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The late summer sun was shining down on the hills and valleys of The Shire, particularly down on Bag End, and its front garden.
It was a great garden, really, anyone could see. Whether it was the love and time poured into it or the sheer luck of fertile soil, it didn't matter. Vine flowers crept up the wooden fence and up the small hill towards beds of bright green herbs. Peas climbed trellises along the side of the hill while growing cabbages filled every few raised beds. Blooming bushes of blackberries backed up to the window of the kitchen, soon to be plucked for the making of pies and mead. It was through the window in question that a figure leaned towards the sill.
Lithe, pale, and bright, with a jar full of cider grasped loosely with a limp wrist. Large blue eyes stared through the glass and across the garden, his head tilting to get a better view. His dark eyebrows would knit or crawl up under the loose curls on his forehead every once in a while, as if watching something interesting or amusing.
What the figure in question—Frodo, now the sole inhabitant of Bag End, of course— found so captivating was the gardener, Sam, as he trimmed parts off of the tomato plants and gingerly stuck them in a bag. Frodo faintly remembered some conversation he had with him surrounding what he was doing. This happened towards the end of every summer… something about replanting or transplanting or this or that. He never knew what Sam was doing, or why, but that was never what Frodo was focusing on. Usually it was his hands, his neck, his hair, his face, never the action of trimming, raking, digging, plucking, and whatnot. This time, it was the reddening on his nose and the back of his neck.
The sun was always brutal in the summers, especially during the tail end of the afternoon when the sun wasn't blocked from the garden by the hill of Bag End. It seemed to be taking a toll on Sam, or at least just for today. Frodo debated the best—or least embarrassing— course of action as he brought his jar of cider to his lips again. After a few reflective sips, he set the jar down on the counter next to him and pried the window open, leaning out.
"Sam!" he called to the kneeling figure that was now half-hidden behind a sweet briar bush.
Sam poked his head out from the side towards the door, then the window, a bit of a clueless expression on his face. It quickly shifted to an awkward, albeit endearing smile. He gave a wave to Frodo and crawled to his feet, taking a few strides towards the window, one leg obviously cramped from kneeling for so long. Frodo heard a faint "hi!" from him, but it was still hard to tell, even with the closing distance.
"Something the matter, Mister Frodo?" Frodo heard more clearly once Sam stood a few feet from the window. The words seemed to go a bit over his head, seeing as his eyes were still honed in on the pink that brushed the bridge of Sam's nose. The tone didn't, however, the one so sweetly concerned.
He blinked, already wide eyes going wider before he smiled, showing the faint gap in his front teeth. "No, nothing concerning me, don't fret." His smile faltered a bit at what he interpreted to be failed words. Frodo took a stiff breath before his original smile reappeared, "It's getting late, isn't it?" More failed words, or rather failed meaning.
"I suppose… but it's still light, there's still work to do," Sam replied without a second thought, looking back at his tools left by the briar bush, then back to Frodo. "I wouldn't waste a nice afternoon for work… begging your pardon, sir." His eyes flitted to the jar in Frodo's hand. Internally, Sam prayed that he didn't just rudely turn down an invitation, if it was an invitation, anyhow.
Frodo let out a faint huff of laughter as he followed Sam's eyes from the garden and back, shaking his head lightly. "I insist, Sam. There's always tomorrow… or the next or the next or the one after that. Besides, you're burning up out here." He tilted his head, his previous beam turning to a more earnest simper as he did. "Just a break can't hurt."
Sam's gaze shifted once more, finding the blackberry bush below Frodo before meeting his blue stare again. He liked Frodo, of course he did, he had ever since he was just a boy tagging along to the garden of Bag End with his father. He remembered the first time he met Frodo, hidden behind his father in the kitchen while Bilbo spoke from over a tea kettle. Frodo was just as thin then as he was now, and young, it seemed. While time had curled and darkened Sam's hair, dotted and shaped his skin, it seemed to have left Frodo as-is over the past sixteen years.
He took a breath, shoulders relaxing as his face returned to the sickeningly endearing grin of before. "A break can't hurt…" Sam repeated after him.
The "break" seemed to last longer than expected. The sun was almost well below the fields beyond Bag End, and the rays of a broad, yellow moon shone down on the garden. Past the kitchen window, two figures sat next to one another, slumped over the table in drunken laughter as one hit his fist on the wood. His other hand held a tankard of what seemed to be cider.
