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The wind howled something fierce in his ears; it blustered and threw itself against the jagged stone façade of Erebor, pushed through the narrow opening of the ramparts and rushed around the dwarves— and singular hobbit— standing under the shelter of the mountain with a cold, quiet fury. His heartbeat pounded an erratic rhythm in his ears; the harsh, angular stone parapet dug, cold and unyielding, into the blades of his shoulders, and his back ached as he bent backwards. And the tempestuous King Under the Mountain stood above him, angry and far more unforgiving than the stone below Bilbo, his hand clenched in Bilbo’s coat, pushing , and Bilbo could not stop looking at him, couldn’t even if he wanted to, even if he tried.
It was, in all, a rather inopportune moment in which to realize he had— somewhere between being likened to a grocer and stealing the Arkenstone— fallen in love with Thorin Oakenshield.
Oh, of course he had known he’d felt more than friendship for the dwarven king he’d followed from his comfortable little home in the ground; Bilbo had flirted with him plenty and sent more than a fair share of looks his way. But it was only now he’d realized he’d fallen in love with him.
It was odd; Bilbo had always thought that falling in love would be a long, comfortable process, beautiful and gradual. He hadn’t thought it would come quickly and passionately, hadn’t thought it’d root and grow in his heart in a mere matter of months, did not think it would burn like dragon fire through his chest and steal away his breath and set his nerves ablaze. And yet...
And yet it still was beautiful in its own way, the way he had fallen in love with Thorin, set upon a background of shaded forests, flowery meadows, and shaded glens. It was comfortable, or as comfortable as anything could be on a quest of such epic proportions, once they’d managed to gain each other’s respect; he’d fallen in love as stars blinked above them, fallen in love on trails and pathways spanning across what felt like all of Middle Earth, fallen in love in the midst of quiet conversations. And it certainly wasn’t sudden, now Bilbo truly thought on it, building slowly and steadily over campfires and smiles and tales of home .
But certainly his love for Thorin was about to end in an ugly, sudden, uncomfortable way— was about to end as Bilbo ended, as he was snuffed out on the rocks and water and ice below. Because it seemed Bilbo had gone and fallen in love with the very dwarf who was going to kill him. What a foolish, Tookish thing for him to do.
A voice called out, all but inaudible over the whistling of wind and pounding of his heart and the strange high white noise of pain echoing in his ears, and Thorin looked up, away from Bilbo. He didn’t quite know how to feel about that: on the one hand, it provided a respite from that heart aching rage and betrayal Thorin’s eyes all but screamed of, the heartbreak that battered against him, accusatory and unforgiving; on the other, well... Bilbo was rather fond of that face, and if Bilbo really was about to die, then he could think of no finer last sight.
The voice boomed louder, and though Bilbo still couldn’t make out the words over the rush of blood in his ears, he recognized it as Gandalf, and, oh . Oh, perhaps Bilbo should have listened to the wizard when he told Bilbo to stay in Dale. But he couldn’t forsake his friends— couldn’t forsake Thorin, and so he’d gone against Gandalf’s request and had stolen back into the mountain. He wasn’t afraid of Thorin, he’d said. Perhaps he should have been. And now he was paying the price for his folly, for his courage .
Let the price be paid , some part of Bilbo thought, resolute. Better to do that than to abandon your friends after all you’ve been through together, Bilbo Baggins .
Bilbo didn’t disagree. He’d faced a dragon for them, after all. The least he could do was face a dragon-sick Thorin, because Bilbo knew, deep down, that if Bilbo hadn’t stepped up all those moments ago, it would be someone else Thorin dangled over the ramshackle parapets.
And then Thorin was looking at Bilbo again, but it— it was different . It wasn’t rage or betrayal or any such thing dancing brightly in his eyes, but confusion , the same expression across his face as that of a lone deer startled by excited, careless fauntlings. Bilbo’s hands tightened their grip on Thorin’s armored arm, not— not to struggle, not to fight, but to, to hold , because very very suddenly Bilbo realized he hurt. Not physically— or, well, he did , but more importantly… his heart ached, beaten and breaking, because he didn’t want to die . He didn’t want Thorin to kill him. He didn’t want them to be parted in this or any other way.
