3. Monday: Eye-opener.

It was not till the sky painted a thin tint of orange in the east that Frodo fell asleep. Most of the night he had spent staring at the wainscotting aglow in the milky moonlight. He wondered what Sam was thinking, what he had done with the letter. Had Sam clutched it to his breast in delight, or cast it into the fire till the words were naught but ashes stirring in the fireplace?

Frodo awoke with a start, sheets clumped around his middle, naked breast dewed with fine droplets of sweat after a night of tossing and turning. Warm sunshine filtered through the curtains and fanned out over the carpet.

Frodo strained to hear the sound of Sam, whistling past his window, or preparing the breakfast. But the smial was strangely quiet, not even the birds or bees sang their melodies outside in the garden.

A painful thought hammered Frodo's heart. Sam wasn't coming back! Maybe Sam had told the Gaffer of Bilbo's heir, who had forgotten his place, and the younger hobbit had been promptly sent to garden at the Bracegirdles.

Frodo almost fell out of bed, slipping his dressing gown around himself as he stumbled to the door. He heard a noise in the kitchen. Bilbo! What would Bilbo say? Would he send him back to Brandy Hall? For scaring the young gardener with love letters?

Frodo leaned on the wall for a moment, bracing his resolve and body against the cool plaster. He took a deep breath and smoothed down his unruly curls.

"Bilbo, I'm..." Frodo stepped into the kitchen, wildly trying to think of some excuse. He'd gotten into the Winyards perhaps, drunkenly writing the letter as a jest.

But it was not an old hobbit with a faint dusting of grey in his hair who was sitting at the table.

"Sam!" Frodo cried.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam gasped in return, jolting the tea mug that he held in one hand. "I weren't taking a liberty, sir! Mr. Bilbo said to help myself while I made your breakfast."

Frodo sat down weakly as Sam picked up a tea towel and mopped up the spill. Then he poured steaming water over tealeaves in the green and gold patterned cup that was Frodo's favourite, stirring in a dollop of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar.

"Just the way you like it," he added with a nervous smile as he placed it in front of Frodo.

"Where is Bilbo?" asked Frodo, taking a sip of tea, even though he knew it would scald his tongue.

"Told me he was going on a shopping trip to Frogmorton, and that he would be home in the afternoon." Sam cracked two eggs into a frying pan and began stirring them briskly.

"Oh," Frodo replied.

They lapsed into silence. Soon the kitchen was awash with the scent of perfectly scrambled eggs and tangy herbs. But Frodo could only pick at his breakfast as Sam washed the dishes, humming under his breath.

"How is it at home?" Frodo asked haltingly, putting a herb-speckled piece of egg in his mouth.

"Ah, the Gaffer's hands are getting better, I reckon; that liniment's doing him well." Sam took a plate and stretched on his toes to put it back on its perch on the high shelf. One of his shirttails came untucked, giving Frodo a glimpse of sun-warm skin.

"Sam..." Frodo near moaned in his desire and quickly stabbed at a bit of egg, stuffing it into his mouth to stop himself.

"Sir?"

"Nothing, Sam." Frodo pushed his plate back, desperately trying to ignore the ache that flew to his groin. "That was delicious, but I really must go out."

"Mr. Frodo, haven't I served you well?"

"Of course, you always do," Frodo said, unable to hide a desperate frown. "I just need some air. I'll go get dressed." Frodo was having difficulty breathing, as if a boulder was sitting on his chest.

He rushed to his room, throwing on his clothes, wondering if he would ever be able to look at Sam and not feel a helpless longing to kiss every inch of golden skin. Upset and troubled, Frodo needed to get away from Bag End, be on his own, to think -- well, to worry as the case may be. And he knew the perfect place.

*

Frodo tramped through the forest, through wildflowers growing between tall stalks of grass. The trees stood silent around him, filtering the sunlight so it hit the tree trunks and grass at odd angles, sparking gold flares. At last he reached a particular tree and climbed the rope ladder he found there.

Frodo had built a type of treehouse in the forest just to the east of the Hill. He had constructed it a few months after moving into Bag End with Bilbo, who had never questioned Frodo's request for great slabs of wooden planks from Bindbole Wood. The woodworkers became accustomed to Frodo visiting their workshop and asking odd questions, but never gave trouble. It had taken Frodo a good two months of hard work to finish the platform, and he had to bear chapped knees and swollen thumbs and sore feet with good grace. But it had been worth the wait, for Frodo came to the flet whenever he was able, to read or write or daydream.

