Title: A Rose in the Sun Author: Elanor E-mail: elanor_the_fair@btinternet.com Rating: R for sex, though it's not graphic Pairing(s): Frodo/Sam Category(s): Romance, First Time Summary: Frodo and Sam discover the depth of their feelings for each other. Author's Note: This is the first time I’ve tried something like this, sweet rather than angsty. All feedback appreciated. * Frodo shielded his eyes from the bright stream of sunlight that awoke him from his deep sleep and turned over with a groan. “Morning Mr. Frodo,” said the familiar voice of Sam, early for work as usual, his tone as light as a summer breeze wafting into Frodo’s consciousness. Frodo smiled contentedly and closed his eyes to enjoy for a few more moments that blissful bridge between sleep and wakefulness. When Frodo finally opened his eyes, Sam had left the room and could be heard busying himself in the kitchen. Frodo lifted himself slowly from the bed and followed the scent of bacon towards the kitchen. Still in his nightshirt, he greeted Sam with a lazy smile and sat down at the table where a steaming cup of tea was already waiting for him. Sam said nothing as Frodo entered, but tipped the bacon from the pan onto two plates with some eggs and toast and turned towards the kitchen table, where he placed one plate in front of Frodo before sitting down directly opposite him with the second. The hobbits ate their breakfast in comfortable silence, each contemplating the day ahead of him. Sam was wondering to himself which part of the garden would provide the best site for the new potatoes he wanted to grow there, and Frodo was planning a lazy day in the garden reading one of his new elvish texts to the accompaniment of Sam’s usual singing while he worked. Frodo smiled to himself as he thought of the effortless and blissful routine into which their lives had drifted. He loved the easy familiarity of their wordless mornings. Sam had initially protested when Frodo asked him to share his table; it was not proper, as his Gaffer would say, but Frodo had insisted. Since Bilbo’s departure some fifteen years previously, Frodo had increasingly turned to his young gardener for company, and they had grown closer with every passing year. Over this time, Sam had slowly relented and now automatically cooked for two each morning, noon and night. Frodo now considered the younger hobbit his best friend, and Sam, while still holding his master in reverence, felt the same. Frodo became suddenly aware of Sam’s gaze upon him and snapped quickly out of his reverie. “What is it, Sam?” he asked, struggling to force back the grin that his gardener’s current expression – brow furrowed in a mixture of concentration and concern – invariably produced. “Just wondering what you’re thinking, sir,” replied Sam a little shyly, and Frodo became aware of how long he must have been staring. Frodo laughed softly. “I was just thinking about how perfect this is,” he said with a smile. “What’s that, Mr Frodo?” “Everything in my life at this moment is absolutely perfect,” replied Frodo, gazing wistfully out of the window. “I don’t believe I would like a single thing to change.” Sam smiled inwardly, understanding the unspoken words; he knew that Frodo was grateful for the care that Sam gave to him without its ever needing to be said, and seeing his master so happy was the greatest reward for his work that Sam could wish for. Rising, he cleared the table, and without needing to say a word, Frodo read in his expression that Sam felt just as happy as he did. Sam loved to work in the garden, and had taken on the multitude of other jobs that he did at Bag End – just about everything, Frodo realised – with ease, because he genuinely enjoyed looking after Frodo and spending time with him, whether that was eating together, reading to each other, talking or, as was often the case, doing nothing at all but revel in the joy of simply being together. This, Frodo thought, truly was bliss: every element of his life in perfect harmony. He had the freedom of being his own master coupled with the security of routine, and he had his loyal and devoted Sam. Frodo had been lost in thought for some minutes, for when he looked up he saw that Sam had finished clearing the kitchen and was already at work in the garden; singing to himself an old tune to which he fit such words as entered his head at that time. The result was a peculiar song about potatoes, weeds, rabbits and toads, but while he concentrated on his work it was sung with such sincerity as he would lend to a ballad in the high Elven tongue. Frodo laughed aloud at this, and lost himself again in another reverie. Some two hours had passed, maybe even three, when Frodo was brought back to reality by the sound of the back door opening, and Sam entering the kitchen to prepare lunch. Sam stopped in the kitchen doorway and laughed as he saw Frodo still sat there, still in his nightshirt, still seemingly