Astrid's POV
Hiccup did a good job keeping his bathroom clean.
Yes, I considered it a little weird that I was showering and doing all the rest of my before-bed routine in there; however, I also conceded that he had an excellent point when he asked that I stay out of the master bath.
"Barring accident – which, all else considered, I would really rather didn't happen – my dad will be coming home on Friday. And, since your dad isn't likely to change anytime in the next three to five years, you'll still need to come over here on bad nights. Sooner or later you and my dad will be in this house at the same time, and until we figure out some way to explain it without…um, accidentally giving him the wrong impression…it would be better if you avoided him the way you dodge your dad."
"At least your dad isn't likely to beat me if he does catch me."
"Aaannd, he's not the most observant person in the neighborhood – at least not under his own roof – but I think eventually he'd notice the smell of someone else's bathing products in his bathroom. Better to just not go there."
It wasn't until I was in the shower and soaping up that I realized…not what he'd meant by "wrong impression" (that had been obvious from the get-go: that we were a couple and possibly sleeping together), but that I was about two steps away from being okay with that idea.
Eep.
I turned the water from hot all the way down to cold. Down, girl. Now. You are not into Hiccup that way. It's Hiccup, for crying out loud. Scrawny little nerds are not your type.
Were they?
Popular opinion at school was that the popular girl would be put with the popular guy; in other words, that I would be attracted to one of the school's football stars – if not the quarterback, then the running-back or the wide receiver. One of the special talents. Maybe popular opinion would have been right, except for one thing.
The quarterback was Scott: all buff, no brains, and just about the time I might have been intrigued by his rapidly-developing guns he wasn't yet into girls and was being incredibly obnoxious. I was disillusioned in days, and avoided him at all costs now. The other two fancy positions weren't much better; I knew more than I wanted to about Tully from having his twin sister on my hockey team, and Speedy…was such a diva that I more than half suspected he was closet-gay.
It was odd. I seemed to have decided months ago that I didn't have a "type," I was perfectly fine without a boyfriend at all, and rendered myself untouchable.
Oh, wait…not that odd.
In the event that I fulfilled popular-opinion expectations and had a boyfriend – any boyfriend, not necessarily Scott – I would be expected to allow him to touch me. To put his arms around me, either possessively or supportively. To snuggle. And while not being against snuggling in principle, it brought the risk of my bruises being discovered. There would be questions, and eventually the boy would dump me for a lack of ability to do anything. Scott would probably talk big about protecting me from my own dad, only to back down when presented with my Old Man cleaning weapons on the front porch.
God, that image was sweet.
The only reason I hadn't displayed my bruises to Scott, challenged him to save me from my dad, was that my circumstances would be all over the school in hours. I wasn't a damsel in distress, thank you very much; I was a survivor.
Hiccup was right – I was stronger than people knew.
I shut off the water and climbed out, drying off carefully as I continued musing.
I'd thought I didn't have a type; I thought I was safer without one. But a type seemed to have found me, and that type was scrawny little nerds that didn't know when to shut up and…trusted vital information to girls who broke their legs in fits of misdirected rage.
Misdirected? Well…I guess it was. I wasn't angry at Hiccup that day; not really. I was angry at my uncle for tainting the family name (and he was long gone, unable for me to punish) and at my dad for aiming his own rage at me (and I couldn't very well hit him back). Hiccup just happened to be there, a convenient…whipping boy.
And now I was regretting it, so deeply that it hurt.
It was my fault that he could barely get around his own house. I saw him giving that martyred glower at the staircase, readying his crutches for the long trek up to the top; those stairs seemed to be…kind of big for the length of his step, and the crutches made the climb even more difficult. I wondered how he got down in the mornings. Did he slide on the banister? If he fell off that thing too near the top, he'd break an arm. Or his neck. Or his skull.
It was my fault he couldn't care for himself properly. When he showed me which door had the bathroom behind it, the look he gave the shower was one of pure longing; that was when I realized he'd probably been making do with a damp washcloth and scrubbing his hair in the sink, because he couldn't get his cast wet and didn't have a good way to keep it dry in the shower. Really, the fact that he didn't reek was probably a testament to his determination not to.
It was my fault that his school days were…pure hell. As if having panic attacks under pressure wasn't bad enough, he couldn't even escape the jerks who pressured him anymore. He'd spoken of eventually not needing the drugs with such delight, it was clear that he didn't like taking them; how heavily had he had to stone himself on them just to get through an average school day? And then I made it worse.
With angry movements I pulled my nightshirt on and stepped out, crossing to Hiccup's closed door in two long strides and knocking. I couldn't take it anymore.
"Hiccup?"
A low, grumbling growl answered me. Toothless.
