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Stoick made it all the way down the baking aisle, when he realised his son hadn’t joined him. Hm. Hiccup was normally reliably close by; he’d never loved the overwhelming atmosphere of supermarkets and loved being alone even less.
They were only there for baking ingredients - light brown sugar, butter, and a can of condensed milk - to make sea salt fudge: one of Hiccup’s favourites, when he could have it. He said he liked the salt, which Stoick didn’t understand. But it gave his son less frequent dizzy spells, so that was fine by him.
So far, they’d found the butter and sugar; only the condensed milk remained to be found, and Stoick could really use Hiccup’s help. He hardly knew baking ingredients- Hiccup was the cook. Stoick was only there to hold everything, since Hiccup wasn’t strong enough to.
The vague sounds of commotion and frantic voices began to drift towards him, and Stoick stopped his search to listen. It seemed to come from the fridge aisle they were just in, which meant-
“Hiccup!”
Stoick rushed toward the fridge aisle, where a small cluster of people were gathered. Each spoke rapidly over everyone else.
“-is he okay?”
“-is he conscious?”
“-don’t think so-”
“-call an ambulance!”
And Stoick - as gently as he could muster amidst his panic - pushed past them.
To see Hiccup, face down on the floor. Unconscious.
.o0o.
Summer was most definitely Hiccup’s least favourite season. Full of brightness, chaos, loud crowds, and stifling heat, it was a safe bet to say he simply wasn’t built for summer. Which was unfortunate, living in Phoenix. It left him indoors for almost the entire season.
But he was - mostly - fine with that. He could stay indoors, keep his fragile skin unburned, visit Fishlegs when they were both well enough, and read a lot of books.
That was shaping up to be his entire summer... until his dad planned them a week-long camping trip.
“For some father-son bonding time,” he said.
Hiccup would be lying if he said he wasn’t thrilled by the way he called him son. It was six years since he came out as transgender, and - to his surprise - his traditional father had been very supportive. Although that didn’t mean hearing him calling him his son was any less exhilarating every time.
Hiccup loved his dad, he really did. Stoick didn’t understand what he went through, nor did he understand how most of it happened. Hiccup had tried to explain the science behind his conditions, but he wasn’t sure his dad got it.
Either way, he was certain he didn’t have the words to explain why a camping trip would, in fact, not be a good idea. Sleeping on airbeds guaranteed he’d wake up with aching joints. Not to mention the predicted heatwave.
His dad thrived in the sun- he insisted it was his “most productive time of year.”
Hiccup had laughed, and insisted he was always productive - having been the Mayor of Phoenix until two years ago - and that he always seemed to be busy, but Stoick simply laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and said “you’ll get it someday.”
So Hiccup and his dad went.
And he fainted in the forest on his first day.
The details were hazy: he remembered a gap in the shade of the trees, the blanket of heat becoming suffocating as it crawled up his neck, black spots swarming into his vision, then nothing at all. He woke up lying on the path, with his knees bent up to restore blood flow to his head, and his father’s rough hand shielding his head from the rocks underfoot.
They waited for a while, until Hiccup felt stable enough to stand without returning to the floor.
“Come on,” Stoick clapped his knees, and stood up. “Let’s get you back to the camp.”
Reluctantly, Hiccup took his cane in one hand, and his father’s hulking forearm in the other. He found it ridiculous that he was the biological son of someone so burly and intimidating. In utter contrast, Hiccup was unhealthily skinny, without a trace of muscle, and generally had the tendency to look sick.
They found their campsite, and Stoick helped him onto a camping chair. “You get some of the colour back into your cheeks, alright?”
“Dad, I think any more exposure to the sun might kill me,” Hiccup said, too tired to make a joke out of it.
Stoick sighed, evidently upset by Hiccup’s lack of ability to participate in what was so dear to him. “You... sit in the tent, alright? Read a book, or something.”
Hiccup did as his dad told, listening to the sound of grilling food. He scooted over to his bed, and unzipped the tarp to grab one of his bottles of formula. Careful not to do it wrong - he was fairly new to using his NG tube independently - he poured the mixture into the syringe, and injected it into his tube.
This keeps me alive, he told himself. It was unconventional, and he still wasn’t brave enough to do it in front of anyone but his dad or Fishlegs, but - as he reminded himself every day - it kept him alive. It was slowly restoring him from the sickly, frail mess of sharp bones he was. And he never wanted to go back there.
The smell of his dad’s dinner - sausages, judging by the smell - turned his stomach, and he slipped his N95 on, taking slow, deep breaths. It barely helped, but he would take every little bit of pain relief he could get.
He thought back to his cane, and how his dad had seemed initially awkward about it. But it was clear it was killing him to see Hiccup suffering so much without it. Now, it was as natural a part of their lives as everything else: Skullcrusher the dog, Stoick’s political career, and - of course - camping.
Hiccup had been doing it every year since he could remember. The peace of the woods, and the thrill of the outdoor world, were some of his earliest memories. The first times he could remember not doing it were last year and the year before. Both times he was in varying areas of inpatient medical care, and Stoick refused to take him in his fragile state, no matter how much Hiccup begged him to.
