The next time Merry and Pippin went to the Steward's Arms, Frodo went with them, and on other nights after that. Sam accompanied them a few times, but stayed home once he saw that Frodo didn't want him there. His disapproval wasn't welcome. When he went to the tavern, Sam would spend his evenings nursing one mug and watching Frodo to be sure that he didn't drink past his limit. Even when Frodo kept himself to a pint or two, Sam was worried by the way he was drinking--not for fun and good fellowship, but to escape, and no good ever came of that! If he tried to inter-vene, Frodo put him off with rebukes such as, "I'm a grown hobbit, Sam. I don't need a nursery-maid to look after me."
Very well then. Maybe it wasn't his place to speak against it, but he'd rather not sit helplessly and watch it either. Nor would he push his company on his master when it wasn't wanted. He wished he could offer Frodo comfort against the troubles that tormented his mind; failing that, what else could he do but be ready when Frodo needed his help?
Thereafter, whenever the other hobbits went out, Sam sat up in his room, waiting and listening for their return. As long as Frodo could get into the house and up the stairs unaided, then Sam stayed where he was, but if it sounded like Frodo was having trouble, then Sam went to assist him. On most nights, there was no trouble; Frodo was usually a bit giddy, but to Sam's relief, never so drunk as he'd been that first night.
Then, one night as he sat up, he heard a clamor in the kitchen; Frodo and his cousins weren't laughing or singing, as they so often were when they came in, but their voices were rising in what sounded like an argument. Sam left his room to be certain that everything was all right.
As he stepped out into the hallway, he heard Pippin's voice, squeaking incredulously: "You'll do nothing about it?"
"Nothing," Frodo answered mournfully. "How could I?"
"Why not? If what Merry says is true..."
They came out of the kitchen, leaning on each other as a doubt-ful means of support. Merry was on Frodo's other side.
"It doesn' matter what Merry says. I couldn't!" Whatever it was Frodo refused to do, it sounded as if he were about to burst into tears over it.
"Rubbish!" said Merry. "'Course you could, if you wanted to. And you do want to. You can bet he does. All you have to do is say the word."
"Doesn' matter," Frodo repeated. "Whether I want to or don't, it wouldn' be the proper thing..." As they reached the foot of the stair, he lifted his eyes to find Sam waiting at the top. "Hullo, Sam. You agree with me, don't you?"
"Agree with what?" Sam had only caught the very end of the con-versation, and had no idea what they were talking about.
"Oh, don't ask Sam! He'll say he agrees even if he feels the opposite," scoffed Merry. "For a clever hobbit, you can be an awful fool, Frodo Baggins. I've always said you think too much for your own good. What're you so frightened of?"
"Stop thinking, and go!" Together, his cousins each took an elbows and shoved him toward the stairs; Frodo stumbled upwards, and Sam caught him before he fell on the top step.
Finding himself suddenly close against Sam, Frodo stared at him, uncertain and bewildered, then let his head droop to his friend's chest. "I can't."
Sam didn't know what sort of game they were playing, but since the point of it seemed to be to embarrass Frodo, he refused to go along. "Never mind, Mr. Frodo," he said. "Let's get you to bed."
Merry and Pippin sniggered. Sam ignored them. With one arm around Frodo to keep him on his feet, he escorted his master down the hall and into his bedroom.
Frodo sat on the bed to be undressed, so deep in thought while Sam helped him out of his waistcoat and shirt that Sam believed he must be in a stupor. He gazed up at Sam's face with dis-concerting intensity, as if searching for something there. He lifted his arms compliantly to let Sam pull a nightshift on over his head, and once his head was through the collar, blurted out, "Are you in love with me?"
The question caught Sam so completely off guard that his mouth moved soundlessly for what seemed like an endless moment as he tried to form an answer. "Don't you know by now how I feel about you?" he said as lightly as he could once he had regained some composure.
"No, I don't know if I do. Merry says- He says he's watched you. He saw the look on your face when I kissed you." A slight, puzzled frown creased Frodo's brow. "Sam, when did I kiss you? 'M afraid I don't remember."
