Work Text:
The shadows are a stormy blue–grey, moving across their imprisoning wall like inexperienced dancers– they shudder with a pronounced unease, with jerky yet somehow simultaneously fluid movements. An arm falls, a knee bends, a couple parts. He knows they have mouths, although they are simple silhouettes, most in portrait view. It’s more of a gut feeling than an undeniable fact– maybe it’s the way they look at him. Maybe it’s the way they whisper to each other, nasty words, he knows, although he can’t hear them. Maybe that’s a gut feeling as well.
The shadows are escape artists, peeling themselves off the wall and staggering closer to him, their sharp fingers curling in a nearly inhuman way. They grow, they shift, and he backs away. They look like zombies, even one bite deadly, and he has no weapon. He moves along the floor. His bedroom door is ajar. It’s not meant to be, and usually he would curse himself for being so forgetful– perhaps this is how the shadows entered, maybe this whole disaster is his fault– however, today, he ignores the guilt and presses his eyes shut in a silent thanks, falling out of the room and crawling towards the staircase. All he can do is scrabble feebly at the wooden steps, trying not to fall all the way down like an imbecilic cartoon character. The shadows are still following him, slowly, but his neck crawls, the rest of him growing shaky and terribly cold, and he realises their slow speed is a mere illusion– they are approaching, rapidly, and he ignores the prospect of injury, instead pushing himself down the stairs one by one, as fast as he can. He cannot stand. He cannot walk. He cannot turn away from them, lest they grow faster. He cannot escape. He cannot hide. He cannot hide. He cannot hide.
He steals a glance behind him, and a shadow leers at him. This one has a mouth, its ivory teeth a sharp contrast to the muted colour of its body. It smiles, more mocking than friendly, its arms outstretched as if to comfort him, and he cannot move.
A small part of him argues that this is dangerous, that there will be consequences for this forbidden comfort, but its arms are welcoming, and he is cold.
He succumbs.
Hiccup wakes up slowly, his eyelids crusted together, his body stiff and alien, and instantly knows something is wrong.
It’s nothing concrete. Just a gut feeling, an instinct. If he were to think about it in terms of evidence, there would be none, but Hiccup has had the last seventeen years to get used to how his body functions, knows what it feels like when he’s sick, and if he were a less selfish and stubborn person, he would just close his eyes right back up again and stay home for today, but he promised Snotlout he could copy off him in the English test today– fuck, there’s a test.
He groans, sitting up, and upon blindly flailing his right arm around to grab his phone, he realises he’s overslept– the time is 7:14, and Dagur has a very strict ‘leave at 7:30’ rule. This gives him only sixteen minutes to do everything he needs to do before they pile into the car.
“Fuck,” Hiccup mumbles, scrunching up his face and pulling the bedsheets to the side. He glances at them, a pang of guilt stabbing him– there is no time to make his bed, not if he wants to get dressed and eat breakfast before he has to leave. He stands up, hopping over to his dresser and pulling his prosthetic equipment out of the top drawer. He pulls all the parts on hastily, there is no time to make sure everything is perfect there is no time there is no time there is no time. There is no time.
After getting dressed, Hiccup haphazardly shoves his laptop, binders, spare mask, and pencil case into his backpack, ignoring how his charger bends near the adaptor. He knows it will pop out, knows he will have to buy another, but he doesn’t care– there is no time. His phone is on 63%. There is no time.
He takes the steps two at a time, closing his eyes and leaning against the newel post when he gets to the bottom, his head spinning. When he opens them again, he sees Heather shovelling cereal into her mouth at the kitchen table, and she glances up at him. “Goo’ morming,” she says through a mouthful of Lucky Charms. Hiccup gives her a half–hearted smile. “Hey.”
She swallows. “Dagur went to work early, so we’re taking the bus. Comes in, like, fifteen minutes, you don’t have to rush.”
“Oh,” Hiccup says. “Okay.” Something lifts in his chest– relief, maybe, that he has time to eat something.
Heather seems to read his mind. “Do you want anything for breakfast? You can’t have cereal, I finished the milk. I’m gonna ask Dagur to pick some more up on his way home.”
