III: RED
Frodo hadn't meant to spy upon their gardener's son. Spying was a habit he had properly given up as well as his nightly foray into the erotic world of the translations. He'd read them over and over throughout the spring until the intensity of the story had ebbed with familiarity. With the return of summer's long warm days, Frodo had assumed his former pastimes. He left his bedroom behind for the splendour of the countryside, reconnecting to his more accustomed loves and habits, and thought himself content. But deep down, he could not deny the sense of loss and hopeless loneliness the books had left in their wake, a wound that would remain open and aching for what he imagined would be a very long time.
Therefore, the spying occasion came to him quite by happenstance, as he took a detour home through the marshy upper tributaries that led to the Bywater pool. It was Highday and he knew the farming lads often crossed this way to fish in the small shallow pools and hoped he might come upon some of them for a friendly chat and to soak his road-sore feet in the cool waters.
As it happened that afternoon, there were bathers. It was nothing that Frodo hadn't come upon before, although he always kept his own bathing habits closed within Bag End's wide metal tubs. In his childhood, Buckland public bathing was performed while wearing appropriate garments, but in the heart of the Shire, young lads and lasses splashed about in the streams and pools naked as birth. It was all a part of country life for hobbits who saw no sense in dressing down only to redress in something that was going to become wet anyway.
As Frodo came through the high brush, he could hear the voices of several lads--some familiar, some not. He ducked down as he drew close to see if he could surprise a few into sputtering a mouthful of pond water at a well-tossed skipping stone come from an unseen source. As he peered through the reeds, Frodo recognised the eldest Cotton lad, Tom, and one of the many Chubb cousins splashing and wrestling about in the shallows. The next head that popped up was Finn Bolger, and the last, to his amusement and delight, was Sam, throwing Finn off his back and wading to shore with a hearty grumble. Frodo could laugh to himself and enjoy this merry scene now, but just twelve years ago the sight of such rustic impudicity had come to him as quite a shock.
Having grown up accustomed to Buckland's upper-class propriety, Frodo had found the move to Hobbiton somewhat difficult. The people of the humbler towns of the Shire had seemed silly and crude to him at first. The smials with their plain green and yellow trim, the children with their dirty knees and the dogs and pigs that roamed freely in and out of most households, were strange sights to his eyes. Even the accent was different. Folk in Hobbiton spoke in a lumbering, clipped tongue that he'd found difficult to understand at times, and the near inclusive lack of lettering among the adults was inexcusable to a lad who had begun his studies at the tender age of five. Oh, the people were friendly enough, but it was uncomfortable for him to see Bilbo clap their backs in greeting and call even the lowliest cowherd 'Master Greenbrook,' or the portly milkmaid 'Mistress Pansy,' almost as if in mockery of his own station.
Frodo's heart had lifted, though, once Bilbo brought him into Bag End, suitcase in hand. Their home under the Hill was grand and filled with warmth and light he'd not known in Brandy Hall. But more welcoming than the smial was Bilbo, who without anyone else to look after, would finally give Frodo the guidance and attention he'd sorely needed since his parents died. Frodo missed his cousins; especially Merry who had been quite young when he moved and Frodo worried would grow up to forget him. But that was not the case and once Merry was old enough to travel on his own, he'd come up to Hobbiton for visits and Bilbo would always take Frodo back to Buckland for holidays and weddings. There was Freddy, too, who had become his good friend, and although he had come to expect less from the neighbours, Frodo knew his life was greatly improved by the change.
The smial was bereft of servants, so Frodo soon became accustomed to sweeping his own floor and turning down his own bed sheets. Bilbo only kept one servant and he was many times more a friend to him than a hired hand. Hamfast Gamgee was a stodgy old fellow who knew his place and would not allow Bilbo to pay him more than his day's worth of keeping the property in turnips and morning glories.
For with Bag End also came the garden, and within that garden was Sam, a sunny little lad who scrambled about after his dad, stirring up dust with trowels and picks too big for his hands. Frodo was fond of children, having watched so many of his younger cousins growing up, and Sam reminded him of some of them. Tow-headed and kind, Sam was an unusually bright child who loved to sneak into Bag End when his father was busy in the garden to see if he could ask Frodo or Bilbo to read him a fantastic tale of elves. Frodo found his budding curiosity of the larger world adorable and could hardly resist the sweet smile and bright brown eyes that would sit upon the rug, scratching his toes, asking questions and gasping in wonder for the very things the rest of the Shire couldn't give scruff about. Sam had an old soul and Frodo had found a friend where he'd least expected it, in the heart of a nine-year-old child.
