Counterpoint, Interfolio

 

Tone: The intonation, pitch, and modulation of a composition expressing the meaning, feeling, or attitude of the music.

 

A/N: Co-authored by Willow-wode

 

* * *

 

"That one's got her cap set on him and no mistake.  Too many notches on her bedpost, though, if you ask me."

 

I'm quite certain I didn't ask you, but I'll be happy to put notches in something and it most assuredly won't be a bedpost.

 

Almost in tandem with the thought, he reached up, fumbled with his tie.  If he thought he could move without the possibility of keeling over, he would just lose the bloody thing, and his coat along with it.  But while the only part of his body that seemed willing to work was his arm, he'd been keeping it rather occupied with the chore of getting his drink from the table to his mouth.  It had been all he could do an—had it been a hour ago?  Or two?—to prop his feet up on an adjacent chair; it must have been quite some time ago, he amended, because his knees were locked and his toes were tingling.

 

If only it wasn't so bloody hot.  If only he had the wherewithal to remove his tie and use it, with intent, on his 'drinking partner's' thick neck.

 

"Ah, now that one's a better fit.  Look how nicely her head fits just beneath his chin."

 

And look how nicely my foot fits up your arse.

 

Assuming his feet, tandem or single, were still capable of fitting up anyone's arse… owowow!  With massive effort, he yanked his legs from the chair, gritted his teeth and tried to flex his ankles. 

 

"Nice and plump, that one."

 

Frodo kept gritting his teeth, focussed on the stinging in his legs.  He'd been testing out the if-you-ignore-it-for-long-enough-it-will-go-away theory for what seemed hours but so far, that theory was proving a complete failure.

 

"He likes them plump.  More to hang onto.  But then, I don't suppose that's something he'd discuss with you."  A pause, a small, self-satisfied chuckle.  "Frodo-lad, you're looking peaky.  Are you quite well?"

 

That would depend upon whether 'I hate Saradoc' counts as an actual illness.

 

Frodo took a deep breath, made another substantial effort—this time of straightening in his chair—and turned to smile at Saradoc.  "Quite well."  Hopefully the expression didn't look as ghastly as it felt.  That hope was dashed as a hint of smug gratification flitted across Saradoc's face and settled there.

 

"Have another beer," he suggested.  "Even a wallflower Baggins deserves a consolation prize, at least."

 

Many things were ramming about in Frodo's chest at the moment, simmering anger and a dull frustration nearing the top of the list, but what he was feeling most acutely right this minute was sincere regret that the term 'glaring daggers' was merely metaphorical.  Because the talent would have come in handy right about now.  'Glaring arrows' would have done just as well, now that he thought about it; Frodo had always been rather handy with a bow.  Momentarily entertaining himself with mental pictures of using his 'uncle' for target practice, he turned his eyes back to the dance-floor, tried not to let the blur of motion turn him dizzy.

 

The problem, as Frodo saw it, was that he wasn't drunk enough yet.  Not that he wasn't drunk—he just wasn't drunk enough.  Because if he was drunk enough, none of this would be bothering him, would it?

 

Not that it should be bothering him.  It wasn't anything new, after all. 

 

"Well, if he's not about later, I expect you'll find him out in a haystack somewhere with that one.  She looks willing enough."

 

No, nothing new, none of it; the sneering insinuations and the merciless prodding and the baiting… because yes, Frodo was being baited and worse, he was falling for it, and he ought to just go ahead and kick his own arse because if he was going to be so stupid as to let someone like Saradoc Brandybuck get to him, he deserved whatever he got.

 

He forced himself to concentrate instead on the glow of the coloured lamps… and anyway, when had it got dark?  Frodo blinked, peered up at the sky; yes, dark, but no stars tonight, only cloud-cover and the thick, heavy threat of rain, probably in the next day or so.  Merry had timed the harvest perfectly, but then he would, wouldn't he?

 

"You know, I've never understood what the boy'd want with a skinny, sickly-looking thing like you.  I'm surprised he hasn't broken you in half by now."

 

Unfortunately, the old conflict had only escalated since Merry and Frodo had begun spending so much time together.  Not that he could really blame Saradoc—Frodo was too old for Merry and Merry should be spending his time with those closer to his own age, and none of this was new, either; in fact, it had been the cause of several rather-intense and tricky conversations between Frodo and Merry only this past winter.

 

Of course, Frodo would chew off his own tongue before admitting as much to the present company.

 

Slouching in his seat, Frodo picked up his shotglass and knocked back his fourth shot of rum.  Or maybe it was his fifth.  Let's see, there was the mead he'd started with, still half-full and looking altogether forlorn—probably tepid by now, too—and the three completely-empty shotglasses…

 

Wait.  One, two…  His eyes crossed, so he closed one, started again: one… two… yes, three.  Three on the table, one in his hand… one, two, three, four.  All right, so it was his fourth.  Wait… hadn’t a serving-lass come by a while back and collected a few empty glasses?  Maybe it was closer to seven.  That might explain why he was having a difficult time remembering when the wineglass had appeared in his other hand.  And that was nearly-empty, too.  Hmph.

 

"Bah."  Saradoc waved his hand dismissively.  "Never mind that.  He'll be done with you soon enough, so I don't expect it matters; what matters is, the lasses surely do love him."

 

And Frodo found his eyes unwillingly following Saradoc's gaze.  Due to drink-induced myopia, Merry was no more than a blur of gold and green at the moment, smearing into the blue and bluer smudge of one Miss Periwinkle Grubb, third grand-daughter to Master Milo Grubb, he of The Grubbs of Hobbiton who, had Bilbo not arrived just in time from his Adventure and stopped the auction, would be a wealthier hobbit today.

 

Once again, Frodo found himself clenching his teeth.

 

"That's my lad," continued Saradoc, with a narrowed dart of his bloodshot eyes towards Frodo; Frodo refused—refused—to give him the satisfaction of a scowl, even if his eyebrows were aching to drag themselves down, and his left eye just begging to start twitching with suppressed… something.  'My lad'.  Bah.  As if he'd anything to do with the remarkable way Merry had turned out; as if he hadn't done everything possible to try and turn that lad into a pale shade of his own ignoble self.

 

A sharp jab to Frodo's ribs and this he couldn't ignore.  Because, ow.

 

"Why settle for one or three when you can have 'em all, eh?"

 

This as Merry swung away from Periwinkle and straight into the bosom of—

 

No, he was notnotnot dancing with Viola Took, she of the too-gorgeous-to-be-real eyes of deep-shot amber and chestnut curls to her waist and a bodice that never seemed strong enough or big enough to effectively hold the bounty in its charge.  Bugger.  And the worst part was that Frodo couldn't hate her.  Too sweet and not a dishonest or cruel bone in that plump (plump, damn it!) little body and her smile alone would melt even the hardest of hearts into a sloppy puddle of goo.  Maybe he could try hating her for not letting him hate her, and why wasn't Merry still dancing with Periwinkle?  Now there was a lass a hobbit could hate without prejudice.

 

"No sense in hedging his bets if he doesn't have to," Saradoc approved.

 

All right, Frodo'd had just about enough of the smug face and smarmy innuendo.

 

"Something you know quite a lot about."  Frodo spoke with just the right amount of aloof negligence, and furthermore, considering the amount of liquor he had on board, was quite proud of himself for not slurring his words.  "Or maybe I should say that you know very little about it.  Tell me, Scattergold: was it a pair of threes or three deuces that you held when you lost Aunt Esme's plum orchard?" 

 

There was a puerile sense of satisfaction at witnessing Saradoc's flinch and flush, but he refused to feel any sense of guilt over it.  Merry had hated coming to Frodo for the money to buy it back but he couldn't slip enough out of the Hall's accounts without Esme finding out about it.  And perhaps Saradoc didn’t deserve the parry simply for his endless stream of sarcastic jabs at Frodo tonight—all night—and his very plain insinuations that Merry would be better off without an old lecher—old lecher!—like Frodo hanging on his too-young-to-be-tied-down coattails, but he deserved it, and more, for putting Merry into a position where he had to cover for his father to prevent his mother from getting hurt—again—and having to beg a loan from Frodo to do it.

 

Glory, how had Merry ever managed to turn out as well as he had with this one as his sire?  One more thing for which to be grateful to Esmeralda, Frodo supposed, and he sincerely hoped Merry knew it.

 

The gloves were off now.  Nostrils flaring, Saradoc turned on Frodo.  "She isn't your aunt, and it's past time you stopped hanging onto her skirts, as well.  She isn't your mum."

 

"No, she isn't," Frodo agreed, the cool tones of his voice in direct contrast to the heat that was surging behind his eyes, turning his vision hazy and red.  "And she isn't your mistress or your secretary, either, but that doesn't stop you from treating her like one."

 

"Ah, there it is."  Saradoc nodded and the conspiratory wink he aimed at Frodo made Frodo's temples throb.  "Can't get into the mother's skirts, so you'll settle for the son's trousers, is that it, then?"

 

His small, malicious mind would come up with something like that, wouldn't it?  Slant it and skew it all into something cheap and just this side of sick.  Genuine disgust curled through Frodo.  Years, he'd put up with this—years!—and now all of the sneers, all of the jibes, all of the small-minded manipulations and petty little cruelties flitted through his brain, took a dip into the rum already sloshing about in there, and came dripping from his tongue as so much acid.

