#tbh I was hitting sewing exhaustion anyway so

[the-merry-otter]

Update: I have done the calculations, and the only way I could get the green dress done in time for the event at this point is if I sacrificed my uni assignments, and possibly all other packing and preparation for the event itself as well. And maybe meals. Even sleep might be too much. So I have very sadly resigned myself to finishing the dress after the event, and focusing on the other things I gotta do in the meantime 😔

[amiafairyprincessyet]

Alright...  Don’t say I didn’t warn you...

Here it is: the exhaustively detailed breakdown of my 1920s costume/outfit for the interactive theatre event I went to!  I’m posting this 60% because I can’t shut up about historical fashion, 30% because it’ll be fun to re-read years down the line, and 10% because hey maybe you’ll find it interesting.

Let’s start with how I built the outfit and started to form the character for it!

The two most important pieces for this outfit were the dress and the hat, and I can’t quite remember now which one I bought first.  It looks like both purchases hit my bank account on the same day, so that doesn’t clear things up.  I think maybe it was the hat?

Alright, so let’s start with the hat.  Now, see, I love the 1920s but they really don’t love me back.  The main problem I have is with the popular silhouettes of the clothes, but I also have a serious issue with the hats--I’m allergic to wool.  Cloches are the stereotypical 1920s hat and almost ALL of them are made of wool.  I can’t do it!  But, sometimes, you can find ones made of straw.  I’ve been meaning to buy a cloche for ages (tbh it’s ironic I didn’t do it until I had long hair) so I’d been planning to buy a straw one.  Now that I had an occasion, I was ready to make that leap!  I searched for straw cloches on Etsy, found tons of cool ones, and then drastically reduced my options when I started paying attention to sizing.  (My head is both literally and figuratively big and I have A Lot of hair.)  I finally settled on this one from itbecomesyou.

I actually wasn’t planning on buying a dress specifically for the occasion--I have one or two things that I could fudge a little and it’d look okay.  (Certainly better than, like, a cheap Halloween costume, which is what some people were wearing.)  But I was right by the thrift store anyway, so I popped in and looked around.  The green dress was almost the first thing I spotted, and I got my hopes up right away.  I could tell that it would fit loosely and have a low waist on me, even if that’s not how it was intended to fit--it’s actually from eShakti so it was custom made to someone’s measurements!  That person also clearly donated more than one dress, because there was another dress there in the exact same style made of chambray--I’m wearing it as I write the first part of this post, actually.  For some reason, I think the chambray one is a little smaller, but that’s not relevant.

The dress definitely isn’t perfect--I think it’s kind of obvious that the waist is elastic, and it’s still way too defined.  The skirt is also a bit short.  (Skirts in the ‘20s weren’t as short as popular culture would have us believe!!!)  I figured it was supposed to be the late ‘20s (specifically ‘27) and the skirts got to the shortest point around then, so the length was forgivable.  But the waist?  Iffy.  Like... with the full skirt it’s ALMOST got a bit of a robe de style silhouette going on but it’s not really all the way there, either.  It’s a very confused dress.  (Or it’s really just meant to be a more fitted style for someone a size up from me.  Whatever, I like loose clothes and I’ve already worn it a bunch of times!)

When I was initially planning, I was originally going to put my hair in a low updo rather than a faux bob.  That would actually be period-accurate--a lot of women who didn’t want to cut their hair did it!  They’d often do a lot of work to keep their length while faking or imitating the look and shape of a bob.  So I figured that with my long hair and my not-quite-boxy-enough dress I would just be unfashionable and poor, newly arrived to the city.  Especially because this is clearly more of a day dress than an evening gown.  My hypothetical character wouldn’t have the means to buy a dress just for going out in the evenings, and she’d maybe come straight from work (as a secretary, since that’s my actual job and I wanted to keep it simple) without changing.

As for the rest of my clothes...  Well, between the hat and the dress I could see I was going in an earth-toned direction, so this was the only cardigan I had that would work.  I have NO IDEA if it’s period-accurate or not.  The scarf wasn’t really planned, but I thought I needed something with a bit of pizzazz, or else even my dowdy and plain “poor, rural secretary” outfit would be too boring.  My compression stockings are obviously a) medical gear that I kinda just have to work around, and b) not at all accurate.  Pretty sure in the ‘20s they still wore thigh-highs (sort of) that you had to hold up with straps.  My shoes are okay, they’re character shoes from a musical I was in, so they’ve got a much thicker heel than most modern heels do.  The shape of the heel isn’t quite right but like... I don’t think anyone’s looking THAT closely.  (Okay, maybe I am.)

As for hair and makeup, well, my makeup isn’t as dramatic as you might think it should be for the ‘20s.  Like I said in the makeup post, I shared that misconception too, up until pretty recently.  Most of the standard misconceptions of 1920s fashion I already knew about, because I am. a nerd.  But I thought that the makeup was pretty heavy!  I re-watched Karolina Żebrowska’s video on the ‘20s and actually paid attention when she talked about the makeup this time.  I was kinda relieved when she said that the makeup was much lighter than you’d think, because this outfit would look pretty weird with heavy makeup, since it’s a casual/unfashionable day look.  I didn’t do any particular research other than glancing quickly at the examples of “normal” makeup that she showed because I was being lazy.  Also, don’t come for my eyebrows.  I like them and I refuse to do anything to make them look super-thin.

