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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
* * *
A soft mist had settled over the morning, and the cool kiss of it stroked Frodo's cheeks, the moisture settling into his curls and soothing the persistent outrage of a still-tender constitution. Esmeralda's brew had done much towards overcoming the effects of over-consumption, but what had come afterwards had all but negated it.
Oh, and wouldn't it just figure that Merry would come bouncing in, fresh as morning sunlight, and try to manage the morning as well as the previous evening, even to another bout of sex…
"…just say you want a quick dirty fuck in a stable…"
Anger spasmed through him; lights flared behind his eyes and he gritted his teeth, told himself to calm down before his head exploded, reasoned rage into resignation.
He's a tween. You know he's a tween and you're a right git to even expect anything else, to expect that he'd see it for what it really was… you remember being a tween; it hasn't been all that long ago. More stones than sense, too randy for reason, and Merry proof enough of that and then some…
"Merry." It should have been a furious curse; instead it was a forlorn sigh and mortified, he bit it back.
Oh, bloody damn, why even bother? He was long since past any sense of pride or place—had to be, or he wouldn't be walking home in the rain with that name still upon his lips.
Perhaps he was still too soaked with alcohol remnants to even be able to reason. The thought somewhat soothed what outraged sensibilities were left.
His foot rolled on a damp stone; Frodo flailed wildly for long seconds, managed to keep on his feet by some miracle of forced levitation, stumbled sideways back into a ground-eating tread.
Looking back, he saw that the huge, ankle-breaking stone was in actuality only several fingers wide and merely one finger tall.
Perhaps you are still drunk after all. Pay attention, he sniped at himself, before you break your fool neck.
Or maybe that would be all right, too.
Oh, bloody buggering damn, just listen to him. Sodding Martyr to Love; what other humiliation lay in store? One would think that he'd run the entire gamut of idiotic behaviour and then some, and all within the span of twelve hours. The Poor Orphan Relation that Saradoc always tried to hound him into, the Drunken Sot who'd tried to bury his insecurities in the bottom of a glass, the Cast-Off Tweener watching his lover flirt with everything in skirts, the Pathetic, Jealous Bitch who stormed from the party, then…
Then a sad and desperate git on his knees begging "Take me, oh take me!" like some idiot heroine in a smarmy ha'penny-dreadful, and who was now running home with his tail between his legs because it had all spiralled into something he'd never, ever intended.
Pride. What a laugh—he had none, that was more than obvious. The entire thing was ridiculous, and he had let it go too far, and it was nothing more than what he deserved for losing control and letting himself believe that he could have what wasn't his to reach for. What hope he'd entertained in drunken misery—and yes it had been misery, not only because he'd obviously lost his head over a lovely, golden lad, but that he'd hoped that lovely lad would see, would understand…
In the clear chill of morning Frodo understood it all too well.
Why should he even entertain the hope that Merry would?
Frodo realised that his steps were quickening, his feet thudding on the road so forcefully that he could feel the percussive consequence of it rattling his teeth through the top of his skull.
As if getting angry would solve anything. As if anything would solve this.
Better to forget it, pretend it was nothing more than a bit of drunken debauchery, nothing more than a quick dirty fuck in a stable…
How dare he?
And how dare he just burst into his room this morning, all cheerful and expectant, wanting nothing more than another good shag and perhaps one in which he could further exercise his mastery over all things Merry-ward—and didn't Merry love that, compelling things to go his way, always his way and he had the gall to say that Frodo wanted everything on his terms!—with absolutely no sodding clue as to what barriers had been breached.
'Frodo-world'—Ha!
Stupid, vain, arrogant git of a tween. For one so insistent that he knew everything, Merry knew nothing, nothing!
Nothing. Nothing about what depths had been plumbed, how by circumstance and weakness and longing—oh, yes, he'd begged for it, hadn't he?—Frodo had been reduced to…
And I let it happen, I was weak and let it… let it out; it took me and sideswiped me and I'd never have done if I'd not been so damned drunk, so pathetic and entirely out of control, and how could I have been so stupid, how could I have even thought that it would be seen for what it was, and oh bloody damn but the light of day has proven that I'm glad that it wasn't…
The soft mist settled into the patter of rain; Frodo turned his face up to it, felt it trickle chill over his burning cheeks in an odd reverse of tears.
He doesn't know, didn't see, doesn't see and I'm glad. Glad.
But if so, why was there such a hollow ache where his heart should be?
A shiver ran down his spine. Great. Walking home twenty leagues in the rain with a bare head and a raging headache was just asking for the fever. Frodo hunched his shoulders, pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and kept going.
Ridiculous. The entire thing was bloody double-damned ridiculous, and it was all his fault for getting so blindingly drunk and pushing things to a pass that shouldn't have been even approached. Boy-lovers rarely stayed that into adulthood, where wives and families and property should take precedent over tween-hood pairings. Fall in lust, certainly; besotted and charmed, assuredly, but deep, 'til-death-divide-us love?
Utterly in bad taste, old boy.
Merry's not the only one who should get on with his life. You need to stop using him as an excuse to avoid the inevitable and just get married. Then you'd have no time for this nonsense, would you? You like lasses—a lot, actually—and at least you'd have regular sex that didn't live thirty leagues away—with breasts, which would be a nice change wouldn't it, you sort of miss them, after all—and someone to shut up the wagging tongues with, to give Merry the excuse to let you go, move on to his own responsibilities. Only you definitely need some lass with more tits than temper, for it's clear you've enough of that last on your own, and if there were two of you, you'd kill each other or you'd end up out in the dark, drunk, walking on a path to a solitary bed alone because you were weak, and drunk, and a bloody fool to lose your head over someone who's meant for better things than you…
Shut up, he told himself. I know, I know, and you don't have to rub it in so shut up.
"Hoy, up there!"
The shout made him jump; Frodo turned to see a waggon trundling behind him—wonderful, he was so far gone to sense that he'd not heard the roll and creak of it, now very loudly audible at his heels.
"Why, Mister Baggins, what brings you out on such a morning?" The farmer driving the pair of bay ponies halted them and settled his hat back; it was Tolman Cotton, with two newborn fawn-coloured calves in pens in the waggon's bed, and two dun cows—obviously their mothers—tied to the back rail.
"I could ask of you the same," Frodo responded with a smile; was relieved that for the first time in hours, an expression didn't make his face feel as if were going to break.
"Aye, well, I bought these two cows a fortnight ago from Rushy—good stock, there, a fair addition to me old Cuthbert's harem," he winked, "and I had to await their calving to move 'em, so..." This time a shrug. "And you?"
"Coming home from Brandy Hall a little earlier than I expected," it wasn't really a lie, after all, "and thought to have a nice walk in the mist."
"No more mist and I wager the rain's only going to come harder," Cotton said, waving his whip at the heavy sky. "Hop in; no sense taking shank's mare when there's better conveyance."
