Pairing: Sam/Frodo
Disclaimer: Don’t own these characters. No offence intended or money made.
Helpless, he watched as Frodo arched over him, pale skin flushed, sweat running down his chest. How he yearned to reach up, lick the sweat from that beloved body.
He could feel the trembling begin and he spread his arms wide, fingers digging into the earth of his beloved garden, the scent of crushed grass rising about him, while his body took part in a dance older than the stars, older than time.
And when it was over, and Frodo lay atop him, fighting for breath, he moved his hands, smearing the earth over flesh, mingling the two things he loved most in the world.
As a well brought up Gamgee, Sam had never been one to waste food. But he had to admit that even though there wasn’t as much honey in the larder as there should rightly be, it had been put to a good use. Frodo, sticky and sated, laughing fit to bust, eyes full with tears and love. Sam lying next to him, mouth against fair skin, licking at the mixed sweetness of honey and Frodo.
And Sam’s heart, fit to bust as well. Out of sheer, ridiculous, unadulterated love. Love so strong it almost hurt.
But then Frodo pulled him down for a hug and a kiss, and the pain stopped, and the joy filled him.
Long, deep nights spent poring over old books, watching the shape of Frodo’s mouth as he shaped the elvish phrases. Sam had never seen such a sight. The light of the candles catching the russet hidden deep in the dark curls, turning the eyes into pools of darkness.
Sam had never seen an elf, nor did he ever expect to. But he didn’t think they could be more beautiful than Frodo, no matter what the tales said.
And then Frodo would kiss him, soft and sweet, and Sam knew. Knew where he belonged, where he wanted to be for ever.
Hot summer days that never seemed to end, lying in a tangle of limbs under the tree on top of Bag End, talking about their future. He always seemed to be so sure of their life together; he was set on a path and, taking Sam’s hand, he led the way towards their happiness.
"Nothing," he used to say, his hand running through Sam’s hair or across his skin, "will ever part us. A love like this can survive the end of the world."
And Sam would smile and close his eyes and dream of the long years ahead.
Sometimes he reminded Sam of a wounded bird, frightened and fluttering, looking out at the sky as if yearning for freedom.
Sam wouldn’t grant him that freedom. He held on tight, trying to pour his own strength, his own vitality, into the worn and weary frame shaking in his arms.
Frodo would raise a hand, touching Sam’s cheek very gently, his fingers like ice, but he wouldn’t speak.
"You stay for me," Sam would say, almost angry. "I stuck by you, now you stay."
And he hated himself as he said it, but he didn’t know what else to do.
Sam had never liked ships, but he tolerated this one because it was taking him home. The shore came into view and – he was there. Healed and whole, Sam could tell even through his haze of tears.
He stepped onto solid ground and into the arms that he had dreamed of for long years.
"Samwise. You’re here. At last we can begin the life we wanted." A soft kiss on his brow. "I missed you so."
"No more than I, Frodo. No more than I."
He twined his fingers with Frodo’s, acknowledging and accepting the gap. "Show me. Show me our home."
Feedback would be nice