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1.
It begins—of all things—because Thorin is refusing to eat.
For context: there was never time to even think of leaving for the Shire. Even if they had won, the aftermath of the Battle of Five Armies was nothing close to glorious, with wounded elves and humans and dwarrow to tend to, treaties to make, and relationships to repair. Only superficially wounded, Bilbo had taken it upon himself to relieve Oin of some of his duties, scurrying in between rooms in the vast inner halls of Erebor to tend to his friends. And if now, almost a year after the Battle, he’s gotten a little fond of caring for his stoic King (of seeing his peaceful sleeping face, the furrow between his heavy brows lifted; of running his hands over that broad chest as Bilbo replaces his bandages; of seeing that unguarded, morning-muzzy smile)—well, it’s not really anybody else’s business but his own. So he’s unofficially begun to take on the duties of a yet-unnamed position in Erebor that basically requires him to make sure the King is still functioning.
It is everyone’s business if the king of Erebor gets himself sick and starved because he refuses to take the time to eat and sleep and take care of himself. And well, when Bilbo realizes that Thorin’s been skipping meals here and there for the past week, of course he has to do something .
Of course, Thorin is unbelievably stubborn. Bilbo reminds him to come to dinner, enlists Ori’s help to sort through some of the King’s paperwork, and even convinces Thorin to allow him to take on some of the meetings between agricultural specialists. In a last ditch attempt, he makes his mother’s favorite rabbit stew recipe and brings it right to Thorin’s office, and the obstinate ass had simply thanked him absent-mindedly and left the stew to sit on his desk, untouched. It makes him furious (and a little hurt, to be honest), both at the blatant waste of food, and the fact that Thorin obviously doesn’t care about Bilbo enough to eat something that he’d so painstakingly made. He understands that the dwarf has a lot to do, really: between the reestablishing of trade relations, rebuilding of the castle, and preparing for the winter, there’s no end to work for any of them, and Thorin has it worst of all. But there’s a line between hardworking and suicidal, and wasting Belladonna Took’s rabbit stew edges dangerously close to that line.
He’s sulking around the kitchen when Fili and Kili arrive, elbowing each other and giggling suspiciously—it’s been three days since the Stew Incident, and he hasn’t been to see Thorin since. While he’s busied himself thus far with helping Bombur out with cooking, upon seeing the dwarf princes, Bilbo resigns himself to pausing and hearing them out.
“What mischief do you have planned this time?” he grumbles, setting out two dishes of fresh-baked apple pie out, and the two brothers eagerly dig in.
“We offer information in exchange for this excellent food,” Kili says around a mouthful of food. “We’ve heard that Thorin’s being stubborn about eating, but there’s a good dwarrow tip for that.”
Bilbo tilts his head, pulling out a stool and sitting next to the princes. “Pray tell.”
“Hand-feeding,” Fili says triumphantly, and Bilbo nearly chokes on air.
“Excuse me?” That’s not a tactic for feeding royal pains in the ass, that’s shameless couple behavior.
“You know,” Kili grins, picking up a piece of pie crust and pressing it to his brother’s mouth with an exaggeratedly lascivious wink.
Bilbo glares at them and stands back up. “I see, you two find pleasure in tormenting an overworked hobbit. Well, see if you find any pie for you here in the future—”
“—no, no, hear us out-!” Fili interrupts. “Honest to gosh, we swear it’ll work. It’s a— a dwarrow custom. Feeding a friend or offspring by hand is a gesture of care and concern, and Thorin would never refuse it. It would be tantamount to refusing your friendship.” He and Kili share a quick glance, and Kili nods vigorously in agreement.
“If there’s any way to make him eat, Master Boggins, it would be this.”
“Why don’t you feed him, then?” he questions.
Fili and Kili exchange another one of those lightning-fast looks. “Well, everyone knows that Uncle’s a lot nicer to you—he doesn’t yell at you, or anything. So we figured that you’d have a higher chance of success, is all.”
They’re not wrong: that’s the reason everyone has virtually delegated Bilbo the duty of taking care of the king, so the excuse is enough to satisfy the suspicious hobbit. Still, he eyes them cautiously. “If you’re pulling my leg...”
Kili gives him a beatific smile. “We would never .”
That’s how Bilbo comes to be floating around the door of Thorin’s office, carefully holding a tray of food. In hobbit-custom, hand-feeding is an incredibly intimate gesture, but it doesn’t seem to have the same romantic connotation for dwarves, and he is determined to get the king to eat.
Making up his mind, he knocks twice, firmly, on the heavy door, and opens it without waiting for a response. The office is large and lavishly decorated, like the rest of Erebor, but despite the abundance of lovely armchairs and sofas for entertaining, and despite the fireplace roaring on one wall, Thorin still hasn’t left the dark, gloomy corner of his file-laden desk. Sure enough, the king is so engrossed in his papers that he hasn’t even seemed to notice him, and that only strengthens Bilbo’s resolve.
“Thorin, it’s time to eat,” he says firmly, and the king finally notices his presence and looks over.
“Bilbo.” Thorin blinks, warmth shining in his dark blue gaze, and the hobbit immediately feels his heart skips a beat, at once hopeful and flustered. Then the dwarf shakes his head, turning back to his work. “Thank you, but please just put it on my desk. I’ll eat it after I finish looking through this proposal.”
