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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
* * *
Merry stopped a few yards down the path, found himself a nice little niche in the shadows and waited; only when he saw Frodo leave the stable and turn himself towards the Hall did he close his eyes and take a long, deep breath. Too many times had he made or almost made the wrong assumption, the wrong decision, and it could have been bad.
Now that it seemed over, a wash of confused emotion came at him, nearly rolled him under. He was completely at sea over exactly what had gone on tonight, most of it still ricocheting back and forth in his head, but knew it was just dumb luck that he'd hit upon the right words, the right actions, and he'd done it by instinct, really. If he relived every single moment of this night and examined it with a magnifying glass, he still wouldn't really know what happened or why what he'd done had been the right thing to do, and he blessed both blind luck and blinder intuition that Frodo was right now on his way to Merry's own rooms and not back to Hobbiton. Because he had meant to go, Merry saw it plain in his eyes.
Merry could only guess at what his father had said to Frodo but he had a few ideas. Jealousy was not something he'd ever thought to see from Frodo, but there it had been, plain as day in that wounded, burning glare, in those stinging, shocking words—what could Saradoc possibly have said to stir that kind of reaction from Frodo? It made no sense whatsoever, but Merry honestly couldn't say right now whether he wanted to clock his father on his big, stupid head or whoop and preen. Frodo didn't get jealous; sometimes it infuriated Merry and sometimes he wished he could own that same confidence and equilibrium himself.
Tonight, all of that had changed. Tonight, Frodo had been not only jealous, but vulnerable, and he'd let Merry see it all—he'd let Merry in. If Merry had ever before doubted that Frodo's feelings for him were real and as deep as his own, tonight had put those insecurities to rest well and proper. And though he thought perhaps drink might have played more than a small role in it all, and Saradoc a larger one, it didn't change the fact that Frodo had let Merry finally see what was beneath all of the usual caution, had shown it all to him—had trusted him.
It was what Merry had been waiting for. Sometimes he even thought he lived for it.
And now? Now he had it.
Of course, Merry could have done without all of the drama that had come along with the revelations.
And the biting.
He sucked his bottom-lip between his teeth, ran his tongue over the ragged flesh and tasted the sweet-sharp tang of blood. That was probably going to swell and most likely smart like a bugger and a half tomorrow. And yet, even as he prodded at it with his finger, brought that finger back smeared with blood, still he found a small, lopsided grin blooming at the corner of his mouth, and he muttered a curse—some odd mixture of fondness and exasperation.
Even so, he couldn't pretend that he didn't share a great deal of the blame—he was the one, after all, who kept sending shots to the table, though he'd thought it was a good idea at the time and had no clue it would backfire as it had done. He'd only seen Frodo truly drunk twice before and both times, he'd got sloppy, certainly, but happy, too. As far as Merry knew, Frodo was a 'Fun Drunk', as Beri always put it, and when Merry saw his father ensconce himself in the chair next to Frodo, he'd thought pushing him from tipsy into soused a capital idea—not only because he thought it would make it easier for Frodo, but because Merry remembered very well the second time he'd seen Frodo drunk, and he'd been not only happy but quite… well, pliant. Merry had wanted these two weeks they were to have together to be perfect, with no arguments and all the fun—and sex, yes, all right—they could stuff into them; starting it off with Saradoc had not been in the plan.
And look where it had almost got them. Actual physical blows in a bloody stable, for pity's sake; he couldn't think about how close they had come to tripping themselves into the end without his stomach dropping. And that Frodo could even think that Merry would do the things he'd accused him of…
So, all right, Merry had felt Frodo's eyes on him—how could he not?—but he'd honestly had no idea what it meant; it hadn't occurred to him that Frodo might be jealous, because… well, because it was Frodo. And maybe the intent had been there, as Frodo had implied, but Merry didn't think so, since he knew good and well—quite often to his own chagrin—that it simply didn't occur to Frodo to get jealous, let alone lash out because he was, so how could Merry be blamed for making it worse when he didn't even know it was a problem until it was almost too late?
And just Merry's luck that all of it would play directly into the troubles he and Frodo had had just this past winter, when Frodo had gone and got all 'generous' and decided he might be too old for Merry after all. It had taken every scrap of will Merry owned to keep the hurt locked down tight and remember that it was just Frodo's way of loving someone, removing himself or trying to, when he thought his absence might serve another better than his presence.
Still, it had hurt, hadn't it, knowing that Frodo would do without him, regardless of the intent behind it. And what was tonight if not that same tune sung in a different pitch? He shuddered to think what would happen when he came of-age; Frodo would probably nag him to take a wife more than his mother would, and really—how was he expected to guess where all of Frodo's anger had come from when Frodo did everything possible to make it clear that he wanted and would accept no real hold on Merry? The surprise, the very idea of jealousy had at once puffed Merry up and sideswiped him, and he breathed a long, heavy sigh that he'd managed to blindly stumble them both through what came of it.
Is that what this has been about, then? A way to get back at your father?
Even now, it made his hands fist and a frustrated sigh force itself through clenched teeth.
The anger had been high and bright and choking while it lasted, because damn it, he'd never known anyone else, ever, who had such high self-esteem and yet so fragile an ego. It was another of those countless contradictions that made up his amazing, inexplicable cousin, and Merry loved all of them—even if they did drive him to the brink now and again. But just the same, Frodo should have known better, sod it all—he should know Merry better. And perhaps there might have been a grain of truth in it before Frodo had actually said 'yes' that Yule; it would be foolish and deceitful for Merry to deny that pissing his father off didn't hold at least a small attraction when he'd set his sights on Frodo. Everything that might piss his father off held at least a small attraction for Merry. But still.
Had Frodo ever really been a 'conquest' to Merry? Just another in the long list of trysts during his two years of brazen debauchery? A challenge more stimulating than the multitude of tweener chums eager for a tumble with anyone willing? Merry didn't think so. He might have told himself so, might have even managed to convince himself for a while, but if he was truly honest with himself, he would have to acknowledge that he'd been in love with Frodo even before he knew it himself, even before he'd realised there was a difference between sex and physical love; even if it was 'just sex' to Frodo, it had never been so to Merry.
And tonight had proven beyond any doubt Merry might still have had that it wasn't 'just sex' to Frodo either. Merry had known it since that first night but now he knew it, and Frodo did, too; tonight had proven that as well.
Still, there was the ever-present matter of watching his tongue, lest he slip and lay it all out in the open, only to perhaps watch Frodo turn tail and run, and oh, Merry'd come so close to blurting it all, hadn't he? And Frodo had needed to hear it, had needed to know it, Merry could tell, even if something in Frodo still refused to allow it, still insisted upon pretending it was less than they both knew it was. But he had to know how Merry felt, even if he wouldn't let Merry say it the way he wanted to, and if he hadn't shut Frodo up, distracted him with cheek and banter, Merry might have spilled it all then bollixed all of the flimsy fixes he'd blundered into. Because that was the first thing he'd known about Frodo: have all the feelings you want, just don't speak them, don't make him acknowledge them, make them real, because if he knew you loved him like that, he couldn't pretend he didn't love you back just as hard, couldn't pretend he could lose you and survive.
'You know, don't you?'
Of course, Merry knew, though, glory, sometimes he so wanted to hear it, but he'd known from the start that this was how it had to be. And he wanted Frodo to know, and he wanted to say it out loud, and more than just a passing affection when the mood was light and he could get away with it. And it hacked him off that he had to hold back that way, that he even had to know these things, act upon them, stop his mouth from spewing declarations of love like they were filthy swear-words, even when Frodo was in the process of falling apart for his own lack of knowing.
Fury once again crawled up from his belly, twined itself inexplicably with fond amusement. How was it possible to love someone this hard and want to strangle them at the same time? He walked a fine-line with Frodo a lot of the time, and as much as he'd sometimes like to throttle him, he couldn't imagine life without him, could hardly remember what his life had been two years ago before he had him, and wasn't the least bit interested in trying to. Still, the pain was sometimes deep and cutting; Merry thought Frodo would probably never know the struggles he'd had with himself to overcome it—in fact, Merry sincerely hoped Frodo never did know, else it might be the end for good and all.
