the fact that there’d not be a scrap of supper left if they didn’t make a move soon. But he liked the contrast of his hand moving there - dark shadow over pale; workaday fingers with hard callouses over soft, unblemished silkiness.
‘I’m glad one of us had done that before,’ he confessed suddenly. ‘I’m not sure I’d’ve dared without you knowing how!’
‘It was quite a while ago - and it was nothing like this. I wasn’t that much older than you, and it was just…games and learning.’ Sam had a fleeting thought that either Frodo been an exceptional pupil or that his teaching had been of the best. Or both. ‘It didn’t matter to me, Sam, not as this matters.’
‘Who-?’ he bit off the rest of the question. It was wrong to ask, but he hadn’t been able to help himself.
‘No-one you know. No-one I know any longer, really.’
‘Was it-?’ Frodo’s hand covered his mouth before Sam could finish the guess.
‘I didn’t love him, Sam - that’s all you need to know. Not the way I love you - and definitely not the way I want to love you.’ Frodo’s voice was low and rich and satisfied. Sam let go his lingering jealousy and believed.
There were still things he could ask, though. There had to be other ways to make love, of course, just as there were with a lass. Sam had dreamed them, but you could do a lot of things in dream that you’d never manage in real life. Sam could ask, now, all those things he’d wanted to know but couldn't ask of anyone else - and not just for fear of sounding the innocent fool. Frodo would tell him, though. He wouldn’t mock.
‘Frodo? Can we-I-’
‘Anything, Sam - whatever you want, we can do together.’
‘I don’t even know if…can we do that so we can see each other? I-I’d’ve liked to see your face.’ He blushed, glad most of the redness in his cheeks would be swallowed up by shadow.
‘We can - I just thought it would be easier like that, this first time. And of course we can - in fact, Sam, I’d very much like to-’ Frodo hesitated, and Sam’s heart stuttered at the thought.
‘Oh yes,’ he said at once, ‘please! I want you to! I want everything, with you.’ He blushed again, at his forwardness, but Frodo’s kiss said he was not alone in his wish.
‘I suppose,’ Frodo said, echoing Sam’s earlier thought, ‘we really ought to go, or we’ll be sleeping supperless tonight. I seem to have worked up quite an appetite, somehow - have you?’
Sam laughed and nodded, and reluctantly they scrambled out from beneath the table, dragging the sheets with them. They’d to use them for a quick clean up, of course, and then reassembled them into something that looked, at least, like a tidy pile.
Dressing each other could never be quite as agreeable as undressing, of course, but there was still enjoyment to be found along the way. In fact, given that there were a good many kisses and a deal of soft touching, it was rather moot, once or twice, as to whether the whole notion of leaving here might not be abandoned altogether. But supper was calling more loudly now, and eventually the two were back in shirts and trousers.
Sam was buttoning Frodo’s right cuff when he noticed the pair of GAFFS stamps, side by side. They were a little smudged, to be sure, but still clear enough on the back of that hand. He lifted it to kiss them.
‘Sam?’ Sam turned the hand and kissed its palm to show he was listening. ‘Sam, when I was in the line to be stamped, I caught sight of Betony Meridew-’
He didn’t mean to, but he couldn’t help it - Sam tensed just from hearing the name. Frodo pulled him close and stroked his back comfortingly. ‘You didn’t really think I was interested in her, did you? The way she spoke about you-’
‘About me?’
‘Oh yes, Sam. Remember the first day, when Bilbo sent me to find whatever it was? I met her then, and she was full of your praises. She told me all about the very special rose you’d given her, and what a wonderful gardener you must be - and how remarkably handsome she thought you, into the bargain!’ Frodo wrinkled his nose at the memory.
‘I explained about the rose already, and how she wheedled me into parting with it!’ Sam protested, beginning already to worry that Frodo may-but then Frodo laughed.
‘I know, Sam - and it doesn’t matter any more, does it? But at the time, it seemed to me very likely that it was you she had her eye on!’
Sam shook his head. ‘She could look all she wanted, but there were never the least risk of me casting eyes back at Betony Meridew! But I thought-I did think you might, what with her being such a good match for you and all.’
