"Well, Smaug, I don't believe it qualifies as fog when it is dripping on your nose." His voice was muffled and odd sounding in the thick, moist air. "I believe it qualifies as rain at this point, boy."

The pony whuffed back at him good-naturedly. Smaug had enjoyed the beginning of their jaunt -- galloping flat out on the East Road from Frogmorton. Frodo had enjoyed it as well
-- the warm spring air whipping through his hair and a fine Tuckborough pony between his legs. But he knew that Smaug's stomach must be feeling a bit hollow despite the succulent sweet grass of Bridgefields. And the fine lunch that the Floating Log had packed for Frodo was just a fading memory at this point. He certainly hadn't counted on the weather suddenly swallowing up the sun and turning a fine warm afternoon into a cold and decidedly damp evening.

Frodo swiped the back of his sleeve across his face for the hundredth time, but both were equally wet. "My apologies for underestimating the ability of the Brandywine to produce this chilly soup from a perfectly lovely spring day at a moment's notice, but I'm certain that old Seth will feed you up thoroughly once we get there."

Smaug plodded on through the damp grey tendrils of fog, apparently undeterred and quite well aware of their destination, nostrils twitching eagerly.

"And I don't doubt you can smell the Hall feed buckets from here." He leaned forward to rub the shiny black neck affectionately. "Whatever concoction it is that Seth puts in those oats, I promise you this visit we will take home the recipe."

Old Seth's mixture had been a long sought after secret, much as many of the Brandy Hall kitchen recipes. He had managed to snag one of those on the last visit. Frodo smiled at the memory of time spent with Izzy and a bottle of Brandy Hall's best beside the kitchen fire. Gossip was not his strong suit, but he could manage to cough up a few tidbits of Hobbiton news and listen to some tales about the antics of the Brandy Hall denizens in exchange for Izzy's prized caramel sauce recipe.

"Perhaps I can get Merry to wager it on a race with Spark. What do you think, boy? Can we beat him this time?"

It wasn't Frodo's imagination that Smaug's demeanour changed at the mere mention of his rival, ears pricking forward eagerly. Frodo smirked at the thought of what Merry would likely wager in response. Even if Frodo and Smaug lost the race, Frodo would win -- but they wouldn't lose this time.

The smirk slid into a relieved smile as he saw a hint of light through the mist-shrouded trees in the distance. The Hall -- finally! He was beginning to think that they had completely missed the turn and would just keep on until they stumbled into Standelf. Smaug struggled briefly for control, obviously eager to reach the stables, but Frodo kept him to a sedate pace as they made their way up the hill toward the mist-slickened cobblestones of the Brandy Hall courtyard. There was a sweet, thick promise of "dry" and "warm" and "FOOD" in the damp air that both pony and rider could smell.

The sound of Smaug's hooves on the cobbles was strangely hollow in the fog, but the windows of the Hall were warm beacons in the hillside. He didn't need to guide the pony toward the stables -- open doors spread a pool of heat and light into the mist.

"I shoulda known. Some fool Baggins about in the damp."

Frodo grinned happily at the sound of that familiar voice and threw back the hood of his cloak. "Damp? Why, this is just a touch of moisture in the air. A fine spring evening, to my way of thinking."

"And this from one learnin' to steal from dragons and the like, no doubt." Old Seth stood just inside the stable doors, his trademark hat pulled down against the mist, a piece of tack in one hand and a well-oiled cloth in the other. "Yer idea of a fine spring evenin' is a jaunt through the Old Forest nekkid -- if I recollect rightly."

"Only just in, not through. And the naked part was NOT my idea." Frodo retorted, swinging out of the saddle to the ground and clasping the old retainer's arm warmly.

"I don't 'member as the young Master mentioned a visit from Hobbiton."

"No. It was a bit of a last minute jaunt." Frodo leaned down to loosen the girth and run up the stirrup, patting the pony's neck as he circled to work on the other side. "Smaug here is deserving of extra oats tonight."

Frodo watched Seth walk around the rear of the pony, his experienced eye missing nothing. "Built to fly this'un."

Frodo smiled proudly as he walked Smaug to the grooming post. "Yes, and he does."

"Gives our Spark a run for his keep, I'd bet."

At the sound of his name, a red-gold head lifted over one of the stall doors and intelligent brown eyes looked them over. Smaug nickered in greeting and Merry's feisty mount responded -- a bit indignantly -- then went back to his dinner.

"I'm counting on it." Frodo shrugged out of his backpack and rubbed Smaug's neck affectionately. "Now, let's get you dry and presentable, boy. I am starving just smelling your dinner."

"He's cool enough for an appetizer whilst you dry him off, I'm thinkin'." Seth handed him a towel.

"Well, we did pretty much walk from the Newbury cutoff." Frodo put the towel over his shoulder and quickly removed Smaug's bridle.

"Yep, a 'fine spring evenin' when the fog's so thick ye can't gallop full out on the river road."

Frodo smirked, then his stomach growled so loudly that Smaug pricked one ear back inquisitively.

Seth chuckled. "I'm not filling no feed bucket for you, young sir. Izzy'll have my hide if I don't send you to the kitchen first thing."

Shaking his head, Frodo hefted Smaug's saddle off and carried it to the rack. No, his stomach would have to wait a bit. First order of business, after getting Smaug cleaned up and settled in, would be finding his cousin.

"I do think this'un likes the Brandy Hall feed." Seth remarked as Smaug shoved his nose into the bucket enthusiastically and noisily.

Frodo was shaking out Smaug's saddle blanket and looking about for a place to hang it to dry out. "I have been meaning to talk to you about that. What would you take ..."

"Oh no, young sir. I have my instructions from the Old Master not ta be giving that recipe out to no Bagginses," Seth responded quickly.

Frodo put on a frown as he rubbed briskly at Smaug's damp coat. "Now what does Old Uncle have against the poor Baggins' ponies, I wonder?"

"Hmmmpf. Somethin' about the 'Old Thief comin' to visit his relations instead of gadding about with dwarves'." But Seth was having difficulty keeping his expression stern as he recited the words of Frodo's Uncle Rory.

Frodo couldn't laugh at that. It danced too close to other issues for comfort -- other issues that were part of the reason he had thrown together a pack and ridden away from Hobbiton yesterday on a whim -- other issues that had occupied his mind on the trip. He forced a smile. "Yes, well, unfair to paint me with that brush, I think."

"Oh, now, young sir, I'd really avoid mentionin' paint or brushes around some folk this visit..."

Frodo looked up from a swipe down Smaug's back, barely restraining an embarrassed snort. "Really? Now, who is still put out about that I wonder?"

"The Missus weren't happy with the mess that artist toff left in his smials, truth be told. Apparently he weren't content with ruining her parlour. Went back and ruined the bedding and rugs in his rooms as well. So artists and paint and all--" Seth waved his hand. "Not real favourable."

Frodo's eyebrows went up as he crouched to quickly check Smaug's hooves. "I'll keep that in mind." Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he stood up to scratch behind the pony's ear and smiled broadly at the mess Smaug was making of his nose. "You are being a pig, boy."

Seth waved him off. "I'll clean his face for ye. Go on in and get dry yerself."

Frodo tossed him the towel and picked up his pack. "I believe I will. Do you happen to know exactly where the young Master is this evening?"

"Well, of late he's been much in the winery. But at this hour--" Seth glanced back at Spark's stall. "Be real good if Spark could get out and test hisself agin your young dragon here." He looked up meaningfully.

"Just what I intend. Thank you Seth!"

The old retainer touched his hat brim respectfully. With a final caress of Smaug's neck, Frodo headed across the courtyard cobbles toward the main entrance.

So, his Uncle Rory was making an issue over Bilbo not visiting since Yule. It was possible that Uncle Rory, always sensitive to Bilbo's moods and leanings, had perceived something amiss. And Frodo wondered what the Brandybuck scion would be willing to do to keep his dear friend and cousin safe in the Shire. If he had any idea--

No. Frodo shook his head. There was no way anyone here would even imagine that the old hobbit -- no matter how hale and healthy he appeared, really might hike off into the wild once more. After all, he was nearly 111 years old!

But Frodo knew too much. He had seen the rapt look on Bilbo's face as he sat in his study and traced a path on an ancient map. He had heard the longing in his cousin's voice as he talked into the wee hours about places like Dorwinion and the Iron Hills. Frodo knew far too much to underestimate the old hobbit.

The Hall doors were shut, but Frodo knew the ever-vigilant staff had noted his arrival. The front door opened soundlessly as he approached.

"Master Frodo!" A familiar weathered face beamed out at him.

"I know, Ned -- the Master and Mistress were not expecting me. It is a spur of the moment visit. I can just sleep in with--"

"No no, the Mistress wouldn't hear of it. The Baggins smial is always ready. Should I take your pack up for you?"

The Baggins smial -- Bilbo's suite of rooms. Only this past Yule had his Aunt added the other connecting bedsmial to Bilbo's designated suite, admitting at last that Frodo was a guest nearly of age and not some returning prodigal tween to be left to his own devices. Of course, even with his own guest room, when a relative needed space, it was Frodo who still ended up on the couch.

But he had never been greeted at the door nor had anyone offered to carry his baggage to his room as if he were a personage of some consequence.

"I-- I suppose." Frodo finally managed, handing over his pack reluctantly. "Do you happen to know where the young Master is?"

"Last I saw him, Master Meriadoc was heading for the winery. Himself is off at Budgeford until Highday and Herself is closeted away with Miz Izzy brewing up some new remedies. The Old Master is rather indisposed, I'm afraid."

Frodo wasn't surprised. The unpredictable spring weather was making even his 'old' hurts ache a bit. His Uncle Rory was undoubtedly laid low considering his battered body. "Thank you Ned. I'll be sure to drop by Uncle Rory's rooms."

"Would you like supper brought up to your smial? The family is not dining formally tonight."

Frodo was sorely tempted to look around and see if Bilbo was standing behind him. The Hall staff had always treated the elder Baggins with great respect. "Uh, no. That's fine. I'll-- I'll scrounge something later."

Ned made an odd clucking noise. "We can't have you scrounging for leftovers in the cellars. The Mistress would have my head. I'll see to it that they bring up a fine cold supper for you. And after your journey a nice hot bath in your room then?"

"I-- All right. Yes, that's--" Frodo was at a loss. What had brought this on? Certainly Izzy had always lavished special care on Frodo, but the rest of the staff had always followed their Mistress' lead and treated him just as they would any other tween fostering in the Hall -- with something between cautious vigilance and benign indifference. "Fine."

"May I take your cloak?"

Frodo managed to recover more quickly this time. "No, thank you. I'll need it if I'm going to retrieve my cousin for supper."

Ned nodded approvingly. "Supper for two then." He headed for the kitchen at a fast clip.

Wonderful. Frodo grimaced and turned on his heel, yanking up his hood against the mist as he headed back out the front door. The one time he wanted to disappear into the warrens of the Hall and be just another tweener relative and, of course, his Aunt had decided to finally acknowledge that he would be coming of age in a few months and tell the staff to treat him like the future Master of Bag End.

She couldn't know--

No. The whole point of coming here was to stop thinking about his future responsibilities for a few days and to remind himself and his cousin what being a tween was all about.

Frodo shook his head and headed toward the flagstone path that angled up and around the hill to the winery, patting the envelope in his jacket pocket for the hundredth time.

