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Chapter Text

 

Stage is where the real art is, his grandfather used to say, anyone can act at a camera, but in front of a living, breathing audience? No do-overs, no room for mistakes, just the thrill of right here, right now. Real art.

He can't remember whether that was before or after grandfather won the Academy Award, but that never changed his tone anyway – in Thror's eyes, it had been just further proof that a real, proper theater actor could out-class a film actor any day. Thorin was fourteen, and they watched him march up that red carpet and accept his award with his trademark curt almost-politeness, and later on, sitting next to the two Tonies in his grandparents' large dining room for everyone to see, the golden statue served as a reminder, more than anything else.

A reminder of what, though, Thorin can scarcely remember these days. All that he remembers is the weight of it, 'borrowing' it one night with Frerin when nobody was home – it had been something incredible, larger than life, containing within the dim honey-colored reflections on its surface everything that all of them had ever been taught to strive for.

 

“An achievement is an achievement,” Dís had said, placing the statue in its carefully selected spot on her much less grand mantelpiece, “no matter what came after that.”

What came after that made most of the family forget about awards and glory for a while, made them reluctant to even really remind themselves or anyone else of what they once had been. But Dís valued memories, the same way Thorin valued the family name, and so eventually, she saw to it that the good ones were preserved. It was up to Thorin not to let the sight of their grandfather's last big break gathering dust alongside a couple of age-old photographs ruin his appetite for the regular lunches that Dís manhandled him into once or twice every week in the good – and probably correct – belief that he would starve to death without her supply of warm food.

 

His stomach rumbles very inappropriately, and he clears his throat to mask it, sinking even deeper into his seat. He definitely should have stopped to grab a quick something before this – but then his stomach would have something to propel in the general direction of the stage once he gets inevitably disgusted, he reminds himself, not without bitter amusement.

What is he doing here again?

Professional curiosity doesn't really cut it. No, he has a very distinctly unprofessional desire to see this all fail and collapse in on itself like the poorly constructed house of cards it is.

His fingertips travel over the sheen cover of the programme. 3, 2, 1, Hamlet!  God, the name alone makes him nauseous. He leafs through it idly, frowning at every burst of bright colors, or a name in cast or crew he disapproves of. In fact, why not start and stop at the very beginning? Starring Bilbo Baggins as Hamlet. God, what was Gandalf thinking? Thorin is pretty sure he sent him the free tickets just to mock him.

'With no prior education in acting, Bilbo Baggins has quickly proven that it does not always require a scholar to master a craft. Most well-known from TV dramas and hit blockbusters such as Spring Fever, Head Over Heels, or even the critically acclaimed Silver Linings, Baggins has been stepping out of his comfort zone more and more, accepting a number of highly controversial stage roles over the past couple of years (Waiting For Godot – 2012, Angels In America – 2012, Noises Off – 2013). He pursues diversity with a vigor rarely seen in someone so young, and this lead presents him with yet another opportunity to prove his numerous doubters wrong.'

So, yes. Not only is he horrendously unsuited for a role of such magnitude, but he has the gall to think he's good enough to take it on.

“Diversity my ass,” Thorin grumbles to himself under his breath, readjusting his reading glasses slightly and glaring at the photo that accompanies the man's subpar bio – it seems like a candid, Baggins laughing effortlessly, looking back at Thorin with a vital spark and a sort of boyish charm he learns to despise immediately, a messy halo of light brown curls framing his tender features.

He's seen a dozen Hamlets in his lifetime, but never one that's so doomed to end up but a caricature of the character. Thorin cannot be the only one to see all that is wrong with this casting choice, surely – but then again, seemingly the whole wide world has been getting their knickers in a twist over this man, who, as far as Thorin knows, comes from somewhere rural and forgettable, and has built his career on nothing but one stroke of luck after another. Not that Thorin has been keeping up with it or anything, it's just been becoming rather difficult to ignore. It was all well and good when all Baggins did were those expendable, interchangeable summertime rom-coms, because Thorin could avoid those with a healthy and perfectly justified dose of disdain. But then came that dratted Silver Linings movie, gaining the man both appraisal and new offers, and it was only a matter of time before he would venture onto the stage.

Thorin would have been perfectly happy to place him as far from the spectrum of his interests as possible and keep on dismissing him for the rest of his life, but there he was, working with Gandalf of all people, doing Shakespeare of all things, and daring to do all that in Thorin's own hometown of all places. Absolutely unacceptable.

Thorin shuffles for a more comfortable position, his legs always too long for any seat in any theatre ever, and anticipates with some trepidation the beginning of what will no doubt prove itself to be yet another confirmation of the age-old, well-known fact – that there's no room for run-of-the-mill flick actors in classic theatre.

-

 

“Nervous?”

Bilbo glances up from his reading to catch sight of Gandalf leaning against the door, and opts for reciprocating the light smile, tugging at the collar of his costume.

“Excited. What's the turn-up?”

“Legendary.”

“Everyone thrilled to see me cock it up?” Bilbo chuckles, swiveling on his chair to face the director.

“Oh yes. Let's go prove them wrong.”

“Yeah,” Bilbo smiles, fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the pendant dangling off the side of his mirror one last time before he gets up and leaves his good-luck charm behind, “I'm planning on it.”

 

Being rushed backstage and swept off his feet by the whirlwind of his fellow cast members preparing and submitting themselves to last-minute readjustments from the make-up artists, all interspersed with the crew hurrying here and there and chattering in their own jargon, still largely unintelligible to Bilbo's inexperienced ears, does very little for his peace of mind.

“You don't have a home scene yet,” Gandalf told him a couple of days ago, as if it was explanation enough, “it'll be different then.”

He's been dipping his toes into the wonderfully strange world of stage acting for about three years, and has already had the pleasure of working in theaters he would have loved to call his own, but he soon came to learn that that wasn't quite how it worked. They didn't want you as a member of the family, never permanently – no, you were The Face, the newcomer, the star if lucky – like today – or just the spoiled movie boy playing thespian. Everyone either tolerated the intrusion easily, or voiced their protests when they thought he wasn't listening, but either way, that's what Bilbo always has been – an intrusion.

It's no different today – he's spent an intense couple of months with these people, rehearsing something all of them knew was going to be very special, Gandalf putting him in the spotlight with his brave take on the material, and it's been a challenge, will be a challenge almost daily for weeks after weeks after weeks now, but still... Bilbo isn't entirely at home.

He hasn't been entirely at home anywhere in the past couple of years, of course, but that's another matter. Every movie he would do, every red carpet he'd walk down, people would try to convince him to just buy an apartment already, settle down in this or that world capital, but the idea never had any particular appeal to him. No, he's always liked the fact that his work took him all over the world, and this desire to settle down and have some place to return to is very novel to him, and he feels it now stronger than ever, which is a bit ridiculous, because what he's a part of is... it's by far the biggest thing he's ever worked on, bigger in scope and effort required than any movie, but he has the nagging feeling that people would just laugh at him were he to bring it up. Gandalf knows he's good, and the cast know he's good, but the rest of the world expects yet another... what was it that The Independent had called it? Oh yes, yet another random outburst of unhinged creative energy, focused nowhere in particular, and thus lacking in any real value.

Some of the kinder reviews call him valiant for experimenting, or refreshingly unpredictable, but no one really expects him to stick to this. All they see is yet another overnight sensation trying to spice up his resume by a bit of stage work.

Well then, he decides, catching his reflection in the glass of a door leading to the nearest dressing room , barely recognizing himself under all the stern make-up and the somewhat decadently flamboyant costume, proving them all wrong might be the best course of action after all.

-

 

Thorin forgets how to breathe. Wonders briefly if the seat has a setting that would swallow him whole and never let him see the light of day again. But no, what's happening on stage is too mesmerizing for his eyes to stray but for a second. He can't wrap his head around it, won't be able to wrap his head around it for a long, long time, he suspects. The play is loud, and bright, and full of over-the-top colorful backgrounds and costumes, entirely too fast-paced and entirely too simplified at times, and it is so. Bloody. Good.

It's so good it makes him angry, really. He's always despised people trying to re-tell Shakespeare and straying too far from the original in the process – if you can't deliver the lines as they were meant to be delivered, if you can't handle the visceral heaviness of the text, then what's the point, really?

Nothing about this play should work. Nothing. And yet it clicks and turns like a well-oiled machine, and Thorin hates that he can see from the first moment why that is – it's him. Thorin has been waiting with bated breath for him to flub a line, to miss a cue, to show to everyone that the depth required for one of the Bard's most beloved and masterfully chiseled characters just isn't achievable for someone of his repertoire.

But no – Baggins shines. There isn't any other word for it. His Hamlet shows the whole plethora of emotions required, and then some. He's a brat and an obnoxious know-it-all one moment, an almost chillingly dark and despondent shadow of himself the other. He's quiet when he's expected to be loud, and loud when he's expected to be quiet, and the actor handles the changes, often almost violently sudden, with a flowing ease that Thorin can be nothing but envious of.

The man himself is tiny and nimble, but he owns the stage whether he whispers or sings – the play has very obviously been tailored for him and him only, and Thorin experiences a hot pang of jealousy more than once. To have such a material to work with, to have someone support your skill and advantages in such a beautifully effortless manner... He toys with the idea of swallowing his pride and contacting Gandalf Grey afterward, to try and see if he's still in his good enough graces so that the esteemed director might consider casting him in something of his own as well... No.

He's doing just fine, and besides, Dís would never let him hear the end of it.

He joins the standing ovation despite himself, eyes following the beaming Baggins across the stage as he accepts his flowers and mouths thank you's and all in all looks horribly pleased with himself, and doesn't manage to get the sight or the preceding performance out of his head until the lunch at his sister's place the following day.

The boys are loud as ever, but not loud enough to jolt him out of his deep thinking – he frowns at the table until Dís sets a plate of delicious-looking pasta in front of him, and even then his appetite is somewhat lessened, because they read the first reviews together, and they're all ridiculously good. Even the devil Azog is over the moon, calling Baggins 'exactly the fresh breeze Ered Luin has been craving ', and describing his performance as ' so unexpectedly terrific it warrants another look... and then another. And another.'

At the third another, Thorin groans loudly, stuffing his mouth full and mumbling 'Nothing' when Fili, ever so curious, asks him what's wrong.

“So how was he really?” Dís asks him, folding the newspaper away, and when he looks up at her, her face carries exactly the half-taunting, half-compassionate smile he'd expected, and it turns the food sour in his mouth.

He glares at her, and when she quirks her eyebrow, he sighs deeply, and stabs his penne with his fork, muttering unhappily: “Disgustingly good.”

Dís laughs.

-

 

He doesn't sleep very well, not after the first couple of nights anyway. He's always had trouble shaking off the leftover rush after a performance, but this is... god, so different. He finally understands what they always tell you about leaving your character behind when getting off stage – he's never had this problem with all the Ordinary Toms he's played in his countless profitable chick flicks. Not even Franck the dying professor from Silver Linings, his personal favorite, was such a challenge, and he'd spent ages obsessing over that one.

No, this is the bloody Hamlet, and Bilbo has found his way to the heart of the character, but now that heart is beating for him instead of his own.

But the results are exceptional, they are. There really is nothing quite like a standing ovation from a live audience, and Bilbo has been getting those non-stop. It's exhilarating, and invigorating, and new, and his experience from the movie business is never to read reviews, but Prim, his agent, all but forces a number of them down his throat, and he's left trying very hard not to let them influence him and let his ego soar sky high.

“Just enjoy it,” Gandalf suggests, patting him on the back figuratively and otherwise, “you deserve it.”

Bilbo isn't sure what he deserves , but he knows with utter surety that this is what he wants. He's already booked for a supporting role in this dystopian flick after Hamlet, but Primula has been getting offers left and right, for both plays and movies, and Bilbo would like to say yes to almost all of them.

But alas, that's why he'd made his own cousin, no matter how many-times-removed, his agent all those years ago – Prim has a healthy dose of the family resolve, as well as a sort of calm determination that has served them both well in the past.

“Look, I know it sounds great, but I'm not shipping you off to Africa any time soon. Do you even realize the expenses that would require? What if you contract malaria?! Who's going to pay for that?”

Bilbo regards his short firecracker of a cousin fondly as she devotes her attention to her smartphone, no doubt revising Bilbo's schedule for at least the tenth time just that day.

“Fine, alright,” he grins, “no Africa. Could've been the next Indiana Jones, but whatever.”

“You're no Harrison Ford.”

“Oh, how can you say that?!”Bilbo fakes indignation, bursting into laughter when Prim rewards that with a highly exasperated sigh.

Just then, they seem to have run short of their luck when it comes to hiding away from the bulk of the crowd – Bilbo's proven tactic of running to the corner of the cafeteria farthest away from the bar and turning his back to the people the second he's done talking to everyone important after each performance has apparently been discovered, because Gandalf is headed their way, with far too many people by his side.

“Journalists,” Bilbo hisses, and Primula's gaze jumps upright, but the crowd disperses, and by the time he reaches them, Gandalf is blissfully alone, save for...

“Bilbo!” the director waves cheerfully, “I'd like you to meet someone!”

“Jesus,” Prim peeps at the same time that Bilbo sighs: “Oh.”

“Bilbo Baggins, let me introduce you to Thorin Oakenshield of the Erebor Theatre Company. A great fan of your work, though he looks anything but.”

“It's an honor to meet you,” Bilbo says honestly, extending his hand to the man, “I admire your work so much, I mean...Your Faust last year was fantastic.”

Two piercing icy-blue beams size him up and down, and Oakenshield shakes his hand firmly and shortly.

“Charmed, I'm sure,” he says coolly.

“Thorin was just telling me he found your performance today... what was it? Outstanding, yes.”

“I believe I used the words 'a bit out there', but make of it what you will,” Thorin corrects him with a short, surly smirk.

He's a man of imposing stature, towering a good foot or more above Bilbo's tiny self, and his face is an amalgam of such striking and sharp angles that Bilbo worries he might cut himself were he to stare at it for too long. Has he been staring? Ah, better not.

“That's all me, I'm afraid,” Gandalf declares, “I've decided to play around with the pacing towards the end of the second act...”

“Yet again,” Bilbo adds.

“Hmm,” Thorin hums, “that doesn't surprise me. You've always been demanding, Gandalf. I just hope you've chosen carefully – not everyone can keep up.”

Gandalf opens his mouth to offer some no doubt jovial reply, but before he has the opportunity, Bilbo says lightly: “It's rather challenging, yeah. But there's no one I'd be more honored to be keeping up with. It's the opportunity of a lifetime for me, and I'm lucky and endlessly grateful Gandalf has chosen me.”

“Lucky indeed,” Thorin replies flatly, “it really is rather incredible, how much the source has been changed, and all to accommodate one actor.”

“Ah, you know it's not about that,” Gandalf sighs, as if suffering a small child, “I just love to experiment.”

“I wonder if Shakespeare is the right material for that.”

“What are you saying?” Bilbo demands rather harshly. God, the man's reputation might precede him, and Bilbo's respect for his craft might be holding him back a little, but it's swiftly becoming obvious that being a brilliant actor doesn't always come hand in hand with being a nice person. Bilbo should write that down, honestly, it shouldn't be so surprising to him after all those years in business.

“Nothing much,” Oakenshield shrugs, looking at him with something akin to a mild surprise, like he can't quite believe Bilbo's speaking up for himself, “I simply can't help but wonder what the result would be were this play approached in a more... traditional manner.”

“Boring,” Bilbo quips quickly, and Thorin's eyebrows arch up.

“Boring,” he repeats as if he takes it as a personal offense.

“Well... yes. I mean, come on, it's been done a billion times before,” Bilbo offers with a sincerity he didn't know he had in him, “putting a fresh spin on things doesn't mean the source material is being disrespected, surely you're not suggesting that...”

“Oh, not at all. I have nothing against putting a fresh spin on things, as you so aptly described it. I am, however, rather opposed to it when it only serves as a plaster to hide the mediocrity of deliverance.”

That meets with a quiet, but still perfectly audible, hiss of disapproval from Prim, no matter how far off she's standing, proving once again that she hears everything, always. Bilbo catches Gandalf rolling his eyes very discretely behind Thorin's back, in a tell-tale not again grimace, suggesting that this isn't the first time the director has witnessed such crudeness from Thorin. Hardly an excuse though, at least in Bilbo's eyes.

“Mediocrity of deliverance,” he repeats, definitely taking it as a personal offense, but simmering down a bit when he catches Primula out of the corner of his eye shaking her head at him in a vague warning and a plea not to start anything.

“Look, it takes a lot to throw me off balance,” he all but snarls at Oakenshield, “I've survived my fair share of horrible reviews and comments, believe me-”

“That's not difficult to believe.”

“Alright, you-”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Gandalf steps in, wedging himself in between the two, one hand heavy on Bilbo's shoulder, “this has rather strayed from the constructive debate I was hoping for. Thorin-” one razor-sharp, pointed look at the tall man, still seemingly unfazed by the whole situation, “thank you for your... input. We'll speak later, yes?”

Thorin peels his gaze away from Bilbo almost reluctantly, offering a curt nod to Gandalf.

“Hopefully,” he says, then, turning back to Bilbo with the most infuriatingly beatific smirk, “a pleasure meeting you.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” Bilbo sifts through grit teeth.

And then the man is off, sauntering through the crowd, avoiding any attempt at contact simply by radiating unpleasantness, and Bilbo only ever breathes freely once he loses sight of him.

“Wow,” Prim comments, reappearing by his side, “I heard he was difficult to work with. Didn't know it included just... generally being around him.”

“It's not entirely his fault,” Gandalf notes uncharacteristically fondly.

“Really? Was he born with the High-and-Mighty Disease?” Bilbo utters and regrets it the next second, but to his surprise, Gandalf laughs heartily.

“No, no. Caught it much later on, as it is.”

They laugh some more together, but the bitter encounter stays with Bilbo anyway. He tries his damnedest to remember what he knows about the man aside from his family name (which everyone knows, yes, but that's hardly anything solid), and is reminded yet again just how inadequate his knowledge of this whole part of the business really is. Of course, there's an Oakenshield somewhere in between the Academy Award winners way back when, and obviously everyone knows Goldlust...

“I was under the impression that you two used to work together?” he opts at last for what he's almost sure Gandalf told him about when introducing him to his past in this city.

“Oh, yes. A very long time ago. Though it included much more of Thorin's father, rather than Thorin,” the director explains.

“Oh. Oh, right! Wait, was he the one who...?” Bilbo lets the end of that sentence flutter idly in the air.

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“M-hm. Nasty business. You can understand how that might change a person. Thorin is a terrific actor, always has been, but he just... doesn't really see the benefit of playing nice. One can hardly blame him, at times.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo muses, accepting the glass of wine Prim has procured for them both from god knows where, “still, I'm sorry about what he said.”

“Oh?” Gandalf blinks at him as if he forgot to listen for a while, and then he grins, “oh no. We got off easy, believe me. He actually rather liked it, I think. I don't think this is the first time he's seen it, either...”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Gandalf sighs almost happily, and then he regards Bilbo with a new light in his eyes, as if he's just found something he's been looking for for a very long time smack in the middle of his face. His grin broadens, and Bilbo knows him well enough to adopt some suspicion.

“Oh, yes,” the director repeats, “it's perfect, in fact.”

“What is?” Bilbo asks a tad uneasily, but receives something very far from a satisfying reply.

“I just made a decision,” Gandalf announces somewhat enigmatically, “it will be very good for you, and... most amusing for me.”

 

Chapter Text

Dís has always rather enjoyed rain. It tends to come at just the right time in Ered Luin, washing the heavy lingering scent of too much summer in between too many buildings off its streets. Autumn is fast approaching, and soon the pleasant showers will turn into an unceasing drizzle as the weather will inevitably worsen. But as long as her ancient coffeemaker stays with her, and her boys remember to wear the hoods of their raincoats up, she's perfectly willing to enjoy the nicer parts of the increasingly more volatile conditions.

Her guest today seems to be anything but a rain person, though. He cuts an impressive figure as always, tall and strong, but she notes silently that his frown is supported by rather more wrinkles fanning around his eyes and creasing his forehead than the last time the two of them spoke. But his zest is still there, and once she disposes of his soaked coat, offers him a steaming mug of Earl Grey and allows him to talk about his work, he becomes his old self in the blink of an eye.

Soon enough, Dís is laughing with him as he describes his past couple of years spent on the other side of the planet in sunny Australia, and memories come flooding in. They avoid talking about business for as long as humanly possible, but the wonderfully colorful program of Gandalf's last play is always there on Dís' table like a reminder.

“You and I both know Thorin was never a Hamlet,” Gandalf says, watching her almost carefully, smiling when she sighs.

“Yeah, I know that, and he knows that, but the point of the matter is,” she taps the cheerfully vivid title on the program with the pen she's been twiddling in her fingers, “Baggins wasn't suited for the role either, but you wrote the play for him, and he knocked it out of the park. And now everyone is talking about him, instead of Thorin.”

“To be frank, it's been a while since anyone talked about Thorin,” Gandalf offers casually, sipping on his tea daintily.

Dís frowns.

“Yes.”

“Is it bad?” Gandalf poses a perfectly evil question perfectly innocently.

Dís huffs, leaning back in her chair, glaring at the pen dancing and twirling in her own fingers for a while before answering.

“If by bad you mean he's seen the damn play at least half a dozen times and read pretty much every review while complaining about good material being butchered by mediocre acting...”

Gandalf laughs earnestly.

“That bad, eh?”

“I don't know. God, you know how he is about movie actors taking the stage. But this is like... it's like some weird masochistic... obsession. I caught him stealing the Silver LiningsDVD from my collection the other day.”

Gandalf snorts into his tea.

“Dear God.”

“Yeah. It's... look, he's not come as far as to start getting sloppy on stage, but he's... I don't know. Distracted. Bitter. He sleeps very little. Probably would actually starve to death if I didn't wrangle him into having lunch with me and the boys a couple of times a week.”

“He needs a project,” Gandalf says simply.

“A big one,” Dís nods, “something to focus on, to pull him out of this rut he's been in.”

Gandalf smiles one of his broad, highly suspicious smiles, and Dís' heart flutters in an expectation she doesn't think she's allowed to feel when he pulls a thick binder out of his sleek leather satchel.

“Well then,” he says, “you'll forgive me if I skip straight to business, my dear.”

-

 

It's as good the fifth time as it was the first. Probably better. Thorin hates it, and he hates himself for being incapable of just letting it go. No, if he sees it again, maybe he'll finally discover what's wrong with it, the great mistake or horrible misconception he's been searching for all this time.

The posters for it are everywhere, colorful and very pop-art and very, very annoying, and he considers taking one home and ritually burning it at least twice a day.

He hasn't spoken to Gandalf or the infuriatingly talented Bilbo Baggins since that rather unfortunate meeting a couple of weeks ago, but bile rises in his throat every time he thinks about it. He knows what Dís would say, go apologize to Gandalf this instant if you ever want to work with him again, you insufferable twat, but he also knows his pride won't allow him to stoop to that any time soon.

He is on stage four times a week, twice on Tuesdays, slipping in between roles as seamlessly as ever, and yet he feels himself losing drive. Rolls out of bed every morning, highly reluctantly, rolls back into it every night, head heavy and every inch of his body sore as if he'd run a marathon.

He tells Dís not to worry, and she scowls at him, makes him eat what she cooks, makes him read a bedtime story to his nephews every once in a while, and says nothing when she finds him asleep on her couch in the morning, because the idea of traveling across the whole city just to be alone in his own tiny apartment fills him with a dull sort of dread.

But he doesn't tell her that, doesn't tell anyone that; simply tries his damnedest not to think about his father and his grandfather before him, both ignoring all the tell-tale signs of burning out until it was too damn late.

-

 

Dís doesn't believe in luck. Much like her mother, she's always valued hard work and devotion, and it's the only reason her world is still standing somewhat solid around her.

“Why us?” is thus a completely natural question, but Gandalf still looks at her as if he can't quite believe she's asking it.

“Because,” he smiles fondly, reaching out and patting her hand, making her feel at least twenty years younger, “I've missed you.”

“The scale of the production... We don't have that kind of money.”

“I do. Believe me, I've got a number of people that would invest in me if I decided to do a street gig in the middle of communist China.”

Dís chuckles. Weakly.

“It's perfect,” Gandalf continues, “trust me. Just present it to the board...”

“There's no board.”

“No board?”

“No board,” she repeats, “it's just me and Balin these days. Gandalf, your offer is the most generous one I've gotten in years, but-”

“No buts,” he interrupts her, laughing, “no buts! Pitch it to Balin, then. I'm sure he'll adore it.”

“I don't...”

“Bravery, my dear! It'll be an adventure.”

Bravery. Dís is sick and tired of bravery. Bravery has never gotten them very far. Hasn't paid wages or bought costumes and props. Bravery has brought a couple of excellent productions their way, true, but ever since their father's benefactors have left them behind, they've had nothing but the slowly fading glory of the family name to keep them upright.

Perhaps there is something brave about surviving, about getting up every morning and going to work, clinging onto the faith that maybe, one day, things will start looking up.

She doesn't believe in luck, and she's sick and tired of bravery, but Erebor Theatre Group would have long since dissipated into nothing more than a footnote in the dusty annals of history if it weren't for Dís' ability to recognize a good opportunity when it came her way.

“It is perfect,” she mumbles, hanging her head, “it could save us.”

“It will save you.”

He's beaming at her like a freshly lit Christmas tree, and she's simultaneously trying her damnedest to find a catch, and terrified of actually discovering it.

“Do you think Thorin will accept, then?” Gandalf taunts her, and she groans.

“Are you kidding? I'm not going to give him a choice. He'll accept. He'll adore it. I'll present the idea to him as a whole, and once he's completely head-over-heels in love with it, I'll mention the Baggins angle. Gently. Then he'll eat me alive.”

-

 

The closing night is the biggest rush of his career, more exciting than any red-carpet event, and he's been to a bunch. He spends the majority of the afterparty incredibly emotional – and also laughably tipsy – and if it weren't for Primula gently, but sternly telling him no every five minutes, he'd probably sign a bunch of contracts he'd regret later. He doesn't even have a week to himself before he has to spend another sixin front of a green screen halfway across the world, and what seemed like a perfectly lovely opportunity before Hamlet now feels like more of a hindrance.

He's come to love Ered Luin – its theatre scene is smaller, but no less bustling and many-splendored than the other capitals he's had the pleasure of working in. London was fantastic, but exhaustingly confusing, and New York too hostile for him to really feel comfortable at all... No, this little city has been his most valuable, perfect experience by far, which is why he doesn't hesitate for a second when Gandalf approaches him after the general celebrations have eased off a little bit, with a clear: “Bilbo, my boy, what would you say to the idea of you, me and Shakespeare, here, next summer?”

“Oh? Reprising Hamlet?” Bilbo wonders.

“No, oh no,” Gandalf giggles, a bit too gleeful to be completely sober, “that has run its course, no matter how wonderful it was. No, this would be... a bit of a gamble.”

“Oh, because doing Hamlet with rock music through the ages was such a safe decision for you?” Bilbo points out playfully.

“Safer than what I have in mind now, definitely,” Gandalf winks at him.

Bilbo simply gapes at him for a moment, before summoning Primula, which takes nothing but a turn of his head indicating he's looking for her – whenever they're in the same room, she watches him like a vulture. Mostly in a good way.

Once she's by his side, he smiles at Gandalf broadly, feeling suddenly rather confident, and says: “I'm intrigued.”

He'll come to regret it later.

 

Fall sees him being pampered in Hollywood, which is always nice. He doesn't enjoy green screen very much, no matter how hard he tries to see it as a challenge. Everything pertaining to the movie, and that whole part of the business in general, suddenly seems very impersonal to him, and he misses stage with a passion.

He flips through the materials Gandalf has provided him with at night in his hotel room, and builds his decision day by day, tested line by tested line.

“It would be you doing this as a favor for me,” Gandalf had told him, “or at least that's what everyone would call it.”

It's common practice, as he's come to understand it, has been for decades, centuries even – struggling theaters doing Shakespeare as a sort of last resort, one last attempt at regaining the interest of both the public and investors. And using someone with A Face – in this case Bilbo – as a magnet for all of that, a not-so-hidden ace of spades, is apparently very common as well.

He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the 'you're famous enough now so that people seek you out' status he's somehow worked his way into, but if there is a chance for him to use it for something good, he might as well grab at it.

 

And so he's back in Ered Luin before Christmas for a preliminary meeting slash first audition that could mean all sorts of things, including nothing, as Gandalf had described it, and he marches his way to the esteemed (once-esteemed? He's going to have to read up on that particular history soon) Erebor Theatre full of excitement for the unknown.

The splendor of it washes over him like a waft of wind the second he looks up the majestic staircase leading up to the heavy wooden door, which is more of a gate than anything else. The tall, grandiose ceiling in the foyer steals his breath away, and as Prim and him wait to be fetched, his eyes trail over the large black and white photographs on the walls, some accompanied by their respective plays, some speaking just fine for themselves.

It's nothing like Bree Community, where he spent months with Hamlet – that one was infinitely more modern, all but bursting at the seams with the collective creative energy of everyone gathered under its brand new hi-tech glass roof, and there never seemed to be enough time for anything, or a quiet place to hide. Bilbo had enjoyed that, of course, but this is... the thick green carpet muffles his steps, and it's as if the marble walls and pillars and the faces of the masters long gone are all whispering to him, teasing him, do you really think you've got what it takes to have a place here?

Erebor isn't any smaller than Bree, but it is hidden a little way away from the bustling center of the city, and where Bilbo is used to a space's potential all but thrumming under his feet, this building is slumbering quietly, waiting for him to tap into whatever it's willing to offer.

He falls in love instantly.

“Mister Baggins?” a bright voice wakes him up from his reverie, and he lays his eyes on a woman approaching him, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere, materialized somewhere in the maze of doors and corners and pillars.

“Welcome!” she smiles at him, “it's such a pleasure to have you. My name is Dís Oakenshield, I'm the artistic director here.”

“Ah, the pleasure is all mine,” Bilbo smiles, shaking her hand, “allow me to introduce my agent, Primula Brandybuck.”

The women shake hands, and Bilbo doesn't even need to catch Prim's curious look to know what she's thinking – Mrs Oakenshield is an astonishingly stunning woman, tall and slender, with an impressive mane of wavy dark brown hair and strikingly sharp cheekbones, as well as piercing icy blue eyes, all of that burning itself into Bilbo's mind and reminding him very strongly of...

“Sister,” Prim confirms his suspicions after Dís leads them up a flight of stairs and asks them to wait for a bit at the mouth of a long hallway – Bilbo reads the quick bio Prim has pulled from the theatre's own web page, uttering: “Well, she certainly seems nicer than her brother.” on the very second a door flies open on the far side of the corridor, and Dís invites them both in.

They are joined by Gandalf himself, much to Bilbo's joy, and a very old man with very white hair by the name of Balin, who turns out to be the financial manager of the whole theatre, as well as the stage manager of what Gandalf is planning, and a number of other functions and positions Bilbo is almost sure should not be handled by one lone person.

The familiarity between the three is heartwarming to watch – they share many inside jokes about what seems to be commonly referred to as 'the good old stinking days' by the men, praising old names that mean nothing to Bilbo and daydreaming about the possibilities the future might still hold for them, even though 'these rafters have seen smokier days, if you know what I mean'. Bilbo doesn't, but he laughs with them nonetheless – apparently, this is where he comes in.

The whole project is presented to him once again, and it's very difficult not to get as incredibly excited about it as Gandalf is – he's obviously been spending a lot of time with it, polishing it into what might turn out to be yet another perfect gem of a play, if everything works out.

If everything works out.

Gandalf and Balin launch into a reverent discussion about all the previous adaptations of this particular play they can remember, using words like transcendental, and phenomenal, and Dís alternates between watching Bilbo warily and smiling fondly at this or that joke, and Bilbo is faced with feeling a bit inadequate all of a sudden.

Not only is his knowledge of stage history poor at best, he also doesn't really... know how he got here in the first place. Or if he has what it takes.

“Look, forget literal,” Gandalf is saying, and Bilbo finds he's been staring at the small brass statuette of a wolf on Dís' table for far too long, wringing his hands in his lap like an anxious teenager who got called to the Principal's office, “if it's not universally transferable, it doesn't interest me, and it doesn't interest the audience. They'll come to see a comedy, and they'll come to see Bilbo-” a nod in his direction, and Bilbo summons a shy smile, “and I want them to walk away feeling violated. They think they know what this play is about, I want to prove them wrong. They expect silly fairies, we'll be giving them borderline terrifying forest folk with sharp teeth and dirt under their fingernails and black eyes. They want four carefree teenagers having fun in a forest, we'll be giving them four utterly lost souls for whom running away to the forest and getting drunk and inevitably drugged is a blessing in disguise. They'll come see A Midsummer Night's Dream the predictable comedy, we'll give them A Midsummer Night's Dream the viscerally creepy rollercoaster. They think they know who the main characters are, I want them rooting for no one else but Oberon and Puck by the end of it, and only ever realizing how wrong that was when they're safely back at home. Come on,” the director adds into the somewhat stunned silence, in a tone vastly different from the rest of his passionate speech, “it'll be fun!”

Dís stares into space for the longest time, absentmindedly tapping her pen on her lips, but then she catches Balin's gaze, and some sort of an agreement seems to happen between them right there and then, in the span of a couple of seconds.

“I'll put in the paperwork,” Dís states as if it's some sort of a mantra, officially getting the show on the road, and a tiny knot of anticipation ties itself up in Bilbo's chest. He decides to take it as a good omen. Gandalf winks at him.

“That's it then. When can I talk to Thorin?”

“The sooner the better,” Dís says thoughtfully, “if you don't mind waiting, he should be coming in in about an hour.”

“Lovely. Bilbo, how would you feel about reading with him for me a little bit?” Gandalf asks perfectly innocently, and the knot of anticipation bursts into an ulcer of worry as Bilbo blinks at him wordlessly.

“We have a script already?” he asks a bit numbly.

“Don't be silly. Right now, I have nothing more than a couple of pages of the original text with a bucketload of footnotes. But unless you mind bright pink highlighter, you should be able to use that just fine. I'd very much like to see how you two occupy the same space.”

“The last time we occupied the same space I don't think either of us was very polite,” Bilbo grumbles, blushing a bit when Dís casts him an inquiring look, and adding somewhat sardonically, “but of course I'll read with him. Anything for you, Gandalf.”

And as he's whisked off downstairs and introduced to some more of the majestic building, the out-of-place feeling barely ever goes away, and he thinks he can hear the whispers again. Do you really think you have what it takes to be here at all? Do you really think you can take it?

-

 

“Do you really think this could ever work?”

Dís sighs in exasperation for what feels like the hundredth time in just the past couple of hours. Thorin is stretched all over the sofa in her office like a very grumpy tomcat, and she briefly wonders what the best thing to whack him over the head with would be.

“It will work. It will work great. This is happening whether you like it or not.”

“The man is a joke, Dís. He has no class, no education, no real knowledge of the craft. He goes and just... wings things. I can't work with him.”

“But you can work with him,” she fires back, “you read together for, what? Twenty minutes? And it's been years since I've seen you this alive for a role.”

“Please, don't be ridiculous,” he rolls his eyes, and proceeds to bother the slowly fraying upholstery of their grandmother's old sofa with his fingernails.

Dís smiles. He might not want to admit it, but fortunately he wasn't alone in the room with Bilbo Baggins, and there are witnesses to what happened when Gandalf pushed a bunch of lines in their hands after they exchanged their less-than-warm greetings.

She knows Thorin hadn't done Shakespeare in ages, and thus it took him a moment to reacquaint himself with the flow of the words, but once he did... Gandalf was right – there really was something beautifully effortless about Bilbo Baggins, something in the way he twisted and utilized even the most ridiculously difficult words to suit him, and it was a thing of beauty, watching Thorin slowly being pushed out of his rut and comfort zone and forced to try harder and keep up.

It really didn't last much longer than a fleeting moment, and Thorin complained afterward about not being at his best because he had a play that evening to prepare for, yadda yadda yadda, but Dís could see his eyes following Bilbo around the room, equal parts suspicion and intrigue. It really has been a while since her big brother had something truly good, something worth his talent, to devote himself to, and Dís knows this will be one such thing, and she is determined to make him see it through, if she has to drag him kicking and screaming all the way.

“I don't see how this is a good idea, in any way.”

Or if she has to kick him and scream at him herself.

“Don't just say things you don't believe yourself,” she scolds him, “we haven't worked with Gandalf in years – you know it's exactly what we need. You know it.”

“What I don't know,” Thorin continues his tirade, “is if I'm willing to watch an overexuberant movie star try and fail epically at handling the challenge-”

“Oh would you just get over yourself, dear god,” Dís cuts him off before he makes her physically sick, “you'd do well to learn from people's overexuberance. It's not a question of Bilbo Baggins being good enough, it's a question of you swallowing your goddamn pride for once and admitting that you need this.”

“The only thing I need is for you to understand the fact that-”

“You want facts?” she interrupts him harshly enough so that he shuts up for once and listens, because she removes any and all hint of joking from her voice now, “here's an interesting one for you – we haven't sold out half the time in the past three months. We need this production. We need something fresh and new and exciting for the audience to look forward to. We need this simply because if we don't take it? We might not survive the season. Don't look at me like that. Balin won't tell you this, because he loves us and he always, always believes in the best, but the truth is, we're not just struggling anymore – we're fighting tooth and nail for survival, and now we have a chance to live a while longer, and I won't have the goddamn diva in you ruin that, do you understand me?”

He glares daggers the way only he can, but she's gotten through, of course she has. She always does.

“You should have told me,” he complains feebly.

“Told you what?” she sighs, sinking back into her chair, “that your wage might get even shittier? I rather thought you might be able to figure that out by yourself, after all those years.”

And if I'd told you, you might have stopped sleeping altogether, and I won't have you turn into something so horribly familiar so soon. Or ever.

He gapes at her some more, then proceeds to gaze out of the window, fingers tapping at the armrest, head churning her words over. He's quiet for the longest time simply because he doesn't want to say yes right away, but she can wait. She can always wait for him.

“I won't play nice with Baggins,” he mutters at long last, and she sighs a sigh of relief with her laughter.

“Suit yourself,” she says, “but just let me remind you that if everything goes according to Gandalf's vision, you will be kissing the man on stage every night for three months.”

She thinks that the promise of that, and the way Thorin groans theatrically and runs his hands down his face, is worth the hassle. At least for now.

 

Chapter Text

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Thorin sheds his sodden jacket and gives Dís his very best 'I'm not even going to laugh because the idea of you not kidding is downright horrifying' look, but she doesn't budge. Of course she doesn't. “Seriously?” Thorin inclines his head, “he's here? Right now?”

“Seriously. Sitting at the bar. It's just a couple of lines, I'm not asking for the moon here. Come on, let's go.”

Thorin scowls at her, but doesn't budge either. It's a family trait.

“I've got a show in two hours,” he says firmly, “I need to-”

“To do what? Sit around and read reviews that will make you feel like crap about yourself, then fall asleep on this dingy old couch, only to wake up twenty minutes before the show ready to kill anyone who looks at you wrong?”

His mouth is all open and ready to serve a witty comeback to that, but it just doesn't come. Sometimes, just sometimes, Dís knows how to put him in place, he has to give her that. Not that she'll ever hear that from him.

“My couch is not dingy,” he grumbles, glancing at the aging corduroy thing with some fondness – it has been in his dressing room since before he can remember, and has been through a lot with him.

“I think the rats having a house party in it would disagree,” Dís quips, then, allowing no more nonsense, “come on. You'll be doing this as a favor to Gandalf, think of it that way.”

Thorin all but whines – it's just thoroughly unfair to pull that card.

“Come on,” she repeats, “nice guy face on.”

“I don't have that,” he comments, following her out of the dressing room highly reluctantly.

“Oh, right, what was I thinking. Try the 'somewhat capable of normal human interaction' face.”

“That's only reserved for you.”

“I'm touched,” she chuckles, making sure that he's still following her, passing through the maze that is the backstage and then up the stairs to the lounge.

“Oh, by the way, you didn't tell me you've met Baggins before.”

“I did?” Thorin wonders, and as she frowns at him, “alright, yes, I did. Gandalf roped me into it after-”

“After your tenth time seeing that play, got it,” she jokes with no regard for Thorin's feelings whatsoever, “and? Did you fall in love?”

“Hardly,” he snorts, “the man absolutely lacks all finesse or respect for the craft, I'm telling you-”

“Well, Gandalf still wants you to read with him, so you're going to have to behave yourself even if you can't stand the idea of breathing the same air as Baggins, you understand me?”

He glares at her, so much younger than him but always so fierce, so steadfast – he can sense an excitement in her that he can't quite explain yet, and knows she'll stop at nothing, whatever is going on, whatever Gandalf has in store for them. He might have panicked a bit at the thought of seeing Bilbo Baggins again, felt a hot spike of anger when he learned he was right here, in his theatre, on grounds that are very far from neutral, but he'll go through with this, partly because he's curious, but mostly because of his sister.

 

And so he reads a couple of lines from a Shakespeare classic one-on-one with a man he would have been perfectly content with never seeing again otherwise. He also has to endure a very enthusiastic Gandalf all but buzzing with joy as he describes the idea of the play to him, using many of the same words Dís had used when she first told him about it. Thorin had liked the idea then, and he likes it now, and he knows Dís knows, but he won't be admitting to that out loud any time soon.

Not in front of Baggins, anyway – Baggins, who is of course very outwardly gleeful about it all, a particular mixture of anxiously eager that threatens to give Thorin a headache as he watches Gandalf and him fussing over the text and picking out a suitable passage.

Thorin last saw the play more than a decade ago in the US, he thinks, and hasn't done Shakespeare almost as long, which are both perfectly agreeable reasons for the stiffness that hinders him the second he lays eyes on the dialogue. It's wrong, it's all wrong, they're not even using any of the building's numerous rehearsal rooms; they're sitting on bar stools for crying out loud, and Baggins keeps glancing at him over the edge of his not-yet-a-script, and Thorin feels like an old rusty engine being kickstarted after a very long period of inactivity, coughing out smoke and soot as he muddles through a text that's familiar to him only in theory. Not that anyone will be hearing that allegory any time soon, either.

Baggins, not so much. He takes Thorin by surprise, and Thorin dislikes him even more for it. He's quick to react and reads the lines as if he's read them a billion times before, the words pouring from his lips with an ease that Thorin supposes is natural to him, but which he spices up with a very obviously experimental edge of playfulness, trying out the character right there and then, in the thankfully yet abandoned lounge.

Gandalf all but radiates great satisfaction, and Dís smiles unusually often and unusually bright, laughing whenever Baggins as much as breathes, and Thorin walks away feeling distinctly bitter and somewhat confused. It was only in the very last handful of minutes that Baggins annoyed him so much, actually physically jumping to his feet and delivering his lines with a cadence that dug right under Thorin's skin, that he finally snapped back, lending the character of Oberon a bit of a boom, speaking a bit louder and caring a bit less about sticking straight to the lines and the pronunciation of them...

It was five minutes, no longer than that, but those five minutes sparked an ember of curiosity in Thorin, something that he's let burn for too long and now can't extinguish. It was five minutes, but now apparently there's the promise of more to come, and Thorin finds that from a strictly professional standpoint, getting so riled up in someone's presence that you actually try harder might be a good sign. Not that he is ever admitting to that out loud.

-

 

Bilbo rests. Most of the time, it's a foreign concept to him, but now that he actually finds himself with no commitments besides waiting for a callback from Erebor, he decides to enjoy the free time. It's the end of February when he's finally done with all his scheduled appearances on this or that show, and he thanks the heavens for the studio's decision to push back the release of his latest movie until fall for reasons he can't pretend to care for, giving him free reign over his summer – he really can't wait to throw himself into Gandalf's project with all that he's got.

He's back in Ered Luin in March, renting a hotel room the size of an apartment in the cozier part of the historical center, marveling at the low price (and wondering if maybe it's just him getting far too used to having money) and waiting. Spending Christmas and New Year's with his wide and overbearing family was a thoroughly exhausting affair, and he's perfectly happy to be completely alone for a change.

He familiarizes himself with the text of the play, over and over again, and replays in his head the first – and only, so far – reading with Thorin Oakenshield, as haphazardly planned as it was. He'd been nervous, and Oakenshield had been very visibly unhappy about the unprecedented meeting, but they read together nonetheless, and...

“Just what I was looking for,” Gandalf told him afterward, “well done.”

Bilbo for one felt cheated throughout the whole endeavor – it was painfully evident that Thorin wasn't giving him his full attention or anything even resembling the general vicinity of his best – but if Gandalf found what he'd been looking for, well, that means at least Bilbo did his job right.

And then there was the very last moment, literally about a minute, couldn't have been more – Thorin spoke louder, reacted quicker, and it was the tiniest shift of focus, but it captured Bilbo's attention like nothing else, because he knew right there and then that that was who the man really was, and he would have given anything to get more time to acquaint himself better with that part of Thorin.

But, well, he is going to spend the better part of his year working with this man, and he feels vaguely uncomfortable just waiting to be summoned for another meeting with him, just a tightly framed period of time with lines in their hands and other people supervising. No, if he is to learn more about him – and learn more about him he must, even if just to sate his natural curiosity – he's going to have to take a much different approach. A much more personal one.

His diligent Internet search yields surprisingly little, aside from the expected general overview of Oakenshield's career – Bilbo has next to no interest in being reaffirmed that the man is indeed very traditionally taught and brought up, making a name for himself above his family name, branching out and even briefly flirting with a number of successful productions on Broadway, not to mention a short, but no less impressive list of movies, some of which Bilbo has seen, but never connected with the face, and others he's definitely at least heard of... But something happened at some point, something no article or ancient YouTube interview manages to shed any more light on – Thorin's rather impressively progressing career came to a standstill, and seems to have been stagnating ever since, if Bilbo is any judge of that.

And if he is any judge of anything, the man has more than considerable talent – while Bilbo was working on Noises Off in London last year, Oakenshield was doing Doctor Faustus literally around the corner, and it was the talk of the whole city. Bilbo himself never got to see it simply because he was too busy to spend his days off in any other way than sleeping, but he remembers the buzz.

“Oh, that. Wonderfully done, yes. Short, though, such a shame,” Gandalf muses.

They are sitting in a cafe the director has picked for them, being much more familiar with the city, and the cup of delicious cinnamon-spiced latte is feeding Bilbo's curiosity something fierce.

“But that was it?” he asks, and when Gandalf inclines his head, he adds, “I mean, I can't really pretend to understand what goes on in London in general, but I'm pretty sure that thing generated some award buzz, and I didn't get the sense that it was particularly unexpected either. Is it like a professional pride thing? Does he despise fame? Is he one of those?”

Gandalf laughs heartily at Bilbo's sugar-powered speculations, and leans back, measuring him with some amusement – he always seems so much at ease, even though he's one of the busiest people Bilbo has ever met, and he's almost sure he shouldn't have even found the time to indulge him and sit with him for a couple of hours drinking coffee and eating cake, but here they are.

“There is one thing you should know about Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf says, “he is bloody difficult to work with. It's not that he's such a diva – that's understandable, excusable even, at times. He's just very... there was a time when he still got offers, of course there was. But he's always preferred it right here, at home. And when you just don't respond, the offers inevitably stop coming. I don't know if he's perfectly happy just the way he is, but I do know that getting him to abandon his home scene, if even for one summer, is a feat I could never hope to achieve, and I've known him since he was a kid. That's why I came to him this time.”

“Is he worth it?” Bilbo wonders, and Gandalf's look softens somewhat, almost so that Bilbo starts getting worried about having overstepped some invisible boundaries.

“You'll see,” the director answers thoughtfully, adding then when Bilbo scrunches his nose, a bit dissatisfied, “look, I'm not going to give you the Oakenshield family history lesson. But if you really want to know more, don't just look at Thorin. Look into his father, and his grandfather before him. When was the last time you saw Goldlust?”

-

 

She might have to kill someone. She didn't have the time to make herself coffee at all today, that's the problem. That, and Tuesdays are always just horrible in general. No matter how much she generally adores her workplace, she learns to despise it very quickly whenever it keeps her this long past her usual hours – she likes her babysitter well enough, and so do her sons, and it is just a twice-a-week occurrence, but Dís can't stand the thought of not making them dinner, not putting them to bed. Maybe she'd be able to do the latter at least, if someone behaved.

“Get your ass out here!” she orders, accompanying that by yet another set of loud bangs on the door leading to her brother's dressing room, “can you just please play nice for one second? I promise I'll get rid of the journalists, but could you find it in you to come meet these people? They're people with money, Thorin, and I know you don't care about that, but the rest of us are rather in need of it, and-”

The door flies open, revealing the sight of her brother still in his stage make-up and thus looking rather fierce, hair disheveled and eyes underlined with thick black stripes and all.

“Tell them I'm very very sorry,” he pronounces with faux care so irritating it makes her want to slap him right across the face, “but that my scheduled headache just kicked in, and I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment.”

And with that, he slams the door in her face, lock rattling, and she drives her fist against it one last time, all but wailing in anguish. She is going to have to kill him if he keeps this up, and soon. For the good of all.

“There you are.”

That's Bofur, striding down the hallway leisurely, as if mocking all the chaos that is currently unfolding all around Dís. But then again, looking calm in a storm is a stage manager's job – not that Bofur would appreciate that work description, being also the master technician and all, but these days, they make do with what they have, and out of what they have, Bofur is among the very best.

“What now?” she snaps perhaps a bit harsher than intended, but he only smiles.

“Still stuck there?” he gestures towards Thorin's dressing room.

“Yes, and if I don't get him out soon, it's a no-go for that offer we almost just got...”

“Oh, those suits in the first row?” Bofur asks, “yeah, Balin sent me here to tell you that they're gone. He tried stalling them, but they wouldn't even stay for drinks.”

“What – are you serious?” Dís whines, and when he nods with a shrug, she groans in utter exasperation.

“I think I need a drink myself,” she sighs heavily, suddenly not even strong enough to curse Thorin some more.

“Yeah, that might be wise. There's some interesting company up there,” Bofur smiles.

“What, who?” she demands, but he doesn't really answer, simply steers her to the lounge.

Upon arriving, they discover it almost entirely devoid of anyone else but the theatre staff – no fans or journalists today, but sadly no producers offering amiable amounts of money either... But there is one Bilbo Baggins sitting in a corner under the larger-than-life photograph of Dís' grandfather as Richard III, chatting up Balin, looking a bit starry-eyed and definitely ignorant of the way the other people in the room keep cautiously checking him out. Here he is, the star of Head Over Heels and Spring Fever, sipping on a gin and tonic in their lounge,and Dís has almost forgotten he's supposed to start working here in a few weeks' time.

“Hi!” she greets him a tad carefully, a part of her still expecting him to disappear into thin air and prove that what he's about to be a part of, what they're all about to be a part of, was nothing but a particularly nice dream, “what a pleasant surprise!”

“Oh, evening, hello,” he babbles a bit, jumping to his feet and shaking her hand, “I just came by to... I hope this isn't bad luck or something.”

“Depends on what you came here to do,” she chuckles.

“I, uh... I actually came to see the show,” he supplies somewhat uneasily, as if he thinks it's some horrible transgression, “Mr Fundin here caught me in the crowd afterward, I didn't really mean to stay, I just thought it might be nice to see, err, your brother act, but it now occurs to me that maybe that's one of those superstitions I've never really gotten the hang of? Seeing your colleague act right before you're supposed to start working with them?”

A somewhat confused silence follows, but then Bofur bursts into laughter, and Dís and Balin follow – Bilbo has a sort of awkward charm about him, and he talks at the pace of a hundred miles a minute, and it really is difficult to feel tense by his side.

“I'm pretty sure that's brides before a wedding,” Bofur quips, and more laughter follows.

“We're glad you came,” Dís says, slumping into an armchair of her own, offering a warm smile, “and you're anything but bad luck for us, believe me.”

 

They end up talking for what might very well be hours. It turns out Bilbo has his own gravitational pull, and he is soon acquainted with the majority of the cast and crew, in an entirely effortless sort of way – smalltalk comes naturally to him, as does signing napkins and books and taking pictures with people, and Dís is left wondering if he even knows how famous people are supposed to act. He really seems like the guy next door who only so happened to wander into the big and confusing world of popularity. Or maybe he just downright refuses to let it get to him, to change him, and Dís isn't sure what she finds more adorable.

He is curious, too, and they indulge him, for the most part. He wants to know more about Thorin, naturally, that's why he came here today in the first place, but he goes about it in a very clever way, never actually asking the questions he really wants to ask, but rather letting people talk about this and that and observing, gathering tidbits of info. He is bright, and funny, and easygoing, laughs at himself and remembers everyone's names with an eerie ease, and Thorin will absolutely hate him for all of that, Dís knows.

Speaking of... Bofur and his brother Bombur, starring beside Thorin in tonight's billionth reprise of The Importance Of Being Earnest, but also adopting the role of the bartender providing them all with a rarely rich supply of drinks on this special evening, are just in the middle of describing the 1998 Flaming Beard incident, their wild gesticulating and perfectly synched storytelling having everyone in hysterics even though everyone aside from Bilbo has heard and told the story a billion times before, when Thorin finally emerges from the dark depths of his dressing room to join them.

He looks as haggard as ever, but his look turns sour enough to curdle milk when he spots Bilbo. Not that Bilbo notices, or if he does, he's gracious enough to overlook it, yet another skill Dís admires and wishes she herself possessed – all that she wants to do is to slap some color into Thorin's cheeks, and tell him to control his hair and stop looking like even being in the same room with Bilbo Baggins is an ordeal for a greater man than him to handle.

“Evening!” Bilbo greets him so joyfully Dís thinks she can almost hear everyone else in the room inhale in cautious anticipation of what's to come, “amazing job tonight, congratulations!”

Thorin glares, first at him, then at Dís. She offers an overly cheerful grin in response, raising her glass to him, and hears Bofur stifle a snigger.

“What is this?” Thorin says at last, moving to the bar to pour himself something, pointedly ignoring Bilbo and all in all acting like he isn't even in the room, “yet another impromptu audition at the least convenient time?”

“Yeah, Gandalf's hiding behind that curtain over there taping the whole thing,” Dís snaps back, then, a tad more seriously, “don't be an ass, brother dear.”

Thorin rolls his eyes only for her to see, seemingly preoccupied with his rum and coke, but she knows he's very aware of Bilbo's presence in the room. This might be interesting.

“Yeah, no, I never really planned on staying,” Bilbo explains almost apologetically, “I must have totally disrupted your guys' after-show routines.”

That meets with scattered laughter, and Bofur offers a jovial: “Well, I don't know about everyone else, but my after-show routine mostly consists of drinking anyway, might as well do it in better company than usual.”

“And Thorin's after-show routine consists of being an antisocial prick and sneaking out before anyone can engage him in casual human interaction,” Dís supplies with some edge, probably brought on by the alcohol she so rarely indulges herself in, “so I think you're really doing us all good by being here.”

More laughter, and Thorin's glare threatens to scorch her where she sits.

“Thank you for that,” he all but growls, only succeeding at broadening her grin.

“It's completely normal, by the way, all of this,” Bofur's simple gesture somehow manages to encompass the entirety of Dís' and Thorin's relationship, and as Bilbo laughs a tad uneasy: “I'm sure.”, Dís feels a pinch of guilt – toning it down a bit for the newcomer might be a good idea.

Not that Thorin feels the same – he still stands behind the bar, radiating displeasure and keeping his distance, looking at the bunch of them like they're something particularly disgusting he's just discovered on the sole of his shoe.

“Well, it's late,” Bilbo announces out of the blue, “I should really get going.”

“Where are you staying?” Dís asks amidst the chorus of no no's and please stay's.

“Ah... the Prancing Pony Hotel I think it's called? Yeah. Stayed there when I was here for Hamlet, too.”

“Oh, right! Charming, isn't it?”

“Absolutely. Anyway, thank you, really, so much for having me, this was fun.”

“The pleasure was all ours,” Dís smiles, and anyone else would mistake it for any odd sound, but she recognizes Thorin's scoff for what it is, and shoots him a nasty look, which he pretends to completely disregard.

The sight that they all behold then after Bilbo says goodbye to everyone else is one neither of them will be forgetting any time soon, she thinks. Despite the almost literal black clouds of antisocial resentment rolling off of Thorin like the fog off a particularly angry mountain, Bilbo trots up to him, bright as ever, and says: “Listen, I've been wondering if you'd like to have lunch – on the weekend maybe? A sort of... work date, you know? I can't really say I know very many good places to eat around here, but I just thought it would be nice – good – to get to know each other better before we start working for real. If you want.”

It's like watching a tiny glowing forest fairy buzzing around the head of a disgruntled grizzly bear, and Dís finds she can't physically look away. Thorin glowers wordlessly – even he is a bit taken aback.

“I don't-”

“I do!” Dís calls cheerfully, “I think it's a great idea. In fact, I'm ordering you to go, Thorin, or you're not getting paid. Saturdays are always good for you, is Saturday good for you too, Bilbo?”

“I – I suppose so, yes, but...”

“Fantastic! Thorin knows all the good places to eat in the city, he'll give you a call.”

“I...” Bilbo looks from her to Thorin with some confusion – Thorin spends some time trying to set her on fire with his mind, judging by the intensity of his staring, but then when Bilbo isn't discouraged and doesn't walk away, despite what he's probably hoping for, Thorin sighs.

“Fine. To get my sister off my back.”

“Great! Yeah, so, my Prim will give your agent a call, and we'll set something up...”

It takes a great deal of patience Dís didn't know her brother even possessed for him to explain to Bilbo that he hasn't had an agent in years, quite literally (his last one, a very nice fellow indeed, quit when he simply couldn't stand being called incompetent as a form of greeting anymore), and then survive the guy's frantic apologizing. But alas, their new charming colleague leaves one promise of a work lunch richer, and it is yet another small miracle that Thorin doesn't crumble into pieces after he does, under the weight of all the semi-polite socializing and all.

“You are dead to me,” he snarls at Dís the second the door shuts behind Bilbo, “I'm going home.”

“My hero,” she winks at him, and promptly decides that this particular Tuesday turned out quite good after all, and that she was definitely wrong before – might be interesting? This will definitely be interesting, with 'highly amusing' added like a cherry on top.

 

Chapter Text

Thorin values his peace. He likes silence, he likes spending his time off alone, recuperating after a whole week of pouring himself out to audiences on-stage – he needs those two days, to sleep, read, watch TV numbly and let his brain slowly restore everything required for yet another period of work. Babysitting the boys is fine, every once in a while. Helping out at the theatre when Dwalin needs something heavy hauled and then getting a beer afterward is even better. Staying away from people and cooling off is just something Thorin requires, it's in his nature – he's not one of those actors who need to be constantly surrounded by fans, or just people always willing to boost their ego. He loves people when he's allowed to tap into their collective energy as an audience. He despises them... in pretty much every other instance.

But try explaining that to Bilbo Baggins. Hah. He never should have agreed to this. He should have lied about having an agent, given him a fake number, and thus avoided having to react to his call yesterday, after spending the week trying to forget he'd ever said yes to a lunch date.

“So, where to tomorrow?” Bilbo had asked, and it was well past any sensible hour to call, but Thorin felt a tiny insignificant tug of guilt anyway – should have gotten this out of the way much, much earlier.

And that's why he's waking up with an alarm on a Saturday, for the first time in what might very well be years, and preparing to head off to town to play nice with his soon-to-be stage partner. He still thinks he should have gotten more say in that, dammit. As it is right now, it sort of feels like a scheme Gandalf and his sister cooked up behind his back and then just introduced him to without offering him any room to maneuver slash get out of it before it was too late.

Perfectly in keeping with her joyfully mean spirit, Dís texts him a 'Behave. And good luck.' just when he's considering the pros and cons of giving his beard a quick trim, and he resists tossing his phone out of the window by sheer willpower alone. Oh god, she's going to come around tomorrow, or worse yet, invite him over for lunch herself, and demand to know all the details, isn't she...

Getting dressed and leaving the house without a single cup of coffee or breakfast is just like one long exasperated sigh, and it never stops, only gets that much worse, when absolutely nothing gets in his way, and he does meet with an offensively enthusiastic, evidently well rested Bilbo Baggins.

God, the man is like a particularly persistent ray of sunshine, Thorin all but squinting against his obnoxiously cheerful and bright everything. Thorin has picked one of the quieter, more subdued restaurants, away from the general rush of the city center, but it seems that his plan, consisting of ordering himself something greasy enough to get him through the whole unfortunate endeavor, and not engaging Baggins much beyond one-word replies, will go up in flames.

“You are not seriously saying what I think you're saying.”

“Why not? A bit of experimenting never hurt anyone.”

“Experimenting,” Thorin repeats the word with as much disdain as he can muster this early on – which is, obviously, a lot, “look, there's experimenting, and then there's making half the audience leave in the intermission.”

“You were there?” Bilbo asks, visibly amused.

“I was there. It was tedious, I don't have any other word for it.”

“But it was Malkovich-”

“I don't care. He might have somehow managed to save his dignity, but it wasn't enough to save the whole thing. Just further proof that a famous face doesn't a good play make.”

“Oh, I see,” Bilbo laughs, and Thorin didn't necessarily mean that as a remark regarding him, but well, here they are, and he certainly won't be taking anything back.

“It takes more than the promise of popularity to make something worthwhile, I hope you realize.”

“M-hm,” the man hums happily, smiling at his hands folded on the table, “I'm more interested in what you were doing on Broadway – or slightly off it – in the first place. Reliving your Phantom days?”

Thorin manages to choke on his drink only very little, but the absolute horror that paralyzes him momentarily at that remark must show, because Bilbo snickers. Clearly he's on a quest to make Thorin hate him with a passion.

“You saw...?” Thorin demands, not even daring to say out loud what he means – even thinking about that particular part of his past career is condensed bad luck, he still believes.

“Oh, no no. Just read about it, really. I tried to find a recording, anything, but it almost looks like someone made it their mission to destroy every single one...”

“Yes, that would be me.”

 

And that's that. Thorin had expected – planned very carefully – to be as antisocial as possible, cut the lunch meeting as short as possible, but there's something about Baggins... They spend almost the entirety of the two hours arguing non-stop, and Thorin is proven right time and time again in his assumptions about the man, but then also wrong at the same time. He's naïve, and far too optimistic, and physically incapable of shutting up, and it soon becomes a matter of pride for Thorin to disagree with him, on... pretty much everything, honestly.

If only Baggins didn't make the mistake of getting personal, Thorin might have started considering the possibility of their upcoming project being a somewhat bearable one, too.

But no, of course it had to come to it – asking about Thorin's father and his grandfather before him, not outright, but still, with precisely the undercurrent of curiosity hiding behind fake compassion that Thorin has learned to despise over the years.

“I rewatched Goldlust recently, it was fantastic,” Bilbo says as if that is some sort of mantra making what he really wants to ask in some way excusable, “I can't even begin to imagine... I mean, the dedication required to...”

Thorin glares at him, waiting for him to inevitably trip over his words and come to an awkward standstill. Even then, the man has the audacity to regard him almost expectantly, as if it's Thorin's turn to say something.

“Anyway, yeah. Great work, that. Not sure it was worth the cost, obviously, but... I'm pissing you off. I'll shut up now.”

That would be wise, Thorin doesn't say.

“Gandalf tells me... I'm given to understand that your brother, too...?”

“Not a word about my brother.”

There are times when Thorin lets his guard down, a teensy bit, allows for something or someone to get through, if momentarily, just like he's let Bilbo ramble until now... But all that it takes is a passing mention, every single time, just a few words about Frerin, for him to realize that the walls he's built way back when are still very much in place, still very much impenetrable.

“Right, yes, sorry, I didn't mean to... I wouldn't want to offend you,” Bilbo says, and as much as Thorin expects and wants him to look away, hang his head bashfully, he doesn't, no – he's looking at him still, bright dove gray eyes inspecting him, equal parts caution and curiosity, always that obnoxious curiosity.

Everything about you offends me, he wants to tell him, but yet again, doesn't, you come here with your sheer dumb luck and your instant-noodles, 'just add water for the generic taste of something seen a billion times before' talent, and you think you can charm everyone into liking you just by being your blindingly happy self. And I hate that. And I'm pretty sure I hate you, but I was willing to overlook that and let what Gandalf and this whole project has in store for us prove my expectations right, but here you are, believing in work dates, and getting personal, and I can't stand that.

“No offense taken,” he says instead, taking special care to make it sound more like 'We're done here', and then adding, just in case the man's simplistic nature doesn't quite grasp what his comments have amounted to, “great lunch. I'm leaving now.”

“What, now? Hold on, I didn't-”

“Look,” Thorin says in the first and last bout of indulgence he'll be granting this man in the foreseeable future, “despite what you might think, us working together for the next couple of months doesn't require becoming particularly friendly. I don't know about you, but I'm perfectly capable of being one thing on-stage, and another thing off it. It's called acting, I hope you're familiar with it.”

Bilbo glares now, and if Thorin wasn't so riled up all of a sudden, he'd be impressed by the intensity of that glare.

“They did tell me you'd be difficult to work with,” he supplies coolly, “and for the record, I am perfectly capable of pretending, but I didn't think that that was what spending the better part of a year side by side on stage with someone was about. But I might be wrong.”

He is wrong, and both Thorin and the scope of what awaits them are going to prove him wrong, but as of right now, the prospect of it makes Thorin nauseous, and Bilbo Baggins with his famous face and optimistic approach makes him nauseous, and really, he's about met his daily quota for indulging other people's misconceptions.

His patience is crumbling, and so he really does leave, before he says something particularly mean. Bilbo Baggins with his easygoing cheery goddamn nature might not grasp the concept of this, but in a way, Thorin is doing him a favor. There's a reason he doesn't let very many people in, no matter how... obnoxiously persistent they might be. It's actually hundreds of reasons within reasons, mostly things any therapist would probably find very interesting, but it all boils down to the fact that most people are just better off not knowing Thorin at all.

-

 

The auditions begin in high spirits. Within the week, they've decided on the majority of the general cast and spend most of their time just making sure – yes, the four Athenian kids will be handpicked by Gandalf from the students of the academy that Erebor technically has a contract with (but hasn't cooperated with in ages); yes, Bombur will make a wonderful Nick Bottom. No, absolutely no understudies for Bilbo or Thorin, and no, they still don't have their Titania.

“I'm surprised and a bit appalled you'd even suggest that,” Dís sighs, leaning back in her seat after a long day of listening to people reading their lines over and over again.

“Oh but you'd be brilliant!” Gandalf counters, “it's been ages since I saw you on stage-”

“Exactly. It's been ages. There's a reason for that, you know that. Besides, starring opposite my brother? No thank you. Please tell me you're only kidding and actually have someone else in mind.”

“I might,” Gandalf smiles, and really, Dís should get better at sensing the vague warning signs in the man's behavior, the signs that his ulterior motives might be very exciting, yes, but also very very insane.

But then he gets people like Galadriel Goldenwood to sign on overnight, calls it asking an old friend a favor, and acts like it's nothing much, and that is terrifying, in a way.

Galadriel is no stranger to Erebor, of course, but she was last here when Dís was a little girl playing hide and seek with her brothers backstage and gaping reverently at the stunning lady starring opposite her father. It's like reliving a fairy tale. The woman has an aura of regal beauty about her, and even Thorin is largely subdued when he reads with her for the first time. Two-time Tony winner, Galadriel spent the majority of her career on Broadway, but is now apparently 'more than ready for something a bit cozier and more personal'. Gandalf had never mentioned considering her for the role until he physically brought her in, and Dís, stuck with the largely self-appointed role of the production manager for this thing, is left staring at numbers and figures, using up all of her resolve not to panic, but rather convince herself, let herself believe, that this will be nothing short of extraordinary.

People are going to accuse them of accumulating famous faces for the sake of profit, and of biting off more than they can chew, but the truth is, it feels... it feels like a homecoming. Dís can't quite describe it, but it's been a while since she's worked on something this grand, this promising. It's been a while since Erebor felt the breeze of something new and fresh, and this is like a storm brewing on the horizon, great and formidable, but also rejuvenating – she thinks she can sense the ancient hallways and thick cold walls slowly waking up around her, thrumming with life once again.

Now if she could only make certain people feel the same way.

 

Bilbo and Thorin have their first proper readthrough early into the first official week of the pre-production, and they ace it. Thorin is acerbic as usual, and Bilbo keeps his distance – Dís has yet to hear his part of the work lunch story, but what Thorin has told her is more than enough to justify the initial coldness between them, and also to make her want to smack some sense into her brother.

But they are both professionals, and good professionals, and it shows. The overall choreography is still very much in the making, and so Gandalf lets them improvise, his directing very vague, as he himself is trying to come up with how to make them move, and start blocking their actions and stage positions.

And so the two simply stand there and toss lines at each other, and it's enough. It's marvelous. Dís thinks she's witnessing something fantastic being born right there and then, and begins to understand why Gandalf seems to have so much faith in putting the two together... And it lasts precisely one day.

The next time, Dís is a bit late, but obviously not late enough for what might be the very first showdown between Thorin and Bilbo, but as her predictions go, certainly won't be the last.

-

 

Everything at Erebor is so pleasantly informal, at least in Bilbo's opinion. He isn't really required to read with anyone else but Thorin, but he is still invited to sit in on a couple of the auditions, and it's impossible not to enjoy the process. Gandalf has a very clear idea of what he wants, and Dís seems to know exactly what that is, too, and so he watches his fellow cast form before his eyes with an ease he doesn't think is entirely natural.

He is immensely grateful for this opportunity to peek behind the curtain, as it were, of what goes on in pre-production. He's always been told exactly what to do, where to stand, how long to wait, wherever he's worked, but this place welcomes him in an entirely different manner, despite the initial hostility he'd felt – it's not anything he could put a finger on if asked, but he's no longer frightened, faced with the decades of history gathered and slumbering under the wooden rafters, like hundreds of eyes watching him, waiting to see if he can measure up.

He'd broken some sort of spell coming to see Thorin in The Importance Of Being Earnest here, he thinks. He'd meant to be just another member of the audience then, but somehow he ended up chatting with and meeting a lot of the people he's going to be working with, and he felt instantly more comfortable.

Prim checks up on him regularly, fretting immensely since she can't be by his side for once, but he always assures her that he's having a great time, spending as much of it as he can at his new workplace.

“You know you're not actually required to sit there for hours on end.”

“I know,” Bilbo smiles, currently lounging in one of the armchairs in the bar, listening to the unintelligible hubbub of Bofur arguing with someone in the adjacent room, “I like it here, though.”

“Let them charge you, for crying out loud. You're doing well enough past your work description.”

“Don't be ridiculous. This is great experience. I read with a bunch of, I swear to god, high school students today, Gandalf wants them for, you know, the main four, Lysander and Hermia and the rest, for the sake of authenticity I think, and they were all so great. Everything's great, really, you don't need to worry so much.”

“Really,” she says dryly, “what about Thorin Oakenshield?”

“What about him?”

“How are you two managing to occupy the same space?”

“Oh... fine, yeah. Had our first two readthroughs with Gandalf this week, just to understand what he's going to want from us, I think, it was...”

“Ye-es?” she asks, fully prepared to laugh if he says utterly shit, he knows. He hasn't even told her much about the work lunch the preceding weekend – she'd laugh about that too.

“He's a menace,” he admits, adding hastily, “but I can do this. I think.”

It's never been a matter of wondering whether he can do something – no, he's used to firmly deciding he can do something, and then doing it. Determination gets you further than anything. That, and a healthy dose of humor. But what happened earlier this week had less to do with that, and more to do with Bilbo being fed up. He rarely loses patience. Almost never snaps at people. His numerous meddling Aunts have taught him that in spades. But there's something about Thorin Oakenshield that makes his blood boil.

Bilbo is used to being called subpar, and a joke, and a great many other things, and he always, always enjoys the challenge of proving people wrong, but this is... He can't stand anyone who presumes that they know him. Fans, fair enough, he enjoys interacting with them plenty, and stays well away from social media, to avoid getting freaked out. Interviewers are worse, with their assuming and their nosy questions and their familiar attitudes. Also, people trying to make friends just because he's famous – he's had his fair share of ' we used to be in high school together, don't you remember?'s, and as much as he enjoys making new acquaintances, he is slowly learning to keep his distance.

But then there are people like Thorin. People who think they can read him. People whose first words to Bilbo were about the mediocrity of his deliverance, and who now have the gall to accuse him of being excellent at ' selling what little marketable skill you have, but falling miserably short when it comes to anything of substance'. God, the man drives him absolutely insane. Yes, he might have called him emotionally constipated first, but that was only after Thorin had gone on and on about how Bilbo's ' emotional palette could rival that of an excited teenager'.

Gandalf had merely watched, because it was all apparently very amusing to him, and played perfectly into his very free style of directing that Bilbo had witnessed before. Bilbo had wondered then if two adults bickering like kids pushing each other at a playground was also a part of the free-flowing creative process Gandalf so wanted them to find their way into , and if calling his stage partner a stuck-up git and watching him storm out had that exciting zing he was looking for.

Oh well. To think Bilbo had actually meant to apologize to Thorin that day, for bringing up an obviously sensitive topic so bluntly at their lunch... No, as much compassion as Bilbo has in him, he doesn't think he'll be sparing much of it for Thorin Oakenshield any time soon. He's made it perfectly clear that he isn't interested in anything even remotely resembling polite human interaction, and Bilbo... well, contrary to popular belief, Bilbo can pretend, and be one thing on stage, and another thing off it, thank you very much.

It's just that he was rather looking forward to, if not making friends, then at least... a mutually beneficial cooperation of sorts. He's still certain that Thorin is a terrific actor, and thinks they could have had great fun arguing over their jobs and so many other things for many more hours last Saturday, had that not been cut short by Bilbo's unfortunately insensitive remark. He'd thought then that Thorin lashing out that much was perhaps a bit too harsh, but nothing that an apology and a more careful approach couldn't fix... Now, he's pretty sure stuck-up git was a compliment.

 

It takes him a while to realize someone's watching him – after he promised Prim to take the best possible care of himself, he went straight back to reading today's lines, and for all he knows, the little boy might have been standing there for hours, clutching onto one of the curtains by the entrance to the lounge. Bilbo looks up, and he gasps and backs away a step or two, but stares still.

“Hello,” Bilbo says cautiously, offering what he hopes to god is a kind smile.

“Hi,” the boy peeps, large dark eyes sizing Bilbo up and down as if the kid is trying to decide on something.

“Uh... I'm Bilbo,” Bilbo supplies somewhat uneasily – one would think having more little cousins and nephews and nieces than he can count would make him less nervous around children, but no.

“I know. Mom's looking for you.”

Bilbo gapes at him, trying to process his words, and also pondering if it is at all possible for him to just be a ghost of some play long past – he has the looks, angelic little face and a somewhat unruly mop of almost jet-black hair, and he did appear out of nowhere... But then Dís strolls into the lounge, followed closely by another boy, and things become much clearer.

“There you are!” she scolds the kid, who for his part doesn't seem to be paying her much attention, “have you been bothering this nice man?”

“No-o, I found him for you!” the boy exclaims proudly at the very second that Bilbo starts assuring her that there was no bothering involved.

“Right then, thank you,” Dís tells her son – must be her son – and ruffles his hair, asking, “did you say hi?”

Suddenly bashful, the boy grabs onto her hand and steps closer to her, though never taking his eyes off Bilbo. He is now under the joined scrutiny of both the children by Dís' side, and he feels a tad unsteady.

“Bilbo, meet my sons,” Dís decides to break the ice, “this little impolite troublemaker is Kili, and this is his older brother, Fili. Six and ten years old, respectively.”

They're as different as day and night. The younger one, Kili, resembles his mother (and Thorin, Bilbo notes) very much, while Fili sports an impressive mane of golden hair and hazel eyes that Bilbo supposes he takes after his father.

“It's very nice to meet you both,” he says, “I'm Bilbo.”

“Bilbo will be working with your Uncle on this new play,” Dís adds, and then, with a somewhat cheeky grin reserved especially for Bilbo, “we're all very excited.”

“What play, Mom?” Fili wants to know, never taking his eyes off Bilbo, as if he's some particularly interesting specimen to be admired from a safe distance.

“A Midsummer Night's Dream. It's one of Shakespeare's, darling, you remember him, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Fili sighs and Bilbo can't help but smile at the idea of Dís teaching her little boys all about influential playwrights of old.

“Anyway, Thorin's running a bit late,” she tells him with a tell-tale frown her sons can't see, suggesting that it's not entirely a coincidence.

“Oh right, is he?” Bilbo checks his watch, “I didn't even notice... oh, a lot late, yeah.”

“Yep, sorry about that. Gandalf got held up with Balin over something, too, so...”

“Not a problem,” Bilbo says, “I've got all day.”

“Well, the rest of us don't,” she replies somewhat grumpily, but then remembers herself, “don't worry about a thing. I'll make sure Thorin actually arrives, and Gandalf will be here in a sec. So sorry for the wait.”

“Again, not a problem.”

“Is Uncle Thorin sulking again?” Kili asks thoughtfully, giggling when his mother gasps in mock-horror.

“Maybe,” she concedes, “let's go find out, yeah? You can do your homework in my office, come on.”

“Can I do it here?” Fili asks, “please?”

“Me too!” Kili cries, “Bilbo can help.”

“I'm sure Bilbo has his own homework, sweetheart, and he could use some peace and quiet – you boys arguing over Math is the exact opposite of that.”

“But Mo-om!”

“Actually, I'm all done now,” Bilbo finds himself saying, “I can't do much more on my own, anyway. I can watch them for a bit.”

“God, no, I couldn't ask you to...” Dís begins, but is quickly interrupted by Fili's 'Mom, please.', and Kili's 'Mom, go to work!' said so incredibly seriously that Bilbo bursts into laughter.

“Go,” he nods, “we'll be fine for some time.”

She frowns, weighing her options, then turns to her boys.

“Alright, you're on your own, guys,” she tells them in a very serious yet playful tone that Bilbo can't help but appreciate immensely, “you sit down here, do your homework, and behave. I'll send someone to look after you, but if no one comes and Bilbo has to go to work, you'll come running straight back to my office, is that understood?”

“Yes!” they both exclaim in unison.

“Alright then,” she regards them somewhat suspiciously, “no stealing from the bar fridge!”

“Damn, I was just about to grab a soda,” Bilbo quips, which prompts more giggling from the boys, and a grin from Dís, with a very obvious undertone of thankfulness.

“Someone will be back for them soon, you don't need to...”

“I'll be alright, really,” Bilbo reassures her, and she measures him for a moment as if she's prone to doubting him, but then she sighs and shrugs, and one last grateful nod later, she's gone.

The kids settle at a table near Bilbo, both opening their school bags obediently and fishing out their notebooks and colorful pencil pouches and getting started on their homework, though they keep glancing in Bilbo's direction cautiously every now and then. Soon enough, Kili leans in to whisper something to Fili, to which he replies with an 'I don't know!', and then some sort of a unanimous decision seems to be reached, because Kili gets up and carries what turns out to be a very cheerful first-grade Math book over to Bilbo almost ceremoniously, asking incredibly politely: “Could you please help me, Mister?”

And that's how Bilbo ends up explaining subtractions to a six-year-old boy using fruit and vegetables as an example, and this is definitely not in his work description, but still a rather wonderful way to kill time waiting for his colleague to show up.

Fili soon joins them, muttering over his English textbook, and so do other people – they come and go, greeting the boys enthusiastically, and Bilbo equally so. Bombur, the ever-cheerful fellow actor slash bartender pours them all a lemonade, while Dori the costume designer provides hard candy, congratulating them on their no doubt difficult work. Bofur engages them in a brief game of hide and seek while Bilbo takes a call, and Dwalin the somewhat menacing chief stagehand turns into a tad reluctant climbing frame, tattooed muscular arms swinging both boys around with ease until they squeal.

They're a family, if not by blood then by bond, and Bilbo admires them and envies them in equal measure. They're kind enough to him, of course, he absolutely can't complain, but that afternoon, watching Dís' boys sitting on bar stools taller than them, sucking on lollipops and telling anyone who's willing to listen about this or that trip they took recently, he can't help but feel like an intruder, a mere onlooker, once again.

 

...Thorin arrives an hour and a half late, and Bilbo wouldn't even have noticed the time if it weren't for Dís commenting on it with vigor. Thorin looks ready enough to bite her head off, bearing her scolding with his impressive jaw set tight, suggesting irritation rather than patience. Bilbo doesn't bother greeting him, and Thorin doesn't really bother acknowledging his presence, only apologizing to Gandalf in passing and because Dís probably makes him...

But then the two little boys re-enter the lounge, and the second they lay eyes on their Uncle, they launch themselves at him, and Bilbo thinks he isn't even supposed to see the change that happens in Thorin's face so visibly, but he sees it nevertheless. He picks up both of them – quite the feat – and laughs as they both begin talking at once, devoting his attention to them completely, and Bilbo stares. He can't quite help himself – it's like Thorin has been transformed into a whole different human being.

“I wasn't sulking!” Bilbo hears him say, exaggerating a pout that makes his nephews giggle, and he can't stop the snort of laughter that escapes him – Thorin shoots a look his way, smile fading, and Bilbo drops his gaze, feeling a bit guilty for ruining a moment that wasn't his to ruin, but it doesn't matter. He knows now.

His suspicions are confirmed when the boys are allowed in on their readthrough, hopping around Thorin and Gandalf excitedly but settling down obediently once the director calls for silence and for Thorin and Bilbo to get to work. Side by side with their mother, they watch curiously, wide eyes and not a single word, and Bilbo is loving it, because he gets to see something previously unseen – Thorin trying harder. He seems infinitely more at ease, playing it all up for his nephews, lending his character a spark that Bilbo knows he's had in him all this time, but couldn't bring out of him on his own just yet.

The point is, Bilbo learns on that afternoon, really working together with his stage partner for the first time, even if it's just to make two little boys laugh, not even Thorin Oakenshield is completely made of stone. No matter how unapproachable and hostile and unsociable he wishes to appear, no one who looks at children like that, with so much love and amazement, who starts visibly enjoying himself on-stage just because his family is in the audience, can be a completely horrible person. Utterly by accident, Bilbo might have just happened upon Thorin's most guarded secret, and boy is he planning on exploiting it.

 

Chapter Text

“I caught you a billion times before, I will catch you again, can we just please get on with this?”

“It's not that I'm worried you'll drop me, I'm just-”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, creative process being hindered all over the place right now, can we please just progress with the lines? Leave the choreography issues for the choreography training, please. I don't require you to move perfectly just yet, but I do require you to move.”

Dís struggles not to burst into laughter, curling up on herself in her seat and grinning helplessly into her cup of coffee. She tries to catch Bilbo's and Thorin's readthroughs whenever she can, because they've quickly proven unmissable and sinfully amusing to watch. The two are like fire and water, seemingly clashing even when they're in the same building together, and now that they are required to actually close the distance and start rehearsing their moves, the tension between them is nothing short of explosive.

They're currently stuck smack in the middle of the scene Dís has strictly personally dubbed 'The Big Snog' – the first Act, Puck opens with a monologue, Oberon approaches and literally sweeps his loyal servant off his feet in a very passionate, very wild first kiss, Robin Goodfellow's feet off the ground and everything, the audience gasps in shock, 'oh, so that's how it's going to be, oh my', and the whole play picks up tempo right there and then and continues as a wild ride for another two hours... Technically speaking. In a perfect world, of course.

This world has Bilbo Baggins worrying (and Dís can't really blame him) about being manhandled by a man who, just yesterday, didn't hesitate to call him offensively one-dimensional, and said man, along with Gandalf, starting to lose patience, slowly but surely. It's adorable. They've only just started putting this part of the whole thing together, blocking actions and all, so there's plenty of time for Bilbo and Thorin to actually gain something from the training they've been subject to, balance and trust exercises by a choreographer Gandalf himself has brought in, a man by the name of Radagast.

The whole play is very... alive, for the lack of a better word – only rarely do characters deliver their lines all boring and stationery. No actual dancing in particular, just a lot of fluid movement used as a means of communication. This is especially paramount for Puck and Oberon, as the two shift the focus of the whole thing in their own favor, capturing everyone's attention. They're supposed to be practically inseparable, seeking each other out and complementing each other in ways that obviously go beyond a simple master-servant relationship, at least in the traditional sense that the audience will be expecting.

But, well, there are characters, and then there are their actors.

Dís wouldn't have pegged Bilbo as someone with very many personal-space issues, what with his open and cheerful attitude and all – he moves very gracefully, bringing Puck to life very vividly, sweatpants and a faded Spider-Man t-shirt and all, and he is a delight to watch, and seems to enjoy himself immensely whenever his job doesn't require Thorin lifting him off his feet and tossing him about. Probably just a trust issue that will get solved with time.

Thorin on the other hand seems reluctant to even acknowledge he has to move at all, his history of musical theatre be damned. That is definitely a trust issue, and a comfort-zone issue, and Dís just can't get enough of watching him being pushed out that comfort zone bit by tiny bit.

She is literally shaken out of her thinking by someone climbing over the backs of the seats to sit next to her – Dwalin, of course, the clumsy mountain he is.

“Hey,” he utters under his breath so as not to disrupt the rehearsal slash argument happening on stage, “we're all done.”

“Oh, good, yeah,” she sighs, crossing her legs unwittingly as Dwalin splays himself all over his chosen seat, “anything out of the ordinary?”

“No sir. Bofur wrote up a nice little report for you.”

“Lovely,” she mumbles, not particularly looking forward to spending the remainder of her afternoon inventorying every last bit of the backstage – something that needs to be done before each new production, but that also promises to bring to light just how under-equipped they really are for this thing.

“So, how's it going?” Dwalin inclines his head towards the stage.

“Terrific,” Dís sniggers.

Radagast chooses that exact moment to interrupt Gandalf's work – is that the time already? - and take over, and Dís and Dwalin reach a unanimous decision to keep as silent as possible so that they are allowed to stay and watch a while longer.

Radagast is a very... quirky man, to say the least, but he certainly gets the job done. He never stops, always flailing his arms, moving across the stage and repeating the necessary moves over and over with the ease of someone much, much younger – he reminds Dís of all those hippie granddads growing weed in their backyards, with his long gray hair tied in the messiest bun, bare feet sticking out of large colorful tie dye trousers, the image finished with strangest Greenpeace t-shirt Dís has ever seen (along with Thorin's ancient Led Zeppelin thing that Dís thinks she gave him when they were both still teenagers, the three of them make for quite the sight, honestly).

Radagast really seems to be constantly floating on some higher plane of being, often trailing off mid-sentence, but he has a spectacular way of commanding the room – yesterday, he managed to convince eight people to move in near perfect unison even though it was their first time acquainting themselves with those particular moves, and today... Well, obviously Gandalf knows the right people to pick, and trusts Radagast immensely, but Thorin and Bilbo are proving a greater challenge than a hall full of disobedient actors.

They're currently subject to what to Dís' inexperienced eyes looks like some mixture of basic yoga and aerobic, and Radagast is doing his very best to make them move in synch with each other, but even he is falling short when it comes to handling their vastly different temperaments.

“Ballet background all forgotten, eh?” Dwalin comments dryly in regards to Thorin, and Dís is glad they're sitting far enough from the stage so that her tormented brother can't hear them – it's been... well over a decade now since Thorin's brief affair with musical theatre, but Dwalin probably won't let him hear the end of it for the rest of their lives.

“It's like he just woke up,” Dís sighs, “look at him. My god.”

 

“It's hardly my fault that you can't keep up.”

“I'd have no trouble keeping up if you were doing it right.”

“Here they go again,” Dís mutters, sipping on her coffee happily and watching Bilbo and Thorin launch into yet another squabble, made even more comical because Radagast doesn't let them stop what they're doing.

“Remind me, when was the last time your brother got laid?”

Half the coffee ends up her nose, and she stares at Dwalin in shock – highly amused shock, but shock nevertheless.

“Why?” she asks, and then, after some thought, “I'd think that if anyone were to know, it should be you!”

“Eh, he never tells me anything,” Dwalin shrugs, “so?”

“So? Why are you under the impression that he'd tell me? I'm pretty sure I'm better off not knowing.”

“Hmm,” he muses, “I just can't help but think a lot of this-” a vague gesture describing the entirety of the unfortunate training going on before their eyes right now, “could be solved if they just-”

“Oh good god, Dwalin,” she groans.
“What, what?” he grins, wide and adorable and absolutely failing at innocent, the way only he knows, “I was gonna say grab a bite, talk this through like the outstanding professionals they are...”

