Frodo took Sam’s hand in his as they walked through the tall hallways of the Last Homely House. He had just had an excellent luncheon, almost excellent enough to make him forget what came before it. He’d have to review it all soon enough: Merry and Pippin had already demanded a private conference, later in the afternoon. In the meantime...

He squeezed Sam’s hand, glancing over at his beloved. Sam ducked his head, then raised Frodo’s hand to feather a light kiss over the back. He looked up at Frodo as he did so, and Frodo had to look away for a moment. Sam’s entire heart was in his eyes, and more than his heart, until it made Frodo’s knees tremble and belly warm to see it.

"Almost there, Sam-love," he said softly.

Sam hmphed, and opened the door for him.

*

Frodo expected Rivendell to look grand and glorious. Elves, you know. The high ceiling of polished dark wood over his bed, the drapes of green linen embroidered with elegant flowers Frodo had never seen in any meadow, the blankets and pillows and carpet, all just as splendid as expected. The windows were perhaps a little large – elves, it seemed, believed in letting in the light, rather than allowing a sleeper to huddle in peaceful shadows a few minutes longer. Indeed, when Frodo first woke up, the high ceiling and green drapes seemed to faintly glow, like the sky just at sunset. But then, this was Rivendell, the home of Elrond Half-Elven.

*

Sam closed the door firmly behind them, then kissed Frodo. Frodo shut his eyes, the better to concentrate on the softness of Sam’s lips against his, the gentle nip of Sam’s teeth, comfort and heady warmth. He murmured and broke the kiss for a moment, pulling Sam closer.

He loved this. Slow sweet kisses, Sam’s body pressed so close to his that he could feel each breath Sam took, each pulse of Sam’s heart. Almost too close, just at first, the heat of Sam’s body too much, so Frodo’s skin prickled with it and his breath came too fast. Then – then – body catching up to heart, flush of arousal swelling through him under the brush of Sam’s fingers and the biting press of Sam’s kiss. Sam tasted like sunlight and the smell of new-cut hay. Not enough time to taste Sam properly, to lay him out on the bed and explore every inch of Sam with lips and tongue and teeth until Sam sobbed and shouted his name, but this was nearly enough. Nearly.

Sam seemed to be trying to say something, between kisses. Something about bed and getting away from the door. Marvelous idea. Frodo opened his eyes again.

*

That first morning, awakening from gray-edged dreams... oh, Frodo could invent half-a-dozen explanations. Gandalf was a wizard, for all Frodo didn’t usually think of that. But for as long as Frodo could remember, from the time Bilbo had first introduced them, he’d looked at Gandalf and seen an old Man in much-mended clothing and tangled hair. That first morning in Rivendell, Frodo turned his head on his pillow to see starlight glinting in Gandalf’s hair and from his eyes, distant and awe-inspiring. The illusion shattered with a few blinks and a minute of talk – it was morning, after all, not night, and Gandalf still sounded as smoky and irritable as always. But the image lingered in the depths of Frodo’s mind.

*

Sam’s breath caught, not quite laughter, when Frodo pushed him down on the bed. He raised his hands to his buttons, undoing them with rapid ease. "Thought you’d want a rest," he said.

"I’ll rest later," Frodo said, leaning his hands on the bed so he could watch Sam’s undressing more closely. Beautiful strong chest, sun-darkened from the summer’s work. Wide callused hands, gentle as a spring breeze on Frodo’s skin. Arms... sometimes Frodo thought he could write poetry to Sam’s arms, the flex of muscles as Sam weeded the garden or swung a bucket of water up from the well.

Sam sat up to toss aside his shirt. He studied Frodo, head to one side. "Mr. Frodo?" Softer, "Frodo-love?"

Frodo blinked, startled out of his own thoughts. "I’m here, Sam." He leaned forward and stole another kiss, Sam-taste sweet on his tongue.

They took their time about undressing, Sam’s touch careful against the hardly-healed wound in Frodo’s shoulder. Sam turned down the covers, and they sprawled out there together, and it could have been a fine fall day back at Bag End. Except it wasn’t. Frodo’s shoulder did still ache, and the one thing he hadn’t taken off was the Ring, on its chain around his neck.

And if Frodo half-closed his eyes as he caressed Sam... he’d thought the faint glow in his surroundings to be Elf-work, somehow, and the glimmer of starlight around Gandalf surely been his imagination, or reflections off the river outside. Then he woke a second time, late yesterday, and Sam came into his room, and took Frodo’s hand in both his, just for a moment, and –-

Golden. Warm as hearth-fire, as summer earth beneath his hands, rich with the growing Sam drew from it. Sun and shadow. For that moment, Sam shone to Frodo’s startled gaze, like morning sunlight cutting through the fog that had clouded Frodo’s vision for the past weeks.

Frodo rolled them over, pinning Sam beneath him. Sam’s breath caught, and his hands fisted on the sheets. "Sir – you shouldn’t-–"

"I won’t do anything to hurt my shoulder," Frodo assured him, with a kiss to the hollow of Sam’s neck. He wriggled his way further down Sam’s body. "Only – ah, Sam. Please." He didn’t know exactly what he meant to be asking. He tried to find the words, but all that would come to his tongue was inarticulate poetry. Beautiful, my Sam, Sam of the Shire, no distant starlight but here and true – Oh, Sam would laugh. Frodo mouthed another wet, lingering kiss against Sam’s belly.

Sam did laugh, though the sound came out half-stifled, and his hands relaxed from their grip on the sheets. Frodo stifled a smile of his own by taking Sam into his mouth, careful cherishing taste. Hmm. Awkward position: his neck would be aching inside a minute, and he’d promised Sam. He squirmed farther down so he lay between Sam’s legs, propped up on his elbows. It was still messy, and jaw-aching, and... and Sam on his tongue, Sam gasping his name, Sam stroking his hair with shaking hands. Sam trusting him, absolutely. Sam with the dark gold curls that kept falling in his eyes, Sam with the dark eyes that saw Frodo more clearly that Frodo saw himself, let go, Sam-love.

Sam involuntarily thrust up, then came, a surge of bitter-salt. Frodo swallowed quickly, then sat up, looking at Sam. Sam lay sprawled out, panting a bit with the strength of the release that just washed through him, sweaty and sticky and the most beautiful thing Frodo had ever seen.

"My light," he murmured, though not quietly enough.

Sam opened his eyes and smiled up at him. "That’s as may be," he said. "Now come up here."

Frodo smiled, and went.

– end –