By: Dana
Summary: For their first week at the house at Crickhollow, Pippin had been unable to sleep.
Characters: Merry, Pippin
Pairings: Merry/Pippin
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: For Shirasade, for my birthday.
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

For their first week at the house at Crickhollow, Pippin had been unable to sleep. Merry had had no troubles, at least when it came to sleeping – staying asleep was another matter, when he was so bothered by his dreams. At least he had Pippin, and Pippin's restless walking – the house would creak and groan and Merry would wake, most often sudden, and would listen – the night would breathe, and though Pippin's footsteps were faint, Merry could hear them. So he rose, and went out to where Pippin tended the fire in the parlour, and Merry greeted him and then poured the brandy – a gift from his father, when Merry had insisted that he and Pippin would be living, for the time, on their own. It was the best that Brandy Hall could provide. Saradoc had hoped that it would do them good – for all that Merry had liked knowing that he had made it home, home didn't much feel the same as it had, before.

And they both had themselves a warmed glass of the drink, and then they sat upon the sofa, pressed close.

And Pippin could sleep, arms wrapped about Merry, face pressed into the crook of Merry's neck. Merry was almost too uncomfortable – Pippin's arms were toned and he was too thin for a hobbit, poking Merry with his elbows – but somehow, and Merry supposed it was the warmth of him, and his breath, and how – how good it felt, having him so close – lulled Merry to sleep, too. It might not just have been one of those somethings, it might have been them all. And it left Merry aching, when morning came, and waking did, too, when Pippin was still too close and it was that proximity that would fast drive Merry from his mind.

He wanted Pippin. He knew he did. He didn't know it had come to pass, or what he would do with it, or about it, but Merry knew he wanted Pippin. Like air, or water, or food – and he didn't think it possible.

At least, whatever he wanted, when he made himself believe that something might just be possible, no matter how small that chance might be, he didn't think that it would last. That they didn't have that right – no matter how Merry thought that it was something they deserved.

The first week went by and they talked of things – of Frodo, mostly, and Sam, and hoping that they were both doing well, and perhaps they'd best make plans to ride out to Hobbiton as soon as they could. But this house was theirs, now, though they had yet to make it home.

And Merry, at least, felt that Pippin – almost felt that Pippin knew that there was something wrong, though Merry had not let himself believe that his wanting was something wrong. No, it was right, perfectly so, and how could it not be – they had been friends, yes, and cousins, but going out – going out and almost dying, and yet having been able to come back – that had made them closer.

In ways that the Shire, alone, would never have been able to do.

And Merry did finally do something about it, for all that wanting Pippin was making him lose his mind. They had ridden out from the house, east to the forest, and it was a dark smudge at Merry's right – and they would ride north, after, and perhaps west again. Pippin was restless. Merry felt idle.

Something had to be done.

He took Pippin by hand, and drew Pippin close. Merry wasn't used to Merry being so tall, or looking so old (at least in his eyes). And he was holding Pippin's hand, and he kissed it.

And he said the only thing he thought he could: "I think I love you."

Pippin blinked. Then, Pippin smiled.

And Pippin said only one thing – three words: "I've been waiting…"

Of course, Merry thought, Pippin would have already known.

When the rain came, it was sudden, and they mounted and rode west – finding shelter in their house – and Pippin had laughed, standing at the front door, sodden, water dripping out into a spreading puddle about his feet.

And Merry had laughed, too, though he didn't know why – he only knew that he liked this feeling, like he was floating up off the ground. It was a very peculiar thing, but that wasn't bad, no. No, he really quite liked it. He'd liked it to be better, even.

And he took Pippin in his arms, and he kissed him, and that laughter was lost between their mouths – and Pippin's mouth seemed to soften, and Pippin pressed near against him, wound his arms about Merry. The feel of him – of being held – was almost more than Merry could take.

And he laughed again, when he drew back. Again, he didn't know why.

"Pippin." He touched Pippin's wet cheek. Pippin's curls were flat and wet and dark against his brow.

"Merry," and Pippin had smiled, but had then drawn back. "We should do something, I think, about these wet clothes." And he had stepped back, and he brought his hands to his own buttons. Merry nodded, and he stepped closer, helping Pippin – hands stumbling – and Pippin laughed, softly, though it seemed without mirth.

"I would like to sleep. Without…"

Merry only nodded. Pippin shrugged off the shirt. His skin was wet and cool and Merry was torn – between divesting himself of his own shirt, and trousers or – and he thought, of course he did, but Pippin made the decision for him. Pippin lifted his gave to Merry's. And then he smiled. And he put his arms about Merry's shoulders and, without a word, drew him to the wet floor.

This was the Pippin that he had always known – and Pippin curled about him, kissed him, unbuttoned Merry's shirt and then unfastened the tie of his trousers. Pippin's hands were cool and wet and his skin all over was damp, but his mouth at least was hot, and Merry thought he might burn up in it. For all that Merry had started this, all of this, whatever it might be, it was Pippin who straddled his hips and smoothed his hands across Merry's chest, and it was Pippin who again bent to kiss him, and steal his breath. And Pippin touched and kissed and was not content with only that. And when trousers were shed, Pippin tangled wet legs about Merry's and let Merry crush Pippin close – and Pippin groaned and arched his back and cried out when slick heat caught between their bodies, and Merry shook and almost shattered, and groaned.

Merry held Pippin close, and Pippin laughed against Merry's mouth and then kissed him, took him in, legs wound about Merry's and with Merry grounding them both close. He moved, and fire sparked and flared, like embers breathing upon the hearth.

And they left a great puddle of rainwater on the floor, and the front door was opened still to the rain. Afterwards, when they could walk again and they could talk, they took themselves to bed.