Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Hiccup is abandoned and then almost immediately taken in by his pseudo-siblings, he’s not exactly sure what to expect.

Heather holds his hand and says the guest room is his for as long as he needs, and Dagur asks questions and says he doesn’t have to answer any if he’s not comfortable– and, and they’re both so kind. And so welcoming. And it makes Hiccup want to cry, because this is such an unfamiliar environment, and he doesn’t, instead, swallowing the lump obstructing his airways and smiling.

And he misses his dad. So much. Every single day, Hiccup calls him, and every single day, it rings twice.

Voicemail.

And it’s a Saturday morning when things first change for the better.

“So,” Heather says, swallowing her toast, and Hiccup glances up at her from his phone. “Uh– yeah?”

“Dagur is working late.” She looks at him like he’s supposed to know what this means, and he blinks. “… Yeah?”

“So, we’re getting takeout for dinner.”

??? “Uh, okay.”

Heather chuckles, giving him a small smile. “What kind of takeout do you want? We frequent this Thai place, but we can get pizza, or Indian, or Mexican– you can choose.”

Hiccup stares at her silently, waiting for her to smirk at him, waiting for her to laugh and revoke the offer as soon as she extended it–

“Hiccup?”

He stands up, his chair scraping across the tiles of the kitchen he’s too scared to enter alone, and mumbles, “I’ll– I’m– bathroom,” and he hurries to his bedroom and closes the door as quietly as he can manage and slides down against the door with his head in his hands. Because this– this is, this, this is fucked. This is scary. It was better being able to predict his dad’s patterns, it was easier– to be able to dodge hits when he needed to, to know that he wasn’t wanted, to know when the people around him were angry– rather than this. This stupid, false, fucking beautiful, kindness he’s been shown for the past two weeks.

Toothless rubs his face against Hiccup’s sweatpants, and he sniffs, stroking the cat with one hand and keeping the other on his face. “What am I going to do, Toothless?” he whispers, and–

“Open the door?” Heather suggests gently from the other side of it, and Hiccup yelps, pushing himself away. The door handle turns slightly, and then reverts to its original position. “I’m not going to come in unless it’s okay with you.”

Hiccup takes a deep breath, and then, after a moment, says, “Sure.”

She enters quietly, doesn’t turn the light on or open the blinds anything, instead, just plops herself down next to him, and Hiccup is eternally grateful. He swallows. “Hi.”

“Hey,” she replies. “Are you… did I do something wrong?”

Hiccup shakes his head vigorously, ignoring the pounding sensation that follows. “No. Nonononono. No, you didn’t.”

“Okay,” she says. “I’m glad. Was it… the takeout? You didn’t know what to choose?”

“I didn’t…” Hiccup begins, frowning, unsure of how to phrase this. “I didn’t know if I could choose.”

Heather blinks. “Oh. Oh, I’m– shit, Hiccup, I’m sorry.” She gives him an understanding look, and he sighs. “It’s okay. It’s– it’s really not your fault, I’m– I’m sensitive, whatever. Just need to… get used to it, I guess.”

Heather scowls. “You shouldn’t have to get used to it. You shouldn’t have to– to unlearn, or whatever, anything like this. I’m really sorry you do.”

“It’s okay,” he repeats. He grasps her hand tightly, and she does the same.

Hiccup doesn’t end up choosing dinner.

They get Thai.

Chapter Text

“Why can’t you come back next week?” Hiccup mutters into his phone, gazing up at the ceiling, and his dad gives an impatient sigh. “I don’t–” care– “have time, Hiccup. I have a lot to do.”

“You left me alone.”

“Grow up, son. This is disappointing. You’re practically an adult, if you can’t handle being home alone for a few weeks now, you’ll never move out.” And the thought makes Hiccup sick, makes him want to– to throw something. His phone, maybe. But instead of arguing, he sighs, and replies, “You’re right. Sorry.”

“That’s right.” And his dad hangs up.

He doesn’t even say goodbye, and Hiccup thinks that’s what breaks him.

He curls in on himself, clenching his bedsheets, near-silent sobs wracking his body and making his shoulders tremble, and the words repeat in his mind, that’s right, that’s right, that’s right, and– and, fuck, fuck this, fuck him, fuck everything fuck everything .

“My dad called earlier,” Hiccup mumbles later that night, twirling his spaghetti on his fork and watching as most of it falls off. Dagur makes a noise, swallowing. “Oh, yeah? What’d he have to say?”

“Y’know,” Hiccup sighs. “Just that I’m a disappointment, I’ll never move out, et cetera.”

“You practically have moved out. You’ve been living here for the past month or so now,” Heather frowns, and Hiccup scoffs. “He doesn’t know about that.”

“He didn’t… ask?” Dagur says carefully.

“He’s too busy buttfucking North Carolina, I don’t know. Don’t think he cares all that much where I am.”

“Fuck him,” Heather says, less carefully. She’s always been blunt when it comes to stuff like this, much like Astrid and Snotlout. Hiccup gives her a grin of sorts. “Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”

“When are you meant to go to your mom’s again?” Dagur says after a moment, and Hiccup freezes. He knew, he knew he knew he knew it was coming and it’s fair because why would they want him taking up space in their house intruding on their family family–

“Hey,” Heather says quietly, touching his shoulder, and he flinches away from the contact and closes his eyes and oh my God oh my God this is it, this is it he’s being kicked out and he inhales a choked breath and stumbles off his chair and there are hands on his upper arms and somebody is telling him to breathe, Hiccup, just take some deep breaths in and out for me, that’s it, just breathe. Hiccup soon realises it’s Dagur, hands like leather on his wrists, fingers tracing unrecognisable patterns on his palms and he’s forced to laugh at the feeling it gives him. It distracts him, gives him something to think about other than the idea of being– of being–

After a few minutes, his breaths are no longer coming in short, sharp bursts, and Dagur’s face appears in his slightly–blurred vision, Heather in the background, her mouth frozen slightly agape like a shoddy backdrop in any given 00s cartoon. Hiccup sighs, his back pressed against the kitchen wall. “S–sorry. Jesus, I’m sorry, that– I–”

“Just take a moment to calm down,” Dagur says, effectively stopping Hiccup’s rambling, and he nods, twisting his fingers together to distract himself.

Heather helps him back over to the table, and before anybody else can break the silence, Hiccup says, “I can go back.”

“… What?” Dagur says, a bemused look twisting his features, the scar that bridges the gap between his cheek and his eyebrow stretching.

“I can go back to my house. If you donʼt, donʼt want me here anymore. I donʼt– I donʼt blame you,” Hiccup assures them hurriedly, seeing a look of panic cross Heatherʼs face, “I wouldnʼt– want me here either, Iʼm not–”

“Hiccup,” Dagur interrupts, reaching his hand out tentatively and then placing it on the table. “Weʼre not… kicking you out. We would never do that. We told you, you can stay here for as long as you need. We meant that.”

“… Oh.”

