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On most mornings, Frodo rises before Sam. It’s not that Sam prefers this routine, not in the slightest. Yet he’s grown accustomed to it, if only for the simple fact that Frodo never seems to wake anytime past the first light of dawn.
Of course, if Sam had it his way, he’d wake before Frodo each morning and settle nearby to listen for the frightening dreams which sometimes plagued him in the night.
Nevertheless, he was soon comforted by the routine sighting of Frodo reading in the soft glow of morning light, and just as easily refreshed by the sound of his hum as he ambled around Bilbo’s old study, unlatching rounded windows in order to catch the soft fragrant breeze of late spring.
But on some mornings, Sam woke instead to the frightening stupor of silence. He always knew what this meant, and so he’d patter into Frodo’s room across the hall like a bird that knew its way home.
On this particular morning, he found Frodo pressed against the wooden frame of his bed, head rested upon it as he gazed numbly into the wooden floor below. His breath was shallow as he pulled his legs in close, hugging at them despairingly.
Despite appearances, they’d discussed this before and Frodo was comforted by the cold solid carving upon the frame. It relieved Sam some to know that he was trying to feel better, even when stricken by fear. Perhaps it was this fact which allowed Sam to shuffle into the bed without much fuss, drawing the other into his arms.
At first, Frodo was as still as a statue. If Sam hadn’t known any better, this would've discouraged him, but after a moment of quiet persistence Frodo melts into him like jam atop warm bread.
Soon, he finds his voice, “I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam sighs, shaking his head, “You’d be sorrier if it were all your fault, but it weren’t, so why pologize’ to me?”
“You always say that,” Frodo smiles wearily. There’s no way Sam could always mean it, he thinks, deeply guilted by his burdensome behavior.
“I always mean it,” Sam affirms.
Whoops, Frodo flushes before the clattering of pan echoes out from the pantry, the whining metal causing him to wince. “Merry and Pippin,” he breathes.
“Huh, I’d forgotten they were comin’ to visit,” Sam admits.
“How nice a feeling that must’ve been!”
“Hmm,” Sam hums, shutting his eyes to picture the slow monotony of their usual morning routine, “Twas.”
Frodo laughs, feeling lighter.
— -
By the time the pair have made it down Bag-Ends long corridor, Merry and Pippin have returned to the entrance, front door hanging open as they log pile more items into the house. By now, their voices ring clear.
"Get your hands away from my head!" Pippin cries.
Merry's pony nickers softly, breaking the pair from their feud.
"What's that for anyway?" Merry nods to a large watermelon.
Pippin shrugs, continuing to lug it forward, "Just thought Frodo needed some decor."
"You thought Frodo would want a giant watermelon at his doorstep..?" Merry deadpans.
"Yeah, I thought I'd do something nice. Guess I'd forgotten you've already got a giant watermelon for a head! Perhaps we should've just rolled you in instead.”
Before the pair can bicker any longer, Frodo laughs, shaking his head. “I suppose I do find it rather nice,” he decides.
At this, Pippin drops his watermelon to the floor, nearly tripping over it in order to reach Frodo and encapsulate him in a tight hug.
“Frodo!” He cheers, happily berating his dear cousin. Sam greets Merry shyly, and the four settle into their usual rhythm, two month separation all but forgotten.
But as Frodo swings tall cabinets open, plucking out ceramic cups which lay high above his own head, he suddenly remembers the last time he saw Merry. He’d confided in him the feelings for which he held for Sam, and now he felt a nervous flutter in his throat as he turned and caught his cousins knowing glance. Luckily though, it was furtive, and he soon cast his gaze elsewhere. Even if that ‘elsewhere’ were directly onto Sam himself.
“So,” Pippin begins, “I was thinking we’d all go down to the markets at Mallorn tree today.”
“Were you?” Merry questions, and Frodo nearly thinks his tone to be conspiratorial. If it truly were though, Merry feigns a perfect innocence, continuing to drink from his cup with a face as plain as parchment.
