Twenty-Six Too Little

F – Festivities.

Summary: Thorin's not sure if it's the alcohol or the music or the pipe–smoke in the air, but he doesn't care. He's going to kiss him anyway.

"LONG LIVE THE KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN!"

"LONG LIVE THORIN OAKENSHIELD!"

An indescribably loud clamour breaks out amongst the party as the dwarves of the Company stand tall on their table. Their mugs are raised so high above their heads that several are spilling beer over themselves, but they don't care. They pay it no heed as they proclaim their loyalty to their King and raise a toast. The dwarves of Erebor cheer – the sound so loud that the very Mountain seems to shake and the caverns echo with their cries. Bilbo thinks he may go deaf and, astounded, yet heart-warmed at the sense of camaraderie amongst dwarven-folk, he raises his own mug of ale and cheers along at the top of his voice, grinning and more than happy to join in the party.

Bilbo has only ever in his life been to hobbit parties (naturally), but no gathering has ever compared to this, he is sure. Dwarven parties are really something else. They are all gathered in the grandest, most spacious of halls, near the heart of Erebor's very roots and in it he's sure the entirety of most of the other dwarven Kingdoms have come to celebrate. There are dwarves of every type and shape and size that Bilbo could have ever hoped to see! And there are the Lakemen – Bard the Dragon Slayer and newly-crowned King of Dale sits at the head of his own table and he seems to have forgiven the Company for all that had befallen between the death of Smaug and the victory at the Battle of the Five Armies as he joins in the toast, stood tall and as noble as Bilbo has ever seen him. Even the Elves of Mirkwood have come! King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm has apparently found peace with the dwarves of Erebor (or at least he's making out that he has) and even he has come to honour the new Mountain King, though he is much quieter as he drinks to Thorin's health and he remains as distant as ever. But, whoever is there, they have all come to drink to the King and drink they do with all the vigour and good-spirit they can find!

This is quite far apart from the actual coronation ceremony, Bilbo thinks. That had been calmer, more ordered with an entire months' worth of preparation behind it and those present had stood down and held their new ruler with all the respect and decency they could muster. It had been a holy event and a true privilege to witness, but, though the hobbit was sure he'd have never missed this party for the world, this was the exact opposite. Dwarves danced on tables whilst music resounded off the walls; drink poured from caskets as big as statues; the smell of food that had been long since devoured still lingered in the air and it was rich and powerful unlike anything the hobbit, despite all his experience in the kitchen, had ever smelt before. It was disorganised and clumsy and rough around the edges, but it was merry and light-hearted; it was every bit like its hosts and it was everything a hobbit could have ever hoped for.

And, amongst it all, at the very end of the hall, sat on a high seat laden with cushions and edged in gold Thorin overlooked the crowds, a triumphant smile on his face that Bilbo had seen only a handful of times. He sat so high above the rest as a beacon in the sky, the gold of the Raven Crown of Erebor like the sun above a cloud of pipe–smoke. He appeared so noble, so dignified in front of his people that Bilbo couldn't help but feel so awe-inspired. His breath was taken from his lips and his chest swelled with pride every time he gazed upon the magnificence of the King – Thorin Oakenshield! Son of Thrain! Son of Thror! King under the Mountain!

So full and elated with pride and delight for his dwarf, Bilbo claps his hands together in time to the music, eager to celebrate; eager to join the party. He laughs and drinks when prompted and he sings merrily to many dwarven songs even if he does not know all the words, picking them up or at least the tune as they go on. He's even prompted by none other than Bofur and several other of the dwarves of the Company to share with them some of his own tunes and he leaps up onto the table, albeit somewhat awkwardly and timidly at first under the watch of so large an audience, and breaks out into a rendition of a poem that he'd started to compose in thought of his most remarkable journey, although it was yet unfinished;

"Still round the corner there may wait,
A new road or a secret gate…!"

The dwarves take well to it and in a matter of minutes, Bilbo's got them all word-perfect and the hall is filled with hobbit–tunes and Bilbo can't help but feel very pleased with himself as he's whisked down from the top of the table (Fili and Kili have taken over next, thoroughly entertained by this new type of song). The little hobbit is so caught up in the celebrations, it seems, that he even allows himself to be led to the middle of the hall where dwarves and men and even a few more of the laid-back elves are dancing, winding in and out and around each other to the beat of the music. Bilbo claps his hands and skips in time with many different faces, as is the style of the dance, until, after a few minutes have passed, the crowds seem to part and all of a sudden he finds himself face to face by none other than Thorin Oakenshield – newly crowned King – and he stops dead in his tracks, swallowing hard, suddenly very stunned.

But Thorin smiles graciously at him. The hobbit opens his mouth; tries to say something to him for a few seconds, but he stammers and the words can't come out. He suddenly has a terrifying thought and his mind is going a mile a minute as he mentally screams;

'Oh Lord, did I dance like that in front of the King of the Mountain? Did he see me sing? Oh, blast these dwarves! Why did they have to make me sing?'

He laughs a little over his stupidity because he's flustered and dizzy. Thorin chuckles.

"You're enjoying yourself Bilbo?"

