The Harvest Reel of 2999 was one of the best Hobbiton had ever known. A long, warm summer with just enough rain to swell the grain had resulted in one of the richest harvest that had been known for many a year and Hobbiton was determined to celebrate its good fortune.
All were wearing their finest clothes . . . some even new . . . and Frodo was no exception. He stood before the mirror, tugging at a particularly stubborn snarl in his dark curls, concentrating so hard that he jumped when Merry's voice came from behind him.
"Will I do?"
Recovering his composure, Frodo turned, his eyes widening at the sight of his younger cousin. Merry wore a finely cut green jacket and very intricately quilted yellow silk waistcoat. His golden curls were brushed until they shone in the candlelight and there was the unmistakable, in fact almost overpowering, smell of lavender water about him. Frodo grinned and returned to his combing.
"The lasses will fall over themselves to dance with the handsome stranger. When was the last time you visited, by the way?"
Merry settled on the edge of the carefully made bed, watching Frodo smooth liquid from a fine glass bottle onto his throat. He smiled as the smell instantly reminded him of his cousin . . . oranges and sandalwood. "It's been three years and they'd hardly consider me a stranger."
Turning to lift his new brown velvet waistcoat from its hanger Frodo grinned. "You've grown up and filled out in three years. You never know . . . maybe you'll get your first kiss tonight." His face grew thoughtful as he fastened buttons.
"Moon and stars, cousin! How old do you think I am? I claimed my first kiss years ago. It's not me they called the Scholar of Bag End. I've long since found better things to slip down lasses bodices than frogs."
Frodo laughed. "I may have been a slow starter but I think I made up for it. I fully intend to claim my share of warm lips tonight."
A familiar gleam appeared in Merry's green eyes. "I wonder how many girls will be there. What would be a fair share, do you think?"
Frodo grinned broadly. "I consider my fair share to be however many I can tempt," he replied, slipping a handkerchief in his pocket.
The gleam in Merry's eyes grew brighter. "I bet I can catch more than you."
Frodo rolled his eyes. "Don't you just wish?" He headed for the door and Merry jumped to follow.
"The lasses may like an air of mystery, Mad Baggins, but they also like a lad with a bit of flesh to cuddle."
His comment was met with another light laugh. "But I'm the better dancer. You have to catch them before you can kiss them, little cousin . . . and with the amount of lavender water you have on they'll have to back away or choke."
The last comments Bilbo heard as the two left Bag End, arm in arm, were . . .
"I'll prove it to you, Frodo. We'll keep a list for this evening."
Frodo's confident laugh danced on the evening air. "I couldn't possibly, Merry. All that paper would ruin the cut of my coat."
Bilbo paused in the knotting of his silk cravat as the taste and image of all the pretty lips he'd kissed in his long life slipped through his memory . . . so many of them, and each one special in their own way. But non had stayed, except in his memory.
He glanced out of the window, watching the two lads race each other down the hill to the music and lanterns of the party field. Frodo had turned out well, despite his sad start in life. His future looked very bright. He would have no trouble snagging a fine lass to settle down and fill Bag End with laughing children.
It would not be his fate to have silly adventures instead of home, hearth and family.
END.
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