TITLE: An Ordinary Evening (1/1) AUTHOR: Europanya E-MAIL: europanya@yahoo.com RATING: NC-17 for hobbit lovin' PAIRING: Sam/Frodo CATEGORY: Romance ARCHIVING: Sure. SUMMARY: Ten years into their relationship, Frodo wonders if he's gotten a bit set in his ways. DISCLAIMER: Tolkien made Middle-earth. Tolkien made hobbits. Peter Jackson made a live-action Lord of the Rings. Elijah Wood made Frodo hot. And they all made Sam to serve him. POST DATE: 7/6/03 NOTES: I've noticed that most romantic Frodo and Sam pre-quest tales tend to take place either the evening of, or one month after, their initial consummation. I wondered, with 17 years of time to kill after Bilbo leaves, what Sam and Frodo might be like if they were allowed that time to grow as a couple, unhindered or marred by tragedy. This is the story that came from those wonderings. That, and some raging hormones. I also got tired of Frodo only having one intellectual pursuit in life, translating Elvish texts, and gave him a new hobby, astronomy. I'm not totally off my noodle, the Fellowship extended DVD has an Elvish telescope in the Rivendell sketch gallery. So it's not totally implausible that a hobbit of the Shire could discover planetary retrograde near the end of the Third Age, is it? An Ordinary Evening By Europanya Their evening had begun routine enough. After a supper of roast rosemary chicken and stewed tomatoes, followed by a couple generous slices of sweet potato pie, Frodo had helped Sam clear the dishes, and dried them as Sam washed. They'd stacked them neatly back into their cupboard spaces as they always did before retiring to the parlour to pursue their various interests in quiet comfort. Sam sat in his favourite leather chair, feet up on the matching stool with pipe in one hand and pencil in the other, jotting down notes in a ledger opened across his lap. He was recording the progress of his latest generation of hybridised longbeans. His careful matings and manipulations were gaining some renown in the West Farthing as Sam had maintained some success in breeding a faster maturing strain of white feed corn now proliferating in Hobbiton and Bywater farms. Frodo stood bent over the wide table following faded tengwar with one finger while penning fresh hobbit runes along the margins of his latest starmap. The table was cluttered with ancient Elvish drawings and writings and long sheets of parchment from which he was currently studying the paths of the heaven's "wandering stars." Why something as eternal and important as a star would decide to take on such a long slow journey across the night sky while the countless thousands held still and watched then go by, was a mystery that had captured Frodo's imagination since childhood. The smoke from Sam's evening pipe set the room in a cosy haze lit orange-bright by the roaring fire and overhead chandelier. It was early September and fall had arrived suddenly, sending a chill over the hills. He and Sam had wandered out back to watch the sunset before supper, huddled close on the old garden bench protecting one another from the cool wind. Now with bellies full and minds deeply in thought, Frodo set a sharpened pencil to his new starmap. With the aid of a mounted string tied about its length, he drew fresh minute arcs across the sheet, letting the string out a bit for each pass. The growing chart resembled a spider's web hung tethered to the horizons, her home centred at the North Star. Under this celestial net of fixed stars Frodo had drawn a rough sketch of Bag End and the great oak with tiny bright windows and an arrow pointing to the round door that read "home." Dipping his quill into an uncorked bottle of fresh green ink, Frodo delicately plotted his recent nightly observations of the two largest of the wanderers, which hobbits had no name for, and who Frodo called Beren and Felagund after the Lay of Leithian. Their ancient Elvish names had long since faded from the parchments. Beren had been a wanderer himself, and Frodo felt he and the elf king made for a fitting analogy. For weeks he'd watched Beren hang in indecision within the jaws of the great wolf, but now as the seasons changed it was apparent, much to Frodo's unsettling curiosity, that he had decided to turn about, leaving his companion to travel on alone. "It's true," Frodo said in awe at the culmination of his careful studies. "Beren is heading back home." Sam grunted politely, but didn't pause in his notebook scribbling. Frodo raised his head to glance at him, but from the set of Sam's brow he knew that attempting to interrupt those earthy thoughts was futile. Sam was close to a discovery of his own--greater yields and less sensitivity to frost. Good news for bean farmers Shire-wide. Not that Sam lacked a curiosity for Frodo's heavenly pursuits, he'd in fact built the very device Frodo used to make his nightly measurements. Over a year ago, Frodo had uncovered in one of Bilbo's ponderous trunks, the faded sketches of an ancient star-pointer invented by an Elven starmaster of the early Second Age. The plans were incomplete and faded, the text half indecipherable, but Sam had set to it with a sense of instinctive purpose. He'd spent many late afternoons in his workshed behind Bag End cutting and hammering the metal, painstakingly fitting the joints, setting the bearings, and etching tics along the triangular arms and sliding rulers of the device. To complete the star-pointer, Frodo had sent word among some folk he knew far up North to ask the passing Dwarves, who came by that way, if he might locate a pair of lenses, grounded to the rough sizes and specifications in the drawings. The two lenses arrived at no small price five months later delivered to the front door of Bag End by a distant cousin of Balin's, glad to grant a favour to Biblo's heir. With great care, Sam assembled the eyepiece and mounted the larger free-standing lens at the end of the pointer's longest arm, rimmed in gold. This functional intertwined sculpture now stood proudly at the height of the garden on a stone pedestal where the birdbath formerly resided. Sam planted white, blue, red and yellow roses after the colours of the stars in a circle about the star-pointer, and fashioned a sturdy bench and table of marbled pinewood that Frodo might sit out late into the night in comfort. Frodo blew on Beren's green path to dry it. He straightened his back with a yawn, hearing a sharp "pop" low in his spine. He winced at the brief pain. He wasn't a youth anymore and should really be using the stool. "Sorry?" Sam asked, a delayed, but nevertheless earnest inquiry. "You say something?" Frodo shrugged. He dragged the stool under him, leaning his elbows on the table. "Never mind, my dear, nothing important." "Hm," Sam replied, taking a puff of his pipe held between his teeth, busily erasing a line in his ledger with a little frown. Sam was dressed