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 gave it six weeks.  Well, six weeks, if one was going to go by the strictest definition.  In truth, he didn't even give it a day.  In real truth, he gave it fifteen minutes.

After he'd got back to his rooms, wet and cold but a little more even-tempered, only to realise Frodo had gone, he'd spent a few minutes staring blankly at the bedpost, then another few seething, one or two more kicking things and then he tore back down to the stables.  When he deduced, by the presence of Frodo's saddle, that Frodo had not borrowed a pony, Merry had to stop himself from dragging the lad who was brushing down Hickory away and re-saddling him to go after Frodo.  He'd be walking and easy to catch up with, and it was getting nigh dark, so he'd probably be on the road, and all right, that was stupid because Merry knew full well that Frodo rarely ever stuck to the road—day or dark, clear skies or sleet—but sod it, he couldn't not do something!

So, he'd settled on Hildy, the sleek, sturdy mare he usually used to ride the grounds or for lengthy trips; she was his favourite, in truth—always game for a good jaunt—and gave him a pleased whiffle and a bit of a prance when he bridled her, smooth flanks twitching in anticipation as he swung the blanket and saddle over her back, despite the fact that all of her stablemates had their noses in their feed.  She wasn't as fast as Hickory but she also wasn't sixty-five stone of stroppy scrote and wouldn't get all arsy about being dragged out in the rain; plus Merry would swear she could see in the dark.  He didn't need all that much speed, really; Frodo was on foot, after all… the bloody stubborn prat.  Bloody stubborn wilful prat, who thought he could say anything at all and it shouldn't hurt, no, not at all, Merry was supposed to just take it and say thank you ever so, may I have another? and sod all, but Merry did, didn't he, he always did and even when he knew it, he couldn't bloody stop himself because… because he was in love, blast it all, and he hadn't meant for it to happen, hadn't even known it could happen, not like this, but it had, and all right, so he was young and probably a little more stupid than he should be, but it didn't change anything and it didn't make it hurt any less, did it?  And he was an idiot for going after Frodo when he knew good and well that the first thing Frodo would do when or if Merry did catch him up would be to snarl at him first and then clout him besides, and bugger all, Meriadoc, have you no pride? 

He was almost to the Ferry, reined Hildy up so short she gave a squawk of surprised protest before dancing sideways to a halt.  Waited patiently, quivering a little between his thighs, as Merry frowned and pondered the silver-limned crush and curl of the River through the autumn-thinned branches of maple and oak.

Have you no pride?

This wasn't his fault!  Frodo was the one who was being unreasonable, running scared and for nothing!  Merry had more than earned his trust and Frodo had no right to treat him like this, like some child who needed an hour in the corner, and he ought to just ride himself straight to Hobbiton, wait for him at Bag End and knock some sense into his thick head, tell him how all of this was hurting them both, make him see how—

Have you no pride?

Merry did.  He clenched his jaw, sucked in several large greedy swallows of moist cool air, smelling of fish and silt, black earth and the slow decay of leaves, blinked against the rain and closed his eyes.  He acknowledged a small bit of worry that Frodo was likely to get caught in a good storm, though it slip-slid a bit into smug satisfaction.  He allowed himself a quiet little, "No more than he deserves," then wrapped his pride about him like a cloak, clucked to the mare and steered her in a turnabout.  If Frodo wanted to walk away, Merry wouldn't stop him.

He had his pride.

* * *

He was supposed to be on holiday, had planned well ahead, warned everyone who needed warning that he wouldn't be about for a while; rather than face all of the questions as to why he was about, Merry hooked up with a troop of Bounders who were to billet along the Greenway until Winterfilth.  They would drill with their bows and knives for a week then relieve those on the south and west patrols.  Shooting at things—both targets and wild game—fresh meat cooked over an open fire and eaten right off the bone, carrying everything he needed on his back and sleeping under the sky, smoking and passing wind whenever he felt like it—from whichever end he bloody-well pleased—and not having to watch his language…  It would be a perfect distraction, and anyway, he hadn't been out on exercises in far too long; he could do with a refresher on his training.  Remind him what he was about.

He spoke to Grim and Tom both about the grape harvest, was satisfied that they could manage without him—they had done for years, after all—and Beri would keep an ear pricked for any problems, what with the rain and all.  The grains and feed-crops had all been harvested, tallied and separated; the apples and plums would go when the grapes did and anyway, his mother took care of overseeing the first two herself; the Leaf was already strung in the curing barns; he'd already arranged for what milling was to be done, and Knoll knew what to sell and what to store.  Every forehobbit knew his business better than Merry ever would and his mother had handled the accounts long before Merry had ever come along.  And he'd be back in plenty of time for Winternights.  He could leave with a clear conscience.

Almost clear.

He wrote a quick, terse note first and posted it to Hobbiton.

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

Perhaps that would make Frodo think a little.  And all right, so Merry had said some regrettable things as well, but he hadn't gone and got vicious, had he?  And he'd only been defending himself, after all, and hadn't had time to think, sod it, he'd been bloody blindsided, hadn't he?

Still, though—not attending Frodo's birthday… that was something else and again.  Merry'd not done anything so overt before, hadn't ever done something that could be very easily interpreted as a snub.  And all right, it was a snub—might as well be honest about it.  Then again, for all he knew, he'd drag himself all the way to Hobbiton only to have Frodo slam that big green door in his face.  In fact, that was probably exactly what would happen—Frodo never did care much about what 'face' they presented in public; Merry cared more about Frodo's reputation than Frodo did, and yes, his own as well—he was, as Frodo so often reminded him, not only the Future Master but Buckland's Son, and as such was accountable to its citizens and did his very best not to cause embarrassment to himself or them.  Being on the receiving-end of a hissy in front of Frodo's guests was not a situation in which Merry would voluntarily participate.

So, he posted the note.  Frodo would be angry, of course, though probably only because he hadn't thought to withdraw the invitation first and had let Merry beat him to the punch.  But it might make him understand how hurt Merry really was, how serious the situation was.  They weren't going to be able to ignore this one or sweep it under the rug as they'd done so many times in the past few years; this one was going to have to be worked out and resolved.  Frodo was going to have to come to understand that he couldn't keep Merry dangling like this anymore, was going to have to admit that Merry was not a naïve tweener, that he knew exactly what he wanted and didn't need anyone telling him how he felt.  That if anyone was naïve in this, it was Frodo himself, and if he would just choke down the fear or pride or whatever it was that was keeping him from admitting that what they had was more than just a shag now and then, everything would be fine.

And maybe—just maybe—there would be an apology waiting for Merry when he got back.

* * *

There was a note from Frodo, but it wasn't, by any stretch, an apology:

Dear Cousin Meriadoc:

Thank you for informing me.  I'm sure it's for the best.

Sincerely,

Frodo Baggins

"Bloody—"  Merry clenched his teeth, crumpled the note in his fist.  He'd even beaten Merry in the formality game.  "Bloody fuck!"

The prat.  The sodding tosser!

Six weeks, Merry had been blessedly free of worry, had been convinced that Frodo only needed a little time and perhaps something to jar him somewhat, make him really think.  Merry had even gone so far as to make tentative plans in his head, thought that after the slaughter, he might take a trip to Bag End and see about setting things to rights.  And if apologising for the way he'd reacted that day was what was needed, Merry was prepared to swallow a bit of his pride and do it.  He would coax Frodo to confess what had been going on in his head, would give whatever assurances were necessary, would accept Frodo's apology in return.

But this note!  And all right, so it was four weeks old, but there wasn't another in with the mix; Frodo hadn't re-thought his response, written to apologise for it—nothing!  Was he even upset?  Did he even care?

Merry didn't care that he was filthy and rank from weeks spent patrolling borders and sleeping under nothing but his coat and cloak and the sky; he plopped on his bed, stared at the crumpled bit of paper in his hand and seethed.  And started to worry.

Clearly, Frodo was taking all of this more seriously than Merry had thought and clearly, he was still angry.  I'm sure it's for the best.  What did that mean?  Surely Frodo didn't think it was over?  Surely he knew that it was all just another in the long list of things over which they disagreed, that they'd get over it somehow—it was what they did.  It was how they were.  Surely Frodo didn't think… couldn't want…

And what if he did?  What happened then?  Could Merry go back to being Cousin Merry?  Perhaps salvage at least the friendship out of the whole mess?  Would Frodo even let him?  Losing Frodo as a lover was bad enough, but could he bear losing him altogether?

"Bloody fuck!"

A little more reedy this time, his voice thinned and shaky.  Merry bolted up, began to pace, booted his beaten pack across the room so hard it almost landed in the fire-grate.  Note still clenched in his fist, Merry dragged his other hand through his hair, tried to think clearly.  He shoved his hand in his pocket, came up with Frodo's tie.  Just like the pathetic wanker he was, he'd taken to keeping it in his pocket, like some sort of talisman or good luck charm—not that there seemed to be any sort of luck but bad attached to it, but he'd been keeping it with him anyway and refused to think about why.  And now, though he really wanted to chuck it right into the fire, he only clenched his fist around it, shoved it back in his pocket.

"Damn it!"

The thing was, 'losing' Frodo wasn't just a figurative fear; it was a very real one, as well.  How many times had he watched Frodo turn wistful when he spoke of Bilbo?  How many times had Merry's mouth run dry when Frodo would thumb through the pages of his maps, fingertips hovering over the blank, white spaces beyond the ink borders of their own world, and ask, 'What lies Out There, do you think?' 

'I don't know,' Merry would reply, doing his best to cloak his unease, and then add silently, 'but I've no doubt you will one day see about finding out.'

And how many times had he wondered how Frodo would do it?  Not if he would do it, mind—how he would do it, because despite half of his heritage, Merry couldn't lay claim to more than a drop of Took blood—not that there was such a thing—but he knew somehow that it was not a question of 'if' but a matter of 'when' and he sometimes wondered if even Frodo knew it as Merry did.  And he couldn't believe that Frodo would be so dramatic as to disappear from his own birthday party, but he had the tool to do just that if he so chose, didn't he?  Bloody Bilbo and his bloody 'legacies'.

Heart suddenly thudding painfully, stomach dropping then clenching, Merry snatched up his pack and bolted for the door.  If Frodo had gone and done something foolish, if he was already—

Laid a hand to the knob and halted.

Stop it!  Calm down and just think for a moment.

Glory, what was this, some kind of grotty romance story?  And what would that make him—the damsel in distress?

Hullo, my name is Meriadoc and I'm a girl.  I might look like a lad, but underneath the muscles and the twig and berries, there are petticoats and bloomers just dying to break free.

