Work Text:
October 2019
It’s a sickness.
A disease. Penetrating his bones, ebbing between his conscious and subconscious like foreboding waves pulling against the shore before the storm, dragging stones rattling over each other and creating a choking backwash to his all consuming thoughts he can’t hope to get rid of.
And it’s that sickness that suffocates him, that swallows his words every time he’s with his friends, that jerks his fingers back from the phone keyboard every time he even thinks of talking to them.
Because he knows. He knows. He knows. His friends hate him and he knows.
He sees it in every outing they plan without him. He hears it in every laugh about a joke that has nothing to do with him. He smells it in the stale air of Watson Street where his friends - who smell of mint, and warmth, and lemons - aren’t. He tastes it in the bitter words on his tongue every time his friends ask: “I’m sorry you can’t come, is another time okay?”
And he says “yeah. Yes, okay. No, no, that’s fine.”
Swallowing the feeling like soup, chunky like vomit, scraping and bumping against his tear-clogged throat.
Worst of all? He feels it in every ache in his chest when he pulls evidence of any of the above. All his senses agree: his friends don’t like him anymore. He should just leave them.
And maybe it’s irrational; it probably is, if he committed more than five logical minutes to think about it. He’s just being stupid. He’s overreacting, like he always is. Stupid, overreacting, dramatic Hiccup.
But- it’s just a sickness. Hiccup gets sick all the time.
So he ignores it.
He lingers around the group like a ghost, walking behind their little flock like the birds that flaps a little behind - he feels like the abandoned stragglers on the nature documentaries that die in the middle of empty land, and he ignores it.
He keeps both earbuds in when they hang out, and no one bothers to talk to him, tries to coax him out of his shell of Nirvana, Weezer, or awful, badly made music he doesn’t even like, because- well... what does he have to lose?
He sits alone, pressed right into the corner of the field, and no one- no one even thinks to look for him.
And he ignores it, so everyone else seems to ignore it too: the redness around his eyes, the bruises on his forehead, the splotches of blood on his sleeves (long, in the October sun).
Everyone else ignores it, because he knows they don’t care at this point, so he ignores them in return.
He ignores it because he knows.
He knows his friends tolerate him at best. He knows now that they tolerated him all throughout last summer, and now that they’re in school, without boredom and restlessness for adventure to push them towards each other, they don’t need him.
Worse, they don’t want him.
Why would they? His friends were all friends before he shoehorned his way into their tightly knit group. They were eating ice cream outside a diner in town when he got hit by a tanker truck and lost his leg. That’s all he is to them. A wrecking ball. A mess. A nuisance. A burden.
Wrecking ball. Mess. Nuisance. Burden.
The words, slowly but surely, plant its seeds in the soil of his brain. He waters them with his blood and tears, and they grow to saplings. He packs the earth down with bruises he gives himself, and the plants begin to bear fruit.
And he feels like Adam and Eve in the garden of Eden, hungrily reaching for the forbidden fruit, and it tastes like poison, but at least now-
Now, he knows.
And he can get used to the taste in his mouth. It’s like the pains in his leg; sometimes it’s okay, sometimes it’s worse, and he limps through the day. But it’s been near on three years, and he is used to it. He is used to it.
And he is so used to it, that it barely hurts when he texts his friends and tells them-
.o0o.
sacrifice your kneecaps to satan, or else >:)
Hiccup: hey, i think we should
No. Nope, nope, no, that won’t do. He frowns, one hand drifting to Toothless’s soft little head, the other gripping his phone. He tries again.
Hiccup: hey, i think it’s for the best if
No. Not that either.
Hiccup: i can’t do this anymore i’m so sorry
Hiccup: why do you hate me?
Hiccup: i love you all so much but you don’t love me
Hiccup: why don’t you care about me?
Why is this so difficult? Hiccup drops his phone in his lap with a groan. Toothless meows, and nuzzles his face into Hiccup’s elbow.
Hiccup gratefully scratches him under the chin. “You’ve always got my back, huh, bud?”
Toothless isn’t like his human friends. Toothless wouldn’t dream of leaving him. No, Toothless loves him unconditionally. The rest of the gang? Not so much.
Oh, well. It’s not like he did anything to deserve their love, if it was ever there. It’s for the best if he just cut them off entirely.
This time... this time for sure, he tells himself.
Hiccup: hey guys, i’m sorry but i think it’s best if we’re not friends anymore.
