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Snotlout doesn’t want to go home.
Hiccup says he can stay over at his house, and Snotlout wants to jump at the offer, because– because he wants that. He does. It leers at him, jumps out of shadows, taunts him from just above– but he can’t. Hiccup– Hiccup has so much on his plate already, has his father to look after, has a village to run while the usual suspect is out of action, so– so, no, he says. I’ll be fine, he says. And Hiccup gives him one of those Hiccup–y calculating looks, up and down as if he’s trying to predict the future through a stare, and eventually says, caution spilling from his mouth along with the words, “Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”
Snotlout nods, but Hiccup must sense the automation of it, because he glares, grabs Snotlout’s arm, says, “’Lout, I’m serious. I’m– I’ll be here, okay?” And his expression, melting ice and freezing warmth, is so filled with concern and– and tender, loving, care , that all Snotlout can do is whisper, “Yeah. Okay, I– I will.”
And he does.
He shows up on Hiccup’s doorstep when the moon is three–quarters of the way into the night’s journey, stifling sobs, touching his neck every so often and staring the streaks of blood down like he can will them to disappear. He knocks, once, twice, three times, and eventually, Hiccup opens the door, the bags under his eyes more pronounced than they were the last time Snotlout saw him. He looks annoyed for a thinly–split second, until it seems to register that it’s Snotlout, and then he’s immediately ushering him in and pushing him down into a seat, rushing into Stoick’s bedroom and procuring a bucket and a clean rag.
Snotlout sniffs as Hiccup begins to clean his wound, as small as it is, and forces himself to stare at the ceiling until he can bend his neck again. “Did you– did you use this water for your dad?” he asks, and Hiccup gives him an unimpressed look. “’Lout. Do you think I did?”
Snotlout chuckles weakly, and Hiccup dabs at his neck with the rag to dry it. Once he’s done, he sits down as well, gives Snotlout the same once–over he always has, and pulls him into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry,” he breathes, his small– seriously, so tiny– clashing with Snotlout’s large one. Snotlout cries into Hiccup’s shoulder for a few minutes before letting himself fall back onto the seat.
Hiccup sighs, a hint of anger– not at him, at Spitelout, Snotlout has to remind himself– glinting in his eyes. “What happened?”
Snotlout looks away. “He– he found out. About…”
“Shit,” Hiccup says simply, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times. “Shit, I’m– I’m so sorry, Snotlout. That’s– Gods, I’m going to–”
“Don’t,” Snotlout interrupts. “You won’t make it better.”
Hiccup groans. “I– I know. I’m sorry. I just can’t stand it. He has,” and he takes ahold of Snotlout’s hand, “no right to hurt you like that. You don’t deserve it.”
Snotlout gives him a small smile. “Thanks.”
Hiccup sighs, letting go of his hand and standing up, shaking slightly. “I’ll make us some tea, okay?” And Snotlout nods gratefully, discards his boots and pulls his legs up to his chest.
And as he sips his tea fifteen minutes later, he contemplates, ponders the concept of home and what makes one. Berk has been home. The Edge has been home. Caves and sea stacks have been home– and all these things have one thing in common.
Home is with Hiccup.