No, there was no solution. He had to keep his forbidden love well hidden deep inside his heart.
As days passed, Frodo had become more and more withdrawn. He was unable to be near Sam without blushing and having his legs tremble and his heart beat furiously. So he decided that the best thing to do, for both of their sakes, was to try and avoid Sam, and be far from home as often as he could manage.
* * *
After a hard day’s work, Sam was heading back home, whistling contentedly, as usual. The sun was already sinking, and the sky above him, on his short walk from Bag End to Bagshot Row n. 3, was turning from its pale azure colour into an indigo blue.
‘A wonderful shade of blue tonight’ Sam thought ‘just like … just like Mr. Frodo’s eyes’. How beautiful his Master’s eyes were, innocent and mischievous all the same, almost breathtaking when they shone so bright in the morning light …
‘Oh my, why am I thinking of Mr. Frodo now? Of course he is a fine hobbit, no mistake, and very charming, but …’
He felt his heart skip a beat at the sudden idea of Frodo, dark hair, lips the colour of summer roses and those amazing blue eyes. Everything about him was a real wonder.
For the first time in his life, Sam felt uncomfortable with his thoughts, and was more than surprised to discover that a certain part of his body was already reacting to the images of Frodo in his mind.
He had always considered Frodo as his beloved Master and friend, but had never looked at him from a different perspective. Now he had to admit, with a mix of embarrassment and pleasure, that not only was he very fond of Mr. Frodo, but he also found him physically very attractive.
* * *
Frodo had trouble sleeping, but those summer nights, in which the air in the rooms of the smial was so hot that it was almost impossible to rest peacefully, were not the main reason.
The rare times that he was able to fall asleep, his dreams were mostly made of Sam, naked skin, deep kisses and intimate touches. The following awakenings, inevitably, found the young hobbit a mess in his sticky sheets, still wanting and in an unbearable frustration.
Sometimes, Frodo stayed awake at his desk, for several hours, trying to focus on the endless translations of Bilbo’s book, or writing down something of his own. He started writing poetry, in Elvish, short lines about desperate love …
One night he had fallen asleep while working on a poem, and was still sleeping when, the morning after, Sam knocked gently at the door of his room.
There was no way for Sam to talk to Frodo in these days, because his young Master was often away for hours, or else he was spending most of the day stuck inside the smial.
Sam was suffering from the detached behaviour of his friend, for Frodo always seemed to avoid him, so the gardener thought that the best way he could try and see the older hobbit was to bring him breakfast.
Having received no answer from inside, Sam pushed the door open and entered the room, leaving a fragrant stream of good tasting toasts, honey and mushrooms omelettes behind him.
“Mr. Frodo I thought that you might like to take your breakfast in your …”. Sam stopped, and the word ‘room’ didn’t pass his lips.
Frodo was deeply asleep, his head nestled on his arms, crossed on top of the desk, lips slightly parted and tousled hair partially covering his pale face. The quill was still near his right hand, and some ink had dropped onto a sheet of parchment on which Frodo had written something. Other sheets were scattered on the floor.