Hiccup stares at the bread on the countertop and instantly feels a wave of nausea crashing through him, travelling from his lower stomach to his chest to his head, and he looks away, squeezing his eyes shut again. He takes a couple of deep breaths and then says to Heather, trying very hard to keep his voice steady, “Nah, I’m good. I’ll try and get something at school.”
Heather shrugs. “Okay.”
Hiccup stands there awkwardly for a moment longer trying not to look too much like the embodiment of death, until Heather eyeballs him suspiciously and says, “Are you okay? You look kind of… pale? Like, more pale than usual.”
Hiccup blinks, hating that she can tell something’s wrong. “No, I’m fine. I just– I had a weird dream.”
“Oh. Oh, uh. Was it–”
“No.” Hiccup shakes his head, knowing what she’s about to ask– about your dad?– and shutting it down before it can happen. “No, it was just– I don’t remember. It was… like, I was being hunted. I think. It was weird.”
Heather tilts her head, and neither of them say anything after that.
Hiccup goes back upstairs to make his bed.
The bus comes, and Hiccup shuffles onto it, nodding at the driver. Heather holds him steady by his arm, scouring the bus for empty seats– Hiccup is more grateful for this than she will ever know, and he’s secretly also grateful that he can’t stand on public transport anyway. Today, he’s sure it would kill him. Or something.
Heather makes an aha noise, spotting two seats near the back, and she drags him towards them, pushing him into the window seat and sitting down next to him. “Hey,” she hisses as the bus starts moving, and he glances at her. “Mm?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Heather says, and just as Hiccup’s about to open his mouth to answer, something bubbles up inside him, and he decides not to risk speaking. Instead he nods and turns away, leaning his head against the dirty bus window.
At this point, he’ll be lucky to make it through the day without throwing up.
Of course, he is not lucky. He fails his mission about half an hour into the school day, excusing himself in the middle of AP lit and rushing straight to the bathroom, slamming the stall door behind him and sinking to his knees in front of the toilet. A small voice in the back of his mind reminds him that this is unhygienic, this floor must be disgusting– God knows seniors vape and generally fuck around in the stalls– Hiccup groans and repositions himself, staring at the toilet bowl with contempt.
At first, he finds himself unable to throw up, the discomfort in his stomach twisting in place like a tornado. He takes a deep breath, holds his index and middle fingers straight, shoves them towards the back of his throat– it’s not like he hasn’t done it before– until saliva pools in his mouth and he’s heaving into the toilet, bile spilling from his lips and burning his nose. Hiccup coughs, scrunching his nose up to rid himself of the stinging sensation, and after a few minutes, it works.
Hiccup spits into the toilet, and goes to rinse his mouth out.
Everything. Is. Loud.
Those are the only three words running through Hiccup’s head, over and over again, like a song on repeat. He is sitting in his second class of the day– double period math– the teacher confiscated his earbuds, pencils are scratching all around him, and the girls next to him are chattering about something or other. When he thinks about it, he can vaguely recognise one of them– he’s fairly certain she’s on the netball team with Astrid. He’s not sure about the other one– all Hiccup is 100% positive about is that everything is loud, and he needs it to not be.
He stands up abruptly, shoving his phone into his pocket, and the teacher stops writing on the board. “Hiccup?” she says tiredly, and he nearly feels bad. Not quite, though– he mumbles something about the bathroom and exits the room without waiting to hear her response.
Hiccup has always liked the feel of walking the halls alone. It makes him feel like an outsider– as if he needs to simulate the feeling– but in a cool way, in an exciting way, as if he’s the main character in an indie film. Today, though, he feels sluggish and heavy, unable to enjoy the solitude of the empty hallway. He stands in place and stares at the lockers lining the walls– one of them here is Tuffnut’s.
His phone buzzes, and he withdraws it. It’s an Instagram DM from Astrid: hey my class ends in 20 then i have a free period and babe i have SO much shit to tell you. meet in practice room 4? He doesn’t have the energy to respond, merely double–tapping on the message and watching as his little black cat emoji shows up.
