By: Dana
Summary: All that he wants, and just a little more.
Characters: Merry, Pippin, Frodo
Pairings: Merry/Pippin
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Slash, sexual content
Author's Notes: Happy birthday, Molly. 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.

Then hunker down, close, in winter coats and long winter gloves, the wet cold of snow beneath their feet. In the shadow of the mill, the darkness is like ice, frigid and numbing, and Merry rubs his hands together, hoping for the friction of some heat.

Old Sandyman's voice can be heard, as well as the loud sounding of a goat. Pippin snickers, then covers his mouth with his gloved hands. Even in the low darkness of shadow, Pippin's eyes spark, like diamonds, or stars, Merry thinks.

"Shhh," Merry breathes out, pressing a finger against his own mouth.

Pippin nods, cheeks red. He breathes out against his hands, then rubs his gloves together. When Pippin leans closer, his breath puffs out, and Merry feels it, with a start, hot as fire against his cold, numb cheek. He finds, in that moment, that he can remember at least half a dozen times, when he can recall being so close to Pippin – that he can smell cinnamon and faded leaves and something cool and sweet like good spring grass – but this, somehow, is distinctively different than all the times that had come before.

"Sandyman won't know what to do with the goat," Merry says, grinning, despite himself, and the almost-touch of Pippin's mouth against his skin sparks fire in his blood. He should be quiet – it wouldn't do them any good, if they were to be found.

It is a pleasant sensation, still, and that warmth is wet against his cheek, quickly cooling over. "And neither will Frodo, Pip, if he finds out what you let me do."

Pippin laughs, and Merry shudders, closing his eye. "Quiet now, Merry-lad," he whispers. "It won't do us any good if Sandyman were to find us, now, and ruin the fun."

Pippin is right, Merry supposes, no, Merry knows, and they sit quiet, listening. After a moment, Pippin breathes out, and his voice is light with repressed laughter. "Oh, it was a very friendly goat, though. Do you suppose it has made good friends with old Sandyman, now?"

Merry snickers.

"You know it well as I do, Merry – that hobbit needs to find himself a sense of humor, and maybe learn to laugh."

Pippin is right, Merry knows, though it hardly sounds as thought Sandyman is enjoying this little prank as much as they are – oh, and isn't that wonderful, just living? Sometimes, it really does best for him, to act half his age, and just act, not think. "Are your hands as cold as mine are, Pippin?" he whispers. Pippin nods, and he tilts his head, listening carefully.

"It's gone quiet in there, Merry."

"Perhaps Sandyman and good Mistress Goat have retired early to their bed."

Pippin snorts, loudly, then clamps both his hands over his mouth as laughter shakes his body. Merry nearly collapses, and he puts his arms around Pippin, catching him. It is – nice. Pippin is warmer, much warmer, than the cold night air, and Merry, quite absently, presses his mouth, and parted lips, to Pippin's temple.

Pippin shivers. "Your lips are cold as ice, Merry," he whispers. Merry, chuckling, tugs on Pippin's scarf.

"Bag End is calling for us, then."

"Before my ears fall off," Pippin mumbles, rubbing at his cheek. He looks at Merry, but doesn't move. Merry looks back, but does not move, either. "Yes, well," Pippin says. "We won't get anywhere, Merry-lad, if we sit here all day."

"It isn't day, Pip," Merry says, grinning, and then they pull themselves up from the snow. "Careful now, Pippin – " he says " – though, I do suppose that good Mistress Goat and – "

"Oh, Merry, you are absolutely awful. You needn't start that again." Pippin says, almost laughing, as he crouches down. Merry grins back at him, but then he checks, quite carefully: the lights are out, even the lantern at the old front door, and Merry nods.

"Shall I race you back to Bag End, Pippin?"

In the moment before Pippin replies, Merry pictures, instead, gripping Pippin's scarf, pushing him back against the old wood, and kissing him, like he hadn't thought he'd wanted. But Pippin is up, racing past him, and Merry lurches back to his feet, with the sudden thought that running might be might be more difficult than he'd originally thought.

"I have tea, and brandy, in the parlor," Frodo says, giving them both a long look as they shrug off their winter wear. Clothing that, in the close warmth, is soon a dripping mess. Merry gathers it all up, looking from Pippin, with his rosy cheeks, to Frodo, with his knowing look.

"I'll just tend to this, and put water on for a bath. Pippin, go sit with Frodo, if you like."

"I think we all need a Merry, Frodo," Pippin says, smiling. "If only to pick up for us, you know, when we are all too tired to do it for ourselves."