He sends it before he can second guess himself.
There! With renewed confidence, he throws his phone at the wall. It smashes against the mirror, cracking it in two. His dad will probably be on his case later.
But at least it’s done.
.o0o.
Not even five minutes later, his phone buzzes.
Astrid! It’s her custom notification, the one he set for her on his phone when they started dating. His arm twitches to pick up the phone before he can help himself.
Then, he remembers. His subconscious crashes onto the conscious shores. The wave drags down, with each rattling stone mocking him. She’s probably asking if he’s okay. Or breaking up with him (dear God, please please not that, I can’t lose you). Or yelling at him.
Or maybe- maybe...
Maybe they are concerned. Maybe she is worried about him. Maybe, against all odds, there is a chance he is good enough to be worthy of their love. Maybe, against all odds, he can go back to the wonderful weeks of last summer, where they were all going to be best friends forever.
He entertains the thought in his head, crafting a fantastical, perfect world where everything is shimmery and fuzzy, and his friends still love and care about him. He lets the world snuggle him like a blanket.
But the evidence is there now, staring him in the face. Trees cannot be uprooted. The storm is coming in, and he’s in a boat alone at sea. And there is never love for wrecking balls.
So he ignores it.
It’s what he’s best at, anyway.
.o0o.
The next morning (nearing on afternoon),
he finally caves, and digs through his pile of clothes for his phone. His movements are desperate, like the way he’s seen his father rip up the floorboards to retrieve stashes of hell-knows-what from underneath.
Finally, he finds it half buried underneath a hoodie. His finger fumbles for the on button... he’s desperate as
And-
Astrid: hiccup, what’s going on? are you...
Snotlout: hiccup what the hell is the m...
And the group chat.
29 new messages.
They’re angry. Of course they are. The thought pierces through his bones, overtaking the new waves of sickness he is so used to. They hate him. This is- if he ever needed any evidence, this is it.
He should see exactly what they’ve said.
So much for ignoring them, Hiccup thinks, pissed. He’s just too weak to withstand the horrible pounding of thoughts about what they might say to them.
Taking a deep breath, he opens the group chat.
sacrifice your kneecaps to satan, or else >:)
Ruffnut: you live with me, idiot, come do it yourself
Tuffnut: I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF MINECRAFT
Ruffnut: THEN WHY ARE YOU TEXTING???
Ruffnut: stop being lazy
Tuffnut: stop being an asshat
For a while, he stares at the screen, wondering if his eyes are simply deceiving him. Tears make the words blur into a senseless, pixelated wash. His phone falls from his trembling hands and clatters onto his foot, hitting the metal prosthetic with a clang! that barely registers in his ears.
Of course... of course they don’t care. Of course they’d move onto another conversation within twenty messages. This- this is proof. He’s been paranoid and anxious and skittish like a wild animal, but the beast has snapped his jaws. It is proof.
These people he spent three years with pretty much exclusively... do not like him. At all. Do not even care about him enough to worry about his sudden absence for more than a few hours.
He screams, kicks the bedpost with his flesh foot, and the rest is a blur. His legs cave, and he rocks himself back and forth, his head repetitively thunking the bedpost, as his fingers rake up and down his skin.
And all he does... All he can do, is hang onto his pyjama shirt as he’s catapulted into a hurricane of tears, and pain, and regret, and undeniable hurt. No one comes in to soothe him, to cushion his head, or stop him hurting himself, or dry his tears like his friends would’ve done and that only makes the hurt worse.
Turbulence only he can feel wracks his body, like ferocious ocean waves ready to swallow him whole. All he can be is a ship in the sea. All he can do is wait for better days, and hope the storm does not last forever.
But storms and hurricanes do not last forever. Not even this one.
Eventually, the winds disperse, and Hiccup’s little, wooden boat slows down to floating, wobbling in strange waves of vertigo. His heaving sobs turn to pathetic streams of tears trickling down his face. He’s more thankful than ever his dad is out campaigning, or he’d have to deal with him on top of everything else.
No, he can’t handle him and whatever... this is.
He needs to be rid of them. Before he sinks further into another storm. Before he falls victim to the alluring fantasy of being loved for once in his life...
He’s sick. He’s damaged. In more ways than he can count.
His friends - his ex-friends - don’t deserve that.
His shaking fingers open the group chat, deletes it from his phone, and he curls up in the eye of the storm.
.o0o.
