By: Dana
Summary: At the beginning and at the very end.
Characters: Frodo, Sam
Pairings: Sam/Frodo
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash, angst, light sexual content
Author's Notes: For Hope, for her birthday (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HOPE!). Beginning and ends. Light and dark. Love and what it does to a person. Finding hope in despair. All that went between. Vague? Oh my, I didn't mean it to be like that. Perhaps it works best like that. Perhaps it's all for good. (Don't look to me for coherence right now, I fear. This merely ripped itself from me, and I penned it as best I could.) The time shifts: past/present/past/present/past/present, each division within the story marking off a new change. (Thanks go to Elise for the lovely beta. Needed wanted had to have.) Enjoy!
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

The rain falls in a quiet hush outside the thick earthen walls of Bag End. The sky is grey mixed with darker blue and pale white, a summer storm bleeding its lifeblood down onto the earth; its time has come. Even as the rain stills, until only errant drops fall from a sky now half-covered, the quiet of the day-not-quite-night extending down over the party field and the span of green that separates Bag End from Hobbiton, it sinks into the walls as well, pervading the very air within.

Inside the smial, the atmosphere is calm, the air is warm. Spice-coloured light floods the parlour, where Frodo sits with a cup of tea. He isn't alone. Nervously, Samwise Gamgee stands a handful of steps away (a respectful distance, and even that wouldn't diminish the feel of butterflies knotting in his stomach like a multicoloured storm); he glances towards the wide windows, and the stilled weather beyond. Sam has a cup of tea, too, a small delicate cup, white with pale blue and pink blossoms ringing its rim; it's from a set that had once been Frodo's mother's. Frodo doesn't say a word, even as Sam chews at his bottom lip, Frodo's fingers absently stroking the small cup; his gaze is lost somewhere in the fire and the way that it plays.

It doesn't feel right being here. It wasn't a fierce storm and there hadn't been need to bring him in. But Mister Frodo is Mister Frodo and Mister Frodo always gets his way. And Sam had been brought inside, given a warm cup of tea to wait out the storm. It's his third cup now and the rain has eased. "Maybe I should get back to my work," he says, coming back to the present, away from his thoughts; Sam clears his throat.

Still... Sam can't help but feel lucky to stand here in Bag End. It's not that they're not friends, no, but they aren't exactly, either; they're employer and employee. That still doesn't mean that this isn't nice. (Sam knows he could get used to it.) It is and Sam regrets having to bring it to an end. Frodo leans forward, setting his cup down on the gentle curve of the arm of the chair. He looks up to Sam, dark hair falling like a shadow above the depths of his eyes. "I suppose you're right," Frodo says, and then he sighs.

He doesn't want to let go.

"There's nothing here to hold you back."

The cup of tea he holds feels like the world to Sam, and he clears his throat gently. Frodo's eyes are an impossible shade as his unspoken reply is voiced silently in an inquisitive gaze. "It's lovely out after a rain, sir, you should come and sit a while. You could bring your tea, and a book if you wish."

When Frodo grins, its dazzling. "It's just an excuse to listen to me read a story, isn't it Sam?"

Sam's smile isn't as dazzling, it's soft and light and somehow shy. "I can't deny that, sir. But then, if you don't mind me saying, I know you like telling them, too."

Frodo's smile is teetering on his lips now, near completely consuming him. Frodo rises up from the chair, shifting so that he looks at Sam seriously. Straightening his collar, he laughs. "You're very right, Sam. What would I do without you?"

"Now that's a something that will never be, so we have no need to worry about it," Sam says, tea cold in the cup but his heart growing warm. "And if you don't want to bring them... well. It would be nice for you to get out, I think. Bag End's a nice place and all but there's nothing like the feel of the earth in between your toes after a nice fresh rain. It's... well... nice." Sam finishes, lamely, smiling like he's expecting to be laughed at.

Frodo doesn't laugh; he merely smiles, as if in time to some joke that only he knows.

There's a distant look in Frodo's eyes, a look that Sam can't place. The spicy scent of fresh cinnamon tea tingles his senses and a soft click is what brings the light back to Frodo's eyes. Wordless, he looks to Sam, his remaining fingers curling into small fists on the arms of his chair. There's an empty white space and reddened flesh where that one should be, and Sam can't tell which is more disturbing. The dark in Frodo's eyes when he gets this way, or the stub of something that should be that's been ripped away.

"Sam."

A worn smile is stretched thin on Sam's lips. "Brought your tea, sir, like I said I would."

Frodo nods, mute, a far away look in eyes that are without depth. "Thank you, Sam. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Sam might not know what Frodo would do without him (he never has and he's never liked to think of that possibility), but he does know what he would do without Frodo. Those are thoughts he'd rather not be thinking again, so he scoots the small cup towards Frodo's pale hand. Barely moving, Frodo glances towards it, accepts it gingerly.

