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Autumn had always meant a number of things to Frodo. The sound of colorful leaves crunching underfoot was one of his earliest memories of the outside world, and the progressive chill in the air eased comfortably away from the warmth of summer.
It always reminded him very much of his parents, and Brandy Hall filled with his family, bustling about from the kitchens and making quilts for the winter and the large smial filled with cozy chatter. The youngsters would band together in groups to go muck about in the woods or rake up leaves into large piles, and jump into them and scatter them all over again; then in the evening after a day of romping and fun activity, everyone would file in again for warm mugs of cider as they cozied up next to the fire. Then it would begin again the next day, right on until winter, when snow meant snowball fights instead of gathering and then scattering leaves.
Short of the outdoors, usually by himself as opposed to others (Frodo was in an awkward position among his cousins, usually too young to play with his elders, and too old to play with the little ones that had come a time after him), Frodo loved being in the kitchen with his father, or comfortably near his mother, helping her with her sewing.
Apples had always been an ingredient favored by his father for baking, and he made the most wonderful pastries and desserts with them. Roasted apples with butter and cinnamon were still a favorite treat of Frodo's, and one of his favorite smells remained that of an apple pie fresh out of the oven.
Autumn also reminded Frodo of change, and that things that come anew must also eventually go away, and for a long lonely time.
He remembered Bilbo, and all the times he'd visited Brandy Hall and they'd been able to celebrate their birthday together, and how Frodo had moved in with him at the beginning of his twenty-second September, so they could finally share their birthday in Bag End, as... as a family more whole.
The garden was smaller than Brandy Hall's, but somehow more remarkable in detail for it, and to Frodo it seemed to get bigger and more vibrant every spring.
There were only so many departures in autumn and returns in spring, before Bilbo went away for good, never to return.
Frodo had learned long before, as the changing of the seasons heralds, nothing lasts forever. He knew Bilbo would go away, eventually. It didn't make him any less sad.
He'd baked a pie for Bilbo to take with him when he left; an apple pie, with a generous amount of cinnamon. He hoped the old hobbit found some pleasure in remembering the home he was leaving when he ate it.
Sam had helped Frodo bake it. Frodo had promised Bilbo not to tell anyone he was leaving or why, and Frodo kept his word. But it was the 21st when the pie was made, and Sam – who had grown tall and golden in the many changes of the years – knew that only one pie, made by the hands of two hobbits most dear to Bilbo, was for something special.
Sam came up to Bag End late on the 22nd after the majority of the night's cleaning on the Party Field had been completed. He came held carefully in both hands, and though half of Frodo felt he preferred to be left alone, he welcomed Sam into the smial all the same, secretly glad to have a familiar face and voice near at hand, even if they spoke little.
Sam surprised him by with his insistence Frodo ought to open the parcel – Frodo attempted to explain it was still his birthday, and he ought to be the one giving gifts. Then Sam said in kind the parcel was partly given by someone whose birthday it was as well.
Frodo had stared, and tore into the package with careful speed.
He cried when the brown paper revealed an apple pie.
“Bilbo came back from the market that afternoon while you had gone out, saw me doin' the dishes an' asked what you'd had me up to. I couldn't lie to him, still Master an' all, an' I told the truth, that it were part of a present of yours for the morrow.
“Seemed he put two an' two together right quick, an' asked me sort of tired-like, but heartfelt an' a little sad, if I could spare a bit more time to help him bake one for you. He always knowed apple pie was your favorite, an' didn't want you to think he'd gone forgettin' sommat like that.
“I said yes. That's why we was both away 'til evenin'; we cooked it at Number 3 to keep it a surprise.”
“Dearest and silliest of hobbits,” said Frodo, wiping away his tears, “I knew he couldn't forget.” he looked up at Sam, his smile watery but genuine – and he hugged him. “Thank you, Samwise. This- this means a lot to me.”
Sam, surprised, gently hugged him back. “I know,” he said tentatively, “an' Mr. Bilbo knows it, too.”
Frodo asked Sam if he wouldn't share the pie with him over the next few days, fearing he wouldn't be able to finish it alone out of sentimentality. Sam agreed, and from that point forward apple pies held a deeper taste on Frodo's tongue and in his heart.
They were always buttery, sweet and delicious, and yet something about them stuck in the throat with emotion more easily as time went on. It tasted of loss and memories of those that were no longer there, and never would be again.
Frodo taught Sam his father's old recipe by heart to try to heal the aches on his own. Many times in many autumns they would work together in Bag End's kitchen, spending their hours companionably, preparing the apples and brushing and pressing against each other as the dough was prepared and kneaded.
Several years into this tradition, Sam cut his finger while slicing an apple, and Frodo rushed to act as a ministering healer, cleaning the cut (which thankfully was not deep), smearing a sharp-smelling cream on it and binding it tightly. They'd each had a few sips of harder cider that afternoon – only enough to mitigate some long-held inhibitions – and Frodo placed a kiss on the bindings of Sam's finger, as to make it better. Sam blushed furiously, but thanked him all the same.
From then on they touched more, not just while baking, but most all times when they were alone.
They first kissed on Sam's thirty-third birthday, and slipped into Bag End's master bedroom together, the night of Frodo's forty-sixth. Falling asleep in Sam's arms, he realized that while many things went away or ended in autumn, other new things could begin.
Sam stayed with him even on his fiftieth birthday and into the day and arduous Quest after.
Sam remained on his fifty-first, and even his fifty-second, and together they made a pie so warm and filled with love, Frodo decided (and for many other reasons, besides the pie) to stay with Sam for all the rest of his birthdays.
Bag End always smelled like baking apples in autumn.