Chapter Text
Bilbo discovered it by accident.
Or, well.
Mostly by accident.
There were very few things on this Quest that happened entirely by accident anymore. Bilbo had learned that if he waited for peace, privacy, good weather, full bellies, dry socks, and the absence of imminent danger, he would never say anything important again.
So when the chance came, he took it.
Kíli had gone hunting.
This, of course, had required a performance.
“I will return with a stag,” Kíli had announced, one boot planted on a rock, bow slung over his shoulder, hair catching the morning light as if the sun itself had grown fond of him.
Fíli had not looked up from oiling his knives. “You will return with mud on your trousers and a story about the stag that got away.”
Kíli placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“I know. You make it easy.”
Bilbo, sitting cross-legged near the remains of the fire, had looked up from folding one of his handkerchiefs. “A rabbit would be perfectly acceptable.”
Kíli turned to him at once, expression softening with ridiculous speed. “For you, ghivashel, I will bring three.”
“Bring one and don’t fall into anything.”
Fíli snorted.
Kíli looked between them both, offended. “You fall into one stream…”
“Three,” Fíli said.
“One stream three times.”
“Somehow worse.”
“The bank was slippery.”
“The second time, you were trying to prove it was not.”
Bilbo pressed his lips together.
Kíli pointed at him. “Do not laugh.”
“I am not laughing.”
“You are thinking laughter.”
“I often think laughter around you.”
Kíli’s face shifted instantly from offended to delighted. “That sounds like fondness.”
“It sounds like concern.”
Fíli leaned back on one hand, golden head tilted. “It can be both.”
Kíli grinned at him. “See? Fee understands me.”
“I have endured you longest.”
“And loved me longest.”
“Unfortunately.”
Kíli looked entirely unhurt by this. He came first to Fíli, leaning down so his brother could tug one of his straps straight with familiar irritation.
“Don’t go far,” Fíli warned.
“Never.”
“Don’t chase anything bigger than you.”
“What if it’s only a little bigger?”
“Kíli.”
“I won’t.”
“And if you hear anything strange…”
“I come back.”
“If you see tracks…”
“I come back.”
“If you get a bad feeling…”
“I come back.”
“If you get a good feeling that tells you to climb something…”
“I especially come back,” Kíli recited, rolling his eyes with great affection.
Fíli cuffed him lightly at the back of the head.
Kíli smiled like he had been given a kiss.
Then he crossed to Bilbo.
He did not swoop in. He did not snatch Bilbo up or press close without permission, despite the energy fairly humming under his skin. He stopped before him, bent down, and offered his cheek with a grin.
Bilbo arched a brow. “What is this?”
“A farewell.”
“You are going hunting, not crossing the sea.”
“A farewell,” Kíli repeated, very solemnly.
Bilbo sighed as though greatly put upon, then leaned up and kissed his cheek.
Kíli’s grin softened.
“Be careful,” Bilbo sighed, patting his dwarfs cheek before leaning back.
Kíli’s eyes flicked over his face. Whatever he saw there made him sober. “I will.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Bilbo caught one of Kíli’s braids and tugged gently. “Come back whole, darling.”
Kíli’s mouth opened.
No sound emerged.
Fíli made a quiet, amused noise from behind them.
Kíli touched his own cheek where Bilbo had kissed him, then shook himself as if remembering how limbs worked. “Aye. Whole. Three rabbits. No streams.”
“One rabbit,” Bilbo corrected.
“No streams,” Fíli repeated.
Kíli backed away, smiling helplessly. “You both worry too much.”
“Yes,” Bilbo said.
Fíli said, “Go.”
Kíli went.
He vanished between the trees with far more grace than his dramatics suggested, bow in hand, dark hair slipping like shadow through green morning light.
For a little while after he left, the camp seemed quieter.
Not empty. Fíli’s presence was never small, even when he was silent. He sat with his back against a fallen log, one knee bent, a whetstone moving slowly along the edge of his knife. The sound was steady. Controlled. Familiar.
Bilbo folded his handkerchief once.
Then again.
Then unfolded it.
Fíli looked up.
“Bilbo?”
“Hm?”
“You have folded that three times.”
“It is a complicated handkerchief.”
“It’s square.”
“That does not mean it lacks depth.”
Fíli’s lips twitched. “Are you nervous?”
Bilbo’s fingers stilled.
There. That was the trouble with Fíli. Kíli watched everything with bright, open earnestness, but Fíli saw things in silence and then named them with disarming accuracy.
“No,” Bilbo said.
Fíli’s brow lifted.
Bilbo sighed. “Perhaps a little.”
The knife and whetstone were set aside immediately.
“About Kíli?”
“No. Well, always a little. He is Kíli. But not especially.”
Fíli’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Then what?”
