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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement IV - Adagio AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Shadow PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: NC-17 SUMMARY: Merry and Frodo both come to realise that difficult choices must be lived with.
Adagio: A tempo having slow movement; restful at ease.
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ADAGIO
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He was going to miss Winternights -- that’s what had him so dodgy. It had been been nagging at him all day and he hadn't quite been able to put his finger on exactly what 'it' was until he’d been talking with Hal, going over the inventory and helping to decide which of the livestock would be put to the slaughter and which would be kept for breeding, when it had come out of nowhere and hit him: I won’t be here for the slaughter.
He wouldn’t be there to check the brands and the notches in the ears, to be sure a breeder hadn’t got mixed in with the main ingredient in this Yule’s mutton stew. He wouldn’t be there to make the final checks on the storage of the harvest and decide how much should be allotted for the Hall and how much could be set aside for the more destitute of Buckland’s citizens, should they need it. He wouldn’t be there to make sure all of the barns were stocked and outfitted for the winter to come.
He wouldn’t be there.
Funny, how it had taken this long for him to realise it… or perhaps it was more honest to say that it had taken him this long to admit it to himself. Summer was high and they’d only just finished the haying but winter would come and Merry would be long-gone before even the first frost, leaving Buckland to sort out the details for herself. Leaving his mother to sort out the details.
Merry shook his head, glared at the pen in his hand. He’d apparently been putting his figures to paper with rather more force than necessary and had ruined the nib. He reached over, took up the penknife.
What was he, that he could do this? Surely Buckland had survived centuries without him and would survive centuries after him – that is, if the troubles that Gandalf predicted did not come to pass. Nonetheless, here he was, the Heir to Buckland, scrambling through accounts too long neglected and trying desperately to settle them all in too short a time, all so that he could run out during the most trying time of year for any community – and leave his mother behind to carry on. And not two weeks ago, he had been wallowing in misery because he couldn’t be in Hobbiton, keeping an eye on Frodo.
Yet, how was he to keep one safe and leave the other? Both were of equal importance and he felt himself pulled taut between the two. And perhaps the knowledge was only hours old but there it was: he was leaving.
Buckland. Home. And he was leaving it.
Few things held a higher place in his heart than his own rich country, with its wide-open fields, emerald and sumptuous in the spring months then turning gold-fire in the hotter months of summer. Lush copses of oaks and maples gave up their fiery crowns when the season turned chill, bowing to the deep evergreen of the pines that rolled proud and tang-scented over the gentle slopes of the fertile earth: a gift of the sometimes-curse of proximity to the River. Merry loved all of it with everything in him and he would die before allowing harm to come a single league of it.
And then there was Frodo.
Frodo had his own fire and Merry was no less in love with it. No one held his heart the way Frodo did and all so unintentionally. Frodo had never tried to keep Merry pinned, had never tried to take a place in Merry’s heart that would close it off to anyone or anything else. He was generous with his own but never expected the same in return, only took what Merry was willing to give and held it as an offering too generous in return for what he seemed to think his own small gifts. Merry supposed that was part of what he loved so much about Frodo, why he was prepared to do anything for him: Frodo was the only person Merry had ever known who gave without thought and expected nothing in return. Still, it could be frustrating at times. Merry sometimes felt Frodo’s hold on him to be too loose, too generous and it sometimes hurt to think that Frodo would let him go without so much as a whimper, if Merry but asked.
"Leave me to love me," he muttered, closed his eyes, rubbed at his brow. He clenched the pen in a white-knuckled fist.
And who was he trying to fool? They were not of equal importance and Merry well knew it – it was past time he just flat-out admitted it to himself.
Would he die for Frodo? Yes, of course he would and willingly so. That was the whole point of this conspiracy of his in the first place, after all. He just rather hoped it didn’t have to come to that.
But there was now no getting around the fact that he was choosing – that he had chosen – Frodo over Buckland. And not just Buckland but his own mother, his own father and every single hobbit who lived there, depended upon the Hall for their livelihood, their protection, their survival in seasons of dearth. It was not lightly that Merry had made the decision to abandon them, when he knew better than any that trouble may be on its way, but he had made the decision nonetheless. And he wondered now what that made of him.
He scowled at the pen and its crumpled nib, turned the blade of the knife in his fingers then growled, swung his arm up and, with a quick flick of his wrist, buried the pen’s ruined tip into the wood of the doorjamb across the room. It made a less-than-satisfying twang as it stuck firm, quivered, and Merry glared at it some more. Well, this certainly wasn’t getting the accounts settled, was it? He sighed, rubbed at his temples then ran a hand through his hair and stood, made his way over to pry the pen out of the doorjamb. And, of course, when he yanked at it, the nib slid out of the body of the pen and stubbornly remained stuck between the grains of the hard, polished wood. He was busy glowering at it when his mother threw the door open, whacking it into Merry’s shoulder.
“Ow! Mum, bugger all, can’t you knock?”
Esmeralda only lifted an eyebrow at her son, looked from his red face to the nib buried in the doorjamb. Both eyebrows went up then.
“Watch your mouth,” was all she said as she moved past him and dropped another account book to the desk.
