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Birthday Greetings
“Sam, we’ll be needing five casks of beer for tonight, if you
don’t mind. There’s a good lad, now.” Bilbo’s voice was crisply commanding as
Sam reported to the elderly hobbit, as his gaffer had requested. Sam nodded
respectfully, and then headed for the cellar of Bag End.
The smial had been all of a tumult for the entire morning with preparations for
the Double Birthday. Mr. Bilbo was reaching the unheard of age of one hundred
and ten, and even Mr. Frodo was only one year away from his majority. This
certainly was shaping up to be quite the party, but then Mr. Bilbo’s generally
were. Down the long corridors of Bag End headed Sam, but his thoughts had
wandered, as usual, from the owner of Bag End to the other who would be
celebrating his birthday tonight as well.
The cellar storeroom was shadowy and cool, and Sam gladly paused for a moment,
leaning against the damp earth walls gratefully, for there was an unseasonable
warmth still lingering on this mid-September morning, and between Mr. Bilbo and
his gaffer, they had been keeping him that busy. Mr. Frodo had been kept more
than occupied as well, and Sam had lost track of where he had last caught a
glimpse of him, but he wasn’t entirely startled when a strong hand suddenly
reached out and tugged him into the dim recess behind the neatly stacked
barrels.
“Ahhmmm,“ he murmured in greeting, sweeping his arms around the soon-to-be
birthday celebrant, whose mouth was already firmly over his.
Frodo broke away for the moment, with a triumphant chuckle. “I thought he’d be
sending you down here, right about now. I’m pretty sure he’s lost track of me,
so that should give us…” and already that very same hand had managed to
insinuate itself between Sam and his trousers, and was in the process of heading
downward.
Sam found that a pleasing thought indeed, and communicated his appreciation to
Frodo by immediately returning his mouth to where it had been so promisingly
occupied, and letting both of his hands snake down Frodo’s enticing backside,
giving only an encouraging moan when Frodo’s hand found what it had been
seeking.
Frodo’s response was rather more guttural as, leaning back against the
hard-packed wall for support, he pulled Sam hard against himself with his
unoccupied hand, clenching Sam’s leg firmly between his thighs. Sam did have a
fleeting thought that perhaps the trousers should come off but, consoling
himself with the consideration that spilled beer should cover it, gave such
practical matters no further mind, and devoted all remaining thought to Frodo’s
quickened breathing, the very interesting maneuvers that that clever tongue was
performing in his mouth, and the delectable feel of what was in his hands. The
rhythm of Frodo’s insistent thrusting against his hip, and the firm stroking of
Frodo’s wildly gratifying hand, had just begun to coincide, when the sound of a
mildly grumbling hobbit could be heard coming down the hall.
“Drat that young scoundrel anyway, has he taken to sampling this early in the
morning?” could distinctly be heard, as Sam pulled himself away with a wildly
beating heart, and a very soft imprecation muttered violently in his ear.
Fortunately, all his clothing was still more or less in place, and his panic at
Bilbo’s unexpected appearance had quickly taken care of any other evidence.
“Just takin’ a bit of a breather, sir,” he called out quickly, grabbing a cask
of what he hoped was beer, and stepping forward quickly from the shadows.
“Well, not that I blame you too much, lad,” Bilbo replied somewhat testily,
hoisting a keg himself and heading back toward the doorway, “but the day’s not
getting any longer, and those good-for-nothing scamps from Brandy Hall will be
showing up any moment, and that’s all the help we’ll be getting from Frodo.
Haven’t seen him about, have you?”
“Didn’t see a’that much of him, no, sir,” Sam answered, in a desperate attempt
not to lie, and left the storeroom on Bilbo’s heels, not daring to look back.