It was that innocent missive that had precipitated his sudden decision to visit the Hall. Well, to be honest, Merry's letter and a few things that Bilbo had done in the last few days that had set Frodo's teeth on edge. But the letter was enough to set him packing immediately no matter what had been going on at Bag End.

It wasn't so much what Merry had written, it was what he hadn't mentioned -- nothing of Spark, nothing of Pippin's extended stay a fortnight ago and his thrill at seeing the little wanker gone, nothing of the book that Frodo had sent him, nothing of the long cold winter finally ending -- Merry was always so attuned to the seasons -- nothing but the problems the Hall winery was having this year.

Frodo didn't pretend to have any understanding whatsoever of the vagaries of wine making, but his Uncle Sara's interference in the process during the last harvest had apparently initiated a disaster -- a disaster that Merry now felt he should somehow remedy single-handedly.

The fog had thickened and the lanterns, strung out along the path at intervals, were flickering globes of pale gold barely visible in the mist.

Certainly there had been times when Frodo had had to remind himself that Merry wasn't even a tween yet. His cousin had always been a bit precocious and ahead of himself, and, of course, being a Brandybuck, had grown into his feet rather young.

Frodo grinned, thinking of Merry's lovely golden Brandybuck-- feet. Yes indeed. Brandybucks were just well endowed in every respect.

But Merry was still young and had years before he should be worrying about running the Hall. Yet here he was -- sweating blood over some ruined wine, whilst the real Master was off -- no doubt -- guzzling down their cousin Milo's limited stock.

It was apparent to Frodo that Merry was wasting his tweens -- before he was really a tween -- worrying about Hall business. But certainly Frodo wasn't the only one. His Aunt Esme had to be aware that her only son was shouldering far too many responsibilities at a young age. She was undoubtedly tired of carrying the burden of Hall business alone, especially with Uncle Rory's health failing more and more, but still -- she had been a tween at some point herself. She must know--

With a start, Frodo realized that he had his hands so tightly clenched that he was digging his fingernails into his palms. He shook his hands out in disgust. A great deal of good it would do for him to stalk into the winery obviously tense and out of sorts. The whole point of this trip was to drag Merry away from the business of the Hall and make him forget he was the future Master -- make him remember he was just a tween -- make him remember how to laugh -- shag him senseless if need be.

***

"Gah!" Merry spat futilely, but the taste still lingered in his mouth. He took a gulp of the palate-clearing brew Moro had given him and swirled it in his mouth, spitting it into the grate in disgust.

"An' that's the last un, " Moro intoned sadly. "Like I told you--"

"Bugger all. Every barrel." Merry shook his head. "Every last one."

"Well, I was pretty certain, as I told ya--"

"No, no-- Pah, I cannot get that taste out of my mouth." Merry took another gulp of Moro's brew and leaned to spit it out. "No Master Moro, I just-- I was hoping somehow, some--" Merry waved at the barrels, lurking in the shadowy cellar, then rubbed his neck wearily. "Bugger it all. I don't know what I was hoping for--"

The old winemaker shrugged sadly. "Well, e'en were the Old Mistress still with us, I ken she'd say the Old Magic wouldna change what's in them barrels. I'm right sorry--"

Merry stiffened his spine and drew himself up to his full height, directing what he hoped was his best glare at the old, wizened hobbit. "And if Mother Gilda were here, she would forbid you uttering those words about this fiasco. It was none of your doing, Master Moro."

Merry almost sagged watching the old hobbit's expression at the mention of the Old Mistress. He remembered his grandmother regally presiding over the pressing many years ago when Moro's face was as plump and rosy as the grapes they were crushing. Now the old winemaker's features resembled nothing so much as an ancient raisin and Mother Gilda was long buried -- and sometimes it seemed the very heart of the Hall was buried with her.

"And it were none of yourn neither, if I may be so bold," the old hobbit muttered.

"Well, I suppose standing about staring at them won't change anything. I know we can salvage it somehow, but I can't fathom what magic it is going to take to make that palatable." He nodded toward the barrels.

"Well, more'n one prime vintage come from misbegotten vines, Master Merry. And there is good grape in these -- somewheres."

Merry cringed inwardly, managing to keep his expression bland. Old Moro couldn't know that Merry knew that the staff used that old saying to compliment him -- and denigrate his father. "Well, I know if anyone can find it in there, you can."

"'Sides, those river rats will drink near anything, long as it don't bite em back."

Merry smiled at Moro's rare attempt at humour, then glanced sideways at the glass in his hand, swiping his hand across his mouth.

"We just have to get rid of that bite." Moro grimaced and shoved his cap back on his head. "I'll make sure that Jess sees to the pots, but I don't think we have a worry fer tonight."

Merry nodded as the old wine master shuffled off, the light of his lantern making huge shadows loom and dance among the barrels. Rubbing his hand across his mouth once more, he despaired of erasing the acrid aftertaste.

Whatever Moro managed to do to make the wine palatable would undoubtedly cost them more of their best vintage -- at a time when they were still making up for last year's losses. And his mother's response-- Well, he couldn't fathom the Hall's wines not being available outside of the East Farthing, but that was the discussion that had resulted from her most recent review of the ledger. He cringed at the thought of Grandfather Rory finding out. And that would cascade into a confrontation with his father, which would likely escalate into something else entirely -- and all this only months after the last set-to.

Merry stared at the oak barrel as if somehow he could change the contents into something remotely drinkable. Why did his father have to intervene at the most crucial phase? Why not something less precise at least, like-- like-- Well, there had to be something that could not be fouled beyond redemption! Why did his father keep at it, when he knew -- he had to know that he didn't have the knack for it? It was as if Saradoc Brandybuck somehow cursed everything he touched related to the very heart of the Hall -- these hills that had always been blessed with such bounty.

A sharp pain from his temple made him realize that he was clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. He turned quickly and set his glass down next to all the other used goblets on Moro's worktable -- briefly tempted to toss the whole of them to the stone floor, just for the noise and fury. Breathing deep, he leaned there for a moment, trying to quiet his pounding head, then quickly poured himself a cold glass of water from the pitcher that Moro always had on hand.

He gulped down the sweet well water and wondered how his father could have turned something that sprang from this sweetness into something so bitter? How could Saradoc Brandybuck not just feel the right and wrong of it?

Grimacing, he took another long, slow swig of water. None of them felt it. Not even his grandfather. It had always been his grandmother who had this affinity for Buckland soil. The joke was that Menegilda Gould had fallen in love with the land and accepted Rorimac Brandybuck as part of the bargain. And Merry understood that bargain -- for some part of his being thrummed to the rhythm of life in these hills and was shackled firmly to this fertile soil.

He could not imagine wandering -- like his Uncle Bilbo -- far from this soil, this sky, the steady pulse of these seasons, the constancy of the stars above Buckland.

Tonight, those stars were shrouded in fog, but he could still sense them somehow -- feel them imprinted on his soul. He closed his eyes, remembering how, as a faunt, he had nagged Frodo constantly to take him up on the roof and tell him tales of the stars and constellations that hung in the sky above the Hall -- over and over.

Now it was other stars that lured him -- that gazed back at him from depthless burning blue. Frodo -- who had captivated him and spun him around in some heated dance -- ensnared his heart as thoroughly as Buckland had entangled his soul.

Merry realized that he had uttered some sound, some wordless whisper of need as that familiar frisson of desire stabbed through him. Just thinking of Frodo wound him even tighter, and he was already coiled so tightly that his teeth ached, with no promise of release except that provided by his own frenzied fingers in the dark hours of the night.

Oh this was delightful. He realized -- a bit painfully -- just how tight his old work breeches were. Hildy was right. He needed to consign these to the "hand me down" pile for some poor unsuspecting cousin and hope, at some point, he would stop growing like some-- some pre-tween.

Rubbing his eyes to avoid rubbing other parts of his anatomy, he stalked down the walkway in front of the barrels. That train of thought wasn't helping at all. He needed to move, to do something or-- or-- something.

He walked back toward the lantern and the worktable. Perhaps a ride -- tomorrow -- wild and fast and far from these cool cellars of endless shadows and acrid scents. Perhaps that would clear his head and cleanse this clammy tang from his nose. Sun on his face and wind in his hair, whipping in his clothes. And certainly Spark needed to stretch. Yes. A ride tomorrow. The solution to all this would come to him there, in the warmth of the Buckland sun. A good night's sleep and then he would ride in the morning. A good night's sleep.

"Hmmmpf!" He turned and walked back down the row of barrels toward the shadows. Falling into bed exhausted didn't even help. He lay there and worried about his mother, who was stretching herself far too thin as Mistress and Master both -- and his grandda, whose health and mental state was just getting worse and worse -- and his da -- oh, his da -- alternately pitiable and infuriating.

For a while, after Frodo's last visit, they had all stopped treating him like a clueless faunt or a hired hand and started listening to his opinions and ideas. But then something had happened to set them at each other's throats again, and--

Would they pay attention if he were old enough -- like Frodo -- to claim his due? Would they listen if he could step forward as the true Master of the Hall now and just stop it all -- the bickering, his father's drinking, his mother's resentment, his grandfather's meddling -- all of it? Would they?

He stopped at the worktable and picked up his glass once more, desperately wanting to break something, hit something, do something. The lantern sitting below him on the stone tiles hissed in the dampness and the gold light sputtered and danced. Merry gazed down the row of barrels that should have tasted of the sweetness of Buckland sun and soil and water -- but instead tasted as bitter as wormwood.

"Bugger all of 'em!"

He threw the glass at the nearest barrel just as Frodo stepped into the lantern light and smirked at him. The smirk only flickered for a moment when the glass shattered loudly into shards.

"Well, I-- insist on being first in line to be buggered."

Merry blinked at the apparition wavering in the gold light of the lantern. This was much worse than he thought. The blasted swill made you see things!

***

Frodo watched in dismay as Merry blinked at him. He stood there, swaying slightly, in ill-fitting work breeches with his shirt untucked. Winter always left his normally sun-kissed cousin a bit pale, but Merry looked like some haggard night creature disturbed while pilfering in the cool cellar -- wild-eyed and breathing hard.

Casually running his fingers through his hair and pushing his cloak back off his arms, Frodo glanced at what was left of the glass. Likely Merry had been sampling that misbegotten wine yet again, hoping that somehow it had magically transformed in the barrel -- and apparently it had not.

He looked pointedly at the offending barrel then back at Merry. "May I join in or do you prefer that I just watch and keep score?"

Merry stood there stiffly, his jaw working furiously. The familiar tic was oddly reassuring and somehow endearing, despite the obvious inner turmoil it revealed.

"Why are you here?" Merry muttered stiffly. "Did you come to rescue me again?"

Frodo took a deep breath. If there was one thing he knew from long experience, words never worked well with Merry, especially when he was in this state.

"No. In fact, I came for this."

Moving swiftly, before Merry could react, he pushed him back against one of the posts supporting the workbench. By the time Merry kenned what was happening, Frodo had one hand around the back of his neck and the other around the post, holding firmly. For a moment, Merry went stiff with shock, then his mouth opened in angry protest and Frodo crushed it against his own, capturing Merry's tongue and sucking hard.

Teeth clicked and there was a sharp sting -- someone's lip would be swollen later -- then some strange acrid taste that was undoubtedly the ruined wine, but beneath it a hint of that wonderful, indefinable taste that was Merry.

The hard, heated body pressed against him, knee to neck, was quite familiar though -- along with the strong fingers that were suddenly digging into his shoulders. It was hard to tell if they were pulling or pushing away, but Frodo turned his head, dug in his toes, and sucked again.

