This is basically something I've been writing over at AO3 and decided I'd post here because I understand some of you don't really go on that site, or do but prefer this one. Also, I like having the majority of my stories in one spot. It's shaping up to be about a four chapter thing. If you enjoy listening to music while reading, I'd highly suggest you look up 'Lavender Moon' by Haroula Rose as it's pretty much what I've built this chapter up from.

01- Lavender Moon

Bilbo Baggins took marginally longer than most to realise that he was dead.

Maybe it was because he went far quicker and less painfully than many had before him. Personally, he blamed the damn faulty light bulb.

On one chilly night Bilbo had risen from his hunched over position at his desk- the next few lines of his novel just refusing to come out- to get a glass of water. Afterwards he counted it as equal parts ironic and annoying that he'd paused at the top of the stairs to observe the blown bulb hanging above him. He really ought to get an electrician out. And yet, something compelled him to shrug, scratch his nose, and continue his descent.

All it had taken was one fumbling misstep in the gloom and Bilbo was sent tumbling head over tail in a flurry of limbs and curses. After what felt an age he came to a stop at the bottom with a sickening crunch- got up, and dusted himself off.

Bilbo had massaged the back of his neck with a rueful smile. That had been a close one. He'd shuffled into the kitchen, poured his desired glass of water, shuffled back to the staircase only to come to a complete standstill when his foot went straight through his own head and onto the carpet below.

So Bilbo Baggins had sat himself down on his steps, gazing forlornly at the sad little form draped over the lower few, neck bent at an impossible angle. Condensation tracked its way down the edge of the now forgotten glass.

"Oh, bother."

…

He watches morosely as they drag the last of his furniture from the apartment. His desk gets momentarily jammed in the frame, straining perhaps, to give a last goodbye. Bilbo raises a hand in its passing; many nights had been spent scribbling away on its wooden surface.

One of the first things Bilbo had learnt about his new 'state of living' was that the actual living could not see him. He'd spent the better part of an hour desperately trying to gain the landlords attention when he'd come to collect the rent that weekend. Only giving up when his hand passed straight through the man's shoulder. Bilbo regretted that he couldn't comfort the man- no one wants to collect a body instead of money.

For one part, Bilbo was glad when they'd finally carted his body out of the place, for his sense of smell had not deserted him in his passing and he- it, had been lying there for the better part of a week.

But still, one cannot help but feel distress at the sight of one's own corpse being wheeled out of a building. Bilbo had spent most of that day sitting on the stairs, watching an ant trek across the wall, and trying to lose the nauseated feeling in his stomach.

Bilbo sat on those stairs and watched as the police came in- briefly- and confirmed his death for what it was. A horrible and rather inconvenient accident. He sat on those stairs as his distant relatives rushed in and swept through the place. Sat on those stairs with barely a twitch as his dreaded aunt Lobelia whisked past, arms full with silverware.

Bilbo sits on those stairs for three impossibly long days, by the end of which he has catalogued every crack in the ceiling, every stain on the carpet and the grains of the white plaster walls. Not once does he grieve for what is lost.

It's not till the afternoon of the fourth day that a man throws his door open and Bilbo springs up from his perch with a startled shout.

…

The man is large. Not in the sense of height or girth but in the sense of presence. He fills the house the minute he crosses the threshold and Bilbo shrinks as the hard blue eyes graze where he's standing on the stairs- forgetting for an instant that he is for all intents and purposes- invisible. It doesn't stop him from stuffing a knuckle in his mouth, his shout of alarm had rung in his own ears- and after nearly four days of silence he is decidedly disconcerted.

The piercing gaze finally moves past the stairs and off into the kitchen. The man's black hair is gathered in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, a close cropped beard parallels his angular jaw. Bilbo follows him from a distance as he sweeps into the kitchen, where he shrugs off his leather jacket and leaves it lying carelessly on the floor. Bilbo frowns at that and before he quite knows what he's doing, he's picked it up and placed it on the counter. Luckily for him, the man is poking around the kitchen, before sticking his head into the small lounge room.

Quicker than he looks, the man turns on his heel and marches straight through Bilbo on his way to the upper level. The shorter man clutches at the counter, he's never had anyone just walk through him like that before. It was highly unpleasant, and left the smell of freshly turned earth in his nostrils. Rubbing his arms through his shirt sleeves, Bilbo shivers.