“Well, s’ not such a bad idea,” Sam shrugs, “I’ve some things I’ been meaning to get for Frodo and all.”
Merry sips louder and Frodo cringes. The other two carry on obliviously.
“Then it’s settled! We’ll go tonight,” Pippin decides, rattling the bags just aside his stool. “Oh, seems I left my coin pouch outside.”
Merry turns sharply, furrowing his brow. “You remembered the watermelon, but not your gold? Why, that’s a great place to leave my money, just outside the door! But I’ll have to bring the giant watermelon in, won’t I?”
“Well, I would’ve liked to have left you outside! But of course...”
Their bantering fades into background chatter as Frodo catches Sam’s gaze, laughing as the blonde shakes his head disapprovingly.
— -
Dusk settles finely over the shire, turning the sky into a soft hue of indigo blue. Crickets chirp and fireflies dance, bobbing between long strands of wispy grass as they blink with the flaming glow of ember.
Frodo watches as Pippin hurries down the dusty path ahead, feeling a peculiar sense of melancholy. It nearly aches, but the sadness fades as quickly as it came once he listens to his cousin's laughter etch back up the lane.
Then, he’s pulled out of his thoughts by a sudden question.
“Are you cold?” Sam asks.
“What?”
“I just mean, it’s still spring an’ I thought you might be cold now that it’s past sunset. Here, take this,” He says, hurriedly pulling a warm old cloak over Frodo's shoulders.
The fabric is worn yet cozy, and he finds it smells just like Sam, the brisk catching scent of soil and hearthstone smoke encapsulating him. Frodo finds himself relieved immediately, and Sam, reading Frodo as easily as he always does, catches it immediately.
“There you go,” he says, breathing easier, “M’ sorry it aren’t too nice a color or fit Mr. Frodo, but it’s better to be warm than cold.”
Frodo shakes his head, charmed by the chocolate color of the old cape. “It’s very nice,” he hums, then, smiling, “What’s not so fair is that you still feel the need to call me ‘mister’..”
Sam flushes, though slightly relieved by the teasing inflection caught in Frodo’s voice. “Oh, you know what they say about old habits Frodo, I don’t mean nothin’ by it..”
Frodo smiles, watching as Merry attempts a running jump over a forgotten wheelbarrow in the middle of the winding road ahead. “Hmm, now what did you say about old habits?”
Sam laughs, and Frodo looks over, admiring the way his eyes crinkle warmly. “I know you don’t mean anything by it Sam. You couldn’t, not really. I think sometimes you are far too patient with me..”
Sam’s the one at a loss for words now, but he’s briefly relieved when a loud clatter pierces through the air. Ahead of them, Pippin has failed to copy Merry, falling inside of the wheelbarrow instead. As he pops up, straw sticking to his curly hair, Merry waits nearby.
“Well, at least you’ve found a brand new hiding place for your money.”
Sam sighs. “Well, s’ certainly not you who should be worried about me losin’ my patience.”
— -
By the time they reach the bustling night market, the sky is a deep navy. The warm glow of lantern warms the winding walkways below and Pippin sweeps across them with ease, dodging clusters of people.
He’s jabbering on about recipes and ponies and everything else under the sun to Sam, who’s only half listening as he keeps his gaze fixed upon the many market stall displays. He nods and hums once in a while, offering what little he can to the conversation while looking for household necessities, artisan goods, and the small hardcover books which please Frodo.
All of which leaves Merry alone, free to occupy Frodo’s space just a few paces behind the others. He takes a puff of smoke from his pipe, smiling ever so lightly.
“So, I take it that things are going quite well.”
Frodo casts Merry a playful yet challenging glance before relenting. “They’re fine.”
“Better than fine, I’d say,” he huffs, plucking the pipe from his mouth, “Living together and such. I’m quite relieved, actually.”
Frodo laughs, “Relieved?”
