#haven't posted a fanfic on tumblr before i hope the formatting is ok

[kissunderthemountain]

Comprehend, the kind of love of which I speak

The detail that had taken the most time (as small as it was), were small oak leaves. Three spanned the width of the bead, so no matter which way it was twisted one would always show. A symbol of the strength and resilience of a king, forever embedded in this little bead, personally handcrafted by Bilbo.

In which no small act of observation goes wasted, Thorin yearns like he has no other purpose, and Bilbo's act of kindness saves the line of Durin.

It all began in Mirkwood, really. Well, if Bilbo was being honest with himself - and really, he should’ve been honest with himself much sooner, as what good was a burglar who couldn’t see what was right under his nose - there had been signs much sooner, as early as the Carrock if not before even then, but, well…

The real, notable start had been in Thranduil’s dungeons.

When, in between scrambling for dark corners, foraging for what scraps he could find, and trying to get a sense of exactly how to get them all out of this madness, Bilbo had settled in front of Thorin’s cell. Just a breather. He thought to himself, slinking to the ground in a pathetic slouch. Just a moment to catch my breath, and then…

And then what? That was the issue, really. Weeks spent in this shadowed version of the world, not speaking - fearing breathing, for crying out loud, too afraid to make a sound. This underground fortress of a palace was a maze, cold and unfeeling as its king, filled with precipices around every wrong turn. Not to mention the guards. Really, Bilbo was lucky that none were within throwing distance of him right now - else he wouldn’t take this chance, magic ring or not. He hoped, distantly, that Erebor was more welcoming than these halls. At this point he would take practically anything, but hearing how the dwarrow had spoken of their home had given Bilbo some kind of peace, and some other feeling he couldn’t quite place. All that would be for naught, however, if he couldn’t get them out of this blasted dungeon!

Dropping his shoulders in frustration, Bilbo thumped his head against the bars. At the sound, Thorin, who previously seemed to have been dozing in a sort of half-sleep, jolted awake. Muddled in confusion he first gazed blankly out of the opening and, finding nothing, came to sit in front of the bars in a position that unconsciously mirrored Bilbo’s.

Bilbo froze, and moved to shuffle back, only remembering after a moment that-

Ah. Of course. He can’t see you, you fool, there’s no need to alert him with more scuffling sounds.

Guilt shot through Bilbo, smoother than an arrow. Here Thorin was, finally getting some rest, and Bilbo just had to go and- and muck it all up!

Yet as Bilbo looked closer, Thorin didn’t seem all that awake. His eyelids drooped, then fluttered, then blinked firmly as Thorin forced them open again, watching for an unseen danger. Those eyes, though dulled and darkened by the dimness of these caves, were still blue as the Shire-water in spring. Blue as the morning glories that crept up persistently around Bag End, and no less resilient than those pesky vines. 

He watched as Thorin’s eyes closed once again, not more than a breath away.

Yavanna, Bilbo was close enough to count his eyelashes! Bilbo thought to himself with a start, and so his gaze wandered downward. To check for injury, he told himself. To reassure himself that, though this situation was horrid in and of itself, Thorin was doing alright.

Scrapes and bruises and dazed looks aside, there was nothing to be found, and for that Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief. Just one - but to his horror, he saw Thorin’s nostrils flare. He froze as Thorin inhaled fully, paused, and lifted his head a bit higher, eyes searching for something. Someone? Bilbo didn’t dare hope it was him, and anyway, he was far more focused on a smaller detail - that Thorin’s braids were undone, with no beads to fasten them in place.

Those tree-shagging bastards! Those- those filthy, rotten leaf lovers -

He had never held contempt for elves, not really (as someone had to keep a level head between Gloin’s disdain and whatever Kili was doing), and though he had never learned the exact significance of dwarven braids, anyone with eyes could see the level of disrespect it took to remove them. And - having been by the rest of The Company’s cells on brief occasions - Bilbo noticed now that it seemed only Thorin’s had been removed. And so Bilbo hatched a plan. Finally the wheels of his mind were turning, set into motion by the sight of the King - he didn’t dare say his King - in such a state.

Of course, there was the plan that got them out of there. Quite well thought out, if one were to brush past the lack of a barrel for Bilbo himself and the surprise Orc party.

