Blood is the first thing that comes to mind. The smell of it, the stains on the parts of Thorin's shirt that aren't covered by his jacket. Desperately, his eyes roam over Thorin's tall form but the patches of red are irregular. It is not his blood. He tries to catch sight of the man's face, but the thick waterfall of hair shields it from his gaze.
Even from his place on the stairs Bilbo can see Thorin's hands shake.
He stands up, and has to put a palm against the wall to support himself. Vaguely Bilbo is aware that his own hands are trembling. Pressing his knuckles into the white plaster doesn't help. He opens his mouth and curses his luck because for once the words won't come. The questions shrivel back into his mind.
Then Thorin is moving and Bilbo isn't getting out of the way quick enough and when the man surges through him forcefully on his way upstairs Bilbo feels it. There is no earth here. A white hot rage sweeps through the small man in an instant. Writhing and boiling. The echoing screech of tires thrums through his mind and he is sitting crumpled on the step once more. His head falls forward on his knees on its own volition and Bilbo grits his teeth because the shakes are taking over now and he can't seem to stand back up.
Bilbo doesn't care if he has to die ten more times over but he never wants to feel such things again.
Dimly he feels the vibrations of Thorin's steps as he rushes back down the stairs but he can't lift his head to look so he has only the sound of the door slamming to tell him that he is alone once more.
It takes Bilbo longer than he likes to recover from the incident. Idly, he marvels at just how much Thorin affects him, even in this state. He wonders – tries not to, but he does wonder – what would have happened had they met while he'd still been alive. Wonders, because that's all he can do.
The small man paces the house, restless now that he knows Thorin is alive but just not there. Television doesn't work, neither does music. He even rearranges the kitchen. Twice. He feels as though he is in school once more, awaiting the bell to go to lunch – lunch because, well he'd always had a soft spot for food hadn't he?
At nights he traipses up to his old room – now Thorin's – and buries himself face first in the covers. Through it all, Bilbo feels strange, there's a tugging in his chest that hadn't been present since his teen years. A remorse, even. Certainly, since Thorin had moved in, Bilbo's emotions have been running rife. The sudden transition from alive to dead had done very little to his overall personality – Bilbo had been living as a shell for years. And now there's this. Something has changed, something good. Thorin would come back home and it would be okay.
It'd be okay.
He retreats into the darkness, only to be woken by the screech of tires in his head in the early hours of the morning.
He hauls himself from Thorin's bed and repeats the process from the start.
It goes on for three days.
He isn't sure what he feels when his eyes finally lock with Thorin's again.
It's late at night when the man stumbles into the house again. And Bilbo's reprimands wither on his tongue because one thing that he has never seen Thorin do is stumble. Something passes between them, something that Thorin is not yet ready to talk about and Bilbo isn't sure he wants to face. He watches as a shadow passes over Thorin's eyes, the man seems about to open his mouth but Bilbo cuts in.
"We don't have to talk about it. Just please – please don't –" Bilbo watches that gaunt face, there is a sharpness to Thorin that was not present before. "Don't leave again."
And Bilbo has to choke down the 'me'.
Thorin nods, though Bilbo feels the hollowness to the gesture.
In the end Bilbo finds out through other ways.
There are rushed conversations on the telephone, family members constantly drop in and Thorin is – without fail – absent for an hour each night. But he always comes home, so Bilbo does not press, does not pry where unwanted. It hurts, sometimes, just the not knowing part. But he brushes the feeling off, Thorin is not ready yet, but Bilbo sits back and puts the puzzle together on his own.
A family member had been hospitalised and Thorin had a hand in putting them there.
The first is seen in the phone calls, the actions that Thorin takes. The visitors and the fact that each time Thorin comes home he's looking a bit more haggard than the last. He leaves during the closest hospital's visiting hours – a fact that Bilbo is sure of because when his nephew was born he'd been stopping in every day.
It's seen in the Styrofoam cups that he finds littering the counters, shoved between the couch cushions. Most of them smell of coffee but a few smell of alcohol and that's worrying.
The last is seen in Thorin himself. A shadow of the man he was walks through the house. He's gets thinner, cheekbones showing up in harsh profile on his face. Guilt is eating away at the man's insides. It works with ruthless efficiency and Bilbo finds himself wanting to fight the man's inner demons for him.
He helps wherever he can. Cleans up around the house when the family members have stopped pouring in and Thorin retires to his room. Tries to put out an air of general calm, tries to soothe. Because after all, he can't do much else can he? Bitterly Bilbo wonders how different the situation would be if he were alive, bumped into Thorin in the street perhaps. At least he could have touched the man.
Every night around eleven Thorin practically falls down the stairs and into the lounge room. Bilbo watches as the man puts his head in his hands, seeking to escape the ghosts of whatever plagued his dreams. He covers him with a blanket when he practically passes out from sleep deprivation.
Through it all they barely converse.
The day arrives too soon.
It's a Thursday, of what month Bilbo is not certain because time has been slipping, falling through his fingers. He all but bolts down the stairs as the door swings shut. Then he stops, stops dead because it is not Thorin standing on the welcome mat. It is a shell. Too long a time is taken for Thorin to lift his head and that's when Bilbo knows it has happened. The hospital patient has passed.
Bilbo looks, searches through the blue, but there's no sign of recognition. Without thinking the short man steps forwards, tries to grab Thorin's wrist and pull him upstairs. He fights the urge to scream when his hand passes straight through because of course this wouldn't bloody work would it? But Thorin shifts slightly and as Bilbo steps backwards up the stairs he follows.
