Chapter Text
It's not worry per se, he decides, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, stomping his boots every now and then, little clouds of frozen air forming in front of his mouth – it's not that. If the last couple of weeks' worth of communication between them have shown him anything, it's that he has absolutely nothing to be worried about.
It's just... He's hesitant to call it doubt, because he feels it wouldn't be fair to Bilbo. Some sort of uncertainty, then. The relationship they have, or the beginnings of one, had long been in the making, and it feels right, feels perfect, and yet Thorin can't quite shake some nagging feeling of concern.
What if it's all in your head. What if it'll never be what you're hoping it might be. What if...
But maybe that's just him, a flight response, the remnants of how he used to think, back when he was used to any and all chances at something slipping through his fingers.
“Stupid,” he grunts, catching the startled attention of a mother and a child dragging their luggage nearby, and finally steps inside.
It is a bloody cold end of February, but he still prefers the chill of the air outside to the dry air-conditioned warmth inside the large hall. He maneuvers through the crowd, suddenly pleasantly agitated, following the yellow 'Arrivals' signs like a hound following its trail, loosening his scarf and unzipping his jacket only as an afterthought.
It is only before the clearly marked sliding door that his march falters – people are already pouring out, faces lighting up when they spot their loved ones in the crowd, laughter and embraces and loud chatter, and Thorin feels a bit out of place. He scans the room for a familiar riot of honey-brown curls, and a momentary panic seizes him, maybe he's missed him, maybe he's already gone.
He forces himself to relax, even though it includes checking his phone obsessively for a text from him, and hypnotizes the door intently, his heart skipping a beat each time it slides open almost soundlessly.
Next to him, a woman greets her girlfriend with a beautiful bouquet of flowers and tears in her eyes, and Thorin feels very inadequate, since he's brought nothing at all for Bilbo, and ponders the opportunity to dash out to the nearest florist stand to remedy that, but before he can mentally slap himself upside the head to remind himself how ridiculous he's acting (why didn't he agree to let Dís drive him, again? She'd be excellent at this), the door slides open one more time, and Thorin's heart decides to pound in his throat, rather than his chest like it's supposed to.
A part of him is immensely grateful that no one immediately recognizes Bilbo, because the last thing he needs right now is photo-hungry people cutting off the path between them, but on the other hand, he wonders how that's possible, because to his eyes, Bilbo is utterly radiant.
He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, which is probably for the best. He raises his hand in a feeble greeting, and it's as if the tiny gesture is exactly enough to draw Bilbo's attention – his expression shifts from curious and seeking, to downright exhilarated in the span of about two seconds, and all doubt Thorin might have ever had dissipates like melting snow.
His grin mirrors Bilbo's, spreading wider, until his cheeks hurt, and they might as well be alone in the vast arrivals hall – nothing else matters.
“Hi-” Thorin starts, but all air is knocked out of his lungs when Bilbo flings himself into his arms without much ado, making laughter bubble up somewhere deep within his chest, gleeful and relieved.
“Hi,” Bilbo exhales, squeezing tight, the sweet scent of him making Thorin's head spin.
His eyes are bluer than he remembers them, his hair shorter (he briefly recalls the 'sitting bored in a hairdresser's chair' series of selfies the other week), and he's smiling beautiful up at Thorin, hands clutching his sweater on the small of his back, never allowing an inch of space between them.
“How was your flight?” Thorin asks him a bit dumbly, and Bilbo laughs as well.
“Awful,” he exhales, “absolutely atrocious.”
And then Thorin is kissing him, and Bilbo's hands are sneaking around his neck, and despite all of his worries and insecurities, Thorin knows one thing for sure – this is the warmest he's been all February.
They know exactly how much time they have – three weeks this time, the longest consecutive period so far – and Thorin can sense the span of it spreading out before them as he drives them away from the airport, some of the very last snow of the season beginning to fall. He has some plans, but most of them are very simple, based on not leaving Bilbo's presence for longer than absolutely necessary.
“Are we going to Dís' for dinner?” Bilbo asks, his hand resting on Thorin's knee, and he forgets the shift for a moment to cover it with his own.
“Yeah,” he smiles, “tomorrow, though.”
“Oh, good,” Bilbo sighs, and their eyes meet for a moment before Thorin has to pay attention to the road once more, and they're both thinking the same thing. Thank God, frankly.
Thorin has cleaned up a little bit, and shopped for groceries, and all in all prepared for Bilbo's arrival in what he hopes is not an overly obvious fashion, but all of that ceases to matter the second Bilbo steps foot inside his apartment – he belongs, and Thorin could have spent hours dusting off the shelves and straightening everything out, and it wouldn't have made any real difference, because without Bilbo among it all, it would have always felt incomplete.
They sit on the old creaking couch half draped over each other, drinking tea and watching the snow fall, and Bilbo complains about press tours and Thorin fills him in on everything that's happened in the city, in Erebor, in his absence, and maybe they're yet again both wondering about the same thing – will it always be like this? Reuniting? So effortless?
Thorin doesn't know, and he doesn't have the guts to ask Bilbo quite yet – but later on, when Bilbo lifts his sweater up and off over his head and takes the fabric of his t-shirt with it, his eyes settle on the delicate golden chain resting around Thorin's neck, and his smile has the softest curve to it, pleased and, Thorin dares venture, besotted, and it's obvious.
Obvious that it's stupid to try and guess ahead – but also obvious that gravitating back to each other is simply something that neither of them feels like fighting right now. And Thorin will take that – by god will he take that, and give back what he hopes with all his might is an appropriate amount of gratitude, enough for Bilbo to do the same.
-
She almost doesn't open the letter that morning, mostly because it's buried in a pile of other letters, all of equally annoying importance; and partially simply because she wants to postpone reading whatever it says.