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
They say they are the five stages of grief. Or at least, Heather does. According to her, they are supposed to take months. But Hiccup feels like he’s steamrolled through them in the course of the weekend. Once he reawakens from the storm, like a reanimated corpse from that crappy zombie movie the twins made them watch once, he’s so angry he slams his fists into his bed for ten minutes of frustrated yelling, he pleads with God (and he’s not even religious anyway) to make him a better person, he curls up in a ball on his bed, and wakes up the next day feeling utterly, utterly horrible.
But there’s a strange sense of peace, too. As if he knows his boat in the metaphorical sea is reduced to driftwood, but he can hang on until he drifts back to shore.
By the time he returns to school, he’s accepted it. His friends don’t want him anymore. And that is Okay.
Head held high, he walks into school with a serene sort of smile. He waves politely to his teacher, ducks his head to avoid an old bully, and-
“Hey, Hiccup, where were y-”
“Sorry, gotta go,” he says, almost snappishly. For a moment, guilt twinges in his chest. He’s not friends with them anymore, doesn’t mean he has to be horrible to them. “Gotta see Mrs-” he calls over his shoulder to excuse himself, but Astrid has already left.
Of course. Isn’t this just typical? He was highly insane (which doesn’t honestly surprise him at this point) to think his friends would hang on when he does, to believe they would cast out life rings to find his shattered, splintered self in the dark ocean.
He needs to make a decision. And when he can keep holding onto false hope, or accept his fate, there is only one choice.
Stop struggling.
He sits away from them in class, at the front desk, which he hates, but he would rather that than have to face all his friends, who whisper behind him like he’s not even there.
Relax.
He skips lunch alone, daring to climb a tree, and sits there all of lunch, looking down past the leaves and wonders how all of nature but humans get to be so beautiful.
Let the waves claim you.
And he feels like Hades’s long fingers are wrapping around his waist, dragging him down through swirling pits into the Underworld. He can - faintly, so faintly - hear voices calling, screaming, crying, and there’s a chance it’s his friends, a tiny chance. But, he knows it’s just the tortured souls of the Underworld singing his welcomes.
It’s like a symphony, if he were to be so polite. But it’s really more like a scream.
.o0o.
It doesn’t start easy.
Every day, he is tempted, allured, as if pulled by invisible string, towards the direction of his friends. They’re the drugs when he’s the addict. The magnet to his iron. The flame of hope when he’s an ocean. He can hardly do anything about it.
But he fights it anyway. He’s strict with himself, forcing himself not to fall back into the trap. His friends’ kindness warps itself into manipulation, their worried looks turn disgusted, their sideways glances are menacing, and it goes on and on, until they become almost cartoonishly evil people in his head.
Maybe it’s best this way. Maybe he doesn’t have to feel guilty for ignoring them if he can fool himself into thinking they’re awful people.
Besides, they can’t win. They ignore him, and he hates himself. They don’t ignore him, and he fools himself into thinking they are evil, they are manipulating him, they only tolerate him because they have to, or that they should.
And he’s in the middle of social studies when he stops, suddenly, and he just-
Wel, he stops. He freezes like an overloaded computer, like frightened prey, like his body is suddenly trapped in ice.
And he can’t do anything else.
His pen freezes in the middle of the word explanation, his brain blanks, where is he, how did he get here, and-
None of that matters.
Because it all makes sense now.
He ignores them, because he knows. He knows manipulation, he knows when people are tolerating him.
He knows because he grew up in a Watson Street townhouse built on soulless, bloodstained walls, and soulless, bloodstained clothes, and soulless, bloodstained hands that knew how to do everything- everything that can hurt.
And what he knows, is all he knows.
So how can he expect any better from them? From himself? He doesn’t know how to be a good person. He doesn’t know how to be a good friend.
And no one taught him. He can’t expect his friends to. They shouldn’t have to exhaust themselves for him.
It’s not their fault his father hollowed out his soul. He can’t expect his friends to give him pieces of theirs just to be friends.
That’s- that’s a ridiculous thing to ask. They don’t even like him anyway. They’ve made that clear. It must’ve been his not-so-sunny personality, and
He’s weak at heart. That’s why he can’t do that miraculous thing where trauma somehow makes someone kind and selfless. Oh, no, his trauma made him bitter, and heartless, and hateful. His trauma eradicated the hopeful kindness in his heart, and locked what remained in Pandora’s box, deep inside his chest.