“I've known you long enough to know exactly what you wanted to say,” she quips.

Before their eyes, Thorin and Bilbo get ready to start rehearsing the actual moves, and eventually, Dwalin and Dís excuse themselves out of the room lest their conjoined laughter ruins it all.

-

 

The problem isn't his shyness, or Thorin's shyness, or anything like that, Bilbo knows. Most of the time, he doesn't have the slightest issue with being manhandled by big strong arms – exactly the opposite in fact. And he's pretty sure that Thorin knows how to do it right, he just... refuses.

The choreography is challenging, yes, and the expert Gandalf has brought in is ten pounds of inexplicably weird in a five pound bag, but all of that pales in comparison with Thorin's stubbornness. Granted, Bilbo has a stubborn streak of his own, a pretty persistent one at that, but for crying out loud. Thorin Oakenshield, big on the whole 'one thing on-stage, another thing off it' spiel, incapable of getting past their differences and doing their moves correctly.

Everyone else seems convinced that it is only a temporary thing, these... misunderstandings between them. Gandalf is nothing but pleased with their progress so far, and Bilbo must admit that when they're not required to climb all over each other, he has a great deal of fun acting with Thorin. Baby steps, he tells himself, and tries not to get horrendously injured, or bruised in any visible places.

Oh, and tries not to think about the fact that they'll both end up doing these antics largely topless and all.

It's all a part of Gandalf's artistic idea for the play, and Bilbo loves it, of course he does. None of the actors attend the artistic meetings, but Gandalf takes care to pitch the ideas to them, of course – the costumes are in the making, as is the set design, and it's all very exciting, watching this thing being born. Very exciting, and slightly frightening.

Make no mistake, Bilbo is immensely honored and happy to be a part of it. The people involved are all incredible, the genius loci of the theatre is breathtaking, he adores the city and the fact that besides a bunch of interviews and photoshoots left over from his previous projects, he has no other obligations than this one until the summer... He is living something very close to perfection, and yet... And yet.

 

It sneaks up on him on the first full cast readthrough. It is incredibly exciting, meeting all those people at once, all of them sitting in a large square of tables in a vast beautiful attic rehearsal room, mugs of coffee and bottles of water and snacks and run sheets being passed back and forth... They all know each other. Even Galadriel Goldenwood, the stunning Broadway star, one whom Bilbo has never seen anywhere else than in the media before, seems inherently relaxed and at home, like a goddess turned human. She makes Bilbo very very flustered when she greets him, warm and kind and gorgeous, and since they are seated next to each other, they end up chatting about mutual acquaintances and experiences, of which they don't necessarily have a lot, but it's unbelievably nice nevertheless. But still, Bilbo feels... lonely? Perhaps.

And so he makes everyone laugh. That's what he does best, after all, and the character of Puck that he's been constructing for a while now is perfect for it. He overdoes it on purpose, making Puck a tad too loud, a tad too obnoxious, and it puts everyone at ease – everyone excluding Bilbo.

...And Thorin.

He comes in last, dark aviators and Dís' subtly disapproving glare both hinting at a rough night (string of nights? Who knows), and makes no effort to exert himself past reading his lines somewhat mechanically. It's infuriating and unprofessional, but Bilbo decides very quickly not to let it ruin the experience for him, because frankly, no matter his somewhat unstable feelings, he's been looking forward to working with more people a lot, hoping it might bring a new perspective to the dynamic between his and Thorin's characters.

Then Thorin literally trips over the word 'misprision' and proves incapable of yet another completely human thing – laughing at himself – and so Bilbo takes pity on him and doesn't comment on it, in or out of character. Until later that day, that is.

 

They've been hanging back, watching the kids (as everyone has come to refer to the quartet playing the roles of the four Athenians lost in the forest) rehearse, but mostly just keeping to themselves, Thorin waiting for the one-on-one readthrough for Oberon and Titania and Bilbo staying simply because he wants to and no one has sent him home yet.

Bilbo derives great fun from watching Radagast, the old man ten times more nimble than the young people he's leading, showing them their moves over and over again while Gandalf drones on with his comments – Bilbo can't help but sympathize with the young ones, trying so hard and doing their very best to keep up.

“It's just lovely, isn't it? Very lively,” he comments.

“Hm?” Thorin grumbles, and Bilbo looks at him properly, sitting a few seats away, sprawled over two at once, run sheets and script poised on his knee, sunglasses still in place even though the auditorium is lit very dimly at best.

“Oh, sorry, nothing,” Bilbo snickers, “didn't mean to wake you.”

“Wasn't sleeping,” comes a gruff reply.

“I wouldn't blame you,” Bilbo offers nicely enough, but then, after some consideration, adds a quick, “flubbing lines is exhausting business.”

Thorin groans something incomprehensible and squares his shoulders, much to Bilbo's amusement.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, “I didn't mean that. Could happen to anyone. Happens to me all the time.”

“Right,” Thorin notes dryly.

“No, really! Back when we were rehearsing Hamlet, it took me so long to learn how to pronounce 'Marry, this is miching mallecho; it means mischief'and all that, and even when I finally got it right, I'd still have to concentrate really hard to actually deliver it right every single time-”

“God, alright, now I'm falling asleep.”

“Really? Too bad. I was aiming for giving you a headache.”

“Oh, that's a permanent side-effect of you, don't worry.”

Bilbo can't help it, he lets a burst of laughter escape him, and icy blue eyes peer up at him over the rim of the sunglasses obscuring them, almost curiously, before Thorin sighs and shakes his head, sitting up and concentrating on his script. But Bilbo only grants him silence for a short while.

“I like the kids,” he comments on what's happening on-stage, “that Tauriel girl in particular, she seems very talented. Bofur tells me Erebor letting them play in this is an attempt at... smoothing things over with that academy?”

Thorin glares at the stage first, at Bilbo second, wordlessly, as if he's trying to figure out if Bilbo is actually being serious.

“Crudely put, but yes,” he supplies at last.

“What was it called again... Mirkwood?”

“Mirkwood Performing Arts,” Thorin fills in, and Bilbo couldn't miss the disdain in his voice even if he tried.

“Right, right,” he decides to tease – and find out – some more, “I'm pretty sure I heard of it before. It belongs to the Greenleaf family, yes? Yeah, I remember Thranduil Greenleaf speaking about it in an interview or two. What an actor.”

Thorin now looks like he swallowed something particularly bitter, and it's threatening to make him hurl – Bilbo would backpedal, if he didn't find it so funny.

“No?” he asks with exaggerated care, tilting his head.

“No,” comes a simple, curt reply.

“I quite liked him in The Feast.”

A derisive snort is Thorin's comment on that.

“He did win an Oscar for it.”

“And what does that prove, exactly?” Thorin grumbles, and before Bilbo can suggest that it proves he's bloody good at what he does, Thorin continues, “the man is so full of himself I'm surprised he hasn't trademarked his face yet. His academy caters exclusively to rich spoiled brats, and for some reason that completely eludes me, my sister thinks it's a good idea to have him sponsor this charade and let his own son star in it, which is a case of blatant nepotism if I've ever seen one. He doesn't care for art, or any qualitative subsection of it, he cares about profit – people like him win awards not because they deserve it, but because they know how to buy their way in.”

 

“My god,” Bilbo huffs a laugh, “nobody told me this was the seventh grade. Has someone developed a little grudge?”

“Look, this goes far beyond a grudge, for Christ's sakes, but I don't expect you to understand, nor do I have the time or willpower to explain it to you-”

“I'm not asking you to explain it to me.”

“Good, because I honestly doubt you'd be capable of understanding either way-”

“My god, are you being serious right now? What makes you think I can't-”

“Gentlemen, if you will?!”

That's Gandalf – everyone on stage is now looking at them, the director with the sternest face of all, and Bilbo realizes they must have forgotten to speak quietly at some point. Shocking. Legolas, the aforementioned lucky son, a lean boy with particularly striking features and wheat-blond hair, looks a bit startled, and Bilbo feels a tad bad for him, hoping in vain that he didn't hear the majority of Thorin's tirade.

“Apologies,” he peeps, “we'll keep it down.”

“Yes, please do, preferably in the hallway.”

“Oh, come on,” Thorin utters, at the same time that Bilbo says, “oh, that won't be necessary, you won't hear another word out of us, I promise-”

“Out,” Gandalf orders simply, and somehow that one word is more than enough to scold them and make them feel like misbehaving teenagers.

They get up from their seats, the eyes of the actual teenagers following them somewhat curiously as they slink out of the auditorium.

“Why do I get the feeling that none of this would have happened if some people didn't bear middle-school grudges?” Bilbo quips once they're outside, and Thorin groans in exasperation, but retaliates in kind.

“Why do I get the feeling that none of this would have happened if some people managed to stay out of other people's business?”

Bilbo laughs, because despite Thorin glaring daggers at him, he is having a lot of fun teasing him still.

“You know what, I get it now,” he declares, “you're not difficult to work with because you're such a diva – you actually are thirteen years old, that's the real problem here.”

Thorin never gracing that with a reply and simply stomping off is a completely predictable reaction, and it amuses Bilbo even further – a part of him does wonder if he's not overdoing it a bit, but another, far more prominent, part of him has firmly decided that it's too much fun to stop now.

-

 

“Hey, sourpuss.”

Thorin doesn't respond for a moment, hoping in vain that Dís might think he's sleeping and leave him alone – god, he really should have hidden better, maybe locked himself in one of the less used rehearsal rooms. She would have found him eventually either way, but it would have taken her longer, allowing him some time to take an actual nap.

“What's going on?” she demands casually enough, sitting across from him, curling up in the small lounge armchair and barely glancing up from the screen of her phone, giving him both the time and space to either start talking or walk away. He does neither, just rakes his hand through his hair and tries to concentrate on his script.

“Dwalin tells me you crashed at his place a couple of times last week?”

“Closer to the pub,” Thorin offers curtly.

“Choose a pub closer to your home,” she retorts, and he knows better than to ignore the vague warning in her harsh tone.

“I'll try,” he mumbles.

“Thorin.”

“M-hm?”

She wants to ask him what's wrong again – he knows, he can sense it far too well. But she doesn't, simply lets the silence hang heavy between them, and he doesn't have enough resolve within him to face her, with her trademark look, equal parts accusatory and inquisitive.

“I'm fine,” he says dully, and her worry is an almost tangible thing.

“Look, I don't know what you think this production is worth,” she decides to approach it all from a different, much more grating angle, “but I need to know you care enough. I need to know you're giving this a hundred percent.”

“I am,” he replies simply.

“I really don't think you are. See I know what your hundred percent looks like. And I know you like this role. So why can't you just make this work? If it's because you can't stand acting with Bilbo, then may I suggest-”

“Oh Jesus, this has nothing to do with Baggins, Dís, please,” he snaps, surprising even himself, and feels a tad guilty when he does look at her at long last, but not enough not to continue, “I don't understand why everyone assumes... Look, it doesn't matter, really. I had a rough night, yes – a couple of them in a row. But you know me better than to think that I'd let it affect my work-”

“But it is affecting your damn work,” she interrupts him, and he is very quickly reminded of his headache from earlier that day, “don't you think I can't see it? You're not concentrating, you walk around like a zombie I swear to god, and Gandalf won't say anything because he's always had a soft spot for you, but he's doing this for you, for all of us, and if you can't respect that at least, then I don't know what to tell you, to be honest. Please Thorin, please don't give up on this before it even started.”

He merely gapes at her for a while, having run short of words, trying to convince himself that the sudden ache in his chest is just acid reflux, or something equally as mundane.

“Nobody's giving up,” he manages at last, quiet and hoarse and unconvincing.

She stares, waiting for more, and then when it doesn't come, she sighs, heavy and resigned, and gets up. He watches her turn her back to him, and suddenly, the prospect of not telling her, of going home, or to the pub, or to another rehearsal, with this weighing on him, is very nearly unbearable.

“I went to see him, Dís,” he says when she's almost out of the door, and is grateful when she stops dead, “I went to see Dad.”

-

 

It occurs to Bilbo that it's not loneliness – it's homesickness. He's missing a home he hasn't had in years, and it's all the more powerful now that he's surrounded by all these people who are so much at home here in this ancient theatre. It'll get better with time, he convinces himself over and over again – it always does.

He's very much used to not belonging anywhere, and only now is he beginning to realize that maybe it's time to change that. One of the skills that has taken him to where he is, that makes traveling around the world and never staying at one place easier, is his friendliness, always getting along with people, always finding a way... always, with the ineffable exception of one Thorin Oakenshield.

So far, he's been working with the Effortlessly Annoying strategy, bugging his stage partner endlessly because he's convinced that that grouchiness is just a protective outer layer, but he hasn't been getting very far. Which in turn bugs him, because out of all the lovely people he's met here so far, Thorin is the one he's been spending most of his time with, and they're only just getting started.

And so, in a tradition true to his family heritage, trying not to think about how proud all his horrible Aunts would be, he decides to approach the problem head on.

“Look, you don't need to like me-”

“Oh, god.”

“-but you do need to be able to work with me. Clearly this-” he balances on one leg through one of Radagast's many motion exercises and yet still somehow manages to use one simple gesture to describe the whole of their current predicament, “-is not working out. No matter how many bloody trust falls we do, we can't seem to get this right. I do like acting off you-”

“Off me?”

“You know what I mean. We do click when it comes to that. But this physical stuff is a tragedy. We need to figure this out.”

Thorin is silent for the longest time, gazing ahead and repeating Radagast's movements, and Bilbo is starting to think he's decided to ignore him once again, when he grumbles, if with a healthy dose of irony: “What are you suggesting, then?”

“I'm not sure. I think I might have approached all of this – you – all wrong, I don't know.”

Thorin scoffs. Bilbo ignores him.

“Look, no more awkward work lunches, okay? I promise,” he grins at him, “I'm not going to try and get to know you anymore.”

“Gentlemen, together now,” Radagast reminds them, and Bilbo trots over to Thorin for their joined stretching exercises, never stopping his stream of words.

“I just think that – alright, we might not exactly get along, but I'd still like to do our characters justice, and I'm pretty sure that you do to. I might be wrong. But I really don't believe that-”

“Alright, I've got a proposition for you,” Thorin interrupts him curtly, letting go of Bilbo's hand mid-exercise, breaking his balance so much he almost topples over, and completely disregarding Radagast's orders to resume.

“Talking too much?” Bilbo asks innocently, wiping sweat-drenched curls from his forehead.

“Yes! Yes. That's exactly the problem,” Thorin says surprisingly honestly, “you talk too much. You talk always. It's not good for me, or my migraines, or my acting. Just cut the small talk, I beg of you.”

Bilbo regards him with newfound amusement.

“I can do that,” he decides, “I can do that. What's in it for me?”

“Excuse me?”

“This is a proposition, remember? I make some adjustments, you make some in return.”

“What am I doing wrong here?”

“Oh my god, do you want me to write you a list?!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” Radagast pleads in the midst of it all.

“How about,” Bilbo suggests as they go back to their (theoretically) perfectly synchronized exercising, “you try acting like a nice human being for a change.”

“Oh, do elaborate,” Thorin rolls his eyes.

“See, that. That right there. I cut back on my... natural charm and talkativeness, if you cut back on the snide comments. No more mediocrity of deliverance, no more offensively one-dimensional, or predictable, or inadequate. I know what you think of me, and I know you think you're right, but just as I don't advertise my feelings about you to the world, I'd appreciate it if you tried to do the same-”

“You don't advertise your feelings? Just yesterday, you called me a, what was it? Oh yes, a whining manchild.”

“See, alright, and that's something we can work on, yes? Just be a bit nicer to each other? Maybe?”

 

Twenty minutes after they make their first reluctant deal, Radagast forces them to start rehearsing their more difficult moves, piping in with a snarky 'Now that you've decided to be nice to each other, surely you won't have any trouble climbing each other', and Thorin makes the tiniest mistake, but it results in him slipping and Bilbo almost hitting the ground.

“Well, that was... inadequate,” Thorin declares grumpily, but his hand is outstretched to Bilbo, and...

“Was that a joke?” Bilbo asks, properly flabbergasted, letting him pull him to his feet, “was that an actual attempt at a joke?”

Thorin says nothing, merely smirks when he thinks Bilbo can't see him, and another twenty minutes later, both of them apparently feeling reckless as hell, they decide to comply with Radagast's wishes and try their main big move in full speed for the first time, even though they're everything but ready.

Far too late does Bilbo realize that it involves the kiss – Thorin avoids it by shoving his face into the crook of Bilbo's neck and that is very not good. Bilbo yelps and shrieks in shock, forgetting himself completely, limbs flailing – Thorin cries out in pain, and Bilbo does too when they hit the ground, and...

“Are you alright?” Bilbo asks, and it takes him a moment to realize Thorin has asked the same.

“Fine, fine,” Bilbo lies, taking a moment to lie still and stare at the ceiling high, high up above.

“Excellent. Permission to whine like a manchild.”

Bilbo looks at his stage partner in unadulterated awe, and despite the fact that his back and arse hurt like nobody's business and he thinks he might have cracked a rib or something, he bursts into laughter, managing a huffed 'Granted.'

Thorin doesn't laugh just yet, but his smirk lasts even longer this time, and as they scramble to their feet like two old men with creaky joints, Bilbo thinks that somehow, even though it might include breaking each other's bones, they might have found a way to be a bit nicer to each other. Maybe.

-

 

She's heard so many words of pity over the years – so many phrases barely meeting the requirements for compassionate, repeated over and over again until she learned to distrust the people who used them by default. Nobody really ever knows what to say, and she doesn't blame them – can't blame them for trying. Thorin is so different, though – even after all these years, he doesn't take kindly to being asked about their grandfather, or Frerin, and least of all, most probably influenced by the fact that out of the three tragedies in their family, he's the one that's still ongoing, their father.

That's why the first thing she felt when he confessed that he'd been to see him was shock – should have been anger, remorse maybe, but no, she was just very genuinely surprised. Asked him why, he said 'it was about time'. Asked him how it went, he offered an even less satisfying reply.

She keeps an eye on him from then on. She can hardly scold him for finally doing something he's been putting off for so long, but it's obvious now why he was so distracted, and a tiny part of her wishes he'd never gone. A tiny part of her is pissed and wants to shout 'I told you so', because she did tell him so, and now it's doing exactly what she'd predicted it would do to him, and...

Well. She watches him very closely, but it's like he's turned a page. What she'd initially thought would be the worst timing ever, proves for the best. Dís knows Thorin doesn't believe in closure, but she does, enough for the both of them. Knows that it takes more than just one visit, but also knows how to recognize a good start.

And slowly, bit by bit, Thorin starts keeping to her advice slash order slash plea. The first full on-stage full cast readthrough finally happens, and goes smoother than anyone could have predicted. Thorin is holding back, of course he is, and Bilbo and him don't even bother with the vast majority of their more difficult moves, but he's... at ease, for the lack of a better term.

Dís still wants to take him aside, still wants to ask him if he's alright and make him talk, but she knows better than that, she honestly does. There's something about him... something different, something that's shifted, and is now somehow reassuring her that he will keep to his promise and won't give up.

She first begins decrypting it when she catches Bilbo in the lounge one day, all sweaty and looking too pale to be completely unscathed after his choreography rehearsal.

“You alright?” she asks, ushering Fili and Kili away from the bar and pouring them a lemonade herself.

“Oh, hi. Yeah, I'm fine, it's just that your esteemed brother dropped me on my ar- bum,” Bilbo explains, correcting himself almost seamlessly, but still making the boys giggle.

“He did what?” Dís grins, shushing her sons.

“Only after I kneed him in the ribs though, so I suppose it's all good.”

“Should I... prepare a lawsuit?” Dís asks hesitantly after a moment of confused staring, and Bilbo laughs.

“That won't be necessary. We got a little overexcited, we did that big lift in full speed for the first time, and-”

“And if someone could keep their balance for three damn seconds, I wouldn't need an ice pack right now.”

That's Thorin, also sweaty and also looking like he's in a great deal of pain, emerging with an actual ice pack pressed to his side.

“Excuse me, you were the one who couldn't keep your damn balance!” Bilbo counters, “remember what Radagast said, you are supposed to be the tree to my vine, the pedestal of this two-person statue...”

Dís watches in genuine awe as Thorin actually laughs at Bilbo's top-notch impression of their quirky choreography designer, and her awe never subsides as she watches them bicker for twenty more minutes, in very good nature despite the fact that they both look absolutely beat.

Bilbo makes Thorin laugh twice more in the span of those twenty minutes, and Dís thinks, oh.

 

She doesn't find the time to go watch them until the next full cast rehearsal later that week, and she spends most of that backstage arguing about wiring with Bofur, but she comes back at just the right time, it turns out.

She sneaks into a seat next to Gandalf and Balin, and watches the scene they're currently stuck on, repeating it again and again.

“Ah, the Big Snog,” she comments under her breath, and Balin chuckles, while Gandalf winks at her and orders: “Alright, from the top!”

Bilbo and Thorin have apparently decided that they want to get bruised even further and try their most complicated move at full speed again – they seem to be deciding on a whole lot of things when no one's looking, Dís notes – and she doesn't know if she's the only one holding her breath as Bilbo delivers his monologue and Thorin enters the stage, exchanging an almost hesitant nod with Bilbo before quite literally charging at him and sweeping him off his feet...

To think she'd hoped her big brother would not mind kissing his stage partner in rehearsals – no, he goes for the neck instead, of course, and Bilbo yelps, and Dís can suddenly imagine what had caused the unfortunate dropping incident earlier that week. Thorin stumbles forward with the momentum and they almost topple over and end up a big old tangle of limbs and Bilbo's laughter and Thorin's... was that an apology she heard? And Gandalf begs them not to cripple themselves before the damn thing is even properly rehearsed, and Balin just laughs, and Bilbo apologizes to them, all flushed and his hair a mess, and Thorin...

Thorin's eyes follow Bilbo wherever he moves, and he rubs his side absentmindedly, and when they walk off the stage side by side, Dís is almost certain she sees him mouth an 'Are you alright?' to Bilbo, and she thinks, oh. Oh my.

 

Chapter Text

It is a truth universally acknowledged that there's no money without good PR. Unfortunately, also no good PR without money. Dís has seen far too many productions go under because they failed to accumulate good press, or just generally either overreached or held back in their expectations. With that said, she has absolutely no intention of letting this one fail – it has such a great potential, but that alone is not enough for it to succeed. They're going to have to make this look like something grand, not only because it is by default, but because they need people to come see, and critics to come criticize, and the press to come report.

It's all or nothing, and it is yet another truth universally acknowledged that it doesn't do good to think in such ultimate terms, but Dís can't really help it. As of now, Erebor is like an old ship gaining water, but land is in sight, and she will be damned before she lets it all sink before they reach the horizon.

As of right now, they're in need of an artistic direction – they need the first poster to start plastering all over the city, they need a definitive stage model, they need... oh yes, costumes.

“You can't rush me,” Dori grumbles, currently sitting in a virtual nest of fabrics, sifting through them and scribbling in his helpful little notebook, “or you know what, let me rephrase that – I am not the one you need to rush. Everything would be so much easier if our esteemed director could just decide. I'm not asking for a lot. I'm not asking him to pick out buttons and, and the specific kind of thread I should use, you know. All I want is a direction that isn't along the lines of feathers, fantasy, feral. I kid you not, that actually is what he wrote down for me. See? See?!”

He waves his notebook at her indignantly, and she catches a glimpse of what can only be Gandalf's chicken scratch, a number of words circled and accentuated by an unnecessarily high number of exclamation marks.

“I think he's hoping you might just... run with it,” she offers carefully, “you know... build from there. In a sense, he's giving you a lot of creative freedom-”

“Creative freedom, hah!” Dori scoffs, “I'll tell you what he's giving me – a damn headache!”

“I see that, yeah,” Dís sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose to chase away a headache of her own, “I know this is... difficult, but you and I both know it needs to be done, and soon. I'll talk to Gandalf, but in the meantime, I need you to do what I know you can do magnificently – your damn job.”

Dori chuckles, never looking up from his work, and Dís paces the small cluttered room, fingers tracing the numerous rolls of fabrics, the smooth polished workplaces, the piles of old designs now lying about like half-forgotten memorabilia, some of them very recognizable, some of them never existing outside of those bold lines on paper. She's been coming to play in this workshop ever since she was a little girl, hiding under the tall tables where her brothers could never find her, making dolls out of scraps of fabrics and pins she'd found on the ground, listening to the ruckus... Even now, the music coming from Dori's ancient radio and the smell of decades upon decades of memories stored between the folds of fabrics put her strangely at ease.

“What's this?” she asks, coming across a number of drawings pinned somewhat messily to a board, half-hidden under the rest of the mess on that particular table, but catching her eye nevertheless.

“What? What? Let me see,” Dori turns to look, waving his hand when she lifts some of the papers to show him, “oh, that. Just something that Ori doodled the other day.”

“But it's brilliant!” she exclaims, “have you actually looked at it?”

“Of course I've looked at it,” the man mumbles absentmindedly, still bent over his work, “very nice, yes.”

“Very nice?” Dís counters, “not to demean your work or anything, but I'll bet you that if I take these to Gandalf right now, he'll love them.”

“Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Dori scowls, “Ori might be good at all that digital art nonsense, but he's seventeen. What do you think he knows about costume design, eh?”

“I don't know,” Dís smiles beatifically, slapping a select drawing in front of Dori, stabbing it with her finger, the flowing lines and the careful watercolors, “what do you think?”

-

 

It's baffling, really. Thorin has always had a hard time letting people in – in fact, hostility might be one of his more amiable qualities. And it's not like he'd planned on this. It's not like he isn't still impossibly irritated by Bilbo Baggins. The man still doesn't know the first thing about method acting, and still doesn't really care, and still makes Thorin horrendously jealous – no, scratch that, annoyed – with how easily he's clearly managed to wedge his way into the theatre, among its people and thus into Thorin's very own personal life...

Maybe it's precisely that – Thorin won't be getting rid of him any time soon, and perhaps some more rational part of him, the one that cares about his self-preservation, has decided that it would be easier to come to terms with that, rather than to struggle. Bilbo really is there every damn day, with his cheerful demeanor even at the more ungodly hours of the day, with his damn nimble body, making their exercises seem like child play while Thorin wonders when his back will finally give out... With his jokes and his witty remarks, and his giggling and blushing every time Thorin even breathes wrong near him, let alone touches him in a way that, apparently, tickles so much it warrants squealing and flailing and knocking them both off balance and to the ground...

His stupid infectious laughter and his horribly piercing eyes that shouldn't be that difficult to look straight into, but alas.

What's even worse, he's somehow succeeded at making Thorin himself laugh at some point, and he isn't really sure how that happened, but now that it has... Well, it's much more difficult to come up with reasons to hate him as thoroughly as Thorin has been managing so far. Oh, they still disagree plenty, and barely ever stop arguing over the silliest things, but it's become something Thorin would probably describe as good-natured banter if someone held a knife to his throat and forced him to.

Most importantly, Bilbo keeps his promise and doesn't bother him with any more personal questions or insights, which Thorin probably appreciates more than he will ever be able to convey. He knows Dís would tell him it's very okay to confide all the stuff he keeps dragging around in some people, but a), Bilbo isn't some people, and b), even if he were, Thorin has never been too good at confiding anything. Oh, and c), who the hell would care anyway? No, it's much easier to keep all this emotional baggage (as much as he despises the term) to himself and avoid dumping it on someone else, for their own sakes.

“Yeah?” he mumbles, the tiny responsive part of him that's left registering that his attention is required.

Bilbo's gaze is curiously scrutinizing for a fleeting moment, before he points to the stage where Radagast is just setting up.

“You ready, or should I try again in a hundred years?” he asks, and Thorin rewards that with a meticulously prepared Small Scowl For Every Occasion before getting up off his seat and heading for the stage, shaking any of his leftover heavy thoughts out of his head before he reaches it.

Soon, he has more pressing matters to attend to anyway, quite literally. Radagast starts them off with some light stretching, but the goal of today's rehearsal lies elsewhere, and they all know it – their hardest moves still resist even the most dedicated exercising, and while they have enough time to perfect them yet, it would be best to get that part over with.

They're both still rather sore after the unfortunate incident at the rehearsal not a week ago, and much more cautious as a result – Thorin thinks he knows where the problem lies, thinks he can handle the momentum if they just try it a couple more times at a slowly increasing speed, but his side is still stiff and sporting a rather nicely colored bruise, and thus he takes it very easily today.

Radagast has them do the hardest of their moves in slow motion over and over again, and Bilbo might be tiny and light, but Thorin hasn't lifted weights in a very long time, much less a living breathing whole person, and soon his muscles are all but shaking with the effort, and no matter how hard he's trying to stay in his calm place, his state of mind isn't improved by the fact that most of the time, his and Bilbo's faces are inches apart. The man's breath tickles at his neck and his arm hooked around Thorin's torso leaves burning in its wake, and coupled with trying to concentrate on Radagast's continuous string of advice and orders, it's very nearly overloading Thorin's brain.

They take a rather unplanned break when a majority of Thorin's muscles simply give up on him mid-lift, causing him to stumble forward and drop to his knee, with Bilbo still draped all over him – he manages to set his partner down somewhat gently still, but he aches all over.

“God dammit,” he utters, getting to his feet with the trouble of a man twice his age, stretching his limbs one by one, wondering if the creaking of his joints is as loud to the others as it is to him.

“You're overbalancing me,” Bilbo declares, looking at him with a mixture of slight pity and amusement.

“Am I?” Thorin huffs, currently testing how far over his head and behind his back his bent arm will go (not far without straining anything vital).

“Well, yeah. Look, we're supposed to kiss at this point. I don't care that you're avoiding it, really, but if you shove your face into my neck every time, you throw us both off balance. Not to mention the fact that I really do have a weird thing about my neck in general, and trust me, actually kissing me might make me less prone to squealing like a startled rabbit. Just saying.”

He just stands there, his tousled curls like a messy honey-colored halo around his head, sweaty and still panting a bit, but smiling lightly, and Thorin is at a loss for words, or maybe just worried he might say something incredibly mean if he tried to comment. He turns to Radagast for guidance instead, and the man watches them with an air of calm expectation – from the very beginning, he's been letting them figure most things out on their own, and Thorin is just surprised there hasn't been any talk of aligning their chakras yet, or something equally as spiritualistic.

“He's not wrong,” the choreographer says simply, and Thorin sighs raggedly, while Bilbo shrugs.

“You don't have to actually kiss me-”

“Though we might want to get to that eventually,” Radagast quips dryly.

“-just don't go with your head so much to the left, it doesn't give me enough room to maneuver. Oh, also, try not breaking my nose, that would be nice-”

“Fall.”

That's the one order from Radagast Thorin dislikes the most – it's a one-word launch button for Bilbo to trust-fall back wherever he stands, and for Thorin to react quickly and catch him. Needless to say, Bilbo has been enjoying it immensely, and he leans back immediately. Thorin's head works on autopilot regarding this by now, and so he intercepts him swiftly, but he is exhausted and somewhat weakened – all air is knocked out of his lungs with the impact, and he oof's as he wraps both his arms around his partner's torso. God, he really is going to bed very early today – provided he can walk home on these tired legs.

“Good,” Radagast comments, “now for the kissing.”

 

They don't actually kiss that day, but they do almost manage to break each other's noses, wonderfully enough. Thorin really wants nothing more than to go take a well-deserved nap in his personal dressing room afterward, but he somehow ends up following Bilbo to the lounge – their argument about stage lighting is one he simply can't let rest, can't let Bilbo think he's right, even though his whole body seems to want nothing more than to shut off for a good long while. That's what Bilbo does to him, damn him, makes him all riled up time and time again, surely that can't be healthy...

“Thorin Oakenshield. Well, you look positively ghastly.”

The lurch his stomach makes when he first registers that unpleasantly familiar voice definitely can't be healthy.

“What the hell are you doing here?” is his selected form of greeting, and Thranduil Greenleaf accepts it with a small smirk.

“My son is in this play as well, in case you've forgotten. I'm here to see the rehearsal, nothing more.”

“Oh, just when I thought I might be able to forget,” Thorin snarls and goes to hide behind the bar, to have something solid in between Thranduil and him just in case the bile in his throat becomes too much and he feels like leaping at him.

“Charming as ever. Oh, but I forget myself – Bilbo Baggins, such a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Thorin glances at Bilbo, and wishes he didn't – he's exactly the kind of starstruck Thranduil doesn't deserve as he shakes his hand and babbles: “The pleasure is all mine, really, wow, I admire your work so much...”

“Well, likewise! Silver Linings was exquisite, I still think it deserved to win that year.”

“Oh my, that's really very kind of you to say, I...”

Thorin groans and wonders if it's too early to start drinking. As if by some magnetic pull (or vile black magic), Thranduil's presence summons other people, and soon the lounge is far too overcrowded for Thorin's tastes.

“What's Prince Charming doing here?” Dwalin mutters, appearing by Thorin's side, fishing out two cans of cider from the bar fridge and shoving one in Thorin's hand even though he didn't ask for it.

“Allegedly coming to see his son rehearse,” Thorin grumbles.

“But you think he's here to... what? Set fire to the backstage and write slander across the walls?” Dwalin quips and Thorin frowns at him.

“You're awfully chipper,” he notes, “have you been spending too much time in the close proximity of my sister again?”

“That depends,” Dwalin grins, “how do you define close proximity?”

“I define it as something that's enough of a reason to punch you after I've had one too many beers.”

“Oh, in that case no – Prince Charming, two o'clock.”

The warning could never come soon enough for Thorin to prepare accordingly for Thranduil emerging from the crowd of his students slash admirers and heading his way, something that he probably hopes is a beatific smile plastered across his smarmy face. Thorin realizes he's following Bilbo who is also walking to the bar, and something in his gut twists, briefly but bitterly. He's suddenly realizing he's still wearing his rehearsal clothes and a towel around his neck, and is at first too busy glaring at Thranduil's impossibly posh suit to notice that Bilbo's talking to him.

“Hmm... what?”

“I was just telling Mister Greenleaf-”

“Thranduil, please.” (Thorin tries to discern whether grinding his teeth is actually audible to others besides him.)

“-a-about the whole Academy argument we had the other day.”

“Oh?” Thorin quirks a brow, “I remember, I think... hold on, which academy? Mister Greenleaf's, or the one issuing the Oscars? Doesn't matter, they do both vastly overestimate their importance and are led shadily at best.”

Bilbo rolls his eyes, while Dwalin offers a snort only Thorin can hear, elbowing him in the ribs for extra caution before he wisely clears out the battlefield. Thranduil's smirk doesn't waver for a second.

“Well, at least one of them is investing a lot in this play, and you'd do well to remember that,” he offers without a particularly stern edge, but the bitterness is there in his eyes, no less irritating.

“Another thing I've been doing my very best to forget,” Thorin retorts wryly, and Thranduil's smile contorts into a much more unpleasant scowl for a fleeting flicker of a moment.

“Either way,” he declares jovially, turning to Bilbo, “my son tells me we have a lot to look forward to. Gandalf has a steady reputation of highly unsteady, shall I say risque, productions, but he does usually end up on the top. Tell me, Mister Baggins-”

“Bilbo, Bilbo, please.” (Thorin wonders if banging his head against the nearest wall would be at all inappropriate right now.)

“-how's all of this been treating you? You two-” a barely noticeable gesture towards Thorin, as if he's nothing but a mute prop in the conversation, “-do make quite the... aesthetically compelling pair, I think I can see what Gandalf is hoping to achieve. He's always had an eye for discovering hidden depths of quality in rather... unexpected places, yes...”

“Which is why he never cast you in anything, I imagine,” Thorin utters, and the look Thranduil casts him is genuinely evil for a second, before he chuckles easily and counters with an effortless: “Oh, I wish I had the time for him, I really do. The best I can do is let my son and his fellow students experience his leadership. The times when I could afford to simply put my other work on hold for a couple of months and go off rehearsing a play are long gone, I'm afraid...”

“That Oscar weighing your career down?” Thorin smiles a mock-compassionate smile, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Bilbo is probably growing a bit uncomfortable – but Thorin has never been too good at tempering his sarcasm when it comes to Thranduil, and he won't be starting now.

“Far from it, really,” comes a cold reply, “but if it did, at least I would have a good enough excuse. Can't imagine which one you'd come up with, Thorin. Oh no, hold on, it's obvious, of course – your family has quite the history of prematurely destroyed careers, after all. Shouldn't be difficult to come up with something...”

The empty soda can crumbles in Thorin's clenched fist without him even registering it. He steps out from behind the bar, sparing a fleeting glance at Bilbo, who looks a bit appalled, a bit shocked and a lot confused, but it only serves to fuel the resentful flame heating up Thorin's cheeks and building up in his chest like something he should probably at least think about containing. Thranduil is smiling still, regal eyebrows arched up high in amusement.

“You could be sponsoring the damn air I breathe for all I care,” Thorin snarls, “but that still wouldn't give you the right to ever talk about my family-”

“Uncle-e! There you are!”

Kili quite literally snaps the moment in half, dashing across the room and launching himself at Thorin, followed closely by his brother. Thorin lifts Kili up in his arms because there's no avoiding him really, but his heart still beats a bit more furiously than it should. Oh, and wonderful, there goes Dís, already looking slightly worried, as good as she is at immediately reading the situation. Thorin's and Thranduil's gazes remain interlocked, and the man is taunting him by the way he just stands there, stands there and oozes arrogance and that kind of amused derision that makes Thorin want to find that soda can he'd ruined earlier and punch it into the man's face.

...Both Kili and Fili have been talking at him for a while now, crap.

“Oof, down you go champ,” he mutters to his nephew, setting him down even though he protests, “sorry guys, I've actually got some reading to do still. Did your Mom need me for anything? No? Good. I'll catch you later.”

And feeling a headache of truly biblical proportions coming on, he literally runs away from the situation. Which is not something he necessarily does very often, but the prospect of enduring one more second with Thranduil and then enduring Dís' questions afterward, and... the way Bilbo looked at him throughout the whole thing, like he was nastily surprised and a tad disgusted by what he saw, all make him sick to the core.

He will be taking that much needed nap now, and hoping that when he wakes up, this will all have been just a very bad dream.

-

 

“What the hell was that?” Dís asks, ushering her slightly disappointed sons to find places at the nearest table.

Together with Bilbo, they watch Thranduil sauntering off as well as if nothing had happened, and Bilbo is still a bit dizzy.

“I have no idea, I just got caught in the crossfire,” he says faintly, “they must really hate each other, huh?”

“Hah, that's putting it very mildly,” Dís scoffs, and then when he looks at her hoping to learn more, she snuffs his hopes right at the beginning, “but that's a story for another time. All you need to know for now is that it's wise to clear out the immediate vicinity when the two are in the same room for more than thirty seconds.”

“I'll remember that,” Bilbo chuckles, “did you need something?”

“I did,” she sighs, “before my brother bolted to go sulk in his dressing room all by himself. Wanted you two to stop by the costume workshop, to see what they've been coming up with. Also, Gandalf wants to schedule a photographer for sometime this week, we do need that poster already...”

Bilbo only half listens, though. The encounter stays with him still, something about it bothering him, but he can't for the life of him figure out what it is, and, well, he won't be asking Thorin any time soon, that's for sure. Something tells him that no, nothing between him and Thranduil Greenleaf is as simple as a grudge.

He watches the man for a while longer, conversing with Galadriel now (two people Bilbo had never thought he'd have the privilege of meeting, much less being in the same room with for that matter), and he toys with the idea of asking him instead of Thorin, but dismisses that quickly as well. It wouldn't be the first time that his curiosity got the better of him.

“I'm telling you, it was like watching some sort of soap opera showdown,” he tells Prim on the phone that night, in between lazy bites of kung-pao chicken and some baking show he's not paying attention to currently occupying the screen of his hotel room TV, “one more minute and I'm pretty sure they would have started brawling or something.”

“My god,” she laughs, “two greatest divas in the business at it right before your very eyes. You should count yourself lucky. Did you take pictures? Oh, do you have a selfie with Greenleaf? Tweet it!”

“No, I don't have a selfie with Greenleaf,” Bilbo chuckles, “sorry.”

“Shame. Your twitter could use a bit of action, you know. You should cultivate your following.”

“I know, I know. I'll do my best,” Bilbo promises, mouth full, flicking idly through the channels, “what was that thing you wanted to tell me? Oh, did Anderson's people finally call?”

“I'm afraid not,” Prim sighs, “this has nothing to do with work.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Uh... Aunt Lobelia's selling the house.”

“Wh – eh, what?!” he chokes on his dinner, “really?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly, “she didn't even tell me, I had to find out on my own from my Dad, and that's only after I forced it out of him. I called her even, and she seems really set on it.”

“Huh,” Bilbo peeps, dinner and TV forgotten completely.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

“No, I... yeah," he murmurs, fingers absentmindedly traveling to trail over the acorn pendant resting cool just below his collarbone.

“I don't know if she's going to... Call her. See for yourself. It's probably going to take some time. You could always...”

“What? Buy it myself?” Bilbo huffs wryly, and can almost see her shrugging.

“Why not?”

“Because,” he exhales, starting over since he has no idea what he wants to say, “because I...”

Because it's not my home anymore. Because it's an old house in the countryside with a leaking roof and a scary attic and a garden that was a jungle when I left ten years ago, and will probably be a jungle now still. Because it's like a fading photograph that I never want to look at again.

“I think I'll stop by my folks' before I come to you next month. I'll go check it out, send you some pics,” Prim says gently, as if she's reading his thoughts.

“Thanks,” he says, because that's all he can come up with anyways, and that night before he goes to sleep, he thinks of the roses by the windows and the narrow green door, and about how despite the fact that he never wants to go back, his childhood home was always supposed to be there in the background, as a reminder that he once had a home at all. He's never felt more homesick and homeless than right now, in his hotel room that is far bigger than one lone person needs, utterly alone in the middle of nowhere.

-

 

Two bickering kids and a crapload of groceries isn't her favorite way to spend a free morning, but alas, here they are, Fili and Kili arguing who will get to ride in the cart and who will push it, while she tries her best to steer it straight and avoid causing a chain reaction of collapsing shelves. Grocery shopping is not her best skill on her good days, and today, it's only just the beginning.

“No – no, listen to me, each of you grab at one side of the cart and behave, or absolutely no ice-cream after,” she orders her sons, and they calm down a bit at that very serious threat, enough so that they all manage to make their way through the cereal aisle and onward more or less harmlessly. That is until...

“Mom, look, it's Bilbo! Can we go say hi?” Kili exclaims, tugging at the cart in a direction opposite from what she wants.

“Now, guys, I think Bilbo has enough to worry about,” Dís sighs, making doubly sure that it in fact is him – but yeah, no one is capable of pulling off the lost-yet-curious, somewhat distracted look quite like Bilbo Baggins, she's come to learn. Also, no one else she knows has it in them to wear a shirt with a very delicate but very persistent floral pattern and pink trousers, and wear all of it well.

They do end up bumping into each other because the boys quite simply run off and go greet him, and as Dís points him in the direction of the chocolate he's so been craving, she notes silently that he looks somewhat lost. Not in the terms of directions, but sort of... in general. He'd mentioned being blissfully free of all commitments for a couple of weeks, but still, for a man of his social life standards to be alone in a city he barely knows... She can't presume to know very much about him past his incredibly pleasant demeanor that has helped him win over pretty much everyone in the short time that he's been here, but she can't also come up with a reason why not to learn more.

“Any immediate plans?” she asks him in the line at the checkout counter, his handful of sweets an amusing and yet slightly sad comparison to her overflowing cart.

“Oh, well, eating all of this instead of lunch,” he replies lightly, and as she laughs, Kili chimes in: “Can we have chocolates instead of lunch, too?”

“That's a grownup privilege, I'm afraid,” Bilbo explains.

“Why? That's so unfair.”

“You'll see when you grow up,” Bilbo smiles, and Dís adds: “Yeah, when you're an adult sometimes all you can do is eat chocolates for lunch.”

“But we're still having ice-cream, right?” Fili demands, a bit worried.

“Yes, we're still having ice-cream, don't worry. Are we gonna invite Bilbo? What do you think, guys?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn't want to impose...” Bilbo babbles into the chorus of yay's from the boys.

“Don't be ridiculous. We know a really good little place just around the corner, don't we?” Dís cheers her sons on even further, then adds just for Bilbo to hear, “they sell iced wine spritzers, too. It's heaven.”

 

They all end up having ice-cream though, because the heat strikes in full, for the first time that year, and it's only just the beginning of April. They shed their jackets and sit outside on the veranda, and Dís half expects at least a couple of fans to recognize Bilbo and come by.

But he looks as casual as ever, chatting with the boys and praising his strawberry and banana ice-cream, and all in all looking a), like a very nice guy next door, and b), like he's in no particular rush anywhere. Dís wonders what he does on days like these, with no work and nowhere but his hotel room and this unfamiliar city to go. She realizes just how much time he spends at the theatre, always sitting in the lounge and reading his lines or talking to people in between rehearsals, even staying for a show every now and then... She's in no position to go and call him lonely, but hey, a little more company never hurt anybody. He asks her about some good places to eat and confesses he doesn't really enjoy the hotel food and has been surviving off Chinese take-out more often than not, and her decision is cemented.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she asks, “how about you come over for lunch? What do you think, guys, we can feed one more, right?”

“Yeah!”

“No, no, I couldn't...”

“Of course you could! Thorin will be there too, you can make it like... another work date, if that makes you feel better.”

“Hardly,” Bilbo laughs, and she could swear he blushes a bit, “I...”

“Come on, we would love to have you. What do you say?”

Bilbo looks from her to the boys who are beaming at him with ice-cream all over their mouths, sighing indecisively, and Dís knows it's done. She'll tell Thorin and enjoy his reaction later. Or never.

-

 

His sister really has a very strange way of kicking him when he's down. He's planning on spending the weekend holed up at home, no pubs, no shopping, no nothing, because he feels simply... weighed down by everything going on right now. The cute little moment with Thranduil Greenleaf plagues him even though he should really let it go, and he'd promised his Dad that he would come visit again, even if it would probably mean getting shouted at again... Dís calls him on Saturday, suspiciously excited as she reminds him of the lunch the next day, and he agrees only because she promises him her special baked potatoes, his absolute favorite.

He takes the bike since the weather is nice enough, promising himself he'll go take a proper drive soon as he navigates through the jammed city, and by the time he arrives at his sister's, he feels almost fresh enough to socialize and hungry enough to skip steps as he hurries the two floors up her building...

He rings and after a bit of clamor inside, Bilbo Baggins answers the door, and Thorin stands there a bit dumbfounded for a moment.

“Have I... gotten lost?” he asks dully, suddenly very aware that his hair is extremely ruined by the helmet, which, oh joy, Bilbo's eyes linger on as he sizes him up and down.

“Your sister invited me over for lunch, did she not...?”

“Neglected to mention it, yeah,” Thorin sighs.

“Oh. I'm...”

“Draft!” Dís calls, and Thorin steers around Bilbo and inside, inhaling deeply and hoping for the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen to put him at ease at least a little bit.

He unlaces his boots and unzips his jacket silently, all the while Bilbo hovers awkwardly, and it is only when Thorin somewhat reluctantly puts on the mandatory slippers that he notices Dís has equipped Bilbo with a matching pair. Two grown men, wearing colorful fruit-themed slippers. It takes extreme amounts of willpower to look Bilbo in the eye.

“Right,” Thorin utters curtly and retreats into the kitchen, pretending that the quiet burst of laughter following him didn't tug at his mouth in the least.

“Are you insane?” he hisses at Dís, and she doesn't even look up from arranging the plates, just smiles very innocently.

“I thought he could use some company. Be nice.”

“You're actively trying to hurt me.”

“Oh, don't be such a drama queen and fetch the boys, will you?” she snickers, adding when he doesn't budge an inch and merely glares at her, “it'll be fun!”

 

Ever since childhood, Thorin has hated admitting she's right.

Bilbo and him don't even make it past first course without getting into an argument, this time about eating on set, and, well... that's that. Thorin had been perfectly prepared to be more opposed to the intrusion to his home (even though it isn't really his home), blame it on the boys being uncomfortable or something... But they are in fact horrendously excited about Bilbo, and Bilbo is just... there, sitting across from him and laughing a lot and catching his gaze when Thorin least expects it, and it's annoying, because Thorin can't tell... can't remember what he's supposed to dislike about the man. Even though bickering is pretty much their sole means of communication, always. Even though he jokingly calls their Grandfather's Oscar at the mantelpiece in the living room 'a very expensive Ken doll'. Even though he takes coffee with about a gallon of milk and a hoard of sugar. Thorin wants to find some excuse to bail early, but his headache is miraculously nonexistent, and he finds himself engaged in conversation again and again, and he can't... he doesn't know how to fight it.

“Look, I'm not saying fall in love with the man. Just... behave. At least for the duration of this production, please refrain from punching him again,” Dís says after they've argued about the benefits of Thranduil's presence for a good long while, and Thorin fails to stop her in time – Bilbo perks up immediately.

“Punching him again?” he asks incredibly curiously, and Thorin groans.

“Oh, yeah, lovely story, that,” Dís laughs relentlessly while Thorin tries to set her ablaze from where he sits.

“Please don't.”

“It was... what year was it, Thorin? 2007? I think it was 2007...”

“Dís, I swear to god...”

“Oh yeah, 2007, I'm pretty sure. The grand opening of the Academy, we were all invited, it was very fancy. I'm sad to say I wasn't there to see what led up to it, but I remember turning around a second before it happened, Thorin just landing the most elegant punch I've ever seen, I must say. They were both wearing tuxes, you see, it was very movie-like!”

“My god,” Bilbo laughs.

“Yeah. What did he say again, to make you so mad? I forget,” Dís asks.

“Trust me, you of all people don't want to be reminded,” Thorin grumbles, taking a sip of his coffee to avoid talking for a merciful ten seconds.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Dís prods, “come on, remind me.”

“I don't think so. Just forget about it.”

“You and I both know that's not going to happen!”

“Just leave it, would you?”

“Oh, come on, please?”

“Well, whatever it was, I'm sure he deserved the elegant punch,” Bilbo chimes in with the least likely save of all, offering Thorin a way out of an argument he really didn't feel like getting into in the first place.

“Oh really? I was under the impression you were all smitten with him and his work?” he quips, mostly grateful he doesn't have to relive the events of 2007 now, and Bilbo chuckles, and it's as if he's confirming, yes, I get that you don't want to talk about that, let's talk about something else. It's a momentary feeling, something Thorin spots in his look, but it somehow puts him at ease.

“Hardly,” Bilbo says, “well, I mean his work is admirable enough, yes, but truth be told he is a bit more pompous than I'd expected.”

“A bit,” Thorin repeats sarcastically.

“What did he call us? An aesthetically compelling pair?” Bilbo continues, grinning, “he made it sound like a disease.”

“I know! And calling Gandalf's choice of projects... what was it?”

“I believe the word he used was risque,” Bilbo pronounces in a perfectly nasal rendition of Thranduil's mannerisms, and a huff of laughter escapes Thorin entirely unexpectedly, and that's it, really.

Later on, he will look back at that tiny little moment on the sofa in Dís' spacious living room, clutching his cup of coffee and looking at Bilbo as he went on and on about this or that, and he will know that whatever he'd been trying to understand about his... shift of sympathies towards the man, that was the moment he stopped fighting it. Indefinitely.

 

Chapter Text

He remembers the car drives when Frerin and him were very little – their father drove fast and reckless, much to the dismay of their mother, and roadtrips were a frequent thing. Thorin doesn't really remember much of where they would go or anything, but he does recall the butterflies in his stomach every time the car would roll over the top of a particularly steep little hill – their stomachs jumped and sank, and it made them giggle with exhilaration because when you're nine years old, it feels like flying for a second or two.

When Dís came along a bit later, their mother made their father drive much more carefully, Thorin recalls, and he doesn't know why, but he misses that feeling of childlike glee – he doesn't think he's felt that since. Maybe he's been searching for it, trying to recreate it, his whole life, come to think of it. But driving his motorcycle is more about adrenaline, the thrill of the speed coupled with the very specific kind of concentration clearing one's head... And acting has been bringing him a good rush for decades now, of course, but it's not quite the same, none of it is. Maybe nothing ever will be.

Or maybe he's been searching in all the wrong places.

 

It happens on a perfectly uneventful day, a full cast readthrough no less, and happens because Thorin simply can't hold out any longer. Well, that is misleading – he just needs a means of shutting Bilbo up for once.

The man is in a particularly excited mood that day, entertaining everyone by his acting, really feeling the role, enjoying it – and for once, Thorin feels like he must keep up. It's a good feeling. It's an unexpected feeling, really. But they've been... arriving at something, at long last, or so it feels. Gandalf calls it 'utilizing their chemistry', or 'sensing the flow' of the characters, but if asked, Thorin would simply describe it as taking their constant real-life bickering and prodding at each other, and transmuting it into the personalities of Puck and Oberon.

He'd still only admit it under extreme torture, certainly never willingly, but he understands why Gandalf chose Bilbo for the role – he has that slightly obnoxious charm in healthy doses, a quick wit and a sharp tongue, but there's something else to him, something that Thorin witnessed him doing way back in Hamlet, something that is, somehow, the definition of what Gandalf wants to build the play on – some streak of almost cold determination behind the veil of boyish joy. They are rehearsing a comedy, yes, the founding father of all comedies in fact, but from the very start they've been subject to Gandalf's take on it. Feral is the word the director uses most often in relation to the fairy folk – instead of colorful giggling silly comic relief, he's been molding these almost ominous beings out of the characters, vicious in what they consider amusing, dangerous in their fickle fancies. It's fascinating and yet difficult to grasp, and Thorin can only admire Bilbo for seemingly discovering exactly what is asked of him in such a short time, so easily.

…And today, he seems to be enjoying himself in spades, dear god, dragging Thorin along – not that he protests. He even makes the kids crack up in the middle of their long group scene in the Second Act, where his character is nothing but an onlooker (and a tease of course), with only about three lines – but Bilbo delivers them so perfectly, with such cadence, Here she comes, curst and sad, Cupid is a knavish lad, that Tauriel, portraying Hermia, simply bursts into laughter, missing her cue completely, and the others only struggle for a short moment until grins and giggles overpower them too. They're not to be faulted though – they're not the only ones laughing.

Gandalf himself is all but cackling, along with most of the audience comprised of the rest of the cast and a stagehand here and there, and Thorin's own smile isn't something he could fight even if he tried. Bilbo takes a little bow, the goddamn showman, and Gandalf nods at him, pleased, announcing loudly: “Alright, alright, from the top, ladies and gentlemen.”

Soon enough, Thorin and Bilbo get their due time on stage together, and Thorin feels like a draught horse trying to compete in a steeplechase – Bilbo is sprinting ahead of him without breaking a sweat, lightning-quick and elegant, but still so damn obnoxious, dear god. Thorin can sense that he's in fact this close to breaking character, simply because he's riding on such a high, improvising his lines in the most ridiculous fashion whenever he forgets a piece of them, his laughter like a babbling brook.

Their big important lift comes, and they botch their first attempt simply because Bilbo does drop character, mere seconds before Thorin is supposed to lift him – he even moves the way he's supposed to, but actually dodges when Thorin reaches for him, slippery like an eel, dancing around him and away, knocking him out of his equilibrium and leaving him confused and not a small bit annoyed.

“What the hell was that?” Thorin grunts, trying not to give in to his grin while the others roar in laughter, and Bilbo looks at least a little bit apologetic.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I don't know what happened there, oh my god,” he sings, giggling helplessly, eyes gleaming with unbounded energy, and Gandalf simply shakes his head, chuckling, and orders them to do it again.

Which they do, almost. Thorin manages to lift Bilbo this time, but they both somehow mess up, Bilbo still a helpless heap of giggles and uselessly flailing limbs... The third time, no luck either, and one long painful scratch of Bilbo's nails across Thorin's back, and how is that even possible? More importantly, how is it possible to be losing patience so quickly while still having so much fun?

The fourth time – because Gandalf is relentless and apparently doesn't consider this stalling – they manage quite nicely, but Bilbo breathes a quiet 'Crap' into Thorin's neck without any particular reason, which makes Thorin burst into laughter, also for no particular reason really...

The fifth time, Thorin thinks he can hear his joints creak, and the sixth time, he's had about enough.

Everybody's laughing, naturally, and Bilbo is getting ready for their last go with exaggerated stretching movements, turning his head this side and that, good god he's such a showoff... Thorin's temples are beginning to throb, not in pain just yet, but still, he'll get there soon if he doesn't get this under control, and... grabbing at Bilbo and kissing him for the first time ever is literally a split-second decision, but also a very good one, it quickly turns out.

Thorin doesn't do it because he particularly wants or plans to – he just wants to get this over with and the kiss comes naturally with the movement. And it's not the finest one, really, neither gentle nor very refined past mashing their lips together, and Thorin doesn't really realize he did it until after he's done it and they're both safely on the ground, his back miraculously not hurting... Oh.

Bilbo stares at him, still amused but also taken aback a great deal, a blush coloring his cheeks, and Thorin wonders if he realizes it too – that this was by far their smoothest run-through of this particular move yet, it was over so quickly and they didn't even stumble...

Apparently they're not the only ones who see this, because the others break into a spontaneous applause, with a bit of 'whoo-hoo's and 'finally!'s (Dwalin and Dís respectively, their voices are impossible not to recognize) in the mix, and Thorin finds his broad grin mirrors Bilbo's, and he can't really look away.

“That was good,” he comments somewhat breathlessly.

“Good, yeah, very good,” Bilbo nods enthusiastically, almost as if he can't quite believe it, “I guess we're... I mean, doing this? Always, from now on?”

“Fine by me, yeah,” Thorin finds himself agreeing.

“Bit of a heads-up next time, though?” Bilbo chuckles, fingertips touching his lips absentmindedly, and Thorin realizes his own lips are tingling still from the less-than-gentle impact. He feels such a delicious mixture of excitement, and curiosity, and accomplishment, and he searches for the same in Bilbo's eyes, finding it in spades.

“Excellent, gentlemen, well done!” Gandalf offers his praises, and Bilbo and Thorin huff a satisfied laugh in unison, and right there and then, his heart skipping a beat or ten, Thorin rediscovers something he hasn't felt in years, something he's almost forgotten he's been missing.

Butterflies.

-

 

When at first you don't succeed, redefine success. Or, in Bilbo's case, get caught off guard by your stage partner. He knows full well he's just too much that day, but he's simply having too much fun to stop, and Thorin is keeping up well enough... But Bilbo tips over from amused and playful to reckless somewhere along the way – it happens every now and then, when the flow is too much to control, when he lets the spur of the moment overcome him, when he loses himself to the thrill and sheer joy of it. He's almost sure Thorin can handle it, yes – pushing him to the brink and past it time and time again has proven the best strategy of all, in fact.

But for all that Bilbo expects and anticipates, he never sees the kiss coming, and he has to give it to Thorin, it's a very effective way of jolting him out of his reverie. It's like something just clicks between them – they perform the lift utterly seamlessly, and stare at each other in shock mingled with a very definitely pleasant surprise for a moment after that, and for Bilbo, that feeling never really stops from then on.

Is this really all that it took – for them to finally cross that physical barrier and do the move including all of its intricacies? Well, Bilbo had been almost certain, yes, but he also certainly thought it would be much more difficult to convince Thorin to do it. A part of him was perfectly ready to only ever be kissed while actually on stage... Has he misjudged this – him – so epically?

Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe he'll march up to rehearsal tomorrow and none of it will have happened and Thorin will be his usual grumpy reserved easily readable self...

Apparently not.

He kisses Bilbo without much ado on their very first go, and it's so smooth, the whole thing, over so quickly; it's like all the issues they've been having with balance and each other's weight and everything have just... dissolved, just like that. Radagast, who wasn't there when they first aced the move, is positively overjoyed to see this development, so overjoyed in fact that he has them repeat it three times just to see that they can really do it, and...

It's a stage kiss, for crying out loud. Not soft, not nice, not even an actual kiss anyway... not something to be thinking about so extensively, dammit. Bilbo shouldn't be the one thrown off balance (ha, how fitting) by all this, he shouldn't be contemplating all the why's and how's and what if's... Thorin seems absolutely unfazed every single time, his grip steady and firm, his lines perfectly on cue, his character not wavering for a second, and for once, Bilbo feels like he's the one who must struggle to keep up. It's infuriating. It's fascinating.

-

 

Oh, Dís so enjoys being right. Best feeling in the world, really. When it comes to her big brother, it's like a default setting – he's clueless, and far too reclusive for his own good, and often deliberately self-destructive, and she knows what's good for him. And though the self-appointed role of his caretaker isn't the easiest one, she does it with much vigor anyways. Because no one else will. Because no one else would do it right. Because no one else knows what she knows – that for Thorin to accept help and support, it must be given very carefully at times, so that he barely notices it's being given at all.

And other times, it needs to be forced down his throat, of course, subtlety be damned.

But this time, it's about... it's about watching. And waiting for things to play out, which they inevitably will. The loud cheer when they finally, finally do the Big Snog right, escapes her entirely unwittingly, because they're getting somewhere, at long last. Regarding the rehearsal process, and otherwise.

“You could always try delivering your lines on time, you know.”

“Oh, that's rich, coming from Mr 'forgets half a monologue and expects everyone to just roll with it'!”

...Getting somewhere doesn't necessarily mean getting somewhere fast, of course.

But there's something to Thorin and Bilbo's constant bickering now, something that she's almost willing to call gentleness – they pick their little arguments to spur each other on, whether they know it or not, to fuel that fire between them that makes their characters and their interactions so special.

It's pointless asking Gandalf if he'd known it would turn out this way when he first got the idea to put the two together, because the man always knows everything, but she asks him nevertheless.

“The visual appeal,” Gandalf replies vaguely, an almost proud smile on his face as he gestures to the stage, Bilbo and Thorin currently taking a break, bent over the script together and discussing the delivery of this or that line, “that's what the audience will be presented with first. Pretty faces and elegant movements, something to look at while your brain is quietly processing the actual point of it all.”

Dís doesn't even try to venture a guess about the actual point of it all, simply listens in curious awe as Gandalf explains his creative process, and wishes, not for the first time in these extraordinary couple of weeks and certainly not for the last, that her grandfather were by her side to translate all of Gandalf's fantasizing and grand terms and metaphors into something much easier to understand, or for her mother to laugh and say something like 'Yes, perhaps all we need is more men boasting about their creative genius, yes?'.

“I've been thinking about your father,” Gandalf says then as if he's reading her mind, and her more or less pleasant contemplating is interrupted by a cold spike of something akin to fear at hearing those words.

“And?” she asks, highly carefully.

“Do you think it would be at all possible for me to go visit him?”

That hits her entirely unprepared, and she is left gaping at Gandalf at a loss for words, really. For his part, he looks almost apologetic, and she recognizes a strange sort of anxiety creeping up on her.

“Why?” she breathes out, wringing her hands in her lap like a little girl.

“Well, I haven't seen him in a very long time, through every fault of my own,” Gandalf says quietly, “I kept telling myself I'd come back here to visit, that it was something that I was supposed to do... All sorts of excuses kept me from it, for years, but the bottom line is... I miss him. As a friend.”

“He's not...” Dís starts, then stops herself, glancing at the stage, Gandalf's gaze following her – they both worry about the same thing, but thankfully Thorin is fully immersed in discussing something with Bilbo, gesticulating as they argue about entrances or some such thing, far enough so that he doesn't overhear anything.

“He's not himself,” Dís supplies, the words almost too heavy to cross her lips, “hasn't been himself... in a very long time, you know that Gandalf. Most of the time, he doesn't even remember... I don't...”

“I know,” Gandalf sighs, lost in thought, unseeing eyes looking at the stage.

“I'm just worried that you'll be... disappointed,” Dís offers almost hesitantly, “he's not exactly the most responsive conversational partner these days.”

Even attempting to joke about it tightens her throat painfully.

“I'm rarely disappointed,” Gandalf says almost cheerfully, though his smile is a good deal more somber than heartfelt.

“I don't want to say no,” Dís mumbles, “and it's not like I really can. It's just that... I'd like to be there. With you, that is. Thorin went to see him recently...”

“Oh, he did? Wonderful.”

“Not so much. Dad, he... doesn't respond too well to new things.”

“Oh. Look, if you don't think it's a good idea, I understand. We can just forget about it.”

“No no, it's alright, it is, just...”

Her look trails to her brother again, and catches him just as he laughs quietly as Bilbo tries to explain something to him very fervently, looking half angry, half very amused himself, pointing towards the backstage and all but jumping up and down with excitement or impatience, Dís cannot tell. What she can recognize is the softness in Thorin's gaze, and the fact that he's been laughing ten times more often in the past couple of weeks than in the ten years before that.

“Please don't tell Thorin about this,” she says, “at least for now.”

Taking care of Thorin, and taking care of the theatre and her sons and her father has long since taught her that there are no white knights and lucky breaks and fairytale endings – but that doesn't mean that she won't do anything and everything in her power to see her beautifully clueless brother be happy. And if that means keeping a few things from him, for his own benefit, then so be it. So be it.

-

 

Much to his surprise, Bilbo is invited over for lunch at Dís' once again, and can find no earthly reason to decline. The first time was a thoroughly pleasant endeavor – she is incredibly easy to get along with, as are her adorable sons, and Thorin... well, handling Thorin is something Bilbo is quite confident about now. And as much as he's gotten used to spending his lazy days off alone, reading and catching up on things and revising the offers Prim sends his way, he misses... people. Misses company. Misses going out for drinks and attending parties he doesn't really care for just for appearances, even misses 8am morning TV show interviews. The PR campaign around Midsummer is only just getting started, and he feels... idle, which he despises. And so he'll gladly have a couple more lunches with this wonderful mysterious family, if it means not scouring the city for agreeable restaurants and take-outs all on his lonesome.

Dís resides not very far from his hotel at all, as he learned when he first bumped into her and the boys in one of the grocery stores in the area, on his somewhat pitiful quest to procure something sweet. Hers is an apartment in one of the remarkable old buildings Bilbo has been admiring ever since he came here, a very old-age vibe, ivy crawling up red brick walls, and tall windows and even taller ceilings inside, and beautiful wide staircases... and no elevator, yes, there's that.

A call catches him halfway up, just as he's contemplating the fact that a couple of weeks ago, the trek would have had him much shorter of breath, and he picks up gladly once he sees the name of the caller, and gazes out of the window into the street.

“Hey!”

“Hey you,” Prim greets, and judging by the background noise, she's most probably trying to escape some sort of family gathering, “how's it going?”

“Good, good! Having lunch at Dís' again... The artistic director, remember?”

“I remember. Socializing with the natives, good, good, keep at it. Are you alone?”

A few floors up, a baby starts crying, and one floor below him, the entrance door opens and closes, but he's suddenly curious.

“I'm alone, I'm alone. What have you got?”

“Promise me, no freaking out. No screeching. It's not a hundred percent just yet, not even, like, a fifty percent...”

“Yes?” Bilbo demands.

“I spoke to Anderson's people. Well, they spoke to me. He's, and I quote, aware of your commitments, but also very interested in meeting with you regarding his newest project-”

“Oh my god!” Bilbo exclaims happily, doing a little joyful jump, “oh my god this is wonderful! When am I going? Where am I going?”

“Nothing has been set yet. It's probably up to their end, to be honest.”

“Yeah, well, whenever, I'm in! Ahh, I'm so in!”

“Good, good, I'll keep you posted...”

Only then does Bilbo turn away from the window and sees Thorin standing atop the flight of stairs leading up from the ground floor, biker gear and all, a somewhat incomprehensible grimace tinting his face for a split second before he offers an eyebrow arched up in amusement, no doubt at Bilbo's previous extensive display of joy. But that only widens Bilbo's grin, really.

“Listen, I've got company now,” he says, and watches Thorin roll his eyes and shake his head, “but keep me posted, please keep me posted. Okay? I'll see you soon?”

“Yeah, sure, sure. Remember, no tweeting about this! Don't get your hopes up-”

“Too late! Bye!” Bilbo ends the call, feeling positively giddy.

“How long have you been standing there?” he asks Thorin, but it's more playful than anything else.

“Good news?” Thorin smirks.

“Ooh yes, very top secret, very good news,” Bilbo all but sings, and Thorin joins him as he trots up the stairs.

“Who is it, then?” he wants to know, “Scorsese? Nolan? Oh, is it Burton?”

“No, no, and I wish,” Bilbo laughs, “keep on guessing.”

“Oh, god, I don't know... Del Toro? Allen?”

“Right, because Woody Allen would cast me of all people. Honestly.”

“Oh, well, you are the big prodigy, aren't you – Head Over Heels, what a masterpiece, I'm surprised the Academy didn't notice it...”

“Yeah, yeah, keep talking. I'll have you know that movie won me a Teen Choice Award, and any kid with an iPhone will tell you that matters far more than some stinking Oscar...”

By the time they reach Dís' door, their usual banter is well underway, with both of them only holding back laughter to keep up appearances. Fili is the one to answer the door, all prim and proper until Thorin ruffles his hair and lets him carry his helmet, which the boy accepts almost reverently, as if it's some sort of precious object, and pouts when Thorin forbids him from trying it on.

Bilbo notices a couple of pairs of shoes that can't belong to either Dís or her sons, and feels momentarily anxious, but then Kili dashes past them and up the stairs, followed by a stomping Dwalin only calling a rushed 'Hey!' as a greeting, and he hears the unmistakable timbre of Gandalf's voice from the living room, as well as Balin and who he thinks must be Dori... Soon, he finds himself in their rather chipper company, all of them very much at home in Dís' mismatched armchairs, and as he laughs along and the apartment fills with the delicious smell of lunch being prepared, Bilbo half expects to blink and wake up someplace else, that's how nice and dreamlike and perfect it all feels.

There's laughter, there's delicious food, there's music even, Balin and Dori side by side playing If I Were A Rich Man on the lovely stark white piano in the nook of the living room, expertly, like they've done it a billion times before, while everyone else lounges around, drinks coffee, and more or less succeeds at singing along. Bilbo is incredibly comfortable among these people he's only known for a couple of weeks, honored that he can be a part of this, whatever it is, and that no one seems to mind... It should scare him, or worry him a little bit at least. This is not his home, and these people are still more his colleagues than they are his friends. He's used to making friends, meeting new people and then leaving them behind like it's nothing after their work is done, and that'll probably be the case this time as well, going on his merry way after summer is over... But he doesn't care. Just this once, he does not care. Temporary homes are better than no homes at all.

 

“Alright, everyone, let's talk business for a while,” Gandalf announces at some point after everyone has successfully digested the grand lunch, and Thorin makes a show of sighing an exasperated: “Okay, that's my cue.” and getting up, much to the amusement of the adults and dismay of the boys, who hang off his sides, scolding him.

“This includes you directly, I'm afraid,” Gandalf chuckles, and Thorin groans and plops on the carpet, letting his nephews climb all over him, a sight that steals Bilbo's attention completely until Gandalf continues.

“Unless I'm mistaken, we have costumes ready for fitting, is that correct, Dori?”

“Yes, yes, we're almost done.”

“Lovely. The individual rehearsals on Tuesday are canceled, we'll have ourselves a fitting for the poster boys – that's you two,” Gandalf nods to Bilbo and Thorin, who exchange a vague glance.

“Gandalf is bringing in a photographer on Thursday,” Balin continues, “you two and Miss Goldenwood will be a part of that photoshoot.”

“Already?” Bilbo comments, impressed.

“The sooner the better,” Gandalf nods, “the overall artistic design is almost done, and we really need to start getting people excited about this thing. Balin will send you a memo, but Thursday it is.”

He winks at Bilbo, and oh, he knows better than to dismiss that as insubstantial, now.

“I think you'll like it. It'll be quite something.”

-

 

It's a lot of feathers, is what it is. Their Tuesday choreography rehearsal is canceled, and instead they spend what feels like a lifetime in Dori's packed workshop, the man and his flock of make-up artists fussing over them – which doesn't necessarily mean there's any make-up actually being applied.

The black contact lenses are a must, evidently, and Thorin instantly remembers why he's been using reading glasses his whole life, blinking away the stinging. Bilbo, who doesn't seem to have that issue, is absolutely thrilled with the look, and Thorin must give it to the artists – it's rather astonishing, how such a small change creates something so intense, almost ominous.

They try a lot of different looks, aiming for something that will be distinguishable on stage, as well as relatively unproblematic to apply time and time again, and Thorin leaves them to it. From what he understands, Ori is the one who came up with a lot of the designs, much to his older and much more experienced brother's dismay, and watching them argue, the kid learning not to budge an inch and speak his mind for once in his life, is almost invigorating.

But watching Bilbo proves even more interesting, not that Thorin would ever let anyone know. The man does about ten things at once, exchanging ideas with Dori, telling them a story about his make-up experiences on this or that movie way back when, taking a call... He even snaps a picture of himself in the mirror, hair a mess under Dori's care, his grin somewhat scary coupled with the black eyes, and tweets it, explaining: “My agent tells me to be more socially active, you know how it is.”, which then spawns a discussion about the social media in general... Not once in the span of that afternoon does Thorin feel like calling it a day and running to hide in his dressing room, which is... well, impressive, considering he has a performance in the evening and all.

At least until they move on to the actual costumes, that is.

They've both known all this time that they'd end up dressed flimsily at best, and that they would have to get past it, and quick, but Thorin has been managing without thinking about it very much at all, and he suspects Bilbo has been doing the same. There's not much room for discretion – Thorin is ordered to go topless immediately, Bilbo not far behind, and he might consider himself a dedicated professional, but that doesn't stop him from getting a good eyeful.

Bilbo is all soft curves and smooth skin, a healthy layer of pudge padding the muscles Thorin knows he has, and the costume Dori chooses for him suits him, wide high-waisted trousers hugging his middle and hanging loose in great folds of fabric everywhere else until they're wrapped and held in place by the string of the flat shoes. The similarities with Thorin's costume end there, because Bilbo is lucky enough to wear a jeweled vest in muted earthy tones atop it all, which is admittedly about toddler-sized and doesn't do a very good job of covering anything at all, but still looks very nice.

To his surprise, Bilbo doesn't appear very happy about the costume, requesting a robe when Dori is done with him, wrapping himself up in it and peering at himself in the mirror with something that almost looks like dismay.

“What, is the man who spent the better half of Summer Fever 2 shirtless afraid of showing a bit of skin?” Thorin attempts to offer a joke, though he doesn't even know why, and an insecure, almost anxious grimace flashes across Bilbo's face before he sticks out his tongue at him, quipping: “Seen my masterpiece, have you? I'm flattered.”

“Yes, truly one of the greatest achievements of modern cinema,” says Thorin, who watched the movie on one of those resentment-filled evenings back when just the mention of Bilbo's name made his stomach turn, sulking and in need of reassurances about Bilbo's mediocrity. Not that Bilbo needs to know that. Not that Thorin shouldn't worry about what has changed.

Retreating to their usual bantering selves, even though they're both still a tad uncomfortable in their new attire, they're called onto the stage, Radagast supervising them as they try their moves in the costumes for the first time, to see if they're suitable. And perhaps for the first time ever, he sees Bilbo vulnerable – he expects it's impossible for anyone else to see, but the man disposes of his robe only highly reluctantly, and even though he grins as Gandalf and Radagast compliment the costume, there's still something off about him...

Their first attempt at the big lift is a fiasco, Bilbo too stiff and Thorin too distracted to remember to kiss him.

“Is it the pants?” Dori fusses, “is the fabric too firm? God, I knew I should have used a different lining...”

“No, no, it's not the costume, really, it's perfectly fine,” Bilbo babbles, smoothing down the folds of the fabric almost nervously, “it's very comfortable, it's just... me. It's me. I'm sorry. Let's do it again.”

They do, and fail again, and this time Bilbo swears under his breath as Thorin sets him down carefully, muttering: “I'm sorry.”

“Are you alright?” Thorin asks him quietly, his back to the audience, shielding them both from the scrutinizing gazes of the director and the rest.

Bilbo stares at the ground first, meeting his gaze almost sheepishly, and Thorin is, above all, curious.

“I'm just... god, I feel like an idiot, I'm sorry. I'm just...”

“Is it the costume?” Thorin asks, and before Bilbo can protest, he adds, “or lack thereof?”

That is rewarded by a quick grin, and Bilbo drags his hands down his face, groaning.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “yeah. I think. Can you...? Jesus, you're going to think I'm out of my mind, but can we...?”

He indicates his intentions with the slightest inclination of his head towards the backstage, and Thorin frowns, still confused, but... oh well.

“Can you give us a minute?” he turns to Gandalf and the rest, and the director glares at them both with an obvious question in his eyes for a moment, before nodding.

“Make it quick.”

-

 

This is all so... inconvenient. Bilbo isn't usually subject to stage fright or any of its subsections, but it's immensely difficult not to feel insecure when faced with... that. He's been copping feels, so to speak, for weeks now, but actually seeing Thorin's bare broad chest before him, firm shoulders and hair and dear god the line of his collarbone... well, it certainly steals one's breath away, rather effectively.

I can't be in the same room as these pectorals, is the first coherent thought that enters Bilbo's mind, and he quickly moves past feeling stupid and embarrassed onto full-out anxious.

It's not that he spends his days being insecure about his body – he's tiny and chubby and rounded even in the places that should be anything but that, and he's fine with that. A lot of other people in his life have been more than fine with that, actually, and he's long since learned to appreciate himself. It's just that... he doesn't prance around half naked if he can help it, and the idea of doing that every day for the foreseeable future, especially opposite that casually toned massive body, overwhelms him for a while.

For his part, Thorin seems unfazed, but Bilbo can't take it much longer, and he knows he's going to have to do something about that knot of nervousness sitting tight in his gut and stealing both the clarity of his thoughts and the grace of his movements.

A great part of him is absolutely mortified to ask Thorin what he's asking him, but the man continues to surprise him, agreeing to follow him backstage without much ado where Bilbo expected a great deal of complaining.

“What's going on with you?” Thorin demands when they're well away from the stage, surrounded by cold air and the remnants of old props stacked by a wall and under one of the stairwells leading to the catwalks. The light here is dim at best, and Thorin just stands there, expectant, and Bilbo feels heat rushing to his cheeks and feels very very silly.

“I need you to let me hug you,” he says, explaining hastily before Thorin can cut in, “look, it's something I picked up way back when. Working on Summer Fever number one, actually, yeah, laugh it up. It's just... a thing. It helps dispel the... you know. Tension. Whatever. They use it before shooting sex scenes, for the actors to just... relax with each other, and...”

His voice dies off on its own, and he looks at Thorin only highly tentatively, already considering the fastest escape routes in case his embarrassment reaches heart-attack levels.

“We're... not shooting a sex scene though,” the man comments dryly, but not unkindly.

“No, yeah, I know, I know. I just... it helps me, it really does. You're very welcome to make fun of me for the rest of my life, okay?”

It might have just been a trick of the poor lighting, but Bilbo thinks he saw a short smile flash across Thorin's face.

“Well, as long as there's that,” he says.

 

And then those infuriatingly big arms envelop Bilbo in a bear hug, and he only realizes now just how surprised he really is that Thorin agreed to it at all. Maybe it's the unspoken deal between them, that they'll never tell about this to anyone. Maybe it's just yet another one of Thorin's qualities that Bilbo is only discovering now. Maybe it doesn't matter, because as awkward as it starts, it soon passes into exactly what Bilbo needs – his tension dissipates bit by bit, large warm hands resting on his back and shoulder, and he feels like he can breathe freely again. Thorin smells faintly of some very nice cologne, and something fresh, like wind, Bilbo immediately thinking of his motorbike, and he breathes evenly, soft and solid at the same time. It is when Bilbo realizes he's been listening to his heartbeat, the steady quiet rhythm of it, that something constricts somewhere deep within his own chest, his own heart skipping a beat as the warning bells in his head take over with a frightfully simple melody of uh-ohs.

They disentangle slowly, keeping the warmth between them, and Bilbo almost yelps when he looks into Thorin's eyes, nothing but black and impossibly captivating, before he remembers the contact lenses and laughs at his own stupidity.

“Better?” Thorin wonders quietly, and Bilbo nods, even though he's everything but sure.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Good. Just answer me this – are we going to have to do this before every performance?”

Bilbo snickers and replies a playful: “Only if you want to.” before he can stop himself, but Thorin rewards that with a grin of his own, nothing more. But still, as he follows him out of the labyrinth of shelves and props, Bilbo scrunches his face, embarrassment finally overpowering him, and hopes to chase away the fleeting feelings that right now, blossoming out of nowhere and taking over him with an intensity that's disconcerting to say the least, are so. Very. Inconvenient.

-

 

When she was a little girl, she used to get excited about a lot of things – strawberry ice-cream, every single dog she ever saw, carousels, the ancient swing on the thick strong branch of the oak behind their grandparents' summer house... She misses that childlike glee, feet flying so high above the ground that she could pretend she was walking across the sky, hands holding onto the ropes, and if she closed her eyes, she could pretend she was flying, her stomach fluttering with each long swoop.

She doesn't know where it comes from, but holding the first batch of posters in her hands, she feels like flying again.

They're just fabulous, really – Gandalf seems to know all the right people, and the photographer he'd invited a week ago did such a brilliant job. There's two versions of them so far, both very dark and unusually somber and intense considering what they're promoting, but it works. Oh, it works.

In the first one, Galadriel poses in her best Titania make-up, one of Dori's best if Dís is to judge, radiant and fierce and all but ablaze, hoisted up in the bower they've been having so many issues with, afraid it won't work, afraid they'll end up maiming one of their most precious stars... Even though it's mostly Photoshop right now, Dís sees that they must, they must make it work, because it's absolutely stunning – Titania truly is every bit the queen, stripes and folds of the almost translucent fabric of her dress flowing and cascading like waterfalls down from her ethereal resting place and down, down until they're swallowed by the darkness and the vague sharp shadows of trees against it on the bottom of the poster, where the tall elegant letters cut through the black, announcing A Midsummer Night's Dream, at the Erebor Theatre, directed by Gandalf Grey, from the 10^th of July to the 22^nd of September, and Dís holds her breath and stares at it for ages, fingertips mapping out the sheen paper almost reverently.

But the second version... oh, the second version. Thorin and Bilbo, gazes locked, black eyes captivating and frightening at the same time, but certainly enough to convey the urgency of emotion between them... Dís was there at the photoshoot, and the photographer made them do every single one of their lifts and moves over and over again to find a good angle, until finally, he settled on something that none of them really expected.

She remembers sitting in the audience and counting the seconds to Thorin losing his patience at long last and stomping out, and Gandalf suggesting they do the parting scene from the Second Act, which, on his part, was an attempt to give them a second's rest, but instead it turned into... this.

Oberon sends his faithful servant away to do his bidding, but before that happens, he pulls him close, and time stops for them for a little while. It looks fantastic on the poster, Thorin's hand cupping the side of Bilbo's head, the impressive angles of his arm framing it all like a painting, and Bilbo only half turned to him, gaze firmly planted on Thorin's lips... Yes, it looks fantastic on the poster, but it was even more fantastic to watch in real life.

Dís saw the telltale signs of exhaustion, in both of them, and saw that they both wanted it over with, but she didn't see... couldn't spot what made that particular moment happen. Once the photographer saw the move, he told them to hold it there as they readjusted the lighting and everything, and they did, they held, and it felt like time stopped for all of them. Dís could almost sense them communicating without words, gazes interlocked, Thorin inclining his head almost imperceptibly, Bilbo offering a little smile before remembering himself and hiding behind the wall of his character again... Dís almost felt like she was intruding upon some delicate personal moment, and wondered if she was the only one who could sense the air in the room thrumming with some unknown tension.

 

Perhaps it was there, she thinks, that she really started feeling this giddy and excited about the whole thing. The posters really make it hit home, that they've made it, that this is really happening, and she feels like a little girl again, all but skipping steps as she carries a few of them to hang up in the lounge and the box office.

She runs into quite the crowd downstairs, and the reactions are all the same, all absolutely overjoyed, everyone sharing in her glee.

“Holy crap,” Dwalin offers a fitting comment, turning up behind her as she stares at the poster spread out before her lovingly, putting a hand on her shoulder, and just this once, she lets him.

“Right?” she breathes out happily, “isn't it perfect?”

“What is? Oh, the posters! Let me see!”

That's Bilbo, turning up along with Thorin after their rehearsal, and Dís hands him one of the posters in question. Bilbo's eyes widen impossibly, and he spreads it out in his hands, walking off as he admires it.

“No, hold on, I want to see,” Thorin grumbles, following him, and Bilbo lets him loom behind him and peer at it over his shoulder, and they stare at it in utter silence for what feels like an eternity, yet another moment suspended in time, and Dís finds that watching them, right there, before her, is better than any poster. Thorin mumbles something that she doesn't catch, and Bilbo chuckles, half turning to him, replying with something that makes Thorin huff a laugh, and Dís really sees it, how much at ease they are around each other, all but breathing the same air as Thorin points out some detail on the poster over Bilbo's shoulder still, and they don't even realize it, just how much like their characters they look, what vibe they radiate in big old sweeping waves all over the place.

But Dís does, and her heart soars. Oh, she so enjoys being right.

 

Chapter Text

It's calm and quiet in Ered Luin for the longest time, nothing suggesting what's to come, nothing reminding him of it, and then one perfectly normal morning, they're everywhere. He sees the first one along with the morning coffee his assistant brings him, and stares at it for a good long while, the cup of espresso strong enough to fell a grown man stuck halfway to his mouth.

“Where did you get this?” he asks at long last, one pale long finger tracing the tall elegant letters.

“Tore it off a newsstand, to be honest. They're all over town now.”

“Indeed?”

“Yeah. What do you think?”

What does he think? He does have enough respect for Gandalf Grey to know that the man isn't to be in any way predicted. This is right up his alley, miles away from how this particular play is always presented – all muted earthy tones, the darkness of it all making him curious despite himself.

He sips on his coffee and glares at the two actors around whom it is all centered – one barely a fledgling, learning his ropes in B-list summer flicks and selling his fleeting charm because it is the only marketable quality he has, and the other...

“Good choice,” he muses, and when his assistant quirks an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic display of kindness, he adds, “for a role to bury one's career indefinitely.”

“Apparently it's... quite something. Even Greenleaf was impressed, from what I hear.”

“Well, it's in his best interest to be impressed, of course, considering how much money he's pouring into it.”

“An article is coming out on Sunday in The Arrow – something about resurrection, or renaissance...”

“Or something equally as naively hopeful, yes, obviously. Oh, I shall so enjoy seeing this one fail.”

“Would you like me to secure you a seat in one of the dress rehearsals when the time comes?”

“Oh, no no, the premiere will do. I do think I'll pay Dís Oakenshield a visit, though. It's been too long.”

“I'll see about adjusting your schedule.”

“Do so, thank you.”

 

After his assistant backs out of the room, he leans back in his vast chair and glares at the face of Thorin Oakenshield. Even under all that make-up, even with those black contacts he must admit he rather likes, the man is almost a mirror image of his grandfather now, back in his glory days of course. Not that those lasted very long. The family has always had a propensity for short-lived careers, after all. And short-lived lives in general, come to think of it.

Yes, this will be quite something, he decides. Perhaps not in the way the Oakenshields are no doubt hoping for, but all the more exciting for it. The posters are impressive, he will give them that, but creating hype and living up to it are two entirely different things – he is in the business of proving that, after all, and nothing brings him greater joy than doing his job right. Nothing brings him greater joy than watching from the sidelines for all these years and witnessing the tragic and sinfully interesting pattern of falling from grace repeat in this particular family, time and time again.

Rather excited by the sweet promise of what's to come, the critic laughs.

-

 

Thorin wakes up well rested, after a night not spent epically, or even just comfortably, drunk, hops in the shower, makes himself breakfast and rides the motorcycle to work, and only remembers that this isn't exactly his usual routine after about five different people respond to his greetings somewhat cautiously. Dís last of all, with an amiable: “Morning. You're an hour early. What the hell?”

“Am I?” Thorin wonders, leaning idly on the bar and trying to peek into the thick folder of whatever documents she's currently worrying about.

“Yes. I'd ask you if you stayed up all night, but you look too... healthy.”

“I think I actually went to sleep before midnight, if I recall correctly.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” she quips.

“Still me,” Thorin smiles, “is Bilbo in?”

