Good ale in a glass, yes. Nice firm table with just the right amount of bounce, yes. Nice secluded corner in the Green Dragon, bright enough to see but shadowy enough to afford a certain amount of privacy, yes. Frodo, ye- no. That was the source of the problem.

"Why," Pippin asked, feeling that he had stumbled upon a great mystery, "aren't you drunk, Frodo?"

Frodo twirled a coin in his fingers, grinned at Pippin, and bounced the coin off the table and into the glass. "Because I'm a better shot than you. Drink up, Pippin my lad. Merry, it's your turn."

Pippin picked up the glass, fished the coin out of it, and downed the ale thoughtfully. The plan had been simmering for months, ever since he and Merry had learned to play Coins: come to Hobbiton, teach the game to Frodo, discreetly team up against him, get him roaring drunk, and... well, the last part of the plan they'd left to chance, though Pippin had certain ideas about how he would have liked the evening to end. Frodo's unexpected adeptness at the game, however, was throwing a bit of a spanner into the works.

Well, he thought, refilling the glass, there were always ways around unexpected obstacles – and Pippin wasn't keen on losing.

Merry landed the coin in the glass – by sheer chance, probably, given the condition he was in – and crowed victoriously. "Drink, Frodo!"

Frodo obediently downed the ale and passed the coin to Pippin. Pippin waited until the glass was refilled, took careful aim – with some difficulty, as the glass appeared to be wobbling a bit – and, through a deft exercise of consummate skill, bounced the coin squarely into the ale. "Your drink, Frodo, and your turn."

"Why do I get the feeling that I was meant to lose at this?" Frodo asked dryly as he reached for the ale.

"Frodo!" Pippin exclaimed, wounded.

"Would we gang up on you?" Merry demanded.

Frodo nearly spat ale all over the table in an attempt to swallow and laugh at the same time. "Oh, really. The pair of you must think I'm as gormless as a Spring lamb. Of course you would, and of course you did, and I'm sure you were under the impression that I'd never played this game before."

Pippin and Merry traded a chagrined glance.

"I'll have you know I was quite good at it in my time," Frodo said nostalgically, refilling the glass and signalling for another ale pitcher. "We Bagginses have very good aim."

"Oh, is that so?" Pippin asked.

Frodo smirked unforgivably at him. "Yes, it is. As you can plainly see from the fact that the two of you are drunk, or well on your way, and I am perfectly sober."

"Perfectly sober?" Merry asked skeptically.

"Well, possibly not perfectly," Frodo admitted. "But closer to it than either of you, at any rate."

Well, we'll just see about that, Pippin thought gleefully. "It's your turn, you know, Frodo."

Frodo took unhurried aim, focusing on the glass. Pippin waited, watching, until Frodo's throw had very nearly begun – and then slid his foot up the inside of Frodo's trousers to the knee, making him yelp and his throw go wide.

"Pippin, that's cheating!" Frodo protested, looking rather flushed.

"It's not cheating," Pippin informed him. "It's... evening the odds a bit. Allowing you the chance to demonstrate your superb aim under distracting conditions. Now drink."

Frodo looked thoughtfully at Pippin and Merry for a moment, then smiled slowly. "All right. But turnabout's fair play, you know."

"Yes, well, just remember who it is you're supposed to be turning about and don't be trying to distract me," Merry ordered. He landed the coin in the ale with a thunk and pushed it smugly toward Frodo.

Rather apprehensive, Pippin watched Frodo drain the glass and refill it, spilling a little ale down his hand. Frodo pulled his hand back and licked the ale off, tongue darting too quickly over his skin and back into his mouth.

"Was that meant to be your distraction, then?" Pippin asked hoarsely.

Frodo blinked at him, then grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know? Go on, then."

Pippin took aim – and felt Frodo's foot hook softly around his ankle and rub up and down his leg in a long, slow stroke. The hair on his foot was soft, warm, and tickling, and Pippin felt an uncomfortable flush start at his chest and spread in both directions.

"Throw, Pip," Frodo prompted.

Merry was watching them both in fascination, and that was distracting as well. Pippin closed his eyes against the sudden vision of Merry watching more than this offhanded flirtation, opened them again, and missed the glass by a fair margin.

"Too bad," Frodo said placidly. "Drink up, Pip."