“Oh yeah, me and Pip were worried for a while there. Pippin thought you looked sort of like you’d crawled out from Gandalf's shoe, all sad and the like,” he says quickly, popping the pipe back into his mouth, “But, all's turned out swell now that you’re living with ol’ Sam!”
Frodo ignores that comment, casting his eyes to the dusty path below. “I have not told him yet, Merry...”
He nods empathetically, “Yeah, I figured as much.” There’s a short silence, long enough for Frodo to feel the biting sense of disappointment before Merry starts back up again, “Say Frodo, do you still like to dance?”
“What?”
Merry smiles, nodding ahead. Just then, Frodo can catch the rhythmic beat of clapping and boisterous cheer on the air. Pippin may as well be rolling down the hill toward it, and Sam follows in short pursuit of his hyperactive friend.
“How did you-”
“Oh, only because you know Pippin, he’s like a moth to a flame for this sort of thing and, well,” he’s yammering on now, pushing a nervy Frodo up the hill. He has the slight idea that something is off, but ignores it in full trust of Merry.
Before he knows it, he’s standing aside a small upbeat clearing. The crowd swings past, the fluttery linens of their pastel dresses and vests breezing by. Merry and Pippin interlock arms and join in, turning about in circular rotations whilst hollering. Frodo can’t help but laugh and applaud them, vaguely aware of Sam drawn at his side now.
“S’ been a long time since we’ve been to somethin’ like this!”
“Too long,” Frodo hums in reply, and Sam feels a short flutter of satisfaction seeing how well Frodo has improved since they’d returned to the Shire.
“I suppose I’ve kept us home a fair amount,” Frodo considers, shifting his gaze elsewhere.
Sam shakes his head, “No, I like to be home with you, tending the garden and such. I like knowin’ you’re safe and seeing you in the mornin’ and..” he trails off, realizing he’s gone and made a fool of himself in an effort to relieve Frodo of his fear.
The other looks at him strangely, and he can’t quite place the emotion.
Then, a small hand is pressed at his back and he turns to greet Pippin who’s shoving him along with a surprising amount of force. And when Frodo meets a similar fate at the hands of Merry, he realizes exactly what is going on.
“Oh,” he laughs resentfully, “I should’ve known.”
“Known what?” Merry smiles, continuing to drive him forward into the crowd, “I’m as innocent as the day I was born, Frodo Baggins!”
And with that, he’s swept away. The crowd pushes him along, mimicking the rhythmic pattern of a gentle tide. Frodo's not sure why, but this thought suddenly reminds him of Sam’s inability to swim and so he draws nearer to the other, offering up his hand.
They're not really in water, of course, but the threat of separation still lingers. And in a gathering as large as this one? That thought is not so comforting.
And then an idea strikes him. Sure, he knows this is all a setup by his two wacky cousins and there’s a great chance Sam does not feel similarly, but a question still arrives at his lips, the obvious one. “Care to dance?”
Pink and blue hydrangeas aside the clearing dance along with the words, reminding Frodo of his own fluttering heart.
“Guess there’s not much choice,” Sam says, but he’s smiling as he readily takes Frodo’s hand into his own. For a brief moment, things are smooth sailing, and then Sam’s free hand hovers just above the curve of Frodo's waist.
“I’m not going to hurt you, are I?” He worries.
“Hurt me?” Frodo laughs.
Sam frowns, “When you were struck on your side in Moria, well, I know sometimes it still hurts ya’ and I don’t mean to make it any worse..”
“You won’t,” Frodo assures, feeling as though he could melt, “I’m feeling just fine tonight, Sam.”
With permission granted, Sam nods, wrapping his arm around Frodo’s middle in careful fashion. The contact is like electricity, and Frodo wonders if Sam feels the same tension in the air between them.
It’s only a fleeting thought, as he’s soon distracted by the meticulous task of remembering all the steps to the dance. He adjusts his free hand onto Sam’s steady shoulder in turn, surprised to find that even his most troublesome thoughts have wandered off.
“Do you like dancing?” He wonders aloud, recalling only a handful of times he’d ever caught Sam at an event like this.
