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TITLE: Counterpoint, Interfolio - Timbre AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Withywindle (Mucho thanks, love) PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: Adult SUMMARY: Frodo has made A Plan; Merry is not amused
Timbre: the quality given to a sound by its overtones; the quality of tone distinctive of a particular singing voice or musical instrument.
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Author's Note – For Mews, for her birthday. (I hope this is close enough to what you had in mind, my dear, and I hope your day is perfect and full of everything you could possibly wish for. )
With thanks (as always these days) to Rosina, for being willing to catch. ;)
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TIMBRE
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Merry eyed the ladder with a grim frown, peered up farther and glared a bit at the loft beyond said ladder. Rain pounded against the roof, almost drowning out the occasional protest of a sleepy cow. A flash of lightning temporarily illuminated the whole of the loft, bales and pitchforks and hay hooks all standing stark blue-white relief against the mounds of hay strewn over the length of it. Thunder clapped, loud and violent, making him wince the slightest bit.
He sighed, rolled his eyes. "This is your fault," he said over his shoulder, as he juggled the lantern, took the first ascending step to what was to be, regrettably, his bed for the evening.
"I know," was all Frodo said.
"That goodwife—what was her name?"
"Mrs. Chubb."
"Mrs. Chubb was all ready to let us stay the night in her parlour." Merry tossed his pack up into the hay, swung himself up into the loft, careful not to stand straight and whack his head on the low slant of the roof or the even lower slant of the rafters. He raised the lantern, searching for the hook he knew had to be around here somewhere, found it and hung the light. Another clap of thunder pounded so close Merry could almost feel it echo in his chest. His teeth tightened. "A little less stodgy snobbishness—"
"I was not being snobby!"
"—and we could be sleeping somewhere dry—"
"This is dry."
"—and might have even managed a hot supper."
Frodo's pack came bouncing up into the hay, just before his dark head crested the top of the ladder. "I told you, I brought supper."
Merry peered pointedly about himself, lifted an eyebrow as another great roar of thunder blatted above their heads. "Are you going to cook it?"
No answer but a roll of the eyes from Frodo as he slid that stupid gigantic bloody basket he'd been toting the whole way—and had kept closed and latched, and wouldn't let Merry get a look into—to the floor of the loft and hoisted himself up fully after it.
"A little bit of charm, that's all I'm saying," Merry continued, plopped down into the hay, flipped his pack over and began unlacing his bedroll from its ties. "You can do it, I know you can, I've seen you. A bit of a smile here, a quick touch to the arm there, and we'd be inside that warm—did you notice how nicely that fire was going?—burrow, probably even now scoffing stew or whatever that heavenly smell was coming from that very warm-looking kitchen."
"It's not like it's Forochel in here, you know," Frodo muttered, shoved the basket out of his way and set about freeing his own bedroll.
Merry stopped, narrowed his eyes. "What the deuce is Forochel?"
Frodo sighed. "Someplace very cold, from what I understand. Never mind, it doesn't matter." The ties came loose; Frodo shook out the bedroll with a firm snap then spread it out over the space between them. "And Mrs. Chubb happens to be Rosa Chubb's mum, in case the name didn't dawn on you. If I'd let any charm escape, we might have found ourselves chained up in her root-cellar until she could send for Eglantine—"
"Oh, glory, that's who that is?" Merry sighed, rolled his eyes. "Then what are we even doing here?"
Rosa Chubb was, according to both Frodo and Pippin, the next on Eglantine's long list of Lasses of Property Who Would Make a Nice Match for Poor Frodo. She'd had the luck—good or bad depended upon one's perspective, Merry was more than certain—to espy Miss Rosa when she and Paladin had been summering at the Whitwell property last year, and had made careful note of the fact that Mrs. Chubb was a widow with no sons, and only one daughter, who would no doubt inherit her mother's quite-prosperous creamery. The fact that she was quite fair to look upon—at least according to Eglantine, but Merry had found that these things were highly subjective—was purely a bonus to his well-meaning but sometimes really annoying aunt; the fact that Frodo had been ducking both Eglantine and Tuckborough ever since the subject had come up was viewed as merely an inconvenience. If Eglantine got wind of the fact that Frodo had spent the night in the Chubbs' smial, she'd have the wedding invitations printed before Frodo even got back to Hobbiton; spending the night in the barn wasn't going to be much better, Merry suspected. In Eglantine's mind, Frodo and Rosa Chubb were going to be all but betrothed.
"Chubb!" Merry growled. "Of all the places in all the Shire—"
"What was I supposed to do, dig a burrow?"
"Nooo," Merry replied, sarcasm nearly dripping from his tongue, "because that would be stupid, while stopping at the Chubbs' has to be the most inspired—"
"Well, someone had a gigantic hissy when I suggested we might find a bit of shelter in the lee of the cliffs farther uphill," Frodo groused, a bit sharply, "and this is the last farmstead I know of until we get to… where we're going."
Merry ignored that last bit—he'd tried everything he could think of all day long, but Frodo refused to tell him exactly where they were heading, only insisted that Merry would be rewarded for his patience when they got there and all would be made clear. Merry couldn't remember ever having been rewarded for patience—mostly because he didn't have any—but hadn't had much of a choice: when he wanted to be, Frodo was as enigmatic as Merry was impatient. They'd left the Road early on, so all Merry could really tell was that they were somewhere in the Tooklands; southwest of the White Downs, so far as he could guess, though what could possibly be out this way—besides Whitwell—worth taking a trip to see was beyond him. Which was, apparently, the way Frodo wanted it.
"I did not have a 'hissy'," Merry protested. "I only said that if there was standing water on the floors of those cliffs, I was going to throw you off them."
"You're right," Frodo told him, dug into the basket and emerged with a bottle of wine. "Murderous intent is much more respectable than a hissy. I stand corrected." Then he flopped to his bedroll, propped his back against the rough wood of one of the rafters, and set about working at the cork.
Merry frowned a little. "You brought Old Winyards? On a walking trip?"
Frodo shrugged, grimaced a little as he twisted at the cork. "It was to be a…" A bit of a sigh. "Well, I thought… I was trying to…" He paused as the cork slipped free then shrugged again, muttered something that sounded like 'special' then took a long swig from the bottle.
"Special…?"
Merry stared, suspicious. All right, Frodo's birthday wasn't for another few months and Merry's was already six weeks past, so he hadn't missed one of those. Yule was months away, and there were no gift-giving occasions Merry could think of besides those three. Confident that he hadn't forgotten something important, he tilted his head.
