(A/N: Sorry about the massive wait, I'll try and update as fast as possible but, with as much as I have on my plate as it is, it may be a while between chapters. Anyway, I wanna thank y'all for hanging on and waiting for me to write, it means a whole shitton to me. If you haven't noticed yet: I'm rewriting "A Dragon and His Not-Viking". The name of it is now "The Truth About Shadows" and it's a little more my current style than ADaHNV was (i.e. loquacious and descriptive on top of more of an extensive universe created for me). I want to thank all of you for voting for my HtTYD fics on my poll, that's what made me continue this instead of focusing on my newer fanfictions. So, enjoy Hiccup beating on Fishlegs for his gay wet dream!)
I smacked Fishlegs upside the head repeatedly. "You gay asshole!" Each syllable was accented with sequentially harder Gibbs-slaps.
He cackled, "I can't...believe it! You had a...wet dream...about Night Fury of all people!"
I slapped a hand across his mouth, "Shut up! Do you want everyone to know?!" His tongue dragged across my fingers, slicking them up enough for me to let go and wipe them on his shirt. "Gross..."
"So—" Fishlegs crooned as he leaned close to me in the commons area, "—what was it like?"
"Like a normal, heterosexual wet dream, but with a guy. You know: penis, meet ass. Ass, enjoy penis's company because you're gonna regret it later. 'Unf, you're so hard!' Blah, blah, blah..." I gesticulated as I spoke, hands lazily waving about and air-quoting. Fishlegs' smile widened as he heard this.
"You enjoyed it!"
"No I didn't! That, sir, is an egregious falsehood!" My rebuttal caused several of the 'losers-slash-nobodies' that occupied this quarter of the commons to stare at me with intense dislike and—in the case of the scene kids—angsty glowering. Fishlegs just tittered and clutched his copy of Cosmo to his chest.
"Don't lie to me~e! You loved it!" I smacked him one more time, just as the bell rang. Upon hearing the bland tone, Fishlegs dashed off towards his first period—halfway across the building—and I sauntered off towards my math class on the bottom floor.
Closer, yes, but far less enjoyable than Fishlegs' drama class. Whiny-ass lucky bitch.
FORGET THE STATUS QUO—BE HAPPY WITH YOURSELF
A boring Algebra II class coupled with the devastating double böring reach-around of US History and Law classes form a multi-dimensional black hole of dull in my day. Seriously, watching grass grow would've been more provocative and productive than listening to Morris "Mildew" McAllistaire drone on and on about tort laws in the modern age. Thankfully my freedom came in the form of 3D Art and Animation with Fishlegs.
It may have seemed as though I finally had a reprieve; however, tragedy struck before so much as one little sphere could be properly rendered.
I had just planted my ass in one of the painfully hard plastic school chairs—which exist sheerly to pulverise student's tailbones—when the intercom beeped on. "I need Darryl Ingerson and Jonathan Haddock to the principal's office immediately."
Shit.
Hoisting my book-bag over my shoulder and heaving myself out of the plastic ass-elevator, I trudged to the door of my animation class. The jeers and catcalls of my so-called 'young adult' classmates followed me and Fishlegs as we closed the door behind us.
The hallway had never seemed so ominous before.
"Why do you look so happy? Do you have any idea what my dad's gonna do to me when he finds out that I had to go to the office today?!" Fishlegs' wide grin was pissing me off. Seriously, how the Hell was he not as tweaked as I was?!
Fishlegs simply shrugged and smiled wider, "I think you'll be fine."
"Fine?" Hysterical, I wasn't hysterical! Concerned, yes, bud definitely not hysterical. "You know how your mom—" I refused to call Mrs. Ingerman 'that fat cunt' in school, mainly because of chatty teachers " —gets when you even get a B! You, of all people, should be terrified!"
"I think," he emphasised, "we'll be fine."
Still not convinced, I trudged into the office, where Thuggory MacHine was sitting angrily in the—dubbed by the masses—'Chair of Shame' in front of Principal O'Hare's private office area. He glowered at me and I just waved cheekily.
"Smash Sydney's calculator against his skull again, Thuggory?" Fishlegs singsonged. Thuggory glared harder and we knocked on the door to O'Hare's office.