Dwalin comes barging into the office just in time to see her wielding the letter opener tentatively at best, as if cutting the envelope open is an operation she can't afford to mess up, and his expression goes from goofy to serious in a millisecond, and he sits on the edge of her table, taking both letter and letter opener from her hands without a single protest from her, and does the deed for her.
He hands her the paper and crosses his arms, nodding at her encouragingly, as she gnaws on her thumb rather than actually reading the thing.
Balin will fault her for many, many years to come for scaring the life out of him by screeching loudly in delight at the exact same moment that he entered her office that day, causing him to trip and spill hot tea all over himself.
“Out-of-court settlement!” she shouts in their faces, and jumps up from her desk so abruptly she almost knocks it over, “they did it! It's done!”
“Are you serious?!” Dwalin exclaims, trying to snatch the letter from her hand as she waves it around, while Balin attempts in vain to clean himself up.
“Yes, I'm serious! It's over! Balin, it's over!”
“Alright, alright, give me that, stop dancing around for one second and let me read it!”
She feels like she might burst as she waits for him to put on his reading glasses and read through the tiny letters with painstaking patience and a completely serious expression on his face.
He reaches the end of the page, and flips it over, as if making sure he hasn't missed anything, then stares at it, long and hard.
“Well?” she grins, “it's done, right?”
“Well,” he exhales, folding his glasses in his breast pocket with utmost care.
“Well?” Dwalin seems rather anxious now, too.
Balin looks at them with a smile tinged with a dose of disbelief.
“It seems that Erebor is saved, after all,” he declares.
She knows who she must find first, and takes the stairs by two, descending into the depths of the theatre quickly, leaving confused people in her wake.
“Where's Thorin?!” she erupts, turning every single head in the lounge, and beaming at them all the brighter for it.
“Dressing room, I think,” Bofur is the first to supply a satisfactory answer, “but I wouldn't...”
“It's Azog's people!” Dís ignores him completely in favor of the good news, “they're offering an out-of-court settlement!”
She almost doesn't wait for them to realize what she's saying and explode in cheers, and certainly doesn't hear Bofur's 'Hold on, about Thorin-!', because she's already speeding in the direction of his dressing room, a skip to her step, feeling years younger, and refreshed, hopeful.
“I'm coming in!” she calls out as she's advancing on the door to her brother's privacy, and bursts in without a second's thought, waving the letter, “You're not going to believe this – oh!”
The old dingy couch rattles and whines as Bilbo and Thorin attempt to disentangle as quickly as possible, which results in Bilbo yelping as he rolls over to the floor, and Thorin grunting an undignified swear, trying to pull down his t-shirt and comb his hair with his hand at the same time.
“Dís, what the hell-”
“Oh, shit-!” she squeaks, turning around, smothering her giggles in her hand, feeling very much like a teenager again, “I'm so sorry, you guys! I think someone upstairs tried to warn me, but I didn't listen... Bilbo!” she gestures to thin air, her back still turned to them, “you're back!”
“Hello, Dís,” a soft chuckle comes from the general vicinity of the carpet.
“Can't this wait a bit?” Thorin grumbles, and she laughs some more, overjoyed.
“Just read it,” she declares, deciding to brave looking at them, and fortunately not meeting with any inappropriately bare skin.
Thorin snatches the letter away from her with a highly suspicious frown, and Bilbo snorts, not caring overmuch his own slightly disheveled appearance, and giving Dís a quick, warm half embrace and a peck on the cheek.
“Hi,” he exhales again, happily, then points with his head to the letter that now has Thorin searching for his reading glasses, “what is that?”
Dís only winks at him, still quite incapable of controlling the grin that takes over whenever she's not paying attention. Bilbo's eyebrows quirk sky high, and he proceeds to sneak up on Thorin, sneaking his arms around his waist, trying to get a good look at the letter.
“What is it?” he asks again.
She watches the expression on her brother's face, firm and inquisitive at first, then transitioning into confused, then surprised, only to settle at cautiously pleased, and when he raises his head to look at her, she merely nods.
“And this has been approved...?” he asks slowly, as if he wants nothing more than to believe it, but is slightly scared to do so.
“It will be, soon. But you know what the lawyer said,” she smiles, steps closer, “if they cave, we've already won.”
“Huh,” he mutters.
“Thorin,” she says softly, “we've already won.”
“Yeah,” he exhales, looking from her to the letter, to Bilbo, as if he's seeing him for the first time, as if he's only now realizing he's holding him, and Bilbo is smiling up at him gently, expectantly, and Dís can see it in his eyes, the dawning realization.
“Yeah,” he repeats, and grins so broadly it tugs at something deep within Dís' chest, and she feels tears beginning to brim in her eyes when she ends up in his bear embrace all of a sudden.
“So,” she squawks, her voice muffled by Thorin's hug and her own emotions alike, “are you two up for some celebrating at some point today?”
The dinner they'd planned beforehand, to welcome Bilbo back, but it only so happens that they have much more to drink to that evening – as per usual, Dís' apartment fills with people quicker than she can count them, and she wouldn't have it any other way. There's the cacophony of cheerful chatter, and somebody's cheerful rendition of Here Comes The Sun on the piano, and the clinking of glasses, and she all but dances around the stove preparing dinner, her boys, Dwalin and Bilbo dutifully helping out, occasionally joined by the others, and everything is as it should be.
Everything is as it should be.
Bilbo seems perfectly content to spend his time dicing herbs and telling her about all of his most recent show business adventures, and it's as if he never left, and when Thorin comes after him, visibly impatient and adorably needy, both their eyes gleam the way only one kind of satisfaction can make them gleam, and she orders them out of her kitchen resolutely, but watches them fondly.
It's them that she's worked so hard for – all of them. For her brother, finally learning to allow some happiness in his life, currently sticking to Bilbo like glue and entertaining the company effortlessly and loudly, just like he used to do.
For Balin, who has practically been living at the theatre ever since the whole Azog debacle started, now laughing so hard over something Nori just said that he threatens to choke on his tea, or fall out of his armchair, possibly both at once – he looks so much older now, she observes, frail and white, but she hopes that this might give him exactly what it's going to give the entirety of Erebor. A new lease of life.
