Fredegar Bolger smiled from his perch on the field's fenced border, watching his three playmates and cousins tackle each other into the enormous leaf piles they had accumulated. Raking up had started as a punishment for this very act, which made him wonder about the state of mind of whatever adult had given them this task in the first place. What kind of an adult would prescribe this as punishment, when they had to know this would happen?
"Come on, Fatty!" little Pippin called, muffled voice emanating from somewhere deep within the burgundy and chocolate pile. "There are plenty of leaves here!" he screamed, and began laughing again as Merry rubbed some of the more crumbly leaves vigorously on his head, leaving brown bits and pieces to stick in his curls. The boys were trying to shake the leaves off of themselves as fast as they accumulated, occasionally spitting out a mouthful of the yellow and orange irritants
"That is quite all right!" Fredegar called back, trying to keep the mild distaste from his voice. While he did enjoy time spent with his three companions, he was never one for rough, dirty play, which this was fast becoming. The pile migrated closer and closer to a wet patch of sunken land, that would probably swallow a foot up to the ankle.
He sighed, wishing not for the first time that he were more like his cousins. He always felt like he was left sitting on the fence, away from what they were doing. They were his friends, the closest he had. He would do anything for them, had often taken their punishments right along with them, without partaking in any of the incriminating fun. It had never come to a test, but he felt he would do nearly anything for these cousins and friends that seemed to be able to shelf him so easily. Was the feeling returned?
Fredegar often questioned that. He knew the group dynamics well enough. Frodo was the leader, and neither Merry nor Pippin would dare question him. He loved Merry as a friend or brother, or maybe some mixture of the two that was more, as the boy had been something of a savior to this eldest cousin. He loved Pippin as well, but differently. He accepted the lad's youth, and penchant to learn by numerous mistakes, as part of his growing process, and seemed to be waiting patiently to see what the adult version of the irresponsible boy would be.
Merry was the middle ground for the younger and older, something they had in common, and a reason for the otherwise very different hobbits to be a group. He worshipped Frodo, and sometimes, even now, tried so hard to emulate him it was almost funny to watch. He tried to be to Pippin what Frodo was to him, someone to show him the world and teach him, but play and do fun things as well.
And Pippin, the youngest of the group, was its vibrancy. He was the excuse the older two needed to be the immature lads they still were. He set the tempo for all of the groups activities. He looked up to Merry with awe, not slightly due to Merry's initial, rather ambivalent reaction to the lad. Merry was his first experience where he had to try to get his attention, and it had sealed him as Pippin's favorite. Frodo was obviously looked on as the disciplinarian, but not the adult. While an adult would tell Pippin to do things, no questions asked, as soon as possible, Frodo would take the time to explain why they needed to go in for the night, or why it was important for Pippin to wash up before dinner. And that was all the ever curious littlest hobbit wanted.
But where did that leave Fatty in the equation? Sitting on the fence, apparently. He recorded their events, and watched. He would run to get help when it was needed. Sometimes he wondered if the others noticed him at times, immersed in this joke or that, that while he had been there, he always felt separated from. At times it seemed so unfair that he was always overlooked, but then he would remind himself that all he ever had to do was go join in. Surely they would allow it. He was after all, the last member of the group. If he was not they would surely have stopped inviting him, would they not?
Was that his role, then? When the others sized him up, what words came to mind? Bordering between the rat, who would tell just HOW Pippin had scraped his knee, and the loyal friend, who would play dumb with the rest. The quiet one, the one whose shell was to be broken, to see if he were rotten or not. "Then by all means, break my shell," he said quietly to himself. He focused his attention back on the group, and how fun it really looked to be immersed in leaves, struggling to breathe through over exertion and spirited laughing. It had to be wroth it to get a touch messy, compared to sitting on a knotted old wooden fence and waiting to go inside, to look forward to the same tomorrow.
His thinking finally ended, Fredegar jumped down from the fence, dusted himself off lightly, and strode purposefully toward the leaf pile. He grabbed as big a handful of leaves as his somewhat small hands could take, and roughly crowned Frodo's dark curls with them. He stood back, with a falsely smug grin painted on his face at the oldest hobbit's stunned reaction, inwardly cursing his decision. He had been wrong, they had been fine with him being an outsider, and didn't want him to join them. He continued to curse his decision mentally, until Frodo's smile widened to nearly cracking. The melee continued, now with all four members shrieking with laughter and the shock of rough leaves on their skin.