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The kindling of the campfire was still glowing hours later, kept alive by the occasional addition of more firewood to the calm, dancing flames. The fire illuminated the clearing, its trees and bushes, and the dark shapes of sleeping dwarves and their belongings, bathing it all in a soft, comforting light. The only sounds were the snores of the company, the occasional twisting and turning that rustled the bedrolls, heard among the creaking of the tinder, running brook water, and the sporadic hoot of an owl prowling in the night.
Bilbo lay awake that night, his back to the warmth of the fire and his nimble fingers twirling some of his loose hair that was not yet captured by shining clasps or beads. It was no sound of the woods and no wheeze or rumble of dwarf or wizard that kept him from sleep. It was his very own heartbeat – a steady thumping in his ears, drowning all else into soft, undistinguishable background noise. And he was thinking.
None of the dwarves had caught his little exclamation after dinner. There had been cheering, Bombur picking up the clean cauldron with a grateful gesture at the unmoving and wide-eyed hobbit, and then the subject had shifted as soon as it had been there. But Bilbo was certain of what he had heard.
Bilbo Baggins was by no means an imprudent hobbit – by the Valar, there were anything but few of those – and it didn’t take very long for his clever little mind to piece together the events of the past few days in a way so that this new discovery made just short of perfect sense.
How had he not seen it? Perhaps more importantly: why had no one told him?
He thought of all the people who must have known: the wizard, the two princes, Bofur especially, Balin, Glóin… essentially the entire company, barring himself! Each and every one of them must have been blind not to see him wading around to his neck in cultural differences that confused him on all odds and ends. Gandalf had even said so himself, implied that Bilbo was out on the deep end, and yet had not thought to tell him he was about to take one step too far out and tumble right under the heavy weight of a great misunderstanding.
For a misunderstanding it was, but on Bilbo’s part only.
He cautiously twisted his head, not at all worried about the rustling being heard over the orchestra of snoring dwarves, and looked to the outskirts of the camp. There, on the top of a boulder overlooking both the darkened forest around the camp and the running river water, sat Thorin Oakenshield as he took the first watch of the night. The silver of the moonlight was just adequate enough to illuminate his expression to an onlooker – and the absence of its ever-present grimness that followed a witness of the world’s more gruesome truths. It was replaced by what the hobbit could only describe as true content, which was enough for Bilbo’s heart to twitch somewhat pleasantly in his chest. And that made him feel guilty.
For as he murmured over the actions taken – both Thorin’s and his own – it must have seemed to every party watching that he was positively receiving and accepting whatever the king-to-be might have offered him; what Thorin would willingly give him.
Bilbo looked away as his heart beat with another guilt-ridden tremor.
Of course it started with his braid: a practical and yet personal gift that no other dwarf had offered to help him with since that first night it was done for him. There had been gentle touches, smiles, and soft spoken words, all growing a little bolder after he received the forest green beads that same night now weaved into his locks – and it was impossible not to notice how Thorin’s bedroll was quite suddenly next to his, and not on the other side of the camp as it generally was.
The realisation had brought a heated blush to his cheeks, and he had made efforts to ignore it the best he could as he laid down to go to sleep.
(For Thorin couldn’t possibly want to… Out here, and so suddenly—wouldn’t that be quite improper…? Or perhaps to dwarves it was…um, traditional?)
But why would Thorin wish to court him?
Thorin, his companion and friend of unyielding trust, was to become… his companion of a different meaning; perhaps even a deeper one. In a way, Bilbo supposed, it would be just what he had first assumed – furthering of companionship – but with different requirements, surely. The trust would still be there, certainly, and his opinion should, in theory, matter quite a bit to the dwarf king in the future – but what of the physical aspect of it? Certainly, courting, and eventually, dare he say, marriage, in dwarven and hobbit culture must both include that same phase. That would mean Thorin…desired him.
Oh, wasn’t that a thought. Bilbo swallowed as it crossed his mind. The events of that night surely proved it to be true. Also, the looks he had received from the king through the evening could by all means be compared to those he remembered passion-stuck tweens give each other before tumbling behind a hill and emerging rosy-cheeked some time later, lips bruised a sweet a red as fresh summer cherries.