It’s good, because they haven’t seen each other properly in a couple of weeks; Astrid’s grandparents had been visiting for her birthday, and then exams started– really, it had just been busy recently, so this would be good.
Hiccup has twenty minutes to kill. He wanders into an empty classroom and sits down on a beanbag in the corner.
He curls into the foetal position, wrapping his arms around his stomach, and sleeps.
Hiccup wakes up around thirty minutes later to his head pounding, his stomach aching, and four missed calls from Astrid.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers aloud. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, had only intended to close his eyes for a couple of minutes to see if that would solve his fatigue and nausea. It had, in fact, worsened both– but more importantly, he had slept through some of Astrid’s free period, meaning they would have less time together. He sits up quickly, ignoring how it makes his headache worse, and shoots Astrid a text, i’m so sorry i lost track of time i’ll be there in 3 minutes.
Hiccup looks around for his bag, realising too late that he left it back in his math classroom, and briefly considers going back to get it. He decides eventually that he can’t– his teacher will make him stay, and besides, there’s no time. Instead, he hurries towards the music rooms, running as fast as he can.
He makes it there in record time, pushing the door open to find Astrid in a staredown with a bright blue ukulele. She turns to him, her eyes bright, opening her mouth to say something, and then her face falls. “Hiccup, oh my god, you look like shit.”
“Thanks,” Hiccup replies, his voice scratchy and weak. She approaches him, takes him by the hand and places hers on his forehead, and frowns. “Hiccup– Hiccup, you have a temperature. Are you feeling okay?”
“Um,” Hiccup says dumbly, unsure of what to say, “no.”
“Okay,” Astrid says. “You need to go home early, come on.” She puts an arm around his shoulders, holding him steady, and Hiccup blinks. “Oh. Oh, no, Astrid, I can’t–”
“Sure you can,” she insists. “We’ll go to the office and get someone to call Dagur, okay?”
Hiccup nods without thinking, and then shakes his head vigorously, the action making his head pound. “No. No, please, no, don’t call him.”
“Why not?” Astrid says, and Hiccup just shakes his head again, knowing that if he made Dagur come to pick him up early, the rest of the week would be guilt–filled and desolate. “I– you can’t call him. Please don’t call him.”
“… Fine,” Astrid agrees. “Okay, then I’ll take you home myself.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Sure, I can. I’ll carry you if I need to. You’re sick. Now, did you drive here, or did Dagur drop you?”
“Um… bus,” is all Hiccup can say, not understanding why she’s asking, and Astrid sighs. “Okay, that makes things a little harder. Do you know where Snotlout is? Maybe we can borrow his car– oh, but then he wouldn’t be able to get home–”
“Snotlout,” Hiccup says suddenly. “Snotlout. Oh my god, I told him he could copy off of me in the exam. I can’t leave, Astrid–”
Astrid gives him a look. “That’s very noble and all, but I’m pretty sure if he copied off of you right now he’d do worse than he ever could on his own.” She snorts. “Where’s your bag?”
“Classroom.”
“Cl– okay, you have to give me a bit more than that.”
Hiccup swallows. “Math. With, uh, Ms Beck.”
“I’ll text Heather and ask her to pick it up on her way home, then. I’m going nowhere near that woman,” Astrid snorts. Hiccup nods slowly, and then says, also slowly, “What about your bag?”
Astrid shrugs. “It’s in my locker. I’ll get Heather to pick that up, too.”
Hiccup is fine walking by himself until about fifteen minutes into the trek home, when he gets so dizzy he actually sees stars and stumbles, nearly falling to the ground. Astrid catches him before he hits the pavement, exclaiming, “Woah, woah, woah. Okay. Let’s sit down for a moment.” She lowers them both onto the concrete, holding both of Hiccup’s hands. He refuses to make eye contact. It’s embarrassing enough that he had to get his girlfriend to pull him out of school early and walk him forty–five minutes home, to collapse to the ground is another thing entirely.