It was ironic and somewhat sad that the one thing Frodo really needed to hear was the one thing that would surely send him running. Merry wondered how much his father had had to do with the shell of adamant Frodo kept about himself; how many hard lessons from Saradoc or others like him had Frodo had to learn before that shell had become a method of daily survival?
A flash of rage landed low in his belly and Merry tamped it down. This time, at least, he knew in which direction to point the anger and a good portion of the blame. He sucked a harsh breath between his teeth, squared his shoulders, felt his hands roll into fists again all of their own. And went looking for his father.
He wasn't hard to find, seeing as how he hadn't arsed himself to move from the spot where Merry'd left him. Though, now that Frodo had left and spoiled his fun, he had apparently regained interest in the party and was letting his eyes rove over the guests, appraising. Merry knew the pattern well: Saradoc was looking for a game. It had long-since lost its affect on Merry; all it did now was bring forth a weary sigh. The orchard debacle had taught Merry a lesson well-learned, and Saradoc now had a personal account that Merry himself kept balanced and paid in full, so at least he couldn't do much damage—to the Hall's assets, anyway; he'd proven quite well this evening that he could still wreak destruction on hearts.
Merry shook his head, picked his way through the party-goers, expressing regrets and apologies as he went that he wasn't able to join this one for a drink or squire that one's daughter through a reel, wishing this one luck with her daughter's upcoming handfasting and congratulating that one on his recent coming-of-age. It was mechanical; Merry waded through most of it without sparing an actual thought to whatever was coming out his mouth. His grandmother had once told him that he was a natural host and he'd had cause to be grateful for it more than once.
He approached his father slowly, kept his head down, eyes to the ground; if he looked into his eyes, the anger would take hold of him again and he didn't want to let his rage run away with his brain. He sat, just as Frodo had teased, right next to him, glanced out the corner of his eye to make sure his father was watching then deliberately ran the ties through his fingers, reached up, slowly drew a piece of chaff from his hair, examined it thoroughly then let it drop, watched it flutter slowly to the ground. His father's eyes were upon him the entire time; Merry tried very hard not to take any more satisfaction than what was due from the knowledge.
Finally, he turned on his chair, looked at Saradoc. "I don't know what you said to him." His voice was steady, cold. "And I don't want to know. But I will have no more of it." Saradoc tried a sneer, opened his mouth. "I will have no more of it." Low and spoken through his teeth; Merry stared at his father, let the fury spark through in his gaze, and watched in satisfaction as his father's own gaze turned from arrogant to doubtful then… slipped. Saradoc looked down, turned away, and a small part of Merry's heart that slept beyond his own ken, watched father cowed by son then cracked and bled. What he wouldn't give for a father who inspired love and pride in his son's heart, instead of loathing and shame and an odd, uneasy sort of pity.
Merry stood, took his leave without another word and—between one breath and the next—banished all thoughts of his father from his mind for the night. He found his mother, begged a headache, flushing only a little when she spotted his swollen lip, and lied without shame as to how he'd got it. Stuffing his hand into his pocket—he'd lie about that too, if he had to, but why ask for it?—he suffered a kiss to his brow and started back to the Hall. It was a lucky thing he thought to stop in the stables on his way by; Frodo had managed to remember to replace the rails and douse the lamp but had forgotten to put his saddle up—either that or he'd decided not to brave the Devil Pony again. Merry took care of it himself and either Hickory was tired or Merry's mood gave off a 'Don't muck about with me' vibration, for the pony merely blinked at him and stood quiet when Merry retrieved the saddle.
He was whistling, already in a better mood, as he strolled up the path to the Hall, ambled through the courtyard and into the main tunnel, toying with the ties in his pocket. A stupid little grin curled at his mouth and he shook his head. It hadn't taken long for Merry to figure out that Frodo was the one in charge in the bedroom. Even when he bottomed, he was a top. Mostly because he was so damned good at it all—bloody sex on a stick—and turned Merry witless before his trousers even hit the floor. But sometimes, Merry wanted to be the one turning Frodo into putty, flinging him to heights that would make him scream with want, and he so rarely got to do it.
Tonight, however, had been an exception and one that still had Merry's head spinning. Frodo, for a small stretch of time, had allowed Merry to love him, had let him show it, and even when he'd had the choice to leave, he'd stayed, had relied on Merry to know what he needed… and had let Merry give it to him.
An amazing thing, to watch that control slip and shatter, to watch Frodo let it, and to feel it as Frodo threw himself into Merry's power, accepted that control… trusted him. It was a step forward, what Merry had been waiting for, hoping for, and in that single moment of letting go, Frodo had handed it to him. He had needed and looked to Merry to give him what he needed, and though Merry couldn't say he knew entirely what it was he'd given, Frodo seemed to and that was more than enough, as far as Merry was concerned.
It was more than arousing; it was intoxicating and not just in a physical way. Frodo kept too tight a rein on himself for Merry to believe it was all about what they did with their bodies. Something had happened back there, something big—some gear slipping into place, a piece to a puzzle locking in—and Merry wasn't entirely sure he wanted to think it through too thoroughly; intuition had carried him through it and he thought perhaps it was wise to leave it at that for now. He'd patiently kept his mouth shut for nearly two years; he wasn't about to go cocking it all up now by blurting things Frodo might not be ready to hear.
Though there was more than one way to say something, and that proven in a spectacular fashion this evening; Merry would very happily say it just as often as Frodo was willing to let him, and in every position possible. He grinned again—probably just as stupidly, if not moreso—twirled the ties on his finger and turned himself up the tunnel to his rooms.
The suite was dark, save for one lamp burning on the desk. Frodo's clothes—sans Frodo—were heaped on the floor beside the bed and his pack was in disarray atop it, the wardrobe hanging open on its hinges. Merry noted his own robe missing from its hook inside said wardrobe, doffed his jacket and tossed it to the bed, turned back out into the tunnel and headed towards the bathing-room. Knowing Frodo, he hadn't asked anyone for help in filling the tub and was still heating coppers. Merry draped the ties about his neck, unbuttoned his waistcoat and began rolling up his sleeves as he went. If Frodo was still getting the bath ready, Merry would help; if he was already in the bath, a little fun with water and bath-oil was not out of the realm of possibility. If Merry was really lucky, 'pliant' had begun to kick in.
He wasn't. Lucky, that is.
Merry opened the door to the bathing-room to find Frodo indeed in the bath but sound asleep. And snoring. Very loudly.
Merry had to chuckle, even as he pulled the ties from about his neck, peered into his hand, lifted an eyebrow at them lying limp and forlorn, as though they knew well their fate for the evening; he tucked them back into his pocket, shook his head and knelt beside the tub. Spent a moment just looking.
This was what unfailingly brought it all home to him, every time he'd stumble over it: Frodo was real.
'Pretty', he'd heard some call Frodo, and once he'd even overheard Amber Broadbow call him 'too bloody beautiful for his own good', and Merry had to agree mostly, though 'beautiful' hadn't really occurred to him until his hormones had kicked in and he'd begun to realise that there were more possibilities for what lay—sometimes stood—between his legs than what his own hand could provide. He was beautiful, though, with his hair so dark and sleek it was like running your fingers through brushed sable, the face that somehow always appeared pale at first glance, even when bronzed by the Sun in mid-Wedmath, and Frodo often expressed appreciation for Merry's wider, bulkier form, but Frodo was no slouch, either. More wiry than strapping, yet Frodo's build was surprisingly wide and chiselled when starkers, moreso than one would guess when he was fully-clothed.
Beautiful, certainly, though times like this, when Frodo was perhaps not so beautiful, were what made Merry stop and catch his breath. Sprawled graceless in tepid water, hair plastered wet and bedraggled to his scalp, head thrown back over the rim of the tub and mouth hanging open, rolling out rumbling snorts that would put a charging bull to shame.
