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It’s a bit of a wonder that the chatter and laughter of teenagers can be heard over the blaring music. Hiccup pushes his way through the crowd, carefully avoiding someone who looks like he’s about to throw up, until he finds a girl who looks vaguely sober (or at least not wasted).
“Have you seen Astrid Hofferson?” he shouts over the music. About thirty minutes ago, Ruffnut called him, yelling something about a drunk Astrid asking for him. What was he going to do, say no? To Astrid? Of course not.
“Upstairs, I think,” the girl shouts back.
The stairs are only a little less crowded than the rest of the house, but they’re still a struggle to traverse, what with all the people walking up and down and tired party-goers sitting on the steps. Berk parties aren’t normally this wild. However, when Snotlout Jorgenson hosts an end of the school year party at the Jorgenson/Haddock lake house, which is a lot more secluded than everyone else’s houses, people go, if only because the threat of neighbors calling the cops isn’t as prominent.
Most of the bedrooms (including Hiccup’s own) are occupied, though not by the person Hiccup is looking for.
The bathroom lights are turned off, but the dark shape of Astrid is a stark contrast against the white bathtub. Someone has thrown a blanket over her and rolled her onto her side, blond hair splayed around her head like a halo. A halo with vomit in it.
Kneeling by the tub, Hiccup places a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Astrid,” he says, loudly to be heard over the music, and shakes her.
Fortunately, she’s not so out of it that she’s completely unconscious. “I was almost asleep,” she murmurs, tucking the blanket further up her body. Although it sounds more like, “I w’z amo alee.”
“Ruffnut said you wanted me to take you home.”
She cracks an eye open, then the other, slow smile spreading over her face. “Hiccup!” she exclaims happily, shooting up and almost cracking her head open against the wall behind her. “Hiccup, you came. Hi!”
“Of course I did,” he says, standing and pulling her up with him. She rocks side to side when she stands up, gripping his hand so tightly he genuinely worries the circulation will be cut off, blanket around her shoulders still. “What’s got you drinking enough to get you like this?”
“M’stupid,” she grumbles, shoulders dropping. She steps out of the tub with his help, leaning her entire body weight against his side.
“Not really,” he protests as they start making their way toward the stairs. “Although drinking so much you pass out in my bathtub is a bit stupid.”
She shakes her head. “I didn’ mean tha’. You’re stupid.” She frowns at him. It must hurt her, probably already aching, head, because she slaps a hand to her forehead. “Let’s sit down,” she says, immediately plopping down in the middle of the staircase, pulling Hiccup down with her.
He moves to the step above hers, scooting them both to the side, Astrid sitting between his legs. Sighing, she leans her forehead against his knee. One of her hands, the one not still holding onto Hiccup’s with a vice grip, finds the hem of his jeans, tugging at a loose thread.
“I’m stupid?” he coaxes. Astrid nods, forehead rubbing against the denim covering his knee. “Why am I stupid?”
“Moving,” she mutters, so quietly he almost doesn’t hear her. “Away from me.”
Well, that’s true. They are both moving, because this is their senior year and neither of them is staying anywhere near Berk for college. Hiccup has been, in Snotlout’s words, moping about it more and more as the end of senior year, graduation, college, moves closer. Who can blame him? He is leaving his best friend, who he also happens to have had a crush on since they were thirteen.
He wasn’t aware of the fact that Astrid was also moping about it.
“You’re moving, too,” he reminds her. “Stupid.”
She doesn’t respond. Instead, she shoots up, wobbling a bit, and drags him down the stairs. They make their way to the driveway, where Hiccup’s car is parked. He stations her at the passenger’s side with instructions to stay there and get some fresh air while he looks for any of their friends to let them know that he has found her.
Two minutes later, he finds Ruffnut playing beer pong. She waves him off, scolding him for interrupting her game, and he returns to the car. The driver’s side door is a bit of a bother getting to open; as Hiccup is wrestling with it, Tuffnut comes over and hands Astrid a red solo cup.