“You’re our brother, Hiccup,” Heather says softly. “Please understand that. I think– I think Dagur just meant that, it might be good, for you to be with one of your parents. You’re clearly struggling without your dad, and being with your mom might… comfort you.” She glances at Dagur for confirmation, and he nods. “We only want what’s best for you.”

“I can stay?” Hiccup says in a small voice, nearly a whisper, but they hear. Dagur reaches his hand out again, this time placing it on Hiccupʼs, and says gently, “You donʼt ever have to leave.”

Chapter Text

Hiccup has spent the entire day making excuses to not pack.

Astrid tells him over FaceTime that he’s ‘such a procrastinator’, and Hiccup guesses that’s true. What else can he call it?

“Which one?” he asks, holding two sweaters out in front of him, and his phone falls over. Voice crackly and weak, Astrid replies, “Th–ha–s–it’s e–bl–hgk?”

Hiccup snorts, picking the phone back up. “I’m sorry, what?”

Astrid’s quality has improved dramatically in the past three seconds, and she says, taking a couple of bobby pins out of her mouth, “Ugh, never mind. Red, definitely.”

“Were you going to say something?” he says, folding the red sweater and tossing the green aside.

“Just that I think this bleach is… definitely past its expiry date,” she says, closing the cap with a huff. Hiccup makes a sympathetic face. “That sucks. Do you have more?”

Astrid gives him a look. “Do you think I’d be complaining if I had more?”

Hiccup laughs, opening his drawer to withdraw a pair of socks and his testosterone bottle (‘man flask’, as Tuffnut determinedly calls it). “Wow, sorry.” A few minutes later, she hangs up to begin her treacherous journey to Walmart, and Hiccup sends her a text, me when my wife (girlfriend) has gone to war (walmart) for three years (half an hour), and she responds, lmfao ill be back soon <3, and then Hiccup is left alone, with no motivation to continue his packing.

He briefly considers asking Heather to sit with him and remind him to do what he’s supposed to be doing, but the thought of asking her to do something else for him makes him feel physically sick to the point he has to close his eyes and shake his head so the image disappears. It’s embarrassing, so embarrassing, that he can’t even do something as simple as packing with constant external accountability. It’s like his brain needs an outlet for activity, needs to be constantly broadcasting in order to function.

“Hiccup?”

Hiccup turns, startled, to see Dagur standing in the doorway. “O–Oh, hi,” Hiccup says nervously, the sight of his pseudo–brother walking around the house still making him feel like an intruder. But Dagur gives a light grin, enters the room, and sits down on the end of the bed. “Okay– let’s pack. C’mon, I’ll help.”

It’s nice to have help.

Two days later, Hiccup is waiting anxiously for his phone to buzz, signalling 6:30. His knee bounces, and Heather smiles at him affectionately. “We can leave now, if you want. It’s 6:24.”

Hiccup gives a mock gasp, placing his hand on his chest. “Six whole minutes. How dare you.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have even suggested it.”

“Anyway,” Hiccup says, grinning, “I’m pretty sure Dagur is still finding a shirt.” Down the hall, a voice yells, “I heard that!”, and Heather calls back, “Are you?”

She rolls her eyes at the pointed silence that follows. “Yeah. Okay, fair enough.”

Hiccup’s phone buzzes a few minutes later– 6:30. He bends down and kisses the top of Toothless’ head, scratches behind his ears and neck, and the cat mews at him. Although he leaves him at home every month or so, it never gets easier– Hiccup’s just glad that he won’t have to rely on Vidisha–from–next–door to look after Toothless this time. “Bye, bud,” he whispers, giving the cat one last stroke before walking out the door, suitcase in hand. His flight leaves at 10:05, so there’s no time to waste– it’s a thirty–eight minutes’ drive to the airport. Dagur ruffles his hair, and Heather locks the door, and it’s all good for about twenty minutes.

Because when they’re a little over halfway there, Hiccup’s phone rings– his father. He glances at Heather, and she nods, a silent encouragement to pick up. He does, and starts to say hello, but before he can, his father barks, “Son. I’ve cancelled your flight.”

Hiccup blinks, his heart dropping. “Wh–what? What? How– the– twenty–four hours?… why?”

Stoick sighs, and Hiccup can practically see him pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m a state senator, son. Did you forget? They let me cancel anything.”

“I– I paid for that,” Hiccup says in a small voice. “You don’t get the refu–”

“It doesn’t matter,” Stoick says. “Your– your mother has… other things, to attend to.”

“Like what?” Hiccup asks, because– because, what? What? That’s– that’s 1,068 USD, 1,433 CAD, just out the window– and what other things does his mom have to attend to? And his father doesn’t speak for a moment, but then he says, “She’s going on a family vacation to Ontario for a few days.”

Hiccup swallows.

Oh.

“With– with Rani, and Ishaan?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady, and his father sighs again. “Yes.”

“A… a family vacation. A family vacation?”

Stoick grumbles. “Hiccup, I’m at work, you can sort this out yourself. Get the taxi to take you back home, please.” He hangs up, and Hiccup slowly takes the phone away from his ear. Heather stares anxiously in his peripheral vision, and she’s saying something, but Hiccup can’t quite hear what.

Eventually, he realises the car has stopped moving, and Dagur and Heather are both beside him. Hiccup blinks, looks around. They’ve pulled over, and it’s a good thing, too, because he leans out of the car door and throws up on the gravel, and voices are all around him, and he’s sobbing, and Heather rubs his back and pulls his hair back, and Hiccup leans back into the car seat and cries so hard that every bone in his body shakes and rattles, and Dagur says gently, “Hiccup, what happened?”

Hiccup can’t talk for a while, but Heather asks yes–or–no questions until she figures out that they should go back home, and when they’re nearly there, stopped at an intersection, Hiccup whispers, “She went on– a f–family vacation, with Rani and Ishaan.”

Dagur swears, and Hiccup lets another sob escape his lips as Heather puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not her family anymore. She doesn’t–” he hiccups, the irony of it briefly crossing his mind– “she doesn’t want me anymore, she doesn’t want me anymore.”

And he’s tired.

He’s so tired.

He passes out once they get back inside, stumbling to the couch and collapsing onto it, and when he wakes up two hours later, Heather and Dagur are sitting on either side of him, The Office playing on the television. He cracks his eyes open and smiles slightly despite how bad he feels– there’s a blanket wrapped around him, and a cat on top of him, and someone has removed his prosthetic. He’s home, and Heather whispers, “Good morning.”

Dagur passes him a cup of something, murmurs, “Tea. We’re starting the day over, okay?”

Hiccup nods, taking the cup and relaxing into Dagur’s embrace when he offers it. Dwight yells, Buttlicker! Our prices have never been lower!, and Michael whispers, you never yell at the client!, and Jim growls, now you listen to me, sir–, and Hiccup sips his tea.

And Hiccup was right, he decides. Even if his mom doesn’t want him anymore, even if this experience will leave scars, metaphorical or physical, he’ll have help along the way.