in one of his usual plain cotton shirts and simple weskit which had been riding a bit higher in recent years atop a somewhat more generous belly. His sleeves were rolled and the sun which warmed him everyday in the garden was beginning to set Sam's once lighter skin of his youth into a nice hobbity brown. Ten years, Frodo thought, in loving admiration. Somehow they'd passed a decade together. Sam would have lived with him at Bag End for seven of them come the end of this month. After the first few years as clandestine lovers, Sam had moved without fuss into what was by all surface references titled the "servant's quarters." But realistically, Sam's bedroom was as equal in comfort to that of the rest with its feather bed, quilted comforters, cluttered bookshelves and earthen trinkets. It was in every sense Sam's private space in which he retreated to reflect or read or catch a mid-day nap. Several of Sam's mounted pressings hung on the walls carefully lettered in Frodo's flowing hand, identifying their common and Elvish classification. A close inspection of Frodo's starmap sketch of Bag End's kitchen window would reveal two tiny heads seated in the breakfast nook. And that was something which had made Frodo's once lonesome life happy and complete. If this evening were to conclude as most, and there was currently no reason to expect otherwise, then in an hour or so, Sam would tap out his pipe, gather up his notes, bind them and set them chronologically on the shelf. Then he'd cross to the table to put an arm about Frodo's shoulders, rubbing gently, waiting for him to finish his thought. Frodo would cap the ink and Sam would help him blow out the candles before they headed off to bed together hand in hand. After a quick wash and donning of night-clothes, they'd slip into the masterbed for a kiss and cuddle and some quiet talk or moonlight reading before dropping off to sleep. Though the cuddle could just as easily divert into full lovemaking at the catch of a breath, long gone were the days Frodo once recalled where a hastily consumed dinner or afternoon tea was left forgotten on the kitchen table, followed by a path of even more hastily shed clothing strung down the smial to the nearest soft landing--be it a bed, bench or hearth rug--where sleep was only a tangled sweaty respite from passion's all-consuming call. Not to say their current lovemaking was lacking in ardour. Mutual desires were stoked and sated in a variety of tried and true methods which they'd had years to perfect. Their skills at pleasuring one another drew forth those familiar cries of want and release with well-placed strokes, nuzzles and nibbles. Frodo knew what Sam liked and Sam knew what Frodo liked. And their breathing would rise, sigh, mingle and slow into the soft song of sleep nearly every few eves or so. Truly, there was nothing to complain about. Frodo capped his ink bottle early this night and wiped the green smears from his fingertips. In two weeks he'd be turning 44, an age at which hobbits are no longer considered "young" but not yet ready for pasture either. Though by all rights Frodo didn't look a day over 33, he was happy and content but couldn't help worry that perhaps he had become, well, just a little set in his ways. He sighed and leaned onto the table pushing papers about idly with his fingertips. "Sam, would you say that I've become predictable?" "How's that, love?" Sam asked, looking up from his notes briefly, blowing eraser rubbings out of the ledger binding. Frodo waved his hand about gathering his thoughts. "You've known me for...half of forever. I was just wondering if I had any...habits, predictabilities, you'd taken notice of." "You? Predictable? Certainly not," Sam said bluntly. Frodo swivelled to face him. "That was just a few yards sarcastic." Sam looked over at him innocently. "You've got all manner of variety, love. Just last week you wore blue on Hevensday and green on Highday. I daresay that was unexpected." "Sam!" Frodo couldn't say much more because Sam was dead right. It being Meresday he was properly buttoned in velvet sable. This wasn't fair at all. "I thought...it would make the washing less confusing if I co-ordinated my wardrobe," he reasoned lamely. "Aye, it does that. Heaven knows after twenty-some years I wouldn't know your breeches from mine." Frodo rubbed his temple, defeated. These weren't the reassurances he was searching for. "What are you saying Sam? That after all these years I've succeeded in becoming a frightful bore?" Sam sat back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other as if he were giving the matter some thought. "Sam, you're incorrigible!" Sam smiled and chuckled. "Don't you know it. But I didn't poke this sack of creepers now, did I?" "Well, no." "But there's no pretending you don't enjoy having things to your liking." "Do I, now?" Sam opened his palms to indicate the parlour about them. "You're a hobbit of some means. Your comforts are very much to your own taste and arrangement," he said casually, his eyes settling on the stack of books piled under the table which Frodo kept meaning to put up, but refused Sam's eager efforts to shelve for him. *At least let me get a mop under there,* he'd begged Frodo to no avail. Sam had long lost hope for the study. "You enjoy a well-ordered mess." "Sam, I'll remind you that we live here together," Frodo said pointedly. "My means are your means--there is nothing we fail to share equally." This was essentially true when it came to the coffers, but Sam appeared less than convinced and his amused smile was growing into frank incredulity. "Then answer me this, love. What did we drink at supper this night?" "At supper? It was..." Frodo had to think a moment about it. "Ah, we opened that 1409 Pincup Red Merry sent us for Yule last year." "And..." Sam started. "And what?" "Do you recall asking me what I'd like you to fetch from the cellar to pair with the chicken?" "Yes." "What did I say?" "You said..." Frodo paused. Sam had asked him to fetch some old bitter ale he was fond of, and Frodo had gone into the beer and wine cellar for just that purpose. But then the wine rack beckoned, and there was a bit of dust that needed brushing from the labels and well, he came back out with the 1409. "Uh, huh," Sam said in proof of his claim as Frodo continued to stall. "I thought you enjoyed that vintage," Frodo said in defence. "I did. But my belly was sure hoping for that ale," Sam bemoaned, rubbing his stomach and looking wistfully heavenward. "Your point, Sam?" Sam shrugged. "The ale, 'twasn't to your liking." Normally, Sam's good-natured teasing got the better of Frodo's humour, but tonight there was something odd poking around Frodo's head and he felt an absurd need to justify himself in what he very well knew was the plain truth. He did always get what he wanted, and Sam allowed him his whims nearly every