"Is that you, Jonathan?" Internally groaning, I sighed deeply and responded in the positive. "Good then, come in! You and Darryl!"
We crossed the Point of No Return, stepping into the Outcast Lands. Sitting at his desk, facing us and blocking the sunlight coming from the singular window, was principal Alvin O'Hare. His hooked nose, bald head, thin frame, and beady eyes often left the students with the impression that they were sitting across from a ravenous weasel. And that the weasel was plotting their imminent doom.
Across from him, in a high-backed, plush, rolling, office chair—the kind that often led to memories of childhood folly—was a short and serious Asian man.
He looked way too familiar for this to be a coincidence.
"Now," his snake-oil-salesman voice was turned up to eleven...something was definitely up, "Jonathan, normally we don't allow strangers to check students out of school without prior permission from the child's legal guardian or parents—" lies and slander "—but we figured that, with Mr. Renson here, we could afford to make an exception."
Hold the phone. Renson? Fang Renson?
Cue the internal fangirl squealing.
Fishlegs' grin was wide and finally keyed me in to what was going on. "You douche!" Not one remark was made about my language, surprisingly. "I can't believe you kept this from me! How did you—?!"
"Even a gossip-whore may hoard a secret or two," he tried to sound sage and Jedi-like, and was completely perfect. Completely. Fucking. Perfect.
"I love you. No homo."
"I love you too. Homo totally intended." Oh you...
O'Hare cleared his throat, "A-hem! Boys. Now is not the time."
Believe it or not, the entire time throughout our little "no-homo-yes-homo" sappy, queer, brofest, Fang-motherfucking-Renson sat there—chill as the chillest of cucumbers—smiling slightly. When Principal O'Hare finished his throat-clearing, Fang began, his voice a mere rumble of thunder in the distance.
"I spoke to your friend online—Darryl, was it?" Fishlegs nodded eagerly, much to O'Hare's chagrin, "He told me you're quite the Jörmungadr fan."
"Um...yeah, I am...I'm a huge fan!" My attempts to quash my overenthusiastic fanboying failed miserably.
Fang seemed mildly amused to O'Hare's put-off air, "Indeed. Well, as he may have informed you, I enjoyed your performance on YouTube. You have the quality and control to be great." Oh God, oh God, oh God! "I came here today because I have a question for you. Unfortunately, due to circumstance and prying ears—" the comment he made was directed at O'Hare, who reddened and sat back in his chair, "—I have requested to check you out to further discuss this with you. I hope it's okay with you that I do this, Jonathan."
"Hiccup," I manage to squeak out, "Just call me Hiccup. Everyone does."
"Hiccup then," Fang's tone and his face remained impassive, but I was still fangirling internally. I nodded in response to his request, then realised something.
"Uh...Mr. Fang?"
"Call me Fang; if I am to call you Hiccup, you must be equally informal with me. It's only right."
"...Fang," my mouth was dry, why was my mouth dry? "I'll go on one condition."
One of his perfectly man-scaped eyebrows arched in surprise—at least I hope it was surprise, "Yes?"
"Fishlegs goes with me." At his confused expression, I gestured to Fishlegs and prompted, "Darryl?"
"Ah, of course." Wait, did he just agree to my terms? "He is my informant so I did have plans to bring him along."
"Wait just a second," Principal O'Hare interrupted, "you can't check Jonathan and Darryl out at the same time! They'd be—"
"You'll find, Alvin, that I can do as I please." Fang glared daggers of ice at O'Hare, causing the principal to shudder and back off immediately. "Now, we will take our leave. Do you have your personal items?" We both nodded eagerly, bookbags slung over our shoulders and phones stuffed in our pockets. He smiled and stood up, considerably shorter than what I thought he'd be, but still imposing, "Then we shall take our leave of this place. Farewell, Alvin."
Fishlegs flipped O'Hare a jaunty salute as he left; I, on the other hand, simply smiled and signed "dirty little shit" at him (ASL, thank you dad!). He was none the wiser, thankfully, and we exited the building like kings.
Outside sat a stretch limo, obsidian and silver, just waiting for us to get in it. "Hoo-boy!" Fishlegs whistled appreciatively, "that is a limousine."
"Indeed," Fang acknowledged, "now I have a question for you: is there a place where you two hang out?"