"I said to him, I said to him—" Sam stuttered between gasping breaths and fits of laughter, cheeks red with mirth rather than sun. He didn't seem to be able to finish whatever thought he had, because Frodo burst out laughing in succession, his hand grasping Sam's shoulder as he bent over his own tankard. Sam's own laughter followed. Once the two of them had managed to stop their tipsy rambles and hysterics, Sam's eyes drifted back to the window and the darkness outside.
"It's rather late…" he muttered, half-slurring as he did, "I ought to get going, The Gaffer should be expecting me home- he probably already expected me home… 'bout an hour ago…" he trailed off, clearing his throat. His eyes found Frodo again and he smiled, more awkward than the careless grins of just moments prior. He started to clumsily stand again and try to gather his things, of which he had none, or at least brought none inside. "It's been- well, it's been lovely, Mister Frodo… but I- thank you…"
He was cut off by Frodo standing from his chair rather stiffly, swallowing a lump in his throat before he spoke. "Just Frodo…"
"What? Uh, begging your pardon, Mister-"
"'Just Frodo,' I said… Just as I call you just 'Sam.'"
A brief moment of silence followed, Sam staring down at Frodo as he cocked his head to the side. It may have been out of drunken confusion or bewilderment at such an unspoken barrier being broken. The silence broke with Sam, fumbling over words.
"Oh- yes. 'Just Sam…' fine name." He smiled at his own joke, but it seemed to be out of embarrassment by then. He shook his head, but Frodo laughed… which also seemed to be out of embarrassment to Sam. Really, it was because Frodo found it endearing and was too drunk to feel any second-hand shame.
They stared at each other for yet another awkward moment, twinkling green into bright blue. This time, it was Frodo's turn to turn over every aspect of Sam's face in his mind. Rather than the passage of time or the kindness of the earth and sun coming to mind, he thought about how his nose moved when he smiled, how the freckles on his face seemed more noticeable in the dim and warm light of the kitchen, and how his lips parted in that uneasy, sweet smile. His lips, that was mostly where his eyes seemed to go. And this didn't go unnoticed to Sam. How could it? Not with how wide Frodo's eyes were. Wider than usual, now that Sam got a good look. Frodo shook his head, breaking the tension between them. Was there any to begin with? Or was that just him? Perhaps he'd never know.
Sam looked down to the bottom of his tankard. Empty, of course. He took a step to the side and set it in the sink, turning back to Frodo after.
"It's been a… lovely evening, M- Frodo." He didn't want to move, but he did, taking a tentative step back. It was the right thing to do, after all. You say goodbye, you leave. Frodo opened his mouth as if to say something, but just shut it and smiled lopsidedly.
Sam inhaled, holding the breath without thinking as he started to turn. He was stopped by a hand on his shoulder, thin and warm, just as it was before. It didn't take any force for him to turn, he did it without thinking. His eyebrows knit in a bit of concern, but soon raised again as he felt another hand on the side of his neck, a chest pressed to his, and soft lips on his own in just a split second. Sam spent a moment like that. Frozen, with his eyes wide open as they stared at Frodo against him, eyes squeezed shut anxiously. Almost, as if melting, his eyelids closed slowly and his shoulders slumped as he leaned down to Frodo, who was standing on his tip-toes to meet Sam's lips. His hands fell and rested on Frodo without thought, right on the side of his waist and the left grabbing onto the back of his shirt.
Surprisingly, Frodo was the first to pull back. He dropped a hand from the side of Sam's neck to his shoulder as he did, eyes wide and breathing heavy. Truthfully, this was the most he had done with anyone in years.
"I'm sorry," he sputtered, looking from Sam to the window, and then back to Sam.
An earnest, confused, and concerned look crossed the other's face as he leaned down to better hear Frodo… and maybe to just be closer. "Why? I wasn't- I didn't- I liked it…" Sam swallowed and stood back up straight, looking to the window, too. "I'm sorry."
"No!" Frodo cleared his throat, seemingly surprised by his own objection. "No, no, don't apologize. I'm simply sorry for the… lack of warning, I suppose. Perhaps it's the cider or the mead or the night or- I should have told you, I think. It seems more proper-"
"Frodo, I don't think much about this is proper," That happy-go-lucky grin finally appeared on Sam's face once more as he looked back to Frodo.
He was right, not much about the situation was proper. The two of them, drunk in the kitchen, well past dark, the obligations of the day thoroughly ignored.
"It ain't proper," Sam reiterated, "But don't think that means I mind it."
Frodo smiled, eyes moving from the bright, golden moon outside to face the other once more. He leaned in, Sam leaning down to him and letting their foreheads and noses bump, eliciting more drunken laughter from one another.