time. It made for a better pairing than the finest cheese and wine. "If you're suggesting there is something about our living arrangements that you find overborne by my sense of style or taste," Frodo began a bit heatedly, "I'll remind you I very nearly refused you those horrid Dwarf tankards sunning themselves prominently in the kitchen window for three years going now." Sam only clucked his tongue and shook his head, muttering something under his breath about, "Leave it to a Baggins..." "I heard that!" Sam stood, planting his feet firmly on their parlour rug. Then he beamed irritatingly beautifully at Frodo and came over to cup his chin in a warm palm. "My poor lamb," he said, dropping a light kiss to Frodo's forehead. "You do have a tender edge on you tonight. So why not skip round this play and tell your Sam what the trouble is. It's your birthday not far off that's stirring this mischief up, I'll warrant." Frodo let his shoulders sag as he leaned into Sam's embrace. He couldn't possibly stay perturbed when Sam looked at him like that--like there was nothing more precious in heaven and earth to Sam than himself, colour co-ordinated or no. "How does the saying go...?" Frodo began against Sam's shoulder, "familiarity breeds...something unpleasant between two people. Or at least something very dull." He sighed, closing his eyes and hugged Sam back. "I don't want you to grow weary of me." Sam snorted against the top of his head. "You saying I have?" Sam chuckled and kissed Frodo's nose and cheek, working his way into an ear nuzzling and whispered, "I had a mind to love your belly well tonight, but if you've other thoughts on the matter, I'm all ears." "Sam!" Frodo blinked, fighting a blush. "Leave it to you to bring the bedroom into this." Sam moved back a step and took his hands, squeezing them. "I thought that's what you were driving at." "No," Frodo said warily, giving Sam a careful look. "Not exactly. I was only asking about, well, me, in general." Sam nodded thoughtfully. "It might not hurt, you know." "What?" Sam shrugged. "To have a chat about it. If you'd like. Shake the sheets about, as it were." "Sam! I'm hardly one to...You know I'm ..." Frodo sputtered for the right words. "A little shy." "Shy?" Sam's eyes opened wider. "You? Shy?" Frodo couldn't hide this more obvious blush. "Yes, I'm shy. At least when it comes to putting...certain things...into words. You know me that well at least." Sam wrapped his arms about him, lifting him up off the stool and into a strong, rocking hug. "Dear master of my heart..." he murmured against his neck. "Your Sam's been tickling you where you're not for laughing. He promises to mend it soon enough if you'll follow him to bed. Because if I recall rightly, I've been lying with the finest firecracker in all the Shire." Frodo gave Sam a pinch where he knew the hobbit couldn't resist. Sam yelped and released him. "That's not fair," Sam said with mock hurt. "And here I am promising to free you of your worries and all." "That you might well do. So fair is fair," said Frodo, setting hands on hips in bravery. "I'll have you at your dare. Go on and say what you will about us." "You mean...?" "Yes, your idea we air our laundry so to speak." Frodo waved a hand at him. "Go on. Do your worst." Sam laughed. "My bonny lamb, you know I haven't a complaint. I thought maybe you did since you brought up all this nonsense about boredom. But then...hmm....no, you wouldn't." "I wouldn't, what?" Sam waved him off. "Never mind. T'would only land me a headache, most like." "Sam Gamgee, I'll ask you to finish your thought and soon!" Sam sighed and took Frodo's hand, gazing lovingly at him. "If you're wanting a bit of change why not let me take the reins." "I do. If you'll recall on your last birthday I threw you the whole team." Sam's eyes glossed fondly at the recollection. "That was rather nice." "Sam. If there is something you would ask of me, then I pray you ask it now that we may get to bed sometime before sunrise." Sam rubbed Frodo's cheek fondly. "All I'm saying, aside from a time or two, you couldn't give up an inch of control if I begged for it. That I can bet on." "Oh, you could bet on it?" Frodo said, taking Sam's hand confidently. "Shall we have ourselves a wager, then?" Sam smiled at Frodo as if he had won it already. "The usual payment?" "Certainly," Frodo said. "What are the terms?" Sam mulled it over. "The terms are, you do as I bid between now and sunrise... without complaining about it," he quickly added. "And what must you hold to, as turnabout?" Frodo asked. Sam looked Frodo up and down. "I won't give in to you." Frodo raised a dubious eyebrow. "That is all?" "That's all." "Very well, sounds easy enough," Frodo said, shaking Sam's hand firmly. "We're agreed. You may begin, my dear. Ask me to do anything you'd like." A mischievous light danced in Sam's eyes and he clapped his hands together, rubbing them. "How to begin? Why don't you stand at our bed and wait quietly for me." Frodo crossed his arms and frowned. "Wait for you? Where are you going?" "I have some things to see to." "Then why should I wait..." "I hear a loss coming on." Frodo held up his hands. "No! No! I'm not so easily bested. You want a match of wills, you'll have one. I shall stand wherever you direct me," he said, heading past Sam for the hall. He grasped the trim and tilted back to him. "Though I fear this promises to be a rather dull challenge. I thought you had something more creative in mind. But very well." "Off you go, love," Sam said with a smile and wave. "Hurry now, or Sam will pat your bottom." "Amusing," Frodo muttered and turned to trot to the master bedroom. He entered the room and stood at the foot of the bed, taking up his position carefully. Feet planted, back straight. "I'm here," he announced to Sam who did not reply. Instead, Frodo heard the back door shut. Curious. Frodo hoped Sam wasn't fetching something strange from the tool shed. He pressed his back up against the turned bedpost, wondering what on earth Sam had planned. This could be fun after all, he thought, with a little grin. Some minutes passed, and Frodo began to get bored and started picking at a loose thread in the carpet with his toes. He began to hum, but wasn't sure if he could do that without being told first and stopped. The window shutters and curtains were open and the moon was coming up, swollen and full as it rose over the hills. Frodo could hear Sam come back in, draw some water and begin to wash something in the kitchen. Another bang of the door and Frodo saw him pass the bedroom doorway with a stack of firewood to set on the wood pile. Then he heard sweeping. Was he doing chores? Eventually, when his curiosity couldn't wait another moment, Frodo left his post and wandered out and up the smial. "Sam?" Sam peeked out from his bedroom where he was busy folding his shirts. Frodo