I smiled, "There's the Kill Ring downtown." When I noticed the confused look that suddenly appeared on his face, I explained, "It's a gaming shop. They sell all sorts of Dungeons & Dragons-style games, card games, and game accessories. My dad's friend owns the place, he's pretty chill."
"The Kill Ring it is. Chauffeur! The Kill Ring is our destination."
"Searching for it now, sir," the chauffeur replied, probably looking the Kill Ring up on a GPS of one sort or another. When—I believe—he found it, we pulled out of the school zone and started down main street.
"So...," Fishlegs still had that grin on his face, the insane 'I know something you don't know' one.
"So?" I prompted, hoping to get an actual answer.
"So, your question for him?" Fishlegs finished.
"Ah, yes," Fang straightened his collar and settled back in his seat, "my question. It pertains to your talent that I saw on YouTube."
Oh no. Oh no way. No fucking way! Dad's gonna flip! He is going to flip his fucking shit!
"Would you join Jörmungadr as the backup male singer? While my son can reach high notes by using falsetto, it doesn't compare to the strong, natural tones of a countertenor." Flabbergasted; I was purely agape at the idea that someone wanted me to sing for their band, let alone that the manager of Jörmungadr wanted me to sing backup for his band.
Jörmungadr wanted me to sing with them! If mom was here...
Fishlegs must've noticed my sad face, because he wrapped an arm around my shoulder and nuzzled me affectionately.
"So your answer?" Fang prompted.
"I'll—I—I have to think about it," I replied, my hesitance causing my voice to quaver slightly.
Fang nodded, sympathy oozing from his tone, "I understand; it would be hard to switch from anonymous living to the life of a rockstar. It was hard for Toothless as well."
Toothless? Is he talking about Night Fury?
"Yeah...I'm not too sure my dad'll be as thrilled as I am when I tell him." Truth; dad would actually be kinda bummed that I was leaving like mom. Okay, understatement, he would be full-on depressed that I was leaving like mom.
"Understandably. We all want what's best for our children, but sometimes it is hard to let go enough to give it to them." Oh wise and mighty Fang, teach my father your wisdom and patience!
The rest of the ride to the Kill Ring—all five minutes of it—was spent in awkward silence.
NEVER FEAR CHANGE—INTEGRATE IT INTO YOUR VERY BEING
Gobber's eyebrow arched as he smirked, "An' yer nae sure tha' Stoic'll take th' news well, correct?"
"Aye," I mocked his brogue with surprising accuracy for the massive amount of irony it was smothered in. "Ah'm nae sure da'll take this new well t'all."
"Dun't be cheeky, lad, or ah'll have yer arse on a platter by th' end a th' week." Gobber replied with equally snarky piss and vinegar. "So, Jolt an' some new Dragon cards fer ya an' 'Legs?"
Fishlegs gave an excited squeal, "Hell-to-the-yeah! I can't wait to try out my new deck combinations!" He accepted the soda and cards with gusto—shelling out his weekly allowance—and skipped over to our regular table. He then ripped the booster packs open with voracity, throwing bits of plastic and foil all over the place.
"Merlin's Throne?" I met Gobber's eyes and he winked.
"Merlin's Throne. So," he leaned back against the display wall and stretched languidly, "who's yer frien'? He's pretty good lookin', fer a shor' man."
"Fang Renson," Gobber's eyes sparkled with mirth.
"Oh, tha' is th' infamous Fang? Jörmungadr's Fang?" With an affirmative nod from me, he chortled, "aye! Seems like th' kinda' man who'd run a company like tha'!"
"Shh," I hissed, covering his mouth with my hands, "don't offend him."
"Ah highly doubt tha' he'd be offended," Gobber shrugged and handed over my booster packs, "bu' if ya say nae ta offend him, ah'll try mah best."
Fang strolled—although he seemed rather lost—over to the counter and smiled handsomely at Gobber, "This is your family friend then?"
"Gobber Godfrey, at yer service!" Gobber swept a low bow, mock reverence dripping from his every movement.
"Fang Renson; pleasure to meet you." Fang held out his hand politely. At that point I'd decided that one of two things about Fang Renson were true: either he was extremely polite, or he was the master of ironic façades.
