Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
Summary: Memories of a fine spring afternoon in the Shire.

"Do you remember the Shire, Mr Frodo? It will be spring soon and the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields. And eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?"

Everything was good and green in the Shire. Frodo was in his Spring, along with the new buds, with the blossoms falling, and the shoots all rising. There were the bright fair mornings, bringing in the South wind and a fresh sweet green that set the fields ashimmer and the trees' fingers all alive again. Birds chitter-chattered and argued day long, or so it seemed.

Frodo noticed and delighted in these things with a new awareness this year, conscious of himself, of being on the verge of something new. Like the buds unfurling, Spring this year filled him with promise, and with a strange yearning strength in muscle and sinew.

There were the misty mornings, the days full of rainbows and sunshine, and the golden evenings to be happy in. And Frodo was happy, but usually he experienced these things alone.

He liked this place down by the river, in the long soft grass, where he would come to read and think in solitude. So Frodo had not noticed Sam's approach; he had been gazing at the dim green hollow between the hills.

"Mr Frodo? I didn't mean to disturb you, sir."

Sam's words drew Frodo's gaze away slowly, and he smiled.

"'I thought I saw a Man there, once, Sam." He spoke dreamily.

"A Man, Mr Frodo? We don't want none of them in the Shire," Sam began stoutly, but seeing Frodo's drifting eyes and faraway smile, floundered a little, "do we?"

"I don't know, Sam. It made me feel…" But Sam, aware of Frodo getting all trance-like and strange, drew him back hurriedly.

"Best be going, Mr Frodo, if you want the first of the Spring Ale tonight. I just came to fetch you."

Frodo laughed, his infectious lively laugh, jumping up, and Sam was relieved to see him restored; that odd look gone. The mood seemed to set on Frodo again later, however, as they sat in the Green Dragon with their deep mugs of ale. Sam had been quietly musing on Frodo's hair, nut brown in the evening sun. There was some general talk of marryings, which usually happened around Springtime.

"I don't think I'll ever fall in love, Sam," Frodo volunteered. "You will, you'll marry Rose Cotton."

His words seemed normal enough, but there was something distant in his eyes again. Sam had just begun to notice Rosie, but he noticed Frodo more. All Frodo's liveliness was being kidnapped by these odd thoughts, so it seemed, and Sam gently tried to bring him back again, reassuring him,

"Yes you will, Mr Frodo."

"Do you know what I could love, Sam?"

"What, Mr Frodo?" Sam asked, a little tentatively.

"You know that place in the dell I showed you, Sam, where the sun goes down between the hills? One evening, there seemed to be a strange mist over the fields, a cloud, like you see in the mornings. It was then I saw the Man, on horseback, over in the distance."

Sam, who had begun to relax, tightened up again, rather uncomfortably.

"I felt a yearning, Sam." Frodo's eyes had misted over and in the firelight, to Sam, he seemed to see what Frodo had seen. It was too much ale, Sam hoped, fervently.

"It filled me with longing for… something. I didn't see the Man's face clearly, but he had the bearing of a King. His hair was flying behind him. I imagined he took me on his horse. I could feel his legs, muscled and strong, and his Manhood..." Frodo stopped, the dream broken suddenly, as the fire crackled. He looked at Sam wide eyed, like one newly emerged from trance, with no knowledge of what he had said.

"Come on now, Mr Frodo, there's your ale getting all flat, you talking on so much…"

Sam had no other means of responding, for these were things he had only ever heard the lewd-minded mutter about in huddles. When Frodo shared his strange ideas, he was generally met by a brief silence from his friends. Then there was the laugh and it was all put down to ancestry, to be cheered on and hurried past with no loss of humour or goodwill. The truth was, Frodo had been getting more than a little strange lately, and it was Samwise who noticed it most. Sam was always very careful with Frodo, because there was a fragility exposed in those moments that was unhobbitlike.

Thankfully, the next morning, everything was restored and right again. Sam was working outside the bathroom window at Bag End. He could hear Frodo singing and splashing in solitary delight. Sam chuckled to himself, shaking his head outside the window where he was sowing, enjoying the feel of the rich earth between his fingers and the sun on his face.

"I can hear you, Sam." There was a burst of joyful laughter within, and a sudden shower of water cascaded out of the window, catching rainbow lights.

"Careful, Mr Frodo. I don't want no hot water on these Summer seeds now."

Sam stood up and looked in at the window, but his face grew poppy red, seeing Frodo there, all naked, his smooth fair body glistening in the sun. He stepped back right onto his new seedbed, coughing loudly and looking as faraway over the hill as he could see.

"Come down to the dell with me, Sam." Frodo asked, coming out of the door a few moments later, buttoning up his shirt, his hair still wet. There were all kinds of reasons and jobs to be done to the contrary, but Frodo's happiness, so light and infectious, had Sam accompanying his master over the fields.

"Come and sit next to me, Sam." Frodo had sat down in his favourite place, smiling up at him.

They sat quietly for a time. Sam began to feel distinctly uncomfortable, thinking of the Summer seeds that wanted sowing, aware of a strangeness between them that was growing bigger every moment. He hoped to goodness Frodo would not mention the Man again. But it was something quite different this time.

"What would you do if I was Rosie, Sam?" Frodo asked, his eyes bright with curiosity, and something else.

"B-but you're not, Mr Frodo." Sam's head had responded quick enough, but Frodo's words began to produce an unmistakable response in his body that needed to be kept firmly hidden.

"I won't tell anyone. I just want to feel... what it feels like, Sam."

And there he was getting all strange again, and coming far too close. Frodo's arms came around Sam's neck before he realised it, he was all warm, and pressing those soft lips against his, lush and sweet. It was too much. Sam had never kissed his own sister, but well, there were some things that didn't take any learning, as Frodo slipped his tongue into Sam's mouth. Sam tumbled over backwards with Frodo full on him. What with that and Frodo's hot breath on his face, and the quick beating of his heart against Sam's, Sam knew exactly what came next.

