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Bilbo stood in the flower garden, his feet in the grass and his head in the clouds.
The evening was young and warm, and the sky a comforting shade of blueberry, though it darkened fast in the summer and night-time festivities were beginning to gain momentum down the Hill. Bilbo looked out to the horizon, towards the still grass which seemed to revel similarly in the warm, windless onset of night. Cows laid at the base of the field against one another and slept. Madeline and Pincup Proudfoot waved to Bilbo as they walked down to the Party Tree, and Bilbo waved back with a wan smile.
Ordinarily Bilbo would be tired at this hour, winding down for bed with some soup in his tummy and his nice warm robe around his shoulders, but his exhaustion was stifled by his thoughts, as he stood in the flower garden and thought long and hard about many things which were on his mind.
To say Thorin Oakenshield was rejected as king by the people of Erebor would be remiss. They were ready to accept his claim to the throne, and even more ready to proceed with the Ereborian reconstruction effort with a king overseeing, but…
What Thorin had seen and lived through took a toll on him. He was not the same dwarf as the one Bilbo met in Bag End, and he never would be again.
First their requests were gentle, and then they were firmer, dwarves ranging from strangers to Thorin’s closest friends telling him to step down from kingship when guilt followed him like a hungry dog and regret swirled in him like a tincture in a glass bottle. Thorin could not remain in Erebor when every wall and engraving served to remind him of his failure, of the lives lost at his inaction and greed, be they dwarf or Man or elf. Nearly, too nearly, he had gotten his nephews killed. He had threatened his oldest friend with death. He had tried with a wildness too intentional to be ignored to throw Bilbo down upon Erebor’s steps.
Everyone forgave Thorin except for Thorin. He could not flourish in Erebor, though dearly he wanted to, and suffered all the more for it, as did the people whose sympathy for Thorin was so great that it seemed to suffocate his desire to rule entirely. That was why, when it came time for Bilbo to return home, Balin gave Thorin a pack mule and told him with a gentleness that burned Thorin alive that Erebor was not his home anymore.
Bilbo brought Thorin home.
Bilbo worried the edge of his blouse’s sleeve between his thumb and his middle finger. It had not been a week after they departed from Erebor that Bilbo had found himself tripping over a confession of his feelings for Thorin, so clumsy and poorly-worded that Bilbo cringed to remember it, but then Thorin had taken his face in his hands and kissed the daylights out of him, and that was a very fond memory indeed. Thorin, exiled king of Erebor, kissing him.
King.
Was this what his mother meant, when she told a young fox-eyed Bilbo he was destined for amazing things? Did she intend her little bramblebunch to entangle his affairs with a king? Thorin was amazing, he was brilliant and clever and gentle as a lamb, but what was Bilbo?
What am I to Thorin?
Many times, Thorin had said he loved Bilbo. Bilbo believed him, because he’d never known Thorin to even slightly alter the truth, but nights where Bilbo wondered if he deserved that love were becoming more common as summer began turning over into fall. They were nights like this, warm and still, where neither rain nor wind could carry Bilbo’s thoughts away from him.
Thorin had led a long and storied life. Bilbo had one story, one in which he was a supporting character to Thorin. He was, through and through, a simple gentlehobbit who liked and did simple things, and led an otherwise simple life. That was who he was always meant to be. Sometimes, it felt like he had come upon the marvelous Thorin Oakenshield merely by accident. A chance meeting, simply because Bilbo had been sitting out in this very garden on the morning Gandalf the Grey went looking for someone in which to share an adventure.
If that had been an accident, how ridiculous the turns of fate must have been for Bilbo to chance into a relationship with Thorin.
Accidental, this whole arrangement was. A big, silly, unintended consequence of Bilbo being taken along to Erebor, surely. Thorin must have been ruminating on it now, just how ridiculous it was that his lover was a hobbit , a simple, unassuming hobbit instead of someone who had earned his love, who was truly worthy of his love.
Two thick, strong arms wrapped around Bilbo’s waist and hung loosely around his hips. A bearded chin rested on Bilbo’s shoulder, and a warm exhale ghosted over his cheek.
“There you are,” Thorin rumbled, his voice the rumble of oceans and the crackle of thunder. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Bag End isn’t so big,” Bilbo replied hoarsely. His voice wasn’t the rumble or crackle of anything. Hardly even the note of a song. “Where did you look?”
“The places you prefer to be at this time of night,” Thorin murmured, and turned Bilbo’s chin with two gentle fingertips so he could press a kiss into Bilbo’s cheek.
Bilbo made a sound, something between a huff and a sigh. “I’m rather predictable,” he said.
