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Things were different now. So different, in Sam’s mind, that his life was now firmly divided into a “before” and an “after.” The “before” consisted of his simple life in the Shire: smoking pipeweed, drinking ale at The Green Dragon, eating hearty meals, tending to the garden at Bag End. He still partook in all of these things, to be sure, but the pleasure had somewhat waned. That was the “after”: While all of these mundane activities were the same as before, he was not the same hobbit he was before, and the Shire was not the same Shire it was before, despite the arduous effort of its people to rebuild and regrow.
The most apparent and grievous change, however, was not in Sam, or even the Shire, but in his master. The difference between the Frodo Baggins of “before” and “after” was as stark as the day from the night. In the years before the Quest, Sam had possessed a tendency to observe Frodo from afar. The other hobbit was almost never without a book in hand, and he would often read while Sam worked among the flowers and herbs. He was always kind towards Sam, and sometimes ventured to read aloud to him, but, usually, his nose was buried too deep in the pages to ever pay him any significant mind. This was all well and good according to Sam, however, as it allowed him to sneak glances at the future master of Bag End whenever he pleased.
Sam knew well the talk surrounding Frodo and his Uncle Bilbo: they were queer folk with queer inclinations. Their heads were in the clouds, they spoke of Elves and the vast world outside of the comfort of the Shire. Bilbo had actually left its bounds, while Frodo, though never crossing that imaginary line, was often found right at the edge of it.
But to Sam, the proclivities of the Bagginses of Bag End were not anything to be scorned. He listened to Bilbo’s tales of adventure with rapture, he studied his letters with fervor, and he held a tantalizing desire to see the Elves in all of their reported radiance. If the Bagginses were queer, then he supposed he was queer as well.
The behavior of Frodo was not the only thing spoken of with wariness and prejudice by the other hobbits, however, as the appearance of Bilbo’s heir was equally strange. He was slender, fair of skin, and his eyes were wide and piercingly blue, which, with his dark hair, created a striking look. Sam studied these features many a time while his hands were busy with the soil and the trimming of hedges, and he thought that gazing upon Frodo was the closest he would ever come to beholding the beauty of the Elves.
Those bright blue eyes were presently closed as Sam held the wet, dark curls of Frodo’s hair in one hand while he gently combed them with the other. It had grown too long in the last months, slightly passing his shoulders, and Sam was trying his level best to cut it evenly and to Frodo’s liking, despite Frodo not caring about such matters anymore. Sam knew that if he were not there for his master, Frodo would let it grow long and unkempt. It had taken a considerable amount of convincing before he even yielded to Sam taking care of him like this in the first place.
Locks of hair fell to the floor with quiet, damp thuds as Sam made another careful cut. His focus was entirely consumed by his task, though he could perceive Frodo fingering, as always, the white jewel on the chain around his neck. He was never without it, and Sam figured it was a sort of replacement for the evil thing that once hung from his neck just the same. About his neck and collarbone remained the evidence of that previous chain, which had ripped his skin raw and bloody. Sam could see the scars clearly as he lifted Frodo’s hair from his neck to run the comb through it once again.
This had been happening with such silence and, on Sam’s part, concentration, that he gave a small start when it was broken by his master.
“Sam?”
His name. He paused in his combing. “Yes, Mr. Frodo?”
The attachment of the honorific was a signifier of something they were well beyond now, but for Sam, it was one of the few remaining things from “before,” a small comfort and familiarity in the chaos that had since ensued. He had clung to it, even if Frodo himself was not as keen on the sense of hierarchy it implied, seeing Sam now resolutely as his equal, if not his better. He had tried repeatedly to persuade Sam from his formalities, but soon gave up when he saw there did not seem to be any use.
Frodo did not answer right away, but his fidgeting with the jewel eventually ceased and he folded his hands together upon his lap. Sam noticed, as he now noticed every time he gazed lovingly at those slender fingers, the blank space on his right hand. Another indicator of the change within their world.
“I was thinking,” Frodo finally said, his voice quiet, “that I should like to read to you tonight, if you’ll listen.”