“Hey,” she says firmly, as if reading his mind, “you don’t need to be embarrassed. You’re sick. You can’t control that. Should you have stayed home? Definitely. Should you have told someone you weren’t feeling well? Also definitely. But we can’t change any of that now, and it’s not your fault you’re sick, so let’s just focus on getting you home. Please don’t be ashamed.”
Her voice is so earnest Hiccup wants to cry, and he leans into her touch. “You shouldn’t even be near me. I’m probably contagious,” he whispers, and she shakes her head. “Who’s going to take you home, then? Besides, I don’t get sick.”
“Everyone gets sick sometimes,” Hiccup argues, and she smirks. “Well, would you look at that.” She pushes his bangs out of the way, kissing his forehead, and after a few minutes, she hauls him to his feet again, and they continue walking.
It happens very suddenly.
They’re walking along Harrington Drive, the rich street about a twenty minutes’ walk from Dagur’s place, and Astrid is grumbling about how heavy Hiccup is. It’s honestly fair enough– she is supporting his entire dead weight, and he’s been eating more since he moved out. He’s probably close to a hundred and twenty pounds now. She says under her breath, “I think you just need to go back in time and stay in the womb a little longer, then maybe you wouldn’t be as– as– oh, what’s the word– susceptible, to shit like this. It’s nearly summer, for God’s sake. How do you manage to get so sick in spring?–”
Hiccup’s brain, for some reason, latches onto that one word, susceptible. He’s not quite sure why until Astrid’s halfway through another sentence, and he realises: something rhymes with that.
“Imperceptible,” Hiccup says confidently, and promptly leans forward and retches.
A large amount of vomit streams out of his mouth– really an impossible amount, considering he already threw up earlier– chunks of what looks to be carrot and the choc chip muffins Heather made yesterday visible. Hiccup closes his eyes in a futile attempt to not throw up again, but the vomit splashes on the grass, and the sound is just– so gross, for want of a better phrase, that he can’t help but throw up again.
“Oh my god,” Astrid gasps, holding his shoulders and rubbing his back as he continues to dry heave. Nothing more comes out, but Hiccup’s body shudders and convulses for a good thirty seconds, Astrid’s hands on him the entire time. Once it’s over, he leans backwards into her, letting her pull him over to the ugly beige stucco fence and withdraw a Kleenex travel pack from her jeans pocket.
She wipes his mouth, takes another tissue from the pack when he starts crying, and he sobs, “I’m– I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry, Astrid, I’m sorry.”
“Hiccup,” she sighs, snaking her free arm around his neck and pulling him into a loose hug. “You don’t need to say sorry. You don’t need to be sorry.”
“I didn’t want to throw up again,” Hiccup says through tears, coughing slightly, and she tilts her head. “Again?”
“Earlier,” he sniffs, letting his head fall back onto the fence. “At– at school. It was– it was dirty, and it hurt, Astrid, I didn’t want to, I didn’t, but I had to–”
“Shh,” Astrid soothes, running her fingers through his hair. “Hey, it’s okay. Calm down. You’re fine. I’m so sorry you’re sick, babe, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry,” Hiccup echoes, and she nods. “I know. It’s okay. You don’t have to be sorry.”
“You’re missing school because of me.”
Astrid chuckles, rolling her eyes. “If I’m being honest, I’d rather be stopping for you to throw up on rich white people’s lawns every few minutes than at school.”
“But you had a free period,” Hiccup protests, and Astrid shrugs. “I was gonna spend it with you anyway, and besides, you just turned my free period into a free day. Now, I’m gonna take you home, and I’m going to make you some sort of food so you don’t die, and we’re going to watch something on the couch until Dagur and Heather get home.”
“They won’t get home at the same time,” Hiccup says, reaching a hand up to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. “Dagur works until six on Tuesdays.”
“Well, I’ll stay as long as you need me to.”
Hiccup gives her a weak smile. “Thanks.”
They sit there for a few more minutes, and then they set off again.
They make it home a good twenty minutes later than they should have, due to Hiccup needing to stop and throw up a couple more times. The constant jostling that comes with walking makes his stomach churn, and as soon as they reach Dagur’s house he collapses onto the porch seat.
