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It’s not often Snotlout asks for help. He’s a viking , for Thor’s sake. They bludgeon their heads and fight each other for sport. And, as his dad always said, drilling it into his head since he could toddle, “rest is for the weak.”
But when he finds himself snapping awake, panting and shaking, knowing he’s a viking, strong and tough and invincible, all goes out of the proverbial window.
“Snotlout?” Fishlegs mumbles from the other side of the clubhouse, rubbing his eyes.
Of course. Of course he’s awake.
“Fishface?”
“That’s Fish legs , thank you very much,” he corrects huffily, before his face softens. “What are you doing up?”
He looks around for a feasible excuse. It’s a dark, cloudy, cold night, and the gang -being the brilliant planners they are- chose it for a sleepover, or something, Snotlout stopped paying attention after the first few drinks. It can’t have been more than a few hours after everyone settled down, judging by the inky-blackness of the sky.
He settles with denial. “Uh, nothing. Just, you know, looking at the stars, or whatever.”
“It was a bad dream, wasn’t it?” Fishlegs says softly, and Snotlout’s in no mood to deny it.
“So what?”
“So? You deserve to be cared for when it happens. I mean, I get nightmares and bad dreams about the wars and stuff all the time,” Fishlegs says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like the whole group screams themselves awake in a sweaty, crying mess, and goes to breakfast like it never happened.
Maybe he’s not the only one... maybe the others can help him.
Suddenly, the childish need to be loved and cared for and -Thor damn it- babied begins to swamp him, clashing with the fire-hot burn of needing independence like a lifeline.
He settles with letting him creep across the room and sit beside him on his bedroll, their bare shoulders touching.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Fishlegs finally asks, his voice barely above a whisper.
“No.” He crosses his arms. Maybe this is a bad idea.
“That’s fine, I won’t make you,” he says, again, so infuriatingly calmly it makes Snotlout want to do something childish, like scream, or cry, or rip his hair out, or stomp around and wake everybody so they can lay bare witness to how hurt he really is.
But he’s a Jorgenson. And he’s eighteen, even though he spends half his time feeling ten years older and ten years younger. But he’s eighteen nonetheless; he should act like it.
“Alright then.” He cautiously, like testing the waters of the ocean, presses further into Fishlegs’s side. His skin is warm and soft, and he smells faintly of the Lingonberry oil he uses on Meatlug’s skin. It’s -honestly- nice.
“Did you enjoy the party?” Fishlegs asks.
“We were celebrating something?” Snotlout figures he must’ve missed something. The alcohol isn’t all out of his system just yet, maybe his mind’s still foggy.
“No, but I think it’s enough to celebrate the fact we’re not dead, with all the near misses we’ve had.” Fishlegs chuckles into the dark, and Snotlout feels like he’s been hit with a ton of bricks. He’s right, it is a miracle he’s alive, and all his friends and their dragons are. They fly hundreds of feet above the ground on fire breathing reptiles and fight armies of people actively trying to kill them all. It’s quite impressive, if you think about it.
Yet, all it feels to Snotlout is daunting. The prospect of death isn’t an unfamiliar one, but he still is met with thoughts of a world without one of his friends, a world without Hookfang , and he has to shut the thoughts down in fear his heart would bleed through his chest.
“Are you- are you crying?” Fishlegs aska incredulously.
Snotlout rapidly shakes his head, feeling his body curling in, rocking on the spot, his thumb travelling towards his mouth. As he chews on his flesh, all he can think about is how his dad used to put a horrible concoction of boar dung and firethorn on his thumb to stop him from sucking it.
“It’s alright,” Fishlegs soothes, rubbing his back like a baby. “You let it out.”
“I don’ wanna die,” Snotlout says, very quietly, and Fishlegs understands at once, because he whispers back “me too,” and carries on cradling him in his arms like he’s the most precious thing in the world.
“Can you keep a secret?” Snotlout asks suddenly, his heart in his throat, the words on the tip of his tongue before he can overthink them.
“Sure, of course I can.”
He takes a deep breath. “I still sleep with Labmy Lamb . The toy sheep my mom gave me when I was a kid? I cuddle him every night.”
“Do you want me to get him now?” Fishlegs asks.
“Bag on the side,” Snotlout mumbles into Fishlegs’s shoulder. Fishlegs unwraps himself from Snotlout’s body and leans over to retrieve the stuffed animal. The cloth is worn, and a button hangs loosely. It needs fixing, he immediately notices.
But that can wait for another day. Right now, he’s just glad Snotlout’s still a tad too drunk to properly remember this.
“C’mon. You need your sleep.” Fishlegs presses the sheep into Snotlout’s arms and he bashfully cuddles it close to his chest. Before Fishlegs can think about it, he’s manoeuvring Snotlout to the floor, still in his arms, cradling him like-
Like lovers do.
Fishleg’s face turns beetroot red. “Shall I-”
“Stay. Please.”
Wrapping his arms around Snotlout’s torso, Fishlegs stays.