Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize, who belong to Disney and/or Pixar, Dreamworks, and Cressida Cowell.
Thank you to everyone who reviewed, followed, and/or favorited "I'd Build You a World." I'm really glad you guys liked it!
I wasn't planning on writing a sequel, but LunaSolas had an idea specific enough that I could work with, so I did. This isn't that great, though, so I hope you're not too excited.
The most important note is that I intend no disrespect toward any country or nationality described in this story.
If you need me, I'll be weeping over the fact that I'm not in Europe.
You learn a lot about a person by traveling with them. His bag is full of sketchbooks, art supplies, camera, guidebooks, and a list of noteworthy cathedrals: St Denis, Notre Dame, Reims, Chartres, Westminster, Koln, the Duomo, St Vitus. Hers holds the bare necessities, some clothes and the phrasebook her mum bought her; she figures if she needs anything she can buy it, and there's no sense in getting bogged down with stuff. Hiccup already knows that Merida can be perfectly content lying in bed with him half the morning, but when it comes to a vacation where there are things to see and do she's up early, ready to pack the days full. Merida realizes just how easy it is for Hiccup to fade into a crowd, even though he's not exactly short; she turns her back more than once to discover he's disappeared into a horde of tourists, only to retrace her steps and find him right where she left him. She can drink more beer than he can, but wine makes her giggly and affectionate; he can't pass by an art supply store without at least stopping to fog up the window with his breath as he ogles the goods. She catches him ogling a girl in Madrid and starts to berate him before he turns the same appreciative look on a monument to Columbus.
Paris is hot and crowded with tourists. Despite their best efforts to get there early they still have to wait in line outside the Louvre and they do so grumpily, both privately doubting that this will be worth it but neither wanting to say it aloud. Merida nudges her way through the crowd in front of the Mona Lisa; it's hard to appreciate the most famous painting in history when you're surrounded by people all jostling to see it, like it's the only work of art in the whole building. Art museums aren't really her thing, she remembers belatedly.
At a café she orders them drinks in rusty French and he smiles for the first time that day. "What?" She knows her accent isn't good, but the waiter understood it well enough.
"I didn't know you speak French."
She shrugs. "I didn't care which foreign language I studied and Mum suggested it. And it's good for international politics."
"I like it," he admits, voice low, and she blushes. He finds the weirdest things about her attractive, the freak.
"It sounds ridiculous, a Scot speaking French."
"No, it doesn't. Go on, say something else."
The dreaded "say something else" effectively clears her mind of any actual phrases she knows. So she waggles her eyebrows and starts, "Voulez-vous coucher—" and he rolls his eyes.
There is actually precious little of that going on on this trip. Sleeping in a hostel dorm with six or 14 other people doesn't lend itself to intimacy. He's heard people going at it in the showers, but that's gross, and a recipe for disaster to boot (no pun intended). Maybe one day they can splurge on a private room and literally just sleep together. He's missed having her arms around him all night.
After their less than spectacular visit to the Louvre, they revise their ideas of what it's really necessary to see. They're traveling in tourist season in some of Europe's most popular destinations and it's becoming clear that maybe their big plans were a little too big, at least to fit into this one trip. They have plenty of time for other trips later, she remarks casually, though the idea of planning a future with him is both thrilling and terrifying. She shoves the thought away and listens as he mutters over his list.
They compromise: okay, they can skip Avignon, but he's dead set on going to Seville—it's the biggest cathedral in the world. Okay, they can't possibly go into every history museum and bar they see, but if there's an opportunity to tour a brewery or distillery, she's taking it.
Without discussing it they agree that it's absolutely imperative they go to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Late in the afternoon they brave the queue, ride the elevators, and eventually stand close to the lattice of wire and stare out at the city, a faint haze smudging the far edges of the city into the horizon. A breeze ruffles through Hiccup's hair and she smiles at him, looking so handsome and noble as he gazes over Paris. Then he sneezes, and though it ruins the clichéd romantic illusion, she prefers him with a familiar scrunched-up face. That's who she wants to kiss, believe it or not.
"Are you ready?"
He nods seriously. "Let's do this."
"You are such a dork," she mutters.
"You started it." He's grinning as their lips meet. Normally he's not the biggest fan of PDA, but they're at the top of the Eiffel Tower, and if you're not allowed to kiss your dream girl there then where are you allowed to?
His hand feels heavy on the small of her back and she presses closer, winding a finger through a belt loop and brushing her thumb against the skin of his side, making him sigh into her mouth. It's too much, even for Paris, so he pushes back, bumping into someone behind him and apologizing off-handedly. She looks pleased with herself; she knows how to push all of his buttons, how to provoke a whole spectrum of emotions and reactions in him. Not that he can't get her to react, too, but he tries not to get her too riled up, in any way, in public. Sometimes he almost wishes she would do the same. "Merida," he scolds lightly.
