The growling of his stomach should have at first informed him that some time had passed, but Frodo was unaware of it, arms wrapped about his knees, senses wrapped in the warmth and oblivion of the fire, thoughts wrapped within his own little woven blanket of inward possession.

It was finally the insistent cramping of his bladder that pulled him back to the here-and-now; almost angrily Frodo curled up tighter, tried to ignore his body's demands and recapture his sweet abstraction.

It didn't work.

And it was amazing how when one stood up, things seemed to so rapidly and violently shift downward.

He would have been wiser to settle for the chamber pot; as it was he didn't make it to the set of privies—they were, naturally, a respectable distance from the side entry—and the nearest copse of trees had to serve. A small stream—one of many that riddled the forests about Smials—enabled a quick wash.

The water was chill against his hot cheeks and made him gasp; one more wrench back into the here-and-now. Somewhat resentfully Frodo bid farewell to dreams that were wisping away bit by bit, watched the black silhouettes of trees and the glittering points of stars ripple into focus as the clear water stilled, and resigned himself to the fact that yes, he had to face that same here-and-now.

But he felt better; his lacerated senses had eased from stabbing pain to a dull, more-bearable throb. He'd regained control. His knees pressed into the damp creek bank; his reflection hovered in the water before him, framed by the night sky. The trees rustled gently, quiet accompaniment to the surrounding sounds of merriment—shouts and laughter, music, singing—and when Frodo looked toward those sounds the star-pocked sky was distorted like a faulty mirror by the heat and sparks from the bonfires.

He wondered if the party would last all night.

He wondered if Merimac had returned to the revelry after knocking on the door, or had retired to his own room and rested the leg that had, no doubt, been pushed to its limits during the day.

He wondered if Bilbo had already left.

He had his doubts about both Merimac and Bilbo—that the first had indeed done what was best and gotten off that leg, and that the second had bothered to stay; surely he'd been easily swayed from his errand of… mercy, was it?

A slow fire lit itself behind Frodo's eyes, one to rival the ones lengths away, and the worst of it? He wasn't sure whether it was anger, or a disillusionment so fierce that…

Disillusionment? That was ludicrous. Surely he had no illusions left where Bilbo was concerned.

He wouldn't think about this, not now. It was useless. It wasn't about to happen; Bilbo would give up on it just as he had months previous—and why should Frodo even consider that it might happen, was he mad?—anyway, he'd made up his mind, had made it absolutely clear to Bilbo what that mind was, and he did not want to think on this now, and…

Merimac.

Frodo hadn't meant to just brush past him in the hallway as if he wasn't there, but in truth Frodo had barely noticed his playmate's presence until he'd been past him, as if he'd been blinded with… whatever. Still Merimac had come for him, had knocked on the door and called his name, had come after him, and Frodo wasn't sure why that was so important or why it gave such odd solace, but it was, and it did.

And it made what he'd said to Bilbo all the more a betrayal.

Because there was no doubt in Frodo's mind that, when his door had remained unanswered, Merimac would have certainly gone back to face down Bilbo… and again there was the curious comfort upon knowing, knowing it was what Mac would do… But then Merimac hadn't come back and why hadn't he—or why should Frodo expect he would?—and what would Bilbo have told him, what would…?

I didn't mean it. I didn't.

With brutal efficiency Frodo silenced the inner clamour, dug his fingers into the soft loam. And suddenly comprehended that he craved his cousin's touch, as surely as hours ago he'd wanted nothing to touch him save his own thoughts

Just as abruptly he shied from it, an unthinking recoil that was pain and gratification both, and he wanted to sob aloud at the twisting, inexplicable resentment that coiled itself down into the depths of his being

Let me go, let me go, let me be!

Then:

"What do you want?" Frodo pleaded of his reflection. But unlike within the caverns below Great Smials, this time the shadowy, rippled avatar remained his own, and silent. He lashed out, plunged his fist into it; it fragmented into glittering shards, fractured reflections, little mirrors into forever…

So much for control.

The walk back to his smial was slow, heavy, as if he were walking through water. Frodo managed to arrive there without passing a soul, reached his door and deliberately opened it, stepped inside and locked it behind him. He spent several moments standing there, turned into the door with his head upon the hard wood and his hands clenched on the knob. Then he heaved a great sigh, turned around.

Froze.

Merimac was sitting in a chair by the fire.

"You aren't the only one," he quietly ventured, "who has a key to the connecting door."

Frodo's temper flared, hot and sudden, then a just-as-sudden surge of relief washed though and nullified it as he realised that Merimac could have gotten in much earlier, had been considerate enough to wait him out.

At least, until now. They eyed each other quietly.

"Frodo," Merimac finally said, "I need to talk to you, and this can't wait any longer."

No, not yet. Please… "Mac—"

There was, however, a light in those grey eyes that Frodo knew all too well. "I'm sorry. Things have happened, and we have to—"

Merimac was cut off mid-sentence as Frodo padded swiftly across the room, sat on him and shut him up with a kiss. For several moments there were no sounds but what might have been a curse, then a muffled "Frodo", then a very plain "Damn it!"

Frodo was rather roughly gripped by the shoulders and unattached from his cousin's mouth.

"You are not," Merimac stated, "going to get about me this time."

"I'm not trying," Frodo replied, "to 'get about' you."

"Aren't you?"

"No. But I'm not going to talk about anything, not yet."

"Frodo, this isn't open for debate—"

"You're right, it's not," Frodo stated flatly. "I don't want to talk. What I do want is for you to hold me and take me to bed and I don't want to say anything about anything unless it's 'please' and 'more'."