So maybe he’s avoiding the blame when he storms out of social studies, ignoring the teacher calling after him. So maybe he’s avoiding the blame when he watches a boy with raven hair rush after him, asking “are you okay?” his voice seeming underwater, far off, and Hiccup screams “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”
The raven-haired boy’s heart seems to break in two, Hiccup can see it in his eyes, and he knows that because he knows Snotlout, and how he wears his heart on his sleeve, and how he cares so deeply about everyone around him it all but bleeds through his eyes.
And then- then, he realises.
It is his fault. He’s spent so long blaming his falling apart friendships on everything- his friends, his father, his mind, but it’s his fault. All his fault.
He burns them. He hurts them. He breaks their hearts, and watches them come back anyway, like innocent little animals that don’t know better.
He’s become what he was most deathly afraid of. His father.
Snotlout takes a few trembling steps back, and ducks around the corner to return to social studies.
Hiccup can’t blame him. He would run from himself too. His words are made of glass, and alcohol, and burns, and choking. He wounds everyone around him. He can’t expect his friends to risk themselves. They wouldn’t swim out onto a stormy sea to rescue him.
He’s a tornado, nothing but destruction in his path.
So let him burn.
.o0o.
The ground swings beneath his feet:
A myriad of cars, and the occasional dog walker, and the coffee shop nearby.
And his phone, smashed on the ground. Barely a silver-black dot.
That was all he had left of them. The only concrete evidence someone was polite enough to even pretend to love him, commemorated in millions of pixels’ worth in selfies, snapshots, text messages, blurred indie photos Heather edited to look like the ones on Pinterest. All of it, every last photo, is gone.
And with it, Pandora’s box in his chest cracks open. A final wisp of hope reaches out- glowing yellow in the darkness inside him-
The darkness swallows it. Eating it up, piece by piece, twenty, fourty, sixty percent. Eighty. Ninety. Ninety five...
A click. A thump. Then a voice.
“I thought I’d find you up here.”
Astrid. Kind, smart, fierce, brilliant, beautiful Astrid. He can see her plait whipping in the wind beside her, her hoodie nearly blending into the soft, blue stretch around him. He can see her warm brown skin, her grey-brown eyes creased in the corners, the way they always are when she’s really intent on something.
He doesn’t need to look. He knows Astrid like the back of his hand. He could count every freckle, scar and beauty mark on her hands just as he could his own.
“Leave me alone,” he says, clipped.
“I... don’t feel comfortable leaving you by yourself up here.” Her voice is irritatingly calm and diplomatic, the tone she uses for class debates until someone manages to piss her off enough. “I’ll leave you by yourself if that’s what you really want, but please come down.”
“Ast, please. ” He tries to sound angry, but it just comes out sad, like someone shattered his glass voice with a hammer. Every word catches on the residual glass splinters in his throat. “Just- leave me alone, okay?”
She sits beside him anyway, casting her legs over the side so they dangle beside his. Hiccup’s heart lodges in his throat. She’s far too careful to fall, but the raised gap is only three inches above the surface of the roof, and if he were to- to get angry, or overwhelmed, and lose control and - goodness forbid - push her, he would never. Never. Forgive himself.
“I’ve got to go,” he mumbles.
“Hiccup,” Astrid sighs, getting up after him, “you’ve been distant for- for months. We just thought we were giving you space, but-”
“No, no no no, you’re- you’re right. Sorry.”
Manipulative lying bitch.
“I only wanted what’s best for you, but-”
“But what? ”
Vindictive. Cruel. Heartless.
Astrid stutters several times, before going with “if you’d rather we didn’t give you space, I’m sorry. But please, can you- you have to communicate that to us. And I know it’s difficult, but we can work something out. Just let us in.”
“I- I have to go. I’m so sorry.”
Just like your mother.
He’s back in the sea, bubbles streaming from his mouth as he drowns. A life ring is tossed to him, but it lands on the water’s surface above him. He can’t reach.
Life rings are not built to sink.
Astrid should save herself while she still can.
He dislodges the trapdoor, and begins crawling down the ladder. Weirdly enough, Astrid doesn’t try to stop him. He reaches the bottom, and slowly, carefully, opens the door.
The twins are standing a foot from the door. Hiccup yelps, flinches, and they blink a few times.
“Sorry for scaring you, dude,” Tuffnut says.
“Here!” Ruffnut hands him an envelope, reaches into her pocket, and brings out a slightly wilted daisy. The kind that grows in the wild grass at the edge of the school. She gently tucks it behind his ear.