Merry growled, pushing back and grinding something decidedly firm, hot, and familiar against Frodo's hipbone. Effervescent warmth spread up Frodo's spine and he shivered. But he knew better than to think he had the upper hand -- yet, or ever. Keeping his grip on the post, Frodo planted his feet and shifted again only to find himself hung -- something in his clothing was stuck on something in Merry's, and it decidedly wasn't the one thing that he would like to be stuck on.

Frodo grunted, tugging with his hips to no avail, then nearly forgot what he was trying to do when Merry grabbed his face with both hands and pulled loose, only to dive back in and, with another painful smack of teeth and jaw, kiss him furiously -- nipping and biting at his mouth. Oh yes, definitely swollen and decidedly purple, no doubt, but oh--.

Frodo's knees nearly buckled when Merry's tongue raked across his lips then plunged in greedily, drinking Frodo down as if parched. Frodo managed to stay standing, but he would have to do something drastic to stay on top of this particular contest. Rocking backwards, he found himself still firmly hung up in some part of Merry's breeches by a button.

"Nggguh."

Of course, Merry mistook Frodo's frustration for enthusiastic participation, and leaned in to nip -- hard -- at that particular spot on the tendon in Frodo's neck that Merry knew could make his cousin's eyes roll back in his head and his knees go weak.

Frodo managed to keep his feet -- barely -- but he closed his eyes for a moment to get his bearings. Was he trying to win or lose? He couldn't remember--

Then Merry rocked backward and something snapped loose, pinging into a barrel beyond them -- undoubtedly the wayward button because Frodo felt one of his braces slither upward and Merry was suddenly free to thrust--

"Unnngh."

For a moment Frodo saw stars. What was it he had been trying to remember exactly? He opened his mouth to ask Merry, and found the words swallowed in another devastating kiss.

There was a splinter in his finger. Some part of Frodo frowned at the fact that he was suddenly pinned with his back to the post and Merry's hands on his hips. Oh yes, of course, the bugger would still be growing like some typical muscle-bound Brandybuck. Blast it all. Well, Baggins brains could best Brandybuck brawn, right? Then that hardened body rocked against him once more and he was distracted -- might other things have increased in size as well? And, by the stars, it was hot in here, wasn't it?

Frodo opened his eyes, not remembering when he had closed them.

Why had he thought Merry was pale? The face he held in his hands was flushed and -- well -- beautiful. Tendrils of gold hair matted to those chiselled features, mouth open and panting, eyes unfocused -- no -- focused now on Frodo's. A smile touched those eyes with warmth for just a moment -- then just as swiftly something predatory flashed in them as Merry buried his face in Frodo's neck, licking and biting. And those blasted nimble fingers were making short work of his remaining breeches' buttons while Frodo shuddered in response.

"Frodo," it was a barely heard whisper just below his ear. "Frodo --

Frodo."

Ah yes, that was his name, he remembered briefly. Until those nimble fingers slid into his breeches and he forgot it again.

Heated fingers curled around him and pulled -- hard -- just as those teeth found his neck again.

"Gah!" The stars were back. He blinked, trying to remember-- Oh yes, he had the advantage. His hands were free and Merry's were busy-- oh yes, bus-- y--

Desperately Frodo groped for the buttons, but there were these huge great Brandybuck arms in the way and for a moment he flailed at soft worn wool, unable to see. Then he remembered -- untucked-- the shirt was untucked. He dove down and shoved up, tangling with Merry's arms as he did. Now this was familiar territory. He slid his fingers firmly across the silky hot skin beneath, unerringly finding hardened nipples and pinching. Victory!

Merry yelped and threw his head back in response, barely missing Frodo's nose, and the resulting twist of Merry's fingers nearly made Frodo crawl up the post, splinters or no. He nearly-- nearly, mind you-- whimpered as he felt his breeches slide inexorably down to pool uselessly around his feet. He pinched the flesh beneath his fingers harder, but that nearly cost him an eye when something smacked into his face and his neck hard, stinging like fire -- several somethings. Merry's buttons had popped off as Merry pulled away from his fingers.

And -- oh yes -- that old shirt gaped open to reveal Merry's chest, lightly furred with gold and slick with sweat, rippling as he gulped in air. Frodo swallowed hard -- he could feel the heat rolling off Merry's skin and his fingers ached to touch and follow that trail of fur downward to where it disappeared. Then he looked up and saw the expression on Merry's face -- fierce and possessive -- and he was lost.

Before Frodo could even twitch, Merry's closed his hands around his wrists, pushing them against the post above his head and leaning forward to bury his face into Frodo's hair, breathing deep.

"Desperate for it aren't you?" Came the throaty growl. "Tearing off my clothes like that."

Frodo stiffened -- well, the parts of him that weren't already painfully stiff. Insufferable prat. He would not whimper or beg.

Then there was a long slow swipe of tongue beneath his ear. All this heat in here could not be good for the wine, could it?

"Mer--" It wasn't a whimper. More of a demand. Yes, definitely a demand. "Merry!"

"Shut it." Merry drawled, freeing one hand to undo his own breeches.

Frodo felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple, sizzling as it went, but it was nothing compared to the conflagration building in his belly as he watched those fingers casually undo buttons, then looked up to find that dark molten gaze on him and listen to the slow slide of heavy cloth down slick skin to the floor.

Those same fingers were on his buttons, undoing his shirt, one handed, until it hung open, the edges brushing his chest while hot fingers brushed across his nipples. He could see the flicker of the lantern's flame in Merry's dark eyes. He closed his, unable to withstand that heated gaze any longer. A fire down here would not be good for the wine either--

There was a creak of old wood and Frodo anxiously looked up at the post, then he heard the rattle of a drawer in the workbench opening and realized that Merry was reaching with one hand to rummage inside the drawer while still holding his wrists in place.

"S-- salve," Merry growled in explanation.

Frodo's vision went a bit sparkly around the edges for a moment and he had to bite his lip hard not to make some needy noise out loud. He finally managed a shaky breath and shook himself.

"I--" he croaked. "Not leaving, love."

The heat in Merry's gaze shimmered between them for a moment, then he released Frodo's wrists, and grappled quickly in the drawer.

Frodo fumbled with the buttons on his heavy cloak, dropping it to the floor along with his jacket as he surveyed the post above him once more. There was a sturdy metal hook protruding from the front of it, just within his reach. Then Merry was standing in front of him, breathing hard, his fingers full of some kind of slick yellow unguent.

He was beautiful, standing there in his shirttail and nothing else -- all shimmering shadows and heated skin in the lantern light -- literally shaking with need. There was a very brief moment when Merry realized he was really rather helpless, with all that salve on his hands. Then Frodo leaned in and ploughed his fingers into that thick gold hair, pulling Merry's face forward. And a groan vibrated against his mouth as he kissed Merry fiercely.

Merry's legs were quaking, his entire body thrumming with tension as Frodo slowly ran his fingers down that chiseled jaw, tracing the rigid tendon of his neck, then skating across muscles slick with sweat into that sparse gold hair -- hair that Frodo loved to tug and tease as his fingers followed it downward.

"Frodo--" Merry gritted out, "don't--" But Frodo only smiled as he finally took Merry firmly in hand -- and twisted.

"Payback," Frodo whispered, as Merry's eyes rolled closed and Merry clearly whimpered -- something Frodo filed away for later blackmail purposes.

For a moment -- only a moment -- Frodo considered pushing Merry into the post and making him hang onto the hook and reaming him within an inch of his life. But then again -- well, Merry's fingers were slick -- and parts of Frodo were twitching rather enthusiastically just at the thought of getting drilled into that post by Merry. He shivered in expectation.

But-- he could just dump Merry onto the pile of clothing bunched around their legs and drive him into the stone floor until they both saw stars.

He took a long look at Merry's face and then twined one leg around Merry's thighs, reaching over his head for the hook.

When he felt Frodo's leg press into the back of his thighs, Merry's eyes flew open and he made a strange wheezing noise as he spotted what Frodo was holding onto above his head. Merry staggered as he stepped forward, making Frodo wonder if he would stay on his feet.

Then Merry leaned over and slowly licked Frodo's chest, sliding one slick hand around and under his lifted hip, and Frodo wondered if he would manage to stay on his feet -- foot -- and keep his hands on the hook. There was a painful-pleasurable tug at one nipple and Frodo closed his eyes as Merry's tongue slid up along the edge of his shirt and lapped at the sweat pooled in the hollow of his neck. Bad idea. He should have just thrown Merry on the floor when he had the ch-- "Nggghh!" One slick hand slipped down around everything in the front and squeezed lightly while the other investigated his very exposed hindquarters with rather too much familiarity -- a single finger teasing him in a way that drove the air from his lungs with a whining sound.

Illustration by Wyna Hiros

"I'm going to pound you into that post and leave you hanging there," Merry growled into his neck, the sound and feel of his words making Frodo's skin hum.

Determined not to lose the upper hand -- who was on top here -- well at least higher up anyway? Frodo pushed up on his foot and undulated just so, grinding his body forward and feeling something decidedly hard and slick slide up his rump, right into position.

"Ggghh!" Merry ground out.

"Then we'll both be hanging here, cousin, only you'll be hanging by your--"

"Oh, just shut it!" Merry's leaned up a bit to devour Frodo's mouth with his own, all teeth and tongue and fierce suction. And Frodo almost let go of the hook just to grab onto that face and hold Merry still until he had drunk his fill.

Then he was nearly clambering up the post as a finger sank into him, but Merry had a firm hold on -- rather tender parts -- and all Frodo could do was hang there and vibrate, making sputtering noises into Merry's mouth while another finger, and then a third, joined the first. Then all the lovely sensations stopped and Frodo realized that Merry had ceased tormenting his parts and was busily slicking his own. Frodo's vision did that sparkly thing again and his heel drummed into Merry's thigh.

"Now," Frodo whispered. "Nownownow."

He felt Merry's thighs flex beneath him and nearly wailed aloud as searing heat filled him slowly -- stretching and burning from his toes to his hair -- filled him until he felt the rasp of coarse gold fur against sensitized skin.

For a moment they were completely still, Merry's gasping breaths puffing against the skin of Frodo's neck, sweat dripping off Frodo's face onto Merry's shoulders. Then Merry slipped both hands under Frodo's hips and Frodo lifted his other foot around Merry's back and pulled himself up.

"Yessss," Merry agreed, then effortlessly matched Frodo's speed, breath huffing out with each flex of thigh and slap of skin against skin, a rhythmic counterpoint to the slow hot swirl of sensation that spiralled up from Frodo's belly. He was vaguely aware of the strain in his arms as muscle bunched and pulled and Merry filled him again and again.

The rhythm stuttered then stopped and Frodo felt suddenly empty, groaning when his arms burned with too much weight. He opened his eyes, not remembering exactly when he had closed them, to find Merry arched back with an agonized look on his face, eyes shut, breathing hard -- but not moving!

Frodo was quivering uncontrollably, dangling on the edge of that spiral. "Merry?" He dug his heels into Merry's thighs, pulled up, and undulated in a long slow wave, with no response. "Merry? Please."

Merry opened his eyes and grinned.

"Meriadoc Brandyb-- " He began, then Merry shoved upward and Frodo's head bounced on the post "--uck!" He closed his eyes and just groaned as Merry thrust up again and again, faster and faster.

