Author's Note: I'm so mad at this piece right now. It was supposed to be all about Fili and how much he would be like Thorin if he survived, but it somehow turned into Dwalin and Bilbo and the possibility of their epic bro thing? Urgh, I don't know. I'm not happy with it at all, but I put effort into it, so you guys might as well get a chance to see it. Here's my failed attempt at angst today. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Nothing is owned by me.

Oh, Bilbo thinks when he sees Fili's face for the first time that day. Oh dear, that makes a lot of sense. The blond dwarf stands ramrod straight in front of the stone cases, hands fisted at his sides, jaw clenched, eyes hard. He's never particularly looked like his uncle in the hobbit's opinion, but suddenly Bilbo can see it, so starkly that he blinks, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, chest going tight as he loses track of his breath. Fili's shaking slightly, shoulders trembling and chest heaving, and Bilbo watches, frozen, as suddenly the young dwarf whirls and storms down the corridor, past the horde of dwarves waiting to pay their respects behind him. They gaze at him with sadness, but also with hope and respect. Bilbo watches him go, fearing that the weight of their stares sat too heavily on Fili's shoulders too soon. Once the dwarf is out of his sight and others begin moving forward the hobbit turns to Dwalin, shoulders squaring.

"Thorin had a brother," he says. It's not a question, but a fact. No one had mentioned a brother, but Bilbo was becoming more and more familiar with dwarven customs, especially burial ones, with every day and he knows the deaths that hurt the most go unmentioned as much as possible. Dwalin does not flinch at his voice, but even Bilbo can tell it's a near thing. Beside the warrior Balin gives Bilbo a look, one he's known all his life that requests his silence, but he will not listen this time. He steps in front of Dwalin, making sure the dwarf's eyes are pinned on him. Stubborn as always the gruff old warrior refuses to comply, his eyes unfocused and his shoulders slummed. Bilbo swallows thickly before he pulls together every scrap of courage he has left in his body and jams his finger into Dwalin's chest.

The large burly dwarf rocks back with the jam, the motion startling him. He blinks and his eyes focus on Bilbo, who tries to look intimidating despite the fact that he was crying this morning. Dwalin's eyes are sad, ringed with red, and the skin underneath his eyes is puffy and purple with lack of sleep. He looks hallow and small somehow, not at all like the dwarf that first knocked on Bilbo's pretty little door, and Bilbo feels his heart ache for the dwarf, but he rallies on despite the ache and despite Balin's hand, which grabs his arm a few second to late to stop the hobbit from touching his brother.

"Thorin had a younger brother," Bilbo repeats, still not quite a question. Dwalin nods his head and clears his throat roughly before shaking himself and answering properly.

"Aye, that he did," Dwalin says. His voice is hoarse and scratchy, as if he'd been screaming for days. "He's dead now, though. Been dead for an age."

"Moria," Bilbo says, chest going tight. It feels like he's drowning, like he's weighed down by rocks in the pit of his stomach. He wants to close his eyes and scream himself awake from this nightmare, wake up before the battle with time enough to make a difference, but he's not a child and he knows he is not dreaming. Dwalin nods his head again, eyes drifting over his shoulder to stare at the slabs of stone behind the hobbit. Bilbo knows the designs on those slabs well, knows he won't be able to forgot one single bit of those designs even if he lives to be a hundred and forty.

"He was forty-eight," Dwalin continues abruptly, startling Bilbo out of his thoughts. "Followed Thorin around Erebor as if he was his shadow and threw a fit anytime Thorin told him to stop. He couldn't stand the thought of letting Thorin go into battle without him."

Bilbo closes his eyes and breathes deeply for a moment. "Fili," he tries to say, but the words stick in his throat. But Dwalin understands anyway and barely a heartbeat passes before he's gripping Bilbo's shoulder, fingers squeezing too tightly to be comfortable. The hobbit doesn't care, however, because the physical pain is a welcome distraction from the swell of sadness that has been lodged beneath his breast for the last forthnight.

"I know, lad," Dwalin says, his voice breaking. Bilbo can feel the trembling in the dwarf's arm. He reaches up without thinking about it, clasping his hands around Dwalin's forearm to show the dwarf he was not alone. Dwalin's breath punches out of him like a creature from a cage and the larger being crumples forward, leaning on Bilbo. Try as he might Bilbo can't contain the tears that gather in his eyes as the dwarf's breathing hitches with sobs and soon both of them are shaking, tears slipping down their cheeks. If the dwarves moving forward to pay their respects give them strange looks neither notices

A week late Fili is crowned King Under the Mountain and the last of the dead are buried. When Bilbo sleeps he dreams he's standing in the chamber that holds the tombs of the line of Durin when the doors are closed and he stumbles forward, fingers scrambling to open the lids as he screams for them to get up, get up, you blasted dwarves the doors are closing and we'll be locked in but the lids stay shut. Fili turns quick to anger in the next year, his tone sharp against those who disagree, and it keeps Bilbo in the mountain long past the time in which he meant to leave. He finds Fili on the battlements one day, arms braced against the stone wall. He stands in the same place Thorin did, nearly six months before, despite the fall months creeping in and turning the air of the mountain bitter and cold.

