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TITLE: Counterpoint, Interfolio - Harmony AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger PAIRING: F/M RATING: R SUMMARY: Baby, it's cold outside ILLUSTRATION: 'Repose' by Daffodil Bolger
Harmony: an interweaving of different notes into a single chord.
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HARMONY
* * *
It wasn’t the cold so much as the way the wind drove it straight through his bones. And him with only his mid-weight coat and a measly bit of scarf to keep him warm. He hadn’t even brought his cloak, of all the stupid bleeding stubborn no-Mum-I-am-a-grown-hobbit-and-will-not-have-my-mother-dressing-me-thank-you-very-much things he’d ever done and oh, bugger, wouldn’t he kill for a pair of gloves and some winter-weight smallclothes right now.
Merry kicked his heels into the pony’s barrel, clucked his tongue and flexed his toes. He could see the lanterns burning bright along the Row and his eyes watered – whether with the wind or the cold or just the fact that Bag End was so near he could almost smell bayberry from here, he didn’t know. Well, actually, it really couldn’t be the latter, since his nose was frozen and he couldn’t smell a blasted thing anyway but it sounded awfully romantic for a moment there. He chuckled a little, shook his head; he really did amuse himself sometimes. The night instantly absorbed the sound of his quiet laughter and Merry peered once again at the sky. The air was thick and close and the stars hid behind a blanket of clouds turned charcoal-grey against the pitch of the night. There would be snow before the night turned over and no mistake about it.
He hadn’t quite believed it, though everyone he’d run into in his rush to saddle up and get out of Buckland had seemed to delight in telling him he’d make it no farther than Budgeford before being buried to his eyebrows. He was taking no chances, though; he’d not been able to get away much lately and had been looking forward to the four days he meant to spend in Hobbiton – holed up in Bag End if he had anything to say about it, mind – for weeks and had no intention of getting snowed in at home of all places and so had left a day early. He’d been so caught up in last-minute details and leaving instructions with the forehobbits that he’d not been able to leave after first breakfast as he’d hoped and it was nearing mid-day before he’d even got to the stables. And even though he hadn’t smelled the hint of snow on the wind, he’d been promptly informed of its presence thereon the minute he’d entered the stables.
He wasn’t taking any chances – if he was going to get snowed in somewhere, he was bloody well bound and determined that it was going to be at Bag End. He’d saddled Dan (yes, Dan – Pippin named it and Merry sincerely appreciated it when people just didn’t ask) in five minutes flat and kept him to at least a jog nearly the whole way to Hobbiton. Still, it had to be nearing the small hours of the morning by now. Merry didn’t even try to look at his watch – he didn’t think his frozen fingers could manage to pull it out of his pocket, for one thing, and for another, he hadn’t a light by which to see it. He’d just have to take his own word for it.
Pulling up to the shed -- finally! -- he dismounted and led Dan (oh, just shut it!) through the doors, wondering without much hope if Frodo might still be awake. Merry wasn’t even expected until tomorrow night and he sincerely hoped Frodo had left at least that small bit of Buckland life behind him and hadn’t locked up Bag End before he’d gone to bed. Merry couldn’t recall having ever wished such a thing before – that Frodo should shed even one small Bucklander habit – but he supposed he could take it all back tomorrow and pretend he’d been delirious with the cold. Right now, he would concentrate on the lovely things that waited for him up the Hill. The burrow would be warm, he knew, because Frodo always left the fire in the kitchen going all night and there’d be the one in his bedsmial, as well, of course. Merry would help himself to a brandy, thaw himself by the fire and crawl between sheets already warmed with Frodo’s heat. And if he was very, very lucky, Frodo would wake him a few hours later with sleepy kisses and a slow slide of fingers through sleep-tousled hair.
Merry smiled – at least he thought he did but his face was numb and he couldn’t really tell for sure. He groped about on the shelf by the door for the matches he knew must be there, found them, fumbled one in his frozen fingers. It took several flicks with his thumbnail before it caught then he took the lantern down from its hook and lit it, watched it flare gold-over-soot and paused for just a moment to let the heat that radiated from it to sink into his fingers. When he could move them without fearing they might shatter right off his hands, he led Dan (bloody Pippin) to the empty stall at the far side of the shed, passing Essie and Bessie (the two goats that served no purpose about the place Merry could discern), Hortense (the milk-cow that would sooner kick you in the kneecaps than let you actually milk her), and Ed (the useless mouser-cat that, to Merry’s knowledge, had yet to be acquainted with an actual mouse). And no, Pippin hadn’t been at Frodo’s animals, too – Sam’s younger sister, Marigold, got the blame for those.
