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After their timely escape from Azog the Defiler, Thorin decided it best to make camp for the night at Carrock. They climbed about halfway down from the summit, making themselves cozy outside the mouth of a shallow cave bordered by a spacious expanse of outjutting rock. In the middle of the camp, Bombur built a cookfire, beginning to whip up a quick stew for everyone.
Everyone was spread out in pairs around the fire, enjoying the last light of day. Kíli and Fíli sat close to the flames, eager to hog the warmth for themselves. Bifur and Bombur sat on a thick tree trunk, chatting in Khuzdul. Bofur sits against a dead spruce tree with Ori, peacefully watching as Ori knits a new pair of fingerless gloves for him. Balin and the others—except for Bilbo and Thorin—sat together in a rough semi-circle, chatting amongst themselves quietly.
The King and his burglar instead sat underneath a ledge, the overhang giving them a semblance of privacy. The pair existed in easy silence, both content with sipping their stew and watching the rest of the company. People-watching has become something of a tradition for them. Sitting together and watching their friends when everyone is at ease and giggling when they do something stupid helped Bilbo fan the flames of friendship with him throughout their adventure.
Thorin finished his stew first, setting the empty bowl beside him. He pulled his legs in, sitting criss-cross, back leaning to rest on the rock face behind him. The movements dislodged the last of the barely-there braid beside his ear, dark black hair slowly starting to unwind itself back to its natural state. However, the King seemed not to notice, too caught up in staring at the birds fluttering about above them.
Bilbo stole a glance, never having seen Thorin without his braids. Now, Thorin’s braid was just about completely unwound. Bilbo may be a sheltered gentlehobbit, but that doesn’t mean he’s oblivious. He knew that hair braiding—and braids in general, for that matter—meant a big deal in dwarven culture, but he hasn’t yet figured out why. He knows they're not a symbol of high status or royalty, as everyone has them, they’re not used to symbolize a dwarf’s marital status (a specific style does), and they’re not to display how many battles a dwarf has participated in. Bilbo’s done everything shy of asking what’s so damn important about them, not wanting to seem rude or judgy.
But now, with Thorin’s hair in disarray, Bilbo has his best shot at finding out why.
The hobbit made no rush to finish his stew, desperate to enjoy it for as long as he could, practically licking the bottom of the bowl. He heard Thorin chuckle softly and glanced at him from the corner of his eye, bowl frozen in front of his face. “Laughing at me, are you?” Bilbo asks, a smirk barely resting on his lips.
Thorin smiles, hiding it behind his hand. “Me? Laughing at you? Never. You must have the wrong dwarf, Master Baggins.”
“Is that right?” Bilbo sets his bowl to the side.
Thorin nods, unable to hide his cheeky grin any longer. “Mhmmm.”
“Then, whoever could it have been?”
Imitating Gandalf, Thorin pretends to stroke a long beard as he fakes a pondering look. “Hmmm, it must’ve been Bofur.”
He smirks, head tilted to the side. “Ohh, I see now. That makes such perfect sense! After all, he is sitting about a mile away from us.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a toothy grin replacing his smirk. “Such the incredible detective you are.”
A moment of silence fell between them, only for the pair to erupt with laughter. Thorin rarely laughs, but when he does? It’s music to the hobbit’s ears. Hearing the dwarf’s laugh was effortlessly becoming Bilbo’s new favorite sound. You see, Bilbo doesn’t consider himself one to fall in love easily. Hell, he doesn’t even enjoy thinking about hanging out with the other hobbits of the Shire, let alone attempting to court one. Sure, he’s had childhood crushes, but nothing could compare to the way Thorin makes him feel. Bilbo should’ve known he was a goner once he heard his deep, gravelly singing voice back at Bag End. His feelings towards their leader were no secret among the company, somehow eluding only Thorin himself.
The sun sank behind the treeline, bathing the company in shades of deep blues and purples the further away they were from the campfire. The light from the fire illuminated the couple nicely, bringing out the subtle golden coloring of Bilbo’s smooth skin.
“Pretty sky tonight,” Thorin hums, breaking the hobbit’s gaze to look at the cloudless, starry sky.