He had to get hold of himself.  He was being ridiculous.  If Frodo had disappeared from his birthday—if he'd disappeared at all—Merry would have heard about it before he'd even reached his rooms; in fact, before he'd even reached the Hall.  Someone would have been standing about and waiting at the stables to spill the news, no doubt, or at the very least, his mother would have said something when he'd stopped by the study to let her know he'd got back safely.  It was News when someone went and disappeared—not that anyone really did, but look at how they were still talking about Bilbo, for pity's sake—and Merry probably would have heard about it all the way to the Greenway if Frodo had done something rash.

And anyway, he was giving himself a little too much credit, wasn't he?  By all indications, Frodo didn't really care enough about Merry to up and leave just because they'd had a fight.  If the note was any clue, Frodo was hardly broken up about it all and certainly wouldn't be spurred away to nurse a broken heart because of Merry.

He took several deep breaths, rolled his eyes.  He was such a prat.  And wasn't it ironic that the fact that Frodo didn't care enough was actually consolation?

Have you no pride?

Merry sighed, flung his pack to the floor, stripped his reeking clothes, wrapped himself in his robe and headed for a bath.

"Right now," he muttered darkly, "I'm really not so sure."

* * *

More than once over the next week, Merry found himself loosely guiding Hildy on aimless rambles, wondering what time he'd arrive in Hobbiton if he left right now—just gave Hildy a bit of a kick, took off at a run, without even stopping to pack a change of clothes.  Laying out the best route in his head.  Deciding which shortcuts would get him to Bag End's door fastest.  Planning what he'd say when he got there.  Imagining the covert relief and guarded pleasure on Frodo's face when he found Merry standing on his porch.

Rolling his eyes and cursing himself for a twice-arsed fool.

Frodo was not exactly the throw-himself-into-one's-arms-and grant-instant-forgiveness sort.

Still…

He couldn't get the vision of Bilbo disappearing into a flash of light and a puff of smoke out of his head.  And even if the worry over Frodo picking up and leaving was a little on the unreasonable end of the scale, that did not necessarily rule out the possibility altogether.

Frodo was obviously brooding and that was never a good thing.  Probably doing so alone as well, holed up in Bag End with its echoing tunnels and smials full of every luxury but company.  And for Merry, it only renewed the anxiety that Frodo now had no real tether to hold him here—if he got it into his head to see what all that blank space on those maps was about, who was there to stop him or even to go with him?

So, Merry didn't go to Hobbiton, but he did go to Budgeford, sat Freddy down and told him—the ring and the maps and the wanderlust in Frodo's eyes.  And Freddy listened, laughed at him, teased him, but in the end, agreed to invite himself to Bag End for a while.  And while Merry had to own a bit of envy that it was Freddy at Bag End and not Merry himself, he watched anxiously for Freddy's letters, read them each carefully, and felt at least a little easier, knowing Frodo had someone about to keep his feet firmly on the ground.

He waited until after Samhain before he wrote again.  Pages and pages spilled forth and just as quickly fed the fire.  He wasn't the best with words, with saying how he felt or what he thought, and especially with pen and paper, and this was too important a thing to cock up.  It wouldn't do to send Frodo a long, soppy love-note, when it was those sentiments that got them where they were in the first place.  They had to talk about it.  Had to.  Eventually.  But Merry was going to get absolutely nowhere if he scared Frodo away again before he'd even agreed to see him.

So Merry went for the simple approach:

Frodo—

I'm sorry.  Please come for Yule.

Yours,

Merry

Only to receive:

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

So.  It would be the first Yule they'd spent apart since that first Yule they'd spent together.  And there Merry went with the romance again.  Stars, he was getting so overwrought and drippy he was making himself sick.

At least this note was better than the last one.  And it said to Merry that Frodo did care and that was a relief.  Still, though, it rather ruled out any thoughts on making an overture, didn't it?  Because while Merry could conclude from this that Frodo was as sorry as Merry was himself, it was clear that Frodo didn't want to see him.  He'd learnt very well after that first really big fight, when Merry had thought it a grand idea to try and talk Frodo into moving back to Buckland after Bilbo left, that there were times and situations that demanded that Merry step back, give Frodo room, or at least stay out of target range, and this was definitely one of those times.  And knowing Frodo as he did, Merry could read misery between the lines, and while he had to admit that it made his chest puff a little, it also reinforced the seriousness of the situation.  He would simply have to give Frodo more time.  And, somehow, learn to grow some patience.

Yule arrived, and while Merry had been dreading it somewhat, he was determined that he would not mope through it, that he would put on his party-face and wring as much enjoyment out of it as he possibly could.  And just maybe, if he pretended at mirth hard enough, he would begin to feel it.  Maybe the ache in his chest would dull, maybe his mind would clear and maybe he would begin to feel like an actual person again.

It didn't go quite according to plan.  For one thing, Saradoc, of all people, decided that he would try his hand at being a father for about five minutes, which he spent pressing a mug of Tuckborough bitter into Merry's hand and telling him what a fine job he'd done with the profits this year.  Which only reinforced two things for Merry: one, that his father knew absolutely nothing about him or he'd know that Merry hated bitter, whether it was from Tuckborough or from Over-heaven itself; and two, that Merry really had to start remembering to lock up the account books when he left the study.

Saradoc was sober—for the moment, anyway—and actually looked rather natty, cleaned up and kitted in his best, as he was.  Still, Merry could barely stand to look at him; he supposed he should try and find a kind response—it was, after all, most likely his father's idea of trying to mend fences and they'd barely exchanged three words for the past several months—but what he really wanted was to get out from under Saradoc's heavy arm and away from the celebration before his head popped off. 

Several guests drifted by; Merry was compelled to stand there and force a steady, rigid smile while Saradoc pretended he was the Master of the Hall and Merry pretended his father deserved respect.  But when his Grand-aunt Amethyst hobbled through, gave them each a dry, powdery kiss on the cheek and said they made a dashing pair, both so wide and tall and done up to the nines, Saradoc clapped Merry on the back, claimed him a 'chip off the old block' and it was too much.

Even several minutes after he'd politely but firmly excused himself from his grand-aunt's company, and less politely and yet more firmly from his father's, and rid himself of the bitter, Merry still felt the weight of his father's arm across his shoulders, still felt the sting of Saradoc's gaze on the back of his neck.

And all Merry could think was, I am not like you, I am nothing like you, so don't try and get all chummy now, after you've ruined everything!  You are why I am here alone tonight and if I have to drain every drop of Brandybuck blood from my veins myself, I won't ever be like you!

He was beginning to feel a good brood coming on and the air in the great room was starting to choke him.

So, when Aster Brownlock propositioned Merry, promised him he wouldn't regret it if he met her out by the gatehouse just after the bonfire was lit, Merry bit his tongue on what he really wanted to say—No, thank you, but I've been making do wanking alone to visions of dark hair and star-shot eyes that turn soft with love when they look at me—and instead gave a smoky little smile, let his eyes drop to half-mast and nodded.

And he had every intention of following through.  It had been too long, after all.  Whatever Frodo might think about Merry, he was right in one thing: Merry was young—far too young to be sitting about and watching life, when he should be taking what he wanted from it.  Aster was lovely, with her silky ringlets of spiced-ginger and eyes of soft hazel that sparked when she smiled.  She was full and soft and more than willing, and how lucky was Merry that she'd singled him out?  He hadn't even had to dance with her first.

So, when the gathering removed to the courtyard and began their songs for the Lighting, Merry just sort of drifted along with them, stayed on the outside of the circle and watched as his father brandished the splinter from last year's Log and lit the new.  Small cups of mulled wine were distributed; Merry took one in his turn, spent a moment wishing it was plum wine then shook it away.  Saradoc stepped back when the kindling lit, took the mug of wine his wife handed him.  "Waes Hael!" he called to the gathering and, "Drink Hael!" they bellowed back, mugs and glasses raised, and all toasted to the swift return of the Sun.

Merry hung back at the edges, just outside the circle of flickering warmth thrown by the fire.  He felt a bit like a phantom, hovering at the fringes of life this way, removed, watching others laugh and sing as though he had no place in it all, and for the first time ever, it occurred to Merry how very few friends he really had.  He was acquainted with just about everyone here, but he could count the number of actual friends on one hand with fingers left over, and not a one of them was here now.  Berilac had gone with his mother to Longbottom for the holiday, Fredegar was in Hobbiton and anyway, he was more Frodo's friend than Merry's.  And Frodo…

Well.

He knocked back the rest of his wine in one swallow, clenched his teeth on the burn in his throat, his belly, and tried to put everything but Aster from his mind.  An elbow jostled him then another.  The voices of those standing near him lifted in song, the sway of the crowd to the beat—all of it closing in on him, grating at his nerves like broken glass.

His mother and father stood on the other side of the great circle.  Merry watched through wavering flame as Saradoc held possessively to his wife, one thick arm slung across her shoulders, mug dangling from his fingers, and his other hand twined with hers.  Almost bloody pawing at her, really, in public, no less, and worse—she didn't seem to mind.  Saradoc dipped in, whispered something into Esmeralda's ear and she laughed, her eyes bright and fond, whispered something back and kissed his cheek.  Saradoc grinned, pulled her in closer, and Esmeralda rested her head to his shoulder.  They were grinning like children and Merry was suddenly aware of the intimacy he was witnessing, didn't know quite how to feel about it, and so he looked away.

She really does love him, he found himself thinking and he shook his head.  He would never understand it.  He supposed he couldn't blame her for wanting to take advantage of the fact that her husband was sober for the moment. 

Saradoc stepped forward, flung the remainder of his wine onto the Log; Esmeralda followed with a small bound bundle of wheat sheaves.  The fire hissed and the kindling popped, sending sparks shooting towards the sky like fireworks; the gathering leaked several 'oohs' and a smattering of applause then formed a loose, informal line to make their own offerings.  Merry found it suddenly hard to swallow for some unfathomable reason and he shoved his hands into his pockets.  He'd missed this for the past two years, he and Frodo finding other things to do with themselves even before the dancing started, and the loneliness and regret hit him all at once like a blow to the belly.  He would give just about anything to have missed it again this year.

He would not spend tonight burrowed comfortably beneath the quilts with Frodo.  He would spend it in a meaningless tumble with someone he barely even knew and he would go to his bed alone.

The smoke seared into his eyes and he blinked, dipped his head, stole farther towards the edges and slowly receded into the shadows.  When he was sure that no one had noticed, he turned and made his way towards the gatehouse.  He needed a bit of comfort and what was more, he deserved some, and if Aster was offering, Merry would take what she gave him and be thankful.