Pippin's eyes met Merry's over the rim of the glass and saw his own determination writ large in them. Frodo might be bloody good at Coins, and he might be showing an unexpected talent for other things as well; but Merry and Pippin had come to Hobbiton intending to get him embarrassingly drunk, and by all the Shire they hadn't given up yet.

"Your go," he told Frodo, letting his fingers linger on Frodo's as he passed the coin over.

"You know, this is –" Frodo began, then stopped abruptly as Pippin's hand slipped onto one of his thighs and met Merry's on the other.

"Hm?" Pippin asked innocently, inching his hand slowly upward. Merry's hand moved with his, fingers entangling, sending a slow burning warmth through Pippin that had nothing to do with ale.

"Exactly how far up are the two of you planning on moving those hands right in the middle of the Green bloody Dragon?" Frodo hissed in a strangled whisper.

Pippin snuck a look sideways. "No one's watching." He pushed his hand down between Frodo's thighs, watching Frodo's breath come faster and shallower.

"You'd better make that shot before we start in on your buttons," Merry murmured. Frodo swallowed convulsively, threw, and missed.

"I swear, the pair of you..."

A sudden burst of noise made them all jump – Fatty Bolger and a good dozen of his friends roaring with laughter at someone's joke.

"This is a bit public a place for this kind of game, isn't it?" Frodo observed, his skin still touched by a flush that was, Pippin congratulated himself, probably not solely from alcohol.

"Ah, but that's the beauty of it, isn't it?" Pippin answered, leaning closer and not lowering his voice as much as he certainly ought to have. "You know, it's too bad there are no tablecloths on these tables. I'd like to see you make a shot with one or the other of us under the table and –"

"Bollocks, Pippin, you aren't supposed to be distracting me," Merry said hoarsely. Through some miracle he bounced the coin into the ale and passed it to Frodo.

"The two of you are drunk," Frodo observed, downed the ale, and reached for the pitcher.

"And you're getting there," Pippin said brightly. "Wonderful, isn't it?"

"Not if it ends with the two of you passing out face-first on the table. I'd have to leave you here, you know. I can't carry the both of you home." Frodo's hand slipped onto Pippin's knee under the table, and Merry gave a start that suggested that some part of Frodo's body was doing terribly exciting things to him as well.

"No fear of that," Pippin answered, trying to take aim with Frodo's fingers inching the cuff of his trousers up to slip underneath it. "Merry and I have a wonderful capacity for ale."

"The two of you seem to have all sorts of talents," Frodo purred, sliding his fingers around the back of Pippin's knee and making him miss the glass with his throw. Pippin grumbled and downed the ale, then thunked the glass down and blinked owlishly at it. Wonderful capacity for ale or no, he was definitely feeling its effects, and clearly drastic action was going to have to be taken.

He slipped out of his chair and moved to stand in back of Frodo, blocking off the line of sight from the rest of the room. "Throw, then," he whispered into Frodo's ear, and slid his hand down to toy slowly with Frodo's nipple through his shirt, returning Merry's conspiratorial smile. Frodo's breath caught and he leaned his head back against Pippin's chest, fingers clenching tight around the coin and his hips lifting –

"Shall I get you lads another pitcher of ale?" the barmaid asked from almost directly behind Pippin, making them all jump half out of their skin. The coin flew out of Frodo's hand, bounced once on the table, and landed with a splash in the ale.

"Yesplease," Merry squeaked.

"Coming right up, then," she said in a tone that distinctly implied that she didn't think another pitcher was a particularly good idea.

"Drink, Merry," Frodo said in a shaky voice.

"That was an accident," Pippin said sternly. "You ought to rethrow."

"Accident or not, it landed in the glass," Frodo argued.

Pippin managed to get back into his chair without mishap and watched Merry knock back the ale. "We never did set stakes, you know," he observed.

"You're quite right, Pip," Frodo answered, handing the coin off to Merry. "I'll tell you what – if the two of you win, I'll let you..." He trailed off thoughtfully, then leaned over and whispered something into Merry's ear that made Merry go pale and then scarlet.

"Those are, erm, quite the stakes you're putting up, Frodo," Merry observed.

Frodo set his elbow on the table and leaned his chin on his hand, smiling angelically. "Well, then you'd better set yourself to winning, hadn't you? It's your go."

"Hoy, wait. What are these stakes, now?" Pippin demanded.

"Wait your turn," Frodo said mildly. "Throw, Merry."

