Pairing: Frodo/Sam
Rating: NC17
Summary: Sometimes, love means accepting everything, no matter what
AN: Movie Canon mostly, but Merry seemed to want to talk like Book Merry
Originally written for the Frodo New Year's Mathoms challenge, which can be found here: http://baranduin.us/mathomnew.htm
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Tolkien. No money is made from this, nor offence intended
FB: Always appreciated - perhobfan@yahoo.co.uk

The floors of Minas Tirith were hard on a hobbit's feet, even a hobbit who had been out in the wilderness for weeks on end. Cool marble was everywhere, even in the Houses of Healing, cool marble to remind a body he was in a grand place, a very grand place indeed.

Yet there was warmth there, too, and the softest bed a hobbit ever lay upon, least ways, a hobbit called Samwise. That mighty big bed in Rivendell in which Mr. Frodo awoke after his illness, well that looked as if might have been even softer and warmer; Sam had been careful to keep a respectful distance on that joyous occasion, only diffidently moving close enough to grasp his master's hand and welcome him back to the land of the living, so he couldn't be sure of the respective merits of that particular mattress.

The land of the living. The land where food was there in plenty for all, and it was hot and tasty, for all that it was foreign. A land where fires blazed in hearths and children could be heard laughing and whooping out in the stone courtyards. A land where it was light as and when it ought to be, not always dark and close and fearsome.

So pale he is, pale and thin. I could encircle his waist with my hands as easy as anything. He needs food, real food. And the warmth of a fire, too. It's not right. But what's to be done? Nothing's to be done. You just have to make the best of things, Sam Gamgee. No call to make him feel any worse than he has to. He needs your help, not your great clumsy paws all over him.

"Sam! You're out of bed," and there he was, being pulled into a warm embrace and the look on Master Merry's face was pure joy, as if, well, as if Sam was one of his kin, rather than the gardener of Bag End. And so well did Master Merry look, his cheeks rosy despite him seeming somehow – older? As if the soft edges of Shire nobility had been rubbed away from him and he'd gone through something. Tales to be told, naturally, all in good time.

"I couldn't stand it in there one moment longer, Master Merry." It was almost a child's protest, as if he feared he might be sent back to his bed at once. And that would not do. Not now.

"Should think not! But are you well enough to be standing out here in the cold, lurking in the hallway like this? It's only a day since you rejoined us in this world, Sam; no need to tempt fate and catch a chill before you've had a chance to visit with him."

And there it was. "I just want to see him and then I'll be good and do whatever is asked of me," he said, quickly, and it was meant honestly. One glimpse, one look, would be food and drink and fire's warmth to him. No call for getting in the way of anything or butting in where he wasn't wanted. Just a sneak through the crack of the door would do…

"Sam, I didn't have a chance earlier, when the others were there, to thank you. For bringing my cousin home to me- to us," Merry was saying as they walked, and Sam couldn't help but hear what he had always heard but never heard - that little catch in Master Merry's voice when he spoke of Mr. Frodo. And right and proper it was. For they were cousins and gentry, gentlefolk and book-learned. Their hands were smooth and pale, not rough-hewn and coarse as his were. Well, least ways they were before this whole business started, and would be again. While his would always be more at home grasping nettles than a finely turned teacup.

How dark this land is! Why, it never gets even gloomy, 'tis always deep in full-blown twilight. No wonder no good thing grows here; a living thing would choke and die, if it could ever even spark into life in the first place.

His eyes are closed, but he doesn't sleep. Still, it’s rest of a sort. He really is so fine; at rest, his hands folded just so on his chest, almost as if we were on a picnic and there were pies and cakes and a flagon of cider in this pack instead of waybread. Save for his brows drawn down. And there it goes, his hand moving. Slowly, like a spider he walks his hand up and to his neck… no, no picnic this, Samwise.