 

"You know, Uncle," he let his lip curl on that last, "I've often wondered how low you could sink and I suppose now I know.  Then again, I can't say I'm surprised—you are the very same hobbit, after all, who would cast out his own son if he thought he could get away with it, and from nothing more that the fear that his wife may one day notice the difference between her husband and what a real hobbit can be."

 

Frodo smacked his wineglass down with rather more force than he'd meant; the stem snapped with a small chime.  He ignored it, dropped the rest of the glass to the table and tried to stand; Saradoc's meaty hand closed on his forearm, wrenched him back down.  Frodo's palm flattened on the broken glass with a grating 'crunch'.  He ignored that, as well.

 

"That Tookish tongue of yours is going to get your arse flattened one day, you mark me on that.  You need a bit more Brandybuck in you before you can think to get away with talk like that."

 

Instead of pulling away and throwing the glass in Saradoc's broad face, which was undeniably his first impulse, Frodo felt a slow smirk find its way, unbidden, to his mouth.  He leaned forward.  "I've plenty of Brandybuck in me and any time I want it," he said, dangerously quiet.  "And isn't that what this is really about in the first place?"

 

Drunk and somewhat stupid or no, Saradoc couldn't miss that one.  His face coloured a blotchy brick-red and his grip tightened cruelly on Frodo's arm.  "What did you just say to me?"

 

"I think you heard me."  Frodo refused to so much as wince, held his gaze even and hard.  "Or maybe you didn't.  I suppose it would be difficult to hear with your head up your arse like that."

 

He should hate himself for saying all this, even moreso for letting Saradoc get to him so that he did say all this.  Instead there was nothing but a somewhat sodden, purling pleasure at the words—and he might be drunk but it certainly wasn't poking any holes in his quickness, no indeed—that Frodo had left unsaid far too long.

 

He doubted he'd even hate himself in the morning.

 

"You little whelp-bastard," Saradoc snarled, thick and slurred.  "You'd best watch that mouth of yours, my lad, else you might find it one tongue and a few teeth lighter."

 

"I am not 'your lad'," Frodo tried to heave his arm back, couldn't, "and I will thank you to—"

 

"What on earth—?"  Merry's voice; Frodo stiffened and Saradoc's eyes widened, flitted away.  "Frodo, your hand!"

 

Frodo dragged his attention from Saradoc, looked at Merry and then followed Merry's distressed gaze to his own hand.  It wasn't until he saw the blossom of blood seeping from beneath that hand and into the white tablecloth that pain flared through his palm and spiked up to his elbow, settling back down into his wrist with a dull throb.

 

Shrugging out of Saradoc's suddenly-loosened grip, Frodo stood—without a wobble, for which again he was grateful—and brought his hand up to his face.  It blurred suddenly—bollocks, too close—and he held it away, steadily inspecting it with what he hoped was appropriate negligence.  And no, he most certainly was not avoiding Merry's look of bewildered alarm.

 

"Bagginses never could hold their liquor," Saradoc offered sourly; Frodo shut his eyes and concentrated on not clenching his already-bloodied hand into a fist and aiming it right for Saradoc's nose.

 

At least we can hold onto our money, he almost said, and our pride, but as the words crowded behind his teeth, he remembered Merry's presence and kept those teeth tightly clamped.  A hand grasped his wrist and Frodo flinched away before realising whose it was; he took a deep breath, willed himself calm and stood quiet as Merry turned his hand over.

 

"I think you've a shard or two stuck in there."  Merry's voice was, on the surface, quite steady, but Frodo could hear the tension beneath, and he shot a quick glance to Merry's face.

 

Despite his words, Merry wasn't looking at Frodo's palm; his eyes were dark and angry, trained past Frodo's shoulder, his cheeks flushed, and not from his earlier exertions on the dance-floor.  Keeping his eyes on his father the whole while, Merry reached into his trousers pocket, brought out a handkerchief and placed it gently to Frodo's palm.

 

"Don't press it just yet; we'll want to get the glass out first."  Finally, Merry turned his eyes to Frodo's, his gaze instantly softer, though still sharp and watchful.  "You're pale," he said, pitched to Frodo's ears alone.  "And your hands are shaking.  What's going on?"

 

"Tch!" Saradoc sneered behind him, and Frodo found his shoulders trying to clench about his ears.  "Careless and clumsy as he ever was," was the garbled mutter.  "Bloody useless."

 

What have I ever done to you? Frodo wanted to shout.  And why, after all this time, do I still almost believe you?

 

Literally snared between father and son—Saradoc's narrow gaze burning holes into his nape and Merry's watchful one burning holes into his conscience—Frodo made to draw his hand from Merry's.  Merry tightened his grip, narrowed his eyes and, humiliated, Frodo dragged his own eyes away before Merry saw whatever confused emotion it was that had to be swirling within them.  He swallowed, tried out a small laugh and shrugged. 

 

"Merry, it's nothing, I'll just—"

 

"It's not nothing," was the soft furtherance, again for Frodo's ears only, and warm breath swept over Frodo's ear and down his collar.  "Just say it and I'll fix it."

 

And how Merry would fix it, Frodo didn't want to know, nor did he want to think about the way Merry would no doubt birch himself later for having hurt his mother in the process of it all.  Frodo had no illusions: Saradoc could absolutely use a good arse-kicking, and perhaps having it administered by his own son would go a ways towards wising him up even a little.  But Saradoc was Merry's father, and while Frodo was unquestionably not the resident expert on father and son relationships, he was, nevertheless, not about to be the one responsible for expanding the already-extant chasm between these two.

 

He was already quite a bone of contention betwixt them as it was, and if he wasn't so bloody selfish, he'd have stepped out of it the moment he'd realised.

 

"There's nothing to be said.  You can't fix everything, love, nor should you have to."  Frodo kept his eyes on his hand, pulled it away; this time, Merry let go.  "I'd better go and get this cleaned up." 

 

He kept his eyes averted from both Merry and Saradoc as he angled out from between them and headed to the bar, leaving them standing at the table peering after him, one flabbergasted and one fuming.

 

He shouldn't have come.  He hadn't even planned to; in fact, he should right now be in Hobbiton, seeing to the arrangements for its own Harvest Festival, but…  Well, Merry had been so convincing, damn it all, and it had been months, after all, and Frodo had missed him and… and he was… all right, fine, he was a pathetic pushover was what he was, for when Merry had asked him for the fifth time to come to Buckland for the Festival—with the addendum of the both of them returning to Hobbiton a week later for the festivities there—Frodo had wanted to say yes and… and so he had.  He'd entrusted the bulk of the left-over arrangements to Lily Cotton, the organisation of the harvest itself to Hamfast, and had hightailed it to Buckland.

 

He hadn't even spared a thought to Saradoc.  Which only proved that he was not only a pushover, but a gormless nit whose brain obviously spent too much time in his trousers.

 

A hot trickle ran down his wrist and he pressed the handkerchief as firmly as he dared, hissed, listed to the side a bit and bounced off some burly hobbit then into another as they made their way from the bar.  He exchanged apologies—twice—and tried to keep a better watch on where he was going.  At least he was sober now.

 

No, he wasn't sober and he knew it.  What he was, was angry and stupid and a little bit in pain, and he really just shouldn't have come.

 

It wasn't as though Merry needed him here.  He'd hardly spent two minutes with Frodo all night, and Frodo understood that, in fact expected it and endorsed it.  Merry was more the Master than his father, after all, and everyone knew it; only reasonable that he would be fulfilling the duties expected of the title—Saradoc certainly couldn't be bothered.  And Merry was Merry and it was what was done; dancing and socialising and keeping everyone happy was expected of the host and so he would do it, in fact shone through his duties as host just as Frodo could and did, only Merry enjoyed it while Frodo in truth did not.

 

And, since Frodo understood this, had known all of this before he'd even sent his reply back, there was certainly no reason or excuse to be sitting about, feeling absurdly sorry for himself, and trying to drown out Saradoc's mockery with shots of rum.  And glasses of wine.  And mugs of beer.  And…

 

Oh, he was going to pay for it in spades in the morning.

 

And why did he have to go to such lengths to drown Saradoc out in the first place?  He'd dealt with the sod for years, had learnt the best way to thwart his mean-spirited sniping was with a stony mask of indifference, and that before he'd even hit fifteen.  So why were all the taunts and baiting suddenly working?  More to the point, why was he letting them?

 

Maybe because you know he's right.

 

His hand rolled into a fist and he almost yelped out loud.  He sucked in a thin breath, slipped into an empty space at the bar and waved down one of the hobbits tending it; he requested a dipper of water then thought better of it and changed the request to a pitcher.  A few eyebrows lifted but Frodo ignored them, took up the pitcher and wove his way a bit unsteadily through hobbits and tables, until he found an empty table on the outskirts of the party.

 

Unwinding the handkerchief, Frodo uncurled his hand, took a few deep breaths as blood welled and his gorge rose—another sure sign he was pissed past reason, it wasn't that bad!—then trickled some water over his palm.  He'd had worse in the kitchen; granted, the cuts were rather deep but the shards were large and easy to see.  Once he got them out, he could stop the bleeding with the handkerchief and the worst of it would be that he'd have to wear gloves next week when they brought the harvest in.