Merimac ignored him. "I understand the old hobbit asked you to come back to Bag End."

Frodo stiffened beneath his cousin's hands; this was it, the gauntlet had been thrown… thrown? How? Against what?

Why, why, why was this bollixing him so?

Merimac tightened his hold, obviously sensing the urge for retreat; the grip stung. Frodo forced himself, bit by bit, to relax. Forced himself to answer, casual and light.

"He did. But I won't trust him again." He leaned forward once more, gave Merimac a quick kiss on the mouth. There was no reaction, and as Frodo pulled back his cousin's grey eyes were unreadable as a rough sea, all whitecaps and dark undercurrents. "I told him no," Frodo stated. "I told him that I've made my choice."

"Have you, then?" Those eyes were still unfathomable, but the words were almost careless. Merimac loosened his grip, with one hand traced gentle fingers up and down Frodo's breastbone. Frodo allowed himself to take in a slow breath, felt a hint of relief, realised what that relief was for.

Merimac didn't know, then, not all of it. And if Frodo had anything to say about it, he would never know what had been blurted out in the heat of confusion… how Frodo had betrayed himself and Merimac, too.

"Yes," he said firmly. "I've made my choice, and I told him so."

"I… see. And what else did you tell him?"

A frown touched Frodo's brow. "What do you mean?"

"You keep talking about choosing as if it's something final beyond measure, but you don't seem too terribly forward about what that choice is. And it's making me think that there's something here you're not being honest about. With yourself, or with me."

At this, Frodo stiffened and tried to pull away. There was a quick flicker of… something… in Merimac's eyes—not that those eyes had relented or softened—but he didn't release Frodo.

Frodo tugged backwards again. "Mac, I said I didn’t want to—"

"Talk. I remember." Merimac's tone, so reasonable, turned and displayed an edge. "You keep insisting that you just want sex and for me to shut up while you get it. But you see, that's one game we haven't needed to play in a long time, and I can't help but wonder why you're playing it now."

"I—"

"You've obtained what you want from me more times than not and it's my turn, eh? And what I want, here and now, is some honesty from you."

"I've only ever been honest with you," Frodo protested, once again tried to pull away.

"Oh, please. Do you really want me to count the ways and the times?" Merimac's voice was still all-too-quiet. "You make a pure art form of evasion, Frodo Baggins, and you're bloody good at hiding even that. Particularly when you feel threatened."

"I don't understand what you mean, I don't feel threatened, that's—!"

"How long," Merimac stonily interrupted, "were you going to wait until you told me?"

Shame prickled, and Frodo dropped his head until his hair hung into his eyes, was abruptly thankful for the concealment. "I'm sorry. I would have told you. I just… I just had to… Mac, please, leave it be; I don't want to speak of this, not now. I'd have told you what he said, I would have."

"Oh, it wasn't what he said to you—though I was ready to pop him one for that, believe you me. No, what really set me arse over tit was what he told me you said."

Frodo went horribly still, waiting. But Merimac remained silent as well, and finally Frodo had to ask, hoarse and hesitant, "What did he say?"

"Truthfully?" Merimac asked grimly. "I hope that he's lying or he just misunderstood you, but he took a great deal of pleasure in the telling, so I'm afraid he's speaking the truth."

"Pleasure?" Frodo slowly repeated.

"I get under his skin, eh?—he seems to think that I'm in his way with you, though whatever 'his way' might be I'm not sure I want to know—and now…" A strange bewilderment flickered across Merimac's face, cooled into something altogether too close to fury and Frodo hung on his words, realising as they were voiced that Bilbo had betrayed him yet again. "He said, dearest cousin, that you refused to come with him because you felt that you couldn't abandon me."

Frodo didn't know what to say, what to do. He did know that anger was also starting to begin a slow burn behind his own eyes—and he wasn't sure, at this point, whether it was more at Bilbo or Merimac.

"So," Merimac persisted. "Was he lying?"

"It wasn't just that."

"But that was part of it."

"Yes!" Flinging the hair from his eyes, Frodo raised his gaze to Merimac's. "So?"

"Let me see if I have this to rights," Merimac drawled. "You refuse to go to Bag End, not because you want to stay with me but because you think I'm incapable of coping on my own."

Ire twisted into desperation. "That's not what I meant!"

"Then what did you mean? I'm a big lad, in case you hadn't noticed. I'm not one of those baby cousins you make such an issue of protecting; I don't need someone changing my nappies—"

"Mac!"

"—Nor do I require some soulful-eyed tweener playing martyr to the One True Love—or One True Slavery, there's no difference in this mad little fantasy you've somehow conjured up—when he'd rather be elsewhere—"

"It isn't like that—!" He bit the words off with a small yip as the grip on his arms clenched tighter; with some difficulty Merimac rose, managing nevertheless to lift Frodo to his own feet. Not for the first time, Frodo was made all too aware of how large and powerful his cousin was. Never had he felt threatened by it; usually it only roused him more to have that considerable strength both held in check and pitted against him. Now, however, a thread of real trepidation quivered through him at the obvious tandem of anger and force vibrating through the broad hands clenched upon his arms.

But instead of morphing further outward into fear, it burned inward and made him mad.

"Let go of me." It was cold, brittle.

"No, I don't think so. Not this time. You're going to face this—"

"What are you going to do, rub my nose like some disobedient puppy in whatever you've imagined I'm upset over?" Frodo tried to yank away; even precariously balanced, Merimac didn't budge.