Sam could not hide the pleasant surprise on his face, and he was a little grateful that Frodo was not looking at him. He resumed his combing before answering, “Of course, Mr. Frodo. I’d love nothing more.” He didn’t mention to his master how much he had missed hearing stories in the shape of his soft voice, and how pleased he was that his master was deciding to read at all. The books in his study had gathered dust, and not all of it was solely accumulated during the year-long journey to hell and back.
“You can choose what it will be,” said Frodo. “It’s your ears that will be subjected to my voice, after all.”
“Now, Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied, keeping his tone light. “You’ve got a voice for sore ears, if I’ve ever heard one. And I will tell you, sir: my ears are the sorest.”
Frodo said nothing, but Sam heard from him a short laugh. He grinned at this rare, happy sound and thought satisfactorily of his being the one to have evoked it.
After what seemed like far too long, Sam made his final trim on the hair that framed Frodo’s face. His eyes were shut again, but they fluttered open as Sam gently placed his finger beneath his master’s chin to turn his head. He had only meant to check the evenness of his handiwork, but when he was caught in Frodo’s gaze, he became acutely aware of the intimacy of the action, and quickly dropped his hand.
“Looks good to me,” he said thickly. He took the nearby broom in hand and began sweeping the fallen curls, hoping that Frodo wouldn’t see the red in his face.
“Thank you, Sam,” said Frodo, his tone a mix of gratitude and guilt for burdening Sam with such a task. He wavered a bit before adding, “I appreciate you.”
“Think nothing of it, sir,” Sam replied. “You know your Sam is always here for you.”
In fact, after Frodo had asked Sam to move in with him and Sam had readily agreed, he was hardly anywhere else. Once simply the gardener, he was now a cook, a barber, and anything else Frodo needed him to be. But mostly, he was Frodo’s dearest friend and close companion, and that was what Frodo needed above all else. He was an anchor for his beloved master, who seemed always to be under threat of washing away to sea.
When he had finished sweeping, Sam laid out fresh nightclothes on the bed for Frodo, and left him to get changed. In the kitchen, he put the kettle on for boil, and made his way to the study meanwhile. Papers were scattered and books were piled high, abandoning any organizational sense. On the desk was a large red book: one of the few items that saw any use from Frodo, as he was slowly filling it with an account of their harrowing Quest. Beside the book lay Frodo’s journal, which Sam knew was full of his master’s poetry and more personal thoughts, though he had never viewed its contents himself.
Sam went to the bookshelf, which was the least overwhelming point in the room. Spines of varying thickness and color were arrayed here in a more appealing manner. Sam had heard most of these stories told already by both Bilbo and Frodo, and he had even attempted some of them on his own, but his desire to recapture the “before” of his life led him to choose one he had seen many a time in Frodo’s hands. It was also one that Frodo had read aloud for him one day while Sam was busy with harvesting the mint, but he had never heard the full thing. Perhaps its familiarity would also be a comfort for Frodo, who could slip back easily into the prose he once knew well.
The kettle sung and Sam hastened back to the kitchen. He prepared two cups of ginger tea with lemon (which helped soothe Frodo’s aches), and set them on a tray alongside the book he had selected. He knocked on Frodo’s bedroom door for politeness’ sake, but didn’t wait for a reply before entering.
Frodo was already in bed, sitting up against the headboard. A blanket was draped about his shoulders in spite of the hot summer night, and Sam knew it was because he almost always had a chill. He set down the tray and carefully placed a mug of tea in Frodo’s outstretched hands. Frodo immediately brought it to his nose, breathing in the comforting scent and letting the steam warm his face. He closed his tired eyes and sighed contentedly.
Sam took the other mug into his own hand, and then took his usual place on the other side of the bed. When he had first moved into Bag End, his own room was made up for him across the hall from his master. However, Frodo’s incessant night terrors woke them both, and it soon became clear that Sam’s presence was the only antidote. It was decided upon that they should spend the nights together because of this, but Sam could not help but think, blushing, that this was what married hobbits did. While he was no stranger to holding Frodo and falling asleep hand in hand, the new location of Frodo’s bed made Sam feel at times that he was crossing a line.
