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Everything had been going so well.
The Lonely Mountain was reclaimed. Thorin had healed from his wounds. Fili and Kili were on the mend, and in high spirits. All the Company had survived, and had gladly forgiven and forgotten all that had passed, in the days between entering the Mountain and the end of the great, dreadful battle. Bilbo had been lauded as a hero, no matter how much he protested to the contrary, and Thorin had been the loudest of those singing his praises. He had seen to Bilbo’s every need and comfort, and persuaded him to stay in Erebor for at least the winter.
Yes, everything had been going very well indeed. Thorin had been himself again, the dragon sickness losing all sway over his mind, and Bilbo had treasured each clear glance, each genuine smile, as a sign of Thorin’s wellness.
And then – well.
Bilbo was hiding now. There was probably no reason to hide, he could admit that to himself. Still, he’d fled from Thorin’s rooms without a word of explanation – he had none of his clever words to give, for how could he possibly explain it? – and he’d shoved his ring on his finger and he had stumbled along corridors and walkways and found the most out of the way corner he could find, without entering the mines.
Nobody would find him here, he was sure. Nobody had any reason to come this far from the front gate or the throne room. Bilbo wasn’t even certain how he’d got here, which should probably worry him more, because at some point he really would have to go back. But he wasn’t worried. Not yet, anyway. Now he was tucked into an alcove in a long-forgotten part of the city, in a residential area that had not yet been explored by the Company or by any of the Dwarves that Dain had left behind to help with the reconstruction.
His feet were covered in dust, and there was dust on his hands and on his face, mixing there with the tears that he shed so bitterly and so miserably. His eyes were sore with crying, his nose in need of blowing, but all Bilbo could do was hug his knees to his chest and try to remember how to breathe.
He had ruined it all. Of course he had; he always did, one way or another. If he hid it…well, his disinterest became clear eventually, and without fail that meant that his companion thought he had no interest in them, and broke things off. His heart had been broken a time or two as a tween and as a young bachelor, in that way. Only once had he been open and honest with a prospective partner, and she hadn’t believed him, and had gone the same way as all the others, assuming he was interested in their land, or business, or inheritance. Material things that Bilbo didn’t care for one whit, and would never look for as a virtue in a lover.
Lover. It was an unfortunate term, Bilbo thought bitterly to himself. But who looked for a spouse without – well, without that? Discreet enquiries, vague and nebulous discussions with peers, had never revealed any Hobbit who felt as he did.
Bilbo was an oddity, and no mistake. He hated himself for it. He hated himself for ruining the best thing that had ever happened to him – for oh, Thorin. Thorin, who was his best friend, who was both teacher and student to him, who blessed him with such easy smiles and such eager attentions. Thorin, who was quite contented to sit beside a fire with Bilbo and exchange stories. Thorin, who had opened up Bilbo’s heart once more, until Bilbo woke one day to realise he was so deeply entangled in love that there was no hope for it.
Bilbo hid his face against his knees and began to feel his tears dry up. There was no hope for it. He loved Thorin, heart and soul, and he had ruined it all now. Thorin would think as all the others had done, in his youth, when he had shied from kisses and embraces. Thorin would think that Bilbo did not – that he was not – he would think the worst, at any rate, and perhaps he would withdraw, become stiff and formal again.
He would have to leave Erebor, Bilbo knew. He could not stay here without Thorin’s warmth, without his care and affection. He would have to leave, as soon as spring thawed the snow. He would go back to the Shire, to his life as a confirmed bachelor, with his books and his pipeweed and his garden. And his heart would break, but he would rather break his own heart than cause hurt to Thorin.
So he would leave Erebor as soon as possible, and until then he would somehow try to find a way to get through the rest of the long winter. It would not be easy to disentangle the routines of his life here from Thorin, for they had been spending so much time together that Bilbo sometimes felt they only separated to sleep. But it would be done, because he would not force his presence upon Thorin when Thorin would think that he – that Bilbo did not –
But oh, how his heart ached at the thought of it, at the idea of pruning back the entwined branches of their lives until they were separate once more. It had to be done, there was nothing else for it, because Thorin clearly wanted more from Bilbo than Bilbo could give – but it hurt, and his heart ached, and Bilbo would have wept at it, had he any tears left.
