Work Text:
The Dragon Riders get held captive quite frequently.
It’s Alvin, Dagur, Ryker, Viggo, Krogan, Johann– a different enemy every year or so, which, personally? Hiccup hates. And it’s not like anyone else feels differently, but the claustrophobia of it all is– is just awful. It’s awful.
But the last time they got kidnapped– Johann– Ruffnut said something that made Hiccup think. And– and not in a good way, in a sort of what the fuck way, because–
“I don’t know why we’re so fussed about getting out of here, it’s practically a vacation, if you ask me. Hiccup’s just gonna make us do chores for the next week.”
That’s what she said.
And Hiccup frowned, didn’t say anything, heard Astrid agree sarcastically and saw her give him an incredulous eyebrow–raise, but he didn’t listen. He didn’t watch. And he knew how the team felt about the workload they had to take on, after The Grimora Incident, and Hiccup had been trying really hard to give them a break, to give himself the majority of the chores and all that, but– but was that how they really felt? Would they really rather be fucking kidnapped than do what he asked of them?
And he said to Toothless when they finally got back to the Edge, “I don’t know, bud. It’s not like I have a choice,” but does he have a choice?
So, it’s Snoggletog. They choose not to go home to Berk this year, because there’s a fucktonne of Monstrous Nighmares flying through the Edge at the moment, and Fishlegs is confident that they can and will destroy the base if not monitored. And it’s fine, because Mala, Dagur, and Heather are there, so it’s– it’s like a little party of their own. And the twins, Thor strike them down or bless their hearts or something like that, have by some means procured some very potent shit they call vodka, and Hiccup doesn’t ask them where they got it, because it’s enough to have the stuff.
And so he drinks it, mixed with something, along with everyone else, and Snotlout laughs when he falls over after his second cup, and Dagur drinks, like, five, before even getting tipsy, and Hiccup says, “That’s insane. That’s actually fucking insane, Dagur, what the Hel,” and he goes to bed but not to sleep, and the sun rises and falls and Hiccup does not get out of bed and he does not sleep, and he gets out of bed at night to drink, three cups and no more, and the cycle repeats repeats repeats for a week, and he is reminded of the fact that he is his father’s son.
So, it’s the week after Snoggletog.
Hiccup gets out of bed at midnight, changes his clothes, and decides he is going to stop drinking.
He walks into the Clubhouse to find it empty, apart from a mess of cups and plates populated by ants and roaches and flies– apparently, no matter how many times he asks people to clean up after themselves, they will not. So Hiccup sighs, rubs his eyes, and gets to work.
And he doesn’t stop.
Really, he doesn’t stop, not until twelve hours later when he’s moved on to his hut and then on to the arena, and Snotlout walks into the Dome and says, “Woah, what the fuck, man?”
Hiccup startles, spinning around so quickly it makes him dizzy, and says, “What.”
“It’s all clean,” Snotlout breathes. “That’s– shit, man, that’s unnatural.”
“This is how it’s meant to be.”
“You did the Clubhouse as well?”
“Well,” Hiccup says, continuing to scrub at the wall as he talks, “none of you were going to.”
Snotlout huffs about it for another five seconds before turning around and making to leave– and he looks over his shoulder and says, “Do you. Uh, do you– do you need… help?”
And usually, Hiccup would disregard the obvious distaste and proclaim that yes, he does in fact need help, but Ruffnut’s words echo in his head again, and he shakes his head, dizzy again, and says, “Nah. Nah, I’m good.”
He stops for dinner.
Ruffnut has made some food (?) which, according to Fishlegs, actually doesn’t taste that bad, and would Fishlegs lie to him? So he stops cleaning– he’s onto the stables now, which are even worse than the arena– and sits in the corner and listens to the others talk. It’s more mindless than usual, for which Hiccup is grateful, as he doesn’t really have the wherewithal to comprehend anything serious– his mind is cleaning, tidying, organising, nitpicking, keep going, keep going keep going keep going. And his plate shakes on his knee as his leg bounces, up and down, full of energy that he can’t seem to get rid of, and Astrid glances at him and says, “Are you good?”
“Yes,” Hiccup says automatically, before the question registers, and he blinks. “What. What? Yeah. What?”
“He’s broken,” Ruffnut says, eyeing him. “The alcohol broke him, and now he’s broken.”
“Never forget,” Tuffnut agrees, and they go back to their conversation. Astrid rolls her eyes, standing up to sit herself back down, this time next to Hiccup. She leans her head on his shoulder, wrinkles her nose, looks up at him, and whispers, “You need to take a bath.”
Hiccup snorts. “Yeah, not until I’ve finished.”
“What are you working on?”
“I don’t really know,” Hiccup says slowly. “I’m cleaning– a lot.”
“Well,” she sighs, patting his thigh and standing up, “make sure to give yourself a break, yeah?”
“Yeah.” No.
No.
The next morning, Hiccup decides he will shower.
