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“I can’t do this.”
Asher’s hands struggle with his tie for a couple of seconds more before admitting defeat. Who could have thought fixing a tie would be so difficult?
His mother scoffs, hands on her hips as she walks towards him. Her floral perfume is nice to his nostrils, not too cloyant but soft enough to make him remember the one she put on him as a child. Despite almost being eighteen years-old and a legal adult —only two months left for his birthday—, Asher pouts stubbornly.
“How many times have I told you to practice for today?” She says, and while her mother’s not exactly wrong, it feels weird to practice fixing his tie for only once occasion.
“It’s not like I’m going to be wearing a suit for most of my life,” Asher grumbles. Please, for the love of God, let it be true. The pout accentuates as his mom tightens the tie around his neck and fixes it properly. In retaliation she might have tied it tighter than necessary.
“There you go,” she says when finished, going to grab her purse, “now hurry up, your father’s already on the way to school.” His mom turns around, pointing a meaningful glare to him. “And he’s not the one graduating.”
Today is like any other day, with the exception that he’s graduating High School. Quite a mediocre and basic achievement, Asher will admit, but it’s a notable one enough to deserve a celebration. With a suit and tie and cloying perfume Tuffnut swears to hate.
Truth be told, he has conflicted feelings in regard to graduating. This year’s been rough with exams and university preparation, and they’ve all been snowed under piles of homework and studying; yet he cannot think he’s ready to bid school goodbye. Among so many stress and worry about not getting the desired grade, he’s had the best time of his life in class.
Like when they won first prize for the biggest paper dragon statue in Berk’s National Day. A grin creeps on Asher’s face at the memory; his class was told the day before at the last period and had to do a last-minute whip-round of used paper, all for Hela to bring the biggest stack he’s ever seen. The result was unmatched: a dragon statue with math exams, philosophy notes, chemistry notebook pages and doodles as skin texture.
Or maybe when they won the school’s yearly kahoot for the third year in a row —they’re still waiting to get the prize they were promised. Now Asher has to bite his cheek from laughing at Snotlout’s refusal to click on the answers after being yowled at by everyone simultaneously for not clicking right once. Fishlegs had to take his place, otherwise no one would have been willing to do it.
And, oh boy, the time it was the school’s celebration and one class decided to add to their dance confetti as a surprise, all for it to rain on Tuffnut like crazy.
When Asher looks at himself in the mirror, all he can see is a seventeen-year old boy about to attempt taking the first step into adulthood. A step he does not know where it should be taken, how or at what pace. A step he most certainly does not want to take. He’s fine where he is right now.
So no, Asher’s not ready for a completely new environment, new faces, new experiences. He likes things just as they are now, there’s no need for change. He’s been dreading this day to come, because it is the non-negotiable proof that everything he’s been comfortable with will vanish when summer ends and routine begins once again. Call it fear of change or just pure mulishness.
University is a concept far too abstract for him, way too out of his reach. It’s a wonder how he will have to wander through its corridors in three months, once summer goes by, just as High School has done in the blink of an eye.
How will Asher manage? There is no step-by-step guide on how to survive university, or how to get by the first days, or how to start from zero. No professor will know his name, the amount of siblings he has and compare their behaviour, who he likes to sit next to when there’s a free period.
“I can’t do this,” he breathes, this time with no ire or frustration, just raw desperation and blindness.
When I grow up, I’ll know how to handle this, the Hofferson tells himself, though it sounds like a white lie even to him. When does one know when they’ve grown up? Does graduating automatically mean you go adrift in the sea that being an adult is?
Another memory flashes through his mind. It’s also recent, barely three months ago, when they were photographed for the graduation photos. The first tangible sign of the beginning’s end. Everyone was equally nervous and excited about it, worried about how their photo would turn out and eager to see others. They all looked like they were about to be baptised, with a white formal shirt and hair done waiting to get the picture taken. From across the room, Hela and him exchanged a knowing glare, and everything felt correct.
Heavens above, he’s getting nostalgic over something that it’s still not finished yet. Almost there, but not yet.