Well, that simply won’t do.
Bilbo strides over to the desk and balances the food tray on a stack of files beside the king’s chair. Then he clears away a pile of papers with a sweep of his arm, defiantly hops up on the desk, and thrusts a slice of strawberry right in front of the pigheaded, stupid, gorgeous dwarf king’s mouth.
“—Bilbo?” Thorin looks at him, nonplussed.
“This is an intervention,” he says quite seriously, ignoring his proximity to Thorin and the flush that immediately rises to color his face. “You aren’t eating, and it’s worrying m— all of us , and I swear to Yavanna that I will stay right here and feed you until you finish this entire tray.”
Thorin matches his stare for a minute, dark blue eyes meeting blue-green ones, and relents with a rueful smile that lights up his face and sends Bilbo’s traitorous heart pounding rabbit-quick. “I have been rather careless, haven’t I, Master Burglar?”
“You have,” Bilbo nods firmly, surprised at the ease with which the king gave in. “So make it up to me by sitting down on one of those comfortable-looking sofas, and eat, and rest .”
Something affectionate unfurls in his chest as Thorin nods, stands up, and stretches, those broad shoulders moving under his fur cape, before picking up the tray to bring it to a table by a loveseat in front of the fire. When they’re settled—much too close together for his heart’s sake, but this is about Thorin’s health and not his—Bilbo waits for the dwarf to begin eating. Still, he just sits there expectantly, and Bilbo coughs pointedly.
“I remember you saying that you would be giving me food by hand,” Thorin says, his voice amused and deep and velvet-smooth, and Bilbo refuses to back down.
“Fine,” he huffs, and again proffers the strawberry slice hesitantly. In an elegant motion, Thorin leans forward to nip it out of his hand, beard brushing against the heel of Bilbo’s palm. Heat skitters a trail down his spine, and he inhales shallowly, heart pounding. Distantly, he reminds himself that he can blame his blush on the fire’s proximity.
Thorin makes an obscene noise as he swallows. “It seems I have been more hungry than I expected,” he purrs, moving impossibly closer to Bilbo and blinking down at him innocently. “Would you mind feeding me the rest?”
And, well, Bilbo can’t rightly refuse. So he spends the next hour in tantalizing torture, feeding the king bites of scone, cheese, and fruit, and even careful spoonfuls of fresh-cooked rabbit stew. Thorin eats it all, making appreciative noises all the while and unashamedly letting his lips graze the tips of Bilbo’s fingers as the hobbit quivers silently.
As the tray’s contents dwindle down to a few last pieces of fruit, Thorin grabs his wrist to prevent him from continuing. “You haven’t eaten this whole time,” he says, mimicking the hobbit’s serious tone of voice from before. Picking up a pitted cherry with an obscene, large-fingered hand, he presses it gently to Bilbo’s mouth. The hobbit yields without thinking, biting into the tart fruit and feeling the juice spread across his tongue. Thorin’s hand lingers, swiping an imaginary stain off his bottom lip and then tilting Bilbo’s face up so that their eyes meet.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so stubborn, Bilbo,” he says softly, and Bilbo gulps.
“It’s alright, just—”
“No,” the king interrupts gently. “I shouldn’t need you to worry over me like this. As it is, though, I find that it’s a pleasant distraction from my work—and I would be much encouraged to continue eating well if you were here to feed me like this.”
“I don’t mind,” Bilbo says quickly, without thinking, and his face is flaming from the feel of Thorin’s fingers, the rough calluses brushing against his cheek as the king continues to hold him in place. ( Just because it feels erotic… just because it feels romantic to him, he reminds himself , does not mean Thorin in any way feels the same— )
“You too easily indulge my whims, burglar,” Thorin teases, letting go of his chin. Bilbo only has time for a second of embarrassed regret at the loss of that touch before the dwarf reaches out again to card a gentle hand through his curls. Those fingers scraping against his scalp and brushing across his hair is heavenly , and Bilbo wants to rut his head into Thorin’s palm and whine and maybe even kiss—
“Thank you, Bilbo,” Thorin breathes, lifting his hand, and then he stands up to continue his work.
2.
“What are other dwarf customs?” Bilbo wonders aloud a few weeks later. He and Thorin are walking to yet another meeting—Thorin lets him go to more of those now, which makes him think the plan was decidedly a success —and he’s reminded again of the topic. Since that first night, the hand-feeding has become a nightly ritual, and even if it’s bad for Bilbo’s heart, he’s glad that it seems to have calmed Thorin, and that the king is taking more breaks now.
“Why do you ask?” the aforementioned dwarf asks curiously, peering down at him.
“I was thinking about the hand-feeding,” Bilbo admits. “Fili and Kili recommended it—”
Thorin stops in his tracks. “What did they say?” he growls, low and almost angry, and Bilbo rushes to reassure him.
“No, no, don’t worry,” he says hastily, though he doesn’t know what Thorin might be worrying about. “They just told me that it was a common gesture between friends to show care. And that it might force you into eating a little more.”