At long last, she raises her eyes from her papers properly, and the look she casts him is nothing short of thoroughly scrutinizing.

“Nobody arrives an hour early, Thorin, not even Bilbo. You're just going to have to wait around for a bit.”

“Fine,” he shrugs, and she simply glares at him some more before shaking her head, as if she can't quite believe what she's seeing, and chasing off after her own business.

He hovers at the bar for a bit before deciding to make himself the coffee he'd neglected at home. While the water boils, his gaze falls to the newest addition to the posters on the far wall. It's as good a chronicle of their work as they're getting, depicting everything and everyone who ever made their name here, from Thorin's grandfather in his unforgettable Richard III, to his father and Galadriel herself side by side and astonishing in Macbeth, to his own self in the early days of \The Importance Of Being Earnest...

And of course now, opposite Bilbo Baggins in Midsummer. If anyone had told him when this year started that he'd not only be rehearsing with this man, but doing so willingly and with a great deal of enjoyment (albeit mostly unvoiced and kept to himself, hoping that the likes of Dwalin will fail to notice and let him live out the rest of his days in peace), he'd probably laugh at them and add a flowery insult or two to boot...

“Well, as I live and breathe.”

Oh, speak of the devil.

“If it isn't the ghost of Thorin past, awake before noon and fresh as a daisy. Did you get laid last night?”

“Good morning to you too, Dwalin.”

“Answer my question.”

Thorin ignores him, pouring piping hot water into his mug instead, eyes still drawn to his own poster. It really is a lovely piece of work, making both him and Bilbo look... well, the way Gandalf has wanted them to look all along. Ethereal, distant, as if they're only to be admired from afar. And yet there's an almost warm intimacy to it all, the setting, the pose the photographer chose, the way Bilbo looks at him and the way Thorin cradles his head, almost as if gently nuzzling his curls. He still remembers how soft his hair was, the odd sensation of the fans of feathers resting on his temples, resembling a crown, or maybe a strangely shaped pair of antlers...

“Earth to Oakenshield.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, realizing he's been staring perhaps a bit too intently, mug of coffee forgotten in his clasped hands.

“If you're done admiring your own face, I could use some help downstairs.”

“Wasn't admiring my face,” Thorin grumbles, accounting the heat in his cheeks to drinking too much hot coffee at once.

“Someone else's face then.”

“No, I...” he sputters, but then sees the grimace on Dwalin's face, amusement and a healthy dose of downright mean teasing, and he groans, “oh, shut up. Let's go.”

 

Twenty minutes later he's sweating like a pig helping haul a bunch of equipment backstage, and he can't help but wonder if Dwalin is doing this on purpose.

“I have rehearsal in an hour you know,” he complains, and his oldest friend merely laughs.

“Think of this as a warm-up session then. Wouldn't want you to start getting too comfortable to come down here, you primadonna.”

“I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about,” Thorin puffs.

“Oh, good, you're all here. Listen to this – oh, Thorin.”

That's Nori, electrician, stagehand, scoundrel and all in all a man about town if there ever lived a person deserving of that title. Also, for some reason, he works as Dís' assistant from time to time, for reasons that have always eluded Thorin, and the two cups of coffee balanced in his hands along a batch of different newspapers mean that that's where he's headed now.

“Oh Thorin what?”

“I was just bringing this to your sister, didn't expect to run into you. Have you had your breakfast yet? Can't exactly guarantee this won't make your stomach turn.”

“What's going on?” Dwalin demands, dusting off his shoulders and gathering around Nori along with others from the morning crew.

“Well, the Arrow article is out, which is the good news,” Nori sighs, nimbly jumping up to sit on one of the giant loudspeaker sets, ignoring Bofur's displeased scowl and spreading out the newspaper dramatically enough to attract the attention of everyone who might not have been paying it until now.

“What's it say then?”

“Oh, you know, it's all very hopeful, very nice superlatives indeed. They're calling a refreshing change of pace, and, oh yeah, this one I particularly liked, a shot in the dark that just might hit its desired target. Here we go... Gandalf Grey returns to Ered Luin with the promise of yet another special take on a classic, bound to be both unpredictable and keeping in with the best tradition of Grey's explosively spectacular productions. Conducting it under the roof of the renowned, but still somewhat fading, glory that is the Erebor Theatre, might be seen as a great risk with no great promise of reward, but it stands to reason that Grey knows exactly what he's doing.

There's no denying that this is a rather valiant attempt at kickstarting a new era Erebor is so desperately in need of, but aided by the unexpected ever-expanding talent of Bilbo Baggins, starring opposite Erebor's very own Thorin Oakenshield (Puck and Oberon respectively), and the timeless grace of Tony Award winner Galadriel Goldenwood (Titania), there's also no doubt it'll be an enjoyable attempt to watch... Et cetera et cetera, you get the gist.”

Everyone seems incredibly pleased, and Bofur asks: “Beorn wrote this one, didn't he?”

“Yup.”

“That man is a blessing in disguise.”

Thorin rolls his eyes, but knows it to be true. For the most part, he's perfectly happy to forget all about critics, all year long if necessary. They're mean just because they're allowed to, self-absorbed because no one ever criticizes them, and all in all of the sad belief that their opinions matter simply because they once had the willpower to study theatre theory for a couple of years. Not to mention some of them have the nasty habit of forgetting the line between professional and personal, and meddling in business that isn't their own, leaving nothing but despair in their wake...

Beorn has always been a bright, cheerful, six-foot-three exception to the rule, with a soft spot for Erebor in particular, and Thorin must admit it'll be a relief to have him on their side in the coming months.

“And the bad news?” he asks, since his nasty habit is never being quite content with the bright side of things.

“Eh,” Nori makes an unhappy sound, reluctant to share, then fishes out another newspaper from his hoard while Thorin glares at him warily.

“Well?”

“Well... you know what, Dís has a very peculiar taste when it comes to newspapers, I'll tell you that. I don't think you'd appreciate the finer details of-”

“Oh, just give it,” Thorin says sternly and snatches it out of Nori's hands, the man merely shrugging in resignation.

“Don't say I didn't warn you.”

-

 

She's not too fond of reminiscing. Remembering, yes. Everything that happened can't just be dismissed, there's no use in pretending it didn't happen – but it's in the past where it belongs, there's no use dwelling on any of it. She's a firm believer in the magical properties of moving on, which probably makes her the black sheep of the family, but alas.

And it all seems okay, all seems perfectly calm and non-threatening and moved on from, until one day, it doesn't.

It's probably because it all happens at once, really. She is absolutely adamant to avoid the visit she'd promised Gandalf as long as possible, but no, of course the director makes extra time for it out of his ordinarily extremely busy schedule, and it goes... Well, what did any of them expect, really? What did Gandalf expect?

She watches the thick veil of sickness brushed aside for a moment as a light she has not seen for decades is rekindled in her father's eyes for a fleeting moment, some undamaged part of his mind taking over for a short while and recognizing Gandalf, only to be extinguished practically before it even started. It's back to hostility and muttering, and still, Gandalf perseveres, one of Thrain's frail pale hands in both of his as he tells him quietly about why he's come back to town, about how he's taking care of his children, and Dís stands by the door, chewing at her thumb nervously like she's ten again, and something within her disapproves very vehemently.

“It doesn't matter,” she hears her father say, his voice changed so much she prefers not to let him speak these days, the man glaring at Gandalf almost accusingly when he describes his plans for the props in nonsensical detail, “it's all ash. It'll take years to rebuild. You'll never make it. It's all burned down.”

She stops Gandalf before he tries to explain that that's all long gone now, and they leave shortly thereafter. The director is very quiet on the ride back to the city, and she doesn't blame him.

“I told you you'd be disappointed,” she murmurs.

“Nonsense,” he shakes his head, but she chooses not to believe him.

“You got lucky, really,” she presses on with unlikely bitterness, “fire is all he ever talks about on most days. We could have easily spent hours there.”

“I'd still like to do that,” Gandalf says thoughtfully, “one day.”

She chooses to ignore that. Only makes sure that they're clear about one thing – not a word of this to Thorin.

In the meantime, the posters have taken the city, and she soon wishes with all she has that that were all. But no, the thing about the past is, no matter how thoroughly you think you've managed to learn from it, sometimes it comes back to haunt you.

Her stomach turns very disagreeably when Nori slaps the newspapers on her desk – she reads Beorn's piece first, to settle her mind, a grin spreading across her face almost tentatively, but the other article is waiting for her, shorter but sharper, and her eyes jump from word to word, skipping and skimming it, that's how worried she is.

“I'm surprised anyone's willing to publish this anymore,” Nori offers, his surly smile only ever so reassuring.

“I'm sure they pay him by the slur,” Dís groans, “did Thorin...?”

“Yeah. Couldn't stop him, sorry.”

“Ugh. He's in rehearsal now, yeah?”

“Dressing room, actually, I think. They had to shuffle it around a bit, I don't know, lighting issues, don't ask me...”

But she's already halfway out the door.

The tricky thing about the past is, you have to choose to move on from it. And if there is one thing Thorin has always sucked at, it's moving on. It took him years to muster enough courage to go visit their father again, afraid that all his prized memories of how things used to be would shatter with the encounter, she knows. If Dís hates reminiscing, then Thorin revels in it – he's all about reminding himself and everyone else of the pride of their glory days, and living up to whatever examples his family have set decades ago, and always, always being too stupidly emotional about everything... He never lets it show, of course, but he's like a rock on the verge of cracking, thin spidery cracks crawling on the surface that only looks smooth from afar, and Dís won't let history repeat itself, under no circumstances will she watch him turn into their father or, god forbid, their grandfather before him...

The door to his dressing room flies open and she strolls inside without knocking, perfectly prepared to take care of whatever mess she will find there, and she is met with... laughter. It takes her a moment to adjust and assess the situation, and when she does, she thinks it might be wise to walk right back out again and check if she's entered the correct room. But no, this is Thorin's dressing room, with the ancient wardrobe and even more ancient triptych mirror, and the dingy couch... and on it Bilbo, legs tucked underneath himself, thick folders of script in his lap and a bright green marker between his teeth, face a grimace of both concentration and amusement, offering a broad grin and a cheerful: “Good morning!” to Dís when he spots her.

“What's up?”

She turns from him to Thorin, lounging in his chair by the mirror, sitting on it the other way around, chin resting on his folded arms.

“I, uh... I was just going to – did you read the newspaper articles?”

“Oh, yeah. Yes, I did.”

“Both of them?”

“Mhm.”

“And?!”

“And I don't know about you, but it seems to me like they must be paying him by the snide remark these days, because I can't imagine why else anyone would ever publish that dreck.”

Dís blinks. Once, twice. Maybe she hasn't even woken up yet. Maybe she's still dreaming. By her reckoning, Thorin should be having a terrifyingly early glass of whiskey or three after reading that, not sit here and laugh it up. Not sit here and... When was the last time he ever allowed anyone else inside his cramped, dim, slightly stale kingdom of a dressing room for longer than thirty seconds without complaining their ears off about it, anyway?! This is surreal. He came in an hour early today, for crying out loud. That should have been her first cue. Surreal.

“So you're... fine,” she exhales, “after reading that.”

“Reading what?” Bilbo asks politely, “what are we talking about?”

“A bit of advertising for the play,” Thorin explains, “two articles came out about it this morning.”

“Oh? Oh! Can I see?”

“Sure, yeah, I don't have the newspaper anymore though... Dís?”

“Hmm?” she mumbles, still largely confused, “oh yeah, no, me neither, sorry. You should be able to snatch some in the lounge though, uh...”

“Is everything alright?” Thorin asks her, measuring her cautiously, and she stares at him in disbelief.

“With me? Yes, of course everything's alright with me, but what about you?” she snaps a tad irritably.

“What about me?” Thorin quirks an eyebrow.

“Well, I just... you... I mean, the article... I was worried!”

He watches her with genuine curiosity now, and so does Bilbo, and she feels like she's stepped into some highly distressing alternate reality where nothing is as it should be. Her temples are throbbing.

“About what? About me?” Thorin inclines his head, and when she shrugs, he actually laughs, very softly, saying kindly, almost as if he's talking to a child, “it's one article, Dís. Am I pissed? Sure. I'd much prefer it if the man stayed out of this altogether, but we can hardly make him. We're just going to have to prove him wrong, which shouldn't be too difficult, what do you think?”

“Alright, I really need to read this now,” Bilbo pipes up impatiently, “who is this guy? Has he been slandering me?”

“Nothing a dozen others haven't written before,” Thorin retorts playfully, and Bilbo huffs and indignant 'Oh!' and throws a pillow at him, which he catches expertly, both of them laughing, and Dís watches on in horror, because this isn't... this can't be right.

“Anyway,” Thorin turns back to her, “I'll be fine, seriously. Not going to drink myself to death because of a few poorly worded insults, I promise.”

“Don't joke about that,” she replies feebly, and he smiles.

“Sorry. I'm alright though, really. Was there anything else you needed? Because we were in the middle of running this scene...”

“Some of us were, while some others tried to butcher it,” Bilbo chimes in innocently, and Thorin's face doesn't falter for a second, his throw much more precise and vicious, the pillow hitting Bilbo straight in the stomach.

“Right,” she sighs, trying to find some hidden explanation in their cheery smiling faces, “right. I'll be... off, then.”

“See you. Oh, I think Bofur wanted to talk to you about the primary proscenium spotlights whenever you have time.”

“Oh, that you can pronounce, but did bid thee do gives you pause.”

“Oh, save it!”

Dís backs out of the room before more pillows start flying, and stops in the deserted corridor, staring dead ahead for a good long while. Could she have been that horribly wrong? Could she have miscalculated so much? Was she just being stupidly overprotective... but no. No! For all intents and purposes, this should have been enough to turn Thorin into a surly wreck for days, because he always takes everything far too personally, always dwells on things for far too long...

“Hey, you look like you've seen a ghost! What's up?”

That's Dwalin headed her way, looking a bit like a ghost himself, covered head to toe in a faint layer of dust, no doubt from sorting through the more ancient props they've got stored deeper into the rooms backstage, just like she'd asked him.

“Have you seen the Azog article?” she asks him weakly.

“Oh, yeah, nasty stuff. Bugger's just getting meaner with age, eh.”

“Yeah, well,” Dís peeps, rubbing her forehead, “how would you expect Thorin to react?”

“Oh, man. Has he locked himself up in there? Is he crying? Do you want me to manhandle him outside?”

“No, and no and no. He's working, there's no alcohol to be seen anywhere in there, he told me he's alright, really, oh, and he's got Bilbo in there with him.”

“Wow,” Dwalin comments.

“I know! What the hell? Has the world gone mad?”

“Well, I don't know about the world,” Dwalin smiles slyly, “but letting the man he'd once sworn to hate for all eternity into his dressing room aka recluse cave, before 10am? Sounds to me like someone's found much better things to worry about than evil critics.”

“They threw pillows at each other,Dwalin. I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Oh, god. I think it's high time we got the hell out of here before we hear something that would give the newspapers actual fodder.”

-

 

There's a reason why Bilbo only ever drinks the very colorful drinks, or good wine, or anything that gives him an excuse to sip on it for an hour or more, and it has to do with the fact that he's barely five foot six and disgustingly lightweight, just like his father. His mother was the champ of the family, or at least that's what he remembers. And he also remembers his father turning red and way too chatty after just a glass or two of anything, remembers it very well because he gets to see it in the mirror every time he lets himself near any kind of alcohol.

That's why, staying one evening to see Six Characters In Search Of an Author, completely inconspicuously of course, and then somehow ending up sitting in the lounge with a lot of the cast and crew, he holds onto his wine spritzer almost carefully, sipping it bit by tiny bit and drinking actual water along with it. The time to get stupidly tipsy will probably come sooner or later, he tells himself, but not before the actual play starts, all those celebrations and afterparties. Besides, he's far too interested in the conversation right now.

“We're not suing anyone, Dwalin,” Balin is currently grumbling, looking a bit out of place among the fresh stagehands and still sweaty actors with his cup of tea and solemn face, like he's just stepped out of his office, and not willingly. Him and his brother make for such an impossibly contrasting pair, Bilbo notes for the billionth time, and they're always so much fun to watch.

“It's a precaution,” Dwalin counters, “he's been sitting comfortably for too long, stewing in his damn self-importance and just biding his time before he...”

“What? Goes on a killing spree again?” Balin says mildly, nudging Dwalin's ribs, which Bilbo expects is like a blade of grass brushing at a mountain, “we'll just let the critics do their job, they'll scratch each other's eyes out over this, you'll see. There's no reason to believe he'll do anything but his job-”

“You do realize his job is ruining things, right?” Bofur chimes in, “maybe Dwalin is right, maybe we should do something now before he goes on a rampage again.”

“A rampage?” Bilbo peeps, “again? Honestly, who is this person?”

“Just a critic,” Bofur waves his hand, sipping on his beer.

“He's not just a critic,” Dwalin corrects him darkly, “he wasn't just a critic back when he made sure that Thrain would never work again, he's not just a critic now.”

“Dwalin,” Balin hisses as if his brother has just said something extremely offensive, and Bilbo understands that they're probably about to wade into taboo territory, but his curiosity won't be sated so easily.

“What's the story there?” he asks perfectly innocently, “I mean, you read things... Yet another nemesis of old like Thranduil Greenleaf?”

Bofur snorts into his beer while Dwalin rolls his eyes, and Balin is the one to take on the duty of informing Bilbo, if a bit reluctantly.

“That's one way to put it. Though it would be an insult to Mr Greenleaf, comparing him to Azog, I think.”

A row of appreciative grunts confirms that, and Dwalin adds wisely: “There's annoying people, and then there's scum, you know.”

Balin shakes his head, evidently displeased with his brother's dictionary, but doesn't deny it either.

“What did he do? You're making him sound more like a supervillain, than the glorified journalist I'm sure he is.”

“That is an insult to glorified journalists,” Bofur notes, and Bilbo can't help but laugh.

“Oh, look at you lot. Alright, I promise I won't ask any more nosy questions. You sure guard your stories pretty fiercely.”

“It's just not a very happy story, this one,” Balin offers almost apologetically, while Bofur hangs his head and Dwalin is suddenly very much occupied by peeling the label off his beer bottle.

“Oh,” Bilbo exhales, feeling only a fraction embarrassed, “well, alright then. Now I feel a bit bad about all the googling I did when I first got the job.”

“You'd be insane if you didn't,” Balin says softly, and Dwalin adds, making sound more like a threat than a question, “what did you come by?”

“Christ, this is not an interrogation,” Bofur snickers, “it's not like it's all top secret. I'm sure you read all about Goldlust, eh? It was all very taboo-” there's the feared word, “back in the day, you know, mental illness wasn't a front-page topic, obviously. Great movie, though, right?”

“Well... obviously,” Bilbo says uncertainly, “but at what cost?”

“Thror's illness wasn't common knowledge,” Balin is, surprisingly, the one to continue, sounding far too solemn in the general cheer surrounding them, “but the people who worked with him knew. Most of them, anyway. When he took on Goldlust, it was out of pride, mostly. He knew his career was coming to an end, and if there is one thing all of them-” one faint gesture of his hand is somehow enough of an umbrella descriptor of the three generations of magnificent actors, ending with Thorin, “have in common, it's the inability to stop before it's too late.”

“Pride runs in the family,” Dwalin offers, only half joking.

“Right,” Bilbo peeps, staring at the tiny bubbles forming in his glass for far too long before raising his head and meeting with everyone's gazes, as if they're expecting him to react somehow.

“Well... I understand that Goldlust, um... ruined Thorin's grandfather, but I still don't really get the whole business with his father.”

“That's the unhappy part.”

“That is the unhappy part?”

“Well, you know, stories about you tend to gain a sort of nostalgic touch after you've been dead for a while,” Balin says simply, and Bilbo feels inclined to take a good long drink then – such lovely dinnertime conversation.

“Thorin's father survived losing his father, survived the 1992 fire, survived a whole lot of other things, but the problem is exactly that – he's had to live with all that, and now he's... well, where he is.”

“Is it the same...?”

“As Thror's illness? Yes, just with a much less dramatic outcome – well, in a way. That, too, runs in the family.”

Something painful and compassionate constricts within Bilbo's chest, and he sees some more of the actors entering the lounge, and searches for Thorin's broad shoulders among them without really knowing it, just to see him and make sure... of what, really?

“He'll be napping in his dressing room for the next two hours at least,” Dwalin tells him simply, mind-reader abilities on an uncanny level, “it's an after-show routine. That, and biting the head off anyone who dares disturb him.”

“Yeah, that dressing room is sacred ground,” Bofur nods, “trespassing is punished accordingly.”

“Oh, Bilbo wouldn't know about that,” Dwalin says casually enough so that Bilbo doesn't recognize the teasing in his tone right away, “he's a frequent guest.”

Balin's eyebrows arch up in genuine surprise, and Bofur scowls, confused.

“What does that mean?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned, “he lets you in? Of his own volition?”

Bilbo chuckles in disbelief.

“No, actually, I purchased the super secret password for the door off this very shady guy in the back alley by the stage door and I sneak in once a day to rearrange his furniture just to piss him off. Yes, he lets me in. You know, occasionally. When we need a quiet place to run lines or something. Is that really such a big deal?”

Bofur laughs heartily while Dwalin giggles into his beer, and Balin's smile is unsettling to say the least – Bilbo is missing something.

“Do you want insider info?” he shrugs, “I'm pretty sure the couch is at least fifty years old, and he stashes bags of peanuts under it. I'm surprised there are no rats there yet. Or maybe they know better than to show their faces.”

The faces before him right now are all varying images of doubt, and amusement, and in Balin's case, still that undecipherable knowing smile that's beginning to worry Bilbo a little bit.

“Am I doing anything wrong?” he tries to find out more, a tad cautiously now.

“Wrong!” Dwalin laughs, “he asks us if he's doing something wrong!”

“Just keep at it, you're doing great,” Bofur offers with a grin, very vaguely and unhelpfully in Bilbo's opinion.

“That couch is about fifty years old though, so just... proceed with caution whenever you decide to-”

“Dwalin.”

Bilbo looks from one to the other, very much confused now, yet again incapable of keeping up with their little inside jokes, this whole sort of tight-knit group energy they've got going on between them. He tries not to let that upset him. He's been doing better, he thinks.

“You two! Downstairs, now!”

That's Dís, appearing out of nowhere and looking sterner than usual – paler, too, Bilbo notes.

“What's wrong?” Dwalin asks, and she glares at him with a scorching intensity to rival the brightest spotlights.

“What's wrong?! Unfinished work is what's wrong! If I trip over a damn headlight or a rope one more time I swear I'll burn the place to the ground just to offer you the sweet opportunity to see the real scope of all that mess...”

“Alright, alright, we're going, come on, it can't be that bad...”

Obviously trained to respond to Dís' moods, both Dwalin and Bofur jump up from the table and follow her quickly and without a word of protest. Bilbo sees her pinch the bridge of her nose, appearing just incredibly tired, nothing more, and he sees Dwalin squeezing her arm and asking her, inaudibly now across the span of the busy lounge, if she's okay, and he thinks, family. Not mine, but still rather nice to watch. Standing by and catching some of the warmth they all radiate, if even for a short while, that sounds like a good idea.

“There's no need to worry about Thorin,” Balin's soft words jolt him out of his thinking, and when Bilbo looks at him curiously, the man adds, “he's not his grandfather.”

“Oh no, I didn't think... I mean, he seems perfectly... Right,” Bilbo babbles.

“Just the occasional migraine,” Balin offers as if he's talking about the weather, “and a persistent case of grumpiness and bad temper.”

The man in question enters the lounge then, looking a bit bedraggled but otherwise fine, and he proceeds to promptly ignore anyone attempting to catch his attention by radiating silent hostility, and makes his way to the bar where he squares his shoulders and swaps a few words with Bombur, who pours him a drink. He notices Bilbo out of the corner of his eye after a moment though, cocking his head and rolling his eyes when he receives a very mocking thumbs-up, but peeling himself off the bar and approaching him and Balin nevertheless.

“Yeah,” Bilbo chuckles before Thorin can hear them, “I think I can work with that.”

-

 

She should have noticed so much sooner. Or, well, should have stopped joking about it and started actually believing it, yes, that's the point. They're so obvious. To anyone but themselves, of course, but yes, obvious nevertheless. A month ago, they were straining both their muscles and their egos while rehearsing together, kicking each other in the ribs, by accident or otherwise, and here they are now, moving and acting with an ease that is very nearly breathtaking to watch.

And that is just the icing on the cake, really. She doesn't know about Bilbo – because she doesn't know very much at all about Bilbo still, which troubles her sometimes – but Thorin is a changed man. He looks healthier, sleeps more, drinks less (alcohol, more water), comes by for lunches without any complaining whatsoever... Drives his bike everywhere, picks up when she calls him, laughs, laughs all the time.

She watches Bilbo and him washing dishes at her home one day after a particularly nice lunch, squabbling over the benefits of black light theatre, their shoulders bumping and their voices carrying in a seemingly endless staccato of a good natured argument, and she thinks, right. If I only knew how to stop time now. Save this as a postcard for more dreary days. She doesn't really know why, but some more cynical part of her is convinced that this won't last. It's too good. It's like she's taken on all of Thorin's worries and sarcastic world views – they haven't dissipated completely, they've just been transferred onto her...

“We need to speak.”

Yes, the urge to crack her knuckles and punch things when near Thranduil Greenleaf is definitely more of a Thorin thing.

“Really?” she sighs, “I'd much prefer it if you came to see me during my actual office hours.”

The production meeting has just ended, and the room before her is still a mess of empty coffee mugs and piles of documents, and she feels a headache coming on. Yet another Thorin thing.

“I'm afraid those coincide with mine,” Greenleaf says with a soft smile, offering the next words as if they're enough of an apology, “ever so busy.”

“Yes, well, so am I,” Dís replies, “what can I do for you?”

“Well,” Thranduil sighs solemnly, “we do share a common goal – we both want to see this production succeed. And from what I understand, the press attention isn't exactly...?”

He lets the end of that question flutter in the air, and she merely quirks an eyebrow.

“What are you worried about?” she asks, “that Azog will repeat history and you'll be caught in the crossfire? I think we've all moved on from that.”

“You might have. Azog likes the smell of burning far too much, I think.”

His long fingers trail almost reverently over the delicate stage model on the nearby table, the beautiful, astonishingly detailed creation that Bifur had presented this morning, one of his very best, and Dís resists the urge to slap them away.

“Glad to see you still have a penchant for pathos,” she snaps, perhaps a bit too harshly, “what did you come here to tell me? That you're backing out? Now that would be history repeating itself.”

“Oh, come now,” he smirks, his voice gentle, eyes never straying from the miniature props and stage and curtains, “we've had our differences in the past, yes, but have you known me to be a quitter?”

“Oh, you don't want me to list the things I've known you to be,” Dís grumbles, only succeeding at making his smile more wolfish.

“Either way,” he says, looking disgustingly at home here even though he appeared literally out of nowhere when she wasn't looking, “I plan on seeing this through, I promise. And in the spirit of that, a warning.”

He might expect her to react somehow, but she's swiftly losing both the patience and the energy to deal with him. As it is, she merely urges him to go on with a tired nod.

“Azog paid me a visit already, I expect he wants to bestow the same wonderful experience on you.”

“What – why?” she frowns, “what did he want?”

“Someone to complain to, I presume. And to find out if I was on his side. You know, the older he gets the more he reminds me of one of those very detailed frowning masks of the craft. With the warts and all.”

Dís snickers despite herself.

“Right. But you didn't come all the way here to tell me that.”

Though who am I kidding, you'd probably turn up in person just to talk about the weather if it gave you the opportunity to be seen sauntering down these halls as if you own them.

“Quite right. I did some digging – well, had people who have more patience for Internet research than me do some digging – and I thought it might interest you to know what I've found.”

“Oh, do get on with it, I haven't got all day,” she says irritably.

“Neither do I. You asked me if I was worried about getting caught in the crossfire. Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say I want the best for this theatre, but if I do lend my name and the name of my academy to a cause, I expect that decision to bear some fruit.”

“You're continually wasting my time with talking in riddles like this and driving me insane, how's that for fruit?” Dís sifts through grit teeth – her head really is spinning, and she has to lean on the nearest table to retain her composure. The idea of flipping him off and going home and crawling into her bed sounds absolutely divine right about now.

“There will be another book. Or that's what they tell me. The very last one, apparently, the media are set to go crazy about it when he announces it. You may guess once what it will be about.”

She gapes at him silently for the longest time, and he merely gazes back calmly, almost curiously.

“You know what he's capable of,” he says simply, more of a reminder than a mocking, and altogether very unusual for him.

She almost wishes Thorin were anywhere nearby, and punched him straight in the face again, because it's disturbing, trying to navigate these semi-normal conversations. She feels like she's missing something, like there's a hidden meaning behind his words or an aspect of this she's not getting, but it's like she's operating on half capacity, incapable of getting a grip.

“So? It's a book.”

“It's a book, and his attention pointed towards this play, and a dozen articles about it, and his love for setting things ablaze.”

Always with the fire metaphors.

“And you're worried that he'll... what? Mention you in it as the witless supporter of our struggling little company?”

“I'm worried that there will be no struggling little company to support by the time this is all over. The posters are all very nice, and the new faces all very pretty, but is it enough?”

“The play is fantastic. That will be enough,” Dís says firmly, “Azog and his bunch can write a dozen books for all I care, it won't stop people from enjoying the damn play. Your concern is touching, but this is it. This will save us. It'll be enough, because it has to be.”

 

It has to be. They've all been swimming in this happy haze for the past couple of weeks, utterly thrilled with where the preparations have been taking them, the very building all but thrumming with an excitement only a fresh production could bring about. It all seems so... good. So hopeful. So perfect. It all seems enough, because it looks good, because the costumes are beautiful, because Bilbo is a lot of fun and because Thorin has been crawling out of his shell bit by bit...

Maybe it's too much. Entirely too good. Maybe catching a break isn't an Erebor Theatre Company skit. Failure has been their constant companion, on and off for years and years, maybe they should at least consider it a possibility in this case as well, just to be safe... Maybe, she thinks, unable to sleep that night for the longest time, her whole body aching and keeping her up, Thorin isn't the one she should be worried about when it comes to the inevitable trouble that runs in the family.

When she does fall asleep, tossing and turning, she dreams of fire, and she thinks that maybe it's been her all along.

When the contents of her stomach decide to part ways with her first thing in the morning and the thermometer informs her that she shouldn't be out of bed under any circumstances, she thinks that alright, maybe it's not insanity, maybe it's just the flu. Either way, she tries not to see it as a bad premonition. Either way, she fails.

 

Chapter Text

“Mom, are you sick?”

Dís grips the edge of the kitchen counter, trying to blink the dizziness away and force her head to stop throbbing and keep her upright, and manages to smile at her youngest.

“Now, why would you say that, darling?” she teases, and Kili frowns, while Fili comments matter-of-factly, his gaze never straying from the comic book he's reading over breakfast: “You look horrible.”

“Why thank you.”

“Can I make you tea?” Kili asks, less out of compassion and more out of the need to be allowed to use the electric kettle that has been deemed too dangerous in the past.

“I'm already making it, but thank you for the offer,” Dís rasps, “now stop gawking and finish your breakfast, we're leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“You shouldn't be driving, Mom,” Fili points out, “we should stay at home with you today.”

“Yeah, we're staying home!”

“Ooh, no way, guys! I'm still perfectly capable of driving you to school, don't worry.”

Fili shakes his head in solemn disappointment, while Kili pouts more theatrically, and Dís wonders if she might be too sick for 7AM rush hour after all. It's probably just stress, she tells herself as she ushers her boys down several flights of stairs and her stomach suggests reprising its overturning morning escapades with each turn. Nothing that won't go away after a proper shower and one more cup of tea coupled with the most potent painkillers she can find...

After surviving through the drive, she doesn't even make it to the shower and instead passes out on the couch for a good hour, and she forces herself to reevaluate.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it's me... oh, don't tell me you're sick too.”

“Uh, no, not sick... per se,” Thorin mumbles, definitely sounding much rougher than usual, “what's up? Are you?”

“Yeah. Yes. I'm going to call in sick just for today, I can barely get out of bed. But I need a huge favor. You're free this afternoon, yeah?”

“Yes. But I was kind of hoping to... oh, never mind.”

“What? Sleep off last night?” she groans knowingly, rolling onto her back, every muscle in her body protesting, “why? What did you do?”

“I didn't do... I mean, I shouldn't have done...” he stutters in a way that certainly makes her want to question him later, then grumbles, “just tell me what you need.”

“For you to pick up the boys from school. Pretty please?”

“I'm pretty sure my blood is still like fifty percent alcohol, to be honest. Your babysitter can't make it?”

“Nah, not today. Please?”

A very long, very ragged groan all but rattles the phone in her hand, and she can see him clear as day, stretching his back and rubbing his face. Oh, there will be questions.

“Fine,” he sighs, “just know you're putting your sons in mortal danger.”

“Yeah, I know. That's why you're their favorite.”

 

After that, all it takes is a phone call to work – spent assuring Balin that no, she's really not dying (she can't really blame him for assuming it though, since she never ever takes a day off) – and one more trek to the kitchen to make more tea, and then, at long last, she lets the inconvenient illness knock her right out.

For hours. So thoroughly in fact that she only ever wakes, with a snort and feeling half dead already, to the incessant ringing of her doorbell, too loud and persistent to have only just started. The road from her bed to the door is a perilous one, her body weak and cold and uncooperative, and she makes a wobbly stop by the living room to wrap herself up in her blanket.

“Good, I thought you were dead,” Thorin greets her, “you look horrible.”

“Yeah, that's a popular opinion today... No, wait, hold on, you look horrible. What on earth did you do last night?”

He's sporting all the telltale signs of an epic hangover – he's sickly pale, his hair a right mess and his eyes red-rimmed and sunken.

“Nothing,” he says irritably, pushing past her inside, “give me the car keys so I can get going, I'm already running late.”

“Your t-shirt is on backwards,” she comments innocently, and his look shoots to it before he rolls his eyes.

“Look, I spent the morning drowning myself in coffee to be at least a bit presentable, alright. And I'll still want another one when I come back with the boys.”

“Presentable is not the word I'd use to describe you,” she quips, “what did you do?”

He sighs, slipping out of the sleeves of his t-shirt unceremoniously and rolling it over the right side forward, muttering: “We ended up drinking at the theatre yesterday.”

“Oh, I wasn't informed you were twenty-five still,” she chuckles, then punctuates that with a hacking cough.

“At least I'm not eighty-five and on my deathbed,” he glares at her with some disgust.

“Touche. So when I called you in the morning, you were...?”

His gaze darts away, and even with all her senses completely muddled, she recognizes that look.

“Crashing on the couch in your dressing room? Shame on you. Oh well. I hope you had fun.”

And there's that look again, like some of his insecurities and worries surfacing for a split second, like he's remembering something he'd probably hoped copious amounts of alcohol would make him forget.

“How much fun?” she presses on, curiosity momentarily taking over, making her feel a little less like keeling over and never crawling anywhere ever again.

Some color returns to his cheeks, and he avoids her gaze.

“Look, can we do this some other time? Give me the damn keys.”

“Did someone throw up somewhere visible? Was there inappropriate behavior? Is Dwalin alive?”

“You're supposed to be sick god dammit. Go lie down.”

“Oh, I know,” she smiles as she slinks off to get her keys and he hovers in the hall, “you guys broke something, didn't you?”

“We didn't break anything. Well, actually, one of the bar stools I think, but that's only because Bilbo thought it would be funny to-”

“Aww, Bilbo was there? So nice of you to invite him and corrupt his liver.”

“We didn't... He can hold his liquor just fine, believe me.”

Something in his tone gets through to Dís, and when she walks out of the living room, she has a very nice unsettling grin in place for Thorin.

“Can he now?” she drawls while he glares intensely enough to set her ablaze if she weren't already burning alive from her fever, “and tell me – was that the only thing he held last night?”

He opens his mouth to sputter, but ends up shutting it again helplessly, and she raises her eyebrows so high it causes her headache to worsen. He snatches the car keys out of her hand without a word and marches out without any explanation whatever, and she laughs until her head reminds her that it might be wiser to go right back to bed.

So, she thinks in the seconds before blissful unconsciousness claims her again, inappropriate behavior it is.

-

 

Inappropriate behavior doesn't really cut it. Stupidly inconvenient behavior, maybe. Thorin is used to singing loudly and off-key, and shouting at the television, and making stupid bets when he's drunk, not... not this. He isn't really sure why he'd even agreed to stay in the first place, god dammit. Up to a point, it was a perfectly normal evening, in that his headache kicked in right on schedule, mere minutes after he slunk off the stage, and his plans involved taking a shower, then a nap, then heading home. Only by some divine intervention (of a deity with a particularly obnoxious sense of humor probably) he found himself dragged into a very serious discussion about this or that stupid thing at the bar with Bilbo (who had apparently come to watch him perform again, and what Thorin should think about that remains unclear to him). He soon went on to support his argument with a beer, and Bilbo did the same with a glass of wine, and then people poured in, and it all escalated from there, and...

It's all Bilbo's fault, really. Thorin kind of wishes he didn't remember the details. Or even the vague outline. No, definitely the details, those are the ones he needs to get rid of. Tiny, unimportant, annoying details, like the exact way it felt to hold... no. Absolutely not. Inconvenient. He feels ten years older, a rattling in his lungs reminding him why he'd quit smoking cigars all those years ago and why he really shouldn't have decided it wouldn't hurt him to have just one last night. Overall, he feels a bit faint and a bit shaky, probably on account of all the coffee he'd replaced his blood with earlier today, and driving should really demand all of his attention, if he ever hopes to get his nephews home safely. And yet...

 

“You were in Cats?! Oh, please tell me he's not kidding, and if so, that I can watch it somewhere.”

Bilbo all but bounces on his bar stool with sheer excitement, and Thorin redirects his glare from him to Dwalin.

“Why are you here again?” he hisses.

“Altruistic reasons,” Dwalin flashes him a wolfish grin, then, with the enthusiasm of an overpaid show host, “let me tell you, Bilbo, there is so much you don't know about Thorin's career. So many gems I could-”

“No. No,” Thorin says firmly, and before Dwalin can continue, he says, “I was never in Cats. I auditioned, yes, even did a couple of rehearsals before they decided they didn't want me.”

“Ah, shame,” Bilbo sighs, peering up at him, that incessant cheeky grin Thorin suspects the man has reserved for teasing him perfectly visible even with his wine glass pressed to his lips.

“Not really,” he grumbles.

“You see, one thing you should know about Thorin-”

“I'm warning you.”

“-is that reminding him of his musical theatre days can cause severe emotional distress,” Dwalin finishes smoothly, tipping his beer bottle to Thorin as he attempts to scorch him by glowering alone.

“Really?” Bilbo asks seemingly innocently, “I've always thought it must be such fun. Everybody always looks so incredibly... chipper. Would that I could try it myself, but I'm afraid my singing voice puts frogs in heat to shame...”

“The chipper you see on stage? You're pretty much contractually obligated to do that, you know,” Thorin explains grumpily, “they tell you to always smile. Smile like you're enjoying yourself. I remember thinking that if I were enjoying myself, I'd be smiling.”

“Yeah, smiling isn't one of his marketable qualities,” Dwalin comments, and Bilbo laughs, but somehow manages to look slightly compassionate at the same time.

“I've worked with my fair share of dreck that requires you to look like you're loving it, rather than gagging at the thought of it, believe me,” he offers, and Thorin offers an 'I don't doubt it.', not even thinking twice about the harshness of it until after he says it. But Bilbo takes it in stride, countering it with an exaggerated scowl and then laughing some more and patting Thorin on the shoulder with a very pensive, very amused: “Well, at least we're now both working on something solid, eh.”, and Dwalin snorts for whatever reason, and Thorin decides that taking another swig would be the wisest course of action.

“What are we talking about? And do we want to accompany whatever it is by something stronger?”

That's Bombur, cheerful as ever after his performance, a skill that Thorin has envied him for as long as he's shared a stage with him, and he waves the impressive bottle in his hand at them.

“The topic is Thorin's musical theatre career,” Dwalin supplies swiftly, “and where the hell did you get that?”

“Compliments from a fan,” Bombur preens.

“How come I never get those?” Thorin complains, finishing his beer in one long gulp.

“Because you're insufferable, moody, and never smile?” Dwalin suggests.

“Let me punch you in the face, that'll make me smile alright.”

“Maybe later, big guy. Shall I pour us all a shot? Bilbo?”

“Maybe later,” Bilbo sniggers, “no, honestly, I'll pass. The night is still young and me and... what is that, teenaged whiskey?, don't really mix well...”

And it's true, the night is still young, but it progresses quickly from then on. Some people leave, some people stay, and the truth is, they rarely ever do this these days, get together at the theatre itself, so it feels special, in a way. And somewhere halfway into a heated debate about the different stage managers they've worked with , Bilbo and him on the same side for once, having a great time of watching Bofur suffer as he listens to their deliberately pointed remarks , Thorin realizes what makes it feel so unusual. It's a weird hazy fraction of a moment – Bilbo laughs and sways on his bar stool in his growing tipsiness, and proceeds to grab Thorin's knee shortly, for support as he gets off, and Thorin doesn't even have the time to react save for registering the warmth that pools in the spot where Bilbo had touched him, and he watches him walk off on somewhat unsteady feet, and realizes, somewhat confused, that he's been watching him walk away for a while now.

That he's been getting drinks with this man, and performing with him, and laughing with him, for a while now, and there was a time when he couldn't stand the sight of his face and would go to his play over and over again just for the faint hope of seeing him fail. Or was that why?

His mind wanders to the cramped darkness of the backstage some weeks ago, Bilbo asking for a hug of all things, and doing so awkwardly and amusingly at the same time, and the way it had felt so incredibly natural to oblige, like they'd been heading there all along, really. He remembers hoping Bilbo wouldn't be able to hear his heartbeat speeding up, and he remembers staring into the impenetrable pitch black of the dusty spaces in between shelves and walls and props and thinking of all the resolutions he'd made over the years, and how watching them crumble in Bilbo's presence felt like yet another natural outcome of... whatever they had.

A slap on the back quite literally shakes him out of his daze, and faced with Dwalin's amused but scrutinizing look, Thorin groans and drinks what's left of his bottle of beer yet again just to avoid talking for a while longer.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Dwalin teases, and Thorin doesn't even look him in the eye.

“Sod off.”

“I see, I see. In that case, it might be high time we started mixing something more exciting. Anyone up for a Margarita?”

“Did I hear the word Margarita?” Bilbo picks up on that incredibly quickly, and all of a sudden he's occupying Thorin's personal space, yet again, leaning over the bar excitedly, feet dangling in the air, then rushes off to help Bombur.

“Since when do you drink Margaritas?” Thorin hisses, and Dwalin gives him an angelic smile in response.

“I don't. Others do.”

“Please tell me you didn't just wink at me.”

“Nah.”

“Stop it.”

 

Normally, Thorin would have headed home hours ago – as it is, he drinks his Margarita very cautiously (Bilbo brought it to him, he couldn't exactly refuse, could he), and wonders what has changed. When it has changed. And if it's really an it.

He lets Bilbo sit next to him on the only sofa in the lounge, their legs brushing together, lets him chatter away and make him laugh along with everyone else, and wonders, how did I not watch my back? How did I let you enter my life completely unannounced and turn it upside down? God, there's a reason he generally stays away from cocktails.

Soon enough, it's down to Bilbo and him, Dwalin, Bofur, Bombur, and Nori and Dori squabbling in the corner and thus not providing much in the way of conversation, and it must be late, really, and it might be wise to head home soon, it always is when Bombur starts talking all the plays he's written and never let anyone read...

“Huh, what? Where are we going?”

It takes him so long to stop his train of thought and concentrate, but everyone is getting up and Bilbo looks to be waiting for him impatiently, and so Thorin scrambles to his hardly stable feet, grabbing what's left of his drink. Honestly though, he hasn't been this done for in this building for... well, years now, and it makes him feel somewhat... younger.

“Bilbo wanted to see the Raven!” Bofur explains enthusiastically, as if it's some great secret, and Thorin scowls and scowls, incapable of grasping the situation.

“To the Raven!” Dori exclaims.

“I thought it'd burned?” Thorin asks dumbly.

“Ha!” the costume designer barks, cheeks red, swaying gently from side to side, supported by his brother, “you know nothing! It's down there!”

“Down where?” Thorin inclines his head, looking at Bilbo, who shrugs with a grin, obviously enjoying the situation a great deal.

And that's how they all end up following Dori downstairs, someone commencing an unnecessarily loud rendition of The Man In The Moon somewhere halfway down main staircase, others joining in, voices carrying, the ancient carpet muffling their uneven steps but nothing else. To Thorin's brain swimming in a pleasantly drowsy alcoholic haze, the building seems so much bigger then, ceilings much higher, the air colder, distant corners waiting to be discovered – it's like an endless mass of a mountain surrounds them, and he feels tiny, and insignificant, safe and very much at home.

“Where's Bilbo?” Bofur points out, and Dwalin bursts into laughter, but the truth is, the newest addition to their ensemble really is missing, and how that happened none of them will ever know.

“Bilbo?” Thorin calls, and Dwalin accompanies that with a much louder, much more poetically pronounced: “Oh Bilbo-o!”

“I'm here!” comes a happy voice from seemingly inside the walls and definitely below them, which prompts more laughter from everyone.

“Went down one of the service stairwells,” Bofur is the quickest to understand, raising his voice to tell Bilbo, “just go down, you'll happen upon the stage! We'll meet you there!”

“Okie dokes,” the silly quiet voice says, and then, “ouch! Crap.”

More laughter, but Thorin points out: “Maybe someone should go after him?”

“Yeah, we don't want him to die down there, not good for publicity,” Bofur supplies smoothly.

“Go ahead,” Dwalin motions to Thorin, and then, as if they're all in on some sort of plan Thorin was never briefed about, they all saunter off without a care in the world, leaving him behind as well.

He stands in the dim hallway helplessly for a moment, then sighs and enters the pitch black of the stairwell, a stupidly narrow metal spiral thing, one of many leading all the way down to the backstage and even to the basement, if he's not mistaken. He fiddles around on the wall for a switch, and when he finds it successfully, a gasp comes from somewhere below him.

“There's light!”

“Of course there's light! Did you walk all the way down there in the damn dark?”

“Uhh... yeah?”

“You're lucky you're alive, to be honest. Wait for me.”

“Yeah, alright, hurry up. It's creepy here. Do you know where we're going?”

“Down. Don't have much of a choice,” Thorin grumbles, stepping forward only very gingerly – his balance is more than messed up from all the drinking, and one wrong step could very well end up with a broken something or other.

It takes him ages to get down to Bilbo, what with his balance all askew and one of his hand occupied with still holding onto what's left of his latest drink and thus not providing much in the way of support. He follows the man's quiet humming, a melody he knows but cannot place, and at long last, after what must have been a billion spirals of stairs, Thorin pops out into the hallway.

“Hey,” Bilbo greets him, and at least one of their heads must be spinning, because he appears to be gently swaying where he stands, “where are we? This place is like a maze.”

Thorin looks around, fortunately recognizing some angles.

“Ah, below ground now. Stage is just one floor down. Come on.”

Bilbo follows him obediently, and they end up entering the auditorium from one of the side entrances, something which Thorin considers a small miracle since he was heading for the back entrance, but Bilbo is impressed nevertheless.

“Oh my goodness,” he says quietly, almost reverently, ignoring Thorin and climbing up onto the stage, flooded now only by the dim cold glow of the ghost light.

“It looks so much bigger,” he sighs, looking up into the impossible, impenetrable black of the arcs.

The curtain is open because Dwalin's crew were working on some repairs earlier today, Thorin knows, but it still seems somehow... unnatural. He gets up there with Bilbo, gazing at the dozens of seats, their vague outlines like little gravestones as far as he can see, and the mass of them is almost tangible, the silence they breathe heavy and anticipatory. But then again maybe it's all in his head, considering how much it's spinning.

They hear the rest then, bumping into things backstage, but no one comes to find them, and neither of them seems to be too keen on going back.

“Did anything here survive the fire?” Bilbo asks out of the blue, simply and clearly, and Thorin takes the time to look at him before answering, his pale face still upturned as he trails the stage as if looking for something, as if the darkness high above them is a sky full of stars only he can see.

“It mostly took the building higher up,” Thorin replies calmly, for once not seeing the problem with talking about this, “the balconies up there-” he points to the fancy boxes above, “had to be rebuilt, I think, but they were very lucky it didn't really reach the backstage. There was this massive chandelier where there is now the proscenium arc, that fell and sort of demolished the stage, so there was some rebuilding there, too, but yeah, most of the damage was upstairs. A lot of costumes, since that's where they kept them back then, a lot of old props and such.”

“It's in the air,” Bilbo murmurs, and when Thorin turns to look at him, he's standing by one of the stage pillars, his hand resting on it – he would look almost serene if it weren't for the loud slurping sounds as he sips on the remainder of his cocktail.

“Not the fire I mean,” he continues, “but that it... survived the fire, I guess? It's all so very... old. All this history. Ancient. Incredible.”

“Spoken like a true poet,” Thorin snickers, and Bilbo sticks out his tongue at him without really looking at him.

To Thorin's mild horror, he then decides to set his glass down and climb up the pillar using the rope that's there for their characters to swing around on, and murmurs his lines under his breath. Thorin, whose stomach turns a bit at the sight alone, steps closer hesitantly, saying: “I don't think I'll be able to catch you if you fall.”

“I won't fall,” Bilbo declares, and then proceeds to slip and probably almost break his ankle before he regains balance, but it only makes him burst into laughter and sway around in a vastly dangerous arc.

“My mistress with a monster is in love,” he recites loudly, rope creaking and straining, “near to her close... come on, work with me here!”

“Oh no,” Thorin backs away, “no no, we are not doing this right now.”

“Spoil... port!”

“Spoilsport is the word you're looking for, I think. Now get down from there before you break something.”

“Never!” Bilbo exclaims, “a crew of patches... what was it... oh, that's right, rude machines!”

“It's mechanicals! My god, remember your lines,” Thorin barks, but laughter overpowers him halfway through anyway.

“Mechanicals,” Bilbo grins, hopping off the pillar at long last, “oh right, my mistake. Come on, let's do the thing.”

“The thing?”

“You know. The thing. When in that moment, so it came to pass...”

“Oh god, no. We're going to kill ourselves.”

“No-o, we'll be fine! Come on, let's do it!”

Thorin is drunk. He is very, very drunk. Comfortably so. All that matters to him in that moment is Bilbo, all flushed, eyes gleaming, a broad smile on his face, his stupid little bowtie all crooked and adorable. And so he sets down his drink somewhere safe and moves to stand on his cue – or what might be his cue but also might be half a stage away, it's hard to tell in his state of mind – and they all but shout their lines at each other, interrupted very often by flubbing them entirely, laughing instead of them, or simply just forgetting them, and when the time for their lift-off comes, Thorin misses it completely, naturally.

One second, he's stuck remembering what comes after latch'd, and the other, he has his arms full of Bilbo and the world turns upside down.

They hit the ground with the sound of something cracking – probably several of Thorin's ribs – and everything is wrong, because Bilbo has somehow ended up on top of him, and Thorin certainly doesn't remember doing but one movement right...

But all that his quite probably concussed brain is capable of registering is the faint scent he's now very familiar with, and he realizes his face is pretty much stuffed in Bilbo's messy golden curls. He tries to blow them away feebly, but no part of his body seems to be responding properly. They just lay there for what might be seconds or eons like that, a pathetic tangle of limbs shaking with laughter, and once again, they are reluctant to move. For all intents and purposes, Thorin should be in the process of being crushed by Bilbo's weight right about now, but all he feels is a pleasant warmth immobilizing him so thoroughly and completely he almost grunts unhappily when Bilbo shifts and heaves up to get off him.

Without any real plan or agenda, Thorin rests his hand on the small of his back, in the crook of the curve of his spine, and watches dizzily as Bilbo's eyes widen, and he suddenly grows very, very still. At least one of them should definitely say something, but all either of them ever amounts to is staring, for the longest time.

“Better than Radagast's version?” Bilbo chuckles quietly, his breath tickling at Thorin's cheek, making him realize how close their faces really are.

“Safer,” he murmurs.

“The audience is getting bored.”

“Serves them right for not recognizing high art.”

Thorin can feel the shivers from Bilbo's laughter all the way down to his heart, and that heart is currently beating fast, faster than it should, but steady. Good. He wants to come up with some stupid line about how Radagast wouldn't be happy with this because they didn't go through with the move in its entirety, but the point of the matter is, he really just desperately wants to kiss Bilbo, never mind all that. Inhibitions and motivations be damned, his world shrinks to Bilbo's fingers digging into his shoulder – have they always been there? - and the heat Bilbo's skin radiates, separated from his own fingertips by nothing more than the thin fabric of his shirt. But fortunately, Bilbo doesn't seem to be in the mood for talking either, because the next sensation that manages to go as far as Thorin's brain is the soft flutter of his lips in the corner of his mouth, and the surprised gasp that follows, as if Bilbo can't quite believe he actually did it.

But, well, they are both very very drunk, and what is there to do, really? They might not even remember this tomorrow. Thorin feels so detached from all his numerous issues, and reservations, and doubts, and Bilbo is right there, all soft curves and warmth and a faint sweet taste that he can't quite place lingering on his lips – he licks it off them, and Bilbo seems entranced by the sight for a fleeting second, and some more sensible part (though, is it really?) of Thorin worries that he might change his mind after all.

But then Bilbo leans in, their noses bumping, and kisses him again, the softest tenderest thing anyone has bestowed upon Thorin in a long long time, and his shrinking world implodes in on itself and turns into a supernova of electrifying pleasure, and a very satisfying sense of oh, finally.

Very valiantly, his arm travels to sneak around Bilbo's waist, and he knows how tiny and perfectly sculpted to fit into his hold it is, has known for a while now, but the effortlessness of it all still manages to fuel his need. His lips part and so do Bilbo's, their tiny little breathy moan a joint effort, and Bilbo's fingers are in his hair now as if he knows, thumb tracing the line of his jaw, and oh, it's good, that is too good...

“Oi, you two! Are you out there somewhere?”

And of course, too good should have been followed by to be true. Thorin is slapped back into reality by Dwalin's voice, the stage, the dim light swaying above their heads, all of it reappearing as if he's waking up from a dream, and Bilbo... Bilbo seems to find the experience equally sobering, because there's none of him left where there was everything just a second ago, and he leaves behind a terrible cold.

Thorin hums unhappily, and when he turns to look, still reluctant to get up, he sees that Bilbo is watching him, his face entirely incomprehensible of course – Thorin isn't too good at reading him at his very best, most sober moments, much less this.

“Sorry,” Bilbo sighs, and Thorin frowns at him, because he's still smiling, and that is impossible to decipher.

“No,” he attempts, “I'm...”

“Bad idea,” Bilbo informs him, and Thorin frowns some more.

“Is it?”

“Oh, there you are! What the hell happened? Did you break something?”

That's, obviously and inevitably, Dwalin, barging in on the stage like a very loud, very intoxicated bull, and Bilbo turns away from Thorin far too quickly for him to understand what's going on, slipping into a character that has nothing to do with what just happened (did it happen at all? Thorin is beginning to have doubts already), declaring jovially: “Yeah, a few broken ribs. For future reference, don't try full-speed lift-offs after four Margaritas.”

Dwalin cackles and helps him to his feet, and Thorin hopes rather feebly that they might overlook him and simply leave him there to lie motionless for a while longer and try and understand the situation.

“You okay there, Grandpa?” Dwalin decides not to extend him the courtesy, his hand there to help him as well.

Thorin attempts to swear at him, but it comes out a nonsensical grumble, and he scrambles to his feet on his own, albeit with some hardship. And it really is like waking up from a very pleasant dream to a very unpleasant reality. All he ever wants to do is be alone with Bilbo for a while longer, but one look in the man's direction is like crawling out from under a warm blanket first thing in the morning – an entirely horrible experience, making one wish never to have woken up at all. The lines of Bilbo's face are all wrong, all tense and displeased, the tenderness Thorin had witnessed up close gone now as if it never existed in the first place, and... god, he really is too drunk for this, because all he feels is anger. And whether it is directed at Dwalin, or Bilbo, or himself, he cannot tell.

 

His head must have filed the rest of the night as utterly unimportant because it didn't involve Bilbo anymore, because he certainly doesn't remember how he got to the couch in his dressing room when he wakes up on it that morning. He does remember the rest, unfortunately, and it comes back to him in the form of short painful jabs making his head feel just about ready to explode.

It's Thursday, he decides, and thus you can stay in this room for the rest of the day and not meet or talk to absolutely anyone. Good. That should help. Right?

Evidently his sister has other plans, and evidently, he decides right after his first reaction to meeting a very rough-looking Dwalin when he goes to make himself coffee is to dodge his 'Did you sleep soft?' not with a precisely pointed curse, but with what comes out as a very desperate groan accompanied by leaning on the bar, burying his head in the crook of his elbow and quietly hoping for the world to end while his mind helpfully replays for him exactly how soft it felt to have Bilbo's chest pressed against his chest, Bilbo's lips against his lips, he's in trouble.

-

 

Trouble. So much trouble. Bilbo wakes up with a splitting headache reminding him not exactly gently that his twenties are officially over now, but his memory is, as he discovers standing up and trying to recognize his surroundings, unfortunately intact. For the most part. How on earth he ended up curled up on one of couches in the green room is beyond him, but other than that, the stage is not far away, and if he was in the least bit fuzzy about what had happened there last night, some very oddly placed bruises acting up when he stands up make sure to remind him.

So much trouble.

All he wants to do right now is to get the hell out of here. He needs to drink about a gallon of water, take a shower, find his possessions and also find some sort of peace of mind, not necessarily in that order. The large building still slumbers around him as he makes his way to the lounge where he last remembers leaving his phone, and the first clock he meets tells him that the endurance of his twenties might have left him the second he turned thirty, but waking up stupidly early after drinking a lot is a skill that's apparently there to stay. Maybe he will be lucky and not run into anyone.

His luck holds all the way to his hotel room, miraculously so, and only when he climbs into the shower does he realize his acorn pendant is missing.

 

As if he wasn't already on edge. He wracks his mind trying to remember if there ever was a point last night when he'd even consider taking it off, but that leads to some... highly unsavory speculations, and so he resolves to making himself coffee and spending the rest of the day blissfully unaware of the outside world. Yeah, that'll help.

Maybe he'll luck out. Maybe Thorin doesn't even remember. Maybe it didn't even happen in the first place.

Maybe he's never drinking beyond a glass of wine ever again.

It's not that Bilbo didn't want to kiss him – oh, he wanted to. At that moment, sprawled under him, gleaming eyes peering up at him utterly calmly, Thorin was simply irresistible. And drunk or not, Bilbo has always been used to taking what he wants, consequences be damned... Oh but this is trouble. He remembers thinking so right after Dwalin had barged in on them, remembers the butterflies in his stomach turning into something much more nauseating, remembers thinking well, now you've gone and done it, Bilbo Baggins.

Because they do warn you about this happening – they tell you, you're in the business of fabricating believable emotions, don't be alarmed if some of them stick from time to time. You'll develop crushes left and right, and you can either let that be a good thing, or let it ruin you. But never ever mistake chemistry for real feelings...

Oh, blah. It was one kiss. From what little he knows about Thorin, Bilbo is almost sure they share the same sentiment – they'll probably end up either not talking about this at all, ever again, or reaching a unanimous decision like the professionals they both are. It was a nice, good, brilliant kiss, but that's it.

He manages to go through several stages of fright, guilt, anxiety, embarrassment and finally acceptance, all in one day, barely ever leaving his nest of a couch in his big lonely hotel room, and by the time Friday rolls around, he's perfectly ready to go back to work, or so he thinks. His one-on-one rehearsal with Thorin is only in the afternoon, and that gives him... oh, plenty of time to figure out how to act around him, yeah?

“Nope, haven't found it yet, sorry,” Bofur is the third person to tell him that when he asks about his lost pendant (and he asks diligently, but also tries not to let everyone know just how unsettled not brushing his fingers across the smooth surface of it a couple of times a day makes him feel), “but I'll ask around. You said you might have left it on the stage? Maybe someone from yesterday's morning crew found it.”

“The – the stage. Yeah. That's where we were. Thorin and I, that is,” Bilbo trips over his tongue several times.

“Yeah, I know. Dwalin tells me he found you two trying to get yourself killed practicing your moves?” Bofur comments innocently, and Bilbo knows for a fact that he secretly derives a lot of pleasure from watching him choke on his water.

“That's – yeah. That's what we did.”

“Mm-hm. Lucky you're both in one piece. Dwalin and I wouldn't hear the end of it if we let you injure yourselves. Hey, have you asked Thorin about your missing necklace thingy? Wouldn't be surprised if it'd gotten caught in his beard by accident or something... I'm kidding! Jesus! Breathe,” Bofur pats his shoulder, fending off Bilbo's best killer glare with nothing more than laughter again.

“You're worse than Dwalin,” Bilbo grumbles.

“Oh, I highly doubt that. But seriously, Thorin might be able to... help you. He's in his dressing room right now, as far as I know. Watch out, though, I think he has company.”

“Company? What company? As in...”

“Right there,” Bofur points straight into Bilbo's face with great satisfaction, as if he's just made some groundbreaking discovery, and then he saunters off, and his laughter haunts Bilbo even after it dies off.

He stands alone for a bit, wondering if everyone is in on some great big secret he has no idea about, and then when his fingertips travel to the spot just below the dip of his collarbone where his pendant usually rests, he decides that that's been quite enough worrying for one week. He smooths down his shirt, and company or not, he heads to find Thorin.

He lets you in? Of his own volition? Well, yes, this won't be the first time Bilbo comes knocking, and he tries his damnedest not to feel the least bit jealous at the idea of someone else being allowed inside Thorin's dressing room so casually... Oh get a grip, Bilbo Baggins.

“Come in!”

That is definitely not Thorin's voice, and Bilbo only stares at the door for the longest time in utter confusion. A child?

But then the door flies open and the highly inquisitive face of Kili is the one to greet him, and everything suddenly makes much more sense.

“Bilbo!” the boy exclaims enthusiastically, and what follows is the tormented whine of Thorin's ancient couch as its owner springs to his feet from it much too fast.

“Hey!” Fili, who has been working on his homework on the far side of it, cries indignantly, but Thorin ignores him and hurries to Bilbo, putting both hands on Kili's shoulders and gently but firmly steering him out of the way.

“Hey! Hi. Crap, what time is it? Did I oversleep? Is Gandalf mad?”

“Uncle said crap!” Kili accuses him before Bilbo can even open his mouth, and Thorin gasps in mock-horror and clamps his hands over his nephew's ears.

“You heard nothing.”

“More ice-cream, or we're telling Mom,” Fili says solemnly.

“Fine. That's... what? Five gallons now?”

“Good god,” Bilbo laughs, and thinks, oh no, you're still irresistible.

“Anyway, you're fine,” he continues, swallowing all those thoughts before they can become something more dangerous, “rehearsal doesn't start for another hour. I just... needed to ask you something.”

“Oh?” Thorin tilts his head, and then, some flicker of understanding lighting up in his eyes, “oh. Right. Yeah. Listen, guys, I'm gonna step out for a bit, behave yourselves or all that ice-cream gets nullified, understood?”

And without further ado, he shuts the door on his nephews' complaining before Bilbo has the time to tell him that no, it's really not that serious.

“Listen, I actually wanted to talk to you too, I-”

“Okay, before you say something that's just going to make us both feel stupid,” Bilbo interrupts him, chuckling, suddenly feeling much less tense at the sight of Thorin raking his fingers through his hair nervously, “I was just going to ask you if you didn't by some... accident get your hands on... find, find is the better word...”

“Find... what?” Thorin frowns, and heat rises in Bilbo's cheeks.

So much for not feeling stupid.

“My pendant,” he sighs, fingers trailing to his neck, a gesture that seems to catch Thorin's attention for some reason Bilbo doesn't want to dwell on right now, “you know the one? It was a gift from... doesn't matter. I just thought... when we were on the stage, you know...”

Thorin's 'Yeah.' is a bit strained, if Bilbo is any judge of that, and silence reigns for a moment, neither of them too keen on breaking it. They're both thinking of the same thing anyway.

“I'll... keep an eye out,” Thorin offers a bit unsteadily, and only then does Bilbo realize he's been staring at the tips of his own shoes like an awkward teen.

“Yeah... thanks. Thank you.”

“Look, I just wanted to say-”

“Uncle! I need help! Get in here!”

Thorin's face contorts in a grimace of what can only be described as desperation, and he sighs theatrically, making Bilbo laugh.

“What is it, Maths?”

“Third grade Grammar. It'll be the death of me.”

“Oh boy. What are they doing here, anyway?”

Dís is sick,” Thorin says bitterly, “she thought it was just a flu at first, but then it got worse... She squeezed in a doctor's appointment for this afternoon, and apparently her nanny is out of the picture because she's also sick...”

“Wow. Give her my regards, then. I hope she gets better soon, for both your sakes.”

“Hah, yes, me-”

“Uncle-e!”

“-me too. Believe me. I'm coming, I'm coming! I actually have no idea what I'll do tonight, though, I don't exactly have enough time to drive them back home after the rehearsals and before my show...”

They re-enter the dressing room together, and Bilbo thinks it just might end up being this easy. This simple. Not talking about anything. They got drunk, they survived an epic hangover with all its side-effects, it's all good. Now had they done anything while sober, that would be a much bigger issue... Not that you are supposed to even think in terms of doing anything sober, god dammit. Be happy it ended up this way.

“I can look after them,” Bilbo offers without really thinking.

Or not.

“Oh, yeah, no, that's okay. I was going to ask Dwalin to just drive them home...”

“Isn't Dwalin on the running crew tonight?”

“Shit, you're right...”

“Uncle, bad word,” Fili chimes in calmly, barely ever raising his eyes from his homework, and the way Thorin groans in very exaggerated exasperation and collapses on the couch next to his nephew, makes Bilbo laugh, but it also makes him want to... what? Enjoy a bit of domesticity with Thorin and his boys and momentarily disregard all common sense? Quite probably, yes.

Oh well.

“Hey, it's fine,” he smiles at Thorin, “let me help.”

-

 

Dís isn't sure if it's just the antibiotics kicking in, but she does know she has a hard time believing anything that has happened in her house in the past couple of days is actually real. Is that what tonsillitis does to you? She hasn't had it since she was a child. Either way, she spends hours at a time utterly immobile in bed, every movement causing her so much pain it seems like her muscles have decided to quit her, and she has absolutely no choice but to let other people take care of her.

There's Balin stopping by and simply taking over all her paperwork, forbidding her from appearing at work any time soon, and she can't protest simply because her glands are too swollen for her to resist with enough volume. There's Dwalin buying her groceries she didn't ask for, and then some she did, after forcing her to write him a list. There's Thorin, wrangling the boys without so much as a peep, but then again maybe she just can't hear the mayhem and the screaming through the blankets she hides under for the majority of her day.

...There's Bilbo, getting her sons home to her on Friday, and she simply stares at him for the longest time after answering the door, and it is only after he informs her that he's bought her oranges that she relents to the madness and lets him in.

It's just all very... confusing. She's not used to being taken care of. Somehow, Fili and Kili disappear for the majority of Saturday, and only in the evening does she learn they spent the day with Uncle Thorin and Bilbo at the movies, and we had ice-cream three times, Mom! Somehow, at least a dozen different tupperware containers appear in her fridge over an unidentified period of time, full of leftovers that are so delicious they can only come from Bombur and his wife. Somehow, the world isn't crumbling just because she has a hacking cough that threatens to rip her apart, and by the time Sunday evening rolls around, she just sits there in her armchair, clutching onto her big mug of hot ginger with lemon and honey like an anchor, listening to Thorin and Bilbo arguing in the kitchen over what to put in some sort of sauce for pasta while the boys offer some no doubt very helpful advice, and she doesn't even question it anymore.

“No no no, are you kidding me? Kili, don't let him near that garlic!”

“I'm taking your damn garlic and you can't stop me! Fili!”

She is then treated to the sight of her eldest dashing out of the kitchen clutching a clove of garlic to his chest like a trophy, closely followed by his uncle, who appears to have a smudge of something red and distinctly sauce-like on his forehead – that is explained when Kili and Bilbo sprint out of the kitchen as well and engage their opponents in the old classic game of almost-tag, dancing around the living room table but never quite running away, Kili's hands covered seemingly up to his wrists in marinara, while Bilbo wields the stuff much more subtly and sinisterly, threatening Thorin with a ladle full of it.

“I need that garlic,” he informs him coolly, “your sister can't feel a thing the way she is, and this sauce needs spicing up.”

“You'll just end up butchering it, and putting me off your food for the rest of my life.”

“Oh, such a shame,” Bilbo gasps, “give me that damn garlic.”

“Never!”

And really, watching TV might cause Dís headaches, but it turns out watching real-life events unfold is much more fun. Definitely better than any soap opera. She might be feverish and delirious most of the time, and her voice might come out sounding like a horror movie creature's last breath no matter how hard she tries, but she still has enough wits about her to recognize what's happening right before her very eyes. Just this once, she refuses to crawl back to bed right after the meal (the taste of which eludes her no matter how much garlic Bilbo did or didn't put in, but she's sure it's delicious), and stays to watch.

“Hey Bilbo?” she manages to say at third try, catching the man alone as he makes her more tea she didn't have the energy to protest against, while Thorin is in the process of convincing the boys of the benefits of a shower before bed, “thank you, for all of this. You really didn't have to.”

“Oh no, please, it's nothing,” he smiles, “it's the least I could do. Besides, do you think he would have managed alone? I bloody well don't think so.”

She tries and fails not to let her laughter turn into a coughing fit, and he looks on worriedly.

“You just get some rest. There we are. Don't you want to drink this back in bed?”

“Maybe,” she concedes with a deep sigh, “I just wanted to say good night...”

“We'll send them to you. Now come on.”

And somehow, even carrying the tray with her kettle full of steaming hot fresh tea, he manages to steer her into her own bedroom, in her own house, and she lets him obediently, feeling much, much younger.

“You're a saint,” she informs Bilbo hoarsely after she's tucked in.

“Oh not really,” he chuckles, “I just intruded your home, used up half your fridge to cook myself free dinner, and washed your dishes. Nothing any polite burglar wouldn't do.”

“Right,” she cough-laughs some more, “if I could also persuade you to clean my windows, you can have all of my grandmother's silverware.”

“It's a deal. No, but honestly, it was... my pleasure.”

“Yeah, I saw,” she smiles, burrowing deeper into her blankets.

“Excuse me?”

“Bilbo-o! Fairy-tale! Uncle promised you'll do the voices!”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond to that distant call, but no sound comes out, and he glares at Dís somewhat suspiciously.

“Go on,” she teases him, “go do the voices with him.”

“It's not – did you just wink at me?”

“Just a trick of light. Go on. And really, thank you again, for everything. I owe you one.”

 

Sleep comes easily and quickly after that little entendre, and she wakes up hours later to a house silent and dark, cheeks on fire, throat a searing gorge. She slips out of the bed and patters into the kitchen for a glass of water, and comes by Thorin, lounging on the couch and staring at the ceiling, nothing more.

“Hey,” she attempts to say, and when her voice doesn't cooperate she clears her throat, which startles the hell out of him.

“What are you still doing here?” she asks him gently as he rubs his forehead.

“I'm driving the boys to school tomorrow, remember? Thought I might as well stay here, I didn't feel like driving all the way to my place. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, that's okay. And Bilbo?”

“Gave him a lift to his hotel earlier.”

“Very gentlemanly of you. How did your voices go?”

“Huh?”

“You know,” she grins, leaning on the door frame, “sitting in my sons' tiny little bedroom side by side, reading bedtime stories to them?”

“Oh that,” he mumbles and, much to her amusement, turns away from her, lying back down and crossing his arms over his chest firmly, “went fine.”

“What happened between you two while I was busy dying in my bed?”

And maybe the world really has changed while she was busy dying in her bed, because by her calculations, Thorin should be sputtering and denying everything and calling her crazy and all in all acting like himself right about now, but all he does is gape at her for a bit and then proceeds to groan very desperately and fling one arm over his face.

“Sorry? I didn't catch that,” she grins at his incomprehensible grumbling.

“I said,” he sifts through grit teeth, as if he's admitting to some horrible crime, “I'm in so much trouble.”

 

Chapter Text

They never prepare you for any of it. Not that Bilbo has ever paid much attention to preparations, having had far more luck than any actual skill in the beginnings of his career, and finding his way through the fickle and often downright hostile world of show business rather nicely on his own. But something tells him that even if he had gotten all that education, gone to all those schools and attended seminars and all in all had been more careful and sensible, he would have been none the wiser now.

As much as they teach you about acting methods, and history, and jargon and whatnot, there really are some things – a great many things in fact – that one can only learn from experience. Like not to come up with your own lines, no matter how high and mighty you think you might be. Or to never refuse the spit bucket (a lesson learned the hard way and at the cost of losing the appetite for gouda for life, in Bilbo's experience).

Or how to proceed when you find yourself nursing a rather inconvenient crush on a fellow actor.

Just... handling love in general, really. Oh, it's so inconvenient, so very inconvenient, dating actors, they always say. All those commitments, all that attention, all the expectations placed upon you. Yes, Bilbo knows all that, and his mindset has been the same for years and years now – it's all about opportunities, as far as he's concerned. New ones, every day, pursuing them for as long as he's allowed to. Gandalf had offered him his very first one, well over a decade ago now, picking him up off the street and quite literally shoving him headfirst into the spotlight, showing him that the world could be his if he just had the guts to grab at it, and he likes it. Likes pushing boundaries and defying expectations, and traveling, and seeing how far his talent will take him.

Falling in love, settling down, tying himself to someone? Never really fit into that, to be honest. He likes his freedom. He likes having a lot of options. He likes the uncertainty of not knowing where he'll be a month from now. He likes... he likes the way Thorin bumps into him completely by accident several times while they prepare dinner, Dís' kitchen far too small to accommodate four people at once, even though two of them are pretty much pocket-sized.

“Smells goo-ood,” Fili praises his efforts with the sauce, dutifully stirring the pasta in the big pot.

“Thank you! How are we doing on the basil leaves?”

“Almost done, no blood loss yet,” Thorin announces, teaching Kili how to chop, which mostly consists of keeping him away from the actual knife and letting him watch over the slowly mounting herb pile.

“Excellent, gimme.”

Kili walks over to him slowly, carrying the ingredient in his cupped hands like the greatest treasure, and without much ado, Thorin lifts him up in his arms so that he can toss it all into the pan. Bilbo tries to concentrate on stirring the sauce, instead of the close proximity of everything Thorin, and the smell that rises is all fresh and delicious and familiar, and manages to set his mind on track at least a little bit.

“It's my Mom's recipe,” he tells to no one in particular, scooping up a little of the sauce on the spatula and blowing on it so that he can taste his creation, “she used to love Italian food.”

“Used to,” Thorin comments quietly after setting his nephew down and ordering him to go wash his hands, and Bilbo fears whatever he might find in his gaze once he looks him in the eye, but he meets with nothing more than silent calm, a confirmation of you don't need to answer this.

“Yeah,” he nods, and Thorin nods, and that's all that ever amounts to, and it's oddly reassuring, and...

Bilbo doesn't understand how they got here. He doesn't understand the process that made them go from mere stage partners having issues with even sharing the same space for more than ten minutes without picking a fight, to... to this. They should be working together, worrying about lines and cues and costumes, not taking Thorin's nephews to lunch and a movie and ice-cream, and... Yes, alright, that's pretty much Bilbo digging his own grave though, isn't he. He's the one who offered to help Thorin with Fili and Kili in the first place.

Oh, everything's just been such a weird haze ever since that drunken accident, really. It simultaneously feels like he's on holiday, and working harder than he's ever had to work before. They haven't said a word to each other about the kiss since it happened, and instead they've been... laughing and teaching two little kids how to eat with chopsticks, and sharing a box of popcorn and complaining about voice acting all the way through How To Train Your Dragon 2, and it's a short way from there to Thorin admitting, to the horror of both the boys and Bilbo, that he's supposed to cook dinner for them and the still bedridden Dís, and asking Bilbo for help very desperately, and...

Yes, alright, chain-of-events speaking, maybe it is clear how they got here, but other than that, Bilbo is lost. He feels like he's doing something wrong. He alternates between being pissed at himself and being pissed at Thorin, for not saying what they're both thinking – that they can't last much longer like this, and that the outcome will either be another kiss and thus more questions, or... who knows.

The outcome probably shouldn't be the two of them ending up sitting on the boys' colorful carpet in their room, side by side, acting out the voices of The Little Thief and The Grumpy Dragon, but alas.

“You do a horrible goddamn American accent,” Thorin comments once they've quietly shut the blue-green door reading Land of F+K, No Entry!, behind themselves, and Bilbo just laughs.

“The teens giving me their Choice Award for Head Over Heels would disagree with you.”

“Oh you're going to dangle that thing over my head for the rest of our lives, aren't you.”

“I could kill you with the thing, you know. You do realize it's a big fat surfboard.”

“It's a what?”

“A surfboard,” Bilbo replies calmly, stopping his descent down the narrow stairs only when he realizes Thorin has stopped himself, staring down at him quite incredulously now.

“Yeah. Full-sized.”

“You're joking.”

“I wish I was.”

“I'm almost too scared to ask, but... can I see it?”

Bilbo bursts into laughter, plastering his hands over his mouth the next second when he remembers that the boys need quiet to fall asleep.

“Yeah, sure, because I take it with me wherever I go, my trusty surfboard. It's actually – and I'm only admitting to this because I trust you're not going to tell anybody – taller than me.”

It's Thorin's turn to laugh helplessly.

“Oh my god.”

“I know. It's all bright orange and yellow and five foot seven. I'd love to actually show you to provide you with blackmail material on me, but it's stored back in...” his voice fails him when his brain catches up with his mouth, and so he finishes that sentence only highly reluctantly, quietly, his gaze darting away, “in my parents' old house.”

He bothers the old wood of the railing of the stairs with his nail, fully expecting a load of questions, preparing to shoot Thorin down in any way necessary, because he certainly hasn't been planning on touching this topic with a ten-foot pole today or in the foreseeable future, but to his surprise, Thorin merely brushes past him, saying with a softness that could be mistaken for trying to keep it down on account of the boys, but Bilbo knows better, for some reason: “Come on, I'll give you a lift home. To... you know. Your hotel, that is.”

And that is how, after making him swear that he'll drive as slowly and carefully as possible, Bilbo ends up on a motorcycle, his arms wrapped around Thorin's torso, and the night is impossibly warm and so all that Thorin wears is a stupidly thin t-shirt, and he's all warmth and the faintest scent of cologne Bilbo knows far too well, and none of this is helping him think straight. He closes his eyes and rests his cheek against Thorin's shoulder blade almost gingerly, and tells himself it's because he's afraid of watching the road. Well, he's afraid of something.

“Listen, thanks, really,” Thorin tells him, and he could have just dropped him off and driven away immediately, but no, here he is, walking with him to the hotel entrance, and Bilbo is now definitely at least worried.

“It was my pleasure,” he mumbles, searching his pockets for his keycard while Thorin... hovers.

“I'm not sure what I would have done without you tonight.”

“You could have just ordered take-out you know,” Bilbo chuckles, still too chicken to actually look up at him, “let the boys practice more of that chopstick-eating.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But then I would have missed out on you using up all the garlic in the house.”

Bilbo's laughter comes without him really planning on it, and alright, this is good. This is familiar. He can navigate this.

“You ate that whole massive bowl, and came back for seconds,” he scolds him.

“I was being polite.”

“Right. I'm flattered. Garlic lover,” he adds, disguising it as a cough.

“What did you just call me?!”

“You heard me.”

“Alright, that's it. I'm telling everyone about your surfboard.”

“Oh go ahead! I'm very proud of my surfboard, I'll have you know!”

And they're both laughing again, and it's too good. Bilbo is quite literally struck with the urge to reach out for Thorin, but they're not drunk this time, there would be no excuse, it would be too real. He suddenly misses the weight of his little acorn pendant with a burning – it's always been so reassuring.

“Thank you too,” he tells to the ground and the tips of Thorin's boots, “I had a really great time. I'm guessing the boys will be around some more?”

“Well, their nanny is fine now, so, you know... every now and then, just as usual.”

“Right... right.”

“But they seemed... pretty smitten with you, so, you know, if you ever find yourself with an afternoon off...”

“Smitten,” Bilbo smiles broadly, finally managing to look up into Thorin's eyes, and god, he looks far too good, standing there almost bashfully, clutching his helmet under his arm, hair all messy and a smile of his own in place, albeit a bit unsteady.

“Quite.”

“I would have thought you'd ruined their perception of me before they even met me, you know.”

“Oh yeah,” Thorin rakes a hand through his hair in a gesture that is too endearingly ashamed that it should be illegal, “it's true that I used to... complain about you over lunch every now and then.”

“Is that so,” Bilbo chuckles, stepping closer in what he will later decide was a completely involuntary action.

“I'm afraid so. Horrible slander, entirely unfounded.”

“Hated me for my good looks and my surfboard awards, did you.”

Thorin's huff of laughter warms Bilbo's very heart.

“For one of those things at least, definitely.”

“Not anymore?”

God, what is this, a b-list soap opera? They're standing in front of a hotel in the middle of a hot summer night, for crying out loud. Just add an indie soundtrack and another Teen Choice Award-worthy movie is well underway.

“Jury's still out.”

And what is there left to do at that moment, really? Bilbo has starred in far too many rom-coms to know that if the protagonists don't do the Insecure Hovering Before A Kiss dance now, followed by the actual thing, the audience will be very disappointed, ratings will drop, critics will tear them apart...

“Look,” he mutters, “I don't know how to tell you this-”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

And the spell is broken. There are no cameras surrounding them, he doesn't have a script for this, doesn't have to turn this way or that for the scene to work properly. It's just Thorin and him, alone in the street, and no critic worth his salt would call this plot twist anything but lukewarm and lacking in excitement.

“No, listen-”

“Bilbo, you really don't have to explain-”

“No, it's just that... I don't know how to tell you this, because I don't actually know what I want to tell you!” Bilbo exclaims almost desperately, and the spark of joy in Thorin's eyes is being extinguished quicker than he can save it.

“I'm sorry,” he peeps, hanging his head.

“For what?”

“I don't know,” he mumbles, feeling decades younger, and also decades stupider.

“Look, it was a good kiss,” Thorin says the last thing Bilbo expects him to, and when he looks up, Thorin is watching him almost expectantly, cocking an eyebrow and nodding: “You heard me. It was a good kiss, and it was a good dinner. I don't actually hate garlic that much.”

Somewhat shaky laughter bubbles up in Bilbo's throat, and Thorin grins at him.

“With that said,” he continues, “we do still have months and months of working together ahead of us, and there's no need to... you know. I don't do... that, very well.”

“Yeah, no, me neither,” Bilbo hurries to agree, blushing to the tips of his ears, “I mean... the play is the important thing. Yes.”

“It is. Though I won't say no to more pasta every now and then.”

“That can be arranged.”

They're grinning at each other again, but it's... different this time, somehow. Less... less defined, definitely unscripted, a tad unsettling. Bilbo feels like he's missing some sort of opportunity, like it's speeding by behind his back, and he can't really see it, much less grab at it and catch it.

“So... yeah,” he manages lamely, “it was fun. But let's just agree it was a one-time thing?”

“Exactly,” Thorin says almost firmly, “let's save it for the stage.”

“Heh, that's probably for the best, yeah.”

“Alright then.”

“Hmm.”

“I should probably...”

“Yeah.”

“Uh... thanks again.”

“Thank you. For the lift and all.”

“Oh no, yeah, it was my pleasure. I'll see you tomorrow?”

“Right, full cast day. Oh man.”

“I know. Kill me now.”

Silence reigns for a moment then, and Bilbo knows that this is usually when the protagonists decide that they've been stupid all along and run into each other's arms, kissing after all, oh look at us talking all sensible and kissing anyway, isn't that hilarious. But none of that happens now, of course. No, instead he feels more and more weighed down by this strange feeling of missing out, and Thorin's gaze unfocuses for a moment, as if he's trying to remember something, but then he snaps out of it, granting Bilbo one last smile that, at least in his opinion, lacks some of its usual warmth.

“So. We good?” he asks, and Bilbo feels a tiny something constrict within his chest, painfully so, but he smiles back nevertheless.

“Yeah. We're good.”

“Alright. I'll see you. Good night.”

“Night.”

And he watches Thorin hide under his helmet, get on his bike and ride away, defying every single rule of a proper rom-com, acting far too real for Bilbo to really know what else to do than just accept it, and later that night, laying in his bed and incapable of going to sleep, Bilbo decides, well, this is anything but good.

-

 

There is a reason Dís doesn't do holidays, unless they are perfectly scripted and expected and spent with her sons, and that reason is just too much mess. She has every faith in Balin to handle everything in her absence and keep her informed, and yet, she feels like a fish out of water when she marches back into her office later that week, her antibiotics still working their magic and making her woozy and achey, but not enough to spend one more day away from her duties. No, there's no time to waste, and after making herself a gallon of herbal tea, she cracks her knuckles and gets back to work.

“Oh, I'm so glad to see you,” Gandalf tells her earnestly, currently supervising Radagast trying not to murder everyone while rehearsing the big opening number, “I hope you're feeling better now.”

“Jury's still out,” she sighs, “tell me what you need.”

“We've been waiting for you with the next management meeting. I expect Balin told you about the press thing? I for one think it's an excellent opportunity, you know, considering we have at least two people actually capable of talking to the press. Oh, and then there's the new posters, they look absolutely lovely. Titania's costume needed reworking, from what I understand, and I think your designer caused a bit of a stir with all that, but that's none of my business...”

“Gandalf,” she interrupts him strictly, pinching the bridge of her nose, “one thing at a time, please. What press thing?”

“So you don't know? Interesting, given that it's happening so soon. It was just an idea, but I think if we just ask Bilbo and Miss Goldenwood nicely, they'll be happy to do it...”

“Do what?” Dís groans, and then, spotting the white halo of her right hand man's hair on the other side of the auditorium, she calls loudly, not caring overmuch for interrupting the rehearsal, “Balin!”

So no, prolonged absences are never a good idea. It takes her the whole day to get back into the loop, and by the time she drags herself back to her office from a very impromptu artistic meeting, she's sore and dizzy and exhausted, and finding Dwalin there with their usual coffee and bagel from the shop on the corner across the street almost brings relieved tears to her eyes.

“You shouldn't be here,” he scolds her gently as she curls up on her couch without a care in the world.

“Shut up,” she replies through mouthful of bagel, and he scowls some more.

“Do you need anything? More groceries? I could always give you a lift home...”

“I'm fine,” she cuts him off him before he gets too nice, “really. This is all I need. What do you need?”

“To know that you won't overwork yourself?”

“Oh, don't get all melodramatic on me. You're here to complain about the press thing, aren't you? Balin told you to clean up down there, didn't he?”

“Yeah, what the hell is this about?” Dwalin cries, slumping into her chair, “we don't do publicity stunts. We don't do... people!”

“People are a good thing,” she reminds him softly.

“You sure about that?”

“I'm sure,” she chuckles, “look, all it will take is tidying up a bit, and playing nice while the journalists traipse around. Besides, you won't even have to be there for most of it. We'll just give them a quick tour, sit them down in their designated seats and make them watch a bit of rehearsing. It'll be good for, you know, drumming up excitement for the thing.”

“Thorin's going to be pissed,” Dwalin pouts.

“Oh, I'm not planning on letting him anywhere near people,” Dís informs him, “that's a job for Bilbo and/or Galadriel. Although it would be nice if Bilbo and him managed to do an interview together...”

“Well, I'm sure he'll have no trouble agreeing if it involves Bilbo and him together,” Dwalin comments slyly, and she narrows her eyes.

“Do you know something I don't?” she demands.

“I don't know. What do you know?”

“I know he's apparently in so much trouble. His words, not mine.”

“What does that even mean? He's always in trouble.”

“I don't know, that's all he told me. Look, Bilbo and him spent the weekend with the boys, and then they made dinner together, and argued about garlic or whatever, and then Thorin drove him home and when he came back, his only words were I'm in so much trouble.”

“Interesting,” Dwalin mumbles, munching on his bagel thoughtfully.