To Sam, his shoulders suddenly aching, a dry feeling in his throat, the world is on stand still as he rises back to his full height. Frodo's bedroom seems small and dark, pale sunlight flooding the floor in patches. Outside, the sky is still grey.

Frodo stares into the tea, a drawn look on his face. He's losing himself in his memories again, places where Sam can't follow. Sam knows; he's tried.

"I was thinking of going out into the garden. Want to come out, Frodo? We could bring out the blanket and you could sit and watch." A thoughtful pause, a worried glance. Frodo's look is suddenly serious.

"You worry too much, dear Sam," he says, pale hand reaching out to lightly pat Sam's darker tan. "There's nothing to worry about anymore, Sam."

There's that look on Frodo's face, now, and Sam knows there's nothing more he can say to get Frodo to move. "Enjoy your tea then, Frodo. If you do... well, maybe I'll have less to worry about."

"Good, Sam. You have Rose and little Elanor. I don't want to steal that time away."

"It wouldn't be stealing," Sam replies, a mumble of hot, soft words.

Frodo smiles, though it doesn't seem to completely touch his eyes. His hand lies still atop Sam's now, the warmth spreading into Frodo. Perhaps the cold is merely bleeding into Sam.

"Sometimes, I still don't understand you completely, Samwise," Frodo says very seriously, so serious that for a moment it seems comical. Frodo exhales, and the moment seems shatered, various pieces raining down to fall still and lifeless to the floor. Softer, Frodo continues. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"It's not a question of what you did," Sam replies, bent over now so that he can feel the nearness of Frodo's skin, pallid and otherworldly, the curl of dark hair and the light reflecting off eyes that seem flat and dull blue. "It's simply what's right."

A turn and then their eyes meet, a soft sad smile spreading on Frodo's lips, thin and wan. It isn't so hard to picture then broken and bleeding. Sam leans in, bumping the chair. The teacup shakes precariously and almost tips over, and Sam reaches out to right it. Another turn, and they're face to face.

Sam leans back.

"Sam," Frodo whispers, fingers tangling with Sam's, pale and fragile things. It's with surprising strength that he pulls Sam forwards, but perhaps it's only because it's not in Sam's blood to resist. Not Frodo. Not this.

It just isn't possible. Sam knows. He tried.

"Frodo."

Frodo likes the sound of his name on Sam's tongue, the way it curls and holds and caresses. How Sam can turn a simple name into something soft and reverent, a whispered prayer; Sam makes him feel things he's never completely understood, though he's tried.

Somewhere along the way, he simply stopped trying and merely began believing. Even now, when the world seems too dark and the nights too long and cold, there's that belief. It keeps a part of his heart warm.

"Sam," Frodo's voice is a ghost of itself, and Sam finds himself leaning close. Frodo's breath is a wash of warmth and spice on his cheek, a tingle that slides down through his body. A perfect moment, a perfect pause. Sam's eyes feel heavy and his lashes droop; he feels a cool nudge, Frodo's nose sliding against Sam's cheek, and then a warmer touch. Lips on his own, chaste. A heady sensation that drags him down.

A mumble of lips, like fluttering wings. A groan (Sam wonders if that was just him, deciding after a moment that it was), Frodo's lips sliding against his own. He tilts his head, feels Frodo's hand upon his own; the feel of a tongue, insistent and needing, wet and soft and sliding. There's no need to touch, the space between them lives and breathes and remains the same, pulsing like the beat of a heart, their hearts, furious and at a breakneck speed.

Outside, the air is slightly cool, a feather light brush on skin that is still coloured from the heat within. Frodo breathes in deeply, arms thrown out wide as he steps away from Bag End's round front door. "The air -- so invigorating."

Sam smiles. "The outdoors do you good."

Frodo frowns but it doesn't touch his eyes, that frown turning to a smile in the span of a breath. "So I've heard. Old age has me skulking in dark shadows, it seems."

Sam scowls, shaking his head. "You aren't what I'd call old, sir." No, he couldn't say that. Frodo still looked like he was no older than a tween, no older than Sam himself. His smile was quick and his laughter was bright. Sam was good at just looking, much better than he was with his words, and there were little things about Frodo that had his heart skipping a beat. The way his eyes reflected back light and sucked in shadow; the soft curve of his fingers, sometimes marred with dark ink stains; oh, and his lips, the way they formed their words so carefully, like whispering some sort of prayer to some long forgotten god.

There were the things about Frodo that made Sam cry, and there were the things that made him laugh, that make him smile. Frodo who can't be trusted inside a kitchen, Frodo who can sit outside the whole day through with a book in his hands and his head in the clouds.