Bilbo looked at him.
Fíli was beautiful in the morning light. It caught in his hair, turned the gold of it almost white where it escaped his braids. He had taken off his heavier outer coat while they rested, leaving him in his tunic and leather vest, broad and strong and solid as carved oak. There were knives at his belt, calluses on his hands, old responsibility in the line of his mouth.
And yet Bilbo could still see yesterday’s Fíli beneath it.
The prince who had gone breathless when Bilbo called him sweetheart.
The warrior who had closed his eyes when Bilbo kissed his cheeks.
The elder brother who had not known what to do with being told he deserved softness.
Bilbo’s heart gave a determined thump.
Fíli tilted his head. “What?”
Bilbo stood.
Fíli’s gaze sharpened, but he did not move. His blue eyes tracked Bilbo as he crossed the small camp and held out a hand.
Fíli looked at it. Then at Bilbo. Raising a golden brow in question. Bilbo huffed in amusement and lowered his hand more.
“Come with me.”
Fíli’s expression grew mildly suspicious. “Where?”
“Over there.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is a direction.”
“A suspiciously vague direction.”
Bilbo wiggled his fingers impatiently. “Fíli.”
At that, something in Fíli shifted.
It was subtle. Barely more than a softening around the eyes, a slight loosening of his shoulders. Bilbo had noticed it before but had not understood it at first.
Fíli liked when Bilbo used that tone.
Not commanding, exactly. Bilbo would never speak to him as though he were a servant or soldier. But firm. Certain. Expectant in a way that did not doubt Fíli would listen.
It made the prince go quiet.
It made him obedient.
Not meek. Never that. Fíli could no more be meek than a mountain could be folded into a teacup.
But he trusted Bilbo’s hand when it was offered.
He trusted Bilbo’s voice when it called.
He placed his hand in Bilbo’s without another question.
Bilbo’s pulse jumped.
Fíli stood, towering over him for half a heartbeat before he seemed to remember himself and eased back slightly, giving Bilbo space.
Bilbo squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to make yourself smaller every second, you know.”
Fíli’s mouth curved. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“I am learning.”
“Good.”
Bilbo led him to a quieter patch of moss beyond the fallen log, just far enough from the firepit to feel private without leaving the safety of camp. The trees arched overhead, leaves flickering silver-green in the breeze. A flat stone warmed by pale sun sat near the roots of an old beech.
Fíli looked around. “Are you going to explain?”
“In a moment.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Not unless you have developed an allergy to affection.”
Fíli went very still.
Bilbo saw it and smiled gently.
Then he sat down with his back against the beech tree.
Fíli stared down at him.
Bilbo held out both hands. “Come here.”
Fíli blinked.
“I am here.”
“No. Here.”
Bilbo patted his own lap.
Fíli’s face went blank.
It was such a complete failure of princely composure that Bilbo nearly laughed.
“Bilbo,” Fíli said carefully.
“Yes?”
“That is your lap.”
“I had noticed.”
“You are much smaller than I am.”
“I had noticed that as well.”
“I cannot sit in your lap.”
“You are not sitting in my lap,” Bilbo said, with as much dignity as one could have while requesting a dwarven prince climb into his lap. “Not exactly.”
Fíli’s eyes dropped to Bilbo’s legs, then back to his face. “Not exactly?”
“You can straddle my lap. Knees on either side. Most of your weight on the ground.”
Fíli’s ears had gone red.
Bilbo felt a flutter of nerves and tenderness together. “Only if you want to.”
Fíli looked away at once.
That was answer enough.
He wanted to.
He did not know what to do with wanting it.
Bilbo kept his hands out, palms open. “My golden one.”
Fíli closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, he lowered himself with painstaking care, bracing one hand on the tree beside Bilbo and one on the ground. He moved as though Bilbo were made of blown glass, bringing one knee down beside Bilbo’s hip, then the other, holding nearly all his weight through his own legs.
By the time he was settled, or as settled as he allowed himself to be, he looked rigid with concentration.
Bilbo stared at him fondly.
Fíli was hovering.
Again.
His thighs framed Bilbo’s lap, his body close but held back, his hands planted carefully away from Bilbo as though one wrong breath might crush him. His face was flushed. His jaw was tight. His eyes flicked over Bilbo repeatedly, measuring, worrying.
Bilbo put both hands on Fíli’s waist.
Fíli inhaled.
“Breathe,” Bilbo said softly.
“I am.”
“You are not doing it well.”
Fíli huffed a laugh despite himself. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do, actually.”
“Bilbo…”
Bilbo tugged.
Not hard. He could not have moved Fíli by force if the dwarf did not allow it. That was part of the point, perhaps. Fíli was stronger. He could resist easily.
He did not.