Thorin recognized the note of melancholy in his voice. “And yet I did not predict your outing to the garden,” he responded, squeezing Bilbo around the middle. “Come in with me, Bilbo, and let me feed you strawberries with cream and sugar.”
“That sounds like a terribly indulgent snack,” Bilbo chuckled.
“I like to indulge you,” Thorin said with a smile so kind that Bilbo’s heart broke.
Bilbo allowed himself to be led inside, barely noticing Thorin swaddling him up in Thorin’s own fur coat until the thick, warm garment was already around him. Thorin drew him away into the kitchen, where tea and strawberries already waited for him.
The cry his heart gave at the sight was undeniable. He let his head fall to one side and his shoulders slope downwards. He didn’t deserve Thorin, the king with the widest, warmest heart Bilbo had ever known. What had Bilbo done, to earn such kindnesses? What valiance had Bilbo shown for the love of a warrior king to be given so freely and in such abundance?
Strawberries with cream. What business did a king have serving Bilbo Baggins strawberries with cream?
Bilbo looked up at Thorin, only to find Thorin’s expression anxious and despondent. “Are you okay, love?” Bilbo asked, the words leaving him on instinct at the sight of such a face.
“Why are you miserable, âmralimê ?” Thorin asked instead of answering. “What must I do to mend you?” Bilbo was so utterly stunned that when he opened his mouth, not a sound came out. Thorin continued. “I can tell when you are sad. Your air becomes dour and mournful, like the sky before snow. Tell me what is on your mind, please, if you cannot tell me how to soothe your misery.”
Bilbo gaped for a moment more, and then he shut his mouth and lowered his head. How foolish of him, to think anything was hidden from Thorin at all. He shook his head - foolish, foolish, foolish, as if he hadn’t made his own angst clear as daylight by hiding out in the garden. “So sorry,” he mumbled in earnest.
Thorin came to him at once, placing two strong hands on Bilbo’s shoulders and trying hard to find Bilbo’s eyes. Bilbo dodged his efforts until it was too much to bear. “Do not be sorry,” he whispered. “Whatever you have done, I did not notice, it does not ail me.”
Bilbo made a choked sound. Thorin withdrew briefly, so surprised by the noise that he instinctually scanned Bilbo for a wound or ailment, but then he returned in full and pressed Bilbo to his warm, broad chest. “You didn’t have to make the strawberries and cream,” Bilbo said tightly, almost like a warning. “You don’t have to do all this for me.”
Thorin didn’t understand at all. “For you,” he repeated. “It was no trouble, making you a sweet dessert.”
“Not-” Bilbo caught his tongue before it could weave a phrase most foolish. “I know. I know it wasn’t any trouble. Thank you, Thorin.” He winced to even say Thorin’s name.
It was clear that this discussion would be returned to later, but Thorin allowed Bilbo his peace and reached over his shoulder to pluck a strawberry from the bowl. He held it up to Bilbo’s lips, and smiled when Bilbo ate it. Then, he pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s nose and attended to the kettle which threatened to shriek, still sitting on the hot stove. Bilbo watched him.
For all that Thorin was, a warrior and a lord and a dwarf , a perfect opposite of a hobbit in mannerisms, he seemed to take his role of tea-maker and berry-feeder in stride. Were Bilbo not so wrapped up in the darkness of his thoughts, he’d have believed Thorin was truly happy here, far away from the home he’d fought to reclaim and the dwarves of his blood and bearing.
Thorin turned and presented him with a mug of tea. “It’s the chai tea from that Bree merchant,” he said before Bilbo lifted it to his mouth. “Do you want milk in it?”
Bilbo nodded, and went to fetch the milk bottle from its designated cabinet (furthest from the stove and out of the sunlight, therefore quite cool), but Thorin got there first and poured it for him. He poured the exact right amount every time. Bilbo sighed, and had a sip. Delicious.
Thorin never drank his tea with milk, but he was generous with sugar.
“My love,” he began carefully, standing at the other side of the kitchen as Bilbo did not like to be crowded when he was pensive, “what are you thinking about?”
“You,” Bilbo confessed immediately, turning his face away. Even the brief attempt earlier to hide his emotions from Thorin had exhausted him, and he didn’t want to repeat it.
“What about me?” Thorin continued prompting.
“Is this the life you wanted?” Bilbo asked, sounding terribly weak. “Are you happy?”
Thorin took his time with those questions, knowing well that Bilbo had been thinking about and complicating the matter for some time before Thorin noticed. He would have to approach them carefully. “Why shouldn’t I be?” He asked, decisive as though he’d chosen that question from many.
Bilbo primly sipped his tea, his eyes lowered. “Surely you didn’t expect to end up here after everything.”
