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The snow was coming down by the bucketful, and Frodo predicted that he would have to climb out a window in order to simply get out of Bag End. The pantry was fairly well-stocked for midwinter, and he had plenty of firewood, so food and drink were not an issue, and he would not freeze, but unless someone came to help dig out his door, he would not be able to open it unless he clambered from a window and dug his way out.
Just as he was watching the snow rise up over the line of his window, there was a small tap on said window. If that is Sam, I swear I will eat my knickers. That boy should not be out in this weather. Besides, the garden is fully winterized, and has been for months. I do not even know why he would be here.
Sure enough, two wide brown eyes were only barely visible through the window, heavy snow, and the hat and scarf he wore.
Frodo opened the window. “Sam, why?”
“... I made soup. My old Gaffer, the sisters and I couldn’t eat it all.”
“You are the most unreasonable, kindest little hobbit I have ever met. Get in here before you freeze to death.” Frodo stepped back.
Sam handed Frodo a pot through the window. A warm, savory smell filled Frodo’s nostrils. Sam himself followed into Bag End just a moment later, tumbling a bit and landing on one of the soft rugs on the floor. He yelped.
“Are you okay?”
Sam pulled himself up. “Just fine, Mr. Frodo. Don’t worry about old Sam.”
“You are twenty-four,” Frodo laughed. “‘Old Sam’ my foot. Now, let us get this warming on the stove, it must have gone cool by now. Get off your wet clothes--you know where to hang them. I have stoked up the fire, it is nice and warm. You must be freezing, you poor thing.”
Frodo put the pot on, pleased to see it was tomato with noodles. He returned to the fireside to find Sam already there, his teeth chattering slightly, almost inside the fireplace with how closely he was snuggled against it. Frodo pulled his largest, warmest blanket out of the closet and stumbled his way back to Sam, fluffing it over the both of them like a child’s pillow fort. Sam chuckled. “Mr. Frodo?”
“Thought it may be nice to have a blanket. I can get my own if you don’t feel like sharing, though. I was just being silly, I suppose.”
“No, no, I don’t mind.” Sam looked shyly into the fire. “... I like sharing blankets.”
Frodo snuggled against Sam’s side, and Sam leaned his head onto Frodo’s shoulder. “Well,” Frodo started, “then I’m happy to share.”
There was a pause. “... How are your sisters, by the way?” Frodo asked. “I never hear of them.”
“They’re well. May had a fever, but she is better now. Just a little winter flu, I think, nothing terrible for a tween. How are Merry and Pippin?”
“They are… well, they are Merry and Pippin. Pippin is no longer allowed beyond the Smials without supervision--he knocked over a lantern that Farmer Cotton was using to light his way around his stable in the dark and cold and burned half the barn down.” Frodo gave a snorting laugh. “So now, he cannot go exploring alone.”
“Farmer Cotton… is he the one with the pretty daughter?”
“Her name is Rose, I think.” Frodo mused.
“Rose,” Sam sighed dreamily. “She’s gorgeous as a rose.”
“You should tell her that.”
“I would rather let each of their ponies line up and kick me--I have not the courage. She would laugh at me.”
“I do not think she would laugh at you, Sam,” Frodo murmured comfortingly.
Sam was quiet for a long time. “... I think you should get the soup off the stove now.”
“Point taken,” Frodo chuckled. “I will return, plus soup.”
“Stay safe.”
“I will. It shall be a long and dangerous endeavor indeed.” Frodo extricated himself from the fluffy blanket and scrambled to the kitchen, ladling the soup into two bowls. He carefully balanced the two bowls on a tray with two cups of apple cider and two bread rolls and returned to the fireside, laying the tray in front of Sam, and curled up next to him once more.
“Thank you, Mr. Frodo,” Sam smiled.
“My pleasure.” Frodo drank his soup, careful not to spill it, feeling it swell his stomach up, tighten his shirt over his belly. It was a comforting feeling, and it warmed him from the inside.
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Frodo pulled one of his books into his lap, opening it, but not really reading. He could hear Sam’s breathing becoming softer and deeper, and when Sam started slowly shifting to be a little closer, he made no resistance.
“... What are you reading?”
“... I…” Frodo realized suddenly that he hadn’t been paying any attention to it at all. He focused. “... It’s about the final High Elvenking, called Ereinion Gil-Galad. This part is about his rescue of a young Lord Elrond--you remember Lord Elrond, from Bilbo’s stories, don’t you?”
“Mhm.”
“Good, good. Anyway, this is about how Gil-Galad took him and his brother in and cared for him after the sinking of Beleriand. It’s a nice story, really.”
“... Will you read it to me?”
“I did not know you had any knack for history.”
“I do not. I just think… the elves are so beautiful. I just… I want to be near one, just once. I’ve heard they smell like pine needles and sugar cookies, and their skin and hair are really soft.”
“I do not think they smell particularly exotic--perhaps a bit of nature, but that is just because they spend a lot of time in and around trees, I think. But I could be wrong. But yes, I can read it to you. I do not mind.”
Sam smiled shyly at the floor. “... Thank you, Mr. Frodo. You are far too kind.”
Frodo patted Sam’s back. “Don’t fret. Just get comfortable. We may be here a while.”
Sam leaned against Frodo’s shoulder, his curls tickling Frodo’s neck. Frodo put his arm around him and flipped back to the beginning of the chapter. “Gil-Galad was an Elvenking...”