Work Text:
June 2019
As usual, the universe hates him.
It happens in Dagur Dérangé’s back garden patio. It’s a mild summer’s day, and Snotlout is playing basketball with the twins while Dagur shows Hiccup around the barbeque. It's already steaming, the mouth-watering scent of frying meat wafting over to them.
“On your left!” Fishlegs - watching on the side - calls. Snotlout ducks around, and intercepts a pass from Ruff to Tuff just in time. Grabbing it from the air, he jumps too high, and lands roughly on the side of his foot.
Pain jolts through him. Something feels torn. Or twisted? He can’t tell, and it hurts too much to think so hard.
Fishlegs, of course, notices. Even the twins, not normally known for their powers of perception, notice. They slow down, looking at him like a spring trap, a caged dragon. A wild animal snarling and in pain.
“Are you okay?” Fishlegs calls, worried.
“I’m fine, ” Snotlout snaps, just too short to be convincing, and he can practically feel everyone's eyes on him, but he shrugs it off. After all, that's what he's best at. Shrugging it off. Acting like everything is fine.
And it works. The game carries on, Snotlout takes on the twins 2-v-1, and he kills it. Tuffnut scores one, but Snotlout scores two. The score is now tied, and he is going to win. He is fine. Everything is-
Ruffnut barges into him to score, and he trips, hits his elbow against the edge of the table, and falls, screaming in pain before he can betray his instincts, bite his lip and walk it off.
Nope. He’s hurt, and now everyone knows it.
The twins freeze. Tuff claps a hand to his mouth. Ruffnut mutters “shit” under her breath. The twins look around to call for Dagur, but-
He’s disappeared.
For a second, the backyard stands still. The basketball rolls across the patio and comes to rest against the bashed up fence.
Then, Hiccup reappears, a tray of raw meat kebabs in his hands. He lays eyes on the scene - and does what any scared, teenage boy with no good parents would do.
“Dagur!”
He rushes out at once, a tray of raw burgers in one hand, oven mitts in the other, and mouths several strong curse words, before settling on: “crap. What happened, Snotlout?”
“I just... I dunno, I tripped. Ankle’s been funny all day.” He shrugs. Nothing to do with falling down the stairs in an attempt to get away from my dad, he tacks onto the end.
“Right, okay- crap ,” Dagur mutters again. Snotlout knows Dagur - being seven years older, and therefore the designated Mom Friend of the group - is careful to keep his language mild around the rest of them. He says it's to set a good example, but it's not necessary. It's, as Ruffnut pointed out, “not like you're our dad, or whatever.”
“Hiccup, go tell Heather and Astrid to come out here and help. Tuff, go get some ice packs- top draw of the freezer. Ruff, get me some cushions,” he commands in brief sentences. The others obey wordlessly- Hiccup, out of worry; the twins, out of guilt.
“Fishlegs.” Dagur turns to him. “Can you help Snotlout into the living room while I switch off the open flame? I don't want you kids touching the barbeque.”
“Um… I think so?” He doesn't look at all sure, and Snotlout isn't sure about letting Fishlegs lift him. But it's Fishlegs, and his drive to keep people unharmed is stronger than his fear. So he lets it happen.
“Okay, I'll just- um...” Hesitantly, Fishlegs slides a hand underneath Snotlout's arm, and steadies himself with the other hand against the brick wall.
“You'll have to hop.”
“Do I have to?”
Fishlegs jerks his head towards Snotlout's ankle. “Can you walk on that?”
“Pfft. Course.” Snotlout stubbornly stomps his foot, and lets out a hiss of pain.
“Still don't fancy hopping?” Fishlegs teases.
“Yeah, whatever. Get over yourself, Ingerman.”
Fishlegs rolls his eyes, but his smile is caring. “Only once you stop being a stubborn idiot, Geōrgios.”
They continue to playfully insult each other as Snotlout hops indoors, slowly making his way towards the worn leather sofas Dagur found on Craigslist. The group have asked why he doesn't buy better ones with his enormous inheritance from his dad's death, but he just smiled and said the second hand ones felt more homely.
As Snotlout sits down, he glances at a Coca-Cola stain, a ketchup smear, and a small rip, all near his hand. Homely my butt, Dagur. He scowls. This is actually disgusting.
Fishlegs pats his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah. M’fine.” Snotlout stares at the trio of marks beside his hand, willing Fishlegs to leave.
“We’ve got stuff!” Tuffnut announced, as he and his twin bound into the living room.
“Doctors Ruff and Tuff are in the house!”
“Oh joy, it’s Christina Yang and Jackson Avery,” Heather says, appearing in the doorway.
“Oh please, if I was anyone, it would be Callie Torres,” Ruffnut says.
“You wish you were cool enough for Callie,” Heather snarks back.
Tuning them out, Snotlout watches Ruffnut lift his leg, and place two cushions underneath it. Then she steps away for Tuffnut to put the ice pack on his ankle.
Snotlout doesn't know what exactly he was expecting, but he was probably hoping it would be less... cold. It doesn't take the pain away. It just hurts.
He needs everyone. Out. Now.
“And what about me is George O’Malley?”
“Because you’re a nice guy, I thought that was a compliment!”
Out.
“Alright, that’s enough!” Fishlegs declares, surprisingly loudly. It’s the most Snotlout has ever heard him raise his voice. “All of you, go ask Dagur if you can help him.”
Heather drags the twins out, grabbing them by the wrist, and the room is suddenly a lot more bearable. Snotlout looks back at the stains on the couch.
“S- sorry about them,” Fishlegs says. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, yeah. Fine.” Snotlout looks sideways at him - the concerned furrow of his eyebrows, the way he’s twisting his fingers, his brown earmuffs over his ears he wears when he’s nervous - and says “you can stop asking me that, you know.”
“Well, I’m- I’m worried about you,” Fishlegs says timidly.
Woah.
“Yeah? Well- well don’t be. Kay?”
Fishlegs huffs, but leaves the room without another word. The door slams with a gust of wind.
And when he’s gone, all that remains inside Snotlout is nothing. He’s hollowed out, his organs and muscles evaporated outside of him.
See, he keeps doing this stupid shit. He pushes people away, then realises he needs them. He’s empty without his friends. And- and maybe that’s bad, and toxic, but honestly? He’ll deal with that when he’s older. He’ll save up and go to therapy when he’s eighteen- his dad doesn’t have to know about it then.
But for now, he can ask for them. He knows he’s a mess, but his friends still love him. They love him enough to spend time with him, and sleep over on Dagur’s couch- even if Tuff spilled Coca-Cola once, Snotlout dropped a hotdog on it, and Astrid tore a small rip with her spiked goth gear on it.
Actually, Snotlout decides, it is pretty homey.
His thumb trembling, he opens his phone, and calls Fishlegs’s number.
And when Fishlegs comes back, bringing two plates of barbeque food, Snotlout begins to believe that he might actually be okay.