It was almost worth a long walk in driving rain to avoid companionship at this point in time, and there was the very real fact that a rough waggon on a wet road wouldn't exactly coddle his present uncertain constitution.
But… what if Merry decided to come after him? Because it was very likely that he would and Frodo wanted nothing less in the world right now than a righteous Merry Brandybuck on his heels. The waggon would by necessity take a different route than an unencumbered rider—or a solitary hobbit walking home in the rain by shortcuts well-known to said rider—and anyway, the waggon was loaded and would therefore be a little smoother than it would be empty, and the road soft with the wet, and Cotton wasn't one for aimless chatter…
"I will," he said to the farmer. "It's very good of you to offer."
"Not a-tall." Cotton scooted over, gave Frodo room on the bench beside him; once Frodo mounted and settled himself beneath the oilcloth canopy covering the driver's bench, the farmer merely gave him a shrewd look then clucked to his team. "Aye, and those river-folk party too hard; you look as though you've done a bit more than was good for you. Lucky I came by."
"Yes," Frodo admitted, and braced himself against the motion of the waggon. "Lucky."
* * *
He wasn't sure if he was relieved or miffed to not find an irate, golden-haired tweener skulking on his porch, but the relief, already strong, grew steadily stronger as he opened first Bag End's wicket gate, then its green door, then slid into blessed dim and quiet.
Shutting the door behind him, he leaned against it for a few moments. It was the wet dripping from the frizzled hair at his nape and down the inside of his collar to tickle between his shoulder blades that made him shiver, and finally shift; Frodo let his carry-all slide from chilled fingers and, with a damp sag, to the floor. The movement was captured in the mirror in the far corner of the entry hall; Frodo twitched in surprise, then glared at the mirror for giving him such a start. It had its revenge, however, in what it revealed even in the gloom: ghost-white face, leached holes for eyes, wet and thoroughly bedraggled and nothing like to the countenance that had only several days previous peered back at him from that mirror, all well-satisfied and looking forward to fine feasting, good sex and preferred companionship.
Serves you right, he told his reflection, stepping over to it and with some effort untangling wet wool—first the sodden cloak, then his only-slightly-less-sodden frock coat, from his torso. You got more of all of it than you bargained for, didn't you?
What he really wanted was a hot bath. Not that that was likely, when he didn't even have a fire going.
Peeling out of his damp clothes, hanging up his cloak and coat and leaving the rest in a heap on the entry floor, he trudged a bit grimly to his bedsmial, found the thickest robe he had and burrowed into it.
He took his time setting the smial to rights, the rain tapping soothing accompaniment against the windows. First some light, with the help of a match or two set to flickering cheerily upon fat, oil-filled lamps. Then a fire laid in his bedsmial, as well as a similar blaze set in the kitchen hearth. Fresh water pumped into the cast-iron kettle—of course he'd be lucky if he managed to get anything resembling hot water in under an hour—and that kettle hung over the freshly-kindled fire. Mourn again the lack of a hot cup of tea. Check the larder; throw out the knobbler of bread that had sprouted mossy whiskers, set out the sponge for yeast to make another loaf, make a list of needed perishables, even though it was more for his own benefit than anything else; once Daisy Gamgee noted his return, there would be fresh milk, eggs and probably a dollop of fresh-churned butter, complete with side-jug of buttermilk, waiting on his doorstep. Go into the office, take note of the envelopes carefully laid on a table in his absence, refuse to deal with them until tomorrow and, for the umpteenth time, check on the all-too-slowly-warming kettle and pine for a decent brew. With honey. And milk so thick it could be cream.
The ritual of return, one he'd performed so many times, laid itself on him like a balm to sore muscles. Speaking of which, he considered as he leaned a bit too injudiciously forward, making not only knees but belly and haunches protest, ow.
And he suddenly wondered how he'd been able to sit on a hard seat all the way from Buckland.
Then he cursed the memory that brought up, and the way his anatomy responded—not in slow, leisurely lurches, but with an immediacy that made every other outraged muscle and ligament in his body also draw up and shiver.
Bloody damn. He heaved himself to his feet, once again checked the kettle.
He was going to die an old hobbit before the cursed thing warmed, that much was sure.
"Mister Frodo?"
He'd thought that tapping against his door was more rain; the light voice and more rigorous tap at his sill made him jump. He forced himself to relax with a low, self-castigating growl then called, "Come in!"
Daisy Gamgee came in, shaking the damp hood from her hair. From her cloak she produced a hamper of baked goods, a tin of milk and—oh, rapture!—a fat and steaming brown pot in a wire egg basket.
"Daisy," he said earnestly, "will you marry me?"
A teasing smile lifted the corner of her mouth. "Now, Mister Frodo, I'd be taking advantage of you did I say yes. My mam told me never to take a male at his word 'lessen he was full fed, well in bed and warmed with a strong pot of tea." As she spoke she padded into the kitchen and eased her burdens onto the table. "Tolman Cotton dropped by on his way out, said you was t' home. If we'd known you was returning so early-like, I'd have warmed the smial for you."
If I had known I was returning this early I'd most likely not have even left in the first place—
Frodo rather viciously cut off the thought, said gruffly, "It was good of you, with the night growing so foul."
"I've a warm smial waiting for me. As you will, soon enough," she gave an approving nod to the fresh-laid fires, "but in the meantime you can warm yourself with this pot." She took the lid off, inspected the interior, gave it a swirl and hmphed with satisfaction, then returned the lid to the pot and pulled her hood back over her head. "I'll leave you to your own concerns, Mister Frodo. If you need anything else, just let us know."
Actually, I was just pondering today upon how I need an understanding wife, and it's certain that you and your family know the management of Bag End as if you lived here anyway, and moreover, you know when to leave me be. And you bake the best ginger biscuits in the entire Westfarthing. And you don't brew weak tea. And you're remarkably good-tempered.
And you're bloody-well gorgeously stacked.
Frodo abruptly decided that his anatomy and his state of mind needed to be yanked away from whatever fantasy-land they were co-habiting with such malicious and perverse glee.
"I will," he managed, glad that his robe hid all manner of sins, contemplated or real or even hinted at.
He even managed to walk normally as he saw her to the door.
Several cups of tea and a half-loaf of spice-bread later, his eyeballs were feeling less like they'd pop from his throbbing head, and as to the other throbbing extremity, well, it had also subsided. Enough for him to take one last cuppa to the parlour, sit in his favourite chair by the hearth, light a pipe and sit there, wreathed in wool and steam and smoke.
Marriage. To a female. Never having to come back to an empty smial and shiver until the fires were laid. Never having to curl up alone in a chill and empty bed.
But then neither would he be able to sling his limbs to all compass points in that bed, and wallow in sweet, sweet solitude. Or smoke in the parlour—look at Tolman Cotton's wife, she tore strips from him every time he smoked in the parlour.
Of course, her prized silk drapes hung in there, so maybe she had a reason.