The world of elves and their writings had been the cornerstone of their growing friendship. It led to Sam learning to read himself under Bilbo's patient tutoring and Frodo's private delight that he might finally have somebody to share a decent conversation with outside of his guardian and distant cousins. Sam and he would speak of books and look at maps of places they'd like to one day visit in far-off lands; maybe even as far as Rivendell where Bilbo had spent so much time and had brought so many books and scrolls back with him. Together they would pour over the Elvish works in awe at the beauty of the language and the gilded colourful bindings. As fate would have it, it was young Sam who grew to bridge the lonely gap for Frodo between the society of Buckland and the humble comfort of Hobbiton, allowing him to feel as if he had a real family again.
It was also Sam who had unwittingly aided Frodo in re-entering the mundane world of reality after his plunge into the translations. Frodo had been sitting in the study pouring over Words and Their Meanings when a voice caught him quite off-guard.
"Mr. Frodo?"
Frodo near jumped out of his skin at the sound of Sam's voice. He dropped the paper he'd been holding over the long definitions and to his dismay watched Sam bend to retrieve it. But the young Gamgee was well trained in courtesy and did not look upon its contents as he handed the slip of parchment back to Frodo.
"Sorry to trouble you in your studies, sir, but Mr. Bilbo asked me to come fetch you out. He said something about you catching squirrels before too long?"
Frodo covered his mouth and snorted into his palm. Sam didn't quite get the joke, but he smiled pleasantly. Sam was wearing a new set of work clothes that day, tailored by his mum. The cut of the shirt and weskit were well suited to Sam's ever-growing frame. He'd reached his full height that year and was now beginning to grow outwards, just the slightest hint of healthy belly filling in about his waist.
"How old are you now, Sam? Eighteen?" he asked.
"Aye, sir. Just last April. I made you that little carving for my birthday, you remember?"
"Ah, yes! Lovely work, Sam. It's hanging by my window if you didn't notice."
Sam beamed at this and looked around in the dusty light of the study with curious eyes. It had been half a year now since Sam had taken on his full apprenticeship and had stopped coming for reading lessons. Having learned his letters well, he only entered the study when Bilbo offered him a new book to take home and read at his leisure. Now that Sam had taken up at his father's side in the garden, those leisure hours had become short indeed, and the time he spent within Bag End, rather than without, had grown slim. Watching Sam in the study that day, admiring its contents with the same reverence as he himself often did, made Frodo realise how very much he'd been missing his close company. Frodo wondered if he couldn't change that.
"As a lad of eighteen, now, how do you spend your afternoons, since Bilbo seems so disagreeable with mine?"
"In the garden, sir, or about the household. My mum's teaching me to cook now, don't you know. She's grown tired of bending over the flames and thought a bit of a lad's touch might bring some new life to the supper table. I've been doing my best to please her and Dad."
Frodo got down off his chair and brushed the study dust off his trousers. "You do them proud, Sam," he said, coming over to give his friend's shoulder a squeeze. "Help me get this awful heavy thing back up on the proper shelf and I'll come on out for a bit of sun."
Sam bent and took up the book before Frodo could help him with it, slipping it back up on the shelf with ease. My, the lad is getting strong. Not a child at all anymore. Sam stood back from the shelf, his eyes gazing admiringly at the many rows of bindings. Sam was a most unusual hobbit, indeed, to have such a love for the written word. It was a rare trait that should not be allowed to atrophy in the life of a common gardener.
"Sam," Frodo asked, "do you think your mum could spare you if Bilbo and I had you over one night a week for reading discussion? I know he sends you off with books now and again. You could read them at home and come back to us when you've finished. It would be lovely to chat with you about them from time to time."
Sam turned about and smiled exuberantly. "Aye, Mr. Frodo! I'd like that a great deal. I'll ask her right away."
"It would be wonderful to have you about again. I miss our talks. Now let's see if we can catch ourselves some squirrels," he said, bending playfully to Sam's ear, as he steered his young friend out the study and toward the garden door.
So now, on Mersday eves, he and Sam and Bilbo would sit around the fire and talk late into the night about the merits of their favourite books, together. Sam was quite the proper servant now and addressed Frodo according to his status--no more skittering about the smial crying, 'Frodo! Frodo! Look what I've found in the garden!' Sam held doors and gates open for him, and took care of his coat when opportunity allowed. Sam was not in their official employ as his father was, but as apprentice he would now conduct himself as if he was. It was an odd adjustment for Frodo who could well remember the reticent lads who used to wait upon him in Brandy Hall. Never before had Frodo become close to a servant or had a friend become one before his eyes.
