Silver dreams

Watch you in the rain...

This story found it’s existence in my imagination, hobbits or any of Tolkien’s work does not belong to me.

Thanks to Entwife for a well-done beta-job.

What is it in stories that makes people love them so much? He wondered.

Is it our plain life and duties we wish to escape? Is it our desire to go to places where only our heart can follow and all other things are forgotten?

Or is it our sense for adventure that makes us turn page after page in excitement, fight the fights, and makes us follow the wild paths that otherwise would have been left to overgrow with the grey randomness of ordinary life?

Why is it that we love the tales, told and lived by others, when we wouldn’t want to live them by ourselves even if we were forced to?

And still… why is it that life seems so much better, warmer, more fully captured in the letters here before me than it ever will do if I were to get up now and just live? To go steal some apples from the kitchen, to go bathe in the sun?

Why is it that our life written or told in a tale sounds so much more than it is in reality?

Will people one day tell the tale of my life? And, for that, will it still be my life or would it be different, changed by the mere fact that it is written?

Frodo chuckeled softly. He had so much questions back then. And, it seemed strange to him but it was true, he doesn’t know the answers any better now than he did all those years ago. That is the strange thing about getting older, he thought.

When he was young he always believed that one day, the answers would just come. Or the questions would at least cease to be important. That he would feel-and be-different somehow, simply becouse he was older. But he didn’t. Inside he was just the same shy and introverted 17-year old as he had been back then, only on the outside he looked a little different and of course he had experienced more.

Just like Bilbo said, the experience of a journey does not change one’s heart, it only adds a piece.

He was startled out of his revery by Sam.

“Mr. Frodo, I’ll be going now!”
“Yes Sam…” his voice sounded hoarse…” see you tomorrow!” His gardener turned around while he closed the gate after him and waved. Then he was gone.

Only Sam, he thought. Only Sam had changed, from the young, sweet child Frodo had gotten to know and like so many years ago, to the full-grown lad he was today. Not only was he almost as tall as Frodo now, his arms, tanned from the sun, were broad and muscular. The golden curls in his hair seemed to catch the sun everywhere he went. His voice, softly singing while he worked or full of wonder and joy when he read stories out loud, had turned into a warm tenor. The way his deep-brown eyes seemed to light up whenever he saw something he loved. Or the feeling of regret Frodo felt every time Sam closed that little gate after him.

He closed his eyes painfully. Sam had… changed.

He slowly got up, surprised to find that his legs and arms were painfully stiff and sore from sitting in the moist grass for so long. He recalled it was about time for dinner and walked, still deep in thought, towards the round green door of bag-end. Just as he was about to turn the knob, Bilbo opened the door and doing so, scared him out of his wits.

“Frodo my lad, you look like you have seen a ghost!”

“No uncle, you just starteld me, that’s all”, he said, a little out of breath.

“Well, it is time for dinner. Those fried mushrooms you love so much will bring the colour right back to your cheecks, he !”

Frodo’s eyes lit up and he trotted past his uncle towards the kitchen. By the time Bilbo got there he was stealing one right out of the pan. Bilbo responded sternly while he led him to the table and put a plate before him: “ah lad-what am I ever to do with you-still stealing out of the pans like no properly bred hobbit should, and that when he’s almost coming of age !”

But the glimmer in his eye told Frodo different.

Bilbo had been fussing about his slender composure ever since he adopted him and always seemed very much pleased when he did enjoy his food.

“Well, lad, eat!”

Frodo blinked for a second in surprise as he noticed the plate in front of him.

“Is there something wrong-me boy?” Bilbo asked, concern shimmering through in his voice. “You’ve been woolgathering for days”.

Frodo was surprised his uncle had noticed.


He sighed. “I don’t now what’s wrong really. Honestly!” He added when he saw the look Bilbo was giving him. He stared back for a few seconds and than dropped his gaze. “I guess I’m a bit scared”, he said in a very low tone.

Bilbo, mushrooms forgotten, came to sit next to him and asked: “Of what ?”

“Is it becouse you are coming of age soon?” He nodded. That was only a part of the problem, but he supposed it was easier to let Bilbo believe that was all it was. “I… I just don’t feel…like you're old enough?” Bilbo finiched. “Yes... something like that.” He admitted. “I haven’t changed that much you know, since I came to live here. Back then I was a young lad and now… I feel like I haven’t gotten any further, like there’s going to be no meaning for it, when I’m going to come of age.”

Bilbo flinched. “Those are very un-hobbitlike thoughts you are having my boy.”

Frodo sighed. “I cannot help it. I suppose I think too much.”

“That you do”, he just answered. “That you do…” he continued in his thoughts.

“Don’t you want to get married? There will be dozens of young lasses lining on your doorstep,… if you would want them to be”, he added.

Frodo suddenly looked up from his hands, who were laying tightly knot together in his lap. There was a look in his eyes Bilbo couldn’t quite define.

“I don’t think I am going to Bilbo. Marry, I mean.”

“And why would that be?” Bilbo asked, quite intrigued with the turn this conversation had took. “It’s just… I don’t see it’s, that’s all, I find it just as hard to imagine having a wife and children, than I find it to believe that I will become the master of Bag end, one day.”

Bilbo sighed. He realised he should have talked about these things with Frodo sooner, since they did seem to bother him, but he didn’t understand why he would be so upset about it all.

“Me dear Frodo”, he said, “look at me.”

