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A lone coyote cries out in the distance. "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you," Snotlout recites. The words are old and familiar on his tongue, tasting of his youth. The beads of the rosary dig into his palm as he clenches his fist around it. "Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus."
A shaky inhalation stops his words. Tears prick at his eyes; boil behind them, deep in his sinuses. Snotlout's knees ache where they press into the gravel and dirt just outside his tent. It's better than the grits on his bare skin that marred his childhood, but is it a good thing? Shouldn't he be aching worse? This newest sin isn't like the sins of a child; it isn't as if he'd stolen treats from the counter while his mother slaved away in the kitchen to provide, or as if he had spoken poorly of his father. Snotlout had well and truly damned himself this time.
"Holy Mary," he whispers roughly, "Mother of God, pray for us sinners."
Snotlout had been a fool; Eret had made Snotlout a fool. Except, that really isn't fair to Eret, is it? It's unfair to pin everything on Eret when Snotlout had been the one egging Eret on from the very beginning. Eret never would have humiliated Snotlout that way if Snotlout had simply stopped thinking such lecherous thoughts about the older man.
"Now, and at the hour of our death. Amen."
"That's not the proper way to recite," Astrid's rough voice cuts through the black of night.
Snotlout doesn't bother turning to face the blonde. "I think I know my prayers, Hofferson," he replies. His voice is gruff and tired, and his lungs sting from the cold of desert nights. "Unless you're insinuating that my pops didn't raise a proper Christian."
The crunch of gravel under boot draws nearer as Astrid saunters closer. She huffs as she drops to sit next to him, one knee bent to support her arm. Snotlout risks sneaking a glance toward Astrid from the corner of his eye. She looks tired down to her bones, gray smudges beneath her eyes like charcoal and a heaviness to her lids that Snotlout has yet to see her without. Despite this, she carries herself with a kind of dignified grace that you only see in men— or women, Snotlout supposes— who were born to lead. Her shoulders are firmly squared and her face is a mask of peace.
"That isn't what I meant and you know it, Jorgenson," Astrid fires back.
"Then please, elaborate; tell me what you meant." He isn't sure why he eggs her on. Usually, all that does is open him up to more mockery. It's not as if he's unused to mockery; his father had always said he was a fool and, in all honesty, Snotlout was inclined to agree with that assessment. Maybe it's just another way to punish himself. He deserves it, after all, for dragging beautiful Eret down with his sinful thoughts. "Enlighten me, O' great and wise Hofferson girl."
Astrid just scoffs, her pale-moon eyes rolling to the sky. "What crawled up your ass and died?" Before Snotlout can form a retort of his own she barrels on, "You're being obnoxious and bullheaded. More than usual, I mean."
Snotlout allows silence to stretch between them, his thumb dragging over each bead of his rosary in a steady pattern. Finally, once he's sure he's found his footing again, he says, "Do you think I'm going to Hell?"
"Probably," Astrid answers plainly. When Snotlout snaps his head to look at her, so fast his neck twinges with a dull pain, she doesn't appear angry, or cocky. She doesn't even look particularly proud of herself the way she does when she usually taunts Snotlout. No, she looks serious, contemplative. Her eyes are downcast and her mouth is pulled into a thin-lipped grimace. "We all are, I'd bet."
A scoff escapes his lips, loud and harsh in the quiet of the desert night. "I thought you weren't the betting type, Miss Hofferson." He looks into the distance, eyes settled into the dip between the distant mountain tops that cut through the starry sky like teeth. His breath fogs the air, puffing damp warmth over his lips. The fingers curled around his rosary twitch. Fuck he needs a cigarette. "Thought you left that to the riffraff like myself."
Astrid shrugs, something Snotlout feels more than he sees. Her arm presses against his own, from elbow to shoulder. It's a grounding feeling, a warmth that he felt even through layers of cotton. "It feels like a pretty safe bet. I'd be stupid not to take it."
"Why?"
She turns to face him, icy stare burning into his skin like hellfire. "Why what?" Snotlout can practically feel her breath on him, sickening and slick but familiar all the same. Just like when they were younger and both new to the road, clumsily fumbling against each other in a tent to fend off the loneliness and isolation.
Back then Snotlout had thought of their relationship as salvation. Now he recognizes it for what it truly was; soft, delicate puppy-love between two idiot kids. It isn't something he regrets— at least not really— but he can't say he's proud of it either. It simply was. A piece of his past he'll treasure until the day he can't.
"Focus in, partner," Astrid's voice cuts through his reminiscing. She'd always been good at that— cutting through his foggy thoughts and making him come back from the clouds. "What do you mean 'why?'"
Snotlout shrugs. "Why do you think you're going to Hell?"
"I didn't say I was going to Hell, now did I?" She says sternly. "I said we. I meant it too."
"You're talking in circles," he huffs. "Worse than the twins, too."
Astrid groans dramatically and drapes her sturdy weight against Snotlout. Her hand is pressed dramatically to her chest and her face is pulled into a mournful expression. "Damn, Lout," she says, mimicking the act of wiping nonexistent tears from her pale cheeks, "you wound me."
"Tch—" He clicks his tongue and hisses through his teeth. "You're a bad actress, Hofferson."
"Eh," she shrugs and sits up; although her hand continues to rest on Snotlout's thigh. "You love me anyways, Jorgenson."
It's true, Snotlout can acknowledge that, at least in his head. He loves Astrid; not the same way that the Haddock boy does, nor the same way that Eret seems friendly and fond of her, nor in the way he once loved his mother. A different kind of love. One where he knows that Astrid is one of the only people who might miss him when he's gone; one where he'll miss her in turn.
"Keep telling yourself that, Astrid." He shakes off her hand and twists to face her, tugging down the brim of her hat until it covers her face. "Y'know, being all sappy won't make me fuck you again."
"You're disgusting," Astrid retorts. Her voice lacks any sharpness, and her face is soft and fond when she removes her hat and places it in her lap. "Besides, I was only being sappy because you're a sap!"
Astrid playfully swats at his shoulder. Snotlout is reminded of his father's barn cats. One second she's cuddling and purring, the next she's swiping with her claws out and a Cheshire grin tugging at her lips.
They sit there for another breathless moment, curled together against the desert cold. The silence that stretches between them is comforting, a delightful distraction from the more daunting silence that blankets the deserts of the American southwest. That same coyote from earlier cries once again. Only this time there's an answering howl that pierces the cold night air. Her pack had found her.