At the gentle pull of Bilbo’s hands, Fíli came down.
Slowly. Carefully. Trembling with restraint.
Bilbo drew him closer until Fíli’s weight settled—not all of it, but enough—against him. Fíli’s breath caught. His hands flew to the tree and the ground again as if to lever himself away, but Bilbo slid his arms around his waist and held on.
“Stay,” Bilbo murmured.
Fíli froze.
The word landed between them, soft and startling.
Stay.
Fíli looked down at him with wide eyes.
Bilbo felt the power of it then. Not power over him. Never that. But the gift of being listened to by someone who did not have to obey and chose to anyway.
“Stay,” Bilbo said again, gentler. “Please.”
Fíli lowered his head.
His forehead touched Bilbo’s.
“All right,” he whispered.
Bilbo smiled and rubbed their noses together, just once.
Fíli made a tiny, broken sound.
“Oh,” Bilbo breathed. “There you are.”
Fíli’s eyes fluttered shut.
Bilbo lifted a hand into his hair.
He knew to be careful with Fíli’s braids. He had learned which ones marked family, which beads were old, which clasp had belonged to his father, though Fíli had only told him that in a voice so quiet Bilbo had pretended not to notice the grief in it.
So Bilbo did not disturb them.
He threaded his fingers through the loose hair at Fíli’s temple, sweeping it back from his face. The strands were warm from the sun, softer than they looked after weeks on the road.
“My pretty prince,” Bilbo murmured.
Fíli’s shoulders shuddered.
Bilbo kissed his cheek.
Fíli went utterly still.
Then Bilbo kissed the other cheek.
Fíli’s hands clenched against the moss.
Bilbo kissed his forehead, lingering there.
“My dearest,” he whispered. “So careful with me.”
Fíli exhaled, unsteady.
Bilbo stroked through his hair again. “So strong. So gentle.”
Fíli gave a low sound that was almost a groan and lowered his head, hiding his face against Bilbo’s shoulder.
Bilbo’s heart turned molten.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
Fíli made another sound, muffled now.
Bilbo wrapped both arms around him.
It was absurd, trying to hold Fíli like this. The dwarf was broader, heavier, stronger by far. His shoulders filled Bilbo’s arms awkwardly, and his knees were planted on either side of Bilbo’s hips, his body curved forward with painstaking restraint.
And still, somehow, he felt vulnerable.
Soft.
Young, in a way Bilbo suspected he had rarely been allowed to be.
Bilbo held him tighter.
Fíli’s breath hitched.
“Too much?” Bilbo asked at once.
Fíli shook his head against Bilbo’s shoulder.
“Words, dearest.”
“No,” Fíli rasped. “Not too much.”
“Good.”
Bilbo turned his face and kissed the side of Fíli’s head.
Fíli’s arms finally moved.
Slowly, as though afraid of being presumptuous, they slid around Bilbo. He did not haul him close. Did not grip too hard. He let his hands settle at Bilbo’s back and stopped there, waiting.
Bilbo smiled into his hair.
“You can hold me.”
Fíli’s fingers flexed.
“I am.”
“No,” Bilbo said softly. “You are asking whether you may.”
Fíli went still.
Bilbo kissed his temple. “You may.”
Fíli’s arms tightened.
Still careful. Always careful.
But real.
Bilbo felt the strength of him then, the restrained power in those arms, the weight he was still holding back. Fíli could have pinned him without trying. Could have taken space, taken comfort, taken touch.
He did not.
He accepted what Bilbo gave him with almost reverent care.
That realization nearly undid Bilbo.
“My lovely Fíli,” he whispered.
Fíli groaned into his shoulder.
Bilbo laughed softly. “Oh, you like that one.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” Fíli repeated, very unconvincingly.
Bilbo ran his hand down the back of Fíli’s head, then up again, fingers slow and soothing. “Liar.”
Fíli’s breath warmed Bilbo’s neck. “You are cruel.”
“I am being extremely kind.”
“You are saying things.”
“Yes.”
“Soft things.”
“Yes.”
“In that voice.”
Bilbo smiled. “My voice?”
“That one.”
“I see.” Bilbo turned his head and kissed the edge of Fíli’s ear. “The voice that makes my proud prince melt?”
Fíli actually shivered.
Bilbo paused. “All right?”
Fíli nodded immediately.
“Words.”
“Yes,” Fíli whispered. “Yes, Bilbo.”
The sound of his name in Fíli’s mouth, rough and surrendered, made Bilbo’s chest ache.
He cupped the back of Fíli’s head and guided him up just enough to see his face.
Fíli resisted for half a heartbeat, embarrassed, then obeyed.
His cheeks were flushed. His eyes were bright and a little dazed. A strand of golden hair clung to his lower lip. He looked nothing like the composed prince who had sat sharpening knives by the fire only minutes ago.
