Frodo leaned hard on the tabletop, his chin digging into his palm. Across from him, Bilbo sat devouring his second breakfast with tidy gusto. Frodo took his fork up in his free hand and absently broke his fried eggs. How could he do the same, when thoughts of the afternoon before still swarmed in his mind like Farmer Cotton's bees, sweeter than the finest clover honey?

Frodo swirled the corner of his toast through the warm yellow puddle slowly encroaching upon his heap of fried taters, cut fresh from a sack that the Gaffer had sent up with Sam the day before...

Frodo bit down, but did not chew. He closed his eyes tightly, lapping at the yolk's salty richness as sensation flooded through him at the very thought of Sam's name. How many times had he panted it, he wondered, as the young gardener's eager body had shifted and thrusted and torn ecstasies from him that he hadn't thought possible? Frodo pursed his lips around the soggy toast, allowing the corner to tear away. He swallowed shakily. And if that hadn't been enough, Sam's mouth--

"Frodo, lad, mind your weskit. I don't care what that wild cousin of yours thinks; that shade of gold most certainly does not match rosy umber."

Frodo started, nearly dropping his toast, hastily swiping at his chin, whence the offending drip had become suddenly, painfully obvious. "I'm sorry, Uncle Bilbo."

The old hobbit chortled, and with a careless bah, he dampened a linen napkin and passed it to Frodo. "Oh, come now, you know it's no harm done, really. It's just that you've been walking about with your head in a tangle all morning, and I don't look forward to seeing you trip all over what's unraveled. Lad, what's bothering you?"

Frodo choked his alarm into the napkin, shaking his head hastily. "Nothing, sir," he mumbled. "It's...I'm...not feeling well. I haven't much appetite, I'm afraid," Frodo lied, indicating his mostly-full plate with a vague jab of his fork.

Bilbo frowned, his expression caught somewhere between disapproval and concern.

Frodo exhaled slowly and pressed the cool, damp cloth to his cheek, hoping that the gesture passed for even mildly feverish. "Would you mind if I picked that translation back up, and had a rest?"

Bilbo seemed to accept Frodo's feint, as his eyes had moved somewhere into the I'm-making-you-some-chamomile-and-putting-you-to-bed-at-once! range, but the addition of a scholarly pursuit had been an ill choice. "Frodo, I think you oughtn't be taxing yourself if--"

"It clears my mind," Frodo said, genuinely peevish. He rose from the table and headed for the study. "Good 'forenoon, Uncle," he murmured, hardly looking back.

Clear his mind indeed! If anything, Frodo was loath to do so. He retrieved a book stuffed with loose papers and tucked a fresh quill and inkbottle in his pocket. Frodo ducked down the south wing, hoping that Bilbo hadn't had the same idea and settled himself under the old poplar out back for a pre-elevenses smoke.

Thankfully, Frodo discovered, he had not. Frodo sat with a heavy sigh, settling himself back against the bark, propping the book open across his knees. He forced himself through a careful scan of the stanza he'd abandoned the day before--

When Sam had asked, "Would you like to take lunch on the road, sir?" And there he'd been standing with the basket in hand, his smile all at once open and alluringly bashful.

Frodo snapped the book shut, closing his eyes again, feeling as if his breath wished to take off racing of its own accord and find those hands that so easily hindered it. Frodo hadn't been able to breathe, even after his pulse had settled and he'd regained enough presence of mind to gently wipe them both clean with a spare napkin from the bottom of the basket. Sam had lain very still, unblinking, eyes still hazy and lips parted as Frodo leaned low, kissing the corners of his mouth even as he tidied his belly and set his trousers back in order. Frodo remembered being taken by surprise--Sam had sprung into motion, looping arms about Frodo's neck, drawing him down for a deep, tremulous kiss. Frodo had scarcely gotten through cleaning himself, let alone bothering to button up. And to his surprise Sam had undone his own all over again and curled against Frodo with a sleepy shiver, and what more could Frodo do but wrap arms and legs about him and fall into a light, lazy slumber? A sleep that, nonetheless, had eventually thickened, and when Frodo had awakened it was early evening and Sam still dozed warm against him. They had spoken very little on the walk back to Bagshot Row...hand in hand, fingers laced and trembling. Frodo regretted how hasty the last kiss had been, at the gate of Number Three. And how awkward his mumbled, "Good night." Sam deserved better than that. Sam, who had responded with a tense, hopeful smile, a murmured, "See you tomorrow,--

"Mr. Frodo."

