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Published:
2018-02-07
Completed:
2020-06-08
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4,000
Chapters:
4/4
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268
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i read you for some kind of poem

Summary:

Sam finishes the poem as Frodo watches the space beyond him. He doesn’t want to stare at Sam, or he’ll really cry. He breathes in and out and does arithmetic in his head.

‘That was beautiful, Sam,’ he says, when Sam has finished.

Sam stands on the rug, blushing and nodding and uncertain. He fumbles with the pages.

‘Perhaps something else?’ Sam says.

‘Perhaps a love story,’ Frodo says, and wind rattles the chimney.

Notes:

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

The evening light turns blue in Bag End. Frodo slices mushrooms. His knife slips easily through them and leaves slight cuts on the criss crossed surface of the wooden cutting board. He turns the board and cuts them the other way.

‘Like that?’ he asks Sam.

Sam turns to him. He is tied into his apron. He pushes back at his dark brown hair, surveys Frodo’s work.

‘Just like that,’ he says. Sam stirs the onions and butter in the bottom of the pot; the onions are turning translucent. Sam adds salt, shallots, and parsley. ‘Now the mushrooms,’ Sam says.

Frodo lifts the cutting board and tips the mushrooms into the pot. Sam nods and drops the minced garlic in with them. He cooks them, stirring carefully. The yellow mushrooms wilt slowly. They gleam golden.

Frodo leans against the counter, arms folded. September is slipping away, and last night they had frost.

Sam watches the pot, and Frodo watches Sam. The minutes tick by slowly, counted by the mantle clock. Five minutes and Sam adds flour to the pot. He cooks it down and then pours in the stock.

‘It’s coming along now,’ Sam says. ‘Now we leave it to simmer.’

‘All right then,’ Frodo says. He sticks his hands deep in his trouser pockets.

‘It’s simple,’ Sam says. ‘It’s good.’

Frodo nods. He sits on the sofa and stares at the empty hearth. Sam waits by the hearth and keeps an eye on the pot in the kitchen. He goes back to stir it again.

‘Do you want to read?’ Frodo says.

Sam comes fully into the room and looks at the books lined up on the bookcase. He pulls out a small leather book, brown with small gold lettering.

‘I’ll read something to you?’

‘Please.’

Sam opens the book. He stands awkwardly, legs placed apart, book open with one hand. He runs his other hand through his tight, messy curls. The candle light shines off his brown skin and illuminates his dark brown eyes. He reads a poem, turns the thin pages with strong, calloused fingers. He looks so happy.

Frodo chokes on a sob.

Sam stops, startled. ‘Mr. Frodo?’

Frodo waves a hand. ‘I’m fine. Some dust.’ He wipes away the tears in his eyes. ‘It’s just dust.’

Sam watches him. ‘All right then, Mr. Frodo.’

Sam finishes the poem as Frodo watches the space beyond him. He doesn’t want to stare at Sam, or he’ll really cry. He breathes in and out and does arithmetic in his head.

‘That was beautiful, Sam,’ he says, when Sam has finished.

Sam stands on the rug, blushing and nodding and uncertain. He fumbles with the pages.

‘Perhaps something else?’ Sam says.

‘Perhaps a love story,’ Frodo says, and wind rattles the chimney.

Sam nods. ‘I’ll just stir the soup.’ He sets the book down and bobs into the kitchen.

Frodo leans forward on the sofa and watches Sam stir the soup. Sam holds the spoon gently and lifts it to his lips to taste. He adds a pinch more salt.

Frodo follows him into the kitchen.

‘What do you want, Sam?’

Sam drops the spoon. ‘What do I want?’

‘I don’t know, Sam. I don’t know what I meant by it.’

Frodo touches Sam’s arm. It’s strong. The linen slips beneath his fingers.

Sam stares up at him, eyes wide and asking. He blinks rapidly, fumbles for words.

‘The soup needs a few more minutes,’ Sam says.

Frodo’s lips brush Sam’s cheek. He smells sweet like grass.

‘You’re a good cook, you know,’ Frodo says.

‘Yes, Mr. Frodo.’ Sam stares, breathless.

The clock ticks, and the soup bubbles, and the wind whispers at the window. The last light is leaving the sky, and the windows are becoming mirrors, showing Frodo’s parted lips and Sam’s trembling hand cast in the golden light of the kitchen.

‘Well then,’ Sam says finally. He lifts the spoon and stirs the soup. ‘It’s getting late.’ And he shuts the curtains.

Frodo covers Sam’s hand with his. Sam closes his eyes. They stand in the heaviness of the room, only inches apart.

‘Do you know I meant it?’ Frodo says.

