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Being able to wake every morning was a beautiful thing. That was obvious, as it meant that one was alive and that was-- by all means-- very healthy and good.
But that wasn't exactly what Sam had decided he enjoyed about it.
He liked being an early riser-- sure, one of his bedmates was never too long to follow, but he still got to see a peace every morning that felt blessed-- and all his own.
Soft morning light streamed through the curtain-- in areas where the fabric wasn't quite as bunched up it seemed honeyed like sunset, but nay, it was dawn.
When he was younger his father would have cuffed his ear for still being abed when the sun rose his weary head, but that was far away from him now. He gardened for his leisure only— and for the delight of his lovers, who still soundly slept beside him.
Frodo lay in the middle, having not been disturbed by his leaving of the embrace. Instead he simply pressed closer to Rosie, who put a soft brown arm around him.
Sam observed with perfect stillness, trying to commit it to memory even though he'd been waking to this every morning for many seasons at this point. It didn't change the way it made him feel.
Rosie, her brown hair capped but still trying its damnest to escape the fabric, soft hair curling out delicately against her forehead. If she were awake he'd twist it gently round his finger, and it'd probably make her giggle like a lass. Her hooked nose was burrowed into Frodos dark hair, but he could still see part of her face— the very corner of her plush mouth, turned upwards in a light smile. A wrinkle formed at its edge, one which he very much liked to thumb over when they talked about growing old and the beauty of being able to do such a thing side by side.
Frodo was nestled into her clavicle, his pale arm pulling her in firmly. His long dark hair was tied back, but still pooled behind him on the bed like a lake under moonlight, the morning rays catching on grey hairs like the shimmer of duck feathers. He touched it just to feel how soft it was, and knew if he leaned in close he'd be able to smell the oatmeal soap that Rosie and Marigold had made just a few weeks prior.
He didn't— instead basking in the sound of their mingled breath, the gentle murmur of Rosie as she came close to waking. She wouldn't be long now— he knew that. Her pretty dark brow twitched with awareness, and he could see that shifting of her legs beneath the eiderdown— ready to stretch the sleep away and get a move on for the morning.
If he could do it justice, he'd paint the scene before him— something to make his husband and wife understand just how beautiful they looked together. Something to keep it undisturbed, like a sweet jam stored on the shelf.
But— he'd not wish it to last forever either. Rosie's brown eye cracked open, and the smile on her round face deepened.
Life was too wonderful— he couldn't possibly ask it to stay still.