Thorin narrowed his eyes, not suspicious but thoughtful. “I didn’t,” he said with a nod. “Indeed, I didn’t.” Bilbo hmm -ed, both despaired and cynically satisfied by the confirmation of his thoughts. “But just because I did not expect to find myself at your side at the end of things does not mean I’m unhappy.”
“Doesn’t it?” Bilbo miffed.
Thorin clicked his tongue. “I should have found you earlier,” he sighed. “I am very happy. I am happier here than I ever would have been in Erebor. You knew as well as anyone that I could not have carried on Under the Mountain. I myself came to terms with it long ago.” He exhaled, and then looked up, a conclusion dawning on him. “Do not tell me you find me unfit for Bag End. For you. I would never rise from misery if you told me you did not-”
“ No ,” Bilbo insisted immediately, “goodness, no! I love you, I do. I shudder to think who or what I might have become without you next to me, Thorin, but- but I…”
Silence clouded the kitchen. Only then did Bilbo realize it had begun to rain. Thunder rolled through the misty sky.
Thorin set aside his mug of tea. He came to Bilbo’s side, and did not face him head-on, but leaned against the counter next to him with one warm hand laid over Bilbo’s own. “I beg you to speak your mind as it is, Bilbo,” he said. “I cannot bear to prod and coerce you into speaking any more. It pains me.”
Bilbo sighed, and turned his head into Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin didn’t roll over to embrace him, but his comforting hand came to rest on the back of Bilbo’s head and held him there. It was easier to speak when he didn’t have to look at Thorin. “I find Bag End unfit for you. I find myself unfit for you. I am… I am small, Thorin. You are so big and bold and bright that sometimes I cannot bear to look at you.”
The crux of the matter - Bilbo’s state of being, his simplicity, rendering him unworthy of Thorin’s prolonged fondness and love. That was why he was so upset.
“You, of the two of us, were destined for amazing things,” Bilbo continued, “but through some cruelty of fate, you wound up here, attached to me, who cannot- who cannot be an amazing thing. I’m nothing more than a Baggins. Nothing more.” Thorin shuddered against him, and when Bilbo spoke again, his voice was strained. “To see you, Thorin, to see you perform the domesticities of a hobbit, so far from anything you knew and loved in your past… I feel as though I have not earned you, I confess it.”
“What is there to earn?” Thorin gasped.
Bilbo looked up. Thorin’s eyes- no, his cheeks as well, they were wet with tears. Bilbo’s heart leapt into his throat and his stomach dropped into his toes.
“You truly feel this way?” Thorin asked. “You think you are undeserving? My Bilbo, my sanâzyung, for how long have you believed this to be true?”
“... some days,” Bilbo heard himself say, though his own voice came to him distantly. “It comes and goes.”
Thorin shook his head. He pulled Bilbo into his chest, that hand still on the back of Bilbo’s head, so no escaping from Thorin’s affections could be enacted. “Fate has been cruel to both of us many times in many ways, but your love and your company are precious to me, unbearably so,” Thorin breathed into Bilbo’s hair. “Say no more of how you do not deserve my love. You deserve everything I can give you and more, Bilbo, for all that you have done and shown me.”
Bilbo couldn’t swallow down the scoff that escaped him. “What have I shown you?” He asked.
“So many things.” Bilbo had never been particularly adept at recognizing the finesse of Thorin’s emotions, but the hoarse despair in his voice seemed to indicate that Thorin had been saddened by Bilbo’s words and demeanor longer than Bilbo’s admittance had been revealed to him. “You have shown me how to make tea the way you like it. You have shown me how to select produce from the market down the river.”
“Things so utterly dull,” Bilbo lamented.
Thorin swayed left, then right, slowly pulling Bilbo into the center of the kitchen. “You have shown me the simple joy of sleeping late into the morning,” he continued, voice still rough with emotion but Bilbo could hear a smile in it now. “You have shown me…”
Thorin turned slowly, in one circle and then two, and Bilbo realized altogether too late that they were dancing. “... how you like to dance,” Thorin finished, pulling Bilbo away to spin him gently by the hand and then drawing him in again.
“Thorin-”
“You have shown me your love, and so much respect that I wonder if it is I who doesn’t deserve you,” Thorin interrupted him. Thorin hardly ever spoke over Bilbo, and was always aware of when he did - Bilbo decided not to speak, knowing that Thorin was not finished. “You have shown me, though you did not intend to, that this was always the life I needed in order to be truly happy. A life with no stakes or fear, and a life with you, my perfect love.”
