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TITLE: Fair Play AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Shadow PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: NC-17 SUMMARY: Football, spitting, Obnoxious!Mac, Jealous!Merry… Oh, and a bath. Eventually.
This story was written for the hobbit_smut Livejournal Community ‘Hold Me, Heal Me’ Challenge.
* * *
The football referred to in this fic is the equivalent of American soccer. I have taken a slight liberty with some rules (i.e., there is no time-out in football) but I tend to do things like that.
Thank you, Willow. For everything.
* * *
FAIR PLAY
* * *
Frodo saw the smirk on Mac’s face and the answering lift of an eyebrow on Merry’s. He sighed, shook his head and wondered what had ever possessed him to agree to this.
“Insanity, of course,” he muttered to himself. “It’s the only explanation. I’ve gone soft in the head, is what’s happened. By the time this is over, I’ll be babbling about my new pet purple dragon and insisting on wearing only yellow frocks with lace and pink flowers and dancing naked under moonlight whilst chanting--”
He stopped when he noticed the awkward silence surrounding him. Speaking of babbling…
He grimaced to himself, glared at Mac and Merry then turned his head and spat. He sighed, turned back to Griffo and snatched the ridiculous togs being thrust into his chest. Bloody pretentious Tooks, anyway. If he’d have known there were going to be actual uniforms, he might have never made the trip for this tournament in the first place. Short pants, of all things! He hadn’t worn short pants since he was in nappies! And speaking of nappies, he was of the very firm opinion that every one of them was going to look as if they were playing this game in their underlinens. Oh, just wait until he got his hands on Reginard!
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Frodo,” Mac snickered. “Afraid you’ll frighten off the spectators with those bony knees of yours?”
“No,” Frodo retorted evenly, “I’m only considering those players amongst us who are somewhat past their prime. Wouldn’t want anything sagging below the hemlines and giving the wee ones nightmares, would we?”
Laughter erupted and Mac turned to the small crowd that surrounded them. “I believe that’s one point to Baggins,” he informed them then turned back to Frodo. “Not to worry,” he chuckled. “I’ll be making sure that any and all bits are safely secured.”
Frodo rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Griffo. “Is Reginard seriously making these mandatory?”
“I’m afraid so,” Griffo responded. “And he swears that anyone refusing to wear them will not be playing.”
“And is he aware of the fact that they offer absolutely no protection to one’s knees? I tell you, Griffo, the first time I go down for a block, I’ll be torn from shin to thigh!”
“Hold on a moment.” This from Merry, who had unfolded his bundle and was examining his togs with a frown. “You’ve given me the wrong color. Frodo’s shirt is yellow but mine is red.”
“No, no,” Griffo assured him, “that’s correct. You’ll be playing for Fosco’s team.”
“But, I want to play on Frodo’s!”
“I’m sorry, Merry but you entered late and Fosco’s was the only team that had an opening.”
“But I made the trip to play on Frodo’s team. I’ll be a substitute, if I have to.”
“It’s full up!” Griffo explained. “Besides, you’ll see enough of Frodo, the way it is. You’re playing striker and I daresay you’ll run into each other with some regularity.”
Griffo chuckled at his own cleverness but choked it down in the face of Merry’s scowl. Merry peered at the yellow shirt in Mac’s hand and ground his teeth.
“And what position,” he asked levelly, “will Mac be playing?”
“All right.” Frodo stepped quickly over to Merry and placed a firm hand to the small of his back. “What if I switched over to Fosco’s team? Who does he have on goal?”
“That would be Lotho,” was Griffo’s answer.
Everyone grimaced. This time it was Merry who turned and spat. Then he growled. Frodo felt every muscle beneath his hand bunch and tense. Oh, this entire thing was turning out to be one bad turn after another.
Frodo thought quickly. Certainly Lotho wouldn’t switch with him, he needn’t even ask. “Well, what other positions are open, then? I can play defense as well.” Mac spilled out a small chuckle and Frodo paused to spare him a sharp glare.
“The only position not filled for Fosco’s team is substitute offensive left wing,” Griffo offered.
Frodo considered it. He was fast enough, he knew and he certainly had power enough behind his punts but… Well, if he were to be honest with himself, he’d have to admit that there was a reason he was always asked to play goal and not offense.
Still, Mac had already deviled Merry into a slow burn all the way here and this was fast becoming more of a drama than was wise. If making an ass of himself for a few minutes each quarter while the real offense took a few quick breaths was what it took to make Merry a little more secure, Frodo was willing to make that sacrifice. Even if it did mean giving Lotho all sorts of fodder to slag the life out of him.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll play substitute for the red team, then. It can’t be all that-- All right, it isn’t that funny.” Frodo again glared at Mac, who seemed to be having a bugger of a time breathing through his snorts.
“Frodo, love,” Mac choked, “you could fall off a pony and not hit the ground! How do you expect to play offense, of all things?”
“You’re the best goalie in the Shire, Frodo. You ought best stick with that,” Griffo laughed but Frodo didn’t hear him.
He turned a wounded frown on Mac. “I could hit the ground,” he groused, before realizing the utter stupidity of the remark and turning the frown into a scowl. Laughter erupted again and for the first time, Frodo noticed that they seemed to have drawn a small crowd of Tooks.
Mac noticed as well and pulled Merry and Frodo in, drew their ears close with an arm draped around each of their shoulders. “Listen, the both of you,” he said, low and serious but with smile enough for show to the rest of the hobbits out of hearing range. “This is getting a little more dramatic than you’ll be happy about later, I’m guessing. You’re beginning to look like a couple of love-struck tweens.”
“Um,” said Merry reasonably, “we are tweens.”