And it’s really, really nice to have help.

Chapter Text

Hiccup has decided to not give a fuck anymore.

It’s after hours of crying, passing out and then waking up after each tearful session with burning eyes and a throbbing headache. After laying in bed for hours at a time, what did I do wrong , why don’t they want me , why won’t they love me , all these fucking questions throwing themselves around in his mind– and eventually, after a few weeks, he gives up on it.

And he supposes it’s Heather’s doing.

She brings him a mug of hot chocolate at five o’clock, his hands shake as he takes it– the drill is repetitive, they both know it. Usually, she leaves right after throwing a sympathetic smile his way, but this time, she sits at the foot of his bed, her hair sweeping the blankets– she’s let it get long again, and he wonders if it’s on purpose– but she says quietly, “My mom didn’t love me much either.”

Hiccup looks up at her, slightly surprised, because, “Heather, didn’t your mom–?”

“Yeah,” Heather says. “Yeah, she did. Because of me.”

And– and, no . No, no, no, no– “no, I’m– Heather, that’s not true. That can’t be true, I–”

Heather laughs, humourless, a trace of sympathy still finding its way to her face. “I read the note. She said she couldn’t take care of a child– she dumped me on my dad, and– you know.”

“That doesn’t mean it was… because of you,” Hiccup says uncertainly, because, because that’s kind of what it means, but what is he supposed to say?

“You don’t have to say that,” Heather whispers. “I’ve made my peace with it. It wasn’t my fault, and it wasn’t hers.”

Hiccup nods, sipping his drink, his eyes not leaving hers for a second. He studies her, certain he could write more words about her various facial expressions than he ever could for whatever essay is due next week. And she says, her voice very quiet, so quiet that Hiccup has to lean in to hear her, “I’m not saying it’s exactly the same. Because, quite frankly, I’m really mad at your mom. But, Hiccup– Hiccup, sometimes, people just can’t handle things. And your mom, for whatever reason, can’t handle loving you like she should, like you deserve. But that’s not your fault, and I need you to understand that.”

“… Oh,” Hiccup says dumbly, the words echoing in his mind, and Heather says, “Do you understand?”

Hiccup sips his hot chocolate again. There’s cinnamon in it, and maybe a little brown sugar. It gets stuck on his tongue, and he scrapes it off with his front teeth, gritting it between his jaws, hating the sound, hating the texture. “Can I think about it?”

Heather gives him a long, hard stare, and then says softly, “Of course. Take as long as you need.”

So, the next day, he gets out of bed. He makes cookies (upon Dagur’s request), he showers, he walks– just down the street, but it’s fall, and orange–brown leaves crunch beneath his shoes, and he feels marginally better.

He tries. He tries, because he is not Heather’s mom, and he is not his own mom, and he will not let himself resemble them. And the day after that, he walks again, and the day after that, and he goes to sleep earlier and wakes up earlier, and he thinks he might be finally getting better .

Because he does not give a fuck anymore. His mom is gone, his dad probably won’t come back, and although a knife to his heart is relentless, painful, all wounds heal and so do some scars.

But all good things come to an end, because–

They’re watching a movie when it happens.

It’s Heather’s favourite at the moment, about feminism and the dangers of not being intersectional with your activism, or something like that. Hiccup thinks it’s a little cheesy, and the acting is kind of bad, but it’s a good movie, he supposes. They’re eating pizza, good pizza, the kind Dagur hates for whatever reason so they never get, but they’re taking advantage of Dagur’s vague Work Thing, Hospital Needs Me, I Know I’m Not On Call, Just Get Takeout, I’ll Be Back At Like 10.

“That’s awful feminism,” Hiccup mumbles, his mouth full of pizza, and Heather snorts. “That’s the point.”

“No, they’re condoning that. They’re painting that as the cool thing , this movie is not feminist–”

“How is it not feminist? It’s literally– it’s feminist , it’s about feminism , stop mansplaining.”

Hiccup rolls his eyes, swallows. “Okay, look . This guy,” he gestures at the screen, “this guy was a total sexist douchebag, and now they’re like, ‘oh, but don’t worry, because he’s drawing hearts and shit on his hands now’. It’s literally the least effort he could possibly make. Cis men love that shit–”

“No, he’s helping them with the rally too,” Heather protests, but Hiccup shakes his head vigorously. “Barely! Jesus, Heather, your standards are so low–”

“He’s hot, though–”

“Oh, that is not feminist–”

And there’s a knock at the door.

Hiccup assumes it’s nothing, assumes there’s a package– even though it’s past seven, and they usually don’t get mail after five, and he doesn’t remember any of them ordering anything– nothing they’d have to sign for, anyway.

Heather puts her plate on the coffee table, pauses the movie, and says to Hiccup, “I’ll get it. Don’t – don’t watch without me, okay?”

“You’ve seen this, like, five times already,” Hiccup groans, but he doesn’t reach for the remote, instead focusing on the frozen scene, its background, the side characters– anything. He chews his pizza slowly, something new he’s been learning to do lately, now that he doesn’t– now that he’s safe, and he’s glad that he’s safe. It’s taken him a while to adjust to the new environment, the newfound warmth and comfort of a– well, on Tumblr, this would be referred to as a chosen family, a found family. Maybe that’s a little dramatic– Hiccup knows the realities of the situation. This is temporary, only until his dad comes back or Hiccup turns eighteen– whichever comes first, he supposes– and then he’s gone, he’s out of their hair for good. They wouldn’t have taken him in if he hadn’t needed–

“Hiccup?” Heather pokes her head around the doorframe, her face unusually pale and her hands shaking. Hiccup straightens and sets his plate down next to hers, standing up. “What is it?”

“Um,” Heather says shakily, glancing towards the front door. “Your– it’s–”

And as Hiccup approaches the hallway, he’s not really prepared for his dad to be standing there, a bored, stern, impatient look on his face, his posture uncaring and tired.

Hiccup’s breath catches in his throat, and he clears it, says hoarsely, “D–Dad? What are you–”

Stoick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head, reaching a hand out towards Hiccup– like he can reach him from this distance, no, he can’t, but Hiccup stumbles back anyway, steadying himself on the doorframe. “It’s time to go,” Stoick says simply, and Hiccup shakes his head. “No.”

“Why?”

Heather’s eyes dart between them, filled with worry, and she says tentatively, “Hiccup is– is living here now. He has been for a while.”

Stoick turns to her, says sharply, “You will stay out of this. This is a family matter.” Heather shies away, and Hiccup feels a spike of rage, because Heather doesn’t shy away , Heather doesn’t back down, Heather is– that’s not who she is, and he hates that his father has made her like that.

“You weren’t at home, son,” Stoick says, his voice too level to be quite calm. “I got home, and you weren’t there. You should have told me.”

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving–”

“I told your mother you were a brat. Ungrateful fucking brat. You eat me out of house and home– there’s barely anything left in the fridge, my God– and then you fuck off to your friends’ house to do the same to them.”