Frodo sat bolt upright and found himself in Sam's shadow, blushing to the roots of his hair as his papers went flying. Looking almost grateful for the distraction, Sam dropped to his knees immediately.

"Sir, let me help with--"

Their arms collided in reaching for the nearest sheet. Frodo met Sam's gaze slowly as he caught his hand and held it.

"Let it be," Frodo whispered, crawling forward to lean close. "Because I...well, I wanted..."

Sam blushed himself, squeezing at Frodo's hand. "Yes, sir?"

"To say goodnight--er, that is, properly," Frodo murmured in embarrassment, finding he could no longer look straight at Sam without the impulse to right his inadequate parting gesture most unceremoniously.

"Sir, I don't see as there was anything wrong with--"

Frodo steeled his nerves and looked up, pressing a hand to Sam's cheek. "No, there was plenty," Frodo reassured him, and leaned until their mouths touched and remembered what a miracle they had found.

Sam hummed deeply in approval, parting his lips before Frodo's tongue could request it. Frodo lingered over his probing apology until he was sure Sam's wet, delicious reciprocation would leave him thoroughly witless. They pulled apart with reluctance, breathing hard.

"Will...that do?" Frodo panted softly.

Sam ducked his head against Frodo's neck, and Frodo's capacity for speech left him. "Yes, sir. More than, even."

Frodo threaded his fingers through Sam's hair, stroking fervently. "I want to see you again. Like that," Frodo breathed, a quaver in his voice. "Even if we didn't...exactly plan..."

Sam put a hand over Frodo's mouth, which got his fingertips promptly kissed. "I--I'd like that just fine, sir."

Frodo sat back at the ring of Sam's words, fixing him with a pensive look. "Sam, I think I'd more than just--"

"Ah, Samwise, you've found my young invalid. I can't thank you enough. But what I meant to say first was, there's no sense in letting good leftovers go to waste, would you like any?"

Frodo nearly jumped his own height out of his skin, and Sam went paler than his shirt as Bilbo approached from the back door of the smial, proffering a basket of sliced bread and soft cheese at them.

"I--Invalid, sir?" Sam croaked once he found his voice, rising with a hasty, respectful nod at Bilbo.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Frodo wasn't quite himself at breakfast. Well, you're a good lad about that sort of thing--how is he faring, by your observation?"

Frodo watched Sam accept the basket and gape at it for a moment before responding rather more firmly than Frodo had expected, "He does seem a bit peckish, sir, begging your pardon. Did he finish his breakfasts?"

"Neither of them."

Frodo opened his mouth to protest, but Sam turned and shot him such a bold look of warning that the words died in his throat. Sam pretended to study him a moment, then turned back to Bilbo.

"Sir, seeing as my Gaffer means to come up sooner than not--he's needed the air something dreadful, and I told him, no use sitting indoors in such fair weather, sir, is there?--so, that in mind, sir, would you like me to see to it that Mr. Frodo's put to rest and fed proper? Nothing worse than letting it go, sir, and such a shame at this time of year."

Frodo decided that Sam had an excellent point, and knew that his best card to play was a continuation of second breakfast. He leaned forward heavily, eyes lowered, and murmured, "I didn't think I was so badly off, reall--"

Frodo found himself yanked to his feet by Bilbo quicker than you please. And Sam indeed looked pleased, though not in any such manifestation that Bilbo would recognize. Frodo knew every glint of his eyes by heart.

"Off with you, both of you. Get him tucked away, Sam, good and proper. I meant to have a word with your Gaffer regardless: ale and chips at the Dragon tonight, you know. We can't let the Ivy Bush have every shred of his gossip, now can we?"

"No, sir," Sam agreed, and steered Frodo off by one arm before he could add anything. "A bit ashamed myself that he's done neglected Hobbiton, but don't you tell him I said so."

Bilbo's laughter followed them inside. "Your secret's safe with me, Master Samwise. And Old Ham is staying local this evening, whether he likes it or not!"