Mac, just as reasonably, smacked him in the back of the head. “Don’t be an idiot,” he growled. “The tale of the tournament can either be ‘Yellow beats red by four goals,’ or it can be ‘Brandybuck and Baggins make asses of themselves,’ and you’d best decide which it will be right quick. If you don’t,” Mac paused and jerked his head over his shoulder, “the decision will be made for you.”
Merry and Frodo looked in the direction Mac indicated, their expressions souring instantly. “Lotho,” Frodo spat.
“Aye, Lotho and if you two don’t start--”
“Wait a minute,” Merry interjected. “Why ‘Yellow beats red,’ and not the other way ‘round? And what’s this ‘four goals’ twaddle, at any rate?”
Mac and Frodo both blinked at him for a moment before he received another smack to the back of his head, this one from Frodo. Merry rubbed his head.
“Ow.”
“The point is, nephew, that you can either play for the red team and let Frodo play for yellow, or you can endure whatever sort of high-handed rubbish comes spilling from Pimple’s mouth because you two can’t seem to pull out of your lip-lock long enough to make it through four quarters of football. Now, what will it be?”
Frodo thought about it. Mac was right, of course but that certainly wasn’t helping. Frodo was very conscious of the fact that Merry was out of sorts with the situation the way it was already; he didn’t like to think about how much more difficult it might get with Merry on one team and Frodo and Mac on the other. It was only recently that their bond had reached new ground and Merry was one of the most insecure hobbits he’d ever known, when it came to Frodo sharing his attentions. Not that Frodo was sharing his attentions and Merry knew that well enough. But his past with Mac wasn’t exactly one of Frodo’s better-kept secrets and he knew well how even the thought of it buggered Merry to no end.
Add to that the fact that Mac had been going out of his way since they stepped foot on the road for the trip here to drive Merry to distraction. Nothing so obvious as throwing Frodo down and snogging him in the road or anything – no, Mac was much more clever and subtle than that. A quick brush of curls out of Frodo’s eyes, an arm thrown ‘round his shoulders to share a private joke, an oblique reference to times past and a waggle of eyebrows… All of it served to make Merry simmer to a slow boil, while Frodo squirmed uncomfortably and Mac twinkled with barely-suppressed laughter. Frodo was about ready to deck the both of them.
Every conversation was filled with tension. Mac was taking far too much pleasure in every scowl he tweaked from Merry’s face and Merry was so flustered that every remark Mac made – even the occasional innocent one – was met with a snarl and raised hackles. Frodo wished they’d just whip them out already, measure and have done. He was almost afraid that someone was going to sneak up and spray him, just to mark their territory once and for all.
He rubbed at his brow. This was not going to be easy. He owed his loyalty to Merry and he knew it. But Mac was right; anything they did now, besides accept their placement on the respective teams, would be seen as an attempt to alter the roster, just so they could remain joined at the hip. Frodo could certainly withstand anything Lotho could dish out – had proven that time and again – but Merry was not especially even-tempered and had already been pushed almost to his limit by Mac. Setting them up for ridicule could do nothing but get Merry even more twisted up than he was already and Frodo wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold him back, once the steam built nigh to the pressure point. He imagined the repercussions of Merry getting himself tossed from the Smials for fighting and made his decision.
“All right. We’ll keep the teams the way they are.”
The hurt on Merry’s face made Frodo’s stomach drop but what else could they do? He shrugged helplessly.
“I’m sorry, Merry,” he said sincerely. “Mac’s right; if we make more of a fuss than we already have, we’ll be the running joke for years.” He paused and directed an apologetic look to his cousin. “You understand, don’t you?”
Merry scowled, rolled his eyes. He shrugged Mac’s arm off his shoulders.
“I understand,” was the sullen response then he shook himself, took a deep breath and forced a smile. “You’re right, of course. And I’m being silly.” He looked at Frodo and his smile turned sincere. “Besides, it’s not often I get to direct hard leather at your head without fear of recompense.”
Frodo laughed, relieved and cuffed Merry on the shoulder. “Who ever said anything about no recompense?” he wanted to know. He narrowed his eyes, worked up a snarl. “Fear me, cousin,” he warned.
Merry laughed and Mac rolled his eyes. “Stars, I hope I never looked this barmy, when I was your age,” he muttered then shook his head and wandered off - presumably to find someone more near his own age to commiserate with.
Merry and Frodo snickered for a moment before Frodo drew Merry closer, laid a hand to his arm. “You’re sure you’re all right with this?”
Merry sighed and nodded. “Yes. Well… No,” he admitted. “I don’t like any of it and I’ll confess to being rather disappointed. And I hate the thought of being Lotho’s teammate, if you want to know the truth. But,” he furthered when Frodo opened his mouth on a reply, “I am well aware that I am being childish and stupid. We only play the one game against each other, unless we make it to the finals. And,” Merry shot Frodo a sideways smirk, “I’m getting a little tired of seeing your bony arse, anyway. You’re always hanging about and pestering after me. Really, Frodo, haven’t you any other friends you can bother? Must you hang on me all the time?”
“Meriadoc Brandybuck,” Frodo mock-growled, “you’d best watch that over-sized head of yours. I have been working on my aim, you know.”
“I’ve seen your aim, cousin and you’ll forgive me if my knees refuse to quiver. My head could be the size of a barn and you’d still manage to miss it.”
“You know,” Frodo remarked indignantly, “I’m really not that bad.”
“No,” Merry agreed. “You’re much, much worse.”
Frodo shook his head and did his best to suppress a grin. “All right, all right. We’ll just see where the scores lie, once the games get underway.” He caught sight of Mac making conversation with Griffo and grew serious once again.