Bilbo set his jaw. Thorin spun him around again, crossing his arms over Bilbo’s chest and holding him there, still swaying to some tune that Thorin knew and Bilbo didn’t.
Thorin nosed into Bilbo’s hair and spoke against his scalp. “My perfect love - my sanâzyung . That is what you are. Just because my life did not take the road I anticipated does not mean I am wasted here, dancing with you in the kitchen.”
“You and I are so different,” Bilbo rasped, though he pressed backwards into Thorin because the comfort of his body was undeniable. “I’m no dwarf lord, I’ve never had a destiny or a grand quest for the betterment of my people. I’m only… I’m only me.”
“That is what makes you my sanâzyung. ”
Thorin spun Bilbo by the hand again, so gentle that it made Bilbo sigh. “I do not want a dwarf lord with a destiny or a quest. You are what I want, and you are the one I was made for. I adore you, I do,” Thorin told him. “What must I do, Bilbo, to show you how very glad I am that fate brought us here?”
Bilbo shook his head as Thorin pulled him forward and back. “You don’t have to do anything,” he mumbled. “You don’t have to do anything for me.”
Thorin swayed artfully to the countertop and withdrew another strawberry from the bowl, this time with a generous amount of cream, and offered it to Bilbo. Bilbo ate it, and Thorin caressed his cheek. “I understand now,” he said after a while, “that I cannot change your mind, and that these thoughts may follow you as my own follow me.”
Bilbo nodded guiltily. Thorin’s hand met his chin and lifted it so their gazes could connect.
“But, my sanâzyung, if I were to keep dancing with you and feeding you treats, would your mood improve?” He asked. “Would you forget your troubles for a while, to spend a fond evening with me?”
That did sound nice. Bilbo looked askance, and his eyes fell upon the bowl of strawberries and cream. Thorin was fetching another before Bilbo could protest. “I don’t want to feel this way,” he croaked, an admittance he didn’t believe until it was out in the air. “I know it’s- it’s not true, you being unhappy or dissatisfied with me, I just…”
Thorin waited patiently, strawberry in hand.
“You’re too good to be true.”
“The same could be said about you,” Thorin murmured as Bilbo took the strawberry he offered. “The same could be said about the peace you made possible, for many others and myself alike. To indulge in joy and comfort has been like a dream. You are a dream.”
“I’m not,” Bilbo said.
“Then enjoy reality with me,” Thorin responded, “or enjoy dreaming with me.”
Thorin spun Bilbo and then released him, still holding out his hand though they were disconnected. It was a choice, either to take his hand or to decline it. Thorin meant it as an honest choice instead of one with consequences, though Bilbo’s eyes flickered between Thorin’s face and his offered hand more than once, wondering what could possibly happen if he refused. Would he break Thorin’s heart? Would the distance between them never mend?
But Thorin smiled reassuringly at him, and Bilbo knew fate would not permit him to refuse when he loved Thorin, he did.
He took Thorin’s hand with a reserved smile, and pulled Thorin into his arms. Thorin tumbled over him, dazed but delighted, and laughed in surprise. “What should I call you,” he wondered, “when you come up with such nice names for me, like sanâzyung ?”
Thorin blinked. “Are you asking me for Khuzdul pet names?”
“I’m asking your interest in hobbit pet names,” Bilbo corrected, slowly turning with Thorin while they swayed together, “like sweet-pea , or buttercup , or walnut-brain .”
“That last one,” Thorin huffed without bite, “is very mean. My heart breaks.”
“You must not understand it, then,” Bilbo laughed into Thorin’s chest. “It’s the sweetest one of all.”
“Something else.”
Bilbo chuckled again. Thorin raised his hand to thumb Bilbo’s cheek, a silent confirmation of his joy. Thank you, and I love you , and you are doing so well. “Something that fits you,” Bilbo murmured, leaning into Thorin’s hand while he thought. “Your hair is like ink, your laugh is like thunder, but your kisses…” Bilbo smiled, and pulled Thorin down into a soft kiss. “Well, those are softer than roses.”
“What is your decision, then?” Thorin asked against Bilbo’s mouth. “ Rose-lips ?”
“Just rose,” Bilbo sighed, leaning into Thorin’s shoulder and rocking back and forth with him. “My red red rose.”
Thorin held him. They danced long after their forgotten tea went cold, until both of them were too tired to carry on.
Many nights after that, either in emotional moments or playful moods, they danced again, and every single time, Bilbo forgot about notions of earning and deserving. The entire world fell away from him, both of their pasts and their futures, until Bilbo was nothing more than a hobbit dancing with his dwarf, his red rose, his Thorin, in the kitchen.
Every single time, Thorin whispered I adore you, I do, I do.