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Snotlout’s parents have never been big on hugging.
Snotlout has never resented this, has never asked for a hug despite the feeling of where hands should be on his back, where his face should be pressed against somebody’s chest. No, he’s never said anything. But a tiny part– okay, a sizable part– of him feels like he’s missed something, feels a pang of jealousy every time he sees the twins sit practically on top of each other, sees Astrid affectionately twisting Hiccup’s locks between her fingers at breakfast. He’s close with Hiccup, sure, but they rarely touch. They don’t… they’re not… affectionate.
And really, that’s all Snotlout wants.
So– so, late one night, when Snotlout is clutching his pillow and trying very hard not to cry, and somebody knocks on his door, Snotlout wipes his eyes hurriedly and says, “Uh– uh, come in.” It’s probably Hiccup, with some nerdy new invention, or Tuffnut, with some bullshit conspiracy theory. But the door swings open, creaking, and Snotlout blinks to see Fishlegs meandering in.
“Uh. Fishlegs?” Snotlout greets him awkwardly, and Fishlegs gives him a wave. “Hey.”
“… What’s up?”
Fishlegs shrugs, walking closer, and Snotlout motions for him to sit down next to him. The larger boy looks slightly surprised, but he sits down anyway, twists his hands. “Nothing, I just… I wanted to make sure you were okay. I thought you looked, um, upset earlier.”
Snotlout flinches, shocked at the admission, but Fishlegs gives him a slight, sheepish smile. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Snotlout averts his gaze. “There’s– there’s nothing to talk about. It’s just…” he sighs, mind flashing back to the argument he had with his father last week, “No, it’s nothing. It’s fine. Thanks.”
“… Okay,” Fishlegs says slowly. “Is it… is it okay if I stay?”
Snotlout nods, hugging his pillow harder. He glances up at his– his friend, a silent tell me about your day dancing on his tongue, and Fishlegs seems to understand. “… So, um, today I found rødkløver growing outside my house.”
He sniffs. “That’s a– a flower, right?”
“Yeah. It’s kind of cool. I mean, they’re really common, but they’re pretty, I think. I always think they look like little seats, maybe the faes sit on them when they’re t…”
Snotlout tunes the other’s words out, staring at his face as he speaks, sharing information, gesturing animatedly, chuckling every so often. Snotlout stares, stares, until Fishlegs stops abruptly and says, a look of concern in his bright green eyes, “Snotlout, are you sure you’re okay?”
Snotlout blinks. “Yeah– yeah, of course. Why?”
“You’re crying,” Fishlegs says quietly. Snotlout inhales sharply, wipes his eyes again, puts his hand over his mouth and tries not to openly sob, and Fishlegs places a large, gentle hand on his upper arm, and says, “Can I hug you?”
Snotlout sobs, nodding so quickly he feels dizzy, and normally he’d protest and call Fishlegs a fitte and push him away but the idea of a hug right now, a hug, feels so inviting, and he knows Fishlegs is warm, knows Fishlegs is soft, knows Fishlegs is kind, and so he lets himself fall into his arms, lets his tears soak the other’s tunic, lets Fishlegs rock him back and forth because the motion is soothing, and–
Snotlout falls asleep like that, he thinks, because when he wakes up, they’re in the same position. His neck hurts like hell, and his eyes ache and he can already tell they’re red.
But–
But now it’s okay, because now–
Now he knows what it’s like to be hugged.