By: Dana
Summary: It isn't so surprising, really, that Merry's attention has fallen onto Sam.
Characters: Sam, Merry, Frodo, Pippin
Pairings:: Sam/Merry
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash
Author's Notes: A Christmas-ficlet (actually, a drabble-set) for Ruby Nye.
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.

It was half-way through the summer when Merry goes visiting to Bag End, and half-way through that visit, by the time that idle summer boredom has turned to thoughts of greater play. There are only so many hobbits his own age in the Hobbiton area, and Merry has no desire to go walking to even Bywater, or any further than that. It is an excuse, at least, to escape Pippin's constant tagalong attention - there really are other things he'd rather be doing, than tending to his younger kin.

It isn't so surprising, really, that his attention has fallen onto Sam.

"Frodo," Pippin says, at supper, like he's got some great secret, one he's been waiting, and wanting, to share. "Frodo, I saw something, today. Out in the garden, if you want to know."

"What did you see, Pippin?" Frodo asks, half-absently, as if he's not paying attention, buttering a scone. Merry must not really be listening, either, though his interest perk, if only at what Pippin does say:

"It was Merry, Frodo," Pippin says. "He was out there, tumbling with that gardener of yours. Sam's his name, I think? Yes," Pippin finishes, with all his fourteen-year-old wisdom. "Sam."

Merry chokes.

He looks to be about his own age, sun-warmed skin and sunlight dancing in his curls. He's broader, and Merry wonders if he's any taller - Merry can't tell, as he's kneeling at the roses. His movements are careful, yes, but effortless, too; like he was born with the pruning shears right in his hand.

Well, he'd looked long enough. Merry clears his throat, and the lad lifts his head. "Hullo there."

He squints. "You're Mister Frodo's cousin, aren't you, sir?"

Merry nods. "I am. And what shall I call you?"

"Sam, sir, if you'd like. And what shall I call you?"

Frodo sputters. "Pippin - "

"But he was, Frodo, I saw it myself."

"It wasn't anything like that," Merry gasps, pounding on his chest. He can breathe, clearly, and he downs what's sitting in his mug, blinking his eyes against the burn of tears. "It was - well, it wasn't anything like that."

"What was it, then?"

"Pippin!" Frodo gasps. "What was it, then?"

"It was just kissing," Merry says, shooting Pippin a glare.

"You'd just not got to the tumbling, then," Pippin mutters, though he is ignored.

"Well," Frodo carefully says, "at least I know you're getting on with Sam."

It had only been kissing, and even that had been a surprise. Flirting and kissing were nothing new for Merry, and he had plenty of friends back home in Buckland - well, at least for the flirting, and for the kissing, as only once had he gone any further than that. Sam was - well, unexpected.

"I'd thought you shy," Merry says, grinning.

"Well, sir," Sam replies, and his tone and expression both are earnest, "I wouldn't want to seem bold."

"Well, Sam," Merry says, after he's thought on it long and hard, "I'd like to see more of you being bold."

They don't speak of it again that night, and Merry doesn't see Sam again for two days more. Between then and then, there is one conversation with Pippin - "What were you hoping for, Pip?" and a strained "Merry, I don't feel like talking about that now" as its reply - and a more complicated or three talks with Frodo, where Frodo not-so-clearly states that Sam had best not end up unhappy, or uncomfortable -- his gardener, of all hobbits.

(That was Frodo for you, though: queer like a Brandybuck, cracked like a Baggins.)

They'd only kissed. There was nothing to fear.

"Hullo, Sam."

Sam tilts his head up, and smiles. "Hullo, Mister Merry."

He's weeding, squatting down, and his attention is down in the earth, where his hands are, too. "I've been thinking. Well, I've thought a bit, that is. Hmm."

Sam looks up at him, again. "Sir?"

"Well."

Sam stands, wiping dirty hands off on his trousers. "I've been thinking, too."

"Have you?"

Sam nods, and steps closer - and kisses him, right there, with the begonias at their feet - certainly he must taste Merry's surprise. Sam pulls back, and simply says: "Well, about what you'd said, sir. About being bold."