He was too reckless sometimes and too careful others; he ground his teeth in his sleep and he kicked, too—hard—and sometimes he might accidentally burp in inappropriate company. He was wilful, often to the point of unreasonable. He had the most annoying habit of licking gravy from his knife, and Merry had once seen him trim his toenails with a penknife. He was snappish and snarky and just plain irritating when the urge to write was upon him and he for some reason couldn't get to pen and paper; he was too likely to go off inside his own head to the exclusion of everyone and everything about him; he was more arrogant than he thought he was, and too quick to retreat when he thought his heart was at stake.
He was real, he was touchable—no Elvish throwback or fae Took changeling, not myth and mist but blood and bone, and as much as Merry loved the otherworldly being made of Moon and stars that Frodo could be, this earthbound creature passed out in the tub was the one in whom he put his faith. The child of the stars may have the dust of the Road misting his gaze but the feet of the hobbit of the Shire would keep to the earth. Merry would see to it.
A small, rather sappy sigh, and Merry smiled and rolled his eyes at himself, leaned in to shake Frodo's shoulder; Frodo responded by releasing a great, deafening snort, eyes flying open yet hazed and blind, arms and legs spasming out so that the water in the tub splashed and rocked against the sides. Frodo's hands gripped the rim of the tub and he blinked, peered about him as though he'd forgotten where he was, found Merry.
"Wuzzat thunder?"
Sleepy and slurred, and Merry wiped the water from his face, snorted. "No, love, that was you snoring."
More blinking and a frown. "I don't snore."
"Of course you don't," Merry returned reasonably, which was normally true, except, apparently, on those occasions when Frodo had spent too much time in possession of a shotglass.
Frodo pinched at the bridge of his nose with a clumsy hand. "I've bees in my head, I think," he mumbled.
Despite the fact that the statement did not bode well for Frodo's state of being in the morning, Merry just had to grin. "Come on, love," he said, fussed a bit with Frodo's wet hair, combed gentle fingers through it. "Let's get you to bed, shall we?"
Frodo didn't answer but he didn't disagree, which was always a good sign.
Merry pried Frodo's wrinkled fingers from their death-grip on the tub and tugged him to his feet, made sure to keep careful hold until Frodo wobbled to the bathmat. Merry decided not to even try to wrestle Frodo into the robe; he simply draped it about his shoulders, cinched it closed with his hand and guided Frodo out of the bathing-room and down the tunnel to bed. Not a single protest or cross word from Frodo and 'pliant' had definitely kicked in, though not in the way Merry would have wished. Merry let the robe drop, swept the clutter from the bed, pulled back the blankets and Frodo—wet, uncombed hair, damp skin and all—poured himself between the sheets and was asleep before Merry had even patted the pillow. No snoring this time, though. Merry pulled the covers over Frodo, sighed again and shook his head. He pulled the ties from his pocket, ran them through his fingers once more then bent over Frodo and tied them in a bow to the bedpost like a promise. He smiled, kissed Frodo's damp hair and went to empty the tub.
* * *
Frodo slept like the dead; Merry didn't. After he'd got Frodo tucked up, he'd gone back out to the celebration; he wasn't the least bit tired, and since Frodo obviously wasn't going to be needing him, at least until he slept it off, Merry decided his excess of energy would be better-spent in more responsible pursuits.
Things had died down considerably when he got back; at least half of the guests had gone on their way and those who were left were those who had either pitched tents on the greenway, or had rooms at the Hall for the night. Not much socialising to be done then, only the clean-up and the staff would take care of that.
Saradoc was missing, as was Adelard, which Merry decided not to get himself worked up over. The only good thing about his father's gambling was that he insisted upon doing so with the customers and vendors, and he was so bloody bad at it that they always walked away a little richer and a lot happier. Merry would probably even end up paying a slight percentage less for those tillers than he'd originally planned, which might just balance out his father's losses. He'd worry about the math tomorrow.
At loose ends, he again quit the party and headed back to his rooms. Frodo hadn't moved so much as a hair, only lay like a stone as Merry had left him; the only thing missing to complete the picture was a puddle of drool on the pillow. He didn't stir when Merry undressed and slipped himself in beside him, didn't twitch when Merry dragged his limp, heavy form closer and twined himself about.
He spent a restless night, achieving only a heavy doze in between those times spent either groggily trying to convince himself he did not have a near-painful erection, thank you, or silently crying 'Uncle!' and trying to will it away. Between the events of the past evening, his own rather insistent and persistent libido and those bloody ties (and it had seemed such a good idea at the time), neither worked especially well.
At the first hint of dawn, he gave it up and rose, head still thick and slow and limbs a steady half-second behind. And stars above, was he sore; due partly, no doubt, to the past week of intimate acquaintance with scythes and mowers, and partly to the… physicality of last night. He twisted his back, wind-milled his arms, and tried to ignore the twingy aches in back, shoulders and thighs. And knees. He smirked a little at that last.
Coffee and an hour or two spent outside, that was what he needed. He had a meeting with Adelard scheduled over second-breakfast and maybe by the time he was finished with that, Frodo might be showing some signs of life. He was likely to have a nasty headache and, Merry knew from happy experience, orgasm did for that what most headache powders could not, so talking Frodo into some morning activity might not be entirely out of the question. Just in case, though, Merry took matters into his own hands, so to speak, in the bath—no sense in scaring Adelard away unnecessarily.
He met Berilac in the kitchens, scoffing scones; he spied Merry making his bleary way towards the coffee—already brewed and piping, thank all that was blessed—and flashed him a wide, crumb-laden grin. Merry gave him a bit of a grunt and poured himself a healthy mug, dosed it with sugar, wrapped both hands around it, let the steam waft up into his nose and closed his eyes. He cringed at the din as one of the cooks dropped a pan, waiting for the inevitable loud dressing-down from Fern, then sighed with relief when it wasn't forthcoming. Fern had a voice that would put the Horn to shame and he was quietly grateful that at least his eardrums were safe from assault for the moment. He took a sip from his cup, wincing just a little at the sting to his bruised and abraded lip.
A serving-lass breezed past him, tsked a little; Merry cracked his eyes open enough to see the sardonic glare she shot him. Even in this relatively-out-of-the-way corner of the kitchens and before things had even really geared-up for first-breakfast, they were still in the way and the staff hated it when they hung about in here. Fern shooed them out to the dining hall whenever she caught them. Not that they ever let that stop them. Berilac came for the view mostly—he had his eye on Daisy, who, if Merry was not very much mistaken, was the one who'd slipped him the scones—and Merry came for the coffee. Most everyone else favoured tea; Fern was the only one at the Hall besides Merry himself who took coffee seriously. Not that she'd ever admit as much, but Merry knew she brewed early and extra just for him. He couldn't help the bit of a smile that quirked at his mouth and he closed his eyes again, leaned his head back to the cupboard, breathing the yeasty warm smell of the early morning baking.
"Long night, eh, Merry-lad?"
Merry could almost hear Beri's eyebrows waggling. He snorted a little.
"That's one way to put it, I suppose," he replied, noticed his voice was thick and a little scratchy and cleared his throat. "Anyone heard from my father since last night?"
He was fairly certain he could predict with accuracy what the answer would be, but it was always a good idea to stay a step ahead when possible.
"Just went up about…" A pause while Berilac chewed thoughtfully. "Probably a half-hour ago, I'd guess. Had a game with that lot from Bridgefields."
Merry nodded, opened his eyes and took another heavenly sip from his mug. "I thought as much. Adelard?"
"Aye, he was there," Beri told him. "Came away with heavier pockets than he went in with, so I hear."
A tray-laden lad scooted by and they both went quiet until he was gone.
Merry looked down into his cup, said, "Yes, well… losing is good for business," even though he knew Beri was very well aware that the losing was not any sort of business strategy for the 'Master' of the Hall; still, he felt compelled to make the excuse, if not for Berilac then for himself.