"Special how?" he wanted to know.
Frodo ignored the question, only handed the bottle over to Merry, said, "I forgot cups," then leaned back and glared at the low-slung ceiling.
They fell silent, Frodo brooding at the weather and whatever it had bollixed, and Merry at the fact that Frodo still wouldn't tell him exactly what the weather had bollixed. Along with every other event that had occurred along their trip thus far. Although, he had to admit that at least some of it had been fun. The bicker-fest they'd had over the term 'crab apple' had been at least distracting. Whether it had arisen from the word 'crabbed', which would mean they were considered a perversion of apples in general (Frodo's theory), or because they seemed to always grow on the property of crabby old farmers, who seemed to delight in lobbing them at unsuspecting lads who might blunder through, trying to find a new shortcut home when they were in danger of being late to supper (Merry's theory) remained unresolved, despite Merry's offer of some rather compelling evidence—to wit: one Mister Banks and his seemingly unerring aim at an eleven-year-old Merry's retreating arse. Nonetheless, the contention had ended in a draw.
He peered over at Frodo, still staring at the rough slope of the ceiling, his profile illuminated occasionally when periodic flickers of lightning would burst across the sky. Merry took another swig from the bottle, leaned across and tapped at Frodo's elbow with the mouth of it; Frodo took it without looking, lifted it and drank more deeply than Merry knew was his wont. Frodo usually made it a point to savour good wine. Obviously, he wasn't happy that this trip hadn't turned out the way he'd wanted it to. Merry almost gave in to the compulsion to scoot across, slide himself next to Frodo and offer some bit of comfort. Except he was tired, and uncomfortable, and really quite put out about too many things to let his pride take that kind of ding. The Master of Bag End and the Future Master of Brandy Hall, sleeping in a bloody barn, for pity's sake, footsore and cranky, with chaff likely to end up in places chaff ought not be. This was, Merry reminded himself sternly, all Frodo's fault, so instead of offering the smallest indication that it might not be all Frodo's fault, Merry merely stuffed his pack and his bedroll up against the nearest bale, slumped down and closed his eyes. If nothing else, the sound of the storm would lull him to sleep, and if it passed the way Merry suspected it was going to, they could get the bloody blazes out of here before anyone came in to start milking in the morning.
Rosa Bloody Chubb. Bah.
Funny, how he could decide without compunction that he truly disliked someone he'd never even met. For all he knew, Rosa Chubb was a perfectly nice lass, just as dead-set against meeting Frodo as Frodo was against meeting her; it didn't stop Merry from beginning to drift into semi-somnolence with visions of milk vats 'accidentally' going over, high-pitched girly screams drowned out beneath a waterfall of creamy-white.
"Are you hungry?" Frodo wanted to know.
"Mm," was all Merry replied.
He was, in fact, bloody starving, but was still too ensconced in pride and pique to utter anything that might have even the smallest ring of agreement. He pushed his back deeper into the hay and stayed silent.
Frodo went quiet, too, the only sound the sporadic roll of thunder and a cow or two lowing in response. It only served to remind Merry how annoyed he was. Sleeping with the bloody cows in the middle of a thunderstorm, for pity's sake. He'd had a sinking feeling as he'd let Frodo shove him out of Bag End this morning—all smug and secretive and bloody bossy—that this was a bad idea. He'd known it was going to rain, had told Frodo so several times, but Frodo had been so intent on whatever-it-was that he'd only smiled that self-satisfied smile and insisted—
"Merry?"
Frodo's low voice was accompanied by the stroke of his foot over the fur on Merry's. Merry dragged his foot away.
"No," was all he said.
"But—"
"No." He drew his knees up, his feet well away from any further advances, just in case Frodo didn't get the point.
"But you always want… you know."
Merry opened his eyes, rolled them. "It's called sex, Frodo. You are allowed to say it out loud in front of cows, you know, I doubt you'll shock them."
"Fine," Frodo grumbled. "You always want sex, so what—"
"I do not always want sex!" Merry snapped.
A pause—Merry could almost hear Frodo's eyes crossing—then: "All right, perhaps you don't want sex right after you've had sex, but otherwise—"
"I'm tired," Merry growled. "I've been up since before dawn—"
"And whose fault is that?"
"It comes from nearly three decades of living on a farm!" Merry bit out from between clenched teeth. "We don't all get to sleep 'til midday if we want."
"Who sleeps 'til midday?" Frodo wanted to know. "An hour or two after sunrise is not 'midday', in case you didn't know."
"Well, you've been dragging me halfway across the Shire since even before lunch—"
"Whitwell! Not even a day's march!"
"—in a bloody gale—"
"A thunderstorm, for pity's sake!"
"—and I said, I said it was going to rain, I told you—"
"Six-thousand times."
"—and now I'm tired and not at all in the mood to go rolling about in all this bleeding, scratchy hay, when all I can smell is cow and dung!"
"You live on a farm, for pity's sake!"
"Right." Merry sat up, glared at Frodo. "And I always make it a point to sleep with the cows," he growled. "You know—except for the bit where I don't!" He snagged the bottle from Frodo's grip, took a long, slow gulp before shoving it back into Frodo's hands. Then he turned, punched at his pack a couple of times and flopped his head to it. A truculent bit of a pause, then: "And it's more than just a farm," he said, indignation and wounded pride leaking into the edges.
"You said farm," Frodo told him.
Merry thought back… All right, so he had. But still. "Well, it's more."
"I know," Frodo said quietly.
"Brandy Hall, you know," Merry furthered, piqued.
"Yes, I've heard of the place."
Merry sat up again, scowled at Frodo. "Lots of people depend on me, you know, it's not just a farm. Acres and acres and I—"
"You work very hard, yes, I know."
Merry's eyes narrowed. "Helping or hurting, Frodo?"
"I'm agreeing with you!" Frodo insisted.
A guarded stare from Merry. "You'll forgive me, but since that hardly ever happens, I'm not quite sure how to react."
"What d'you mean, that hardly ever happens? It isn't as though—"
"You always contradict me!"
"I do not!"
Merry paused, his jaw hanging, stared at Frodo, who blinked back at him; Merry thought it too likely that he'd only now realised what he'd said, because his expression turned to one of chagrined surprise and his mouth was flapping right along with Merry's. Merry couldn't help it then—he snorted, pinched at the bridge of his nose and shook his head.