And Frodo was lost in the spiral of heat that swirled upward now without stopping -- nothing could stop this inferno -- building and whirling wildly, throwing off sparks as it grew. He heard his own voice -- strained and hoarse -- threatening some retribution on Merry's head if he didn't move faster, and Merry's voice chanting his name, like some curse or benediction, as he was caught up in the same wild fire --

"Frodofrodofrodo--"

Then Merry wasn't managing Frodo's name any longer -- just a wordless string of noise that told him Merry was close, so close, so close. And when slick fingers slipped between their grinding bodies, encircling him in a practiced grip, Frodo could only howl mindlessly. Then he was thrusting and thrusting, wild and helpless in that grasp, as the hot surge flooded through him and around him and out of him, and he spasmed uncontrollably on and on, then hung there shivering and rocking as Merry pounded into him -- over and over.

"Yes -- yes -- yes!" And Merry went rigid, his back bowing upward as he wailed and shuddered, both hands digging so deeply into Frodo's backside that Frodo knew the handprints would be there tomorrow. Then Merry was grunting and gasping and stroking reflexively, again and again and again, slowing gradually and finally wringing a last sigh and shiver from Frodo as he came to a shuddering stop, his legs quaking beneath him.

Frodo moaned as Merry slid out of him and just barely managed to untangle his legs from around his cousin before Merry went to his knees, breathing hard. Frodo's own legs had gone numb and he only managed to hang on long enough for Merry to collapse sideways -- luckily onto a pile of clothing and not the cold stone floor. When Frodo finally let go of the hook, he melted into an equally boneless pile half on top of Merry.

There was something about a thorough shagging that made all the aches and bruises suddenly fade away -- at least for the moment.

***

For a long while the only things Merry could hear were harsh breathing and his own heart pounding in his ears, then he became aware of Frodo's heart beating somewhere on top of him, then gradually the breathing slowed and softened. And Merry heard the distant drip of water in some other part of the cellar and the scurry of tiny feet. A squeak and a rustle told him they had startled some furry denizen unaccustomed to finding half-naked gentlehobbits in its path.

Half-naked, sticky, sweaty, and likely quite smelly, gentlehobbits. He smiled drowsily, listening to Frodo's gentle snore just beneath his chin. Merry felt warm and tingly all the way to his toes. Even his hair felt relaxed. But, he knew they couldn't sleep here. Blasted floor was too hard and too cold and-- and there was broken glass about, thanks to--

Well, leave it to him to toss a goblet at his cousin then slam him into a post and bugger him senseless without even saying hello. Wonderful. And he vaguely remembered saying something rather caustic as well.

Blast him for a half-witted fool. He managed to prop open one eye and reassured himself that they hadn't kicked over the lantern in all the excitement. Then he looked down at the sable curls just below his chin, and the roseate tip of one ear, and just a bit of freckled dusted cheek curving away from him. Leaning over, he breathed in deep of that hair -- the smell of pony and open road and a touch of cinnamon and juniper -- and warm, thoroughly shagged hobbit.

"If I smell like you," came a muffled voice, "we both need a bath."

There was an insult buried in there somewhere, but Merry didn't care in the least. "Well, you smell--" he hesitated for only a moment, trying to choose his words carefully for once. "Delicious."

He stomach growled right on cue, and Frodo was chuckling as he pushed himself up, blinking sleepily in the lantern light. One half of his face bore the distinct impression of Merry's wrinkled old shirt.

"This from someone who could likely eat a side of beef and still be starving. You are still growing, you gargantuan Brandybuck!"

Merry squirmed uncomfortably and felt something ache, in a vaguely satisfied way. He grinned. "Well, some parts of me are."

Frodo's eyes did that smoky hot thing for a moment and then his gaze raked Merry's form in a way that made that satisfied part of Merry twitch. "Indeed."

Merry found himself wondering how tired Frodo really was from his trip. He licked his lips and realized he could still taste Frodo. The cellar floor really wasn't that bad--

"Feed me first." Frodo's voice interrupted his reverie and Merry realized he had been staring rather pointedly into the shadows beneath Frodo's shirttail.

He blinked and looked up at the very self-satisfied smirk on Frodo's face, feeling himself blush. Blast it all, he really was suddenly, some-- some pre-tween with no more sense than a piece of wood! And with enough wood in his breeches to supply the Hall for the winter!

"Food. Some good wine. A nice hot bath. Then we will see what comes up. But this time, a nice soft bed please," Frodo said, rubbing at his back. "Old. Coming of age this year. O-l-d." He repeated in a creaky voice as he attempted to sit further up.

Merry snorted and grinned. Frodo always made things -- better somehow. And it wasn't just the sex, although that was unbelievable. It was something else.

"You'll never be old. And I-- I apologize for nearly hitting you with that glass."

Frodo's eyebrows rose as he turned to look back at Merry for a long moment. "Well, luckily you weren't aiming at me. Apology accepted," he said solemnly, then looked around. "Now, where are my blasted breeches? I may not be growing still, but I am starved."

Merry spotted them half under Frodo's cloak. "There."

Frodo stood up and Merry managed not to spend too much time looking at Frodo's legs and his fine arse and-- other things as Frodo clambered into his clothes, a bit stiffly.

"If I don't get a nice long soak, I am going to regret all this loveliness in the morning," Frodo groused.

Merry managed to get to his feet in time to appreciate the fine view as Frodo leaned over to tug on his breeches' legs.

Frodo suddenly leered at Merry under his arm. "You have a fine arse yourself."

Merry leered back. "But yours is so nicely aged."

Frodo made some derisive noise and Merry turned around to apply himself to getting dressed, but realized his shirt was a lost cause. All the buttons were gone and two had left rips in the cloth that likely couldn't be mended. Well, it had been a bit snug across the shoulders.

"Is there a broom about?" Frodo asked. "I'd like to look for my button, but I don't want to risk my toes. Ah, there it is."

'It' was not the missing button, but a broom Moro had propped next to his worktable and soon there was the sound of broken glass being diligently swept into a pile.

"And there is my-- no, that's one of your buttons. Where is mine? Blast."

Merry turned to see Frodo's now wool-clad arse nicely displayed as he peered to and fro beneath the barrels.

"Was it gold?"

Frodo looked up, his face flushed, holding out one of Merry's shirt buttons. "No. No, not-- well, not extremely valuable. Just a matching set of brass that I -- that Bilbo gave to me a long time ago."

"Well, I'll tell Moro and Jess to keep an eye out for it." Merry took the button and spotted another of his on top of the workbench. They seemed to have flown all over the cellar. "It will turn up."

Frodo was pulling up his braces as he gazed at the barrels. "So, is this the dreadful brew?"

Merry's stomach sank. He really would have liked to spend the rest of the evening thinking of something besides the wine.

"May I taste?" Frodo turned to pick up his jacket, shaking it out and pulling it on.

"Oh, I-- I don't think-- It's--" Merry gave up. He couldn't mince words. "Frodo, it tastes like piss."

Frodo brushed at his jacket then ran his fingers through his hair quickly and turned, a horrified look on his face. "You've tasted piss? No. Don't tell me. I assume it was Pippin's doing." Then he smirked.

Merry snorted. "Well, as a matter of fact--"

Frodo held up his hand imperiously. "I told you not to tell me. The little wanker has spent far too much time in our pantries. I don't want to think about what Bilbo and I might be eating or drinking even now."

Merry found himself grinning.

"So, can I try this awful stuff?"

Merry sighed, but he found he was still smiling. He retrieved a glass from the worktable and pointed to the five bottles lined up across the back of the surface. "Pick one. They are all equally bad."

Frodo smiled and grabbed a bottle, pouring it into the glass Merry held out then held it up to the light from the lantern.

Merry watched Frodo with wonder -- his hair was dishevelled and his shirt wrinkled beyond redemption -- and his mouth was swollen and discoloured. Merry leaned forward to take a closer look and frowned -- likely Merry would catch it hot for that bruise later. But despite all that, Frodo could stand just that way and cant his head just so and manage to look every bit a gentlehobbit, sipping at the wine as if he were standing in the Hall's best parlour. And all this after having been thoroughly shagged against a post.

Frodo pulled a face and coughed. "Oh. Well-- That is rather-- uh, dry isn't it? Has a bit of a-- what is that taste?" He held the glass out before him as if it were full of -- well -- piss and blinked. "My eyes are watering."

"Fortified wine. It's made a special way to keep better on long river voyages or -- even on the sea they say, although I don't think any Hall vintage is carried on those ships."

Frodo coughed again. "So, isn't there anything you can put in it to make it -- well, palatable?"

"In it? Like other wine?"

Frodo shrugged. "I suppose." Merry remembered that his cousin had always been more interested in the end product than in what happened after the hard work of harvesting and enthusiastic stomping of the grapes.

"Well, that is what fortification is -- a strong spirit mixed with the wine at just the right moment." And of course, the Master had made them wait far beyond the proper time.

"So, the right moment was missed this time?"

Merry cringed. "Yes."

"I see." Frodo smacked his lips. "Tastes like some of the Widow's healing brews. I imagine it has some healing properties--"

"Oh, I think they use it for a bit of everything onboard ship."

"Surely all that--" Frodo motioned at the barrels "--won't go to waste? Is it salvageable somehow?"

Merry sighed. "Well, likely we will have to blend in something else -- some of our brandy -- to improve it." He stared at the barrels, calculating how much it would take. "Quite a lot, I expect."

Frodo's eyebrows went up. "Bilbo won't be happy to hear that. Means less for him." He grinned, but became suddenly solemn when Merry couldn't find it in him to smile in return.

"Less for everyone, actually." Merry thought about all the effort that went into producing the Hall's brandy -- all those grapes -- the soil, the rain, the time and love that went into every barrel.

"I see." Frodo looked at the wine again. "Too bad. When the Widow's brews taste this horrid, we just mix honey in them until they are decent -- much less dear than Hall brandy. Just last month I even tried some of Izzy's caramel sauce in one, it was so horrid. Bilbo even puts spice into them to make them palatable -- Merry?"

Merry realized that his hand was clamped on Frodo's arm a bit too tightly.

"Merry?"

"You put spice into what?"

"The Widow Brumble's medicinal brews. They taste somewhat like this." Frodo nodded at the glass then frowned at him. "What are you on about love?"

They had never adulterated their wines with anything but other spirits before. It was unheard of, really. But--

"We thought about putting sweet reserved juice in, but it would take so much that it wouldn't be strong enough to keep. And the brandy is -- well, this year we may have enough for our usual customers." Merry's mind whirled from 'no, it just isn't done' to 'it just might work' and back again.

"What might work?" Frodo blinked at him.

He must've been thinking out loud.

"Putting something besides brandy in the wine." Merry reiterated. Honestly. Was Frodo listening?

"You-- Are you serious?"

"Mmmmm."

Merry was trying desperately to think. What would work? What colour would the wine be with the additive? Would it affect the durability? Should they tell his Grandfather or just try it? It couldn't be any worse than wasting good brandy certainly--

"Merry!" Frodo was snapping his fingers in Merry's face.

"What?"

"I said, I have some of Izzy's caramel sauce in my pack. Perhaps we should give it a try." Frodo grabbed his cloak off the floor. "It appears that I won't get a decent bath or a meal or--" he gave Merry that look, "anything else -- until we do."

Frodo was carrying around caramel sauce in his pack? "You brought caramel sauce with you? From Hobbiton?"

"Well, I made it myself. From Izzy's recipe. I wanted to show her." Frodo said proudly, shaking out his cloak. "And I was planning on doing some -- finger painting later." There was another look.

