Counterpoint, Interfolio

Overture: Introduction to a large musical work.

* * *

Frodo watched the snow fall, stark-white to the muted jet of night, blanketing the earth outside the window in silence thick and full. It was beautiful in its feather-light flow, each flake drifting graceful and slow but sharp against its backdrop of ebony canvas, sloughing in a lazy spiral to settle upon the thick-growing accrual that covered the small portion of Buckland he could spy through the frosted panes of the large, round window.

"Frodo!"

He wished he could be out there, packing a handful or two between his palms, pressing and curling fingers just warm enough to mould smooth, because everyone knows the best snowballs are made with one's hands, bared to the bite of ice formed between pinked flesh and pristine snow. He wished he could be out there right now, fingers frozen and nose close enough to it, cheeks ruddy and tingling and toes so numb you think they'll shatter off your feet, but you don't care because you're having far too much fun, taking your aim and ducking another's. And all the while you know hearth and warmth and thick-spun blankets await you, but not yet, not now, not while you still have an abundance of spherical ammunition with which to seek laughing vengeance.

"Frodo?"

He wished he could see the River from this window. It always looked so perfectly beautiful in the winter months, its amber waters turned black and silver beneath Moon and stars, kissing branch and bracken with diamond mist, frozen facets reflecting the River back on itself in frosted sparks along its banks. Its laughter was colder at this time of year but clearer and more musical than the summer months, when its own tune was muted beneath raft, boat and ferry. He wished he could just walk down the path, watch the water move sluggish through the veins of the River, perhaps snap off a paper-thin sheet of ice from the bank and slip it onto his tongue, all cold and almost coppery and shattering fragile in his mouth like--

"Frodo!"

He wished he could kick Bilbo's arse.

Frodo sighed, turned from the window and blinked wearily at Aunt Eglantine. He mustered up a smile, plastered it where it belonged, straightened his shoulders.

"Hullo, Aunt." He bowed politely, turned to a sullen Pearl, "Hullo, Pearl," and bowed again. Pearl just rolled her eyes, waved her hand about, to which Frodo smiled in sympathy and gave a miniscule shrug.

He wondered what Bilbo would look like with boils.

"We were wondering when you might notice us and come make your niceties, but we got tired of waiting," Eglantine told him, though the sparkle in her eye belied the rebuke in her words. "How lovely to see you here," she prattled on, not waiting for a response from Frodo, but with Eglantine, a response was not only unnecessary but sometimes wholly unexpected and entirely unwelcome. "And what a lovely surprise! Had we known you'd be in Buckland for Yule, Pearl might have been more careful about what she packed." Eglantine eyed her daughter's high-necked blouse with obvious chagrin and Pearl rolled her eyes again.

And warts. Bilbo should have lots of warts.

"Well, Bilbo rather talked me into the trip," Frodo put in and did a remarkably good job of not grinding his teeth whilst speaking. "We normally keep to Hobbiton for the winter, but for some reason Bilbo insisted on Buckland for Yule this year, so here I am."

"Yes!"  Eglantine beamed. "Here you are!" She flared the smile at her daughter, gave Pearl a jab in the ribs, at which Pearl yipped a little then peered at Frodo, rolled her eyes yet again.

"So lovely to see you, Cousin Frodo," she recited blandly, bored gaze pinned to just beyond Frodo's left shoulder. If Frodo was not very much mistaken, she stifled a yawn. Another jab to her ribs and this time Pearl shot her mother a look that Frodo thought might actually draw blood. "Goodness, I'm ever so thirsty," she ground out through a rigid smile, teeth clenched tight.

And moles. Bilbo needed moles to go with those warts. The sort with big, curly hairs growing out them. Big black curly hairs -- the kind one would need tin-snips to get rid of.

"Oh, heavens!" was the over-the-top cry of dismay from Eglantine and Frodo really had to wonder if she thought herself that good an actress or him that dense. "Perhaps our young Frodo might consent to escort you to the punchbowl."

Both of them stared at Frodo then -- Pearl with glowering expectation and Eglantine with if-I-smile-hard-enough-they-will-fall-in-love anticipation -- and Frodo stared back, blinked.

"Er…"

Pearl blinked back, cut her gaze to the table where the punchbowl was sat and then back again to Frodo. She stared hard at him for a moment -- Get me out of here, or I'll either have to marry you or kill you and I really don't want to marry you -- until Frodo's brain finally caught up with, and then beat into submission, his instinctive need to flee.

He held out his arm to Pearl, smiled. "I think I could use a drop myself," he said smoothly then turned his smile on Eglantine, who gave him back a hopeful one of her own and waggled her fingers at them.

"You two have a lovely evening," she called after them.

Ooh, a hunchback might be good as well. Moles simply didn't quite do the trick unless there was a hunchback to go with them.

"Thank you," Pearl muttered when they reached the drink table. She squeezed Frodo's elbow. "I half-expected a suit of shining armour and a white steed. Once you caught on, anyway. Really, Frodo," she furthered with a roll of her eyes and a small, mischievous smile, "you can be rather dense sometimes, you know. You'd think I really was propositioning you."

"Pearl, I'm wounded," Frodo answered with a skilful jut of his bottom lip. He handed her a cup of the promised punch and poured one for himself. "Am I to understand that you have no desire to--"

"Oh, I have plenty of desire, all right," Pearl cut in with a grin. "Just not for you." And to soften the blow, she leaned up and placed a light kiss to his cheek. "But it was brilliant of you to throw Mum off the scent, as it were. I owe you one."

"You owe me several," Frodo returned and bumped her shoulder with his own. "And I may just need to collect one of these days, if my luck doesn't improve soon."

Pearl smirked, reached up and patted Frodo's cheek. "Poor duck," she lamented. "Not getting any lately, eh?"

"For so long that I'm not sure I remember what 'any' means." Frodo sighed dramatically, shook his head.

Pearl gave his arm a sympathetic pat. "Well, you'd do better to stick to the lads anyway," she told him. "You're coming of-age soon, aren't you?"

"Come autumn," Frodo answered.

"Ah." She nodded knowingly. "I hadn't realised it was so soon. No wonder Mum was so keen on spending Yule here this year. Not that I minded, of course." She took a sip from her cup, scanned the room over the lip of it.

Frodo frowned. "I thought you didn't know I was to be here."

Pearl turned back to him slowly, gave him a steady look, lifted an eyebrow. "You really are dense," she told him. "When was the last time we spent Yule away from Smials?"

"But I didn't even know I was going to be here," he insisted. "I only agreed to come because I haven't seen Merry in…" He thought about it. "Glory, I think it's going on two years now." He shook his head. "And if I hadn't been assured of his presence -- which, I might add," he furthered in an aggrieved tone, "is notably lacking -- I would never have agreed to it. And," Frodo was gathering a bit of steam now, "even that was only because Bilbo swore he'd be here by this morning at the latest and that he'd not leave me at the mercy of The Aunts." He was dangerously close to pouting.

Pearl was aghast. "He sent you on alone?"

Frodo only nodded morosely. Pearl blinked.

"And you agreed to it?"

He flushed a little. "Well, how was I to know?" He tossed back his punch, waved the cup about. "Who knew there'd be so much bloody snow, and then The Aunts, with their daughters all willing, and you know--" His arms flew about wildly. "--really willing, and bosoms squashed into tight bodices and, and, and I couldn't even pay a lad to look twice, like I've got some sort of brand on my forehead: 'Property of Esmeralda and Eglantine, Do Not Shag,' so bleeding bent on seeing me married off, the pair of them, and Merry's not even here, the tosser, even though he swore he would be, and Esme swore it, too, and Bilbo, and I can't even hide behind them now because they're neither of them here, and bosoms bloody everywhere, and I swear, if I don't get some sort of sex and right quick, parts of me are going to start jumping ship for sheer lack of interest!"

He took a breath, lowered his arms, noticed several hobbits standing behind Pearl with open mouths, staring at him. As was Pearl.

He cleared his throat, nodded politely. "Hullo." And when that didn't work, he mustered up a glare. "What?"

Several mouths snapped shut, Pearl's among them. She shook herself, smiled brightly at all and sundry then took hold of Frodo's arm and led him firmly to a quiet corner. Well, relatively quiet, anyway, what with the revelry going on about them.

"Are you completely off your head?" she hissed, thwacking him upside said head. "Another outburst like that and you won't be able to beat the skirts off with a stick! And you'd really best stick to the lads now, else you'll be strung up beneath the rose arbours by Rethe and wondering how your bits managed to get you into such a mess."

Frodo rubbed at the side of his head. "My bits aren't speaking to me at the moment," he answered truculently.

Pearl sighed. "Well, I've an engagement with someone else's bits, else I'd see what I could do about negotiating a truce," she told him. She leaned up, kissed his hair where she'd whacked him. "I'm sorry, love. And you looking so cute and all."

The corner of Frodo's mouth lifted. "Cute, eh?" He waggled his eyebrows. "Cute enough to cancel your previous engagement and have a go at parley?"

She rolled her eyes. "Did I not just tell you to stick to the lads?"

"The lads won't have me," Frodo answered morosely. "I tell you, it's as though they've been warned off or something. Either that or I'm losing the little charm I have. Or had."

"Oh, don't start pouting," Pearl cooed at him and pinched his cheek. "You're too pretty when you pout and very hard to resist, but my previous engagement has just arrived."

Frodo looked up, followed her gaze. "Him?"

'Him' was a thick, swart hobbit with arms like tree-trunks straining against the wool of his black formal serving-coat. One broad hand held a tray filled with cups of cider and the other casually waved a cloth at his hip. Dark, liquid eyes travelled over Pearl appreciatively and Frodo could feel her shiver beneath the intent gaze.

"Mmm," was all she said.

Frodo was inclined to agree. His trousers tightened a little in sympathy.

"Here," Pearl whispered and shoved her cup at him. "Spill this down my front."

"But your dress," Frodo protested.

