Frodo took a bath in preparation for the evening, then got dressed in fresh clothing, and sat outside on the front porch, enduring sneezing fits, to let his hair dry in the late sunshine. He had washed it with a lemongrass-scented rinse, which ordinarily he saved for special occasions. To help pass the time while sitting there, he got out a small pair of shears, and trimmed his toenails and fingernails, then leaned down to cut a sprig of spearmint to chew on. While he had the fragrant leaves in his hands, he decided it wouldn't go amiss to crush them between his fingers and rub the scent onto his wrists and into the damp hair at the nape of his neck. He thought it only courteous to Sam to be as clean and well-groomed as possible; and he didn't like to imagine what Mariella would do if she thought he hadn't gone to sufficient effort.
When Sam trudged up the path, Frodo noticed he had apparently gone to some effort too. He had evidently bathed, as his hair was still wet enough that it formed tight dark curls just above his collar. His skin glowed a clean tan-peach, and his clothes looked to be entirely free of pollen and grass. "Me Gaffer gave me a hard time," Sam said as he reached the porch. " 'Getting all gussied up just to come here and look at a book,' as he called it."
"Little does he know," Frodo said dourly. "Well, do come in. I haven't seen Miss Mariella yet, but I fear to think how she would react if we weren't ready when she appeared."
They went inside, though Sam sighed that it seemed a shame to be in on such a fine evening. Frodo offered him an armchair, and agreed, but pointed out that they couldn't exactly practice kissing, with a ghost for an audience, out on the front porch in full view of the road. Sam acknowledged the truth in that.
Frodo lit a few candles to stave off the deepening twilight, and then took a seat in a chair opposite Sam, and folded his hands. "I suppose there's nothing to do but wait," he said.
"Suppose not."
Frodo turned a hand over to examine his trimmed nails. Sam fussed with the edge of his waistcoat. Then he piped up, "Mr. Frodo--pardon my asking, but, shouldn't we be sitting over there, like?" He nodded to the couch, with its back to the far wall.
"Over there? Why?"
"Well, she'll be putting us over there anyway, I imagine. It's not like we'll be kissing each other from these two chairs, when I can't even reach you if I stretch my foot all the way out." Sam demonstrated.
"Oh. That's true. I suppose I just thought she'd tell us what she wanted when she arrived...but now that I think on it, she might in fact be very angry if we haven't taken the initiative ourselves. She seemed quite intent on that sort of thing."
Sam nodded. "And I figure if it ain't the couch she wants us on, it's--well, don't mean to shock you, sir, but she might get notions of a *bed*..."
Frodo blushed, and got up immediately, nodding. "Indeed. Indeed. Very wise, Sam. Then let's move, shall we?"
They removed themselves to the couch, and carefully sat down. A foot of space still separated them, but at least they were on the same piece of furniture now.
"That's better, I reckon," said Sam.
"Yes," Frodo agreed.
They resumed their patient waiting. After another minute or two, Sam cleared his throat.
"Maybe, um...well, I don't know, but..."
"What?" Frodo asked.
"Just, I think she'd be irked a bit, if she showed up and we was sitting here doing nothing, not even talking or anything."
"Oh. All right." Frodo brightened, and turned more to face Sam. "We can talk."
"And probably," Sam went on, "we should look a bit more comfortable. I bet she'd be pleased if we were sitting closer, see." Sam moved over, to within half a foot of Frodo.
"Ah! Good thinking again, Sam. Then here--" Frodo closed the space, settling down right beside Sam, their sleeves in contact. "That does look more affectionate, doesn't it?"
"Aye, I think so."
"Perhaps even--is this too much?" Frodo put an arm on the back of the sofa cushions, behind Sam's head.
"Not too much at all. That's what the courting couples do. Try like this, even." Sam took Frodo's hand and pulled his arm down around his shoulders. "My sisters and their sweethearts, they're always sitting that way. It's worth a try, anyhow."
"All right. Should you put yours around me, too?"
"Why not?" Sam maneuvered his arm up and around Frodo's shoulders.
"There," said Frodo, feeling satisfied with himself for getting this far without making any serious mistakes.
