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You’ve been putting this off all day, Hiccup. You need to tell him.
That’s what Hiccup tells himself as he brushes his teeth, sitting on the closed toilet seat and wondering just how his dad would react to... the Thing. That– the Thing he can barely think to himself, let alone stomach saying to himself in the mirror, wiping his mouth of toothpaste.
“I think I would benefit from using a mobility aid.”
He mouths the words, just to be sure his mouth won’t somehow prevent his thoughts from becoming reality. Why is it so hard to say? He almost wants to let himself put this conversation off for tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month.
But he said that yesterday. And the day before. And on and off every day his father was home since he first let himself start thinking about this.
Most teenage boys rebel online by watching porn, he thinks dryly. I look at wheelchairs.
But he knows he needs one. He knows he’s missing out on life. He slightly hates how the fact he got out of hospital means Stoick thinks he’s getting better. Hiccup has long since accepted that he won’t get better – and he’s not giving up! He isn’t! He’s trying to live again, to get out more. And if he has to do that with a mobility aid... his dad wouldn’t mind that.
Right?
Only one way to find out, he tells himself.
So he washes his face, pulls his pyjamas on, and starts removing his prosthetic.
That is when his father comes in to tuck him into bed.
He stands in the corner while Hiccup finishes getting into bed, like a very benevolent, slightly over–worried ghost. After the first few nights where Hiccup would lie on the brink of passing out for who–knows–how–long before Stoick would find him and lift him into his bed, Stoick just decided he’d keep an extra eye on him.
He hopes nothing like that starts to happen now; the last thing he needs is for something else to occupy his dad’s ever–working mind, and for his adrenaline to be lost.
Tonight. You’re doing it tonight, he tells himself, pulling the duvet over his body, and settling down. His favourite plushie lies under the duvet next to him. Stoick smiles fondly at him as he kisses Hiccup’s forehead, and says a soft “goodnight.”
Now. Do it now.
“Uh– h– hey, dad. I want to talk to you... about something.”
He hesitates, but turns around, and sits on the desk chair near his bed – the one Hiccup sits on to put his prosthetic on in the mornings. “Okay, son. What is it?”
“Well...”
I can’t I can’t I can’t
“I’ve been thinking. About my health.”
Please stop looking at me
Hiccup tugs the duvet over his mouth.
“And I think...”
DO IT NOW!
“I think I would benefit from using a mobility aid.”
“Sorry son, I didn’t hear that. What did you say?”
“I–” he sticks his whole head out of the duvet. “I think I would benefit from using a mobility aid.”
Stoick doesn’t speak. For a very long time. Each millisecond he doesn’t, Hiccup’s heart sinks further and further into his chest. He wishes, for a moment, it’s another POTS flare. It’s not.
“A mobility aid?” Stoick finally says. Hiccup can’t read his tone.
“Yeah.”
“Like– like what?”
“I dunno. A cane. Or a wheelchair.”
“I don't see how that would help your joints get stronger, Hiccup.”
Defeat. Sinking like a brick in the ocean, right into his heart.
“Dad... This isn't about me getting stronger, or some able–bodied–normative shit, this is about me being able to actively participate in society, instead of just spending most of the time at home.”
“But, Hiccup... the doctors told us–”
“I don’t care what the doctors told us!” He snaps, yanking the duvet over his head. “Maybe they’re wrong.”
“They said,” Stoick says, like he can’t even hear Hiccup, “you need to strengthen your joints.”
“I’m trying to, but clearly, their physiotherapy exercises are bullshit.”
“Hiccup, language.”
“Oh, whatever! You know I don’t even complete those exercises half the time; I don’t have any energy left after school for homework, let alone for my physiotherapy.”
“I don’t want you becoming reliant on a mobility aid, Hiccup, you’re going through enough suffering,” Stoick says gently. Hiccup calls it his ‘Patient Voice’. As well as Stoick being Hiccup’s parent, he’s also his caretaker. Hiccup swears he doesn’t mind, but the guilt of knowing his dad has to put his career second to his physical needs is slowly crushing him.
“I want to get out more. I’m sick of being at home all the time.”
Stoick frowns. “I thought you liked it.”
“I want to travel, dad.” Hiccup sighs wistfully, looking at his ceiling, full of art and pictures of different places: the forests of Canada, the landscapes of Iceland, the bustling city lights of Tokyo... Hiccup has seen snippets of the world from the many flare ups he spent stuck in his bed, but it’s still not enough.
“Well– maybe you’ll be better in a few years’ time.”