...For Dwalin and Bofur, and everyone who has forfeited salaries and worked ridiculous overtimes and spent the nights over the years to keep Erebor running, on their faith and bullheaded willpower alone, more often than not.
For her boys, to have their kingdom and hiding place in one to run to for many more years to come – for the smile on their faces, as well as the peace of their sleep.
For herself. For the life force she's invested into keeping all of this going, and of course, for Erebor herself. These people right here, lounging on the carpet where there's nowhere else to sit, laughing now over what used to be a real, concrete threat, they are the sum of all her history, they all of them carry around the ghosts in their bones and their lungs, just like she does in every dark corner and old stone wall, every plank of her stage and beam of her attic.
Erebor is saved. It is still strange to imagine, but not as difficult to fathom as the opposite. She finds her place among them, squeezes herself in between Dwalin and Balin, and grins and winks at Thorin when he smiles at her from across the table.
Everything is as it should be.
She's almost inclined to call it luck.
He doesn't think he'll ever be getting used to the change, the transition – one day, you're standing on a red carpet, turning this way and that, and the world is a blur of megawatt smiles and answering silly questions and looking good for the camera, and then there's a shift, like someone snapping a finger, and you find yourself at peace, completely and utterly at peace, and everything is quiet, and soft, and warm, as if the world has halted, stopped turning for just a little while, just for you.
He can almost convince himself no one will ever point a camera at him ever again, and he loves that.
He lays still for a moment, opening his eyes only highly reluctantly, and humming in slight concern when he realizes he's alone in the bed. But it's still impossibly warm and cozy underneath the covers, and he can hear faint music coming from somewhere, and the sky outside the large window is a perfect periwinkle blue, and Bilbo decides, alright, maybe just a little while longer then.
He knows he left his phone somewhere downstairs last night, and there isn't even a clock in the room, and it's such a liberating feeling, honestly – at some point, when he's not so ridiculously comfortable, he's going to have to get out of this bed and thank Thorin again for this brilliant idea.
But it is of course exactly that, the lack of Thorin, that eventually does chase him out from under the covers. The large house is quiet and serene, and Bilbo admires the décor on his way downstairs, intricate wood carvings, and woven tapestries, and paintings of flowers, and forests, and mountains.
The floor is wooden, and so are the stairs, and so is every piece of furniture he comes across – it gives off a nice cozy feeling, and Bilbo silently plans on trying all of the rocking chairs and peculiarly shaped little armchairs he comes across, at one point or another.
Thorin is in the kitchen, a cluttered but spacious room, and something smells wonderful on the stove, and Bilbo's lips spread in a broad satisfied grin.
“Beorn just left,” Thorin says casually over his shoulder, thus ruining all of Bilbo's hopes and chances of sneaking up on him and hugging him from behind, burying his face into the soft fabric of his henley.
“Mmm. When did you say he was coming back?”
“For the weekend.”
“Three days' time,” Bilbo remarks, and meets the same amount of giddy satisfaction he feels, in the glint of Thorin's eye when he shoots him a glance.
Three days completely alone, just the two of them, at this enormous house made to accommodate at least a dozen more, a week altogether, and all courtesy of Beorn's generosity, and Thorin's surprise planning.
And high time, too. Bilbo came back here to enjoy Thorin and all that comes with him, family and friends included, but the two of them decided to draw a silent line at some point, at too much of family and friends – it might have been after the third or fourth time somebody walked in on them getting slightly frisky in Thorin's dressing room. Or after Dís asked them to babysit Fili and Kili yet again, and yet again they ended up spending much longer than expected there because she had errands to run – far be it from them to refuse, her or the boys, but enough is enough. They didn't even have to talk about it to agree that they sorely needed their privacy, and Thorin simply came up with the Beorn idea out of the blue one day, and, well, here they are.
“Aren't you cold?”
Bilbo gazes at Thorin's bare legs fondly, and Thorin shifts from one to the other as if he knows, flashing him a bright smile.
“Nah, I'm fine. Though we could get the fire started at some point.”
“Good idea,” Bilbo finally comes to stand next to him, bumping their hips together lightly and observing what's cooking – his mouth waters at the sight of a perfect french toast in the making.
“Haven't chopped wood in a while, but I'll sure enjoy watching you do it.”
“You might be out of luck there,” Thorin chuckles, “I think Beorn is stacked up on firewood for a dozen winters to come.”
“Oh, shame,” Bilbo pouts, sneaking one arm around Thorin's waist, overjoyed when he finds hot, bare skin.
Thorin hisses in a half-hearted warning, but doesn't seem to protest when Bilbo's fingers explore further, crawling underneath the waistband of his boxers, pressing against the protrusion of his hipbone, drawing teasing little circles.
“At this rate we'll be eating this thing for lunch,” Thorin notes, his voice admirably calm, considering where Bilbo's touches are headed.
“I'm not that hungry, anyway,” Bilbo counters, but his stomach chooses to betray him at that very moment, an accusatory rumble.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Thorin smirks, “sorry, it's finished now. I was gonna bring this to you in bed, you know.”
“Oh, well,” Bilbo removes his hand only very reluctantly, “I suppose we're just going to have to find some other things to do in bed, then.”
“And they say your cheesy rom-coms haven't rubbed off on you at all.”
“Shut up.”
They eat by the yet unlit fireplace in the living room, a genuine bearskin rug keeping them slightly disconcerting company, and it becomes very obvious very quickly that both of them are perfectly fine with the prospect of having nothing to do all day.
“The animals will pretty much take care of themselves, is that what he said?” Bilbo mutters, plates disposed of only as far as the nearest end table, and his arms thus free to wrap around Thorin, the two of them forming a nice heap on the spacious sofa.
