Finding Hiccup - Modern!Au ✔️

thirty two

I know what it's like to be an old person now.
OK, I don't know what it's like to have wrinkly skin and white hair. But I do know what it's like to walk down the road at a slow, uncertain pace, wincing at the passing of people, and flinching when horns beep and feeling like everything is just too fast.
Mum and Dad have taken Snotlout out for the day to some garden show, and at the last minute they took Heather too to "broaden her horizons." So they have no idea I'm doing this. I couldn't face the whole big deal of telling them and Mum fussing and all that palaver. So I waited till they left, got my key, got my money and the camera, and just left the house.
Which I haven't done for...
I don't know. So long.
We live about twenty minutes' walk from Starbucks, if you're striding. I'm not striding. But I'm not stopping either. I'm going. Even though my lizard brain is poised to curl up in fright, I'm managing to put one foot in front of the other. Left, right. Left, right.
My dark glasses are on, my hands are jammed in the pockets of my hoodie, and I've pulled the hood up for extra protection.

I haven't raised my gaze from the pavement but that's OK. Most people walk along in their own worlds anyway.
As I reach the town centre the crowds become denser and the shop fronts are bright and noisy and with every step I have a stronger desire to run, but I don't. I push on. It's like climbing a mountain, I tell myself. Your body doesn't want to do it, but you make it.
And then, at last, I've made it to Starbucks. As I approach the familiar façade I feel kind of exhausted, but I'm giddy too. I'm here. I'm here!
I push the door open and there's Astrid, sitting at a table near the entrance. She's wearing jeans and a grey vest top and she looks hot, I notice before I can stop myself. Not that this is a date.
I mean, obviously it's not a date. But even so—
Midsentence Stop. Whatever. You know what I mean.
Astrid's face brightens as she sees me, and she leaps up from the table.
"You made it!"
"Yes!"
"I didn't think you would."
"I didn't think so either," I admit.
"But you did! You're cured!"
Her enthusiasm is so infectious I grin madly back and we sort of do a mini-dance, arms waving up and down.
"Shall we get some coffee?"
"Yes!" I say, in my new confident, everything's-fine way. "Great!"
As we join the queue I feel kind of wired. The music on the sound system is too loud and the conversations around me are hitting my eardrums with a force that makes me wince, but I'm going with it instead of resisting. Like you do at a rock concert, when your nerves get taken over by the force of the noise and you just have to surrender.

(And yes, I appreciate most people would not equate low-level Starbucks chatter to a rock concert. All I will say is: Try living inside my brain for a bit.)
I can feel my heart pumping, but whether it's because of the noise or the people or because I'm with a hot-looking girl, I don't know. I give my order (caramel Frappuccino) and the surly girl behind the counter says, "Name?"
If there's one thing I don't want it's my name being shouted across a busy coffee shop.
"I hate the name thing," I mutter to Astrid.
"Me too." She nods. "Give a fake one. I always do."
"Name?" repeats the girl impatiently.
"Oh. Um, Rhubarb," I say.
"Rhubarb?"
It's easy to keep a poker face when you're wearing dark glasses and a hoodie and you're looking off to one side.
"Yes, that's my name. Rhubarb."
"You're called Rhubarb?"
"Of course he's called Rhubarb," chimes in Astrid. "Hey, Rhu, do you want anything to eat? You want a muffin, Rhu?"
"No, thanks." I can't help smiling.
"OK, Rhu. No problem."
"Fine. Rhu-barb." The girl writes it down with her Sharpie. "And you?"
"I would like a cappuccino," says Astrid politely. "Thank you."
"Your name?"
"I'll spell it for you," she says. "Z-W-P-A-E-N—"
"What?" She stares at him, Sharpie in hand
"Wait. I haven't finished. Double-F-hyphen-T-J-U-S. It's an unusual name," Astrid adds gravely. "It's Dutch."
I'm shaking, trying not to laugh.

The Starbucks girl gives us both evil stares.
"You're Jade," she says, and scrawls it on her cup.
I tell Astrid I'll pay because this is my documentary and I'm the producer, and she says OK, she'll get the next one. Then we take our cups—Rhubarb and Jade—and head back to our table. My heart is pounding even harder, but I'm on a high. Look at me! In Starbucks! Back to normal!
I mean, OK, I'm still in dark glasses. And I can't look at anyone. And my hands are doing weird twisty things in my lap. But I'm here. That's the point.
"So you dumped Heather off your team," I say as we sit down, and immediately regret it in case it sounds aggressive.
But Astrid doesn't look offended. She looks worried. "Heather doesn't blame me," she says quickly, and I realize they must have had a conversation about this. "I mean, she wouldn't expect us all to give up playing LOC just because she's had to. She said she'd do the same if it was her."
"So who's the fourth?"
"This girl Michelle," says Astrid without enthusiasm. "She's OK."
"Dad made Heather play bass with him in the garage," I tell her. "He thinks that's a better interest."
"Does Heather play bass?"
"Barely." I snuffle with laughter. "She plays, like, three chords and Dad does ten-minute solos."
"You think that's bad? My dad plays the recorder."
"He what?" My laughter dies away. "Seriously?"
"You can't tell anyone." Astrid looks suddenly vulnerable and I feel a wave of...something. Something strong and warm. Like when you put your arm round someone and squeeze.
"I won't tell. I promise." I take a sip of Frappuccino. "Like, the kind of recorder kids play?"