Chapter Text
Thorin Durin was a senior. He stayed after school everyday in the applied arts room, welding and hammering some odd jewelry project, as was his hobby. With his long dark hair caught in a loose ponytail, his muscular build bent over his work, and sweat glistening on the back of his neck, Bilbo could hardly be blamed for being so captivated by him.
Bilbo, who had an artistic hobby of his own, had simply wanted to peacefully sit and sketch with the expensive school charcoals for a while. Bilbo’s usual sketch spot was the fine arts classroom, but his teacher, Mr. Collins, told him he’d be starting a basket weaving club everyday after school from now on. So, after being directed there by Mr. Collins, Bilbo decided the applied arts classroom would have to do, though he didn’t know what kind of people hung out there after school. Needless to say he was completely zapped of all his calm and confidence when he discovered it was to be just him and… and Thorin.
Bilbo had only one class with Thorin, his french class. Bilbo, already very good at french since his grandmother spoke it, never spoke or paid attention, opting to sketch the whole period. He had noticed Thorin right away. He was a good student, but new to the school, and he had some kind of gruff accent; very subtle, but still there. The last person Bilbo had expected to see working on something as intricate as metalwork was Thorin. He’d expected him to be a sport player for sure with his, healthy build. Hesitantly, Bilbo took a seat a couple chairs away from the metalwork bench, facing Thorin’s broad back. To help him focus, Bilbo stuck one headphone into his left ear and then turned to his sketchpad, carving out the basic shape of a mountain with his charcoal.
He sketched in peace for a solid twenty minutes, Thorin working the whole time. About a half an hour in, Bilbo noticed the absence of the sound of Thorin’s soldering iron and hammer. He looked up as Thorin was turning around and removing his apron. To Bilbo’s surprise, Thorin flashed a timid smile at him as he lifted the neck of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his jawline. Bilbo, trying not to swoon, raised his eyebrows as if to ask if Thorin was smiling at him, which was absurd as he was the only other person in the room.
He smiled back after probably too long and Thorin, as if sensing Bilbo’s incredulousness, chuckled softly. Bilbo knew his face was a ripe shade of red, and he felt utterly ridiculous for acting so flighty. “This isn’t normally where people come to sketch quietly, mostly because it’s not quiet.” Thorin said, breaking the silence that was particularly dense after the loud banging of his work. Bilbo was frozen, the only thing he could feel moving was his pulse squeezing rapidly through his veins which seemed much tighter than usual.
Bilbo gulped and choked around a forced laugh, and then silenced himself quickly. By god, he was an awful mess.
“I uh, had to relocate. In other words Mr. Collins uprooted me for his basket weaving club.”
Thorin let out another breath of laughter through his nose, and Bilbo smiled, pleased to have caused it. And with that, Thorin hung up his apron, put his tools into the cabinet, packed his work into some newspaper before even got a glimpse of it, and was out of the room.