Work Text:
“Frodo, dear boy - hold the ladder, won’t you? I’d like to rearrange our science fiction shelf.”
Frodo carefully thumbs closed the book he was inspecting, putting it back under the counter with the small batch of books arrived that morning; he shakes his head at his uncle, moving to indulge him and hold the ladder knowing that next words out of Bilbo’s mouth will be-
“Better yet, why don’t you go up? Save little old me the climb.”
Frodo rolls his eyes, hands already on either side of the ladder. “It’s literally three steps up, Bilbo,” he intones, taking said three steps up the ladder; Bilbo makes a show of holding it with one hand and moving the other around with a pointed finger.
“So high! Mine corky brittle bones can’t - oh Frodo, move Dune a little to the left - bear such strain anymore.”
“You’re not old, Bilbo,” Frodo laughs, standing a bit on his tiptoes to reach the further left end of the shelf. “You are annoying, though.”
Frodo looks down to see him hold his free hand to his forehand in dramatic anguish, gasping two times to really drive across his plight. “Such insolence! Such cheek from the boy I raised! Do I deserve this, I wonder? Do I - wait, I really like the placement of The Hitchhiker’s Guide books, well done my lad.”
“I thought the yellow spines would pop better from that angle.” Frodo steps back on the floor with a little jump, Bilbo patting his shoulder and letting his hand linger in a fond hold; he gives in to the urge to stretch his arms on either side of him and sway in place, something he would do countless times as a child, looking around the bookstore in wonder.
He used to grab his uncle’s hand and drag him near a pile of books waiting to find their cozy little nest on one of the big shelves scattered all around, Bilbo always telling him to “Follow your heart when finding a spot for a book, not the alphabet,” and Frodo would ask Bilbo to tell him all about each book as they chose places for them, dust specks dancing slowly in the ribbons of light streaming from the big windows on either side of the door.
Frodo turns away from smiling at Bilbo when a flash of blond right through those windows catches the corner of his eye, and he tenses the moment the bell chimes and Sam Gamgee steps in, blessed by a perfect ray of morning light framing him to ensure the most angelic glow possible to his entrance. Frodo looks at his hesitant smile, at the lines around his bright eyes, at the tiny composition of white flowers held gently in his hands and- realizes Bilbo felt him tense up by the way he bumps him forward with a strong pat on his shoulder, as subtle as Frodo’s own stumble on thin air. Curses.
“Good morni- oh, Frodo! Are you alright?”
Frodo looks up and nods on autopilot, gulping. This is ridiculous. This infatuation is-
“Samwise! Always a pleasure to see you bright and early, young man,” Bilbo sings, throwing Frodo a look and moving away from them, pretending to fret over some shelves nearest to him.
“Thank you Mr. Bilbo,” Sam says, keeping the elbow Frodo is currently clutching on to keep himself from further falling on his face steady. “Just wanted to wish you both a good morning and see if there was any news about the book, sir.” He nods towards Bilbo while still looking at Frodo, big eyes shiny with concern.
“Oh - sorry, Sam, I kept- thank you.” Frodo takes a step back and lets his grip on Sam go slack, clearing his throat and praying that the flames he feels on his cheeks aren’t too visible. Triple curses.
The concern in Sam’s eyes bleeds down towards a genuine smile, and he offers the bouquet to Frodo with a bashful look towards his shoes, locks of hair falling to frame his gaze. Frodo misses the way he closes his hands in two tight grips by his sides for a second, seeming to take a big breath before looking up at Frodo again. “Gardenias,” he breathes, gesturing to the flowers Frodo is cradling carefully.
“They’re really beautiful, Sam. Thank you so much, you shouldn’t have,” Frodo repeats; ever since Sam placed an order for a book a week ago, he’s been bringing a few fresh flowers for Bag End ’s counter every morning from his own shop, and they never fail to be the prettiest flowers Frodo has ever seen. He brings the gardenias close to his face to catch their scent better.
“Lovely.” It’s quiet and sure, and Sam seems to not quite believe he spoke the thought out loud, catching himself when Frodo looks up at him again. “Aren’t- aren’t they? I thought they might look good on the counter.”
Before Frodo can answer he hears a deep sigh from behind them, Bilbo appearing again at his side to inspect the flowers, saving them both from a blushy staring match.
“They will, lad, they will, just like all your gifts so far!” He nudges Frodo again, prompting him to pass the bouquet along. Bilbo takes it airily, making for the vase on the counter, Frodo and Sam following him with slow, synced steps.
“No news on The Speeches of Flowers this morning, my boy?” Bilbo throws over his shoulder, something amused in his tone that Frodo immediately abandons analyzing as a trickle of panic makes him almost trip again over his feet.
