By: Dana
Summary: Thinking too much, and wanting to sleep.
Characters: Merry, Pippin, mention of others
Pairings: Merry/Pippin
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: I did a drabble/ficlet request. This was for Debbie.
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 thinks what he needs is a smoke and a drink, and he longs for hearth and home, as well. That is, he finds himself wishing after those days that had come before Frodo had tried sneaking off from him and the Shire, when he and Pippin had imposed themselves on their cousins good will, and Bag End, a much better way to keep both sets of eyes upon him, and with Sam so near, as well. Not that Rivendell is not a wonderful place, but it is only proof that things have changed, are changing, and Merry supposes that it's right that Frodo has always been different, but he only seems more different here. And Rivendell is beautiful, more fair than any other sight that Merry has seen (though there are certain recollections of Pippin that he has, and this place of elves cannot hope to match), though he cannot forget, or ignore, the sorrow of it: like water fluid, strong, but hidden beneath a thick flow of ice.

Merry does not know why he thinks this place too cold – not now when winter has come, at least, winter should have come, though he almost isn't sure when the days should be shorter, but don't seem to be. But cold is a fact of winter, and while he cannot feel it directly, it is still there, though simply held at bay. He thinks, it has been too long since he last saw a proper snow, and he thinks of Buckland, and youth, and white spreading out to the river, which itself was a ribbon of silver in the midday sun.

Rivendell should put Merry at ease, yet even now he cannot sleep. Not when his dreams tread through darkness, where malice suffocates him as if he was drowning in deep water. Where it is frigid, and his limbs are heavy, too cold and cumbersome as though made of ice, and though Merry knows that the stars should be shining bright as diamond in the thick night sky, their light is not near bright enough to cut through the black of this night.

Merry remembers to clear having lost himself on the Barrows, and while his memory is not whole, all he really knows is that he does not feel right, and he has felt so since waking in that awful darkness, and he feels, has felt, as though he has been wearing some other person's skin. But whose it is, he cannot tell. And it bothers him, when he wakes, and when he should be sleeping, like now.

Merry decides that he can lie abed no longer, not in this too-large elvish bed, though Pippin had made himself company earlier in the evening, and he is now sleeping, snoring softly, curled near at Merry's side. So close that Merry worries that he would wake him, and he does not want to wake him, not when Pippin has seen all those awful things that Merry has, not when Pippin is still so young.

Carefully, Merry pushes at the coverlet, extricating himself from Pippin's proximity, sitting and then slowly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He moves no more than that, and then Pippin speaks, and Merry feels that all his care has been for naught.

"Where do you think you're going?" Pippin asks, tone low and surly, like it often is when he has been unexpectedly woken. Either Merry had moved too quickly, or Pippin had not been sleeping as deeply as Merry had thought.

"On a walk," Merry says, yearning to stretch his legs. "I'll check in on Frodo, and Sam, and then I'll be right back."

"Well, if that is your intent, I should go with," Pippin says, and his hand curls slow but firm about Merry's wrist, his thumb pressing so hard that Merry can feel his own pulse. Merry smiles, because he can't help himself, and then he turns, freeing himself of Pippin's grip and crawling over so he's looking down over his mostly-sleeping cousin. Pippin's face is calm, and his mouth is blank, and his eyes are not open – and Merry can see him clearly, lit in the light of an elf lantern's soft, unwavering light.

"You're still sleeping, Pip," Merry says.

Something ripples over Pippin's face, and he doesn't move, nor does he open his eyes. "Well," Pippin says, though he even seems reluctant to do just that, and his fingers twine about Merry's, once again. "I would still join you, Merry, if that's what you like."

"I'd rather you stay here, and get what rest you can." Then, and Merry can't make himself move, not like he should, and he pushes back an errant curl that lies against Pippin's temple, then bends and kisses the soft skin that has been revealed. "I'll be back, Pippin, and before you even know it."

