The day had a lazy pallor to it that Sam would remember for the rest of his life. Rather than green, the leaves high overhead shone a quiet, sunlit gold. Sam did not observe this firsthand: his eyes were fixed on Mr. Frodo's smooth cheek, where the ghost-gold dapples danced forgotten folksongs. Sam stretched against the blanket and reached for one as Frodo smiled:

        "Lovely lassie, way down yonder
        As the lads they swarm upon her,
        Sounds a laugh so shrill and clear
        Through their woe and moan and tear:

        Dearest lads, why should you bother
        This poor lassie, whose old father
        Wishes her to wed to-day
        Though her love be miles away?"

Sam's clear, strong tone faded at the interjection of Frodo's barely contained laughter. Sam struggled to sit up, fixing his master's heir with a halfhearted glare.

"Fine then, Mr. Frodo. Seeing as you think my Gaffer's arrangin' of it's a laughingstock, you just go on and finish it yourself."

Frodo laughed even harder. "That wasn't my intention, but if you insist--

        "Lovely lassie, way down yonder,
        As the lads bestow upon her
        Mathoms from both far and near,
        Trills a cry for all to hear:

        You shall never guess my sadness;
        Off with you and all your gladness,
        For I shall be wed to-day
        And my love's still miles away!"

Sam listened thoughtfully to what must be Mr. Bilbo's take on the melody, but it was the words, those words that every hobbit lad and lass knew from the cradle, that set him wondering. He rolled onto his side, looking up intently at Frodo as he finished. Frodo folded his arms across his chest, returning Sam's gaze with one of mock challenge.

"Oh, so your Gaffer's still the better bard? Then I suppose I shall just have to go on for another verse or two to prove--"

It was Sam's turn to laugh. "I haven't much mind to go provin' anything, sir. Talking it over, more like."

Frodo's brow furrowed. "Sam, you do know I was jesting, don't you?

"Aye," Sam chuckled, "but it's a fair spot of amusement, letting you work yourself up in a tizzy, sir, begging your bardon."

"Oh, you," Frodo sighed, exasperated, but smiling. He curled his legs out from under himself and stretched out on the blanket, too, staring up into the foliage for a moment before turning his head sideways to look at Sam. "You said you had a mind to talk it over? You sounded serious."

"That I was," Sam agreed, tracing an absent pattern on the floral-woven cloth beneath them.

Sam could practically hear Frodo's brow furrow. "Talk what over, then?"

"Marriage and the like, I reckon."

Frodo's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Marriage? Sam, I shan't come of age for another two years, and you a considerable time more--"

"Not...Not for us, sir, I just meant...generally speaking. The lass in the song. I feel sad for her, and the like."

Frodo nodded, slowly rolling onto his side to face Sam with intent. "Yes," Frodo murmured. "I do, too."

Sam felt his cheeks flush warm at the sudden intensity of Frodo's gaze. He let them drop to the blanket, where his fingers still mapped out spirals and stars. "Hard not to, and there's no tellin' who her father might have in mind. The likes of Ted Sandyman, for all we know..."

"Or a lad as nice as you please, Sam," Frodo murmured. "A lad like you."

Sam's cheeks positively burned. "Oh, sir, I'm nothing to brag about, I'm sure. Make that a lad like you, then, and I'll agree as quick as you please."

"Very well, then. A lad like you or me. But I still feel sorry for her."

Sam's head flew up. "Now, what's the call for that, what when the lad's as nice as you please?" he asked, curious enough to meet the smoldering blue before him.

Frodo pursed his lips for a moment, his lashes dropping, as if deep in thought. His own listless fingers wound in the blanket. "You shall never guess my sadness," he sang softly. "Think about it, Sam."

Sam frowned, then understood. "Ah, you mean her lover miles away, sir?"

"In part." Frodo gripped the blanket more tightly, until Sam could see his hand begin to shake.

"Mr. Frodo, don't--"

"She turned the lads away coldly. Every one," Frodo said, his voice no more than a brush of the breeze through leaves high above. "What lass do you know that wouldn't at least accept mathoms, or a kiss or two? She had no lack of a chance."

Sam laid his hand over Frodo's on the blanket between them, grasping it gently to soothe the tension. "One just not interested, sir, I suppose."

Frodo looked up, and Sam thought he saw the faintest sheen of tears. "Yes, that would be my guess. But then, they wouldn't write songs about such things, would they?"

Sam's throat tightened. He stammered, "Ab--About tragic love? Sir, there are so many--"

Frodo sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "Never mind, Sam. As sad as it is, it's a lovely thing all the same. Especially your Gaffer's tune."