"Don't be so buggering melodramatic. And I'm imagining nothing; I see it, clear as a sunny day."

Further fuel to the fire; this in particular was resin-soaked timber. "You don't see anything!" Frodo shot back, pulled back, growled, "No one does, not even you!"

"And you like that, don't you?"

"I do not—"

"And all your protests are proper codswallop because you know you like it—erecting your little walls and pretending that you don't care and all standoffish at those who try to scale them, but behind those walls you're running scared, afraid that someone will find you out. Lie to yourself all you want, Frodo Baggins, but don't lie to me, not about this. I might not see a lot of what goes on in that tortuously-clever brain of yours, but this I understand, believe me, and more than you've ever wanted, eh?"

"Let go of me!"

Merimac yanked him closer, hissed, "If you really want to get away, why don't you kick my leg?"

Fury rippled through Frodo—that Mac would think he'd do it, and that he actually contemplated it for a few wild seconds. "Don't—!" This time any protest was bitten off by a shake that made his teeth rattle.

"I fancied that you trusted me, that you stayed by my side because you loved me and your heart was in it, not because you pitied the old broken-down sailor."

The words were knives wielded with apt precision, his own undeniable deceit further flaying what sense of control he had left. "That's not what… I didn't… let me go!"

"I even fancied that perhaps you'd come to admit that you needed me, but you're running from that too, aren't you? Mother forbid that you should ever, ever admit you need anything, or anyone!"

"Stop it!"

"Because now you think you need Bilbo, or what Bilbo has for you—whatever that is because it's a certainty the shirty little berk has dangled and dropped you more often than not—and it has you scared shitless, and that's really what this is all about, isn't it?"

Fury and fright and frustration, it all exploded within him so quickly that he couldn't do anything but react; with a growl Frodo wrenched one arm from Merimac's hold, tottered back and swung that arm with all his strength.

His fist was clenched, and his intent just as knotted, and it landed against Merimac's jaw with a force that snapped the brown head sideways.

Merimac's return blow was just as instantaneous; an open-handed slap that landed high on Frodo's cheek.

It stung. Merely stung.

It was an insult.

Any uncertainty fled. With a growl, Frodo lunged forward, swung again with the sole intent of doing damage. His fist connected with Merimac's solar plexus; from his cousin there was a satisfyingly-painful chuff of air. Frodo drew back for another swing; this time Merimac was ready for him and grabbed that arm, twisted it, wrenched him around. But unlike his cousin, Frodo had a childhood of being smaller and having such manoeuvres regularly employed against him; with an agile twirl he followed the motion and spun to face Merimac, yanked back hard to free himself.

That forward yank proved the final undoing of precarious balance. They both fell, so heavily that Frodo saw stars and Merimac gave a heavy grunt; slowly Frodo became aware that he was pinned down, his face muffled against Merimac's chest, and it shot more stars through his brain: primal, deep-seated panic.

He wasn't sure how he got free, only that he rained blows and bites and curses until he'd shoved his way to air and freedom and found himself atop Merimac, straddling him yet no longer able to strike out because Merimac had grabbed his fists in a grip of iron.

"That's enough!" his cousin was ordering. "Frodo… bloody… buggering… if you don't—"

"You're lying! Lying!" Frodo tried to get free, flailed blows downward; tears of rage and frustration and—worst of all—helplessness were running down his cheeks and he didn't care, he wouldn't care, all that was important was battering himself against Merimac until it all quieted, went silent.

It always had. Yet now…

"Frodo, I swear I'll—"

"That's not how it is—!"

"Isn't it?" Merimac snarled at him. "Why else are you trying to silence me with your sodding fists?"

"I'm not… I don’t—!"

"You think you're the only one who has the right to turn away; you refuse to forgive me for almost dying yet you almost died in the winter, didn't you, and never given me the chance to say goodbye!"

Frodo stilled like a hare touched by a hawk's shadow, hunched over his cousin on the hard wood of the floor, panting.

"How many times have you left me?" Merimac snarled. "You can turn away, walk away when you choose; you can leave me, but I can't leave you, is that it?"

Stillness shattered, cut deep. "That isn't fair!"

"So? Life isn't fair."

"Don't you think I know that?" Frodo lurched sideways, hit out again, but Merimac half-rose up beneath him, gripped tighter and the panicked strength of moments before deserted Frodo, leaving his struggles easily thwarted by stony grey eyes and broad, unyielding hands. But he didn't stop; it was one more helplessness added to all of them and he didn't want to submit to the slow winding down, the sudden drop into an emotive labyrinth next to which the Spiral was but a cunning footpath and the Stars sang muted cold. "Do you think I have ever, ever thought that life was kind or fair or anything but hard?"

"Bloody… Frodo, stop it right—"

"Do you really think that I expect things to be easy, to fall into my lap or just be handed to me on a platter when I've had to fight for anything—everything!—I've ever wanted or cared for?"

"You're not lis—"

"I've even had to fight for you! Do you even know how bloody terrified I was when you almost died on Gillyflower?"

Merimac's face twitched; no longer were those grey eyes so like to stone. "What does that have to—"

"You were all I had left!"

Time stopped, strung itself out, froze them both within it. Merimac opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For moments Frodo was also struck dumb and he couldn't grasp why—that he had actually said it, or Merimac's just as stunned reaction to the saying.