lost in that world he wondered off to so often. Frodo cast a slightly embarrassed look down at his attire before shrugging and turning to his gardener, who was chattering away about his sisters and his Gaffer and the latest gossip from the Ivy Bush, quite aware that Frodo was not listening, but not really minding. He quickly rustled up two mushroom omelettes and gave Frodo his before assuming his usual position directly opposite his master. “How’s the garden, Sam?” Frodo enquired as his gardener sat down in front of him. Frodo was, in all honesty, not at all hungry, but he picked slowly at his omelette while he listened to Sam talk about the garden. He was focused on the soft, reassuring sound and rhythm of Sam’s speech rather than the words themselves, but nodded periodically to give the impression of listening. Sam, however, was not fooled and stopped abruptly, turning to his master. “Now Mr Frodo, if you don’t want to know about your garden I won’t tell you naught of it, but don’t you go asking and pretending you’re listening because I can see you’re not hearing a word that I’m saying,” he chided playfully. Frodo turned his head down and looked up at Sam with mock remorse, before breaking into a wide grin and polishing off the last of his omelette. Sam took the empty plate from him and stood to clear the table, shaking his head and smiling to himself. He wasn’t really sure what had gotten into his master, but it filled his heart with overwhelming joy to see him so happy, so light-hearted, so carefree. Sam thought to himself that Frodo was absolutely right; Sam’s life too was as perfect as he could imagine it, filled only with Frodo and his garden: to Sam, these were the two most belovedest things in Middle-earth. When Sam had retired again to the garden, Frodo reluctantly removed himself from the kitchen to dress. By now, the Sun was high in the sky, and Sam had finished with the potatoes and was weeding the border near the back door of the smial. He had planted roses here - red, white, pink and yellow - which climbed up the side of Bag End to the hill above. Looking up from his weeding, he took a white rose between his thumb and forefinger and pondered how it was possible that this flower was of exactly the same colour as Frodo’s skin. He carefully cut a few of the roses and took them inside, where he found a vase and headed for the study. Frodo was there, dressed now, standing before the bookcase trying to select a book to take to the garden. He turned around as Sam entered and smiled as he saw the vase of white roses being placed upon his desk. Sam always kept fresh flowers in the study for him, without ever having been asked. “Thank you, Sam,” he said quietly, knowing that the words were insufficient for the gratitude he felt. But Sam desired no gratitude, and was at any rate already quite secure in the knowledge that he was appreciated. Setting the vase in place, he wandered over to join Frodo at the bookshelf and reached for a book of elvish verse. Handing it to Frodo, he cocked his head and looked at him shyly. “Would you read me this, sir, while I work?” he said. Frodo took the book, a faint smile playing across his lips. “Of course, Sam,” he replied, and they made their way out to the garden together. The afternoon passed in a haze of warm breeze and the lilting melody of Frodo’s voice as he read the elvish verse. Sam was trimming the hedge, and as he progressed along its length Frodo would reposition himself accordingly. Every so often, Sam would join in a verse that he recognised, not understanding the meaning of the words but their sound creating such vivid images in his mind that their meaning need not be known. The Sun was setting as Sam finished the hedge and began to clear away his tools. Frodo closed the book and made his way back indoors to the kitchen to wait for Sam, who joined him shortly afterwards, having washed himself down at the pump outside and changed into the spare clothes that he always kept at Bag End since his spending the evenings there had become the norm. Sam made his way into the kitchen and put some water on to boil, making Frodo a cup of tea before preparing dinner. It was these small, simple gestures that filled Frodo with such an enormous sense of happiness that he felt almost tearful to think of it. He knew that Sam did these things out of love and friendship rather than any obligation to serve, and Sam also knew that they were appreciated rather than expected. Frodo and Sam were equals in all but title, and they both knew and accepted this without any need for reassurance on either side. Taking his seat opposite Frodo for dinner, Sam noticed the colour in his master’s cheeks and looked at him with concern. “You’ve caught the Sun, sir,” he said. “You shouldn’t have sat out in the open like that all afternoon.” “I’m alright Sam,” Frodo replied, glowing inwardly at Sam’s concern for him. “And I could use a