For the reading sessions, Frodo made it plain that Sam would sit among them as their guest and not hesitate to speak his mind and take tea with them and not serve it as he often offered. It was a pleasure to know Sam as a grown lad and to continue to uncover how his mind worked. The discussions they shared over the values presented in their readings allowed Frodo a rare glimpse into the creative mind of a hard-working hobbit--part common-sense philosopher, part dreaming wanderer--a most delightful combination that never ceased to surprise him.
But for all of their intellectual intimacy, until this day, Frodo had not yet had the opportunity to gain his fill of the whole of Sam in his new body, muscled and ropy with vigour and youth. His golden skin and stout form had grown very pleasing to behold, indeed, as Frodo watched the young hobbit bend to retrieve his bathing towel. Sam, simply put, was handsome in every way. Who could not help to notice? Surely there was no harm in this, Frodo figured, as he settled down in the reeds for a good long look. He and Sam had every respect for one another and he was merely admiring the lad as he would a fine painting or sturdy flowering oak. Or so he told himself.
Tom and the Chubb and Finn continued their play in the water while Sam lay upon his side faced away from Frodo watching them, laughing and shouting at what a bunch of ninnies they were. The lads grew breathless over time and waded towards shore where the water receded and streaked down their tanned muscled skin to reveal bold heedless erections and sloppy wet feet. Frodo's breath caught at the sight of them together like this. None pointed or seemed appalled by the state of their bodies. And although Tom waived them off and walked over to steal Sam's towel out from under him, the other two continued their tussle until they fell down into the slick grass, giggling and pressing themselves against one another.
Tom ignored them and lay in the grass near Sam in the full sun, talking casually to him about silage storage or some odd thing while Tom's arousal gradually faded and relaxed despite the now telling moans coming from the remaining pair, who were fully tangled together and rutting upon one another like pups. Frodo was transfixed by this. Mouth agape and heart fluttering, he lowered himself further in the grasses and hoped he would remain unseen. The picture before him was so natural and unassuming. Sam and Tom's complete lack of surprise or disdain for the jubilant pair took whatever sensibilities Frodo had been raised up to accept and turned them quite arse over teakettle. Round-eyed and dizzy with his own growing excitement, Frodo forced his panting chest to pace itself as he tore his gaze from one pair to the next.
The lads' sounds of enjoyment only grew more intense as their motions became less random and more precise, hands joining the activity, to squeeze and increase the friction, their mouths alternating between rough kisses and requests for more of this and oh-don't-stop, that.
"Keep it down over there; you want Old Noakes coming out with his whip?" Sam called out to them and he and Tom exchanged a knowing grin. Tom patted Sam's behind as they laughed at some common joke, his hand just falling to trail down over Sam's hip to his groin. Sam rolled then, exposing himself to Frodo's view. The Cotton lad's fingers opened to grasp what was clearly half-filled and willing to receive.
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut. He could not watch this. He could not. His Sam, his beautiful, young, innocent Sam was lying not thirty feet away opening his legs to welcome the touch of It was more than Frodo could comprehend; and no less confusing than the throbbing response from his own body, so eager to know that very touch, yet so afraid of it. So ashamed he was, even as he rose upon unsteady legs to slink away back through the brush to the paths he knew and understood, once again alone with the silent pleading of his body.
***
It was some days before Frodo could bring himself to look Sam in the eye again. The vivid picture he now carried of him lying bare to the sky in the grass with Tom would not fade, nor allow for many other thoughts, to the point that Bilbo felt he required some talking to. "Now Frodo, what's with all this wool-gathering? You've not eaten more than half your meals in some days and you've got your head quite turned around by some trouble or other. What have you been poking your nose into?"
The real trouble was Frodo longed so desperately to speak with someone more knowledgeable than he on these matters, and certainly that was what Bilbo was here for. But whenever he tried to find the words, his tongue grew leaden and he would mumble some excuse about not feeling well and shuffle off to his bedroom to try and work out the quandary on his own.
He was not disappointed in Sam; that was the most surprising. At first he thought that hot clotted feeling in his throat was hurt. But it was not. It was envy. That Sam, his young Sam knew of these things, had seen these things, done these things, all on his own and Frodo twelve years his senior had only recently come upon the mere notion of such experiences through a locked set of translations--it was a bitter draught to swallow. Frodo would see Sam outside his windows in the sunlight, whistling a tune and swinging a hoe, and wonder: How did he begin to know? Who showed him? Had he rolled about with Tom as the other lads had that day at the pools? Was Tom Sam's love, or just a warm palm on a lazy day?