“Listen,” he told Merry, “don’t let Mac get to you, all right? He’s trying to get under your skin and you’re being a very easy target. He’ll try and scunner you every chance he gets but you must try to remember that that’s all it is. It’s been a long time since…” Merry grimaced and Frodo shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, since.” He paused and bumped Merry’s shoulder with his own and smiled. “I’ve rather changed my preference since then.”
“I know, Frodo. I do. It’s just that… well, he’s… Ugh! He’s just so bloody damned smug and sometimes I just want to--”
“Well, don’t,” Frodo persisted. “Just remember whose sheets I’ll be between tonight, all right?” He waggled his eyebrows and grinned. “I’m sure I’ll be swooning at your feet, after you impress me with your stunning play and I’ll be begging you to have your way with me.”
Merry flushed then rolled his eyes with a self-conscious grin. He shoved Frodo away with a snicker. “Quit being such a girl,” he snorted. “I’m not going to marry you, you know, no matter how sappy you get.”
“Damn,” Frodo muttered. “And I had my heart so set on being Mistress of Buckland.”
“Time to don the dratted togs, lads,” Mac told them as he sidled past. “This way.”
Merry and Frodo smirked at each other, chuckled then followed after Mac.
* * *
“He did it on purpose and you know it!”
“Merry,” Frodo soothed, “these things happen in football.” He examined Merry’s shin; not too bad, really, compared to his own. At least Merry wouldn’t have to worry about Aunt Eglantine accosting him with herbal washes and yards of bandaging, as Frodo was going to have to when she got sight of him. Still, Merry’s bruise was rather spectacular and looked painful and tender.
“I know that, don’t I?” Merry seethed. “But this was poor sportsmanship! I didn’t even have the ball and if Griffo had been paying attention, he’d have got carded for it.”
Frodo sighed. “Look, Merry, I doubt Mac intended to actually hurt you. He’s only--”
“Why are you defending him?” Merry raged.
Frodo blinked in surprise. “I’m not defending anyone, I’m just saying--”
“I know what you’re saying and I’ll thank you to just keep it to yourself!”
“Merry, you can’t be--”
“Don’t speak to me as if I’m some child!”
“Then don’t act like one! Honestly, Merry, get hold of yourself. It’s football and you had to have expected a bruise or two when you decided to play.”
“Not from him and not with your blessing!”
“Blessing? How can you think--”
“Don’t! Just don’t!”
Merry whirled and stomped back onto the field, leaving Frodo blinking after him, torn between righteous anger and utter confusion. How in the world had he gotten to be the antagonist, here? And why hadn’t anyone told him they’d pulled the net out from under the tightrope he’d been tottering on for the past few days?
Frodo shook his head, ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he should go over and have one last try at talking sense into Merry’s thick head. And then Griffo whistled and made his decision for him; halftime was over. He shook his head again, glanced over to see Merry pummeling Mac with a fierce glare as Mac made his way to his own position, blithely ignoring his nephew, and Frodo resigned himself to at least two more days spent shaking his head and trying to stay out of target range.
He walked slowly over to his place in front of the goal, raised his hand to signal he was ready and play resumed. Frodo watched the action on the field with only half of the attention required.
All things considered, Frodo had to say that this tournament had been probably the worst idea he’d ever had. No, wait – asking Mac to play defense for the team had probably been the worst. No, no, wait again – the worst, by far, had to be thinking, for even one, single moment, that having both Mac and Merry accompany him on this trip might be a good idea. Because, of course, it had been the worst, stupidest, most cataclysmic idea he’d ever had.
It didn’t necessarily matter that, in point of fact, it hadn’t really been his idea. Mac, after all, had sort of invited himself, after Frodo had (very unwisely and oh, how could he have been so stupid?) taunted him mercilessly about having been too decrepit to join them for rugby. And Frodo had taken one look at Merry’s black expression afterwards and knewknewknew that Merry had no intention of being left behind.
What an idiot. How could a hobbit speak three languages, read five, be able to recite lays and poems hundreds of pages long by heart, keep the books for Bag End, know all of the constellations and what needed to be planted when each was in its appropriate place in the sky for a proper, timely harvest – how could that hobbit be so blindingly stupid as to get between two Brandybucks in a pissing contest?
Frodo had a brain. He was sure of it; he could tell because he could feel it slamming against the inside of his skull every time Merry came barreling into the goal box and tried running him over. He just had to practice using it, was all. For something other than target practice for his younger cousin, that is.
And here Frodo thought Merry had been joking about aiming hard leather at his head. Hmph. Go figure.
All right, so it was a little bit nice, knowing that he could stir this kind of rivalry in two hobbits who would not, under any other circumstances, be considered rivals. And yes, he had to admit that it might, just might make him a little bit heady, under different conditions. But all he could feel right now was anger at Mac and a sort of grudging sympathy for Merry. Mac was acting the intimate ex for the sole purpose of goading Merry and Merry, with that hot head of his and hot blood to match, was falling for every second of it. Frodo didn’t think Merry would have any teeth left, if he didn’t stop grinding them pretty soon.
Griffo whistled and Reginard called for substitutes; Frodo took advantage of the short break to bend over, rest his hands on his thighs and inspect his knees. Oh, they were going to hurt. Both were torn and bloody, as he knew they would be. Partly because of these dratted short pants but mostly because Merry was so intent on running the ball into the goal and himself into Mac and it was, after all, Frodo’s job to get between Merry and the goal. Frodo couldn’t bring himself to believe that Merry was intentionally ploughing Mac into him but, from the fire in Merry’s eyes every time he looked at either of them and the single-mindedness of his frequent forays into Frodo’s defensive territory, he had no choice but to conclude that Merry was at least willing to accept Frodo as an incidental casualty in his battle with the elder Brandybuck. Frodo wanted to be angry with Merry, he really did but…
All right, yes, so he was finding it a little difficult to be angry with someone who just happened to look amazingly good in short, white pants and a sweaty red tunic. There! He’d admitted it.
