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Bofur couldn't quite place his finger on why he found this angry, sweat-heavy, throat-sore version of his husband so fucking sexy , but he couldn't help but file it into his late-night thoughts.
They'd had a row with each other, and now Bofur was on the sofa with Bain's old baby blanket and no pillow, watching late-night television and waiting for Bard to just crawl into his arms, and admit he was wrong. He doesn't even recall what the argument was about, or how it had started, just that it was short and loud and Tilda ran into her sister's bedroom bawling about her parents getting a divorce.
That had been the end of it; Bard was angry with Bofur over that, and not the fight. Of course, Bofur found it even more painful that he'd been involved in his step-daughter's tear-jerking, but honestly, he beat himself up on those kinds of things more than a normal parent did. He promised to make it up to her; tomorrow after school, he'd take the kids out to their favorite ice cream parlor, and make up some funny stories about the clogged toilet at the House of Durin or that one time he went streaking with Bombur and Nori after a Kamelot show.
All would be better in due time; he just had to erase the image of hot angry Bard and swap it out for very not-sexy angry Bard .
The TV was currently playing an all-night marathon of Seinfield, and something about Kramer and Jerry made Bofur remember that he'd promised to call Bilbo and congratulate him on earning his master's diploma. Thorin had graduated a few months prior and was now working for the local YCMA, teaching an Alcoholics Anonymous group during the weeknights. They'd even bought a house together after the new year, a gorgeous fixer-upper in Poet's Corner. The House of Durin had been proudly passed down to a younger generation, college metalheads and friends of Fili and Kili, and life was starting to feel more like a grown-up white picket fence novel than ever before. Dinners at their new house were common, and the two couples frequented the pool table in the basement while the kids chased the dogs in the backyard with glow sticks and fireflies.
Bofur: u awake???
Bilbo: Yeah, why?
Bofur: can't sleep :/ calling you.
He dug his phone out of the couch cushion and rolled out of his uncomfy nest, padding out to the sunroom where he knew it would be quiet enough to call his friend. He needed to get this idea out of his skull, and burn it for good. Bard was fucking mad at him, shouldn't he feel awful?
"You're always calling me at ridiculous times," Bilbo hummed over the line, sounding just as sleepy as Bofur probably did. It was late, nearly midnight, and although his friend was taking the summer off he suspected it had been a busy day regarding house renovations and newly-wed sex games. "What's up?"
"Oh, you know. I just wanted to say congrats on your master's, no big deal," He joked, sliding down onto one of the plastic white chairs and reaching for his cigarettes. Bofur lit one, placing the mobile on speaker so he could smoke and complain at the same time like he'd done many nights when he was still figuring his love life out. "Bard and I had a row."
"You'll forget about it in the morning, I promise," Said Bilbo, sending out a bleating yawn. "Make him breakfast and coffee and offer head; it always works with Thorin."
"You make it sound so easy . I can't make eggs half as good as I give head. Besides, he has to work in the morning, and I know it's going to affect his whole day."
"What was the fight about, if you don't mind me prying?"
"Oh, it... well, it's a bit complicated," He tutted, sinking so his chin rested on his chest. Bofur took a long drag of his cigarette and said, "I was telling him about Thorin's sister possibly surrogating your baby in the future."
"That is complicated, okay," Bilbo made a sad sound, "let me, umm... okay, let me go down to the basement." Bofur waited for a minute, hearing some shuffling around before his friend continued. "What about the baby?"
"He, well... I brought it up all casually when we were washing up after dinner, and he just got mad . Something about being too old and an only child. I don't know where he was getting at. He doesn't want any more kids, we talk about it all the time and we've both agreed it's not right. It's just... I dunno, we had a stupid fucking row about it." Bofur touches his lips with the tips of his fingers, tapping, thinking. "I'm sleeping on the couch."
"Oh, Bo, you two have got to have better communication," Bilbo sighed. "Go apologize. Snuggle him in bed. He's probably feeling super shitty about it."
" I feel shitty about it," said Bofur. The night sky was black as lead, and a few white stars hung low on the horizon, little freckles of burnt-out solar systems.
He'd always been fascinated with space ever since he was a little tot, escaping out of the second-story window with Bombur to look at them and pretend one had people on it, kids just like them who were looking up and wondering. He stumped out his fag and let it hang. Bard always noticed when he was smoking inside, a mixed bag of complaints regarding getting the smell out of the carpet. It was a cover-up for him being concerned about Bofur's health, of course, a sweet excuse of made-up stories.
"I know you do, listen," Bilbo made a shushing sound, and then chuckled. Bofur could hear a few lackluster groans in the background; considering they sounded like a hibernating black bear, he guessed it was none other than Thorin Oakenshield. "I have to go. I accidentally woke sleeping beauty up and he's not happy."
"That's fine. Thanks for the advice," He muttered weakly, tracing a fingertip around the rim of the ashtray. His fingers came up gray, and he brushed them against his jeans. "Sleep well."
"You as well! Tell Bard I said hi."
"Will do, goodnight." The click came before he could even press 'end call'; Thorin must have pressed that, because knowing Bilbo, he would continue with the 'goodnights' and 'see you soons' until the break of day.
