I'll Stay, part 3/3
Stoic/Gobber, brothers in arms
There was a time when Stoic would have gladly have seen Gobber dead. Stoic always knew he would be the Chief of the Island of Berk, as his father had, and his father before him seven generations past. Gobber was not born of Berk, he was born in the far northern lands, were the ice never melted from the ground; a dying and stubborn people, Viking, yes, but a different and stranger breed then the people of Berk.
Once, their people had been enemies – Stoic had never met Gobber or his like in battle- but he knew all the same that when summer thaw came, Berk ships went north to raid Gobber's kith and kin. One day they returned, and Gobber was the last of them; a gift, a slave – for the Chief of Berk.
Stoic's father had been that Chief in those days, and did not want Gobber.
Stoic did, and in trying to find a place for Gobber and convince his father to keep and shelter a slave, a man who did not die in battle and who's afterlife will be cursed – but who's life is saved, by Stoic. In that way, years later, Stoic can see himself in Hiccup – just a little bit – and he thinks he can understand his son.
Gobber has scars, visible ones – and the cold never seems to bother him, even when he is away from the forge – he is trusted to make weapons (though he can never take them into battle again) that Stoic is only now getting proper training on.
"I want to train with you." Stoic says when they meet face to face and Stoic manages to blurt out words that mean something in front of him.; eyes adverted from the spinning stone that flares sparks when it touches the blade. If his cheeks are flushed, he blames it on the heat of the forge, not the sight of Gobber without a tunic and sweating.
"That," grunts Gobber as he turns the blade to the other side, his focus intent upon it "is a bad idea."
"I'm not afraid of you…" Gobber hasn't looked at him once in the eyes, not once, since Stoic took step into the forge, his voice trails off.
"And why not, huh?" Gobber asks, amused, eyes flicking up to glance at Stoic for only a moment.
"You're mine." Stoic answers, careless and stupid.
"Am I now?" Gobber's lips twitch in what could be amusement – or annoyance – but his eyes are fixed on the spinning stone and the sharpening blade, as if it represents an impossible dream.
This time, Stoic can't answer him; his tongue is caught as his mind spins in loops, caught in a trap of guilt.
"Here. I've got work to do, get gone." The handle of the sword is warm in his hand and slightly damp – Stoic imagines it comes from Gobber's sweat. He leaves silent and wordless, slinking away like shadow come morning. Gobber watches him go, but when Stoic is safely out of his sight, still pink cheeked, he licks the handle with Gobber's sweat upon it; it tastes of salt and leather and metal, and smells of musk and smoke, and he's flushed and trembling as he looks about to make sure he's alone after he does it.
The next day, Stoic is back at the forge again; his father's axe needed sharpening, and Stoic had volunteered to go see it done.
Gobber doesn't seem surprised to see him, this time Stoic doesn't speak, but Gobber knows what needs doing all the same – taking the axe in hand and shies away. Stoic wanders about the workshop – looking, he glances back, making sure Gobber's attention is fixed and focused on the sharpening before he dares reach up and touch a sturdy shield made by Gobber's hands – it's new, and the spear – and there are other more dangerous things, examples of his skill that Gobber used to express his value for the Chief, wordlessly – for this skill needs no words, it's obvious and needed.
"I…I'm sorry." Stoic says it softly, under the scraping of stone and blade, that he isn't sure that Gobber hears him.
He doesn't know until the spinning stone stops, and he looks up, and Gobber is looking at him.
"Why's that?" Gobber asks, moving over to Stoic and putting the axe in his hand, his flingers brush and tangle and clench and Gobber lets go of the axe, but Stoic doesn't – he can't.
Stoic only shakes his head, tongue caught and tangling again – for a far different reason, and he fleas when Gobber says nothing else, but waits, and Stoic can't say it and can't let go.
His fingers tingle with fire-like warmth the whole way home, until he's in bed, tangled in the sheets and furs and muffling moans and cries.
Gobber comes to the dragon cage the next day, when Stoic is training, and he nearly loses his head to a Hideous Zippleback at catching sight of him. Gobber throws a rock at one head, which hisses and snaps at the head that was about to make a snack out of Stoic. They tangle up, hissing and snapping, until Stoic's training teacher puts the beast down.
"What was that Stoic? Focus! Gobber, work with him, won't you?" There is further muttering into his beard, but Stoic pays it no mind, he looks to Gobber and wonders if the guilt of what he's done is plain on his face.
"Aye, sir." Gobber presses his lips together, looking to the fallen dragon, then to Stoic, clearly unimpressed. He says nothing to Stoic, however much Stoic might wish he would. He has a shield in hand, and that is all, as the dragon-mimicking call of a horn goes out – and then Stoic has no time to ask why Gobber gets no real weapon. An answering cry sends chills down Stoic's spine that knot in his belly; Monstrous Nightmare.