Something ached, then twitched. "Finger--" And Merry felt a slow hot wave curling up from his toes. "Oh."

"Yes. And finger sucking as well. Caramel is good for that. Remember?" Frodo smiled innocently as he pulled on his cloak.

How did Frodo do it? How did he manage to look so proper while his mouth -- his very swollen and decidedly gorgeous mouth -- wrapped around words like 'suck'?

"Nguh huh." Merry agreed, nodding and thinking again about how very tight his old breeches were.

"But let's go up to my rooms and experiment with the caramel sauce."

Frodo picked up a bottle of wine in each hand and turned to catch Merry off guard -- still thinking about what experimenting meant -- with his mouth hanging slightly open. He smiled that silky, warm smile that sent tendrils of heat up Merry's spine. "On the wine." Then he looked Merry up and down. "Do you have a jacket, love? It is rather damp out there."

Merry blinked, then cleared his throat and looked around for his jacket, grabbing it and pulling it on quickly.

"Of course I can always bribe Izzy into making more if we need it--" There was that look again. "--for anything else."

Merry forgot what he was doing for a moment, then he stumbled after Frodo, barely remembering to grab the lantern on his way out of the cellar.

***

Heavenly -- hot hot water, the lovely pungent smell of juniper in the steam wafting up from the surface, the soft crackle of the fire, a nice mug of the best Hall ale to hand. No tenants at the door, no accounts out of balance, no disputes to settle, no worries about drought or flood -- no dear old cousin acting secretive and strange. Frodo took another drink and leaned back into the water. Nothing to worry about.

There was a slight noise from across the room and Frodo lifted one eyelid to ponder the lovely shape of his cousin -- thoroughly debauched and mussed -- leaning over a table laden with food. Frodo sighed and closed his eyes once more. Well, nothing to worry about except one very twitchy tween cousin who needed to be reminded that he was a tween.

After a good hot soak and some of Izzy's cooking, he might be able to deal with all that twitching. Quite able in fact -- and parts of him were quite agreeable to the idea. But there was no real need to let Merry know that he was almost as twitchy himself.

He smiled a rather smug smile. Oh yes, he could play the "old, achy, coming-of-age cousin" card when it served him. And it had served to put Merry off -- for a little while anyway. Of course, Frodo had promised Merry that he could do anything he liked, once they both had a hot bath, some good food, and were in a nice soft bed -- lovely thought. He took a long swig of the ale and set the empty mug back on the floor.

Hopefully Smaug was equally snug and warm with a comfortably full stomach in the stables. Likely his feisty pony would be eager for a run in the morning. And he and Merry could sneak down to the kitchens and load up on all manner of food and be gone for a jaunt and a picnic before anyone else was about -- that is, assuming he could pry Merry away from Hall business.

He peeked again to find Merry examining the bottle of caramel sauce. The sight made a few things perk up in happy anticipation. It was quite lovely to have a suite of rooms so far removed from the Master's -- especially when he had expected to camp out in Merry's rooms. Although quite spacious and well-appointed, Merry's smial had always been just a trifle too close to his Aunt and Uncle for comfort. Perhaps there was something to be said for coming of age after all.

Closing his eyes and leaning back into the wonderful soothing heat, Frodo thought he might even be able to doze. And for a long while there was no sound except the snap and sizzle of the logs in the fireplace, then he noticed some rather loud and contented eating noises from Merry. He suspected the wretch was just trying to make him suffer. Oh well -- his stomach was hinting at neglect, despite a full mug of ale.

"Are you over there eating up all the food, dear cousin? Before your poor starved relation has even a chance at table?" he complained loudly. "Come feed me something. Some scrap of food from your groaning board, for I am famished."

"Hmmmpf. You sound like one of those ancient books you send me. All fancy language and folderol."

Frodo grinned at that. Merry had recently revealed a taste for old tales of the Shire. Frodo made a point of searching out histories as well as fables, knowing sometimes, as Bilbo often pointed out, there was more truth in the myth. He allowed himself to sink beneath the surface for a nice long, leisurely, hot rinse.

There was absolutely no sound beneath the water. It was wonderfully peaceful and quiet, except for the reassuring beat of his heart.

"Why do you do that?" Merry was leaning over the edge of the tub as Frodo resurfaced and blinked at him through sopping hair. There was a nice plateful of food held safely beyond the water's reach.

Frodo closed his eyes and reached out, but a warm towel was thrust into his hands rather than the plate that he expected. "Do what?"

"Stay down there so long."

"You know, Merry. I've told you before."

"Tell me again."

Frodo stood up and let the water sluice off him. "Well, it's just you and the water and nothing else. No sound, no sensation. It is like being cradled in something warm and soothing and--"

"Mmmm, yes, I imagine so." Frodo looked down to find Merry, as expected, easily distracted by things that were suddenly at eye level.

Grinning and rubbing at his hair roughly, Frodo stepped out of the tub and briskly wiped himself down before wrapping up in the towel. He leaned toward Merry, rising from his crouch by the tub, and sniffed carefully -- first at the plate, then at his cousin -- snatching the plate quickly. "Give me my food and get in there while the water is at least still warm. You stink."

"I beg your pardon." Merry folded his arms.

"You smell like--" Frodo sniffed delicately at the air. "Hmmm. Damp and-- Mildew and-- Some kind of medicinal salve and--" He sniffed again, leaning as close as he could get without burying his nose into that wonderful golden mane of hair.

Merry's eyes fluttered shut for a moment and his arms dropped to his sides as he swayed slightly. Frodo was tempted, briefly, to drop the plate and sink his fingers into that hair -- but no, he had to remain stoic. Soft bed -- soft, warm bed -- bed, bed, bed. He stepped back.

"Yes, definitely -- you smell like you have been thoroughly shagged by a fine young gentlehobbit -- in a -- vat of wine?"

Merry huffed, offended, and started peeling off his ruined shirt.

Frodo stepped back and bit into a lovely piece of cold chicken from his plate, watching with admiration as Merry stripped off his breeches. "Mmmmpf. Wonderful." Frodo managed between bites, waggling his eyebrows when Merry glanced at him.

Merry tried to look indignant, but failed miserably when his removed breeches revealed that he was not quite as disinterested as he was attempting to appear. Then he stepped into the water and appeared to lose interest in everything except shifting from foot to foot quickly.

"Blast! Why do I always forget that you don't so much bathe as boil?" He finally stood still in complete defeat, shuddering. "Warm my arse!"

"Yes. I do plan to. Later." Frodo said with his best growl. Then he smirked as some parts of Merry twitched in response before he sank warily down into the water.

"Ow. And you think this is soothing," Merry complained.

"Merry love, your skin is just sensitive." Frodo purred. "It is one of the things I find so delightful about you."

"Mmmpf," Merry muttered, then leaned back and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "Nice smell though."

Frodo smiled. The juniper oil always had a certain -- effect on Merry. He had better eat as quickly as possible to rebuild his strength.

Looking down at his plate, he rejoiced that there was nothing quite like Brandy Hall's board, even cold. Another piece of chicken. A nice pile of cold shaved ham. Three plump boiled eggs. A lovely hunk of bread, buttered thickly. And a rather scandalous looking pickle. He grinned and picked up an egg, biting into it with relish, watching as Merry settled even further into the water.

Merry's colour was much better than when Frodo had first seen him in the winery. Clearly, he wasn't the lovely golden creature of the Buckland summer, but his cheeks were no longer pale and Frodo took that as a good sign. Tomorrow -- and the day after and the day after that, if need be, they would both ride in the sun and get some real colour back in Merry's face.

He finished off the plate quickly and wandered back over to the table, keeping a wary eye on Merry, who was still soaking quietly -- which made Frodo even more wary. But before he loaded up his plate once more, he looked around for the robes he had found in the press. Spotting them draped over one of the armchairs, he pulled one on, dropping the damp towel to the floor, then approached the table, rubbing his hands together, unsure of what to sample next.

Finally, with a plate full of more chicken, more ham, some of Izzy's lovely pear conserve slathered thickly on another piece of bread, and another mug full of the Hall's marvelous ale, he turned to find Merry finally attempting to wash. Not much could distract him from that view, but he noticed pale light slanting in the windows and wandered in that direction. Undoubtedly the moon was out. He prepared to complain loudly and acidly about the weather waiting until he was safely indoors to clear.

But the sharp comment died on his lips as he glanced out -- moonlight bathed the countryside in a pale radiance, with the remaining fog forming great lakes of silver between the hills. The path of the Brandywine was a luminous cloud wandering through dark shadowy hills into the distance. He managed the latch with an elbow and nudged the window open, leaning out and breathing deep of the moist air. Soft tendrils of fog drifted up from the river, catching in the bare black limbs of trees and slowly meandering into the hills, some so close they left visible trails of moisture on the roof. The air was heavy with the rich promise of spring.

Manoeuvring onto the deep ledge with plate and mug was second nature to him -- made so by much practice over many years. He smiled, remembering all the crockery that had been sacrificed to the courtyard cobblestones below -- and the near misses that had sometimes resulted in a tongue-lashing or a sore backside. He had never managed to really hit anyone -- well, not with anything that would do permanent damage. He smiled at the memory.

Viewed from the Hall windows, the landscape of Buckland had always seemed so dramatically alluring in his eyes -- green and dark and exotic -- often tortured and temperamental, but nonetheless fascinating. No doubt it was a notion shaped by the dark, brooding presence of the Old Forest -- at a time when he had been thoroughly inclined to brood darkly himself.

He leaned back into the window ledge with a sigh, setting his mug in a niche in the frame and using the thick folds of the robe to cradle the plate on his thighs. The robe was one of Bilbo's -- the old clotheshorse practically had an entire wardrobe here 'just in case' -- and the thick rich fabric had that distinctive smell that was Bilbo -- Old Toby and lavender, with just a hint of something else. A hint of home. It smelled of Bag End.

The view from Bag End's windows was so very different from this one. The verdant green and yellow that flowed over the hills around Hobbiton were like an eternally cheerful quilt, compared to the sombre shadowed velvet beyond the Hall's windows. Even the quality of light seemed different. The heart of the Shire had always felt somehow more luminous to him -- as if Hobbiton dwelt closer to the sun and Buckland bordered on shadow.

The inhabitants of Hobbiton were somewhat the same -- straightforward and simple, and sometimes stubbornly backward as well, while the folk of Buckland seemed more complex and subtle -- more aware, more wary. Then again, much about Buckland was golden and radiant -- he glanced over at Merry, busily scrubbing at his hair -- but in the main, there seemed to be a difference. He had discussed the contrast with Bilbo many times.

And Bilbo did love the denizens of Hobbiton. Oh yes, he grumbled about their provincial attitudes and bridled at their judgmental nature, but he did love his land and his folk, and despite Bilbo being labelled that 'queer, mad Baggins' by some of those same folk, the feeling seemed mutual -- in a strange way. Those who actually lived on Bilbo's land respected him, not just because they were his tenants, but also because he was a good Master.

Frodo had realized long ago that it was the practical Baggins side that had singled him out and trained him up quite nicely to serve. Nothing had ever been an accident in Bilbo's world -- well, except for Gandalf, and a few dwarfs, and a dragon. Bilbo wanted a Baggins in Bag End, caring for the land and it's inhabitants -- that was the order of things. But it was the canny Took side that had worked to ensure that Frodo would serve. Used all manner of tricks and tools to seduce him -- tie him irrevocably to Hobbiton and to Bag End, much to Frodo's amusement.