What did that make of their friendship? Would it be considered uncouth, or downright cruel, of him to continue to refer to his and Thorin’s affiliation as such?
For every inquiry that appeared more seemed to follow the moment he tried to forget them. It was not hard for him to decide he would have to speak with a certain someone, come morning, and preferably before they kept traveling.
A different sound joined with the rest, and out of the corner of his eye Bilbo could see Dwalin throw another log onto the fire before he moved to relieve Thorin of his duties. His sharp, trained ears picked up a short conversation in dwarvish he had no means of understanding, and then familiar bids of goodnight.
Bilbo quickly feigned sleep as he heard the sound of boots thumping against the forest floor moving towards him. A warm presence was soon at his back, making to lay down on the bedroll next to his own.
Rough fingers suddenly moved into the range of his vision, startling Bilbo to the point where he had to refrain from jerking and giving himself away. Soon, the now familiar appendages were gently tracing their handiwork from earlier that evening, sending a pleasant sensation curling in the hobbit’s belly. Bilbo knew that if he had not already given himself away, the deafening volume of his heartbeat eventually would.
Once they stopped, at the very last of the smooth beads, they were slowly retracted and Thorin lay down to sleep, carefully as if not to wake his (now) intended.
The dwarf’s breathing soon steadied, and Bilbo exhaled quietly in relief. His eyes narrowed into the night, not looking at anything in particular as he in his confusion didn’t quite know what to make of this.
-
Once the camp was packing up and they were ready to ride again, it didn’t take Bilbo long to seek Gandalf’s council. He had finished his chores and saddled his pony quickly to make time to confront the wizard in peace without the others of the company listening in.
As soon as he could, Bilbo walked up to where the wizard was readying his own horse for a day of travel, quite rudely catching his attention with an annoyed exclamation that had been brewing up in him since he first cracked his eyes open that morning.
“Gandalf–you bothersome whiz-popping, obscure, riddle-speaking good for nothing wizard…!”
The wizard in question responded by curiously raising a bushy eyebrow. “And I bid you a good morning as well, Bilbo Baggins.”
Bilbo, ignoring the ironic reply, went on in a harsh whisper. “A courtship…! I’m in a mutual dwarven courtship with no plausible idea of how I got here and what to do, and you– you knew, from the very start!”
Gandalf, raising both eyebrows at the accusation, retorted calmly, “And you, my friend, apparently did not, which perturbs me considering how you quite properly gave your consent to Thorin’s proposal last night.”
“I didn’t know this was what I agreed to!” Bilbo argued, quite positively steaming as his hands gestured wildly in pace with his words. “I did as you told me to do! I observed the company and learned about braiding and this—‘furthering companionship’, but no one ever told me that I was consenting to—to… that kind of further companionship.”
The wizard gave a tired sigh at this, almost seeming ever so slightly disappointed by the direction of the conversation. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding, dear friend. I wished for you to learn by your own eyes and ears that our leader has developed quite exclusive feelings for yourself – I have to say he is not at all as subtle about it as I’m sure he wishes to be. I had not anticipated, however, that you would be off focusing on entirely different matters—”
“—because you are far too cryptic for any one of us to understand your blasted intentions!” Bilbo pointedly interrupted. “You could have, oh, I don’t know—told me right from the start, and this whole mess would’ve been avoided! But instead you have to go about talking in your riddles about ravens and thrushes and whatnot – as if we are all here to be bird watching – ha-ha! And I am stuck in this mess of dwarf customs I have never encountered before, having my hair braided with this bother of jewels because I thought I was finally being included and respected in this company for the first bloody time during this cursed journey!”
“It was not my place to do so, Bilbo,” Gandalf explained. His voice was calm and expression grieved, showing understanding of how their journey must have made the hobbit feel unwanted quite a few times – too many – before they even crossed the mountains. It was not remotely strange that keeping this secret must have been seen as the ultimate betrayal by the hobbit. And though by no wrong of his, the wizard couldn’t but feel some responsibility for his friend’s grief. “By these dwarf customs Thorin had to tell you in person before anyone else could discuss the matter with you.”
“But you are not a dwarf,” Bilbo stated, earning him a half-smile from the wizard.