"Right," was all he said and couldn't help but outright laugh when Frodo snorted, too. "Good thing a person can't die of irony," he chuckled.
Frodo scrubbed a hand over his face, blew out a long breath. "Right," he echoed, peered about himself with a dubious slant of his gaze. "I'm sorry," he told Merry, "this hasn't turned out at all like what I'd thought."
Well, Merry would have to be a complete dolt not to know that; he deflated a little, some of the anger draining away into a somewhat more sedate resignation. This hadn't been Frodo going his own way and inviting Merry along because he happened to be there—he'd planned… well, something, anyway, and even if it still irked Merry a little that Frodo wouldn't tell him what the plan had been, the fact that he had planned something was really quite touching, now that Merry thought about it. Despite Chubbs and rain and cows and everything else, the realisation of that fact alone served to soften Merry's mood considerably.
He sighed. "I know, love," he told Frodo, gave him a shrug and a conciliatory smile. "Well, I don't know, since you still won't tell me what you'd thought it was going to be, but I'll concede that this…" He waved a hand to indicate the barn, the hay, the cows, the rain, etc. "…was not in your plans." He angled an eyebrow. "Am I ever going to find out exactly what your plans were?"
An apologetic shrug this time. "Hopefully in the morning," Frodo told him then peered again at the ceiling. "If this lets up, anyway." He smiled a bit, took another drink of wine then held the bottle out to Merry. "Hold this," he told him. "I imagine you must be starving."
Considering the fact that Frodo had almost literally shoved him out of Bag End directly after elevenses this morning, and hadn't thought to pack more than a few apples, some leftover rolls and a sack of walnuts for lunch, yes, Merry was starving. The rich smell of whatever Mrs. Chubb had been cooking had almost literally made his mouth water and his stomach fold in on itself.
"I don't suppose it makes sense to save this until we get there," Frodo said then unlatched the lid of the enormous basket (stupid, enormous basket, Merry's petulant side insisted) and set about digging supper from it; in light of what began steadily emerging from it, Merry didn't pursue the subject of where 'there' was this time, only took a nip from the bottle and watched.
A plate of cold beef, perfectly pink in the centre, appeared from within several layers of cheesecloth, along with a large loaf of crusty brown bread. Sliced ham came next, followed by raw snap-beans, their freshness confirmed when Frodo jammed one in his mouth, crunching it down as he continued to pull what Merry had to admit appeared to be a rather significant supper from the basket that was looking less and less stupid to him as each dish emerged. Baby carrots joined the beans along with three early cucumbers. A great slab of the lemon cake Frodo had been baking when Merry'd arrived at Bag End only yesterday had survived with minimal squashing; Frodo set it down next to a few apple squares Merry remembered from breakfast this morning.
"I appear to have forgotten silver, as well," Frodo said, head nearly submerged in the depths of the basket as he hunted about for something to use as utensils. In the end, he only shrugged a bit morosely, dug out his pocketknife, and began slicing up the bread. "No plates, no cups, no silver," he said. "I suppose it wouldn't've been entirely perfect after all." The knife was too small—he was squashing more than cutting—and Frodo growled, tossed the knife down next to the plate of beef and simply tore the loaf in half. He thrust a hunk at Merry.
Merry took it with a bit of a snort then gulped some more wine before handing the bottle back to Frodo.
"Keep it," Frodo told him, dipped back into the basket and came up with another. "If I get you drunk enough, p'raps you'll forget where you are and who's responsible for dragging you there."
Merry snorted again, almost said, I doubt it, but… well, Frodo was… Merry sighed. Frodo was Frodo and almost impossible to stay angry with. Merry only took another swig from the bottle, slapped a slab of beef and one of ham on top of the hunk of bread and took a bite. He leaned back, stretched his legs out again and snugged his shoulders more firmly into pack, blanket and hay. He supposed it wasn't that uncomfortable.
Anyway, it was very good wine.
* * *
"Oh, is that what the lads are calling it these days?" Frodo snorted, tipped his head back and craned his neck around to look at Merry. "And is there a handfasting in young Hanna's future, d'you think?"
Merry grinned. "If Dino has any sense of self-preservation, he'd do well to skip the handfasting and go right to the wedding," he told Frodo, a little surprised he'd managed such a long sentence with no slurring; his head was feeling rather light and his vision was getting fuzzy about the edges. "Y'know her dad is Bruno, right?"
Frodo nodded, wide-eyed. "Bruno Burrows could probably get me standing beneath the arbours with mimal…min… little fuss." Then he tipped back his bottle for a drink, nearly whacked Merry in the jaw with the thick body of it; Merry forgot to be indignant when Frodo licked his lips. "'Course," Frodo went on, brow a bit furrowed as he gazed seriously up at Merry, "I wouldn't've got caught."
Merry didn't pursue that one; he had no trouble at all believing it, and he didn't think he was terribly keen on learning any particulars. He only smirked a little, watched as the corner of Frodo's mouth curled up in answer. Merry took a drink from his own bottle. Frodo had been right: a good meal and half a bottle of Old Winyards could go a long way towards making a person forget to notice cows and rain and scratchy hay. And Frodo lounging over him, his back snugged up to Merry's chest, wasn't hurting, either. Feeling quite relaxed and pleasantly muzzy, Merry sighed a bit, closed his eyes.
"Hoy, Merry!"
"Ow, bugger!"
Merry sat up—a little too quickly, because it made his head feel like it was going to wobble off his neck—rubbed at the soft expanse just below his ribcage, where a bony elbow had just jammed itself. Really, really hard.
"Sorry!" Frodo wobbled himself about, all knees and elbows and lanky limbs—his knee only just missing Merry's chin when he swung it up and over—until he was turned around, straddling Merry's legs. "Sorry, did it hurt?" He patted at Merry's belly.
"Yes, it hurt," Merry told him, batted Frodo's hand away and replaced it with his own. "P'raps you should endeavour to keep better track of your elbows when you're sprawling all over a person," he grumbled.
"Well, p'raps you should endeavour t' be a less comfturble backrest," Frodo returned. Then he leaned forward, laid a soft kiss to Merry's mouth.
Well, it started out soft, anyway, but only stayed so for mere seconds. A gentle touch of lips at first, then demand seeped into the clumsy edges of it, turning it deeper, harder, until Merry forgot that his ribs hurt and all that mattered was the taste of Old Winyards on Frodo's tongue. Frodo managed to get his arms locked about Merry's neck—miraculously without knocking him unconscious with the bottle still in his hand—pressed himself against Merry, and sank in deeper.