"That's what you say," Pippin says, and he tilts his head slowly, and then he is looking Merry almost directly eye to eye. His hand lifts and fingers curl about Merry's ear, and then Pippin is tugging Merry's mouth back to settle against his. Merry lets Pippin guide him, of course Merry does, and Pippin's mouth alights so soft against his, lips shaping against Merry's as Pippin smiles. Then there is a quicksilver flick of hot tongue, and Pippin's hand moves, fingers sinking into Merry's curls, wanting to secure him in place.

All Merry can do is lie against Pippin, stretching out so that their feet are almost touching, and Merry groans as Pippin presses the kiss even deeper than it had become. It is warm and sweet, but hard, tooth and tongue and the familiar reaches of Pippin's mouth, and Pippin shifts, rolling over until Merry is half-covered, beneath him. Pippin draws back, but his fingers are still curled tight in hair, and the lines of his face are clear in elf-light, and Pippin says, not tired sounding or even somewhat abrupt, "Merry, love, I want to taste you."

Merry grins, and one hand comes to rest at Pippin's hip, and it is only thin cloth that separates flesh and skin. "What have you been doing, fool of my heart?"

Pippin grins in turn, and his mouth is hungry now where it had only moments before been mellow, sweet, and Merry groans deeply at the intrusive nature of Pippin's kiss, and is almost instantly hard. "Brandybuck," Pippin chuckles, but it's fond enough, and Merry gapes, momentarily out of breath. Then Pippin sits back, slides further, and slithers one leg over Merry's and he is then straddling Merry's legs. He pushes He hooks his thumbs at the hem of Merry's nightshirt (fine elvish cloth, smooth as silk and twice as light), and pushes back, slow as breath, and Merry's breath hitches as Pippin quests to reveal bare skin.

Again, and it is Pippin's breath that is on him, Pippin who is leaning down with his mouth almost touching the hardness of aching flesh, and Merry's head falls back and he groans.

And Pippin says, "No, Merry, love. Watch me."

Breath again and Pippin's mouth is almost touching him, and Merry makes himself look, fastening his attention on Pippin – the light that dances in his curls and the curve of his back, and the way that his hands are fisted in Merry's nightshirt.

"You're not even looking at me," Merry laughs, though he feels winded. "However did you know?"

He can feel Pippin's grin, though he can't see it, and a shudder runs along the length of Merry's body, from toes up to the crown of his head, at the thrill of Pippin's thumb running along the length of hard flesh, the anchor of Pippin's hand as it wraps slow around the base. Merry pants, shudders again, and widens his legs, mouth still wide and gaping. A chuckle, and breath caresses need, and Merry wants to roll his eyes back, wants to close his eyes, feeling the wet of Pippin's mouth and the warmth of Pippin's breath. He groans, and he grinds his teeth together, fingers clutching at the bedcovers as Pippin slowly takes him in, swallowing him until there is nothing left. Merry's toes curl, and his breath then quickens, his pulse racing along. Pippin is slow – his pace is steady, unhurried – and the air is cool upon him as Pippin's mouth slides its way back to the head, sucking on it with sudden insistence. Merry cries out, needy but near inaudible, and the urge to close his eyes and revel in dark and feeling is almost more than he can stand.

But he doesn't stop, watching Pippin's progress, instead, feeling the soft snort of Pippin's breath tickle wet, aching flesh, the suction of his mouth coupled with the swirling of his supple tongue and the flexing of his hand, firm as it massaged. Pippin's other made the bed's mattress dip, pressed so hard against it. And Merry did not know how he could take this much, for as long as it had been. The house at Crickhollow? No, sometime before, before they had said goodbye to Bag End and shreds of decent normality had remained in their lives.

For all that he longs for change undone, as long as Pippin is there with him, Merry supposes that nothing is too much for him to stand – even this, and it is that thought of Pippin, forever there, of course, as is only proper, that sets Merry loose, and he cries out hoarsely as he finds release, and Pippin sucks on him until he is dry and whimpering and twitching, fingers knotted so tightly in the bedcovers that he thinks they might break free.

