Dwalin woke before dawn from long habit. Most dwarves lived underground where time didn't matter as much, but Dwalin had long years of travel behind him, and found the sun as logical an entity as any to hitch his day to.

He'd slept better than expected in the small bed. When he opened his eyes, he discovered why. Sometime in the night he had turned in his sleep, and now he was wrapped around his companion, Bofur's back flush against Dwalin's chest. It felt nice, so he didn't move. He hadn't slept so close to someone since before he'd grown his first beard.

He watched as the first fingers of morning light trickled through the window, just enough that he could make out Bofur's face only inches from his own. From the rhythm of his breathing, Bofur was still asleep. Dwalin didn't want to disturb him, so he decided not to move until Bofur woke.

Sometimes he looked at Bofur and thought he couldn't possibly be real – someone so kind and easy, who never questioned Dwalin's need to be male. Dwalin himself had questioned it – at great length – but nobody else's opinion on the subject had ever mattered, not really. But during the long night in Rivendell, if Bofur had come out and asked him not to do it, had asked him to forget the whole thing – well, Dwalin might have decided differently.

But Bofur wouldn't, Dwalin knew: Bofur wouldn't ever ask him to choose. And knowing that sparked something in a small, soft place in his heart.

As the early morning sun chased away the shadows in the room, Dwalin became aware of something on a quite different level than his heart. Bofur had thrown off the blankets sometime in the night, and now there was light enough that Dwalin could see the outline of his body. Under the nightclothes, Bofur was hard.

Dwalin's immediate reaction was to close his eyes, like a dwarfling hoping it would stop. That worked about as well as expected.

He lay there, still curled around his friend, trying to will the panic away. The only thing worse than Bofur waking now would be Bofur waking to find him panicking.

He shut his eyes again and forced himself to breathe evenly. He calmed down a little.

Maybe if he went to sleep again, it would go away. Bofur would wake, get dressed, and they would never speak of it.

Never speak of it… Unbidden, his mind drifted to Thorin. He could remember that night, the sharp gleam in his friend's eye as they played dice and drank ale, both knowing there'd be a skirmish in the morning. They were the only two trained fighters at the inn; around them, everyone was preparing as if for a siege. Thorin remained calm, an example for his men, but there was a leonine tension about his body.

Dwalin ignored the tension; Thorin could brood with the best, and Dwalin didn't have much patience for it. When he said goodnight, Thorin rose too. They'd climbed the stairs in silence, helped each other with their armor. When Dwalin was down to just shirt and trousers, Thorin stepped in swiftly and pressed his lips to Dwalin's. At the same time, he took Dwalin's hand and pressed it between his legs, curling his fingers around the hardness there.

Dwalin must have frozen. Part of him had thought very clearly, He's my King; I can't strike my King. Another part knew that Thorin had no interest in unwilling bed partners – indeed, until now, he'd shown little interest in bed partners at all.

When he got no response, Thorin retreated as if struck. "My apologies," he said, and left the room.

In the morning, when Thorin tried to apologize again, Dwalin said the words he'd rehearsed all night: "You had too much ale and imagined an invitation that wasn't offered. We'll not speak of it again."

Thorin had avoided his eyes. "Aye. If that's the way you'd like it, that's the way it will be." He nodded, and things returned to the way they'd always been.

In the years that followed, Dwalin found himself thinking rather too often of that kiss. Between the space of one breath and the next, he'd found himself tempted. He'd been tempted to bed his King, had yearned to tell Thorin the truth and have his friend say it didn't matter.

Thorin was gone, and Dwalin was sure Thorin would not have been able to say such a thing.

Dwalin looked at the outline of Bofur's cock under his shirt, and wondered what it would feel like in his hand.

When he glanced back up, Bofur's eyes were open.

Not letting himself think too closely about it, Dwalin framed Bofur's face with his hands and leaned in to kiss him.

As soon as he'd fitted his mouth to Bofur's, he realized he didn't have the first clue what to do next. But that was all right, because Bofur's lips were moving under his, kissing him, teaching him.

For a few glorious seconds, it felt like the entire world slotted into place. Bofur's hands came up to thread through his beard, caressing his neck, and Dwalin felt a fierce sweet ache in his gut. He gasped when Bofur slipped his tongue into his mouth.

And then fate mocked him, because Bofur went still, and Dwalin felt the sinking feeling Thorin must have felt all those years ago. He opened his eyes. When he realized that he was holding Bofur almost pinned, he snatched his hands away as if scalded.

Bofur's eyes came open then, and Dwalin retreated to the far side of the tiny bed because it was all wrong again. Bofur had looked at him that way in Rivendell, and Dwalin had sworn he'd never have reason to look so again. "Bofur –"

Bofur was on his feet, putting distance – an entire room – between them. Having shouted down his panic only an hour before, Dwalin recognized the terror Bofur was trying to hide. "Bofur," he tried again.

Bofur flinched. His eyes were wide. Dwalin could see him trying to calm himself; watched as he modulated his breathing, as he put on a mask, as his posture changed. Bofur, before his eyes, relaxed into the person Dwalin saw every day, open and easy – almost.

And that hurt. It hurt that Bofur's openness and friendliness was a mask. It made Dwalin wonder who his friend really was, and why Bofur couldn't be just Bofur, why he had to be someone else.

"Bofur –"

"No." And now Bofur was looking at him with warmth and sorrow and compassion, but his eyes still weren't right. It made Dwalin want to hit something. "Dwalin, this – I – that was never what this journey was about."

Dwalin didn't follow. "What?"

Bofur blushed red. "I didn't – everything with Elrond, and surgery – that was for you. I didn't do it for me. I didn't do it so you'd be grateful and offer – because that would be sick –"

"Bofur, what on –"

"You don't owe me anything, Dwalin," Bofur said earnestly.

Dwalin was beginning to understand, and he was beginning to be angry. "Can't you trust me to know my own mind?" he roared. Too late, he remembered the Hobbit. Hopefully sound didn't carry in the hobbit-hole.

Bofur flinched again at the roar, face tight, and realization settled low and awful in Dwalin's stomach.

"No," Bofur whispered, "I can't."

Dwalin shook his head, tired of lies. He caught Bofur's anguished eyes and held the gaze. "Tell me," he said, maybe even pleaded, "Tell me you still would have stopped just now if I hadn't assaulted you at Rivendell."

Bofur trembled. He tore his eyes away, looked about him wildly, grabbed his shirt and trousers, and fled.