Merry couldn't tell if his head was spinning from the wine or the kiss, decided he didn't care, tilted his head and swiped his tongue, a slow, fizzy roll of hunger winding up his spine at the tiny sounds of need coming from Frodo's mouth and vibrating through Merry's chest. Thunder rolled, but Merry didn't know if it was coming from outside or from his own head, so he ignored it, ignored the mooing that answered it, too, and thought yes, all right, it was possible to forget where he was, or at least not care anymore.
Frodo pulled back, slowly, dragging Merry's bottom lip in his teeth a little before he finally let go and bit his own instead.
Merry took a moment to catch his breath, though he pushed up a little, just to watch Frodo's eyes close and his head dip back the smallest bit. Merry smiled, propped his wine against a small mound of hay then ran both hands firmly up Frodo's back, tracing ribs and backbone with his fingertips.
"What were you going to say?" he wanted to know.
Frodo drew in a long breath, let his head roll on his shoulders. "Hm?" It was lazy, distracted.
A grin this time. "You said, 'Hoy, Merry!' then you tried to kill me with your elbow," Merry told him. "I'm just wondering what was so important."
"Oh," Frodo said, then, "Sorry," again then trailed off, laid his forehead to Merry's, dropped a sloppy little kiss to Merry's nose. His hips had started a slow rhythm, rocking against Merry's, and Frodo seemed caught in it, like he was dancing to music only he could hear.
Except Merry wanted to hear it, too, so he reached up, took a fistful of Frodo's hair and pulled his head back until Frodo opened his eyes, peered at Merry with a gaze that was pleasantly cloudy. And then he smiled, soft and languid and bizarrely happy.
"Um?" was all he said.
Merry couldn't help but smile back and he lifted an eyebrow. "Is that your answer?" he wanted to know.
"'m thinking," Frodo told him.
Merry's smile turned to a grin. "Will you be done with that soon, or shall I carry on without you?"
Frodo pushed down, harder than before, and Merry had to fetch a sharp breath into his chest to prevent himself from groaning. He'd forgotten that he had Frodo's hair clenched in his fist, but was reminded when his muscles twitched a small spasm, and Frodo gasped as his head was jerked back. It was too much for Merry to even think of resisting: he leaned forward, sank his teeth into the thick cord of muscle beneath Frodo's jaw.
Frodo growled a little, said, "Just try and carry on without me," and snapped his hips.
"Oh, bugger me." Merry gave into the groan this time, wrapped his free arm about the small of Frodo's back, shoved up hard. "I bloody love it when you're squiffed."
Frodo dipped in, took the lobe of Merry's ear between his teeth. "'m not squiffed," he told Merry, possibly trying to sound indignant, but the panting and the bit of a slur sort of ruined the effect. Attempting to unbutton Merry's shirt with the bottle still in his hand didn't do much better. Merry hadn't been aware that it was possible to growl and sigh at the same time, but Frodo managed that, at least; he pulled back, drew himself up onto his knees, said, "Bugger it," then tipped the bottle to his lips, tilted back and drained it.
Merry didn't even protest about the pause in action, he was so surprised. "Bloody damn, Frodo, did you drink that entire bottle?"
Frodo merely grinned down at Merry, swaying only slightly. "'Course," he answered. "Din't you?" Then he tossed the bottle over his shoulder.
Merry glanced over to where he'd propped his own bottle—still at least half-full, if he wasn't mistaken—and blinked. "Er," was all he said.
"'s very good wine," Frodo informed him, quite seriously, then tipped in and made a dive for Merry's buttons. "An' I want to fuck you stupid."
And if that didn't send Merry's head buzzing.
"What kind of evil bloody buttons have you got here?" Frodo wanted to know. "Too big for the bloody holes."
Merry almost didn't hear it; the statement before it was still taking up most of the working space in his brain. He shoved Frodo's hands out of the way, went at his own buttons with one hand and Frodo's with the other, his fingers maybe a bit more clumsy than usual—he was in a terrible rush all of a sudden—but not nearly as clumsy as Frodo's. In seconds, he was dragging his shirt off and leaning in for another kiss, this one just as hard as the last, and somewhat messy, but desperation was suddenly his very best friend, because it was working miracles with his ability to multi-task.
With one hand, he jerked Frodo in closer, hard enough to make Frodo loose a small grunt into Merry's mouth, slid his fingertips up over the knobs of Frodo's spine, and with the other, he reached for Frodo's placket.
"Wait," Frodo panted, grabbed hold of Merry's hand and stilled it.
"Wait?" Merry demanded. "What wait, what's—?"
But then Frodo smiled, something slow and wicked, and he slid Merry's hand down, rigid heat in his palm, and rocked in.
"Oh," Frodo said, sucked in a slow breath, and let his head fall back. "Carry on," he breathed.
Buttons, Merry decided, were evil little things, and it really wasn't at all fair that these buttons were giving him a harder time than the shirt buttons had. Maybe because his hands were all at once shaking, and Frodo breathing in his ear, "C'mon, love, 's all for you," really wasn't helping. Frodo talking dirty never helped. Well, it helped, but not in the way… Anyway.
It seemed like it took for-bloody-ever, but Merry finally got the buttons undone, or at least as undone as they needed to be for him to drag the trousers from Frodo's hips. And it didn't even seem to matter at the moment that Merry himself was as hard as… as a… as a really, really hard thing, because he was instantly captivated.
"Oh," he breathed, reached out, ran his hands, palms flat, up Frodo's thighs, his hipbones, over his stomach, watching, fascinated, as the muscles shuddered and jumped beneath his touch; even more fascinated by the way Frodo's erection quivered—wanting his touch. "I never get tired of how lovely you are," he whispered.
"Awww," Frodo said, smiled, soft and droopy, "he's gone all sentimental again." He reached down, drew his thumb over Merry's cheek. "Yer awfully cute when you get squishy." Then he listed a little to the side, grabbed hold of Merry's shoulder to steady himself, said, "s not gonna suck itself, y'know," and rocked his hips the slightest bit.
Not the most romantic invitation in the world, but it was, nonetheless, a very clear one, and Merry took it: he leaned forward, and with neither foreplay nor preamble, took Frodo into his mouth.
"Nguh," Frodo grunted, jolted a bit, but Merry took hold of his hips, held him still.