"Fili," Bilbo says. The dwarf does not respond at first, but eventually he turns. There are bags under his eyes and a tension to his shoulders. These are familiar sights by now, but Bilbo can still recall the dwarf's laughter, the lifts of his voice when he was joking. He swallows and comes to stand beside the blond king, ignoring the shiver of unease that creeps down his spine from the memories of this place.

"Bilbo," Fili says. There is a hint of surprise tainting his tone and he blinks, turning to glance out at the horizon in front of them. He frowns slightly. "You won't be able to leave the mountain until spring," he mutters suddenly. Bilbo shrugs.

"The Shire can wait," Bilbo says. He struggles with what he knows he needs to say, knowing that it will not be taken well but unable to leave the matter alone. "Fili," he says, reaching out to grip the boy's arm. Fili towers over him by nearly a head, but he is still a boy to Bilbo and the way he glances down like a lost child only reaffirms that fact to the hobbit. The words stick in Bilbo's throat, but he shoves past it, until finally his sentence comes out, stilted though it may be.

"You need to let them go," he says.

He should have predicted such a reaction, but he had not. Fili's face hardens almost immediately, an angry and bitter storm swirling over his face. He yanks his arm from Bilbo's grip and turns to him, looms over him and marches forward until Bilbo back up into the wall of the battlement. The scene is familiar, too familiar; it stars in Bilbo's nightmares and steals his breath away so that he's helpless when Fili's grabs him and starts shaking.

"Let them go," he hisses, face scrunched up cruelly. "Let them go? They were my uncle, my brother, and yet you expect me to let them slide from my fingers as if they did not matter. Why should I not mourn for them? They gave their lives for me and you want me to repay them by forgetting?"

Fili's fingers find themselves around Bilbo's throat, pressing against his windpipe and his pulse. The wind howls around them, as if it senses the young king's emotions and wishes to mimic them, and though Bilbo is scared he does not fight back. He wraps his hands around Fili's wrists and holds him, struggling for each breath through the panic that pumps in his veins. Bilbo had thought Fili looked like Thorin before while standing in front of their graves, but now the resemblance is uncanny, as if someone had rewound time and changed Thorin's hair to the color of sunlight.

"No," Bilbo rasps, "Fili, no, I don't wish you to forget. But you need to stop blaming yourself." Fili's hands tighten around Bilbo's neck and he chokes. "Fili, please," he shouts, vision blurring from lack of air.

Someone shouts from behind Fili and the dwarf is dragged off of Bilbo. Bilbo falls to his knees, chest heaving as he coughs and wretches, vision swirling black. Dwalin's shouting filters in and out of the hobbit's hearing. He looks up, blinking furiously to try to get his vision back, only to see FIli staring at him, horror like a spray of blood across his cheeks.

"Bilbo," Fili gasps. He looks down at his hands, which are shaking at his sides, before looking back at the hobbit. Bilbo tries to stand, but finds his legs weak. Fili backs up a few steps, shaking his head, eyes wide and scared. It's the first time Bilbo's seen the dwarf look so alive since the battlefield was cleared and his heart trips over itself for the young king. He tries to shout the boy's name, to keep him from turning and fleeing, but he ends up coughing, bent over with his forearms pressed against the stone floor. When he is finally able to sit up Fili is gone, leaving Dwalin standing there.

"It's my fault," Bilbo rasps. "I shouldn't have-"

"The lad needed a wake up call," Dwalin interjects. He hasn't smiled since Thorin and Kili were buried, but he attempts such an action then, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a humorless expression. He says no more as he helps Bilbo stand up, shaking his head every time the hobbit tries to explain as he's escorted to Oin to have his throat checked out.

Fili avoids Bilbo for the rest of his stay inside Erebor and does not come to see him off when it is time for the hobbit to return home. The hobbit's only comfort is the rest of the Company, who come all the way to the bottom of the mountain with him to meet Gandalf. They make promises to write and visit, exclaiming loudly how they will miss him, but it is Dwalin who steps forward, clasping Bilbo's arm with his before leaning forward to knock their foreheads together. The Company falls silent around them, but Bilbo smiles faintly and pulls back, holding out his hand.

"In the Shire, we shake hands upon saying farewell," he says. His voice cracks a little bit when Dwalin huffs quietly, the first bit of laughter anyone's heard from him since the battle. Dwalin places his hand awkwardly in Bilbo's, letting it sit there limply as Bilbo moves their grips up and down.

"Take care of him, won't you," Bilbo asks, glancing up at the mountain behind them. It looms over them, tall and unforgiving, and Bilbo finds himself thinking it a wretched prize, not worthy of the cost that was paid to keep it.

"I'll see him safely to his grave at an old age if it kills me," Dwalin responses. Bilbo nods and swallows thickly before mounting the pony Gandalf had brought him. The Company waved him off, shouting farewell after farewell, but it was obvious whose voice was missing in the noise.