 

His shirt was ruined, though. 

 

"That shirt is ruined."  Merry's hand settled briefly on his shoulder as he angled around Frodo's chair, pulled up another and set it in front of him.  "Here, let me see."

 

He should have known this was coming, that Merry would come after him, yet Frodo didn't look up, refused to acknowledge it.  "I've got it," was his hoarse insistence.

 

A long sigh from Merry.  "Frodo, just let me see it, all right?  Your eyes are crossing, for pity's sake.  You're only going to drive it in deeper and make it worse."

 

And surely Merry had no intention of entertaining any devious double entendre—he was brash and candid as blinding sunlight—but that realisation didn't stop a wave of cold anger from washing through Frodo, and while he thought he knew what it was about, he didn't, exactly, nor at whom exactly it was directed.  Bereft of any such dictate, the anger filled his chest and thumped behind his eyes.

 

"I said I've got it," he grated, poked a little too vehemently, and bloody damn if he didn't sink the sliver deeper.

 

"Bugger all, Frodo, stop being such a stubborn bairn and give me that hand!"  Not that Merry waited for Frodo to surrender his hand; he merely reached over, snatched it up with his own and yanked it closer to the pool of yellow light thrown by the lamp.

 

Frodo tried to pull back but Merry's grip was insistent.  "I'm not being—"

 

"Yes, of course not," Merry cut him off impatiently, squinted.  "Because the adult thing to do here is to stomp off and try to do this yourself," he carefully prodded at a chunk of glass, "with no help," paused at Frodo's hiss and flinch, "despite the fact that you're so squiffed you can't see straight."

 

It seemed sarcasm ran in the family.

 

"I am not—  Ow, hoy!"

 

"Just sit still, I've almost got the one."

 

Resentment and gratitude—and hadn't some old sage at one time said that one automatically led into the other?—and no wonder, for both were swirling in a rather-nasty brew in the pit of his belly.  Frodo slumped back a little and scowled at the top of Merry's bent head.  "I am not that squiffed," he furiously reiterated.

 

"Uh-huh," Merry said, slipped the first splinter free and held it out on the tip of his finger for Frodo to see, then flicked the shard onto the bloodied handkerchief and went back to work.  "Since when do you let what my father says bother you, anyway?"

 

Frodo felt heat flush his face, wasn't sure which of the myriad resentments and mortifications and reactions to pick from; he cast them all aside and settled for a long-held favourite: "I don't know what you mean."

 

Merry peered up from beneath his fringe, lifted an eyebrow.  He studied Frodo for a moment then shook his head and bent again to his task.

 

"Right."  His tone was tight.  "Because you always drink yourself wobbly in public, and then involve yourself in an almost-public argument with my father, and then jam your hand into broken glass and don't even know it until it's called to your atten— will you please just hold still?"

 

"Then don't dig in there like you're mining for treasure!  That hurts!"

 

Merry stopped, peered at Frodo, his jaw set hard.  "Must I go get Mum?"

 

Frodo opened his mouth, studied Merry's determined face.  He would go get his mum, wouldn’t he?  And Frodo was the bairn.  Frodo closed his mouth over the forty things that wanted to blurt themselves and humiliate him further, looked down and took a slow breath instead.  "Just go easy, all right?"

 

"I'm going as easy as I can," Merry returned, fingers once again working carefully, trying to pry the last splinter free.  "But you've gone and sunk it deeper and it will take a moment."  He took up the pitcher, trickled more water over Frodo's hand to rinse some of the welling blood away.  "If you'd have let me see it instead of storming off like—"

 

"All right, all right, so I'm a bairn!  I'm also squiffed and clumsy and useless, and how I manage to look after myself on the Hill is anyone's guess, so why don't—OW!  Bugger!"

 

That one really hurt!  He tried again to drag his hand away but Merry's hold was implacable.

 

"Sorry," Merry said.

 

He didn't look sorry at all to Frodo's eyes.  In fact, Frodo was fairly certain Merry had meant that last vicious jab.

 

At least it had shut his mouth, which was a blessing, and bloody damn but if his mouth was going to run on so without his permission, it could at least have the decency to not sound so bloody sullen and pathetic.

 

"There."  Merry held another shard out for Frodo's inspection.  "That's a big one.  Must've been part of the stem."  He dug into Frodo's coat pocket, fished out his handkerchief, pressed it to Frodo's palm and closed his fingers over it.  "Hold that there until the bleeding stops," he instructed.  "Press firmly, now."

 

"I know," Frodo said, and again couldn't help the truculent bite in his tone, and bloody damn, what was wrong with him?

 

A narrow glance from Merry and a slight roll of his eyes.  "Right," was all he said.

 

Merry sat back, stared at Frodo; Frodo wouldn't look up but he could feel the grey-black gaze running through him, digging deep beneath his skin, slipping through his ribs like a knife, seeking.  He shifted, drew his hand away; this time, Merry let him.

 

Stop it.  Stop rummaging around and trying to solve it, fix it, fix me…

 

I don't want you to see this, don't want you to know it, and I don't even know what it is, but don't see, don't know, stop looking!

 

Long silence between them, the noise of the festivities a dull background hum.  Merry only kept staring, waiting; Frodo wanted nothing more than to clock him one for making him feel so suddenly exposed.  The almost-pleasant haze of alcohol he'd worked so hard to develop had dissipated into nothing more than a tired, drained misery.

 

"You should get back to…"  Frodo waved his uninjured hand about, shrugged.  "I shouldn't want to keep you."  And winced.

 

Well sod it all, anyway.  Here he was, puffing up like a cornered badger over Merry being so… whatever Merry was being, but at the same time here he was, acting like a whingy pubescent lass who was jealous because her favourite had abandoned her for some new attraction and…

 

And damn it, it wasn't as if they had any sort of arrangement or anything—for all he knew, it was all just a casual shag now and then when it was convenient for both of them.  Not that Frodo had ever asked, had he, because… because it hadn't occurred to him that he should, and maybe he didn't really want to know, and anyway, he didn't want more than that—he didn't!—and he'd no bloody right to expect that just because Merry had invited (pestered, cajoled, demanded) him here that it meant they were to be joined at the hip for the duration.

 

Bloody damn.  Merry was right: he was a bairn.

 

"And what is that supposed to mean?" Merry wanted to know.

 

Humiliation heated Frodo's cheeks.  "Nothing."  He shook his head in a vain attempt to make his brain start working again then he stood, albeit unsteadily.  Merry only kept staring at him, new anger sparking in his eyes.  "It isn't meant to mean anything," Frodo reiterated.  "Just… you've duties and guests to keep happy and…"  And bosoms to dance with and skirts to lift and a lover to ignore and make jealous and…  And he needed to escape, now, before his mouth and his reason once again ran away and he made more of a fool of himself than he already had.

 

Frodo swallowed down the lump that was suddenly clogging his throat, waved vaguely over his shoulder.  "I… the privy and…"   And he turned and walked away.

 

All right—so he fled.

 

His feet found paths and miraculously circumnavigated wheel-ruts; his balance for once tonight stayed instead of betrayed.  It was as if everything outside himself had steadied into some reasonable mode of operation that would hopefully enable him to make the privy before he tossed his dinner and however-many drinks he'd downed.

 

Yet his brain was not about to give him the out.

 

And that would no doubt subside if he just got himself out of here—not just away from the party but out of Buckland entirely.  This had been the worst of all bad ideas and what had he been thinking?

 

Of course he hadn't been thinking at all, had he?—not with the brain that favoured rationality, that much was plain.

 

He stumbled over a large stone, halted, peered down at it.  It was smooth, only half buried in the lane; carefully he bent over, dug it out and hefted it in his palm, considering it as if it were of some significant, solitary importance.

 

Solitary.  That was it.  He was lonely, that was all this was.  After all, the Birthday was coming up, and Merry hadn't been able to make it to Hobbiton nor Frodo to Buckland for months, and Bilbo had been gone almost two years now and Frodo was just starting to admit to himself that he wasn't coming back.  Not to mention he was flying several sheets to the wind—he could admit that now that Merry wasn't touting in his face—yes, slightly shellacked, maudlin and feeling the loneliness, nothing more.  Tomorrow he'd sober up and realise that he liked his solitude, that young playmates were for the young, and he had no business getting himself into a twist over something so incredibly foolish.

 

Probably after he finished throwing up.

 

And if he'd come here with expectations—whatever those expectations might be or had been, since he hadn't even known that he'd had any expectations, and he might be somewhat forgiven such, since Merry had all but done a nautch dance to get him here in the first place, and then bloody-well ignored him all night—then it was his own bloody fault, wasn't it?  His own and no one else's, because he knew better than to have any expectations about anything, much less with Merry, even though and probably because Merry had more than enough bloody overweening expectations for the both of them, and that was one of the things about him that drove Frodo stark staring wild…

 

Stars and fire but he was a useless prat, and why wouldn't the ground just open up and swallow him?  Saradoc was right, blast his sodden hide to whatever purgatory waited for all vicious, self-indulgent and spineless whingers: Frodo had no business presuming anything from Merry, who was young and of course would have better prospects than Frodo.  Anyway, it wasn't as though Frodo wanted Merry waiting about and keeping to himself, so what was this ache in his chest all about?

