Chapter Text
Summer that year began with a sweltering heat wave.
Looking back, Bilbo would blame the humidity for obstructing his judgment and evoking his impetuous decision to pursue a relationship with the mysterious dwarf that had wandered into the Shire in search of work.
Presently, the matter of a new blacksmith hadn’t concerned him in the slightest until the day his cousin Odo was struck ill. Poor Proudfoot lad had caught a nasty fever. Excessive warmth would only hinder his condition further, so nobody expected him to be traipsing about Hobbiton doing his daily chores in this sort of weather.
Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was a kindly fellow and rather fond of this particular relation, so he offered to take on Odo’s responsibilities while the sickly hobbit recovered. Running errands for Aunt Linda was not how he would have ideally planned to spend such a lovely day, but, it wasn’t the worse favor he’d ever done. It was affection for his cousin that brought him to the forge that day, nothing more – certainly not fate, not by a longshot.
He sauntered into the smithy around noontime, hoping his aunt’s order would be finished by then; that way he could sneak in a round of conkers with Flambard Took before lunch. Bilbo wasn’t eager to actually enter the establishment, for if the heat radiating from the sun was this stifling, the forge would be practically unbearable.
Sadly, he had to venture inside anyway, when no sign of the blacksmith was forthcoming. Squinting through the steam, he stepped past the threshold, feeling as though he’d drifted into the center of a boiling volcano. "Hello, is anyone–"
Words fled at the sight of bare, decadent muscles pulsating and flexing as they smashed a hammer against the anvil in a rhythm that matched the suddenly erratic beat of Bilbo’s pulse. Exertion and heat had them glistening with layers of sweat, shining like jewels in the midmorning sun. That magnificent torso was attached to a head of long, sweat-slicked hair darker than coal. Gathering his wits, Bilbo tried to speak again, only to be struck dumb when pierced by the most breathtaking pair of blue eyes he’d ever seen.
Upon noticing his audience, the dwarf set down his tools, wiping his brow with the back of a hand that could probably squeeze the life out of Bilbo, who was helpless to do anything but watch the movement with his mouth hanging agape like an imbecile.
"Can I help you?" the blacksmith inquired, in a baritone that sent a shudder down the hobbit’s spine.
"Um, I…" Bilbo floundered, trying to recall why he’d come to the forge in the first place. Not to loaf about like a pervert, he reckoned. "I-I came to collect my aunt’s order."
Those sapphire eyes flickered over to his face, effectively stealing the breath from Bilbo’s lungs. Thank Eru for the temperature, so at least I have an excuse for being this red. "Name?" the dwarf pressed.
"Bilbo Baggins – my name is Bilbo Baggins," the hobbit answered, too quick and too flustered. In a calmer tone, he offered a polite, "Pleased to meet you."
"Thorin Oakenshield, at your service," the dwarf introduced with a bow, which left Bilbo grinning so hard his face ached. Then, "But I actually need your aunt’s name if I am to find you her commission."
Inconceivably, Bilbo's face turned an ever darker shade of crimson.
"Of course! Forgive me, I’m sorry. Linda Proudfoot is her name." He chuckled self-consciously, inwardly bemoaning his blunder. "It’s this unbearable heat, I swear. Skewers the mind a bit, doesn’t it? Makes fools of us all, really."
"Quite," Thorin agreed as he went to fetch the commission. "I wouldn’t worry about it too much, Mister Baggins. You seem to function well enough. Here you are."
"Thank you very much. I am certain she’ll be pleased," said the hobbit appreciatively. He wasn't embellishing, either - dwarf craftmanship was truly a sight to behold.
"I should hope so. Displeased customers are bad for business,” remarked Thorin, sporting a crooked grin that made him appear infinitely more attractive; in Bilbo's opinion, at least. "Oh, and Mister Baggins?"
"Yes?"