The night stilled at once, a purple haze across the sky. It was past midnight, closer to three or four if his phone was capable of doing something right for once. As much as it killed to know Bard was angry with him, he had to fix it before the morning. Seeing Bard tired and upset and going on his merry way to Whole Foods at seven hurt more than the ladder, so he tugged himself out of the ball he'd created out of his limbs and toed down the hallway.
The bedroom lamp was on, which caused Bofur to pause and peer his eyes and nose through the door. Bard was fast asleep, huddled messily in the duvet, but he must have kept it on waiting for Bofur to come to bed. The bedside table was displaying two bottles of whiskey, a little on the empty side, and he smelled it in the air. Christ, Bard was drinking over him.
"Oh, sweet god," He whispered, heart thudding painfully as he tiptoed quietly around the bed. Feeling the chill of the night, Bofur grabbed his Stratovarius hoodie from the closet and threw it over his body. Flicking the lamp off, he slid into bed, wincing when Bard stirred; time to face reality. "Hey," He bit his lip, attempting to hide his face in his pillow but failing miserably.
Bard just peered at him with coal-black eyes, brown eyebrows furrowing before dropping as if still dreaming. "Hmm...." He croaked, his naked body trying desperately to find warmth in the covers. "Turn the heat up." Instead of doing as asked, Bofur stripped the hoodie off and used it as an olive branch.
"Here, it's cold, you've got to be freezing." He smiled weakly, nudging his husband into a sitting position. He brought the sweatshirt around him and tucked his arms in it, quickly being batted away as Bard became awake enough to do it himself. "I'm sorry about the fight."
"Oh," The man beside him shrugged, now cozy. He slid back down into the blankets, and took Bofur's hands one by one, kissing them. "I don't know what came over me."
"You seemed really upset with Thorin and Bilbo, babe. What's wrong?"
Bard reached out and tentatively rolled his knuckles over Bofur’s lower belly, his breath hitching immediately on command. “It's just… I’m jealous, Bo, fuck . It makes me sick how much.”
“Jealous of what, exactly?” Bofur scooted closer to the beautiful warmth of his husband, feeling safe now that they had made up and were now curled up underneath the blankets. “I thought you were done with kids.”
“I am, seriously,” He giggled, pressing a kiss to Bofur’s forehead and letting it linger. “I’m upset because… because of this... this image I have in my head.”
“I’m scared.”
“I want you pregnant . Like, with my baby. Oh my god, it sounds sick—“
Bofur moaned incoherently. “ Yes , that, fucking hell. Tell me more."
"Okay, okay," Bard chuckled deeply, slipping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in. "I'm jealous of every single parent with a baby that even looks close to something we would make. Black curls and brown eyes, probably born strumming a guitar. Working their ass off."
"As if the baby makes amazing coffee as well," Bofur grinned messily, pressing a hard kiss to Bard's lips. "Sigrid, Bane, and Tilda prancing around school telling everyone about their new baby sibling. Newborn photoshoots with black roses. Tiny Blind Guardian shirts."
"Oh my gosh, Bofur, I'm so jealous. Like, Thorin is dead to me having a sister. That baby is going to look exactly like he and Bilbo made a fucking kid and it's going to be theirs by blood , god." Bard was sweating at this point, his face a crimson apple red, and Bofur found it incredibly endearing that he cared so much for their family, as well as incredibly sexy . "Why do they get one? What did we do to be cursed?"
"Cursed?" Bofur kicked him in the shin under the blankets. "What do y'a mean? We have three awful children together. They don't even have one yet."
"Yeah, but... I mean, the kids, they aren't yours —"
"Christ, stop it right there," Bofur hissed, his fingers wrapping around his husband's wrist. "Stop, no, those kids are mine, look at me," He pulled their faces together, and touched Bard's nose with his own. "I will fight to the death for them. I wouldn't trade some stupid baby that Thorin and Bilbo are going to name some cruddy flower or shit for a lock of Tilda's hair."
"Really?" Bard's eyes softened, and the red was disappearing. "But—"
"No, no buts," He insisted, his thumb pressing Bard's lips shut. "If that's what you were so riled up about, no, I wouldn't. I don't want anything more. Just you and our monsters and fucking Murphy and the cat. Thorin and Bilbo aren't us and I don't want to be them."
Bard nodded, pressing a kiss to his thumb. "Are you sure?"
"One-hundred-percent, thousand times over, yes."
"Okay," He sighed, finally giving in. "Okay, yeah." Bard lowered his glare and curled his head underneath Bofur's chin. He looked so small, wrapped up in his old hoodie, tired bags under his eyes and still halfway-asleep, and for that, Bofur knew he was the luckiest man alive.
He smiled, and kissed his mop of hair, pulling him as close as humanely possible. "You can be jealous as much as you want, but please remember I would never trade this for that . I love you."
"I love you a lot more," Bard purred happily from within his blanket nest. He broke out in a loud yawn, showing teeth before slowly closing his eyes. "Thank you for understanding. I didn't know how to tell you."
"That's okay. It was hot, seeing you all riled up."
Bard's brows shot up, but he didn't crack an eyelid open. "That's... okay, I'll put that in the book. Now go to sleep, it's late. I love you."
"I love you, goodnight." And Bofur fell asleep that evening feeling like his heart was made of the purest gold from the deepest mountain, with a chock full of questions to ask Bilbo about regarding adoption the next time they spoke.