Wish It Done
by Lullennye-mail: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com
Story notes: "'Tis better to do it than wish it done."
Frodo once knew how to treat his cousins. They used to follow his lead cheerfully, separately or together, whether it was examining historic maps with Merry, or taking Pippin to bed where each taught the other more than he expected, or the three of them tramping all four Farthings of the Shire to find the best beer. They played; sometimes they fought; but always they were close, and always Frodo knew his cousins, and he thought they knew him.
He was tempted to blame the Ring. If not for the Ring, Merry would not have persuaded Pippin and Sam into his conspiracy with Fatty Bolger that bound them together and excluded Frodo; if not for the Ring, they would not be wandering the pathless Wild in the company of a Man they did not know, hoping to reach Rivendell before servants of the Enemy overtook them. However, Frodo was perceptive enough to recognize his quest to remove the Ring from the Shire was not the only reason. He had drawn away from his cousins when he and Sam became so close. And somehow, while Frodo had not noticed, Merry and Pippin had grown up, though the past week tried that particular theory sorely: Pippin and Merry both behaved like the worst of bad-tempered children.
Circumstances were admittedly harsh. Misery blanketed the hobbits as they traveled the Midgewater Marshes, impelled by Strider to march long hours, following his urgent pace. He warned them to tighten their belts; when they did pause for rest, there was never enough food. Midges bit them. Worse, evil insects hidden in dead grass made a harsh sound that rasped their ears. By the second day in the marsh Pippin complained as continuously as the neekerbreekers, as Sam dubbed them. Merry, usually rational, periodically snapped meanly at him. Annoyed after a scathing remark brought up Pippin short, expression hurt, Frodo scolded Merry in turn, which did nothing but send both cousins into a sulk. Sam cast a disapproving look at the lot of them.
Strider did nothing but keep his back to the hobbits: a gesture, Frodo perceived, to preserve an illusion of polite distance, giving them space to deal with their troubles, for which Frodo was grateful. He could bear his discomforts stoically, but his cousins' suffering grieved him even when he could cheerfully throttle them for their abysmal behavior. He felt responsible for them, and their bickering showed poorly on him. Strider's restraint eased Frodo's embarrassment somewhat, though not the doubts about his ability to manage his own adventure. Too keenly he remembered how Barliman Butterbur had said, "Well you do want looking after and no mistake: your party might be on a holiday!"
They stopped at dusk to make camp. The insects redoubled their attack soon as Frodo sank to the muddy ground to ease his tired legs. Sam sat next to him and set about retrieving a meager supper. Frodo watched carefully Sam's nonchalant movements to keep anyone from looking into his pack. Frodo slyly tipped a look into Sam's open pack and confirmed what he'd suspected these past few days -- Sam carried more than he ought to: oddments that Frodo had left behind in Bree to lighten his load. When Sam handed Frodo his bread and jerked beef, Frodo laid a hand on his wrist. "I saw that, Sam."
"Saw what, Mr. Frodo?"
"What you carry. I will repack in the morning," he said, "again; and I'll make sure that I carry my share."
Sam ducked his head, not in repentance but to cast quick glances at their companions. Merry and Pippin both tried to find a place to sit on the only rock not covered in slimy moss, an exercise requiring cooperation neither was showing. Strider had tethered the pony and now stood at the edge of a wide, dark pool, facing away from them, as he looked long into the east. Sam caressed Frodo's hand, raised it to his lips briefly. "I know you think I shouldn't take on all what I do, but I know my limits, and this ain't nowhere near 'em, not by a long shot on a clear day. And it helps, to do for you what I can during the day so I don't miss so much what I'm used to having with you at night."
Softly he said, "It's been a long journey from Tom Bombadil's house, and it's a long way to Rivendell." He nodded his head at the others. "I wish they'd all just take a walk. I'd have a sweet hour alone with you, Frodo, even here in this mud."
A breath gusted from Frodo, and he felt his face warm, but before he could respond, Merry let out a sharp protest, drawing all their attention.
He was sprawled in the mud while Pippin laughed from atop the rock. "You pushed me!" accused Merry. Pippin took a bite of the apple in his hand and shook his head while he chewed. "Not a bit of it," he said, and then swallowed. "You're just clumsy."
"And that's my apple!"
"Is not; yours is right over there." He pointed. Merry glared at Pippin as he slowly stood up and brushed futilely at his filthy trousers before he bent and picked up the apple. He thumbed mud from it as he walked back to the rock. Pippin looked on interestedly and said, "Well, it looks little worse for the wear, just a bit muddy. Perfectly edible, I'm sure."
Sam caught Frodo's glance and frowned. Frodo shook his head, unsure what to say or do in the face of Pippin's perverse teasing.
"After I clean it, maybe," said Merry, frowning deeply. He leaned on the rock and buffed it against his thigh, streaking more mud on his trousers, and then he held it up to Pippin. "Look at that. How am I to get all the mud off?" Pippin inspected it, a faint smirk on his mouth. Merry suddenly snatched the clean apple from Pippin's hand, and, with a flick of his wrist sent it flying. It landed in water with a musical plunk.
"Merry!" cried Pippin. Frodo was speechless.
"I'm sure it's still perfectly edible," retorted Merry.
Pippin stared at him, his mouth open. "You -- you!"
"Clumsy of you to let go there, Pip." Merry tossed his own apple up; it smacked into his palm. He polished it on his sleeve and, despite the dirt, took a bite.