He can't be that annoyed. It was on the list, and it's Paris, for heaven's sake; there are people snogging everywhere. She smirks and then lifts her chin and says haughtily, "Je ne regrette rien."
She wouldn't even have known to look for them before, but now, as they stand in front of Notre Dame, she's not seeing them. "Alright, smart guy, where are the flying buttresses?"
He can't answer because he's too busy staring at the iconic pair of towers, the great arches over the doors with their tympanums filled with carved figures—there's so much that he doesn't know where to look first, his eyes darting over the façade. Every stone they see was shaped by hand; workers used human-powered cranes to lift tons of blocks hundreds of feet into the air. People died for this building. Generations worked on it, children and grandchildren continuing the work of those who started its construction. He's more awestruck than he'd expected to be.
Since it doesn't look like they'll be moving anytime soon, she tries to see it through his eyes. Now she can notice the details, like the crowds of saints, and the way the points of the arches direct the eye up and up, past the windows and towers to the summer sky above. It makes St Giles' back in Edinburgh seem small and dark in comparison.
They walk around to the back of the cathedral where stained glass windows are supported by a framework of stone and tiers of flying buttresses. This part of the building is more glass than wall, and she remembers his description of why it was possible, the buttresses spreading the weight. She wonders, abruptly, if she's a buttress or a window, and nearly asks Hiccup. She's not sure she'd like the answer, if he even answered truthfully. And besides, he's so wrapped up in the Gothic wonder in front of them that she doesn't want to take his attention away from it.
The interior is light, the ceiling impossibly high above them. She feels a sort of burden knowing how old it is, how it all works, but it's lasted this long and she has no reason to believe the place will fall down on them now. And even if it did, Hiccup would probably be okay with it. She takes his arm to steer him gently around tourists posing for pictures, leaving him free to gawk upward. He trails his fingers reverently around the curve of pillars, sad that he'll never design something so amazing but endlessly grateful that someone else did.
Somehow the bus that's supposed to arrive at five in the morning rolls into Seville an hour early. They shuffle off and into the station; Hiccup looks concussed, practically drooling, eyes barely open. She guides him into a hard seat and he drops down heavily, bag on the floor between his feet. He folds himself over and leans on the top of the bag, falling into real sleep almost instantly. Merida rolls her neck as she settles into the chair next to him. No one will even be awake at the hostel for hours yet; the cafés are still shut up and the city buses aren't running. She holds her pack across her lap and wonders whose idea of a good time this was, all of this tramping around Europe, sleeping on buses and trains and in hostels with too many other people who don't have the common decency not to run in and out of rooms all night. Hiccup snorts in his sleep next to her; if it weren't so early and she wasn't mad at him for something—she's not sure the bus being early wasn't somehow his fault—she'd think the snort cute, and she'd think that there was no one else she'd rather have sitting next to her right now. But it is too early for that, and though she knows one of them should stay awake to make sure no one nicks their things, she puts her head on her pack and sleeps.
Later on they drink thick hot chocolate in the morning and sweet heady wine at night. They walk through a park with yellow dirt to a plaza decorated in gleaming glazed tiles; they feel sluggish in the heat, the tang of cheaply-tanned leather sharp in their nostrils. Among the whitewashed streets they catch glimpses of whole walls colored fuchsia by bougainvillea vines; orange trees line every avenue and fill courtyards. A group of them from the hostel goes to a restaurant where they eat gazpacho and tortillas de patatas, onion and potato in a thick cake-like omelette. While they sip sangria a man plays the guitar, fingers impossibly fast, and women dance in ruffled dresses and proud expressions. Hiccup treats her to a carriage ride, pulled by a beautiful grey mare, but it's hard to appreciate the city when it feels like she's melting. As they wait to board their discount-airline flight she hopes Italy will be cooler.
By the time they get there, it's official: there are Australians everywhere. Every hostel they stay in has at least one cheerful Aussie voice bouncing through the halls. There are also New Zealanders, Canadians and Americans, South Africans, to say nothing of the Brits and other Europeans from all parts of the continent, along with a few stalwart Brazilians and Japanese. He's never heard so many different languages going on, and idly tries to identify them in the kitchens and lounges of their hostels. Most of their fellow travelers are outgoing and lively; every evening bands of them noisily prepare to venture out to restaurants and bars and clubs. Sometimes he and Merida are invited along, and he leaves the bar decisions up to her. From their nights out she accumulates a wad of coasters and bar napkins scrawled with names of drinks and recipes. As they sit on buses or trains she squints at her handwriting, never exactly tidy at the best of times, and records them in a notebook he's let her claim.