Sam entered the kitchen door of Bag End, a carefully balanced stack of clean
linen just up from Bagshot Row in his hands. “Ah, there you are now, lad,” Bilbo
greeted him in a vague sort of manner, as he was preoccupied with tagging a
veritable mountain of gifts that were precariously heaped upon the kitchen
table. Frodo was seated across the table from his elder cousin, assisting him,
but the quick look he gave Sam was warm and wanting, and Sam was instantly glad
that the bundle in his hands was high enough that he could duck his reddening
face somewhat behind it. “Some of those need to go on the beds of the back
guest-room, where the lads will be staying, and Frodo’s didn’t get changed the
other day either, I believe.” Bilbo glanced over sharply at Frodo, who was
beginning to rise from his chair. “Do stop fidgeting, Frodo, we’ll never make
our way through this pile if we don’t do it now. Remember, these gifts are yours
as well as mine.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Frodo replied meekly, sitting back down, but gave Sam another
piercing look over the top of Bilbo’s head as the older hobbit returned to his
careful writing. Sam dared a longing smile in return, but left the kitchen
quickly, before Bilbo could turn around again.
He laid out the sheets and other bedding on the guest beds, making them up
quickly and efficiently, and then returned up the hall and entered Frodo’s sunny
bedroom. The warm afternoon sun against the window had made the air in the room
stuffy, so Sam crossed over to the window, after laying the sheets on the bed,
and opened wide the glass. The afternoon breeze was sweet and cool on his
flushed face, and closing his eyes for the moment, he savored the scent of the
garden that lay before him, able to determine what was in bloom without even
opening his eyes.
His eyes did fly open, however, at the sudden feel of strong arms encircling his
chest, and soft lips nibbling at his earlobe, with a breathy sigh. “Frodo,” he
whispered, delight and anticipation surging through him at the touch.
A throaty chuckle and a tender kiss against his cheek confirmed it, and he
turned in Frodo’s arms to see the blue eyes dancing in merriment. “I can never
startle you, can I,” Frodo complained teasingly, and reaching for Sam’s hands,
gently tugged him away from the window and towards his bed. Sam’s eyes strayed
momentarily toward the wide soft bed, and visions that he had tried very hard to
stifle sprang anew in his mind. He and Frodo had not been lovers for very long,
and they had yet been able to spend the night together. Ever since Frodo had
given him that direct, frank glance, as he had come hot and sweaty from the
hayfields that early summer afternoon, their time together had been stolen from
their everyday lives, and was rare enough to leave both of them more craving
than sated.
But Frodo had followed the direction of his eyes, and his own gaze softened
wistfully as he gave Sam an understanding smile. “Some day, Sam dearest,” he
said softly, raising a gentle hand to the side of Sam’s face. “Some day,
there’ll be all the time we could ever want.”
Sam blinked back momentary tears at Frodo’s words, but time was too precious to
be wasted in regrets and wishes, so with a quick shake of his head, he grabbed
Frodo suddenly by the waist, and set to determinedly nibbling that delicious
spot where the firm line of Frodo’s jaw met the beautiful column of his throat.
Frodo gave a shaky half-gasp, half-laugh at Sam’s move and ran his hands
passionately up Sam’s muscular arms.
“Oh, Sam,” he gasped out, closing his eyes in delight, and throwing back his
head, “there isn’t much time… ah, my dear… he thinks I’m looking for a present…
but I just couldn’t wait…”
But Sam was beginning to feel that Frodo’s explanation was taking up entirely
too much time that could be far more valuably used, and he also knew just how to
jolt Frodo’s attention back to the essentials. One of his hands still firmly
around Frodo’s waist, he let the other deftly release the buttons of Frodo’s
trousers. They slid aside and down, as Sam’s hand found what it had been
seeking, and with a muffled groan, Frodo raised a bare leg up, twining it around
Sam’s, and burying his face on Sam’s coarse linen clad shoulder, gasped and
leaned forward into Sam’s hand.
It was then that the grousing of a clearly exasperated hobbit could be heard in
the hall, quickly approaching the bedroom. With a swift vehement curse (Sam’s
vocabulary had definitely been expanded as of late), Frodo broke away, eyes
hastily searching the room, and made a quick decision. “Under the bed, Sam,” he
breathed, and darted under the large bed, and Sam followed without a word,
grabbing the abandoned pair of trousers at the last moment.
Sam couldn’t help but think that the sound of his wildly beating heart would
surely give them away, but he could see, to the side of him, Mr. Bilbo’s feet
come to a sudden halt beside the bed. “Look for a present, hmpf,” came the
annoyed grumble. “Like as not wandered off up the hill with a book in hand. Lad
can never keep his mind on what he’s about. I never saw such a distractible
creature.”