He found his steps ponderous for some reason, decided it had nothing whatever to do with the fact that his eyes were still burning and his throat was tight and all he wanted to do right this minute was turn around, slink off to his rooms and go to bed.  He was maybe a little nervous, that was all it was, and he paused when he reached the small grove of evergreens that ringed the yard of the agreed upon meeting-place.  He wasn't procrastinating, or anything—he did want to do this—it was only that he needed to stop a moment and catch his breath.  The hesitation was only natural, he supposed; he'd not been with anyone else besides Frodo for almost three years and it shouldn't be surprising that there was trepidation to turn him a little dodgy.

A smoke would make him feel better, calm his nerves so he could enjoy what was to come.  He would enjoy it, of course—he had every intention of going as far as Aster was willing to take him and she seemed willing to take him to the Moon and back if he asked it.  Really, how often did a hobbit get an offer like that, anyway?  And he really shouldn't keep her waiting but she knew he had duties and delays were sometimes unavoidable.  She'd understand. 

He leaned his back against a thick, straight pine, dug out his pipe and his weed, and packed himself a bowl.  He was careful to turn his back to the gatehouse as he lit up—it wouldn't do for her to know that he was out here smoking when she was over there waiting.

The stars were thick and close tonight and Merry, unwillingly, inevitably, wondered what Frodo was doing.  Was he outside right now with his own pipe, his eyes turned to the same stars Merry was admiring?  Was he thinking about Merry, maybe?  Perhaps he was right now admitting that he missed Merry and birching himself for holing away in Hobbiton. 

Then again… perhaps not. 

It was quite possible, Merry supposed, that he hadn't even crossed Frodo's mind.  Frodo had, after all, refused to come, hadn't he?  Did this night even have as much meaning for Frodo as it did for Merry?  Was Frodo right now remembering two Yules prior when things had come together as though they'd been meant since the world was born?  Or was he thanking those stars above that he'd got out when he'd had the chance? 

Merry closed his eyes, shook his head.

What am I doing here?  Why am I not right now at Bag End, trying to talk some sense into you?  This isn't what I want and it can't be what you want, so what am I doing here?

Was Frodo thinking the same thing right this minute?  Was he standing on top of the Hill alone, his face tilted to the stars in that way that always brought a mix of awe and fear to Merry's heart?  Was his chest tight and were his eyes burning and did he clamp his pipe between his teeth so hard he might bite the stem clean off if he didn't start paying more attention?

Merry shook himself, removed his pipe from between his teeth.  He dragged his eyes from the sky and closed them tight, dug his thumb and forefinger into them and rubbed.  He was getting a headache.

Was Frodo even alone?  Or was there someone else standing there with him?  Someone who could hear the songs those stars sang to Frodo and didn't fear them, maybe even understood them and didn't try to drag Frodo away from them.  Someone who would study those maps with him and perhaps plan routes of travel, rather than turn the page and pretend he wasn't terrified.  Someone who—

"…told you he wouldn't show, love.  Brandybucks are all a bit on the dull side, you know."

Merry jumped, instinctively covered the bowl of his pipe with his palm; it proved unnecessary.  The pipe had gone out.  When had that happened? 

"Maybe," another female voice replied, somewhat sharp and clipped.  "But they're Brandybucks, aren't they?"

Aster. 

Merry kept himself from sighing and for the first time, wondered how long he'd been out here, staring at the sky and letting his thoughts drift to Frodo.  Clearly, it had been long enough for Aster to have given up on him.  And she certainly didn't sound happy about it.  He closed his eyes again, thought about making his presence known and apologising—

"And this one will be Master, don’t you know.  He'll need a Mistress, won't he, then?

—pressed himself into the tree instead and stilled.

"Not that one," the other voice replied; Merry guessed it was Celandine Banks, who'd been standing behind Aster and smirking like a twit when Aster had made her offer to Merry.  "The way him and that odd duck from Hobbiton carry on, I'm betting whoever his Mistress ends up being will have to look in someone else's drawers for an Heir."

Merry ignored how it gave a small jab to his heart, scowled.  That was rather crude.  Did lasses all talk this way to one another?

"But that's the thing!" Aster retorted, her voice rising with her temper.  "They've had done, or so I hear.  My cousin Pansy Longbranch knows Peony Baggins and she's quite good friends with Estella Bolger, whose brother—you know Fredegar… Fatty?—anyway, Fatty has been spending loads of time in Hobbiton with the odd duck himself and Pansy says that Estella told Peony who told Pansy that he's been sporting about with anything that'll bend over for him."

Had done.  Sporting about.

Merry felt liked he'd been punched in the chest. 

They were almost right next to him now, making their way back to the bonfire, he guessed, and it was all he could do not to reach out, snatch at those ginger curls of Aster's and wring her neck with them.  He was glad he'd stood her up.  Bloody stupid gossiping cow!

"Tch!"  Celandine's voice again.  "I'm sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, love, but your cousin Pansy hasn't the sense given a fencepost and she's a mouth that runs faster than the Brandywine in spring runoff.  I wouldn't trust anything that came dribbling from it."

Merry was beginning to think he'd misjudged Celandine. 

His heart had picked up pace somewhere back around 'had done' and he willed himself to breathe evenly.  Pansy Longbranch indeed!  Everyone knew you couldn't say 'match' around her without her flitting about and yelling 'Fire!'

"And anyway," Aster went on, her tone a bit more subdued, "Meriadoc Brandybuck is bloody gorgeous—did you see him standing next to the Master?  Bet he looks just like Master Saradoc did when he was young, with that hair and those shoulders.  Don't think he got anything a-tall from the Mistress but his sense, did young Master Meriadoc.  All Brandybuck, that one, and I only wanted… well, I wasn't especially looking for any bended-knee just now."

All Brandybuck.

Sodding bullying pillock, you are just like—

No, no, no, I'm not, I'm not anything like him!

They were getting too far for Merry to hear clearly; he began to follow as quietly as possible, staying far enough behind to blend into shadow but close enough to hear.

"No," was Celandine's reply, and she slipped her arm about Aster's shoulders.  "Not yet, but you were hoping he might think kindly of you in a few years when it's time, yes?" 

Merry didn't hear the answer but assumed it was in the affirmative since Celandine nodded and gave her friend a squeeze. 

Well, good luck with that now, you stroppy bint, he thought.  He didn't think he could scrape up a kind thought for Aster Brownlock now if she were on her knees and undoing his trousers with her teeth.

"I've already told you it's no good with that one, love, unless you've dark hair, a skinny arse and your name is Frodo Baggins.  He's no use for lasses, I tell you."

Frodo Baggins did not have a skinny arse.  Frodo Baggins' arse was bloody magnificent!  And if he didn't wear those awful boxy coats all the time, more people would know that.  So, Merry was actually rather glad that Frodo wore those awful, boxy coats all the time.  But, glory, get him in one of those single-vented, double-breasted frockcoats he wore every now and then… 

Bloody damn, what was wrong with these two?  Had they no eyes?

"Well, what about all the stories from when the young Master was ploughing his way through anything that stood still for five minutes?" Aster wanted to know.  "Only a few years ago, that was, and he had plenty of lasses then, so I hear."

Yes, Merry had.  Plenty and more, so let Celandine stick that up her—

"That was before Frodo Baggins," Celandine pointed out.

All right.  Merry had to give her that one.

Aster was apparently not convinced.  "Well, what about that Viola Took?" she insisted.  "To hear her tell it, she had him six ways from Sterday at Harvest and that right under Frodo Baggins' nose!"

Merry's jaw almost came unhinged.  As if he ever would!  And with Viola!  Bugger all, didn't females have anything better to do than invent ludicrous stories about people they didn't even know?

A snort from Celandine.  "I was here at Harvest and I say Viola has herself a case of very wishful thinking.  He only looked at her long enough to put Adelard in his pocket, if you ask me.  In fact, if you want to know what I think, I think Meriadoc Brandybuck would be more likely to go for Adelard than Viola."

Merry stopped walking.  Gave a little shudder.  Ew.  On both counts.

"Well, he hasn't lifted an eyebrow to neither lad nor lass all night that I've seen and I was watching, you know.  And he has to tumble someone every now and then, doesn't he?  He is male, after all.  And he's lovely and all, and I'm here and willing and that Hobbiton git isn't, is he?"

Merry's teeth clenched.  Who did she think she was, anyway?  Git.  Right.  As if she even had the first clue what she was talking about.  Except maybe for the 'lovely' part.  But still.  Transparent, jealous little twat.  Merry had never heard a finer example of pot-and-kettle in his life.  And he'd actually been planning on tumbling her!

"Even if he wasn't so moony over Frodo Baggins, a lass would hardly catch his eye unless she pulled on a pair of trousers," Celandine said.  "And grew a set of stones.  Bedding that Brandybuck is a waste of a good bath, I tell you.  Try him again in ten years when the Mistress is looking for the mother of her grandchildren."

Merry blinked at that one.  First of all, he was not moony.  Cow.  And second of all, no, he didn't think it was that he liked trousers more than skirts—he just preferred Frodo and Frodo happened to wear trousers.  It was Frodo himself, not the fact that he was male.  Everything else was just fitting screws into sockets, wasn't it? 

What had he been thinking, agreeing to meet Aster and her socket in the first place?

"Ooh, I hate Frodo Baggins!" Aster snarled.  "He's ruining my life!"

Merry rolled his eyes.  Glory, mean-spirited and melodramatic.  Thank heavens he'd been daydreaming as long as he had been, else he might right now be shagging her into the gatehouse wall and who knew what sorts of plans she had for him after?  It was all well and good for her to say she wasn't interested in marriage right now, but he was willing to bet that she'd be more than pleased if she got a child by him.  Then she'd be sure to be Mistress one day.  And with lasses like her about, who could really blame him for preferring to spend his time in more masculine company?

Not that he was doing that either.

Any interest Merry'd had in the conversation five minutes ago, left him with the sudden slump of his shoulders.  He stopped listening, turned slowly and walked the other way.  He didn't stop until he'd reached the River, watched the stars reflect themselves on its sluggish water and tried not to think about a single thing until the cold gnawed its way into his bones. 

Tried not to stare at his hands—his wide, strong hands—and think about how his father had hands just as broad as his own.  Tried most especially not to think about how miserable he was.  Tried not to wonder if Frodo was asleep and if he was alone.  Tried no to let 'had done' echo in circles in his head, and tried not to let 'sporting about' chase it like a dog after its tail.

