By: Dana
Summary: Frodo and Merry have insisted that he is welcome, but Pippin is too stubborn for his own good.
Characters: Pippin, Merry, Frodo
Pairings: Frodo/Merry
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, hobbitpile, drunken hobbits, stubborn Pippin, corny ending, sexual content (lots of it)
Author's Notes: Written for the hobbit_smut "Silver Scream" Challenge.
This story follows in the same universe as "Where An Argument Leads You", mostly because I say it is and it is a pile of unrepentant porn not that I mind that. *adjusts unrepentant porn tiara*, and if it has plot then I missed it. Also, the timing of the challenges always seems to coincide with that time of the month where I hate my writing even more more than I do at other times. So, I hope it doesn't suck, and if it does, it isn't Jen's fault, who did a fab beta job. Thank you, love.
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.

Pippin walks with the Green Dragon at his back, arms wrapped tight about his chest in some hope of warding off - what? For September, the night is not particularly cold, nor is it chilly in the slightest, as it is actually pleasantly warm. Rather lovely, too, with the moon so bright and the fair shining stars as thick as fog. Still, even with all that beauty about, he knows that if there ever has been a night to never, ever, forgive Merry, then this one - bright and dark and clear - is as good as any other. Angrily, he kicks at a small rounded stone upon the dirt path, watching as it flashes grey-white in the light and sails off at a sharp angle into the low gulley that follows along the side of the road. Scowling, Pippin kicks again, this time at dirt and raising dust, and then he doubles his pace.

Pippin is heading to the Hill.

He should be angry with Frodo, as well, but it is not so simple a thing, and it never has been, to be cross at Frodo. Merry is an irritant and a bother and he doesn't know when the time is best to stop - which has been said of Pippin, as well, and Frodo is as stubborn a Baggins as any other, and Pippin doubts that the ability to state that he is wrong even exists in his blood. Frodo is still the elder cousin who once upon a time thought to teach Pippin all the names of the stars, who had been his very dear friend when he had thought Frodo would want to spend his time with hobbits of his own age. Merry is only - only his very dearest friend, perhaps, more so than even Frodo, and is certainly his very dearest relation, the night's irritations non-withstanding - Merry is only an over-grown tween that Pippin has found himself too long wanting to catch up with, and -

And, well, he never did think anymore beyond that.

Not that they are wrong about what they have insisted, but - still. Pippin had only been glad to be invited along on their night out at the Green Dragon, and Merry and Frodo had drunk more than their share, while Pippin had been stuck, somehow, at his first. He's never had difficulty drinking - he really does like it, and quite a lot, but Merry and Frodo had been enjoying it far more: like fish and water, or something like that.

And it's not right. It isn't even fair. Pippin is angry, and Merry should not have - oh, he's mad enough, and Frodo should have helped and then urged him along -

Botheration. Ah, more than that, damn it all.

Damn hobbits and their stealthy ways, as well, as though Merry is drunk (far more drunk than Pippin is, and Pippin is not drunk at all), Pippin still does not hear him until it is too late: and too late is Pippin bowled over, knocked flat on his front with his face in the dirt, and Merry pinning him sloppily yet affectively to the ground.

"Pippin," Merry murmurs. "You're making something out of nothing, you brat. Come back to the pub."

Pippin's senses reel. The wind has been knocked from his lungs.

"Merry, up and off him," Frodo says, though it's more a laugh. "You're crushing the lad."

"Aren't, Frodo," Merry says, though he does roll off of Pippin's back almost right away. Gasping for his breath, Pippin pushes up on his arms, coughing and spitting dirt from his mouth and then gasping again. Wiping at his mouth, wincing at the grime, Pippin wheezes.

"There now, Pippin, all better now?" Frodo has squatted down at Pippin's side, while Merry brushes imagined and real dirt from his fine vest. Pippin scowls at Frodo, too hurt to speak - not physically, but the hurt is real enough, and he doesn't trust what he might say. Frodo frowns. "Pippin, please. We meant no harm. Well, this great lummox might have meant harm, but I can promise you, I'd first harm myself, than you."

Pippin blinks. "I am perfectly all right," he says, "and there is nothing at all wrong."

Merry slings his arm about Pippin's shoulder, enough force and Pippin is gasping, and then he leans against Pippin and says, "Am I really a great lummox?"

"Yes," Frodo says. "And you've the padding."

Merry mutters something and Pippin shrugs off his arm, lurching to his feet. Frodo goes to follow - and ends up falling back on his bottom, laughing as he does. Pippin rolls his eyes, and offers Frodo his arm - "Here now, cousin," he says - and Frodo accepts it, hoisting himself almost gracefully to his feet.

"All better," Frodo laughs. His eyes are star-bright yet somehow dark, infinitely so, and the lines of his face are sharp beneath the too bright light of the moon. He is close, suddenly, too close - eyes, and hair spun of pure night, and his skin is luminous, almost -

It is suddenly a labour just for Pippin to breathe.

"I need to get you both to your beds," Pippin says. As much as he should leave them in the road, and have them make their own way to Bag End, and he is certainly in that state of mind, he'll not - well, he'll look after them, at least. Frodo teeters on his feet, and Pippin hoists Merry to his. The moon is too bright, still, or maybe even brighter, Pippin doesn't know or maybe even can't tell, and Merry's eyes spark, and then Merry is leaning too close for Pippin's good - Pippin's breath catches and Merry's lips part and then Pippin slings his arm back around Merry's shoulders and puts him on the right path.