“If there is one thing I have learnt in my years of travelling it is to respect the norms of the races you stumble upon, elves, hobbits, dwarves and men alike,” Gandalf instructed, and then pointed out softly: “You would do better to not vent your anger at me, for it will get you no further in any way.”
Bilbo was very frustrated still, but the wizard’s words – and the truth to them – had him rather speechless and he looked down, ashamed. He found he was quite regretting having gone to his friend only to vent his own fury and anguish, wasting the time he originally had wanted to request support and advice.
It is not too late for that, his mind reminded him, and he looked up and tried softly: “…I am to…to be m—married.”
“Courted, my lad,” Gandalf corrected with a reassuring smile hidden in the bush of his beard. “There is quite a difference. A proposal for engagement comes much later.”
Dwalin gave a signal that they were moving, and much too soon for Bilbo’s liking everyone were moving on to mounting their ponies.
“So what do I do now?” Bilbo hurriedly asked, desperate for a last piece of advice before hours of silence and horseback riding engulfed them all.
“Only you can decide on that, Bilbo. You need to understand your own feelings and the consequences of your future choices and action. To join with Thorin Oakenshield, if you should desire to do so, will also be joining with a King, and with a King comes a kingdom, and with a kingdom comes great responsibility… and aiding Thorin will be your greatest, yet – though I ask you never forget to aid yourself.”
Gandalf said all this as he finished packing his saddlebags, carefully placing his pipe in one and a pouch of herbs in another. Bilbo, his head already reeling with this new amount of information, was trying to think of what of his other questions to ask when the wizard answered one for him.
“And,” Gandalf said as he mounted his horse, “you could always say ‘no’.”
Bilbo pondered this as he watched Gandalf ride up to the front, and then pondered it some more while hurrying to get to his own pony and bring up the rear.
And as logical as it seemed, that he could simply reject Thorin’s proposal and be done with it all, thinking of following through with it sent a sour twinge running though his heartstrings.
-
To Bilbo, saying ‘no’ actually came quite naturally. He always said it whenever Lobelia’s talk turned more and more towards his furniture and other possessions (read silverware), and he had used the word multiple times when the company had come barging into his house a long while back now, and a great number of times in the same sentence when Gandalf first proposed he come with him on an adventure.
However, unlike with Lobelia and other hobbits, saying no had not really helped him in the dealings with said wizard and the company of dwarves.
He didn’t quite know how it started, but he was very certain it was with Fíli and Kíli discussing his ridiculously poor archery skills and how it was quite amazing how he had actually killed the orc back on the cliff where he saved their uncle’s life.
Somehow (though he is sure he must have protested, and terrifically lost the argument) he ended up spending the break they set up for luncheon taking sword-lessons.
Luckily, the dwarves were more interested in eating and resting than watching his clumsy progression in the art, though he might have felt less awkward about it had it not been Thorin who was appointed as his instructor. Through the haze of his embarrassment Bilbo was quite sure the dwarf had appointed himself, but having seen Thorin battling orcs and wargs before and having heard of his prowess on the battlefield he knew that he could not ask for a more skilled instructor.
His elvish “letter opener” met Orcrist’s steel with a clang and was repelled with ease for what must’ve been the umpteenth time he had made a swing at the dwarf prince. He had worked up quite a bit of sweat and frustration while trying to manoeuvre his blade properly, only to have it swept out of his hands with little effort by its sister sword of the same make. Gandalf had informed them that the elvish make of the blades would prevent them from blunting no matter how raw his poor swordsmanship was, and Thorin would not let harm befall either of them, so there was that at least.
Thorin seemed to be in deep thoughts over something as Bilbo once more turned to pick up his blade, Orcrist planted in the ground as he rested his bearded chin on its curved handle. Bilbo readied himself again in the stance Thorin had taught him to fall back to as a default. He flushed brightly as he thought on the crafty body behind his, adjusting his stance until his instructor deemed it just right. (Luckily the flush could be blamed on his rising body temperature; his red coat had been long disposed of.)
He willed his pounding heart to rest and waited for Thorin’s cue to come at him again when the dwarf motioned for him to be at ease.
“Bilbo,” he spoke softly, his voice still carrying the same authority and regal tone as it always did, and he queried: “How exactly did you kill the orc?”
