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Mr Bilbo’s garden looked strange by moonlight. Though Sam had passed a thousand times after sunset, never before had he tried to enter. And yet, somehow, for reasons he did not even fully understand, he had found himself with his hand on the gate.
Oh ninnyhammers, did the gate still creak? Had he remembered to oil the hinges? At this late hour, with a few beers inside him and a head that would not stop spinning, he genuinely could not recall. Sam glanced up at Bag End, at the window behind which he knew lay Mr Bilbo’s bedroom. Behind the pristine white curtains, there was nothing but darkness. Not even the flickering light of a candle. Surely the old man was fast asleep – and tonight Sam really needed him to stay that way.
It wasn’t worth the risk. Led by the sort of courage that only mad hope – and a couple of halves – could inspire, Sam braced himself, and climbed up onto the gate. He swung his legs over the top, and landed on the garden path with a soft flump.
Oh, would you look at those hydrangeas! Sam tutted as he automatically knelt beside the bush and ran his hand over the roots; dry already! Such a thirsty, thirsty old plant. He would have to water them first thing in the – oh noodle, what was he doing? Quickly, he straightened up, and fixed his eyes upon the second bedroom window, at the other end of the smial…the window with pretty yellow curtains, which were also closed over a dark room. As his heart skipped, he felt rather sick. Oh, what was he doing?
But he was here now. And there was no turning back, there wasn’t.
It had been the simplest thing.
Considering the remarkable place to which that evening had led him, it had started off so ordinary. Just quiet little table in the corner of the Green Dragon, a couple of halves, and the hobbit he liked most in the whole world. Well – he hadn’t met every hobbit in the whole world, that was true, but he couldn’t imagine that there could possibly be someone out there he liked more. Just as he could not imagine anything sweeter than looking up over the top of his tankard to see that hobbit smiling back at him. It was such a strange smile, quiet somehow, with downcast eyes, and even after all these years of receiving it, it never failed to set his heart racing so fast it made him dizzy. Hour upon hour they had sat at their usual table and talked about everything and nothing. Hour upon hour Sam had watched his master, the way his eyelashes folded over his cheeks, the way his mouth stretched wide as he laughed…it all seemed so dreadfully important. And hour upon hour, Sam had imagined all the ways he could tell his dear Mr Frodo how he really felt.
It was stupid. He knew it was stupid - so stupid, Sam was ashamed of his own imagination. Even if he did somehow pluck up the courage to tell him, why would Frodo Baggins, beautiful, wealthy, and connected Frodo Baggins, ever look at a gaffer’s boy? It was like asking the sun to love a lighted match. Still…that did not stop him dreaming.
“She likes you…” Mr Frodo was whispering, raising an eyebrow.
“Who?” Sam’s elbow had almost slipped off the table in surprise; he had been too busy gazing at him to notice that he was still talking.
“Her.” Frodo nodded at the bar. There, cleaning a glass with a dishrag and staring off into space, was Rosie Cotton. As pretty as the day was long, with ribbons in her curly hair…She was lovely, as lovely as anything - and yet, Sam’s eyes had already wondered back to his master. After all, Frodo was the sun; it didn't matter how pretty the stars were, he was blind to all but the hobbit he adored.
“Er…” He gave an awkward cough, feeling his cheeks beginning to flush. “Beggin' your pardon, Mr Frodo, but I think you’ve got that wrong." He gave an awkward chuckle. "Goodness, why would someone like that ever look at me...”
Frodo was astonished. Those eyes, the eyes Sam saw every time he closed his own, were as wide as the sea. “What are you talking about?”
"Erm..." Sam frowned at his master; surely the answer was plain? Why would anyone ever look at him? He was just...he was only...As long as he had loved the hobbit in front of him, he had been more painfully aware of his shortcomings by the day. If Frodo Baggins would not look at him, why should anyone else? Why would he even want them to?