“Yeah, that's the idea,” comes Thorin's muffled response, his lips moving only very lazily pressed against Bilbo's curls, as if he's more interested in kissing them than exerting the effort to talk.
“Wonderful,” Bilbo sighs, curling up closer to the eternal heat source that is Thorin's chest – they didn't get all that much sleep last night, a combination of all sorts of different factors, and nothing currently seems like a better idea than napping through the rest of the morning.
Bilbo has strategically left his muted phone lying on the kitchen counter, far out of his reach, and before he can even ponder the implications and come to the inevitable conclusion that he doesn't give a damn about them, Thorin's hands rubbing large soothing circles into his back lull him to sleep in record time.
He doesn't know how or when exactly the realization hits him – it might be while laughing until his stomach cramps as Thorin makes his very best attempt at switching Beorn's oven on, swearing so loudly and theatrically mostly for effect anyway, Bilbo suspects him.
Or it might be later that afternoon, when they do decide to get out of the house after all, walking side by side and hand in hand through the countryside, not knowing their way in the slightest but walking anyway, and Thorin's thumb gently soothing his wrist as they talk about this or that backdrop related topic.
It might be when sitting underneath that large oak tree above the house, not caring in the slightest about getting muddy, and Thorin telling him calmly but with a sort of urgency about all the details of his young life he hasn't shared before – about how they spent almost the entire summer here after their mother died, and their father needed to deposit them somewhere, or about the last time he was here with his brother Frerin... Or about all the other, happier times.
...It might be the tenth time Thorin smiles at him so fond and bright it makes his heart reconsider beating for a second or two, or the hundredth time, or the thousandth.
It might be in every gasp and kiss that night, every burst of pleasure up his spine might be a message, a silent confirmation – he can't pinpoint it.
But one way or the other, he wakes up the next morning, this time certainly not alone, and Thorin is still asleep next to him, and like he's stepped out of one of his most... emotional movies, Bilbo watches the lines of his face, evened out and years younger, and he knows he's never been this happy.
It's the strangest feeling, and his fingertips hover over Thorin's shoulder, over his cheek, never touching, because he doesn't know how to share it – is worried it wouldn't come across properly. Words aren't enough, at least two of his characters must have said to their counterparts, he's pretty sure, and it's ridiculous, really, how being properly in love really sheds new light on the meaning of all those pathetic one-liners.
Words aren't enough, he thinks, and I'd choose wrong ones anyway. He's considered saying them early, so much earlier than convention dictates, but he doesn't know if at this point, they'd really describe what he feels.
“...I love you,” he tries nevertheless, the quietest whisper, and the distance between them burns, even though it's so tiny – Bilbo holds his breath, irrationally frightened of waking Thorin up, but he barely stirs.
He rolls over to his back, smiling at the ceiling, strong rough beams supporting the roof above, and still marvels at it – who would have thought that staying still was where the happiness has been all along.
He's been unstoppable for years, refusing to settle down, refusing to wait, rushing from one end of the world to the other in a heedless search for... something, he can't even remember what. Certainly can't remember why he never thought to actually search for it, why he convinced himself that whatever he might crave wasn't worth the hassle – because right now, pushing schedules around, and shuffling dates, and jumping on planes at five in the morning just to get back to Thorin seems like the only reasonable thing to do.
And moreover, it feels easy. Feels like he's supposed to do it. Feels like purpose.
“Mmphrg,” Thorin greets him, the mountain of his body shifting slightly, one strong arm searching until it succeeds at draping over Bilbo and bringing him closer. He obliges with a chuckle, but has absolutely no intention of ending up smushed as the little spoon – he uses Thorin's nonexistent reflexes to gain the upper hand and crawl on top of him, careful to take his blanket with him, because no matter what plans he has, Bilbo certainly doesn't want to expose but an inch more of his skin than absolutely necessary to the comparatively colder air in the room.
“Morning,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to Thorin's cheek.
Blue eyes peer at him sleepily, and Thorin sighs, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Did we sleep too long?” he asks, voice a bit rough, and Bilbo finds he still really enjoys that.
“I don't know,” he says, “and I really don't care.”
Right now, it feels like they have all the time in the world, and so Bilbo celebrates that by peppering Thorin's face with kisses, devoting attention to his neck, the line of his collarbone, his shoulder, only to return to his mouth and finally succeed at gaining his attention. Large hands settle on his waist, only to engulf him in an embrace mere moments later and bring him closer, and Thorin smiles into their kisses.
“That good a morning, huh?” he ventures, and Bilbo laughs, his hips rolling a bit needily the only answer either of them require.
Their rhythm is slow and lazy at best, but doesn't lack for passion – there's no fabric to separate their skin, still very sensitive from last night, it turns out, and it doesn't take long for Bilbo to dive under the covers, to put his mouth to even better use than mirroring each of Thorin's pleased sighs.
He presses his hand flat against Thorin's belly, mapping out the ripples of his muscles, his favorite thing to do, while the other one is busy elsewhere alongside his mouth, and Thorin's fingers send shivers dancing down his spine when they curl in his hair, tugging gently.
The transition, from soft to very much interested under his care, feels like a personal achievement, and Bilbo works on it with all the more devotion when Thorin praises him rather vehemently. He teases, too, kissing the soft skin on the inside of his thighs, the trembling warmth of his abdomen, his hipbones, everywhere but where it matters the most, and even though Thorin certainly has the means of making him stop at his disposal, he's currently very much at Bilbo's mercy, pliant and loose like a puddle of goo, and still barely awake, and Bilbo adores it.
He's nothing if not a creature of comfort, and he takes his time with both of them, tending to Thorin until his toes are curling and his moans ring the slightest bit desperate, and then moves on to preparing himself, his trip to the bedside table to grab all the necessities his biggest exertion yet, honestly.
Thorin helps him along, his fingers at a much better angle than Bilbo's own, and minutes or hours might have passed, neither of them really know or care, but when Bilbo eases himself onto him, their world shrinks to each other's eyes, the exhilarating sensation of finally.