"No – wait!" Stoic says, but Gobber and the training teacher both ignore him; his teacher rubbing his hands together with a vicious look to Gobber, as if he can't wait to see him killed. Gobber only glances at him – putting himself in front of the younger boy.
"Hold your ground – and get down!" Gobber snarls at him, and Stoic obeys, his knees feeling too weak to hold him up, so he drops to the ground. It's just in time too, as Gobber had put the shield forward just as the dragon snarls and a storm of fire embraces the ground around them.
Everything is burning and golden, molten fires like a forge. And just like in a forge, Stoic quickly learns, Gobber is right at home facing a dragon.
"Run!" Gobber orders and Stoic obeys.
Gobber throws the flaming half-melted shield into the Nightmare's eyes. It goes after him as Stoic watches, and he realizes Gobber is as good as dead, because Stoic is the one with the sword – and another shield.
He sees the Nightmare's spine quivering as it prepares to flame at Gobber, a moving target.
Stoic stops and pants as he aims himself, and rolls into the way of the Nightmare's fire and Gobber who threw himself face down in the dirt, arms over his head and chest heaving as he closes his eyes – prepared for pain, prepared for death; and granted neither. Gobbe quickly realizes that he's not dead, and opens his eyes, turning to face Stoic who's put his weight behind the shied, holding it up as flame licks and all around, like a Viking cleaning the plate of a well cooked meal.
The Nightmare shrieks at being denied, but backs slowly away. Gobber's grin is bloodthirsty as he picks up the sword Stoic had dropped, Stoic throws the melted shield at the Nightmare in a trick to get it distracted – so recently learned – and Gobber's aim is true as he puts the beast down, the blade coming up from under the jaw.
Stoic cries out in victory, knowing that he's a man now – he's proven himself, with Gobber at his side.
His father is proud, and they feast – and when Stoic is supposed to go to bed, he sneaks out, a boy-turned-man's tradition, but where he goes isn't. The forge is still burning when Stoic enters, and Gobber sits by the fire, and when Stoic joins him – Gobber looks him in the eye.
His breath catches at what he sees there; amused pride, spiteful lust, and a deeper thrum of brotherhood.
Gobber is his, its true – but no more or less then Stoic is Gobber's.
Among the people on the Island of Berk, a slave can earn his or her freedom back, doing the great deeds of Vikings, and certainly Gobber is free this night ever-after. The saving of the Chief's son, and the slaying of the Nightmare, it earns freedom among them.
"What will you do?" Stoic breaths the question out, soft, his heart pounding in his ears as he waits – he doesn't breath again, not until Gobber answers. Stoic will never admit to being afraid of losing his friend, not after that night – but he might have begged, had Gobber said anything else.
"I think I'll stay." Gobber muses, and Stoic can't help clutch Gobber to himself in something like a hug: he denies the tears on his cheeks, but he'll take the kiss offered any day. Stoic slithers into his lap, and Gobbers hands cradle his hips, rocking them up and down, against the solid length that Stoic can feel.
His cheeks burn and Gobber's lips press against his neck, nose cold and nuzzling there, then sharp teeth against his earlobe, and a hot lap of a tongue that burns all the way though him.
He shudders and shivers and Gobber unfastens his leggings, tugging then down to his thighs, then pausing to admire the view, all red hair and soft tanned skin. The rest of him goes just as red as his hair, when his fingers fumble with untying Gobber's own belt, he laughs soft and just as eager, helping, and then letting Stoic sit on his thighs and get a good long look at him. All pale and gold, like molten metal, and Stoic is like flame itself as he latches around Gobber, demanding and greedy.
He suckles on the fingers Gobber offer him, knowing some of what is coming next, when rough fingers probe at his ass, he kisses Gobber and closes his eyes and tries not to think or tense.
"Aah.." He breaths in protest, wriggling in the older youths lap, desperate and hoping when Gobber pauses that it doesn't mean he'll stop.
"Ya sure?" Its' the only chance Stoic will get to stop this, to say no.
"Need this, need you." Stoic closes his eyes and shakes, he's never felt like this, never trusted anyone this much, and when Gobber kisses his forehead and nudges forward, Stoic doesn't cry out as he's filled up. He knows this can be painful, he expects it – was told of it as bluntly as he was told a woman's first time will hurt her, and his own first time will hurt as much.
Gobber bucks gently against him, soothing and bobbing, like the ocean tide – inevitable. He pants and breaths, and shivers – just barely stopping himself from begging for more. Gobber somehow knows it, and with hands that will leave well-earned bruises in the morning, he helps Stoic ride him, until Stoic isn't sure which of them is taking the other – because his body burns with Gobber and interlocked like this, he doesn't know where one of them ends and the other begins, he's filled up and taken and then overflowing pleasure makes him shake and cry out.
Gobber holds him tight, thrusting him up and down, using him, and Stoic clings tight and whimpers and gasps until Gobber shudders to a slow gasping halt.
Mine, Stoic thinks.
"Mine." Gobber says with a kiss that is rough and pleasantly burning.