Astrid bends to look him in the eye, her brow creased. “Okay, this might have been a massive oversight on my part, but do you have a key on you?”
Hiccup shakes his head, gesturing to the small porcelain rabbit in the front yard. “There’s a key under that.”
Astrid frowns. “That’s awful security.”
“Heather’s been rewatching Gilmore Girls.”
Astrid laughs and walks to the rabbit, lifting it up and retrieving the key. Hiccup watches as she turns it in the lock, twisting it left first before changing directions. “Left to lock, right to unlock. That’s how I remember it,” he says, and she nods. “That’s smart.”
“It was different back at, um– at my dad’s house,” Hiccup tells her as she pulls him up and walks him into the hallway, locking the door behind her, and she hums. “My front door locks differently to my back door. It’s weird.”
They make it to the couch with minimal hassle, Hiccup closing his eyes and leaning on Astrid most of the way there. She lays him down, placing his head on a pillow, and he sinks into it, sighing. “Thanks,” he murmurs, and she squeezes his hand before letting go. “Of course. Do you… do you want your prosthetic off?”
Hiccup hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t even paid attention to how the plastic digs into his stump, even through the sleeve. Now that Astrid has mentioned it, he can’t think of anything else, flexing his thigh and feeling the fabric rubbing against it– he should have equipped it more carefully this morning. “Um, yeah. Please.”
“Okay.” She works quickly, pulling his left pant leg up and removing the prosthetic and sleeve with only a little difficulty. He breathes a sigh of relief once it’s off, and Astrid smiles, lifting his leg and sitting down, placing it back on her lap. “You good?”
“Mhm,” Hiccup says, his eyes still shut, his hand closing around hers. “I’m just… really tired, is all.”
“You should sleep,” Astrid laughs, her thumb stroking his palm. “I’ll wake you up later.”
And for the second time that day, Hiccup sleeps.
He wakes up to the sound of beeping– or, actually, it’s more of a blooping. Astrid, he finds out upon opening his eyes, is fiddling with the TV; as soon as she realises he’s awake, she turns to him and says excitedly, “Hiccup! Good, you’re awake. What’s your Netflix password?”
“Hamilton,” Hiccup murmurs, turning over and burying his head in the couch. “Capital H, with an exclamation point at the end.”
“Why?” Astrid queries, entering the password, and Hiccup shrugs. “It was for Disney first, and then Dagur didn’t want to make a whole new password for Netflix.”
She sighs. “Your family needs to get better security.”
Hiccup chuckles, curling in on himself. “Maybe.”
Astrid eventually breaks into Netflix, after two wrong passwords (“I hate your TV, it’s stupid and the typing function is stupid, it’s all stupid–”), and soon enough, they’re watching Brooklyn Nine–Nine. They start from the pilot episode, and Andy Samberg is doing Donnie Brasco in the security camera. Hiccup zones out, watching Astrid study the television screen and bury her face in her hands whenever she gets second–hand embarrassment.
“I texted Heather,” she says as Terry introduces the detectives to Holt, and Hiccup blinks. “Okay.”
“Yeah. I told her you’re sick, and I need her to pick our bags up on her way home.”
“Okay,” Hiccup sighs, and the guilt he feels for making his sister bend over backwards for him must be expressed on his face, because Astrid pauses the TV, jabs his right leg, and says sharply, “Hey. You deserve to be taken care of. Stop being all… like that.”
Hiccup looks down, and it’s silent for a couple of minutes. Astrid doesn’t unpause the TV. Eventually, she says, “Are you hungry?”
Hiccup considers the idea of food and decides it makes him nauseous, makes him feel dirty, and shakes his head. “No. But. Um– um, can I– can you– I– can, I have a shower?” He bites his lip, cursing his inability to ask for things. Stupid. It’s stupid.
“Of course,” Astrid says, straightening and pulling his legs off her lap. “Do you need me to help you?”
Hiccup nods silently, and she helps him up off the couch, walks him to the bathroom, and sits him back down on the closed toilet. “You have a shower chair, right?”