Their fingers intertwine, first on Thorin's chest, for support, then on either sides of his head as they sink back into the covers, Bilbo setting a languid pace, hanging his head, puffing his hair out of his face and leaning in to kiss Thorin – that's always worked best to really electrify things, and it doesn't fail this time either, both of them moaning into it, forgetting to move for a moment and just enjoying the close proximity, the disarming heat and tension, soothing and exhilarating at the same time.
Thorin makes to take matters into his own hands, but Bilbo refuses, and even though he doesn't have any real strength to combat Thorin's, he knows for a fact he'll still let himself be guided and overpowered, and that's probably the most exciting thing of all.
He nibbles at his bottom lip, and begins to rock his hips once more at the same time, hands clasping around Thorin's wrists and pressing them into the pillow, and Thorin groans, bucking his hips and baring his throat for Bilbo's lips to assault. But Bilbo deprives him of even that eventually, sitting up, shivering at the new angle, and Thorin's large hands are on his thighs, steadying him and helping along at the same time.
Bilbo rocks painfully slowly still, but knows far too well that that won't last him very long – and judging by the way Thorin's fingers are digging into his skin, and the heaving of his chest, they're very much on the same wavelength here.
...Which is proven even further when Thorin reaches to stroke him, completely out of the blue, and Bilbo gasps out a shuddering, choked moan, startled by the sudden sensation.
“Thorin, I'm-” he blurts out, and Thorin's eyes fly open, and it's more than enough to tell Bilbo that he knows, and he's not going anywhere.
Close himself, he squeezes Bilbo's waist almost hard enough to bruise, and Bilbo does his very best to convince him, without words but rather with actions, to keep at it, to finish like this, and... it arrives sooner than he expected it to, Thorin arching his neck, faltering momentarily, a long pleased groan deep in his throat, and all of that, his wet lips apart, the taut lines of his throat and chest, that pushes Bilbo over the edge soon enough as well, and he's spilling over Thorin's fist still pumping diligently, and his senses are rapidly turning into mush.
He lets go, ceases to care about positions, all his energy leaking out of his body, and he lies flat on Thorin's chest, breathing just as heavily as he is, and they stay like that for what might be another endless moment in time, simply inhaling and exhaling in a pleasantly tired unison, Thorin's arm around him, his lips brushing at his neck and the shell of his ear, both of them completely, perfectly spent and sated.
They're standing skin to skin in the shower later, having finally managed to muster enough energy to get cleaned up at least, and Bilbo is scratching Thorin's chest gently, his cheek pressed there, smiling dumbly at the simple pattern on the shower curtain, when Thorin whispers something alongside a kiss pressed to his head, and it gets almost completely lost in the hissing of the water.
Or maybe Bilbo is completely unprepared to hear it the first time.
“What was that?” he asks, and his voice comes out way more serious than he wanted.
“I said,” Thorin replies calmly, “I love you too.”
Bilbo looks up into his eyes wordlessly, and his own might be a bit too wide, because Thorin chuckles softly, cupping his cheek and planting a kiss on his forehead.
“What?” he murmurs, “I'm not that heavy a sleeper.”
“Should have known, when there was no snoring,” Bilbo counters a bit weakly, and they both laugh, but when next they look at each other, it's suddenly difficult to act anything but serious.
Thorin's fingers make a fluttering line for the tiny acorn pendant – it's been resting around Bilbo's neck ever since the first night he came back, to signify exactly that, and Bilbo covers Thorin's hand with his own, considerably smaller, and wonders if he can sense his heart hammering against his ribcage a bit frantically.
“I do,” he exhales shakily, because it's suddenly important that he reaffirms what was only a half-scared attempt earlier, “I love you.”
“I know.”
A couple of days from now, Thorin is going to hold him just as close when he helps him take the pendant off, and they're going to pin it around his neck instead, and say goodbye, and think of it as Bilbo's anchor, his reason for coming back, without ever saying it out loud, but the truth is entirely different, and it's an immense relief that they've both assured each other of that.
The truth is, Bilbo thinks, he hasn't had anywhere he actually wanted to return to, in the longest time, but more importantly, he's all but forgotten that it doesn't always have to be a place – that sometimes, more often than not, home can very easily be a person.
–
Spring in Ered Luin is surprise showers in the middle of the day and the sun subsequently setting the wet cobblestones in the streets ablaze; it's all the trees lining the pavements beginning to bloom, and the river thawing, and birds returning after a long winter, singing their relief at the top of their lungs.
It's her boys coming back home with muddy knees and ruddy cheeks, jackets stuffed in their bags and hoodies unzipped, because it's too hot, Mom!
It's waking up easier, and going to work with an ease and a light head unlike anything Dís remembers feeling in the longest time.
It's happening upon Thranduil Greenleaf in the foyer of her theatre first thing in the morning one casual weekday, and smiling at the sight.
“Morning!” she greets him cheerfully, ignoring Nori's and Bofur's suspicious glares, only accepting her morning batch of documents from the former and sending their universal talk later nod to the latter. “You're on time!”
“Yes, miracles do happen, or so I hear,” Thranduil rolls his eyes, one vague wave of his hand encompassing the entirety of the theatre, still standing against all odds.
“Indeed they do,” Dís grins, “shall we?”
He follows her into her office silently, and she wonders, equally silently, if she should play nice and ask him how he's been – there's something distantly different about him, and she's incessantly curious to find out if the rumors are true.
“Director Bowman's eldest tells me she's been thinking about applying to Mirkwood,” she starts broadly and casually enough, following lightly, “coffee?”
“Two sugars, please. And I wouldn't know,” Greenleaf replies carefully indifferently.
“Two sugars, huh? Radical. And really? Because she speaks very highly of you. The house hasn't been the same since he stopped showing up for those meetings with Da, she says.”