Berilac, of course, let him; he gave Merry an agreeable nod and a smile and went back to his scone, dipped it into his tea. "Where's Frodo?" he wanted to know.
That brought a smile to Merry's face. "Sleeping," he told his cousin. "Don't expect to see him 'til about elevenses or so."
A sly little smirk from Berilac. "Sleeping it off, then," he corrected and shook his head. "I warned you proper about that rum, aye? That stuff from the south-end is damned potent and I saw him down four shots my own self—more than I could do and still stand. Smooth as mother's milk with a kick like a foul-tempered mule. You'd best get your mum to work on some of that tea of hers."
Merry nodded—he'd already thought of that. Well, he'd actually thought of a somewhat different headache remedy that did not in any way involve his mother, but he supposed the tea was a good idea, as well.
"And since you seem to be unencumbered this morning," Beri went on, popped the last of the scone in his mouth and downed his tea, "what say you and I go take a ride out to the east vineyard? I've a message for Tom from Grim that he's got mildew on two of the vines and wants to know if the section needs to be burned out before it spreads. You've more of an eye for all that than Tom has."
Anyone had more of an eye for anything than Tom had—poor sod was almost blind now; he did his best by the Hall but had a difficult time admitting he wasn't up to the tasks as he once had been. He wouldn't be much help in diagnosing a mildew infection.
It made Merry's stomach drop a little. Mildew, if not caught early and burnt out immediately, could devastate an entire crop, and in some cases, queer an entire vineyard for years. The east vineyard had been the best producer for almost a decade and the wine that came from its grapes was quickly gaining a reputation even outside of Buckland for its sweetness and clarity.
"Why would Grim ask Tom?" Merry mused. "He has to know he couldn't help with this."
A shrug. "Tom's his boss and they're both old hobbits. They go by the rules."
Merry nodded slowly, sighed. "Is he sure it's mildew?"
"Well…" Berilac tried his best not to look worried. "It is Grim, you know. He knows his business better than I do and probably better than even you, I'm thinking. Left to me, I'd most likely just tell him to do what he thinks best and rest my head on that block with a smile—left to Tom…" He shrugged again. "You should probably have a look-see. And anyway, the ride out will be fun and I'd feel better if you saw for yourself. I bet Grim would, too."
It sounded like an excellent idea to Merry. He gulped his coffee, left a message for his mum about the tea with a scowling Fern and then followed Beri to the stables, found himself flushing and smirking into his collar when he got there, the memory of the night before threatening to undo what little composure he'd managed to win as a result of his activities in the bath. He didn't think he'd ever see the stables the same way again and hoped that the smell of hay and pony would not forevermore give him inappropriate erections. He flushed yet deeper when Dobbs eyed them both suspiciously, asked if they knew anything about some tack got mucked about with the night before. Merry let his cousin do the talking; Berilac's look of innocence at least, was real. And glory, but he hoped Dobbs never found that confounded button.
The day was going to be a miserable one, cool and overcast with the promise of rain, and the ride out to the vineyard did the job of blowing the cobwebs from Merry's head quite nicely. He was glad because he needed every one of his wits.
When Beri had said Grim found mildew on two of the vines, Merry assumed he'd meant the leaves of two vines; the mildew was not only on the leaves but on the vines themselves, which meant it had been there for at least a few weeks and was spreading. After careful inspection, Merry found the leaves of another vine also infected, which meant Grim had missed it or it was spreading fast. Knowing Grim, Merry would bet on the latter.
Grim was one of those hobbits whose parents had somehow known his name would suit him or who had grown into his moniker, for he was the very definition of it. Older than the dirt he worked in, cragged and dour, and if he had ever smiled in his life, Merry certainly hadn't seen it. The lines in his face seemed to cut deeper today and his brow was so furrowed Merry could hardly see his eyes.
This vineyard was his own project and he cared for it like a mother hawk tending her one and only chick. It was in this very vineyard and under Grim's tutelage that Merry learned everything he knew about grapes and vines and the diseases to which they were susceptible. And Merry knew that, now he was here, Grim would do what The Master's Son told him, regardless of the fact that he'd taught Merry everything he now knew and also regardless of whether the advice was good or bad. A younger hobbit might argue but it seemed to Merry that the older the hobbit, the more deference and respect given their 'betters' and it was a fine line to walk between direction and abuse, especially since he was more to the Hall than The Master's Son and everyone knew it. Dobbs was the one and only exception, as far as Merry knew, treating Merry more as a wayward nephew than a superior, which pleased Merry immensely for some reason. Still, Merry was often caught between confident pride and fear when confronted with the responsibility for a decision like this one.
And so, after the inspections were done and a consensus was reached on how many were infected and how far the infection might spread and before Merry even opened his mouth, he asked Grim's opinions, drew him out on the details and listened closely. From what Grim said and didn't say, Merry guessed his recommendation would be to burn a third of the lot, just to be sure. Though it would mean the loss of at least two-hundred and fifty—and possibly three-hundred—bottles of the seven-hundred and fifty or so this lot was expected to produce, Grim wouldn't want to be responsible for the infection spreading throughout the rest of the vineyard. Merry thought it best not to put him in that position.
It was lucky chance that the initial infection had begun in a corner of the vineyard, affecting only one vine and the two directly adjacent. Had it begun somewhere closer to the middle, everything might have had to be burned and the soil might never support another crop—and certainly not of this particular quality. As it was, Merry decided that burning the three infected vines and then another five out in every direction, plus sulphur treatments for the rest of the vineyard, should contain, if not kill, the infection. They'd lose at least sixty bottles this year —probably more like seventy-five or eighty—but that only meant that, if its popularity grew as Merry had been hoping, when this batch was ready for market in two or three years, they could charge almost as much per bottle as they got for his mother's plum wine.
Tom rode up just as they were settling the details; Merry was the one to explain to him, and made sure to phrase everything carefully, couching instructions within requests for advice, disguising orders as procedural inquiries. He would make it all an order if necessary, but he didn't see the sense in making a hobbit feel useless if he didn't have to. And anyway, Tom wasn't useless; he still had plenty to contribute, as did Grim—they had almost one-hundred and fifty years of experience with vineyards between the two of them; that alone made them both invaluable.
In the end, Tom agreed with the consensus, gave Merry an affectionate clap on the back and a jack-o'-lantern grin.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Daily inspections would be carried out with Grim supervising. Unless another vine showed signs of infection, the harvest would go on as planned after Merry got back from Hobbiton. Grim didn't smile but his brow untwisted; Merry figured that was as close as he was ever going to get.
He spent a pleasant morning with Berilac, sampling the grapes then going over the tallies for the grain harvest with the granary forehobbit, Knoll, with Beri tagging along to keep him company. Knoll was capable at just about everything but really good at those things he could lay hands on, and while Merry depended on him for the mechanics of milling and storing, Knoll was perfectly happy to hand the task of deciding how much to sell and how much to keep aside for the winter to Merry. Figures just came naturally to Merry, always had done, and though he would do the maths on paper later, he gave his percentages to Knoll now with confidence; Knoll accepted Merry's instructions with equal confidence and then, responsibility momentarily taken care of, Merry and Berilac raced their ponies back to the Hall like lads let out of lessons early, each trying to shove the other loose from his saddle and sides aching from laughter when they reached the stableyard. Dobbs looked at them a little cross-eyed, which only made them laugh harder.
Merry met a bleary-eyed but chipper Adelard for second-breakfast, endured Viola mooning at him through negotiations, and tried not to roll his eyes. She was cute enough but she had rather too much to offer, if you asked Merry: a touch too plump, more bosom than he'd ever know what to do with and her eyes were the oddest amber colour he'd ever seen; they reminded him of a cat's eyes—he had to keep himself from shuddering every time he looked at them. And she was going to end up hanging herself with that hair one day if she didn't cut it a little shorter.