Merry chuckles, pinching Pippin's flank. Pippin yelps, startled, and dances away from Merry, and the threat of his hand, closer to Frodo; Frodo, who snickers, and gives Pippin's shoulder a fond pat as he shakes his head. "You asked for that, dear cousin," he says, grinning.

"Yes, I think I did."

They both share a laugh, at that, and then Frodo gives a short jerk of his chin, the direction of the hearth and its bright burning fire. "Now, let us get you settled by the fire. Don't take too long, Merry," he says, and he gives Pippin's shoulder a grip, then nudging for Pippin to go, "or you know what will happen to all the tea."

"Oh, I don't worry about the tea," Merry says, and he is already off. He sees to the clothing, and then the water, running the pump (such an ingenious thing, really, and he can't help but praise Bilbo, stars bless him all these years, for seeing to its installation), and then setting the fire, to warm the insides of the old copper tub. He is damp, and somewhat chilly, and there is an aching in his groin that he can only blame on –

Pippin.

The door is shut, and he makes sure it is latched, and he shucks his trousers down to his knees. His hand is still cold, and he shivers, when he touches himself, shutting his eyes and thinking of darkness, and emptiness – only trying, as it is Pippin, Pippin, Pippin, that fills his mind, and it is Pippin, that he thinks of, with his hand on his cock.

Pippin, who he would like to – he would like to kiss, and touch, and love, and it seems right, though it does not – Pippin is too young, or perhaps he is the young one, and he could not ask Pippin, could not, could not take what he wants –

He bites his lip, muffling what sounds he makes, clutching at hard, aching flesh, and when he comes, hard, it is Pippin's name that goes unspoken, stuck on his tongue.

He is shaking, and he slumps back, trying to regain his breath. He stands there, until he knows he must move. There is a towel within reach, and he cleans himself up, then lacing his trousers back up. The towel, he drops with sodden clothes. The laundry will be dealt with in the morning. Right now, he can only hope that he has straightened himself up.

(Merry wishes he could stop thinking.)

He washes his hands, and then his face. In the parlor, though, he finds warmth, after lingering chill and something that could be shame, and Frodo and Pippin sit, quite comfortable, before the fire, with their cups and a decanter of brandy between them.

"And then Merry said – oh, hullo, Merry." Pippin smiles, raising his cup.

"Merry said?"

"Oh, nothing much, Frodo," Pippin replies, draining his cup. Merry settles down, between the both of them, but further from the fire. There is an empty glass, and fire sparks off of it, yellow and red-orange-gold. Before Merry reaches for it, Frodo does, instead, and empties gold-brown brandy into it, filling it nearly to the brim.

"We thought of warming it," Pippin says, patient for once as he waits for his own glass to be refilled. "But it has done a good job of warming us itself."

They drink, and then they eat, and Merry makes certain that Pippin is first to the bath. Afterwards, as the old clock chimes the eleventh hour, they retire to their (separate, it should be noted) beds.

Merry can't sleep. He tries, but he can't. The bed is empty, and cold, and his body aches – from the temperature, yes, the memory of numbing, frigid cold, and the distinctive lack of a body pressed close, one that would fill out the emptiness that seems to stretch beneath underneath the covers.

Once, he counts to ten, and then again. He isn't even sure of moving from bed until he was wrapped the coverlet around him, and he is making his way to the door. His room is the very best of Bag End's guestrooms. Pippin's, the door right to the next, is slightly less grand, and while the bed is no larger, and the covers are no thicker, Merry knows that Pippin's bed is still much warmer than his could ever be.

He knocks, the cover trailing behind him, and then he knocks again. When there is no answer, he opens the door. Cool air brushes against him as the door moves in, air that smells of dry blossoms and dryer dust. "Pippin? I know you're awake."

A rather irritated grumble drifts up from the bed as he closes the door behind him, slipping fully into the room. "I wasn't, but now I am," Pippin says. "Tell me, Merry, why did you think to wake me?"

"Because I couldn't sleep," Merry quite amicably, and quite matter-of-factly, replies.

Pippin grumbles, turning and pressing his face against the linen cover of his pillow. Merry moves closer, climbs into bed with Pippin, in the empty space that Pippin has left.

"I thought you were too old for this," Pippin mumbles, as Merry presses close. His nose is buried in Pippin's curls, and he breathes in, spice and Pippin, his arm snug where it has settled around Pippin's side. Pippin, perhaps not as irritated as Merry had thought, but irritated still, squirms away from him, exhaling sharply. Yes, Merry finds himself thinking, he had thought himself too old for this, but then, he really couldn't bring himself to believe that that mattered.

"Merry," Pippin says, more a statement than a whisper, his voice louder now; that Merry has pressed closer, and now Pippin shudders, and pulls away. "Merry, you're cold as ice."

