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“Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?” Stoick asked for possibly the tenth time, hovering by the front door with at least three carrier bags on each arm.
“I’m sure,” Hiccup said, barely moving his eyes from his book. “You’ll be back by the evening.”
“That’s still four hours, son,” Stoick said gently.
“Four?” Hiccup scoffed. “What do politicians even do in all that time? How can you talk about tax laws for four hours?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Stoick chuckled. “I might get held up with people, and their questions... you know how some residents are. So if I’m not back by six, feed Skullcrusher and make sure the laundry’s out of the machine.”
“Okay.” Hiccup’s nose was still buried in his book. Stoick knew him well enough to know it wasn’t rudeness; he was just focusing. This was how his son was, and he loved every part of his son.
But nonetheless, he put the instructions in a text message. Just in case.
“Alright. I’m off. Do call me if there’s any problems, okay?”
“I will. Bye dad.” Hiccup waved with one finger. “Love you.”
“I- I love you too, son. Take care.”
“Bye.”
Stoick sighed, only a little bit anxious for his son, and shut the door behind him.
Please be okay, he added.
For the first half an hour, Hiccup was fine. He read his book, Skullcrusher came and demanded petting (which Hiccup was happy to give), and gave himself some of his feeding tube formula while Skullcrusher ran around outside.
Then, just as he got up from his deck chair outside, a surge of sudden dizziness hit him. His vision prickled with dark spots, and he swiped around to grab onto... something. His hand found a cold and rough surface, and he half-leaned, half-crashed into it with a dull thunk.
But the dizziness eased after a few seconds. Everything slowly came back to him: the brick wall he fell into, the pounding in his head, the weird, lurching feeling he could never quite describe after a POTS episode.
And call it what he would - chance, common sense, intuition, pattern-based logic - but he knew something was wrong. Not like the usual fainting he got, something badly wrong.
So he ushered Skullcrusher inside, tried sipping some water - which didn’t make a difference, which worried him more - and decided this one would be best waiting out.
He dragged himself up the stairs, almost slipping and falling over on one, and wished at the back of his mind that his father was there to help lift him up the stairs. He always did when Hiccup was too tired, or pained, or dizzy, to do it himself.
It was a peculiar sight to see his dad - such a large, hulking, frankly terrifying, man - being so tender toward someone. Least of all his sixteen year old son. But a needed sight nonetheless. Hiccup loved him. Hiccup needed him.
He stopped a few steps from the top, letting his body crumple, letting himself black out, letting a few tears slip from his eyes and soak into the scratchy carpet beneath him. What was the point of stopping it? No one would come and hold him and dry his tears.
His dad was out.
Bloody hell, was this really how he was going to act if his dad left for, what, an hour? If he couldn’t handle being alone for an hour, how- how would he go to college? How would he be independent? How would he become an adult, if he was stuck being a scared little kid at sixteen?
Somehow, the self depreciation - though upsetting - propelled Hiccup to stand, prompting another terrifying wave of dizziness. Please don’t fall down the stairs, he pleaded with himself. Practically throwing himself forward, he sloppily bounced between the walls like the world’s clumsiest ping-pong ball, until he reached a door.
He opened it. The bathroom. It wasn’t his bedroom, like he’d hoped, but he was already stumbling through the doorway now, so he might as well get comfy. At least the window was open a bit.
He laid down, propping his legs up on the toilet seat. There was no time for him to even consider what might make this nasty experience more comfortable before his symptoms inevitably got worse. He was just stuck on the cold, uncomfortable ground for the foreseeable future. His head was spinning, and it was a miracle his dad wasn’t freaking out-
Oh.
Yeah.
He wasn’t- he wasn’t...
“Dad?” Hiccup said anyway. His voice echoed around the bathroom, like a lonely, wandering soul. “Dad... Please help me.”
It took a minute, amidst all the brain fog, to realise that he wasn’t there. There’s no reason he would be; it was a few minutes from three O’Clock in the afternoon. He wouldn’t be back from his council meeting for ages.
But Hiccup let the stupid, naive bubble of hope rise in his chest, and pop with every stinging reminder his father wasn’t there. His father couldn’t hold him. His father couldn’t put his head in his lap, and stroke his hair out of his eyes, and cup his cheek with his enormous hands. His father couldn’t keep him safe and make everything better, because he wasn’t there.
He checked his watch. Again. Precisely one minute had passed.
This will blow over, he told himself. I’ll just faint, and then wake up in a few minutes, and get back to the sofa. Or my bedroom.
Anywhere comfortable would do, really. Comfortable, and with people. The ones by himself were always the worst.
If his dad were here, he would already be scooping Hiccup’s tiny frame into his arms, carrying him to bed, and tucking him in. He'd talk to him so he wasn't bored, and his heavy footsteps would bustle around the carpet as he’d fetch Hiccup anything he’d need - and even the things he didn’t. He was just over-cautious like that.