And it was a certainty that Tolman Cotton never looked as if he was hurting for a good bit of slap-and-tickle against the marriage headboard.
But regular sex with a buxom and willing helpmate had its own consequences, didn't it, of which Tolman had sired quite a few, and while they might be a great help in running a farm, Frodo wanted to scream and run to lock his precious study door upon the sudden thought of mythical rampages of mythical Baggins offspring.
Instead he took a huge puff on his pipe, let the smoke curl out his nostrils like a dragon's breath, and stared moodily at the fire.
There was also the plain fact that no lass, no matter how buxom or willing, could bend him over a water trough and roger him until he screamed…
Oh, bloody sodding damn, just hang yourself, will you, and have done. Git.
If only it was just the rogering and the screaming. No, he was a priceless git, because it had somehow become more, much more than he'd ever wanted to admit even to himself, and last night proof of a passion that had somehow turned in his hands like a greased blade and gutted him, and all for what?
A… a dirty quick fuck in a stable, that was what.
With an angry mutter, he leaned forward, viciously knocked the bowl of his pipe against the hearthstones. Pipeweed remnants, smouldering ash and charred brown leaf and sparking embers, fluttered against the stone and, as he blew them into the fire, flared then died.
* * *
The next morning was filled with feminine companionship—but it was not the kind he had, the night before, wished for. Neither were they unpleasant; in fact, quite the contrary. Frodo had learned some time ago that he was certainly more comfortable about females than Bilbo, for example, who would retreat into his study with a look on his face that suggested he'd rather face a dozen Smaugs than the Widow Rumble. How many times had the old hobbit abandoned a tweenaged Frodo to his own devices with the feminine element of Hobbiton?
But the results of Bilbo's trepidation towards All Things Female hadn't scarred Frodo for life; quite the contrary. In fact, if the Widow Rumble wasn't in her eighties and the Gaffer hadn't already made it plain that he fancied her… She brooked no nonsense from anyone, kept a smial-hold that was the envy of every maid in the Westfarthing and had a wit that could cut like a whip.
In fact, she was purveying that wit as she sat at his kitchen table, assassinating characters right and left—deservedly so, Frodo mused as he sipped his tea and listened—and Lily Cotton was giggling like a lass beside her, and the ha'penny slate that was chalked left to right with designs and plans for the last of the Harvest festivities lay nearly forgotten as the two regaled him with tales of what had transpired during his absence.
"…and then Miz Lobelia decided that she was to decorate the Yule Log, and insisted that she was to put it nigh to the Grange hearth to wait for Yule—even though 'tis the Squire's duty, that—but she claimed that you mightn't come back anyway, just look to who raised you…" The Widow shrugged apology. "Well, that was as she said—"
"I'm sure it was," Frodo said. "And no apology necessary."
"Well, I gave as she could make the Log, but said you was returning, so you were to put it beside the hearth, as was proper for the end of Harvest Home. So she flounces off, and just out of cussedness, brings it to the Hill, even though she well knew you weren't home yet, so Hamfast sends her to me—just like a male!—and it was indeed a wonder, all fancy-like. But when I gets a good look at it, I'll be jigged if she en't put chestnuts all over it—and they were unshelled!"
Oh stars above, even Lobelia knew better than that—what was she hoping for, a fireworks display to rival Gandalf's? Frodo said as much, reaching forward to pour his guests more tea.
"The Widow—oh, thank you, Bag End's tea is the best hereabouts, and no joke—Widow was ready to flay her alive," Lily continued, still chuckling. "Took the parasol from Lobelia's hands, our Widow did, and tapped the old beldame's chest with the handle and demanded to know what she was about."
"Turns out Lotho glued the things to it on the sly-like," the Widow snorted. "You'd think he was still a fool of a tween. Anyways, that was the end of Lobelia's Yule Log. She grabbed it up and took it home with her."
"If we're lucky, she trouted Lotho with it," Frodo said hopefully, and the Widow snorted a laugh.
Lily chuckled. "Heather Proudfoot came through handsomely," she offered, nibbling at one of the scones Frodo had taken from the basket Daisy Gamgee had brought last night. "'Tis a beautiful thing, all spiced and garlanded, with branches from the Midge-tree."
"As proper," the Widow nodded firmly.
"It sounds as though you've both everything so in hand you don't need me," Frodo said teasingly and took a bite of his own scone—just as spiced and delicious as the Yule Log sounded.
"Not a sausage!" Lily protested, then smiled. "'Tis good fun, 'tennyrate."
It was good fun, to contemplate something as necessary, simple and uncomplicated as the ending of winter's dark—certainly more healthy than the thoughts he'd entertained most of an entirely-too-sleepless night…
"Beggin' your pardon, but you look as if you'd be better off with a short kip, rather than have two matrons nattering at you," the Widow suddenly said. "Those Buckland folks always party too strong—no offense, I know they're your kin and the Young Master close to ye, but I think it did y' no service this time."
Oh, but the Young Master did me service, and all too well…
Stop it. Right now.
"I will hie myself to the couch soon enough," Frodo conceded. "But I've spent too much time on my own fancies and not enough to where I should be; you two have been generous to a fault, managing all this."
"Well," Lily shrugged, "we did it enough for your uncle."
"Well," Frodo echoed, "I'm not Bilbo. So what is left to be done?"
And he was gratified beyond sense by the satisfied look the two dames exchanged.
Lily took a long, slow sip from her cup. "Those travellin' folk," she said with a hint of disapproval, "keep driving their waggons on the meadow, and with the rain we've had, 'tis leavin' wheel-ruts all over the common. My Tom's spoken to them, but they know he's not the master and they're pretending they don't understand. And," she added with a grin, "you know their talk. Master."
He grinned back. "That I do."
"Old Tansy Burrows has decided that it's Miss May Deepwallow's turn to provide the jams and preserves for the table this year," the Widow added, "and May's sulling up like a hop-toad and saying it en't. Proper cats, those two, and their foolishness is leavin' us without fixins. I considered going somewhere else entirely, but then there'd be fits beyond bearing."
That was the truth, considering the two involved. 'Cats' was an understatement.
"May Deepwallow fancies you, y'know," Lily hinted with a smirk.
May Deepwallow might be plain as a board fence, but she could make soup from a stone—hence her mouth-watering preserves—had a glorious head of thick copper-gold hair, and was stacked as firmly and hand-fillingly as a freshened milch cow. A tumble with her wasn't exactly a hardship. And he'd been wondering for some time now if she really was a redhead.
"Mm-hm," the Widow said with her own smirk, unfortunately and obviously kenning his thoughts. "P'rhaps there's more than one way to skin those cats, eh?"
See? Frodo told himself and took a huge bite of honey-dabbed scone. Your mother always said that when one door closes, five more open up. If you bother to look.
And looking was seeming more and more an answer instead of a question.
