Title: Periwinkle F**king Blue Sky
LOTR ~ Frodo/Faramir ~ PG-13
Betas: Claudia603 and Trianne
Summary: Umbar crack-fic, baby, inspired by Lorie's immortal description of the sky one day in Chicago.
Faramir was far too cheerful in temperament. Frodo decided that soon after they moved to Umbar and set up house in the pleasant old villa with the terrace overlooking the bay and the stone dolphins guarding the front gate. Though Frodo realized there was much to be cheerful about, sometimes Faramir’s sunny temperament was too much for a hobbit who liked to begin his days quietly. He far preferred to wake up and sniff the air for a few minutes, to adjust to the mere fact that it was morning again, instead of being bothered by a rather large, somewhat clumsy Big Person. It really was too annoying.
Take this morning, for example. When Frodo woke up, the sun was streaming into their bedroom as it was wont to do every day of the year, making it impossible for him to sleep any longer. He sat up and looked about, squinting at that yellow thing glaring at him. Hmph. And it wasn’t even summer!
“Fiddlesticks. Aren’t there any clouds to be found? Most rude of the sun to show her face like that this early in the day.”
“Good morning!” Faramir stood in the doorway, his face and hair wet from his morning wash.
There it was, that hopeful look on Faramir’s face. It never went away, did it? Sometimes he reminded Frodo of one of those large golden dogs with plumy tails who were always bounding here and there and laughing while they did it.
“Good morning,” Frodo answered, attempting to make his voice match Faramir’s in cheerfulness.
The sun went behind a cloud, metaphorically speaking. “Is something wrong, my love?”
Frodo drew back the covers and climbed out of bed. He stretched. “Certainly not. Why should there be?”
“I have a terrible headache!” Faramir’s face and body glowed with good health.
“From what, may I ask?” Frodo said.
“Well, that was a lot of wine we drank last night.”
“You don’t seem harmed by it.”
“Frodo, are you getting anniversary sickness already? Isn’t it a bit early for that?”
“Hmph.” Fighting words, those were. Frodo stomped over to Faramir, pulling his nightshirt away from his skin. It was that hot already, and not even nine in the morning yet.
“Does your shoulder hurt? Your neck? Does your finger throb with phantom pain?” With each of Faramir’s questions, the golden dog’s plumy tail drooped a bit closer to the ground, and his expression grew more and more anxious.
Frodo took a deep breath. Faramir loved him—truly, deeply, madly, as the saying was. “No, Faramir, my shoulder, neck and finger are fine though, like you, I have a slight headache.”
Faramir stroked Frodo’s forehead, pushing aside soft hair already damp from the morning sun. “Of all the legends I ever heard about hobbits, I never realized their penchant for waking up grumpy.”
Frodo bristled. “Only in the summer!”
Faramir raised an eyebrow but only said, “Come outside. I’ve made breakfast. That ought to sweeten you a little.”
Though he wanted to hold onto his irritation for a little longer, the promise of a good breakfast—and Faramir had turned into a fine cook under Frodo’s tutelage—did rather brighten the outlook. So Frodo said, “Just let me wash up and I’ll be out in a minute.”
Frodo misspoke. It only took him 45 seconds to splash his face and neck with cool water, shrug into his clothes and pad through the house and onto the terrace, where Faramir the Golden and Patient waited for him.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Faramir said, passing Frodo the jug of orange juice. “The sky reminds me of periwinkles, it’s so bright and clear. Did I ever tell you about the time my old nurse helped me plant an entire walkway of periwinkles. So lovely.”
Bright? Yes, it was bright, so bright Frodo had to squint his eyes nearly closed as he made his way to the table, no longer sure that breakfast was such a good idea when it had to be consumed under such sultry conditions. Nevertheless, he was never one to say no to breakfast so he dug in and was soon deeply and intimately engaged with his provender.
“Frodo?” That was after about ten minutes of steady going.
“What do you think? The sky?”
Frodo looked up, first at Faramir’s bright and shining face, then up at the blasted sky, then back at his plate. “Periwinkle fucking blue sky … that’s what I think.” And with that, Frodo took his plate and retreated inside where at least it would be a little cooler.