He was so tired, so very tired – not just because he had run so far, and cried so much. He was tired of being the way he was, in a world that didn’t understand even when he tried to explain. He was tired of shutting his heart away to keep it from being hurt. He wanted Thorin’s love, so desperately that he could almost taste it, but of course it could not be his. Of course not. He was only a little Hobbit, after all, and Thorin was – he was –
He was more than Bilbo should ever have dreamed about, and he’d known it all along, but now the knowledge was engraved on his heart, like initials carved on a tree. Thorin would never be his, not now. Not now that Bilbo had – when Thorin had –
He curled up even more, and wished a futile wish that he might stay hidden here forever. But of course he couldn’t, though long hours passed before anybody found him. He dozed off to sleep, though it was a restless and uncomfortable slumber, and when he awoke, Bofur was kneeling beside him.
“You’ve given us such a scare,” Bofur said, sounding too worried to be as stern as he clearly wanted to be, which was just as well, because Bilbo felt tears springing back into his eyes at the sight of his friend. “Ach, don’t cry,” said Bofur fretfully. “You must be cold as stone, sitting here. What were you thinking, Bilbo?”
Bilbo’s mouth was dry, and he shook his head sadly. He couldn’t explain it to Bofur. If he was to explain it, or try to explain, it would be to Thorin first of all. The others…well, he supposed they would have to be told something. Bofur was his good friend, and Fili and Kili as close to him as any blood relation. They would not easily accept the idea that he must return to the Shire, he knew, and yet to tell them the truth…
The thought of it made Bilbo feel sick.
Bofur frowned at him, and sighed. “Don’t try to talk,” he instructed, and he gathered Bilbo into his arms, as if Bilbo was nothing more than a child. Bilbo might have fought it, under other circumstances, but he was weary, so weary, and he could not bring himself to refuse the comfort offered by his friend, even if it meant being carried like an infant. He closed his eyes and rested his head against Bofur’s shoulder, listening to the sound of Bofur’s ramblings and the sound of his heavy boots on stone.
Then – oh, then there were other sounds, and Bilbo hid his face so none could see how he had cried. He hid his face so he would not have to see Thorin, for it was Thorin’s frantic voice that he heard, loud and bellowing, all his worry emerging, transformed, as anger. Bilbo could not face either Thorin’s anger or his worry, so he hid against Bofur and refused to look.
“Bilbo!” Thorin cried, and touched Bilbo’s hair, his shoulder, but Bilbo would not look. “He’s freezing,” Thorin said to someone else. “Take him to my rooms – the fire is lit, it’s warm there.” Bilbo wanted to protest, to voice some argument, for it was from Thorin’s sitting room that he had run, when Thorin had – when he –
But he had no voice, and his mouth was dry, so he said nothing as Bofur carried him onwards. He said nothing when Bofur laid him down on a couch and covered him with blankets, nor when Dori brought him a cup of hot broth and fed it to him, a spoonful at a time. He could not look at Thorin, who hovered nearby, often reaching out as if to touch Bilbo, only to withdraw before he could make contact.
Then at last they were alone, and Thorin knelt beside the couch and held Bilbo’s hand and Bilbo could not help but look at him. Thorin looked wretched, he looked worn and anguished, and Bilbo wanted to reach out and embrace him, to hide his face in the crook of Thorin’s neck and whisper that it was not Thorin’s fault.
This was not Thorin’s fault. It was Bilbo’s, Bilbo’s fault – his shame – and Thorin was entirely blameless.
“Bilbo,” Thorin said helplessly. “Bilbo.” Bilbo couldn’t help clutching at Thorin’s hand, feeling the calluses on Thorin’s palm against his own skin. “Bilbo, you must know – ,” Thorin began, and then cut himself off, taking a deep breath. Bilbo looked at their hands, tangled together like the branches he had likened them to earlier. Pruning them back would be so hard, he thought miserably. Separating himself out from Thorin.