They break up in Rome. He calls it a break up; she just calls it a break. No matter what they call it, it happens, and it hurts.
Italian men aren't shy about complimenting pretty girls, even complete strangers, and Merida would be lying if she said she didn't like it a little. Hiccup doesn't say anything about it; he just draws in on himself, becoming invisible right next to her. It's not hard when her hair is so eye-catching. It doesn't even cross his mind to put his arm around her, try to make it obvious that they're together, because he's not some possessive d-bag and she has just as much power to show she's taken as he does. That's what really bothers him, if he's honest, that she doesn't make the effort to explain the situation. She just smiles and laughs and accepts the free drinks.
She's not trying to get people to buy her drinks; she doesn't even realize how much it's happening until she overhears a Canadian guy from their hostel remark on it. She's not flirting—she's certain she's not flirting, or at least not doing anything that would be considered flirting at the Falconer—and truth be told, she's kind of used to not having to pay for drinks, since she works in a pub and she's the daughter of a chieftain. It's just the way things have always been. And if Hiccup doesn't get that, it's his problem, not hers.
"What?" she demands after she sees him shake his head again. They're in a crowded bar and she's got a free, albeit tiny, glass of limoncello in front of her, courtesy of the guy behind the bar.
His expression is flat. "Why do you let all these guys hit on you?"
"They're not. They're just being friendly." They are hitting on her, some of them at least, and she knows it, and preens inwardly. Who doesn't like to have people, strangers who aren't obligated to do so, compliment them? She won't admit it, though, because however much she likes hearing "bella" aimed at her, it also feels wrong somehow.
He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. "I don't… I can't tell you what to do."
"No, you can't," she snaps.
"But if you're going to be like this then I'm not going to stick around." He knows that she loves him, but if that's true, the niggling voice in his head asks, why is she acting like this? Doesn't she know he thinks she's beautiful? Does she even want to be with him, now that there are so many other options? Why would she want him instead of one of the handsome dark-haired men who smile at her? It's completely stupid and wrong, he knows deep down, but that doesn't stop the twist of doubt in his stomach.
Her nostrils flare. "Fine. Don't. Or maybe I won't." Their next pre-booked ticket is from Milan to Munich in five days. "I'll see you on the train." She stomps out. The next morning she's gone, on a train heading anywhere away from him.
In the hostel's lounge he stares at the map without seeing it. The plan had been to go by train from Rome to Florence to Pisa to Milan, and from there on to Germany. He's not going to call her; she needs time to cool off, and she can take care of herself. If she's not in Milan, then he'll call. He hopes her rage doesn't send her home, though given the way she sometimes makes impulsive decisions he wouldn't be terribly surprised if it did.
As he tries to contemplate what he should do next, a blonde flops onto one of the chairs near him. "Hi, I'm Daisy." She's a little too loud but in a jolly way, so it's hard to be bothered by the volume.
He's not in the mood to talk, but he doesn't want to be rude. "Hi. Hiccup."
She doesn't ask. "Where're you from?"
"Berk, in the North Sea."
"Never heard of it," she says brightly.
He shrugs. "No big loss. Let me guess, you're from…New Zealand." The All Blacks lanyard around her neck makes it obvious, but she lights up anyway.
"You're right! Most people guess Australian." He hides a smile at her expression of distaste and resignation. "You're smart, though." Again he shrugs, and Daisy eyes the way his shoulders move under his shirt. She asks how long he's been there and where else he's going to go; she's younger, just beginning a gap year with her friends—they're planning to find jobs here for a while to earn some money before moving on. She wants to go to India and Thailand, maybe Cambodia.
As she talks Hiccup watches her as much as listens to her. She's got a wide, tanned face that suggests a lot of time outdoors, dark brown eyes and hair in a messy bun; she smiles easily, readily, and despite his bad mood he finds himself smiling back, because she's just so young and energetic and nice, like a puppy. When her friends come in and call boisterously for her she stands.
"We're going out to the bars tonight, d'you want to come along?" she asks casually.
"Maybe. I have to ask my—" he says before remembering that she's not there to ask, if she still is his anything. "Sure," he amends, wincing inwardly. It'll be better than sitting around here or wandering the streets of Rome alone. Right?
"Great! See you later." Daisy bounces away and he spends the rest of the evening failing to convince himself that accepting wasn't a terrible idea.