Adelard apparently interpreted Merry's appraising looks at his daughter to mean Merry was interested, rather than for the if-she-brushes-my-knee-under-the-table-one-more-time-I-might-have-to-stab-her-with-my-fork looks they actually were. All to the good, as far as Merry was concerned, seeing as how he ended up getting the tillers for almost twenty percent less than he'd planned on paying for them. There were definitely some perks to being born into title, and the carrot of a hobbit's daughter one day becoming Mistress of Buckland was one Merry had no shame in subtly dangling when it suited him. As soon as down-payment arrangements were made and a late-winter delivery scheduled, Merry politely excused himself, tried to make his glance towards Viola look promising and not relieved, and hightailed it back to his rooms.
He ran into a grim-faced Longo in the hall; Longo gingerly held a covered basin in his hands, gave Merry a long-suffering roll of his eyes as he made his way past him and down the tunnel.
Merry paused, stared after him with a bit of a frown. This couldn't be good.
He braced himself, took a deep breath, blew it out slowly and entered his rooms. Frodo sat on the bed, legs over the side, feet propped on the bedframe and head resting in his hand. He was bare-chested and Merry had to assume that the strategic placement of the sheet hid the fact that he was also bare-arsed. His hand was bandaged, which told Merry his mum had been by. And it was probably a very bad sign that Merry had to stifle a guffaw at the sight of his hair.
"You've not been up yet?" was Merry's greeting, spoken with a careful mix of cheer and concern.
Frodo didn't lift his head. "Oh, I've been up," he muttered, voice gravelled and rough. "Your mum came by, bright and early, with some tea for a headache. Said I had you to thank for it."
Merry smiled a little, stripped off his jacket and tossed it to the chair. "Well, no need to thank me."
"Good," Frodo said. "Then I won't thank you for sending her by without leaving me something to put on before she breezed in."
Merry's smile fell. Oh. He'd taken his robe with him to the baths this morning and had hung it on its peg in the cupboard when he'd got dressed. He eyed the room, noted Frodo's pack by the hearth where Merry had tossed it last night after pouring him into bed, also noted that the hearth was some distance away from the bed, especially when that distance was expected to be covered by a hobbit who'd had far too much rum the night before and might be trying to travel said distance before the concerned aunt on the other side of the door decided to use her master key.
Wait… had Merry even locked the door behind him this morning?
"And she brought her own mini-entourage with her, you know. I mean, honestly—were two maids and a valet really necessary? What on earth did you tell her?"
"Nothing, I only—"
"And I will have you know," Frodo continued, "that my stomach was perfectly fine before Longo arrived with that bloody basin. Tossed my biscuits five times, you know. I think it's a record."
Well, bugger. Hung-over and foul-tempered. Merry's visions of a late-morning romp were dimming with every cross word.
"Um…" Merry gave his head a little shake, took off his waistcoat. Because hope springs eternal and all that. "Congratulations?"
Frodo lifted his head slowly, gave Merry a look that really should have at least singed his eyebrows. "You've never thrown up five times in a half-hour before."
"Right, well," Merry choked back the very ill-advised snickers that he suddenly found clogging his throat, "everyone should have a goal to aim for, I expect."
Frodo rolled his eyes, winced and closed them again, rested his head back in his palm. "What I will thank you for," he went on, "is finding out who was responsible for that rum last night and letting me have at their goolies with one of the wine-presses. Cheers."
Merry's wince was complete reflex. So was the shudder. He decided not to respond to that one; it would only get him in trouble. Or more acquainted with the winery than he'd ever wanted to be. He shuddered again, was pleased to note that Frodo's comment did not in any way reduce the semi-erection he'd been sporting since leaving Adelard and Cow-eyes at second-breakfast, and started to unbutton his shirt. Because he wasn't about to not get sex for a lack of trying.
"Did you drink the tea at least?"
"Of course I drank the tea! Do I look like a complete idiot?"
No, Shirriff, sir, I don't think it's considered assault if he was asking for it.
Merry was ankle-deep in snark. He'd have to give his foot-fur a good brushing later.
The shirt could wait a moment; he stepped over to the bed, sat himself beside Frodo and began a gentle massage of his shoulders and neck. Frodo groaned a little but otherwise didn't respond.
"Your stomach's bad?" Merry asked.
"Mmph," Frodo replied. "Not so terrible now, I suppose."
Merry moved his fingers up through Frodo's tangled hair, rubbed softly at his scalp. "Why don't I go make you some toast, hm? Porridge? And maybe a soft-boiled egg. It might settle—"
"Please just don't…" Frodo placed a hand over his mouth, swallowed thickly; Merry felt his shoulders tense. "Don't cook me anything." He propped his elbows on his knees, rubbed at his temples. "Anyway, I think I might be dead and I doubt dead people eat." A pause and a small groan. "You'd tell me if I were really dead, wouldn't you?"
"You're not quite grey enough yet," Merry assured him, leaned a little closer. "All right, love?" He placed a soft kiss to the top of Frodo's head.
"Except for the bit where I'm dead, yes," Frodo growled. "Perfectly fine, why do you ask?"
Merry opened his mouth, closed it… decided to ignore that one. "Can I get you something? More tea?"
Frodo dropped his hands, fixed Merry with an annoyed glare. "Why have you suddenly come over all auntie?"
All right, so maybe he was being a little overly-solicitous, but still—auntie? Seemed a bit harsh, even for Frodo.
"I'm only trying to help, you know."
"And what? When you've no idea what to do, you turn into your mother?"
Merry sighed and wondered how many ways he was going to be made to pay for that rum. 'Foul-tempered mule' kept repeating itself over and over again in his head, try as he might to squash it.
"All right, what shall I do, then?" he wanted to know, kept hold of his temper and moved his hand back to work on the shoulders again. He hadn't had nearly enough sleep to prepare him for this.
Frodo sighed this time. "Just keep doing that," was the tired reply. "I'm sore everywhere and not all of it in a good way. Did I go rolling down a hill last night or something?"
Merry paused, frowned. "You don't remember last night?"
A brief, still moment then Frodo shifted, turned to look at Merry. "I remember," was all he said.
It wasn't until a relieved smile curled at Merry's mouth that he realised how quickly he'd tensed up. It wouldn't be entirely out of the question for Frodo to display second-thoughts by pretending non-remembrance; in the two seconds between the question and the answer, Merry had been completely convinced that it was exactly what Frodo would do, and it was almost too good to be true that he hadn't seized the opportunity. He hadn't realised until just this minute how precarious he'd thought this new ground they'd reached last night; now Merry's eyes flicked to the ties on the bedpost, both a tactile reminder and a promise, and his smile widened to a grin.
Until Frodo followed Merry's gaze, frowned a little, and was it Merry's imagination or did Frodo's shoulders tense again beneath his hand? The deepening frown was most definitely not Merry's imagination. Merry paused, mentally backed up a few steps; it seemed the ground might not be as sure as he'd thought, and those visions of late-morning sex were getting murkier and murkier.
Frodo turned back to Merry, eyes travelling down, only now seeming to notice Merry's state of semi-undress. And also seeming not entirely pleased now that he had noticed.
"Were you, um…" Frodo cleared his throat, looked at his hands. "Were you off to the bath, then? Don't let me keep you. I'll be fine, you know. I could probably do with a cold dash myself." He shrugged Merry's hand from his shoulder, turned slowly to squint into the corner of the room. "Is there any water left on the washstand?"
Merry would not be put off that easily.
"Well, I had a bit of a different remedy to your headache in mind." He slipped his hand about Frodo's back, let it rest on his sheet-clad hip. He leaned in, nuzzled a bit at Frodo's shoulder. "And we'll need that water for after, I'm thinking."
Another shrug and a slow twist, and Merry was suddenly nuzzling empty air. Damn it.
"I really should make myself somewhat presentable." Frodo's eyes kept darting to the ties then skidding off again.
Merry tried to keep himself from sighing. Nothing was ever easy with Frodo, was it?
"You've nowhere to be," he told him. "Unless there's an engagement you've not told me about?"
A quick jerk of his head and Frodo looked down, shrugged. "No."