And at first, Hiccup’s sure he’s misheard.

There’s barely anything left in the fridge – Stoick’s been gone for over two months, he left a loaf of bread and a 16 oz packet of ditalini in the cupboard, a near–empty container of margarine and a carton of milk in the fridge.

How– how was Hiccup meant to survive on that? Surely he wasn’t meant to survive on that– surely it was a mistake, surely his father just thought there was more food in the house–

“Come on, then, son,” Stoick says impatiently. “Get that cat of yours and get in the car. I left it running.”

“I’m not coming,” Hiccup says.

“… You’re what?”

“I’m not coming with you. I’m staying here.”

Stoick laughs. “That’s– you’re coming with me, and that’s that.”

“You can’t make me,” Hiccup says, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to keep it steady.

“I can– I am the adult here– God,” Stoick growls, “I did a worse job raising you than I thought.”

“You didn’t raise me,” Hiccup says. “You were never even there.” Heather squeezes his hand, and adrenaline courses through him– “and you wonder why I left home, it’s because– because you fucking left again , and I was at home alone for two weeks– by the way, the food you left only lasted me, like, a week, I couldn’t have survived the time you were gone. I’m not coming with you.”

Stoick is silent for a moment.

(He rubs his temple, and Hiccup is four again, you’re such a fucking headache , leave mommy alone , daddy is busy , fucking cooperate you pain in the ass . A sob makes its way up and out of his throat, bubbling like water– or acid, probably acid. Toxic sludge, cynical acid. He doesn’t let it past his lips, clenching his teeth as hard as he can.)

“Come home, son.” (He sounds tired, bordering on defeated, and for a second, Hiccup nearly feels bad, nearly gives in and goes with him, nearly forgets all the threats, I’ll have you sent away , I won’t let you step foot outside this house , I’ll kill you , I’ll kill you I’ll kill you I’ll fucking kill you , the nights spent pressed against his bedroom door hands clenched body trembling stomach aching wounds dripping scared scared so scared , and–)

“It’s not home anymore.”

Stoick raises his eyebrows, and Hiccup repeats, “That– that house, your house, is not my home anymore. You told Heather to stay out of it because it’s a family matter, but–” he draws a deep breath in, preparing preparing ready ready – “she and Dagur are more my family than you ever have been.”

The rest of it is a haze.

Stoick moves in slow–motion, his hand closing around Hiccup’s throat, an attack he’s used to preventing, but here , today , it’s so unexpected he can only give a strangled scream and make his hands into tight balls, willing his father to stop stop stop stop stop please just stop – and then it stops, and he doesn’t know how much time has passed but Hiccup’s on the floor, gasping, retching, sobbing, and Heather’s hands are on his shoulders and he pushes them off because they’re small but the ghosts are large, the ghosts are uncomfortable warm, the ghosts are sweaty, the ghosts leave imprints on his skin that he can’t fucking bear , and his vision is blurry and his insides feel like they’re made of Jell–O, he closes his eyes, he cannot breathe , everything is muffled, and then the door slams, and he’s–

“Hiccup. Hiccup, he’s– can you hear me? Hiccup, he’s gone, I’m calling Dagur, I– it’s ringing, he’s not picking up, are you okay? Hiccup? Your– Stoick’s gone, he’s gone, it’s okay now. You’re okay.”

Hiccup opens his eyes slowly to see Heather’s trembling frame crouched down next to him, her phone clenched in one hand and the other outstretched– apprehensive, terrified– towards his own body. He takes a breath in, as deep and as slow as he can manage, and launches himself towards her, finally allowing himself to break down and cry, clutching her shirt and drowning and choking, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry–”

“Why are you sorry?” Heather gasps as the phone goes to voicemail, stroking his hair, wrapping her arms around him, falling back onto the floor. “What do you have to be sorry for, Hiccup, Jesus –”

And she sounds angry, but Hiccup knows her, knows that she acts angry when she’s scared, and he just shakes his head, burying himself in her shoulder like she can hide him from everything that hurts. She can’t. Hiccup has never been able to hide.

Dagur arrives home forty minutes later.

He hugs them both, tight, each arm a twin boa constrictor of bones and skin and sinew, and Hiccup shakes so hard he thinks he might never stop. Dagur’s arm around his neck feels bad , suffocating, a difficult contrast to the usual comfort and security it provides– Hiccup pushes him away and sobs, his head resting against the wall, and they just stay like that for a while. Hiccup can’t move. He tries, a pathetic attempt, but still, he cannot leave his position on the floor, and eventually his– eventually, they leave, murmuring something about letting him process. It’s fair enough. If the roles were reversed, Hiccup wouldn’t want to be there either. Maybe they’re better than he is. Hiccup can’t bring himself to care. He closes his eyes and buries his head in his arms, rests them against his knees, breathes as deeply and as slowly as he can.

After about twenty minutes, he opens his eyes, sighs, and cautiously pushes himself up into a standing position. He has to rest his hand on the wall, and a voice in the back of his head screams pathetic , weak , but it sounds so much like his dad he decides to pay it no heed. He walks on wobbly, desperate legs into the empty living room, casting fearful glances around– it’s irrational, he knows, but Hiccup can’t shake the thought that his dad will be waiting around every corner, a shitty 2018 jumpscare he’d love to forget. 

The pizza box lies, forgotten, on the coffee table, and Hiccup feels vaguely sick, wondering if he’ll ever be able to look at pizza the same way. A flash of jet black appears in his peripheral vision– it’s Toothless. Hiccup closes his eyes, inhales and exhales very slowly, and then picks the cat up, cradling him in his arms like a newborn baby. Hiccup kisses the tip of his nose, scratches his chin, and Toothless meows at the physical contact, reaching a paw up to swat Hiccup’s nose in return. Hiccup gives a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Hey, buddy. Hey . You’re so cute, aren’t you, bud? Yes, you are.”

He’s so busy cooing at Toothless, at the normalcy and familiarity he brings, that he doesn’t notice footsteps, the floorboards creaking, until they’re right behind him, and someone says softly, “Hiccup?”

Hiccup whips around, stumbling backwards, relaxing as he sees Dagur in front of him, Heather trailing behind slightly, concern and apprehension all over her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Dagur says, slowly reaching a hand out. Hiccup flinches, but accepts the touch, the small burst of comfort, lowering himself to the couch. “It’s– it’s okay. Sorry.”

Dagur sits down next to him, keeping his hand on Hiccup’s arm. “Don’t apologise. It’s okay.” Heather joins them, and Hiccup gives her a small smile. “Hi,” he whispers.

Heather returns the smile, reaching out to pet Toothless. “Hi.”

It’s awkward for a moment.

Hiccup doesn’t know what to say, and he’s pretty sure neither of them do either. The silence is only kept at bay by Toothless’s constant purring.

Eventually, Dagur sighs, stretching his arms, up and wide, like he’s been trapped for years. (Hiccup knows the feeling.) He whistles lowly, and says, “ Fuck your dad. Holy shit, fuck your dad , man. Wow.”