 

No expectations, no presumptions, none of this wretched… neediness that seemed to have slipped through some dark abyss in his consciousness and bitten him on the arse.  He knew better than this, knew better than to reach out with the hope of capturing anything more substantial than sand and mist and whispers in the dark.  You only got to borrow people, never keep them, because they didn't stay, not ever, things always changed, nothing ever stayed the same, nothing ever… bloody… stayed!

 

The rock was weighting his hand; he gave a growl, reached back and flung it as hard as he could into the trees.  It hit something, gave a report like a fresh-girdled tree upon falling; the sound seemed to release a tight-wound spring in the back of his brain.

 

Frodo looked about, took a breath, discovered that instead of resolutely and rather-unsteadily drawing nigh to the privy, he had taken the path to the stables.  Perhaps despite brain-burn he'd known what he was doing, after all.  He'd borrow a pony and just ride through the rest of the night until he was in his own bed.  He'd sleep the day away tomorrow, wake with a pounding head and the stale, bitter remembrance of spirits furring his tongue, and who Merry ended up sharing a haystack with would be the last thing on his mind.

 

After he finished throwing up.

 

And then, surely this unfathomable anger that seemed to want to fly in every direction, and this even-more-unfathomable jealousy, would end up just a vague remembrance—or better, non-remembrance—and he would go back to being simply Cousin Frodo, who occasionally shared a bed with Cousin Merry when they happened to end up together.  Because it wasn't as though he'd ever really been anything else, anyway.

 

"You've passed the privies," came from behind him and Frodo lurched a full five steps sideways.  Surely it was the wine and beer that had caught him by surprise.  And rum.  And mead.  Because bugger-all, but that voice shouldn’t have surprised him—or should it have?

 

Frodo found himself once more entertaining that humiliating mix of resentment, gratitude and fury.  What was this, anyway; he'd barely seen hide nor hair of the lad and now was the time Merry chose to perform his impression of a persistent limpet?

 

He regained his balance and kept walking.

 

Unfortunately, Merry kept following.  "Where are you going?"

 

Frodo avoided the question by sliding his gaze to his feet; unhappily, that made him dizzy, so he looked straight ahead, was pleased to see the stables—and freedom—just ahead.

 

He reached the thickly-painted stable door, put his hand to it, finally turned to face Merry.  "You should be back at the party.  The guests will be missing you."

 

"Bugger the guests, where are you going?"

 

Some people turned ugly when they were angry; Merry only got more astounding.  Colour painted his cheeks, made the fire in his eyes burn deep and black, like roiling thunderheads; you could almost see the lightning gathering behind them.  Frodo would never say so out loud, but an angry Merry was a Merry who could make Frodo's belly flop and his toes curl.  He'd even gone so far as to poke Merry into anger on a few occasions, just because the sex afterwards was intense enough to turn Frodo cross-eyed, and damn it, now he'd gone and got himself all stirred up.  Frodo closed his eyes tight, popped them back open again when the ground hitched and rolled beneath him, cleared his throat, tried again.

 

"You really should keep an eye on your father.  He's likely to scare off Viola and you know you need Adelard's good will if you're going to get those tillers at a decent price."

 

"Yes, thank you, I know my duties quite well."  Merry's voice was sharp, somewhat hurt.  "And anyway, since when do you know so much about Hall business?"

 

"An evening with your father can be quite educational," Frodo said smoothly, then muttered as he shoved open the door, "In more ways than one."

 

Unfortunately, he misjudged the weight of it—if it was that tall and wide then by damn it should weigh more, and furthermore, he should remember what it weighed—and narrowly missed sending himself sprawling.  Frodo had to cling to the handle until the world stopped spinning; he flat refused to look at Merry—he already knew he was a disgraceful sight and didn't need to see that fact reflected in Merry's eyes—and, once things had levelled out again, started into the hay-scented gloom.

 

Well, would have done, if Merry's arm wasn't stretched across the doorway, blocking Frodo's way.  Frodo tried to dip under it but Merry was quicker and grabbed Frodo by the shoulders, leaned in.

 

"Frodo, what is going on?  What did my father say to you?  And where are you going?"

 

"Home!" Frodo growled and sod it, he hadn't meant to say that, and there was that inexplicable anger again.  He took a deep breath, said more calmly, "I'm sorry, but I'm going home.  I shouldn't have come in the first place."

 

"Whatwhy?"  Merry's hands twitched, tightened.  "What do you mean, you're going home?  You've only just got here and I've hardly even seen you!"

 

Yes, that's rather the point and it shouldn't even be the point, so it's probably best all the way around if I just take my uncooperative, alcohol-soaked brain home right now before I make a complete knob of myself…

 

Or more of one than I already have.

 

"Frodo, just tell me what happened and I'll fix it, all right?"  Merry's hands gripped yet harder and Frodo winced a little, tried to twist away, only to have Merry simply hold him fast and push his back against the doorframe.  "I know it had to have been bad for you to let it get to you—you never let it get to you—so just tell me what happened.  And don't give me any of that 'He's your father' rubbish, either.  Have you any idea how I'd love to have a good reason to put him in his place?"

 

"Yes, well, maybe I don’t want to be that—"

 

He stopped, felt his stomach drop all the way to his toes.

 

Oh, bollocks, how could he have been so blind?

 

"Is that what this has been about, then?"  Frodo's voice was hoarse and low, and oh, he was instantly sorry it was even audible, but he couldn't seem to make himself stop talking.  "A way to get back at your father?"

 

Of course it was.  Had to be.  What else would Merry want with him when it was more than apparent that he could have anyone he wanted?  Every single girl at the party orbited around him like a string of moons and why not?  Merry was beautiful and funny and sharp as razorblades, and who wouldn't take one look and throw themselves at his feet?—lad or lass.  He'd always been a bit dense and no real fault to Merry; Frodo simply hadn't understood.  'I've wanted you for years,' Merry had told him that first night, but he hadn't said what he'd wanted him for.

 

Perhaps Frodo could just skip to the throwing up part now and not bother waiting 'til the morning.  He'd been a fool and more than a fool to even think that what was between them was anything more than a bit of fun with the extra bonus of making Saradoc gnash his teeth over his only son dirtying his sheets with the queer Baggins whelp.

 

"What what has been about?" Merry asked; his eyes had narrowed, his gaze dark and thunderous.

 

Frodo met that gaze squarely this time.  "I hadn't realised," he said.  "But it's certainly served its purpose.  He's furious that you'd dip your bucket in an inferior well and well done to you."

 

He shrugged out of Merry's grip, sidled into the stable.

 

His saddle was hung in the small cubby that Dobbs kept free for him, and the pony across from it caught his eye.  A tiny smirk lifted one side of his mouth.  Hickory normally wouldn't be his first choice, but the pony's temperament should well suit him about now.  And besides, it would piss Merry off.

 

"You really have cracked, haven't you?" Merry said from the door and yellow light flared; Merry'd lit a lamp because Frodo, of course, dim nit that he was, hadn't thought of it, and this wasn't Frodo's saddle.  "Either that or you're even more drunk than I thought.  How much have you had, anyway?"

 

Well, blast.  It wasn't even his tack cubby.

 

"Obviously not near enough," Frodo said under his breath.  He switched the saddle for his own, swung it to one hip in consideration of his throbbing hand, for a wonder didn't stagger off-balance, and quick-stepped to Hickory's stall.  The pony was, like the others stalled next to him, tied to the back wall manger, but was confined to a smaller space by a thick side-bar, and that because he was too clever—viciously so—with his hoofs.  Frodo trundled over, kneed the side-bar from its slot and lowered it, greeting the pony with a pat on the neck.  Hickory returned the greeting with pinned ears and a warning roll through his nostrils.  Frodo growled back.

 

"You are not taking that pony," Merry said from behind him.

 

The saddle slid off his hip; Frodo almost dropped it in the straw, snatched at it, nearly lost it again as well as his balance, then retrieved both with a violent motion that made his eyes throb.  "Since when have I not had use of Brandy Hall's mounts when and how I pleased?"

 

"Not that one.  Not this time."

 

"He's fast," Frodo said.  "And I want to get home as quickly as possible."

 

"He's mean," Merry countered.  "And he's thrown you four times already."

 

"Six," Frodo corrected.  "But the seventh time he didn't, did he?"

 

"Frodo, I am not going to allow this, so just stop what you're doing right now and talk to me."

 

That did stop him; he turned slowly, the saddle heavy in his hands, said, venomously quiet, "Allow?"

 

Merry closed the door, walked very slowly towards Frodo, his gaze spiking and sparking.  "Yes—allow.  You are not going to take a nappy stallion all the way to Hobbiton in the dark when I know you can't be trusted to stick to the Road, much less the pad.  The way you are now, Hickory won't suffer you the whole ride and you know it; you will be thrown and you will break your fool neck and I will be out one very fine pony and all of the stud fees that come along with him."

 

Anger was no longer a stomach-turning ambiguity; it flared through him, bright-hot and jagged-white.  Fool neck.  Stud fees!  Who in perdition did he think he was, anyway?—arrogant, self-important tween.

 

Frodo shot Merry a glare that would have curdled new milk then swung the saddle over the pony's back.

