A/N: This is basically the latest installment in my continuing effort to comfort myself after the Battle of the Five Armies. Let's take it back to a happier time... (and it's from Kili's point of view, because I've been writing a lot of Fili lately).
"It's not fair."
Fili only huffs out a breath in response, and Kili frowns. Really, his brother, crown-prince of Erebor, should be taking this more seriously. Instead he's hunched over his pipe, trying to get a reasonable spark.
"He's punishing us!" Kili exclaims, with an indignant wave of his arm. "Putting us in our place." He chews his lip. He has not forgotten (nor, he thinks, has Fili) their uncle's reproach over the (mostly) harmless teasing of poor Mr. Baggins.
Fili glares at him. "He's making sure we've got our heads in it, that's all."
An answer, at least. Kili slumps against a tree-trunk, swatting at a gnat. "Easy for you to say. Don't you have any pride in our heritage? We're not supposed to be the ones watching the ponies."
Fili tucks away his pipe, apparently giving up on starting a flame, and comes to sit by his brother. "Someone has to. You want to drag Bombur out here?"
It's Kili's turn to glare. "I don't think it would do him any harm."
"I'm sure Uncle would love it if you made the stew, little brother. Remember how charmed he was last time?"
Kili scowls even more darkly at that particular memory. "It was a simple mistake."
"Aye, sugar for salt is simple enough." Fili glances around quickly, making sure that there is no one close by, and then growls out, "Mahal! What is this wretched filth?"
Kili snorts. It is a remarkably good imitation of their uncle, and they both know it. He is pleased that Fili is not bent on being superior all evening, and rejoins, "I thought Mum was going to have a fit."
"You were how old—sixty-three? Shameful."
"I'd like to see you try your hand at it," Kili shoots back, but only half-heartedly. He has no ground to stand on there—Fili is skilled at cooking.
Sometimes it seems that Fili is skilled at everything.
"I'm hungry," Kili says at length. His stomach feels as though it is going to devour itself. They haven't eaten as much as he would like since the comforts of Bilbo's hobbit-hole.
"Patience," his brother tells him, and Kili elbows him.
"You're hungry too."
Fili shrugs. "We all are. Food's coming, soon enough."
"You'll be a great king," says Kili, with a sneer, but he wishes he had bitten his tongue when he sees a shadow fall over his brother's face.
"You shouldn't jest." Fili's voice is quiet.
Kili curses himself inwardly. "I was only teasing. Come on."
Fili is always quick to reconcile. He pats Kili's shoulder, a small smile on his face. "Don't worry. Perhaps Thorin will have a change of heart, give us the largest portions."
Kili tugs ruefully at his belt. "We're thinner than the rest, anyway. We deserve it. How can we stand beside such stalwart dwarves as Bombur, when we're skinny as rails?"
Fili shoves him. "Speak for yourself!"
Kili tries, rather ineffectually, to choke him, and they tumble over the ground for a few moments. It is refreshing, since there has not, in Kili's mind, been enough adventure so far on this journey. It has been a plodding trek over (admittedly) scenic land, with little conversation and little excitement. A wrestling match with his brother is better than nothing.
Fili wins, because he (almost) always does, but they are both laughing as they get to their feet and clasp hands, knocking their foreheads together.
Kili is about to speak, but he sees his brother frown suddenly, pausing in picking twigs out of his hair.
"What is it?" Kili asks, in a hushed tone.
"The ponies," says Fili, brows drawing together in worry. "When was the last time we counted them?"