Sam nods. He doesn’t open his eyes.

‘Frodo,’ he says, and his voice is thick.

Frodo’s lips brush Sam’s lips. Sam sets the spoon on the saucer and holds Frodo’s arm. They’re alone, but the lights are bright, and the curtains are thin.

Sam looks at the window. Frodo looks too.

‘Sometimes I’d give anything to be invisible,’ he says.

Sam touches his cheek.

‘Love isn’t a bad thing,’ Sam says.

‘Then why does it hurt so much?’

Frodo cries, and he shakes crying.

Sam holds him, and the soup boils, and the curtains are so thin.

 

 

 

October comes in the morning, muted and grey. Frodo wakes first, and Sam is still beside him. Frodo touches his hair.

‘I love you,’ he whispers, and the sound of it fills the room. It’s beautiful.

Sam’s beautiful.

Sam with his soft, thick lips and his dark, deep set eyes. He has a soft chin and warm, strong arms. He smiles when he sleeps, and his lashes flutter.

Frodo kisses Sam’s forehead and his temple. He kisses his mouth and his fingers, one after the other.

Sam wakes. He gazes at Frodo.

Sam is so warm in the coolness of the blue morning that Frodo cries again.

‘Don’t cry, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam whispers low. ‘There’s nothing to cry about. I’m here now.’

Frodo cries still, and the room melts around him; it’s shaky and glinting.

‘I’m happy,’ Frodo says. ‘But we can never be happy. People like us: we’re not allowed to be happy.’

Sam holds Frodo against his chest. He touches his hair.

‘That’s not true,’ Sam says. ‘That’s not true now.’

‘But it is true,’ Frodo says. ‘And no matter how much I love you, I can never love you enough to make it untrue.’

Sam licks his lips. He cannot answer.

It starts to rain.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

The winter is thick and endlessly cold. It’s January and Frodo sits inside reading. Sam and Merry lie on the rug in front of the hearth playing checkers. A fire roars in the hearth. Outside it snows gently.

The checkers clack across the wooden board, and Merry laughs as he steals three pieces.

‘Assured victory!’ Merry calls, holding them up in triumph.

‘We’ll see,’ Sam says.

Merry laughs again, head titled to one side. The firelight flashes over his face and through his hair, lighting him red.

Frodo stretches his legs out and rests them on the small of Merry’s back, crossed at the ankles.

‘Ah! You horrible cousin!’ Merry exclaims. He pushes at Frodo’s legs.

‘I may be,’ Frodo says, ‘but you still love me.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ Merry says, and he laughs.

Sam laughs too and captures one of Merry’s pieces. He places it on the rug beside the board.

‘You distracted me,’ Merry says to Frodo.

‘I can’t help that you’re bad,’ Frodo answers.

The snow is piled high outside the door of Bag End. It fills the gardens and softens the hills. It forces the moonlight brighter. It hides the shape of everything and makes the world a promise. Snow is stuck to the windows – grey and white against the dark blue of the night.

‘When’s your dad expecting you back?’ Merry asks Sam.

Merry’s pack is flung in the corner of the room. He’s staying at least the week, maybe longer. He has a room ready for him.

‘Ah, he’s not,’ Sam says. ‘They don’t wait up for me.’

‘Oh you are so grown up,’ Merry says.

‘And you’re a baby,’ Frodo teases Merry. ‘And a damn good footrest.’ He wiggles his toes.

‘Will you stop!’ Merry rolls onto his side. He shoves at Frodo, getting his feet off him, and then grins at Sam again. ‘Does your dad know he’s corrupting you?’

‘Ah...’ Sam says.

‘I’ll corrupt all of you,’ Frodo says. ‘Elves and dragons and golden hoards!’

‘No!’ Merry cries. ‘Anything but golden hoards!’ He drags Frodo off his chair and wrestles him on the floor. They punch at each other lightly, and Frodo kicks the game board. The pieces shift and fall out of place.

‘Sorry!’ Frodo says.

‘It’s fine.’ Merry laughs. ‘We’ll just say I won.’ He gathers the pieces together and dumps them in the drawer beneath the board.

‘We’ll say you were going to lose,’ Frodo says. ‘And terribly so!’

‘Oh you’d like that.’ Merry stands and brushes off his trousers. He goes to the wash room. ‘I’ll be back!’ he calls over his shoulder.

‘Thanks for the warning,’ Frodo says.

‘He’s a lot,’ Sam says when Merry’s closed the door.

‘Mm,’ Frodo agrees. ‘He’s a lot like me, but I think I was worse. I don’t know how Bilbo put up with me.’