His master never paid much heed of propriety, however, and as Sam climbed into bed, Frodo moved closer until they touched.
“Thank you for the tea,” he said. “I feel as though all I say to you lately is ‘thank you,’ but then everything you do is for me, and is in need of thanking.”
“You know I love doing things for you.”
Frodo smiled sadly and peered into his mug. “I don’t deserve you, my dear Sam. Have I mentioned that before?” He added ruefully.
Sam studied the face he knew so well. It was once full of laughter, and Sam had adored it, but it was now stripped of its mirth. But he adored it no less in spite of this, and still found beauty there, and he knew that he had loved Frodo then, and he loved him now. Whether or no, he once said.
He wanted to say to his master now that he deserved all of the kindness and love in the world, and if Sam could give him even a sliver of it, he would, and happily, but he simply lifted Frodo’s hand and kissed it, his lips lingering for longer than they likely should have. Now this is definitely what married hobbits do, he thought shyly.
He cleared his throat. “You have, but if you don’t mind me saying so, sir, it’s still as false as ever.”
Eventually, he produced the book for Frodo, who ran his fingers over the deep blue leather, the embossed title, the deckled edge. Sam could see that some memory of peaceful life in the Shire had come back to him at the appearance of this book, which he opened and began to read. It was like most stories the two of them had separately grown up on: there was an adventure, distant lands never before seen, strange people never before met, and, of course, love. Frodo’s voice, while tinged with a weariness that never seemed to dissipate, was still just as musical to listen to as Sam remembered. He had always been more soft-spoken than most, something that Sam found charming, and it reminded him of a cool, bubbling brook on a warm summer morning. Comforting, soothing, familiar.
Sam listened to the sprawling story with pleasure, until Frodo’s voice faltered and ceased.
“...and so the ship was boarded and they sailed across the Sea to–”
Sam looked up from his (now empty) mug and saw his master’s discomforted expression, his unfocused eyes.
“...Mr. Frodo?” Sam whispered.
Abruptly, the book was shut. Frodo set it back onto the tray and refocused his eyes on Sam. It looked as if he wanted to say something, and his hand had subconsciously returned to the white jewel, but he seemed to decide against speaking it, and he folded his hands in his lap once again. He looked away.
“I’m too tired to read any further tonight, Sam,” he murmured. “Forgive me.”
“Well, of course, Mr. Frodo,” came the worried reply. “I enjoyed what you did read more than I can say. It was a right treat to hear a story from you.” I really do love your voice, he added to himself. “I suppose it is late. Let’s get to sleeping. You need the rest.”
He blew the candles out and pulled his master close in his arms. He knew this was what Frodo wanted–what he always wanted–and he was simply doing his service, but a certain guilt crept into his chest at his hidden feelings. If Frodo knew that none of this had ever been out of mere service or obligation, but a deep and long-standing love, what would he do? What would he say? Would he laugh, mocking?
But Sam knew that Frodo was nothing if not wholly, terribly kind. Even if his master did know the true depth of Sam’s devotion, Sam was sure that Frodo wouldn’t spurn him. And as he gazed upon his master’s face, illuminated by the soft moonlight through the window, his heart swelled with love once more. It was a love perhaps forbidden, but genuine and pure all the same. Nothing felt more real or solid to Sam than what he felt for Frodo, and he held him a little closer.
*
Things were different. He was different. Irrevocably changed, mutated by a weight so heavy it bore into his flesh, his mind. He was relieved to be rid of that weight, yet he craved its return.
A white jewel, in the shape of a twinkling star, took its place.
It was a ticket of sorts–a way out. If he found himself truly and irreparably broken, this new weight would bear him across the Sea.
And he dreamed of it, the Sea. He often stood on a white, sandy shore, and he could hear the gulls crying high in the sky. They seemed to be calling him. The seabirds, and the foamy gray waves themselves, felt to him his only friends. If he walked into the waters, they would envelope him in an understanding, healing embrace. The Sea would know him and reach him in all the ways he longed for, and it would deliver him on a distant shore, far away from Middle-Earth, and he would be washed of all that burdened him.
