Chapter Text
Dwalin cast a baleful glare at the people in the circle. The whole idea seemed very ridiculous to him. A circle. Really. It seemed to him that a circle was like a bad set-up for a bad movie. Honestly, Dwalin didn’t really think that those Anonymous Anger Management Groups really looked like that. A circle of damn chairs in an old office building. And by old he meant a century old 5-story building with tall windows.
At first Dwalin though that the AAMG would mainly consist of people like him: tall, muscly, with lots of tattoos and overall intimidating appearances. But that wasn’t the case.
The group consisted of people of all sorts: down their luck teens, middle-aged men in pristinely ironed suits, the ones who looked like college professors, the ones who looked like they lived off trouble. There was a tiny woman in modest clothes, and Dwalin marvelled how such a delicate creature ended up in the group. Though, to be fair, their mentor was also a woman, in her early thirties, a bit plump around the edges and with small creases around her eyes. But to be a mentor of their group she had have attended one as well at some point in her past.
Dwalin tried to imagine her in a bar brawl and, and just as he was imagining her landing a punch on someone of his own stature he heard his name being called, snapping his attention up.
"It's your turn, Dwalin. Tell us why you are here," the mentor, her name tag said Bilbo, what an odd name, prompted him.
The man glared at no one in particular and started without any enthusiasm:
"I'm here because I've got in one too many fights recently. It's either this group or public service."
The woman nodded with understanding. Clearly he hadn't been the first one to choose a rehabilitation group.
“I guess it’s your last fight that left you with such a handsome eye?” One of the groupies asked.
“Yes,” Dwalin rolled his eyes. Like it wasn’t obvious, was it? “And my brother signed me up here.”
“I see,” Bilbo nodded. “As I understand, you don’t really want to be here. But that’s okay, many of people don’t want to be here at the beginning. I hope I will help you. Now, though, why do you think you get so much in fights?”
Because it gives me fucking inspiration, Dwalin thought. Because when I bloody hit a jerk’s face I already have music written before my eyes.
“Too much jerks around,” he grunted instead. “They don’t understand when a girl says no, so somebody has to tell ‘em.”
It wasn’t a lie per se. Dwalin indeed smashed his fair share of bar creeps’ sculls. Still, it didn’t really change the fact that every so often there was that itch at the back of his bald head, and on his fist, that meant he wanted to hit somebody, to have a good fight with a possibility of getting landed in a hospital, and with equal chance to land somebody. As it happened, he indeed was almost hospitalized, and was signed up for this stupid group.
The conversation moved on off him and the next person started telling his story.
When the group meeting finally ended and Dwalin was leaving the old building it was held in, one of his group mates fell into step with him.
“I call bullshit,” he said in a bright voice. Dwalin looked at him from the corner of his eye.
The man had auburn hair pulled in a low ponytail, it’s end tucked into the colar of his ratty hoody, making it impossible to estimate the length. His hair was tucked behind his ears, revealing several piercings.
“All that shit about being a bar knight. Bullshit,” the man sign-sang the last word, and Dwalin gritted his teeth.
“Fuck off, shorty, or you’ll get rather intimately introduced with my fist,” he threatened, intended to heed his own words if the other one doesn’t get lost, rehabilitation group be damned.
“That if you catch me,” the other man answered and promptly crossed the road, getting right in the intermisson between two red street lights and safely walking into a small side alley.
“So how did it go?”
Apparently going for a drink with best friend later the night hadn’t been as great idea as it seemed at the time. Of course Thorin had to ask him about the blasted rehabilitation program.
“Fine,” he grunted intending to not speak of it again, but at Thorin’s raised eyebrow elaborated. “It seemed okay. No one asks for your second name, which is rather the point of anonymous group. We talk about why we ended up in the group, what we probably need to change in ourselves, and all of that shit.”
“And did you tell the truth why you were there?” The other man smirked into his bottle and Dwalin was hard pressed not to shove him off his bar stool. As if sensing his feelings Thorin chided him. “Don’t let loose your fists, friend, or I’ll be forced to report on you.”
This time Dwalin didn’t bother with stopping himself and a few seconds later Thorin was sprawled on the floor laughing uncontrollably.
“No trouble here?” The barman, a lanky man with a blond ponytail appeared on their side of the bar, ready to call security, but Thorin waved him off, not bothering to get up.
“No, its fine, it’s just my cousin is being an ass.”
“If you say so,” the barista answered and with last wary glance went back to his orders.
Dwalin glared at him, and then gave Thorin hand and hauled him back on the stool. They drank silently for some time, and then Thorin spoke again.
“The rehabilitation will lead to nowhere if you keep your secrets.”
“Because it would be such a grand time,” Dwalin drawled, scratching his beard. “Hey, I am a music writer and I beat people for inspiration.”
“At least it’s better than ‘hey, I’m lunatic with anger management problems’,” the other one muttered.
