1968

Thorin awoke one morning with a sudden ache in his heart.

It was as if before now he was simply wasting away, living his life blind, and then suddenly his eyes saw color and the air smelled of pine and ash, reminding him of someone he had once loved.

He had forgotten.

How did he forget?

He had been in love once, and how ardently he loved, though he was a fool and a failure. Even now, he felt remorse and regret. He had harmed the one man he had ever loved. Treated him less than he deserved, and still he had come to his side and forgiven him.

Bilbo. He remembered him now. Remembered every moment of their journey, his betrayal (but it was not Bilbo's that Thorin thought of, but his own), and his death, a slow, fleeting exhale pulled from his lungs and nothing more.

He was a miner, like his father, and his father, and his father before that. His whole life revolved around the Iron Hills, and even now he realized why that name felt familiar. Not so much a home, but a temporary fixture.

Bilbo was out there, Thorin could feel it in his bones, and he couldn't waste his time, his life, digging up iron. He needed to find Bilbo. He needed to hold him once again, reunited himself with the man he loved.

London was busy.

He knew it would be, but there was something so very… unnerving about the hustle and bustle. Men in gray suits and women in their perfect dresses, not a hair out of place.

And then there were others like him, without a place to rest his head, no food to fill his belly or money in his pockets. He was staying at a boarding house, a rundown place that gave him a room for helping out the grocer, lifting heavy boxes, making deliveries, and helping old ladies with their shopping.

For a free room, Thorin would probably do just about anything.

Not that things were blissful. He still had that niggling feeling at the back of his mind.

Bilbo. Bilbo. Bilbo.

He had to look for him. That's why he had come. But something always came up.

Mrs. Radburn's oven stopped working. Mr. Radburn's shop flooded. He had to break up a fight in the street. The children in the house found a stray cat and wanted Thorin to help take care of him.

But as much as he felt he had to look for Bilbo, Thorin had the feeling that if he waited, Bilbo would come to him. As if it was their destiny to meet again.

So he kept walking Mrs. Tripp's groceries to her home and slipping Bucket treats when it was his turn to watch him, knowing that soon he'd meet Bilbo.

These were times he'd think of all the things he'd say. An apology would be at the forefront, quickly followed by a deep, heartfelt, confession of love. Then he'd whisk Bilbo away where the two of them could live out their lives.

Perhaps they'd move to the seaside. Thorin had always wanted to see the ocean. Or, knowing Bilbo's own love for the Shire, they could have a little cottage in the countryside, no one around for miles.

It was these thoughts that distracted him from the danger.

There was a strange young man living in the boarding house as well. A tall, large man with horrible scars on his face. On the whole, he seemed like an upright citizen.

He kept mainly to himself, working as an assistant to the tailor just down the way. He didn't smile, and kept to himself, but when asked, he would answer questions and always paid the rent on time, so really, Mrs. Radburn had nothing to complain about.

Maybe he didn't take dinner with the rest of the house, but she wasn't going to force him into uncomfortable settings.

He had, however, taken an interest in Thorin.

Not in the let's become friends sort of way. The sort of way where he'd watch him. He'd observe Thorin with his cold eyes, behind blinds and curtains, or in the canned soup aisle at Radburn's shop. He was practically obsessed.

Thorin stepped into the alleyway for a smoke, Bucket pawing at his feet, making him chuckle. That old cat was far too needy for its own good. "Alright, B. You hungry?"

"Cats have horrible diseases," Azog said, scaring Thorin out of his wits. Where had he even come from. "Especially alley cats."

"He's alright," Thorin replied. "Aren't you Bucket?"

Azog didn't respond, merely sitting down on a crate, looking out of place in his clean trousers, while Thorin's own clothes were stained and full of holes.

"You're Azog, right?" Thorin asked. "Live in the attic."

"That's me."

"Never see you round much," Thorin said, taking a long drag, slowly breathing out the smoke. He tapped the cigarette against his lip, trying to figure out why he looked so familiar.

Azog shrugged. "I work."

"We all work for something."

"What do you work for?" Azog asked, out of the blue, surprising Thorin.

That was an easy enough answer. For Bilbo. But he couldn't tell that to a stranger. "To pass the time, I suppose," Thorin answered. It wasn't a complete lie. "You?"

"To seem normal," was Azog's reply.