“N-no,” he starts, shrugging a little to try and be casual. “Nothing yet, Sam, I’m sorry. Aragorn has been basically contacting every person in the country with a Holman the Greenhanded book, but nothing for Speeches yet.”
Sam bites his cheek, shaking his head. “It’s alright, Frodo, nothing to be sorry for- I know it’s an old book, maybe it’s a request too bothersome.”
Frodo rests both hands on the counter, watching Bilbo add the gardenias to yesterday’s small batch of peonies; he thinks about Aragorn handing him a hardback book on top of the few other orders they commissioned him to find, a deep blue cover opaque with the passage of time background to intricate flower designs in gold and silver. Guilt bubbles up in his chest and right when he’s about to speak-
“Nonsense, Sam, there’s nothing Aragorn can’t track. He doesn’t call himself Strider for the sound of it. I’m sure it’ll turn up soon.”
Sam scuffs his shoe on the floor, dimples showing a little through his huff of a smile. Frodo nudges him fleetingly to have him look at him. “Bilbo’s right, Sam. You’ll see.”
“Thank you both- and for your patience. I better get back to the shop before Legolas-”
The three of them look towards the window when a voice travels loudly muffled from across the street; Legolas is putting his long hair up in a bun, calling with both hands cupped around his mouth, “Sam! The baby bonsai are here!” wiggling giddy in the direction of the truck parking in front of Gaffer’s.
“-Cries over the baby bonsai about to arrive. That’s my cue.” He honest-to-god giggles, and Frodo would like to look at the baby bonsai as well just to have an excuse to cry a little.
Sam nods at them both and walks backwards while still looking at Frodo, before the chiming of the door and a cheery “I’ll see you later!” take him away far too soon.
Frodo sighs deeply, resting his chin on his folded hands on the counter, trying not to look at Sam walking across the street through the windows, the heavy weight of shame in the smack-middle of his chest punishment enough.
The bubble of silence is broken after a fleeting instant. “Her heart,” Bilbo begins, miming stroking a fake beard, gaze trained narrowly on the windows to his left, “did whisper that he had done it for her.”
Apparently Frodo was wrong; there was always room for more punishment. “Really, uncle? Pride and Prejudice?”
—
Frodo gingerly tucks one of the smallest gardenias between two pages of his little notebook, pressing them close together; maybe he got that notebook with the purpose of pressing the flowers Sam brings by. Maybe he wants to keep them and put each one in each of his favorite books. Possibly maybe, though.
His shoulders slump and he sighs as he puts the notebook aside on the counter, grabbing the first sizable tome he can reach to put above it and help the pressing process. War and Peace stares judgingly at him as he looks around and then ducks under the counter to grab The Speeches of Flowers from where he'd hidden it behind a small mountain of other books waiting to be picked up by who ordered them.
He turns the thin, delicate yellow-ish pages slowly, scanning every meticulous illustration accompanying the entry for each flower in search of-
"Gardenia Jasminoides - Gardenia," he murmurs while he traces the words along with his index finger, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. "This flower discourses of purity and gentleness; it whispers, 'Thou are lovely,' as a delightful secret. In red, it adds 'and passionate', in pink, 'and beautiful', in white 'and thou bring me peace.' Well."
Frodo feels his finger twitch on the page and his whole body follows, shifting position on the stool he's perched on, almost losing his balance. He knows he's blushing and he knows he's being ridiculous. He's just- bringing flowers. Not- intending to gift them for their meaning. His heart beats a little faster anyway, the traitor. But he’s a florist, he knows everything there is to know about flora, surely…
He quickly puts the book back in its hiding place as if he's fast enough he can escape Holman the Greenhanded's silent judgment straight from the late 1800s.
"Flowers, huh?"
“What- ow! ” Frodo bangs his head against solid wood on his way up to being startled, Merry’s amused cackle ringing around the store as Frodo rubs the aching spot on his head, glaring at him. “What the hell? When did you come in?”
“Literally a minute ago, you didn’t even look up when the bell chimed. You were muttering to yourself about flowers, making cow eyes at something under the counter.”
“Cow eyes? You almost give me a concussion sneaking up on me and I have to take this slander as well? Get out.”
“Your big blues are all watery with hopeless hope,” Merry paces with his hands behind his back, a knowing, annoying glint in his eyes. Runs in the family, Frodo thinks, bracing himself for impact. “And you were talking to yourself about flowers, and what do we have here?” Merry points to the vase on the counter, early afternoon light catching prettily on the petals turned towards it. “Flowers! There’s only one person these elements point to.” He doesn’t even say the name, just cackles again when Frodo musters the most deadpan expression he can to stare him down with.