Oh, he was sick, there was no other explanation. Why else would he watch Merry tearing down the field, right towards him with eyes blazing and a fierce snarl on his face and think only of those powerful legs wrapped around him, running his fingertips down that broad back, covered in a different kind of sweat, sinking his fingers into those golden curls, warmed by the sun and those arms flexing, fingers grasping…
Bugger the football game - Frodo would just as soon throw Merry down into the dirt and mount him right now. Reginard might take issue with Frodo leaving the goal untended but, seeing as how the star center for the other team would be otherwise occupied as well, it might all even out in the end.
Frodo groaned, shook his head. He really was a very sick hobbit. There had to be something seriously wrong with him. Too much sun, maybe.
Frodo startled when he felt a sweaty arm slide over his shoulders. He straightened and found himself peering into Mac’s warm grey eyes.
“All right, there, lad?”
Frodo slid his gaze to the half-mark. Merry stood rigid, hands on his hips and fire in his eyes. And surely that wasn’t smoke coming out his ears? Had to be a trick of the eye. Frodo blinked, pulled his gaze away and slithered out from under Mac’s arm.
“Fine, Mac,” he muttered then took his position in front of the goal.
“Hold on, there, Frodo,” Mac said then turned to Griffo. “Time!” he called then turned back to Frodo, curled his hand around Frodo’s nape and drew their foreheads together. “All right, Frodo? Need a break? We can get Rollo to take goal for a bit.”
It might have been comforting, if Frodo hadn’t known this show of concern and affection was all for Merry’s benefit. He took another glance to the half-mark; Merry’s arms were folded over his chest and his face was bright red. If he were capable of shooting fire with those eyes, Mac would have gone up in flames hours ago. And probably Frodo, as well. He shrugged away from Mac again.
“Stop it, will you? Just leave off!”
Mac stepped back, eyes wide and bewildered. “What…?”
“Stop patting my back, stop ruffling my hair, stop acting like you’re so concerned, just stop! You’re only doing it to make Merry angry and thank you very much but he’s not only angry with you now but with me as well! What is wrong with you, anyway? I thought you were supposed to be the adult here!”
Mac’s eyes narrowed and he lifted a hand to scrub at his chin. He studied Frodo closely for a moment before shaking his head and loosing a rueful chuckle.
“I hadn’t realized…” He shook his head again. “You know, a pat on the back and a hug now and again is no different from how things have always been.”
“Yes, but that was before--”
“Before was before and just because there’s not that between us anymore doesn’t mean I care for you any less. I had hoped it was the same for you.”
Frodo’s shoulders sagged. “Of course it is but Merry--”
“Is growing up and, if he wants to play with the big boys, he’ll have to learn the rules.”
Frodo opened his mouth to respond but was cut off by Griffo’s sharp whistle; time-out was apparently at an end and the call was made for play to resume. Frodo moved back into position, angling his gaze a little to watch Merry face-off for the ball. He leaned down, poked at his bloody knees a little then grumbled to Mac, “Just leave off him, all right? He’s got enough--”
But the tremble of earth beneath him and the rhythmic thud of feet to turf called him back to his purpose in a hurry. Frodo looked up to see Merry and Fosco bearing down on him, Fosco passing the ball to Merry and Merry angling in for the goal, with Mac moving directly in front of Frodo to block. Frodo had just enough time to think, ‘Oh, bugger but this is really going to hurt,’ before a blur of red and yellow was hurling toward him and everything went dark.
* * *
All right, so the worst idea yet turned out to be attempting to work out playmate problems while he was supposed to be paying attention to the game. Still, the day wasn’t over – there was plenty of time for him to come up with worse. And he had no doubt that he would because this day… oh, this day just kept right on coming.
“Frodo!” Merry’s voice and a hand shaking his shoulder. “Frodo, are you all right?” A shuffle and turn then, “Now look what you’ve done!”
“What I’ve done?” This one was Mac, sounding indignant and strained. “Now just hold on one--”
“Shut… up!” Frodo had to concentrate on the voice for a minute before figuring out that it was his own. He opened his eyes and blinked up to see more hobbits peering down at him than he’d thought were on the field only a moment ago. He blinked again and… ah, there we go; the surrounding faces wavered and the number was cut in half as his eyes focused.
He moved to sit up, choked out a gasp and wondered if it was possible to break one’s arse. Certainly the pain that shot through him when he moved lent credibility to the theory. More hands settled on him in an attempt to assist and he swatted them away.
“Get off!” he growled.
Mac turned to the crowd. “All right, let’s move back, now.”
“You, too,” Frodo said with a glare and when Mac looked at him in surprise, he turned and glowered at Merry. “Both of you. Go on, off with you.”
“Frodo,” Merry said reasonably as he scooted closer, “you need help getting up. You’ve had a bit of a knock.” He reached over to touch Frodo’s head and Frodo batted at him.
“Yes, thank you, O, Master of the Painfully Obvious, for that enlightening bit of information.” Frodo reached to the back of his head, touched gingerly at his scalp and hissed. “Bloody damn!”
“Just let us help you off the field, Frodo.”
Oh, sure – now Merry was all soothing tones and warm, liquid eyes.
“I would rather have Lotho help me off the field than either one of you two!” Frodo grated. “Clear off, I tell you!” then he turned himself over and rocked up to his hands and knees. Ow, bloody damn, that hurt. He paused, panting then slowly, painfully, he stood and straightened as best he might. He took a step and…
All right, so the idea of trying to walk by himself after a blow to the head was running a close second to the one about not paying attention during a football game. Frodo spat grass and dirt from his mouth and waited for the world to stop spinning.
“Why didn’t you catch him?”
