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Bofur tries so hard to be ok. He knows Bilbo feels terrible for not loving him back, even though he doesn't realize the repercussions his rejection have had on Bofur, and the miner does his best to still smile and tell jokes and laugh with the others. But the smiles are so heavy and every word, every look at the hobbit who will never be his is a dagger in heart.
Bofur takes to the rebuilding of Erebor with a fervor that surprises his fellow dwarfs, and he uses the work as an excuse to stay away from the company of Bilbo, and also to work himself until he is too exhausted to think about the pain in his chest, a constant dull ache that spikes whenever he's near the hobbit.
The tenderness Bilbo tries to show him is like a poison in his veins and although it breaks his heart when it is finally time for the hobbit to go, Bofur feels something akin to relief that he won't have to see those sad half-smiles and forced attempts at conversation anymore, that he will be left to pine alone under the mountain but at least not be tormented with having Bilbo so near.
Even so, the night before their hobbit leaves with Gandalf for the Shire, they have a feast in his name and everyone hugs him goodbye. Bofur breathes in Bilbo's scent, feels his arms around him, and knows he has to get out of there right now or he is going to do a most undwarfish thing like sit down and cry in the middle of the company and maybe never stop.
If they were home in the Blue Mountains, Bofur would have run to the mines, hid there and wept against the stone and surrounded himself with earth, but Bifur and Bombur always know how to find him when he's underground, and Bofur is ashamed enough that his eyes are wet that he doesn't want an audience for this weakness.
Instead, he stumbles out the great doors of Erebor to a grassy hill and slumps to the ground and buries his face in his hands. Bofur breathes hard, can't get air around the lump in throat until it escapes in a sob and then he can't stop, biting his palm to try to stay quiet and scrubbing uselessly at his eyes.
Bombur finds him anyway, heavy footsteps across the grass and a heaved sigh, and his brother says nothing, builds him a fire so he won't freeze, and takes a seat on the grass ten feet from him. HE doesn't say anything, doesn't reach out for Bofur, but his presence is enough and after a few minutes Bofur finishes wiping his eyes and sniffling and shaking. He sighs through the remnants of his breakdown and leans back against the hill.
Bombur hands him an ale and Bofur has to laugh, even if it is thick and gets stuck a little in his throat, because Bombur is the best kind of brother and always knows exactly what he needs. They stay outside and drink and talk like they haven't since they were wee ones sharing a bed in their little cottage in the mountains, until the fire dies down and the sun begins to rise, and Bofur thinks he can get through this, this rejection and endless solitude, because he has his family.