little colour; I’m as white as a sheet.” “As white as a rose,” Sam said quietly to himself, but Frodo heard and laughed. It was so like Sam to take every derogatory thing that Frodo thought about himself and turn it into something positive. After dinner, Frodo and Sam made their way into the study and Sam set the fire while Frodo selected another book, choosing one of Sam’s favourites, the tale of Beren and Luthien. Throwing some cushions onto the floor, he sat down before the fire and waited for Sam to sit beside him. Sam had lit the fire more for the comfort of its soft light and crackling sound than for heat, for it was really rather a warm night, so he also opened the shutters to let in a cool breeze. Then, sitting beside Frodo upon the cushions, he listened to the tale of love and heroism that unfolded. Sam closed his eyes as vivid images filled his mind. Without realising what he was doing, he leant over and rested his head against Frodo’s shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of Frodo’s breathing, the fire’s gentle warmth entwined with the cool breeze from the window, and the soft cracking of the fire mingling with the melodic sound of Frodo’s voice. As Sam’s breathing slowed to a steady rhythm, Frodo stopped reading and looked down at the younger hobbit’s head in his shoulder. His eyes were closed and the smile on his lips was one of utter contentment. Frodo kissed the top of Sam’s head and closed the book, leaning over to place it back on the shelf. At the movement, Sam’s eyes snapped open and he looked up at Frodo apologetically. At the same time, Frodo looked down towards him and for the briefest moment their lips brushed together, only the lightest of touches, but lighting an instant spark in each of them. They remained motionless for some moments, their lips mere inches apart, and then they closed the gap between them, their lips meeting in a gentle and exploratory first kiss. As Frodo pressed his lips to Sam’s, he felt every nerve in his body tingle, each hair on the back of his neck on end. He gasped and pulled away slowly, drawing back to look into Sam’s eyes, but they were still closed. Frodo softly kissed each of the eyelids and, licking his lips, pressed them once more to Sam’s, this time firmer. Sam felt as though he was inside one of Frodo’s elvish verses, felt himself wandering aimlessly in a sea of pure contentment as Frodo’s lips moved over his, Frodo’s tongue brushing over them gently. Sam was clutching at the loose folds of Frodo’s shirt around his waist, and Frodo’s hands were running through Sam’s golden curls, holding his head firm. Frodo ran his tongue softly between Sam’s lips, and they parted eagerly for him, and he began to delve and explore within. Their tongues met as their kiss deepened, and at the touch Sam felt a wave of pleasure rush through him. Frodo could not contain the dizzying swirl of emotion swimming through his mind, and gently broke off the kiss so that he could set his thoughts in order. Sam’s lips were trailing feather-light kisses down his neck, around his throat and back up to his earlobe, which he tugged at everso gently with his teeth. Frodo sighed and nestled his face in Sam’s hair, losing himself in the smell of his gardener’s golden curls - homely, like apple and cinnamon, Frodo thought – and the dancing of Sam’s lips upon his neck, like light- footed fireflies setting his skin alight. Frodo held Sam close as the thought occurred to him that while he had known for many years that he loved Sam, he only realised now that he was, in fact, in love with him. Having assumed that he would remain a bachelor all his life, he could not contain the elation that he felt at the realisation that he had fallen in love with his best friend. Could anything be more perfect, more beautiful? He ran one hand slowly up Sam’s side until it reached his jaw, which he tilted up lightly before claiming him in a kiss as passionate as it was tender. Sam gasped as Frodo’s lips were pressed firmly against his own and he felt his master’s tongue dipping inside, tasting and exploring him. To Sam too, this was a revelation. He realised that he should have known that his feelings for Frodo were stronger than anything he could ever feel for a lass, but it had not occurred to him that he could love his master this way. But now it seemed so obvious that Sam could not believe they had not tried this sooner. Their kiss outlasted the fire, and the last embers died away, Frodo felt Sam shiver in his arms. He turned his lips to Sam’s ear and gently licked the tip. “We should be heading to bed,” he whispered softly against Sam’s ear, allowing his lips to brush gently against it. Sam trembled at the sensation and could only manage a soft murmur of agreement. Frodo gathered Sam in his arms and carefully lifted him to his feet. They walked together, hand in hand, towards Frodo’s bedroom. Sam stopped at the door and let Frodo