Author's Note: Thank you so much, everyone, for all the kind reviews. It's really very inspirational to know people are reading and enjoying.
Merry opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't. Weak sunlight filtered through the window and dappled over the bedcovers; his head ached, his stomach churned horribly, and he felt as if a portion of the back of his neck was being pulled away by unseen hands. His eyes were sore and tender, and the strip of cloth around his hand had come undone during the night, leaving a few bloody smudges on his hand and the sheets.
Sitting up, he realised that he was in Pippin's room, and that he was alone; and then the events of the previous day and evening flooded back to him in a chaos of images and emotions, and he groaned. Wincing at the movement, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was an earthenware mug full of water on the nightstand, and he gulped it thirstily down before feeling sufficiently revived to place his feet on the floor. His hand was hot and sore and he felt around in the sheets for the bandage before realising that he would have trouble replacing it one-handed.
He rose from the bed and walked to the door; opening it cautiously, he listened for sounds, and heard a faint clattering from the kitchen. He walked down the corridor and peered into his own bedroom; the floor was clean, the nightstand had been repositioned and any broken glass swept up, and the window had been thrown open to freshen the room. Merry continued towards the kitchen; the door was closed, and he swallowed heavily. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, feeling ashamed of himself and terrified of what he might find within; but even if Pippin was angry or hurt or disappointed or still upset, he had to be faced and things made right again, no matter how bad Merry felt or how his head throbbed.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door; and Pippin looked up solemn-faced from the table where he had his head bent over a mug of tea. They looked at one another for a long moment; Merry could not read Pippin's expression - apprehension, worry, distaste? Pippin's face was usually so open and familiar to him that he could read everything his cousin felt there, indeed almost feel it; it was disturbing not to know what was going through Pippin's head.
Then Pippin rose from the table and walked around it to touch Merry lightly on the arm. "You must feel like death," he said gently. "Come and sit down, and I'll make you some strong tea."
Merry allowed himself to be led to a seat at the wide wooden table, and watched as Pippin moved about the room, putting the kettle back on the stove, rinsing out the teapot and spooning tea-leaves into it. The kitchen was warm, the light filtered through the trees outside so that it didn't hurt Merry's eyes as the sunlight in the bedroom had done. "Where did you sleep last night?" Merry wondered aloud.
There was a swift indrawn breath, and then Pippin answered "In my bed. With you." He placed the lid carefully back on the tea-caddy. "Don't you remember?"
Merry frowned, willing the memory to come back; he shook his head.
"I didn't want to leave you. You were - a bit upset," said Pippin carefully, returning to his own cup of tea.
"I know," said Merry, lowering his eyes to the table. He felt his chest seize up tight, as if a band were constricting around it and crushing his ribs; hot tears rose to his eyes and he pressed his lips tightly together, trying to hold back the wave of grief and shame.
Pippin's voice was low. "Do you want me to make you something to eat?"
"No," said Merry, without looking up.
"It would do you good."
Merry could think of nothing to say, and so he looked down at his hands. He wanted desperately to ask Pippin - what? What could he ask him? How could he bring up their grief over Frodo, Pippin's disappearance, the kiss, anything that had happened last night? When had it become so difficult for them to speak plainly to one another?
"How much did you drink last night?" asked Pippin; Merry looked up, expecting to see him frowning, but Pippin was smiling, albeit sadly and with a wry twist to his mouth.
"I don't really remember," confessed Merry. "Too much."
Pippin snorted. "That much is obvious. You should have stuck to ale; it would have taken you a lot longer to drink enough of that to make you sick."
The kettle began to hum and Pippin got up to pour the water into the pot. Merry leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand; it felt as if his spine wasn't strong enough to take the weight. His stomach was threatening to leap up into his throat, and his heart was beating absurdly fast, and Pippin's expression was still unfathomable to him. He watched warily through his fingers as Pippin put the kettle back on the stove, as he bustled about getting honey and a spoon, as the tea curled into the mug and the steam wreathed around it.
Pippin pushed the full mug of tea over to Merry. "Drink up. You'll feel all the better for it, once you've got something inside you." He watched while Merry took the mug and lifted it, letting the steam moisten his dry lips before sipping. At first it made his stomach a little queasy, but he was conscious of Pippin's eyes on him and kept sipping until he had finished half the mug before putting it down on the table and realising with surprise that he did feel a little better.
"Now some food," said Pippin. "I'll make you some toast and a boiled egg."
Merry looked down at his hands and swallowed, trying to breathe deeply to calm the fluttering of his heart. "Pippin. We need to talk about it."
There was no answer for a moment, except unsteady breathing, and then Pippin said, very low, "I can't."
"We need to, Pip."
Pippin lifted the teapot and poured more tea into Merry's mug; Merry noticed that his hand was shaking, causing the smooth flow of liquid to ripple and splash. The pot was replaced on the table, and then Merry looked fully up, into Pippin's face, at a slightly quivering lip above a jaw that was clenched with the strain of keeping calm. He realised suddenly that Pippin was having as much trouble with this morning as he himself was.