Their lips, Pippin knows, had been distressingly close. Distressingly, yes, if only given the state of the night. Any other hobbit in his right mind might think this state a gift.

"Hurry now," Pippin says. "I'd like to get to Bag End sometime before day."

Merry laughs. Frodo does, too. It is no fun, Pippin thinks, being more than almost sober, when all your friends are so very incredibly drunk.

Their progress is slow. Merry's breath is warm and distracting and his hands like to roam. Now, this Pippin wouldn't mind at some other time, but given that Merry - and Frodo - have done what they've done -

He isn't at all happy. And he'll not take pity from a drunk, or a pair of drunks, and he's old enough that he's not thinking with his hormones all of the time. Only most of the time, and now isn't then.

Frodo gets the door. Their advancement up the hill has been slow, but at least they are that much closer. He'll dump Merry together with Frodo in Frodo's bed, and they will figure out their clothes, and then they'll sleep through to the morning and he'll sleep, too -

And he'll be jealous, incredibly so, that they didn't mean what they'd said.

(Merry had slid his arm about Pippin's shoulder, almost sitting on his cousin's lap. Merry is warm - too warm, perhaps, but he smells of afters, still, cinnamon apple sweet. "Pippin," he then said. "Frodo and I have been talking. And I think that you should like to hear."

"Oh?" Given Merry's weight, and presence, and his breath smelling of ale, and faintly, apples, Pippin had wrinkled his nose. "Just what do you think I should like to hear?"

"Well, we've been talking."

"We've been talking," Frodo echoed.

"And we think, well, if you'd like it, you should join us in bed."

Pippin had, at the moment, been too shocked to react - his head lolling back and then he moaned, unable to help himself, really, as Merry's mouth had bent to work upon his throat - a sharp prick of teeth and suction, and Merry's hand had moved low upon his belly, tugging at buttons that yet held fast.

- want want want, oh, how he wanted that touch –

"Patience, Merry," Frodo had laughed, despite or perhaps because of his inebriated state. "I warrant the Dragon's not wanting for such a show.")

He knows it's nothing but the drink talking, and Pippin had jerked away from Merry's touch - and Merry had crashed to the floor with a stunned "ergh" and a blink and such a look upon his face. Pippin had stood, not caring that he'd caused a scene, and what a scene it had been, and then he had yanked his cloak from the pegs at the front entry, tearing out into the darkness of the warm September night.

It wasn't fair. It isn't fair. He's been teased and he's been taunted and he'll not let them take it any further than that. After all, he's teased and he's taunted the both of them, and what do they say about turn about being fair play?

In through the door and he's shrugging off Merry's cloak, then begging Frodo for help. Merry's no help, wrapping his arms about Pippin, pressing his mouth back against his neck - Pippin feels warmth. How could he not? Pippin groans, and he ends up in a tangle upon the floor. The door had not been closed - Merry's hair had been bright as gold beneath the moon, and his mouth inviting, pink. Now, in the quiet gloom of the front hall, his hair is dark as honey and his mouth, perhaps, as sweet.

"I admit, cousin," he says, Merry's arms holding tight as binding rope, "that you are rather more insistent tonight than I - well, than I am used to."

Merry chuckles. His mouth makes a warm, slow sweep - no, that is the tip of his tongue, and Pippin groans, arching despite himself. He's only one hobbit. And he is still young. And he can feel Merry, and the hard press of the buttons of his waistcoat, and -

He gasps. "Frodo - Frodo, make him stop."

But Frodo has hung Merry's cloak, not stopping, only watching, though he's not paid full attention to his actions and it now falls, a whisper of sound that then pools upon the entry hall floor. Pippin groans, and - with as much strength as he can - bucks violently at the wet flick of Merry's hot tongue, intent upon moving down below his collar. "Frodo - " Pippin wheezes, struggling.

Not like this not like this he had meant it when he had told Merry that he would like to be invited along, but not like this. "Pip," Merry says, drawing back. Pippin's skin is damp where Merry's mouth has touched it. Pippin gasps for his breath.

"Merry."

"What is your problem, cousin?"

"You're - you. This is not at all… fair."

"And isn't it all you want?"

"Not," and Pippin is able to steady his foot against the ground, sliding his knee hard enough for Merry to disrupt him from his hold. Then, Merry gasping and clutching at his gut, he rolls to the side. "Not like this. Not knowing you'll be joking at me in the - if we even make it to the morning - I," Pippin shook his head, and his voice lowers. "Not like this."

It's Frodo who says, "Is that what you think?"

Pippin nods. He's yet to lift his gaze.

"Come along, Merry." Frodo, again.

Pippin blinks. Merry stands, a petulant look upon his face, and he turns his gaze upon Pippin - his eyes are dark, as endless as the sky, and Pippin feels something unpleasant tangling in his gut.

"Merry - "

But Merry follows Frodo. And Pippin is left in the front hall, moonlight spilling as bright as mithril through the opened front door.

The door is closed, and latched, and Pippin tends to a lamp at the small table beyond the entry to the parlour. He tends it so it burns brightly, and its glow lends its aid as Pippin then shrugs off his cloak and hangs it at the front pegs, then claiming Merry's from where it lies crumpled upon the floor. There has been no sound from the bedroom - which is, given their state, an odd enough thing. It might not have been pity, Pippin thinks, and here he's been a fool and ruined his one good chance - and he's wanted that chance, as he's never been inclined to eavesdropping, but he knows well enough what goes on in Frodo's room - or Merry's, or the parlour, or that one time when Merry had caught and pinned Frodo in the kitchen and Pippin had had little time to scramble into his own room - and he knows well enough how his body will and has and might react.