"Am I what?" he replies dumbly before choking on his own words and hastily adding; "oh–! Oh, yes, yes, I, uh…"

"You like to dance?" Thorin says knowingly, a smirk on the edge of his lips so relaxed and teasing that Bilbo can't help but shake his head and grin at him.

"Oh, Thorin," he replies; "however did you guess?"

Suddenly there's a glint in Thorin's eyes and Bilbo recognises and admires it fondly. It's that look he gives him whenever he's exceptionally pleased; it's that tender, loving gaze he sends him whenever they're close enough that no one else can see; it's the kindest, most caring look that Bilbo has ever been blessed enough to receive and he revels in it as Thorin wordlessly takes his hand and pulls him in.

"Care for a dance, Master Baggins?"

He can only hope that the dwarf can read the affection in his eyes because, even if it's worth only half the amount of love that Thorin sends him with but a mere glance, he just wants him to know that it's there. So, so badly he wants him to know just how much he means to him.

"After you, Your Majesty."

Thorin leads him to the middle of the dancefloor and Bilbo would normally be feeling embarrassed by now with all the onlookers around him, but, as the music changes and a slow, carefully-timed melody fills the room, right now in the company of the King he can't find it in himself to care.

It's a beautiful tune for a dwarven-hall, the hobbit notes in the back of his mind. The only music of their he's ever heard before would be drinking songs, jolly rhymes or more solemn, softly-spoken poems sung in voices as deep as the caverns of the Mountain itself. He remembers Thorin's voice so deep and wonderful as he sang by the fireplace at Bag End and he almost shivers in delight.

But instead he concentrates now as the rhythm of the dance takes them across the floor in patterns so intricate and graceful that he's surprised he hasn't tripped over his own massive feet by now. But the dwarf guides him carefully back and forth, from side to side… And all the while his eyes are on his burglar, watching his face; the glow of the candlelight against his cheeks; the soft tips of his pointed ears peeking out from underneath sandy curls.

Bilbo looks up at his King and his eyes do not leave him as they make their way through the dancing crowd; their movements and their timing becoming one and effortlessly fluid as they take in each other's presence. He knows the King's each and every movement moments before it occurs until, that is, the music slows and suddenly he stops, holding the hobbit in his place to make him come to a halt.

He narrows his eyebrows only slightly in a silent question.

But he doesn't get an answer and the only words that immediately come out of the dwarf's mouth are; "You're a fine dancer."

"Thank you?" It's a confused reply, but, as the hands Thorin had on his sides skim down to meet his hands, Bilbo can't bring himself to push it, completely and so desperately drawn to the other. "Thorin…"

Thorin gives him that look again and hesitates for a moment, carefully considering his words, wondering how best to start. He eventually squeezes Bilbo's hands a little tighter and brings them closer towards him. "I am deeply thankful that you stayed for the celebration, Master Baggins." Is all he literally says, but Bilbo can read the subtext underneath;

"I'm glad you're here with me."

"Thorin,"

He's getting lost in the moment, he realises. The music in the hall seems so quiet and the faces all around them seem so blurred – merging into the background and fading around them like a wall of smoke, shutting out the rest of Middle Earth and enclosing them in their own private world. He takes in the face of his King – he runs his eyes over his glorious cheeks; the shape of his nose; he feels the warmth of his breath… And then his eyes come to fall upon his lips – his lips so soft and pale; so, so begging to be touched…

He notices then that Thorin's still going on. One hand leaves his and comes up to his shoulder and Bilbo is suddenly aware that he's inching closer.

"I would not have made it here without you." He whispers, his voice but a breath of air.

Bilbo swallows. "Thorin."

He's still talking. Still talking when all Bilbo can do is watch his lips move temptingly – so, so temptingly.

"I would see that you–"

And his patience snaps.

"Your Majesty," he says stiffly and breaks from his grip to grab the edges of his coat. "Shut up."

And he pulls Thorin down and plants his mouth on his, melding their lips together and giving him the sweetest, most passionate kiss he can manage into which he pours his heart; his emotions – all the relief and excitement and joy that he's felt tonight just by being here to witness Thorin Oakenshield finally ascend to the throne after all they'd been through. After all the danger and the frustration and the threats of defeat that they'd had to face just to reach the Mountain itself… It was a good night, by Bilbo's reckoning, to make things right.

They part after not even a minute, but it's reluctant and slow and Thorin's grinning triumphantly – satisfied as anything. Bilbo swallows and doesn't speak, breathing steadily to stop himself from falling to his knees with the thrill. He stands quietly and waits for Thorin to say something.

But Thorin doesn't. He's not sure whether it's the alcohol or the music or the pipe–smoke in the air, but he doesn't care. He's going to kiss him anyway. Again. In front of everyone. He pulls in his dear little hobbit and lifts him nearly off his feet, startling him. Bilbo throws his arms around his neck and deepens their kiss, opening his mouth and letting him in. It's like nothing either of them has ever felt before and it's the best they've ever felt – blissful beyond words – as they revel in the sensation of their bodies pressed together; of their arms around each other and of their fingers in their hair.

In the background a cheer erupts, but neither of them hear it.

Neither of them care.