He loved Thorin, and, despite everything— despite his head screaming it was a stupid Tookish thing for him to think, to feel— he wanted to spend the rest of his life by Thorin’s side. He wanted to live , with Thorin, with the very man who was about to cast him to his death, and—
And Thorin jumped back as though scalded, but not before Bilbo saw sheer horror creep across his face. Bilbo heard Thorin gasp in a breath as he scrambled away, heard the sound of metal scraping against stone. He drew in a few quick, shaky breaths of his own, and then stood straighter, intending to—
“No,” Thorin said, his voice quiet and choker and utterly dismayed. Before Bilbo could so much as blink, Thorin was stumbling back, retreating, brushing away Fíli and Kíli and Balin’s hands as they reached out to stop him, and then he was all but flying down the makeshift stairs of the battlements.
Bilbo stepped forward, unthinking.
“No!” Kíli cried, throwing his arm out to bar Bilbo’s path. “Bilbo, no!”
Bilbo grit his teeth. “Let me through,” he said.
“He— he didn’t—” Kíli’s eyes were wide. “He’s not himself.”
“Yes, I am rather aware of that,” Bilbo said, more snappishly than he meant to. He did not soften, though. “Let me through, Kíli, I— I need to—”
“What if he tries to kill you again?” Fíli asked, face pale.
Bilbo drew in a shuddering breath. “I won’t let him,” he said, well aware how weak his voice fell on those words. “ Please , Fíli, Kíli, I need to—”
“As exciting as this is,” came a level, nonchalant voice, “there is still the matter of the Arkenstone to resolve, as well as what you owe us.”
Bilbo stiffened. Thranduil . Right. He was still there. Bilbo spun on his heels, a sudden anger flashing over him because— because he almost died , damn it all, he was allowed to be a little emotionally volatile! He strode back to the parapet, looking over it at the small party below. Thranduil looked impassive astride his great elk, bordering on unimpressed. Gandalf, to his right, looked rather concerned as his gaze ran over Bilbo as if checking for any wound; still, there was a curious pleased gleam in his eye, for it seemed that everything about him was confuddling, down to his ability to portray two such different emotions all at once, and Bilbo had to fight the sudden urge to roll his eyes. Bard, the last of the three below, looked rather simply put awkward ; clearing his throat uncomfortably, he glanced at the Arkenstone, and then at Bilbo, and then at the stone, and then, with halting, maladroit motions, tucked the Arkenstone back into his jacket pocket with a grimace.
“Right,” Bilbo said, “fuck off.”
Bilbo heard Bofur make a strange, choking noise in a poor attempt to cover a laugh behind him. Bard actually laughed— though it was more startled than amused— as Gandalf smiled, and Thranduil raised a pristine brow.
“I beg pardon?”
“If you must,” Bilbo snarked back. “Sorry, it’s just, this has turned out to be rather a disaster, and right now I’m not very concerned with who wronged who and which gems belong where. If you really wish to stay and try and barter, then by all means, try, but as of now I find I am far more concerned about Thorin Oakenshield than I am your petty grudges and shouting, and so I would appreciate it if you didn’t get in the way of me getting to him .” He straightened, and whirled to face his (slack-jawed, wide-eyed) dwarves. “That goes for you lot as well. I would urge you to speak with Bard, at the very least, but I do realize I am rather the last person you might want to take advice from. Just— just let me through.”
With a sniff, Bilbo strode forward, and the dwarves scrambled out of his way, as if he were a force of nature— which was a ridiculous notion, though not as ridiculous as the fact that Bilbo himself felt as such. The last in his way was Dwalin, who paused, and asked, “Are you sure you want to go alone?”
Bilbo met Dwalin’s gaze. “Yes, I— I think this is something I must do on my own.”
Dwalin paused, but moved out of Bilbo’s path, an understanding passing between them. Bilbo was grateful, truly his was, but he didn’t pause to express that gratefulness. He just made his way down the steps that Thorin had all but flown down moments ago.