"I won't be needing it for much longer.  And anyway," Pearl's smile was wicked as she waved a hand down her front, "why do you suppose I wore this old thing?"

Frodo shook his head in admiration, smiled then bent forward and laid a sloppy kiss to her brow. "You're bloody amazing," he told her. "If I ever do get married, I want someone exactly like you."

"If you ever get married," she returned with a grin, "I'm going to sell tickets and then take odds on how many weeks it takes before your wife smothers you with your pillow." She turned serious for a moment. "You'll be all right by yourself?" When Frodo smiled and nodded, her grin returned twofold. "Stay away from the lasses while I'm gone," she warned. "I don't want to have to attend your wedding and then your funeral within the space of a season."

Frodo matched her grin then lifted an eyebrow, winked and tipped the cup. "Oops."

"Oh, good heavens!" Pearl cried, just loud enough for others to notice but not loud enough for one of those others to be her mother. She plucked at the wet fabric now plastered to her chest with red, sticky punch. "Oh, dear, what shall I do?"

Frodo thought that might be a little too dramatic and that she should perhaps not be taking acting lessons from her mother. On the other hand, it was doing the job. No one seemed to think it the least bit odd when the large (too bloody handsome and how did Pearl get all the luck anyway?) hobbit made his quick way to her side, brandishing his cloth.  He took her arm with a meaty hand and led her to the nearest door. Pearl paused just at the threshold, looked back over her shoulder with a smile for Frodo. She winked, waved and was gone.

Frodo sighed, peered into the empty cup, briefly considered going for a refill then quickly decided against it. Females were everywhere and most especially about the drinks table and Pearl's admonishments made far too much sense to ignore. And besides, punch wasn't exactly doing the trick anyway. If he was going to make it through Yule at the Hall with no Bilbo and no Merry, he intended to do so from within a relatively-painless haze of alcoholic torpor. He eyed the bar, calculating how he might get across the great room and begin his descent into drunken debauchery without actually being debauched along the way. Not that he was opposed to being debauched by any means -- it really had been far too long since he'd been de-anythinged -- he'd just rather not have a wedding waiting for him at the other end of it.

A sudden burst of laughter caught his ear and Frodo turned in the direction of it. A loose crowd of hobbits -- lads and lasses both -- stood cloistered about, listening to an apparently-amusing anecdote from the one in the centre. The hobbit seemed to demand their attention by his very presence, for every one of the small group appeared riveted, all leaning in with lively interest, their eyes bright and heedful.

Frodo couldn't tell who it was; all he could see was the hobbit's back, broad and sturdy and covered in a perfectly-tailored coat of midnight broadcloth. The style was the newest; Frodo could tell because Bilbo's tailor had tried desperately to talk Frodo into having his own suits altered with that same tapered cut. Perfect for accentuating the sweep of the shoulders, Pinkley had told him, and the curve of a firm bottom. Frodo thought he didn't have much of a sweep and was reluctant to even form an opinion on his own bottom and so had stubbornly refused the tailor's advice.

Now, however, he was definitely coming around to appreciating the wisdom in the style. Whoever that hobbit was, the cut was nothing less than perfect on his broad form and the colour of it served to draw the eye up from the curve of the -- yes, definitely -- firm bottom, farther over the wide sweep of the shoulders and farther still to the golden mane that fell soft and full over the back of the collar. So lush, that head of thick curls, the colour of the sun just before the gloaming when it's burnished warm and just taking a turn into rusty-caramel. Frodo wondered if it felt as soft as it looked, falling in silken tumbles over a high, white starched collar that he could see rising just above the rich blue wool of the coat. He imagined the soft fabric of that coat beneath his palms as he pushed it back and off of those expansive shoulders, muscles rippling beneath his fingertips, pulling and stretching and rolling against his hands and all right, yes, fine, so Frodo had a weakness for shoulders. Broad, muscular shoulders.

A cravat.  He was willing to bet that the hobbit wore a cravat and probably one of those new ones, the ones that weren't the wide, foppish bits of cloth that Frodo found almost irritating, but those new ones made of one long thin strip of white silk, wound about the neck, tied high beneath the chin with only the very tips of the high collar dipping down towards the throat, pointing the way to the chest, so broad and…

He wondered what colour the hobbit's eyes were, whether Frodo could make them darken, turn smoky as he slowly loosed the ties of the cravat, pulled until the silk looped about his fingers, maybe slid down his own wrist and--

"Frodo! There you are!"

Frodo's shoulders went up around his ears as he tried to sink into his coat and disappear. It figured: the one time Frodo could really use Bilbo and his magic ring, the old crank was out stuck in a snowbank somewhere. At least Frodo hoped he was stuck in a snowbank, with all his boils and moles, and had he wished for warts, and it wouldn't do to forget the hunchback.

"I've been looking all over for you!"

Frodo's shoulders sagged -- sinking into his coat wasn't working very well anyway -- and he took a deep breath, turned. "Pimpernel," he said through a rigid smile.

Which wasn't the only thing thinking 'rigid' at the moment. His eyes were drawn inexorably to her tight-laced bodice-- or rather, what strained at the seams, all creamy, smooth skin-against-lace, one just as white as the other and so lovely and plump and…

Oh, he was in trouble now. If Eglantine couldn't get one daughter to nail him to a handfasting, she'd sic the other on him. And apparently had. And unfortunately, Pimpernel did not share her sister's aversion to marriage. And, even more unfortunately, Frodo's bits were right now in the process of stamping out all of Pearl's very sensible and even more well-meant warnings.

"Pimpernel, there you are."

Bugger. Amber. With cleavage of her own and to spare.

"Pimpernel! Amber! I turned and you were both gone. Thinking to get Frodo all to yourselves, were you?"

And there was Posey. Stars save him, there were bosoms bloody everywhere.

Amber looked him up and down, but unlike Pearl beneath the Previous Engagement's eye, Frodo did not shiver with excitement beneath Amber's gaze. He was pretty sure his shiver was one of fear. Amber was the type to use her wiles at-will and she willed quite a lot.  And she made no bones about the fact that she was on the hunt since she'd come of-age only several months ago. Frodo himself had fallen to her… um, charms -- and quite happily -- more than once, but he wasn't unaware that Bilbo's money and his own impending leap into formal adulthood made him easy-pickings in her rather hungry eyes. And his current 'not-getting-any' condition was not going to be much help. The bits were already screaming 'YES!' and wondering why he wasn't already hastening three -- three! -- willing lasses to somewhere private and making proper introductions. At least he assumed they were willing, the way they were all eyeing him up-and-down with come-hither eyes and breasts pushed up and out, heaving and straining, trim little waists, all of them, that he could probably fit both hands around and lift those lithe little bodies up, maybe prop them against a convenient wall, press in close…

Had he wished boils on Bilbo yet? Warts on his nose? A third eye, perhaps?

He drew in yet another deep breath, tried to calm the butterflies that had begun flitting about in his stomach. "Amber," he greeted, his voice remarkably clear and steady, "so lovely to see you again.  And Posey.  Happy Yule to you all."

"Hmph," Amber pouted. "So formal, Frodo?" She walked two fingers slowly up the lapel of his coat. "I thought we went beyond formal ages ago."

Frodo's stomach clenched. Which really wasn’t an especially bad thing, since it effectively squashed the butterflies and killed them dead.

"Oh, look how pretty he blushes," Posey put in, moving in close enough to press her breasts against his right arm.

Frodo dragged his eyes away from bodices and those lovely things contained therein, peered about the room. Where was that nice, broad hobbit in the blue coat? That would be a good distraction. Wide, strong shoulders, tapering down to a trim, fit waist and on down to a very firm, very male bottom…

Well, that figured; the hobbit was gone and Frodo was quickly losing himself in a sea of breasts. Not that it was a bad way to go, but still.

"I like his hair," Pimpernel cooed and slipped long, cool fingers over his temple and into said hair.

Frodo's eyes closed all of their own and a warm shiver moved up his spine.

"Mmph," he said.

Ooooh, good one, Frodo. Do be careful not to cut yourself on that razor-sharp wit.

He blinked, decided that the small part of his brain he’d come to rely on to talk sense into the rest of him wasn’t working especially well. He chewed his lip, eyes flickering down, and... down again and -- bugger all -- down again. Bloody sodding reflexes.

"Aw, look," Posey purred, slipping her own fingers up his temple, following Pimpernel's lead. "Such a sweet little scar," she said, slid her gaze from her fingers to Frodo's eyes. "Scars are so…" She bit her bottom lip, licked it slowly. "Interesting."

He was a dead hobbit. Or a married one and he didn't really care which was worse at the moment. Three lasses -- two hands, two breasts and two sultry eyes each -- and every one of them touching some part of him, and how in the world could anyone expect him to stand against such a sudden, curvaceous onslaught?

Mmm… curvaceous.

Frodo shivered again, nerves jagging and popping along his backbone, heart thumping sharp against his ribs but nowhere near as sharp as the grip of want in his trousers.

"It's…" Frodo swallowed. Had there been a question? The scar, yes, the scar. "It's…"

His mouth wasn't working. Why wasn't his mouth working? Quite possibly because all of his blood had abandoned his brain in favour of a more southerly location.

Fingers sliding in and out of his hair, pattering over his temple, down along his jaw and…

Hadn't there been a question? Something about a scar. Was his mouth working yet?

"Scar… meh?"

Apparently not. Well, at least he could be grateful that he wasn't actually moaning. Yet.

Mouth? Meet Brain. I’m quite certain I’ve introduced you several times before, now if you can't get along with each other--

"Personally, I like his eyelashes."

This from a voice just behind Frodo's left shoulder, almost startling for its deep timbre and rich tone. Frodo spun, staggered just the smallest bit… stared.

