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Thorin was always an early riser.
He remembered as a young dwarrow of but ten waking even before the foreman and miners. He would dress himself, sloppily and mismatched of course but any child at that age paid little to no mind to appearances. He'd pull his hair back into one a single braid, tying it off with a silver bead from his mother. Thorin would fling the covers over the mattress, his version of making the bed, and rush down to the kitchens where the servants were already up and about preparing breakfast for the entire mountain. He'd say hello Master Ake and seek a muffin or two while the jolly man wasn't looking. Sometimes Master Ake would catch him as he barreled his way out of the kitchens, stuffing his face, and yell "Come back, Master Thorin! Come back! Just wait until I tell your mum about this!"
But no matter, Thorin Durin had other places to be. He would run up and down the corridors fast as his tiny legs could carry him, taking shortcuts by sliding down banisters and occasionally knocking over a sleepy maid who was polishing some antique Durin artwork.
As the first bell would ring and echo through the city, Thorin passed by the miners going down in the shafts. He run up and down the line, bothering the workers, he realized now as an adult, but as a child Thorin believed he was positively being cool.
Usually, once the foreman had caught sight Thorin would practically fly. He wouldn't stop until he reached the gates: his final destination. He'd climb up to the top of the wall and perch on the side, eating whatever was left of his muffin.
He loved the sunrise. The bright swirl of colors mixing together to make a brand new picture every day. The sun peeking over the city of Dale and Laketown in the distance. Far way, he could see the shape of another mountain. His imagination would run wild, creating stories of the dwarves who lived in those mountains.
Thorin blinked a few times. Ahead of him was just another misty sunrise. He'd since thousands in his lifetime. From Erebor to the Blue Mountains to Hobbiton. All of them were different yet all the same. Thorin sometimes wished he had been blessed with Ori's gift of art. Then he would have some sort of record of these beautiful scenes before him. So he wouldn't have to forget.
"I didn't know you were up."
Bilbo's sluggish voice took him away from his daydream. Thorin shifted a little on the bench so he could get a good look at his burglar standing in the doorway. The hobbit scrubbed his face and tugged at his curls. He was wearing a plaid bathrobe, loosely tied. Thorin couldn't help but feel smug when he noticed the marks on Bilbo's neck from last night were still visible.
Thorin hummed deep in his throat as he tapped out the ash from his pipe. "I didn't want to disturb you." His voice was a little gravely than usual.
Bilbo groaned, "Eru, Thorin, what your voice does to me."
Instantly, a predatory need rushed over him as pinned Bilbo to the door, breathing hotly in his ear, "The mere sound of my voice entice you my burglar?"
Bilbo mewled and rubbed his body against Thorin's. "Yes, Eru, Thorin... " he gasped. The hobbit's eyes were already dilated. "Bed? Please?"
Thorin nodded, ushering Bilbo back inside the smial. He took one last look at the sunrise and shut the door.