“Sorry,” Merry muttered, rubbing his shoulder and peering curiously at what his mother had brought. “What more have you got for me now?” he wanted to know.
“The general accounts,” his mother replied, her tone brisk but her eyes twinkling and shifting to the nib more than Merry thought entirely necessary. “There are some entries and expenses I can’t reconcile and, since you’ve pried yourself from Hobbiton and decided once again that ‘The Hope Of Buckland’ was not a mislabel on my part, I thought I’d bring it to you and see if you can help me figure it.”
Merry flushed – for several reasons but chose to address only one for the moment.
“I think ‘The Hope Of Buckland’ is rather going overboard, don’t you? You’re forgetting Dad.”
He bit his tongue on the sarcasm. Why could he never keep his mouth shut when he knew how such snipes hurt his mother?
The sparkle in Esmeralda’s eyes dulled. “No,” she replied, “I’m not.” She shook her head, ignored Merry's petulant barb and smiled. “Anyway, I’ve some questions on a few things and I thought I’d grab hold of you before you’re… distracted again.”
It was an old argument and one Merry refused to enter into now. Frodo was more than a distraction and his mother well knew it. She didn’t exactly approve, for in her very obvious and vocal opinion, it had kept Frodo from settling himself in with some plump lass and siring a horde of babes for her to dote upon, a fact which she never hesitated to voice to either of them; but she acknowledged it, accepted it, though not entirely happily, and took every opportunity to reinforce the fact that it had bloody well better not get in the way of Merry wiving someday and not soon enough for her liking, if anyone wanted to know and even if they didn’t.
His father, now…
“I am here and staying here until Frodo’s birthday,” Merry answered evenly. “I should think that’s enough of a demonstration of responsibility for you.” He gave her a tiny, conciliatory grin. “Though probably not, I’m thinking, slave-driver that you are.”
Esme threw him a smirk. “Well, we’ll see about the ‘staying’ bit in a moment and no, I will not explain further until you’ve puzzled this out for me.” She flipped open the account book, filled with her own neat, straight hand and Merry’s rounder, larger one. She pointed to several expenditures in the ‘labour’ column. “The only thing I can figure is that you’ve gone and hired new help but I can’t imagine why. We’ve plenty of help and it’s not yet time to hire the pickers.”
Merry frowned, peered at the ledger, already knowing what he’d see but stalling for time until he could decide whether to make vague explanations and promise to look into it later, or just simply level with his mother and take his chances. He decided his mother deserved the truth – or as much of it as he could safely reveal.
“I’ve taken on more Bounders,” he said and left it at that, hoping she would as well.
And, of course, she didn’t. Her eyebrows drew together.
“Bounders? What in the world for?”
“Just…” Merry flipped the book closed, sank into the chair. “There have been reports,” he offered vaguely. “Nothing to worry over, I’m sure, but enough to concern me and…” He shrugged. “It’s a feeling, Mum. I can’t explain it in a way that will make sense to you.”
Esmeralda’s bright eyes scrutinised her son closely. “Reports?”
Merry fiddled with his broken pen. “Just… you know -- Men seen on the boundaries, Dwarves heading West and so forth…” He shrugged again, ran his fingernails over the edges of the ledger.
“And…” Esme slapped his hand away from the book. “Did you talk this over with your father?”
“No,” Merry said then, “Yes.” He rolled the pen between his fingers, twirled it. “Well… sort of.”
“What--” She snatched up the pen, lifted Merry’s chin until he looked her in the eye. “What do you mean, ‘sort of’?”
“I mean,” Merry told her evenly, “that we discussed the fact that reports seem to indicate a growing threat to our borders, he dismissed it all as no business of ours and I went and did what I felt necessary anyway.” He narrowed his eyes. “As usual.” Then, more softly, “As I must, most of the time.”
His mother held his gaze for another long moment before she sighed, stroked his cheek. “It’s a difficult thing, when a son has more between his ears than his father does,” she told him gently and her eyes misted a bit as she said it.
“Not so difficult,” Merry returned, somewhat morosely. “So long as I keep his personal spending account in the black, he rarely worries over what you and I might be getting up to. Or Buckland.”
Esmeralda’s gaze turned heavy with reproach. “I won’t have you speak of your father in such a manner. He does as he can and he means well.”
“Meaning well won’t mean a damned thing if--” Merry choked off what he’d almost said, went silent.
His mother straightened, peered at him closely. “I can see there’s more here but I’ll leave it for now.” She picked up her account book, held it to her chest then reached over, ran soft fingers through Merry’s hair. “I don’t suppose it would be fair of me to tease you with ‘The Hope Of Buckland’ if I didn’t give you the trust the title implies.”
“Mum, I really wish you wouldn’t give me the title at all.”
Especially seeing as how his plans for the immediate future centred around desertion. And considering that whatever hope Buckland and every other part of the world might have rested now with Frodo. Merry wasn’t anyone’s hope but his own and that hope depended entirely upon convincing Frodo he needn’t do everything alone and then keeping him safe ‘til Merry got him back home again. Hearing his mother putting so much faith in him only made him more miserable than he already was.