“Sam.” But Frodo was leaning forward a little, lowering the pitch of his voice. Though his mouth was smiling...his eyes were oddly dull. There was a strange, probing quality to his gaze, like one trying to discover a secret. “It’s obvious. Everyone knows it.” He paused, biting the corner of his lip. For all the world, he looked as though he was standing on the edge of a cliff, preparing himself to jump. “She’s the sweetest hobbit in the whole of the Shire. Anyone would be fortunate to have her..." Why did he sound so...sad? "...Aren’t you going to ask her for a drink?”
“Well!” Sam had grown boiling hot. As he glanced at the barmaid, he actually found himself adjusting his collar. “Er – well, I do that all the time!”
At this, Frodo laughed for a second – but still, his eyes were deadly serious. “You know what I mean! Do you..." He paused, licking his lips - before forcing himself to continue. "Do you...you know. Like her?”
“Of course I like her!" Sam burst out, ever honest. "She’s a wonderful person, and no mistake- the man who marries her will be lucky indeed. I wish her every joy, I do, she deserves it. But..." He swallowed. "But that man won't be me. Even if I were good enough for the likes of her, which I ain't..." As he looked at Frodo, his heart gave a sad little sigh. "I shouldn't want her. Not for me. Not like that."
No matter how foolish it was, Sam could only speak his heart, and plainly so. Even if, by some miracle, the lovely Rosie Cotton had found it in her heart to look kindly on him...how could he want anything in the world but the sun's warmth? Sam drained his half to the bottom, resigning himself, as he had done a thousand times, to his fate. He cursed his heart for giving itself so entirely to one he could not have. But even if he had to be alone for the rest of his life, loving his master from afar, at least he could still bask in his rays -
“…Good.”
Sam's head had jerked up with such ferocity that it hurt.
As his eyes settled on Frodo, he found the picture of surprise. Though Frodo's lips had moved, sound had come out, and no one could deny that - no one looked more astonished at his own daring than the hobbit himself. But spoken he had - and those eyes remained fixed on his own.
Sam's heart had stopped in his chest. No. Surely not. No way. He must have misunderstood. He must have misread the situation. Surely he couldn't - surely he hadn't...? And yet - and yet there he had spoken. There he sat. There he stared.
From somewhere far away, he heard himself gasp out: “...Why?”
Frodo said nothing. He simply looked at him, straight into his eyes...and as Sam gazed back...without a single word, without a single sound...a miracle had happened. In that moment, in that glorious, miraculous moment, Sam hardly knew his own name - and yet, as he looked at Frodo, as he looked into those eyes...he understood more than he had ever understood in his life. This couldn't be real. He had to be dreaming. And yet, the chair he sat on was hard, the air was warm, and he was wide awake. All this time - all those hours - all those dreams - and all the time, all the time, right in front of him, so tauntingly within his reach, there was -
What were they doing?
A breath later - like a frightened deer that had strayed too far from the camoflague of the forest - Frodo was gone. He swept out of the Green Dragon, letting the door bang behind him - and taking all the air in the room with him.
For a long moment, Sam had simply sat there, staring down into the dregs of his half pint, and trying to piece himself together again. Just seconds ago, he had been torturing himself with the knowledge of his own unworthiness. The idea that Frodo could possibly hold a different opinion seemed as impossible as a childhood wish to fly. And yet, and yet...now, a mad part of him dared to hope. Hope was not a cloak he wore comfortably - but the more he sat, and the more he thought, the more he analysed every interaction the two of them had ever shared, every look those eyes had ever given him, everything they had ever told him, everything he had always been too scared to receive...Going home was out of the question, sleep even moreso. There was nothing to be done but to order himself another half to steady his shaking hands, try to gather himself, and decide what on earth to do. And several halves later...he had made up his mind.
Now, in the middle of the night, in this new, mad world, unsure exactly what he was doing, but full of crazy hope...Sam found himself standing outside Frodo's bedroom window. Summoning every ounce of courage he had, his heart reached into his mouth, and moved his tongue.
“Mr Frodo?" he whispered, quietly enough so as not to wake Mr Bilbo - but loud enough that he could not be ignored. "Mr Frodo!”
