Work Text:
September 2021
It all starts when Dagur gets home from his shift, tired and happy, with news to share.
Hiccup and Heather are sitting on the couch, watching Mean Girls (well, Heather watches it, Hiccup texts Astrid), when Dagur unlocks the door with a cheery “hey kids!”
Heather and Hiccup turn to look. “Check. Me. Out.” He struts into the living room, making flex muscles, an ‘Employee of the month’ badge gleaming on his chest.
“Well done,” says Hiccup.
Heather nods, echoing the sentiment. “We should go out to dinner to celebrate.”
Hiccup’s heart drops. He can almost hear the loud chatter of conversation, the food he won’t (can’t) eat, the eyes on him as Dagur and Heather expect him to put more food into his mouth and swallow it.
He tells himself not to be such a baby- he’s been in therapy for months, and he is getting better. Problem is, he’s just not sure he’s ready for a restaurant yet.
“Oooh, how does that Thai place down the road sound?” Dagur asks, enthusiasm crackling in his voice, and they both look so happy , so eager , Hiccup stays silent, forces his lips into a smile, says ‘yeah, sure, that sounds good’ , and they don’t ask any more of him.
The next day is a Saturday, and he wakes up at noon, exhaustion weighing heavily in his bones. It’s as if his body knows what awaits him at 6:15pm downtown before his mind does.
Heather and Dagur booked it last night, while he cuddled Toothless, trying not to think about the lovely delicious wonderful food and how it could also be disgusting horrible sickening , like a god damned paradox no one can solve.
The squirming feeling as he thought about the food sitting in his stomach hot and heavy and disgusting .
It’s ridiculous, he thinks as he showers, gets ready, and pretends to do homework when Dagur comes in to check on him, how eating hurts and not-eating hurts, and both of them make him feel sick. It’s too late for breakfast, and he skips lunch in anticipation of the meal, and the too-familiar ache of hunger rolls his stomach in waves. It’s the right kind of ache, the one guilt-free and soothing, rocking him to sleep like the pathetic weak stupid dumb weak little baby he wishes he is.
Heather texts Hiccup from downstairs to tell him to come down. She’s on voice rest for a play she’s got an audition for, although why anyone would willingly have that many people staring at them remains a mystery to Hiccup. He obliges, checking his prosthetic is secure (a precaution the lack of left him with a bloody nose once) and goes downstairs.
Heather, of course, looks gorgeous; a shimmery silver skirt around her waist ending at her mid thigh. Her toned legs are covered by translucent tights, and she wears a fluffy, green jumper. The outfit is tied together with a wide black belt inches away from being a corset. Hiccup notices several other belts snuck in.
“Jeez Heather, how many belts do you need ,” Hiccup teases, eyeing her up and down.
“Enough to keep guys out of my pants,” she half jokes, referencing a fanfic she read recently and won’t stop talking about. “Nice combo,” she says, nodding at the red jumper and green combat trousers.
“Thanks. Shall we get going?”
“Yep,” Heather says, tossing her keys up and catching them without looking, and passes them to Hiccup. “Dagur’s meeting us there from his shift.”
“Won’t he be in, like, nurse’s clothes?” Hiccup asks.
“Nah, he’ll change. Although that reminds me, I was watching Grey’s Anatomy and there’s a scene where-”
Hiccup mostly listens to Heather ramble as he drives, tuning the bad thoughts building in his brain out in favour of Paul McMartney playing on the car radio, which Dagur must’ve put on, and he’s not crazy over the Beatles, but it’s tolerable. It’s not like he can differentiate between the sound of their smooth voices, Heather’s voice, the car rumbling, instruments, the ticking of the car clock, the millions of other sounds going on. It all becomes one big wash, and he lets it drown him by the time they step out of the car.
Dagur stands by the restaurant door -not in full nursing uniform, thank God- and waves cheerily. Hiccup lets him hug him, even though the tightness around his neck in tandem with the neverending noise makes him suffocate. And, of course, he feels guilty, because Dagur has done more for him than he can ever pay back, and here he is being selfish over a meal out.
Typical selfish him. It always has to be about him and his mental illnesses. Well, Heather and Dagur have been limitlessly kind and patient with him about it. They at least deserve a peaceful meal.
He follows them inside, chatting and he even manages a laugh. With triumph, he sits down, and pulls out a menu without a squirming feeling in his gut. That wasn’t so hard! He grinned to himself. He was doing so well. All that was left was to choose a dish and eat it.
His eyes scan the menu. Starters... we’re not having starters. Mains... fish dishes, rice dishes, noodle dishes, Pad Thais, Pad Kra Pao, Tom Yum soup, curries, green curry, red curry,
The choice is getting overwhelming. He doesn’t like soup, and eating rice is wrong today, and he can’t even put his finger on why.
“Hiccup?” Dagur peers over his menu. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he says stiffly.
“Heather and I have chosen dishes, do you need some help-”
“I said I’m fine. ” Heather and Dagur recoil back like he spat acid at them, and guilt immediately swamps in his stomach. Why did I snap at them? They’re my family, for God’s sake, and here I am treating them like garbage.