But the other plan - his own secret, private project, was another matter. It was a matter of a whittle (in Bilbo’s case, a small Elvish knife swiped off a table when no-one cared enough to look), and a scrapped piece of wood no bigger than his thumb.

There was no thought in Bilbo’s head about propriety when he had been stealing for his life. In a way, this was much the same, he reasoned with himself, in that it was a necessary gesture that Bilbo had the time and energy to spare to do when no one else did. When there were bigger issues to worry about - Kili’s leg, for one, or making it into Laketown, or of course the Lonely Mountain itself. 

No, this was something he would do, for he had noticed something, and now couldn’t let it go.

Thorin lay alone. In Laketown, in a bed far too tall for his size, he lay still, hands folded on his chest mimicking a body and not a person, and thought.

Unbidden, his gaze wandered to Bilbo. When he looked at Bilbo, really let himself look (and this night he did, as there was no telling what tomorrow and the Lonely Mountain would bring), he thought not of gold, not of the throne awaiting him in the depths of that mountain, not of his home, but of far more lonesome things.

Of how the eye was Mahal’s loneliest creation, the whole world passing through it and yet holding nothing. Of how there was another eye, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry. Just as empty.

He thought of the firelight shining in Bilbo’s eyes and remembered nights around a campfire. Remembered the gentle crackling of the flame and nonexistent sunlight found in the hobbit’s hair, remembered warmth. How, after borrowing Thorin’s furs, and rolling this and that way during the night, there had been a patch of ground heated gently by a body - Bilbo’s body - all night long. How he, guilty in every touch, had reached for that earth, desperately seeking a remnant of that heat, that touch, that embrace they had shared on the Carrock. How he had laid there until the only heat left was his own, and the ground grew cold and unforgiving beneath him, and the sun had risen. And then they had to leave.

In Mirkwood, in weeks trapped beneath the forest, it felt as if Thorin had been given endless time to think. Yet now, on the precipice of his home, of his destiny, there was no time at all. 

What time he did have was spent on Bilbo. Was spent wishing, wondering, if there was something more. If like that other eye, Bilbo, too, felt this yawning chasm within him, a hollowed-out sort of feeling that Thorin sensed couldn’t be filled. 

Oh, it came close sometimes, of course, seeing his sister-sons laugh, seeing hope for the first time in a long time within his people, within his Company, but it wouldn’t be satiated by anything less than a lifetime of… well… Thorin let his head drop back to the pillow, heavy with an equal mixture of desire and regret. He would’ve been happy with remaining by Bilbo’s side, he mused to himself, could’ve felt satisfied drinking in that radiance and living for it alone. But now, with his future, his destiny, his people, hanging by a thread, there was nothing to be done. He would live and die by this yearning.

Going lax, Thorin heard footsteps. Barely heard them, as quiet as the hobbit moved across even creaky wooden floors, but heard them all the same. He did not will his eyes to open, only shifted his body over slightly to one side. An opening. An offering, really. One he didn’t dare hope would be noticed or… accepted.

“Thorin?” Bilbo asked, voice soft as anything. When moments passed and no response came, Thorin felt a dip in the mattress. An additional weight on his bed. This made his eyes open finally, and when they did, he watched as Bilbo frowned slightly and moved to get up.

Out of instinct, Thorin found himself latching onto Bilbo’s wrist with a tenderness that frightened him and that only made Bilbo frown more. But it also made Bilbo settle back down on the bed and lean over Thorin, so he took the successes as they came, even when they came with a lecture.

“Are you feeling alright? You haven’t gone and gotten yourself sick, have you? I’ll go get Oin if I have to, I know you wouldn’t want to slow anything down but we cannot have you-”

“Bilbo.” Thorin interrupted when Bilbo’s hand had already landed on his forehead, feeling for a rise in temperature that wasn’t there. He raised his eyebrows, and Bilbo’s hand drew back at the motion. “I’m alright. But thank you. Your concern is…” Here he paused, swallowed, throat dry as anything. “Touching.”

Touching. All that time and all he could come up with was touching. Forget being a king, hopefully his future would end here and now through being swallowed up by the floor.

Bilbo’s eyebrows furrowed. Mahal, that expression. “If you say so, but if there’s anything I can do…” His words hung in the air and for a second Thorin felt suffocated. Anything. Yes. If I could request anything of you I wouldn’t ask for much at all. Just forever. Forever with me. Intertwined. Something of that pain must have shown through in his expression because between that moment and the next, Bilbo’s fingers were smoothing his hair away from his temple in feather-light strokes. 