entered his room. "What on earth are you doing?" he asked. "I'm waiting!" Sam nodded. "Not very well, neither." "But...you're doing your laundry!" Sam folded another shirt and set in on his bed with a pat. "I am." "Well, this is most strange." "Not so strange to see you come complaining about it," Sam said with a little cough. "But you left me there." "Aye, I did." "I don't understand this game, Sam. Is it a Gamgee tradition?" "It's a Gamgee sure-win if I don't find you back where you'd been put by the time I get this last shirt up. You packing it in?" "I didn't say that," Frodo insisted, raising his chin. "I shall return to where I came from." "Good," said Sam, lifting the folded garments into the wardrobe and shutting it. "There's another thing I'll ask of you, too." "What?" Frodo asked, backing out of the room, grinning. Sam followed him, observing his progress. "I've decided you're not allowed to speak." "Wh..." Frodo held up a finger and drew a knot about his lips. Not a word. Sam followed him as he walked the distance backward to the master bedroom until he met the bedpost again. He crossed one ankle over the other and smiled sweetly at Sam who stood for sometime in the doorway watching him carefully. Frodo refused to blink. He could win this if he tried, he was convinced. Sam looked so oddly serious about all this like he often did when contemplating the weather's effect on new sprouts. Frodo pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Sam nodded after some silent moments and walked away. Frodo sighed and stood as patiently as he could at the bedpost and watched the moon continue to float past the treetops. He thought he should probably curtain the window before Sam decided to come back from wherever he went, but then he'd not been asked to do so, so he began to pace in a small circle instead. When he heard Sam's steps coming back up the smial, Frodo quickly resumed his proper stance. He straightened his waistcoat and waited expectantly. Sam walked in with one of the dwarf tankards in his hand and raised it in modest approval of Frodo's apparent patience. Then he took a seat in the window bench facing him and had a sip, smacking his lips. Frodo pointed to his mouth and made an urgent mumbling noise. "You can speak," Sam said. "You're having that ale," Frodo blurted. "Right now in front of me. In that awful--" "Mind yourself, now," Sam said. A mischievous twinkle in his eye betrayed his stern tone. "I figured with you not going anywhere for a time I might as well keep my throat busy." "Charming," Frodo said, rocking on his heels. "You do have plans for me other than watching you sip a brew I'd hope." "I do. And you can start by undoing your weskit for me." A little flicker flashed in Frodo's belly. Ah, this was more along the lines of what he hoped would happen. But he wasn't going to let Sam know that and tried to look as bored as possible as he pushed the buttons free one by one. He let his glance roam over the carved trim of the window bay to the wardrobe, the hope chest, anywhere but at Sam. Once freed, he let the garment slip off and fall in a "messy" heap on the floor. Sam eyed it and crossed one leg over the other. He leaned back into the cushions, tankard to his lips, like a small king enjoying his evening entertainment. "The shirt now," he said after a pause. "Slowly." Frodo nodded but still refused to give Sam's intent gaze any true acknowledgement. He looked at the carpet and shrugged the braces off his shoulders one by one. Then he started on the first button, rolling it between his finger and thumb before pushing it through the hole. Sam cleared his throat and had another drink. Frodo hid a smile and did the same slow dalliance with the next button, pausing to yawn and scratch an elbow. Frodo loosened the buttons out of order so the shirt would stay in place for as long as possible. Sam hadn't given him any specifics on that. He took an especially long time getting the last one undone before he finished and folded his arms across his chest. "Done," he said. "Push it off," Sam said into his mug, his eyes intent on Frodo's middle. "No, wait, backwards, off the shoulders. Don't rush." Frodo did as he was told, rolling his shoulders so the finely woven linen fell open, baring his chest. He turned his head and blew on the collar and the shirt began to fall away slowly, flowing over his arms and back. Frodo watched the cloth drop until it dangled, caught at his wrists which he'd pulled back behind his hips. He paused here a moment before dropping the cuffs off with a flick of his hands. "Done, again," he said. He raised his head to stare down Sam, smug with his little show. But the way Sam was watching him over the tankard's rim summoned a deep thrill in Frodo he hadn't felt in some time. He blinked and looked away, drawing a careful breath. If Sam kept staring at him like that it would soon be difficult to hide the effect this little game was having on him. Impossible, if he were asked to remove more clothing. Sam took another long swallow and set the ugly crockery on the sill next to him. He leaned back on his elbow and stroked his chin. "Turn about," he said, quietly. The careful control in Sam's voice was causing Frodo a great deal of distraction, but he fought it as best he could and turned so he faced the bed, just in time to hide the heated flush rippling up his chest. He could all but feel Sam's gaze wandering over his back. So far Frodo had thought himself more intent on proving a point than succumbing to Sam's wiles. But that resolve was quickly fading in the face of a rising desire. Still, there was hope yet, he knew what moonlight could do for his nakedness. He'd have Sam begging for his skin soon enough. "Your trousers, love. They need to join the shirt." "Do you want it slow again?" Frodo asked, starting to turn his head about. "Face forward, m'dear. No peeking," Sam amended. "Slowly, if it pleases you." Pleases? Who was pleasing whom? Sam was still in the game it seemed. Because the thought of being slow about these buttons was going to draw too much thought to...well, it appeared it was much too late anyway. Frodo freed himself slowly. When he had the front loosened, he slipped his fingers under the waistband and pushed the garments slowly past his knees to the floor. He smiled to himself as to what sort of view that promised Sam. Frodo straightened slowly, taking his time and allowing himself a little stretch, all the while trying not to chuckle nervously as he kicked the trousers aside. He did feel a little silly after all. But the silliness passed with Sam's silence. All Frodo could hear was breathing. Could he hear Sam's breathing before or was it just more pronounced now? "What now?" Frodo asked, his voice betraying him with a little catch in pitch. But Sam made him wait and it was the unknowing that was getting under Frodo's