 

Merry, obviously, was unwilling to submit to curdling.  "Frodo, you are drunk!  There is no way in the world I will allow—"

 

"Who are you to allow me anything?—and I am not drunk!"

 

"You've just saddled the stanchion!"

 

Frodo paused, peered up and over the chestnut expanse of Hickory's back.  Sure enough, the saddle was not on that back, but on the partition beyond.  The gelding in that stall pulled at his tether enough to turn and phlegmatically eye the familiar object that had suddenly appeared between him and Hickory.

 

Hickory was not so indifferent.  He speedily snaked his head sideways; only his tether kept him from landing a bite on Frodo's arm, but the side of his head struck Frodo square in the chest.  Frodo stumbled back, kept his feet only through stubborn will, lurched forward again.  Such ire—and no doubt his sotted state of being—rendered him careless: he made the mistake of retrieving the saddle from across the pony's withers.  Hickory cow-kicked this time, and if it hadn't been for his close proximity, the pony would have nailed Frodo in the solar plexus; as it was, the saddle went flying and Frodo found himself arcing backwards against the opposite stanchion, one thigh burning and his breath abandoning him with a dull whoof.

 

Things, Frodo decided a bit woozily, were spending entirely too much time spinning tonight.  He clung to the wood, not caring that his hand was screaming in protest or that Hickory could well take the opportunity to swing his haunches from the lowered stocks and proceed to kick him into next week; in fact the latter might just be all right if only that kick would make the floor stand still. 

 

Forget balance—Frodo hadn't even had a chance to recover his breath before Merry was grabbing hold of him and dragging him out of the stall.  He tried to aim an elbow into the pony's ribs on his way out, but Merry was in the way, so Frodo's blow connected solidly with Merry's chest instead.

 

That was all right, too, now that he thought about it.

 

Merry rocked sideways; Frodo took the opportunity to wrench himself from Merry's grip, take a few stumbling steps towards the door.  Fine.  If Merry was going to be a pillock about it, he'd just walk.  Or stagger.  Whatever.  Except his departure wasn't quick enough; a pair of sturdy arms curled around from behind him, circled his torso, near lifted him from his feet and stopped his progress cold.

 

"Let go."

 

"No."

 

Frodo shoved at Merry's arms to little effect, swore, demanded, "Leave off!"

 

"I'm not letting you go until tell me what's going on!"

 

Frodo swore again, tried to twist free, swore even more because if nothing else, at least he had the use of his vocal cords to let his anger be known.  Not letting you go rang in his ears along with allow, and the disagreeable truth was that Saradoc was right: Merry probably could break him in half if he wanted to.  In fact, there had been many a time when Frodo had been exhilarated by that power and strength, rapt with the heady sway of knowing that Merry wouldn't break him even if he could, that Frodo could make those broad hands tremble with a few skilful turns of his own, cause that wide frame to enervate with shudders.

 

Now was not one of those times.

 

Now, something altogether too close to loathing rose up in Frodo—that Merry would use that power against him, would think he had the right to take and twist something so unique and intense, to merely use it as a method to display Frodo's own present lack of such.

 

Sod that. 

 

Frodo let his quivering muscles relax, just slowly enough to make Merry think he'd capitulated; as soon as the unrelenting grip softened, Frodo jammed his elbow, hard, into Merry's ribcage, and in the same motion, slung his foot back, hooked it around the back of Merry's calf and crooked his knee harshly forward.  Merry gave a quick yelp as he was yanked violently sideways; Frodo's leg was still entangled with his and they both went to the floor with a heavy thud.  Somehow Frodo landed atop, heard the thin uff! of breath being knocked from Merry's lungs; he wasted no time, snaked his way from Merry's hold and staggered to his feet. 

 

Freedom, such as it was, was short-lived.  He hadn't even completed a brace of steps before Merry was on him again—only this time, he grabbed one of Frodo's wrists, yanked him about, took hold of the other and crossed them both over his chest, clamped his arms over both of Frodo's own and really did lift him off his feet this time.  Suddenly, Frodo was being dragged across the straw-strewn floor, grunting and twisting, knocking his head back against Merry's shoulder as hard as he could until stars spangled bright behind his eyes, swearing so loud and so colourful he'd put a Dwarf to shame, and so he didn't notice their destination until his head was already under water.

 

Funny, the things that would go through a person's head when faced with a situation so totally out of one's control and overwhelming to the senses, because the first thing that went through Frodo's mind when Merry dunked his head in the trough was, 'Ew!  Pony spit!'

 

It couldn't have been more than seconds before Merry pulled him back by the hair, but it felt longer, and Frodo was coughing and sputtering, too short of breath and stunned to put up any sort of fight at the moment.  Not that he could have done anyway—Merry still had one arm tightly curled about him, pinning his arms to his sides—and once Frodo gasped a little more air into his lungs, he realised they were both on their knees. There were long, strong fingers wound through his hair, unyielding wood digging into the end of his sternum, Merry's chest hard against his spine, and Frodo suddenly saw, through shadows and ripples, the watery reflection of not only his own dark head hovering mere inches from the trough, but a fair one glinting in the lantern's light just above him.

 

Everything within him, everything he kept locked down where no one else might see, spilling out his eyes and into the ones looking back at him.  As though he were nothing more than a raw assembly of emotion, no mind of his own, only blind reaction to another's words and deeds.  Anger, frustration and worse, manifest hurt, bared and plain to see inside the riotous gaze that glared back at him from the wavering depths of a watering trough.

 

Exposed.

 

Don't look, don't see…

 

"Now," Merry said, low and right next to Frodo's ear, "you will tell me what all of this is about or you will get another thorough dunking."

 

Frodo tried a quick shrug and twist but he wasn't going to get out of Merry's grip unless Merry let him go.

 

"I mean it," Merry said, every word spoken through his teeth.  "Tell me what is going on!"

 

Frodo's own teeth clenched now; surprise and confusion had dissipated and anger was tightening its hold.  "Don't you have a few dozen lasses to get back to?"

 

Oh, you pathetic—  If your father was about, he'd kick your arse for you.  Right before he disowned you.

 

Merry was silent for a few seconds then a small chuff of breath curled at Frodo's nape.  "Are you…?"  Frodo could almost feel the cheeky smile.  "You're jealous!"

 

"Ha!"  Frodo shot back.  "Spare me; it isn't as though we're bound or anything.  Tumble who you like—I've no more claim on you than you on me."

 

Merry stilled and his grip spasmed about Frodo's chest; Frodo could only hope that he'd slapped him good and proper with the words, since he was unable to land one with his fists.  Though it was probably a vain hope; clearly Frodo's absence wouldn't exactly break Merry's heart, so what exactly was Frodo wanting here and why?

 

"Although, I will say that it would have at least been polite had you clarified your intentions before dragging me out here.  At the very least, I could have brought someone along to entertain me, instead of sitting about and watching you preen like a bloody peacock all night—and listening to your father tell me all about why you should!"

 

Bloody sodding buggering damn, had someone slipped a can’t-seem-to-shut-your-mouth potion into those innumerable drinks he'd sucked down?  And added a side chaser of whingy, pathetic and unbelievable stupidity?

 

"What did my father—?"

 

"Nothing that wasn't true, for a change!"  Shut up, shut up, shut up!  "And you know, if you'd just told me what you wanted out of this… this… us… thing, I would have played along; I'm always game for—"

 

And he was under water again.  Longer this time, and he had time to think that it was absolutely, in no uncertain terms, un-bloody-fair that Merry got all the Brandybuck brawn and Frodo got all the Tookish oddity, before he was being hauled back up again, trying to spray water from his mouth and drag in air at the same time.

 

"I will forgive you everything you've said 'til now," Merry said, low and dangerous in Frodo's ear, "because I know you are drunk and my father seems to have this sort of affect on people in general.  But—"

 

"I'm not asking for your forgiveness!" Frodo rasped; if nothing else, the ducking was in some fashion clearing his head and enabling him some control over his tongue.  "Why you seem to think I need it is beyond—"

 

"I will not let you spend one more breath on telling me—"

 

"You seem to be under the misapprehension that you have the right to let me, or allow me, or stay me.  I'll tell you right now, Merry Brandybuck, I am not one of your ponies or servants and I'm definitely not one of those thatch-haired giggly lasses hanging on your every word: 'Ooh, sir, and please take me behind the stable and shag me before—'"

 

Underwater, again, and this time he almost welcomed it because his mouth had lost itself yet again… only this time the underwater span was even longer and he'd spent all his breath on that last furious spate.  His ears started humming and a red haze clouded behind his eyes, and yet again Frodo bitterly considered that he was all but helpless, that leverage wasn't going to do him a damned bit of good in this position, that Merry really had the better of him and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it.

 

The grip on his neck loosened; Merry pulled him up, gasping and coughing and spraying water from perhaps every orifice on his face.  And wasn't it just par for the course that Frodo should take sudden and inconvenient notice of the way Merry's pelvis was up hard against him, and that there was a rather-impressive knot pressing against his tailbone, and another inconvenient fact was beginning to reveal itself in his own trousers.

 

He cursed his indiscriminatory and inebriated anatomy to whatever perdition was quickest and most lasting.