“It’ll be okay, you know.” He continued, and it was so intimate that Thorin was torn between cringing away from it (because it was too much, like a campfire on an already scorching summer night) and throwing himself into it, helpless, a moth drawn to a flame. Instead, he settled somewhere in the middle, somewhere in resting his eyes on Bilbo’s face and resting his head for Bilbo’s hand.

“I do know.” Thorin said, his voice the rumble of distant thunder and his tone something so weary that Bilbo sighed and shook his head.

Fingertips lingering somewhere just above Thorin’s ears, Bilbo tapped lightly. “You might know, but you certainly don’t believe in it.” Saying this, Bilbo’s nose scrunched. “I don’t know what to tell you to make you believe. That’s more of Gandalf’s thing, I think.”

Thorin smiled, feeling small in the stillness of the night. “Our resident burglar, lost for words? Wasn’t sure I’d ever see the day.”

“Ah, well, don’t go getting used to it. Doesn’t happen often, that.”

The both of them smiled, then, and Thorin felt something well up in his chest. He fought back the urge to press a hand there and check it wasn’t physical - for he knew it couldn’t have been something as simple as blood or sweat, but an emotion he still couldn’t place beyond want.

Bilbo deserved more than want.

Feeling Bilbo drawing away, Thorin spoke once again in a desperate attempt - with that same reaction as when he had latched on to Bilbo’s hand. “I fear…” He cast his eyes down, suddenly far too ashamed to look Bilbo in the eye. “This bed feels too empty for me to sleep well tonight.” “I understand.” Bilbo said, to his surprise, forcing that hope - the one that whispered that he wasn’t quite as alone as he felt - to surface again. “After all, after months of only sleeping in shifts around a fire, I would feel the same.” Thorin hesitated. “Do you… feel the same?” Bilbo met his gaze, then. He had the slightest curl of amusement to his lip. “Are you asking me to share your bed, oh King Under the Mountain?”

Mahal have mercy. Strike me down now.

“Well, Master Baggins,” Thorin cleared his throat, breaking that eye contact yet again to stare at a wooden beam across the room. “I would understand if it would not be considered proper by your people, but considering, well, your previous statement, I would think…” And there, sparing him from further embarrassment was Bilbo, sliding under the cover and making room for himself. Barely thinking about it, barely thinking at all, really, Thorin shifted over to make space, and Bilbo gave a happy hum.

“You would be right - in that it isn’t considered properly done - but I would consider these extenuating circumstances. And, to be frank, it’s awfully hard to resist when you dwarves give off more heat than the earth in Wedmath.” His eyes crinkled with a kindness Thorin hadn’t felt in ages and Thorin fought to reconcile the idea of the Hobbit who’s home he’d invaded months ago with this one.

In a beat, Bilbo took on a grave sincerity (the same he had shown repeatedly - after escaping the Misty Mountains, or when vouching for Thorin just a day or so prior) and shifted to face Thorin. 

Helpless, Thorin held still, and waited.

“You’re my dearest friend, Thorin.” Bilbo said, quietly, like it was a secret between the two of them. “And I’d do anything for a friend.”

“Even face down a dragon?” Thorin choked out before having thought about it, caught in the look in Bilbo’s green eyes (Emerald, his mind whispered, Emerald, moissanite, tourmaline) and the warmth and weight of his body beside him.

Those green eyes twinkled. “Especially that.” He smiled, like it wasn’t going to be his doom, like his life wouldn’t end in fire and ash. “So really,” Bilbo continued (cutting off Thorin’s spiraling thoughts rather rudely), “This isn’t much at all.”

Thorin felt that same feeling creeping up, stuck in his throat. 

You don’t understand. There is nothing I wouldn’t give. My kingdom, my riches, my blood. In my deepest heart of hearts, I wish we never would’ve come. That you could have stayed in the Shire, in Bag End, never knowing what it is like to face a violent death and stand tall.And yet, then we wouldn’t have met.I thank Mahal that we are given this night. That I am given this night to lay beside you as your friend. If you name me your dearest friend, then your dearest friend I shall be.

He didn’t speak a word. He just breathed out, long and placidly, and that seemed to say enough.

A heavy weight sat in Bilbo’s chest, made to match the heavy weight in his jacket.