He looked up, tears slowly filling his eyes.

“You can’t change the fact that you are going to be the master of Bag End one day. You know that. And I am sure”, he looked Frodo straight in the eye, “sure… that you will do better than the Sackville-Bagginses ever would.”

Frodo started smiling, and soon they were both laughing out loud.

“And about marrying”, he added when the fuss calmed down a bit, still wiping the tears of merriment out of his eyes, “you don’t have to worry about that yet, me lad, scare away those Brandybuck relatives of yours right proper, heh !” Frodo laughed.

“Now, let me reheat our dinner…” Bilbo squirrelled away, mumbling to himself while he took the plates and ruffled around in the kitchen.



The next day Sam came up the hill even before sunrise. It were the last golden days of September and the shire seemed to glow in a soft light. Sam sighed in admiration. There truly was no place more beautiful than this, he mused.

Of cource he knew that there were giant countries of men, and that there were dwellings of the elves so beautiful, far beyond his imagination.

But for a hobbit, he thought, for a hobbit there is no sight more fullfilling than the one he was watching now. From where he stood, up on the hill, near the gate of bag-end, he could look through the light fog which preceded a brilliant sunny day, over the whole of Hobbiton. He could see over the partyfield, with the grand partytree in the middle. In the distance he could just separate that Ted Sandyman’s mill was running from the slow movement of the blades. Closerby he could hear the sound of a goat, waiting to be fed. And the sound of some family pumping water in their backyard.

The little fence of Bag-end creaked when he opened it, the sound resonating in the air. He vagely thought he must oil it later in the day.

Slowly, enjoying the feeling of the damp grass clinging to his toes and taking deep breaths of the slightly chill morning air he walked to the toolshed.

The first rays of warm sunlight found him scraping up the first fallen leaves and covering his most delicate plants in them. Sam was sure that there wasn’t going to be any frost yet, it was still so warm during the days that he needed to water some of his plants. But he figuered he could better be prepared. This was the first year he had worked in the gardens without the supervision of his Gaffer and although he would never admit it, he was feeling quite proud that the garden didn’t seem to mind, in fact the flowers and plants seemed to radiate with health.

He was a good at gardening, taking care of living things. His Gaffer had seen that in him since he was a wee toddler.

Sometimes he wished that Mister Frodo would have something like that. Of cource he had his reading, and writing for that matter, Sam knew that Frodo was an inspired writer although he believed that Frodo hadn’t quite figuered that out himself yet.

But writing wasn’t something people noticed. Most of the Shire couldn’t even write their own name, and the ones who could didn’t think much of stories either.

Sam was glad that Mister Bilbo had learned him to read.

He delighted in the few times that even now, Bilbo, or just Frodo, would come sit next to him while he was weeding the flowerbeds and read a story out loud. Mister Bilbo with different voices and acting out with his hands, making Sam and Frodo laugh. And Frodo more serious... His voice tense, his eyes scanning over the pages, captivating his listener with the mere strength of the tale.

And when their voice grew tired Sam would take over, weeds long forgotten, with his own warm voice. He didn’t think that he sounded any as good as Bilbo or Frodo, but they encouraged him and after the first difficult pages he would be so taken by the tale that he didn’t even remember he was reading it out loud. Didn’t even remember he was in the Bag-end garden. He read along with the high kings of elves, he saw their long hair waving in the strong winds, felt their pain as it was his own.

But other than Frodo Sam never felt sad that the tale had ended. He was just as glad to work, or go home, to continue with his own tale.

Frodo’s high pitched laugh resonated through the mid-morning air.

“Goodmorning Sam!” He shouted while he came walking towards him, two mugs of tea in his hands. “Do you want to take a break?”

Sam smiled gratefully and put his shovel aside.

And Frodo would tell laughingly about the outrageous preparations Bilbo was making for their joined birthdayparty. And Sam would tell about the many lads that came courting his sister Daisy and how his Gaffer would chase them away, which made Frodo giggle. They had talked for about half an hour in the sun when Sam picked up his shovel and went back to work

Sam would always remember that morning in the Bag-end garden, not quite knowing why.



After Bilbo had left, Frodo rarely laughed in his high pitched giggles out loud any more. Sam would find himself telling funny stories with the single purpose of making Frodo smile, and feeling extremely rewarded when he did.

Through the years Sam had taken to making breakfast for him in the morning too. Becouse, well…In his heart Sam knew that Frodo could cook quite well, but he just seemed to neglect it if it was just himself for whom he was doing it for.

So Sam would make it his duty to have a nice, warm breakfast ready right when Mister Frodo awoke. Of cource, since it had been hard for Sam to tell when Frodo was going to get up, Frodo had merrily announced that Sam could come in and wake him up when ever breakfast was ready. But that he didn’t have to, of cource.

Naturally Sam had said yes, why wouldn’t he want to do that for his master?

He stil remembered the first morning after that conversation, how he had knocked on the hardwooden door, softly. And how he had opened it, feeling a blush creep over his cheecks when he saw Frodo fast asleep in a white nightshirt, blankets kicked away during the night, his curls spread round his head like a halo.

Sam had swallowed and stepped slowly closerby.

“Mister Frodo…” his voice came out in a whisper. He couched. “Mister Frodo”, he said, now in his normal voice. Frodo opened his eyes and blinked a couple times quite surprised at him. Than a smile crept over his face. “Sam!” He laughed. “Good morning.”