He's about to head back to his room when she comes into the lounge. "Ready?" Daisy asks. Her hair's down and she has on some faintly glittery top that makes him start to beg off, pleading indigestion. But he's not in Berk, where he can wallow in his room, curled up with Toothless; he's in Rome, on a trip that cost a small fortune, and if he's not going out and seeing new things then he might as well go home now. Man up, Haddock, he tells himself, sounding disturbingly like Snotlout, but he nods at her anyway.
The group is mostly Kiwis, with a couple of Americans and three guys who turn out to be Swedish. Everybody is perfectly nice as they crowd around small tables. He doesn't want a drink, but it's easier to just get a Peroni than to explain that he doesn't like beer. Daisy and her friends get Campari and soda and they clink their glasses together, cheering "Salute!"
"Where are you from?" one of the Swedes asks.
"Berk," he says, and then one of them asks something, presumably in Swedish, that invokes his dad's name. He can't escape, even all the way down here, he thinks, taking a swallow of beer. The discussion about football clubs turns into a debate about football vs. rugby thanks to one of Daisy's friends. They go to another bar, just as loud and overpriced as the first, where he opts for a bottle of water; then they take the metro to see the Coliseum all lit up.
As he stares at the millennia-old marvel Daisy wanders into him and giggles "Oops," her eyes a little glassy as she smiles at him. "Here, take a picture with me!"
Before he can react her arms are tight around his waist and her cheek is close to his. He puts one arm around her shoulder slowly and her friend with the iPhone orders, "Say formaggio!" Daisy giggles and stutters over the word while Hiccup just smiles faintly. She squeezes him before she lets go to check the photo; it meets with her approval, judging by her squeal.
"Give me your number and I'll send it to you." Their faces on the screen are too bright, the monument behind them all but eclipsed by their heads, his smile not meeting his eyes; hopefully she'll still like it in the morning without the haze of alcohol fogging her vision.
He's depressingly clear-headed as they approach the hostel. Daisy pulls him to a stop outside the door. "That was heaps of fun. I'm glad you came out with us," she says, hand still on his arm.
"Yeah. Thanks for inviting me."
The light overhead casts strange, mask-like shadows on her face, but he can still read her intentions through them with sudden dread. He was an idiot to agree to come. When she presses forward he's quick enough to turn his head so her lips end up on his cheek. "Sorry," he says to her questioning look. "I just... You're kinda drunk, and I might still have a girlfriend?" Her confusion is understandable as he rambles on. "We got in an argument and she left but I'm pretty sure we'll make up eventually, because I really do...love...her..."
Daisy looks so young as she stares at him; he's only three years her senior but right now he feels simultaneously much older and much less mature. He waits wide-eyed for her to say something or slap him or anything, and he's unprepared to see a tear track through her makeup before she hurries into the hostel, leaving him feeling more terrible than he did before.
After a few days the anger has burned out and guilt set in in its place. She ends up in Pisa and she watches tourists prop up the bell tower, trying to ignore the lunge in her chest at the missed opportunity to kiss him there like they'd planned.
Outside a café by the river, she breaks down and calls the second person who comes to mind.
"Princess. I thought you were on the grand tour. To what do I owe the honor?"
"Just wanted to hear a familiar voice."
"Aren't you with Hiccup?" She pauses just long enough for him to assume the worst. "What've you done?" he accuses.
This feeling of annoyance is familiar. She latches onto it. "Why do you assume I did something?"
"Because I've known you my whole life and I can count the number of times it wasn't you doing something to cause trouble on one hand." Good old Jamie.
"Fine," she groans. "It was me. I lost my temper."
"Well I am just shocked to hear that."
"Shut up."
"Merida, just apologize, alright?" She sighs heavily, already knowing that's what she should do and not wanting to do it. "Alright?" he repeats slightly louder.
"Alright."
"Good. Now don't call me again unless you're bleeding or something's on fire."
When he's hung up she presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to ignore the sunlight, the noise of tourists and natives alike, and most of all the leaden mass of guilt and loneliness low in her gut.
Notes:
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir = "Do you (formal or plural) want to go to bed with me this evening." You know, it's from "Lady Marmalade." Which is now going through my head.
Je ne regrette rien = "I regret nothing." Also a famous song by Edith Piaf.
It hurts my soul to have used the anglicized "Seville," but I had to make it in character.
gazpacho = thick tomato soup served chilled, a specialty in southern Spain.
tortillas de patatas = as described; not like the Mexican flat bread.
St Giles' is the high kirk (most important church) of the Church of Scotland. Technically not a cathedral because a cathedral is the seat of a bishop and the Church of Scotland doesn't have bishops.
The All Blacks are New Zealand's rugby team, basically (from my limited knowledge of rugby) the best team in the world.
formaggio = cheese in Italian.
The Leaning Tower of Pisa is the cathedral's bell tower.