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The white sliver of the moon is barely visible through the trees, but there’s no shortage of light beneath the canopy. Starlike orbs, suspended by some invisible thread, bob gently in the air above Sam’s head. If their pattern were more obvious, the hobbit would assume they were hung one by one by careful hands, but this is a realm of Elves, and there is no shortage of magic here.
Sam breathes deeply and casts his gaze toward the stream by which he has taken up residence and set up his supper. It’s deep and fast-moving, and every so often, the starlight flashes off of the scales of a beautiful but unidentifiable fish. The grass here is soft and deep, and he’s abandoned his blanket in favor of sinking directly into it. He wonders, briefly, if the Elves have cast some spell on it to keep it from staining his clothing.
“Wouldn’t put it past ‘em,” He mutters to the fishes in the stream, “Right crafty, they are.”
“The fish, or the Elves?” A gentle, laughing voice inquires from behind him.
Sam glances over his right shoulder, and there’s Frodo, standing in the shadow of an ancient tree. He’s abandoned his cloak and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The mithril has long been discarded- likely collecting dust in some long-forgotten trunk- but the scar around Frodo’s neck will never fade. It stands out in stark relief under the light of the artificial stars, and months later, Sam’s chest still squeezes painfully at the sight of it.
“Would you mind my company?”
Sam sputters and tears his gaze away from his friend to gesture to the grass to his right, babbling, “Oh, yes, Mr. Frodo! Well- I mean no- I- You know me, always cookin’ for an army, I am. Set yourself down, here-”
The younger hobbit busies himself with unpacking and arranging their feast under Frodo’s amused gaze. When the spread is to his liking, he pours some lavender tea into a wooden mug for his friend and keeps the small jar of leftovers for himself. The scent of it permeates the air- a reminder of home- and both hobbits bask in it for a moment. Somehow, Sam’s managed to transport two gigantic tomatoes all of the way to Lothlórien unharmed. He removes these from his pack along with some bread and cutlery and uses some of the meat, cheese, and fruit from their feast to make fresh sandwiches. When he’s finished, Sam holds one in each hand and scans their surroundings as if looking for threats. This does not escape Frodo’s notice.
“Are we in danger, Sam?”
“Only in danger of having supper stolen from us,” Sam grumbles, seeming to relax as he gives Frodo the other sandwich, “Yesterday, I picked a spot downstream and was ransacked by Merry and Pippin. Claimed they were ‘feeding deer.’ Took all of my best figs, they did.”
Frodo laughs softly and shakes his head, “Well, they sha’n’t trouble you again- They left for home an hour ago.”
“I’m sure they’ll stop at Farmer Maggot’s on the way.”
The blond looks comically put out, and his companion puts a consoling hand on his shoulder, “If the figs meant that much to you, we’ll detour and pick some on our way home.”
Sam tries not to focus on the warm weight of Frodo’s hand, looking away when he blushes against his will, “Oh, no. Just complainin’, is all.”
He curses quietly to himself as he regains his composure. Unfortunately for him, nothing gets past Frodo, who leans forward to look at Sam’s red face, his own a mask of concern.
“Are you unwell, Sam?” The brunet asks, urging Sam to turn until they’re facing each other.
“I’m quite well, thank you. ” The younger hobbit insists, hands balling into fists as he puffs out his chest.
Frodo’s voice is soft but insistent as he takes Sam by the shoulders and locks eyes with him, “If that’s so, tell me why you can’t look me in the eye anymore- why you’ve become so nervous since our return home.”
Sam’s shoulders sag in Frodo’s grip. He unclenches his fists and sighs heavily, choosing to look into the stream instead of at his companion as he mutters, “It’s you.”
“Me?”
“Yes,” Sam whines miserably, “And I’ve tried to hide it- really, I have! I see you hurtin’ and there’s a piece of me that hurts with you. I want to take care of you more than anythin’. The feelin’ was always there, and the quest made it worse. I was never serious about Rosie- the Green Dragon was just an excuse to spend more time with you.”
The blond picks an especially long blade of grass and begins to fiddle with it, still refusing to look at Frodo. Neither hobbit speaks for some time, and the silence is filled by the babbling of the stream and the occasional faint singing of the Elves. It’s Sam who breaks the silence, his voice unsteady and soft, “I understand if you don’t share my feelin’s, Mr. Frodo. You’ve got lots to deal with as it is, but I’m glad I told you ‘fore it ate me up inside. I’ve been avoidin’ you ‘cause I just… just stumble over my words and make a fool of myself around you-”
“You’ve always done that.”
Sam frowns and looks up to argue with Frodo, but the older hobbit’s expression is not one of mocking but of fondness. His blue eyes are studying Sam’s face with such softness that the younger hobbit is at a loss for words. Sam feels the blade of grass being plucked from his grasp, and suddenly his hands are enfolded in both of Frodo’s as the brunet continues, “And I’ve always loved that about you. You are yourself, whether or not you can help it.”
“And…you’re not angry with me?”
“How can I be,” Frodo exclaims, “When I’ve just heard the words I’ve so longed to hear from my dearest friend? Though, I suppose I sha’n’t be calling you my friend anymore, if you'll permit me.”
For the first time in years, Sam gets to see a hint of the old Frodo in the form of a familiar, mischievous grin. He can’t help mirroring it, and looks away with a scoff at his companion’s gentle laugh of, “ There’s my Sam.”
“Should eat these here sandwiches ‘fore the tomatoes go soft.” Sam mumbles, gently squeezing Frodo’s hands before he lets go of them and reaches for his food, “And perhaps I will take you up on the fig-pickin’ detour.”
“Only if you promise you’ll let me help you make tarts with some of them afterward.”
“A-and jam the next day! If you’re free, that is.”
Frodo smiles in the starlight and murmurs, “I’ll always have time for you.”
Over the course of supper, the hobbits inch closer to each other until they’re brushing shoulders. When the younger hobbit finally works up the courage to put a shaky arm around his companion, he’s rewarded with a soft chuckle and a warm head coming to rest on his shoulder. Sam still stumbles over his words, but he doesn’t feel quite so nervous anymore, and conversation flows easily between them as they sit beneath the trees and watch the occasional fish passing by.