"You stinking, rotten, filthy, troll-buggered --!"
"Pippin!" Frodo found his voice and clambered to his feet.
Pippin's eyes remained fixed on Merry, his shoulders squared tensely and his hands balled into fists on his thighs; he seemed ready to launch himself off the rock. Merry stared back insolently, chewing. The cousins had fought their share of battles as young 'tweens, and Frodo was astonished to recognize that the staring could very well give way to blows, and soon.
"I can't believe you did that," Frodo said, looking from Merry to Pippin and back again. "What has gotten into you two?"
"He's been an abominable pest all day," accused Merry. "And he pushed me off that rock."
"He's been a brute!" countered Pippin. "And I did not."
They traded more insults, and Frodo was hard-pressed to placate them. Travel in the marshes had stacked small annoyances upon dreary irritations enough to drive the most staid hobbit into a foul mood, but Pippin and Merry had skipped over simple mood and abandoned all decency. Frodo didn't know if he should hug them or shake them senseless.
Strider stepped up and spoke firmly. "Care must be taken if we're to reach Rivendell." Merry and Pippin looked up at him, distracted from their bickering. Frodo suspected they felt lingering unease around Strider, unused to prolonged contact with a Big Person, especially one so grim. Strider turned to look for the apple Merry tossed. It bobbed in brown water where the mere reached a finger though the rushes. He walked over, stooped and fished it out. He returned and offered the apple to Pippin. "Here, take it." Scum dripped from it, and Pippin accepted it reluctantly. "Our path is long, and there is no certainty of finding game. No food can be wasted."
Pippin sighed and wiped the apple on his breeches. Merry watched, frowning, not eating his own apple. To Frodo it seemed Pippin might say something, but when he turned to Merry, he closed his mouth looking confused. Merry noticed and curtly said, "What is it, Pippin?"
Pippin recoiled from the sharp tone. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all." He shifted a little on his rock and faced away. The silence hung like a heavy burden between them.
Frodo remembered his own supper abandoned on the ground with Sam. He turned and found Sam standing behind him -- for how long he did not know, but Sam held out Frodo's supper. Frodo took the bread and raised it to his mouth. It was stale. They returned to their bit of dry ground and sat together once more where Frodo leaned against Sam and closed his eyes feeling Sam's warmth through his clothes, and he thought with longing about the golden loaves Sam would bake for him on a cold autumn day like this.
A shriek split the air. Strider stepped up, his hand on his sword, while Frodo looked around the camp anxiously, and Sam tensed at his side. An owl climbed suddenly out of the tall reeds beating its way into the iron-dark sky, a small coney struggling and screaming piteously in its claws. Strider released the hilt of his sword. Sam relaxed at Frodo's side only after Frodo himself did. The last gleam of sun shone sullen in the west, darkly gold and red as cursed treasure.
The hobbits ate quickly then, without zeal, all pleasure in the meal stolen by the marshes. Soon after their last drink of tepid water they began settling to rest, seeking escape in sleep from the itchy bites, the cold damp, the ceaseless noise and the silent scrim of fear that rose as the night fell.
Wrapped in his long cloak Strider reclined on the stone Pippin abandoned while the hobbits quieted, a process that took much longer than usual because Merry and Pippin argued over blankets, sounding to Frodo like children -- or an old married gaffer and gammer. While they tugged and quarreled, and Sam fiddled with his pack for the following morning, Strider gestured, and Frodo drew near.
"There's a saying among my people," he said quietly. "A shy cat makes a proud mouse."
Frodo frowned. "I do not understand."
"They look to you for leadership, Frodo," he replied, "and a leader who does not grasp his role with both hands invites trouble among those he seeks to lead. There are those times when courage must be modeled, or comfort given, but there are also times when discipline must be enforced."
Heat flooded Frodo's face and stifled his throat.
"Hesitation can cause trouble when those under you push the limits of behavior during stressful times."
"I am sorry for my cousins' poor conduct," Frodo said stiffly. "It won't happen again."
In a kind voice Strider said, "The real wisdom is to know what they need, and when, and then do your best to provide it." He regarded Frodo solemnly and laid his hand on Frodo's shoulder. "I think you are skilled in perceiving the hearts of those around you. Trust yourself more; you do better than you think."
Frodo could think of no reply, and so he bowed and withdrew to his place among the other hobbits.
*
At last Merry and Pippin came to rest resolutely facing away from each other and fell silent. Strider stood then and warned them to remain in camp as he hunted out the land, alone, to find a firm path through the mire ahead. "I will return with the dawn," he promised. "Sooner, if I find food near at hand, but I do not think that will prove to be the case. I sense no evil nearby so sleep, if you can. We must travel quickly if we are to make good time to Rivendell."
Strider vanished into the deepening night silent as a hobbit. Frodo curled up to Sam's back and snaked his arm across Sam's chest, thankful to close his eyes and shut out what little he could of the marshes. He scratched the most persistent itches, and could feel Sam do the same, all the time listening to Pippin turn this way and that while the neekerbreekers buzzed and wailed. Merry muttered darkly, too low for Frodo to hear, and Pippin retorted, "Oh, and you've never complained a day in your life?"
Frodo reached over Sam and poked Pippin. "Shush already."