He had gotten the idea from one of Bilbo's stories, which told of elves living amongst the branches of tall trees. These platforms were called flets. Frodo's flet was very much like an elven flet: just a wooden platform reached by a rope ladder and a screen that could be moved according to the direction of the wind.

Usually he brought a blanket for comfort and warmth, but he had been in such a rush to leave the suffocating air of Bag End he had utterly forgotten it. So he lay back on the bare boards and gazed into the canopy of leaves.

Frodo wished he had not committed his heart to parchment, baring his very soul, but what was done was done. Sam now had the letter. Undoubtedly he had read it -- why else would he be acting so nervous around him?

Frodo put his hands behind his head, easing the ache on his neck. Maybe Sam was too scared to speak with Frodo. He had mentioned service this morning -- did he fear to lose his place if he didn't give Frodo what he wanted?

Frodo rolled over onto his stomach, hiding his face in the fold of his arms. He remembered the first time he had met Samwise Gamgee.

A cold winter's morning, the kind where mist still curls around talking mouths at noon, and the sun struggles to push its light through the hazy silver clouds. From a tree a bird twittered and flew off, gliding past the dew-swept grass and over the Hill.

The gravel crunched beneath the footsteps of two hobbits walking past the cosy-looking smials along the road, who kept glancing up at the large gardens and wide paths of Bag End.

Frodo stuck his walking stick into the gravel and waved at mother and son, both of them graced with the same sandy-gold hair. "Hullo," he said, smiling. "It's cold today, isn't it?"

The woman nodded, disentangling her hand from her son's chubby fingers. "You must be Mr. Frodo new come from Brandy Hall! Don't he look just like Mr. Bilbo, Sam-lad?"

The little boy nodded his head in agreement, pushing a thumb into his mouth. Freckles jot over his nose, umber against the light brown of his skin. His brown eyes spark with bright curiosity.

"And you must be Mrs. Gamgee and Samwise," Frodo laughed. "Bilbo has nothing but praise for the care Master Hamfast shows for the garden. And the way he advises him about potatoes."

"Aye, Mr. Frodo, Ham will be well pleased to hear such," said Mrs. Gamgee. "And how are you settlin' into Bag End? I 'spect it's a change from your life before."

"I like it very well, Mrs. Gamgee, very well." Frodo looked downward. "And how do you like it, Samwise?"

Sam's eyes opened wide as Frodo knelt down to his level. "It's my home, Misser Frodo." He thought for a moment. "Has Mr. Bilbo taken you to see the elves?"

"Sam!" Mrs. Gamgee admonished.

"Oh, that's all right," laughed Frodo. "He's promised he would, but for now I only have my books full of stories and songs about the Eldar race, Sam, if you'd like to hear them one day."

"O ma! Can I?" Sam tugged at his mother's hand.

"We'll see, Sam. You know you've enough to learn about taking care of the gardening without filling your head full of such nonsense."

Sam's face fell. "All right, ma."

Frodo straightened up, flicking a quick wink towards Sam. "Your mother knows best, Samwise, but if you've ever a mood for nonsense, you know where to find me."

Even though Sam was only nine, his expression toward Frodo was serious. "Aye, Mr. Frodo," he said, and their contract was made.

Frodo knew Sam was watching him with his deep hazel eyes until he disappeared down the bend in the road.

Only a few days later Sam had accompanied the Gaffer to Bag End, and, whilst he was gardening, Frodo had read to Sam a story of the elven princess Idril of the Hidden Kingdom of Gondolin, till the lad's head nodded into Frodo's arms and he fell quietly asleep.

Sam was bold enough, in time, to ask Bilbo if he could learn his letters. Bilbo had had to talk long with the Gaffer over a mug of thick brew before he consented to those lessons. Soon Sam was able to read quite well, yet he often asked Frodo to read to him while they lay under a tree laden with plump, red apples; or by the fire while the last rays of sunshine slid past the hills in the west; until Sam was a tween.

Frodo sat up suddenly, pounding the deck with the flat of his hand in frustration. He owed it to Sam and their friendship to tell the truth; there had never been secrets between them before.