Too many evenings or afternoons or even a chance morning when he had been left alone with his body and their sounds, and Frodo is certainly too noisy for his own good. Now, a sensible hobbit might go looking for other activities to occupy his time - the wide world about Hobbiton, after all, and he could go walking, or running, or riding, perhaps - but things have happened so that he is not so sensible as he might have been, and oftentimes Pippin's attentions have become focused upon his trousers, and the buttons, and the contents beneath -

He's tumbled before, willing lasses and he's been with a lad, and there's nothing Frodo and Merry have done that he has not at least thought of, and he takes the small lantern and sees that the smial is locked down, and tends to the fire in his own room, and knows that he should have taken their invitation as it had been offered. He checks the doors again. And then makes certain that all the shutters are securely closed.

He stands in the hallway, the air chill and still about him, pressing close, and he looks at the closed door of Frodo's bedroom, and -

And wants, for all that he thinks that it is a passing thing. He rubs at his neck and thinks of Merry's tongue, hot and wet and moving so very slow, and his skin feels as though it will fall from him right then. He groans.

Damn it all. Bloody damn it all, indeed.

He almost slams the door to his room, but they are sleeping now, certainly, so very close, and the imagined warmth of their bodies, curled even closer, puts the sting of frustrated tears in his eyes. He is careful as he closes the door. He'll not - no - the fire crackles bright upon the hearth and his guestroom (arguably the best that Bag End has to offer) is lit with its flame, shadows leaping as if dancing up along the walls.

He unfastens the buttons quick enough and does not think to care when he throws his vest upon the floor. His shirt joins it soon enough, but then he does think, and think again, and he gathers the garments back up, folding them and throwing them instead upon the old rocker at the fire. He collapses back upon the bed, and wishes that it was Frodo's, instead, as Frodo's is certainly the most comfortable, and the largest, and his pillows are - oh, botheration, Pippin, stop thinking, and go to sleep.

He does try, shimmying out of his trousers and tossing them from the bed, not caring for the mess he's made, and then he pulls the covers up over him. He buries his face against his pillow and breathes in the smell of the cool outdoors, sun and sweet grass, from when the linens had hung out to dry. Fresh changed, at that. He'll be thanking Miss Marigold Gamgee, for certain, as the lass - and isn't she older than I am? She's no lass, the same as I'm no lad - does have an infinitely light hand. She is much like her brother, in her own way - at least they've more sense than those hobbits that spend their time at Bag End.

The room is dark. Try as he might, and oh how he does, he can't sleep.

He only twists and turns so long before it is too much for him to bear, thinking too much and about things that are far out and beyond his own reach. He screws about, tight as a coil, and then he lies flat on his back, staring into the darkness of the air above the bed. Air that is nearly grey beneath the combined light of moon and star and flame.

His hand twitches. He closes his eyes, and breathes, and almost then, he can feel the sweat upon his brow. Too hot, too hot. He throws the covers off him in a rush, wanting to cool his flushed skin.

Thinking too much. And wanting. And his palm itches and his hand twitches once again.

Pippin's breath catches, and then he's sitting forwards, legs spreading as if on their own volition as he pushes up on one shaking arm. He swallows, eyeing his own body - legs seeming too long and his cock certainly is insistent, beginning to grow hard. His breath catches, again, and he lets it out, quick and low. The moon sets his skin to glowing, soft and milky white, and he closes his eyes as he moves his hand to support his own flesh.

A gasp. Breath catches, and then it quickens.

Given Frodo and Merry's proclivities, and how he does so enjoy visiting Bag End, this is not the first night that he has lain awake, unable to sleep because of them. Certainly, and his breath seems harsh to his ears as his hand works upon himself, tightening and then loosening the grip, it is not the first time that he has taken himself in hand. At least he cannot hear them. Well, perhaps that might help.

It most assuredly is not the first time that he has thought of his cousins as he has given in to his own body's want and need for pleasure - he has known Frodo's mouth, and Merry's hand, if only in his mind, as his blood burned and turned to purest desire in his veins. And he knows, real and true, the wet touch of the slow sweep of Merry's tongue, and that sets him to shiver and to groan.

Quicker. And quicker still. His breath is harsher, hard and low and hoarse, and his skin is sweaty all over, and the feel of cool night air is almost icy cold.

When he comes, release hits him fast and hard, and heat splatters against his stomach. He slows, but only reluctantly, cracking his eyes open and then drinking in the light of the clear moon.

A groan that is almost proper speech, and perhaps could have been a name. He lets himself go, and his arm is too weak to support himself, and he collapses backwards with another groan, wanting only to close his eyes. When his breathing has calmed, he rises, taking his robe and pulling it on (though he does not tie it), and he pads quietly from his room to the bathing room, getting himself a clean cloth and wetting it, and cleaning himself up.

He stands there for a long time. He puts the cloth in the hamper of dirty laundry.

Feeling somnolent bliss, he returns to his room, in such a daze that he neatly hangs his robe back in the wardrobe before returning to his bed.

Now, he should be able to sleep, and he pulls the coverlet up over his body, burrowing in that warmth.