…That confidence lasted about five minutes, until Bilbo found himself lost, both literally and metaphorically. He let his feet carry him deeper into Erebor but was otherwise aimless, his head running at a mile a minute. He wondered briefly if he’d better go and get Dwalin or Fíli or someone to come back with him, because now, suddenly, he wasn’t quite sure if he really should be doing this on his own. Thorin had tried to kill him, and had very near succeeded. True, he had seemed horrified at his own actions but, well… it wasn’t the first time Bilbo had seen the madness that plagued Thorin slip; Bilbo had seen the clarity in his eyes when they spoke of the little acorn Bilbo carried with him what felt like ages ago, and yet that clarity had been nothing more than the eye of a hurricane, a small gap in a thick blanket of clouds. There was nothing to guarantee Thorin had broken from the gold sickness for good this time. Nothing to guarantee that he wouldn’t try to kill Bilbo again… nothing to guarantee he wouldn’t succeed. Perhaps—
But then, Bilbo found himself just outside the Gallery of Kings, the golden floor glowing in whatever light managed to find its way so deep into the mountain. And there, laying abandoned on the floor, was Thorin’s crown.
Bilbo took a slow, hesitant step towards it, not quite of his own accord, and then another, until he was standing before it, looking down on it in hopeless confusion. It was then he noticed the gauntlet just a few feet further in the hall, and then another, and then he realized that there was a path laid before him, made of familiar plate armor. Bilbo took a deep breath and, gathering the last dregs of his courage, followed the trail of discarded armor, until…
There, sitting in a shadowed corner, was Thorin. He was down to only a thin but sturdy-looking shirt, worn pants, and his socks, his hair ruffled as though he’d torn through it in a frenzy. He was hugging his legs, shuddering and shaking, and… and Bilbo felt his heart break. This— this was not how…
“Thorin?” Bilbo said without meaning to.
“ No ,” Thorin gasped out, and Bilbo could hear the tears in his voice, as well as the panic, and his heart wasn’t so much broken now as it was shattered. “No,” Thorin said again, “no, Bilbo .”
“Thorin,” Bilbo choked out, because that was all he could say, the only word that the tumultuous and tempestuous thoughts and feelings and urges warring inside him would let out. Hearing his own name fall so laden with fear and guilt from Thorin’s tongue… Bilbo stepped forward, this time meaning to.
“Go, before I—”
Bilbo laid his hand on Thorin’s shoulder, and Thorin’s warning was stifled by a low cry that made Bilbo’s heart ache . “No,” he said, simply, “ Thorin —”
“I almost killed you.” Thorin’s voice was choked with tears, barely above a whisper. “I almost killed you,” he said again, as if Bilbo could have forgotten.
Bilbo hummed, and it came out calmer than he felt. “Yes, you almost did.”
“Then why—” Thorin cut himself off, then, but Bilbo didn’t need to guess what he was going to say.
Why are you here?
And wasn’t that the question of the hour? By all rights, Bilbo should be terrified to be in Thorin’s presence now, love or no, because, yes, Thorin had very nearly just killed him, and not at all long ago either. And, yes, Bilbo knew that Thorin was under the thrall of the gold sickness, knew he wasn’t in his right mind, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still Thorin — his hands, his face, him — who had nearly thrown him to his death.
And yet…
And yet Bilbo could not be scared. Not anymore, not after everything. Not when his heart was breaking at the sheer self-directed loathing and pain that was written across Thorin’s very being, filling and dripping off his halting, choked out words.
Why was Bilbo there?
“Because,” Bilbo said, finally, not bothering to think too much about what he was saying; he simply let the words flow, because he knew if he didn’t he’d say the wrong thing and throw everything into ruin, “everything I did— stealing the Arkenstone, lying to you, trading it away, I did for your sake.”
He was surprised to find how true the words were. He truly had done it for Thorin: he stole that cursed stone for Thorin, because it was what was asked of him; he kept it away from Thorin, lied to Thorin, because he couldn’t bear to lose him to the gold sickness that threatened to swallow him whole; and he had traded it away in a desperate bid to save Thorin’s life— yes, the lives of the others, too, as well as his own, but Bilbo was worn enough to admit he was deep down a very selfish creature and his primary concern was Thorin, the dwarf he loved so deeply. “And so I—” and here Bilbo faltered. “I cannot leave you now.”