I was unsettled enough to pause and really think, rather than just knocking again. Hiccup was probably asleep; it was late. He probably didn't get very much sleep these days, what with the pain in his leg – and I could sympathize. I'd broken bones before and knew how much they ached while healing.
No, I don't want to wake Hiccup if he's actually asleep; it can wait. Except it couldn't. I'd never be able to get to sleep, suffocating under this mountain of guilt. I had to get it out of my system.
I could…write him a letter. It was a strange thought, putting my heart on a piece of paper as hardcopy evidence that at one point I was this upset over something. Even stranger was the thought that I trusted him to keep my words, spoken or written, close to his chest. If I gave Hiccup that letter, nobody else would ever see it or hear about it.
I went to the guest room and dug out a notebook and pen. Yes, pen: usually I drafted things in pencil and only turned the words to ink as the final piece, but I was too tired to do constant edits and knew that what went on the paper the first time would be the words Hiccup would ultimately read. Besides, there was a kind of symbolism to it – at least at that hour. He trusted me with the workings of that EpiPen thing, so I would trust him with a penned letter.
Dear Hiccup;
You've never asked me for an apology, and I'm sure that's because you didn't want it recited from a script or dragged out from between clenched teeth. I can only respect you for that. But I'm sorry now, not for breaking your leg (I still don't actually remember doing that), but for unleashing upon you all the anger and even hatred that I've never dared release against the man who created it in me. It seems I learned some very bad habits from my dad: I did to you what he does to me, and for much the same reason.
I don't want to see his face when I look in the mirror, and if that means I have to admit I did wrong, so be it. I want the girl who broke your leg, who made your life so much more difficult, to disappear into the forgotten past; I can't deny she ever existed and hope to get any sleep, so I'm going to try something much harder and admit she's here and handling problems the wrong way. Acknowledging the problem is the first step to correcting it, right? Fears are only cast off when you face them, and then you can rise out of the darkness.
See what you do to me, Hiccup: I was never this eloquent before I started hanging out with you. Or maybe it's just that I've never tried to write a damned solili-whatever-the-word-is at eleven at night. Whoever said the midnight hour brings out the poet in us probably had a point. Okay, I'm going to bed before I continue on and make an even bigger fool of myself.
Astrid Hofferson
P.S., Why did you trust me with your drug instructions so soon after I broke your leg?
I found some tape and stuck the letter to Hiccup's door at what I hoped was his face-height. Then, feeling much better, I went straight to bed.
"Soliloquy."
I glanced at Hiccup, who was leaning against the lockers in a remarkably casual way considering his cast. Which still only had two signatures. With an effort I pulled my eyes back to his face.
"What?"
"S-O-L, I-L-O, Q-U-Y. A dramatic monologue. Soliloquy." He offered me a lopsided grin.
I smirked. "Smart-ass." I closed my locker. "So you read it."
"Uh-huh. Do you want to be pen pals, or do you just want to talk about it?"
The pen-pal idea was…cute. I wasn't sure just now what I thought of cute. "We're not talking about it here. At least not the whole thing."
"Right, the deep-dark-secret thing."
"How about the last question?"
"Um…" Hiccup paused, his fingers drumming on his crutches. "Because…I believe…you won't abuse the information?"
"Is that a question or an answer?" God, but there were days when getting answers out of Hiccup was like pulling teeth.
"It's…I just trust you. If I was going to regret trusting you, it would have happened last Saturday."
When I'd discovered Toothless. Right. That would have been when I'd have regretted trusting Hiccup, when he learned about my family life. It had been three days now, and our secrets were still safe.
"It's weird, but…" I said softly, "I trust you too. And I haven't trusted anyone in a long time."
Hiccup nodded. "Just out of curiosity, have you ever invited anyone over to your house?"
I couldn't quite suppress the shudder. I wasn't hiding it from Hiccup, you understand, but we were having this conversation in the hall. Who knew who would walk by? "No." I jerked my head, indicating that we should get to class.
Hiccup levered himself upright and we started walking.
"Or…not in a long time," I amended. "There were more good days when I was younger: I could invite…acquaintances…over and not worry that they'll see my dad drinking and breaking things." I didn't want to call them friends anymore; not until I'd reevaluated them through the eyes of this familiar stranger known as Astrid.
"By the way, it's not that bad."
Where was he now? "What's not?"
"Life." Hiccup gestured at his cast. "With this. It's really not…quite as bad as your letter implied you think. It's not great, but…it would be worse if I didn't have a live-in assistant."
I hadn't thought of Toothless as being an assistant. The dragon was big enough to carry him all over the house…I wondered if he helped Hiccup bathe, too.