The hobbits shifted, looking for comfort, but their small movements increased rather than stilled as the stars tried to pierce the mists that overhung the marsh. The night pressed heavily on them. The moon rose and lit the fog bright and milky, a lovely sight, if cold, and though the vile crickets continued their racket, the lonely wind stilled. Frodo sensed no rest in his companions, however: just a resigned restraint on the wrong side of sleep. From under his arm he felt a long shuddering sigh come from Sam. "Sam?" he said softly.
"I've been laying here for what seems like hours, but I just can't sleep," Sam whispered, "though I'm tired enough and some."
"Who can sleep?" said Pippin. "Even if the itching stopped, the noise is enough to wake the dead."
"We must sleep, all of us, if we're to be able to keep up with Strider." Frodo sat up and chewed his lower lip worriedly, thinking of the ranger's long, ground-eating legs. Strider must guide them, but Frodo felt keenly his responsibility to be sure he and his friends could sustain the pace. He did not want to fail in Strider's eyes, but he began to doubt wisdom from a Man on how to lead hobbits, because hobbits so rarely allowed themselves to be led. Though kindly given, Frodo did not need -- or want -- more advice about managing the people he knew best in all of Middle-earth. Yet Strider was correct in his perception of their need for sleep. How ever it came about, they needed to rest when they could. Frodo looked around, as if the answer would magically present itself.
Their fireless camp was bleak in the moonlight. Bill the pony nosed about and cropped the winter grass at his feet. The pearly fog, though pretty, reminded Frodo uneasily of the Barrow. He hated the cold, the damp, the empty wilds and the need to travel them. He wanted grass under his feet, not mud; a featherbed to sleep in, not the damp ground. Fearful things had chased him from the Shire, and he knew worse awaited him and his friends. He wished this adventure done, with all of them safe, yet all he had was brown grass and relentless insects in endless mire.
Pippin twisted where he lay, scouring the back of his neck and head with sudden violence against his wool blanket. "Bugger these midges!"
"Bugger your noise!" said Merry.
"Mind yours, too," retorted Frodo. "You're both as loud as drunken dwarves and ill-tempered as trolls." To Pippin he said, "Sit up." Pippin lay on the other side of Sam from Frodo, and Merry lay beyond Pippin, a little apart, while the other hobbits had tucked close together for warmth.
"What can you do?" demanded Pippin, but he struggled to sitting. The petulance in his voice did not mask the desperation to Frodo's keen ears, and Frodo could not hold on to his irritation for Pippin: the young hobbit was truly miserable. Frodo leaned on Sam's hip and roughly scrubbed his fingertips into Pippin's hair and down along his neck, reaching under his collar. Pippin's stiff shoulders loosened under Frodo's touch and his sigh was altogether different from Sam's.
"Better?"
"Ohh, yes," said Pippin, "until you stop." Frodo's worry was eased by the familiarity of Pippin's surrender to relief. Though stout enough a fellow, Pippin responded considerably to gestures of comfort; this he knew well about the young hobbit. Sam's warmth at his side comforted him, too, and the longing for intimacy that Sam had expressed earlier came to Frodo unbidden, rousing a sympathetic ache in his chest. He wanted to lose himself in skin, Sam's skin, and leave this frustration and fear behind, if only for a little while. He could not, and so he continued rubbing the itch from Pippin.
Merry turned over, bent his arm and rested his head on his hand to watch, his eyes like wells. "We could sit up and scratch each other's itches all night, but that won't help us sleep." He suffered under his anger, too. Frodo was sure of it. "We need something to keep the smaller pests away. As for Pippin, we could just drop him in the bog somewhere."
"Eat sheep dung, Merry," Pippin replied conversationally.
"Perhaps Strider will find us suitable lodgings," Frodo said dryly before Merry could resume the hostilities, "with smoky fires against the midges and shutters that close out the noise."
"And soft blankets," added Pippin dreamily. He leaned over Sam and pushed into Frodo's hands, a mute command to rub harder. Sam grunted under the pressure of sharp elbows and shifted to his side. "On a wide bed. And two breakfasts in the morning."
"If I could get my hands on some bog myrtle," said Sam, "I could mix it up with some oil or grease. That might keep the pests away."
"There's plenty of bog all round," Merry pointed out sourly. "More than I thought could exist in one place."
"But no myrtle near enough to help us," said Sam. "I've seen naught but grass and mud all day, and I couldn't hardly go looking now."
"There is no oil at any rate," said Frodo.
"I do have a bit of lard, though, that I got off of Nob." Sam looked up at Frodo. "I figured if we were needing to catch what we eat, a little beef fat would help the flavor. And if all else failed, I could make a little broth with it."
Affection for Sam bloomed sunny in Frodo, and he smiled. "Always thinking ahead."
"It's a shame to be wanting when a little foresight cures most needs," replied Sam.
Pippin slumped lower over Sam, loosening his shirt and bowing his head so Frodo could scratch more of his back.
"Do you think plain grease would keep the midges away?" asked Merry.
Sam thoughtfully scratched his chin. "No, but mud might."
Pippin raised his head. He was frowning. "What, smear mud all over ourselves? More than we have got all over us already, I mean."
Frodo removed his hands from under Pippin's shirt, dug one into the soft, wet soil beyond his blanket, and drew it down the back of Pippin's neck. Pippin gasped, displeased.
"Just give it a chance," said Frodo. "It's not like we have many choices."
"Your backrub was working quite nicely. Better than cold, slimy mud." Frodo felt him shudder.
