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“Are you going to give that one to Uncle Bilbo?” Frodo asked with all the disdain that an eight-year-old hobbit could put into a simple sentence.
Thorin tossed the abomination he had been working on to the side and used both of his hands to push his hair back from his face. He had been working on a flower crown for Bilbo for hours, following seemingly simple instructions written for him by Bell Gamgee. Except they were not simple; they were infuriating.
“No, I’m not,” Thorin answered, looking up to meet the lad's eyes. Frodo seemed to be on a similar mission. He was using his arms to carry as many flowers as possible and lifting his chin so as not to crush the petals with his face.
“Is it because you’re really bad at it?” Frodo asked, deciding that right next to him was the perfect place to set his flower haul.
“Yes, it’s because I’m really bad at it,” Thorin said deadpan.
“Don’t worry, Uncle Thorin, I can help you! Wait one minute. I need more flowers!” Before Thorin could ask why he needed more flowers after having just come back with a nest of them, Frodo kissed him on the top of the head just like Bilbo did for the boy when he left the room and scampered away. He figured it was going to be fifteen minutes or tomorrow before he came back and lay back on the grass with his hand over his eyes.
Half an hour later, he was woken from an unintended nap by something, or rather someone, slamming their entire body weight onto his stomach. When his eyes flew open, it was raining daisies around him.
“Sorry, Uncle Thorin, I tripped,” Frodo said, jamming his knobby elbows into his sternum to get up.
He apparently didn't need to worry about making the love of his life a flower crown because he was going to be taken out by a child before he got the chance. When he sat up, Frodo had gathered all the daisies in a heap around him.
“If you’ve never made a crown before, it can be really hard, so you have to start small, like with a daisy chain!” Frodo showed him the first few steps, and Thorin followed as best he could.
He wanted to get this right for Bilbo. He had spent almost twenty-five years in Erebor, learning and perfecting the art of being a consort. When they made the decision to give the throne to Fili, Bilbo set about proudly imparting all the wisdom he had gained to Ori, readying him for his new role as consort.
Thorin promised himself he would put just as much dedicated effort into learning the customs of hobbits as Bilbo had for dwarves, but between adopting Frodo and adjusting to a calm life, he had let his promise go by the wayside. Not this year.
“You're very good at this, Frodo,” Thorin praised as he tied the last loop on a crown that at least looked wearable in comparison to his previous attempts.
“I have lots of practice because I have to make two crowns every year! One for Sam and one for Rosy. I can't give them the same flowers either because that’s cheating.” Frodo held up his first crown full of white, blue, and pink flowers. “This one is for Sam.”
“Does that mean that you have to wear both crowns as well?” Thorin asked.
“Yeah, but Uncle Bilbo said there’s a way to do it so they don’t fall off,” Frodo said, setting his flower crown off to the side and picking up Thorin’s
“You have to test if it works!” Frodo got up and gently placed the flowers onto his hair. “Alright, now get up and walk around. If it falls apart, it’s no good.”
Thorin got up and walked around a few trees before sitting down. Frodo was beaming and clapping as he did.
“You can make a real one now!” Frodo pushed his hand away from the flowers they had been working with.
“What's wrong with the ones I had?” Thorin asked, taking his small flower crown off and setting it on Frodo’s hair instead.
“The stems are too short, and they're the wrong ones. We can do better.”
Frodo led him to the stalls right on the edge of the massive flower fields. This part, at least, would be easy. He had watched his husband garden and grow flowers for decades. If he got anything right, it would be this.
He took a step forward and stopped as Frodo pulled at his pant leg.
“Uncle Thorin, I can't see all the flowers to help you pick! Not over all the fancy hats.” Frodo pointed to a group of lasses who looked like they had stacked bouquets on their heads.
“Well, we can't have that. You're my guide after all.” Thorin smiled and picked the lad up, plopping him on his shoulders.
Frodo screamed and giggled in delight, resting his chin on the top of his head and pointing forward as if Thorin were a pony. After a short reminder that it did, in fact, hurt when his small hands grabbed his hair by the roots and yanked, they were off.
Frodo turned out to be a great help. From his vantage point, he was able to direct him toward all the flowers he needed and away from several chatty neighbors he didn't feel like entertaining. Thorin chose a variety, taking a few of Frodo's suggestions into account as well. All those chosen were picked to accompany the roses and sunflowers that would make up the theme.
In an overabundance of caution, he left the gardens with twice as many flowers as needed and an orange tart, part of which was being eaten above his head, occasionally raining crumbs. He would be more upset about that if it weren't his weakness for big, faunt eyes that caused him to cave and purchase it in the first place.
Bilbo had been the first to point out the similarities in their coloring: raven black hair (though as the days passed, he gained more frost than onyx), and clear blue eyes. His nose even came to a little point, whereas Bilbo’s turned up slightly. Frodo wasn't his biologically, of course, but he hoped that the lad might one day see the circumstantial resemblance and look upon it fondly.
