Work Text:
Thorin’s last words still echoed in his mind as the tears ran down his face. Bilbo was trying his best to keep his sobbing quiet. He loved him with all his heart, and had tried his best to prevent anyone from being hurt when he stole the Arkenstone. And now it didn’t matter in the end. The king he had followed for the past months was dead. Thorin was dead. One of his lovers was dead. And the other one was nowhere to be seen when he needed him the most. The thought of having lost him too took his breath away for a moment, before he remembered Gandalf telling him that only the king and the princes had fallen. Only. Only three over thirteen was a good number. But losing only Thorin was already too much for the hobbit.
He sobbed the name of Bofur, and left his head in shock when he heard the door open.
There he was, the last dwarf he loved. The last one alive. Just going out of the room where the other one was lying cold. Words died in Bilbo’s throat as the toy-maker offered him a sad smile, and sat by his side to slowly dry some of his tears away.
“When… when did you…” he tried, still crying. Since his tears made his vision blurry, he only saw a soft, sad smile on Bofur’s face. He had not seen the trace of tears on the dwarf’s cheeks, and was surprised to hear him answer with a broken voice.
“Jus’ after you. I ran here as fast as I could when I woke up, but…” he shrugged, his smile turning bitter. “He was already...gone”, Bofur almost choked on the last word, and it took him a lot of slow breathing not to drown into tears at his lover’s side.
Bilbo curled around him and they embraced tightly, each one trying to comfort the other, but there was nothing more they could do.
“He… he talked to me before he left,” Bilbo finally said. “Said he was sorry.”
“’Course he was. The moment he yelled at ye he was angry ‘fter himself.” Bofur’s voice, usually so low, was taking a high-pitched tone due to his sadness, and the mere thought of it made the hobbit sick.
“I wanted to see him again. To tell him I loved him. Tell him… tell him I’d take care of you.”
“Bofur,” he said, trying to soothe his pain by slowly caressing his back, running a hand into his hair. But it was no use.
Bofur was crying over his shoulder, holding him close.
“I shoulda taken care of him too,” the dwarf sobbed. “Shoulda… shoulda protected him.”
Bilbo did not answer to this. He had not even tried to protect either of them, during the battle, and surviving was the best he could do.
None of the others knew about their special relationship. They all thought that Bofur was to become Thorin’s consort and that was it. Bilbo had nothing to do with the king or the toy-maker, for them.
Hence no one was really surprised when Balin announced that Thorin’s last will was to have Bofur considered as his official consort, for it would have proven anyone of his worth as the king’s lover, and how great his love for the king was. It also meant he had to stay in Erebor, by the new king’s side, and represent Thorin’s authority in the world of the living. Dain was not king under the mountain, just a mere ruler. Thorin would remain the king as long as Bofur would keep mourning him.
He accepted. Even if Bilbo told him he would not bear staying there with him, thinking of Thorin in each day. The loss was too painful. But that was what Bofur was ready to do: remind everyone, every day, that Thorin had died for their home to be theirs again.
So they parted away.
They met again many years later, when Bilbo had lost his youth, gained many white hair, and looked like an old man. Bofur had only gained grey hair and a longer beard over the years.
It did not prevent him from laying a kiss on the hobbit’s hand or mouth.
It did not prevent any of them from apologizing endlessly because he had left or stayed when he should not have.
It did not prevent any of them from crying over and over again.
This time, they stayed together until the end, even if it meant staying in Elrond’s house. But “until the end” happened faster than expected, and one morning Bilbo’s chest was still when Bofur woke up. Two weeks later, he aimed back towards the Lonely Moutain.
Several decades later, his physical form closed its eyes for the last time.
When he opened them again, there was a young hobbit jumping into his arms, and a young king embracing him.
A smile blossomed on his lips.
Being dead felt nice.
“I’m glad to see ye both waited for me this time,” he whispered.