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Biblo's fingers curled around the long, thick branch that Thorin hacked from the nearby tree, taking in the feel of it under his still soft palms. He knew that with time they'd callous, his knuckles were already torn and cracked, chapped from the weather. He adjusted his grasp, looking to Thorin with wide eyes as the dark haired man ascended the tree a bit higher to cut away another length of lumber. It crashed down with a crack, the leaves bustling with the way it tumbled through them.
Thorin dropped down after it, landing with a heavy thud, his body solidly making contact with the earthen floor. He motioned to the branch Bilbo had.
"Peel away the bark and twigs," came deep and throaty instruction. Bilbo's hands set to work and he nodded, not questioning Thorin as he stripped the branch bare, his fingers stinging from the rough work.
Not hours ago his hands had been cupped in Thorin's own, the dwarf had seen fit to kiss those wounded knuckles and whisper in a language Bilbo did not yet know. There was something terribly secretive about the new abundance of affection Thorin was showing him. It didn't come when others might see, but in the quiet of night, as others slept, in the early morning under the first rays of sunlight, hidden behind the boughs of trees, but Bilbo didn't mind. He understood, silently, what this sort of thing would mean to the other dwarves. It was delicate.
Not unlike Bilbo's hands were.
The snap and tear of Thorin stripping his own branch clear of bits that jut out, leaving it smoother, echoed along with Bilbo's own work. He made a quicker job of it than Bilbo had, but he was content to wait patiently for the hobbit to finish. The moment Bilbo was ready, Thorin motioned with a twitch of his hand, upward, and the halfling straightened up, taking hold of the branch like a weapon as Thorin displayed he should himself. Much of their communication was silent. All nods and hand motions, meaningful looks and glances.
"Watch my feet, hobbit," Thorin began to circle, precise movements, Bilbo followed. And that was how it began. The very first of these lessons of theirs...
Thorin took the time to teach Bilbo what he needed to know to properly defend himself. Too many close calls had presented themselves and Bilbo needed to know. He needed to stay safe. Thorin would have looked after him more closely if he could afford to, but the whole company needed him, not just Bilbo.
Their branches became weapons.
Swipe, parry, swipe, duck, slice, parry, parry, parry...
It took time, but Bilbo began to get the hang of it. Over the course of their journey he began to learn, he absorbed all of Thorin's lessons with the aptness of a star pupil. His little arms, formerly accustomed to gardening, grew strong, his soft hands became worn and callous.
They could spar.
Of course the others helped. Balin and Fili and Kili all took the time to aid Bilbo in his learning, but the lessons from Thorin were the ones he looked forward to. In a clearing, under the stars, with the musk of sweat and dirt clouding his senses.
Under the stars like tonight.
Fourteen days since their first lesson, and Bilbo was beneath a moon filled sky, knees bent, sweat on his brow, as he stared with determination into Thorin's eyes from across the space between them. Every step they took to circle around one another was measured carefully. And then in a flurry of movement they were at one another, the sharp snap of their now worn down branch weapons, echoing through the woods. Far off in the distance the other dwarves were gathered with Gandalf, but any awareness either Bilbo or Thorin had was not wasted on the other members of their company. It was focused like tunnel vision, on one another.
Bilbo swung with strength, purpose, and precision, and he parried Thorin's strikes, every connection of their weapons sending a hum of rattling vibrant sensation all the way up through his fingers to his shoulders, thrumming like a rhythm in his chest. It was something he'd first been overwhelmed by. It used to hurt his hands to feel their branches collide, but now he took it and used it to energize his movements.
Wide swings, smacking collisions, fierce grunting, heavy panting. Bilbo was not easily defeated this evening, he gave Thorin quite the work-out. Perhaps not one that his nephews could have provided, but impressive for the hobbit who had only weeks ago, barely been able to properly swing a sword.
But it was not to last, as Thorin's hard horizontal swipe knocked Bilbo's branch from his hands, sending it sailing. There was a moment of quiet in which Bilbo looked after his lost weapon while it landed, and Thorin was smirking crookedly at the hobbit. And then suddenly, Bilbo was propelling himself forward, catching Thorin around his middle and tackling him to the ground.
"Oof! Ahaha! Very resourceful. But foolish," Thorin mused as his back hit the soft earth, Bilbo's arms not really fitting all the way around him, but almost. They were panting for breath together, in a single rhythm. Steady, deep, inhales, heavy, fast exhales. The weight of Bilbo against his middle was... not unpleasant. Thorin's hand idly strayed to the hobbit's hair, carding through the sweat dampened tresses. Bilbo had gone dead weight with exhaustion against him but the King made no move to push him away.
Thorin's fingers brushed against the back of Bilbo's neck as a few moments later, Bilbo finally lifted up his head, propping his chin against the broad expanse of the dwarf's chest. He could see Thorin's throat, his jaw, his head was tipped backward, and he rolled to the side, off him, sitting up properly. He was far too hot, too many layers, the cool night air wasn't hitting enough of him.
Bilbo pulled down his braces, and untucked his shirt, fiddling to open the buttons. He didn't notice until a moment later, that Thorin had sat up, and was watching him. A healthy flush took the hobbit's neck and cheeks, even the tips of his ears. He didn't look as the King reached up and ran his knuckles along his jaw, just took in the feeling with a nasal sigh.
What were they doing?
"You're getting better," Thorin complimented, his rough voice sounding warm. He had a grace and a softness to his speech that came and went when it was necessary. Something learned and practiced over the years, Bilbo assumed. He was royalty after all.
And what was Bilbo, but a lowly hobbit. He felt so small.
He didn't smile, merely nodded, as the affection strayed lower to an area it had not yet touched. Bilbo's opened shirt was parted further by the straying, rough fingers of the dwarf, over the sweep of his collar and down his sternum. Bilbo's breath snagged in his throat and he found himself going stiff under the soft touch. Every muscle was coiled too tight. Thorin's fingers drew the fabric open more, pulled it away from his shoulder, and then he felt the other man's head descending, a kiss being pressed there, so soft and intimate. The gentle brush of wind weathered lips drew a shudder from Bilbo and the sensation caused goosebumps to spread. He could feel Thorin breathing through his nose against his skin.
And then a subtle drag of tongue and teeth followed where lips had been, in a steady, unyielding manner. A mark was what was left behind when the King pulled away, letting Bilbo pull up his shirt and curl it around himself. A mark to match the dirt on his cheek, a smudge of affection, except this one would not wash away, it would linger and only Bilbo would see it. Thorin's lips pressed to his jaw, his nose against Bilbo's cheek.
"All the swordsmanship you could possibly have, could never protect you as this will," Thorin whispered, his hand reaching up to cover Bilbo's shoulder. The implications made Bilbo's head swim and he turned his head, his own nose bumping Thorin's.
"And what then, will protect you?" Bilbo asked on a breathy whisper. Thorin smiled and patted Bilbo's shoulder, offering no answer. Others were approaching to investigate the silence, so Thorin's presence was gone from his side.
The answer to his question, of course, had been obvious.
You will, Bilbo Baggins.