Here we are, back again. Little twoshot sequel for Christmas, catching up with the aftermath of The Perfect Time For Rain with a little bit of backstory and insight into the characters thrown in. Enjoy!
Hiccup surveyed the green and red lights, the huge tree occupying one corner that somehow didn't look out of place and the shreds of tinsel in the carpet while snuggled up under his favourite blanket on his favourite armchair. That's right, his favourites. He had them! That alone meant far more to him than he could ever try to articulate, so he didn't.
Astrid and Fishlegs were fighting over something as usual, in the kitchen. Astrid had really come out of her shell, surpassing all of them in confidence and intelligence. She enraptured half the school, made loads of friends and joined so many clubs (all in phases). Truth be told, some of those phases were more definitely entertaining than others. Firstly, she got hardcore into running and won 59 races, then decided she should do a team sport. Naturally, she chose netball (which she raved about during dinner with her fork in her mouth) but she absolutely hated all the other people (Sorry, bloody fucking ignorant nitwits with no fucking spacial awareness) and complained about them endlessly until she hurt her hip in a collision (which only Astrid could manage to do during netball) and decided to do something more docile: play the clarinet. The neighbourhood was never the same again, to be sure. Some of the more... colourful letters hang proudly on the fridge. Her most recent additions to her quickly-growing repertoire have been numerous victories in the delicate art of competitive napping (which, despite being lectured enough on the intricacies of controlling ones breathing, he could still not master) and Latin dancing.
Fishlegs was her polar opposite, a quiet, well read boy who appeared rather good natured. He was, unless you got on his bad side. (One night, he had come home in such a fit of anger that Hiccup locked himself in the bathroom, panicked, climbed out the window and slept behind their local Tesco.) But that's beside the point, he had a temper. He and Snotlout had an interesting relationship in which they religiously denied any contact with the other at school, unless either one got hurt or picked on by another student. Then, they would take a bullet for each other. He got very big-brotherish around Hiccup, who didn't mind one bit (and they geeked out on stuff together, but that's very, very much beside the point). However, he had just never got on with Astrid, every single change either made setting the other off.
Their feud was, however, rather awkward for him as he always got stuck in the middle; he loved them both. Snotlout just didn't care enough to be bothered and Mrs Ingerman always patted them on the head and laughed it off as a 'normal part of growing up'. Often, though, it didn't feel like one.
It was far from normal, their little family. He had to look in mirrors and see his blasted pretty green eyes staring back without hearing dirty, sneering voices pointing them out, scrub his hair while chanting to himself that it was his hands tangled in it and see curling scars mocking him every time he undressed. The three of them were enrolled in Fishlegs' school, and despite the fact that he hadn't ever been to a secondary school, the work was manageable. Some parts, however, were an absolute nightmare. All the expectations, exams, male professors and the minds of teenage boys, but it was the touching that had undone him. He was pulled out after losing so much weight from skipping meals due to stress that he had passed out and ended up in hospital for the third time in his life. Mrs Ingerman's hysterical sobs of how she should have done better, should have noticed something and what kind of parent was she? tore through him like nothing else he had ever known. It was then, with warm, soft hands clutching desperately at his pale, cold one and fingers stroking his face like he was the most precious thing in the world, that he first came to the realisation that someone cared about him. Really cared. I love you was meaningless to him, he had heard it too many times in the throes or passion, often accompanied by another persons name, and he had heard it through the red haze of white powder and golden liquid, accompanied by the much worse 'Valka, Val, Oh Val...' and so he had never really believed that anyone ever could really love him. The realisation that someone did was much like the feeling of his first hug, but much, much stronger.