All the fussing normally made him feel guilty, but right now... he would give anything for his dad to look after him. The bathroom was too bright, and too cold, and concrete would've been more comforting to his body than the floor.
Worst of all, he was lonely. Skullcrusher was faintly barking from downstairs, but Hiccup... Hiccup shut the dog-proof gate. He was always careful like that.
So any chance of any living creature coming to his aid was null.
Unless...
He kept his phone in his hoodie pocket.
His shaking fingers dived into the soft fabric. Oh, please be there...
Yes! Thank goodness, it was there. His sweaty hand welcomed the cool, slippery metal like ice-cold water on a hot day.
Who to call, who to call...?
Not his dad, obviously. He was busy. Hiccup being something as inconsequential as a bit lonely and scared could wait. His dad was the mayor of Phoenix. His sixteen year old son could wait a few hours.
Fishlegs? He was slowly getting better, but he still wouldn’t be able to manage going all the way out to Hiccup’s house without the inevitable post-exertional malaise. He could ask Fishlegs to call his mother, but he didn’t know Fishlegs’s family all that well. He couldn’t ask a stranger to console a crying, frightened boy.
And he didn’t know his own mom. She was just a stranger whose mention cast a shadow over Stoick’s usually warm, loving eyes.
So that only left one person.
Gobber.
Hiccup punched in his passcode, got it wrong twice, and finally got into his phone on the third try. Swiping open his contacts, he scrolled for Gobber’s name, and pressed dial.
Don’t be scared, don’t be scared... it’s just a fainting spell. You’ll be fine, stop being pathetic, Hiccup told himself. His inner monologue started commanding, but ended sounding pleading.
The dial tone stopped. “Hello?”
“Gobber?” Hiccup practically shouted before he could change his mind. “C- can you- please, I’m- I’m - I’m so sorry for disturbing you - I’m scared, p- please... help me,” the words bubbled out of him, all self depreciation gone. He was stripped bare to survival now.
“It’s okay, lad. I’m right here with you. You’re gonna be alright. What’s wrong?”
“I- I’m having a POTS episode. Buh- but I’ve never had one by myself before. Not since the accident. And I feel... different.”
“POTS is fainting, isn’t it?” Gobber mumbled. Hiccup hummed assent. “Are you somewhere safe in case you fall?”
“Y- yeah. Bathroom floor, lying down. My legs are elevated.”
“Good work. You’re a smart lad, Hiccup. Your dad oughta be proud of you.”
Another bout of tears seized Hiccup’s throat. Hot tears rolled slowly down his cheeks.
“I- I-” Hiccup coughed, sniffling, “I want my dad, Gobber,” he said in a tiny voice.
“I know, lad. I’ll get a hold of him as soon as possible, alright? But for now I need to stay with you and make sure you’re safe.”
“I’m scared,” he sobbed. “I want m- my dad.”
“I know, lad. I’ll get in touch with him as soon as I can. Can you reach for something cold to put on your face?”
“I- I- I can't, Gobber.” His voice dissolved into sobs, and Gobber murmured reassurances into the phone for a minute while Hiccup cried, utterly pathetically, staring at the speckles of mould on the ceiling. “I- I c- I can b- barely move. I’m too t- tired. Hurts.” He hiccuped, gasping for air. “I want my dad.”
Yes, his dad would take care of him. He would be dabbing his forehead with a wet flannel, and telling him he would be okay. He would be holding his hand, with the gentlest grip possible to him, and promising him that storms don’t last forever.
Some time, he would think back on today, and wonder how he managed to let his feelings be known so boldly. But that day would not be today. Today, all that swallowed his entire being was fear. Burning and freezing all at once, making his hands shake uncontrollably.
But it wasn’t just the fear. He knew fear, and he knew his symptoms. Frankly, he’d choose the fear any day. Fear wouldn’t need an ambulance called. Fear wouldn’t physically endanger his body. Fear, at least, he had some semblance of control over.
“Something’s wrong,” he cried. “Gobber, I feel bad. Worse than usual. Really, really bad.”
“Right. Don't panic, alright?” There was faint rustling in the background, followed by a gruff “I’m calling your father.”
A thread of reason pushed through his panic, and he gasped, “I d- don’t- want him t- t- to worry.” Hiccup clumsily wiped his damp cheeks with his sleeve. His hands trembled, and his whole body felt unbearably shivery.
“Trust me, lad, he’d rather be with you than not know you're struggling. It would be better for the both of you.”
He tried to open his mouth, but his teeth felt sandwiched together by tar. Even something as inconsequential as taking a breath required effort.
He was starting to lose consciousness, and his muscles were shaking and jerking beyond his control. He tried to fight it, but it was useless. Something awful was happening to his body, and it was terrifying.