“Cupboard,” Hiccup says, leaning against the tank and closing his eyes. This will be good. A shower will help. A shower will get rid of everything– how he knelt on the school bathroom floor earlier, how his hair is sweaty and greasy, how his clothes are encrusted with vomit, how his mouth feels like it’s been doused in acid.
The cupboard door opens and closes, and Hiccup opens his eyes to see Astrid unfolding the chair. She looks over at him and gives a small smile. “Give me a moment, I’ll help you undress if you need.”
“Okay.”
She approaches him once the chair is in place, gently pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it in the laundry hamper. He stands up to let her unbutton his pants, his hands shaking too much for fine motor control, and then gives her a small smile. “I’m good from here.”
Astrid smiles back. “Okay. I made sure there’s body wash and stuff in the shower, and I’ll bring you some new clothes in a few minutes. Let me know if you need help, okay?”
Hiccup gives her a grateful nod, waiting for her to leave the room before undressing himself the rest of the way and turning the shower on.
He’s halfway through rinsing the shampoo out of his hair when the door opens again, and she comes back in, presumably to leave him some clothing. “You okay?” Her voice echoes around the bathroom, and Hiccup makes a noise of affirmation. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“Okay,” Astrid says. “I’m going to wait outside and come back in once you tell me to, is that okay with you?”
“Yep,” Hiccup says. The door opens, but before it can close, he blurts out, “Wait. Astrid.”
The door stays open. “Yeah?”
Hiccup leans back and lets the water run down his forehead. “I– I don’t want to talk, after this. I need to just… not… talk. For a while.”
Astrid is silent for a couple of seconds, and then she says, “Okay! That’s fine. Knock on the door when you need me.”
The door closes, and Hiccup smiles.
Hiccup lays on the couch after his shower, his still slightly–wet hair dampening Astrid’s skirt under his head. She strokes his cheek, scrolling on her phone, and Hiccup squints at the tweets flying by and tries to catch any words he can– at one point, there’s an image of Taylor Swift, but it disappears in a flash.
“You hungry yet?” Astrid says at some point, and Hiccup shakes his head, the prospect of food still making his stomach turn. “Maybe soon,” he whispers, and Astrid nods. “Okay.” He didn’t want to talk. It’s not like she made him talk. He could have just stuck to simply shaking his head, she would have understood. But non–verbal communication seems so inadequate, and Hiccup can’t convince himself otherwise.
A clunk comes from the front door, and Hiccup stiffens as he hears Heather fumbling with her keys. Some twisted sort of fear overwhelms him, and he buries his face in Astrid’s stomach. She runs her fingers through his hair, whispers, “It’s okay, nobody’s mad at you,” and then as the key turns in the lock, she continues, louder, “Hi, Heather!”
The door opens, and Dagur walks through it. “Hi, Heather,” he says, and Hiccup frowns.
“Oh,” Astrid says, surprised. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were Heather. I should have texted you as well, sorry, Hiccup’s–”
“– sick, I know,” Dagur finishes, dumping his bag next to the coffee table. “Heather’s just getting your bags in from the car. You good, Hiccup?”
Hiccup grunts, and Dagur smiles sympathetically, sitting down next to them. “You watch anything good?”
“Nah,” Astrid says. “Started Brooklyn Nine–Nine, but y’know, that doesn’t get good until season three.”
“That show never gets good,” Heather says breathlessly, hauling three backpacks through the door. “Useless copaganda.” Astrid makes a noise, gently lifting Hiccup’s head off her lap and standing up to help her.
While Astrid and Heather are sorting out which bag is which, Hiccup gives Dagur a small smile. “I didn’t know you were going to come home this early,” he murmurs, and Dagur shrugs. “Went in early today. Went home early. That’s what they mean when they say nice guys finish last.”
“It’s… not.”
“Could be,” Dagur says, and then waves a hand. “Anyway. You’re sick. You still went to school?”
“I wore a mask except for in the bathroom,” Hiccup whispers, ashamed, and Dagur shakes his head playfully. “I’m not mad. I just want you to know that was a stupid thing to do and I’m going to make fun of you forever.”