Still silence spun out between them, crackling against a silhouette swaying slow and thick against the light of a dying fire and the thick womb of earth, swaying silent in the inky pit of forever, and this was a moment Frodo couldn't outwait, couldn't hold to—only the grip that so fiercely stayed him gave him a singular, wavering thread of self-control, one he could only keep trying to grasp with cold and sweated hands; one possibility of finding his way through the labyrinth…

He pulled himself along it, was forced to utter it. "You were…" Frodo repeated, a wooden whisper, "all there was. And you were leaving me."

Abyss. The unknown. Dark and cold and lost, always lost… and Frodo kenned that by some means he was no longer the only one being dragged down.

Merimac's grip was no longer punishing; even had it been so it would have stayed nothing, not any more.

"From then on everything changed, didn't it?" Another pull, another heave and haul along a fraying lifeline; Frodo's words were still a whisper, forced outward, unstoppable, truth. "The world turned itself inside out, taking me and you with it. You didn't go because I wouldn't let you go, and… and suddenly I was all you had, wasn't I? And you couldn't let me go."

Trepidation flitted through Merimac's eyes then fled. "I wouldn't have held you," he grated out. "You didn't have to stay—"

"Rot!" Anger once more snapped within Frodo. "What was I supposed to do, just bugger off and leave you with your leg half off and your head a-spin? Would you have done that to me?"

"No, of course not—"

"Then how dare you think that I would?" Frodo raged. "I did 'change your nappies', damn you; I fed you and held onto you when you were so fevered you didn't even know who I was; I stayed up so many nights, afraid to sleep because I was sure you'd die if I wasn't watching you because that's what happens; people go away when you turn your back, or they die because you aren't there to keep them here—"

"Frodo, stop—"

"I won't stop it—you made me listen and now you're going to listen!" He gave his hands a sharp twist, the suddenness of it allowing him to free himself from Merimac's hold only to grab him in return, slender, hard fingers digging white into broad, brown wrists. "Why should you think it so remarkable that I'd be loathe to 'abandon' you, when I know what's that's like, when I know how it feels? I wasn't about to leave you… didn't want to leave you… couldn't leave you… and Paladin told me that you needed me, more even than you needed him!"

"Bugger Paladin," Merimac growled. "What has he—"

"He's done what he had to, what we've all had to! And you know, he was right, you did need me, and I'm sometimes crushed under the weight of knowing that if I hadn't done that, hadn't given you my heart and will, you would have turned your sodding sulky face to the wall and died! And then I hold onto that weight—hold onto you!—because it's all I have and because I'm so bloody angry that you would have done that to me, after all that had happened, after all we'd been through!"

"After all we've been through? Frodo, there's no doubt that you and I have seen perdition between us, but because we've sheltered each other in a rough storm… bloody buggering bollocks, it's not all we have and I never wanted—!"

"I don't know what either of us wants, not any more!"

"You would if you'd open your eyes and use your brain! No wonder you're so afraid of needing someone if this is what you see in it—" One hand shot forward, taking Frodo's hand with it and tangling hard in his hair—the black dragon tattoo furling its wings, diving in for the strike. Hard together yet straining against, Frodo's knees bunched punishingly tight to Merimac's hipbones and his fingers still clenched to Merimac's wrists even as Merimac's harsh grip slowly pulled Frodo's head closer, demanding… demanding what? "Bloody damn, Frodo, need isn't about chains; love isn't about dragging someone down, or weighting them so that they can't breathe!" As Frodo opened his mouth to reply, Merimac's grip shook against Frodo's skull and he snarled, "Shut up, that's what you said to me just now and I can't believe I heard you say it!"

"What else was I supposed to do? What else can I do?"

Merimac pulled him closer. Hissed, "Let me go."

Silence. One beat, two beats, and Frodo was sliding backwards, losing his hold, once again lost in the dark with his heart twisting within him so tightly that he was blinded, deafened, and only the one thing to hold to, all that was left...

"No," he whispered, then snarled, "No."

And lurched forward, denied any metaphorical or verbal safe-line, twined his fingers—hard—in the reality of long, brown hair, fastened his mouth to the real, firm warmth of Merimac's. Merimac gave a pained grunt, his grip faltering as his spine made hard contact with the equally-solid floor, tried to push at him, stay him; Frodo shoved back all the harder, held him down. Somehow he was stronger here and it made no sense but he was, as if all the certainty and resolve he thought forever vanished had returned to fill him, muscle and sinew, with the one need that he'd never had to deny.

It was all he knew—Merimac was all he'd ever known or known how to want—and if there was anything else he wasn't sure he did want it. All that existed for him, all that was real and tangible was here: in the wordless cries spilling from his mouth and into Merimac's, in the hands that were clutching tighter in thick hair, in the inchoate and bitter-sweet longing to pull himself in, as if he could will himself into warm flesh and disappear forever...

But forever didn't have to exist here, and suddenly Merimac was giving to him, submitting with a suddenness that made him dizzy, and those hands that had been shoving against his shoulders were sliding down the small of his back and pulling him closer, roughly mapping him… reading him like a well-worn book… as always, knowing what he needed.

Only how was that possible?—because Frodo didn't know what it was he needed and he didn't want to need anything, didn't want to be needed because there was only one way it could end.

"I want," he panted into Merimac's neck, unable to halt it and at that it was nearly silent, strangled and unwilling. "I want—"

"You want it, or you need it?" Merimac's hands rucked up his shirt, met bare skin with a jolt that made Frodo gasp.

"Yes," he whimpered—and it was a whimper, and he was mortified, so much as to protest, "No! I…" With those last strangled words he shoved his fists against Merimac's chest, tried to wrench away.

Merimac didn't let him. "You don't need me, but you want me to need you," Merimac purred in his ear; the words soft but edged, rending flesh from bone. "You don't need me, but you want me, that's all, is it?"