Sam could feel Frodo pressed tightly against his side, shaking with suppressed
laughter. Desperately, he willed the old hobbit away, and was limp with relief
by the time Bilbo’s footsteps could be heard leaving the room.
“I knew he’d never look under the bed,” Frodo was still shaking with silent
laughter when Sam turned toward him with the remarkable discovery that, in fact,
he could still breathe after all, and his heart had not managed to hammer its
way entirely out of his chest.
Frodo had just lifted a hand to the side of Sam’s face, and pressing ever closer
to him, had managed to twine one furry ankle around one of Sam’s, when there was
a barrage of knocks on the front door. “Merry and Pippin,” groaned Frodo at the
sound, annoyance clearly visible on his features, even in their shadowy hiding
place. “May as well give it up for now and make an appearance, because they most
definitely will look under the bed.”
“Well, there you are, lad, and where you’ve been is anybody’s guess, but give
your cousins some tea then, or they’ll be into the cake before we know it,” came
the sound of Bilbo’s irritated voice in the entrance hall as Frodo slipped from
the room, leaving Sam to follow after a discreet interval.
“Cake!” Pippin could be heard to squeal eagerly, and Sam heard Frodo’s laugh.
“Rather excited, isn’t he?” Frodo was asking as the threesome headed toward the
kitchen.
“You have no idea,” he heard Merry’s rather grim reply as Sam left Frodo’s room
quietly.
Sam was in the Party Field, helping the Cotton lads hoist up the last of the
tents, when he next saw Frodo. The sun was beginning to lower to the west, and
the thin clouds were streaked with pink and a brilliant orange, but the air was
still warm and mild. It would be a perfect evening for a party.
Frodo was carefully walking with a tray of mugs, with Merry and a stack of
plates following, both to be set out in the tent that was already up. Pippin was
apparently not to be trusted with the crockery, but trotted behind his older
cousins, cheerfully ready for any task that might be asked of him, admittedly a
rather rare occurrence. Occupied as he was with the tent pole, and preoccupied
as he was with the oldest of the cousins, Sam couldn’t help but spare a fond
grin for the ten-year-old tagalong. Not for the first time, he found it
difficult to imagine the impetuous little hobbit as the future Thain.
But his attention was quickly snapped back to his task, as Tom’s sudden yell
broke through his wool-gathering. “Hoy! Sam! Hold that pole fast! You’d be havin’
this whole thing down about our ears.”
Startled and flustered, he hastily shoved the pole back upright, and did not
dare glance back to the other tent.
The cake had been devoured, as well as anything else edible that had been set
out, and empty kegs and wine bottles were beginning to form a rather large stack
behind one of the tents, when Frodo at last was able to escape his relatives and
well-wishers, and look for Sam. He was found sitting patiently next to his
father, on one of the far benches with a half-full mug in his hand, while the
gaffer and Daddy Proudfoot energetically discussed the proper way to store tater
eyes. But when he looked up and saw Frodo approaching with his hands shoved in
his pockets and a warm smile, Sam’s eyes lit up, and with a murmured excuse that
Mr. Frodo had come a’lookin’ for him, he carefully set his mug down in the grass
and rose, walking over to where Frodo was standing, just out of the light from
the tents. The other two paid the tween no mind.
Frodo turned then, without a word, and walked out into the twilight to a tall
alder that stood at the edge of the field. He leaned against the trunk, and Sam
approached him, not daring to do more than that. “I’d rather it wasn’t my
birthday,” Frodo said softly, his eyes intent on Sam’s. “Too much fuss, and too
many about the place. And,” he paused, and even in the dim light, Sam could see
the wistful look that swiftly came across his face. “My last year as a tween,”
he added, suddenly serious and somehow melancholy. “And only your first.”
Sam longed to lift a hand, to touch his face, to brush back the dark curls from
his cheek, but he did not dare. But his words were warm and gentle. “No frettin’
me dear, not on that. I’m yours, as long as you’d be wantin’ me.”
Frodo gulped visibly at Sam’s words, and suddenly throwing aside all caution,
reached out a hand to him, and tugged a not unwilling Sam into the shadows.