Midnight broadcloth stretched over shoulders wide and perfectly-sloped; waistcoat of smoked-charcoal silk flaring up from the waist and sweeping over an expansive chest; high, starched collar of pristine snowy linen, a long strip of silk wound about, tied just beneath the chin; eyes like thunderclouds and a thick mane of hair like ambered-honey. It's a dream, Frodo's mind babbled at him, impossible, can't be real, can't be him, then: Bloody beautiful.

From a thousand miles away, Frodo felt his eyes go wide, his stomach flip. His mouth came open and with no idea what might come loose from it, he forced air into his lungs, spoke.

"Merry!"

Oh, but wasn't the look on Frodo's face worth the past two years of not seeing it at all? Perhaps, perhaps not, but this was it, this was what Merry had been waiting for, planning for, and so far, judging by that look of utter surprise and -- was that…? Yes, it was -- definite appreciation as Frodo took him in from head-to-toe, it was all going as Merry had been picturing for too many long months. Months in which he'd spent his time thinking and daydreaming and planning and out-and-out avoiding the one person he really wanted to see and… well, practising, not to put too fine a point on it, and all for this one moment. And now it was here and Merry couldn't help the sudden jerk of his heart behind his ribs, the sweat that suddenly slicked his palms, the flush that heated his cheeks as Frodo's eyes took him in.

Merry cleared his throat, smiled at the ladies still keeping a hold on Frodo. "He cut them off once when he was small, you know."

Posey gasped, turned her face up to Frodo's in dismay. "Whyever would you do a thing like that?" she asked with a small pout on those full lips and she ran a fingertip beneath Frodo's right eye.

Frodo blinked, shook his head a little. "Seemed the thing to do at the time," he answered, though his voice was hoarse and a heady wave moved through Merry that the disconcerted reaction seemed to be entirely due to his own sudden presence.

"He was angry with my mother," Merry informed them with that same smile, soft and perhaps a bit mischievous. Eyes pinned to Frodo's, he went on, "She always used to say how she loved his long, lovely lashes, you see. And so, when she'd done some foul thing -- or foul according to a very young Frodo, anyway -- he took a scissors and cut off his eyelashes so that she couldn't coo over them anymore."

Frodo continued to stare, managed to regain a little composure, asked, "How did you…?"

Merry's smile curled into a grin. "I know everything about you, you know."

Frodo's eyebrows rose and his mouth opened but nothing seemed to want to come out of it; his brow furrowed in question. Merry very nearly smirked. Instead, he turned to Pimpernel.

"Do you know how he got that scar?" he asked.

Pimpernel shook her head, moved to re-trace her finger over Frodo's temple, but Merry leaned forward, caught her hand. His own fingertips went to where Pimpernel had intended, found the scar, slid over it.

"An unfortunate disagreement with a tree when he was a lad," he said softly, eyes on his fingers. "Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that the disagreement was with the ground." Merry drew back but not before noticing that Frodo's eyes closed briefly at his touch and a small shudder rippled through him. He smiled again, caught Frodo's gaze, held it. "As it turns out," he murmured, "and as surprising as it may be, Frodo cannot, in fact, fly."

Pimpernel was appalled. "What on earth were you doing in a tree?" she demanded.

Merry watched as Frodo turned blank eyes on her, blinked, opened his mouth. "Er…"

"Frodo's always doing unusual things," Merry explained. "It's part of his charm."

To Merry it seemed Frodo couldn't decide if he was happy to see his long-absent cousin or completely bewildered. What Frodo most definitely was, was flummoxed, and Merry couldn't have been more pleased. Now, if he could only keep himself steady, keep himself to the course.

He gently manoeuvred Amber from Frodo's side and took hold of his elbow. "I'm sure you'll excuse us, ladies," he said with his most charming smile. "My cousin and I haven't seen each other in far too long and we've all sorts of catching-up to do. Have a lovely evening."

The glares could have set fire to Merry's hair. He nodded politely to each in turn then pulled at Frodo, guiding him through the disappointed murmurs and exclamations of dismay. Frodo seemed not to notice; he allowed Merry to lead him across the room, through the mass of celebrants and almost to the door, still looking confused but perhaps a little less so now. He stopped when they reached the threshold, turned to Merry, took him in a firm embrace. Merry sank into it willingly, closed his eyes and hid a tiny ghost-kiss in Frodo's hair. He breathed in, held tight.

Oh, but you are beautiful and even moreso than last I saw you and stars, I have missed you so. Please let all of this have been worth it.

"It's so wonderful to see you," Frodo said. He drew back, held Merry at arm's length and took him in yet again. "I saw you earlier but…" He shook his head. "Well, the back of you at least but… I mean, I had no idea it was you. You've…" He laughed a little, shook his head again. "Well, you've certainly changed since I saw you last." Frodo stood back, waved a hand. "Just look at you!"

Merry's cheeks heated and he grinned wide. He'd spent an entire fortnight's wages on this suit and, judging by Frodo's reaction, it was money well-spent. Midnight-blue, so blue it was almost black, and Frodo's favourite colour, he knew, and cut to perfection by Granddad's own tailor. Merry knew how it set off his build -- a build that had changed drastically over the past few years, and he now saw yet more merit in hard days labouring beneath the sun in the bountiful land that was Buckland.

"It's been too long," he told Frodo sincerely, and a small twinge of regret touched him that the separation was entirely his own deliberate doing. "I've missed you terribly, and it's so…" He paused, reached out, put his hand to Frodo's arm. "It's just really good to see you."

Frodo patted his hand. "And it's really good to see you, too," he told Merry. "I've missed you as well and it's been more than a little bit frustrating, not being able to pin you down. You're always off somewhere, doing important things, I expect." He lifted an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth came up with it. "If I didn't know better, I might have thought you were avoiding me."

I have been, but only because it was the only way to make you really look at me. And now you have, you are, and I will spend the rest of my days making it up to you.

Merry's cheeks heated again but with a bit of guilt this time. "Now, why would I do that?" he asked in a steady tone.

"Well, I'm sure I don't know," Frodo answered, half-tease/half-query. "You've become rather unavailable, what with running things about the Hall, so I hear, and taking early-training as a Bounder and all, and you not even of-age yet. I am impressed, you know." He shrugged, smiled a little. "Perhaps ‘Old Cousin Frodo’ has become too staid and boring for the likes of you."

Frodo grinned, a little self-consciously, if Merry was any judge, and that guilty twinge turned to a full-out pang. "You will never be too anything for me, Frodo," he told him soberly. He leaned up, placed a soft kiss to Frodo's cheek. "Let's get out of here, shall we? Before the skirts find out their once-future husband has not made an entirely clean getaway."

Frodo shot a nervous gaze across the room. "Yes," he agreed, "let's do."

Merry turned Frodo for the door again, slipped his arm about him and began leading them through the tunnel. Frodo reciprocated; he slid his own arm up and about Merry's waist, squeezed.

"Stars above, Merry, you look fantastic," he said. "I don't remember you being so… well, broad. I can barely fit my arm about you anymore. I don't mean to babble over it, but you really are looking quite well."

Babble all you like; just don't stop touching me.

"As are you," Merry returned. "But then, you always have, you know."

Frodo chuckled. "What? Looked well? If tonight is any indication, I should have no trouble at all finding far too many who will willingly find argument with you there."

Merry slowed to a stop, frowned. He turned to face Frodo, said, "Don't say that."

Frodo's brow creased; he tilted his head. "Say what?"

"You're wonderful, don't you know that?"

Frodo only stared, eyes wide and blinking. His cheeks pinked a little and he turned his gaze to the floor. A smile found his mouth but it seemed to Merry somewhat forced.

"My, my," Frodo said lightly, "good looks and flattery. You've certainly learned a few things since I've seen you."

"I have," said Merry. "And it isn't flattery." Before Frodo could respond, Merry took his arm again and pushed him down the tunnel. "Come on. I've something for you."

They arrived at a door.  Merry turned the knob, pushed it open and gestured for Frodo to enter. Frodo did and Merry followed, closed the door, threw the latch.

This is it, this is where it all happens, what I've been waiting for longer than a person should have to wait for anything. Now if I don't die of sheer nerves in the next twenty seconds…

Frodo was peering about him, taking in the room and its furnishings. Merry did the same, trying to see it as Frodo might be seeing it, and watching his face, wondering what he might be thinking of it all.

The fire was going nicely, gold-red warmth spilling flickers from the hearth and into the room. Only two candles were lit: one on the table beside the leather chair by the hearth, and one on the bed-table. Soft shimmers of amber light wrapped the room in suffused hues of warmth. The high, wide bed sat in the middle, dressed in sheets of pale silk beneath a downy quilt of deepest port.

"Whose room is this?" Frodo finally asked.

"Mine, of course," Merry answered as he moved to the sideboard in the corner. He took up the decanter, poured its contents into two crystal glasses. "What did you think? That I just wander about and make myself to home in any room I happen upon?"

"Well, no, but…" Frodo shook his head, continuing his examination of the room. He looked confused and still had not stirred from his stance in front of the door. "You've moved from your old one. This one's so…" He trailed off, shrugged.

"It suits me," Merry said simply and offered a glass to Frodo.

Frodo took it absently. "It does," he agreed. He lifted his glass, took a sniff… His eyes flew wide and he grinned at Merry in delight. "This can't be…"

"It can and it is," Merry informed him smugly as he clinked Frodo's glass with his own. "Esmeralda's finest plum wine. Sought after by all, enjoyed by few."

"Don't I know it," Frodo returned. He took a sip, sighed as the wine hit his tongue and he closed his eyes. Merry watched, riveted, as Frodo's tongue moved the wine about in his mouth, watched the cords of his throat bob and flex as he swallowed. Merry's head felt light, his knees weak. He pulled his eyes away from Frodo's throat as Frodo glanced at him, his smile one of absolute surprise and pleasure. "Your mum's going to kill you," he told Merry.

"Not so," Merry replied with a smile of his own. "In fact, it was her idea. She said to tell you 'Happy Yule'."