There was a pause. Then…
“I do not deserve such kindness,” Thorin said, and the worst part was he sounded like he believed it.
Bilbo resisted the urge to sniff disdainfully— barely. “I think I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, instead. “After all, it was me who was very nearly thrown from the ramparts.”
The moment the words left his mouth, he knew they were a mistake. Blast . Thorin stiffened near immediately, the guilt consuming him nearly palpable, and Bilbo sighed. The hand resting on Thorin’s shoulder squeezed once, gently, both in apology and in comfort.
“Thorin,” Bilbo said with what he thought was a rather impressive amount of patience given the current situation, “you weren’t yourself.”
“That does not change what happened,” Thorin said, and finally, finally he looked at Bilbo, and oh no that was worse, because now he could see the self-loathing in Thorin’s eyes, see how they were red-rimmed and tear-bright, and he had thought his heart couldn’t break any more than it already had but clearly he was wrong— “It was my hands that nearly threw you to your death,” he continued. “My madness, my weakness , does not change that, does not matter—”
(And, yes, technically Thorin was right. Bilbo knew that, and had thought quite the same just seconds ago. Yet hearing those words come from Thorin’s mouth… he couldn’t bear it.)
“It matters ,” Bilbo said, surprised at how urgent and distraught he sounded. “ Confound it , Thorin, it matters to me ! It has to, it—” Bilbo could feel his despair etch it’s way across his face, and Thorin, a heartbroken look in his eyes, turned away. And that— no, that wasn’t… Bilbo needed … “Thorin, look at me,” he pleaded. Thorin did not move. “ Thorin —”
“I am sorry,” he said, voice rough and aching. “I am sorry for—”
And there was the anger again, filling Bilbo quite completely, though it was… different from the anger that had flashed through him on the ramparts after Thorin’s departure, more desperate now. “Enough of that,” Bilbo said, and he sat because clearly this was going to take a while, and he might as well be comfortable. The stone below him was cold, but grounding. Bilbo took a deep breath, reigning his anger in, and said— patiently, but not without bite: “I am here of my own volition, Thorin Oakenshield, something you would do well to remember. These past few months have been full of trials and hardships, and quite a few more near death experiences than I care to admit, but they have been the best months of my life . So don’t you dare apologize for whatever nonsensical notion has you feeling guilty, because I—” Bilbo was aware, suddenly, that tears were prickling painfully in his eyes, clogging his throat and stealing his words. He pushed the urge to cry down, and continued, “I couldn’t bear it.”
Bilbo, partially to emphasize some point he was aware he was skirting around, and partially because he needed to do something with his hands , carded his fingers through Thorin’s hair. He… well. He was well aware of the implications of his actions, thank you. One did not travel leagues upon leagues with a band of dwarves without picking up on a few things, after all.
(That didn’t mean his heart didn’t beat a mile a minute as tiny gaps followed in the wake of his fingers, brief ripples in the river of hair before him. Didn’t mean he didn’t bite down so hard on his lip it hurt, because, because …)
Bilbo heard Thorin’s breath hitch, heard him say “Bilbo…” in a tone so trepidatious and awestruck it stole Bilbo’s breath away.
“Hush,” Bilbo said, because he hadn’t finished saying his piece. “If you mean to apologize for the scene at the gate, then I forgive you.” And with near-startling clarity Bilbo realized he meant it; he really did. He forgave Thorin, because, when it came down to it, he couldn’t fathom not doing so. “Of course I do. I forgive you, Thorin,” he continued, his voice surer now, “so long as you forgive me.”
Thorin’s response was instantaneous; under any other circumstances, Bilbo would have laughed. As it was…
“You did only what a true friend would do,” Thorin protested, and Bilbo felt some part of him snap. Exasperation— fond, but no less profound— and tiredness in equal measure flooded him, and he felt his patience wane and then fade completely. Right. Right, this was— enough of this. Enough misunderstandings, enough subtlety, enough .