He was enough of a Baggins to see the logic of it and perhaps it was the Took in him that felt the longing for it. Of course, despite Bilbo's various ulterior motives in making him heir, he knew the old scamp really did love him.

And if he really wanted to go along, Bilbo would take him--

Of course, that was assuming Bilbo wasn't just spinning fantasies in his old age. It was only recently that he had begun acting strange and preoccupied. Perhaps age was finally catching up with the old rascal. Frodo thought of his Uncle Rory and shook his head. He didn't want to imagine Bilbo laid low like that, his body betraying him, or worse, his mind--

He realized with a start that Merry was humming -- humming and splashing about in the tub. Rather unusual for Merry -- but obviously his mood had improved immensely. Frodo smiled as his cousin started singing softly in a fine baritone.

"O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain.
and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
but better than rain or rippling streams
is Water Hot that smokes and steams."

Bilbo had taught them that song. Frodo could almost hear Bilbo's own enthusiastic tenor echoing in the corridors of Bag End -- all the way from the bathing room in the cellar to Frodo's smial.

Of course, Bilbo hadn't been singing much in the bath lately.

Frodo frowned and took a long drink of his ale. Was the wanderlust the Took or the Baggins -- or something else entirely? What was the siren call that Bilbo heard out there in the dark -- that was getting stronger every day -- stronger even than his roots in the Hill?

Leaning his head against the windowsill, he gazed back out at the moonlit landscape. Down there somewhere beneath the meandering wisps of silver fog, he could hear the Brandywine muttering darkly against its banks.

***

"O! Water is fair that leaps on high
in a fountain white beneath the sky;

Merry splashed his feet in the water for emphasis as he finished singing the silly little song and stepped out of the bath, grabbing for his towel and glancing quickly at Frodo.

No -- if anything the look on Frodo's face had become even more solemn, despite all Merry's antics. The little crease between his cousin's eyes had deepened and the plate of Izzy's excellent food balanced on his lap was untouched as he stared out the window.

Well, it was obvious that Frodo's mood was not about him. Merry frowned and scrubbed at his hair quickly, walking over to the table. His towel joined Frodo's on the floor as he picked up the old robe Frodo had dug out of the press for him and shrugged into it, wrinkling his nose. Well, lavender did have some fond memories. He smirked, looking over his shoulder at Frodo's bowed head.

Nothing for it but to find out what was going on in that head, because he did love that head, despite how very thoroughly twisty that head could be at times. He contemplated loading up another plateful of food then spotted the bottles of wine.

No, he wasn't going to think any more about the wine. There were options now -- things to try. They might lose some to blending experiments, but-- Well, it was something. Still, he wondered. It was really farfetched, but-- Well, it would-- Oh, bugger it!

He uncorked Frodo's caramel sauce quickly, pouring a bit into one of the wine bottles and swirling it. The sauce was really too thick for this, but he wondered, briefly -- and crazily -- what would happen if Izzy changed the recipe to make it thinner, more of a syrup. Winemaking was basically cooking of a sort at the heart of it. Still, caramel? Moro would think he was insane if he saw him doing this.

Perhaps they should just sell the stuff as a cough remedy and be done with it -- medicines were supposed to taste awful.

Still, it was better to work on a way to blunt the disaster before it was discovered than to obsess about what would happen when it was. No matter how crazy the idea, he would rather sacrifice Moro's opinion of his sanity than good Hall brandy any day. For a long moment he stood there holding his breath, unwilling to risk bursting the feeble bubble of hope inside him.

He poured some of the wine into a glass. Holding it up in the light from one of the lamps, he frowned. Well, it wasn't a bad colour -- looked a bit like old brandy -- cloudy old brandy -- it really needed decanting. He closed his eyes and sniffed. Not too overwhelming. He gritted his teeth and then took a sip, swirling it in his mouth.

Not bitter -- strong still, but there was no acrid bite. Oh, it had a powerful taste and likely caramel just would not be feasible for a lot of reasons he could list, but it was proof that the taste could be masked without investing good brandy. He took another sip. Not bad. It meant a lot of work -- and likely a lot of persuasion on his part. He would use up every bit of his good credit with Moro on this. He really needed to think on what he would say and how he would say it -- he had never had Frodo's glib tongue.

Frodo. Frodo -- who had travelled all the way from Hobbiton just because his baby cousin was obsessing about wine -- who would likely lecture him later about how he was too young to be taking on so much responsibility -- who was sitting patiently in the windowsill whilst said baby cousin continued to stand here and obsess -- who had brought caramel sauce--

Licking his lips and smiling in anticipation, he poured another glass. Then he grabbed the bottle and, carefully managing the glasses, strolled over to the window, setting his glass on the sill.

"Sir, your wine." He bowed deeply and held out Frodo's glass.

Frodo looked up like someone startled out of sleep. "Wha-- Oh! Did you put the--"

Merry nodded, smiling.

"Well?" Frodo straightened up and set down his empty mug, taking the glass, and gazing at Merry anxiously, that wonderful, wonderful wrinkle still between his brows.

Merry leaned over and put his hands on Frodo's shoulders. "Taste," he whispered and bent over expectantly.

Frodo frowned for a moment, then understood exactly what Merry intended and leaned in, kissing him carefully -- wary of his bruised lip -- using his tongue to taste thoroughly. Merry felt it all the way to his toes. Finally he sighed and pulled back, leaning his forehead against Frodo's. "Well?"

"You always taste wonderful to me love," Frodo whispered.

Merry smirked and pointed to the glass.

"Taste that. And no flattery."

Frodo frowned at his glass. "I never use flattery."

Merry made a face. "Oh no. Never. You taught me how to get my way with the aunts. What was that if not flattery?"

"Charm." Frodo batted his eyes at Merry coyly and took a careful sip of the cloudy amber liquid.

Merry grinned and picked up his glass, sitting down on the sill and sipping quickly just to be sure. Not bad at all. And the taste was growing on him.

"It actually tastes--" Frodo managed, smacking his lips. "Well, it is much better than piss I would say."

"It is brilliant." Merry took another drink.

Frodo took another long swig. "The taste does grow on you a bit."

Merry leaned forward and stole another kiss -- a very long, lingering kiss that tasted of ale, and ham, caramel, and the Hall. "Yes, indeed, it does," he said solemnly, then grabbed Frodo's plate and leaned back into the sill, winding his legs around Frodo's.

Frodo smiled and then grabbed onto the sill. "Don't tip us over, love. I don't fancy explaining how the heir to the Hall ended up smashed on the cobblestones. I would have to throw myself beneath you just to avoid the recriminations."

"That wouldn't work. Then I would have to explain to Uncle Bilbo why I smashed his heir flat," Merry quipped back. "Wouldn't want to face that."

Frodo turned away suddenly, taking a gulp of his wine and looking back out at the landscape. "There is nothing like this view. It never seems to be the same -- the fog, the moon, the trees."

Merry frowned at the sudden change of subject, but glanced out -- it was beautiful, as always -- dramatic and changeable. "No, I don't think there is any place quite like Buckland in the whole of the Shire. Likely in the whole of Middle-earth, truth be told."

He watched as Frodo's expression changed and then realized how prideful he had sounded. "I suppose Hobbiton is nice as well," he offered, then grimaced at how very weak that sounded.

Frodo smiled. "Yes. I was just thinking about that, in fact. They are so different, but so very beautiful in their own ways. "

Relieved at managing to coax a smile out of Frodo, Merry thought, for a moment, perhaps he could share. Perhaps Frodo would understand. "Do you-- Do you ever feel--"

Frodo's mouth quirked ever so slightly. "What?"

Merry sipped at his wine, trying to find the words.

"What Merry?" Frodo said softly, leaning forward. "Tell."

Merry looked out on the misty landscape -- Buckland -- his land. "I don't know the words."

Frodo was silent, waiting -- patient, as always.

"I-- I get frustrated sometimes--"

There was a stifled sound from Frodo, but Merry ignored it.

"--with Da, and even Grandda because they can't-- they don't feel it."

This was impossible. You couldn't put words around something that wasn't-- well, just wasn't. He clenched his fingers around his glass.

"Nevermind."

He felt Frodo's fingers on his chin, lifting his head. Frodo gazed at him solemnly.

"Tell," came the soft demand.

How many times had he gazed into that face, into those fathomless eyes, and done this -- laid bare his secrets and worries?

"I-- There-- It's not about words," he stumbled.

"What is it about?"

"Things you -- feel." Merry looked back out at the moody landscape of Buckland then at the wine in his glass. "Like the way I can tell when a wine came from Buckland grapes -- because the soil-- This sounds strange."

Merry looked up and saw Frodo watching him expectantly.

"I can taste the soil -- the water -- of Buckland in the wine. I mean, of course, when you eat the grapes or the berries or the apples, they taste of Buckland soil. But the wine too. And Izzy's bread even tastes of Buckland. Sometimes she manages -- I swear -- it has Buckland sunshine in it. And it's-- the sun shines differently on Buckland you know."

He knew he was babbling inanely, but Frodo gave a little nod, listening intently.

"I bite into one of Izzy's potatoes and I can almost tell which field it came from," Merry smiled. "And smell. Oh, you absolutely can smell it. I can tell from the smell alone sometimes, when things are--" he looked up and took a breath. "No one else seems to-- sense it. It is like they-- I don't know-- "

"It's like something you can hear -- like a tune coming out of the soil itself -- but everyone else seems deaf to it," Frodo said softly.

Some painful thing inside Merry eased just a bit and he sighed with relief. Frodo knew. He understood.

But Frodo's expression was odd as he gazed back out at the landscape, taking another drink. "Bilbo used to say things like that to me -- about the Hill -- about Bag End."

Merry's heart fell. Frodo wasn't talking about himself then.

"Was he-- Bilbo was saying he could-- he feels it too? About Hobbiton?"

Frodo nodded, his mouth quirking into a bemused smile. "Well, Hobbiton is different than Buckland, cousin, but it is conceivable that our water and our soil are--"

"But-- Uncle Bilbo?"

"Is that so hard to believe?" Frodo's expression was suddenly closed.

"Well-- I-- he-- I don't know. He did just walk away -- the way Grandda tells it -- and Uncle Bilbo himself. Abandoned Bag End and just took off down the road. I can't imagine-- I mean if you feel that way about the land--"

Merry looked at Frodo's face and realized he should never have attempted to put words around the way he felt. Invariably everyone either looked at him like he was mad or got impatient with his inability to express it. He sighed. "He never seems to care about-- He is always so wrapped up in-- in his stories, in himself. I never thought of him as that-- well, as being aware like that."

Frodo took a long drink then, emptying his glass and holding it out for a refill. "Most just say 'selfish' and have done with it," he said in an odd tone.

Merry cringed. Not only had he likely made himself look a fool, he had managed somehow to make Frodo even more pensive than he was before. Setting the plate down on the floor quickly, he scooped up the bottle, nearly cursing aloud when the wine spilled as he poured it.

"I-- I will make a point of asking him about it, when he comes this way again."

How could he have expected anyone to understand, even Frodo? It was inconceivable that Uncle Bilbo would -- laughable even. But it was a good way to steer the conversation away from his -- queerness.

"Do you-- does Uncle Bilbo plan to come visit soon? Grandda has been asking after him."

***

Frodo closed his eyes. Why did everything of late seem to come back to Bilbo?

Frodo took a long swig of the wine. Perhaps that nice numb feeling that seemed to be settling into his toes would help.

"Frodo?"