“Dad, I won’t be,” Hiccup snaps, startling even himself with how loud he is. “Disability isn’t something you can magically fix, okay? This is forever, and we can try to deny it, or we can get used to it and move forward.”
“The doctors said that some people get better–”
“Dad, you’re misunderstanding ‘getting better’ as having no symptoms. I’ve already got better from where I was, and I’m still sick. Surely you can see that?”
He’s being mean. He’s being cruel. He hates himself for it.
He carries on.
But Stoick says, “well, maybe you’re not pushing yourself hard enough.”
And Hiccup feels something break inside his chest. All of a sudden, his dimly–lit room is too bright, the shadows too dark, and his emotions too potent for his wretched, dysfunctional heart to hold.
He finds himself jolting upright. “I do push myself, dad. I push myself so hard. Getting out of bed? That’s pushing. Going to school? That’s pushing. I’m not like you; everything I do, I have to push myself to do it. I am trying my best here, and I’m tired of pushing myself so hard, when using a mobility aid would mean I wouldn’t have to push myself so much – and if you can’t see that, I–”
Hiccup swallows the rest of his words – or maybe there was never an end. Maybe he doesn’t want to imagine a world where he grows more and more distant from his father (his only family who truly loves him...) until they no longer recognise each other.
“You’ll what, Hiccup?” Stoick says slowly.
“I... I don’t know, dad.” He shrinks back into his duvet, all his bravado gone like thin tendrils of smoke. “Just– I’m too tired to argue. Leave me alone. Please.”
“Hiccup–”
“Dad.”
Stoick sighs, but leaves, and gently shuts the door behind him.
As soon as his footsteps disappear down the stairs, Hiccup buries his face in his favourite plushie, and starts to cry.
When Stoick walks past Hiccup’s room several minutes later, he hears sobbing. The most gut–wrenching sound he’s ever heard that rips a hole right through Stoick’s heart.
“Hiccup?” He can’t help but say– even though he told him to leave him alone.
“Go away!” His tear–soaked voice shouts back. “Leave me alone!”
With Stoick’s heart slowly breaking, he does.
mobility aids
Nope– no. Nothing with people younger than 60. No people like Hiccup.
mobility aids young people
Somehow, still no. Nothing with advice he can use. Nothing applicable to his situation.
God, he hates himself. No matter what the doctors told him about his son’s disability, there’s no denying that how he responded tonight broke Hiccup’s heart.
He needs to be better. Better than–
“For God’s sake, Hiccup, why can’t you just eat?!”
He lied to Hiccup, when he said he didn't remember what he said before the crash. Hiccup was already dealing with having lost a leg, and the diagnoses of several other chronic health conditions. He didn't need to know what Stoick said to him.
He doesn't think he'll ever tell him. Especially not now he realises how wrong he was about it. It was killing him to see his son slowly starving to death... But it wasn't Hiccup's fault, Stoick knows that now. He wasn’t deliberately starving himself, he had undiagnosed gastroparesis, which made him throw up almost anything he ate.
He's doing better now... And not because the doctors were right. Not because the doctors took care of him like they should have...
But because Stoick refused to stop advocating for his son. Even – no, especially when Hiccup was too fatigued and sick to fight for himself. Even though it was battle enough to handle seeing his son in that state.
Stoick tried to be Hiccup's rock in the storm, and look at him now– healthier, thanks to his feeding tube that Stoick practically has to wrestle from the doctor's hands. Happier, now he’s having his needs accommodated for.
All his needs... except this.
Stoick.just wants his son to be happy and healthy... That’s all he'd ever dare ask for. Stoick could have every bad thing thrown at his own life, and as long as Hiccup would stay smiling, Stoick wouldn't mind.
His mind ponders back to Hiccup when he was younger – taking him travelling in the holidays, watching his eyes light up like the natural world was the biggest wonder he’d ever seen.
Stoick tries to remember a recent time Hiccup was that happy, and finds he can't.
Oh, God... Stoick places his head in his hands, heaving a deep sigh.
He can't give up. Not on his son.
Even if there’s a chance a mobility aid would help him, it’s worth trying.
Stoick keeps looking.
This time, he ditches the medical websites, and reads blogs by disabled people.
The first thing he finds is a web page, titles: when is the right time to start using a mobility aid? By Finch Smith.
Stoick sighs, and starts scrolling.
Some signs you might be needing a mobility aid
1- you've been having a lot of falls recently.