He needed to know how Sam felt. Even if it was only I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo, but I wasn't speaking 'bout you. Yes, he would go and speak to Sam. Now.

Uttering a silent prayer to the Lady, Frodo climbed down the ladder.

*

Sam had his head between two boxwoods as Frodo approached him. Clumps of weeds were scattered around his feet.

"Sam?" Frodo said in a tremulous voice.

The young hobbit leapt in surprise and was caught in the brush, so he had to scoot out backwards. Sam brushed his hands over his breeches and gave Frodo a smile. "Hullo, Mr. Frodo. Mr. Bilbo's not home yet."

"Sam, I need to tell you something, for my own heart's ease."

Sam's face grew pale. "Mr. Frodo--"

Frodo felt his chest constrict. "Sam, I must have my say. Then you can tell me how you feel about it."

"Right, sir." Sam sighed deeply.

For so long Frodo had rehearsed how he was going to say this. Now he was tongue-tied.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam gently reminded him, standing so the afternoon sun coated honey-warmness over his skin.

Frodo licked his lips. "Sam, just...sit." He gestured to Sam to sit on the grass.

They both sat down, Sam with his legs drawn up, Frodo cross-legged. Frodo combed blades of grass with his fingers, trying to garner his thoughts to make some kind of sense.

"Sam, do you think of me as only your Master-to-be?" Frodo sucked in a breath. "Do you ever look on me as just a hobbit lad, like yourself?" he asked, glancing at Sam, hoping Sam would say something...anything...

But Sam looked puzzled. "Sir?"

"I wanted to know how you felt about my feelings -- what I wrote in the letter." Frodo took a breath.

"The letter?" Sam replied, confused.

Frodo chanced a glace at those perfect, earth-brown eyes. He thought he saw a glint of something -- perhaps a sun-ray -- burst in those eyes for but a moment. He continued: "The letter, Sam. You've read it." Frodo's voice wobbled.

"I'm sorry sir, I've had no letter. Did you write to me?"

It felt to Frodo as if the grass beneath him had opened up and was now yawning a great black hole that was sucking him in, closer and closer. And he had no chance to flee from the swirling nothingness.

"The letter I left for you in the wheelbarrow, it's gone now so I thought..." Frodo closed his eyes against sudden panic.

"And what would you be writing to me about that you couldn't say aloud?" Sam asked.

It was all hushed about them. Frodo stared into the sky now, he dare not look into Sam's eyes. What would he see?

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam's were words harsh and breathless, as if he'd run to the Three-Farthing Stone and back. "Please, look at me."

Frodo slowly turned his head towards Sam, feeling numb and sick and more scared than he'd ever been in his life.

"Does it have summat to do with not looking at you as I should? As other than Bilbo's heir? Oh, how did you know?" Sam's eyes weren't awash with disgust or hate, but with fear.

Frodo choked back a sob. "Sam, we are friends, we should be able to say anything to each other." And he wondered whom he was trying to convince.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment, then he looked at Frodo with eyes moist and scared. "I know I can trust you, Mr. Frodo, you'd be kind to me, even in my foolishness. I would never speak, but you seem to have seen right through me."

Frodo suddenly felt his eyes awash in tears, that Sam could trust him. He had never been given a higher compliment. "You can speak now," he prompted gently.

"Mr. Frodo...I don't know how you can say that you're a hobbit lad like me, there's never been as beautiful and rare a creature as yourself -- an elf prince more like." And Sam bit his lip.

Swallowing the gasp that rushed up from his throat, Frodo said, "Samwise Gamgee?"
"I'm telling you how I feel," Sam said firmly. He brushed a tear from his eye. "I can't help misself. I love you."

A thought came to Frodo, tumbling over his lips. "Sam, you're not saying this because -- because you think I want to hear it?"

"No, sir." Sam shook his head. "I know you're not...others..." He paused suddenly. "You want to hear it?"

"Sam." Frodo took a sharp breath. "I love you too, you know."

Sam's face flushed. "Oh, sir, that were right nice of you to say. But in for a penny, in for pound -- you might be mistaking my use of the word 'love'."

"Oh?" murmured Frodo, feeling weak. "What were you meaning by it?"

Now Sam took on that expression when he was struggling with a particularly deep buried weed -- determination, layered with some pride. Frodo thought he had never seen the young hobbit looked finer. "Well, love, like wanting to hold and kiss -- and lay with one another bare skin to bare skin."