Frodo looked shocked. "Your mum gave it to you?" When Merry nodded, Frodo peered into his half-full glass, shook his head slowly. "For me?"

Merry was quiet for a moment then: "She always knew you didn't take it, you know," he told Frodo softly and Frodo snapped a narrow glance at him, cocked his head to the side. "I won't go so far as to say that Dad did it on purpose but Mum always knew you weren't the one."

Frodo cleared his throat, looked down. "It was a long time ago."

"It was," Merry agreed, paused, went on, "And it wasn't why Grandmum Gilly agreed to let Bilbo take you away, either."

Frodo jolted at that one, turned a hard stare on Merry. "Who--"

"No one," Merry answered to the question he'd not even allowed Frodo to finish. "I just know you. And I know that you would rather die than tell my mum that her husband was lying to her and all because he was -- and still is -- unaccountably jealous of the tender feelings his wife has for you."

It was silent for several minutes. Frodo opened his mouth a few times, as if to reply, but only closed it again, looked away.

"If it makes you feel any better," Merry went on, his voice quiet, and he took a small step closer, "he's jealous of me as well." He paused, considered then smiled a little, furthered softly, "And I, unlike you, have never had a crush on her."

Frodo's eyes snapped to Merry's, narrowed again. "That-- I never-- How--"

"I told you," Merry answered and kept his smile, softened it a little. "I know you."

Better than anyone. I know you would allow the only person besides me who paid you any mind while you lived here to believe that you had stolen from her, rather than hurt her with the truth. I know you believed that Grandmum let Bilbo take you away because of it all. And I know that you have since come to understand the truth, but the hurt of it has never left you and a small part of you will always wonder if Grandmum let you go to Hobbiton because she loved you and wanted what was best for you, or whether she did it because she believed 'the mushroom thief' was at it again.

And no one had to tell me any of it, because I know you, have always known you, and I can see it all only by looking. Now look back.  See me.

And Frodo did look -- hard. He only stared for a moment, frowning, then gave his head a little jerk and cleared his throat again.  "I expect you do." He turned his eyes towards the fire. "And it was a very long time ago."

"It was." Merry reached out, laid a hand to Frodo's arm. "Happy Yule."

Frodo gamely wrestled a grin to his face. "It is now," he said and downed the rest of the wine in his glass. He held it out to Merry expectantly. "She gave you an entire bottle?"

"Two," Merry corrected and took Frodo's glass to the sideboard to refill it.

"Your mum always was a Queen amongst hobbits."

"You'll get no argument from me there," Merry said over his shoulder. "She misses you, you know."

"I was just here in Winterfilth," Frodo defended. "Not that you would know, off on Bounder business or whatever you were doing." His voice carried a light tease within it but Merry thought there was also a little unease lingering and that guilt twitched at him again. "And I'm here now, aren’t I?" Frodo went on. "She and I spent a lovely time catching-up last evening." A quick pause. "And where were you, anyway? I've been cursing you up and down since I got here, thinking you'd avoided me yet again. You're very lucky you showed up, else I might have had to hunt you down and push your face into a snowbank or something."

Merry laughed and slipped the cork back into the decanter, avoided the question. "Why don't you sit down?" he said instead. "You're hovering about the door as though you're likely to bolt through it at any moment."

"Well…" Merry picked up the glasses, turned to see Frodo studying the bed. Frodo looked at him with a lift of an eyebrow and a sly little smile. "I would but it looks as though you might be expecting company."

Merry handed him his glass. "I was," he said and took a slow sip from his own, turned a smoky gaze upon Frodo over the rim. "Now I'm not."

Merry watched the brow twist then lift, the eyes narrow then widen as it gradually dawned on Frodo. Merry smiled slowly, wickedly.

Yes, love -- you are being seduced.

Bloody damn, Frodo thought, I'm being seduced. And by little Merry-lad. Only, not quite so little anymore, is he?

He peered over Merry's shoulder, took in the room with new eyes. The bed with its silks that probably cost as much as everything in Frodo's own clothespress; the candles, sweet-scented and soft light swaying golden hues; the wine, sweet and tart and potent; the bed with its silks… Oh.  He'd covered that one already. Horny nit.

Frodo shook himself, took a wobbly breath. "Merry," he began, paused, took a gulp of his wine and cleared his throat. "Merry, I don't think--"

"Oh, yes you do," Merry cut in, "and far too much, in fact."

Frodo's mouth flapped. He shut it, tried again. "Merry, this really isn't-- I mean, I'm not…"

He rubbed at his brow, tried to think clearly. This evening had been so bloody odd and it seemed all he could do to keep one step behind the changes rather than three. Lasses hanging on him, flattering him, and it would have been flattering, if he hadn't known their mothers and years' worth of legend and embellishment had filled their heads with tales of dragon's gold and a marriage bed in a luxurious burrow. Half of them would bed Bilbo, if they thought it would get them a handfasting. But Bilbo wasn't bloody here, was he, and so Frodo had spent the evening dodging breasts -- all right, so he hadn't exactly been dodging them, more like ogling with a bit of drooling on the side but still -- having his cock teased all bloody night by bosoms pressing into him and hands fluttering over him and Pearl's revelation that he couldn't just go putting that cock anywhere he bloody-well pleased, could he, because he was too close to legal age for a perceived promise to be brushed lightly aside.

And now?

Well, now, here was Merry, and he wasn't just little Merry-lad anymore, was he, all solid and tall and broad -- more golden than any dragon's hoard. In fact, he was too bloody close to perfect and Frodo couldn't deny that quite a lot of the surprising attraction was the fact that Merry did know him and seemingly a good deal better than Frodo had ever suspected. Seemed, in fact, to know him better than anyone else ever had or had cared to, with the possible exception of Bilbo, and a part of Frodo had always known that the comfort of Bilbo's presence was not necessarily his to keep; he could not deny that Merry's sudden touch upon him somehow smoothed the edges of the vague sense of panic Frodo had been feeling just lately, every time he'd watch the stars blossom in Bilbo's eyes when his gaze would turn… Away.

The sudden promise, the offered permanence of Merry's touch was one from which part of Frodo instinctively backed away, but it appealed to another part of him that he hadn't even known existed until this very moment.

Bilbo was stars and Moon and a borrowed ground on which to stand; Merry was hearth-fire and solid earth and everything he was you could see in those eyes.

And now, here Merry was, opening up possibilities Frodo wouldn't have even thought to consider, presenting himself as an entirely new person, yet with all of the 'old Merry' Frodo had always loved and known.   Or at least, had known until a few years ago, when it seemed Merry had gone off on his own and finished growing up.  And yet the old, familiar essence of him was so there that it nearly leapt out at Frodo, lit him with Merry's own inner-fire: Merry was still so cock-sure and appealingly confident, still so open and bright and willing to live every single second of life, take it by the throat and have his way with it, and Frodo couldn't help wondering what it would be like to let Merry have his way with him.  His heart thumped at the thought, his trousers tightened and Frodo gulped, ran a hand through his hair.

Selfish, it would be nothing less than selfish and you know it. He's too alive and should have someone who can feed that fire, not take it all for himself. This is too important a thing for you to play with, a memory he should cherish for the rest of his life, and I don't know if you've noticed this, Frodo, but you're really not a terribly generous lover.

"Look," Frodo finally continued, "I'm not the one you want for this. Your first time is not something to take lightly and I don't think I'm the one who--"

He was stopped by a hand firmly covering his mouth. Merry shook his head, chuckled a little.

"It's not my first time, Frodo," he said softly. "Though, I do appreciate your concern."

Frodo blinked at him. "Inf nmph?"

Merry chuckled again and removed his hand from Frodo's mouth. "No, it's not."

"Then why--?"

"But you're right in one thing: it isn't something to take lightly and…" A fingertip traced along Frodo's jawline and he shivered despite himself. "I assure you, I've never been more serious about anything in my life."

Frodo only stared for a minute then: "Merry, I don't think you realise what you're--"

"Don't tell me what I am or am not saying; don't tell me what I am or am not thinking. I've thought this through too many times not to know what I want, Frodo, and what I want is you. I have wanted you for years, have been planning this night -- this night, right here -- for at least two of those years, so don't try to tell me I'm too young or don't know what I want because I'm not and I do."

Glory, he had fire in those eyes and they sparked and skittered over Frodo's skin like lightning. There was no way in the world he could even try to tell himself that the attraction wasn't there; could not pretend that, if he'd just met Merry, he would have even needed a proposition, for he'd have been making his own just after 'How do you do'. He'd wanted him before he'd even realised who it was filled out that coat so nicely, no use in trying to fool himself. Even now the heat was building in his belly and he needed to stop all of this before it got started.

He backed into the door, fumbled behind him until his hand landed on the knob. "Merry, you… I can't--"

"Oh, yes, you can," Merry said firmly and put a hand to the door, leaned against it and loomed over Frodo.

Mercy, there was that cocky confidence again and Frodo found it hard to draw breath, and when he did, he breathed in heat and sandalwood and the rich, sweet tang of plums.  "Merry," he furthered desperately, "you're just a tween."

"So are you," was the reasonable response.

Frodo's mouth snapped shut.  He pushed himself farther into the door, insisted, "Not for much longer and I'm considerably older than you.  How old are you now, anyway?"

Merry leaned in and Frodo made the mistake of trying to hold him back with a hand to his chest.  Oh, save him, those muscles rippling beneath his palm, his fingers sliding minutely over charcoal silk with every breath that Merry drew into his wide frame, and Frodo really did need to work on ramping up his dubious powers of resistance.