 

"…  going…"  Frodo sputtered and gagged.  "…bloody drown me…"  A sharp gasp and oh, he hoped that wasn't a sob, though it might have been since some of the water runnelling over his face felt suspiciously hot and his throat was unexpectedly so tight he thought he might choke.  "…grotty bully!"

 

"You talk about rights—you've no right to say any of this, to tell me how it is with me!"  Merry's voice somehow drifted past the humming in his ears, and surely that was why that voice seemed so high and shaky.

 

Air rushed back into Frodo's lungs, harsh and hot, and it burned.

 

"Oh, but it's all right if you tell me, is it?  Or force me to it, more like!"  Frodo spat past the water still slicking his throat, past the pressure of the trough still hard against his chest, past the iron binder about his ribs that was Merry's left arm.  "Don't bother with the prevarications, if you please; I don't have to hear your excuses… I have eyes, I can see; I can feel—!"

 

"You say that like you even have feelings!  If you could feel anything at all besides that liquor in your veins—"

 

"You bloody—"  Frodo tried snapping sideways, his fury mounting up into his throat so that he could almost taste it.  That one didn't merely sting—it hurt.  "You're a fine one to talk about feelings—have you ever had a feeling in your life besides the gratification when some lass sidles up to you and tells you what a fine strong hobbit you are?  Or the gratification of making everything go your way and perdition to those who'd think to tell you otherw—"

 

"What did my father say to you to make you like this?"

 

"That's right, blame it all on him, when you're the one holding me d—"

 

Merry's hand unsnarled from Frodo's hair and clamped to his mouth, and it wasn't anger anymore—now it was rage, dull and red and pulsing so hot through him that he thought his veins might explode. 

 

"I'm not the one," Merry informed him, deadly quiet, "who's sodden falling-down drunk and unreasonable and spitting venom!"

 

Frodo couldn't move, had no leverage whatsoever, and had no way of fighting back.  Tears of rage and frustration crowded his eyes and his chest hitched against the angry sobs that wanted to rip through it.  His last bastion of defence—and his most powerful one—had been taken from him with those hard fingers clamped over his mouth and digging into his jaw.  He couldn't even push his sopping hair out of his face.  He was powerless. 

 

"And as to feelings?  I'm not the one who is so terrified of being pinned down that he goes pale every time I even hint at the fact that he is the one I prefer to spend my time with!"

 

Held down, forced to listen, and there was no longer anything Merry might have to say that Frodo wanted to hear.

 

Frodo bit him.  Hard.

 

Merry cursed, whipped his hand away; Frodo took the opportunity to shove back from the trough, twisted and nearly got his feet beneath him—would have done, too, had not his balance suddenly betrayed him.  He lurched alarmingly sideways, suddenly felt broad hands upon him again, didn't bother to wonder whether they were helping or prisoning, just reacted.

 

But the kick missed whatever meaty target he had intended, merely grazed Merry's hip; Merry gave a yelp, then a growl, tightened his grip on Frodo and slammed him back against the side of the trough, hard, straddled him.

 

"If you don't—"  Frodo started, but whatever he was going to say—and he wasn't himself sure, only that it had better be good, and withering—was cut off by Merry, who had, since his hands were already occupied with Frodo's arms, leaned forward and silenced Frodo with his mouth.

 

Frodo bit him again.  Harder.

 

Merry jerked back, and for the first time Frodo could see his eyes.  Merry's lip was bleeding, but moreso those eyes, startling with a violence of emotions unsortable: grey and black bled lantern-stoked umber, bled rage and exasperation and, unfathomably, misery.

 

"You can't possibly believe any of this," Merry snarled.  "You're drunk and stupid and if you really—"

 

And Frodo leaned forward, shut him up in the same fashion used upon himself mere moments before.  Kissed him.

 

It made no sense.  None whatsoever.

 

So what else did he do when Merry pulled back slightly, panting and frowning, but lean in and with almost-brutal efficiency, kiss him again.

 

Merry made a noise in his throat, something between a growl and a purr, opened his mouth and kissed him back, hard, rocked against Frodo, and oh, he was hard, hard as Frodo suddenly was, adrenaline and something he didn't, wouldn’t, couldn’t even begin to understand filling him, uncertainty flaring even more solid heat through him.

 

Merry shoved down against Frodo, driving the breath from his lungs; abruptly confinement was melting from fury to fascination, and when Merry pulled his wrists back and over his head, pinned him against the rigid wood of the trough, Frodo found himself arching up beneath him, daring, begging.

 

Reason, cold and jagged, suddenly laid him open, and he looked at what he was doing, tried to say something, make protest, any protest.  He must have stiffened, because Merry's hold clenched painfully tight; the sensation rippled down Frodo's spine, flared through his belly, and the tongue that had so freely betrayed other drunken impulses stilled, refused to do what he wanted—and small wonder, it was tangling with Merry's and he was groaning deep in his throat, and if the remainder of what reason he had bled out into the straw beneath him, he wasn't sure he cared.

 

"Yes," Merry breathed into his mouth.  "I know."

 

No you don't know, I don't know and what am I doing?

 

He fastened his teeth into Merry's lip again, but the intended bite turned into merely a warning nip, and the resultant kiss shoved him back against the trough again, and again that sudden and alien need flared behind Frodo's eyes and down his spine.

 

Merry drew back, considered him with his mouth quirked in a tiny smile, and Frodo found himself answering it with one of his own.

 

Challenge.  Invitation.  Denial.  Warning.

 

Which was it?

 

He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

 

Merry's hands softened; he dipped his face to the crook of Frodo's neck, let soft, steady breaths lick against wet skin.  Heat slashed right through Frodo's bones, curled down his backbone, flared brilliant behind his eyes when Merry's hands tightened on him, pulled him.

 

Spun him about.  Pressed him, face down, over the trough.

 

A jagged edge of anger sparked, set firm his spine; Merry merely pressed closer, angled tighter with a motion that made Frodo shudder to bone; nevertheless he held onto that anger, made attempt to shield himself with it.

 

"Let me go," forced itself from his throat, reason trying to compel its way outward, take back the control he'd suddenly and inexplicably lost.  "I have to go—"

 

Merry shifted, sinuous with a heated, rigid core; Frodo tried to bite back the groan that escaped his lips, failed.  Humiliation did battle with lust, sending his brain buzzing; his breath caught, sharp and choppy,

 

"Tell me it's what you really want," Merry murmured into his skin, "and I'll let you go."

 

The tie he'd earlier wished to fling aside felt as though it had shrunk, wet and tight about his throat, tightened even as Merry's hold about his ribs loosened, ever so slightly, as the body holding firm to his made as if to pull back.  This time anger didn't flare, it fled, retreating beneath a sudden jolt of panic that shot through Frodo, choked him, suffocating and mystifying, sharp and ragged, petrified… 

 

No, not this time, don't just let me go…

 

Yet he couldn't say it, could barely think it, couldn't even bring it to the back of his tongue, despite the fact that all evening his mouth had been spouting against his will like a fountain of rampant mortification, and he wasn't sure but that he should be grateful for the silence, because if Merry knew… if he knew…

 

Merry bent his head; his lips smoothed across Frodo's nape and over to his pulse point.  Then: "You see?  I know."

 

The whisper was so low that Frodo wasn't even sure he heard it, but the heat of it slicked into the droplets of water still glossing their slow way down his throat, seeping into his collar.  Dozens of wet trails dripping over his skin and they singed him, burned him. 

 

You can't know, not this.

 

Frodo wished that he could pull the knowledge from his own mind, flick it aside so that he wouldn't have to see it or know it, either.  Grasping at something real and settling for passion; reaching for connection and submitting to a rut; allowing himself to sink inside a sensory smokescreen, because he wanted it, because he could pretend that Merry really did know and that this was more than a desperate, sordid shag on the floor of a stable.

 

Because he could let those arms wrap about him, enfold him inside their circle of acceptance, and pretend that he belonged there.

 

Merry's hand shifted about his waist, curled softly against his ribs and trailed a slow path in and down.  Every fibre in Frodo's body popped and spangled and followed the progress of that hand.  Tingling heat pressed itself low in his belly beneath the sweep of Merry's touch, and a mixture of prescience and innate craving flushed him hot.  A sharp breath forced itself into Frodo's lungs, a low whine pushed back in its wake as Merry's hand finally—finally—settled between his legs, cupped, squeezed.  Frodo groaned, his body juddering instinctively into that touch, so familiar yet so suddenly different, somehow: more purposeful, possessive…

 

"Tell me to stop," Merry whispered.

 

A chance to stop it, deny it, stay the humiliation that rolled dark and dirty with the wanting.  One word and Merry would stop, probably even apologise, and Frodo could pretend that this strange craving was not inside him, winding through him, forcing itself into the light.

 

Yet no rejection would rise to his mind, let alone his tongue; Frodo only groaned, helpless to prevent himself from rocking into that broad grip and then back again into the cradle of Merry's hips, sidling and snaking down then up again until Merry was the one to groan, low and breathy.  Teeth sinking into his throat, hot, moist breath slipping under the barrier of his collar then down his breastbone, pushing heat where the chill of the wet fabric set him shivering.

 

"Tell me to stop."

 

I don't want you to stop.  I want you to…  I want you to know.