* * *
It had been in the stable—he wasn't sure he wanted to ponder if the choice of place was purposeful or not, but when May suggested it, he'd been all for it, no question—however this time it hadn't been either 'quick' or 'dirty' and if it hadn't been the most mind-blowing experience of his life, it had also left no sour hollow in his stomach. May had proven not only a true redhead but remarkably pliable, with nimble fingers and an agile tongue that suggested she was no more new to the game than he himself was; he'd topped her not once but twice and by the second time, she was agreeing to just about anything, be it providing preserves for Yule or a hard shag up against the wall.
Frodo wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when she told him, as she was rearranging her clothes into more acceptable lines, that she wasn't interested in anything resembling promises or commitments, but if he was willing, she was more than happy to continue their 'conversation'… say next Trewsday?
It was only when he was sitting next to his fire in his favourite chair, rocking absently with a stupid and sated smile on his face, and considering whether he wanted a nip of brandy or a good smoke, that he realised he was, indeed, relieved.
And that was irritating beyond belief.
* * *
May not only proved an excellent companion for the Harvest Home; her very presence at his side all but sent up a flag emblazoned with the words: 'Frodo Baggins: available'. He couldn't remember having this many females showing interest in him since he'd come of age and the fact that he'd Inherited Considerable Property had overcome the previous fact that he was That Odd Brandybuck.
Instead of pissing about, May—bless her!—regarded it all as great fun.
And bloody damn but he'd forgotten how chuffing it was to be drawing such plain notice from the opposite sex.
Better than sitting on the sidelines and watching his lover dangle and tease said opposite sex—
Stop it. Right now.
So Frodo let himself be teased and dangled and when, after the festivities, he slid into the door of Bag End alone, it was not because he'd not had several opportunities to fill his bed, but because May had given him quite the blowjob behind the Grange and with a sly goodnight had left him, weak-kneed and placket still open, altogether too satisfied for words.
There was no doubt she enjoyed mastering the Master of Bag End—and he was willing to give her that, because he'd in turn made her beg for it quite a few times himself.
So why, when mid-night he reached, barely awake, across the expanse of empty bed, did he reach, not for a soft, well-rounded lass who was redheaded from tip to tip, but for broad, sun-freckled shoulders and a chaff-coloured head that would roll and turn on the pillow as Frodo slid one hand down between those lovely haunches to find Merry, as expected, with staff to ready?
He even gripped and stroked before he woke enough to realise his hand was filled with balled-up coverlets instead of turgid flesh and he was nuzzling his pillow.
By the Valar and their minions, he. Was. Sodding. Pathetic.
Frodo flipped over onto his stomach, stubbornly ignored his all-too-eager anatomy, and cursed himself in every language he had ever learned from Bilbo. Most especially Dwarvish, since they had not only a keen understanding of foul invective, but of carnal foul invective.
And wondered if the time would ever come when he'd stop being such a total and complete prat.
* * *
Dearest Cousin—
Frodo ignored the little frisson of heat/ice down his spine at those words—after all, he had plenty of cousins, didn't he?
It has been entirely too long since you came to Tuckborough to visit me. I've heard that You've been to Buckland thrice since then and 'tis not at all fair.
"No, Master Peregrin," Frodo muttered, "it is not. Fair, that is."
And you know if I'm writing a letter to you about it then I must be pretty peeved, because I hate writing letters.
Frodo snorted. From over near the kitchen hearth, a pan hissed in warning fashion; Frodo went to save the slices of ham and potatoes frying there, taking the ink-smudged missive with him. He added a small dollop of grease into the mix and stirred a bit absently, perusing the remainder of Pippin's letter with a smirk on his face. There wasn't much; Pippin was, as ever, short and to the point.
So you need to come. Harvest Home is over so you shouldn't have any 'responsibilities' (that's what Da said when I wanted to invite you before the harvest, that you had your duty to Hobbiton and wouldn't be visiting anywhere).
Bloody buggering damn, was he going to see and feel these unintentional jabs for the rest of his days?
And Pippin's father was right—he should have heeded his own responsibilities, and let Merry heed his, instead of hot-footing to Brandy Hall. He'd been taught that humiliating lesson quite firmly enough.
Anyway, I've ever so many things to show you. Da and Mum would be pleased to have you. I've missed you. Please say you'll come.
Sincerely, Peregrin Took
Maybe in a guest bed he wouldn't keep waking up and expecting to have Merry in it. Not that that made any sense, because it wasn't as if Merry stayed here all the time, so why should the home Frodo had come to know as his own be so permeated with a presence that, more days than not during the year, wasn't here?
It wasn't just that he'd lost his head over that particular presence, Frodo suddenly realised, and felt the frisson of heat/ice again as he contemplated the mortifying fact that it was that he'd lost his heart.
Which only made him more the fool.
The pan hissed and spat; he yanked back his hand with a curse as it stung from hot fat and took his meal away from the fire—he wasn't paying enough attention and it was almost over-done.
Yes, he considered as he poured himself a draft of ale, tumbled the fry-up onto a plate and sliced himself a helping of bread, a trip to Great Smials definitely had its attractions. Pippin would be deliriously happy to see him—a nice change, that—and would regale him with improbable tales and drag him about and show him everything from the latest litter of puppies to his new collection of feathers, some plucked directly from their hapless owners. Cousin Paladin was a pleasant fellow who was, unlike his brother-in-law, quite skilled in a card game. Frodo quite enjoyed matching wits with Pearl and liked Pervinca and Pimpernel well enough when Cousin Eglantine wasn't throwing them at him…
Cousin Eglantine. She was usually the fly in the agreeable unguent that was Tuckborough. Not because she was unkind to him; in fact, she was one of the nicest people he knew. No, it was because Eglantine Took was a perpetual matchmaker who had the equally perpetual insistence that a 'young, well-to-do and handsome' hobbit such as himself needed a wife.
Frodo considered that last. After all, hadn't he just recently been telling himself the same thing? Of course he had May—and had had her in various fashions over the past weeks—but there was something… missing.
He sat down to lunch and looked through the rest of his mail. A promissory note from a tenant, this time properly signed by the mayor, a circular advertising the latest in harvesters, a notice of an auction in Overhill. And…
There was one from Buckland. In an unmistakable hand.
His gut lurched. Putting his fork down, Frodo stared at the letter. His first impulse was to rip it open and hope it said… something. His second was to feed it to the stove, because he knew, deep down, that 'something' wouldn't be there. Then he realised his hands were shaking and, furious with himself, he took his knife and ever-so-carefully slit it open.
Frodo--
Due to recent circumstances, I regret that I must rescind my acceptance of your kind invitation to your upcoming birthday celebration. I wish you the best of the day.
Regards,
Meriadoc Brandybuck
Cold dread was, abruptly and relentlessly, replaced by another frigid emotion:
Fury.
After everything that had… after everything!… the… the arrogant, sodding… brat… had sent this. This.
And the timing was criminally suspect. His birthday wasn't for weeks, yet.