"Hmmm?" he opened his eyes and remembered Merry's feeble attempt to change the subject. "Oh, I'm certain he will come soon. When it's a bit warmer," he said blandly. One more visit before--

Frodo tried to focus once more. His whole reason for coming all this way was sitting before him looking rather wan and bereft. Merry had been bound to this land -- this Hall and its history -- from the moment he was born -- a bond strengthened by labouring in the fields, celebrating under the trees, and dreaming on the hills. And now he heard it singing to him, and he just wanted someone to understand.

"I can hear it too," he said softly, watching as Merry frowned. Taking another long drink and feeling it burn nicely all the way down; he decided the stuff might just be palatable after another glass -- or three.

"You-- What?" The expression on Merry's face shifted from confusion to tentative hopefulness. It was like watching the morning sun chase shadows through the hedgerows.

"How could I not?" he announced solemnly. "You see -- I'm in love."

"You-- What?" Merry grimaced.

Frodo smiled at Merry's stuttering confusion.

"Irrevocably in love."

"Who?"

"You and I--" Frodo took another drink. "Of course."

Merry's expression was comical. "You and-- I?" He smiled crookedly.

Frodo reached out to touch that delicious mouth with the tips of his fingers.

"Well, yes, that--"

He gazed into those lovely eyes. And Merry -- after just a moment of hesitation -- impulsively leaned in to kiss him -- connecting quite firmly with his sore mouth.

"Ow." Frodo pulled back from the sting and throb, putting his hand up to touch his mouth gingerly.

"Sorry!" Merry looked guilty as he peered at Frodo's mouth closely. "It's only just a little red and swollen."

"Mmmm, well. I will need more of this before we attempt that again." Frodo held up his glass. "Rather strong, isn't it?"

Merry took a long moment to pull his focus away from Frodo's mouth and glance at the glass. "Something between the base wine and the brandy we add to it. Who knows how strong? The sailors seem to like it."

"Well, I like it too." Frodo waved his glass in Merry's direction again.

"You're getting cross-eyed, cousin," Merry admonished. "It's a bit like gulping the Hall brandy."

"I would welcome cross-eyed at this point," Frodo said hopefully. "And you should join me."

"Just don't blame me in the morning." Merry poured them both more of the wine. "Now-- you said something about 'love'? Are you proposing to me?"

Frodo snorted. "'Pro-po-si-tion-ing'," he enunciated carefully. "I am not that drunk -- yet. And yes -- later. In. The. Warm. Soft. Bed."

Merry smirked at him. "Wimp."

Frodo wished that he were well on his way to being well and truly squiffed. Briefly he was tempted to grab his cousin and acquaint him rather thoroughly with the joys of being on the bottom on a nice hard floor.

But, waving his glass at the view beyond the window, he forged on, gathering his wits. "But I meant -- you're in love with that."

Merry looked a bit befuddled as he gazed out at the silvered landscape, then back at Frodo.

"Madly in love," Frodo stated firmly. "The fields -- the vines -- the grapes. And the Brandywine--" Frodo took a sip from his glass. "Just as I am in love with our Hill -- the way the land surrounds it like a patchwork quilt that changes colour from hour to hour and season to season, the way our little river sings its way through the fields--"

The expression on Merry's face cleared, and he smiled tentatively. "You-- you do feel it."

"Oh yes." Frodo smiled back at him and then looked up. "Even the stars are different over Bag End than here -- not so much where they are in the sky, but -- the way they touch the soil."

Merry nodded enthusiastically. "I can taste the stars sometimes too. In the wine, especially the sweet whites."

Frodo saw a blush rise into Merry's cheeks when he realized what he had blurted out.

"I have no doubt of it." Frodo leaned forward. "They sing."

Merry grinned. "I remember. Once on the roof, you told me you could hear them singing. I thought you were--"

"Queer in the head. And now?"

Merry looked up. "I think I hear them too," he said softly.

"I remember the first time I shared that with Bilbo. He had come to chase me off the roof and back into bed in the wee hours." Frodo looked back up at the stars again. "He didn't laugh. He actually told me a long old tale about how one of them isn't a star at all but a great jewel. Then of course, being Bilbo, he wandered off to find the text to support it and left me on the roof."

Frodo smiled at Merry. "He never did come back. Although he did tell me the whole tale again and show me the texts -- quite a few times actually." He grinned, but then realized that he had brought up Bilbo -- yet again -- and lifted his glass for another long drink.

"Grandda is doing that a lot lately. Starting a story and not finishing it. Forgetting things -- even where he is sometimes, and how he got there." Merry looked morose. "Then he gets angry at anyone within reach -- as if we caused him to forget."

"Well, I've found with Bilbo it helps to just ask a few questions to get him back on track."

"I don't know. If you ask Grandda anything, he starts in about his aches and pains and complains about things that happened a long time ago. He doesn't remember much of use. And I don't have time to--"

"It might be worth it to take the time," Frodo interrupted. "Neither he nor Bilbo are getting younger."

Merry frowned and then looked as if he was winding up for a passionate and indignant sputter.

"And there is a reason they call them both 'Master', you know."

Frodo watched as Merry stopped and looked at his glass thoughtfully, then took a long drink and turned to the window.

Frodo drained his glass and followed Merry's gaze. The view had changed as they had talked -- the moon had risen further and the entire landscape was touched with silver. The fog had thickened as well, sending tendrils into the courtyard below them. It was so beautiful it made his throat ache.

"You will be Master of Bag End someday. Do you worry about being -- well -- able?" Merry sounded tentative.

Frodo swallowed. "Sometimes."

Master of Bag End. Frodo suspected Bilbo's party of "special magnificence" was much less about Bilbo turning eleventy-one than about Bilbo walking away with a clear conscience now that the next Master of Bag End was able to legally take on that responsibility.

"The Hall is so-- Well, there are so many who depend on it." Merry's voice sounded small and that drawn look was suddenly back around his mouth.

A huge burden of responsibility had somehow fallen on Merry's shoulders and taken away his freedom, with none of the power or legal rights that Frodo would gain come his birthday. Frodo sighed. Merry needed reassurance that at least someone in his life understood this.

"It may not be the Hall, but Bag End stands for something bigger than it is. Bilbo is respected by the entire countryside -- more even than the Mayor, truth be told. They look to him for advice. Even though they may mutter into their ale about his queer habits and fail to give him credit for his ideas because they don't want to be considered 'cracked' as well, they still heed him."

Merry was listening so intently that Frodo warmed to his topic, wishing there were others who could hear this -- who would hear this.

"He is wise because of what he has seen and done and studied of things outside the Shire and he is logical because-- well, he's a Baggins. When he leaves, they will miss him sorely -- and I will be hard pressed to take his place."

***

What did Frodo just say? Merry must've misunderstood him.

"Leaves?"

Merry watched as Frodo's eyes widened ever so slightly. Suddenly Frodo leaned over to put his glass on the floor then straightened back up, looking a bit flushed and off-balance.

"I'm afraid your wine is a bit stronger than I thought. It's gone straight to my head."

"You can't drink Bucklebrew as if it were ale." Merry chided.

"Bucklebrew? That was Bucklebrew?" Frodo looked down at the bottle. "What Gorby always spikes the punch with at Yule?"

Merry grinned and nodded. "Well, the fortified wine is Bucklebrew. I guess with caramel sauce in it, it needs a different name."

"Bucklebrew. That brings back memories--"

Merry frowned. Frodo was far too good at changing the subject when it suited. "What did you mean 'when he leaves'?"

"Did I say 'leaves'?" Frodo rubbed at his face and yawned. "I meant when he is gone."

Frodo was usually very precise about words. "You said 'leaves'."

"Well. My deepest apologies, my cousin the linguist." Frodo bowed and then leaned forward suddenly to catch himself, planting his hand firmly on Merry's leg. "Whoa."

Merry folded his arms, doing his best to ignore the heat of those fingers on his thigh.

"Bed--" Frodo intoned blearily.

"Oh no. I'll not be distracted that easily." Merry growled, pushing Frodo's hand away. "I'm not some tweener lass you can drag around by my-- uh-- Well, you can't distract me that way."

Merry waited for Frodo to make some cutting remark, but Frodo blinked at him in confusion -- his eyes suddenly looking a bit droopy and unfocused.

"I'm not distracting-- distracted. I think I have just had a bit too much. It feels like my tongue went that way and my head that way." Frodo's hands crossed in front of him and he gazed at them intently.

Merry tried not to smile.

"But you want to talk, so we'll talk." Frodo settled back in his perch, and immediately over-balanced. One glance down toward the courtyard had him on his feet, shakily looking back at the windowsill. "Only not there."

"Perhaps we should get in bed," Merry conceded.

"At last." Frodo sighed happily, and wobbled at bit as he headed for the bed. Merry frowned, suspicious. It was unlike Frodo to overindulge -- he was always so-- controlled.

Merry stood up and shut the window behind him, watching as Frodo fumbled with his belt for a moment before managing to shed his robe, but that lovely vision didn't last long. Merry had a brief view of sculpted ivory and russet shadow before Frodo toppled into the bed then squirmed about until he was sitting somewhat upright against a nest of pillows.

"Wonderful," Frodo sighed happily, pulling up the covers.

"I didn't mean to offend," Merry said quickly, shrugging off his own robe as he approached the bed.

"Offend?" Frodo peered up at him.

"Well, you seemed a bit annoyed--."

Frodo's gaze drifted slowly down Merry's body. "Oh, I'm not annoyed with you," he said, smiling rather blissfully.

Merry resisted the urge to pose and preen, although he did lean over rather slowly to pick up his robe and toss it on a chair. There was the slightest noise -- it might have been a sigh -- from the bed, but no rude comments about his obvious play for attention.

Perhaps Frodo really was squiffed.

"Well--" Merry finally climbed into the bed and settled on his side. Not bothering to pull up the covers, he propped himself up on one elbow and gazed at Frodo, "Who are you annoyed with then?"

Frodo was still looking contentedly at Merry's midsection -- or perhaps lower -- definitely lower. Merry shifted and stretched, happy to give him a better view.

"Mmmmm?"

"I said who are you annoyed with."

"Did I say I was annoyed?"

Merry closed his eyes, exasperated, and almost gave up. But something had rattled Frodo
-- and it wasn't just the wine that had loosened his tongue.

"You said you weren't annoyed with me. Which implies that you are annoyed with someone -- who?"

Frodo blinked and frowned, dragging his gaze up to meet Merry's. "No one really." He waved his hand in the air. "Hobbiton. Bilbo. Myself."

"Why?" Merry coaxed carefully.

"Well, lemme see." Frodo looked thoughtful. "Selfish, the lot."

"Selfish?"

"Perhaps not selfish. Hobbiton is just-- obi-- oblivious. They don't see." He pointed to his eye and for a moment Merry feared he might poke himself.

"Folks in Hobbiton have never been very bright, if you ask me," Merry offered.

Frodo wagged his finger. "Don't be a snob, love. They are isolated and paroch-- prov-- countrified, but not stupid."

Merry shrugged. This could take some time, especially with Frodo's stock of words playing hide and seek.

"If we are going to keep talking--" Frodo sighed a bit dramatically "--may I have some more of that lovely wine to lubriate-- lucubrate--" Frodo frowned darkly. "To wet my tongue?"

Merry managed not to smile as he clambered quickly out of the bed, scooping Frodo's glass from beneath the window and heading for the table to claim the last bottle of wine and the caramel sauce as well. Shaking his head, he realized that he had a very naked, happily tipsy Frodo in bed, and he was attempting to keep him talking.