Master Pippin up ahead and the thought that had entered Sam's head yesterday upon waking now trickled back and found voice. "Are you taller, Master Pippin?" and the young Took was grinning and smirking at his cousin, who rolled his eyes a little and smiled at Sam as if they were equals, older hobbits in the presence of a rowdy tweenager; but there was about Master Pippin, too, a deeper-lying solemnity which was not quite concealed by his high spirits. Wonderful it was, that these two scallywags should have had to finally grow up, to have endured so much, yet still have their joy of life intact. For that, Sam was glad. Now if he could just see Mr. Frodo.

And here they were, at the door. And there was quite a crowd already gathered. Legolas, the elf, and Gimli, the dwarf, inseparable now it seemed. Together they had visited with Sam as he lay abed, and together they were now. They smiled in welcome and moved aside, but Sam shook his head. He wouldn't go rushing in and usurp anyone's place.

I wonder if he knows. That I saw him. Naked in the parlour of Bag End. Without a stitch on, all his skin bathed in firelight and him so natural as if it was right and proper to entertain his cousin in such a fashion. And they were laughing and there was wine upon the little table by the inglenook. I wasn't meant to be there, course. But I'd knocked and they hadn’t heard me. And then I went rushing in like a great fool and only just stopped myself from crying out some silly greeting, because I saw him, his back to me and his nakedness which almost hurt me – perfect he was. And I was caught between a smile and a blush and then I saw Master Merry was there, too. Master Merry with naught but his shirt on, and that unbuttoned. Fixed, I was. Could not make my feet obey me. Not for anything. T'was only when Master Merry stood and took my master in his arms, enveloped him and rested his hands upon Mr. Frodo, that I found the will to move. I stumbled backwards out of there, into the night, closing the door softly after me.

For a little while I stood, willing my heart to steady. Behind me, Bag End had become a closed place, shuttered forever to me. I would work there, of course, and serve my master dutifully. But I knew something had died that night – some hope, perhaps, that only in the dying had made itself known to me.

"You look much improved, Master Samwise," Gimli was saying. He looked very dashing, the leather jerkin he wore had been buffed to a deep rosy glow, and his chain mail shone. Only Legolas sported more intricate braids than the dwarf, and there was a moment of madness when Sam wondered if they helped each out in this respect. But then he heard a familiar voice and bent his ear to listen at the door. It was Gandalf.

He's light, there's no weight to him at all! I can carry him on my back and it's like the birthday parties of old, when Mr. Frodo entertained the good folks as Mr. Bilbo had done before him.

I gave piggyback rides to every last child in Hobbiton, it seemed; why, they must have come streaming in from Michel Delving and Bree, there were so many of 'em. All light as feathers, all clamouring for another go. See, I could do that. It was natural to me. Mr. Frodo was like as not discoursing about important things with important people, but always he would find time to stand and watch me, laughing fit to burst he was.

I wanted him to see me in a different way. Not as his gardener, not as a pony for rambunctious children, not as a servant… but always there was Master Merry, visiting from Brandy Hall. Friendly and jovial and never once did he lord it over me. But I knew he had lain with Mr. Frodo. And it hurt.

And now Mr. Frodo lies upon my back but he is as a dead thing and this is not an encounter by soft firelight, of two lovers laughing and at ease, but the last gasp of two hobbits at the end of the road… and I will do this, because if I do not, who will? To whatever end.

"Sam, are you sure you should be out of bed?" Strider, no, not Strider – Aragorn – laid his hand upon the hobbit's shoulder and squeezed, gently. Gone were the worn clothes, much mended and soiled and lived-in, and in their stead, a fine tunic of some rich stuff Sam could not have named but which seemed the very least a King should wear. King!

"The Ring is mine," he says. The ring is his and he is like a king of old, not a hobbit, a king. Or is he the Ring's? All I know is that the Frodo standing on the edge of the chasm is not my Mr. Frodo. Bathed in firelight he is, as bathed in firelight he was once before… but this is not the timid flame of a friendly hearth, this is the roaring red belch of a river of fire. He prevailed so long, my master. He was so brave, so strong. So, he wants to keep the Ring? Let him keep it! If the world must endure with my master alive and changed, then let it endure! Rather that than a world without him.

