K. D. (oh_kaity) wrote in shire_gathering,
K. D.
oh_kaity
shire_gathering

  • Music:

Frodo and Sam (For Thuri! This is what we call reviving the group! Har.)

( OOC: I write this as I am supposed to be getting ready to get on a plane to go home for Thanksgiving. Was going to wait until I got back, but I was reading through our old things and thought, hey, we wrote some really good stuff, actually. XD ... And Frodo made me want toast and jam from an old post ... I probably won't get any. Anyway, yes, this is following the old storyline from March. From what I could deduce ... I think Sam's thirty-six and Frodo's forty-eight? *took that from a reference to Pippin's age, so... hobbit!math* )

Samwise Gamgee had thought, for a long time, about what Merry had told him in the Green Dragon. It was a comforting thought, to be sure----to know that Frodo wasn't being sour simply for the sake of being sour, and that his little smiles possibly meant something more than that, and that he was only moody because----well, quite frankly, Sam didn't know why his master was moody, but he hoped it would have some solidly good outcome.

Still, it wasn't his purpose to say anything, and doing so would have been overstepping his bounds by a longshot. There were certain things that one could and could not say to one's master when one wasn't much other than a servant, and a proposition of affection between lads was one of those things that fell into the category of Could Not.

Therefore it was that Sam, however anxious he might have been, went about his business as usual in the couple of days following Merry's talk in the Green Dragon. He arrived early each morning, tended to the gardens, managed a bit of housework while Frodo was busy with gentler pursuits like reading and writing letters. The only change was that when he spent a bit too long looking at his master, he didn't feel as guilty. Not quite.
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic
  • 33 comments
Sam loved him.

Pippin had been so forceful, so convincing, that Frodo couldn't help but believe him. Or at least, believe that Pippin believed. And as flightly as his young cousin often was . . . he did have a knack for knowing a hobbit's thoughts.

So. Sam loved him.

But what was he supposed to do?

Frodo waited until Merry and Pippin had left for the day, off on business of their own. And he sought Sam out, bringing him a cool bottle of ale from the cellar, into the garden. It wasn't too out of character for him, though he hadn't done it often.

"Sam?" he asked, though of course his gardner was right in front of him. And sweating. Frodo offered up a small prayer for strength.
"Did you want somethin', Mr. Frodo?" Sam glanced up from his work----digging up weeds that had snuck in with the roses----and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm, only to leave a smudge of dirt. Despite conversations and feelings, when Sam was working, he never allowed such things to dictate his ability as a gardener. And so, though his mind was racing, no such thing appeared on his features or sounded in his voice.

It was a clever thing, something he was not normally capable of, as he generally always wore his heart on his sleeve.
Frodo reminded himself firmly he was much too old to blush like a tweener, just from a look. Especially considering how obvious it would be, with his pale skin.

Too old to stammer, too. Had to be. Now answer him, Baggins.

"Thought you could use a drink," Frodo managed, holding out the ale bottle. "It's a hot day, and tea's hours away."
"Oh----sir."

Sam coughed gently and offered a surprised smile. "Thank you, sir----that's very kind of you. Quite kind, really. As a matter of fact, I'd just been thinkin' about how it might be nicer if I had a cold drink of ale, and ... oh, now I'm talkin' too much, sir." He blushed, ducking his head and taking the bottle. Normally he was a rather quiet fellow but when he got to talking, he was able to just go on.
Frodo felt a smile spread across his face, at Sam's near babbling. "You're not," he replied simply. "It's too quiet today, anyway, with Merry and Pippin off somewhere."

He cast about from something else to say, something to talk about. "And you're quite welcome, for the ale." He didn't want to leave, but . . . how was he supposed to work the conversation around to the both of them.
"Mr Merry and Mr Pippin have been doin' quite a lot of talkin' recently, so I've definitely noticed that quiet, too," Sam said as he expertly opened up the bottle, wrapping the end of his sleeve around the cork for more friction in getting it out. Perhaps it had been the wrong thing to say, but it had just slipped out. He was rather put out, with the way Frodo's two impertinent cousins kept talking about him, and talking to him, as if they presumed ... well, it was different for him, and for Frodo. Merry and Pippin were different, and that was that.

The ale open, Sam glanced at Frodo as if looking for permission before taking a sip from the bottle, since no glasses had been brought. "Did you want some, too, Mr Frodo? I know you'd probably much rather stay inside than be outside keepin' me company, but it's a nice day, and even a gentlehobbit like yourself can appreciate a nice day ..."
Frodo took the proferred bottle and took a long sip. "I'd much rather keep you company, Sam, than go back to those dusty books," he admitted, stretching and relaxing, settling on the grass in the hopes Sam would join him.

