Work Text:
Frodo coughs as he walks down the hill, the night sky twinkling above him. It's quiet, that's part of living in this town, it's quiet at night. He's out of breath, so terribly out of breath, and he's wondering if the pills even did anything.
Frodo finds a tree, his favorite tree, the tree he used to read by, the tree where he smoked his first joint with his cousins, and lays down.
His cousins. They live nearby, and yet, they feel so far from him. He remembers little Pippin, so naive and yet kind, who always had a way of making people laugh. He's fifteen now, only two years from graduating, and Merry, his calculating, mischievous counterpart, who's the smartest person Frodo has ever known, who managed to be a slacker and a thrill chaser all while maintaining a solid grade average.
He coughs again, and it's hoarse, painful, and as he falls back from it, the tree trunk feels like knives. He remembers that feeling, that night he and Sam had kissed, Frodo against the tree, feeling the heat within him stronger than it had ever been before. But not all the times they spent there were of that nature. He remembers showing Sam his Pokémon cards at the tree, always making sure to sneak an extra few for him, reading with him, holding his hand.
Sam, Sam who's kind and soft and… love, love personified, as stupid and corny as it sounds. Among the strain of his lungs he feels a pang of guilt in his chest, guilt for how he'd turned him away when he'd wanted to help.
He coughs again, and this time there's blood. The blood drips onto his white shirt, and for some reason, he's really bothered by it. He shouldn't be upset over blood on his shirt, he can wash it later, but… a feeling creeps up on him that he's not going to get to wash the shirt.
And that's what makes him cry now, the feeling of not being able to wash his shirt. He takes a handkerchief out of his pocket, something his uncle left for him.
His uncle, whose memory echoes on this grass, whose face feels like he's appearing around Frodo, but a face he simultaneously forgets over and over. His uncle, who feels like a shadow of him, and someone who he always knew would outlive him somehow. He remembers how he was before he deteriorated, when he would read to him books about dragons and brush his hair gently and kiss him on the head and tuck him into bed. How Sam tried to comfort Frodo when he finally ran off, and Frodo pushed him aside and said it was okay and tried to not cry himself to sleep when his eye caught what his uncle had left, what caused any of this.
"I'm sorry," he chokes out, to no one in particular, but he hopes they hear it, he hopes his cousins, and friends, and Sam, oh, his dear Sam, hears it, and his uncle, the one who saved his life but left the pills.
Frodo's tired now, and he's been tired for a long time, so he lets himself take a nap against the tree. He'll go inside soon, and if he's still sick, he'll call Sam. He'll… do… something.
He takes a deep, labored breath and falls asleep under his favorite tree.