‘Oh no. We were rather more than friends once, but very briefly. We’d never have suited, and so she told me! But listen, Sam. You know how she can be…a little forward?’ Sam’s reply was a disbelieving laugh, snorted into his beloved’s neck.
‘Well, when I saw her tonight, she wasn’t, not at all! She had a smile on her face that was as soft and gentle as I’ve seen on any lass’s. Nearly,’ he said, lifting Sam’s face to his with a finger beneath his chin, ‘nearly as loving as yours is, right now!’
Sam caught hold of the finger and drew it mischievously into his mouth. He closed his lips around it and sucked.
Frodo drew a sharp breath and his voice dropped to a choked whisper. ‘She was looking at Arbie Dilnott. Do you know Arbie?’
‘Of him, more like,’ Sam mumbled, around the finger. The Dilnotts were a well-to-do hobbit family from a grand smial up above Budgeford; not the sort of folks that the Gamgees of Bagshot Row, Hobbiton, would really know.
‘Well, Arbie was getting his hand stamped for the two of them, so he told me, and when he went back to her, she sort of melted against him. Pasco was looking rather pleased about it, too!’ Frodo reluctantly reclaimed his finger now, and leaned for a proper kiss instead.
Mr Meridew couldn’t possibly have been as pleased as Sam was, right this moment; but then, rather more than not of Sam’s satisfaction had absolutely nothing whatever to do with Betony Meridew - nor with any lass whatever, and never would.
Their kiss dissolved into laughter when Sam’s stomach chose that very moment to put in a loud complaint of emptiness, with Frodo’s in complete if more restrained agreement. With only a swiftly pecked kiss more, they parted, Frodo to pick up and put on his coat, still with a careful regard for his corsage; Sam to shrug into his waistcoat, re-settling the carnation over his heart, just where Frodo had pinned it.
He went over and began to unravel Bilbo’s surprisingly competent lacing of the doorway, which was always that bit trickier from the inside. P’raps not such a surprise really though, he thought; it were Mr Bilbo after all; Sam’s respect and admiration for his employer had increased even further this evening.
They ducked outside together and Sam reached for the topmost loop of twine.
‘Let me try, Sam. I really ought to learn how,’ Frodo said. ‘Can’t have Uncle Bilbo telling too many fibs for us!’
‘Thread each one through its matching eyelet, then through the loop from above, and pull down tight so you’ve got a loop there, ready for the next - that’s the way,’ Sam directed, watching as deft fingers quite quickly picked up the repetitive task.
He turned toward the distant lights. The dance was still going on, and there didn’t look from here to be any fewer hobbits enjoying themselves than there’d been when he and Frodo left. Maybe it weren’t all that late, and supper not such a lost cause after all.
Sam stood, then, simply looking. There was time now to notice the vast emptiness that contained this small portrait of hobbit revelry.
Neatly framed - half in darkness, half in the angle formed by two vast, moon-whitened tents - the glitter of coloured lights shone down on a brightly moving picture set to music.
But beyond that - out here, where the main business of the Show had been conducted - all was silent and deserted. Around the edges of the Showring only a scatter of the larger booths remained, and the Rides were closed up, waiting to be dismantled come the morning. Beyond them the other marquees showed white in the moonlight, the space between them dark as dark. There was still an occasional rustle of movement from the area where the livestock were penned, as they shifted in sleep or pulled contentedly at hay, but less than half of them remained now. There’d likely be a dawn start for the rest, when those hobbits who’d stayed on for the ceremony and the ball set off for home; hoping to be there - or at least a good piece along the way - by evening.
Frodo finished his lacing and came to stand at Sam’s shoulder, saying nothing. He looked out into the quiet darkness of the Showground as Sam was looking.