Some late hour. Pippin has spent time enough at Bag End, and in this very bed, and the empty hours of darkness as night slides towards dawn are a quiet, still time, where he sometimes feels the apparitions of the past can still be heard, and seen - that he'll throw open the door and Bilbo will be there, Bilbo and his bright smile, or perhaps a contingent of Dwarves, staying over and yet intent upon a far off land. Bilbo and Frodo are well enough alike - and Merry, irksome as he is, is far more scholarly than Pippin will ever be. There are times, like now, when Pippin wonders why Frodo didn't go off along with Bilbo, on his final adventure. Wouldn't that have been something? But then, his friendship with Frodo is far too dear, and to think of not having had a chance to know him -

There's no surprise that Merry and Frodo are so close, as they've things in common, wants, and likes that they both share. Pippin knows that he is - different, for all that he can be as demanding as Frodo, and doesn't Merry know that.

Little good that's ever done him.

Why is he still thinking? He had thought himself ready for slumber, but no, his body is against him, and his mind is thinking, constantly, and far too much. Pippin groans, and closes his eyes. He only wants to sleep.

He could wank again, he knows, but there is something more that he is wanting.

Oh, but he is tired, and he wishes he could sleep. The minutes are ticking by as loudly as the clock Bilbo kept upon the mantle, and Frodo the same, and he is left, alone and awake, lying in bed.

He is very tired. The fire has burned itself to embers, and the room is mostly dark - a whisper, perhaps, of red-orange light, might stir itself, then hold its breath, then let it out into the air. A flare, and the room is suddenly fully lit - a room that is far more comfortable than Pippin's own at Great Smials, or even, and more likely, the manor at Whitwell. How he longs for his own comfortable bed.

Oh, he wants to sleep.

Thirsty. Or perhaps he is hungry. Or, it is likely that it could be both.

He rises from bed, throwing back the cover, and shivers in the cool of night air, crossing the room to where he left his robe hanging in the opened wardrobe. He pulls it on, and tightens the belt about his waist. A late night trip to the pantry, he thinks, is just what he needs.

He finds sweet apples fresh from the harvest, a wheel of sharp cheddar, and a small but handy cask of ale that he is able to take in hand (well, hands), dumping it all upon the kitchen table. A knife and then a mug later, and he has cut into the cheese, and tasted it (sharp and tangy on the tongue), has savoured the first of the apples (sweet and as juicy as if right from the tree, and he silently praises Frodo and such bounty), and has drained half a mug of the cool ale. What he'd give for fresh scones, but he's not up to baking, and anyhow, if something were to go wrong, the smell of smoke would certainly bring his cousins running.

He's not all that good with cooking, but he does try.

He's not aware of having fallen asleep, at least, not until he wakes.

The shutter is thrown open. He can hear the twitter-sharp-sing-song voice of birds from beyond the window, and the light that slants in is pale and clear and cool as dew. Pippin groans, and presses his face into the pillow - goodness, however long had it taken him to tempt himself to sleep? His head is pounding harder than it did that long ago time when he'd woken with his first hangover.

He groans again.

"Quiet, Pip," a voice murmurs - Merry's voice, Pippin realizes, after a long moment of thought. Then, not as abruptly as it could have been and yet still not surprisingly, Pippin tenses.

He had been unaware of the body curved so close against his back (had he not? Dream is thick and complicated he is not certain at all of what is real and what is not, though his body certainly does feel sated, and warm), and Pippin sits with such sudden force that he pitches himself from bed, crying out as he topples out onto the floor. Sudden pain, and the wind is knocked from his chest, and Merry's laugh is nothing more than a chuckle, drowsy, low and sweet, and mussed curls gilded by sunlight peek out from beyond the edge of the bed.

Merry smiles. "I never knew you were so graceful, Pippin."

"What are you - " Pippin gasps, and blushes.

Merry's head settles back against a pillow, now out of Pippin's sight. "I went for a drink, found you in the kitchen. I thought to leave you there, but thought, you'd not appreciate the crick in your neck you'd have in the morning for sleeping through the night with your head at that angle."

"And?" Pippin is almost too stunned to move himself to sit. Almost, that is, and he does, eyeing his state of dress. That is, the lack of clothing, and then he's blushing harder, and Merry makes a low, content noise, that pits fire in Pippin's belly, down to his groin.

Bloody hell, and damn it all.

"And I brought you here, of course, thought to dress you down but didn't feel like worrying about such troubles, and then we tumbled right into bed. I'd say I hope I didn't snore to keep you awake, but you were mostly - " a yawn " - asleep when we arrived, anyhow. It wouldn't matter, I suppose. And anyhow," he goes on, "you must be wondering if we tumbled, tumbled. But you right enough fell."

Matter. It might not, but Pippin is fully nude, and he looks about for sight of his robe - he finds it, crumpled like a dark puddle at the foot of the bed, and it is not the only piece of his clothing that is scattered across the floor, and he scrambles for it quick as he can -

Only for Merry to say, "Pippin, I've seen all you've got, and more."

Pippin stops. He puts his arms about him, his knees pulled up so his legs are against his chest. He turns, and Merry is watching him, again. "I'm sorry," Pippin says, "for having kicked you."

"Well, it doesn't hurt now. And, for all I know, I might have deserved it at the time."

Pippin rushes, then, and pulls on his robe, Merry laughing as he does. Pippin's cheeks are burning, and then Merry says, "For all you've teased poor Frodo and I, you at least should know that you deserve this now, Pip."

Pippin groans. His head is pounding even harder than before.

"Up and up, Pip," Merry says, rising from bed. Pippin looks - and then looks away as quick as he can, blushing far hotter than should be possible, and almost thought he might burst into flame. He's seen Merry naked, yes, but he's never seen Merry so very - nude, as if there's a difference, and of course there is, as Merry is warm, fair flesh all over, and he was certainly half-hard -

Any moment, now, up in flames, and Pippin will scatter like ashes on the wind.