He looked adored.
Bilbo brushed the hair from his mouth.
“My goodness,” he said softly.
Fíli swallowed. “What?”
“You are beautiful.”
Fíli shut his eyes at once.
Bilbo smiled sadly. “Still not used to it?”
“No.”
“To being called beautiful?”
“To hearing it like that.”
Bilbo stroked his cheek. “Like what?”
“As if…” Fíli opened his eyes slowly. “As if it matters to you.”
“It does.”
Fíli looked lost.
Bilbo held his face between both hands. “You matter to me.”
Fíli’s jaw tightened.
“All of you,” Bilbo said. “Not only the prince. Not only the warrior. Not only Kíli’s elder brother. You.”
Fíli’s eyes shone.
Bilbo leaned in and kissed him.
It was gentle. Unhurried. Fíli did not surge forward, though Bilbo felt the restraint in him, felt the desire to deepen it, to gather, to cling. Instead, Fíli let Bilbo set the shape of it. He followed. Softly. Obediently. His hands trembled against Bilbo’s back.
When Bilbo pulled away, Fíli followed a breath, then stopped himself.
The restraint was so sweet it hurt.
Bilbo pressed his thumb to Fíli’s lower lip. “You can ask.”
Fíli opened his eyes.
“If you want more,” Bilbo said, “you can ask.”
Fíli’s cheeks flushed darker. “I don’t want to take.”
“You aren’t taking if I offer.”
“That sounds simple.”
“It is.”
“It does not feel simple.”
Bilbo’s heart twisted.
He thought of Fíli as a child, saving bread for Kíli and pretending not to be hungry. Checking beneath beds for monsters. Standing between his brother and every danger until standing between became the shape of him. He thought of a boy learning that wanting was less important than guarding, that softness was something given to others, not kept for himself.
Bilbo’s hands gentled on his face.
“You do not have to earn this,” he said.
Fíli looked as though the words hurt.
Bilbo kissed his forehead. “You do not have to be useful.”
Another kiss, to his cheek. “You do not have to be brave.”
Another, to the corner of his mouth. “You do not have to be anything but here.”
Fíli’s breath broke.
Bilbo held him as the first tremor went through him.
It was not a sob, not quite. Fíli was too practiced at swallowing those. But it was close, and it shook him down to his careful bones. His forehead dropped to Bilbo’s shoulder again. His arms tightened, then loosened immediately, as if he feared he had gripped too hard.
Bilbo pulled him back.
“No. Hold on if you need to.”
Fíli shook his head. “I’m too…”
“You are not too anything.”
“Bilbo.”
“You are not too heavy, too strong, too much, too late, too proud, or too difficult.” Bilbo’s voice firmed. “You are not too much for me to love.”
Fíli made a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
Then he clung.
Carefully.
But desperately.
Bilbo wrapped himself around as much of him as he could, one hand in his hair, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulders.
“There,” he murmured. “There you are. I have you.”
Fíli pressed his face into Bilbo’s neck.
“I have you, sweetheart.”
Fíli shuddered again.
“My golden one. My dearest. My good, lovely prince.”
Fíli’s voice came muffled. “Please.”
Bilbo stilled. “Please what?”
Fíli seemed to struggle.
Bilbo waited.
The breeze moved through the beech leaves overhead. Somewhere far off, a bird called. The rest of the world stayed away.
At last, Fíli whispered, “Again.”
Bilbo’s eyes softened.
He kissed Fíli’s temple. “My sweetheart.”
Fíli exhaled.
“My brave lad.”
Another shudder.
“My beautiful Fíli.”
Fíli’s arms tightened around him.
Bilbo smiled into his hair. “There. Was that so hard to ask?”
“Yes,” Fíli said, with such tragic sincerity that Bilbo laughed.
Fíli huffed against his neck. “Do not laugh at me.”
“I am laughing because I adore you.”
“That is not better.”
“It is much better.”
Fíli lifted his head enough to glare weakly at him. “You are enjoying this.”
Bilbo brushed a thumb beneath his eye. “Enormously.”
“I am undone, and you are amused.”
“You are adorable, and I am appreciative.”
Fíli groaned and hid his face again.
Bilbo held him, smiling.
For several minutes, he simply touched him.
Hair. Back. Shoulders. Face.
Slow, gentle, repetitive affection. No demands. No urgency. He stroked Fíli’s hair until the prince’s breathing deepened. He kissed his cheek whenever Fíli seemed to grow embarrassed by how much he wanted it. He rubbed his forehead against Fíli’s when the dwarf lifted his head, and each time Fíli closed his eyes as if the touch went straight through his armor.
“You know,” Bilbo murmured eventually, “you are very obedient with me.”