Frodo lurched up from the table, flung his napkin over his half-finished plate and, Merry's letter crumpled in one hand, stalked into the parlour. Upon the table next to the front window, there was a small stack of parchment and writing utensils. Merry's letter skittered vehemently across the parlour table as Frodo reached for a nib, uncapped an ink bottle with rock-steady hands, and, still standing, grabbed and steadied a fresh bit of note paper with one hand and set pen to it. He didn't even ponder how to answer, just set pen to paper and wrote, scathingly polite:
Dear Cousin Meriadoc:
Thank you for informing me. I'm sure it's for the best.
Sincerely,
Frodo Baggins
With equally frozen calm he took an envelope from a cubby, folded the letter with no little care and sealed it into the envelope. He addressed it with methodical precision, set it deliberately on the mantel to meet the next post, then returned to the kitchen. Sitting back to his repast, he put his napkin in his lap, picked up his fork and tasted the potatoes.
Bloody damn if they hadn't gone cold.
He ate them anyway.
Yes, all things considered, a visit to Great Smials was going to be a welcome thing in every aspect.
* * *
Unlike Brandy Hall, where he was perpetually Young Orphan Frodo to everyone including the head cook—and how was it that he reverted to that same Young Orphan Frodo every time he returned there, no matter how hard he tried?—at Great Smials he was the Thain's cousin, Drogo and Primula Baggins' son, the Master of Bag End and the Hill.
Moreover, he was an adult.
And stars and fire, it was about bloody time.
"Gin," Paladin said mildly, and placed his winning hand down on the table with a half-quizzical lift of his eyebrows, said, "Your game's off, old sport; did my son wear you out dragging you pillar to post?"
Frodo realised that his mind had indeed been wandering, but for the first in a long time, not from any grim and melodramatic mental spasms: the study was dark and cosy, the pipeweed that Paladin had offered and was presently smoking—Frodo had chosen the port—had a soothing cherry-wood smell, and the port was outstanding. There was a fire burning in the hearth—stoked just enough to be warm, not over-hot—and Paladin had one of those Dwarvish contraptions, a wind-up cylinder that, with little nubs on its metallic shell, had recently played a lovely piece of music.
"No, cousin," he said truthfully. "I'm too relaxed, if you want to know the truth."
"Mm," Paladin said, dealing out another game. "Yes, it has that effect. Cosy place, eh? And now the year's work is done, and for the present we can just sit on our backsides and enjoy the year's bounty."
That, Frodo thought with another sip of the bounty's proof, was an understatement. They went through several plays in companionable silence.
"It was certainly a very good year for us," Paladin continued, studying his hand. "As to Hobbiton? I hear the wheat in particular was bursting from the stalks."
"Wheat and barley both," Frodo concurred. "And the potatoes came a bumper; old Gaffer Gamgee was dead chuffed, he was the one suggested that particular strain."
"I remember—we followed his lead and brought in quite the potato crop ourselves. He knows his beans, that fellow. Or, should I say, his potatoes." He grinned, exchanged another card, put down his second set of matched cards.
Frodo snatched the discard up and, with a triumphant flourish, set down three sets of matches and flipped his last card to the pile. "Gin."
"That's the Baggins I know," Paladin approved. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to bring in another player to challenge me."
"You have the weapon of comfort at your disposal," Frodo riposted, tipping his nigh-empty glass towards his cousin. Said cousin naturally rose, took up the bottle and poured Frodo another, puffing contentedly at his own pipe.
"Then I should use all my arsenal, eh? Another round? Or perhaps something a bit more serious? I've a few cronies itching for a good wager."
"Would Adelard happen to be one of them?"
Paladin laughed. "I detect a hint of avarice in your query, Squire Baggins, and no wonder since… what exactly was it that you won from him last time?"
"Two ewes ready to kindle, a keg of Old Toby and the recipe for his wife's lamb stew."
"And she laid about him with her broom for that one," Paladin chuckled. "A word of advice and pardon my cheekiness for giving it: never make light with your spouse's handiwork."
"I shall remember," Frodo conceded, "in the event."
"Mm," said his cousin. "Again, if I'm not too bold, I have noticed that you seem more… amenable to such an event."
"I cannot deny," Frodo said, studying the way the fire leapt sparks through the ruby tint of his port, "that the thought has occurred."
"Finally decided to have done with every aspect of boyhood, eh?"
Frodo knew Paladin didn't mean it unkindly—and he knew that he shouldn't be taking it like a punch in the gut, either.
Stop it. Right now.
"It had to come, didn't it?" He managed to make it light, enough so to fool Paladin anyway, who nodded and winked.
"Lads will be, won't they? I remember those days fondly, m'self. But time takes us along, will-he nil-he, and shifts us into our proper roles. It's the way of things."
Well, and there was startling and soothing sense in that.
Paladin mouthed his pipe with a soft click of teeth. "On the other hand, I wouldn't be too quick to rush into said things."
"Pardon?"
"Well," his cousin said with some consideration, "there's always the danger of letting your stones overcome what reason you—"
"And here you are!"
Frodo wasn't sure, but he thought he'd heard teeth grit upon a pipestem and, before Paladin's eyes closed, that they had begun to roll.
"Darlings," Eglantine said, peeking around the study door, "I've been looking for you both, and especially you, Frodo; there's this particularly—"
"Love," Paladin said, and his eyes were still closed, "off with you."
"I was just—"
"This is male territory, sweetheart," Paladin continued. "Just because Frodo has arrived doesn't mean you can enter the sanctum."
"But—"
"I don't step foot in your infernal parlour, do I? Shoo!"
Eglantine opened her mouth, closed it, then gave a shrug and sheepish half-smile and backed out, closing the door behind her.
Frodo watched the entire process with something akin to awe.
Paladin gave an aggrieved sigh, then put his pipe back in his mouth, gathered up the cards and began to deal them again. There was another comfortable silence as they both picked up their hands, fanned them between their fingers. Frodo reached forward and took up his glass, had another delicious swallow of port.
"Dear Cousin," Paladin finally said, looking over the cards at him with a rather-stern countenance. "It seems that you are finally and quite uncharacteristically being tempted by my wife's insistence upon matchmaking."
Frodo peered at him, found himself giving a silly and sheepish grin. "Well…"
"Matrimony is an ancient and wise institution. Or so it is held." Paladin took up a card from the pile before him, discarded another. "Would you forgive me the liberty of offering you another small bit of advice?"
Advice? Frodo nodded gratefully—surely a gentlehobbit with thousands of acres in his control, four healthy children to his credit and a marriage of some years would have useful counsel.
Paladin shot a glare—and it was a glare—towards the door through which Eglantine had vanished. He took his pipe from between his lips, brandished it at Frodo and offered, "Lock your study door."
* * *
"So," Pearl said, "has Mum trotted you out to every lass at Great Smials?"
"I'm beginning to wonder, at that."
