Frodo can't stop the laugh bubbling up from inside him, somewhere low and warm in his belly. They're shiningly, achingly lovely together, Sam's nervous and shy grin and the flirtatious arch of Rosie's neck.
There's something of an odd layering to how Frodo feels when he watches the two cheerful tweens together. Envy is perhaps part of it, because it was never in his nature to be young and social and it looks like it might have been fun. Genuine mirth, too, because Sam is such an earnest lad and acts wise well beyond his years. It's lovely to see him like this, to push him into the hurly-burly of the springle ring and watch the seriousness fall away like summer rain.
Desire, yes, desire for comfort. Some day, together in all likelihood, Rosie and Sam shall be parents. They'll have laughing daughters and brave sons, and kiss the nightmares of these children into mist and smoke. Frodo loves Bilbo, who is friendly and jolly and knows lots of stories, but Bilbo can be stiff and uncomfortable in the face of too much affection. Probably, Frodo muses, this is why his uncle has never married.
And maybe, buried so deep he hardly has to admit that it's there inside himself, there is another sort of desire that stirs and stretches at the sight of Sam and Rosie's dance.
He likes being alone, and hardly ever calls it lonely. He likes his space, and his quiet.
But all that seems a little, well, empty somehow. Frodo's hands open and close as if wanting for the waistband of a dress or the sleeve of a jacket to cling to.
It should make him sad, this realisation of solitude. It should make jealousy flare to watch the way that Rosie and Sam wander over to the cakes and fruit and drinks together, talking about something unimportant and amusing.
Instead, Frodo's laugh bubbles up again, full of a joy he hardly understands or knows the name for.
~