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TITLE: Counterpoint, Interfolio to Adagio - A Capella AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Shadow PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: NC-17 SUMMARY: During Frodo’s night in Buckland ILLUSTRATION: 'Stay' by Daffodil Bolger
A capella: one or more vocalists performing without an accompaniment.
This story was written for the hobbit_smut Livejournal Community ‘That String Around Your Finger’ Challenge.
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A CAPELLA
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Sleep comes grudging and then only lightly. He slides his eyes open, gives it up for a bad job. No point to it, not now, and he stares at the tumble of burnt-amber curls, shot through with broken-amethyst, borrowed from the sluggish unfolding of a new day. He smiles a little, though it feels somewhat odd on his face. Traces a finger ghost-light over skin tanned and warm and smelling of sunlight.
Sunlight.
Frodo’s hand pulls back into a loose fist, fingers curling one against the other. There is a slight tremble beneath his skin and his eyes prickle hot. His chest burns, tightens, and suddenly, breath comes hard and harsh then not at all. He draws back slowly, slowly… lungs clamped cold and tight, throat aching, but the air seems locked away from him -- there somewhere, everywhere, but not for him, and panic rises dull and brooding.
He untwines his limbs, disentangles from pools of blue-hazed linen; they writhe about him, come alive almost, snake around his chest, and he twists, contorts himself free. The mattress always was too soft and it dips too much when he shifts away. Merry sighs softly, turns, and Frodo has to bite back the inexplicable dread that rises in his constricted throat. He slides silently to the floor and only then does the air push itself into his aching lungs.
Escape.
It rings oddly in his head.
Escape…
From what?
Merry frowns in his sleep, hair scattered soft across his brow, muted smoked-magenta from the window spilling hazy and slanting supple down his throat, over his chest. Frodo watches, counts the breaths that drop smooth and fluid from that mouth so quick to smile, to frown, to kindle bright-white flame, to kiss away tears and troubles, and oh, he wants…
A slight shift and Merry’s broad hand slides over rumpled linen, reaches, settles in the space now empty beside him. A soft muttered slur of syllables and that hand flexes, grasps then… loosens.
Lets go.
Frodo can’t take his eyes away from that hand. Relief and aching loss all at once and he tastes them both sharp on the back of his tongue. He frowns, shakes his head and sucks in a shaky breath. A shiver scatters through him and he folds his arms around himself, turns. The night waning outside the open window draws him and the sleep-wrapped sunlight in the bed behind him holds him still. For long moments he is held firm between them. He can go forward, or…
He can always turn back, can just fold himself back between the sheets, slip into the scent of sunlight, close his eyes, press his mouth to golden warmth. He will be welcomed and gladly – welcomed back, welcomed… home.
Does he know what that means? Is there such a thing for one like him? Never of, never part, always somehow outside, apart, and ‘home’ is just a word that exists to remind you that you don’t really have one. Keeps you humble.
He turns his eyes to the fading night and here, at least, is a constant. No chance of being forsaken by it, no chance of it tiring of him, turning its face away… leaving, never to return. It comes because it must, it has no choice, and he can receive it or light a candle against the dark and turn away as he chooses; the night will neither smile in greeting, nor shed tears at his refusal. It can’t leave him and it would care not at all, should he leave it.
He can hear the rippling sweep of the River in the still of earth’s breath: Life-giver, Life-taker. Had he realised what he was doing when he’d decided to come here now? Yes, of course he had. He can tell himself that he’d forgot the date, hadn’t thought of it when he’d made his plans, but the date of that first goodbye is not one easily slipped into long-abandoned memory.
A test, perhaps, he can’t be entirely sure. For years he’s watched this night pass in solitude, brought out his grief beneath its darkling cloak -- and always alone. Why then had he chosen to spend this night – this night – in company and now, so soon before he means to leave forever?
His last chance to prove that he can? Or his last chance to change his mind?
Like petals to the daylight, his face turns into the murmur and liquid flow of sable-soaked amber waters rolling gentle into Time. And mirrored there, the dying flicker of stars beneath the spreading light of the Sun glimmer hard and sullen. Cool and fluid, they scrape over his skin, pull gooseflesh from him, and he shudders.
