Only once they had safely deposited their groceries in the kitchen at Bag End did Sam and Frodo feel at liberty to do what they had sorely wished to all evening. Sam grasped Frodo's hand gently, entwining their fingers. Frodo stroked the length of Sam's thumb with his own, accepting with a shy, welcoming gaze. They kissed furtively, despite the fact that Bilbo had departed for Buckland earlier that day and would not return until the next afternoon.

"Forgive me for sayin' so, but Mr. Bilbo's chair is looking awfully comfortable about now," Sam sighed, gently biting Frodo's lower lip, which elicited a delightful whine. "I don't reckon I've seen enough of you yet, if you follow..."

"I would follow," Frodo breathed, battling the flutter that had taken to rising in his stomach when Sam touched or kissed him, "except I seem to remember that your Gaffer is due to deliver something of great importance, and very soo--mmm--Sam, what am--mmm--I going to do--with you?"

"Absolutely nothing," Sam replied matter-of-factly, lifting Frodo with such unexpected ease that he gave a yelp.

"Sam! If your father comes knocking and hears..."

"If you could learn to bite your own lip, Mr. Frodo, we'd have no worries at all." Frodo gasped indignantly, blushing to the tips of his pointed ears. "What do you mean?"

Sam grinned, carrying him into the drawing room and dropping him unceremoniously onto the sofa. "If I remember rightly," Sam began with a thoughtful look, sitting down beside him, "if I do this--"

"Ooohhhmm--mmm!" Frodo sobbed, his chest heaving as Sam bent to generously suckle his neck. "Sam--I said--"

"Later," he murmured, withdrawing, his eyes full of quiet, searing anticipation. "I know."

Frodo struggled to catch his breath, clasping one of Sam's hands tight over his heart with a curt nod. For a moment, Sam ached at the thought of what he had started, and it took every ounce of his usually patient being to stay his hand where it was clasped, to resist a temptation yet undiscovered. For a moment, the look that passed between them bordered on collapse. Frodo drew a hitching breath and turned away, but he did not release Sam's hand.

"Yes, later," he managed in a thin whisper. "Much later..."

Sam lay down and nestled himself against Frodo's back, embracing him from behind. "Forgive your poor, foolish Sam," he implored. "I meant nothin' by it, besides a tease--"

"Touch me," Frodo gasped without warning, urgently, dragging Sam's hand dangerously low. "Just...just..." His stifled breaths became begging sobs.

Sam felt the room blur and slide, despite his already horizontal position. His tongue couldn't find a proper response, but it hardly seemed to matter, for his fingers thought it a fine idea indeed. He fumbled with Frodo's trousers one-handed, tugging the blue cotton shirt free before creeping over that smooth, barely rounded stomach and nestling tremulously between those shaking thighs. This time, the moan was his own, though Frodo's was not long in coming.

"Ohhh... Oh, Frodo," he breathed, his fingertips tracing with terrified awe.

Frodo choked on something much fiercer than what actually passed his lips. "I...uuuuhhh... Sam..." His hand crept over Sam's, pressing it there, shifting against the pressure with a shuddering gasp.

Sam gathered what sparse courage he had and forced it into his fingertips. They closed convulsively, and Frodo's response more than confirmed he had done the right thing. Instantly reminded of how much he had wanted to feel the very heat now pulsing against his palm (and of what he wished to do with it), Sam found his voice.

"Mmm, Frodo," he whispered, his mouth tempted back to Frodo's vulnerable neck even as his fingers began a tentative, rhythmic stroking, "you put me in mind of roses...velvet petals, all warm from the sun..."

Sam judged by Frodo's heroic efforts at stifling his cries that it must feel extroardinary indeed, that gentle circling of his thumb just beneath the head. Not to mention by the effect it was having on him. He shifted against Frodo, breathing hard. This was something else entirely: Frodo's warm weight against him, trapping his own stirrings. And he quite suddenly wondered what it would feel like to turn Frodo to face him, and unfasten his own breeches, and...