Wow, I really needed to get more sleep.
"Is your dad going to help you when he gets home?"
Hiccup went completely silent.
Since that was about the point we got to class, there wasn't time to ask anything else. I spent the entire period wondering if I'd offended Hiccup or if there was something else going on in that recently-rewired computer he called a brain. It was a fair question…I thought. After all, it was pretty clear that Mr. Haddock and Toothless couldn't coexist under the same roof – and surely traces of a dragon in the house would be at least as noticeable as a girl's bathing products in the master bath.
It wasn't until a little before field hockey that Hiccup finally started talking again – although I had figured out by third period that he was seriously worried.
"The opiates must have been messing with my brain," was his opening as he hobbled along next to me.
"Drugs do that. What's the problem?"
"Dad's not going to be helping me: he has his own work to do. He'll expect me to keep going as I'd been going while he was off chasing dragons."
"But that would involve…" I hesitated a moment. Then I took his shoulder and leaned in close, dropping my voice just in case anyone happened to be trailing close. "…Toothless continuing to board at your house."
"Exactly," Hiccup replied, lowering his own voice. "It would be easier if he could still teleport – I got the sense in a couple of our shared dreams that he used to have the capability of making pocket-worlds, very through-the-looking-glass. He could live in my house without my dad ever knowing it, because they wouldn't be in the same reality."
"But he can't do that anymore?"
Hiccup shook his head. "Not since we first met. That was my fault…I'll explain that part later, it's too complicated. Short version, he's stuck all-the-way in this dimension." His brows scrunched. "He's happy about it, too."
I stared, mystified. "He's lost an ability that allowed him to swoop out of nowhere and vanish without a trace…and he's happy."
"He didn't want to go home." Hiccup was quiet for a moment. "The one time Toothless talked about it, he mentioned having to bring a 'tribute' back to the nest. Tributes are usually given to something: I think the dragons have some kind of telepathic boss, like a queen bee ruling a hive. When it calls…if they are capable of answering, they must answer. Even the most dangerous – to us – must toe the line, and Toothless isn't aggressive; he never was."
"Must be why he's called 'Toothless'." I thought about Hiccup's idea. It made sense. Although…
"REALLY?"
I jumped, whirling to glare at Scott. "Do you mind?" I snarled, trying to cover for my obvious lack of attentiveness.
Scott ignored me and went after Hiccup, who had fallen to the ground because of his own startle. "You think you're so cool just because a dragon jumped you?"
Oh, no. Oh, man…this was going to be so bad…
Hiccup couldn't get away from Scott; he couldn't get up fast enough. He was trapped – and judging by the increasingly wild and frantic look in his eyes, he knew it.
"Don't ignore me, Scott," I growled, "I'm talking to you!"
"Or is it the cast?" Still ignoring me, Scott grabbed Hiccup's collar and dragged him off the ground with one hand. "The little Hiccup's got a great big owwie and now he thinks he can kiss up to my girl!"
"SCOTT! Don't go calling me 'your girl' when we haven't even been on a date!" I was starting to get a little frantic; somehow, the fact that Hiccup's hands were still gripping his crutches was an even worse sign than the fact that he'd gone down in the first place. Maybe it was that he was no longer holding them like he was expecting to stand with them.
"I'll give you a few more scars to go with that one under your shirt – OW!" Scott dropped Hiccup and clutched his oversized nose.
"Shit," I sighed.
Hiccup had gone insane. Shrieking like some of the higher-speed dragons, he advanced on Scott with unsettling speed while flailing both crutches like clubs. The cast made his left leg a bit longer than his right, giving his walk a decidedly drunken gait, but that just made him look all the more dangerous and added a level of unpredictability to his flailing.
And with all the noise he was making, he was drawing an audience.
Scott wasn't wearing his padding or helmet; he had no protection against the onslaught. He was giving ground to a boy nearly a foot shorter and at least ten pounds lighter plus cast, and he was actually looking scared. The big bully wasn't used to his victims fighting back: as the quarterback, he didn't tackle much and was in fact supposed to avoid tackles.
He'd never seen this before, I realized; I wondered if he'd been told and hadn't believed, or if nobody had thought to enlighten him about his cousin's panic attacks. I actually considered letting Hiccup beat Scott into the ground. Might be good for both of them: deflating Scott's ego while giving Hiccup a much-needed confidence boost.
Then I saw Hiccup's eyes – really saw them – and reconsidered.
This wasn't Hiccup: not the Hiccup I knew. He'd locked himself in some tiny mental closet and let a devil take him over – a savage creature hell-bent only on its own survival.