It is said that midnight begins the Witching Hour but Frodo knows that it begins now, when the Sun struggles to rise beneath the heavy velvet drape of the night, when the stars battle the dawn with cold fire to warming rays. The earth holds its breath, watches the contest, and Frodo feels himself hovering within the space that is neither night nor day, neither sun nor stars. Anything at all can happen in that space and there is no such thing as impossible. A moment can last an eternity within it all and, if he is not very careful, he might lose himself in it, walk forever between worlds, his eyes grown ancient and madness cloying soft within blooded tears whispered cold down his cheeks. Because Frodo is never sure which he wants more – the Sun, with its blinding beauty, hot against his skin, or the Night that has to come. Always. No clouds can chase away the night, only the Sun and only when she pleases. And sometimes, it pleases her to turn away and so Frodo relies upon the Night and its murmured promise of swift return.
He can smell the air change. Just like that and all at once. A moment ago it was summer and now autumn creeps in on the River’s sigh and Frodo closes his eyes against the stars, wants to back away, wants…
What?
What?
A niggle at the back of his mind, like that string around your finger and you can’t remember why you’ve tied it there. His throat is tight again and there is prickle-pain behind his eyes.
What do you want?
Frodo clenches his jaw, squeezes his eyes tighter until laughing stars glimmer sharp behind them.
I don’t… know!
He wants the familiar black silk to drape about his shoulders with its cloak of stars. It sings to him, they sing to him and almost he can reach out, touch them, and if he could, if he could reach, they would let him. The night must come, it can’t not come and he never has to doubt its advent.
The Sun is fickle and she comes when she pleases, leaves when she wills it. He wants the Sun to smile, open her arms, take him, make him… of… part. But the Sun just dips her head demurely and gives herself – and him – over to Night… turns away.
And he is left, once again, alone. Wanting. And only the night comes each and every time, blessing him with its cool-dark whispers.
Frodo opens his eyes, trains them hard and glimmer-sharp to the last of the stars, blood-red and shimmering in its extremity. He holds to it, burns its light behind his eyes. And the Sun grows ever-bolder, smiles blithely as she at once turns into the lingering mist, hides her face from him and pushes away the only thing that can’t.
Look what you’ve made of me.
Then, to that last gleaming star beneath her re-born smile: Stay. Then more: Take me with you.
Stay, Merry whispers, though Frodo’s almost sure he hasn’t spoken – it comes right from Merry’s fingertips, murmurs slow through kisses kindling hot against his skin. Stay and Merry’s hands push autumn away, brush away the night, press summer into Frodo’s skin, and the surrender is solemn and sacred. Frodo lays his head back to Merry’s shoulder, watches Night burn away beneath the spread of bloodshot-gold, leans back into that broad chest and lets the heat of it seep through to his bones.
“You’re cold,” Merry tells him but Frodo knows that already, sinks into the warmth pressing into him, lets Merry wrap him in his own prickling heat. Sun-gold arms encircle him, broad hands stroke smooth and strong over his chest, skim down and press warmth into chilled skin in their wake.
Frodo closes his eyes to the last of the Night, breathes deep and reaches back, pushes his hand into burnt-amber silk. Merry’s mouth is insistent against Frodo’s throat, slides hot and wet along his jaw, and Frodo turns his head, presses his own mouth to that slick fire, and Merry groans. Frodo pulls at Merry’s nape, sinks deep, and this is what he wants – this is his sun, more golden and fair than the one muted soft over indigo. Wants to throw himself open to it, to be taken by it, by him, and he grinds himself back, slides his other hand back over Merry’s haunch and pulls him closer.
They share a moan then and it doesn’t matter fromwhose mouth it spills. Merry slides against him slow, pushes a knee between Frodo’s own and nudges his legs apart.
Frodo pulls his mouth away, presses it to Merry’s throat and breathes in deep. Want this, want you, need you to take me, all of me and…
Please, just… just don’t turn away.
“Merry,” Frodo breathes and it’s reedy and high and sounds horribly desperate, but Frodo doesn’t care and he pushes back, shudders a little at Merry’s sharp gasp. “Now, Merry, please, now,” and he reaches forward, braces a hand to the windowsill.
A muted whimper and, “Stone me, Frodo, you can’t know what you do to me.”