“Let’s make a deal. I will talk on the group meeting about why I am really there, and you will introduce me to your secret girlfriend.”
As Dwalin suspected, Thorin’s face reddened all the way to the roots of his hair, and he shot him a look that would make a lesser soul shit themselves.
“Fuck off,” was all he said to Dwalin’s vindictive glee.
The next meeting went much the same. There were a few new faces, but the group was more or less formed. Miss Bilbo held the firm control of the group, preventing fights and squables swiftly and with an expert hand of somebody who knew how to deal with large group of displeased people.
The ginger that buggered Dwalin after the first meeting, now set right in front of him, lazily sprawled on his chair. His hair was in a ponytail again, though his clothes looked better than the last time.
At least his hoodie looked clean.
Dwalin didn't know why he noticed it.
The ginger didn't talk about himself, expertly dodging Bilbo's questions and redirecting her attention to other people, especially to the tiny woman (it turned out she was a sportswoman who beat her trainer when he tried to insinuate she wasn’t good enough for the team). The mentor willingly changed the subject of her conversation, either not noticing being manipulated, or letting it slide. Dwalin secretly suspected it was the later.
His suspects were proved to be true when at the end of the meeting everybody who refused to talk on their turn, were given home task to write down their reasons for getting better, and the ginger was the first one to be handed the paper sheet. Dwalin caught his eyes and gave him a smug look, while the other made an annoyed and disgruntled face, bending it twice and stuffing into his pocket.
And so the routine began. Stories, exercises for patience, all those counting and breathing technics, it all grated on Dwalin nerves, but he still came to enjoy those meetings in an odd and slightly masochistic way. His mentor very obviously knew what she was doing, and step by step Fundinson could see his groupies unwinding, some getting a somewhat serene look in their eyes. Dwalin counted it as a good thing.
Even speaking for himself, Dwalin hadn't felt the need for a fight since he started the sessions, even despite the fact that he still attended bars. But Bilbo was good influence, apparently.
Besides, the chords came freely to him, so who was he to complain?
What Dwalin was quick to notice was that Bilbo was hard on the ginger, Nori, as he had learnt during one of the earlier meeting. Nori Rison. Apparently Nori was somewhat of a legend in the centre that organised their AAMG, surfing from one group to the other, having attended several 'Anonymous insert-the-title' groups. No one really knew why he was attending them, and what he was actually doing for living, and why, in the first place, he never talked about anything personal, even though this was like a mandatory thing in pretty much group, no matter its line of work.
The man was arrogant, cocky and self-assured to the point of being ridiculous. He loved teasing, sometimes going as far as mocking their mentor, but never really overstepping the line. Still, Dwalin felt like Bilbo was too lenient on Nori. As if she knew him from somewhere. It was not very obvious, but there was that small degree of familiarity between them, that usually exists between people who know each other. But it was very subtle, and the musician sometimes wondered if it was just his imagination.
Soon Rison started to torment Dwalin again after the sessions, coming to walk with him for a few minutes, teasing him mercilessly, but always bailing out before long.
Strangely, Fundinson came to anticipate those ‘few minutes’ which soon turned to half an hour walks, with Dwalin starting to mock the other man in turn, and earning huge smug grins which made Nori’s face look younger than his late twenties. Their word sparing matches were becoming more and more exciting, and they both mocked other groupies with relish, laughing at the tasks their plump mentor made them do.
Dwalin didn't realise that he was looking to these conversations this much until Thorin mentioned that he was becoming ungodly eager to his AAMGs.
"I'm not," he exclaimed, affronted. He wasn't. He really wasn't.
"Well you do not complain anymore, even going as far as mentioning few of the participants, especially that ginger. And you spend time with him."
Dwalin was sure to never have told Thorin about his time with Nori.
"And how exactly do you know that?"
Thorin lifted one eyebrow, eyes going wide, and Dwalin knew that expression well, knew it since Thorin mastered the ability to lift only one eyebrow at the tender age of five. And that lifted eyebrow always meant the same thing.
"Stop lying to me and tell me how do you know that."
"I told you!" This time Thorin looked genuenly earnest, and Dwalin would have believed him if not for the fact he looked too earnest. If there were the perks of growing up with him, it was the fact that Dwalin knew every inch of Thorin's character.
"Filthy liar. Keep you secrets, idiot. But only for now. I'll know them all, sooner or later."
"Sure you will. At the very least I didn't become all defensive when a certain guy was mentioned," his cousin retorted with an unashamed grin. "So what, this ginger keeps your pants in a twist? You want to shag him?"
"Of course I don't! He's annoying and rude, and he keeps nicking my spare coins!" Came an insistent reply, but again Thorin wore a far too knowing look. Thorin knew Dwalin just as well Dwalin - Thorin.
"You don't want to shag him! You want to date him!" The other man said, and to his own horror Dwalin realised that that was truth.
Oh boy, Dwalin was in great trouble.