“But seriously,” Merry starts, ending the cackles on an exaggerated inhale, wiping away invisible tears from his eyes. He puts both elbows on the counter and inclines his head towards the vase. “What’s with the flowers?”
Frodo fidgets with the cover of War and Peace, straightening up on the stool. “Sam placed an order for an antique book and he’s been bringing a few flowers every morning in gratitude while he waits for it to arrive because he’s amazing, and so kind and thoughtful and so-” He’s kind of glad Merry interrupts him with a hand up; his tone was starting to go into whining territory. He’d like to keep some dignity.
“So the best person to ever walk planet Earth, we know. But-” Merry looks at him like a mother duck would look at one of her ducklings clumsily learning to swim. “Sam’s a florist. He knows about the - I'm sure innumerable - meanings of flowers. Like, please.”
“I was saying all that out loud?”
“Yes.” The mother duck look gets more pointed with fond, amused exasperation. “You were. You’ve been arse over tits for Sam ever since he showed up opening the shop two years ago, and he’s been the same exact way over you for forever. There’s approximately no freaking way the flowers don’t have any meaning.”
“The flowers have meaning, but that doesn’t mean he’s choosing them for that. He might just be picking pretty ones.”
It’s Frodo’s turn to be stared down. Merry doesn’t blink for a concernedly long burst. “Really? What do these flowers mean then? Don’t even,” he adds when Frodo opens his mouth for a retort. “I know you’ve been researching.”
“My destiny was to have the most aggravating family members ever conceptualized.”
“Oh yeah,” Merry points a thumb at himself, smirking. “You’ve been blessed with the greatest cousin anyone could wish for. So?”
“Peonies,” Frodo starts, bringing both hands up to his face to hide behind, voice muffled. “And purple peonies in particular, mean admiration and romance. White gardenias mean purity, loveliness and peace.”
He drags his hands down his face when no response blares back from Merry to find him looking upwards, mouthing a clear give me strength. He looks back down at Frodo only to raise and drop his hands by his sides.
“What a crazy, random happenstance. If only I could be as fortunate while blindly picking flowers for my crush of two years.”
“They’re for the store!”
“If Bilbo wasn’t taking his afternoon nap he’d add a classic, poignant quote right now.”
“Small mercies,” Frodo mumbles, going back to slumping on the counter.
“If you put two and two together,” Merry rumbles, deepening his voice in an imitation of Bilbo’s. “You’ll see what our friendship is for. If you can’t work out this equation, then I guess I’ll have to show you the door.”
Frodo looks at him, pained. “The Spice Girls?”
“Classic,” Merry sings.
—
Mer-ry-iadoc (10.32)
What was today’s flower???
Frodo (10.40)
……
Frodo (10.41)
A camellia. Pink.
Mer-ry-iadoc (10.42)
Oh oh ooooh
Mer-ry-iadoc (10.44)
“Pink camellias symbolize longing for someone; they might be a delicate sign of affection for someone you love, or could be given to someone you miss.”
Frodo (10.50)
………………
Frodo (10.50)
Put down Google and go bother Pippin.
Mer-ry-iadoc (10.51)
(◔◡◔✿)
—
Frodo hides his nose in his scarf against the slight autumn chill, squinting his eyes at the sun. He leaves behind the morning queue starting to form outside the coffee shop, having gotten there just in time to avoid the morning rush. He and Bilbo had opened Bag End a little earlier than usual and it took no time for his uncle to pat his belly, look at him mischievously and ask, “Say, dearest nephew, how about morning bagels?”
So Frodo had gotten bagels, held securely in a little bag with a cartoonish waffle declaring “waffle-a-morning!” on the side. The problem was that he’d been hit by the smell of cinnamon while he surveyed the pastries, and all he could think of was, Sam loves cinnamon rolls. He hesitated for five seconds in total before he asked for a couple of rolls as well; and here he is, panicking with a matching paper bag in his other hand because he’s now standing almost in front of Gaffer’s and he actually has to give the sweets to Sam.
He brings both bags up to his chest, their warmth comforting. He’s contemplating the pavement and what he should even say before Sam steps out of his shop and does a double take in Frodo’s direction on his way to the crosswalk, an instant smile lighting up his face and raising an arm in greeting. “Frodo!”
Frodo goes autopilot mode once again and before he can register what his body is doing, he finds himself jogging the rest of the way over to Sam, pushing the scarf down his face with his chin. “Sam - good morning!”
“And to you.” Sam points at the bags in his hands, amused. “Breakfast?”
“Yes, Bilbo wanted bagels this morning.” Frodo rolls his eyes, preening a little when Sam laughs.
