Frodo cannot move from the bed. When Sam is gone, he merely tips over so he is curled on his side, and keeps pressing his palms into his eyes. This is so far beyond ordinary humiliation that he cannot even manage to weep in self-pity. He is calmly, fatally certain that he will never be able to face any living soul ever again. Not if they're Gamgees, at any rate. He groans into his hands.
*You deserved it,* whispers a voice in his head, meanwhile. *You were asking for it. You were wicked, and you played with fire, and the fire won.*
The worst is knowing that this voice is right.
Last night started out so well. He'd thought about it for weeks beforehand, how he would conjure a way to get Sam to stay overnight. He'd spent days at different shops, different markets, to find a mathom that was beautiful enough and perfect enough for his Sam. He'd made sure that the fires were well stoked that night in Bag End so that the smial would be toasty-warm. The weather cooperated by being hot and still. Sam was clearly pleased with the gift and the invitation to stay; he acted charmed, and charming, and bashful. He was so trusting, falling asleep with his head on Frodo's shoulder, just a matter of hours ago, right there on the floor.
Frodo cringes miserably, remembering the sweet beauty of Sam's skin, golden and soft-looking in the candlelight, his lips so tempting, a patch of strong bare thigh showing where Sam's nightshirt had hitched up. Certainly, Frodo wanted to touch him, kiss him, but he wouldn't have dared. One thing at a time, he had decided. As slowly as Sam wants to take it. Ideas and thoughts first; words next; actions last of all.
So Frodo did what he'd fantasized about, what he'd planned: took off his clothes after blowing the candles out, and lay down naked beside Sam, thrilled with his own nerve, with what he was offering his beloved. Sam would wake up in the morning and see him there, would get to look at Frodo's body, would start thinking about being Frodo's lover if he hadn't thought of it before now...
But then Frodo dreamed, while he lay there on his back, that Sam had rolled over and started to kiss him. Because this was a dream, and because Sam clearly wanted to do this, Frodo didn't give a thought to his "actions last of all" plan. Instead, he helped Sam out of his nightshirt and looked Sam's naked body up and down, whimpering when he saw how large and hard Sam was. Sam straddled him then, knees planted on either side of Frodo's chest, and started rocking back and forth so that their erections rubbed together (slick and silky in the dream, with none of the awkward friction that might exist in reality).
*It feels so good,* Frodo told him. *Mmm, Sam...*
*Ohhh,* Sam moaned, arching his back. *I want you...so hard it hurts...*
*Keep going,* Frodo begged, straining against him, straining for more of him. *Like that, yes, just like that.*
*Oh - I can't hold back,* gasped Sam, *I'm going to come - it's com- I'm going to - ohhh!...*
*Oh, Sam!*
And then Frodo came instead. In reality. Before Sam's very eyes.
And rather than asking him in a sultry voice who he'd been dreaming about, Sam apparently saw him as just a poor messy sleeper who needed tending to. Trying to *clean* him...for the love of heaven...
Frodo groans, louder, and clutches his hair in both fists. He's disgusting and pitiful and an idiot and has probably ruined his chances with Sam, and may as well give up society at large.
His stomach growls. Slowly he uncurls himself, sighs, and trudges out to the pantry, where an array of sumptuous leftovers meets his eye. He seizes a rhubarb pie, a beef pastry, and a fork, and tromps back to his study to eat like a hog in solitude. It doesn't matter if gentlehobbits don't eat rhubarb pie for breakfast. Frodo has clearly gone too far to be considered a gentlehobbit anymore by anyone's standards. He slumps into his chair and digs into the food with no consideration whatsoever for table manners.
* * *
Sam doesn't see Frodo for the rest of that day, nor the next, though he goes up to Bag End both days and works for hours in the garden. The only way he knows Frodo is home is from the occasional scrape of a chair or clink of silverware from behind the meticulously closed curtains and doors. Sam's willing to be patient. He's willing to let Frodo hide his face for a little while - why, if the roles were reversed, he'd be blushing to outdo the sunset for the next ten years, and surely wouldn't be able to face Frodo for some time.
But Sam is concerned, and does want to see Frodo, since (he has to admit to himself) he's more or less completely smitten with him and just wants to make sure Frodo *will* talk to him again someday. Ideally, Frodo will even invite him to stay overnight again someday, and maybe that time Sam will have the nerve to brush him a kiss goodnight, or even snuggle up against him, and if their hands start to wander, well, that would be more than fine...but Sam's getting ahead of himself now. He blinks to bring himself back to the present, and firmly closes the shed door after putting the shovel away.
