Thorin could hear birds chirping.
His body was stiff from sleep and a stone had found its way under his ribs. But in the trees, he could hear the innocent sounds of fauna calling to each other. The storm must have passed, he thought, unable to hear the steady roll of rain droplets against the tarp above him. His face was cold in the morning chill: the canopy of trees blocking camp from getting any warm sunlight, and the compact shearling blankets not nearly as warm as he wished them to be.
Thorin knew he should probably get up, the Company needed to get back on the trail and it was already far past dawn. But he was tired and cold, and Bilbo's small body was so warm next to him. The dwarf burrowed further into his blanket, readjusting his body and trying to free the bothersome pebble. He relaxed into his bedroll again, curling back into the still-sleeping Hobbit flushed against his chest. The halfling's body was burning up beside him, his skin hot to the touch where they brushed against each other. Bilbo's warmth was comfortable, inviting, and Thorin ached to stay tucked around him this way: calves brushing against Bilbo's hairy toes, an arm draped over his plump stomach.
Mahal, he loved everything about this hobbit. From his funny pointed ears, to the pudgy stomach (though it was getting smaller everyday, which was not something Thorin was sure he was happy about; a Hobbit's hedonistic disposition called for indulgence, and Bilbo hadn't been able to indulge in anything for a rather long time). He wanted to shower Bilbo with gifts, clothe him in the finest of textiles, cover him in jewels. If he were able, he would give his halfling only the best Erebor had to offer. But he was a King with no kingdom, and so could give the hobbit nothing but the tired clothes on his back.
Thorin's body was lethargic, felt sated. Spent. The way he would only after a night of satisfied lovemaking. He wanted to press kisses into the halfling's shoulder, once more explore the alabaster chest until Bilbo woke breathless beneath his attentions.
And he almost did it. The imprint of the hobbit's skin still stung on his fingertips, the false memory of Bilbo's taste still on his tongue. It almost felt real. It almost tricked him. Thorin froze.
Bilbo stirred in his sleep, turning away from the dwarf's back to mirror him instead, face pillowed beside Thorin's own. He could see Bilbo's features now, the tired lines on his burglar's face disappeared in sleep. He looked at peace, comfortable in the pile of blankets that covered them both. Had he looked that way as he was pressed beside me? Curled up like a lover?
Or was his burglar simply an apparition?
His burglar. It was no longer just a title on Thorin's tongue, it was an endearment. And no matter how much Bilbo had argued that he was no thief when they first met, surely he had stolen some part of Thorin's sanity. Or perhaps at this moment, it was the forest who had stolen it.
Thorin knew he would not be able to escape the Mirkwood unscathed, its influence was too strong, its tricks too alluring. Like a heady mead, it intoxicated his mind. The Dwarven King had never wasted so much time thinking about the Hobbit. Even at Beorn's Hall, where the Company had kept close quarters for an entire fortnight, Thorin was able to keep perspective and focus on other (more important) things.
But since taking one step into the forest, every thought, every reverie, every free second had been spent on Bilbo. Spent on a hobbit who would never love him back.
It was heartbreaking to admit so plainly, but it was the truth. The hobbit loved him not.
Any alternative was just the world playing tricks on him.
He tried to pull away, wincing when Bilbo moved again in his sleep. He didn't want the halfling to wake and find Thorin wrapped around him (there weren't any good excuses he could come up with. You looked cold? It was to protect you from contracting hypothermia?). Slowly, he removed his leg from between Bilbo's, the large and hairy feet stirring. The hobbit was waking and there wasn't much time left for Thorin to make his escape unseen.
The dwarf rose from the bedrolls and shoved his feet into his boots, a terrible wave of vertigo hitting him when he stood too quickly. The shape of Bilbo's body doubled and tilted below him, and Thorin had to rest against a tree in order to find equilibrium again. He sighed and rubbed a hand through his beard, the rough hairs scratching at his cheeks. He felt like a blackguard standing there, as he watched Bilbo's sleepy breathing in the morning air. Such an act was incredibly intimate for dwarves, earning the right to watch over another's sleep a hugely personal commodity. Thorin felt like he was pilfering something, inserting himself into Bilbo's rapport without him knowing.
It felt like the Wood was teasing him. Dangling his heart just out of reach.
Bilbo woke slowly, eyes opening and right hand consciously searching for his bedfellow's warmth on the mat. He looked disoriented for a moment, confused (hurt, maybe? No, Thorin could not believe that) when he found that he was lying alone. Thorin said nothing, but moved against the bark behind him, making his presence known to the hobbit lying on the ground and feeling caught out when Bilbo looked at him. The burglar peered up and smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, still tired. Bilbo stretched his limbs under the blankets, "Good morning," he hummed lazily.