Sam was mortified to realize that this was what that argument he'd heard the end of in the hallway had been about. He knew now what Frodo was insisting he just couldn't do.
"I love you, Sam."
"Yes, Mr. Frodo, I know."
"I do," Frodo said earnestly. "'Tisn't proper, but I do. I can't help it. When I imagine what it'd be like to have someone love me, you're the one I think of. I think how nice it is when I'm close to you, and how we might be closer." He grabbed Sam's shirt-sleeve and looked into his eyes. "We are close, aren't we, Sam?"
"Yes, we are." His heart was thumping hard, belying his careful replies. Why did Frodo only talk like this on nights when he'd been drinking?
"Dear, dear friends," said Frodo, "but there's more. We might be anything." His voice rose hopefully as he reconsidered. "Why can't we be? I could do it. I could love you..."
Sam was not very surprised when Frodo kissed him this time. He let it happen. Maybe it wasn't right, but he was dizzy with the warmth of that mouth on his just the same. In spite of himself, he wanted so much to believe that Frodo meant what he was saying and it wasn't just the ale going to his head.
As the kiss deepened, Frodo made urgent sounds in the back of his throat. He plucked at Sam's shirt, pressed against him with peculiar little surging movements, brushed his flank with one knee--but it wasn't until he led Sam's hand to the buttons of his trousers and whispered, "Help me get out of these," that Sam realized that Frodo was clumsily trying to offer himself.
"No..." This had gone too far. Taking Frodo by the forearms, Sam pushed him away and gave him a good shake. "Stop it!"
Frodo stared at him wide-eyed and horrified. "I'm sorry!" he sobbed and, when Sam let him go, flopped onto the bed.
Sam was immediately ashamed of himself; Frodo had been on the brink of tears since he'd come home, and it was only a matter of time before he started in, but knowing that didn't make Sam feel less despicable. He'd made Frodo cry!
He climbed onto the bed beside the curled-up figure. "Here, Mr. Frodo. Hush, now. Don't cry. Please, don't cry!" He patted Frodo's back, then rubbed between the shoulder-blades to soothe him. "I'm the one that ought to be sorry. I didn't mean to be so rough." He'd really been more angry with himself than Frodo for not putting a stop to things sooner, as well as alarmed at how badly he'd wanted to go on.
"No, 's all my fault. I shouldn' throw myself at you. A gen'leman ought to behave himself better." Frodo curled more tightly into a ball. "I've made a fool of myself. You don't want me."
"That isn't so."
"Sam-" Frodo lifted his head and twisted around to look at him. "You mean, you-?"
"Hush," Sam answered firmly. "No more of this nonsense." He'd already said more than he should. "Don't fret yourself over it. You'll feel silly you made such a fuss in the morning." He doubted that Frodo would remember any of this tomorrow, but he would. Every word.
Why couldn't we be? That hopeful cry echoed in Sam's memory as he went on rubbing in soothing little circles until the sobs lapsed into fitful hiccups, and Frodo was quiet at last. Once he was quite sure that Frodo was asleep, Sam leaned down to kiss one salty, tear-dampened cheek, and wished with all his might that this night had been different.
If Frodo had said these things to him with a clear head, then-Oh, then! He wouldn't push him away. No. He'd give back every one of those kisses, and a dozen more! He'd unfasten those trouser buttons--not as he'd done many times before, to help his master undress as part of his duties, but to slip a hand inside. He'd caress the soft skin of Frodo's belly, run his fingers into that puff of dark curls. He might even reach farther down to touch-
Sam stopped there, shocked at how far his imagination had led him. He drew his hand away from Frodo's back, as if it were wrong to touch him at all while having such carnal thoughts. He shouldn't be thinking of Frodo that way, not even if Frodo had started him off. Even if a gentleman threw himself at his servant, the servant had no business to catch him!
The things Frodo had said to him tonight weren't to be taken as truth; they were only the maudlin outpourings of an ale-addled head, and would never be spoken in the light of day. He must guard his heart against them, and forget whatever happened in these tipsy hours with the morning, just as Frodo did.
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