For Those to See That Can
M/P. R. Fangorn Forest is a lonely place. Merry misses Frodo. Pippin misses Frodo. And Pippin finds an unusual way to deal with it.
Sometimes, Merry and Pippin pretend.
It starts when they crash together wearily on the warm, leafy bed in Treebeard's court. A soreness in their wrists lingers from the ropes, and the Ent-draught courses through their veins.
It's because Merry wants to feel a slender body, thinner and lighter since Amon Sul, and kiss the eyes bruised with tiredness.
Because he wants to tease and comfort, here deep in the Forest. To banish the fear-wights in his heart.
So he closes his eyes to Pippin's gaze, green as a rain-slicked leaf.
And he remembers.
Last Yule, bobbing for apples. Laughter and drenched curls, and kisses on his nose.
Pippin borrowing a soft tweed coat and kissing Dimple Proudfoot, who squeals because she thinks the Master of Bag End is making free under the mistle-berries.
Merry puts out his arms to embrace. A press of lips on his hair.
"Oh," Merry whispers. "Oh Pip, that's like - "
"Shh. Not like,' Pippin whispers back. "Is."
He pushes aside Merry's cloak, and drops his scarf on the side of the bed.
"I'm not Pippin tonight, Merry. Close your eyes, love. Let me do this."
Merry knows that tone. And he wants this so much, so much.
So he pretends.
He closes his eyes, to smell fern and bracken, sweat and earth.
To feel touches as sure as a slow-burning taper. Hands tangled at his nape, a familiar quirk, suddenly recognised and abandoned. Fingertips brushing his lip as if in apology, a mouth kissing slowly downwards.
Clothes peeled aside, unimportant as nutshells. Fingertips against Merry's tongue. A body rocking, rocking over him.
This is the only quest they desire.
To set his lips where the white scar would be, even there. To use his hands, gentle and strong. To tangle his hands in sweat-damp hair and kiss an exposed throat. Shifting his hips to give them much-needed room.
To feel the flame, leaping chasms. To ride together, to carry each other, towards a glowing summit.
To hear a whispered 'Melyanna' in a voice forced too low for an accent. To give himself, in a painful crescendo, to the dream and the pale blue dark. Liquid warmth mingling on their skin.
Then the world shifts, and calms, and settles.
It is Pip again in his arms, Pippin brushing his ear with his lips. Pippin's voice trembling, "Did I remember it all?"
"Yes," Merry whispers. "Yes love, you remembered well."
Merry closes his eyes. He feels the loss once more - loss like flinging out his hand for the stars and landing on the cold horn of the moon.
One day, he thinks, Frodo will come back to them.
And there will be no more need for pretending.