Title: Falling Poetically
Author: Krissy
Improv: #6 -- mud - shine - destiny - love
Rating: PG
Type: Slash, Sam/Frodo
Archive: the LotR improv Archive, all else ask.
He was falling in love, he knew that. He could feel it in himself. It was just *shining* and beautiful, and Sam loved the feeling more than anything else he had felt in his life.
The mud-caked face stared up at him with wide blue eyes. He yearned to reach over and gently smudge the dirt off his face. To clean it away with a flick of gentle fingers.
"Mr. Frodo, sir," he croaked. His master looked up at him and Sam had to look away. He didn't want to stare, but something about how Frodo was sprawled out on the ground, near his flowers, was breathtaking. It stirred emotions in the gardener that he didn't understand, but knew it was love. Or maybe the beginnings of love, he didn't know. He wasn't poetic enough to attach titles to it.
"What is it, Sam?"
"I, sir . . ." He tentatively reached a hand out to touch his shoulder, just lightly, but quickly withdrew. It wasn't his place, it never would be. "Nothin'," he said, dully.
Frodo cocked his head, studying Sam with curious eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Nothin', sir," he repeated.
He turned back to the flower bed, kneeling on the edges of the dirt. He mechanically began to pull the weeds out and toss them to the growing pile. He worked steadily for several minutes before he felt the hand on his arm.
"Sam."
"Hmm?" he turned to look at him, eyes questioning. He didn't know what Frodo could possibly want. He still didn't understand Frodo's fascination in watching him garden. It seemed to be Frodo's latest obsession. He'd come out in the early morning and sit near him, just watching. Sometime he'd write, or read one of his books, but most of the time he just watched. Not that Sam minded.
"Can I help you?"
Sam blinked at the shy voice. Mr. Frodo was never shy around him, never *with* him. Instead of dwelling, he just nodded and shifted to make room, before returning his eyes to the weeds. Frodo came to kneel next to him, and mimicked the pulling and tossing Sam had done just seconds ago.
"Why are you doing this, sir?"
"I'm just trying to understand."
"Understand?"
Frodo's smile seemed to turn shyer, if that was possible. "Yes. I wanted to understand why you liked to garden so much."
"It's just me job," he could feel his cheeks burn. It was his destiny to garden. His father gardened, as his father before that, and before that. . .
"It's more than just that, I can see that," Frodo chided wisely. "It's in your hands -- and your eyes . . ."
Sam didn't understand and told him so.
Frodo laughed, "You don't need to," he spoke in a whispered muffle. His face reddened and he shook his head, "I couldn't possibly explain . . ."
"S'okay, sir," Sam assured him, "you don't have to tell me."
Frodo reached up and ran a hand lightly down his cheek, leaving a streak of dirt in its place. "You are like poetry. Spirals of misplaced words, forced into lines, but always flowing with a natural beauty. Well," he uncomfortably rose to his feet, dusting his hands on the back of his trousers, "I better get back inside. I'll see you for lunch."
Sam watched him leave and couldn't hide the small smile. Maybe he *was* poetic enough to label his feeling, after all.
Author: Krissy
Improv: #6 -- mud - shine - destiny - love
Rating: PG
Type: Slash, Sam/Frodo
Archive: the LotR improv Archive, all else ask.
He was falling in love, he knew that. He could feel it in himself. It was just *shining* and beautiful, and Sam loved the feeling more than anything else he had felt in his life.
The mud-caked face stared up at him with wide blue eyes. He yearned to reach over and gently smudge the dirt off his face. To clean it away with a flick of gentle fingers.
"Mr. Frodo, sir," he croaked. His master looked up at him and Sam had to look away. He didn't want to stare, but something about how Frodo was sprawled out on the ground, near his flowers, was breathtaking. It stirred emotions in the gardener that he didn't understand, but knew it was love. Or maybe the beginnings of love, he didn't know. He wasn't poetic enough to attach titles to it.
"What is it, Sam?"
"I, sir . . ." He tentatively reached a hand out to touch his shoulder, just lightly, but quickly withdrew. It wasn't his place, it never would be. "Nothin'," he said, dully.
Frodo cocked his head, studying Sam with curious eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Nothin', sir," he repeated.
He turned back to the flower bed, kneeling on the edges of the dirt. He mechanically began to pull the weeds out and toss them to the growing pile. He worked steadily for several minutes before he felt the hand on his arm.
"Sam."
"Hmm?" he turned to look at him, eyes questioning. He didn't know what Frodo could possibly want. He still didn't understand Frodo's fascination in watching him garden. It seemed to be Frodo's latest obsession. He'd come out in the early morning and sit near him, just watching. Sometime he'd write, or read one of his books, but most of the time he just watched. Not that Sam minded.
"Can I help you?"
Sam blinked at the shy voice. Mr. Frodo was never shy around him, never *with* him. Instead of dwelling, he just nodded and shifted to make room, before returning his eyes to the weeds. Frodo came to kneel next to him, and mimicked the pulling and tossing Sam had done just seconds ago.
"Why are you doing this, sir?"
"I'm just trying to understand."
"Understand?"
Frodo's smile seemed to turn shyer, if that was possible. "Yes. I wanted to understand why you liked to garden so much."
"It's just me job," he could feel his cheeks burn. It was his destiny to garden. His father gardened, as his father before that, and before that. . .
"It's more than just that, I can see that," Frodo chided wisely. "It's in your hands -- and your eyes . . ."
Sam didn't understand and told him so.
Frodo laughed, "You don't need to," he spoke in a whispered muffle. His face reddened and he shook his head, "I couldn't possibly explain . . ."
"S'okay, sir," Sam assured him, "you don't have to tell me."
Frodo reached up and ran a hand lightly down his cheek, leaving a streak of dirt in its place. "You are like poetry. Spirals of misplaced words, forced into lines, but always flowing with a natural beauty. Well," he uncomfortably rose to his feet, dusting his hands on the back of his trousers, "I better get back inside. I'll see you for lunch."
Sam watched him leave and couldn't hide the small smile. Maybe he *was* poetic enough to label his feeling, after all.