All together they make up Frodo Baggins, the Master of Bag End, his master, his --

-- no, no, no. Sam's thoughts crash and burn and Frodo's voice is suddenly painted serious as he speaks up, Sam's name echoing in his ears. "Sam, Sam? Is there a problem? You dft hobbit, you're going to break your neck if you don't pay attention to where you're going!"

A blink and suddenly Sam is grounded again, feet planted firmly on the ground, into the ground. It's where he's most comfortable, warm and safe. "Sorry, sir. I just lost myself."

Frodo's smile is touched with concern that causes Sam's spine to feel liquid, his blood burning in his veins, thrumming in his ears. "Have you been found?"

"You always find me, sir."

A heavy pause, eyes seeking out eyes; Frodo speaks, slowly, turning the utterance of one name into the span of eternity. "Sam."

"Mister Frodo?"

It begins to rain again, a few cool drops falling down to the earth.

Something seems to light in Frodo's eyes, reaching out, pale fingers like shafts of light against skin tanned by the sun. He doesn't say a thing, merely lets his fingers trail, as if they have a mind of their own. Perhaps they do, as they brush close to Sam's lips; Sam feels heat darken his cheeks, his lips trembling uncontrollably.

"Frodo."

It looks like something he's thought of for a very, very long time is coming to surface. The rain falls harder now, yet neither seem to see, or even care. "Would you hate me, Sam?" he asks, and Sam's eyes harden with determination and something else, something tangible. Something that makes Frodo's heart beat a fraction faster, makes his breath speed, makes the cool tracks of his fingers seem like he's committing something to memory.

His fingers stop at Sam's jaw, near to the soft curve of his ear. "I could never hurt you," Sam whispers fiercely, so fiercely it's like he's ripping out his heart and putting it on display, for Frodo to see and to contemplate and to attempt to understand.

"I just don't get you, Samwise," Frodo replies, eyes brightening in a rare smile, a true smile, laughter bubbling in the depths of those orbs.

Sam's words are stilled, lips parted, moisture caught up on his upper lip as Frodo leans in, head tilted to the side, fingers sliding to rest in Sam's wet hair, as Frodo kisses Sam. Sam's heart skips a beat and then he's kissing Frodo, too. A quiet pause seems to hover between them, living and breathing and pulsing with that life.

Frodo groans, cries out wordlessly, into Sam's mouth. He pulls him forward, grabbing at his collar with needy hands, bringing him into his lap. "Sam," Frodo sobs, voice muffled, entangled with Sam's lips, "Sam!"

"Shh, me dear, shh," Sam replies in much the same manner, pulling at Frodo (he's so light) and bringing him to his feet. Frodo's fingers are curled still into the cloth at the ruff of his neck, his eyes dark and haunted. "Quiet, sir. It'll be all right."

Frodo trembles, leaning into Sam. His arms wrap their way around Sam, holding him close; can't ever let him go; he knows he'll have to let him go. Frodo doesn't want to admit that to Sam. He hasn't even completely admitted it to himself. "How can you be sure?" Frodo asks, face wet with unnoticed tears as he presses his face into the curve of Sam's neck.

Sam rubs Frodo's shoulders, one hand clinging desperately to Frodo's arm. He wants to ground him there, wants to hold him down. There's an uncertain spot in his heart that thinks that Frodo could fly right away, right away, if he doesn't keep hold. "Frodo."

He's whispering prayers again, simple syllables that cause Frodo's heart to soar, that some how causes Frodo's heart to bleed. "I really don't know what I'd do without you, Sam," he whispers, hoarse, his voice thick like syrup. It bogs Sam down, holds Frodo to him. Not that he'd let go.

"I can imagine," he whispers, so soft, Frodo shivering against his skin. Frodo speaks again, his lips moist and warm. Sam shivers, too, holding Frodo closer. He seeks out those lips again, fingers still a comfort on Frodo's back, Frodo tilting his head so that he's looking up into Sam's suddenly dark eyes. "But let's not think about that."

"Yes," Frodo whipers, vision fading in and out; Sam can see the way that Frodo's eyes are losing focus. Then, Frodo smiles, and Sam almost forgets what its like to breathe, the need for air to fill his lungs. It breaks him and then Frodo's lips are touching his, light like breath itself, sweet and spreading wide like a blossom unfurling. The insistent push of a tongue, the slip and slide, the sweet reverberations of a moan that drown out the rest of the world. Something so simple and yet so completing, something that makes the rest of the world (and all those trials and their tribulations) seem so silly and small.

Gasping for breath, Sam opens eyes he finds that have closed of their own volition. "I love you, you know. I love you."

"I know."