Please, he had thought, I just want to feel normal again. I just want to make you happy.
And if camping made his dad happy, he’d do it. If sitting outside, and chatting over the fireplace made his dad happy, he’d do it.
Even though it hurt.
The days rolled by. Hiccup could tell the heat, and the rough outdoors, were worsening his symptoms- he woke up with his body stiff and sore, and his head spun with flashes of crushing heaviness and dizzying lightness.
Every day without fail, his dad took him out on the lake, in his little fishing boat. Even one day, when it was pouring with rain, and Hiccup was cursing the cold for sending throbs of discomfort through his joints. Every day, they’d sit in silence (which Hiccup enjoyed) in the usually glaring sun (which Hiccup did not). Even his sunglasses and baseball cap did little to offset the constant throes of heat and dizziness he felt.
Stoick had a remarkable knack for catching fish, Hiccup found, and decided to make a feast on the fifth day, when he caught four.
It would be a bit of a sad feast, Hiccup thought, since Stoick was the only one eating it. He could try a bit of fish, but he wasn’t sure if it was a safe food. His dietician had him on a strict diet of formula, water and boiled sweets only, with occasional approved foods to make sure his stomach muscles didn’t atrophy.
It’ll only be a bite, he told himself. It’ll be worth it to enjoy things with my dad.
So, when Stoick laid four fillets of grilled fish on the camping table, Hiccup put one on his plate, and cut himself a small bite.
Stoick raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were only on-”
“My dietician says small amounts of things are fine,” he half lied.
Luckily, his dad didn’t question it. “Okay then.” He took another fillet, and cut a large piece off. “Mmm. That’s good.” He had another piece. “How is it, Hiccup?”
“It’s really good!” He smiled genuinely. “These are great, dad. You’ve got to teach me how to cook some time.”
“Why?” He raised his eyebrows. “You- you can’t... well- at least, not for now.”
“Well, I could cook when you’re busy. And I’d like to bake something for Fishlegs.”
Stoick nodded. “How is he nowadays?”
“Well, he’s still sick. He got the ME diagnosis a few months ago, at least, which is good. Hopefully his doctors will take him seriously now.”
He nodded grimly. They both knew all too well the struggle to get doctors to listen to Hiccup’s plights, instead of dismissing them. From what Fishlegs’s mother had been able to recount, Fishlegs bore a similar story.
“Maybe we could go out and get some ingredients for something tomorrow,” suggested Stoick.
“Fishlegs likes custard,” said Hiccup. “It’s less energy for him to swallow.”
“What do you like?”
Hiccup shrugged, twirling his fork around his fingers. “Anything salty, honestly.”
“Well, you can’t put salt in custard! Not much, at least, or it would taste terrible.” Stoick chuckled. “How about some fudge?”
Hiccup nodded, already formulating an ingredients list in his head. “Sounds amazing, dad.”
Which was how Hiccup and Stoick wound up in a crowded, busy supermarket the next day. Hiccup was trying to follow his dad, keeping his eyes on his boots in front of him, but it was just so hard. He was so dizzy, and drained, and aching; he could barely put one foot in front of the other. He wanted to collapse. He wanted to fall asleep for a week. He wanted to cry.
And, as his feelings consumed him, his body finally gave way, and his cane clattering to the ground was the last thing he heard before consciousness betrayed him.
.o0o.
“Don’t call an ambulance!” Was the first thing Stoick said. “He’s fine... Hopefully,” he muttered under his breath. It wasn’t that he didn’t care - of course he did - but he’d seen Hiccup faint countless times before. And he always bounced back, like the invincible person his amazing son was.
Besides, an ambulance was costly. Not to mention, being the old mayor of Phoenix would draw more unwarranted attention to him. He knew how much Hiccup fought to keep his medical information private; he would honour that.
“Clear off,” he heard someone else say.
“But what about-”
“He’ll be fine,” Stoick couldn’t help but snap. Really, did people insist on being this nosy all the time? He’d have to bring the public’s attitude to disability up in the next council meeting, although he’d only be a suggestor from the public.
Some people muttered amongst themselves, a few saying “isn’t that the old mayor?” but he paid them no heed.
Carefully, he bent Hiccup's legs up, placing them against the wall of the fridge, took off his jacket, and placed it beneath his son’s little head. The cold was barely noticeable to him - unlike Hiccup, who seemed to be very temperature sensitive - so he didn’t mind at all.
Even if he did, it would be worth it to help Hiccup.
He softly ran his fingers through his son’s hair, his thumb rubbing slow circles onto his cheek. People occasionally stopped and asked if he was okay, but left when Stoick politely assured them his son was fine, this has happened before, and he always recovers.
After a minute of sitting, waiting, Hiccup’s eyelids twitched.
“That’s right... you’re alright,” Stoick encouraged, relief surging in his chest. “You’re safe.”
Hiccup finally blinked himself awake, looking hazily up at the silhouette of his father against the supermarket lights. “D... Dad?”
“Yes, it’s just me,” he said, unphased by the disorientation Hiccup usually felt after his faints. “Relax, son, you’re alright.”
