#insert me crying

In the soft light of an early evening, Frodo and Y/N sat on a wooden bench under a sprawling, ancient oak tree. The familiar sounds of chirping crickets and the distant laughter of children playing in the fields surrounded them, creating a comforting backdrop. The air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming wildflowers and freshly baked bread from a nearby hobbit hole.

Frodo absently twirled a small, withered leaf between his fingers, lost in thought. His once bright eyes now carried shadows of memories that haunted him—flashes of fire, darkness, and the weight of the Ring. Y/N noticed the distant look on his face and reached out, gently squeezing his hand.

“Frodo, are you okay?” he asked softly, concern lacing his voice.

He glanced at Y/N, a faint smile tugging at his lips, but the sadness lingered behind his eyes. “I’m trying to be,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just… some days feel heavier than others.”

Y/N nodded, understanding the unspoken burdens they both carried. “We did something incredible, you know. We saved Middle-earth.” His words were meant to uplift, but Frodo’s gaze drifted back to the ground, the weight of his experiences still pressing down on him.

“I thought coming home would mean everything would go back to normal,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “But every time I close my eyes, I see…” He paused, the images flooding back, the memory of Mount Doom, the fiery chaos, and the darkness that almost consumed him.

Y/N shifted closer, wrapping his arm around Frodo’s shoulders. “You don’t have to face this alone,” he whispered. “I’m here, Frodo. Always.”

With a deep breath, Frodo leaned into Y/N, finding solace in his warmth. “Sometimes, it feels like the Shire is just a shell of what it used to be for me. The laughter feels distant, and the sunsets… they remind me too much of what I lost.”

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In the cozy warmth of Bag End, the late afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting a golden glow over the familiar, cluttered space. Frodo sat at the small table in the corner, an assortment of pens and brushes spread before him. He had picked up his old hobby of writing again, trying to capture the beauty of the Shire—the rolling hills, the stories they had endured outside its lush borders; but today, the story felt muted. 

Across the room, Y/N was curled up on a comfortable chair, engrossed in a book. The pages turned quietly, but every so often, he would glance up, watching Frodo with a tender gaze. Frodo’s pen hovered over the paper, hesitation gripping him as he struggled to translate the beauty outside into something meaningful. 

“Frodo?” Y/N called softly, breaking the silence. “What are you working on?”

He looked up, forcing a smile. “Just trying to capture the view of Rivendell” he replied, motioning to the half-finished paragraph. The words were there, but they felt flat, lacking the vibrancy of his memories.

Y/N set the book aside and moved closer, leaning over his shoulder to see and read carefully. “It’s beautiful,” he said, their voice gentle and encouraging. “I love the way you’ve captured the light.”

Frodo’s smile faltered. “It doesn’t feel right. I can’t seem to bring it to life like I used to.” He put the pen down, the weight of unexpressed feelings crashing over him. “I think I’ve lost my touch.”

Y/N frowned, sensing the deeper struggle beneath Frodo’s words. “You’ve been through so much. It’s okay to feel… different. Maybe your art needs time to evolve, just like you have.”

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Frodo and Y/N strolled through the peaceful landscape of the Shire, hands intertwined and the warmth of their bond contrasting the weight of memories they carried. The soft glow of the setting sun painted the rolling hills in hues of orange and gold, a reminder of the beauty that still existed in their world despite what destruction they had battled not but mere months ago. That pivitol day on the of Mount Doom still felt vivid despite the fact the Shire had resumed its tranquil rhythm.

As they walked, Frodo glanced at Y/N, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Do you remember Bilbo’s 111th birthday party??” he asked, his eyes twinkling with the reflection of their past.

Y/N chuckled, a hint of bashfulness creeping into his voice. “How could I forget? You snuck me behind the nearest tent and were very intent on kissing me—”

Frodo laughed, a sound that felt like music to Y/N’s ears. “I was! It felt so extravagant, so… adventerous at the time. But it was also magical.”

Their thoughts drifted back to those carefree days before the quest. Nights filled with laughter and stolen kisses under bursting colors, the world seemed boundless then. They had been so young, so enamored, celebrating love with a fervor that felt untouchable. 

Yet now, as they stood together, the shadows of the war loomed like distant thunder. It was a part of them, woven into their souls. Frodo’s eyes reflected a maturity that came with hardship, haunted by a wisdon, and shaped by loss. 

“Sometimes I miss those simpler moments,” Y/N admitted, squeezing Frodo's hand. “But I also cherish how we’ve grown.”

Frodo nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Our love feels deeper now. We’ve faced so much together, and it has changed us.”

As the two settled in front of a crackling fire that evening, the warmth enveloped them like a comforting embrace. Y/N leaned against Frodo, his head propped on the slightly taller man’s shoulder as they read together. 

“Do you think we could ever go back?” Y/N mused, glancing up at Frodo.

“Not to the same place,” he replied, his voice steady. “But we can create new memories. We’ve learned to appreciate the quiet moments even more now.”

Y/N smiled softly as the fire crackled and the stars began to emerge, Frodo gently kissed Y/N, a tender gesture that spoke of everything they had endured and everything that lay ahead. In that moment, under the vast, twinkling sky, they knew their love, though changed, was still an unbreakable bond—a beacon of light in the darkness.