The blacksmith's gaze traveled down the length of his body before coming to rest on his flushed features. "If ever you have need of a blacksmith’s hands," and by the Valar, those eyes were practially boring into his skin, with an intensity that could only be described as smoldering. "Feel free to drop by."
Bilbo's mouth went dry, lips moving soundlessly. Those words, so innocent out-of-context, seemed downright seductive when cloaked in that deep, sensual voice. No, there was no mistaking it. He pinched himself just to check, and nope, he was awake. As surreal as it was, Bilbo was being wooed by this handsome, mysterious stranger. And that was... Unexpected, yes, thought hardly unwelcome. And so... Well. Let it never be said that a grandson of the Old Took allowed a prime oppurtinity to pass him by.
"I will," he replied coyly. "Good day, Mister Oakenshield."
To his delight, that crooked grin reappeared. "Likewise, Mister Baggins."
.
.
.
.
.
At first glance, Thorin Oakenshield posed an intimidating figure. He was taller than the hobbits by far, broader and made of more brittle material. His face often had a stony, unapproachable quality to it and while he was always polite towards his customers, it was clear that they didn’t choose his service based on his sterling conversational skills.
If you managed to get past the tough exterior, however, you would find that he was hard-working, loyal and infused with a nobility that Bilbo had before only found in the tales of old heroes. Sure, he was also unsociable and stubborn and yes, surly as they come.
But for better or worse, he was Bilbo’s surly dwarf.
The two of them were an unexpected match, certainly – where Thorin was carved of firm and unyielding stone, Bilbo was a child of the earth, open and malleable. The dwarf had an almost inexcusable penchant for speaking freely to the point of rudeness, whereas the hobbit had a cunning brand of eloquence that kept him in the good graces of many. Yet the attraction between them was just as undeniable, much like a moth drawn to the flame of a candle, yearning for the light even as it tread too close to the flames.
Once, Bilbo compared it to a legend he remembered from his childhood. In an age when Yavanna’s creations were young, there lived a moth pale as the winter snow, which fell in love with the beautiful glow of the moon. Each day the moth waited in sorrow for the sun to fade, and would weep with delight at the first sign of twilight; except on the nights when the moon did not appear at all, which the moth spent in soul-wrenching despair. Finally, after the separation from its moonlight became too much for the creature to bear, the moth decided it would join its beloved or perish in the attempt. It flew towards the sky for two days and two nights, so the story goes, but on the third morn its strength failed. But the Valar, taking pity on the lovelorn creature, refused to let it plummet to earth – instead, they created a spot for it in the sky, a glowing star to guide even the most hopelessly lost souls back home to their hearts.
When he'd described these musings to his lover, Thorin's brow had furrowed. "Was that supposed to be romantic?" he inquired dryly.
"You wouldn’t know romance if it snuck up from behind and bit you in the arse," Bilbo retorted fondly. “No, that wasn’t the point, you thick-headed dwarf.”
In retliation, Thorin had plucked the book Bilbo had been idly flipping through right out of his hands. And the hobbit was loathe to fight for its return, given his current and very comfortable position, head cradled atop blacksmith's firm thigh. "Enlighten me, then," the aforementioned blacksmith demanded.
"Well, it was rather brave of the moth, wasnt it? Flying towards its heart's desire, though failure was imminent, and refusing to stop until death ended its journey?"
"Others might call it foolish," snorted Thorin, and it was quite evident that he counted himself among those naysayers.
"And that is why you aren’t romantic," Bilbo mock sighed, closing his eyes. Long strands of ebony hair tickled his cheeks, inciting them to open again, where Thorin's striking countenance greeted his gaze.
"Such strange thoughts occupy your mind," the dwarf murmured, bending until his lips were carressing the tip of a pointed ear. "I would sooner have you in my lap, devoid of such daydreams; a mindless, overwhelmed mess."
A delicious shiver rippled through Bilbo’s body. Without further prompting, he grabbed Thorin by the beard and yanked him down for a searing kiss – and in the fumbling touches and tender intimacy that followed, his thoughts were as empty as the cloudless sky.