"Mmm," Merry hums. "Frodo's making flapjacks. Hurry on."

Pippin blinks. "Hoy, Pip, up off the floor."

Merry passes him by. The door opens, and it closes.

Pippin lets out his breath. And his head pounds, even harder than before.

He dresses before he goes to the kitchen. His head is near to splitting. The air in the kitchen is warm, sweet as spice, and Pippin groans. Frodo - dressed, while Merry is half-hazard, beautiful, in his robe - smiles at Pippin, the sympathetic kind. This is, Pippin thinks, not at all fair. The day. Them. The morning, and given his lack of drink the night before, the awful state of his head.

"The drink's not been kind," Frodo says. "I'll make you tea."

Pippin nods, plopping down in the seat at Merry's side. "Oy, Pip," Merry says. "Head up off the table." Pippin only groans, and presses his face against the curve of his right elbow. He does not want to face his cousins, but what else can he do? He's hungry, and certainly enough.

"Leave off him, Merry. He's not feeling well today."

He's not - it's true enough - but he's hungry, still, and the tea is hot and sweet, and Pippin sits slouched in his chair, elbows near making indentations upon the hard wood of the table. "Mum'd whip you for manners," Merry says. "Hoy, I should, if I must. Get your elbows up off the table, lad."

Pippin grumbles in reply but he does move his arms. "Not a lad," he mutters, and then dips his attention back into his tea.

His stomach grumbles as if to warn of its plight.

Merry laughs, and Frodo serves them - Frodo, who is always so good, and has he been a bad cousin, or an ill-acting guest? The flapjacks are good and hot, with syrup - maple, and even sweeter, though Frodo offers a selection of preserves, strawberry and blackberry both accounted for, and his most favourite, raspberry jam. He eats first and thirds and is thinking, well, there is enough for another, when he notices Frodo - that is, he notices how Frodo is enjoying his breakfast, licking sticky preserves from one finger. Pippin's throat is suddenly tight, and his mouth is dry, and he watches - clutching at the edge of the table, watching the flick of Frodo's pink tongue, the pale amber of the syrup where it sticks to his skin.

Between the two of them, he thinks, they will be the death of him.

Oh, goodness, but it's hot. Pippin pulls at his collar, chair creaking audibly as he sits back, rocking back onto all four legs - he'd not even been aware that he'd been leaning forward, and now -

Frodo is watching him. It's only clear enough. Pippin wets his mouth - but his tongue is dry, too, and his head hurts, and how could Frodo be so -

So what? A tease? So very cruel? No more a tease than Merry, and perhaps not near as cruel.

He swallows. His throat is aching. Frodo takes his finger full in his mouth - and Pippin makes a rather odd, rather distressing sound, feeling the sudden tightness in his trousers. Oh, but it is too early for such play, and how his head aches, what with all his blood rushing to his nether-regions -

He groans.

"Pip?" That was Merry.

"Yes?" He hopes - and is lucky - and his voice doesn't squeak.

"Would you like another helping? There's plenty for all."

Pippin nods. He turns his gaze upon the wood, boring so deep so as to see the flowing grain of it, and then Merry is stacking Pippin's plate high - and Pippin can only think of Frodo, the pink of his tongue, and the sticky sweet taste of syrup.

As fond of preserves as he is, it's syrup that he coats upon this final stack.

He has a new favourite today.

The water is cool and clear and sweet - he drinks more than his fill, then dunks the bucket down into the depths of the well. The day is cooler than the one before - the sky is wide and blue and flawless, mostly, but for a low skirting of clouds that are approaching from the north and east. He has gone for a walk from Bag End, and it seems, now and at last, he can properly breathe.

It isn't that he doesn't want them. No, he wants them both quite a lot, and he has thought about it often, though Merry had always been so very - well, tight-lipped, really, and he had thought it his own time with Frodo and Pippin should not bother about their own business. But Frodo, Pippin knew, even if Merry did not, was not so very - well. It would be cruel of him to think that Frodo did not love Merry. Certainly Frodo did love him, in his own way, whatever way that might be.

It only seemed that his visits to Bag End, when they overlapped with Merry's, turned out so that Frodo and Merry were more occupied with each other than with him, and it wasn't that he didn't want them their - well, whatever it was they thought it was, and they had a right to want and have, Pippin knew.

It's just that what they had - what they had had for so long - was something he wanted to share.

He almost hadn't meant it when - oh, how had he put it - Next time, you should invite me to join. Elsewise, I'll invite myself in on my own. Or had he? He did not know.

And how Merry had reacted –

And Merry thinking that he and Frodo had something, and what could that something be - and he could not even deny it when Pippin had said he was nothing more than Frodo's distraction, and as much as Pippin did and does like his teasing, he had not meant to be cruel.

And Merry had not thought him cruel.

All Pippin wants is - he sighs.

The bucket makes a soft splash as he lowers it to the water. He dunks it, and then turns the crank, bringing it back up - setting it upon the grey ring of stone, then dunking his hands into it, bringing it to his mouth, and again drinking more than his fill. His thoughts, of those months past, have scattered to the wind.

The day is so cool. But he is agonizingly hot.

Lasses are hardly as cruel as his cousins. Perhaps he should rethink things, and see if he can be sweet on one of them instead.

His walk is not over. He needn't yet make his way back to Bag End.