Frodo knew now that he had felt largely important to Sam by virtue of his own educational prowess. It swelled his heart with pride to aid Sam in the learning of literature's morals and mysteries. He'd taken credit for being the erudite visionary to open Sam's mind to the vast circles of the world beyond hearth and croft, who spoke and read to him of elves and dwarves and dragons, all the while drinking in Sam's wide-eyed wonder as he leaned on his every word. To know now that there were mysteries somehow simpler yet greater than these weightless written words, and that Sam knew them--that Sam knew the very thing Frodo had come to desire beyond all else--little wonder his head was all turned about.
As the last days of summer grew to an end and the cooler breezes of autumn flew in, Frodo's envy turned to curiosity and he began to consider, if he could not bring himself to broach the issue with Bilbo, then perhaps he could speak with Sam a little about it. Sam would be trustworthy and honest and not allow him to feel embarrassed, certainly. They'd spoken openly on so many topics of controversy before. Why not ask Sam? Frodo decided this would be the best course to take, but once again fell upon the difficulty of getting his tongue to agree. So instead, Frodo opted to discourse with Sam in a manner in which he was most familiar--Frodo showed Sam the books.
"What's this?" Sam had asked, turning the soft leather copybooks about in his lap during a rare discussion evening when Bilbo happened to be out. "There's no writing on the covers."
Frodo stood beside him, taking his uncle's place as mentor for the evening. "They're a special translation set down by Bilbo some years ago. He doesn't know I have them."
Sam looked warily at Frodo, the parlour firelight glancing upon his cheeks. "Then begging your pardon, sir, he might not take too well to me handling them. If they're among the finest of his collection, leastways."
Frodo hid his trembling hands in the pockets of his waistcoat. "They're not rare, in that fashion, I don't think. Just secret."
"Why secret? They're Elvish, aren't they?" Sam opened the red book carefully. "Sindarin, I'd guess by Mr. Bilbo's lettering."
"Yes, Sam; it's Sindarin. Mid-second age by the Tengwar, but the tale is much older."
"What sort of tale?" Sam asked, curiously.
Frodo cleared his throat. "An adventure story, mostly. About two elf princes and their quest."
"Oh," Sam said, excitedly. "Would you like me to read a passage?"
Frodo couldn't find the courage to answer before Sam flipped open the book to where Frodo had first placed a ribbon marker. He moved a candle closer to his seat on the bench and laid a hand upon the pages.
"Here we go," Sam said, diving right in. He read the pages slowly, but with good rhythm and attention to the metre. He stumbled over a few obscure words Frodo quietly assisted him with, seemingly oblivious to the chapter's content as his voice did not start or stutter over the meanings. Frodo began to worry that Sam's reading comprehension might be lacking, when Sam stumbled altogether on the same word Frodo had months before when it first appeared in the green book.
"Mr. Frodo, what's frr..ottI can't make it out."
Frodo had turned somewhat away from Sam to stare at the fire, his hand steady on the back of Bilbo's chair. "Frottage," he said, his own voice sounding distant like this was some dream, not real at all.
"Frot-tage," Sam repeated. "What's it mean, sir?"
"It means" Frodo said in that same odd voice, "to rub one surface against another."
"Oh, well, that makes some sense."
Frodo turned, coming out of his dazedness. "What do you mean, Sam?" Sam jumped a little at this, but Frodo hadn't meant to sound so sharp. "I'm sorry, Sam. I mean, what did you think of the passage?"
Sam was a bit unnerved, but clearly not by the writing when he replied. "It's a good read, sir. The wording is verywhat do you say? Lyrical?"
"Yes, Sam; it is lovely wording. Bilbo's a master translator, but what of the tale itself? What do you make of it?"
Sam shrugged and looked back to the book, turning the pages over in his hands. "Sounds like lads being lads to me."
Frodo knew he shouldn't have expected anything more disconcerted from Sam, but this still managed to surprise him. "Then, it does not strike you as odd, that two lads shouldhold one another in this fashion?"
Sam may have been born simple, but he was no fool; he could read Frodo's unease as easily as he'd read the runes and answered carefully, although truthfully. "No, sir. Should I? Begging your pardon, but 'tis common enough."
"True," Frodo said, feeling his way around a difficult start. "Thoughnot so common to me."
