It was sort of an accident, really.

So many people were injured after the battle. Bombur’s leg was mending, if slowly (the orc-poison damaged so many of his tissues, it was a wonder he managed to regain any use of it at all. Dwarves are hardy folk, though) and Bifur lay insensate after the reopening of his head wound. Bofur was frantic with worry. Oin eventually shooed him from the sickrooms to go and eat something, because: ‘I don’t need another patient, an’ you’re about to drop where you stand! Go! Eat! Rest! Bugger off, I don’t want to see you again for at least a day!’

So Bofur was at a loose end. He couldn’t rest, though, not when his kin lay so terribly injured. He ate, but didn’t really taste it. He wandered for a while, aimlessly drifting through ruined Erebor.

And then he stumbled over the entrance to the tombs, where they’d laid Thorin and the lads only days before. The torches were lit, and he found himself taking the long steps down, down, down into the chill. 

The statues were freshly hewn and hair was scattered around their feet, cut from many beards in mourning. And sitting upon the plinth that held up Thorin’s likeness was Dain, his head bent and in his hands. 

Bofur paused, ready to leave, but Dain heard him. The new King lifted his head slowly, as though it weighed a tonne. His eyes were shadowed pits of grief as he met Bofur’s gaze. 

The two stared at each other for a long, heavy, awful moment.

Then Bofur blurted, “want to go get drunk?”

Dain’s mouth actually twitched. “Do I ever.”

And so they did.