Chapter Text
On the eve of autumn, most flowers come forth into the lightened air and bloom bright—with bees slumbering, pollen-fat, in their soft petals.
But the most beautiful of flowers bloomed on the eve of day. So, when the sun began to set in a hue of golden brown, Samwise strayed from the blood red roses and fragrant jasmines, down the cobbled garden path and into a lonely section of Bag End’s garden– to his hidden moonflowers, which had only just begun to open with the night.
He had secluded them, not out of fear of mockery, but for the simple fact of surprise. Mr. Frodo had mentioned in an offhand comment–perhaps without the knowledge that Samwise was listening as intently as he was–that the most peculiar things tended to be the most beloved by him. To which Samwise combed through his internal list of oddities and landed on a moonflower, something he could procure well and easily.
Samwise had planted them towards the end of summer, when the earth was all sticky with heat. He was eager enough to forgo his usual hours at Bag End and spend more time knelt down in the grass. He came home smelling of dirt and promise, one of which was usual for him.
Now, though, the moonflowers had sprouted tall and thin, as expected. And all that was left to do was see them bloom beneath the night sky.
He wouldn’t say he was sneaking, for that was an awfully depraved word. It gave him the vision of that Gollum from Mr. Bilbo’s stories.
No, Samwise was carefully appraising his work in the Baggins’ garden, in the deep of night, and hopefully, on the morrow when the sun set once more, his present would be ready.
It was nearing both the Baggins’ birthdays anyhow, an early gift for the younger one would bring joy, Sam was sure.
The soft fluttering's of wind and birds taking flight accompanied his footsteps, ever so quiet. The alcove he had managed to find along the hill’s garden was as small as could be and perfectly hidden behind a forgotten bench and bush of brambles. It was just under a window; one he thought led to a hallway in Bag End. Just a small spot.
The dirt there was soft. The sun had managed to hit it only so often as she crossed the sky, leaving it still damp though no longer light-thirsty.
The dampness stretched across his trousers, not as worn as they usually were. Several holes had been patched with an illustrative thread. Here and there were sunflowers or the fat body of a bee.
Sam remembered such kindness on the daily, oftentimes he would finger the stitching absentmindedly, tracing the patterns as he imagined Mr. Frodo did with his needle. He hadn’t known Frodo could sew let alone embroider. It took much for Sam to not “accidentally” rip his clothing in search of a mend.
As Samwise came upon the moonflowers, lit up by moonlight, he couldn’t help the breath of amazement he let out. They had begun to open, like a newborn babe’s bright eyes, cracked by light and wonder. They waved in the soft wind, almost swallowed up by the brambles on either side of them.
“Proud job, Sam,” he said to himself. He knelt in the dirt, careful to avoid the thorns and broken wood of the bench. He thought he could see the petals move with his naked eye, as if they were saying their own “hellos.”
But the light of the moon was broken by candlelight and the silence of the night filled with the creak of a windowpane.
“My, my, Samwise! What business have you beneath my window?”
Samwise looked up to find a smug smile upon Frodo’s face, he stood, candelabra in one hand and the other dangling out the window. For a second, Samwise ignored the question and only dove to cover the moonflowers, bringing his face precariously close to that of Mr. Frodo’s.
As he closed in, Frodo’s smile faltered, growing soft, but it came back full bloom. “Why if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were peeping. And how confident you’ve grown!”
Samwise flushed. “Nay, Mr. Frodo! I hadn’t the faintest idea this was your window! I was only–”
“Gardening? So late? I’d thought you’d gone home.”
“Aye, I did.”
Frodo’s smile still hadn’t lost its arrogance, if anything it’d grown. He leaned down slightly to match Samwise’s height. “But you came back?” He teased.
Sam let out a groan, his blush spread to the tips of his ears. He moved then, shuffling back on his knees until the moonflowers were in clear view. “Some things need more work than can be done in the sunlight hours, Mr. Frodo. Don’t go on judging your gardener.”
The smug smile fell finally. Frodo widened his eyes at the flowers, awakening to the night hour. He set the candelabra down on his desk inside shielding the bloom from such harsh light.
“Sam…” he whispered. “By Yavanna, they are beautiful.”
Samwise chuckled with a bashful smile. “Aye, well, they ought to be, with all the work they take to bloom.”