He smiled, at little, at his gardner's look of surprise. "I'm working through some half translated Elvish histories Bilbo left behind, and it's remarkably slow going. Ale, a smoke, and decent company would be very welcome just now, if you don't mind me interrupting your work."
"Well, I..." Sam hesitated. He did love his work, and he hated being interrupted, but being interrupted by Frodo was very different than being interrupted by anyone else----and the work was getting to be a bit tedious today----and Frodo had gone out of his way to come out ... and he looked so lovely and perfect in the sunlight ...

"That would be fine, Mr Frodo----that is, if you don't mind me stoppin' for a little bit ... it's what you pay me for, after all----gardenin', not lollin' about with you with ale and pipes ..." He chuckled and turned away, in order to clear off the garden bench which was now covered with tools and dirt, and then to try and clean himself off, as he was, as usual, covered in dirt and sweat, and here Frodo looked fine and fresh as the morning. But it was only after he cleared the bench that he actually realised that Frodo had settled on the grass and wanted to sit there ... and Sam smiled a little to himself and sank down in turn.

The younger hobbit tore at the frayed hem of his breeches. "Mr Merry and Mr Pippin have been staying for some while, haven't they ... not that it's not expected and all, it just ... changes things sometimes." What he meant to say was, it gave more work for him, especially when the two cousins decided to go scampering about his precious gardens. And then ... well. Then there were those conversations that he'd had with Merry, about Frodo, and Frodo's interests, and Frodo having too keen an eye on his simple gardener. That changed things, too.
Frodo laughed softly. "It certainly does. I think Merry's got it into his head that I'm lonely, and he and Pippin need to keep me company. Though how they're supposed to be doing that, when they mostly sneak off together . . ." He shook his head, fondly, handing the bottle back to Sam.

"And no, I don't mind. You do wonderful things to this garden, Sam, but sometimes . . ." Frodo blushed, but kept talking. "Sometimes I like just talking with you, too."
Sam blushed, wiping off his hands on his breeches to clean them a bit before taking the bottle, which, he noticed, already had his dirty fingerprints on it ... and Frodo's own hands had smudged them. He suppressed a soft gasp----little things like this were the things he noticed, as if they meant so much. "Well, I----I like talkin' with you, too, sir. We don't really do it much, not when I've things to do, and I ... I'm not good at conversation, not like your cousins are, because----well, you know, we're different, you and me, and I won't ever be ..."

He stopped, taking a drink to clear his dry throat, only then realising that Frodo had been drinking from the same bottle, had put his gentle, delicate mouth in the same place. His lips lingered along the edge for a bit longer than previously intended, and with his thumb he wiped away a small trickle of ale from his chin. He chuckled softly and handed it back, rather reluctantly. "Won't ever be very fine, like you."
"I hope not," Frodo murmured to himself, watching Sam closely, feeling a small thrill go through him, at the way the other hobbit's lips closed around the neck of the bottle, his stained hands left trails in the condensation . . .

He shook himself slightly, then, taking the bottle back, fingers all but unconsciously settling into the same position Sam's had taken. "I've had quite enough of my cousins' conversation for some time," he said ruefully. "Neither of them seem to know when to keep their mouths closed."
"I know," Sam said, his cheeks flushing red, and not from sunburn. Merry and Pippin had quite overstepped their bounds, and had set up Sam to hope for things he couldn't have----he was beginning to think it was all a rather cruel prank that Frodo's younger cousins played on him while they snuck off and found very particular company in each other.

"Not---I mean." He coughed, looking away and scratching the back of his neck. The movement caused his shirt, unbuttoned almost halfway, to fall from his shoulder, his suspenders (which normally guarded against that) having been left to rest down at his sides long ago. "Not to be harsh against them or anythin', of course, sir. I do like your cousins."
Frodo laughed aloud at Sam's immediate agreement, but then felt his mouth go dry, as Sam's shirt slipped from his shoulder. He took a long drink from the ale bottle. "What . . . what've they been on at you about?" he managed, voice sounding strange to his own ears.
"Ah---" Sam stopped short, looking at Frodo wide-eyed, and then looking away. "Things. You know. Teasin', and ... offerin' advice in things, that they have no business with. There's a thing, you know. Most hobbits are gossipy creatures, I know that, but there's somethin' about gentlehobbits----no offence, sir----that makes 'em think they can just ... just talk to you about anythin', especially when you've been drinkin' and can't guard yourself properly ... it's downright cruel, you know."

He coughed and looked back at Frodo, shifting in his spot----when he moved just so, the shirt would shift just enough to reveal a glimpse of a plump nipple. "I don't think I can say much more than that, sir. It's ... personal."
Frodo forced himself to look away, to concentrate. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. "About Merry . . . he shouldn't've done that. Told you . . ." He stopped, realizing what he was saying, and not sure how to get out of it now.

"Very personal," he agreed, staring down the neck of the ale bottle, now, though his eyes kept trying to catch another glimpse of Sam's tanned skin. He'd seen it before, his gardner often worked without his shirt in the heat of summer, but Frodo'd never before been quite so close to it, and . . . His fingers ached to brush across it.
"You mean you do know, sir?"