“I'll say. Do you think they're...?”

“Doing it in Thorin's dressing room? I don't know, I don't know, it's a possibility.”

“Together is what I was going to say,” she laughs, and he shrugs innocently.

“Just calling it as I see it. You know the other night, when we ended up drinking here, did he tell you about that?”

“He did. Inappropriate behavior?”

“Possibly. We left them alone for like twenty minutes, then found them lying side by side on the stage, just like that.”

“Just... lying there?”

Oh, this is so much better than worrying about ordering supplies and distributing scripts and herding stagehands and whatnot.

“Yep. Looking a bit starstruck.”

“Interesting,” Dís decides.

“Right? Apparently Thorin was seen today buying two boxes of Chinese for lunch.”

“Ooh, outstanding detective work. Keep me posted, Lieutenant.”

“Will do, ma'am.”

“It's sir to you, maggot.”

Dwalin laughs heartily, saluting her lazily, crumbs of bagel flying everywhere, and Dís thinks, yes. Infinitely better than any actual work.

 

But even that is, unfortunately, inevitable. She first hears the words tech week uttered backstage as some sort of a dark curse when they're in the midst of inventorying yet another set of rediscovered junk that Dwalin and his men keep bringing to her attention, and she realizes just how fast it's all approaching. Wonders if others realize it as well.

The building has been transformed entirely, as if a fire has been rekindled in its core – she enjoys the feeling of more people, more energy, the slumbering potential, the buzz of business, but she still stops from time to time, just a couple of seconds of hovering at the bar in the lounge and turning into a momentary onlooker, watching the commotion quietly. Hoping that the outcome will be as good as all of this feels right now – because judging by the enthusiasm of their headliners, it'll be nothing short of fantastic.

Thorin and Bilbo are... different, but she can't really say how. She has yet to make her brother tell her what had really happened between them, because something did happen, there's no doubt about that. She remembers fondly the times she could hear their one-on-one rehearsals even before she entered them, simply because they would argue so fervently, and all the times those would be cut short because between them and Gandalf, or Radagast, they simply weren't capable of continuing without casualties. Now they're... finally where they should be, she thinks.

“They've found it,” Gandalf decides at one point, their eyes glued to the two rehearsing one of their longest dialogues without a single hitch or mistake, and she thinks a better term might be, they've focused it. Because it, whatever people might call it, chemistry, complementary skills, sensitivity, has always been there, they just needed something to push them along and make them utilize it all.

She observes them day in and day out, picking little joyful fights with each other over nothing, leaving for lunches together or simply just... yes, buying Chinese and eating it surrounded by people in the lounge, cast and crew alike orbiting around them naturally because they have that particular kind of pull about them, or sometimes disappearing completely only to be found somewhere secluded an hour later, punctuating their lines by waving their chopsticks around, and she can't help but think, in the slightly crass way that Dwalin has infected her with, why is it that you're not doing it in Thorin's dressing room yet?

She wants to ask Thorin, wants to know why he's not doing anything about this man who is so obviously perfect for him, but at the same time she knows to keep her distance. She remembers exactly how difficult it's always been for him. Remembers all his reservations, all his sudden shifts in temper, all the issues that have kept him from pursuing anything of substance for most of his life, and knows far too well they're all still there, only buried for the time being.

They might joke about this with Dwalin rather mercilessly, and she might have entered into a bet with Bofur and Nori about when and where they'll discover them making out when not on stage, but the truth is, her brother might have very well stumbled upon something special and wonderful – and much like with this whole play, only time will tell if it actually lives up to its potential.

-

 

When they were little, Frerin would spend a great amount of time making fun of Thorin for being a stuck-up git, always contorting his round, honest beautiful face into what he thought was a perfect look-alike of his older brother's brooding grimace, 'I'm Thorin and I hate fun, it's been too long without a proper existential crisis, oh no', and Thorin would punch him lightly and Dís would laugh. Neither their easygoing attitude nor his brother might have lasted long beyond adolescence, but whose fault was it really?

What Frerin had never understood was that Thorin never hated fun, he hated always having to be the sensible one, the eldest, the most responsible one. He remembers far too well how Frerin laughed and laughed and laughed when Thorin announced that he was going to give musical theatre a shot, oh do you think prancing around in tights and flashing fake smiles will help your attitude? Thorin withstood his teasing because secretly, he thought yes. Yes it might.

But Frerin had known him far too well, and musical theatre was torture. But he thought he was doing the right thing at the time. Thought he was proving everyone wrong. Thought if he could just push himself past his limits and out of his comfort zone, just a little bit, he'd... what? What good has that ever done him, really?

There is torture that involves wearing ballet flats and being told to smile on cue and sing your heart out, and then there is... this.

Let's save it for the stage. Good god. Even in this, he'd thought it would be a good idea to be the responsible one, dammit. And he watched the strange tension in Bilbo's shoulders all but wash off as he said it, and it meant he was making the right decision... right? It was a good kiss. Lies, lies. It had been an absolutely brilliant kiss, and Thorin would give anything for more of those, every single day now, but alas, he has made his responsible decision, and besides, he'd much rather keep his damn distance than make Bilbo in any way uncomfortable. Yes.

Unfortunately, that doesn't change the fact that he catches himself staring, or daydreaming, or wishing for things, sometimes all at once, far too often these days, and he decides that this is in fact real torture.

“Bilbo, fall!”

It doesn't help that seemingly everyone has decided to make that torture even more profound just by being around. Even the innocent slash devilish two little souls of his nephews – they snuck into a rehearsal the other day and learned exactly what it meant when Radagast ordered Bilbo to fall, and have been using it themselves ever since, Bilbo obviously complying with much amusement.

He leans back now too, almost imperceptibly, and Thorin's palm is in between his shoulder blades before he can really think about it, a fast, instinctive gesture, lingering there for a bit, only half involuntarily, as Kili complains: “But you didn't fall!” and Bilbo shrugs and replies: “Well, I guess your Uncle is just too quick to catch me these days.”

“Yes, I've finally learned from all the times I actually let you fall and had to endure your attitude,” Thorin grumbles, and if Bilbo takes notice of his hand sliding a bit lower down his back before finally pulling away, he doesn't comment on it beyond a small smile, before quipping: “Well, excuse me if my attitude regarding being dropped on the ground isn't all joy.”

“Hmm,” Thorin frowns at him, then, to take his mind off... things, he turns to the boys, “what are you two even doing running around here? Where's your Mom? She's going to kill me when she learns you've been climbing up to the catwalks again.”

“Right here,” she announces herself, maneuvering into the cramped storage area slash crew meeting grounds along with Dwalin, both of them with their arms full of... junk, for the lack of a better word, “and since my sons are still alive, I'm not going to kill you just yet. Do you have a minute? Both of you?”

“Sure, what's up?” Bilbo decides for both of them, and Thorin only notices Dís was looking to confirm with him after she chuckles incredulously and continues: “Alright then. How would you feel about doing a joint interview for that press thing?”

“When you say joint interview, do you mean atop that press conference?” Bilbo remarks, and Thorin frowns.

“Wait, hold on, we're doing a press conference?”

“Oh yeah, did I not mention? You're going to have to sit pretty with us and Gandalf and probably Miss Goldenwood, if she can find the time, and play nice with the journalists for a bit,” Dís explains innocently, seemingly preoccupied with keeping an eye on her sons climbing the nearest stepladder, but Thorin knows she's just avoiding looking him in the eye, really.

“Oh? And when were you going to tell me? When is this happening?”

“Soon...?” she offers, obviously still thinking this is all great fun, and Bilbo says helpfully: “Next Wednesday, right?”

“You knew?” Thorin whines, “why didn't you tell me?!”

“I... thought you knew too?” Bilbo peeps a bit guiltily.

“Well, I didn't, because nobody thought to inform me. So what, we'll all be herded into a room-”

“The stage, actually...”

“-the stage?! Why?”

“Well, alright, here's the deal,” Dís sighs, then waggles her finger at him, “and don't look at me like that! I tried getting you out of it, but Beorn's going to be here, and both he and Gandalf insisted...”

“God,” Thorin groans.

“I know, I know. Just hear me out. You know we're going to be recording the rehearsals next week, right? I did tell you about that, I know for a fact that I did, because your response was is there still enough time to get an understudy?”

Bilbo laughs, and Thorin hopes that if he glares at his sister hard enough, she'll get the memo and just... stop doing this to him. He seeks solace with Dwalin, currently transformed into a climbing frame for Kili, and he just shrugs, in a way that at least promises Thorin he hasn't been the only one complaining.

“Alright, yes, I remember,” he grumbles, “what of it?”

“Well,” she says, “the thing is. We thought about doing this for the dress rehearsals and all, but it'll be too late by then. This way, we can make it all one big event, and people will have the time to, you know, write nice things and get other people excited. We've already got a bunch of people who promised they'd come, and it would just be really great if you and Bilbo-” a bright smile that Bilbo reciprocates far too enthusiastically for Thorin's liking, “were to... hang around after the official part is done, and... be your usual charming selves.”

“So let me get this straight,” Thorin sighs raggedly, “you want to invite people to come look at rehearsals?”

“Well, in a way...”

“The play is so far from ready.”

“It doesn't matter. It's the rehearsing that is fun to look at. Not the whole thing, of course not,” she adds hastily, in a faint attempt at calming him down, “just... a bit of the full cast one. You know. For show.”

“For show,” Thorin repeats icily.

“For people with money, Thorin,” she remarks dryly, “Gandalf's people will be there, and Greenleaf will probably come by as well-”

“You're joking.”

“Oh, come on, it'll be fun,” Bilbo giggles, and Thorin wonders if he knows exactly what he's doing to him by patting his arm affectionately and holding on for what might be just a couple of seconds, but feels like an eon really.

“We did this way back with Angels In America, I think, it was so much fun,” he continues without a care in the world, “they had fans come in and everything...”

“No fans,” Thorin says firmly, glaring at Dís for confirmation now, and she rolls her eyes and nods: “No fans.”

“Why not?” Bilbo wonders.

“Long story. So you'll do it?”

“Am I being given a choice?” Thorin grumbles.

“You're not. Bilbo?”

“Well sure, it sounds like fun! And come on, Thorin, you can survive socializing for a bit, yes?”

He thinks he can hear Dwalin snort a nasty laugh from wherever in the maze of props he's disappeared, but he ignores that, because all his energy is being used up looking into Bilbo's eyes, as usual. He would so like to tell him what exactly he thinks about a weakly supervised band of journalists traipsing around his theatre, and about having to play nice with them, but all he can really do, faced with Bilbo's expectant smile, is sigh raggedly: “Fine.”

-

 

The call comes on one of his precious afternoons off, managing to spoil the entirety of it, and Prim follows shortly after. Bilbo hasn't seen her in weeks, and she is sunburnt, and excited, and as charmingly blunt as ever when she greets him with a fond: “So, how's Ered Luin been treating you? Shagging anyone interesting yet?”

“I'm afraid not,” he laughs, “but listen-”

“Ah, shame. But your twitter's been doing better, good work. You'll be at 200k in no time!”

“Yes, yes, wonderful. I've just been meaning to ask you-”

“Oh, good news, you got an invitation to the Globes, isn't that wonderful?”

“Why did Aunt Lobelia call me up and ask me when was I coming already?”

That at least is enough to cut her litany short, and she frowns as if wincing in pain.

“She called you? God damn that woman, I had a deal with her that I would be the one to tell you about all this myself.”

“Tell me about what? She went on and on about legal issues, and something about the garden? By the time she got to whatever's wrong with Cousin Fillibald again, I stopped listening, you do understand that.”

“Oh god, I'm so sorry,” Prim groans.

“Yeah, well,” Bilbo says a bit unhappily, fingers darting to the familiar spot on his neck and finding nothing yet again, “am I really going to have to go back there?”

“If you want all your stuff, and make sure your parents' stuff doesn't end up sold off, or worse, in Lobelia's guest rooms, then yeah. I told her you'd be happy to sign anything, as long as it didn't prevent you from doing that, taking care of things on your own terms.”

“And she agreed to that?”

“Well, she does need your signature after all.”

“Oh man,” Bilbo whines, reclining in his seat and taking a long sip of his drink, feeling far too glum considering his surroundings. He's taken Prim to one of the coffee places Dís and the boys – or was it Thorin?, someone from the family – have introduced him to, a charming little alcove in the bustling center of the city that makes fantastic milkshakes, and has become one of his favorite spots to stop by when he has the time. But right now, all it reminds him of is how limited his time here is, and that real life is still out there, waiting to grab at him.

“I know,” she says almost apologetically, “but take it this way – you haven't been out there in a long, long time-”

“For a reason.”

“-and you'll finally be able to put it all behind you. You know?”

“Ugh,” Bilbo says, and purposefully steers the conversation elsewhere, and quick, and Prim just complies, bless her. He doesn't want to think about all that, about taking one last trip to what used to be his home, and walking through the numerous rooms of the house and seeing all his stuff gathering dust and realizing he has nowhere in the world to take it and store it himself.

He doesn't want to think about it, and so he doesn't – instead, he tells Prim about the play, about the press thing coming up (“I'm your damn agent and I'm only learning of this two days prior?! ”), and about how he no longer feels the burning desire to run a stake through Thorin's heart every waking minute of his life, and about Fili and Kili, and about Dís' apartment and her cooking, and about Bombur's Margaritas and Dwalin's lewd jokes, and about so many other things that have become his favorite in this city. And he takes her to rehearsal next, and she gets along with everyone just swell, and spends time negotiating terms that Bilbo never thought to bother with, and orders him to tweet a picture of the newest batch of posters, and talks the idea of signed merchandise once the play is running with Balin and Dís, and by the time she starts telling childhood stories about him to a vast audience in the evening, he's feeling...

“A drink. I need a drink.”

He doesn't even mean for Bofur to hear, in fact he's almost sure the man is supposed to be leaning on the bar too far away from him to hear, but somehow, he still does, and Bilbo soon finds himself one ice-cold can of cider richer.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Mhm. So tell me, does this particular brand of, ehh... social charm run in the family?”

“I'm afraid so,” Bilbo chuckles.

“Lovely. Might want to keep an eye on Nori around your lovely cousin, just a fair warning.”

“Wait,” Bilbo chokes on his drink a little bit, “I thought you were... I mean, him and you...?”

“Occasionally,” Bofur chuckles lightly, “doesn't stop him from chasing after everyone else he fancies, I'm afraid.”

“G-good to know,” Bilbo stammers.

“Ye-eah,” Bofur sighs, and before Bilbo can very politely ask him if whatever arrangement he has with Nori is exactly to his liking, everybody's attention is suddenly on him as Prim announces: “So yeah, that's about the most embarrassing story I remember.”

“Wait, hold on, which one?” Bilbo demands a tad desperately, much to everyone's amusement, “the one with the swing?”

She shakes her head happily, and he glares harder.

“The one with... oh god, the swimming pool?”

“Nope, not that one either, but ooh, that's a good one!”

“I hate you.”

“I'm aware. No, I told them about the time you snuck over to the Brandybucks' house in the middle of the night to-”

“I really hate you.”

Disappearing after that is a matter of necessity, not that Bilbo lets anyone know. If he is an extroverted chatterbox on his normal day, then Prim is him on steroids – he's almost forgotten what it's like, unleashing her at unsuspecting company. Social graces do run in the family, and he's glad she's making friends with the people he also considers his friends now, it's just that... It's difficult to explain, even to himself, because he's at his most comfortable in big crowds, and so suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable and a wee bit anxious and not like talking to anyone, is a novelty to him.

Ending up in front of Thorin's dressing room without really remembering how or why he'd decided to go there in the first place, also something he isn't used to in the least.

He knocks almost hesitantly, but knocks nonetheless, and Thorin's audibly grumpy 'I'm sleeping!' puts him at ease, somehow, bringing a smile to his face.

“It's me,” he calls, and the door opens before he has the time to think too hard on the fact that he actually has 'it's me' privileges.

“I was actually going to take a kip,” Thorin pouts, as if staying awake now that Bilbo is here is something he has no say in.

“Fine by me. I just need a place to hide away for a bit.”

“You? What's wrong?” Thorin asks, already letting him in.

“It's... ugh, Prim, entertaining the company upstairs.”

“Childhood stories?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Damn, bad time for me to be asleep.”

“Shut up. You are not learning anything unless it's on my own terms.”

Thorin cocks an amused eyebrow and Bilbo rolls his eyes, hiding his blush and slumping on the chair by the mirror the wrong way around, hugging its back and resting his chin atop it. When Thorin was re-introduced to his cousin earlier today, he made a good show of letting Bilbo know exactly what he thought of how alike they were, and he only ponders if... no. No need to add any other speculations to his already gloomy outlook today.

“Drink?” Thorin offers casually.

“I actually just had a... You know what, yeah, gimme.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I don't want to talk about it,” Bilbo exaggerates a scowl, “take your nap.”

“What, and leave you alone with my beers? No chance.”

Bilbo laughs, and even though it's more than half sarcastic, he's feeling better already. Of course Thorin doesn't press the issue, because he never does – Bilbo can only wonder if this, what he's feeling right now, is much more familiar to Thorin, on a daily basis. He still is a horrible recluse, still barely ever allows anyone else but Bilbo near (do not think about that in too much detail), and as he watches him sprawl over the couch that is hilariously short for his lanky frame, Bilbo tries to discern if it would be such a bad idea to confide in him after all.

But confide what, exactly? That he's not feeling like talking to people? Or that the arrival of Prim, something that he'd been looking forward to for a while, makes him feel, if anything, annoyed, because he doesn't care for being reminded of the fact that he still has commitments elsewhere, still has work to do, can't... can't stay here?

Bilbo decides it's ridiculous, and thinks Thorin would think so too. He's supposed to be... looking forward to things, not be bitter about them, yes? Yes.

“If you've got something to say, say it,” Thorin mumbles, reminding him of the fact that he's very much not asleep, and Bilbo gives him a frown he cannot see.

But there's no particular annoyance, or venom, or even expectations, behind his words. He really just says them to offer Bilbo an opportunity, and that's... more than he would ask of anything, and certainly more than he'd ever thought to ask of Thorin. If you've got something to say, say it. Oh, he wishes it were that simple. What he wants to say and what he will end up saying are two vastly different things, he's come to learn.

“When we were little, Prim was the actor in the family, you know,” he starts a bit vaguely, a bit unsteadily, and feels so spectacularly stupid in the next second that he groans and rests his forehead on the back of Thorin's chair. But nothing but silence comes from the man on the couch, and so he decides to continue, nail picking at the loose threads of the chair's fabric: “She was the loud one, and the one who had every aunt and cousin and whoever wrapped around her finger. And I just...”

“Are there a lot of those?”

“Huh?”

“Aunts and cousins. Do you have a lot of those?” Thorin asks quietly, casually, his arm still over his face, and Bilbo can't decide if he's asking it out of politeness or actual curiosity.

“Oh countless, yeah,” he replies, “not so much on my father's side, but my mother's sisters and cousins... they're one big, loud, casually offensive bunch. Annual gatherings are hell, you can imagine.”

“I'm trying,” Thorin snickers, and something in his tone reminds Bilbo of what little he's come to learn about his family, and that bringing up boisterously happy family members who are, at the same time, still very much alive, might not be the best course of action.

“Well,” he clears his throat, “it's mayhem, basically. I can only endure so much of it each given year, and sometimes I wonder if hiring one of them as my agent wasn't... you know, detrimental to my peace of mind.”

Thorin laughs, a low pleasant rumble.

“Yeah, two of you in a room is... quite something.”

“And I'm the quiet one.”

“Dear god. How long did you say she was going to be with us?”

“As long as it takes. Don't worry, she doesn't follow me around like a guard dog. On most days.”

“Thank the heavens. I thought I might have to actually get an understudy when she started commenting on all the implausible choices for the characters...”

“Yeah,” Bilbo all but cackles, “sorry about that. But that's not even the worst of it, you should meet my Aunt Lobelia, god, she'd give you a speech that would probably make you want to quit the craft altogether.”

“Speaking from experience?”

Bilbo is, and it's something that he's not particularly keen on reliving, but relives it anyway, at some odd evening hour, locked up with Thorin in his dim dressing room, drinking beer, which is never a good idea... But, as with so many other things where Thorin is considered, talking about his family suddenly comes naturally to him, probably because Thorin doesn't even think to interject with anything more disconcerting than the occasional question. And so Bilbo tells him about the time he first announced he had a paying acting gig, and about the second and fifth and eighth time, and about how his most concerned family members' reactions were always the same – that's nice, dear, but is that really any sort of career to pursue? How about a nice degree before it's too late? You know you have it in you, use your potential on something more sensible...

“Proving them wrong is what my career has been all about, really,” he confesses to the man who made it no secret in the beginnings of their professional relationship exactly what he thought of Bilbo's career – that same man now simply watches him quietly, looking, if anything, intrigued, and surely there's some message in that, about how everything changes when no one is looking.

“That's why I turned to stage work at all in the first place – when my family finally came around on the fact I could actually do this as a legitimate line of work, they still thought my face was paying the bills. I wanted to show them – show myself – that I could do this, not because I was lucky, but because I could do it. Not that it ever really worked, mind you – Aunt Lobelia called Angels in America... offensive and too loud, was it? Yeah, I think that's it. None of them have been to a play of mine since, except for Prim of course.”

“What about this one?”

“What about this one?”

“Just saying, might finally do the trick and make them see that you really can do this.”

Bilbo blinks at him a bit blearily, entirely unsure what to make of his words, really. Thorin simply gazes back, shrugging, and Bilbo sighs raggedly, hanging his head and chuckling somewhat sadly. Not sure where that ache in his chest has come from. Or the blushing, for that matter. Must be the beer.

“I appreciate that,” he mutters, “I really do. But they're just not... theatre people, you know. Besides, this thing? Me traipsing around practically topless and kissing another man on stage? Aunt Lobelia would get a coronary, and probably disown me after.”

“Are we operating under the assumption that that would be a bad thing?”

Bilbo bursts into laughter, and Thorin grins at him, wide and bright and supportive, and man, he really does hate summer – it's suddenly far too hot in the room.

“Listen, I'm starving,” Thorin opts for changing the topic thoroughly, and Bilbo frowns at him.

“Oh... right. Yeah. Go grab a sandwich or something, sorry for keeping you. I'll... go hide elsewhere. Maybe just go home, to be honest. I don't feel like stopping by the lounge anymore today.”

“No, me neither,” Thorin says simply, and just waits, waits for Bilbo to understand.

“Oh... um. I see,” he is enlightened at last, searching for some sign of explanation, or disapproval, or joking, in Thorin's face, but getting none of that, he gives in at last, “right. Chinese?”

“Bleh. I think we've surpassed the weekly quota. How about pizza? I know a good place, it's a bit of a drive, but their mozzarella's well worth it.”

“Sounds great.”

“Good. My bike's parked out by the stage door, we can sneak out through there and hopefully not meet any of your relatives on the way.”

“Oh good,” Bilbo laughs, getting to his feet, feeling lightheaded and chipper and definitely not like he's just spent the better half of an hour talking about things that are so low on his list of comfortable topics of conversation, “people are going to talk.”

Thorin merely smiles, holding the door open for him, and though Bilbo somewhat expects his next words, the way he says them, amused and careless, but still daring, tell me I'm wrong, just you tell me that you would have it any other way, still manages to send an unidentified tingle dancing up his spine.

“Let them. I think they already are, anyway.”

 

Chapter Text

“You're buying me a drink for every person I insult.”

“How about a drink for every person you manage not to insult.”

“Hmph.”

Thorin and Bilbo saunter away into the amassing crowd side by side, the former already a wonderful ball of antisocial negativity, and Dís sighs, thankful that she's about to be too busy to see her brother make an ass out of himself in front of journalists.

“I seem to have missed a memo. When are those two getting married again?”

That's Prim, Bilbo's agent, appearing by her side with a glass of something colorful, apparently also having decided to leave her respectful big child to his own devices, a broad grin almost eerily like Bilbo's lighting her face up when Dís snorts in laughter.

“Oh yeah, soon,” Dís supplies, “we were all very excited, what with Bilbo's big dowry and everything.”

Prim giggles into her drink, nodding solemnly.

“Yes, he will be a wonderful addition to your family, as will be his dozen goats and his mother's embroidered crockery, I promise. Honestly though, am I the only one who remembers they used to actually dislike each other once upon a time?”

“Oh I remember very vividly, believe me,” Dís sighs, “my brother made it no secret that he'd rather cut off his own hand than work with Bilbo at the beginning of all this, and look where they are now. I think we all just decided to accept it for the blessing of the gods it is at some point, you know.”

“That's wise,” Prim sniggers, “but really, out of all the people he's always wanted to work with... well, I never would have guessed.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Thank god for small wonders, eh. Anyway, I just wanted to say, amazing work with all this. People seem really excited, don't they? Going the press conference way was a nice touch. I imagine it was recorded as well?”

“Yeah, yes it was,” Dís nods, for once taking a break from scanning the crowd for familiar faces who might want to talk to her and spoil her moment of peace, “not for... publishing purposes though. We haven't decided about that yet, actually. What do you think?”

“Oh... well,” she shrugs with a smile, “might make for good additional content if you were to, say, make a recording of the play itself at some point. You know, cinema screenings after it's over, then a DVD...”

“Hmm... we haven't even considered that option yet, I think.”

“You should. I was there at the rehearsal – people are going to want to rewatch this thing after it stops showing, believe me.”

“Really?” Dís smiles, gazing at her almost cautiously.

“Are you kidding? It's bloody brilliant, is what it is! I mean we already knew that it would be when Gandalf first announced it, didn't we, but it just looks. so. Good. Honestly, Bilbo wasn't exaggerating, you should hear all the excited late-night phone calls I got about it.”

Dís laughs, and basks in the... well, it could be called relief, but that would be implying that all her worries have dissipated, and that's as far from the truth as it gets. No, she feels... content. The rehearsal went as well as anyone could wish, people laughed when they were supposed to laugh (they decided to go with some of the ensemble scenes rather than the more intimate ones, saving the real aces in the form of Thorin's and Bilbo's scenes, or the four kids' bits, for the actual showings), and ooh'ed and aah'ed and clapped, and then when the actual press conference came, they asked actual nice, sensible questions, and Bilbo and Miss Goldenwood were their usual charming selves, as was Gandalf, and even Thorin managed to respond more or less like a normal human being...

All in all, it really proved to be a good idea, and now that their job is to wine and dine the journalists and entertain them, let them ask off-the-record questions, Dís is really beginning to relax. There are a lot of people here who have been tied with Erebor in one way or the other ever since her father's time, and the general idea she gathers is that everyone's just excited to see something new and exciting brewing under the ancient roof of the theatre so many people love so dearly. Dís is grateful, and excited, and feeling a bit like a little girl again, faced with people coming up to her and congratulating her, and asking her about her Dad and about Thorin, and she decides to tell Thrain all about it the next time she sees him – he would be proud. Well, the old him would have been proud, but even if he doesn't listen to half the story, he'll still appreciate it. She thinks.

She is so lost in reminiscing and daydreaming that she her warning bells don't chime until it's almost too late, until Prim pipes up excitedly: “Ooh, that's Thranduil Greenleaf over there, isn't it? Oh man, I've always wanted to meet him, maybe I should worm my way into that conversation...”, and Dís finally assesses what she's seeing – it indeed is Thranduil Greenleaf over on the other side of the lounge by the poster wall, chatting up a very cheerful Bilbo and an increasingly more glum-looking Thorin, and that will only last so long, she knows...

“Well, now's your chance,” she utters tensely and makes her way over there resolutely, determined to rein in any incident that might arise.

She casts Thorin her best subtly warning look, but much to her surprise, he merely rolls his eyes and shakes his head almost imperceptibly, nothing to worry about. She'd much rather supervise that herself though, thank you very much.

“All I'm saying is,” Bilbo natters away, blissfully oblivious to the explosive potential of the situation, “they used to make whole movies to discredit people, remember? A book? I don't see why this particular critic thinks he can do any real damage with that, please.”

“Well, you haven't met his brand of critic before, I guarantee you that,” Thranduil smirks, “there's unpleasant to deal with, and then there's just vicious.”

“I'm surprised he didn't ask you to write the damn foreword,” Thorin scoffs, and Thranduil's eyes narrow, but he retorts perfectly effortlessly: “As a matter of fact, he did. For old times' sake and all that. Shot him down before he could finish the sentence, I assure you.”

“I owe you the world,” Thorin declares, the words dripping sarcasm, and Dís decides that that's about it – time to interject, for the sake of all concerned.

“Now is this making sure the press is fed and laughing at your jokes?” she scolds Thorin jovially, and he gives her a personal little glare powerful enough to set a feebler woman ablaze, but everyone else seems to be willing to play along, thankfully.

“Oh, don't worry, I think I've already secured us a couple of future five-star reviews, just by introducing people to the wonders of Bombur's cocktails,” Bilbo chimes in lightly, his wink, that probably only Dís catches, somehow reassuring.

“Ah yes, the alcohol – the one good reason to keep coming back here,” Greenleaf jokes in his beautifully crude fashion, and neither Dís' nor Bilbo's smiles falter for a split second, in that frozen 'I'm being polite but secretly thinking about wiping the floor with you right now' way, but Thorin has always been much worse at concealing his anger and/or disgust, or both whenever Thranduil is involved.

“Since you're so familiar with what children say,” he resorts to what he most likes to tease Greenleaf about, his teaching, “why don't you take their advice and keep your mouth shut unless you've got something nice to say.”

“Gosh, always so quick to take everything personally,” Thranduil all but giggles, and Dís seeks solace with Bilbo first, Prim second, only to discover that they're both nursing a very similar, highly amused crooked smile, watching the conversation unfold as if it's a particularly exciting scientific experiment to observe.

“I do like the drinks,” Greenleaf continues, “but I enjoyed the rehearsal more, I must say.”

“That's kind of you to say,” Dís takes over before Thorin can continue on his rampage, and Bilbo is lightning-quick to join her: “I thought Legolas was exceptional today, you must be very proud.”

“Of course I am. But he's only a part of a fantastic whole. I'm very glad I was able to give him and my other students this opportunity.”

“I think you mispronounced buy there,” Thorin utters, and before Dís can snap at him, or come up with anything to say at all, Bilbo saves the day yet again, saying smoothly: “What he meant to say was, we're very excited to be working with your students as well, they are all immensely talented. Is it true that Tauriel had no acting background whatsoever when she applied for the academy? Really? Oh, I related so much when she told me, you see when I first started doing this...”

It reminds Dís of that one scene from her sons' favorite bedtime storybook, The Little Thief and The Grumpy Dragon, where the forest fire is extinguished not by all those firemen with hoses and firetrucks, but by that one lone little fairy standing up to it and asking it very politely to please stop burning the trees down – it shouldn't even be close to working, but somehow Bilbo manages to steer the situation into calmer waters with little to no effort. Thorin simply simmers quietly by his side – and was that Bilbo's hand on his arm there, in an almost affectionately calming gesture? – while Thranduil succumbs to his charm and they chat away easily enough. Both Dís and Prim are soon reduced to mere observers yet again, and reach a silent unanimous decision to back away.

“You know, I'm pretty sure that if it weren't for Bilbo, this whole thing would have gone up in flames a long time ago,” Dís sighs, and Prim arches one elegant eyebrow.

“A deliberate joke with the flames, I hope?” she sniggers, and when Dís shrugs, she grins, “no, yeah, Bilbo has that... way about him. He's a natural diplomat, I think you might say. It's a shame he doesn't hang around the family more often, nobody can shut up my Aunts quite like he can.”

“He's going places,” Dís laughs.

“Oh, definitely. Has an interview with Wes freaking Anderson next month and doesn't even know it yet.”

“Oh... really?” Dís' eyes widen, and Prim nods solemnly.

“Yup. Don't tell him, I want it to be a surprise. Nothing is a hundred percent yet, of course, but... well. It sounds amazing. Not that I can tell you much-”

“Hah, yeah, I understand. But... wow.”

“I know. Bilbo's been loving the stage, and don't get me wrong, I couldn't be happier for him, but this is... a different kind of opportunity, you know?”

“I do know,” Dís smiles, but then her gaze finds Bilbo and Thorin in the crowd once again, having departed from the conversation with Greenleaf without any bloodshed, currently hanging out by the bar, talking excitedly about something with Gandalf and a couple of the other actors – or rather, Bilbo talks and Thorin mostly watches, and his face as he looks on Bilbo gesticulating wildly and laughing, betrays... absolutely everything.

Something tiny and worrisome clenches in Dís' chest at the sight, as she is reminded of the fact she knows far too well, but refuses to acknowledge on most days – that once this is all over, Bilbo will be on his merry way, most probably to even more international success, and she will be left with Thorin, who... Oh but for crying out loud, the damn play hasn't even opened yet. Yes. There's still a long time to go. Still a long time to see to it that... what? Her emotionally stunted brother manages to recognize his happiness for what it is before it's too late? Yes, let's go with that.

-

 

Oh, sleep, a foreign notion – especially where there's cheap vending machine coffee involved, eh? Gandalf pinches the bridge of his nose and waits for the whirring machine to deliver, pondering for the hundredth time that day when his heart attack will finally catch up with him. But surely having three cups of regular coffee from Dís' lovely coffeemaker isn't that bad, and the watery piss he's waiting for right now doesn't have enough caffeine in it to power a housefly. Yes, the small lies people tell themselves each and every day, aren't they wonderful.

“So do you live solely on caffeine these days? I'd hate for this thing to go under before it even started just because the director's heart unexpectedly explodes.”

The graceful tone with which the teasing is delivered is unmistakable, and he summons a wry smile.

“Good evening to you too, dear. What are you doing here so late?”

Galadriel looks from him to the lights of the vending machine, regarding the selection with a particular brand of high-brow disgust only she is capable of, before she smiles a smile of her own: “Shall I remind you that you were the one who scheduled the Oberon/Titania rehearsal for this hour? The costume department asked me to stay as well, for some adjustments. Didn't think I'd find you here still.”

Even in the sickly glow of the display of the vending machine, currently the only source of light in the hallway, she manages to look nothing less than stunning, younger and healthier than any person her age has any right looking, Gandalf suspects – her unchanging appearance, presence and strength of spirit have always brought joy to him, that much is true.

“And?” he asks, prying the plastic cup with his beverage from the machine, “are you finding everything to your liking?”

“Of course I am. The only thing I lied to the journalists about was the fact that I'm ever doing another movie again. I like this far too much, you see.”

“I'm very happy to hear that. Perhaps a piece just for you, then, when all this is over?” Gandalf winks at her, and she chuckles.

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves. First we must all get through this one.”

“You make it sound like an ordeal.”

“That was not my intention. I really am having fun, you know. It's just that...” she trails off, warring with herself silently for a bit, then finally reaching a decision and ordering herself a hot chocolate, much to Gandalf's amusement.

“I might retire after this... not permanently, mind you,” she hurries to reassure him, “just a break. I think I deserve one. I think I deserve to... what it is that people do these days? Live off the royalties, write self-indulgent books? Form bands?”

“Count me in for the band, please,” Gandalf laughs, then frowns at her, “but really? A break? Is everything alright?”

“Everything is perfectly fine. I just... let's say I had an... interesting conversation with your star protege the other day.”

“Bilbo? Really? Oh, shall we find someplace better suited to consume these exquisite beverages?”

She cradles her plastic cup in her delicate fingers and grins in agreement, and they set off through the darkening hallway, in pursuit of somewhere relatively cozy to sit, soon discovering an open rehearsal room with a very inviting-looking pair of armchairs, and see themselves in. Traipsing around like this, doing nothing when the both of them should most certainly be doing a lot of something, not necessarily avoiding their duties but simply deciding not to acknowledge them, distinctly reminds Gandalf of... the old days, for the lack of a better umbrella term for everything they've been through together. Neither of them is in any habit of being sentimental, though – the shared knowledge that the other one remembers, and likes to remember, is enough.

“What did my star protege have to say, then?” he asks curiously, sipping on his very bitter, decidedly horrible, but certainly refreshing, coffee.

“I think I asked him about his family, or at least that's how the discussion started,” she says thoughtfully, “there was wine involved, as well. Anyway, he had a number of interesting points to share about the whole predicament of... rarely settling in our line of work, you know how it is. A surprisingly uplifting discussion, considering the topic.”

“But then he is a surprisingly uplifting fellow,” Gandalf offers, and her smile broadens.

“That is true. Did you specifically comb the world for someone who would be the exact opposite of him for this play?”

“I think you'll find that Thorin and him are surprisingly alike, in fact.”

“I won't dispute that. All I can say is that the two of them, together, visually? Bravo.”

“I know, right?” Gandalf sighs contentedly, leaning back in his armchair.

“I thought your matchmaking days were over,” she comments lightly, and he laughs genuinely and heartily at that.

“How could they ever be, with my results? Your husband would agree. How is he, by the way? Will he come see you?”

“I expect so. He's currently in Italy.”

“Shooting?”

“Looking for properties. Amidst shooting.”

“Indeed?” Gandalf gasps, the very last gulp of his coffee leaving a somewhat bitterer taste in his mouth, “so when you said take a break, you meant... what? Buy a castle in Tuscany and brew wine?”

“I'll name the red after you, shall I. Oh, don't look at me like that,” she sighs kindly, “not all of us have the same drive you do.”

“Coming from anyone else but you, I'd believe it.”

“It's not that I want to stop doing what I'm doing – you know I love the craft, my god. But I need... I need to breathe, yes? I need a break, some time off, just to sleep in for a two weeks in a row and worry only about... cooking. Groceries. I don't know.”

“Cooking,” he repeats, “groceries? Are you sure that vending machine didn't poison you? I love this place to bits but I'd sue them to within an inch of their life if-”

“Hush,” she chuckles, “I'm serious. You might not want to admit it, but you'll need such a break yourself, eventually. You can't work yourself to your grave.”

“Oh, watch me,” he declares, and it is meant as a joke, of course it is, but she frowns at him even more, and he narrows his eyes at her, assessing.

“You know I won't begrudge you your retirement and marital bliss,” he says, and she rolls her eyes, albeit very gracefully, once again, “but don't you try to sway me with your talk of domesticity and peace. You know I loathe it.”

“I know you loathe stopping to catch your breath because you're worried what might catch up with you, yes.”

She doesn't mean to make him angry, simply take a jab at him, and he takes it for what it is in stride, offering merely a dry chuckle in response. With sudden clarity, he remembers his latest visit to Thrain, remembers how much it took out of him – seeing one of his dearest friends so much... smaller, reduced to but a shadow of his former self, very clearly in pain and even more clearly not getting much better any time soon. He hadn't known when to stop, kept going until it broke him, and Gandalf firmly refuses to even entertain the idea of any similarities between the two of them, but the point of the matter is... They're getting old, all of them. They've gotten old, at some point, when none of them were looking.

“So, hold on,” he remarks when a thought occurs to him, “what was Bilbo's point of view, in that particular discussion? He's not going to spring an 'I need a break' on me as well, is he?”

Galadriel simply regards him silently for a while, as if she's measuring him, waiting for something, and perhaps it's just the lack of light in the room, or his tired eyes, or all of that at once, but she looks... sad. For a fleeting moment, anyway.

“You need to ask him that. I understand why you have so much hope in him, I'll say as much – he reminds me of you very much, when you were young and hotheaded...”

“And getting drunk on cheap wine...”

“And that, though I'll wager he has better tastes. But he is... good, he really is. Just don't make the mistake of assuming he is exactly like you. Take it easy on him.”

“I don't-”

“You will. You'll see what I mean, soon. Soon enough, hopefully.”

-

 

It's all just incredibly... cruel. Yes, that is absolutely the right word. After that press conference thing – much easier to survive than Thorin had anticipated, not that he'd admit that to anyone – everything really gains momentum. He doesn't know how it happens, but tech week is a month away at first, then three weeks, then two, and all of that is happening far too fast for his liking. Bilbo tells him he can't wait to really get on stage in front of people, and Thorin agrees with him and listens to him fantasize about how amazing the opening night will no doubt be... Doesn't have the heart to admit to him that a part of him doesn't... doesn't want this to end.

Because opening night means it's definitive – one performance after another, day in day out, no time for anything else, and it'll be over before they know it, and then it will really be over. He should do... something. The part of him that tells him there's still enough time and that things will work themselves out, somehow, and the part that knows he'll never gather enough courage or decisive power to do anything at all, are at war constantly. They've made their sensible decisions, and they are both comfortable with things as they are, so why does he still feel like they're leaving something unsaid?

But if Thorin isn't sure about his feelings, then Bilbo is a closed book. Thorin doesn't tell him that hearing about his family and all that on that one random evening when he just came traipsing into his dressing room was the most exciting thing ever. Exciting might not be the right word. Intriguing? Either way, it made Thorin feel... included, and closer to Bilbo, and he wanted to know more, always more, but hasn't dared ask ever since. And Bilbo hasn't talked like that ever since.

There's still a steady level of comfort between them, something that's now never going away, at least – even the most complicated stage moves are now child's play, their dialogues flowing smoothly, as do their real-life conversations, and everybody is happy, and satisfied, and exhilarated... So why can't Thorin share the same sentiment?

He tries to figure it out, time and time again, every lunch and dinner they go to, every rehearsal, every gathering at Dís', every bike ride (thank God for the abundance of those, Bilbo always makes a fuss about Thorin driving too fast, but that doesn't mean he doesn't let him drive him everywhere) – but it's like Bilbo is keeping a part of him hidden away from sight, away from Thorin, for some reason or the other. And Thorin certainly is no mind reader, nor is he really particularly good at emotions in general, let's be honest.

What he does know, is that he wants for Bilbo to continue being this – happy, easygoing, effortless, never short a laugh. He really doesn't need to know about Thorin's stupid, largely incomprehensible struggling feelings. Who would, anyway?

“Are you going to tell me what's going on or am I going to have to beat it out of you with a ladle?”

Dís. Dís would, of course.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Thorin grumbles, concentrating fully on his assigned task of chopping shallots, while her and her ladle glare at him judgmentally instead of taking care of the rest of lunch.

“Uh-huh. You're pining.”

“Pining – pining for what?” he snaps, never raising his eyes from his damn shallots,“what does that even mean? I didn't know we were thirteen again.”

“Well, I'm not. You seem to be reverting lately, though.”

“I don't know what-”

“What I'm talking about? Yeah, I got that. It's not pining for what, it's for who.”

“Whom,” he corrects her automatically, and when she lets out a little delighted ha!, no one can really blame him for groaning in exasperation and demolishing the stubborn vegetable with even more vigor.

“Doesn't mean I am. Pining.”

“I'm sorry, it's just that I didn't want to use the term 'acting like a complete lovesick idiot' right away.”

“Oh come on!”

“What?” she titters innocently, “just calling it like it is. You might want to do something about it, it's embarrassing to watch, and he's going to notice eventually-”

“You are embarrassing!”

“What are we yelling about?”

That's Dwalin, infiltrating the kitchen at the least convenient moment of course.

“Oh, just Thorin's big old crush.”

“Oh that. Yeah, it's ridiculous, mate. Just ask him out, would you?”

“I can't just-” Thorin sputters, but faced with their highly amused faces, he simply gives up, “you know what? I don't have to listen to this. Here.”

And without further ado, he slams the knife on the counter and marches out of the kitchen, followed by Dís' cheerful 'Wash your hands!' and a bout of laughter from her and Dwalin – he only restrains himself from swearing loudly back at them because the adjacent living room is full of people, some of which are a), too young to hear what he has on his mind, and b), Bilbo. The latter turns out to be untrue, Bilbo is nowhere to be seen, but as it is, that only brings relief, because he'd no doubt have some questions about Thorin's stormy expression and the fact that he ignores everyone and stomps out into the hall to hide in the bathroom – to wash his hands, yes, but also to take refuge from annoying sisters and soon-to-be-ex best friends.

It's not that he doesn't anticipate the teasing – it's Dís' way of keeping tabs on him, making sure that he's alright. But he has no intention of talking to her about anything this way, and knows she will soon realize that and resort to asking him actual questions, all serious and determined to make him do the right thing, or whatever. He loves her, he really does, and appreciates her care, but everything is confusing enough as it is without her meddling.

He really does wash his hands, and stands stock still for a long time, glaring at his own face in the mirror – pining really isn't a good term for what he's going through, unless it's synonymous with torture.

And speaking of torture, hearing Bilbo's laughter from outside makes his heart first jump, then clench unfairly painfully. He wonders if anyone will really miss him if he spends the duration of the lunch here...

“Where's Thorin? I need to tell him!”

That is torture as well, but the excitement in Bilbo's voice prompts Thorin to slink outside at last, almost running into him and his agent/cousin, visibly in the midst of being extremely happy about something.

“There you are!” Bilbo exclaims when he sees him, and Thorin can't help it, seeing him all but bob up and down in joy dispels his foul mood almost instantly.

“Guess what!”

“What?” Thorin arches an eyebrow, arms automatically reaching out for Bilbo as he all but dances towards him, “did you win the lottery? What?”

“Yes I did! I'm meeting with Wes Anderson next week!”

“Oh! For the-?”

“The super secret new movie, yes! Apparently he is, and I quote, more than certain we can work together, isn't that exciting?”

“That's... wow. Congratulations,” Thorin grins, “all you've ever wanted, eh?”

“It really is,” Bilbo smiles brightly, happily, “I've got to tell the others.”

He runs off to join the rest, and Thorin pretends he doesn't see the curious, almost scrutinizing look Prim casts him before she follows Bilbo. All you've ever wanted. Bilbo would wax poetic about Anderson's work time and time again over Chinese food and pizzas and whatnot, even convincing Thorin to watch a couple of his works with him – he thinks he understands the appeal, though it's hardly his cup of tea, but what he understands the most is that Bilbo is a perfect fit for those dreamlike, polished worlds the director creates, with their quirky undertones and twisting stories and mellow soundtracks... He has no doubt Bilbo will get this particular job on his charm alone, and he really is proud and rooting for him... Yes.

 

Continues being proud and supportive when Bilbo leaves him – them – for almost two whole days the next week and returns absolutely overjoyed, his 'It's me!' following a knock on Thorin's dressing room door easily the best part of that particular afternoon.

Thorin opens swiftly, all plans for sleeping canceled indefinitely, and Bilbo doesn't even give him time to say anything before bursting inside and launching into an utterly elated description of his meeting – but Thorin needs the time to... not talk, and watch. Bilbo looks different, and he can't figure out how. Perhaps it's his very nice clothes, a distinct lack of sweatpants and old t-shirts. Perhaps it's... it's the fact that that's where he's really at. Meeting with new people. Getting new jobs. Just generally being out there in the world, and not stuck on one stage with the same bunch of people six days a week.

He looks happier, more alive, than Thorin has ever seen him, and it makes him feel utterly horrible.

“Nothing is official yet, I'll be getting a confirmation call sometime in the next month and only then will the whole twister of auditions and stuff start happening,” he tells him, and Thorin thinks, you're already gone.

This is a job like any other to you, and once you finish it successfully, you'll move on, just as you should, and come next year, I'll go watch your newest movie in cinemas, and we'll end up on different sides of the craft once again, just as we always have been. Different sides of the world too, most likely.

And who am I to hope it might be any different?

He says none of that out loud, of course – never would. Instead, he buys Bilbo dinner, not one of their favorite fast food stands or take-out places, but an actual nice restaurant downtown, forcing a very polite smile for what couldn't be more than five minutes but feels like a hundred years when Bilbo is recognized by some objectively very nice fans, asking for a picture and an autograph, and getting both with a healthy dose of small talk and also a 'This is my colleague, Thorin Oakenshield, we're about to open a play in the Erebor Theatre, you should definitely come!'...

Thorin hates it all. Doesn't care that people don't recognize him – he's not very fond of the general idea of people anyway. Cares that people think they are entitled to... Oh, but what does it matter.

“Yeah, he's a natural at it,” he ends up complaining about anything and everything to Dwalin for some reason, because there's heavy lifting and beer involved, and that always gets Thorin in a particularly sharing mood, “pretending. Making people fall in love with him at first sight.”

“You would know,” Dwalin quips, and Thorin pretends he doesn't hear him, pretends he said anything other than that, since he's working below the skeleton of the stage right now, under the latch securing the staircase leading backstage, hidden from sight, his voice muffled.

“I'm dreading all the press things we'll be required to do once this thing kicks off,” Thorin grumbles, Dwalin responding with a sardonic laugh.

“You'll be fine, you'll just sit there and let Bilbo do all the talking, eh?”

“I suppose. Or just, you know, not take part at all.”

“How very professional of you. Get down here, bring me a screwdriver. Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to play with the wiring? No wonder it all keeps busting, Bofur is going to kill me...”

His grumpy muttering puts Thorin at ease, and he does as he's told, bringing what Dwalin has asked, but also more beer – he knows his friend doesn't actually need his help, never has, really, but if neither of them has admitted over the years that it's just for Thorin's benefit, they won't be starting now, will they.

“What the hell happened here?” he eyeballs the poorly lit pit of the stairwell, handing Dwalin his tools.

“This is what happens when you leave someone, anyone else in charge – somebody thought it would be a good idea to get in there and start messing with the beams I explicitly said shouldn't be touched before they were replaced...”

“So what you're saying is we're all constantly in the danger of stepping through the floor?” Thorin remarks, and Dwalin grumbles something incomprehensible, delving deeper into the intricate maze only he knows how to navigate.

Thorin himself has some rather terrifying memories of this particular part of the stage, all the plays that have ever required him to descend the stairs, or run up them in a hurry, or wait around for his cue... Spots like these, built decades ago and never really improved, is what costs people their limbs, and lives, and sanity, most probably. When Bilbo first came down here, he called it charming and then proceeded to trip and almost kill himself, so yes, the point stands.

“Well, I'll be,” Dwalin utters, the beam of his flashlight, casting odd shadows here and there.

“What is it? Do I have to come after you?”

“No, stay put. Well how did you get in here?”

Thorin thinks he can see him bend down to get something from the floor, and waits curiously for him to return.

“Isn't this Bilbo's?” Dwalin asks, raising his find in his hand for the nearest light bulb to, well, shed some light on it.

Thorin recognizes it immediately.

“Yeah. How did it get down here?”

“Beats me. He must have lost it during some particularly... challenging exercise, I guess,” Dwalin cackles, and Thorin doesn't even begin to acknowledge the implications in his lewd goddamn tone.

“Must have gotten lost and fallen through when whoever idiot decided to pry half the floor open,” Dwalin continues, and Thorin is mesmerized by the frail, thin chain glistening an almost unnatural gold, the simplistic acorn pendant bobbing up and down as Dwalin inspects it.

“His mother gave it to him,” he mumbles absentmindedly, and it takes him far too long to realize his friend is staring at him, half amused, half inquisitive, and so he clears his throat, adding much more firmly, “yeah, he's been looking for it all over, give it back to him first thing tomorrow.”

Dwalin gazes at him for a while longer, the intensity behind his look very unlike him and thus very unsettling, but then he sighs and shakes his head.

“Nah. Here,” he says, shoving the thing in Thorin's hand before he can so much as start protesting, “I'm thinking maybe you're the one who found it.”

-

 

When he was a kid, he wanted to be a vet, up to a point. Or a cook. Or a painter, like his Mom. He wanted to be a whole lot of things, and had always been encouraged to follow his dreams whatever they might be – he just wonders what his fifteen-year-old self would think if he saw him like this. Acting was never even considered, unless he's mistaken, until Gandalf appeared literally out of nowhere, and pointed him in a direction that turned out to be... for life, no matter what some of his more meddlesome relatives had to say about it (and still have to say about it to this day, let's be honest).

And now, it turns out his dreams are really coming true, and he doesn't know how to feel about that.

“Everything you've ever wanted, eh?” Thorin tells him at some point, and Bilbo agrees rather enthusiastically, but ends up thinking, is it?

He's been doing this long enough to admit that he does have some sort of skill – marketable, in Thorin's words, or otherwise. He knows he's good, and he knows he can aim... somewhere. Hope for things. Take risks, and enjoy himself. So why exactly does he feel like a fresh-faced newbie these days, utterly unused to the fact that wishful thinking does come true every now and then?

He wants nothing more than to pack up and go shoot a Wes Anderson movie in a very Wes Anderson-like destination, with the actual man himself – he's been so very high on Bilbo's bucket list of people to work with, and that he reached out to him is just... well. Fantastic. And yet, Bilbo can't for the life of him shake the feeling that something will go wrong. That he'll mess up, or that he'll simply wake up one day and it will all have been a dream.

He never communicates this to anyone, of course, because he can hardly describe it himself. Thoughts like these, confusing as they are, usually come to him when he has too much time on his hands, at random moments of just... idly being during the day, and there will certainly be a shortage of those in the coming days.

“Tech week officially starts Monday, people,” Balin announces, followed by a chorus of grunts ranging from mildly exasperated to downright desperate, “so I suggest you use your very last weekend of relative peace wisely. No drinking on Sunday, though, I want all of you here in one piece and of sound mind on 8AM Monday morning, no exceptions. Are we clear?”

More grunting, of the agreeing and appreciative kind, and since the meeting is thus concluded, people start getting up and leaving – Dís sinks into the seat next to Bilbo, vacated by Thorin because Gandalf drags him into some discussion Bilbo doesn't want to be a part of, really, receiving a nudge from his sister instead, and a casual: “You keep him sober during the weekend, alright?”

Bilbo arches an eyebrow.

“I'll do my very best, but I don't really see how I have any say in the matter.”

“Right,” she chuckles almost uncomfortably enigmatically, but then changes course quickly and completely, continuing lightly, “I can't believe it's actually happening.”

“Tell me about it,” Bilbo smiles, biting on one leg of his sunglasses absentmindedly as he watches Thorin and Gandalf conversing intently on the far side of the room – quietly, he adds, “it's all very quick.”

“If you think it's quick now, wait until the opening night,” Dís replies, and there's an undertone to her voice that he should be deciphering right about now, but doesn't have the energy for, “it'll be your birthday before we know it.”

“My – how did you know?!” Bilbo finally pays her enough attention, and she simply smiles kindly.

“Keeping tabs on people is a part of my job – well, actually, it isn't, but I've known ever since I first googled you after you were hired. September 22^nd, same day as closing night. Easy to remember.”

“One hell of a coincidence,” Bilbo says wryly.

“One hell of an afterparty,” she laughs, “I can promise you that.”

“Oh, well,” he sighs, “I'm not actually all that much about celebrating it, so...”

“Well, there will be drinks either way, we might as well toast to you that one time. But hey, we actually physically have to get there first.”

“And you have... doubts about that?” he asks curiously, wondering if she knows what he can read in her face – much like Thorin's, he's come to discover, it conceals much less than either of them would probably care to admit.

She takes a moment, but when she looks at him at long last, all her solemnity is gone as swiftly as it came, and she grants him a broad grin.

“Me? Not in the slightest. I have absolute faith in you.”

 

Which is, come to think of it, more than Bilbo can say for himself.

He does spend the weekend in the close proximity of both Thorin and alcohol, both in non-threatening doses though, thank god. Apparently it is an Erebor tradition to party rather epically before it's too late and tech week grinds everyone to dust, and Bilbo is happy to partake, dragging Prim along and spending Saturday familiarizing himself with The Raven, the pub nearest to the theatre – an ancient premonition has it that it is very bad luck to drink in the actual theatre itself before the start of a new show, as the building needs its beauty sleep, in the words of pretty much everyone.

Bilbo couldn't even pretend to understand all the traditions that go hand in hand with the thespian lifestyle (for example, he learned about the ban on the name of the Scottish play the hard way back in London, and the memories of being cast out of the theatre and having to perform a whole series of oddball rituals to be allowed back in will stay with him for good), and so he just... yes, spends Saturday drinking happily, and Sunday recovering, and then...

There is barely even enough time to get tense, in any way – there's just so much to do. Scenes have to be run a billion times over, lighting and costumes and props readjusted time and time again, cues moved around, movements shifted and reorganized... He tries his best to keep his head clear through it all, going to bed early and waking up as fresh as his caffeine addiction allows, concentrating on nothing else besides his character.

Both Thorin and him have stopped needing the script some time ago now, and Bilbo is always looking forward to Robin's scenes with Oberon, because those are the easiest for him to rehearse, and he's actually allowed to relax. But as it is, even the two of them discover a number of nuances they haven't worked out or even noticed before, and all of a sudden it seems like there can never be enough time in the whole world to get this behemoth of a play stage-ready, ever.

And Bilbo isn't one for stage fright or last-minute doubt, but sometimes he can't help but wonder... They used to hate each other. Thorin and him. They used to really just despise breathing the same air, and yet here they are. He knows, he knows that whatever animosity there had been between them, just needed a bit of restraint and getting to know each other to be transmuted into what is frankly a rather phenomenal working-friendship-type relationship, but still. Still.

“Tell me we'll be able to do this,” he mumbles over their last batch of take-out before the big night, but what he actually means is, tell me that I'm not the only one who feels the stupid finality of this.

Thorin peers up at him curiously, sitting cross-legged on the carpet and demolishing his chicken fried rice, and Bilbo wants to tell him, maybe I didn't actually think we'd ever be getting here. Maybe I want to be rehearsing and eating Chinese for the rest of our lives.

“The dress rehearsal went fine, didn't it?” Thorin supplies with a shrug, and Bilbo groans, letting his head fall back on the headrest of the old sofa – the dress rehearsal should have been important and very calming for him, because it was basically a tiny opening night, with actual people in the audience (like sixty of them, lost in the sea of the auditorium capable of housing hundreds) and every detail in its place, but it went by in a complete blur from Bilbo's point of view.

“Yeah, yes, it was fine,” he grumbles, “I'm just...”

“Look,” Thorin says, “it'll be alright. Opening nights are a stepping stone, really. People will write their reviews and make their assumptions, but the point is, it's an opportunity for us, more than anyone, to see how the very basics of the play work on the audience, and to work on from there. We will be able to do this, because a), the thing has been great from the get-go, and b), it's us.”

It's us. Bilbo gapes at him and watches him subtly realize what he said, choking on his rice very discretely and waving his hand, continuing: “You know. It's Gandalf. It's Galadriel. It's you. It's this whole thing, coming together much more nicely than any of us dared anticipate or hope for, I think.”

“I suppose,” Bilbo pouts, then, thoughtfully, “what if you drop me?”

“I won't drop you,” Thorin laughs, “and, excuse me, but when have I dropped you once in the span of the past two months?”

“Except for that one time...?”
“We were drunk, and you hardly gave me a warning.”

“Fine, but...”

“But what?”

Bilbo glares at him silently for a moment, trying to figure him out, sitting there completely at ease, as if nothing is going to change tomorrow, as if it'll be just another show night for him. Is it because he's so much more experienced than Bilbo? Or something else?

“How are you this calm?” Bilbo whines at last, and Thorin's gaze pierces him much more attentively now.

“Because,” he gesticulates with his fork, then loses track and has to start over, presumably after he's thought his words through, “because why shouldn't I be? Everything's been going just fine. This was by far the smoothest tech week I've experienced... ever, probably, and I know we're ready to do this, and I know my stage partner knows it too – or at least I thought so, until now.”

“No, I don't want to transfer my nerves onto you, I'm sorry,” Bilbo sighs, but before he can continue, Thorin does so himself: “Listen, we'll be fine. You'll be fine. You'll be wonderful. Trust me, all of... this, will go away the second you step on the stage, I promise you. But you should do us all a favor and go to bed early tonight.”

 

Which is easier said than done. Bilbo appreciates Thorin's faith in him, he really does, but he still can't help but think about everything that could possibly go wrong in the span of one performance, tossing and turning that night, incapable of relaxing. And when he finally does fall asleep, his dreams are an intangible mess of disturbing images and warnings, making his morning less than stellar.

He arrives on time and is swept off his feet by the maelstrom of backstage preparations, put your costume on, here, time to do your make-up, let's do it sooner rather than later, good, now get out of the way, and by the time they're all slowly herded in the green room and the dressing rooms adjacent, his nerves have gotten a firm hold of him, making him, if anything, cold and shaky, wishing for nothing but a hot beverage and possibly an escape route...

“Hey.”

That's Thorin, Thorin's hand on his shoulder, Thorin's soft voice breaking through his anxious stupor, Thorin's familiar cologne, Thorin's whole presence appearing exactly when he needs it, and Bilbo looks up at him almost desperately gratefully, feeling very tiny and lost among the rushing crowd, thrumming with excitement.

“Are you alright? You're pale.”

“I'm,” Bilbo tries, but the rest of that sentence simply refuses to come out.

“I've got something for you.”

“You – now? But I-”

But before he can really protest, Thorin pulls him aside, away from the crew asking everyone to make way, away from barked orders and last-minute good luck wishes, and the dressing room they find themselves in is so cozy that Bilbo wants nothing more but to slump on one of the chairs and never leave.

“Here. I'm sorry I remembered so late, I've had it for so long, but I forgot it at home time and time again during the tech week, and then...”

But Bilbo doesn't really listen, simply stares at the shining golden ember of his acorn pendant swaying before his eyes, the one he thought he'd lost and would never see again, his good-luck charm... As stupid as it is, maybe this is exactly what he's been missing, maybe it's exactly what he needs to calm down. That, and the circumstances of its reappearance.

“You found it,” he exhales, and Thorin is right there, smiling almost tenderly, and Bilbo can't stop staring, and realizing how silly he's been feels like a warm wave washing over him.

“I did. I thought you might appreciate it, though, yeah, giving it to you thirty minutes before the thing, hardly ideal, I know-”

“Shush. Just shut up. Let me just,” Bilbo babbles, quickly searching for a good spot to stash the pendant, settling for a drawer in one of the dress tables, his energy coming back to him in spades.

“Did I do something wrong?” Thorin asks, almost comically concerned, and Bilbo gapes at him wordlessly for a moment before giggling and announcing: “I'm going to have to hug you now.”

“Hug me-” Thorin starts, but never gets to finish, because Bilbo flings his arms around him, out of sheer gratitude, relief, and no small amount of glee, and probably knocks all air out of his lungs in the process.

“Thank you,” he breathes out, and it is stupid how happy he feels.

“Well, ehh,” Thorin clears his throat, hands hovering before settling somewhat stiffly on Bilbo's back, “you're welcome. Hell, if I'd known you'd be this relieved I would have remembered to give it to you sooner.”

Bilbo laughs, and pretty much all his fright has been replaced by exhilaration now, and surely there's a damn miracle in that.

“You have a knack for timing,” he mumbles into the thick fabric of what has come to be referred to as Thorin's not-Oberon costume, and he barely knows what he's saying really, but he feels the rumble of Thorin's laughter reverberate into his very own chest, and there is definitely a miracle hidden somewhere in there.

They let go incredibly slowly, both obviously comfortable in each other's warmth, and Thorin is so incredibly handsome in his Theseus getup it makes Bilbo's chest swell, and his hands don't seem to want to leave Bilbo's shoulders either.

“You good now?”

“I'm good,” Bilbo reciprocates his smile, “I'm very good.”

“And look, if you-”

“What the hell do you think you're doing?!”

The room is suddenly all Dís – she has that hurricane quality to her – and Bilbo and Thorin spring apart like startled rabbits.

“Where have you been?!” she shrieks, “we've been looking all over for you! I swear to god, I don't care if you were just going to propose, I'm going to kill you! Didn't you hear the thirty minute call?! Move it!”

She storms out and they follow her obediently, but Bilbo can't stop grinning, and it only takes one glance to determine that Thorin is very much the same.

They re-enter the mayhem backstage together this time, and never move from each other's side this time, and Bilbo knows. Knows it'll be good.

“Hey,” he mumbles when they're waiting for their first cue together, happening any second now, his heart beating so loudly he thinks everyone must hear it, “break a leg.”

Thorin doesn't turn his head and Bilbo doesn't look, but he knows the smile is there. Without any overthinking whatsoever, Bilbo reaches out and finds Thorin's hand, big and soft and reassuringly warm, and squeezes, and his heart makes the most joyful of leaps when Thorin squeezes back without much ado.

“You too,” he mumbles, and then it is time for them to go, and they do look at each other at long last, faces split by twin grins, we can do this, and the breath they take, they take in unison, and they walk into the blinding light ahead side by side.

 

Chapter Text

“Refreshingly unexpected! Erebor, having been blessed by the creative genius of acclaimed director Gandalf Grey, jumpstarts the summer season with a take on a Shakespeare classic that is bold to say the least, turning one of the most beloved comedies into something utterly unprecedented in its message. The audience are invited into a world that doesn't aspire to be a mirror image of our own – no, the differences are a stark contrast, especially when viewed side by side with the 'human' part of the play. These fairies are as far they come from the silly joyful bursts of color with wings one usually associates with the word – it's as if one were to compare a shark to a frilly home-kept aquarium fish. There's something ominous about them, something not entirely right – it's in the way they move, the way the speak, the way they derive so much joy from ruining the lives of those foolish mortals entering their forest; and though it is never addressed as such in the play, one can't help but spend the entirety of it searching for some sort of explanation.

Nothing about this piece is, in the end, quite as simple as it appears. It revels in catching the audience unprepared, in toying with their senses, in taking things that were never meant as jokes and turning them into exactly that, and vice versa. Were you supposed to laugh at this? Or gasp in shock at that? Who knows? One thing is certain – if you have come looking for easy amusement, a Shakespeare for the whole family, you have come to the wrong theatre.

Et cetera, et cetera, god this guy is chattier and chattier the older he gets, let me get to the good part... Ah, here we go. It is a bold move, one that just might put Erebor back on the map – excuse you, we were never off the map... Back on the map and at the top of the game, hell yeah, at the same time. It is clear now that being called obvious by some, downright desperate by others, for turning to big names and famous faces, was a very well calculated risk. Goldenwood's Titania is every inch a queen, detached and icy until an unfortunate spell befalls her, and even then, acting under its influence, she maintains an ethereal grace about her, proving once again that Broadway resident Goldenwood knows exactly how to mold even the simplest humor into something elegant.

Speaking of molding, it is a pleasure and a privilege to watch Bilbo Baggins at it yet again, proving himself a true chameleon of the craft – doubted by many, he is known for his seemingly haphazard ways of choosing his engagements, almost as if he hasn't found a form or a role he's most comfortable in quite yet –oh pish posh...”

“No no, keep reading,” Bilbo waves his hand dismissively, offering a small smile to boot, and the ensemble stares at him for a bit, but he beckons Nori with the newspaper some more, until he returns to it. He also catches Thorin's gaze, and though Bilbo isn't looking at him as his smile broadens, it's meant for him all the same.

“Right... Erebor's own Thorin Oakenshield is a steady, imposing presence to Baggins' Puck, and the audience find themselves looking forward to each and every second the two spend together on stage. It is their electrifying chemistry that proves itself the most enjoyable part of this piece, putting both in the center of all the mischief that unfolds, affording them the proud role of main protagonists in a play that is famous for its many-splendored character roster and thus cast requirements.

Still in its fledgling state, the production already boasts incredible potential, and it is obvious that the three short months in which it will run, will be used to create a play that is never the same twice in a row – truly an unmissable undertaking... And then he goes on and on about Greenleaf's Academy, blah blah, the rest of the summer scene, and... oh, right, brings up Electrain Rivendell, couldn't omit that even if they tried, eh...”

“Alright, alright, thank you Nori,” Dís interrupts his increasing grumbling, “that is the first piece of good news. The second piece-” she all but beams at the overcrowded room, “is the fact that we're already sold out until the beginning of August!”

The crowd erupts in a chorus of cheers and applause, Bilbo receiving a hefty slap on the back or two before he has the chance to find his way to Nori to snatch the newspaper away from him and read over the article himself – The Arrow is the most eligible paper in town when it comes to the ebb and flow of culture, apparently, and its theatre critics are evidently very Erebor friendly. He thinks he remembers Dori or Balin or someone trying to explain the intricate web of relations and favors owed and such, connecting the people from it with the theatre, and even though he could never understand it all even if he tried, he senses already that a lot of people are positively overjoyed to see Erebor rising like a phoenix from the ashes with this production. He's just proud he can be a part of that.

It's been a little over a week now, their first ten performances to be exact, which seems to be some magic number in Erebor – nobody is allowed to read any reviews earlier than that, it's bad luck.

But either way, reviews or not, it's so easy to feel optimistic. Bilbo still remembers the rush of the first performance, the roar of the audience, the thrill and excitement – he's been riding on it ever since.

It was a magnificent feeling ten performances ago, and it is a magnificent feeling now, people laughing when they're supposed to laugh, lending them their energy, then topping it all off with a standing ovation... He thought they'd set the bar impossibly high with the premiere, but The Arrow is right – they're only just getting started, and they've been adjusting bits and pieces here and there ever since the beginning. Bilbo doesn't think there's even a remote possibility he'll ever get bored with this ever changing thing – obviously they'll end up settling in a comfortable rhythm eventually, but the idea of being this excited about his work for three months in a row is certainly a very enjoyable one, to say the least.

As long as it keeps him from dealing with real life elsewhere, it's all good either way, isn't it.

-

 

“Yes, Aunt – yes, I know. Look, my point is, I'm on stage six times a week, twice on Saturdays. I just don't see when I'll find the time to – you know that's not what I meant, Jesus. No. No, I don't want that. I know. I know. I'll see what I can do. Yeah. Yes, you told me already. I know, but what I'm trying to tell you is – no. No no. I have to be there. I just don't see why you can't postpone it until... Right. Right, yes. ...Yes, alright. I will – I will. Thank you. Bye.”

“What's the matter?” Dís waits to ask until Bilbo is finished, and he casts her a truly harrowed look, before remembering himself and sighing somewhat raggedly.

“Oh, it's... nothing. Family stuff. My parents' house is on the market, and I am absolutely required to get down there to settle everything, you know, signatures, legal stuff, whatever, it's a nightmare, and apparently it is ridiculous of me to want the process to be postponed because I can make the time if it really matters to me so much... Ugh, sorry, I'll shut up now.”

“No no, it's fine, I asked you for a reason, didn't I,” Dís smiles, settling with her coffee on a chair opposite Bilbo, paying the utmost attention to her beverage – Dori's workshop is, as usual, absolutely overflowing with half-finished clothes, and rolls of fabrics, and misplaced designs, and its owner would be absolutely livid were she to ruin but a scrap of any of it while they're waiting.

Bilbo chuckles somewhat sadly – the forlorn look in his eyes is even more pronounced by the make-up they've been adjusting on him for the past century, and in a very endearing gesture, he almost moves to rake his hand through his hair, but stops himself in the very last second with a pained hiss, groaning as he types furiously on his phone: “Apparently people are most inclined to buy houses at this time, or something. There have already been offers, I don't – ah, forget it, I don't want to bother you with this nonsense. I might need to go away on my next free Monday though, what joy. Oh, maybe you could officially forbid me from going? That would be fantastic.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Dís snickers, “where's your parents' house again?”

“Ah, this village up north, near Bree, do you know it?”

“Rings a bell,” Dís nods, “your family still live there, then?”

“Yup, that's the sweltering core of the Baggins clan,” Bilbo says with a healthy dose of disdain, somewhat unexpected from him, then catches Dís' gaze and explains, “you think I'm making it sound worse than it is, but try spending the holidays with a dozen Aunts and Uncles, and a billion loud cousins, all of whom have something to say about your unsatisfactory career... I'm sorry, I'm being grouchy. I shouldn't complain so much, they're still my family, no matter how much I want to watch them all choke on Aunt Lobelia's signature broth sometimes.”

“Oh, I know the feeling – they might be your loved ones, but sometimes loving them is just too much of an ordeal, eh? Oh, speak of the devil.”

“What? What did I do now?” Thorin greets them, bringing with him coffee for both Bilbo and himself, then, for the lack of any chairs not overflowing with fabrics, clears a space for himself on the nearest desk, ignoring the warning, slightly horrified gasps of both Dís and Bilbo.

“Dori's going to smack you for that,” Dís informs her brother helpfully, and he shrugs, declaring: “I don't plan on letting him. What were we talking about?”

Dís opens her mouth to fill him in, but notices the split-second discomfort flashing across Bilbo's face – the topic clearly isn't his favorite one to dwell on.

“Nothing important,” she says smoothly, “what are you doing here, though? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, securing the good name of the theatre right about now?”

“Wait, what?” Bilbo perks up, and Thorin rolls his eyes, all but pouting: “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you absolutely have to. Beorn went out of his way to write all that-”

“Some would just say he was telling the truth, you know...”

“-and we would do good to thank him. It's one interview. And he's a brilliant cook, you know that.”

“Alright, what are we talking about now?” Bilbo turns from her to Thorin, all curious, and Dís immensely enjoys witnessing Thorin's hand darting out to gently grab at his wrist and stop him from ruining his hair once again, the shortest momentary reflex neither of them even acknowledges, she thinks.

“Beorn is the guy who wrote that nice review for The Arrow,” Thorin explains somewhat reluctantly, “he's an old family friend, and has been hounding me for an interview-”

“Asking you for an interview.”

“-yes, fine, asking me for an interview, for ages now, which in his world means taking the boys with me, and probably Balin too, and driving up to his house for a day...”

“God, you make it sound like such an ordeal,” Dís shakes her head, “he has this beautiful farm just outside the city, Bilbo, and granted, he's a bit on the odd side-”

“By which she means he's absolutely insane.”

“-but he's been nothing but supportive, and really, positive publicity never hurt anybody.”

“That sounds delightful,” Bilbo decides, still somewhat confused, and she doesn't blame him. In fact... Oh yes.

“You should go with him,” she tells Bilbo excitedly, pointing towards Thorin only vaguely, as if he's just another piece of furniture in the room, “Beorn really is a fantastic cook, unless you mind vegetarian cuisine, and you'll end up with about a dozen jars of homemade honey that is just marvelous. Plus, and I know this for a fact, he's been gushing about the two of you specifically, and oh, it could be like a joint interview, he really writes very nicely, Bilbo, as you've had the chance to read for yourself. Oh man, this would definitely be a good thing...”

“Hold on, hold on,” Thorin cuts off her increasingly more overexcited planning, but when they both look at him curiously to see what he comes up with, all he manages to do is glare at them somewhat bewildered.

“Hey, if it buys me one more week of not having to go back home, I'm game,” Bilbo shrugs, and Thorin's attention is instantly redirected towards that remark.

“Wait, what? You're going home, why?” he asks, and Dís sniggers into her coffee in what she hopes is a discrete manner – god, he has it so bad. So bad.

“Just for a day, it's... doesn't matter. A-anyway, yeah, that sounds... lovely. I like the idea, I can do an interview,” Bilbo stammers, and she makes a mental note to find out more about that particular situation, all that agitation when it comes to whatever haunts him back at home, in the future, as subtly as possible of course.

“Right, that's settled then. It is your job to set it up,” she stabs a finger at Thorin, who sighs heavily.

“Fine. But I don't see when we'll be able to do it, I don't know about you, but I don't feel like wasting my one free day of the week for... a social call,” he turns to Bilbo in a very clear attempt at gaining his support, which, if Dís is any judge of their dynamic, will be shot down with a lot of grace, but shot down nevertheless.

“Well yeah, no wonder, need to recharge all that energy spent on talking to the press and going out of your way to be nice to fans... oh wait,” Bilbo delivers just as expected, wiggling his eyebrows at Dís when Thorin sputters indignantly.

“Really?!” he groans, offended, “I told you a dozen times already, I'm not the one for... all that. Besides, the fans have you, and Galadriel, and Bombur, and I don't see why anyone would want my autograph of all things-”

“Oh god, Thorin, are you even listening to yourself? What are you, an angsty teenager? Of course people want your autograph, I'm pretty sure eighty percent of the ladies crowding me would much rather crowd you, if you know what I mean...”

Dís shares a hearty laugh with Bilbo as Thorin curses and complains some more, drowning his grumbling in his coffee – god, she knows she already stalks them wherever they move, but she wishes she were present for even more of their bickering, it's so much fun. And this particular matter is something that Bilbo has been trying to rope her brother into ever since opening night – he'd surprised everyone, bringing it up so eagerly, running off to the stage door and meeting with the fans for a quick meet-and-greet.

Dís remembers witnessing it for the first time, the physical mass of the crowd waiting out there, and Bilbo handling everyone so quickly and with so much charm, taking pictures with people and scribbling autograph after autograph, never looking anything less than thrilled to be there... It was outstanding, and selfless, and a level of professional Dís had felt honored to witness, and what's more, he's been doing it ever since, as if it is the most natural thing – Bombur goes with him very often, obviously an audience favorite as well, and sometimes even Miss Goldenwood emerges, just as gracious and wonderful, and if Dís gets the chance, she watches everything from afar, and sees it all there, the energy of everyone involved, the sheer life force pouring from the crowd into the building, the real pulsating heart of it all, the thing that keeps them all going.

But Thorin has been avoiding the stage door dance for now, and she can't really say why – there are his migraines, of course, spread very far apart these days as far as she knows, but present nevertheless, and she can't fault him for wanting to stay away on those occasions, but...

It's true that Bilbo has been dragging him out of his shell bit by laborious bit, and for all intents and purposes he should certainly be able to handle even this, make Thorin come with him at the snap of his fingers, but for some reason, he's been failing.

Maybe, Dís speculates sometimes, it has to do with the way Thorin looks at him whenever there's company present, whenever Bilbo is the center of attention – she saw it at the afterparty on the opening night, and she'd seen it countless times before, but that's when she first started deciphering it, really. There had been so many people, everyone wanted to talk to the actors, and Bilbo was surrounded in a matter of minutes, holding at least three separate conversations, or so it seemed, and Thorin was by his side, of course he was, but she could see him... not keeping up. Because keeping up with Bilbo in general has always been difficult, even for people much more blessed with social charms than Thorin, and she's never thought he minded, has always been joking about it in fact, but what she saw that night in her brother's eyes as he slowly retreated, leaving Bilbo to his entertaining, was... not discomfort per se, but a kind of... sadness, mingled with a tinge of jealousy.

She knows Thorin is in love, even if he won't admit it himself – and though it's been a very, very long time, she also recognizes it's special this time, even if he won't see it. Stage one, the almost dreamlike happiness he's been astonishing everyone with for the past couple of weeks, will be over soon, she knows, and a period of sulking and what can only be called angsting over his terrible vulnerability will follow shortly. It's already here, isn't it, and yes, it's there in the way Thorin looks at Bilbo and avoids big crowds because then Bilbo's attention isn't on him, but it'll soon become much, much worse (read: pathetic), and she isn't planning on just sitting idly by and watching it happen.

Before her eyes, Thorin and Bilbo bicker about the benefits of fan interactions, and she watches them more or less wordlessly, assessing. Dori comes into the picture and does in fact smack Thorin for sitting on his workbench, and Dís watches Bilbo cackle at his expense before making an offhand joke about this or that, lightening the mood, and she watches the very expected plethora of emotions on Thorin's face, very readable despite what he'd like everyone to think, and she wonders, I've been giving you your time. I've been laughing at your horrendous lovelorn suffering, and joking about the things you two do when you lock yourself up in your dressing room, and I know, I know you know I've been giving you your space to figure it all out on your own, because we're not thirteen anymore, but as much as I presume to be able to guess your every single move, there's something I've been missing, isn't there?

I need to bring out the big guns to learn more, I need to get right to it and ask the right kinds of questions, but maybe you're not the one I should ask t o answer them.

-

 

He wasn't aware there was a good kind of exhaustion. He's more than used to the steady lingering kind, that one that drags on with you for months and years and is a result of... well, life, grinding you down and never giving you one second to relax. He's used to the bone-deep weariness of working day in, day out, for the sole purpose of never giving yourself enough time to stop and think, escaping any ill thoughts by just powering through day after day.

This is... different. Much less painful, that's for sure. He still barely has the time for anything else than his work, because somehow the play manages to steal the majority of his day away even though technically, it only takes up a couple of hours of it. But it's... peaceful. It's exciting. It's a routine that bodes well for him since he can sleep in, and worry about nothing else but his lines. The regularity of it suits him. The people he works with suit him. He feels healthier somehow, his mind less cluttered, his mornings not such a horrendous affair after all... He comes home every night utterly knackered, and falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow, and discovers a certain sort of peace in that.

Enough peace, in fact, that he feels more confident to tackle even the trickier parts of his life.

That morning is a beautiful one, almost scorching hot, and it only takes very little convincing for his father to agree to go outside. The park surrounding the asylum building is in full bloom, lush and colorful, tall trees offering plenty of shade, and Thorin finds them a secluded enough bench to sit on, and even though his father is barely listening, preoccupied with cloud gazing, he tells him all about Midsummer, all about Dís and the boys, all about... about Bilbo, because he feels like he's allowed to, as rare as the feeling is.

“We're all visiting Beorn next week – you remember Beorn, right?” he asks, not really expecting an answer, but Thrain looks at him nevertheless, somewhat curious.

“Of course I do,” he says somewhat indignantly, “I just figured he was dead too.”

He makes it sound like a complaint, like his old friends have no business passing away and forgetting to inform him, and no matter the shiver shooting up his spine, Thorin offers a wry smile.

“Still very much alive, Dad,” he says, “still has that big farm outside the city, still makes honey, nothing's changed.”

“Oh, your mother used to love his honey,” Thrain remarks thoughtfully, and despite the painful tug in his chest, Thorin feels relieved – it's a very good day if his father remembers that his wife has been dead for decades now.

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs, “I'm going to bring you some, what do you say?”

“Eh, don't bother, they'll just take it away from me again,” Thrain waves one bony hand dismissively.

“No one takes anything away from you here, Dad.”

“Oh please. They steal your stuff the first chance they get. All the chocolate Dís brings me, gone. All of it. And my Tony, did you know they took my Tony? Haven't seen it in years! I don't suppose I ever will again...”

“Your Tony's at Dís' place, Dad, remember? It was here for a bit, but then you told us to take it, to keep an eye on it.”

“Crock of shit. They're keeping it at the Head Nurse's office, I know it. They never let me in there.”

“They never let anyone in there, Dad, not if you're a patient. Your Tony isn't there, it's safe, I promise.”

“I highly doubt that.”

They could go on for hours upon hours like this – it's exhausting, and very often beyond frustrating, but it beats shouting and seeing things and mistaking people for monsters any given day, really. Having learned a very long time ago that sometimes it's easiest to just agree with him, Thorin promises his father to go and ask the Head Nurse about his missing award, and as the sun climbs higher and higher, unwavering in its quest to scorch every bit of ground not protected by a shade, they settle back into what's most comfortable for both of them – Thorin talks and Thrain listens, or at least sits there quietly, and Thorin watches his face closely for any sign of discomfort, wondering for the umpteenth time whether he'd actually be able to tell if there was any discomfort at all.

In a fleeting moment of letting his mind wander, he thinks, what would Bilbo think? Thorin has never really talked to him about Dad – there's an unspoken agreement between them when it comes to this stuff. They are aware of the other one's family situation to an extent, but neither of them have ever been too keen on discussing it. They're very much content to just... share, and leave it be. But Thorin is suddenly overcome, overcome by a very odd need to include Bilbo in this somehow, if only to gain more of that confidence he feels whenever he's by his side... Oh, as if.

This is what makes people dislike him, he reminds himself – this is why he never lets people close. Too much... baggage. Filling anyone's head with that is just unnecessary, not to mention a downright mean thing to do. Even Bilbo. Especially Bilbo.

“Huh? Sorry, Dad, what did you say?”

“Honestly, Jesus, it's like you're not even listening to me,” Thrain grumbles, but there's barely any of his usual vitriol in it, and Thorin offers a halfhearted scowl.

“Sorry, sorry. What were you asking me?”

“I just wanted to know if I could come see.”

“See what, Dad?”

“The play,” Thrain says simply, and as Thorin gapes at him in mute astonishment, he sees before him for that one precious moment his father as he used to know him, without the veil of illness cast over his eyes, stronger, more determined, happier somehow as he explains, albeit a tad uncertainly: “I asked if I could come see your play.”

-

 

Family is what you make it – that realization has been occurring to Bilbo time and time again, living with and observing the Erebor ensemble, and it occurs to him once again now, sitting at what is probably the hugest table he's ever seen, large enough to host dozens, probably, but somehow creating a cozy enough atmosphere just between the five of them as well. Fili and Kili are playing with the pack of dogs outside, and the excited yelps of both children and animals can be heard even here, in the spacious living room.

Their host's farm is more of a humongous countryside manor than anything else, serving as a seasonal hotel 'for the select few' as Beorn puts it, and has a rustic but elegant feel to it – Bilbo can't pretend to know the first thing about architecture, but the assortment of carved furniture, and colorful fabrics covering seemingly every surface, and the broad beams supporting the roof above their heads, is certainly more than enough to fascinate him. If there ever were a person so in tune with their home, and vice versa, it would be Beorn.

Bilbo has seen him a couple of times before, most notably at the press junket shortly before the premiere, but up close, he is a whole other kettle of fish than what he'd imagined him to be – intimidating perhaps in size and outlook, he turns out to be the most intriguing theatre critic Bilbo has ever met, starting with the fact that he looks rather more like a lumberjack than a wordsmith. His height puts even Thorin and Gandalf to shame, both of whom derive a lot of satisfaction from introducing him to a somewhat reserved Bilbo, and watching as the man's handshake almost rattles him off his feet.

“My stars, but you are even more adorable off stage,” Beorn greets him, voice booming, and from anyone else, that would warrant a slightly disheartened scowl at least, but this man has... something about him, some sort of welcoming vibe, that only makes Bilbo titter somewhat nervously, and before he can think twice about anything, he is swept off on a tour of the vast premises of Beorn's house, equal parts by the man himself, and Fili and Kili, who seem to be very much at home here, tugging at his hand to follow faster one second, bolting off to climb this or that the next.

Thorin follows with much amusement, merely arching his eyebrows at Bilbo as Beorn goes on and on about this year's honey reserves, and later on, seated in the living room in mismatched armchairs after having seen stables and pastures and beehives and a forge, Gandalf, Balin and him all smoke a pipe, something that Bilbo hasn't seen either of them do ever before, and by that time, he's come to the conclusion that this is all very odd, but in a very good way.

Neither of them seems to be too keen on adhering to any sort of schedule, despite the fact that the official purpose of their visit is for Beorn to do an interview with Thorin and Bilbo, and it seems that they'd much rather talk the hours away – just when he thought there couldn't be any more new stories from the not-so-distant history of the Erebor theatre, Bilbo learns another handful, and that's where his assumptions about family values really run rampant – none of these people are related by blood, and yet there is such a strong bond between them, such fondness. Beorn treats the boys, running in and out of the house regularly for a drink or a cookie, as if they were his own grandchildren, and together with Balin and Gandalf, they seem to greatly enjoy tearing into Thorin, with a sort of father-figure zest, like a set of three very odd parents scolding a misbehaving teenaged son.

All in all, he can't for the life of him understand why Thorin had complained so much about coming here, days before they did so, hours before they did so, even texting Bilbo a simple but still very grumpy 'Headache' about thirty minutes before they were supposed to depart... He doesn't know what it is that could possibly bother him about this wonderful, uplifting company, but he only has to wait for a bit to learn.

The actual interview is the most fun one he's had in a long time – Beorn turns from a somewhat boisterous host to a professional in a matter of seconds, but that doesn't mean he lets go of his overall joy in the slightest. No, he asks utterly excited and insightful questions about the play and what led up to it, and, with particular diligence, about the onstage chemistry between Thorin's and Bilbo's characters, and asks it all so effortlessly that if it weren't for the voice recorder on the table between them, it would seem to Bilbo just like another lively discussion Thorin and him have had a billion times before... up to a point.

“That's what people have been saying,” Beorn rumbles happily after they've given him a comprehensive overview of how the differences between them have been working in favor of the characters, or something equally as vague, “a match made in heaven.”

Bilbo huffs a laugh and Thorin snorts: “Jesus. Have you been talking to my sister?”

“Among other people,” Beorn grins, “but it's plain to see one way or the other, you two really seem to have hit it off, fortunately for the production.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo smiles, “I guess miracles really do exist. There was a time we couldn't even stand being in the same room together for more than five minutes, you know.”

“Really,” Beorn perks up, professionally intrigued, “do tell, what changed?”

Bilbo ignores Thorin's grunt of discomfort – this has been far too much fun so far.

“Oh, you know,” he shrugs, “I guess it's not actually humanly possible to keep on hating someone you have to trust not to drop you on your bum several times a day. Not that that hasn't happened, mind you.”

“Hey, the bruises have always been a strictly mutual thing,” Thorin adds sourly, “I always was very considerate after you kicked me in the ribs.”

