Frodo went out immediately after dinner that evening; even though he left without his cousins, Sam could guess where he must have gone.
He waited up as usual, but it wasn't long before he heard the familiar creak of the kitchen door and the pad of bare footsteps in the hallway, only one pair of feet as far as he could tell. One hobbit had come in, alone. It must be Frodo. Sam listened eagerly as the footsteps pattered up the stairs, then stopped. He waited for more than a minute, but when he did not hear Frodo go farther along, he opened his door and peeked out.
Frodo sat on the top step, hugging his knees to his chest. At first, Sam was afraid that he had tripped coming up the stairs --but, no, there had been no sound of a fall. Frodo must have been unsteady on his feet, and chose to sit down here rather than walk another ten feet down the hallway to his room. Al-though how he had managed to get into such a state so early in the evening was more than Sam liked to imagine!
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine." Frodo looked up as Sam came to stand over him. "I was just thinking. Sam, I've been the worst sort of fool."
Sam had heard this type of maudlin talk before. "That you have," he answered. "And after you promised me this morning that it wouldn't happen again! Well, there's no help for it. Come on." He reached down to pick Frodo up.
"Sam-" Frodo protested. "Sam, I'm not-" He squirmed briefly, then resigned himself to being carried; wrapping one arm around Sam's neck and resting his chin on his shoulder, he let Sam take him to his room. By the time Sam set him down on the bed, he seemed more amused than indignant.
"Just like last night," he said as Sam unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt and pulled each off in turn.
"Just like," Sam echoed, and wondered again how much of it Frodo remembered. Frodo's eyes were searching his face in that same intense, questioning way--and then Frodo leaned to give him a kiss.
Sam stepped back. "Stop that," he said mildly, not wishing to make Frodo cry again by being too rough with him.
He turned away and walked over to the chair by the fire. "Why d'you only want to kiss me when you've been drinking too much?" he muttered as he lay the discarded clothing over the back of the chair. He spoke more to himself than to Frodo, and he was startled when Frodo responded:
"Is that why you pushed me away last night? You thought I was too drunk to know what I was doing?"
Sam whirled to him. Frodo was perched at the edge of the bed, regarding him with a small smile.
"You were too drunk," he answered. "It wouldn't've been decent."
"No, it wouldn't have been," Frodo agreed. "Would you like it if I kissed you some other time?"
"I might." He was saying more than he should, but he felt more free to speak his mind in these moments; Frodo didn't seem so bad off tonight, but Sam was sure his memories of this conver-sation would be blurred by tomorrow.
"You mean, when I'm sober?"
"At least then I'd know for sure whether or not you mean it."
"What about now?"
"Now?"
That small smile grew wider. "I'm quite sober now, Sam. I went out walking tonight. I stopped at the tavern, but I only had one pint and I barely touched it. I didn't feel like chasing myself into oblivion."
Sam gaped at him. Frodo was telling the truth; he could see that for himself. Frodo's speech was clear and distinct, not at all slurred, and when he jumped off from the bed, he landed lightly on his feet without a hint of a wobble.
"I thought I might find greater comfort here, in the company of a dear friend who knows me better than anyone," he continued. "We've been through so much together, Sam. Surely we can be honest with each other? I hoped we could talk about what happened last night. I don't remember all of it very clearly, but I remember enough. We were in such a muddle this morning, so confused and feeling so awkward, that I don't think either of us said what we meant. But I've had time to think things over since."
He began to walk slowly across the room--agonizingly slowly to Sam, who stood with his mouth hanging open as Frodo came toward him.
"I wanted to go to you and see if we could try it again, but I stopped before I got your door. I didn't know if you'd be glad of my coming, or if you'd tell me not to be silly and turn me away. I was trying to think what to say, when you came out... And the problem seems to have taken care of itself." He had come to stand on the hearth.
"Merry was right: I am a fool. I worry too much about what is and isn't proper between us, when we both might be so much happier if we didn't think of it. We've gone so far beyond the old rules that it's absurd to consider ourselves bound by them anymore, not if we don't wish to be. I was afraid. I couldn't even admit to myself what I felt for you unless I was drenched in ale, and then the truth all came out just when you were least likely to believe me. But you believe me now, don't you?"
Sam nodded mutely. Frodo was so close, still smiling, eyes shining into his. Bare to the waist, his skin glowed red in the fire's light, like something out of a secret dream. So close... It fairly took his breath away.
All the feelings he'd kept so carefully in check were about to burst forth. But why hold them back any longer? Frodo had come to him with a clear head, had said that what was proper between a gentleman and servant didn't matter for them. What more could he ask for?
"Then there's no reason we can't love each other," Frodo con-cluded. "That is, if you do love me, Sam?"
"Of course I do!" The words came out in a sob. "What d'you think? I love you so much, sometimes I can't bear it." And he wrapped both arms around Frodo to take him up in a fierce hug. Frodo was too surprised to do more than yelp as he was lifted off his feet and hold on when Sam began to kiss him as he'd always wanted to.
"Merry was right about a lot of things," he said rather breath-lessly after Sam finally let him go and his toes had regained the floor.
"Let's not tell him that," replied Sam. "It'd only go to his head, and then there'd be no living with him."
Frodo laughed and gave him another kiss. "It'll be our secret."
Then, with his eyes on shyly on Sam's, he led one of his hands to his trouser buttons. Sam undid them for him and stole both hands inside the waistband--not daring yet to do what he had imagined, but to compass Frodo's hips. Frodo's hands covered his own, and together they pushed the clothing down. The trousers dropped and Frodo stepped out of them, freeing each foot in turn with a little kick. A servant would have placed them neatly over the back of the chair with the rest of his master's clothes; tonight, Sam let them lie on the floor where they fell. He didn't give them a moment's thought, for he was in a daze of wonder and happiness--almost as if he were drunk himself--as Frodo took his hands and, stepping backwards, led him away from the fire and toward the bed.
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