As long as I am with him. Don't leave me here, Frodo. Take me with you…

Masters Merry and Pippin had been allowed into the sickroom. He could hear the young Took's excited babble and the mellower sounds of Master Merry. And then Gimli and Legolas were going in and Sam's breathing was getting shallower. He suddenly felt weak. Perhaps he should, after all, be back in his own bed, resting. Yes, he should go back to bed. He could see Mr. Frodo tomorrow.

Aragorn joined the others in the chamber, but not before squeezing Sam's shoulder one more time. As he moved inside, he caught the hobbit's eye and his smile was neither kingly nor grand; it was that of one friend to another.

Gollum is gone. My master is gone, too… no! He's there, clinging onto the rock with one hand, the other ravaged and bleeding. Down below in the fires of Mount Doom, the thing which had been a hobbit once has disappeared in a belch of red hot lava. I care not for the Ring or its fate. My master is my only concern.

A look passes over his face. He's resigned to going. He's at the end of his road.

Well, that's not good enough. I'm not ready to give up on him, not by a long chalk!

"Reach!"

"Sam."

"Sam."

Voices. Good voices. Calling to him. And so he went in.

The chamber, cheered by the sunshine of a fine spring day, now held all of the Fellowship which had started out from Rivendell so long ago. Another lifetime ago: a lifetime of a hobbit, of course, for to Legolas it was a very short adventure, indeed.

All save Boromir; in the gathering there was an unspoken but tangible acknowledgement of one sorely missed.

But for Sam, there was completeness. In the bed, tucked beneath snowy linens, Mr. Frodo lay. Upon the bed, his cousins gambolled, and around him stood his friends.

Frodo's hand, bandaged where the finger had been lost so violently, lay upon the coverlet and Sam found his gaze drawn to it, but only for the briefest time. Master Merry, eyes shining brightly, looked from one to the other, from master to servant. And to anyone perceptive enough to see, a light dimmed and then went out.

"Sam," Frodo said, though he did not speak. Sam, for his part, saw only the young master he had known and loved for years without number. His hair was clean and glossy once more, though in truth it had never seemed less than acceptable to Sam; Frodo's cheeks, whilst pale, were living flesh again, rather than the waxy impostors of just a few days ago. And his eyes…

"I am glad you are here with me. Here at the end of all things, Sam." Mr. Frodo says, and I pull him close. Truly, we are at the end of our road, the last few lines of our story. Others will carry it on, but it will be theirs, not ours. Perhaps the world will never know what Mr. Frodo did, how he destroyed the Ring and saved them all. But I know.

He's trembling; his poor hand must ache and pain him so, yet he does not grumble. Around us, the mountain is dying. Tiny little specks are we, marooned here on our little island of rock. Yet I would not change places with anyone.

The hand that is whole steals inside my shirt, as if to lay itself against my heart. I hold him close and look out upon a world changed forever. Changed for the better, because of my master.

Ash is falling around us. I think, just maybe, that if I kissed him, he would kiss me back, would not be outraged at such a thing… but I will not. It’s enough. We are together. Here at the end of all things.

"Sam," Frodo said, and this time he voiced the word and Sam came to him and laid his hand upon his master's, careful lest he pain him.

When finally, some moments later, he tore his eyes from Frodo's and looked about him, they were quite alone.

The voice in the night, silken and gentle… promises made and visions conjured of what would be, of a lofty throne and bowed heads… Merry by his side, dressed in a mantle of rich purple… Sam at his feet, bearing in his arms sheaves of flowers of myriad colours… of books by the cartload, miles and miles of books… so many books… books burning, pages catching afire and smouldering and bursting into flames and all a conflagration, all the books burning! Merry engulfed in flame, his eyes reproachful… Sam, his offering of flowers now curling black and dead-

Frodo sat up in bed, his eyes wide, heart pounding. Gradually, his breathing steadied.

