By: Dana
Summary: Frodo's way of saying good bye.
Characters: Frodo, Pippin, Merry
Pairings: Frodo/Merry/Pippin
Rating: R
Warnings: Angst, slash, light sexual content
Author's Notes: Post-quest, post-RotK. Not a cheery fic. But then, my happy endings aren't your happy endings, and that is all and well.
Most recent revision: November 10, 2004.
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.

There was a time before this time that was now, when the world had yet to turn to black and white and all the shades of grey between; when laughter and light and colour had some meaning, a time when the promise of their kisses and their smiles and their touches, too, would have drawn him close.

He knew his place, in Bag End, in all the Shire. He knew what was right, he knew what was wrong; and it wasn't his fault that sometimes what was wrong, was really what was right.

Now, he sits like something ruined, incapable of feeling all he once felt. He's better made to watch, and listen, because, they, at least, still fit together. Like two pieces of something that were first made as one.

He likes it like this, he tells himself. He likes it like this, because there's no other way.

At Crickhollow, that last night, they had still been able to laugh. But softly, as not to wake Fatty, as not to wake Sam. It had been Pippin (it had always been Pippin), quick-moving shadows and a playful grin. Closer, he had whispered, closer, drawing Frodo down onto his own bed. Merry had been there, quiet, thoughtful, wandering hands.

When Pippin laughed, Merry quieted him, and Sam slept on like a log.

And they, too, seem to like it this way; when Frodo sits, terrible and quiet, half lit by the glow of the fire, half hidden in shadow. His eyes, bright and dark, some feral creature, just watching, waiting for the moment; waiting for the kill. And Pippin is hard straining muscles and soft seeking kisses and Merry, oh yes, that's it, just a little more, now, just a little more, Merry can hardly even breathe.

Master Bombadil's house had been a secret stretched thin. Frodo had thought it prudent, thus, and silence was their friend. They came together, come out of their first brush with darkness. The night whispered with echoes of the Old Forest, and Pippin had reached for them, held them together, touching and kissing and chasing away the shadow that followed at their footsteps.

Another day had come, and they laughed of Frodo, and the Lady Goldberry, and Merry had squeezed Frodo's hand as Pippin hefted his pack.

Just like this, just like this, and Merry stretches, strains, and Pippin growls down deep in his throat. There's never enough, never enough, please just this one, oh, please, please, just this once. A hiss and nails dig into Pippin's shoulder, bruises and blood, and Merry nearly breaks in two, as Pippin pounds him into a broken down song.

Rivdendell, ah, and it almost felt that they were home. When Frodo was well enough to go out into the sun, Merry and Pippin did what they could, when they could, to take Frodo away from the elves and Sam and Bilbo, too, and keep him to themselves.

And they had come so far, they could go a little further, for Frodo's own sake; after all, they were family, and they were friends, and if there was one thing that they could do, it would do best for them to stick together.

Now Merry gasps, his tongue heavy, useless, in his mouth. It doesn't help, couldn't help, and Pippin is constant motion, burning hands and bruising kisses, always harder, always more.

There had been no comfort given, till Lothlorien, and Frodo had drawn away; he'd changed too much. It had been Merry who had gone to Frodo, then, first, and Pippin had followed after. There had been little they could say, or do, and Moria was still fresh, sharp pain.

And if it was little, they at least gave what they could. In silence, and shadow, whispers and soft sighs. Better just to hold and be held. And Sam had been there, too, and maybe Frodo had that that fit better.

Blood and sweat and need, and Merry pushes, driving Pippin deeper, driving Pippin on. The pound of Merry's heart, blood rushing in Pippin's ears. And Frodo watches, always watches, as Pippin drives himself home.

And he had been dead, mostly dead, when they could see each other, next; and Frodo wasn't the only one who had changed, but he had drawn furthest away; further, still, with no hope of looking back. They curled together, to sleep, when they could, Pippin's breath wheezing softly in Frodo's ear, and Merry's hand lying chill against Frodo's thigh.

And they had hoped, and they had prayed. And Sam had said that they were at last going home. Now they're singing him a song, hard and soft, moaning, crying, ever moving, never stopping. Frodo closes his eyes, breathing hard, and he doesn't need to see, not now; not when listening is more than enough. He digs his fingers into the arm of the old chair, clutching, and the chain around his neck is heavy, too heavy, a white gem that shines with pale light. When Frodo hears again, sees again, it's his own name on Merry's tongue that hits, the force of a physical blow.

Rivendell was a shadow of what it had been, now that the Ring was gone; Bree had been suspicious faces turned to smiles; and home was anything but, and they had had to fight to take back their home.

Pippin is a weak cry, Merry's name, Frodo's name, Frodo can't be sure. But Pippin slumps against Merry, as Merry's fingers come free from their death hold, and Pippin breaths hard, so hard, damp curls against Merry's skin. Frodo rises up, then, finds his feet. He crosses the room, whispering soft nothings, and Pippin's shoulder shakes under his hand, a thumb and three fingers, missing the forth. "Frodo," he says, and Frodo thinks of how sometimes he cries. "Frodo."

"Come now, Pippin," Frodo whispers, drawing Pippin back, letting him sit, wrapping his arms around the trembling body. Pippin's breath hitches, and Merry groans, closes his eyes. Frodo rocks Pippin, and now he's the one who sings, humming an old song near the point of Pippin's ear. He's heard it, but not now, not in this life; maybe the one before, when song had still mattered.

"There now, Pippin," he says, "let it all out."

And Pippin does, clutching at Frodo, and Merry sits, shadows under flat grey eyes, and he holds to them both. Pippin's tears mingle with sweat, an echo of blood, too much pain, and death, and hate. Too much, too much, it's all gone too far. There's no one sitting on this bed, now, that can save the other. Now, they can only hold on, as it all slips away.

Maybe it would be better if they had all died; and Frodo knows, in Merry's eyes, he thinks the same thing.

Pippin stills, tears drying on his face, and sleeps. Frodo presses a kiss to his brow, turning, and kisses Merry's lips. They sit, and then they settle back, bare skin and clothing, the Evenstar pressed to Pippin's shoulder, arms and legs tangled, and Pippin's breath warm and faint on Merry's neck.

And now, right now, it's almost right. It's al that Frodo can ask for; he's already given them his goodbye. And they've given him everything, and they'd give him more than that, more than what they've got. But Frodo is too old, he's close to his end.

In the morning, they laugh, and they embrace, and Pippin thinks that it would be best for Frodo to stay late; it is a long ride back to Hobbiton, after all, and maybe it would be even better if they were to ride back together.

Frodo, smiling, agrees.

Merry and Pippin are shining, high and bright; and Frodo has sullied that light for too long. When he goes to the end, of this end, he will still have his Sam. At least, until, he says goodbye to him, too.