Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit or any of J. R. R Tolkien's works. Everything belongs to whoever owns them, my wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: This is my fifth time dipping my toes into Tolkien's Hobbit/LOTR's universe, so I hugely appreciate any and all feedback/constructive criticism you have to offer. The pairing in this fic is Dwori (Dwalin/Ori) and a tiny bit of Bagginshield if you squint.

Warnings: Contains spoilers for 'The Hobbit' and 'The Desolation of Smaug.' This is set in an 'everyone lives' style AU. Basically follows canon save for instead of Dori losing grip on Gandalf staff, it is Gandalf instead. Expect canon appropriate violence, mature language, minor mention of body image issues, age difference, size difference, characters being adorable little shits, dwarvish courting rituals, magical shenanigans, Gandalf's staff is a troll, semi-established relationship, first time, slash, and – oh yeah – smut.

Manflesh

Chapter Five

He was up well before dawn the next day, lost in a tangle of nerves and a disarming sense of foreboding as he faced the horizon with sleep-crusted eyes. He didn't need to seek out a mirror to know his appearance was the same. The ache in his long limbs from the cramped position he'd slept in was enough to tell him otherwise.

He blinked sleepily, holding back his sigh, as he watched the others slumber on beside the coal-lit fire. Automatically finding Dwalin in the half-light, still wrapped up in his furs, barrel-chest rising and falling. And despite the fact that he knew it was silly, he allowed himself a moment to wonder what it would be like to slip in beside him, a steady counterpoint to the warrior's bulk. If he was lucky when all of this was over, he'd have the chance to find out.

If Dwalin still wanted him that is.

He stretched, feeling unfamiliar joints creak and crack as the others snored on. Trying to ignore some of his more depressing thoughts as Dori shifted beside him. Ever the worrier as his brother's hand found the flare of a pant leg and grasped it tightly.

It seemed like the others were in a similar state, clearly exhausted by the events of the past few days. Why, even Gandalf appeared to be sleeping! Bombur and Bofur were together alongside Oin and Gloin, close enough that Bombur wouldn't suffer the lack of warmth without his bedroll. Fili and Kili were huddled together, almost overshadowed by that of their Uncle, as Thorin slept on – deep and seemingly without trouble – Bilbo curled innocently at his side.

A thin brow arched at that. Funny, he'd thought Bilbo had set up his bedroll beside Bofur the night before?

He waited until the absolute last minute – too warm and contented to move – before he finally squirmed out of his bedroll, untangling himself from Dori and Nori in favor of making a bee line for the trees. Staggering slightly as thin fingers made short work of the fasteners on the front of his pants, full bladder making itself painfully known as Bifur chuckled from his spot on watch, waving him past.

And while it was a small comfort, he couldn't help but marvel on the hardiness of menfolk's bladders. For the amount of stew he'd eaten the night before had nearly rivaled that of Bilbo himself.

By the time he returned, at least half the company was awake, groaning and muttering as Bifur cheerfully poked at the mess of limbs that marked where Bofur was still clinging to sleep by a thread. He grinned, watching with no small amusement as Bombur rolled over and took all the blankets with him, eliciting a chorus of indignant sounds as Oin and Gloin popped out from the center of the pile, braids-ends fuzzing in clear affront.

He picked his way back to his sleeping brothers. Sitting down on a stump just out of range as Nori stirred. It was only a moment - a slight widening of the eyes and a sudden downturn of the lips when Nori cracked a lid - but it was enough to sour his mood and bring him plummeting back to earth. Reminded, in perhaps the worst way possible, that the skin he was wearing was not his own.

He looked away, fiddling with the ends of his blanket. Willing his expression to settle as Nori mastered himself and bid him good morning. But the damage had been done.

His own brother looked at him like he was a stranger.

And Dwalin seemed to be going out of his way to avoid him since everything had happened.

He wasn't sure which realization hurt worse.

He watched the others tend to their beards and braids, grooming out the night's tangles, with something close to a pout. His beard had only just started grow in, finally losing the patchy coarseness of youth in favour of soft strands that one could actually tame and braid.

Well, almost.

He'd been getting there.