The bonfire had died down when he returned, several couples seated at its still-smouldering edges, some talking quietly, some spooning, some dozing on the shoulder of the other.  Merry tried not to notice.  He made his way to his rooms while the dawn pushed night away with a bloom of amber-amethyst. 

It took him a full two days to get rid of the headache.

He went back out with the Bounders in Afteryule, froze his arse off for another six weeks, and came back in mid-Solmath to no note, no word and the sinking suspicion that it was over, had been over for a while now and Frodo simply hadn't thought to tell him.  He knew from his mother that Frodo would be having his regular spring visit at Smials, thought about just showing up there where Frodo couldn't close a door on his face; he helped with trimming the livestock's hooves instead, a job he normally wouldn't get near for all the beer in the Shire, but it was hard, dirty, smelly, required some bit of concentration, and he fell into his bed each night, too exhausted to think or fret.

He was all right.  He would get over it.  If it was over—and it appeared that it was—Merry would live.  If Frodo really was 'sporting about' then Merry would not be made more of a fool.  He would not write Frodo, not again, because he actually did have some self-respect, and since his attempts had already been very plainly rejected, if there was any approach to be made, it now fell to Frodo.  And if Frodo didn't make that approach?  Well…

Merry had his pride.

* * *

No, he didn't.  He had the appearance of pride and he worked damned hard at maintaining it, too, but he didn't have it down deep where it counted.  Down there, he fretted and stewed and wondered bleakly if this was it, the end, and if it was, how were they supposed to go back to being friends?  Were they friends?  With the things they'd said to each other, Merry wasn't so sure anymore.  And the fact that Frodo had not written him, not once!  There had been the answers to Merry's own notes, but that was it; Frodo hadn't even tried to take even the smallest of steps towards reconciliation and…

And what if Frodo was back on the 'too young' thing again?  What if he was just sitting back and waiting for Merry to prove himself, waiting for Merry to show him just how adult he really was and… well, exactly how did one go about doing that anyway?  And sod all but why was Merry even trying to figure it out?  Why should he even consider trying to prove him wrong?  Frodo certainly wasn't miserable, was he?  By Freddy's accounts and by Frodo's letters to Merry's mum, he was doing just fine with no complaints, keeping busy, he'd said, and did Merry even want to consider who he'd been keeping busy with?  After what he'd overheard at Yule…

It wasn't true, of course.  Couldn't be true.  Not only did it come from unreliable sources, it just wasn't like Frodo.  Certainly, Merry had heard stories of Frodo's 'wild youth' and some of them included details of numerous and rather daring trysts, but—

Well, bollocks.

Sodding buggering rotter was probably shagging half the Westfarthing, and here Merry was, sulking and turning away offers, and it had been months, bugger all, months, and why wasn't Merry out shagging half the Eastfarthing anyway, when it was more than obvious that even when they weren't over, Frodo had no intention of being exclusive and apparently didn't want Merry to be either, and were they over?  And whether they were or they weren't, how fair was it of Frodo to not bloody tell him?

And sod all, Merry missed him so bad it was like a physical pain in his chest.  Missed how he would sometimes feel a warmth on the back of his neck, turn and find Frodo smiling at him from across the room.  Missed how you could tell all about Frodo's day just by watching him empty his pockets at the end of it.  Missed the glare he'd sometimes receive over the top of Frodo's glasses when Merry would see how much annoyance Frodo would take before he threw down his pen—or threw it at Merry—and advanced upon him with a scowl that always turned into an exasperated grin eventually.  Missed the running competition they'd had going since Merry was fifteen over who could find the most creative way to dispose of Frodo's Aunt Dora's Yule fruitcakes.  There was a regrettable hiatus one year while Merry was avoiding Frodo and trying to grow up in a hurry.  But as of last year, Merry was ahead in the competition with his modified crossbow, which he'd found in pieces at the bottom of a dusty old trunk after his grandfather had died.  Merry had pieced it back together, made a few adjustments, and last Yule, had launched the ginger-scented brick of 'cake' all the way into the middle of the River, where it promptly sank like a stone.  Frodo had laughed so hard he almost fell in himself.  And then he gave Merry a sloppy snog, a standing ovation, drubbed both of Merry's shoulders with a soggy stick from the strand and declared him Saviour of Taste-buds Everywhere.  And then he dragged Merry back to the Hall and shagged his brains out. 

He missed laughing.  Missed hearing his name spoken by Frodo's voice, feeling Frodo's touch upon his skin.  Missed having a friend he could turn to, talk to, who would somehow always know when Merry needed an arm slipped about him and a reassuring squeeze, or even when he needed a cuff to the back his head.  Missed falling asleep with Frodo pressed against his back and waking to the dawn just to watch Frodo sleep.  He even missed the occasional kick to the shins in the night.

Merry, in short, was beginning to fall apart.  And Frodo…

Frodo didn't seem to care.

Merry participated in his own life only as much as absolutely necessary to stave off concern from his mother.  He no longer even pretended at interested glances towards the various potential playmates who crossed his apathetic glance unless his mother was standing right next to him.  Parties and feasts were things that required a duty of him; he acted accordingly and no more.  The business of the Hall under his charge he ran with mechanical precision and efficiency, but it had begun to lack in the satisfaction he'd always drawn from a job well-done.

This wasn't right, it was all so horribly wrong, and Merry had never felt so powerless in all his life.  And it was ridiculous, too, because Frodo loved him, Merry knew he did, a person couldn't fake something like that, and certainly not Frodo, who couldn't fake his way through something to save his own life—he cared, Merry knew he cared, so why was he letting this go on so long?  Surely he missed Merry?  Surely he was having just as difficult a time as Merry was himself?  Surely he—

"All right, Meriadoc, this has gone on long enough!"  Esmeralda slapped an envelope on the desk in front of him, glared down at her son expectantly. 

After Merry came down from the ceiling—glory, she'd scared the life out of him—he blinked at his mother, frowned.  "Sorry, what?"

"It's Frodo's answer to the invitation to the Planting Festival," Esme said, nodding to the envelope.  "He's declined, in case you were wondering.  Am I to expect the same when it comes time for your birthday party?  Those invitations are meant to go out in only another two weeks, you know."

Declined.  Of course he'd declined.  Pillock.  Wait—

"What birthday party?" Merry wanted to know.  "I told you that I wasn't having one this year.  There is too much to do and I can't—"

"Balls!"

Merry blinked some more, shook his head a little.  Had his mother just said 'Balls'?

"You didn't have one last year, Merry, and I let it go because—"

"You didn't 'let it go', you nagged at me until I was nearly half-mad and ready to—"

"I let it go," Esmeralda continued more forcefully, "because you were right and we did need the new irrigation system dug, and because it was so soon after Granddad died.  But there is no excuse this year, Merry, unless you count moping about and sulking as an excuse, but I count it more as being a coward than anything else."

Merry couldn't believe his ears; first 'Balls' and now—

"Coward?"

Esmeralda's colour was high, her eyes bright.  "Well, what else would you call it when you want something so badly that the not having it turns you into a different person, but you can't be arsed to go and get it?  What kind of a Brandybuck are you, anyway?  And I won't even ask what kind of Took you are because there isn't a Took in the history of the name that would rather curl up and take it up the arse instead of—"

"Hoy, would you—"  Merry had to stop himself from plastering his hands over his ears.  "Glory, Mum, what—" 

He stuttered to a halt, stared.  Had the world gone mad?  'Take it up the arse'?  'Balls'?  Merry could only blink at his mother again, shake his head. 

"Have the Faeries come and switched you with my mother or something?" he wanted to know.  "Who are you?"

Esmeralda didn't answer, instead asked, "What happened, Merry?"

Merry clenched his jaw, looked down at the account books with which he'd been having a staring contest for the past two hours.  And losing.  He swallowed, shrugged. 

"Well, Adelard only had twelve of the sixteen tillers ready, so we had to spend more than we wanted on repairing some of the old ones so we can try to limp them through the—"

"That's not what—"

"—spring.   But we've agreed that Adelard will pay for the repairs on the old, plus give—"

"—I meant, Merry, you know very well—"

"—us another ten percent off the price of the new four, so—"

"Meriadoc Brandybuck!"

Merry shut his mouth, glared at the desk.  He was not going to discuss this with his mother, of all people!

"Tell me what happened," Esmeralda demanded.

And anyway, he was fine.  There was no need for this; he was a grown hobbit, after all, he didn't need his mother poking her nose in his affairs—or obvious lack thereof—he could handle it by himself.  Not that he was handling it; in fact, he may have not-handled it right out of existence, so really, the point was probably moot anyway, so what use would it do to run through a blow-by-blow, when it was probably done and over with anyway?  Not that Merry knew it was done and over with, because Frodo hadn't bothered to tell him one way or the other, had he, and Merry was bloody pathetic because he didn't want it to be over, couldn't admit in his heart that it was possible that it was over, knew he would throw away every bit of pride he had to make it not over, and what mother wanted to hear all of that bleeding-heart sop coming from her own son?

"I don't want to talk about it," was all he said and he flipped the books closed, locked them away in the desk, and rose.  "I'm sorry and I appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm fine."  And he stepped away from the desk, started for the door—

"You will stop right there, young hobbit."

—and he did.  Because part of being a grown hobbit was respecting your mother.  Merry took several deep breaths, turned, lifted his chin and looked his mother in the eye.

"This has gone on too long, Merry," she told him, soft but stern.  "You've not been yourself for months and Frodo is obviously just as upset with you as you are with him.  Something happened and perhaps it's none of my business, but you are my business.  And to a lesser degree, so is Frodo.  And I know you, love—you need to talk."

No, he didn't.  He was fine.  And all right, maybe he'd been a bit of a sod lately, but now that he knew that he wasn't hiding it all as well as he'd thought, he'd just re-double his efforts.  Opened his mouth to thank his mum, tell her he'd be fine, not to worry, she was right and he was sorry, he'd stop sulking about, and "I think it's over," came tumbling out of it.

He stared at his mother for a long moment, shocked at what his mouth had just done without his permission, closed his hanging jaw, looked away.  For all that he was so often accused of always wanting his own way, he hardly ever got it, did he?  Esmeralda was gazing back with soft sympathy in her eyes and Merry couldn't bear to look.

"What do you mean, you think?" she wanted to know.

Merry gave a heavy sigh, crossed his arms over his chest.  "I mean that I don't know because he won't see me and he won't talk to me and what else could that mean, but he hasn't said, has he, so I keep hoping, but I don't—"

Clacked his mouth closed again.  There, are you happy?  I'm pathetic and now we both know I'm pathetic.  Your son is a pathetic, whingy, love-struck tosser; how proud you must be.