Then Pippin's grip relaxes, and he draws back, licking his lips and beautiful, radiant, in star and elf-light, and Merry groans, somnolent bliss settling over him. Merry chuckles, not so winded as he had been, and then he drops back against the mattress, causing it to jostle.

And Pippin laughs, crawling up along Merry's body, settling over him (and Merry's nightshirt is still rucked up, and Pippin's need and want is pressed so firm against him, insistent as this most persistent of Tooks), grinning still when his mouth presses itself against Merry's, now tasting faintly of bitter salt.

"I love you," Pippin then says. "I really do."

Merry lets his arms wind themselves about Pippin, and Pippin feels so very right against him, and Pippin's breath is light as wind and then he is urging Merry to move with him, and they settle again on their sides. Pippin's mouth alights at Merry's shoulder, kissing through thin cloth, and his leg hooks up over Merry's, securing itself with his foot fastened behind Merry's knee.

"Touch me," is all he says, and that is all he needs to, and there is space enough between that Merry can. His hands are restless, now, for all that the rest of him is already sinking into sleep. The feel of Pippin as he shudders, gasps, and the almost hum he makes when Merry finally touches him where he most wants to be touched. Fingers wrap around him, feel him, and Pippin's mouth presses itself through cloth against Merry's shoulder, and it is damp and warm and his breath catches and then rushes, wind speeding in a storm. Pippin's mouth and the prick of tooth and suction, and Merry shudders, groans, but does not slacken his pace. Then Pippin is rocking himself gently, catching the measure of Merry's hand, and Merry groans when Pippin moans, when Pippin shudders, when Pippin comes undone.

Heat falling and Merry realizes that he is shaking, and there are tears in his eyes, and Pippin is still against him, and his breath is coming hard. "Oh," Merry gasps, and then again. He does not care for the mess that has been made, and he wonders what the elves will think of that, but of course this would be nothing new, though perhaps it would shed some other light on the habits of hobbits. He draws Pippin closer, wrapping himself about him, and he laughs again as Pippin burrows his face into the crook of Merry's neck, and Merry blinks the moisture from his eyes.

"Now," Pippin says, mouth moving against skin, "I am quite sure you're wanting to sleep."

Merry laughs, again, but it is low, and he says, "obnoxious Took. If you were wanting me to stay with you, all you had to do was say."

"Yes, well, we can look after Frodo in the morning, Merry. I'm sure he'd appreciate it more, than if we were to barge in on him in the middle of the night's turning, and wake him from his healing sleep. It is better this way – you know that I'm right."

And Merry does, and all he can do is hug Pippin even tighter than he had, and Pippin laughs, tinged with a wheeze, and draws his face back, his eyes bright with that laughter. "Merry, you needn't crush me. Please!"

Merry relaxes, though he does not let Pippin free of his hold, grinning like a fool and nuzzling Pippin's cheek and then kissing his mouth. "Better, then?" he asks.

Pippin nods, then lays his head against Merry's shoulder. "I'm cold now," Pippin says, "and tired. Well, more tired than I'd been."

"Lazy wretch," Merry chuckles, and he is even less careful of the mess they'd made than he was before, and he works the coverlet up over them and lets Pippin snuggle in even closer, curled so perfectly close. He kisses Pippin's temple, and an errant curl drops down, obscuring smooth skin.

He really does think he can sleep.

"Love you," Merry says.

"Mmm," Pippin replies, and he is too far gone for anything more than that, dropping off so soundly into sleep that the next thing Merry hears is the gentle music of his soft snore.

Merry closes his eyes, and thinks, yes, in the morning, I will look in on Frodo, and make certain he is well, but until then, he will sleep, and if he dreams, he hopes that, given how content he feels, they will be light, and free.

There will be time enough for thinking, and thinking too much, when morning comes again; but right now, all Merry wants to do is sleep.