Sam slowly pulled his shirt back over his shoulder, chewing hard on his lip. "Merry said you----I mean, it's not my business, but... he said you knew, and that I should know, about ... personal things, and ... it's not proper, sir, you know that, don't you? Maybe for gentlehobbits who've nowt better to do, but ... but for hobbits like me ... to ... watch you the way I do..." There, now he'd gone and done it. "It takes me away from work, and I----there now. I said it. I won't do it anymore."

He wasn't making much sense, and he knew it, but he was desperately trying to skirt around the subject now that it had come up, and Frodo looked so ... expectant and collected----at least more than Sam, anyhow.
Frodo felt all the breath leave his body. "You . . . you watch me?" he asked, voice full of a kind of caustious hope.

He shook himself, slightly, trying to think. "I . . . I meant that Merry shouldn't've told you that I . . ." He blushed fiercely. "That I prefer lads, but . . . he told you more?" He should've been angry, he thought, but seeing Sam's eyes on him, like that, hearing what he said . . . If Sam felt the same, he decided, Merry could be forgiven.
Sam winced. Now he'd gone and said the wrong thing, hadn't he? Brilliant, Sam, he thought to himself, gone and said too much, and no way to get out of it, and you'll be saked for sure.

"I----Well, see, Mr. Frodo, I----" The younger hobbit cleared his throat. "Everybody thinks that I----well, that I'm to marry Rosie Cotton. And that's what I ought to do. I love her, you understand ... I do, she's very lovely, and she's always been a friend, right unexpected in her ways sometimes, and ..." And she's a lass, and it's the right, productive thing to do.

Sam glanced back at Frodo again. "But ... y'see, sir. There are some times ... I----you know, there are some times ..." Some times when he'd look at Rosie looking especially workworn, pushing her hair out of her eyes and smiling breathlessly, when all Sam wanted to do was press his lips to hers and touch her, explore her body ... he knew that feeling, the one he was supposed to feel only around lasses----but then there was Frodo. Sitting there, with his curls moving in the breeze, his eyes squinting against the sunlight, the ale moistening his lower lip ... and Frodo was not a lass, and Frodo was not comfortable, easygoing Rosie Cotton. Every waking moment around his master was becoming torture----torture that he endured for the sheer joy of being around him, of having the chance to look at how very different he was from other hobbits. He'd never felt quite that way around Rosie, ever.

"I don't know what Mr Merry told you, sir, but I----if it ... if it means you don't want me here anymore, I can tell you now it ain't true. But ... but yes, sometimes I ... watch you."
"I want you here very much," Frodo managed, his voice soft and breathless. "I . . . watch you, too, Sam," he said, very softly, wondering if there really was any hope. Sam loved Rosie. Of course he did. But . . .

"And Merry's told me nothing," he admitted, not daring to look up. "Pippin, on the other hand . . ."
Sam gulped. They were quite conspiratorial, those two. "And what was it that Mr Pippin told you, sir?" he asked slowly, leaning forward and inching a bit closer. "Because if it was anythin' improper I'd like to say now ... that I ..."

Frodo watched him, too. He'd admitted it. And Merry had told him things that now might not be a lie. Perhaps he was being a bit too bold----far too bold----but words escaped him now and Sam had never been good at explaining himself through words, with his poor grammar and working-class accent.

And so Sam closed the gap between them and hesitated for just a moment, before kissing the corner of his mouth. "Like to say I don't mean it to be improper, sir."

thuri

12 years ago

oh_kaity

12 years ago

thuri

12 years ago

oh_kaity

12 years ago

oh_kaity

12 years ago

thuri

12 years ago

oh_kaity

12 years ago

Frodo blushed, shivering a little at the look in Sam's eyes, hoping his own showed the same. "Oh Sam . . . you flatter me," he said, smiling and kissing him again. "But thank you. I . . . I prefer you, honestly," he said, with another soft kiss. "So strong . . ."
"And not much refined," Sam finished for him, his shirt falling from his shoulder again as he shifted to tenderly kiss Frodo's jaw. He was strong, that was for certain, but he was certainly one of the gentlest people in the Shire----and one of the fiercest, when his temper was flared (however rare that was). And he was gentle now, against his desires, even as he nipped Frodo's earlobe with his teeth. "But ... if I make you happy, sir..." He grinned against Frodo's ear and nuzzled him.
Frodo leaned into the touch with another soft gasp, raising his hand to brush his fingers over Sam's bare shoulder, feeling the warm skin slide beneath his ink stained fingers. "So happy . . ."
Sam took up Frodo's hand in his own, to gingerly kiss his fingers, smiling at the marks from the ink. His dear, scholarly Frodo. He chuckled to himself and continued, every so often daring to suckle a fingertip between his lips.

"Beautiful," he whispered. "Every little thing..."
Frodo found himself again surprised, by Sam's action, and wondered just how experienced his love (love!) was. "I . . . suppose," he murmured, flushing and looking down, still not totally certain this was happening.