The man has clomped downstairs again and is standing in the small alcove where the stairs end and the kitchen starts. He cranes his neck to observe the ceiling before nodding to himself. Bilbo feels uneasy; this looked suspiciously like the callous inspection of one looking for a new place. He doesn't think that he's ready for some stranger to barge into his- well, Bilbo still thinks of it as his- apartment quite yet.

The man's brow furrows as he finds his jacket not on the floor- where he was sure he'd left it- but neatly folded and resting on the countertop. He looks around the kitchen in confusion; even going so far as to open up a few cupboards – Bilbo feels insulted, he's not that short- before shaking his head with a sigh.

"Going crazy in your old age Thorin?" his voice is impossibly deep as he shrugs on his jacket.

"Well, that depends on your definition of crazy doesn't it?" Bilbo is taken aback once more by the sound of his own voice. It' the first thing he's said in days.

But the man- Thorin- doesn't turn his head to where Bilbo is standing in the corner, only gives the apartment one more glance over his shoulder before heading out the door.

Bilbo's hand hits his forehead and he feels quite foolish. The small man sighs, running his fingers through his honeyed curls before straightening his vest. For the first time since his death he feels somewhat bitter. He walks to the stairway, considers going up to his room, but shakes his head. He's not ready for that- there are mirrors on the wardrobe in his room and Bilbo can't bring himself to gaze at his reflection quite yet.

He sits on the stairs for another day. It's the fifteenth of April when the door opens again and Thorin moves permanently into his life.

…

Bilbo learns many things about Thorin Oakenshield in their first week living together.

He is an architect who seems to be going through a slump period in his work.

He doesn't seem to live as quite a luxurious life as Bilbo did; the furniture he brings with him hardly fills up the space where Bilbo's stood.

He has a penchant for leather- his jackets, his shoes, his couch and wallet, the bindings of the large sketchbooks which he carries in himself the first day and sets almost reverently on the countertop.

He likes his coffee black, no sugar.

He wakes up each morning at six, treads upstairs each night around eleven but doesn't actually get to sleep until the early hours of the morning.

He doesn't listen to music- though he has a stereo hooked up to the TV.

Every afternoon Thorin will dump his jacket on the floor upon entering the apartment, and every morning he will pick it up from its neatly folded place on the table and shrug it on before leaving.

Bilbo doesn't know what he thinks of it exactly but it hasn't sent the man screaming from the apartment quite yet, so he finds himself becoming bold. He follows Thorin around the rooms, commenting aimlessly, he tells the man about himself, what he did, what his hobbies where, what his family was like.

Thorin carries on through his daily life, not for once guessing that someone else was living it alongside him.

…

"I honestly don't see how you can stand that stuff." Bilbo's comment wastes away in the silence as Thorin finishes his third cup of coffee for the day.

He makes it in an expensive looking machine- Bilbo can't count how many times he's been roused from his thoughts by its clanking whir. The short man sighs as Thorin wipes his mouth, idly watching the muscles ripple in the man's shoulders as he does so. Bilbo's leaning against the refrigerator, its faint droning hum moving through his ears. Not the best spot in the house, but it's far away enough from Thorin not to warrant any unexpected walk throughs like the first time he'd met the man.

"No wonder you don't sleep." Bilbo had preferred tea when he was living.

He had found out to his utter dismay that though his main senses where still intact, he could no longer consume food or drink. He'd experimented on a particularly nice looking slice of blue cheese Thorin had left in the fridge. The taste was still there, but it went nowhere, and gave him a horrible headache. That had been a bad day, he'd found himself sitting on the stairs, glaring at the door until it had opened to Thorin's welcome face.

His eyes narrow with disapproval as Thorin discards his mug into the steadily growing pile in the sink. He wants nothing more than to reach out and restore order and cleanliness, but he feels that it would be too strange. The jacket business was bad enough.

He watches as Thorin drags a hand across his face, the man was in a decidedly foul mood this morning. He'd been up since four, and Bilbo would bet money on him not getting an hour of sleep the night before. Bilbo is about to give another attempt at conversation- dully hoping that maybe this time he'd be heard- when Thorin whirls around and grabs his car keys from the countertop. He picks up his jacket and pauses. Bilbo watches as he turns the folded garment over in his hands, before looking up and fixing Bilbo to the spot with those blue eyes. He sees the mouth begin to shape a word.