On to the hair, which is probably the most complicated and most important part!  Like I said, I was originally planning to just do a low updo instead of a faux bob.  However, when I got the hat and tried it on, I realized that a low updo wouldn’t work with where the hat sat on my head/how it fit me.  A faux bob would also mess with the fit, but my hope was that it would be a bit better.  I didn’t practice at all before the day of the event, I just kinda decided that It Would Definitely Work.  So here’s how I did it:

Pincurl hair the night before

Wear hair down in pincurls the next morning

Humidity deflates curls within an hour, wear hair in improvised updo for rest of day

Try to redo pincurls in the afternoon

Oh shit it’s humid they’re still wet

I don’t own a hair dryer

OH WELL

Take top section of hair, sticking fingers in and parting so that you’re separating out the section in front of the ears

Go up to top of head in inverted V shape, so that a lot of the hair at the back of your head is not in the chunk you’re holding (how much depends on how thick your hair is)

Clip that chunk up; look ridiculous

Braid the hair that’s down--my hair is super thick so it made five braids

You want a LOT of your hair to be in these braids

Pin braids flat to the back of your head--similar to what you do to fit hair under a wig cap

Let down clipped up hair

Sigh over the fact that it’s barely wavy at this point

Make sure side part looks clean

Take back-most chunk of loose hair and grab a decent section, maybe an inch wide?

Grasp one small subsection of the hair in that section

Tease all the hair of the section--you don’t need to go overboard

The one piece you held onto should still be longer and straighter than the rest

Curl that bit around your finger a bit and then pin it up under the braids right at the back

Repeat for all but the two front-most sections of hair on either side of your part

Don’t tease these, just try to make the waves look nice with some subtle pinning and then pin the bottoms up

Oh shit you don’t own hairspray better hope this stays

Shove hat on top, DO NOT take it off for the rest of the night

I had a hilarious conversation about my hair with one of the actors, who was in character as a ~mystical flapper~.  It went something like this:

me: Yes, I know it’s all the fashion these days to bob your hair, but I just couldn’t bear to cut it!  Really my hair is this [gestures to top of chest] long, but I’ve got it pinned up.

actor, in character as someone in an era where “toxic orange” is not really a feasible hair color: That’s your real hair!?

me, with no hesitation: I’m Irish.

actor:

me:

me:

me: That’s... orange.  It’s orange.  That’s why.

actor: :O

I then rolled with my ~brilliant improv~ and introduced myself as Bridget Kelley for the rest of the night.  To be fair, I am almost certainly related to someone with that exact name.

The other bit of characterization I came up with (which I never really got to do much with) is that Bridget was a serial killer?  I have no idea why I decided this, but I actually chose it a couple days ahead of time.  I think I just had Chicago on the brain, since it’s set in the ‘20s.  I also made her socially awkward but kind of the opposite from me where she was intense/focused/non-fidgety/interested one-on-one and shy as hell in crowds.  I’m generally a fan of crowds as long as no one tries to socialize with me, because I can just hang out anonymously.  I like being one-on-one or in small groups with people I like, but with random strangers I absolutely hate it.

And that’s basically it!  I had a lot of fun at the event and I was really lucky and caught a ride home with an acquaintance I didn’t even know was going to be there.  We got “raided by the police” at one point, and I also spent a decent chunk of time in the corner sewing.  Good times!

[tysonrunningfox]

Open Flames: Part 14

I know 3 things: Smitelout is too powerful for this world, Festercup makes me fucking cry, and Tuffnut is my favorite 

This is a big chapter, both content and length, and tbh, I sat on it way too long, it just took me forever to stab my boy and get here.  

Masterpost (Note to self, update tonight, part 13 has .1, .2, and .3)

“Odin’s saggy ballsack,” I swear under my breath as the bandage around my forearm bleeds through for the third time. I can’t even feel it, I’m too sick from fighting with Fuse and tired from dealing with Elva’s visit and my head is throbbing worse than the knife wound. It reminds me that the fucker who did it is alive and in our one jail cell, because I don’t even get to make that decision.

I pause at the edge of the dark square, pressing my torn sleeve hard against the wound to try and stop the bleeding with pressure. The linen and wool soak through in a few seconds and I swear under my breath, looking up at the chief’s dark house and sighing.

I don’t want to go up there.

I don’t want the chief to see me bleed, not after tonight.

And Fuse is mad at me and I deserve it and I don’t remember the last time I felt so absolutely alone.

And my arm does need stitches, clearly, because it’s still oozing through my sleeve and dripping down the back of my hand and off my fingertips. I’m glad Bang isn’t with me, he’d be freaking out. I almost think I’d be freaking out if I had any energy left to put into it.

I look around the square again, hoping some option will jump out at me, and my eye catches on the forge’s dark windows. I bet Smitelout has a needle and some thread in there, she has to for saddles, and I’ve stitched Arvid up before. It wasn’t this big of a cut but it wasn’t hard. Luckily it’s my left arm.