"Yes!" It was a sob from deep in his chest, strangled. Strength resuscitated itself; he won free, lurched up, but he found himself yanking at his shirt buttons instead of retreating further; he didn't want retreat, not really, he wanted his nerves to sing themselves raw, he wanted to subdue the spinning unreality of his thoughts beneath hard, unrelenting, real physicality, he wanted to be here, here and nowhere else… no Spiral, no Stars, no dark and winding internal labyrinth that had formed about his heart when it had torn itself open in the caverns below, bleeding question and fear and confusion.

Just as Frodo ripped open the last button, Merimac grabbed the lapels of his shirt and yanked him close.

"Then come on, lad, claim your right to me, take my heart and break it, bugger me until I can't see straight because if that's all we have and all we'll ever have it's still pretty damned good, isn't it?" All the while he was roughly nuzzling Frodo's throat, and Frodo was purling low in his throat with an agitation he couldn't classify had he wanted to, and there was a raw, keen edge of satisfaction as he snatched first Merimac's shirt then his trouser placket open and thrust his hands downward to find that what he sought was hard and damp and needy, and all the while Merimac never stopped saying, "If we've nothing else, we have how our bodies just fit and mould and slip together and if that's all there is then that's just fine. You can batter yourself against me and take me and deny that there's anything more, and if you pretend to trust me enough to tie you down and fuck you until you scream, then surely it's only for the fucking and the screaming, isn't it?"

"Shut up!" Frodo demanded, gripping tighter and lurching upward, letting Merimac yank his trousers down even as he performed the same service for Merimac.

"Just shut it and take it, eh? I can do that, all right; can you? Can you look me in the eye while you're topping me, when the name you cry is mine, and still tell me that you don't need me?"

"I don't want to need you!" Frodo hissed back.

"And I didn't want to need you." Mockery twisted the deep voice even as Merimac's hand found him, curled tight. "It just happened, 'all by itself', eh?"

Both memories vied with each other, and as to the latter one he was unsure, given the choice now, which he'd choose. His hand upon Merimac tightened, nipped harshly; Merimac gave a curse that sounded protesting, but the thrust he gave into Frodo's hand spoke nothing of protest, and the broad palm that roughly cupped Frodo's testicles slid upward, pumped back and forth. Frodo groaned, released his grip and grabbed his cousin by the hair, rocked upward, demanding. Merimac submitted to both harsh grip and even harsher exigency, taking Frodo with his mouth, scraping lips and teeth and tongue in an unrelenting wave until Frodo was wet and quivering and altogether too close...

"Turn over," Frodo panted.

Merimac released him just as importunately as he'd taken him in. "Why, so you can't look me in the eye?" he taunted. "No, you'll face me this time."

"I don't have to do this. I'll stop—"

"Can you, really? Do you really want to stop now?"

He could.

He didn't.

He couldn't.

Control was cascading away from him; Frodo took it back by sliding his hand down between them and once again squeezing the heavy weight that met his palm, running his fingers down the length of it and back up, extorting slick proof of his dexterity. "Turn over," he said again.

Merimac pulled him down, gave a whisper against his ear that made Frodo shudder down to his bones, "Even if I could kneel on this leg I'm not going to put my back to you, not now. But don’t stop. It's not what you think it is and you can't make me not need you when you don't even want to know what it means."

But don't you understand, I know what it means; it's then and now and forever, it's reaching for the world and having it ripped from you and I can't bear it, I tell you, I can't bear to let you go yet I don't think I can breathe beneath the weight of you needing me…

All I know is I want you to be here… I… I need you to be here…

And I don't want anyone to know, to see, but you see it, you do… you do…

For an agonising length of seconds Frodo wanted to pull away and retreat, to lash out and yank Merimac over and make him submit, but both considerations appalled him and some small but rational part of his brain insisted that Merimac couldn't anyway, not considering that leg, it was impossible. Frodo took comfort in that and further comfort in the control that was his; instead he slid down, spread his cousin and pulled one leg over his shoulder, pressed the other sideways, thigh bent against the pressure of Frodo's knee.

"That's it," Merimac murmured.

But not yet, not yet… Frodo spun the skeins of influence, teased them tighter, whirled them taut nigh to breaking. He bent down, brushed his lips over the shaft flaring so rigidly within his hand, pumped his hand slowly—so slowly—watched Merimac's eyes flatten and gloss and then kindle, first with a grey ghost-light, then with roiling storm-clouds.

Yes, he needed this, needed to take it back, to make some sense of the feelings filling his chest, to control it, control it…

"Fuck," his cousin snarled. "Quit teasing my cock and do something with yours…"

Instead Frodo used his fingers, kept his mouth as busily occupied, was rewarded by another explosive obscenity—Merimac's usual method of supplication when he was too close to the edge. Satisfaction quirked Frodo's lips; he fluttered his tongue and gave his fingers a twist. The resultant grunt from Merimac made Frodo shudder; he reached down, took himself in hand, slicked careful fingers over quivering flesh and knew that if he didn't, and soon…

Pressure, there was always the sense of sinking and the powerful dichotomy of both submission and rejection as he pushed farther, demanding entry; Merimac's grunt turned into a breathy groan as Frodo braced his hands on the broad chest, drew back, then rocked forward, sheathing himself deeper. The need for rhythm was insidious; it was all he could do to not give himself over to it, to keep it slow.

Strong fingers tangled in his hair, made him raise his head, meet his cousin's eyes.