The dwarf swears in Khuzdul, grim and sharp, and lapses into a strange, contemplative silence that Bilbo is afraid to interrupt. Just when he thinks the furrow hanging between Thorin’s eyebrows couldn’t get any deeper, the king turns his sharp gaze on Bilbo and looks him over contemplatively before sighing and relaxing his shoulders.
“They’re right,” he says slowly. “Though I wouldn’t normally explain it that way.”
Too worried about being late to much question the king’s odd behavior, Bilbo accepts the explanation and hurries Thorin along to their meeting.
Thorin brings it up that evening in his office as he holds a piece of chocolate up to Bilbo’s mouth. “About what you asked earlier today...”
Bilbo lets the chocolate melt over his tongue, then flicks his tongue across his lips appreciatively. “The dwarf tradition thing?”
Thorin nods. “Hair braiding is another common… gesture of closeness. Between friends.”
“Who braids yours?” Bilbo can’t help himself from blurting out the question, but if Thorin notices the edge of jealousy on his voice, he doesn’t say anything.
“I was hoping you would, actually.”
Well . What is he supposed to say to that?
The tray has been shoved to a side table; Bilbo is curled up into Thorin’s side, carding his fingers carefully through the hair above the dwarf’s sideburns. He doesn’t know how to do the typical four-strand braid Thorin prefers, but as a fauntling he often braided ropes and stems and other hobbits’ hair, so he’s relatively confident with a simpler sort of pattern. Thorin’s hair, of course, is much longer than that of his kinmates: it’s wavy and thick in a way that seems unique to dwarrow, gorgeous with the silver strands that run their way through smooth ebony locks.
“Tell me if I’m tugging too hard,” Bilbo says, and flinches at how loud his voice seems. Here by the fire, the world seems small and cozy, wrapping the two of them in a swathe of golden feeling. It feels too intimate for a normal volume.
Thorin hums, the deep tenor of his voice fitting in perfectly with the mood of the room. And when it comes down to it, Bilbo contemplates as he begins the braid, that’s why he and Thorin would be such an infeasible match. Thorin, for all his original standoffish show, is educated in manners and diplomacy and other royal things. He is regal, inexplicably untouchable—Bilbo just can’t compare. The thought doesn’t fill him with regret or despair, like he might expect, but rather a sort of resigned peace.
This is enough , he thinks firmly, closing off the first braid with one of the silver beads Thorin hands him, and moving to start the second one. Being Thorin’s friend, his confidante and— servicer , or however one might describe his coddling of the dwarf king—this is enough for him.
He can feel the heat of the fire against his back, but it does nothing to compare with the infernal body heat of Thorin himself. Pressed against the dwarf like this, caressing that silver-shot hair, Bilbo feels small and safe and precious, grateful that it is he who has the privilege to be able to help the person whom he loves so much.
When did you become such an inutterable sap, Bilbo Baggins?
“Done,” he says, snapping shut the second bead. They’re not as good as what Thorin might be able to do himself, sure, but they’re even and tight, and he’s proud enough. Smoothing his hands down Thorin’s head, he indulges guiltily in the feel of that thick hair running through his fingers.
Thorin inclines his head in thanks. “Much appreciated, Master Burglar.”
There’s an awkward pause as Bilbo waits for Thorin to go inspect his work and the dwarf stays firmly in place, seemingly content with maintaining their steady eye contact. The feeling of warmth has faded, driven away by Bilbo’s self-consciousness, and he’d do anything to revive that golden haze of comfort and safety. That’s what Bilbo will blame later when he thinks, flustered, about the way he unthinkingly blurts: “Could you do me?”
Thorin breaks out of his trance and blinks, bewildered, as Bilbo flusters.
“That is to say—” he sputters, face heating up impossibly. “My hair’s been getting a little long. And I want to learn your customs, try to fit in a little more. If it’s a pain for you, please don’t feel obligated—!”
A smug sort of smile touches the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “I don’t mind, Bilbo.”
“Oh,” he says, then nods decidedly. “Right. How do you want me?” And then he’s back to blushing all over again at the innuendo he can’t seem to stop spewing from his traitorous mouth. Again, Thorin tactfully pretends not to notice, though the twinkle in his eyes betrays his amusement at Bilbo’s missteps.
“Sit between my legs,” he instructs, straight-faced, and shakes his head when Bilbo settles on the floor, facing him. “No, the other way around.”
“Right,” Bilbo repeats, turning towards the fire. He leans against the skirt of the sofa and tries to ignore the thick solidity of Thorin’s thighs framing him, and even manages to stay silent when Thorin first touches his hair.
Bilbo’s hair is much shorter, so the process is quicker this time, although maybe it just seems that way because of how good it feels. The hobbit gives in recklessly to the urge to nuzzle back into the feel of those fingers carding through his waves, and feels a little like purring. That golden feeling of before returns, and Bilbo gives into it, melting against the heat of Thorin’s body behind him and luxuriating in the rhythmic movements of his hands.
All good things come to an end, though, and the sound of the bead clasp closing startles him out of his daze. “Done already?” he asks almost plaintively, and distracts himself by hurrying over to a nearby mirror to peer at his reflection.
Thorin laughs good-naturedly at his little show of unabashed vanity. “Sure enough, burglar.”
