By: Dana
Summary: They are not alone.
Characters: Merry, Pippin, Sam
Pairings: Sam/Merry/Pippin
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slash, sexual content but hardly anything explicit
Author's Notes: Written, once again, because I could. It is also rather short, but I think it says what it needs to say.
This is for Hyel, and Ruby, both just because. ♥
Elly was shiny and took a look at this for me -- thank you, dear.
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.

Merry never has thought Pippin one to cry. When they both had been young - Pippin only sixteen, and Merry a much more worldly twenty-four - there had been an accident, once, when Pippin had been startled from a tree. There had been blood, so much blood, and his arm had been badly broken. Though Pippin had been white as his mum's best linens, and Merry had though he would faint, Pippin hadn't cried, not at all, speaking cheerfully, instead. Why, even at Cormallen, when he was healing, and even Merry knew that he could haveshould have been dead, he hadn't wept, not once, at least, not when Merry could see.

He is crying now, though he doesn't cry openly, sitting in the wet grass with the stars shining bright and white overhead. He takes a deep breath, and then another, rubbing at his eyes with the cuff of his long sleeve. Merry lets reality begin, and he wraps Pippin up in his arms.

"There now, Master Pippin," and that can't possibly be is own voice, and it isn't, "there's no need to cry."

Pippin swallows a sob, half-choking, sitting there limply, and he laughs bitterly as other arms wrap around him, half wrap around Merry, too. "There are still stars, and they will always shine," Sam says, sitting back. Merry turns, if only to see Sam, sitting so close; starlight in his hair, and in his eyes. He never would have thought of Sam as fair, but now, he seems at least as fair as any elf.

"You needn't call me master, Sam," Pippin says, wiping again at his eyes, settling back. The air is cool, and scented with night blossoms and the not-quite-chill of sweet smelling dew. Wryly, Pippin looks towards the stars.

"We would lie out, sometimes, and he would name the constellations. At least, as the elves would call them. I know the Farmer, I know the Scythe. I know all the other names. But Frodo, and his stories - "

Something thick wedges itself in Merry's throat, and he can hardly breathe. Pippin's hands find his, though, and he looks into Pippin's eyes. A wry smile settles on Pippin's mouth, and tear tracks glisten wetly down his cheeks.

"I feel like quite a fool."

"You're no fool, Pip," he says, and he kisses that smile.

Pippin's mouth tastes of salt, and his lips are warm, and smooth, but for a scar on his upper lip. There is a low rushing in his ears, and he clutches at Pippin's long shirt, gasping as he draws back, feeling a flush of warmth stinging his cheeks. He remembers when Pippin was a child, and got that scar - reckless, like he always has been, he'd crawled up onto roof of the farm house at Whitwell, and when he had fallen, he had been lucky only to split his lip, and not break a leg or arm. What is it, Merry thinks, about Pippin, and falling? He'll never understand.

"Merry, you've been drinking too much."

They all have - there is a bottle of wine left from them having brought three, and that last bottle is only half full. Merry chuckles, and pushes his nose against Pippin's cheek, turning and looking at Sam, sitting there serenely in the light.

"We all have," he says, and his eyes are on Sam. Pippin's arms thread about him, and he exhales, deeply, feeling the tremor of heart beat against his skin.

"I should - "

"Stay, we know," Merry says, reaching out with just one hand, letting fingers wrap slowly around Sam's wrist. He smiles, tilts his head, and kisses Pippin's throat, now feeling the thrum of life under his skin. Pippin gives a slight start, and Merry urges Sam closer.

What is meant and not meant and should be? Sam is closer, now, and an arm wraps around Merry's side.

Pippin, clever as he is, is squirming back into a proper sitting position, and Merry feels a touch wet with cool dew against his lower arm. Pippin's thigh is against his, but Sam's leg is nearly on top of his. Pippin's fingers curl at the nape of Merry's neck, and Merry's mouth touches against Sam's.

This is not Pippin's mouth. It is warm, still, and Merry has a way of gently urging, and he does that now, feeling Sam's mouth open to his. A good, slick tongue, and Merry sucks on Sam's mouth, feels the rumble of skin as Sam groans. The grass is slick, too, and starlight glistens off of everything - off of it, off of Pippin, and sparks like stars catch and glisten on Sam's cheeks. Merry draws back, licks his lips, tastes Sam's taste. He pushes forward, again, and they all fall down, Sam first, then Merry, and Pippin, last, though Merry and Pippin at least seem content to wrap about Sam.

There is a sharp chill in the air, and not a one of them cares to undress fully, so buttons are undone, and trousers are unfastened, and hands sneak in, touching, caressing, where and then they can. Like song, Merry thinks, voices rise up, his own amongst them, the rise and fall of pleasure, words lost to the ebb and flow of moving moans.

There must be something he can give, more than something he can take, something that will stay, something that he feels in the tremor of Sam's flesh, something that he can hear, as well, in the sharp intake of Pippin's breath.

After, they all lie there, in a tangle on the cool grass, arms around each other, breath calming, hearts all still beating in their chests. The next day, Merry knows, Rosie will come back from her visit to Tom and Marigold's, and she will bring little Elanor back with her, and there will be light, and laughter, and old hurts can be forgotten, put away for some other time, and there can be real song, again, too.

They might not all be whole, but for this moment, at least they can feel partially complete.