skin and sending tingles along every nerve. He didn't know what to with his arms or hands and alternated crossing them or letting them rest on a bare hip. But that was awkward, too. He was altogether too exposed to be casual. He jumped a little when he heard Sam shift on the bench. But Sam still did not speak and Frodo's throat went dry when he heard the slow thumbing of buttons through thick cloth. Only a few. Was Sam...? "Sam?" "Shh," Sam whispered. "Just stand." Sam continued to remain very quiet, too quiet. Frodo's mind wandered through a wild palette of imaginings as to how Sam might be occupying himself. Once or twice the bench creaked. Frodo bit the tip of his tongue to hold still and not turn around, all the while straining his ears to catch something. "I know what you're thinking," Sam said under his breath. "But you won't know for certain, will you?" Frodo could hear Sam's trousers fall to the floor and his heart flew into his throat, sweat beading on his upper lip. He licked at it and wiped his damp palm on his chest. He had to part his lips to keep enough air coming into his lungs to match his heart's need. Sam had never played with him like this before. This Sam was so different, so exciting to him it amazed Frodo they'd not thought to wager one another some years ago. "Look at yourself," Sam said. "Your chest, your arms...see yourself." Frodo obeyed and raised an arm out before him. He wondered how his hand and wrist could look so strange to him. His pale skin was luminous in this light. Unearthly. Was this how Sam saw him? "Look down," Sam said. Frodo dipped his head, but from a standing position there was only one thing really to view. His pulse beat fervently through him but nowhere so keenly as where he hoped Sam might soon be touching him, kissing him. He wanted that so badly right now it drove a sharp yearning all through him. Any other night all he'd need to do was ask. He licked his lips and moved to speak, but thought better of it. So he swallowed a moan instead and set a still palm low on his belly. "You know you're beautiful, don't you?" Sam began, shifting again on the bench. All the hairs on Frodo's body stood on end at the rough edge in Sam's throat. Had his lover's voice always sounded like this? Or had he only forgotten to really listen to it? "You pretend that you don't; but I found, long ago, that you do enjoy yourself. I know of those long mornings you spend in the bath, when you come out all wrapped up, cheeks a-flush--Sam knows why you don't meet his eyes straight off." Frodo sucked in a sharp breath. *How did he...?* He felt a blush ripple all over him. He was going to fall over if he couldn't regain himself. Sam *knew.* And somehow that was unbearably arousing. A trembling had sent itself into his limbs that he couldn't hide no matter what. "Do you want to lie down?" Frodo nodded vigorously. Standing was something he couldn't fathom doing for much longer. "You may. Go lie on your belly. Don't cover yourself. I want to see you." Frodo did so and sighed as the cool spread of the coverlet met his skin. He pressed himself into it, hoping to ease the hard ache that was arresting all of his thought with a discreet roll of his hips. "Don't move," Sam said, getting up. "I know you want to, but don't. Lie comfortable, now, and shut your eyes." Frodo brought a pillow under his cheek and squeezed it in anxious frustration. He hoped Sam would touch him soon. But Sam had moved off again and Frodo heard him go out into the smials. If he heard right it sounded as if Sam was fiddling about for something in the cloak closet. He returned soon after and sat next to him on the bed, dipping the mattress. He leaned over Frodo. "Do you trust your Sam?" he whispered at his ear. Frodo kept his eyes shut and nodded. "Then raise your head a bit. I've something for you." Frodo pushed up on his arms and felt something soft and cool like silk float up his back from his bare bottom to his shoulders and drape about his neck. Frodo could tell even with eyes shut that Sam had removed the remains of his clothing. The scent of his clean skin teased his nose, mingled with the sweet aroma of ale and pipeweed when he leaned close to speak. The silk was in Sam's hands and he wrapped it about Frodo's forehead twice, tying it in a gentle knot behind his head, binding his eyes. Frodo lowered his head. His heart was beating so fast he couldn't help but gasp. Sam had never *tied* anything to him before. Sam breathed sharply for some moments before he spoke, his voice crushed with love. "This ain't a wager for me anymore. Do only what pleases you. No more, promise?" It took Frodo a few swallows to find his voice. "I promise. But Sam..." "Hmm?" "Don't give in to me too easily." Sam sighed. "I won't." "What ever pleases you will please me. Ask what you will of me." "Aye," Sam said hoarsely and crawled up to lie next to him on the bed. He kept his body just apart from Frodo's as to keep from rolling into one another on the soft mattress. Sam shifted and sounded as if he were lying on his side. "Turn over for me," he said. "Raise your arms over your head." Frodo smiled and complied, sighing into another stretch, allowing himself the acknowledgement of every muscle and fibre that composed his frame. He felt beautiful in his wrapped blindness and rubbed his back luxuriously against the coverlet. "Oh, but you're lovely," Sam said breathlessly. "Even if I can't see your eyes. It pains me something awful I won't be touching you." "You won't?" Frodo choked. "Why not?" Sam leaned in close to whisper. "That would be expected. Now lie still for me and don't move, don't speak, because Sam has something he wants to say." Frodo felt a shudder run through him though he was not cold, anything but. His palms felt damp where they lay open above his head, knuckles brushing the headboard. He was very aware of his mouth and licked his lips anxiously again. He felt Sam's weight move and shift until he knew that Sam straddled him at the knees, his hands to either side of his shoulders, but did not allow any part of their bodies to touch. "So I hear you've got a worry in you," Sam began, his words stirring the curls at Frodo's temple, his lips close to his skin. "That I might get tired of you. Is that so?" Frodo nodded, if anything to keep Sam close and speaking to him--anything to keep hearing his voice and losing himself in its velvet pull. Sam moved slowly over Frodo's face, his warm breath leaving puffs on his skin as he continued to speak. "But here I am all these years gone, sleeping next to you, and I still wake each dawn not hardly believing you're mine, because I just don't figure how I came to win you." Sam's breath stirred across Frodo's chin and he raised it, inviting. If he could only loosen a shred of Sam's control and feel... "But I need you like I need air in my lungs and earth in my hands," he