The braids are intricate and elegant, if short, pulling back the hair around his pointed ears to meet at the back of his head. He can’t see the bead, but Bilbo can’t help but squirm a little bit in pleasure. He likes the way he looks and likes Thorin’s touch even better.
“I look very Dwarvish,” Bilbo grins, lightheaded. “If Lobelia Sackville-Baggins saw me now...”
“It suits you,” Thorin says simply, and the memory of the easy affection in his voice keeps Bilbo flushed for the rest of the week.
3.
It’s near the Winter Solstice now, and Bilbo’s been fretting over what exactly to do. The Shire usually celebrates Yule around this time, but he’s trying to adapt to the Dwarrow culture, so he’s been asking around for what exactly to do. It’s then that he happens upon Fili and Kili playing some sort of board game in what’s become the Company sitting room.
“So you say there’s a large feast the night before? Seems pretty typical for dwarves,” he remarks, settling into a large armchair by the fire, and Kili makes an affirming noise. “Is there anything I should wear or do, then?”
Fili shakes his head. “Ceremony-wise, it’s a fairly casual affair, though Thorin will be addressing everyone at the end of the night. You should dress nicely, though.”
“The braids would be nice,” Kili remarks quickly, and Bilbo flushes. The day after Thorin had first done his hair had been filled with sly comments from the brothers, and keen, knowing looks from the others—although what there was to know, Bilbo certainly wasn’t sure!
He hasn’t braided Thorin’s hair again since that night; nor has the king offered to do his, but it’s true that it might be good to look his best for the festival. He’s allowed his little vanities, after all. Back in the Shire, Yule celebrations would mean the burning of a large Yule log in the center of the town, huge hobbit-feasts, and decorations everywhere. Everyone was expected to dress well and warmly for the welcoming of winter, and for a moment, Bilbo thinks wistfully of his warm red Yule coat and green trousers in his wardrobe at the Shire. Though he’s long since had his clothes replaced by dwarven tailors—and though the dwarven fashions are much more suited to Erebor’s cold—sometimes he misses the light cotton and muslin of hobbit clothing.
“Does Solstice have any particular colors?” he asks absentmindedly. There’s a rather telling pause, and he glances up at the innocently smiling pair. “What?”
“Durin blue, maybe?” Fili says casually.
Bilbo can’t immediately place what he’s talking about, before remembering one of Ori’s lectures, when the hobbit had asked why earth-toned colors were so popular in Erebor. “Isn’t that reserved for the royal family?” he questions dubiously. “That really wouldn’t be my place.”
Kili throws himself rather theatrically at Bilbo’s feet, landing heavy palms on his knees and looking up at him with pleading eyes. “Are you saying that you don’t think of us as family, Master Boggins?”
Filled with fond exasperation, Bilbo leans back in his armchair before startling at Fili’s sudden presence behind him. The blonde prince leans to fold his arms on the back of the chair, giving Bilbo the same sad eyes as his brother. “Master Boggins, I’m truly hurt. I thought we were closer than—” he straightens up, glancing behind him. “Oh, hel lo , Uncle!”
Bilbo can’t help the way his head whips towards the door, or the way his expression melts into a sickeningly affectionate smile at the sight of the King fresh from a day of hard work. “Hello,” he says a little shyly, and Thorin returns his greeting before coming over and settling in the armchair opposite Bilbo.
“Have my sister-sons been bothering you?” he asks, obviously amused at the way Bilbo’s been caged in by the two mock-pouting dwarves.
Kili perks up. “Uncle! Don’t you think it’ll be nice for Bilbo to have a blue coat for Solstice?”
“Honestly,” Bilbo huffs, face flushing at the assessing look Thorin turns on him. “That’s really not necessary; I have a lot of other quite serviceable clothes—”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Thorin interrupts, stare still appraising and almost gloating . “It would show the people of Erebor that you are an esteemed member of our community. Not to say, of course, that they are not already well-aware of your value.”
Bilbo makes a few more token protests, but Fili’s “it’s a custom, Bilbo, do you want to reject Uncle’s hospitality?” shuts him up rather quickly. And that’s how he ends up with a brand new coat in what he privately thinks of as Thorin blue.
On the day of Solstice, Bilbo is woken up before dawn by the bustling outside. The usually quiet mountain is bubbling with joy, and the whole castle seems to have been decorated overnight in wreaths of holly and ivy and chains upon chains of silver and gems. Seeking out Thorin’s braiding skills, he dresses in the new coat, his mithril shirt beneath it, and makes his way swiftly to the sitting room. Inside, the Company is already gathered and raucously celebrating, clinking glasses of what looks like spiked eggnog.
“Happy Solstice!” he cries when he enters, and the rest of the group returns the greeting as Bombur hurries over to ply him with eggnog and small, flaky pastries. When the others drift back to their original spots, Bilbo silently makes his way over to the couch that Thorin’s appropriated, and plops himself down by the dwarf’s feet.
“Can you braid my hair again?” he asks after a second, extending a hand with the bead of last time.
Without missing a beat, Thorin nods and begins finger-combing through his hair, and Bilbo settles back into that golden haze once more.