Bilbo freezes, heart in his mouth. Could he have possibly been seen? His shoulders slump as Thorin's gaze moves past him to roam over the entire kitchen before turning around abruptly and sweeping out the door. The word was not spoken.

Bilbo rubs a hand over his face in a gesture eerily similar to the one Thorin had used before.

…

While Bilbo counts it as lucky that he didn't die wearing anything ridiculous, he can still wish for a little variety right? Since his passing he's been stuck in the white button up and green vest combo that he'd worn to the party that fateful evening. It hadn't been anything truly festive, just a gathering for workmates- Bilbo had worked as an accountant for the better part of seven years. He'd got home that night and lugged it straight up to his room, only pausing to kick his shoes off at the door.

Curling his slightly hairy toes into the carpet Bilbo readjusts his jeans for what felt like the hundredth time that week. They were roomier around the hips than what he was accustomed to, he was pulling them up constantly. He flicks his hair from his eyes, disgruntled. He was doomed to spending an eternity in ill-fitting jeans.

It's the eve of the second week of his death, and Bilbo is perched on the far end of the leather couch. He brings his knees up to his chest, staring idly at the television screen. Thorin mainly watches documentaries and Bilbo has been itching for a good drama show for days. But the remote is on the other side of the room and Bilbo has just sunk into the kind of comfy spot that you can never find again once you move.

So the documentary drones on in the background and Bilbo lets his eyelids droop lower and lower. He's discovered that he is capable of falling into a light doze for an hour or two; it's handy in passing the time while Thorin is at work, but he never dreams. Bilbo misses his dreams terribly.

He is roused from his stupor as the couch dips slightly at his side and peers through his curls to see Thorin sitting cross legged beside him in nothing but his jeans. Bilbo squeaks in surprise, scrambling upright until he's half sitting on the couch and half on the arm rest. Though he is no longer physically capable of a blush, his cheeks itch unpleasantly. He finally manages to tear his eyes from the hairy, well defined chest to see that Thorin has one of his leather bound sketchbooks in his lap and is chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pencil.

Curiosity banishes Bilbo's embarrassment and he finds himself leaning forwards, he's never seen Thorin do anything with his sketchbooks before. All his work he did outside of the apartment, and subsequently Bilbo's gaze. He watches as Thorin flicks through the book to a clean page and Bilbo can catch glimpses of other drawings as he goes. The documentary plays forgotten in the background, all of Bilbo's attention is focused on Thorin as he watches him put pencil to paper.

Lines begin to form under Bilbo's gaze. Starting from the centre of the page- thin ones, the bare skeleton of something greater. He watches as shapes form and lines darken, curving here, arching there. Poetry, it could be, a novel or a song. Bilbo watches as the lead of the pencil moulds with the paper. It's not until Thorin is deepening the curves that Bilbo realises he is looking at a giant reptilian eye. The pupil of which seems to be fixated on him. Slightly unnerved, Bilbo glances for the first time at his roommates face, and is struck by what he sees.

Thorin's neck is bent over his work, and his hair is out of its binding, flowing down and over his shoulders, a black waterfall. He's chewing his lip slightly, his forehead and the sharp slope of his nose illuminated by the televisions glow. Bilbo is certain that if ice could catch fire, it would be the colour of Thorin's eyes right now and he suddenly feels ashamed. He is watching something so intimate, so personal, something that Bilbo thinks Thorin would never have shared if they'd by chance met whilst Bilbo was still alive. But he can't tear his gaze from Thorin- or his work. His gaze flicks back to the image and he sighs, softly, ever so softly.

He isn't expecting Thorin to jerk his head upwards, the action being so sharp that Bilbo thinks it would have knocked his clean off his shoulders had he been more solid. As it was, Bilbo was experiencing the unpleasant feeling that he had the first time he'd met Thorin and the man had walked straight through him. He lurches backwards, the taste of earth in his mouth. Thorin is gazing slightly to Bilbo's left, hands gripping the sketchbook tight.

"Hello?" His voice is steady- far more steady than Bilbo's would have been if in his position.

Some nights after Bilbo would wonder what could have happened if he'd answered.

You can expect the second chapter fairly soon, as I already have it written up. Please do tell if you've enjoyed it!