For Spitelout, the memory was too painful. Snotlout didn’t dare ask, and his mother never breathed word of his aunt in front of her husband, either. Sometimes, Snotlout lingered in the Great Hall with the Chief and Hiccup, but Stoick didn’t much like speaking about his late wife, either. Snotlout knew nothing about her—besides the color of her hair that matched his own.

After she was gone, Spitelout couldn’t stand it—the one reminder of his younger sister, so present in his son. And he’d long made sure the memory wouldn’t surface in such a way.

Hence, Snotlout’s dislike of bath night. The freezing water—always cold, no matter how long it’d been held over fire to warm it up—was minor. But as it poured over his head, as he scrubbed yak tallow soap through his hair, the clear water turned murky black, near-opaque and dirty, full of the crushed charcoal Spitelout used to cover the color of his hair.

As he got older, the responsibility to streak charcoal powder through his hair fell to Snotlout, instead of his father or his mother. One extra duty, one none of the other people of the village had to contend with.

As he got older, more and more people commented on Snotlout’s resemblance to his father. On how he was a spitting image—from his stocky build to, of course, the color of his hair. Only Snotlout was the one who caught his mother’s pained smile, when she was around to hear the comments.

As he got older, Snotlout continued with the charcoal—because it was expected of him. Because he was scared of what his father would say if he didn’t.

But now, without his father around, without the weight of his gaze to keep the charcoal firmly in Snotlout’s hands, he doubted. He paused, just for a moment—long enough to wonder, what if?

One time, just once, he skipped the charcoal. His father wasn’t there, on Dragon’s Edge, to scold or yell or punish him for it. No one was—except for his friends.

Over the years, his hair had darkened, though he didn’t know if it was due to the consistent use of charcoal or simply age. It was darker than his cousin’s, if only by a shade near indistinguishable, but it was redder, rust and burnt orange buried deep within. It wasn’t what he was used to. It didn’t fit with the image of himself that had built over the years—but, then again, something about the charcoal-stained hair had always felt off, too. Maybe the change was for the better.

Mornings were best for baths. Or, at least, it was the best for this bath, to wash out the charcoal in the morning sun, before breakfast, before Snotlout’s doubts could get the better of him. It was good to wash the dirt out of his helmet, too, years of charcoal powder built up in its seams and every divot of metal.

When the sun had dried his hair and the inside of his helmet sparkled like silver, Snotlout couldn’t really put off the day any longer.

He made his way towards the clubhouse, Hookfang on his heels. His dragon hadn’t really cared about the change in the color of his hair outside a curious sniff, and a threat to gnaw on Snotlout’s skull—though that, itself, wasn’t too out of the norm.

In the clubhouse, everyone already sat around the center table for breakfast—an empty spot awaited him between Tuffnut and Hiccup, plate already placed, food untouched, though Tuffnut’s chicken was eyeing it dangerously.

The floorboards creaked beneath Hookfang’s weight, and Astrid, of course, was the one who noticed the sound.

“Snotlout, finally! We’ve been waiting for—” her voice cut off with a stutter, and everyone else turned to look at him, lingering in the doorway like a spooked Terror.

“Sorry,” Snotlout tried, unease chewing at his empty stomach, “It was bath night. Had to clean my helmet.”

“And your hair,” Ruffnut blurted, eyes wide. “What happened to your hair?”

Snotlout shifted. Hookfang dug his sharp horn into his back and forced him forward, so he took his seat at the table. He didn’t dare meet anyone’s eyes.

“Well,” he started, unsure, “Usually I put charcoal in it. But I… didn’t, this morning.”

“Obviously,” Tuffnut said, and got uncomfortably close, as if he was trying to examine Snotlout’s hair for any hint of black. “Hmm. Well, we’re going to have to go shopping. That blue tunic does not match, my friend.”

Unable to help himself, Snotlout snorted. He raised his head, and he could see Ruffnut nodding along, a hand on her chin, looking contemplative.

“Maybe a nice green,” she offered.

“Well, I think it looks nice,” Fishlegs butted in, sending a look at the twins. “Not many people in the village have red hair. It makes you pretty unique.”

“I’m always unique,” Snotlout argued, puffing himself up. “Who else can compare to these muscles?”

Astrid could, and she showed as much by leaning past Hiccup to punch him in the shoulder. They all knew, by then, though, that that was how she showed her affection. And indeed, there was a smile on her face. “Less hassle,” she appreciated, in her own way, “I think it fits you.” He grinned at her in return.

Beside her, Snotlout’s eyes landed on Hiccup. His cousin looked contemplative, his face shuttered in that characteristic I’m thinking face. Snotlout barely had a moment to feel nervous before there was a soft little smile on Hiccup’s face, too.

“It reminds me of my mom,” he finally said. He put a gentle hand on Snotlout’s shoulder, and continued, “My dad has a painting of her at home, one of Bucket’s. Next time we’re at Berk, I can show you, if you want.”

“Thanks,” he choked, and then cleared his throat. “That—that would be cool.” He desperately tried to keep his voice from shaking. “Thanks, you guys.”

“You should keep it that way,” Hiccup added. “Astrid’s right, it suits you.”

His cousin patted his shoulder, and then turned back to his breakfast. Snotlout paused for a moment before following suit—and for the rest of the day, nothing could wipe the smile from his face.

~~