Merry swallowed hard and bounced the coin so wide of the glass that Pippin had to grab the coin to keep it from flying off the table. "Bollocks," he muttered, and reached for the ale.

"All right, then, it's my turn," Pippin pointed out. "What are you putting up, Frodo?"

"Maybe I should ask what the two of you are putting up."

"Looks like we've already put a few things up," Merry observed dryly.

Pippin shifted uncomfortably in his chair, silently but vehemently agreeing. "You know, you could always concede the game, Frodo," he said magnanimously.

Frodo blinked. "Oh, no. Not when I'm winning. If you want to move on to other games, you'll just have to concede this one yourself."

"Nev –" Pippin began indignantly; then the warm pressure of Frodo's hand high on his leg forced him to consider concession in a bit more favorable a light.

"Er," he managed, a bit more weakly than he would have liked. "Whose turn is it?"

"I do think you ought to concede," Frodo murmured, fingertips stroking along Pippin's inseam. Pippin glanced helplessly at Merry and saw that he was looking a bit glassy-eyed himself.

"We could," Merry began, then jumped and let out a yip. Clearing his throat hastily, he went on, "We could always play again tomorrow."

Frodo smiled encouragingly. Pippin hesitated, weighing the pleasure of soundly trouncing his cousin at Coins against the pleasure of stripping Frodo and Merry out of their clothes and... and his mental scale came down on the side of naked hobbits with a crash that should have been audible all the way to Frogmorton. "All right, Frodo, you win. But we'll beat you tomorrow, you wait and see."

"Of course you will," Frodo answered, tipping coins out onto the table. "And tomorrow you'll pay for the ale, too."

Pippin grumbled and pushed his chair back, trying not to wobble.

"Steady on, you two, you're going to knock us right off the road," he complained as Frodo jostled Merry and Merry jostled him.

"And?" Merry asked pointedly, slipping a hand down over Pippin's backside to his hip.

"And then we'll aaah! " Pippin slipped on the grass angling down from the road and unbalanced; he instinctively grabbed hold of Merry, who grabbed hold of Frodo, and in a flash the three of them were tumbling down the long slanted sward, fetching up at the bottom in a heap of entangled hobbits and breathless laughter.

"And then we'll what, Pip?" Merry gasped.

Frodo wriggled through the knot of cousins and sat up. "Good thing none of us were drunker than we are. That might have been terribly unpleasant."

"Oh, Frodo," Merry protested, wrinkling his nose.

"That isn't quite the tone of voice I wanted to hear you say that in," Frodo told him, rather mangling his usual immaculate phrasing, and set all three of them laughing again. Why it was so funny, Pippin had no idea; but it was good to laugh, and good to be tipsy, and to be sprawled on the grass with his favorite cousins, and that was enough to keep him going until his sides hurt.

When they finally stopped giggling, Pippin found himself leaning into Frodo's side and tracing the line of fabric over Merry's knee. "Fine night," he observed, feeling as if someone ought to say something before the silence grew awkward. He couldn't help but wonder if they were really going to – well, he hadn't had more than a stolen kiss or two from Merry and not even that from Frodo, and would go to his grave before he admitted that he was nervous but he was.

Frodo leaned close and nuzzled his ear, sending sparks all through him. "Very fine," he whispered.

"Just, er, cool enough to be pleasant," Merry put in, making Pippin profoundly grateful that he wasn't the only one nervous enough to be babbling.

Pulling away from Pippin, Frodo moved to brush a light kiss over Merry's forehead. "I won, you know," he reminded them.

"You didn't win; we... agreed to stop playing, that's all," Pippin protested automatically.

"I won," Frodo said again with emphasis, "and I believe that means..."

...Frodo's fingertips on his chin and the other hand on Merry's, gently tilting their faces...

"...that I'm allowed..."

...tugging softly, drawing them in...

"...to claim a forfeit..."

...and Merry's mouth on Pippin's, sweet with ale and some elusive Merry-taste, Frodo's fingers running restlessly into Pippin's hair as the two of them kissed tentatively. Then Merry gave a small, pleased hum and his mouth opened against Pippin's, and suddenly there was heat and mingled breath and neither of their tongues seemed quite sure which mouth to be in, and between Merry's kiss and Frodo watching it was entirely possible that Pippin was going to explode right there on the grass. He pulled back to catch his breath, glancing sideways under the fringe of his hair at Frodo, who was smiling lazily.