A little bit of teasing first, Merry thought—there was, after all, the 'squishy' comment that begged reprisal. Frodo groaned impatience and Merry only smoothed his tongue, slow and slick, over the length of him in response, tightened his lips.
"Wicked, wicked lad," Frodo grumbled, slipped a hand to Merry's hair, took a fistful, but stayed still.
Merry could feel Frodo wanting to rock, to thrust, the vibrations of his need winding all through him, making his muscles twitch and tense, but Merry held on tight, only allowed the very smallest of movements—a tiny bit of a shove now and again to complement the drag of Merry's tongue, a miniscule pulling back when Merry wanted to gently use his teeth. And just when Frodo would start to rumble frustration, tug a bit at Merry's hair, Merry would jerk him in, open his throat, and… hum, twist his tongue then flatten it.
Stars, Merry loved the reactions, the whimpers and the growls and the slurred pleas—Oh, like that, don't stop, right there—it made his own arousal nearly painful, and it was all he could do not to slide himself up and start humping Frodo's leg. Instead, he wrapped his arms about Frodo's thighs, dragged him in and curled his tongue, flicked it—
"Wait, stop, Merry, gah!"
Merry only growled, wound his arms tighter. Again, with the 'wait' thing. Not bloody likely, was the only coherent thing his mind could conjure. Although, now Merry really didn't have a choice—it was either stop or lose the half of his hair wrapped in Frodo's fist.
"Ow!" Merry yelped, reached up and clamped his hand over Frodo's. "Leave off, will you?"
Except Frodo didn't leave off; he kept tugging—yanking, really—pulling at both Merry's hair and his arm, dragging him up to his knees until they were face-to-face.
"Not like that," Frodo said then he let go Merry's hair, shoved him about until his back was to Frodo. Frodo took hold of Merry's hands, guided them up to the nearest rafter. Gripped them hard. He moulded himself to Merry's back, dipped in until his mouth was right below Merry's ear. "Like this," was all he said.
Bare skin painted over his back, Frodo's erection sliding slowly over the seat of Merry's trousers, hot breath slicking over his shoulder, his throat and down his breastbone…
Merry melted.
"Ohhh," he groaned.
Yes, all right, like this, then.
"Why are you not naked yet?" Frodo asked into his shoulder, and the heat of his breath did fascinating things to Merry's skin, making it tighten and shiver, and his blood pool hot beneath it. When his hand slid down over Merry's arm, over his ribs and stomach to his groin, pressed flat then cupped him tight through his trousers, the pressure spangled all through Merry, made his hips jerk into Frodo's grip, made him slump, dangling; the only thing keeping him up was his now-desperate grip on the rafter, and Frodo's left hand over Merry's, making sure he kept it there.
"Why are you not fucking me yet?" Merry snapped back, mostly because he didn't have an answer to the naked question, because yes, why wasn't he naked yet, and how fair was that when Frodo was all bare and hot and sweat-slick against his back. He seemed to recall something about uncooperative buttons, but it was rather fogged, and didn't seem to matter anymore, because Frodo's hand was suddenly a lot less clumsy than it had been, slipping loose buttons and the ties of Merry's drawers, then sliding hot between skin and fabric. "Oh, bloody… damn," Merry groaned, let his head roll back to Frodo's shoulder, arched unthinking as Frodo took firm hold of him, pumped his fist and mouthed at Merry's temple.
Frodo's left hand finally let go of Merry's, slid down the length of his arm then his torso, the touch slow and maddening, and only got more so when his other hand stopped its heavenly stroking and kneading and slid out of Merry's trousers. Merry might have complained—loudly and vehemently—had Frodo's mouth not remained sealed to Merry's skin, tongue swiping the dip beneath his shoulder-blade, teeth sinking lightly into the muscle that ran from his shoulder to his nape, Frodo's hands all the while roughly pushing his trousers from his hips, inch-by-inch. Merry tried to help, reaching down to shove the fabric off his thighs, but Frodo stopped, said, "Ah-ah," and guided Merry's hands—quite firmly—back up to grip the rafter. "Stay there," Frodo told him as he took care of the trousers himself, manoeuvring Merry about, his mouth landing feathery little kisses along the dips and rises of Merry's ribs, his hands lifting one knee and then the other, until he finally dragged the trousers off altogether.
Hands splayed, Frodo made his way back up Merry's body, touching everywhere, sweeping slow over muscle and tendon, tracing the curves of his backbone and ribs then dipping down to outline the jut of a hipbone with the tips of his fingers. "I love you like this," he sighed, sinking his teeth lightly into the side of Merry's throat, hands curving up over Merry's arms, kneading at muscle, then gliding back down, fingertips circling nipples then moving down to tease at the traces of fur below his navel.
Ah, all right, Merry'd suspected this was what Frodo had in mind—driving him slowly insane and not letting him do anything about it—and some bit of him wanted to snarl and turn, take hold of Frodo and make it all about turnabout; the most important bit—the bit that was standing upright and tight and knocking insistently against his belly with even his tiniest movement—was all for it. He tightened his hands on the rafter, feeling the rough wood dig into his palms, and clenched his teeth.
Merry liked to touch, liked to watch, liked to watch the reactions he dragged out of Frodo as he touched; this sort of thing always unnerved him a little, made him feel nearly helpless and out of control at first. But he'd learned over the years, learned that when he just gave in, let Frodo have what he wanted, everything just sort of made sense. Frodo's touch was more reverent at these times, more controlled and pointed, more concerned with giving first and then taking from the reactions.
Again, Frodo draped himself over Merry's back, pressed skin-to-skin against him; Merry could feel the curvature of Frodo's chest against his back, could feel the fine scattering of hair on his breastbone, could feel his heart thudding right through Merry's back, vibrating up his spine. Merry couldn't help the small moan.
"I've got you," Frodo told him, low and smooth, both hands sliding down to take hold of Merry again, the contact making Merry snap his hips, choke out a gasp. He could feel his arms shaking, the tremors cascading right down to his toes, and Frodo said, "Shh," stroked with one hand, cupped and kneaded with the other then slipped the tip of his tongue into Merry's ear.
It was too soon for Merry to be on the edge of tears, but there they were, crowding into the corners of his eyes, and he arched his neck, pushed his head back to Frodo's shoulder. Frodo's mouth moved from Merry's ear to his throat and down to his shoulder, sucking and nipping by turns, but his hands never stopped their steady pushpullpress, never stopped stroking pleasure, stripes of heat curling through Merry's chest and all up his backbone, idling their way down into his belly then pooling again in his groin.
