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Of course, no one questioned the necessity of Sam having a cot in his master’s room—it was clear to all in the Houses of Healing and subsequently, in the honoured guest halls of the city, that no one would be better suited for seeing to Mr Frodo’s needs.
And it was a good thing they thought so, even if Sam wasn’t much good to Frodo anyways. For he’d never felt right sleeping alone—not having grown up with as many siblings as he did, and certainly not after a year on the road with various companions; the other hobbits and Strider, first, then the whole Company, and then simply his master for many a long week, lying next to him, breathing. He was glad of the shared room, even if only for selfish reasons.
As it happened, however, there was something that Sam could be of good use for. It was the third night after their removal from the Houses of Healing, when he woke suddenly to some noise—and, disoriented as he was in their new chambers, he saw Frodo sitting bolt upright in bed; cowering at some invisible foe.
Sam was up and out of his small cot before his mind had fully caught up with him, he stumbled over his blankets before making it to the bed across the open room, and came to Frodo’s side.
He thought at first Frodo was having a nightmare, from the way he was flailing about, his breath coming in disjointed gasps—but then saw that his master’s eyes were open, that he was staring up into the high ceiling as though there was something there, something stalking him.
“S’alright, Mr Frodo,” Sam said hoarsely, and, helpless to do much else, crawled onto the covers to try and still Frodo’s arms, and then to hold him. “You’re dreaming, sir, there’s nothin’ here that can hurt you.”
Frodo’s gasp was horrible, the same sound as though a Black Rider’s knife was going into him. “It can see me,” Sam heard, as his master clutched suddenly at his arm, “he’s looking at me, Sam, he knows—he knows—”
Sam shuddered and held him tighter, not caring about the way Frodo’s nails were digging into his skin. “It’s alright,” he repeated, “s’alright, it’s over now. Remember, Mr Frodo? It’s all finished.”
“Sam…”
Frodo began all at once to sob, harsh dry sounds almost as if he were choking, and Sam felt tears stream down his own face. Thoughtless of what he did he began to kiss Frodo’s hair, smoothing it over and over as his master’s body continued to shudder, and murmuring, “Frodo, me dear.”
At last Frodo’s shakes began to cease, though they had continued long after he went quiet. Sam had been rocking him almost without thought, and did not know how many minutes he had been there, murmuring senseless nothings and feeling his own tears slowly dry.
Finally Frodo spoke into his shoulder, very quietly. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
“There’s naught you need be sorry for.” Sam slowly loosened his hold, and let his master pull away from him.
He saw Frodo’s dark form as he put his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes.
“T’won’t always be like this,” Sam added, suddenly adrift. His arms felt useless now that he wasn’t holding onto him. “It’ll get better, Mr Frodo… you’ve jus’ got t’give it time.”
“Sam. Sometimes I think it never will,” Frodo said in an empty voice; which to Sam was like pressing his hand to a familiar tree and feeling it hollow at the centre. “I think I might always be like this. I carried it for too long, in the end. And He saw me.”
Sam sniffed and tried to gather his thoughts; to offer what comfort he could—with words, if not with his touch. “You know, Mr Frodo,” he began, “on the Quest, how you thought t’was all in vain, you thought we’d perish before we ever reached the place, most likely—an’ I never gave up hope?” At least, he thought, not for a long while—not ‘til you fell in the Dark Lands. “Well, I’ll do this too. I’ll keep hopin’ for the both of us. An’ it may get better soon, or it may not, but I promise I’ll always be here in any case. So, then,” he ended lamely.
Frodo was silent. Sam couldn’t see his face until he raised it, and then just barely; it was tear-tracked in the gloom.
“I do love you so, Sam,” he said quietly, a little hoarsely. A hand touched Sam’s cheek. “And I haven’t ever told you, I think.”
A warm feeling rose up in Sam, rather like the first flush of good wine. “Well now, bless you, Mr Frodo. I love you too, o’course.”
He could see hardly anything of Frodo’s face, but felt it as his master touched their foreheads together. “You know, I liked it better… when I was just Frodo.”
Sam swallowed. There was a pause, and then he said, quieter, “I love you too, then, Frodo.”
Perhaps it would have sounded more out of place if he hadn’t just been holding Frodo in his bed. Sam would be blessed if he could ever reconcile himself to all the changes the last year had brought.
Frodo kissed his cheek. He seemed a little steadier now, perhaps having put his fears aside for Sam’s sake, if not his own. “Will you stay here tonight?”
“O’course, if you want me,” Sam said, a little surprised.
He made to lie down, but Frodo stopped him with a gentle hand.
“Here, silly, you can come under the covers.”