Esme ruffled his hair. “I want to know what this is about, Merry, and I’ll expect you to come and tell me when you can.” She winked at him, grinned. “For now, I should think these will keep you busy.” She pulled the day’s post out of her dress pocket, handed the top two on the pile to Merry. “Two from Hobbiton,” she told him with a smirk and Merry snatched them up eagerly. “One more interesting than the other, I’m guessing.” She shook her head, rolled her eyes then turned for the door. “Aye, when love’s away, ‘tis misery to stay…”
“Mum,” Merry warned as he grabbed up the letter-opener from the cup on the desk.
“When love’s not near, ‘tis far too dear…”
“Mum!”
“I’m going, I’m going.” Though her snickers echoed down the hallway, along with the muted recital of the sappy poem.
Merry, dismissed it all, tore into Frodo’s letter.
29 Afterlithe 1418
M –
Have changed my mind and decided I should like to see the house after all. Will you meet me? I shall time myself to arrive at the Ferry in time for lunch on 3 Wedmath.
Yours,
F
P.S. Bring the ponies. They might prove useful.
P. P. S. If no ponies, bring oil. It might prove even more useful.
Bloody damn, less than a handful of sentences from Frodo’s pen and he’d brought Merry to a raging erection by merely writing the word ‘oil’ for pity’s sake. Merry shuddered to think what might have happened, had Frodo actually written the word ‘sex’. He probably would have put a hole right through the bottom of the desk.
Merry shook his head, blushed bright red. Regardless of what the unlucky soul who chose to peer under the desk might see at the moment, Merry couldn’t give a good damn. Frodo had decided to come to Buckland after all and Merry couldn’t help the goofy grin that was even now painting itself over his face. He hadn’t dared hope – when Merry had written Frodo to tell him he’d found him a house and it was waiting for him to come approve, Frodo had simply written back, told Merry he trusted him implicitly and arranged for the money to be sent by secured Post.
Now he’d changed his mind. And Merry figured that, if he ever wanted to walk down the hall without a book held firm over his trouser-front, he’d probably best read Sam’s letter and calm himself down.
Still grinning, he tore open the second.
28 Afterlithe 1418
Dear Mister Merry:
I have not waited until Sterday to write you as is my usual because I am worried and want your advice. Mister Frodo is well - please don’t take on. It’s only that he seems to be acting queer. All twitchy-like. He were fine when I brought him the post this morning but after, he got that line between his eyebrows he gets when he’s thinking too much and he got a little snappy-like with me when I come up to offer to help him with some packing. Now, not saying I didn’t deserve it none - I was maybe pushing a little too hard because he don’t let a body help as much as he should and mayhap I over-stepped as I sometimes do. Still, it ain’t like Mister Frodo to snap, unless he’s worriting over something more than he should. Anyways, I told you I’d tell you if there were anything to fuss over and I guess I’m fussing well enough now. I’ll wait for your post, unless he looks to wander off sooner than we thought.
Sincerely,
Samwise Gamgee
It was absolutely imperative that Merry widen his grin. Frodo, my love, he thought with rather more cheek than was probably necessary, have you gone and got yourself all horny and frightened your gardener?
He snickered – some of it genuine amusement, some of it heady anticipation and some of it just plain relief. If nothing else over the past weeks had been able to quite convince him that, while Merry was in Buckland, Sam was not taking advantage of his absence by tripping himself into Frodo’s bed, this certainly did the trick. Merry had suspected (and rather hoped) that Sam was simply too naïve and shy to act upon his very obvious feelings for his master and here was the proof. Frodo was ‘all twitchy-like’ and clearly in need of a proper shagging and Sam – who knew Frodo seemingly better than Merry had ever had cause to suspect before... and perhaps better than Merry did in some ways – hadn’t recognised the situation for what it was.
Merry decided he would write back to Sam and send it off by Quick-Post. Sam’s letters were the only things keeping Merry sane the past few weeks and it was only right that he get back to him as soon as possible and relieve his fears.
And he would.
Just as soon as he could make himself stop giggling like a two-year-old.
* * *
PART TWO
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Frodo hadn’t meant to come to Buckland. Why should he? The house was nothing more than a ruse and a place to sleep for one night – possibly two. Why bother to make the trip to see it? He’d rather take that time and spend it on visiting places he might never see again. He’d certainly see Buckland again, so there was no sense in taking the time to go and see a house he had no intention or hope of making a home.
And then the post had arrived.
It was silly, really. Well, not quite silly, perhaps, but childish anyway and quite a bit selfish.
‘No worries over Merry,’ Pippin had written in that off-hand, blithe way he had about him, which translated uncannily into the written word as well, as if he were standing right next to a person and speaking directly in one’s ear. ‘I hear Melilot’s been ‘round the Hall and you know that one. Last I heard, she had her sights set on landing a Brandybuck and Merry’s the best of that lot (and if you ever tell him I said that, I'll deny it), so I suspect he’s busy either running away from her or… Well, it wouldn’t do to speculate, would it?’
Ha bloody ha.