“An excellent choice, I must say - I was actually on my way to you.”
“And I was on my way to you as well.” Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don't blush harder, at least.
Sam smooths down his jacket, eyes crinkling with surprise. “You were?”
“They were putting out fresh cinnamon rolls and-” He holds out the bag in his left hand like a bomb about to explode, and when it swings dangerously back and forth he forces his arm to relax. “I remember you mentioned you liked cinnamon rolls last autumn, so. I got you some. For you and Legolas, I mean.” Heavens, don’t mention you remember something from a whole year ago, what is he even going to think-
“You did?” Sam picks the paper bag in both hands like it was actually made of crystal, awe in his voice. “Frodo, this is so-”
“For me as well? Thank you, Frodo!”
Legolas appears behind Sam’s shoulder carrying a big vase filled with glistening bluebells, placing it on the wooden stand outside the shop; he plucks some stems and looks pointedly at Sam, who blinks out of his stupor and grabs them as Legolas snatches the bag from him, throwing a wink at them both as he goes back inside.
“Right, I meant to bring you a few bluebells this morning. I noticed you and Mr. Bilbo like to fill the vase up before exchanging the flowers, so these should- compliment the others well. Y’know.” Sam rubs the back of his neck, and Frodo feels his stomach swoop down somewhere in the cracks of the pavement under their feet. “Bluebells for rolls?”
“Bluebells for rolls,” Frodo agrees, and he can’t help it, he hides his face behind his scarf again, looking up at Sam from beneath his lashes, knowing he can’t do anything against his blush at this point. Sam stills, hands going to clutch the hem of his jacket again.
“U-uh, well. I should-” He stutters, pointing vaguely behind him. Frodo takes a step towards him, puzzled. “Go? I-”
“Remember you promised to put daisies in my hair before Gimli comes by!” Legolas calls, peeking his head through the front door, a smirk pulling at his lips as he looks at Sam, who puts a hand on his chest as if he’s trying to calm down. Frodo touches his elbow. “You okay?”
“Yeah- yes, I just- chilly air. The breath got knocked out of me for a second there.” He takes a deep breath for emphasis, cracking a small smile. “If you’ll excuse me Frodo, I have to attend to my twenty-nine year old child.”
“I’m one year older than you!”
“And yet I’m the parent figure!” Sam yells back at Legolas, shaking his head with his eyebrow raised at Frodo.
“It’s our cross to bear,” Frodo commiserates, nodding sagely. “Sometimes I parent a sixty year old.” They snicker conspiratorially as an indignant Hey! comes from the shop again.
“Have the best day, Frodo. Thank you again for the rolls, I love sweets.”
“I know.” I know? I know? Really, Frodo- “I mean, I’m glad. Have a good day as well, Sam.”
Frodo is half-way across the street before he realizes Sam didn’t ask him news on the book but before he can ponder as to why, Bilbo opens the door to the bookstore for him, as if he was waiting by the windows. He was totally spying.
“Bagels!” Bilbo exclaims, arms open wide. “Excellent, lad, excellent. Thank you kindly. Oh- and today’s flowers! You’ve been by Samwise’s shop?” he asks, with the tone of someone that knows for sure he’s been by Samwise’s shop.
“Yes.” Frodo deadpans, taking off his scarf and his coat, bag and flowers already in Bilbo’s possession.
“Bluebells! Gorgeous, gorgeous. They remind me of a poem by Pablo Neruda. ‘I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.' What is love if not the intent of sharing?”
Frodo groans, looking longingly at the road outside. “I should have flung myself into traffic.”
“Hmh?”
“Hmh? Oh, nothing. I was thinking, why don’t you put on some tea to go along with the bagels?”
Bilbo looks up from the vase once he’s satisfied with the flower arrangement, snapping his fingers in Frodo’s general direction. “Good idea, my boy. I’ll be but a moment.”
“Uh-uh.”
Frodo bounces on his tiptoes until Bilbo is out of sight up on the little staircase in the far right corner of the store that leads to their attached apartment before he’s diving for the counter, ready to flip through Speeches as swiftly as he can before Bilbo comes down.
“Where- here,” he whispers once he reaches page fifty-two. “Hyacinthoides non-scripta - Bluebell. This flower is a quiet conversation, humbly bore together by its continuous motif: everlasting love.”
“Kettle’s on!” Bilbo shouts from upstairs; Frodo bangs his head against the counter once again.
—
Pippin (The Musical) (11.00)
(✿◕ ?◕)
Frodo (11.03)
Of course he told you.
Pippin (The Musical) (11.05)
Were there any doubts he wouldnt??