Sam's brow narrowed as he pondered his meaning. "Did you not have mates up in Buckland, sir?"
Frodo let out a breath; he was through the hedge now. "No, Sam. Not really. I was much older than many of my cousins, and the older boys, they would not have me about. It wasn't something often spoken of, nor encouraged."
"Oh!" said Sam, as if everything now fell into place for him. "Are you asking me then, about it?"
Frodo felt he might fall over with relief and took the chair. "I don't know of anyone else I can ask, Sam."
Sam set the books aside on the bench and smiled warmly at Frodo. "You could ask me, sir. But if you don't mind me saying, it would be far easier if you let me show you."
***
Frodo had met Sam at the edge of Hobbiton's birch groves in the long shadows of a failing afternoon not long after. A sundown wind had risen, blowing the small brown leaves around them and upon Sam's curly head and grey cloak.
Frodo greeted his friend shyly as they fell into step. Sam smiled and took his hand in his, swinging their arms casually as he led him to a place some ways from the path where he had set down blankets and a costrel of warm cider.
Even now, Frodo could still recall that heavy feeling he'd carried, low and full in anticipation of this meeting. He'd worn his cloak off the shoulder to hide what he knew he should not be ashamed to show, it being the purpose of their rendezvous. But his upbringing and inherent shyness would not subside, even as Sam welcomed him into a generous hug, and kissed his ear, telling him once again how everything would be all right. He needn't worry; his Sam would take care of him.
The cider was still sweet upon their lips, as Sam kissed him and settled them under the blankets, sheltering them as the wind whispered and the branches murmured over their heads. Frodo reached for him, both wanting and frightened, as Sam lay close beside him, speaking so kindly to him, stroking his hair as his lips softly kissed his face and trembling hands.
"Shall I remove this?" Frodo could recall asking, fumbling for the catch of his cloak.
Sam circled his wrist, no. He would see to what was required. "Just lie back, sir."
Sam moved over him, and Frodo moaned when he felt the weight of his friend full upon him, pressing the same hard, yet muffled, desire to his own. He moved then, a gentle rocking. The friction gained between the layers of their clothes beat like licks of flame all along Frodo's aching flesh, making him gasp and wriggle for more.
It had been so simple, no worries or awkward moves--just Sam, his Sam, so strong and sure guiding them. Frodo soon became lost in the power and beauty of it. Eyes shut, his fingers clenched in Sam's grey cloak, he whispered to him--a wordless pleading, heedless of where his voice might carry--knowing only that this motion, this closeness should never end, until the feeling gathering hot and pounding in his buried groin could hold no longer and he abandoned himself to the deep freeing pleasure of release.
Sam followed soon after, shifting and settling into a steadier motion, his face buried in the hood of Frodo's sideways cloak, his final expression of relief as secret and precious as the fluids spilled from their bodies, wrapped and hidden in linen under wool.
The memory of their first innocent tryst never failed to drive a flurry of desire through Frodo, even now--it was and had remained his most beloved remembrance. Had they lain there long afterwards? He was not certain. There were shy kisses and more cider and a promise to meet again, someday soon, when Sam would not be missed. But the sky had gone dark by the time he stumbled home, flushed and already hard from the memory as he took hurriedly to the bath, biting back his moans as the soapy water sloshed over him, concealing his secrets once again.
***
There were the times that followed, in the garden alone together for a few stolen minutes, while Bilbo and the Gaffer shuffled off for a smoke or to discuss the late harvest. Quick and quiet they would duck into the shed or below the footbridge planks. Feet ankle-deep in the stream, they would kiss and grasp one another in a flurry of hands and buttons. Hand to groin they would find one another and the muffled sounds of their pleasure would be scattered in the splashing stream or the groan of the water pump. It would be over in moments, passion surging and spilling through them in one mindless wave. Breathless and trembling, they'd struggle to cover up what little they had been able to let free in a heart-pounding rush, standing apart, listening for soft footfalls now that reason had found its way back to them.
There were times when no opportunities came for weeks or more and the waiting would become such a distraction that Frodo would jump at the very sound of the back gate opening or the grinding wheels of the rusty wheelbarrow. "My, how you've become a skittish mouse," Bilbo would remark and advise him to stop reading so late in bed--to which Frodo would blush furiously, even though that might not be what Bilbo meant, but his heart could think of no other reason to keep beating but to hope to find Sam hidden and alone once again.
