Author's Note: Thank you for all the reviews!
****
Merry sighed, thumbing the tears from Pippin's cheeks; but there were so many that they spilled over his thumbs and down the backs of his hands. "There was no help for it, dearest. He couldn't stay. He was too much hurt."
"How can you be so calm about it?" Pippin's voice rose and choked. "Merry, it's not fair!"
Merry closed his eyes, breathing deep and long. There was a lump in his throat, and an iron band around his chest, making breathing difficult. Tears prickled behind his eyelids, but he forced them away. Pippin needed him strong now. He bent his head closer, leaning his forehead against Pippin's, taking comfort in the warm press of their foreheads together.
A moment later, he opened his eyes, and that was his undoing.
Pippin's eyes were looking into his, brimming with tears and so pain-filled that Merry could scarcely bear it. As Pippin's eyes closed tearfully again, Merry leaned closer to close the last space between their faces, intending to press a gentle kiss on Pippin's cheek, as he'd done countless times in the past; but before he knew what was happening, he found his lips pressed against the trembling sweet curve of Pippin's mouth. And oh, he was swept away; suddenly found he was scarcely aware of anything except those warm soft lips on his and the sudden thrill that rushed through him, excitement and terror and joy making his heart pound and snatching his breath from his lungs. He could taste Pippin's tears on his lips, could feel Pippin trembling in his arms, more than trembling now, he was shaking like a tree in a high wind, and Merry was kissing Pippin as if he could not stop, being tossed around like a stick in a storm, flying through the air, not knowing where he would land.
Pippin made a tiny panicked noise in the back of his throat and tensed in Merry's arms, and Merry broke away, alarmed. As he squatted back on his heels, wondering at himself, he noticed that Pippin had stopped crying, but tears still glistened on his still face in the light of the dying fire and he was trembling noticeably, eyes wide and startled. Merry reached out a hand towards him, hoping that he hadn't made things worse. He tried to speak, but found that no words would come; they danced just out of his reach like leaves on the wind.
"Merry..." Pippin's tongue flicked out, unconsciously, running over his bottom lip where Merry had kissed it. He abruptly scrambled to his feet and stood for a moment above Merry, who felt suddenly heavy and unable to move. He looked up at Pippin standing above him, wet-faced and his fingers blackened by ash; Pippin's chin trembled, his hands by his sides clenched and unclenched, and then he whirled around on his heel and was gone, the front door slamming behind him.
Merry closed his eyes, wondering at himself. Not that he had kissed Pippin, but that he had kissed him like that, and why he had done it now. Oh, he'd known that his feelings for his young cousin included desire, mixed in with other emotions like love and protectiveness and sheer joy in Pippin's company; but he'd kept the desire apart from the everyday life of food and rambles and fun because, well, Pippin was young, not even of age yet; he was too precious for Merry to risk damaging their closeness by confronting him with these feelings too soon, and there was plenty of time for that later. Then during the long and dark and terrible time when they fled and fought together, they had so little time to themselves, and most of it spent in comforting one another's terror, or their fears for Frodo, or sharing the jokes and concerns and minor triumphs of the day, as they had always done in private. There was no time for desire in the hurried dash from Weathertop to Rivendell, or in the ruins of Isengard. And then they had been apart, and that was the hardest thing of all. Merry had faced battles and hardships and the terror of the Witch-King with sword in hand and grim face, but his heart had longed desperately for Pippin and many times tears had trickled down his face, mistaken for rain or sweat by those few who saw.
He had never doubted that Pippin loved him as deeply; he had known that Pippin's heart was his since his cousin was a wee lad. In more recent years he had occasionally wondered whether Pippin felt desire for him in return, but he had been assured of it by the swift leap in Pippin's heartbeat when Merry pillowed his head on his cousin's chest, the slight tremble of Pippin's hand in his, the sudden intake of breath on some occasions when they touched. Pippin loved him and wanted him - but, Merry berated himself, he'd spoiled it by forcing the issue too soon. It had all gone wrong, because the day had been hard and the time was too soon after Frodo's going - how could he have been so stupid, how could he have taken advantage of Pippin's need for comfort and used it for his own pleasure? Tonight's grief was too raw to be rubbed away by the press of lips or the meeting of bodies; this night was for grief and talk and tears. Ever since Pippin was very small, he had counted on Merry to explain the things he didn't understand; now he had come to him because he needed comfort, and needed to understand why Frodo had to leave. And Merry had let him down.
Merry felt the tears which he'd struggled to hold back prickle behind his eyelids. He was so tired. Everything was wrong. Thoughts tumbled around in his head, clanking their sides together heavily like beer tankards. He loved Pippin, but he had upset him, and the fire was dying, and he didn't know how to make things better, and Pippin's lips were warm, and the floor was hard beneath his knees, and Frodo was gone. Frodo, beloved cousin, master of Bag End; ringbearer, saviour of the world, and traveller on a journey from which there was no return.
The world came crashing down, dense and black. Merry wearily got to his feet, which felt like blocks of stone, and picked up a candlestick. The house was empty and still cold, and he wanted to be warm and to forget his pain and grief for a while. There was wine in the kitchen, four bottles, taken from the cellars at Brandy Hall a few days ago. A nightcap would warm him and help him sleep, and perhaps when he woke in the morning, Pippin would be there.
Behind him there was a sputter as the last embers of the fire died away.