Frodo (11.06)
There really weren’t.
Frodo (11.07)
A yellow tulip.
Pippin (The Musical) (11.07)
Lemme get back atcha
Pippin (The Musical) (11.11)
!!!!!!
Pippin (The Musical) (11.11)
There is sunshine in your smile!! Hopeless love!!! Swooning rn
Frodo (11.12)
Thanks for your input, Pippin The Musical.
Pippin (The Musical) (11.12)
You love my nicknames
Frodo (11.13)
I really don’t.
Pippin (The Musical) (11.15)
Remember when you got drunk and you asked us to help ya figure out how to get Sams number because you wanted to save him as Samflower
Frodo (11.19)
…you’re right, I love your nicknames.
Pippin (The Musical) (11.20)
(◡‿◡✿)
—
Alright, Frodo knows for sure Holman the Greenhanded is judging him straight from the late 1800s, and not so silently anymore, when one Thursday evening he ends up cutting his finger on the unforgivingly sharp page dedicated to tulips he was re-reading for the third time. He sucks the blood away from the tiny cut with a wince, putting the book back and getting up, ready to lock up for the night, Bilbo already upstairs to get dinner started.
He draws the blinds down over the windows first, noting two things at once: a thin drizzle of rain highlighted by the lamp-posts outside, and a figure across the street waving goodbye to someone hurrying away with a jacket draped over their head; Frodo hurries to the door hoping to catch Sam in time to call out a well wish for a good evening at him, turning off some of the main lights on his way. He opens the door to flip the Open sign around to Closed, looking back ahead to find Sam quickly crossing the street.
“Sam! Be careful, you’ll get wet!”
“I’m glad I caught you!” Sam announces over the steady drip of rain. Frodo reaches out without thinking to drag him under the little awning above the entrance of the bookstore, Sam pliant under his hands as they stand close together. He shakes his head a little to push the wet wisps of hair off his eyes, careful not to accidentally splash Frodo, and that’s when Frodo notes he’s holding something under one side of his jacket. “That’s alright, I was going to get wet anyway on my way to the car - no umbrella.”
“Let me grab one for you-”
“There’s no need, Frodo, really.” He grins complete with crinkly eyes, taking out from under his jacket- a jar of jam?
“I went to check out a farm this afternoon, it has a beautiful yellow star-grass field - the owner, a lady called Galadriel, was thinking of selling some.” He explains, Frodo maybe a little too transfixed by the cheer in his voice and the wet hair. “She makes homemade jam, and she gave me this.” He keeps his palm open to show Frodo a white and red checkered jar of strawberry jam testing on it. His favorite.
“I know you like strawberries, so I- thought you might like it.” Sam goes to fill Frodo’s stunned silence by pushing his hair back, and that’s really unfair.
“I love it,” Frodo murmurs, heart too big to stay in his chest, so he grabs the jar and clutches it close, hoping to soothe his escapist heart beat. “Thank you. And thank you for remembering that I like strawberries.”
“‘Course.” Sam sounds almost affronted at the slight implication of the contrary. “I want to know what you like.”
I like you. I love you, actually. Frodo genuinely can’t look at him for a good few seconds so he shifts from foot to foot, swaying a little, letting the faintly painful throbbing between his stomach and his lungs seek what it wants to know.
“Can I ask why- why did you place an order for The Speeches of Flowers? ”
Sam tilts his head to the side, surprised by the segue. “‘Course,” he repeats, putting both hands in the pockets of his jacket. It’s too light, Frodo thinks. He ought to get a warmer one.
“Holman the Greenhanded ‘supposed to be an early ancestor of us Gamgees.” Frodo freezes, eyes widening a little. Sam’s own gaze seems to flick distractedly from his eyes, to his mouth and to the slope of his nose as he continues on. “It’s my old man’s birthday next week, I thought it might be a good fit for a gift since, y’know.” He gestures behind them towards Gaffer’s, drawing his shoulders together, meek. “Flowers and plants have always been our lives.”
Frodo feels like crying a bit all over him, the crushing guilt making him feel as small as the drop of rain clinging to Sam’s right eyelash. He's been holding onto his dad’s birthday present. He’s the worst person alive.
“That’s,” he chokes out, grabbing the door handle behind him with one hand. “Beautiful. It’s such a beautiful thought, Sam, really. Your dad is- lucky to have you.” He waves the little jar around, turning sideways to lean more on the handle. Is he panicking? It feels like he is, but mostly he’d really like a cry. “And this was a beautiful thought as well. Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure, Frodo. Thank you for- thinking so.”
