By: Dana
Summary: A night at Bag End where there's no need to talk.
Characters: Frodo, Pippin, Merry, Sam, Rose
Pairings: Frodo/Pippin, unrequited Frodo/Sam and Pippin/Merry, Sam/Rose
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, slash, light sexual content
Author's Notes: Written for the ringprov "no dialogue" challenge. Set after RotK. A follow up to Sub Rosa. The title is Latin for "In wine is truth". (Thanks for that translation, Lullenny.)
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.

He isn't sure how it happened. Somewhere in between Minas Tirith and Rivendell, or maybe on the road back to Bree, or maybe even seeing that it wasn't just him and Merry and Sam and Frodo that had changed, but his own beloved Shire had grown up, too, and had its own twisted, dark scars, Pippin had decided that he might not always do things their right and proper way, but seeing what had happened to all that he loved, he decided that he would at least try.

Messes might get cleaned up, and the land might be blooming (they've Sam to thank for that, really, and Sam is such a blessing), but Pippin knows that some scars just don't fully fade. They only lie in waiting, hiding.

And there are scars here that he wishes he could forget.

At least Bag End is glowing warm, now, even if the Party Field is achingly empty. There are fireflies flying, this way and that, a soft and steady fading in and out of light that drifts like fairy fire in the dark. Pippin had hoped to speak with Frodo when they had first arrived (him and Merry, that is), but there was nothing he could say.

It was good to see Frodo, and it hurt to see Frodo lie. Had he been ill again? Pippin wondered. But he had held his tongue.

The time would come.

Sam and Rose had made themselves a fine home in Bag End, and Frodo was a lucky hobbit, that Pippin knew. Now, night had come, and dinner and dessert sat comfortable in their bellies (Frodo had surprised at least two of them by having his seconds), and good Southfarthing wine is only there to sweeten the deal.

Pippin wants to speak to Frodo, still, but Frodo is busy with Sam. It breaks Pippin's heart, seeing Frodo, so loving, so loved, and he doesn't know why. Frodo seems happy. He should be happy. The wine glass almost spills from Pippin's hands as familiar arms wrap around his stomach.

Merry laughs and pulls him inside, turns him around, slipping the glass from Pippin's hand and lifting it to his own mouth. He grins and swallows the dark contents, and then he leans in close and Pippin can smell the wine thick on Merry's breath. He'll start to say something, but that is a fruitless something, and Merry laughs, wine-thick, in his face.

A fiddle strikes up, then (who knew that Sam could play?) and Pippin plucks the empty glass from Merry's hand, sitting it on the old bench, and then he grabs Merry's hand and draws him out to dance upon the font path. There Frodo sits at Sam's side, smiling. Pippin sees him over Merry's shoulder, sitting there, pale and proud.

The beat ends and there is laughter. Pippin steals Rose for the second match, and Merry invites Frodo. They dance and laugh and the fireflies twinkle overhead. Pippin feels his heart lodging in his throat.

It had been so easy before. What had happened since then?

They had come home, and he had finished growing up. Rose laughs and thanks him for the dance, kissing his cheek. Smiling, Pippin bows, and kisses her hand, with the most charming of his grins. Blushing, Rose chides him, and dances back to her Sam. They kiss, and Pippin can't help but smile.

He had wondered, and he had hoped, but seeing them, here, side by side, is like seeing two things first made as one, then broken, and now they're put back together again. They love each other, and Pippin can see it in the softest glance, in the briefest touch. He exhales and Frodo's hand has slid into his.

The music strikes up, once more, but now it is Merry who is with the violin. Rose and Sam twirl into motion and Pippin pulls Frodo after. The night is warm and thick and summer-sweet, and Frodo's eyes flash in the light of firefly and moon and star.

And they finish, the music ended, and Pippin wonders if perhaps their time for talking has come. But Merry is moving still, bringing out another round and they toast the warm evening with the fine, fruity wine. Laughter, yes, and their voices are a steady constant. Pippin runs his finger around the rim of his glass, listening to the low whistle and closing his eyes. The old bench is sturdy, yes, and Frodo is warm against his side; Merry is steady at his back, and Pippin listens to the rumble of his laughter, through cloth and skin. The good wine and the better company is blurring all the edges, and Frodo is stroking the back of his hand.

The midnight hour is coming close and a light rain falls. They hurry inside, laughing and wet or maybe laughing because they're wet. There are guestrooms aplenty, and more than enough beds. As Merry wishes them all good night, and exits, Frodo seems content to hold Pippin's hand.

And good nights are said, then, and Pippin kisses both Sam and Rose on the cheeks, hugging them good night. A good ending to a good evening, he thinks, and there is soft laughter behind as he walks with Frodo into the depths of the smial.