He had never been an adad. Even to Fili and Kili, he had to be a king first. He was a guiding hand to the boys but not a parent. Not that he would ever try to replace the parents young Frodo lost. Drogo and Prim would live in loving memory, and Frodo would be raised with enough stories of them to keep their spirit alive. There was, however, no denying that it was now half his responsibility to see him grow into a strong and happy hobbit. Despite the circumstances and for whatever it was worth, Thorin was proud to have a son.
When they sat on the floor to make crowns, Frodo might as well have been sitting in front of a war map for all the focus he exerted. He let the lad start the crown. It was cheating, but he needed to make sure this was done right.
He went through the steps, and Frodo was diligent in his role as a teacher. He lay on the ground, propped up on his elbows, and guided him through the weave, fixing several mistakes as they happened. Finally, after two tries, the crown was complete.
“It's done! It's done!” Frodo sat up and clapped his hands together rapidly. “You have to go give it to Uncle now!”
Thorin ruffled the lad's hair as he got up and gingerly held the crown in his hands. They looked so rough and brutish, holding something so pretty and delicate. A too apt description of how it felt to hold Bilbo in his arms sometimes, even after all these years.
They approached Bag End as the sun began its descent. He thought he spotted Hamfast working the garden, but a few steps more and he saw it was Bilbo. He wore a sun hat and knelt on a pad Thorin had made for him when he complained his knees weren't what they were. He looked down at Frodo with a smile.
“Go run inside and get cleaned up for dinner. Give us a moment,” Thorin said.
“But I want to see you give the crown to Uncle,” Frodo pouted. He couldn’t say he didn't see that coming.
Would you want someone to interrupt you while you gave your crowns to Sam and Rosie?” Thorin asked. That seemed to do the trick, as Frodo shook his head, announced he was really hungry, and sprinted ahead of him, shouting an incoherent hello to a confused Bilbo. Thorin held the crown behind his back so the surprise would not be ruined.
“Should I be concerned about that?” Bilbo asked, putting a hand on his knee to stand up.
“No, he just had an adventurous day,” Thorin replied, smiling.
“Good, that’s healthy for a growing faunt. Perhaps that means he’ll be willing to take a bath today. He’s been doing better with them, but he still keeps his eyes closed the entire time. I might have to write a song to cheer him up. Make it a happy thing.” Bilbo looked at the house, then back at him, smiling. “Come inside. You can tell me what you’ve been getting up to. Dinner is on the stove simmering, but it should be about done.”
Thorin caught his hand as he walked forward. “Let me steal a moment of your time first.”
“You can have it if it’s all the same to you. My burglar days are behind me now.” Bilbo laughed and turned to him, caught off guard by the warmth of his hand moving to meet his face. He let his thumb glide over his cheek and under the sunbursts that framed his eyes. Twenty-seven years together and the march of time did nothing to mar Bilbo’s beauty in his eyes. Every gray hair and every wrinkle in his creased smile was precious to him.
Thorin removed the sunhat and pushed his hand through his curls, reanimating the bounce that the hat had flattened. He set the hat on the garden bench and brought his hand to rest on the back of Bilbo's neck before giving in and capturing his mouth in a deep, lingering kiss. Bilbo sighed into it, melting into his arms and pressing his hands to his chest as he trusted his weight to him. When Thorin broke the kiss, he stepped back and presented his gift.
Bilbo’s eyes took a moment to adjust as they fluttered open, but when they did, he gasped.
“I wanted you to have a flower crown to wear to the spring festival,” Thorin explained, swallowing his nervousness. It must have shown because Bilbo stepped forward, smiling fondly at him, and patted his cheek with such tender amusement that he almost leaned forward for another kiss but didn't, only to spare his carefully made creation.
“It's beautiful, Thorin! Did you pick the flowers yourself?” Bilbo bent to smell one of the roses, looking up at him through his lashes.
“Yes, every one,” Thorin replied. He felt a very boyish urge to puff out his chest in pride as the blinding smile stretched across Bilbo’s face.
Bilbo stepped back and bowed his head slightly. It took him right back to when a different crown rested upon his head. He placed the new one there with just as much care, if not far more love. The steady kind that comes from long-lasting companionship.
When Bilbo’s head came up, it stole the air from his lungs. What beauty Mahal, or rather Yavanna, had blessed him with.
“Well, how does it look on me?” Bilbo asked.
Thorin walked forward, cupping his husband's face in his hands once again.
“It's the most beautiful crown you've ever worn, if you forget that my inexperienced hands made it.” Thorin smiled, watching Bilbo roll his eyes, and submitted to being pulled down for a kiss.
It was just as he had put his hand on the grass by the window so he could better hold his pretty love that the window banged open, startling them.
“If you're done being gross, can we eat now? I haven't eaten in hours, and I'm dying!” Frodo pleaded with half his little torso sticking out of the kitchen window.
“Frodo, get down from there before you hurt yourself.” Bilbo snapped, and Thorin could only rest his head on the wall and laugh.
“From one unexpected adventure to another. Will we ever get a break?” Thorin asked, taking Bilbo’s hand to lead them inside.
“Do you want one?” Bilbo replied.
“No. Not from this. Not ever.”