“Yeah,” Frodo sniffles, and oh no, that cry could be more imminent than he thought. “Have a good night. Drive safe, go slow.” He gives Sam no time to answer and his turmoil apparently makes him bolder because he grabs one of the lapels of Sam’s jacket before patting his chest exactly two times. “Get a warmer jacket.”
Sam looks from Frodo’s hand to his face a few times, slightly dazed but letting that daze out with an incredulous laugh. “I will. Have a- a good night as well, Frodo.”
And so Frodo nods and watches him smile shyly and turn around, hurrying away until he can’t see him anymore in the shimmering curtain of the rain; he goes back inside, locks the door and rests against it, letting his head bump back against the wood. Double triple curses.
—
“Are you- crying over jam on toast, my boy?”
Frodo freezes with his second slice of toast half-way to his mouth, a bit of jam clinging to the corner of his lip. “No,” he, in fact, weeps. “Didn’t you go to sleep?” he mumbles, hiccuping a little.
“Wanted to pop in the kitchen to grab a glass of water,” Bilbo says, dragging a chair out to sit at the table with Frodo, eyeing the jar of strawberry jam. “Is the jam so rich in flavor that it moved you to tears or is something troubling you, Frodo?”
Frodo fumbles with the butter knife in his right hand, putting it down and concentrating on swallowing his mouthful against the ebbing wave of guilt tracing circles in his very being. He takes a big breath and nods first to himself and then at Bilbo, “I-” another little hiccup. “Have to tell you something.”
“I’m listening, lad.” Bilbo puts a comforting hand on his arm, leaning forward.
“I’ve been- hiding. The Speeches of Flowers. It came in Monday.”
There’s a beat of silence. “I know,” Bilbo says.
“And- what do you mean, you know?” Frodo stares at him, wiping a little dampness from his cheeks with the back of his hand.
“Aragorn rang the shop a short while after he left, saying another seller had coincidentally called for Speeches, asking if we maybe wanted another copy.” Frodo keeps staring. “It was when you went upstairs for a moment to check that the kettle was turned off properly, then you came down and I asked help with the science fiction shelf. Samwise came by right after.”
“But- you didn’t say anything!”
“Nope,” Bilbo nods, patting his arm. “And the reason is your reason for not telling Sam yet.”
“I haven’t told him because-” Frodo swallows, cheeks heating up beyond saving. “I like having an excuse to talk to him every morning and I love the flowers. I’m so.” He slowly rests his forehead on the table, closing his eyes. “So embarassed.”
Bilbo hums, and he goes from patting his arm to patting his curls. “Love is supposed to be embarrassing, my dear, dear lad. I’ll follow your lead, this is your heart and your call.”
Frodo turns his head, smushing his cheek on the table, glassy eyes turning up pitifully at his uncle. Bilbo hums again. “Yes, love - you’ve been way past infatuation ever since you saw Sam. I swear you were debating the meaning of soulmates with yourself when you stared at him the first time he came by for introductions.”
“I didn’t stare!” A pointed look. “Alright, maybe I did. Do. I can’t help it.” He sighs deeply and closes the jar to give his hands something to do, the movement prompting an inquisitive sound from Bilbo.
“But why were you crying over jam and toast?”
“If anything, I was weeping a little.” Frodo retorts, snifffing. “Sam ordered the book as a gift for his dad’s birthday, which is next week, and I’ve been basically hiding it from him. I’m the worst person alive.”
“Hardly at all, my boy,” Bilbo chuckles, nudging his shoulder to coax him upright. “You couldn’t have known and you were operating by feeling. Nothing that can’t be fixed with a little truth.”
“What if-” and Frodo kind of feels like a little kid again, insecure with the weight of himself. “What if Sam hates me?”
“Absolutely impossible,” Bilbo states, searching Frodo’s eyes to convey his certainty. “If you were debating soulmates when you first saw him, Sam looked like he found the person flowers bloomed for when he first saw you.” Frodo feels his body lock up, a little hope chaining him to stay still along with a lingering whisper of doubt.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Frodo nods resolutely, a few fresh tears still escaping the blue of his eyes. He splits the slice of toast, keeping the part he’d already bitten for himself and sliding the other towards Bilbo.
“I’ll try and tell him tomorrow,” he finalizes, and Bilbo nods, grabbing his piece of toast.
“Young love in the sun,” his uncle declares. “Felt like my savior. My spirit I gave you - and we’d only just begun.”
Frodo chews dejectedly. “The Spice Girls?”
“I’m told they’re classic. Cor, this jam is delicious.”
—
Frodo ends up starting his day a little before the sun even starts to come up, unable to sleep after what felt like endless tossing and turning. He stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom and all he can think of is flowers. So he drags himself up, glances at the almost five am on the clock of his nightstand, gets dressed and goes downstairs, turning a single light up.