“I was reaching for him but you shoved me out of the way.”
“I was trying to move to his other side.”
“And tripped over your own great feet?”
Frodo groaned and pulled himself back up to his hands and knees. Ow ow ow…
“If you’d have just stayed out of the way--”
“Oh, yes and then all three of us would be face-first in the grass.”
All right. Crawling didn’t seem to be out of the question.
“Only because you can’t seem to keep yourself out from underfoot.”
“I’m underfoot?”
“Yes! With your whispers in his ear all the time and you seem to have forgotten entirely how to keep your hands to yourself.”
“Oh, and following him around like a puppy on a leash is so much better.”
Left hand, left knee, ow, pause, deep breath… right hand, right knee, owowow… There. That was getting it. He should make it back to the Smials in, oh… two days, at the most.
“Are you familiar with the term, ‘third wheel?’”
“Why, nephew! You’ve learned to count. Your mum will be so proud.”
“Why don’t you just go back to Buckland?”
“Um, lads?” Griffo.
“I was invited.”
“And you’re implying that I wasn’t?”
Left hand, right knee, ow, bugger… wait… left hand, left knee, owbloodydamn… Yes, that was it. He was moving along, this time. He had to have made it at least three feet by now.
“Lads?”
“You only came along because you were afraid Frodo would succumb to my charms.”
“Charms? You have no charms.”
“Lads!”
Mac and Merry both, voices sharp: “What?”
“Um, you might want to…”
“Frodo!”
And then he was being lifted off the ground, a strong arm on each side and hands guiding his own arms across two sets of broad shoulders. Perhaps it was peevish of him but he refused to sigh in relief… though, he had to admit (to himself, of course – never out loud) that it was awfully nice to get off his torn-up knees because, oh, bloody damn but they hurt like a bugger!
“Frodo,” Merry chastised, “you should have waited for us to help you.”
Frodo turned his head (stiffly because ow, damn!) to peer at Merry. He blinked, opened his mouth then just rolled his eyes, turned back to concentrate on putting one foot painfully in front of the other. Yes, apparently one could break one’s arse. Which tended to make walking a bit of a problem.
“Bah,” Mac remarked scornfully. “This one will do as he will, when he will and bother with anyone that says him nay.”
“Don’t I know it,” Merry muttered and, if Frodo had been able to take a swing, Merry would be hearing bells about now.
“Oh, ho!” chortled Mac. “The Brandybuck stubborn streak pitted against Baggins willfulness, eh? Fireworks are a pale comparison, I expect.”
“It does tend to make things interesting,” Merry muttered. “He never listens and he’s very… well…”
“I believe ‘bossy’ might be the word you’re looking for.”
Merry chuckled. “Perhaps not precisely but it will do.”
Frodo must have taken a harder knock than he’d thought because surely these two weren’t trading insults about him right over his head? And after the way they’d been behaving? It was too much, really, it was.
“Overbearing?” Mac furthered.
Perhaps he should give them the benefit of the doubt; maybe they thought he’d lost his hearing when they’d barreled into him and knocked him senseless.
“No, that’s not quite it, either.” Merry paused. “It’s only that… well, Frodo tends to like to win.”
Nothing wrong with that. Merry said it as if it was a character flaw, or something.
“Oh, most definitely,” Mac agreed. “And he’ll break every bone in his fool body in order to have it so.”
No. If he kept company with these two long enough, they’d see to that for him and right well.
“Yes, that’s it exactly! He’d put himself in front of a herd of wild ponies, if that’s what it took to--”
“Enough!” Frodo stopped, yanked his arms away and swayed between them. They both blinked at him, bewildered, which only served to cause him to grit his teeth and fist his hands.
Ow. He hadn’t realized his hands had taken a beating as well. Bugger.
“I cannot believe,” he grated, “that, after all you two have done since we set foot on the road, now you decide that you’ve got some common ground!”
“Done?” Mac looked innocently to Merry, who turned wide eyes upon Frodo. Frodo’s lip curled.
“Look, Frodo,” Merry said as he took a hesitant step toward him, “It was an accident. These things happen in football.”
Frodo just stared, gape-mouthed. Merry was telling Frodo that these things… No, he couldn’t possibly have heard right. He gave his head a quick shake then quickly learned how bad of an idea that was. See? He knew he’d keep them coming. Given enough time, he’d probably figure out a new, easy way to build a fire… which would, naturally, result in burning down the entire Shire because Frodo, it seemed, had a talent for ideas that went utterly and completely wrong, for all his good intentions.
“Lad.” Frodo turned his gaze to Mac and found the only thing keeping him from whacking the condescending smile from his face was his inability to decide exactly which of the three Macs he saw was the real one. “Calm yourself, now. Let’s just get you--”
“Bother with the both of you!” Frodo snarled. “You’ve had me at wit’s end for days and now, after you’ve made sure that I can’t even do what I came here to do, the one thing you two have finally found to agree upon is my shortcomings!”
Merry shook his head, took a step, to which Frodo backed away and tottered. “Frodo, we didn’t mean to--”
“Shut UP! Just go back and finish the game, both of you! I’m going to go drown myself in the baths.” And with that, he turned, wobbled then lurched in what he hoped was the general direction of the bathhouse, stripping the dratted jersey as he went. There was a dangerous moment or two when the collar caught on his chin and he flailed his arms in the sleeves wildly until the hated thing loosed him and then he threw it to the ground and stomped off. All right, limped off.
Merry and Mac peered after him for a moment before Mac raised an eyebrow at Merry. Merry nodded and took off after Frodo.