Frodo did very little reading in bed during those blurry autumn nights, yet kept an innocuous book he'd read many times before at his bedside table. He'd move the marker ever so slowly night by night, while instead he'd lie wide awake thinking of Sam: Sam's private scent and warmth, musky and slick in his hands, his tongue sliding over his own, his fingers tangled in his curls, the sound of his stifled groans and thrusts as he lifted Frodo against a fence post, masonry or other found bracing. But mostly he ached for the blissful memory of that first discovery, of the privacy of the birch grove and the passing minutes to lie close and be held and comforted--to feel Sam's weight upon him again and to not worry about their elders finding grass shoots or gravel where it should not be. In the looking-glass by candlelight he would trace the fading mark Sam had made on his skin with his teeth, when they'd backed against the grapevine trellis and the force of Sam's standing climax had been too great to silence.
Awake, he'd lay some nights till the early hours, wretched and yearning for something no mere self-pleasure could allay. If this is love, Frodo thought, then it is a curse I wish to be freed from, to be locked away in a silver box and forgotten. But then the thought of rising in the dawn and not straining to listen for that whistling over the Hill, to think of nothing more than tea and a day's bookish pursuits would crush his spirit and bring the sharp sting of tears to his eyes. No, the only thing worse Frodo could imagine then not having Sam in his arms would be to not have had Sam at all. And he'd blow out his candles and let exhaustion take him over into sleep.
***
They were delivered from their torments by yet another dropped candle. Bilbo had set fire to his sacred basket of Old Toby, the replacement of which required a four day trip to Longbottom, which Bilbo wasted no time in preparing for himself. Frodo knew this would give him ample opportunity to slip away all day and night if he desired, but it was Sam that was the most watched. At his father's side, hands to soil, dawn to dusk, Sam's duties were only relieved on Highday and even then he was expected to spend his leisure time at home or down in Bywater in the company of lads his own age and status. How Frodo envied those lads, able to play and roll about as they pleased with hardly a knock on the wrist for their mischief.
"Do you go back to the pools, Sam, on Highday?" Frodo had asked him quietly, during one of their reading sessions when Bilbo had stepped out to fetch more sweetcake and tea. They sat close, yet apart, knowing what the nearest brush could stir in them at a heart's beat.
Sam had looked up from his book, a look of concern upon his face. "I do, sometimes," he admitted. "But more for the bath and not for the play, if you follow me. Not like I did. Not like I donow with you." His voice had rasped the last words and his brown eyes held all the trust and loyalty Frodo could desire. It made him flush and he looked back to the book he held upon his lap.
"I'm glad, Sam," he said and let a grin ease his tender heart. So very glad.
So it came to be, during the Gamgee's efforts to help air out Bag End's back halls of excess leaf smoke, that Frodo pulled Sam aside into the deepest cellar on some meaningless errand so that they might plan a way to meet. Frodo threw his arms about Sam's neck and kissed him soundly as soon as they'd felt the cool bricks beneath their feet.
"Bilbo means to be away for four days, two days hence. I shall be alone here. Oh, Sam, what can we do?"
Sam looked both elated and dumbfounded. "My Dad," he said. "He wouldn't let me out of his sight for all the weed in Southfarthing."
"But evenings, Sam. Can you manage to get out?"
"Aye, and have from time to time to have a look at the moon. But I always come right back. He'd box my ears if I took off up the Row and he came calling for me as he does of nights when his joints are bad."
"Then," Frodo said, "perhaps I can ask Bilbo to inquire for your assistance with my well-keeping. He knows I've been skittish lately; maybe he would let you stay to keep me company. Bag End certainly has the room."
Sam looked worried. "Do you think he'll suspect?"
Frodo pondered this; it had been so difficult to read Bilbo since all this began. Sometimes Frodo felt he must know from the scant occasions they'd nearly been caught, flushed and breathless, a button or two askew--and then the chance he might know as he had done with the translations--perhaps Bilbo might leave the box unlocked once again. "I have to try," he said, gazing longingly at Sam. "I want to lie with you, Sam. To have you in my bed, beside me, the whole of the night where all I have to think about is you."
The sweetest smile lit Sam's face and he brushed Frodo's curls from his cheek. "Then ask, love. Or I'll jump the moon to find you."
Frodo almost fainted with happiness when the answer he sought came back as 'yes.' Even more incredible was Bilbo's announcement that Sam's Gaffer was to accompany him on his trip. Certainly, both elder hobbits felt Bag End would be kept better those days and nights if Sam were about to see Frodo properly fed and minded. He would stay in the guest room nearest Frodo's own to help ease what Bilbo was now calling Frodo's 'nightgoblins.' "The lad needs some company to keep him out of his own shadows. Sam's the proper lad to see to it. And be mindful of the guttering candles!"