He doesn’t even pretend not to be here to not flip through Speeches, so he starts thumbing the pages he already knows and makes his way towards those he hasn’t read yet.
Carnations, daffodils, hydrangeas, orchids. The book is small, a perfect travel dictionary fit for a pocket, exactly a hundred pages to bring about yourself to translate what flowers show. He flips to the last one slowly mindful of the last time he cut himself, and he finds-
“Rosa - Rose,” Frodo rests his chin on his hand, leaning down closer to the book. “This is a declaration. A grandiose, simple, joyful shout of sentiment and how many enchanting shades this declaration can have. It is the stem of a clear ‘I love thee’, and if the flower is red, the shade is passion; if it is yellow, the shade is that of friendship; it can be pink to add sweetness to the statement. ”
“Oh,” Frodo gasps quietly, looking pensively towards the first peeks of morning light coming from the gaps between the blinds to his left. He has an idea.
He goes to close the book to leave it on the counter this time instead of hiding it and a little PS on the bottom of the very last page grabs his attention.
“Remember,” he mouths along. “A language is constantly evolving, and we are the ones giving it meaning. Looking at a flower to hear what it is saying means, above all, listening to your own heart. ”
Frodo weeps a little more. For his treacherous heart, as a treat.
—
“I’m going!” Frodo says loudly, even though Bilbo is just standing behind the counter and can hear him just fine form the door. “I’m going.”
“Yes, you are!” Bilbo cheers, giving a single clap of encouragement and raising his eyebrows at him over his spectacles.
“Right.” Frodo has the book snug in the front pocket of his coat and his wallet in the other; the flower shop has been open for ten minutes. He’s going. He nods at Bilbo and opens the door, the chiming of the bell immediately setting off autopilot mode in his body against the panicky instinct to turn around and go back inside. Nothing a little truth can’t fix. But first-
“Good morning!” Wow. Chill, Frodo. He clears his throat and repeats a little less loudly, “Morning. Legolas, Sam.”
He marches himself right up to the counter, standing in front of Legolas, who looks more and more entertained by the second. Sam, who’s right besides Legolas, looks more and more confused.
Frodo swallows the lump of insecurity in his throat. “I’d like to buy flowers.”
“Frodo, there’s no need, I was about to bring some to the store.” Sam intercedes, and Frodo looks directly at him for the first time since coming in and it’s alarmingly similar to looking at the sun.
“No, no- I insist, I’d really like to buy flowers. Please. They’re a gift.”
Sam is about to protest again; Legolas gives a dramatic flick of his long hair and waves a hand in front of Sam’s face, already grabbing a few ribbons and a sheet of decorated paper.
“I’ll take over this one. What did you have in mind?”
Frodo isn’t sure if he’s imagining a little hurt creeping in the confused set of Sam’s expression, so he shakes his head to blink the delusions away and bites his lip.
“I’d like, uh, roses. Two red ones, a yellow one and a pink one. And a white tulip. Thanks.”
Legolas definitely looks smug now for some reason if the way his eyebrows have climbed up is anything to go by. “Colorful, I like it.” He grabs the paper sheet, the ribbons and scissors, making his way outside, bumping against Sam’s shoulder on his way to the vases on display outside. “It’ll only take a sec!”
They’re left to stare at each other, and Frodo goes to clutch the book in his pocket; he takes it out, smoothing the cover with his right palm and placing it slowly on the counter between himself and Sam.
“Speeches came in? That’s great!” Sam lets his genuineness in everything color his delight as well, that bit of hurt and buckets of confusion left behind for a moment.
“Yes, it, uh. Actually came in a while ago.”
“That’s lucky,” Sam laughs, touching the cover gently. “It came on a Friday and my old man’s birthday is this next Monday, perfectly on time.”
“Not a while ago as in this morning, but as in. Last Monday.” Frodo can actually feel physical pain uttering the words, a sharp jab against his ribs as if his body is daydreaming about running away madly from his shame.
“Oh,” Sam looks confused again, looking up from the book to Frodo, a line between his eyes.
There’s a tap on Frodo's shoulder and he turns to see Legolas cradling a modest, perfectly wrapped little bouquet in one hand and holding the other out, palm up. “A tenner will do.”
“You’re not seriously taking money from Frodo.”
“We’re a business and he came to do business with us.” Legolas grabs the note Frodo fished from his wallet, handing him the flowers in return with a short bow. “A pleasure.”
“Thank you,” Frodo answers, having completely missed their exchange in favor of trying not to pass out. He takes a quick breath in, then another, feels his cheeks start to heat up to the point of no return, and turns to hold the bouquet out to Sam.