He had woken the dragon. His actions had directly killed many in Laketown - people who had already been suffering, starving at the hands of their Master. People he and Thorin and the rest of The Company had given hope to for the first time in a long time.

And yet in the face of all of this, Thorin felt nothing. He could tell Thorin had changed. He had changed the very moment they had set foot in this wretched mountain. 

Erebor, though once a splendid kingdom of wealth and warmth and home for so many, had become a hollowed out shell of its past. 

Between the way Thorin prowled (and really, there was no other word for it, considering the tense set of his shoulders beneath that gaudy fur coat and the distant look in his eyes) and the way the mountain bled coldness and stunk of death like an infected wound, it was a wonder Bilbo found air comfortable enough to breathe.

When he wasn’t sorting through gold for the very item he already held or avoiding the feverish gaze of The King Under the Mountain (for could that dwarf really be called Thorin Oakenshield anymore?) Bilbo sought comfort in one small object.

Palming it, Bilbo considered the details. There wasn’t any work left to do on it, really, unless he wished to risk the integrity and carve deeper than he ought to. His deft fingers had worked carefully away at it for months, angling a small knife (that he swapped out rather cleverly at Laketown, lest anyone harp on him about carrying yet another blade of Elvish make) just so and now, with countless sections of downtime spent, he was left with this.

One small wooden bead sat in his hand. The size and shape was close to that of Thorin’s original beads, or as close as Bilbo had remembered (as Bilbo knew little about hair fastening in this fashion and didn’t want to risk making something that couldn’t work well at all), but that was where the similarities ended.

Despite having studied what dwarven runes and designs he’d seen intently, Bilbo decided to stick with what he knew best, and made it personal. After all, especially now with Thorin’s… condition, there was no guarantee it would ever be worn. So, he took comfort in it, and whittled the only way he knew how.

The detail that had taken the most time (as small as it was), were small oak leaves. Three spanned the width of the bead, so no matter which way it was twisted one would always show. A symbol of the strength and resilience of a king, forever embedded in this little bead, personally handcrafted by Bilbo. A bead that would likely never see the light of day, if Bilbo allowed himself to face the stark reality laying before him for more than a moment to admit it.

Holding it up to what little light reflected in these stone halls, he peered at it, admiring his handiwork for once. Only a few of his previous skills had carried over to this quest and, somehow, he was glad this was one of them.

Then there was a sound, nothing so undignified as a scuffle but scraping, like the drag of claws (Smaug’s claws, he thought to himself, with a shudder) on the rock’s surface, and Bilbo was startled enough to drop the bead back into his palm with one sudden move.

Thorin stood in front of him, tall and regal and unreachable beneath his layers of garish golden metal and furs. “What,” he growled, every bit as animalistic as Bilbo had feared. “Is that.”

He made no clarification but his eyes (that same river blue gone cold and distant like that wretched winter the Brandywine had frozen over) fixed on Bilbo’s hands, clenched tight around his last shred of hope and comfort in this dark and desolate place.

“It’s nothing.” “Show me.” Thorin demanded, and with this King Under the Mountain towering over him, Bilbo had nothing to do but to obey.

His fingers (which were not trembling, no matter what anyone thought) unclasped and he offered, palm up, the bead. Thorin’s bead, really.

At once, there was a small clarity in Thorin’s eyes, in his face. A touch of guilt, maybe, for such a bold confrontation, and something else. 

“A wooden bead,” he mused, and his voice, though rough with harsh use, was the gentlest it had been since that night in Laketown, when he’d confided in Bilbo, and they had shared a bed for crying out loud. “Wherever did you pick this up?” “I, ah, made it. Actually. Myself. Took quite a bit of time.” Hearing this, Thorin’s hand brushed the underside of Bilbo’s, guiding it up so he could look closer. Nearly flinching, Bilbo just held still, and breathed as Thorin examined his work. Thorin sounded tender and Yavanna, almost fond, as he spoke. 

“You made this?”

Latching on to this fragment of humanity he’d found, Bilbo continued with reckless abandon, throwing any sense of secrecy to the wind.

“Yes, just in my downtime, over the last few months. Always had a bit of a knack for whittling, one of the few crafts I’ve gotten comfortable enough with so far. Made it as a gift, actually, I was going to give it to someone- ah- sometime-” “You’re going to give it to someone?”