said so close to Frodo's ear that Sam's whisper shook him right through. "When I was but a lad your eyes looked right into my heart and lit a fire in there that's never dimmed. You own me, Frodo Baggins: heart, blood and bones. Have a care for your Sam, don't ever forget what he's said to you this night." Behind his shroud Frodo's eyes stung with the need to reach out and crush Sam to him. "Kiss me," he pleaded. Sam's breath moved from his ear as he sat up and took Frodo's hand, placing the most chaste of kisses into the heart of his palm. Then he closed Frodo's fingers and lay his hand back on the bed. Frodo lay drawing his breaths in short gasps. His heart felt like it might break free from his chest if he didn't ask. "If you won't touch me, my love. May I touch you, then?" Sam shifted and stretched out next to him. "Aye, you may." Frodo uttered a cry of relief and rolled toward Sam, searching for him. He wrapped a leg about his hip before Sam could stop him and reached blindly for his lips. Sam lay a hand over his mouth and Frodo moaned in frustration. "No kisses, love. If you kiss me I won't be able to keep to my resolve." "But, I want..." Frodo tried to plead against Sam's palm. Sam didn't relent so Frodo kissed his hand instead, lavishly. Sam uttered a moan and moved his hand from his mouth to grasp the silk knot at the back of Frodo's head. He pressed their foreheads together. "There's another place I'd desire your mouth, if you will." "Mmmm..." Frodo hummed, moving lower on the bed. "I will." He searched with blind hands to find Sam filled and poised, waiting for him. Since he could not have Sam's mouth, Frodo began to kiss him here with all the hunger in his bereft lips and tongue; licking, circling, savouring his flesh. It was no secret Frodo loved this, but tonight if it was all he would be permitted, he was going to make it an experience Sam wouldn't soon forget. Frodo's felt Sam's fingers curl into the tufts of his hair that stood out above the blindfold. Sam's thumb rubbed his curls in time with his pleasure, rocking his hips to meet him each warm taste. Sam soon fell into a concentrated rhythm which Frodo allowed him for a while, encouraging with gripping fingers and swirling tongue until Sam's breath started coming in harsh pants. It was at this precarious point that Frodo gently, slowly released him, drawing him out, and moved his efforts to the inner curve of Sam's thigh, nuzzling the soft curls and kissing the tender skin beneath. Sam made a choked sound as he gathered the scattered understanding this was all he was going to receive from Frodo tonight. Still, as soon as he heard Sam sigh and felt his body began to accept the loss, Frodo teased him, letting his mouth just skim over the hot damp skin--a flick of his tongue, a kiss, a passing of his breath, then he rolled away, grinning devilishly. Even if he couldn't see Sam's pained expression, he could hear it in his voice. "I suppose...I deserved that, didn't I?" Frodo lay on his back humming to himself, fingers laced behind his head. See how long Sam would withhold his kisses now. "I don't want to be ordinary, either, Sam." "This evening's gotten to be anything but ordinary, I'll give you that," Sam said, scooting closer to Frodo until their bodies just touched. Frodo lost his smile as he ached with the temptation of Sam's closeness. He'd give anything to have Sam on him right now, heavy with want and moaning in his ear. How strange and helplessly arousing it was to be denied that. He'd never been denied Sam's skin whenever he hungered for it, not in ten years. "We should see to you, now," Sam said and Frodo grew hopeful. "But," Sam continued. "I'm not the one who'll be going to all the trouble." Frodo turned his head, though he could see nothing but darkness. "You don't mean..." "Ah, you do understand." Frodo felt a trickle of uncertainty flow through him which was quickly overthrown by the simple truth he was desperate for a little relief. And if Sam hadn't a mind to... "You want me to..." Sam settled his head close to Frodo's and blew a puff in his ear. "Touch yourself, love. For me." "And what are you going to do?" Frodo asked. "I imagine I'll be watching." "I image you've already watched," Frodo said with an answering puff aimed in Sam's general direction. "No, there's a bit of a difference between watching and knowing. I've not disturbed you, though I've been tempted to." "What would you like me to do?" Frodo whispered. "Turn on your side." Sam's voice grew quiet again as he realised Frodo intended to grant his request. "Away from me. Pretend I'm not here." "Turning I can do; pretending you're not here, that's another matter." Frodo rolled away from Sam and lay partially on his side and stomach so he could rub against the coverlet again. He figured that probably looked rather enticing from Sam's viewpoint and felt so good on his skin. He moved his limbs over the fabric and gave a little moan, pressing his hips into the softness a few times before reaching down to give himself a much needed squeeze. Honeyed arousal dripped onto his fingers and he used it to complete the sensation, pretending it was Sam's mouth enveloping him. This wager had gotten him in such a state he quickly overcame any shyness he might have about this and the blindfold wrapped coolly about his head afforded him the privacy he needed to quickly lose himself in it. His free hand gripped the pillow above his head as Frodo rocked his hips and stroked and rubbed just how he desired, letting up to tease and bearing down to encourage the heady sensations. The knowledge Sam was viewing all this made it all the more thrilling, stealing moans from his throat, and he was soon skimming a lot closer to the edge than he'd wished, his thumb circling tighter and tighter. He let go with a gasp and rolled to his stomach thrusting languidly into the bedcover again until he regained some control. "How'd I do?" Frodo panted when he'd managed to calm himself enough to lie still. Sam's reply came in the form of a growl as he crawled to him. Sam slid an arm possessively over Frodo's back and set his mouth to his shoulder, the heat of his arousal poking Frodo's hip. Frodo grinned victoriously despite the fervent nips Sam was leaving in his flesh. Ah, this was more like it. "What happened to your resolve?" Frodo breathed, wishing he could see his eyes as Sam moved to lay over his back, roaming about with his hips, pressing Frodo deeper into the bed. Frodo waited for Sam to shift his weight off some before he pushed up and threw him off. "It would seem I've bested you," he said, laughing. "You bested me the moment your shirt made the floor," Sam said distractedly as he grasped Frodo easily again and spooned him, holding him against him with a strong arm, his mouth sucking at his neck. Sam's hips found a new place to probe and grind, heated and damp