Disclaimer: all characters property of J.R.R. Tolkien.
The first time Pippin saw the meadow below Buck Hill on fire, he had been seven. He had hidden behind Pearl, sheltered by her voluminous skirts, succumbing occasionally to the dreadful fascination of the shouts and whoops echoing through the night and peeping out at the cattle and the flocks being led through the crackling flames to bring a good yield and luck to the farmers. Even then he had felt the spark in his blood that makes him wonder now, at sixteen, whether he's acquired a dose of Brandybuck along the line. Only the Bucklanders, Shire circles say, would keep such unruly Lithe traditions, and, furthermore, enjoy them.
He could watch, his mother had told him earlier, but no taking part until he reached his tweens. Pippin gazes out now, hungrily, into the darkness, straining his ears over the cows' alarmed bellowing for the next name taking their turn. The Buckland lads have made Midyear's night into a sport of who can down enough beer and have enough courage to stay in the embers the longest, and loud laughter and the odor of singeing foot hair adds to the general din. Pippin feels halfway to screaming with impatience. He wants so badly to be a part of it that he can taste it. There's something hypnotic and compelling about the lick of the flames, the smell of sweating bodies, both animal and hobbit. For the short hours before the sun restores convention and order, it feels as though magic could happen.
"Here comes Merry Brandybuck!" yells one of the Tunnellys from Bree, and a great cheer goes up. Pippin's head snaps around. He sees his uncle Saradoc on his feet, applauding with the enthusiasm of someone thirty years younger, and his aunt Esmeralda, seated on a worn embroidered chair from one of the drawing rooms, covering her face with her hands. A group of a dozen lads are entering the field, and, in their midst, like a conquering hero, is Merry, hauling gamely on the rope around the neck of a ram rolling its eyes and fighting him every step of the way.
Merry's weskit and shirt are open, his face flushed, and as he pushes through the crowd, Pippin's gripped with a thrill beyond anticipation. He's adored Merry for as long as he can remember, but on this strange, fleeting night, he has a longing to be old enough to join Merry's games, whatever they are, that makes him breathless with its intensity; carries him through Merry's run and leaves him with his throat hoarse from shouting and his heart thumping against his ribs.
Merry lurches across the grass, full of beer, pride and laughter, and throws his arm around Pippin's shoulders. When he drags him in to swipe a thoughtless kiss over his cheek, Pippin feels the press, the happy, excited half hardness of him, against his hip. He shivers, deep in his belly.
Heat and smoke around them, still. But the fire is in Merry's eyes.