"Well, then, you could stay all day in this room and no one would be the wiser." Merry leaned in again, nipped a little at Frodo's neck. "In fact, I was rather hoping you would. I told you—I've plans for you."
A small, unconvincing chuckle and Frodo's shoulder came up, nudged a little until Merry pulled back.
So, you see, Shirriff, I had to kill him.
Merry would not roll his eyes, he would not growl and he would keep his temper. He'd been through enough guessing-games last night to last him quite some time, but it appeared he was not yet through.
And anyway, the hangover was entirely his fault, wasn't it? It was only fair that he should deal with the irritability that came with it.
"Frodo," he said, quite pleased with himself that his voice was low and soft, "what is it?"
Frodo shook his head. "Nothing, only…" Merry was getting a little tired of all the shrugging. "Not feeling especially well, is all."
Merry watched Frodo's fingers pull at the bandage across his palm, pluck a bit at the fray. Frodo wasn't looking at him again and honestly—could he really think that Merry didn't know when he was trying to avoid something? Glory, he was awful at deception.
"Frodo," Merry said quietly, reached up, placed his fingers to Frodo's chin and turned his head to face him. Frodo let him but now his eyes were closed, his brow creased. "Tell me."
Frodo took hold of Merry's wrist, pushed his hand away. "Don't," he said. There was a stiffness to his voice, a coldness.
"Don't what?" Merry wanted to know; he kept his tone soft, though his eyes had narrowed and his heart thumped a little uneasily.
"I don't…" Frodo dipped his head again, turned away. "…don't like it when you…"
Merry felt a twist in his gut, a small jag of anger. "Don't like when I what?" he asked, tried to keep his hands from fisting. "Don't like when I touch you?"
"No, just…" Frodo gave a heavy sigh, turned back to Merry but he still didn't look at him, instead fixing his gaze to the buttons of Merry's shirt. "It's only that you're very forceful sometimes and you don't always know when—"
Frodo stopped, frowned, leaned in. His hand came up and pulled aside Merry's shirt.
"What is this?" he asked, and now everything about him was tense and wound tight.
Merry watched Frodo's fingers disappear inside his shirt, jumped when they pressed into a tender spot on his collarbone. "Hoy!" He flinched back a little, pulled the shirt away, and took a look at the wide black-and-blue swath that stretched from clavicle to shoulder. "Now, where did that come from?" he wondered aloud. Apparently, he'd been more than half-asleep when he'd bathed this morning and had spent too much time tending to his libido and not nearly enough preening in the mirror. He'd thought his shoulder felt a little twingy when he'd got dressed.
He really, honestly didn't remember until he peered back at Frodo, caught his look of dismay, and watched as his already-pale face paled yet further. Frodo's hand moved quickly down Merry's chest, settled on his breastbone; Merry didn't need to look to know there was another bruise there. Real alarm swamped him when Frodo's eyes snapped to Merry's hand—looking for tooth-marks, no doubt—and Merry curled that hand into a fist. Unconsciously sucking his swollen bottom-lip between his teeth, Merry snatched at his shirt, pulled it closed. Bugger, this was just what he needed.
"Frodo, don't get yourself all into a twist, all right? I think we both got a bit wonky last night, so don't—"
"Wonky?" The dismay had turned to a look of almost-horror. "This… Merry…" He shook his head slowly. "Wonky?"
"I get worse during wooling, for pity's sake, Frodo, don't make it all into some kind of drama. Glory, the one you gave me at the football game at Freddy's was twice the size of this one."
"That's…" Frodo rubbed at his brow, abruptly stood and made his slightly-crooked way over to his pack, dragged out a pair of linens and climbed into them. Damn it, now Merry was going to have to work extra-hard for sex. "It's different," Frodo went on and there was thunder at his brow.
"Why? Because I had more fun getting this one?"
Frodo paused with one arm in the sleeve of his shirt, looked at Merry with incredulity. "Fun?"
"Well, let's see," Merry answered and didn't care that his voice was dripping with sarcasm. He lifted both hands, pretended to be weighing the matter. "Sex… football… sex… football." He gave Frodo a glare. "Yes, I'm quite certain this one was more fun."
Frodo glared right back, yanked on his shirt. Merry could have told him that he was buttoning it wrong but he didn't.
"It's all just fun to you, isn't it?" was the quiet mutter. He growled when he realised his buttons were off, undid them then started again. "This is why you're too young, Merry. There is too much you don't understand."
All right—now Merry was angry. Frodo had been spoiling for a fight since Merry had walked through the door, and now Merry intended to give him one. Young. He'd spent the morning saving a vineyard, planning out the stores and sales for all of Buckland, making cow-eyes at a fat little rich hobbit's daughter and squaring a deal that would not only make up for his father's losses the night before but would set a precedent for the Hall's dealings with Adelard for years to come—and all before Frodo had even rolled over and cracked one eye open. And Merry was too young?
And bugger all, even after everything that happened last night, were they really right back to where they'd started?
"What does age have to do with anything?" he wanted to know. "I am bloody tired of all this bickering over age! Just exactly what is it that I'm too young for?"
Frodo was fighting with the buttons on his cuffs now. And he wasn't winning.
"Just…" A frustrated shake of his head. "I don't— It's—"
"Sex?" Merry asked.
A roll of the eyes. "Well, obviously not."
"Work?"
"Don't be an—"
"Drink?"
"Merry, you're missing the—"
"Love?"
That one stopped him; his back stiffened and his fingers froze on the button of his cuff. Merry watched his throat bob as he swallowed several times then he took a breath, resumed the button battle.
"What's that got to do with anything?" was the soft query.
"You should make up your mind, Frodo," Merry told him evenly. "Either you want 'fun', or you want more. But you need to let me in on your decision because I don't know which way to go anymore!"
"Well, as soon as you decode whatever it is you're talking about, I'll be sure and give you my answer!"
Merry was in it now. Pretend, yes, he could pretend, and he was bloody good at it, too, and he could tell himself it was how it needed to be and he could tell himself that Frodo loved him too much to leave him and that Frodo knew it, too, and that the only danger was in allowing Frodo to admit it to himself.
But he refused to lie.
"Yes, I suppose that would be a difficult question for you, wouldn't it?" Merry's hand clenched into the sheets, twisted. "When was the last time you admitted to really loving anyone?"
"Just who do you think—" Frodo stopped, jaw clenched, and slipped his belt from yesterday's trousers. "That's none of your business," he answered and his voice was cold. "You can't possibly understand—"
"There is nothing I don't understand." Merry felt his own jaw lock and his nostrils flare. "Like, for instance, you're so bleeding bent on punishing yourself for something you think you did last night that you'll punish me to accomplish it! Or use me to do it, but I don't think I can decide which is worse."
Frodo stomped into his trousers, still wouldn't look at Merry. "I'm so glad I have you to tell me all about how I feel."
"So, deny it," Merry challenged. "Tell me what this is really about, then."
Frodo sighed, slumped a little, rubbed at both his temples. "It isn't about anything, all right?" He pulled on his belt, buckled it and went for his waistcoat. "I'm tired and I'm not feeling well and I don't want to talk about this."
Merry could have stopped there, could have taken the opportunity Frodo had just handed him to nip it all in the bud and pretend like it never happened. He didn't. Because perhaps Merry was young but he was far from stupid.
"You slipped up," Merry said softly, walked over to Frodo and stood in front of him. Frodo was staring at him, eyes narrowed, countenance wary. "And I was there to see it," Merry went on. "That's what you're really angry about."
And the worst part was, there was now a sick curling in Merry's gut, the creeping suspicion that Frodo had slipped up. He hadn't meant any of it, hadn't ever really trusted Merry, and if he had, he was right now in the process of trying to take it all back.
A further narrowing of his gaze and Frodo's head tilted to the side. There was a warning in his eyes, telling Merry that he was walking dangerous ground now; Merry knew it, took another step.
"Can we skip ahead to the part where you make sense?" Frodo's tone was hostile, yet his face had gone blank and smooth. "Or do you plan on getting to that part any time soon?"