Merry knew he was spilling out nonsense whispers and small moaning sighs, but he couldn't stop them coming. He was ensnared between Frodo's hands and Frodo's body, and if there was a better place to be trapped, Merry didn't care to know of it. He ground himself back, pressed himself into Frodo's erection, a small spark of satisfaction spangling through him when Frodo bit down hard on his shoulder and he groaned.
"Wicked," he whispered, and chuckled a little when Merry grinned, open-mouthed and breathless, but with enough snark inside it to get his point across. "Impatient lad," Frodo breathed then snugged his hips in tight, snapped them.
Merry gasped, tightened his jaw. "What is this 'patience' thing of which you speak?" he muttered through his teeth, and when Frodo only chuckled again, he growled, said, "C'mon, love, don't make me beg, or I'll make you pay for it later."
"Mmm," Frodo rumbled back, and Merry wasn't sure if it was at the thought of finally getting to the bloody point of the matter—that being getting to the fucking, already—or of what Merry might do to him later if he didn't. It must have been the former, Merry decided, because the hand that had been kneading at his balls like they were a pair of lucky conkers abruptly let go, sliding swiftly over his hip and aiming for—
"Oh," Frodo said and stopped, furthered, "Bugger," then pulled away. "Wait," he told Merry.
Merry's eyes snapped open, narrowed. His back was suddenly cold, damp chill air sliding surly and swift over every inch of him that had been happily warm and sweaty against Frodo mere seconds ago.
Wait? Again?
Merry blinked, let his hands fall from the rafter, turned about to see Frodo with his head in that damned bloody basket again.
"Tell me you're not looking for a bleeding snack," Merry growled.
Frodo snorted, answered, "I'm not looking for a bleeding snack." And then he turned, held up the small bottle of oil Merry knew usually resided in Frodo's bedside table.
Merry's eyes narrowed. "You brought oil?" When Frodo only grinned, waggled the bottle about, Merry's eyes narrowed further. "You brought Old Winyards and oil on this trip?" Not that Merry minded—it would certainly make walking tomorrow easier, not that he'd cared enough to spare it even a thought five seconds ago—but, "Just what exactly were you planning?"
But Frodo's grin dimmed, even as his eyes sparked brighter. He peered pointedly at Merry, narrowed his gaze. "Now, is that how I left you?" he asked, voice low and free of any kind of humour, almost dangerous.
It gave Merry a small shiver; it was all he could do not to outright shudder with the want that swamped through him at that level look of demanding need aimed right at him, drilling into his breastbone and flooding his senses. Several smart-arse retorts rose to the back of his throat, but he couldn't seem to want to let them out; he only swallowed, turned himself back around, took hold of the rafter again. Deliberately, he looked back over his shoulder, drew a dark glare from somewhere down deep, and arrowed it at Frodo.
Frodo chuckled again, only it was more sonorous this time, more knowing; Merry had the feeling that Frodo was looking right through him, in him. Again, he was unnerved, perhaps even a little apprehensive, but Frodo uncorked the bottle then, his eyes never leaving Merry's as he tipped oil into his palm, closed his fingers over the small pool in the cup of his hand and then slowly, purposefully, reached for his erection, fisted it, pumped and stroked it.
Merry almost blacked-out. He could tell Frodo's eyes wanted to roll back, close, the lids fluttering the smallest bit, the weak light from the lantern flicking over him, tossing shadow over the contour of muscle as he moved his hand on himself, and making his eyes gleam, dark and speculative, as they peered steadily back at Merry, almost taunting.
It was strange, because there had been no lack of sensation before when Frodo had been pressed up against him, hands all over him, pushing pleasure into his pores and drawing need up from the core of him. But now, when Frodo might as well be miles away, Merry unable to reach for him—not allowed to reach for him—it was as though he was all at once awash in acute feeling.
Driving need pounded up from his groin, blossomed through him like tongues of fire licking at his nerve-endings; his knees were suddenly stinging, all his weight resting on them and sharp little bits of hay and chaff pressing into the bare skin, making it itch and throb; a slow, rolling burn was unfurling in his shoulders, up his arms, settling in his palms, splintery wood spiking through the calluses and planting pin-point twinges that moved through his fingers, ramped all through his limbs until it thumped into his belly; his neck was beginning to ache, his head craned about and odd-angled so he could watch Frodo pleasure himself, watch his hand curl and twist and his breathing notch itself up, the muscles in his chest sliding sleek beneath his skin with each breath; Frodo's eyes, dark and shrewd, lay heavy on Merry's skin, making it tingle, effervescent little bubbles of sensation popping and fizzing in new patches of want every time Frodo shifted his gaze.
"Frodo," Merry breathed, too quiet and shaky.
Frodo smiled a little, softer than before, and he tilted his head. "What do you need, love?" he asked, voice gentle this time.
His hand kept moving over his erection, a steady tugpresstwist, and Merry couldn't make himself look away. He dug his fingers into the rough wood, feeling the sharp give against the edges of his fingernails.
"Just you," was all he could manage then he swallowed, said, "please."
It should have mortified him, the importunate tone of it, all wobbly and thin, except it somehow drove even more heat through him, shook him to bone, because Frodo didn't smile this time—his eyes widened and his breath picked up pace and he was moving towards Merry, eyes fierce and fiery. His fingers curled once again into Merry's hair, dragged his head back even more painfully—somehow, the thought of letting go of the rafter for a more comfortable angle didn't even cross Merry's mind—and Frodo kissed him, deep and so thorough that Merry was instantly lost inside it, all plundering tongue and nipping teeth, and groans that moved through Merry's veins as insistently as Frodo's free hand moved over his skin, touching everything, everywhere he could reach, chest and thighs and neck and collarbones—everywhere except for Merry's erection, standing heavy and almost painful, a hard burn of sensation blooming through him, sweeping his sense away every time it knocked softly against his belly.
Frodo pulled back the slightest bit, panted, "Are you sure?" against Merry's mouth.
Merry sank his teeth into Frodo's lip in answer, bit down hard enough that the answer couldn't be doubted.
Frodo yanked back on Merry's hair until Merry let go then snapped his head around before he untangled his fingers, loosed his hand. No more warning, no more solicitous questions—Frodo took hold of Merry's hip and drove himself in.