"I'm sorry it's cold." Frodo was unable to feel too sorry; he'd had to listen to Pippin gripe for days. "But maybe the cold works as a distraction from the itch."
"You can distract a hobbit better with kisses than mud, Frodo," said Pippin, "or you used to. Why not give that strategy a try?"
"Kisses," said Merry in a clipped voice. "Kisses for distraction, eh?" Frodo glanced at Merry, who watched Pippin, his face stony. Then his gaze fell to Sam and found him looking up, his face bright in the moonlight and guileless as water.
The mud warmed between Frodo's hand and Pippin's neck. He worked the mud up to the hairline and drew his fingers along the curve behind Pippin's ear. His voice low Frodo said, "I know this journey hasn't been pleasant. Most of it has been nothing but running in fear through uncomfortable lands. I would ease it for you all, if I could."
"Goodness knows this land begs hard for something pleasant to distract us," said Merry. He reached out his hand, leaning forward, to brush Frodo's hand where it rested on Pippin's shoulder before withdrawing. "And you, my dear Frodo, could distract the whole of the Shire, if you put your mind to it. I think you've managed to keep even our good Sam distracted recently. Perhaps for quite some time now."
Sam squirmed in his blanket, and Frodo knew if he touched Sam's face, it would be hot. Frodo slid his clean hand up Sam's shoulder and cupped the back of his neck -- the skin as warm as he'd guessed -- while he answered Merry. "There are distractions and distractions, Merry. I've had my share. But Sam occupies me far more than any other."
"You used to say that about me," said Pippin.
"No, I used to say you delight me, and it was true -- two summers ago," retorted Frodo. He chucked him affectionately under the chin.
"So now it's Sam, eh? I wondered who you'd tossed me over for." Pippin twisted around and leaned on Sam until Sam lay flat under him, and then regarded him intently.
"Who tossed whom, Pippin? I figured you had someone waiting, the way you bolted," said Frodo.
"Oh, I kept busy."
Sam looked from Pippin to Frodo and licked his lips nervously. Pippin chuckled. "Come now, Sam. I don't bite. I just never knew you went in for this sort of thing."
"That's because you're thick, cousin." Merry poked Pippin in the back. "I knew all about Sam a long time ago."
"Oh really?" said Pippin. "You too?" He looked down at Sam, their noses nearly touching. "My, you do get around."
"It weren't like you two make it sound at all, if you're saying what it sounds like you're saying without saying it," said Sam. Sam looked up at Frodo again, his gaze begging for help. Frodo found he minded the midges a great deal less than he had before. Teasing Sam was hard to do, as much a delight as bedding him, and Pippin was playing along nicely. Frodo smiled and fingered the curls at Sam's temple.
"Oh, I know all about you and Merry," said Pippin.
Sam sputtered denials. Pippin laughed, and then said, "Don't fret yourself into a knot, Sam; I'm only teasing. Merry wouldn't pester you -- he's saving himself for Frodo."
"What," Merry sounded strangled, "are you talking about, Pippin?"
"I never hear of you getting out and about -- and I hear about everyone, one way or the other -- and now you just said you'd be happy to be distracted by Frodo," he said blithely, "so I guess it's Frodo you've been waiting on."
"You don't know a bloody thing, you ass!" said Merry.
"I know Frodo's a good kisser," Pippin retorted smartly, "and he's good at all the other things, too. I wonder," he said to Sam, "are you a good kisser, too?" And he kissed Sam's surprised mouth.
Frodo pushed Pippin off Sam so that he rolled laughing into Merry, who made a surprised noise. Playing along nicely was one thing. Pushing kisses on Sam was quite another. Sternly Frodo said, "Enough of that; you're acting foolish."
"Oh am I? At least I'm not minding those dreadful neekerbreekers. Or even the midges as much."
Sam spoke up unexpectedly. "Mr. Pippin's got a point. The talk's hardly been plain, but I've been paying it more attention than the midges, even if it ain't been enjoyable as kissing is."
"So I kiss well?" asked Pippin slyly.
"That was a bit quick to tell," replied Sam, "but I prefer to give kisses than have 'em stolen. And I prefer them from him as usually gives them to me."
Frodo laughed as he wrapped his arms warmly around Sam, amused at his own jealous doubt regarding Sam's ability to deal with a cheeky Took. He should have known better: there was more to Sam than met the eye. And better, Frodo felt liberated. What he and Sam shared was not meant to be secret, but they had always been circumspect for many reasons: for Frodo's part, he refrained from overt displays in front of his cousins -- especially Pippin -- out of simple courtesy. And he had thought Sam shy. "I shall give you a kiss then, Sam. Better your bites then the midges' any day."
"That's hardly useful to those of us without such distractions," grumbled Merry. "And some of us aren't thieves to go taking them without asking."
"Pest isn't harsh enough so now you're calling me a thief?" Pippin sounded hurt.
Sam turned in Frodo's embrace to face Merry, and he spoke as if to a childish 'tween caught picking the roses at Bag End. "'Biting and scratching is a Brandybuck's wooing, Mr. Merry, as the saying goes, or so I've heard, and that is just what you two've been doing for days. Whether Mr. Pippin knows it or not, the one you've been waiting on to kiss is him, just as he's been waiting on you, and that's a fact."
Pippin gaped at Sam briefly before he slowly faced Merry. Merry looked down.
