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Thorin Oakenshield has never been a particularly loquacious person, especially when it comes to personal feelings. He always seemed to find different ways of letting others know how he felt, though. When he was proud of Fíli and Kíli, he would place a gentle hand on their shoulder with a hint of a smile. He and Dwalin could share a look and know exactly what the other was thinking, same with Balin, but for Bilbo he has a different tactic.
Bilbo likes to think of it as a kiss for every occasion. He can be apart from his dwarf for hours and one simple press of lips can tell him exactly how his day is going. A soft kiss to Bilbo’s forehead lets him know Thorin wants his advice, while one pressed to his cheek means that he’s happy. When the king buries his nose in the hobbit’s neck, it means that he should prepare for a clingy, snuggly dwarf later, and a kiss to the top of his curls means that Thorin has a headache.
There are private kisses pressed to scars as if Thorin’s affection alone can erase them from his skin, kisses to the odd freckle here and there, and ones for bare skin alike. There are heated kisses full of seductive powers, and sated ones for when their pleasures have been met. Ones for the morning and ones for the evening, all of them brimming with love and passion.
The kisses he is receiving now, in the darkness of their bedchambers, do not fall under any of those categories. There is grief and pain and apology in every press of lips. There is love, too, but that is not the foremost point, not when all Bilbo can feel is the steel band of Thorin’s hand around his throat. No matter how much they love each other, no matter how long it’s been, there are still these nights where Bilbo wakes, gasping and sobbing, trying to push the feral image of Thorin’s loathing out of his mind.
Thorin had learned very quickly to let Bilbo breathe and calm down a bit on his own– to wait for some unspoken cue that only Thorin seemed aware of – before reaching for him. Then, he starts at Bilbo’s extremities, ankles or wrists whichever is nearest, and moves upwards. His kisses lighter than the beat of a butterfly’s wings, but weighed down by the strength of emotions that the dwarf is trying to imbue into his hobbit.
By the time Thorin has finished with his arms and legs, Bilbo’s breathing has evened out and he is no longer crying. He watches the dwarf move from one spot on his torso to another, specific scars gained during the Battle of Five Armies, before pressing first one, then two kisses over his heart.
Bilbo had asked him once, why he went through this routine, why he kissed those scars in particular. Thorin simply told him that if it hadn’t been for him and his actions before the battle, then Bilbo wouldn’t have been hurt. It was silly to think that he would have stayed behind while the others fought, and he’d told Thorin so. Still, the dwarf had looked at him so solemnly as he took Bilbo’s smaller hands in his, quietly intoning, “I sent you away, and you fought your way across a battlefield to find us. You were hurt trying to make sure I was unharmed – risked your life for someone who had threatened you. You should not have had to do that; you should have been by my side where I could protect you. They are just as much my fault as they are the orc who injured you.”
It’s the most he had ever heard Thorin speak on the subject – words obviously chosen with care, as if he’d anticipated Bilbo asking. He had seen the anguish and the self-loathing behind the dwarf’s sapphire gaze, heard in his voice just how much it cost him to say the words aloud. It made Bilbo all the more aware of how badly these nights hurt both of them.
It had helped, though, to hear those words. It settled something in Bilbo to finally understand the ritual, to know that it was just as much a coping mechanism for Thorin as it was a need to touch and comfort him. Bilbo had also explained that he’d never blamed Thorin for any of his injuries, that he viewed them as physical proof, signs of what he had been willing to sacrifice for his One. Thorin had seemed placated by his words, and had smiled more broadly and more honestly in the weeks since.
Thorin currently has his forehead pressed to Bilbo’s shoulder, hiding from the echoes of fear that no doubt lingered behind his eyes. He measures time by the puffs of breath against his collar, knowing that it had not taken him nearly as long to calm as it previously had. He’d hoped that they were past this, since it had been more than a month since his last nightmare, but apparently he needed more time. Bilbo didn’t think he would ever truly forget, and knew for a fact that Thorin wouldn’t, but it would be nice not to have that moment played across his subconscious any more.
Bilbo could feel Thorin shaking, no doubt just as confused and worried by the sudden reoccurrence as he was. There was nothing he could say, no explanation he could give, but he had to try. His dwarf had given all the comfort and love he could give, spoken so much without words – now it was his turn.
He lifted his shaking hands, carding fingers through long, silver-streaked, raven tresses. Beneath his hands, Thorin had stilled, holding his breath as he waited. Bilbo smiled faintly as he pressed a kiss to the top of his dwarf’s head, feeling him sigh against his neck. With distinct care Thorin slid his hands around Bilbo’s waist, pulling him into a warm hug.
Bilbo continued to run his fingers through Thorin’s hair, brushing another kiss just above his ear. He felt the reciprocating touch of lips against his collarbone and his smile broadened. Thorin's grip shifted as he sat back, his hands settling at his waist, and when their gazes locked Bilbo could see all the fear and doubt and regret his dwarf felt. His eyes shine in the dim light, the first tear disappearing into his beard as Bilbo cups his cheeks with both hands.
Thick fingers curl briefly around his sides as Thorin's eyes squeeze shut and he leans into Bilbo's touch. More tears escape and chart their paths down his cheeks, dampening Bilbo's fingers. He leans forward to press a gentle kiss to Thorin's furrowed brow, his own eyes stinging with the urge to cry some more. He doesn't let them fall, though. When Thorin finally looks at him again, Bilbo offers a slightly wobbly smile - telling him without words that, while he isn't completely all right, he is doing better.
Thorin watches him as if he expects Bilbo to crumble, like he doesn’t quite believe that his smile is genuine. Bilbo brushes his thumbs across Thorin’s cheekbones, banishing the remnants of his sorrow while he holds his smile as steadily as possible. He knows that this hesitation is valid, that he’s gotten to this point and faltered before, so he doesn’t push. It’s his turn to wait, to let Thorin decide on his own to trust what he is seeing.
When Thorin does relax, it’s with a great sigh, his relief palpable as he pulls Bilbo in for a kiss. It is languid and sweet, far softer than any other kisses they share. It settles something in his core, smoothing the last of his frayed nerves and easing his mind with the familiarity of his lover’s touch. This is his Thorin, his husband, not the image from his nightmares. This is the dwarf that he loves and has forgiven a hundred times over – and he pours that into each press of lips.
A few gentle nudges is all it really takes for Bilbo flop back into the pillows, rolling onto his side as Thorin settles beside him and allowing himself to be wrapped in his husband’s arms. They settle easily together, legs twining together as Thorin cards his fingers through Bilbo’s hair. He nuzzles his nose into the dusting of curls on his broad chest and breathes in Thorin’s familiar scent for a long moment.
“I love you, Bilbo,” the mumbled words are punctuated with several kisses to the top of his head.
Bilbo can’t help the smile that crosses his face at the spoken confession, “I know,” he sighs, pressing a kiss to Thorin’s skin, “I love you too.”
He knows this peace is temporary, that there will be more nights like these, but he falls asleep thinking of tomorrow and the different kinds of kisses he will receive.