Always the same. Well, varying in subtle degrees, but the same in essence. Promises. Frodo shivered, self-loathing his cloak.

"Frodo." Sam reached for him. "What is it? That dream again? Come here, my love," he said, and pulled Frodo down under the covers, into his arms.

For three days, Sam had shared Frodo's bed, leaving his own when the coast was clear and the healers looking the other way. Frodo wondered if Gandalf might have had something to do with that but however it was achieved, he welcomed it. That moment when Sam slipped between the sheets and held him was all that made the days bearable. They slept together then, Frodo spooned against Sam's back, his arm tight around Sam's waist, and one leg raised over Sam's hip. Once Sam was there, in position, Frodo could go to sleep, his lips gently nuzzling Sam's neck.

Sam slept not at all. He lay in the darkness, thankful that his hardness was not jabbing into Mr. Frodo's back. He felt his master's hands on him, his breath on him, his soft hair, and he lay there and thanked whatever stars were propitious that he had his Mr. Frodo and that he could do this for him.

With the dawn, Sam had to gently disentangle Mr. Frodo's arms and carefully cover him up, leaving him sleeping like a baby, and tiptoe back to his own cold bed.

The dreams troubled him. He was unsure how he could help Frodo, if anyone could.

This one, though, this night, seemed to have been a particularly vivid one. He turned so he was facing Frodo and kissed the top of his head, softly. Frodo murmured in response. Sam ventured a kiss to Frodo's forehead and then down a little further, to the tip of his nose. He tasted tears and sighed deeply. This would not do.

"What can I do, my love?" he asked. "Tell your Sam what to do."

"Make it go away, Sam," Frodo replied, and his voice was hoarse. "Make it go away."

"How?" Sam took hold of Frodo's head and lifted it until he was looking right into those eyes, dark in the moonlight. "Tell me what you want."

"I want everything."

Frodo suddenly seemed to go quite limp, as if the asking had been too much for him. His hand, which had been convulsively working the bed sheets, stilled.

"Then everything, you shall have, my dear." Sam bent his head and kissed Frodo for the first time fully on the mouth; despite the valiant efforts of the healers, they both had ravaged lips, chafed and dry, but it mattered not at all. Hesitantly at first, then with more courage and with growing pleasure, Sam made love to Frodo's mouth, pouring all his love into this meeting of flesh, of tongue and tongue. He felt Frodo twitch beneath him but his hands remained still.

Sam released Frodo's mouth and looked down upon his love. "You're so beautiful, Frodo," he whispered, kissing his forehead almost reverently. "I could spend the rest of my days just looking at you. But that won't do, will it? It's not enough."

Frodo lay unresponsive. His eyes were huge, his mouth open a little, as he allowed Sam to pull off his nightshirt. He heard Sam gasp, then felt Sam's hot breath on his chest as his nipples were suckled, lightly. "Oh, my love…" he heard, but it was as if this was being done to someone else, not him, as if the sensations of Sam's mouth on his skin were second-hand.

"Sam, " Frodo said, and finally he raised his hands from the coverlet and took Sam's head between them. "Please…"

Sam would have liked to have spent more time caressing Frodo, exploring his body. Oh, that he could make Mr. Frodo laugh, the way he had laughed with his cousin, Merry. But that was a lifetime ago, when Sam was a shy lad and Frodo was the carefree master of Bag End.

They were casualties of war now. And in times of war… Sam worked his way down Frodo's body, parting those slender thighs and then he took Frodo in his mouth. Frodo's cock, like all of him, was exquisite, though not quite hard. Sam had never done this before, with anyone. Yet it felt natural and right to be doing it now with Frodo. He licked the length of it, marvelling at its silkiness, then engulfed it completely. He felt Frodo coming to life beneath him, his hips raising from the bed, his bandaged hand resting lightly on Sam's head.