"Old enough," Merry said softly and dipped in, ghosted his mouth over Frodo's throat, "to more or less run the Hall with a little help from Mum and none at all from Dad or Granddad."  He ran one hand up Frodo's arm, lighting sparks beneath Frodo's skin along the way, kept the other firm to the door.  "Old enough for consent and you know it," he furthered, snaked his tongue out and licked at an earlobe and Frodo couldn't help the sharp gasp.  "Old enough to know exactly what I want and to do whatever I must to get it."  Bloody damn, his knees were going weak and his hand was in rebellion, moving of its own accord up and over the firm expanse of Merry's chest, muscle flexing and shifting beneath the fabric of his coat, just as soft as Frodo knew it would be, sliding up and finally -- finally -- coming to rest on… Damn his weakness for broad shoulders anyway.  "Old enough to show you what you want."

Somehow, Frodo's eyes had fallen closed and he didn't know if it was the wine or the words and the hands and the tongue or all of it combined, but his head was most definitely beginning to agree with the rest of him.  Hadn't been getting any lately? Oh, Mother may I, but if this was to be his reward for abstinence…

"What do I want?" he breathed and it sounded shaky and small to his ears, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

"You want it all," Merry whispered against his throat and the heat of it moved right through him, flared out in flickering spangles up his backbone.  "You want everything but not too much of it."  A nip just above the silk of his collar and Frodo -- honestly, he just couldn't help it -- moaned.  "You want to know that you're loved completely but you don't want to be someone else's entire life.  You want someone to know you -- know you -- what's important to you, how you think, why you feel what you feel.  And that someone…"  A hand prying the glass from his fingers and Merry drew back, eyes intent and dark with purpose.  "…is me.  I know, Frodo."

"What…" Frodo asked and it surprised him that he could breathe, let alone speak, "do you know?"

"I know everything about you," Merry answered, his voice rough but very firm, "and I want every bit of it.  I know that you come to Buckland once a year to visit the graves, that you camp by the River by yourself and don't tell anyone you're here."

Frodo could only shake his head slowly.  "How--"

"I know that you are amazing with children, but that the thought of fathering one terrifies you even more than the thought of marriage.  I know that you sometimes lie awake beneath the stars all night long just to watch them dance across the sky, and that part of the reason you love Bilbo so much is that he understands why."  He paused, smiled a little.  "Though part of it might also be that he lets you sleep all the next day."

Frodo could barely bring himself to speak.  "I don't understand," was all he could whisper.

"You don't have to -- I do.  I know that you think about things far too much, even when you've already made your decision.  You're doing it right now, right this minute; you decided when you saw me that you wanted me -- I could see it -- and you've been thinking yourself out of it ever since."  Merry pressed in closer, so close that Frodo couldn't see for thunder-limned grey.  "Only this time," he told Frodo fiercely, "I'm not going to let you."

He'd never been kissed like this before, so deep and hot but tender in its ferocity, and Frodo might willingly hand over his soul if it just… never… stopped.  Hard and gentle all at once, and he felt his breath sucked right out of his lungs, felt the world slide beneath his feet, and there was nothing he could do but grip that soft blue broadcloth in grasping fingers and hold on.  A thigh pushed between his legs, pressed into the growing ache in his groin, and Frodo's knees buckled and he groaned.  Merry's mouth was scorching flame and Frodo wanted to burn alive within it, that tongue swiping and seeking and dipping down, owning him, then drawing back before he'd had his fill, and Frodo whimpered this time and absolutely could not bring himself to care.

Breath came back to him slowly, halting and shaky, and Frodo pried open his eyes, fell into the tandem storms that looked back at him.  There was no question: he wanted and was wanted and how could any of that be wrong? Selfish, all right, he'd own that one, and there were worse things than a bit of selfishness now and then, so there was really no good reason to hold back, was there? Still, there was one thing he needed to know and it was no less than imperative.

He laid his hands to Merry's chest, deliberately kept his fingers from fiddling with the lapels of his coat.  "You said for two years you-- you've been--"  He took a breath, afraid to voice the query but compelled to know.  "Why?" he finally asked.  "Why me?"

And Merry smiled, shook his head.  "Because you really don't know why," he answered softly.  "And you really do have to ask."

Frodo didn't understand that, not at all, but he looked long and hard into Merry's eyes, saw that Merry understood it, and it was enough.  Merry could know it for the both of them, and yes, Frodo absolutely thought too much and he decided he should stop doing that now.

Slowly, he reached out, took the white silk of Merry's tie between his fingers, pulled bit by bit until it looped about his hand, slid down over his wrist.  He looked from his fingers back to those eyes, so dark now they were almost black, and piercing through him, looking into him, seeing everything and not looking away.

"I have been wanting to do that all bloody night," he said.

Merry only stared for a moment, truly unable to move, to think, to even breathe.  It worked, was all that was bouncing about his head, itworkeditworkeditworked and oh, bloody fuck, what do I do now?

He was literally paralysed, just kept falling into Frodo's eyes, dragging himself out and throwing himself back in again, and the world about him dimmed to a grey haze.  All he saw were those eyes and the promise within them, the consent, the want and for him, and he nearly broke, shattered into a million pieces.

This -- this -- is what I have waited for, this look in your eyes, this welcome of my hand on you, and every time that hand touched another, it was you I saw beneath it.  And now that I have it, save me, I can't bloody move!!

It would be funny, if it weren't so damned sodding ironic, and for one terrifying moment, Merry thought he might actually let loose with an hysterical, jittery laugh.  Which, he was given to know, was a very bad idea when one happened to be right in the middle of a seduction.  Pansy Broadlock had acquainted him with that unspoken rule.  Or rather, Pansy's surprisingly potent right-hook had done so.

He took a shuddering breath -- ah, good, at least his lungs still knew what they were doing -- willed himself to calm, decided he might have been a little better off had he spent less time shagging anyone who would have him over the past two years (practise, you know) and a little more time working on his relaxation technique.  Then again, who knew he'd need one?

And then Frodo's fingers dropped the tie, hooked into Merry's collar, and he was being hauled in and kissed so hard and so deep that Merry wondered if he should formally introduce Frodo to his molars. 

Oh, bless you, thank you, I love you.  You wouldn't know it, but I'm actually pretty good at all of this, and it will get better, I promise, just as soon as my mind comes back from wherever you've just sucked it to.

Merry had several times been told that a lad's smaller brain took over for the larger one far too often, and he had been at the business-end of that statement a few times more than he probably should have done.  But now he understood that it could be a good thing, because while his bigger brain seemed to be good for nothing at the moment but buzzing, 'mineminemineminemine!' his smaller brain was doing a wonderful job of moving his body where it needed to be.

He sank into Frodo -- every part of him: his mouth, his body, his heart and spirit, and he let it all wrap about him, pull him in just as surely as Frodo's hands were pulling at his coat, yanking him closer, dragging Merry's hips firm against his own.  And oh, stars, reaction shot through Merry, flashed hot and quick over his skin, pooled like molten silver in his groin as he felt the hard evidence of Frodo's own reaction grinding against him.

Apparently, while his brain had been occupied with its own little happy-dance, his hands had taken matters into… well, into their own hands and had tangled themselves in the lapels of Frodo's coat.  And while that was serving the very useful purpose of keeping Merry on his feet, it was not, by any stretch, putting to use on Frodo the skills he'd so painstakingly -- and all right, pleasantly -- been honing.  Which needed to be corrected and soon; Merry needed to make this good, memorable, because he had no intention of letting it be the only time.

He prised his fingers from Frodo's coat, lifted one hand to tangle into sleek-soot curls, fragrant of dusky muted spice, slipped the other down Frodo's back then hauled him in tight, ground against him hard and thorough, and all the while, his mouth moved on Frodo's, tongue dipping and swiping and teeth nipping and oh, glory but he'd been hoping and planning and dreaming, but he'd never quite expected this.  This was Frodo groaning into Merry's mouth, telling him with nameless sounds, 'Yes' and 'More'.  This was Frodo moving like moonlight on water, swaying and rippling against him, pulling desperate cries from Merry's mouth into his own and swallowing them down.  This was Frodo responding to Merry's every touch, surging into it, accepting it and asking for the next and the next, and Merry hadn't dared hope.  He had conceit and to spare, he'd admit that freely, but he'd not quite enough of it to allow him to even consider that his touch upon Frodo would be not merely wanted but craved.

Fear and puissance took hold of him in equal measure and Merry stood still between them, allowed the surety to guide him as it always had done and used the fear to cultivate deliberation.  He calmed himself, hushed his mind, turned frantic spasms of grasping fingers to purposeful strokes of his hand, pulled his mouth from the desperate sounding of Frodo's and turned it to slow swipes of his tongue to Frodo's throat, languid nips to the smooth skin he found there.  Frodo's head fell back and he leaned into Merry's hold, eyes fallen closed, face rapt and open in almost-surrender, and Merry had to hold onto every scrap of will he owned to keep from weeping at such beauty.  He'd seen this face with many masks, been witness to almost every single one of the hundreds of types of smile that could fleet over it, had glimpses of sorrows and joys and mischief and longing, but never had he seen this.  And Merry realised all at once that, now he had it, it was utterly impossible that he might go back to living without it.

And with that, the fear took hold of him again and his hands turned rough.  He seized hold of Frodo's coat, pushed it from his shoulders and down his arms to the floor, raked his fingers over the silk of his waistcoat and up his spine.  Frodo loosed a needy whimper, rocked against him, hands moving and shoving, and Merry was out of his coat before he'd even realised Frodo'd had hold of it.  And then Frodo's fingers were wrenching at his waistcoat buttons and he was pushing against Merry, turning him, and in a blur of hands and lips and charcoal silk, Merry found himself with his back pressed against the door, Frodo pressed from chest-to-thigh to his front, and the world moving in a lazy spin behind his eyes.  Fingers wormed their way into the non-existent space between them and started to work on Merry's shirt buttons.  And that just wasn't going to do because Merry suddenly realised he was almost half-undressed already and the only thing he'd really accomplished was divesting Frodo of his coat.

That line of thought was abruptly severed as the last of his buttons was loosed, and then a hand, warm and slender and insistent, slipped inside his trousers… cupped him… stroked him.