In that very moment, it seemed as if Thorin had disappeared in the complete opposite direction. 

Where there had been rivers warm in spring or frozen over in the dead of winter was a stormy sea Bilbo had never been privy to witness. That tender touch had become a claw, holding a level of fury he had yet to see in Thorin (even after getting himself flung off a cliff!), and yet, when Bilbo dared to drag his gaze to meet Thorin’s, there was a level of devastating desolation spreading on his face that Bilbo just had to do something, anything to get a drop of that Thorin (his Thorin) back.

“It’s yours,” he said, prying Thorin’s hand off and open enough to let the bead tumble into his tensed fingers. “I made it for you. Please. Take it, Thorin, it’s a gift for you.”

Bilbo watched Thorin’s eyes, cautious. He watched as that same lust, that gold sickness clouded them for but a brief moment, and then startlingly, he watched as they cleared. As how Thorin, gazing at the bead anew with a sudden clarity in his eyes, whispered in a halting voice, “For me?”, and how his other hand slowly reached to rub at some ache in his chest. The touch reminded him of the cloak he was wearing, and, with a warring flicker of disgust and avarice, he cast it to the ground and closed his eyes completely. Bilbo didn’t miss Thorin’s eyelashes going wet, nor how he seemed to weaken at the knees. 

It took minutes before either spoke, standing there, Thorin weathering his storm and Bilbo helplessly caught in the tide, watching, waiting, until Thorin gained breath enough to speak.

“Bilbo… Mahal , what have I done? This mountain, this gold, this- this blasted crown … I have succumbed to the very same madness of my forefathers.”

“Thorin-” Bilbo stilled as Thorin wrenched the crown from his head and tossed it to the floor, a loud clatter echoing in the barren space. “Thorin, do not stand in front of me and say you have succumbed when I can see you looking at me like a new dwarf. You are not your grandfather and you will not yield while I draw breath.” 

In his tirade Bilbo had cleared the space between them and stood almost chest to chest with Thorin. 

“Your company needs you. I need you,” and at this, Thorin gave some strange shudder, shaking his head with his eyes still closed. “Thorin Oakenshield, the same dwarf who threw himself off a cliff's edge to save a lowly burglar.”

There he paused, and waited, barely blinking with the intensity of his stare.

A hair's breadth away from him, Thorin drew in a trembling breath, and opened his eyes. “If,” He began, voice unsteady, then cleared his throat. “If that is truly all you think you are, all of us have failed.” And in that one sentence, Bilbo relaxed more than he had in days. 

Though Thorin was still shaky, and his hand still clutched Bilbo’s bead like a lifeline, he was more himself than when they had entered this mountain, and Bilbo had never been so relieved in his life.

Pinned to the ice, Thorin struggled under the weight of Azog bearing down with his bisected blade. His block had been nearly a second too late - another breath and the tip of that blade would be in his throat. Though it seemed now that would be his fate regardless.

Gritting his teeth, he weighed his options very quickly. It would be a warrior's death, he decided, fit for a king indeed, slaying his enemy at the price of his own life.

And what a life it had been. How weak he had become, buckling under the weight of all the gold in his mountain. In- in the mountain, that was. That mountain (and the gold within) would pass to Fili and Kili, if they managed to survive their wounds.

Oh, his sister-sons. He grieved, now, not only for them, but for Dís, for the knowledge that she very well may be left alone and how he had robbed her of all remaining family with this quest. What good was a home, no matter how grand and beautiful, if there was no one worthwhile to share it with? If it had come at the cost of her sons, of her brother? 

How could he, already so disgraceful in every way, leave this unfinished, leave Azog alive to hunt down the rest of his family, what little remained of the line of Durin?

Thoughts racing, Thorin’s forearms began to burn under the strain, and he had made up his mind.

About to slacken his grip, Thorin felt a weight in his shirt, that which was closest to his skin - unmistakably a bead, the one Bilbo had made for him. Had given to him. The miniscule weight of that, of such a promise, made him - Thorin Oakenshield, who had faced down this mighty orc not once but three times now, who had lept from a narrow ledge to save a stranger with barely a thought, who had taunted a dragon - that bead made him hesitate. And that hesitation was just enough of a break that it gave room for one brave Hobbit to dive in, letter opener flashing in the harsh winter sun and a fierce look in his eyes. Though the weight of a Hobbit was nowhere near enough to make an orc fall, it caused Azog to stagger, thus releasing Thorin from his death sentence, and pulling the focus onto Bilbo.

