Perfect

On his own bed, in his hobbit hole, Bilbo lay naked, unashamed, soaked with sweat and perfectly happy. He looked at his arm lying at his side as if it didn’t belong to him. And yet it was undeniably his, for he could feel as well as he could see his hand trembling slightly.

His head rested on Thorin’s arm, folded out like a wing, its cover of hairs sticking to the drenched skin in dark ink-like trails. Bilbo could hear his own heartbeat against it, slowly but surely losing speed. The rest of Thorin sprawled ravaged behind him. Even with his own heart pounding into his ear, Bilbo could hear him breathing. It was a sound he loved, a clue beyond question that Thorin was alive and strong again, as he had been when he had first stepped inside Bag End.

Bilbo turned to look at him. Eyes closed, Thorin’s head was reclining against the flattened rag that had once been a pillow. And it was no ordinary pillow. It had been a favourite of Bilbo’s mother, as its insides were filled with the fluffiest goose down that could be found in the Shire. She had cared for it religiously and her son had not dared use it himself after her passing. Until now.

With a resigned smile, Bilbo lay his head on Thorin’s shoulder and ran his hand across his chest and abdomen, his fingers brushing as lovingly over scars as they did over flawless skin.

“I wish that I were perfect for you,” said Thorin, his voice carrying an aching note of regret.

Bilbo looked up at him, startled. It was not what he had expected to hear, ever, from that particular dwarf. “You are,” he said, feeling the ache that was seeping from Thorin’s voice and now from his half-open eyes burrowing deep into his own chest. “Thorin, you are perfect. This,” he touched again a scar just below Thorin’s breast, “this only means that you’ve prevailed.”

Thorin conceded into a growing, but tired smile and lifted his hand to brush aside the hair that was glued to Bilbo’s forehead.

“Have you really no idea how magnificent you are?” asked Bilbo.

Thorin’s smile changed into a slight smirk. “Is that why you let me ruin your mother’s pillow?”

“As a matter of fact it is,” responded Bilbo with a smirk of his own and resettled comfortably on Thorin’s chest, but not before using a part of the crumpled sheet beneath him to wipe off some of the sweat.