For a long, horrible moment, there was silence. Sam waited, heart hammering, watching, praying, for any sign of his master; but none came. Oh, ninnyhammers! Oh, noodle. He hadn’t heard – he was already asleep – or worse, he had heard, but he didn’t want to see him. Turning that night’s events over and over again in his mind, Sam’s blood ran cold. Had he got it completely wrong? Had he made it all up in his head? Oh, Samwise, you fool!
But then, like a miracle…the curtains began to twitch. A second later, they were thrown open to reveal a hobbit wearing nightclothes, and an expression of utter amazement. Dressed in white, dark curls haloed around his head, Frodo looked like an angel. Sam was but a simple hobbit. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful as Frodo at that window, standing there, smiling at him – at him! The sight of him stole his breath clean away.
“Sam?” Frodo tamed the surprise in his voice into something barely above a whisper, but there was nothing he could so to quiet a delighted giggle. “What are you doing?” he hissed. “Bilbo’s asleep!”
As he spoke, Sam could do nothing but gaze at him, his heart as light as his head. Oh, he was so lovely that it ached to look at him. Those dark waves, those shell-pink lips, and those eyes, those astonishing eyes, deeper and bluer than any ocean. As he gazed and gazed, as if he could never look at them enough, Sam knew that if he fell right into them, he would never, ever resurface.
That was when he realised how long he had been staring.
“I’m ever so sorry, I am, Mr Frodo.” Sam rushed, hands clasped nervously behind his back. “I know it’s an awful liberty…but…” His eyes met Frodo’s, and he almost melted in their sweetness. A big, goofy smile spread across his cheeks - and he spoke straight from the heart. “Sorry! I…I just had to see you!”
“Oh!” There was something strange in Frodo’s face. It was the look of one gazing up at the stars, in wonder and astonishment. Too bright were they, for he blinked, the flutter of his eyelashes sending Sam into orbit. “…Why?” He gazed at him, all innocence, giving nothing away. The word echoed Sam's question in the pub - but still, neither of them dared speak the answer aloud.
Well. Sam didn’t really have an answer to that. Actually, he did, oh, he did…but he didn’t know if he was brave enough to give it voice. “Sorry!” he repeated, laughing as a hand buried itself awkwardly in his hair. “It’s – it’s silly! Don’t know what I was thinking." His feet were backing off of their own accord. "I’ll just – I’ll just be off – “
“Wait!”
Frodo had actually reached out a hand to stop him – before clapping it to his mouth. “Shh!” he giggled, as if Sam was the one who had cried out in protest, lest the sleeping master be disturbed – before his eyes settled firmly on Sam once more. With all the fright drained from them at last, there was nothing left but that same, mad, hope. “…I couldn’t sleep.” he murmured, astonished at his own candour. “My mind…” He touched those pale fingers to his forehead. “It is reeling! All this time…and now…” As he trailed off, he gazed at Sam with the softest eyes he had ever seen, and they melted him into a pool of butter.
Still, neither of them dared speak the words. But this night was a night of miracles - and love and hope had emboldened him beyond all sense.
“…Well, my mind ain’t reeling.” Sam said, his voice steadier by the second. “It’s quite made up.” In spite of himself, he couldn’t stop grinning. It was just the way it was, whenever Frodo was near. “Easy enough, as there’s only one thing in it.” Then, maddened by his own bravery, he held his hand to his chest. “And only one thing in here, as well.”
At this, Frodo practically swooned. “Oh, my dear Sam! My heart is so full I don’t know what to do!”
Oh, he was so lovely. The prettiest creature in the whole wide world, an angel, a deity, the sun itself...and as Sam basked in his light, he knew there was only one thing to be done.
“…Come out here.”
“I can’t!” Frodo giggled, with another furtive glance around. “Bilbo will wake up. I don’t want you to get the sack!”
“For you, that’s a risk I’m willin' to take." Sam said solemnly, taking a step forward. His every cell was vibrating with so much adrenaline, he felt as wild as a beast. "I’d – I’d risk everything, do anything, go anywhere for you!”