Fíli stiffened.
Bilbo paused. “Not in a bad way.”
Fíli lifted his head slowly. His face was still flushed. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Aye.”
Bilbo searched him.
Fíli’s mouth tilted faintly. “I could move if I wished.”
“I know.”
“You could not keep me here by force.”
“I know that too.”
Fíli’s gaze softened. “That is why I can stay.”
Bilbo’s breath caught.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
Fíli leaned forward until their brows touched. “When you ask, I know I am allowed to answer.”
Bilbo closed his eyes.
Fíli’s voice dropped. “I like saying yes to you.”
Bilbo’s heart gave one great, foolish thump.
“Fíli.”
“Aye?”
Bilbo swallowed. “Kiss me?”
Fíli did.
Not as carefully this time.
Still gentle, yes. Still mindful of his strength, of Bilbo’s smaller body beneath his, of the way his hands at Bilbo’s back could so easily become too much. But there was less fear in it now. Less holding himself away like a danger.
He kissed Bilbo as though he believed, at least for that moment, that he was wanted.
Bilbo made a soft sound of approval.
Fíli nearly melted again.
When they parted, Bilbo laughed breathlessly. “Goodness.”
Fíli looked very pleased with himself for half a second before remembering to be embarrassed.
Bilbo caught his chin. “No. None of that. You may look pleased.”
Fíli’s brows rose. “May I?”
“Yes.”
“And if I become arrogant?”
“I shall call you adorable until you collapse.”
Fíli winced. “Cruel hobbit.”
Bilbo kissed his nose. “Pretty prince.”
Fíli closed his eyes with a defeated sigh.
“There it is,” Bilbo said warmly.
Fíli leaned into him again, this time deliberately settling a little more of his weight down.
Bilbo felt it.
Solid. Warm. Heavy.
Trust.
He tightened his arms around Fíli with a pleased hum. “There. See? I am not flattened.”
“You would tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Truly?”
“Fíli.”
The prince lifted his head.
Bilbo gave him a stern look. “If you crush me, I will complain loudly and at length.”
Fíli laughed.
“I am not noble about discomfort.”
“No,” Fíli said fondly. “You are not.”
“I will make it everyone’s problem.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.”
Fíli’s smile softened. “That helps.”
Bilbo blinked. “My complaining?”
“Knowing you will.”
“Oh.” Bilbo considered that. “Well. Then you are very safe indeed.”
Fíli kissed his cheek. “Aye. I am beginning to think so.”
That, more than anything, nearly broke Bilbo.
He threaded both hands into Fíli’s hair and drew him close again, kissing his cheeks, his brow, his temple, anywhere he could reach.
Fíli gave up trying to maintain any dignity.
He sagged into the affection with a low, helpless sound, hands curling into Bilbo’s coat. His face found the hollow between Bilbo’s neck and shoulder, and he stayed there, breathing deeply, as if Bilbo were a hearth and home and warm bread all at once.
Bilbo held him and thought, with fierce tenderness, that Fíli had deserved this long before now.
He had deserved to be called sweetheart at six after the goat bit his cloak.
He had deserved to be held when his father died.
He had deserved to be told that he did not have to watch every doorway, every road, every shadow, every breath Kíli took.
He had deserved softness before he had learned to ask for it like a guilty thing.
Bilbo could not give him those lost years.
But he could give him this.
“My dearest,” Bilbo whispered. “You are so easy to love.”
Fíli went still.
Then he made a sound against Bilbo’s neck that was almost pained.
Bilbo stroked his hair. “Too much?”
“No.”
“Again?”
A pause.
Then, barely audible, “Please.”
Bilbo smiled.
“You are so easy to love.”
Fíli’s breath left him shakily.
“So easy, luv. So dear to me.”
Fíli’s arms tightened.
“So good.”
Fíli shuddered.
“Ah,” Bilbo murmured. “That one too?”
Fíli gave a muffled, embarrassed groan.
Bilbo laughed softly and kissed his hair. “My good Fíli.”
“Bilbo.”
“My very good, very sweet, very pretty prince.”
Fíli lifted his head enough to look at him, eyes bright with mortification and longing. “You are going to be the death of me.”
“Nonsense. I am being restorative.”
“You are being impossible.”
“I learned from Kíli.”
Fíli huffed. “Of course.”
“Speaking of Kíli,” Bilbo said carefully, though he kept his hands in Fíli’s hair, “do you think he will be jealous?”
Fíli’s mouth curved. “Yes.”
Bilbo paused. “Oh.”
“He will be devastated.”
“Oh dear.”
“He will accuse us of conspiring against him.”
“I see.”
“He may throw himself dramatically into the nearest bush.”
Bilbo tried not to smile. “Should we be concerned?”