Bilbo’s mouth fell open, and his brow furrowed at the strange question. He cleared his throat, pink tongue darting out to lick his lip as he started: “Well… I—um… I tackled it. And then I…swung at it one—two… um, a few times, and then I…stabbed it with the pointy end.”
In truth, Bilbo would rather not think back on how the black blood and spurted from the creature’s chest as he drained it for its foul life, or on how the same blood had stained his sword as he withdrew it.
The dwarf frowned. “And that is all?”
“Um…then it—died,” he finished with a sharp nod.
Thorin kept looking at him expectantly, but eventually realised the hobbit was not going to elaborate any further. The Dwarf King looked to be in thought for another few seconds before he finally drew his blade up from the dirt and walked closer to Bilbo. “A tackle and a stab – both executed using your full body weight… this does adhere to your level of proficiency.”
Bilbo couldn’t help but feel somewhat offended.
“Well— you have my deepest apologies for never having had to kill anything with a sword before,” he snapped, eyes carefully following the dwarf as he started circling him. He felt a bit uneasy as Thorin observed him, blue orbs calculating and cool as they swept over his form. Bilbo’s brow furrowed as Thorin came to a halt in front of him. “What are you—?”
“You are light,” Thorin began, before he could say much else. “Lighter than any dwarf…and not nearly as strong – but you are quick.”
Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “Um… thank you?”
There was a spark of amusement in the dwarf’s eyes, the hobbit noticed. “Stealth is not commonly a skill among dwarves—” Oh, you don’t say, Bilbo couldn’t help but think. “—nor a preferred manner of fighting. There is nothing I can teach you there, although it might benefit you. I can, however, teach you how to properly swing a sword…and to avoid its blows.”
Thorin motioned for him to take his stance, which he was getting quite good at now. A pleased smile twitched at the dwarf’s lip.
“You are light on your feet. Use it to your advantage. Left!” and that was the only warning he got before Thorin struck at him again.
The session continued, although Thorin now aimed for him to become familiar with the dynamics of his blows and how to get out of their way. Advice and encouragement was given, and soon he even had Bilbo practicing simple stabs and swings to be used for countering once Orcrist was dodged.
By the end of it Bilbo felt quite exhausted. His arm was numb with the exertion and his shirt was clinging to his back with sweat. He was, however, quite pleased that his hair was bringing him no grief – although displeased that, in the end, he had gotten no blows in on Thorin.
He felt rather better when Thorin proceeded to inform him that his nephews had been no better the first time he had put swords in their hands.
“You are joking. Surely dwarves come out of the womb swinging swords and axes.”
His wit earned him a laugh—a genuine laugh that sent more of these new, strange flutters through his chest.
“Only a few of us do, Master Baggins.”
“Yourself included?”
“If you would believe it, yes.”
It was almost frightening how easy it was to trade words and jests with Thorin then, sweaty and grimy on the forest floor and nowhere nearly as presentable and groomed as a Baggins ought to be, and before royalty besides. Yet Thorin spoke with him with no care for proper clothing or bygone errors. For the moment it was very easy to forget that those same eyes had once looked upon him with distaste and pity, and that same mouth had spoken words of distrust against him not too long ago.
It was most amazing, really, how this dwarf who had shown up on Bilbo’s doorstep high and mighty and lordly, whom his companions spoke of as a figure of legend, now stood across from a gentlehobbit of the Shire—patiently teaching him sword-arts, nonetheless!
Suddenly filled with many emotions, of which he only really dared identify ‘gratitude’, Bilbo rose to his feet to give a small bow. “Thank you, Thorin. You didn’t have to… um, give me lessons. I’m sure your time could have been spent better elsewhere today.”
“Pray, don’t mention it.” Thorin sheathed his sword with a practiced ease and a soft smile ever-present on his mouth. “To protect the saviour of my life and receiver of my affections… to keep you defended when harm’s way finds you—my time could not be better spent.”
A gentle hand was put on his cheek then, and lingered there for but a moment before retreating, leaving behind only the feeling of warm skin in its wake.