He had begun to gabble, like an idiot - but Frodo's eyes glinted. He too stepped forward, a rather impish smile playing around his lips.
“…What would you do for me, Sam?” he asked, in a voice so soft and sweet that it sent Sam's mind into orbit. Oh, his lips were so pink, so soft, so sweet...did he dare? Would he ever dare?
“…For you, Mr Frodo…" Sam's brain whirred. Once more, he could speak only the truth, the unabashed, unashamed truth. "Why, I’d walk clean across the world, I would! I’d dive to the bottom of the deepest seas, climb the highest mountains, jump right up into the sky and catch a falling star for you! I - I - !" He gestured wildly. "I’d – I’d even slay a dragon for you!”
Frodo had been basking in these declarations, a pink tinge of pleasure blushing becomingly on his cheeks - but this caught him off-guard. He stared at him for a moment - then, he began to laugh.
“A dragon?”
“Well." Sam's own cheeks were turning scarlet. "Maybe I wouldn’t have much luck at that! But you get the idea." Perhaps he could get back into the flow of it. "I - well, for you, if you wished it, if you wanted it, if it so much as took your fancy, I - I'd -!" But it was no use. "Sorry, I ain’t much of a poet!" Oh, what an idiot he was. Mr Frodo deserved only the very highest praise, and his dull mind had failed him. What was he thinking? Of course he wasn't good enough -
“But your words move me more than any poet ever has." Frodo murmured - and Sam's heart caught in his throat. "Oh, my dear Sam…I am afraid I am quite out of my senses! I am so beside myself I hardly know what to do!" Frodo gave a giddy laugh...but once more, his gaze became serious. "Well," he breathed, as though he hardly dared. He leaned forward, hands coming to rest on the windowpane...and looked straight at Sam. "Actually...I know exactly what I want to do..."
Sam was a simple hobbit. He did not know much...but even though in his heart, he knew exactly what Frodo meant, he did not dare believe it. Those lips, those perfect lips - they were like a sacred shrine, and Sam did not dare sully them with his own lowly touch. And yet - and yet tonight was a night of miracles. Did he dare ask for one more?
Frodo's eyes were upon him, that same tantalisingly impish look driving him near insane. Oh - if he did not try now, he would never do it as long as he lived. And so, he steeled himself, and made the charge.
"Er..." Before he could talk himself out of it - he reached out, and covered Frodo's pale little hand with his own large, brown one. As he did so - Frodo let out a little gasp. The touch of his skin was like lightning - it was far too wonderful for Sam to imagine that Frodo could be feeling anything close to what he felt as their hands met. But still - he drew up every last bit of courage he had, raised Frodo's hand to his lips, and planted upon the back of it the softest kiss in the world.
Astonished at his own daring, and feeling as though he might collapse, Sam waited, trembling all over. Had he spoiled it all? Had he gone too far? Would Frodo's hand be offended that he had dared to marr its perfection with his own lowly kiss? Frodo neither spoke, nor moved. Oh, ninnyhammers! Oh, noodle! Oh, he should just go -
"Is that it?"
Sam dared to gaze at his sun - and found it set alight.
"Mr Frodo-?"
"Oh, forget it! Come here!"
A second later - Frodo had leaned out of the window, seized him by the collar - and kissed him squarely on the lips.
Long had Frodo gazed out of this very window at the gaffer’s boy, who tended Bilbo’s garden with the tenderest care, as if each flowering bud were his own child. Long had to, too, grown to care for him, for this quiet, kind, gentle hobbit: first as a friend, then a dear friend, and then far, far more than he ever would have imagined possible. And, in his secret soul, long had he wondered what Sam’s sweet, soft lips would feel like against his. But the discovery of the truth was the greatest treasure in the world.
Frodo pressed himself so firmly against the windowpane that it began to dig uncomfortably into his stomach, but it was worth it to be a few inches closer to his Sam, to drink him in, to kiss him that little bit deeper...It was beyond his wildest dreams. How could it be that the hobbit he had adored from afar with all his heart had called for him at his window? It was a page from a book, a scene from a painting, the stuff of daydreams – and yet, here he was, Sam, his Sam, in his sights, in his reach, kissing him! Frodo could have fainted dead away.