For some time after returning to the Shire, he considered it in earnest. There seemed to be nothing left for him. No joy, no pleasure, no contentment. The Shire was not his any longer, nor was Bag End. The hole seemed alien, its contents foreign, and he himself like stranger in even stranger lands. It seemed obvious to him, then, that the only life for him now lay on the other side of an endless expanse of waters.
There was but one thing stopping him.
Frodo couldn’t help but smile as Sam laid a bowl of fresh, bright strawberries in front of him. They were dusted with powdered sugar and sweet-smelling. Of course, they were from the garden, and were grown by Sam’s own tender hands. Frodo took a bite and thought of how loved he truly was. He was bathed, his hair was trimmed, and he was fed. He was sure that none of this would be accomplished without Sam.
Sam.
Before the Ring had come to him, Frodo hadn’t paid the gardener’s son much mind. He was a sweet, polite hobbit, and certainly one of the most handsome that Frodo had ever seen, but he knew the way he was spoken of in town, and he was sure that Sam shared a similar train of thought about him. He was quite shocked when Sam had asked him to keep going one day, when he had caught Frodo reading out loud to himself. This became a sort of habit between the two of them, though Frodo was never sure that Sam understood everything the way he himself did. This bias made him embarrassed even now, as he eventually learned how deep, thoughtful, and clever Sam truly was, and that he never was of a like mind with the rest of the Shire.
It wasn’t until he was able to reflect on the perilous Quest, writing it out with varying degrees of difficulty, did Frodo come to the conclusion that he was in love with Sam. The continued care that Sam gave to him, though the Quest was now over, served only to strengthen his feelings. Any reoccurring thoughts of the Sea were quickly stymied by his thoughts of Sam: solid, warm, gentle. And as he ate these beautiful strawberries, he was lost in a rare moment of certainty that there was something for him here.
He had been guilt-ridden at the beginning for how he continued to be a burden for Sam, but he saw the way his companion chose him utterly and completely, and he was not about to deny him his choice. The work both he and Sam put into assuaging his anxieties was significant.
Though, once Frodo had realized the full extent of his love towards Sam, a new sort of guilt took over, in which he figured himself the selfish master of an unwitting servant, who would certainly be unwilling of tasks such as the nightly sharing of the bed if he knew his master’s thoughts about him.
Frodo colored mid-bite as he pictured Sam’s strong arms around him from just last night, and slowly set down the strawberry.
“Everything all right, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked, now setting down a tall plate of hotcakes.
Frodo coughed but soon recovered. “Yes, more than all right, Sam. These strawberries are the best I’ve ever had.” Perhaps I wouldn’t have forgotten the taste if they had been Sam’s, he thought, with pitiful humor.
Sam smiled and blushed as he took his place at the table across from Frodo, clearly pleased with the praise. Frodo peered at him lovingly: his soft smile (which Frodo sometimes desired to kiss), his curls, like golden honey in the sunlight (which Frodo sometimes wanted to run his fingers through), his warm brown eyes (which Frodo sometimes found himself swimming in). He was the same handsome hobbit Frodo had always thought he was, objectively, but now it was entirely different. Like everything else.
“What’s on your schedule for today?” Sam asked, cutting through his racing thoughts.
“Hm? Oh, well I suppose I shall work on my… book.”
Sam nodded. “Where are you up to now, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Frodo hummed in thought. “Not far. Weathertop, I think.”
Sam looked at him with something excruciatingly similar to worry, but said nothing. Frodo felt pathetic.
“It won’t be so bad. I can handle it.” He tried to sound convincing.
“I know you can, sir,” was Sam’s response. “But don’t forget, if ever you need me, you just call.”
*
Sam busied himself with laundry and prepped for lunch before heading out to the garden, which was, of course, his favorite place. He loved to feel the cool earth on his hands and feet, and he was forever captivated by the beauty of flowers, herbs, and all growing things. They were a reminder that things needed only love and care in order to grow, and that they could all be salvaged in a capable hand. He prided himself on his ability to turn the brown and rotting into the lush and green.
