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Frodo knew he couldn’t return to the Shire. He knew it the moment he arrived back at what should have been home. He sat down his bags, hung his cloak on the door, and settled into his favourite armchair. He was home.
He was home and he was restless and he knew, just knew, that he couldn’t stay. The journey had changed him too much; pain and suffering twisted into him, responsibility the only thing holding him up, the duty he chose pushing him forward, heedless of people lost. They haunt him now, ghosts of choices and people alike, and most days he doesn’t recognise himself anymore. Frodo isn’t the same hobbit he was when he left, and there is no space for who he became.
He understands why Gandalf only ever returned to the Shire to light his fireworks, now.
Frodo knew he couldn’t return and yet he stayed. For Sam, anything for Sam.
“How do I look?” Sam doesn’t even look at the mirror, eyes nervously trained on Frodo, waiting for judgement.
The answer is as obvious as it is complicated: Sam looks fantastic. His clothes are pristine and well fitted, hugging his soft curves and complementing his skin, bringing out his eyes. Frodo watched them be made, stood with Sam through fittings and adjustments and decisions. He never thought they would matter this much, wedding clothes.
Sam looks fantastic and it hurts. There is no dirt on him now, no sign that he loves plants and doesn’t care about his clothes. These aren’t for him, they both know it.
“Rosie will like it,” Frodo says, almost chokes on it.
She will like it, though, and Sam will like her liking it. He will stand tall and nervous, trying not to fidget as he waits for her. And then she will arrive, and she will be stunning. She will relieve Sam of all his worries, all his pain and responsibility for one blissful moment; there will be nothing but her on Sam’s mind. She will look at him and she will congratulate herself, will realise how lucky she is to have caught Sam’s love and interest.
Sam will smile, then, and she will smile back. They will be happy, the two of them.
Frodo will stand just behind him, watching from the sidelines. This is why he stayed.
Frodo was right, they do make a handsome couple. They dance and they laugh and people clap, happy to be in their radiance.
Frodo was also wrong. He doesn’t stand at Sam’s shoulder, not anymore. He sits alone, as far away from the festivities as he can get without leaving. He sits alone and tries not to be bitter about his friend’s happiness, tries not to begrudge him what joy he found.
Sam deserves this, Frodo reminds himself, deserves this and more. Sam deserves the world.
Rosie laughs, too loud, and Frodo turns away.
“In the old days, we would just disappear.”
Frodo doesn’t listen but he nods, anyway. He is watching Sam, smiling a pained smile as Rosie’s brother goes on about something.
“You just took your sweetheart and did everyone the courtesy of leaving for a month or two. Weren’t fit for polite company anyway, by then.” Dirty laughter, reminiscence about the good old days.
Frodo nods again, makes vaguely agreeing noises. Weddings, he thinks, and doesn’t want to know more.
Sam excuses himself from Rosie’s brother, ducks away without the other noticing. Frodo tries to catch his eyes, wants to offer him the free space next to him, wants to ask what that was about, wants to ask how he’s been—Sam beams, sunlight caught and shared, and joins his wife on the other end of the pub.
“Besotted fools,” the hobbit next to Frodo shakes his head, “could have spared us the show.”
Frodo nods again; he’ll drink to that.
Bag End is too big for just one hobbit. It was designed to house a family, to invite friends and guests and celebrate and feast—all the books in the world aren’t enough to fill the empty space that lives with Frodo.
Sam still tends to his garden, of course. Frodo is helpless with plants—with anything growing and living, it seems—and Sam is too good to abandon them to their fate at Frodo’s forgetful hands.
Sam still tends to his garden and still makes him tea and he still finds Frodo when he feels like he lost himself, but it’s not the same. Sam doesn’t stay, doesn’t linger, doesn’t look at him.
Sam still tends to his garden and Frodo feels like he needs to hide, like he should climb as deep into his house as he can, scurry as far away from the sun as he can.
Sam still tends to his garden but it’s become a duty, no longer a joy.
Frodo shouldn’t have returned. He knew this, knew it always. It gets harder and harder to remember why he stayed anyway.
“Still can’t believe he actually asked her; didn’t think he ever would.” Pippin is a better friend than Frodo, no malice in him when he witnesses Sam and Rosie whisper to each other, close and intimate.
Frodo doesn’t answer; he has nothing kind to say.
“No? With how he mooned over her? I would have been very surprised had he not married her!” Merry laughs, like it’s funny, and Pippin joins.
Frodo can’t even pretend. It doesn’t matter; they are too caught up in themselves to notice his quiet misery.
Although—“Sam didn’t moon over her!”
They don’t even look at him as they disagree, stumbling over each other to find examples, list times when Sam was so gone on love that he could barely talk. Proof, they call it, that Sam was always meant for Rosie, that he always loved her.
Frodo thought it a passing fancy, at best. Frodo never realised it was this serious.
How long has he missed this? How long has he willingly ignored the obvious?
Perhaps he should start packing a bag for his walks. He could go further then, stay out longer. It pulls him away, draws him out further and further—it wouldn’t have to be anything scandalous, just a walk. Perfectly acceptable.
Frodo doesn’t belong here anymore, why not find out where he does belong?
The stars are the same, no matter how far he walks. There are no answers, no matter how desperately he looks.
Perhaps he needs to walk further, always just a mile further.
Sam finds him buried under yellowed maps, sitting on the floor like that might make him invisible. He smiles, sets the tea on the floor next to him like it’s perfectly normal to find Frodo hiding in his own library.
He doesn’t linger in the doorway, not like he used to, shrugs it off and turns to leave. Perhaps finding Frodo here has become more normal for Sam than he realised.