Frodo half expected to find himself pinned to a wall the moment they stepped inside, which he wouldn't have terribly minded, but Sam seemed all about business. He stopped at the kitchen and made Frodo wait in the entrance as he put a kettle on to boil. Brushing his hands off, he took the basket back up and continued urging Frodo back the hall until they reached his room. Sam didn't stop until they were inside with the door closed safely behind.

"Sir, what's this nonsense about not eating?" Sam asked, setting the basket on Frodo's bedside table. He fixed Frodo with a look that was most self-satisfied indeed.

"I was preoccupied," Frodo said softly, stepping up to Sam with a bit more boldness than he felt.

Neither knew what to say next, but words didn't matter much when privacy allowed for a full embrace and an even fuller kiss. Outside the previous day's heat-haze, Frodo took those long, sweet moments of clasping and gentle tonguing to notice little things. That Sam made small, soft noises as they kissed, that seemed to tingle between every touching inch of them. That his own hands stroked the smooth, strong length of Sam's back, and...

Frodo tugged his mouth away from Sam's gently, breathing hard as he pressed it to the curve of his neck. "This could get--"

"I know, sir."

"Oh, I know you know! But it would look bad on my part, if Bilbo..."

"I take your meaning, sir," Sam sighed, twining his fingers in the curls at the nape of Frodo's neck.

"I want to," Frodo whispered, and his breath seemed so send a shiver through Sam. "But I want..."

"Yes, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo stroked Sam's cheek and sighed. "I want to do that properly, too. I don't want to hurry...take the time to...to just..." Frodo let his other hand sweep from Sam's chest down to his waist, then traced the curve of his belly with a tentative look, hooking his index finger between two shirt buttons, brushing at the skin beneath.

Sam reddened and nodded in agreement. "I'd...like to undress you proper, too, sir."

Frodo choked back a moan at hearing his thought so clearly voiced. But Sam had heard, and Frodo had very little will to stop him turning down the covers of the bed, urging Frodo down on the sheets, and crawling in beside him. Frodo closed his eyes and shivered as Sam kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. When Sam reached his neck, he claimed it once more as a resting-place for his tangle of soft golden curls. Frodo ached to turn him over, to explore with hands and mouth, but he held on tight instead, sighing at Sam's hands easing away the tension in his back.

"Are you hungry at all, sir?"

"Not for what's in the basket."

"The kitchen, then?"

Frodo shook his head.

"I could make you--oh! Begging your pardon, sir! The water!"

Frodo rolled onto his back as Sam disentangled them, smiling in spite of himself. He watched Sam dash from the room, glancing sheepishly over his shoulder. Frodo sat up and settled back against the pillows, waiting patiently.

Several minutes later, Sam returned with a steaming teacup. "Blackberry mint. Will it do? Seems to me Mr. Bilbo's running low otherwise."

"That's fine, Sam." Frodo sat forward, carefully accepting the steaming cup. He sipped slowly, watching over the rim as Sam brought the basket over and set it between them. He took a small piece of bread and placed a slice of cheese on top, which he offered Frodo no sooner than he had set the cup aside.

"It's just past elevenses."

Frodo accepted hesitantly and took a bite. "I know."

Sam's brow furrowed. "Are you feelin' all right, or aren't you?"

Frodo promptly set the bread on the table beside his cup and beckoned to Sam. "I give up," he whispered in Sam's ear, biting the lobe gently as Sam settled over him, pressing him to lie back against the pillows once more.

"Frodo," Sam murmured, brushing their mouths together gently at first, a light nuzzling.

Frodo nipped at his lower lip impatiently and mumbled, "It's about time..."

Sam drew back a fraction, puzzled. "About time?"

Frodo tugged him back down, arms tight around his waist. "You called me that," he whispered, allowing Sam to capture his mouth with a wince of surrender.

What Sam mumbled in response, Frodo couldn't be sure. He let his hands go wandering down Sam's back, heat rising in him at the feel of Sam's muscles bunching and shivering beneath the caress. By the time they reached the backs of this thighs and settled there, Frodo was trembling worse than Sam.

"Oh, I want you."

Sam responded with a feverish moan, and before Frodo realized what he was doing, he had rolled the young gardener onto his back and set one hand between his legs, running it slowly up his warm length--

A knock at the door sent them scrambling apart, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as a voice drifted in from the hall.