There would be no choice, though. Thorin would not understand, he would think – as the others had thought, years ago, before he had stopped trying – that Bilbo was merely uninterested in Thorin. He would not believe the truth. He would not understand that it was not Thorin that Bilbo did not want, it was not Thorin’s kisses and touches that repelled Bilbo. He liked kisses well enough, as a way of being close to another, and Thorin’s kisses meant more, for Thorin was – he was –
No, it was not Thorin.
But kisses generally led to more, after all, and though Bilbo had tried – oh, he had tried – he was simply uninterested in more.
And there was the root of the matter. He had taken pleasure in his own hand, but the thought of it – with another –
No.
It was not for him, and so Thorin could not be for him.
“You must know I love you,” said Thorin, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s knuckles. “I would never – you ran from me, Bilbo, as if I had scared you or – please, will you not tell me how I have erred, that I might correct it?”
Bilbo shook his head and felt his heart ache. “I was not scared,” he said, and despite the broth he had drunk, his voice was still cracked and rasping. “Don’t think that, Thorin. I’ve never been scared of you.” It was the truth, though Thorin had never believed it. He had feared for Thorin, but never of him. Oh, he thought wearily, how to find words for that which he had never voiced?
“Then what?” Thorin pressed him. “Are you – do you not –,” He growled, his frustration at himself evident, and Bilbo wanted to smile at the familiar sight. But he did not smile, of course, because there was nothing to smile about here.
“I ran because I am a coward,” he said. Thorin made to protest, but Bilbo squeezed his hand and he subsided. “I have not been able to tell you something,” Bilbo said. “Something that…it…” He closed his eyes, unable to bear looking at Thorin now. “It will make you see me differently,” he said, “and I am a coward, because I didn’t want that. I wanted to pretend we could go on as we have been, forever. That it would be enough.”
How he wished it had been enough, how he wished that the last few, pleasant weeks might have stretched on into eternity. He had flourished under Thorin’s love, and he knew he would never love another as he loved Thorin. His heart was with Thorin, and would remain so.
“How could anything make me see you differently?” Thorin asked him, his voice so soft and gentle that it made Bilbo want to weep again. “Bilbo, you – ,” He sighed, and kissed Bilbo’s knuckles again. “You need not tell me,” he said, and the kindness of it was worse than if he had been hard and unforgiving. “If you see me as only a friend, I shall…I shall never ask for more from you.”
“Oh, no,” said Bilbo, opening his eyes wide and sitting up a little, disrupting his blankets before Thorin put a hand to his shoulder and gently pressed him back down. “No, Thorin,” Bilbo said. “No, don’t think that. Oh Thorin, don’t think I don’t love you. I do. So much, more than I could possibly – ,”
Thorin’s eyes were alight with hope, and happiness, and oh how it made Bilbo feel like the most miserable wretch in existence, for he must snuff out that hope now.
“It’s not – ,” he tried, and stopped.
“I don’t – ,” he began, and pressed his lips tightly together.
Thorin watched him and waited patiently, so still that he might almost be carved from the stone of Erebor, but that his chest rose and fell with his every breath.
“I love you,” Bilbo whispered at last. “You are my dearest companion, one I would wish to spend my life with. But I can’t…” He swallowed and forced out the words. “I don’t mind kissing,” he said. “I like to be close to you, and that’s…but the rest of it – Thorin, I don’t – I’m not – I’ve never wanted it, not with another person.”
And there, the awful truth was out. Bilbo closed his eyes and turned his head away from Thorin, desperate to protect himself for a moment, at least. At least until Thorin spoke, and then…well, then there would be no helping the hurt.
But Thorin did not speak, not at first. Instead he stroked Bilbo’s hair, his fingers grazing against Bilbo’s ear. He wiped a tear from Bilbo’s cheek, and then cupped Bilbo’s face in his hands and leaned forwards to press a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead.