There was a thicket of low trees and bushes at the edge of the field, and as
soon as it lay between them and the rest of the field, Frodo’s arms were tight
around Sam, and his mouth was hot on his. Sam eagerly returned the embrace,
moaning even as he responded to Frodo’s deep kiss, and clutching Frodo fiercely
to him, he moved so that they could both feel the other, hard and frantic with
the wanting. “Oh, Sam, I wish this were all over,” he heard Frodo gasp into his
ear as they finally broke apart to catch their breath. “I wish it were only the
two of us. I wish we could go where we want, do what we want. I can never get
enough of you, love, and there’s never time enough for us.”
“Someday,” Sam whispered tenderly, lovingly stroking Frodo’s back. “Someday,
there’ll be time enough. I can wait, when it’s worth waitin’ for.” And right
before his mouth found Frodo’s again, he added huskily, “And if you ain’t, well,
there’s nothing in this world as is.”
“Frodo!” the call came floating across the field. “Frodo! Where did you get off
to this time?”
Frodo froze, and then with a low growl, reluctantly broke apart from Sam. “This
is getting to be unmistakably painful,” he muttered tersely. Then he turned back
to Sam a last time, a determined gleam in his eye. “The kitchen well at
midnight. Can you be there?”
“Aye,” breathed Sam, his hand unwillingly slipping from Frodo’s grasp as Frodo
turned to leave. “I promise.”
Frodo gave him a last quick smile. “I promise, too.”
Sam waited in the shadow of the bean bushes in the Bag End garden, even though
the night was dark. Only a sliver of the moon rode high above, but he watched
the bright stars with fascination, trying to remember Mr. Bilbo’s stories
regarding them. He wasn’t quite sure when it would be midnight, for without much
moon, it was that hard to tell, but he meant to be here on time. It hadn’t been
that difficult to slip out of Bagshot Row, since the gaffer had fallen into a
heavy slumber almost immediately upon returning, and his sisters would be up
half the night, no doubt, with their excited chattering. There’d be no need to
seek him out, and as long as he was back in time in the morning, who would know?
Besides, it was one of the liberties of being a tween. It was just that he would
prefer not to face the gaffer’s questions or, far more intimidating, his
sisters’.
His attention was suddenly caught by the stealthy opening of the kitchen door,
and even in the faint starlight, he could see a shadowy figure emerge from the
smial. Noiselessly, he rose and neared the well, as the figure turned around and
faced him. And then there was no doubt at all, for he knew the form that was
suddenly in his arms. He had memorized every smooth curve, every sinewy line,
and the mouth upon his was unmistakable.
Frodo did not linger in his embrace for long though, and almost immediately
placed a warning finger against Sam’s lips, and taking his hand, led him through
the back of the kitchen garden and out through the gate. Sam tried to follow in
his mind their route, but in the dark, he was easily turned about, and
trustingly, allowed Frodo to lead him where he would. But at last, his feet felt
fresh deep grass, and Frodo stopped.
Sam could see that Frodo had been wearing a cloak, not really necessary, since
there was still no chill in the air, but now he unfastened it and lay it upon
the grass. “Come here, Sam,” his voice was low but with the unmistakable hint of
laughter in it. In the faint light, Sam could see Frodo’s hands were busy on his
own garments, and suddenly he could see them dropped to the side and knew that
Frodo was standing naked before him. He hurried to follow Frodo’s example, and
now when their bodies met, there was no interfering cloth between them, nothing
but the feel of cool smooth flesh, and a silken warm hardness around which his
hand wrapped lovingly. “Ah, Sam,” Frodo’s voice was breathless in his ear, and
he felt Frodo’s touch matching his own. “I’ve been trying to give you your
birthday present all day.”
Sam chuckled throatily, and slowly maneuvered the both of them down onto the
cloak. “ ‘Twas a lovely pipe, Frodo love, no mistake,” he teased. “But you’d be
forgettin’ you gave it to me right before elevensies.”
Frodo’s answering laugh rippled low and suggestively in Sam’s ear, as Sam took
him closely up into his arms. “Ah, my dear, give me credit for a little more
imagination than that. You know, I don’t think we’ve tried quite everything
yet.”
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