Pippin knew that Merry had got tied up in Buckland and, though it had been a bit of a relief to Frodo at first, he’d soon come to miss him dreadfully. Merry made the time pass more pleasantly, kept Frodo’s mind off of things he’d rather not think about at the moment. Besides which, he was wonderful to have about when camping, which Frodo had been doing quite a lot of, until Merry had gone back to Buckland. Merry never, ever allowed a fire to go down and he had the most marvellous way of finding the softest places to sleep. As long as he was kept far away from the cook-pots, Merry was probably the best camping companion Frodo could wish for. And best of all, Sam never looked at Frodo with those misty, worried eyes when he was informed Frodo would be camping with Merry and not by himself. Honestly, did he really appear that helpless to all and sundry? Between Sam and Merry, Frodo was surprised he was ever permitted to use his own stove by himself – it was a wonder they didn’t both put their heads together and conclude that he’d probably end up setting himself on fire and needed all of his meals cooked for him. Which, ironically, might actually end up being the death of him, if Merry was the one doing the cooking.
So, anyway, Frodo’s mistake had been in telling Pippin in his last letter that he was missing Merry, and Pippin -- always ready to poke at a person at unfortunate times -- had quite happily relayed the gossip he’d heard about Melilot. Frodo had put two and two together and come up with a stroppy bint whom Frodo would rather die than see Merry saddled with. And Frodo would be gone soon, at any rate – he only had but a few weeks left and a small, selfish little part of him had whined and whimpered at his heart: not yet, I have a little more time, he’s still mine!
So he’d decided the house at Crickhollow was worth a look after all. It still made him blush but here he was, on his way, so it obviously wasn’t stopping him from acting in his own self-interest.
Yes, he was being selfish and he couldn’t quite bring himself to bloody well care much at the moment. Frodo didn’t really know what Merry got up to when he wasn’t in Hobbiton, or when Frodo wasn’t visiting Buckland – he’d made it a point over the years not to know. Not that he expected that he be the only one with whom Merry occupied himself. He was young and handsome, after all, and quite desirable and energetic to boot.
Quite energetic.
Frodo felt his cheeks heat a little and he couldn’t help a tiny grin. He kicked a large stone out of his path, adjusted his pack on his shoulders.
Oh, yes – Merry was energetic, all right, which was probably what had made Frodo so willing to latch onto him all those years ago. Before Bilbo had left, it had been a somewhat casual affair, with Frodo’s experience guiding Merry’s raw fire into tender skill.
Oh, and my, isn’t he the skilled one, now?
Heat bloomed in Frodo’s belly and he flushed again. He felt suddenly as though he were toting iron in his trousers. If he didn’t stop this sort of thinking and soon, he’d end up frightening any fellow travellers he might encounter on the road. He snickered, shook his head.
After Bilbo left, it had become… Frodo couldn’t quite say what it had become, only that it was more than it once was. Deeper. Merry became someone Frodo could lean on, talk to, turn to for comfort or love when he felt as though there wasn’t a soul in the world who knew him. But Merry did. Merry knew him better than anyone and, though it could be quite maddening at times – having someone speak your thoughts for you before you’d even realised you were having them – it could also be a comfort to a person who suddenly found himself once again alone, flapping in the breeze without a tether strong enough to anchor him to the people and things he loved so well but which never seemed to love him back quite as hard. All of the connections to home and place that once rested with Bilbo, now rested with Merry, and Merry seemed only too happy to let it be so. In fact, he went out of his way to make it so and, as constricting as that could sometimes be, Frodo had never been able to bring himself to resent it.
Frodo knew he was whispered about, judged by those who knew nothing about why he got moody and edgy every September, or how an evening spent beneath the stars could bring him peace enough to last through weeks of the chaos that the responsibilities of Bag End could bring. He was the butt of jokes muttered just outside his hearing, the subject of gossip spread for the simple fact that he existed at all and all of this from people who hadn’t the slightest clue who Frodo Baggins was.
Merry knew Frodo. Odd, how that was something so very important to him. For someone who spent the better part of his time in his own company, convincing himself that it was the way he preferred it, it was a bit unnerving to think that it was so very important to him that someone, somewhere, somehow knew him. Knew him. That if he dropped off the face of the earth tomorrow, someone would remember him, someone who could say with confidence, ‘Frodo would have liked this,’ or ‘Frodo would never do something like that,’ and mean it and be exactly right when they said it. Perhaps it was a sliver of immortality, in a way.
Merry knew and sometimes only too well. There were things about Frodo that Merry knew which Frodo might have preferred no one ever know at all, but Merry understood all of it without ever having to have it explained to him. He could just look into Frodo’s eyes and know somehow, which was another reason Frodo hadn’t objected when Merry had been suddenly called back to Buckland weeks ago. No matter how clever and close Frodo might try to be, there was always the chance that Merry would see through him if he wasn’t very careful, and Frodo refused to think about the possible repercussions of that right now, thank you very much. That was a rather frightening thought best left for another day.
With Merry there was passion, there was home and belonging, there was promise – a promise that Frodo, himself, now intended to break… though he’d never actually made one, had he? Ah, he'd been careful, hadn't he, and wasn't it funny that he was only now discovering why? Always very careful to draw back a shade from the edge of promise, to keep that last bit of space between them and that last bit of himself just out of reach, for the thunder that rolled always beneath his feet and outside his -- until now -- conscious perception gave him no real purchase upon which to stand such promise. The price for that modicum of space was dear and sometimes achingly so but the freedom it bought was sweet and… imperative. And it allowed him to believe that the leaving, when it came, as he had always somehow known it must, would not be the end of them both. That space was as much for Merry as it was for Frodo.