Gobber gently took Fang's hand in one of his meaty paws and shook it gently, "Pleasure's all mine."
Euch.
Not that I'm against gays or anything, but this was my "uncle" and the man who fathered Night Fury. That is a level of creepy no one should suffer.
"So you know young Hiccup how, exactly?" Gobber's face broke out in a full-out, 'embarrassing childhood stories' grin.
"Ah've been a frien' since he was a wee babby," Gobber began, "Knew his mum long before she me' with his da. Been part a th' family e'r since."
Thank God above for short, non-embarrassing versions of personal events; and even more thanks for "uncle"s who know when to shut their gob.
I gratefully forked over my cash for some Jolt and my boosters and gave Gobber a smile, "Book of Shadows and Ancestry Calls, right?"
"Ya think mah ken of yer deck is lackin'? Ya insult me."
"Woah there Gobber; no need to go postal on me." I grinned back at him and then held out my hand. I was rewarded with a high-five and a smarting palm. "Eesh," I grumbled, "should know better than to do that..." Reward in hand, I sat down to shuffle through my spoils. From the looks of things, Fishlegs had already found some good cards, and was shuffling through his deck to integrate and swap them around.
"After you're done, you wanna go?" Fishlegs leered as he lazily shuffled his deck.
"You got your coin, D-20, and tokens to play for?" I asked, looking through the Trees I had gotten with a manic glee.
"Are you prepared to lose?" Fishlegs countered.
"Is it a blue moon already?" Mock surprise laced my voice, "and here I thought I had a fighting chance."
"Har, har, har," he drawled, "very fucking funny."
"Oy!" Gobber interrupted, temporarily placing his conversation with Fang on hold, "Watch yer fookin' mouth!"
"Make me!"
"Ah will then!" Gobber stomped over and Fishlegs 'eep'ed, scrambling to get away from the giant.
I lazily finished shuffling my deck and called out to him, "Ready when you are!"
"Call off your guard dog," he squealed in response.
"Gobber—!" He looked back at me and bared his teeth in a grimace-like smile, "Leave Fishlegs alone. I need him in one piece for when I kick his ass."
"All righ' then," he sighed in defeat and put Fishlegs down, "If ya say so." Trudging back to the counter, he continued his talk with Fang.
Fishlegs sat down, "Ready?"
"Ready," I affirmed.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE—THERE ARE OTHERS LIKE YOU
Fang was sitting down while watching our game, his eyes trained on our attack lines. Fishlegs had three Gronkles (one normal, two Drekkan) and enough Yew and Ash Trees to summon three more if he wanted. I, on the other hand, had Birch and Ash Trees in my Forest, a Monstrous Nightmare, and a Drekkan Hideous Zippleback.
The whole concept seemed novel to him. "A card game based on the dragons mythos?!"
I Planted a Yew Tree and flipped it, allowing me to Call a Cloud of Terrible Terrors. "It's a rather interesting marriage of "Magic: the Gathering" and Eric Forthen's "The Truth About Shadows" series which, coincidentally, is the birthplace of the Nordic-themed draconic lore that Jörmungadr uses for member names. Monstrous Nightmare—" I attacked with mine, which Fishlegs blocked with his normal Gronkle, sacrificing it in the process, "—Deadly Nadder, Hideous Zippleback—" again I attacked and was beaten back by one if Fishlegs' Drekkan, "and Night Fury," I groaned as Fishlegs Called one. Little did he know that I had "the Home of Our Ancestors" up my sleeve.
"That is interesting. Simultaneously, it is also rather extensive for a card game," Fang mused aloud.
Gobber chuckled, interrupting his stocking to look over Fishlegs' shoulder, "Aye, Dragons a Legends 'tis extensive. But, 'tis also fer th' nerds a th' world. Nerds like their games complicated. Oh, and Hiccup? Yer screwed."
I drew and almost cried. I had it! I had it! "A-ha! I have you now!" I Planted Yddragsil and watched his face fall.
"Oh no...no, no, no...no fu—no way!" He changed track halfway through his swear when Gobber gave him a Look.
"Yes way. I Call unto this field, through sacrifice and blood, the Home of Our Ancestors!" I tapped Yddragsil, sacrificed all my dragons, and placed the Home of Our Ancestors in play, smirking all the while. Fishlegs shrieked.
