Ah, but this hobbit was sweet as could be. So gentle; shooing insects from his things rather than squashing them, and taking care not to step on flowers when he could avoid it. Bofur had never seen anybody so concerned with tiny living things (sans Ori, of course).

He wasn't sure how much Mr. Baggins actually enjoyed them, as he shied away from most creepy-crawlies, but took well enough to the chubby green caterpillar Bofur had shown him. The dwarf found himself looking closely at Bilbo's face over the wee beast, the flicker of nostalgia, the wry grin as Bofur declared it "Neekerbreeker", after Bilbo's word for critters. Neekerbreeker? An odd word, to be sure. But if Mr. Baggins was any representation, hobbits were odd.

Though, not in an off-putting way. Oh no. Quite the opposite. He felt his eyes drawn more frequently to the gentle lad, and his ears heating more behind his braids when they talked. Now, Dwarves weren't made to be gentle, born of little growing things as hobbits surely were- Mahal had crafted His race from stone, to work stone. As such, it was a common show of first affections to gift the one you fancied with a... stone. A carefully chosen and polished gift, and presented to show your worthiness to court. The stone was your patience, the work of your hands, your steadfastness through time, your pride in origin. The stone was all. All very dwarvish, thank you very much. So as time passed around Mr. Baggins, and the leap in Bofur's belly never lessened, and the desire to please and protect and praise only grew, Bofur found himself staring down into rocky sand at a lake's shore. It was a long and flat body of water, surrounded by yellow, rocky hills and crooked pines. The sun warmed Bofur's shoulders even behind the clouds, and Oin was behind Gloin, shoving him into the water. They had stopped here for rest and desperately needed bathing, and even the naked, old, furry men all around couldn't lessen the broad smile dimpling Bofur's face as his muscles twitched with nervousness. He would do it, he resolved to the gently lapping water. He would choose his stone today. Now. Now! Yes. Alright. …Yes.

His heart in his throat, he stooped to one knee and began shifting through the clean water. It was warm enough to be pleasant, and the others were too familiar with his personality to take much notice of his naked ass rooting through the rocks. He avoided the thought that Bilbo was naked too, mere yards in the distance, doggedly fighting natural urges. His blushing couldn't be helped, but his mother raised him right, and less subtle physical clues certainly could.

Yellows, browns, black. Not much diversity. He took a few sloshing steps further into the water, searching deeper, but the bank swiftly dropped off and the rocks turned massive, and algae-covered. Bugger. He walked along the shore once more, searching and rummaging, picking up stones and tossing them back. He rounded half the lake, and still nothing drew his eye. He'd never given a stone before- shouldn't it be something remarkable? It seemed like it should. He could have asked Bombur, but he wasn't ready to expose his xenophilia to his baby brother quite yet. Finally, as the others were packing it in and Dori was waving to him, Bofur snatched up a bland, dense, yellow stone, cradling it reverently in his hands like an egg. It was a start.

It was a cool night, filled with the sound of frogs and a merrily cracking fire. The smell of the burning wood wafted about the Company, settling comfortably into their stiff old clothes. Bilbo sat alongside Bifur as the Company settled in for food and song, watching the dwarf's hands for familiar signs as he understood about as much Khuzdul as he did Bird. He had been nervous around the dwarf at first, what with an axe embedded into his face, but once he'd spent a few death defying evenings with him the fellow wasn't half bad. And increased proximity to Bifur directly correlated to increased chances of interaction with Bofur, not that Mr. Baggins had an agenda. Bifur was a fine dwarf, truly.

But, it could not be denied, so was his cousin. Yet Mr. Bofur had been unobtrusive of late, when they made camp for the night. Bilbo had grown accustomed to Bofur bustling about, helping his brother with food or pulling a joke or making himself useful with firewood and the like. Always active. Now he was no less boisterous or loud, but seemed more prone to staring ahead or to the side, his hands folded on his lap. Bilbo couldn't quite place what was off about it.

Which would have been a relief for Bofur to hear. Instead, he scrubbed diligently with the little Horsetail patch- the plant, not the ponies. He was smiled upon enough by the Maker to by surrounded by the stuff on occasion, and nicked a few reeds casually, stuffing them in one of many pockets. That evening under several not-indirectly-curious eyes he'd cut within the internodes of the reed, flattened the rolled-up segments with his fingers, pressed it between two flat rocks and avoided eye contact. There really was little privacy on the road.

And now he had waited a few days for it to dry. It had been nigh agony. He had what he needed to show his soul-shattering affection- drying weeds and a rock in his pocket- but chatted and watched the burglar's grin every day, unable to rub them together and share his dreadful feelings. He could just skip the rock bit, but, Hobbit fancier or not, Bofur was going to do this courting business right. The spoiled dwarves in settled places could just reach into any given cabinet and pull out a tool to use, should they so choose, but oddly enough Bofur felt like it was better this way. He was using something from Bilbo's world- plants and.. stuff- to make a rock from his world beautiful. It was symbolic, really. And not the part with the rubbing one over and over on top of the other. Thus now he scrubbed away with his horsetail patch, as others assumed his motions were toymaking. He kept the farce easily enough, quickly clamping his hands over it when others walked by. This may not have been the most subtle thing in Middle Earth, but Bofur was not a subtle Dwarf by nature and so long as Mr. Baggins didn't catch on, that was fine with him. Raised eyebrows were nothing new to him, and if his courting went well, then, he was sure to have many more. He'd bask in it.

But for the time being, Mr. Baggins had an uncanny habit of turning to look at him while Bofur was staring. Not that he meant to stare at Bilbo, it just happened a lot as he polished his rock. That could have sounded better.

He'd look away quick as lightning, and hope Bilbo hadn't noticed. Yet secretly hope he did. Unless it made him uncomfortable? That's the last thing he wanted! But why was Bilbo glancing at him? This whole business made Bofur's heart rattle like a thrush in the Mithril mine. He polished the rock on watch, he polished the rock beside Bombur in his bedroll. He polished the rock in his pocket, he polished the rock behind trees, he polished the rock IN trees, he polished it when he was supposedly using the loo, he polished it on his way back, he learned that little egg's deepest darkest secrets and swore he'd keep them if it promised to save his heart. Finally, as Bofur burned the midnight oil once more, he leaned back to study his work. The little stone glistened like liquid flame in the campfire light, and he beamed as he held it aloft, turned it this way and that. From calloused and dull to smooth and gleaming, finer than a mirror of diamonds, he thought proudly. If he did say so himself, that is. His eyes traipsed their familiar path to find Bilbo, now deep in sleep with the rest of the Company. His curls gone wild and shaggy, his breath deep and moving with the night. He was so lovely. Beautiful, really. Warmth crawled from his neck to Bofur's face again, for the umpteenth time. What would it be like to sleep beside him every night? Bofur doubted he'd be able to sleep at all. He looked to the stone- no, to Bilbo's stone- in his hand, swallowing thickly and his heart lurched. Curling his fingers around the tiny yellow sun he had made, he shakily asked Mahal to bless his courting. Whether this rock was accepted… that remained to be seen.