Hiccup feels a smile spread across his face, and he rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”
Dagur’s hand brushes over his forehead, the back of his hand cool to the touch. “You have a temperature. It’s probably just a stomach bug– are you in pain?”
“A little bit, but it’s fine,” Hiccup says, and Dagur frowns. “I’ll get you some painkillers. How much have you eaten today?”
Hiccup just shakes his head apologetically, and Dagur sighs. “You haven’t eaten. Of course you haven’t eaten. Okay. Tylenol it is. Hold on.”
He gets up and drags Heather and Astrid into the kitchen, and after a few seconds Hiccup hears Dagur’s voice hissing, “He hasn’t eaten. Why hasn’t he eaten? He’s meant to eat something. You’re meant to– it’s bad for his recovery, he needs to eat something–”
“He’s sick!” Astrid protests. “He threw up, like, five times on the way home, and he said he wasn’t hungry when we got here. He told me he might be able to eat something soon. Excuse me for not wanting him to throw up all over your couch.”
“Dagur, don’t be an asshole. It’s not going to ruin his recovery if he doesn’t eat for half a day because of a stomach bug, seriously.” That’s Heather, always the voice of reason, and Dagur sighs. “Okay, but he needs to eat something now. Someone find a can of soup.”
“We’re out.”
“We’re– oh my God, of course we’re out. Jesus. Fuck. Fine. I’ll make some.”
Astrid gives an indignant snort. “Excuse me. You’ll make some? You can’t cook. I’ll make some.”
“I make a very nice cacio e pepe, actually– and who’s talking? Didn’t your eggnog give three people food poisoning last year?”
“Irrelevant! And besides– cacio e pepe,” Astrid audibly grits her teeth, “is not fucking soup.”
“It’s fairly fucking close!”
“Oh my God,” Heather interrupts, and Hiccup can practically see her hand on her forehead. “Shut up. Both of you. Astrid, you would burn this kitchen down. Dagur, you can at least boil pasta, but unfortunately that counts for absolutely nothing right now. I’m the only one of us with any cooking skills whatsoever, therefore I’m making soup. Dagur, you will give Hiccup some Tylenol. Astrid, you or Hiccup will choose a good movie or show. Give me forty minutes and I will have a late lunch ready for all four of us. I will be making chicken noodle soup. I will be putting carrots in it. I will be using fusilli, and you can’t stop me.”
There’s silence, and then Astrid says stiffly, “I wasn’t going to stop you.”
“Which one is fusilli again?”
Hiccup tunes their voices out and drifts off to sleep.
The shadow’s fingers are long, its sharpened nails digging into his shoulder. It draws back and plunges its hand into his chest, and he gasps quietly, finding the warmth that accompanies the hand somewhat comforting. It smiles at him, not a leer, but a gentle, understanding expression that spreads across its face with a hum. It nods, and he returns it blankly in silent consent to something– he’s not entirely sure what.
The shadow withdraws its hand from his chest, holding a small black rock. He stares at it with recognition. Somehow, he knows that it is his heart.
They are alone now. Its friends have skulked off, leaving them to rest together. The shadow cups his cheek with a tender hand, its eyes boring into his in a silent question. He nods again.
The shadow stares at the rock with a glint in its eyes, a hungry, yearning gaze. It crushes the rock with two fingers, and he feels the blood drain from his body.
He is alive.
“Just– yeah, just sit him up. Gently, gently– don’t jostle him–”
“I’m being gentle.”
Hiccup hums, opening his eyes to see Dagur holding a glass of water and a Tylenol bottle. He frowns, leaning back and pushing Dagur away. “What are you doing?”
“We were trying to give you Tylenol,” Astrid says, and it’s only then that he realises she’s right beside him, holding him upright. Hiccup reaches for the Tylenol, but Dagur pulls it back. “If you’re awake, I’d rather wait until you eat something and then give you Advil instead. Soup’s nearly ready, I’ll go and check how long.”
“Oh. Okay,” Hiccup says as Dagur places the glass on the coffee table and walks away, and Astrid pulls him closer to her, wrapping her arms around his chest. “Are you feeling any better?”