“Yes, a real gentleman.”

“I'm sensing that hasn't happened in a while, though,” Beorn muses, clearly enjoying the whole situation immensely, “you make it all look so beautifully simple on stage. A testament to you both, of course, but also to the choreography designer. Radagast has always been known for his... should I say flamboyantly eccentric creations. It is also worth noting that he's worked with Erebor once in the past, on the 89' production of Richard III, where your grandfather, Thorin, was the lead, and Gandalf the director. You got to experience that firsthand as well, and I was wondering if you noticed any similarities, or perhaps some sort of evolution?”

Thorin is silent for a tad longer than Bilbo would expect him to be, and when he looks at him to check, he is surprised by the clearly visible icy derision in his eyes – it's as if someone has flipped a switch inside him, turning him from almost nice and approachable, to suddenly detached in a matter of seconds.

“Well, that was a very long time ago,” he says coolly, “and the change in everyone's style of choice has been significant since then. I think it might have been that very play that got Gandalf interested in branching out, experimenting so wildly with pushing the traditional boundaries, adventuring as he so often calls it...”

“Yes, yes, we were all young and promising back then, were we not,” Beorn chuckles, “I think it was your grandfather's exquisite performance in the lead role that really pushed the boundaries you're speaking of. Do you feel any sort of sense of responsibility to accomplish the same with your own part today?”

“Hardly,” Thorin utters, and Bilbo can't not notice him tensing up, hands gripping the armrests of his armchair hard for a brief moment, “I won't deny the fact that this part is as exciting an opportunity as they come, the same way this whole production is an opportunity for the whole company, but am I willing to compare it to an ancient play that cost my family everything, despite its success? Absolutely not.”

“I didn't mean to insinuate-”

“Then don't. After all this time, let's not talk about Richard III like it was something wonderful. You were there, you know what happened. In fact I'd much rather concentrate on everything that is different about Midsummer, because I'd very much like for it to have an entirely different impact on the things that are dear to me, thanks a lot.”

Beorn's weathered face, kind and open up to this point, is like chiseled from stone now, an almost uncomfortable curiosity in his piercing eyes, but Bilbo wastes no time inspecting him – no, he gapes at Thorin, surprised and a great deal dumbfounded. What just happened? They were joking about bruising each other just a minute ago, and here they are now, the temperature in the room dropping about a hundred degrees every second.

He knows Thorin doesn't particularly enjoy talking about his family history, and he would never dream of pressuring him to do so, no matter how intrigued he is by it all, how little he knows – but he never figured it was this painful for him still, so painful that a mere mention of it turns him so resentful.

“You cannot blame me for noticing certain similarities,” Beorn says slowly, almost carefully, “we are all delighted to watch Erebor coming back to life, but if there ever was a time to question-”
“Question what?” Thorin barks, Bilbo flinching against his better judgment, only to experience a chill creeping up his spine as Thorin's next words are almost carefully leveled and cold: “Whose side are you on here? What are you hoping for? That since I forbade you from talking to my father ever again, you'll witness me going insane?”

“That's uncalled for,” Beorn frowns.

“Is it,” Thorin grinds through grit teeth – Bilbo hasn't seen him this angry ever since he was there for his encounter with Thranduil Greenleaf and it looked like he was going to punch the man square across the jaw at one point.

“Very much so. I only meant to make a connection between your father's talent and your own.”

“No you didn't.”

“If I may interject,” Bilbo peeps, both scorching glares snapping to him immediately, “I only saw Richard III off a recording, granted, but if you're looking for similarities, how about sticking to how you originally phrased the question? You asked about Radagast's work, if I'm not mistaken.”

Beorn gapes at him somewhat confused for a moment before sighing heavily.

“You're right, of course. I do believe I got a little carried away, my apologies.”

Thorin doesn't even grant him a glance, staring at Bilbo with something akin to angry wonderment, and Bilbo resists the urge to reach out and pat his hand comfortingly.

“Can we all agree that we've gotten everything we wanted out of this interview?” he offers mildly, and before Beorn can respond, Thorin utters a terse 'Yeah.' and gets up abruptly, marching out of the room.

“My apologies,” Beorn mumbles, and Bilbo, wondering if maybe he should follow, shrugs: “I have no idea what just happened.”

“It's still a very sensitive topic to Thorin, that whole unfortunate era,” the old man explains.

“Which brings to mind the question why you'd bring it up at all in the first place,” Bilbo says simply – he's not really sure whose side he is on, or that he should be picking sides at all.

“Well I'm certainly not going to use that in the article, if that makes you feel any better,” Beorn offers somewhat wryly, and he really does look apologetic, which makes this whole thing even more confusing, to be honest.

“Not really. I just can't for the life of me understand-”

“What on earth did you say to him now?”

That's Gandalf, somewhat amused more than anything else, followed closely by Balin, having made themselves scarce during the interview, but obviously knowing to reappear at just the right moment.

“He stormed out right past us,” Gandalf remarks, “did you bring up Phantom of the Opera again?”

“Something equally as cruel, I'm afraid,” Beorn snickers, and for a fleeting moment, Bilbo dislikes them all for some reason, for the way they all find Thorin's discomfort so amusing – obviously he is a diva when it comes to temper tantrums about everything, moodier than anyone Bilbo has ever met, but that doesn't mean his issues are unfounded. He did look genuinely upset...

“I'm gonna go find him,” Bilbo announces without really thinking about it, and thinks stick it when Gandalf gives what he must think is a knowing, compassionate look, and Beorn and Balin exchange a glance of their own.

“That might be for the best,” the director says jovially, “he's probably sulking somewhere secluded. Make sure he doesn't wander off into the forest, he used to do that when he was younger if I'm not mistaken...”

Bilbo ignores their seemingly harmless jabs and walks outside, the impossibly rich glow of the late-afternoon sun and the buzzing of insects now somewhat annoying instead of charming. Before he has the time to realize he has no idea where to start looking since the premises are so damn huge, he hears a delighted squeal of who can only be either Fili or Kili, followed by the barking of dogs and the much quieter and more mellow hum of Thorin's voice, all unintelligible at a distance, but pointing Bilbo in the right direction nevertheless.

He finds all three of them scaling a hill rising up behind the house, Thorin pacing forward with determination while the boys zigzag in the tall grass scorched golden by the sun, Beorn's dogs following them eagerly, excited for the sticks the kids are wielding and taunting them with. Thorin stops at the top, in the shade of a great tree, and turns and notices Bilbo, who raises one hand to wave at him tentatively, and when he doesn't react past a scowl visible even at this distance, he decides to follow.

“Hey,” he huffs when he reaches the top, a bit short of breath, and Thorin merely glares, sitting on the ground now, having kicked off his shoes for some incomprehensible reason.

Bilbo really wants to say something, but he realizes how utterly surreal this all is – that he has never seen Thorin or his nephews outside the theatre, or Dís' place, that he doesn't actually know anything about them, doesn't know how many times before Fili and Kili have been here, doesn't know how they all met Beorn, or why Gandalf and Balin needed to tag along... And though he is beginning to understand why Thorin had had his reservations about coming here, Bilbo still can't shake the feeling of being severely out of his depth, even though nobody really expects him to know anything.

“Sorry you had to hear that,” Thorin mutters, “he always gets like this... I always get like this, it's like... All of that is in the past, you know? I see no point in resurrecting any of it, god. Dís is all about talking about everything, but whenever I try explaining to her that for me, moving on isn't so much about talking as it is about, well, moving on, I get... this. 'Go talk to Beorn, he's concerned. Go accommodate every single concerned person in the world, they can't live without knowing'. Jesus. I'm sorry,” he exhales, shaking his head as if he wants to chase his previous words away, then lies on his back in the grass, throwing an arm over his face, groaning, “sorry. Didn't mean to unload.”

“That's fine,” Bilbo smiles, watching the sunlight and the fluttering leaves high up above their heads play tricks and create little specks of shade on the soft fabric of his t-shirt, “you don't have to tell me. I mean, I get it. Well, I don't, not really, but I can sense why you wouldn't want people picking at this over and over again. Did you really forbid Beorn from talking to your father?”

“Ages ago, yeah,” Thorin sighs, “back when he was first admitted. Everybody wanted a piece of the sensation, they just would leave him alone. Look, Beorn means well-”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

“-but he's just not... Ugh, I don't know how to...”

“Hey, when I said you didn't have to tell me, I meant it,” Bilbo offers softly, and blue eyes darkened by the shadow of the oak peer up at him almost curiously.

You don't have to tell me, Bilbo wants to say, but I wish you did. But then again... we have a performance tomorrow. And another one after that, and another one after that, and the weeks will fly by in such a hurry, and I will leave you all, and I will have all this knowledge about a family I never asked to meet or fall for, about all these people one meets... one meets every day, on any odd job, so why would I consider you, all of you, so special? How is that knowledge going to be worth anything, if I leave it all behind?

Fili and Kili barely ever stop to catch a breath, and the shadows start prolonging and they can see the vague outlines of the city on the horizon, bleached by the sun, and Thorin does in fact talk. Nothing particularly deep or meaningful, mostly just complaining about the plethora of ways people try to make it seem like they care, when in fact all they are is sinfully curious about other people's misfortune, and Bilbo understands, and lets him.

Their whole line of business is all about people faking – faking affection, faking interest, faking friendships, smiles and laughter, faking emotions in general. Even with an easygoing attitude like Bilbo's, one eventually learns to keep a certain distance. Talking to people might be the easiest thing in the world for him, but Bilbo can't remember when last he met someone in this line of work he would come to genuinely care about.

Which makes... all of this, even more unsettling, really.

They drive back to the city soon, Thorin having accepted Beorn's apologies coldly, but accepting them nevertheless, and by the time Bilbo gets back to his hotel room, the whole day has long since started feeling like a very strange dream, a pause from their killer schedule that has left them both a bit off kilter.

Bilbo isn't sure about Thorin, but he himself is certainly looking forward to returning to the stage, if only to help him forget that strange need he'd felt up there on the hill under the oak tree, warm breeze ruffling his hair, his fingers preoccupied by twisting and tearing at stems of grass while Thorin spoke of the fleeting nature of trust, and human decency – the need to stop time right there, for a moment or an eternity, a homesickness and a yearning, for once, for something steady.

-

 

She senses he would so like to be objective, to be able to look at this whole situation with a clinically unbiased point of view, detach himself from everything just like he's always done.

“Dumbass,” she tells him after he describes to her the events at Beorn's, however reluctantly, “is it really so difficult for you to believe that people might actually care?”

She's not talking about Beorn, and hopes he knows it too.

“The last time I went to see Dad,” he changes the topic entirely, much to her dismay, “he asked me if he could come see the play.”

Upstairs, one of the boys knocks something over, the crash followed by a bout of cheerful laughter, but D í s barely pays it any mind, simply gapes at the slouched form of her brother on the sofa.

“And?” she says carefully.

“And I'm worried, obviously,” Thorin says surprisingly calmly, “I mean, the illness aside... They won't leave him alone.”

One vague gesture is enough to encompass the entirety of the Beorns and Azogs of the world, the vastly different spectra of interest.

“Plus the crowds,” she remarks, and he nods with a ragged sigh – he wants her to simply affirm all his concerns, she knows, and also steer clear of their previous topic, how funny is that.

“Well,” she declares, a tiny little idea worming its way into her head, “I'm sure we'll think of something. In the meantime, why don't you concentrate on what really matters.”

 

What really matters is the fact that he's been increasingly more reclusive ever since Midsummer opened, but then, on a perfectly casual Wednesday, Bilbo tugs at his hand after a particularly energetic performance and he simply follows, and suddenly they are both out there meeting the fans, signing and greeting and never moving from each other's side, and she has to go see for herself, otherwise she'd have a hard time believing it.

What really matters is that while still visibly uneasy, Thorin goes out of his way to challenge himself, be it smiling at middle-aged women fawning over him and signing their programs, or getting over whatever happened at Beorn's impossibly quickly. He doesn't let things get to him, and that's a wonder on its own.

But D í s knows all this, and knows who the culprit is – it isn't enough, though. It's never enough, watching her brother improve, if it is to lead nowhere.

Taking Bilbo aside and asking him what are your intentions with my brother? , isn't exactly a sensible course of action either, is it. But she can be patient – she can.

“So you're telling me he just stormed out of there? Yeah, I can see now why he forgot to bring home any honey.”

“Yeah, it was... really something,” Bilbo mumbles absentmindedly, staring at the vegetables he'd offered to help her cut up as if they hold the answer to whatever currently plagues him.

“That whole place is to blame, really,” she explains, “we spent a lot of time there, alone, just the three of us, after... well, when Frerin was still around.”

“Oh,” Bilbo peeps, and he sounds so genuinely in pain that Dís wonders if interrogating him is really such a good idea.

“Oh no no, they were nice times,” she hastens to explain, “our Mom was busy dealing with... things, so she would leave us there for a couple of days at a time, every now and then.”

Bilbo says nothing, doesn't even look at her, and she wonders if her brother's lack of social IQ has somehow been transferred to her on account of him getting so much better.

“We used to love it,” she continues cautiously, “Frerin and me, anyway. The nature, the animals. Thorin would always complain, though.”

“Yeah, he seemed... thrown for a loop, that's for sure,” Bilbo mutters, and Dís can see it, can see that something is bothering him, but unlike Thorin, he is impossible to read at a glance. She only prays they have enough time before everyone else shows up for lunch and Bilbo turns on his Public Entertainer mode.

“Look, no matter what he said to you, he... Was it stupid of me to suggest you go with him? I figured the interview would be fun, but I should have anticipated...”

“No, no, it was fun. It was great,” Bilbo shakes his head absentmindedly, sounding about as unconvincing as he looks, “really. I'm just...”

“Yes?”

“Reminded me of my own home, I suppose,” Bilbo murmurs, almost as if he's ashamed to admit it.

“The one your family are selling? How is that going?”

“No idea. I'm reluctant to talk to them about it at all, to be honest with you. But it was just... that place. The boys, they really love it there, don't they?”

“Oh yeah, we spend a week or two there every summer, if we have the time,” Dís nods, trying to grasp at the threads of what both of them really want to say, underneath the veil of this quasi-conversation.

“Hmm. Really nice. Really...”

He trails off completely, and she simply casts him a curious look, but lets him be quiet for a while, the only sound in the kitchen being their almost synchronized cutting of all the ingredients needed for the salad D í s is planning.

“Look, I just wanted to... oh, forget it,” Bilbo tries, but she catches the hint and has no intention of letting it go.

“What, wanted to do what?” she asks him almost too eagerly, and he stares at his own hands for a long moment, frozen, before glancing at her almost sheepishly.

“I wanted to... this is stupid, I suppose, but to thank you. I wanted to thank you. For...”

“For?” she encourages him.

“Well, you know. You've all been so welcoming to me. You make everyone feel so... at home, I guess.”

He looks so very young, wiping his hands nervously on the nearest dishcloth and avoiding her gaze, and she looks at his pendant shining an amber gold on his neck, and smiles broadly.

“Not everyone,” she says.

“Huh?”

“We're not this accommodating to just anyone we invite off the street,” she explains, and when a small frown ripples his forehead, she opts for honesty, “you're... special, you know that, right?”

He scoffs in endearing disbelief, and she continues with even more resolve: “I mean, come on. We all like you, I promise. Even if we all somehow managed to miss the obvious, we'd still want you around, simply because you're so much fun.”

“Oh, that's really very kind of you to say, but... Hold on, the obvious? I don't...”

“Bilbo,” she cuts him off firmly before he can go with his I don't know what you mean's, “Thorin hadn't signed a single autograph, or willingly left his dressing room sooner than an hour after a performance once in the past... decade. That's all I'll say on the matter, unless of course you have some insights yourself.”

Her grin grows wider and wider as she watches him huff almost indignantly at first, then try in vain to come up with something to say, then simply deflating, relenting and blushing, obviously caught off guard, trying to figure out what to do with his hands and deciding to torture the bell peppers even further.

“I'm,” he tries, and she watches in delight – it's just way too adorable, finally witnessing his walls coming down, finally hitting the nail on the head.

“I'm sure he just... you know. Needed someone to call him out on his antisocial ways.”

“Yes. And I'm sure he needed that someone to be you.”

Watching Bilbo go redder in the face than the peppers he's currently reducing to dust immediately takes up a very high place in her mental list of the most endearing things in the world.

“I don't...” he attempts, and fails, again.

“Look,” she decides to help out at least a little bit, “I don't need you to tell me... well, anything. I've got eyes. I just need to make sure... The thing is, he carries around a lot of unnecessary baggage. You'd think a man of his age would be capable of at least admitting his feelings, if not describing them, but no. So my point is... no matter how much I'd like him to, I won't ever be able to make him... confess anything, not without some serious torture involved. But at the same time, I can't just keep on watching the two of you...”

Her voice dies off pretty much on its own, because what she sees in Bilbo's eyes isn't embarrassment, or discomfort, or shyness, none of that. No, he stares at his hands on the counter, his head hung, and he looks just... incredibly sad. Not even angry, or disappointed, just... vulnerable, his eyes like aching open wounds.

“Oh god, I'm sorry,” she hurries to say, “I didn't mean to make assumptions. I'll shut up now, I just figured, what with my brother being so obviously...”

“No, yeah. I mean, it's not that,” Bilbo stammers, “it's not that I don't... god. We made a deal, you see? To keep it... all of that... save it for the stage. But that doesn't mean I don't...”

“You do fancy him,” Dís breathes a sigh of relief, then hastens to say, “I'm sorry for sounding fourteen years old, but for the longest time, I couldn't tell...”

Quite an incredulous chuckle escapes Bilbo, wry and hardly happy, as if he can't quite believe he's admitting to... whatever he's barely admitted to, and he leans on the counter, rubbing his forehead before saying: “I do. I suppose I really do.”

“But...?”

It's a question she hates asking, but it literally hangs in the air.

“But it's... not that easy.”

“See, people say that all the time,” she offers lightly, “but sometimes, it is in fact that easy, if you just-”

“No, no, you don't understand. I'd like nothing more... I'd like nothing more than to – to forget about deals, and staying professional or whatever, but I can't. I just can't.”

“Why not? Bilbo, if you're worried about his side of the thing, believe me when I say he's just as-”

“No, it's not that, please,” he says almost desperately, and she stops fussing long enough to notice that he really is trying to tell her something beyond the usual boundaries and repressed feelings spiel.

“What is it?” she asks, seriously now, and the doorbell rings at that very moment, and she almost yelps in surprise, but he doesn't seem to notice, only stares at her, and he looks more lost and clueless than she's ever seen him before.

“I got the job,” he says, “the Anderson movie. I got it. Haven't told anyone yet. If everything works out, I'll be leaving right after Midsummer finishes.”

“Oh,” she peeps meekly, and thinks, oh well. Our collective luck had to run out at some point.

 

 

Chapter Text

“Seriously, I think you should tell him. Sooner rather than later, if at all possible.”

“I know, I know. I just have to... I guess I'm waiting for an opportune moment.”

“There is no opportune moment, Bilbo, believe me. No matter when you decide to tell him, no matter how, I can guarantee you that we'll all get some flak. Let's just get this over with now, rather than, I don't know, two months from now when it will definitely be too late.”

“You're making it sound like such a big deal. Maybe he'll just... I don't know, gloss it over? You know?”

“You don't actually believe that. Look, I told you-”

“I know, I know, he gets unpredictable when emotional, I've noticed, trust me. I've just had a hard time actually accepting...-”

“Uncle!”

Thorin heart very nearly gives out at the accusatory hiss and the fluttering brush of a touch at his wrist, and he only manages to refrain from swearing out loud because his brain quickly registers the voice as Kili's, and also because he still has some sense of self-preservation left – revealing himself now to Bilbo and Dís behind the door he's been lingering by for the past five minutes would be a ridiculous way to go, honestly.

“It's not nice to listen to other people's private conversations,” Fili informs him, looking at him very solemnly, arms crossed over his chest, and Kili echoes, “not nice.”

“I'm not... I wasn't! I wasn't eavesdropping or anything,” Thorin stammers, backing away from the door, but his nephews are relentless.

“You were leaning in to hear better,” Fili says, ever the detective, “I know Mom's in there! We're telling.”

“Oh, come on, guys,” Thorin winces, “it was nothing, I swear, I just ended up... I wanted to... They were obviously having a very private conversation and I didn't want to interrupt, that's all!”

“Uh-huh,” Fili comments, vastly unimpressed.

“Pay us in ice-cream and we won't tell,” Kili decides, and Fili's eyes light up.

“Yeah!”

“Oh really? Because you're only allowed one a day, and you've already had some today if I'm not mistaken-”

“Mom!”

“Alright, alright, alright,” Thorin groans, “you win. I'm buying you ice-cream, now zip it.”

“What on earth is going on here?” Dís peeks out, and Thorin steers inside past her, making sure to make a very stern 'don't you dare' face at the boys when she's not looking. They simply follow him cheerfully, like the utterly innocent angels they are, but fortunately stay quiet.

Thorin can't help but notice that Bilbo looks a bit distracted though, his gaze darting away at first when Thorin nods at him, his fingers playing with his pendant in what Thorin has come to recognize is a harmless little outlet for his anxieties. The clouds part and his face lights up in a smile only when Kili demands a place on his lap, and even then he appears... absent.

“Alright then,” Dís interrupts his silent sneaky examinations, “we'll be off, come on, guys. You two, good luck tonight. And Bilbo, call me.”

She says it very casually, in between herding the boys and steering them right back out of the room again despite their protests, but Bilbo's head snaps up, and he barely utters a somewhat shaky 'Yeah... yeah.', then proceeds to gnaw on his thumb in a very thoughtful, very endearing nervous tick.

“Hey, everything alright?” Thorin asks, hopefully normally and not in a tone that would in any way suggest he's dying to find out what exactly they were talking about with his sister before, and Bilbo looks at him as if he's only just noticed he's in the room, absentminded and confused.

“Yeah... oh. No, nothing, it's nothing. Let's get going.”

“Uhh, we're actually supposed to wait here for Dori, remember?” Thorin reminds him gently, then, as Bilbo frowns at him, even more baffled, “are you sure you're okay?”

“Fine, yeah,” he mumbles, but follows with a highly uncertain, “look, I... There's something I need to...”

But of course seemingly the entire costume department chooses that exact moment to enter the dressing room, and Thorin can only curse this unfortunate set of circumstances, doing very little to sate his curiosity.

 

The following days don't do much in the way of putting his mind at ease, either. Maybe he's seeing things, but Bilbo seems a bit more distracted, a bit less put-together, and Thorin can't quite put a finger on what's wrong, which, of course, bugs him to no end. Should he be this upset about Bilbo not confiding in him whatever is worrying him? The man is allowed some personal secrets, isn't he... Yes, yes. Yes. Certainly.

Thorin catches him ending a call the second he walks in on him at least three separate times that week, and tells himself not to worry about it. Finds him in Dís' office, huddled on her couch and looking miserable up until the moment he isn't – switching on a facade of casual happiness is a mark of their trade, and Bilbo has always been wonderful at it, so good in fact that Thorin ends up wondering if he weren't fooling himself, seeing that split-second flash of anguish in his face.

But by the time he witnesses what he witnesses on the weekend, sauntering into the kitchen and happening upon Bilbo and Dís leaning against the counter thick as thieves, close by and discussing something intently, springing apart like startled rabbits when they spot him, he's certain that something is off.

“You're an idiot,” Dwalin tells him over their cautious one pint on a Sunday evening, helpful and informative as ever, “so what if something is going on with him? What are you going to do about it?”

The same thing he did for me, Thorin wants to say. They'd sat under Beorn's ancient oak and Bilbo had listened, even though Thorin is quite sure he made sense only about ten percent of the time... But Bilbo listened, and refrained from judging him, and that's more than anyone has done for Thorin in a long while, he realized shortly after that.

And the fact that he's even considering hearing about Bilbo's problems, the fact that he wants to help, in any way he can...

“Yeah, you're right,” he mumbles, watching Dwalin's tattooed knuckles as his fingertips draw nonsensical star charts on the wood of their table, using the damp sheen left behind by his beer, “I'll leave it alone.”

Dwalin glares at him for a while longer than is entirely comfortable, then scoffs as if he's laughing at Thorin, and shrugs.

“I don't know, you might want to look into it a little bit.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means... god, alright. What do your sister and Bilbo have in common?” Dwalin offers, and Thorin blinks at him blankly.

“Uhh... cooking skills?” he tries lamely, “love for the craft? The ability to natter their way into my head? What?”

Dwalin glares at him, clearly unimpressed, then sighs the sigh of a long-suffering best friend, takes a generous swig of his beer, and declares: “You.”

“Me what?” Thorin inclines his head, irritation gnawing at the edges of his patience now.

“They have you in common, which means... you know what?” Dwalin scraps what might have been an explanation at last, “I give up. You figure it out.”

“Figure what out?!”

-

 

“Your brother is an idiot.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

“What did he do now?” Bilbo peeps, and Dwalin startles, obviously having overlooked him in the room.

“Oh, you know... Nothing. It's a permanent state of being, just needs saying out loud every now and then,” he says smoothly, and Bilbo chuckles, deciding not to press it further, simply cataloging the look he and Dís exchange for further examination.

“My office later,” Dís utters to Dwalin, and before he moves on behind the bar to make himself coffee, he nods and briefly puts his hand on her shoulder as he's passing her, an unconscious gesture if Bilbo is any judge of that, and witnessing it makes him inexplicably sad, tight around the core.

He sighs and curls up on himself in his armchair, reciprocating Dís' wink and a don't-mope grimace only halfheartedly at best.

Ironically enough, he's felt horrendously vulnerable ever since he confided in her, and he'd give anything to... well, just stop. It's not as much the fact that someone else knows, it's the condemning affirmation of it all – when he was alone with his feelings, he was able to pretend they weren't really there, or that they'd resolve themselves and go away eventually, but saying it all out loud, discussing it, no matter how supportive Dís has been, has left him all bitter.

Everything feels so... definitive now.

“Just tell him,” Dís had suggested that evening in her kitchen, wringing her dishcloth in her hands without really realizing it, he thinks.

“Just tell him before it's too late,” she had said, but he thought even then, but it already is too late.

“I can't just... I'm going to leave,” Bilbo had tried explaining it then, and many times since, “I'm going to go halfway across the world, and I can't ask him to follow, and he can't ask me to stay.”

Well, not those exact words, certainly not all at the same time, but that sums it up about right, he thinks. Confiding in Dís has been a relief and an ordeal at the same time, really. She is entirely too enthusiastic about what Bilbo and Thorin could be, which is endlessly frightening in a way, but also very supportive in every other aspect of this situation.

“No one will ever begrudge you your career,” she reminds him over and over again, “least of all me, or him. Just... be honest with him, he deserves that, right? Tell him, get it over with.”

Neither of them is really sure whether she's talking solely about the Anderson job, which no one else but her knows about yet, or Bilbo's horrible, insurmountable, hindering, fantastically over-the-top feelings for Thorin, but it doesn't really matter. The one cancels out the other, or rather makes the presence of it very very inconvenient.

And so Bilbo feels stuck, more than anything, and he doesn't really have a good strategy for solving this rut, so he just hopes for it to pass – and lets it exhaust him in the process.

“I'm fine,” he tells Thorin for what feels like the billionth time that week, and he knows Thorin knows he's lying, but he doesn't press it, and Bilbo is grateful for that. Somewhat.

Because all things considered, he is fine. Everything is going fantastic – the play has been evolving almost on its own, a vibrant and ever-growing creation, and it still manages to fill Bilbo to the brim with positive energy, just as it should. They get standing ovations, and they get people coming from far and wide to see it and thanking them at the stage door, and they get positive reviews, and it's wonderful, it's marvelous...

But it's the little moments. Thorin complaining and laughing in equal measure when Bilbo hurries to drag him outside to the stage door after every performance, but following nevertheless. Thorin putting his arm around Bilbo's shoulders as they take pictures with fans, withstanding the rush and the chaos there surprisingly smoothly. Thorin buying lunch for them and somehow always guessing what Bilbo will feel like that day. Thorin always there in Bilbo's personal space and his mind alike, his smile and his voice and his eyes, his very being.

“I'm fine,” he repeats, time and time again, and struggles between sorely needing some time to himself, and never wanting to leave Thorin's side ever again. His dressing room is still their most common meeting ground, but the idle chatter is more difficult to come by these days, because all that goes through Bilbo's mind is confined space, and perhaps one or two unsavory thoughts regarding Thorin's beloved dingy couch.

He blanks out and ends up daydreaming, more often than not, and if he was hoping no one would notice, or alternatively that they'd leave him alone if they did, he'd forgotten to include his own cousin in the equation.

“Oi! What is with you?” she exclaims, snapping her fingers in front of his face, and he can't for the life of him discern how long she'd been talking, what he'd missed.

“Nothing... nothing,” he tries feebly, looking around cautiously, but everyone is hard at work – the stage is being cleaned after the first performance of this day, everything and everyone getting ready for the one in the evening, and while there are a couple of familiar people hanging around, surely no one has the time to stop and wonder about Bilbo's well-being.

“I'm just tired, is all,” Bilbo quickly comes up with a marginally plausible explanation, sipping on his very healthy smoothie to support his argument, but the suspicion in her glare doesn't ease off one bit.

“Right, yeah. That why you've been staring at Thorin over there for the past five minutes without hearing a single word I said? Because you're tired.”

Bilbo opens his mouth, hoping for something sensible to come out, but he ends up rolling his eyes and huffing a very childish 'Leave me alone.' to which Prim raises her eyebrows in a striking resemblance of Bilbo's own mother, and crosses her arms.

“Is there anything I should know, just in case you cause a media calamity of irreversible proportions?”

“What does that even mean – no! Shut up. I'm fine.”

“Right, of course you are. Concentrate, Bilbo,” she hisses, accompanied by another snap of her fingers, as Bilbo's gaze begins drifting away again – it succeeds at making him feel like a schoolboy being scolded, and also reminds him of his mother even further. He's not sure that's a good thing.

“I'm gonna do you a favor and pretend I don't see your lovelorn staring-” he knows she's half joking, but it still makes him blush stupidly, “and just ask you this – have you told them... anyone, that you got the Anderson job?”

Bilbo sighs.

“Dís knows.”

“And...? Why are you making this sound like a bad thing?”

To that, he says nothing. Far away on the other side of the auditorium, Thorin looks up and their eyes meet for a fleeting second, before Bilbo is glaring at his own hands pointedly, then stubbornly at Prim.

“I'm not.”

“Bilbo, this is the opportunity you've been waiting for. One of many coming your way, in fact. It's a good thing. I know you've come to like these people...-”

“Oh, it's not about that, Prim, really, come on.”

“Whatever you say. Just don't lose track of where you're going, that's all I'm asking of you as your agent. As your family, I'm advising you to tell them as soon as possible. They deserve to know. And by them, I mean him, and by deserve to know I mean deserves to know that asking you out would be wasted money.”

“It wouldn't – Prim,” Bilbo groans.

“Just looking out for you, babe. You know you can't-”

“Yes, I know all the things I can't do, thank you very much,” Bilbo erupts entirely unexpectedly, loud enough to turn heads, apparently, Thorin's included, but he's just too fed up. Too confused. Too tired – yes, even that.

Prim merely stares at him, patient and waiting, just like he's always despised, because at moments like these, he prefers bickering and fighting and being stubborn, but even most of his usual fire is gone now, and he couldn't find the right words even if he really tried.

The simplest course of action is to just get away, walk away from prying eyes and baffling conversations and exhausting daydreams, and so he does exactly that, and ever the optimist, hopes for the best.

 

He avoids Prim – doesn't let her find him and she gives him his space, bless her – up until the second performance in the evening, and Thorin keeps his distance as well. Bilbo is so grateful for that, so relieved that he's not being interrogated by anyone anymore, that he doesn't even notice the actual reason Thorin's been keeping to himself until it's almost too late.

“Hey, are you alright?”

The question is reversed for the first time in what feels like centuries, and Thorin looks at him in the mirror, both of them waiting for their respective make-up artists to do their thing.

“Fine,” he utters, but it takes nothing more than an inquisitive quirk of Bilbo's eyebrow for him to frown and hang his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Migraine coming on early,” he explains tersely.

“Oh no. Will you be okay, can you do it?” Bilbo fusses, and Thorin grants him a watery smile, pale as a sheet upon closer inspection.

“I'll be fine,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, “can't take a painkiller until after the show, would knock me right out.”

“Thorin...” Bilbo aches himself at the thought of his suffering, but the pre-performance circus kicks back into full gear right then, and there is nothing for either of them to do but get on with it, really.

He keeps a close eye on Thorin throughout the performance itself, but it's as if he simply switches his pain off – doesn't falter for a second, delivers every single line perfectly, never shows but a sign of giving his role anything less than a hundred percent.

Bilbo is there backstage for the last scene, and Thorin sheds his carefully maintained mask the second he walks off stage, quite literally – slumps on the nearest chair and buries his head in the crook of his elbow on the table with what was probably a pained whimper, and before Bilbo knows it, he's off his feet and by his side, fetching him a bottle of water and steering him out of the main dressing room, away from the people and the lights and the stale air, dismissing anyone who might perhaps have more time or right to do it.

He says nothing, aside from a murmured 'Drink' and 'Easy' and 'Breathe' as Thorin swears and presses his forehead against the cold wall of one of the storage areas. People are hovering nearby, wondering what the hell Bilbo and Thorin are doing, worrying if Thorin will be alright, but Bilbo waves them off and continues to remind Thorin to breathe, resting his hand on his back, and it all feels strangely calming to him, not to mention familiar.

He's entirely against letting Thorin back on stage, but by the time they stumble back into the dressing room and Thorin is swept off by the make-up people for a touch-up, he's already visibly preparing to bear the pain, clenching his jaw and locking it away somewhere deep within him, and Bilbo can only admire him, and worry.

He clutches his hand entirely too hard during the standing ovation, and Bilbo doesn't believe his 'I'll be alright' when they walk backstage for a second.

“I don't think I can go up there with you, though,” Thorin admits weakly, and Bilbo cuts him off gently: “Of course you can't, god, get out of here. Go lie down, please, I'll be right back.”

He literally speeds through the stage door dance, something that he never does, but Thorin's absence is like a sore spot at his side, and so he interacts only very briefly with the fans and is soon seen rushing back inside the theatre, and into Thorin's dressing room as soon as he's able, his make-up still barely off, ignoring everyone requesting his presence, ignoring the fact that he should probably go find Prim and socialize.

“It's me,” he says very quietly, inviting himself inside Thorin's room carefully – he's treated to the sight of its sole inhabitant curled up on the couch, his arm thrown over his face, the front of his shirt completely sodden, as is his hair, hinting at him attempting to wash the pain away with cold water.

“Pill?” Bilbo asks, trying to twist his voice into such a timbre that wouldn't make Thorin want to scratch his own eyes out.

“After I threw up in the shower, I think,” he replies so dryly Bilbo chuckles through his compassionate wince.

“Lie down, lie down,” he tells him softly, and Thorin does so obediently, all six feet and some wayward inches of him stretching over the couch, his legs too long for it always, dangling off as he whines and fights for a comfortable enough position.

Bilbo acts automatically, shutting off the lights in the room save for the tiny lamp on Thorin's table, then grabs the cleanest piece of Thorin's clothing he can find and proceeds to dunk it in cold water.

“Let me,” he murmurs, and Thorin sighs shakily as Bilbo brushes stray sweat-drenched curls from his forehead, and hisses when he places the cool wet cloth there.

“Stay,” he orders him when he moves to shuffle about, and fetches him a glass of water, helping him drink it, hand cupping his cheek without really giving it much thought.

Dark eyes peer up at him, piercing despite the bleary veil of pain draped over them, and Thorin breathes out: “I'm sorry.”

“What for?” Bilbo smiles softly, but before Thorin can answer, the headache acts up again, making him growl and curl up on himself, and all that Bilbo can do for him is readjust the damp cloth on his forehead and wait for him to lie still.

“We should get you to a bed,” he says, “someone can drive you home, right? Dwalin, maybe? I'll go set it up, just give me five minutes...-”

“No, stay,” Thorin exhales raggedly, so quietly that Bilbo has to convince himself he'd heard it at all.

“You need sleep,” he mumbles, but still sits down on the bit of free couch next to Thorin, “in a bed, not here.”

“Soon,” Thorin counters weakly, sitting up despite Bilbo's protests, “after I stop feeling this awful.”

“Lay your head back, at least,” Bilbo sighs, “come on.”

It's like handling a very reluctant, very sad overgrown child – Thorin wriggles for a better position, claims that lying down makes it worse, but finally relents, sprawling over the couch and letting his head fall on the headrest, Bilbo putting the wet cloth back in place. He won't be telling Thorin now, but it comes so easily to him, taking care of him like that. No wonder, either, having spent years taking care of his mother in the exact same situations time and time again.

“Come here,” he orders him softly, and before he can protest, he climbs closer and presses his fingertips to his temples, damp and searing hot.

“What – hmm?” Thorin manages faintly, but Bilbo shushes him and starts massaging him very carefully, feather-light pressure where it's most relieving.

“Is this okay?” he asks, and Thorin only produces a deep appreciative rumble somewhere within his chest, successfully sending tiny tingles dancing up Bilbo's spine, followed by a yawn and a ragged exhale.

“Pill kicking in?” Bilbo wonders, and Thorin only replies with a tiny nod.

“Good. That's good.”

He does his damnedest to concentrate on his current task, but, well, it involves looking at Thorin's face from up close, and that's just incredibly distracting, isn't it. His thumbs drawing big soothing circles on his temples travel to brush at his cheekbones ever so often, the delicate wrinkles fanning out in the corners of his eyes, the proud, stern curve of his jaw... As his breathing stills, his features become softer, disarmingly so, the lines creasing his forehead evening out, his dark eyelashes fluttering faintly against his pale skin, his lips apart a little bit as increasingly more relaxed exhales slip past them. A stray droplet of water from the cloth travels from the nape of his neck past the dent of his clavicle, soaking into his t-shirt, and Bilbo finds himself following its journey, transfixed and not a small deal dazed, before he sighs in mild disappointment at himself and shakes his head, shakes it off.

“What were you sorry for?” he almost whispers, without really thinking about it.

Thorin doesn't answer, and Bilbo can pretend he didn't hear him, which, all things considered, really is the best outcome.

“It doesn't matter,” he mutters, out of some strange need to keep talking, “I'm sorry, too. Lately, I just feel... Look, when you're not feeling like dying, I'd really like to talk to you about something, okay?”

No answer yet again. Bilbo gulps.

“Thorin.”

Thorin's head lolls to the side a bit, leaning into Bilbo's palm, and the tiniest snore escapes him. Bilbo smiles.

“Alright then, I suppose that's for the best. I'll go fetch Dwalin now.”

But letting go of Thorin's warm face, his soft damp hair, turns out to be a bigger ordeal than Bilbo would have expected. He only realizes now how close to him he's been leaning, on the pretense of getting a better angle for his massage, and he sits back, frowning at his own folly. But his hand still lingers, and ever so gently, he cups Thorin's cheek, brushing his hair away from it and tucking it behind his ear in what can only be called a stupidly tender gesture.

Thorin doesn't stir a bit, only produces a soft little sound that makes Bilbo's heart flutter in his chest.

“I'm sorry, too,” he repeats very, very quietly, and then, probably because he absolutely lacks all common sense, he finds himself leaning closer, closer, and pressing the softest kiss to the corner of Thorin's mouth, his heart tolling like a bell.

It wrings a tiny shaky sigh from his lungs, but Thorin remains completely still, radiating an almost surreal warmth, making Bilbo want to stay right where he is, but then his brain catches up with his actions, and he pulls away, getting to his feet at long last. He stares at Thorin for a second or an hour, looking so peaceful for once, and the sight quite literally tugs at his heartstrings, a lingering unpleasant ache that makes him stand there helplessly for a stupidly long time, hands squeezing at an invisible worry in the air, before he finally shakes his head, much more sternly than before, and all but runs away.

Fantastic job on remembering all the things he can't do.

-

 

“Oh, you have got to be joking.”

“Right?”

“Can I please be the one to show this to them? Thorin especially?”

“Yeah, as long as you invite me to watch, I don't want to miss the look on their faces.”

“What have you got there?” Dís invites herself into the conversation, the image of Dwalin leaning over the bar to peer at Prim's phone, their heads inches apart, uncorking a bottle of something inconveniently bitter in her stomach.

“You have to check this out,” Dwalin waves her over, and Prim adds, “these have gone viral today, some kid with a blog was nice enough to make a compilation. Cute, aren't they?”

“Well, I'll be,” Dís sighs happily.

They're grainy and often blurry, but all the more convincing for it – six seemingly random photos of Thorin and Bilbo signing autographs at the stage door, or taking pictures with someone, and on one very memorable occasion, Bilbo conversing with a gathering of fans, grinning at the camera, while Thorin hovers and stares at Bilbo with such unabashed, ridiculous adoration in his eyes it makes Dís laugh.

“Oh, there's a headline,” Bofur supplies, appearing out of nowhere, peeking over their shoulders.

Nori, following shortly after, has a much lewder comment in store. Ori calls them adorable and asks what the big deal is, much to everyone's amusement. Gandalf walks by and his only remark on the whole thing is a wink at Dís, and a knowing and vague: “Hmm, yes, exactly the kind of publicity we're looking for.”

Bombur suggests blowing the pictures up and exchanging every single poster inside the theatre with them, just to scare Thorin and Bilbo the next time they walk in, and soon the lounge is filled with people trying to come up with ways to utilize these to their full potential, which, everyone seems to be convinced, lies mainly in embarrassing the actual people in the pictures.

It is great fun, and only manages to reassure Dís further in what she's known for some time now – that literally everyone is just as invested as her in Bilbo and Thorin and their little... yet nonexistent but heavily implied thing.

The two main protagonists appear in the midst of Dwalin's and Bombur's heated debate about something to do with Brokeback Mountain, and it is a wonder how quickly a sizable crowd of people can disperse into individuals pretending they're doing something completely harmless when the situation arises.

Thorin and Bilbo are preoccupied with a conversation of their own, but shut up quickly, the conjoined power of that number of people watching them enough to unsettle them.

“What?” Thorin raises an eyebrow, and Bilbo adds: “Oh god, what happened?”

A chorus of oh nothing, nothing's is everybody's selected response to that, but like a hawk, Bilbo zeroes in on Prim and her phone still on the bar, and what ensues is a rather hilarious game of tag in slow motion, Prim sliding off her bar stool and moving to hide behind the bar and Bombur while Bilbo nears her very ominously, demanding to know what she's hiding from him. Seamlessly, Bombur snatches the phone away from her, and passes it to Nori, who passes it to Dwalin, who passes it on as well, only realizing a second too late that the next in line is, by some cruel trick of fate, Thorin himself, who only offers a completely deadpan expression to Dwalin's mildly horrified one.

No one dares take the phone away from him, of course, and they huddle close with Bilbo, their backs turned to everybody, inspecting their spoils, and Dís could swear the whole room takes a deep shuddering breath of anticipation.

“This is what you were so afraid to show us?” Bilbo wonders, amused, “granted, Thorin doesn't exactly look his best in any of these, but that's hardly-”

“Hey!”

“Just calling it as I see it.”

“Shut up. Side by side on stage and off it,” Thorin reads the comments under the photoset out loud, several people in the room including Dís wincing almost audibly because there really is no turning back now, “the chemistry remains the same. Does this mean... Jesus Christ. Does this mean what I think it might mean, or am I reading too much into things? I should bloody well think so.”

“Give me that,” Bilbo utters, visibly somewhat uncomfortable, and inspects the text himself.

Dís is far too interested in watching both their faces change, but she still notices the wink Dwalin sends her, and gives him a very private snigger and a thumbs-up.

“This is ridiculous,” Bilbo grunts as if they've just suffered the greatest insult, and Thorin grumbles something incomprehensible, and all in all, they look like two grumpy grandpas whose tea has gone cold.

The last thing Dís catches is the expression on Bilbo's face shifting from mildly disgruntled to something much less peppy, much more tense and pained, when no one else is looking and Thorin is on the other side of the room, but as much as she'd love to stay and inspect everything further, Balin appears by her side then, and the tension in his face is much more palpable.

“We have a visitor,” he announces quietly enough only for her to hear.

“Oh? Who is it? The Screenwriters' Guild? About time, should have been here a week ago.”

“No, not the Screenwriters' Guild,” Balin says somewhat numbly, “it's Azog.”

“What?!” Dís exclaims, then, when a couple of people turn to look at her, much more quietly and turning away from the crowd, “what? What is he doing here?”

“No idea. I can send him away, but if he hovers in the foyer for a minute longer, people are going to start asking questions.”

“Jesus,” Dís half sighs, half growls, “just like him, to just stand around until he ticks enough people off. Alright, I'll take care of him, dammit.”

“I'd tell you to play nice, but that would be betraying my convictions,” Balin utters dryly, and she offers him a small smile before marching off towards what proves to be a surefire way of ruining her day.

 

There are overly critical critics, and mean critics, and downright evil critics, and then there's Azog. Personal vendettas are a thing so common in their line of work that she shouldn't even be surprised he still carries his, but it's the viciousness with which he goes about it. It's been thirty years, give or take, since their grandfather and Azog butted heads for the first time, and the man has been incapable of forgiving or forgetting ever since. Dís would be the first one in line to admit that Thror certainly hadn't been in the right all the time, but there is bitterness about past hurts, and then there is just plain obsession.

“How is your father doing?” is the first question he asks her, and she wishes with her very bones that they'd employed enough security to just escort him outside without a second thought.

“What do you want?” she replies with a question of her own, standing her ground firmly, not allowing him any further inside than the foyer – even that already feels tainted by his presence.

“Just stopped by,” he shrugs, leaning on his cane and scanning the surroundings – she notes with some satisfaction that he does look older now, his age finally taking its toll on him. Still, she wouldn't put it past him to live to an even hundred, the resilient ugly toad he is.

“You don't get to just stop by,” she says sternly, “in fact, nobody does. If you want to schedule a meeting, then actually schedule it.”

“So tetchy,” he smirks, “a family trait, I suppose. I've simply come to collect my ticket.”

“In person? Don't you have lackeys for that sort of thing?” she retorts.

“Even people with lackeys tend to enjoy a walk every now and then,” he supplies simply and makes his way to the box office, Dís following him, feeling increasingly more unsettled – there's always something about him nobody expects, always an ulterior motive just waiting to be revealed. His very presence sets her on edge, and she only prays Thorin won't walk in any time soon.

He purchases his ticket (two weeks from now, she marks the date in her mental calendar with a big red warning exclamation mark) casually, smiling at the girl behind the desk beatifically – one of Bofur's numerous nieces, if Dís is not mistaken, shooting her a rather nervous look, which she dismisses with a hopefully encouraging sigh and a shake of her head.

“I'm curious to find out how the play changed since I saw it last,” Azog turns to Dís next as if they're two friends making small talk, and a shudder dances up her spine even though she attempts to ignore it.

“You've been keeping quiet,” she remarks, “losing your zest? We all expected a fiery review to say the least.”

He laughs, a deeply unpleasant sound like the tearing of old paper, dusty and rough.

“My zest is still very much in place, I promise. I've simply been... biding my time.”

“Fantastic. Is that why you're really here? To issue vague threats?”

“How was anything of what I just said threatening? Do enlighten me.”

“I really don't think I'll do that,” Dís says tersely, “have a good day.”

“You really think this is your big break, don't you?”

So close. She should have walked faster, disappear and leave him standing there all alone – she could still do that now, but no, of course not, she must... well, she must face him head on. That is one family trait she wishes she hadn't inherited, but alas.

She turns back to him, arms crossed over her chest, and realizes then why punching people also runs in their family – sometimes it's an urge that's just too difficult to fight off. Her grandfather would pick a fight right now, her father would pick a fight, Thorin would definitely pick a fight. But Dís... well, Dís is more like her mother, thank god, calculating rather than brash, and fearless in a calmer sort of way. He doesn't scare her, or even worry her a little bit, she realizes, and there's something quite wonderful about that.

“It is our big break,” she tells him coolly, “no matter how much you'll try to make it seem otherwise.”

“Grasping for straws,” he counters with a small, pleased smile, scanning their surroundings with something akin to longing in his eyes, “look at this place. It's a shadow of what it once was. One barely passable play can't save what your family have been systematically driving to the ground for decades now.”

“Going to put that in your book, are you?” she retorts, her voice carefully level – they carry, both hers and his, the only two people now in the slumbering quiet under the high ceilings, the faces of the old masters off the posters on the walls her only support.

“I might just.”

“Make sure to get the details right,” she counters firmly, “since this thing launched, we've been selling out every single night. The reviews are fantastic, no matter how hard you'll try to taint that, no doubt. I don't care how many people still think your opinion matters – it isn't worth zilch to me. And since we're on the topic of systematically destroying things, I'll let you know that this? You coming here, thinking you can just stop by because you have something of great value to say to me? That's over. I am not my grandfather, and I'm certainly not my father either. I won't go down without a fight – I won't go down at all. I don't care if you write a hundred horrible critiques, I'm pretty sure we'll recover. But if that book comes out, and contains one word of a lie, or misinformation, or whatever you want to call it, I will sue you, and I will bleed you dry. This is me issuing a threat – a warning – to you, are we clear?”

His crooked smile is still in place, his expression entirely unreadable, pale face and paler eyes like those of a specter. If anything is past its glory days, it's him. He doesn't nod, simply grins, but she doesn't intend to let him do anything more.

“Good. Now get the hell out of my theatre.”

 

And miraculously enough, he does. He does. Strides right out of the front door, and she tries to come up with some way of making that the very last time. Closes her eyes for a blissful moment, and conjures up in her mind the foyer as it looks every night, bursting with people, brimming with light and colors and chatter, everyone excited for what's to come, the great and famed breath before the plunge, before the hundreds of beating hearts move to the auditorium, only to synchronize with the heart of the building itself – it is that, the bottomless energy of the audience, that fuels them, and if the audience keeps coming, the show keeps on going.

“So that was him, huh?”

Bilbo emerges like he's just another famous face of old from the posters, coming alive, and the sight of him settles something within her, calms her down and reassures her even further.

“How long have you been standing there?” she smiles, then, a tad more worried, “did Thorin...?”

“Nowhere near,” Bilbo shakes his head.

“That's good. He might have shown much less restraint than me, I'm afraid.”

“Hmm. Still, that was very nice, the way you talked him down.”

“Oh, please. That'll last for about ten seconds, he's far too ancient and wretched to take any of that to heart.”

“Huh. It will be enough, though, won't it?” he asks almost carefully.

“What will?”

“This,” one fluttery gesture to describe the entirety of their surroundings, and their work at the same time, “this play. It is helping the theatre, yes?”

“Oh,” she sighs at the genuine concern in his voice, “oh, of course. Of course it is. Immensely, don't worry.”

“Well, I do worry,” Bilbo frowns slightly, “Gandalf always goes on and on about how... about my face being an important factor of this thing's success, and I'm just hoping I-”

“Bilbo,” she interrupts him softly, but resolutely, “the success of this play isn't just your responsibility. It's a team effort, and it's going great, I promise you. Would it be going so great without you? Probably not. But you're here, and we're so grateful you're here, and that's all that matters. Don't worry about the rest, that's not your job.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo muses again, biting down on his thumb thoughtfully, looking around as if the old marble stores the answers he's looking for, then asking quietly, “you're actually going to sue him?”

“He's writing an unauthorized memoir about all the theatre clans in the region, I don't think we'll be the only ones.”

“Hah, right. I wish I could watch that particular battle.”

“You can.”

She suggests that quietly, almost trying not to make him hear, but he still does, and his gaze flickers away from her for a bit, accompanied by a smile that is equal parts somber and nervous. He'd made her promise when they first really talked that she wouldn't try to sway his decisions one way or the other, that she would simply observe while he attempted to decide what he wanted to do next, and most of the time, she's been managing.

She still remembers her own excitement when he admitted to his feelings, when he really actually described to her, albeit somewhat hastily and in a language jumbled by his own agitation, that he didn't know what to do about them. She wanted to be fifteen years old again, and suggest that he go kiss the daylights out of Thorin right there and then, because nothing has ever seemed more straightforward and simple than the idea of the two of them together. But of course real life tends to catch up with you more often the older you get, and the reality of their situation is... Well, Bilbo will be leaving once this thing finishes, and Thorin will revert back to his moping self, because fairy tale endings don't happen in real life anymore. Dís knows that better than anybody.

“Coffee?” she offers instead of pressing on, and he nods, and they share a cup of it in her office and talk about her kids, and Bilbo's nephew, and families in general, and that's just how it goes, isn't it?

That's just how it goes. You never quite get to talk about the things you actually want to talk about, in the real world. One play doesn't save a theatre. Two people find each other, and find that they are perfect for each other, and yet circumstances keep them apart.

A part of being able to live in the real world, is accepting all that. The show must go on, even if it sometimes fails to follow the script you've dreamed up for it.

But that evening, finally devoting some time to cleaning out some of the mess from the largely unused guest room upstairs, and happening upon a very special something, she decides that there is no earthly reason why one can't have a bit of fun in the process.

-

 

A bit of fun is how these things always start. Always. He should have known better. Should have built taller walls, should have kept his distance, should have stuck to his rules. One thing on-stage, another thing off it, remember? Well, funny thing, that – that one rule at least is something they're going to have to revert back to now, aren't they.

It's all Dís' fault, anyway. Except for the parts that are epically and horrendously Thorin's own fault, of course.

What's also funny, is how time never stops for you when you sorely need it to, and seems to stand still impossibly long when all you want is to just move on, very quickly, very much away.

It flew by last night, rushed at the speed of light because they were enjoying themselves so much. Dís had invited them for what would supposedly be yet another dinner, but right after it, she unveiled the greatest find of the century – a recording of Phantom of the Opera, something that shouldn't have existed under any circumstances, Thorin had made sure of that... But there it was, and D í s and Bilbo, as well as the kids, were all unhealthily excited to watch it, and, well, it was four on one, so what could Thorin have done, really? He probably spent more time groaning and covering his eyes theatrically to amuse the boys than actually watching it, and Bilbo and D í s laughed so much it was impossible to shut them up... And it was fun. Seeing his own face about fifteen years younger made Thorin nauseous at times, slightly baffled and unable to recognize himself at others, but Bilbo sat on the sofa next to him, their legs bumping every time he laughed so hard he threw his head back, and patted Thorin's arm in what was probably only half compassion.

They drank wine – well, Dís and Bilbo did, Thorin still had a drive home to make, not to mention one to Bilbo's hotel, making staying sober definitely worth the hassle – and argued about stage make-up in the nineties or some such thing, and put the kids to bed together, only to drink and argue some more, and before Thorin knew it, he was dropping Bilbo off in front of his hotel, trying not to linger too much on the ghost of his warmth on his back even after he'd long since gotten off the bike.

If he'd known yesterday that that was it for the effortless joy between the two of them, he probably would have followed Bilbo upstairs, or something equally as pathetic and out of the realm of the possible.

But, well, time had flown last night, and he didn't know, and it wouldn't have changed a thing.

He doesn't think he'll ever be able to say what led up to this, either. Well, the weeks of him falling for Bilbo further and further, deeper and deeper, are what led up to this, of course, but he's been managing on stage just fine with all that weighing down on him until now, hasn't he?

And time stands still. Only by some miracle has he managed not to drop Bilbo, but their momentum has been ruined entirely. Thorin sets him down in a very clumsy, very unscripted move, and his confusion is mirrored in Bilbo's eyes, large and somewhat frightened. The lights are on them, the audience doesn't dare let out its breath, the whole world is frozen in waiting. Thorin has lost his character, and his chest aches with the hammering of his heart against his ribcage, and he's afraid, far too afraid, that if he severs the visual contact with Bilbo now, everything will really fall apart. Hasn't it already, though?

Because that wasn't a stage kiss. That was, dangerously, stupidly, ridiculously, anything but a stage kiss. And whose fault is that, really?

This move, once something they almost couldn't work past, has been one of the easiest parts of the play for Thorin ever since they premiered, because it comes so naturally to them, and it's over so quickly, and always lends them even more energy... up until today.

You've been wanting to kiss him, really kiss him, for ages now, but is the stage really the best place and time for that?! Oh, D í s is going to kill him. She's going to just murder him.His lips are tingling, and he has lost his act, and he's going to have to switch to autopilot soon, but for now, he's too paralyzed to move, too lost in Bilbo's eyes, the crackling tension of the moment threatening to engulf them.

And time stands still.

 

Chapter Text

There are different theories about character immersion. Bilbo is certain Thorin has studied them all, knows them like the back of his hand, knows when to utilize which – he's a traditionalist by heart, relying on his vast knowledge and experience, while Bilbo works more with natural instinct, having learned everything on the go, so to speak.

He's pretty sure not a single theory exists that caters to handling... this, though. Breaking character unexpectedly, for whatever reason, is one of the most uncomfortable things an actor can experience. It's like being dunked in ice-cold water, losing all solid ground under your feet... a whole bunch of metaphors that have to do with something shocking and quite possibly rather painful.

He's suddenly very aware that he's still hanging off Thorin like a limp sack, and they were supposed to get past this move about a century ago. The fright in Thorin's eyes is a mirror image of his own, and he wants to shout at him, what the hell did you just do?!, but the faintest sound of someone from the audience clearing their throat pierces his haze, and he realizes... right, audience. Not alone. Show still ongoing. Not good. Not good.

They disentangle somehow, their balance and the grace of their moves utterly ruined, and stumped is a very mild word to describe the complete, profound paralysis that Bilbo experiences. He only moves because he's moved like this a hundred times before, but the next line he lets out of his mouth is just that, a line, none of his character behind it, and the terrifying realization that he's lost it hits him like a sledgehammer, and the delicate thread between him and Thorin, the connection that makes them act off each other with such precious ease, snaps right there and then.

Quite suddenly, Bilbo is alone in this – he's been relying on Thorin so heavily that he barely knows how to go on without him, and it's awful. Awful.

He uses up the reserves he never knew he had to move on past it, to power through, to lock down his confusion, but it is so much effort that every single line of dialogue exhausts him completely, that's how hard he has to concentrate.

By the Third Act, he's calmer, more surefooted, capable of finishing this, but also capable of recognizing that the performance has gone to hell. Thorin and him have rushed through the remainder of their scenes together, and just wanting it to be over already is never a good mindset on stage.

The standing ovation still comes, but Bilbo's head and heart are pounding still, and he has barely enough wherewithal about him to smile and bow. Have they noticed? Have the audience noticed? Maybe it was nothing more than a tiny hiccup, though it felt like the greatest sudden impact of insurmountable magnitude to Bilbo. A part of him is still panicking, still grasping at the straws of his character, incapable of finding him, finding safe haven within him – he's never felt so thrown off balance, so astonishingly blown apart, so... betrayed.

“Bilbo,” he registers Thorin trying to gain his attention the second they walk off the stage, but he doesn't... he can't stop now, can't face him – well, he does face him, but no words are currently adequate to describe his feelings, and so he just opens his mouth in case at least something comes out, and when even that fails, Bilbo flees. Shamelessly, shamefully.

Stomps upstairs, as quickly as usual, and is momentarily grateful for the maelstrom of the fans' attention outside, signs programs and tickets lightning-quick, takes selfies with the brightest of grins, while inside him, a storm rages on. Thorin doesn't follow him.

All of that might last ten minutes or a century, he honestly can't tell – he runs away that night, runs away from the theatre, from Thorin, from that kiss, from everything, runs like he's never run before, and only stops to catch his breath, figuratively and otherwise, when the door of his hotel room slams shut behind him.

He takes a moment for his racing heart to settle down, simply standing there in the dark room. He doesn't know what to do. A part of him is screaming at him, stupid, stupid, why would you run away like that, it's no big deal and now everyone thinks you're crazy, oh god, they're going to start calling you soon to find out if you're alright, but then the other part of him... He closes his eyes, and can still feel it, Thorin's lips pressed against his in what was the exact opposite of a stage kiss, not rushed and borderline painful as usual, but soft, lingering, warm, everything was so warm...

He resolves not to close his eyes very much at all.

Swearing helps, he finds – just a nonsensical stream of curses whenever his brain decides to supply him with a particularly graphic image of what went down. He curses as he paces the room deciding what to do, curses as he hops into the shower, curses extra vigorously when he clambers out and sees two missed calls from Dís. Ignores those, and curses some more. Paces some more, too, fingers absentmindedly playing with his pendant.

“Ice-cream,” he decides at last, and resolutely goes straight for his emergency vat of Haagen-Dasz stored in his fridge for emergencies.

Sits on the sofa and eats it angrily, staring at the TV with intense unseeing eyes, like a madman.

Phone rings once, twice more, he ignores it both times. Curses some more.

At some point, finally aware enough to take in his surroundings, his eyes fall on the stack of stuff from the theatre on his coffee table, the CDs with the some of the taped rehearsals among them. It's like something is compelling him to play them, and he does, spoon with a generous portion of Choc Chip Cookie Batter stuck in his mouth.

“This is a bad idea,” he announces, just for the cosmic record, but keeps watching.

It's shaky and often grainy – Bilbo thinks he remembers Dwalin being the one to tape the majority of it – but lovely to look at. Up to a point. It soon moves past the ensemble rehearsals, loud and chaotic and fun, and onto the one-on-one bits, Thorin with Galadriel, Thorin with Bilbo of course...

'I'm not working with you anymore! I'm quitting! I have a bruise on my ass because of you!' complains recording Bilbo – god, has he always looked this stupid when sweaty and barely suppressing laughter?

'You're an idiot,' states recording Thorin fondly, and recording Bilbo proceeds to try and smack him with his towel, missing epically. The Bilbo of here and now keens quietly, but continues watching, out of some strange masochistic compulsion.

This must be one of the rehearsals shortly before the opening night, because their moves are on the right side of quick and smooth, even though for some reason, they feel the need to stop often and converse with Gandalf and Radagast, or argue pointlessly and good-naturedly... But that isn't even the worst part. Oh god.

For the longest time, Bilbo has lived with the conviction that even though Thorin might, in some version of their reality, feel a fraction of what Bilbo feels for him, it still never would be, could be, as... well, heartfelt, and stupidly deep. That he simply doesn't reciprocate Bilbo's feelings – just one reason from the pile preventing Bilbo from discussing it with him.

But here he is, the man who prides himself on his stone cold poker face and stoic facade in general, looking at Bilbo when Bilbo himself isn't looking, like... like he's the most wonderful sight he's ever beheld. It's so ridiculous it makes Bilbo laugh weakly into his ice-cream when he first starts registering it. He's not laughing a moment later.

“You idiot,” he complains, muffled by the ice-cream, not entirely sure he's scolding Thorin or himself, “you utter idiot.”

It's unbearable, it's like torture, and yet he can't look away – much the same way Thorin seems to be unable to look away. His gaze follows Bilbo wherever he goes, he never seems to want to be too far away from his side, he's always, always there, checking Bilbo over for non-existent bruises when they mess up a move, eyes glued to him when he explains something to Gandalf out of the shot, face lighting up when Bilbo turns to him at last with a joke, so much care and, and... stupid goddamn devotion in his eyes, and how exactly has Bilbo never noticed this?!

How has he gone days, weeks, months without noticing the clearest, most obvious, only proof he's ever needed to confirm that which he's actually already known for ages?

Recording Bilbo says something particularly funny, apparently, because everybody laughs, Thorin with his stupid horrible beautiful full-body laugh – they're both sitting on the floor, all exhausted and disheveled, and they're just... just laughing, and Bilbo's heart is doing rather painful backflips. On the recording, he gets up, scrambles to his feet using Thorin's shoulder for support, and a strange sort of peace evens out Thorin's features as his eyes flicker to the brief touch and up to watch Bilbo go, disappear from the shot, and... alright, that's settled. God dammit. Bilbo whines through his spoon and his generous portion of ice-cream, curling up on the couch, and swears a lot that night.

-

 

“What the hell was that?!”

Thorin is too busy watching Bilbo dart away, disappearing into the rush of backstage, to notice that Dís has in turn appeared out of nowhere, and is now marching up to him.

“I don't know what-”

“Oh, you know full well what I'm talking about!” she sputters, “four hundred people saw that, Thorin! What were you doing?”

She's absolutely livid, and it calms him down, though he doesn't know why. What he does know, is that he feels so empty inside, so dull and devoid of any feeling, that talking about it to her would only make matters worse.

“Not now,” he mutters and brushes past her, purposefully avoiding the crew, ready to help him get rid of his make-up, simply moving on to shed his costume, and... well, he hasn't quite gotten past that in his planning yet.

“Hey!” she barks sharply, grabbing at his arm, angry enough not to care that people are beginning to stare.

Thorin budges only because he currently doesn't have it in him to protest, not even a little bit – he feels like he's run a marathon, what with the gargantuan effort he had to exert to finish the performance acceptably at least.

“I... slipped,” he sighs, convincing absolutely no one, “I'm sorry.”

“You didn't slip!” she continues to roar, “you lost your act, you bloody idiot! Did you think people wouldn't notice?”

“Can we please talk about this elsewhere?” he suggests tiredly, and she merely stares at him, eyes wide and bewildered, and there's nothing to do but take it until she lets out an indignant, disgusted huff like an enraged bull, turns on her heel and marches away.

He's well aware of the gazes of the cast and crew lingering on him, but ignores all of them diligently.

“No stage door?” Balin waves at him among the slowly calming ruckus, and Thorin simply shakes his head, thankful that the stage manager doesn't press it further.

Right now, he wants nothing more than to get the hell out of here, and lock himself in his dressing room, and talk to precisely no one for a good long while – which he'd almost achieve, if it weren't for his sister waiting for him right there, in front of the door beyond which lies his peace.

“What the hell are you trying to pull?” she greets him, and he groans, trying to move past her, but of course she blocks his path.

“Could you just leave me alone?” he complains childishly, and she laughs dryly.

“Yeah, right, maybe I should. Thorin,” she says more intently, capturing his attention enough so that he manages to look her in the eye, saying much more softly, if still coldly, “what was that?”

He simply glares for the longest time, trying to hold his own, but seemingly his whole body is betraying him. He's in pain, physically and otherwise, and definitely feels a migraine coming on, not to mention the distinct dread that threatens to overcome him every time he even allows himself to think of what has happened... what he's done.

“I don't know,” he croaks at last, and her eyelashes flutter in something akin to compassion.

“Look, I know you've wanted to kiss him for ages, but couldn't you have picked a better moment? Any other moment?”

She's trying to ease the tension, but it only manages to piss him off further, miraculously enough.

“Shut up,” he grunts, “let me in.”

“I will. Just tell me that this was a stupid little thing, and that it won't affect you two on stage.”

He glances at her again, and sees that she's completely serious. Bile rises in his throat.

“I don't know. Let me in my damn dressing room.”

“Thorin, god dammit. You have got to deal with this, do you understand me? This damn thing hinges on the two of you, and if you can't be professionals about it...-”

“I messed up, alright?!” he cuts her off, much more sharply than he'd intended, “I don't know why I did it. It's not like I had been planning it beforehand! I'm sure we can – I'll try to resolve this, alright? But just leave me the hell alone for now, please.”

“Wh- is that what you're going to do now? Hole up in your damn dressing room and sulk?!” she counters firmly, really starting to make his blood boil, “I've got a better idea for you – how about you go find Bilbo right now, and explain yourself? How do you think he feels about this, huh?!”

“Explain myself?!” Thorin exclaims desperately, “explain myself. Right. Do enlighten me, what exactly should I tell him? That I'm so impossibly, stupidly infatuated with him that I couldn't control it anymore and managed to fuck up our favorite move and the rest of the show along with it? How do you think he'll like that?!”

Dís gapes at him still, but he moves past her at long last, not giving her enough time to say anything, not giving himself enough time to keep talking, simply slamming the door shut and locking it for good measure. His energy is gone altogether with that, and he exhales a long, shuddering, ragged sigh, and suddenly fights to stay upright.

She stands on the other side for some time, but he soon hears her walk away. He moves like his bones are lead, dragging himself to the bathroom, splashing water in his face, not bothering with drying off, simply moving on to get a beer. He stops at last in front of the mirror as he searches the mess of his dress table for a bottle opener, and ends up glaring at his own reflection with unseeing eyes.

He leans on the table heavily, closing his eyes and groaning in his frustration. How could he have let this happen? New goddamn lows, that's for sure. It's not even up for discussion that this was his fault in its entirety, and he doesn't even have enough sense to... do what? Bilbo had run away from him quicker than he could catch him and apologize, whine, say something that would justify... that.

But Thorin had seen it in his eyes on-stage, something that didn't need further confirming after they climbed off it – that Thorin had given him a nasty shock, thrown him for a loop and ruined the performance for him, and there's nothing worse than that.

You can mess up all you want, and recover a hundred times over, but do it so that you don't affect other people in there with you. Limit collateral damage. Be a damn professional, even if you make a mistake.

Well, Thorin had managed none of those things – at one point, Oberon was overjoyed at the news Puck had brought him, and then it was Thorin kissing Bilbo, and there really was no recovering from that, or saving Bilbo in the process. Thorin dragged him down with him, and succeeded at ruining not only the performance, but probably whatever they had between them, on stage and off it, in the process.

He feels anger pulsing through his veins like poison, helpless and bitter and blinding, and he's torn between wanting to smash things and wanting to curl up and never come out to see the light of day ever again.

Slamming his fist against the ancient wood of his dress table makes it rattle, and makes him fume even more desperately. He grits a curse or four between his teeth, you've ruined everything, you've lost him, all your fault, all your fault, useless lovesick idiot...

Sweeping everything off the surface of the table in one quick motion is really the only outlet his rage-filled throbbing head can come up with, and he succumbs.

-

 

It's like watching a train wreck in slow motion. The collision itself starts right there on the stage, in front of a packed auditorium, but no matter how quickly that happens, things keep exploding for days after that. She thinks she should have seen it coming.

“You should have been there,” she whines, working very hard on not having a little cry on Dwalin's shoulder when they're finally allowed to relax after the bulk of the audience have left and the cast and crew are having a casual drink in the lounge, “but then again, maybe not. Those damn idiots.”

“That bad, huh?” Dwalin chuckles, mixing her her favorite drink without thinking twice.

“He actually broke character,” Dís whimpers, dizzy just thinking about it, “it lasted like ten seconds, but you and I both know that's more than enough.”

“What, where, who now? Who broke character?” Bombur appears by their side entirely out of the blue, his specialty despite his sizable commanding presence.

“There was a little mishap between Thorin and Bilbo, apparently,” Dwalin fills him in casually.

“A mishap I'll have his head for,” Dís growls into her drink.

“Did I really see what I think I saw?” Bofur is the next to join this increasingly painful discussion.

“You and four hundred other people,” Dís sighs.

“Aside from us, poor neglected actors who happened to be backstage when it happened, so would anyone mind filling me in?” Bombur persists, and Dís groans, laying her head on her arms on the bar, a comforting touch on her shoulder as Bofur takes over explaining: “You know the Big Snog, yeah? Well, it actually was a snog this time.”

“I don't get it.”

“They kissed. Smooched. Big fat made out in front of an audience.”

“If I punch Thorin in the face,” Dís mewls while Bombur churns on that information, “do you think make-up will be able to cover it?”

In all honesty, she's pretty much forfeit all hope that her brother might ever act like a responsible adult when it comes to Bilbo, but for Bilbo himself, she's had higher hopes. But he ran away as well, didn't he, and she's going to have to call him soon and already suspects that she'll get no answer. All in all, she wants to march right back to Thorin's dressing room and slap some sense into him, because can't you see what you're ruining here?!

Much more than whatever might have been budding between him and Bilbo, it turns out. Gandalf himself appears soon, glossing over the still-ongoing discussion about the mishap with a joke or three, but soon taking Dís to the side to attest to the contrary, alongside a tense-looking Balin and even, much to Dís' quiet dismay, Miss Goldenwood herself, who almost never stays after the shows.

“Is Bilbo still here?” Gandalf asks, and when Dís shakes her head to the contrary, he grumbles something incomprehensible and distinctly unhappy, before finally revealing: “Guess once who happened to be in the audience today.”

“Oh god,” Dís keens. Azog is the last person any of them need right now.

“He's eternally lucky when it comes to catching the most... eventful of performances, isn't he,” Gandalf sighs.

“I'm going to kill him. I'm actually going to kill him,” Dís groans, “my brother, to clarify. Azog, maybe some other day.”

“The show was... salvageable,” Gandalf says it as if he doesn't believe his own words himself, “in the end.”

“It wasn't our best,” Balin admits.

“It sucked,” Dís calls it as it is, then, raising an apologetic hand to Galadriel, “no offense.”

“None taken,” the actress arches an eyebrow, “I didn't feel affected, but Thorin was obviously struggling. Cannot account for an outside view.”

“The outside view was interesting, according to our resident malicious critic,” Gandalf supplies.

“Interesting,” Dís repeats dully.

“Yes, that's the only thing he said to me,” Gandalf shakes his head solemnly, “interesting, and I do hope you've accounted for this.”

“Maybe if I actually kill my brother, it'll be doing the production a service,” Dís speculates dryly.

“Have you spoken to him?” Balin asks, “he didn't even do stage door, just disappeared.”

“Tried talking some sense into him, didn't get out much beyond leave me the hell alone.”

“And Bilbo?” Gandalf wants to know.

“Ran off, hasn't been picking up his phone. I'm so sorry, Gandalf, I feel like...”

“It's not your fault, darling,” the director waves her off kindly, “if anything, I'd like to have words with the two of them.”

“Well, they have a performance tomorrow, don't they,” Dís points out miserably, “they can't just act like nothing happened.”

 

Evidently, they can.

It's physically painful to observe. Bilbo comes in minutes before they have to start getting ready, Thorin even later than that. As far as she knows, no one has spoken to them since yesterday, and thus she's not the only one watching them closely.

To say that they are avoiding each other would be a vast understatement of Bilbo's abilities to engage in like three different conversations at once, seemingly perfectly cheerful and attentive, except for the fact that he doesn't utter one single word to Thorin the whole time they're getting ready. As for Thorin... well, he just doesn't utter one single word, period.

They don't even look at each other, not really. Dís has a sudden flashback to walking in on them hugging it out before the premiere... a month ago now, and glares at them, Thorin at one side of the room and Bilbo the other, as if she has enough power to make them remember that as well, remember that they're better than this, stronger than one stupid mistake on stage.

She doesn't have enough time to suffer through the whole prep with them, as much as she'd certainly enjoy that – Thorin fends off her meaningful looks simply by ignoring them, while Bilbo avoids them altogether, and eventually, she relents, gives up and leaves them to it, certain that she'll be able to get a rapport out of at least two or three different sources when this is all over, because she can't watch the performance either.

“It was... fine,” Bofur says somewhat unsteadily that night after they've wrapped, “I mean, the performance was, yeah, you know... Fine. I suppose. Seamless.”

“The Big Snog?” she asks cautiously.

“Stiff, but alright. People laughed.”

“Standing o?”

“Very much so. Yeah, I mean, it was a normal performance, all things considered, you know? You wouldn't have noticed anything off, if you weren't looking for it.”

“But something was off,” Dís inclines her head, and Bofur is about to agree, but Bilbo slinks into the lounge then, looking appropriately exhausted, and thus stealing focus.

“Hey, great show tonight,” Bofur calls at him, kindly, almost carefully, and it's as if Bilbo's only just noticed he isn't alone in the room.

“Yeah? Thanks,” he mumbles, offering a smile that's feeble at best, looking a tad lost while deciding what to do – Dís senses he'd probably be happiest to disappear, get away again, but something's keeping him.

“Are we still up for drinks?” Bofur asks him overly cheerfully, only casting Dís a knowing glance when Bilbo isn't looking.

“Yeah... yeah. Sure,” Bilbo mutters, “let's get going, then?”

He's painfully obvious in his desire to be gone before Thorin appears, so visibly anxious that Dís can't help but feel immensely sorry for him.

“I'd like to, but Nori will kill me if we don't wait for him,” Bofur quips, yet another 'yeah, I know, right?' glance exchanged with Dís at an opportune moment, “not to mention my brother, he's pretty excited not to be the bartender for once.”

“Right, uh... okay. Fine,” Bilbo sighs, still looking around like a startled mouse waiting for a bird of prey to swoop down and capture it.

He slouches in an empty armchair in a lonely corner under an ancient Much Ado About Nothing poster, fittingly enough, and stares at the screen of his phone with mostly unseeing eyes, Dís guesses. Bofur and her have a whole quick conversation carried out in glaring and grimaces of varying intensity, until they finally reach a decision, and after Bofur fishes out a can of Bilbo's favorite cider out of the bar fridge, they go join him, as casually as humanly possible.

“Thanks...” Bilbo accepts it tentatively, sparing them both a cautious look.

Bofur grins at him amicably. Dís clears her throat, offering a soft smile of her own. Bilbo glares.

Bofur reaches for one of the toothpicks on the table, seemingly preoccupied with unwrapping it as slowly and diligently as possible. Dís studies one of the old programs. Bilbo opens his can, takes a sip, and looks anywhere but at them. Bofur sticks the toothpick between his teeth and stares first at him, then at Dís, who shrugs.

“So...”

“Alright, enough, please,” Bilbo exclaims borderline desperately, and Dís and Bofur are perfect mirror images of absolute innocence.

“What's wrong?” Bofur asks, and Bilbo stares at him in a sort of indignant disbelief.

“What's wrong? You guys keep... oh god.”

He groans and sinks even deeper into the armchair.

“We're concerned,” Bofur shrugs.

“Yes, very concerned,” Dís echoes playfully – she knows that this is very far from an ideal setting for Bilbo, knows that he'd much prefer talking about this elsewhere, with someone else maybe, or never at all, but then again, maybe pushing the boundaries of his comfort zone a little bit is something that just needs to be done.

“I'm fine. It's... fine,” Bilbo utters, profoundly unconvincing.

“Oh yeah, everything's stellar,” Bofur teases, and Bilbo glowers with an intensity to match Thorin's for sure.

“Look, we're just trying to... make sense of things,” Dís offers more seriously, “are you two going to be okay?”

“Are we – are we going to be okay,” Bilbo repeats the question with so much disdain it surprises Dís, “funny you should ask that. I thought we were okay, up until this. Yeah. I thought everything was, and I'm paraphrasing, stellar. I was under the impression that everything was out in the open, you know? So to speak. I spent all this time thinking... Nevermind.”

He deflates as quickly as he's gotten riled up, and Bofur and Dís only stare – he's very obviously angry, but the undercurrent of something much, much sadder, is far too apparent.

“Bilbo, it's not like you can't...” Dís starts, but the rowdy crowd comprised of the remnants of the cast and crew pours into the lounge then, perfectly keeping in with Erebor's tradition of interrupting at the worst possible moment, always.

Bilbo holds her gaze for a moment longer, so dull and pained that it makes her feel simultaneously horrendously sad on his account, but also pissed where Thorin is concerned as the culprit of all this, but then there's too many people and noise, and the moment is gone, and Bilbo himself switches his entertainer mode on, easier as it probably is to maintain.

“Alright, drinks ahoy, can we go now?” he presses on.

“Yeah, yeah, just a sec,” Bofur grins.

“Did I hear drinks? Thorin, there are drinks involved, come on!”

It's probably actually impossible to see all blood drain from someone's face, but Bilbo is a pretty accurate representation nevertheless. Dwalin has brought Thorin upstairs with him, a rather impressive achievement on its own considering how absolutely beaten, exhausted and prissy her brother manages to look, but the second his and Bilbo's eyes meet across the room, Dís swears she can sense the temperature drop.

“Yeah, we thought we'd stop by The Raven for a pint,” Bofur decides to push right through the awkward moment, snuff the tense silence before it develops properly, “join us!”

“Awesome!” Dwalin exclaims, clearly having assumed the role of Thorin's babysitter slash entourage for the evening, someone to push him ahead much like Bofur is doing for Bilbo, “let's go!”

“No, that's, uh... I think I'll hang back, have a drink here,” Thorin utters, “you go ahead, though.”

A chorus of no no's and oh come on's rises at that, but Dís watches Bilbo, his face turned away from Thorin now as he gets up – she sees him roll his eyes and come to some sort of no doubt laborious conclusion, because he then turns to Thorin with a meticulously chiseled polite smile, breezy and perfectly poised as he suggests: “Come on.”

For a moment, Thorin almost looks like he might give in, his face twisting in a ghost of a longing only Dís (and Bilbo, perhaps) can recognize, fleeting and almost imperceptible as it is. But then he shakes his head, resigning himself to whatever he's decided would be the best course of events, and producing only a highly unsatisfactory, mumbled: “No, yeah, you go, I'll stay here, clock in early today.”, and fortifying himself behind the bar.

Dwalin casts a glance at Dís, obviously seeking advice, and she wills him with her glare to press on, but to no avail – Thorin simply stubbornly keeps to his decision to stay, until Dwalin gives up.

If there ever was any disappointment in Bilbo's eyes, he's concealed it well by the time Dís checks him again, and before she knows it, he trots away with the others, barely sparing Thorin another look, and the lounge is empty again save for her, Dwalin, and her impossible brother.

“Is that your idea of the resolving we talked about?” she calls at him harshly, but he ignores her, of course he does, simply pours himself a tall glass of something far too stiff for her liking, and takes a sip, clenching his jaw against the burn of it.

“You're being an asshole,” Dwalin chimes in, sprawling over the armchair next to Dís, and they join in a long-suffering sigh when all he graces that with is turning away from them.

“Seriously, Thorin,” she continues sternly, and he groans, downing the rest of his drink and glaring at her.

“Leave it,” he says.

“I'm not going to leave it, you bullheaded bastard,” she counters effortlessly, “and no one else is going to, either.”

“Talk to him,” Dwalin adds, “just talk, before we run out of non-violent ways of putting you in the same room.”

“Seriously, leave it, alright,” he repeats sternly now, “it's none of your damn business.”

“It's all of our damn business if the two of you spoil the damn air in every single room you happen to be together in at the same time, god!” Dís jabs at him, but it's like talking to a rock.

“I'm going home,” he announces colorlessly, “see you tomorrow.”

Both Dís and Dwalin are too stumped to press him any further, and so they simply watch him walk away in a somewhat disgusted disbelief.

“Well, that was... out of this world,” Dís sighs, “we have to do something.”

“Yeah, agreed. Any ideas?”

“I think we do have to move onto more violent methods. The oldie-goldies, you know? Locking them up in a cramped closet together for a couple of hours, stuff like that.”

“Well, getting them drunk is obviously a no-go,” Dwalin points out.

“Hmm. Knocking their heads together sounds appealing, but we do need them to be able to perform for a couple more weeks.”

“If they go on like this, though...”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Remind you of anything?” Dwalin says perfectly innocently, and she sniggers.

“Oh, please. We were never this awful.”

“I don't know. You threw dishes, remember?”

“That was once, one plate! It... slipped out of my hand.”

“Sure it did. But yeah, at least we... well, talked.”

“Yeah,” Dís sighs, “at least we talked.”

-

 

Bilbo thinks that if he were to spontaneously combust, or dissipate into thin air, or simply just not wake up one morning, it would be a blessing for everyone involved. He's so damn exhausted. He wants to disappear, just not be there, every time Thorin and him are in the same room, and wrapping himself in the folds of his character is no longer the comfort he's used to, but rather a painful ordeal.

He still uses Puck, his mannerisms and his boundless happiness, to escape himself, to relax, but it's harder and harder to do it right.

It's been three performances so far since the botched one, but it feels more like three hundred. And the distance between Thorin and him keeps growing.

Bilbo misses him so much it's surreal. He misses inviting himself into his dressing room whenever he feels like it, misses grabbing lunches together, misses getting stupid texts at midnight that try to rekindle an argument Bilbo had won so easily earlier that day. Misses the feeling of utter surety and comfort that Thorin used to be able to provide for him, simply by being near.

It's only been three performances, three short days of radio silence, but Bilbo feels like he's lost a limb, and recovery is nowhere in sight.

This time around, he has no one to talk to about it either – it's entirely his choice, though, because he thinks he knows what Dís would say, and is in no state of mind to listen.

And so he kills time thinking about the good old days, because the upcoming days only scare him. One thing on stage, another thing off it, Thorin had once told him, back when they still disliked each other so profoundly it made the air around them crackle. A part of Bilbo is proud, glad that he can still achieve that – on stage, Thorin and him are still very much alright, happy and easygoing and sprinting side by side at the speed of light; off it, they're lost, and torn apart, and the last thing Bilbo feels before he lies down and goes to sleep is his body burning everywhere Thorin had touched him, lifted and caressed him, even though it wasn't actually him.

He thinks he's being pathetic, and there's no one left to disagree with him.

 

His newly adopted policy of avoiding people, of avoiding the theatre itself, for as long as he can, showing up precisely on time instead of an hour early like he used to, helps him somewhat, makes him feel safe and like he's managed to escape, and that's why he feels physically ill when not Dís, not Balin, but Gandalf himself texts him early that particular Wednesday, demanding his presence asap.

He drags himself to work highly reluctantly, absolutely clueless as of how he'll end up avoiding Thorin for three whole hours before the performance, but it turns out a whole lot of things will end up being decided for him today.

Seemingly the second he steps foot into Erebor, he's summoned into Dís' office, and it's like a staged intervention in there – Dís, Balin and Gandalf are all waiting for him, and it seems that the topic of the day is Forcibly Clearing The Air. Or so Bilbo thinks when he's told that they're 'just waiting for Thorin and then we can begin'.

The sense of impending doom turns into a desperate attempt at riding out the inevitable, making Bilbo feel cold and lifeless as he sits huddled on Dís' couch, waiting. What can he do now, run away? Maybe this is for the best.

Maybe he's going to be sick, his brain decides on another approach when Thorin enters.

“What's going on?” he demands dryly, doing his best 'grumpy bear woken up from hibernation a month early' impression.

“Sit,” Dís orders him sternly, “read.”

Both Bilbo and him are handed a copy of some newspaper, and Bilbo's premonition is like the most unpleasant sensation tingling at the back of his neck.

Unbalanced. Trying to sell itself short to amass sympathy, but never living up to its potential. A r ushed and tragically see-through attempt at something profound. Building itself up around its two main protagonists, neglecting the rest, and paying for it – chemistry is something that the spectator must feel all the way through, and it seems like someone has bitten off more than they can chew.

One-sided and cliché.

Lacking in focus.

Stunted.

And a whole lot of other thoroughly deconstructing adjectives. Bilbo is awarded the title of childish in a way that doesn't benefit the character, but rather points at the lack of endurance of the actor, while Thorin scores a wonderful stiff and predictable, fraught with a lack of immersion.

He doesn't have enough strength left to look at Thorin, and so he simply stares at the words with unseeing eyes. That disappearing act is starting to look more and more appealing by the minute.

“He was aiming for vicious and undermining, so don't feel too bad,” Dís is the first to speak, “but the point is... well, I'm rather hoping you can see the point yourselves.”

For the first time since they stared into each other's eyes for the worst ten seconds of their lives a couple of days back on stage, Thorin and Bilbo look at each other, nothing but a glance, but it's enough to confirm that yes, they both certainly see the point.

“I can't pretend to know what's going on between you two right now,” Gandalf says, “but please, for the sake of all of us, behave. Your on-stage chemistry is one of the most appealing aspects of this play, and I'd like it to stay that way. Now Azog has obviously chosen this time to publish this for a reason, and I'm quite certain he's only just getting started. Pull yourselves together. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely,” Bilbo replies quickly, more out of an age-old habit of politeness than anything else, but clearly no one is impressed, least of all him, to be honest.

“Thorin,” Dís engages her brother almost kindly, but he continues to glare anywhere else but their faces.

“I don't care that you two currently don't know how to talk to each other,” she continues more harshly, “you are going to talk, if I have to lock you up in here for hours.”

“What part of leave it do you not understand?” Thorin growls quietly, and even Bilbo is taken aback by that.

“God, honestly, how old are you, fourteen?” Dís scolds him, while Gandalf sighs profoundly and Balin casts Bilbo a compassionate look.

“You're making this a bigger deal than it is,” Thorin states severely.

“You're kidding, right? I'm making this a bigger deal than it is?! You're the one who won't stop angsting like a heartbroken idiot and simply just-”

“Alright, enough. That's enough. What the hell do you want me to say?! Yeah, this is my fault. I messed it up for all of us. I'm sorry, Bilbo-” the earnest intensity with which Thorin says it makes Bilbo's heart skip a beat, painfully so, “but seriously, will talking about this make it any better? We just have to... I don't know, move past this, and I'm pretty sure we were doing just fine up until the point you decided to meddle.”