I use the key I know is hidden above the door frame to let myself in and shove my bloody sleeve up to see the wound before throwing some kindling on the fire and giving myself some light. It takes a minute to tie a clean rag around my arm, just below my elbow, and tighten it enough that my fingers start to go numb and the bleeding slows down enough for me to clean the cut. It’s not even that bad, I don’t know why it won’t stop bleeding. I know it didn’t hit any big vessels because it never spurted blood, only infuriatingly oozed for hours and hours.

Finding Smitelout’s sewing kit is easy too. There aren’t any curved needles and the thinnest thread in the box is thicker than I would really like it to be, but this is better than going to the chief’s house. It’s better than admitting I fought with Fuse and not being able to tell anyone why.

She cried and I couldn’t make it better. She was crying and she was right and somehow, I really am as bad as the chief if I’ve made Fuse feel so alone. Godsdammit, I don’t know how to make this up to her or myself or anyone. I don’t know what to do.

The first stitch through my arm provides some sense of clarity, because right now, I actually do know what to do. At least for as long as it takes to sew myself up. And it’s harder to focus than I would have imagined because the slow pinch and drag of the too thick thread through my skin hurts more than I expected, even with my fingers numb from my makeshift tourniquet. My right hand starts to shake by the third stitch and luckily I’m taking a quick break when the door slams open.

“What the Hel are you doing in here, Twerp?” Smitelout stomps inside, dropping an armful of weapons on her anvil and pausing when she sees my arm on the counter.

“Oh, you know, catching up on some forging. How about yourself?” I want her to leave and unfortunately, being nice is the quickest way to make that happen.

“Are you stitching up your own fucking arm?” Her tone is irritatingly familiar and I scowl at her.

“Are you using your mom voice on me?”

“You break into my forge,” she pulls a stool over with her toe, plopping down on it and trying to take the needle from my hand. I reflexively try to keep it from her and the cord yanks my arm hard enough that I wince and whimper. She uses my one moment of weakness to snatch the needle away from me, her touch on my hand surprisingly gentle as she pulls it towards her. “You steal my favorite rag, you steal my needle and my favorite thread--”

“I’m just borrowing the needle, technically--”

“I don’t want it back, Twerp, that’s disgusting.” She presses my arm to the table and wrinkles her nose, “these stitches are awful, I really should take them out and start over.”

“I can do it myself.”

“You can botch it yourself,” she scoffs, “are you trying to prove how tough you are or something? Because I think you already bragged about that enough by taking a knife to the arm for no reason.”

“Right, I should have just let it stab the chief of an ally tribe, gotcha, I’ll keep that under advisement.”

“Hold still,” she grabs my hand, pressing the back of it flat to the counter and moving to pinch my skin together with disconcertingly gentle fingers that don’t match her tone at all. Her stitches hurt less and are closer together, her wrist moving smoothly like she does this all the time. “You should really let a healer do this, as much as I fully believe you’re as dumb as a saddle, you’re probably at least a little more complicated to put back together.”

“I always knew you liked me.”

She slaps me.

Hard, with the back of her hand, her knuckles knocking against my cheekbone as my teeth clack together with a bright burst of pain through my jaw.

“What the Hel--”

“Stop it with the tough guy shit, Eret.” She goes back to stitching up my arm, which admittedly hurts enough to distract me from the ringing in my ear from where she fucking slapped me for no reason. “You’re a mess. You apparently spent the entire evening bleeding out from the giant knife wound in your arm and no one even noticed.”

“You hit me.” I’m pouting. I’ll admit it. As if my day hasn’t been bad enough, then Smitelout has to haul off and hit me. I open and close my mouth to make sure my jaw still works and my cheek starts to prickle as I’m sure it turns red enough to match my beard.

“Someone had to.”

“I really don’t think anyone had to hit me--”

“Well, I didn’t know what else would get through that dense head of yours, Twerp.” She ties off the stitches and cuts the thread. “The first few are botched but it should hold. I can’t believe you’re so proud or stupid or I don’t even know--”

“As much as I love you propping up my self-esteem--”

“Thor-dammit, Eret, this isn’t funny.” She looks like she wants to slap me again and I almost ask her to get the other side and make it even, but the words die in my dry throat.

Smitelout looks worried.

More than that, I think she’s worried about me.

“I’m fine, Smite--”

“Don’t make me fucking hit you again,” she shoves me in the chest and I almost fall backwards off of the stool, barely managing to catch myself on the edge of the workbench. My arm flexes against the new stitches and I hiss to hold in a groan at the pain. “And don’t stress those, Thor’s beard, Twerp, you have to start taking care of yourself.”

“Not you too,” I scowl, “sorry, I’ve been a bit busy, a week long trip to the spa isn’t really in the realm of possibility right now--”

“Cut the shit. How the fuck do you expect to take care of those kids you have coming if you can’t even take care of yourself? How are you going to take care of Fuse?” She asks almost gently and that makes it sting worse.

“Fuse and I had a fight.” I cradle my forehead in my left hand, squeezing my temples like it can fend off the headache or the throbbing in my arm or the tired, itchy film across my eyes. “She’s...Gods, I don’t know what to do.”

“Are you asking me what to do?”

I look back up at her and shrug, “if you’re giving advice, I mean...Ingrid is too good for you almost as dramatically as Fuse is too good for me.”

“Gods, you’re so exhausted you can’t talk right.” She shakes her head, “go home. Talk to your mother. I have my own kid to worry about, I can’t be on your case too.”