"Right," Sam agreed.
"Yes."
Sam coughed gently.
They lapsed into silence again.
"She's taking an awfully long time to get here," Frodo eventually mentioned.
"Oh, all *right*," Mariella groaned, startling Sam and Frodo into nearly tumbling off the couch. "I see you're going to take all week without my guidance." She had apparently been standing up against the wall, behind a bookcase, where they couldn't see her without turning around.
"Gracious," Frodo gasped. "How long have you--"
"Five minutes or so. But I'm getting bored now." She picked a book from the shelves and glided over to them. "This one looks nice and heavy. So. Get back in that comfortable position you were in, won't you?"
Sam and Frodo quickly, if grudgingly, complied.
"Sam," Mariella addressed, "tell me what Frodo's neck smells like."
"What his *neck* smells like? What a daft thing to say! What ought it to smell like?"
Mariella raised the book, ready to pitch. "Tell me!"
"Fine," grumbled Sam. Frodo gave him a small, encouraging smile. Sam ducked his head and hovered his nose around Frodo's earlobe. "Oh," he said, sounding surprised. "Actually I reckon that's...spearmint, ain't it, sir?"
"Yes!" Frodo said, pleased. "I found a sprig of it outside by the porch, and thought I'd dab some on."
"By the porch?" Sam frowned. "Oh, dear, I'll have to take care of that. It may smell nice, but the stuff's as invasive as any old weed. Sends runners right under the earth and they pop up everywhere, till next thing you know your garden's full of nothing but beds of spearmint--"
"Ahem," thundered Mariella.
"Sorry," said Sam.
"If you were as smart as you're supposed to be," Mariella went on, turning to Frodo, "you would have chewed on the mint, not just put it behind your ears like a girl playing at perfumes."
"But I did chew on it," said the smug Frodo. "I can still taste it as we speak!"
Mariella's smile was awfully complacent, and Frodo realized, a moment too late, that he had walked right into a trap. "Good," she purred. "Then let Sam have a taste of your mouth."
Frodo turned to Sam with a small wince. "Sorry."
"Bound to be given that order sooner or later," Sam shrugged. And, as before, he took the lead, and captured Frodo's mouth. Frodo remembered, after a few seconds, that he was supposed to be letting Sam taste the mint, ridiculous though the idea sounded, so he opened his mouth a little. Sam did the same. Both of them respectfully kept their tongues behind their teeth.
"Good," said Mariella when they stopped. "Could you taste spearmint, Sam?"
"Yes indeed, miss."
"And Frodo," she said, "what did Sam taste like?"
"I--I'm not sure. Tea, perhaps?" Frodo guessed.
"Could be that," Sam agreed. "Ended the meal with a cup of it."
"And," Mariella went on, sliding toward them in a manner that reminded Frodo of a serpent, "how does each of you feel? Be honest."
Frodo wasn't sure being honest was in fact what she wanted. At least, he knew he should leave out the part where he found it freakishly unsettling to have her staring at them. "I feel..." he began.
"Warm," contributed Sam.
"I like the sound of that!" she said, colorless lips pulling back in a grin.
"Yes," said Frodo, suppressing a shudder at the sight. "It's quite, um, cozy." There was truth in that. With a ghost standing in his parlor, Frodo did in fact want to seize Sam closer. Preferably to hide behind him.
"Do you find yourself...wanting more?" she probed.
"Er," Frodo began. "I would--it's just--I'm awfully tired, you see. After the shock of meeting you last night, the *pleasant* shock naturally I mean, I didn't sleep well at all, so..."
"If you kiss for one minute more," she said, "by which I mean a complete 60 seconds without stopping, then I will let you alone for the rest of the evening."
Frodo's heart lightened, and Sam said in a cheerful tone, "Reckon we can do that; don't you think, sir?"
"Until tomorrow, of course I mean," Mariella added.
Sam sighed, and Frodo grumbled, "Of course."
"Well, then, get started!"
Frodo turned to Sam, still nestled under his arm, and gave him an apologetic smile. "Nothing for it, sir," Sam remarked, then clasped his other arm around Frodo's waist and got down to the business of kissing him.