“Sorry. I’ll have-” he scans the menu for something he recognises “-Pad Thai please. Chicken.”
“Sure thing brother,” Dagur says, smiling warmly, and Hiccup wonders briefly what he did to deserve this.
They order drinks -Dagur has black coffee, Heather has a cappuccino, Hiccup has water because the thought of them paying for a drink sets his heart racing- and waits for their food to come. Hiccup forces a smile until it feels more genuine, joins in with their conversations, laughs at Dagur’s stories Fresh From The Night Shift (“I really should start a show, or a podcast about those,” he mentions, chuckling) until his sides split.
It’s all fine, really, until the food comes. Hiccup’s been able to laugh off the rocks in his stomach for a while, but now, staring at the plate of steaming food, dotted with oil and salt and spices and vegetables and everything his stomach pushes to reject, he can only form one thought.
I can’t do this.
Heather and Dagur tuck in hungrily, and he makes himself pick his fork up and push it around his plate to look like he’s doing the same.
“Hiccup? Are you okay?” Dagur’s halfway through his plate of jungle curry, and he hasn’t taken a bite.
“I- I’m-”
He looks at Heather and Dagur’s kind faces, both peering at him with identical expressions of concern and two halves of him rip: one saying let them help let them in they are your friends your family , and the other saying you don’t need them you don’t deserve them cut them out go back home on Waston street in the town house built on empty walls and death threats it’s all you deserve
With a final tug, both parts rip him in two, setting him free. He runs into the bathroom and slams the door.
.o0o.
Dagur’s used to dealing with crises. That is, after all, what he deals with every day. Patient after patient, disaster after disaster.
But for some reason, whenever it’s Heather or Hiccup going through something -Heather’s endometriosis flare ups, or Hiccup’s meltdowns and flashbacks, Heather getting sick, Hiccup getting sick thanks to his shitty immune system- other things get in the way, like feelings and concern and what his therapist calls anxiety .
It’s not like he hasn’t tried to bury his feelings in a box only he can touch. But Heather barged into his life, a girl built on kindness and fierce smarts and sadness enough to break a person, and he let her be his one loved one.
Then she made friends. And, well, it went downhill from there. By the time Hiccup came to live with them, he was more willing to take him on- quiet, sensible, scared Hiccup who he’d come to love like a brother over the years.
However, if there’s one thing he’s learned in therapy, it’s emotional regulation. So he takes three deep breaths, clears his throat, and stands up from the table. “Heather, ask for the bill and get this boxed up. I’ll be back soon.”
He heads for the bathroom, and presses his ear to the door, searching for any noise at all. Thankfully, it's quiet in there, and the light and smell isn’t overwhelming. Although, for all Dagur knows, it could be sensory torture. He isn’t autistic.
Even then, he thinks it’s not sensory overload to begin with.
“Hiccup?” He dares to say. “It’s Dagur. I’m not mad at you, I swear. Just please talk to me.”
He doesn’t speak for a while, and Dagur’s beginning to think he’s nonverbal, but Hiccup says, his voice soft and shaking, “I’m sorry.”
“Didn’t I just say I wouldn’t be mad at you? Dumbass,” he says, careful to keep his tone as light hearted as he can. “It’s okay, these things happen. Especially in recovery.”
“No, I- I’m sorry for saying I would be okay for doing a restaurant when I clearly aren’t. I’m sorry for ma-” his voice catches on the last word, and Dagur can’t stop himself from filling in the blanks. Manipulating you.
“Hiccup, you said you’d be okay with it. We took that at face value, and we shouldn’t have done. I’m sorry.” Dagur presses an earnest hand to his chest, even though Hiccup can’t see it. “And we can go home now if you want.”
“The bill,” Hiccup says, as if to remind him, but Dagur knows he’s just thinking aloud.
“We’ll take the food to takeaway, and you can eat as much or as little of it as you want. Just promise me you’ll eat something , okay brother? Promise you’ll try?”
Hiccup is silent as he thinks for a while. Then, he says, his voice wobbly and thick with tears, but smiling , “yeah. Okay.”
He opens the door, and offers Hiccup his arm. He clings to it like a scared child would to a parent, drawing solace from the warmth of his skin.
Heather’s waiting with the car, leaning against the hood with their arms folded. In anyone else, Hiccup would almost fear the gesture, knowing it to be one of anger, of dismay, of unavoidable pain. But it’s just how she is, like this is how Hiccup is. He hates the way all three of them are sometimes make things incredibly difficult for him. A part of him can’t help but wonder if their family unit isn’t meant to be.
Then, he looks at Dagur driving them home after his panic attack, it’s a panic attack, it’s scary and overwhelming, you deserve love , Heather sitting in the backseat with him so she can hold his hand, and he decides they’ll make it work. He loves them and they love him in turn, more than his birth family ever did.
He leans back on the carseat, jammed against the door, and somehow falls asleep.