"I don't think talking about it will make it any better," said Pippin; his voice was tight, and then it quavered slightly as he continued, "and I don't know what to say to you, Merry."
"Then I'll start," said Merry, drawing a deep breath. "Pippin, I'm so sorry -"
"*You're* sorry?" Pippin's face suddenly changed as if a mask had fallen away, his eyes widening. "Merry!"
"I'm sorry I got drunk. I'm sorry I woke you up in the middle of the night, and upset you. I'm sorry I broke a glass, and was sick, and made all that mess for you to clean up." Merry found that now he had his courage, the words slipped away from him as smooth as cream. "I'm sorry I scared you before that, and made you run away. I'm sorry that I can't find the words to comfort you, Pippin, and I wish, I wish there was something I could do to make things all right again. I'm sorry I wasn't able to help you when you needed me." He pushed his mug away with a groan, folded his arms on the table and pressed his forehead against them. "I wish," he said, feeling the tears begin to shred and tangle his voice, "I wish I could help you, and help Sam, and get Frodo back here again and make everything all right. I can't bring Frodo back to us and I don't know, I don't know everything that happened to him, to make him have to leave. I don't think anyone can know that, truly, expect perhaps Sam. But I'll do my best to help you, Pip, if you let me try. I'm just, I was just so tired and upset, and I didn't know where you had gone -"
"I went to the inn, to have an ale and a think. We had the same idea, Merry, only we did it differently." Pippin's hand reached out and tentatively stroked Merry's hair, and his voice quivered. "I've never seen you cry like that before, Merry. You hardly ever cry."
"I cry." said Merry softly. He smiled painfully through a fresh flood of tears, lifting his head so that Pippin's hand slid off. "Frodo was my older cousin when I was little, Pip, and I loved him and followed him around, just as you did with me. Just as you did. And I used to go to him and cry on his shoulder and ask for help, as you always did with me. And he would comfort me."
Pippin looked at him across the table, a tear slipping down the side of his nose, and Merry looked into those wet green eyes and found that Pippin's face was open to him again, filled with love and trust and the beginnings of a painful understanding, and so beautiful and vulnerable that Pippin's tears called forth tears from his own eyes. Pippin reached out his hand again, and Merry reached out his as well, and their hands clasped warm and yielding over the hard surface of the table. A moment later they were both on their feet, and a moment after that they were in one another's arms. Merry pressed his forehead against Pippin's shoulder, feeling that it could bear the weight of his aching head for a while, and Pippin buried his face in Merry's neck and cried a little, while they gently rocked one another, each relaxing into the other's tender strength.
TBC...
Merry opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn't. Weak sunlight filtered through the window and dappled over the bedcovers; his head ached, his stomach churned horribly, and he felt as if a portion of the back of his neck was being pulled away by unseen hands. His eyes were sore and tender, and the strip of cloth around his hand had come undone during the night, leaving a few bloody smudges on his hand and the sheets.
Sitting up, he realised that he was in Pippin's room, and that he was alone; and then the events of the previous day and evening flooded back to him in a chaos of images and emotions, and he groaned. Wincing at the movement, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. There was an earthenware mug full of water on the nightstand, and he gulped it thirstily down before feeling sufficiently revived to place his feet on the floor. His hand was hot and sore and he felt around in the sheets for the bandage before realising that he would have trouble replacing it one-handed.
He rose from the bed and walked to the door; opening it cautiously, he listened for sounds, and heard a faint clattering from the kitchen. He walked down the corridor and peered into his own bedroom; the floor was clean, the nightstand had been repositioned and any broken glass swept up, and the window had been thrown open to freshen the room. Merry continued towards the kitchen; the door was closed, and he swallowed heavily. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, feeling ashamed of himself and terrified of what he might find within; but even if Pippin was angry or hurt or disappointed or still upset, he had to be faced and things made right again, no matter how bad Merry felt or how his head throbbed.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the door; and Pippin looked up solemn-faced from the table where he had his head bent over a mug of tea. They looked at one another for a long moment; Merry could not read Pippin's expression - apprehension, worry, distaste? Pippin's face was usually so open and familiar to him that he could read everything his cousin felt there, indeed almost feel it; it was disturbing not to know what was going through Pippin's head.
Then Pippin rose from the table and walked around it to touch Merry lightly on the arm. "You must feel like death," he said gently. "Come and sit down, and I'll make you some strong tea."
Merry allowed himself to be led to a seat at the wide wooden table, and watched as Pippin moved about the room, putting the kettle back on the stove, rinsing out the teapot and spooning tea-leaves into it. The kitchen was warm, the light filtered through the trees outside so that it didn't hurt Merry's eyes as the sunlight in the bedroom had done. "Where did you sleep last night?" Merry wondered aloud.
There was a swift indrawn breath, and then Pippin answered "In my bed. With you." He placed the lid carefully back on the tea-caddy. "Don't you remember?"
Merry frowned, willing the memory to come back; he shook his head.
"I didn't want to leave you. You were - a bit upset," said Pippin carefully, returning to his own cup of tea.