 

Frodo thought he'd known helplessness bare moments ago at Merry's hands; it was nothing to the helplessness of being snared by his own reactions.  He arched his back, braced one shoulder against the trough and shoved back into Merry, twisting and rocking not out of, but into Merry's hold.  Merry bent closer, pushing him forward over the trough so that Frodo had to fling both hands out and forward, saving himself from another ducking.  He gave a hiss as the trough edge bit into his injured hand, felt the blood thump heavy against the wound in his palm, felt it ground him, bring him back to here.

 

Again, he tried to free himself… no not free, not really—but to twist from Merry's grip, in Merry's grip; he needed to touch, to feel, to paint breath and need on Merry's skin with hands and mouth.  But Merry still held him tight—ensnared—and though it rocked every fortification that he still possessed, Frodo let him, acquiesced to the claim that hold spoke of and demanded.

 

It was almost abstractly that Frodo realised Merry was fumbling at his belt, yanking the buckle free and flicking away at buttons, pushing his trousers down about his thighs, but there was nothing abstract about Merry's touch.  Merry's hand was like fire on him, sudden and searing, and as he tugged Frodo tight against his chest, dipped his mouth to Frodo's throat, Frodo said low, almost a sob, "Merry," the inflection and intonation a language that only Merry would understand, and he stilled, sucked in a breath against Frodo's shoulder.

 

"We haven't—"

 

"I don't care!"

 

Any further protest stilled; the inheld breath hissed out past Merry's teeth, low and shaky.  His hands dragged away from Frodo to yank at his own trousers, the scrape of his knuckles against the small of Frodo's back splintering sensation up his spine, arcing around and flowering through his chest. 

 

Frodo could have got loose then, could have shrugged and stretched and broke the bond of muscle and bone; instead he tossed the hair from his eyes, glared about at Merry: plea, demand, goad.  Merry's eyes went dark and he gave a low curse; there was the sound of cloth tearing then Merry was spitting into his hand, one arm snaking beneath Frodo's right arm and across his chest, snugging harshly tight and nigh driving the breath from him.

 

"I've got you."  Merry's voice was throaty and slow, and he wielded it like a bloody weapon, sliding it low and rasping against nerves bared and notched nearly raw.

 

"Then have me," Frodo growled back, threat and entreaty both.

 

Pain and fire and red, burning heat flashed, scorched itself low and deep, and there was a moment of owowow but the ohbloodyfuckyes quickly overrode it.  Frodo breathed through it all, broken and thin, while Merry remained motionless, waiting; Frodo could feel him vibrating, wanting to move and forcing himself still.  He closed his eyes, ground his palm into the edge of the trough until pain took a slow, rolling slip-slide into pleasure and Frodo breathed deep, rocked himself back.  A quiet moan from Merry, a warm hand to the blade of Frodo's bare hip and permission was granted with a sharp ripple of Frodo's backbone. 

 

No slow build, no languid roll and sway; Merry buried his face into Frodo's hair, thrust deep and quick, and Frodo couldn't find the breath to scream as Merry did it again, then again, then reached around his hip and took hold of him in a grip both rough and artless.  Sweet pleasure-burn throbbed and filled the dull underlying bite of pain; Frodo's senses stretched and reeled, narrowed and contracted as Merry thrust against him, and he rocked violently back, frantic and blind and graceless.

 

Grunts of effort, hoarse and heavy gasps, the scent of hay and sweat and pony, slap of impact and slide of sweat-damp skin; Frodo's reason hanging from him in tatters as surely as the clothes that hung half-on and half-off his straining body.  It had never been like this—neither the coarse immediacy of a swift rut on a stable floor, nor the darkling abandon with which he submitted to such.

 

Yet beneath that odd-dark abandon was the knowledge, never admitted, that while his primary instincts demanded resistance of such, once broached they would but make the inevitable trust of surrender one sweet and almost sacrosanct.  The refusal to be dominated and the uncanny relief of allowing it: thorn and rose all at once, and even as Frodo needed to impale himself on the one, he would yet roll about in the silk of the other.

 

And Merry said, "I know, love.  I know."

 

Save him, Frodo believed him, curled into and hung onto those words as if they were a lifeline or storm-lee, admitted to the bizarre comfort and safety to be had there… and was this all he was, then?—no better than some outcast pup quivering for a tender touch, a desperate wretch willing to sell his soul for a place to belong?  The knowledge pierced his senses, diamond-sharp, that he didn't care, wouldn't care, couldn't care… he wanted this, wanted Merry, wanted his own bit of home in Merry's heart, and if this was the price then it would be paid.

 

Don't stop, don't leave me… don't let me leave you, and bloodyfuckdon'tstopnow, and it was fast, too fast; Frodo reached for the sensations that swept through him, spent his efforts on feeling every last one—the low burn that scraped at his lucidity; the spangling flare of bright-white pleasure that fizzed then snapped and shattered up his backbone with each push of Merry's hips, thundered through his chest and made it hard to breathe; the fiery ache in his thighs; and his blood prickling distant and dull in the palm of his hand.

 

It was a frantic assault on his body, as well as a devastating assault on his sanity, and Frodo felt everything—felt Merry's movements go convulsive and jerky, felt the cry that trembled up from his belly and voiced itself into Frodo's shoulder, felt the strain and ache of Merry's arms in the vibrations beneath his skin, felt the stutter and snap of their hips—Merry's against his and his against the wood.  The trough—his support—also shuddered beneath the onslaught; water splashed upwards, spattering his cheeks and misting his lips, and Frodo wondered if he was once again to be taken under, opened his eyes to find ripples of lantern-light skimming the water, and within the calm centre vortex, his own eyes peered back at him from the shallow depth and, again, Merry above him.  Only this time it was so, so unlike before…

 

Had Frodo thought, even for a moment, that there was anything unseemly, anything salacious about this?

 

Both of them raw and exposed this time—both of them—and Merry was a nimbus of gold behind him, radiant heat behind cool darkness.  Everything in Frodo, every emotion and the fever and fervour behind it, right there and plain in his eyes. 

 

And this time Merry's eyes… 

 

Merry's eyes watched him, held him; Frodo was trapped, pinned by that gaze just as surely as any hand-hold.  'I know,' those eyes told him, and this time, Frodo believed it, filled himself up with the knowledge, as solid and real as Merry's hands on him.  Winding through him, taking his sense, and with it, the notion that he could get lost, completely and totally just… lost… dissolve, cease to be, maybe, or worse, exist and still be lost…  It should have terrified him, yet there was no confusion in Merry's eyes, no shame in his own; Merry stayed, stayed, and instead of breaking away, Frodo moored himself in clear grey, hung on.

 

Said:  Want this, want you, and I want you to know, to see…

 

Heard:  I know you, I know what you want and why, and so I give it to you but only when you want it.

 

A long cry gathered and drew forth from that image; Frodo saw it, felt it more than heard it, and he watched, bound and willing, as Merry closed his eyes, groaned Frodo's name, gave a last great thrust.  And just before Frodo's breath pushed itself from his lungs, warped then shattered the vortex of calm beneath him, Merry opened his eyes again, looked at him, saw him… took him with him.

 

A quickflash stripe of heat up his spine; Frodo was undone, falling, and he sent a silent plea to Merry to hold on, don't let go, and Merry heard it somehow, panted, "I've got you," hoarse and rusty, reached around, groped and gathered him.  Release shuddered through Frodo, flung him wide, and he let it—let go because he could, because he was held and grounded and boundless, all at the same time.

 

For long moments after, his mind was blank-white; when welcome colour finally began to unfurl behind his eyes, unfortunately it brought sensation along with it, nerves stitching themselves back to muscle and bone.  Which was not so welcome.  His breastbone stung from its enforced residence against the wooden trough, his lower back twinged, his knees burned from being padded with nothing but bits of chaff and straw on the hard floor, and his thighs quivered so that he thought the tendons and muscles might just snap like abused springs.

 

Frodo was going to pay for this bit of debauchery in more ways than one.

 

Merry let out a reedy groan against his spine, pulled away and let himself fall back to his haunches—and, as he was still holding tightly to Frodo, brought Frodo with him.  Frodo found himself somewhat dizzily and precariously balanced on Merry's thighs; he collapsed gratefully back against Merry's chest, and it was a good thing that Merry was panting out his name because he'd quite forgotten he even had one, let alone what it was.

 

"Oh, that is not good," Merry said against his ear; Frodo realised that Merry had taken his injured hand in his own.  Frodo peered over, blinked until his vision wobbled itself into something close to focus, and inspected his palm; grimaced.  The bleeding had stopped, mostly due to a coating of grime and who-knew-what that had adhered to it—it looked a proper blood-caked mess.  Frodo had no idea when the handkerchief had fallen off, let alone where it had got to.

 

Merry took Frodo's hand, set a gentle kiss to the wound, and Frodo sighed a little, though it emerged as something close to a whimper.  A soft kiss to his nape, warm fingers riffling through damp hair, then Merry dipped his mouth right below Frodo's ear, whispered, "You are amazing, did you know that?"

 

And this too Frodo would believe, because Merry believed it, and if he could trust Merry with the very worst of himself, he could trust him in this.  "And you," Frodo said after a moment, his voice still weak and high because apparently he'd gone and lost an octave somewhere, "will be the end of me."