“Only if the bush has thorns.”
Bilbo laughed, and Fíli’s smile turned soft at the sound.
“Will you tell him?” Bilbo asked.
Fíli blinked. “That you pulled me into your lap and undid me completely?”
Bilbo’s face went hot. “When you phrase it like that…”
Fíli’s grin flashed, and there he was again, golden and wicked. “Perhaps I shall.”
“Fíli.”
“He will demand equal treatment.”
“I had assumed.”
“You had?”
Bilbo’s blush deepened. “I am fond of both of you.”
Fíli studied him, eyes warm. “Aye. You are.”
“Unless you would rather….”
“No.” Fíli said it quickly, shaking his head, then softening. “No, Bilbo. We do not hoard you from each other.”
Bilbo’s heart warmed.
Fíli looked down, suddenly shy despite everything. “And if I am honest, the thought of Kíli receiving this from you…” His voice gentled. “It makes me glad.”
Bilbo brushed back his hair. “You love him.”
“More than breathing.”
“I know.”
“And you.”
Bilbo stilled.
Fíli’s eyes lifted to his. “You know that too?”
Bilbo’s throat tightened. “I hoped.”
Fíli leaned in and kissed him, soft and certain. “Know it.”
Bilbo closed his eyes.
For a while after that, there were no words.
Just touch.
Fíli rested against him, less rigid now, his weight still measured but more present. Bilbo stroked his hair and rubbed slow lines down his back. Sometimes Fíli lifted his head for kisses. Sometimes Bilbo gave them without being asked. Once, when Bilbo called him sweetheart again, Fíli laughed into his shoulder, helpless and warm, and did not hide quite as quickly afterward.
That was progress.
By the time Kíli returned, Bilbo was still seated against the beech, Fíli still tucked close against him, though the prince had rearranged himself enough to spare Bilbo’s legs from going entirely numb.
Kíli’s voice arrived before he did.
“I have brought triumph!”
Fíli lifted his head.
Bilbo smiled. “One rabbit?”
“One rabbit,” Kíli admitted from beyond the trees. “But a very impressive one.”
Fíli’s mouth twitched. “Prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“Devastation.”
Bilbo barely had time to laugh before Kíli stepped into view.
He stopped dead.
The rabbit dangled forgotten from one hand.
His eyes went to Fíli, who was straddling Bilbo’s lap, hair mussed, cheeks faintly flushed, one arm still around Bilbo’s back.
Then to Bilbo, whose hands were undeniably tangled in Fíli’s hair.
Then back to Fíli.
Kíli’s mouth fell open.
“You,” he said.
Fíli, to his credit, looked only mildly smug. “Me.”
“You were having cuddles.”
“Yes.”
“Without me.”
“Yes.”
Kíli pressed a hand to his chest. The rabbit swung sadly from his other hand. “Betrayal.”
Bilbo tried to look apologetic and failed because he was smiling too much.
“Kíli…”
“No. No, I understand.” Kíli staggered to the nearest tree and leaned against it. “I risk my life to bring sustenance…”
“You checked a snare,” Fíli sighs.
“…I brave the wilds…”
“You were gone less than an hour.”
“…and return to find my brother stealing my hobbit.”
Bilbo arched a brow. “Your hobbit?”
Kíli’s expression changed instantly. “Our hobbit.”
Fíli nodded. “Better.”
Kíli pointed at him. “Do not look smug. You are still in trouble.”
Fíli looked down at Bilbo. “Am I?”
Bilbo considered. “You have been very good.”
Fíli’s eyes warmed.
Kíli made an outraged sound. “Good? You called him good?”
Bilbo bit back a smile. “Several times.”
Kíli dropped the rabbit.
“Several?”
Fíli’s smugness was no longer mild.
Bilbo patted his shoulder. “Up, dearest. I believe your brother is about to expire.”
Fíli leaned close and whispered, “Thank you.”
Bilbo’s heart squeezed.
Then Fíli rose carefully, steadying himself with one hand against the tree and the other briefly on Bilbo’s shoulder. The loss of his warmth was immediate.
Kíli watched him move aside with narrowed eyes.
Then his gaze snapped to Bilbo.
Bilbo held out a hand.
Kíli was across the clearing in three strides.
Then he stopped abruptly, remembering himself so hard Bilbo almost laughed.
“May I?” Kíli asked.
Bilbo’s smile softened. “Yes, darling.”
Kíli lowered himself so fast he nearly tripped.
Fíli caught his shoulder. “Careful.”
“I am careful.”
“You nearly knelt on Bilbo’s foot.”
Kíli looked horrified. “Did I?”
“No,” Bilbo said quickly, and tugged his hand. “Come here.”
Kíli looked at Bilbo’s lap.
Then at Fíli.