The bees were buzzing lazily in the rosemary and the sun was nearing her peak when Sam sat back and wiped his brow. He admired the plants in silence until the sound of the front door opening, closing made him turn his head.
Frodo was approaching him. Sam set down his tools and stood, waiting to meet him.
“Mr. Fr–”
He was cut off when Frodo embraced him wordlessly, burying his face in his shoulder. Sam was surprised, but he quickly returned the embrace. They swayed in the garden, the bees droning meanwhile. But Sam had tuned out all other sounds as he held tightly to Frodo. He waited for his master to speak first.
Eventually, Frodo pulled away to look at Sam, but he did not remove his hands from the other hobbit, and neither did Sam. They remained tethered to each other as Sam searched his face for an explanation.
Frodo let out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry. I’ve written it, but remembering it all was…” Tears sprung to his eyes, but he blinked rapidly, trying to dispel them.
A lump rose in Sam’s throat at the sight of this, and he pulled Frodo close once again. He stroked his dark hair and let him cry, though he fought back tears himself. When he sensed that his master was fully soothed and had ceased crying, they drew apart once more. The sun was bearing down on them now and Sam became worryingly aware of how flushed Frodo’s skin was.
“The sun’s baking you,” said Sam. He wanted to tell Frodo to head back inside, but he also did not want him to be alone, and there was still work to be done in the garden. Instead, he removed his straw hat and placed it on his master’s head. This sight made Sam smile fondly, and Frodo smiled in return, fiddling with the brim. “Wait right here, Mr. Frodo. I’m just about done, and then we can go in for lunch.”
Frodo assented and sat in the grass. Sam felt his gaze on him until the last leaf was pruned.
*
When they had first come home to the Shire, Frodo felt it necessary to hide his sickness and his pain, especially from Sam. Sam had carried him in more ways than one throughout their Quest, and he wasn’t about to let him keep carrying him once the Quest was over. But there was no hiding things from Sam, always observant. Frodo learned that sharing the load really was the best thing, for both of them. Even if he struggled at times to accept this.
But there was one thing he was reluctant to share with Sam at all: his dreams and promise of what lay across the Sea.
What was there he could say about it? I almost left Middle-Earth, and you. Sometimes I still think about it. But you keep me here, because you love me, and I think I’m in love with you.
His thoughts were flooded with the Sea and with Sam as he lay in the warm tub. Sam would often assist him with this routine, but Frodo was feeling shyer than usual today. Watching Sam labor away in the garden that noon had affected him to a peculiar extent.
When he had finished his washing, with some admitted difficulty, he dried and deliberately looked away from the mirror. He couldn’t bear to observe himself, as if seeing his reflection would confirm how broken he was. He knew he looked unwell most days, and he was already aware of the various scars across his body: at his neck, at both shoulders, at his back and sides. At his hand. Setting his eyes upon them in such a manner as the mirror provided would simply be too much.
In his room, he dressed for bed and waited for Sam, who was occupied with preparing tea in the kitchen. Like always, he knocked and immediately entered, and handed Frodo his mug. It was chamomile this time. He took a sip as Sam climbed in beside him.
“I chose a different book this time,” said Sam. He passed it to Frodo.
This one wore a brown cover and gold embossings. Frodo could not recall ever seeing it before, much less reading it. He didn’t know what it contained; he hoped there was no mention of the Sea, or ships, or gulls. He read on tentatively, but in the end, there were only Elves and a dragon. It certainly wasn’t as good of a story as his Uncle Bilbo’s, and it put both he and Sam to sleep.
Frodo woke as the sunlight hit his face, and through bleary eyes, he saw Sam pulling back the curtains, already dressed and ready for the day. He smiled fondly when he saw that Frodo had awakened.
“Good morning, sir,” he said.
