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Minutes, hours, or lifetimes passed with Frodo’s arms wrapped around Sam. Heat rippled from the lava surrounding them, sweat dripping down their skin and leaving trails through the layers of dirt there. Yet Frodo didn’t part; he rested his forehead against Sam’s temple without minding how slick it got. He almost relished in the warmth after being lost in the cold dark where he couldn’t feel Sam’s touch even as it laid upon him. Nothing had existed but the Eye and the Ring and the exhaustion. Now, he was there, with Sam, every ache and pain hanging over him again, but it felt right. Comforting. Perhaps that was due to the presence at his side, though.
Eventually, Sam shifted—only a bit, only turning to glide his forehead into place against Frodo’s—and squeezed where he’d gripped his arm. Frodo in return briefly tightened his hold as if to prove to both of them that they were still there, still solid, still alive. Sam’s voice was quiet, perhaps weak, when he asked, “Are you alright?” which might’ve sounded like a ridiculous question. Yet Frodo understood, a sad smile pulling at his lips as he started to blink his eyes open to look at him.
He considered lying. He wanted to be the strong support Sam had been for him—wanted to instill the hope that everything would work out. But his head swam from the lava’s fumes and the blood that had poured from his hand. His lungs were tight, his eyelids heavy, and his limbs heavier. Still, there was peace inside him, and there was love. It felt like he sat in a long final stretch to death’s door, but he savored every second of it.
In the end, he told a half-truth: “I don’t know, Sam.” He wasn’t certain, but he had quite a strong feeling he was not alright.
His poor state was proven when one of Sam’s hands rested on Frodo’s damp hair; his fingers gently threaded between strands that were stuck together with sweat, and the laugh Frodo tried to give came out pathetic. Tears that had halted reformed and blurred his view of Sam’s frown.
Turning only his head—keeping it against Sam’s as if he would crumble if they parted—he pressed a kiss to Sam’s wrist. A moment later, Sam dropped his hand to cradle Frodo’s face. Then, unsatisfied, he shifted completely to face him; both hands cupped his cheeks and a thumb wiped a tear. This earned another wet, weak echo of a laugh.
“You’re bleeding,” Sam said, and Frodo huffed a little.
“I know.”
“No,” he slid his touch down his jaw with a scowl but didn't dip further, “your neck.”
“Oh.” Frodo didn’t dare remove his hold to check for himself, but he believed it. The weight of the ring had dragged him to the ground, too heavy to carry on the chain. It had dug into his skin for months, forming a circular scar, but never bit and tore the way it had then.
With a sweet caress across his cheekbone, Sam asked, “Does it hurt?”
His comfort soothed and calmed, and Frodo’s eyelids fluttered. Remnant tears fell when they did, yet he answered, “No.”
Sam didn't believe him, he knew. He had no good reason to. But the sting of wounds and strain on his body all started to blend into one thick layer of aching. He couldn’t identify a singular pain—though his heartbeat did vaguely pulse in his fingers.
With Sam against him, holding his face with a gentleness only he could still have after everything, the burdens of staying alive lifted a bit. Frodo could focus on the warmth from his skin instead of the fiery heat not far away. His face was soft in that harsh world. Looking at him then felt like how it did at the beginning of the journey, back when Frodo believed he could bear anything with Sam’s endless faith and devotion at his side. And he had, in the end.
Brushing his nose along Sam’s and rubbing along his shoulder with his uninjured hand, Frodo tried to soothe him in return. The concern didn’t dissipate, but he saw how Sam tried to smile for him anyway. Then, with the slightest tilt of his head, he seemed to press forward, and Frodo, without thinking about it, closed his eyes. He inhaled in the space between them through parted lips, firmly matching the pressure against his forehead.
Yet Sam hesitated. A moment later, the hand across Frodo’s jaw delicately trailed down his throat; Frodo exhaled the breath he’d taken, and with the gentlest of touches, Sam’s palm covered the skin along his collar where the chain had sat. It didn’t hurt, but Frodo’s brows pulled up as an overwhelming intensity filled his chest. He swallowed around the feeling in his throat.
Sam’s voice was barely a whisper. “I just wish I could’ve helped.”
“You did,” Frodo rasped back, and he reached for Sam’s hand almost desperately. Bringing it from his neck to his chest, right over where his heart lay beating, he repeated, “you did.” Suddenly more than anything, he wanted Sam to understand that.
He felt Sam’s face scrunch up, felt his tear fall along the side of his nose, and he stroked the back of his knuckles with all the tenderness he had in him. Only hitched breaths came from Sam as he wept, seemingly unable to form the words.
“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo said wholeheartedly after a few moments, putting all of his immense gratitude and care within the phrase, and Sam nodded only slightly in return. For a long time, they stayed there, Frodo whispering soft words of comfort and Sam trembling against him. It was heavy and bittersweet, and he tried to carry the weight for Sam as best he could. They were both so very tired on every level imaginable, but Frodo didn’t want to pass into sleep just yet. Not until Sam did. He couldn’t leave him alone now, not when he could finally care for him again.
A calm passed over Sam once more—perhaps unsteady, but there—and still they stayed attached. In that quiet moment, with everything outside of them fading into nothing more than haze, Frodo mimicked Sam’s movement prior; he pressed firmly closer, aware of every shift in Sam’s body and touch. And when Sam tipped his chin slightly in return, and his lips lightly brushed against Frodo’s, he kissed him. Even as his grip tightened over Sam’s hand, it was gentle, almost woefully restrained, and painful in its sweetness. His heart ached. He wished then that they’d tried this before, when there was more time and less toil, when the dark pull of unconsciousness wasn’t so strong.
When they parted, it was barely. Sam’s lips still ghosted over his as he admitted, “I’m tired, Mr. Frodo.”
He could only reply, “Me too, Sam.” Before pulling away, he gave another kiss—firmer, longer, more sorrowful—that Sam returned. But they had to separate, just briefly, to find a smoother part on the stone to rest on. Frodo pulled Sam to his chest then, lending himself as a pillow so he could be as comfortable as possible despite everything. He stroked his knotted hair to lull him to sleep. And when Sam soon passed into unconsciousness, Frodo pressed a lingering kiss to his head. He thought of whispering to him, telling him of love left unspoken yet surely felt, but he didn’t want it to be his confession alone. Whenever they would meet again, he wanted to share it together, properly, like such love deserved. So with slowing breaths and slowing heartbeats, Frodo let himself fall.