"I know," said Merry, lowering his eyes to the table. He felt his chest seize up tight, as if a band were constricting around it and crushing his ribs; hot tears rose to his eyes and he pressed his lips tightly together, trying to hold back the wave of grief and shame.
Pippin's voice was low. "Do you want me to make you something to eat?"
"No," said Merry, without looking up.
"It would do you good."
Merry could think of nothing to say, and so he looked down at his hands. He wanted desperately to ask Pippin - what? What could he ask him? How could he bring up their grief over Frodo, Pippin's disappearance, the kiss, anything that had happened last night? When had it become so difficult for them to speak plainly to one another?
"How much did you drink last night?" asked Pippin; Merry looked up, expecting to see him frowning, but Pippin was smiling, albeit sadly and with a wry twist to his mouth.
"I don't really remember," confessed Merry. "Too much."
Pippin snorted. "That much is obvious. You should have stuck to ale; it would have taken you a lot longer to drink enough of that to make you sick."
The kettle began to hum and Pippin got up to pour the water into the pot. Merry leaned his elbow on the table and rested his head in his hand; it felt as if his spine wasn't strong enough to take the weight. His stomach was threatening to leap up into his throat, and his heart was beating absurdly fast, and Pippin's expression was still unfathomable to him. He watched warily through his fingers as Pippin put the kettle back on the stove, as he bustled about getting honey and a spoon, as the tea curled into the mug and the steam wreathed around it.
Pippin pushed the full mug of tea over to Merry. "Drink up. You'll feel all the better for it, once you've got something inside you." He watched while Merry took the mug and lifted it, letting the steam moisten his dry lips before sipping. At first it made his stomach a little queasy, but he was conscious of Pippin's eyes on him and kept sipping until he had finished half the mug before putting it down on the table and realising with surprise that he did feel a little better.
"Now some food," said Pippin. "I'll make you some toast and a boiled egg."
Merry looked down at his hands and swallowed, trying to breathe deeply to calm the fluttering of his heart. "Pippin. We need to talk about it."
There was no answer for a moment, except unsteady breathing, and then Pippin said, very low, "I can't."
"We need to, Pip."
Pippin lifted the teapot and poured more tea into Merry's mug; Merry noticed that his hand was shaking, causing the smooth flow of liquid to ripple and splash. The pot was replaced on the table, and then Merry looked fully up, into Pippin's face, at a slightly quivering lip above a jaw that was clenched with the strain of keeping calm. He realised suddenly that Pippin was having as much trouble with this morning as he himself was.
"I don't think talking about it will make it any better," said Pippin; his voice was tight, and then it quavered slightly as he continued, "and I don't know what to say to you, Merry."
"Then I'll start," said Merry, drawing a deep breath. "Pippin, I'm so sorry -"
"*You're* sorry?" Pippin's face suddenly changed as if a mask had fallen away, his eyes widening. "Merry!"
"I'm sorry I got drunk. I'm sorry I woke you up in the middle of the night, and upset you. I'm sorry I broke a glass, and was sick, and made all that mess for you to clean up." Merry found that now he had his courage, the words slipped away from him as smooth as cream. "I'm sorry I scared you before that, and made you run away. I'm sorry that I can't find the words to comfort you, Pippin, and I wish, I wish there was something I could do to make things all right again. I'm sorry I wasn't able to help you when you needed me." He pushed his mug away with a groan, folded his arms on the table and pressed his forehead against them. "I wish," he said, feeling the tears begin to shred and tangle his voice, "I wish I could help you, and help Sam, and get Frodo back here again and make everything all right. I can't bring Frodo back to us and I don't know, I don't know everything that happened to him, to make him have to leave. I don't think anyone can know that, truly, expect perhaps Sam. But I'll do my best to help you, Pip, if you let me try. I'm just, I was just so tired and upset, and I didn't know where you had gone -"
"I went to the inn, to have an ale and a think. We had the same idea, Merry, only we did it differently." Pippin's hand reached out and tentatively stroked Merry's hair, and his voice quivered. "I've never seen you cry like that before, Merry. You hardly ever cry."
"I cry." said Merry softly. He smiled painfully through a fresh flood of tears, lifting his head so that Pippin's hand slid off. "Frodo was my older cousin when I was little, Pip, and I loved him and followed him around, just as you did with me. Just as you did. And I used to go to him and cry on his shoulder and ask for help, as you always did with me. And he would comfort me."
Pippin looked at him across the table, a tear slipping down the side of his nose, and Merry looked into those wet green eyes and found that Pippin's face was open to him again, filled with love and trust and the beginnings of a painful understanding, and so beautiful and vulnerable that Pippin's tears called forth tears from his own eyes. Pippin reached out his hand again, and Merry reached out his as well, and their hands clasped warm and yielding over the hard surface of the table. A moment later they were both on their feet, and a moment after that they were in one another's arms. Merry pressed his forehead against Pippin's shoulder, feeling that it could bear the weight of his aching head for a while, and Pippin buried his face in Merry's neck and cried a little, while they gently rocked one another, each relaxing into the other's tender strength.
TBC...