A moment where the world stops and Frodo does, too, pulling back on Pippin's hand. They have their secrets, yes, and right now, they are alone in their own. Frodo gives a tug on Pippin's wrist, and Pippin comes, standing so the warmth of their bodies is a breath away. A grin curves on pale lips, and Pippin wonders if this is their time for talking.

Frodo shakes his head, though, as he parts his lips, tapping Pippin's chin. No need for that, then, and Frodo closes his eyes as he leans in, leans up (Pippin isn't used to being taller, yet), and Pippin feels the shape of Frodo's mouth press warm against his.

He does love Frodo, not like he loves Merry, and definitely not the way he loves Rose or Sam. Oh, especially not how he loves his Merry. But Frodo's mouth is insistent and those thoughts scatter, the warmth of that pressure softly unrelenting. He does love Frodo, and that is what matters, and he wraps his arms around Frodo, feeling him there, a content weight, and the first slip of tongue is that invitation to go deeper.

Pippin takes it, falling in, and when they part, laughing, Frodo says that it would be best if they joined each other in his room.

And they do, hand in hand, leaving and Rose and Sam behind (and Merry, who Pippin is certain is already snoring), and the door closes with a soft click at their backs. This here room is nothing like a moonlit garden, a night of counting stars and drinking dine wine, but there is a connection, too, and a puddle of white light at their feet.

So many more secrets, here, in a warm dark room. Pippin has always liked Frodo's bedroom, with its book and its darkness. He remembers a lifetime of old stories, here, and the rise and fall of Frodo's voice, a constant in Pippi?'s mind. And is there less here than there should have been? If Pippin knew better, it would look like Frodo was planning on moving, on leaving them, all over again.

Down on the bed they go, pulling at cloth that gives way under steady working hands. Pippin knows the feel of Frodo's skin well enough, one more secret on top of them all. He spreads his hand flat over Frodo's chest, feels the beating of his heart underneath, and for a moment (one long moment) Frodo's breath reeks of the wine as he pushes Pippin back to lie on the bed.

But just a moment, one long moment, and Frodo's mouth softens as they kiss. If this is a truth, at least this one doesn't seem to hurt. In the same way, at least, and hands work between, stripping. The roll on the bed (Frodo really should have a bigger bed, Pippin thinks), soft sighs and softer laughter, re-remembering a night long ago.

And Pippin is thinking of Frodo, and only Frodo. Could Frodo, in this time, think of Sam?

Those thoughts scatter, too, and Pippin kisses Frodo's neck, the pale flesh at his shoulder. An old scar here, an old scar there. Some scars just won't fully fade, Pippin muses, and Frodo shudders underneath him. Demanding more with a look than could be said with words, Pippin kisses him, pushes against, and the heat that floods could melt ice.

Melt something, anyway, like that look in Frodo's half-opened eyes. Half-opened, but fully aware, and Pippin grunts and groans as Frodo wraps his legs around his waist, pressing tight, and there is only bare flesh between, heating and building up and heating even more. Frodo is quiet like a moment deep in the night.

A choked breath (Pippin's) and Frodo is holding on tight. All Pippin can give, can do, is rock against him, feeling Frodo under his skin and in his nose and even in the air that he breathes. When he exhales, Frodo pants, breathing in sharply, bucking up and gripping hard at giving flesh. Just the rubbing of heat between and Pippin closes his eyes, clamps down tight, and builds his own rhythm, the harsh rise and fall of Frodo's breath only music to his ears.

A hitch and a soft cry and warmth spills, Frodo shudders, and Pippin pushes on, pushes down, further, harder, until he feels the twitch and build up of heat and he can't hold on, can't hold back, not when he can feel it pounding in his blood. And it's Frodo, too, still moving, and Pippin kisses him, kisses the last of the wine-taste from Frodo's tongue, feels sweat on their skin, sweat and something else, and when he lets go, he falls into Frodo.

But can Frodo catch him? he wonders, but its already too late.

They lie there, silent, breathing hard and thinking their own thoughts. Time will come again (time does), and they will move and they will clean themselves and Pippin will jokingly suggest that he will go back to his own room. But Frodo's invitation stands, and Frodo will pull Pippin back into bed.

Pippin won't look back.

When Frodo is sleeping at his side, Pippin will lie half-awake, thinking, wondering if there are some truths that Frodo knows, that he would rather not. No; not that there are any at all, for Pippin is sure that there are. But he can only hope that this secret, their secret, is one that doesn't have to hurt.

Maybe, for the time being, Pippin's proper place (and he really is trying to change his feelings on those proper things) is right here at Frodo's side.