"Make it stop."
Sam instantly looks over to Frodo at his outburst, worried. "Mister Frodo?"
His voice again a whisper, repeats. "Make it stop, please." His hands are twitching around his cup, and his legs seem to be shaking. There's a pained look in his eye.
Assessing the situation as quickly as he can, Sam nodds, before glancing around for the quickest exit. He takes a deap breath, squares his shoulders, and then starts pushing a way through the crowd, morning for Frodo to follow.
As they draw further from the party treeb and the sounds of revelry dull into the quiet of night, Sam cleans off a bench, staying as quiet as he can. Frodo gratefully sinks onto it, still fidgeting.
"Can I do anything? Can you tell me what's bothering you?"
Frodo's head whips sideways. "I'm sorry. We've been looking forward to this one and all, but" Sam waits patient as always. "It's all so loud, but I can't hear anything, and everything feels so... Wrong. I don't know Sam, I feel so broken and messed up somtimes I-"
His voice breaks off into a tense silence, and all Sam wants to do is give him a hug and comfort him, but obviously that isn't what Frodo needs at the moment. "You are not broken muster Frodo, dont you ever think so! Anyone who thinks so is a backward thinking Sackville, and doesn't deserve your presence."
Frodo smiles at him with those otherworldly forget-me-not blue eyes. "Oh Sam." And if they dont move until the moon is gone from the sky and the dawn breaks over the horizon, nobody is around to judge.