.
.
.
.
.
Bilbo Baggins was generally considered a level-headed fellow. Sharp, too. Nevertheless, he was young by hobbit standards, fresh from his majority, so a bit of naivety was to be expected. The youth were often open to possibilities the old had long since closed themselves off to, but the old were wise in ways the youth had not the experience for.
So while the infatuated Mr. Baggins strutted across Hobbiton, sneaking kisses with his beau behind the party tree and leading the dwarf to Bag End many a summer evening (where the smithy would not emerge until the early hours of the morning) like a tween in the throes of a storybook courtship, the eyes of his neighbors watched with a quiet disapproval.
"Look at that Baggins boy, sprinting to the smithy like someone’s lit a fire under his toes!"
"Why, I saw him holding hands with that strange blacksmith in the market yesterday, bold as brass! Disgraceful."
"Oh, it’s just a mild infatuation. It will pass."
"Shouldn’t he be careful? Dwarves are a covetous lot, I’ve heard, with keen eyes for riches. The bloke could be after his sizable inheritance."
"The Shire is no place for the children of Durin, anyhow. Mark my words, when that smithy has finished his business, the mountains will call him home."
"I agree. By the season’s end, that dwarf will be gone. That fool of a Took is in for a rude awakening."
"Serves him right."
Everyone saw the writing on the wall, the doomed fate of this summer affair. Nobody had the heart to mention it to the lad, though, for it had been quite some time since such a light had embraced his face, which had grown dim at the death of his parents. Bag End was a lovely home – the embodiment of Bungo Baggins’ devotion to his remarkable wife – but probably very lonely when its three occupants were reduced to one. Still, a hole in the ground was no place for a dwarf. Every biddy from Hardbottle to Buckland understood the sensiblity of it, yet none of them had the decency to warn Mr. Baggins beforehand.
Some lessons were best learned the hard way.
.
.
.
.
It was on a cool, early autumn day that Bilbo entered the forge in search of his lover and greeted him with a bright smile.
"There you are! I wondered if you were too busy to join me for a late brunch...." he trailed off, seeing that Thorin was rather immersed in the task of gathering what few belongings he traveled with into a sack. This sparked his curioisty. "Are you going somewhere?"
Thorin paused in his packing, forehead creased in consternation. "Aye," he said slowly. "And I confess that I am in a hurry. I planned on leaving before the leaves began their change. I didn't count on...extenuating circumstances delaying me this long."
"Oh," said the hobbit, frowning. He didn't like the tone of Thorin's voice. It was too heavy, too tentative to bode well. An odd sinking feeling tugged at his stomach, but he pushed it aside, retrieving his former smile. "Where are you headed?"
"To the Blue Mountains, where I must rejoin my kin," answered the dwarf.
"Right, yes, of course. Your family must miss your terribly," Bilbo granted, somewhat reassured by this news. Fondly, he remembered when the light that came to his lover’s eyes whenever he mentioned his sister and her two mischievous sons. "I was only, well, do you mind me asking…when do you think you'll be back?"
With his back turned, Bilbo couldn't read the expression on Thorin's face. Judging by the way his shoulders stiffened at the question, perhaps that was for the best. "I cannot say."
Fed up with all this vagueness and evasion, the hobbit abadoned his pretense of unconcern. "What do you mean?" he asked plainly.
Exhaling, "I do not know when – or even if – I shall ever return."
"You…" Sharp as he was, Bilbo found it hard to comprehend the truth unwraveling before his eyes. "You don’t plan on coming back, do you?"
He winced when Thorin nodded in assent, apparently grateful at being spared the trouble of saying it aloud.
"So, what, you’re just leaving all of a sudden?" he demanded, after many attempts to regain his voice.
"I have given Master Bolger my notice–"
"To hell with Master Bolger!" exclaimed Bilbo. "What about me, Thorin? Had it ever crossed your mind to inform me of this departure?”