Sam smiled back, glad that Frodo didn’t seemed to think this was awkward. “Good morning to you too sir. Breakfast is almost ready.”

Now they had developed some kind of a routine, where Sam would come in as softly as possible and open the curtains, so the sun would light the features of Frodo’s face. Right about then his master would start to shift and groan, signs that he was waking. Sam would noisy open the window, to let the frech air come in and Frodo would rub in his eyes and say a, voice still heavy with sleep, warm “Goodmorning Sam.”

Then Sam would go to the kitchen, pour the tea in Frodo’s mug and wait for him to appear, most probably stil yawning and scratching his hair.

When exactly in all of this Sam had started to feel a warmth flouding through his body, when he stopped just a bit longer than he had to, to look at Frodo sleeping, he didn’t know. He supposed it had been there, all along, but that he just hadn’t noticed.


He did remember the first summer after he had taken to waking Frodo up. And how seeing him siting there in the kitchen, with nothing but a white nightshirt on, the first few buttons opened, his skin still flushed from sleeping, had made little bolts of lightning explode in his stomach and his cheecks flush a bright red.

Frodo didn’t seemed to notice, or at least didn’t care since he kept doing it, Sam silently thanking him in his mind.



This morning had been just like that, Frodo coming out of bed in his white nightshirt, Sam trying to direct his eyes otherwise, but not quite succeeding.

But there had been one difference.

Frodo, mostly not very talkative until he had been out of bed for an hour at least, hadn’t said much, letting Sam talk about the gossip in the shire, the garden and all the little things that made him smile.

But than he had asked or Sam would come to dinner, tonight. And maybe they could read some stories together after that? Sam had blushed a bit and said, aye sir, I’ll do that, what would you like me to make for dinner? Frodo had lauched, a bit awkwardly, and said that he was quite capable of cooking himself, and after that, a bit softer, that he liked to cook for someone else than himself sometimes. And Sam had said, aye sir, I’ll come.

Right after that he left, heading for the garden. He scolded himself for being quite rude to his master, but the whirling feeling in his stomach had just become so strong he knew he had to get outside or otherwise… yes Samwise Gamgee, otherwise what? Would you jump on him and get him out of that nightshirt as fast as possible? You haven’t even kissed a lass right and proper yet and now you want to kiss him? He is your master for Elbereth’s sake, and more than that, he is a lad. A lad like you. You are sick to want to do that, you should go away from the shire and never lay an eye on him again.

Sam hated it when his concience spoke with the voice of the gaffer.

But no matter how hard he tried, and how many terrible things he wished upon himself for feeling this way, the warm exiting thrill that he felt every time he thought about mister Frodo wouldn’t go away.

He invited you to dinner, Samwise Gamgee, he didn’t asked you to undress him and… Sam blinked a couple of times. The roses, keep focused on the roses. You are here for gardening, not for fantisizing about your master doing… he swallowed. Roses. Right.

The only reason Frodo didn’t notice the state his gardener was in and the fact that Sam had been tending to the same rose-bush for over fifteen minutes now, was becouse he wasn’t feeling much better himself.

Why did you ask him? He scolded himself. Why?

It all started with a very interesting dream he had a few nights ago, involving Sam, a nice dinner and a couch. Since the dream was an extremely pleasant one, it couldn’t hurt anyone if he kept it in his mind as something he could think of, if he was feeling lonely at night.

Or keep repeating it in his mind, over and over. Even if it began to interfere with most things he did during the day involving brainfunction, it couldn’t hurt anyone.

So then he had thought why not invite Sam to dinner? He would like it, it wouldn’t be strange, and if he, after Sam had left, went to his room and dreamed about the way he had looked, and not so much the things he had said but the way he had said them… saying in that deep voice of his “o Frodo…”.

That wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Would it?

But now that he had asked Sam he suddenly became nervous. What if Sam had noticed that this wasn’t just because he had the sudden urge to cook for someone? What if he came, but told him straight in his face that he didn’t want this anymore. A master who was dwelling on him for years already, looking at his tender hands working and listening to the soft songs he sang with a longing, growing stronger every day, probably ever since he was a tween.

A master who has thoughts so unnatural that it would be best to get away from him, to never look upon him again.

Why is it that thoughs at night always seem more reasonable than they do in the light of day? He wondered. Are we more brave when it only the stars look down on us, and not the bright, ever-revealing light of the sun?

Or is it becouse we aren’t afraid to show our true face, be the person we truly are when there are none to see? Who would you be when there are none to judge? He asked himself.

And he knew the answer. Maybe was that the worse of it all. He knew.

Most people live their entire lives never wondering how it could be and what they would want, but he knew. Maybe it is the knowing that is the worst, he thought. The knowing what you want and still not being able to grasp it, because you know that it is wrong. Because you know what you would lose.

And sometimes the knowing what you would lose doesn’t even begin to compete with your imagination of how it could be.

To be you...

To be myself…

To have Sam…



Sam finished extra early that day, because he wanted to go home and take a bath, hoping that none of his sisters would be home yet, but expecting they would, and to tell his gaffer where he was going.

He made sure he was gone fast enough before the gaffer could give him the “you’re a servant, you know your place, respect it” speech.

By the time he made it up the hill he was sweating. The weather was rather warm for this time of the evening and he suspected that by this time tomorrow it would rain.

Frodo had often asked him when they were younger how it was he knew when it was going to rain, and he had just answered that that was what the garden needed, and because he was a gardener he should try and see to it he knew it too.