He unsaddled the pony, gave him a cursory brush and tossed the bridle and tackle to the hooks. A fresh blanket hung over the low wall and Merry tossed it over the pony’s back then killed the lantern, drew a deep breath and flung himself back out into the cold. The wind seemed to have kicked up a few more notches while he’d been in the shed and he pulled his collar up, hunched down into his coat and sprinted up the path to the burrow.
Ah, yes, the door was open and Merry took no time to pause and ponder whether he was happy that it was so or lamented the fact that Frodo had, in Merry’s personal opinion, been living in Hobbiton far too long already. Not that he could actually say that last out loud; it had got him into all kinds of trouble the one and only time he'd opened his mouth about that one and Merry was a hobbit who learnt his lessons well and the first time they were taught. He decided to just be grateful he wasn't currently shivering to death on Frodo's front porch while simultaneously breaking his fist against the door, trying to wake Frodo to let him in, so he pushed himself into the entrance hall and shut the door quickly behind him.
Oh, sweet mother, it was warm and lovely warm and warm and Merry thought he could happily melt into a great puddle of thawed-out Brandybuck goo right there on the tiles. Of course, he wouldn’t – he was now officially a guest and it would be rude to make such a mess for his host to clean up so soon after he’d arrived and Merry was a very polite hobbit.
He was so.
Anyway, speaking of his host…
He rubbed his hands together until the tips of his fingers began to tingle then he worked them over the buttons of his coat, shucked it and tossed it to a hook. Then his scarf. He lit a candle from the shelf beneath the sconce and, pausing for a quick full-body shudder, he turned and made his way deeper into the burrow, heading for the study where he knew Frodo kept the good brandy in his bottom right desk drawer. Not that he would tell Frodo he knew as much, else he ran the risk of Frodo finding a new hiding place. Frodo loved him madly, he knew, and would give Merry the shirt off his back and anything else he might ask for, but good brandy was good brandy.
There was light coming from the study up the tunnel – Merry could see it spilling soft from the doorway and onto the polished wood of the oak floorboards – and hope sparked bright that perhaps Frodo was still awake and Merry wouldn’t have to wait until morning to get fully-warmed. Suddenly eager, he quickened his pace. He was still alternating between chafing the hand that wasn't holding the candle up and down his arm and blowing into his curled fist when he reached the end of the tunnel and arrived at the study.
Frodo was going to burn down the burrow one of these days, Merry could see it now. How many times had he warned Frodo about falling asleep with a lamp burning and the fire not banked? Merry pinched out his candle, shook his head, resisting the urge to cross the room and dump his cousin from the couch where he’d apparently been reading and where he now slept soundly, soft little whistles of breath easing in and out through slightly parted lips, with the occasional fluttering snort. Instead, he angled around the couch, made his way to the desk, pulled the brandy from the drawer and poured himself a healthy dose. Still shaking his head, he took his drink over to the fire, secretly grateful that Frodo had, in fact, fallen asleep without banking it down because oh, it felt lovely.
He swirled the amber liquid in its glass, lifted it for a quick sniff – more out of habit than anything else – then, because Frodo was asleep and could not, therefore, raise an eyebrow at him, he tossed the brandy back in one swallow. Warmth blossomed in his belly, spread through his limbs and Merry closed his eyes in alcoholic bliss. Frodo really did have good taste in his… well, in everything, really. Just look at his choice in companions as a good for instance and Merry couldn’t help but smile and puff up a little at that thought.
He turned his eyes to Frodo and his smile
deepened, dipped dangerously towards a leer. There was just something about
Frodo in spectacles. Merry had never been able to figure it out but it had got
to the point
Now Merry looked Frodo up and down, eyed his lithe form where he reclined upon the couch. Frodo’s waistcoat was unbuttoned and his sleeves were rolled up to just below the elbow. The first three buttons of his shirt were undone but, if Merry knew Frodo – and he did – he would have to assume that Frodo had only actually unbuttoned the first two himself and the third had come undone after he’d fallen asleep. Merry had no idea why that thought swept a warm thrill up his spine.