***
As agreed, Sam arrived at the back door the following Hevensday when his duties were over, a fat blueberry pie in his hands from Bell Gamgee. Frodo laughed as he greeted him and they hurried inside, nearly dropping the delicacy in a rush to press their mouths together. Pie upon the table, and his arms wrapped firmly about his love, Frodo was soon grasping at Sam's braces and tugging him backwards into the main smial, stumbling over dropped books, not allowing the kiss to break. They'd made it nearly to his bedroom, shirts untucked, and trousers half unbuttoned, before Sam caught them at the door trim.
"Not to spoil your wishes, sir. But I rushed right over and am in a bit of a need of a wash. If you've a basin handy, I thought I might"
Frodo silenced him with another firm kiss. "Sam, you're brilliant! The bath! I hadn't even thought of it. Come with me!"
A half an hour later, kettles steaming and bench and sill lit with candles, they found themselves sunk to the hip upon their knees in warm soapy water, chest to chest, spreading bubbles and slick wet pleasure between them. Hands sought every limb and curve and crease, passing low to stroke and tease the demanding heat thrusting slowly belly to belly. Frodo lost each cry and moan, deep and hungry, caught around Sam's tongue and between his willing lips. His palms, slippery with foam, sought the span of Sam's back and shoulders, smoothing over the golden skin to his bottom and thighs, kneading and soaping the very form and frame of him. He surprised them both with his daring and curiosity, as his fingertips searched low and hidden into the fur-lined hollows of Sam's body, releasing those quivering hidden treasures. And Sam did the same, slipping between them to weigh and coddle, then rise and narrow to grasp them hard together, rubbing with slow perfection, drawing them close, so close, only to let go and rock Frodo in his arms, easing the expectant tension with kneading fingers down his spine. Their movements which had first been playful, then curious and bold, grew ever lighter and more delicate until hands stopped all together and mouths fell open, chins tucked over shoulders to hold each other closer and closer, yet move in ever slighter and subtler circles of hip and thigh, until the effort to prolong the inevitable slipped and they thrust greedily into the force of their climax, clinging and shouting the joy of their surging passion to the beaded dripping walls.
Frodo had kissed Sam in his bed until his lips ached from the endless delight it gave him. They'd slipped clean and dried between the soft cotton sheets upon the deep feather mattress to find all the best ways to mould into one another for the sweetest embrace, the fullest hug. Sam's sturdy wider frame was a perfect fit for his own slimmer one and it was irresistibly pleasant to try every possible combination of front to front or back to front or anything else they could imagine. Sam's curly chest to his back was the most heavenly and they'd slept for sometime in that fashion, two mussed heads upon one pillow, until a stretch or lazy shift of a limb would wake them from their doze to seek the other's lips once more.
They'd made love twice more in that bed before dawn--Frodo lying upon Sam and seeking his flesh with a curious wandering tongue, tasting his skin, ever lower, until he filled Frodo's mouth with teased and swollen need. Sam quickened within him, and he swallowed his lover's stunned response before being lifted and turned around to savour the amazing discovery for himself, as Frodo came to know no sensation more favourable than that of the parting of Sam's lips, sheathing him in wet moving heat. They rose again sometime before dawn, Frodo seated across Sam's thighs, arms pinned behind him by strong firm hands, writhing, back arched and neck exposed to the hot trails of Sam's tongue, moving with one another so fluidly as if they were born to fit in his perfect embrace. Frodo became utterly lost in it, all the shimmering glowing feelings, until there was no world outside this bed, no other being breathed or walked upon the earth other than his Sam.
At last, sometime past the fifth hour, hunger drove them from the sheets and up the smial to sit with bare bottoms upon the kitchen table. Feet dangling, the pie balanced across their laps, they scooped dark purple sweetness through each other's lips--full sloppy handfuls of berry-leaden buttery crust, bursting with thick juices that sated their neglected bellies when it didn't ooze upon a bare thigh or stain a perfectly lickable neck. Every morsel was savoured and devoured, licked clean from pan, hand, and fingers and melted between tongues sunk deep in delicious kisses and moans of satisfaction.
"Mayhap I should see to the garden soon," Sam had mumbled around the last mouthful of their spent pie.
"No" Frodo said, becoming lost in a kiss as he sought to linger upon the fruit-rich tastes still hidden in Sam's mouth. "I never want to think about the outside again. Just you, only and forever."