“Thank you.” Hiccup’s fingers gently brush over it.
“Open it. Please.”
His heart thuds. He’s a trapped animal, cornered by his predators. Only now, they are being nice to him. The twins have such hopeful smiles on their faces, Snotlout - who Hiccup only just notices - gives him a thumbs up.
And the tiny sliver of hope flickers in his chest, cowering beside Pandora’s box, and-
He holds onto it tight.
He rips the envelope open with his teeth, and slides the card out.
[IMG DESC: a card with block capitals: WE’RE SORRY! And the caption: "we don't know what we did to hurt you, but whatever it is, we are very sorry- please tell us so we don't hurt you again. <3". The others’ have all written their own apology message, wishing Hiccup well. Some messages are adorned with hearts, stars and doodles.]
He... can’t believe it. They made him a card? Just- just to apologise for something they don’t even know what they did?
No. No, no- no , this is all wrong. He should apologise. He should bring them a card, and flowers, and beg for their forgiveness.
“Did you give it to him yet?” Astrid appears behind the door. The twins make exaggerated shushing motions, followed by subtler thumbs ups.
“Astrid, I can’t accept- you have nothing to be sorry for. You all, ” he faces his friends, “have nothing to be sorry for. You- you didn’t do anything.”
“We didn’t check in,” Snotlout says. “You disappeared, and we didn’t even check in on you.” He sounds like he’s about to cry, and it makes Hiccup want to cry himself.
“I can’t expect you to-”
“We want to,” Heather says, and Hiccup realises she and Fishlegs have been standing nearby the whole time. “You might think we’re only doing this because you want us to, but we want to.”
“ Why- ” his voice comes out a cry, “I’m ruined. I’m sick. I’m broken.”
“You’re not broken, Hiccup,” Astrid says softly. “You’re whole, and kind, and creative, and funny, and smart, and really sarcastic in a little shit way, but you’re still wonderful just as you are, and we love you for that.”
“You- you moved on, ” he says in a tiny whisper.
“Moved on from what?” Astrid asks.
“The messages. On- on the group chat.” All the memories and love and laughter he’s lost.
“Hiccup-”
“You moved on. So fast. ”
“ Hiccup- ”
Anger surges in his body, bubbling all the way into his throat like vomit.
“You didn’t care! ”
“We did. ” Astrid pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Just look, okay?”
Hiccup forces his eyes open, and makes himself look.
sacrifice your kneecaps to satan, or else >:)
Hiccup: hey guys, i’m sorry but i think it’s best if we’re not friends anymore.
Astrid scrolls down, and he- he can’t believe his eyes.
Snotlout: wtf???
Snotlout: why?
Heather: hiccup, don’t even, istg.
Astrid: is it anything we did?
Astrid: something i did? <3
Tuffnut: if i did anything i am so sorry
Ruffnut: woah woah wait wtf??
Ruffnut: you’re unfriending us??
Fishlegs: hiccup?
Astrid: please get back to us xxxx
Snotlout: please hiccup, just tell us what’s going on, i’m really worried about you
Fishlegs: whatever it is, please message us back so we can stop worrying
Astrid: literally just send a heart i don’t even care
Ruffnut: please, hiccup. i am begging. you know how i hate to beg.
Tuffnut: i will also willingly beg
Heather: i refuse on principal to beg but please. come back. <3
Astrid: we’ll be on the field tomorrow lunchtime. please hear us out??
Snotlout: h8 to break it to u guys but tmrw is a saturday
Astrid: literally who gives a shit snotlout shut your mouth
Heather: every1 go to dagur’s hole in the fence at the back. we’ll be near there.
Heather: @Hiccup. if you do see this, please, please come. we just want to talk.
And the next day,
Astrid: @Hiccup offer still stands.
Ruffnut: i stole you a sorry card from the shop in town
Tuffnut: ooooh can i sign it??
Ruffnut: you live with me, idiot, come do it yourself
Tuffnut: I’M IN THE MIDDLE OF MINECRAFT
Ruffnut: THEN WHY ARE YOU TEXTING???
Ruffnut: stop being lazy
Tuffnut: stop being an asshat
Then, after he deleted the group,
Snotlout: we’re ALL signing it
Snotlout: right?
