-Title: Firelight
-Rating: PG-13
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.
-Category: Romance, mild angst.
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .
---
Firelight- (Chapter 3/3)
Fire radiated a different kind of light than, say, plain candles, or the sun did. Therefore, seeing through firelight was a different kind of seeing. So, the firelight must have justified this, thought Frodo: seeing *Sam* in a whole new light, that is. Was he?-or, rather, *why* was he?
Frodo continued his search for wine glasses in the kitchen. He couldn't remember looking quite *that* lengthily at Sam at any time in the past. No, he most certainly hadn't. Well, save for an instance in the previous summer that sprang to mind . . .
---
Sam had been gardening, happy, and perfectly in place in the scene before a daydreaming Frodo, who had taken to gazing out the window after a rush of flower-scented air had prompted him. The sun had been low in the sky, and the air had been thick with heat. Night insects sang harmonies to each other from different corners of the yard. Suddenly, a bird called.
And Sam had imitated it with an accurate whistle, then laughed at himself. Another strange moment had transpired-that now, as Frodo thought of it, could be linked to the swiftly passing one that very night-in which the sun had changed to a hue as golden as Sam's tousled curls, and had tinged his well-tanned skin. He looked some ancient statue there in the garden, even *with* his sleeves rolled up, and dirt on his trousers.
---
An achingly loud *clink* jolted Frodo back to the present. He cringed before opening his eyes to survey the damage of a fallen crystal glass. Breathing a sigh of relief, he placed it back in the cupboard gingerly; it possessed a tiny, hairline crack along the rim.
He stared obtusely at the glasses he'd fished out, and after a moment, recalled what they were for, for he heard Sam's warm voice drifting from the parlour. He rushed back.
---
They regarded each other wordlessly, and set to filling the wineglasses. The silence was punctuated by smiles and nods and minute apologies that somehow let it grow more languid than before.
"Mm, this is quite good," said Frodo, sipping at the contents of his glass.
"It is," agreed Sam simply.
"Sam?"
"Hm?"
"I have a question for you."
"All right, Mr. Frodo . . ."
"And I do, in fact, know how silly it might sound, but, well . . ."
"Go on, sir."
"That's just it. Why the sir? Why the Mister?" It was something that had always gone against Frodo's grain, and though he understood that it was Sam's way, he toyed with the idea of teasing, in light of the . . . firelight. The more *he* felt at ease, the more Sam became uncomfortable.
When the latter wouldn't answer, Frodo decided to consider it a request for clarification and said: "We're friends, aren't we? You don't have to give me titles." He laughed, and added as an afterthought in a wry tone: "It makes me feel old."
"Well, I don't see as how I could stop calling you-giving you titles, sir," said Sam. "Begging your pardon, and all . . ."
"Please, Sam. It's needless. I like to think of us as friends." *And I don't know how I'll survive *this* winter if I don't have one,* thought Frodo, most involuntarily. "Specifically, you," he amended-aloud, cheeks heating at his mistake. And worst of all, it didn't make any sense. *You could always blame it on your two solitary swigs of that weak wine, Frodo,* he told himself dismally.
"Mr. Frodo?"
"Oh, uh, never mind. I-I'm, oh, I'm sorry," Frodo managed, annoyed with his tongue.
Sam laughed a bit nervously. "It's all right, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo changed the subject: "Another silly question, Sam: what colour *are* your eyes?"
Sam seemed at ease again despite the rapidity of the query He relaxed back into the couch and folded his arms thoughtfully. "I couldn't say, sir. They change."
"With your moods."
"With my moods," Sam repeated.
"Well, they do. At dinner they started out brown, and then turned more of a honey colour. Now they're greenish. And your moods keep shifting in here."
"They do, sir?"
"Yes," said Frodo. His tongue was so loose *now* it made him dizzy. And it wouldn't do to go betraying anything . . . not that he had anything to betray, of course. No, he *didn't* have anything . . .