When it’s over, Thorin reluctantly gets up and coughs, instantly drawing everyone’s attention. “It’s time to entertain,” he says grimly, drawing a variety of groans and laughter. In response to Bilbo’s questioning glance, he explains. “There is a procession of Mirkwood elves coming as a cultural exchange party , and we’ll be expected to make discussion with them for some time. It’s at the same time as the beginning of the general morning ceremony. And to be missing it for the sake of diplomacy with those tree-shagging—”
“I can help,” Bilbo volunteers, and his instant regret is dispelled by the relief flooding Thorin’s face.
“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but it’s a half-hearted protest at best.
Bilbo laughs. “It’s fine . It’s just a little conversation, right? I count as a representative of Erebor. And I do tend to be better with elves than you lumbering oafs.”
“Thank Mahal ,” Thorin mutters under his breath, and Bilbo braces himself for the upcoming task.
As they walk to the King’s greeting rooms, Thorin wraps an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders and mutters advice to him quietly. “I’ll just be away for ten minutes or so, to check in with the organizers of the ceremony, so you’ll only need to talk for that long. It’s just a welcoming, not some sort of presentation. And I’ll leave Balin for guidance and Fili for diplomacy practice—though I pray he doesn’t say anything foolish.”
As they open the doors, Thorin sets his face in a vaguely convincing smile, which immediately falls when he sees the Elven King already making himself at home in the welcoming chamber.
“Thranduil,” he says stiffly, inclining his head by the barest inch. “We welcome you and your kin to Erebor’s Solstice celebrations.”
“Thank you,” the elf replies, amused. “Are you leaving your hobbit here as a sacrifice?”
Bilbo flushes, both at his choice of words and the way Thorin instinctively pulls him closer. “I’m merely here to speak with you while—my King—attends his duties to the people,” he says firmly. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Your Highness.” Subtly trying to shrug off Thorin’s arm, he hisses a whisper up at the dwarf. “ I’m fine. Leave before you start another fight. ”
Thorin’s arm tightens for a moment, before releasing Bilbo and turning stiffly on his heel to leave, though not without a final glare at the Elf King. Soon, Bilbo and Thranduil—as well as their respective parties, who are trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible—are left in an awkwardly-polite sort of silence.
“That’s a lovely courting gift,” Thranduil finally says, gesturing to the shine of his mithril coat under his collar, and Bilbo is so relieved at having the silence broken that he doesn’t think before replying.
“Thank you,” he says graciously and then—“Excuse me, a courting gift?”
The elf nods, vaguely perplexed. “It is not?”
“No, indeed!” he huffs. “Well, I never —it’s a token of our friendship!”
Thranduil blinks at him uncomprehendingly, as if Bilbo is the one being absurd. “A shirt of mithril is a sign of friendship .” He chokes out a somehow-still-elegant laugh at Bilbo’s indignant nod. “Halfling, are you not aware that your coat is worth more than your precious Shire?”
Bilbo was, in fact, unaware of that, and the implications of it are more than a little staggering, but he refuses to give in, irritated by the elf’s presumptuousness. “We’re very close.”
Thranduil stands from his chair and circles him as Bilbo stands warily, pausing right behind him. “A becoming braid you wear, halfling,” he purrs. “Was that a sign of the king’s friendship too?”
Bilbo feels, inexplicably, as though he’s being made a fool of.
“You’re quite right,” he says anyway.
The elf finishes his circle and reaches to tilt Bilbo’s chin up, looking him up and down with mirth in his eyes, as though he’s part of some secret joke that Bilbo knows nothing about.. “Your coat is lovely, as well. Durin blue is usually worn only by royals, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
“Well, the King thought it would be a nice gesture to show my affiliation with the castle,” Bilbo responds, still somehow off-balance—a feeling in no way mitigated by the fact that he has to look up a good two feet to meet the elf’s eyes.
“You’re fortunate to have such a close companion, halfling,” Thranduil intones solemnly, his eyes still irritatingly amused, and Bilbo matches it with a smile stolen straight off Thorin’s court face—a smile with just enough of a quirk to seem both diplomatic and disinterested. Joining the King’s meetings has taught him a lot, it seems. In the distance behind the elf, he sees the aforementioned dwarf hurrying towards them through the crowd, as if summoned, and Bilbo relaxes.
“Certainly,” he says. He doesn’t need to fake the warmth in his voice.
“Bilbo,” Thorin calls when he’s come close, placing a hand on the hobbit’s waist and completely ignoring the elven king. “I’m sorry that took so long.”
“We were just talking about your extraordinary friendship,” Thranduil cuts in. “With those lovely beads in his hair, and that excellent armor, and his wearing your colors—I can see that you are quite fond of your halfling, dwarf.”
Some part of Bilbo expects Thorin to push him away, to maintain his stoic mien for propriety’s sake. Instead, the king uses his leverage on Bilbo’s hip to pull him forward, so his back is pressed firmly against Thorin’s broad, warm chest. One hand crosses over to rest almost possessively on his hip; the other wraps across to his other shoulder, caging him in. It’s almost too much for Bilbo’s poor heart, but even wrapped in Thorin’s embrace, Bilbo refuses Thranduil the satisfaction of seeing the hobbit startle.
“I truly am,” Thorin says seriously, and his deep voice sounds so close to Bilbo that he can feel the puff of the king’s breath on his sensitive ear. “Bilbo is an asset to our castle, and we are glad to have him.”
