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As always, Fili and Kili share third watch, crouched close to the embers of the fire in the small hours of the night.
Thorin claims it’s merely the way the shifts have fallen that they’re always the ones watching over the final hours until dawn, but Fili’s fairly sure that it’s just because the older dwarves don’t want to have to interrupt their sleep: if the whippersnappers’ll do what they’re told, let them do it. Not that he particularly minds – this quest is claustrophobic and too-intense, friends and relatives bickering and joking every waking hour, and so it’s almost a relief to have a few hours alone with his brother, just them, the stars, and Bombur’s snoring.
Tonight, however, Fili is so tired. He’d never admit it to anyone but the journey is starting to take its toll: he’s not used to roving the wilds, to the endless riding and wading through mud. He’s soaked through when it rains and too hot when the sun’s in the sky, and tonight there’s nothing he wants to do less than stand watch – but he’d never say, because he feels Thorin’s watchful gaze on his back, assessing and wondering, and he won’t disappoint his uncle, not now, not ever.
Kili, fortunately, can tell. The moment Fili’s eyelids start to droop, he chuckles softly and doesn’t ask permission before pulling his brother’s head down into his lap. Fili’s so tired he can do little more than blink sleepily up at him, and the upside-down Kili says, “Go to sleep, brother. You’re no use to anyone if you can’t keep your eyes open.” Fili needs no more encouragement, and he dozes off to the feeling of Kili’s hands stroking gently through his hair. He dreams of home, of warm furs and the smell of meat on the fire, of his brother’s touch and the wind in his hair.
He drifts back into wakefulness when it’s still dark. He can still hear Bofur’s snorting breaths, still hear the crackle of the fire’s embers – and in a half-aware haze he feels a gentle tug at his hair, at one of the slender braids that frame his face. He doesn’t stir, not yet, because he feels Kili’s warmth beneath him and above him and around him: he’s not willing to let that feeling go, not yet, because it’s fleeting enough, out in the wild. He can feel Kili’s fingers winding around his braids, pressing them being his fingertips, and Fili opens his eyes. Kili’s gaze is intense, his forehead furrowed, and he’s got a hand twisted in his own hair at the same time as he’s poking at Fili.
Fili can’t stop the amused smile that creeps across his lips. “Kili,” he says, “what are you doing?”
Kili drops his brother’s hair with a start. “Nothing,” he says, and his cheeks flush red in the firelight.
Fili stays right where he is, his head heavy in his brother’s lap. Even upside-down, Kili’s expression is sheepish. “Kili,” Fili says, quiet and playful. “Were you playing with my hair?”
“No,” Kili answers immediately, and narrows his eyes. “Why would I do that?”
Fili’s starting to get the picture. He reaches up, winds his fingers through his brother’s hair, tugs him downwards. “Brother,” he says, and brushes his thumb across Kili’s stubble, “do you want me to teach you?” Kili couldn’t be redder if he tried. It’s endearing, and Fili doesn’t let go – and Kili’s eyes are embarrassed and willing.
Fili sits up, turns round to face his brother. He tugs the clasp off the end of one of his braids, separates the strands – and he reaches out, takes Kili’s hands, pulls them close. “Unravel it,” he says, and keeps his brother’s gaze, heavy and dark in the night. “Slowly.”
And Kili does as he’s told, dirty fingertips slipping strand over strand, fascinated despite himself. Fili watches him, and says, “You see how it works?”
“Sort of,” Kili answers, and his hands falter. The braid is unwoven: the night breeze gusts loose hair against Fili’s cheek.
“Now fix it,” Fili says, and he finds himself smiling at the startled look in Kili’s eyes. “Go on: it’s not that hard.” He covers his brother’s hands, watches as Kili’s eyes flick up and then away. He can feel the warmth of Kili’s skin against his cheek, and he says, “Three strands. Take the left, put it over the middle. That’s the new middle: put the right over that.” Kili’s hands are hesitant to begin with, and there’s a shallow furrow creasing the middle of his forehead, but Fili keeps his hands close to his brother’s and feels as his finger’s grow more confident.
There’s a smile on Kili’s lips when he finishes, and he picks the clasp up from Fili’s lap, snaps it round the end. He looks absurdly proud of himself, and Fili slides his touch down the braid: it’s a little lumpy, but not bad for a first attempt – and Kili slips his hands away, says, “Sorry.”
Fili looks up at him. “Why?”
Kili’s cheeks are flushed: he gestures uselessly between them. “This. It’s stupid. I should know...” He trails off.
“Yes,” Fili says, smiling, “you really should.” He touches Kili’s cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble, watching his brother lean ever so slightly into his touch – and they’re surrounded by the others and supposed to be on watch, but he can’t help himself: he leans forward, presses a quick kiss to Kili’s lips. “Now let me,” he says with a grin. He works deftly, delicately, weaving dark hair in and around itself in neat, tight braids. He can feel Kili watching him, eyes dark in the firelight, but he doesn’t return the gaze until he’s done: he tugs the clasps from the end of his moustache, slips them around the slender braids that now frame his brother’s face.
Kili’s eyes are warm. “All those years in front of the mirror paid off,” he says quietly, teasingly.
Fili tugs at one of the new braids, smiles at Kili’s wince. “You’re welcome,” he answers.
Kili touches his cheek, plays with the loosening braids in his moustache. “Thank you,” he says in return, and his eyes smile. Kili kisses him lightly, lips chapped but warm, and the clasps in his hair bump against Fili’s chin.