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The first time Sam told Frodo he loved him was on the slopes of Mount Doom as the world crumbled around them. It seemed the natural thing to do, and Sam later wondered if he'd have done the same had it been someone other than Frodo. At some points he almost convinced himself that he would have. After all, wasn’t ‘I love you’ something anyone on the verge of death might like to hear? Wasn’t it something he’d say to any friend, any family member, to bring comfort in a moment so hopeless?
It felt easy with that excuse. He knew it meant more, but it didn’t have to. Frodo could hear it any way he chose to hear it.
So when Sam was at last able to utter the words ‘Mr. Frodo, I love you,’ he was not entirely surprised when Frodo, in turn, through tears, insisted ‘I love you .’
It was good to hear, there was no mistaking that, and in fact, Sam had longed to hear it often. If his spirits had not been dampened by the whole inescapable-death part of it, he would’ve been ecstatically happy. Even though he knew that Frodo’s words were meant differently than his own, or perhaps were only said out of desperation or of a need to preserve one last nice memory before everything faded, Sam was content for that to be their last exchange in life.
He’d never expected another like it.
When he and Frodo next spoke, they were in Minas Tirith’s Houses of Healing, and their talk was a weighty one. They discussed a lot of things, though they concluded very little. Mostly, one of them would ask some variation of ‘What’s going to happen now?’ To which the other would try his best to formulate a response more cheering than ‘I simply don’t know.’ They mentioned the events they were to attend, ceremonies and celebrations and the like, though neither seemed thrilled at the prospects of such extravagance.
Finally at a loss for what to say, Sam resorted to a new default, which, as he told himself, had been acceptable once, and thus might be permissible a second time.
‘I love you, y’know,’ he reminded.
Frodo’s arms found their way around Sam, his head gaining the passage it needed to dock itself on Sam’s shoulder.
‘Now, you must stop saying that,’ Frodo said, warmly enough. ‘I’ll get the wrong idea.’
‘There ain’t any wrong ideas,’ Sam said.
Frodo did not say anything to this, so they just sat in silence, hugging each other and hoping to forget that the last time they had touched like this, they’d been expecting the flesh to imminently burn off their starved bones. They were trying, Sam knew, not to associate each other with terror. Instead, when Sam thought of Frodo and Frodo thought of Sam, they’d remember this; they’d recall the sunlight shining through the window, the warmth, the clean clothes, the fresh bandages sticking them together, and the feeling of never wanting to detach from each other, because maybe if they could just become one, the fear of loss would no longer be a weight upon them, and then maybe they’d finally be free.
When they got home again, they recognised nothing but each other.
On his first night back in Bag End, Frodo asked Sam to stay with him. He apologised, asked again, and then apologised a second time. Sam said he would stay.
He didn’t ask before lying down in bed next to Frodo; they both knew that this was what staying meant.
They bid each other goodnight and a few minutes later, Sam heard Frodo’s voice rise again from the dark.
‘I love you,’ he said feebly, though it was very nearly a question, the way he asked it. Implied was an uncertainty about the reverse: I love you, do you still love me?
‘I love you too,’ Sam assured, and only then could they both sleep.
A few mornings later, they were sat down to breakfast. Frodo took a sip of his tea and set it down again, displeased.
‘I’ve forgotten the sugar,’ he announced unhappily.
‘I’ll get some for you, sir,’ said Sam, standing up to go retrieve the sugar from the kitchen.
‘You don’t need to wait on me,’ said Frodo. ‘I’ll get it.’
‘No,’ said Sam, insisting before Frodo could so much as begin to rise. ‘I want to.’
Frodo caught his arm before he could get much farther. ‘I love you, Sam.’
Sam couldn’t keep himself from the smallest laugh. It was an odd time to say such a thing. ‘Why, it’s only sugar, Mr. Frodo.’
‘It isn’t only sugar,’ Frodo said. He stood too, despite Sam’s best efforts to keep him from getting up unnecessarily. He held on to both of Sam’s arms, and Sam was reminded of Mount Doom and Minas Tirith and everything before and after and in between.
‘I never asked you what you meant,’ Frodo continued. ‘But this is what I meant.’ And with that he pulled Sam into a kiss so wonderful that Sam almost forgot all about the sugar he was supposed to be retrieving.
The tea itself got cold, but they brewed a new pot together, and from then on, they would think of fire only in reference to its ability to create.