He nodded softly, shutting his eyes and taking deep breaths. Stoick breathed along with him. Now the panic was over, and he was sure Hiccup would be alright, he could take a moment to think about why exactly Hiccup was fainting on his watch. He should have been more careful. He should have taken better care of his son. And after he almost lost him... he couldn’t make the same mistakes again. He couldn’t.
“Dad... where...”
“You’re in the supermarket. Fridge aisle, to be exact,” he said.
“I want to go home,” he said, so soft it was almost a whisper, but Stoick still heard him over the din of the crowds of shoppers passing by.
Stoick sighed. Guilt piled onto his shoulders with every agonised twitch of his son’s face. “Okay, lad. We can go home.”
“Home, home. Not the campsite. I- I’m sorry, dad. I can’t... I need to go home,” Hiccup said, guilt in his own voice too.
“Of course, son.”
Stoick waved down a store assistant, and asked them to bring a store wheelchair, which Stoick gently helped Hiccup into. Hiccup’s hands reached for the wheels, but Stoick shook his head. “You need to rest. I’m fine to push.”
Hiccup nodded, which only added to Stoick’s worry. It was too easy of a victory against him; he was usually stubborn as a mule. How drained was he? How long had he waited before letting it get to the worst it could be, so much so that he couldn’t hide it anymore?
Stoick thought about it as he drove to the campsite, and packed up all their things. He packed Hiccup’s things first, and handed them to him in the backseat so he wouldn’t be bored.
As he worked, pulling down the tent, he caught glimpses of his son’s sad expression in the tinted windows, his large, green eyes watching him.
Just like his mother’s, he thought with a painful twinge in his heart. She still hadn’t answered any of his calls or texts, even when he made it very clear her biological son - no matter how much she needed to ignore his existence - was sick, in therapy, had lost a leg, got even sicker, in a psych ward, was using a cane. None of it was enough to convince her to come out of the shell she was hiding in, and Stoick was beginning to feel at peace with that.
Let her, he thought, folding up the tent a little angrier than he intended. Let her pretend she doesn’t have a family. She doesn’t deserve to be a part of my son’s life.
He tried desperately to shake it off, but thoughts of her ran around his head as he drove the long, windy route back home. Hiccup had headphones on in the backseat, and appeared to be asleep.
Stoick sighed to himself, wondering if he’ll ever stop worrying about Hiccup, and drove on home.
.o0o.
“I am sorry, by the way,” Hiccup confessed much later, when they arrived back home, and Stoick made him a bed on the sofa so he could watch TV. The Office was paused on screen, and Stoick’s German Shepherd Skullcrusher lay on the adjacent sofa, keeping an eye on him.
“Sorry? For what?” Stoick asked, handing his son a mug of hot squash.
“All this, I guess,” Hiccup said tiredly. “You have to take care of me all the time. I cut the trip short.” He took a small sip of the squash, and slowly swallowed. “I don’t want to be a burden, dad, I really don’t.”
“Hiccup, you are not a burden.” Stoick gently placed his hand on Hiccup’s shoulder. “You are kind, and wonderful, and smart, and the best son I could want.”
“But-”
“No buts, Hiccup,” he said sternly. “I want to care for you, because I love you. And you deserve to be taken care of.” He squeezed his shoulder, ever so gently.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you growing up. I know that was wrong of me, and I understand if you’re not ready to let me take care of you just yet. But I ask... will you promise to tell me when you’re struggling?”
Hiccup mulled it over in his head. “Okay,” he finally said, his voice hushed. “I can manage that.”
He pressed play on The Office, and Michael Scott began lamenting about something Stoick didn’t pay attention to. Hiccup rolled onto his side, and continued watching.
Stoick had taken time since the accident to properly get to understand his son. And this, he knew, was a clear signal he wanted to be left alone.
So he returned to his own office, and carried on replying to the emails he was previously dealing with.
When Stoick next went to check on his son, he was asleep, breathing gently. Skullcrusher looked up when he saw Stoick, and bounded off the sofa towards him.
“Easy, big fella.” Stoick chuckled, as he rubbed the German Shepherd’s head. “You’ve been keeping an eye on my boy, yes?”
He panted eagerly, wagging his tail in response.
“There’s a good boy.” Stoick pressed pause on the TV, relishing the silence, and hoped he wouldn’t wake Hiccup.
Guilt still sat heavy in his chest. How could he have gone five days without noticing Hiccup’s illnesses were worse than usual? How could he have been so wrapped up in his perceived paradise, that he failed to realise - while he felt in heaven - Hiccup was fairly close to hell?
He’d have to work on other ways they could spend time together. Hiccup was interested in cooking and baking, so maybe he could teach him about that. He also seemed to like dragons, so Stoick could talk to him about that too.
But really, any time he could spend in the vicinity of his son - no matter what Hiccup wanted to do - was good time. Whatever he wanted to do, Stoick was happy to do it with him.
Stoick finished his work on the adjacent sofa. Hiccup might not have been ready to get properly close to anyone yet, but Stoick was happy to give him all the time he needed.