Disclaimer: I don't own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
Sam's old gaffer says it isn't a picnic if it's in the yard of a person's own home, but Bilbo's always said a picnic is eating anywhere outside. So they go with that. Sam spreads out the blanket while Frodo holds the plates up, topped with bread and cheese.
Then they sit down, nestled around the back of the little hill with Bag End atop it. The blanket crinkles up around them and Frodo smoothes it all out; everything is picturesque. When he gets too close to the rose bushes, one branch bends over their blanket. Frodo reaches to push it back, only to sharply withdraw his hand a moment later. He mutters, "Ouch," and darts his hand into his mouth. It tastes sort of coppery and makes him feel foolish; how could he have forgotten about the thorns?
He should know better. Roses are, after all, his favourite flower, and there's no shortage of them in Bilbo's gardens. But then, Frodo's always had trouble acting one hundred percent up to snuff around a certain Samwise Gamgee, who instantly looks concerned, even though it's just a tiny scratch. "Are you alright, Mr. Frodo?"
Scowling more than he means to at his own stupidity, Frodo nods and slips his finger out of his mouth. It's just a tiny puncture and doesn't bleed anymore now that he's sucked it. Sam, helpful as ever, reaches out for the rose. He snaps it off at the end, pulling it out of the bush and off their blanket. Sam really is a wonderful gardener. And a better friend. And the best... everything. As he starts to carefully snap the sharp thorns off the stem, Frodo asks, "What're you doing?"
"Giving you a flower," Sam mumbles, without looking up. It's probably for the best—this way he can't see the blush that spreads all over Frodo's face.
The first time they met, Sam offered him a flower. A rose, actually, and that's the main and only reason that they're Frodo's favourite. It was when they were both very small, and Frodo had just come to live with his Uncle Bilbo. Sam's old gaffer had come up the way, and while he and Bilbo talked, Frodo and Sam were left to get more acquainted. And Sam had been as ridiculously polite and cute then as he is now; he'd picked all the thorns off a rose and handed it to 'Mr. Frodo.' Frodo was too busy smiling to correct him to something less formal, and Frodo's still too tongue-tied to tackle it. Sam said he wanted to work for Frodo when he grew up, just like his old gaffer. When the pair of them left, Frodo told Bilbo he wanted to keep the rose, and Bilbo showed him how to press and save it. It's still nestled away between the pages of a book in Frodo's room, along with a myriad of other flowers he's gotten over the years.
Last year, Sam gave him a white rose, but with all the thorns on it, and it's been Frodo's new favourite. Because it came with Sam's confession that Frodo has 'eyes like an angel,' and 'hair prettier than an elf.' ...He was drunk when he said it, so Frodo knows not to put much stock in that. But it was still nice anyway, and he still treasures his flower.
This one is a deep crimson, just like the first one. Sam's too skilled to cut himself like Frodo would—and he doesn't have Frodo's daydreaming problem—and when he hands it out, the stem is perfectly smooth. Frodo takes it with near-trembling fingers, brushing Sam's. Sam's smile is so handsome and genuine that it makes something twist in Frodo's stomach. "Thank you."
Sam nods and says, like it's nothing, "A beauty for a beauty."
Then he helps himself to a plate and a bun, his cheeks as red as Frodo's. Frodo fingers the rose and waits for his stomach to settle. Roses are his favourite flower, and Samwise Gamgee is his favourite hobbit. His hobbit.
It's a beautiful summer day, and Frodo wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world.