Sharp-hot pain blossomed through him, took his breath for seconds and forced a thin, reedy whimper from his throat. His body locked up, arched itself back, curving itself into Frodo's, juddering inside the span of sensory pandemonium that threatened to make him into nothing more than a loose collection of nerves and reactions. Frodo didn't wait for Merry to catch his breath, didn't wait for the overload to subside into something calmer; he pulled back then plunged back in again, deeper this time, and hard enough to make Merry grunt, clench his teeth and firm his grip on the rafter.
Something deep within Merry, something still able to form coherent thought, noticed that Frodo's hands were moving over him, soothing him, sliding over his shoulders and his back, pushing equanimity back into his senses, reacquainting him with the concept of composure. He almost didn't care, so caught up in the rhythm of Frodo's movement, the abrupt, driving pulldragpushthrust, that the very idea of calm loosed a hoarse, manic laugh from Merry's throat.
His eyes were stinging, so he clenched them shut, clamped his teeth on the reedy moans notching themselves into a hard lump at the back of his throat, until Frodo twisted his hips, adjusted the angle, and Merry screamed, spangles of bliss shattering up his backbone, sharding through his limbs and chest. There was no fight left in Merry, no desire to work his will or have his way; there was only pleading and desperation and a fierce pounding need that took him and shook him, threw him down and fractured his reason.
"Please," was all he could say, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, in rhythm to Frodo's body battering against him. "I want… I have to…" And then he gave up, only grated, "Frodo," through teeth clenched tight and aching.
Frodo groaned a little, pressed his mouth to Merry's temple. "Tell me," he whispered.
Merry's hands tightened on the wood, fingers burning and stinging and starting to cramp. "I want to feel you," he said, so low he almost couldn't hear it through the pounding in his head.
Frodo heard it, laid an open kiss to his cheek, hand winding up Merry's arm, setting the already-tingling skin on fire. He closed his hand over Merry's, pried it from its grip and guided it down to Merry's erection.
"Feel you," Frodo told him, "lovely, golden Merry-lad," and he closed his hand, fingers sliding themselves between Merry's.
It was the oddest sensation. Merry's fingers were a little numb, still stinging and tingling from grinding them into the splintery wood, almost as though they weren't his at all. He could tell the difference—Frodo's fingers were hot and smooth with oil; Merry's were a little cold and rough—and the contrast was so unexpected, so new that it almost tipped Merry right over the edge. Frodo moved both of their hands, pulling them into the tempo of their bodies, adding a bit of a twist at the end the way Merry liked it, tightening his grip a little when Merry's cadence faltered.
"Lovely," Frodo said again, slid his free arm about Merry's chest, dipped his head down to rest on Merry's shoulder, his other hand never letting Merry stop the stimulation, never allowing sensation to recede, only building it up and up, the steady cadence of pressure inside Merry, the jolt and spangle every time Frodo thrust into him, curling into and joining the measured tug and turn of their hands. A lurching jerk of Frodo's hips, a heavy groan, and Frodo bit down on Merry's shoulder, tightened his grip.
The sharp surprise of pain did things inside Merry that he was pretty sure pain should not do and it was all it took—he threw his head back, whined out a groan that wanted to be a scream, but he didn't have the breath for it. A last curl of Frodo's hand and pleasure shocked through Merry, cleared his mind of everything but the pulse of Frodo against him, over him, inside him, and it scorched him from the inside-out, burned him, hollowed him out until he was nothing more than a writhing, groaning mess of shattered nerve-endings. His hips wouldn't stop moving, jerking and bucking reflexively, as his release and Frodo's both tore through him, leaving him spent and close to breaking, breath pounding in and out of him like every one might be the very last.
A long shiver and a heavy groan as Frodo pulled back was all the animation Merry could force out of himself. He couldn't even uncurl his fingers from their grip about the rafter; Frodo did it for him, gently prying them loose then lowering Merry's arm, closing both of his own around him and holding on.
"See?" he mumbled into Merry's ear. "You do always want sex."
If Merry could have moved, he would have smacked him.
"And," Frodo continued, that same sleepy-satisfied-soused slur to his voice, "apparently, cows can be shocked."
Merry paused at that one, frowned. And then he barked a laugh, shook his head.
The cows had gone silent.
* * *
"Well," Frodo said, shrugged a little, eyed Merry with a very uncharacteristic bit of timidity in his gaze. He swept his arm in front of him with a small smile. "This is it."
Merry raised his eyebrows, stepped up beside Frodo onto the rocky outcrop and directed his gaze below where Frodo had indicated. And made a concerted effort not to frown. This is what? was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back.
Frodo had woken with a headache—no real surprise—full of apologies for the day before, but grinning wide any time the night before came up. Merry's propensity for waking before dawn worked in their favour this time, as they were able to get their gear together and be gone from the barn before anyone came to tend the cows.
Still, even with their good luck, the clear skies this morning and the memory of last night, Frodo was quieter today, more pensive. If Merry didn't know better, he'd think Frodo was quietly panicking. Having second thoughts about having planned… whatever it was, maybe, nervous about how Merry would react when he finally found out what it was; Merry didn't know, but he'd resolved that, whatever it turned out to be, he was going to react with smiles and enthusiasm.
Except, now that they were here and he was actually being presented with whatever it was, he still had no idea what it was. Now Merry was starting to panic a little. He peered about, looking for some kind of sign that would tell him exactly what he was supposed to be seeing.
They were just outside of Whitwell; once they'd left the Chubbs' and got back on the road, Merry found he recognised the lay of the land and had grown more dubious despite himself, because there was nothing he could think of worth a look between the Downs and Whitwell. The current view did not disabuse him of that sentiment.
It was nice enough, rolling green and rocky hillside almost as far as the eye could see, a great swath of tall grass butting up against the occasional copse of evergreen. Wildflowers dotted the landscape, blossoms still laden with the morning dew, swaying indolent and ponderous in the soft, warm breeze. The sky was gorgeous this morning, indigo-amethyst shot through with traces of crimson, and still heavy, like it was dipping down to touch the skin of the world beneath it.
Merry's smile was sincere when he turned it on Frodo, and he breathed in deeply, thankful that there was not a cow to be found when the clean scent of morning entered his nostrils.
"Very pretty," he told Frodo.
Frodo peered at him sideways, a rueful bit of a smirk curling up one corner of his mouth. "It's mine," he said.
Merry blinked. "Yours," he returned then frowned a little, tilted his head.