Almost abashedly, the Hofferson can recall an eight-year old him, about to go to sleep and wondering what he would look like when he’s eighteen. Now that he’s close to it, Asher can guarantee he looks the same as his sixteen-year-old old self, or his fourteen-year-old self. A bit more tall, more bulked up, but the same face and fringe. The same freckles, the persistent frown.
He wonders if his parents, once they receive the graduation photos, will think the same. If his mom sees the eight-year old him she used to chastise for complaining when she did his braids, or if his dad can find any trace of the five-year old him who begged to make cinnamon rolls for breakfast.
Only one thing seems to have changed, and it’s not a visible or physician one. Asher’s made up of nostalgia of small bits of moments he lives and knows he’ll miss once the day passes.
Nostalgia will wear him away if he keeps up this chain of thought, so the Hofferson obeys his mom’s yells and rushes out of the house. The blonde tries not to spare a second glance to the mirror. He arrives on time —no need for sprinting all the way to school like his mom wanted— and there’s a multitude of teachers, family members and friends waiting to enter the enclosure.
Asher —VIP privileges, of course— skips all that chaos and is led through the secretary to where his classmates are. Fishlegs, Snotlout and the twins are there, with Fishlegs fanning himself to stop sweating.
“Ooh, another fancy lad,” Ruffnut teases before turning to her brother, “see? You shouldn’t have lost the bowtie.”
Tuffnut scrunches his nose in disgust, giving her a scornful once-over. “And be matching with you? No thanks.”
They start to bicker, and Asher crosses his arms before looking at the door. Hopefully Hela will come soon, grumbling about Gobber’s irritating habit of being late, and will make him company while their friends get into countless fights. For a brief moment, the Hofferson pictures what she’ll be wearing. Will it be pastel pink, like Ruffnut’s? It would suit her pale skin.
Or maybe green, since it’s her favourite colour and suits her emerald eyes. Or at least that’s what Ruffnut says, Asher’s no expert in colorimetry.
Maybe brown? So it matches her hair and freckles. Probably, the Hofferson muses.
But whatever, he’s spending way too much thought on that. His friend will come eventually and he’ll know the colour of her graduation dress, no need to fret about it.
Or maybe it’s a one-piece? It’s gotten trendy over the years: plenty of girls in their year are wearing one, Asher observes.
For Christ sake, it’s not a big deal!
“Sorry I’m late!” A voice calls behind them. The timber has been familiar for years to his untrained hearing, there’s no need to turn around for the blonde to know who it is. Still, he does so nevertheless.
When he turns around, his mouth hangs slack. In Asher’s defense, he’s been caught off guard.
It’s not his fault! Everyone would be shocked if it happened to them.
Striding through the corridor with her hair bouncing in sync comes Hela. A satin sage green dress hugs pointy hips and the curve of her waist like a second nature, showcasing her spotted clavicule and bony shoulders. The tightness unravels at her hips, where the long skirt pools until it falls like a waterfall, creating a flow movement every time she lands a step. There’s a bold tear that allows her legs to peek, and between that and the shine of her curls, it’s hard to decide which to focus on.
She’s jaw-dropping as a minimum and spellbinding without any value judgement.
Asher might be frozen in place, but there’s no way of telling. He’s doing a pretty good job in keeping his mouth slack in astonishment —hopefully there are no flies around. His friend doesn’t seem to catch up on his stone state, blowing a lock of hair that’s on her face away.
“Geez, you have no idea how hard it is to walk in these,” Hela complains once she’s at his side, rubbing her ankles, “Gobber’s had me walk around home in them for two weeks so I don’t look like a wee lamb.”
“And the worst thing is that it’s because of him we’re late!” She complains, just as Asher had predicted, “my dad and I were ready, like, half an hour ago. But no, he had to search for his mirrorless camera and a backup of tissues in case he tears up. Talk about being dramatic.”
Without asking, the Haddock holds onto his shoulder for stability as she fixes her heel, making the area burn. Which is strange, Asher’s never burned for no one; not on his shoulder and not on his cheeks, where he’s pretty sure there’s flaming red blooming. Inadvertently, the Hofferson straightens up. He’s a more stable anchor like that.
