Prints will be available soon, as well as laptop cases on Society6.
Hiccup’s outfit based on this.
He knew the end was coming. Yet, there was a smile on the general’s face.
”I love you..” His tired voice whispered. He took another breath, never letting his gaze wander from the small portrait inside the locket.
”I’m sorry… No..Don’t cry.. Don’t cry love..Hush.. It’s alright..I’m here..” The droplets of tears fell on the glass, rolling down the smooth surface he’d touched so many times before.
((Didn’t know what to draw so yeah, here have some feels. Some concept things for Nemo’s and my fanfic. The words are written in (my own) lunar alphabet and says ”I’m sorry…”))
"Take me home."
The hours only flew by, he imagined, thanks to the drink. Drinks. Plural. Jackson probably cut him off after his third or fourth, but the buzz was heavy and he was certainly no lightweight. Hiccup could vividly recall several impromptu parties he’d been dragged to in high school where he had effortlessly drank every jock under the table, for what little it had helped his reputation. Usually he was the one picking people up off the floor.
As it stood, he didn’t say much in those few hours, quietly letting his freight train brain roll on and polishing off a cocktail or three, avoiding Jackson’s glances toward him every now and then. The guy was a bartender, for crying out loud - he was meant to help people and let them vent about their problems, right? But Hamish’s problem…was the bartender.
What an issue it was.
Pulling himself heavily off of the bar stool as the final patrons scooted out, the artist leaned against the door frame and waited patiently for his company. ”Y’wanna take a walk…?” His tongue felt thick in his mouth and his words tied together just the slightest bit. Perhaps he was a little more tipsy than he thought.
Had he said something wrong? Or done something that would have proven Hiccup to be upset at him in any way? He wasn’t even sure why he was so hung up over the ‘what if’ when the usual barely ever was given a second glance. Worry chewed at his bottom lip during every glance he cast in the patron’s direction.
Perhaps sharing company wasn’t as nice as it had sounded at first. Company usually talked. But rather, did he drink. And Hiccup wasn’t a talking drunk.
Once the closing hours had set in and customers found their ways out onto the streets to face their own harsh realities, Jackson was headed for his own as he trailed behind them. One by one, they left until it was only he and Hiccup remaining; the door help open for him for once. “Sure.” Jack breathed out, his voice visible in the bitter night’s air.
“You sure you can walk, though?”