Thranduil snorts. “Friends, indeed.”
4.
Thorin has always been touchy—it seems that dwarves generally are, given the amount of eager back-thumps and headbutts and cheek-pinches Bilbo’s endured and observed since meeting his mangy pack of scoundrels. But Thorin has usually been more reticent with Bilbo in public; has always kept his greetings to a hearty handshake and smile, and reserves his more personal shows of affection within the walls of their quarters.
Bilbo tries his hardest to firmly push away the idea that Thorin might be ashamed of him—he knows intrinsically that’s untrue—but, well, sometimes being treated by the king like any other subject gets a little discouraging.
Since Solstice, however, Thorin has certainly started to sing a different tune. They don’t often go out to the markets or to Dale, but when they do, Thorin tries to have him close, always keeping an arm wrapped around his waist or his shoulders. It would be irritating if Bilbo weren’t so frustratingly smitten.
It doesn’t really come to a head, though, until Thranduil’s farewell feast two weeks later. The delegation has taken their sweet time loitering about the castle and markets, and Bilbo has often been the one to show them around, given his proficiency with Sindarian. Even if he doesn’t quite like the Elven King, he can still appreciate their treatment of animals, their weapon proficiency, and most especially their agriculture. This visit has allowed Bilbo to arrange an exchange of crops and seeds for the next planting season, and so he’s feeling more than a little smug as he follows the Company to their table at the front of Erebor’s Great Hall.
Through some clever bit of machinery, the chairs at the main table have a handle to raise or lower their seats, making it adjustable for guests of all races. Bilbo gladly takes his usual seat—on Thorin’s left, next to Ori—and swings his legs cheerfully as the dinner service starts.
“You seem to be in a pleasant mood, Master Baggins,” Thorin remarks, seeming pleased himself.
“So do you,” Bilbo observes. “Glad that Thranduil’s party is finally leaving?” He keeps his voice down, aware that the elf is sitting at the other end of the table, a mere 10 meters away.
“I will be glad to be done with all this diplomacy, ” Thorin grumbles, hissing out the last word like a curse. “Speaking of which: my apologies, Bilbo, but the— elf— and I do need to speak some more.” And with a pat on the hobbit’s shoulder, he turns away and calls out to Thranduil, both needing to nearly shout across the table to be heard.
It’s about the trade of stone and jewels, which isn’t Bilbo’s area of interest, so he keeps only a passing tab on what the kings are arguing about, instead turning his focus on the excellent chicken pot pie in front of him, and on Ori to his left.
“How do you like the beef stew?” he inquires anxiously, and the scribe looks up from his own plate.
“It’s very good,” he praises, nodding vigorously. “A little bit of a different taste this time.”
Bilbo relaxes. “That’s right! It’s only that I just used a new spice this time, when Bombur had recommended another one, but I couldn’t very well have both the beef stew and the chicken, so I wanted to make sure that they both turned out well.”
A large hand lands on his chin and turns him back towards Thorin, who is holding a spoonful of the aforementioned stew in front of his mouth. “Try some of mine, burglar,” he says gruffly, and Bilbo flushes. It’s true that he and Thorin often share food, but that’s within Thorin’s private quarters—not here, in front of the Company and a dozen Mirkwood elves!
But Thorin’s grip is insistent, and Bilbo doesn’t want to embarrass the king by refusing him, so he nonchalantly dips his head to accept the bite, acting like his face isn’t crimson red. “It’s good,” he mutters lamely, even though he hadn’t tasted a thing.
“It is,” Thorin agrees, turning back to continue his conversation with Thranduil as though nothing at all had happened.
Bilbo picks at his meal for the rest of supper and doesn’t say another word, pretending very hard that he can’t feel the elf’s inquisitive gaze pinning him in place.
He can’t escape for long, though, and the Elf King corners him later on in the night, once they’ve all dispersed into a lounge and begun drinking. While Bilbo knows he’s already a little tipsy from his dwarven mead, Thranduil seems supremely unaffected by any alcohol he’s consumed—although whether that ability is a blessing or a curse, Bilbo’s not sure.
“How goes it with your friend, halfling?” the elf inquires silkily, lowering himself down to sit besides Bilbo on a long couch in the corner of the room.
“Very well,” he says stiffly. “How has your amaranth crop grown this year?”
Thranduil raises an eyebrow at his desperate attempt at a segue. “You may want to improve your conversation skills before you become consort.”
Bilbo is shocked at his forwardness, and blusters between responses for a moment, before settling on indignation. “Not that there is a relationship, mind you—but what business of yours is it what my relationship is with the king?”
“I like to see him frustrated,” is the surprisingly blunt response.
“That’s not very diplomatic.”
“Since when has your king been deserving of it?” Thranduil shoots back, and Bilbo puffs up like a particularly offended hedgehog. Before he can respond, the elf leans forward, grasping the hobbit by the wrist and pulling him close, nearly into Thranduil’s lap.
Bilbo squawks, trying to push him away, but the elf king is leagues stronger—and larger—than him, and he doesn’t make much headway. “What are you doing? ”
“I know you’re in love with him,” Thranduil breathes into his ear, and Bilbo freezes. “But I don’t get much entertainment if you just sit in your chair and pine after that dwarf silently. It’s much more amusing to incite him into a little action .”