Sleepily, Frodo reached out towards Sam, who took his hand and stroked it with his thumb. Frodo’s senses were not fully awake, but the gentle touch sent warmth through him, and he thought that he should never like to be let go of in this moment.
And while eventually his hand was released from Sam’s grasp, Sam’s own hands moved to other places on his body as he helped his master rise and dress and groom. As he touched Frodo’s back, his waist, his hair, the warmth spread even further and colored Frodo’s cheeks redder than the sun had.
They breakfasted and later they breakfasted again, and in between these brief moments of leisure, Frodo toiled through his book. He had to sift through the memories of his journey: some pleasant, most terrible. He was not at all surprised to find that almost all of the pleasant memories had to do with Sam. He would call Frodo back from the brink of darkness, he would make him laugh in spite of the horror without them and the dread within them.
And with every memory of Sam he recollected and transcribed, he felt himself falling in love again and again and again.
*
This became a new addition to their bedtime routine: Sam would go to the study, select a book from the shelf (and always one that neither of them had read before, at Frodo’s insistence), and he would listen to his master’s soft voice until sleep fell upon them.
One night, however, an alteration was made. As usual, Sam was in the study, contemplating which book to bring back to bed, when he saw Frodo’s journal on the table. Typically clasped shut, it was now opened wide to a page that appeared to be poetry. It was a lengthy poem, he observed, as he moved closer, and it had various notes and revisions. Sam had only meant to take a peek, but curiosity reigned over him, and he read his way through its entirety. It was a complex piece of writing, as expected of a hobbit as learned as Frodo, with an ample amount of Sea imagery and a profound sense of isolation. Sam knew at once it was a reflection of his master’s state of mind.
Now unable to stop, Sam read on, and as he did so he felt his heart stop. Disclosed here seemed to be the truth of the white jewel that had replaced the Ring of Power about Frodo’s neck: it was a representation of his master’s guaranteed place in the Undying Lands, far away from Middle-Earth. Far away from Sam. From the sound of it, it seemed that Frodo truly meant to go. He truly meant to leave him.
Was Sam’s love not enough?
Sam shut the journal and hurried from the study without a choice of book. When he reached Frodo’s room, he halted outside the door and tried to collect his thoughts. Should he bring this up now? His knowledge of it was a breach of privacy, after all. Frodo had never told him, so clearly he hadn’t wanted him to know. But what if one day Sam woke up and Frodo wasn’t there? What if, in the middle of the night, he slipped out and away to the shores of Middle-Earth–and beyond? Sam couldn’t bear the thought of it, couldn’t stomach the possibility of it. His love for Frodo outweighed any care at being reprimanded, and he made his decision.
Upon his entering, Frodo sat up and smiled at him. Sam’s heart constricted.
“What did you choose this time?” Frodo asked, referring to that which Sam had neglected.
Sam did not respond, but came and sat on the edge of the bed near his master. He looked at his lap despondently.
“Sam? What’s wrong?” The concern in Frodo’s voice made Sam feel even guiltier than he already did.
Without thinking, he grabbed Frodo’s hands in his and said “Forgive me, sir. Forgive your Sam. I saw what I guess I wasn’t supposed to.”
Frodo’s brows knit together. “What exactly did you see…?” he asked, but it seemed to Sam that he already knew.
He breathed in shakily. “Well, your journal was open,” he forced out. “And I didn’t mean to, sir, honest, but I couldn’t stop once I’d begun. And you’re a wonderful poet, sir, I suppose I was captivated by your words and I just kept reading on–”
“Sam.”
At this firm utterance of his name, Sam dared to raise his eyes.
The look on Frodo’s face was not at all what he was assuming it would be. It wasn’t angry or hurt; it was just sad.
Frodo placed his hand on the side of Sam’s face, and Sam stilled at the unexpected, yet welcome, touch.
“My dear Sam,” said Frodo gently. Sam was ready for his next words to be a blow. “You’ve called me ‘sir’ one too many times today.” Frodo’s lips formed a small smile.