Stoick frowns. From the few times Hiccup has stomached an outing, he does tend to fall. Or, at the very least, trip. A lot. It worries Stoick, the thought of Hiccup falling over without Stoick there to catch him.
2- you're finding it hard to leave the house.
Oh.
Hiccup did say, he misses going out.
If you're finding that leaving the house exhausts you, or gives you a pain flare up, it might be time to consider using a mobility aid to help you last longer.
There's an odd hollow feeling in Stoick's heart. If Hiccup really needed to use a mobility aid, would it be so bad?
3- you get dizzy from standing a lot.
Yes. That too.
Stoick goes down the list, finding more and more reasons. Almost every single one matches Hiccup's symptoms. Maybe– maybe he was wrong. Maybe the doctors are wrong.
Maybe Hiccup needs this.
Stoick goes onto the next blog page – as if it's a sign sent just to him, it's titled: medical gaslighting– harrowing accounts from disabled people how the medical system mistreated them.
His heart getting heavier in his chest, he scrolls down, and down, and down. Each story is a unique depiction of horror, of mistreatment, or neglect.
Many mention unsupportive parents.
Stoick stops mid–scroll, his heart thudding like a kick drum in his chest. Is he... neglecting Hiccup? No. He can't be. He loves his son dearly. He would never neglect him. Not meaningfully.
He just wants him to be happy. And as healthy as he can be, but mostly... happy.
Is Hiccup happy, sitting at home all day? Is he happy, when he's in constant pain?
By the time Stoick finishes researching, his chest feels heavy, and it's nearly six in the morning.
He should sleep. This is enough stress for a whole week.
He’s about to shut his laptop, when he scrolls further, and sees another blog post.
Storytime: my parents didn’t support me getting a mobility aid. Now I don’t talk to either of them, I’m accommodating my own needs, and I’ve never been happier.
Stoick’s heart drops right into his chest.
He shouldn’t read it. Especially not right before going to bed, where he’ll have all night to toss and turn in his own guilt.
But, against his better judgement, he clicks anyway.
I’m twenty one years old currently at university, and I’m disabled. I struggled with my mobility since I was fourteen, and I opened up to my parents about needing a mobility aid. But they only said it would decondition me, and refused to consider my point of view. I missed out on my social life and many fun outings throughout my teenage years, and struggled with severe depression and even suicidal thoughts. My only consolation throughout was leaving it all behind, and fulfilling my physical needs.
I finally got a car for my 16th birthday and learned to drive. I loved it. I could finally move around with less pain and fatigue. I had never been happier, and I drove around whenever I could. I worked so hard, tutoring people and running my own business so I could afford the petrol. Finally, I was starting to reclaim the life I was so sorely missing. This gave me the drive I needed to push through my SATs and get good enough grades to go to college.
The night before I left, I wrote my parents a letter for them to read, explaining that I didn’t want them to contact me when I was at university this year. I would either stay in student housing over the holidays or a friends’ house. I said that, if I wanted to get back in contact with them, it would be on my terms and my terms only. I also wrote about how their rampant ableism made me feel, and recommended them some resources from actual disabled people about mobility aids.
(Before you ask, yes I did try to educate them beforehand. But they never listened, and I stopped wasting my energy on trying to make them change, when it was clear they didn’t want to.)
Maybe they’ll change, maybe they won’t. I don’t know. Either way, I’m done letting their ableism ruin my life. My life has only just begun, and even from the cheap hospital wheelchair, I already go on more outings. My friends and I go out to museums, theme parks, restaurants with outdoor seating, picnics, and one of them is always more than happy to push me. I’m raising money for my own custom chair (my GoFundMe is in my bio), but my current wheelchair has already helped me so much, and a part of me hates my parents for denying me that chance to live such a happy and pain free life.
I am happy to say that my mental health is much better since my teenage years, and I do wonderful things in my free time. I volunteer at a homeless shelter, which is something I would never be able to do without my wheelchair. I also write songs, mostly about my experiences with mental health and disability.
Overall, I’m not sorry for what I did. Despite how good I feel about myself now, I’ll never forgive my parents for their ableism. They might not have meant to hurt me, but they did either way. I am not the bad person for distancing myself.
Stoick rubs his face to find his cheeks are damp, and his hand shakes when he pulls away.
Hiccup... his wonderful son... is he really hurting him by ignoring him? It would make sense that Hiccup knows his own body better than his doctors. And they were wrong about his eating issue. Maybe they're wrong about this too.
Stoick hates that he can't trust their word.
But even more, he hates that they didn't trust Hiccup's word. He hates that he didn't trust his word.