He'd been so proud when it'd first started coming in. Staring at his reflection eagerly as Dori nattered on about 'late boomers' and family traits. Wondering out loud if he'd take after their mother whose red hair had darkened to a handsome chestnut brown when she'd reached her second hundred.

He shivered on reflex – more out of habit than anything – as Fili and Kili dug their chins deeper into their furs as the morning dawned cold. For while he certainly missed the security and comfort of his usual layers, the truth was, he was actually quite comfortable.

Before now he'd never understood how Gandalf and Bilbo could wear so little. In fact, he'd remarked more than once that he hadn't felt properly warm since their night at Bag End. Coping instead by knitting himself a thicker scarf and a fur-lined undershirt as the days had stretched into weeks and he'd shown no sign of adjusting.

And yet, here he was, bare armed and shirt unlaced, quite comfortable indeed!

It was a queer feeling, welcoming the crisp mountain breeze on his skin. A stark difference from the perpetual chill since they'd left hearth and home in Eres Lund. The air, even now, seemed mild to him, blissful even. Whereas Dori was already stomping in his boots trying to warm up.

His fingers twitched, longing to grab his pen and jot down a few observations.

It was clear that one of the many differences between menfolk and dwarves was a certain heartiness when it came to colder temperatures. He supposed it shouldn't have been much of a surprise. Dwarves were cave dwellers by nature, at home amongst fire-bright forges and the natural warmth of the mountains.

But then again, dwarves where also hardy folk. Perhaps it was simply the weather that was the cause of their discomfort? They'd been forced to travel light and had lost most of what they'd brought with them in the Goblin caves. They were going to have to replenish their supplies and soon. Otherwise they probably wouldn't even make it to Laketown.

He was roosted from his thoughts rather firmly when Dori sat down beside him and started undoing his braids, trading combs with Nori as his middle brother attempted to fasten a silver bead to the end of a hard to reach braid.

He shook his head letting whatever remained of his ill-thoughts wither and die as Dori hummed under his breath, peaceable and calm as the sounds and smells of a quick breakfast wafted through the morning-haze.

All this was temporary, after all.

He just had to be patient.

And with that thought in mind, he turned around and nudged his brother's hand out of the way, attaching the bead and tying the braid off easily as Nori grunted his thanks. Nodding as he took up his brother's comb and busied himself with a task he knew better than breathing.

"Here Nori, let me."

As it turned out, immersing himself in the ritual of retying his brother's braids was strangely cathartic. For one part it soothed the sting still smoldering – coal-lit and angry – deep in the back of his chest. Reminding him of better times as memories of Dori teaching him how to tie his first rose and fell in the back of his mind's eye.

He'd helped his brothers with this task more times than he could count. Braiding was more a family tradition that an inherent trait. Each family braid was different, its uniqueness held in high esteem, the more noble and ancient the line, the more intricate the pattern. It was something every dwarf knew better than breathing. Coming more naturally to them than even the grip of a smelting hammer nestled in their palms.

As for the rest, well, he found out quite by accident that his human hands, with their delicate fingers and soft callouses, were far more adept than he was used to when it came to braiding.

Indeed, even Nori looked in awe at the complex braid that resulted, after he'd finished their usual family one – weaved in nearly half the time – in favor of something a bit more imaginative. It was more for decoration than anything, letting his mind do as it willed as he gradually got used to navigating the hair around his thin, but surprisingly nimble fingers.

A smug smile tugged at the corners of his lips as Dori leaned close, cooing appreciatively at the complex, spaced-out loops between the beads as Nori craned his neck, angling a looking glass in an effort to see for himself. He just huffed under his breath, trying not to look too pleased when his older brother – who was notoriously fussy about such things - promptly sat down next to him to wait for his turn.

He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he tied off the last part, patting Nori off as Dori slid across the log to take his place. Sensing out of the corner of his eye that he was being watched – curiously and perhaps even a bit enviously by the others.

After all, he supposed that if Mahal had seen reason to make him suffer, it couldn't hurt to make use of the few unexpected benefits that came along with it.

Either way, it wasn't like it could get much worse than this, could it?

A/N #1: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – Stay tuned for the next chapter!