“What do I say to her?”

“I don’t know, Twerp, have you thought about the fucking truth?” She sighs, “you know, we’re all keeping this secret for you and Fuse but what are you going to do when there are babies coming out of her? It’s already near impossible to hide.”

“I know that,” I squint my eyes shut, “I know it’s--can I just sleep here? I’ll be out by morning--”

“No, you can’t,” she grabs my left hand and yanks me to my feet before shoving me at the door with rough hands on my shoulders, “I’m officially evicting you. Go talk to your mother. Try and infuse some of the truth in there. Do you need a snack?”

“Huh?” I trip on the door jamb and turn back to look at her. “A snack?”

“You lost a lot of blood, you must be light-headed. Do you want a snack?”

My stomach growls, answering for me, and I don’t actually remember eating anything at the feast, I was so busy running interference for Fuse and Elva and diving in front of throwing knives.

“Yeah, I could use a snack.”

She reaches into her pocket and tosses me a small bag of what feels and smells like fish jerky and I open it, shoving two pieces into my mouth and swallowing almost before I can chew them. She wrinkles her nose.

“Go home, Twerp.”

“Yeah.” I look up at the chief’s house and scuff my boot on the ground. “Thanks. Why do you have snacks in your pocket anyway?”

“I have a two year old.” She rolls her eyes, “don’t make me chase you home.”

“Fine.” I sigh. “I’m going, I just--”

“I don’t care,” she slams the forge door behind her, taking the spare key from it’s hiding place, “I’ve got to find a new place for this so that bleeding future chiefs don’t fuck with my shit anymore.”

Future chief. Yeah. Right. Like that’s ever going to happen.

Oddly, it’s just the depressing thought I need to force my feet to move.

“Goodnight, Smitelout.” I wave at her as I start shuffling up the hill, staring at the stitches on my arm briefly before pulling my sleeve down to cover them. Mom doesn’t need to know about those. She’d just worry.

I feel like anyone I tell the truth to would worry. Maybe I’m worried.

Gods, I’m so worried. I’m worried about Fuse and the fact that I’m at exactly the same point in my life that I was at four years ago. Everyone else is moving forward and I’m just stuck here, almost chief, still not good enough.

The house is quiet except for the crackle of a low fire in the hearth and Stoick’s dragon is snoozing peacefully in front of it. I pause in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust, and more than that deciding whether I’m staying or not. Smitelout is right, as hard as it is to admit. I need to talk to Mom.

But the thing that no one ever says is that even if the right thing is obvious, it still takes effort.

I’d still have to walk inside, walk up to the bedroom door, knock, wake Mom up. Ask her to come talk to me. And that’s the easy part, then I’d have to sit down and tell her the truth while she’s looking straight through me and worrying. I should be able to handle this myself. I shouldn’t have to bring her into it.

“Fuck,” I sigh, stepping inside and shutting the door hard behind me.

“What did that door do to you?” The chief's voice startles me as he comes down the stairs, barely there smile apologetic and irritatingly hopeful that I'm not mad.  I wish I were, that'd be easier. “I thought you’d grown out of slamming things.”  

"Never," I barely get the word out, throat closing in on itself, threatening to make me sob or pass out or I don't know what else.  I swallow hard and try to cough, the world spinning around me when I close my eyes.  I open them to the same chief standing in the same place, but he looks more like a mirror than ever, more like a sad inevitability I don't know if I'll never live up to.  "Where's Mom?"  

"Are you ok?" He asks, taking a hesitant step towards me, hand outstretched like I'm a dragon in need of training.  He's not mad anymore, he's worried too, and I wish he'd yell at me instead of looking concerned.  I walked out on a direct order, he should yell at me.  If he yells at me, I'll yell back, but I don't know what I'll do if he's calm.  

"No," I laugh, chest tight and eyes prickling like I'm going to cry.  That's the last thing I want him to see.  "I'm really not, but..."  My knees wobble, I catch myself on the edge of the table and my arm smarts, the sting traveling straight up my arm to my eyes, making them blur.  

"What's wrong?"  His voice is low, comforting, and I want it to work, I want it to make my heart stop throbbing and my head stop spinning.  "Is it your arm?"  

"No, I'm fine."  The words echo in my head like it's a cave with no exit, each repetition making me feel more and more trapped.  

"You just said you weren't, Eret," he takes a step towards me, a dwindling candle on the table catching his face at the right angle to make him look younger, like he's just another person I should be able to take care of.  "Do you--"

"I'm good," I lie, voice shaking, back of my throat again threatening to sob.  Or maybe throw up this time, I'm not sure, and I wish I hadn't eaten anything.  "Really, Chief."  

It hurts him when I call him chief.  I know that it used to, but I would have thought he'd be used to it by now.  Maybe he is used to it and that's why the flicker in his expression is so quickly glossed over.  He puts himself together faster than he fell apart and it almost makes me want to lean on him, like I could learn how to be that sturdy if I did.  

"Do you need anything?"  He offers, easy smile as disarming as Aurelia's but completely lacking intent.  His usual will to make me like him is replaced with something genuine, but it's so seamless that I think maybe I've been wrong about it for a while.  "Some water?  A doctor?  A hug?"  