The halfling was too picturesque lying there, looking up at Thorin like he'd hung the moon, doe eyes far too imploring. His eyes searched Thorin's body, traveling from head to toe, and back up again where he met the dwarf's bemused stare. Bilbo's fingers twitched like he was going to reach for him. Thorin must have imaged that. He also must have imagined the heated flicker in the halfling's eye, almost a hunger. Yes, he decided, definitely imagined. Perhaps the halfling was just peckish?
"Indeed," he coughed awkwardly, meeting the hobbit's eyes after a beat, "it is a good morning."
A smile graced Bilbo's lips, entertained by Thorin's dawdling. The dwarf's brow set: he did not like being laughed at. "Breakfast will be arranged soon," he managed, "pray should you not miss it. The rain has stopped, the Company will take leave soon."
He did not wait for the hobbit's quiet, "Aye," before turning on his heals and legging it for main camp.
Something in Bilbo deflated as Thorin walked away, his smile fell.
He reached out to touch the imprint of where Thorin had been sleeping, its empty presence grounding him in reality. Bilbo had woken at dawn to find the dwarf wrapped around him, arms protectively about his waist, a leg pressed between his own. Their body heat mingled, and with each breath Thorin took Bilbo could feel the exhale against his neck, the strong pulse of Thorin's heart at his back.
They had redressed each other slowly the night before, not wanting to stop touching for a moment. And Bilbo thought it could have lasted.
But when he'd woken again and Thorin wasn't beside him, Bilbo feared that the dwarf's sweet nothings in his ear had all been farce. He felt used, to be quite honest. He felt dirty. He wanted to drown himself in the blankets. He wanted to stop breathing.
Thorin's quick escape was evidence enough: he was already regretting it.
.
Across the way of the clearing, Balin sat conversing amiably with Ori, the two having struck up an easy friendship along the road. You could see in Ori's eyes the admiration he held for Thorin's old advisor. They spoke of ancient texts and tomes, things Balin remembered from the libraries of Erebor and things that Ori could only ever dream of seeing. Bilbo sat at Balin's side, barely pecking at the grains in front of him and looking imploringly upon the ground to avoid Thorin's gaze, as if he were pleading for the earth to swallow him up.
Thorin tried not to stare, he did. But as he sat by himself in the feeble light of the forest, he couldn't help but flick his eyes back to the Hobbit's moping form. Was Bilbo angry with him? Was he upset they'd slept so close during the night? Had he woken to find the overbearing old Dwarven King latched onto him like a leech?
Bilbo hadn't said anything about it, but he was always polite in that way. He wouldn't say a word against Thorin unless he'd been truly offended. But perhaps he was — perhaps Thorin had unknowingly offended Bilbo's hobbitish sensibilities beyond all repair. They still hadn't shared words since coming to breakfast and the Company was beginning to disassemble camp to continue their journey.
Ori twittered away with Balin, his high, lilting voice a constant hum in Thorin's ears as he watched Bilbo sigh and begin to clear away his (mostly untouched) breakfast. Balin glanced at Bilbo next to him, looking him over with a concerned eye. He wasn't hurt, just looked tired and despondent in the wet forest, once again longing for Bag End: for his books, and his garden, and his armchair.
Balin looked away. Across the campsite he met Thorin's gaze, probably intending to ask if he knew the cause for their burglar's sulk. But there in Thorin's eyes, he found his answer.
Balin knew.
As did Dwalin. The Sons of Fundin were perceptive in that way.
"You must speak with him," Dwalin said as the Company trudged along the swampy path. They were hiking again, making their way slowly through the Mirkwood (the path much harder to follow than originally anticipated). Dwalin walked through the forest with Thorin at his side, their boots covered in mud. "I fear he will call back the rain with all his moping about."
"I know not what you speak of." Thorin tried to look detached from the conversation, but probably gave himself away when he looked over his shoulder at the halfling. Bilbo was at the tail of the pack, his face stony as Bofur chattered easily beside him, probably in the middle of one of his fantastical tales of their time traveling from Ered Luin to Hobbiton.
"You know right well what I speak on," Dwalin huffed when Thorin looked at him again, "Your hobbit is in a sulk. Dwarrows as far as the Iron Hills can feel his despondency."
"He is not my hobbit, he is the Company's hobbit. No— I mean, he is one of the Company, not one of my—"
"Do not strain yourself, Majesty." Dwalin looked far too smug as he teased his old friend, "You'll give yourself a nosebleed."
Thorin's face went red, and he sneered without a hint of amusement, "My distaste for you grows everyday."
"Finally, we agree on something," Dwalin quipped right back.
Thorin let himself grin, the tug of his lips finally feeling genuine. He looked back over his shoulder and felt his heart sink. The hobbit was not smiling.