"So," Esmeralda said quietly, "you don't know then, eh?  And this has been since, what?  Harvest?"

Merry only nodded, kept his eyes on the carpet.  A soft rustle of skirts as his mother approached him slowly, laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"Poor lamb," she said.  "I can't imagine how hard it's been for you."  Was she making fun of him?  No, of course not—a hobbit's mum didn't make fun of her son.  A quick caress to his arm and a pat to his cheek.  Merry still wouldn't look at her; in fact, turned his face away.  "Have either of you said it's over?"

A slow shake of his head.  "I haven't, at least, but what does that mean, really?  And from what he said last time I saw him…"

He let the rest hang there, unspoken.  His mother was unwilling to play along with that one.

"What did he say?" she wanted to know.

He opened his mouth, closed it.  It was harder than he'd thought to say it out loud.  "He said…"  Merry shrugged, scowled.  "He said that I was just like… just like Dad."  Couldn't help how his jaw clenched on it.  A shift and he toed the carpet.  "Or he almost said it but that's what he meant."

Merry stopped there, slipped into a miserable silence, kept his gaze to the floor while his mother eyed him critically.  They didn't talk about his father, not when they could avoid it, and Merry understood it, knew that one simply did not insult a person to his or her spouse.  For whatever reason, his mother loved his father, and if Merry couldn't respect his father, he could at least respect his mother enough to acknowledge that she had a right to her own heart and mind.  And he kept his mouth shut most of the time, even though he so often wanted to ask her what she could have possibly been thinking when she'd said 'yes' to Scattergold Brandybuck all those years ago.  What could she have seen in him and where did whatever it was go? 

Yet she was right: this had gone on too long, had gone too far, and maybe he hadn't realised it until now, but he needed to talk to someone, someone who understood Frodo—or at least understood him a little bit, because Merry was willing to bet there wasn't a soul on Middle-earth who understood Frodo—and who understood Merry himself and who might know at least a little bit what they were talking about.  Freddy had been less than sympathetic about it all, though considering the small amount of information with which Merry was willing to trust him, he didn't suppose he could blame him much.  Still, though, Merry should have known that Freddy would be on Frodo's side.  Berilac was out of the question; the closest he'd ever come to love was when Marigold Hillock gave him a peppermint stick as well as a hand-job in return for two orgasms.  And anyway, Berilac didn't know Frodo all that well.  He meant well and he'd certainly listen, but then he'd never let Merry live down whatever emotions might come spilling from him, probably call him a love-sick lass or something, because Berilac, for all his easy nature and good sense, was still a bit of a tosser.

And anyway, his mum had asked for it, hadn't she?

"Said you were like your father, mm?"  Esmeralda shot a quick glance to her son, lifted an eyebrow, pursed her lips.  Merry had to acknowledge the relief he felt that she didn't ask him why that was such a bad thing.  "Did he say in what way?"

Merry's face reddened, the anger even now fresh and raw.  "Called me a bully, said I couldn't keep my hands to myself and that when something didn't go as I wished, I just laid hands on it and made it."

Esmeralda blinked slowly at Merry, tilted her head.  Merry's scowl darkened.

"I don't and it was an awful thing to say!  And it isn't true besides."

Even to his own ears, it had a petulant ring to it.  He clenched his teeth, held his mother's gaze for another moment before dropping his own.

"And anyway, sometimes I have to take hold of him, or he…"  He goes away, drifts off and I want him here, with me!  Merry blinked, gave his head a little jerk.  "He doesn't listen.  You know Frodo—always thinks he knows everything and he won't ever admit that he's wrong or hurt or… or anything!  You have to drag everything out of him and hold him still while you do it—you have to make him admit to things.  And most of the time, it's things that other people want to admit to and want to hear from another, but with Frodo, it's like you're stabbing him in the heart if you tell him he matters to you!

"And so I told him exactly that—I told him I know why he does what he does and that I know—"  He stopped, flushed a little, remembering the circumstances under which he'd told Frodo all of this, and also remembering to whom he was mewling now.  He sighed.  "Never mind," he said softly, defeated.  "I don't think you want to know about all of this."

He'd been a fool to think he could talk about this with someone who wanted nothing more for him than to hit his majority and find a wife so he could give her a gaggle of grandchildren upon whom to dote.  It hadn't been fair of him to put her in this position and it had been stupid of him to think any advice she'd be willing to give would be free of the shadow of his Duty to Buckland, even if he knew she meant well.

Esmeralda eyed him keenly.  "So," she said, crossed her arms over her chest, drummed the fingers of one hand on her arm.  Merry knew the pose well, tried not to roll his eyes, turned, sank into a chair and waited for the rebuke.  "You decided that you knew better than Frodo what he was thinking and now you've done the same for me."  A small shrug.  "I'm sure Frodo appreciated that almost as much as I do."

Now he did roll his eyes.  "Mum, I didn't mean anything by it.  It's only…"  He slumped, groaned a little.  "I know this whole thing didn't make you exactly happy in the first place and… and I know you worry that I'll let it get in the way of wiving and I know you think I'm too young and taking it all too seriously and I know—"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure Frodo quite appreciated having his mind made up for him."  She shook her head, eyes flashing.  "It's always a wonderful thing, being told what I'm thinking.  Saves me the trouble of having to actually use my head.  But then, dim nit that I am, I've sort of got used to using my head, so I'll admit it's a bit off-putting, having my own son assume I haven't got one."

Bugger all, why did everything sound so right in his head and yet come out his mouth in sixteen different kinds of wrong?  Merry closed his eyes, tried to remember the last time he'd said something right and in just the right way—couldn't.  He dropped his head to the back of the chair, squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw because, damn it, he'd already bodged everything and he would not compound it all by sitting here and weeping like a child in front of his mother.

Glory, he was tired.

"Sorry," he muttered, sighed again.  "You're right, of course, and just…"  A pause while Merry drew in a deep breath.  "Just never mind, all right?  I'll understand it when I'm a little older, no doubt.  Don't know what I was thinking."

Yes, I do.  I was thinking that maybe someone could understand, someone could help, and either tell me what I did wrong, or…  I don't even know, do I, so really, I suppose I wasn't thinking much of anything.  Apparently, it's what's expected of me, because I'm too young and haven't an intelligent thought in my head, nor do I, also apparently, have any idea what my own feelings are, so why don't I just shut my sodding mouth until I'm thirty-three and then maybe what I say and think will make some bloody sense! 

Of course, by then, Frodo will be gone, won't he, because one of the things I've seen with my 'too young' eyes is that Frodo will be off one day, and I'm not even sure he knows it yet, but I do, and I can't let this go on for much longer or… or…

Or it'll be too easy for him to leave me.

A soft touch to his brow and Merry didn't even have the energy to startle; he merely opened his eyes and peered blankly up at his mother.  Esmeralda sighed deeply, shook her head, brushed his hair back.

"I want you to think about something, love," she said, "and I want you to think about it carefully and not open your mouth for a full thirty seconds after I've said it.  Do you think you can do that?"

Merry lifted an eyebrow, almost opened his mouth on a smart-arse retort… bit it off instead and nodded.  His mother lifted her own eyebrow in return, sceptical. 

Nonetheless, "Since you and Frodo have been paired," she went on, "have I ever, even once, spoken ill of your choices?"

A flash of buried resentment slithered through him.  "Well, you still make up a separate room for him when he comes to visit, don't you?  And every time I—"

"Ah-ah!" Esmeralda warned and slapped her hand to Merry's mouth.  "It's not been thirty seconds yet and anyway, I'm not through."

A roll of his eyes and Merry nodded, his expression probably more annoyed than his mother deserved.  Esmeralda ignored it, dropped her hand.

"Some lads carry on together until their dying day and marriages are still arranged around it.  And don't think it's only the lads as keep their… well."  She shrugged.  "Shall we say, their 'previous commitments'?"  A tiny smirk.  "Did you never wonder why Aunt Peony and her Poppy took their winter holidays here every year—without Filibert or Milo?"  Merry grimaced a little, suppressed a shudder; that was quite a bit more information than he'd needed.  "So do you really think," his mother went on, "I'm that terribly worried about the Future Master of Buckland not marrying because his love happens to be the wrong gender?  Do you not think I know my own son better than all that?"

Merry looked away, shrugged.  He supposed it made sense; perhaps his mum understood more than he'd given her credit for.  And now that he thought about it, he couldn't remember a time over the past two years when she'd thrown a marriageable lass at Frodo as she'd used to do.  As long as Merry could remember, his mother had been trying to pair Frodo off with one lass or another, and only now did Merry realise that it had all stopped after that Yule.  Certainly she'd not stopped encouraging Frodo to find someone—it had become something of an in-joke between the two—but the matchmaking had stopped, hadn't it?

He wondered if his thirty seconds were up yet, realised it didn't much matter, for his mother was not yet through.

"I've a bit of a soft-spot for the lad, in case you didn't know," she went on, stopped and smirked when Merry snorted and rolled his eyes.  "And more," she told him more seriously, "I know he loves you and wants the best for you."

The swell of good humour left him; he looked down into his lap, muttered, "I'm not so sure."  Closed his eyes and blinked away the growing burn behind them.  "I mean… I know he loves me, but I don't… well, there are different kinds of love, right?  And I can't tell if he does love me and just won't admit it, or if he loves Little Cousin Merry and is trying to spare my feelings, or…"

He bolted up from the chair, paced.  "That's not true," he said, shook his head.  "I know he loves me, because… because I just do, and I know he holds back and so I have to hold back, too, I have to step back, give him room, and I…"  He paused, ran a hand through his hair.  "I can't hold back, that's the thing!  I can't hold back because eventually, it all spills out my mouth, whether I want it to or no, and I can actually see him flinch, you know?  Like I've just gone and cracked him in the jaw instead of letting him know he's loved, and it…"  Jaw clenched, hands fisted.  "It bloody infuriates me that he can't trust me enough, that he can't believe that he can love me back and admit that he loves me back and that I won't go away on him—that I won't fall into the River and drown or disappear from my own birthday party, or…"  His voice fell to a low murmur.  "Or despise him when I'm supposed to take care of him, or…"  He paused, licked his lips.  "Or even love the one who despises him more than I love him."

He was glad he'd said it, put it out into the open, but still, Merry couldn't look at his mother, let the words hang in the silence between them.  It wasn't an accusation and there was no blame in his statement—it was merely a declaration of unfortunate fact, an explanation that he could lay hands on and understand… just not one he seemed able to do anything about.