No. Oh, Mahal, no, not him too. Thorin could think of nothing else, couldn’t tear his eyes away as he lay sprawled aside and momentarily forgotten. He watched, helpless, as the elven dagger was knocked out of Bilbo’s hand, and Bilbo fell to the ice, fumbling for something - a ring? - that skidded across the frozen surface before sinking down into frigid, endless waters. He prayed that the Mithril under Bilbo’s coat would be enough, that his gift (though nowhere near as priceless, in his mind, as the bead he had been given) would protect Bilbo when he couldn’t.

Azog seemed to read his very mind, as his foot slammed down on Bilbo’s chest, knocking the breath out of him with a wheeze that struck Thorin in the depths of his heart. Struggling to his elbows, Thorin stopped dead at the blade pointed to Bilbo’s vulnerable throat.

The orc smiled, a sick and terrible thing that twisted his face into a horrendous mass of teeth and pale scarring. Thorin had never been so afraid in all his life.

“The line of Durin,” Azog snarled, “brought so low by a halfling . Lay down your weapon, dwarf, or I shall kill him.” That smile grew wider. “Brutally. In front of you. Surrender or the ice will be red with his blood.”

In his right mind, Thorin knew there was no reasoning with an orc. That no matter what he did, their deaths were inevitable at the hands of such a foe in this circumstance. Yet that didn’t stop his hand loosening around Orcrist, willing him to yield as he had to the trolls that threatened his burglar’s life so many months ago. The sword was dangling from his very fingertips when Bilbo, trembling with effort, dug his nails into Azog’s flesh just above his shin armour and pulled. The shock gave him a moment to claw his way up Azog’s leg, surging out from underneath a slackened pin, and sink his teeth into the meat of Azog’s thigh in one deep bite.

Staggering to his feet, Thorin put weight on his injured foot (that was still sluggishly leaking blood onto the ice) and pressed forward, through the pain, through the fear, gripping Orcrist ever steadily and dodging a strike from Azog that aimed to slice across his chest.

One swing took Azog’s head clean off.

One swing and he fell back, back, and for a horrifying second Bilbo fell with him until his jaw released and he, too, lurched, but away from Azog, and onto the ice a distance away from Thorin.

Thorin collapsed, releasing Orcrist from his grasp. Reduced to an ungainly, helpless crawl, as if he were naught but a babe, Thorin dragged himself to Bilbo’s side. “Bilbo,” At first was all he could say, hands nearly numb with the cold clutching at every part of him, feeling for wetness, for blood and wounds, and finding nothing, he rested his hand between Bilbo’s narrow shoulder blades. Bilbo was hunched over, sputtering, trying to rid his tongue from the taste of orc blood and flesh.

Thorin panted, voice nothing more than a rasp, and said “Sorry about the blood in your mouth,” I wish it was mine. It should’ve been mine, is what he didn’t say, though he thought it and they both heard it. I should have died in that fight. It would have been a noble death. A worthy death. Now I must live an unworthy life - unworthy of my kingdom, of those around me, of Bilbo.

Bilbo looked up at him. His teeth were stained black. Thorin had never found him more beautiful.

Alive. We’re both alive. Mahal, how I thank you. How I thank the strength of mithril, the strength of hobbits.

Tears rose to his eyes unbidden. Too overwhelmed to feel shame (though he had not truly cried in an age), Thorin bent his forehead low and touched it to Bilbo’s, the stinging of his cut only making him press closer. “Bilbo,” He began, voice thick with emotion.

Bilbo shushed him, gentle, one hand finding the back of Thorin’s neck. Both of them were frigid, and they clung to each other there on the ice, breathing the same air until the eagles came.

Of course, lots of work had to be done. Cleanup, for one, and things Bilbo knew far too little about to help with - structural integrity of a mountain kingdom wasn’t really his forte - but also healing and dying and mourning. Not a day went by that Bilbo didn’t gaze at Thorin and feel that overwhelming sense of relief wash over him, filling every crack and crevice in his very soul. When he looked at the boys, Thorin’s sister-sons, battered, bruised, and bloody, but still so alive, warmth filled his chest and stayed there, keeping him shielded from the growing cold better than any liquor he drank ever could. 