"Is that all the forfeit you want?" Merry asked Frodo in a rather hoarser voice than normal. "It doesn't seem much."

"But it was a very nice forfeit," Frodo pointed out. "If you're feeling guilty about getting off lightly, you can kiss me too, if you'd – mmph!"

And, yes, in about twenty seconds there was going to be nothing left of Pippin but a handful of buttons and a scorch mark on the grass, what with Frodo and Merry kissing with beautiful abandon six inches from his nose, mouths opening and sealing and flashes of twining tongues between their lips. Pippin gave an involuntary whimper that had the unfortunate effect of causing Frodo to break off the kiss and turn to him.

"Feeling left out, Pip?" Frodo murmured; and perhaps it hadn't been so unfortunate after all, because Frodo's mouth tasted of ale and Merry and Frodo himself, and Merry's fingers were warm on the back of Pippin's neck, and the whole world was spinning.

"Maybe," Frodo said between kisses, and Pippin cracked an eye to see Merry slowly tasting the side of Frodo's neck, "we should take this somewhere more comfortable."

Pippin pulled away a little and traded a glance with Merry, then smiled. "This is comfortable enough."

"Didn't you say yourself that it's a fine night?" Merry asked, and licked Frodo's collarbone.

"Mm," Frodo answered. "It'll be a bit awkward, you know. Elbows getting in the way and all that."

"Yes, but here we won't fall off the bed," Pippin pointed out, leaning over to lure Merry's mouth away from Frodo's skin.

"Good point," Frodo breathed, sliding Pippin's braces off his shoulders.

There was a tangle of fingers on buttons, then – Pippin's on Frodo's, Merry's on Frodo's, Merry's on Pippin's, Frodo somehow managing to unbutton both of them at the same time, trying to kiss in every conceivable combination of three mouths, some of which worked better than others. Pippin couldn't hold back his grin, Merry couldn't stop snickering, and Frodo whispered endearments to both of them with amused affection; and Pippin wanted air and skin against him, and it wasn't happening quickly enough, so he sat back on his heels to struggle out of his shirt. By the time he finally managed to orient himself long enough to pull it off and drop it to the grass, Frodo was leaning back on his elbows with the long line of his throat bared to the moonlight, and Merry was leaning over him kissing him with a slow, thorough heat that made Pippin gulp. Torn between wanting to watch and wanting to join, he ran a hand up Frodo's stomach between the open lines of his shirt to circle a fingertip around one taut nipple. Frodo gave a soft moan and shifted to tug Pippin closer; Pippin bent his head to tongue at the nipple he'd been toying with, and Frodo's moan this time was louder and more urgent, and Merry's hand was stroking down Pippin's back in meandering caresses. Pippin nipped gently, drawing another gasp and squirm, and Merry's hand dipped down to catch Pippin's.

Lacing his fingers through Pippin's, Merry set their hands flat on Frodo's stomach and stroked there for a moment before slipping down onto the hard bulge in Frodo's trousers. Heart pounding, Pippin lifted his head and pulled Merry into a kiss, squeezing his hand against Merry's while Frodo sighed and arched underneath them, moving his hips restlessly under their touch.

"Too many clothes," Merry whispered.

"That's easily solved," Frodo answered, sitting up to slip out of his shirt.

"Ah, you're both lovely," Pippin breathed along the skin of Frodo's shoulder. "How shall we do this, then?"

Frodo smiled and combed his fingers into the hair at the base of Pippin's neck. "You're an eager one, aren't you?"

"I'm not the only one," Pippin retorted with a pointed glance downward.

"You first, Frodo. You won, after all," Merry declared.

"All right," Frodo agreed, stroking Merry's cheek. "And then I want to see the two of you..."

"I want you to, I want you to watch us," Pippin murmured, nipping at Frodo's earlobe. "But I want to... I think I want more than I can manage in one night and us three pitchers of ale down to start with."

Frodo laughed. "You'll be here for two more weeks, Pip. You can have whatever you want."

"Whatever you want," Merry echoed. "Lie back, Frodo."