Thranduil's glare is sour enough to curdle milk, and Dís really doesn't have it in her to control the little cheeky chuckle that escapes her.
“And you and Director Bowman's eldest spend a lot of time talking, do you,” he says flatly.
“She babysat the boys once when I was in a pinch, and she was so good I started paying her for it, what can I say,” Dís explains innocently.
“Charming,” Thranduil continues to glare.
“So,” she pays meticulous attention to swirling their coffee, “what's going on between you two?”
“Me and...?” he insists on being stubborn, but clamps up when she shoots him a stern look – crosses his arms and looks out of the window, probably completely unaware of how much like a pouting kid he looks right now.
“Nothing,” he replies reluctantly, “which is precisely the point. Can we get to business now, please?”
“Sure,” she grins, handing him his cup of coffee, “you know to call me when you need a shoulder to cry on.”
That's pushing the limits of their familiarity a bit, but he doesn't seem to recognize or mind it, simply sighs in exasperation. Their not-exactly-friendship is by far the strangest thing that's come out of this rollercoaster of a year, but she's not going to complain about it either, or try to question it – it's certainly so much better than constantly being at each other's throats.
And once someone gets past Greenleaf's dozens of layers of buffoonery, and arrogance, and cynicism, it turns out he can be quite the conversational partner, and she can't quite put a finger on when exactly their business meetings have turned into something a bit more informal and filled with high-brow gossip, but apparently once Thranduil Greenleaf confides in you, there's no going back.
She definitely prefers it to openly insulting each other, but it's been slow going, and she's not planning on doing anything stupid to jeopardize it, like, say, informing Thorin about it. Though, come to think of it, he might act a bit kinder in all his new-found happiness. Or he might throttle Thranduil with all the more vigor. Only time will tell.
“So,” she smiles brightly at him, “business, you say.”
“Well, yes,” he sighs, “have you made a decision yet?”
“I thought it was more or less made for us,” she points out, and when he scowls at her, she laughs, “of course we'll participate, come on. Wouldn't miss it for the world.”
“Hmm,” he hums, and, as always, it's difficult to tell whether he's pleased or annoyed, “very well. It'll be good.”
“Oh, I have no doubt.”
The winter skit Bard had put together in hopes of funding the revival of the Laketown festival, achieved that and much, much more. Garnering people's interest was a must from the get-go, but from what Dís understands, making them willing to pay was another thing entirely – but then one sponsor chimed in after the winter prelude, and another one, and another, and as it turns out, Bard Bowman's risk paid off, figuratively speaking and otherwise.
She is nowhere near the general vicinity of the executive board for that festival (even though she was asked to, and had to decline politely and with some relief), but she knows they have big plans for it, and thanks to a fortunate set of events, and a bit of sheer dumb luck, those plans are very much within the realm of possibility right now.
Including Erebor in all of it was a no-brainer, and Balin and her have already started tossing around a couple of ideas for short, possibly one-act plays that wouldn't take much effort to rehearse, and that the ensemble could have fun with.
“I was thinking we'd do Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, in fact,” she leans back in her chair, sipping on her coffee, “you know, ruffle some feathers, return to the roots a bit...”
“Yes, of course, I remember,” Thranduil hides his smile in his coffee, “but on that topic actually, Bard wanted... That is, I believe a Shakespeare-themed panel will be on the menu.”
“Oh?” Dís inclines her head, choosing to ignore his obvious, and rather hilarious, stumble over words just now.
“Yes. Which brings me to my next order of business...”
“Which is?” she grins, already sensing the upcoming bombshell.
“Is there a way for you to get me in touch with Bilbo Baggins' agent?”
-
From: Bilbo
16:43
[Image]
16:44
This just came in the mail nbd
To: Bilbo
16:45
OH NICE. Is that when they announce the GG nominees?
From: Bilbo
16:48
Mmyep. Wanna come with?
To: Bilbo
16:48
As what? Your muscle?
From: Bilbo
16:49
Well, that too. I was thinking more along the lines of my handsome someone to lean on and grope when no one's looking?
Thorin laughs at first, but then he actually rereads the text, and rereads it again. Kili chooses that exact moment to pop out from behind the sofa and attack, but Thorin barely pays attention, intercepting him only in a very lackluster fashion, wide eyes still glued to the screen.
“What is it?” Dís asks casually, barely looking up from her reading, “is it Bilbo? He's still coming, right?”
“No, yeah, I, uh... Hold on, buddy,” Thorin dismisses his nephew carefully, standing up and dialing Bilbo's number the second he's free, ignoring Dís' inquisitive glare as he exits the living room in a hurry.
“Thorin? Hey!” Bilbo sounds a bit confused, and there's some commotion to be heard on his end, but Thorin pays it absolutely no mind.
“You were serious?” he asks, pacing in the hall, suddenly too antsy to stop.
“...About? No, hold on, I'm on a call... About what, Thorin?”
“About what you just texted me. About me, coming with you. To the thing.”
“Well, yeah!” Bilbo sounds unperturbed, and cheerful, “it'll be fun! Come on, when's the last time you made a nice public appearance, huh? In a tux! I wanna see you in a tux.”
“No, I know, I just...” Thorin is at a loss for words, scratching his beard nervously, glaring at the old posters on the wall below the stairs.
“What's wrong?” Bilbo asks him, more cautious now.
“Nothing is wrong, it's just that...”
“Just tell me.”
“Well, me, coming with you. Officially. Out in public. Wouldn't that mean we're... officially...?”
“And?” Bilbo chuckles, “unless I'm terribly mistaken, we've been official for some time now?”
“I know, I know, I just... What about... you know? The press? You turning up with... with me? All of a sudden? And your career? What about...?”
“Thorin?”
“Yeah.”
“Calm down.”
“Yeah,” Thorin exhales weakly, and his grandfather is glaring at him from his Richard poster like he's judging him, very hard.
“We'll talk about this when I get back, okay?” Bilbo says kindly, “it's no big deal. I've been thinking about it for a while now, actually.”