“Let us eat before we set off again, lest you be hungry until evening,” Thorin proposed, and led Bilbo to walk beside him through the trees and back to the company. The hobbit’s heart beat much faster as they walked, fingers unconsciously touching the spot Thorin had, brushing absentmindedly against the bead of his braid and trying not to let his head put name to any other feelings swelling in him then—lest he think he is…well. It was much too soon to say.
-
Bilbo rode next to Bofur for the last trek of the day. He had not been very pleased with the dwarf’s wordplay the last time they spoke. Bofur must have known it too, for he prayed his forgiveness only minutes into their journey. In the end, Bilbo had to pardon his friend, knowing now how important it must’ve been for him to keep quiet.
They rode in good cheer after the awkwardness was cleared from the air, and their conversation flowed as easily as ever about pretty much everything and nothing in particular until Bilbo found it in him to ask about the specifics dwarven courtship, under the pretence (although it was actually closer to the truth) that he did not know much about it when he accepted Thorin’s offer.
Bofur mulled over his question for a short while, as if deciding just where to start.
“Well, usually there’s lots of gifts involved—lots of gold and riches and such with those kingly and noble folks, but any dwarf values anything that is well-made. There’s lots of crafting and gems and symbolism and whatnot… but seeing as there’s not much opportunity for it on the road I suppose your courtship is already a little unorthodox—outside of you being a hobbit, pardon me for saying so.”
“Ah, well. I’m not a dwarf after all, so maybe it’s just as well. Riches and symbolism might just go over my head,” Bilbo reasoned, and Bofur hummed his agreement.
“You’ll have plenty of time to learn, of course. No one is expecting anyone to propose anytime soon—that’s what courtships are for, y’know. Letting the courting couple find time to learn and adapt to one another, see if you’re a good fit.”
“Good to know,” Bilbo said, a little relieved indeed that he wasn’t rushing into matrimony just yet.
“…In every sense of the word, that is.” His waggling eyebrows gave Bofur’s meaning away with no subtlety attached.
Bilbo remembered then the night before, and how he had very much thought on such things himself. He cleared his throat, hoping to also clear himself of whatever was stirring in him when discussing such topics.
“It’s all about exclusivity really,” Bofur continued. “Anyone can begin courting whoever they please whenever, but a mutual courtship prevents either party from courting another until one of you chose to end it—or there is a proposal and a wedding, whichever comes first.”
“And how exactly do I know I’ve been proposed to?” Bilbo thought to ask, hoping to better prepare himself in such an eventuality.
“There is a grand gesture involved—though it can be carried out by either one of you, not just the initiating party. If there’s a gift it should be of great value to the proposing party. See, Glóin gifted his wife a hall in the Blue Mountains when he proposed—but I know for a fact that she was the one who initiated their courtship!”
“He gave her a home?”
“May not sound like much, but he had spent quite a lot of coin on the property, and a lot of work besides to make it a home suitable for raising a family. Maybe it’s different for hobbits, but it’s not very uncommon in the Blue Mountains—and plenty romantic since nothing says ‘marry me’ more than half-a-dozen bedchambers!”
“No, that actually makes perfect sense,” Bilbo agreed, thinking then on Bag End, his father’s wedding gift to his own mother, and how, perhaps, dwarves and hobbits were not all that different after all. He looked up ahead to Glóin and could easily imagine him tolling days in and out in the halls that he would present to his wife-to-be with the hope of filling them with life and laughter in the years to come.
He very much doubted that he could do any of the sort for Thorin.
A nagging feeling spread through his chest as Gandalf’s earlier words returned to him, and the weight of them became clearer. Thorin was not just any dwarf. He was a king among his people—and they were all here, on this journey, to reclaim a Kingdom and rebuild it. To rule it. And no dwelling of hobbits, even a smial as fine as Bag End, could ever take a king away from this duty.
If they did indeed succeed on this venture, and if he and Thorin decided to… well. It was possible he would never see his own home again—or at least not for a very long time.
“So… how do you think to go about it?” Bofur’s careful question broke the silence of his deep thoughts then, and Bilbo did not find in himself a truthful answer.
“To be honest… I don’t know.”