A huff of a laugh— tired and unamused— pushed its way out of Bilbo’s lungs and then through the layer of thick hair that covered Thorin’s neck. Bilbo saw a shiver run down Thorin’s spine, and that… that was enough for him to steel himself, to gather the very last pitiful dregs of his courage, to act.
“ Friend, ” he said, smiling wryly. His hand— which was still tangled in the wavy ends of Thorin’s hair— traveled down, out of the thick mane and down the center of Thorin’s back, chasing away the shiver and— hopefully— bringing some degree of comfort. And suddenly Bilbo— he ached , so deeply, so sweetly, and he— Well. “Hm.”
In for a penny, in for a pound , was it not so? And so Bilbo took a deep breath, grasped those last dregs of courage, and acted . Bilbo moved his other hand to Thorin’s hair and parted it neatly, pushing each half over his shoulders until the back of Thorin’s neck was bared to him. He paused, took a deep breath for courage, and pressed a kiss to the exposed nape of Thorin’s neck.
Thorin stiffened beneath him, and Bilbo would have drawn back if it weren’t for the fact Thorin also swayed and leaned into his touch, a soft, choked sound leaving him at the simple action.
“ Friend ,” Bilbo huffed, not daring to pull away quite yet. The corners of his mouth lifted in a wry smile, and he felt his hands tremble in a delayed fit of nerves. Still. It was time he was truly honest with Thorin; he owed him that much. “I have been trying so very hard to be more than a friend to you.”
And he had. He really, truly had. For quite a while, now, he had been leaving lingering touches and giving heated looks; had striven to be closer to Thorin, to gain not only his trust but his affection . Bilbo had flirted more in the past few months than he had for many years prior, because something about Thorin… something about Thorin had captured him quite completely, had set a fire alight in Bilbo, one which blazed higher and more passionate than any other fire in him had before.
“Bilbo,” Thorin said, the cadence of his voice making it sound almost like a prayer, and oh that made something complicated and wanting twist in the pit of Bilbo’s stomach. Thorin turned, and Bilbo thought briefly of the way sunflowers would turn their faces to follow the sun, and that comparison made the breath catch in his throat, caused his heart to ache oh so sweetly. At his side, Thorin’s hand twitched, almost as if he wanted to lift it— but then fear, stark and haunting, flashed across Thorin’s face, showing itself clearest in his eyes, and—
“ Bilbo ,” Thorin said, voice breaking, and Bilbo understood what Thorin would not— or perhaps could not— say.
“Oh, Thorin,” Bilbo said, placing his hand on Thorin’s own. “You won’t hurt me.”
Thorin opened his mouth as though to speak, but no words came out. Bilbo just… watched him. Watched his throat bob, watched his eyes flicker, watched his face crease in unhappy thought. Bilbo just watched him, and wished with a sudden, desperate fervor that he could take Thorin’s pain away, pick it out of him and swallow it whole so that it would never again plague Thorin’s mind, never again stay his tongue, never again tear into his heart.
Thorin looked at Bilbo, eyes wide and fearful, and… and there was nothing Bilbo could say, here, to ease that fear. And so he took Thorin’s hand and lifted it until it rested on Bilbo’s throat, the touch warm and ghosting. And much to his own surprise, Bilbo was not afraid. By all rights, he should have been; it was not all that long ago that Thorin had grabbed Bilbo by his coat and threatened to throw him to his death. But Bilbo had faith in Thorin still, despite everything; knew that Thorin would not hurt him, not intentionally at least— knew that Thorin would rather face Smaug alone than have the scene at the ramparts repeat itself. Bilbo knew this with shocking certainty, knew it the same way he knew he loved Thorin, knew it the same way he knew that grass was green and the sky was blue.
“You won’t hurt me.” Bilbo’s voice was stronger this time, bolstered by his new confidence. And the look on Thorin’s face was… goodness , it was so achingly open and full of awe Bilbo didn’t quite know what to do with himself, just let his hand fall away from Thorin’s, just continued to watch.