“You – you have?” Thorin asks feebly. He feels a bit faint all of a sudden.
“Yeah. The way I see it, I'm not interested in a career that can't include being with you, you know? But this is something that we really need to talk about in person. Agreed? ...Thorin?”
“No, no, yeah,” Thorin has to physically shake his head to wake himself up a little bit. There's a strange aching lump in his throat all of a sudden that he can't for the life of him swallow.
“Are you alright? Dammit, I really wanted to bring this up after I came back, I'm sorry-”
“No, it's fine...”
“Are you sure, I mean-”
“Bilbo.”
“Yeah...”
“I love you.”
The other end of the line is utterly silent for quite some time, but Thorin doesn't worry anymore. Thorin is, in fact, suddenly so immensely happy he feels like flying, and his fingertips ghost over the pendant resting securely right above the dip of his collarbone, and he grins at his grandfather in black and white, at his most theatrically angriest.
“...Does that mean I didn't scare you off?” Bilbo asks, still a bit worried.
“No. I can't wait for you to come back.”
“I-”
“I'm stupidly in love with you, you know that, right? It's ridiculous, really, what you've done to me. I don't know how, but-”
“Alright, alright, shut up,” Bilbo interrupts him fussily, but Thorin can see him far too well, grinning like an idiot himself, always, oddly, so hopeless when faced with earnest emotion. “Be quiet, you. I'll be back soon. And we'll talk. And we'll do the thing.”
“I'm really looking forward to the thing,” Thorin laughs, feeling younger, feeling like a teenager talking to his first big crush, exhilarated and clumsy and overjoyed. He wonders if it's normal – that it's lasted so long, this feeling.
“Me too,” Bilbo sighs, “I'll call you later today?”
“Okay,” Thorin sighs happily.
“Okay then. And you're really alright.”
“Oh, definitely.”
“...Alright, then. Talk soon.”
“Take care.”
“And Thorin...” Bilbo sounds almost hesitant.
“Yeah?”
“Love you too.”
“Yeah,” Thorin's grin is so wide it's probably hurting his cheeks, “I know.”
He hangs up, and leans on the cupboard underneath the posters, his laughter more or less inescapable, the most refreshing thing he's felt in quite a while.
“You,” he stabs his finger at his grandfather, “would have hated him.”
“Aw, come on, I'm pretty sure he'd come around eventually. Bilbo has that charm around him.”
The beginning of a rather potent swear escapes Thorin, and he turns around to see his sister standing in the doorway, arms crossed, and a very knowing, very sly smile on her face.
“How long have you been standing there?” he asks, as if both of them are indeed still teenagers and she's just busted into his room for the third time that day, and interrupted his alone time.
“You are so hopeless,” she accuses him fondly, and he shrugs.
“Can't even argue with that,” he smirks, and she shakes her head, half surprised, half amused.
“So he's still coming, right.”
“Of course he is,” Thorin smiles, “wouldn't miss it for the world.”
-
THE ARROW: From The Ashes – a legend rejuvenated
by Beorn Skinner
With the Laketown festival officially rejuvenated, the future looks bright for the Ered Luin theatre scene – those who recall the untimely and tragic end to a thirty-year-old tradition, have spent this year looking forward to its announced rebirth with much anticipation. This colossal undertaking fell entirely on the shoulders of Regional Cultural Director Bard Bowman, who had taken it upon himself to rally the support of both the public and, eventually and after some hardships, the city itself.
It became obvious after the very first day of the week-long happening that it was exactly what Ered Luin's culture needed – the past two years marked a certain shift in public tastes and demands, and theatres all over the city have been responding accordingly, with Laketown feeling like a very natural outcome of it all.
The festival offered a broad variety of performances of all shapes and sizes, from the musical opening to the immensely well received Tuesday street theatre and improv extravaganza, from classic, well-known plays or their excerpts, to experimental pieces, showing exactly what bravery combined with a good opportunity can produce.
But perhaps the most unexpected crowning jewel of this past week was Friday's Shakespeare panel, seemingly put in as a mere afterthought, a humble happening not even taking place on the island's main stage, but rather the beautiful outside arena, rebuilt for the express purpose of hosting the event.
And yet people crowded around the stone plateau all day, some staying for all three plays, which, even though two of them weren't presented in their full length, is still a very impressive feat. But it was, after all, Shakespeare's genius combined with a passion for pushing boundaries, that put Ered Luin's theaters back on the map.
2014's Hamlet at Bree Community had been the first hint at what was to come – directed by Gandalf Grey, an internationally renowned director returning to what once had been his home turf, it set in motion a change of pace that would affect the repertoire of the entire scene. Soon, everyone wanted to do Shakespeare, and everyone wanted to do him differently – which brings us back to Laketown.
The Bard's panel opened with the brilliant and swift rendition of Romeo and Juliet by the students of Mirkwood Academy – youth prevailed and galloped ahead at the speed of light in a production that hinged on slightly altered dialogues, comedic and fresh acting, and a modern setting, which did a fantastic job of shifting the focus not towards the ever-celebrated tragic love aspect of it all, but rather the children themselves, perpetrators and victims alike.
Following that, Rivendell's minimalistic Electra served as an excellent reminder that it really does take very little to get a well-written point across. It only opened in the theatre itself last summer, and shows no signs of wear and tear – in fact, transferring it outside, in its impressive full length no less, revealed aspects previously unseen, and confirmed that a production doesn't have to require embellished sets and heavily bejeweled costumes to establish an air of grandeur.
But it wouldn't be a contemporary Shakespeare panel without the most famous trendsetter of all – it was none other than last summer's take on A Midsummer Night's Dream that not only tore through the limits of playing with a truly classic text, it twisted them and wrung them dry, and gently reminded everyone present that the true immortality of art of all sorts lies in reinventing its meaning, rediscovering in it something that speaks to each and every new generation.
