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By: Dana
Merry and Pippin have a way of coming to Bag End as they please, whether Frodo is expecting them or not, and there is no difference this afternoon, as they walk up the way from Hobbiton. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and there are bees buzzing over flowers; the summer air is hot and still and sweet. Pippin is going on about how it will be nice to sit in the cool and have a drink and Merry is thinking just how nice it will be to get off his feet. It had been Pippin's idea to rise early, and it had been Pippin, as well, who had led them into a game of tag. And blame hardly mattered, when Pippin was always game enough to make it worth Merry's while when he caught up to him, at least. But that had taken their time, because if you were going to do something then you needed to do it right, and afternoon had come before Merry had thought that it would, and still they hadn't made it to Bag End. Now the sun is starting its long descent into the west and Pippin's voice is a constant buzz in Merry's ear. Sometimes, he admits, it's not that he listens to what Pippin says, instead, but how he says it. And it works, because there are times when he hears things he wouldn't, if he had been listening in the proper sort of way. And here is the Hill and there is Bag End and Pippin breaks into a jog, the gate swings open, and Merry is following up the path, closing the gate in turn. And Pippin flashes a crooked grin as he stops at the door, prim and proper in his not-quite-best as he lifts his hand up, ready to rap his knuckles against the painted hard wood. But Merry stills him, hearing something from within, a voice that he can't quite match no, not that, he knows it well enough, as well as his own - and Pippin regards him with an odd look as Merry nods for Pippin to follow along. They creep back behind the bushes at the right of the door, Pippin following after Merry, and the roses are in bloom. Pippin snags his sleeve on a thorny branch and by the time he frees himself, and when he finds Merry again, Merry has found something more. Merry is standing at the front round window, set high up in the side of the hill; a window that is opened by just a crack. And Merry doesn't seem to notice Pippin, so rapt is his attention, as he looks inside. So Pippin moves closer, steps up on his tip toes he's not quite as tall as Merry, yet, but he's gaining and his eyes go wide as he looks in through a circle of glass and light drapery even as Merry says his name, says his no. "Mr Frodo," and that is Sam, his voice unsteady but strong and sure, and there is Frodo in a fine dark jacket, pushing Sam back against the wall. Merry and Pippin have a clear view from the window, just watching, and Frodo leans in so he can kiss the crook of Sam's neck. "Mercy," and Sam is breathing hard. "Mercy, please." "Now Sam," and Frodo's voice is liquid heat, "you already asked for all that I've got." But he says nothing more than that, and Merry can see Sam clutching desperate at Frodo's shoulders, as Frodo's lips work on Sam's throat. He closes his eyes and sighs and that is clear, too. Now Merry is clearly aware of the warmth of Pippin's body at his side, where their hands almost touch. They have always had their play, well, not always, but long enough that it seems that way. Now here is Sam, and here is Frodo, and Merry would never have thought that this could be. "Me dear," and Sam's voice is weak as Frodo with steady quick fingers pushes the braces off Sam's shoulder, pops button after button down his shirt, revealing sun-warmed chest and bare-smooth skin. "Oh, Frodo," and Frodo bends his attention there, kissing and licking, and Sam bends his head back, a clear patch of skin and neck, and Frodo's voice is a low but steady surge. "You told me so, Sam, and I'll show you how I feel. If words and actions could ever show it how it really truly is." And there is nothing more after that but soft cries that are spreading ripples in a softer silence, Sam's voice rising and falling, the steady downward slope of Frodo's descent. Merry can hardly breathe, one hand clutching hard and desperate at the window sill, the other finding it's own as Pippin threads their fingers together. Merry isn't sure where he should look forwards, or to the side, but Pippin is a steady insistence, a tug of soft fingers, and Merry looks even as he remembers to breathe. Such a strong grip, and Merry hadn't noticed it before. "Pippin," he whispers, turning to look down, and Pippin is looking up as he leans in close. Merry can feel the warmth of Pippin's breath against his lips even before he feels the welcome weight of Pippin's mouth against his own as he pushes Merry back and down and Merry feels grass and twig underneath his hands a twig in Bag End's garden? They'd never hear the end of it from Sam as he holds himself up. Another whisper, and Pippin drowns that out, kissing Merry hard and firm. "I think that we can afford to be a little less early," and that is Pippin, a breath, and Merry is given no chance to work his mouth in reply, as Pippin kisses him again. And that was that and when they did make their way into Bag End, when they had their tea with Frodo and Sam, no one asked Merry why there were still leaves in his hair, and no one asked Sam where his braces had gone.
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