Bofur let it go at that and spoke nothing of dwarves and gifts and engagements for the rest of their ride. (Though he did lift Bilbo’s humour while teaching him the rest of the verses of the song he had sung in Rivendell, the amusing and queer one about the inn and the fiddler-cat and the man in the moon, and Bilbo wished very much for a quill and a book so he might write it all down and perhaps sing it with the dwarves next time the opportunity rose.)
-
Their travel through the valley was coming to an end, and soon the plains before Mirkwood would appear before them.
They stopped early on their final day in the bountiful land to take full advantage of it before their push through the woods. Provisions were gathered, sacks were packed and repacked, waterskins filled, and a final chance to wash in the river was fully utilised by all the dwarves—and Bilbo, too.
He hadn’t indeed planned on bathing just yet, intent on waiting for his companions to finish to that he might have a semblance of privacy. Unfortunately, his plans were usurped by the young princes who had come by in their full naked glory, abducted him from the safety of the riverbank and promptly planted him in the rushing river before he could even ask to spare his coat first.
He let them have their fun at his expenses but grumbled loudly as he peeled his soaked coat and waistcoat off, taking care to scrub each garment before setting them out to dry in the afternoon-sun. He left the shirt and his small clothes, already mortified by how they clung to his body and revealed far more than he was usually comfortable with—but the young princes had no care for such things as propriety and modesty, and soon made him forget it too as they splashed around the riverbed, taunting and jesting and playing their games, teasing out a side of himself Bilbo thought long lost to his childhood.
Indeed, his Tookish side would not let itself be bested by the two, and Bilbo soon joined in on the sports with as much spirit and delight as Fíli and Kíli both. Bodies were thrown and dunked beneath the surface of the shallow river, and laughter and screams of betrayal rung through the forest when Bilbo somehow convinced the eldest brother to help him drag Kíli’s feet from under him.
Many of the other dwarves had gone and dried off already, leaving the young ones and the hobbit to their games. However, the games came to somewhat of an abrupt end when the brothers decided to flip their burglar through the air and ended up throwing him into Thorin who had just stepped into the river to take a bath of his own.
The princes had quickly begged their apologies then, and just as quickly jumped out of the water and run giggling through the woods before Bilbo could even get his bearings where he now sat on top of the leader of their company—bare as the day he was born—and quickly scrambled to sit on the riverbed once he noticed the indecency of the situation.
In response to his apologies, Thorin smiled again that smile Bilbo had now begun to associate with the moments he shared with the dwarf prince, and he quite quickly forgot what he had been apologising for.
They sat and talked while Thorin soaped himself and washed in the river—of their progress, and of Fíli and Kíli, of their growing up in the Blue Mountains with their uncle, of the quality of good pipe-weed, and many more such things. And so, in spite of his initial awkwardness and his endeavour to keep his eyes from straying anywhere below Thorin’s face, Bilbo found he was quite… comfortable. Speaking with Thorin, enjoying his company, came so very easily to him. Thorin didn’t care whether his waistcoat had all its buttons or not, whether his shirt was soaked with sweat or river-water. Thorin, while a king, didn’t look at Bilbo expecting to see the put-together Mister Baggins of Bag End, nor did his eyes carry any of the disapproval they once did.
No, when Thorin looked at Bilbo he seemed to only see… Bilbo. And that was… well. He struggled to piece out exactly what that was, but it made him feel something good.
“The beads in your hair. You haven’t taken them out.”
Bilbo snapped to attention then, felt for his braid and remembered that he had indeed forgotten all about them being there, now holding together his soggy curls in a loosening interweaving.
“Oh, you’re right. How silly of me! I could have lost them in the river just now. I best take them out and keep them somewhere safe.”
As he went to do just that, Thorin’s hand was there on top of his. “Here. Let me.”
And Bilbo let him. He sat still as the stones on the riverbank as Thorin removed each bead with practiced ease, diligently untangling the wet, braided hair as he went, undoing his work so gently Bilbo did not once feel tearing at his roots. Once this was done Thorin put the jewelled beads in Bilbo’s hand, closing it around them.
“Come see me as soon as you’re dry. I will put them back.”
“Thank you,” Bilbo whispered, excusing himself to put them in the pocket of his now dry coat. He returned and Thorin offered him the use of his own bar of soap. “Thank you kindly. I… I will just go over there then, clean up… yes. I will return this—feel free to go back, of course, you needn’t wait on me.”