Sam had laid beside his master many nights, but this—this was new; in the safe enclosures of a warm room, under the same sheets, in the very bed that Frodo had slept in.
“Shall I—hold you?” he asked, feeling more foolish after all his fussing with the covers, now rolling onto his side and peering to make out what he could of Frodo in the gloom.
A sigh. “Yes, Sam-dear, if you want to.”
So Sam shuffled forward, and put an arm around Frodo, all the time wondering at himself and his boldness… although it was more, perhaps, that he didn’t know how to stop himself offering what comforts he could.
Frodo sighed again, quieter, and turned round so that his back was to Sam, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
“Goodnight, Sam. And thank you.”
“Goodnight, sir—Frodo. You sleep well now.”
Sooner than Sam had expected, Frodo dropped off to sleep; his breaths evening out almost immediately. Sam held him, and felt true contentment—touching his nose against the back of Frodo’s neck, knowing nothing could happen without waking them both together. He slept easy.
—
That was the first night, and for many nights after they had the same arrangement—it was both practical, for if Frodo did awake suddenly, Sam would be there already to ease him, and comforting, for they both had become familiar with the other.
Sam nearly always roused first, and would allow himself one moment to stroke Frodo’s hair or lie there in contentment before getting up, careful not to wake his master if he could help it. The way they moved around each other was natural, now; the way Frodo would roll into the warm space Sam had left behind, still asleep, perhaps seeking the remnants of his body-heat.
Sam turned Frodo’s words over often in his mind, and wondered at them and the feeling they evoked in him.
I liked it better… when I was just Frodo.
But he called him Mr Frodo during the day, in front of others—and as, he thought, was proper—and Frodo didn’t object. Though Sam did seem to feel Frodo looking at him more; quiet and lingering glances. And what was more, Sam got the feeling that Frodo didn’t mind him noticing those looks, otherwise he certainly would have been more subtle about it.
Sam would do anything for Frodo, because he loved him. Anything included holding him while he slept, which was certainly no hardship… but if Frodo wanted affection in other ways; in kisses and I love you’s in the dark, well then, Sam would be glad to do it. His master did not have a sweetheart here or back home waiting for him—more was the pity—and Sam was likely the next best thing, as he reasoned to himself. Though he did flush at the thought of being called Frodo’s sweetheart.
One morning Sam woke up to a warm spring light, spilling butter-yellow across the bedsheets. Frodo was next to him, breathing deeply and evenly with his dark curls spread across the pillow, and for a moment Sam simply lay there in bliss. Then he sat up.
Frodo rolled over next to Sam’s hip, his eyes still closed. “Good morning, Sam.”
“An’ isn’t it a lovely morning, sir.”
Sam got up to open the curtains properly, and then the windows too, for the air was so mild. He closed his eyes against the April breeze, breathing it in deep from the high towers. Below the city stretched out white and gleaming, its roads like unspooled threads weaving back and forth down the slope.
Chatter drifted up to him, and the scraping of wheels and hurrying footsteps, and even the faint but tempting aroma of what might be breakfast—oat cakes and apple preserve and perhaps even eggs, if they were lucky.
“Goin’ to turn out a very fine day, what’s more,” Sam said, and turned with his hand on the window to find Frodo now sitting up, muss-haired and sleepy, watching him.
Sam was struck as if in the heart. Everything about the scene—the light, Frodo’s hands on the sheets, one of them still bandaged; the way his nightshirt was falling slightly from one shoulder, and more than that the softness in his eyes…
How Sam wanted it. To wake up to something like this every morning. For a moment he was too scared to go back to Frodo, hit as he was with such a sudden revelation—but he was already staring too long, and his embarrassment would be too obvious, Sam supposed, if he were suddenly to leave.
So instead he climbed back into bed, and Frodo hmmed and said something about breakfast.
Sam, still feeling overcome, merely took one of Frodo’s hands. It was bandaged where his third finger had been—though the horror of seeing it had faded a little, in the many days they had been here resting.
He rubbed at the back of Frodo’s hand gently to warm it, careful not to disturb the bandage.
When Sam glanced up from his attentions, he found Frodo looking at him again.
“Sam,” he began, chewing his lip.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember… when you said you loved me, the other night?”
Sam swallowed. “Aye. And I do.”
“Well… what exactly did you mean by it? I mean—do you still think of me as Master from the Shire, or—or merely a friend you had to carry, or…” Frodo trailed off.
Sam considered his words, folding both his hands carefully over Frodo’s. “I know I want t’stay near you, an’ look after you, an’ see that you’re well,” he said eventually, deciding that this would be the least offensive way of expressing his feelings.