***
Sam did insist upon feeding them properly later that afternoon, if it was afternoon, for Frodo didn't want the curtains parted or for either of them to wear much clothing, though he allowed Sam a long apron, the white ties dangling comically around his pink rump as he stirred and fried.
Bellies full and bodies sore from making good use of the cluttered kitchen table, Frodo had lain back in Sam's arms upon the cushioned parlour bench, a blanket about them both, reading to him from the red translation book. He went over every detail of each coupling and discussed with Sam how they might improve upon some of the ideas. Frodo confessed how he had already imagined every form of love described therein with Sam and they both agreed to attempt to cover the majority before their time ran short, provided they'd not expire first in the attempt.
Frodo especially wanted Sam to attempt penetration with him, and after a long nap before the fire and another quick meal, they returned to the bath to try it. It did not go quite as Frodo had thought it would, and in fact, didn't go very far at all. He was crestfallen by this and blamed himself for having some flaw in his constitution the book did not mention.
"It's all right, love," Sam whispered, his wet arms pulling him up from his knees and holding him close, stroking his wet tangled hair. "You needn't try so hard, you know."
"I want to please you, Sam," he'd said, sitting back in the water with him, gathered into his lap. "I want to give you everything."
Sam kissed his forehead and nuzzled his cheek. "You do, Frodo. You always have."
Frodo turned to look into his friend's eyes. "Do you love me, Sam?" he asked.
Sam could not find words to answer right away, but tears moistened his eyes. "I always have," he said and hugged Frodo tight. Frodo buried his face in Sam's neck, wondering how he would ever manage to let go again.
***
They had tried to stay awake for as long as possible, even when they could no longer muster even the smouldering embers of their desire. These quieter moments when Sam held him close in his bed as they dozed, were the most endearing embraces they'd shared. Frodo could recall waking from a light dream sometime in the early morning, to feel Sam slip an arm under his waist to take him in a full hug, burying his nose in Frodo's hair. He slipped his leg over Frodo's, entwining himself about him as the old oak roots cradled Bag End. Frodo lay pliant, in quiet wonder as Sam, who did not know he had awoken, breathed in the scent of his shoulders and trailing curls, his heart beating solid against his spine and his breath coming in ragged sighs as he fought to contain some emotion. Frodo thought of that first time in the birch grove when Sam had buried his face in the hood of his cloak. Why do you hide this from me? He wondered, but would not break the spell for the world as he felt Sam calm and nestle his member, soft and sleepy, against the curve of his bottom and return to sleep.
***
Sam wanted to know how the tale ended and asked that Frodo read to him from the blue book on their final afternoon. Frodo had been reluctant, for the only thing keeping his heart together now was his denial of Sam's inevitable departure from his home at nightfall. But Sam would not be swayed and Frodo relented, curling up in his arms before the hearth and resting his head against Sam's shoulder as he read the last sections, right up to the lovers' tragic bloody deaths.
Sam was quiet as Frodo closed the book and set it aside. His lover's face wore a distant, private expression, as the firelight glowed on his bare skin. Sam had never looked more beautiful to Frodo than in that moment, older somehow, dearer, yet so far away in a place unknown to him. Frodo sat loosely in Sam's arms, wanting to hug him tightly and swear to him that he would never leave his side should all the heartless evil in the world turn upon them. But he did not, and when Sam still failed to reveal his inner thoughts to him upon learning the tragic end to this all-consuming love, Frodo got up and excused himself to the bathroom where he stood over the sink, staring at his shivering dishevelled reflection in the looking-glass. Who am I? He asked. Who have I become?
***
Frodo had stood, shamefully clinging to Sam, at Bag End's open back door. Sam held him, the hour growing late and his coat on, while Frodo's tears fell upon the coarse wool. They'd been unable to let go of each other after several attempts to say goodbye and the air in the kitchen had long gone cold from the draught. He had wanted to be strong for Sam, but the thought of having to go back to watching and waiting for a furtive mating in the garden shadows seemed a cruel substitute for what they had come to know these brief four days.
"I don't know how I'll bear it," he said quietly, wiping his tears against Sam's shoulder. "How can I wake without you beside me? How can I sleep?"
Sam did not answer him in words for some time, but stroked his back and kissed his tears--driven speechless by his own emotions. At last, Sam took Frodo's hands between his own and brought them to his lips. "I'll always be near," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. He turned away quickly, dropping his hands, and stepped out into the night under the light of the full moon.