Rivers of warmness spread under Frodo's skin, lighting every nerve-ending, and his face took on a pink glowing.

"Sam, I want that with you."

Sam gasped just as Frodo leaned forward, as if falling toward him, and caught his shoulders.

"I've never seen a hobbit as brave as you, Sam. Here I've been in agonies trying to tell you--"

"Hush now." Sam brushed Frodo's face with his work-hardened hands, catching the saltwater tears as they mottled Frodo's cheek. With his finger, Sam traced the hollow below Frodo's eye, grazing his lower lashes.

"So beautiful, sir, you're just so..." Sam exhaled a sigh of pleasure.

"So are you." Frodo could almost topple into those brown eyes, looking so fiercely into his own, so hungrily...

"We'll not argue about it."

"But..." Frodo tried to think straight, but it was all too difficult as Sam rubbed tiny circles on his palm. "The letter..."

"Sir, if you don't mind me sayin', does it matter now we've declared ourselves?" Sam lifted Frodo's hand up to his lips, kissing each knuckle gently.

"No...oh, Sam...no...not really." Frodo's breath snagged, his heart throbbed in his chest.

Everything about him seemed to melt, every anxiety, every care or hurt. Except for Sam, staring at him, the need in his eyes unmistakable...why hadn't he ever seen it before?

"Oh, sir."

Whether he leaned forward, or Sam did, Frodo never knew, but the arm's length between them disappeared, and all Frodo could see was Sam's face, the heat flushing his cheeks, his lips trembling like flower petals.

"Sam, don't call me 'sir', not anymore."

"Yes...Mr. Frodo."

"And not 'mister' either." Frodo frowned, which was odd since he was grinning at the same time, a breath away from his love's mouth.

Now Frodo could smell Sam, sweet with earth and apples and sunshine. He was falling, toppling into those warm brown eyes, now dark...

"Frodo? Frodo-lad!"

The world broke asunder. Frodo and Sam jumped back, and by the time Bilbo had rounded the bushes, Sam had jumped back behind the bush, shaking.

"Bilbo." Frodo's voice was a mere croak.

Bilbo's arms were laden with packages. "Come along and help me, lads. I've been carrying these from Frogmorton." Sam took the packages to the kitchen, while Frodo was regaled with every piece of local gossip Bilbo had gathered from the marketplace.

"...and so Roderic's in a bit of a mess now, the fool," Bilbo finished with a laugh.

"What are these?" asked Frodo, concentrating on the square packages, anything to keep him from looking at Sam.

"Books, Frodo, as you can see! You've learnt most of the Silvan language, and now you are ready for the more subtle and lyrical -- not to mention difficult, Quenya. Should keep you, er, occupied."

Frodo's eyes locked onto Sam's at that moment, despite his best intentions. He knew that Sam was thinking the same thing as he: it was not books that could keep Frodo busy but other, more appealing activities...

Slow, lazy embraces lying on the grass; sweet, stolen kisses behind the shed...

Frodo fingered the string wrapping up the parcels. "Bilbo...thank you." He couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Quite all right, lad," said Bilbo. "Now, it's getting late. Why don't you go on home early, Sam? As a treat Frodo and I will take supper at The Green Dragon."

Sam's shoulders sagged. "Thank you, Mr. Bilbo," he said in a breath. "Goodnight Mr. Bilbo. Goodnight--" He looked at Bilbo's heir quickly, recalling his promise not to call Frodo by his titles anymore, yet not aloud to call him by name, either.

Then Sam walked out the door.

Bilbo watched Frodo as he looked after the gardener. Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo could see Bilbo had one eyebrow arched.

"Put away these books, could you Frodo? I'm going to wash up and get changed. Then we shall go to supper. There's a good lad." With a pat on Frodo's shoulder, Bilbo left him alone.

Frodo sighed and began to unload the packages. He had had the merest chance to unbreech the wall of his heart and confess his feelings for Sam. While he could now be relieved that his desires were returned with good measure, the hobbit could not help but feel the day had turned out rather anticlimactic.

~*~

Continued on Trewsday...

Author's Note: I would just like to thank everybody who's reviewed this story, or if you haven't, thanks for reading anyway! I hope I wasn't too cruel in this chapter…