Frodo obliged, not daring to break contact even for a second. The rules, after all, had been very strict. He soon remembered he would have to breathe through his nose, and did so; though after getting the hang of things, he realized that with the way they were opening and closing their mouths, it was possible to catch breaths that way too. Felt almost natural after a bit, in fact. And if he kept his eyes closed, he could nearly forget the ghost was there at all, and pretend he was just enjoying a pleasant evening alone with Sam...
Alone with Sam? What a funny thing to think! They had spent evenings together sometimes, true, but this had never been their activity of choice before. Frodo laughed suddenly, at the peculiarity of the whole thing, and the kiss was broken.
"Oh--sorry!" he gasped. He looked guiltily at Mariella, and started to add, "I didn't intend to laugh; please don't count it against us..."
But she was watching with her head tilted to the side, a dreamy smile on her face. She was hugging herself, and the heavy book swung gently from her relaxed hand. "Why, no need to apologize, master hobbit," she said. "You've already crossed the one-minute mark. Indeed, by my count from your clock over there, you've been at it for three minutes, going on four."
Frodo shot a startled look at Sam, who seemed equally speechless.
"Ah. Good, good," Frodo said at last, pulling his arms away from Sam. (How that other arm got around Sam's neck, he couldn't be sure.) "We hobbits set out to do things well, when we are requested to do them." He cleared his throat, and discreetly ran his thumb along his lower lip, which had become noticeably damp in the last four minutes.
"I think you enjoyed it," Mariella teased, then added, "Goodnight, lads," and disappeared before they could do more than squawk in protest.
Sam and Frodo edged apart on the couch.
"Well," said Frodo. "Since you're here, would you like some apple tart?"
"Sounds nice. Thank you, sir."
"Then perhaps we could look at the pictures some more. If you can stand it, that is."
"Seems we ought to, if we're going to be punished for it anyhow." Sam offered him a wry grin.
"As always, you have an excellent point."
After their dessert, they fetched the book to the couch, and opened it across their laps--it was quite large enough to cover both of them. For an hour or two they slowly turned pages and marveled over the details, and read more stories. One particularly impressive picture spread across both facing pages: it depicted a festival of some sort, with dozens of Elves and animals and beautiful things in it, filling every corner. You could look at it for a quarter of an hour and not see everything there was to see, it seemed.
"Hoy!" said Sam, after a few minutes of gazing at it. He stabbed his finger at the bottom left corner. "What are them two doing?"
In a space barely an inch square on the page, two Elves could be glimpsed under a table set up on the grass. They were half-undressed and in a...contorted...position, which Frodo could only conclude was meant to be erotic. "Something that I daresay's none of our business," he murmured. He and Sam exchanged glances, then giggled a bit. Frodo, getting a sudden horrible suspicion, had a look at the page number.
87.
"Let's turn the page," he said quickly.
They moved on without incident.
"Silly what she said, about enjoying it," Sam scoffed a while later, as they stood so he could take his leave for the night.
"Oh--ridiculous," Frodo agreed.
"Mind, it ain't ridiculous that someone would enjoy kissing *you*. Especially when you go tasting like mint, and all."
Frodo, resting his arm on the door, bowed his head and chuckled. "I'm glad you appreciated that."
"I just meant one can't be expected to enjoy it with her watching. Don't know what she's thinking, that one."
"It does feel quite wrong. But thank you for going along with it, Sam. It means so much to me."
"You're welcome, sir." Sam sighed, and nodded in the direction of the couch, where they'd left the book. "After seeing more of that book, I reckon you're right. It's probably worth it."
Frodo beamed. "I knew you'd understand."
"Aye. Well, see you tomorrow, then." Sam put on his cap, touched it in salute, and walked out.
Frodo waved to him, and shut the door. He sauntered to his room to prepare for bed, yawning. Indeed, he had some sleep to catch up on.