Merry, thoroughly undaunted, pulls Pippin back against him, and Pippin goes with a sudden squeak. "Well, then, Pippin, come and make me warm."

"Merry," Pippin exhales, caught close in Merry's embrace, and Merry sighs, pressing his face against Pippin's shoulder. In his nightshirt, still, but the cloth is thin. Merry inhales, and breathes in the scent of cool fabric and warm skin.

"Hmm?" Merry says, at length. Wrapped in his own blanket, and half wrapped in Pippin's, with Pippin pressed so close, he finds that this is quite nice. "Is there a problem, Pip?"

"I can't move now, you blasted fool."

"Well, then, just go to sleep. It isn't like you need to move, if you're to go to sleep."

"But I can't," Pippin breathes, hardly audible. "Merry. I can't move, and I can't sleep."

Merry closes his eyes, and pushes closer. He feels Pippin's warmth all over, and clings to it. It stretches out, covers him, pools in his groin, and before he is fully aware of it, his cock is hard, poking against Pippin's back.

"Merry," Pippin breathes, still hardly audible. "Is that what I think it is? It is."

"I – " Merry blushes, and though he should, he does not move. "Yes, Pippin, it is."

"I don't think I can – " Pippin's breath catches. "Sleep with that thing pushing against me, Merry." Merry can hear the tremor of his own heart beat, the memory of Pippin's scent, the thought of Pippin's touch. There is a very lengthy pause, where Merry worries that he will forgot how to breathe, or – or, oh, something terrible most certainly will happen. But then, Pippin's voice comes, clear and cool:

"You'll have to do something about that, if you want to stay in my bed."

"Pippin – "

Pippin squirms free, if only because Merry is distracted, until he is lying on his back. His gaze is on Merry's, a sudden bright spark of light and life and something that is just Pippin, with his not-so-simple sense of humor, and his love of mischief, and how it shines in his eyes. There is something more, though, something darker, and something that burns, not brightly, but deeply, like a fire that has been well-tended, waiting to blaze. "I had only thought you wanted to sleep," Pippin says. "But do you want to – "

"Pippin, I – "

Pippin grunts softly, rolling from his back and then onto his side. Merry braces himself, and puts his hand out, fingers curling over Pippin's neck. Well, he thinks, he can't say he hadn't ever wanted this to happen. Perhaps, though, only because he has been expecting it for so long.

Pippin lifts his gaze, looking suddenly uncertain. Merry wets his lips, shivers as he breathes in cool air, rubbing his fingers slowly in slower circles. "I wouldn't want you to think – "

Pippin pushes forward with his knee, and there is friction against Merry's erection, where it is caught between fabric and flesh. Merry groans, gasping, feeling nothing but hot fire and the pressure of Pippin's knee.

"You wouldn't want me thinking what?"

"That I only came to – " Merry swallows, clutching at Pippin, and his hips push forward, of their volition, though certainly the rest of him must want for this, too. "Oh," he shudders. All he feels of Pippin, is liquid, hot, crawling in and then under his skin. "You're warm."

"I am," Pippin smiles, a secretive smile. He pushes with his knee, rubbing slowly, a slow, gentle, up and down motion, and Merry gasps and groans. "Does it feel good, Merry?"

"Very good," Merry breathes, closing his eyes. "Yes. Oh. Please."

"Yes," Pippin exhales, with a low hiss, clutching at Merry's shoulders and pushing closer, harder, until Merry's breath hitches and he digs his fingers into Pippin's arms, feeling wet heat spill, against his stomach, through thin fabric, and onto Pippin's leg.

Merry's eyes snap open, and Pippin is looking back at him, color in his cheeks and his eyes so wide and bright. Laughter tumbles from his parted lips, muted, soft. "Well, then."

Merry blinks, hard, three times, and then he rolls Pippin over back onto his back, pushing him down against the sheet, kissing him hard and leaving them both breathless. "Merry – " Pippin gasps, and then he gasps, again, when Merry lets his hand smooth over Pippin's thigh, where Pippin's nightshirt has been pushed up from sometime during their tussle.

Pippin's breath hitches, and Merry's fingers wrap around a wanting erection. "Merry, yes," Pippin whispers, jerking against him, clutching at his arms, pressing his mouth against Merry's shoulder as Merry's hand moves, a steady, slow friction, but one that Pippin finds need to echo in the slow thrusting of his hips.

The sensation is heady. Merry turns his head, sucking on the soft, salty skin of Pippin's throat, pulling on his erection as he then licks at the curve of Pippin's jaw. Harder, softer, giving what Pippin demands. There is a flash of heat, and Merry feels it all over, as Pippin shudders, gasping, and Merry feels Pippin's release against his hand.