Then at Bilbo again.
“Like that?”
“If you want.”
Kíli swallowed.
For all his dramatics, all his easy affection, the reality of it seemed to strike him then. This was not a joke. Not a quick cuddle by the fire. Not a sleepy lean or stolen kiss.
This was being invited to be held.
Thoroughly.
Deliberately.
Kíli’s teasing fell away.
Fíli stepped closer, voice quiet. “It’s all right, Kee.”
Kíli glanced at him.
Fíli smiled. “It’s very all right.”
Something passed between them.
Then Kíli moved.
He was less controlled than Fíli, but no less careful. He settled over Bilbo’s lap with visible concentration, knees on either side, hands braced on the tree behind Bilbo to keep his weight up.
Bilbo looked at him.
Kíli looked back.
Then Bilbo tugged.
Kíli came down at once.
Where Fíli had resisted from fear of his own strength, Kíli obeyed with a kind of startled trust that made Bilbo’s chest ache. He still caught most of his weight, still trembled with the effort of not crushing Bilbo, but he followed Bilbo’s hands immediately.
“Oh,” Bilbo whispered.
Kíli’s eyes flicked over his face. “Too much?”
“No.” Bilbo slid both hands up into Kíli’s hair. “You trust me.”
Kíli looked confused. “Of course I do.”
Bilbo kissed his cheek.
Kíli’s eyes closed.
“My sweet darling.”
Kíli made a low sound.
Fíli sat nearby, watching with open fondness.
Bilbo kissed Kíli’s other cheek. “My handsome prince.”
Kíli’s hands slid from the tree to Bilbo’s shoulders, then stopped, hovering.
Bilbo smiled. “You may hold me.”
Kíli’s face crumpled slightly with relief.
He wrapped his arms around Bilbo.
Carefully. So carefully.
Bilbo pulled him closer.
Kíli made a sound against his cheek that was half laugh, half groan. “Bilbo.”
“Yes, luv?”
Kíli shuddered. “That word.”
“You like it.”
“I love it.”
Fíli chuckled. “Subtle.”
Kíli blindly kicked a foot back toward him and missed.
Bilbo turned Kíli’s face back with gentle fingers. “No kicking while in my lap.”
Kíli went still.
Fíli’s brows rose.
Bilbo felt the pause.
Ah.
There it was again.
Obedience. Not fear. Not submission in any cruel sense. Something softer, stranger, more precious.
Kíli had gone quiet because Bilbo had given him a simple direction, and some part of him wanted very badly to follow it.
Bilbo’s voice softened. “Good.”
Kíli’s eyes fluttered.
Fíli made a tiny, knowing sound.
Bilbo stroked Kíli’s cheek. “You like that too.”
Kíli hid his face in Bilbo’s neck. “No.”
Fíli laughed. “Liar.”
Kíli’s voice came muffled. “Shut up.”
Bilbo ran his fingers through Kíli’s hair. “My good Kíli.”
Kíli groaned.
Bilbo’s heart nearly burst.
“Oh, darling.”
Kíli clung to him, shoulders shaking once with something that was not quite laughter. “It feels strange.”
“What does?”
“Letting you.” Kíli’s breath warmed Bilbo’s neck. “Not taking. Not doing. Just… letting you.”
Bilbo closed his eyes briefly.
“Yes,” he murmured. “I know.”
“I want to be careful.”
“You are.”
“I want to be good for you.”
Bilbo’s eyes opened.
Fíli had gone very still beside them.
Kíli seemed to realize what he had said only after it had left his mouth. His body tensed.
Bilbo did not let him pull away.
He cupped the back of Kíli’s head and held him close. “You are.”
Kíli’s breath hitched.
“You are very good for me.”
Kíli went soft in his arms so suddenly that Bilbo had to brace himself.
Fíli moved closer at once, one hand coming to Kíli’s back, the other to Bilbo’s shoulder. Helping. Steadying. Making sure Kíli did not panic and Bilbo was not overwhelmed.
Bilbo smiled at him gratefully.
Fíli’s gaze was warm and knowing.
Kíli whispered, “Again?”
Bilbo kissed his temple. “My good darling.”
Kíli’s fingers tightened in Bilbo’s coat.
“My sweet boy.”
Kíli made a helpless noise.
“My lovely, careful, reckless sweetheart.”
Kíli laughed weakly into his neck. “That is too many things.”
“You are too many things.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.” Bilbo kissed his cheek. “And I love all of them.”
Kíli lifted his head.
His eyes were wet.
Bilbo’s heart clenched.
Kíli tried to smile. “I’m being foolish.”
“No,” Bilbo said.
“Soft, then.”
“Yes,” Bilbo said, smiling tenderly. “Wonderfully.”