“Meddle?!” Dís exclaims furiously at exactly the same time that Bilbo sighs, “oh, for crying out loud.”

“Could you act your age for once in your life?!” Dís sputters, clearly past caring about the swiftly amassing tension, “or are you honestly so clueless that you think everything is just fine?! I swear to god, Thorin, if you don't get your shit together-”

“Okay, stop. Stop, please,” Bilbo exhales, far too quietly for anyone to hear in his opinion, and yet by some miracle, it's enough for Dís to stop talking, and everyone to look at him. Bilbo sighs. So much for hoping it wouldn't come to this. So much for deciding he absolutely won't be the one to make the first step.

“You're right, I don't think anything is just fine,” he says meekly, feeling incredibly, horrendously tired all of a sudden, “but... I don't know. God. Can you give us a moment? Please?”

The only sign that Thorin is listening at all is the sharp angle of his jaw clenching at those words, and Bilbo hangs his head, picking at the edges of the unfortunate newspaper in a little nervous tick as he adds: “Just a minute. Please.”

Dís glares at him inquisitively, Gandalf much more appreciatively, while Balin mirrors Bilbo's desire to be anywhere but here right now, really. Thorin is an unresponsive lump of despair, but alas, Bilbo knows exactly how that feels.

“Don't break anything,” Dís says at last, sounding defeated more than anything else, and the three of them leave the room silently, not looking back once.

The desire to run away himself hasn't quite gone away just yet.

He half expects Thorin to just get up and walk out on him, but he sits completely still and a bit stiff, trying to read his newspaper but evidently failing.

Heartbroken idiot, Dís had called him. Bilbo smiles, but it's bitter, and he barely sustains it.

“I'm sorry,” he peeps, “I never wanted this to... well. You know.”

“No,” Thorin utters simply.

“No?”

“You're not the one who should be apologizing.”

“Alright then.”

That obviously takes Thorin by surprise, because he looks up at him at long last. Bilbo offers a quirked eyebrow, nothing more.

“What?” Thorin mumbles.

“I said alright. Apologize, if it'll make you feel any better.”

Thorin scrutinizes him almost too intensively, clearly not having expected that, and Bilbo merely holds his gaze, the most valiant thing he's done today, he thinks.

“I don't...” Thorin starts, but then decides against continuing, as if whatever he's been meaning to say suddenly tastes foul in his mouth.

“I don't know what... happened,” he begins again gruffly, “I don't know why I... lost it the way I did, and I'm sorry, I really am. But I meant what I said to Dís, I mean... we can work around this, don't you think? It was just a, a mistake, I suppose...”

“No.”

“No?”

Thorin gapes at him now like a spooked animal, but Bilbo feels something he doesn't remember feeling in a while – anger bubbling under the surface, only now there's no ice-cream at hand to quell it.

“Not like this we can't,” he says evenly, and Thorin blinks at him, clearly at a loss.

“Why not?”

“You're telling me you don't know. You don't know why you decided to kiss the hell out of me in front of a sold-out theatre. You don't know why we're incapable of being in a room together these days without spoiling the mood of everyone else also in it. You just... don't know.”

At least he doesn't try to dispute what Bilbo is trying to say – he just looks away, frowning powerfully, but Bilbo is so very far from finished.

“Thorin, I don't want you to apologize for doing that, Jesus Christ. I mean it was a horribly confusing thing to do, thanks a lot, but... god. Would you look at me for once?!”

It's like scolding a teenager, and Bilbo is so. Very. Tired. Thorin manages somewhat, casting him a sideways glare as if he can't quite bring himself to look at him properly, and Bilbo crosses his arms to feel a bit more secure, and steps closer.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he says quietly, succeeding at making Thorin give him his attention properly, and thus accompanying his next words by a small wobbly smile, “I went home, and I just sat there, for hours. You left me, Thorin, all alone in front of an audience-”

“I'm s-”

“Shut up. I should be furious with you. And, I mean, I am. But for all the wrong reasons. Or, you know, reasons that have nothing to do with what happened on that stage. No, that's not right either...”

“You're... confusing me a little bit right now,” Thorin mumbles.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

We used to be able to talk with very little words, remember? , Bilbo wants to tell him. We used to be able to just look at each other, and understand. And in a way, now that I look at you, I do understand. But hell if I'll be the first one to budge and tell you what you're actually thinking.

“Why couldn't you have just told me?” he asks gently, “before the performance? Or after it? Any point in the past couple of weeks would have been good.”

“Tell you what?” Thorin sighs, and when Bilbo sputters derisively, he continues with more determination, more spite, “no, honestly, tell you what, huh? I wasn't going to just... God. We made a deal, remember?”

“Oh, screw the deal,” Bilbo exclaims, and though Thorin eyes him highly warily as he sits on the other side of the couch next to him, he doesn't move away.

“Fat lot of good that did us,” Bilbo chuckles, “though, come to think of it, you did restrain yourself to the stage.”

“God,” Thorin groans, running his hands down his face, uttering through his fingers, “I'm sorry.”

“Just stop saying that, you'll feel better. Apology accepted, I suppose.”

Blue eyes peer at him from behind long fingers.

“Just like that?”

“I'm not finished,” Bilbo smiles, but already he feels the sudden weight on his chest, like ghost claws squeezing, trying at the very last moment to steal his breath and stop him from confessing, “there's something I have to tell you.”

Thorin just stares.

“I got the Anderson job. I'll be leaving. After this finishes, that is. But... yes, soon... soon after.”

Thorin stares some more.

“I just... I've known for a while, I just didn't know how to tell you, you see, because I thought... I figured...” Bilbo resorts to babbling, an unfortunate habit of his whenever he's nervous, “look. I'm – I don't know why I thought it would be such a hassle, telling you, but...”

Thorin lets out a dry huff of laughter that takes Bilbo entirely by surprise.

“What?”

“What? Oh, nothing. Well, aside from the fact that five seconds ago, you were scolding me about saying I didn't know when we both knew perfectly well that I... did know. You see?”

“Not... really?”

Thorin holds his gaze steadily for the longest time, clearly hoping for... something to happen, calm, expectant, almost kind, but Bilbo is paralyzed, yet again, entirely at a loss.

“Okay then,” Thorin sighs softly, quietly, and Bilbo thinks he watches some flicker of light fading in his eyes, but then again it might be just his mind playing tricks on him.

“I'm...” he attempts.

“Congratulations,” Thorin says instead of any sort of explanation, “on the job. That's great.”

“Thorin.”

He gets up from the couch almost excruciatingly slowly, and Bilbo can't but watch. He remembers then, weeks and weeks ago, the warmth of Thorin's chest underneath him, the warmth of the entirely spontaneous decision to kiss him, the dark and the feeling of odd security, like nothing and no one would ever catch them or know. Bad idea, he'd told Thorin then, shortly after, and he... why did he say that?

“Hold on,” he almost pleads with him, entirely too quietly, then louder, “wait. Wait.”

He does stop, but the distance between them seems... unbridgeable now. It's infuriating.

“I don't know why I ever thought not saying things out loud was a good idea,” Bilbo declares much more firmly than he's actually feeling, “that's the only thing I don't know. Well, that and a – a whole lot of other things, but the point is... I'll be leaving. I have to leave. I don't want to leave. And I got scared of – of the things I really wanted... still want.”

“Yeah,” Thorin says, lifeless, unconvincing.

“Thorin, I-”

“Save it.”

That is very much like a slap, and Bilbo doesn't bear it well.

“Just don't do this,” Thorin continues before Bilbo can so much as peep, “to yourself, to me. You know what you have to do, and it was stupid of me to assume... Nevermind. I promise I'll be more careful now, but you in turn have to promise me you won't...”

“What?” Bilbo squeaks, entirely too afraid of the answer.

“This. Don't do this,” Thorin repeats himself pointlessly, and as frightened as he is, the fact that he's half turned away from him bothers Bilbo so much that he moves to stand in front of him, and thinks he catches a flicker of something almost aching in Thorin's eyes before he's his old impenetrable self.

“Go do your Anderson job when this is over. Don't – don't worry about me, and don't try to... guess at what I'm feeling. Just don't bother. We're not heading anywhere beyond a work acquaintance at any point, let's be honest. So just... remember that, will you?”

Bilbo wants to say something, protest, or alternatively shake Thorin until he wakes the hell up, but it's like his cold demeanor, his carefully calculated sentences and stern gaze, are sapping Bilbo of all his fighting spirit, too.

“One thing on stage, another thing off it, yeah?” he mumbles, nothing more than a ragged exhale, and there it is again, Thorin clenching his jaw against whatever emotions he refuses to let himself feel, and a part of Bilbo wants to shout at him still, but he's far too... far too tired. Far too alone.

“Yeah,” Thorin seals the deal, “it's for the best.”

“I suppose,” Bilbo nods, and if he ever feels like having even a teeny tiny fraction of a little weep, he swallows it down – swallows everything down, in fact, using his age-old proven techniques, all at once, and thus his next words are almost unnaturally chipper: “Well, I'm starving. Want to grab a bite?”

“You're joking.”

“What, does this mean we can't even eat together anymore?”

Thorin glares and Bilbo glares back, taunting him, daring him, to give in, to act like all that just barely happened between them really did happen – but if he doesn't want the bother, then fine. Fine. Bilbo can live with that. But he'd rather not live with a sulking unbearable Thorin for the next six weeks, thank you very much.

“I don't think this is such a...-”

“Look, I'm going to keep annoying you, whether you like it or not,” Bilbo says resolutely, “there will be no more talk of... of feelings, or whatever, since it's all clearly so upsetting to you, but we are going to have to function side by side for some more time, you know.”

“Hmph.”

“Yeah, I know. Let's grab a damn bite, it won't kill us, I promise.”

-

 

Well, the good news is there are no casualties. The bad news... well, the bad news turns out to be something that Dís hadn't even accounted for. Today was supposed to be about getting Thorin and Bilbo back on track, and making sure no one decided to get too gloomy on account of Azog's first review. Today was supposed to be hard work, but not a complete disaster.

Today, apparently, the theatre itself has decided otherwise.

“What do you mean fried?”

“Fried,” Bofur repeats, “burned out. Kaput. No longer functioning.”

“And we can't fix that in time why?” Dís whines.

“Because some of these wires are decades old. Because someone once thought they'd last. Because someone – partially me, yes, but also someone a long way before me – thought we could count on them, and didn't think to replace them when we had the money. Because we never-”

“Okay, alright, I get it,” Dís snarls, “but are you telling me you don't have spares? Spare wires? Spare something?”

“We haven't had spare wires since 1995,” Bofur tells her simply, then, gesticulating to describe his plight, “money, lack of. Wires, fried. Show, a no go.”

Dís really doesn't want to punch anyone today, but he's practically offering himself up.

“We can't cancel.”

“We can't light the stage either. Honestly, we're rather risking burning this whole place down if we move anymore shit around-”

It's not an explosion, not even a zap of electricity – it's like the whole building lets out a long-suffering sigh, and the backstage sinks into utter darkness.

“Well, fuck,” Nori's voice echoes.

“Fuses?” Bofur calls out.

“Yeah. Yes. Get me a light down here!”

 

And that's it then. Nothing dramatic. The wiring simply gives up on them, and Dís has a performance to cancel, and money to... well, conjure up out of thin air for Bofur to buy new stuff, and that is on top of the money they're going to lose today by canceling, and she hasn't checked on Bilbo and Thorin yet, and the boys will be here soon, and all in all, though she doesn't believe in omens, good or bad, she can't shake the feeling that this was all very much staged to happen all at the same time.

Sometimes, things just don't work out the way you expect them to. There's people staying despite the fact that they're allowed to go home, and helping with the repairs. There's Thorin and Bilbo reappearing, surprised by this turn of events, but side by side at least, and there's Bilbo suggesting they go out and sign stuff for the fans who are about to turn up for a canceled show.

There's her sons, helping her light candles in the lounge and making shadow animals on the wall.

There's Thorin and Bilbo again, exhilarated and cheerful after the fan encounters that lasted so long, and Dís doesn't have the time to ask either of them if they've made up, but she's just happy they're not weeping into their smoothies every time they're in the same room anymore.

There's someone ordering an incredible amount of pizzas for everyone at one point, and there's people just... going on, reminding her that not everything has to fall apart, and even after it does, some sort of show does go on.

“Yeah, I told him,” Bilbo says surprisingly calmly, munching on his pepperoni and olives, and there's nothing malicious or even sad in the way he looks at Thorin across the room.

“But you two didn't...?”

“No, no,” Bilbo chuckles.

“Shame,” Dís supplies carefully, giving him the opportunity to either disagree or elaborate. He does neither.

“I don't know,” he says, a faint smile dancing on his lips as he watches Fili and Kili squabbling for a spot on Thorin's back, while their Uncle desperately attempts to eat and grin and scold them at the same time, “we've agreed it's for the best.”

“He's stupidly in love with you, you know,” Dís tells him horrendously honestly, half exhaustion and half an attempt to understand why it remains unclear to either of them, and she expects Bilbo to sputter indignantly, or shriek, or run away, but he just... sits. Smiles at her, gazes at Thorin, then at his hands, then back at her. There's candlelight, and soft music, and a silence behind it all that can only be achieved by a terrifying number of dead electrical appliances, and framed by all that, Bilbo looks, if anything, complacent, which really doesn't suit him.

“Yeah, well,” he murmurs, and Dís catches Thorin looking at them – him – from across the room, perhaps trying, much like her, to understand, “sometimes things just don't work out the way you expect them to.”

 

Chapter Text

 

There was a time when the agony of being apart from Bilbo could have been chalked up to the need to run lines, or finish this or that argument they'd started in the morning, or begin another one. This... well, this is more urgent, more painful, immeasurably more pathetic.

He's so in love, and he aches when Bilbo is not in the same room as him, and aches when he is, and it's mortifying in its intensity, stupefying in that it just doesn't. Go. Away. It should be gone by now. Thorin should be fine – he told Bilbo he would be fine, dammit. He told himself he'd manage. And that keeping his distance was the smart thing to do. And that this was going to be temporary. And that it was not going to hurt, or affect him in any way, that he had it under control.

Lying to himself has always been one of his most valuable skills, though, come to think of it.

So yes, here he is, stumped, frustrated and thoroughly pathetic in the solitude of his dressing room, browsing through Bilbo's old messages on his phone and wishing for a quick death, and if he were to forget but for one second just how horrible this all is, his sister will always be there to remind him.

“Special delivery!” her voice echoes from outside, followed by the excited shrieks of her sons, and Thorin almost drops his phone on his face.

“It's open,” he groans, and is thus inevitably subject to the avalanche that are his nephews, storming inside, Kili immediately launching himself onto the couch, like Thorin is a mountain that absolutely needs to be scaled, while Fili punches his shins lightly until he readjusts and makes some room for him on the couch.

“Hey guys,” Thorin grumbles, ruffling Kili's hair absentmindedly, the kid curling up on his stomach like a kitten, already yammering about this or that exciting incident at school.

“Until five,” Dís reminds him, “they're allowed ice-cream after lunch, but that's it.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.”

“Have some too, you look like you could use it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Uncle,” Fili wags his finger at him solemnly, and Thorin scrunches his face in an apologetic grimace.

“Where did we say you guys wanted to go to lunch?” Dís calls.

“That fruity place around the corner!” they reply in unison, suspiciously so, but Thorin doesn't have the capacity to decipher what's going on.

“Excellent. Now go on, drag your Uncle to his feet and shoo! Go! I'll see you later.”

And with that, he is left babysitting, and, well, if there is a better thing to do than take the kids out for lunch, he can't see it right now. Stoutly refusing to let them anywhere near his bike, he ushers them to walk the short distance, the August heat nothing short of nauseating to him, but it doesn't seem to affect them in the slightest. Thorin only makes sure they don't dash into traffic, and tries not to think about how lunches used to be his and Bilbo's thing – they haven't stopped eating together completely, but it's more... stilted, and awkward, and all in all a torment, much like the rest of their shared activities these days. I'm going to keep annoying you whether you like it or not, Bilbo had told him, and Thorin honestly doesn't know if he'd be happier avoiding him altogether, or if this is indeed the most comfortable agreement they're bound to come up with.

A part of him expected Bilbo to never want to talk to him again, really. A part of him was relieved when he did, and a part of him hasn't stopped being disgusted with itself ever since. A part of him feels very pointedly like turning around and running away when they enter the little diner and happen upon Bilbo, sitting tucked away in the far corner (their table, another, more bitter part of him supplies), sipping on a very colorful drink and staring at the screen of his phone with the faintest frown, the twisted straw stuck between his lips almost thoughtfully, the delicate chain of his pendant gleaming against the skin of his neck even at this distance...

Before Thorin can mentally slap himself out of his stupor, the boys notice Bilbo as well and hurry over to him, loud and cheerful and unmissable, and Thorin can't look away from the smile on Bilbo's face, can't look away even when Bilbo notices that it is indeed him instead of Dís accompanying the kids, and his smile fades a little, like a faulty light bulb flickering. But he recovers quickly enough, nodding lightly, and Thorin braces himself for the umpteenth time just that day, and goes over to him.

“Hiya,” Bilbo offers lightly, and Thorin admires that, he really does, because for his part, his throat still closes up whenever he has to pretend he's fine.

“Mom said you would be here!” Kili announces happily, already having assumed his place next to Bilbo and trying to look inconspicuous as he attempts to steal a sip of his drink.

“Did she now? She, uh, actually suggested I go eat here today, what with that sale on the, what's it called, Tropic Something Menu...”

“Tropical Paradise Fruit Lunch Menu!” the boys recite in unison, and Thorin rolls his eyes while Bilbo chuckles, and this warmth is unbearable as well, worse than summer heat, really.

“Yes, that. Will you be having some too?”

“Yeah, Uncle, can we?”

“Mom said we had to drag you in here no matter what, and not stop even if you wanted to run away, and...”

“Kili, we were not supposed to tell!” Fili scolds his brother lightly, and Thorin groans.

“Okay, that's enough out of you,” he sighs, “go on, go wash your hands, I'll order some Paradise Fruit... things for you.”

They rush off obediently enough, even though there's barely any reason to, and in the next second, Thorin wonders why he sent them away at all in the first place – it's not like he can reasonably expect to survive Bilbo on his own.

“Sorry for this,” he supplies lamely, and Bilbo inclines his head, watching him almost curiously before he devotes his attention to the nearest menu, a vague smile on his face.

“It's fine, come on.”

“I mean, if you want some privacy we can go elsewhere...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo almost laughs, “it's fine.”

“Right,” Thorin grumbles, “fine. Okay.”

Stupid awkward silences. The overhead speakers play some sort of mockingly peppy tune, and Bilbo is typing away on his phone as if everything is in fact perfectly fine, and Thorin wonders how it came to this – thankfully not for long, because the waitress soon comes to take his order, and the boys return and are perfectly capable of carrying his conversation for him. They engage Bilbo easily enough, and Thorin suspect he is happy to talk to them instead of him, and so everything really is (the illusion of) fine for about twenty minutes, because Thorin doesn't have to say much, only watch.

Before long, it turns out that Bilbo has met a number of the kids' movie star idols, and they're soon huddled around him as they all browse through the gallery on his phone, apparently full of actors of various superhero franchises fame, and Thorin tries to think less about how teeny a dent he's made in Bilbo's vast world, and more about... well, anything else.

“Our grandpa played a superhero too,” Fili sees fit to inform Bilbo, “right, Uncle?”

“Ooh, really?” Bilbo quirks an eyebrow, both his curiosity and his smile entirely disarming.

“Uhh... yeah. Well. You know. Superman in the seventies, in a TV show that never got past its first season. The posters are pretty cool, though.”

“You saw it, Bilbo, it's the one we have in our room,” Fili reminds him.

“Well, you have so many posters in your room...” Bilbo grins, and the boys scowl at him half-heartedly.

“You need to come over again, then, if you don't remember,” Fili decides.

“You and Uncle need to do the voices again!” Kili agrees enthusiastically, and Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but for once, Thorin has a way out of an awkward situation for the both of them.

“Here, found it,” he announces, lending his phone to Fili's care, showing the photo of the ancient poster, one that he too has displayed at home, in fact.

“Wow!” Bilbo appraises it, “your Grandpa was quite the looker!”

“He's badass,” Fili nods sagely.

“But he's sick now,” Kili points out.

“Still badass!”

“Yeah, but he forgets things sometimes,” Kili continues, and Thorin doesn't really have a way of stopping him, nor does he feel any reason to, oddly enough.

“He does?” Bilbo asks cautiously still, checking to see if Thorin is alright with it – he hasn't told him much about his father yet, but it's enough for him to... know.

“He calls me Frerin sometimes,” Fili shrugs.

“He looks just like him,” Thorin explains quietly, and a ghost of some compassion flashes in Bilbo's eyes.

“We're going to see him next week!” Kili is happy to announce.

“Yeah, Mom will take us. And she says he might come see your play!”

“She says what now?” Thorin frowns, but before he can find out anything more, the food arrives and his nephews stop caring about everything else, and Bilbo doesn't feel the need to linger on the issue. Thorin doesn't know what he'd say to him anyway.

Still, joined by circumstance (and the lack of anything else to do, and the fact that the boys are adamant to stick to Bilbo like glue), they end up spending the afternoon together in the comparatively cool interior of the theatre, rather than the scorching heat outside.

Even though they're thespian kids from birth, and know their way through Erebor like the back of their hand, Thorin still has to oversee them when they decide to brave the catwalks again, climbing up and down every available surface and railing like monkeys. But Bilbo is there too, for some reason, engaged in a discussion with Bofur and Nori, who are still working hard to make sure the lights don't explode on them later that day during the show, and soon enough, Thorin himself is dragged into a heated argument about the importance of safety latches or some such thing, and before he knows it, everything is... far too quiet, his boys nowhere in sight.

Also not crying out in pain anywhere nearby, but that's a small comfort.

“Guys?” he calls out, “time to get down from there, we need to get you a snack!”

Absolutely no response, and after Thorin scours his immediate surroundings and finds no broken limbs, but also no boys, the others notice too, and join him in the search.

“Guys! Dammit, I told them not to go too far. Did you lock the booth?”

“'Course I did,” Bofur dismisses him, “I'm sure they're just hiding somewhere.”

“I'm gonna go check the stage,” Dwalin declares, while Nori climbs up into the railing leading all the way up to the lights without a word, nimble like a cat.

“Maybe they just decided to go raid the bar,” Bilbo suggests, “I'll go check outside, the foyer, yeah?”

His pat on Thorin's arm lingers long after he's gone, but he has more pressing matters to attend to now – Dís will be back soon, and he has to have two specimens of misbehaving nephews to present to her, hopefully not damaged.

The possibilities are virtually endless when one wishes to disappear and hide away in here – most of the backstage is storage, rooms upon rooms of old props and sets half taken apart, dusty and unvisited for ages. The boys know where they absolutely mustn't go, of course, but they also have a habit of exploiting Thorin's indulgence, and testing his patience. It would be just like them to hide somewhere and not peek out unless their mother herself comes down here, just to cause trouble for their Uncle.

“Fili, Kili!” he calls time and time again, echoed in Bofur's and Nori's voice, and Dwalin's when he meets him at the dim stage, confirming that they at least haven't fallen through the floor and ended up anywhere horrible – but between the four of them they've scoured just about every inch of the backstage, and still no sign of the troublemakers.

This is what Frerin and him used to do as well, Thorin remembers, chasing after Dís through the labyrinthine innards of Erebor, spending hours perched atop boxes of old props, or hiding among costumes in Dori's workshop... It is when even the costume designer turns out to be oblivious as to their whereabouts that Thorin starts really worrying.

“I don't get this,” he fumes, stomping up the stairs to the lounge, Dwalin by his side, “I leave them alone for five minutes...”

...Which is apparently enough to draw blood. That's the first thing that Thorin notices, once he takes in the situation – the boys are both there in the lounge, Kili sitting in Tauriel's lap, of all people, Bilbo crouching to him and tending to a scrape on his chin, while Fili hovers nervously.

“What the hell happened?!” Thorin booms a bit more menacingly than he'd intended, and the boys flinch.

“It's fine, it's nothing,” Bilbo says calmly, barely looking at him, shushing Kili who squirms under his care.

“Looks like they ran up one of the service stairwells, and he tripped,” explains Tauriel, ruffling Kili's hair, “I heard crying, so I went to check. It's just a bump, it's nothing, right?”

Kili sniffles and nods, and Bilbo puts a plaster over the war wound very carefully.

“What were you doing on the service stairwell?!” Thorin turns to Fili, “you know you can't go there, under any circumstances!”

“'M sorry,” Fili peeps, hanging his head.

“You know it's dangerous there! And you should have told me before you just ran off like that! We were looking for you all over the place, dammit.”

“I'm sorry, Uncle,” Fili whimpers, and no matter how tight-set his jaw is, it doesn't withstand Thorin's scolding and starts wobbling dangerously, “we just wanted to – to go and have a look, and then we couldn't find the light, and then we went up anyway, and Kili thought he saw a spider, and he slipped, and he was behind me so I was afraid he would fall all the way down, and...”

“Hey, hey, look, it's okay,” Thorin exhales, crouching down and reaching out for his nephew, hands firmly but tenderly on his shoulders, “you're okay now. There's a reason why we don't let you go down there. You can see it now, can't you? It's really dangerous if you don't know your way. You got lucky, but you gotta promise me you won't go down there on your own again, alright?”

“Mhm,” Fili nods faintly, still looking away, still fighting off tears.

“You know, I got lost down there too, once,” Bilbo chimes in cheerfully, “your Uncle had to save me or I would have ended up underground, probably. It's dangerous for adults, too, make no mistake.”

“That, and too many Margaritas,” Thorin grumbles under his breath, and Bilbo punches him lightly, which brings a feeble smile to Fili's face.

“Promise you're going to be more careful now?” Thorin asks him, and he nods firmly, rubbing at his nose.

“Promise you're not gonna run off anymore without letting me know?”

“Yeah. But Uncle...”

“Yeah?”

“What's a Margarita?”

Next to him, both Bilbo and Tauriel burst into laughter, as does Kili, simply because everyone else is laughing, and Dwalin, who has been observing the whole thing with much amusement, supplies dryly: “It's a drink that makes you miss steps, and tumble to the ground if you're not careful.”

“Why are you teaching my sons about alcohol?”

Dís appears out of nowhere, as per usual, and her sons hurry to her, all pain and scrapes forgotten, and the second she notices Kili's injury, they launch into a dramatic description of the recent events, Kili in her arms and Fili in Dwalin's, both gesticulating wildly as if the spider they saw down there was the size of a dog at the very least.

Tauriel vacates her spot in the armchair, leaving it to Bilbo, and boops Kili on the nose as she passes them, causing the boy to giggle and Dís' mildly horrified grimace to soften a tad, and Thorin exhales, slumping on the ground while Bilbo curls up in the armchair next to him, and it's all almost casual, almost nice. Almost like he doesn't want to lean back a bit, into the warmth of Bilbo's touch. Yeah.

Almost like he'll be able to survive the next couple of weeks perfectly fine, without doing something stupid.

-

 

This is proving to be entirely more difficult than he'd anticipated, dammit. But then again, it's Thorin – attempting to talk to him all sensible-like probably managed to make him even more sullen. Not that Bilbo is doing much better himself – he knows he must be casual at all costs, easygoing and fun, and avoid the topics he'd most like to talk about, simply because they will all be moot, and soon, but it's consuming much more of his precious energy than he'd fancy.

Save it, Thorin had told him, and perhaps Bilbo should have told him, no, I won't. I know you're scared and I know I'm scared, too, but I think I'll hate myself forever if we don't give it a shot at the very least. That's what I'm scared of the most. Leaving you. Leaving you without... You know.

But Thorin didn't know, and Bilbo didn't say, and so they're now equally trapped, in this half-earnest state of breeziness which, Bilbo suspects, can't last very long before it snaps.

And speaking of snapping – he thought he'd reached the end of his rope that night when Thorin and him did the usual stage door dance and were forced to hug each other, or a fan from one side each, time and time again, but it turns out there are worse things in store for him yet.

“Bilbo, darling, we thought we might find you here!”

He'd recognize that voice anywhere – his brain is wired so as to react automatically whenever it sounds, and find the nearest hiding place and not come out for a considerable amount of time. He freezes, and so does Thorin, quirking an inquisitive eyebrow at him before Bilbo turns around, and sees that yes, the fates have decided to be particularly cruel to him today.

“Aunt Lobelia,” he summons the most bulletproof of his professional smiles, wishing with a ferocity that Prim were there – surely she didn't know they were coming, or she would have warned him?

“That was lovely, a lovely job, dear,” she babbles amidst showering his cheeks with largely unwelcome kisses, while her husband Otho hovers and offers an almost compassionate nod.

“Yes, well, thank you, that's... Unexpected of you to turn up,” Bilbo sighs, noting with some discomfort that Thorin has decided to stay, no doubt to derive as much amusement from this as possible. Why not include him, then?

“May I introduce Thorin Oakenshield, my colleague? Wouldn't fly through the air half as much as I do if it weren't for him.”

Yes, why not make the best out of a horrible situation – Aunt Lobelia erupts into exactly the kind of windowpane-shattering giggles that stop the hearts of unsuspecting victims, and Thorin shoots an incredulous oh my god look Bilbo's way before he shakes hands with her and Otho somewhat cautiously.

“Charmed, I'm sure,” he says somewhat unsteadily, and she sizes him up and down much like a slab of meat, and not a pretty one at that, and distantly, Bilbo wonders what Prim has told them about this play – hell, they just saw them climb all over each other on stage, it doesn't get much more shocking for them. Cheered on by the thought of offending his relatives, he sniggers to himself, and winks at Thorin almost playfully – the man doesn't seem to want to disappear just yet, obviously not knowing what's good for him.

“Anyway, yes, nice enough,” Lobelia reroutes her attention back to Bilbo, “all those acrobatics, though, Bilbo, my goodness, prancing around the stage like that. I thought you did acting, not circus acts!”

There it is again, giggling sour enough to curdle milk, and Bilbo hides behind a bitter smile, exchanging a look of thinly veiled disdain with Thorin, whose presence is somehow now a comfort.

“But look, sweetheart, let's get down to business,” she waves her hand and Otho, whom Bilbo has always despised passionately for being the passive accessory in the relationship, but compliant with his wife's awful ways nevertheless, simply nods sagely, as if he's saying, you didn't really think we came down here to just be nice and supportive, now, did you.

“Oh, of course,” Bilbo says coldly, crossing his arms, “let's.”

“Well, as you know, the house has been on the market for a while, darling. And I know Bella would have wanted this to be over with swiftly, you know that. Since you won't be buying it yourself.”

“I shouldn't have to buy it at all,” Bilbo sifts through grit teeth, his irritation very quickly turning into anger.

“Well, as it is, we still do need you to come down for, you know, all the official business. It's been on the market since February! And I'm sure your mother would have wanted things to move on ahead as quickly as possible, you know how she was...”

“That's why you came down here then,” says icily – Thorin is by his side still, and he's going to have to apologize to him for all this, but right now, he's glad of his presence, even if it only means he gets a witness willing to vouch for his incoherent state of mind when his relatives inevitably meet with a gruesome death by his hand.

“Well, yes, I mean, you weren't answering calls, Bilbo! This is serious. I can't help but think of your poor mother-”

“You mention my mother one more time, and I swear to everything I hold dear, I will cement my share of that house so that you never see a single penny of it.”

That flies out of him entirely unexpectedly, but he doesn't regret it, not really.

“Bilbo,” Lobelia hisses indignantly, and Otho shakes his head solemnly.

“Oh, I'm sorry, am I being unreasonable?”

“Well, yes! We spent all this money for a ticket just to see you, and this is how you react? Honestly, I wonder what-”

“If you say what your mother would have said, I swear to god.”

“Well, I was going to, in fact! You know she left you the house in all good faith, and look how you're treating her legacy-”

“I'm sorry,” Thorin butts in so firmly, so coldly, that even though they are accompanied by a detached smile, or perhaps all the more because of it, those two words are more than enough to shut everyone up, “as thoroughly charming as this is shaping out to be, you are not actually supposed to be back here.”

“Excuse me?” Lobelia turns to him with her best politely indignant piercing look, lips pursed, all puffed up like an annoying prickly little pincushion – but Thorin is a mountain against her, solid and unaffected, and, Bilbo notes with a lot of satisfaction, perfectly prepared to crush her.

“I don't know who let you in,” Thorin tells them, “but this is the staff entrance right there, and last time I checked, we didn't employ you. If you wanted to use 'family member' as a viable excuse, then you should have treated Bilbo like one, you see. Anyway, that is none of my business. But I will still ask you to leave, and I will throw you out myself if you don't, right now.”

She looks from Thorin to her husband, to Bilbo, who merely shrugs. Her cheeks are puffed and Bilbo knows she's this close from screeching horrendous insults at them, but not even Aunt Lobelia has it in her to fend off Thorin at his most menacing.

“How rude! You can't just...” she starts, but Thorin merely takes one step forward, inches towards her ever so slightly, and Bilbo can see it, her eyes widening as he fills up her field of vision and she has to tilt her head upward to keep eye contact. It's delicious.

“I'll call you?” he sings, and she glares daggers, but is actually already retreating.

“Oh, you'd better call me, Bilbo Baggins, or I'll see to it that you're written out of every single-”

“Alright then,” Bilbo cuts her off with a slightly manic grin, feeling like he could probably get away with anything right about now, what with Thorin by his side, helping him advance and almost physically steer his relatives to the exit.

“It was such a pleasure seeing you again. I'll give my best to Prim, shall I? So happy you saw the play! I'm free Mondays, so I think I'll be seeing you very soon in fact...”

They both try to protest, wagging their fingers at him in a feeble attempt at interjecting, but Bilbo has let them butt in his entire life, it's far enough.

“First door to the left, through the foyer,” Thorin tells them amicably, with a hilarious mocking undertone that is the most endearing thing Bilbo has ever heard, “we're grateful for your support. Do come next time. Consider buying a season pass. Thank you!”

And with that, very much in unison, they shut the door on Otho and Lobelia, bursting into laughter but almost jumping away from it when they hear Bilbo's Aunt burst into a belated tirade of how very dare you's on the other side . Like teenagers after pulling a prank, they hurry away and somewhere no nosy relatives can find them, hopefully. It's only when the door of Thorin's dressing room is safely shut behind them that Bilbo realizes how long it's been since he's been here – a little upward of two weeks, probably, but it feels like a lifetime. Everything feels like a lifetime here, condensed and concentrated.

“Sorry you had to see that,” he chuckles, still feeling rather giddy – his mother would have been proud, always having disliked Lobelia immensely.

“Uh-huh,” Thorin notes, amused, and fishes out a drink for them both out of his fridge, proceeding to wash whatever make-up there's left after the show, asking casually: “Is... all of that going to be alright?”

“Oh, god, yeah, I hope so,” Bilbo sighs, slouching on his couch without really thinking about it twice – the pleasant post-performance exhaustion is on its way, only it's coming with the slightly unsavory side of wracking his mind about Lobelia's words.

“You heard her – they're probably already thinking of ways to disown me,” he snorts bitterly, then mumbles entirely more somberly than he'd meant to, “I just really need to get up there, sort some... stuff out.”

“I see,” Thorin says simply, folding himself onto the far end of the couch, not even giving Bilbo enough time to wonder if he should feel in the least awkward about any of this.

“Charming woman,” he adds dryly.

“Oh, yeah, she's the best. Thank you for yelling her into submission, any member of my family would gladly shake your hand.”

“Well, if the rest of your family are anything like her, I might politely excuse myself out of that,” Thorin grins, propping his feet up on his tortured coffee table.

Something within Bilbo tugs, something that has to do with introducing people to family, and I'd feel so much braver with you around, but he dismisses all of it rather swiftly.

“They're lovely people, I don't know what you're insinuating,” he says, “in between their love for gossip over dinners for thirty, and the casual homophobia, and Uncle Fillibald telling the exact same disgusting war story for the past four decades, they're all an absolute hoot.”

Thorin has no reservations when it comes to laughing at Bilbo, never has, and it's refreshing – all of this is. Takes loads off Bilbo's shoulders, just sitting here, his work done for the day, having someone to complain to. Why does everything always have to tangle up and end up being so complicated, anyway?

“You might understand why I'm dreading going up there,” he mumbles, “but I guess there's no avoiding it. Won't have any time after Midsummer finishes...”

The silence that hangs heavy between them after that isn't of the easygoing kind, and Bilbo would curse himself for not thinking before talking, but he doesn't really possess the necessary energy.

“Yeah,” Thorin only shrugs, looking almost thoughtful, but fortunately nothing worse, “stuff like this is always better to get over with sooner, rather than later.”

“Agreed,” Bilbo sighs, then, after a while of another silence, before it reaches the first levels of uncomfortable, whining with good enough flair to make Thorin laugh again “I hate riding trains, though, god.”

“Right, I almost forgot you're completely useless when it comes to driving anything.”

“Oh, shut up. It's just so unfair. I can't tell you how many times I paid extra for the quiet coach and ended up listening to a bunch of kids screaming the whole way. It's just two hours or something, but still...”

“I could give you a lift.”

Bilbo looks at him, almost touched, and remembers that he's supposed to be angry at him still, supposed to be keeping his distance – easier said than done. For his part, Thorin looks entirely unperturbed, quirking an eyebrow and shrugging: “Or not.”

“No, yeah, uhm... that's fine,” Bilbo babbles, “thanks, though. I'm gonna have to go early in the morning anyway, they're probably going to force-feed me lunch and question my life choices for a couple of hours before we get to anything that's even remotely important...”

“Hmm,” Thorin comments simply, and a small smile lingers on his lips, but Bilbo convinces himself not to look, in much the same way he convinces himself not to think about... well, dragging Thorin along up north and watching him successfully wrangling and intimidatingall of his annoying relatives, not just Aunt Lobelia, and showing him the house where he grew up, and... No, yeah. Not heading anywhere beyond a work acquaintance any time soon, or something along those lines. One thing on stage, another thing off it.

Such wonderful sentiments, and he knows that both of them need to believe them right now, to a certain extent. So no, no hitching rides to Bilbo's childhood home, and no more chitchat about endearing family stories, and this time next year, it will all have been just a very interesting, but inevitably fading... work acquaintance.

It's for the best, after all.

-

 

It's like watching a very poorly orchestrated play, Dís decides, with horrible lighting and a script that makes her want to throw things at the stage and heckle the actors, and the most stilted choreography that has people stumbling over one another – and the worst part is, it's being advertised as a masterpiece.

She wonders, as she watches them dance around each other in the kitchen, if Bilbo and Thorin would be more open to actually opening their eyes and understanding were she to use this analogy to their... whatever it is that they've got going on. Relationship implies the presence of one, fling asserts subtext that she knows for a fact the two of them are trying their best to avoid.

“Oops, sorry,” Thorin rumbles, leaning over Bilbo to get something from the counter above his head, all the while balancing Kili on his hip, the boy determined to see what Bilbo's doing.

“Coming through!” Fili announces.

“Oh, excellent,” Bilbo turns to him for the bowl he's asked the boy to bring, but that causes him to bump into Thorin, Kili squeaking as his uncle staggers, and Bilbo also losing balance as he tries to get out of the close-proximity situation that has arisen, an impossible task in the overcrowded kitchen. Thorin steadies them both by putting a hand on his arm and grinning at him apologetically, and then they proceed to to do the ancient traditional dance of 'oh you're going that way? Well, me too, oh no, okay I'll go this way, but that was your idea too, well how about that, looks like we're just going to jerk this way and that like two idiots', until Bilbo stands still, flushed and fighting off a smile, and gracefully lets Thorin pass, both their faces twisting in a grimace of profound embarrassment when the other can no longer see them.

Dís thinks that if she were to film this, no one would believe that it wasn't perfectly staged to make people want to bang their head against a wall out of sheer frustration.

“Locking them up in a closet starting to seem more and more likely, eh?” Dwalin notes, and she would wonder how long he's been standing there, hovering behind her, if it weren't for the doorbell ringing, announcing even more arrivals.

But yes, it's a plausible option, more plausible by the day, really. She doesn't really know how they did it, but they are somehow capable of functioning on stage, at least. But other than that, it's like... well, it is watching two people who are this close to finding happiness together, having decided that they'd much rather orbit each other awkwardly, for reasons that just seem entirely stupid in the grand scheme of things, that's it. Nothing more frustrating than that, come to think of it.

Her brother is a closed book, won't confide in her unless he actually wants to, and she knows better than to press Bilbo, who is becoming more and more distant the closer the end of Midsummer is approaching. She is not, however, above meddling, and forcing them to spend as much time together as humanly possible, plopping her sons in the equation every now and then just for added matchmaking value (“Why won't Uncle ask Bilbo out on date? Isn't that what people do when they like each other?” Kili poses a perfectly legitimate question one day, to which Dís' only response can be: “Well, why don't you ask him yourself? I'd like to know, too.”) seems to be the only thing she can really do for them.

“Leave it to men to muck it up and make even the most straightforward things into the most complicated issues,” her mother used to say, and Dís has been finding comfort in that to this day – she's always thought that men and women were forever destined to butt heads, but my god, having two men in the equation, that's pretty much asking for disaster, isn't it.

One would think she'd be good at resolving this, subjecting her apartment to the presence of a dozen men at least twice a month.

The topic of the day is... whatever play Gandalf and Thorin have started bickering about, and as much fun as it is to watch everyone, lounging in the armchairs and sipping coffee and butting heads, she finds she'd much rather hide in the kitchen with Prim, whose presence as a woman and a sensible human being has become invaluable whenever she happens to be around, and talk about things that have nothing to do with either of their jobs, or either of the men present for a while. It's refreshing, hearing about how she and her husband are thinking of having a baby, and offering some advice on that front, and complaining about everything from diapers to this country's educational system, which is why she is highly disgruntled when the living room overflowing with male ego suddenly requires her presence.

“What?” she pokes her head out of the kitchen, “who broke something?”

But everyone including her sons looks far more tense than she'd fancy, and she sighs, reaching out for Fili and Kili who hurry to her, looking equally disappointed about... something.

“What's going on?” she demands, and isn't it funny that the youngest men in the room are the only ones willing to look her in the eye.

“Uncle said that Grandpa couldn't come see the play,” Kili explains, looking so down that Dís actually starts getting a tad worried.

“Now why would he say that?” she murmurs kindly, seeking some explanation, any explanation, with Dwalin, Balin, anyone.

“Well why would you tell them he could in the first place?” Thorin asks tersely, and she notes he actually seems rather angry. Leave them alone for five minutes, god.

“Is it because Grandpa's sick?” Kili wants to know, and she's not the only one in the room who suppresses a pained wince – her father is a topic that's to be handled with utmost care, even more so when talking about him to the boys. They know to some extent what he's been through, know he's not perfectly alright, but it's no use sitting them down and explaining the whole grim story, not just yet.

“Yes baby, that's why,” she tells Kili gently, “your Uncle's just worried about him.”

“Of course I'm worried,” Thorin growls, “you know he could never-”

“Enough,” Dís cuts him off sternly, then turning to her boys, still looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety, telling them as kindly as possible “Fili, take your brother and go to your room for a moment, go find something you'd like to watch later, okay? I'm gonna have a little talk with your Uncle in the meantime.”

Fili looks from her to Thorin, his thoughtful pout a promise of further questions in the future, but he nods obediently and steers Kili out of the room, waving at Bilbo as they go, which somehow upsets Thorin even more.

“My god, Thorin,” Dís erupts the second she knows they're gone (though there's always the risk of them hiding and eavesdropping), and her brother scrambles to his feet from where he was sitting at the foot of Bilbo's armchair, and looks almost offended.

“Me?!” Thorin booms, “you can't tell them things like that, you know he's not well enough to-”

“You don't know that! You don't,” she retorts sharply, “I know you're worried, but this is something he really wants! And I think we might be able to pull it off, actually. You just gotta have a bit of faith.”

“The last time I saw him, he seemed rather eager,” Gandalf remembers, and Thorin shoots him a sharp look.

“You've been to see him?”

“On several occasions, yes. It was very nice, catching up. I do believe he's feeling much better than ever before, Thorin, and if you were to just consider...-”

“What?! Letting him sit in the audience and hope he doesn't get an aneurysm? Yeah, a wonderful idea.”

“Wait, weren't we thinking about...” Bofur starts, but is cut off by an entire series of no, shut up gestures and head shakes.

“What?” Thorin hisses, “thinking about what?”

“Oh, uhh, nothing, having another coffee after lunch?” Bofur babbles, but Thorin pays him no mind, zeroing in on Dís – her exasperation is mirrored in the eyes and sigh of Balin at least, but she guesses there's no avoiding it anymore.

“What's going on?” Thorin demands, and oddly enough, Dís thinks of Bilbo, and how sorry she is he has to be here for this. But, oh well.

“It was just an idea,” she tells Thorin calmly, “I know we can't take Dad to the actual theatre and hope he'll just sit there peacefully for three hours, I know that Thorin. But we were thinking that maybe, we could bring the mountain to Mohammad, so to speak.”

“What?” he snarls, clearly not in the mood for metaphors.

“Imagine this,” Balin steps in, “we could take the play outside. The place where Thrain is staying isn't perfect, but we could perform it there. Just one afternoon, just for him and whoever wants to tag along. We owe him that much.”

He says it so hopefully, so happily, as if it's the easiest thing they'd ever do – it's almost childish in its simplicity, and Dís looked very much the same as Thorin when she first heard it, disbelieving and skeptical, but...

“We can't do that,” her brother says unnaturally quietly.

“Course we can,” Dwalin butts in, coming to stand by Dís' side, both for Thorin to look at him, and to offer support to her, no matter how subtly, “it's just a matter of moving some stuff, nothing more.”

“You're kidding, right?” Thorin utters, then looks to Gandalf, “you're okay with this? Taking the play out of the theatre?”

“I don't see why not,” the director smiles the smile Dís knows is bound to piss Thorin off even more, “I'm sure if we talk to the people at your father's hospital, they'll be alright with it. It's not such a big undertaking after all, we will have to adjust some of the moves a bit to work with reduced space-”

“And no pillars,” Bofur adds.

“-and that...”

“We could always just use trees,” Nori shrugs, and everyone laughs, except for Thorin, who looks a bit like a cornered wild animal, glaring at them all like they've gone mad.

“Oh no, yeah, let's use the trees,” he throws his hands up in the air, at his most deathly sardonic, “let's climb trees, and sit Dad down in the grass, and have a picnic while we're at it! Sounds fun-fucking-tastic!”

Dís sees Balin sigh, and Dwalin roll his eyes, but most importantly, sees Bilbo flinch, and is reminded that this is who her brother used to be, much more often, not so long ago.

“Settle down,” she orders him and is surprised when he doesn't explode in anger.

“Oh, yeah, I'm all settled,” he snarls, “ecstatic, really. Brilliant! Whose idea was this, huh? Because I'd like to congratulate them, you know, shake their hand, possibly a pat on the back.”

“Jesus Christ, would you just calm down? It doesn't matter whose idea it was, since you're so clearly against it...”

“It was mine,” Bilbo peeps, and the tension in the room snaps like a taut string – he's so tiny, sitting there in his armchair, looking at Thorin almost expectantly, and Dís can read her own worry in everyone else's eyes as they look on. She exchanges a look with Prim, who seems, if anything, entirely unsurprised, simply gazes at her client and cousin in one with an odd expression.

“I thought it would be nice,” Bilbo shrugs, “I don't know, something about the way the boys talked about him the other day... Look, it was just that, an idea. I mentioned it to Dís, and I don't know, everyone just went with it. I for one am entirely for performing in fresh air for once, you know, might actually do us good...”

He chuckles, obviously entirely more at ease than Thorin could ever hope to be, but Dís senses the looming catastrophe much more acutely than Bilbo, Dwalin and her taking a step forward almost in unison.

“You...” Thorin exhales, and his face is a mask of perfect confusion, as if his brain is absolutely refusing to acknowledge what it's hearing and seeing.

“Yeah, look, I don't know,” Bilbo continues entirely too casually for his own good, “would have to do it soon, though, I'll have no time after... you know. As long as nobody minds losing one free day... Dís says we... you can afford it, the theatre I mean...”

His voice dies off, because Thorin is now hovering over him like an approaching thunderstorm, something quite painful making an appearance in his otherwise stone cold expression, but disappearing as quick as it came, and Dís is legitimately worried for Bilbo at that moment, because for all she knows, Thorin might grab at him, or yell at him, or curse his livestock, it's really all a gamble at this point.

“Afford it,” her brother parrots lifelessly, and then turns to her, repeating in utter disbelief, clearly having a difficult time processing it all, “afford it.”

She shrugs, and Dwalin makes to reach out for him, which meets with even more shock creeping into Thorin's expression, and then he looks back at Bilbo, who is staring up at him openly, a question clear in his eyes, and Dís thinks, oh god, this is it, blood will be spilt, but then Thorin just... deflates. His shoulders slump and a light that one wouldn't have noticed until it disappeared is gone from his eyes, and he raises his hands to run them down his face, looking, more than anything, painfully befuddled.

“I need to...” he starts, but changes his mind with a feeble shake of his head, and marches out of them room without any particular determination, but the door slamming still succeeds at making everybody flinch.

Bofur and Nori break the tense silence by clearing their throat almost in unison, exchanging a wide-eyed knowing look, and Balin shakes his head and looks up to the ceiling in a wordless prayer for a cure for Thorin's idiocy probably, and for her part, Dís finds she's having a hard time not storming out of the room to find Thorin to give him a piece of her mind.

“Sorry,” she says instead, taking a step towards Bilbo, but he surprises her and everyone else by standing up himself, and casting her much the same look Thorin did just a minute ago, and then hurrying out after him.

“Don't-!” she calls after him, but it's too late, and the door suffers as it is slammed again.

“I'll be damned,” Bofur utters, and Dís groans rather desperately, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Better steer clear, and make sure they don't set the place on fire,” Nori comments casually, which meets with scattered laughter.

Dís weighs her options for a moment, and must look particularly desperate, because Dwalin casts her a compassionate look and pats her on the shoulder, offering a very reassuring: “Maybe they'll punch each other's lights out and we'll have a moment of peace.”

-

 

Bilbo remembers punching that kid who'd called him names back in seventh grade – called him names and pushed him in front of everyone during recess, in fact, long enough so that Bilbo went straight past scared and humiliated, and into furious and knocked his teeth out, figuratively speaking. Also hurt his hand quite a great deal, but that didn't matter to him. That anger mattered to him, because it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before – he felt hopeless and powerful all at once, and he's reminded of that feeling now.

He doesn't really know why he feels the need to go after Thorin, but he knows that if he doesn't say... something, he'll regret it.

He's by the front door, just slipping into his shoes and grabbing his keys and helmet, and the sight of him infuriates Bilbo even further, irrationally so.

“Hey!” he calls, and Thorin just grunts and turns away, striding out of the door without a word.

Bilbo follows him outside, onto the stairwell, without really thinking twice about it.

“What the hell was that?”

“God, just leave it, I'm begging you,” Thorin growls, taking the stairs by two, but Bilbo reaches him at the alcove, grabbing at his arm and almost running into him when he stops abruptly.

“Look, I'm sorry if I overstepped any boundaries,” Bilbo tells him urgently, “but I just thought-”

“No, shut up,” Thorin says surprisingly sternly, “you said you wouldn't.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what that's supposed to mean,” Thorin hisses, hovering very close in a very small space, almost menacing if Bilbo didn't know better, “I told you not to concern yourself with me, I told you not to-”

“Okay, hold on, excuse me,” Bilbo sputters to interrupt him, “you're telling me what to do now?!”

“I'm not telling you what to – we agreed! We agreed that we would keep our distance or whatever, we made a deal..-”

“Oh my god, seriously, enough with deals!” Bilbo exclaims desperately, “Thorin, this has got to stop! Can't you just tell me what the hell is bothering you?!”

“Why do you always have to meddle?!” he all but roars, and Bilbo finds himself suddenly cornered against the old stone wall, cold against his back, Thorin looming over him.

“Why do you think you know anything about me?! Or what my father would like?! For Christ's sakes!”

“I'm sorry!” Bilbo bellows right back, “I said so already! And is that what this is about?! Your insecurities? God, is it so incomprehensible to you that I was just trying to... I don't know, do a nice thing when I saw the opportunity? I meant nothing by it, I didn't want to undermine you, or, or god forbid, try to get closer to you despite our deal! This is your problem, Thorin, you're physically incapable of understanding that not everything is an attack on your damn overinflated ego!”

“You're doing it again,” Thorin snarls, “you know nothing about me.”

“I know enough,” Bilbo snarls right back, “I know you're terrified of not having everything lined up in deals, and rules, and safe little boxes you can organize. I know you're afraid of admitting your feelings, admitting whatever the hell it is that you actually want. I know you're not comfortable living like this, but you're too worried to change anything, because god forbid you might have to break a deal and step out of your damn comfort zone, which, I might add, is about the size of a peanut! And don't even get me started on mmphg-!”

It's a rather chaotic rush of the cold of the wall on his back, and the warmth of Thorin's body at his front, and all air being knocked out of him, but it doesn't take more that two seconds for him to realize that this? Very bad.

What starts out as a shocked yelp is snuffed out into a pathetic little squeak by Thorin's lips on his, and Bilbo scrambles for support at his chest as he's pressed against the wall quite unceremoniously. The sensible part of his brain is panicking, bad, bad, very bad, no coming back from this, but it is overpowered quickly and mercilessly by something else, that something waxing poetic about Thorin's arms around Bilbo's body, the heat he radiates, might be a good idea to get closer to that, don't you think...

The kiss loses some of its impact but nothing of its ferocity, and the second Bilbo lets his lips slack into it, he knows he's past the proverbial point of no return. Thorin rewards that with an appreciative rumble deep within his chest, something that presses all the right buttons for Bilbo, and he stands on his tiptoes to get as close to him as possible, his shirt riding up in the process and the bare skin of his back to the cool stone behind him, a stark contrast with the furnace of Thorin's body and mouth.

Thorin zeroes in on that spot as if it's calling out to him, making Bilbo gasp when his hand travels higher up under the fabric. Bilbo's own hands move from the back of Thorin's neck to the bristle of his beard, and he opens his mouth to invite him in further, a shaky exhale turned into a whine escaping him when Thorin responds more than eagerly...

The sound of a door opening somewhere below them is like a gunshot to their ears, and they part painfully quickly, though neither of them seems to be able to go very far. For a moment, Bilbo's world consists of Thorin's breathing, his chest heaving under his palms, the smell of him, the taste of him, his lips tingling from the less-than-gentle connection.

Thorin is about to say something, but all that comes out is a heavy huff in the end, almost tired, almost relieved.

Bilbo finally gathers enough courage to look him in the eye, and discovers, much to his own surprise, that he's not quite done being angry.

“You absolute idiot,” he exhales, and it's more than a little fond, but yet again, it is the wrong thing to say, apparently – Thorin's almost serene expression cracks in something incredibly hurt, as if he's been struck, and the warmth of him disappears entirely too quickly as he takes a step back.

“Thorin,” Bilbo attempts breathlessly, but to no avail – for a second, he thinks he's getting him back, because he leans closer, but it turns out he's just reaching for his motorcycle helmet resting on the windowsill next to them (the stupidly sensible part of Bilbo wondering how on earth it got there, yes, very important), but then he's gone, and Bilbo actually staggers when he turns away from him, his legs barely carrying him.

“Thorin,” he breathes out again, but he's already halfway down the stairwell, and before Bilbo can bring himself to react in any way, go after him, shout at him, or even just slide down the wall to the floor, he hears the opening and closing of yet another door far off and below, and that's it, really.

Feebly and unsteadily, he brings his fingertips to his mouth, as if checking his lips over for bruises, supporting himself on the windowsill with his other hand and staring out of the window with wide, unseeing eyes, too shell-shocked to form any coherent thought beyond, perhaps, a rather pointless, should have punched him when you had the chance, Bilbo Baggins.

 

Chapter Text

Sometimes things just don't work out the way you'd expect them to. Should have written that down, to remind her that the twists and turns of reality tend to defy any and all expectations one might have. She's never thought of herself as a particularly optimistic person – determined, yes, but never blindly optimistic, because a realistic point of view is the most precious one in her line of work. But despite all that, there's been a not-so-small part of her that's been hoping... that's been thinking, yes, of course this is going to work out. This is their happiness we're talking about, obviously they'll recognize in each other what they've been looking for and won't let it slip away.

Alas, singular people are much more difficult to manage than theatre companies, and Dís has very much reached the end of her rope with... this.

“You could have at least pretended to do some acting up there, you know!”

“Oh, that's excellent advice, yes, coming from someone whose selling point is grinning a lot! Facial expressions, are you familiar with the term?!”

“Yes, thank you, about as familiar as you are with the standing still and waiting for kingdom come choreography!”

“Fellas, fellas,” Dwalin steps in, hollering from behind the bar, “spoiling the mood. Have a drink and settle the hell down, or take this outside.”

Thorin glares daggers at Dwalin, while Bilbo glowers at him – it's a nice little circle of unadulterated hatred they've got going on, and the other members of the ensemble caught in the crossfire look just as uncomfortable as Dís is feeling.

“Yeah, that's fine,” Bilbo throws his hands up, hissing entirely too viciously for a person of his frame and general breeziness, “I'm sure Thorin will be more than happy to slink off and hide all by himself, anyway.”

“Careful, you're telling me what to do,” Thorin spits back equally as nastily, clearly mocking some words uttered between them in the past, and Bilbo takes the blow almost in stride, but Dís notices the momentary flicker of some deeper discomfort in his expression.

“Well, somebody should, since you're clearly incapable of ever just doing anything – oh, unless it is of course taking advantage of-”

“God, I don't have to listen to this!”

“Actually,” Dís steps in firmly, and loudly enough to get through to them, “none of us have to listen to this. If you want to stay in here tonight, you'll shut the hell up – otherwise take this elsewhere, right now.”

The continuation of the fight between Thorin and Bilbo is nonverbal, and thus incredibly childish, from then on – Bilbo quirks his eyebrow, and Thorin shrugs with exaggerated care; Bilbo rolls his eyes and Thorin crosses his arms, but neither of them budge an inch, quite literally stealing the spotlight and ruining everyone's calm post-performance drink by deciding to plop their steaming putrid pile of an argument right in the middle of the lounge.

“You know, Thorin, there's such a thing as reacting-”

“I'm going to knock your heads together, I swear to god,” Dís growls, and some more glaring occurs, but then the moment snaps in half almost imperceptibly. She would have missed it had she not been subconsciously looking for it, the hurt reappearing in Bilbo's eyes – he doesn't necessarily want anyone to see it, she thinks, but it's there nevertheless, and changes his entire posture, making him look somehow smaller, almost vulnerable.

“Sorry,” he says tersely, to no one in particular as he's now firmly staring at the ground, and he slips past Thorin and outside before anyone can so much as peep.

“Jesus bloody Christ,” Dwalin comments when the door clicks shut behind him, and breaking the silence helps break the tension as well, people slowly returning to their drinks and conversations – the looking askance at Thorin theme remains, though.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dís steps closer to him and quite literally prods his chest with her finger – then, when he stares at her numbly and without any intention of explaining himself whatsoever, she opts for a much softer, quieter: “You gonna tell me what's going on, or?”

He opens his mouth as if he might just, and his gaze skids aside, as if he's checking for Bilbo still in the room, but that brief moment of openness is gone quicker than it came, and he clenches his jaw and turns away with an indignant huff, disappearing as well.

“Sweet couple! Not so great with small talk,” Bofur calls from the other side of the room, and scattered laughter follows – Dís' and Dwalin's smiles are equally wry, though, and she leans on the bar heavily, and he fetches her her cider of choice, quick as ever.

“Three weeks,” Dwalin says simply, and Dís hmph's.

“I don't know if that's a blessing or the most horrifying fact I've heard today.”

 

Time has been flying so fast lately, and she doesn't even know when the reviews have stopped talking about 'an explosive beginning of what will be a very unusual and exciting summer at the Erebor Theatre' and moved onto 'looking back at one of the most wonderfully unexpected productions of this summer season' – no wonder she's having trouble pinpointing when and how Bilbo and Thorin have gone from being thick as thieves and running off to lunches and dinners and whatnot, to semi-public shouting matches so very reminiscent of how they used to be when they'd only just met each other.

She wishes that were the most prominent of her troubles sometimes, she really does.

The play is better than good, always has been, and has now crystallized into something truly wonderful, but... it's barely enough, she can sense it. She'd allowed herself to relax for some time, allowed herself to think that every single issue would just miraculously work itself out, that money would start appearing out of thin air, but at the end of the day, the point of the matter is... They've just bought themselves a bit more time. They're always working to buy themselves more time, one more show, one more salary. And that's okay, that's how it's always been and always will be, but it's just... It's this thing they've created. This play itself – the people it has brought together, the energy it has poured into their ancient creaking stage...

It's been almost too good to be true all this time, and it's made her believe that some ideal reality exists out there where it will always be like this. Where management meetings will always be less of a hassle and more of a creative cluster of ideas, where props will be easy to come by and sets easy to build... where people, including her, will be excited to come to work every day, and won't particularly feel like leaving at the end of it. Where hard work will pay off for longer, more than just barely tiding them over one more fiscal quarter.

They all deserve it – they all deserve a goddamn break. Ori deserves to leave the nest and go study costume design and not apprentice under his brother for the rest of his life, and his brother in turn deserves to work with stuff really worth his talent. Dwalin and Bofur and the crew deserve to not worry about something catching on fire each and every night, and deserve all that equipment they've only ever been mentioning in passing all these years, as if it's all just some unattainable daydream.

Thorin deserves this to be the job that sends new opportunities his way – deserves the world, the chance to pursue anything and anyone he wants; not ending up grumpy and alone in his dressing room at the end of it all, mulling over what-if's.

But as it is, life has a funny way of simply continuing and dragging you along whether you like it or not, and Dís is not in the habit of believing in miracles anymore. No, if there is one thing she can continue to rely on, it's the bitter, bitter fact that hard work only ever births more hard work. Oh well.

“I see my wires have been working out for you.”

Speaking of bitter facts – she nearly has to chew the insides of her cheeks not to spit something particularly venomous before she even turns around and affords the newcomer a look.

“Yes, they're perfect, thank you,” she replies politely instead, and scans the auditorium for Thorin while Thranduil makes his way to her through the row of seats, elegant, infuriatingly pompous and out of place as ever here.

“What can I do for you?” she smiles at him beatifically, and he merely stands there for a moment as if she's nothing but air to him, admiring the chaos of the pre-show prep going on on-stage with cold but curious detachment.

He notices his son coming in through the far entrance and raises his hand to him in a faint greeting, and Dís thinks she can see Legolas roll his eyes even at this distance, before ducking backstage.

“Nothing in particular,” Thranduil mumbles after that little exchange, as if lost deep in thought, “is there anything I can do for you?”

She simply glares at him incredulously until he deigns to gaze her way, something akin to a displeased sigh escaping him.

“I was contacted by Azog, I think you should know,” he says simply, scoffing, “again.”

“Why?”

“Apparently, stage crews talk, and my academy supplying you with temporary replacement equipment hasn't slipped his notice.”

“So you lent us a bunch of light bulbs. So what?” Dís grunts.

“So someone has gotten it into his head that I have ulterior motives. More interest than necessary in this... rat-infested place. You know?”

Dís glowers, and wonders, why can't you ever set up an appointment like a normal person? And why can't you talk like a normal person, for that matter? God, I hate owing favors to buffoons.

“I don't know,” she utters coldly, “would you mind elaborating?”

“There's talk of a merger,” Thranduil shrugs, folding his tall frame into one of the seats as if he owns a season pass for it, looking very disinterested in pretty much everything as he continues, “evidently, our favorite critic and the likes of him think that this company cannot survive on its own for much longer, despite the... explosive success of the latest production. Or at least that's what they'd like to write about in their books, I'm sure.”

“Bullshit,” Dís exhales before she can quite stop herself, which, surprisingly enough, makes him smile.

“My sentiments exactly. I would just like to make sure we are on the same page here – I agreed to sponsor this one production, and that is it. I consider it a successful venture, but I have no interest whatsoever in the future of your theatre after it is concluded, no matter what nonsense you fill my children's heads with.”

“We haven't been...” she begins a bit startled, but then she decides today is not the day for head-on confrontation with difficult idiots, and so she continues much more dryly, “I digress. I am grateful for your... support, and for informing me about Azog, again. I don't think we'll be able to avoid each other successfully once he finishes that book of his, but that's beside the point. One co-op production is more than enough, I agree.”

“Very well then,” Thranduil decides after some more careful staring, “but while we are still working together, I would suggest maintaining at least the illusion of transparency.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Dís groans, swiftly getting fed up, and considering not dismissing Dwalin the next time he sends a wary look her way from across the auditorium.

“It means that when there is a special benefactors' showing scheduled, I'd like to not be left wondering why I wasn't invited.”

“Oh, that's... huh?” Dís manages dumbly.

“Stage crews talk,” he offers a surly smile, and she lets out a ragged sigh, sinking into the nearest seat herself.

“That's... not exactly what you think it is, I'm afraid,” she admits, despising the quickly rising curiosity in his eyes with a burning, “it's a... Well, it's definitely not...”

Thorin's gloomy presence is like a collapsing star warping reality around itself, and they both turn to look at him looming behind them.

“Afternoon,” Thranduil greets cheerfully, prompting Dís to sigh and pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Yeah,” Thorin grunts, turning to her without any regard for him whatsoever, “we're doing a benefactors' showing?”

“Oh, so I'm not the last one to know,” Thranduil grins, “how refreshing.”

“Don't you have classes of privileged kids to boss around?” Thorin hisses.

“Aren't you wasting precious slacking off time before your big show tonight?” is Thranduil's breezy response.

“Oh I'm happy to waste it if there's a possibility of punching you in the face-”

“Alright, alright, gentlemen,” Dís interferes somewhat tiredly, “I don't have the capacity for handling you both at the same time. Mister Greenleaf, do you think we could set up an actual appointment?”

She is quite proud of glaring him into submission, and even prouder of Thorin for clamping up and staying quiet for at least a bit.

“That won't be necessary, I think I'll just give you a call, and... Oh, do excuse me.”

They don't notice at first what gets him so excited that he absolutely has to get up and march on over to the other side of the vast room, but when they do, Dís distinctly wishes for the faulty lights to give up on them again right now, if it would help Thorin not glare at a somewhat startled Bilbo accepting Thranduil's greetings and entering into a lively conversation with him.

“What the hell did he want?” Thorin growls and sinks heavily into the nearest seat, and Dís groans in all her pent-up exasperation, letting her head fall back and sprawling over her own chair.

“Nothing much,” she opts for lying blatantly, rather than cleverly, but thankfully her brother doesn't press it further – no, he's far too preoccupied with glaring at Thranduil still, probably hoping the floor might open up and swallow him whole. Bilbo laughs loudly enough for them to hear all the way over where they're sitting, and she feels Thorin's pain, she really does, but there's only so much stupidity she can deal with.

“Doofus,” she prods, punctuating it by punching him in the arm lightly but persistently, and he looks almost offended.

“What? What did I do now?”

“I don't know, why don't you tell me what you did? You still haven't told me what happened after you basically shouted at Bilbo for caring about you, so...”

“Leave it.”

“I can't just leave it, Thorin,” she says softly, “wish I could, because god knows it's causing me an ulcer, but I can't.”

He merely stares at her for the longest time, silent and somewhat tired, if she's any judge of that surly grimace, and then it's one glance in Bilbo's direction followed by hiding behind crossed arms and a trademark pout.

“It doesn't matter.”

“Right,” Dís utters, and when he looks at her somewhat curiously, she only grants him a quirked eyebrow and a very honest: “Look, I don't care. I mean, I do, but... The way I see it, you've got three weeks, not even that anymore, to do... whatever it is you'd like to do. Ask him out, apologize to him and let him go, follow him wherever he goes, I don't care. I just think that leaving things like this-” one fussy wave of her hand is more than enough to describe the entirety of the mess currently going on, “is a pretty awful way to end something that had – scratch that, still has – the potential of being something really special. Just my two cents,” she finishes casually to counter his stormy expression.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly, and she watches him cautiously as he gets up, slowly and almost laboriously – she feels tremendously sorry for him, and wonders when she's gotten this bad at comforting him, but in his own words, it doesn't really matter – not unless he's willing to talk to her himself.

“Oh, by the way,” she calls after him, “there will be a benefactors' showing, which you would know had you attended any of the artistic meetings.”

He only grumbles something incomprehensible and unhappy in response and disappears, avoiding the general vicinity of Bilbo and the unfortunately-still-present Thranduil in a wide arc that spans the entirety of the auditorium, and Dís watches him go with a slowly tightening knot of tension in her gut – she so dislikes lying to him, and there's still a solid chance this idea will blow up in all their faces, but from the pile of their issues, this is the one most easily dealt with, ironically enough.

And so she simply gets to her feet, goes about disposing of some largely unwanted annoying visitors, and hopes for the very best.

-

 

Bilbo despises self pity. There's something about the very idea of wallowing in one's misery that ticks him off. No, he's used to... well, avoiding misery in the first place, but when it does come, he finds it's best to deal with it as quickly as possible and move on along. His whole life, he's been moving on along, really. Onto better opportunities. Past losing all his childhood friends because he decided to go off and see the world. Past the deaths of his parents. Past leaving his home in the hands of his relatives. Now, past losing it altogether. Past... this. Whatever it is.

He hates self pity, but when he goes to work and the first thing he sees is a larger-than-life poster of Thorin and him in one of their more intimate poses, with five stars and an 'Utterly remarkable!' in big bold letters across it, he can't quite escape it.

A part of him wants it to be over already, and no matter how much that part of him terrifies him, it's there every day now. He wants it to be over, and he wants to buy a plane ticket to half a world away, and find out just what moving past this is going to take. If it is real, or if he'll have laughed about it a year from now.

Now he's angry with himself, and furious with Thorin, and if traveling to America or wherever in a month's time will help clear his head, then he's all for it.

“You're gonna set the table on fire.”

He actually has to mentally prepare himself to look Prim in the eye, but evidently, he's not doing a very good job of pretending he's perfectly fine, because she measures him with a very professional look of concerned disbelief.

“Sorry, I'm... elsewhere,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I can see that. Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Alright, fine. Aunt Lobelia called.”

“Screw Aunt Lobelia,” Bilbo swears very earnestly, and it actually manages to bring a tiny sliver of relief.

Prim gives a little surprised chuckle, and Bilbo groans, wondering if planting his head in his plate of pasta would improve things.

“I'm gonna go the Monday after next, alright?” he sighs, “would do it earlier, but we have this special benefactors' thingy next week and, yeah, no time. Never enough time.”

“Bilbo,” she says softly, “you know they'd probably wait until after you're done with Anderson, right? I mean, they'd complain a lot, but they'd have to wait.”

“No,” Bilbo shakes his head, “no. I want this to be over, as soon as possible. The sooner the better. It's eating me alive.”

“Yeah, I can tell. Gonna give you the courtesy of not asking if it's the only thing eating you alive.”

“Thanks a lot.”

 

And, well, that's it, isn't it? Talking about it would make it too real, would make his pain something tangible – it would mean that this meant something, and Bilbo is terrified of admitting that, plain and simple. He knows Prim would listen if he decided to talk after all, and Dís would definitely listen, but he's quite sure he knows what both of them would say. And he doesn't want to burden them. Yes. He wants to not talk about this until it goes away. Good. Very healthy.

Well, the truth is obviously different, he wants nothing more than to talk about it – him, fine, yes, let's use the right words. Thorin, with his stupid infuriating inability to be honest with himself, and his reclusive ways, and his complaining and hiding in his dressing room, and his stupid dingy couch and motorbike and old ugly soft band t-shirts... How much Bilbo misses all of it. How angry he is, and how he falls asleep preparing every variation of every speech he'd very much like to spew in Thorin's face, but very often ends up thinking about distinctly more, yes, tangible things, like the burning sensations Thorin's hands had embedded into his bare skin, and his searing hot lips against Bilbo's, and how all of that had felt like the very first time, even though they'd spent months touching and kissing every day, in front of countless people.

How much he wishes that that everyday routine didn't feel like the absolute worst torment now, with so little time left until the end – no matter what has happened between them, they've helped create something really wonderful here, and Bilbo does want it to end, but he desperately wants it to end well.

“Scooch.”

“Oh, it talks.”

But that no matter how hard he tries, he's just filled with so much righteous rage every time Thorin and him are in the same room nowadays, that he'll probably be glad if he comes out of this unscathed and sane.

“That's what you get for sleeping in,” Bilbo hisses at Thorin, ignoring his scoff and letting him sink into the chair next to him, the only one left at this particular unfortunate impromptu meeting – Bilbo suspects that someone's done this on purpose, made them sit next to each other. If Thorin doesn't stop oozing that annoying disdain and his trademark brand of high-end ennui, Bilbo might actually have to sit on his own hands to keep himself from elbowing him in the ribs.

“Alright then,” Dís announces, a stern look in her brother's direction accompanying her following words, “now that everyone is finally here, we can begin. Bilbo, Miss Goldenwood, this doesn't exactly concern you, but we thought you deserved to know what might be coming your way.”

Bilbo exchanges a look of mild curiosity with Galadriel – she looks politely troubled, and so does Gandalf, and he wonders if he's the last one to know... whatever is going on.

“Everyone's favorite critic is indeed moving ahead with the publication of his book,” Dís states gravelly, and even though Bilbo is attempting to do anything but that, he can sense Thorin tense up next to him.

“He's excellent at raising an interest, and the media are already nattering about it, as you may have noticed. We can't exactly guess at the scope of the damage it might potentially cause us, but we do know that as a company, we want nothing to do with it. In light of that, if any of you are ever approached by anyone with questions about it, the official statement is that Erebor distances ourselves from it, is that clear? Neither Thorin nor me have ever even been asked to authorize any of the background info in it, and we are prepared to take legal steps if it goes too far.”

“Well, we'll be taking some steps, legal or otherwise,” Thorin grumbles, which earns him compassionate laughter.

“We can't exactly forbid any of you from saying anything,” Balin adds much more kindly, “but I'm sure everyone would like this to be handled as quietly and calmly as possible.”

“Everyone excluding Azog, of course,” Dís sighs.

“And me,” Bofur chimes in, “am I allowed to punch him the next time I see him?”

“Now that I'm going to have to forbid you from doing, I'm afraid,” Balin smiles, and Bofur replies with an exaggerated pout, while the others laugh some more.

“We can't control what is said about us out there in the world, either,” Dís addresses Bilbo and Miss Goldenwood with that, “so this is just a polite warning to you two, and an apology in advance if anyone ever bothers you, in the rest of your stay here.”

“I have absolutely no intention of sharing any opinions beyond my work experience here, which has been nothing short of lovely, I assure you,” Galadriel states softly, and the gratitude in Dís' eyes is palpable, and makes something tiny and unnecessarily pained clench in Bilbo's chest.

“Yeah, yes, I'm on board,” he hurries to speak up, “I'll only have nice things to say, should anyone ask.”

He feels Thorin's eyes on him like a searchlight, inspecting and assessing, and he considers it a small achievement that he doesn't give in and look at him.

“That's it then,” Dís declares, “thank you all for understanding. Any questions you might have, ask me or Balin, don't bother Thorin because he'll be mean to you.”

Even more appreciative laughter, except of course for Thorin, who scowls at his sister and shuffles off, letting himself be swept off into a conversation with Gandalf – Bilbo watches them without really wanting to, pondering whether he should join in, or leave right now, or keep staring dumbly, but that decision takes him far too long, it turns out, because he gets slightly blindsided by Dís.

“Can I...?” she starts, sitting down next to him, and he must look truly harried, because she backtracks, looking almost afraid herself, “oh god, I'm not going to interrogate you or anything, don't worry. Man, you don't look good, though.”

“Thanks. To the point?” Bilbo sighs a bit impatiently.

“Right... Right. I was just wondering... well. You wanted me to let you know about any developments with the benefactors' thingy.”

“Right, yeah. Everything alright?” Bilbo shakes his dizziness off somewhat, glancing across the room to make sure no one's listening in. Dís even makes to sit with her back turned to Thorin, just in case.

“Yeah, yep, he was... actually pretty excited when we started planning it,” she says somewhat unsteadily, as if she's still unsure about it all.

“That's great,” Bilbo summons a smile, and then, politely, “will he be okay? I mean...”

“No, no, yeah, I'll be with him the whole time,” Dís explains hastily, “I just...”

She casts a look in her brother's direction as well, obviously worried, and Bilbo wants to interrogate her some more, or perhaps tell her to call it off after all, but then... he sees it in her eyes, just how much she wishes for this to work out, for everything to work out. He doesn't expect this will end as ideally as she's hoping, as they're all hoping, but, well... Wanting to help is ingrained so deeply in his very DNA, that even though he's utterly miserable himself right now, even though he wants nothing more than to figure out how to distance himself from them, from this family and their problems and their happiness and their very lives, if only just to preserve himself, he casts that all aside and moves to put a comforting hand on her forearm.

“Hey,” he smiles at her encouragingly, “it'll go great, I promise.”

 

-

 

Simply just going through the motions is never good when it comes to acting, really. Even when you've been playing a part for years, it's good to always find some spot, some moment, some tiny scene or line or move, that you enjoy. That you always look forward to. Somewhere to experiment, or somewhere to feel safe, or both at once, to make sure that the job doesn't become too repetitive. A bored actor is never a good actor.

He still remembers days when the whole play used to be it, in fact – one big rush of excitement and enjoyable little pieces stitched together into one exhilarating whole. In general, it's always been the scenes with Bilbo, because he could always let go and really sprint ahead at full speed, knowing that Bilbo would be able to keep up and present a challenge at the same time. He would have personal little moments that no one needed to know about, the very first time they touched each night, fingers twining together, or the last couple of lines of their second dialogue in Act Two, a rhythmic snap-snap-snap of words back and forth that would always make the audience laugh particularly joyfully; or opening his eyes right after the Big Snog and feeling cozy in his little reality that consisted of nothing but Bilbo's face for one short second – those were the ones Thorin treasured and found some sort of equilibrium in, easing his mind and regaining energy at the same time.

Not anymore though. No, recently he's had to shut himself off from it, put up a wall between his thoughts and his performance, and make sure absolutely nothing gets through – he's aware enough to know that Bilbo's been doing the same, using the character as a mere mask, and it leaves them with, yes, going through the motions. All the funny little quirks and gestures and intonations that work between them and work on the audience, they keep performing the same way night after night, mechanically and resolutely, because right now, there's safety in mindless repetition.

Thorin despises himself for it, and would despise Bilbo if he didn't know that it's all his own fault, that he's driven them to this.

Even when they're in the same room, even when they're inches apart or not even that, there's an impenetrable barrier between them, and on most days Thorin can convince himself that it's a good thing he's put it there.

After all, this will be over in... a little more than two weeks, and, well, thank god. Mostly relieved, is what Thorin would answer were anyone to ask him how he'll feel then. He's spent the majority of his life beating himself up over things that he'd mucked up, so there will be no difference there, anyway.

I know you're afraid of admitting your feelings, Bilbo had told him. He'd also called him an idiot, only proving further that... well, either that he really does know him, or that Thorin's been horrendously careless with keeping his mess under wraps. Either way, he's definitely let a certain someone too close.

But enough wallowing – time flies, and Thorin has actually been somewhat looking forward to the famed benefactors' showing. It's just a fancy name for seating some of the more influential patrons up in the nicer booths, putting glasses of whatever their poison is in their hands, and mollycoddling them until they promise the company a steady influx of money until their cardiac diseases get the better of them. It of course includes actually talking to them, something that Thorin isn't too keen on on his best days, but right now, he's just glad of... what exactly? He has a very distinct idea about slacking off on stage, getting a drink after, playing nice with a couple of snotty old men and crashing on his couch later – but most importantly, pretending he's too busy socializing for his feelings or his sister or Bilbo to catch up with him. Yes. Good. Might be exactly what he needs, right?

There was a time when he could predict being wrong from miles off, but apparently that ability has left him as well.

Everything goes as usual with the first part of the grand plan – avoiding going backstage until absolutely necessary, avoiding eye contact, or any sort of other contact, with Bilbo, closing his eyes when they put make-up on him and pretending he's elsewhere, switching off the second he steps foot on stage. It's an odd feeling, the first couple of rows gaping empty, the energy and laughter he is so used to siphoning and using as his fuel simply not there, but he makes do. Lets his craft and his skill take over, clear out his head, make his mind utterly blank.

He is actually feeling strangely relaxed in the intermission, enough so that he's capable of joining in on some offhand joke between Bilbo and Bombur and Dori, before Bilbo's eyes are on him for too long and he has to retreat again.

It's also strange – though probably good, given the current state of affairs between them – not going up to do the stage door shindig after the show concludes. But the cast and crew end up joking around instead as make-up is taken off, unanimously deciding to take their sweet time going upstairs – the rich people can wait for a bit, and they'll probably be more manageable slightly tipsy anyway.

He trails after everyone upstairs, already preparing what he'll say should he encounter any of the very many people he can't stand in there, but he's stopped even before he reaches the lounge by a very odd display of some sort of commotion stirring the ranks of his fellow cast members, Bombur muttering something to Bilbo while the others either linger by or go on ahead, and Bilbo's face lighting up, and then, horror of all horrors, he turns to Thorin.

Running away in front of everyone is, of course, next to impossible.

“Come with me,” Bilbo orders him, and he's not exactly smiling, but there's a strange sort of... excitement in his eyes, perhaps.

Thorin's stomach clenches and twists.

“Why, uh... where?”

Now is so not the time, he is so not ready to be resolving anything.

“Oh, relax,” Bilbo sighs, “not going to tell you what to do again. You are coming with me, though.”

They're now miraculously alone in the hallway, and Thorin is too confused to come up with an appropriately snippy response. Bilbo doesn't even wait for him, simply brushes past him heading god knows where, and Thorin... well, Thorin hates the fact that both of them know that he's going to follow.

“What is going on?” he demands, less harshly than he'd planned to.

Bilbo says nothing, simply marches in the direction of... what, the costume workshop?, and Thorin is suddenly almost petrified to ask any more questions, except for a confused and angry 'What the hell are we doing here?' when they do in fact stop in front of the door to Dori's kingdom.

“Look,” Bilbo says harshly, turning around to face him and looking, if anything, tired, “when you go in there, I just want you to know... If you feel the need to get pissed at someone again, come find me. Dís is just... she's trying to do a nice thing.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Thorin manages, after a period of nothing but dumb staring.

“Just go,” Bilbo exhales, stepping aside as if he's motioning him to move on ahead.

Thorin glares, and turns to glare again when he puts his hand on the door handle, but Bilbo just stands there and glares back, and if Thorin was once excellent at reading his facial expressions, he's certainly failing now. Bilbo nods to him, lips a thin tense line, and Thorin shakes his head, shrugging, and steps inside.

It's quiet and cool in the workshop, the familiar scent of piles of clean fabrics lingering in the air, the ancient tall lamp in the corner the only source of the dim golden light, and his father is sitting in Dori's old armchair.

-

 

Bilbo only sees it because his body is momentarily refusing to respond, his legs unable to carry him away from there quickly enough. Hell, he can't even move on and close the door. He sees the shock in Thorin's face, and Dís rising to her feet quickly, explaining everything, Thorin listening simply because he seems to be too stunned to do anything else. Gandalf and Dori are there too, and they are all moving slower, talking quieter, as if the most important person in that room might spontaneously combust if they don't.

Bilbo watches, barely breathing, as Thorin's father rises from his seat, a smile on his face – he is everything but frail, tall and broad just like his son, but there is a certain ghastly quality about him, the faintest gaunt of his cheeks and the shadows his eyes hide in. He tells his son words Bilbo cannot hear, not even because he's too far off, but simply because they don't get to him. He feels like he's watching an old family video with the sound off, grainy and shaky, but capturing perfectly the warmth between all the participants. Dís' hand on her brother's shoulder, speaking to him softly to settle him. Their father refusing to sit back down, and instead pacing the cluttered room, with everybody all but running after him, as if a man of his stature needs a caretaker or four at all.

Gandalf making him laugh, and Thorin smiling a smile that Bilbo suspects doesn't come to him consciously. Thorin looking about twenty years younger when his father takes his hands in his and, presumably, talks to him about the performance. More laughter. Thorin asking for an explanation, again and again, until Dís relents, and motions with her head to Bilbo, who is, against all that is wise and good, still standing there in the doorway.

Thorin's gaze snaps to him, but he's not angry, or frightened, or disappointed, or any of the things Dís and Bilbo had worried he might be – no, he looks... Different. Softer around the edges. There might be people beckoning him to come inside and join them, but all that Bilbo can concentrate on is Thorin's eyes. All that he can see is the smile, coming to life like the sun coming up in the morning, and... And then something snaps, and hurts, and steals away all of Bilbo's breath, and a sharp ache rises in his throat – afraid and not entirely sure he's even remotely capable of going on, he turns on his heel and runs away.

-

 

“Well, frankly Dad, I don't think Peter Sellers will be willing to star in our next production, you know, no matter how much he'd enjoy it.”

“Oh, you're just saying that because he's dead.”

“Well... yeah. Yes.”

Dís laughs quietly, and doesn't even have to look to sense that the broad smile hasn't left Thorin's face all this time. She checks on their father in the rear view mirror instead, the sharp lines of his face seemingly changing every time a new streetlight illuminates them in a different way, and she thinks of victories. Small ones, the ones you're allowed to be happy about even though they don't mean much to anyone besides yourself – or perhaps exactly because of that.

Thorin and Dad carry on with the idle chatter all the way back to the nursing home, and Dís spends that time only occasionally chiming in, but mostly working on preserving in her mind the way he'd looked tonight, sitting in that booth and leaning forward in his seat to see better, drinking in the performance with every fiber if his being. They'd spent so much time worrying about it all being too much for him, about overwhelming him with sensations or whatever, that they never stopped to consider that it might be exactly the thing he needed.

And Thorin had looked angry, seemed furious for about two seconds when he saw him sitting there, waiting for him after the show, but then he melted quicker than Dís could have ever anticipated, and here he is, talking so effortlessly about his work with a man he couldn't even stand to look in the eye in the past, and yes, there's a victory in that.

They both hook their arms with their father's as they lead him inside, and assure the nurses that everything went just fine, and against everything she knows to be sensible, Dís suddenly wishes with all the ferocity of a twelve-year-old girl losing both her parents to take him home instead of leaving him here, tuck him in bed and make him his favorite eggs in the morning.

“Can I come for lunch sometime?” he asks almost sheepishly, standing there holding onto her hand like a lifeline, looking smaller and so much older than she'd ever let herself see him before.

“Only if you bring Peter Sellers with you, Dad,” Thorin jokes, and Thrain scowls at him.

“Whenever you want,” Dís says firmly, kindly, “we'll set something up, alright?”

“Hmm,” Thrain comments.

“Goodnight then, Dad.”

“Goodnight, daisy girl.”

He's as soft and warm and sweet as he was when she was twelve, and she lingers after the kiss she plants on his cheek, lingers and memorizes it all.

“Night, Dad. No more talking to deceased actors at night, okay?” Thorin quips and makes him laugh, and they exchange an embrace and a couple of mumbled words Dís doesn't have to hear to recognize.

Side by side, they watch him walk away and disappear, and Dís hooks her arm around Thorin's elbow and lays his head on his shoulder in a display of sisterly affection she hasn't indulged in in some time, listening to him exhale, a huff that is equal parts relief and happiness, she chooses to believe.

“Sorry I didn't tell you,” she mutters as they walk back to the car, neither of them in any particular rush to get anywhere.

“Nah,” he sighs, “it worked out for the best, I guess.”

He sounds, if anything, subdued, a serenity to his features that Dís really doesn't want to disrupt, but then again, it's so rare these days that it would be a shame not to exploit it at least a little bit.

“Thanks,” he utters before she can continue, probably hoping she won't hear him in the rumble of the car starting up.

“For what?” she smiles.

“For... proving me wrong. I think.”

“Ah, my pleasure, as always.”

“And it was really...?” he trails off.

“Bilbo's idea? For the most part, yeah. Well, we knew we wanted this, for Dad to see it, and obviously we had to work around, well, you, and... I did apologize enough, right? For lying to you about it?”

