Work Text:
March 2014
To say Astrid is surprised when Hiccup shows up on her doorstep in the middle of the night in the pouring rain is an understatement.
“Hi.” His hair is stuck to his forehead, dark and waterlogged. She resist the impulse to peel it away, to hug him tight and ask the very important question of ‘what the hell are you doing out here?’ but all she manages is a stunned “what the hell happened?”
“Hey, Astrid,” he repeats. Astrid dares to take a little more of him in, and notices -horrifyingly- a bloodstain on the inside of his green jumper sleeve. “Mind if I come in?”
“Sure.”
Astrid’s aunt and uncle are many things, the majority being less than ideal, in Astrid’s opinion. They’re quite nice, but sometimes they are too strict, and care too much about silly things, like how she sits at the dinner table. As least they let her be a girl; if they didn’t, she’d-
She doesn’t know what she’d do, and she can’t think of an answer, so she busies herself being glad they are asleep and don’t hear the door. Astrid is more than relieved they aren’t there to send Hiccup away to the streets.
However, they did teach her how to be a good host. So, the first question on her lips isn’t ‘what happened?’ or ‘are you injured?’
She pulls her spine up tall, and pushes her shoulders down, moulding herself like clay, and asks Hiccup “would you like a drink?”
He frowns at her for a really long time, a quizzical expression on his face, like he’s trying to work out something. Finally, he relaxes, and says “please may I have a glass of water?”
Impeccable manners, she can’t help but think. Maybe her aunt and uncle would like her more than she assumes. That doesn’t mean she’s inviting them downstairs for a friendly chat, though.
She creeps to the kitchen and gets a glass of water for Hiccup, and one for herself, filling it slowly so the water doesn’t make too much noise.
Bringing them back through to the lounge, she notices Hiccup watching her curiously, the same birdlike tilt she always sees on him.
“What’re you looking at?” She snaps, harsher than she meant to be, but then again, he is looking at her funny. When she hands him his drink, it sloshes over the edges, dripping onto his soft - bruised , she notices- skin.
“You walk like me,” he says softly. “Like you’re hiding from someone.”
“Yeah, well I am- my aunt and uncle. The only reason they’re not down here is cos they’re heavy sleepers, but we still need to be quiet,” she instructs like a school teacher. He meekly nods, taking small sips of his water.
She sits down, and joins him. Subtly peering over the rim, she checks he isn’t soaking the couch, and he was sensible enough to bring a coat. It’s only his hair that’s wet, and it’s already drying in the warmth of the house.
Then, she stops short, surprised. He’s sitting on the shiny outside of the coat, the part doused in rain. Any other child their age would sit on the dry, softer inside lining and get the sofa wet without a second thought.
So why doesn’t he? Astrid thinks, then goes back to sipping her water. He’s already odd enough, maybe this is just one of his things he does.
“Thanks for having me,” Hiccup says.
“You’re welcome,” Astrid replies, like the well-mannered child she was raised to be. Then letting herself be genuine, she adds “why are you out here?”
“You let me in,” he says, grinning. His laughter fogs on the water glass.
“I mean, why are - were- ” she corrects “you out in the rain by yourself?” she says. “Without grownups. In the night.”
He goes still and silent, and Astrid’s stomach drops into her shoes. When he does that, it usually means he’s about to cry. After having known him for several months, she’s used to him and his slightly odd mannerisms.
He sniffles softly. She’s on the edge of her seat, standing up to get a box of tissues, when he clears his throat and says “I had an argument. With my dad. He wasn’t very nice, and he said-” he hiccups, and sips his water. “He called me useless.”
“I don’t think you’re useless,” Astrid says hesitantly. Truth be told, she has no idea what to say, but he smiles, a thin, watery smile, and she returns it.
But it fades quickly with another painful thought. Words don’t bruise. Words don’t make you cradle your wrist like it was sprained. Words don’t make your sleeve streaked with blood, and your nose a corresponding hastily-wiped reddish colour.
So she summons all her courage, and asks “did he hit you?”
He gasps into his glass. Then opens his mouth, as if to argue. Then, he nods.
“I’m sorry you’re hurt,” she says -again, hesitantly. She feels way out of her depth dealing with something as serious as someone’s parents hitting their kid. But she takes a breath and offers him an ice pack.
He shakes his head, with a polite “no thank you.”
“Are you sure?” She stands, and puts her hands on her hips. “I can see you’re bruised.”
“I’ll deal with it,” he says quite calmly. “I’ve had worse.”
Maybe it’s the way the lack of light, meaning Hiccup can’t see her sadness, makes her ever so slightly braver, but she doesn’t - can’t - let him suffer. “Please. Let me.”
He doesn’t reply for so long she begins to believe he’s ignoring the question, until he says “okay then.”
Relief turns her movements to jelly, and she walks to the kitchen and whips an ice pack out of the freezer with the fluidity of water. She returns to find him in much the same position as usual, squirming in his boots like the very thought of being trapped in his skin is suffocating.
She presses the towel-wrapped ice pack to his wrist, her fingers brushing against his cold, damp skin. It felt like the fish she once touched in the pond in the park near her school. Human skin isn’t supposed to feel like that, she thinks, but decides that Hiccup is un-human-like already.
“Thank you.”
She nods calmly. “You still didn’t mention why you came to my house. Literally all our friends live closer than me.”
“Snotlout said his dad doesn’t like it when people knock late at night. Same with the twins’ parents. Fishlegs is on holiday. And I like you.” She doesn’t miss the way her heart jumps, like stones skipping on water. Hiccup’s always been good at skimming stones. “You’re nice to me. You went to the woods for hours to look for dragons.”
“Yeah, so we can have the chance to find one, someday,” Astrid says.
Hiccup sighs sadly. “My dad says they aren’t real. And I’m just being stupid thinking they are.”
Astrid knows, deep down, that giant, fire-breathing reptiles don’t exist. But seeing Hiccup so crestfallen, like he’s just lost a parent, hurts more than it does to tell the truth. So she smiles, and says “I think he’s the stupid one for telling you not to care about something you’re passionate about.”
Hiccup’s face lights up, and she’s grinning before she realises. “Besides, people don’t believe in things until there’s scientific proof.”
“Try religion,” he says, in the sharp-witted way so unusual for his age.
“No thank you,” Astrid says, laughing.
“I mean, I used to believe in the Norse Gods, until my dad...” he trails off for a fleeting moment, and Astrid from having just known him might’ve brushed it off, “and it was so cool! They had lots of Gods that all had powers over different things.”
“Tell me more,” Astrid says, as she and Hiccup return to the sofa. They can stay up a little while, she decides.