"Lads? What've you got stowed away in there that an old hobbit can't offer you at the table? Frodo, you're not to move if you can't manage it. Samwise, I expect you'll reinforce me on that, hm?"

"Y--Yes, sir, Mr. Bilbo," Sam croaked, shooting Frodo a miserable glance.

Frodo chewed on his lip. "I'll risk it, Uncle. I'm a bit hungry after--"

"Fine, fine. Too much fickle Took in you today, I suppose. Ah, Sam--your Gaffer's joining us. Come along, both of you."

Frodo waited until Bilbo's steps retreated to slide up behind Sam, fumbling hastily with his trousers.

"Mr. Frodo," he moaned, tugging at his hands in protest, "we'll never--"

"Shh, listen," Frodo whispered in his ear, and Sam went slack and gasping as Frodo's hand closed around him, holding for a moment as Frodo took an unsteady breath and set to stroking him. "Tonight...they'll both be gone, remember? As soon as your Gaffer's gone, come back here. I'll be in the garden. Oh, Sam, we'll have...a few hours at least...here...in this bed...just think..."

Frodo slid his free hand over Sam's mouth as he arched into Frodo's touch with a cry, turning his face against Frodo's cheek, nodding and gasping as he spilled into those deft fingers. Frodo kissed his temple and rocked him for a few moments before reaching to tug the napkin from the basket, heedless of the resulting scattered contents.

Sam closed his eyes, still trying to catch his breath as Frodo made short work of cleaning him, leaving nothing but a barely noticeable spot high near the waistband of his trousers. "Where did...oh, that was...you...oh..."

Frodo kissed Sam's cheek. "I wish I could tell you how many mornings it's a near thing. Bilbo comes calling with annoying irregularity. It might be eight one morning, half past the next, even nine...down to a science. There. Is that all right?"

Sam blinked hazily, nuzzling Frodo's cheek. "Don't believe that's a good enough way to put it, sir."

Frodo cuffed him playfully and nudged him off the bed. "I hope I haven't tired you out. It would be a shame, considering--"

"So long as you're not, sir, we've nothing to worry about at all." Which earned Sam another cuffing on the way out the door.

If the two older hobbits had anything to say about their somewhat delayed arrival at the table, they kept it to themselves. Frodo was amazed to find that Sam seemed to recover in no time at all, conversing as easily as if Bilbo hadn't almost walked in on them. But then, Frodo thought, shifting uncomfortably as he concerned himself with his rhubarb pie, perhaps it wasn't such a shock at all. Sam shot him apologetic glances every so often, seeming to notice Frodo's unnatural quiet even more keenly than Bilbo. Just as well, that the old gentlehobbit likely expected it from his hungry, indisposed heir.

"Mr. Frodo, has my Samwise gotten you back up to snuff?"

Frodo almost dropped his fork, but he managed to nod politely enough even with a mouthful of raspberry-cornbread cobbler.

Sam blushed and stared at his plate, then regarded his Gaffer with an assuring nod of his own.

Hamfast chuckled. "And talked yourselves starving all th'while, I see."

Frodo swallowed, wondering if this wasn't the best chance to verify that their evening had half a chance at going smoothly. "Yes, sir, and there's always plenty more to discuss. Though I may take my leave sooner than not; I'd be lying if I didn't admit I'm still a touch dizzy."

Sam's eyes widened, but Frodo kicked his ankle lightly, and the expression died as swiftly as it had come.

Bilbo frowned, leaning over to press a hand to Frodo's cheek. "Truth be told, I'm not sure what's wrong with him today, but mark me, he has been out of sorts since morning. And no offense, lad, but you look it."

Sam opened his mouth, but whether it was to say something in his defense or volunteer his services further, Frodo never got the chance to find out.

"Then, it's settled. My Sam'll stay on and look after him through evening, sir. No sense in you goin' out on my account without my seein' to it that Mr. Frodo's seen to."

"Yes, sir," Sam said before Bilbo could properly offer thanks.

Frodo flashed the Gaffer a look that he hoped passed for both grateful and wan.