Bilbo pulled at his bowtie, the feeling of suffocation growing. He had just had an interview at the library, and though it had gone well, he was certain that they were going to see through his lies. His entire existence was a lie.

Things were so much easier before telephones and crosschecking facts. Before, Bilbo could show up to a place and they'd take his word for it! Now they actually checked to see if his references existed, as opposed to taking his word for it. Now they needed proof of education, and home, and citizenship. They needed so many things that Bilbo had taken for granted before.

How things were changing.

He was passing Mr. Radburn's shop when he heard it, a sound like the yowl of cat. He stopped in his tracks, turning his eyes to the dark alleyway, seeing nothing there.

He took another step but heard the faint sound of a scuffle.

Was someone fighting?

He really ought to walk away, but there was something urging him to go forward. Someone was probably in trouble in there. Perhaps he could scare them off. Shout, "hey, what are you doing in there?" and they'd get so frightened, the fighting would end.

A perfect idea.

He cleared his throat as he took a step into the alley. "Excuse me!" he called, voice just barely cracking.

And that's when he saw them.

That face. Bilbo could never forget that face. A rage built within him as he saw the limp body of Thorin, blood oozing out of his wounds as Azog tightened his fingers around his throat.

No!

He was not going to stand for this.

"You fucking bastard!" Bilbo shouted, grabbing a broken piece of wood lying on the ground and smashing it against Azog's head, knocking him clean out.

Bilbo kicked the man for good measure, scrambling towards Thorin who wheezed, blood gurgling in his throat.

"Fuck. Fuck! Thorin," Bilbo managed to say, running a hand down his face, wiping the dirt away.

Thorin smiled up at him. "I knew I'd find you," he muttered. "You're as beautiful as I remember."

"Oh, shut up you stupid dwarf," Bilbo scolded him, tears falling down his face.

"And just as stubborn."

It only took a few more minutes before Thorin breathed his last breath, slowly fading away under Bilbo's grasp.

He was gone. Dead. Nothing but a cold corspse.

Bilbo felt his fingers tighten in Thorin's ruddy shirt.

Dead. He was dead. Again. Again and again and again. How many times? How many god forsaken times? Hadn't Bilbo suffered enough? Hadn't he learned his lesson?

When the police came, they had to pull Bilbo off of Azog's dead body, the ageless man beating him over and over again, blood dripping from his clothes like a man newly baptized.

1998

"Is this seat taken?"

Bilbo looked up from his book, only to meet the deep blue eyes of one Thorin Durin. He held up his coffee, as if pleading his case, his worn leather briefcase under his arm.

Oh Yavanna, he was beautiful. With his large, rounded glasses perched down his nose and the sleeves of his button up shirt rolled up, revealing his strong forearms. Bilbo could only nod dumbly, moving his bag from the seat across from him.

"Thanks," Thorin said, setting his bag on the floor and stretching out his long legs. "Everywhere else was taken."

"It's perfectly alright," Bilbo replied, turning back to his book, unable to concentrate. Thorin was sitting across from him, sipping coffee and… what was he doing? Grading papers? He was a teacher!

That was absolutely delightful!

Bilbo had tried dipping his toes into teaching for a few years, and he quite enjoyed it. But then, as it usually happened, time flew and he aged not a day.

"God, you'd think they were still in primary," Thorin muttered, rubbing at his temples in frustration, pen in his mouth.

"Pardon?" Bilbo replied.

Thorin looked up at him in surprise and smiled. "Sorry. Talking to myself. Bad habit."

"I do it myself," Bilbo said. "Never in public though."

Thorin chuckled. "Yes, well that's why my family doesn't let me leave the house. They're all afraid everyone will realize I'm mad."

"We're all a bit mad," Bilbo answered.

"Thorin Oakland," he introduced, holding out his hand, elbow hitting the café window.

"Bilbo Baggins," Bilbo blurted out, taking comfort in Thorin's strong grip, trying to control his emotions. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, but he was certain that the minute Thorin left his table, it would only see the end of him.

They sat at the table for an hour, Thorin revealing that he was actually a philosophy grad student, teaching a class on Spinoza.

"Of course, I'm just a guest lecturer," Thorin told him. "But the ridiculous things these kids say. Makes me wonder if the actual professor even knows what philosophy is."

"What do you think of reincarnation?" Bilbo asked, seemingly out of nowhere. "Soul mates?"

"What?"

" Do you think it's possible? Plausible?"