“Well, only sometimes,” Sam decides, finding it to be a good substitute for ‘only with you’.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Frodo begins, meddling with the tough cotton seams that strum along the shoulder of Sam's evening-shirt, “I fear I've kept you. Your heart should not be torn into two Sam, you mustn’t worry about me. You deserve to be happy, wherever else that may be..”
Sam's brow wilts with worry, “Are you invitin’ me to leave?”
Frodo nods. “Only if that were what you wanted..”
“Oh. Well ‘en that’s stupid,” Sam says, smiling in relief, “Sorry to be plain, but how’d you expect me to be happy if I weren’t with you?”
Frodo inhales sharply, realizing the answer he’d been looking for was in front of him the whole time. “Even if I am never whole again?”
Sam shrugs sweetly, “I don’t much care, as long as it’s you.”
Frodo finds he does not have a great amount of words left, so he pulls forward, tucking his head into the familiar space beneath Sam’s jaw. “Then you must stay,” He whispers, “At Bag-End, with me…it should no longer be temporary.”
Sam’s hums contentedly, continuing to tilt along to the music. He’s already picturing the auction when he nods, “Was gettin’ tired of my old gaffer's house anyways. Maybe we can stick Farmer Maggot in it. He’s got money, don’t he?”
Frodo laughs, and Sam thinks he’s won some sort of prize.
In the near distance, Pippin is whacking Merry upon the head in excitement. “What a perfect thing! A cause for celebration, even.”
Merry quirks a brow, though his smile is still evident. “Celebration?”
Pippin nods, “An ale, a dessert or two? Just, come along!” He waves, trotting up the path.
“I’m trying,” Merry says, shaking his head dizzily, “Though, I think you’ve given me a brain injury.”
“Ah, you’ll be fine,” Pippin assures, “You had one when you were born, recovered pretty quickly from that one. Who’s to say you can’t do it again?”
Merry rolls his eyes, deciding it’s far too dear a night to continue the argument. “Say, how long do you think it’ll be till they officially celebrate?”
Pippin considers this confusedly. But once realization strikes him, he turns around, mouth agape in soundless joy.
“Oh gods, close that before you let the flies in.”
— -
They are wed on the first of June, the fresh scent of apple-blossom dancing in the early morning air. There are not many in attendance, per Frodo's request, but to Sam it’s perfect. To be honest, he would’ve gotten married in a wheelbarrow if Frodo had asked.
The ceremony is rather short, and when they kiss, Pippin is cheering before they can part, throwing petals into the air with the same rotational force as a ship's rudder.
Merry thinks he’s nuts, but follows suit just a moment later when he feels the need to feign composure. He blinks tears away because his eyes are sweaty, not because he’s crying or anything.
Luckily, nobody seems to notice as Pippin has just caught the bouquet Sam threw into the air. He feigns a sour face, holding them unimpressedly. But Merry catches the way he glances at the girl he fancies afterward, blushing brightly when she smiles back.
As for Sam and Frodo, they stayed together under the hill. Frodo was right, he never exactly was whole again. But he found he made a good half when Sam was the other. In fact, on most days, the aches of the past were all but forgotten.
And on those days, when Frodo could nearly pretend he’d never left the shire, he’d patter home up the green path which dipped into the babbling brook just beyond the lush woods.
Weary from reading, he’d pull the back gate of the garden open to find Sam, freckles tanned onto his face from the summer's sun.
There he’d sit, planting flowers of Frodo's favorite kind. Sam hadn’t figured it out yet, but it was simply because they were a buttery yellow, much like his own golden head of hair.
And when he would get distracted from the dewy earth, gladly realizing Frodo was home, he’d press kisses to his pale brow, fingertips leaving traces of cold soil upon Frodo's face.
And though the ringbearer would offer up unconvincing complaints about getting all dirty, (often accompanied by laughter), it was quite obvious that he’d already decided with the utmost assurance to never go where Sam could not follow.