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"Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot always be torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy, and to be, and to do."

- Return of the King p 309

Frodo cast his cloak on the ground, flung himself on it, lay back and closed his eyes. His body was aching, his heart breaking from the exertions of the day.

He heard Sam moving softly around him, setting up what they would need to be comfortable here. The sounds, the knowledge, lanced through him with pain coalescing in one word:

Leaving.
Leaving Sam.
Leaving Middle Earth.

Leaving Sam.

Sam; returning to home, to family, to life, to wholeness. Frodo; leaving, fleeing, seeking a healing he no longer believed in.

His heart was as dry and lifeless as the fallen leaves around him. The only thing he could still give Sam was his silence. The silence he had maintained through all the years, through all the pain, through all the hopeless longing. He could maintain that silence just a little longer.

But he could not completely school his expression; not from Sam's tender examination.

Frodo felt Sam's warm rough hand take his. He thought he had borne the ultimate in grief until he felt the warmth of Sam's breath on his face, heard Sam's beloved voice saying "What's troubling you Frodo dear? Can't you tell your Sam?"

He couldn't bear it. His eyes opened, and he could not restrain the surge of love and longing flowing from their bottomless blue depths. He cursed himself for his weakness and closed his eyes again, but not before he had seen Sam's eyes, lit with all the colors of the September trees copper green brown gold. He turned his face away, feeling desolation close over his heart.

He heard Sam's breath catch, but had no other warning until Sam's soft lips touched his own.

And there was no turning back.

A flame burst white-hot between them and Frodo was falling, falling, fathoms deep, and for some moments he was insensible of anything but Sam's lips on his, Sam's tongue laving the inside of his mouth. He was drowning in the miracle of having the one thing he would never ask for, the one thing he could never refuse.

Without knowing how, Frodo found himself naked in Sam's arms, their bodies slick with sweat, straining, clutched together so tightly they seemed to fit into one skin. Sam's wonderful warm weight was covering him, crushing him deliciously; Sam's arms were holding him impossibly tight, Sam's breath was sobbing in his ear, and Frodo was overwhelmed with terror of the years to come. Frodo knew now that there was no healing for him, no healing to be found anywhere but here, in these arms, under these lips. He had wanted to spare Sam, oh! he had meant to spare them both this!

Frodo's mind was reeling with adoration and anguish. And after all the years, all the silence, all the pain, all his long-held restraint was not enough to stop a tiny sound.

One word.

Whispered almost soundlessly, roaring in their ears.

"Sean!"

Time stopped.

The body above him froze. Mustering all his courage, he opened his eyes to see the eyes above him wide and dark with shock. He couldn't bear it. Sorry, sorry, sorry, his mind wept. Oh god my love I'm sorry sorry sorry I would have spared us, I meant to spare you this.

For an endless time they were suspended, inanimate, not knowing, not breathing. The beautiful weight on top of him shifted, and he closed his eyes again, feeling tears begin to slide from under the lids.

When he heard

Hoarse and rusty, almost unrecognizable, utterly unmistakable.

One word.

"Elijah?"

He sobbed aloud, unable to move; unbearable to see what was to be read on that most beloved of faces. Oh my god my god what have I done my love I'm so sorry sorry sorry.

The mouth descended on his with the force of a thunderclap, and then they were locked together, shrieking their need and their grief, mouths fused, lost; utterly lost.

There was no turning back from here.