Best not think on that, not today. Today, he would concentrate on the good turn he was doing Merry in coaxing him away from whatever sticky webs Melilot might be trying to spin about him. Bad timing was what it was, really, and too bad on her. If she had timed her visit for Winternights, she might have had an unencumbered opportunity to try her wiles on the Golden Son of Buckland, though Frodo had to believe Merry was smarter and had better taste than all that. Still, Merry was energetic, after all, and Frodo didn’t suppose there was anything wrong with a casual tumble.
Except…
All right, yes there was. It made Frodo’s teeth clench, for one thing and, for another, there wasn’t a single thing casual about Melilot Took. If that one managed to get Merry tripped into her sheets, the poor lad was likely to be stuck there for the rest of his life.
There. See? It wasn’t all so selfish after all. Perhaps it had all started as Frodo’s vision being tinted slightly green when he’d read Pippin’s note, but now he could – and would – justify it all as saving Merry from someone who had nothing at heart but her own future with the wealth of Buckland at her disposal. And, if Frodo managed to get himself well-shagged in the process…
Well.
It had nothing to do with jealousy. Nothing at all. Really.
* * *
The sun was hot on his shoulders, on his nape but it was nothing compared to the heat that moved through him when his eyes fell on the sleeping figure -- long, broad body splayed in a lush patch of soft sweetgrass just outside the dazzle of the sun on the River, head with a crown of gold-spun fire resting on a beaten leather pack. It was shaded and cool where he lay but it seemed even the Sun couldn’t help but reach out and touch him gently, muted rays spilling from between the softly rustling leaves of the great gnarled oak just behind him to whisper and sway hazed-soft glimmers over his cheek, his brow, the strong, straight line of his jaw.
His waistcoat was open and his shirt unbuttoned to expose his throat. No tie today, then, and Frodo twitched a grin. Curls, just a bit darker than those on his head, peeked through the ‘v’ of the fabric, caught the sun’s dazzle, spun like gossamer gold.
Frodo’s breath caught and he smiled again, eyes soft with unabashed wonder. Oh, he was beautiful, that one, and Frodo resisted the urge to step closer, reach out his hand, trace his fingertips over that sun-gold brow, down over the straight nose that always seemed to have a tinge of burn because he would never wear a bloody hat, and then, oh, that mouth so lush and warm… He could almost feel it against him, pressing, devouring… rosed-pink fleshy curves, moist and sweet, rising up to meet his own skin and leaving a trail of slow-burning flame behind.
"Glory," Frodo whispered and shook his head a little.
Merry was an element unto himself: grounded to the earth; a creature born to the water; living every single moment given him to its utmost beneath the gentle fire from the sky; and his scent moving right through Frodo on the air that separated them. Merry was enwrapped in all of them and still of them, a part of it all, within it all, and it seemed to Frodo that all of them reached out eagerly to draw him in, hold him firm and why not? It was no less than Frodo would do himself if he could… if he could pretend it would be the slightest bit fair.
He was drawn, like iron shavings to a lodestone, and he walked softly over the grass, stopped, unshouldered his pack and let it slip to the ground. He watched, entranced, as Merry’s chest rose and fell evenly, burnt-amber lashes swept soft against his cheek, throwing charcoal spikes of shadow over the smattering of golden freckles on his nose. Frodo could almost hear the susurrus of the white cotton fabric of Merry’s shirt against his skin, as that broad chest moved in the mechanics of breathing, ribs expanding and relaxing with each steady breath.
Frodo knelt, planted a hand to the ground at either side of Merry’s chest then leant in, ghosted his mouth over skin warm and tanned, with the slightest sheen of salty sweat. He closed his eyes, breathed deep. There was always the smell of Summer about Merry, always the taste of the sun on his skin. Even in the depths of winter, Frodo could bury his nose in the tangle of auburn-touched gold and smell hay and sun and heat-lightning. Now, he could smell sandalwood and linseed with an undercurrent of musky sweat and Frodo grinned -- Merry’d had himself a bath before he’d come.
Frodo didn’t even register the movement until he was flat on his back, broad hands pinning his shoulders to the ground and a steady pressure low on his belly. Frodo had lost his grin for a moment but now he found it again, widened it.
“I’ve heard there are ruffians about the roads, waiting to spring on unwary travellers.”
Merry cocked an eyebrow, tilted his head. “Have you? And do they often molest their victims whilst they sleep?”
“Only those victims,” Frodo returned with a very deliberate husky rasp to his voice, “who are very, very lucky.”
Merry smiled just a little and his eyes darkened. “Am I so lucky, then?” he asked.
He leaned forward, hovering his mouth just above Frodo’s. Merry’s eyes were storm-grey, gathering thunder, and lightning scorched beneath Frodo’s skin, slipped jagged and hot into the air they breathed between them. Frodo paused, softened, taken again by rapt wonder. He reached up slowly, dripped his fingertips over Merry’s cheek.
“Oh,” he whispered, “just look how beautiful you are.”