As he blew out the candles and nestled under the blankets, he thought about the subject of "enjoying it." A laugh from his own throat surprised him, much as it had while he was kissing Sam. The whole thing was just so funny, really. He turned over, already pleasantly drowsy, and burrowed his cheek into the pillow. So she wanted to see enjoyment, eh? He could make a show of that. Yes, he imagined he could indeed. Maybe then she would go away faster, and leave him to enjoy Sam in privacy. Er, to enjoy the book, rather. That tired mind of his did insist on inserting the wrong words! Smiling at the madness of it all, he fell asleep.
* * * (To be continued...)
When Sam trudged up the path, Frodo noticed he had apparently gone to some effort too. He had evidently bathed, as his hair was still wet enough that it formed tight dark curls just above his collar. His skin glowed a clean tan-peach, and his clothes looked to be entirely free of pollen and grass. "Me Gaffer gave me a hard time," Sam said as he reached the porch. " 'Getting all gussied up just to come here and look at a book,' as he called it."
"Little does he know," Frodo said dourly. "Well, do come in. I haven't seen Miss Mariella yet, but I fear to think how she would react if we weren't ready when she appeared."
They went inside, though Sam sighed that it seemed a shame to be in on such a fine evening. Frodo offered him an armchair, and agreed, but pointed out that they couldn't exactly practice kissing, with a ghost for an audience, out on the front porch in full view of the road. Sam acknowledged the truth in that.
Frodo lit a few candles to stave off the deepening twilight, and then took a seat in a chair opposite Sam, and folded his hands. "I suppose there's nothing to do but wait," he said.
"Suppose not."
Frodo turned a hand over to examine his trimmed nails. Sam fussed with the edge of his waistcoat. Then he piped up, "Mr. Frodo--pardon my asking, but, shouldn't we be sitting over there, like?" He nodded to the couch, with its back to the far wall.
"Over there? Why?"
"Well, she'll be putting us over there anyway, I imagine. It's not like we'll be kissing each other from these two chairs, when I can't even reach you if I stretch my foot all the way out." Sam demonstrated.
"Oh. That's true. I suppose I just thought she'd tell us what she wanted when she arrived...but now that I think on it, she might in fact be very angry if we haven't taken the initiative ourselves. She seemed quite intent on that sort of thing."
Sam nodded. "And I figure if it ain't the couch she wants us on, it's--well, don't mean to shock you, sir, but she might get notions of a *bed*..."
Frodo blushed, and got up immediately, nodding. "Indeed. Indeed. Very wise, Sam. Then let's move, shall we?"
They removed themselves to the couch, and carefully sat down. A foot of space still separated them, but at least they were on the same piece of furniture now.
"That's better, I reckon," said Sam.
"Yes," Frodo agreed.
They resumed their patient waiting. After another minute or two, Sam cleared his throat.
"Maybe, um...well, I don't know, but..."
"What?" Frodo asked.
"Just, I think she'd be irked a bit, if she showed up and we was sitting here doing nothing, not even talking or anything."
"Oh. All right." Frodo brightened, and turned more to face Sam. "We can talk."
"And probably," Sam went on, "we should look a bit more comfortable. I bet she'd be pleased if we were sitting closer, see." Sam moved over, to within half a foot of Frodo.
"Ah! Good thinking again, Sam. Then here--" Frodo closed the space, settling down right beside Sam, their sleeves in contact. "That does look more affectionate, doesn't it?"
"Aye, I think so."
"Perhaps even--is this too much?" Frodo put an arm on the back of the sofa cushions, behind Sam's head.
"Not too much at all. That's what the courting couples do. Try like this, even." Sam took Frodo's hand and pulled his arm down around his shoulders. "My sisters and their sweethearts, they're always sitting that way. It's worth a try, anyhow."
"All right. Should you put yours around me, too?"
"Why not?" Sam maneuvered his arm up and around Frodo's shoulders.
"There," said Frodo, feeling satisfied with himself for getting this far without making any serious mistakes.
"Right," Sam agreed.
"Yes."
Sam coughed gently.
They lapsed into silence again.
"She's taking an awfully long time to get here," Frodo eventually mentioned.
"Oh, all *right*," Mariella groaned, startling Sam and Frodo into nearly tumbling off the couch. "I see you're going to take all week without my guidance." She had apparently been standing up against the wall, behind a bookcase, where they couldn't see her without turning around.