“Why would Thorin even care?” Bilbo mutters bitterly, letting his arms drop to his side and helplessly allowing the elf to manhandle him close to the larger being’s side. He’s perfectly content with being Thorin’s friend, perfectly content with the platonic affection that the king offers—but if the elf keeps on making his insinuations and taunting Bilbo, he’ll begin to harbor hopes that have no foundation. And Bilbo can’t deal with the type of fallout that Thorin discovering his worthless crush would cause.
“You’d be surprised,” Thranduil purrs, and hands Bilbo a shot of Elven wine as he cards a hand through the hobbit’s curls. It’s eerily similar to the position he usually assumes when spending time with Thorin, but the elf’s touch is slimy and uncomfortable, so unlike the golden haze that surrounds Bilbo when he’s with the dwarf king. “Now, ask me again about the plants.”
And Thranduil is a king , and diplomacy is a thing, so Bilbo rather has to put up with it. So they sit there for some time, Bilbo listening, sulking, to Thranduil’s talks about crops. It’s valuable information, and a valuable conversation—but all the while, the elf king refuses to let him pull away, keeping him anchored by the fingers in his hair.
Until Thorin arrives, announcing his presence with the stomp of boots on stone.
“What are you doing with the hobbit,” comes a low growl from behind the two, and Bilbo stiffens, attempting again to pull away, but Thranduil simply smirks and lets his hand travel down to the base of Bilbo’s neck, squeezing in warning.
“I’m merely keeping him company,” he near- simpers, pulling the hobbit closer. “We’re having a very nice discussion, aren’t we, Bilbo?”
Thorin waits expectantly. Bilbo didn’t think the elf even knew his name.
“We’re just talking about crops,” he says steadily, not looking at Thorin’s face. “The King has informed me that they’re preparing a wagon of amaranth seeds to trade for this spring’s planting.” He can’t imagine how guilty he must look right now, curled into the elf’s side in a dark corner, nursing a drink as they chat closely. Consorting with the enemy, as it were, even if they’re technically allied with Mirkwood. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for Thorin to make any sort of his own presumptions.
“I see,” Thorin says, voice stiff. “Carry on, then.”
He walks away, then, and Bilbo can’t help the frustration and resentment welling in his stomach. Something about the Elf King’s words had made him expect more—had made him expect, for a moment, that Thorin would be possessive, furious at Thranduil for taking away Bilbo, or something equally sappy and cliche. It was stupid, he thinks, blinking back childish tears: if Thorin is angry now, it’s at Bilbo, for talking so familiarly with the elf he so hates.
“I have to go,” he says angrily, tearing himself away at Thranduil, who lets him go with a smirk.
Bilbo runs all the way back to his room.
5.
Once there, he throws himself onto a loveseat and lets himself sob quietly. There’s no reason for him to be upset—it’s not as though Thorin’s done anything cruel to him, not even as though Bilbo’s confessed his feelings. But with the way that he and Thorin have been getting closer, and with Thranduil—that damn meddler—had been prodding him along, Bilbo had let himself have a little bit of hope that Thorin could feel the same way.
But, well, he can’t solely blame the elf king, he thinks glumly, curling into a blanket. He had always reminded himself that Thorin would never feel the same way—that a hobbit from the Shire was no match for a dwarven King, no matter how large Bag End was. It was his fault, really, for forgetting.
It was through that haze of moping that a knock sounded. Bilbo quiets immediately, thinking to mislead the new arrival into thinking he wasn’t there, until he heard that distinctive low rumble from behind the door.
“I know you’re in there, burglar.”
Getting up slowly, Bilbo makes his way to the entrance and lets the king in. “What is it, Thorin?” he asks, mustering up some false cheer. He can’t send Thorin away—again, he’s done nothing wrong. He refuses to punish the dwarf for Bilbo’s own stupid feelings.
“I wondered why you’d left in such a rush,” Thorin says slowly.
“I was just a little tired.”
“You do look tired.” Thorin tilts his head to study Bilbo. “You look like you’ve been crying.”
“I’m alright,” Bilbo protests. He doesn’t feel like hosting, but his Baggins manners won’t let him turn Thorin away. “Come in. Do you want some tea?” Without waiting for an answer, he goes to put the teapot on. It’s easy like this, to pretend that nothing’s wrong; he moves on autopilot, hoping it’ll suffice to fool the dwarf.
Thorin settles on the couch that Bilbo had just vacated, and broods. At first he seems to be observing Bilbo still, but by the time the teakettle begins to whistle, he seems to have drawn into himself, mien more stormy by the minute.
“Are you okay, though?” Bilbo asks, breaking the silence as he pours a steady stream of tea into a porcelain cup. Like this, he is in his element, and he blocks out the memories of Thorin turning his back on him. Just now, he thinks: just for tonight, I can pretend everything is fine. And tomorrow, I’ll try my best to get over him.
The dwarf looks up, broken out of his stupor, and suddenly something breaks over his face that’s cold and angry and makes Bilbo put down his tea tray carefully to avoid eye contact. “The King,” Thorin growls, standing up abruptly and taking a step closer to Bilbo—who looks at him, confused. “You called the Elf that. But it’s not to him that you owe your allegiance, is it, burglar?”