"Oh," Frodo breathed, hot and moist to his ear as he ground against Merry's hip, "Merry, so… Oh, you feel so good."

Merry's head rammed into the door and he didn't know if the stars that were currently exploding behind his eyes were the result of the sudden impact or the even more sudden and aching desire to come so hard that there was a real possibility of knocking Frodo across the room with the force of it.  He clenched his teeth, deliberately thumped his head to the door again, which didn't help at all with the star-exploding thing , but did knock down the urgency a tad.  And then Frodo's mouth was on his throat, tongue and teeth travelling down his chest and settling on his left nipple, and the star problem was back again, only this time it was accompanied by the heat of the Sun settling in Frodo's palm, flaring into Merry's groin, and the helpless juddering of his hips as he pushed and pumped in Frodo's fist, and if he didn't put a stop to this and quick, he was going to spill himself like the tween he was.

He clamped his hand to Frodo's wrist, "Stop, Frodo, please," and was shocked that not only had his mouth actually worked but that it had spoken a coherent sentence.  Well, sort of coherent anyway.  He didn't pause to wonder over it; he pulled Frodo's hand from his trousers, laid a fierce kiss to his mouth and began backing him towards the bed.  Frodo went along easily, hanging on to Merry's shoulders and allowing him to guide him backward, stopping only when the backs of his knees met the mattress.  Merry drew back then, slipped little feather-kisses over Frodo's lips, his chin, over his jaw and to his ear, and when Frodo moaned, tipped his head back, Merry let a small, sly grin slide to his face and he took Frodo by the shoulders, pushed him onto the bed.

Which really should have aided the progression of the evening from groping half-clothed against the door to rolling about naked on silk sheets.  And it would have… had Merry considered the fact that the silk of the sheets suddenly meeting the silk of Frodo's waistcoat and shirt would not necessarily be conducive to friction which was, as a result, not conducive to Frodo remaining on the bed.  There was a grunt and a quick-scramble of limbs and then a blur was hurtling across the bed and disappearing over the other side of it.  A thud then a brief moment of silence, then:

"Bugger!" Frodo said then, "Ow!"

So, all right, Frodo had heard the term 'arse over elbow' before but he'd never actually been subjected to the sensation.  Chalk one up to new experiences.  On the bright side, he'd landed on both arse and elbow, which meant he hadn't landed on the bits and broken or bent anything important.  On the not-so-bright side, it had really bloody hurt and said arse and said elbow were currently making their displeasure known.  Plus, he'd had a bit of a different scenario in mind for the course of events once they finally hit the sheets, and 'climax of the evening' had just taken on an entirely new and wholly unpleasant meaning.

Well, Frodo, leave it to you to take 'inventive foreplay' to a ridiculous extreme.

Bugger.  And it had been going so well, too. 

A creak of wood and ticking and Merry peered over the edge of the bed, eyes wide and blinking, mouth hanging open and seemingly unable to remember how to speak.

"Wha… you… bloody…"

Knows everything about you, maybe, but I bet Merry didn't see that one coming, eh? Bravo, Frodo.

Merry's eyes travelled over him from head-to-toe, stopping at the still-surprisingly-there and -- Frodo had to assume -- quite noticeable tent in his trousers. 

See? You're a letch.  Not even being dumped on your arse is enough to damp your… erm… spirits.  And now -- congratulations -- Merry will know something else about you, only this isn't a something he'll be wanting to wax rhapsodic about, I'm thinking. 

"Well, just bloody damn," Merry finally managed.  "Are you all right?"

Frodo had no idea the level of embarrassment to which one could sink.  That would be two for new experiences, he supposed.  He clamped his eyes shut.

"Oh," he answered as he catalogued the injuries again.  The sharp pain in the arse and elbow had dulled to a just-noticeable throb.  The throb in his trousers, however, was still blithely thumping along.  "Fine, thank you."  Which wasn't entirely true, as he'd yet to reach orgasm. 

"Frodo, I'm really, really sorry," he heard Merry say and then there was more movement, and Merry was kneeling on the floor beside him.  "Stupid sheets! I had no idea… I mean, I thought… they were supposed to be… well, I thought…"  Now there was a hand on his up-thrust knee, kneading and pressing and sliding down from knee to thigh, racing with the tingles it stirred.  "Frodo, really, I'm sorry.  Open your eyes, please? Say you're not angry."

Angry? Of course he wasn't angry.  A clumsy fool who takes a perfectly nice evening and falls off the bed with it, yes.  Still sporting so much wood in his trousers that he could probably fuel the entire Hall for the winter, yes.  So embarrassed that he wished he could sink into the floorboards and slither away, yes.  Angry? No.

Frodo cautiously opened his eyes, saw Merry leaning over, looking at him with real concern and a good deal of his own embarrassment and…

Bloody damn, he was beautiful.  Eyes dark-rimmed and liquid, spilling heat and want all over him; skin still clinging to the faded-bronze of summer; hair too long but perfect in the way it fell loose and silky, framing his face in amber-gold as he leaned over Frodo.  Frodo had no choice: he had to reach up, slip his fingers into that hair, feel it wind about them, watch it turn from honey to sooted-sienna as shadow and firelight caught it, licked at it with splintered tongues.  And then it was only reasonable to lift his other hand, let it slide up beneath the shirt he'd already had his way with, smooth it over skin warmed and just the slightest bit sweated and pulsing beneath his touch as he skated his fingers up Merry's spine.

Merry's eyes closed and his mouth opened on a soft sigh as Frodo moved his hand up and around, explored the contours of Merry's chest -- that sparse-furred furrow that led from belly to breastbone, the textured valleys of chiselled strength then the rise and swell of muscle-over-rib, shifting and surging with each breath Merry took.  So much power beneath his palm -- Frodo could feel it, coiled and caged beneath skin vibrating under his fingers -- and yet one slow, feather-light swipe of a fingertip, a firm drag of a thumb over dusky-brown, and Merry groaned and swayed above him, helpless to sensation.  And oh… those eyes opened and Frodo was the helpless one as the storm of Merry's gaze moved closer, sucked him into the dark swirl of thunderheads and laid him open, painted his skin with grey-black fire.

Merry hovered his mouth over Frodo's, his breath warm and sweet and slipping over Frodo's throat, dragging heat through his veins.

"Bed?" he whispered and lightly licked Frodo's bottom-lip.

"I…"  Frodo pressed up, tried to draw Merry into a kiss, but Merry pulled back the slightest bit, ghosted his mouth over Frodo's cheek.  Tease.  "Yes," Frodo breathed.  "Er, no.  I mean…"  Merry moved back a little farther, stared for a moment at Frodo's mouth, and why did that send a hot surge through his groin? Frodo slowly licked his bottom-lip, smiled a little when Merry sucked in a sharp breath.  "That is… Well, it's a bit slippery and… you know -- ow."

And Merry smiled -- just a slight rise of the corner of his mouth, stirring the dimple in his cheek.  "Easily fixed," he said.

And then that mouth was on Frodo's again, hot and possessive, and stars above but where did he learn to kiss like that? Frodo didn't really care; all that mattered at the moment was the sensation that whip-lashed up his spine, the broad hands that set upon him, assailing buttons and pushing aside silk and striking flame to his skin.  When one of those hands finally -- finally! -- dipped down into his trousers, took hold of him with long, strong fingers, Frodo's hips came up off the floor and his back near snapped in half as he arched helplessly, sobbed into Merry's mouth.  Merry pulled back a little then and Frodo's own hands were moving now, taking hold of Merry's hips, pulling him over and closer and on him and--

"In me," Frodo growled and had that come from him? From the loose whimper and the shaky, "Stone me," that Merry breathed, he had to assume it had.  Which was… staggering, actually, because it wasn't something Frodo normally enjoyed -- too much like possession, surrender and Frodo was rarely comfortable with handing that much of himself to another.  More staggering still, he realised that yes, it was exactly what he wanted -- needed, even -- and refused to think himself out of it. 

Not that he had time; Merry was already yanking at trouser buttons -- Frodo's and his own and my, wasn't he coordinated, though -- and Frodo was still resolutely not thinking, instead turning his efforts to complement Merry's, dragging and pulling and tugging at silk and linen and wool until all of it lay in a tangled heap about them. 

And everything went still as all barriers were laid aside, all masks discarded.  No fine silken weave to cosset naked flesh, no thick-spun wool to cloak desire; Frodo's heart now felt as bare as his body and he stared at the bronzed form above him, all flushed with heat and a need as exposed as his own.  Two souls bared one to the other, open and surrendering and trusting, and Frodo unwilling to test it all by speaking into the silence.  Too much risk, too much chance of tripping over his tongue and saying something that would take it all and make it less than it was, and he didn't know quite what it was, but it was big, he could feel it, and full and already a thing alive between them.  Connection and belonging and… Something and fear suddenly choked him, turned him mute.  Until tonight, he hadn't realised he'd wanted any of it and now that it was here, right in front of him and his for the taking, he was terrified to reach for it, for fear that it might be snatched away, stolen.

Home.

Place.

And all of it in Merry's eyes.

Frodo closed his own eyes, turned his face away, swallowed against the panic welling in his throat.  Naked in every sense of the word, and too exposed, and this was more than Merry could have known, more than anyone would want to know, and how had he let himself want this so much and in such a short space of time?

Then wide hands slipping firm-but-tender up his ribcage, over his chest, his own bare skin welcoming the touch, kindling to it.  Gentle fingers skimming his cheekbone, a warm, soft kiss to his mouth, and Frodo gathered his courage, opened his eyes.

"Stay with me, now," Merry whispered.

And oh…

"Yes," he whispered back.