Frodo chuckled. "I've been wanting it for several years now, but Paladin only just last month agreed to sell it to me."
Merry looked again, his frown deepening. "But…" He shook his head, bit his lip. He really didn't want to ruin whatever this was for Frodo, but, "Frodo, there's nothing here." He turned about, eyed the landscape in every direction. "You've no water inlet, and with all this rock, I don't think you'll be able to get a well dug. The only thing you might use it for is grazing for livestock, but you're too far away from any farmsteads to lease it out for that. This is the middle of nowhere!"
"You sound just like Paladin," Frodo told him, that small smirk curling up a bit and turning to something softer, lighter.
"Well, I should hope so!" Merry said, edging near outrage. "What was he thinking selling this to you, you can't do anything with it and you'll never be able to sell it again. What did you pay for this?"
"Far less than what it's worth to me," Frodo told him then leaned in, planted a firm kiss to Merry's mouth.
All right, now Merry was really confused. He shook his head, said, "Frodo—"
"I paid Paladin a copper penny for the land because he wouldn't take anything more. He finally agreed to sell it to me because apparently I can be quite annoying and he grew weary of telling me how worthless it is." Frodo shrugged, smiled, a little embarrassed, if Merry wasn't mistaken. "I don't care about water rights or wells or leasing or livestock, because I don't intend to do anything with it, and I don't intend to sell it, either. This wasn't an investment. I just…" He peered about, shrugged again. "I wanted it. And once I had it, I wanted you to see it."
Merry couldn't help it this time; he shook his head, asked, "Why?"
Frodo ducked his head, snorted a little; Merry was confounded to see his cheeks flush. "Because when I saw this place, it was at sunset—it's much prettier at sunset, you understand, I'd meant for us to arrive just before. Anyway, I climbed up to this very spot, right here on this bit of a cliff, and looked out over it and…" He sighed, shrugged yet again. "Well, the first thing I thought of was how…" His voice dipped down low, and his cheeks brightened. "…how I wished you were here with me—you were away, remember? You'd gone up to Quarry for that auction, and I was sort of… well, I missed you." A deep, long breath, like he was looking for courage, and Frodo lifted his head, looked Merry in the eye. "At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to kiss you, right here on this spot." His gaze slipped down to his feet and he shoved his hands into his pockets. "And once I had the land, I wanted… well, I wanted to…" Frodo rocked a bit on his feet, kicked a small stone and sent it clacking down over the cliff. "Anyway, things didn't really go to plan, did they?"
Merry's jaw had come unhinged about three halting sentences back. The trip and the basket and the wine and the—he almost choked on his tongue—the oil… The truth of what Frodo had almost said, had stopped himself from saying, suddenly burst in Merry's head like a firecracker—I wanted to… what? Not shag, Merry was sure, nor even seduce, not considering everything that Frodo had put into this; somehow Merry was absolutely certain that the thing Frodo couldn't make himself say out loud was: I wanted to make love to you here.
"It wasn't…" Merry's voice was quiet, a little hoarse, so he cleared his throat. "It wasn't only a kiss." He couldn't seem to do anything other than stare, his own cheeks heating now, and he peered up at Frodo, almost in awe. "Was it?"
Frodo rolled his eyes a little, chuffed a growling sigh. "I know, all right? I'm sorry, it was… I mean, I didn't—"
"No," Merry said quickly, took a small step closer. "I wasn't making fun."
In fact, he didn't think he'd ever been so serious about anything in his entire life—so… amazed. And there Merry had been, all day yesterday, whinging and griping and just generally making the whole thing a lot more difficult than it had needed to be. And all the while, this was what Frodo had—
It all made the most complete, fantastic sense. Not only had Frodo planned… well, this, but he'd Planned it. Frodo had made a Plan—had made this Plan. Frodo—who never made plans, who squirmed and snorted at the first hint of 'squishiness', whose most common descriptive when referring to himself was 'stodgy'—Frodo had made this Plan.
Merry had never been so profoundly touched by anything in all his life.
This must have been… How difficult had this been for Frodo to not only plan but to follow through? To do this thing that was so plainly outside his normal level of comfort? For pity's sake, he was blushing and bloody stammering—how hard had it been for him to not only bring Merry here, but to tell him why?
Merry had learned a lot of things about Frodo over the years—some things more slowly than others—but one of the first things he'd understood was that, of all the many things of which Frodo was capable and at which he was skilled, romance was not one of them, not in the sentimental, heart-on-the-sleeve sense of the word, at any rate. He wasn't opposed to the idea of it, but had never seemed terribly interested in mastering the practise. Frodo couldn't say the sorts of things people said to each other in faerie stories; his tongue would tangle and his cheeks would flame. He could read it, get lost in the romance on a page; he could even write it—Merry had seen some of Frodo's poetry, had got lost himself in some of Frodo's more intimate letters to him—but he couldn't say it. Instead, Frodo said those things by dragging a gigantic basket halfway across the Shire; by buying a worthless parcel of land because he thought it looked beautiful at sunset; by letting Merry get annoyed with him, complain all the way here, because he'd once thought it would be nice to kiss him here. And then by apologising for it, pretending that it was all just a silly whim and it didn't really mean anything, because just in the five minutes they'd been standing here, he'd managed to convince himself that he'd embarrassed them both.
Merry had thought last night had been for Frodo, but he was wrong; last night had been for Merry, because yes, he always wanted sex, and because Frodo had wanted to give him something, perhaps even to make Merry feel like the trip had been worth it. And yet, even were it a thousand miles, instead of the dozen or so it had been, even had it been snowing and sleeting, and even had there been nothing to eat besides crab-apples, even had Frodo never even touched him last night, this would have made it all worth it. And the most amazing thing about it all was that Frodo was standing there, embarrassed and rueful, trying to pretend it didn't mean anything, because he honestly had no idea that, to Merry, it meant everything.
Merry's eyes were stinging and his chest was hurting from lack of air. "I may have, um…" He had to blink several times, swallow until his throat didn't feel so tight. "I think I've come over all sentimental again." He reached out, gripped Frodo's arm. There were so many things he could say, so many things he wanted to say, but only one seemed like it fit: "D'you want to wait 'til sunset? Because I'm not sure I can go the whole day without kissing you until I make you understand how astounding you are."
Frodo turned slowly to look at Merry, stared for a long moment, searching. Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it, because he gave Merry a slow smile, small and relieved.
Then he leaned in, kissed him.
* * *
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