Snowfall
Pairing: Sam/Frodo
Disclaimer: Don’t own these characters. No offence intended or money made.
Sam woke suddenly, cold in the big feather bed. Even though he knew he was alone, still he reached out a hopeful hand, but encountered only emptiness.
He lay still for a moment, listening to the near silence around him, trying to hear a movement, the slightest hint that would tell him where Frodo was, but there was nothing, no sound of a quiet footstep or the gentle chink of a teacup as he sat, as he sometimes did, sleepless in the deep part of the night. The only sound was the whisper of the still falling snow, the cold air creeping through the slightly open window, to chill Sam’s flesh as he sat up.
Then he heard it. There. Footsteps outside, not stealthy, just quiet. The natural step of a hobbit who understood silence. But no matter how quiet the hobbit, snow still crunches, especially new fallen snow, freezing as it lands.
With a quiet sound of distress, Sam slipped out of bed and dressed, noticing that Frodo’s clothes had gone, plucked from the messy tangle of garments which had been thrown to the floor earlier that evening in the thrill of laughing desperation.
The big front door was still locked from the inside, so Sam, after sparing it a single glance, made for the kitchen where, sure enough, the door was unlocked, although not open. It was cold, and although part of Sam wanted to go out into the snow immediately, the more sensible part of him made him pause long enough to stoke up the fire, banked carelessly how many hours ago? When he was happy with it, he put the kettle on to boil, and only then let himself step outside.
The air was still, and so cold that it took his breath away. The snow had been falling for the best part of a night and a day, and as he crunched his way into the garden, he sank almost to his knees, his toes curling at the shock.
He heard Frodo before he saw him; the rhythmic crunch, crunch of his footsteps, and now that Sam was outside, he was able to hear the soft talk-song Frodo was reciting, in time with his steps. Sam’s knowledge of elvish was still scant, and he could pick up only a few words, but he didn’t think it was a dirge. Thought it to be something soft and reflective.
"Frodo?" The name was barely above a whisper; Sam didn’t want to disturb the peace of the night. Frodo looked up, but didn’t stop his talk/song, or his steady pacing. Sam watched him for a few moments, waiting until Frodo came back from wherever his song had taken him, and he smiled when Frodo blinked twice in rapid succession, and then stopped within an arm’s reach of him.
"Frodo." Not a question this time, just a welcome, and Frodo smiled.
"Snow holds ancient secrets," he said, and Sam realised that perhaps he hadn’t completely returned, not yet. "If you listen, it will tell you everything you need to know."
"And then it will make sure you catch your death." Sam began to reach out for Frodo but stopped as he realised it wasn’t wanted, not yet.
Frodo tipped his head back, dark curls wet and sticking to face and neck, and once again Sam was struck by the contrast between pale skin and dark hair. He had so little colour, his Frodo, and even less than usual in his skin as he stood, pale with cold, his face turned to the sky.
"Listen to it," Frodo said, reaching for Sam’s hand. Sam gave it willingly, shocked at the coldness of Frodo’s hand. "Listen to the secrets it tells you."
"It’s not telling me anything ‘cept how cold you are." Sam pulled sharply on Frodo’s hand and caught him as he was pulled, off-balance, directly into Sam’s arms.
Frodo laughed and rested his head briefly against Sam’s shoulder before pulling away again, but he let Sam keep hold of his hand.
"My Samwise," he said, head tilted upwards again. "My own Samwise. My own dear love."
Sam frowned. "How long have you been out here?"
"Not long." Frodo looked back at Sam. "Long enough."
"Come inside." Sam pulled at the hand still held firmly in his own. "You’re wild tonight, Frodo, and I don’t like it."
Frodo stilled completely, and Sam watched as the blinds came down in his eyes, until he was no longer a creature of the elements, fey and beautiful; until he was a respectable hobbit again, albeit a respectable hobbit standing soaking wet in the snow.
"I’m sorry, Sam," Frodo sounded polite and regretful. "I didn’t mean to upset you." He paused and smiled a little wistfully. "Let’s go in. You’re right, it’s cold out here." He tightened his fingers briefly around Sam’s before pulling away. "I expect you’ve made some tea, yes?"
Surprisingly hurt by the tone of voice, Sam didn’t answer, simply wrapped his arms around his chest and followed Frodo inside.
*
The kitchen felt warm and cosy after the bitterness outside, and Sam covered his hurt in his usual fashion - he bustled. Taking the kettle of hot water, he quickly made tea, leaving it to brew, then turned to Frodo, who was now standing by the fire, gazing into the flames, distant and alone.