And Merry closed his eyes, turned his face into the touch. He pulled in a tiny, rough breath, ran his tongue lightly over the palm of Frodo’s hand and Frodo smiled--
--canted his hips, snapped around and rolled. He was straddling Merry’s hips, clamping his hands to Merry’s own and holding them against the grass before Merry had even realised that he was looking up, rather than down. Frodo leaned down, grinning, and licked Merry’s cheek, long and sloppy.
Merry jerked his head, very obviously trying not to laugh. “Wait a moment,” he snickered. “Am I the molester or the molestee?”
“Well,” answered Frodo solemnly and trailed his mouth over Merry’s jaw, “if you’re the molester, I’m afraid you are quite shirking your duties and a poor excuse for a ruffian you are. I remain, lamentably, unmolested.”
“And,” Merry returned, pushing his hips up and smiling slow and silky as Frodo’s breath caught quick, “what if I want to be the molestee?”
Frodo lifted an eyebrow. “Then,” he murmured through a bit of a smirk and he leaned in, brushed his mouth over Merry’s, rocked a little and held back a groan, “I suppose I ought to be tending to business, oughtn’t I?”
And then his teeth clicked as his head hit the turf and he was once again peering up at Merry, who looked far too cheeky and triumphant for Frodo’s liking. Frodo twisted, arched but this time Merry held him firm.
“You’re too slow for a ruffian,” Merry teased. “I’d’ve had you molested and shagged ten minutes ago.”
“Well,” Frodo retorted with another lift of an eyebrow and now a push of his hips, “perhaps you’d like to show me how it’s done. What exactly is it that you’re waiting for?” And to punctuate this last, he snaked his hand between Merry’s legs, took hold, squeezed. “Ooh…” He smiled wickedly at Merry. “Is this for me?”
Merry was caught between a gasp and a laugh. “I can’t imagine whom else it might be for,” he answered.
Frodo quirked his brow, looked down at his hand with a sly smile. “Not Melilot?” He stroked through the fabric of Merry’s trousers, traced him slowly, looked up. “Hm?”
Merry’s eyes were closed and his hips swayed a little. “Been gossiping with Pip, have we?”
Merry’s voice was a bit reedy and quavered when Frodo pressed with his thumb. Frodo said nothing, lifted his head, ran his tongue along the base of Merry’s throat. Merry groaned and Frodo couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that crept to his face as he rested his head back in the grass, peered up at Merry.
“Sweet stars, Merry,” he breathed, “you’ve a crown of fire and you wear the sky like a cloak about your shoulders.”
Merry pushed down with his hips and Frodo gasped, closed his eyes, arched his neck. Merry took full advantage; he leaned down, nipped softly at Frodo’s throat.
“Poetry, Frodo?” he murmured and his breath was hot and moist to Frodo’s skin, like smoked water dripping liquid fire to his bones. “Whoever heard of a poetic ruffian?” and he slid his tongue up, took the tip of Frodo’s ear between his teeth.
Oh, the things Merry could do to him – it was almost wicked. His mouth moved over Frodo’s skin, kindling and caressing and dipping down, hands moving and taking and pushing away thin barriers of summer-weight linen and tingling fingertips fracturing over skin come alive, rising up to meet each touch. Oh, and Frodo needed this, needed it, and his heart quickened, deafened him, skittered and pulsed too loud and surely Merry could hear it?
Frodo was helpless beneath those hands, that mouth, his limbs awash with prickling warmth and silvery fire smouldering in his belly. Merry effortlessly and always reduced him to a puddle of raw sensation, scorched him to ash, and Frodo could do nothing but wish to burn with him forever. Desire drew smoky promise over his skin with hands that knew the touch of it, with a mouth that was clever and sweet and sluiced sunlight through his veins and smiled as it did so. And Frodo writhed beneath it all, reached out and filled his hands with golden prescience, flicking buttons blindly as he went.
“Oil, Merry,” he panted, “now, oil now.”
And Merry pulled back, that lovely mouth leaving Frodo’s skin cold, and he blinked down at Frodo, surprise misted through the dark storm of lust in his eyes. He shook his head.
“I didn’t bring it, love.”
Frodo couldn’t have heard right. His mind must be muddled.
“No, Merry,” he insisted, “you don’t understand -- I need it now!”
But Merry only shook his head again and now Frodo was forced to reluctantly admit that he may well have heard right the first time.
“But…” Frodo held back what felt suspiciously like a sob of pure frustration. “But I said ponies or oil and…” He lifted himself to his elbows, looked about. “And there are no ponies!”
Merry breathed a bewildered little laugh. “I didn’t think you were serious.”
Frodo shoved Merry off of him, sat up and looked pointedly down at his trouser-front. “Well, you can see now that I was!”
“What?” Merry’s look of bemused bewilderment turned to disbelief. “You wanted a tumble right here? Beside the road?”
“Well, it wasn’t the plan but plans do tend to change, you know.”
“But…” Merry was now peering at Frodo as though he’d gone and grown a second nose. “But the Ferry,” and he pointed, as though Frodo might have missed it, the great lumbering thing, knocking noisily against the slip. “They’ll be coming back to tend it after lunch.”