Hela turns to greet the rest of their friend group, leaving Asher in the background, still unresponsive. She laughs at Fishleg’s brilliantine-ed hair and fixes Snotlout’s bowtie with such an ease it leaves the blonde boy ashamed of his own tie-fixing skills. When the Haddock turns to look at the twins, she sighs, resigned, and crosses her arms.
Asher can swear he hears her mutter about what she’s going to do with them, but the curve her dress makes when she rests her weight on one leg is distracting enough to make him amplify one sense —the sight, thought the smell would be nice, too— and discard the others.
Holy shit.
Just when did Hela become hot?
Sure, they’ve been friends for years and grew up through adolescence. Under poorly thought-of outfits, there was an indication that the brunette could be a stone turned into a gem. He knows she’s objectively pretty, but hot?
Asher does the effort to remember any instances where it was evident, like last month where his eyes lingered for a tad too long in the auburn shine of her hair when studying at the library. The slight arch of her back that revealed enough proper spotted skin whenever she stretched in her seat. The frown that creases her face the moment Tuffnut says something worthy of a telling off, or the way she gestures with her hands whenever talking about something she’s passionate about.
Hela’s not a tomboy, alright, though not once has Asher seen her like this. As in dolled up, gleaming, irradiating what can only be described as brimming and lackadaisical confidence. If he’s grown muscles and determination, Hela’s grown self-assurance and the notion of how her image has influence on others, like right now, him.
And if she keeps on biting her lip in annoyance, Asher’s sure he’s going to have a heart attack.
Wait a minute, since when is Asher affected by it? It’s not like he likes her. As in, romantic feelings. Right?
After all, all the glances they have exchanged throughout this year did not make any butterflies in his stomach threaten to make him vomit. All those afternoons spent in the library until it closed did not have him anticipating spending more time with her. They have shared laughs, teased each other and pushed each other to the limit, it’s what friends do, how their dynamic works.
It’s absolutely normal for him to catch up in the Haddock’s small habits, like biting her lips until drawing blood when she’s anxious, the drumming of fingers on every surface to keep her hands busy, her constant blinking whenever she’s mad at something and sudden doodles in every book she owns. Even more ordinary and friend-normative to put a stop to those that actively hurt her, snapping her out of her self-destructive thoughts whenever she got a bad grade —in her almost unachievable standards—, keeping her hands busy to prevent Hela bite her nails raw or allow her to visit him deep into the night whenever stress got the best of her and forbade her to get to sleep.
He is absolutely normal about Hela.
Any supposed fuzzy feeling or bubbling love has been nowhere to be seen. If anything, all Asher has felt is calmness, the reassurance that she was by his side doing the same thing to him when demands became louder than his own needs. It’s been a soothing panacea that has seeped through every crack of him the Hofferson has allowed to be seen, doing the unasked task of making a smile appear in every moment shared.
During the dragon statue competition, the kahoot, the dance, the graduation photos, Hela was there. Next to him, across the classroom, sat four seats from him, always there to meet his eyes and smile, causing her freckles to stand out more than they already do. And, in the process, making him mirror the same smile, with less freckles and with added dimples. The calmness remained, but there has been a spare room for something more to join in.
For the second time this afternoon, the Hofferson freezes in his spot.
For Christ sake, it looks like he’s actually in love with her. As in, romantic feelings.
As in wanting to card his fingers through her untamable hair and help her take references for her drawings, go wander through the forest in search of whatever rare animal she claims to have seen and get lost counting the amount of freckles that spread through her body. Without a need to present her to his family because they already know her, just as Stoick knows his go-to type of coffee from countless times he’s visited their home.
The headmaster’s voice catches everyone’s attention except his, seemingly telling them to get in place to enter the enclosure. For once in the whole school year, they obey. Asher’s still glued to the spot Hela’s left him in.
The only one who notices he’s not moved an inch is, paradoxically, the source of his puzzlement. The Haddock side eyes him before waving a hand in his eyes.
“Uh, are you okay?” Hela asks.
Asher blinks, licks his lips and nods. Suddenly, he’s sweating. “Yeah.” He meets her eyes for half a second, and it’s too much to handle at the moment. “Let’s go, they’re waiting for us.”