Hiccup gives a shaky laugh, sniffing slightly. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, I didn’t know he was going to–”

“Really?” Heather says. “I mean, I thought you were fully aware and just decided not to tell us.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm, obvious and exaggerated like she’s afraid Hiccup won’t be able to catch it, but he rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Never,” she grins, and Dagur whacks her arm softly. “Yeah, shut up. Look, seriously, Hiccup, I’m– God, I’m so sorry that happened. You didn’t deserve that.”

“I’m just sorry it happened here,” Hiccup whispers, his smile fading, and Heather makes a noise of protest. “If I hadn’t been here, he would h–”

“I know,” Hiccup interrupts harshly. “I know what would have happened, I– I know .” He deflates upon seeing Heather’s face, aghast, shocked, scared . “I’m– sorry. Sorry. Just…”

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “It’s fine, don’t worry. You’re– I know.”

“It just– it’s just happened so many times, and this time was just really bad, so–”

“So I’m glad somebody was here to kick his ass. I’m… I’m sorry nobody was before.”

They sit in silence again for another minute, and then Dagur says, “We should all get some sleep, it’s– we can talk about this in the morning. We’ll be okay.”

Hiccup nods, but he doesn’t get up, doesn’t move from his position on the couch, doesn’t know if he can, doesn’t know if he should. Doesn’t know if he’s allowed, although he knows it’s stupid and they won’t kick him out for this they won’t kick him out for anything they’ve told him so many times and he feels so stupid to keep asking but it would be so entitled to just go to bed after that, just–

“Hiccup?” Dagur’s voice is gentle, and so are his hands. Hiccup looks up at him, swallows, and says quietly, “I’m tired.”

“I know. You should go to bed now. You’re okay.”

“… I’m okay.”

And as he’s lying there, in the guest bedroom that’s no longer a guest bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, he feels a strong sense of warmth, of comfort, of home .

He’s home.

Chapter Text

Hiccup is very familiar with guilt.

Like an old friend, it rears its head from time to time. Like Camilla, who still occasionally reblogs his Tumblr posts. God, Hiccup hasn’t seen her in years– there’s an old Polaroid selfie next to his debit card, his eyes closed and his smile wonky, her tongue sticking out and her fingers making bunny ears over his head. He still remembers her shoving the blank photograph under her shirt, jumping around to make the image develop. Remembers laughing hysterically, clutching his sides, falling against the neighbour’s fence.

But– guilt. Guilt, he’s very familiar with, yes. You shouldn’t have done that , why didn’t you tell me , you don’t deserve to be here – all of that, but what sends Hiccup into a spiral of guilt like he’s genuinely never felt before is Fishlegs.

Just Fishlegs.

He goes to school for the first time since– since his dad showed up, and as they get out of the car, Heather squeezes his hand so tightly he nearly hopes it breaks– maybe then he would have to go home? Home – actually, probably to the hospital, if his hand is broken. But it doesn’t matter, because he goes to school for the first time since his dad showed up, and Fishlegs tries to hug him, and Hiccup flinches . Actually leans back and nearly stumbles, like Jim in that one episode of The Office. Season six? When Michael falls into the koi pond. Hiccup hates that episode.

And Fishlegs freezes, lets his arms drop to his sides like he’s done something wrong – and of course he hasn’t. Hiccup nearly cries right then and there, clenching his fists in an effort to distract himself from– from that , from– God , it’s awful. Because Hiccup was expecting it , was expecting the hug, because that’s what Fishlegs does , and he gives great hugs , but his hair turns dark red and his face morphs into his father’s, and Hiccup feels actual terror, so of course he flinches. Of course he flinches– how could he not?

It’s been three days, and Hiccup hasn’t gone to school since.

He can’t stop thinking about it.

“Are you ready?” Dagur says softly, and Hiccup nods, and then shakes his head. He’s been focusing on the rain, on the sounds he can only just hear the wind make. “Um– what?”

Dagur chuckles, turning the key in the ignition. The radio stops abruptly, not that Hiccup minds– Paul McCartney has never been his cup of tea, so to speak. “We need to get out of the car at some point. Are you ready now, or do you want to wait another few minutes? It’s up to you.”

“Um,” Hiccup says, suddenly feeling very small and vulnerable, and he swallows. “Wait a few minutes? If we can?”

“Sure,” Dagur says, and he turns the radio back on. Another Day plays, jaunty, whimsical, antithesis to everything running through Hiccup’s head. He supposes it’s quite a sad song, actually, when he pays attention to the lyrics– but he rarely does.

Dagur lets the song run to its end, and then slowly reaches out and places a hand on Hiccup’s forearm. “Are you ready now?”

Hiccup nods apprehensively. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m– I’m ready.”

So they get out of the car. Hiccup closes the door gently, because he’s always found cars to be somewhat human, eyes of headlights and mouths of grilles. He gives the car one last glance before accompanying Dagur to the house– his house, the house he’s lived in for the past sixteen years. There’s a flyer taped to the front door, and as they walk up the steps, Hiccup sees the writing on it– Karate Classes Near You! . He rips it off and scrunches it in his fist. It’s strange, but he thinks he missed junk mail the most– well, the pattern. The familiarity.

Dagur watches as he stuffs the flyer into his hoodie pocket. “Not a karate fan?”

Hiccup doesn’t make eye contact, instead fixing his house key with a blank stare. “My dad doesn’t like junk mail. I have to take it off.” He can feel his brother’s eyes boring into him, but he pays him no heed. He just turns the key in the lock, pushing the door open and stepping into the hallway. The dining table greets him, covered by newspapers and cords, just as he left it two months ago.

“Can you close the door behind you?” Hiccup murmurs, wandering further into the dining room, and Dagur hums his assent. Hiccup wishes he could leave the door open. He wishes it wasn’t forty–six fucking degrees outside. He’s never felt safe with the door closed, but he decides it’s okay today– after all, Dagur is there, and his father decidedly isn’t.

Hiccup rifles through the kitchen cupboards, retrieves his favourite mug. Dagur stands in the dining room with his hands behind his back. Hiccup takes the posters in his bedroom down, and Dagur sorts through them, an occasional “keep?” breaking the silence. Hiccup folds his bedsheets and clothing, packs it all into old paper Fred Meyers bags from when they got groceries delivered during the height of the pandemic. Dagur takes the bags out to the car and stuffs them in the trunk. Hiccup says he plans to donate most of the clothing to charity, and Dagur gives him a look that he can’t quite read. He thinks it’s approval. Hiccup wishes he were donating them out of the goodness of his heart– it’s more because he can’t stand to look at most of them. Dagur seems to sense this at some point, and places a warm, comforting hand on Hiccup’s shoulder. It’ll be okay , the hand seems to say, and Hiccup swears he could melt into the touch.