"Settled, then. You're a fine hobbit indeed, Master Hamfast. Most fine," Bilbo proclaimed, raising his teacup.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Frodo lay restless (at Bilbo's exceedingly vocal insistence and Sam's silent begging) while the Gaffer occupied his son with Eru-knows-what in the garden. Books and absent translating only went so far; by the time Frodo finished the verses and skimmed half the contents of another, his mind had wandered to more enticing pursuits. Weary with waiting and restraint, Frodo eventually fell asleep to the sound of father and son arguing lightly over the location of some Sweet Williams drifting through his open window.

"Frodo. Frodo-lad."

Frodo woke with a start. "Sa--hmm?"

"No, no, my boy. I'm not gone yet, but I'm about to be. Samwise has gone home to wash."

Frodo blinked, groggy. "Wash?"

"He's been elbow-deep in planting since noon. You can hardly expect him to tend you like that," Bilbo said with a frown, stroking Frodo's damp hair back from his forehead. "Lad, you slept heavy," he murmured, almost gravely.

Frodo had collected his wits sufficient to squirm under Bilbo's worried scrutiny. He curled himself around the pillow and sighed. "I'll be fine. Uncle, don't keep them waiting."

"Nonsense! I'll wait till Sam arrives, or I'm no better than a Sackville-Baggins!"

Frodo turned his face into the pillow, deciding that Bilbo could believe him as sick as he wanted. He felt the bed shift, and a sure, steady hand fell on his back.

"Dear Frodo," Bilbo whispered, rubbing to soothe.

Frodo swallowed the knot forming in his throat. How could he lie to such care, and so willing--

The same knock that scattered Frodo's thoughts sent Bilbo's hand sliding soft as a whisper from his shoulders.

"That'll be your Sam," Bilbo said, and rose from the bed.

Frodo's head flew up. "My--"

But Bilbo was already at the door, greeting the young Gamgee as he slipped out. Frodo was left sitting in his tangle of sheets, staring at Sam lingering in the doorway.

"You said you'd be in the garden, sir," he said softly, offering Frodo a tiny smile.

Frodo raked a hand through his hair, feeling utterly disheveled in comparison to Sam's soft, clean glow. "Well, plans change, don't they?"

"Yes and no, sir."

"I feel worse than I pretended to be," Frodo muttered, picking at his sweat-damp nightshirt. When he looked up, he found Sam's face inches away from his own.

"You look fine to me," Sam whispered.

Frodo shivered under Sam's unblinking gaze. Self-conscious but determined, he licked his lips and murmured, "I'd feel better, I suppose, if I got out of..."

Sam crawled onto the bed, sidling up to Frodo until their hands brushed on the coverlet. He leaned and kissed Frodo's neck almost timidly, one hand creeping up Frodo's thigh, his belly, his chest...

"So would I." Sam's breath and tongue sent sparks down Frodo's spine.

Frodo nodded, tilted his chin until his lips met with Sam's forehead, and closed his eyes on a gasp as Sam's warm fingers brushed at his throat and down to the buttons at his collar. Frodo opened his eyes only long enough to press a hand to Sam's cheek and seek the slippery welcome of his mouth. Frodo felt shaking hands work the last of his buttons undone as they kissed, and shook with them as the loose garment fell open. Sam spread his hand over Frodo's belly, easing his mouth away. Frodo trembled as he felt the nightshirt parted and pushed down over his shoulders, falling pooled about his wrists. And then, a familiar sensation: Sam's hand pressed to his cheek, stroking gently.

"Mr. Frodo..."

Frodo took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Sam was drinking in the length of his exposed body with raw wonder--and barely concealed hunger. His eyes at last came to rest on Frodo's, his coloring higher than Frodo had ever seen it. Sam's fingers trembled at Frodo's waist.

Frodo clumsily extracted his hands from his sleeves and slid them shaking over Sam's. "I want you to touch me," he whispered, "but I want to see you, first." Sam swallowed and unclipped his braces hastily, but Frodo stilled his hands once more. "Sam...please, let me...let me..."