Sam heard a twinge of finality in Frodo's words, but a tremendous stubbornness rose in him. Perhaps a bit of boldness, too. He knew that words alone would not reach the core of whatever bothered Mr. Frodo. No, some sort of touch would have to soften him. Sam stroked the back of Frodo's hand for a hesitant moment before removing it, raising it to rest carefully against one pale, gold-dappled cheek.

What happened then, Sam couldn't say. He felt the satin softness beneath his fingertips, the clean curve of Frodo's jaw. He leaned closer when Frodo did not respond, if only to admire features that he knew by heart regardless. He sighed and let his palm slide up, up, until his fingers could brush at Frodo's hairline with tender intent.

"Sir," Sam murmured quietly, and somehow, it was enough.

Frodo blinked and his eyes glided open, heavy-lidded, still shaded and pensive. Sam watched with awe as Frodo turned his head the slightest bit, felt his palm tingle at the slide of flesh beneath it. Frodo did not stop until--

"Oh," Sam breathed.

Frodo's lips were pressed full against the very heart of his palm, parted enough to admit minute caresses of warm, damp breath. The sensation skittered up his arm, tingling and heating, until it found a place to settle in his tightened chest. Frodo had closed his eyes again, and Sam felt Frodo's lips purse as his hand trembled its way up Sam's arm to settle over his hand.

"Sir," he said again, but this time, in a whisper.

Boldness indeed. Wanting nothing so much as to send that same lovely warmth to shoot up Frodo's arm, and perhaps comfort him, Sam leaned and pressed his own lips carefully to the back of Frodo's hand. He parted them a little, breathing a lightly against the fine, soft skin.

Sam thought he felt Frodo shiver, but it hardly mattered, hardly, in the wake of what happened next. How insignificant, yet how mesmerizing, the slight turn of Frodo's head, turning away, away from Sam's palm just as Sam leaned to plant a second--

Surprise pulsed between them at the faintest brushing of mouth upon mouth. Sam opened his eyes wide, felt an apology rise in his throat that died just as quickly. How could he say words like that when Frodo's eyes were inches from his, round and wondering, and as impenitent as Sam felt himself?

Frodo leaned first, leaned until they were half a breath apart. Sam felt the tingle in his chest dive several inches lower, and he wondered dimly why they hadn't thought of this before. Touching and embracing Frodo had always left him with a pleasant warmth before, but this? This was so fine, so sweet that Sam couldn't think of a cake or berry to equal, not even in the basket they'd tugged along and emptied much earlier. Yes, this was--

Nectar, Sam decided as he closed the space between them, drawing a soft utterance from Frodo as their lips brushed again, lingering. Nectar from where, he couldn't rightly say--perhaps from an Elf-haven in one of Mr. Bilbo's tales. For long seconds, they shared breath uncertainly, until Frodo made another noise that made Sam's cheeks glow and his belly tingle. Sam wondered if Frodo felt it, too. He wondered if...if he slid his hand just so and nuzzled at Frodo's cheek...and guided Frodo's mouth like this...

The kiss was wet, open-mouthed and uneven. Frodo leaned into it with a gasp and shut his eyes tightly, and Sam found that he could only do the same. Frodo's tongue slid along his lower lip clumsily, and despite the raw terror of it all, Sam responded eagerly with a swipe of his own, his mouth delving and tasting the other so tremulously offered.

Breathing, Sam found, was such a trivial concern in comparison to the discovery that Mr. Frodo tasted so good and made such sounds. He moved to swipe his tongue along Frodo's lip again--and met with Frodo's instead. The moment caught him utterly off guard, as did Frodo's next muffled exhalation.

He moaned.

Sam felt it muffled, crushed by the renewed fervor of Frodo's mouth on his. Sam took his own turn to moan as Frodo's tongue slid up the length of his own and into his mouth, sweeping along the roof of his mouth, finding the inner contour of his back teeth. Frodo whimpered in halfhearted protest as Sam pushed his own tongue gently past Frodo's lips and did the same, managing a full, but hasty exploration of Frodo's palate before Frodo managed to taste Sam's once again.

Sam felt lightheaded, went limp and tingling in the limbs, now, as Frodo gradually gained the upper hand. Sam was more than content to let him hold it; how could he be otherwise, when Frodo's hands tugged at him as cleverly as his tongue, settling their bodies together in such a warm, snug-fitting line? If Frodo's mouth had dizzied Sam before...

Sam felt the balance shift, kissed and clung blindly as Frodo's fingers clutched tight at his weskit, pulled Sam to lie atop him as he rolled onto his back. Sam suckled at Frodo's tongue with a wince of protest; the position was awkward, and he felt as if he might roll off at any moment. Frodo seemed to understand, and with a deep-throated gasp of acquiescence, he let go of Sam's weskit and slid his hands securely to Sam's hips.