The party was a splendid one—filled to the rafters with food and drink, music and potential partners. In fact, Frodo had had so many breasts paraded by him that he was beginning to weary of the sight of them—a feat he thought impossible. Eglantine, however, seemed to specialise in the impossible, because she had even proposed, yet again, that he and Pearl might make the finest match of all.
"Not my type, Mumsy," Pearl had declared. "Not big enough."
"Pearl Took!" Eglantine had gasped, and Frodo had shot Pearl a dirty look, because that had smarted—even though he knew she wasn't talking placket packages. He knew exactly what she meant, because he liked the same sort. Broad-shouldered, brown, and disgustingly fit…
In short, like Merry.
Damn it all, he still missed the lad.
"I'm surprised she hasn't stripped you to waist and asked to see your teeth."
Frodo bared his in what could have qualified as either a snarl or a smile.
"Ooh, he bites, too." Pearl cocked her head, arced one eyebrow at him. "Maybe I should reconsider." A roll of Frodo's eyes only earned him a nudge to the ribs from Pearl. "And what about our fair-haired cousin, then?" she wanted to know. "Speaking of biting."
Frodo couldn't decide between a growl or a sigh, so he chose bland. "What about him?" was all he said.
"Hmm…" The sideways glance was speculative. "The sudden interest in wiving comes clear at last."
"You say that like it was some kind of mystery." Frodo tried to make his shrug and quick glance about the ballroom look casual and unconcerned, rather than evasive and twitchy. "Most of us do outgrow the lads eventually," he furthered with a slight lift of his chin.
"Was that an insult?" Pearl wanted to know.
Frodo blinked innocently. "When you're seventy-five and still chasing the tweeners it'll be an insult; right now, it's merely speculation."
"When I'm seventy-five, I shall still be too gorgeous for the likes of you and the tweeners will be chasing me." She tilted her head. "If you're very nice to me, maybe I'll let you claim me as one of your old flames. Sure, and it could only do your reputation good by then, doddering old fusty hobbit you'll no doubt be."
"Maybe you can find me one of your old flames," Frodo retorted.
And maybe he was going about all this the wrong way. Maybe females weren't the answer. Maybe if he instead indulged himself in a good shag with one of those broad-shouldered buggers that regularly squired Pearl about…
Because sod it all, as much as he liked doing, it had been too long since he'd been done to.
Perhaps that was the problem, in a nutshell. After all, the last time he'd been done to hadn't exactly been… well…
Who was he trying to fool? Because yes, it had been. Exactly. And that was the problem, wasn't it?
"I thought you'd outgrown the lads," Pearl quipped, giving Miss Portia Longburrow a warning look beneath her lashes that sent the damsel in question veering off as if she'd never thought to approach Frodo Baggins, available Esquire.
Frodo was, more and more, quite thankful for her pose of dragon. He'd never had a carnal thought about Pearl Took—all right, maybe he had a few times—but he preferred her friendship and if presently that friendship meant staking him out and glaring MineMineMine! at any who came within speaking distance, then he was all for it.
What was wrong with him, anyway? He'd come here with the express possibility of taking advantage of Eglantine's gifts, yet here he was, asking after Pearl's exes.
What exactly do you want, Frodo Baggins?
Unfortunately, he knew the answer to that. Instead he employed what was becoming his favourite mantra:
Stop it. Right now.
"But then," Pearl said with sweet directness, "once we find something we prefer, we don't just cast it off, do we? Anyway, not if we have sense." She grinned, unabashed, at Frodo's dark look, leaned closer and murmured, "Sure, and there's something to be said for tasting all the apples of the tree, but there's also something to be said for being rogered until you scream by someone who knows just how you like it."
"Bloody damn, Pearl, if you don't—"
She leaned closer, interrupting him. "Just admit it and be done—you might be greedy for all those breasts… oh, pardon me, apples, but you also know what you like and it's plain as plain you're bored with… apples. Or what accompanies this lot of apples, at any rate." She leaned even closer, lips tickling his ear. "I know someone who might be interested, if you are."
Frodo wanted to treat her to the glare that would quell even Pippin; instead he found that he wanted to chuckle. The entire situation was frankly hilarious: here they were, in the middle of what was unabashedly a nautch dance, and Pearl was whispering sexual innuendo into his ear and all but offering to find him someone who would not, like all the hopefuls about him, be the toppee, but perhaps the topper.
"He's big." She leaned back, patted his cheek and grinned. "In more ways than the one."
Frodo laughed this time, hard.
"Darlings!" Eglantine swooped down on them, eyed her oldest daughter reprovingly. "I thought you said you weren't interested, Pearl-dear; if you aren't then I think you should give Frodo a chance to mingle."
"Ever the broody hen, Mum," Pearl said, then leaned forward and gave her mother a peck on the cheek. "You're right, of course, and I am sorry." However her wink towards Frodo as she left his side—a wink that was out of her mother's line of vision, naturally—wasn't the least penitent.
"I do wish the two of you could come to some sort of understanding," Eglantine sighed. "You seem to enjoy each other's company so much."
She was slightly dotty, and perhaps a bit hard to live with—witness Paladin's perpetual pragmatism—but Eglantine was a lady, and a very good-hearted one. Frodo found himself leaning forward and kissing her cheek much as Pearl had done. "I know, Cousin."
"You're a love," Eglantine smiled, then conceded, "Perhaps both of you are too smart for your own good. Too much thinking in one place is not a recipe for satisfaction in marriage."
Again, Frodo had to laugh. "Even so."
"Peregrin was most put out, I'll have you know, that he couldn't come to the party," Eglantine said. "'Twas good of you to offer to ride out with him tomorrow as consolation."
"Pip's a good lad, and I'm happy to take him riding," Frodo said, and grinned at the memory of his young cousin, head thrown back and arms akimbo, demanding that Frodo had best promise something, all right, if Pippin wasn't allowed to go to the party, even if adult parties were boring anyway.
"That boy loves you to distraction," Eglantine continued, putting a hand to his arm. "And I know he can be a handful. Well, he's a good way to introduce you to the joys of children." Her grin was a bit harried, perhaps, but very genuine.
As genuine as the flicker of horror that shot through him at the phrase "joys of children". A sudden memory came with it: Bilbo's clever and oft-hilarious detail of those 'joys' which led through the entire alphabet, starting with such lovelies as 'Anaemia' and 'Catarrh', and ending with the equally desirable 'Vomit' and 'Zoster'.
Oh, Bilbo. You were right, weren't you? At least with Pip, I can give him back…
"Come on, now," Eglantine urged. "You've not met Bell Tunnelly as of yet. Her father's not as wealthy as some, true, but that won't matter to the Master of Bag End, surely…"
How was it that everyone assumed he was bloody rich? Granted, he was comfortable, but Bilbo's tunnels of treasure were legend, not fact. With an air of resignation that he hoped he was disguising beneath a pleasant expression, he allowed Eglantine to lead him towards the said Miss Tunnelly.