It's the evening of the second day. Before he can lose his nerve, he advances to the door of Bag End and cautiously taps at it. Frodo doesn't answer. The door isn't locked, though, so Sam goes in. What he finds is dishes everywhere: casseroles and pie plates and custard cups and tea mugs and dinner plates, all scattered with crumbs and topped with sticky silverware. Frodo isn't anywhere to be seen, but Sam can guess he's behind that shut study door. Sam steps around an empty basket that once contained pears, and knocks. "Mr. Frodo?" he asks. "You all right, there?"
"Fine, Sam," comes the soft answer.
"Can I make you anything for supper?"
"No, thank you. The food from the party is tiding me over quite well."
"I see that," Sam mutters, not loud enough to be heard. Then he offers, raising his voice again, "I'll just tidy it up out here a bit, then, and be on my way."
"Thank you," Frodo says, almost too quiet to catch.
It takes Sam near an hour to clean up and put away all those dishes and forks and spoons, but Frodo still doesn't come out.
Sam's beginning to formulate plans, two days later, to break in through a window if need be and force Frodo to see that things aren't so bad, and even tell him that, for goodness's sake, Sam *liked* what he saw. But luckily he doesn't have to do anything so drastic: he looks up from the autumn perennials, toward the end of the afternoon that day, to see Frodo ambling toward him, hands in his pockets. Frodo looks shy and serious, but not angry.
"Hello," says the somber, beautiful master of Bag End.
"'Ey," Sam answers, and mentally kicks himself for not being more eloquent.
"I wanted to say..." Frodo draws shapes in the grass with his toe, and focuses intensely on that. "...that I'm sorry. For everything, the other morning."
"The morning..."
"After the party." Frodo gives him a brief glance under his lashes, seemingly to make sure Sam understands which day they're talking about. As if Sam has lots of such mornings and therefore might be in doubt.
"You didn't do nothing to be sorry for," Sam says.
Frodo sighs, and turns his gaze to the gold-tinted clouds in the west. "Well, I shouldn't have been so sharp with you. And I still can't believe what I...well." He shakes his head.
"You were just upset. I don't blame you for that. And as for having the dream in the first place..." Sam isn't sure whether to go on; Frodo has shot him a cautious look. But he can hardly leave the sentiment unfinished now, so he continues: "Never say you're sorry for dreams. They're not your fault."
Frodo shrugs one shoulder, and turns aside. "I feel a fool, all the same."
"Don't. I feel a fool, too. I - I could've handled it better."
Frodo's glance at him now is almost shocked. Sam catches the unintentional double entendre, blushes hot, and quickly adds:
"I don't mean *handled* it - not *it* - not - oh, I only mean I shouldn't have startled you." Sam looks, flustered, down at the flowers he's planting. Everything that seemed so clear and tender and perfect for the last few days is suddenly now a pitiful mess.
To his surprise and relief, Frodo laughs, a rueful chuckle. "We're an awkward scenario, aren't we, Sam, dear?" He sounds embarrassed, not seductive, but that "dear" still shoots into Sam's blood like a thunderclap. Sam has never been "dear" before, not to Frodo.
All he can manage in answer is a chuckle of his own.
Frodo strolls a step or two toward the smial, then stops, and turns around again. "I didn't...*say* anything, did I? In my sleep."
"No, sir."
"You're sure?"
"You sort of - murmured, I suppose - but I couldn't catch no words."
"I didn't say a...name?"
"No." Sam dares to smile again, and to tease, "Why? Were you dreaming of someone I know?"
Frodo looks flustered, and almost annoyed. "That's enough of that," he warns, and goes back toward the smial. "Goodnight," he calls briefly over his shoulder.
Sam stares after him, stares at the flowers, sits back on his heels and stares at the sunset. Now, what in the name of heaven was all that?
Then, in a flash, he knows. It all makes sense.
A few seconds after that, he thinks he must be wrong, he *couldn't* know - that couldn't be the answer. Frodo wasn't dreaming of *him*. But...calling him "dear," asking him to stay behind when the others had left, inviting him to sleep in his bed, looking at him the way he sometimes does...is the explanation as simple and as wonderful as that? Sam's heart seems to be thumping in a vast circuit all over his insides.
Sam doesn't know if he's right. He gets the rest of the flowers planted, hands unsteady in the comforting soil, and brushes the loose dirt off the surrounding grass. He doesn't know, but he's willing to gamble on it, for think of the winnings! And by the time he's putting away the gardening tools and going home, Sam knows just what he'll do to test this idea. He will lie.