Obediently, Frodo lay back on the grass, pulling Merry and Pippin both into a tangle of mouths and hands and oh, and the last of their clothing scattered onto the sward around them. And it felt so good to move against them, to wrap his legs around Frodo's and draw his fingertips through the light skim of sweat at the small of Merry's back, and he had to stifle a small whine of protest when Merry pulled back to nibble his way down Frodo's body. Brief disappointment quickly became something else, though, when Merry bent to take Frodo into his mouth, dark lips against the flush of Frodo's shaft, and Pippin bit hard into his lip at Frodo's soft, tense cry.

"Pippin," Frodo whispered, nuzzling into the curve of his neck. Pippin blinked, tore his eyes away from Merry, and sucked Frodo's eartip into his mouth, letting his hand drift down to trace over Merry's jaw, and farther to find a spot that made Frodo tense and give a muffled wail. Cupping and caressing, he licked his way back down to Frodo's chest, darting his tongue over hard, dark nipples, entranced by the contrast with Frodo's pale skin and by the salt-sweet taste – and Frodo's hand tightened hard in his hair, gasps becoming whimpers and threatening to shade into cries.

"Shh," he whispered, sliding his hand up to touch, oh yes, there, heat and soft skin over hardness, and Merry slid down further and sucked Pippin's fingers into his mouth as well and that was so very nearly enough even without being touched anywhere else.

"Merry, Pippin, yes, I'm," Frodo gasped; Merry hummed approval and sucked harder, moving one hand to wrap Pippin's fingers into a tighter grip, and Pippin laughed and moved up to catch Frodo's cries in his mouth. Frodo's teeth sank hard into Pippin's lip, making him yelp a bit, but it didn't matter, not at all, not when Frodo sobbed so beautifully for an endless moment and then relaxed into Pippin's embrace, trembling and gasping for breath.

Merry crawled back up to them, looking distinctly smug; Pippin caught hold of him and pulled him close, sounding his mouth with a slow thoroughness and tasting Frodo on him with a wonderful, rich immediacy.

"You're lovely, both of you," Frodo whispered. "Let me..."

He wriggled out from between them to slide behind Pippin, sandwiching Pippin between them in a hot tangle of limbs; and Merry was, oh yes, pressed against him, and Frodo's hand slipped between them to wrap around them both, and the pressure sent a hum like a beehive all down Pippin's limbs until Merry moved, a long slow thrust that pushed both of them through the wonderfully tight grip of Frodo's fist, and then it was like nothing Pippin could think of. He gave a strangled gasp and wound his leg around Merry, clenching his fingers around Frodo's arm; and Merry's mouth was hot and insistent on his own, and Frodo was licking just the right spot on the nape of his neck, and oh yes, oh yes, oh don't stop, both of you, either of you, and he didn't know he'd said it aloud until Frodo laughed and whispered "Shhh" against his neck.

"I," Pippin began to say, and then couldn't manage any more because that wonderful rhythm and the bodies against his took all his attention and most of his breath, and nothing was more important than the next thrust, the next stroke, and the reaching, oh, and when Merry stiffened and came between them with a stifled cry it only took another stroke of Frodo's hand and a light nip on his shoulder to send Pippin over the edge into a blinding flare of pleasure.

By the time he recovered his wits a bit the three of them had settled into a tangled, sleepy, contented pile on the grass, Pippin's head on Merry's shoulder and Frodo draped comfortably over Pippin's side with his hand idly stroking Merry's hip. "That was good," he said drowsily.

"Mm," Merry answered, caressing Pippin's hair.

A thought occurred to Pippin, and he frowned. "Hoy, Frodo. You never did tell me what you wagered."

"Something that really would have been more convenient in a bed," Frodo answered, and tipped his chin up to whisper into Pippin's ear.

Pippin blinked. "That, er, was quite the wager."

Frodo laughed and slapped him on the hip. "Get dressed, the pair of you. Let's get home to bed before the sun comes up and someone comes along the road."

"I don't think I can move," Merry grumbled, and for his pains found his clothes being dropped onto his head by Frodo.

Pippin reached for his shirt. "Frodo?"

"Yes, love?"

"You've a good few vats of the Baggins homebrew laid in, haven't you?"

"Don't I always when the two of you come to visit?"

Pippin pulled his shirt on and then slid his hands around the back of Frodo's neck, pulling him close. "Good. Because tomorrow, Merry and I are going to win."

"Hands down," Merry agreed complacently, pulling on his trousers.

"I'm looking forward to it," Frodo answered, smiling.

"But not as much as I am," Pippin informed him, and pulled away to put on his clothes while he still had any inclination to.

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