"Come along," Sam said. "Let’s get you out of these clothes." He blushed as he caught Frodo’s half smile, but undaunted, began to unfasten Frodo’s wet shirt, his fingers brushing the cold, clammy skin as the material clung and fought back. Finally, and most atypically, Sam pulled a little too sharply, and there was the sound of wet cloth tearing, and Sam, flustered, bit back a word that was certainly not suited to the kitchen of Bag End.
"I’ll do it," Frodo said softly, stepping away from Sam and peeling the shirt off, throwing it in the general direction of the scullery. "We need new dusters anyway." He reached out a finger and tilted Sam’s serious face until they were eye to eye. He didn’t ask, but Sam answered.
"You didn’t upset me." Sam moved away, only too aware of Frodo’s half-naked body, of those thin arms that held him and sheltered him so strongly.
"Well, what have I done?"
Sam didn’t speak. Instead he turned away, going back to making the tea, not surprised when he heard soft footsteps behind him, bracing himself not to lean back into the loved touch as Frodo enveloped him in a hug
"Samwise? I woke up and heard the snow, that’s all. I just wanted to walk in the snow."
"You could have woken me." Sam picked up the tea, and then, unsure, put the mugs back down. "I don’t know … what to think. When you’re like this…"
"Like what? Sam, turn around. Talk to me." When Sam didn’t move, Frodo added softly, "please."
He turned, unable to resist, and when he saw the confusion in Frodo’s eyes he felt as if he could happily pick up the nearest pair of scissors and cut out his fool tongue.
"Nothing," he said, full of contrition. "I’m just … I didn’t like waking up and finding you gone." He took a hesitant step forward, his eyes locked with Frodo’s, waiting for the softness to reappear. When it did, he sighed with relief and covered the remaining ground between them, pulling Frodo close, before abruptly releasing him.
"Why, you’re freezing!" He tutted to himself. "Here I am, messing about worrying over nothing, when you’re nigh on to turning into a snowhobbit!" He reached out and put his hands on the waistband of Frodo’s breeches, before suddenly stilling, unsure in a way he rarely was.
Frodo put his own hands over Sam’s. "It’s all right," he said. "Would you go and get us a blanket?" He smiled at Sam’s questioning glance. "You’re quite as wet and cold as I am. Let’s sit by the fire for a little while."
Glad to have something to do, Sam scurried off to find some blankets, bustling back, ready to give Frodo a gentle scolding for standing outside so long. But as he reached the doorway, he froze, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.
Frodo, as naked as the day he was born, was standing in front of the fire, his pale skin bathed with a rosy tinge as he bent in front of the flames, running his fingers through his hair, drying the dark curls in the warmth. Sam must have made a noise, because Frodo glanced sideways, half smiling, and then very deliberately straightened up, turning to face Sam, his hands falling away from his hair, coming to rest on his belly.
"Come over by the fire," he said softly. "You need to get out of those wet clothes."
Swallowing noisily, Sam made his way over to Frodo, his body shivering from a combination of the cold, and - something else. The reaction Frodo always produced in him; the overwhelming knowledge that he, a Gamgee of Bagshot Row, was lucky enough to see this, to be a part of it.
He walked toward Frodo and then deliberately dropped the blankets on the floor, challenging Frodo's direct gaze with one of his own. Frodo smiled slightly and raised one eyebrow before he dropped to his knees and slowly reached for them, spreading them into a comfortable, cosy looking nest. He stayed where he was and looked up at Sam, and Sam once again swallowed, his body reacting.
"Samwise, we need to get you out of those clothes before you catch a chill…" And Frodo reached out, resting his hands on Sam’s strong thighs.
"Oh, Frodo…" And suddenly, he couldn’t hold back, not anymore, and he dropped to his knees, heedless of the growing discomfort of clammy clothes, and pulled Frodo to him, hard and close, kissing him mercilessly, then pulling away and burying his face in thick dark hair, muttering Frodo’s name over and over, as if it were some kind of mantra.
"What? What is it?" Frodo pulled Sam’s hair hard until he could finally look at him. "What did I do?" He kissed Sam gently and touched their foreheads together. "I can’t make it better until I know where you hurt."
"You…" Sam muttered, his lips brushing Frodo’s. His hands reached up and tangled in dark curls and again he kissed Frodo, this time hard and bruising, harder than he ever would if he had all his wits about him.
Frodo made a startled "mmph," noise and tried to pull back, but Sam would only release his mouth, still holding him.
"Don’t go," he whispered. "Please don’t go."
"Sam…." Sam could feel Frodo’s fingers scrabbling at his shirt. "Sam, get out of these clothes, please. You’ll catch a fever, and I would never forgive myself. Sam, let go of me … I’m not going anywhere."
