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He’s exhausted by the time he makes it back to his rooms deep within the mountain, but it’s a good kind of tired, thick with satisfaction. In the morning, he’ll have a chance to report to Thorin, learn all he missed while he was off at the tournament, and be able to relay his own winnings in return. He knows Thorin will be proud of him. And that’ll be worth more than the prize gold, something Dwalin never needed anyway. He fought solely for glory.
And he got it. He tosses his bag onto the table in his front room and starts unpacking it—mostly things he’ll put away tomorrow. The most important item is what he wants to set on display. He’s just started unwrapping it when a knock sounds on his door. It opens a second later, before he’s done more than turn towards it, and there are only four dwarves in the entire mountain who would dare to do that.
It isn’t his brother that comes to meet him—Balin will already be asleep by now, and Thorin’s probably too busy with his own duties, so it only makes sense for one of the princes to stroll inside. Kíli already wears a big grin on his face, and he rushes up to Dwalin like he used to when he was little, and Dwalin and Thorin would always come home with new presents from afar.
He doesn’t envelop Dwalin in a hug anymore—that would hardly be appropriate. He’s grown over the years, tall, strong, and almost obscenely handsome. Instead, he claps Dwalin’s shoulder, one soldier to another, and announces: “Welcome home!”
“Thanks,” Dwalin grunts, his voice gruff and low for the time but pleased nonetheless—it speaks of his importance, both as a private guard and a friend, that Kíli would visit him so swiftly.
He doesn’t have to ask if that’s all Kíli came for, because Kíli glances right at his bag and asks, “Can I see your trophy? We had tidings that you won—congratulations!”
A light flush comes onto Dwalin’s cheeks. He should’ve known messengers would run ahead, even all the way from the Blue Mountains. Of course a Dwarven community as grand as Erebor would seek news—he knows Thorin especially was bitter about being unable to attend, but that’s the price of royalty. He wouldn’t let Kíli or Fíli go either, even though Dwalin thinks they would’ve both done well. Perhaps it’s better for him that they didn’t—he certainly never could’ve dueled Kíli. He would’ve taken a dishonorable forfeit before raising a sword to this lovely creature, one he’s sworn to protect. Kíli just smiles at him brightly, like knowing all along that he would thrive.
Dwalin’s never been one to brag, but since Kíli asks, he continues pulling his trophy out of his pack, presenting it to Kíli: a rearing boar made out of solid gold. It’s heavy and looks particularly large in Kíli’s delicate hands, but Kíli holds it up without much effort, examining its splendor in the dim light of Dwalin’s quarters. A look of quiet wonderment is on Kíli’s face, as it is for so many things—Kíli’s youthful joy with the world is one of his best qualities. It makes Dwalin, someone thoroughly jaded, always feel alive again.
Kíli runs his hand gracefully along its form and murmurs, “It’s a good prize.” Then his eyes flicker up, and he adds, “But there’s a bigger trophy for Erebor’s own champion.”
The mischievous look in Kíli’s eyes tells Dwalin that he doesn’t mean something for next year, when Erebor will host the tournament, but something else entirely. Lifting a bushy brow, Dwalin asks, “Oh? And what’s that?”
Kíli gingerly sets the trophy on the table. He takes another two steps, closing the distance between them, and offers, “A night with the prince.”
Dwalin’s mouth falls open, just in time for Kíli to lean in and kiss him.
Chaste and over far too fast, the kiss hits Dwalin harder than any of the tournament blows did. He gapes at the gorgeous dwarf that leans back from him, alight with a warm grin and an inviting purr, hands pressing against Dwalin’s broader chest. Dwalin’s brain vacillates between two questions—will Thorin kill him for this, and could he have claimed Kíli already if he’d opted out of the quest to enter the tournament years ago.
Kíli asks, “Well?”
And Dwalin decides that he wants that trophy very much, so he swoops in to take it.