by FritoCrotch
Frodo paced the lawn, cursing himself. He had been so sure of himself this morning, planning the scene carefully through another sleepless night, rising with the glowing confidence of a man freshly blown. But sometime during the brief journey to Sam's door, his confidence had melted into a pitiful puddle of hobbit lameness. Frodo waded back and forth through his own impotence, furious with himself.
He thought of Sam's lips, his eyes, his sumptuous round belly. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to channel the energy of his desire, hoping he could force himself to crystallize, to strengthen his resolve. There was a spark of... something... hope?... in his lower intestine. Frodo turned semi-resolutely and knocked thrice, each thud on the cheap, ugly door resounding in his ears, sealing his fate. He waited.
Sam answered a moment later. His face brightened when he saw Frodo standing on the stoop. He asked him to come in, offered him tea. Frodo shook his head firmly, reaching for Sam's glorious, dirt-stained hands and holding them tight.
"Sam," he began, stuttering, "I can't hide it any longer. I'm in love with you. I love you. I've loved you since the first time I saw you bending over in the garden. Please, I..." Sam's startled expression softened. A knowing smile blossomed between his sensuously protruding cheeks. His eyes glowed.
With pity. He withdrew his hands gently and, with equal gentleness, removed Frodo to the front steps.
"O Mr. Frodo," Sam said, filling the door frame with his substantial, ever-desirable bulk, "Don't be gross." He shut the door. Frodo stared for several seconds, until the door opened once again, Sam's sweet face peering around the corner. "Fag."
The end.