They collapse together on the bed, Thorin shaking, eyes closed tightly. Bilbo is anxious. He sits cross legged at Thorin's side as the man lies flat on his back. The trembles judder through the bed clothes so Bilbo places a hand on – or rather through, Thorin's shoulder. The man stills somewhat and once again Bilbo tries to exude calm.
Thorin opens his eyes and stares blankly at the ceiling.
"He was my grandfather."
Bilbo jumps at the sudden words, but they are wooden – they fall flat and slink under floorboards. Ashamed perhaps, at the way in which they were uttered. He keeps silent, lets Thorin talk. His immaterial fingers flex, drawing further into the shoulder. For a twisted second, Bilbo imagines he is tightening upon Thorin's bones, holding his foundations together.
"I was driving." And that is all Bilbo knows Thorin is going to get out tonight.
At the end of the sentence Thorin's voice cracks. Cracks deeply, the kind of lacerations that shatter not only the voice but the mind. Bilbo brings his other arm round as Thorin curls in and though he is not so much holding the man as sinking into him he feels at peace.
He lies and lets Thorin's anguish rock through them both. Takes Thorin's pain and halves it, stores it deep inside himself. Somewhere it will never touch them again. Wraps himself around Thorin's mind and pushes the delicate pieces together once more.
Bilbo supposes that drifting off into one of his sleep states while with Thorin is what caused this. But as the short man turns slowly on the spot, he wonders if the after effects of being dead have finally caught up with him. Either way, this is the first dream he's had in months.
He's standing on the staircase. The wooden skeleton of the apartment block towers around him but there are no floors, no walls. Only the stairs, suspended in the middle of oblivion. His toes curl into the threadbare carpet and Bilbo feels shock. His sense of touch has been restored to normal, perhaps even intensified. Where he would normally feel a faint softness, his toes scrape against the floor underneath. Hand shaking, Bilbo brings it up to his chest. The action a hopeful question.
A heartbeat answers.
It tears through his chest, races through his veins. Truly trembling now, Bilbo brings his fingers to his neck. A pulse thrums there too, strong. Perhaps too strong because as Bilbo throws back his head to laugh it roars through his ears, just borderline uncomfortable.
"Bilbo?"
And when Bilbo turns towards the voice the house solidifies around him again. Thorin stands at the top of the stairs and Bilbo practically trips up them to clutch at the man's arm. Flesh meets flesh and Bilbo can feel the heat through his fingers as they curl around Thorin's wrist.
"I can feel you." Disbelief colours Bilbo's voice, because it's true. He can touch not only Thorin's skin, but underneath that, what makes the man himself. He feels a hand clasp his shoulder. The fingers bite deep.
"It seems so." And the voice is back to the rough grumble that it was when the man first moved in.
When Bilbo brings his head up from where he's been thoroughly studying Thorin's neck, all he gets is the scratch of beard on his cheek as warning before he's pulled up to the other man's lips. The only word to describe the action is fierce. Bilbo clutches at Thorin's shirt, wanting to get all he can now because something inside him knows that this is not permanent. Thorin's lips curl into a smile against his. Their bodies press flush together until Bilbo can feel their hearts in tandem. When they break away Thorin presses his forehead to Bilbo's as they both breathe erratically. His eyes are blue wildfire. But then he is breaking the contact and staring over Bilbo's shoulder down the steps. The fire flares.
"Thorin?" Bilbo's breath hitches as he turns also, he releases his grip on Thorin's wrist from shock – but the man twists his own 'til he is holding Bilbo's.
They stand at the bottom of the stairs. A sickening parallel to Bilbo and Thorin at the top. One smaller man, dressed in a horribly familiar vest and slacks. Eyes wide and staring, their solid whites seemed to glow fitfully. And the neck – oh the neck. Bilbo brings his free hand to his own, eyes roaming the impossible angle at which the other's is bent. Thorin's breaths deepen behind him and Bilbo looks at the figure standing behind the twisted neck.
This one is tall, almost forebodingly so. His skin is grey, blue eyes sunken. The planes of his face sharp beneath his beard. Mouth bared in a snarling rictus. When Bilbo looks down he sees the pair's hands conjoined.
"It's us." He isn't sure if he said it, or Thorin.
The man who broke his neck and got back up again and the man eaten alive by his own guilt.
"No." And this time it's Thorin's rumble. "It's what we could be."
Bilbo turns into Thorin's shoulder, buries his face in his neck. Thorin's arms wrap around him and they both fall as the stairs give way and the dream caves in.
Bilbo wakes with a jerk and a hollowness in his chest. His hand confirms the truth. No heart beats in this world. He feels the loss deeper than he should. The world seems grey and muted compared to the vibrancy of the dream.
He turns to Thorin from where they have rolled apart. The man's eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling once more and Bilbo knows that he experienced the dream as well. The clock on the bedside table says its early morning but Bilbo would be content to sit here for days on end. It feels like hours, days even, before one of them talks.
"Am I insane?" Thorin's voice is raw.
"Maybe." Bilbo says softly. "But then what am I?"
And when Thorin turns his head and locks his eyes with Bilbo's gaze, the blue fire is back.
Bilbo lets it consume him.
So there you have it, this chapter is the basic ending of the central story line. I have a things for ambiguous endings as I'd like for you guys to interpret yourselves what happened ^^ A short epilogue may come along to tie things up and say how they continued on.
Thank you all so much for reading!