Something had changed.  Everything had become richer, deeper, and all at once, and the fear that had locked itself in his belly, tendrilled through his chest, suddenly loosed him, freed him and transmuted into tender surety -- in himself, in Frodo, in what they each wanted from the other and what they each wanted to give.  No longer was it about having and owning and two years' worth of playing at lover.  Now, it was about being that lover and the weight within that word, responsibilities that he hadn't really considered much 'til now, yet the small terrors it should have brought slept quiet.  Too restive within his own skin, Grandmum used to say of him, and he supposed there was some truth to that -- that impatience to be who he knew he would become always restless in his breast, leaving a trail of skins shed too quickly but not quickly enough.

Culmination, perhaps, and more so than any of the blithe, confident steps he'd taken into perceived adulthood.  This was where it happened, this was the moment the Lad was left behind and the Hobbit strode surely into his place.  No games, no jokes, no quick tumble with a casual friend; he'd worked towards this purpose for more than two years and now that it was here, he slipped into its skin with faith and gratitude and a fierce resolve to keep it ever cloaked about him, to stretch it loose when need be, but to never -- ever -- cast it off.

Jagged nerves settled into a warm, calm pool about his heart and he looked into eyes dark with fears of their own, watching him, waiting.  Slowly, he leaned down, leaned in, covered Frodo's mouth with his own, and it was deeper this time, languid and beautiful.  Warm hands came up, long fingers slipped into his hair, held him there.  Teeth and tongues and small wavering sighs and Merry sank down, laid his body to Frodo's, gasped at the sensation of hard heat against his own, moaned at the feel of sable foot-fur glissading up his calf, his thigh, as Frodo curled a leg about Merry's hip, arched up into him.  Raw intensity crushed through him, near overwhelmed him; Merry rocked, helpless not to, and watched as Frodo's eyes rolled back, closed, and his hands clutched Merry's arms, his fingers digging into muscle and sinew, and it hurt more than a little, but it grounded him too, kept his mind anchored to his body.

"Merry," Frodo panted, and glory, had he ever in his life heard his name spoken that way? Breathless and full of need, and he wanted to hear it again, so he pushed down slow, tilted his hips and Frodo gasped and moaned and, "Merry!" and dug his fingers in harder, said, "Now, please, I… oh…"

All right, so carpet-burns were in both of their immediate futures and all the money he'd spent on those silk sheets just went flying out the window, but honestly -- who really cared?  Merry lifted himself away, manoeuvred himself on hands and knees to the head of the bed, slid his hand beneath the pillows and retrieved the small flask he'd stowed there.  The small smile of triumph that touched his mouth abruptly froze, as slick sensation closed around him from below, Frodo's tongue curling around and over and fluttering quick and hot like licks of flame, taking him in, taking him deep and--

"Nyguh!"

One hand clawed at silken sheets while the other clamped onto the flask so hard Merry had no doubt the indents of his fingers would remain for remembrance.  Not that he'd need a reminder.  Oh, and thank the stars that Frodo had the good sense to take hold of his hips, because not only was the grip keeping Merry upright but it was also keeping him from ramming himself into that all-encompassing conflagration that masqueraded as Frodo's mouth by day.  Still, his hips swayed and bucked against that firm hold and Frodo dug his fingers into Merry's hipbones, stilled him, gentled him, rewarded him with a swirl of the tongue then guided him into a rhythm, slow and smooth.

Merry let Frodo lead him, let the heat and pressure spiral up and curl about his spine, slip up his nape and down into his chest.  Awareness narrowed to slick lips and swiping tongue and the occasional tender/playful scrape of teeth.  Sensation jagged over his skin, fractured through his limbs, and Merry knew he shouldn't, knew he was only asking for trouble, but he couldn't help himself -- he opened his eyes, looked down.

Bloodybleedingbollocksdamn!

He hadn't even a second to consider his actions; he jerked back and away, cursing, and his hand flew down because he needed to stopstopstop and right now, else the end was coming and far too soon.  Unfortunately for Merry -- and yes, all right, for Frodo mostly -- he still had the flask clenched in his hand.

A dull, metallic 'bong' and a strangled curse then: "Bugger all, Merry, are you trying to kill me?"

And he'd thought the floor would be safe.  New experiences all around.

It was his own fault, really; surprising someone in a precarious position with an impromptu blowjob was probably not one of his better ideas, but…  Well, it had looked so lovely, right there above him, swaying and jerking with every move Merry made, and... well, right there, and he'd been so preoccupied with how it would feel on his tongue that he hadn't really considered the consequences.  Not that anyone could have, really.  Who'd ever heard of getting beaned with a flask of oil by your playmate while in the throes of passion, after all?

Didn't see that one coming either, eh?

Frodo sat up, rubbed at his forehead, winced.  Ow.  He'd have a lump there by morning, no doubt, and how would he explain that one to Esmeralda?

Yes, funny story, Aunt -- wait 'til you hear this one, it'll crack you up.  I was in the middle of debauching your son, when--

"Are you all right?"

Merry was still propped against the side of the bed, panting, his eyes dark and cloudy.  He reached a hand out -- stopped.  With a sheepish smile, he moved the flask safely to his other hand then ran his fingertips over the sore-spot on Frodo's brow.

"You've quite a dent there," Merry told him.  "Which of us gets to tell Mum how it happened?"

With a cheeky grin, Merry climbed to his feet, held out a hand to Frodo.  Frodo rolled his eyes, took it and stood.

"Oh, har," he groused, though he couldn't help the smile.  "Bloody razor-wit you've got there, you know."

"I do," Merry agreed.  He twined his arms about Frodo's neck, pulled him close.  "I'm wasted here at the Hall, I think."  He leaned in, placed a kiss feather-light to Frodo's brow.  "I'm sorry, love," he whispered, "again," then moved his mouth down to Frodo's ear, dipped his tongue, and all of the heat and need and now that had abandoned Frodo with the thunk of metal to bone, slammed back into him just that quickly.

And then Merry was kissing him again and stars, he couldn't think when Merry was kissing him, every single thought in his head runnelling out his ears.  Turning or being turned, he couldn't tell, or maybe the world was spinning and he was standing still, but none of it mattered; all that mattered was the mouth on his own, the damp skin beneath his palms, the vise-grip about him as the room tilted, slid and then he was lying on his back, cool silk beneath him, hot skin above him and that mouth busy slide-dragging over him, that body pressing him down, surrounding him with heat and solid weight.

Merry rolled a little to the side and his hand, slicked and slippery, moved down over Frodo's ribs then his belly with a soft trace of fingertips.  Frodo's whole body rippled, curled in then surged up.   He shifted, drew a leg up, inviting and begging and nownownow and Merry's mouth was on Frodo's nipple, Merry's hand was--

"Ow!"

"Sorrywhatsorry, what'd I do?"

Frodo opened his eyes, concentrated on the flame-shadows writhing in Merry's.  He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly.

Would someone mind terribly peeling me off the ceiling?

"Nothing," he told Merry and smiled a little, tried to reassure him with a deliberate loosening of tense muscles.  "It's just… it's been a while, is all."  He slipped his hand to Merry's nape, pulled him down for a soft kiss.  "Slow, all right?"

And Merry nodded, trained a steady gaze to Frodo's face… moved his hand.

"Oh," Frodo breathed and "Ah!" as Merry flexed his wrist.

"Better?" Merry whispered.

"Mmm," Frodo replied and let his eyes drift shut, let his body move itself, and yes, slow, and Merry gave him slow and good and Frodo's head tilted back, invitation yet again, and Merry took it, dragged his mouth, moist and warm, over Frodo's throat.  Frodo's body unravelled, limbs uncoiling and spilling loose, hips rocking languid.  Merry's thumb pressed against the corner of his mouth and Frodo took it between his teeth, sucked it into his mouth and rippled again at Merry's low moan.

And none of it, none of it was quite enough.

"Merry," he whispered and had no need to say another word; Merry withdrew for but a moment and then Frodo's knee was pressed to his chest and heat, rigid and thick, was pressed against, within, pushing in slow and yes and good and Frodo felt himself flung wide, open and vulnerable, and for a moment, panic set in, sharp and wild.  His teeth clenched tight and his hands closed into fists against Merry's skin and he breathed in short little bursts of air.

Then fingers ghosting over his face, broad hands, warm and strong, smoothing over his arms and "Hush, love," soft to his skin and Frodo opened his eyes, threw himself into Merry's own and… let go.

It was so much more than he'd ever known he wanted, this connection, this feeling of two singular notes coming together to form a wholly new composition.  And yet he knew the melody by heart, had been singing it for years but only now did he truly know it.

Unspoken and unsung with voice, yes, and Merry would not risk the possibility that Frodo might flee beneath the weight of it all.  There was forged steel in his spine, this one, but still skittish as a colt when it came to baring his heart, perhaps moreso when faced with another's.  So Merry kept his words to himself, let them gain life only through his eyes, and oh, yes, Frodo knew, Frodo saw, but the safety lay in silence and Merry kept it, let his body speak the words locked behind his teeth.

He rocked, deliberate and smooth as the silks against his skin, kept his eyes locked on Frodo's until Frodo's own slowly closed.  Merry tipped forward, laid his brow to Frodo's shoulder and angled his hips, pushed.  A sharp cry from Frodo, a curl of the spine and a loose stretch of sweated limbs and, 'There, yes, don't stop,' and Merry smiled against skin smelling of sweat and plums, lightly sank his teeth into Frodo's collarbone and pushed again.

Frodo was spilling sound, low groans and rambling broken whispers, and his body moved with Merry's, pressing and gliding and pitching rough one moment then rolling soft the next.  And all the while, Merry rocked and swayed and wove a slow rhythm about them, coaxed Frodo into the pace.  'Faster,' Frodo demanded and Merry didn't -- only smiled a little, shook his head, took a pointed ear-tip between his teeth, sucked.  'Merry,' Frodo moaned and yes, Merry wanted to hear it again, so he slowed instead, rocked measured and gentle, and Frodo snarled it this time, 'Merry!' and Merry answered with a hard thrust of his hips… a pause… and he reached down, took hold of Frodo.