(To be continued.)
*You deserved it,* whispers a voice in his head, meanwhile. *You were asking for it. You were wicked, and you played with fire, and the fire won.*
The worst is knowing that this voice is right.
Last night started out so well. He'd thought about it for weeks beforehand, how he would conjure a way to get Sam to stay overnight. He'd spent days at different shops, different markets, to find a mathom that was beautiful enough and perfect enough for his Sam. He'd made sure that the fires were well stoked that night in Bag End so that the smial would be toasty-warm. The weather cooperated by being hot and still. Sam was clearly pleased with the gift and the invitation to stay; he acted charmed, and charming, and bashful. He was so trusting, falling asleep with his head on Frodo's shoulder, just a matter of hours ago, right there on the floor.
Frodo cringes miserably, remembering the sweet beauty of Sam's skin, golden and soft-looking in the candlelight, his lips so tempting, a patch of strong bare thigh showing where Sam's nightshirt had hitched up. Certainly, Frodo wanted to touch him, kiss him, but he wouldn't have dared. One thing at a time, he had decided. As slowly as Sam wants to take it. Ideas and thoughts first; words next; actions last of all.
So Frodo did what he'd fantasized about, what he'd planned: took off his clothes after blowing the candles out, and lay down naked beside Sam, thrilled with his own nerve, with what he was offering his beloved. Sam would wake up in the morning and see him there, would get to look at Frodo's body, would start thinking about being Frodo's lover if he hadn't thought of it before now...
But then Frodo dreamed, while he lay there on his back, that Sam had rolled over and started to kiss him. Because this was a dream, and because Sam clearly wanted to do this, Frodo didn't give a thought to his "actions last of all" plan. Instead, he helped Sam out of his nightshirt and looked Sam's naked body up and down, whimpering when he saw how large and hard Sam was. Sam straddled him then, knees planted on either side of Frodo's chest, and started rocking back and forth so that their erections rubbed together (slick and silky in the dream, with none of the awkward friction that might exist in reality).
*It feels so good,* Frodo told him. *Mmm, Sam...*
*Ohhh,* Sam moaned, arching his back. *I want you...so hard it hurts...*
*Keep going,* Frodo begged, straining against him, straining for more of him. *Like that, yes, just like that.*
*Oh - I can't hold back,* gasped Sam, *I'm going to come - it's com- I'm going to - ohhh!...*
*Oh, Sam!*
And then Frodo came instead. In reality. Before Sam's very eyes.
And rather than asking him in a sultry voice who he'd been dreaming about, Sam apparently saw him as just a poor messy sleeper who needed tending to. Trying to *clean* him...for the love of heaven...
Frodo groans, louder, and clutches his hair in both fists. He's disgusting and pitiful and an idiot and has probably ruined his chances with Sam, and may as well give up society at large.
His stomach growls. Slowly he uncurls himself, sighs, and trudges out to the pantry, where an array of sumptuous leftovers meets his eye. He seizes a rhubarb pie, a beef pastry, and a fork, and tromps back to his study to eat like a hog in solitude. It doesn't matter if gentlehobbits don't eat rhubarb pie for breakfast. Frodo has clearly gone too far to be considered a gentlehobbit anymore by anyone's standards. He slumps into his chair and digs into the food with no consideration whatsoever for table manners.
* * *
Sam doesn't see Frodo for the rest of that day, nor the next, though he goes up to Bag End both days and works for hours in the garden. The only way he knows Frodo is home is from the occasional scrape of a chair or clink of silverware from behind the meticulously closed curtains and doors. Sam's willing to be patient. He's willing to let Frodo hide his face for a little while - why, if the roles were reversed, he'd be blushing to outdo the sunset for the next ten years, and surely wouldn't be able to face Frodo for some time.
But Sam is concerned, and does want to see Frodo, since (he has to admit to himself) he's more or less completely smitten with him and just wants to make sure Frodo *will* talk to him again someday. Ideally, Frodo will even invite him to stay overnight again someday, and maybe that time Sam will have the nerve to brush him a kiss goodnight, or even snuggle up against him, and if their hands start to wander, well, that would be more than fine...but Sam's getting ahead of himself now. He blinks to bring himself back to the present, and firmly closes the shed door after putting the shovel away.
