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Early mornings in the Gamgee household rarely saw peace. It was as close to a war zone as one could get in the Shire—three generations bouncing from toilet to kitchen to dining room to toilet again. All at once, they scrambled around like bees hard at work. Marigold would loudly count her breakfast sausages as May shushed her newborn, and somewhere in a far off corner the Gaffer would hack up a lung over a morning smoke.
To put it simply, the Gamgee house was loud and busy and never without a dull moment. Sam had never minded this, it was his norm, until of course, he awoke one morning with Frodo asleep on his chest. And for the first time in his loud, loud life, he wished the world was steeped in silence.
It was a sticky summer morning, early if the pale blue light was any inclination, but hot even still. They had fallen asleep outside–hammocked in the limbs of an alder tree–having spent the better part of the night watching the stars. Frodo knew much of Arda’s history, Varda’s creations included. But Sam failed to remember his lesson from the night, for, in truth, he spent more time watching Frodo talk than he did facing the sky.
A slow drizzle of warm summer rain patted against the tree limbs, which carefully shaded them from both rain and morning sun. Sam knew he should rise from the hammock, save himself from water logging…but Frodo. By Yavanna he couldn’t just move. Frodo nestled deeper in Sam’s hold, and he felt himself go still, even suppressing a shiver when a drop pelted his brow.
He glanced around. The Shire was still in the in between portion of sleep, some hills began to bustle with movement while others simply drew their shutters tighter and pressed on into sleep. Sam was accustomed to getting up early, the best garden work done between the hours of dawn and noon–but Frodo preferred otherwise, often he’d spent until Second Breakfast in the dream world. Those days, Sam would share a cup of tea with Bilbo over the windowsill and try to catch a glimpse of Frodo nodding off.
But he needn’t do that now, not when Frodo let out soft snores into the linen of his undershirt.
The rain faded, leaving the air with that fresh smell of earth and salt. Sam curled his lip into a smile, smoothing out Frodo’s grumpy frown when the sun filtered in just a little too much.
He took in the morning dew, fresh in the air. The hammock swung in the wind, creaking like an old pine. Sam was just about to rejoin Frodo in sleep, when the Gamgee house fully awoke.
It began with a racket of cupboards closing and dishes clanking, the Gaffer more than likely, rounding up the beginnings of breakfast. This was very soon followed by the wafting scent of fried eggs and the thick whistle of the kettle–Sam sighed, half yearning for a plate and half wishing he could stay right where he was until the end of all days.
Frodo squirmed in his hold and he tightened his arms around him.
The window to the hill was opened, and now Sam could see Marigold up and running, dragging an old poppet in her sleepy palm, behind her Hamson strolled by, one of his own on his hip and a hand not-so-successfully easing up the rest of his suspenders. Sam smiled at this, the simple actions of his family. Until a dish crashed, the Gaffer mumbled a curse, and the baby began to cry.
Frodo blinked open an eye, seemingly oblivious to what woke him up. Still, Sam tensed.
“Oh, morning, Sam,” Frodo murmured. He wiped at his eyes and leaned closer to Sam. “Why, it's so early.”
“Barely past dawn,” Sam agreed, a huff of a laugh escaping. If it was his usual day, he’d be through two cups of tea and shining his garden shears. Frodo hummed, tucking himself back in, one hand raised and slid into the unbuttoned portion of Sam’s tunic–he felt his skin prickle at the touch.
Frodo spoke after a beat. “We ought to get up.”
Sam nodded, before verbally agreeing when Frodo’s eyes remained close. “Which one of us should attempt this odd contraption then?” he asked.
The hammock, a rather poorly attempted one, was May’s spring project. It was a carefully woven net, strung up by old fishing ropes. After a few months of sleeping in it night and day she lost interest and it remained up for chipmunks and squirrels to nest in. Well, up until last night when Frodo suggested they spend the night there.
“Hm,” Frodo said, finally sitting up, though only slightly as the hammock rocked. He gasped at the motion, Sam clung to him in case he fell out. “I suppose we ought to just stay here then,” He wobbled as he settled back onto the hammock, pressing a gentle kiss to Sam’s jaw as he lay there. “Too much work for this early in the morning.”