After his walk, he returns to Bag End - Frodo and Merry are out sitting on the front steps, Frodo with a pipe in hand - they must be sharing, Pippin thinks, and wouldn't they be good at sharing? He greets them, wanting to skirt about them - but Merry grabs him by the trousers, and bids him sit.

He had always thought their relationship so very complicated. But his own with them is more and more complicated, and it's not yet been a day.

"I've no pipe with me, cousin. Just let me - "

Oh, what are you planning, you foolish Took? Shall you hide yourself in the bedroom? Or, worse off, shall you hide yourself in the bathing room, and set yourself at right? Pippin lets out his held breath.

"No worries, Pip. We've been sharing."

Awful. Awful. After first, there'd been second breakfast, and Pippin has never suffered through as uncomfortable elevenses as he has today. He sits at Merry's side, and Merry right away offers him his pipe. The wood tastes faintly of spice - of pipeweed, of course, and Merry, and Frodo, which causes Pippin to shiver and then blush. Blasted - blasted Merry, and Frodo, too, and Pippin isn't all as stupid as they might think, and he knows - he knows what they're up to, though he doesn't know why they are, and what the purpose is, as haven't they teased him more than enough?

He should have followed them the night before. Whether it be pity or not. But it's not, is it, and he almost thinks it isn't. He would like to think it's not. He's only one hobbit, and if they were to advance upon him again, he does not think he could resist them this time.

Pippin breathes in, lets the taste of smoke sit in his mouth, before exhaling, blowing the smoke back out where it is caught upon the wind. Merry's arm slides, amicable enough, about his shoulder. And he would have to be made of stone to say he didn't like the feel of it, and he does, and he almost gratefully leans into Merry's half-embrace.

Merry's touch is not always so amicable. And there is fire in that touch.

Another long pull, and then the pipe is handed back to Merry. Nice as it is, he'd rather know the taste directly. But he exhales, and thinks, he doesn't see why they'd be kissing him, not now, and not when he'd been acting like such a fool.

He wants to broach the subject, but he doesn't know how. He hasn't such a light hand, and he feels odd enough already, though perhaps queer is a better word, given the day at hand. Luncheon is not as strained as he'd thought, and he is ravenous, his headache long gone, and he eats far more than his fill.

Somehow, the afternoon is nothing after that - it comes and then it goes, Sam having come and gone as well, and then evening is spreading itself over Hobbiton and the hill - the party tree is splendid indeed, lit in the very last fire of the day, and Pippin looks upon it from the opened door. He almost sighs. Fireflies are drifting - winking light, soft as breath, and one comes near enough to him that that light flares in his eye, against his cheek. He reaches out, and almost catches it - but when he looks, it's gone. Air blows through his empty fingers. For as long as the day had been, it seems too brief, and with a sigh he watches as the first stars flare in the far east - and then Frodo's voice, from behind him, bids him enter, and do close the door. And yes, the day had been long, and cool, but for all that, the night is fast growing warm.

A thought in the gathering dark: they're waiting inside.

Pippin steps back in, and closes the door. Light in the parlour, a fire burning bright - only adding to the heat of the room, and Merry sits curled upon the sofa, with Frodo's head resting against his lap. They have been talking - but at the sight of him, they still. Frodo's face is imperceptible, but Merry smiles, and it seems bright, and wide. "Hullo, Pip. Come have yourself a sit."

Whatever this might be, Pippin thinks, he does know what he wants.

A sitting would do him good, Pippin thinks. His head is hot, and his mouth is somewhat dry, and his legs feel unsteady beneath him - pitching somewhat, uncertain as they wobble, and he enters into the parlour, and the air there is hotter still. Close enough to the fire, and Pippin can feel sweat upon his brow, and Pippin watches as Frodo rises and pats the fine brocade between he and Merry. Then Pippin is sitting, and there is no talk against it, and his legs would groan in grateful relief if they could. And even more than just a sit - no, he is lying, now, his legs and feet across Frodo's lap, and his head resting against Merry's.

He can only take so much.

"Better, cousin?" Merry asks.

Pippin, blinking, half-way nods.

"Good."

And then Pippin groans. Merry's touch is sudden, the flat of his palm against the curve of Pippin's cheek is refreshing, achingly cool - Pippin cannot help but jerk, pressing his cheek firm against Merry's hand, and almost arches, almost moans, almost gasps Merry's name. As light and as smooth as it had been in the morning, and if Pippin had held any reserve that it had been dream, he knows now that it is not.

"Yes," he gasps, instead. "Please."

And Frodo goes on.

Pippin had thought himself aware, but certainly not aware enough - a light touch at his cheek, and then his collar, pressing through his shirt, and how had he missed the unbuttoning of his shirt? He does arch, then, beneath the touch of Merry's hands - cool, still, and quick, and moving across Pippin's chest - briefly stopping to tweak and then caress a nipple, setting Pippin to swell with sensation, like ripples spreading out in water. Endless. Inevitable. Yet, somehow, finite. Pippin does groan, and makes a sound that is somewhat akin to a whimper, Merry moving - Pippin's head thumps against the sofa, and then, he feels, not only Merry's hands, but Frodo's, too. While Merry is contenting himself with Pippin's shirt, Frodo moving instead at his trousers, and fire seems to leap from skin through cloth at Frodo's touch. Pippin arches again, almost twisting. He must be careful, or he'll break.

"Yes - "

"See, and after this morning, too," Merry says, and his voice is distant, like calm amidst storm. "I thought we'd all have a pleasant first breakfast of raspberry preserves and you. But this is near as good, I think."