There was a frantic pulling off of shirts and undoing of breeches, and Frodo's wild laughter. He flung himself at Sam again, and there was the blending of bodies, heat and grass, and Frodo panting, urging him on. He gasped out enthusiastically,

"More…. Go inside me. Now, Sam."

"But I'll hurt you, Mr Frodo."

"No you won't, Sam."

Frodo was nothing if not adventurous. Sam was that ready to let go, there was nothing more right just then than to do what Frodo wanted. He was breathing so fast, his heart almost bursting, pounding as hard as he was, with the tight hot feeling of being inside Frodo.

Frodo cried out,

"Sam, Sam…" and losing control, spilled all over his hand with delighted moans - and it all happened very fast after that.

"You remind me of the Spring, Sam." Frodo murmured, gazing up at the sky afterwards, as he lay peacefully in the soft grass. "You always will. Of things growing in the good earth of the Shire."

"Your eyes are the colour of bluebells in a cool wood," Sam found himself saying, looking down at him with love, undisguised, as he drifted in the memory of Frodo's warm, moist sweetness.

Frodo laughed and teased him about being more of a poet than Bilbo, and threw his shirt at him. After a while, they dressed again, walked back quietly, and Sam went back to planting the Summer seeds.

Somehow they did not talk about it after that. It became like the unwritten pages of a book. To Sam it even seemed to become like a dream. He began to wonder if Frodo even remembered it. At any rate, he hadn't been strange for a long while afterwards. And he never mentioned the Man again, Sam noted to himself, with quiet satisfaction.

Deep inside Mordor, Frodo lay on his back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his eyes glazed over, unseeing. There came a silence, that Sam grew vaguely anxious about. He eased himself up painfully to see if Frodo slept at last.

"Tell me about the garden, Sam… in the Spring…" Frodo's voice sounded thin in the near darkness.

Sam worried Frodo's mind must be wandering.

"Remember… when you were planting Summer seeds… outside the window?"

Sam breathed with relief, and tried to smile. "You were taking your bath and singing, Mr Frodo." Frodo held out his cold hand, and Sam chafed it in both his.

"Make me forget, Sam."

Sam tried desperately, but could think of nothing to say.

"Kiss me like you did before, Sam. Make me warm again."

"You're wandering, Mr Frodo. Don't you go thinking of all that now. Just you try and rest."

"No, Sam, the Ring won't let me sleep." Frodo's voice came quietly, breaking up in defeat.

"Won't you let me help you, Mr Frodo?" Sam entreated, tears stinging his eyes.

Frodo strained to turn and look at him. "You always help, Sam. And yet nothing can help, especially at night… this darkness… the ring, heavy as ice…"

Frodo shivered. Sam pulled himself up to Frodo, and held him, comforting him with his arms and body. Frodo shuddered suddenly, and looked up at him, eyes wide with desperation.

Sam looked at the pale grime stained face, that grew daily more haunted and frail. With such great sadness that it hurt, he remembered Frodo's enthusiastic kisses in the soft grass, so long ago.

Without thinking any more,he leaned down to kiss the cold lips. Immediately, Frodo moaned and clung to him.

"Please, Sam," Frodo's voice was strained, breathless with exertion as he struggled to pull at his clothes.

"I can't do that, Mr Frodo, not now, with you so weak."

"Can't you see, Sam. It will make me forget…" Frodo's pleading shredded Sam's heart like a knife. He kissed him again and again, his warmth spreading, coming closer. As the cold night swirled around them, Sam found his way, deeper. Frodo was relentless, wanting more,

"Harder, Sam..." with every thrust taking away the pain of the Ring. Sam held him fast, pushing in again, again until spent; until Frodo wept, convulsed, and flopped down on the ground. But Sam never let Frodo go.

"It's all right, Mr Frodo dear. I've got you."

Frodo fell into a broken sleep, but it was a sleep for all that, while Sam kept the watch.

The next day they went on to the last stage of their journey, and did not speak of it again.

It was not until they lay exhausted on the rock, after the terrible ending of the Ring; the fires of Mount Doom raging all around them, that Sam found himself saying, because it did not seem to matter any more,

"I'm sorry you never got what you wanted once, Mr Frodo. A Man might have kept you warmer than I ever could."

Frodo did not answer for such a long time that Sam thought he had not heard him. Then he spoke the words that Sam never forgot,

"But I did get what I wanted, Sam. I had it all the time… My Sam."

It was soon after that the Eagles came.

Now, at last, the long journey was over, and they were back in the Shire.

"You could marry, Mr Frodo. Settle down properly," Sam entreated him one day, unable to bear the fading away of the one who meant more to him than could be told.

"You won't be so alone… Won't you try to be part of things again?"

Frodo shook his head and smiled sadly, gently, as though he were a hundred and Sam a small child at his knee.

"My dear Sam."

Sam realised at last, that Frodo was giving him back, so he could have his family, so he could go on. There would be no more Spring for Frodo, his dear master. But Sam had his own Summer to live in the world.

So it was that Frodo said goodbye, on the shores of the Sea, with a last look that said, "I love you, Sam."

It was a love that was too deep to be talked about, a bond that had taken them to the end of all things. How could they have known, Sam thought, as he walked slowly home again, that sweet Spring day in the soft grass, that they would ever leave the Shire? Or that Frodo would return with wounds too many and too deep to ever fully heal?

Yes, Sam would live out his life in the Shire, and he would be happy. And at the end of it all, he would find Frodo again, who would be laughing, and he would see again those eyes, the colour of bluebells.

The End