He told himself the past five hours that it would be his reward for finishing the stables– and finish them he does, just as the sun rises and Tuff’s rooster starts to crow. So he goes to the bathhouse, stares absently at the pots for a moment before remembering what he’s there to do, springing into action and approaching the small waterfall that he and Fishlegs spent so long diverting into the cave, so long ago. Such a long time ago.
His hands shake as he pours the cool water over himself, and the only thing that keeps him even vaguely calm is– is the thought of cleaning, of scrubbing his skin raw, and suddenly, he wishes the water was hot. A sick part of him contemplates asking Toothless to heat the water he’s using now, but he shakes his head to clear the thought– and there’s that damn svimi again, his mind swirling around and around like scrambled eggs, and he has to close his eyes for a few seconds to make it stop.
“Fuck,” he mutters as he pulls his clothes on, fumbling his prosthetic a few times before he succeeds. And now, there is nothing to clean.
So Hiccup creates. Hiccup creates, because if there is nothing to clean, there is mess to make. Toothless lights the forge, Hiccup tinkers away for a few hours and nobody comes to say hello and Hiccup doesn’t even mind because it would interrupt him. And he doesn’t need to be talking to people right now– he’s too busy, far too busy, making things.
But eventually–
Eventually, Fishlegs comes.
“You’ve been working for a while,” he says timidly, and Hiccup nods, his face blank. “Mhm.”
“Are you going to stop?”
“No.”
Fishlegs frowns. “Hiccup–”
“Don’t,” Hiccup sighs, finally meeting his best friend’s eyes, and Fishlegs looks– Fishlegs looks hurt, and concerned, and it makes Hiccup sick. “Don’t even say it. I’m fine–”
“If you overwork yourself–”
“– I’m not listening–”
“– you’ll die, Hiccup, is that what you want?”
Hiccup drops the metal he’s using.
Fishlegs breathes heavily, that awful concern still plastered all over his face. “You’re not sleeping, and I’ve seen you eat once in the past week, and even then wasn’t much– wasn’t enough. Hiccup, you’re going to kill yourself–”
“And you’d rather I kill you guys?”
Fishlegs sets his mouth in a hard line, sniffs, and walks away.
Hiccup is, once again, reminded of claustrophobia.
His argument with Fishlegs has left him reeling, you’re going to kill yourself, going to kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself, and the more Hiccup thinks about it, the more inviting the concept feels. Like an asrai, a wicked charm that Freyja must have sent to him herself.
But he’s moved on from the forge now. He has missions to plan. He has blueprints to create. He’s busy, too busy to care about petty arguments and all that, and– and he’s decided it doesn’t matter how claustrophobic he feels, as long as he’s working.
And he’s–
He’s tired. Yeah, Hiccup’s fucking tired– tired tired tired he’s so tired I’m so fucking tired!, and his charcoal slips out of his hand and he falls to the floor.
Hiccup isn’t sure how long it is before Fishlegs finds him.
There’s a warm, large hand on his back, glaring light as he cracks his eyes open a little. And he groans as his body is lifted up, up, up and across and gently placed down on something soft– his bed, he realises belatedly. And for a second, it’s nice, for a second, it’s peaceful, but then his mind screams no work no work no work!, and his eyes shoot open, and he’s gasping for air, and Fishlegs puts a gentle hand on his chest. “Breathe.”
“I’m okay. I’m fine,” Hiccup sighs eventually, but– oh, but then he’s crying, and Fishlegs pulls him into a warm hug, and it’s– no, it’s nice. This is nice. Because he hasn’t– it’s– Gods, it–
“What’s wrong?” Fishlegs whispers, and Hiccup shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
Hiccup inhales shakily, leans his head against Fishlegs’ chest, and murmurs, “I feel like I’m trapped. In– in my own head, I can’t– I can’t do anything but work and clean and I’m so tired, Fishlegs, Gods, I just want to sleep but I can’t sleep and I can’t breathe when I stop working and I ran out of things to clean and I don’t think the– I don’t think I even made the plans right, I can’t–”
“Shh,” Fishlegs says. “Okay, calm down, just stay calm, okay? You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay. You just need to rest, okay?”
“I can’t,” Hiccup sobs, but Fishlegs nods. “You can. It’s okay. We can do your work for you, you’ve been doing this non–stop for days now. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
“Ruffnut said–”
“Oh Thor, Hiccup, you’re not– you took that seriously?” Fishlegs says, mouth agape, and Hiccup nods, was he not meant to?, and Fishlegs hugs him tighter. “She didn’t mean that. That’s just– that’s just Ruffnut, it’s okay. You don’t have to do all the work alone, okay?”
Okay.
And– and nobody’s ever told him that, that it’s okay to have help, that it’s okay to– to stop, to rest. He’s been told that he should, but people say– people say plenty of things sarcastically, and it’s– it’s–
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry for saying– for–”
“It’s okay. Just rest, yeah?”
And he does.