By: Dana
Summary: Where having all you want isn't the same as all you need.
Characters: Sam, Frodo, Rose
Pairings: Frodo/Sam, Sam/Rose, Frodo/Sam/Rose implied
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst, attempted dark!frodo, slash.
Author's Notes: Written as a mathom for my birthday. Oh, the angst. Post-quest.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

There's a moment between day and night where everything seems like it's a still life painting, and it isn't much of a leap for Sam to make, and then it's Yesterday, years ago, and his master will be wanting to take his tea in the gardens. Sam picks a four o'clock, looks to the sky.

In the east, the first stars shine in the darkening velvet. It won't be long, and Frodo will point them out to Sam; and Sam, hungry to know more, will tuck those soft Elven words away at the back of his mind, safe and sure for days to come. And there are other things he'd rather know, like the curve of Frodo's neck as he turns away, the swell of his lips.

It was moments like then, where Sam finds it hardest just to look and not touch. How he wishes that he could touch. Just the smallest would suit him; and he could hold it in his heart, and maybe the days won't seem too long. Because it's the nights that pass by in an instant, when the colours of the world turn soft and cool, and Sam doesn't think that there are enough nights in all the ages of the world, to show Frodo, as he truly is.

And the moment will feel like it will stretch on forever, that there won't be darkness not touched by the stars, and there won't be pain, nothing more than when Frodo is absentminded and pricks an ink-stained finger on a thorn. And even thing, Frodo will simply laugh and shake his head, will bring that finger to his mouth and no more of his blood will need to be spilled.

And Sam doesn't think that it's his fault, really, but he can't blame Frodo; and he's wished to be that mouth, he's wished to be that finger.

Oh, and it's ironic now, to have all that he wanted, and he's dying inside.

"Sam? Husband?"

Its dark out, now.

Sam gasps, brought back to the present, and he drops crushed petals as he turns to Rose. And Rose is pale like a star, herself, standing in the light cast from Bag End's front door. She doesn't smile much, not these days; her frown is a reminder, in the night, that he'll never be alone.

"The babe's been kicking again," she sighs, and Sam steps close to press his hand to the swell of her belly. He almost smiles, and dead stars dance in her eyes as she tilts her head and looks to him. "Shall you come in?" she says, shivers in the chill of the night air. "Mr Frodo's asking for you, love."

He threads his fingers through hers, holds tight. "I just needed a breath of fresh air."

Rose is still frowning, and she reaches up and tucks an absent curl back behind his ear. She nearly laughs, but these days her laughter always sounds like she's going to weep. If he closed his eyes, he could remember another, other time, laughing by the river, weaving garlands of flowers as they sat in the sun. Her voice brings him back, again. "He loves you so much."

"Oh, and I love him, too, Rose-wife, with all of my heart."

She tries, then, and her lips turn up faintly; but her eyes lose their light and she leans against him, presses her forehead against his shoulder. Sam is silent, wrapping her up in his arms. He can see their homecoming, a miraculous return from beyond the dead; and Mr Frodo was different, then, and Sam wonders why it took him so long to see.

A voice whispers at the back of his mind; and it's him, younger, and tears sting in his eyes; Maybe it was clear as day, but it was a truth you just didn't want to face.

And now there's no turning back. Frodo's kisses are hungry, his fingers are thin and strong; he needs so much, now, like there's an emptiness inside that he just can't seem to fill. Because It is long gone, and it left a hole behind. And Sam would fill it, if he could. But there just doesn't seem to be enough, all that he gives, and Rose tries, too. But the void is ever growing, and it eats his Frodo from the inside out.

His? Sam doubts that Frodo was ever really his; it's always been the other way around.

Rose draws a shuddering breath, leans back and looks to Sam. "So," she frowns. "You've kept him waiting long enough."

Sam smiles sadly, traces her lips with his thumb. He leaves her there, walks into Bag End; and the light is a contrast to the night. And he could stop, and look back, and he would see his Rose standing against a backdrop of stars. He doesn't. It almost feels that Sam is walking back, through the years, and he'll hear old Bilbo, and Frodo's laugh.

He can't remember the last time Frodo laughed.

"Master?"

Frodo sits in the parlour, in the big chair by the fire. It had been Bilbo's, that chair, and his father before him. It's fitting that Frodo sits, there, now; his eyes flash dark in the light, and a smile cuts across his lips. His kisses that taste of blood, and pain; Sam wishes he could take it all away, but he knows that if he could, there'd be nothing left to keep Frodo alive.

"I was starting to wonder if you were coming at all."

Sam's smile is faint and a shiver travels up the length of his spine. "The stars are lovely tonight, sir. I was distracted, you see."

But Frodo sees more than it seems; and it would be easy enough for him to play the fool. He plays it often enough. It's hard for Sam to remember a time when he didn't live in fear.

No, it's not quite fear; anticipation, instead, for better or for worse.

Sam is never sure.

Frodo rises up, beckons to Sam; and Sam walks to him, and Frodo's arms are thin and strong like bands of steel. They wrap around Sam. "There we are," he says, nestles his face in the crook of Sam's neck. For a long moment, breathing, silence, nothing more. "This, I like."

And Sam's arms hang heavy and limp.

"Won't you hold me, Sam?"

Sam moves, stiff, to hold Frodo; what was natural once, has been made wrong.

"That's better," Frodo murmurs, presses his lips to Sam's throat. Wrong, that voice whispers again, it's all gone wrong. You see how he is, how he ought to be. You can save him, still, save your Rose, save yourself. And the fire crackles in the hearth and Sam closes his eyes. He can feel Frodo pressed against his length, can feel the thump-thump beat of his heart singing along with Sam's. They're beyond redemption, now.

The moment ends.

Frodo's lips are cold on Sam's, his eyes flash dark and dangerous. There's nothing left for him, now, his kisses are old like dead flowers, bitter and dry. He leads Sam to the room, their bed, and he's like a starved hobbit, needing more and more. Nothing will ever sate him, no, not fully. And he cries, after, tucked safe in Sam's arms.

It'll be near dawn when Rose seeks to crawl into bed, and Sam will make room; and together they seek to keep their master warm. He floats adrift in the day, bereft of the terrors that haunt him with the setting of the sun; but he will be a monster again,come the dark. Broken. And Sam is just as broken, and Rose is tied down by her love; Frodo needs, he takes, and the only life they know how to live, is to give more than is possible to give.