Esmeralda was silent for a few weighted moments then: "So," she said softly, "you've got it all figured out, have you?"  A lift of her eyebrows and a small shrug.  "I suppose you were right in the first place and this is all rather pointless, then.  I'm sorry to have taken your time."

He watched helplessly as she gave him a small nod and turned for the door.  He sank back into the chair, closed his eyes again, rested his head in his palm.

"Mum," he whispered, "please."

Pathetic, miserable and pitiable, and right now, there was nothing Merry cared about less in the world.  His mother paused but didn't turn.

"Do you know the circumstances under which Frodo left the Hall?" she asked from the door.

Merry looked up, took a long breath, said, "Yes," and his voice was hoarse.  He cleared his throat.  "Grandmum suspected he'd stolen from the cellars and so when Bilbo—"

"And what do you think happened to the wine?"

Esmeralda turned, eyed her son keenly; Merry swallowed, looked away.

"I was very small," he answered.  He knew what she expected to hear and yet he couldn't seem to speak it.

A long moment of weighted silence then: "I expect it went the same way as the orchard did last summer," his mother said; Merry jumped a little, went to speak, found he couldn't.  Well, bloody damn.  She knew.  Esmeralda paced slowly back to her son, reached down, laid two fingers to his chin and closed his hanging jaw.  A sardonic little quirk of her brow.  "You'll catch flies," she told him.  "And you can tell Frodo that he now owns five percent of the orchard.  That should take care of the principal that's left and we'll discuss interest another time.  I'll see to the book-work."

Merry shook his head, stared at his mother.  "How did you know?"

Esmeralda ignored the question.  "And why do you suppose Frodo didn't defend himself?" she asked him instead.

He blinked a time or two, tried to make his mind catch up with the direction of the conversation, said, "Well, knowing Frodo, I expect because he didn't want to see you hurt."

"You would think that."  A cynical twist of her mouth; a sigh.  "Ah, yes, poor silly Esmeralda—seems everyone needs to slink about behind her back to protect her from her own concerns."  Merry frowned, opened his mouth—stoppered whatever he'd been about to say when he caught the glare his mother aimed at him.  "That's what you would have done, Meriadoc—you would have kept the truth from me to protect me and don't think I don't love you for it.  But we're talking about Frodo now."

"Well… yes," Merry agreed.  "And the fact that he's always been a bit off his head over you seems—"

"How did you know that?"  The glare was gone and now she only looked surprised.  "Did he tell you that?"

Merry couldn't help rolling his eyes.  "As if he would," he retorted, probably a little impatiently.  "Mum, honestly—how often do you see Frodo blush?"

It was his mother's turn to blink in confusion.  "Well… all of the time."

"Right," Merry answered.  "And no one else ever does unless he's around you."  He turned away, muttered, "Not all that hard to figure out."

She was quiet for a moment before she breathed a small laugh.  "All right," she told Merry.  "So, it would appear that perhaps you're a bit more observant when it comes to Frodo than I gave you credit for." 

Merry tried not to roll his eyes again, kept his gaze turned away, didn't respond.  He didn't get credit for a lot of things, in his own considered opinion, and when was the let's-make-Merry-look-like-a-fool part going to end and the helping part going to start anyway?

"Granddad doted on Frodo, you know."

It seemed to come out of nowhere and Merry blinked, said, "Granddad?" and blinked some more.  He hadn't been aware that Granddad doted on anyone.

Esmeralda was nodding, a small smile curling at her mouth.  "Frodo was all Granddad had left of your Aunt Prim, you see, and he loved his sister dearly.  And Drogo.  Your Uncle Drogo was probably the best friend Granddad ever had."  A pause and a shift of her gaze to Merry.  "When Frodo was born, Granddad was nothing less than gobsmacked.  Positively adored the boy—gave him more affection in his short life than he'd shown his sons put together in all their years.  Your father quite resented that, you know." 

An involuntary snort.  "Big surprise," Merry muttered, bit his lip, peered cautiously at his mother.  He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Esmeralda pretended not to hear.  "And when they died, Frodo was all he had left of them and so he hung on tight.  I often think that their deaths were the beginning of the end for your grandfather.  He never quite made it to the other side of mourning."  She looked down, shrugged a little.  "Anyway, that's when he started to fade, I think.  It was a difficult thing for your grandmum to watch—her husband on the way to his grave, hanging on with both hands to a young boy who needed nothing more at that moment than to wallow in his own grief for a bit."  She turned back to Merry.  "Poor lad never got the chance.

"Sometimes I wonder if that's why he became…"  A sigh.  "Well, I suppose 'problem child' wouldn't be too far off the mark.  Probably the sweetest lad I ever knew with a heart as wide as the sky, but you'd never know it to hear the talk about his antics.  Used to drive your father absolutely bloody mad, cleaning up after him, having to make apologies to this one or that one for whatever trouble Frodo had caused that week.  And Granddad kept him in the corner of his eye more than any teen would like, I think, with Frodo bucking against that hold with everything in him, the tighter Granddad held on.  And because Granddad wanted Frodo close, Grandmum saw to it that he stayed here at the Hall.  Frodo's Aunt Dora by rights held just as much claim to him as your grandfather did, but he wouldn't hear of it and she didn't put up a fuss at any rate.  Only asked the once and when Rory said no…"

Trailed off, shrugged.  "Anyway, Frodo was too much for your grandmother to handle, Rory was too ill to keep him in line and Frodo and your father have always been like oil and water.  And anyway, your dad doesn't know how to handle rebellion with anything more than a fair bit of leather, as you well know, so I suppose—"

"What about you?" Merry interjected, pinked a little.  It kept sounding like an accusation and he didn't mean it like that.  He didn't think he meant it like that.

"I?"  Esmeralda gave a small smile.  "I used to have afternoon tea with Frodo every single day.  It was a ritual and I think he liked it just as much as I did."  She stopped, tilted a glance to her son.  "Until you came along."

No more an accusation than Merry's had been, yet he felt the edge of it anyway.

Esmeralda shook her head.  "It doesn't matter," she told him.  "I was shelter, not discipline, and I doubt he'd have listened to me then anyway; if I'd tried, I've no doubt that all that would have happened would be that he'd stop coming to tea."  A rueful little shrug.  "And I liked when he came to tea."

Merry was frowning.  This was all very interesting, but… 

"Mum, I'm not sure I'm getting the point."

"Well, that's because I've not made one yet."  It was a little snappish; Merry closed his mouth, tried to look suitably abashed and attentive.  "The point," his mother went on, her glance to her son a little sharp, "is that when those kegs of wine went missing, it is quite possible that, as you say, Frodo did not defend himself with the truth because he didn't want to hurt me."  She paused, levelled an even gaze at Merry.  "It is also quite possible that he knew very well that it was the only way Grandmum would let him go."

Brief silence then: "I don't understand," Merry said.

"Grandmum had a choice: she could believe that the wild young lad who did everything possible to push her and everyone else away and had a reputation for thievery, had simply done it again and closer to home this time; or she could believe that her son had bet and lost something that didn't belong to him and then watched a lad who was barely even a tweenager take the blame.  The very same son, mind you, who nearly despised the very lad over whom he would most likely inherit fosterage after your grandparents were gone."  She paused peered at Merry closely.  "Do you think Frodo never thought about what might happen to him after they passed?  Who knew, after all, that Granddad would end up out-living Grandmum?  That he would live to see Frodo to his majority?"

Merry rubbed at his temples.  Was there some brilliant revelation in there somewhere and he'd just missed it completely?  Besides the fact that it was now confirmed that his father had always been a selfish ass, Merry was still missing the point!

"All right, so I have new insight into Grandmum and all sorts of sympathy for Granddad, and I have learnt that you and Frodo used to have tea together every day until I came along and spoilt it all, and I'm sure there is some brilliant lesson in there somewhere, but as we both know, I am too bloody dense to see it!"

A pause and Esmeralda shook her head.  "You can't hold too tight to someone like Frodo, not if you love him for who he is."

"Of course I love him for who he is!"

"Then why are you trying to change him?"

Merry blinked.  "Change…?"  He shook his head, was honestly bewildered by the accusation.  "I don't try to change him, wouldn't want to!"

"No?  You said yourself that you had to 'hold Frodo down', didn't you?  Had to make him admit things."

"No!  You don't understand.  I know him, know everything about him, and I know that he's afraid to admit certain things—even to himself.  So, sometimes I have to push him, get him to see that maybe admitting them isn't such a bad thing and that maybe just the admitting would make it better."

"Merry, you can't know everything about a person, not ever."  Merry had no chance to protest as his mother went on, "And anyway, you don't need to know every single little thing about someone—you only have to know who they are."

"And I do!"  Merry stood, paced a few times, stopped in front of his mother and drew a deep breath.  "Mum," he said more calmly, "Frodo loves me, I know he does, and I know that he's lost just about everyone he's ever cared for in one way or another.  He doesn't expect people to hang about, do you understand?  And so I have to show him that I will hang about because he thinks that if he loves me too much he'll lose me and maybe he won't survive it this time; but he won't lose me and I have to show him that, don't I?  I have to make him believe or he won't let himself love me!  I have to show him I'll stay!"

Long silence, swallowing up the thudding of Merry's heart.  Then Esmeralda sighed wearily, bowed her head.

"Sometimes a mum has to say unpleasant things to her child, things that will hurt him, so that he doesn't end up shattered to bits."  She looked up, said softly, "I don't think he needs to know you'll stay, Merry; I think he needs to know you'll let him go.  He needs to know you'll survive."

And why did that have the sickening ring of truth to it?  Still, Merry shook his head, said, "No, that isn't right," and it sounded weak and hoarse.

"I don't make up a separate room for me, love," his mother went on gently, "I make it up for Frodo.  And I know he's not used it since you two have been paired, but I do have to wonder how many times he's needed it and didn't use it because he was afraid to hurt you.  And that makes me wonder how many other things he doesn’t say to you, and how much there is that you don't say to him, or what you each say to the other that neither of you really hear.  You're each both so worried about hurting the other by saying those things that you never stop to think about the hurt you cause by not saying them."

Merry swallowed, looked down.  "So… you think it is over and he's just not saying because he's afraid to hurt me?"

"Oh, save me." Esmeralda sighed, rolled her eyes.  "No, Merry, I'm saying that you have to speak plainly to each other or you'll have more heartache over nothing.  Look at where you've got yourselves now, for pity's sake!  I'm betting Frodo hasn’t any more clue than you do about where you stand.  And I'm saying that you each have to listen to what the other says, hear what Frodo says straight from his mouth and not through the filter over your own ears—stop trying to fit the things people say into the mould you've created for them.  You're always so busy interpreting things people say into what you think they mean, that you can't hear what they are saying to you.  Stop listening with your heart, love—it's too big and you end up tripping over it.  You've a sharp mind and a good ear—use them."