 

A small chuckle and Merry wrapped his arms around Frodo's chest, gently this time.  "Maybe," he answered; Frodo could feel a smile against his skin.  "But it will be such an end."

 

Frodo smiled too, tipping his head to rest against Merry's.  "Of that," he told him, "I've no doubt." 

 

A deep satisfied breath loosed itself from his chest and he stretched, reached back, slipped the fingers of his good hand into the curls at Merry's nape.  The sudden need to touch and feel, as he couldn't truly do moments before, overcame him and he twisted about, plunged his hand fully into that thick, burnt gold-auburn that curled too long, down below the collar of Merry's shirt, pressed his mouth to Merry's and kissed him, thorough and deep.

 

It was as though sensation was a thing newly found; Frodo almost forgot that they were sticky and sitting on the floor of a stable, trousers pushed down about their thighs and dangly-bits covered only by virtue of the fact that shirttails tended towards modesty.  The drive for arousal presently impossible, the need for struggle or skirmish sated; he wanted only this moment, this feeling, this familiarity of whatever it was they had between them—to touch it, perhaps even define it… or perhaps to just let it be what it was and stop doubting its veracity.

 

It was Merry who finally pulled back with a small groan, took a few deep breaths and rested his brow against Frodo's, laughed a little.  "You're jealous," he said, a mischievous spark in his eye.

 

Frodo flushed, muttered, "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" and flushed deeper at Merry's snort.  "Oh, yes, you'd like that immensely.  Despite the fact that everyone back at the party wanted you and you know it."

 

Strangely enough, it was Merry's turn to colour.  "One or two, maybe."  He shrugged, seemed suddenly to find Frodo's collar inordinately fascinating as he quirked a completely unconvincing smirk.  "'s usually the other way 'round, innit?"

 

And if that didn't make Frodo's heart do several flip-flops.  Which was probably not a good thing, as it had been doing plenty of flopping about already this evening—right along with his stomach.

 

Oh, but he was going to pay for all this in the morning.  If it even waited until the morning

 

"Frodo," Merry said a bit hesitantly, "what did my father say to you?"

 

Frodo kept himself from sighing, instead put on a smile that he hoped was more credible than Merry's and shrugged.

 

"Your father," he said lightly, "says I haven't enough Brandybuck in me."

 

Merry lifted an eyebrow.  "Well, everyone has to be right at least once in his life."  His smirk broadened, turned to a bemused little smile when Frodo snorted.  "But I'd say we took care of that good and proper."  And then the smile disappeared and his eyes narrowed.  "That couldn't have been all of it."

 

Glory, why couldn't Merry just let it go, just this once?  So certain he knew everything, yet he couldn't seem to see that Frodo was too exhausted to even care to remember what Saradoc had said to him—that he didn't want to remember.  So much emotional upheaval this evening, and the last thing Frodo wanted right now was to spend one more ounce of energy on Saradoc Bloody Brandybuck.

 

Frodo only shrugged again, hedged, "Well, you know how it is: I said I thought calico was going to be all the fashion in bodices this year, and he disagreed and said it would be gingham."  He rolled his eyes, waved his hand about.  "The hobbit has no fashion-sense."

 

A snort this time and a real grin.  "Oh," Merry wrapped his arms about Frodo, squeezed the breath from him, "I do love you so," he chuckled into Frodo's nape.

 

Frodo silently sighed his relief—distraction was a damned handy thing sometimes; especially when the distractee agreed to go along with it—pulled back, looked Merry in the eye, serious behind his smile.  "Sometimes I'm not quite sure why, you lovely lad, you."  He reached up, brushed at Merry's hair, turned his eyes to his fingers and followed their progress as they trailed down Merry's throat, skimmed over his collar and tie, rested on his collarbone.  "It's only ever that you've got the Sun in you somehow and sometimes you blind me, turn me stupid."  His grin turned rueful.  "I suppose I could use that as an excuse for my behaviour tonight."  The smile slipped further and he raised his eyes back to Merry's.  "And you'd let me, wouldn't you?"

 

Merry opened his mouth, but Frodo shook his head, his hand tightening on Merry's shirt.  "Don't answer that."  Merry only lifted his eyebrows, kept silent.  "Listen…"  Frodo looked at his hand again, unclenched it from the damp fabric.  "I am sorry.  For the way I… for all of it, all right?  I hardly remember half of what I said and what I do remember I didn't mean."

 

"No?"  Merry leaned forward, nibbled a bit on Frodo's chin.  "Not even the part where I'm lovely?  I quite liked that part."

 

Frodo pulled back slightly, rolled his eyes.  "I'm attempting to apologise and you're not helping, you know."

 

"I wasn't trying to.  Apparently I am the injured party here and I'm not quite sure that getting shagged senseless only the once will make up for it."  His hand ran a smooth, warm prickle over the hyper-extended hollow of Frodo's back.  "I think I need more apologies.  In all sorts of different positions.  Good thing you're fairly flexible."  His grin turned wicked and he reached up, slowly unknotted Frodo's tie.  "And now that I know how…" coughed, "…responsive you can be when you're not allowed to distract me with your busy hands…"

 

The word 'allow' still held the tiniest sting, but it was slicked and soothed over as Merry's hand, ever so slowly, drew the tie from Frodo's collar and dangled it from his fingertips.  His gaze smouldered as he reached up, pulled his own tie loose, twined it with Frodo's and ran them both through his fingers. 

 

"Perhaps some of those positions should deal with these ties and the bedposts."

 

Oh, but he was entirely too good at this.  Despite exhaustion and a sick wriggle in the pit of Frodo's stomach that promised retribution for all those drinks all too soon, arousal was fast moving back into the realm of the possible.  And he couldn't stop staring at Merry's mouth.

 

Yet…

 

It wasn't so simple.  No one else—ever—had been able to do this to him, and seemingly it had nothing whatever to do with what Merry could do to his body and everything to do with how Merry held his heart.  And that was something new, and even as the thought presented itself to him, it took no time at all for it to begin jibbering and running almost-panicked little circles in his mind, and yet fill him warm at the same time—Merry did hold his heart, Frodo had to acknowledge, and he spent a moment in silent wonder that the very fact gave him, not just dismay but elation. 

 

Oh, save me, is this what love is?  And… well, now what? 

 

He took a wobbly breath, leaned in and rested his head to Merry's shoulder. 

 

"Merry," he murmured, "you do know, don't you?  You know that—"

 

"Everything," Merry answered, no smiles in his voice, and he placed a soft kiss in Frodo's damp hair.

 

Frodo frowned, shook his head.  "No, I mean—"

"Everything," Merry repeated, returned the embrace, squeezed.  "Now shut it, will you?  You're thinking too much again and distracting me from my mental list of positions and contortions.  You'll thank me later."

 

Frodo let it go, chuckled, pressed a kiss just below Merry's ear before pulling back.  "Randy tween.  What am I to do with you?"

 

"Oh, I think the question is more like what am I do to with you and I've several ideas, not to worry."  Merry's eyes were sparking again.  "I know you think I'm joking, but there are some things," he held up the ties and ran them through his fingers again, the smoky smile still curling at his mouth, "I would never joke about."

 

A strange sensation, indefinable, touched and set him a-quiver.  "I wasn't joking, either," Frodo said, just as headily quiet.  Merry's eyes flickered, and Frodo wasn't sure what he was feeling himself at the moment, so to expect that he could pin Merry's reaction was too much for anyone to ponder.

 

Instead he pulled away, tugged a rebuke at Merry's hair.  "But not now."  He angled himself somewhat unsteadily to his feet, began to refasten his trousers. 

 

"You'd best put your saddle back up," Merry told him, "and put the rails back up around Hickory.  If he escapes his stall I'm not covering for you.  Dobbs will kick my arse sooner than yours.  That is…"  The hesitation made Frodo peer up from his buttons.  Merry looked uncertain for a moment then said, with the air of taking the bit in his teeth, "That is if you're staying, of course."

 

Frodo smiled, slipped the end of his belt through the buckle.  "Of course," was all he said, and was a little surprised at how pleased he was when Merry returned his smile with a relieved one of his own.

 

He held his good hand out to Merry, and with some effort, helped him up.  They spent a few quiet moments making themselves presentable, another moment or two looking for a missing trouser button from Merry's placket; Frodo thought about reaching up and plucking the bits of chaff from Merry's hair then pictured Saradoc's face and decided, with not a small amount of inner satisfaction, against it. 

 

"There, now.  You really should get back to your adoring admirers.  And I should have a bath."

 

"Well, that's hardly fair."  Merry scowled, poked Frodo in the side and made him yip.  "I'm the one who did all the work, you know.  Why do you get a bath and I get to go play host?"

 

"Because you are the host," Frodo reminded him.  "And because you didn't get your head dunked in a watering trough."  He displayed a healthy scowl, though Merry was entirely too unrepentant and just this side of smug; a spark of heat wanted to curl again in Frodo's chest at that arrogance, but he chose to ignore it this time, only said, "And, because you know you want to go sit right next to your father smelling of sex."

 

"Ooh…"  Merry marvelled.  "That's really quite wicked of you, love."  He flashed a grin.  "And very astute.  You know me too well."

 

Frodo said nothing, only smiled. 

 

Not well enough but I'm working on it.

 

* * *

 

PART TWO

 

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