Frodo stared at Sam in wonderment. He considered his cousins once more, and nearly groaned, angry with himself. Conspicuous as they were today the signs had been there for knowing eyes to see since last winter, now that he could see things anew. Distracted by Gandalf's grim news about his Ring and preparations to leave the Shire, Frodo had missed them.
"Sam's right," said Frodo softly. "And I'm sorry that I did not seen it sooner."
Pippin remained absorbed in his regard of Merry, but Merry's face came up. "Why?" he said. "Why are you sorry?"
"You deserve a safe place to explore this new thing between you," he said slowly. "I would not have let you follow me."
Sam touched Frodo's cheek. "There's hardly nothing you could do about them, Mr. Frodo," he said urgently, "not about this they've got fretting between them, and not about them following you, neither. They would chase after you, if need be, in the one case, and as for the fretting? There's nothing like worried times to bring secrets straight out of the heart, and there's nothing as can stop that if it's to be. Not lonely places, not a hard trail; not midges or mud or even doubt."
"Oh Sam," murmured Frodo. Sam surprised him time and again, claiming a bit more of his heart with every new discovery Frodo made about him. He thought about Strider's words, and how he doubted them about himself, but with Sam, it seemed he could do anything. The desire to sink into sweet distraction with Sam rose sudden and strong in Frodo, and he cared less if Merry or Pippin heard a thing this night. Frodo pulled Sam closer and stroked his hair, wondering if Sam might be persuaded to feel the same.
"Merry," said Pippin, and in his voice Frodo could hear a sliver of some dark uncertainty, "do you really want to kiss me?"
"Not since you shoved me off that rock."
"I didn't push you!" retorted Pippin. "If I had, you would have known it." With both hands he pushed at Merry where he lay. "Now answer me truly: do you want to kiss me? Really?"
"Yes," said Merry. "I do. Even when you're being a pest."
There was no privacy, nor could there be: no privacy but the courtesy to remain quiet while this delicate moment spun out between his cousins. Frodo smiled against Sam's hair, tucked close, and he began to draw his hand lazily up and down Sam's back as he peeked at Pippin and Merry. It came to Frodo that although Strider may know very well how to lead Men, this, he knew, was how to lead hobbits. Hobbits were sensible people and independent thinkers who usually knew what needed to be done. The most doubtful hobbit merely needed a little time to recognize the plain necessities and do what needed to be done -- unless he needed encouragement, and in the Shire encouragement was free as air.
Pippin laughed weakly. "I was teasing Sam, you know. But Merry," he said, "I honestly didn't know you went in for this sort of thing. Not lads with lads."
"You don't know much, then, do you?"
"I know that Frodo seems disinclined to share Sam." He held Merry's hand briefly against his cheek. "Do you -- do you think we could distract each other from the midges? Because even though I didn't know you wanted to kiss me, Sam's right: I think I always wanted to kiss you. I just didn't know it until..."
"Until when?"
"Now, I guess," he said, surprised, and then he laughed.
Merry caught Frodo looking at them, and he seemed ill at ease as Pippin wormed closer. "We'd get muddy."
"I don't care. We're already muddy."
"If I - if I took off my clothes," Merry lowered his voice, "the midges would bite me worse."
"I can distract you in your clothes almost as well as out of them," said Pippin.
"But Frodo and Sam --"
"Frodo and Sam don't bloody care, Merry," said Frodo suddenly. "They wouldn't mind a little diversion, too. And I know the both of them will sleep all the better for having taken some."
"But..." said Merry weakly.
Frodo's hand on Sam slowed. Merry, it seemed, needed some encouragement. "You know," he said, "Brandy Hall has too many rooms and locks. Everyone else here has had to make do in close quarters at one time or another. Have you never?"
"What?" said Merry. "Make do, or make do in close quarters?"
Pippin stroked Merry's hand tenderly. "I don't care either way, Merry, except if you say no to me now," Pippin said entreatingly. Merry turned his face to Pippin's once more, an intense regard not unlike the challenging stares given earlier, when he seemed inclined to fight. "I think putting you in guest quarters during visits did you a great disservice," added Pippin. "There aren't as many beds in the Great Smials as in Brandy Hall so sometimes the quarters are very tight indeed. Friends don't mind; in fact, sometimes an extra set of arms is exciting." His voice lowered to a warm pitch Frodo remembered. "And I love you to pieces, Merry. 'Tis better to do it than wish it done, you know. Don't you want to?"
Frodo involuntarily tightened his hold on Sam and his skin prickled with a hot shiver at the plaintive note in Pippin's voice. Well he remembered all his first couplings: the thick desire and fear of rejection in equal measures, the honeyed pleasure heady as wine, and how much he valued his partners through the aching want of them. Lying with Pippin had been delightful, and he remembered their liaison fondly, but the unbidden thought of Pippin's arms round him at the same time Sam was beneath him flared Frodo's desire hot as dragon-melted gold. And Merry, all dark eyes and hesitation, oddly shy about matters of the bed when he was so confident otherwise: Frodo, not for the first time, wondered what his kisses would be like, though never in such a context as this.
Merry whispered to Pippin, and even so close, the only word Frodo could hear was want. Sam made a satisfied noise at that and curled closer into Frodo, reclining them to their blankets, putting his nose on the soft skin of Frodo's neck and raising his shoulder to the young hobbits kissing. Frodo bunched his cloak higher under his head under pretense of nestling with Sam, and he watched.