He watched as Frodo took in the flowers. If he was honest with himself Mr. Frodo looked far lovelier than any flower this garden could bloom. And as he was now, face slacked in wonder and happiness, why Samwise itched to kiss his parted lips.
Samwise cleared his throat and Frodo looked back into his eyes. “Hold on, I’m coming out.” He disappeared into the hill, from the open window Sam could make out that indeed the windowpane he sat beneath led to Mr. Frodo’s bedroom, and not, as he had thought, a forgotten and unused hallway.
He stood a little higher on his knees. The candlelight flickered against the walls and Samwise could see an unmade bed, with a bookmarked novel sat atop the indented pillow. A billowing cup of tea sat undrunk on the bedside table. And hanging from the bedframe were ribbon-wrapped bouquets of dried flowers, some of which Samwise remembered planting.
His flush went down in time for the pitter-patter of Frodo’s footsteps to be heard coming down the lane. He had left the candle inside and from his careful gazes along the garden floor, he was trying not to trip and fall over the jutted roots and moss-grown rocks.
Samwise leant out a hand to which Frodo gratefully accepted. Leaning on his arm as he made the last few steps to the alcove. Mr. Frodo knelt beside him, so close their shoulder’s grazed each other.
Samwise breathed in deep. “Happy birthday,” he whispered. “Early birthday, I suppose. Don’t you worry, I’ll have a gift for you day of as well.”
Frodo placed a hand to his shoulder and squeezed, Samwise wondered if he could feel his heart beating in his palm. “A most adored gift I can assure you. And right outside my window! I shall view them each night before I rest.”
Samwise couldn’t shake the thought of Frodo thinking of him before he slept. It would be nothing like how he thought of him. Far more innocent, he thought.
He wished he could etch this moment into stone, spend the rest of his humble life here. With Frodo warm against his side, the moon having come down from his spot in the sky to gaze up at them for a change. The whistles of wildlife flew upon the wind, and he could feel the trickles of breath coming from the gentlehobbit, coasting along his jaw.
If he turned, he bet he could see the moonlight cast along Mr. Frodo’s face in soft caresses, patterned from both half-blocked candlelight and the green shade of garden, like stained glass.
Or he thought deeply now lost in the haze of revelry. He wished he had the gall to caress Mr. Frodo’s soft skin and fall back into the brambles behind them, uncaring of the thorns or the damage done to such lovely greenery. He wished to take Frodo in his arms and never let go, not until they were as flushed as the sun-sweet berries they fell into.
Calm yourself, Samwise thought. He sucked in a deep breath. He could feel the air cool against his suddenly dry throat.
“They really are quite lovely, Sam.” Frodo murmured. Sam only nodded, though pride forced his lips into a half smile.
“Well, you said the unusual things leave a mark on your heart.” Sam said. “And these are the loveliest oddities I could gather.”
Frodo smiled and turned to face him, so close that if Sam leaned in, he might just brush against his nose. Well , Samwise thought to himself. Perhaps not the loveliest.
They held each other’s gaze a moment longer. Nature filled the void. A hooting owl slid above them; across the way they could hear the squeals of a fox.
Frodo widened his eyes in remembrance.
“I meant to ask you earlier, but would you like to go on down to Michel Delving for a play? They’ve got something about two gnomes in love, star-crossed they say.”
Samwise was free the following afternoon, Bilbo had called for rain though nothing had been in the forecast. Either way he gave both Samwise and Hamfast the afternoon to themselves if they so pleased. And now, Samwise did.
“Gnomes, you say?”
“Oh, aye. Fatty says it brought tears to his eyes.”
Sam chuckled, “Fatty’d cry at the wind blowing if it sounded like a sad tune.”
Frodo let out a loud laugh before covering his mouth with both hands. “I ought to be quiet, Bilbo’s long gone.” He glanced through the window to confirm no noise had made it to his uncle’s bed.
“Say, come in for some tea?” He asked. “Perhaps the moon at its highest will have these blooming fully. Something we both should see.”
Samwise nodded not trusting his words and the two rounded back to Bag End’s front door, hand in hand, to avoid roots and mud of course.
Across the garden, deep in the fields a pair of foxes dove through the brambles, staining their fur with the right kind of red.