enter first, one last gesture towards propriety before he followed and enveloped Frodo in his arms, holding him close, trying to absorb his very essence. Frodo sighed and relaxed in Sam’s arms. Then he slowly pulled away enough to lift his head and look into the younger hobbit’s deep chestnut eyes. With their eyes locked together, Frodo ran his hand up to the top button of Sam’s shirt and toyed with it playfully, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as his eyes remained fixed on Sam’s. There was no need to ask if Sam wanted this; his eyes told Frodo everything he needed to know. The trust between them was so complete that Frodo knew Sam would have no misguided ideas of obligation to his master; Frodo trusted that Sam would do nothing he did not wish to, and his eyes told Frodo now that he very much wished for this. As his right hand carefully undid the button, Frodo ran his left hand up to play with Sam’s curls. His eyes remained fixed on Sam’s as he dipped his head to kiss the skin exposed at the top of his chest. Slowly, Frodo worked his way through the buttons, kissing each inch of the tanned skin beneath as it was revealed to him. Then Sam shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and turned to deal with Frodo’s. As his master’s achingly beautiful rose-white skin was revealed to him, Sam felt a lump rise in his throat and tears sting at his eyes. “So beautiful,” he whispered under his breath, as his hands played across the smooth milky expanse of Frodo’s chest. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek, and Frodo kissed it away gently. “I love you Sam,” he whispered softly into Sam’s ear. “I love you too, Mr Frodo,” Sam replied huskily. Frodo started at the ‘Mr,’ but only very slightly; he had long ceased seeing the titles as any form of deference; he knew that Sam’s use of ‘Mr’ and ‘sir’ was an indication only of the delight the younger hobbit took in serving him, and had no bearing on the equality their relationship had enjoyed already for some time. Frodo’s thoughts were brought immediately back to the present as he felt Sam’s fingers running gently around the inside edge of his waistband. His nerves were tingling and his skin on fire as those sure and steady hands reached for the laces of his breeches and they fell swiftly to the floor. Frodo pressed himself against Sam, his head on the golden chest, feeling the racing heartbeat pulsing through him. He lowered his own hand to Sam’s laces, pressing a firm kiss against his heart, and with a single swift tug the breeches were discarded. Sam gathered Frodo up in his arms and lowered him on the bed, settling himself beside his master and holding him tightly as he rained kisses upon his brow. Sam lifted himself above his master as their lips met again, this time hungry and searching. Sam could feel Frodo trembling beneath him, and as he reached out a steadying hand, realised that he too was shaking. Slowly he lowered himself onto Frodo and the hobbits gasped together as they touched, sending a wave of heat through each of them. Their lips remained moulded together as they began to move in a slow, steady rhythm, waves upon wave of heat coursing through each of them, each delighting in the pleasure they were able to draw from the other, as their bodies together found the unity that their souls had long known. * Sam awoke before dawn to the feeling of Frodo’s head resting in the crook of his neck, Frodo’s fingers playing absent-mindedly across his chest. “Are you not sleeping?” he murmured hoarsely. “No, Sam, I was thinking,” came the hazy reply. “You think too much,” Sam scolded softly, turning onto his side to hold Frodo tightly against him. “I was wrong yesterday,” Frodo continued, unheeding. “When I said that everything in my life was perfect, I was wrong.” “It isn’t?” Sam asked, with a slight edge of concern on his voice. “No, Sam, it wasn’t. It is now.” Sam felt such a rush of passion at this that he threw Frodo onto his back and, leaning over him, kissed him hungrily. Frodo laughed into the kiss; a laugh of pure joy and contentment. Sam smiled and gazed lovingly down at Frodo’s slight form beneath him. Propping himself up on one elbow, he ran a hand over Frodo’s chest, lightly brushing his nipple and causing him to emit a sharp gasp, then over his stomach and gently grazing his thigh. “You’re so beautiful, sir,” Sam murmured. “My little rose,” he added, placing a firm kiss upon his master’s stomach. Frodo chuckled. “Then you’re the Sun that makes the roses grow,” he said with a smile. Sam grinned and lifted himself directly above Frodo to claim his love in a passionate kiss. Outside Bag End, the roses were lifting their heads to greet the warmth of the rising Sun. Inside, Frodo’s head was tilted up to greet Sam in an endless stream of gentle kisses, each hobbit blissfully contented and silently praying that nothing would alter their now-perfect existence.