"Gracious," Frodo gasped. "How long have you--"
"Five minutes or so. But I'm getting bored now." She picked a book from the shelves and glided over to them. "This one looks nice and heavy. So. Get back in that comfortable position you were in, won't you?"
Sam and Frodo quickly, if grudgingly, complied.
"Sam," Mariella addressed, "tell me what Frodo's neck smells like."
"What his *neck* smells like? What a daft thing to say! What ought it to smell like?"
Mariella raised the book, ready to pitch. "Tell me!"
"Fine," grumbled Sam. Frodo gave him a small, encouraging smile. Sam ducked his head and hovered his nose around Frodo's earlobe. "Oh," he said, sounding surprised. "Actually I reckon that's...spearmint, ain't it, sir?"
"Yes!" Frodo said, pleased. "I found a sprig of it outside by the porch, and thought I'd dab some on."
"By the porch?" Sam frowned. "Oh, dear, I'll have to take care of that. It may smell nice, but the stuff's as invasive as any old weed. Sends runners right under the earth and they pop up everywhere, till next thing you know your garden's full of nothing but beds of spearmint--"
"Ahem," thundered Mariella.
"Sorry," said Sam.
"If you were as smart as you're supposed to be," Mariella went on, turning to Frodo, "you would have chewed on the mint, not just put it behind your ears like a girl playing at perfumes."
"But I did chew on it," said the smug Frodo. "I can still taste it as we speak!"
Mariella's smile was awfully complacent, and Frodo realized, a moment too late, that he had walked right into a trap. "Good," she purred. "Then let Sam have a taste of your mouth."
Frodo turned to Sam with a small wince. "Sorry."
"Bound to be given that order sooner or later," Sam shrugged. And, as before, he took the lead, and captured Frodo's mouth. Frodo remembered, after a few seconds, that he was supposed to be letting Sam taste the mint, ridiculous though the idea sounded, so he opened his mouth a little. Sam did the same. Both of them respectfully kept their tongues behind their teeth.
"Good," said Mariella when they stopped. "Could you taste spearmint, Sam?"
"Yes indeed, miss."
"And Frodo," she said, "what did Sam taste like?"
"I--I'm not sure. Tea, perhaps?" Frodo guessed.
"Could be that," Sam agreed. "Ended the meal with a cup of it."
"And," Mariella went on, sliding toward them in a manner that reminded Frodo of a serpent, "how does each of you feel? Be honest."
Frodo wasn't sure being honest was in fact what she wanted. At least, he knew he should leave out the part where he found it freakishly unsettling to have her staring at them. "I feel..." he began.
"Warm," contributed Sam.
"I like the sound of that!" she said, colorless lips pulling back in a grin.
"Yes," said Frodo, suppressing a shudder at the sight. "It's quite, um, cozy." There was truth in that. With a ghost standing in his parlor, Frodo did in fact want to seize Sam closer. Preferably to hide behind him.
"Do you find yourself...wanting more?" she probed.
"Er," Frodo began. "I would--it's just--I'm awfully tired, you see. After the shock of meeting you last night, the *pleasant* shock naturally I mean, I didn't sleep well at all, so..."
"If you kiss for one minute more," she said, "by which I mean a complete 60 seconds without stopping, then I will let you alone for the rest of the evening."
Frodo's heart lightened, and Sam said in a cheerful tone, "Reckon we can do that; don't you think, sir?"
"Until tomorrow, of course I mean," Mariella added.
Sam sighed, and Frodo grumbled, "Of course."
"Well, then, get started!"
Frodo turned to Sam, still nestled under his arm, and gave him an apologetic smile. "Nothing for it, sir," Sam remarked, then clasped his other arm around Frodo's waist and got down to the business of kissing him.
Frodo obliged, not daring to break contact even for a second. The rules, after all, had been very strict. He soon remembered he would have to breathe through his nose, and did so; though after getting the hang of things, he realized that with the way they were opening and closing their mouths, it was possible to catch breaths that way too. Felt almost natural after a bit, in fact. And if he kept his eyes closed, he could nearly forget the ghost was there at all, and pretend he was just enjoying a pleasant evening alone with Sam...