He did suspect Frodo never got that though since he made a habit of going out on days like this, more than half of the times coming home soaking wet.

When he came at the door he didn’t quite know whether he would knock or not. After standing there for a few draws of breath he decided on the latter and went in.

As soon as he pulled the door shut after him he could feel the difference in temperature. In the smial it was pleasantly cool. He could already smell delicious scents mingling in the air. When he started walking towards the kitchen he heard unintentionally the soft pattering of his own feet on the floor. Do I really belong here? The thought crossed his mind and lingered there for a few seconds.

Then he saw Frodo.

All previous thoughts he might have had went beyond recollection.

Frodo hadn’t noticed he was there yet.

He was stirring in a pan, while dreamingly staring out of the window. The bright light coming out the window lit his hair to copper-brown tones. A light blush coloured his cheeks and he wore a small smile on his lips.

Sam felt like he was lost in that sight. Like he could stand there, looking at it forever, never questioning why…

Suddenly Frodo spinned around, his curls, stil damp from the bath he took, danced on his head. “Sam!” He smiled brightly.

“Take a seat, I’m almost done.”

Sam silently obeyed, although he felt instantly terrible sitting there while his master was doing all the work. He stood up again.

“What is it?” Frodo asked, with more than a hint of fear in his voice.

“Oh, it’s nothing sir, just thought I might help, that’s all.”

“O… All right Sam, I suppose you can set the table, if you insist.” He laughed.

Sam felt a bit awkward. He had the idea there was more behind the sudden mood-changes Frodo was having but couldn’t quite tell what. Frodo seemed happy all right. Maybe he was nervous too? He wondered. But why would he be, since it is just me. Maybe he could feel what Sam was thinking? Maybe he knew about those dreams he had been having?

“So how’s the Gaffer been holding up?”

The meal, that truly was delicious, passed in a relaxed wave of words, smiles and comfortable silences.

When the kitchen had grown dark, with only the fire that was left in the fireplace lighting it, Frodo asked, “so Sam what story would you like to hear?”

Sam had thought about this before and somewhere between tending to the rose-bushes and watering the plants had decided that he wanted a tale of love. Unconditional love… The kind that can pass any obstacle.

I would like to hear the tale of Béren and Luthien, if you’re willing sir.

Frodo’s eyes lit up. “That’s perfect Sam!”

Frodo went to fetch the book in Bilbo’s old study while Sam lit the fireplace.

He was in a very good mood, feeling a pleasant tickling warmth flooding through his body. He mused on the things Frodo had said, still silently smiling at some of them. Frodo had been in an extremely good mood as well, talking more openly and joyfully than Sam saw him do in years.

He was putting the last piece of wood on the already burning pile when he felt Frodo approach after him. He turned around, still sitting crouched, swiftly but clumsy and fell back, towards the fire.

Before he knew it, Frodo took both his hands and pulled him back. He stood up fast, his head spinnig, while Frodo steadied him by his wrist.

He could feel the heat of Frodo’s skin where it touched his, fluching through his entire body. He gasped.

“Sam… Are you all right?” Frodo asked in a concerned voice.

He is concerned with me… for a second that feeling, combined with the fact he was touching him, exploded in his head. Then he turned back to reality. Of course he is concerned with you you fool, you’re behaving like you’ve been burned by a dragon!

“Sam!”

“I’m fine sir.” No matter how hard he tried, there still slipped a note of regret in that statement.

Frodo just smiled “I’m sorry I startled you.”

“I…” Sam was going to respond to that, but then he felt Frodo loosen his grip on his wrist and very fast, with one finger, barely toutching him, trailing it over the inside of his arm.

Sam gasped for breath and flinched immediately.

But Frodo just left him and picked up the book, and went to sit down in the couch.

Sam felt himself trembling. He would have thought he had imagined it, but for the heat resonating from his skin where Frodo had touched him.

He swallowed and went to sit down next to Frodo on the large couch. Frodo simply looked at him, and started reading.

Sam heard little of what came to pass in the tale of those two lovers.

Instead he listened to Frodo’s voice letting himself float on the waves of sound. He watched the way his eyelashes left a shadow on his face. And how his eyes glowed brightly in the warm light of the fireplace. The soft rustle if he turned a page, the in-and outtake of his breath, the way one string of hair would fall in front of his eyes and the short movement when he tucked it back behind his delicately shaped ear…

Sam barely dared to breathe, out of fear it would all go away.

He memorized every movement, every detail, for he was sure he would never feel as close to Frodo as he did in this very instant.

When Frodo finally closed the book, he could not have said whether he had read for minutes or hours.

He saw there was a small tear in the corner of Frodo’s eye. His hands were trembling when he laid the book aside.

Had it been a sad tale? Did the love of Luthien and Béren end in destruction? Or was there still hope for them, even now?

Sam wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what.

Instead he just grasped Frodo’s hand.

He traced his finger over it, very gently, barely toutching the skin.

He felt his heart pound in his chest.

He barely dared to breathe.

One…two…three seconds.

And than it was gone.

Frodo got up, dragging the book up with him and leaving Sam blinking in surprise.

His voice was hoarse. “Goodnight Sam.”

His cheeks were a bright red and his eyes seemed to hold a longing, more deep than Sam had ever seen on anyone.

Sam wanted to speak but Frodo just shook his head.