Sam barked a laugh but promptly paused when that itself caused the hammock to rock. “Alright, we’ll stay right here.”
The Gaffer coughed, a baby squealed. Somewhere in the house the mumble of fighting broke out–Sam thought about the poppet he had seen, and how it was most likely not Marigold’s after all.
“Mighty loud they are, if you’ll excuse the sound.” Sam said sheepishly. Frodo laughed, looking past him through the window and into the house, where the smoky end of the Gaffer’s pipe poked out slightly.
“At least you have an excuse, Bilbo can make the noise of ten people, an awful racket he can cook up!”
“Oh, aye,” Sam recalled the many mornings he’d thought the dwarves had returned for breakfast.
“Tell me, Sam, did you have any dreams?” Frodo asked suddenly.
It took much for Sam to pretend the question didn’t cause his heart to stammer, even if Frodo could probably hear it through the clang of the Gamgee house. For, in fact, he had. A very many dreams, most, if not all, including Mr. Frodo himself. Sam cleared his throat, silencing his heart before he answered.
“Aye,” he said. “And you?”
“None at all,” Frodo answered. But there was something mischievous in his eyes that made Sam believe that was a fib.
Sam hummed. “I dreamt we were sat in a glade together,” he began. Frodo sat up to listen, a content smile on his face. “Oh aye, and a beautiful glade at that, you know, the ones with all those dandelions and bindweed.”
“You weave a nice tale, Samwise–”
“-and a cottontail rabbit hopped onto my lap, and he could speak!” Sam nodded at the memory of his dream, recalling it slowly. Frodo’s smile grew.
“Naturally, as rabbits do, he asked for directions to Miss Thimblerose’s shope–you know down by the bakers–as he had been craving some of her candied chestnuts.”
“Those are very good,” Frodo interrupted. “We should go down there today.”
“Aye, maybe after luncheon–but then I said, ‘that's too much sugar for a rabbit such as yourself you ought to stick to leaves and such.’ He only ignored me and went on his way, nibbling on the weeds as he went.”
“Sound advice, cosmic levels of wisdom–Gandalf could never have thought of that.”
Sam sent him a faux glare. “Oh hush, you. Dreams aren’t known for their cleverness.”
“What was I doing through all of this?” Frodo asked.
“Basking in the sunbeams, as usual.”
Frodo barked a laugh. “I do make a habit of summer naps.” He tapped his chin. “Your dream gives a great many ideas–with the free day we should picnic in the field out past the summer barley.” He looked to the sky, “if the rain doesn’t return.”
Sam flushed, though the pair had grown accustomed to this little relationship, the casual “courting” often left him with a crawling blush. “I’d like that,” he murmured after a few moments.
Frodo caught wind of his bashfulness and smiled, trailing a rush of kisses up his apple-cheeks until he reached his lips. There, he placed a tender kiss. Sam deepended it, leaning up into Frodo’s mouth, uncaring of the hammock beginning to rock beneath them.
Another clang rang out from the hill, the thumping stomps of busy feet sounded out from the open window, more of the family filtered into the kitchen for breakfast.
Frodo pulled back at the sounds, but Sam chased his lips, the motion finally tipping the hammock from its suspended spot. With a yelp, they both poured out like honey onto the grass–crashing down onto each other.
After a moment of catching their breath, hearts pounding in their chest, they both broke out into laughter.
“Only a matter of time before that happened,” Sam chuckled. The grass was soft, providing a stability the hammock didn’t–Sam took advantage of this and surged forward, finishing what they had started.
Sam connected their lips–baring the chill of dew and the tenderness of the bruises growing on his spine.
"They may see," Frodo raised, breathless, but Sam continued on. Kissing him deeply while the world filled with nothing but them, birdsong, and the growing summer heat.
When he pulled back, the morning was awash with a sweet and orange sky. The Gaffer had closed the window–signaling his awareness–yet Sam found he didn’t mind.