Sam opened his mouth wide against Frodo's and cried out, startled at the jolt that seemed to ricochet up from the base of his spine and through the very top of his head, an ill-aimed arrow of which he loved the feel, nonetheless. Frodo breathed hard against Sam's mouth, seemed unable to continue kissing him as Sam shifted and spread his legs, settling snug against Frodo's belly. Oh, it was so much better, and so--

Frodo was kissing him again, needful and hard. Sam mumbled something that he barely understood himself, matching Frodo's fervor as best he could. And his hands, his hands couldn't keep still. At first they had been in Frodo's hair, mussing and caressing. Now they were grasping and twisting, as if desperate for purchase that was nowhere to be found. Frodo grunted in reply, and Sam felt his hands grasped and lifted, tucked between them, flat against Frodo's warm chest. Frodo's slid back down to his waist, and Sam thought he might die of the heat and the bliss and the wondering--wondering--

What would happen if he stroked at Frodo's chest, like that. Frodo broke the kiss with another moan, and he clutched at Sam's waist restlessly. Ah, now that was exciting, unbearably so. Sam fell to kissing him again, and his hands moved, too. Down Frodo's sides, down to the waistband of his trousers. And when Frodo's hands clenched again, he moaned--he wanted--

Skin. Frodo's fingers had worked his shirt loose, and those nimble fingers were already tugging at his braces, sliding them down over his shoulders, drawing a cry of protest because it meant Sam had to move his hands away from Frodo's slim waist, which he found wonderful to hold. Once Sam could reach again, and despite Frodo's warm fingers creeping up his sides and his chest rising and falling sharply against Sam's, he found the clasps of Frodo's braces, too, and found he had to shimmy down a bit, in order to undo...

Sam's hands froze for a moment, shook terribly as he continued. He knew that heat against his belly, and he knew Frodo's, and he knew something that he had not known before, which was that moving against someone else's like that made him feel like never stopping. He wasn't sure how he managed to free Frodo of his braces, or how Frodo's shirt came to be tugged free, too, and a handful of his own buttons came to be undone. But he knew that it had been done when Frodo's fingers raked across his back and clasped him down tight, and their chests brushed bare for the first time.

And Frodo seemed to want to move, too. He held Sam tight and squirmed beneath him, breath coming in short, audible bursts against Sam's cheek. When had they stopped kissing? Did it matter? Sam pressed his face into the curve of Frodo's neck and left it there, gasping his name a few times as Frodo pushed their hips together in quick, breathless succession. And Sam pushed, too, and he realized--

"Frodo, I'm...I'm going to..." Sam sobbed and panted. What would Frodo think, if he couldn't hold back?

Frodo groaned, and his belly heaved against Sam's, hands grasped at him urgently, and, Sam thought--understandingly. "Sam... I... me... t--here!..."

Through fractured words and movements, Sam felt the need rise and tremble, come welling up in his throat as Frodo pushed him up gently, just enough to reach his buttons, and work them free one by one as Sam's eyes grew wide and blurred, and then Frodo's fingers were on his own--were on--

Him. Sam fell back against Frodo, shaking and writhing against the hand gripping him, stroking him, against the voice murmuring in his ear. And then Frodo's fingers were gone, and he pressed his face tight into its refuge against Frodo's neck and let his breath shatter and cry against the brush and slide and aching between them, and Frodo was clasping him and pushing in those short little thrusts again, and Sam cried his name again and writhed and tightened his knees on either side of Frodo's hips, shuddering and crying into--

A hot, fierce stab that burst into shuddering tendrils of bliss, washing over and through Sam until even his breath and pulse were no more than a faint, fading ebb. Frodo jerked under him, too, and he felt liquid warmth spread, like a puddle too long in the sun after a day of rain. And Frodo was calling him, his mouth as warm and wet as the shivers between them, pressed to the skin beneath Sam's ear.

They lay still for a long time, gasping to each other in panted fragments, unable to remember more than Oh, Sam or Frodo, Frodo. Only names, only softness. Sam couldn't open his eyes. The see-saw rise and fall of their chests, bellies still melting, a bit of it cooling on his side...

Frodo moved first, sliding his hands in a halting path up Sam's sweat-slicked back. Sam felt a question in his fingertips, hesitant and tender as they settled over his shoulder blades and rubbed gentle circles.

"Are...Are you all right?" Frodo sounded as if he had never used his voice.

Sam tucked his head under Frodo's chin and wondered if he would ever stop shaking, or if he would ever want to. "Yes, sir," he whispered.

Sam felt Frodo sigh and move his head, and a kiss molded itself to his cheek. Sam blinked, hazy light flooding his vision for the first time in many long moments, and saw the pale flash of Frodo's throat dappled with light paler still from overhead.