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There’s not a law against simply watching, Bofur knows. That would be laughable. There’s not even a convention against the line of the kings mixing with undistinguished folk—it’s well known that Dís, daughter of Thrain, took up with Guri, son of a farmer, and their marriage was celebrated under every mountain in Arda with not a word spoken against the match. That’s a comforting thought, sometimes—that Fíli’s blood is as common as it is royal, and that he’s still first in line after Thorin.
There is no shame in being poor, Bofur’s mother had always said. When Bifur’s parents died they’d taken him in, and with three mouths to feed she’d had a wearisome time of it. Bofur helped as much as he could. There had been no time for rough-housing, but her tired, kind eyes kept him light-hearted, and at night as he’d sit on her lap and bury his face in her beard, she’d share her jokes with him and teach him his scales. They would sing quietly of the man in the moon and the ’ostler’s cat, careful not to wake Bifur and young Bombur, and, more often than not, he’d doze off to her steady snores.
-
Bombur’s snoring keeps him grounded on the colder nights, when the dirt beneath his bedroll is hard and there hasn’t been much for supper. He sounds just like her.
Bofur feels sometimes as if there is a law; Thorin is ever watchful over his company, but especially over his young charges, which is not unreasonable, as they are almost always the ones to whirl right off into danger—more likely to stand and shoot at a pack of warg-mounted orcs than to duck away and save their hides. Bravery is valued beyond gold; foolhardiness is not. But they’re young yet. They’ve time to learn to use their quick feet and to keep their keen eyes on task.
-
Bofur can’t help himself. He never was a naturally driven lad, inclined more to music and merrymaking, but he’d learned to put himself to a task without rest. He’d spent his spring nights cobbling together toys for the children of Men and the precious few little dwarves, and his winters deep in the mines of Luin, keeping himself in spirits with a jolly tune and the thought that he might one day find the heart of the mountain and shower his mother in more gold than they can count.
Bifur had been maimed by an orc in the Grey Mountains, never to speak aught but Khuzdul for the rest of his life. He’s fine, technically, now that most of the handle has been removed and the skin has scarred over—Bofur can’t believe their luck sometimes when he sees his cousin up and about—but Bifur will never laugh at his jokes again, and Bofur finds himself laughing even harder to make up for it.
-
He sits on the riverbank and hums to himself while he tugs off his boots, enjoying the water’s rushing harmonies. Their camp spans over the narrow river valley and he can see little Mr. Baggins busily packing his hobbit-leaf into the bowl of his pipe. Bifur tears into a hunk of roasted meat and passes it to Ori, who looks a little frightened. Bofur dips his feet in the water, wondering if there’s any good salmon to be found and if Bombur has remembered to pack his net. He leans back and crosses his arms behind his head, closing his eyes.
“Washing up?”
Bofur cracks an eye open. Fíli’s shadow falls over him, eclipsing the sun with his head, which makes him look as if he’s been crowned in fire, with the light of the sky woven through his plaits.
“Aye. We’ll see about the rest of me.”
“Thank Mahal. Although your feet alone might be all that needs it.”
Bofur snickers. “You’re no lovely bundle of posies, your highness.”
Fíli flops down beside him, pulling off belts and straps and cloth until he’s divested of all but his tunic and trousers. The boots are last to go. “How’s the smell?”
“Oh, terrible.”
“Good, good.”
Bofur is drifting pleasantly between day and daydream, and he hears the playful splash of Fíli’s feet in the water. A cloud drifts over and he blinks, sits up, thinks to roll over, but his progress is halted by the sight of Fíli, fully nude and in the river up to his waist—looking not a little miffed that the sun has disappeared. He’s undone all of his braids—even the ones in his mustache, and Bofur sees the little pile of clasps carefully gathered on his coat.
“Was just about to go under,” Fíli says, crossing his arms over his chest and rubbing his biceps. “Bloody cold.”
Bofur decides to roll over before he embarrasses himself further. He’s already looked what ought to be his fill, but Fíli really is beautiful, he realizes, as the sun’s glow spreads across the valley. Bofur settles himself on his stomach, forcing his eyes closed again, and hears sputtering laughter as Fíli ducks and resurfaces; it warms his heart.
The call to move on comes all too soon. Bofur dips briefly, scrubbing himself with a block of tallow soap, and as they dress he notes the quick twisting movement of Fíli’s fingers in his hair. He pulls on his boots, and Fíli hums in appreciation.
“Nice, those, now that I can see ‘em without the dirt. Mine could’ve used a cleaning, I think.”
Bofur glances down and wiggles his toes; he likes his boots. They’re big and well-cushioned inside, warm enough for the winter months; they’ve served him well. Fíli’s are good and hardy, with squared toes and likely a shot of steel at the tips. He wonders if Fíli has added all those little buckles and knife-slots himself. “Oh, beautiful. And I suppose you’ve got some for actual use as well?”
Fíli gapes for a moment, then laughs. “I think I have! Don’t you scoff at our boots, miner. We know quality just as well as you.”