“But who looks after you then, Sam?” Frodo was looking at him intently. After a moment he shook his head, as though dismissing something. “I don’t suppose—you’ll be wanting a family, of course. One of your own.”
“I’ve got one of those already,” Sam said stubbornly. “More than enough to be handlin’, I reckon. And what’s more, many dear friends. An’ you.”
He couldn’t read the look in Frodo’s eyes. It was perhaps closest to pain.
“Would you…” his master began, stopped, and started again. “Would you really want me like this? What if I—Sam, what if I’m never anything more than this, now?”
“I’d be happy just to be near you.”
Frodo was quiet for a while, mulling this over and no doubt getting himself into a muddle. Sam let him, continuing to rub his master’s hand gently.
He felt calmer now than he might have thought. Indeed, now that Sam had made the decision to speak his mind plainly, it was almost easy. Either Frodo would accept his offer, or he wouldn’t. Sam was mostly sure—he was fairly sure—Frodo would not resent him for it.
He meant to ensure they weren’t parted, and whatever else Frodo might want… well, that was up to his master to decide now.
“You were meant for more than this, Sam,” Frodo said finally, withdrawing his hand.
“I can’t agree with you there, sir. I don’t think I were ever meant for such grand things an’ places as this, or t’have such a part in their story. In your story. I were only lucky to be able t’follow you through it… an’ to love you through it, too.”
He heard Frodo’s quiet intake of breath before he ducked his head, and a few dark curls fell over his eyes. “Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”
Sam wanted to reach for him again, but held himself back with an effort. “It’s naught to hurt you, or demand anythin’ of you…” he began.
“I know that. You’re too kind to me. It’s only…”
But Frodo did not seem able to express this particular thought. He did look up, however, when Sam shifted in the bed, kneeling where he was so he could face Frodo properly.
“Per’aps,” Sam suggested, “thinkin’ in lifetimes is too big right now.” For him, of course, it wasn’t—not really. Sam knew what he wanted. “Take today, then, Frodo. Would you want me with you for today?”
Frodo leant forward so that their foreheads were nearly together. “Yes,” he whispered.
“An’ tomorrow?”
Sam brought his hand up to Frodo’s warm cheek.
“Yes, Sam.” Frodo sighed and leant into his hand. “And the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that.”
“Well then.” Sam felt a rush of happiness hit him like a strong draught, which he tried to conceal. “Happen that’s enough to be getting on with.”
Frodo looked at him a moment longer. Then he smiled, seeming suddenly young again; all his cares for a moment lifted from his face. “Now when did you get so wise, Sam Gamgee?”
“Since I stopped listenin’ to my head,” Sam responded promptly.
“Well, looks like I have more than a thing or two still to learn from you.” Frodo’s voice dropped, a little huskier. “Come here.”
And he took Sam’s chin in his hand.
Sam was sure Frodo could read everything he desired to know in Sam’s eyes; he had long been able to, no doubt. Just as Sam couldn’t have misinterpreted Frodo’s looks over these past few weeks, ones that did not start a fire in him so much as a slow, simmering heat, a gentle-building anticipation.
Still, he preferred to make matters more straightforward, if he could.
“Frodo,” he said quietly.
Frodo touched his lips; ran his thumb along the lower one as they parted, so gently that Sam shivered. Perhaps he was coming to a decision, in his usual careful way. Sam let him.
He didn’t have to wait long. Frodo kissed him slowly and soundly, and Sam felt the warmth of it build up slowly inside his stomach and spread out to the rest of him, sparkling like wine in his fingers and toes.
It was everything all at once—new and yet not new, the fresh wonder of what was really an old and deep-rooted feeling, one they had not spoken of for years, but that had nonetheless grown in well-tended soil into something strong and binding and inextricable.
A year ago—even months ago—Sam would have cried. But he had shed so many tears already, and Frodo had bled, and now… Now he could let the feeling wash over him and not buckle under its weight.
He touched Frodo’s hair in a daze, and Frodo continued to trace his jaw, his cheek, rubbing slow circles with his thumb.
They were breathing nearly into each other’s mouths when his master said, so quietly he might have missed it, “keep hoping for me, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes were closed, but he felt the words and drew Frodo to him. “Aye. I promised.”
“There’s no one else…” Frodo cupped his cheek, kissed him again, “no one I’d rather trust my heart with than you.”
As the light fell over them Sam felt that he truly could die from bliss, so much stronger for the months of horror that had preceded it.
“I’ll take mighty good care of it,” he promised. “An’ you.”
“I know. Come here.” Then again, quieter; “I know.”
And that was all. It was a perfect April morning, Sam thought to himself, and soon to be a beautiful day.