"You let me see," Merry murmured, took another step; Frodo backed a step of his own, stared at Merry, something sharp and blistering in his eyes—whether fear or rage, Merry couldn't tell. "You showed me and you almost told me, didn't you? Almost said it out loud and I almost let you because I wanted to hear it."
Another step and Frodo was backed against the chair now. It was fascinating, the way Merry could actually watch that instinct kick in; Frodo realised his position, decided he didn't like it then his chin jutted, jaw tightened, and his gaze hardened, nearly glittered.
"Assumptions can be very dangerous things," Frodo said slowly, carefully. "And I don't think you want to do this now."
Merry paused, swallowed. He hadn't realised he was so angry—likely some bubble-over from last night—and now that he realised what he was doing, his stomach did a lazy little turn. His palms were sweated. No, he didn't really want to do this now. He didn't think he wanted to do this ever.
He closed his eyes, gave his head a quick shake. Backed a step. Then two.
A moment of charged silence between them then: "You're right." Merry screwed a small smile onto his face and hoped it looked a lot more confident than it felt. "Can we…? Let's just, um…" He trailed off, shrugged.
We pretend your daemons away, don't we? My turn.
Merry held his breath. Anger still slithered through him but it was mixed with trepidation now. He hadn't had nearly enough sleep and was likely not thinking as clearly as he thought he was, and with the mood Frodo was in, engaging him hadn't been the smartest thing Merry had ever done in the first place.
"I think I need some more tea," Frodo finally said. "Join me for elevenses?"
The question brought Merry back to himself, made him understand fully what he'd almost done and the sheer stupidity of doing it now, when Frodo was hung-over and already in a filthy mood. The sheer stupidity of doing it at all, really, and he breathed a heavy sigh, silently thanked Frodo for having the sense—unwitting or no—to stop it before they went too far. Because it was quite possible that letting Frodo pretend that last night wasn't what it was might be the only thing that kept him from running.
Merry addressed the buttons on his own shirt. "Love to," was all he said.
Frodo held Merry's gaze for another moment then dropped his own, buttoned his waistcoat and stepped away from Merry and to the washbasin. Merry watched him cringe as he got a look at his hair but couldn't quite bring himself to chuckle.
"Listen," Frodo said as he dragged a comb through the wild corkscrews, wincing and grimacing with each tug and tear. "You don't have to come back with me, if you've too much here."
Damn you, why couldn't you just let it go?
That thumping was back in Merry's chest—had it ever really left?—and his eyes were narrowing again. He moved across the room, stood behind Frodo, cocked his head to the side.
"I've already made my plans and arrangements. I've a whole two weeks to do with as I please."
He watched as Frodo dipped his unbandaged hand into the basin of water, ran it through his hair several times, went at it again with the comb. And never once let his gaze fall upon Merry.
"Yes, I know, and I do appreciate it. I'm only saying that you don't have to, if it's going to be difficult for you."
No.
No, no, no.
Ten seconds ago, Merry was willing to let it drop, let it go, because he was close to pushing Frodo too far and he knew it. And all right, right up until he'd almost fallen into his own big mouth, he had still sort of been hoping for a quickie. But Merry had seen this little dance too many times not to know what it was, and he knew that it was simply a prelude to a withdrawal. Frodo might wait another hour or so, or maybe even until tomorrow, but he'd come up with some excuse to leave early and make sure Merry wasn't with him when he did. And after everything that happened last night—and Merry still wasn't sure what had happened, but something had and it was big, he knew it—this was just… well, it wasn't bloody fair! He'd done everything right, damn it all; he deserved more than this… this dismissal.
"Why would it be difficult for me?" Merry's voice was slow and his tone sharp.
Frodo was pretending not to notice. "Well, I don't know. I'm only saying that if it is—"
"D'you not want me to come?"
A slight pause of the comb. "Don't be stupid," Frodo replied; his tone was a little too light and he couldn't seem to stop messing with his hair. "I only said—"
"I know what you said." Why was it suddenly so hot in here? And damn it, now sex was entirely out of the question—perhaps for a very long time. "Now, maybe you'd like to tell me what you're not saying."
The grooming stopped. Frodo gripped the washstand, knuckles turning yellow-white, hunched over the basin and closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight Merry could see the muscles in it jumping and twitching.
He loves you too much to leave you, even if he won't admit it. There is too much between you for him to walk away, so buck up and make your stand, because this is too important a thing to let go. You've known all along that it can't go on like this forever—you love him too much to let him go on pretending he doesn't love you back. And damn it, you need to hear it for once!
"I thought," Frodo said slowly, "that we weren't going to do this."
How was it that Merry could, for all intents and purposes, run bloody Buckland, for pity's sake, yet one threatening glance from Frodo, one string of otherwise innocuous words pulled together into a sentence said with ominous undertones, and Merry was the quivering child Frodo so often accused him of being? He could actually picture himself stomping his foot, damn it all, and it wasn't fair, it wasn't bloody fair! He would not be cowed like this, not this time, and he would not allow Frodo to dismiss him so coldly and so quickly under the delusion that he was right in this.
Without him even knowing it, Merry's own jaw tightened and his shoulders squared. "Do which?" he asked and was surprised that his voice was so calm. "Pretend we're not fighting about last night, or pretend you're not saying you don't want me to come to Hobbiton?"
"I never said—"
"Don't insult us both, yeah? I know what you're trying to do here!"
"Well, I'm glad someone does, because I haven't a clue what you're talking about!"
"Oh?" Merry reached out, took hold of Frodo's elbow, spun him about. "Shall I tell you, then?" He couldn't help that it came out as a snarl.
Frodo dragged his arm from Merry's grip, glared at him with angry, hooded eyes. He dropped the comb to the washstand behind him, leaned back, crossed his arms over his chest. His face was no longer blank but hard and cool. His eyes glittered.
"By all means, please do."
The tone was frosted and weighted with threat. Merry almost didn't hear it for the blood thumping in his ears.
"Something happened last night, Frodo, you know it did."
"A lot of things happened last—"
"You know what I mean!" It wasn't until Merry saw Frodo flinch a little that he realised he'd shouted that last. He reined himself in, forcibly calmed raw nerves. "All this time, I've been pretending that it was all right, letting you pretend, and right up until ten minutes ago, it was all right. I knew and that was enough because it had to be and now it isn't enough anymore! It isn't all fun to me, Frodo—it's more and has been all along and even now…" He paused, closed his mouth. Go on, just say it! Anything worth doing is worth bollixing completely, eh? Merry shook his head, loosed a jagged little laugh. "Glory, even now I'm afraid to say it out loud."
He paused, heart thumping and mouth dry. Merry took hold of Frodo's arms, Frodo's eyes never leaving him, never losing that cold spark.
"You let me in," he went on, swallowed thickly. "You know you did and now you're trying to push me away, pretend it never happened, but I can't. I want whatever it was that was between us last night—I want that connection, that trust, and I want you to not have to be pissed off your head to have it, and I want you to not pretend it away. And damn it, I deserve it!"
A long moment of silence while Frodo stared at Merry, Merry nearly writhing beneath the dark gaze. He could almost feel the chill in the space between them. The anger hit him full-force with a dull thud when Frodo's mouth curled into a small cold smile and he shook his head.
"Have you become a shaman since I've seen you last?" he wanted to know and once again extracted himself from Merry's grip. "Honestly, I don't know how I ever managed all these years without you there to tell me all about what I'm thinking. Going to 'fix' me, too? I suppose all I really need is a proper tumble—that seems to be your answer for just about everything."
"Don't," Merry whispered, almost choked.
"I'm sorry, don't what?"
"Frodo—"
"No, it's really quite amazing, you know. You go on and on about how you know everything about me and yet somehow you can't seem to understand that all I want at this moment is for you to just stop!"