Frodo had apparently been reading; a black-bound book with gold lettering was splayed open on his chest and one hand held to it possessively while the other reached behind and pillowed his head, dark hair winding over long fingers like sable ivy. One leg dangled off the side of the cushions while the other was bent at the knee, propped against the back of the couch. And best of all, his spectacles sat perched at the end of a straight nose, their wire frames just slightly askew and crooked on cheeks flushed lightly with peaceful sleep.
“Stone me,” Merry whispered and, without tearing his eyes away from Frodo, slid his empty glass to the mantel. All Frodo was doing was sleeping, for pity’s sake, and hadn’t even twitched since Merry’d got here, so how was it that the fire in the hearth was already paling in comparison to the one that burned in Merry’s belly and that he was now sporting more wood in his trousers than what lay in the hod beside said hearth? What was it about those spectacles?
And yet, it would be so much simpler, if he could explain it all with the physical, if bodies and what they did with them was all there was to it. And less terrifying, all of it, because Merry understood all too well that he could get lost in Frodo, could sink himself too deep into what they had between them and forget to come up for air, forget who he was.
Even so, the panic that should have come with the knowledge never seemed to touch him, only ever seemed to show itself in a vague wisdom just outside the periphery of possible futures. Because there was always Frodo, knowing Merry better than Merry sometimes did, and even if Merry forgot who he was, there would be Frodo to remind him. For all that Frodo spent too much time with his eyes on the stars, still, he somehow kept Merry's own feet on the ground. A balancing-act on a fluid fulcrum: Pragmatism grounding Abstraction; Fancy loaning Reason its wings.
It took the sting from the fear, granted the freedom to love -- completely and unabashed; granted the freedom of accepting love in return, of believing in it, even if one had to sometimes borrow his faith from the other.
Merry couldn't help it -- he sighed like a great, sentimental sap then rolled his eyes at himself, shook his head. Leave it to him to go all squashy and romantic when there was the pressing matter of Frodo in spectacles right in front of him. For all that Merry generally knew bugger-all about females, he was pretty sure his feminine side had just snuck out and done a little curtsey. Next time he'd just wear a bonnet and have done.
Swiftly but stealthily taking the few steps to the couch, Merry knelt beside it. Slowly, he reached out, gently pushed back the unruly curls scattered across Frodo’s brow then leaned in, placed a kiss feather-light to the tip of Frodo’s nose. Frodo’s eyes moved beneath their closed lids and there was the smallest hint of a frown between his eyebrows. Merry smiled a little, dipped back down, dropped another soft kiss – this one to Frodo’s mouth. Frodo’s lips were soft and dry, warm and pliant, and a small sighing breath came loose between them as Merry pulled back. His smile deepened, his fingers tingling with not only residual cold, but their need to touch/slide/take and he leaned in again, ran his tongue along Frodo’s jaw then down below his ear, yet further down the cords of his throat.
Frodo sighed again and his hand came up, slipped up Merry’s back then into his hair. Merry finally allowed his hands to go where they willed – one sliding smooth up Frodo’s arm and the other gliding over hip then belly then ribs. Frodo stretched, long and fluid beneath Merry’s touch, his movements slow and just the slightest bit clumsy with sleep-haze. He loosed a low, breathy moan and the vibration of it simmered right through Merry’s chest.
“Mmm,” Frodo hummed. “Yes, Fatty, just like that.”
Oh, he loved times like this, when Frodo was half-asleep and so willing to go along with waitnowwhat?
And Merry stopped.
Did Frodo just say...? Did he say Fatty?
Merry's eyes popped open, stared blankly at the white weave of Frodo's shirt-collar, which for some reason was hazed in a greenish hue. No, wait, it was red. He was literally seeing red. No, no, it was green, his vision was tinted green; his eyes might even have turned that colour, for all he knew, and--
Was he growling?
Merry's back snapped straight, his eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched tight. He hadn't realised his hands had fisted but when Frodo came up with him, his own eyes flying open in muzzy surprise, Merry recognised that his hands were clutching to Frodo's shirt, hence the reason why Frodo was suddenly sitting up and almost none-to-nose with Merry and… and bloody smiling!