-
That night Bombur produces the mead he’d gotten from Beorn’s hall, and half of their company indulges while the other half glowers and disapproves. If Kíli and Fíli are rowdy without liquid assistance, they are downright raucous on strong drink. Soon enough they clamor for the tune Bofur had sung in the Last Homely House, and he finds his whistle, blowing an A to clear his head.
“The Man in the Moon was drinking deep—”
“—and the cat began to wail!” Fíli joins in, with Kíli humming along, and Bofur wonders if he can pick up the words of any song after one recital, or if he had learnt the words from his father as a boy. He plays a harmony on his whistle, and if Fíli botches the lyrics, or warbles out of tune, it’s fine. Charming, even.
Oh.
For the love of the lords, Bofur thinks. I’m in trouble.
Fíli hits a sharp note and his brother laughs uproariously, nearly falling over himself, and calls for a key change. Bofur obliges, playing higher and quicker, rushing the tune so that the words can hardly keep up, and by the end, they’ve cobbled together a story about a cow with a silver tail and Dwalin ends it all from the other side of their camp fire by throwing a loaf of hardened waybread as both artillery and appeasement.
-
Bofur lies in his bedroll and thinks of the sun on Fíli’s hair, and how he seems to absorb its radiance and glow even at night, without the fire to illuminate him. Elvish nonsense, it’s beginning to sound like, but Bofur doesn’t care; he’d seen the pale hairs rise on Fíli’s arms when the water got cold, and if that’s not worth the appreciation those ridiculous tree-climbers give to the stars, then he doesn’t know what is.
He curses and blesses his luck. Eating and drinking and trudging through the wild with the heirs of Durin, and his own lowly family, and dwarves of every level of upbringing, every dwarf only that—a dwarf—he might find the heart of the mountain yet. He had better; he’s lost his own.
He would have liked to warm Fíli’s arms—perhaps from behind—and he could have snuck a kiss onto the back of his neck. Better, though, to approach from the front, and be lucky enough to catch those sweet lips with his own, and perhaps Fíli would curl a finger into his mustache and tug him closer, and they might tangle together in the water.
Bofur can feel himself growing hard, and listens carefully to the breathing around him. Some of his companions are heavy sleepers and some are light—more than once he’s stepped on a twig during second watch only for Thorin and Dwalin to wake, reaching for their weapons, and then grumble about the noise as they settle back—but he’s learned to be silent in his bedroll. He takes himself in hand.
Fíli is doing something on his watch—whittling, possibly, and Bofur understands; the longing to create has come upon him too, and he sometimes feels lost in the forests and plains without the comfort of stone. He moves his hand to the cadence of the scraping, wondering if it’s one of Fíli’s own weapons slipped from his boot—a knife forged by his hand, the metal melted and molded and beaten into shape by his own hammer on his own anvil. Bofur squeezes the base of his cock and holds his breath, then releases it in a measured hiss, thankful that he’d placed his bedroll closer to the edge of their camp.
The scraping of knife on wood is offset by the thump-thump of Fíli’s foot on the grass. Neither Thorin nor Dwalin has woken, oddly—or perhaps they have, but are less likely to tell him off. Bofur pumps himself, and thinks of Fíli’s clever fingers and the water swirling around his hipbones, lapping at his navel, and of his wet hair dripping on the grass as he stretches and dries under the sun—and he comes with a shuddering exhale.
When the aftershocks have subsided, Bofur rolls over, yawning to relieve himself of an unavoidable grin.
He hears the crunch of leaves besides his head, and freezes.
“Bofur.”
Fíli’s whisper is almost inaudible, and Bofur wonders if he’s part hobbit, that he can move so silently when he wants and turn up in the most inconvenient places at the most inconvenient times.
“Mmm,” he says, feigning sleepiness. “You need a lullabye?”
“As if your singing could put me to sleep,” Fíli laughs, and from a few feet away Glóin grumbles and turns over. He lowers his voice. “No, I know you haven’t been asleep. You snore terribly when you do.”
The fire flickers a little brighter and Bofur can see Fíli’s handsome dimples. “Ridiculous. And hypocritical to boot.”
“Like an overfed warg.”
“Slander.”
“Louder than your brother on his best nights.”
Fíli shimmies into his bedroll and stretches with a little groan that makes Bofur want to open his eyes and watch, though the starlight is meager and the fire crackles low. He keeps them shut, taking deep breaths.
Bofur’s heartbeat has returned to normal, and it’s Dori who gets second watch. He only wishes Fíli wouldn’t lie so close, and he has almost dropped off when the whisper comes again.
“Bofur.”
“Aye.”
Fíli seems to be taking a moment to gather his thoughts. Bofur is patient.
“I don’t think he’d mind.”
“Who’s that, now?”
“Thorin. If you... if we were to, er...”
Bofur’s heart leaps into his throat. “Don’t—don’t say it, have a while to think,” he says at the same time as Glóin growls “Shut up!”