It all could have turned out so differently.

The taste of orc blood still lingered in Bilbo’s mouth (when he thought about it too long), turning to ash in the dark stillness of the royal family’s medical tent and flooding his senses (the bitter winter wind whipping in his hair, a persistent smell of death that would probably stay on the terrain for years to come, frigid ice beneath his feet that did nothing to quell his fevered memory of the Fell Winter, and above all else, desperation like he had never known).

A moment later to have intervened and Thorin would have let himself be gored on that ice. A second later to have, in a rather shameful way, (if it hadn’t been for the fact that it had saved Thorin’s life and the way Thorin had looked at him after, orc blood smeared on his teeth, like he was seeing all of Bilbo for the first time and liked what he saw) pulled himself up and Thorin would have let Orcrist slip through his fingers. After everything.

And so Bilbo sat, breathing through it, until Thorin woke and stared at him in a way that felt like it said many more things than Bilbo understood, and that strange gravity Thorin carried with him everywhere grounded Bilbo once again. Somewhere in there his hand had found Bilbo’s, holding it tightly, his thumb running in patterns over the hair on the back of Bilbo’s hand.

It wasn’t proper; Bilbo couldn’t find the energy to care. Along the way his propriety had vanished (maybe between being used as a troll hankie and sharing a bed with a future king for no real discernable reason), and at this very moment, it struck Bilbo.

I will never be at home in the Shire ever again.

Of course it would be familiar, worn to golden like a well-loved statue or a doorknob that had seen many guests and many good days. But family - a family that made him feel like he belonged, and not like something to shy away from or take pity on, but someone to embrace, a family like he had seen with all of the brothers, and Thorin with Fili and Kili, something… something he could be a part of. Here. In Erebor.

Bilbo stared at Thorin. Thorin stared back, unwavering emotions behind his eyes and a steady hand holding Bilbo’s.

The days went on like this, until Thorin could put weight on his foot without flinching (and Yavanna, how utterly murderous Bilbo had felt, seeing that angry scarlet split in Thorin’s pale, smooth skin) and Fili and Kili got out of their cots far too fast (ending up sprawled on the floor, as Fili had been using Kili for support to stand and they went down together as always), and after living in the mountain for a season proper, Bilbo had broken the news of his intent to stay.

Erebor, once a barren relic of its people, was once again filled with chatter, an ever-present heat from the working forges, children (or ‘pebbles’ as Bilbo soon learned they were called), and a burning sense of home Bilbo hadn’t felt since he was young.

The brief trip back to the Shire in order to retrieve some belongings he couldn’t do without long-term only confirmed what he was already sure about, and his return to Erebor was met with a set of misshapen doilies, handcrafted by the members of The Company with visibly differing levels of skill. Each one warmed Bilbo’s heart nonetheless.

One unusually balmy night saw Thorin at Bilbo’s door. Though Thorin appeared majestic as ever, the way his hands clasped tightly at the small of his back betrayed his nerves in a tell that, miraculously, never showed in court and always showed in front of Bilbo. It was either that, or the wild look in his eyes, like he had just seen something too good to be true.

“Master Baggins,” Thorin started, elegant as ever with his sudden starting and stopping of sentences. 

“Thorin,” said Bilbo, cheerfully deadpan as ever. “What can I do for you?”

Thorin’s mouth quirked (and Bilbo couldn’t look away), “Many things, apparently. Stand in front of orcs and dragons and goldsick kings alike.”

“Like I said, anything for a friend.”

Flushing a little at the reminder of how brazen he had been that night (really, Bilbo, extenuating circumstances?), Bilbo opened the door wider to allow Thorin inside in an unspoken invitation. 

When he had turned back around to face Thorin, having shut the door, his breath caught in his throat. Thorin had shed his outer layers, wearing a thin tunic that clung to his softer sections and would have left him looking gentle had it not been for the tense set of his shoulders.

“You…” Thorin halted, once again, casting his gaze to the floor. “You have been living here for months, yet you know little of dwarven customs.” Confused, Bilbo took a step forward. “Now, Thorin, I wouldn’t say that…” “You know little of dwarven courting customs.”

Well. That was true enough. Bilbo didn’t quite see how it was relevant, or that it was really such a dramatic matter. Yet Thorin, bathed in the gentle light of a candle, had gone from nervous to determined (almost battle ready, for crying out loud!), and set his jaw. His hands opened in front of him to reveal that bead Bilbo had painstakingly carved all that time ago.