‘I’m sure you weren’t.’ Sam looks down at the empty board game. He traces his finger over the wood. ‘Does he know?’ He spreads his hand out across the board. ‘Does he know about us?’

‘No,’ Frodo says softly. ‘He’s my dearest friend, and I can’t bring myself to tell him.’

‘So no one knows.’

‘No one knows.’

The quiet is stronger now. Frodo doesn’t get up. He stays on the floor near his chair, running his thumb over the edge of his book. The page ends are staggered, and his thumb slips and catches on them.

Sam doesn’t move either. He keeps his head bent, his fingers curled around the edge of the board as if he’s about to lift it.

‘Will you ever tell him?’ Sam says finally.

Frodo can hear Merry washing his hands. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’d understand. He’s my favourite cousin.’

Sam nods. ‘I should get home.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Frodo says quickly. ‘It’s really fine. You can stay and we’ll just talk, and you can play another game, and then I’ll play the winner, and...’

Sam stands. ‘Good night, Mr. Frodo.’

 

 

 

In the morning, Frodo makes pancakes and serves them with jam and syrup. Merry catches him up on family gossip over breakfast. He dumps globs of jam over his pancakes and smears them down with his fork.

Frodo listens, nodding along. The sun is bright white through the mist of the morning. It rises slowly over the sloping hills, through the narrow, naked trees.

‘Is there anything new with you?’ Merry asks.

‘I think I’ve fallen in love,’ Frodo murmurs, not looking away from the window.

‘Oh? Do tell.’

Frodo shakes his head. ‘No, it’s silly.’

‘Love’s always silly. Especially with you.’ Merry smiles. ‘Is it with a poem again? Or a particular patch of sunlight where you feel more alive than you’ve ever felt before?’ Merry clasps his hands over his heart. ‘The beauty of it all! The beauty!’

Frodo shakes his head. ‘A poem,’ he says. ‘The most beautiful poem ever written.’

‘Of course. It’s always a poem with you,’ Merry teases. ‘When are you going to fall in love for real? You’ll be taken then. You’ll be utterly destroyed, my dear romantic cousin.’

‘I don’t know,’ Frodo says. ‘I think I already am.’

‘With a poem?’

Frodo finally looks at Merry. Merry’s smiling, lips stained purple from the jam. His hair is a mess, since he never bothers to brush it in the morning. He’s wearing pyjamas, and the shirt’s cross buttoned and half undone. He slouches in his chair, feet up under the table on another chair. He’s perfectly content and satisfied, so alarmingly young.

Frodo dabs at the corner of Merry’s mouth with a napkin. He wonders if Merry’s ever truly been scared. He looks like he could live and die happy.

Frodo feels like a coward, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

‘Yes, with a poem,’ Frodo says. ‘With the only poem I’ll ever need.’

‘Of course. That’s just like you.’ Merry laughs. He pats Frodo’s hand. ‘Oh, Frodo, what are we going to do with you?’

Chapter 3

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

April comes with soft showers that turn the whole land green. April mornings are grey with fog that rolls away beneath the sun.

Frodo makes Sam a cake for his thirty-sixth birthday. He mixes raspberry jelly into the icing to make it pink. He carries it down to Sam’s hole in a box and worries he’ll trip the whole way.

He doesn’t trip.

He doesn’t trip up at the party. Afterwards, he goes outside and watches the bees in the flowers. He waits for the evening to turn from pale blue to purple and then to sapphire. Sam comes out and stands beside him. Sam shades his eyes, even though there isn’t any sun.

‘I’m waiting for the stars,’ Frodo says. ‘When the whole band shows. It is such a clear night.’

Sam leans against the fence. Sam watches the sky, head craned back.

Sam says, ‘I’m happy.’

Frodo takes his hand in the dark. They’re in the garden.

Sam kisses him, there in the garden, while the stars appear above them and the round windows of Bagshot Row cast golden light onto the early flowers. Frodo rests his hand on Sam’s shoulder. He rests his forehead against Sam’s. Sam smiles softly at him.

‘I’m happy,’ he says again. ‘I’m happy.’

Frodo dances with him across the cool grass of the garden, even though there is no music. They dance in the shadows. Sometimes they brush against the golden light. The air is cool. They can pretend they’re dancing in the stars.

‘See?’ Sam says. ‘See, it’s like this. We can fall in love like this. No one can say it’s wrong.’

‘But what if they hate us?’ Frodo says. ‘I can stand them hating me, but I couldn’t face them hating you.’

‘If anyone hates you, I’ll punch them out,’ Sam says. ‘And then if they hate you again, I’ll punch them again, and then they’ll be so tired of being punched, they’ll have to stop hating.’