His master was full of unexpectancies at the moment. Why wasn’t he upset with him? His vision blurred as hot tears rose to his eyes.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo murmured as the first tear escaped. He gathered Sam to him and this time it was Frodo stroking his hair and rocking him as Sam dissolved into sobs. He clung tightly to Frodo’s nightshirt and his tears wet the collar.
This time it was Sam who was mollified in Frodo’s arms, and it was Frodo who finally leaned back and searched his tear-streaked face and red-rimmed eyes. Sam looked back dolefully.
“I’m not upset with you, Sam,” placated Frodo. “It’s all right; you’ve seen every part of me, anyway.” He sighed. “Though there are some things I never told you. I expect that’s what you saw.”
Sam sniffed. “Are you leaving, sir?”
Frodo frowned. “Can’t we drop the formalities for now, Sam?”
“Yes, s– Yes.”
“Thank you.” Frodo cupped Sam’s face in both hands. “No. I’m not leaving, Sam.”
“B-but all those things you wrote. That jewel you always have. You said it meant you were to go across the Sea, with the Elves.” He felt as if he were going to weep again. “And you wouldn’t come back.” You’d leave me here alone.
Frodo’s thumbs wiped away his spilling tears. “I almost did, yes,” he whispered. “And sometimes I still think about it.” (Here Sam began to shake). “But I promise you I will never do it… because I always think about something much stronger.”
“...And what’s that?” Sam asked hoarsely.
Frodo let out a breath and removed his hands from Sam’s face. “The reason I kept all of this from you to begin with.”
If Sam wasn’t lost and confused and desperate before, he certainly was now. Frodo must’ve seen the bafflement and uncertainty in his face because he sighed once again and clasped Sam’s hands, returning his touch.
“It might… complicate things,” he said. “If I tell you, there might not be any more pretending that things can be the way they used to be.” He caught Sam’s gaze with his own. “Do you still want to know?”
Sam did want to know, but he had also spent so much time and effort in recreating the version of his life he had lost. But he realized with a sudden pang of sadness that it would never be. The Quest has changed him, it had changed Frodo, and it had changed their home. Change leaked through the cracks even as he tried to patch them in vain. No amount of pretending would ever make that untrue.
He took an unsteady breath. “I do.”
Frodo seemed just as unsteady as he was at that answer. He blushed and broke their eye contact and his hands went still. Sam was beginning to fear that Frodo was never going to tell him when he heard, in a muted tone:
“My love for you, Sam.”
“...Sorry?” Sam was puzzled.
Frodo’s blush deepened. “My love for you.” He suddenly gripped Sam’s hands. “Samwise Gamgee, I’m in love with you.”
Sam stared, unmoving.
When he didn’t react, Frodo plowed on. “That’s why I’m staying. My love for you is stronger than the Sea. It’s all I think about–you are all I think about. Because… you love me too, even if it might be of a different sort. You’re the kindest, most caring person I have ever known.”
Frodo was in love with him. Sam was in such shock and disbelief that words completely and utterly failed him. He kept staring at his master, whose face was burning and whose wide blue eyes were darting about the room, landing on everything but Sam himself.
“And I know this may make you feel… uncomfortable. I’m truly sorry. If you want to forget about it, or leave Bag End, I understand,” Frodo continued, though Sam wasn’t really hearing him now. “But any decision you come to won’t affect my decision to stay, so–”
For so long Sam was trying to reject the change. He had kept his feelings for Frodo hidden, not wanting to disturb what they already had. But it was always there, and now they were as close as they had ever been. If all of those terrible things had never happened, would he and Frodo have ever gotten to be friends? Perhaps not all change was so terrible, or something to run away from. Perhaps, sometimes, it was meant to be embraced.
Frodo’s rambling was cut short as Sam closed the space between them and kissed him.
It was a brief, chaste thing, but it sent Sam’s heart racing. As he drew back, he could see that Frodo was the one staring wordlessly now, and his grip on Sam’s hands had tightened so severely that it was beginning to pain him.
“Um...Mr. Frodo?”
By way of an answer, Frodo released his grip and grasped forcefully at the front of Sam’s shirt, pulling him into another kiss. It was desperate, as if he couldn’t get Sam close enough for his liking. Sam had to place his hand on Frodo’s thigh to steady himself. His head was spinning.