‘It’s all to take apart again, tomorrow,’ Sam said quietly, as much to himself as to Frodo. ‘I’ve stayed right to the end, more than once, and it’s sad, in its way. Shouldn’t really be aught more than the opposite of what we did the first day we was here - it’s the same job after all, just in a different order. But there’s no fun to it no more, ’cause you’ve naught to look forward to. Getting your entries in and then seeing if you might’ve got a rosette or even a card. Enjoying the Rides and trying the games. It’s all over for another year, and all that’s left is the shadow of something good, being taken to pieces.’
Frodo took Sam’s hand now, threading their fingers together, but still he said not a word.
'It takes longer too, somehow, no matter how many of you there are to each job. You watch Rides and tents come down, one by one, and you see it get carted away, section by section. The very few last folk are in a rush to finish packing up their bits and bobs, and you wonder why the sudden hurry to get home, when they must’ve left their leaving late a’purpose. The wagons have been streaming out of the gate from early on, o’course. You could track the lanes for miles around, I reckon, by the dust that rises above ’em, if you were only stood somewhere high enough to see. And the field’s getting emptier all the time - less and less hobbits needed as time goes on, so they’re taking theirselves off, too, a few at a time. It’s not till right late in the day, though, that you notice just how quiet it’s got.’
Sam shook his head slowly. ‘And all at once, it seems, there’s naught left but a few scattered bales and those hobbits with the muck carts that clean up where the stock’s been kept. Maybe one or two more, going round collecting up what’s been forgotten, but that’s it, really - all done, all gone.’
A soft squeeze to his fingers told him Frodo understood what he was trying to say.
‘Day after tomorrow, there’ll not be much more than scattered shapes of yellowed grass and bits of blown straw to tell the Show was here. And given a good drop of rain, in a month all will be as it was.’
‘Not all, Sam, not-’ Frodo paused for a deep breath, ‘-not unless you wish all to be as it was?’
‘Mr Fr-’ Sam got no further, Frodo’s fingers suddenly firm against his mouth.
‘Not when we’re alone like this, Sam, please!’
Sam nodded. ‘Can’t promise it, though,’ he said. ‘I’ve called you Mr Frodo so long that, in my mind, I sort of made it-’ he blushed, squirming a bit now, ‘-made it into…like a loveword! When I use it for you, it sounds - well, to me it does, anyway - it sounds just that bit different. Enough for me to know it’s you I’m saying it to, and not Mr Bilbo or Mr Underwood or anybody else at all - only you. It always will be, Frodo. Only you.
‘So, the short answer would be - no, I really don’t want all to be as it was.’
Frodo hugged him so tightly that Sam was breathless all over again, then he took Sam’s hand and they set off walking.
‘The Show may be ending for the year, Sam, but other things have made a good beginning. Most importantly, you and I being together, but Betony seems to have made up her mind to have Arbie Dilnott, and I did wonder,’ he paused and squeezed Sam’s hand, ‘about May and the Whittier lad - what’s his name?’
Sam stopped and tugged Frodo round to face him. ‘Jem Whittier? You really think-?’ It were one thing to suspect it yourself, another to know that anyone else had noticed - even Frodo with his sharp eye for detail; that it may not be just as vague a possibility as you’d hoped.
‘Sam, they’re both older than you are! It’s good that you want to protect May but I’d leave the pair of them - if they are a pair - to Daisy and Gaffer if I were you. They’ve managed well enough between them, so far - and quite wonderfully well, at times!’
Sam blushed as he realised the compliment. ‘There’s Til and Rafe too,’ he offered, ‘and them maybe not having to be apart the whole year through. You could see how much that hurts Til. Well, Rafe too, I expect, only we don’t know him so well.’
‘As yet, Sam, as yet! If I know my Uncle, Til and Rafe will soon be much happier hobbits, even before Yule, and-’ he wiggled his fingers before Sam’s face and lowered his voice to sound mysteriously all-knowing, ‘I foresee… Rafe Boswell’s face becoming quite well-known around Hobbiton!’ he finished with a laugh.
Then hand in hand, talking of the Show, of the people they’d met and the things they’d seen and done together, they crossed the moonlit field to where supper and bed - and tomorrow - awaited them.
The End
~~~~\~~~/~~~~
The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show
One last glimpse
~~~\~~~/~~~~