“It's fine,” he says quietly, eyes glued to the road ahead.

“Okay then. But yeah, I told him we were worried about the crowds and everything when it came to actually taking Dad to see the play in the theatre itself, and he sort of came up with the idea of killing two birds with one stone with the benefactors' thing.”

Thorin doesn't respond to that, but she can sense he's not particularly tense – just lost in thought.

“Dad likes him, by the way,” she says, only half innocently.

“They met?”

“Not officially, no. No time, since Bilbo disappeared so abruptly. But Dad couldn't stop talking about him when we were waiting for you. He thinks he has a certain... old school Chaplin comical quality, were the words I think he used.”

Thorin actually bursts into quiet laughter, and she watches him with no small amount of wonder, the crinkles around his eyes as he grins, his mind no doubt on Bilbo.

“Yeah, I can see that,” he chuckles.

 

Something changes. It's almost imperceptible, and it's almost certainly not enough, but she's vowed not to press either Thorin or Bilbo, and so she simply observes. Yeah. It goes against her very nature, but what else can she do? Order them to get together? Actually lock them up in a cramped broom closet and refuse to let them out until they've sorted things?

No, as it is, she can only be glad they've at least discovered they don't have to yell at each other anymore. The tension is still palpable, though, and she considers taking Dwalin up on his offer of a bet a couple of times every day – will they, or will they not, come to any sort of resolution before closing night?

It's two weeks away at first, then ten days, then a week. And nothing. Dís knows that Thorin has been pining and hurting in that quiet way of his all this time, but as it is, he'd much rather remain silent forever, so to speak, then say one more thing to upset Bilbo, she figures. Romantic in its own way or just plain stupid, it's difficult to tell.

Either way, she feels bad for him – she is already missing Bilbo herself. He's become such an intrinsic and valuable part of... well, everything. The ensemble, the weekend lunches, the usual afternoon crowd at the theatre, everything. She's been giving him all the space he needs lately, because she knows what he's trying to do. Has seen it, in one variation or the other, in many people over the years, including her brother. Distancing yourself for the sake of not forming any attachments that would hurt too much upon breaking. She figures both Thorin and Bilbo are long past that point, but eh, let them all live in their illusions, right?

Which is why she decides to be very indulgent on that Monday – the last Monday before closing night later that week – when Bilbo takes that arduous trip back to his old family house, and Thorin sees fit to hang around her place and mope. She saddles him with babysitting duties to take his mind off things, and it seems to work – she returns in the afternoon to find her sons appropriately sunburnt and muddy from, apparently, playing soccer, and makes them all lemonades, and soon enough, the apartment is filled with people, and there's little time for anything but making Dwalin help her prepare dinner, and so everything seems more or less back to normal. As if there isn't a Bilbo-sized gap right there in the living room.

“Why isn't Bilbo here today?”

Others seem to be more perceptive, of course. Kili is perched atop Thorin on the couch, looking down at him with all the serious expectation of a six-year-old, and the adults make it obvious that they're curious as well to know his answer. Thorin sighs and looks from his nephew to Dís, who only shrugs.

“He had to take a trip,” he says at last.

“Where? Why couldn't we go?”

“It's a... personal trip. He'll be back tomorrow.”

“He said that he has another job after you finish the play,” Fili chimes in, currently seeing how many times he can spin around on the piano stool in one go.

“...That's true,” Thorin admits quietly.

“But we'll see him again, right? It's not like he's going away forever?” Fili asks his questions perfectly innocently, obviously completely unaware of what he's doing to his Uncle by asking them.

“I don't know,” Thorin mumbles.
“Alright, guys, hand wash time,” Dís decides to be a little bit helpful, ushering her sons out of the room, to give Thorin some peace, for at least a short while, for which he is grateful even though he does not show it.

 

The phone rings when they're in the middle of dinner, and all things considered, Dís thinks that that is how it had to go – she should have seen it coming.

She doesn't have to ask who's on the other line, Thorin's face betrays pretty much everything – she only exchanges a pointed look and a raised eyebrow with Dwalin, who sniggers into his pasta, not subtly at all. Thorin glowers, but keeps on talking anyway.

“Wait, wait, hold on, why not? Isn't there, like, a late-night bus or something?”

The fork with his penne is stuck halfway to his mouth, and Dís' appetite has been replaced by curiosity.

“Oh. Right. Well, yeah, that does suck. I, uh... No, it's fine. Bilbo, it's fine.”

At the mention of Bilbo's name, even Balin looks up, having politely pretended not to listen up until that point, and Fili and Kili perk up as well, though Dís forces them to keep their mouths shut for now.

“Yeah, it's not that long a drive. Yeah, don't... don't worry about it. Yes. Yeah, I know. Just text me the address, alright? Yeah. Shut up. I'll be there soon. Ish. Okay. Bye.”

Pretending as if nothing has happened, Thorin returns to his meal, staring at it in a very clear attempt to either make it boil all over again, or avoid their looks.

“What's up?” Dís asks when she can take it no longer, and Thorin exhales raggedly.

“That was Bilbo.”

“Yeah, we got that. What's wrong?”

“He, uh... Apparently his house is in the middle of nowhere, and he missed the last bus back here, so I'm gonna give him a lift, if that's alright with everyone.”

“No, yeah, that's incredibly noble of you,” Dís offers graciously, and Dwalin tries and fails to disguise his snort of laughter as a cough.

“It's just a... He'd have to wait until like noon tomorrow to get back here, and since we have a performance in the evening...”

“No, no, go, please,” Dís is having a blast, “do you want to borrow one of my sleeping bags, or...?”

“Very funny. That's hilarious. Are you going to give me your car or what?”

“My car? Why can't you take the bike?”

She already knows the answer, it'll be late, the drive isn't actually that short, but she enjoys watching him squirm for a bit nevertheless.

“You can have my car,” she decides with a great sigh just when he's about to offer up this or that explanation, and he narrows his eyes at her, almost expecting a but, which, unfortunately, she remembers all too soon.

“No, shoot, I gotta drive the boys to school tomorrow actually-”

“Take mine,” Dwalin resolves the situation incredibly quickly and impressively, fishing in his pocket and throwing the keys to his ancient Volvo to Thorin, somehow managing to wink at Dís before he declares, “go now. You wouldn't want to keep Bilbo waiting.”

He glares some more, but over the years, they have all perfected the impenetrably innocent look of a group of people who are seconds away from teasing the crap out of him, but have for now graciously decided against it, and eventually, he remembers that it's in his best interest to get the hell out of there, rather than endure them a minute longer.

“Thanks for dinner,” he says gruffly at least.

“You're welcome. Be nice,” Dís smiles brightly.

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do,” Dwalin adds helpfully.

“Leaves my options wide open, buddy,” Thorin quips, but realizes soon enough what he's said and somehow manages to flee the room before they burst into laughter.

“What wouldn't you do?” Fili is curious to find out from Dwalin, who only laughs some more and ruffles his hair.

“Oh, a lot of things, cowboy,” he starts broadly, and upon Dís' vaguely warning look, finishes with a nice enough, “leaving my dinner unfinished would be number one.”

“Mum, did Uncle Thorin take your sleeping bag? Are Bilbo and him going to have a sleepover?” Kili asks, and Dís chokes on one of the last remaining bites of her dinner.

“Something like that,” Dwalin nods sagely, “actually, a tenner says your Mum won't be touching her sleeping bag with a ten-foot pole for the next-”

“Dwalin.”

 

The point is this – she's been wracking her mind trying to come up with a way to help, to resolve this, to move things along, to see her brother be happy for a bit, but it always ends up like this, doesn't it? Something entirely unexpected getting in the way, or, if someone's lucky, moving things ahead. Thorin might really end up just picking Bilbo up and giving him a ride back to the city, but that's not how these things work – or, at least she hopes it isn't. She hopes with all her might that real life will be merciful for once, and allow Thorin and Bilbo to have... if not a happy ending, then at least a happy something, a happy five minutes or, hell, a happy night, whatever. Whatever they need, or can come up with, really.

It's out of her hands now, it really is, and she realizes that fully when the text message arrives, mere minutes before she falls asleep. She reads it with bleary eyes, and giggles quietly, and sleeps very peacefully that night.

Pay up, Dwalin writes, your brother's having a countryside sleepover.

 

Chapter Text

He first realizes that he's terrified when he sees the green lacquer of the front door peeking at him from among the rose bushes, trimmed unnaturally short. Still, it's easier to pretend around people, it always is, and he lets nothing on as Prim and Drogo show him in – he'd half expected an immobilizing wave of emotions to hit him upon stepping foot in the hall, but it doesn't come, though mostly because he doesn't let it, probably.

Sunlight is pouring in through the windows and veils everything in a dream-like golden haze, but Bilbo just stands there, and realizes he recognizes nothing. Most of the old furniture has been sold, or moved to either Prim's or Lobelia's house, replaced with furbishing suitable for presenting the house to buyers. Hell, even the carpets are different. And the wallpaper in the living room. And the tiles in the damn bathroom.

“Everything off your list is accounted for,” Prim reminds him for the hundredth time, watching him like a hawk as his fingertips trail the wood of the kitchen table, one of the very few original things in the house, “though you might want to have a little talk with Lobelia about the silverware. She swears it must have been the renovation crew, but you know she'd always been eying those spoons...”

Bilbo doesn't care. He walks the span of the kitchen to gaze out into the garden through the patio door, and behind him, Prim clears his throat, the sound so stupidly familiar, and he is afraid, afraid that if he turned around right now, he'd see his mother standing by the kitchen sink in her impractically white apron, preparing dinner and humming quietly. Then again, maybe he's afraid he wouldn't.

“Would you guys mind... leaving me here alone for just a bit?” he mutters, then turning at them to explain almost shamefully, “I just thought I'd...”

“It's fine,” Prim says softly, not badgering him or questioning him for once, “just give me a call, okay?”

“I can drive you to the bus station,” Drogo suggests, and Bilbo has a dumb moment of just staring at them, standing there side by side, Drogo's arm around Prim's waist, and really seeing his parents in them, the only way he really remembers them together, when they were both still young.

“No, that's... I think I'll walk, actually,” he shakes it off and selects a small smile, hoping it'll be enough, “you guys have a long way to drive yourselves, don't worry about me.”

“Bilbo...”

“It's okay, Prim. I'll be okay. Besides, you should go home, be with your husband for once, for crying out loud. Before I steal you off to the other side of the globe, remember?”

Making them laugh comes about as easily to him as laughing along, but fortunately it works, and Prim is convinced, or at least decides to play along.

“Call me if you want to take anything else. Literally anything, I'm sure that whatever we steal is ours.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” he chuckles, feeling properly surreal as he leads them to the front door to see them off, as if he never left, as if he's always lived here.

“I'll see you on Saturday, then?” she continues to fret, “keep the keys, you can give them to me then.”

“Yeah, yes, don't worry so much,” Bilbo smiles, but she still sizes him up and down, her best scrutinizing look, and they both know nothing is entirely okay, but for once, she has decided to give him his space for whatever reason, even though he's too tired to maintain his usual cheery mask for periods of time longer than a couple of seconds.

“Fine,” she concedes at long last, “just don't miss the bus.”

 

He misses the bus. It's a combination of... well, sleep, and more sleep. He wanders for a bit, after just standing stock still and staring at nothing in particular after they leave, and the garden disappoints him – or, more accurately, the lack of anything even vaguely resembling his mother's handiwork upsets him, so much that he goes to hide inside the house again, leaving the patio door open, warm September afternoon air wafting in. He gets the distinct idea that he shouldn't be here, shouldn't disturb... whatever this is. Peace isn't the right word.

He walks up the stairs, reluctant to do so but somehow convincing himself that he can't leave until he braves it, and stands on the doorstep of his mother's bedroom only as long as absolutely necessary, before he has to turn away. Maybe it would have been much more scarring if it had remained untouched, he doesn't know.

His own room is... tinier than he remembers it. The bed isn't his bed, and the walls are no longer pea green, and there's no wardrobe now to sit and hide in, and so he sinks to the floor instead, sits there a bit pointlessly for a bit, gazing out of the window. The branches of the oak are now low and long over the fence, reaching as far as the well, too.

Bilbo pads downstairs again, and the house is too quiet around him, almost anticipatory, is this what you expected? What did you even come here for?

He doesn't know. Lies down on the couch in the living room – also one of the old original things there, too old for anyone to want it, they'd agreed, with just a plaid over it to hide its hideousness, the tacky flower pattern screaming Aunt Lobelia – and tries to think, and falls asleep instead.

 

'Made it?' Prim's message wakes him, and he stares blearily at the shadows prolonging on the hardwood floor (Mum had always wanted that, it does look nice) and texts back without really thinking about why, 'Yeah. See you Saturday.'

Maybe it's the distance. Nobody knows where he really is right now, and he doesn't have to answer to them. He can pretend like he's fifteen again, for at least a moment or two, excited about having the house to himself for the evening. He can postpone reality, and not think about his job, or the fact that he has no way of getting back to Ered Luin right now, or that he has a performance tomorrow, and another one after that, or the closing night on Saturday...

Of course, he doesn't do very well with not thinking about things, and by the time he's googled his doom, finding out that yes, he's going to have to catch a bus at five in the morning if he wants to get back in time at all, he's started cursing himself for being stupid, and nostalgic.

His pride won't let him tell Prim how things really are, and so, moping and evaluating his entire damn existence in the span of one strange evening, he calls the only other person he can think of.

-

 

That damn place really is in the middle of nowhere. Dwalin doesn't even have a GPS in his car, and the one in Thorin's phone has stopped registering any and all recognizable roads about two miles back – by the time he forces the Volvo to rattle up the grassy hill, he's asked for directions twice and he's losing his temper quicker than the car is losing the will to move forward.

He's had about two hours of mind-numbing country roads to navigate, and mind-numbing country radio stations to pretend to listen to while he contemplated every single messed up decision that has led him to this point, and so he's... not even really sure what mood he's in anymore. The amalgam of exhaustion, frustration and an underlying fright of confrontation can't really be quantified by words very well.

Which is why, when Bilbo takes forever to answer the door, and does so looking equally as haggard and indecisive, Thorin doesn't even have a snarky rebuttal ready, simply follows him inside.

Two hours in a car pondering every possible outcome of this, and 'sitting cross-legged on the patio and eating leftover pizza' never once entered his mind.

They don't speak much, or at least not about anything important.

“Nice house,” Thorin says, and Bilbo scoffs, though it comes across as more of a sad sigh, than anything else.

“Yeah, well. Very little here is actually... well, what it used to be. Kind of feel like I'm trespassing, to be honest with you.”

And yet he sits hugging his knees like a little kid, and gazes into the night with a distant sort of longing in his eyes, as if he's been missing this place his whole life, but now that he's here, that feeling hasn't really disappeared yet. He catches Thorin staring, and holds his gaze, but whatever they might like to say is currently non-communicable between them, and so they just look at each other for a moment, before Bilbo returns to the dark shapes of the greenery, and Thorin to picking at the wood of the patio floor with his fingernails.

“There's two rabbits and a guinea-pig buried under that tree, by the way.”

Bilbo says it so casually, so somberly, that Thorin snorts a laugh and promptly ends up choking on the pizza crust he's been nibbling at.

“Oh my god.”

“Yeah. I think I insisted. Daisy, the first rabbit, died when I was, what, eight? I pretended I could talk to her through my bedroom window in the night, before going to bed.”

“Amazing.”

“I know. When Violet and Potato joined her, I would leave out little snacks for them and I think my Mum would pick them up in the night to keep the show going.”

“Please tell me Potato was the guinea-pig.”

“Oh, yeah, yes he was. Crafty, huh?”

“Almost as crafty as pagan rituals with food offerings to your deceased pets.”

They're both laughing now, and maybe that's it? Maybe that's all it takes. Well, it's definitely all it will ever take anymore. The tension is still there, weighing down on both of them equally, he can sense it far too well, and they won't be getting rid of that any time soon – certainly not like this, not here, not by... not talking.

“Drink?” Bilbo suggests almost cautiously, and Thorin glances at him.

“Driving,” he reminds him.

“Oh, right, no, yeah, I don't even think there's any alcohol in the house, hah. I was thinking tea.”

Neither of them even attempts to pretend that they're in any way comfortable, but Thorin... well, Thorin won't be asking Bilbo when they're leaving. Won't be trying to stir up a discussion, and certainly won't be reminding him that they're still officially not speaking to each other.

“Sure,” he shrugs, and Bilbo gets up and hurries inside like a bird set free, fleeing as fast as possible.

The second he's almost sure he's gone, Thorin exhales raggedly and lies down on his back on the wood, arms crossed under his head – he doesn't remember feeling so clueless, well, ever. He closes his eyes and listens, just listens for a while, and is reminded of spending summer holidays at Beorn's, sleeping in one room with Frerin and D í s, the buzzing of the insects and other distant noises of the night coming in through the open window. Nights in the countryside sound so different, and suddenly he just wants to ask Bilbo, why would you ever want to leave this place behind? Stay here forever.

Stay here forever so that I can pretend you're timeless, pristine and always just somewhere there, just a car ride away. That would be nice.

He listens to the sounds of him moving around the house, his footsteps, and the water running, mugs clinking and the kettle beginning to boil... His eyes flutter open when Bilbo curses under his breath, and a smile tugs at his lips quite unwittingly.

“Need some help?” he calls.

Silence.

“I'm fine, thanks.”

Followed by the sound of something crashing and breaking, and yet another curse, louder and very much legible this time.

Thorin springs to his feet and hurries to see what's wrong, only to find Bilbo dancing over the shards of a jar that once held a hoard of teabags, which have now spilled all over the floor, like colorful puzzle pieces in their paper wrappings.

“You okay?”

“I'm fine, I'm – shit. Yeah.”

“You cut yourself, dumbass. Let me help you-”

“No, leave it, it's okay, it's just a scratch.”

“Yeah, right. Get away from the damn glass, would you? Just-”

“God, Thorin, leave it!”

He doesn't even look at him, assessing the mess with an exasperation bordering on desperation, and Thorin knows to back off, knows it's the best course of action. He leaves Bilbo behind, cleaning up and sucking on his cut thumb, and sits outside again, pondering... He's not exactly angry, which troubles him. He knows what to do with angry. Frustrated concern isn't really his forte.

After what might be a couple of minutes or an hour, Bilbo reappears, pushing a steaming mug into his hands and sitting down next to him, radiating tension in almost physical waves, but Thorin refrains from commenting.

“Blood on the floor?”

Well, up to a point, anyway.

“Fortunately not.”

It's the most annoying of all cliches, but the crickets do take over then, filling the silence between them with varying degrees of success.

“It was one of my Mum's old mason jars,” Bilbo peeps, as if it's really important for Thorin to know, “didn't know we still had that. She always kept it up in the highest shelf, even though I told her not to, god. Unlike me, she always managed not to drop it, which is funny since she was a head shorter than me, too...”

His voice dies off entirely on its own, and Thorin stares into the swirling void of his raspberry-flavored tea, childishly afraid to look and see if maybe, he isn't crying.

“Could have gotten that for you, you know,” he mutters somewhat pointlessly, then glances sideways to see Bilbo picking at the plaster on his thumb, found wherever and sporting a fetching zoo-animals pattern, “it's okay to let people help you.”

Bilbo chuckles, but when Thorin summons enough resolve to look him in the eye, the look he meets with is as far from amused as it gets – no matter how hard he tries, no matter how good he is at it, Thorin has long since learned to see through that cheery outer facade.

“I'll try to remember that, thanks,” Bilbo scoffs.

“I'm serious,” Thorin mumbles, and Bilbo rolls his eyes, irritated for a brief moment, then sighs as if giving in: “Well, I did call you to come pick me up, didn't I.”

“Yeah. Good on you. Making real progress there.”

“Shut up,” he retorts fondly, and they return to staring at nothing in particular, sipping their tea and sharing... not exactly a companionable silence, but something almost as bearable as that.

I know you, Thorin wants to remind him, watching the lines and edges of his upturned face lit up by the soft glow from inside the house. I know you, and I kind of wish I didn't, because what am I going to do with it all if I can't put it to use?

I know enough, Bilbo had told him, spat at him, and Thorin wanted with all his being not to believe him – but even worse than admitting that he was right, was admitting that it worked both ways. He doesn't know everything about Bilbo, not by a long shot, but the things he has managed to pick up on, are more than enough to... what? Make him wish he had more time to learn the rest, probably. Fantastic.

“You're missing the stars,” Bilbo notes gently, as if he only really means to remind Thorin that he's been staring all this time, but as far as he's concerned, this view is better. Still, he tears his eyes away from Bilbo's face and looks up too. He could say a dozen things, point out the obvious, that one can always see so much more of the stars when outside the city, tell Bilbo about Frerin some more, Frerin who used to be able to name all of the constellations and spent a great deal of time making up his own, but none of that really matters now. He wonders if anything really does, if anything would have the power to get them out of this rut.

“I'm sorry.”

He's kind of surprised the words come from his own mouth, but then again, better late than, well, the other option. Bilbo doesn't look at him still, simply sighs, shoulders slumping, closing his eyes briefly.

“Yeah, me too.”

“No, you don't... You shouldn't be apologizing,” Thorin decides.

“We've both done a lot of stupid things.”

“Yeah, but I'm thinking I was the bigger asshole, I mean-”

“If we're going to turn even an apology into another fight, then we're not doing this.”

Bilbo's eyes are soft, almost kind, and Thorin is a bit short of breath. He's right – it's so much easier to slip into banter, then bickering, then let the edges sharpen until they find themselves with yet another insurmountable wall of misunderstandings between them. They don't have the time for this, not anymore.

“Okay then,” he exhales, subdued, “how do we do this?”

“Gee, I don't know,” Bilbo sounds exhausted, more than anything, “you apologize for trying to get your point across by kissing me against a wall and then pretending it never happened, I apologize for not trusting you or myself enough to talk about it, we shake hands, you drive us back, and this time next week we'll be on opposite sides of the world. Is that what you want?”

“Not really,” Thorin says meekly, and Bilbo smiles at his own hands cupping the mug in his lap.

“Yeah, me neither. I don't know what else to do, though.”

He looks so lost, Thorin realizes. So tiny and unsure, like he wouldn't know what the next step would be, even if he somehow managed to summon enough courage to make it. Not for the first time, but perhaps for the last, Thorin sees him for who he really is, no professional masks in place, not even a hint of acting. He's beautiful, and it scares the crap out of him.

“Why did you bring me here?” he asks, and Bilbo frowns at his tea instead of him.

“You have a car,” he grumbles.

“No I don't. I have a damn motorbike. It's Dwalin's car. Dís has a car. Bofur has a car. Your cousin has a car. Any one of them could have come for you, with a bit of convincing.”

And all of them would have loaded you up and taken you away from here after about five minutes.

“What do you want me to say? I thought of you first.”

“Okay.”

They are staring at each other now, finally, but it helps precisely nothing. Thorin doesn't feel like he's been using the right words. Maybe there are none. But he'll keep on trying anyway, because that's all they've got left. A couple of days, and a lot of words.

“You were right, you know,” he starts over, and decides to take the quirk of Bilbo's eyebrow as a good sign, continuing more steadfast, “about my Dad, about... all of that. I was... afraid, for the longest time.”

Bilbo inclines his head.

“Still am, fine. Still am. But I feel like lately... Look, I've been trying, alright. I'm not the best at this, yeah? We've agreed on as much. It's not exactly the easiest of things to come to terms with, knowing that we could be... Knowing that this could be... good, and still also knowing that if I don't let you – let you go your own way, I'll be the biggest asshole of them all. You know?”

Bilbo just stares, frozen, his eyes a bit wide and a bit glassy, and he's never made it easy on Thorin and never will, but still, he wishes for... something. Then don't let me go, Bilbo would say, and Thorin would refuse to, and that would be it. You're an idiot to think we would ever have a chance, Bilbo would confirm his nightmares in another version of this reality, and he'd back off and never pursue anything like this, ever again.

But no, as it is, Bilbo is just as clueless as he is, and neither of them are better off, neither of them have the answers right now.

As if he's on some exploratory mission, Bilbo gets up and motions mutely for Thorin to hand him his empty mug, and then when he does, he looks from it into his eyes, as if he's seeing both for the first time – he bends down, mugs in one hand, the other one clutching gently for support at Thorin's shoulder, and presses a kiss to his lips, light and tentative, searching for a solution and yet preemptively knowing that it won't be found here.

Before Thorin can reach for him, or reciprocate properly, or anything, he's gone again, trailing inside the house, giving absolutely no indication whether Thorin should follow him or stay put – he decides himself after sitting numbly for a bit, and gets up, right or wrong be damned.

“We should go,” Bilbo tells him, washing mugs that don't really need to be washed so thoroughly, and Thorin leans on the door frame, watching him.

“If you want.”

“We... we need to get some sleep, right,” Bilbo muses, drying the mugs furiously with a dishcloth he'd found god knows where, “and it'll be a long ride back, I mean, how long did it take you? Two, three hours, to get here?”

“Something like that, yeah,” Thorin mumbles, taking a step closer.

“Alright then, let's not waste any more time. We'll be lucky if we don't get lost on the way down to the village, you know, I barely – god dammit – barely remember the roads, and...”

“Let me,” Thorin says softly, Bilbo's voice successfully having died off at their sudden proximity – Thorin leans over him to gently pry the mug out of his hands and place it on the highest shelf with an ease that only comes with the appropriate height.

He takes the other one as well, and Bilbo has grown very still in front of him, hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, his head hung low.

“It's okay to let others help you,” Thorin reminds him, his own voice betraying him and coming out much huskier than he'd intended, and Bilbo chuckles a bit breathlessly.

“That's rich, coming from you,” he notes, but then he's facing Thorin and his eyes are humorless, and there's no room left to maneuver, figuratively or otherwise.

Bilbo gasps softly when Thorin moves in, but he's ready, they both are – in one sweeping, languid motion, he throws his arms around his neck and Thorin heaves him up to sit on the counter, their kiss never wasting time with timid or careful. They both need it, and it's enough. Bilbo's hands move from the back of his neck to cradle his cheeks in exactly the way that drives him crazy, and he tilts Thorin's head to suit himself, very much calling the shots, and Thorin is happy to let him.

Words come difficult to them, probably always will, but this feels entirely natural, like the only remotely right thing to do now.

They might not have enough time to figure out the rest, but Thorin realizes that he'd always regret not taking this chance. Bilbo's lips and the breathy little moans slipping past them only cement that conviction, and Thorin can only hope he feels the same – but judging by the way he clings onto him, shuddering and melting when Thorin's hands find their way underneath his t-shirt, there's nothing to be worried about on that front.

“I'm sorry,” he attempts once again, but Bilbo refuses, shaking his head, his kisses hungrier, and when he sucks at Thorin's bottom lip, wringing out a broken little noise he didn't know he had in him, he decides to forfeit words altogether, after all.

They're on unfamiliar ground, but maybe it's for the best – maybe it'll allow them to pretend like this never happened, and maybe it makes them both feel safer, somehow. Maybe Thorin can't think more than three seconds ahead right now, and none of that matters. What matters is that Bilbo is right here, right now, demanding and reciprocating in equal measure, and Thorin thinks that even if they were to spend lifetimes together, he'd never get enough of him.

The yelp that Bilbo lets out when he buries his nose in the crook of his neck carries the beginnings of Thorin's name, and only serves to fuel him further – he mouths at the baby-soft skin of his throat, branding even though he's not entirely sure he's allowed to, but Bilbo does nothing but entice him, his back arching, hands scrabbling for purchase on his back.

It is when Thorin becomes bolder, thumbs brushing at the soft curves of his stomach, tugging at the hem of his trousers, that the pace changes on Bilbo's side as well.

“Thorin,” he he gasps, pleasure waking up like a ravenous beast deep in Thorin's gut at that, “not... not here...”

He snarls, enjoying the way Bilbo wriggles and fails at tempering his moans when he makes his intentions clear, but eventually, he tenses up tangibly enough for Thorin to sense it, and retreat, though he's not exactly capable of retreating very far.

“Sorry,” he exhales shakily, “sorry, I...”

“No, it's fine, it's fine,” Bilbo hurries to assure him, holding him close still, nosing at his cheeks, planting a kiss here and there, “it's okay, it's just... not here. Not here.”

All air leaves Thorin's lungs in one ragged huff that might actually be relief, and he hangs his head, pressing their foreheads together and breathing, just breathing for a moment. Bilbo holds, his fingers tangled in the curls on the base of Thorin's neck, and smiles against his lips when Thorin kisses him again, infinitely more tender now, as if they're reevaluating, only ever starting to find their footing with each other.

Entirely effortlessly, Thorin lifts him off the counter and into his arms, and Bilbo laughs quietly, the loveliest sound that would completely wreck Thorin if he let it. He's a light load, all those months of swinging him around on stage making carrying him the easiest thing on Earth, and Thorin half stumbles to get them out of the kitchen and to where he remembers the couch is.

They collapse onto it a helpless tangle of limbs, and the giggles Bilbo gets soon become mutual, and kissing someone when you're grinning like an idiot is damn difficult, but no less enjoyable. Bilbo promptly relocates to more interesting areas, though, having gained the advantage of ending up on top – he bothershis neck with his lips and teeth, entirely uninhibited, and Thorin lets him, by god does he let him.

“Dís is going to kill me for this,” Bilbo manages to murmur somewhere in the midst of his assault, and Thorin groans sadly, “Can we please not mention my sister right now?”, which prompts even more quiet laughter, the sound so thoroughly enchanting Thorin thinks it will haunt his dreams for ages to come.

But Bilbo is clearly on a mission to fill his dreams with many other things besides that, shifting and sitting up, his fingers working the stupidly tiny buttons of Thorin's shirt swiftly, as if this is all a race, as if what little time they have might slip out of their grasp any second now. As if rushing through this will make it mean less to either of them. As if.

“Bilbo, I-” he makes yet another attempt, and yet again it is quelled before it can really amount to anything – Bilbo's mouth is hot and soft and everywhere, and Thorin's brain short-circuits, plain and simple.

 

He figures he'll always remember the night like that – not in any kind of excruciating detail, but for the general feeling of it. How it felt like Bilbo was simply taking what was owed to him, from the first moment he put his mouth to him – apologizing and finding more reasons to fight at the same time, neither of them searched for solutions anymore.

How it felt right, and yet not nearly enough – how they simply just clicked, always having known that they would be good together, and how Thorin wanted to tell him, this is how it could always be, but didn't, because he knew Bilbo didn't want to hear it.

Bilbo knowing all the ways to push his buttons, as if it wasn't the first time they did that, and Thorin in turn getting to discover just how deep his own devotion ran.

Asking him 'Are we staying the night?' when their roles reversed and Bilbo lay underneath him, the lack of light a blessing for both of them, hiding that they'd known the answer long before the question was asked – Bilbo merely nodding, and Thorin dealing with it swiftly, one text he wouldn't even be sure he'd sent, not even waiting for Dwalin's response.

Bilbo looking tenser, less certain, when Thorin next looked him in the eye, and the need to dispel that as quickly as possible. The thrill of succeeding. The sounds Bilbo had made, the taste of him, his fingers in Thorin's hair, every single time he said Thorin's name.

Realizing they couldn't go all the way no matter how much they wanted to, for some entirely practical reasons, but deciding unanimously and without words that it might be for the best after all.

Standing in the shower together, Bilbo's cheeks red, and his yelp when Thorin backed him against the periwinkle tiles; steam and heat and their hearts racing in unison, Bilbo's tiny acorn pendant trapped in between their bodies.

Finding out there were literally no towels in the house, and hurrying to get the quilt off the couch, wrapping Bilbo in it and kissing him until he wasn't laughing anymore.

“What do you want?” Bilbo asking him, thumb tracing the line from the bridge of his nose all the way to the corner of his eye, and Thorin saying, “I don't know”, even though the answer lay right there next to him, on the couch they'd struggled to unfold, too narrow for them both and too short for Thorin's legs (but Bilbo had insisted, the reluctance to get into either of the beds left in the house far too palpable in his every movement, action and look).

Getting up in the middle of the night to get a glass of water, standing there in that strange house that should have, for all intents and purposes, revealed more to him about Bilbo, taught him something, offered some missing piece of the puzzle... But all it did was allow Thorin to watch Bilbo sleeping, the lines of his face peaceful, softened. Watch that, and realize he wanted to watch it every night.

Waking up in the morning sore but warm, cozy but quick to tense up.

Bilbo making coffee while wearing nothing but Thorin's shirt.

Bilbo smiling and wishing him a good morning.

Bilbo covering his hand on his chest with his own and leaning in for a fraction of a second when Thorin came up behind him, but making everything far too obvious with a soft but resolute: “We should get going.”

Bilbo allowing him to kiss him, but gazing at him afterward, long and scrutinizing, as if he was disappointed that none of that had helped them get any answers.

Bilbo drinking coffee.

Bilbo absentmindedly picking at the mark Thorin had left on his neck.

Bilbo laughing at first when Thorin suggested they pretend it's sunburn, lest they face Dís' wrath, then laughing less and not at all, when Thorin suggested other things.

“You're still going to go,” Thorin reminding him, and Bilbo almost caving, almost complaining he didn't want to, but saying, “I can't make you any promises.” anyway.

Thorin responding, “I know.”, and Bilbo looking like he might break, right there and then, fragile and pale and lost in this house that, in Thorin's opinion, still failed to fit him – looking like that for about two seconds, before officially declaring all of it over, not with words, but by putting on one of his meticulously crafted professional masks.

“So this is it?” Thorin asking him, one last attempt to break through, because he'd always been that stupid, “over before it started?”

Bilbo smiling, even though it was visibly the last thing he wanted to do.

“I guess we'll know by the end of the week.” Not really anywhere near a promise, but Thorin deciding he was going to take what he could get.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Driving back soon after that, and saying very little anymore.

 

He'll always remember all of it, but he's not entirely sure what good it will do him.

-

 

She first sees them that afternoon, walking into the lounge side by side – Dwalin nudges her to make her notice, and along with the rest of the small crowd there, they watch Thorin and Bilbo converse very quietly...

“Are they aware everyone can see them?” Dwalin ponders, and Dís shushes him and tilts her head, observing her brother literally hanging on Bilbo's every word, personal space pretty much nonexistent between them – he nods and replies very solemnly to whatever Bilbo had said, and Bilbo smiles shortly, as if it pains him to even attempt it, and they share a look Dís feels almost inappropriate witnessing, one of those very classic lingering rom-com things brimming with all the things they aren't actually saying. But then Thorin notices them staring, and straightens up, and Bilbo flees, very swiftly.

“Half expected him to run away, too,” Dwalin mutters under his breath as Thorin nears them, and Dís kicks him in the shin.

“Be nice. Hey, big brother, how was last night?”

Her cheeks might be cramping at the hundred-megawatt smile she grants him, but that's just the way things are done, isn't it.

“Save it. Car's in the back, Dwalin, thanks.”

“No problem, dude. Is that a hickey?”

Thorin's hand flies to the mark on his neck purely by instinct, but then he levels Dwalin with the dirtiest look possible.

“Not in the mood,” he warns him.

“Excuse the resident asshole,” Dís chimes in, “seriously, how was it? Did you guys make up?”

Thorin stops in the midst of fishing out the keys to Dwalin's car and stares, his lips moving ever so slightly, as if he's trying to think of the right thing to say – Dís doesn't think he realizes how obviously in pain he is.

“Yeah,” he says, slowly and ominously, “decided to spend the rest of our fucking lives together.”

And before either of them can respond in any way, he slams the car keys on the bar and marches away.

“Well then,” Dwalin sighs, breaking the period of somewhat stunned silence, “this ought to be fun.”

 

So much fun. Watching the people she loves suffer isn't too high on the list of her favorite things to do, but she doesn't... She can't wrap her head around it. She watches Thorin closing himself off and barely communicating with anyone, but still lighting up like a Christmas tree whenever Bilbo enters the room, and she has half a mind to declare a theatre-wide lockdown until everything is resolved. But then, she knows better than to tell either of them what to do, or hope for miracles. Too late for those by now.

Time flies. Four days left, and everybody is swimming in that sort of half cheerful, half nostalgic concoction of feelings that precede the ending of something fantastic. Three days left, and she notices Bilbo lingering, the way he used to once, but with more urgency – as if staying in the make-up chair and chatting up people for as long as possible will postpone the inevitable. As if finding minor little reasons to stay behind, laughing with the crew or swapping stories with Gandalf, or giving off-hand advice to the youngsters, always there, always around the corner and yet never where Dís would most like to see him, will somehow be better to explain than the actual reason he wants to stay.

Two days left, and Thorin has barely left his dressing room unless it's absolutely necessary, and she would shout at him, but she thinks it's better to wait it out.

Sure as day, that evening he's at her place, racing the boys to finish dinner and being generally loud and carefree, up until they put Fili and Kili to bed – twenty minutes of stalking around the living room later, he's sulking on the couch and glaring at her when she brings him Kili's juice box to sip on, but he talks anyway.

“It was good,” he tells her, surprisingly open and much less surprisingly utterly wrecked, though he still tries to look anything but, “and that's it. I'm not going to go into detail-”

“Please don't.”

“But we, uh... well. It was good. But that's all there is to it. We agreed that we didn't... didn't exactly know how to go on from there. You know?”

She watches him, and doesn't know, not really.

“You could have at least spent the week together,” she notes, and he looks quite literally like she's stabbed him through the heart.

“Yeah, maybe. Too late for that now, eh.”

“Thorin...”

“I just... I don't know. I thought it would be... different. I was never planning on letting this... ugh, affect me, so much. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry, idiot,” she sighs, reaching out to pat his knee, feeling very much like they're teenagers again – he was always the one taking care of them, providing for them and fighting for them, up to the point that he forgot to think of himself, too.

“Don't be sorry. You can't... This isn't the kind of stuff you plan for. It just happens. And like it or not, you're not exactly above emotions, you know.”

He scowls, and slurps sadly.

“Just promise me one thing,” she tells him softly, and he looks at her curiously, eyes large, as if she'll be able to offer him the solutions only he can discover for himself, “go out there tomorrow, and enjoy it. You owe it to Bilbo, and the play in general. Yourself, too. Make it good, eh? One last time.”

He looks at her as if he might crack any given second, and then he sighs, and nods, hanging his head.

“I'm sorry.”

“Hey. Shut up. Come here.”

She reaches out for him, her stupid clueless big brother, and he rests his forehead on her shoulder, exhaling raggedly, mumbling something she can't pretend to catch, but it doesn't matter. Someone has to take care of him.

“It's going to be alright,” she murmurs, soothing his back lightly.

If at least one of them believes it, it just might be enough.

-

 

A year or so ago, closing another big production, he learned that there was a certain charm to finishing something of such great importance – that the old saying, the show must go on, was actually true. That it never really ended, even though the curtain went down and the actors went home. That even though they'd never step on the stage again the same way, the energy remained. The story would outlive them, as it had outlived countless others before them.

He tries to find comfort in that now, in remembering that he's been a part of something so incredible, and succeeds. For the most part.

It's in the air all day – he refuses to spend it packing in his stupidly cozy hotel room that he shouldn't be missing, and instead goes to the one place he's going to miss much, much more.

It's quiet and mostly empty at this time of the day, but he doesn't mind. Chats to Balin quietly, ubiquitous as ever and pleasantly casual. Lets Ori show him some of the designs he's been working on. Helps Nori with carrying this and that here and there. Stays above ground, though. Something about the stage down below... it scares him. No, more accurately, he feels like he needs to stay away until he actually has to go up, otherwise he won't be paying homage to it properly. Or something. It's all very jumbled in his head.

In the end, he climbs all the way up to the top floor – ponders knocking on Dís' door, but refrains in the end, and hides in one of the conference rooms, which is just a fancy name for what used to be apartments-turned-storage-rooms, and have been used for all the artistic and management meetings all this time.

There are pillows on the floor, and chairs and tables in haphazard patterns, and that stepladder Bofur has been searching for, probably, and the flip board by the window is still on the latest page of Balin's chicken scratch explaining who knows what to the crew – Bilbo stands in front of it mutely for a moment, then turns it over to a new, clean leaf, and stares at that, too. Twirls the marker in his fingers, pondering writing... something, as if leaving something behind will make him feel better, then sighs and sits down on the floor, the wood warm, sun streaming in through the tall window.

Below him, Erebor is slowly coming back to life, and he thinks it's funny, how he was literally standing in his childhood house a couple of days ago, and yet he feels infinitely more at home here now.

Lunch?, he texts Thorin, and waits for a response, listening to someone walking and talking one or two floors down, the creaking carrying through the entire building. What would it be like, being here when a performance is in progress?

Just got to work. Pick you up?, his phone dings almost tentatively, and Bilbo sighs a smile, and takes the stairs by two, hurrying to meet with him.

As far as he's concerned, he's not been the best at resolving... well, anything. You've been so good to me, he wants to tell Thorin, sitting across from him in one of their regular diners, munching on noodles and watching the news on the TV overhead with the expression of someone who doesn't really want to be looking anywhere else.

You've been so good to me, and I've been repaying you by being an indecisive scaredy-cat.

“Hey,” he reminds Thorin of his presence, putting on the softest, least intrusive smile he can possibly summon, “I'm looking forward to tonight. It's been great, I think we should finish great.”

Thorin watches him wordlessly for quite some time, not really evaluating or anything, just... watching. Bilbo lets him.

“Yeah,” he says at long last, and smiles too, though it never reaches his eyes, “yeah, that's the plan.”

 

Bilbo loved him so much for that one night, so much he was willing to throw all caution to the wind and decide that he wanted this, all of it, for good, but... it was always going to be easiest to just leave. He's glad that they did it, glad that Thorin came and stayed and didn't ask questions, glad that everything, all of it, happened, but it didn't make deciding any easier. Thorin made it easier, you're still going to go, and Bilbo latched onto that and has been relying on it ever since.

But hey, if there is one thing he can still be certain of about both Thorin and himself, it's that they're both good at what they do. And that they've been excellent, all this time, and that they owe it to the rest of the cast and crew to make this time, this one last time, absolutely perfect.

It's not even that hard. The thrill of it starts coursing through Bilbo's veins just at the right time, right in the midst of all the preparations, and it's all there in everybody's eyes, in the laughter, in the precision – this is something to celebrate. Going out with a bang.

“Alright, break a leg, everyone,” Gandalf announces, appearing backstage to wish them all a traditional good luck, “I'll see you on the other side.”

More laughter, and costumes, and make-up, and Bilbo taking off his pendant like he's always done and hanging it on the edge of the mirror, holding it between his fingertips for a moment, for his good luck, and everyone else's too. Catching Thorin watching in the reflection, and giving him a thumbs-up, we've got this. The rest we might in fact never catch up with again, but we've got this.

It's enough.

The audience roars. Even when they're in fact quiet, the sheer life force of the mass of them is like a hurricane, not wrecking, but propelling them forward. Bilbo savors everything, every single line and movement, doesn't care about himself but gives his all to the character that's been propping him up and lending him his strength all this time, and it's wonderful. It's wonderful.

They dash ahead at the speed of light, all of them comfortable, enjoying the time they've still got left to the fullest, and they are rewarded. The applause washes over them like a wave, and it's what makes all those months of work worth it, that right there, feeling like the massive auditorium might burst with all that cheer. A story has been told, planted its roots in the hearts of thousands, and this is a thank you for that.

Gandalf climbs the stage and the celebrations lose some of their formality – there are embraces, and handshakes, and bouquets for Miss Galadriel and Thorin and Bilbo, and someone shouting 'Happy birthday!', and Bilbo is surrounded with people, realizing for the first time that day that is in fact his birthday, and the audience are still applauding, and his heart is racing, and everyone wants to pat his shoulder and express their congratulations and everything, and yet, among the absolute chaos, Bilbo still only has eyes for Thorin.

Somehow. If anything, they have become perfect at non-verbal communication, and Bilbo isn't really sure how it happens, maybe it's Gandalf announcing something, maybe it's just the universe converging in on this tiny little moment, but for some reason, it isn't over until it's properly over – he hands someone his flowers, and Thorin does the same, and they don't really have to think about it twice.

For the last time ever, Bilbo runs into Thorin's arms, and Thorin sweeps him off his feet with minimal effort, lifting him up high, and the audience erupts once again, this time for the two of them only. They're both Puck and Oberon and Bilbo and Thorin in that moment, and Bilbo looks down on him smiling wide, and Thorin's smile is softer but no less enchanting, and it's funny, because all anyone sees is that – no one but the two of them knows that their hearts are in fact breaking.

By the time Thorin lowers him, both of them refusing to sever their connection, slipping seamlessly into an embrace, that's all there is – all the other sounds have been drowned out, and Bilbo closes his eyes and listens to the only one that matters. Heartbeat, and breath, the creaking of the fabric of Thorin's costume as he clenches a fistful of it. His own heartbeat, too loud and painful in his throat.

He wants to say something, but doesn't. Can't.

There might be tears in his eyes, but he's not the only one by a long shot, and it doesn't matter anyway – he dashes after Galadriel, Thorin and even Bombur to the stage door, and the signing is a blur of exhilaration that never really stops.

Back inside, it's more people, it's Dís hugging him fiercely and thanking him over and over, and it's someone pushing a drink in his hands, and taking even more pictures, and shaking even more hands, and laughing, always laughing. He thinks it's for the best, for it to end like this, isn't it?

Isn't it?

“Oh, okay, yeah, dammit – everybody ready? Okay, okay, toast! Bilbo?”

“Huh? Who? Why me?” he babbles, swaying on his bar stool a little bit to look from Dís by his side to the rest of the crowd in the lounge, and Bofur bringing a huge bottle of champagne, and Dwalin preparing the glasses, and Bombur with a...

“Is that a cake?!” Bilbo exclaims, “oh my god, that is a massive cake! What the hell?”

They all burst into laughter, and Bilbo stares helplessly – catches Thorin's eye across the room, who merely smiles at him and shrugs, pointing with his head to his sister.

“Did you – I told you I wasn't a birthday person!” Bilbo cries, and Dís puts an arm around his shoulders, eyes gleaming.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but I figured, you know, everyone deserves a proper celebration every now and then. We're all going to eat this in under ten minutes, I can guarantee you, so don't worry about it too much.”

“Oh god, you shouldn't have,” Bilbo sighs, grinning too widely to stop any time soon, and she waves him off.

“Nonsense. Champagne about ready?”

“Yeah, yeah, give me time, woman,” Dwalin grumbles, fiddling with the larger-than-life cork, then winking at Bilbo, “or would the birthday boy like the honors?”

“Oh, no, by all means, if anyone is to shoot anyone's eye out with that cork, I'd like it to be you.”

That incident is fortunately avoided , though Fili and Kili still squeal at the top of their lungs when the cork pops, and plunge for it to claim it as a prize while Dwalin pours dozens of glasses, and a general commotion of claiming those ensues.

“So, anyway, Bilbo,” Dís states when everyone has settled down somewhat, “we all wanted to thank you – this play wouldn't have been half as good without you. We've all enjoyed working with you and getting to know you so much, and I think I can speak for all of us when I say, don't you dare be a stranger. In the spirit of that, here.”

She hands him an envelope, and holds his drink while he unwraps it – out slides a very beautiful, colorful season's pass to Erebor, and Bilbo actually chokes on his laughter just a bit, something that needs immediate remedying, before he makes an emotional fool of himself.

“Not that you'll have the time to redeem it weekly,” she winks at him, “but we're hoping it might bring you back to us at least a couple more times.”

He stares, quite speechless, and she is grinning, and honestly, if they don't toast and drink soon, he might... well.

“Thank you,” he exhales, and when she nods, kindly and encouragingly, he turns to look at the rest, raising his glass to them, “and thank you, everyone. I had... I had the best time here, I really did. You've all been so good to me, and I've learned so much. This play was a team effort, don't you forget that, so thank you all so much for including me in that team, and I... yes, I do hope I'm not seeing the last out of any of you, and... Honestly, god, let's just drink, we've all done so much great work, and I think we deserve to celebrate that.”

Laughter and clapping of a very appreciative kind, and a toast to his birthday, and he can finally drown his emotions in champagne, if only for two seconds. Staring at Thorin the whole time doesn't help either.

“So, this time next year, do it all over again?” Gandalf appears at his side, and at least he always knows how to make him laugh.

“Sure, I'm in, but are you quite sure we can top this?” he chuckles, and Gandalf laughs, patting his shoulder heartily.

“Oh, please. We didn't think we could top Hamlet, remember?”

“Hah, very true. You know I'm yours, whatever you decide,” Bilbo grins, and the director smiles, but hums thoughtfully, sizing him up and down as if he's looking for something, waiting for some sign that... what?

“If you're sure,” he says at last, and Bilbo frowns, confused, but before he can inquire further, Gandalf sees someone across the room and runs over there, without a word of explanation.

Bilbo chuckles to himself and watches for a moment, enjoying not being the center of attention for a precious ten seconds.

“Have you signed the wall?”

Make that five seconds.

“The wall?” he turns to Dwalin, peering at him entirely too calmly from behind the bar, drying a pint in a very archetypal bartender way.

“Yeah, you know, foyer, second floor, everyone important who's ever guest-starred here.”

“Oh my god, the wall!” Dís exclaims, all but dashing over to Bilbo, “come on! You have to sign the wall!”

And so he is dragged off to sign the wall, and he has a blast tweeting the process, and then there's eating the cake, and singing songs, and drinking, god, a lot of drinking, and it's... well, it's only natural that Thorin and him never get a chance to talk, right? Both of them always seem to be engaged in entirely different conversations, on entirely different sides of whatever room they currently find themselves in, and... yes.

Funny thing that, how you can miss someone even though you're virtually in the same room. Oh well.

Also a funny thing, how you can fail to notice someone leaving said room, simply because you've been happily immersing yourself in a slightly tipsy game of darts with everyone but the person you want to be with.

At first, Bilbo dismisses it. Thorin's only been gone a moment, he'll be back any minute now. It doesn't matter anyway. It's not like it's their last evening together. Yeah. He has people to talk to. Darts to throw, pictures to take.

His dart hits the bulls-eye, much to everyone's joy, but Bilbo simply glares at it.

“Excuse me, I'll be right back,” he announces, and marches right out of the lounge, with one very clear direction in mind.

“Come in,” Thorin calls when he bangs on the door to his dressing room, and Bilbo groans and storms in.

“Oh, great, so you're just going to sit here for the rest of the night?!” he exclaims.

“I was just about to-”

“Oh, I'm sure you were just about to. Jesus, Thorin, I know we're not exactly best pals right now, but when I said finish great, I didn't just mean on-stage, you know?”

“Uh-huh. You about done? Because I'd like to give this to you before we scratch each other's eyes out, again.”

He rises from the couch he'd been lounging on and walks over to Bilbo, looming over him, handing him a...

“What is this?” Bilbo asks suspiciously, and Thorin laughs humorlessly.

“It's your birthday present, what did you think it was?”

Bilbo stares at the flat package first, at Thorin second, hoping very faintly that the floor might swallow him whole right about now.

“You... I'm...” he babbles.

“Just open it, yeah? I was kind of considering sending it via Dís or something, but then I figured I wanted to see your face when you got it.”

Bilbo blinks at him mutely, but his fingers start working on their own accord, unwrapping it gingerly. Thorin watches him calmly, and Bilbo has to force himself to look from him to the plastic cover. It takes a minute for it to click.

“Is that...?”

“The 2003 version of The Phantom of the Opera, starring yours truly. Signed, too. The only one in the world, probably. I'm hoping.”

Bilbo is quite sure his mouth is hanging agape, but he can't for the life of him figure out what to say. The laughter bubbles up in his throat out of nowhere, and it is yet again on the dangerously weepy side – not that Thorin needs to know that.

“Oh my god, Thorin, I...” Bilbo continues to fail to find the right words, pressing the DVD to his chest, “I'll... cherish this!”

“Yeah, you'd better. For personal use only, okay, if you distribute this, I will find you.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Bilbo snickers.

“Happy birthday,” Thorin smirks.

“Thank you, I...”

“Bilbo, where the hell are you?! Forget about the grumpy prick and come back upstairs!”

That's Nori, probably, and someone else, sets of somewhat unsteady footsteps heading their way, and Thorin's eyes widen, and Bilbo wants nothing more than to curse very loudly, very profanely.

“Go,” Thorin jerks his head towards the door, “I'll follow you in a sec.”

No, you won't.

“Come now, too,” Bilbo exhales, and Thorin's eyes are fragile and pained for a split second.

“Nah,” he turns away then, “still gotta... clean up in here. Whatever. I'll be back soon.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo exhales unsteadily, quietly, and when Thorin does look at him, it's obvious that they're both very far from wanting to party upstairs right now.

“Please,” Bilbo peeps, “it's the last time.”

Thorin opens his mouth to respond – barely manages, but it's all there in his eyes anyway.

“Yeah, see,” he huffs a heavy laugh, “that's the problem.”

-

 

He doesn't show up for the lunch. Can't. Doesn't have it in him to sit with everyone around Dís' big table and pretend like he's so overjoyed, saying goodbye. Maybe, if there is no goodbye said, it'll be easier. Maybe it'll mean he'll still be able to hope for a while longer. Maybe none of that matters, really, because Thorin already feels misery setting in, like a lead weight on his shoulders, something he's more than accustomed to lugging around, it's just that... Bilbo has made it seem so easy. All of it.

Yeah, well. Stupid of him, thinking that finally finding someone who helped ease the load, also means he gets to keep him.

He ignores Dís' calls, ignores pretty much everything, and takes the bike for a ride, leaves the city and heads nowhere in particular, and comes back parched and sore, his head not even a little bit clearer. But, Bilbo is sitting on a plane by now, so it's all good. Well, figuratively speaking anyway.

“Where the hell were you today?!”

He's prepared for that, and so he grunts a monosyllabic response to Dís' wrath, trying to disappear into the maze of Erebor as quick as possible, hopefully forever.

“That was pretty damn selfish of you, I hope you realize! Couldn't you have sucked it up, just to say goodbye to him? Don't you think he deserved that much?”

This time yesterday, the theatre was teeming with life, thrumming with the anticipation of the big night – right now, it just seems too big and too empty, and definitely too quiet.

“What does it matter now?” he sighs, barely granting her a glance, “he would have left anyway.”

“Thorin-” she opens her mouth.

“Yeah, you're so excellent at predicting what I'd do.”

That is a very low blow, and turning around and facing him is about the most difficult thing Thorin has had to do recently – which is saying a lot.

“Bilbo?! What are you still doing here?” Dís exclaims, and he offers a lopsided smile.

“Not missing my plane, in case you were wondering. Just forgot... something. Thorin, can I have a word?”

And without really explaining himself or anything like that, he disappears around the corner, and Thorin looks at Dís, who is equally as stunned.

“Go,” she tells him quietly, and he's suddenly frightened.

“I don't-”

“Thorin. Say your goodbye, for Christ's sakes. You're not getting another chance.”

He didn't want any chance at all in the first place, that's the problem. He is fully aware that that makes him a coward, but by god, it's always been easier being that.

“Go,” Dís repeats, softly, and he does.

-

 

She doesn't know what they say to each other. She stands there on the staircase next to the poster of her father, and all she sees are their silhouettes around the corner, long shadows in late-afternoon sunlight, seemingly so much closer than they are actually standing, and she just... waits.

Can't make out a single word, which is probably for the best anyway. Hears Thorin raise his voice once, just a bit, and realizes her heart's been tolling like a bell this whole time.

Bilbo is the first to come back, looking up at her, tiny and ethereal, as if he's already gone, raising his hand and smiling, and she inclines her head, what the hell happened?, but he shakes his, and turns to leave.

“Keep in touch!” she calls after him, pointlessly, and sees his face wrenching into something miles away from happiness.

Sees Thorin striding back into the foyer as well, already looking like he's dragging around a rock on his shoulders, and her heart breaks for him, but before she can reach him, Bilbo has reached a decision, and he turns back around and trots up to him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him down into the softest kiss – Dís looks away, giving them this one last moment at least, and that's it. That's really it.

The front door clicks shut behind Bilbo one last time, and she's always thought it was next to impossible to actually witness the exact moment when someone's heart breaks, but then again, her brother's been proving her wrong in a lot of things lately.

She comes up next to him quietly, not touching, simply standing there for whatever support he might or might not need.

“You could always run after him,” she suggests, and he scoffs almost indignantly.

“I'm sorry,” she murmurs, and he merely nods, still staring ahead coldly, as if he's afraid that if he looks away, the spell will really break.

“Hey,” she whispers, reaching to grab his hand, and at first she thinks he's just being stubborn and quite possibly angry, keeping it in a fist like that, but then she realizes he's holding something.

“What's that? What have you got there?”

It's almost like she gets to him properly for the first time – he snaps to look at her, bewildered, almost furious, but then he glances down at his own hand, and his expression crumples.

“Thorin? What is it?”

Ever so slowly and reluctantly, he uncurls his fist, like an ashamed little kid who's stolen some candies, and there in his palm, tiny and golden on a delicate chain, like a reminder that despite what they'd all like to believe, this really isn't just a bad dream, lies Bilbo's acorn pendant.

Dís thinks she should say something right about now, but that's the trouble about all those worst-case scenarios actually happening – they tend to leave you a bit speechless.

 

Chapter Text

Say your goodbye, for Christ's sakes. You're not getting another chance.

Following Bilbo mechanically, his legs carrying him without Thorin actually ordering them to, his heart beating, but not really doing much for him in terms of feeling alive, his lungs pumping air, but it might as well be someone else's body they're powering, that's how numb and detached he remembers feeling.

Bilbo stopping out of Dís' earshot, around the corner just by the autograph wall, turning to face Thorin, smiling, Thorin thinking don't smile, this is no time to smile.

“Sorry I, uh, skipped lunch,” Thorin mumbling, hanging his head like a schoolboy being scolded.

“That's fine. It's not like it was the last time or anything.”

Gasping, opening his mouth to defend himself, but clamping it firmly shut when faced with the cold steel of what Bilbo was actually hiding behind that smile.

“Look, I don't blame you for... well, anything. But I though you'd have been able to...”

“I'm sorry.”

“Shut up. Do I not deserve a goodbye?”

Looking at him, really looking, in that moment, and seeing him bare yet again, stripped of all pretense, looking fragile, looking translucent, looking half gone already. Contemplating the consequences of touching him, crossing the distance and holding him, and kissing some life back into him, I might survive just fine, but not knowing that I reduced you to this.

“It's not... I don't want to...”

“Don't want to what? Look, you were right, how about that? We never really moved past a, a work acquaintance, look at us. Over before it started, isn't that what you said? That doesn't mean it has to end awful, Thorin, come on.”

Feeling angry again, and knowing that whenever there's anger, there's very little room for sensible decisions.

“That's what you said, Bilbo. I told you I was willing to...”

“Look, no, none of that matters now. It doesn't matter, Thorin.”

Glaring, and Bilbo smiling still, lifelessly now, only for show.

“I don't have the time for another argument. I just want to say my goodbyes, even if you don't... reciprocate in kind. Alright?”

Merely staring, staring and feeling life leak out of him like steam from under a pot lid. A childish part of him still considering running away and hiding, the second you say goodbye to him you'll never see him, ever again. He needs this full stop, needs it to go off into the world and leave all of this behind, and it's horrible and selfish of you, but you want the exact opposite. You want to know that this mattered.

“A, a part of me kind of wants to stay true to my job description and do this the pathetic way, you know, telling you that I... that you taught me so much, and that I had so much fun, and that I'll never... that I won't forget you, but... I don't know.”

Bilbo hanging his head as well, smiling at his feet, stepping closer, Thorin's poor heart protesting, erratic beats like warning signs that he won't be able to take much more of this, the soft touch of Bilbo's fingertips at his wrist an electric shock.

“I've been scared, and I've been stupid, but... I have to go, Thorin. I have to go.”

Breathing out a tiny, broken 'I know.', inches apart now, both of Bilbo's hands closing around one of his, pressing something cold into his palm. Being physically incapable of doing more than stand there, aching to reach out for him but feeling too weak.

“I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I did have fun,” Bilbo muttering almost urgently, still gazing down, “and I do wish... I mean, I feel like I...”

“Hey.”

Something finally snapping into place within Thorin – covering Bilbo's hands with his, squeezing intently, making him look up, just this once, giving him what he really wants, just this once.

“You're going to be great. You're going to be alright. Go.”

Bilbo's mouth moving, as if he's memorizing those words, looking at Thorin like he's just had an epiphany, relief and disbelief at the same time, and realizing at that moment that this is what he really wants, at the end of the day, his dreams and desires and whims be damned – for Bilbo to just be happy. Wherever he goes, no matter how far away from Thorin.

“Thank you,” Bilbo chuckling almost incredulously, fingers hooking with Thorin's almost cautiously, not enough to tether them to one another by a long shot, but still pulling them closer, Thorin's nose brushing at Bilbo's hair, at his neck, at his cheek, a tingle down his spine for every word he can't say out loud, until they're kissing, eager but soft, slow but doomed to be over too soon anyway.

Bilbo's taste, his shaky breathing, the cold his fingers left behind as they disentangled from Thorin's grasp, his smile, his goodbye, steady and quiet, his large, large eyes glancing up at Thorin one last time... The smile Thorin had tried to summon, but that died somewhere halfway to his face.

Whispering a one last definitive 'Go.', and Bilbo going.

 

It's been... well, it doesn't really matter how long it's been, because he can still relive the whole scene in miniscule detail any time he closes his eyes. Not that he advertises spending his days like that, of course not. Has it been? Days? He feels like he hasn't moved ever since he dragged himself home that afternoon.

Dís has been calling incessantly, but she hasn't shown up in person yet, so it can't be that long. And Thorin has responded to some of her texts. He thinks. 'Lunch on Sunday, boys wanna see you' is the last message from her, one he doesn't really remember receiving, and he stares at it blearily, balancing the phone on his chest, inches away from his nose, head propped up on the headrest of his couch – his arms are about the only parts of his body he's currently willing to use, and they can take care of him just fine. Everything he needs is right there within reach on the coffee table, the TV remote, a can of beer, his dignity, maybe, buried underneath magazines and last night's takeout wrappers.

He despises having too much time off for this exact reason – he always goes into a disgusting slump, incapable of forcing himself to do anything. Of course, work holidays don't usually come with a side of a broken heart, but there you have it.

He rolls over with a grunt, sitting up and dragging his hands down his face – his eyes fall on the delicate golden chain hanging off the coffee table, and he stares at it through his fingers, before reaching for it with a sudden urgency, gently fishing it out of the assorted mess, feeling irrationally angry with himself for leaving it there in the first place.

Strangely engrossed with the tiny pendant dangling and bumping into his wrist innocently, he gets up and crosses over to the balcony – his top-floor apartment always gets the brunt of the sunset blaze before the sun sinks below the line of roofs on the opposite side of the city, and usually, Thorin hides behind curtains from it, but not today. No, today, apparently, he is a man in nothing but boxers and an old t-shirt standing on his balcony and staring intently at a trinket, giving the rest of his street a peek of the misery.

Almost irrationally worried that he might drop it, he wraps the chain around his wrist and steps back – the view really is good today, even though it's getting a bit chilly to be frolicking around in his underwear. Bilbo would laugh ceaselessly at him, he knows, and wonders why he never invited him here. Turns to go back inside, sees the mess that is his tiny living room, and wonders a little less.

“I'm fine,” he tells Dís later, shaking water out of his hair and rearranging stuff to make his living space look at least remotely... well, livable, and he can hear her disapproving look.

“Uh-huh. One missed meeting, I'll give you as much. But next week-”

“Wait, I thought it was next week?”

“No, it was yesterday. You do realize we're going back to work on Monday, right?”

He stares at his own reflection in the dark screen of the TV.

“Thorin.”

“No, yeah, Monday, sure thing. I'll... run my lines. Whatever.”

She sighs.

“Just come by for lunch, yeah?”

“Yeah. Right. I will.”

She knows him better than he knows himself, and so when he doesn't, in fact, come for lunch, she brings lunch to him, along with his nephews – simply invites herself in and fills his fridge with groceries while he lets the boys greet him as if they haven't seen each other in years, Kili climbing him immediately while Fili spins this or that thrilling school-related story.

They all end up sitting on the carpet because Thorin doesn't have enough chairs, eating pasta from mismatched bowls, Dís filling him in while the kids watch something entirely too brightly colorful for Thorin's brain to process, and he feels... marginally less like rotting away in here forever.

“Balin and I have come up with some new ideas for the season,” she tells him casually, “make sure to stop by the next management meeting.”

“On...?”

“Thursday.”

“Right.”

“We also got an official invite for the christening of Azog's devil spawn.”

“Oh?” Thorin mumbles, fishing for a stray piece of meat in between his teeth with his finger and staring far too intently at animated squirrels chasing each other on the TV – when he glances at Dís, she's looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and pity.

“Yeah, in November. Should be fun.”

“Uh-huh. Are we planning on going?”

“I don't know,” she smiles at him, “might be fun.”

“Right,” he scowls, and she looks as if she expects him to say any more – scrutinizes him entirely too long, a worried frown creasing her forehead. He lets her.

“Well then,” she concedes at last, “we should get going. Guys, what were you going to ask your Uncle?”

“Football!” Kili exclaims, and Fili sighs theatrically, explaining much more eloquently: “The weather's nice, but not for long, says Mum, so do you want to go to the park with us? We can play football, but maybe also get ice-cream?”

He looks so hopeful and curious, they both do, and Thorin despises Dís for playing that card, right now of all times.

“I, uh... I think I'm gonna have to pass, guys. I'm not feeling so...”

His voice dies out under her glare, and he sighs and scrambles to his feet, to get out of her sight.

“Are you sick?” Kili calls after him.

“Something like that,” Thorin grumbles from the kitchen, washing the tupperware Dís had brought lunch in with unusual fervor.

“Are you sad because Bilbo's gone?”

That's Fili, standing by his side all of a sudden, peering up at him with nothing but curiosity – Thorin looks from him to Dís, coming to stand in the doorway, crossing her arms and cocking an eyebrow expectantly.

“I'm sorry, buddy,” he says at last, “I'm just... feeling a bit under the weather, alright? Maybe next weekend, though? I'm sure the weather will hold. We'll have fun, I promise.”

Fili's face falls a bit, but he gazes at Thorin very solemnly, then nods firmly, as if he's just decided something of grave importance.

“I get it,” he declares, “take your time, Uncle.”

“Yeah, Uncle, take your time!” Kili parrots happily, and Thorin opens his mouth to... say anything at all, but they just look so... unperturbed.

He seeks some explanation with Dís, who merely shrugs, there you have it, idiot, then rolls her eyes and sighs: “Alright, back into the living room, guys, clean up after yourselves. Don't think I didn't notice the mess. All magazines in their rightful places.”

They stand side by side in silence then, washing up, and he's... well, he's grateful that she doesn't push him. Well, not too much.

“Kind of expected to find you in bed, reeking of something stronger than day-old clothes,” she murmurs softly, never one to stay away from the elephant in the room for too long.

“Should have come two, three days ago,” he responds dryly, and she chuckles, bumping their hips together, entirely childish and silly, but somehow still comforting.

“Work's going to start soon, you'll feel better.”

More silence, Thorin glaring at the dishwasher soap foam in between his fingers, forgetting to actually do any washing.

“I highly doubt that.”

She inhales, all ready to say something, but then decides against it, shaking her head and resuming her mundane work.

“Look, if you ever need to...-”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah, right, well, we both know that's not true, and we both know that you'll keep pretending like it is. I just... Remember that you don't have to pretend with me, at least.”

He looks from his dishes to her, glares daggers without really expecting her to back down, and she glares right back, fully expecting him to give in, cry on her shoulder and bare his soul, or whatever – well, she's come a couple of afternoons too late for that.

“I'm fine,” he repeats firmly, and before she can protest, the boys dash back into the kitchen, and she's too busy steering them out of the apartment to further that debate.

“I'll see you tomorrow?” she asks him to confirm, and gives her that much, at least.

“Yeah. Thanks for stopping by. See you, guys.”

“Bye, Uncle Thorin!” they exclaim in unison, Fili adding an innocent, “cheer up!”, before racing his brother down the stairs, and thus not giving Dís much time to stay behind for idle chatter.

“I'll do my best,” he mutters to an empty hallway.

 

The next day, he takes the unnecessarily long way to work, pondering not going in at all and just driving the motorbike wherever the road will take him, just to clear his head. But no, he's in front of the theatre before he knows it, and it's the first time in years, decades probably, that he feels reluctant to go inside.

“Oh, there you are, excellent,” Balin snatches him up right from the foyer, “upstairs, the big atelier, twenty minutes, okay?”

And Thorin is – okay that is, with being swept off his feet by work, not given a second to think, at least for a couple of hours. Arguing about approaching the Azog debacle and spending the afternoon reacquainting himself with his roles seems like a much better thing to concentrate on than dwelling on the fact that... well, that this is it.

He'll be back on stage full-time before he can blink, and all that will be left of Midsummer is the poster on the wall behind the bar, having claimed its rightful place next to every other production that has ever swept through this theatre like a hurricane, only to leave nothing behind but costumes and props waiting to be repurposed, lines to be forgotten and replaced with new ones as soon as possible, and the creeping feeling that it has all been for naught.

“Hey.”

Dwalin's voice snaps him out of his reverie, and he tears his eyes away from the poster, his and Bilbo's faces inches apart, and tries to adopt at least a distantly approachable exterior.

“Balin has some questions, if you can find him, and I think Dori is having a hissy about one of your vests not fitting? I have no idea. But I was thinking, after you deal with that, we could go grab a drink?”

God, even Dwalin. One of these days, he might have to sit him and Dís and the whole happy gang down and explain to them that he doesn't actually need to be mollycoddled – the exact opposite, in fact. That he wants nothing more than for them to leave him the hell alone. Talking can only make things worse. Not to mention real. No, he has no interest in confirming that he feels like shit, thank you very much.

“Not today,” he utters, and before Dwalin can puff up and start countering him, he adds sternly, “thanks for the offer, and I'll take you up on it, I swear, just... not today.”

“Look, mate...”

“I'm serious. Leave it. For now.”

 

If he thought that at least his dressing room might offer some comfort, he was sorely mistaken. The second he enters it, he sees Bilbo sitting right there on the chair the wrong way around and typing furiously, angry at this or that minor blogosphere issue... Or cross-legged on the couch reading, or slouching on the carpet eating takeout, or coming in tentatively and accepting Thorin's dumb gift like a week – a week? feels like centuries – ago, and leaving again far too soon, and leaving for good.

Thorin stands there barely past the threshold, not particularly keen on moving, and he sincerely hates that this is it. That there's nothing... nothing he left behind. That everybody and everything is already moving on, like all those months never happened, like it's okay to pretend that they didn't matter. Like Bilbo didn't-

Thorin groans at his own achingly annoying stupidity and finally steps inside properly, going straight for the mini fridge, and groaning again when he finds it empty. Of course it is. He sighs raggedly and slumps on the couch, shoving his hands in his pockets, perfectly ready to stay there until kingdom come, but...

He sits up better again, staring at the chain of the pendant pooling in his palm, and then gets up abruptly, looking around as if someone might come bursting in through the door at this very moment, before crossing the distance to his dress table and hanging the thing on the side of the mirror – just like he's seen Bilbo do a billion times.

It dangles there innocently, tiny and bright, and Thorin takes it in between his thumb and index finger, gently, turning it this way and that. He feels like he should say something profound, like all of the heroes from all of Bilbo's romcoms no doubt would right now, but the point of the matter is, he's long since run out of words. Never has been very good at using the right ones, anyway.

He lets the golden acorn slip from his grasp and hit the glass of the mirror with a soft tinkle, and sits down heavily on the nearby chair, staring ahead very dumbly, for a very long time, thinking about people leaving behind nothing but empty spaces, and about the fickle nature of human memory, and yes, mostly about things that would grant him a good slap over the top of his head from Dís, and an order to wake the hell up.

Well then. This is going to be fun.

-

 

EW Online POPWATCH: Bilbo Baggins talks upcoming Anderson movie, aiming high and settling down

by Esther Zuckerman

 

Downtown Sacramento, the chill in the morning air announcing that yes, summer really is over now. I arrive at the cozy cafe entirely too early, and yet I find Bilbo Baggins already sitting there, seemingly perfectly happy to just sip on his milkshake and watch his surroundings.

“Don't mind me,” he greets me, “this is just something that I like to do – I've never been to this city, and little places like these are the best for figuring out what the locale is all about, don't you think?”

There really is an almost unassuming quality about him, something I suspect might just be a very well-crafted front – this is what he has become famous for, after all, doe eyes and bright smiles, and he sells that image perfectly.

He does appear a bit tired, though – no doubt due to flying out here virtually days after finishing the already critically acclaimed production of A Midsummer Night's Dream all the way over in Ered Luin, a city that's not exactly right there on the front page when it comes to influential theatre scenes, but perhaps that might change now?

“Oh, it's a wonderful city, really vibrant, and when it comes to culture, I think it has fantastic potential,” Bilbo agrees, “I was lucky enough to do Hamlet there before Midsummer, and it's just a very fresh environment, full of people very excited to do new things, I think.”

Honestly, if there ever was a perfect example of a person excited to do new things, it's Bilbo. He's been very diligent in his quest to swerve out of the grooves the beginnings of his career had set for him – starting out as an instant-noodle Hollywood chick flick success is a highly taunting road to go down, and not many ever step out of their own shadow, but in Bilbo's case, that's all he's ever wanted to do, it seems.

“Yeah, I'm very adamant on proving people wrong,” he smiles almost shyly, “and theatre is a good way to do that, for me anyway. I've been blessed with some truly wonderful productions, and I'm not planning on... well, stopping, any time soon.”

And yet he's clearly not planning on giving up the opportunities that the silver screen still has in store for him, either. The Round Door is hitting cinemas sometime before Christmas, a somewhat controversial schedule slot for what promises to be a fast-paced dystopian flick, but Bilbo explains: “It started out very simple, yeah, but I find that with this genre, there are just so many possibilities, you know? I spent the entirety of my time on that set in front of a green screen, which is a very specific thing for an actor to deal with – I don't think I remembered which scene I was shooting, half the time. But yeah, it was fun, and I think the movie is going to be great fun – there's just as much story in there as there are special effects, and I think people are going to really like it.”

No doubt about that, since it stars Bilbo, but I'm much more interested in what's coming up – Bilbo is on his way to the set of The Mountain King, the highly anticipated new Wes Anderson movie, where he's going to spend a couple of weeks in the most esteemed company including the director's household names like Owen Wilson and Anjelica Huston, and the ever-astonishing Bill Murray, and he couldn't be more excited.

“Yeah, I play a burglar. This very reluctant person who doesn't want to get involved at all, but does anyway, it's hilarious. That's really as much as I can tell you, I'm afraid, but I'm just so thrilled to be there at all. I've always admired the way Wes – Mr Anderson conducts the process of making a movie, the way he treats his actors, the way he tells stories... I'm blessed to be a part of that.”

He talks at the speed of light about how the director handpicked him a couple of months ago, and how he's yet to figure out how to get from the ambitious set here to the press tour for The Round Door when it kicks off halfway across the states in New York City – as I listen to him, I get the sense that everything in his life is moving with a dizzying velocity right now, and he doesn't even seem to mind.

But then again, that's what his entire career has been about – Summer Fever, the first movie that ever introduced us to his infectious laughter and incredible knack for facial expressions some don't hesitate to compare to the comedian Jim Carrey's, was an enormous hit in the summer of 2004, and Baggins' career skyrocketed practically overnight. He couldn't avoid being typecast at first (Head Over Heels or the sequel to Summer Fever, to name a few), but I get the feeling that even that was a part in some master plan he's been brewing underneath that unassuming exterior all this time.

“Do I aim high?” he repeats my question, chewing on his straw thoughtfully, “don't we all? I mean, I still tend to feel like the newbie most of the times. Every incredible opportunity that comes my way still has me wondering, am I good enough for this? Have I done enough to deserve this? It's strange. At one point, people start treating you like the second coming, and I'm told it's very difficult not to give into that, but that has not been my experience. I think the balance between humility and healthy self-esteem is a difficult one to maintain, but it has to be maintained at all times nevertheless. I don't think I'll ever be able to just sit down and declare right, I've proven my awesomeness, I'll just wait here for amazing things to happen to me. For me, it's about pushing myself, constantly, trying things I haven't tried yet, even if they scare me. Especially when they scare me. Pushing past that, finding out that I can do something I didn't believe I could, that's an incredible feeling, very rewarding. So I suppose that that's what I aim for – to never stop in a rut, to always pursue new experiences. We'll see how high that takes me,” he smiles.

Our conversation meanders soon, very effortlessly so, but it is not difficult to understand that there are some topics that Bilbo is less than thrilled to explore. He's repeatedly called his family background 'very far from exciting' on many previous occasions, and I don't think he'd let me make him uncomfortable even if I actually wanted to try, but he's clearly very partial about how much he's going to really let on about his personal life.

With both of his parents deceased, he describes most of his living family members as 'unsupportive at best' – with the clear exception of his cousin Primula Brandybuck, who has worked as his agent all these years – and isn't too keen on going into detail, which I can't blame him for. He is cut from a different cloth than most of his colleagues – despite the almost magnetic pull of his persona, he doesn't suffer from the need to forcefully bring attention to himself, and tells me as much.

“I value my privacy. Might be a naïve thing to do, but I really need to retain some parts of myself I don't advertise to the outside world. It's exhausting at times, but worth it.”

When I brave the question of romance, he shoots me down very quickly and relentlessly, while still smiling politely and making me feel like the bad guy for prying. There's no official record of him ever publicizing any relationship, and that's clearly not about to change. That topic does, however, steer us into more interesting waters, and I listen with barely concealed curiosity as he talks more broadly about what acting is to him – he is a notorious traveler, always settling in his workplace for however long the current job requires, and even though he hails from the cozy rural side of Lancashire, England, he is very rarely seen returning there.

“I go where the jobs take me, that's true,” he admits, then seems lost in thought for a moment, continuing a bit tightly, “that's what I've always loved best about it – it's given me the opportunity to see the world, meet so many interesting people.”

So does he crave at least some steadiness? I ask, and receive in exchange a laugh that's a bit on the dry side, and yet another contemplative don't we all?

“You and I both know it's not that simple. I spend a lot of time feeling like a nomad, and when I stop for five minutes, it's to discover that maintaining something that lasts is... Well, I hope not thoroughly impossible. Just bloody difficult. Still,” he brightens up, shaking off some invisible worry promptly, like he's done it a billion times before, “it's good. It is. I mean... I'm lucky, aren't I. Luckier than most. I have a steady influx of jobs, a roof over my head, I'm healthy. I can't complain.”

I mention that it's alright to complain a little bit, every now and then, and he looks at me almost incredulously, almost as if simple human reliefs such as complaining aren't even in his day-to-day repertoire.

“About what? I'm sitting here with you in this beautiful city, about to head out to the Sierra Nevada Mountains to shoot a movie with a group of people who have been my inspiration for ages. It's a dream come true, and I'm not in the habit of questioning those.”

-

 

“So how's our patient doing?”

“Unresponsive. Heart rate's dropping. Needs a good slap pronto or we're going to lose him.”

Dís sighs, and balances the spoon for Dwalin to taste her sauce, trying to sneak a peek into the living room in the process. All she can see is Thorin's hunched back on the couch, and the halo of Fili's golden curls next to him.

“Mom, is Uncle really sick?” Kili tugs at her skirt, “is he going to have to go to the hospital?”

“No, of course not, darling. He just needs a bit of cheering up. Why don't you go and jump on his back, huh? He likes that a lot.”

Her youngest dashes off with victory in his eyes, and they watch him assault Thorin from behind, shrieking with delight when he grunts and grabs at him, dragging him onto his lap.

“They can only do so much for him,” Dís notes regarding the boys, “we have to figure something out. I caught him sitting in the auditorium again yesterday, just staring into space.”

“Yeah, I know. Gotta snap my fingers in his face if I want to get his attention these days. It's getting pathetic.”

“Yeah, well...”

“No, I mean, it's bullshit, god. Grown-ass man reduced to... this, and for what?”

“Cut him some slack, jeez,” Dís sighs, “when was the last time you had your heart broken, eh?”

“I think the correct question would be when was the last time I let anyone break my heart, and the answer would be never, because it's a stupid thing to do,” Dwalin counters.

“Yeah right, you manly man you. Go set the table.”

“Mo-om!” Fili calls from the living room, “Bilbo posted a picture, but Uncle won't let us see!”

“He, uh... What now?” Dís frowns, and Dwalin shrugs, but they reach a unanimous agreement for him to go check on the situation.

The second Thorin sees him advancing in on him, he disentangles himself from the boys and marches out of the room with nothing more than a displeased grunt, and Dwalin wisely stops the kids from following him this time, instead herding them to help him set the table – Dís, who catches Thorin's haunted glare before he disappears, is just left wondering what could have caused such a commotion. She stirs the risotto sauce idly, lost in thought, when it finally occurs to her.

“Fili, darling, fetch me my phone!”

He arrives with it quickly and dutifully, and Dís fiddles with it carefully, handling everything that's happening on the stove with only one hand. Like a bloodhound zeroing in on the scent of her prey, she brings up Bilbo's Twitter homepage, and indeed, there it is – miles away from his usual quick selfies and cheerful little messages, this one, and Dís forgets to stir for a moment.

“That's right, he did mention the mountains...” she mumbles, more to herself than anyone else, even though Dwalin is already taking up space in the kitchen again and peering over her shoulder.

“He did?”

“Yeah...”

It's just that, the edge of a solitary peak she doesn't recognize and the sun setting behind it, the colors almost surrealistically bright, the sky a whole plethora of rich purples and blues, and she imagines Bilbo standing amidst all that, deciding to point the camera away from himself for once, deciding to...

“Day 9,” Dwalin recites the description, “moving on. Moving on?”

“Day nine?” she nudges him, “Midsummer finished nine days ago.”

“Did it...? Oh. Well, that's just... Dear god,” Dwalin groans.

“Right?” she exclaims, working fast to finish up the meal, “you just know some teenager with a blog is going to do the math and jump to conclusions. Moving on,” she snorts.

“Well, at least one of them ought to,” Dwalin points out, knowing better than to stand within the reach of her ladle right now.

“You call that moving on?” she chuckles, “numbering the days since he went away? I'm telling you, this is just the goddamn beginning.”

 

She only wishes Thorin were able to see it. Being optimistic for two is exhausting business, it really is. Of course she doesn't expect Bilbo to turn up on their doorstep out of the blue, what with him currently being on the opposite side of the world and all, but god, it's not like this is the definitive end for them – can't be. Because the other option – Thorin actually moving on – just isn't a viable one right now.

He goes back on stage without a hitch, back to his four-plays-a-week schedule, but he's... not all there. To put it mildly. It's work, and she's glad he immerses himself in that rather than, say, an alcoholic reverie, but he does it mechanically at best. Moves mechanically, responds to questions mechanically, normal human interaction an afterthought.

He was born a recluse, but he puts up his walls taller and thicker now than ever before. Dwalin reports no success on the 'getting him drunk until he talks' front, and Dís is having no luck herself. He only laughs for the boys because he has to, only goes to work because he has to, only eats and breathes and gets up in the morning because he has to. The tenderest part of her wants to blame Bilbo for all this, pick up the phone and yell at him, you came here with your infectious cheer and bullshit-meter finely tuned to Thorin's frequency, and you made him so much better, and so much happier, and anyone with half a brain could see that you were happy here, too, so what gives you the right to just leave?!

But she knows it's not for her to resolve any of this – she'd tell Thorin to hop on a plane and go after Bilbo, throw caution to the wind and pick one of the plethora of sappy romantic lines from one of Bilbo's sappy romantic comedies and get him back, but the truth is, real life offers very few opportunities for that. And besides, she has the sneaking suspicion that the two have used up their quota of sappy romantic gestures a long time ago. Probably stepped over some invisible limit with that damn acorn pendant.

She sees it hanging on Thorin's long-unused scratched old mirror in his dressing room when she first invades it with a very clearly malicious intention of nagging him until he relents and crawls up into the lounge to just generally be around people for twenty minutes, and his gaze follows her, but he says nothing, just marches them both out of the room and disappears on her again.

She plans on giving him a couple of months before she'll actually get to work.

 

Until then, there are other things to focus on, unfortunately.

“Are you absolutely certain you can withstand an actual lawsuit? I mean, the way I understand it, Midsummer was a good patch for your... economic troubles, but still just a patch nevertheless.”

Like that.

“What the hell are you implying?” she sizes Thranduil up and down, with a disdain that's perfectly justified, as far as she's concerned.

“I'm not implying anything,” he smirks, “I simply dislike the idea of watching you go under after the success you've just had.”

“Oh, you dislike the idea, do you.”

“Well,” he sighs, watching his own fingers rapping on the faded leather of her sofa rather pensively, then folding his hands on his knee, “you understand that what I would actually like best is if we could just go our own separate ways, now that our business is concluded.”

“And yet you've invited yourself into my office in the middle of a very busy week.”

“Yes, well,” he sighs, and sounds genuinely upset, “you have two sons, you know how persuasive children can be.”

“I don't understand,” she says dryly.

“You've done more than enough damage, filling my students' heads with all this nonsense about merging scenes and broadening horizons, and now-”

“I have never tried to fill your students' heads with anything-”

“-And now, in addition to their usual workload at the Academy, they've gotten it into their heads to resurrect Laketown.”

“They've – huh? How?”

“Well, no doubt you've heard about the new director the magistrate appointed. Bow – something.”

“Bard Bowman, yes, I know him. Nice guy, bit of a revolutionary, if you ask me.”

“Exactly. Just because his grandfather used to be Regional Cultural Director, he thinks he automatically knows how to run things. Getting Laketown up and running is apparently number one on the agenda. He's looking for fresh faces, and thought it wise to start asking my students behind my back.”

Dís snickers to herself – not only is it always hilarious to see this ever-elegant hedonist get worked up over the tiniest things, but it's also immensely refreshing to be talking about something that's not Erebor's rotting rafters or Thorin's festering Bilbo-shaped wound. She remembers the Laketown festival from when she was just a little girl, her father carrying her high up on his shoulders so that she could see over the crowd ahead, the sea of people filling every inch of the lush park on the island on the Long Lake, dogs barking and children laughing and these round paper lanterns in all sorts of bright colors in garlands from one tree to another, and the wobbly benches of the tribunes all around the huge stage... And all of it burning down, and she was far too little to understand what her parents meant when they used words like 'arson' and 'someone settling a grudge'.

“Well, I think that's a wonderful idea,” she smiles at Thranduil very beatifically, if only just to spite him more, “do you think the city will give him the money?”

“Funny you should ask that. The city will, but the sum is laughably insubstantial. So, Bowman has roped my son into roping me into supporting it.”

“Oh dear god, they're forcing you to have a positive influence on public life!” Dís gasps theatrically.

“I know! It's dreadful,” he sighs, “anyway, the point is, there will be a... thing.”

“A thing?” she cocks an eyebrow.

“Yes, a thing. Before Christmas, specifically. A fundraiser type extravaganza. Bard's thinking a heated tent, theatre, a concert-”

“Oh, suddenly it's Bard, is it?” she immediately grabs at that opportunity to tease, and is delighted to have hit the proverbial nail on the head – Thranduil scowls bitterly, wounded where it hurts the most, but regains his composure swiftly enough.

“Yes, well,” he clears his throat daintily, “all the proceeds will go to actually rejuvenating the island and making Laketown happen in the summer, just like it used to be. My students are all obnoxiously obsessed.”

“Oh yes, I can imagine the students are the obsessed ones,” she snickers, then leans back in her chair and gives him a more scrutinizing look-over, “honestly though, while this is all very nice and everything, I still don't see which part of it warranted you coming down here and interrupting my workday.”

“Ah, yes, you see,” it's his turn to look amused, albeit very sardonically so, “as much as I enjoy your brother's company, I thought that our communication might go better if I actually went to you first.”

“Thorin?” she inclines her head, “what does this have to do with him?”

“Well,” he sighs raggedly, as if admitting to some very uncomfortable secret, “I believe, through no fault of my own, that I have a job for him.”

