Chapter Text
The argument started with something small. It always did.
The Company had stopped for the evening just off the path, nestled in a clearing between tangled trees and jagged stone outcroppings. The night was cold, the wind sharp, and tempers short after a long day’s trek. Bilbo was tired, sore, and irritable, but it hadn’t been Bofur’s fault. Not really.
The dwarf had only tried to cheer him up—offered a joke, a grin, something bright in the gathering gloom—and Bilbo had snapped.
“Do you always have to act like a fool?” he’d said, sharper than intended. “Can’t you just—just stop smiling for once? It’s exhausting.”
The words hung in the air like a slap. Silence fell like a curtain over the firepit. Even the crackle of flame seemed quieter.
Bofur’s grin didn’t fall immediately. That was the worst part—he tried to keep it. His smile trembled like a dying ember, lips twitching as though still fighting for something light to cling to. But it was already gone.
“Right,” Bofur said after a long beat, voice thick but light, like syrup spread too thin. “Right, of course. I’ll leave you to it then.”
And he had.
Bilbo hadn’t seen him since.
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The night dragged on, heavy and cold. The others had given Bilbo a few sidelong looks, but no one said anything. Not even Ori, who usually filled silences with kind attempts at peace. Even Dori kept his judgments to himself. The Company seemed to understand that something in Bilbo’s tone had crossed a line.
But Bilbo hadn’t meant it like that. He hadn’t meant anything. He’d been tired, overwhelmed. He didn’t even dislike Bofur’s optimism. If anything, it was something he relied on more than he cared to admit.
And now it was gone.
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He found Bofur sitting a little ways from camp, perched near the edge of the ravine they’d skirted earlier. He was hunched on a low stone, cloak wrapped around his shoulders like a shell, hat off and resting in his lap. In the dim light of the moon, he looked unfamiliar—smaller somehow, folded into himself.
Bilbo hesitated, shame curling like frost in his chest.
“Bofur?” he called softly.
There was no answer.
He stepped closer. The dwarf didn’t move.
“Bofur, I… I wanted to say I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was cruel. Unfair.”
Still, Bofur didn’t speak. His shoulders twitched once, a sharp jerk like he’d been struck.
It was only when Bilbo got closer that he saw the trembling. Not from the cold—no, it was something else. Something deeper.
And then Bofur made a noise Bilbo had never heard from him before.
It was not a sob. Not yet. But close. A strangled sort of breath, like someone trying desperately not to cry, and failing.
Bilbo’s heart plummeted.
“Bofur?” he tried again, this time closer, kneeling beside him. “Are you—?”
And then it happened.
Bofur made a broken sound and turned, suddenly clutching at him. Not gently. Desperately. He pressed his face against Bilbo’s chest, arms locking tight around him, fingers fisting in the hobbit’s coat like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.
Bilbo froze. Bofur never cried. Not even when Ori had nearly been lost in the Goblin tunnels. Not even when Thorin had shouted cruel things to him in a moment of stress. Bofur had always been the one laughing, reassuring, bouncing back with another tale or tune.
This wasn’t that dwarf. Not now.
The one clinging to him was unraveling at the seams.
“Oh, Bofur,” Bilbo whispered, wrapping his arms around him at once. “I’m here. I’m here. I didn’t know—I didn’t mean—”
Still, Bofur didn’t speak. He just clung, breathing shallow, hiccuping softly against Bilbo’s chest. His whole frame shook with the force of it, as though he’d been holding this in for far too long and now that it had begun, he couldn’t stop it.
“I didn’t mean it,” Bilbo murmured again, stroking his back. “I like your smile. I do. I look for it every day, Bofur. Every time it’s missing, I feel worse for it. Please—please don’t think I meant what I said.”
He felt a wetness seep into his shirt where Bofur’s face was buried. A deep, shuddering breath rattled from the dwarf’s chest.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Bilbo whispered. “It was me. I was tired, and unkind. You’ve done nothing but make this journey bearable. You’ve been our light.”
Another breath. Another tremble.
And still, no words from Bofur.
Just silence, broken only by the quiet sounds of his pain.
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Time passed slowly. The moon rose higher, casting pale light across the trees. In the distance, a wolf howled once, then fell silent.
Bilbo held him the whole time. Not once did Bofur loosen his grip. If anything, he seemed frightened to let go—as if the second he did, he might fall apart completely.
It was a long while before he stirred.
His voice, when it came, was hoarse.
“I’m sorry,” Bofur said.
Bilbo blinked. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, and the words struck Bilbo like a slap.
“No,” he said firmly, “no, you don’t get to be sorry. I do. I was the one who hurt you.”
“You didn’t mean to,” Bofur murmured, finally pulling his face away, though he kept his arms around Bilbo like a lifeline. “I know you didn’t. That’s the thing, isn’t it? You say one thing and it sticks. Even if you didn’t mean it. Even if it’s small.”
His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes damp. His nose was pink, and he looked more vulnerable than Bilbo had ever seen him.
“I’ve spent most of my life making people laugh, Bilbo,” he said softly. “Because if they laugh, they don’t look too close. Don’t ask why I always have a smile on hand.”
Bilbo’s chest ached. “Why do you?”
“Because it’s easier than explaining the days where I wake up and can’t feel anything good at all,” Bofur said with a shrug that failed to be nonchalant. “Because sometimes, if I don’t laugh, I think I’ll scream. And I don’t want to scare anyone. Especially not you.”
“Oh, Bofur…”
“I know I’m not like the others. I wasn’t born noble or trained for war. I’m just…” he trailed off. “I just wanted to help. I wanted to make this journey easier. But I’m tired, Bilbo. I’m so tired.”
Bilbo reached up and cradled Bofur’s face in his small hands, wiping away the lingering tears.
“You don’t have to be the strong one all the time,” he said gently. “You don’t have to smile for me. Not if it hurts.”
Bofur’s lips trembled. “But I want to. For you.”
“Then let me carry a little of it, too,” Bilbo whispered. “You don’t always have to be the one holding others together.”
They stayed like that for a long while, in silence. The wind softened, the air grew still. Somewhere behind them, a nightbird sang a low, melancholy note.
Eventually, Bofur’s breathing calmed. The trembling stopped.
“I’m not letting go yet,” he muttered against Bilbo’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to,” Bilbo said, wrapping his arms tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.”