Frodo smiles. ‘That’s dear.’

‘That’s what I’m gonna do,’ Sam says. ‘And then the whole Shire’s gonna know I love you, and they won’t be able to do a thing about it.’

‘But that’s not what I’m afraid of,’ Frodo says. ‘I’m afraid of taking away your chance at happiness.’

‘I am happy.’

‘But will you be? Will you be forever? What if your dad won’t talk to you? What if everyone passes you on the street and no one says hello?’

‘I’m not scared of all that,’ Sam says. ‘Not any longer. They can know. They can stare. We’re not alone like this.’

‘Yes,’ Frodo says. ‘But it isn’t talked about.’

‘Everything starts somewhere,’ Sam says.

Frodo kisses his hand. It’s really very cold now. He stands with his arm around Sam, and the grass turns hard with frost, and the frost breaks when they step on it. The galaxy is visible, spilled out across the sky. It is a million stars. And each star is beautiful. And each star is perfect.

He says, ‘I wish people would understand that not everyone has to be alike to make a good world.’

‘But they’re scared of anything different.’

‘I wish I was brave enough to try to change that, Sam, but I don’t know if I am.’

‘But you are,’ Sam says. ‘Because you have your visitors from far away: dwarves and a wizard, and you talk to elves sometimes, and that’s not normal, and people talk, and you still do it.’

‘But it’s you, Sam,’ Frodo says. ‘But it’s you. What if they hate you? I couldn’t take it.’

‘Oh,’ Sam says. ‘Don’t worry about me. I get enough from my old gaffer already. I mean, I suppose it isn’t hate, but it isn’t accepting. Oh, I don’t mean to say anything bad about him, it’s only just...’ Sam shakes his head.

‘It’s what, Sam?’

But Sam shakes his head again. Frodo takes his hand.

‘Sam, you can tell me.’

‘I just wish he’d love me more, you know?’ Sam says. ‘Because it hurts. It does hurt.’ Frodo squeezes his hand. ‘It hurts, and I try not to let it bother me, but he’s my dad, and I wish he loved me more for me and not wanting to change me all the time. And, well, if I’ve got it from him, I can take it from anyone. I just don’t want to hide forever.’

Frodo studies Sam’s eyes. They are as bright as the stars in the dark.

‘I can’t hide forever,’ Sam says. ‘So they’re all just going to have to accept that. And if they can’t see that I love you, and that makes me happy, and that you love me, and we love each other as much as anyone else could, even if it is queer, well, I don’t even know if I’d want them to like me then. I want to be happy, Frodo, and being happy means, well, it means that I have to be free, and I know I’m not saying this right, but that’s what I mean, and that’s what I’m saying, and they can all choke on dust if they won’t accept it, and that’s what I mean.’

Frodo smiles, and he feels happy and sad at the same time.

He holds Sam’s hands and kisses him in the garden. The moon rises over the river. It is full and golden against the horizon. It is marked. They are craters, Frodo has read. So the moon, too, has hills and hollows like their own world.

Sam rests his head on Frodo’s shoulder.

‘I wonder if Eärendil has ever gone to the moon,’ he says.

‘I imagine he has,’ Frodo answers.

‘I wonder if it’s very cold,’ Sam says. ‘It looks warm right now.’

Frodo squeezes Sam’s shoulders.

‘It does,’ he says.

‘It looks warm and close. It looks like I could reach out and touch it.’

‘Why don’t you?’

Sam reaches his hand out. From where they stand, he touches the moon.

Notes:

Oh my god. I wrote this story in 2018 when I hadn't even ever kissed anyone and I'd never said I was gay out loud except to like two people. And oh my god. How two years can change everything! I've kissed girls! I've been to pride (twice!)! I've fallen in love and had my heart broken and a million other things have happened and changed that I never thought could possibly happen for me. I grew up in this hateful little small town where you couldn't breathe different and I always thought well this is what it's going to be like, but it isn't, and I think I'll write this story a bit of a happy ending because life can change so much and the world shifts and attitudes change and I cried so hard reading this and remembering what it was like for so long and I don't live in that hateful little town anymore but even there things are changing and I feel so much about this. how much can change in so little time.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

July is warm and beautiful, and the grass stays green.

Frodo eats strawberries with cream, and Merry says, ‘I knew it,’ when he tells him that he and Sam are in love. He says, ‘I knew it,’ and grins and hugs Frodo tight enough to knock the breath out of him and fast enough to knock the strawberries over.

Frodo doesn’t mind that the strawberries spill. He hugs Merry, and he cries.

‘Don’t cry, Frodo,’ Merry says. ‘Don’t cry. This is happy news.’