between thigh and cheek. Frodo sucked in his breath to keep from giving himself over half so easily. There was gloating to be done after all. "What do I win?" he asked, teasing Sam's gripping arm with light fingertips. "Anything, anything you want," Sam groaned, licking his eartip. "Just let me have you." Frodo pushed Sam's arm off from around him, breaking free. "I don't know. I'm not so certain I need you anymore," he said rolling away. Sam gave a little cry and Frodo heard his arm flop in defeat on the bedcover. "You don't think so?" Frodo scooted away from him and resumed what he'd begun with his own hands, pretending as if he had no intentions of including Sam. Sam lay behind him very still for some moments so it startled Frodo when he felt Sam's arm slip over his hip to surround his fingers with his own, rising and falling together. Sam slipped his fingers up and over the flushed tip, teasing and collecting, making Frodo twist and moan. Sam nudged his legs apart with a knee and slid those slick fingers between the curves of his bottom. Frodo couldn't help but cry out in want as Sam's fingers teased and rubbed and dipped just inside. "Remember, you don't need me," he whispered. "You don't need me to touch you." "No, I don't," Frodo lied in a gasp of pleasure, pressing back onto Sam's fingers urging them deeper. It was impossible to think clearly at all, or even to bluff badly when any part of Sam was in him. It didn't happen very often, something they tended to save for only special occasions, or whenever Frodo happened to be in a particular mood. That mood was certainly well upon him and Sam would have his wish sooner than not. "More," he pleaded. Sam gave him more, easing his fingers in and out with maddening gentleness, readying him. "I need more from you," he whispered, taking Frodo's wet hand and guiding it back to grip and slicken his own thick need. He felt so good Frodo didn't want to let go, as he gripped and stroked him, almost forgetting how much better it could feel if Sam was... "Sam, I..." he pleaded. "How's that?" Sam teased, his fingers deepening, twisting. "Can I be of service after all?" Frodo couldn't find his voice to beg with more than a whisper. "Be in me, Sam. Please." Sam moaned in triumph and kissed Frodo's jaw tenderly. "Would you like me to remove the sash?" Frodo surprised himself when he shook his head, no. "Good, because I have one more request," Sam said, sliding his fingers out. "What?" "Sit up." "What? How?" Frodo's head was a jumble of expectation and arousal and what Sam wanted of him now was confusing him. This wasn't what they usually...but then nothing tonight had been of the usual. "I want you on your knees. I'll guide you." Frodo got up on his knees and heard Sam fussing brusquely with the pillows. The headboard creaked and Sam's hands were on his hips easing him back toward him. Frodo tossed his head about, lost in the silky blackness. "Sam, where am I going?" "With me," Sam said, as his thighs met behind Frodo's and they slowly sat back together, folding like swan's wings. Sam's sure hands guided, until urgent flesh met acquiescence, parting and taking, in one cautious push after push, sinking, until they met. Frodo dropped his head. His panting breath had gathered moist on the sash, dampening his cheeks. The soft curls of Sam's chest teased his back as they waited for his body to accept and crave for more than just the breathless fullness of being one. Sam's palm spread over Frodo's thigh and between, just brushing and wandering over the heat and wet and the wanting Frodo could barely contain anymore. One part of him tensed as another let go, allowing it to begin. Sam was slow, so slow as he always was as he moved them, like there was nothing he could bear to miss. "You," he breathed. "This is you." Frodo braced a palm on the bed, pushing back in rhythm, urging Sam for more...now...yes. He sought and touched himself like he never had before in Sam's presence until this night. They'd always lain so Sam could hold him fast and bring him over. But this time, Sam's hands were elsewhere, smoothing over his back, gripping his bottom, feeling every exposed inch of him, free in their wanderings. And the sounds Sam made and the way his lips were tasting his skin, caught deep in Frodo's groin, stirring all those dark sensations into a vast unbearable ache. Frodo rocked back again and again to take more of Sam if he could, his fingers quickening around his own begging flesh. But it still wasn't enough, not enough, to draw all the enthralment together into one surrendering rush. "Sam," he cried. "I need you. I need you." Sam moved faster than Frodo thought he could, pushing them over, Frodo under him, belly and face to the coverlet. Sam's was over him, taking him, pulse for pulse, both powerful and tender. Sure familiar hands crowded in between bed and flesh, pushing his own hand aside to stroke and soothe and milk all his desire and fears from the confusion of his mind into the simplicity of a single bright moment. Frodo cried out and gripped the covers bracing, as his release burst through Sam's fingers. "My lamb, my lamb," his lover moaned, thrusting hard now, crushing him, seeking and burying his own pleasures. Frodo gasped under Sam's weight as heat spread deep and true into his flesh, his heart, his soul: one. Sam tore the sash from his head and Frodo blinked against the glow of the moon, whimpering as Sam separated from him, falling next to him, spent. Sam's face, softened by bliss and dotted with sweat, was the most beautiful sight Frodo had ever missed, if even for only the course of one loving. He crawled on weak limbs and nestled at his side, too exhausted and serene to complete the kiss Sam offered as they lay face to face, lips parted, panting and drifting into sleep. *** Frodo woke, startled at first to find he was facing the foot of the bed. It was a few hours before dawn, the time he'd woken at every night since his preoccupation with tracking Beren began. Sam lay curled warmly against his back with a bare arm heavy over his middle, a cheek to his shoulder, fast asleep and well into a good snore. They'd both been too languid to muster the effort to properly cover up. Frodo loved this, this reckless exhaustion they'd fallen into even if it meant waking to sore chilled limbs. It reminded him of their early years, when they'd lie naked together, clinging for warmth like newborn kittens before a roaring hearth fire, the blanket too far to reach. Frodo rolled under Sam's arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Wake up, sleepy." Sam frowned in his dreams and buried his cheek in the coverlet with a grunt. "Come now, lazy bones; it's time to wake!" He poked Sam's soft belly until the hobbit flopped over, hand groping about for a pillow that wasn't where is usually was. Frodo bent to the little patch of fur in the