I tug at my sleeve, making sure the stitches are covered.  I probably should have washed the blood off of my hand.  And my shirt.  And my other hand.  

"I'm good."  Saying it doesn't make it more true and I double down, "do you need anything, Chief?"  

"If you're offering, I could go with that hug."  He opens his arms, ready to laugh about being rejected, and I just don't have the energy to hate him right now.  I don't want to.  I want to lean on something I'm not holding up.  

"Ok," I cross the room and hug him, hooking my chin over his shoulder and squeezing tight enough that the new stitches on my arm burn.  I really might cry now, I'm not sure why this is pushing it over the edge, but my eyes prickle and I glare at the wall behind him, trying to slow my breathing.  It doesn't work.  He thumps me on the shoulder, gently, carefully, and the sobs I couldn't put onto Fuse start coming out, burning in my throat, scraping every raw thing that was said and making it hurt all over again.  

"Whoa," the chief starts rubbing my back like my mom used to when I was little and couldn't stop crying.  

I feel pathetic but trying to stop makes it worse, my chest throbbing with the force of the sobs tearing their way out as the chief keeps rubbing my back, coaxing it out of me.  Maybe it's good, maybe I just need to get rid of some of it and then I can deal with the rest.  

"Hey, it's ok," his tone is easy, controlled, and I cling to it, pressing my face into his shoulder where the wool absorbs the tears.  I'm probably getting snot on him, but he doesn't seem to care.  "It's ok."  

"It's really not," I blubber, pulling away and scrubbing my eyes with my clean sleeve like I can rub away the outer layer and start fresh with one that's less pathetic. When I cough out another sob, the chief hugs me again, thumping on my back like I'm choking and he's shaking it loose.  Maybe it works.  Maybe it was already loose and he's just willing to catch anything I throw at him.  "Fuse and I had a fight, I don't think we've ever had an actual fight before."  

"Do you want to talk about it?"  He lets me take a step back and I wipe my eyes again, breath shaky.  He's shorter than me but it doesn't stop the sudden urge to tuck myself into his chest, to get small and easier to shelter and protect.  

I could tell him.  I don't know how Fuse would ever forgive me if I did, but I don't know how she's going to forgive me anyway.  If it were Mom, I'd want it to be a happy thing, I'd want to be excited and not crying like a pathetic child, but it's the chief.  He knows what it feels like to be conflicted about being a dad, to feel alone, to be unprepared and outside where he wants to be.  

I nod, not quite trusting my voice yet.  

"Ok," he pulls out a chair at the table and sits down, "let's talk, I'm sure we can figure this out."  

I sit across from him, staring at my hands.  

"What did you and Fuse fight about?"  

"She was mad that I took that knife to the arm," I shrug, sniffing and wiping my dripping nose on my sleeve, "or at least that's how it started.  I--and it spiraled.  And I made her cry and I couldn't make it better and I just...I ask too much of her, you know?  I'm asking so much of her."  

"Hey, from what I know about Fuse, she's not exactly going around doing what's asked of her," the chief puts his hand on mine and I don't shove it off, "so I don't think you can put that all on yourself."  

"This is different."  

"How so?"  

I take a deep breath and look up at him, "she's pregnant."  

His face is blank for a long second, his hand cool and still on mine.  I wait for him to brag or be cocky or yell at me.  I wait for him to produce a contract from one of his pockets and try and make me sign it.  He doesn't do any of those things.  His smile is slow and cautious, eyebrows worried as he squeezes my hand.  

"Ok, that's--give me just a second here," he sits up straight and runs his hands back through his hair, "I'm going to be a grandpa, wow, that's--how long have you known?"  He redirects the focus to me and I don't know why I laugh, probably because I'm straight out of tears, but it's hoarse and tired.  

"About four months."  

The chief doesn't answer immediately, face waffling between happy and solid and excited.  I try and tuck my hair back into its tie but give up, taking it out entirely and barely resisting the urge to start hitting my head on the table.  

"A reaction would be--"

"So it's been a secret," the chief cuts me off.  "Probably a pretty big secret if you've known for four months."  

"Honestly, probably a larger secret than you're thinking because it's probably twins."  I laugh again, miserable, and he exhales like the revelation physically hit him in the chest.  "Fuse doesn't want to tell anyone, she's going to be pissed that I told you. Pissed and confused, you're the last person I thought I'd tell."  

"Sounds about right."  

"I couldn't take the thought of you hearing and thinking you won, that you finally had your chance to force me into marriage, but..."

"Would I be forcing you?"  He asks gently and I shrug one shoulder.  

"Not really.  Not anymore, I--Fuse though."  Her words from earlier ring in my ears in time with my arm's throbbing and I wipe my nose again, "neither of us were ready for things to change, but they're changing anyway and well, I--earlier when we were fighting, she said maybe it's better if our kids are Thorstons if I'm going to keep being so reckless," I push my sleeve up and show him my stitches, "because of the whole Haddock mess with heirs, I guess."  