“Water,” he clarifies when Hiccup raises an eyebrow. “Honestly, do you think I’m a heathen?”
Astrid downs the whole cup and hands it back to Tuffnut. “Hiccup, your family’s water tastes really weird,” she says, smacking her lips.
“Oops,” says Tuffnut just as realization dawns upon Hiccup.
“Tuff!”
“Sorry!”
Tuffnut hands Astrid the other cup, the one with actual water, patting her shoulder. Hiccup sighs, but, as the damage is already done, watches his friend stumble back into the house. The door finally gives in and pops open, slamming into his leg, drawing a yelp out of him. Astrid, struggling to get in on the other side of the car, giggles into her cup of water.
“Stop laughing at me,” he mutters, more to himself than her, as he walks around the car. Really, he should be the one laughing at her, but he is not because he is a great friend. This is the thanks he gets for dropping everything to pick her up without even laughing at her expense.
Once Astrid is sitting in her seat, sipping at her water, he walks back around the car. “Seatbelt,” he says as he buckles his own.
“Hm?” She stares blankly at him.
“Put your seatbelt on.”
When she only continues staring blankly, he leans over and buckles her in. Leaning her head against the headrest, she smiles lazily at him, until a yawn breaks it, jaw cracking.
“Stupid, nice you,” she mumbles, reaching to turn the stereo on. She misses and gives up, curling her knees into her chest.
Hiccup doesn’t think about the vomit in her hair staining the seats until he’s helping her out of her car and spots it. There’s not much he can do about that now; he just sighs and makes a mental note to fix that in the morning as he leads Astrid to her house. They go around to the back door. Normally, they would use the window, but Hiccup doesn’t trust Astrid to be able to make the climb without breaking something.
Thankfully, Astrid stays quiet as they make the climb to her bedroom, save for a few giggles. It isn’t until he tries to get her into bed that she starts to protest, wiggling out of his grip.
“I have to wash my hair,” she says stubbornly, dancing away from his hands (although it’s more like stumbling away.)
With a sigh, Hiccup deflates. “Fine, but I’m coming with you.” He is not leaving her to drown in her inebriated state.
She shrugs, stumbling past him and to the bathroom, crashing into the wall as she goes. Wincing, Hiccup follows, praying that her parents will not wake up. He listens for any sounds of them stirring as he turns the water on.
Satisfied with the water temperature, and with the silence from the Hofferson’s master bedroom, he turns back to Astrid.
“What are you doing?” he says, face burning, and not because of the steam from the water.
“I can’t shower with my clothes on,” says Astrid, hands fumbling with the clasps of her bra.
He grabs one of her wrists to stop her. “You’re just washing your hair, not showering.” God, she’s going to kill him one day.
“You’re no fun,” she pouts, but leaves her bra on, thank God.
Kneeling, head bent over the edge of the tub and swaying in a circle, Astrid takes the shower head and rinses her hair, getting water all over her back as well. Meanwhile, Hiccup frets about her shoulders, trying to figure out a way to keep her steady without touching her somewhere inappropriate. In the end, he settles for holding onto her shoulders.
Once all the vomit is rinsed out, she slumps against the tub, shower head still in hand. Resting her cheek against the edge, she looks back at him over her shoulder with a soft smile.
“You’re the greatest,” she mumbles, eyelids drooping. “I want to kiss you.”
Hiccup’s stomach swoops down into his shoes and up to his chest again. She really is going to kill him one day, and that seems to be today.
“You’re drunk,” he reminds her, and himself.
Shaking her head, Astrid closes her eyes. “I want to kiss you when I’m sober, too. I really like you, Hiccup, a lot.”
“You’re drunk,” he repeats stupidly.
She really is; he has never seen her like this before. They go to parties, if only because their friends force them to, but she knows her tolerance and to pace herself. This soft and sleepy and apparently very affectionate side of her is totally new to him. Not that she’s never affectionate; she just shows it differently, with light punches and sarcastic quips to match Hiccup’s own. Never like…this.