They slow, and Merry presses against Pippin, wet fabric pinned between their bodies. "Oh," Pippin breathes, squirming slowly. He presses into Merry, closing his eyes, sighing. "Oh, well, that was quite nice."

Merry laughs, grinning, and then he kisses, first, Pippin's cheek, followed by a kiss that he lands on Pippin's lips. They don't speak again, not right away, but when Merry does, he says: "Only quite nice?"

"You think far too much of yourself, Merry-lad," Pippin says, eyes closing. "Oh, but I could sleep forever, even if we are all sticky. I'm warm."

"I like it when you're sticky," Merry says, eyes drooping. Sleepy now, thoroughly exhausted, but pleasantly glowing, he rambles: "Like, if you'd been into the strawberry preserves. Why, I wouldn't mind it if you were that kind of sticky. I like this kind of sticky, too. I'd want to lick it off you, you know. And I could go fill the basin, if you wanted."

Merry's eyes shut fully, and Pippin's breathing evens out as he sleeps.

Merry wakes, feeling a hand on his thigh. He grumbles, turning, and someone else, quite sleepily, or at least sleepily enough, grumbles in reply. Fingers skim over flesh, and he is suddenly, achingly, awake. Opening his eyes, Merry watches as Pippin turns, rolling onto his side.

Pippin's hand, he realizes, is now long gone.

He curves against Pippin's back, pulling him close. "Morning, Pip-my-lad," he says, dropping a kiss on Pippin's fabric-covered shoulder. Pippin grumbles, again, and squirms. Turning, slowly turning, he curls back against Merry's body, so that they are chest to chest. Merry's breath catches, and Pippin's leg twine about his own.

"Good morning, Merry," he says, grinning. When they kiss, his hand works its way down Merry's side, and to the warm, dark, shadows between their bodies. Merry groans, feeling the clever grip of Pippin's fingers.

"Pippin – "

They make it from their shared bed in time for elevenses, though not before then.

They need that washbasin, after their morning tumble and the sticky flesh of the night before, and they strip down, fully, standing in chill air, washing off with water that is icy, cool and clear.

Pippin shivers, and Merry towels himself off; Merry is the one to dress first, and then Pippin, and then they are off, as they often are, acting as though they are perfectly at peace. Frodo is standing in the kitchen, tending to the pot of tea, and he looks at them both, a carefully guarded expression that breaks into an honest smile.

Merry is the one who blushes, and Pippin grins, and Frodo pours them both a cup of good, hot tea. "There's scones, and sausage left, but I suppose if you're wanting I could make you both some eggs."

"And bacon, maybe? I think I saw mushrooms back in the pantry, now that I think about it." Pippin, quite thoughtfully, sips from the small tea cup, sighing in thanks. "Oh, that does it right. Thank you, cousin."

Frodo's grin is wry. "You're welcome, Pip, and those mushrooms are for our supper – I was thinking, maybe, a nice mushroom quiche – you like that, don't you? – so no, you can't go and eat them all now."

Merry chuckles, and Pippin turns his gaze, thoughtful still, back on Frodo. "Well, sausage, then, and eggs and bacon. Do you think you could do that for us, Frodo?" Well, with that grin, and those eyes, Frodo can hardly say no. Their elevenses are a full meal, a table laden with hot, good-smelling food, and they all eat their fill – even Frodo, who never has been one to say no to seconds or thirds.

Afterwards, they put on winter coats, and scarves, and head out to the front steps, sitting on the bench there, puffing on their pipes. The day seems fragile, covered in white, snow sparkling so clearly for as far as their eyes can see. Pippin, his cheeks red and his eyes bright and a smile on parted lips as he talks, quite lively, is lovely, Merry thinks, and he isn't sure that he stares, not until he sighs, and he thinks to turn and look at Frodo, finding a knowing look in his elder cousin's darker eyes.

Merry blushes further, rubbing at the back of his neck. Pippin, a warm bundle, leans against his arm. Smoke leaks into the air, and Pippin dips his pipe, looking out. Merry is the one who speaks, though, only lightly touching Pippin's hand with the very tips of his fingers.

Slowly, Pippin looks at him, and the world around seems to sparkle – rainbow light in white, snow stretching out, and Merry feels something clutching at his heart, something that he is so certain of that the fear is a thick and tangible thing, and he wonders if he will smother under that weight.

Oh, but even that, does it matter? When Pippin lures them both from the relative comfort of their rest, tempted right into a snowball fight, like they were all nothing more than small lads, Merry decides that even if it does, that something – that uncertainty, that fear, that not knowing, that expectation of something grand – makes it all right.