He nods, joining him in stargazing. “Do you know any of the constellations?” Thorin shook his head no. “I can show you the ones I know if you want.” Bilbo scoots closer to the dwarf, knees touching. He points at the different stars, telling him their names and how they’re all connected. “This one is my favorite, here.” Bilbo points to stars in the shape of two triangles with a line coming out of the middle. “It kinda looks like a kite, or a bird, depending on where you look.”
Thorin’s face scrunches up with concentration as he searches the sky, trying to find what his hobbit is talking about. “I can’t find it; where is it again?” Bilbo shoves an index finger against the sky. It doesn’t help, as Thorin still couldn’t find what he was pointing to.
“Wait, come sit in front of me. You’ll be able to see it that way,” Bilbo offers, tearing his eyes away from the stars to look at him.
Thorin props himself up on the heel of his hand. “But then you can’t see.” His head cocks to the side, the unwound braid moving to cover his ear.
“Not if you lay down! You could put your head here,” Bilbo motions to his lap, “and we can both see.” Bilbo didn’t realize what he was saying until it was too late, his pretty golden complexion flushing pink. At least he isn’t alone; Thorin’s face mirrors his own. “That—That is if you’re comfortable with that kind of thing.”
“I don’t mind if you don’t,” he replies with a soft smile spread across his face. Sitting up to brush off the space in front of his hobbit, Thorin shuffles to lie down, head resting perfectly in Bilbo’s lap. Waves of dark black hair spread across his legs, covering him like a blanket. Neither hobbit nor Dwarf spoke, both too nervous to say anything.
The blatant display of affection draws the attention of the other dwarves, minus Fíli and Kíli, who are too busy comparing the bugs they found in a patch of grass next to them. Bofur and Ori are practically over the moon, watching them from their seat beneath the tree, delighted to see their King finding someone who makes him as happy as he makes everyone else.
“Do you think Bilbo would like a pair of gloves?” Ori asks, whispering. He lays his head on Bofur’s shoulder, snuggling into his warm embrace.
“For sure,” Bofur replies, his accent thick tonight. He drapes his arm over the younger’s shoulders. “Though he might be more of a scarf kinda lad.”
Slowly, Bilbo gathers the courage to glance downwards. Thorin’s head was cradled in the crook of his knee, almost using his thigh like a pillow. If he thought hard enough, Bilbo could almost imagine they were both back at Bag End, sitting in the garden, safe, happy, and together. His fingers twitched with desire, desperate to do nothing but run them through the graying locks. Desperate to drag a brush through the unruly tangles and rebraid it exactly how Thorin likes it. There was only one other thing Bilbo could think braids and the act of braiding hair could mean, and he was about to find out if his suspicions were correct.
Thorin was the first to break the silence, voice soft, speaking barely above a whisper, “You were right, Master Baggins. I understand why it’s your favorite.” His voice was like honey, sweet and slow and perfect. The perfect accessory to the unrivaled amount of beauty Thorin possesses.
“Isn’t it pretty?” he hums, shifting slightly as he gets comfortable. “Can you call me Bilbo instead? ‘Master Baggins’ sounds awfully formal coming from someone with his head in my lap.” He spoke with the same softness Thorin did: as if they were the only ones on Middle-Earth who matter. He fidgets with strands of the dwarf’s hair, testing the waters. When he gets no reaction, Bilbo gathers more, wrapping and unwrapping the locks around his fingers. Anxiety pools inside him as he splits a lock of hair into three sections, terrified that when Thorin discovers what he’s doing, all the work they put into their friendship will be for naught. That hair braiding meant something totally different, and Bilbo had made a complete fool out of himself. Slowly, he starts weaving the coarse hair back and forth and over and under, creating a loose, sloppy braid.
The Dwarf King’s chest heaves with a yawn, eyes still scanning the star-filled sky. “If that’s what my Master Baggins wants,” he teases, earning himself a flick to the forehead. “Okay, okay! I will call you Bilbo.” Thorin’s eyebrows raise from the strain of trying to look at his hobbit without moving his head, forehead wrinkling. He still wore the smile from earlier; however, it seemed to hold a greater affection behind it now. His pale blue eyes reflected deep green ones, holding one another’s gaze as a buzzing tension grew between them once more.
But this time, unbeknownst to the little hobbit, he isn’t the only one who felt its presence.