* * *
“Like to win,” Frodo muttered to himself as he cranked the pulley and tipped the cauldron over the tub. “Of course I like to win – as if they don’t! What they want to win, though, I don’t know because it certainly isn’t a football game.” He tipped the cauldron back up and swung it on its arm, away from the tub and back over the fire. “And it certainly isn’t me, after all that ‘bossy’ nonsense.” He paused, stripped slowly out of the dratted short pants and the underlinens that looked so much like them then bent and examined his legs. “I’m not bossy,” he told his knees.
“Are too,” came a quiet response from the door and Frodo closed his eyes, sighed. A firm hand at his elbow and Frodo flinched away, hissing then bent his arm to examine the gashes along it. “Sorry,” Merry muttered. “I only wanted to help you into the tub.”
“I can do it myself,” Frodo mumbled then suited action to words… or tried to. He managed to get his foot up on the side of the tub, both hands clenching the rim and there he stayed for several minutes, weighing the anticipated pain of the initial submersion against the eventual soothing of hot water to torn skin and weary bones. He decided to concentrate on the latter but, at the moment, that was no help, as he realized that he was quite stuck in his current position. Well, bugger. “Um… All right,” he said morosely, “perhaps I can’t.” He peered up at Merry who, to his credit, was managing to look both sympathetic and repentant at once. “Could you…?”
Merry said nothing, just wrapped an arm around Frodo’s shoulders, gingerly avoiding any scrapes or bruises, and helped him into the tub. Frodo swore as the hot water lapped against raw tissue and lowered himself slowly, angling sideways to avoid sitting directly on the arse that he was still completely convinced was broken.
Merry bent, squatted beside the tub and reached out to cup water gently over Frodo’s hair. Frodo closed his eyes and tipped his head back with a sigh.
“I’m sorry,” Merry offered quietly.
Frodo sighed again. “’S’all right,” he slurred.
“No, it isn’t. I’ve been an idiot and now you’re hurt.”
Frodo waved the hand he wasn’t using to steady himself lazily about in the air. “Happens,” he said.
Merry chuckled. “A little too often, I’m thinking.”
“Mmm,” Frodo responded.
Merry continued drizzling warm water over Frodo’s head and Frodo continued to allow it. It was quite nice, actually.
“I don’t know what comes over me,” Merry murmured.
Frodo chuffed a small laugh. “Mac just knows all of the right places to poke,” he told Merry. “And you fall right into it because you don’t seem to understand that I don’t want anyone but you. You make my knees weak, you know.”
Merry snorted. “I make your knees weak,” he said, disbelief clear in his tone.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
Merry was silent for a long moment before answering, very quietly, “Sometimes.”
Frodo opened his eyes, peered up at Merry. “You’re golden, love,” he said simply. “Every last part of you, including your heart. You’re beautiful and you’re made of gold and sun and sky come to life and I will never hold anything in my hands as precious as you. You raze me to ashes and I throw myself into the flame happily and willingly, time and again.”
Merry looked away, cleared his throat. “And you’re all smoke and stars and cool silver,” he husked. “A fine pair we make.”
Frodo smiled, turned a little. “Merry.” He waited until Merry met his gaze. “Do you think I gad about? That I fall into whose ever sheets open to me?”
Merry looked shocked. “No! Of course not!”
Frodo brought his face close to Merry’s, rested his chin on the rim of the tub. Very softly, he asked, “Then what makes you worry so?”
Merry blinked, opened his mouth then snapped it shut. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose… I wanted you for so long, Frodo – I don’t think you understand. And now…” He laughed a little, shook his head again.
“Now you have me,” Frodo whispered and leaned further to lay his mouth to Merry’s, light and sweet. He felt a small smile creep to Merry’s lips and he pulled back. “You just need to learn to trust that I choose to spend my time with you.” He opened his eyes, turned them to Merry’s. “There hasn’t been anyone else, Merry. Do you believe me?”
Merry closed his eyes, nodded. Frodo smiled.
“Good.” He sat back, winced then adjusted himself and waved a hand to the cauldron. “Then let’s have some more hot water, shall we? There’s not enough for both of us.”
Merry smirked a little then stood and moved to do as bid. He dumped in more hot water, careful to aim it away from Frodo then pushed the cauldron back.
Frodo watched as Merry stepped back and pulled his jersey over his head, revealing a sun-gold expanse of broad muscle and rippling sinew. Sweat coated his chest in a thin sheen, glossing him slightly and causing shadow and light to play upon dips and valleys with every movement. His hair was matted to his head and he shook it as he pulled the tunic loose, small ringlets clinging like rose-gold ivy to his nape.
How Merry could ever doubt that this sight made Frodo do anything less than crumble to a puddle of whimpering need was entirely beyond him but he supposed he would be remiss if he did anything other than try to convince him; a chore Frodo was only to happy to take upon himself. He felt a stirring in his groin and heat blossomed in the pit of his stomach. Oh, he wanted that warm skin beneath his fingertips, those muscles bunching and rolling in his palms. He’d been wanting it, craving it all day and, whether that made of him a sick hobbit or no, he intended to have it and right soon.
Merry froze, as if Frodo had called his name and then slowly turned, eyes glittering and burning right through Frodo’s skin. A small smile, just enough to rouse the dimple in Merry’s left cheek and then he was loosing the tie at his waist, angling his hips and pushing away the fabric; it pooled around his ankles and Frodo’s eyes followed it. He watched as Merry lifted his left foot then his right, stepped away. Frodo raised his eyes, caught Merry’s gaze and felt himself pulled into a rippling whirlpool of heat and flame.
“Come here,” he rasped.
Merry stared for a moment before a weak protest: “You’re hurt.”
Frodo kept his gaze steady, allowed the corner of his mouth to lift just a little. “So, come kiss it better.”
Merry quirked a brow, smirked and stayed right where he was. “Bossy,” he said.