He wasn't the only screwed up one though, which was kind of what made it work. Astrid still had full blown meltdowns whenever she got within 5 feet of anything that could potentially burn her, the first incident being when she had a friend over and they used almost every dish in the house to make some marshmallow concoction, causing Mrs Ingerman to have a fit and run boiling hot washing up water for her to clean the dishes. Astrid wouldn't go anywhere near it, which only angered Mrs Ingerman further. After what was probably the most intense staring competition that he swore made the walls vibrate, she had grabbed Astrid's wrist and pushed her towards the water, telling her to 'stop acting like a brat'. However, one fingertip in the water morphed Astrid into an apologetic, shuddering puddle on the floor. Snotlout still dragged him down the nearest alley every time he saw someone who remotely resembled anyone who looked like one of his previous... victims. He had the most violent nightmares of all of them, falling off his bed and sending things clattering down around him. However, he never made any more sound than a gasp. Neither of them did; noise was dangerous. Even Fishlegs had a breakdown after receiving a letter from his father, who left both of them when Fishlegs was five.
After seeing the bruises on Snot's back and legs, Hiccup offered to build him a pillow fort like his, but Snot said he liked having a bed as falling out of it was the quickest way to make him realise he wasn't there anymore as he had never had a tall bed frame then, only a mattress. He understood; they understood each other. That had become clearer and clearer and their relationship had improved dramatically, especially since the pillow fort.
Mrs Ingerman had given each of them a bedroom, and a bed. Hiccup had spent his nights on the couch or the floor, as he had never had a bed of his own and only spent time in his father's bed when he had... customers. Often then, he was tied to it. He couldn't even look at a bed without seeing dimmed lights; glinting, cold steel and raw, beige rope; flat, ripped grey sheets and slimy, crimson blood. Black, metal bars rising, consuming, up, up, up... He smelt fear and tasted salt, the sting of alcoholic breath and dark, dirty hands holding brilliant white powder that sparkled like the devils teeth. If he looked for long enough, brushed his hand against the innocuous wood of his new bed, it physically hurt. Pain swirling up from his gut, constricting his breath, squeezing so hard it crushed his ribs, hungrily clawed at his heart and frantically wringing out the last malleable part of him. This went on for a while- he didn't want to bother Mrs Ingerman as she was being so kind to him- until one night, after a nightmare, Snotlout came downstairs and shook him awake. He stared at him with searching grey eyes for so long that Hiccup was almost scared, then grabbed his wrist and led him upstairs. Neither of them spoke, not once. They didn't need to. Snotlout couldn't get the bed out the door, so he took it apart, bolt by bolt, barely making a sound. Then they took it to this fenced off part at the back of a public park, and burnt it. They hugged the whole time, watching it disintegrate. Like, properly hugged. That had only happened twice in his short life and one of those times, Snotlout was asleep. Then, they took every available pillow and blanket in the house (and stole a few too, sorry Tesco. Wrong place, wrong time) and arranged a stupidly comfortable pile. After that, Snotlout went back to his room. To this day, they have never spoken about it. Again, they didn't need to.
They had scars, all three of them. He had osteoporosis (yet another wonderful symptom! Chronic malnutrition: the gift that keeps on giving!) , Snotlout had liver damage and Astrid had irreparable muscle damage from her deep, untreated burns. All of them saw shrinks who, despite how much they all bitched about them, were actually kind of helpful. He had used the grounding thing an embarrassing amount of times and some of her phrases refused to go away; she made him talk and listened to him like the stubby, awkward, broken sentences he stumbled over were the most eloquent words she had ever heard. Though he would never admit it. Ever. (Sorry again, Lisa.) The scars didn't magically go away, their wounds didn't heal at the drop of a hat. The power they had over them just became a little less potent and a little more manageable.
He had never felt further away from the skeletal ghost that lived in a forgotten corner of a famous house; famous not among society, but the rats that gnawed at the bottom of it; than when curled up with the steam of hot drinks drifting up between him and a blaring television, feeling so very warm. And he could definitely not mistake himself for dirty little scum when he was pulled against a soft body smelling of cinnamon, embers of the fire and home. It was almost like a movie, curled up with his family in a warmly lit room filled with Christmas decorations and laughter. As he lent against the gentle hand carding through his hair, trusting it to stay there, he giggled at the thought that the only other thing missing than a camera zooming out from their living room to the snow outside, was a great, howling blizzard outside and some crappy synthetic Christmas tune.. hmm yeah.. roll credits.
There. Drop me a review, I love to hear from you! Snotlout's part posted tomorrow.