‘I’m crying because I am happy,’ Frodo says, and Merry rubs his back and lets him cry in the garden and doesn’t care what anyone passing might think.

‘Oh, Frodo,’ he says. ‘Dear Frodo. I’m glad. I’m so glad.’

 

 

July is when Sam moves in. They carry his things up the path in the sunlight while the birds sing in the trees. The sky is blue and set with high white clouds like sailing ships.

Hamfast carries Sam’s blankets up the hill. They are folded neatly, with his quilt on top. The quilt is green, yellow, pink, and white, and it looks like a field of flowers. Hamfast lays the blankets in the hall. He shuffles his feet and says, ‘Well, I never,’ again.

‘Thank you,’ Sam says, taking the blankets. Hamfast nods. Sam smooths the top of the quilt.

They put Sam’s things away alone, though. It’s private. Even Merry leaves for a walk down by the river.

They choose places for Sam’s mugs. For his plates. For his odds and ends spoons he’s picked out over the years from yard sales where they didn’t have a match.

They carry the blankets into their bedroom and pack away all of them but the quilt. The quilt they throw over the bed, and it settles down in the bright sunlight, looking like summer. They straighten it out together, on either side of the bed, and the quilt is pulled between them and then smoothed down gently into place.

Frodo turns the vase on the night table. He adjusts the peonies and smiles.

‘There. It’s wonderful.’

Sam sits on the bed and draws his hand over the stitching on the quilt. He smiles softly.

‘It is wonderful.’

Frodo sits beside him, and they just sit together, with the curtains and the window open, and a July breeze comes in. The leaves rustle in the wind, and for a moment, that’s the only sound they can hear.

Frodo takes a deep breath in. The air is sweet with flowers and the softness of a warm day after a rainfall. The bed is soft. The sun is warm. Sam is beside him, and they sit shoulder to shoulder, and they don’t have to talk. They can just sit and sit because they have all the time in the world, and Sam won’t have to leave now.

‘See,’ Sam says finally. The far away thud of wood chopping carries through the air. ‘This is what I wanted. This. It’s so peaceful.’

Frodo puts his arm around Sam’s waist.

‘My dear Sam,’ he says. ‘It’s perfect.’ He closes his eyes. The sun is warm on his face. He feels the peace deep inside of him. ‘You’re brave, Sam. You’re braver than I could ever be.’

‘Oh hush,’ Sam says. He kisses Frodo’s temple.

They’ll have dinner with everyone next evening. But right now, they don’t have to do anything. So they sit and watch the rolling hills before them, and the sun on the river, and the wind in the trees.

Sam hums one of his happy songs. It’s a tune he made himself, and it sounds like dancing. Sam brushes his hand over Frodo’s curls.

‘Lint in your hair,’ he says and picks it out.

Frodo buries his face against Sam’s neck. He breathes in the scent of his skin. He could stay like this forever and he would be happy. He could be anywhere with Sam and he would be happy.

He spreads his fingers over a patch on the quilt, which is green with small pink roses.

‘And we’ll have so many roses in the garden,’ he says.

‘We will,’ Sam says.

‘And more lilacs, and we’ll plant daises and dandelions all over the hill. And it will look like a dragon hoard, and everyone will remember the story of Bilbo and Smaug forever and ever.’

‘I like that,’ Sam says. ‘And I’ll make an arch over the way, and we’ll cover it in wisterias. And in the early spring, we’ll have tulips and daffodils and every colour of crocus.’

‘An army of flowers,’ Frodo says.

‘Every flower.’

‘I love that. It will be beautiful.’ Frodo nods against Sam’s shoulder and does not stir. He’s sleepy in a slow, summer way that feels like nothing bad could ever happen.

They lie down together, in the sunlight, on the quilt, and the wind sends two petals from the peonies onto the bed. Frodo rubs the silky petals between his thumb and forefinger, and the crush of it sends up a gentle scent.

‘Sam,’ he whispers. ‘I’m so happy.’ He holds Sam close, and the sun sinks lower in the sky, and still they don’t have to move.

It’s good like this, to have no urgency. To only have a long summer day that turns once again to rain in the evening. To lie on their bed while the rain starts to fall, sudden and heavy, on the leaves and carries with it a thousand new fragrances.

And the rain will go, and the sun will set, and the moon will rise, and the moon will set, and the sun will rise, and the sun will set again, and they won’t have to leave one another. And they won’t need to touch the moon or claim a dragon’s hoard.

They will cover their world with flowers and make dinner together every night. They will keep the quilt on the bed, a summer field in the winter.

They won’t have to leave.