Open Your Eyes
Pairing: Sam/Frodo
Disclaimer: Don’t own these characters. No offence intended or money made.
It really wasn’t anything to get excited about, Sam told himself firmly as he approached the familiar green door of Bag End. He had been tired, Mr Frodo had been tired, and one thing had led to another, and … well, if he maybe wanted to hold the memory close in his heart, that was his business, but it certainly wasn’t up to him to mention it to anybody else.
He let himself into the kitchen and looked around, as if expecting things to appear different on this bright summer morning. As if Bag End would have changed because of something so simple. He shook his head, silently chiding himself for losing every bit of his hobbit sense, and glanced down the hallway. No movement, and the silence was that of deep and peaceful sleep. So, no need to worry about being disturbed, at least for a little while.
Almost guiltily, he made himself as comfortable as he could on the settle, pulling a cushion into his arms, cradling it gently and resting his head against it, his mind transforming it into a warm and breathing body:
"It’s getting dark, Sam. When do you have to leave?" Sam, his head comfortably against Frodo’s shoulder, grunted, stirring from the half doze he had sunk into. Suddenly realising his position, he tried to sit up, horrified at taking such liberties, but Frodo’s hand, surprisingly strong – still, after all these years of knowing him, surprisingly strong – held him close, and the sound of his voice whispering wordless nothings, calmed Sam until he let his head drop back onto Frodo’s shoulder.
"When do you have to leave?" Frodo asked again, and Sam could feel fingers in his hair, fingers usually occupied with pen and ink, wrapping fine strands around themselves, pulling sometimes, the pain a sharp pleasure for Sam.
"Whenever I choose, Mr Frodo," he said finally, his voice slurred with tiredness. Truth be told, he didn’t think he could move right at that moment; his body was heavy with sleep, and he was as comfortable as he had ever been in his life, the side of his face pressed against Frodo was warm, and he could hear, clear as a bell, the sound of Frodo’s heart, beating out its incessant rhythm, keeping this one precious being alive.
"Time for another tale then?" Sam smiled when he heard the tone of Frodo’s voice; there was nothing he loved more than to tell a tale, and nothing Sam loved more than to hear one.
"Of course, Mr Frodo. That would be grand."
He felt, rather than heard the chuckle run through Frodo’s body, and his head bobbed slightly as the thin shoulders moved. He couldn’t hold back another smile, his eyes closing in pleasure as Frodo began a story of high, wild love and deep despair – the best kind of tale for a night like this, when the air was alive with magic. When Sam knew that if he opened his eyes just a crack, then he would see the elves exactly as Frodo described them, see their faces, so perfect that they seemed to be carved in stone.
Not like Frodo’s face. Frodo wasn’t carved in stone. His face showed every emotion, every tiny hurt or pleasure registered on those fine features and in those bottomless eyes. It was, Frodo said occasionally, the reason why he had never been able to lie successfully. The elves were beautiful, but Frodo was more than that; he was a living, breathing hobbit, as precious as mithril, and, Sam suspected, as strong.
He could feel fingers in his hair still, but no longer twining strands; now they just lay quiescent, warm against his scalp, and the air in the room felt charged with magic of a different kind; a wild and dangerous magic that could destroy as quickly as it could create. And Frodo’s voice kept going, clear and calm, relating a story of lost and tragic love, of a love that was almost destroyed before it was born because the lovers didn’t listen to their hearts.
At last the story was finished, the ending tragic and beautiful and perfect, and all that a story should be. They sat in silence for a long time, watching the night close in around them, listening to the silence, or to each other’s heart.
"Sam…" Frodo finally whispered, a sound more felt than heard. "Are you awake?"
"I am," Sam answered. "More awake than before, if you take my meaning."
"Did you understand the tale? Did you hear anything in it?"
Tentatively, Sam put a hand on Frodo’s leg, feeling the sudden tensing and relaxing of the muscles. He slowly raised his head and found himself gazing into clear eyes no more than half an inch away. His face was so close to his beloved Frodo’s that he could feel the breath on his face, watch as the dry lips parted slightly and the tip of a tongue dampened them.
It was an awkward position they were in, in more ways than one, Sam mused. He was twisted all which way, and Frodo’s hand had somehow become trapped, leaving one of his arms stretched out in a way that looked mighty uncomfortable. And none of that mattered, because Sam was so close to being in the one place he had always wanted; so close to Frodo that the heat coming off him warmed Sam anew. So close.
He saw Frodo’s lips move, saying a name, and he moved his head slightly, reacting to the sound. The movement brought him dangerously close to Frodo’s mouth; if he leaned over just so then his lips would brush against soft skin. The hand still resting on Frodo’s thigh clenched tightly, and he saw the discomfort register in Frodo’s eyes, but he didn’t relax his grip, couldn’t.
Because tonight, on a night of magic and wonder; on a night when tales had been told, Sam realised that his own tale was about to begin.
Sam opened his eyes with a gasp, and looked around. He didn’t think he had been asleep, but a quick glance at the sun showed that a good deal of time had passed, and that he had better be making himself useful before Frodo woke up. No matter what had happened, it wouldn’t do to be mooning around like some lovesick lass. Because it wasn’t love, of course it wasn’t. It had been the tale, and the magic of the night.
He put his fingers to his lips, fancying that he could still feel them swollen and tender from Frodo’s kisses; he thought he could still feel Frodo’s hands in his hair, pulling him closer, making him gasp and whimper in a way that no right thinking Gamgee had ever done before.
"Tales told by candlelight…" The voice behind him made him jump so much that he actually felt light-headed. He turned quickly and tried to cover his embarrassment with bluster about the day to come and the work waiting…
"Sam," Frodo said peaceably, pushing himself away from the door frame and coming fully into the room. "Sam, it was real, what we did, and it was right. You know that, don’t you?"
Sam looked at him. Really looked at him for what seemed to be the first time, and saw the wild, dark curls, the wide, honest eyes and the pale, earnest face; and he dismissed them all. Trappings, that’s all they were. What he saw now when he looked at Frodo was … the end of a journey. A resting place.
He felt his heart pound once, hard against his ribs, and then settle again, and he smiled and nodded slightly.
"I don’t rightly understand this, but yes, it’s right, and it’s good. All of it."
Frodo approached until he was within an arm’s length, and Sam just held back from reaching for him.
"The old tales have magic," Frodo said. "They can clear your eyes so that you find what you’ve been looking for."
"Well, I don’t know as I belong in a tale," Sam said quietly, his hand moving as if he would reach for Frodo, before dropping back to his side. "But I know where I would like to belong, if you’d have me."
"We’ll make our own stories." Frodo took Sam’s hand in his own and twined their fingers together. "And they’ll be such stories, my Sam! They’ll make people blush, and cheer us on all at once. The stories of Sam and Frodo, and all the love they had, and made, and gave."
"The best kind of tale," Sam agreed, and leaned forward for a kiss.
The End
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