Bilbo cocks his head, thinking. Did he? “Of course not, Thorin,” he says anyway, matter-of-factly. “I’m not in Mirkwood. I’m here, aren’t I?
“It’s not him you serve, is it?” The dwarf doesn’t seem to have heard him, advancing a few more steps closer to Bilbo, and he instinctively takes a stumble back, feeling his body hit the wall behind him.
“No—but—are you feeling alright, Thorin?”
A hand lands against the stone next to Bilbo’s head, caging him in. Bilbo isn’t scared of the dwarf—he could never be again, not after the Arkenstone incident. Instead, Thorin’s heavy stare and intimidating closeness sends a different sort of feeling pulsing through his veins. How the mood changed so suddenly, he’s not sure.
Thorin leans in close, and he can feel the dwarf’s breath shiver against his own lips. “Who is your king , Bilbo Baggins?”
And in a sudden, exhilarating burst of hope, Bilbo thinks he understands. “It’s you, Thorin,” he declares, looking up at Thorin looming above him. Licking his lips nervously, he lets his next line spill out. “You know that I’m yours.”
Thorin claws a hand into his hair and crashes their lips together.
Bilbo doesn’t remember how it got to this point. Thorin’s mouth is hot against his, tongue swiping across his lower lip as if pleading for entrance. When Bilbo yields, Thorin groans , the rumble of his voice more felt than heard, and the dwarf shifts his grip on Bilbo’s chin to make the slide of lips and tongue even filthier than before. He can’t help feeling drunk, floating on the haze of heat and cloth; he can’t help clutching out at Thorin’s robes— that decadent Durin blue —and scrabbling at it to pull that larger body closer and closer.
“Azyungel, ” Thorin chokes into his ear, voice a strange mixture of fierceness and tenderness. “I hated the way his hands looked on you.”
He moves from Bilbo’s mouth to pay his attention to the hobbit’s ear, nipping and sucking at the lobe and shell and sensitive tip, and Bilbo tangles his own hands through Thorin’s hair, letting his gasps and moans bubble freely from his throat. “ Thorin ,” he whines, then something cold washes over him and— “ Thorin , wait a second—”
The dwarf lets out an angry growl at that, but manages to tear himself away. Bilbo feels the loss of heat instantly, and sags down the wall a little, feeling debauched and somehow ravaged by the hungry gaze Thorin is fixing upon him.
“What . ” the king hisses.
“I just—” Bilbo almost wants to tell Thorin to forget it, to just go back to mauling his neck, please—but damn it if the hobbit can do something so intimate without having his feelings requited. Inhaling sharply, he fists his hands into the wall behind him, letting the cool stone calm and ground him. “I can’t do this if you don’t—”
He pauses, and from the water-blurred look of horror on Thorin’s face, he can tell, humiliatingly , that he’s begun to cry. “If I don’t what, Bilbo?” Thorin asks gently. He crowds Bilbo against the wall again; sweetly, this time, cupping the hobbit’s face in warm, calloused palms, so Bilbo feels small and precious, which just makes him cry a little more. “Speak to me, please .”
“I’m sorry,” Bilbo rambles, swiping frustratedly at his eyes. “I’m sorry, I just—” He juts his chin up, to meet Thorin’s blue eyes, pretty as ever and painted with worry. If this is the last time Thorin ever looks at him with such affection, well, he’ll treasure this image forever. “I can’t do this if you aren’t in love with me.”
There’s a pause, and Bilbo shuts his eyes tightly, clenching his fists harder and bracing himself for a blow. He’s surprised to feel the butterfly-gentleness of a kiss pressed against his forehead, and he lets his eyes flutter open in confusion.
“Oh, Bilbo,” Thorin says, soft as a sigh, still holding Bilbo dearly in his arms. “How could I not?”
It takes him a second to comprehend, and then he trips forward into Thorin’s welcoming embrace. Tilting his head against the dwarf’s shoulder to peer up at him, Bilbo lets out a giggle, voice teary now with happiness instead of fear.
“Stupid dwarf,” he reprimands. “You should have let me know sooner.”
Thorin smiles back at him, grins fonder and more real than Bilbo’s ever seen it. “I’ve been officially courting you for the past three months,” he says. “I don’t believe I’m the silly one here, Master Burglar.”
A realization hits him. “Since—that’s since I started the feeding?”
“It’s a highly romantic gesture in dwarven custom,” the dwarf nods, guiding Bilbo to a couch so similar to the one that began it all.
“Idiot,” Bilbo hisses, laughing more. “It is for hobbits, too, only I thought from your seriousness that it didn’t have any sort of significance to dwarves.”
“It was very forward,” Thorin says, sitting down and pulling Bilbo onto his lap. “Almost as if you had propositioned me right there and then.” The king presses a kiss to the hobbit’s cheek, and then to the other one and his nose, then hovers close to his mouth, waiting.
“Well,” Bilbo breathes then, bringing his hands to entwine in Thorin’s hair. “I suppose it would be rude of me not to follow through.”
This time, Bilbo is the one to initiate their kiss.
And like that, everything ends up wonderfully, perfectly, fine.