"Not to be forward, sir, but yours change with your moods, too. But they still *look* the same, if you take my meaning: deep and blue and . . ."
Well, *perhaps* he did. "And?" he pressed.
"Well, lovely, Frodo. And fair shine like stars, too, begging your pardon, in winter skies," answered Sam in a long breath.
Frodo laughed to release the tension he realized he had been holding in. "I hate winter," he said, aware of the irrelevance; also aware of relief and dull heat saturating his soul.
"Well?" said Sam, somehow managing to sound loud above Frodo's heartbeat.
"Well what?" he whispered, beginning to understand why he tried to.
"Well . . ." Sam set his glass down and shifted an inch closer. They'd already *been* sitting close before that. "Aren't you going go thank me for calling you Frodo?"
Frodo couldn't tear his gaze from Sam's now that he was at ease and seemed not to mind. "Oh, um . . . no, I'm not," he decided.
"Oh?" Sam *leaned* closer.
Without thinking-Frodo had abandoned that pretense about five minutes previous-Frodo leaned as well until their lips brushed, and he wondered fleetingly why he hadn't been studying *those*. "Oh," he said, and then Sam's mouth was on his and he forgot about the winter, for there was heat between their mouths, and their bodies, and their hearts. So much heat, unlooked-for, but very welcome. *Yes, quite welcome,* thought Frodo when the kiss deepened and he found himself pressed against the couch.
The inspiring flicker of warmth from the firelight seemed insignificant.
---
-The End.
-Just perfect? A bit too rushed? Please, let me know, as this is my *first slash fic*, and I need feedback to help me improve. Ready? Set? "Go!"
-Rating: PG-13
-Pairing: Frodo/Sam.
-Category: Romance, mild angst.
-Summary: Bilbo's sudden errand to Buckland along with Frodo's constant-now becoming rather paranoid-loathing of winter have piled up. He tries to ease the loneliness, and Sam seems to understand . . .
-Disclaimer: Contrary to popular belief, I myself am not J.R.R. Tolkien, Christopher Tolkien, Peter Jackson, an affiliate of the Tolkien Estate, and etc. The Professor is most certainly doing back flips and flip-flops in his grave because of all of this. -Author's Note: If you do read, then please review, as well. Even if you hated it. I am hungry for constructive criticism. Any flames will be used to stoke the fireplaces at Bag End. Poor shivery Frodo . . .
---
Firelight- (Chapter 3/3)
Fire radiated a different kind of light than, say, plain candles, or the sun did. Therefore, seeing through firelight was a different kind of seeing. So, the firelight must have justified this, thought Frodo: seeing *Sam* in a whole new light, that is. Was he?-or, rather, *why* was he?
Frodo continued his search for wine glasses in the kitchen. He couldn't remember looking quite *that* lengthily at Sam at any time in the past. No, he most certainly hadn't. Well, save for an instance in the previous summer that sprang to mind . . .
---
Sam had been gardening, happy, and perfectly in place in the scene before a daydreaming Frodo, who had taken to gazing out the window after a rush of flower-scented air had prompted him. The sun had been low in the sky, and the air had been thick with heat. Night insects sang harmonies to each other from different corners of the yard. Suddenly, a bird called.
And Sam had imitated it with an accurate whistle, then laughed at himself. Another strange moment had transpired-that now, as Frodo thought of it, could be linked to the swiftly passing one that very night-in which the sun had changed to a hue as golden as Sam's tousled curls, and had tinged his well-tanned skin. He looked some ancient statue there in the garden, even *with* his sleeves rolled up, and dirt on his trousers.
---
An achingly loud *clink* jolted Frodo back to the present. He cringed before opening his eyes to survey the damage of a fallen crystal glass. Breathing a sigh of relief, he placed it back in the cupboard gingerly; it possessed a tiny, hairline crack along the rim.
He stared obtusely at the glasses he'd fished out, and after a moment, recalled what they were for, for he heard Sam's warm voice drifting from the parlour. He rushed back.