“Do you like it?” Frodo calls out, stopping Sam from leaving.
He didn’t mean to, didn’t mean to cause the tension creeping into his back. He didn’t mean to reveal how raspy his voice has gotten, how long it’s been since he talked to Sam, how bad he has gotten at it.
Sam doesn’t mention any of that. They both know, anyway. But Sam is better than that, always more patient than Frodo deserved, and so he turns around, kneels down next to him.
They must look a mess, Frodo definitely does. There are deep circles under his eyes, he knows when Sam flinches at their sight. His hair has descended into wild chaos and the maps left black residue on his skin—Frodo looks like something out of a frightening tale, thin and dark. Sam, on the other hand, looks like the bringer of light. His skin is sun-kissed, freckled and warm, eyes gentle and unchanged despite it all.
Sam edges closer towards him, until Frodo’s feet brush against his knees, like Frodo’s reflection isn’t the only thing marring his perfection, like Frodo didn’t put hesitance on his amiable countenance.
“What do I like, Mr. Frodo?” Sam smiles at him, indulgent of Frodo’s nonsense.
“Bag End,” Frodo says, hollow, knocked out by the easy fondness in Sam.
Frodo misses him. He must always have, missed him the moment he turned his eyes away, but he never knew what to miss.
Now he does.
He misses Sam’s patience, misses his generosity, and his gentleness.
He misses his ferocity, the fire with which he defends what he believes in.
He misses his hope, his stubborn faith that everything would turn out well, that anyone had any say about the path of their life.
He misses his smiles and his laughter, misses his excitement and his trust, misses his warmth and his closeness.
Frodo misses Sam so violently it hurts.
Sam used to weave flowers together for him. They all held meaning, too, which he would sometimes explain to Frodo as he bound them into wreaths, braided them into crowns. He would explain and point out what made them special, how bright their colour or how delicate their petals. And then he would look at Frodo, would hesitate, and gently, always so gently, rest the flowers on his head.
Or he wouldn’t, would tell Frodo not to be so nosey, and Frodo would find the flowers later, carefully deposited for him to stumble over.
Frodo would always smile, he would blush and tell his heart to be quiet, to not make a fool of him.
Now there are no flowers, not in his house and certainly not in his hair, and Frodo has finally realised that it’s never foolish to love someone.
He leaves the key to Sam. He’ll start a family soon, everyone says so; he’ll finally fill the space. Frodo couldn’t do it, could offer it nothing but ghosts and regrets, but Sam’s presence will do it good, will breathe life into the place as easy as anything. Sam will save him one last time.
Always a Baggings at Bag End, Frodo thinks, and he smiles. Sam will fit the role much better than he ever could.
“I don’t understand.” Sam clutches at him, begs him to explain.
Frodo doesn’t remember the last time they were this close, the last time they touched.
(That’s not true; he remembers in excruciating detail. He remembers the hard floor and the restrained contact, so fleeting it might not have been there at all. He remembers wishing nothing more but to abandon his maps, to throw it all to the wind and lean forward, seek his shelter in Sam instead.
That’s when he realised he needed to leave.)
Frodo doesn’t explain, just closes his eyes; he has nothing to say for himself.
Sam isn’t prepared for a walk. Frodo doesn’t know how he found him at all, how he could follow him, but he clearly didn’t prepare for it. He brought no provisions and no comforts, not even a coat.
Sam isn’t prepared for a walk. And still he joins Frodo’s flight, stubbornly demands answers Frodo can’t give him.
Sam isn’t prepared for a walk. He walks anyway.
Frodo watches Sam drink, wonders how much food he will accept. He hadn’t planned on sharing any of it, but he also hadn’t planned on a companion.
“I needed to leave,” Frodo says into the silence, the only answer he can give. It’s not an answer at all, only more questions.
Sam nods, as if he understood Frodo’s non-answer.
“That’s alright,” he says, and for the first time, Frodo thinks it might be.
“I don’t know how to belong there anymore,” Frodo confesses, some endless nights later.
Sam is better prepared now, carrying much of Frodo’s things and determined to come with him.
“Marriage,” Sam says, as if it’s that simple. Then Frodo remembers Rosie and realises that for him, probably, it was.
“We can’t all marry our love.” The words come out bitter, harsh, and Frodo is glad for the dark.
They are in the Shire again, back before they really left. Sam belongs here, after all, and Frodo couldn’t take him just because his heart demands it.
It’s the Shire as he knew it, the Shire he grew up in, but it also isn’t. Or perhaps Frodo isn’t the one who grew up here.
This Shire is familiar and new, different and the same. He wants to ask Sam about it, wants to know if he feels it too, this strange magic, if he thinks home can become foreign if you lose yourself enough.
He doesn’t ask. He needs to return Sam where he belongs.
Next time, he has to walk faster.
Sam stops before they get there. He stops and Frodo stops with him, long since attuned to him.
“I thought if I married her, I would belong again,” he says, and for a moment Frodo doesn’t know what he is talking about. “I thought if I could belong, I could stay.”
Sam doesn’t look at him, looks anywhere but him.
“Why?” Frodo never realised Sam had to fight to belong, never realised he chose to stay the same way Frodo himself did.
Now Sam does look at him, fond exasperation playing on the corner of his mouth.
“Because you were here, Mr. Frodo.”
Neither of them knows how to belong to the Shire anymore, not fully, but they know how to belong to each other. Frodo thinks they might have since he pulled Sam out of that lake. Sam thinks it has been longer than that.
They turn their backs on the Shire, the old and the new alike, walk into the other direction.
They have this tradition, in the Shire. Hobbits used to disappear, laughing and in love, devoted to only their love, to return once they were married.