okay but just—
you know what i love about dworin? about that stupid dumb otp of mine? the amount of trust. the sheer, complete, unapologetic knowledge that if one falls, the other will be there to catch them.
and as such there’s this massive, massive risk of dragging each other down, of not coming out of it alive and well and unscathed. but it doesn’t matter.
it doesn’t matter because they know each other’s breath and thoughts by heart, they’ve built up such deep friendship and trust over decades and decades and decades. and i unserstand the whole ‘bilbo and thorin find each other through the quest’ trope, but god… when thorin holds up that key and yells, triumphant, “let all who doubted us rue this day!” no one except dwalin (and balin) can truly understand how much it actually means in thorin’s heart. how much those words and what they represent have been weighing him down and made breathing harder day after day ever since he was crowned king with azog’s blood and a thorn-crown made of shame for being homeless, rejected, defiled and so, so far from the stone that mothers them and her deep, dark welcome. they are dwarves breathing sunlight when they should be breathing the shine of pure untouched veins of copper and silver and gold: weight thorin cannot shake off his shoulders, weight that dwalin cannot carry but knows how to, and has helped to carry.
dwalin has spent decades living with thorin’s guilt and sense of responsibility, and maybe all that got between them, maybe their love was underlying, read between the lines, never openly spoken.
(or maybe it was desperate, the only way a king who deep down he knows he is destined to die in glory can be, lovemaking a whimper away from becoming screaming moans.)
but it is there, in every time dwalin screams thorin’s name, in every time they share a look and a menacing growl.
whatever they have, whatever they share reaches deep, like mithril veins in rock, and it cannot be shaken, cannot be broken, cannot be shattered. maybe it’s kisses quickly shared, or simple glances, or passion that leaves bloody teethmarks and gashes along already ragged skin.