It's the evening of the second day. Before he can lose his nerve, he advances to the door of Bag End and cautiously taps at it. Frodo doesn't answer. The door isn't locked, though, so Sam goes in. What he finds is dishes everywhere: casseroles and pie plates and custard cups and tea mugs and dinner plates, all scattered with crumbs and topped with sticky silverware. Frodo isn't anywhere to be seen, but Sam can guess he's behind that shut study door. Sam steps around an empty basket that once contained pears, and knocks. "Mr. Frodo?" he asks. "You all right, there?"
"Fine, Sam," comes the soft answer.
"Can I make you anything for supper?"
"No, thank you. The food from the party is tiding me over quite well."
"I see that," Sam mutters, not loud enough to be heard. Then he offers, raising his voice again, "I'll just tidy it up out here a bit, then, and be on my way."
"Thank you," Frodo says, almost too quiet to catch.
It takes Sam near an hour to clean up and put away all those dishes and forks and spoons, but Frodo still doesn't come out.
Sam's beginning to formulate plans, two days later, to break in through a window if need be and force Frodo to see that things aren't so bad, and even tell him that, for goodness's sake, Sam *liked* what he saw. But luckily he doesn't have to do anything so drastic: he looks up from the autumn perennials, toward the end of the afternoon that day, to see Frodo ambling toward him, hands in his pockets. Frodo looks shy and serious, but not angry.
"Hello," says the somber, beautiful master of Bag End.
"'Ey," Sam answers, and mentally kicks himself for not being more eloquent.
"I wanted to say..." Frodo draws shapes in the grass with his toe, and focuses intensely on that. "...that I'm sorry. For everything, the other morning."
"The morning..."
"After the party." Frodo gives him a brief glance under his lashes, seemingly to make sure Sam understands which day they're talking about. As if Sam has lots of such mornings and therefore might be in doubt.
"You didn't do nothing to be sorry for," Sam says.
Frodo sighs, and turns his gaze to the gold-tinted clouds in the west. "Well, I shouldn't have been so sharp with you. And I still can't believe what I...well." He shakes his head.
"You were just upset. I don't blame you for that. And as for having the dream in the first place..." Sam isn't sure whether to go on; Frodo has shot him a cautious look. But he can hardly leave the sentiment unfinished now, so he continues: "Never say you're sorry for dreams. They're not your fault."
Frodo shrugs one shoulder, and turns aside. "I feel a fool, all the same."
"Don't. I feel a fool, too. I - I could've handled it better."
Frodo's glance at him now is almost shocked. Sam catches the unintentional double entendre, blushes hot, and quickly adds:
"I don't mean *handled* it - not *it* - not - oh, I only mean I shouldn't have startled you." Sam looks, flustered, down at the flowers he's planting. Everything that seemed so clear and tender and perfect for the last few days is suddenly now a pitiful mess.
To his surprise and relief, Frodo laughs, a rueful chuckle. "We're an awkward scenario, aren't we, Sam, dear?" He sounds embarrassed, not seductive, but that "dear" still shoots into Sam's blood like a thunderclap. Sam has never been "dear" before, not to Frodo.
All he can manage in answer is a chuckle of his own.
Frodo strolls a step or two toward the smial, then stops, and turns around again. "I didn't...*say* anything, did I? In my sleep."
"No, sir."
"You're sure?"
"You sort of - murmured, I suppose - but I couldn't catch no words."
"I didn't say a...name?"
"No." Sam dares to smile again, and to tease, "Why? Were you dreaming of someone I know?"
Frodo looks flustered, and almost annoyed. "That's enough of that," he warns, and goes back toward the smial. "Goodnight," he calls briefly over his shoulder.
Sam stares after him, stares at the flowers, sits back on his heels and stares at the sunset. Now, what in the name of heaven was all that?
Then, in a flash, he knows. It all makes sense.
A few seconds after that, he thinks he must be wrong, he *couldn't* know - that couldn't be the answer. Frodo wasn't dreaming of *him*. But...calling him "dear," asking him to stay behind when the others had left, inviting him to sleep in his bed, looking at him the way he sometimes does...is the explanation as simple and as wonderful as that? Sam's heart seems to be thumping in a vast circuit all over his insides.
Sam doesn't know if he's right. He gets the rest of the flowers planted, hands unsteady in the comforting soil, and brushes the loose dirt off the surrounding grass. He doesn't know, but he's willing to gamble on it, for think of the winnings! And by the time he's putting away the gardening tools and going home, Sam knows just what he'll do to test this idea. He will lie.
(To be continued.)