“I didn’t know you knew how to braid, Bilbo ,” Thorin remarks, as if he were commenting on something as simple and boring as the weather.
Poor Bilbo nearly chokes on air upon hearing Thorin’s words, hands frozen. He takes a deep breath, trying to play it cool. “ Braiding ? What do—What do you mean?” A deaf man could hear the anxiety bubbling in his stomach, threatening to boil over and ruin him. “You know I don’t braid my hair, Thorin.”
He says nothing in return, ushering in an uneasy silence that Bilbo’s quick to chase away. “I’d look silly with braids! A Hobbit , wearing braids in their hair? Sounds absolutely ridiculous, doesn’t it?” Bilbo rambles on, speaking but not actually saying anything, meaningless sentence after sentence tumbling past his lips and onto the ground. His fingers began to move again, unconsciously resuming their task. The quality slowly improved as the braid grew longer and longer, the dark hair woven into a tighter, finer plait, twisting the end to keep it in place the best he could.
Thorin smirks, “You could never look ridiculous, Bilbo.” He sat up and turned around to face him. The braid Bilbo was working on fell straight into Thorin’s nose, but he moved it out of the way. “I think,” he brushes a curl behind Bilbo’s ear, “you would look beautiful with braids.”
Bilbo’s face reddens again as he stumbles over his words, looking up to meet Thorin’s gaze. It took him a moment to realize he was found out, the anxiety having boiled over inside him. “Please tell me—Please tell me you’re not mad!” Thorin’s hand moves down to the side of his face, thumb stroking his cheekbone.
“Mad?” he chuckles, his smirk turning into a smile.
“Don’t laugh at me, Thorin!” he groans, automatically leaning into his hand. “No one would tell me what braiding meant to Dwarves, so I thought I’d find out for myself!” Bilbo’s words had no malice behind them, the hobbit finding it almost impossible to truly get angry with him. “I’m sorry if I offended you.” He hung his head, too embarrassed to hold his gaze.
Thorin scooted closer, knees bumping against each other. “You could never offend me, little hobbit.” He took a lock of hair beside his ear and gently wove it into a perfect braid, keeping it in place with a metal bead he uses in his own hair. “I quite liked feeling your hands in my hair,” he whispers, taking pride in watching the tips of Bilbo’s ears grow red.
He couldn’t look at him, nerves getting the best of him. He scrambles to form a sentence, but all he can manage is a choked, “Really?” Earning himself a smile and a nod from the dwarf. He touches the braid Thorin made, admiring it and slowly gaining the ability to speak again. “You used one of your beads?”
He nods, his large hand completely covering Bilbo’s knee. “Think of it as a gift.”
“A gift?” he repeated, still unable to look Thorin in the eye. “I,” Bilbo stutters, “Thank you.”
Thorin tilted Bilbo’s head up, up, up until he had no choice but to meet his gaze, holding the hobbit’s chin with his thumb and two fingers. “Hair braiding is an intimate act for Dwarves, some more than others. Something that only family or lovers do for one another.” Thorin took great pride in watching how his words affected him.
Bilbo covers his face with his hands, completely and utterly embarrassed. He mumbles his apologies, but Thorin ignores him in favor of uncovering him, enveloping his smaller hands within his own. “I’ve been desperate to gift you a braid for months , Bilbo. It surprises me how you haven’t caught on yet; Balin said I was being stupidly obvious.” Using his other hand, Thorin fidgeted with the small plait in his hobbit’s hair, entranced by the shiny silver bead fixed to the end. “Even a small one suits you perfectly,” he said, voice laden with affection.
He didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything—too shocked by what he just heard and what Thorin was doing. He still held Thorin’s hand, hyperaware of how warm he was. Looking the dwarf up and down, Bilbo has never felt more head-over-heels in love than he feels now. “Obvious?” he squeaks, voice cracking as if he were still a young lad. Bilbo’s ears twitch out of nervousness. “Balin often said the same about myself. So did the rest of the Company.”
Thorin couldn’t help but laugh, breaking apart the tension that helped to begin this ordeal. “Seems like neither of us is talented in this sort of thing, are we?”
Hearing him laugh again aided in easing Bilbo’s anxieties, bringing back the hobbit he usually is. “I suppose you’re right.” A smile returns to his lips, and so does a chuckle. “I’ve never tried to,” he hesitates, digging the pad of his thumb against his leg, “ court anyone before. Thought I could be subtle about it.”