"Right, then," Merry retorted. "Let's come back from Frodo-world now, where you get to say any sodding thing you like and I get to say nothing, because we spend far too much time there as it is. Let's take a little holiday in my world, where loving and being loved isn't some sort of bloody trap you have to be oh-so-careful about falling into, yeah? Where you can actually say 'I want a quick dirty fuck in a stable' and I don't have to bloody guess at whether or not it's what you really want because you're too afraid to admit that you need me!
"There is always some drama with you, Frodo, always a siren crooning at you to dash yourself apart on a reef of your own making, and I am tired of trying to guess at the ten-thousand ways I'm supposed to somehow know in order to stop you. Something happened between us last night and today it's got you so terrified that you can barely even look at me, and I can't understand why I'm being made to pay for getting it right! You needed me and I was there to give you what you wanted, and now you're trying to make me pay for your second-thoughts!"
Frodo had gone still, rigid, and it almost seemed he'd stopped breathing. "And was it what I wanted?"
Fury twisted through Merry and his nerves buzzed hot and jagged. "You will go too far one day, Frodo." His voice was quiet, hard.
"And perhaps you already have."
He could be so cold at times, hurtful and ruthless, and it wasn't always easy for Merry to remember that it was self-defence—wasn't always easy for him to care what it was; sometimes all he could care about was that it cut him to the bone.
Merry shook his head, slowly. "Don't you dare." It was a warning, just as clear and sharp as Frodo's had been. "Twice, I told you to stop it and both times—"
"I was drunk!"
"And insisted over and over again that you weren't!"
"I didn't… shouldn't have…" Frodo looked away and his hands curled into fists. "I did things I shouldn't have done and I shouldn't have— I was drunk and I—"
"Right, and it's always so terribly difficult to bend you over when you're sober!"
"I wasn't thinking clearly and you know it!" "Neither was I and you don't seem to give a good damn! Are you really going to stand here and make like I forced you into something you didn't want? Is that what you'll make of me? And all of this because you almost admitted more than you wanted to? It isn't fair, Frodo, it isn't fair! I did what you wanted, I kept my mouth shut and made sure you kept yours shut, too—I did everything you wanted me to, I did everything right, so why are you doing this?"
"I have no idea—"
"You know, you keep dragging out my age, like I'm some child who can't possibly make decisions for himself, like I don't even know what my own feelings are, when you're the one throwing tantrums! You slipped up, not me, and don't you dare try to put all of this on my head, because I would have kept my mouth shut about it, I would have let it go, let you keep pretending, but you would insist on throwing it all in my face, wouldn't you?"
"You are making no sense!"
Yes he was—he was making all kinds of sense. Except for the part where he was spewing every single thing he knew he shouldn't, every single thing he knew good and well you simply could not say to Frodo and expect him to be about the next time you turned around. And yet he couldn't stop the flow, couldn't staunch the hurt and the words it birthed.
"Have you ever told anyone that you love them? Have you ever admitted, even to yourself, that you need someone? Just what does a person have to do to earn that particular privilege, eh? What do I have to do?"
"I don't have to justify any—"
"Don't you say that—not to me! I deserve better than that and you know it!"
"And what is it that I'm supposed to say? Were you expecting me to get down on one knee?"
Merry came this close to hauling back and decking him. "I can't bloody believe you," he snarled. "Twelve hours ago you were having a jealous fit—"
"I was not having a jeal—"
"—and now you can't even admit that you give a damn!"
Frodo paused at that one, pulled back and looked down. "I give a damn," he said quietly.
Merry huffed a disgusted breath, rolled his eyes. "Oh, do be careful, I may swoon from all the romance."
"Well, why don’t you tell me what I'm supposed to say?"
It was hopeless—absolutely bloody hopeless. He would never understand, he would never admit that he loved and wanted to be loved in return, would never trust another enough to need them, would never trust that he could depend on someone to stay—could depend on Merry to stay—and he would never admit that he wanted any of it. And oh, Merry was just plain tired.
"Nothing," Merry replied, abruptly close to numb, the wind knocked from him thoroughly. "It's… enough." He ran a hand through his hair, shook his head slowly. "Whatever this is," he flapped a hand between them, "it's enough because it has to be and I don't want to be without you, so it's enough, all right?"
And maybe it wasn't anymore, but it had to be, and so Merry would shove the rest away and go on pretending. Because apparently, Merry was the girl in this relationship, and they lived in Frodo-world, didn't they?
There was silence as Merry picked up his waistcoat, put it on and buttoned it. He could feel Frodo's eyes on him the entire time, miserably wondered what excuse he would be coming up with to cut his visit short then:
"You never said… never…" Another silence while Frodo pondered the carpet. He shrugged. "It hadn't occurred to me that you wanted that sort of thing. You should have said—"
"Hadn't occurred to you," Merry echoed, shook his head again in dull wonder before the anger spiked up his spine again. "I should have said!" His teeth clenched. "Has it occurred to you that normal people like to hear it now and again? Did you think maybe Bilbo would have liked—"
Oh, mistake.
Merry choked on that one, the words out of his mouth before he'd even realised they were coming. That had been a confession spoken low in the cloak of dark, soft into Merry's ear, a regret given voice in a moment of grief, laden with tentative trust, and now he'd betrayed it. I never even really thanked him, never told him how much I love him and now he's gone, and Merry had hushed and soothed and said it was all right, he knew, he must have known, don't worry, love, words aren't important, and now he'd just gone and hung himself in his own noose.
Frodo's face darkened and his nostrils flared.
This was it, Merry had stepped over the line, put everything out in plain sight where it couldn't be denied, and he knew it, couldn't pull it back, and only this very second did he realise he didn't want to. It wasn't just the anger or the fact that this was too long in coming, had been simmering and stewing since the knock-down/drag-out not too long after Bilbo had left, would have come to a head the past winter had Merry not used every resource he had to keep his control. He could accept things the way they were, thought he could go on for a very long time keeping quiet and hearing 'I love you' within a soft moan or a laugh, seeing it in a glance, feeling it in a touch or a quick brush of lips. But he would not be blamed for its lack.
Frodo only stared at him for a moment, rage turning his cheeks pale and his eyes nearly black. And then he merely nodded a little, straightened his shoulders and began to walk away. Walk away!
Merry thought he was furious before. Frodo was going to just walk away! He was going to make those kinds of accusations and then just walk away! It was too much, made his blood burst hot and heavy in his brain, made rage burn sharp through his chest. Merry reached for Frodo's arm, clamped onto it.
Frodo rounded on him with a hard shove to his chest, sent Merry reeling backwards, snarled, "Get off!" Surprise kept Merry silent, anger kept him off-balance while Frodo advanced on him, gaze spiking right through him. "Always with the hands, can't keep them to your-bloody-self, can you? Something doesn't go your way, and you think you can just lay hands on it, force it to go as you want it. Sodding bullying pillock, you are just like—"
Frodo stopped there, closed his mouth, but it didn't matter now—Merry knew exactly what he'd meant to say. And the fact that Frodo knew very well how deep that one would cut him only made the wound that much more painful and bitter.
Merry couldn't speak, could barely breathe; he only stared at Frodo, almost unable to believe that the words had been spoken, even thought, wanting to go back in time five seconds to a world where they hadn't. From somewhere outside himself, he saw the realisation and regret bloom in Frodo's eyes and… didn't care.
He felt his face go blank, his gaze turn cold then he gave a small, slow nod—conceded.
And then he turned and left.
* * *
It took several hours for him to calm himself, some of that time spent challenging Hickory to try and unsaddle him and some of it spent wandering about the misted downs of the south-quarter, forcing his mind blank as he made his slow way through the barns, cataloguing what was needed where to get ready for the winter. If anyone spoke to him, he didn't hear it.
When he got back to his rooms, wet and cold, just after suppertime, it was to a neatly-made bed and a noticeable lack of clutter. No pack thrown on the chair, no ratty old travelling jacket hanging in the cupboard, no braces tossed to the floor and forgotten.
But for the tie, still twined with Merry's and waiting on the bedpost in a cheerful bow, it was as though Frodo had never even been there.
* * *
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