"Lie to me now, love," Merimac insisted. "Tell me that this is all there is."

How had it all turned on him, how in taking control had he lost it…?

The fingers in his hair tightened, pulled him forward, sheathed him harder and made him whimper against the sudden pressure of Merimac's lips on his.

"Come on, then. Take me," Merimac murmured against his mouth. "Need me."

How could he not?—there was suddenly nothing left in him but need, and that moulding him into something whole, something alive, filling him until he was whimpering in the back of his throat and thrusting so hard that his thigh muscles burned and cramped. But he wasn't the only one—no, both of them twined, strained, both of them ensorcelled by the rhythm of sway and slap of impact both physical and mental, every hoarse and searching plea smattered with a curse and a demand…

He'd retrieved Merimac back from the shadows twice, now, and somehow this was even more imperative: that he hold him, keep him, claim him. For walking through the shadows and coming to the centre had revealed to him that he needed this, didn't he?—whatever this was—needed to hear it, to lay claim to it, to not let go just this once… to fight for something, someone…

To know that someone would fight for him, stand beside him, need him, claim him.

And somehow he was saying it aloud, clutching to the words as lifeline and devastation, and he felt arms strong about him, holding him together, softening the blow, moulding his skin and shoring him from dissolution into now, and here. Merimac wasn't letting him go…

"Don't leave me," he gasped. "Don't ask me to let you go, I can't, I won't… don't stop, don't stop… I need you… need you to just… just hold me, hold me—!"

And it was suddenly over, over too soon, and Frodo was writhing, smothering a cry into Merimac's neck, and Merimac was spilling against his belly with a hoarse grunt, and once the echoes of it all faded from the senses, Frodo remained hunched there, trembling all over.

Then he realised what he'd said, and how, and why, and he pushed away, fell back, scuttered backwards on his rear end for several awkward moments. Fly, his reflexes urged, demanded. But surety had broken within him, shattered into sudden and desolate panic, countless razored edges glittering, waiting to cut him to pieces, and he couldn't… move…

His body, last refuge and sanctuary, had betrayed him and worse, his heart refused to heed any further plea.

Instead it tilted within his breast and hammered fit to deafen him as Merimac spoke.

"Frodo. Look at me."

Look at me. Don't see me. Stay. Run. Hold me and never let me go. Let me go. Need me but don't imprison me. Touch me but don't touch me don't touchme don'ttouchme let me need you but don't let me know that you know how much… how much it frightens me…

I told you, I told you and what do I do now, what do I do?

"Frodo."

"If I asked," Frodo said to the floor, barely a half-whisper, "for you to let me go, would you?"

Silence. Then Merimac spoke again, subdued. "Frodo, look at me. Please."

Slowly he raised his head, so slow that he could count the breaths of it. Merimac was sitting up amidst the scattering of their clothes. Frodo knew—and cursed the knowledge—that there were betraying tears swimming behind his own eyes, but he was stunned to see them glittering in Merimac's.

"I should never have said such a thing," his cousin said. "And I said it again just now, didn't I, but then I'm always forgetting how young you are over that old soul of yours…" He gave a humourless laugh. "I wish I could claim that I was sick and poisoned out of my head when first I said it, that I didn't know what I was saying. But you knew, didn't you? I saw it in those eyes of yours, that you knew I was at the end of my rope and I meant it, every word and the worst thing was that I was out of my head and so couldn't stop the asking… and if I had been in my right mind I would have never said such a thing, not to you. Particularly to you."

"I tried," Frodo's voice hitched. "No. I didn't try. I couldn't. I… You… I was all that was left for you just as you were all I—" he choked again, tried again. "Paladin said you needed me."

"He'd no right to say that to you. He was right, damn his eyes, about me needing you so desperately, and I've no excuses for that, but he shouldn't have said it, wouldn't have said it unless he was scared to death... I'm not trying to excuse him, either, only I should have leaned on him instead of you but it would have hurt you because you didn't understand about us, either him and me or you and me or even you and him. But he knows me all too well, doesn't he? I had to need you, because when I looked at him I saw what I might never leave, what was part of my heart yet also might be my prison. And when I saw you…" his voice faltered, "I saw your eyes all lit with stars and sky and clear, sweet water and you were the only reminder—all that was left—of who I was before this," he gestured to his leg with no little venom. "And you loved me despite it, perhaps even because of it, and you never begrudged it. But I nearly broke you beneath it, didn't I?—and for that I'll not forgive myself."

Frodo shook his head, unwilling to remember that night when his heart had broken, when he thought he had lost everything… everything. Only all the while he had clung to it he had resented it because he was reduced to that one thing, helpless and driven before it, he had loved it, hated it, feared it, needed it… "I'm not… I won't break, I won't, it's only that … that…"

"What?" Merimac prompted softly.

He wasn't sure what to say, or even how to begin to say it. "It wasn't just… it wasn't because… because you needed me that I… I told Bilbo… well, what I told him."

Silence. Then Merimac ventured, "I know, love."

"How can you know?" Frodo demanded shakily. "How can you?"

"I know you."

Frodo bit his lip, looked away.

Merimac was silent again for some moments, then he said, soft and puzzled enough as to once again break Frodo's heart. "Would I let you go? Yes, I would, if you asked. Unless I thought it wasn't really what you wanted." Frodo turned to look at him, was unable this time to look away as Merimac continued, "And I don't think it is what you want, not now."