Astrid: ofc! and we’re ALL going to be there on the field
Heather: bitches i’m skipping gymnastics for this :D
Heather: dagur thinks i’m poorly, and i’m going to go on a “brief health walk” in twenty minutes after a shower, so if he asks any of you that’s totally what happened
Heather: and hiccup, please don’t feel guilty for this. it’s worth it for me. it’s what i want to do. you’re hurting right now, and that matters more to me than anything else.
Astrid: 10000% second, hiccup, i love you so so so much. and i want to be around you if you’re okay with that.
Ruffnut: hiccup come out of hiding right now or i will actually put a curse on you with my crystals.
Astrid: RUFFNUT!
Ruffnut: okay, sheesh. i’ll curse you with happiness then. but like. truthfully, i hope you are ready to come back to us someday because you’re acc a really good friend.
Fishlegs: Hiccup, I am beyond sorry if I hurt you, and I hope whatever pain is going on inside you eases enough for you to feel ready to be friends again. <3
Tuffnut: @Hiccup you’re like. my favourite guy. i love being transmasc with you. and just being with you. you’re fun and shit.
Tuffnut: and even if you don’t wanna be friends right now, don’t forget to take your man juice.
Snotlout: save it for the card you guys.
Astrid: we’ll print this out and stick it on the back.
And, in the envelope that had the card, are the same messages, zoomed out and printed in grainy quality on a single sheet of A4.
...
Tears prick his eyes. It’s not possible... not after all that time, all that sorrow, and fury, they- the messages were about him? The twins were arguing over an apology card for him? All the messages - and, come to think of it, all the concerned looks, and the sideways glances, and the irrefutable kindness - was for him. Maybe- maybe his friends do love him.
“See?” Astrid lowers her phone, and ducks down, so Hiccup is forced to look at her. “We all love you. So much. ”
“And I- we’re all so sorry that we did something to make you feel like we don’t,” Snotlout adds.
Fishlegs gently pats him on the shoulder. “We want to be your friends.”
“Even if you’re a bit fucked up,” Ruffnut says. “Because let’s face it. We all are.”
“So how about we all be fucked up together, yeah?” Astrid’s hand twitches towards his, then hesitates. She hates him. She hates- it’s a boundary, Hiccup firmly tells himself. She’s being kind.
Hiccup takes her hand. “Okay.”
“Now, how about we go get coffee and go home early?”
She begins walking, and stops when Hiccup doesn’t move. He would love to go home, but he hates- he has no home to go back to.
“Hiccup?” Astrid turns back to him.
Tears spilling from his eyes, he whispers - in the most broken voice - “I’m sorry.” But even that doesn’t feel like enough. “I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m- I’m...”
He’s alone, a ship in the stormy sea, and then he isn’t. Someone is diving in, and he mouths ‘no’, but they swim to reach him anyway. Someone’s arms curl around him, as they kick to the surface- his life ring as his boat falls away into nothing but driftwood.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” a voice - Astrid’s? - whispers. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
More voices wash in, more hands reaching for him, pulling him by the life ring into the shore.
“We love you, Hiccup.”
“We care about you so much.”
“We would never ignore you.”
“I’m so sorry that we hurt you.”
You didn’t! Hiccup wants to cry. You’re my best friends. You would never ever hurt me.
But accidents happen. Mistakes are made all the time. They are only human, and teenage humans at that. They won’t make perfect decisions.
And yes, they will hurt each other, no matter how careful they are. He is not the only one made of glass, and alcohol, and burns, and choking, or even other awful things, like gravestones, and lighters, and feeling more at home with each other than their parents.
But they will bandage his wounds as he apologises for the hurt he caused, and he would do the same for them in a heartbeat, because they love each other. They will do their best, and the others will not-so-subtly bring up therapy, and he’ll- when he’s ready, he will go.
But for now, he’s okay.
And he stays.
Astrid’s arms hold him tighter, then Snotlout, then Heather, Fishlegs, the twins, then they all crash to the floor and he loses track, but the mess is okay, because he loves them.
And he lets them all hold him, a mess of legs and arms and love.
And - as the storm eases, as the tree is blown down, as its roots rip from his brain, as his friends tow his life ring to shore, as he sees, hears, feels, smells and tastes his friends’ love around him - he doesn’t let go.
.o0o.
His phone is well and truly broken-
Dropping it three stories would do that. But he can ask his friends, when they go back to Dagur’s house, to email him all the pictures he so carefully kept saved.
For now, their selfie at the coffee shop will have to do.