“For you.”
Sam looks so stunned in the silence following Frodo’s lingering words that he leans against the counter for support, staring at the flowers. Frodo can feel his arm start to tremble a bit.
Legolas tries to muffle a sound suspiciously close to a squeal, crumbling the money in his hand in excitement. “I think I’ll take this over to Bilbo, actually; get that poetry book you guys have on sale. Take your time!” And then he’s gone, closing the door of the shop behind him for good measure.
“Frodo, I don’t understand.” Sam’s voice is a bit watery, and that won’t do at all, so Frodo just. Blurts everything out.
“A white tulip to- to say I’m sorry for hiding the book; it’s a gift for your dad and it was out of line for me to do. I did it because-” It hits him that he’s going to peel back a layer of himself so that Sam can know, and he blinks back mortified tears. “Because I loved the opportunity to talk to you every morning and most of all to- to get flowers from you. It was terribly selfish of me, and I’m sorry.”
He looks down and touches the white tulip for a fleeting second; Sam’s still staring at him, mouth parted in what looks like wonder, a quiet gasp escaping him.
“I love being your friend,” Frodo touches the yellow rose. “I think you’re the sweetest person I know,” he touches the pink one and then holds out the flowers more towards Sam once again, waiting for him to take them. He does so while touching a finger of his free hand to his lips. Frodo nods down at the red roses, taking two steps forward until his belly bumps the counter. “I love you. I’ve been in love with you so long and- two roses hoping it really drives across the meaning I want to give them.”
“Frodo.” Sam does one of those incredulous laughs full of disbelief, shoulders shaking up and down with the force of what he’s feeling that Frodo always sees in cheesy movies at the moment of a dramatic declaration of love, and when Sam steps around the counter with shimmering eyes and clutching the flowers with both hands, stopping a breath away from him, Frodo hopes. Hard.
“I’ve been- telling I love you every morning.” Hearing Sam say it comes as such a shock that Frodo has to hold himself up against something- so he puts a hand on Sam’s chest in an imitation of last night, bunching the material of his shirt when he reflexively tightens his grip asking, “You have?”
“I’ve been choosing each flower to say what I feel for you in any which way flowers can,” Sam brings the bouquet up between them so he can keep it upright but also rest a hand above Frodo’s on his chest. “I was hoping they could intercede and make the words bloom before I- well, spoke them inevitably clumsy out loud.”
“Clumsy?” Frodo is incredulous. Those are literally the best words he has ever heard in his life. “Sam.”
He plants a hand in Sam’s blond curls and drags him down the few centimeters that make their lips not perfectly aligned all the time to do just that. Frodo blanks the moment this kiss, this kiss he’s been hoping for between each petal caressed begins, and Sam goes from clutching his hand to clutching his waist and their lips part to piece back together in the same way stars fit together in a constellation and then Frodo needs to breathe and he opens his eyes.
He doesn’t let go of Sam, grip going only ever tighter, Sam letting himself be swayed by it along with Frodo and a sparkle in his eyes that Frodo should write a poem about actually-
“Ouch.” Frodo snatches his hand back from where he was trying to bring it up and touch Sam’s face, only for him to bump the bouquet and catch a tiny thorn on the pink rose peeking out from the paper. Sam makes a sympathetic noise, gripping the finger in his hand and examining the cut.
“You okay?” He looks ready to bring out two packs of plasters at the minimum. Frodo watches him, content beyond belief.
“Yeah,” he answers a tad too dreamily. Wait. Actually-
“You know,” he adds, as Sam drags him behind the counter towards a first-aid box. “I think Holman the Greenhanded is haunting me.”
Sam laughs so hard he shakes with it, ending up with a matching tiny cut from holding the bouquet too tight.
—
Mer-ry-iadoc added you to the group “SAMFLOWER!”
Mer-ry-iadoc (12.00)
♡(◕ᗜ◕✿)
Pippin (The Musical) (12.00)
(◔ᗜ◔✿)♡
Mer-ry-iadoc (12.01)
Our boy got the boy!!
Pippin (The Musical) (12.02)
Lets goooooo
Frodo (12.06)
It literally happened four hours ago
Mer-ry-iadoc (12.07)
Bilbo rang
Pippin (The Musical) (12.08)
We are so happyyyyyy for youuu!!
(ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)
Frodo (12.09)
Thank you guys, really. Love you both.
|(ꈍ ꒳ ꈍ✿)
How do you even keep finding these
Mer-ry-iadoc (12.11)
(✿ ͡◕ ᴗ◕)つ━━✫・*。
With magic, how else?