Fíli only stares at him, then reaches out and strokes Bofur’s jaw before rolling over and going to sleep.
Bofur’s skin tingles long into the night.
-
They have time together again before they enter Mirkwood, and Bofur shivers a little at the idea. Fíli sits with him at meals, and shares his bread, and does all the proper things a courting dwarf ought to do—and Bofur soon realizes that he’s not simply wasting his time on a meaningless entanglement based on some animalistic need.
Fíli respects him and enjoys his company seemingly more than he does any other of their party; he listens intently as Bofur recalls his upbringing and tells them stories of their hard journey from the Grey Mountains to the Blue. They rub shoulders, and Bofur feels hot in his belly when Fíli rubs a little longer than is justified. Sometimes Fíli steals a kiss—and Bofur can’t help himself; he holds Fíli around the waist and kisses him thoroughly.
“Afraid?” Fíli asks him, nodding toward the great dark stretch of forest not a half mile off.
“I’d be afraid,” Bofur says with a shrug and a grin, “if I hadn’t crossed the worst ranges of Arda at the tender age of seventy. If tree-elves are anything short of tra-la-lally, I think we’ll have an easy go.”
Fíli comes to rest beside him, a hand on his knee, which proves a suitable distraction when he swipes Bofur’s waterskin and takes a swig. They’re off the path, well-hidden by a clump of trees and stones that are rough against Bofur’s back, but he hardly notices. Fíli’s fingers are swift and nimble and he unbuckles Bofur’s trousers just enough to slip them inside. Bofur produces his pipe and bites at the stem to keep from moaning.
“When we’re out of it,” Fíli murmurs, lips against Bofur’s ear, “I’ll have you laid out on your bed, no trousers to speak of. And I’ll put my mouth on you.”
Bofur’s breath hitches and he spreads his thighs a little wider. Fíli rewards him with more pressure before freeing himself from his own trouser placket. Bofur makes to grasp him, but Fíli pushes his hand away, stroking them both with the same rhythm.
“I’d do it now, if I thought you could manage to keep quiet.”
“I could keep perfectly quiet,” Bofur gasps, rather louder than he means to. Fíli laughs.
“Your appreciation, earlier—by the water—it made me so hot I almost praised the cold of the river,” he says, flicking his thumb over the head of Bofur’s cock. “What would you have thought if I’d come out hard?”
“I wouldn’t—hold it against you—”
“Oh, wouldn’t you?” Fíli’s voice becomes ragged, and Bofur thinks he knows exactly what image has surfaced in his mind. He drops his pipe and turns Fíli’s face toward his, kisses him deeply, brushes his tongue against the roof of his mouth. When they break apart, Fíli’s pumping takes on an irregular pulse, and Bofur gently takes his hand away—then kneels over him, lining their cocks up, swallowing Fíli’s moan as he leans forward.
The muffled sounds of wool and leather and skin are almost too much—as is the idea that they may be caught. Fíli pulls him in by his backside, jerking his hips to match Bofur’s thrusts, hands roaming up to his neck and then down again to bring them closer together. Bofur holds him by his waist and pushes him up against the rock, kissing him as much to taste his mouth as to keep himself quiet. His eyes slide shut at the sensation of hard, hot flesh against his arousal, and he bumps Fíli’s nose with his own as he breaks their contact into littler kisses.
“Oh, Durin,” he moans, and Fíli’s breathless laugh is the last thing he hears before he’s coming hard, biting his own lip so hard that he tears the skin. Fíli sneaks a hand between them and pumps Bofur til he’s spent and panting, catching as much as he can on his palm, then—Mahal, he uses it to slick his own cock. He must be close—Bofur watches through the haze of afterglow as Fíli’s hand blurs on his cock and his hips rise off the ground with the force of his orgasm, and he moans deeply, the sound caught by Bofur in a kiss and passed along between them until Fíli’s breathing slows.
Bofur rests his head against Fíli’s shoulder and bites his neck gently before drawing back. The dwarves around the fire seem to be carrying on their conversations as normal, if the muffled grumbles and laughter are any indication, and Bofur tucks himself away with relief. He finds a bit of loose fabric and hands it to Fíli, who wets it and rubs himself tenderly, cleaning their come from his clothes and skin before he tidies himself again. He treats Bofur to a cheeky smile and they emerge one after the other, Bofur first, gauging the company’s reaction—all he gets is a jerky Iglishmêk welcome from Bifur and a nod from Bombur.
Fíli sneaks up behind him and murmurs in his ear. “Leave the talking to me.”
“The talking—” Bofur starts, but Fíli is already stepping over Kíli’s legs to get to Thorin, and when Bofur chances a look he sees that they’re holding quiet conversation. Thorin’s gaze glitters as he looks right at Bofur and, after a moment of appraisal, he nods.
Bofur sits between Bombur and Bifur. His brother throws an arm around him. “You’ve done something to your lip.”
“It’s nothing,” Bofur says, and thinks of bringing gold home to his mother.