They take a break about an hour in. Dagur clears the dining table off. Hiccup makes shitty instant coffee, nearly cries when he opens the cutlery drawer, doesn’t wash up after himself, and it feels so good . He looks for food, any food, but the fridge is empty, the old cookies in the cupboard are growing mould, and Hiccup wonders if his dad ate anything in the few days he was back. A pang of guilt shoots through him, shameful, stabbing, and he shakes his head to get rid of it.

When they’re sitting at the dining table and Hiccup is staring at the swirling pattern his spoon makes in his coffee, Dagur says, tentatively, carefully, “Can you tell me what happened at school?”

Hiccup swallows nervously. “It’s– it’s nothing, it’s stupid. It doesn’t matter.”

Dagur frowns, setting his cup down. “It matters to me. You’ve seemed upset since Monday– I don’t want you to go through this alone.”

There’s the guilt again, a painful reminder that he can’t do anything right, that he’s a burden– because on Tuesday morning, he didn’t get out of bed. He covered his ears and sobbed at the thought of people, of interaction, of Fishlegs , who has been his best friend for years now so it makes no sense that he would be scared of him– nevertheless, that’s what happened, and Hiccup is disgusted by the mere memory of it.

At his silence, Dagur continues, “Heather said it was something with that fish boy, the– Frederick, or something. I thought you guys were good friends?”

“Yeah, Fishlegs – we are,” Hiccup mutters. “Best friends. It… it wasn’t his fault.”

Dagur cocks his head in gentle, silent question, and Hiccup sighs. “He tried to… hug me, and I just– I just couldn’t. I wasn’t ready. I…”

“You got scared,” his brother finishes for him, and Hiccup can’t answer.

They sit in silence for a minute, and then Dagur says, “That’s okay. You’re recovering. You can go back when you’re ready, yeah?”

Hiccup nods, slightly dumbfounded. It’s been months, and yet he still can’t deal with the kindness, the understanding, the way he isn’t blamed for every feeling he has. It’s– he hasn’t told anyone, not even Astrid or Snotlout. It’s too shameful to even say out loud. But still, he swallows his guilt and his shame, and says, “We should, uh– we should keep packing. We shouldn’t keep Heather waiting.”

Dagur nods easily, swallowing the last of his coffee like he was just waiting for the prompt– maybe he was. “Good plan.”

They finish about two hours later. Hiccup sinks into his car seat and breathes, long and deep, and something collapses inside of him. It’s good, he thinks. The collapse.

“You wanna choose music?” Dagur asks upon starting the car, and Hiccup shakes his head, smiling slightly. “Nah, I’m good. You choose.” If he were to choose, it would be Nirvana, or My Bloody Valentine, or Nine Inch Nails, or Godspeed You! Great Emperor. If he chose Godspeed, it would probably be Luciferian Towers– it’s the only album of theirs Dagur can tolerate, because the songs are all under ten minutes. He played it on the way to school once, Heather sent the group chat a text that said “DO NOT PASS HICCUP THE AUX CORD”, and Hiccup laughed until his sides hurt.

But Dagur is choosing. He pokes the dial on the dash until the radio clicks on, media–in initialising , and he grumbles. “Will you fix that? I don’t want to be late.”

Hiccup nods, turns it off, turns it back on again, repeat until Paul starts echoing from the speakers as they roll out of Dagur’s questionable parking job. “Sorry packing up took so long, I–”

“If I didn’t want to help you, I would have sent you there on your own,” Dagur dismisses jokingly, turning onto the main road. Hiccup snorts. “Great, thanks.”

They stop at a red light, and Dagur pushes the radio button until the screen shows The Beatles’ self–titled album. Back In The U.S.S.R. begins– Hiccup doesn’t mind that one– and he rests his head against the window, zoning out, watching the raindrops race. His mom always liked that, especially on the bus.

Somewhere along the line, Happiness Is A Warm Gun starts playing. Hiccup startles, thinking he’s somehow slept through the entire car ride and they’re already back home, but they’re just pulling up to the school gate.

“Did you skip some songs?” he yawns, and Dagur laughs. “Yeah, I got bored. Sorry.”

They wait about five minutes, Dagur tapping impatiently on the steering wheel, and Hiccup tries not to fall asleep, instead focusing on the music. By now, Martha My Dear has begun. He idly hums along to the brass instruments, the lyrics echoing in his head– hold your hand out, you silly girl, see what you’ve done – Dagur always tells him it’s about Paul McCartney’s dog.

I’m So Tired is playing when Heather gets in the car, and she wrinkles her nose, throwing her gym bag onto the back seat and flopping down next to it. “You’re listening to this crap again?”

“You have awful music taste,” Dagur grumbles. Heather rolls her eyes, closes her door with a bang, and says, “I’m choosing on the way. You have awful music taste.”

Hiccup snorts, looking over his head to grin at Heather, and she gives him a wave as she buckles her seatbelt. “Your packing go okay?”

“Yeah,” he replies mildly. “Yeah, it was fine. We got everything.”

Heather hums, a sympathetic smile crossing her face, and Dagur watches them both through the rearview mirror. “At least it’s over now. You don’t have to go back anymore.”

“Yeah, I hope not.”

They drive.

Hiccup tunes the conversation out ( “– all you listen to is The Beatles and KISS, I’m sorry but it’s boring –” ) and squeezes his eyes shut. Heather’s words echo inside his head, you don’t have to go back anymore , and he swears he could cry with relief.

He basks in it.

Chapter Text

Hiccup floats through the next two weeks.

He sits on the floor of the guest room, his room, unpacking bag after bag and pressing his clothes to his face to take in the smell. They smell like his old bedroom, must and second–hand cigarette smoke– he knows he’ll have to machine wash them at least twice more before he feels totally comfortable wearing them. He tried to give them all away, drove himself up to the thrift store in Lebanon, but they all had memories, faces, voices, attached to them, and he just– he couldn’t do it.

He manages to fold most of them within an hour, mindlessly pushing them into the drawers of the IKEA dresser Dagur bought him as an early birthday gift (“one of them,” he said, which Hiccup found hard to believe)– Hiccup thinks it’s called HAUGA, which, according to Google Translate, is Icelandic for “heap”.

But unpacking the clothes comes with unpacking a mix of emotions, cold, wobbly emotions bigger than he can deal with, so big that they explode out of him in the form of a stifled sob, a kick to his bedpost and a shirt hurled across the room. It hits one of the posters Heather helped him tack to the wall in the middle of the night, and one of the corners peels off. Hiccup sighs and buries his head in his knees– he’s been trying not to pay too much attention to the past recently. After all, it’ll be over soon. Once he falls, it will be over. Once he fails, it will be over. And he will fall, and he will fail. And–

“Are you okay?” Heather says, pulling him out of his mind. Hiccup hadn’t even realised she was there– he jumps slightly, wipes his eyes, and gives her a small smile. “Yeah. Yeah, all good. Just unpacking. Folding. All that, y’know.”

Heather stares at him, her eyes boring into him like nails into timber, and then she sits down at the foot of his bed and starts folding.