“It was a wonderful evening Sam.” There almost was a pleading undertone in his voice. “I’d love you to come back sometime.” He whispered.

Sam looked him straight in the eyes. “That I will sir, if you’ll have me.”

Frodo wanted to answer, but now it was Sam who shook his head.

“Goodnight mister Frodo…” He whispered.

“Goodnight Sam.”





He came out into the nightair as if waked from a dream.

Did he cross a line? Had he done anything improper? Had Frodo heard what he had meant to say, or only what was said?

And then he thought about the way Frodo had touched him. The way that finger had traced his way from his wrist, to the crook of his arm.

He sighed, but it was almost a moan. There was no way he could go home like this. Not only his erection felt hot and stiff, his entire body was pounding, sobbing for relief.

He hastily scanned Bagshot row. There was nobody still awake at this hour.

He quickly strode towards the bushes, across the road from his house.

He opened his pants, so rough he was afraid that he might had torn it, but so hot he didn’t care, he pulled it down as fast as possible and squeezed his long hard shaft roughly.

He moaned at the feeling.

He was so aroused he thought he would come that very instant, but instead he started tracing soft lines, barely toutching the skin, with one finger, from the base to the head,

remembering the feeling of Frodo’s finger,

he was so hot he thought he might scream,

Frodo’s hand,

he tightened his grip on his shaft,

the way that hand had felt,

he started moving his hand, one time slow and than going faster and faster,

all the time whispering “Frodo frodo… oooooh FRODO!”

He yelled while he came so hard,

runs of white seed falling to the ground,

and so good,

he groaned while his body kept rocking,

again and again,

until he was truly spent and let himself fall to the grass.

What he didn’t see whas the pipe of his gaffer, lighting up in the dark, every time he inhaled the smoke. Nor the frown that appeared on his face when he heard what it was his son cried out to the night sky…

When Sam got up, a few minutes later, he felt wonderful. His legs were still trembling when he tried to stand on them, but his breath had calmed down to the normal rhythym agian. His heart stil pounded in his chest, filled with thoughts of Frodo.

When he softly, not to wake anybody, entered the smial there was nobody to be seen.

Sleep came fast to him that night.



It didn’t to Frodo though.

Frodo was staring out of his bedroomwindow, looking at the stars. Wishing that it would rain. Knowing that it wouldn’t. Sam used to scold him for going out in the rain when he was younger. He supposed Sam still thought of it as silly when he did, but was to polite now to say anything about it.

Much did he know the only reason Frodo went out to find the rain was Sam.

When it rained like that, on a warm summerday, it was so much like Sam. It smelled like him, like the earth, like the soil, the soft touch on his skin felt like him…

Again and again Frodo had tried to forget about Sam.

But every time it rained like that he had to get out…

When sleep finally came to Frodo, it was almost dawn.When he woke up at noon, he immediately felt like there was something terribly out of place.

Sam wasn’t there.



Sam was roughly being shaken out of his dreams at dawn by the Gaffer.

“Sam-lad, get up and get dressed, you’re going to help the cottons with their hay-harvest this year.”

“What?” Sam was only slowly waking up, until the meaning of the things the Gaffer had said soaked through his sleepy brain.

“Why am I going to the Cottons? What’s wrong?” A sudden fear crept up on him that there would have happened something to Jolly, or Nibs, or Rosie, for that matter, all of them his friends for years.

“No me lad, nothing’s wrong. Now get out of bed. Come on, the work ain’t getting any lighter!”

“But…” his thoughts where running full-speed now. “I promised mister Frodo I would trim the hay today. And I have to water the plants, and those roses…”

He didn’t get any further before the gaffer comented briskly “that mister Frodo could quite well spare him for a week or so.”

Sam felt a heavy weight fall on his chest. Something had happened all right. Frodo had told the gaffer what happened. Had told him that he, Samwise Gamgee came on to him. That he was unnatural.

But why wasn’t the gaffer scolding him then? Chasing him out of the house, to never come back?

The gaffer answered those questions for him.

“It’s time you started courting that Rosie-lass, me boy. You can stay there till the harvest festival, ask her for a dance, ey.”

Sam paled visably. He wants me to marry Rosie Cotton.

He imagined it not being so bad. Rosie was a fine lass. They had been friends since childhood. But she wasn’t… Frodo. He had to repress a sob.

“Aye da, I will.”

He lowered his head and started dressing.

He never saw the pained look on his da’s face.

That day he went to the Cottons. He walked, all by himself, the long way through Hobbiton. All he did was walking, putting down one foot after the other. But still it felt like he was tearing apart. Like he was dropping a tiny piece of himself on the road with every step he took.

His body felt so empty, the memories of last night as mere ghosts.

He saw his future. Himself. Rosie. A smial and children.

And he felt a pain inside, so raw like it was tearing the edges of his soul apart.

He didn’t start sobbing.

He didn’t cry, or make a sound at all.

But he felt like he was dying.

When he arrived at the Cottons, he didn’t remember how he got there at all. He started turning the hay. He automaticly responded when Jolly asked him something. Other than that he didn’t say anything.

He felt Frodo’s touch, burning on his arm…

He worked all through the day, not feeling how warm it was, not feeling the ache in his back, nor the headache that was forming at the base of his neck.

His eyes where burning, even though he hadn’t shed a tear.

Not at all. He was going to marry Rosie Cotton. He was going to be a normal hobbit. Frodo would find another gardener. All would be well.

