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The first time Thorin mentioned HEMA to him, Bilbo was pretty sure it had something to do with blood. What he definitely did not expect was for Thorin to show up on his doorstep with a large helmet, padded gloves and an honest-to-god sword. Well, the sword was technically plastic, but it looked real enough.
“It’s an abbreviation for Historical European Martial Arts,” he explained at Bilbo’s stunned silence. “Sword fighting, basically.”
“You… You fight with a sword?” Bilbo asked, trying to desperately find his footing. It wasn’t that he disapproved, but discovering that the handsome carpenter you’ve been dating brandished a mediaeval weapon in his free time was, well, not something that happened every day.
“An arming sword and a buckler, actually. It’s a kind of a shield,” he clarified.
“Right.”
“It’s just a hobby like any other sport. I go once a week.” He shrugged, looking suddenly uncertain at the lack of reaction.
Bilbo kicked himself, realising that he had just been standing there and gaping at Thorin. He pulled him close (keeping an eye on the sword just to be sure) and kissed him hello, letting his lips linger a little longer than usual to make amends for the rude welcome. “My, my, who would have thought that I found myself an actual knight?” he purred, feeling relieved when Thorin relaxed in his embrace.
“Not really a knight,” he pointed out but smiled all the same.
“You’re chivalrous, and you own a sword. That makes you a knight in my book,” Bilbo argued which made Thorin laugh.
“So you’ll come and watch?” he asked hopefully, stroking his fingers lazily along Bilbo’s spine.
“I’d love to,” he beamed, grabbing the keys and locking behind himself.
Everyone at the club had been lovely, shaking his hand with enthusiasm and asking all sorts of questions about him. It became clear from several pointed comments that Thorin had never brought anyone over before, which made Bilbo swell with pride. It ignited a small flame that burned with the hope that this relationship was something more than just dating to Thorin.
The first half an hour was largely uneventful, although it had been rather impressive to see so many people brandishing various swords. He watched Dori, the stern-looking teacher with short, white hair, wielding a sword around in slow motion and talking about footwork. The twenty or so members repeated the moves he demonstrated or practised their own drills.
It was after the teaching part was over that the excitement really started. Everyone paired with a sparring partner, and Bilbo watched with interest as the flurry of movement began. The bouts were surprisingly quick, sometimes lasting barely a few seconds until the first contact, which made the fights quite dynamic.
He amused himself by trying to recognise some of the moves that he saw Thorin practising in the first part, but it didn’t take long until he got distracted by the flex of Thorin’s muscles as he shifted around, blocking hits with the small, round shield and advancing in sharp jabs.
Bilbo did not really understand the sport enough to know if Thorin was any good, but despite not being able to see his face due to the large helmet, he could tell that Thorin was having the time of his life. His body was practically vibrating with excitement between the various spars, and there was a lot of slapping on the backs when they were over. It reminded Bilbo of the way his little nephew Frodo was when playing with other children. He smiled at the thought and felt a sudden surge of affection towards Thorin for letting him see this.
As he worked his way through the fights, sweat started to pour down Thorin’s neck, staining the shirt he was wearing. By the time an hour had passed, he was panting, his long hair clinging to his neck in shining wet streaks. Bilbo suddenly had a vivid mental image of being pinned against a wall, his hands sliding down the sweat-slicked skin as Thorin licked into his mouth. It felt so vulgar, yet it also gave him a strange thrill.
He watched Thorin pull off his drenched shirt and chuck it to the side, wiping his forehead as he turned to face the next opponent. Bilbo allowed himself ample time to admire his glistening chest, eyes lingering on the swell of Thorin’s pectorals and the generous amount of dark hair. Lost in a daydream about the last time he felt the coarse texture under his fingers, it took Bilbo a moment to take a proper look at the other man. He was built similarly to Thorin with broad shoulders and a thick waist but was a little smaller and bald. They exchanged a few friendly words before pulling the helmets back on and facing each other.
In contrast with the other spars, this one lasted much longer. Bilbo wasn’t the only one to stop and watch the fight unfold with fascination. Both Thorin and his opponent seemed to be evenly matched. It felt like they could almost predict the other’s moves and often reacted a split second before it should have been possible.
“That’s Dwalin,” said a voice next to Bilbo, making him jump. He turned to see Ori, one of the younger members he had chatted with at the beginning of the meeting. “They’ve joined together and been coming here for ages, my brother says,” Ori continued, nodding towards the white-haired teacher who was keeping score on his fingers. “They don’t pair very often, but it’s always exciting when they do. I suppose Thorin wanted to show off a little,” he finished with an amused grin.
Bilbo swatted at his arm, blushing, and turned back to the fight. “Dwalin’s sword is different,” he pointed out, noticing the man was holding it with both hands.
“He prefers a long sword,” Ori explained. “It might have a better range, but it also leaves him unprotected.”
Bilbo nodded, watching as Thorin blocked most of Dwalin’s attacks with the small shield. They circled each other, ducking and jumping out of the way as the other advanced, making their combat look almost like a strange kind of dance.
The minutes stretched, and it was clear that the strain of a long fight was starting to take a toll on both men. Their movements were becoming sluggish and the charges a little clumsy. Thorin suddenly staggered while jumping out of the way, barely managing to block the attack with his shield. He stepped forward, taking a reckless swing at Dwalin who dropped to the ground, rolling to the side and quickly swinging his sword, hitting Thorin’s leg.
The crowd erupted in cheers, and Bilbo couldn’t help but jump up with everyone else, shouting praise and clapping to appreciate the extraordinary show. He hurried down to the training field and knelt next to Thorin, who pulled off his helmet and sat on the ground, panting.
“That was amazing!” Bilbo exclaimed.
An exhausted laugh bubbled from his throat. “Even though I lost?” he asked.
Instead of answering, Bilbo climbed into Thorin’s lap, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him close to snog him senseless without a care about who might have been watching. There were a few oohs and wolf whistles, and when they separated, Thorin looked dazed, grinning in a slightly vacant way.
“Hey, isn’t the kiss supposed to be for the winner?” Dwalin asked cheekily, and Bilbo picked up the discarded helmet and chucked it at him, making their audience laugh.
Thorin reached up and stroked Bilbo’s cheek, drawing his attention back. “I’m really glad you came,” he whispered, and there was something tender in his eyes that made Bilbo’s heart swell with joy.
“Me too,” he smiled. “Now, how about we head back?” he suggested, dragging his finger suggestively down Thorin’s furred chest. “I have an idea or two about how to console you after this great loss, hm?”
Thorin looked like he was regretting all of his life choices as he groaned. “Bilbo, I’d love to, but I’m sore and knackered. I’m afraid that I’m not up to much more strenuous physical activity.”
Bilbo’s grin was positively feral. “Don’t worry,” he said, licking his lips. “You won’t have to move an inch. I’ll do all the work tonight.”