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They slept under blankets of lambswool and cotton, two bodies warm and pressed together under a din of cicadas. The windows had been sealed up, Sam had made certain of that a month prior. There was nothing he detested more than when chilly air leaked through the cracks of Bag End’s windowpanes. Nothing a good bit of homemade caulking couldn’t fix, but it was always a pain to deal with in the interim.
Sam was having trouble falling asleep, though that wasn’t anything unusual. He didn’t mind it any, preferring to keep his breath steady and hold Frodo close to his chest, his ears tuning out the choir of night to hone in on the noises his partner made as he slept.
Frodo had always been a vocal sleeper. He dreamed loudly, from contented snuffles to frantic whimpers that made Sam’s ribs cave in for how frightened they would make him, because sometimes those helpless little noises would turn into screams.
It wasn’t his fault, not at all, but Frodo had a lot of nightmares. They both did.
But there were none of those warning sounds now, just the sniffs and soft grunts. Frodo had his arms laced about Sam’s midriff, his fingers twisting into Sam’s nightshirt and holding fast.
Their legs were tangled together like twine, limbs stacked on top of one another and topped off with Frodo’s leg draped atop Sam’s thigh. It was their usual sleeping position.
Sam held Frodo tighter and felt the way that their chests settled together like the key to a lock. He ducked his head and buried the flat bit of his nose into Frodo’s swirly bed of inkblot hair that smelled of cloves and spicy chai. He kissed his scalp and sighed with a low, breathy rumble.
“…’am?” Frodo croaked. His grip on Sam’s night shirt somehow got tighter, but he was still just as pliant and sleep warm. “You’re up?”
“Shush, love.” Sam lifted a hand from his partner’s back to smooth down his hair. Curly locks sprang back up as soon as they were pressed down. He made a mental note to offer to give him a trim tomorrow. “Back to sleep. It’s still late.”
Frodo shifted in Sam’s arms, cuddling closer with a tiny whine. “Bad dream?” His voice slurred. “We need to…” He drifted off.
“Need to what, love?” Sam couldn’t help but ask, even if it was at the risk of tugging his partner back to the land of wake, but sometimes curiosity got the better of him.
“Tomatoes,” Frodo mumbled.
“Oh?”
“Mm, ‘nd the parsley.” Frodo’s head bobbed in a slow nod, his face settling itself not quite at the crook of Sam’s shoulder. His lips, chapped and dry, pursed against Sam’s skin in something like a kiss. “Ripe today.”
Sam bit down a chuckle. He kept a steady rhythm of stroking his partner’s hair, bending just slightly to press a chaste peck to the tip of a pointed ear. “You’ve been getting so good at knowing when it’s harvest time, sweets.”
“Mhm.” Frodo nuzzled Sam’s shoulder. “Tomatoes,” he said again, then giggled at a joke only he understood.
“Easy, love. Don’t wake up, alright?” Sam made his voice go lower and softer, a deep baritone that made his throat buzz. “I’ll get those tomatoes when it’s light, and you’ll wake up to some diced in a spongy quiche with chive trimmings and buckwheat crust.” His mouth watered at his own musings. “Dream of that, sweets. I’ll get a loaf of walnut and honey bread on the sill to rise, too. Would you like that?” He hoped so. Sometimes it was difficult to get Frodo to eat beyond the minimum. He tried, though, and it was nice to see his efforts in nourishment rewarded through a partner who was, years after everything, finally letting himself turn from gaunt to a healthy hobbit plump.
Frodo didn’t reply right then, but that was a good thing. His breathing was deeper and sleepier, his lips parted. After a moment of silence, he murmured a tiny, “will you go to sleep, Sam?”
“Yes,” Sam lied, “as long as you get some more yourself.”
“Tired.”
“I know, love. Back to sleep with you.” Sam brushed away a few bits of Frodo’s hair and kissed his temple. He let his mouth linger there. “I got you.”
Frodo relaxed and said something, but it was so garbled and tired that the words were lost in time. He didn’t say anything more, gone back to the comforts of deep slumber.
Sam kissed him again and held him close. He let himself get lulled into something like peace with the sounds all about him, from the orchestra of insects outside to the growl of their home’s foundations settling to the rush of an icy wind from which they were protected.
With his own farmer’s intuition, Sam knew that it wouldn’t be long before dawn came and let its pink light bleed into their windows and rouse them to life.
But in the meantime, there was this, and it was good.