"Eret--"

"And I'm starting to wonder if she's right."  All the thoughts that have been bouncing around in my head start to crystallize and I think about Smitelout being worried about me and Aurelia's fond annoyance and Fuse.  Mostly Fuse.  Fuse crying.  Fuse needing me to be something I should be able to be.  "I'm not someone she can trust or follow or depend on, I'm...and she sees it now and I'm scared.  I'm so scared."  I jump up, pacing back and forth.  Before tonight, I never really put much thought into why Fuse never pushed to marry me, instead assuming it was contingent on me being chief or something.  But maybe she just couldn't handle her kids being half-Haddock disasters like their dad.  "Hel, do you think Ingrid would honor kill me?  I don't think I want Tuffnut doing it, that sounds painful--"

"No one is honor killing anyone," the chief says in the tone that makes it law, "you and Fuse are going to have fights, Eret, you're going to have so many fights and something like a single fight isn't enough to change how she sees you."  

"This is bigger than that.  It's not just a fight, it's--"  

"Can I ask you something?"  He cuts me off before I can find the word for what a frost giant sized turd of a situation I'm in.  I shrug.  "What do you want?"  

"What do I want?"  I laugh, "that's funny, chief--"

"No, it's not.  I'm serious.  I see you running yourself into the ground trying to make everyone around you happy, trying to be who everyone else thinks you should be.  What would you do to make yourself happy?  What do you want?"  

"I..."  I sigh, deflating slightly, "I want everyone to be safe."  

"No, that's not an answer," he insists and anger flares enough to overwhelm my sadness, even for just a second.  

"What do you want me to say then?"  

"You don't see it," he sighs, "you're so much like your mom.  And my dad," his smile is sad and proud and I could crumple under it, the weight of that statue's eyes on my shoulders on top of everything else.  "You don't get to decide for everyone to be safe."  

"Because I'm not chief yet," I snap and his eyes drop to my arm.  

"Trust me, if being chief could keep people safe, you'd be a lot less stabbed all the time."  

"I'm fine," I don't believe it and he doesn't either.  It's too close to what Fuse said, to what Smitelout said, to what must be the truth because the most unapologetic people I know are all orbiting around it.  

"What do you want, Eret?  If instead of making up some answer that you think I want to hear or you think is the most self-sacrificial you actually thought about what you want, what would it be?"  

The chief is the last person who'd ever call me selfish and I hate that it feels protective right now.  I hate how good it feels to let myself think selfishly, to catalog the mental and physical bumps and bruises and weaknesses I want to hide and to put them first, even theoretically.  I swallow hard, forcing my voice louder than the scared whisper it wants to be.  

"I want Fuse."  I sit back down, collapsing into how tired I am, arm throbbing like it's on fire, head aching, "I want Fuse and I want to wake up next to her more often than not.  I want everything with the babies to be ok, and I know I'm not supposed to decide for other people to be safe right now, but I'm going to anyway.  I want them to be safe.  And I want to start living my life instead of waiting for it to start."  I want to be chief but I don't say it, because something about this conversation with...my father is making me feel like nearly killing myself for the title hasn't convinced him of anything.  "And I think I could go with being stabbed a little less.  It does really hurt, it just hurts less than anyone else getting stabbed."  

"Sounds to me like you need to go talk to Fuse."  

I nod, "I'll go now, I doubt she's sleeping any better than I am."  I jump to my feet but he stops me with a wincing look.  "What now?  Is that not the right decision or--"

"Stop second guessing yourself," he gestures at me, "I was just going to suggest that you change out of your bloody clothes.  Maybe get a bandage on those stitches.  If you're feeling really wild you could wash the blood off your hand.  Gods, you're a mess."  He laughs and I join him, wiping my hand over my face and nodding.  

"Yeah.  I am, aren't I?"  I shake my head, "I'll change and then I'll go talk to her."  

"Good plan."  He pats my shoulder as he stands up and I let him, "and you know you have to tell your mother about this tomorrow, right?"  

"You won't?"  

"It's not my secret to tell, but I think you know how much trouble we'll both be in if we make her wait much longer."  His whisper is conspiratorial and I scoff.  

"What do you mean?  I'm already in trouble."  

"But I'm not.  I could still help you if you stay ahead of that."  

I hug him again before I can convince myself not to, thumping on his back with my good hand and laughing when it makes him wheeze, "I'll take you up on that."  Maybe it's because he's not looking at me hopefully or expectantly when I pull away, but I can't call him chief, not now.  "Grandpa."  

"Don't go making me cry," he points towards the stairs, "go change, go figure this out."  

"I'm going," I tiptoe upstairs, trying to think of what the Hel I'm going to say.  

I need to propose, I know that much, but more than that I need to do it in a way Fuse will agree with.  And not just agree with, I need her to get it, I need it to be a decision that feels right to her, because she doesn't do anything that doesn't feel right and I love that about her.  She's more gut feeling than I am, she can't push through months and months of being generally uncomfortable with her convictions for a cause.  I finally feel like that's straightened out for me though and I try not to fixate now on the fact that the chief is the one who helped me reorient.  

A bandage over my arm makes the stitches throb more but burn less and clean clothes make me feel like I'm not quite so walking wounded.  My eyes are dry though and no amount of blinking lets me forget the crying I just did, but maybe it'll incite some pity to make Fuse listen to me.  

I've never doubted that she'd talk to me quite like this, except maybe when I feared she'd heard I was engaged to someone else, and even then I assumed she would know it wasn't my doing.  

