"These are for the Thorstons-" Astrid nods as she takes the small basket of bread " – and this is for Stoick. Heavens know he's going to need it. Haven't seen him at market all week."
"Okay, Mom. Be back soon!" Astrid calls over her shoulder as she heads out. Her mother's gaze trails after her figure as she shuts the door.
It's dark out but Astrid knows the way to Ruffnut's house like the back of her hand. She can feel the worn, packed path beneath her boots as she weaves her way around the higglty-pigglty arrangement of houses. She doesn't bother smiling at the few other nightwalkers as she heads up the steps; they can barely make out her face and she hates faking anyway.
She sharply raps her knuckles on the door and waits.
At first glance, it's easy to miss the stringy hair, the brown eyes, and the dejection in the slumped posture. It's easy to see her best friend.
But it's Tuffnut, and once she realizes that, the figure in the door and the painful astonishment lodged in her chest dissolves.
"Mom sent some bread for you guys." Astrid holds the basket out to him, right under his nose so he doesn't have to tilt his head back and look up.
"Yeah? Thanks."
His voice seems thin without the rough undertone that his sister has always supplied and Astrid thinks that she isn't looking at the twin Tuffnut but at the teenager Tyr. She's never met him before because the nut's never cracked before. No one's ever broken the shell in two until the Capitol decided it wanted to eat one of the halves.
She punches the other half in the arm.
"Ow! Astrid, what the-"
Angry brown eyes stare into cold blue. Astrid shrugs. "You looked like you needed it."
"Needed what?" Tuffnut demands bitterly. "The pain?"
Astrid cocks her head. "The feeling," she decides. "You've been wandering through the days like a ghost, Tuff. Stop it. I'm not asking you to dance around with joy, but don't make this District lose three people this year."
"Two," he answers, despondent again. "Ruffnut and I made one person."
"She wasn't just Ruffnut, you know," Astrid says impatiently. Did everyone else think of her that way, even her own twin? "I don't know you half as well as I know her, but I'd bet my life you're not just Tuffnut, either." That felt like a good closure to an inspirational speech. "Look, I have to get this to Stoick. I'll see you tomorrow."
She leaves him standing there, hopefully with a few more thoughts to mull over than he's had lately, and mentally traces her path up to Stoick's home, second basket clutched firmly in her hand.
As she walks up the hill, she idly wonders why she's delivering a basket of bread to the chief logger.
It takes her a couple more seconds than it should to remember that she's delivering a basket of bread to Hiccup's father. A little panicked, and just a smidge ashamed, she reruns a few connections through her mind.
Hiccup is District 7's other Tribute.
Stoick is his father.
Therefore Stoick probably misses him.
Her steps falter.
Probably? she echoes in her mind. Probably. Hiccup is Stoick's son. There shouldn't be a probably. There isn't a probably.
It bothers her that she would think a father would probably miss his child.
But this is Hiccup she's thinking about. What she really meant…is 'Stoick is probably the only person who misses Hiccup.'
This makes her feel like an even more horrible person and she scowls as she stomps her way up the long hill.
The truth is, Hiccup never had a place in District 7. And sure, Astrid doesn't want to see him dead, but she doesn't want him back.
Is…is she really that awful a person?
Of course not, she reasons. It's not that she doesn't want Hiccup back; obviously, she doesn't want Hiccup back because she wants Ruffnut back. She has to choose and she's chosen. There's nothing to feel guilty about.
She nods to herself and gives the door a few solid knocks.
Stoick looks the same as he always does – stong and solid.
"Good evening, Astrid. What can I do for you?"
Astrid holds up the basket. "Mom sent this for you."
"Ah." The red-haired giant delicately reaches forward and grasps the handle. "Give her my thanks."
"Will do, sir," she responds smartly.
"And for the fish as well!" he calls after her as she heads back down the hill.
That makes her frown in confusion – if their family gets meat it's always the cost-effective chicken – but when she turns back around to question him, the door's already shut and there's this shattered, haggard face that she can see through the window that makes her turn around sharply.
And she can sense that crackling, empty space over the small stool in Stoick's home even as she curls into her own spot under the blanket at home hours later.