"Fatty?"
Frodo's smart-arsy little smile turned to a smirk and he leaned forward, rested his forehead to Merry's. "You smell of Glenwood brandy," he drawled. "And your hands are bloody freezing!" And he licked Merry's nose. "You deserved that and you know it."
Merry drew back a little, refused to blush over his apparently not-so-secret thievery, refused to be swayed by sleep-seductive eyes and the fact that Frodo's glance was knowing and clever, and he bloody planned this, the sod.
Still.
"Fatty?"
Frodo shrugged, looked down, peeled Merry's fingers from his shirt; Merry let him because, one: he was still stuck on the Fatty thing; and two: his fingers really were still pretty frozen and if he resisted too much, they might snap off in Frodo's grip.
"Fatty's damned good-looking and could charm the trousers off a rabid badger, should he set his mind to it." Frodo retrieved his book from where it had slipped to his lap, closed it and slid it onto the floor. "Have you never noticed?"
Merry glared. All right, see, now Frodo was just playing with him. Rotter.
"I wasn't aware that badgers wore trousers," he retorted, sat back on his heels, raised an eyebrow. He tilted his head. "Better-looking than me, d'you think?"
The smirk broadened. "Which?" Frodo wanted to know. "The Bolger or the badger?"
Yes, all right, fine, so he'd all but walked right into that one and Merry very nearly lost the little game right there. He stared at Frodo, wondered if he knew how lucky he was that he was so completely loveable because if he wasn't, Merry had the distinct impression that black eyes and fat lips would be a semi-constant presence in Frodo's existence.
All right. Two could play at this.
A few flicks of his still-cold fingers and Merry opened the collar of his shirt then began casually undoing his cuffs. "Take your pick," was all he ended up saying.
Frodo didn't answer right away; he leaned himself -- draped himself, really -- against the back of the couch, tossed Merry a smoky little smile and peered over the rims of his glasses. Merry was caught between stubborn jealous anger and overwhelming lust. Frodo knew what those spectacles did to him and how could Frodo wake from a dead sleep and dive into the seduction so quickly and so fiercely?
"There are very few," Frodo said, low and smooth, "who are better-looking than you, lovely Merry-lad."
Still thawing, a little on the cranky side and on the receiving-end of seduction or no, Merry knew distraction when he saw it. Which didn't mean that he was above playing along with the seduction.
Cuffs taken care of and intent crystal clear, he leaned in, nuzzled a little at the base of Frodo's throat above the open 'v' of his collar. "And has he ever?" he breathed, slid the point of his tongue up to just below Frodo's ear; it had the exact effect Merry knew it would: Frodo shivered a little and one hand came up, ran up Merry's arm and smoothed over his shoulder to his chest, slid itself inside his shirt.
"Mm?" Frodo said, turned his face into Merry's hair, mouthed at his temple.
"Charmed your trousers off," Merry answered then moved his hand down Frodo's torso, let it rest, cupping the familiar bulge of the trousers in question. Frodo pushed up into Merry's hand and Merry answered with a firm squeeze, which Frodo, in his turn, answered with a bit of a gasp.
Apparently, reciprocity worked, because Frodo stopped playing coy and clever, mumbled, "'s your job, innit?" and mm, yes, there was that bit of Buckland, that burr-and-slur, and Merry could have questioned why it shot straight to his groin but, of course, he didn't. Instead he just watched as Frodo stretched himself out on the couch in one long, sinuous ripple. And then he snatched Merry by the nape of his neck, dragged him down on top of him and Merry had to agree that yes, yes that was exactly his job and it was about time he got down to doing it, because by now he had a bloody tree-trunk in his trousers and it was absolutely imperative that they stop playing let's-see-how-jealous-Merry-will-get-before-he-stops-pretending-he's-not and started playing how's-your-father.
Oh, and he should be angry with Frodo, teasing him like that and after Merry had ridden so hard to get here and all, arriving in the dead of night because he couldn't make himself do anything else. But Frodo had stopped his teasing now, pulled Merry into a kiss that was deep and hot and humming with promise and oh, yes…
This was why he'd ridden so hard and so long, and that hand working its way over the buttons of Merry's shirt was why he'd been so insistent upon beating the snow, and this body pushing up against his was why the tease had got to him in the first place, because the thought of Frodo moving like this beneath another never failed to turn Merry a little bit fierce. Only several months ago had Merry begun to suspect that Frodo knew it, used it, and there was never really any question of Merry letting him, because it made the heat between them flare just that much hotter, made the urgency just that much more desperate. And the knowledge that Frodo sometimes liked it this way only added to the conflagration that never failed to light itself in Merry's chest, and the teasing and the jealousy only served to strike a match that much sooner and with yet more intensity.