I hope the chief is wrong about how many fights we're going to have, but I doubt it.  All my siblings bicker with their wives or in Aurelia's case, husband, but that's kind of double counting.  Maybe I thought if Fuse and I didn't get married, we wouldn't have to deal with all of the supposedly normal married things that I didn't and don't like the sound of, but there's no benefits either, not anymore.  Not for a while, probably even before she got pregnant.  

It's almost sunrise when I go back downstairs, a thin gray line breaking the dark horizon, and the chief isn't anywhere to be seen, which means he probably went to bed.  I'm glad about that, as much as I appreciate last night, I don't want a rehash right now because if there's ever a time I need to keep myself together it's now, and I'm worried I'm still unfortunately close to crying again if someone were nice to me.  And that's why I stop short when I open the front door to see Mom and Dad climbing the hill, chatting comfortably in a way that makes me wary for whatever brought them pleasantly together, because usually that only happens when one of us does something wrong.  

"Glad we caught you," Mom zeroes in on me with peak efficiency and I look over my shoulder, like the closed front door will either produce an escape route or an answer to who got my parents involved.  Oddly, I don't blame the chief, it seemed like he meant it when he said he wouldn't tell her until I had a chance to figure things out with Fuse.  "Can I make you breakfast?"  

My stomach growls.  She drives a hard bargain and I look at Dad, trying to figure out their intent.  If it's just a stitches check, I could stay for some food, but Dad's face is a trap, easy going smile luring me into some sort of lecture that requires their joined forces.  

"I already ate," I lie, patting my stomach and half expecting it to echo like a drum.  

"A second breakfast then," she bribes me and I must have done something really objectionable for her to be luring me back inside this hard.  

"I can't right now," I take Smitelout's advice and infuse a little truth into the situation, and it's not even a lie, I really can't focus on anything until I see Fuse and know there's some chance of her forgiving me and marrying me and moving forward.  

She looks like she's going to argue with that but Dad puts a hand on her arm, and she closes her mouth and nods, "dinner then?"  

"I really don't know how my day's going to go, guys."  I take a side step to move around them and I think Mom is going to try and stop me, but instead she hugs me, too tight, hooking her chin over my shoulder and squeezing.  "Hi, Mom, what's going on?"  I look over at Dad, "is everything ok?"  

"As long as you're ok," he nods towards my arm, the bandage peeking out from under my half-pushed up sleeve, "did you get that taken care of?"  

"Yeah, it's fine," I hug Mom back with the hope that it'll make her let me go so that I can breathe, but it doesn't quite work like that.  Her hair smells like saltwater and she's still wearing her clothes from the feast last night, so there's no armor or thick leather jabbing me and making this uncomfortable, and it's about comforting enough to restart the tears, so I put gentle hands on her shoulders and try to pry her off.  "You good?"  I ask when I'm finally successful, even though she's still holding one of my arms like she doesn't want me to get away.  

"I won't keep you," she takes a step back and I have all of a second to breathe before Dad is picking me up in an Arvid style bear hug that makes me feel small for the first time in a while.  

"Dad! Put me down!"

"Sorry," he brushes off my shoulders when he does, grinning in a way that's out of place with the majority gray of his hairline.  "Just wanted to see if I still could."  

"I think you knew you could, it's whether you should," I jokingly chastise him, straightening my shirt and pointing over my shoulder, "so I've got to go if neither of you have to assault me again."  

"I'm good for now," Mom hesitates a little before continuing, "try and have fun today."  

I look at Dad for confirmation that she's been hit very hard on the head but he just nods at me like this is normal and that's a normal Mom thing to say.  

"What's fun?"  I joke, playing into whatever strange act this is and Mom's fragile smile evaporates.  She looks at Dad and they share some silently communicated thing, like they used to when I was little and they were trying to figure out what I'd done wrong.  It looks weird to me now and maybe it's the lack of sleep or the blood loss or the crying, but everything is starting to feel off kilter, like I'm on an island very similar to the Berk I know.  "I'll uh...see you guys later, alright?"  

"Sure," Dad nods, hand on Mom's elbow as the urges her towards the door.  She doesn't shrug him off, just keeps looking at me with that worried expression, and I hop onto Bang for the short distance rather than feel their eyes on me as I walk away.  

Bang finds a soft pile of hay with Hotgut outside of the Thorston-Ingerman barn and I walk the rest of the way to the Thorston front door, wiping my hands on my pants and building up the courage to knock.  I still don't know exactly what I'm going to say, but I guess it depends on how Fuse acts when she sees me.  I brace other hand to catch the door and hold it if she tries to slam it in my face and then knock three times, like I do on her shed door, the sound of the fire proof wood echoing around my rattled brain.  

The door opens.  

Tuffnut has a black eye that he's holding an ice block to but he sets it down when he sees me, gesturing at my face with an easy, wincing smile.  

"Hey, twins."  

My heart drops, "she told you?"  

This is when it happens.  The honor kill.  I think he has a mace in there somewhere and of all the days to be honor killed, I think that's at the bottom of my list.  It's a bone crunching, blood-spraying way to go and I don't trust him to do it in a single hit.  I should have asked Ingrid, I should have brought Ingrid alone, just in case it came to this.  

"What?"  He cocks his head and then nods, "oh, yeah, she did, but I wasn't talking about that."  He points at his eye and then to my face, "we're facial bruising twins, looks good dude."  