"And Uncle Bilbo?" he asked as he turned back to the bed.

Frodo had apparently been leaning over -- for a better view -- and nearly lost his balance trying not to look as if he had been. "Wha?"

"Uncle Bilbo is selfish?" Merry managed to find room for everything on the bedside table and struggled to uncork the wine.

For a moment, Frodo looked startled. "Did I say that?"

"Yes," Merry said patiently.

"Well--" Frodo whispered. "Perhaps."

Merry finally managed the cork. This conversation was going in circles -- no, actually, circles would be more controlled. He couldn't keep track any longer.

"He just wants something out there--"

"Out there?" Merry turned to find Frodo gazing at the window blankly.

Frodo didn't respond.

"Frodo? What do you mean 'out there'?"

Frodo looked up, startled. For a brief moment he didn't look the least bit intoxicated. Then he gazed at the bottle in Merry's hand and pressed his lips together, looking a bit queasy.

"I don't feel well. Lying down now," he said in a strained voice, sinking back into the pillows and closing his eyes.

For a moment Merry wavered. But Frodo, always so steady and serene, was swinging wildly from incoherent abandon to eloquent restraint. And it wasn't the wine. It couldn't be just the wine. It was something about Bag End and becoming Master some day--

He set the wine bottle down firmly and sat on the edge of the bed. "What is it that Uncle Bilbo wants, Frodo?"

Frodo ignored him.

"You were explaining to me about how Uncle Bilbo is selfish."

Frodo didn't even flinch. Blast. Merry had been working hard on his wayward temper and tongue, but undoubtedly he had made a few too many cracks about Hobbiton and Uncle Bilbo. He grimaced. Now Frodo was curled around his little store of secrets like a grumpy old dragon.

And what would his Uncle Bilbo, the dragon-riddler, do in this situation, confronted with a taciturn dragon? He supposed, knowing Bilbo, that he would pull the dragon's tail, as he had already trod on it quite thoroughly.

"Well, when the time comes, I am sure you will be a fine Master of Bag End." He wasn't as proficient with that condescending tone as Frodo was, but he might pull it off. "I imagine you can balance the accounts in what -- a few hours? Of course the Hall accounts take days."

He felt Frodo's reaction before he saw it on his face. The mattress quivered and then that little wrinkle appeared back between Frodo's eyebrows.

"Tryin' to sleep Merry," he growled.

Ah, now he was getting somewhere.

"Well, whatever it involves, I think all you will have to worry about is just how long to dally with each of the lovely lasses who come after your inheritance. No real effort there."

There was a long silence then Merry saw a muscle in Frodo's jaw twitch.

"So, I suppose I need my rest then, don't I?" Frodo ground out, but his eyes were still shut.

"Besides, you won't have to worry about any of it any time soon. Uncle Bilbo looks to outlive the Old Took."

Just from the slight twitching of the mattress beneath him, Merry could tell that one struck home as well.

"Well, whatever. As I recall, when I was dragged away from tasks vital to the future of the Hall, I was promised some experimenting with caramel sauce as a recompense."

"Fine." Frodo's eyes finally opened. "My apologies for dragging you away from your spirited game of glass tossing." He pushed himself up on his elbows and glared. "Go back to playing at being Master of the Hall, Merry. I've changed my mind. You do annoy me."

Merry felt his face grow hot and his insides go cold. Ashamed and angry all at once, he threw himself off the bed and grabbed his robe off the floor. He would not lose his temper. He would simply-- leave.

Which was exactly what Frodo wanted him to do. He stopped in his tracks.

He spun around and caught Frodo with a strangely vulnerable expression. It was quickly shuttered. Frodo fell back into the pillows, a resigned and put-upon look on his face.

Merry took a shaky breath. Frodo was far too aware of exactly the reaction that comment would bring. He knew Merry would lose his temper and storm out.

Merry was being toyed with by a master -- a wily dragon protecting his hoard. But why? Why?

"Do I have to stand up so you can take a swing at me, or can I remain in bed?" Frodo sounded like some old aunt whining about the chill in her smial.

Nothing like dancing on top of the dragon's head for good measure.

Merry stalked back over to the bed, swiftly crawling up and over Frodo -- delighted by the look on Frodo's face as he realized, too late, that he was trapped under the covers, arms and all. Merry made sure that his knees had Frodo thoroughly pinned, and then sat down, somewhere in the vicinity of Frodo's stomach, and relished the whoosh of air and the widening of Frodo's eyes in his suddenly pale face. He leaned over.

"I can take a swing at you right here, old cousin," Merry hissed.

The sudden panic disappeared behind an expression of disinterest. "Be my guest."

Merry leaned back, winning him another involuntary 'whoof' of air from Frodo.

"Oh, I don't think so." He folded his arms. "That is what you want me to do, and I am feeling rather-- contrary."

Frodo appeared to think about this for a moment then he blinked slowly and gave a sinuous wiggle.

"That won't work either," Merry said firmly. "Something has your head all twisty, and I am bound to find out what it is."

"Bucklebrew," Frodo muttered.

"If it were, you wouldn't be arguing with me. You're never argumentative when you're tipsy -- you get all sweet and gooey."

"You-- " Frodo frowned. "'Sweet and gooey'?"

"Absolutely. You are a very happy drunk."

"I am not."

Merry wasn't about to get drawn into that argument, knowing it for another feint by the master, but he had to concede that Frodo was blasted good at this "Ready to give it up?"

Frodo closed his eyes. "I love you?" he said in a flat tone.

Merry snorted. "Good try."

Frodo wiggled, this time with more fury and less undulating. "What do you want, Merry?" he growled.

Now, that was the 'stern-elder-cousin-who-knows-more-than-you' voice.

Merry leaned over.

"I want you to share with me for once. Something has you by the short hairs and I am bound to find out what."

Frodo took a deep breath -- which was a bit difficult with Merry on his chest. "What do you want to know?"

"You said that Uncle Bilbo was selfish because he wanted something 'out there'," Merry repeated. "What do you mean?"

"Will you get off me? I can't talk when I can't breathe."

"Will you promise to treat me like-- like I treat you?"

Frodo's eyebrows went up and his mouth quirked. "Oh, absolutely."

Merry scowled. "Don't be an arse, Frodo. Stop treating me like your baby cousin who needs to be protected from everything. I am long past all that."

Frodo shut his eyes and sighed. "You are right, Merry. I am sorry." He gritted his teeth and grimaced. "Now. Get. Off. Me."

Merry rolled off and Frodo took a deep breath.

"Please remind me again why I love you," Frodo gasped as he rolled to his side, pushed himself up on one elbow, and glared at Merry.

Merry reached out tentatively to touch Frodo's shoulder and then proceeded to rub it gently, watching as the lines bracketing Frodo's mouth seemed to ease.

"I am sorry I said you were playing at being Master. And for saying you annoyed me. But don't sit on me again. Ever." Frodo said firmly, twitching his shoulder. "That is annoying."

"Yessir," Merry ducked his head and removed the offending hand.

The silence stretched out for a while, with Frodo gazing at the coverlet intently.

"I was wrong to say that Bilbo is selfish. He--" Frodo had twitched loose a thread and was pulling at it. "He doesn't deserve that. He has given me so much--"

Merry stayed quiet, afraid to interrupt.

"He-- he just wants something else. Something that is out there." He glanced over Merry toward the window, pointing with his chin. "Something on the road-- or at the end of it. Something he wants more--"

The silence settled in again, but this time Merry couldn't wait too long for clarification.

"More?"

"More than Bag End. More than Hobbiton-- the Shire. More than--" Frodo shrugged, but Merry could fill in the rest all too easily.

"You-- you really think he's leaving," Merry whispered in disbelief.

"He wants it so -- desperately." Frodo said softly, meeting Merry's gaze. "Talks about it constantly -- obsesses really. I've been rather--" Frodo rubbed at his eyes tiredly. "Well, I've worried about him at times."

Merry reached instinctively for Frodo's hand, gripping it firmly.

Merry looked down at their clasped fingers and thought about how Frodo must feel. His Uncle Bilbo could be -- well -- an oblivious, self-absorbed old twit, but he and Frodo seemed quite fond of each other, in their own way. They were a lot alike, those two. Fascinated with old tales, with history, and places beyond the borders of the Shire.

How would he feel if Frodo--

He shuddered. That had never occurred to him -- Frodo wouldn't-- He looked up at Frodo's bent head. He couldn't be thinking of following Uncle Bilbo? Beyond the Old Forest into the darkness? Beyond the borders of the Shire?

Merry's heart started hammering wildly and his mouth went dry. He realized that he was squeezing Frodo's fingers hard when Frodo flinched.

"Merry?" Frodo frowned at him.

Why hadn't he noticed? The strain Frodo was under was written on his face for any one who knew him-- who loved him -- the way he held his mouth, the dark shadows in his eyes, the persistence of that little wrinkle between his eyebrows--

"You-- You aren't thinking of-- You won't--" his voice dwindled to a choked whisper. "--go with him?"

"Oh." Frodo's eyes widened at that and he pulled up their clasped hands to kiss Merry's fingers. "Merry, love."

Merry took a deep shaky breath. Between one word and the next, he suddenly felt cold and-- very small and very young. Just as he had the day Frodo left the Hall in Bilbo's pony cart. He had thought then that Hobbiton was forever away and he would never see Frodo again.

Something black and cold settled into Merry's chest and he was suddenly shivering.

"No. I can't-- Merry?" Frodo sat up, gazing into Merry's face anxiously and pushing at the covers while he tugged at his hand. "Get in here. You're freezing."

Meekly, Merry crawled under the sheets and let Frodo prod and push him until he was curled up -- shaking -- with Frodo wrapped around him from behind, his chin at Merry's shoulder.

"I can't say I haven't thought about it, but-- I'm not like Bilbo, Merry." Merry could feel the words spoken soft against his neck. "I can't leave what I love-- Who I love--"

The words sank into Merry's skin like sunlight, gradually pushing back the darkness and the chill. He sighed with relief when he could finally feel Frodo toying with his hair and rubbing his arm gently.

He should feel embarrassed, cuddled like some bairn in Frodo's arms, but oddly, he didn't feel that way at all -- he just felt warm and content.

No, what was embarrassing was the way he had acted. Obsessing over his own problems -- whining and complaining to Frodo -- and throwing things at him -- when, all the time, Frodo had his own head all twisted up with worries.

"I'm the selfish one, aren't I?" he blurted.

"Why do you say that?"

"I know how you feel about loving Bag End -- your hill, your land, your little river -- and Uncle Bilbo too -- just like I love the Hall -- the fields and the vineyards, the Brandywine -- even Mum and Grandda." He paused, thinking about it for a moment, then sighed. "And Da as well."

Frodo was silent, unmoving behind him.

"But all I do is complain about the Hall and-- well -- Da and Mum and Grandda-- and rag on you about coming back here to live and then fight with you when you do come to visit-- and belittle the things you care about, and your friends there, and I ignore-- Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Merry finished, somewhat intimidated by how long the list might get.

There was a noise next to his ear that could have been a cough but might have been a snort. He couldn't be sure.

"Yes."

Frodo would never let him weasel his way out of anything.

"That I am selfish?" Merry asked tentatively.

"Yes."

Merry sighed.

"And I am selfish as well," Frodo sighed then. Merry felt the stir of warm air on his shoulder. "Because I want to enjoy myself