Bilbo took the soap with him and went a little further down the stream, not looking to see if Thorin had left or not. Slipping behind a boulder there, he finally found enough of a semblance of privacy to diverge himself of his soaked clothing. He slipped off his smalls and spread them on the rock to dry off. The shirt presented a challenge, however.
He tried peeling it over his head, but the material was clingy and unyielding, and wouldn’t bend to his will. Unsuccessful in his struggle, quite aware that he must look ridiculous trapped in his own clothing, he didn’t notice Thorin waddling out behind him before deft, dwarven hands helped free him from his contraption.
Bare beneath the sun, the river water only reaching up to his bellybutton, Bilbo suddenly felt he was very exposed to the gaze of the world around him. Strangely, while there is a slight mortification playing up the rhythm of his heartbeat, more than anything he felt… excited. Excited to feel Thorin’s gaze upon his back, and to feel the heat of him there, not touching but so very awfully close to. Although he had tried not to, it was impossible not to take notice of Thorin’s form, the heavy muscles of his arms fitting of a dwarven smith, and the wide expanse of chest furred with a smattering of dark hair. He was very different from what Bilbo was used to back in the Shire, and he was suddenly struck by a desire to turn around and look his fill.
So when Thorin’s arms took a hold of his own and prompted him to slowly turn, Bilbo followed at once. Not daring to look up and meet the dwarf’s gaze was a mistake, for instead he was treated to a intimate view of all of Thorin—Thorin, who was taller than him by nearly a head, and the river water only reached the very top of his thighs.
Flushing with the knowledge that Thorin is an impressive dwarf in every aspect, Bilbo found his head tilted up by calloused yet gentle hands. His eyes met Thorin’s, clear and intense, and all the pieces of messy feelings he has suffered seemed to fall into place as his heart beat faster, as if trying to escape his chest.
A bearded kiss was pressed against his cheek, and Bilbo closed his eyes to feel it. A second one was left on the shell of his ear, causing a shuddering breath to fill his chest. Thorin murmured something, in dwarvish or common tongue, Bilbo couldn’t seem to comprehend, distracted by the soft, lingering kisses as Thorin trailed them down his jaw.
“Please.”
He heard himself whisper, and his plea was granted, though he hadn’t known exactly what he had been asking for, when the lips on his skin turned and locked over his own.
When they pulled apart and Bilbo opened his eyes to meet Thorin’s sparkling ones, he knew where his heart had escaped to.
-
By the fire that evening, clean and dry and feeling fresh in his washed clothes, his beads once more braided into his hair, Bilbo was much more relaxed, not at all bothered by the curious stares from dwarves, or the knowing one from the wizard, nor by the gossiping whispers they shared as they glanced at him—or their leader.
They must know it. He felt as if he had written it across his forehead in black ink—that his adoration and affections for Thorin had taken hold deeper in him than he had been aware of, that, should Thorin ask tonight to share his bedroll he would answer with a “please” and “thank you”. He felt his affections were laid bare for all to see.
There was a surge in his chest then, an overwhelming fluttering that spurred him and nearly had him throw himself into Thorin’s lap so that he might claim another one of those heady kisses he had given him in the river stream. Only because there was an audience, he mastered his desire to turn his imagination into reality.
Instead, Bilbo slipped behind Thorin and playfully poked a teasing finger to the crown of his head.
The silence around them was deafening. It took him a moment to realise that every dwarf around him had gone quiet and otherwise stopped whatever they were doing. In front of him, even Thorin had frozen up.
The king turned his head, looking up at Bilbo with an expression of sheer confusion and grief, all feelings that Bilbo wished he would never see on Thorin’s face again.
The silence around them was broken by Kíli, who sounded just as heartbroken and confused as Thorin looked as he screeched, “Bilbo! Why would you do that?!”
And so it took most of the rest of the evening to convince the dwarves to be convinced that no, Bilbo had certainly not tried to issue a lifetime-restraint order to their king, whom he was, truly, very intent on courting. No help came from Gandalf who only laughed and blew his smoke rings while Bilbo promised Thorin for a third time that no, he had not wronged him in any way down by the river, and yes, he would in fact love a repeat experience sooner rather than later.