"Oh, oh!" He seemed lost for words for a moment, then an unsettling grin crept across his face, and he sat back in his chair with a disturbing air of ease about him. "Whatever shall I do? It looks like the coup d'état must come a bit earlier than planned," he sighed dramatically, "I had so hoped to drag this on longer but...alas! 'Tis not to be." He drew and Planted another Yew, then drew a card from his deck. "I Call into being, the grand spell-of-spells, wrought with the love of a family: Merlin's Love!"
Aw, come on! That is not even remotely fair!
He sacrificed his Night Fury and all his Trees, and Called an Anthro Night Fury into play. He then attacked my empty Field, burning three of my Trees and taking 9 HP from me. Now I was down to 8 HP, while he had 17. I was royally screwed, unless I could pull this off.
"Any last words before the coup de grâce?" Fishlegs gloated. Fang sat in closer to me, peering over my shoulder and frowning gently. "Or," he practically purred, "are you going to forfeit like the lily-livered, little baby you are?"
"I propose a third option," I retorted, reaching into my deck with a steady hand. This entire turn depended on my luck; I could not screw this up! "Take this! Her resting period over, La Bella wakes and wreaks havoc upon your Field. Her damage is—" I rolled my D-20 and squeaked with excitement, "—twenty cards and the subsequent leftover damage to your Hit Points!" Fishlegs groaned, he only had one card on his Field, and -2 HP! "I win." I flashed him a predatory grin—all teeth and reeking of victory—and then held out my hand, "pay up."
"Nuuuuu...," Fishlegs whined, "dun't wanna..."
"Pay the loser's fee gracefully Fishlegs, or I'll have Gobber remove the cards from your grip forcefully." Gobber sneered at Fishlegs.
"Buh-but...," another glare from Gobber, and he crumbled to my pressuring, "Fine. Here."
I plucked his card box from his hands and shuffled through it. Nope, don't want another Gronkle or Nadder. Don't need any Trees, 'specially not Aspens—those are Scout/Guard Trees and I don't have any Scout/Guard dragons. Definitely don't need Merlin's Love, I have no Anthros. Maybe...
I pulled a solitary Night Fury from his deck, a Drekkan with vivid emerald eyes and a solitary spattering of freckles across its snout, and handed him back his cards.
"No," he mock-sobbed, "You took my only Drekkan Night Fury! That is not fair at all!"
"Life's not fair," I taunted, "and then you die. Death and taxes, Fishlegs."
"We're all equal when we're dead," he replied monotonously, not even cheered up by the opportunity to use a Les Misérabes quote. Then he shoved his deck back into his box and closed the lid angrily. "Wanna go home. P'rolly time for mom to blow a fuse anyway, she's usually awake by now."
"Fang," I asked him, stowing away my newly-modded deck in my box, "would you drive Fishlegs home? He can give you directions."
"And yourself," the man inquired, "how will you get home?"
"Ah'll drive th' lad home. 'Tis but a stone's throw away from here an' his da'll have plenty a time ta think about wha' he's done," Gobber interjected. At my confused look he supplied a cure for my confusion, "He tol' me he's gonna' start marketin' "Isle a Berk" soon an' that players can pay to have unique character mods or armour. Somethin' about "means ta an en'" or sommat like tha'..."
"Very well." Fang turned to face me, a slight upward turn to his lips, "I shall visit here tomorrow, after school, for an answer to my question. Would this be an acceptable meeting place?"
"Fine enough," I shrugged, "So, tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow then," he nodded and then turned to Fishlegs, "To your home then. Will I have the pleasure of meeting your mother?"
"If you're lucky: no." And with that, the two of them walked out of the Kill Ring, leaving me with only Gobber and my thoughts.
"So...," Gobber awkwardly rocked on his heels, turning to face me, "How're ya' gonna' break th' news ta yer da? Ya've got all afternoon ta think abou' it."
"Yeah...lucky me..." I groaned and placed my head in my hands.
"Jus' tell him th' truth. He'll unnerstand." Gobber patted me on the back—which felt more like a steamroller hitting me—and then went to attend one of the snooty regulars—a guy who called himself "Humongous Hotshot the Hero".
If only it were that simple though...