“Seems we’re more alike than we knew, dear Bilbo.” Thorin strokes his thumb over the younger’s knuckles. “Somehow, that makes you all the more attractive,” he grins, squeezing his hand affectionately.
The light from the campfire slowly began to dim and flicker as it struggled to stay lit. Thorin, unwilling to turn away from Bilbo’s gaze, twisted around to haphazardly toss a log into the dying fire, preventing it from going out. Unknowingly to the couple, the other dwarves have all turned in for the night, sleeping in a communal pile of blankets, loud snoring, and tangled limbs, giving them true privacy for the first time tonight.
The moment Bilbo thought he was through with blushing, his face betrayed him, an embarrassing shade of red spreading up his ears and neck, the rest covered by his clothing. “You’re bound to send me to an early grave, speaking like that, Thorin.” Thorin’s hand moves from Bilbo’s hair down to his neck, his thumb shy of touching the hobbit’s ear.
“Then you must get used to it. Now that I’ve started, I’m not sure I’ll stop.” His expression matches Bilbo’s, full of adoration for the other.
Bilbo worms his hand out of Thorin’s grasp, much to the dwarf’s dismay. The feeling of disappointment is brief, quickly replaced with an overwhelming amount of something Thorin can only describe as otherworldly. Sectioning dark locks into threes, Bilbo weaves a braid into the hair in front of Thorin’s ear, matching exactly where his own was. The plait is finished with a bead identical to the one Thorin used in his hair. Once complete, he intertwines their fingers, returning the squeeze he received earlier.
“Good. For I feel the same way.” He looks over the braid, admiring his quick work.
Before Bilbo can continue, Thorin speaks first, still relishing the sight of his hobbit gifting a braid of his own. He pulls Bilbo in by the hand stationed on his neck, gently pressing their foreheads together, noses touching. “Your gift is worth more than all the gold in Erebor. Means more to me than any crown, throne, or jewel in Middle-Earth.”
Thorin’s words brought tears to the hobbit’s eyes, threatening to spill down his pinkened cheeks. “How could it ever compete with things such as those?” he asks, his voice shaky with emotion.
Withdrawing just enough to affectionately rub their noses together, Thorin strokes his jaw soothingly, sapphire blue eyes soft with domesticity. “It was never a competition between them, dear Bilbo. Your gift—this braid—will always be an honor I cherish most.”
Bilbo closes his eyes, the intimate state filling him with comfort. “Please tell me why these, in particular, are so special.” They open not long after the question ends, holding his gaze again. “I want to share in cherishing mine the same way you do.”
“These are the first braids we’ve ever given one another. In Dwarven culture, the first braid given to your partner symbolizes the beginning of your courtship. It is how we show our commitment to our partner,” he answers, voice soft like butter.
The tears building behind his eyes finally spill from the corners and run down the side of his nose. Using both hands, Thorin cleans his face sweetly, saying nothing, content with taking good care of Bilbo.
He sniffles as he regains his composure, placing a hand over the one on his neck. “No matter how often I learn new things about your culture, it never fails to stun me with its beauty.” This time, Bilbo is the one to bump foreheads with him, heart swelling with an overabundance of love. More than he’s ever felt for a singular person before. He feels as if he were home for the first time since he left Bag End.
Bilbo swears if Thorin were to smile any wider, his face would crack. “And I’m sure the ways of the Shire are just as wonderful, my dear hobbit.” Before Thorin finishes his sentence, he wraps his thick arms around him, pulling Bilbo into a crushing hug, rivaling the one from earlier that evening. Bilbo eagerly reciprocates, squeezing him back as hard as he can.
The day’s events soon began to catch up with both of them, sleep lulling their eyes closed. It mattered not how hard they fought it, neither of them powerful enough to ignore how comfortable it was in each other’s arms. Bilbo fell asleep with his head resting against Thorin’s chest, Thorin’s cheek pressed against the top of the younger’s head. They stayed like that ‘till morning, where they were found by the rest of the Company.
“Alright, lads, hand it over!” Bofur exclaims, referencing the bets they made for when Thorin would confess to their burglar. “Told ya’ I’d be the winner!”