Hiccup blinks, opens his mouth to ask what she’s doing, but before he can make any noise, she says, “Where do shirts go? Top drawer?”, and he can’t do anything about it.

Something swells inside his chest. Something warm, something that moves through him and twists his intestines like pliers and paperclips, and for a few minutes, he can’t quite figure out what it is.

He realises, with a jolt, that nobody has helped him fold clothes before, that nobody has done anything so domestic for him.

He doesn’t hate it.

Dagur says there’s no shame in going to therapy.

“I go to therapy. Heather goes to therapy. Hell, therapists probably go to therapy,” he says, leaning against Hiccup’s doorframe on a Wednesday evening. Hiccup groans loudly, pulling his pillow over his head to try to block his brother’s failing argument.

It’s been about three months since he officially moved out. He’s seventeen now, after a March 1st not–birthday of stress and confusion and his dad texting him incessantly– like Hiccup hadn’t waited weeks, months, for just one tiny “hello” or “how are you?”. Now he won’t leave him alone, and Hiccup nearly feels crazy– the texts range from I’m sorry you felt hurt to why aren’t you fucking replying to CALL ME BACK YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH and then right back to I love you. His mom didn’t even call. Maybe Hiccup’s somewhat bitter about that, although he can’t exactly say he’s surprised.

Dagur attempted to bake him a cake. It didn’t go very well, but Hiccup laughed until he cried and Toothless prowled around the spilt buttercream on the kitchen floor until Heather wiped it up with a wad of patterned per towels– it was vanilla, so no harm done. All in all, his birthday was a bit of a mixed bag.

“I’m serious. You know we’ll always be here for you, but you need professional help that we can’t give you, okay?” Dagur continues, a note of concern replacing his nonchalant tone, and Hiccup turns and looks him in the eyes. “I don’t need that.”

Dagur frowns. “You’re kidding, right?”

Hiccup stares.

Dagur throws his hands up and walks out of the room, and Hiccup waits for his footsteps to disappear to scrunch his face up like a wet cat and collapse in on himself like a star. He remembers learning about supernovae when he was about six years old, reading the Wikipedia page over and over until he could practically recite it by heart. Hiccup used to love space.

He groans, shakes his head in disbelief, grabs his phone off his nightstand, shoots Snotlout a text– do you think i need therapy??. His cousin replies almost immediately with a simple skull emoji, and Hiccup registers with a jolt that he thinks I’m joking. It’s such a simple realisation, but it truly throws him for such a curve– Snotlout must think it’s so obvious that it has to be a joke.

i’m serious, he sends, his entire being trying to deny this thought. bc dagur seems to think i really need therapy but i really don’t think i do

holy shit your serious, Snotlout sends back after a moment, another skull emoji tacked onto the end. of coursde you need therapy???? dont be a dumbass

Hiccup bites his lip, feels tears well up in his eyes, he can practically hear the words in his head, and simply sends back, ok. It’s all he can manage before he explodes in a fit of silent frustration and– rage? Rage isn’t the right word, it’s– it’s despair, it’s hopelessness, confusion, that his apparent trauma is so clear to his closest friends and he barely saw it at all.

He puts his phone down, ignoring the three vibrations it emits, and reburies his head under the pillow. Snotlout can wait, and he can’t face Dagur yet. That’s fine, he decides– he doesn’t need to do it now, just as long as it happens eventually.

The next morning, when Dagur’s buttering toast and Heather’s still in the shower, Hiccup sits at the kitchen island, clenches his fists, actively tries to stop trembling, and says very softly, “Dagur.”

Dagur turns to him, slight confusion on his face. “Yeah?”

Hiccup stares, the tiny bit of courage in him vanishing immediately. “N–nothing. Nothing, don’t worry.”

Dagur sighs and turns back around. “Look, about last night– I’m sorry. I know it’s–”

“I don’t want to do it,” Hiccup interrupts, the courage surging again. Dagur hesitates before pushing the butter lid back on the tub, eyeing him as he opens the fridge. “Mhm?”

Hiccup swallows. “I really don’t want to do it. I’m– I don’t remember how it was, when I was little. And it’ll probably be different, and I’m,” scared, “hesitant, to do it. But I think– I think I might need it, and I don’t know what to do with that. So.”

Dagur gives him a small, sad smile, and Hiccup can tell he’s read between the lines. He takes a bite of his toast and stares at the ceiling, and Hiccup fixes his eyes on the glob of butter in his beard.

“Okay, I get that,” he says eventually, swallowing the last of his breakfast and looking back at Hiccup. “You know, when I first went to therapy, I showed up twenty minutes late on purpose. I just sat in my car listening to the news. I was hesitant too.”

“Okay,” Hiccup says, unsure how to react.

Dagur continues as though he hadn’t spoken at all. “My therapist was really nice about it. He had water and some really bad store–bought cookies. He told me I could show up as late as I wanted, as long as I had a reason that wasn’t– hesitancy, about therapy. I didn’t show up late again.”

“Okay.”

“My point is, of course it’s going to be weird and unfamiliar at first. But it will get better, and if it doesn’t, we can try something else.”

“… Okay.”

“Stop saying that,” Dagur says lightheartedly, and Hiccup snorts. “Sorry.”

They sit in silence for a moment, and then Dagur looks Hiccup in the eyes, his face kind and earnest. “Try one. Can you try one session, and then if you really hate it, I won’t make you go back?”

Hiccup swallows. The thought of stepping into a therapist’s office makes him sick, makes the edges of his vision blur green and purple, but Snotlout’s words echo in his head for the third time that day, and he nods. “Okay.”

Dagur grasps his hand, giving it a short squeeze before letting go. “Thank you. Now, go and tell Heather if she doesn’t get out of the shower soon I’m going to turn the hot water off.”

Later, Dagur corners Hiccup in the hallway, and says, “I wouldn’t blame you if you were scared, by the way.”

“I’m not,” Hiccup says. He says it with little insistence, and Dagur raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.

“I’m scared,” Hiccup whispers, and Dagur glances at him. “I know. Do you still not want me to come in with you?”

“No,” he insists– the only thing worse than laying himself bare in front of a stranger would be to do it in front of somebody he has to go home with. “No, it’s fine. Go hang out in Starbucks or something.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dagur scoffs. “We’re going there afterwards. I’m going shopping.” He tosses his head back, a hair flip without the hair, and Hiccup can’t help but laugh. “Have fun.”

They pull up outside the building, and Hiccup bites his lip. He looks at Dagur for some sort of support, and his brother gives him a warm smile. “It’s going to be okay. You’ve got your phone, if it really sucks, call me and I’ll come back straight away.”

Hiccup nods, returns the smile in a blank, halfhearted sort of way. He clutches his phone in his jeans pocket, opens his door, and gets out of the car.

The first thing he notices once he gets inside the building is the smell. He’s wearing a mask, of course, but this smell permeates the air like smoke– it’s flowery, dusty, and he can’t quite place it. He says hello to the receptionist, smiles beneath his mask, observes the sad beige walls and the orchids on the front desk, taps his knee nervously as he waits for his phone to turn twelve o’clock.