Shocking in its boldness and entertaining in its enthusiasm, the production managed to achieve something even more incredible than reminding people that Shakespeare could still be worth seeing – it brought those same people back into the auditorium of its home scene, the Erebor Theatre. As far as rejuvenations go, this has been perhaps the most satisfactory one to watch – Erebor couldn't have picked a better time, or a better director, or even a better ensemble, to carry on its tradition of exceptional productions. Only time will tell if the excitement will last, and be transmuted into a new lease of life for one of the oldest theatre groups in the city, but it is difficult to imagine this new-found energy going to waste any time soon.
It is fitting, then, that their Friday performance was a celebration of all that – bringing back the star of the show was a must, and yet many were still left pleasantly surprised when Bilbo Baggins took the stage alongside his counterpart, Thorin Oakenshield. It had been those two, that had lent the play that particular brand of scorching chemistry that made it famous within days, and it was those two that exhibited the very same on Friday, revisiting the most beloved part of it.
The playful and yet electrifying tension between Puck and Oberon lost none of its thrill over time, and indeed seemed to have gained an air of something previously unseen, an intimacy of sorts, and it was obvious that the actors were enjoying themselves just as much as the audience.
But that was, after all, perfectly in keeping with the spirit of the entire festival – with the entire city living and breathing theatre for a week, just the way it used to, there is no doubt that many will be invested in resuming this particular tradition in style.
Dís closes the newspaper with a contented sigh, and leans back on her bench.
“So? What do you think?”
Her father doesn't even glance her way, instead watching the dashes that his grandsons have turned into, running around playing in the vast garden – but there's the beginning of a smile on his face, if she's any judge of that.
“Well, I liked it,” she announces, “and I'm glad Beorn did, too.”
“It was alive,” Thrain mutters, and she watches his face carefully – he has the exact same expression he sported when watching the play last week, thoughtful but pleased, and she wonders if he's rewinding it in his head right now, remembering. It's still so difficult to tell, how much exactly he remembers.
“Yeah, I agree. Tell that to Thorin, why don't you, he'll be really pleased.”
“Is he coming?” Thrain finally looks at her.
“Yeah, of course. With Bilbo, for lunch, remember?” she reminds him gently, and his brow furrows for a moment, but then his features are smoothed out in equal parts relief and realization.
“Right. Bilbo, too?”
“Yep. You asked him to come.”
“Yes, yes, of course I did. Why wouldn't I. He's very amusing.”
“I agree,” Dís repeats, keeping an eye on her boys herself now, assessing when the best time is going to be to shout at them to just dare climb one of the tall chestnut trees, “Thorin likes him, too.”
He glares at her with an amused indignation only he can muster.
“You're acting like I don't know they're together.”
“Huh,” Dís comments eloquently.
“I wasn't born yesterday, you know – and neither was the idea of men liking men, for that matter,” he waves his hand dismissively, his wrinkles evening out once more as he follows the boys' movements, “I was fending off advances before either of you were even a twinkle in your mother's eye.”
“Is that why we remained just a twinkle in her eye for so long?” Dís counters lightly, because she's almost sure she can, and he barks out a laugh that's about the loveliest thing she can hear from him.
“I'll have you know that we both-”
“Okay, okay, hush! Hey, guys!” she greets her sons, all red cheeks and tousled hair from all the running around, and her father continues laughing as they tell him about whatever game they were playing, and her phone pings in the meantime with a text from Thorin announcing they're nearby, and...
And the weather is beautiful, not too unbearably hot, and they do arrive within minutes, and her father doesn't seem to mind the large company in the slightest – there were times, once, when he would get withdrawn and anxious with just two people coming to visit, but she can see it in his eyes, the new energy that just looking at his grandsons lends him, and out of all the achievements in these past weeks, months, this one might just warm her heart the most.
They take him out for lunch, drive him to her apartment and watch his every step with utmost caution, and he stops in front of his own face, larger-than-life in black and white in one of his posters, remembering once more, perhaps, and then... moves on.
Carries on the longest conversation he must have had in ages, with Bilbo about Shakespeare, naturally, and the boys butt in because they're getting bored, and Fili runs upstairs to their room and brings the poster in which his grandfather poses as Superman for that one show, and demands to see the exact same pose reenacted now, and Thrain holds it in his frail hands cautiously, almost as if he's afraid it might dissolve, and... laughs, and laughs some more.
It's funny, she thinks, washing the dishes with Thorin by her side, how the most tangled of issues have the most peculiar ways of working out.
She catches him looking back over his shoulder so many times, into the living room where Bilbo is still immersed in a debate with their father, and she can see it in his eyes, the worry, the remnants of uncertainty.
She suspects him – because she worries about the exact same things still – that he thinks that Bilbo might still turn around at any given second, and declare that all of this is too much. It's happened before, to both of them. But out of all of them, of their friends and extended family, no one deserves for things to go right just this once more than Thorin.
You don't know the way he looks at you when you're not looking, she wishes she could tell him. You're both as hopeless as the other. You've both gone to such lengths to be together, and I can't help but be invested in where you go, because I can't help but feel like this is it.
This is where we've been heading all along, and we all deserve it.
But she doesn't say that.
“Stop staring,” she says instead, and grins and bumps their hips together when Thorin acts all huffy and offended, and blushes like a schoolboy.
“It's going to be fine,” she continues more gently, and there is a softness in his eyes that had almost been extinguished once, and she wants to drop everything and go thank Bilbo, their wonderful, cheerful famous Bilbo, for bringing that back – Bilbo, who is now sitting in her living room chatting with their dad about itchy costumes, probably, when he could be halfway across the world smiling at cameras, when he could be anywhere else but here, when he could have been just one more passing, fleeting glimmer in their lives, but somehow, by some stroke of luck, he's stuck.
“Yeah,” Thorin smiles, and she knows him too well, knows he's thinking the exact same thing, “I think so, too.”
*** FIN ***