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That settled it: Astrid was stupid, sitting there with her knees pressed anxiously together, trying not to fidget on that stool. Her eyes darted from her split knuckles, to the freckled hands trying to stymie the bleeding with a rag. Those green eyes were fixed on her injury with a calm sort of pity. That look might have been condescending coming from anyone else, but her shoulders slumped in shame because it was him. She felt like she was being silently scolded: a placid rebuke that only Hiccup was capable of.
She did not need his permission to brawl; it had been warranted, honestly. Snotlout more or less asked for a punch to the face every time he opened his mouth. Anyone, anywhere, could have knocked him out and no one would have asked questions. The assumption was always that he deserved it, because he so frequently did. Snotlout’s unconscious form was often met with a resounding, “Eh. What’d he do this time?”
No.Astrid certainly was not seeking permission to have fought the Jorgenson loudmouth…but she wanted to hear it was alright—from Hiccup.
No one else’s backslap or high-five would do. She needed to hear him laugh, see him smile as she told the tale; anything that indicated he was not disappointed.
But he did not say anything.
He carefully tended to her wound with those nimble fingers, lips pursed. His thoughts were pouring from him—wordless, but oddly loud–and beyond Astrid’s ability to decipher.
“You think I was being stupid,” she blurted out, cutting the intolerable silence.
Hiccup glanced up, surprised at her outburst; and Astrid silently cursed the gods for giving him eyes so disarming. She was always taken aback by them; as if she had never noticed, as if she did not already know.
He sighed wearily, and it scalded Astrid just as much as if his answer had been a simple “yes.”
“No. I don’t think you’re stupid. Impulsive, maybe,” he said, setting the rag aside and reaching for the bandages: pristine strips of linen.
“Look who’s talking!”
Hiccup gave her a wry smile and began wrapping up her hand. He was meticulous, yet far gentler than anyone else would have been. The way he looped the bandages around her fingers, pulling it taut over her raw knuckles, was almost too tender. She had to remind herself she was presently miffed at him.
“Snotlout probably deserved it,” Hiccup conceded.
“He did,” Astrid huffed, trying to ignore the way he held her hand still in his with steady pressure.
A warmth began to creep up beneath her tunic, and she could not remember when she had first started to get the tingles at the most innocent of touches between them; nor at what point she cared about his opinion. Really cared—when the want of his approval had turned into a self-serving need for it.
“I just don’t think he’s worth this.” Hiccup nodded to her hand. “For every dumb thing that comes out of his mouth, he’s said another dozen things just like it. He’ll say another dozen more.”
“It was about you,” Astrid replied quietly.
Hiccup missed the final loop with the bandage and froze, the faintest hitch in his breath. He stared at her, brow knitted.
“Yeah,” she continued. “Something about you and me—something about your unfitness to be the next Chief, and to be…” She cleared her throat and glanced down, appreciating how nice it was to have his long fingers curled around hers.
In her head, she could still hear Snotlout’s snide comments about her “misguided” interest in Hiccup; and how pitiful he saw his cousin’s mutual interest in her. Even though she had denied they felt anything beyond friendship, Snotlout was relentless. He kept insinuating carnal acts had already transpired between them; he assumed she had been left unsatisfied. Snotlout had taken great care to lay out in all the most lewd ways Hiccup was sure to fall short of barely acceptable—in his opinion.
“I don’t remember what he said, exactly,” she lied. “Something vulgar, I’m sure. I already had him on the ground before he could finish.”
“Ah,” was Hiccup’s vague reply.
He continued to mend her hand with a thoughtful twist of his lips. The silence was heavy and suffocating; and Astrid might have screamed if it would not make her look unhinged.
She had hoped for a small sliver of gratitude for busting her hand open on Snotlout’s jaw. But perhaps that was the problem: a double standard that a boy could fight for her honor but she could not fight for his? Slander was tolerable but emasculation was not; and the injustice made her other hand ball into a fist.
She was about to snap at him, regretting her display of loyalty. Hiccup seemed oblivious to the tertiary effects and insinuation of public actions. She contemplated leaping to her feet, offering him a terse and hollow “thanks” before storming out of his house. Anger would mask her embarrassment, as it so often did…
But Hiccup gazed up at her fondly with a slight nod of his head.
“I get it,” he said, “but next time, we’ll just send Toothless and spare your hand.” He turned to his dragon, curled up by the hearth. “Right, bud?”
The Night Fury warbled softly and Astrid shrugged. “Or I’ll send Stormfly. She’d like the practice. Moving targets are more fun. Snotlout can run fast when provoked.”
Hiccup laughed, sweet and genuine; and her frustration with him evaporated like summer rain.
She had not realized it at first, but when she glanced down again, his other hand was in her uninjured one. Her thumb rubbed over his knuckles, tracing the obvious freckles there. What was more surprising still, was that he did not seem to notice. His smile did not falter while his hand remained in hers, warm and relaxed, like they touched that way all the time…
Like his hand was meant to be there.