His brain pounds with flashes of the future. Hiccup, sitting alone at home. Hiccup, growing up to have no hobbies or interests. Hiccup, falling into a worse depressive spiral than before. Hiccup, leaving him and never looking back...
Oh, God, he can’t lose him. Not again... not his son...
His mind made up, he boils the kettle for some tea, and puts a herbal bag in the mug – the variety that Hiccup likes. Then, Stoick makes himself some coffee. He'll need it.
But at least now, he knows what to do.
Hiccup's always been an early riser. It's part of how Stoick knows when he's having a bad pain day. Thankfully, he hears Hiccup's alarm at half past six, and waits for Hiccup to get out of bed before he gently knocks on the door.
“Hiccup? May– may I come in?”
“...Yeah.”
Stoick has to stop himself from bursting through the door, and clutching his son tight in a frantic attempt to ensure he never slips out of his grasp into a dark place where he can’t reach him.
Hiccup already sits on his desk chair, carefully putting his prosthetic on. Stoick places his mug of tea near him, and Hiccup pauses a moment, before taking a sip.
Stoick clears his throat. “I’m... can we talk? About last night?”
“What’s there to say?”
Stoick feels the cutting tone in his voice with every fibre of his body. No one but Hiccup has the power to hurt him like that.
“Quite a lot, actually.”
“What, how I’m damaging my health by daring to suggest I use a tool to help me get out more?” Hiccup snaps.
Stoick’s brain floods with a million things to say – you were right. I’m so sorry. I wish I could take away your pain.
But it all gets lost, and he just mutters, “Hiccup, I did some research last night.”
He looks up, curiosity on his face.
“And... I was learning about mobility aids. Why people use them, and stuff.”
“Oh. O– okay.”
Stoick sighs. It feels like releasing a ghost he kept trapped in his ribcage. “Hiccup, I love you. So much. You're my pride and joy. All I want is for you to be happy.”
Hiccup buries his head in his arms, and Stoick gently pats his shoulder.
“And– I still want to talk to an expert. But I promise I'll talk to someone better. Why don't you help me find someone?”
“They have to be experienced in using mobility aids themselves,” Hiccup eventually says. “I don't want advice from people without firsthand experience.”
“Fair enough,” Stoick says.
Stoick stands in silence, while Hiccup stays buried in his arms. For a moment, there is only the sound of Hiccup's soft breathing, and Stoick's heartbeat in his ears.
Then, Hiccup says – almost took quiet to hear – “I don't want to be miserable anymore.”
Stoick feels his heart crack, as if a lightning bolt forked right down the centre, and all he can get out is “oh, sweetheart,” before he opens his arms for Hiccup to fall into.
Hiccup all but leaps from his deskchair into his dad’s arms, and slowly, softly, starts to cry again. Stoick gently rubs his back, holding him tight enough so he doesn’t have to stand on his own, but careful enough so as not to crack his fragile bones.
“I love you,” Stoick says. “I always will.”
“I– I'm sorry,” Hiccup sobs.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, my son.”
“I did kinda snap at you.” Hiccup gives a watery laugh.
“It's okay,” Stoick assures him. “You can be as angry as you want.”
“I hate my stupid doctors,” Hiccup grumbles, and Stoick chuckles.
“I confess, I hate them too.” Stoick pats Hiccup's back.
More silence follows, until Hiccup says, “a mobility aid might not be helpful, but it also might be. And– and I'll never know if I don't try.”
“Well, why not try today?”
Hiccup stiffens, and looks up at his dad. “What do you mean?”
“You like museums, right?”
Hiccup nods, his eyes lighting up.
“What if we found a museum that's accessible, and has a wheelchair you can rent. I'd have to push you, but it's better than nothing. What do you think?”
Hiccup hugs his dad as hard as he can (which, Stoick thinks, is not that hard) and Stoick gently pats his shoulder. “I take it that's a yes?”
“Yes. Please.”
“I’ll book our tickets, we can take the car, and you'd barely have to walk at all.”
“My right knee is really loose and sore today,” Hiccup says.
“I'm sorry to hear that, son,” Stoick says, with the twisting feeling he always has in his chest. No matter how many times he heard Hiccup talking about his myriad of painful and uncomfortable symptoms, it never got easier to hear.
But maybe, with this, Hiccup's heart would be less full of pain, and more full of life. Of living. Of fun, and enjoyment, and the enrichment Stoick sought for him.
Maybe, mobility aids would be a change for good.