---
They regarded each other wordlessly, and set to filling the wineglasses. The silence was punctuated by smiles and nods and minute apologies that somehow let it grow more languid than before.
"Mm, this is quite good," said Frodo, sipping at the contents of his glass.
"It is," agreed Sam simply.
"Sam?"
"Hm?"
"I have a question for you."
"All right, Mr. Frodo . . ."
"And I do, in fact, know how silly it might sound, but, well . . ."
"Go on, sir."
"That's just it. Why the sir? Why the Mister?" It was something that had always gone against Frodo's grain, and though he understood that it was Sam's way, he toyed with the idea of teasing, in light of the . . . firelight. The more *he* felt at ease, the more Sam became uncomfortable.
When the latter wouldn't answer, Frodo decided to consider it a request for clarification and said: "We're friends, aren't we? You don't have to give me titles." He laughed, and added as an afterthought in a wry tone: "It makes me feel old."
"Well, I don't see as how I could stop calling you-giving you titles, sir," said Sam. "Begging your pardon, and all . . ."
"Please, Sam. It's needless. I like to think of us as friends." *And I don't know how I'll survive *this* winter if I don't have one,* thought Frodo, most involuntarily. "Specifically, you," he amended-aloud, cheeks heating at his mistake. And worst of all, it didn't make any sense. *You could always blame it on your two solitary swigs of that weak wine, Frodo,* he told himself dismally.
"Mr. Frodo?"
"Oh, uh, never mind. I-I'm, oh, I'm sorry," Frodo managed, annoyed with his tongue.
Sam laughed a bit nervously. "It's all right, Mr. Frodo."
Frodo changed the subject: "Another silly question, Sam: what colour *are* your eyes?"
Sam seemed at ease again despite the rapidity of the query He relaxed back into the couch and folded his arms thoughtfully. "I couldn't say, sir. They change."
"With your moods."
"With my moods," Sam repeated.
"Well, they do. At dinner they started out brown, and then turned more of a honey colour. Now they're greenish. And your moods keep shifting in here."
"They do, sir?"
"Yes," said Frodo. His tongue was so loose *now* it made him dizzy. And it wouldn't do to go betraying anything . . . not that he had anything to betray, of course. No, he *didn't* have anything . . .
"Not to be forward, sir, but yours change with your moods, too. But they still *look* the same, if you take my meaning: deep and blue and . . ."
Well, *perhaps* he did. "And?" he pressed.
"Well, lovely, Frodo. And fair shine like stars, too, begging your pardon, in winter skies," answered Sam in a long breath.
Frodo laughed to release the tension he realized he had been holding in. "I hate winter," he said, aware of the irrelevance; also aware of relief and dull heat saturating his soul.
"Well?" said Sam, somehow managing to sound loud above Frodo's heartbeat.
"Well what?" he whispered, beginning to understand why he tried to.
"Well . . ." Sam set his glass down and shifted an inch closer. They'd already *been* sitting close before that. "Aren't you going go thank me for calling you Frodo?"
Frodo couldn't tear his gaze from Sam's now that he was at ease and seemed not to mind. "Oh, um . . . no, I'm not," he decided.
"Oh?" Sam *leaned* closer.
Without thinking-Frodo had abandoned that pretense about five minutes previous-Frodo leaned as well until their lips brushed, and he wondered fleetingly why he hadn't been studying *those*. "Oh," he said, and then Sam's mouth was on his and he forgot about the winter, for there was heat between their mouths, and their bodies, and their hearts. So much heat, unlooked-for, but very welcome. *Yes, quite welcome,* thought Frodo when the kiss deepened and he found himself pressed against the couch.
The inspiring flicker of warmth from the firelight seemed insignificant.
---
-The End.
-Just perfect? A bit too rushed? Please, let me know, as this is my *first slash fic*, and I need feedback to help me improve. Ready? Set? "Go!"