“You’d better believe it,” Frodo growled then he poured all of the fire that was stirring in his belly into his gaze and leveled Merry with it. “Come here,” he repeated.
Merry’s smirk faltered, smoked and morphed into burning want and Frodo was glad he was already off his feet, for his knees would surely have betrayed him in the face of this… this… Oh! language failed him – every single one of them and it was all he could do not to vibrate himself right out of the tub, leap on Merry and drive him into the floor.
And Merry knew it; Frodo could tell because that gaze took on a knowing slant and Merry walked toward him slow, as though he drifted through honey, the amber tones glistening and dripping with every contraction of muscle over bone. Frodo’s fingers flexed as they crept up the side of the tub and clamped on to the rim.
Merry stopped in front of him, looked down. He smiled a little then moved to join Frodo in the bath.
Frodo reached a hand to his hip. “Wait,” he said and heard a small gasp, felt a rolling tremor beneath Merry’s skin.
He would take his time with this, savor every sigh and moan. He kept his hand on Merry’s hip, anchored him with it and reached for him with the other. Merry groaned as Frodo’s fingers brushed lightly over risen heat and Frodo felt it move through him in a slow burn, wash through his veins and bloom to a raging swell in his groin. He allowed his fingers to sweep down, firm and purposeful and Merry gasped, high and sharp. His hips rocked a little and Frodo traced the rigid flesh before him, licked his lips.
Oh, this was harder than he’d thought, this measured pace and he felt himself juddering to defeat, knew it was only seconds before he allowed the inevitable frenzy to overtake him. Merry knew it too and he rocked forward again, whimpered, low and pleading and Frodo opened his mouth and took him in.
A soft cry above and Frodo couldn’t tell if it was relief or arousal. No matter; one always quickly slid into the other anyway, so there was no point in spending energy on the thought when there were other thoughts more pressing. Like how to get Merry’s knees to buckle, for instance.
Frodo knew that all too well and put knowledge to practice as he slid his tongue, rotated his jaw a little. Merry whimpered again and bucked a little and Frodo used his teeth just enough to still him. A groan this time and Merry twined his fingers into Frodo’s hair, pleaded with an undulating ripple of his hips and Frodo answered by way of a small chuckle and a sharp bob of his head.
“Frodo, please,” Merry gasped and Frodo cupped him with one hand and guided his hips into a smooth rhythm with the other. Merry’s fingers tightened on Frodo’s scalp and he sobbed a little, allowed himself to be pulled into the tempo.
Sweat and heat clung to Merry’s skin and Frodo breathed it in, let it seep into his pores. Beautiful, he thought, spun gold and summer roses and then couldn’t think anymore as his hands and mouth and nose were filled with nothing but warm golden heat and the amber glow of sunlight through honey.
Frodo moved both his hands, drew his palms over Merry’s thighs, savoring the feel of tensed muscle as he let them skid over and around to rest on firm flanks. He dug his fingers into Merry’s hips and increased his rhythm, swirling his tongue, flexing his jaw as Merry wailed and jerked and shivered.
Oh, Merry was close and just the thought of it sent Frodo’s own need into urgency. He raised himself as much as he could, took Merry deeper and Merry shouted a curse, gritted his teeth. Frodo could feel him tense, knew he was tottering the edge and he readied himself for the explosion.
But then Merry was clamping his hands to either side of Frodo’s head, pulling himself back and, “Stop, Frodo, stop it, stopstop!”
Frodo did. He looked up, bewildered and Merry panted above him, leaned down and grasped the side of the tub. Frodo didn’t know whether to be alarmed or put out.
“Merry, what--”
“I want…” Merry climbed into the tub on shaky legs, knelt, straddled Frodo’s knees and laid his mouth to Frodo’s, fierce and pleading.
Frodo didn’t quite know what to make of this sudden turn but he was all too willing to go with it. He opened to Merry and Merry slipped his tongue deep, took hold of Frodo’s very being and throttled it to his will.
Ah. This was all right, then.
Frodo was lost, adrift and helpless but warm in the fervor of Merry’s kisses. Oh, and such lovely kisses and Frodo sank deep, felt himself swirling. Lightning blazed behind his eyes and he rode the current, let it take him into the fire that raged from Merry’s skin to his own.
Merry pulled back and Frodo whimpered a protest. Their foreheads were pressed together and they clung, heaving chests panting out harsh breaths.
“Frodo,” Merry choked. “I want…”
Frodo moved a hand to Merry’s cheek, opened his eyes and couldn’t see for the storm-grey that clouded out the rest of his vision. “What do you want, Merry?” he whispered.
Merry didn’t answer but grinned, took Frodo’s hand and guided it between his legs. Frodo was bewildered for a moment because hadn’t Merry just stopped him from… Oh. His hand was led further and the corner of Frodo’s mouth lifted.
“Anything to please you,” Frodo smirked and Merry’s grin widened. Frodo pulled back a little, looked about. “We haven’t any--”
Merry held up a small cake of soap, waggled his eyebrows. Frodo laughed, loud and merry.
“Clever lad,” he said and reached for the soap.
He dipped it into the water and worked a fine, silky lather. With another slanted glance to Merry, he trailed his slick hand down and down, starting at Merry’s collarbone and pausing to swirl around a peaked nipple in its path. Merry groaned and Frodo smiled, couldn’t resist grasping Merry’s erection in his slippery fingers and Merry jerked, cried out and wrenched Frodo’s hand away.
“Frodo!” he gasped. “Bugger!”
Frodo laughed. “That, my lovely Merry, is what I’m trying to do.”
“Well then get on with it,” Merry growled. “Don’t tease me, please, I’m too close!”
“Oh, poor Merry,” Frodo whispered then kissed his temple, the side of his throat then plunged a finger home.
