Don't judge a book by its cover

Wine and candle smoke

Sneaking past of couple of guards, Bilbo made his way out of men's camp in Dale.
It hadn't been hard to fool the greasy haired man named Alfrid supposed to guard him, but now the hobbit had to walk trough the Mirkwood King royal tent.

Bilbo felt bad. He felt bad for Thorin, but also for betraying him.
No, he wasn't betraying him. He was only being a friend. A burglar.
Bilbo knew the only way to stop this foolish conflict was to give the Arkenstone to the men. Maybe then the dwarf would give was what promised to the people of Laketown.

The burglar was now in front of Thranduil's tent, candles glowing trough the luscious curtains. Bilbo was surprised to hear voices coming from the inside, two men calmly chatting, as if tomorrow wasn't something to fear or apprehend.

Bilbo had a mental correlation.
Should he step in and notify the King that he was returning to the mountain and disturb the conversation?
He couldn't talk to Gandalf, the wizard wouldn't let him go away, but Bilbo knew the King couldn't care less for a Hobbit.

Nodding to himself, the halfling softly pulled the curtain, as to not disturb the tissue too much.
The lightning was dim, a few candles neglected.

Elven wine was known for being quite strong and making men tipsy rather quickly.
So it wasn't that much of a surprise when he found Bard the Bowman and Thranduil, leaning against each other on the ground, sharing a bottle.

Bard was heavily intoxicated, and Thranduil seemed to be as well, maybe a bit less.
Bard whispered something in the King ear.
It must've been funny and lewd for the already existing grin on Thranduil's face grew larger, flustering.
The elf answered back, making both of them laughing and drinking more.

"I didn't know Elves could get wasted as we are," mumbled the archer, a soft blush on his cheeks.

"We can't. Elves, are no lightweights. But this is a good wine, made by masters. The alcohol of men can only made our fingertips numb," snorted the King, laying his head on the men's shoulder, his long platinum hair cascading down the dragon killer shoulder.

Bard grabbed a strand of golden lock, playing with it for a moment, absorbed by the color, length and maybe softness.
Thranduil didn't mind.

He closed his eyes a moment, frowning. He seemed stuck on a thought, not letting it go until resolved.
And poor Bilbo had to watch in silence, overlooked as a simple wind entering the tent.
Maybe Bard was deciding if he should go?
Unfortunately, the men was not even thinking about leaving.

Bard grabbed the bottle, not bothering to pour himself a drink and brought it to his lips.

"Why do you drink so much?" he handed the bottle to Thranduil, who gratefully took it, "The only thing I've seen you do here is looking at my people with disdain, being majestic and drinking wine."

The elf signed, sipping the last drop of red poison.
He let it roll on the carpets, refocusing his attention on Bard.

"At the height of a life that isn't yet to end, one must find a way to numb the pain and memories of the past," explained the King, playing with a ring on his slender finger.

Bard raised a eyebrow and cocked his head to the side.
"I can relate to what you're saying. I need to drink myself to the floor sometimes," the men scoffed.

He redirected his eyes to the elf, catching the blue gaze of the Mirkwood King.
Both stared in each other eyes for a bit before Bard's hand twitched.
He raised it to the blond's face and tucked a strand of hair behind his pointy ear.

His hand lingered on, maybe a little bit to long for it to be simply friendly.
Thranduil leaned in the touch, lowering the men's hand to his cheek.
Eyes to eyes, they stayed that way for a few moments.

Bard leaned in, an inch away from the elf's face.
It was now a game of who would pull back first.
Neither did.

Bard's hot and intoxicating breath blowed on Thranduil's skin, making him shivering.
The bowman's hand was gently cupping his cheek, the other on the ground for stability.

Bard's eyes were asking for something. For confirmation, approbation. He needed to know if he could go further, continue whatever was happening.

He had his answer as the King's hand found it's way to Bard's neck, pulling him closer, their lips crashing together, the taste of whine setting the mood.

Bilbo's eyes went wide, his eyebrows lifting.
He forced himself to not gasp too loud in surprise.

Once again, Bilbo found himself witnessing a scene of the sort.
Except this time it felt more intimate, more meaningful for Bard and Thranduil than it was for Nori and Dwalin.

The hobbit did notice the few looks Bard gave the Elven King in their meeting, but he brushed it off for loathing or disgust.

Anyhow, this wasn't something he was meant to witness further, as the kiss was heating a bit too much for Bilbo's taste.

As Thranduil straddled the dragon killer, Bilbo took his cue and fled the camp, making his way to Erebor.

The smell of wine and smoke haunted his mind, as well as the passion and love the two men seemed to share.

He admired them. He admired that two beings could found each other in a time of war. Or maybe it was the wine in their veines talking.
Who knows?

Bilbo couldn't see himself do that.
Well he could.
But not right now.
Not with how he was.
Not with the gold staining the pride and honesty.

Hopefully, tomorrow would be the end of it....