Gobber heard the slightly off-tune barks of song before he even got to the top step, and sighed. Stoick had been singing or humming that song at every opportunity, sometimes absently, sometimes for practice, though the latter only around Gobber. It was beginning to get annoying.

When the blacksmith got to the last step he didn't bother knocking before entering the young chief's house. Gobber pushed open the door and stuck his head inside, short mustache quivering at what he saw inside. Stoick hadn't noticed the door opening; he continued to pelt out fragments of song, and dropped to one knee as Gobber closed the door behind him, swinging his right arm in a circle above his head.

"…But I will bring you rings of gold, I'll even write you poetry, and I'll protect you from all-"

"It's actually 'keep ye from all harm', ye miserable idiot," Gobber said. Stoick faltered, overbalanced, and had to grab a table leg to keep from falling over.

"Gobber! Odin damn you, knock!"

"Oh, ye weren't doing anything," Gobber said, swinging his peg leg over the seat of a bench and hauling his friend up. "Besides, would ye rather Valka'd come in?"

"Valka would have knocked," the young chief huffed, allowing Gobber to pull him to his feet. He cheeks were reddish above the bristles of his mustache. "I was, um…"

Gobber snorted.
"Getting' the lyrics wrong again, tha's what ye were doin'. Ye know ye really should write those down if yer havin' such a hard time rememberin'."

Shaking his head, Stoick plopped down on the bench next to Gobber. Well, didn't plop; a chief doesn't plop. He despondently lowered himself onto the bench and shook his head as he looked at his hands.

"What am I going to do, Gobber? I can't mess up the song at the feast, in front of the entire village. In front of Valka-"
"Wellll, ye just need a little help, don't ye?" Gobber patted his friend on the arm. "C'mon, get up," he said as he walked into the store-room.

"Where are you going," Stoick called. Gobber stuck his mug hand out, glad he had brought it.

"Well, ye can't go about dancin' without a drink or two, can ye?"

Gobber finished his tankard with a very long and very satisfying belch.

"All right, practice time." Stoick stopped with his mug halfway to his lips, sighed, put down his ale and stood up. Gobber put his hand(s) on his hips and faced him.

"All right, arm up." The chief debated for a moment which arm Gobber meant, then slowly raised his left. Gobber shook his head and got to his feet. Foot. He batted Stoick's arm back down and grabbed his right, raising the fist to eye-level.

"How the hell yer supposed to court this woman if ye can't even raise the right arm, I just don't know…" Stoick frowned. Gobber raised his own arm and bumped it against Stoick's.

"All right, now. Pretend I'm Valka, yes? Start singin'."

"You look nothing like Valka."
"I said 'pretend', didn't I?"

"Valka's taller than you."

"And a fair sight more pretty, aye? Pretend."

Stoick sighed. And paused. Gobber dropped his arm and slumped his shoulders, raising his face to the ceiling.

"Ye can't have forgotten the whole song!"
Stoick glared at him. Gobber shook his head and arranged their arms.

"'My dearest one, my darlin' dear…" Stoick furrowed his eyebrows until Gobber kicked him to start moving. Not even the chief keeps still when threatened with a peg-leg to the shins. Gobber continued.

"…'Yer mighty words astound me. But I've no deed of mighty deeds' change hands-"

Gobber turned to the opposite direction and grabbed Stoick before he messed up.

"'-When I feel yer arms around me.' Face me," said Gobber, and grabbed Stoick's left hand with his right and nudged his tankard against Stoick's other hand until his friend grabbed on.

"Now, jump on yer left foot and stick yer right one out-"
"Isn't it left foot out first," Stoick countered. Gobber shook his head.

"Who's the expert here?"

"The Viking who's never courted a lass in his life?"

"Tha's right," Gobber said. "Less time pinin', more time dancin'! Stick yer right foot out." Stoick stuck his right foot out. "The gold part."

"'But I will bring you rings'-"

"-Now ye kneel-"

"-'Of gold'-"

"Other knee," Gobber said. "Other hand, too, it's supposed to be the left one."

"….'Of gold. I'll even write you poetry.'"

"It's 'sing ye poetry'," Gobber said.

Stoick looked at him in despair. Well, no. A chief doesn't despair. Stoick looked at Gobber with manful chagrin.

"What?"

Gobber shook his head.

"It's 'SING ye poetry.' Not write. How in Hel are ye even still practicing this thing?"

"Memorizing and performing a song and dance is a difficult task," Stoick muttered.

"Ye picked this song out two months ago!"

"I've been busy!"

"What was it ye said? Her father wrote this song to court her mother with, it has to be perfect? Good job so far," Gobber chuckled.

"All right, all right, 'SING you poetry!"

"Tha's better!" Gobber jumped lightly over Stoick's outstretched leg and turned to face him.

"This part ye get up and-"
"Yes, Gobber, I remember."
Stoick got to his feet, grabbed Gobber's hand and tankard again, and got the lyrics wrong.

Gobber smacked his face with his tankard.

"If ye want, we can add a little more footwork to this thing, try this out…" Gobber shuffled and tapped his feet in a quick jig, swinging his arms above his head. Stoick both laughed and frowned.

"That's not part of the dance."

"It could be part of the dance."

"No, it couldn't, actually."

"Oh, yes it could."
"No, actually, it couldn't."

"It's called improvising."

"I'm not improvising at my wedding, Gobber, I've had a hard enough time with memorizing the blasted thing."

They had practiced well into the night, only stopping to light the fire and get more mead. Stoick had blundered through the routine several times, getting the lyrics right but the dance wrong, or the song wrong and the footwork right, or (most often) screwing up both until Gobber was nearly as frustrated with him as he was with himself. It wasn't until the nighttime chill had begun to creep under the doors that he finally made it through with a minimum of mistakes, and they both collapsed onto the bench, mentally and physically exhausted.

Gobber rubbed the connected joint of his peg leg, silently holding out his mug hand. Stoick poured some mead into the mug and downed the last of the bottle.

"Good work," said Gobber cheerfully. "If ye keep practicing, by the time she actually marries ye ye might no' mess up on more than half of the whole thing."

Stoick shoved his friend in the shoulder, making him laugh as they leaned back against the table.

"'S'not like it's even a difficult song-"
"Thank you, Gobber," Stoick muttered. Gobber looked out from under his bushy eyebrows to see Stoick smiling at the fire, absently tapping his hand against his thigh.

"Well, at least ye won't make a total embarrassment o' yerself," he replied. He stretched his sore leg out to let the warmth of the fire chase away the aches.

"Aye, yer welcome, Stoick," he said quietly. "Just try not to shame me as a teacher, aye? I know it'll be hard but-"
Stoick smacked him on the arm, and they stayed up until the fire was but crackling embers, laughing about the past and dreaming about the future.

A/N: Wow. I started this more than a year ago.

I really liked the dynamic between these two characters. They were such good friends and interacted so beautifully. I loved how Stoick was chief but Gobber still was a sarcastic little shit. You don't see besties like them much. I don't really ship them, but if you want to take this drabble as a shiptease that's fine with me.

I love this song. It's fun to sing and pretty to listen to.

There may come a day where I don't use line breaks to avoid writing a part that I find boring, but that is not this day.

On a completely irrelevant note, I saw an alligator the other day! Just a little two-footer, but it's my first gator in years. He was hunting a frog, and when he missed the tip of his tail twitched, just like a cat's. He was gorgeous, all black with yellow speckles and bright, acid-green eyes.