"Hullo, my lads!" boomed a familiar voice, accompanied by a pounding at the door. "There ain't a trace of you in the garden, so the kitchen's where you must be!"

Frodo groaned, burying his face in the backing of the sofa in order to stifle what sounded like a curse. Sam's hand froze, his breath fleeing as if he'd been dealt a blow.

"There's your Gaffer," Frodo winced through gritted teeth.

"Just you stay here," Sam whispered, rising and quickly pulling the quilt draped over the sofa down on Frodo. "Close your eyes and keep quiet."

Frodo obeyed, pressing his mouth into the cushion. Sam dashed to answer the door, struggling to tame his own labored breath and praying that the state of things below his belly would go unnoticed. He opened the door no more than necessary, peering out into the settling dusk with a forced smile.

"Hullo, Dad! You brought the custard," Sam greeted his father tersely, but cheerfully. "I'll take that, if you don't mind. Right busy, you know--dressin' up the goose and whatnot for tomorrow, expect it'll take me all--"

" 'Twould be discourteous of me to leave without sayin' hello to Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo," the Gaffer replied jovially, thrusting the earthen crock into Sam's hands and pushing across the threshhold. Sam took advantage of the burden and held it as low as he dared, stuttering a reply.

"B--But Mr. Frodo, he--'s asleep! Resting! We've had a long day--cleaning!--"

The Gaffer frowned in disappointment. "Is Mr. Bilbo about, then?"

"Alas, no," Sam breathed with genuine relief. "He's off in Buckland. Collecting crockery for the party, and, not to mention, Meriadoc Brandybuck. Between the former 'n' the latter, might I add, there ain't often a disctinction--"

"Well, then, son, you cook me proud," the Gaffer sighed, clapping Sam on the back before stepping back outside. "Give our dear Bagginses my regards."

"Yessir. 'Night, Dad," Sam mumbled, closing the door quickly after him. Suddenly staggering under the weight of the custard, he set it down on the spot and rushed back into the drawing room. His only thought was Frodo.

"He's gone?" Frodo breathed in disbelief, sitting up with an effort, still panting, his cheeks flushed.

Sam dropped before him and tugged the quilt away, met with the sight of Frodo's disarrayed trousers and his erection visibly pushing through. Sam cupped it gently, surrendering to Frodo's needful kiss. Frodo wriggled forward on the cushions with a whimper, until there was no space left between them. Sam grasped his legs, wrapping them tightly about his hips. All that he could feel was Frodo's dampness and straining heat through the weave of his shirt, and the screaming of his own body, and yes, oh yes, they would lie down together and figure this out if it took them until the Fourth Age.

"A month," Sam groaned, rising with Frodo in his arms and letting him slip just a fraction, so that they were more perfectly aligned, which drew an instinctive quiver from both of them. "How did I get on without this for a month!"

"Probably the same way I did," Frodo breathed shakily. "But I highly prefer your hand."

Sam kissed him fiercely, breathing into the sweet darkness of his mouth. "I reckon there's more than just hands, too, if you follow," he suggested, bouncing Frodo, which only made him gasp again and cling even more tightly than before.

"It's getting dark, isn't it?" he whispered.

" 'Tis," Sam confirmed.

"Then, let's go to bed," Frodo suggested softly, searching Sam's eyes.

What Sam found in Frodo's broke his heart: fear, desire, and loving invitation. Those startling rings of blue shone raw and unguarded. Overwhelmed with certainty and the longing--for once in his life--to possess, Sam nodded without a moment's hesitation and carried Frodo to a place that he had only dared to visit in dreams.

They found the sheets clean and soothing, the mattress downy and welcoming. Frodo sank as if in slow motion, and he knew only Sam hovering over him, easing him back. They lay pressed together for a moment, breathing shallowly, as if in a trance. But instinct and wonder gripped them once more, and soon their mouths were impatient and their bodies inseparable. Somewhere beneath the delirium, Frodo supposed that he might lose himself before Sam's skin even touched his, so helplessly gratifying was the undulating rhythm that their hips had fallen into. Sam, thankfully, seemed to read this in his insistent, wandering fingers, for kissing was far more crucial than talking.