He did not know how long their first kiss lasted. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, and Frodo would scarcely have noticed. The rest of the world had grown so small and dark that it may as well have disappeared altogether. There was only this window, only this garden, only this Sam. And Frodo could have lived in that moment forever.
When at long last the kiss broke, Frodo realised that he had forgotten to breathe. Something as simple and commonplace as breathing in air had seemed so unimportant, compared to breathing in every essence of Sam. As he gasped for cool, night air, he grabbed the windowpane and held on for fear he would collapse in a heap on the floor. Oh, how foolish he must look! For a moment, he was afraid to look up, afraid to see those eyes staring back into his…but when he did so, he found his fears utterly unfounded. For there was nothing in those eyes, those beautiful, dark eyes, as bright as a robin’s, but exactly what Frodo had always wanted to see. His knuckles tightened on the windowpane; it was dizzying to be up to high, to be over the moon and above the stars. He feared that if he did not look into those eyes, he would take off and soar straight up into the sky. Oh, this was amazing! This was incredible! This was the greatest, most wonderous, most magical moment of his entire –
That was when he began to laugh.
He didn’t know where it was coming from. It was a strange, yelping laugh, a laugh he hardly recognised as his own. The sound was warm, and somehow clean - it purified the air around him into unadulterated clouds of mirth and bliss. All he knew was that he was so happy he was hardly himself at all. There was simply not enough space inside him to contain so much joy; it had to escape from somewhere. And it spilled out of his mouth in great, bubbling, giddy giggles.
For a second, Sam was confused. But such a joyous sound was so contagious that after a few seconds, Sam had started to chuckle too. All that time they had denied themselves to one another, even to themselves; and all the time, it had all been so gloriously simple, as simple as laughter. For a moment, both of them simply stood in the moonlight, and just laughed.
“Shhh!" Remembering, Frodo clapped a hand over his mouth. "Bilbo!” But he couldn't stop. As he spluttered into his palm, he was so happy he thought he might laugh forever.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I am!" Sam was desperately trying to straighten his own face. "It’s just that I forgot there was a world outside of this garden for a moment. I forget everything. Everything but you..." He paused, bashful - before his hand found Frodo's once more. "I wish it would all stay well away! Tonight is magic, it is. I don't want to go back to the real world, not ever!"
“No." Frodo folded his fingers firmly into Sam's and held on. Oh, how perfectly their hands fitted together, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. "You’re magic, Sam. Look up at the sky – I have never seen so many stars before! You must be a magician – or a wizard, like Gandalf!”
“I hope not." Sam's lip curled, his eyes very wide. "I don’t want to be neither!”
Frodo pressed himself so hard against the windowpane it was a wonder he did not pass straight through it. “What do you want, Sam?”
“…You." Sam answered plainly, just as Frodo had known he would - and it made his heart swell with joy. "A garden to tend, flowers to grow…and you.”
“That’s really all?" Frodo grinned indulgently at his lovely, simple Sam. "Not…not adventure, or riches, or –”
“Why should I want anything else?" Sam, too, was as close to the windowpane as he could possibly be. His tone was polite confusion. "What else is there? You...and this garden...That’s worth more than all the treasures of the world."
"Oh....my dear Sam..." There was nothing Frodo could do but throw his arms around him as best he could, and kiss him again. And again. And again.
By the time Sam had to come up for air, he could hardly believe he was still the same hobbit who had climbed awkwardly over the gate, shaking with terror and maddened with hope. As he held the hobbit he adored in his arms, as he felt his hand in his, his lips on his - he felt entirely new. Born again. Gone was that frightened, nervous hobbit who had not believed himself worthy of even a place in his master's eyes, let alone in his heart. Now, he was whole. Now, he was strong. And he was happier than he could ever have imagined possible.