Kíli looked almost shy. “You like me soft?”
“I adore you soft.”
Kíli’s mouth trembled.
Fíli’s hand moved slowly over his brother’s back.
Bilbo held Kíli’s face, thumb brushing beneath one eye before a tear could fall. “You deserve softness too.”
Kíli stared at him.
“So does Fíli. So do you. Strong princes. Brave princes. Impossible princes.” Bilbo kissed his forehead. “Soft princes.”
Fíli’s breath caught.
Kíli leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Say ours.”
Bilbo smiled. “Our soft princes?”
Kíli nodded, eyes closed.
Bilbo looked at Fíli and held out one hand.
Fíli came closer.
Bilbo caught his hand and pulled until Fíli knelt beside them, shoulder pressed to Kíli’s, face near Bilbo’s.
“Our soft princes,” Bilbo whispered.
For a moment, the three of them breathed together.
Then Kíli, who could only be serious for so long before his heart needed air, mumbled, “I still want my turn longer than Fee’s.”
Fíli snorted. “Of course you do.”
Bilbo laughed and hugged him tighter. “Greedy.”
Kíli lifted his head with a watery grin. “For this? Always.”
Bilbo kissed his cheek. “You may be greedy for affection.”
Kíli’s eyes brightened. “May I?”
“Within reason.”
Kíli looked at Fíli. “What is reason?”
“I don’t know,” Fíli said. “I have you for a brother.”
Bilbo laughed again, and Kíli beamed, pleased with himself for bringing the sound back.
He stayed in Bilbo’s lap until Bilbo’s legs truly did begin to protest, at which point Bilbo said, “Darling, if you do not move soon, I may never walk again.”
Kíli scrambled up in horror.
Bilbo caught his hand before he could apologize himself into the ground. “That was a joke.”
“Was it?”
“Mostly.”
Kíli groaned. “Bilbo.”
Fíli helped Bilbo stand, careful and amused. “You did tell us you would complain.”
“And I did.”
“Aye,” Fíli said, kissing Bilbo’s knuckles. “Very reassuring.”
Kíli hovered anxiously until Bilbo took a perfectly steady step, then another.
“See?” Bilbo said. “Uncrushed.”
Kíli’s shoulders relaxed.
Then he narrowed his eyes at Fíli. “You still got the first turn.”
Fíli smiled. “I did.”
“I brought dinner.”
“You brought one rabbit.”
“An impressive rabbit.”
Bilbo sighed and stepped between them. “If either of you begins arguing about lap privileges while I am hungry, I shall take back every nice thing I said.”
Both princes went silent.
Bilbo stared.
Fíli looked obediently attentive.
Kíli looked alarmed.
Bilbo blinked.
Then slowly, dangerously, he smiled.
“Oh,” he said.
Fíli’s eyes narrowed. “Bilbo.”
Kíli pointed at him. “That is a dangerous oh.”
Bilbo folded his arms. “I have discovered something.”
“No, you haven’t,” Fíli said.
“I absolutely have.”
Kíli took a step back. “Fee, he knows.”
“Yes,” Bilbo said, delighted. “I do.”
Fíli sighed. “We have made a tactical error.”
Bilbo lifted his chin. “My dwarves listen very nicely when properly motivated.”
Kíli’s cheeks flushed.
Fíli looked away, but not before Bilbo caught the red in his ears.
Bilbo’s smile softened.
He stepped forward and took one of each of their hands.
“Do not worry,” he said gently. “I shall use my power responsibly.”
Kíli looked unconvinced. “Will you?”
“No,” Fíli said at the same time.
Bilbo laughed.
Then he tugged them both down, one after the other, to kiss their cheeks.
“Go prepare the rabbit, sweetheart,” he said to Kíli.
Kíli straightened at once. “Yes.”
Then he blinked, as if surprised by himself.
Fíli laughed under his breath.
Bilbo turned to him. “And you, dearest, restart the fire.”
Fíli looked at him for a long moment, eyes warm with surrender and amusement.
Then he bowed slightly.
“As you wish, ghivashel.”
Bilbo watched them move. Kíli to the supplies, Fíli to the firepit, both still flushed, both lighter than before, both glancing back at him as if checking that he was still pleased.
His heart filled until it ached.
So strong.
So careful.
So obedient, not because Bilbo commanded them, but because they trusted him with softness they barely knew how to hold.
Bilbo sat back down near the beech tree, smiling to himself.
He had thought, once, that princes were made of pride.
Perhaps they were.
But his princes were also made of hunger for kindness. Of old hurts hidden beneath polished braids and reckless smiles. Of hands that could wield blades and still tremble when held gently. Of strength offered carefully. Of trust given like treasure.
And Bilbo adored them for it.
Every golden, dark-haired, impossible inch.