Frodo growled, tackled him, “Bugger the Ferry!” and he knocked Merry back into the grass, laid his mouth to Merry’s and slipped his hands beneath the flaps of the shirt, undone and the tails pulled up, tangling in his braces. Merry stiffened for but a moment before he loosed a small groan and his own hands renewed the task they’d abandoned only a moment before and Frodo was divested quickly of his waistcoat. Then his shirt. Merry blindly flung the shirt aside and those broad hands smoothed down Frodo’s ribs, up his thighs, took hold of his hips and Merry pushed his own up and Frodo ground down hard, moaned and thrust, all the while sounding Merry’s mouth until spangling flickers of light sparked behind his eyes.
Frodo broke away, only to dip back down and bury his face in Merry’s throat, reach between them and tear open the buttons of Merry’s trousers. “I need…” he breathed, groaned, “Merry, please!”
Need this, need you, need to pretend you’re mine, need to make you mine for just a little while longer before nothing is mine anymore…
Oh, and yes, he neededneededneeded this and right now and had he ever needed anything quite so badly in all his life? He couldn’t remember – could barely even remember his own name as Merry panted, “Yes, oh…” and Frodo’s buttons were being rent from their moorings and Merry was fumbling with Frodo’s trousers, wrenching Frodo’s hand up and sucking his fingers into his mouth. Frodo’s eyes rolled back then, as Merry’s tongue swirled about his fingers and then his hand was being pushed away, pushed down. And Frodo couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think as he moved his hand between Merry’s legs, and Merry arched, pushed into Frodo’s hand and rocked and breathed and impatiently kicked his trousers off.
Great, bleeding sex on a stick, but this was so much more than erotic -- it was bloody enthralling -- and Frodo was being tossed about again, his hand flung away and Merry’s fingers digging into his hips as he pulled Frodo up, guided him into his mouth and that tongue was swirling again and oh, bloody damn, Frodo had to clench his teeth, clamp his eyes tight and put every ounce of his being into resisting the urge to thrust himself deep into that moist, rippling heat. But there was another heat he wanted more, so he gathered his will, drew back and Merry nodded, pulled him down for a scorching kiss then pushed him away again.
“Now,” was all Merry said and it seemed it was all he could say until Frodo slowly pushed down, pushed deep and Merry splintered a cry right through Frodo’s soul.
Frodo stopped, panting, sweat rolling from his hair, down between his shoulder-blades and his mind was swallowed by sunlight, bright and hot and razing him to ash. He pulled back, only a little, then Merry’s legs were clamping about him, pulling him in and deep and tight and oh, sweet stars, he was burning, falling, melting. He drove down and Merry arched up and then Frodo was snapping his hips, mindless and furious.
The rhythm was old and familiar and blindingly sweet and Frodo sank into it, let it move him, let himself dissolve into Merry’s skin and move them together, sweat and muscle meeting with a slick slap of skin-on-skin. Frodo rolled and swayed to it on a blistering wave of harsh moans and mine! and the numbingly beautiful sight of his Merry – his Merry – with his neck arched and sweated and his chest heaving and his hands gripping Frodo’s thighs, striving and straining and rocking against him, with him.
Stars above, but he was lovely, all flushed and slicked with salty sweat, amber curls darkened with it and clinging to his brow. Merry pushed down, his body twisting beneath Frodo’s own, and the sensation was a mix of heady puissance and humbling thrall. Merry took breath after great, gasping breath and Frodo was deconstructed and remade in the space between each one.
Merry twisted again, ground out, “I need…” then gulped and, “Damn it!”
And Frodo reached down, took Merry in-hand, and the change in Merry was astonishing: his eyes flew wide and his mouth dropped open and he arched right off the ground, dug his fingers into Frodo’s thighs and slammed himself down. All Frodo could do was watch through a misted red haze as Merry’s teeth clenched tight and he snarled then laughed then shrieked Frodo’s name to the heavens.
Frodo was undone; was there anything – could there be anything – more seductive, more blindingly arousing than hearing his own name shattering soft from that mouth? Frodo was lost and the heat took hold of him, spread lightning and sunlight beneath his skin, and he was throwing his head back, driving himself down and answering Merry’s call with a guttural one of his own.
It was all he could do to breathe. His arms were shaking and he collapsed onto Merry’s chest, gulping air in great, wrenching swallows. Sweat ran from his hair, down his brow and stung his eyes, and suddenly all he wanted to do was sob. He didn’t know why, couldn’t fathom it, but his eyes were full and burning and his chest hitched sharp and shallow. He blinked furiously, swallowed, then he pulled himself up onto his elbows, looked down into a sea of storm-grey then brushed Merry’s hair from his brow and kissed him, long and slow.
When he pulled back, Merry opened his eyes, turned a soft, steady gaze on Frodo, asked, “Not that I’m complaining but what was that all about?”
And Frodo could only shake his head, suck in a long breath and force a shaky smile. “I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, and he swallowed. “I just… I needed you.”
The corner of Merry’s mouth lifted and he leaned up, kissed the tip of Frodo’s nose. “Perhaps you should need me more often,” he said, smiled. “I think you’ve quite shattered me.”
“Merry,” Frodo said and this was suddenly very important, imperative, “I need you always.” He choked again on that inexplicable sob and he swallowed. “You know that, don’t you? Always.”