“Bilbo,” he murmured. “My Bilbo. Why should you be so afraid to tell me this? So shamed?” A sob caught in Bilbo’s throat, and he could not speak. He could not understand what Thorin was saying to him. “There is no shame in it, my Bilbo,” Thorin soothed him. “If you had spoken sooner, I would not have dreamed of making you uncomfortable.” He wiped away another tear, and then Bilbo turned, pushing aside his blankets so he could wrap his arms around Thorin and hide his face in Thorin’s hair.
For Thorin was not angry. He was not hurt. He was – could it be? – he was being understanding, and compassionate, as if this was not something new and novel and abhorrent, this disinterest in Bilbo for any sexual intimacy.
“You must tell me what you want, and what I must not do,” Thorin was saying to him, as he stroked his hand down Bilbo’s back, a comforting gesture, soothing and reassuring. Bilbo clung to Thorin, to his love, and tried to make sense of what Thorin said. “Ah, Bilbo,” Thorin murmured, “truly I am relieved. When I thought you afraid of me, I – I could not bear it if you were afraid of me, Bilbo.”
Bilbo shook his head a little, but he couldn’t speak. He had been afraid, but not of Thorin – no, never of Thorin. He had been afraid of Thorin’s reaction, afraid of losing Thorin’s love – he was still afraid, for surely Thorin could not mean what he said, surely he had not understood what Bilbo had tried to convey.
“Bilbo,” Thorin breathed. “My Bilbo.” He held Bilbo so carefully, as if Bilbo might break, and in truth Bilbo felt that he was close to breaking, close to shattering into pieces. “Did you think I would turn from you?” Thorin asked, perplexed. “Is that why you’ve not shared this before?”
“Yes,” Bilbo admitted. But the word was muffled, both by Thorin’s hair and by Bilbo’s unwillingness to speak, and so he forced himself to find some strength, and pulled away from Thorin enough that he could see his face, though his arms stayed around Thorin’s neck, and Thorin continued to stroke his back gently. “Yes,” he repeated miserably. “Of course I did. Why would you want to be with someone who – who can’t give you what you have every right to expect from a partner?”
“But – but why would I?” Thorin questioned, frowning now, looking so hopelessly confused. Then his frown grew heavier, and a quiet fury began to build in him. “Who has said such a thing to you?” he demanded. “Who has made you feel like this, Bilbo?”
“Everyone,” said Bilbo. It was his turn to be confused now, because Thorin’s anger was a confusing thing, and he could not even begin to understand Thorin’s reactions, Thorin’s words. For Thorin was – he seemed –
He could not imagine why Thorin seemed to understand – to accept – to respect the way Bilbo had been so mistakenly created. It was as if Thorin knew others that were as Bilbo was, and despite himself, a hope began to kindle in Bilbo’s heart. If there were others like him, then perhaps he was not…
Perhaps he was not wrong.
Thorin bent his head, so their foreheads were resting together. His breath was hot against Bilbo’s face, but not unpleasant. Bilbo liked being this close to Thorin, liked sharing this closeness, sharing the same air.
“Among Dwarves,” Thorin began softly, “such a feeling, such a disinclination, is never a matter of shame.” Bilbo made a sound, a whimper, but Thorin continued. “There are many who feel as you do, Bilbo,” he said. “Those who love romantically, deeply and truly, but lack any desire for physical intimacy.” Bilbo clung to him, and Thorin rubbed their noses together, sweetly affectionate. “There is no shame in it,” Thorin said, fierce and firm. “None at all.”
“But – ,” Bilbo tried, but could speak nothing else.
“There are those who do not love as you do,” Thorin said, after a moment’s pause. “They are the craft-wed, those for whom there is no partner beyond their craft. They enjoy the pleasures of the body, but do not need to share their heart with any.” He smiled, and Bilbo lifted his head so he could see the smile in full, so he could see the warmth in Thorin’s eyes. “You know some of these two kinds,” Thorin said. “Bofur is craft-wed, and Balin has never laid with Dwarf or dam.”