Hard himself, painfully so, Sam nevertheless concentrated fully on Frodo's pleasure, on making him pant harder and mewl louder. But there was more he could do. Withdrawing his mouth from Frodo's hardness, Sam went back to kissing his mouth, delicate little nipping kisses which drove Frodo wild. Now he was alive, now Frodo was with him.

Frodo was arching off the bed, desperate for contact, and Sam used one hand to steady him; his other he offered to Frodo, who, uncomprehending at first, eagerly obeyed. Sam slipped his fingers into Frodo's mouth, one at a time.

When the first finger entered him, Frodo felt such relief he could have cried tears of joy. He desired no gentle breaking-in, that had been accomplished with Merry some years before. His sweet cousin had been a perfect mate, so lively and full of fun. He loved him dearly. But what he felt for Sam was entirely different. No one could help him now but Sam. Only he had seen him at his worst, only Sam had been there when every good thing Frodo held dear had been sucked out of him and flung into the abyss… only Sam could bring him back from the edge.

"Now, now," he moaned, grasping Sam's arms.

"But we need something to help, even I know that-" Sam said, helplessly. He wouldn't hurt his Frodo. He couldn't.

"Sam, do it. Do it, my love, for me," Frodo said, sweetly. He writhed on the bed and for a bare second Sam thought the Frodo at the edge of the chasm had returned, but then that Frodo was gone and his Frodo was back and he was desperate, so desperate.

Oh, but it was tight. His fingers had relaxed Frodo somewhat, but not enough, and now Sam was pushing into Frodo's body and it felt miraculous but he didn't want to hurt Frodo, but it was so good. Frodo's hands pulled at Sam's hips, his feet were now resting almost on Sam's shoulders and still Sam pushed. And then he was in deep and he stopped, his breath held fast.

"Breathe, Sam!" Frodo urged, and Sam did, releasing his breath and almost bursting into laughter as the tension was relieved. Frodo was smiling in the moonlight, his face tense with pain, but smiling through it.

Sam pulled out a little, adjusting the weight on his arms, then he found his rhythm and began to pump. Beneath him, his eyes glassy with want, Frodo jerked and cried out, spilling himself wet and warm on his belly.

So this was making love, Sam thought, as his hips took control of things, freeing his mind. And to Mr. Frodo. Who would have thought it, just a year ago?

It couldn't last, not with such an outpouring of emotion and all of it so new and wonderful… Sam fell upon Frodo, his face buried in Frodo's chest and then, as he pulled out of Frodo's body, he began to weep.

"Do you- do you love me at all, Frodo?" he said.

"Do you doubt it?" Frodo replied, and now it was his turn to cradle and rock.

"But why? You have Master Merry…" Sam could have bitten his tongue. He felt Frodo stiffen next to him, heard a tiny hitch in his breathing, just the same as he heard when Master Merry talked of Frodo. Trust him to spoil everything!

"I love Merry, yes. He is my cousin and we have been very close. But," and now Frodo was kissing Sam on his head and nose and ears and eyes, "I am in love with you, Sam."

"We've been through so much together, that's true, " Sam said, striving to be practical, to keep his feet on the ground lest they be swept from under him and it all be some misunderstanding. Beside him, Frodo uttered an exasperated sigh.

"I think I loved you back at Bag End, though I didn't realise it. And then when we were on the road and were separated from our companions, Sam, I found myself turning to you more and more. But always there was that wretched Ring, pulling at me, taunting me… promising me things." Frodo finished, quietly. He lay back on the bed.

"Oh, Frodo. I believe you. I won't embarrass myself by telling you exactly when I knew I loved you, for it's many years ago. I've wanted you for all my grown life!"

"How stupid of me not to realise, Sam," Frodo said. He ran a finger up and down Sam's arm. Then he pulled him down to lie with him. They drew the covers over them and snuggled down into the warmth of the bed. In a few hours, Sam would have to leave to return to his own room.

"I think that in the morning, I shall ask for hot water. I would so love a nice bath, Sam," Frodo said, turning in Sam's arms.