"Would it have soothed you to know sooner?" Thorin flared, voice rising in accordance to Bilbo's temper.
"That doesn’t matter – it’s common courtesy!" he snapped, indignation rising. "We have been involved for months, and I was under the impression that even if you left for work, you would eventually return."
"I made no such promise."
A single, callous statement was all it took for Bilbo's illusion to shatter. All the logic he'd denied, all the hopes he'd clung recurred with a vengeace, forsaking everything despite his best efforts to avoid it. The sinking sensation in his stomach enlarged, forming a wide gorge, the bottom of which was indiscernible. It was nothing like a comfy hobbit hole; it was dim, dank and lonely. Bilbo had first felt its presence as he stood admist a flurry of raindrops and tears in the wake of his mother's funeral. For a time, he hadn't even desired companionship to fill the void; because while solitude was bleak, at least it was safe.
But that blasted visit to the forge had brought him to ruin. The sight of Thorin in all his masculine glory had disarmed him, attracted him - the feelings of attachment that followed were wholy unprecendented. Bilbo had only wanted someone with whom he could share a word, a laugh, or a kiss. Against his will, his heart had opened to this surly dwarf, who belonged in the green hills of the Shire no more than an elf belonged in the dark caverns beneath the earth. There was a quality to Thorin, a perpetual homesickness wrapped in age old grief that spoke of a longer to roam until it could be quenched. One day, the Shire would be but a footstep on his journey to reclaim what he’d lost. Bilbo heard it in his voice as Thorin sang beside the hearth and glimpsed it in his eyes as the flames danced across his face.
Perhaps what stung most was that the denial was true. Thorin hadn't promised. Not once.
"I must go, while there is daylight," the dwarf spoke quietly, always interrupting his reveries. "I always meant to, when the season passed. Surely you knew that."
"Yes," said Bilbo tightly, helpless to anything but concede. A part of him yearned to scream and shout and bully Thorin into submission. However, a happy companionship would be futile if one half had no intent on remaining.
Give him a reason to stay, his heart urged. Bilbo could think of only one: He loved Thorin, had fallen head over heels for the dwarf sometime between their first meeting and their first kiss, and he knew these feelings were not a summer lust that would fade with the color of the leaves. But Bilbo bit down on his tongue to keep these heartfelt words at bay. He was not yet pathethic enough to confess a love that wasn't reciprocated. He still had an ounce of pride to his name, and it would be a shame to squander it.
"I am sorry," whispered Thorin, gentle and geuine. His large, roughened palm came to rest upon the hobbit's blessedly dry cheek. And for a single, perfect moment Bilbo thought Thorin might kiss him then, so passionately and sweetly, thereby realizing the love Bilbo felt pounding against his chest at this like an iron hammer wasn't unrequited. To his immense disappointment, there were no kisses or revelations, only a painful loss of contact. In a brutal act of mercy, the pounding came to a stuttering halt at the parting words, "Farewell, Bilbo Baggins."
"Goodbye," Bilbo echoed hollowly. His heart had stopped trying to spring from his ribs, evidently too broken to beat. Now, he mused with a hysterical sort of irony, he truly understood the idiocricy of that ivory moth. And had he heeded the tale, perhaps he wouldn't have suffered a similar fate.
He watched Thorin Oakenshield disappear into the distance that afternoon, taking with him the last of the summer's warmth.
In the wretched days that followed, he would blame his relatives for not warning him of what they saw coming, what he had been too blind to see. He would blame his Tookish half for allowing him to seek such an unconventional relationship and his Baggins half for letting it fall apart without a fight. He would blame Thorin for being such a stoic arse – for giving him such hope and affection just to rip it away in the end. He could blame until he was blue in the face and it still would not mend his broken heart or warm his empty bed. Placing fault on others changed nothing, and to be honest, he had no fingers to point.
Because really, Bilbo had no one to blame but his own foolish self.