Frodo let loose with a shout that turned Merry's blood to fire in his veins and he vibrated, literally arched himself up and into Merry then slammed himself back down.  He wrapped the fingers of one hand about Merry's own and dug into Merry's thigh with the other.  His entire body rocked and surged in a rolling current of sooted-sable and amber-washed ivory and his mouth moved in breathless whispers of 'faster' and 'now' and broken, fragmented bits of Merry's own name.  Merry couldn't hold against it, couldn't draw it out for one more second; he surrendered himself to his body, let his hips drive fast and hard, let Frodo's hand guide his own into a tempo quick and fluid.

"Frodo," he breathed and couldn't help the shaky pitch, the reedy tone of it.  "Frodo!"  Whimpered this time and he absolutely could not begin to care.

Oh, he was on fire and Frodo the furnace that kindled it.  Wave after wave of it pushed through him and all Merry felt was slick skin against him, around him, muscle and bone shifting beneath him, slamming into him, clawing at him and sucking him into a sensate vortex of hard and yes and oh, don't stop.  And Merry no intention of stopping; in fact, he had every intention of going until he lost consciousness.

He twisted his hand, took hold of Frodo's and stilled it.  Frodo growled, tossed his head, looked at Merry with eyes so dark that Merry was sure he could see stars deep within them.

"Leave that be," Merry rasped through his teeth.  "You'll be needing it for me once I'm through with you."

Too soon, yes, but forever would have been too soon and Merry had to admit the result was nothing short of astounding: Frodo's eyes rolled back, his head pushed into the pillow and his back arched in a sleek curvette of muscle and sinew.  Hands, pulling at him, dragging him deep and deeper still, and a bolt of pure, molten sensation pulsed up Merry's spine.  A cry, long and liquid, spilled from Frodo's mouth and oh, glory, he was beautiful.  Merry had never seen anything like it: the face, flung open and free of any earthly care; the body, stretched then pulled taut and rippling warm with release; the mouth, soft and open and dripping cries like honey from a comb.  All of it came together in Merry's chest, wound about him in a heated embrace, surged hot and liquid through his limbs, into his groin.  White light shot through him and he bucked hard and fast, his muscles clenched then spasmed, and he was falling forward, loosing his own cries into sweat-damp sable and pale silk.

Merry collapsed, sank into a golden haze of warmth as his limbs tingled numb and his heart slowed to a steady rhythm.  Mental note, he thought with the small part of his brain that hadn't melted.  When one is attempting to postpone the imminent onset of orgasm, one should refrain from talking dirty to Frodo.  He smiled a little, kept his eyes closed, waited patiently for his breath to return and concentrated on the feel of Frodo's hand moving lightly up and down his arm, skimming over his back.

It was silent for several long moments, the only sounds the soft crackle of the fire and their laboured breaths, then: "Merry?" Frodo said, his voice a little shaky.

Merry tried to get his mouth to work but all he could manage was a clumsy, "Mmrph?"

Frodo turned his head, pressed his face into the crook of Merry's neck.  "If you try to make me wait another two years for that," he slurred, "I really will hunt you down and push your face into a snowbank."

It surprised a snort out of Merry.  He smiled into the bedding, mumbled, "Oh, you needn't worry about that, love.  I'm afraid you're quite stuck with me, now."

"Mmph," Frodo replied then tried unsuccessfully to rearrange himself beneath Merry's weight.  "If you don't get off me soon, I'll be quite stuck to you and rather literally."  He poked at Merry's ribs and tried to roll him off, but Merry only grinned into the sheets and stayed where he was.  "Come, now, you great lummox," Frodo insisted.  "Off.  You're heavy."

Merry dragged himself up to his elbows, peered down at Frodo.  "Ah, Frodo," he retorted with a lazy grin, "that's part of what I love so about you."  He broadened the grin at the lift of Frodo's eyebrow, leaned down and licked salty sweat from the bridge of his nose.  "You are such a romantic."

He saw it coming, but couldn't move fast enough to avoid it; Merry's yelp of pain was muffled by the pillow that was shoved into his face.  Where did Frodo get his energy?

* * *

"Lie!" Frodo accused and scowled at Merry's snort, came close to thwacking the smirk off his face but was too warm and comfortable to move.

Merry turned his head on Frodo's shoulder, peered up at him through half-lidded eyes and slipped the pipe between Frodo's teeth.  "Never," he defended.  "I happen to know it for a fact, and it was only through the sheer stubborn will of your father that it didn't happen."

"My mother loved me," Frodo insisted, dragged on the pipe and blew out several fragrant rings of smoke.  "She would never have named a helpless child 'Bingo' and I won't believe it even crossed her mind.  She wouldn't name a dog 'Bingo', my mum, and I refuse to believe she'd saddle her own son with the name."

"Believe what you will," Merry answered, licked at Frodo's throat then stole the pipe back.  He relaxed against Frodo's chest, draped an arm over Frodo's up-thrust knee.  "Bingo," he said quietly and stifled a snicker.

Frodo didn't resist this time: he growled and thwacked Merry upside his head.  "You're just trying to show off."  He took hold of a handful of amber curls and yanked Merry's head back, leaned in 'til their noses touched.  "Know everything about me, do you?  Don’t forget, there are certain things about you that I know, about which I have kept discreetly quiet."

He kissed Merry's nose.  Then bit it.

Merry chuckled, turned his head and closed his eyes.  "There is nothing you know about me that I would be ashamed to admit in public," was his confident reply.  "I, unlike some people, couldn't give a good damn what others think."

Frodo lifted an eyebrow, smirked, leaned in, placed his mouth right to Merry's ear.  "Moo," was all he said.

A jolt and a quick-scramble of limbs on slippery sheets.  Merry pulled himself around to sit cross-legged in front of Frodo, turned wide eyes on him.

"You wouldn't."

Frodo grinned, shrugged.  "I might."  He snatched the pipe back and clamped it in his teeth.  "It depends."

Merry's worried face turned suspicious.  "On what?"

"On two things," Frodo answered.  He took the pipe from his mouth, pointed at Merry with the stem.  "One," he said sternly, "you will never mention the name 'Bingo' ever again and if someone else accuses my mother of such evil plans, you will challenge them to a duel and fight to the death for her honour."

Merry thought that one over for a moment.  "What sort of weapon?" he wanted to know.

"Anything sharp and pointy or blunt and heavy," was the reply.

Merry rolled his eyes.  "Thank you for narrowing that down so nicely."  He grabbed up the pipe, took a long draw.  "All right," he agreed.  "Done.  What's the second?"

Frodo grinned again, leaned back against the headboard and laced his hands behind his head.  "Put that pipe down," he said.  "And find that flask."

* * *

He didn't remember falling asleep but it shouldn't be surprising, what with all the activity he'd seen tonight.  He woke slowly, warm and comfortable, squinted at the snow still falling outside the small window, the sky just hinting at grey with the first traces of dawn.  Somehow, they had ended up at the bottom of the bed, sheets and quilt in a tangled mess about them, wrapped about limbs that were wrapped about each other.  Merry lay on his side, steady breaths expanding and contracting his wide frame; Frodo was folded around his back, arm in a loose embrace about Merry’s chest, one knee thrown up and over his hip.

It was… nice. 

Frodo closed his eyes, tipped his head forward and buried his nose in Merry's hair, breathed in: Sun and sandalwood and Frodo sighed.  So lovely, this, waking to the music of another's soft breaths in your ears, the comfort of another's warm skin against yours.  He'd rarely gone to sleep beside another and had never woken up with that other still beside him.  Not that he'd ever wanted it, of course; he was a solitary person and that was… well, it was the way he preferred things.  It was… it was better that way.

He hid a kiss in Merry's hair, moved to pull back, make his way to his own guestroom and finish out the night in the way he preferred.  Alone.  Because it was… better.

A hand closed on his own, held it firm, tugged then pressed it to Merry's chest.  "Stay," Merry whispered.

A pang, sharp and hot, and it pricked at his eyes.  His heart tripped.

"I shouldn't," he whispered back.  "Your mum--"

"Knows," Merry slurred.  "The wine, remember?"

Frodo paused.  "Well, yes, but…"  He frowned.  "She knows?  As in knows knows?"

Merry turned over, faced Frodo with sleepy eyes.  "Yes, she knows."  He adjusted the quilt, pulled it up over them both.  "And as long as we both understand that she will never stop nagging you to take a wife and will be starting in on me in a few years, we should be fine."  He smiled, reached out, fingered a stray curl from Frodo's brow.  "She's pleased, actually.  Well, maybe not pleased, but relieved, anyway.  She was a little worried about me for a while."

Frodo didn't want to ask what Merry had been up to for the past few years, didn't want to know, so instead he asked, "Should she have been?"

Merry shrugged, closed his eyes again.  "Perhaps but…  It all worked out in the end."  He tightened his grip on Frodo's hand, sighed.  "Perfectly."

Frodo smiled, moved a little closer, stopped.  "Your dad."

Merry sighed again, wearily this time.  "Is playing cards.  It's Yule, Frodo, and you and I both know that we will be carrying him and his empty pockets to his bed before the place rouses for first breakfast."  He pulled at Frodo's hand, drew him closer, wrapped an arm possessively about him.  "Stay with me," he whispered.

Frodo burrowed in, fussed and fidgeted until his arms and legs were where he wanted them to be -- twined about Merry -- then laid his head down, pressed his mouth to Merry's throat and closed his eyes.  Stay, Merry had said and yes, he would, because it was good and because he wanted to, because…

Home.

Place.

Because it was better.

Frodo thought of Bilbo, hoped he was safe and warm and completely wartless back in his own snug bed in Hobbiton.  He didn't know yet if Bilbo had been in on this little set-up but he'd forgive him one way or the other.  It had been worth it, every second of it.

Well… maybe not every second.  There was Eglantine, after all. 

He supposed a mole or two wouldn't hurt.

Frodo smiled, slipped another soft kiss to Merry's throat and slept.

* * *

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