No, it's not what I want! Frodo wailed silently into the sudden, chill emptiness that yawned between them; he wrapped his arms about himself in defence of it. I fought for you and nearly drowned… will you fight for me? Somehow I'm still drowning, and I hate it but it's happening, can't you see, and no elf-'father', no faery wife, no heart-deep spiral of earth and Blood and no alien star-song… none of those can so much as throw me a spar to cling to, not with this! I belong to all of them, and none of them, and if I ever belonged to anyone it would be you but that isn't the way of it either, is it?

Because you're right. You know. You know.

Frodo watched numbly as Merimac rose—slowly and a bit painfully, leaning hard against the chair only a half-step away—all the while contemplating Frodo with growing irritation. Frodo simply stood there, shivered, wondered what was wrong now?—Merimac gave a disgusted snort and hobbled over to the bed, snatching several blankets from atop the coverlets. Wrapping one about himself, he threw the other towards Frodo. Frodo merely watched as it grazed his shoulder then slithered to the ground at his feet.

Merimac gave a low curse. "Frodo, this isn't what we are, it's not what we've ever been, and I'd rather have turned my face to the wall and died than have you end up resenting me because you've got it into your head that the only way you can show me you love me is by chaining yourself to me." Merimac hesitated then said, quite deliberately, "To everyone comes the moment of having that one thing left. Sometimes it's only your own will and heart, sometimes there's someone to hold to you, but either way you can't chain yourself to it, either self or other, because that's not need, that's a trap."

I don't… need… anyone…

Only it was a lie, a lie, but the truth was just as devious because somehow it had all had gotten so mixed up and wrong; if it was only the pain, well, he could take that, but giving over, giving in, that was the worst of it, the most… frightening, for yes, it scared him, scared him to his bones.

Because he didn't know how to do it… he didn't know what it meant.

Frodo put both palms to his face and dug his fingers into his temples. He still couldn't seem to stop shivering nor could he comprehend why; Merimac gave another low curse.

"Bad-tempered, obstinate, gormless prat of a tween," he growled. "Put on that sodding blanket before I come over there and bloody well make you."

Frodo hesitated, looked down at the blanket curled about his toes, realised that he was cold, goose pimples rashing across his bare arms and chest.

"These woolly-headed and masochistic storybook fancies of 'gallantry' stop, here and now, do you hear me?"

Sudden and irritable embarrassment flushed heat upward into Frodo's cheeks; he bent down, grabbed up the blanket and slung it over his shoulders. "I wasn't doing any such thing," he said sullenly. "I was so… that I just didn't… well, I didn't realise I was all that cold."

Silence, then Merimac was hobbling over and there were arms about Frodo, hard and strong enough to make him wince and then ache with the gladness that those arms were strong again, and his eyes burned hot as he leaned back into them.

"How is it," Merimac said into his neck, "that you can make me want to kick your arse until it lodges permanently up under your thick skull, and then two seconds later make me feel like the biggest lovesick git in the Shire?"

"How apropos," Frodo muttered against his forearm, "for I feel the same way about you."

Merimac made a noise that was somewhere between a despairing sigh and a chuckle. "I have to admit," he suddenly whispered against Frodo's temple, "you're quite the shag when you're angry."

Frodo's knees went wobbly at this—because, again, the converse was true.

"Mac…"

"Shh. Come to bed," Merimac whispered against his nape. "Lie beside me and I'll hold you close and we'll contemplate what hot-headed, lovesick gits we both are."

"But I'm not sure if I can sleep—"

"Shh, I said. Haven't you spent enough time coddling me—so much that you've talked yourself into all sorts of wrong-headed notions about what I need from you—and I think it's time for me to return the favour. The world can just sod off for one more night."

One more night…

If only forever would happen, tonight, and then the waiting would be over and none of it would matter except here, and now.

* * * * * *

"Perhaps it's foolish of me," Paladin Took said, "but I get the distinct impression that something has been going on of which I should have been informed."

The room was small and gently lit, the table had several bottles and glasses; within the room and about the table sat five hobbits who, despite the tray of snacks and the goblets that Eglantine had encouragingly filled, weren't imbibing.

And it seemed that, despite Paladin's expressed wishes towards not only drunkenness but a return to the remainder of his birthday, both were to be foiled for a while yet.

"I say," Saradoc put forth, "it's true that Bilbo came to us with a mere possibility—"

"I was quite serious," Bilbo protested. "And I still am."

"Esme gave you the price of your seriousness," Saradoc mildly answered. "I so far see no proof that you're paying it—particularly with those Sackville-Baggins cousins of yours sniffing after your steps." He turned back to Paladin with a shrug. "I thought instead of sending you a letter about that possibility, I would tell you in person. Only," he shot Bilbo a disgusted glance, "I never got the chance, did I?"

"I've—" Bilbo started to protest, but Esmeralda spoke over it.

"We agreed to consider a situation in which Frodo, if he wished it and if certain conditions were met, could return to Bag End. It seemed a reasonable solution—again, only if the circumstances were favourable."

Eglantine spread her hands helplessly. "Esme, how can this be any sort of solution? We made the decision together to bring him here. You don't approve of Bilbo; you placed Frodo there as a last resort last autumn. And Bilbo, after what has happened how could you possibly think you have a right to just waltz back into the boy's life and…?" She trailed off, shook her head. "I can't imagine what possessed any of you to even consider this."