Breathless, they kiss again, diving into each other. Hard teeth and soft flesh, Sam's hands slide down Frodo's back even as Frodo's stay clenched at Sam's neck. He tugs on the shirt tucked in, letting the fingers of that hand skid across the small of Frodo's back. Frodo trembles, pressing against Sam, fingers numb and pulling at the buttons that top Sam's shirt. Needy fingers, insistent. Sam buries his face into the scent of Frodo's hair, gasping at the touch of Frodo's mouth to his collarbone as his struggle is successful.

He's falling and Frodo's falling with him, though they might not look like it if there were onlookers to be found. Two hobbits, pressed together, Sam's shirt being pushed down his arms, untangling himself from where he pulls still at Frodo's shirt; the sudden exposure of flesh being pressed to flesh, hands roaming, lips seeking out and searing flesh. Memorizing, never wanting to forget. Sweet cries that make the rest of the world seem far away indeed.

If they'd look, they'd see it was raining outside, the sky choked and grey, the heavens soaking the ground with their tears. Frodo cries, too, cheeks wet and sticky. His grasp on Sam falters but Sam is there to catch him as he stumbles, to pull him forwards; his arms are warm, and Frodo can feel as though the heat is branding him. Sam's presence is dizzying, his hands and his face and his chest and his lips and oh oh everything that makes him Sam. Frodo is crying out, again, incoherent and wordless, and then lips are falling together again; mutual plundering, a dizzying need to be devoured. To feel something, anything, if only for a little while. Frodo feels it, feels it blinding him, feels it as a sob lodges itself in his throat and steals away his ability to breathe.

When he does breathe again, it's with a ragged gasp, Sam's arms coiled around him like fine elven rope; Frodo hears his name whispered again again again, each time somehow different, needing wanting not living without, having to feel and taste the curve of Frodo's mouth, having to bring him into himself or else Sam would be falling apart again.

It crashes down in an instant, flushed and panting, stilling to let hands glide at a slower pace. "Sam," a murmur, a promise or so it sounds, though Sam can't tell of what. "Frodo," Sam answers, tracing the gentle curve of Frodo's chin with his fingertips.

"Never want to forget you," Frodo whispers. "I promise I won't."

He's telling Sam, then, all he can't not tell, in the only way he can; Sam takes it the only way he can, as one who doesn't understand. "No need to worry about that, sir. I'll always be with you there in the end."

Fresh tears are flooding Frodo's eyes now, and he muffles a cry of Sam's name against Sam's own lips, pulling him back towards the feather bed that waits them in the corner. The world is moving faster now, and Frodo's breath is frantic and fast. He pulls Sam down atop him, letting him grind him into the bed itself if that was what was needed, then stilling with Sam's shoulders tense under clinging hands. Eyes meet. No words are needed, no words are said. Sam kisses Frodo and settles him back onto the center of the bed. Crushing burning consuming with every ounce of his strength, crashing suddenly lik a wave against the shore, gentle, caring, hands caressing.

"I do, too," Frodo says, at length, a pause hovering between them. Sam's hand glides over the white scar on his shoulder, a breath from touching; Frodo shivers, sucking in his breath. "Sam!"

"I know."

Sam kisses him slowly, Frodo's arms wrapped around his back; Sam kneads his fingers into the comforter, Frodo moving in time beneath him. He lets his lips wander, kissing where he can; lips, cheek, chin, the arch of Frodo's neck, the soft crook between shoulder and throat, the hard thin bone of his collar, the soft expanse of his bare chest. Frodo writhes, clawing. Sam continues to kiss, still slow.

Frodo feels the lull coming over him, soft and warm and protected, even as breeches are removed and hands skim lower. His back arches up off of the comforter, Sam latching onto a soft spot of Frodo's throat. Frodo's moans echo throughout Sam's entire being, spinning, lightheaded, dizzy with expectation. His hands are curled loosely now instead of fighting; Sam's rest, one at Frodo's cheek, one at the slope of his thigh. Warm fingers brush at the fire that builds there, and Frodo is inarticulate as those fingers envelop him whole.

As he moved him, Frodo's body was welcome wide open beneath him. It was a wordless cry of pleasure that overcame Frodo, trembling as he sank down into the depths of the covers. Sam was a burning bright fire above him. "Sam," weakly, closing his eyes.

Sam kisses those eyelids, that nose and that chin. "Frodo."

It's the smell of lavender that comes to Frodo next, floating; the darkness is pierced with a soft light, and the scent grows and grows. He slides against Sam, against hands eager and soft and caring, infinitely gentle. When Sam slides into him, everything else is gone away, far away. No need for memories, no need for darkness; no haunting dreams and thoughts of a far away Ring. Uncertainties still lingered in the far reaches of his mind, but Frodo forget about them for a long, long moment. Sam forgot himself, too, the feel of Frodo all around him, the taste of Frodo's lips upon his own.

Sam loses himself in Frodo's eyes, soft fingers and softer lips. No need for worries.

A momentary taste of hope.