“-cup? Hiccup? Can you hear me?”
Yes! He wanted badly to say. Yes I can. Please don’t stop talking.
“I’m right here with you, lad. I’m calling an ambulance, they’ll be on their way soon.”
And my dad?
“Stay with me, Hiccup, alright? I’m right here, okay, just try to st...”
Hiccup tried.
He really tried.
But there was a faint crash of his legs falling from the toilet seat, the sensation of his body rolling to the side, and everything went dark.
Stoick left his notifications on for precisely two people: Hiccup, and Gobber. Aside from those two, there was no one important enough in his life to stay in urgent contact with.
So when his phone began blaring some bagpipe song he chose for his ringtone, he knew it was important.
He stepped away from the crowd, and picked up the call without checking the screen. He expected Hiccup to tell him he’d burned dinner, or cut his thumb doing some craft project.
But it was Gobber’s voice.
And he sounded panicked.
“Stoick?”
“What is it, Gobber?”
“It’s...” he hesitated, just for a second, but ripped open an impossibly large amount of time for him to worry.
Hiccup. Something was wrong. He’d fainted, or had a dislocation. He’d fallen down the stairs. He was sicker than usual. He’d hurt himself cooking. He’d scalded himself on hot water. He was throwing up. He was stuck somewhere and needed his dad's help.
There was no end to what could be happening to Stoick’s beloved son.
“Tell me, Gobber!”
“Hiccup’s having a fainting spell of some sorts. He didn’t specify, but I’m not surprised. He was panicking, bless ‘im. Could barely get a sentence out. The poor boy didn’t sound half scared.”
Oh God, this wasn’t happening... Please, could this just be a horrible dream? Stoick pleaded in his head for someone to pinch him out of this horrific nightmare.
But nothing.
No, the blaring summer sun was real as ever. So was Gobber’s voice. So was the flashing of the-
Ambulance sirens.
Oh boy.
“Hiccup!”
Stoick practically leapt into his car, and slammed his foot on the pedal. People beeped their horns at him, but he didn’t care. He’d deal with the speeding tickets later. Hiccup was more important than anything. Hiccup, Hiccup, Hiccup. His cherished son, whom he loved so much... his pride and joy... he couldn’t lose him...
And, before he knew it, he was pulling up outside his house.
The ambulance wasn’t there; he must’ve beaten them to it. Stoick wasted no time in unlocking the door, consoling a barking and whining Skullcrusher for a few seconds, before thundering up the stairs, and flinging open the bathroom door.
Where his son lay. Unconscious.
With a phone on the ground beside him, his legs bent at an uncomfortable angle, and his cheeks shiny with tears.
“The poor boy didn’t sound half scared.”
Was that really what happened? Hiccup was too- what, too afraid of calling his own father? Too afraid of asking for help? So he just... went through it. All by himself.
Oh, God, this couldn’t be happening. Hiccup - his sweet, precious, beloved little boy - so scared and alone... why did he leave him? Four hours, with no one else in the house but- but his dog? His son had a fainting condition, and he just left him all by himself.
Stoick gathered Hiccup into his arms, and laid his head on Stoick’s lap, as if to make up for his absence - but terror still swamped him. What if he was too late, and this would be a bad episode. What if Hiccup had to go back to hospital? Just when his health was getting better...
What if it could’ve been worse? What if Hiccup was outside, or didn’t have his phone, and was left to go through everything alone? What if he was holding a knife, and passed out and hurt himself? What if the house caught on fire, and Hiccup was trapped inside because he fainted?
Stoick didn’t have time to wonder. Because his son, who was previously motionless in his father’s lap, began to stir.
He let out a tired groan, his eyelids twitching furiously. His head lolled lethargically - terrifyingly like a doll. Stoick gingerly took his son’s fragile, little head in his hands, and stroked his cheeks with his thumbs, touching his soft, pale, damp skin.
“H... Hiccup?”
He didn’t respond. His lethargic neck movements slowly turned to more rapid twitches.
His eyelids slowly creaked open.
“Hiccup?!” Stoick allowed hope to leap into his throat, for one naive second. “Oh, my boy, I’m so sorry... I should never have left you, my sweet boy.”
And Hiccup gave no sign he heard his father's words. Not even a hint of a smile. His eyes slowly rolled backward into his eyelids. Stoick waited in tense anticipation to see what would happen...
Then, horror. Nothing but pure, unaccompanied horror. It washed over Stoick like a wave.
As his precious, wonderful son’s body started convulsing.
And he could only watch.
“Help!” He bellowed, rushing to Hiccup’s side and praying the paramedics would arrive at the door any second. “Someone, help!”