Finally, the door to his left clicks open, and a woman walks out. She gives him a gentle smile. “Hiccup?”

“Hi,” Hiccup says awkwardly, standing up, and the woman beckons him to the office. He scans her face– she has long, flowing black hair, and her skin is a cool tan, while her eyes are hazel and her nose is slightly hooked. She is not wearing a mask, and Hiccup internally prepares to walk out of there before they’ve even started. “I’m Nadia. It’s good to meet you.”

“You too,” Hiccup replies quietly– the smell is stronger in here. Nadia gestures for him to take a seat, and he does so, glancing behind him like he always does. He fidgets with his fingers, and Nadia says, “You look nervous. Are you?”

Hiccup startles, the bluntness of the question catching him off–guard, and he says tentatively, “Um. A little?”

Nadia smiles, chuckling slightly. “That’s understandable. Don’t worry, we’re not going to do any real therapy stuff today– for the first session I usually like to get to know my clients. Is that okay with you?”

“Okay,” Hiccup agrees, his joints loosening as the danger he was so sure of dissipates ever so slightly.

“You can take your mask off if you’d like,” Nadia says. “I have HEPA filters on each side of the room, the windows are open, and I have twenty minutes between appointments– it’s up to you.”

“No,” he says firmly, although he wavers; she’s clearly made an effort, and that’s more than most people do– hell, that’s more than his family ever did. Still, he bounces his leg and fixes her with his most judgemental stare until she tilts her head and asks, somewhat amused, “Would you be more comfortable if I wore a mask?”

Hiccup blinks, the offer unexpected, and gives her a small nod. “Yeah. Uh, yes. Please.”

“Okay, that’s fine. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” Hiccup eyes her as she takes a P2 out of her handbag, and decides this might not be so bad.

Nadia picks an iPad and a stylus up off the side table and continues, “So. Tell me about yourself.”

So Hiccup tells her about drawing, and his art blog on Tumblr, and Toothless, and all the bands he likes, and how he wants to be an engineer, and how MIT used to be his dream university, and then UCB, but now he just wants to get the hell out of this state. Wherever his friends go, he tells her, and she writes something down. She asks about his leg, and his relationship with his parents, and he tells her it’s none of her business, and she laughs, short yet genuine, but doesn’t press it.

He does not tell her why he moved out. He does not tell her about his depression, or how he can barely eat without feeling sick and selfish, or about hot showers and his obsession with pleasing everybody.

He tells her about piano lessons, and Astrid, and how Dagur and Heather have made him feel safer in six months than his biological family ever has in seventeen years. About being trans, about how he’s not even sure if he’s straight or bi or anything like that, about (what used to be) his favourite food, about how The Office got him through years of being left alone at home and he can recite nearly every episode by heart. She asks his favourite episode, and he tells her it’s Nepotism, but only because of the cold open. She says hers is Koi Pond, and Hiccup feels a sudden, intense hatred that can only last a second before she asks him another question.

At one point, Nadia stops and goes on a long tangent about client confidentiality, which is essentially a roundabout way of saying that she’ll rat him out if he’s planning to kill himself. Hiccup doesn’t mind this– he’s never told anyone about his suicidal thoughts before, so this won’t make much of a difference. She asks if he’s comfortable discussing his mental health briefly before they end the session, and Hiccup says he’s doing well. It’s not exactly a lie– he hasn’t cut himself since before he moved out, and although he misses it, his vampiric thirst for blood has been replaced with an equally sickening desire for bruises and burns.

He doesn’t tell her that, though. He keeps it brief, like she said.

And when Dagur picks him up, when they’re sitting in the car with their Starbucks order on the dashboard, when Hiccup is staring down his straw at the mountain of whipped cream the barista thought his iced chocolate needed, he keeps it brief. He tells Dagur therapy was okay, I guess, and when his brother cautiously asks about the prospect of going back next week, he says, as casually as he can manage, “Yeah, that sounds good.”

Dagur smiles at him like Hiccup has given him a gift, and tells him, “I’m really proud of you.”

Hiccup cries into his hands. His banana bread is salty.

Hiccup sits outside on a Saturday morning, his book laying open on his lap. There’s a bird perched on the back fence, its head cocked as if waiting for an answer to an unspoken question. Toothless hisses at it, and it startles, flying into the neighbours’ garden and crash–landing on their patio table. Hiccup rolls his eyes, beckoning Toothless. “Stop being mean to birds,” he murmurs, and the cat flicks his tail.

He went back to school a few weeks after starting therapy– Nadia said he deserves to surround himself with people who love him. Hiccup once saw somebody on Twitter say that one’s first time crying in therapy is a turning point, but really, Hiccup felt nothing but embarrassment as she handed him a box of tissues and offered to get him a glass of water.

School isn’t even that bad, Hiccup finds. It’s more exciting than home– now that Dagur’s on the night shift and Heather has taken a part–time job at the grocery store down the road, Hiccup’s life has become a fairly solitary affair. He tells Nadia about the guilt he feels when Heather boasts her paycheck, how he cannot go back to the café, how it’s stupid because I’ve been working there since I was like five years old how could a place like that be so uncomfortable all of a sudden. She says it might be something to do with the memories associated with it, how his dad is so close with the owner, and Hiccup stares at his knees for the rest of the session.

No, school is– school is fine. His friends are gentle– Fishlegs brings him a chocolate bar every day, claiming to have accidentally bought two, but Hiccup heard Tuffnut loudly proclaim, “Dude, you have got to stop. How do you keep buying two every time, Jesus Christ,” saw Fishlegs shoot him a look, and Hiccup feels pink spread across his face briefly– people care, he is loved, and, unfortunately, this fully registers a couple of hours later in social studies. And he bites the inside of his cheek, a somewhat dazed smile sneaking up on him before he can stop it. The girl next to him furrows her brow, and he ignores her. He’s warm. It’s a nice feeling.

His dad hasn’t called since his birthday. Hiccup doesn’t mind– in a weird, guilt–ridden sort of way, he’s nearly ready to leave that part of his life behind. Obviously, there’s legal guardianship, and also the question of whether or not Dagur will be charged with kidnapping or something– and that’s scary, that lies dormant in the back of Hiccup’s mind and shoots up every time he gets to class two minutes late. But Hiccup’s nearly sure Stoick won’t do anything– politics is more important, he’s constantly reminded, and as much as that used to hurt, it works out in his favour this time.

The bird darts back onto the fence, and Toothless narrows his eyes. Hiccup scratches the cat’s neck, stop being mean to birds, and he purrs, his attention drifting from his avian enemy. Something falls inside, presumably a pot or pan, and Dagur swears loudly. Hiccup rolls his eyes, electing to ignore it, and he smiles to himself. A chosen family, Tumblr had called it. A found family.

A family. He’s home. He’s safe.

Hiccup is home.