Merry shrieked, clamped an arm around Frodo’s shoulders. “There!” he cried and he gripped Frodo’s arm with his other hand. “Right there! More!”
The pain that coursed through Frodo’s raw skin when Merry clamped onto his arm was exquisite but he could hardly gather enough wits to care. Merry’s reaction had shot right through him and it was all he could do to bite his lip and hold on long enough to get Merry prepared. Oh, he’d never seen Merry react this way, writhing and screaming and begging. It was almost too much and Frodo had to put every ounce of his will to use in order to keep himself steady. Merry demanded more and Frodo gave it to him and Merry bucked and heaved before him, shouting out his pleasure and taking Frodo along for the ride.
Frodo had no idea where Merry found the will to stop because Frodo had lost his the first time Merry had begged for more. But stop he did and then he took the soap, still clutched in Frodo’s hand, lathered it and reached beneath the water to coat Frodo’s desperate erection. Frodo nearly jumped right out of his skin and he clenched his teeth, reached for Merry and then Merry was lowering himself, taking Frodo in.
Frodo’s head dropped back, whacked against the rim of the tub and it should have hurt, it really should have but all he could feel was the heat clamping around him and the slick skin in his hands. He clenched his hands harder on Merry’s hips and pulled himself deeper.
He might have yelled, he couldn’t be sure because his blood was pounding in his ears and all he could hear was Merry’s wheezing breaths against his ear and a moan that might have been ‘Oh, so good,’ but everything was dropping away, coalescing into nothing more than a heated blur of urgent sounds and bucking hips. Oh, he was beautiful, this sun-kissed lad, all brawn and passion and smooth, sleek strength and Frodo would never understand why Merry doubted his affections when it should be Frodo who worried over another stealing away with this amazing jumble of intense, caged power and soft, liquid heat.
Frodo thrust himself upward, hard and fast, hands gripping, feet sliding for purchase and broken arses and knocks to the head were entirely forgotten to the fiery rhythm they pounded out between them. Right there, rightthere oh, don’t stop, Merry was panting and Frodo might have laughed because, oh, he had no intention of stopping. Water sloshed over his chest, the sensation lost to the wide hands that stroked up his ribs then moved to grip the rim of the tub to either side of his head.
He heard Merry shudder in a breath and then Frodo was begging, harder and demanding, faster and he only just had the presence of mind to reach for Merry, take him in hand, grip and stroke until Merry froze, slammed down one more time then shuddered, shouted and collapsed. Two more driving thrusts did it for Frodo and then stars lit behind his eyes, sparkled there for an eternity while his body juddered, spasmed then went pleasantly, gloriously numb.
Frodo thought he might actually have lost himself for a moment or two because, when he opened his eyes, Merry’s worried face was whirling crazily in front of them and he was calling Frodo’s name. He blinked, shook his head and was reminded once again that he really oughtn’t be doing that. He winced, lifted a hand to rub at the back of his head and wondered why his arm suddenly felt as though it weighed two stone, all by itself.
“Oh, my,” he breathed.
“Are you all right?” Merry wanted to know. “I thought you’d gone off for a moment there.”
Frodo chuckled. “I may well have. You were…” He grinned, chuckled some more. “Oh, my.”
Merry flushed a little, grinned back. “And you were bossy.”
Frodo closed his eyes, snickered and relaxed against the tub. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But I think you’ll agree that my aim is getting better.”
Merry peered at him for a moment, bewildered before understanding dawned on him and he rolled his eyes and snorted. He leaned down for a quick, soft kiss and Frodo hummed, stroked a hand over a wide, muscular thigh.
“Your aim was…” Merry shook his head, laughed outright. “Oh, bugger but you are one sick hobbit.”
Frodo laughed with him, waggled his eyebrows. “Really, Merry,” he said, “you must keep up. I came to that conclusion hours ago.”
* * *
“You’re off then, lads?” Mac ambled up, reached over and adjusted the straps on Merry’s pack.
Merry allowed it, his confusion getting the better of him. “What do you… I thought you were coming back with us.”
Mac shook his head with a smile. “Nay, not this time.” He threw an arm around each of their shoulders. “I’ll be idling about here, catching up with your uncle Pal for a day or so.”
“But I thought--”
“I’m sure they’ll love to have you,” Frodo interjected. He turned his eyes to Mac, smiled then looked to Merry. “And they’ll be much better company for you than we’ve been.”
Merry frowned before his mouth formed a silent ‘oh,’ then he turned back to Mac, his face flushing pink. He stubbed a toe into the dirt.
“I’ve been a bit of a sod,” he muttered softly. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”
Mac ruffled his hair affectionately then cuffed him lightly on his ear. “You’ve done naught but what you should, lad.” Mac turned to Frodo. “How’s that head?”
“Splitting, thank you. I look forward to some coddling and headache powders from Aunt Esme.”
“Aye, well…” Mac kissed them both on the brow. “Take it easy on the road.” He turned to Merry. “Be sure he rests plenty along the way, eh? Don’t want him swooning on you and dropping at your feet.”
Frodo was indignant. “I don’t swoon,” he said.
Mac and Merry both laughed then Merry turned back to his uncle, slid his arm about Frodo’s shoulders. “I’ll take good care of him, Mac,” he said soberly. “You can count on me.”
Mac nodded and grinned. “I know it, lad.”
Frodo rolled his eyes, shook his head. “We need to go now, before I sprout petticoats and you both start braiding my hair.”
Merry turned to him, studied him seriously for a moment. “Even if you do,” he said sincerely, “I still won’t marry you.”
Frodo rolled his eyes again, growled a little then turned and started down the road. Merry and Mac grinned at each other, snickered then Merry bussed his uncle on the cheek, spun about and followed after Frodo.
* * *
END
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