Stoick could only cradle Hiccup’s head as his neck bent backwards, straining his throat and dragging a horrible, tight groan from it. He could only cushion his arms as they repeatedly slammed into the floor.
And he could only hold him - as tight as he dared, lest he break any one of his son’s fragile bones - and pray, if there ever was a compassionate God for his son, that this would soon be over.
“What’s... happening?” He forced the words out of his throat, though there was no one to hear him. No one to hear just how desperate, how fucking terrified, he was.
Please come, he begged the ambulance, trying not to think about how downright dangerous this could all become. Please, please come.
They came. Thudding up the stairs one by one, crowding into the landing, and ushering as many people as they could fit into the small bathroom.
Paramedics began working on him at once, gently removing him from Stoick’s arms, and placing an oxygen mask over his mouth. Hiccup didn’t wake up. He didn’t even twitch.
“The, uh... he was having convulsions. But they’ve stopped,” Stoick explained, in an unusually quiet voice for him.
“Does your son have any pre-existing medical conditions?” One paramedic asked.
“Yes- I have a binder folder of all his information, but- but yes. He does. Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome. It causes him to faint often. And Ehlers-Danlos syndrome. Gastroparesis. Asthma. Immuno-”
“Sorry, go from Ehlers-Danlos?” A young-looking paramedic near the back of the crowd said.
Stoick couldn’t help but notice a few people staring at Hiccup - so small and fragile-seeming beside Stoick’s imposing figure - with sorrow evident on their face. He was sad too, obviously. What decent parent wouldn't have the same reaction to their child's suffering? But these people seemed to buzz with a morbid curiosity that set Stoick on edge.
He tried to peer around the head of one medic to maybe work out what was going on, but he couldn't see enough. He was more thankful than he could express that they were even there, but if he could just catch a glimpse of his son’s face...
A paramedic crouched down next to him, and said “you’ve done well keeping your son safe. We just need you to answer a few questions, okay?”
He numbly recalled what he knew, which was - shamefully - little. He could almost hear the judgement on the paramedic’s face: a man who’s son has a known and dangerous fainting disorder left him alone in the house for two hours?
Stoick didn’t deserve someone as wonderful and perfect as his son. Stoick didn’t deserve him if this was how he was going to treat him. It was neglect, plain and simple.
The paramedic finally stopped asking him questions, and guided him to the ambulance. Hiccup was strapped to a stretcher, with someone manually pumping oxygen into his lungs. The sight made Stoick genuinely, horrifically unwell.
That- that broken, dead-looking body... that was not his son.
His son was full of life and passion. A laugh so infections Stoick always found himself joining in. A smile that lit up every one of his mornings. Emerald eyes, just like his mother’s, that made Stoick love the colour once again. Freckles smattering across his face and arms. A truly resilient, unbreakable soul beneath all of it.
This unmoving body matched none of it, and it terrified him.
The ambulance revved to life, and Stoick couldn’t rip his eyes off his son.
Please be okay, please be okay, please be okay...
Stoick could’ve thought about the rushing of a stretcher down endless, white corridors. He could’ve thought about IVs and blood draws, and hospital gowns, and pleading with doctors, and wishing they knew what was wrong with his son. He could’ve thought about all Hiccup’s years of hospital experiences bleeding into one.
Instead, he thought about the softness of Hiccup’s hand in his. He thought about the tiny squeeze his son gave his fingers when he was coming to, and the tiniest hint of a smile when Stoick told him he was right there, he’ll never leave, and that he’s so sorry for everything.
Stoick stayed with him overnight, too shaken to sleep, and spoke to Hiccup as he gradually came to. He told him about the council meeting he was in (boring, as Hiccup predicted), and a new recipe he found online. He told him endless stories from when he and Gobber were teenagers and young adults, getting into no end of trouble.
And slowly, Hiccup began to come back around.
“H- heeey... dad,” he croaked.
“Hello, my son.” Stoick softly stroked his forehead. “How are you feeling?”
He groaned, whining in pain. “Hor- horrible.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know. You’re so brave. So, so brave.” He said the words with fierce pride.
“Wha... what happn’d?”
“You... had a fainting episode. You also had some c-” Stoick broke off. Should he tell him?
“What?”
“Some convulsions. Don’t worry, you didn’t hurt yourself; you got yourself on the ground nice and early. You were very sensible, sweetheart.”
“I was... convulsing?” Hiccup murmured, his speech still quite groggy and slurred.
“Yes. Just for a few minutes before your fainting spell. The doctors don’t know if it’s related, but they- they will help you this time,” Stoick solemnly said. “This time, I’ll make sure they keep you safe.”
“St... stay with me.” Hiccup weakly squeezed his dad’s fingers.
“Of course.” Stoick kissed his forehead. “This time, I’m not going anywhere.”
And he would make good on that. In a world of important choices, he would always choose his son. Every time.