Frodo undressed him blind, leaning in to kiss him as garments vanished one by one. First his weskit...his shirt tugged free, unbuttoned, disposed of, and then--

Frodo hesitated for a moment at the buttons of Sam's breeches, distracted by the feel of fullness and warmth. Sam cried out softly into the kiss as Frodo touched him through the fabric, less hasty this time, learning shape and length and that rubbing his thumb so gently over dampness made Sam squirm and choke back soft whimpers.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Frodo murmured, his reverie broken. He unbuttoned Sam hastily, tugging the trousers down far enough that Sam could take over and kick them away. Frodo scarcely had the chance to reach for him again; he found himself caught around the waist and sprawled flat under Sam before he even realized...

"If you please, sir, no teasin' until I've finished with you," Sam said in Frodo's ear, voice husky, breath slowing with effort. "Keep still...oh, if you don't keep still..." Sam kissed his ear, begging wordlessly.

Frodo didn't want to stop shifting. Sam's skin, his scent, his sweet weight...heat and velvet hardness pressing his abdomen, missing his own by inches, as Sam moved over him breathlessly, kissing his cheek, his neck, his shoulders... Sam finally grunted in frustration, holding Frodo still as he kissed his way over throat and collarbone, nuzzled at Frodo's sensitive nipples, bit at them lightly, kissed and licked out of tender curiosity. Frodo arched and tilted his head back, gasping hard, eyes wide and fixed on the headboard behind them. Why hadn't they done this in the first place?

By the time Sam reached his stomach--buried his face there, lingered for long moments simply breathing, nosing gently at his bellybutton and abdomen and planting slow, wet kisses in his wake--Frodo thought he might die of the fever-pulse hammering through him at a pace that somehow exceeded their first frantic joining the day before. When Sam's mouth latched gently at the crease of his thigh, teeth catching, suckling greedily as if it were his neck--

"Sam...Sam, Sam!" Frodo closed his eyes and bit his lip to keep from shouting. His shaft was brushing Sam's cheek, the slightest bit of his silken hair. He lifted his hips from the bed and felt Sam's hands unsteadily settle him back down. Sam stopped kissing, his breath coming in warm puffs against Frodo's thigh.

"M--May I..."

Frodo nodded wildly, lips parted on a cry that would tear free no matter how he tried.

"...kiss you...here?"

Sam's hand was on Frodo. Stroking up his length, pressing it to his cheek, lips brushing ever so lightly at the base. Frodo tried to answer, but he only succeeded in shouting anyway.

"Oh, sir..."

Wet, wet heat. Streaks seared behind Frodo's clenched eyes, one for every slide of Sam's tongue...for every teasing soft flick, for every reverent intrusion of fingers and nose and cheek and curls...for every long, suckling stroke, light scrape of teeth, until--

"Aaa--aaah!"

Frodo snapped against the restraint of Sam's grasp, thrusting into that delirious, sliding wetness for the last time. Sam caught him tightly, choking a cry of surprise before blinking--Frodo felt it brush his belly as pleasure tore through him, the sparest flick of eyelashes--and allowing himself a halting swallow.

Frodo panted Sam's name softly, grappling with the coverlet as the gardener released him, leaving an ill-aimed but well-meant kiss against his hip. The bed shifted briefly, and all fell into shadow. Frodo opened his burning eyes to find Sam looming over him, his own eyes wide with apprehension.

"Did--Did I do--"

Frodo opened his mouth, but a whimper was all that escaped him. He slid his arms around Sam's waist, pulling him down hard. Sam settled with a whimper of his own, pushing urgently against Frodo's belly.

Frodo nuzzled his neck, sated but still feverish, and mumbled between kisses, "You...perfect...now, what...do you want?"

Sam trembled and clutched at Frodo's elbows. "You...on me...this time."

Frodo nodded and continued kissing, lying still a few moments more as sensation returned to him, holding Sam tightly. Frodo rolled him over, coming to rest on his side against Sam. He leaned to kiss Sam's mouth, let his hand creep down and take hold of him, winding one leg around Sam's for a brief moment before sliding it over him, settling astride those sturdy hips. Sam blinked up at Frodo, eyes raw and shining. Frodo felt a tingle flush through him: Sam looked as if he'd dreamed of this for longer than life could possibly permit. Frodo settled down not unlike Sam had done under the tree, snugging them together carefully, as best he could. Sam slid his arms tight and low about Frodo's hips, moaning quietly in his ear.