Pippin doesn't know. Can't know. And, even if he did, however does Merry expect him to speak, beneath his own touch, and Frodo so casually unfastening his trousers, and then pulling them a fair span down past his hips?

Merry bends and then his mouth is on Pippin's. Pippin growls, almost delirious from heat and want, and threads one arm about Merry's shoulder, kissing him as hard and as deeply as he can, given the odd angle of their position. It's Frodo's hand, first, that he feels, and his hips buck themselves at that touch - certainly, how is he to think, when it is Frodo on him, Frodo's fingers about him, and he moans so very loudly into Merry's mouth that he is startled, and blushes, given the sound.

He clutches Merry - at his arms, fingers sinking into the fine cloth of his shirt - and his feet beg for purchase, and he squirms, and given how long he has wanted, why has he not yet been made undone. He arches further - Frodo's breath is hot, and then is mouth is wet, and cooler, and Pippin cries out, hoarse and inarticulate, shuddering as he falls from Merry, gasping and groaning as he does. As far gone as he is, and he's hearing - well, bloody all, it could be his own voice, for as coherent as he feels, and it is laughing in his head: Frodo! Get that out of your mouth. You don't know where it's been!

And he almost laughs, but lets out a low, shuddering breath, instead, and feels his hips rocking themselves almost in time with Frodo's mouth. Frodo's head is bobbing upon him, slow and steady and oh, and Pippin is certain that his cock has never, even, been so hard, or aching, and he blinks tears from his eyes - oh, he's wanting to cry, and his throat is tight and dry, too. Then Merry's mouth is on him, kissing - and he presses his hands at Merry's cheeks, keeping him in place, fastening him there through flesh and through his want.

The flame is all too much. For as cool as they are, he is raging out of control, and it flashes like wildfire, and he comes undone - an inarticulate arrangement of sound falling from his mouth, and he would thrash but for Frodo holding him pinned, and then he is crying, a sudden croaking sob and the tears are such relief upon his burning cheeks.

"Pippin, Pippin, Pippin."

He doesn't know. He can't think. He is pulled into loving arms, and held, and he tries his very best to blink the tears from his eyes, but they won't stop their fall, as insistent as a sudden summer storm. Kisses - Merry, and Frodo, and he knows them, both - their tastes, from the inside, out, and - oh, he is crying even harder, and clinging, and then he is gasping, and laughing.

His head has begun to spin.

"I'm hungry," he gasps. "And I could use a drink."

Merry's laugh is sharper, but it's Frodo who says, "Bloody awful Took. Away with you, Merry - you heard what our Pippin has decreed."

Merry grumbles, but he leaves - not before a kiss, long and deep and sweet, with Frodo, one that he then shares with Pippin. Then he leaves, and Pippin is left with Frodo, clinging - and he is thinking, how could he not, and he is uncomfortable, and uncertain, too.

He almost thinks he sees what Merry sees in his cousin, and why he has given so much and spent so much, how he has loved and longed and lusted, and ached. Pippin shudders, and he gathers his breath near, only slowly letting it free. Frodo is dark haired and pale skinned and lovely, like moon and night and stars and dream. He is a sanity amidst feverish delirium.

Oh, and Pippin wants.

But all he says is, as though he's been wanting too since the very beginning of the world, or at least since the starting of an age, "Kiss me, please?". Frodo's chuckle is warm and smooth and his mouth is the same.

Merry returns - Pippin is ravenous, indeed, and Merry jokes at him and pokes his stomach as he eats, and Pippin's trousers are still undone and down about his hips. They sit there, a proper tangle, Pippin eating, whether by his own hand or Frodo's, and he thinks, yes, he could get used to all this.

After, somehow, Pippin is thinking of supper, and Merry laughs and then hoists him up off his feet - Pippin yelps, distraught. The last time he remembers having been carted like this - one arm at his back, the other at his bottom - he had yet been a very small lad.

Of course, his bottom had not been bare at the time, and if he wiggled hard enough his trousers would come right off. And, at that long ago time, he certainly hadn't liked the touch of Merry's hand.

"Bloody Brandybuck," he gasps. He does wriggle - the emphasis seems needed.

"He gets it from me," Frodo admits.

"I should have thought."

Merry gives Frodo's bedroom door a light kick - it opens, and creaks, and Frodo says, "Oh, I'll be having Sam take a look at that", and then Merry is laughing. "Well, I think we'd both rather you come have a look at this."

Pippin is dumped - and he bounces - on the bed, rolling into the center. His trousers are certainly a mess, and he rolls over onto his back. Merry is grinning, and he takes hold of Pippin by the feet, and pulls him back across the bed. For a moment, Pippin is thinking instead of first breakfast and raspberry preserves, and wouldn't that be nice if they could have it the morning after, but that thought spins from his head as quick and cool as the northern wind. "Shall," Merry says, "we deal with these?"

Pippin nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak. Certainly, he has tumbled with lasses, and even one lad, yes, but he's never been with two, and that is almost more daunting than it ought to be. These are his very dear cousins - bothers they might be at times, and teases, but he does know that they care. And then Merry pulls on Pippin's trousers, and Pippin keeps his legs straight so the task is an easy one. He does not want to tease, not now, especially not now. Then, he gives his legs a kick once they are free, and grins, shrugging his shirt off, and giving it a fling. "Well," he says, and grins even wider than he had. "Shall my dear cousins join me, or am I to be left here all alone?"