small of Sam's back and gave it a nuzzle. Sam jumped and sat up briskly. "Frodo...what?" Frodo laughed as Sam looked blearily about the still-made bedsheets, rubbing the chill off his exposed skin. "Oh," he said, eyes focusing on Frodo. "You're up to mischief again, aren't you? Have you no need for sleep?" Frodo tugged on Sam's arm. "Hurry Sam, or we'll miss it." "Miss what?" Sam said, shaking him off and flopping back onto the mattress. He yanked a handful of coverlet and pulled it over himself. "You're on your own for a spell. You wore your Sam out." Frodo crawled back over to him, kissing his shoulder, trying to peel off the covers. Sam pulled the quilting up over his head. "Go away," he grumbled. "But I won, Sam. Remember? You said I could have whatever I wish, not the usual wager." "You don't want the foot rub?" Sam said from his cocoon. "Cause I'll give you a nice oiled one tomorrow if you'll leave me be." "Not this time. I want something different. I want you to get out of this bed and dress. Right now!" Sam took more poking and cover stealing before he finally sat up with a huge sigh and yawn and began to stumble about the room for his trousers. * * * "Here, Sam. Take your coat, love. There's a chill in the air," Frodo said, holding the back door open for his love who was still a bit dim in the eyes, clumsily tucking in his half-buttoned shirt. Frodo took Sam's hand and tugged him up into the gardens behind Bag End until they came to the crest of the Hill to the star-pointer among the ring of roses. The blooms enriched the still, predawn air with a melodious scent. The sky was lit bright by the full moon as Frodo took a weary Sam in his arms. With grateful hands, Frodo brought his mouth to his, kissing Sam deeply and thoroughly. When they'd finally, slowly, released each other to breathe, Sam's eyes were filled with a spark of refound wakefulness brought on the hands of love. A warm smile rose to his wet, blushed lips. "You could have kissed me just as fair in bed, you know," he said, rubbing Frodo's chin fondly. "I'm passing time," Frodo said with a grin. "I woke you just a few minutes too soon, see?" He pointed up to where the moon and the great oak were about to enter into a dance with one another. "The moon is so full tonight we must wait for the oak to shade it before I can show you Beren." Sam came around to stand behind Frodo and wrapped him close in his arms. Frodo turned his head and they kissed again, waiting for the moon to dress itself in tangled oak branches. "I love you so much," Frodo said when they broke apart, resting his face in the warmth of Sam's neck. "I get frightened sometimes. I fear if I ever lost you, nothing I enjoy in this world would ever have meaning for me again. Not even the stars." Sam closed his eyes and a shudder went through him as he held Frodo tight. "I suppose I don't tell you often enough," Frodo said, kissing his chin softly. "But tonight I can't help it. I feel you so close." "It's always gladdens me to hear your words, lamb," Sam said once he found his voice. "But you needn't worry. I'd love you if you'd never told me, if you'd never kissed me. It's just who I am. But that isn't our story after all and I love you for all your whims and ways." Frodo regarded him thoughtfully. "Are you speaking true, Sam? Because I do want you to tell me if I'm being an annoyance. I've grown old enough to realise there are some things about me that will never change. But I would try for you Sam, if you asked me." Sam smoothed down Frodo's arms and took his hands, rubbing the palms with a shake of his head. "But I do love how you squawk about your shirts being folded in proper order, but keep the floor of your study like a squirrel's nesting in it. I love how you know all the first lines of every poem written in the Second Age but can't remember if you asked me to pick up candles at market. And I love how you won't always say the words of your heart, but will leave a scrap of verse tucked into my pocket for me to find when I'm about the garden. These are the ways of the lad I love, so don't go changing on me." Frodo smiled for him and blinked the promise of tears from his eyes as Sam tipped his chin to point at the moon. "Look! Almost gone," he said. With the oak's shadow now cast over the star-pointer, Frodo bent and set the dials and arms until the eyepiece aligned perfectly with the now visible orange-yellow star hovering just overhead to the South. Through the lenses, the brilliance transformed into a small sphere, wrapped in yellows, oranges and reds. He stood aside and invited Sam to have a look. "It don't twinkle like the others, Frodo. How is that?" Frodo leaned in close to his shoulder. "No one really knows. Somehow Beren and his companions are different. They have shape and lose their fire when magnified. Felagund wears a circlet of silver. Both know their way across the sky as true as the sun, but for some reason Beren's decided to turn about and head back where he came from. And I don't know how long he means to wander away from the path, but I will watch him every night to see that he doesn't get lost." Sam straightened and squinted up at the sky unaided. "Must be hard for him to leave his friend like that. The sky is so big after all. And Felagund was sworn to Beren as you've read it to me." "Yes," Frodo said, bending to take his observation as he recalled a portion of the Lay. "Felagund left his kingdom behind to join Beren on his quest to reclaim the silmaril from Morgoth's crown. Disguised as orcs, they travelled to the very reaches of the ancient North where they were taken prisoner by Sauron and locked in the dungeons of his black tower." "That's where the elf king was killed by the giant wolf," Sam said, remembering. "He was," Frodo said sadly, taking out his notebook and scribbling in it. Then he straightened and moved back to Sam, taking his hand as they looked heavenward. "Beren was stricken with such sorrow, he lay for many black days at his friend's side. So deep was his despair that he did not recognise the face of his beloved Luthien when she arrived to free him." Sam sighed and squeezed Frodo's hand. "I don't think Beren plans to go very far. How could he? But I see now why you've been so worrisome. I can promise, if you ever wandered away from this place, our home, I would follow you over every mountain and field and sea in Middle-earth until I found you again." Frodo smiled, the comfort he'd been seeking was now found in Sam's words. He reached to run his fingers through his lover's hair. "Do you imagine that we'll find ourselves standing atop this hill together another decade from now?" he asked, his heart filled with hope. "Aye, I believe we will." Reflected in Sam's eyes Frodo imagined he could see the steady glow of their distant wayward star and knew where he stood beneath the spider's web of the heavens: home.