Frodo was pushing at Merry's shirt now, trying to shove it from his shoulders along with his waistcoat, which wouldn't have been a problem had Frodo finished with Merry's shirt buttons. As it was, it was only serving to frustrate him, sharp little growls rumbling up his throat as he tried to all at once both suck Merry's brain out through his mouth and twist the fabric of Merry's shirt into new, rather creative and quite unnatural shapes that did absolutely nothing to strip it from Merry's back. It was either pull back or let Frodo ruin Merry's shirt, and while Merry wouldn't really lament the loss of said shirt, he'd only brought two others with him and mending this one… well, even with his brain buzzing, Merry knew that putting needle and thread into his hands was just asking for trouble. And trusting Frodo to do it… Last time Merry had seen Frodo sew something, he'd ended up stitching the tear in a quilt to the trousers he was wearing at the time and getting himself so frustrated that both quilt and trousers ended up in the bin.
No, not an option.
Merry pulled back, reluctantly but swiftly, tried to drag waistcoat and shirt over his head all in one go. And promptly got himself stuck.
Bloody stupid buttons. Why did he have to have so damned many of them?
He had to wait while Frodo chuckled a little then undid the buttons of his braces for him, helped him get the whole mess over his head and off, so Merry could finally toss them aside. Went to dive back down and was stopped by Frodo's hands on his chest and a silky little, "Mmm…" to go along with the silky little swirls his fingertips were drawing around Merry's nipples.
"Oh," was the best Merry could do in reply and he drew a deep breath, slid his own hands over Frodo's chest in his turn.
Skin smooth and slightly sweated and muscle swelling and flexing fluid under his palms as Frodo took hold of Merry's shoulders, pulled him down, licked then sucked at Merry's nipple while his hands travelled down and down, smearing over Merry's ribs then his torso, fingers dipping down into Merry's trousers. Teasing, fingertips only just grazing the tip of Merry's erection, then flexing out to scrape fingernails over the jut of his hipbones. Merry's arms shook, the muscles straining and trembling with both his awkward position and the rush of sensation that whirled about him with the touch of Frodo's mouth to his skin. He leaned down farther, braced one arm to the back of the couch and slid his knees up, snugged them to either side of Frodo's hips, said hips rocking and straining up, seeking firmer contact and not finding it, and Frodo growled again, bit down on Merry's nipple. It didn't have the effect Frodo was probably looking for -- that being the effect of causing Merry to yelp and pull back, which would allow Frodo to unbalance Merry and then manipulate him into the position Frodo wanted; what it did do was cause Merry to growl back, wrap both arms about Frodo's head to keep him right where he was then slide his legs back down, press the tree-trunk in his trousers to Frodo's hip and slip himself into the rhythm of Frodo's rocking. And the effect of that nearly made Merry's head explode, because Frodo's mouth kept moving on him, tongue darting out and teasing and teeth nipping and hands pressing at the small of Merry's back and Frodo's whole body rippling and jerking, turning his pelvis so he could grind against Merry's own hip and--
"Ungh!" Merry said as Frodo seemed to spontaneously grow more hands and apply every one of them to both trouser buttons and skin, pushing Merry's trousers down as far as he could, which wasn't that far at all, considering he was still semi-straddling Frodo's legs and the trousers had nowhere to go and why were Merry's clothes so bloody uncooperative tonight, anyway?
And this would be about where normal people agreed to take it all into the bedroom, because one: the couch was rather comfortable but a lot more narrow than Frodo's big, soft bed and rarely did Merry ever have to worry over being tipped onto the floor from the bed; and two: they happened to be male and so certain paraphernalia had to be taken into consideration if any shagging-through-the-couch-cushions was to be done tonight while still allowing them both to walk normally tomorrow. And as far as Merry knew, Frodo kept no such paraphernalia in the study. And Merry would know, because it wasn't like this was the first time this little dilemma had come up, after all. Merry had found the brandy, after all; it only stood to reason he would have found a stash of oil, too, had there been one, because for all that Glenwood brandy was the best in the Shire and quite coveted by Merry himself, it still paled in importance when compared to the oil.