Suddenly past Eglantine's shoulder and across the well-occupied dancing floor, he espied Pearl standing in the east-most doorway, accompanied by a tall, brown-haired and broad-shouldered hobbit who met his eyes without hesitation. If Frodo hadn't been so conscious of Eglantine's presence, he would have juddered to his toes.
Oh, my.
* * *
This time, he'd not thought of Merry.
That is, not until afterward.
The hobbit of the brown hair and broad shoulders had proved not unlike most of his age and sex in that he drifted off to sleep soon after. Frodo had collected his clothes, slid from his partner's bed and padded down the wonderfully-dark tunnels of Great Smials to his own smial, contenting himself with several facts: one, that he'd been rogered until his eyes had popped, and two, he could retire to his own bed and space without feeling guilty for doing so.
That was what led to thinking of Merry.
And those thoughts led to the ultimate betrayal: that sometimes it was nice to cuddle afterwards, to wake up wrapped about one's lover and see the morning glinting gold and grey against their cheeks.
But, he reminded himself, how many evenings had he wanted—no, yearned—to retreat to his own place, to either shift Merry to a separate smial at Bag End or retreat to the smial that Esmeralda always offered at Brandy Hall—and how from the first, that had given him the rather-sinking realisation that the mother oft and somehow understood him better than the son? And why should it be a sinking feeling, why should he expect that Merry would understand any more than anyone, why should he want Merry to understand, because such comprehension had never mattered before…
Had it?
And perhaps all this… this flare-up of nonsensical and unfathomable proportions had been meant from the beginning—as if anything was meant, he chided himself with a snort—because it was the truth that suborning his own wishes, not only for solitude but other things as well, merely to provide a balm to Merry's tweener insecurities had been nigh to choking him as of late.
It was only what he deserved, after all, for getting himself in so thick in the first place. He'd allowed hope to colour his expectations—something he damn-well knew better than to do—and he had only himself to blame.
Not to mention that the fact that he was still smarting from Merry's snippy letter about his birthday just further proved what a fool he was. He'd expected too much, allowed himself to want too much, let himself be convinced by Merry's conviction of understanding—or what Frodo had mistaken as understanding—that he'd somehow found something he'd never expected to find, let alone thought to grasp.
Stop it. Right now. Because if you don't I shall—
"Frodo!"
Frodo nearly jumped out of his foot fur. With a gesture of hand to chest that was surely instinctive as much as unintentionally melodramatic, he turned to behold Pippin.
Surely the lad had some other way to express indignation other than planting his hands on his hips and tossing his hair back from too-cogent eyes. But Frodo wasn't sure.
"What are you doing up?" Pippin demanded, then saw the coat and waistcoat draped over Frodo's arm. Those eyes, already too observant for Frodo's present liking, turned absolutely canny. "Ah! So Pearl's effort didn't go to waste. You did go and shag Renard, didn't you?"
Frodo hunted for his tongue, couldn't find it, spent several panicked and useless seconds wondering where it had gone.
"I heard him talking to Pearl yesterday afternoon, and he said he fancied you."
Stars, but his tongue couldn't have just vanished, could it? Wouldn't he have noticed such a happenstance?
"And he hoped you weren't one of those stuffy gits who refused to have a go with your own just because you'd come of age—"
"Peregrin Took." Ah, there it was! "Whatever makes you say these things?"
And talk about sounding like a stuffy git…
"Honestly, Frodo, I'm not lying. And I'm glad you had a tumble with Renard, he's a nice fellow. Nicer than all those girrrrruls Mum was talking about." Pippin spun the offending word out into mockery, giving a face that suggested, despite precociousness, he was much of a mind with his age group when it came to lasses. "Nicer than Merry, too, and not nearly so grabby." He peered up at Frodo with a reprimanding scowl. "Good job you didn't bring him this time, or you'd never have got a chance to give Renard a go."
The mention of the name, and in such a surreal setting, did things in Frodo's chest he really didn't think he was ready to deal with, considering that sleep, thus far this evening, was still just a fond wish. He gave it up and parried with an argument he felt more equipped to handle: "I might ask what you're doing up in the middle of the night as well, you know."
"It isn't the middle of the night. I mean, it is almost morning," Pippin said, with a tone that suggested anyone who didn't realise this was a bit of a thickie. "And I was hungry." He grinned suddenly. "I could nick some scones and tea for both of us; we could have breakfast then go on our ride at sunup."
"Oh, no," Frodo said severely. "I am not going riding at sunup. I promised after noon, and it stays after noon."
Pippin obviously thought of protesting, then shrugged amiably. "Oh, all right. I suppose you're rather tired anyway, after being with Renard—"
"Peregrin," Frodo said sternly, "my sex life is not open for discussion…"
And stuttered off because stars above, had he really just said that to his prepubescent cousin?
Pippin grinned wider. "All right, Frodo. I'll see you after lunch." He started to turn away, paused, peered back at Frodo. "Can we have lunch together?"
Frodo was willing to concede anything to stop this conversation, and right now. "We can. Off with you."
Pippin bounced over, gave him a quick hug, then dashed down the corridor, presumably towards the kitchens.
Frodo watched him go, then turned towards his own escape.
His cousins were going to be the death of him, that much was certain.
* * *
That went double for Fredegar, who showed up at Bag End a few days before Samhain and then just didn't leave. And kept on not leaving.
Ordinarily, Frodo wouldn't mind so much; Freddy was always fun, and though his idea of humour sometimes grew decidedly un-funny after long exposure to it, he was at least company and a distraction. Frodo was not in the least opposed to distraction these days. Except Fatty's presence usually went hand-in-glove with Folco's, and though Frodo quite enjoyed the two of them separately, they were rather like a two-hobbit carnival when together. Distraction was one thing; constant discombobulation was quite another.
Still, they kept him busy, kept him laughing—or growling, depending on their antics or Frodo's mood at the time—and, most importantly, kept changing the subject whenever… certain subjects arose. It took a while for Frodo to twig, and when he did, he had to wonder how they knew, but he didn't ask and he didn't let it occupy too much space in his head; word travelled amongst kin, he supposed. And it could have been much worse: they could have chosen to constantly take the piss out of him about it; considering their idea of humour, Frodo was almost surprised they didn't. The sympathetic glances and ensuing awkward silences—however brief—were bad enough. He didn't allow himself to wonder if that was the reason they were suddenly here and not going away—did he really seem that fragile, for pity's sake?—but the distraction appealed to him more than his sense of indignation at the moment.
He let them stay for as long as they liked.
* * *
The Samhain Festival was… more difficult than it should have been, considering. Frodo had never realised he was terribly sentimental, but there it was.
Hobbiton's Fire was more sedate and sombre than Buckland's—politely and gravely asking for the Sun's return, rather than cheerfully demanding it and fully expecting compliance. How typical that the last would ping too much remembrance. And how pathetic that it would wake the hurt and rise angry tears behind his eyes as he bowed to the Crone and flung the Hill's offering onto the Bonfire.