Then why did he feel like he wanted to lay down and never see the light of day again?

When the lads called it a day, he told Jolly he would walk back to the farm. That they didn’t had to wait for him.

He had no real intentions of walking back.

He just kept standing there.

When the first drops of rain started falling, he just started walking.



If Frodo was feeling worried when he woke op at noon, then he was definetely upset now. Marigold, Sam’s sister, had just left the house. She had come to pick up his laundry, like every week. And to tell him, slightly smilig, Frodo was too chocked to notice, that Sam was needed at the Cottons farm. At least till the harvest festival.

Frodo told himself not to worry. That Sam had been working at the Cottons-farm before.

But never like this, without telling him. Never after he had stroked his arm… like that! He was sure something was wrong, he knew it. Had Sam told the gaffer what happened? Or did he regret what he had said last night? Or at least what Frodo thought he had said last night. What did he mean when he had said that last night? About coming back if I’ll have him? Is that why he went away?

Frodo made a resolve and got up from the kitchen table. He didn’t need an explaination why he was going to do this. He was just going to.

He took his waistcoat in his hand and slammed the door shut after him.

When he walked down the road he knew he was doing something very stupid. What was he going to do? Turn up at the farm? Just like that? He knew he couldn’t just do that. But he knew there was something wrong just as well. I suppose I can always say I was surprised by the rain, he thought. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky yet, but he knew it was going to rain, Sam said so.

Although he was walking at a fair speed, the clouds caught up with him before he was halfway. He just started walking faster.

Within minutes, he was soaked from head to toe. They are definitely going to believe your excuse now, he thought bitterly. What if Sam had said what had happened? What if they all knew? What if they didn’t even let him inside?

He started shivering. Even though the air around him was still warm, the raindrops were cold and there was starting to blow a chilly wind.

Through the clouds the sun couldn’t be seen anymore and it started to grow dark rapidly.

So it came that when he saw someone walking up the road he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.



They weren’t though.

Sam was slowly walking down the road. He mused that he must be about halfway by now. He had just passed the smial of the Proudfoot family.

He didn’t see anyone coming though. His eyes were turned at his feet while he walked. He didn’t even knew for sure where he was going. Or what he was going to do when he got there. He just kept walking, one foot before the other.

He did look up when he heard a cry over the wind that had started to blow in wild vlagues, slamming the rain in his face.

He recognised Frodo moments before they would have bumped into each other.

“I…” he wanted to say something, appologize to Frodo perhaps.

But the second he lifted his eyes to meet Frodo’s he felt a whirl of emotions creep up in his chest. Before he could think of anything else to do, Frodo cried out again and pulled him in a fierce hug, both of them clinging to each other as hard as possible.

After a few minutes Sam could feel from the hitches in his chest that Frodo was crying.

He loosened his embrace a bit, and looked Frodo in the face. Tears were streaming from his eyes, mingling with the showers of rain that seemed to have even increased in force since a few minutes ago.

His pale skin was glowing in the dying light.

“You’re crying.” He whispered.

“So are you Sam,” Frodo responded, pulling him back in their hug.

Sam realized it was true. He felt the sobs coming from inside him, and cried, holding Frodo close to him.

He slowly came back to reality.

He shouldn’t be crying here, in the middle of the street, on Frodo’s coat for one thing. Not that it mattered anymore though, Frodo was soaked, just like him. Feeling that, he felt how cold it was becoming. Frodo was shivering a bit, even in his embrace. He was shaking too, although he knew it didn't have anything to do with the cold.

“Let’s get you home, mister Frodo.” He said, in a loud voice, struggling it over the wind.

Frodo nodded and started walking.

Sam didn’t mind for an instant that he kept holding him from the side while they walked together.

By the time they reached Bag-end it was far past sunset, and so dark even Sam feared he might not have found the way back, if it weren’t for mister Frodo.

Who knew probably more about running around in the rain than any sensible hobbit should.

All the way back, he had done his very best not to think. Not about what Frodo had meant by this sudden closeness, not about his gaffer, not about what he wanted himself even, but that became very hard when Frodo opened the door and pulled Sam in with him.

He knew he would have to propose something like going back to the gaffer, but he knew also that Frodo wouldn’t let him go out again in that rain, nobody would.

He felt his stomach clenching.

His heart was beating heavy, not being helped by Frodo who, reappearing from the bathroom, weakly informed him that he was heating water so they could take a warm bath.

Sam swallowed.

“Are you all right Sam, he asked, concern shimmering through in his voice.”

“Cold?” He added, intentionally avoiding a more complicated answer.

“Yes, I am.” Sam sighed.

Frodo laid one last look on him and returned to the bathroom.

Sam suddenly shocked out of his place, remembering that his master was doing al the work while he was just standing there.

With some effort he started moving, to find Frodo.

He was surprised to find how fuzzy his vision was. He felt a strange warmth in his stomach and a sort of spinning feeling, before his vision went black.

The next thing he saw was Frodo hovering over him, looking more relieved than anything else.

“Sam? How long ago is it that you have ate something?”

His mind worked slowly. “I … I don’t know.” He whispered.

“Right…” Frodo looked at him doubtingly. “We have to get you warmed up first.”

“You think you can walk?”

Sam, bothered by the idea of letting Frodo help him walk, scrambled to his feet, instantly remembering why he was lying down in the first place.

Frodo placed his arm around his shoulders, and led him to the bathroom.