Pippin and Merry lay on their sides. Merry's hand pale in the moonlight furrowed Pippin's dark hair, and Pippin wrapped his top leg round Merry's. They rocked a bit, and Frodo expected Pippin to push Merry under him, but Merry emerged on top. He held Pippin's face between his palms and angled it precisely. He paused, his silhouette as dark as Pippin's face was bright under the illuminating moon. Pippin's mouth opened a little: Frodo saw it as an invitation to taste. Merry lowered his head and eclipsed Pippin in shadow.
Sam's hand smoothed the front of Frodo's shirt, and Frodo murmured, "They have not gone for a walk, but I think we're as alone as we'll ever be."
"Glory me." Frodo felt Sam's lips, warm and dry, move against his ear as the breath he gave warmed Frodo's skin there, and the breath he took chilled it. "But it looks like I will get that sweet hour with you, dear Frodo, if you're willin'." Sam whispered so gently. He kissed the tip of Frodo's ear. "I've missed this; I've missed you, and I love you so."
Frodo was surrounded by midges and mud and marsh, but also with his most beloved friends. He tilted Sam's chin and kissed him, eyes open, twining his fingers in Sam's hair, telling him without words just how much he admired him. How much he loved him. He squirmed on top of Sam and kissed him again, pushing his mouth open and tasting deeper because his hunger was restless and confined, like a wolf in his breast pocket. He wanted to push Sam, push Merry and Pippin, but knew he must wait; pleasure had not led them past their inhibitions, and he sensed they would not this night, not in the way he could envision so well, close quarters or no. Yet, he would never force anyone to actions they did not want, no matter what his desire yearned for. No hobbit would.
A soft noise of frustration built in his throat, but Sam was right there, easing him with his sure hands and patient mouth. Sam knew when Frodo wanted to lie soft and spin pleasure out in threads, and he knew when Frodo wanted strength. Frodo cherished this particular talent now when Sam grasped his upper arms hard and drew his tongue deeper into his mouth. Frodo closed his eyes. He could smell Sam better; he slid his mouth off Sam's and licked the clean sweat that broke on his skin. Frodo groped at the front of Sam's trousers where his knuckles brushed a hardness like his own.
Though they spoke gently, he heard first Pippin, and then Merry, breathless. "How long was it for you? How long did you want this?"
"I - I don't think I knew exactly what I wanted for a long time, and then I did, but you, you and your friends, so many friends..." Frodo heard a kiss.
"You're my friend, Merry. Just you."
"And then I got scared, Pip," whispered Merry. "I got scared because suddenly we were facing dangers that could kill us before I ever had even a chance to say...or do...."
"Oh Merry."
Frodo had loosened the buttons of Sam's breeches and tugged the shirttails free. He kissed Sam to stifle anything said, though Sam was silent. Frodo worried more about what he might say. Pippin could never keep quiet in bed; it was beyond odd to hear, to remember, and Frodo was not above excited utterances himself.
It was not odd to run his hands flat under Sam's shirt and dip his thumb in Sam's navel, drag his palms over Sam's ribs, up to ghost higher and wake Sam's flesh. Sam's hands on his back were familiar, and the taste of Sam's mouth, and how he pulled at Frodo's bottom lip.
"Mm. Yes, like that," said Pippin. "Oh, yes." His soft, wet sounds distracted Frodo, and he found himself guessing what Pippin might be doing. Clothing rustled, Merry muttered, and Pippin laughed softly.
Sam drew his hands up in front of Frodo and threaded them around his neck to curve round his face on either side. One thumb tenderly stroked his cheek. Frodo closed his eyes and leaned into the caress. Sam kissed him intently as Frodo slid Sam's trousers open and down enough to trail his fingers lightly through the brisk curls and over the firming flesh.
Pippin sighed and oh'd and squirmed in the blankets under Merry. He gasped, and then snorted. "I am a fool, thinking you didn't know how to -- Merry!"
"Shh," said Merry. Frodo glanced over. One of Merry's hands was fisted in Pippin's hair; the other was between them, out of sight. Pippin's pale thigh glowed bright in contrast to his dark coat, the breeches bunched below his knee, and the blankets that fell away. "Shh. Shhh, Pippin. Shh, little pest."
Sam stirred under Frodo's hands, steady and resolute, and he caressed Frodo with careful thoroughness, drawing an ear tip, gently collaring his throat, pushing his shirt away and teasing, teasing. Frodo sighed languorously and let his head fall to one side. Though half-closed eyes he saw Merry bury his face in Pippin's neck as both hands busied themselves out of sight.
"Ah, Merry, oh, yes, oh, oh!"
"Shush!" Merry lifted his head and though his face was soft with desire, he looked down on Pippin with exasperation. He brought up a hand from between them. There was a small wet streak along his first finger the moonlight caught. Frodo remembered how quickly pleasure could sweep Pippin away. Merry thrust two fingers between Pippin's lips and Pippin drew them in, his eyes fluttered closed, but he still made noise, muffled hums.
Sudden heat licked along Frodo's chest. He arched into Sam's mouth, feeling his skin tighten and his toes clench. Strong hands anchored him by his hips, wandering thumbs slipping under the waist of his trousers.
Merry cursed, and Frodo involuntarily looked. "No biting!" Merry withdrew his fingers from Pippin's mouth. Pippin slanted a coy look up at him and said, "Put them to better use, then."