Ah, and then Frodo took hold of him with hot, slender fingers, strong and sure and insistent, and all thoughts but pushpushpush left Merry's head entirely.
"Bedroom," Frodo wheezed, twisted his hand just so. "I want to drive you into the mattress until you can't remember your name."
Name? He had a name?
"Nguh," Merry replied and slid through Frodo's stroke with a gruff curse then, "And what," he panted, "if I want to shag you through the mattress, mm?" He reached down, took hold of Frodo and Frodo arched up with a reedy cry, strengthened his hold about Merry and Merry clenched his teeth; "You were teasing," he managed to grate through them. "You owe me."
"Ah!" Frodo shook but his grip never faltered, his rhythm never stuttered, and Merry began his own, matching Frodo's with both hips and hand. "You stole the brandy," Frodo finally managed. "You owe me."
Merry gave up there, because the brandy, after all, was the more heinous offence. And anyway, Frodo's glasses were slightly askew, edging down along the bridge of his nose, and… well, it was Frodo in spectacles, for pity's sake, how coherent was Merry expected to be?
He had to drag his eyes away from Frodo's dark, glossy gaze, because if he didn't, the whole who-would-shag-whom thing was going to be moot in about a second and a half; he turned his eyes downward, knowing he shouldn't, and his hand on Frodo and Frodo's hand on him and oh, sweet buggering mother in her bloomers! All thoughts of who was to be the shagger and who was to be the shaggee aside, the thought flashed across Merry's muddled mind that the question itself was rather beside the point, because he didn't think they were going to manage to make it off the couch, let alone all the way to the bedroom. Frodo, it seemed, thought so, too, because his arm swept about Merry, pulled him down on top of him until Merry was stretched over Frodo, Frodo guiding his hand to take hold of them both and then folding his own around Merry's.
Oh, yes, this was all right, this would do very nicely indeed, and Merry covered Frodo's mouth with his own, drove them into a kiss that was frantic and open and almost-violent, teeth clicking with the thrust of one body against the other and nips and groaning breaths shared so close that he thought maybe the air Frodo was gasping into Merry's mouth just might be the only thing keeping his own lungs working. His whole body rocked, the weight and force moving Frodo along with him, and Frodo must have managed to lose his trousers somewhere along the line because one leg came up, curled about Merry's thighs and drew him yet closer, his hand almost crushed between them, only just enough room to keep it moving and oh, he needed to keep it moving, needed to push and thrust and grind and feel Frodo mirroring it all with his own body.
Frodo gave up on the kiss, instead buried his face in Merry's hair, his mouth open and panting out hot breaths against Merry's temple and tiny little grunts and breathless moans dripping down into Merry's ear. The metal frame of Frodo's glasses scraped against Merry's skin and there was probably something seriously wrong with Merry, the way it sent pulsing little tingles racing through his blood, but he would have to be a complete pinhead to even try and analyse it right now.
Tunnel-vision started to seep into the edges of Merry's sight, so he closed his eyes, nudged his face into the crook of Frodo's neck, narrowed every bit of his concentration into sensation -- Frodo's chest heaving against him, slick-sweated and bare but for a narrow strip of the linen of his shirt rasping against the side of Merry's ribs; the smell of sweat and soap and woodsmoke and the outdoors in Frodo's hair; the sound of Frodo's thin moans whistling from his chest to his throat and out his mouth, slamming up against Merry's ear in heated tendrils of, "Don'tstopdon'tstop, ah, yes!"
And beneath it all, a fiery coil winding through Merry's limbs, burning at his muscles and stretching him tight, building from a tingle in his toes to a bright-hot knot of tension in his belly, driving down in a loose, watery wave to his groin and thighs.
"Merry…" Frodo groaned and ah, yes, that was his name, then, "Bloody-- Mer-- Ah!"
Frodo's whole body turned rigid beneath him, back arching and hips thrusting desperately and a rhythmic, "ah, ah, ah" pressed hot into Merry's ear, and then Frodo froze, loosed a watery, undulating cry and hot-wet splashed over both their hands. It was enough to set the coil unfurling through Merry and it moved over him like the crack of a whip, turning his entire body into little more than a grinding, thrusting piston as his teeth clenched and his back bowed and white light exploded behind his eyes.