“Uh-oh,” says Astrid suddenly.
That’s all the warning he gets before she’s emptying the rest of her stomach into the bathtub.
Swearing, he pulls her hair back behind her head, patting her upper back awkwardly. Her skin is warm and wet. She keeps her iron grip on the shower head, as if it will give her support, until her retching turns into dry heaving, until finally she coughs one last time and then draws in a huge breath of air.
He rubs her back soothingly, up and down, until her breathing evens out into something more normal. After making sure that there’s no new vomit in her hair, and washing the vomit out of the tub, he helps her up and to her bedroom. She sits on the bed; he can practically feel her eyes burning against his back as he looks through her closet for something to sleep in.
I want to kiss you.
I want to kiss you when I’m sober, too.
I really like you, a lot.
Firmly shoving those thoughts into a dark corner of his brain to think about when he’s wallowing in his room at night, he picks a t-shirt Astrid usually sleeps in when they have sleepovers and a pair of sweatpants. Turning his back to give her some privacy, he spreads a blanket over the floor next to her bed.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she says.
He looks back at her cautiously to find her snuggled up under the covers. “Nah, I don’t want to wake up to you vomiting all over me,” he says, turning around fully. Also, she’s still drunk, or at least tipsy, after all the vomiting, her words bumping into each other, and he doesn’t want to take advantage of her. Even though he has slept in her bed before.
I want to kiss you. I want to kiss you when I’m sober, too. I really like you, a lot.
Yeah. And that, too.
Fuck him, and fuck the universe.
“Rude,” she mutters, throwing a pillow at him.
He tucks the pillow under his head, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Fumbling a bit in the dark, he manages to get his prosthetic off and leans it against her bed. She falls asleep half-way through her murmur of goodnight. Chuckling to himself, Hiccup turns onto his side and drifts off to sleep.
–
Astrid wakes with the stupid sun. It casts it stupid light straight onto her eyes, nearly blinding her as she opens them. It certainly does not help her stupid pounding headache.
“Ugh,” she grumbles.
A lump of blankets next to her bed stirs, familiar eyes blinking blearily up at her. “How are you feeling?”
“Horrible,” she groans, burying her face in her pillow to block out the stupid rays from the stupid sun. Stupid summer and stupid early sunrises.
He laughs at her. There’s a cracking noise to her left; she can imagine him stretching, popping the kinks out of his back. From sleeping on her bedroom floor. Because she was completely wasted last night.
I want to kiss you.
The memory slams against the forefront of her mind along with another throb of pain. She buries her head further into the pillow, hoping that maybe she’ll suffocate herself by accident. Hiccup probably hates her now. Either that or things are going to get extremely awkward.
She hears him put his prosthetic back on and pad out of the room. He comes back with Tylenol and a glass of water, which Astrid is pretty sure is the cup her family stores toothbrushes in, but whatever. As she washes the Tylenol down with greedy gulps of water, she comes to a decision about I want to kiss you when I’m sober, too.
Face it head-on, like she always does.
(And maybe come up with a few excuses, some lies.)
“Listen, about the things I said last night…,” she murmurs, rolling the glass between her palms.
“You remember that?” he says, surprised. He sits down in front of her on the bed, criss-cross applesauce, mirroring her. Their knees are almost touching.
She nods. “Vaguely,” she lies (she remembers it clearly; the shocked look on his face, you’re drunk). “Please, just forget it, okay? It was dumb, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Oh,” he says, shoulders dropping, but not with relief; with disappointment. But she’s probably just imagining things. “Of course,” he murmurs, patting her knee awkwardly. Like a bro slap on the back. “Everyone says stupid things when they’re drunk.”
Humming non-comitically, she leans back to put the glass on her cluttered nightstand. Her moves are torturously slow to delay the moment she turns back to look him in the eyes. If she does, she’s sure he will be able to read her immediately. Somehow, he always manages to know what she’s feeling before even she does.
He probably already knew that she likes him.
“You good?” he asks, nudging her knee with his own.