Damn it all, why did he still miss him? If broad and tan and good-looking and cocky were what appealed to Frodo, he could trip over a dozen or so who fit the bill without even leaving the Row, so why was this still turning up like a bad penny at odd moments like this?
Largo Grubb stood not six feet away from him, patiently waiting for Frodo to get his Master's Arse out of the way so he could make his own offering, and he was certainly broad and handsome enough—why couldn't Frodo just turn, offer a discreet proposition and put Merry out of his mind altogether? Falco Hornblower, Wil Brownlock—any one of them could be mistaken for Merry from far enough away—and all right, if one squinted a bit—and any one of them would likely be game for some holiday entertainment, so why was Frodo, yet again, getting himself into this kind of twist?
Because they're none of them so bright you'd swear they took a bite out of the Sun, so full of heat they're their own Bonfire unto themselves. Because they're none of them bold enough to decide who they want to be and what they want, and then set about rearranging themselves and everything around them to get it. Because they've none of them so much brass that it's surprising they don't clank when they walk, and yet sometimes completely naked and near-shockingly vulnerable—and with you, only with you—and he just hands it to you, without so much as blinking, like it's yours, like you're supposed to have it, and then you can't help it, like a pie-eyed moth to a bloody flame, and so you show him your heart too, because you think you can, you think it's safe, until you don't even know anymore which one of you is defenceless—
He clamped his teeth together, blinked.
Because they're none of them… him.
And then he growled.
Stop it. Right now.
He shook himself, stepped deliberately too close and slightly downwind of the Bonfire; perhaps he could pass off the absurd moisture in his eyes as smoke irritation.
When he finally looked up, he cast his glance about, found May.
May—bless her, she really was a good sort—caught the glance, threw it back at him, that slight shift backwards of her shoulders and the resultant tightening and lift of her bodice, that knowing bit of a spark in her eye, offering all manner of distraction. He could certainly use a distraction tonight.
Perhaps he'd even talk her into staying the night.
Then again…
Probably not.
* * *
He had become quite used to the simplest things sideswiping him—and become even more used to methodically filing them away in the 'do not disturb' compartment that resided in his mind. So it was a distinct, unpleasant shock when Frodo sorted through the mail on Sterday afternoon and felt an invisible sucker-punch to the gut when he found the letter with the Buckland postmark. He was, however, reassured that he was able to open it with a distinct and flat calm.
The message was short and very to the point:
Frodo--
I'm sorry. Please come for Yule.
Yours,
Merry
So how was it that this short and unremarkable note suddenly and impossibly had tears welling behind his eyes? He turned away from the note though it was still in his hand, set rigid fingers to his eyes, pressed hard until the acute and unwitting sharpness of his reaction subsided.
But it didn't stop the just-as-sharp and sudden rise, still behind his eyes, of recall:
"…just say you want a quick dirty fuck in a stable…"
Say it, say it, say it! Why is it always words with you, too many words and proclamations that can't begin to speak to anything, too many relentless actions? Why can't you just be bloody still for a change, why can't you just see?
"When was the last time you admitted to really loving anyone?"
When was the last time you paid attention?
I know you, I know what you want and why, and so I give it to you but only when you want it…
Only you don't know what I want, do you? Or why, because you accused me of being…
"You're jealous."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
And you would, only I'm not jealous, not really; I just know when something is slipping through my fingers and I don't—didn't—want this to… slip… away…
"You slipped up. And I was there to see it. That's what you're really angry about."
'Slipped up'. Frodo probed his fingers harder into his eye sockets, shook his head. As if he'd played the wrong hand in a game of chance.
Yet it seems I did, didn't I? But not in the way you think…
"You let me in. 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!"
How can I possibly pretend it never happened, how can I tell you that I truly don't understand how you come to these conclusions or even begin to comprehend why you feel the need to make them, and how can you even think I was 'pretending'?
I fancied I knew you but I don't, and you don't know me any better, even though you think you do and, for one sweet evening, I thought you did, too.
Neither of us, neither of us, 'deserves' any of this. I didn't deserve being coerced into submitting to what you thought you had to have, and you didn't deserve the weight of what I thought you should have known. It went too far, all of it…
"You will go too far one day, Frodo."
"And perhaps you already have."
"Twice, I told you to stop it and both times—"
"I was drunk!"
"Right, and it's always so terribly difficult to bend you over when you're sober!"
As if that was even the point.
Yet when I did tell you to stop, to back down, to just leave… it… be…
"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—"
You are just like your father in this: you think that you can make something be what you want it just by willing it so, by wrestling it into submission, only in the end I wouldn't submit to him no matter how much I wanted… needed… to belong…
And when I looked for that belonging in you, chose to submit to you—out of love, and foolish, foolish hope—you took it as an answer, as victory, not a question, not a gift.
Just. Like. Him.
And that I will never submit to again.
"Since when do you let what my father says bother you, anyway?"
It's always 'bothered' me, but I've never allowed it to do more than that, and you don't understand that either, do you, though stars know you should, he's your father…
But then, maybe you just don't know how he was almost mine.
Frodo lowered the note to the table—gently, ever so gently—and stared out his window into the grey light of winter. The urge to weep was gone, as if it had never been, and in its place was nothing: no pain, no side-swipe of guilt or anger or sorrow. Just a ghost of the air outside—heavy, soft and impervious to whim or wanting.
It's all gone wrong, and that proved and passed in one night of overwhelming expectations. I was wrong to expect more of you, to be blinded by your brilliance and that mask of maturity you had to put on too young; it was wrong of you to expect me to magically be whatever it is you feel the need to require of me…
It was just wrong, all of it.
And I can't just submit to it any more. I can't do this, and I'm not sure you'll ever understand why—
"There is nothing I don't understand."
—because you think that, you honestly believe it. You don't want to admit there are things beyond anyone's understanding or possibility, things we'll never know and things we shouldn't know. But you, my impossible golden lad, you can't even conceive of admitting… of submitting to the realities of that. You know it all, don't you, while I realise that I will never know enough… and being so ill-equipped, I cannot do this. Not under these terms. Love is not merely another term for possession, and I can't begin to decipher what your vision is of me. I might, in the mist of drunken idiocy, attempt to sell myself for some myth and dream of belonging, but in the cold sober light of winter I know better. I can't do it. Not even for you.
Not when you want to own me but you refuse to own to what I really am…
How odd, after all the internal paroxysms of the past months, that he should come to this moment and feel nothing but resignation. No pain, no remorse, only a hollow, silent acceptance.
Snowflakes had begun to fall upon the window as Frodo went over to his desk. He spent several moments in silent contemplation, peering at the snow beginning to feather the wood-framed panes, then quietly sat down, took out parchment and uncapped the ink, selected a quill and carefully sharpened it. Then, without hesitation, he began to write, answering Merry's letter with what he knew to be the plain, unadorned truth:
Merry:
I don't think it's a good idea. At least not until we both know what we're sorry for. Be well.
Sincerely,
Frodo
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