By sheer force of will Sam released Frodo, and quickly removed his clothing, peeling off the clammy clothes and letting them fall where they would. It was Frodo who got to his feet and picked them up, draping them over a chair back close to the fire. Then he sat down again and picked up one of the blankets, wrapping it around his shoulders and holding it open, saying Sam’s name.
Sam looked down, aware that Frodo was wary now, unsure, and not knowing what else to do, he sat down as well and pulled the blanket until they were both cocooned in warmth, gazing into the fire.
He felt a tentative hand on his chest and looked into Frodo’s face, so close to his own.
"Sam…?"
"Please don’t go," Sam whispered again, and he wasn’t even sure what he meant by it.
"I’m not going anywhere. Not without you," Frodo answered, his eyes crinkling, and they sat in silence for a long time, listening to the crackle of the fire, tracking their future in the flames, and Frodo’s head sank lower until it was resting comfortably on Sam’s shoulder.
"I’m scared," Sam blurted. "Scared you’ll leave me, go away from me."
"What?" Frodo jumped slightly, lifting his head and gazing at Sam. "What do you mean? Where would I go?"
"Out there…" Sam gestured with his head towards the window. "You … Frodo, sometimes you don’t behave like a normal hobbit!" He felt the blush rising in his cheeks and ducked his head, aghast at what he had just said.
To his relief, Frodo laughed and shifted so that he was kneeling between Sam’s legs. Sam looked down and saw the small, ink-stained hands white against his thighs, and reached down to cover them.
"I’m not a normal hobbit, Samwise Gamgee." Frodo leaned forward, his lips brushing Sam’s cheek. "I’m a Brandybuck, and a Took and a Baggins. Listen to the tales – I don’t have a ‘normal’ bone in my body."
Sam opened his mouth as he felt Frodo’s tongue gently brush against his lips, stifling a groan as Frodo shifted closer, closing the gap between them, pulling his hands away to wrap in Sam’s hair, holding him still.
"I promise you something, Sam." Frodo’s lips brushed across Sam’s skin, soft as thistledown – or as soft as the snow still falling outside, but so much warmer – never settling in one place, making Sam mutter something under this breath as he tried to deepen the contact. Frodo laughed, no more than a whisper of sound, but didn’t stop moving.
Sam’s hand moved around Frodo’s body until they were splayed against the softness of his back, fingers digging softly into flesh before relaxing. He would never become accustomed to the glory of a naked, willing Frodo pressed against him, never become blasé about it – about Frodo needing him.
"What?" Sam finally managed to mutter. "What do you promise me?"
"That we will see out our days together, wherever we may be. We will grow old together, complain to each other of aches and pains. Take a walk down the lane and drink a pint in the Dragon before coming here – coming home." Frodo pulled back and settled himself across Sam’s thighs, both hands coming to rest over Sam’s heart. "We will grow old together and die together. That is my promise to you."
"You looked … out there in the snow …" Sam trailed off before leaning forward to kiss Frodo’s chest. "You looked as if you came from another world, and it scares me, Frodo … it scares me that one day you’ll go back to that world, and I won’t know how to hold you here with me."
"I’ll never go anywhere you can’t follow," Frodo promised solemnly, ignoring the sudden shiver down his spine as his words seemed to echo between them.
"And you’ll keep me with you?" Sam’s hands slid up Frodo’s arms, his hands encircling the white neck, his thumbs pressing gently against Frodo’s throat.
"You’ll always be with me," Frodo said, putting his own hands over Sam’s. "Is your mind at ease now, silly hobbit? I’m not some kind of fey creature who will vanish in a sudden blaze of light. I’m just as tied to the earth as you are." He pulled at Sam’s hands, and as soon as he was free, he leaned down for a kiss.
"You looked as if you were fair set to float away with the snow," Sam whispered as he was released. "I can’t be without you, Frodo. I can’t."
"Then be my anchor." Frodo said. "Be the one to make me soar and sing." He let his lips graze over Sam’s. "And be the one to bring me home again."
Sam pulled him close and kissed him, then with a move he hadn’t used since he had been a lad wrestling the Cotton boys, he slithered and twisted until he had Frodo underneath him, dark hair starting to curl as it dried in the heat from the fire, eyes wide and laughing, mouth an invitation to sin.
And Sam dipped his head and tasted the sin, savoured it, revelled in it. He felt Frodo’s breath hitch and pulled away, one hand running down Frodo’s hip and thigh, soothing and arousing in one movement.
"Don’t stop," Frodo whispered. "Don’t ever stop."
*
Outside, the snow fell steadily, and their footprints were soon covered. The snow kept its secrets.
And locked inside a trunk, buried amongst papers and all but forgotten, a plain gold band bided its time.
The End
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