"Let me see you," Sam requested finally, his fingers stealthily finding he buttons of Frodo's shirt. Patiently, he permitted Frodo to do the same to him once he had bared Frodo's chest.

Sam closed his eyes at the exquisite tenderness of those familiar fingers brushing through the curly hairs that he had taken for granted as just a part of himself. When he opened his eyes, Frodo was gazing up at him as if he had never seen him before, his hands sliding lower to knead in the softness of his stomach, to measure his healthy girth. Frodo murmured something incoherent, using Sam's dangling shirt to pull himself up and press his cheek against Sam's breastbone. Sam slid his fingers through Frodo's dark curls in humbled awe, feeling tears and a warm mouth trailing over his nipples. He was hesitant to interrupt, but impatience won him over and he tugged Frodo out of his shirt and then discarded his own.

"To watch you was one thing, day in and day out," Frodo whispered, fresh tears gleaming in his eyes, "but to finally see you...taste you..."

"Touch you," Sam added, taking Frodo's slim hips in his hands and slowly pushing his trousers down, lifting him in order to remove them entirely, sighing deeply at the sight of what he had only previously felt. He stared for a moment, and with a pang, the tightness in his own groin doubled. Frodo blinked dazedly, touching Sam's cheek.

"You, now," Frodo breathed, and Sam let him struggle with the buttons of his own breeches, finding even his clumsiness unbearably exciting. And, ah, the first touch of those inquisitive hands...

"It won't do!" Sam gasped, rolling away, kicking his way madly out of the garment. Frodo squeezed his wrist with an imploring whimper. Sam crawled back, leaning forward on all fours to kiss his precious forehead.

"What's the matter, Frodo?" he murmured.

Frodo kissed his collarbone. "You're not on top of me yet," he whispered with startling honesty. Frodo's hands were at Sam's waist again, clutching needfully.

"Mmm," Sam breathed, his breath hitching and his heart beginning to pound. "So I'm not..."

And very reverently, this was remedied. Sam molded his hands to the contours of Frodo's thighs, caressing and cradling his hips as Frodo drew him near. Each could feel the other's violent trembling as they settled together. Frodo took Sam's weight with a low, feverish cry, and the aching sweetness of the contact left Sam gasping for dear life. He pulled Frodo to himself as tightly as he could, and if the room had tilted before, then this time, it did a complete somersault.

"Oh! Ah...ahhh...oh, oh, ohhhh Frodo...Frodo...that's good...so good..."

Frodo wasn't coherent enough to properly respond, except to wind his legs even more tightly around Sam's and knead his back with wild fingers. "Ummh...mmmh! Ah--hhaaaahhh--Saaaamm!..."

"Faster...maybe?..." Sam whimpered, and he felt Frodo's thighs tense. "Or--ooh, there you are, there you are," he murmured in Frodo's ear, rocking him as he sobbed for joy at the sudden heated spurt between them. He drew back, watching with amazement, kissing the tears from Frodo's cheeks as his eyes fluttered blindly at the ceiling. When they finally refocused, Sam was staring right back.

"Oh, Sam," Frodo breathed. "I...I just..."

"Just look at me," Sam whispered, lowering his forehead to Frodo's, clasping him hard into a few last strokes. "Just hold--ooooohhhh--dear--like--that!..."

And hold him Frodo did, whispering words that wrenched him more deeply than even his climax, that set him even farther adrift on a sea of devotion from whence hope of escape would never come. Not that Sam would ever have wished it.

"Oh, Frodo, I can't move," Sam whispered, closing his eyes as he nuzzled Frodo's damp cheek. They shared a long, content kiss before Frodo breathed his answer.

"I know...and I don't want you to."

"I don't mean to."