"Well, what am I supposed to do?" Merry wanted to know, his frustration getting the better of him, turning his tone sharp and insolent.  "He already flinches when I even hint that I might want more than…"  He paused, flushed, waved his hand about and glanced away.  "Well… you know."  Gritted his teeth.  "I can't say what I think, I can't tell him how I feel!  And you just said that he pushes everyone away, so what should I do?  Throw myself at him, declare undying love and watch him run in the other direction?  It's what got me into this mess in the first place!"

"Oh, Merry," Esmeralda said softly, shook her head.  "You are far too young for this sort of heartache."

Merry was dipping dangerously into fury.  Damn it, how much responsibility did he have to shoulder, how 'grown-up' did he have to be, before people stopped thinking of him as some callow child, who had no idea what he was about or what his own feelings were?  How much more did he have left to prove?  Frustration took hold of him, bloomed hot in his chest, and Merry didn't hold it back this time: his teeth clenched and his hands fisted.  "I will not listen to—"

"You will listen to anything your mother has to tell you."  Esmeralda's voice was level and contained and stopped Merry's budding tirade cold.  "You may look like a grown hobbit, my lad, and you may have taken on the responsibilities of one, but you are still a tween in matters of the heart.  But…"  She sighed, looked down, shrugged.  "I've no doubt you'll grow into that more quickly than you should, just as you've done with everything else, and I've long-since understood I've no choice in the matter.  And so, lucky me, I get to just stand on the fringes and watch my son's heart get broken because he doesn't yet understand that love is a fine instrument and not a blunt weapon; you can't bludgeon your way through it, Merry, you can't—"  She paused; Merry felt a sharp little jab to his conscience when he realised she was blinking back tears.  A watery sigh and, "All I can offer you is advice, for whatever it may be worth and if you'll take it."

Merry's throat was tight and his eyes were filling again.  He coughed a little, cleared his throat.  "Please," was all he managed.

Esmeralda gave him a small, weak smile.  "You have to stop trying to be something you're not, Merry," she told him quietly.  "Stop wanting Frodo to be someone he's not.  If you really love him, as you say, you have to love him for who he is and not who you want him to be—and who he is is a person who needs a tether as fine and thin as a spider's web.  What you need to decide is whether or not that's something you can accept and love." 

"I can!  I do!   And I tell him that, all the time, I—"  He paused, closed his mouth.  He hadn't exactly told Frodo, not in words, but… well, but Frodo didn't want to hear the words, would only accept it in ways Merry couldn't possibly explain to his mother.

"Did you, then?" his mother asked.

"I…"  Merry frowned.  He wasn't about to tell his mother exactly how he told Frodo but he had and… and perhaps he hadn't said it in words, but Frodo was the poet, wasn't he?  Surely he understood?  "Yes," he replied slowly, shook his head.  "But perhaps you're right in that—I need to be sure he heard it."

"I'm right in a lot of things, you know."  Another pause and Esmeralda drew a long breath.  "And you need to stop pretending to be someone who doesn't need a tether as thick as a tree-trunk, Merry.  If Frodo loves you, he'll take that as a part of you."  A small smirk and a lift of the eyebrows.  "Just like your ridiculously-long hair and your weakness for those awful stuffed eggs."

She was trying, but Merry couldn't quite manage a snort; he smiled a thin, humourless smile, let it fall, asked, "And what if he doesn't?  What then?"

Merry peered cautiously at his mother, and blast it, there was that sympathy again.  "Oh, love," she said and Merry had to close his eyes again; he'd made it this far without weeping like a girl, he wasn't about to cave now.  A cool hand against his cheek and Merry kept his eyes closed, turned his face into the caress.  "Then he's not half as clever as I've always given him credit for," Esmeralda answered.  "And he doesn't deserve you.  You're an amazing hobbit, Meriadoc, don't you ever forget that or sell yourself short.  You're fair and handsome as the day and sharp as diamonds and you've a heart twice the size of Buckland—a person would have to be mad and daft besides not to love you.  You deserve every good thing there is—it's just that sometimes, you can't wait for it to come to you; you have to go and get it."

Merry tried a smile again, and this time, it felt a little more genuine.  He opened his eyes, gave his mother a soft smirk.  "You're biased," he said.  "You're my mum and you have to say things like that."

"I am," his mother agreed.  "But I don't have to do anything."  She smiled, leaned up, gave him a kiss on the cheek and a hug; Merry hugged her back, hard.  "You've another two weeks until the Planting," she said.  "See if you can't bring him back with you, hm?  Steal him away from Tooks' this year.  Eglantine gets him every spring, after all."  She pulled away, gave Merry a soft pat to his arm.  "I miss him, too."

* * *

Pride?  What pride?

He'd only stopped once to give Hildy a bit of a rest and a drink; otherwise, he'd kept her at an even canter.  And good thing she could see in the dark, because he'd been unable to sleep and had finally given it up before dawn and got underway, hitting the Ferry even before the sky began to hint at amethyst.

Listen, his mother had told him, and for the first time since Harvest, Merry allowed himself to remember the things they'd said to each other, tried to remember it all as it had actually happened and without allowing any feelings of anger or betrayal to colour his memory. 

Frodo had been jealous that first night, and regardless of the fact that he'd never once admitted it, he was jealous, and that in itself should have told Merry that there was more going on than he'd thought to consider.  Frodo was not the jealous sort; in fact, that very knowledge had piqued Merry more than once: that he himself couldn't stand it when another made eyes at Frodo, threatened his own place, and yet Frodo never seemed to even notice when it was Merry on the receiving-end of appreciative glances.  But Frodo had been jealous that night, and angry, and Merry had allowed that knowledge to fill him up and puff out his chest, when he should have been looking for answers as to why.  And because Merry's own jealousies were based on his doubts about Frodo's willingness to be with him—to stay—he'd assumed the reverse for Frodo, acted accordingly, and continued to act accordingly the next morning.  And promptly got himself in over his head.

What had Frodo said that morning?  Besides the fact that he'd done nothing but push Merry away from the moment he'd walked in the room, the rest was a bit of a blur.  He'd been in a foul mood from the start, but that had probably been mostly from the hangover; he hadn't got really upset until… well, until he'd spotted the bruise on Merry's shoulder, and Merry still didn't understand that one.  It was predictable that Frodo would kick himself for it, but Merry had been expecting something more along the lines of an apology and maybe some extra attention until the guilt went away—some coddling, even—and Merry hadn't wanted that, he'd wanted more of what they'd had the night before; Frodo's reaction was so far out of Merry's realm of understanding that even now it seemed to throw a spanner into his brain and stopper up the works.

After that, it was only a matter of time before Frodo fell back on that old refrain: Merry was too young.  Too young for what?  Too young for love, maybe, but Frodo was the one who ran away from that, not Merry.  Still, if what his mother said was true, perhaps Merry was just going to have to accept the fact that Frodo would never love him the way he wanted; or rather, perhaps Frodo would never admit that he loved Merry like that and perhaps that was what Merry had to accept.  Because, all right, it was more than possible that he'd got some things wrong, interpreted some things incorrectly, but you couldn't misinterpret love and it wasn't like Frodo was all that hard to read.  Frodo loved him, Merry knew he did; his insecurities had never stemmed from doubting Frodo's love—they all came from doubting that Frodo would stay, and that came from knowing that Frodo would leave him if he thought it was what was best and regardless of how Merry felt about it.  Merry had been so caught up in gaining Frodo's trust in all things, and perhaps the thing that Merry really had to get his mind and heart around was the fact he couldn't trust Frodo.  He could trust that Frodo always wanted what was best for him, but he couldn't trust him to understand that sometimes a person didn't want what was best for him.  Sometimes a person wanted exactly what was worse than wrong for him, and though Merry would never believe Frodo was wrong for him, sometimes Frodo believed it.  Maybe Merry had to let go of trying to make him understand.  Because everything Frodo had said and done that morning seemed to scream that he didn't want to understand.

Then again…

"It's all just fun to you, isn't it?"

So, how did that fit in with any of this?  If Frodo wanted no tether, why would he even say something like that?  How did, "I've no more claim on you than you on me," fit in with, "It's all just fun to you…"?

It boggled the mind.

"It's all just fun to you, isn't it?"

Still, it made Merry's teeth clench, just as much as it did the first time he'd heard it.  Because there he'd been, pretending that it could be all fun, when all he'd wanted was more.  And when everything Frodo had said and done indicated that he wanted more, it was too much for Merry: he broke and spilled everything.  And Frodo had got vicious.  Which sent Merry careening over the edge, and everything went pear-shaped from there.  Not that it should have taken Merry by surprise the way it had done; that was the way things always seemed to go when he opened his mouth.

And maybe that was the greater part of the problem in a nutshell: he'd spent so much time defending himself and shouting out everything he thought Frodo was thinking, that he hadn't really been listening to what Frodo was saying.  How he was saying it.  He'd only been listening just enough to work up a retort, but he'd been so caught up in his own hurt that he hadn't even imagined that the things that were spewing from within that hurt might be completely wrong.  Frodo had kept saying that he didn't know what Merry was talking about, and wasn't it just possible that he hadn't been avoiding things?  Wasn't it possible that he really hadn't known?  That he'd been sincerely bewildered?  How many times, after all, had Frodo been on the receiving-end of real, honest and bone-deep love?  Didn't it make at least a little bit of sense that he wouldn't recognise it when he saw it?

And Merry had never actually come right out and said it, had he?  He'd been assuming all this time that Frodo knew and just wouldn't admit it, but what if he really didn't know?  What if Merry had been demanding of Frodo something that Frodo had no idea Merry was even giving?  If Frodo really was as afraid of love as Merry kept accusing, why did Merry think it reasonable to expect Frodo to be the first to say it out loud?

And while Merry was being so honest with himself, why even bother asking the question, when he knew the answer all too well?—he was afraid, had always been afraid when it came to Frodo, had always been afraid that he would say or do exactly the wrong thing and give Frodo the excuse Merry had always been convinced he was waiting for to run away.  It never occurred to Merry that maybe Frodo didn't want an excuse—maybe he wanted to hear that he was loved; maybe he wanted to hear it just as much as Merry wanted to say it.  Merry had been so worried about what he stood to lose that he'd never even considered what he was withholding from the very person to whom he most wanted to give it.

His mother was right—he was a coward.