Almost - a very faint moment - and he thinks of his prior worries, of pity, or being left as some sort of terrible tease. But then Frodo bounces onto the bed, and laughs, and lies back. Pippin leans down and kisses him, surprised at how mellow Frodo's kiss can be, why, almost sweet and even shy. That is not something he would have ever thought - though, certainly, his cousin can still be rather reserved.

"Merry will tend to the fire," Frodo says, as he draws back. He scoots so he's sitting, and then Pippin joins him. "And shall you help - " but Frodo laughs, and Pippin is already tangling his fingers about cloth and buttons, helping Frodo to shed his cool linen shirt. Then, and Frodo shrugs it off, and Pippin flings it as he had his own, and Merry makes a disagreeable sound, "Watch where you're throwing things, Pip."

Pippin, though, doesn't much care, as Frodo takes him in his arms, falling back against the bed, and pulling Pippin along with.

"This," Frodo says, "is all for you. But help me with my - yes, that's a lad," and he closes his eyes, lashes dark upon his cheeks, and Pippin almost bites his tongue as he works as fast as he can, unfastening Frodo's trousers - then, and Frodo lifts his legs to his hips, and Pippin tugs them off. Frodo is, as he'd thought he would be, fair and lovely, and then Frodo takes him back in his arms. Not a lad, he wants to say, but oh, he doesn't care.

They are kissing by the time that Merry returns, and Merry is busy enough with his own clothing. Pippin groans - the build up, this time, is taking its sweet time, and Frodo feels so very good. The bed dips as Merry sits at the edge - then Frodo rolls Pippin onto his back, and pushes his legs between his legs. Pippin arches, suddenly, and Frodo's kiss upon his neck is more akin to a bite, and he fists hold of the bedcovers, twisting them about his hands.

Pippin yelps. "Frodo!"

"See? You'll be fighting for your place as the vocal one," Merry says, and Frodo laughs.

"No," Pippin pants, "Frodo is certainly far more vocal than I."

"We should prove him right," Frodo says. "I happen to agree."

Frodo moves, and soon enough Pippin finds himself pressed - a very welcome press - between two moving bodies, and he gasps as he then groans. Merry's arm about him, and a mouth pressed at his shoulder, and Frodo's hand at his hip, his leg angled so it is pressed up and between Pippin's thighs. "Merry," Frodo says, his mouth moving from Pippin's throat.

"Yes?" Merry replies, and gives Pippin a lick.

"Ready now, cousin?"

"Give me a moment."

There is sudden aching cool at Pippin's back, which is odd, given that Merry had been pleasantly warm. "Frodo - " he gasps, and then Frodo's mouth is tangled about Pippin's, and Frodo's leg is moving, and his foot is pressed and playing in the foot hair of one foot.

Pippin gasps, again, and groans. "Patience," Frodo says, "dear Pippin. Our cousin shall return."

And Merry does return, though Pippin is almost unaware, growing hard again as he is, though somehow knowledgeable that he is not near to bursting. Still, and he envies them their staying power - certainly they must do this far more often than he, and for all he knows they had done so earlier in the day -

And then Merry's mouth touches at his ear, soft and faint and almost not there, and Pippin moans.

"If you're ever wanting us to stop," Merry says, "just say so, and we will."

Pippin nods. Merry sets a kiss at his shoulder. Frodo is very warm at his front, but there is space between him - even as he presses closer with his leg, rubbing low, though that leg is soon enough up and over Pippin's own leg, instead. Merry's hand is a shock as cool as a sharp autumn breeze touched with the promise of a long winter - Pippin jerks at the feel of it - and slick, something smooth and slippery slick being rubbed over the hardness of his length, and he makes an odd enough noise - a whimper, he thinks. "Patience," Merry whispers. "Relax, Pip, love." Before Pippin, Frodo is dark, seems to smolder, like a creature not of this Shire, and most certainly not at all a hobbit: his eyes like night and his mouth parted - so, inviting and yet - oh. He groans as they kiss.

Oh, and it's not that he's wanting for patience. He's almost wanting this to never end.

A cool touch, again, and then Frodo's mouth is against his collarbone, head bent, and his leg is just so, and Pippin's cock twitches and then Frodo takes him in hand - sensation, and tight heat, more than any Pippin has ever known, follows after, then, as with a low groan he is in Frodo. This is - oh. Too tight and only sensation and his ears are set to pop from the force. He certainly can't think.

"All's well, Pippin?"

He nods. Eyes screwed shut so tight, elsewise he'll cry.

And Merry is at his back - slick, suddenly, and gentle, and he feels himself pressed forward, wrapped in such warmth and in such love, and though the build is awkward, soon they are moving with such rhythm that it sets the bed to shake. And Merry's mouth is warm and somewhat damp and touching at his neck - kissing, slowly, and Merry's arms are so very tight about him.

Frodo is far more vocal than Pippin is, Pippin thinks, but it seems close enough.

Some late hour. Pippin wakes, and the air is still, quiet and dark - he shivers - well, along his hip, as though he's not beneath the covers, there is warmth all about him, and he sinks back into it, thoroughly in bliss.

He sleeps again. And when they wake, in the morning, there is no thought of raspberry preserves or for their own first breakfast, and as they are all so very close to tangled, they go at it all again.

Sometime after that, beyond breakfast, first and second, and elevenses, too, he finds the words he has been searching for, though he hadn't known: that he is sorry, and he does hope they can forgive him for having been such a fool.

But he feels he knows love far better than he had before. And how they work, and how he likes it, and how he now only wants more.

Like a happily ever after. Well, at least for a time.