“It’s cold." Frodo was whispering, his cheek against his. Though his words were sensible - his tone was all sorrow. "You should go home.”
“If you wish it, I’ll stand here ‘til I’m frozen solid.” Sam promised. Perhaps all the beer he had drunk that night prevented him from feeling the cold - but of course, it was because the sun was in his arms.
"Well, I don't!" Frodo pulled back, and cupped Sam's face in his hands, swooning a little as he gently squeezed his rounded cheeks. "I want my Sam safe and warm, always." He kissed him with a desperation that was almost ravenous...then broke it with a sad smile. "So you really should go..."
“Alright." Though the thought of going home was truly horrendous, Sam was Frodo's to command; he would have walked through fire if Frodo had asked it, gladly, and without a second thought. And if he wanted him to leave, though it was a thorn in his heart, he would do that too. "Alright, Mr Frodo.”
At this, Frodo snorted. “Are you really calling me that? Now?”
"Ha!" Sam chuckled sadly. “Old habits die hard, I s'pose. But new ones…” He leaned forward, and kissed Frodo as softly as he could. “Yeah. New ones are even harder to quit.” He took Frodo's hands, and covered them with kisses, anything, anything to prolong the inevitable...before, at last, he had to let them go. “Still. You're right. I should get home.”
“Wait!" Frodo grabbed Sam's hands. Though he was no match for Sam's strength, wild horses could not have moved him away. "Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”
Well. He could refuse him nothing, after all. “Kiss you goodnight. Kiss you good morning. Kiss you every moment the day sends!” He caught him in his arms, damning the windowpane that seperated them to hell, and gave him a world of kisses. Each and every one was a miracle.
When at long last they had to break...Frodo took his hands once more. This time, he meant business. “Listen…" He leaned forward, and whispered into Sam's ear, the tickle of his breath against his skin like the first sunlight of dawn. "Tomorrow, after Bilbo’s party…will you come and find me?”
“Of course I will." Sam swore, squeezing his hands. "You ain’t losing me now, not for anything..." How could he bear to end this magical night? It was only the promise of another that kept his heart beating - and, he prayed, many, many more...but until then, he kissed him one last time, and forced himself to let go of his hands. They felt so empty and cold...but soon, soon, his puzzle pieces would be completed once more. "Well. Goodnight." he mumbled. Oh, it didn't feel nearly enough...but he meant it. "Goodnight, m’dear Frodo. Goodnight. Sweet dreams.”"
“Oh, they will be sweet, my dear Sam." Frodo leaned out of the window after him, gazing at him with the softest eyes he had ever seen. "For they will be of you...”
Still, Sam was just a simple hobbit. And to hear such a thing, from such a person as Frodo was simply too much for him to bear. “…Hm!” he squeaked, stupidly - before, with Frodo giggling quietly in his wake, he hurried back towards the garden gate. But before he vaulted it again - he could not help himself. He dashed over to the doorstep, seized his watering can, and spinkled it liberally over the hydrangeas. With Frodo's bell-like laugh ringing in his ears, he pulled himself up and over the gate, and forced himself to begin the long walk home.
What a world. That morning, it had simply been the place in which he lived, banal and boring, and all the joys of love seemed as though they would be denied to him forever. But now...as he felt the ghosts of Frodo's kisses upon his lips, every part of it, from the grass beneath his feet to every star in the sky, was pure magic. Oh, he could not believe it! Oh, Frodo, Frodo, Frodo...Everything was Frodo. Every step he took, every breath, everything he saw and heard was Frodo. There was nothing he would not do for him, nowhere he would not follow him - though he had known for years, though he had always known, now he was absolutely certain that he loved him - loved his Frodo - with all his heart. And he would love him until it beat its last.
He could not help it. Blow the village of sleeping hobbits - blow everything in the world that was not his love. Sam waited until he was far enough from Bag End not to wake his sleeping master, whose birthday hour had just ticked around the clock - and let out a whoop so loud it seemed to echo all the way up to the moon.
"Woohoo!"
He was the best hobbit, the most wonderful hobbit in all the world, and now Sam was his always.