"It felt so good...when you did this and we were dressed," Frodo breathed against his cheek. "Now, Sam, tell me, do you like..."

Sam groaned and closed his eyes, waiting, straining.

"...Fast? Or..."

"Fr--oh--anyth--!"

"...slow...yes, just like this..."

And Frodo leaned low and watched Sam's eyes as he moved, strung in push and rock and grind by a single pivot-point between them, an exquisite arcing and twisting of light that gleamed in Sam's eyes, his movements, his cries, and then--

"Oh," Frodo breathed, and framed Sam's face as his eyes squeezed viselike against the ragged cry in his throat, the fierce clenching of his body. Frodo bent low at last, pressing a kiss to Sam's forehead, stroking his cheeks while a weeping hotter than tears spread between them.

"Frodo..."

"I'm right here," Frodo whispered, combing at Sam's hair. Sam blinked under the gentle skim of Frodo's lips over his eyelids.

"I don't want to leave."

Frodo tightened his fingers in Sam's hair, leaned to brush their lips together. "I'm not asking you to."

Sam slid his arms full around Frodo, still shaken. "No, I...mean..."

"For the night? I want you to stay. We'll be in trouble enough to make Merry jealous, I think, but I can face it if you're will--"

Sam set a finger over Frodo's lips. "Oh, I'm willing. But I didn't exactly...I didn't mean..."

Frodo frowned drawing back an inch. "Sam--"

"I love you, Mr. Frodo," Sam sobbed softly, tugging Frodo so tight, so close that he thought he might never breathe again beyond that moment, or somehow might not need to, because--

"I love you, too," Frodo whispered. "I think...I just...I do--oh, Sam! There, now..." Frodo slid off Sam reluctantly and took a few moments to tug a pillow and tuck it under his head, to bring the covers up over them before settling back down. He didn't need to offer his arms; Sam was already curled back against him, in quiet tears. And Frodo had never tasted a thing so sweet, and at length Sam's sobs faded into kisses, into soft, prolonged touches, caressing to claim, to keep. Until Frodo was certain he couldn't distinguish Sam from himself, even if he had tried. Frodo cradled his head there in the curve of his neck, beneath his chin.

"Don't be afraid," Frodo whispered, smoothing Sam's hair. "That's business for morning, or for...whenever we wake."

Sam tightened his arms around Frodo. "I said already, I don't want--"

"No one will make you leave, so long as I can help it."

Sam closed his eyes, a flutter against Frodo's throat. "My Gaffer."

"Bilbo will have no lack of words for me, though I couldn't tell you what they are."

"Not sure I want to know."

Frodo surrendered to Sam's mouth again for long, speechless moments, feeling in his kiss the fear that they might never have the chance again. Frodo squeezed him gently.

"I'm going to lock the door."

Sam drew an apprehensive breath and nodded. Frodo frowned.

"Are you sure you oughtn't go--"

Sam's eyes hardened with resolve. He shook his head. Frodo kissed him lightly, disentangled himself, and rose from the bed. He heard Sam sit up, felt the sweep of his eyes as he crossed the room. Once the door was fast, he turned and paused to study Sam in turn. How lovely he was, sitting half-swathed in bedclothes, light curls mussed, fingers picking at the coverlet, eyes begging Frodo to return. How fragile.

"I'm sorry. Again," Frodo murmured, crawling back in beside him. Sam lay back against the pillow, looking up at him pensively. Frodo traced gentle, whirling patterns over his forehead.

"Are you writing?" Sam's voice was thick with the promise of sleep.

Frodo laughed. "No, I'm not. But I suppose it could pass for Elvish, as long as whoever's reading can't understand. Though..." Frodo spelled out a brief sentence, looping it down Sam's temple and across his cheek.

Sam sighed and closed his eyes. "You're a miracle, too," he murmured, tugging at Frodo's wrist.

Frodo blinked at him--thought to ask how--then thought better of it. He settled over Sam, tangling them as comfortably as he could. The younger hobbit nuzzled and murmured, pleased. Frodo kissed him softly.

"Good night, Sam."

"Mmm, Frodo."

Frodo closed his eyes, stroked Sam's curls until the tension of wakefulness faded from his body.

You are the Lady's blessing to me.

That was miracle enough, though dawn should bar the way.