A bit of a tug on the reins brought Merry back to the world somewhat.  For a surreal second or two, he almost thought Hildy was nodding her agreement with his assessment of himself, but quickly realised she had come to a halt in front of the stream beside the mill and was trying to get herself a drink.  Wait…

He blinked.  Mill…

Merry peered about himself, a bit startled; he was in Hobbiton.  And didn't even remember guiding Hildy past Bywater.  He hadn't noticed the Sun beginning to fall, hadn't noticed dusk creeping up on him.  It seemed one moment he was staring down into the gentle roll and sway of the River from the Ferry, and the next he was here.  Lucky for him that either he could navigate this way in his sleep or Hildy had decided she'd like to visit Frodo.  Merry thought the latter was more likely, as Sam always seemed to find her plenty of apples to make up for her less-than-auspicious quarters in Bag End's shed and apparently, Hildy knew on which side her bread was buttered.  Little chit probably liked Sam better than she liked Merry.

He chuckled a little, let her drink her fill, and when she finished, she swung her head around, nudged at his calf, wetting the cuff of his trousers; Merry grinned, gave her a soft cluck at which she merely started off again and took him directly to Bag End's gate.  And he'd never once given her a nudge of direction.  No wonder she was his favourite.  He thought about taking her up to the shed, untacking her and getting her some well-deserved supper and a good brushing.  He ended up winding her lead to the gate and letting her munch on the grass; there was still the possibility that he might need her tonight to ride him to the Dragon.  Frodo, after all, was not expecting him and may well be none too pleased to see him. 

There was a lamp lit on the porch and another burning in the study, so at least Merry knew Frodo was home.  And why hadn't he thought of that before?  Wouldn't that be just his luck—riding all this way on impulse and arriving to find that Frodo had gone off to Michel Delving on business or on a walking-trip somewhere?  Or worse…

Merry slammed the door firm on that one.

And anyway, apparently he hadn't, so Merry could feel some relief over that at least.  Except relief wasn't exactly what he was feeling at the moment; it felt more like terror.  Now that he was here, he couldn't quite remember why this had seemed a good idea yesterday.  And this morning.  And five minutes ago.  He had no idea what to say, what to expect, how to act or react, and his feet suddenly felt as though they were made of lead as he made his slow way up the path.  Unfortunately, covering the distance from the gate to the door didn't take him the years he'd need to prepare for this; he was there and knocking before his brain had time to catch up with it all and demand that he drop this stupid idea and run while he still had the chance.  Instead, he only stood there, stared at the door with his heart in his throat and his palms suddenly slicked with cold sweat.  He shoved his hands into his pockets, bounced nervously from heel-to-toe.

And started to panic.

All right.  A long, deep breath; a bit of a shake.  Allrightallrightallright!

Merry clenched his teeth, made himself stand still.  Took another deep breath, blew it out slowly.

All right.

So.

Frodo wanted more but didn't want to admit it.  Maybe.  He wanted Merry to want more but didn't want to know about it.  Possibly.  He wanted to believe that Merry shagged whomever he pleased when Frodo wasn't about but didn't want to know about who or when or where.  Probably.  He wanted to shag whomever he pleased when Merry wasn't about and not have to feel guilty about it.  Considering what Merry had heard at Yule—Given.  He wanted to believe he could walk away from Merry and Merry wouldn't fall head-first into a broken heart.  Extremely likely.  And he wanted to believe that Merry would always be there, would always love him, but not too much and not enough to bind him tight, not enough to—

And the door opened.

Merry's breath got stuck somewhere in the middle of his chest, knotted painfully as he peered up at Frodo—glory, he looked wonderful and oh, Merry had missed him—staring at Merry with wide eyes and his mouth open; that mouth twitched a little, curled up slightly at the corners.  He looked like he wanted to smile but wasn't sure if he should.

Apparently, Merry had caught him baking.  His spectacles were on top of his head, holding his fringe back and out of his eyes.  An apron hung around his neck—dusted beige with flour and smeared here and there with what Merry guessed was carrot cake batter—but as usual, Frodo had neglected to tie it in the back and it hung in front of him like a sack.  The rich brown scent of cinnamon entered his world and Merry suddenly wanted nothing more than to be standing beside Frodo in the soft warmth of Bag End's kitchen, handing him ingredients as he worked his magic with the oven.  There was a light shiny streak of what may have been molasses over Frodo's left cheekbone; for one nerve-wracking moment, Merry actually considered leaning up and in and licking it from Frodo's face.

No.  No, no, no.  No licking.  Licking would be bad.

Merry took another deep breath, held it until he felt dizzy, then let it go in a thin and—he hoped—inaudible whistle.

Tell him you're sorry, Merry told himself, his thoughts jumbled and frantic.  Don't panic, stay calm!  Just tell him you're sorry, tell him you've missed him, tell him you'll do whatever he wants you to do, be whoever he wants you to be, just don't muck this up now because it's probably your last chance to get it right, if it isn't already too late!

They stared, Frodo surprised and maybe even—Merry almost didn't dare hope—a little pleased, and Merry nearly jittering apart right on Frodo's front porch.  Frodo swallowed, took a deep breath.  Nodded.

"Hullo, Merry."

Merry still stared, tried to get his mouth to work—couldn't.  Oh, he'd missed him, couldn't quite fathom how he'd managed to stay away so long, couldn't believe he'd been so stupid as to let this get so completely beyond his control.  And now he needed to reach out, touch Frodo, just to make sure he really was here, that Merry hadn't imagined it all—all the time apart, the months he'd spent by turns pretending it didn't bother him and wallowing in misery, the ride here that he even now couldn't remember.  He took his hands from his pockets, not really sure what he meant to do with them; perhaps brush that tiny bit of flour from the bridge of Frodo's nose or even just touch his hand.  He had no idea, but he nonetheless reached out, he had no choice, his fingers tingling with the nearness—

And then Frodo looked down to Merry's hand—froze.  Then frowned.  Merry looked, too, saw the tie dangling from his fingers. 

Said, "Um…"

Oh, good.  That must be that brilliance his mother was always on about.

Frodo lifted his eyes back to Merry's, narrowed them.  Just stood there, waiting.

Merry swallowed, the click in his throat like a thunderclap between his ears.

Say something!  Say anything!  Say you're sorry!  Say hullo, for pity's sake!

"You left this at mine," was what came out of his mouth.

And Merry watched as Frodo's face closed up.  The hint of a smile crashed so hard Merry almost heard it; Frodo's jaw clamped tight and his nostrils flared and the next second, Merry was staring at the shiny green paint on the door, the heavy slam of it registering a half-second too late. 

Oh, no.  Nonononono!

Bugger! 

Had he really just said that?  Yes.  Yes, he had.  Bloody sodding twice-arsed twat! 

All of the air left him in one long, heavy groan; Merry closed his eyes, thumped his head to the door, and when that didn't send him back in time five seconds and give him a working brain, or better, knock him unconscious, he did it again—harder.

"Buggerbuggerbuggerbugger!"

Oh, yes, Merry, you're sharp as diamonds, all right.  That couldn't have gone worse if you'd stood here and strangled a puppy.

"Shut up, you are not helping!"

Merry groaned again, gave his head another whack against the door.  He'd gone and bollixed everything before he'd even crossed the threshold.  What was wrong with him?  He'd deserved to have the door slammed in his face—'You left this at mine,' for pity's sake!  They'd parted on shaky terms—  No, he should be honest about this: they'd parted on very bad terms, hadn't seen each other for bloody months, and Merry starts off a reconciliation attempt with 'You left this at mine,' and allusions to bondage?  Forget wondering about pride—had he no brain?

"Frodo!"  He pounded on the door, thumping heavily with his fist.  "Frodo, I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything, I swear it!  I only… well, I didn't know what to say and my brain seems to have stopped working and…"  Pounded some more.  "Frodo, please!"  Louder this time.  "I've been riding since before dawn and I haven't slept and… and I miss you, please open the door!"  Started ringing the bell.  Frodo hated the bell.  "Frodo!  I am not going away until you open this door.  You know how persistent I can be—you know I won't give up!"  Started a rhythm: thump, kick, bell; thump, kick, bell…  "Frodo, I mean it!  You've windows, you know, and I can afford to replace one or two if I have to!  I won't go until you at least talk to me!"

Spotted Sam walking slowly from around the far side of the Hill, staring at him as though he'd just dropped from the Moon and onto Frodo's doorstep.  Merry paused, gave a polite nod.

"Sam."

Sam blinked, replied, "Master Merry."  He stared for a moment then tilted his head, ventured, "Shall I take care of Miz Hildy, sir?"

"Um…"  Merry thought about it then: "No," he answered, and where was he getting the wherewithal to speak so pleasantly?  "If Frodo ever opens this door it may well be to simply clout me on my head and send me on my way, so I may yet need her.  But, um… thank you anyway."

Sam hadn't stopped walking.  Hadn't stopped staring, either.  Now he paused, peered up at Bag End then looked back to Merry, started walking again—faster.  "You're welcome, sir," he called over his shoulder and quickened his pace to a near-trot.

Merry didn't even wait until Sam was gone before he picked up where he'd left off.  "Frodo, I've just frightened your gardener!"  Turned, called, "Sam, go tell your family that the crazy Brandybuck is assaulting your master's door, won't you?"  Sam was already out of sight and Merry doubted he'd heard him, but hopefully Frodo had.  He started pounding again, and ringing the bell at the same time.  Frodo really hated the bell.  "Frodo, you have to talk to me, please!  I'm sorry—I'm sorry for everything!  I'm sorry for whatever I did at Harvest, I'm sorry for waiting so long to come and tell you I'm sorry, I'm sorry for frightening your gardener and I'm sorry that the sky is blue and the grass is green, and if you'll only tell me what I did, I'll be sorry for that, too, and anything else you wa—"

Almost fell face-first into Bag End when Frodo yanked the door open; as it was, Merry flailed a little, managed to grab hold of the doorframe and keep himself on his feet.  He might well lose his fingers if Frodo slammed the door on him again, but it was a chance he was willing to take.

"Frodo, oh, thank you!" Merry said, knees weak with relief.  "I'm sorry, honestly, I don't know what—"

"Just shut it and get inside," Frodo snapped.  "I've neighbours, you know."  He waited until Merry darted inside, eyeing him warily, then slammed the door again, muttered, "It wasn't even locked," then stomped down the tunnel towards the kitchen.

Merry only blinked, stared stupidly after him for a moment.

Wasn't locked.  Of course it wasn't locked.  Because Merry?  Was a moron.

* * *

PART FIVE

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