Thorin raised a brow but said nothing, clearly thinking. "Well…" he started, the words forming in his mind. "The soul isn't exactly tangible. But there's reports of people living multiple lives, remember who they were. There has to be a reason, I think, for a person to be reincarnated. Perhaps something they didn't achieve in a former life.

"Aristotle said that love is a single soul inhabiting two bodies. And if souls exist, then I suppose soul mates could as well. There are people that are just so compatible, it's like they're one person split in two. And it doesn't have to be lovers.

"Close friends. Family members. People who are in perfect harmony with one another.

"If one soul lives on, perhaps reincarnation could be plausible. This is assuming, of course, that in our imaginary scenario, soulmates and reincarnation exist and correlate with another. Reincarnated to be reunited."

"You didn't answer my question," Bilbo said.

Thorin smiled. "I think so."

A week later Bilbo picked at his slice of strawberry cake as Thorin pulled out the chair in front of him and asked, "Is this spot available?"

Bilbo could do nothing but gape. He was there. He was alive!

"Thorin," he breathed, just barely stopping himself from reaching out and touching Thorin to make sure he was real.

"Bilbo," he greeted with a smile. "I thought you'd be here."

What are you doing here? Why are you alive! was what Bilbo wanted to say, but he held his tongue, not trusting himself to reveal his secret.

Thorin should be dead.

He always died.

"Hi," Bilbo croaked, clearing his throat.

"Not to be presumptuous," Thorin said, "but I thought you wouldn't mind." He motioned to the other tables which were empty. It was late, and nearing closing.

"Not at all," Bilbo reassured him. "You scared me, was all."

Every Thursday, at approximately 3:30, Thorin would come in and ask Bilbo, "May I sit here?" and Bilbo would agree and they'd talk about their lives, while their coffee and tea got cold.

Sometimes they'd sit there for hours, and Thorin would stretch with a groan and offer to buy dinner, which Bilbo would always decline.

He didn't want to be there. He didn't want to see it. This was just a trick. Any second and Thorin would vanish into smoke, simply a figment of his imagination.

Was he so desperate that he'd imagine a happy ending? He didn't deserve one. Death and sadness was his only gift, his only reward. He knew that now.

"I'm starving," Thorin groaned. "You hungry?"

Bilbo shook his head, ignoring the hunger pains that hit him. He wasn't going to fall prey to this trap. Perhaps Thorin didn't believe in reincarnation (or maybe he did, it was so hard to tell), but Bilbo knew for a fact that it was real. He lived it enough times to know.

He was going to die soon, and Bilbo didn't want to be there when it happened. Not like last time.

(Mental health facilities were nothing to laugh at, especially when they thought you were insane, unstable, and capable of killing a man with just his hands, which he had done, but they would have too if they'd seen their most beloved person being murdered)

"Starving," Bilbo found himself saying.

They ate at a pizzeria just down the street, laughing over the antics of Thorin's students, Bilbo educating Thorin on the intricacies of a museum.

It was as Bilbo made to grab a cab, Thorin opting instead for the tube, that Thorin grabbed Bilbo's elbow and placed a soft kiss on his mouth, barely touching him.

Bilbo gasped, eyes wide as Thorin took a step back, shrugging shyly. "I didn't misread you, did I?" he asked.

"No," Bilbo answered. "I – just wasn't prepared. That's all."

"Are you prepared now?" Thorin asked, to which Bilbo simply nodded, grabbing hold of the lapels on Thorin's coat and enjoying the sensation of Thorin's lips on his own.

Just once, Bilbo thought. Just this once, live.

When they pulled apart, Thorin ran his fingers through Bilbo's curls, taking off his own hat and putting it on Thorin. "I'll see you next week?" Thorin asked.

"Yes," Bilbo said. "I'll save our table."

He waved goodbye, hurrying off to catch his train and Bilbo felt like he was walking on air. Perhaps this time he wouldn't die. It had been weeks. Months even. Surely there was a time limit.

When Bilbo returned to his flat, he threw off his coat and turned on the radio, humming along to the music as he readied himself for a shower.

"There's been an accident on the Underground, just outside the Alperton Station. Five injuries have been reported, and one death. There was a – "

Bilbo shut off the radio, a towel wrapped around his shoulders.

When Bilbo showed up to their usual spot that Thursday, there was no Thorin. Nor the next week, or the week after that.

He stopped going altogether.