Frodo recognized that particular challenge: Pippin had often lulled Frodo in such a way before he would fight and thrash his way on top. Merry seemed to be a match, though. He thrust his wet hand between them once more, and Pippin yelped. They heaved and rolled together, movements only half-guessed, Pippin uttering leashed pleasure noises between Merry's commands to be quiet, Took!
Sam opened Frodo's trousers. A small gust of air was cool on his hot skin. Frodo sighed again, a soft ah, which Sam sipped from his mouth and kissed down. Their hips brushed forward, one into the other, and the intermittent pressure was maddening.
The movements only an arm's length away sounded violent. Merry growled continuously, "Quiet, quiet, quiet!" but the commands sounded like pleas. Pippin's voice rose, a ladder of breathy oh! Merry! that repeated and climbed. Frodo knew the exact note upon which he spilled, but Pippin didn't stop there. Merry rolled his shoulder, a movement that Frodo found hard to translate, and Pippin shouted. Merry's other hand came up and covered his mouth, but Pippin thrashed his head to and fro, arched and shuddering under him. "Merry, oh, oh, Merry!"
Sam chuckled into Frodo's neck, hot little puffs. "Noisy things, you Tooks and Brandybucks."
Frodo glanced over. "I think Merry knows how to deal with that." Merry rolled over to his back and arranged Pippin, pliant and happy, between his legs. Pippin fiddled with clothing, and Frodo looked up to Merry's face. Merry winced and groaned and bit the heel of his hand.
With Pippin's mouth otherwise occupied, Frodo could hear Merry. Merry sounded urgent and more than a little desperate. Sam, amused, whispered, "One finally shuts up and the other goes and takes up his slack by yammering nearly as much."
"Pippin's got a wicked mouth," said Frodo, and worried soon as he did that his careless remembrances might hurt Sam, but again Sam proved his mettle. He chuckled and replied, "Oh, but you see, you've never been lucky enough to partake of your own kisses. Your mouth is clever by far, Frodo. Clever and wicked and beautiful."
Frodo crept backwards down Sam's body, smiling and bestowing every clever pleasure he could with his mouth until he settled between Sam's legs. Sam, he saw, grinned, his teeth a pale gleam, and Frodo, still watching, lapped his hardness. Sam's eyes closed; his head fell back, then turned, and Frodo saw his eyes open again. From the direction they looked, and widened; and how his mouth opened, surprised, Frodo knew Sam watched Pippin.
Frodo could see only Merry, the side of his hand still jammed in his mouth, the other reaching down (and Frodo imagined it was buried in Pippin's hair). He reached up and fumbled for Sam's hand, placing it on his head. He heard a soft chuckle, and Sam's fingers dug into his hair. Frodo concentrated on his task, happy to hear the laugh leave Sam's voice as want grew. Sam's hand tightened, and pulled tangled curls as he encouraged Frodo's efforts. Frodo complied, fiercely thrilled that he could drive his steady Samwise beyond the limits of decorum with pleasure.
Merry cried out against his hand sharply. Frodo glanced up and saw his hand fall from his mouth to claw at the ground, and then down, out of Frodo's line of sight. Merry struggled to make no noise, and he sounded strangled, bound by ecstasy as he chanted Pippin's name.
Under his tongue, Sam's hardness jerked even as did Frodo's, both moved by Merry's abandon, and Frodo felt Sam's hands clasp his shoulders, urging him up; Frodo released him reluctantly. Strong, Sam drew Frodo up over him and took kisses from his mouth like they were air. He rolled Frodo under him, wedged his arm between them, and grasped them both in one hand. Frodo was seared where heat met heat, and Sam's hand was thrillingly cool. Frodo reached down and laced his fingers with Sam's so they shared the work joyfully.
Sam put his mouth on Frodo's again to take beseeching kisses as he shuddered deeply, which Frodo could feel to his very bones. Sam's lips moved purposefully, and he gasped, and Frodo knew he spoke. "Sweet," he panted. "My Frodo, oh, so sweet. Oh, so...oh." Sam suddenly broke from Frodo's mouth, breathing hard, their twined hands jerking faster below. The sweat breaking all over Frodo was a skin of pleasure, and he could happily die from it: the pressure, Sam's weight on him and the gust of his labored breath. Frodo twisted his grip as his hand stropped up; Sam stilled his driving hips and Frodo didn't stop his hand but quickened it, forcing Sam's to follow. Sam rested his forehead on Frodo's, his eyes closed. "Oh," he said. "Oh...oh!" even as Frodo exclaimed, "Yes, Sam, yes, now, yes!"
Sam shook, and spilled, and the sudden slick heat would undo Frodo within heartbeats if Sam continued to move, but he slumped into Frodo and huffed into his ear, "Oh how I love you."
His heart throbbed, still racing as Sam unraveled his fingers from messy weave at their groins. Sam moved Frodo's hand away too as he earnestly said, "Hold on," and he was still breathless, "I'm still here. Just let me..." He arranged his pants enough to move, and then pushed Frodo up the blanket as he awkwardly knee-walked backwards and settled between Frodo's parted thighs.
Heat enveloped Frodo, and he cried out. There were wicked mouths, and clever mouths; Frodo had experienced enough to sample many indeed, but none like Sam's.
Sam's mouth was wise.
