Work Text:
“This is much better than going to the cotillion,” says Frodo.
“I thought you liked the spring cotillion, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replies.
He lies on his stomach, gazing over the edge of the leaf on which they rest. A pollen-sooty bumble bee careens toward them. Sam redirects it with a lazy hand, sending it out on a different dusty course.
“I like the music well enough,” Frodo agrees, “but today, a great crush of revelers is a mean prospect, and enough to outweigh my desire to dance.”
His blue wings flutter with ghost-memories of dancing, thinking of his favorite songs and how they must sound right now in the cotillion glade. Frodo wiggles his feet rhythmically, finding the idea of dancing pleasing even if a party is not.
"I think that if we are not going to the party, then I will be taking off my fancy duds," remarks Sam. "These cowslips itch me; I vastly prefer my usual lambs-ears undershirts."
So saying, he pulls ruffly green party shirt off over his head and lays it aside. He lies down again on his front, nut-brown shoulders turned to catch the sun. He seems content to do nothing much with the afternoon.
Frodo wiggles out of his own bluebell tunic and dandelion pantaloons. The little fibers on the leaf tickle his bare skin, but the weather is pleasant. A slow breeze ruffles his antennae and walnut curls.
He finds himself thirsty, and plucks one of the honeysuckle blossoms that hang down about them. The goblet of petals is the size of his head, and it take both hands to tip it forward to his lips. The nectar is sweet, fizzy from the sun, and it is perfect. He plucks another blossom, extracts the stamen from the center - at the tip, a bead of nectar. Frodo taps Sam on the shoulder; he turns around sleepily, opening his mouth enough to accept the sweet delight onto his tongue.
Frodo plucks more honeysuckle, extracting the center from each for Sam. Sam rolls over to better drink the nectar. His eyes squint for a while against the sun, so he closes them and simply lets Frodo feed him. After a time, he holds his arms out to Frodo. Frodo tosses the last honeysuckle blossom, now empty, off the edge of the leaf and lays down next to Sam.
The nape of Sam's neck smells like the crushed greenery from his shirt, verdant aromas transferred onto soft skin during their earlier careless lazing. Frodo's hand roams down the soft curve of his side, then detours under the curve of his belly. Silly with the honeysuckle nectar, Sam giggles when he brushes sensitive hair. Giggling gives way to other sounds, after.
Frodo ceases his petting so he can turn about. The leaf quakes in protest at the brief struggle to find where best to set his knees about Sam's shoulders, but then Frodo settles back down between Sam's legs - now with Sam between his own - and the leaf stabilizes. The rocking begins again for more pleasurable reasons - gently, then in earnest - and then, after many delightful minutes, this too ceases.
"You were right," says Sam, voice sleepy with contentment. "This is better than the spring cotillion."