Face this head-on, Astrid, she tells herself.
(No excuses, no lies.)
She picks at a loose thread in the hem of his jeans. (Did he sleep in his jeans last night?) “I don’t want things to change between us,” she starts. “And we can stop talking if you want to, since we’re already leaving for college. I understand if you do.”
“Astrid?” says Hiccup, voice trembling a bit.
“You know when people say that drunk words are sober thoughts?” she says, wrapping the loose thread around her index finger until it’s cutting off circulation. “They’re right.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then another moment; long enough for Astrid’s heart to drop into the bottom of her stomach, apologies forming on her tongue, until he says, “Oh,” and he doesn’t sound horrified at all. In fact, he sounds almost happy.
She looks up at him through her fringe. He’s grinning from ear to ear, eyes wide. It makes her heart jump right up into its usual spot in her chest, fluttering against her ribs.
“Oh,” he says again, his grin, somehow, impossibly, growing. “Really? You want to kiss me even when you’re sober?”
Heat spreads across her face upon hearing him repeating her words from last night. “I thought you were going to be horrified,” she says, looking between both of his eyes for any sign of that horrification.
A laugh bubbles out of his throat, light and airy, disbelieving. “I thought you knew about it, like everyone else,” he chuckles, leaning forward, knees pressing against hers, bed springs creaking.
“Knew about what?”
“My very obvious crush on you.”
“Oh, my God.” Astrid buries her head in her hands, laughing at herself and the whole situation.
“You thought I was gonna be horrified?” he says, incredulous.
She straightens up to land a punch on his bicep. “Shut up. When have you ever given any sign that you had a crush on me?”
He shrugs. “I dunno, but all of our friends have known since forever. Snotlout is unbearable. Well, guess I’ll have the last laugh when he finds out that you like me back.” A dopey smile spreads over his face, softer than the grin from two minutes ago. “You like me.”
“Yes, I do, dork,” she says. Then, feeling brave, she raises an eyebrow, leaning closer, and very much enjoying the pink flush across his cheeks when she does. “Are you going to do something about it?”
His eyes drop to her lips, tongue darting out to wet his own. The movement catches her eye, heart jumping in her chest.
“Can I?”
“Please,” she says, trying for a coy invitation and landing on a plea.
A breath stutters in his throat, and then he leans in and closes the distance between them. His lips are soft, gentle against her own. The kiss feels like the comforting warmth of winter mornings spent in front of the TV together, of soft laughter on summer afternoons, of secrets whispered in the dead of night; like homecoming.
One of his hands cradles her jaw, the other landing on her thigh, just above her knee. She tilts her head to deepen the kiss, fingers carding through his hair. Ever since she first touched it, when they were fifteen and bored and she busied her hands with braiding a few strands of hair, she has been obsessed with it, with how soft it is. Wrapping a fistful of hair, she yanks gently, eliciting a groan from the back of his throat.
She’s going to have to remember that.
With one last peck, she draws back. He rubs circles over her kneecap with his thumb.
“We should do that again,” he says.
“Dork,” she chuckles, ruffling his hair before moving her hands down to his shoulders (they’re very nice shoulders).
“Your dork,” he says, almost like a question, tone tilting upward toward the end.
“My dork,” she confirms, leaning her head into his hand, which is still cradling her jaw.
He rubs a thumb over her cheek. “What about boyfriend?”
Shooting him an evil smile, she tilts her head, pretending to think. “No, I think after all this time I’ve spent crushing on you I’ll skip the boyfriend offer.” Laughing, she presses a kiss against the heel of his palm. “You’re so dumb,” she informs him (because someone ought to).
“Hey,” he protests, pinching the soft flesh of her thigh through her sweats. “You’re mean, you know that?”
“You like it,” she hums, pressing another kiss to his palm. “That’s why you’re my boyfriend, and I’m your girlfriend. No take-backsies.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, M’lady,” he murmurs. “Now come here and make up for lost time.”
Well, she isn’t going to protest against that.