Bilbo let that knowledge sink in, this strange idea that he was not alone, that Balin – Balin – was like he was, Balin was made in the same way as Bilbo. And Bofur, dear Bofur, he –
Bilbo was not alone. He was not a mistake. Could it be? But he shook his head, and lifted a hand to thread his fingers through Thorin’s hair, twining a braid around his thumb.
“You are being kind,” he accused. “You don’t mean it, you can’t – I’ve never heard of anyone, never –,”
“You have only known Dwarves this past year,” Thorin was quick to point out. “And we do not share ourselves lightly with outsiders.” He cradled Bilbo’s head in his hands then, his expression earnest, and Bilbo looked at him helplessly, desperate to believe and yet so afraid still. How could it be true? How could it? Bilbo was not so fortunate, he had never been so fortunate. He was alone, he had always been –
“Hobbits don’t…I am alone,” he whispered brokenly. “There are no other Hobbits like me, or if there are, they are so rare that I might as well be the only one.”
Thorin exhaled slowly, nodding as if Bilbo had answered some question for him. “I thought it so,” he said, “when I saw how reluctant you were to tell me. Men do not share our ways either. For them, love and desire might as well be one and the same.” His lip curled a little, showing his distaste for such an idea, and Bilbo felt wild laughter bubbling up inside him, a hysteria that he would allow to burst forth.
“But you,” he managed to say, “you are not…you desire, I know you do – so why would you want to be with me? When I don’t think I could ever…” He could not speak the words, but of course Thorin knew what he meant, and he looked pained.
“You have my heart, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin told him. “There will never be another for me. Why should I scorn you for being what you are? It is not unnatural, Bilbo. No,” he said, when Bilbo began to protest, “it is not. Not for Dwarves, and you who are Dwarf-friend will never be shamed for it, not in these halls nor in any Dwarven kingdom.”
“But you – ,” Bilbo began, and he choked on air and had to try again. “You desire, Thorin,” he said. “I know you do. How would you not come to resent me, in time? I couldn’t live with that, Thorin. Better to part now, than to live like that.”
Far, far better, for the hurt would be less now than if they were to spend years together, living entwined as one, only for Thorin to grow bitter and cold for the lack of the thing that Bilbo could not give him.
“I am hardly a young Dwarf,” said Thorin wryly. “I am past the years where such urges might be imperative.” Bilbo huffed in irritation, because that was no answer at all, and Thorin put a finger to Bilbo’s lips to stop his complaint. “And,” he went on, “I am quite capable of seeing to myself, when the need arises. I have done so for many long years. I would never – never – press you for more than you will willingly give me, Bilbo. I would cut my beard for shame, should I ever do such a thing.”
Well. That was – well.
“Don’t be so ridiculous,” said Bilbo, and for good measure he untangled his hand from Thorin’s hair and tugged at his beard, hard enough that Thorin winced. “As if I’d ever ask you to cut off your beard.”
“Bilbo,” said Thorin, pained. Bilbo knew that Thorin wanted to remind him, once again, of the meaning of beards to Dwarves, but Bilbo stopped him, leaning forwards to press his lips to Thorin’s. Thorin was stiff at first, unyielding as stone, but then his mouth softened and he followed Bilbo’s lead, letting Bilbo kiss him – chaste, gentle brushes of mouth against mouth. Then Bilbo pressed their foreheads together once more, and breathed Thorin’s air.
“Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise you’re telling the truth. That you don’t think I’m – strange, or unnatural, or –,”
“I swear it,” Thorin said at once. “I swear it, Bilbo.”
Bilbo inhaled, and then let the breath out slowly.
“I believe you,” he said. And oh, he did believe, he did trust Thorin. Perhaps it would not be easy, but then Bilbo was old enough to know that little in life worth having was ever easy. “Kissing,” he said abruptly. “Kissing is…nice enough. I like being close to you. Like this.”
Thorin smiled. “Good,” he said. “You will tell me what you want, and what you don’t? I cannot know, otherwise.”
“I will,” said Bilbo, and at last the aching in his heart began to ease.