In this state – he was like me, the day he'd thoughtlessly said Fearless Astrid Hofferson in my hearing. In this state, he could do real damage to someone without ever realizing what he was doing. If everything I'd heard about this state was true, there was a good chance he might put Scott in the hospital (although probably not kill him; he lacked the strength). The real question was, did Hiccup dislike his cousin enough to not care, when he came back out?
I had a sinking suspicion the answer was no.
Besides, Hiccup trusted me with the knowledge of how to sedate him. He wanted me to stop him before he hurt himself or anyone else, even if it was Scott. I couldn't betray that trust.
"MOVE IT!" I shouted, elbowing Scott in the side and forcing him out of my way.
A sweeping kick at Hiccup's good ankle brought him to the ground again, and I threw myself on top of him. I had to grapple with his crutches for a few moments (and if I'd needed any more proof that Hiccup wasn't home, I had it now: he was attacking me like he didn't recognize me) before finally I forced his arms down by his sides and held them and the crutches down with my knees. Holding his head down with my left hand, I fumbled at his vest pockets with my right hand.
"You said you always have it on you, where is it?" I muttered. This would be very bad, if he'd forgotten to bring his EpiPen…
Finally I found it. Spinning it right-way-around in my fingers, I jabbed it at his pulse-point and got my thumb on the button. One-Submaripper, two-Submaripper, three-Submaripper, four-Submaripper…
Hiccup stopped screaming – so suddenly that for a terrifying second I thought he'd stopped breathing – and his body went completely limp as he stopped fighting. His head listed gently to one side as I took my hand away.
I slumped over him, feeling drained and inexplicably needing to hear his heartbeat. It sounded steady; it was slowing down, but considering how fast it had probably been going due to adrenalin a slowdown had to be expected.
Who needs hockey when you've got Hiccup-wrestling? That…sounded dirty and I didn't even care.
"I'm a horrible friend."
I looked up. Fisher was standing there, looking absolutely miserable and twisting his big hands together.
"Why?"
He pointed at the EpiPen dangling loosely from my fingers. "Hiccup told me how to use that, and under what circumstances, and when the moment came I just…froze. I was scared to go near him right when he most needed it."
Frozen.
I looked at Hiccup's very still form. Then I looked back at Fisher. "One failure does not a horrible friend make. I've seen you two, looking things up on the library computers and comparing notes. You don't mind being seen with him; that makes you a good friend."
Fisher looked a little more cheerful.
I got off Hiccup and sat next to the cast, tracing Fisher's sloppy signature. "You autographed this thing. That's positive proof: you can't deny that you cared enough to well-wish, not with the ink in plain sight. That makes you a great friend."
Fisher looked less certain about that as real proof, but he didn't look any more depressed.
"You help Hiccup with his stupid science experiments." I stood up and looked Fisher in the eye. "And with the number of times those blow up, those things are trouble. Hiccup gets in trouble every time, and since you're there with him that means you get in trouble, too. You don't abandon him to face the music alone; you keep helping even though it means sharing the blame. That makes you…the best friend that he has." I waved the EpiPen at him. "He's not going to hold it against you that you weren't ready to knock him down and give him his medicine."
Fisher looked much happier – and a little surprised. "Thanks, Astrid."
I heard an intake of breath that sounded like it was drawn through a stuffy nose or a big mouth. Recognizing it at once, fury blossomed in my chest and I whirled around to give Scott the full brunt of my glacial glare.
"And you," I snarled before he could say anything, "Don't you know better than to pick on broken-legged nerds? For that matter, don't you put any faith in real family spirit? Your dads don't treat each other in that way! Hickory Haddock is your cousin, and since neither of you has any other family of your particular generation on this beleaguered island we all call home that should make you like brothers! Brothers look out for each other, and help each other, and they certainly don't try to crush each other! Show some respect for who he is and what he can do, and maybe he'll repay you in kind – if he's not doing so already and you're too knuckleheaded to notice!" I stopped, chest heaving because I'd gotten practically all of that out in one breath, and noticed that everyone was staring at me with varying expressions of astonishment.
Finally Scott spoke, in a much smaller voice. "Why do you care? You broke his leg." He sounded mystified rather than belligerent.
You know what? I don't care what anyone thinks anymore. I straightened my shoulders, swept my audience with the same cold look, and replied, "Because he's my friend now."
There was a collective intake of breath from the surrounding kids (not loud enough to be a theatrical full-audience gasp, but notable). Then Ruth's creepy giggle floated out from somewhere behind Coach Gordon.
"Friend? Boy-friend, I'd say: it would have to be love, to get involved with such a big speech!"
I considered tracking Ruth down and smashing her, but somehow the words didn't sound so bad. I guess my type really was the breakable little nerd with panic attacks and pet dragons.