Eventually, he found himself above Frodo, who had lowered himself down onto the bed by pulling Sam closer and closer on top of him. Sam broke their kiss and tried to regain his breath. This all seemed to have progressed rather quickly, though he wasn’t averse to it in the slightest. But he needed to speak more with Frodo before continuing.
“Sam?” Frodo panted. He looked angelic like this, with pink cheeks and tousled hair. I did that, thought Sam a little loftily.
“Mr. Frodo–”
“Frodo.”
Sam looked down at him questioningly.
“Call me Frodo,” he clarified. “None of this ‘mister’ or ‘sir’ anymore. Please? I think we’re well beyond it now.” He laughed. “Even you can’t argue with that.”
“Right,” said Sam, smiling at Frodo’s laughter and the humor of the situation they were in. If this were really happening, he supposed clinging to that old manner of addressing the other hobbit was out of the question.
“Frodo…” Sam began again, testing the undressed name. It was new, but so was all of this. “Did you really mean all of that? You’re– You–”
“Yes, Sam,” Frodo said softly. “Every word.” His fingers were dragging slowly through Sam’s hair and Sam delighted at the sensation.
“You’re not making fun?” He knew he wasn’t, but he needed the vocal assurance.
“Making fun? Goodness, Sam, is that what you think?”
“No, s– Frodo. No… at least I’m hoping.”
Frodo laughed gently again. His fingers tightened in Sam’s hair and he pulled him down for another kiss.
“No, Sam,” he whispered. “I’m not making fun.” He suddenly turned solemn. “And you’re not doing this out of obligation, are you?”
“No! Not at all!” He swallowed. “I’ve been loving you for some time, Frodo.”
And here he took Frodo’s maimed hand and kissed it, and then his lips met Frodo’s once again, and then his own hands moved to the buttons at Frodo’s neck. Frodo breathed in sharply as he clumsily unfastened them, and Sam’s mouth left Frodo’s to kiss tenderly at his jaw and throat and then at his (now exposed) scarred collar and shoulder. Sam had often imagined doing this: pressing his lips to Frodo’s aching scars and bestowing some comfort there. His heart skipped as he drank in the reality of it.
“Oh, Sam,” Frodo breathed weakly, but his words were full of love. He didn’t get the chance to say much else as Sam’s kiss returned to his lips and they were both enveloped in their love for the other.
*
Things were different now.
Frodo was different. He was changed down to his very soul. He was often tired, he fell ill on certain days of the year, and at times he struggled with his own care and keeping.
He wouldn’t ever be the hobbit he was before.
But with this change came a deep love for the person who shared it with him: his sturdy gardener, his devoted friend, who had even changed himself.
It was inevitable, thought Frodo, that their relationship would change as well. A gardener’s son and a master’s heir—would they have ever grown so intimate if not for the hardships they had endured?
Frodo scrawled these last few thoughts in his journal before retiring to his room. Sam was already there, of course, holding the tea tray.
“Frodo,” he said, grinning. Every time Sam said his name, Frodo could hear that he was stumbling over the dropped “mister,” and his effort endeared him to Frodo even more.
“Sam,” replied Frodo, with equal mirth. “What do you have for me tonight?”
“Rose petal,” said Sam, passing him his tea. “Grown by me.”
Frodo inhaled. “It smells delightful, Sam.”
Sam blushed a little. Frodo’s praise always meant more than any other, and always reassured him of how much Frodo appreciated him.
“And what shall I read tonight?” Frodo asked.
Sam happily unveiled his selection: a thick green volume on horticulture.
“That’s not much of a story,” laughed Frodo.
“No,” smiled Sam. He took Frodo’s hand in his and kissed him sweetly. “But I could listen to you read anything. And I happen to like this subject.”
So they lay together, the closeness taking on a whole new meaning, but one that still radiated comfort as it always had. Frodo read, Sam listened, and they fell asleep with the promise of tomorrow in their hearts.