Merry couldn't quite define the noises coming from his mouth, a cross somewhere between Frodo's name and a string of moaning curses, as release seared through him, turned him first rigid as stone, rocking and thrusting helplessly through the throes, then draining every bit of tension from him, leaving him shuddering and shattered, loose and thick as warm honey.
He hadn't realised how exhausted he was, the ride and the cold sapping him more than he'd known. Now he felt himself hurtling towards sleep, spinning down into dark and warm, and he let himself fall. It was quiet and it was warm and Merry was exactly where he wanted to be and the chance of eventually ending up on the floor was one he was willing to take.
Silence for several moments, filled only with the hiss and occasional crack of the fire and Frodo's steadily-lengthening breaths then:
"See, this is the only problem with letting you have the top," Frodo said into Merry's ear and Merry could hear the bit of a smile in it. "You're bloody enormous and bloody heavy, you know."
Frodo's voice was thick and somewhat slurred but Merry knew it would be only a matter of seconds before it took on a sharp edge. He was rather sprawled out atop Frodo and he imagined it must be getting hard to breathe. Still, all he seemed able to do at the moment was smile a little himself, answer, "Mmph," and concentrate on the feel of Frodo's fingers toying with the curls at Merry's nape, the small but heartfelt little kiss he placed to the crown of Merry's head. Thirty minutes ago, Merry had been outside in the cold and the dark and expecting no more than a glass of brandy and a warm bed; hoped for more, certainly, but he was greedy that way and he hadn't actually expected it. And now, here he was -- his hands were finally warm and the rest of him… Well.
Without opening his eyes or lifting his head, Merry blindly, clumsily, reached behind him to the floor for something with which to clean them up a bit, found the shirt he'd been so worried about ruining ten minutes ago and used it. Well, there was a difference between having to sew something and having to wash it, wasn't there? Gave them both a quick mop then tossed the shirt back to the floor.
"You're going to have to get up eventually, you know," Frodo persisted, though he was obviously just as drowsy and unwilling to move as Merry was. He nosed sluggishly at Merry's temple, placed another small kiss there. "What time is it, anyway?"
Merry thought about the watch in the pocket of the trousers that were still somewhere down about his thighs, immediately dismissed the idea of digging it out. Also dismissed the idea of lifting his head to check the clock on the mantel.
"Dunno," was his considered, rather blurry reply. "Two? Three? -Ish."
"Mm." Frodo set loose a rumbling sigh, stretched a bit. "Thank you," he whispered.
Merry frowned a little, still couldn't get his mouth to work quite right. Asked, "Um?"
Frodo managed to shift some beneath him and Merry braced himself to be dumped to the floor; instead, Frodo only freed up his other arm, twisted a bit, and now both arms were wrapped about Merry.
"Just… for getting here, I suppose." A small shrug. "For riding all night to do it and…" Another long, deep breath and Merry could almost feel Frodo's eyes closing again. "I was worried you wouldn't make it with the snow coming and all, but… well, you did and I really wanted you here and you came and here you are and… just thank you, I suppose. For that. For being here."
Merry was suddenly more alert than he'd been five seconds ago. He slid himself over -- just a little, only enough to give Frodo room to breathe -- and wrapped his arm about Frodo's ribs. Peered up, blinked and squinted until Frodo came into focus.
"Everything all right?"
"Mm," Frodo hummed sleepily. "Is now. You're here, aren't you?"
Perhaps Frodo had simply had a bad day or perhaps there was something more and gentle prodding would be needed tomorrow. For now, Merry only smiled, reached up and carefully unhooked Frodo's glasses from about his ears, slipped them to the teatable. Then he burrowed back down into the cushions and into Frodo.
"'s my job," he slurred into Frodo's shoulder. "Innit?"
* * *
|
where
Frodo dared not even take them out of the drawer when Merry was about anymore,
else he’d find himself with his back to the nearest wall, his head spinning and
wearing nothing but Merry. Not that Frodo complained much, but it did make for
the occasional mad-dash to dive behind a handy piece of furniture when an
inconvenient guest or gardener happened by.