“Mm,” Hiccup groans. “Kind of? I don’t feel nauseous anymore, but my head still hurts. Actually, everything hurts.”
“I’m sorry, babe,” Astrid sighs, feeling his forehead and clicking her tongue. “You’ll feel better once you eat and take a painkiller.”
“Hope so. I’m tired,” Hiccup murmurs, and Astrid snorts. “Hiccup, you’ve spent most of today asleep. You can go back to sleep later, okay?”
“Okay.”
Heather enters the living room a few minutes later holding two bowls of chicken noodle soup. Astrid oohs and aahs at the presentation, at the parsley peppering the broth, and Hiccup stares at the pattern on his spoon handle. Heather leaves to get her and Dagur’s soups, and Astrid nudges him. “What’s wrong?”
“Might throw up if I eat,” Hiccup admits. “I don’t wanna throw up.”
“It’s just soup,” Astrid says placatingly, shaking her head. “Besides, you haven’t, you know, since before we got home, and if you’re really worried about it, we can have Dagur bring a trashcan or something, okay?”
Hiccup nods and brings a spoonful of broth up to his lips. His hand shakes, and Astrid holds his wrist to steady it. The liquid is warm and flavourful, and he swallows tentatively, feeling it travel down his throat.
He does not throw up again.
Hiccup lies in bed hours later in the foetal position with a heat pack pressed to his abdomen, his eyes screwed shut to convince himself he can sleep. Dagur and Heather are still awake, though Astrid went home a while ago– arguments were made for and against her staying, but eventually Dagur sent her away with promises that she could come back the next day “if you really want to get sick, I guess”.
Toothless yawns from the end of his bed, stretches all three legs and yowls when his claws get stuck on the comforter. Hiccup sighs, sitting up slightly and gently unhooking the cat from the thick material– Toothless chases his tail for a moment and then settles just to the side of Hiccup’s head.
Hiccup leans into the touch, tilting his head upward on his pillow and nuzzling the cat’s head. He purrs and licks Hiccup’s forehead, and Hiccup splutters. “Ew, Toothless, no. Gross. Don’t do that.”
Hiccup gives Toothless one more pat and then gingerly pulls himself out of bed, remembering just in time that there’s a trash can in front of his nightstand, walking across the hall into the bathroom to wash his face. As he’s rinsing the soap off, he hears Heather’s voice echoing from her bedroom– she’s on the phone, he thinks, and as much as he tries not to eavesdrop, he can’t help but hear as he’s rubbing moisturiser on his hands, “no, he’ll be fine… I don’t know. He seems okay. You know him better– what? No, it’s not– yeah, just a stomach bug… I’ll tell you if it gets worse, yeah.”
Hiccup stops moisturising, shame flooding his body as he remembers that he made everybody worry about him for no reason– it’s not like it’s a rare occurrence that he gets sick. It’s not a big deal, and he hates that he wasn’t strong enough to handle it by himself. He shouldn’t have even gone to school, that much he knows, since three different people have told him at three separate times, but the idea of staying home genuinely makes him feel more physically ill than any stomach bug ever could.
Heather is silent, and he waits with bated breath for her to say something else. Eventually, she exclaims, “What. Seriously? No, I won’t tell– tell me! Tell me! Astrid– tell me– fine, okay, whatever, sorry–”
Hiccup shakes his head in an attempt to rid it of the overwhelming guilt, dragging his hands across his face and massaging the cream into his cheeks and forehead.
Once he gets back into his bedroom, he picks up his phone and texts Astrid in a short–lived burst of shameful confidence, hey i’m sorry for today. i feel really bad i made you give up your entire day for my bs
STUPID, she sends back immediately. dont you ever apologise for needing help. dumbass. jesus christ
Hiccup feels his chest physically deflate with relief, feels his eyebrows unknit when he didn’t even know they were tensed. Things are normal, he has to remind himself– and as much as his brain tries to convince itself otherwise, nobody is angry with him for being vulnerable.
He texts her goodnight and curls up in his bed with his back to Toothless, lest the cat lick his face again.
His dream is empty.