"Huh?"  I pat my cheek to figure out what he's talking about and hiss, because it's tender along my cheekbone and jaw, pulpy and slightly swollen in that new bruise way.  "Fuck," I wince, testing my expression and flinching when a deep frown pulls at the skin, "Smitelout."  

"Mine is my sister's handiwork," he picks up the block of ice and hesitates before offering it to me, "I can get another."  

"No thanks,"  I shift between my feet, trying to figure out what to do with my hands.  Pockets seems too casual and not optimal for blocking the mace swing I'm sure is coming.  Hands out in front feel like surrender, which is only half what I'm here to do, except it's not really a surrender, it's just a new understanding of the solution.  "Um, I'm here to see Fuse."  I point vaguely towards her closed door.  

"She's asleep."  

"Oh," I hadn't thought of that and the barely brightening dawn makes me feel dumber for it, "I can come back, I guess."  Maybe I still have time for that second breakfast Mom offered, except maybe I don't want that because she and Dad were acting so weird.  I could go by the Great Hall, I guess, I know there will be food there for Elva and her remaining people.  

Fuck, she's still here, John is still imprisoned at the arena.  Fuck.  There's too much going on.  

"You can wait here if you want," he gestures for me to come inside and I'm sure the mace is going to come down the second I'm inside, but it doesn't, and I take an awkward seat on a bench near the mostly burned down fire.  

"Thanks."  

Chicken VII pecks at my boot and I lean down to pet her head.  She bites me.  I tuck my hands in my pockets so she can't do it again.  

"So, pretty crazy feast last night, huh?"  He sits on the ground near the hearth and feeds Chicken VII a handful of grain with the hand not holding ice to his face.  "Not as crazy as Fuse hiding being pregnant for months--"

"Sorry about that--"

"No, I'm kind of impressed, you might just be trickier than you look."  He points at me and I frown.  

"Thanks?"  

"Don't mention it."  

Another minute of awkward, heart racing silence passes and I spend it staring at Fuse's door.  I want nothing more than to open it and wake her up or even lay down beside her to finish sleeping, but the fact is she might not want me to and that makes me kind of want the random mace attack to hurry up and happen.  If it even has to happen, I am here to propose, however unconventionally that might end up looking, and now I'm sitting here with Fuse's father, whose opinion she respects more than almost anyone's and I haven't run it by him.  

I clear my throat and he doesn't look up.  

"Uh, Tuffnut?"  I start, heel tapping anxiously as I try to figure out how to say this, "I'm actually here to talk to Fuse."  

"You could try that through the door, if you want, but she's a heavy sleeper."  

"No, I mean I could, I guess."  It's a weird enough suggestion to trip me up, not that it would take much right now, "but I want to both see and talk to her, if that makes sense."  It does, but I doubt it when I say it out loud.  "I'm here to ask her to marry me though, and I just realized I didn't ask you first, which I should, theoretically."  

"Theoretically, yeah, and probably before she was pregnant, but considering I already signed a contract with Hiccup like four years ago, I think the rules are slightly different in this case."  

"Right, I always forget that everything is already all...agreed upon."  

"Except you and Fuse," he pauses, "well, you seem to be agreed upon it now so it's just Fuse."  

"Yep."  That doesn't inspire a lot of confidence and I bite my lip.  "Any idea how this is going to go for me?"  

"You aren't mad at her, right?"  

"No," I shake my head and pause, "she told you about our fight?"  

"A little bit," he shrugs, "she was pretty upset, but the future potential babies stole the spotlight a little bit, as they do.  You'll get used to that."  He nods over my shoulder at Fuse's slowly opening door and stands up, "I'm being overshadowed as we speak, I'll give you two the house for all the yelling and throwing stuff that might be about to happen."  

"Thanks for that," I glare at his back as he walks away.  

Fuse stands in the doorway, groggy and squinting at me, like she's not sure I'm actually here and I wince when the front door slams shut behind her fleeing father.  

"I think I did enough yelling last night," she says quietly, stepping out of her room and making cautious eye contact that I hate.  I hate her being shy around me or more reserved than she usually is, it's like salt in my stitches and I find the chief's question echoing in my head.  What do I want?  

"Any less yelling and I don't know if you would have gotten your point across."  

"That's why I said enough yelling."  She clarifies, sitting down on the bench next to me, "as in I don't need to do anymore."  

I love how precise she is.  I love how she doesn't doubt herself and how clear and honest and direct she is.  And I want more of that, I want it tempering my overwhelming urge to make other people happy, I want it helping me see a straight line through whatever mess is ahead of us.  I clear my throat, looking down at my hands and trying to string the right words together the first time.  

"I think...no, I know we both have a lot of reasons why getting married seems...negative, and I don't think we've talked about them all, because I was so caught up in my own that I never asked about yours."

"There was no reason to," she dodges the suggestion with the same precision, reaching for my arm and pulling my sleeve up to show the bandage.  She peeks underneath like she's making sure I'm not hiding a festering wound and I hate that I made her worry about me so much.  

"You're right, it did need stitches."  I gesture at my cheek with my other hand, "Smitelout did me the favor in exchange for hitting me."  That makes her jaw twitch and I sigh, "and maybe before there wasn't a reason to ask about your reasons, but now there are two, and they're setting the schedule here."