“With this bead, you not only saved my life - for I am sure I would have fallen much farther into gold sickness otherwise - but likely that of my family and my kingdom. I am forever in your debt, for I don’t know how to even begin repaying you.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to interject, to say that there was no such debt owed, that Thorin had saved his life as well and other true things, but at that moment Thorin looked up and the honest bashfulness on his face startled Bilbo into silence.

“I am aware you did not know of what such a gift means to a dwarf. That a bead - a personal, handcrafted bead, whether it be welded or carved or molded, is most commonly given as a proposal to begin courting.” Here Thorin’s face began to grow red, and, nervous, he sped up his explanation. “So while I am fully aware you meant nothing of- of that nature- by your gift, I come to you this night to give a completely unreasonable request.”

Aware that he was still staring, wide eyed and silent, Bilbo’s heart lurched in his chest. 

“Anything,” Bilbo said, and meant it, as he had meant every word back in Laketown. 

You’re my dearest friend. And I’d do anything for a friend. Except, this wasn’t just being friendly anymore, was it? 

Oh how traitorous his heart had become - to consider Thorin attractive, beautiful even, was one thing (one thing practically anyone with eyes agreed on, he had moaned to Dwalin on an exceptionally drunken night), but to long for him, to love him, was another entirely. Now there was nothing left to do but to let those eyes, blue as a river and just as ensnaring as the fiercest rapids of a spring flood, push him to do one more risky thing.

Bilbo closed the distance between them almost entirely, slipping his hands into Thorin’s own. Panicked like a fawn caught in an open glade, Thorin startled, breath catching audibly in his throat. Bilbo held still.

“Thorin?”

“Please braid my hair.” Thorin all but whimpered, pressing his forehead against Bilbo’s hands, forgetting himself entirely in a rush of hushed embarrassment and desperation. 

“So that- so that I may never forget what led us here, how my greed nearly became the downfall of us all, so that I may display your- your work, your commitment and bravery and loyalty in that braid, Bilbo, will you braid your bead into my hair?”

What fools we both have been, he thought, watching Thorin’s shoulders tense and straighten as perhaps some of his sensibility came back to him.

Thorin lifted his head, but looked down still. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” He said quietly, sounding far more like he was trying to convince himself of that than Bilbo.

“And what if I want it to?”

Yavanna, how sick Bilbo was of propriety. So many of his habits had all but disappeared on the road, travelling with dwarrow. But moreso than doing away with things like salad forks and matching ties with pocket squares, he had finally begun to speak his mind, truly and honestly without layers of social suitability nonsense in between.

Thorin just looked at him, stunned. “What?”

“What if I want it to mean something, Thorin?”

Here Bilbo met his eyes and raised one hand, tracing his fingertips behind the shell of Thorin’s ear and tucking stray hairs back in what he assumed to be an incredibly intimate gesture for dwarves. It appeared to work, when, instead of giving a verbal reply, Thorin just shuddered, eyelids fluttering, then melted all at once. He didn’t lean into the touch, but when his eyes found Bilbo’s once again, he whispered soft and sweet. “Yes, Bilbo, any… any braid you place in my hair I will wear with pride.”

“Even if I find some way to make it say you’re absolutely ridiculous?”

“Even that.”

“Even if I let it show you have an unbelievably flawed sense of direction?

“Well, it would be true.”

“Even if I make it so the whole kingdom knows I am truly, horribly, smitten for their king?”

“Especially so.”

Thorin smiled in a teary-eyed way then, and by that point Bilbo had no other option but to kiss him thoroughly until Thorin forgot his shame, and his madness, and his lonely desperation and allowed himself to just experience this simple feeling. It was only later, with Bilbo sat in his armchair, feet wide apart enough on the floor for a dwarven king to kneel between them, his hands in Thorin’s curls, that they truly spoke of feelings. That Thorin confessed, in one flood of words as he was prone to do, of late nights looking up at the stars and a hollow feeling inside and most endearingly (as his face flushed red) how he had felt all this time. And Bilbo, hands caught weaving a deceptively complicated braid down Thorin’s hair, kissed his forehead and smiled and told him about sitting in Thranduil’s dungeons. 

Told him about looking at Thorin’s eyes and thinking of water.