-

 

If there is one thing about movie sets that Bilbo isn't getting used to any time soon, it's the waiting. Hours of sitting around and doing nothing, waiting for a make-up call, only to sit around in make-up for hours after that, waiting to be summoned to do some actual work. Especially right now, in the middle of what the crew have fondly dubbed 'Murray Scenery' week – no matter how picturesque their surroundings, the sky is very fickle, and the perfect combination of no clouds, and the sun shining bright, and all the shadows facing just so, often occurs entirely out of the blue, and everyone jumps at the chance to shoot the seemingly endless edition of 'Bill Murray looking grim while surrounded by breathtaking scenery', and all else has to take a backseat for a while.

Bilbo's scenes with the man are coming up only later, and he couldn't be more worried – being his usual sociable self might work on the crew, who are all incredibly peppy and energetic, and playing ping pong like a pro might impress Owen and Wes himself, and he might have scored a lot of positive points by making Anjelica Huston of all people burst into laughter the other day when she approached him about running lines and he decided to ad-lib some of them, but The Murricane is a whole other kettle of fish.

“You don't want to act like you want to be friends right away,” Owen imparts his wisdom, his face scrunched up in perfect concentration as the ping pong ball flies in between them, “I remember when I first met him shooting Tenenbaums, trotting up to him like the idiot I was and telling him I admire him so much, you're such an inspiration, yadda yadda yadda, and he basically told me to stuff it and do my goddamn job. He really values professionalism, I can tell you as much. Get the job done first, be all buddy-buddy later. Shit!”

Bilbo sends the ball flying off Owen's side of the table with a perfect twisted killer shot, and it disappears in between the hoards of equipment that surrounds them like a labyrinth.

“Ha! Sorry,” Bilbo calls, and Owen's only response is a dull grunt, already having disappeared behind the boxes and shelves in his search.

“Anyway, you should be fine,” he announces, reappearing a bit breathless and a bit dusty, but wielding the ball victoriously, “don't let him scare you off. He's a nice guy. Just has one hell of a resting bitchface.”

 

And that's it then, really. Moving on. Meeting new people, setting new challenges for himself, working hard. If he'd expected to be more visibly wrecked, maybe he should have given himself any time at all to actually feel that. But no, he knows this is the only way – dedicating himself fully to something new, to leave the old behind. Or something. It's how he's always operated, no reason to change that now.

Sometimes – far too often for his tastes – he catches himself reaching for the bare spot just below the dip of his collarbone where his pendant used to lay, missing it with an ache that's entirely disproportional to what it actually was, and he wonders if the time to stop kidding himself will come soon now.

It's the evenings he spends in his trailer, watching the sun set beyond the peaks, the sky an astonishing display of rich dusk hues, and yet feeling strangely detached from it all, that he ponders all that – you've got what you wanted, you're hurt and you feel lost and you feel like you left a part of yourself behind (great job making that tangible by leaving the pendant with him, by the way, really classy), so what is it? Are you scared? Mostly just scared, yeah. Scared, and stuck, and kind of pathetic. Lovely.

Hiding away in his hotel room instead of socializing that one night, and ending up watching the one thing he's been putting off even thinking about, is thus the only logical outcome of all this, he figures.

Thorin is almost unrecognizable, clean shaven and ten years younger and utterly ridiculous, and the second-hand embarrassment twisting Bilbo's gut and making him laugh out loud when he least expects it is about the nicest, most loose he's felt in weeks.

Which is why it has to be interrupted immediately, of course.

He regrets equipping Prim with her own keycard to his room the second she invites herself in, groans and jumps to his feet, pausing the TV – a very nice shot of Thorin in full Phantom get-up, white mask and all, a picture-perfect dork.

“Hey, uh... What are you doing here?” he hurries to greet Prim, who steers inside carefully, big grocery bag in her arms.

“Thought you might be moping,” she announces simply, “had to check in on you.”

“No, seriously, what's going on?” he mutters, peering into the bag after she sets it down on the nearest flat surface, and discovering what looks like at least a gallon of ice-cream – and are those cookies? Christ.

“Nothing is going on, Bilbo,” she sighs, shrugging off her cardigan and heading to the bathroom to freshen up, the sound of pouring water making her speak louder, “well, I've got another photoshoot lined up for you, but that's not for another month.”

“I thought I'd see you on set tomorrow,” Bilbo sighs, slouching back onto the sofa, feeling strangely and uncomfortably under scrutiny all of a sudden.

“And you will, yeah. But now, I'm here.”

Bilbo has enough wherewithal about him to switch the TV from the DVD recording to some news channel, but she still sees him do it, and still doesn't say anything about it in that obnoxiously judgmental way of hers.

“Eat your cookies,” she orders him, tossing a box of them into his lap and making herself comfortable next to him, opening the vat of ice-cream without much ado.

“I'm fine,” he mumbles, but delves in obediently.

“M-hm, I can see that. Three hundred thousand people can see that.”

“What?”

“Pretty sunsets?” she cocks an eyebrow, “'day nine'? 'Moving on'?!”

“God,” he groans in utter exasperation, stuffing his mouth full and letting his head fall back on the headrest of the couch.

“Yeah. Just saying, a selfie every now and again would be a good thing, probably. It's been over two weeks now since your last update.”

“I'm working,” he complains.

“Yes, and that's something you usually document,” she reminds him, “but you say you're fine, so obviously I have no reason to doubt you.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Bilbo...-” she opens her mouth to scold him some more, but he merely glares at her, much more coldly than she deserves, until she relents, sighing and stuffing a big spoonful of ice-cream into her mouth, mumbling through it, “fine, whatever. You know I'm here to talk, whenever you want. But for now, put that Phantom back on – you promised you'd let me watch it, remember?”

He does – nothing else to do, really, no escape from this. He squirms uncomfortably at first, glances at her suspiciously every five seconds because he knows she's just there to make him talk eventually, but... Well, she doesn't press him. Simply shares his ice-cream with him, and chats effortlessly, and at some point, somehow, they're both convulsing in laughter over the ridiculousness that is Thorin's Phantom's propensity for over-the-top gesticulation or some such thing, and Bilbo feels like a teenager again, the two of them locking themselves up in her room and watching whatever silly movie she'd picked. She used to be the only one he was willing to confide in once, when he was fifteen and insecure about everything from his hair to his voice, from his writing to his preferences, and he misses that fiercely. Misses some feeling of familiarity.

Misses a home, and no matter how much she makes him laugh, how much she improves his mood, she's not it anymore.

“Talked to Dís the other day, by the way.”

She mentions it casually enough, sitting on the carpet and typing something on her phone, Phantom currently boring them with unnecessary secondary dialogues – but Bilbo recognizes her nefarious plan right away.

“Oh?” he says tensely.

“Yeah. Sends her regards. That book they're all worried about so much is getting published soon, and apparently they're already gearing up for a lawsuit or something.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo peeps quietly, fingertips ghosting over his clavicle, then when he realizes what he's doing, scratching his neck instead.

“Oh, and there was an accident at the theatre the other day, she says, the floor gave way backstage or something, nobody was hurt but obviously it was kind of inconvenient, I think she said they lost some equipment. But, oh yeah! Apparently there's this theatre festival the city is renewing or something, kind of a big deal, and Erebor's participating in that, and-”

“Prim,” Bilbo sighs, far too quietly, but it manages to catch her attention nevertheless, probably because she's been watching him like a vulture under the ruse of innocence all this time, “I really don't want to hear about this, if you don't mind.”

“Why not?” she asks sternly, and when he only has a glare of his own to give in response, she declares, “well, I'm going to tell you anyway. It used to take place on that island in the middle of that lake of theirs, right? And they used to invite all these famous directors to adapt stuff for it every year – even had Dromgoole in the nineties or something, I think! Can you imagine? And anyway, yeah, there's this whole big story there, but I can't pretend to remember all of it. The point is, all the theatres in Ered Luin are pitching in to get it up and running again. Even Thranduil Greenleaf, hah! That lovely critic, what was his name, Bear-something-”

“Beorn Skinner,” Bilbo says softly.

“Right. He already wrote a really cool article about it, I'll send you the link. Gandalf was quoted! The start of a new era, or some such thing. Really cool. There will be a fundraiser event-type-thing before Christmas. Thorin will be there, doing a bit of Richard III, it's really cool, because it's what his grandfather used to be really famous for, right, and even performed it at the festival all those years ago when it was still going, and I mean of course it won't be the whole play, they have like readings and stuff in mind I think, but still, it's going to be awesome.”

Bilbo feels vaguely nauseous, and a bit less vaguely pissed off, as he watches her chatter about it all happy-like, as if she doesn't know exactly how much pain she's causing him. On the screen, sound way low, Thorin is currently looking comically grim while holding a rose and watching Christine do her virgin-beauty thing, but not even that is now enough to make Bilbo smile.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he utters curtly, and watches her freeze for a bit, as if she can't quite believe him – it annoys him to no end, and he knows he's annoying her, but he's not ready yet, not ready to be admitting to anything.

“Gee, I don't know,” she sighs, “thought you might appreciate the update.”

“I'm good, thanks.”

She exhales raggedly, why are you so difficult, puts her phone away and turns around to sit facing him, looking very serious now – a part of Bilbo considers just up and running away, really.

“They're good people, Bilbo,” she tells him calmly before he can make that a reality, “they've been good to you, and made you happy, and I dare say it worked both ways. You don't have to act like they don't matter to you.”

-

 

He's not even going to pretend this isn't a new low. The day is perfectly nice, and he should probably be spending it with his nephews, should probably at least consider getting some fresh air before he rots, but instead he's sitting on the floor and drinking beer at two in the afternoon, curtains closed and both trousers and t-shirt deemed unnecessary, watching Silver Linings.

He's seen it all, Head Over Heels, Summer Fever number one and two, Brandywine – twice... But there's something about this movie that's made him avoid it for now, refrain from including it in his little pity party consisting of setting and then successfully surpassing new levels of 'how long before continuous close-ups of Bilbo's face become too much'. It's probably the fact that it's actually of some recognizable quality, and thus won't allow him to pretend like he's not concentrating. Yeah, should have thought of that sooner.

Bilbo is... well, he's younger. Less refined, but there's a rawness to his acting, some of the most incredible layering of emotion Thorin has ever seen. He plays a dying man, and he's not loud about it, or overtly desperate, or pathetically philosophical – no, he's, more than anything, completely human, and there's a lingering sadness behind his eyes that makes him look ages older, and a calm resolution that moves Thorin, but subtly, seemingly when he least expects it.

And so Thorin watches this quiet little movie, feeling immensely sorry for himself and letting it slowly deconstruct him, drinking beer and ignoring his stomach demanding he fill with something more substantial, and when his phone pings with an incoming message, he ignores it at first. But then it announces another one, and he sighs and reaches for it to check it out, mostly because Bilbo currently isn't on screen.

 

    From: Bilbo

    13:27

    Congrats on the job.

 

    13:31

    Prim talked 2 Dis.

 

Thorin stares at the screen of his phone, completely frozen for a moment, the rim of the beer can stuck in between his lips, the beverage turning bitter on his tongue. He swallows slowly.

“Didn't see that coming, did you?” Bilbo's character says in the movie, and Thorin snaps to look at him, eyes wide, watching him smile somberly, watching a close-up on his hands twisting a handkerchief, then back to his face, those huge sad eyes...

“Fuck,” Thorin breathes out.

 

    To: Bilbo

    13:36

    Thanks. Feels weird. How have you been?

 

He presses send before he can change his mind, and stares at the TV blankly for a moment, before realizing he's not even registering the movie anymore, and pausing it.

 

    From: Bilbo

    13:37

    Sitting in a make-up chair. Weird? How come?

 

    To: Bilbo

    13:37

    It's my Granddad's thing. We haven't done the play since.

 

    From: Bilbo

    13:38

    You'll do it justice. Don't worry so much.

 

Thorin huffs a quiet laugh, mostly because he can hear Bilbo saying those words, and his heart promptly proceeds to clench painfully.

 

    To: Bilbo

    13:40

    Thanks. Isn't it like 6am where you are?

 

    From: Bilbo

    13:41

    Don't even get me started. Two hours in the chair, and all that's different is the wig. Scratch that, u didn't hear anything, my make-up artist is glaring. Spoilers, apparently.

 

    To: Bilbo

    13:41

    Mum's the word. Is it a crazy color?

 

    From: Bilbo

    13:42

    I AM NOT AT LIBERTY TO SAY (nah it's boring but ssshhh)

 

    To: Bilbo

    13:43

    Amazing. Can't wait to see.

 

Could it really be that easy? Bilbo doesn't respond to that one, and Thorin doesn't really expect him to, but he wonders still. Texting is easier than talking face to face, after all. He curses his stupid flailing heart for tolling like a frantic bell throughout this little exchange, but not as much as he curses himself in general, taking a proper look at himself for the first time in... well, weeks, and realizing what a mess he is. Pathetic.

He scrambles to his feet, picking up the empty cans and other mess from around and under the coffee table, checking that the acorn pendant rests safely in the little bowl – he wouldn't dare wear it, but that doesn't change the fact he's been carrying it with him wherever he goes. In a moment of thoroughly pathetic weakness, he considers snapping a pic of it and sending it to Bilbo, but decides against that pretty quickly, on the grounds of... well, common sense.

 

---

 

November 6^th

 

    From: Bilbo

    20:34

    Alright, I lied. The wig actually changes colors halfway thru the movie. Either way, not a nice thing to look at.

 

    To: Bilbo

    22:48

    Show night, sorry. Pics or it didn't happen.

 

    From: Bilbo

    23:01

    Pretty sure they'd fire me. I'll try to sneak pics 2morro. Good show?

 

    To: Bilbo

    23:03

    'The Importance Of'. Good enough.

 

    From: Bilbo

    23:04

    Miss that one.

 

Miss you, Thorin thinks, squaring his shoulders and making himself look smaller, just in case someone in the lounge gets any ideas and tries to socialize all of a sudden. Keeping a stormy expression even though he'd like nothing better than to grin like an idiot is a rare and coveted talent.

 

 

 

 

---

 

November 8^th

    To: Bilbo

    16:13

    [Image]

    Boys say hi.

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:25

    Ahhhh that's sweet. Hi right back @ them. I hope that's just jam on Kili's face.

 

    16:32

    [Image]

    The back of Bill Murray's head says hi.

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:33

    Oh my GOD. (Yes it is just jam. Pancake warzone over here)

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:35

    Yeah. He'll kill me if he finds out. (I miss pancakes. Catering here sucks)

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:35

    How is he?

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:37

    Grouchy. Actually nice, but cares abt getting the job done first. Sucks at ping pong.

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:38

    And you don't?

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:38

    EXCUSE U I AM THE PING PONG MASTER. I am undefeated. Ask Owen Wilson.

 

---

 

November 18^th

 

    Bilbo Baggins [ @bagginses ], 11:14

    Day off, hiking. Wish you were here., bit.ly/1KFdCB7

 

“What have you got there?”

“What? Nothing! It's nothing.”

“Ooh, is that Bilbo? Let me see! Don't be a baby!”

Engaging Thorin in a brief wrestling match, Dís manages to get the upper hand, and he lets her see the screen of his phone, and Bilbo's newest Twitter post – sunlight again, but this time it's his face bathing in it, a bright grin and sunglasses and a very ridiculous cap all included.

“'Wish you were here', huh?” she comments, and expects an entirely overdone, childish reaction of some sort, but Thorin just... well, under-reacts, really.

“Yep,” he mumbles, and when she takes a closer look at him, she sees a smile dancing on his lips. It fades when he notices her staring, but it's too late – she climbs over the back of the couch to sit next to him, very curious all of a sudden.

“Wish you in particular were here?” she ventures a guess.

“What? Oh please,” he groans, snatching his phone away from her.

“Have you two...?” she tilts her head, feeling very much like a teenager once again.

“What?” he barks, but then relents, admitting more mellowly, “just a couple of texts, every now and then.”

“Ni-ice,” she grins broadly.

“It's not like th– shut up,” he sighs.

“Whatever you say. How is he?”

“Fine. I suppose. Finishes shooting soon, I think.”

“Hmm,” Dís smiles, scrutinizing Thorin until it makes him squirm and scowl, then laughing and patting his shoulder as she gets up, “he looks good. Send him my regards, will you.”

“Uh-huh,” he mutters distractedly, already fiddling with his phone, the small smile back in place – she doesn't think he even realizes it's there.

 

 

---

 

 

November 19 ^th

 

    To: Bilbo

    00:23

    [Image]

    Punched an old man in the face today.

 

    From: Bilbo

    00:30

    I'm... proud of you??? :D Is that broken? What the hell??

 

    To: Bilbo

    00:31

    Just a bruise. Broke Azog's nose tho.

 

    From: Bilbo

    00:32

    ISN'T HE LIKE EIGHTY

 

    To: Bilbo

    00:32

    There's no age limit for being an asshole. Felt amazing.

 

    From: Bilbo

    00:33

    I can imagine... What the hell happened??

 

    To: Bilbo

    00:35

    Book christening thing. He invited us all just to piss us off.

 

    From: Bilbo

    00:35

    Yeah, I heard. Lost ur temper?

 

    To: Bilbo

    00:36

    Something like that. He said some things.

 

    From: Bilbo

    00:37

    Sounds gravely offensive. Is he gonna sue you right back for this or

 

    To: Bilbo

    00:38

    Don't think so. It was all very Fuente Ovejuna. Everyone pretended they didn't see it happen.

 

    From: Bilbo

    00:40

    Ah yes, I've forgotten what a lovely close-knit community Ered Luin was. Kinda miss it.

 

    To: Bilbo [draft]

    It misses you too.

 

---

 

 

The funk is always the same – something incredibly nice coming to an end. Bilbo is sure he's going to miss the scenery most of all. The sweltering heat, less so. The people, he's going to spend a lot of time with in post-production anyway, so it's okay. It's... well, all okay, really. Surprisingly so.

He thinks coming up to Wes, no matter how well they've been getting along, and thanking him for making him forget his broken heart for a couple of weeks, just might make things a bit weird. But that doesn't change the fact that it's true – this project has been exactly what Bilbo needed, immense fun, an incredible challenge, something to keep him preoccupied at all times. Most of the time, anyway.

If he checks his phone every second of free time he gets these days just to see if Thorin hasn't texted him, well then he only has himself to blame, really. It's not like he actually planned on getting back in touch with him, it sort of just... happened, and if really pressed, Bilbo would probably admit that it's a relief. It's easier, like this. No pesky eye contact and facial expression and close proximity to get in the way.

Never once have they breached any topic even remotely related to... well, anything uncomfortable. It's casual, and when he catches himself smiling over a message on his breaks, he also catches himself hoping – it's nice, knowing that what he thought was done and over with, bridges burned to the ground, isn't so fatally doomed after all.

That Thorin is somewhere out there, on the other side of the world, and he finds the time to text Bilbo every now and then.

It's enough.

Until, of course, it isn't.

 

He gets the news far too randomly, just sitting with Prim a little way away from the set on one of his very last days, waiting to watch the dailies and only half paying attention to her lecturing him on his upcoming commitments – her phone pings with an incoming e-mail, and her face falls as she reads it.

“What is it?” he asks, picking at a tuft of dried grass, his chief concern currently being absorbing as much sunlight as he can until he has to travel across the States to a no doubt comparably much less cozy NYC.

“Uh... nothing. Nothing,” she mutters, much too tensely for him not to notice.

“What? What happened?”

She opens her mouth to respond, but closes it again – if anyone's reluctance worries him, it's hers, always hers.

“Prim?” he frowns, “what is it?”

She sighs.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:07

    The house sold today.

 

    From: Thorin

    01:15

    That's quick.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:16

    Yeah. Someone was very eager, or so I'm told.

 

    From: Thorin

    01:17

    Huh. Feel weird?

 

Bilbo stares at that message, surrounded by his luggage, the alarm clock on the end table mercilessly reminding him that that the taxi to the airport will be here far too soon for him to get anything resembling a good night's sleep tonight, and he thinks, no.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:23

    Not really. It should, probably.

 

    From: Thorin

    01:25

    Sorry to hear it. It was a nice house. Maybe the dead animals buried in the backyard will end up haunting anyone who stays there too long eh

 

Laughing out loud alone in a hotel room somewhere is, as it turns out, exactly what Bilbo needs right now, and he has the sneaking suspicion that Thorin knew that.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:26

    One can hope. Nah, the floors are far too old, and the roof is probably still falling apart. Tiny ghosts of my old pets might actually improve the experience.

 

    From: Thorin

    01:27

    I liked the old floors.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:27

    Sure u did.

 

    From: Thorin

    01:28

    I did! And the shower. Couch was a bit old.

 

Blushing alone in a hotel room wasn't exactly Bilbo's plan for tonight, but there you have it.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:30

    I don't think I remember u complaining.

 

    From: Thorin

    01:31

    I don't think I remember you letting me voice my feelings.

 

Barking a laugh at something that could have so easily pissed him off, also unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:31

    You're lucky I didn't kick you off the couch.

 

    From: Thorin

    01:33

    Lucky indeed.

 

    01:39

    [Image]

 

Bilbo stares, just stares, a bit breathless, for what vastly surpasses polite response time – the edge of an all-too-familiar mirror (why does he recognize a mirror, how, why), and the shadow of Thorin's arm. And the pendant, tiny and golden and grainy.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:46

    You kept it.

 

    From: Thorin

    01:47

    Yep.

 

    01:50

    Hope you haven't had bad luck without it.

 

    To: Thorin

    01:51

    So far so good.

 

    01: 57

    Might have to come back for it one of these days, though.

 

    From: Thorin

    02:01

    That would be good.

 

Chapter Text

Stage is where the real art is, his grandfather used to say, anyone can act at a camera, but in front of a living, breathing audience? No do-overs, no room for mistakes, just the thrill of right here, right now. Real art.

Thorin had always agreed, because it didn't do to disagree with his grandfather, but he's always thought otherwise – real art , at least to him, lay in the ability to make real people feel real emotions, and it shouldn't matter if they're sitting two meters away from you, or staring at your larger-than-life face on the silver screen. He could have been anything in his life, a musician, or a doctor, or even a soldier, like he'd briefly considered in his rebellious barely-past-his-teens stage, but the truth is, he's never found anything that makes him more focused, reminds him better that he's alive, than this.

“What do I fear?” he murmurs, the lines slipping past his lips as barely more than quiet sighs, “myself? There's none else by.”

He still remembers his grandfather's Richard so vividly, a hunched over, paranoid, spiteful wreck of an old man – back then, he'd thought that performance insurmountable, precisely because the actor and the role became one, the King's progressing madness and all-consuming greed reflected in Thror's own developing illness. But now... Now he knows that both his grandfather and his younger self would be horrified at what he's doing with the material right now, which is exactly why he's going to continue doing it.

He's going to do an excerpt of the play, a thing unheard of, not on an actual stage, but outdoors, in a heated tent in the middle of the city, for a festival slash fundraiser, and he 's going to spend the entirety of it wearing nothing but a crumpled dress shirt and an equally crumpled suit (disregard the trousers) and flip flops, and stand in front of a massive mirror applying impressive amounts of hairspray and probably poison himself in the process – and he's going to like it.

His younger self would pout and scoff and remind him of tradition, and the proper ways of doing things and stuff like that, but then again, his younger self was a bit of a tool.

“Fool, of thyself speak well,” he sniggers over those lines, “fool, do not flatter.”

He sighs contentedly, closing his eyes for a bit, listening to the sounds surrounding him as he lies on the stage – the wood, the faint scent of polisher, the distant hubbub of the crew working backstage, all of it is so familiar to him, so beautifully peaceful, the sounds and blending and swirling in faint echoes up, up under the tall ceiling. He could fall asleep here. He has fallen asleep here before, after all.

“Oh, good, there you are! Are you okay?”

But of course, this is the price he pays for choosing to rehearse in the virtual center of the theatre in the middle of the day.

He grunts his vague agreement, waving his lines at his approaching sister.

“I see. How's it coming along?”

“It's coming,” he smiles, his eyes fluttering open.

“Hmm. And the hand?”

He flexes it to test it, the bruise almost gone.

“Fine. Still worth it,” he grins, and she chuckles, but it fades quickly enough – she sits down next to him, hugging her knees, staring into the auditorium, rows upon rows of seats breathing an anticipatory silence.

“We might be in a lot of trouble, you know,” she admits quietly, and Thorin pays her closer attention after all.

“We'll be fine,” he mumbles, “we've been through worse. What does Balin reckon about the numbers?”

“You know how the numbers always are,” Dís sighs, “it would be good if someone decided to drop a huge sack of money into our laps out of nowhere right about now.”

“Right,” Thorin chuckles, “money or a miracle, possibly both at once – it's good that we've always had such great luck with those.”

She chuckles, then exhales wearily, and lays down next to him, silent for a moment – it's so rare to see her... not running anywhere, not in motion, not working, and Thorin wishes he knew how to make her stop like this more often.

“Are you okay?” she mumbles, bumping their knees lightly.

He also wishes he knew how to explain to her that she doesn't have to take care of everyone, all the time, but he's only one man.

“I'm alright,” he smiles, “why?”

“You know why.”

“Right,” he sighs, looking from her back up at the ceiling, shuffling for a more comfortable position and actually taking his time to think about it, if only for her sake, before answering, “I am. I'm fine.”

“If you say so,” she concedes quietly, and sounds years younger and age-old and exhausted at the same time – he reaches to find her hand between them, and her slender fingers intertwine with his, and they're both imagining the exact same thing, he knows, back when there were three of them, lying like this in the grass on the hill behind Beorn's house, hip to hip and knees warring for space, shielding their eyes against the sun, naming the shapes of the clouds and catching grasshoppers.

“We'll be okay,” he mumbles, and means the theatre, as much as just the two of them.

“Mhm,” she mumbles, thirteen again, frightened and trying to act all tough.

“Gonna go see Dad with me tomorrow?” he changes the subject.

“At?”

“Morning, sometime. We could grab lunch in the city after.”

“Can't. Got the boys.”

“We could take them with.”

Her eyes are darker, in the dim artificial light down here, there is no direct sunlight to make them shine like pools of forest green, no clouds traveling slowly overhead waiting to be named, no insects buzzing and tangling in her hair, and yet, when he decides he wants to, he can still see her as she was back then. It's reassuring.

“Only if you want,” he adds gently, “he'd like to see them, I'm sure.”

“Maybe,” she murmurs at last, and then, after some quiet consideration, as if she's been waiting to ask it ever since she came here looking for him, “should I have pressed you more? With Bilbo, I mean?”

“What?” he chuckles a bit incredulously, “what does that even mean?”

“I feel like I... I don't know. Could have helped you more. Should have helped you more.”

“Dís,” he sighs.

“I just – I know it's your life, your decisions to make, your mistakes, but-”

“Dís,” he repeats more intently, and she looks at him at long last, distantly harried.

“It's fine,” he says firmly, “Bilbo didn't... Look, he had to go. He just had to, there was no helping that. And I, uh... I was a constipated idiot on my best days, if that's what you're hinting at, but... I don't know. You did enough. You did. Don't worry about it so much.”

“I just... god, so cheesy, but I just wanted you to be happy. I really thought the two of you would work out.”

That's it, really. Fatalism. He spent so much time thinking in such terms, one shot at anything and everything, predestined grooves... a theatrically pathetic point of view on things. He closes his eyes, inhales.

“Who says we won't?”

That is entirely too optimistic, and silly in more ways than one, but it has the desired effect, making her huff a surprised laugh and look at him differently, curiosity and excitement both, and he waves his hand dismissively, don't bother, but before she can make him elaborate, Nori dashes their way, pursued by a loudly disgruntled Dwalin, Bofur too, but when they notice them lying there, they all stop and end up sitting with them – it's still a couple of hours before the performance, and the entire building still slumbers and waits, and there's very little work to do, and it's moments like these, with none of them saying it out loud, but all of them thinking it, or at least feeling it on some level, be it only in the way that they laugh effortlessly – they're home.

It might not always pay very well, and it might have started letting them down lately when it comes to old floorboards collapsing when everyone least expects them to, but it's theirs, and Thorin is quite sure they're not going to let anything happen to it – hell, even if they only have like one performance a month to do, they'll all still be coming here, most of them probably moving into the apartments upstairs or something.

Who says we won't work out?

He can still see Bilbo prancing around the stage when he closes his eyes, or sitting in the audience running his lines, or sprawled right next to him on the floor, laughing helplessly... He knows he might not have felt the same about the place, but that doesn't change the fact that he fit here perfectly, no matter how short his stay was.

Thorin can't just explain to him everything that he wants, and he can't up and leave, travel halfway across the world to get him, because that only happens in all those rom-coms Bilbo has built his fame on, but that doesn't change the fact... That doesn't change the fact that Thorin has learned how to hope again. He dares not think ahead too much, and still struggles with the notion of, well, wanting something for himself, something that isn't career achievements or a bit of peace from his responsibilities, but he knows now that nothing's quite as glum as he's always made it out to be.

That life doesn't happen in huge gestures and epic showdowns, and pathetic scenes that leave the audience gasping for breath – that it's the little things. Everyday ordinary deeds, the ballast in between the huge milestones, the details and the routines, that make life what it is. That one must go through those first, if any milestones are ever to come.

That if he really wants something for himself, he can't just wait for it to come to him, but actually has to grab at it and take it. Briefly, he wonders what Bilbo would have to say about it, and for some reason, he thinks he would laugh. Took you that long to figure it out, huh?

-

 

    From: Thorin

    08:30

    Finally saw the trailer for your flick. NEAT

 

New York is as loud and ignorant as ever, and yet Bilbo's laughter turns a couple of heads, overpowering even the hubbub of this particular Starbucks, apparently.

 

    To: Thorin

    08:31

    Glad u think so. 'Mind-numbingly repetitive' is the more commonly used term these days.

 

    From: Thorin

    08:33

    Press screening?

 

    To: Thorin

    08:34

    God no, not yet. Three weeks from now. SOME PEOPLE will predict anything, tho

 

    From: Thorin

    08:34

    Course they will. Fili and Kili think it'll be, and I quote, AWESOME, UNCLE, so find some reassurance in that, maybe?

 

His cup of overly complicated venti hazelnut latte gets briefly stuck halfway to his mouth – his grin is hurting his cheeks, and yet his chest constricts somewhat painfully. He sighs, taking a sip.

 

    To: Thorin

    08:35

    Oh that is the best reassurance, thanks. How are you all?

 

    From: Thorin

    08:37

    Oh, you know, good. Some people gear up for Christmas, we're gearing up for a lawsuit. KIDDING, it's not all that bad. Richard's turning out real fun. Not sure I want you to see the pics, though, you'll laugh.

 

    To: Thorin

    08:38

    Oh, way ahead of you, I'm afraid. Flip flops?

 

    From: Thorin

    08:38

    Oh god.

 

    To: Thorin

    08:38

    Relax, they suit you. Maybe consider painting your toenails, add some ~flair

 

    From: Thorin

    08:39

    That '~' scares me.

 

    From: Dis Oakenshield

    08:40

    Bilbo! Sitting here next to my brother who is of course entirely clueless about chatspeak. How are you?

 

    To: Dis Oakenshield

    08:40

    DIS HI I'm great! NYC now. How about you? (PS educate your brother since I can't pls)

 

    From: Dis Oakenshield

    08:41

    Will do. We're good over here. Brilliant idea about the nail polish btw, gonna have to mention that to the costume department.

 

    To: Dis Oakenshield

    08:41

    PLS DO

 

    From: Thorin

    08:42

    If I end up with bright red toenails a couple of weeks from now I'M BLAMING YOU

 

    To: Thorin

    08:42

    Who said anything about bright red? I was thinking more along the lines of lavender, or maybe minty green tbh

 

    From: Thorin

    08:43

    I WILL ISSUE ONE WARNING

 

    To: Thorin

    08:43

    HOT PINK

 

    From: Dis Oakenshield

    08:44

    Hot pink it is

 

    From: Thorin

    08:45

    You are a dead man.

 

    To: Thorin

    08:46

    Big talk from someone with hot pink toenails. Come and get me, flip-flop man.

 

Unfortunately, Bilbo's interviewer arrives right in the middle of that exhilarating conversation, looking a bit spooked when she sees him laughing at his phone like a maniac, and so he has to play all professional for the next two hours, and doesn't read the last message in that thread until much later, sitting on the floor of his hotel room and forgetting to chew his Indian food.

 

    From: Dis Oakenshield

    08:48

    Oh by the way, your season pass to Erebor will work as a free ticket for the Laketown Festival. Just thought I'd let you know xxx

 

-

 

It was the same when their grandfather was dying, and Frerin later; even when she was pregnant with Kili and suddenly all on her own – each of those an incredibly stressful time for everyone involved, each of those accompanied by Thorin switching to autopilot in order to become everyone's bedrock, to support and resolve and struggle, and to survive.

He comes to work early, but rarely sticks around. He spends just enough time around them, his family and his friends, so that he has cause enough to shoot them down whenever they express the slightest hint of concern. He dutifully babysits the boys, and comes to the weekend lunches, and laughs, and smiles, but it never reaches his eyes.

She doesn't even think he realizes. He never has. He's not used to catering to himself first, after all. She can always tell whenever he's been texting with Bilbo, slumped in one of the armchairs in the lounger with his shoulders squared to make himself appear more distant and unapproachable, but his eyes gleaming with a familiar spark despite all his best efforts; or sprawled on at least two seats in the auditorium and hiding his grin away... Or any sudden surprising outburst of a very good mood from him – all of it can be accounted to Bilbo.

It's not exactly like the great stories, the two people in question incapable of breathing freely without each other, heartbroken to a degree that renders them nothing but lifeless husks. No, it's real this time around – she's never believed in soulmates, in the notion that two people are made for each other, but that doesn't change the fact that the two were perfect for each other.

Not flawless, it's never flawless, but as far as making someone the best version of themselves goes, it's like Thorin and Bilbo had been looking for one another all their lives.

She doesn't tell Thorin that – in his own quiet, slow and obstinate way, he's known for ages now. It's just that... she'd like to think that among all this, the ballast of everyday life grinding down on them all, there's still room for something nice, and pure, and good.

It's times like these, she thinks, sitting at the dinner table and staring at the envelope in her hands, the hostile law enforcement seal officially inviting them to court, it's times like these that something simple and positive happening somewhere in our lives would be most welcome.

“Mom, what is it?”

“Oh, Fili, darling,” she stammers, wiping at her eyes quickly and discretely, letting him climb into her lap and take the envelope from her curiously, “it's nothing, nothing at all. Just a letter.”

“Dwalin says you're going courting,” the boy notes, almost as if he's accusing her of not telling him everything.

“To court, we are going to court,” she corrects him with a gentle chuckle, “and yes, we are.”

“Is it that guy Uncle Thorin punched in the face?” Fili's face lights up in genuine excitement, his Uncle's antics still the topic of his and his brother's stories, told to anyone who will listen.

“Yes,” she sniggers, the image of Thorin landing a solid one right in the middle of Azog's face, and the man keeling over almost comically, still enough to bring a grin to her face.

“Are they gonna put Uncle in jail for doing that?” Fili asks thoughtfully.

“Oh, no, of course not!” she laughs, “they don't put you in jail for punching people, don't worry.”

“Especially if they're really awful people who deserved to have their nose broken.”

That's Dwalin, hauling Kili into the dining room like a sack hanging off his back, and he raises his eyebrows inquisitively, to which she shakes her head imperceptibly.

“So you're going courting – to court to prove that he's an awful person, then,” Fili decides.

“Something like that,” Dís chuckles, ruffling his hair.

“Will he go to jail, then?”

“Here's to hoping,” Dwalin grumbles, but Dís adds: “Probably not. But we're hoping he'll stop being so awful.”

“What's court?” Kili asks thoughtfully, trying to wedge his way in between Fili and his mother to get a better look at the envelope as well.

“It's this big room where a judge sits, and... well, judges people for the crimes they did,” Dís explains, somehow managing to balance seating both boys in her lap at once, “and there's the guilty person, and then the person they did the bad thing to, and a whole bunch of lawyers trying to defend them both and disprove the other.”

“Yeah, and the worst part is, everyone has to wear a suit,” Dwalin adds gravely, “you can imagine how excited your Uncle is about that.”

“Why doesn't he want to wear a suit?” Fili inclines his head.

“Well, he's used to either biker gear, or going topless, or wearing no pants, recently,” Dís laughs.

“Maybe him actually marching in there in his Richard costume might work in our favor,” Dwalin speculates, heaving Kili off her and seating them both down on the chair opposite, “flip-flops and tighty-whities and all.”

“I believe the latest costume department decision called for boxers with little hearts on them.”

Dwalin and Dís both snort as the boys giggle, and Thorin saunters into the dining room grinning himself, looking... fresher, for some reason. Oh, an obvious reason, Dís realizes after she notices him pocketing his phone.

“Are you going to go into that court like that?” Fili wants to know.

“You should at least consider it,” Dwalin says solemnly.

“No, not the court, I'm afraid,” Thorin reaches to flick his nephew's nose before he moves on into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, the boys following him like excited puppies, “just a stage in the middle of winter, in front of hundreds of people. A different kind of trial, I suppose,” he turns and Dís and Dwalin with a smirk with that last sentence.

“You'll do just fine,” Dwalin declares.

“Yeah, half disheveled becomes you,” Dís adds, “I actually found an old nail polish in a very particular shade of pink, just in case you'd like to practice...”

“I'll have your head,” he wags a finger at her.

“What's this about nail polish?” Dwalin perks up.

“Oh, only yet another excellent decision from the costume department,” Dís explains gleefully while Thorin attempts to choke her with his glaring alone.

“Nail polish,” Dwalin repeats, almost reverently, “this is too good to be true.”

“Actually, it was Bilbo's idea,” Dís winks at him, and his eyes grow at least three sizes.

“You don't say.”

“I do say,” she grins, and Thorin pretends to busy himself with herding the boys and making them help him with setting the table for dinner, firmly ignoring Dwalin's over-the-top excited gasp and Dís' mm-hm.

And just like that, with teasing Thorin endlessly and regaling both themselves and the boys with all the other instances where they remember him not wearing any pants in public, laughter and light insults and bickering over homemade pizza, the envelope and all it entails is swiftly forgotten, if only for that one evening.

Thorin stays the night, and Dwalin reads the boys a bedtime story, and Dís can't sleep again – hasn't slept properly in a while now – but as she stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, clutching her huge mug of warm milk with honey and watching her dumb big brother curled up on the couch that is a bit too short for him, snoring softly and looking heaps more peaceful than he's ever actually felt, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, if they're lucky and they stick together, they might come out of this on top yet.

Something nice, she reminds herself as she watches the first snow of the season beginning to fall almost tentatively, something positive.

And, well, if all that means is her brother sleeping through the night, and her boys waking her up in the morning by yelling 'Snow, mom, look, snow!', then, well, she'll take what she can get.

 

-

 

They say that if you make it in New York City, you can make it anywhere. Bilbo once thought that, too. He was barely past twenty once, and hungry for instant success, and easy money, and fun, and he still remembers coming here for the first time and losing his bearings about five seconds after stepping foot in the streets, figuratively or otherwise. One becomes a part of New York instantly, it accepts you and sucks you in, an endless whirlpool of one window of opportunity after another, if you fail to seize one, you don't have very much time at all to dust yourself off and pick yourself up again before you're trampled by the countless others racing behind you, and it's simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying.

But what he loves most about it on days like these, is the anonymity. Someone once said you could be frozen to death in the midst of a busy street here, and no one would notice. It's so loud, always so loud you can't hear the thoughts in your head anymore, and the crowd sweeps you in this direction or that, always moving, never dispersing, wherever you go – confusing and frustrating to those who know where they want to get, a great relief to those who don't have a clear direction in their mind, but don't half like the idea of staying put, either.

Eight years ago, he considered it a success when his enormous grinning face stared at Times Square off the Head Over Heels poster – this time around, he considers it a success if he manages to go the entire day without anyone recognizing him.

But if there's one thing he can do very well, it's acting – he can play ridiculously in love, he can play silly, he can play completely straight, for crying out loud, and so today, he plays inconspicuous. It's one of the very last days he can afford to do that, and wander, after all – The Round Door press tour kicks into full gear tomorrow, and even though it's a much lesser scale than some of his other stuff in the past, it'll still be grating, and most certainly cost him his privacy for a couple of days.

But right now, he's just a man bundled up in a ridiculous number of layers, his face half obscured by one of his favorite massive knitted scarves, who sips on his steaming mulled wine, watches the skaters swirl around at Central Park, and waits for a very good friend to show up.

“My dear Bilbo.”

It's amazing, he thinks, how the sound of a familiar voice can warm him up better than any beverage or two sweaters at once could ever accomplish.

“Hello, Gandalf,” he smiles, and for a fleeting moment, he's twenty-two again, back when Gandalf had been the only familiar face in this pulsing metropolis.

“You've picked a very nice night to freeze to death on,” the director notes, even though he doesn't show a sign of strain, in his long black coat and silver-grey scarf, “it shouldn't be this cold this time of the year. Can we take this inside?”

They slip into the nearest cafe that has enough room for both of them, indulging themselves and ordering something stronger with their tea, commiserating over how quickly it gets dark these days, over the public transport, over anything and everything, and it's exactly what Bilbo needed – that familiar face, that little moment of peace and quiet before he's swept off once more into the endless whirlwind that is his work life.

“And have you heard about the Richard III skit in Erebor before Christmas?” Gandalf asks at one point, and he mentions it casually, actually just a part of an ongoing conversation about this or that upcoming production, but Bilbo still thinks it's a perfectly aimed shot nonetheless.

“I have,” he says as neutrally as possible, “how come they didn't invite you to direct?”

“Oh, they did!” Gandalf laughs, “had to turn them down because of the... very top secret Sydney project, but they did. I still compared notes with Peredhel, and from what I hear, he's taken a great spin on it. Good choice casting Thorin, too, that Greenleaf fellow is far too delicate for...”

“Flip-flops?” Bilbo chuckles softly, staring into his glass of white.

“Hmm, yes, I hear those are involved. Who knows,” Gandalf hums thoughtfully, “I'll go have a look, and might end up stealing that concept from him next year, I've been meaning to go back there anyway.”

“You're going to... you'll be there? For the festival... thing, I mean?” Bilbo asks carefully, still not brave enough to look him in the eye.

“Oh, wouldn't miss it for the world!” Gandalf says, “Laketown used to be so fantastic, I really do hope they manage to revive it. I think I'll be making a contribution of my own.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo peeps absentmindedly, and feels Gandalf's eyes on him, but isn't quite ready to give in just yet.

“Where will you be over Christmas, then?” the director steers away from the topic for now, only to come back to it through some elaborate loop later, Bilbo knows.

“With Prim, probably,” he shrugs, “the annual family gathering will be a hoot this time around, I can feel it in my bones. You?”

“The land down under,” Gandalf smiles broadly, “you should come to Sydney next.”

“I should?” Bilbo chuckles, “what is that mystery project of yours, anyway?”

“It's a mystery,” Gandalf tut-tuts, and when Bilbo laughs, his gaze turns more scrutinizing again.

“What?” Bilbo chooses to hide behind a polite smile for a while longer, even though he knows Gandalf will be busting through that disguise in no time flat.

“Do you know why I picked you off the street all those years ago?” the director asks somewhat enigmatically, “gave you a job, pushed you until you fought back, just to make sure there was some spirit in you?”

“You said I had the perfect face,” Bilbo reminds him, “I still find that a little creepy, even after all this time.”

“I also said it would be an adventure, and your eyes lit up... well, yes, like a Christmas tree. But it was because... mostly it was because you'd looked so very lost.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to respond, but only a half-incredulous dry chuckle comes out, and he washes it down with his wine – it tastes a bit more bitter now.

“And here I was thinking it was because of my exceptional talent,” he quips, not as steadily as he'd like.

“Well, that too,” Gandalf sighs, “but the point is... You were a kid, and you were inexperienced, and eager, and funny, and lost. Bilbo,” he says more firmly, finally managing to make Bilbo look at him properly, “I've known you for a very long time, my dear fellow, and I never thought I'd see you look so lost again.”

 

-

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:25

    [Image]

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:27

    CLEARLY Christmas has come early

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:28

    You can show this to literally NO ONE or I'm getting sued I hope u know

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:29

    Mum's the word. Don't ask me to delete it, tho, I think I'll keep it to look at when I'm having a particularly bad day. Ginger becomes you

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:30

    I look like a bloody leprechaun. ANYWAY, that's my part of the deal, now hold up yours cmon

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:32

    [Image]

 

    16:34

    ARE YOU HAPPY NOW

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:35

    HAPPIEST I'VE BEEN IN A WHILE

 

    16:36

    I told u hot pink was the way to go

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:37

    Yeah I still have half a mind to murder you. This is actual blackmail material I've provided you with I hope you know

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:38

    Oh I know. I'll use it for altruistic purposes only, I promise

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:42

    Good. Gandalf says hi btw

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:44

    KUDOS ON THE CHATSPEAK well done. He's there already? I met with him in NYC like five seconds ago

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:45

    Yep, he's here. Interested in the Azog business. Can't stay past the festival, apparently.

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:47

    I see. Remind me, it's on the 14 ^th ?

 

Thorin's heart performs a silly leap in his chest, and he inspects the other occupants of the room with a quick glance – but no one seems to be paying attention to him or his childish glee. He curls up on himself in Dís' armchair and types on.

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:49

    Yep, Saturday the 14^th.

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:52

    Hmm.

 

Dís calls at him from the kitchen, but he pays her absolutely no mind.

 

    To: Bilbo

    16:52

    Hmm?

 

    From: Bilbo

    16:55

    Just hmm.

 

-

 

He drops the phone on his stomach with a disgusted groan and stares at the ceiling mutely for a moment, before burying his face in the pillow, clutching the phone in his hand now again, and willing it to ping with ' incoming '.

This is getting a bit out of hand, isn't it. He can't just... hmm someone. Can't act like there isn't an ocean between them, aside from other things, things they've never said, or said wrong, or... God. It simultaneously feels like ages and only yesterday since he saw him last, all of them. Like this, with silly texts in the middle of the night, joking and flirting almost effortlessly, he can pretend like that's all there's ever been between Thorin and him, like everything else doesn't matter.

He's done a dozen rom-coms all cut from the same cloth, where love happens easily, where things are resolved with a couple of cheesy lines, where hopping on a plane a couple days early to pursue a happy ending is entirely possible. Where epic romantic gestures actually happen, and no one calls them pathetic. Where real life doesn't interfere.

He's long since learned to differentiate between the stories he tells and the life he actually lives, and this is... Well, allowing himself to hope, and probably confusing a person he once thought he'd never see again. It's gotten too far.

So what if he did stop by Ered Luin on his way back home to Oxfordshire, for a day or two? He'd watch Thorin perform, probably say a tentative hi to Dís and whoever else he'd run into, but the truth is, that would be it. He's not in the business of fooling himself into thinking he's left any huge lingering impression, that people would cheer for his great comeback, and that the air between him and Thorin, if they did manage to meet up for a second, would be anything else than tense and stale.

He's done with all that. He's done with making everything a bigger deal than it is, with hoping for something that never really was, with leaving pieces of jewelry behind to justify his obstinate longing to come back himself. He had a chance, and he didn't take it, end of story. Real life sucks that way, but at least it's real.

The phone does buzz with the knock-knock of a new message then, and Bilbo sighs before unlocking the screen and reading whatever quip from Thorin will leave him feeling bitter for the rest of the morning anyway.

 

    From: Dis Oakenshield

    10:01

    [Image]

    Boys miss ya so much they're assaulting family members because of it!

 

Or maybe not. That ache smack in the middle of his chest at the sight of Thorin's slightly blurred face, a wide grin plastered over it as he wrestles both Fili and Kili away from his phone, and Dwalin's deadpan thumbs-up in the background, well... That ache is very real.

In a small tick, a gesture he thought he'd gotten rid of, his fingertips dance over his collarbone, the little empty space left behind, before he stops himself and grunts, pressing the phone against his forehead, eyes shut tight.

“Bloody ridiculous,” he moans, and springs off the bed at long last, dialing on his way to the bathroom.

“Yeah, Prim, hey,” he sighs, watching his face in the mirror dumbly for a bit, “no, no, yeah, I'm fine. Yes, I know. No, listen. I need you to do me a huge favor.”

 

---

 

There are no fairy tales in real life. Real life isn't simple solutions, or miracles out of the blue, not even catching a break nearly as often as one expects. No, real life is hard work, hard work, and more hard work, so that one may feel like they deserve that break whenever they do manage to catch it.

More prosaically, real life is hours upon hours of endless waiting in court rooms, disgusting vending machine coffee, and certain family members arriving late. Real life is looking into her brother's eyes as she adjusts his tie in a gesture most matronly, and seeing her own worries mirrored there.

“You'll do great,” she tells him, “just think of tomorrow.”

Real life is not getting immediate satisfaction, it's adjourned sessions and only vague promises of next ones, but it's also support from family and friends, even from past rivals. It's realizing the bad things don't necessarily need to have that horrendous an impact.

It's watching Thorin and Thranduil Greenleaf shaking hands and commiserating over a common enemy, a thing unheard of until now, and it's realizing they're not alone in this.

It's deciding that tomorrow, they'll all be enjoying themselves at the festival, and deciding that that is what really matters. Catching a break, courtrooms and settlements and the threatening amount of legal stuff yet to sort through be damned. Even if it's only for one day.

 

It is below freezing already, uncharacteristic for this time of the year, and she bundles her boys up in about ten layers too many, probably, and stows them and herself into Dwalin's car, already enjoying the fact that this time around, she doesn't have to work at all – simply gets to watch.

She's missed this, the crowds, the excitement lingering in the air, the feeling of... culture, something created by the people for the people, something connecting all of them, something nice. For far too long, Erebor had struggled on its own, and so had pretty much every other theatre in the city, but they can all smell a change coming. Maybe it's just the spirit of Christmas, or whatever, but she's never adored her city more.

Her mother would hold her hand and name all the important buildings on the riverbank while Dís' brothers ran ahead to buy them all something to drink, and so she does the same for the boys now, walking the span of the narrow island hand in hand with them while Dwalin gets them all tea to warm them up... She feels proud. Of herself, for getting this far, of her children, for growing up fantastic, of her city and her theatre, for surviving, never bending. The island had burned all those years ago, and Erebor had burned, and yet here they both stand now, rejuvenated and eager, and very much alive, and she thinks, it's enough. It's enough.

 

She could look at the brass street lamps, the only things that have survived the fire and have recently been renovated, illuminating the neat walkways and snow-covered benches and lawns, for ages, but her boys start complaining about the cold eventually, and so she ushers them inside the incredible heated tent at long last. It's huge, and people are already crowding, their chatter and shuffling a symphony to her ears. Quite enchanted, she leaves the boys with Dwalin, and curiously, like she's thirteen again, she goes to explore the backstage, the urge to see Thorin before his big thing rising.

“No, no, with me, come on through.”

That's Bard, the wonderful new Regional Cultural Director, and the man in charge of all of this, helping her get past security, grinning wide and looking like he has at least ten other places to be at all at once.

“What do you think?” he asks nonetheless, gesturing vaguely over the span of the entire tent, the entire island, and she sees in his eyes the same excitement that makes her giddy as well tonight.

“It's glorious,” she smiles, “you've done such an incredible job.”

“Oh, we're only just getting started, I'm afraid,” Bard chuckles, finding them both a miraculously quiet corner even amidst the rush of all the crew here, “it's all resting on tonight, and raising enough money, as much as I hate to be so material.”

“Oh, chin up, it's one of your more amiable qualities.”

That's Greenleaf sauntering in, followed by what might very well be a human child, wrapped up in more layers of knitted hats and scarves and gloves than even Dís had the sensibility to put on her sons. She grabs onto the hem of Thranduil's very fancy, very long coat, and he glares from her to Bard, announcing: “Your child has been harassing me again.”

“Nah, I think she just likes you,” Bard sighs with an indulgent smile, then motions for, apparently, his youngest, to come over to him, “now, be nice, Tilda. Where are your brother and sister?”

“I wouldn't want to presume, but I believe my son is introducing your son to the wonders of mulled wine,” Thranduil announces sourly, and when Bard looks on him, horrified, he arches one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, adding, “I'm not joking. Maybe you should have thought better than to leave the children in charge of selling the beverages.”

“Oh, that is rich, coming from you,” Bard quips as they march further backstage, Dís following them, quite mesmerized.

“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” Thranduil insists.

“You know exactly what that means,” Bard retorts, still somehow managing to maintain his grin and direct about five different people with just one quick gesture of his hand after another, all the while keeping an eye on his daughter, “I left the children in charge of the beverages exactly because your son has such excellent experience in that area, all thanks to you.”

Dís opens her mouth to butt in and prevent a possible all-out war, but to her surprise, a smirk dances on Thranduil's face, and he takes it in stride: “Oh, excellent, a low blow. How might I ever expect anything else from you?”

“I don't know, why don't you stick around, we'll see where else I can deliver my blows,” Bard mutters only as an afterthought, his eyes scanning his people for something or someone, and Dís can't help herself, she huffs a quiet laugh, and they both turn to her, as if they've all but forgotten she's still there.

“What?”

“What is it?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” she waves her hand, not even trying very hard to overpower her grin, “it's just that... you two remind me of someone. Anyway, as amusing as this is, I actually came to see my brother. Do you know where I can find him?”

They exchange a look, all teasing forgotten for one moment.

“Well,” Bard says somewhat tensely, “I kind of hoped you might be able to tell me that.”

 

-

 

Just a little bit of peace and quiet. After that migraine in court yesterday, he's been feeling iffy all morning, and the pre-performance jitters don't help one bit. He hasn't had those in a while, come to think of it, but apparently it's never too late for stage fright to return to him.

He has time yet, and so he quite enjoys the fact that everyone thinks he's busy somewhere, and wanders around the island unrecognized, and most importantly, alone. Darkness has descended so quickly, and the first layer of snow covers everything like a soft blanket colored a gentle orange by the street lights, and he would very much like to sit down on one of the benches and feel like he's fifteen again, his brother beside him, skipping stones on the river and only half keeping an eye on Dís, but as it is, he makes do with simply shoving his hands in his pockets and staring at the riverbank, the lights of the lamps and the buildings dancing on the water like a painting come to life.

After a bit of consideration, he whips out his phone and takes a picture, blurry and kind of pointless, the edge of the tent shining like a jewel and the river glittering brilliantly, but he knows Bilbo will appreciate it.

He closes his eyes and inhales the stinging cold air deeply, hoping that whoever he can hear approaching, footsteps crunching not far off, will not recognize him. His phone buzzes in his hand.

 

    From: Bilbo

    17:18

    Oh pretty. Good luck!

 

    To: Bilbo

    17:18

    Thanks. Kinda procrastinating on going in right now.

 

    From: Bilbo

    17:19

    You don't say. Worried?

 

    To: Bilbo

    17:19

    I guess. Weird?

 

    From: Bilbo

    17:20

    Entirely natural.

 

    17:21

    Got my pendant on you?

 

Thorin stares at the screen, a frown creasing his forehead, fingers finding the tiny, tiny weight of the delicate chain in his pocket.

 

    To: Bilbo

    17:23

    Yep, actually. Safe and sound.

 

“Has it been bringing you luck, then?”

It's very cold. The air burns in his lungs as he inhales sharply, and everything is suddenly so very quiet, he could swear he can hear the hissing of snowflakes as they settle on the ground. It's moments like these that actually never happen, and yet he decides to take the chance and turn around.

But Bilbo is really there, shoulders squared and hands shoved in his pockets as well, a massive scarf obscuring about half his face, but not the almost apologetic, uncertain grin, flickering into being and then fading again.

“Hi,” he peeps, and Thorin would very much like it if some words came out of his mouth right about now, but it's no good.

“I thought I'd... well,” Bilbo continues somewhat clumsily, taking a couple of steps closer, “stop by. Yeah. To... you know.”

“You're here,” Thorin observes shrewdly, and a bit too hoarsely too, clearing his throat and continuing only a fraction more coherently, “I mean, you – hi. You stopped by. That's... good. Good.”

“Uh-huh,” Bilbo comments, and the grin is there to stay this time, his cheeks red and eyes gleaming, and Thorin feels his face splitting in one as well, and he steps closer, and it's snow and the golden glow of the lights around them, and the clouds of air forming by Bilbo's mouth, and it's perfect, it's...

“Where the hell have you been?!”

That's Dís, naturally, of course, and it's aimed at Thorin, but Bilbo startles as well, and she goes on for a bit longer, “You are supposed to be on stage in twenty minutes, would you care to explain what it is that you think is currently more important than – oh.”

“Hi, Dís,” Bilbo mumbles, but never looks away from Thorin.

“Sorry,” Thorin adds, not sparing her a glance either.

“Oh my god,” she exhales, and she sounds so concerned they do afford her some attention, only to be almost hammered into the ground by a tirade of, “honestly, now? Now you decide to come back?! Oh no, don't look at me like that, I couldn't be happier, but this is so not the moment, do you understand?! Thorin, get your ass inside, and Bilbo, I am overjoyed to see you, but this is so not the time for reunions, I'm really sorry, but-”

“Oh god, there you are!” Bard joins the debate, “I thought you'd taken off! Peredhel was going to kill me, but I promised him I'd find him you to skin first, now can you please get backstage already...”

...There are no big epic romantic moments in real life, that much Thorin has learned already. The tethers of this one snapped irrevocably, Bilbo and him both start speaking at once, apologizing to either Dís or Bard or each other, all of them hurrying back to the tent, Thorin looking back over his shoulder when Bilbo lingers behind a bit...

“Right, I'll take you inside, come on,” Dís orders him as Bard herds Thorin towards what doubles as the stage door around here, but it's far too difficult to tear his eyes away from Bilbo, because he just got here, what if he's gone the second Thorin looks away...

“Have lunch with me tomorrow!” he calls after him, and time does stop for them for at least a second, and Dís stares at him, incredulous but half amused, and Bilbo lets out a huff of helpless laughter, shrugging in the most endearing manner, and calling back: “Alright!”

 

There are no big epic romantic moments in real life. But there is an exhilaration like adrenaline coursing through his veins for the following hour – he changes into his costume, settles himself into the role, closes his eyes, recalls his lines... Sees Bilbo's face, his smile, the snow peppering his shoulders, his breath freezing in the cold air, and feels an entirely irrational happiness that shouldn't be happening either, but alas.

He saunters on stage fully immersed, and yet feeling like he could lift mountains. His lines come to him naturally, the audience's applause and roar sets his blood ablaze, but none of it is what's making his heart toll like a bell. It's Bilbo, Bilbo is there among the people, he's there, he's watching him, he's real, and Thorin has spent far too much time doubting, far too much time thinking he'd been fooling himself, that it had all meant much less to Bilbo than it did to him.

The audience roars, and he's half surprised it's over already, he's gotten through it so quickly, and even though he doesn't see Bilbo in there, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

The people demand him back for another round of applause, and then another one, and he feels more alive in those moments that he has in the past couple of weeks, months.

The first person he sees backstage is Dís, and he doesn't even wait for her 'You were amazing!' before he scoops her up in his arms and she shrieks, half indignation half laughter, as he spins her around and probably blinds her with his grin after he sets her down.

“Where is he?” he demands, heedless, breathless.

“Huh?” she tilts her head.

“Bilbo, where is he?”

“Oh, right, he's, uh...”

For the fraction of a moment, he's afraid he's only imagined him after all.

“Dís, where is he?”

“He, uh... Said something about checking in at a hotel downtown, I don't know, but Thorin...”

“Thorin, dear, you were fantastic! Would you be at all opposed to the idea of turning this into an actual play, say, the summer after next, huh?”

Time slows down, and even though there are about three different people in his face, Dís, Gandalf, the crew, whoever, Thorin doesn't pay any attention to either of them. His heartbeat is a deafening rhythm in his head, and he sees Bilbo, his Bilbo, the only one in the world, standing there with that beautiful grin on his face seemingly a mere moment ago, appearing out of nowhere, coming back... And then he sees him turning away, just like Dís had said, real life washing over that moment like a curtain falling and all lights switching off at once.

And then Thorin runs.

 

-

 

Real life isn't a romantic comedy. It doesn't happen like Head Over Heels, where the two fated lovers reunite after searching for one another through a huge crowd, music swelling until they are finally in each other's arms, one cheesy line and a kiss, and pan out and fade to black.

Bilbo's heart pounds in his chest as he watches Thorin on stage, just another face among the huge audience, watches him soar and burn his way through his part with a vigor and joy that sends tingles up his spine, and then he applauds him alongside everyone else, and cheers, and applauds again, and smiles and imagines that Thorin is smiling back at him... and then he turns away.

It's surprisingly easy to find his way out of the huge tent without being intercepted by anyone. The freezing air cools his cheeks instantly and a bit violently, and he casts the tent one last look, shoving his hands back in his pockets and walking away, his smile still in place.

Real life doesn't happen like a romantic comedy, and it's better to accept that, than constantly search for ways of making it happen and then ending up disappointed when it doesn't.

“Bilbo! Wait! Wait!”

 

Or, yet again, maybe not.

 

He turns around. He has to.

And Thorin is really there, dashing after him clumsily, already turning heads – no wonder, since he hasn't even changed from his Richard costume, boxers with hearts on them and flip-flops and all. Bilbo can't help it, he bursts into laughter, and his hands fly to his mouth.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he exclaims through his helpless grin.

“You were going to leave!” Thorin heaves breathlessly, “I had to... I couldn't let you just go, not without...”

“Without what?” Bilbo laughs, “Thorin, I was just going to check into my hotel room. Dís had already invited me to lunch tomorrow, I was going to come there, you know.”

“Right, you... right,” Thorin blabs, jumping up and down on the spot a little bit, like a jogger waiting on a crosswalk and not wanting to lose his energy – Bilbo tries, he really does, but he can't help but snort in laughter, because the view is just too good, Thorin rubbing his arms because it's so damn cold, his knobby knees and his bloody flip-flops...

“You are so ridiculous,” he tells him, with a fondness that's threatening to rip him apart.

“Yeah,” Thorin admits with a squint that is almost apologetic.

“No, you are just... my god,” Bilbo's voice still shakes with quiet laughter, and he takes a step closer to him, “I mean, look at you. Couldn't you have changed, at least?”

“No time,” Thorin shrugs.

People are watching, and this is so not how he'd expected any of this to go, but he hardly cares.

“Right. So, uh, what was that thing you couldn't let me leave without?” he asks, inclining his head, and dear god, this had to have been in some b-list flick before, no doubt.

Or maybe, on the other hand, it's beautifully, exclusively, theirs.

“Well, I mean... well,” Thorin clears his throat, and this is not how the lines in the romantic comedies should go, and Bilbo loves it.

“Yeah?”

“You, uh... You came back, didn't you. I couldn't just...”

“What?”

“I wasn't gonna let you leave again.”

Bilbo's laughter bubbles up in his throat, and Thorin stares at him a bit dumbfounded, a bit uncertain, and, well... There it is.

“Well done on the perfect cheesy line,” he declares, and Thorin frowns momentarily, before understanding and grinning himself, hope and amusement and exhilaration in equal doses.

“Well, I came up with that one all on my own,” he says, closing some more of the distance between them, “but I have a couple more in store.”

“Oh, you do, do you,” Bilbo couldn't control his grin now even if he tried.

“Uh-huh. I watched all your movies, you know. Was it, uh... Oh, that's right. Without you, life's just a chocolate box that's all marzipan instead of nougat.”

Bilbo snorts an ugly laugh, and has to cover his mouth again.

“Spring Fever number one, right. Very nice,” he struggles to maintain a serious face, and just this once, fails at his craft epically.

“Yeah, I know. How about, uh... I've been a colossal douchenozzle, and you know it.”

Bilbo barks in laughter out loud now, not really caring for the consequences.

“Head Over Heels, obviously. This is embarrassing.”

“Alright, alright, a classic that's not yours, then,” Thorin hurries to say, his eyes gleaming with the same amused spark, “I like you very much – just as you are.”

“Is that – hold on, Bridget Jones' Diary?” Bilbo cackles, and people are starting to really stop and stare, but he couldn't care less at this point, “can't believe you actually saw that.”

“I did. Multiple times. Bridget spoke to me on some level, what can I say.”

“Wasn't she the one who ran after her guy in the end wearing nothing but a- oh my god, you planned this?” Bilbo squeaks, and it's Thorin's turn to laugh, though it's a bit shaky, what with all the freezing to death from the waist down and all, probably.

“Not in the slightest, actually.”

“I see,” Bilbo chuckles, and if he's ever had a better time playing along with anything, he doesn't remember it, “how did the line go in the end...? Nice boys don't wear flip-flops in the middle of winter?”

“No, no, I think it was more along the lines of-” Thorin starts, and he looks so endearingly serious that Bilbo stops doubting his next steps right there and then, finally willing himself to do what he's been wanting to do all along.

“I know how the line goes, yes,” he declares firmly, and gets a grip on the lapels of Thorin's suit, tugging him down for a kiss, at long last.

“Nice boys don't kiss like that,” Thorin mumbles against his lips, emulating a woman's voice, only to switch to an overdone deep one when Bilbo doesn't get his cue, “oh yes, they fucking do.”

“You're an idiot,” Bilbo tells him fondly, his hands twisting in the fabric of his suit as he stands on his tiptoes, all other sounds, everyone who might be watching, everything distracting, drowned out, “you are such an idiot.”

“Yes, I am aware of that,” Thorin sighs, and there might be no music swelling, or people applauding, or goddamn doves flying overhead like they did in Spring Fever number two, but there is Thorin, his soft gasp, equal parts surprise and relief, his shoulders slumping and knees buckling as he bends to accommodate Bilbo, and really, it's more than enough.

 

And in a perfect world, time would stop for them right there and then, and they’d stand out there for hours, drowning in one another while snowflakes flew around them and the camera panned out. In a perfect world, Thorin would get fully dressed and they’d drive into the night on his bike, and no one would bother them.

But because real life, as stated on many previous occasions, doesn’t happen like a romantic movie, they don’t, in fact, end up driving away anywhere . It’s far too cold to be riding a bike, for one, but more importantly, Thorin has obligations, and Bilbo is more than happy to get dragged into them, because they mostly include Thorin’s family, people he knows, people who treat his comeback like the greatest thing that has happened to them this year.

Real life includes getting hugged by Dís and jumped by her boys, and getting swept up in a whirlwind of tell us how you’ve been before Thorin gets dressed!, and far too many people and far too many stories to tell for the night to progress anywhere beyond holding Thorin’s hand whenever he gets the chance, and grinning like idiots at one another over the table, and sniggering into their beers, and not getting. one. chance. to sneak away.

Real life consists of Thorin being a gentleman and getting Bilbo a taxi to his hotel room, and kissing him before it arrives, chaste now, slower, like they’ve got nothing to lose.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Bilbo murmurs, hands sneaking underneath Thorin’s much warmer and more sensible coat now, suggesting everything else but parting ways any time soon.

“You’ll be there?” Thorin sounds almost worried, and Bilbo cards his hands through his hair, pondering the consequences of pissing off the taxi driver and simply walking away with Thorin right now.

“I’ll be there,” he murmurs, and lies on yet another bed in yet another hotel room that night, still occasionally snickering to himself when he remembers the glorious sight of Thorin running after him wearing flip-flops and boxers, and his heart soars, and he knows, he knows, that this is it. This is all the luck in the world, everything he didn’t think he’d ever be capable of getting for himself. This is it.

He’s so tired, and oversensitized, and still a bit jet-lagged, and so his phone pinging with a message wakes him from dozing off, and he stares at it blearily, only to cheer up instantaneously when he discerns the actual words.

 

    From: Thorin

    23:11

    Good night

 

    To: Thorin

    23:12

    And to you. Warmer now?

 

    From: Thorin

    23:12

    Much. Some first degree frostbite, but I could think of one or two ways of improving even that.

 

    To: Thorin

    23:13

    Uh-huh. I’ll see you tomorrow~

 

    From: Thorin

    23:13

    Yeah. And finally explain what that '~' means, I hope.

 

    23:14

    Sorry we didn’t get more time tonight. I’m glad you came back.

 

    To: Thorin

    23:14

    I’m glad I came back, too. I’ll just tell everyone you were a perfect gentleman.

 

    From: Thorin

    23:15

    God I hate it when I have to be that.

 

    To: Thorin

    23:15

    Me too. We’ll make up for it eventually.

 

Real life will never be a romantic comedy, because those deal with everything far too swiftly, far too simply, with no regard whatsoever for the absolutely enthralling little stuff that happens in between. Bilbo will take that over simplified endings and doves flying overhead any day.

His phone rings the second he gets out of the shower, and he almost breaks his neck running to get it, but this time, it’s only family.

“Hey, Prim! How’s it going?”

“Well, you sound chipper. May I assume mission Turn Up Outta Nowhere has been a success?”

“Oh yeah,” Bilbo grins widely, jumping on his bed and curling up like a teenage girl who’s just won her first crush’s heart, “a huge success.”

 

---

 

 

The thing about too good to be true is, it's far too easy to believe. He wakes up with a stupid grin on his face, but his natural doubter abilities kick in almost immediately – he searches around for his phone, and his smile returns the second he reads messages from last night. It was real.

The time to wake up was about two hours ago, though, and so he scrambles out of the bed, and dashes around getting ready, his nerves getting the better of him somewhere in the process. It's no big deal, he tries to convince himself. Grey henley or your favorite blue sweater? , the part of him still stuck in his teenage years counters frantically. Maybe you should give your beard a trim. Maybe you might want to use an actual comb instead of your fingers for once.

Maybe it's too late to be overthinking any of this, eh.

He takes the stairs up to Dís' apartment by two, and only takes a moment to catch his breath when standing in front of the door, straightening out his sweater, his hair, himself, nervously. Maybe you should have bought some flowers – oh don't be an idiot.

He rings tentatively, and hear some commotion from inside, waiting a little longer than usual before the door finally opens, and in it...

It's entirely infuriating how helpless he is when faced with Bilbo. He stands there with an apron tied around his waist, wearing Dís' generic everyday guest fruit-patterned slippers, and looks just about as starstruck as Thorin, which is of some relief.

“Hi,” he grins, and Thorin feels himself mirroring that grin without even really trying.

“Hi,” he breathes out, and neither of them feels like doing much more than staring at one another, to be honest – they'd probably stand there til kingdom come if it weren't for the boys providing even more proof that there's simply no time for prolonged soulful staring in real life, and dragging Thorin inside and ordering him to wash his hands, lunch is almost on the table, Uncle!

Everyone and their mother has apparently been invited today, pretty much the entire Erebor company, Gandalf and Beorn, too, which makes for some interesting seating arrangements, since Dís' table isn't by any means designed to accommodate all of them. They make do with the assistance of about every single chair in the entire apartment, and to the immense delight of both Fili and Kili, who are allowed to occupy their own little seating area on the futon. As for Thorin and Bilbo, it's very elegantly done, without any words, but they do, by some inexplicable miracle, end up smushed together between Dís and Gandalf, and the conversation is lively, and the food is delicious, but all that Thorin is really paying attention to, is wondering when the opportune moment to hold Bilbo's hand under the table will arise.

Bilbo answers that for him on his own soon, though – when asked about his plans for the short rest of this year, he tenses up for a moment, but before Thorin can react, his hand rests on his knee, a small but pleasant, and entirely distracting, weight.

“Got the European premiere of The Round Door to be at on Wednesday,” he announces, entirely too casually for someone who's completely shameless about brushing his fingertips in up and down alongside the inseam of Thorin's jeans, “that's in London, so it's a short trip to Oxfordshire to spend Christmas with my fam. Pickups for Mountain King are in early January, got some auditions lined up in the meantime...”

Thorin's mind is kind of overheating simultaneously trying to calculate how much free time Bilbo has left, and how much integrity he himself has left until he goes insane under his fleeting touch.

He covers his hand with his own, and relishes that way Bilbo's voice wavers for about a fraction of a second, and their fingers entwine slowly, cautiously, as if they're both anything but sure about this yet – and the truth is, they've barely talked about... well, them, where this is headed, ever since Thorin willingly almost froze to death last night, but maybe that's good. Maybe somehow subconsciously knowing is enough. Too many words have never served them right, anyway.

 

...Too many words, and they'd be stuck in hilarious, but hindering conversations on different sides of the room for the rest of the day, and that just simply cannot stand. Thorin's heart might burst otherwise.

“Just up and leave,” Dís hisses at him, bumping their hips together as they wash up after dessert, “no one will even notice.”

He gapes at her a bit dumbfounded, and she merely cocks her eyebrow meaningfully, announcing: “As much as I enjoy watching you two space out and stare at each other all day long, I think it would be wise if you took this elsewhere, don't you?”

He opens his mouth, feeling distantly like he should, perhaps, be offended, but she laughs shortly, patting his arm comfortingly, announcing: “I'm very happy for you, and you don't have to pretend like you want to be with anyone else than him right now. He does only have a couple of days, remember,” she adds when he still hesitates, and that at least is strong enough incentive, yes.

“Alright,” he huffs, “alright, yes, you're right. Thank you. Thank you.”

“Go,” she chuckles, swatting him gently with her dishcloth when he bends to plant a kiss on her cheek, “go!”

 

It's not even a matter of elaborately sneaking out, or anything – the second Bilbo catches Thorin's gaze when he reenters the living room, nothing else really matters, and they both up and leave within the next couple of seconds, minutes, hours, who's keeping count, anyway.

“Where are we going?” Bilbo giggles, trying to tie his scarf around his neck with only one free hand, grabbing onto Thorin's own with the other one, letting him lead the way.

“I don't know,” Thorin laughs, “I was thinking dinner, movie, my place, in whatever order, I don't... yeah?”

Bilbo has stopped, and Thorin feels a brief pang of worry as he turns to look at him, but it's dispelled immediately – Bilbo stands there in the staircase alcove, grinning very brightly, and very beautifully.

“I'm sorry,” Thorin babbles, but steps back up a couple of stairs anyway, “I assumed too quickly, I didn't...”

“No, no, it's fine, I like that plan,” Bilbo snickers, then steps closer himself, still higher than Thorin, though, placing his hands on his shoulders, “it's just that... well, I think I'll be full from Dís' lunch for the rest of the week, and...”

“And?” Thorin peeps, his exhilarated racing heart making him feel like a teenager again.

“...And I've had enough movies for a while,” Bilbo smiles, nothing but suggestively.

“Oh,” Thorin comments, his hands finding their way around Bilbo's waist, under his coat still undone.

“Yeah.”

“Well, uh...” Thorin's throat is suddenly a bit dry, “that makes our situation very simple, then.”

“I dare say it does.”

Thorin can only thank his limited knowledge of cheesy romantic lines for failing him this time, and leaving him with only one remaining option.

He doesn't know if Bilbo remembers, but the last time they stood this close in this very alcove, they'd just yelled at each other about... this or that silly thing Thorin can't for the life of him remember now, thank god – all that he can remember is the same kind of hunger, the way Bilbo's lips had tasted then, and the way they taste now, and the fact that that at least has not changed one single bit, saps him of any modicum of self control he had left.

“I'd really rather prefer your place,” Bilbo whispers, hot breath against Thorin's neck, and Thorin laughs breathlessly, because yeah, they really shouldn't be recreating all of that right here, right now, and they take the stairs down by two after that.

 

-

 

He'd hoped for very little, and then everything at once at the same time, by coming here. He didn't want to see it as his only chance, but also wanted it to work out perfectly from the very start. Much more than any sort of closure, he wanted options – he wanted to find out that they still had a shot at being with each other, that they were both of them capable of moving past things; and he just wanted to see Thorin again, unsure where all of it would go from then on.

This is... better than he'd dared imagine, and he thanks his lucky stars for equipping him with the ability to immerse himself in the moment and not care about the rest.

“Do any of the buildings in this city have lifts?” he teases after they've successfully scaled the stairs to Thorin's top floor apartment, and receives a huff of laughter in response as Thorin fumbles for his keys in his pocket.

His place is worth the hike, though – tiny and cozy, with a slanted ceiling and a small balcony, and a warmth and décor that speaks Thorin , even though Bilbo has never been here before.

“Drink?” Thorin calls, already rummaging in the narrow kitchen.

“Don't mind if I do,” Bilbo smiles, inspecting the tall bookshelf filled with half that, books, and half an impressive collection of movies and recorded plays. He thinks back on Thorin's Phantom resting safely in his suitcase back in his hotel room, and smiles to himself, developing into an actual wolfish grin when he discovers a familiar case or two... or more. Thorin has them all, Silver Linings and Head Over Heels, Spring Fever number one and two, even, by some miracle, the recording of the NYC production of Angels In Manhattan...

“You idiot,” Bilbo chuckles to himself fondly, and the urge to be with Thorin right there and then definitely gets the better of him.

“Embarrassing,” comes from surprisingly close behind him, and Thorin stands there with two glasses of... something in his hand, and his face suggests he doesn't even mind Bilbo finding those all that much.

“You going to try and get me drunk to forget about those?” Bilbo inclines his head, and Thorin only shrugs, the most horribly endearing gesture that Bilbo simply can't stand for.

They toast without words, and sip on their drinks silently, never letting each other out of their sight, and Bilbo, a firm believer in the concept of wasting as little time as possible, takes the glass out of Thorin's hand after that, and sets it aside alongside his own, feeling Thorin's scorching gaze on him the whole time.

It's completely quiet here, and the sun has almost set outside, casting long shadows and rich golden light on the carpet, and he comes to lay his hands on Thorin's shoulders once more, watching his Adam's apple bob up and down as he gulps dryly, his eyes intent up to the point of worry, his own hands suddenly chaste, like he's holding back.

“I'm here,” Bilbo reminds him, “not going anywhere, unless you want me to.”

A soft gasp escapes Thorin's lips, as if he's just remembered something, and he reaches into his pocket, and before Bilbo knows it, a thin, delicate golden chain tingles around his neck, a familiar weight resting right above his collarbone.

“You said you were going to come back for it,” he murmurs, and Bilbo can only stare in disbelief, something surprisingly sharp rising in his throat.

“You are so cheesy,” he exhales, but half of it is drowned in Thorin's kiss anyway.

 

They've wasted far enough time as it is. They'd spent months dancing around each other, and using far too many words, and confusing one another, and for his part, Bilbo is extremely relieved, and delighted, that they seem to have a common, very simple, goal in mind this time around.

There aren't that many things to destroy or knock over in this place, and yet, among the miss you's and me too's mumbled in between kisses, they somehow manage, a couple of cases falling out of the shelf Thorin backs him into, only for Bilbo to push him away from it and trust him to steer them in a destination that promises more comfort. There is a pile of books in the way, and magazines sliding off the coffee table Thorin hits his shin on, and the TV remote alongside a cushion or two being unceremoniously kicked off the couch, and yet, it feels all but clumsy, feels like the smoothest, clearest event to Bilbo's dizzy mind.

There's no rush aside from the need to be as close to each other as humanly possible, and Bilbo grabs fistfuls of Thorin's sweater, only hinting at tugging it up over his head, mostly enjoying the weight and heat of him, nothing threatening to interrupt them or discourage them this time around.

Thorin is ravenous, that much Bilbo can tell, from the way he kisses to the way his name sounds from his mouth with each ragged exhale, and yet he's still restraining himself, or at least attempts to, for some reason.

But Bilbo won't have that, not now, not anymore, not after everything they've been through – his hands slide underneath Thorin's sweater to find hot skin, fingers digging in and traveling ever so slightly underneath the hem of his jeans, and it's enough, it's more than enough.

“ God, you-” Thorin groans, Bilbo enticing him further by gently biting on his bottom lip, and the moan that that brings out of him reverberates all the way to Bilbo's chest, his heart fluttering.

Layers are disposed of, Bilbo running his hands reverently up underneath the soft fabric of Thorin's henley, his stomach, all the way up to his chest, dragging the clothing along with him – he'd missed this, and he'd wanted this for as long as he can remember, and Thorin knows, his hair is falling into his gleaming eyes now, he knows.

Hungry and determined, Bilbo tackles Thorin's belt buckle, but ends up arching his back and giggling breathlessly when Thorin embarks on that same quest – he lets him, content with simply scratching at his back and urging him to get on with it.

They spend as much time grinning and murmuring nonsense against each other's lips, as they spend kissing, but the need is there, and it's growing – Thorin assaults Bilbo's neck, while his hand travels deftly southward, and Bilbo surprises himself with the sound he makes, demanding and guttural, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Thorin's back.

“This is... too damn cramped...” he announces urgently, and Thorin rumbles his agreement, and they haven't done this in ages, but before Bilbo can think twice about it, he's lifted up, his legs around Thorin's waist, and he can't help it, the gleeful laughter comes entirely on its own.

“Glad to see I still got it,” Thorin declares, a blinding grin, and their journey to the bedroom goes at the speed of about one step for every hundred kisses.

Spacious bed is about the only thing Bilbo registers of his surroundings – the time for curiosity will come later. He gains the advantage of ending up on top, and Thorin falls back on his elbows, surrendering more than eagerly. He tosses his henley with impressive speed, and Bilbo's breath catches in his throat.

“I've missed this,” he breathes out, tracing the soft but strong lines of Thorin's chest, his pectorals, his shoulders, and Thorin snorts a laugh, only to end up hissing in pleased surprise when Bilbo seals his lips to his collarbone, his neck, jaw, committing all of it to memory all over again.

“Stupidly handsome man,” Bilbo accuses him, “promise me you're never letting anyone else climb you on – ahh – on stage.”

“Or off it,” Thorin agrees, and Bilbo laughs, but those words tug at something yet buried deep within, and he sits up, with the sudden need to look at Thorin properly – the level of devotion in his eyes is just a bit breathtaking, really.

Bilbo sighs, and unbuttons his shirt, Thorin biting his lip and breathing through his nose like an advancing bull, his hands heavy on Bilbo's thighs...

It's everything they've ever needed, and ever aspired for. Bilbo lets Thorin flip him over, lets him fill his entire field of vision, lets him tug his trousers and boxers down, lets him do everything, everything he's ever wanted, to him. And repays in kind, teases him, mouths at his bulge through the fabric of his boxers and then without anything in the way, rocks his hips against him, leaves his marks all over Thorin's neck, kisses him deep until they're both short of breath and blazing with lust, and if the world somehow decides to stop right here, then Bilbo will take it.

They've always been excellent at reading each other's thoughts, and Thorin fumbles for the bedside table exactly when Bilbo starts thinking right now might be a good time.

There will be times when they will spend longer preparing, and no doubt times when they won't be able to, but this, this is their first, and that alone makes it amazing. It's been a bit long for Bilbo, but he doesn't need to tell Thorin that, he reads it in his eyes on his own, and acts accordingly, stretching him gently, bit by bit, kissing his breath back into his lungs when it escapes him, soothing a calm and a sizzling longing both at once into his skin, finding angles that make Bilbo see stars and his limbs go numb, and it's not flawless, but it's perfect, it's perfect.

When they'd first indulged each other, back in the darkness of Bilbo's childhood home, there had been the urgency of the inevitable speeding up their movements and fueling their need, and Bilbo remembers the underlying frustration, the relentless hunger more than anything else, the beginnings of words and actions doomed to perish under the weight of the issues still unresolved between them.

Come to think of it, very little has changed since then, and yet, this is so much different, this is both of them agreeing, without very many unnecessary words, that this is not an ending, but a beginning.

Thorin rolls into him long and slow, deep and smooth, his beard tickling at the crook of Bilbo's neck, his mouth etching into his skin words that no one will ever write into a script, words that no one else but Bilbo will ever hear, and that in itself is assurance enough.

His nails must surely leave gashes across Thorin's back, but that, too, will be dealt with later – right now, he feels pliant and tiny and secure in his arms, and what might have started out as somewhat tense and joyfully rushed, has now transformed into easy and thorough, slick and warm.

“Need you,” Bilbo exhales shakily, cupping Thorin's jaw as his moans and movements alike gain an erratic edge, “need you, please...”

Pleasure is like an unbearably rising heat, and Thorin adjusts so that Bilbo may stroke himself, barely enough room between their bodies flush against each other, skin to skin, a rhythm that's always been about intuition with them – they've learned to move with each other ages ago, and so it is only natural that this should come easy to them as well.

Bilbo comes loud and vigorous, great shudders of it coursing through his body, arching his back and rocking his hips, throwing his head back, only for Thorin to snarl against his throat as he pounds with less finesse now – completely out of it, Bilbo barely has enough sense to help him along, grabbing and urging him forth, he himself already dissolving from what's yet to come for Thorin.

His hips snap once, twice, before he's muffling a choked grunt in Bilbo's embrace – sweaty and spent, they press their foreheads together, riding out the waves of the aftershock until there's nothing left but a lazy warmth overcoming them and loosening their muscles, lungs heaving, pleading for more air.

“God, that was...”

“I know,” Bilbo chuckles, and Thorin collapses with a contented grunt, laying his head on Bilbo's chest, for Bilbo to run his fingers through his hair.

“ God, Bilbo.”

“You're very eloquent today,” Bilbo pats his cheek gently.

“Would you like me to recite romantic quotes again, then?” Thorin mumbles, slurred.

“That won't be necessary.”

“ Things base and vile, with no quantity, love can transpose into form and dignity ... ”

“Oh, do shut up.”

 

---

 

The blinding white of the fresh layer of snow is reduced to a dim bluish glow by the curtains, and softens the angles and edges of Bilbo's face, his eyes darker, his lips a more tempting shade of puffed red.

“...So technically speaking, if I manage to escape Oxfordshire early, I'll have until the 5 ^th of January altogether, but that's it, alright, that is it. ”

“Alright,” Thorin chuckles, tracing the line of Bilbo's jaw with his knuckles, all the way down the curve of his neck, to the soft chain of his pendant, toying with it gently.

“You're not paying attention,” Bilbo accuses him.

“Yes, I am,” Thorin hums, planting a kiss to his chin, “perfectly attentive.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo sighs, and he knows better than to make the mistake of dismissing that slightly worried tone of his voice.

He props himself up on his elbow at Bilbo's side, looking at him properly from a distance that isn't one inch of searing hot air between their lips, and Bilbo gazes at him intently, scrutinizing and pensive, raising his hand and stroking his cheek, thumb brushing at the corner of his eye.

“What do you want?” he murmurs, and Thorin has been asked this before, and he might not have had the courage then, but he certainly has it now.

“You know what I want,” he whispers, and then, just in case it's not enough for Bilbo, he bends down to press a feather-light kiss right over the golden acorn pendant, feeling Bilbo's breath catching, “I want you.”

Bilbo exhales raggedly, relieved or... something else, Thorin doesn't dare presume, and announces, gently but firmly: “It's not going to be easy.”

“I know,” Thorin kisses his bare shoulder.

“I'm going to be busy, and you're going to be busy, and we'll have to go weeks without seeing each other...”

“I know,” and a kiss nearer to Bilbo's neck.

“And I mean I want this, too, but a part of me can't help but think, what if we're just fooling ourselves into-”

“Bilbo,” Thorin sighs, and however quiet, it's enough to gain his attention, so he makes the effort to look at him better, and sees genuine concern staring back.

“I want you,” Thorin repeats to him, calmly, continuing before Bilbo can open his mouth to protest, “I've wanted you for a long time now, and I'm willing to... look, I know, I know it's not all rainbows, but I guess I'd... regret it if we didn't give it a shot.”

Bilbo inhales, clamping his mouth shut and frowning very adorably, as if he can't quite believe Thorin's words – but then the realization comes, his eyes lighting up, mouth slacking, and it's like watching the sun rise. He clears his throat somewhat hoarsely, scrunching his nose in that endearing little tick of his, and looks at Thorin very seriously, as if he's ever really started seeing him now, and announces: “You are so cheesy.”

And Thorin laughs, he can't help it, and assaults Bilbo with a hug and his nose burying in his neck, and Bilbo squeals and complains and tells him to cut it off, but it's not long before his huffing and puffing turns into giggles.

“Hold on, hold on... Dammit, Thorin, hold on, ” he fusses still, though, and Thorin plays along, adopting a very serious face, which only manages to crack up Bilbo even more.

But he refrains, and reaches for Thorin's hand instead, bringing it to rest on his chest, covering that silly fated pendant.

“In that case,” he announces softly, “I've been thinking. You're going to wear this whenever I'm away, okay?”

“Huh,” Thorin comments eloquently, and Bilbo sighs and pouts, and so he corrects himself, “fine, yes, alright, I will, but – oh. Oh, right. So that you always have a reason to come back?” he says hopefully, and Bilbo scowls at him entirely incredulously, before gently swatting him over the top of his head.

“Yeah,” he says dryly, “sure. The pendant will be why I'll keep coming back.”

 

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 ***