****
Merry sighed, thumbing the tears from Pippin's cheeks; but there were so many that they spilled over his thumbs and down the backs of his hands. "There was no help for it, dearest. He couldn't stay. He was too much hurt."
"How can you be so calm about it?" Pippin's voice rose and choked. "Merry, it's not fair!"
Merry closed his eyes, breathing deep and long. There was a lump in his throat, and an iron band around his chest, making breathing difficult. Tears prickled behind his eyelids, but he forced them away. Pippin needed him strong now. He bent his head closer, leaning his forehead against Pippin's, taking comfort in the warm press of their foreheads together.
A moment later, he opened his eyes, and that was his undoing.
Pippin's eyes were looking into his, brimming with tears and so pain-filled that Merry could scarcely bear it. As Pippin's eyes closed tearfully again, Merry leaned closer to close the last space between their faces, intending to press a gentle kiss on Pippin's cheek, as he'd done countless times in the past; but before he knew what was happening, he found his lips pressed against the trembling sweet curve of Pippin's mouth. And oh, he was swept away; suddenly found he was scarcely aware of anything except those warm soft lips on his and the sudden thrill that rushed through him, excitement and terror and joy making his heart pound and snatching his breath from his lungs. He could taste Pippin's tears on his lips, could feel Pippin trembling in his arms, more than trembling now, he was shaking like a tree in a high wind, and Merry was kissing Pippin as if he could not stop, being tossed around like a stick in a storm, flying through the air, not knowing where he would land.
Pippin made a tiny panicked noise in the back of his throat and tensed in Merry's arms, and Merry broke away, alarmed. As he squatted back on his heels, wondering at himself, he noticed that Pippin had stopped crying, but tears still glistened on his still face in the light of the dying fire and he was trembling noticeably, eyes wide and startled. Merry reached out a hand towards him, hoping that he hadn't made things worse. He tried to speak, but found that no words would come; they danced just out of his reach like leaves on the wind.
"Merry..." Pippin's tongue flicked out, unconsciously, running over his bottom lip where Merry had kissed it. He abruptly scrambled to his feet and stood for a moment above Merry, who felt suddenly heavy and unable to move. He looked up at Pippin standing above him, wet-faced and his fingers blackened by ash; Pippin's chin trembled, his hands by his sides clenched and unclenched, and then he whirled around on his heel and was gone, the front door slamming behind him.
Merry closed his eyes, wondering at himself. Not that he had kissed Pippin, but that he had kissed him like that, and why he had done it now. Oh, he'd known that his feelings for his young cousin included desire, mixed in with other emotions like love and protectiveness and sheer joy in Pippin's company; but he'd kept the desire apart from the everyday life of food and rambles and fun because, well, Pippin was young, not even of age yet; he was too precious for Merry to risk damaging their closeness by confronting him with these feelings too soon, and there was plenty of time for that later. Then during the long and dark and terrible time when they fled and fought together, they had so little time to themselves, and most of it spent in comforting one another's terror, or their fears for Frodo, or sharing the jokes and concerns and minor triumphs of the day, as they had always done in private. There was no time for desire in the hurried dash from Weathertop to Rivendell, or in the ruins of Isengard. And then they had been apart, and that was the hardest thing of all. Merry had faced battles and hardships and the terror of the Witch-King with sword in hand and grim face, but his heart had longed desperately for Pippin and many times tears had trickled down his face, mistaken for rain or sweat by those few who saw.
He had never doubted that Pippin loved him as deeply; he had known that Pippin's heart was his since his cousin was a wee lad. In more recent years he had occasionally wondered whether Pippin felt desire for him in return, but he had been assured of it by the swift leap in Pippin's heartbeat when Merry pillowed his head on his cousin's chest, the slight tremble of Pippin's hand in his, the sudden intake of breath on some occasions when they touched. Pippin loved him and wanted him - but, Merry berated himself, he'd spoiled it by forcing the issue too soon. It had all gone wrong, because the day had been hard and the time was too soon after Frodo's going - how could he have been so stupid, how could he have taken advantage of Pippin's need for comfort and used it for his own pleasure? Tonight's grief was too raw to be rubbed away by the press of lips or the meeting of bodies; this night was for grief and talk and tears. Ever since Pippin was very small, he had counted on Merry to explain the things he didn't understand; now he had come to him because he needed comfort, and needed to understand why Frodo had to leave. And Merry had let him down.
Merry felt the tears which he'd struggled to hold back prickle behind his eyelids. He was so tired. Everything was wrong. Thoughts tumbled around in his head, clanking their sides together heavily like beer tankards. He loved Pippin, but he had upset him, and the fire was dying, and he didn't know how to make things better, and Pippin's lips were warm, and the floor was hard beneath his knees, and Frodo was gone. Frodo, beloved cousin, master of Bag End; ringbearer, saviour of the world, and traveller on a journey from which there was no return.
The world came crashing down, dense and black. Merry wearily got to his feet, which felt like blocks of stone, and picked up a candlestick. The house was empty and still cold, and he wanted to be warm and to forget his pain and grief for a while. There was wine in the kitchen, four bottles, taken from the cellars at Brandy Hall a few days ago. A nightcap would warm him and help him sleep, and perhaps when he woke in the morning, Pippin would be there.
Behind him there was a sputter as the last embers of the fire died away.