Thorin’s hand did not stay still; it trailed slowly, gently, up the line of Bilbo’s neck, and Bilbo felt his breath stutter and his muscles jump and relax at Thorin’s touch. Thorin’s hand came to rest at Bilbo’s jaw, then, his thumb brushing across Bilbo’s cheek, and the look in Thorin’s eyes— even trained on his own hand as they were— was heavier than before, reverent in a way that should have scared Bilbo. Should have, but didn’t, because Bilbo recognized the feeling behind it, felt it bubble in his own chest, and so he could feel nothing beyond desperate, happy hope.
Thorin looked up at Bilbo, their eyes finally meeting and said in a breathless whisper: “I do not deserve you.”
Bilbo sighed despite himself, fond exasperation curling warm in his chest. “Silly dwarf,” he said, and let the depth of his affection bleed into those two words without so much as a second thought. It seemed Bilbo had not used the last of his courage as he thought he had. And so, without thinking at all, he took Thorin by the shoulders and drew him into a kiss; one last act driven by that desperate courage within him.
Thorin went willingly, pliant under Bilbo’s touch— except, no, that wasn’t quite it. Rather, he threw himself into Bilbo, as though he had simply been waiting for Bilbo to make the first move. Thorin’s kiss was desperate and warm and addictive, and Bilbo was helpless to do anything but respond in similar, desirous fashion, pressing his mouth harder against Thorin’s as he felt a swell of want so strong it nearly terrified him. But it didn’t, couldn’t, because it was Thorin he wanted, Thorin he was kissing— Thorin who was kissing him back . Bilbo clenched his hands in Thorin’s shirt, suddenly afraid that Thorin would draw back, realize this was something he didn’t want, would spurn Bilbo’s affections or worse pity him for them. Bilbo’s kiss became desperate, too, pressing back against Thorin’s lips as they clung to each other, their mouths moving together, the ache so sweet Bilbo couldn’t think to do anything but drink it in, drink Thorin in. Thorin whined into Bilbo’s mouth, his breath hot and damp and sweet, and suddenly Bilbo felt the world dizzy around him. He pulled pack, gasping as his lips left Thorin’s, and pulled in a lungful of air.
He looked at Thorin, eyes glazed and lips kiss-swollen, twisted around himself like a creeping vine, and felt a swell of affection rise within him so suddenly and intensely all he could do but laugh. Of course , he thought dazedly, of course Thorin would suffer through discomfort just to make me happy . Thorin just smiled at his laugh, trepidatious and unsure, and Bilbo’s heart squeezed in his chest. Oh, my dear, you need not ache so, need not fear I will leave.
Without entirely meaning to, Bilbo stood to his knees and shuffled along until he could throw one leg over Thorin’s lap. In all honesty, he did not know where this forwardness came from, but Bilbo did know he didn’t particularly care. If today had taught him anything, it was that life was far too short and unsure for him to hesitate when it came to acting on his desires, his want, his love .
For his part, Thorin did not seem uncomfortable with Bilbo’s boldness. He just looked up at Bilbo with wonderment and want written in his eyes, his mouth just slightly agape, and oh how Bilbo wanted to kiss him, to taste the adulation and swallow it whole, to—
“I love you,” Thorin said, his voice breathless and honest and open in a way that took Bilbo entirely by surprise. And, and oh . Oh. Bilbo was not expecting that , was not expecting the honesty and— and love in Thorin’s eyes. Because Bilbo loved Thorin, deeply and truly, but he’d never once dreamed Thorin could love him back.
“I— oh ,” Bilbo choked out, feeling his face burn in a blush. “ Oh , I— well, I—” Bilbo swallowed nervously, then met Thorin’s gaze. And Thorin’s eyes were warm , so warm, tender and soft in a way that made the gaze sent over an acorn in the midst of a moment stolen from goldsickness and uncertainty and fear pale in comparison. “I love you, too.”
And he meant it. He really did. Thorin smiled at him, wide and bright, and it was all Bilbo could do to kiss him, pour all his hope and love and devotion into it and run his fingers through Thorin’s hair. And Thorin held him, clutched at his sides and kissed back, gentling him and spurring his want all at once, and Bilbo just pressed himself closer to Thorin until their chests pressed together, until he could feel Thorin’s heartbeat, wild and strong, through mithril and cloth and skin. Then, for the first time in what felt like ages, did Bilbo feel at peace.