Alone with Sam? What a funny thing to think! They had spent evenings together sometimes, true, but this had never been their activity of choice before. Frodo laughed suddenly, at the peculiarity of the whole thing, and the kiss was broken.
"Oh--sorry!" he gasped. He looked guiltily at Mariella, and started to add, "I didn't intend to laugh; please don't count it against us..."
But she was watching with her head tilted to the side, a dreamy smile on her face. She was hugging herself, and the heavy book swung gently from her relaxed hand. "Why, no need to apologize, master hobbit," she said. "You've already crossed the one-minute mark. Indeed, by my count from your clock over there, you've been at it for three minutes, going on four."
Frodo shot a startled look at Sam, who seemed equally speechless.
"Ah. Good, good," Frodo said at last, pulling his arms away from Sam. (How that other arm got around Sam's neck, he couldn't be sure.) "We hobbits set out to do things well, when we are requested to do them." He cleared his throat, and discreetly ran his thumb along his lower lip, which had become noticeably damp in the last four minutes.
"I think you enjoyed it," Mariella teased, then added, "Goodnight, lads," and disappeared before they could do more than squawk in protest.
Sam and Frodo edged apart on the couch.
"Well," said Frodo. "Since you're here, would you like some apple tart?"
"Sounds nice. Thank you, sir."
"Then perhaps we could look at the pictures some more. If you can stand it, that is."
"Seems we ought to, if we're going to be punished for it anyhow." Sam offered him a wry grin.
"As always, you have an excellent point."
After their dessert, they fetched the book to the couch, and opened it across their laps--it was quite large enough to cover both of them. For an hour or two they slowly turned pages and marveled over the details, and read more stories. One particularly impressive picture spread across both facing pages: it depicted a festival of some sort, with dozens of Elves and animals and beautiful things in it, filling every corner. You could look at it for a quarter of an hour and not see everything there was to see, it seemed.
"Hoy!" said Sam, after a few minutes of gazing at it. He stabbed his finger at the bottom left corner. "What are them two doing?"
In a space barely an inch square on the page, two Elves could be glimpsed under a table set up on the grass. They were half-undressed and in a...contorted...position, which Frodo could only conclude was meant to be erotic. "Something that I daresay's none of our business," he murmured. He and Sam exchanged glances, then giggled a bit. Frodo, getting a sudden horrible suspicion, had a look at the page number.
87.
"Let's turn the page," he said quickly.
They moved on without incident.
"Silly what she said, about enjoying it," Sam scoffed a while later, as they stood so he could take his leave for the night.
"Oh--ridiculous," Frodo agreed.
"Mind, it ain't ridiculous that someone would enjoy kissing *you*. Especially when you go tasting like mint, and all."
Frodo, resting his arm on the door, bowed his head and chuckled. "I'm glad you appreciated that."
"I just meant one can't be expected to enjoy it with her watching. Don't know what she's thinking, that one."
"It does feel quite wrong. But thank you for going along with it, Sam. It means so much to me."
"You're welcome, sir." Sam sighed, and nodded in the direction of the couch, where they'd left the book. "After seeing more of that book, I reckon you're right. It's probably worth it."
Frodo beamed. "I knew you'd understand."
"Aye. Well, see you tomorrow, then." Sam put on his cap, touched it in salute, and walked out.
Frodo waved to him, and shut the door. He sauntered to his room to prepare for bed, yawning. Indeed, he had some sleep to catch up on.
As he blew out the candles and nestled under the blankets, he thought about the subject of "enjoying it." A laugh from his own throat surprised him, much as it had while he was kissing Sam. The whole thing was just so funny, really. He turned over, already pleasantly drowsy, and burrowed his cheek into the pillow. So she wanted to see enjoyment, eh? He could make a show of that. Yes, he imagined he could indeed. Maybe then she would go away faster, and leave him to enjoy Sam in privacy. Er, to enjoy the book, rather. That tired mind of his did insist on inserting the wrong words! Smiling at the madness of it all, he fell asleep.
* * * (To be continued...)
