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“I think it’s stuck,” said Frodo, struggling with the chandelier.
“I’m sure it ain’t, Mr Frodo,” Sam said in soothing tones.
“Everything in this smial is so – damn old,” said Frodo, teeth gritted. “It’s a wonder any of it –” Experimentally, he twisted the other way. Something gave. “Ah.”
“Any of it ah?” said Sam.
“You were right.” Sheepishly, Frodo began to unscrew the chandelier, which gave out a faint squeaking of old metal. “It turns the other way.”
“So it does,” said Sam, kindly not saying I told you so.
This was a fine way to spend his Friday afternoon, Frodo reflected. Up on a chair, with grooves in his hands and dust all over his weskit.
The chandelier came out of the ceiling in his hands, and staggered slightly under the sudden weight he said, “oof.”
“Here,” said Sam, reaching for it.
Frodo bundled it into his hands – and looked about the floor for the stool. “Where’s –”
“Oh, I took it with me to the kitchen,” said Sam. He dumped the chandelier on the floor and said, “here, I’ll get you down.”
So saying, Sam set his big hands on Frodo’s hips, and with graceful ease and a soft hup lifted him off the chair.
“Ohh, my!” Frodo exclaimed. “Oh.” His feet back on the ground, he cleared his throat and adjusted his weskit. “Goodness, you’re strong.”
“I lift a lot of things,” said Sam, smiling a coy half smile. He had an air of confidence about him, a bashful sort of confidence that came out in him now and then. On the rare occasions Frodo saw that side of him it never failed to charm.
“Do I weigh anything to you?” he said.
“I dunno,” said Sam. “I wasn’t paying attention. He’s see.” Throwing his arms about Frodo’s waist, he lifted him fully off the floor.
“Sam!” Frodo cried. Laughing Sam turned, spinning him about in the air, and as he did so a light and soaring feeling swept through Frodo, setting wings beating in his stomach.
“There we go,” Sam said, putting Frodo down. “You don’t weigh too much.” His hands shifted idly from Frodo’s waist to his hips, and he did not let go.
Frodo swallowed. Stop that, he said to himself. It’s just Sam. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it.
“Here, now,” said Sam, and reaching up his fingers grazed Frodo’s ear.
“What?” said Frodo.
“You’ve cobwebs in your hair,” said Sam, plucking out a grey string with a little smile. “What a mess,” he pronounced, shaking the cobweb from his fingers to the floor. “There’s another one.”
“Are you grooming me?” said Frodo as Sam extracted the offending cobweb from his hair.
“Maybe,” said Sam, still smiling, smiling in a manner that was almost coy.
It’s Sam, Frodo told himself. Plain old Sam. He doesn’t think about these things. He’s hardly going to flirt with you.
He took a step backwards. Sam’s hand fell away. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.
“No, it’s –” Frodo ran a hand self-consciously over his hair. “We should get it cleaned up,” he said, nodding at the chandelier.
“Oh, yes,” said Sam, rounding rather as if he’d forgotten the point of the exercise. “I’ll take it through,” he said, and scooping up the chandelier from the floorboards he hastened away down the hall.