Esmeralda raised her eyebrows. "I can, somewhat, see why you think it necessary in this instance to question my judgment," she answered frostily. "As of late there have been some serious misunderstandings. But my consideration toward this was given strictly within the possibility of Frodo's wishes. By his actions, Frodo made it clear that he didn't want to leave Bag End last Solmath, and I merely thought that if—if—it was what he preferred, then we should open the possibility to him. But I didn't imply that such a change should happen right away, and I certainly didn't imagine that Bilbo would be so mad as to attempt any of this in such a heedless and headlong fashion; at Paladin's birthday, for pity's sake!" She gave Bilbo a sharp glance. "In fact, once Bilbo left the Hall he seemed quite taken aback by my demands—and I had more than a few, believe me, if he was to be put in charge of Frodo again—so much that I believed he'd abandoned the entire thing."

"And we know how relentlessly you cling to your beliefs, Esmeralda," Bilbo snapped, "even when they're ludicrous." He knew he was returning knife slice with axe swing but he truly didn't care. He'd endured enough accusations for one evening.

"I've owned up to my mistakes, Bilbo, and more than once," she retorted. "As to you?"

"Curse it, I'm trying to rectify a very large mistake, and every blasted relative I have seems determined to thwart me!"

"Excuse me," Eglantine interrupted icily, "but in case it's gone unnoticed, Frodo is presently in fosterage to Great Smials where, again in case you hadn't noticed, he seems to be settling in very well. Merry is here, and their relationship has taken a very healthy turn; they're certainly still attached, but both of them are making friendships with lads their own age, footballing and camping, and such things as lads do. And, as you saw today, racing the ponies."

"Also," Paladin added very seriously, eyeing Esmeralda, "it seems young Frodo has a bit more Took to him than any of us realised."

Bilbo was puzzled by the slight emphasis Paladin placed on that last, and even moreso as Esmeralda held her brother's gaze, her expression transforming from slight confusion, then to apprehension, then a pale, almost sick-seeming comprehension.

Comprehension of what?

Bilbo narrowed his eyes; he didn't like being out of the loop at any time, and in this particular situation it could be ruinous. It was scant comfort to note that Saradoc also seemed puzzled at the exchange between his wife and her brother.

"Ye-es," Paladin said between his teeth, still peering at Esmeralda. "A lot of misunderstandings have lain fallow, and far too long."

She fell unnervingly silent, lashes closing against her cheeks.

"I might also mention that his chosen playmate is here which, even should you choose to set everything else aside, is in itself more than enough reason for him to stay," Eglantine pointed out. "He's been shifted about too often as it is. Enough is enough."

"If he's indeed to stay here," Bilbo retorted meaningfully. "Call him a Took as you like or no, he's still a Baggins and he deserves better accommodation than a leaky boat and better companionship, play or no, than a thick-witted rascal of a boat-gad!"

"That is not your choice to make, Bilbo, but Frodo's." Eglantine's words were clipped. "And Baggins or no, you've spent precious little thought upon the lad until this past year. You have some nerve, imagining that you have the right or place to question or comment upon what arrangements Frodo's legal guardians—the ones who took him in after his parents died eight years ago, mind you—agree upon for him?"

"Perhaps in Hobbiton you can carry out your little pissing matches as you see fit, but here you'd do well to keep your mouth shut about what you don't understand." Paladin's eyes met his and held there, beryl-hard. "And mark me, if you say one word more against Merimac or his intentions towards Frodo, you'll be wondering how this table became so firmly planted up your fair Baggins backside."

Bilbo swallowed what comment he'd started to make, realising he'd allowed resentment to take him just that much too far—and in the absolute worst company he could have found for it, to boot.

"What I want to know," Eglantine said into the resultant silence, "is what you said to Frodo, and why."

An even-longer silence met her words.

"Oh, yes, I know you said something. Merimac told me that you'd spoken to Frodo, that you upset him, and I can say with some certainty that 'thick-witted rascal' had enough intellect and ambition to do more than widen your backside with a table. I rather think Lobelia saved your neck by arriving when she did."

"Oh, bloody damn, Baggins," Saradoc rumbled suddenly. "You can't tell me you were stupid enough to talk to the lad first?"

"It was Frodo's decision to make." Bilbo puffed up like a mad gander; he'd already heard this, too, as much as he cared to, and all right, he'd perhaps been a proper fool but… "Or so you all keep insisting, don't you?"

"Oh, come now!" Esmeralda suddenly burst from her strange quiet. "Do you have no understanding of—"

"I think that you've no right to judge me when it comes to misunderstandings about Frodo!" Bilbo shot back.

"That is enough!" Saradoc snapped out. "You were out of line, Baggins, and you can bluster all you want but I'm beginning to think Merimac has the right idea and I should just let him have you."

"Merimac," said Eglantine, "might have to stand in line."

Bilbo's stomach sank, gave a wicked twist and colluded with his conscience. I thought I was doing the right thing, he gave silent protest, but was answered: And Frodo told you, didn't he, what you were doing. "I thought…" he started, then shrugged and looked down.

"No," Paladin said severely, "I don't think you did."

"There's one thing made plain," Esmeralda said heavily. "Your attempts to 'rectify' the situation have turned into a fine mess. Your rapacious cousins are determined to haul us all into Farthing-court over this, and you won't be the one to have to stand up and have your legitimacy called into question, will you? You've gone too far this time and, considering it all, Frodo might want nothing to do with you. In which case I say pigs will roost in the oak on your roof before you'll interfere with him again."

She meant it. But, Bilbo realised as he squirmed uncomfortably beneath the censure of four gazes, Esmeralda Brandybuck had never made an idle threat. And Eglantine was exuding Protective Mother into the rafters.

It seemed his open-handed bluff had been called by two queens, three kings, and a wilful young knight's unexpected resentment.