Merry’s smile disappeared and he reached up, ran his fingers over Frodo’s cheek. “Of course I do, love,” he answered softly. “In fact, I count on it.”
And Frodo had to bow his head, had to catch his breath and tear his eyes from that face that held a confidence in him he did not deserve. Oh, Merry… you can’t know how I’ll miss you. I’m so sorry. Frodo clenched his eyes tight, put every ounce of will he had into mastering himself. When he had, he lifted his head, wrested a smile to his face and turned it on Merry.
“Have you brought lunch?”
Merry blinked, snorted, rolled his eyes. “Oh, sure – you attack me, molest me, shag me senseless and then I’m expected to feed you?” He shoved Frodo off of him.
Frodo rolled over, sat up laughing. “Does your mother know I’m coming?” he asked.
“In fact, she does,” Merry replied.
“Then you’ve brought lunch.” Frodo pulled on his trousers, threw on his shirt then crawled over to Merry’s pack and began rooting through it.
Merry pulled on his own trousers then, sat with a small, surprised yip. He peered sideways at Frodo, blushed with a little grin and shrugged.
Frodo stopped what he was doing. “I’m sorry,” he told Merry sincerely, regretful and somewhat ashamed. “Have I hurt you awfully?”
Merry blushed deeper, cleared his throat, muttered, “It’s sort of nice, actually.” When Frodo frowned in confusion, Merry plucked nervously at the grass, looked away. “It’s nice when you let go like that, when you let yourself be selfish for just a minute or two. It…” He shrugged again, looked at Frodo out the corner of his eye. “It makes a person feel…" Looked down. "Dunno. Wanted, I suppose.”
Frodo could only stare, stunned. Had he withheld so much of himself that he’d actually made Merry doubt he was wanted? All these years and was it possible that Merry still wasn’t entirely sure how very much he meant to him? Frodo’s throat drew tight, his head felt heavy.
“Merry, I--”
“Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t bring the ponies.”
Frodo ignored the joke. “I want you to know--”
“I’m starving!” Merry cut in, as though Frodo hadn’t spoken, then reached over, snatched up the pack and began unloading its contents. “Cold chicken!” he enthused. “I was hoping there was some of that left. Had it for supper last night, you know. We’ve a new cook, did you know? She has a marvellous way with spices and just wait ‘til you taste this.”
Frodo shook his head. Why would Merry not let him say this? “Merry, I want to--”
“I wonder if she’s put in-- Yes! Caramel pears and…” Merry trailed off, stared into the pack. “Oh, you’re not going to believe this.”
Frodo peered at Merry’s crestfallen face with mild alarm. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Well,” Merry answered slowly, “Mum’s packed us a salad.”
Frodo blinked. “And…?” He waited, frowned. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Not especially,” Merry returned then sighed. “But tell me, Frodo: what do you usually have on your salad?”
Frodo’s frown deepened and he quirked his eyebrows… then his eyes went wide and his mouth flapped. “Oh, you’re joking!”
Merry shook his head then pulled out a small corked jar from his pack, waggled it between his fingers. He grinned.
“It appears I’ve brought oil after all.”
Frodo just stared at the bottle for a moment in stunned silence. Then he threw his head back and laughed.
* * *
The house was fine and solid and would do nicely. Merry showed him through each and every room and Frodo followed along, nodding in what he hoped were all the right places, smiling when he could. He couldn’t wait to get out of there and back into the sunshine.
He had dinner with Merry and his parents in their private rooms at the Hall. Esmeralda wasted no time and got right on with her usual teases about how she’d best feed him up, or a strong wind would carry him away, right out into the Blue and they’d never hear from him again. Merry choked and Saradoc just answered with one of his surly grunts and drained his wine.
It didn't take long before she began her usual diatribe on why Merry and Frodo should both have been married to a pair of healthy, broad-hipped lasses already and why wasn’t she a grandmother yet, for the love of all that’s blessed, when Amarantha Smallburrow had three grandchildren already and her six years younger than Esmeralda herself, for pity’s sake, it was disgraceful and…
Everyone immediately lost interest. Three pairs of eyes stared blankly at her, more glazed than the carrots in their crystal serving-dish. No one stayed for afters.
Frodo spent the night in Merry’s room, putting that salad oil to better use, and they both slept through to second breakfast and woke exhausted. When Frodo said he’d best start the trip back to Hobbiton after lunch, Merry frowned a little but didn't protest. He saw Frodo off with a tender kiss on the road and with the promise that he’d see him a few days before his birthday, if not sooner, though somehow Frodo knew it wouldn’t be sooner.
It was only when Frodo stopped to camp that night that he realised with no small measure of sadness and loss that Merry had not once expressed pleasure that Frodo would be moving nearer. And he had never denied a tryst with Melilot.
Perhaps Frodo was the one with bad timing. And perhaps when he left, it wouldn’t be quite so difficult for Merry as he’d thought.
It should have comforted him, that he would not be inflicting the pain he’d been fearing since the spring. But when Frodo lay down on his bedroll that night, he felt empty and more isolated than he’d felt for years. And the stars gave him no peace this time, only made him feel small and very much alone.
And extraordinarily selfish.
* * *
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