“I had a bath ready when I returned and saw you lying there, he explained.”

“You scared me to death”, he added, disguised as a joke, but Sam could hear his voice tremble a bit.

“I’m fine sir”, he said, “just a bit dizzy, that’s all”, he added while Frodo lowered him to the edge of the bathtub.

“Do I… I mean, can you…” he started, blushing fiercely.

Sam, how ever miserable he was feeling, had to repress a smile. “I think I can bathe myself, sir.” Feeling a blush creep over his own cheek, thinking about what would happen if he would just say different. He was very tired, after all.

“Right…” Frodo nodded, if possible blushing even harder than before.

“I will leave the door open though. If you start to feel dizzy again, just call me.”

“Don’t you have to bathe first, sir? I mean… It’s just not propper, that’s all, me bathing when you are feeling cold and all…”

Frodo just smiled and left the bathroom.

It wasn’t until he was sitting in the warm water Sam felt how tired he really was. Every muscle he possesed was sore. He was finding it hard to think even. He really didn’t know how long it was ago he had eaten. This had been without doubt one of the most complicated days he had ever endured. He sighed and started to wash the mud off his feet. Had Frodo talked to his gaffer? Or not? What had he meant with that hug? Had he been just as glad to see Sam than he had been to see him?

He started when he heard Frodo at the door. “Sam? Are you all right?” “Aye sir, I’m fine” he responded, heart battering in his chest.

“Well, I found you a nightshirt”, Frodo said, with an unmistakable undertone of doubt.

“Ow, you didn’t had to do that sir, I reckon I don’t fit in anything you might have”, Sam said ever practicly, only to realise afterwards what it was he had said. Did he really want to run around naked through Bag-end?

Frodo smiled. He truly was smiling. Sam knew for sure, eventhough he couldn’t see him.

“Well yes, I know, that’s why I went to search among Bilbo’s things. I daresay he didn’t keep this for himself though”, Frodo added.

He laid a white bundle on the chair in the bathroom, doing his best not to look at Sam and not looking guilty, rather failing in both.

“Is there something I should know about that nightshirt sir?” Sam dared to ask.

Frodo sighed. “Well Sam, first of all this truly is the only nighshirt we have as an extra… and you shouldn’t be offended but… maybe it is best that you see it for yourself.”

Sam, slightly curious, finished washing and got out of the tub, thinking that the water that Frodo had been heating for himself must be ready by now.

When he had dried himself enough, he walked over to the chair and opened the white bundle.

He gasped for breath as soon as he laid eyes on the fine flowers, stitched all over it. It was truly beautiful. And then he realised why Frodo had been looking so guilty. This wasn’t a lad’s nightshirt. It was a lasses. For a lass who was twice his size, Sam thought, holding it out before him. Well, he shrugged his sore schoulders, he suposed it could have been worse, and, not wanting to let Frodo wait any longer, he pulled the thing over his head and went to the kitchen.

As soon as Frodo laid an eye on him the colour of his face seemed to become a bright red. Eventually he could hold back any longer and he started laughing uncontrollably.

“O Sam, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but you look so…”

Another giggle-fit took him.

Sam took one good look at himself and started laughing too.

After a few minutes they were both rubbing the tears out of their eyes.

Frodo got up to take his own bath, and said, still snickering, “that there was tea and food for Sam at the table, and that he really should eat”, before dissapearing around the corner.

Sam supposed he should be feeling right silly by now. At any other time he would have been embarrassed beyond belief. Or at least insulted that his master had laughed so hard with him, but he wasn’t. Not in the least.

He was happy that Frodo was laughing, he was feeling warm and exhausted, and most of all he was relieved. Relieved that nothing appeared to have changed between him and Frodo, relieved that he could put it all out of his head for one more night. If I am going to cry for the rest of my life, then I can be just as well very happy for one night, he thought, while buttering some of the toast Frodo had laid out for him.

After some time, that Sam had eagerly used to eat, Frodo reappaered from the bathroom, wet curls bouncy around his head and his cheeks blushing from the warm water.

Sam half expected him to start laughing again at the sight of his nightgown, but he seemed extremely serious.

“I thought I had lost you today, Sam”, he said, without any introduction.

Sam felt suddenly the sadness from the day return to him.

“I thought I had lost you too sir.”

He got up from the table and stood right before Frodo. Who was wearing one of his slightly see-through nightshirts, Sam noticed.

When he hesitatingly looked up into Frodo’s eyes he saw something he knew most be showing in his too. Love.

Frodo took a step towards him. “Sam…” he whispered, while stroking those fingers acros Sam’s cheeck.

The last thing Sam mused on were his eyes. How they could look so overwhelmingly blue. So full… like he could fit his whole world in their gaze…

Then he leaned in, towards Frodo, towards those eyes and, smelling his scent for a split second and then reaching those lips. He traced his lips over Frodo’s, ever so softly.

He could feel Frodo’s intake of breath, his head seemed to be spinning… he was about to pull back, when Frodo pushed his satin lips closer to his.

He opened his mouth slightly, allowing Frodo to softly trace his tongue across his lips. He gasped. It felt like falling… like falling down very fast….

When Frodo opened his eyes, he could see Sam’s were still closed, a slight smile acros his moist lips. Feeling that Frodo was looking at him, he opened his eyes, revealing a look of utter adoration that Frodo could feel resonate through his entire body.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” He asked, taking Sam’s hand and leading him to the coach. They snuggled together under a blanket, not wanting to let go of eatch other for even a moment.