Nothing existed for Frodo but Sam. No midges, no marches. No moonlight or cousins. Frodo covered his eyes with his forearm, trying to block even Sam long enough keep this moment, tense and perfect, as long as he could, no matter how impossible.
An owl hooted loudly, a noise different enough from the neekerbreekers that it penetrated Frodo's awareness. His arm fell away, and he looked up. Thin streamers of fog glowed brightly above. The insects shrilled. Frodo remembered the owl earlier, and wondered if it was the same one. Sam swirled his tongue, and Frodo's hips jerked up even as he frowned, the burden of his fears suddenly with him again. The owl had taken its coney, screaming, but things more evil waited for Frodo, and none would hesitate to cut down those with him.
He moaned, trapped between his pleasure and his fears and unable to break either bond. He closed his eyes and turned his head back and forth, no, no, face tensed and teeth clenched. Sam seemed to take his movements as encouragement, and steadied Frodo with a hand around the base of his hardness, the better to pleasure him. Frodo fisted the blankets and jerked at them. He curled up enough to lift his head, and then dropped, hard, but he could not shake the shadows that clawed him and held him back from ecstasy.
Frodo flung his arms wide, face tilted to the moon, its light bright even behind his closed eyelids. He gasped, a sob that was equal parts desire and sorrow, and tears came. They rolled from the outer corners of his eyes into his hair, and he balled his hand and pounded the cold wet ground.
Someone, not Sam, took his fist and eased it flat. Frodo's eyes snapped open; he turned his head, and he saw Pippin and Merry spooned together, facing him, their faces shadowed and inscrutable. Pippin, nearest, laced his fingers between Frodo's.
"Stop fighting so, Frodo," he said softly.
And Pippin would know that about him, that he could fight his pleasure sometimes, though Frodo doubted Pippin knew why; he only knew Frodo needed help when it happened.
"Let it happen," Pippin said. Merry slowly reached along Pippin's arm and covered their joined hands with his. "Let go, Frodo. Let go."
Sam, thought Frodo despairing. He feared losing Sam; he wanted to clutch this moment to his breast selfishly forever, but he knew that was wrong. They had begun the journey, and they would have to finish it, one way or the other, no matter the cost. As Pippin gently exhorted him to surrender, Frodo stared at him, at Merry, knowing the peril they all faced and seeing that knowledge in them, too. "Sam," he whispered without breath. "Sam. Sam."
Frodo clutched Sam's shoulder with his free hand, and he turned away from Pippin and Merry to look at him. Sam worked in bliss. Here, as in his garden, Sam knew his business; he knew Frodo needed more, and he gave it, covering Frodo's hand on his shoulder with his own, and slipping the other from its hold on Frodo down and back, fingers slick, and pressed. Frodo felt he might fly up and burn like a star, and then fall, fading, into the west. He gripped Pippin's hand hard, their fingers tangled with Merry's, and they met his grasp, holding him down, and shrill as a bird he cried aloud, "Sam, Sam, oh Sam!"
The marsh returned to Frodo, and it was a softer land this time. Sam held him close in his arms; the blankets wound snug and warm. Pippin was pressed up tight along his other side, still wearing Merry like a cloak, snoring softly like he did when overtired. Merry opened his heavy eyes a little and nuzzled Pippin's hair even as he looked at Frodo. Frodo's hand was still entwined within theirs. They knew him, Merry and Pippin and Sam, and, good hobbits that they were, they had encouraged him past his own doubts.
"Sleep," whispered Sam. "Sleep."
*
Frodo woke when Sam left their blankets. The sun was well up, and Strider was strapping supplies to Bill's back. Merry sat with crossed legs next to Pippin, who still slept, eating bread and staring off into the distance. Sam returned, smoothing his clothes. Frodo wallowed in the comforting warmth of his blankets, but he would soon have to follow Sam's suit and relieve himself. He sighed, partly because he did not want to leave his bed and start the day, but mostly because he was content.
Merry glanced at him over his shoulder. "Finally awake, I see, lazybones."
"Lazybones?" Frodo smiled. "Why tease me? What about Pippin? He's still drowned deep."
Merry spared a glance for Pippin. He lay curled on his side, cloak scrunched up as a pillow under his cheek. "Oh, I'll tease him."
"But not like yesterday, I'll warrant," Sam said slyly as he dropped next to Frodo. Frodo struggled out of the blankets and sat up.
Merry colored, but he kept his light tone. "Maybe. Maybe not. Depends on how much of a pest he is today."
Frodo's smile grew as he stood and stretched. The mists softened the marshes, and as he walked away from their bit of dry ground to relieve himself, the sun shone brighter; it would burn away the fog by midday.
"We must leave soon," said Strider as Frodo returned, and Frodo paused. Strider pulled a strap tight and buckled it. Bill huffed in protest but bore it. "Our way will ease today; we should be out of the marshes before we stop for the night."
"Good," said Frodo. "That is heartening. I will be glad to leave the marshes behind."
Strider looked over Bill's neck. Frodo followed his gaze; he watched Pippin slowly stretch from his blankets as Merry peeled them back. Sam looked on, content, while he ate. "You are rested? It seems you slept well."
"Yes, thank you. I did."
"What about your cousins, and Sam?" asked Strider. "Will they be able to keep up today?"
"Oh yes," said Frodo. Small pride warmed him. "I know my friends. Together we can follow anywhere you lead."