Pressure, hot and slick and hard as stone, and he is breached and rived, filled and taken… possessed. Heat blooms right through him, lights a fire in his belly, and Frodo cries out. He breathes through it, snaps his hips back, clenches his teeth. Wants this, he wants it all and he wants to feel it all, but Merry holds him still, clutches Frodo firm to his chest and hot breath bleeds over Frodo’s skin. Merry trembles against him and his teeth sink lightly into Frodo’s shoulder.
“Frodo,” he whispers, hoarse and shallow, and the need in that voice spins Frodo’s mind loose. Stay and oh, he wants to...
Frodo’s head dips to his chest, rolls back to lay heavy on Merry’s shoulder. “Please, Merry,” he asks – begs. “Please.”
And Merry moves against him, within him, and Frodo is filled with sunlight.
Fire rolls through him, soft and aching-sweet, sears into his heart, and Frodo almost weeps with the warm-bright beauty of it. His body sways in time to Merry’s, slow and smooth, and he is shattered with each tender-soft thrust of Merry’s hips. Merry’s hands sweep over him, touch every part of him, and it seems to Frodo that they dip right down into his soul, soothe it with each loving stroke of fingertips over sweated skin. He bides in that space between stars and Sun and it’s forever but it’s sweet and it holds him tight, takes him, possesses him and oh, this… this is home.
Frodo slides against Merry’s chest, turns his eyes to the sky and the last star winks, gives itself over to the Sun and Frodo smiles, turns his face into Merry’s skin and closes his eyes again. Warmth pools all around him, gold slips from ashes-of-roses and drips down onto his arms and Frodo rocks languid and gentle into the dawn. He flicks his tongue over Merry’s throat, nips and Merry groans.
He’s warm – hot – and here and he is enfolded in the summer storm that seeps slick into his skin. Heat-lightning sweats into his pores, cages itself within his heart, and this sun rises just for him. It doesn’t belong to him but he borrows it, takes it, takes this and he pushes back, leans and sways with the rippling heat that paints itself over his back and begs for more.
Frodo grips the windowsill, presses back, hard and quick, and Merry’s breath whistles harsh in his throat. His rhythm slips higher and Frodo pitches sharp against him, a low growl rumbling up from his chest.
“Frodo,” Merry breathes and it’s soft and questioning, and he takes Frodo in-hand, strokes.
Frodo is nearly undone and he hisses, “Yes,” and stammers, “love, please… now!” and he pushes back hard.
Merry surges into him and they sway together, sweat and heat rocking into hard muscle, slick and salt-tanged, and Frodo breathes it all in, throws his head back and a cry shatters and twists its way from his throat. Merry’s arm is locked around Frodo’s chest and Frodo holds on, grinds his teeth, rocks his hips and guides Merry’s hand into a higher tempo, twines his own fingers through Merry’s. Merry tightens his fist, ups the rhythm once more then Frodo is spiralling through blue skies and bright-soft sunbursts, riding his own cries through a lustre of lambent gold.
“Frodo!” Merry cries then he ripples against Frodo’s back, goes rigid, then he is sobbing his release into Frodo’s temple.
Frodo holds to him, shores him up when his knees turn weak then turns, slides his arms around skin slick with sweat and pulls Merry to him. Murmur-soft kisses laid tender to his mouth and Frodo sucks in the panting breaths that flow quick from Merry’s chest. A slow swipe of his tongue and Frodo can taste salt and sleep and the rose-gold touch of a new day.
Sunlight spills through the window, wraps warm about his shoulders, over his back, but Frodo only lifts Merry’s chin, smiles. He keeps his back to the Sun outside, keeps his eyes on the only one that matters.
“Back to bed?” he asks and Merry runs his fingertips over Frodo’s cheekbone, nods.
When the day finally blooms bright and warm, Merry is already fast asleep and Frodo is wrapped about him, his nose buried in skin of salted bronze. Night will keep its promise but for now, Frodo wallows in the light that simmers from Merry’s pores, washes over him, and he will pretend for a little while longer that this promise is for him.
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A touch at his ribcage, callused
fingertips scraping soft over skin grown cool, and the touch is hot and real. He
can smell the sun, can feel it, as Merry’s mouth dips moist to Frodo’s shoulder,
places kiss after tender kiss to his skin. Arms made of summer and blue skies
circle ‘round him, hold him, pull him in, bring him… home.