When Sam had told him everything that had happened, Frodo felt more sad than anything. Somehow, Sam seemed to have thought he had anything to do with the Gaffer’s behaviour, witch made him hurt more badly than he would admit.

But Frodo struggled with the same question that Sam had, why hadn’t he reacted more sternly then? They both knew that there were far worse punishments for such a thing than getting married.

“How do you think he found out then?” Sam pressed his lips together in concentration, probably running the events from the previous day through his head.

Suddenly his face turned a greyish white.

Frodo, afraid that he might faint again, put his hand on his forehead. “What is it Sam?”

“Well…” Sam said; the colour slowly returning to his face again, “I think he might have overheard me, you know…”

“O…” Frodo said, understanding raising in his eyes, and a flicker of something else entirely, leaving Sam to feel those white bolts of tension again.

Suddenly Sam felt the need to be loved, to be held, strike him like lightning. This could be the only time… if the Gaffer came marching up that hill tomorrow, they would never be together again. Not like this.

He turned to Frodo, and started kissing him blindly. Frodo gasped in surprise, but let Sam kiss him like that, claim every part of his mouth.

“O mister Frodo, what should I do? If the gaffer finds out tomorrow… I’ll never be with you again”, he whispered.

“Don’t say that Sam”, Frodo said, feeling his voice leaving him while he said it.

He held him in a tender hug. “I love you, Sam, do you know that? I love you.” He said, looking him straight in the eye. “I have for years.”

Sam felt disbelief, and after that love flow over his body. Frodo loves me. He really does.

“Aye, I love you too sir. I always have”, he added.

Frodo took his hand and held it close. “We made a mess out of it, didn’t we Sam?” “Aye sir, I reckon we did”, he smiled.

They hugged close for a minute each thinking in their own private world. Sam’s thoughts were going that way that might become obvious in a while, feeling Frodo’s heartbeat so close to him, his body seemingly caressing his with every intake of breath.

“Sam?”

“Yes sir?”

“Do you call me sir in your mind also?”

Sam smiled at the strange question, so typically Frodo. “No. I don’t.”

“Then don’t call me that anymore, Sam, please.”

He flinched. “What should I call you then?”

“Just Frodo.” He smiled. “Just Frodo.”

“Sam?”

“Yes sir, Frodo.”

He giggled.” Sir Frodo. That’s a new one.”

“Would you like to come to bed with me?”

Frodo held his breath. What if he said no? But Sam didn’t seemed to have any doubts on his part, as he grabbed Frodo’s hand and pulled him up, out of their cozy nest in the couch, but in a loving embrace, and whispered an “aye” in his ear that made Frodo tremble.

When he started putting small, loving kisses on Frodo’s eyes, cheeckbones and neck, Frodo wondered for a second what it was that had happened to his shy, inexperienced gardener, before he gasped at the feeling of his tongue, tracing the lines of his ear.


He fet his body respond, tiny shivers going through his limbs when Sam traced his hands over his nipples.

O my, he thought, o my…

He kissed Sam passionately, his hands tracing lines over his sides, delighting in the feeling of him shuddering against him.

“Bedroom”, he managed to breathe.

Sam started moving in that direction, rubbing his hands over Frodo’s body all the while, under his nightshirt at the collar, quickly opening the little buttons and putting his lips and tongue over every newly unbuttoned space of flesh.

When his back hit the bedroomdoor with a thud, he was fiercly trying to pull his nightgown over his head, aided by Sam, who accidentally brushed his gown over the heat that had been building up in his groin, leaving him panting for more.

When the door opened, Frodo almost fell towards the bed, his shirt carelessly thrown to the ground.

“O Sam!” He cried while he, not caring with buttons, moved his hands from Sam’s knees to the back of his back pressing him close to him and lifting his oversised nightshirt over his head in one movement.

They both gasped at the feeling when their bare bodies touched over the entire lenght, erections brushing against each other.

“Ooooh…” Frodo was crying and mumbling incoherent strings of voice, pulling Sam on top of him on the mattress.

Sam straddled him, his erection throbbing with the need to be touched, his entire being on fire, needing, trusting,…

It lasted for a few indescribable moments.

Then Frodo came, looking him straight in the eye, with long, white spurts and loud cries.

Sam, pushed over the edge by the mere sight of Frodo coming, cried out loud, “Frodo, ooo Frodoooooo”

His own seed mixed with Frodo’s and after a few more thrusts he fell silent.

He leisurly rolled off Frodo, not wanting to crush him, and snuggled as close as possible to his side.

Frodo turned on his side too, so their now spent erections, their bare chests and bellies touched again.

He looked at him, the immense depth of those eyes making Sam feel like he could be pulled in them, with him...

Then he closed those eyes in bliss, his eyelashes shadowing over his face in the low light of the room.

It was only then that Sam noticed the bedroomwindow was opened, and that it was still raining outside.


Based on the poem:

Want to watch you
In the rain
Want to see,
How drops of water
Touch you
Everywhere I can’t
Becouse I shouldn’t

Later,
When all of you
Is gone

Want to stand there
In the rain
And feel
How drops of water
Toutch me back
Everywhere you can’t
Becouse you shouldn’t

Both of us
Stood here now
Shaking our heads
Saying no
Meaning yes
Inside

Call it love
If you must
I will call it rain

By Indy Baggins