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It starts when Hiccup sees a cardboard box on the side of the road.
It’s a cool day – well, cool for Arizona, which means it’s already pretty hot – but it’s not too hot that they’re both bedridden with an undoubtedly horrible combination of fatigue, brain fog, and dizziness. So it’s a good day to drive out to the Arizona desert for Hiccup to practise using his new power attachment without bumping into anything. They set off early, and the sun is swelling into the sky, but they blast the air conditioning, and Hiccup taps along to the gentle beat of one of Fishlegs’s soothing classical piano CDs.
It’s good... until they drive past a cardboard box, tattered and damp, and Hiccup is pulling over before he fully realises what he’s doing.
“Uh, Hiccup?” Fishlegs frowns.
“Hang on,” Hiccup mumbles thoughtlessly. He creeps towards the box, wobbling on his feet, and listens as hard as he can.
“Something’s rustling in there,” Fishlegs warns him. “It could be a snake.”
“I don’t think so.” Hiccup edges closer– and gasps. “I can hear claws scratching!”
“All the more reason I think we should leave it,” Fishlegs says dryly.
“Fishlegs...” Hiccup sighs. “What if it’s a baby?”
“With claws?” He gives him a sceptical look that Hiccup can sense from beneath his sunglasses.
“It could be an abandoned puppy,” Hiccup says.
“There’s not going to be any stopping you here, is there?” Fishlegs sighs.
Hiccup steps closer, until he can see inside the box.
And he gasps, “holy shit.”
“What?” Fishlegs opens the door, and steps out.
“Fishlegs... come look.”
Slowly, carefully, he steps forward, and finally lays eyes on what Hiccup found.
“God, it’s tiny,” Fishlegs mutters. “Look at its eyes– they’re still shut.”
Hiccup carefully gets to his knees – feeling them both click – and picks up the tiny creature with both his hands.
It’s not cute, like most baby kittens are. It’s hairless, with wrinkled skin, and its tiny, toothless mouth is open in a miniature, high–pitched wail.
But the most remarkable feature Hiccup sees is that it’s missing a back left leg.
Something in Hiccup’s heart clicks into place. Somehow, in the eyes of the sad, dishevelled creature, he looks into its eyes, and sees himself. A kindred spirit.
“God, Fish, look at it...” pure, childlike wonder steals the volume from his voice.
“It could be diseased,” Fishlegs reminds him.
“You’re right– we should take it to a vet,” says Hiccup.
“I meant, you should put it back in its box.”
Reluctantly, he does, but carefully lays its head back down on the cardboard.
“Alright.” Hiccup dusts his hands off. “What now?”
“Hiccup, we– we can’t take this with us.” Fishlegs’s eyes crease into a frown. “It’s probably someone’s cat.”
“No pet owner leaves their pet in a box– would you put Meatlug in a cardboard box?” Hiccup raises his eyebrows.
“You know what, fair point.”
“Even if it is, they don’t deserve a pet who they’re gonna leave in the sun in an Arizona summer.”
Fishlegs taps his fingers together. “I’m not sure, Hiccup. Maybe we should call the others?”
“Fish, that kitten’s going to die if we leave it. Look– there’s not even any water for it.” Hiccup frantically points to the empty cardboard box.
“Well, how are we going to take care of it? We’re students, we don’t have time to take care of a newborn kitten.”
“So you’re saying we should leave it?” Hiccup snaps.
“I’m saying,” Fishlegs says calmly, “be logical, Hiccup. We can take it to an animal shelter.”
“But I can’t leave it!” Hiccup cries. He can’t let his kindred spirit slip out of his grasp. If they were to just discard the kitten to the mercy of an animal shelter, he’d never forgive himself. He’d never stop thinking about the way his soul tugged at the bars of his ribcage in a way it never had before.
“Hiccup...”
“I’m sorry, Fishlegs. But I can’t change my mind here.”
He sighs, shrugging, a small smile edging over his face. “Well, who am I to stop you?”
Hiccup grabs his wheelchair from the van – without the power attachment; he doesn’t trust himself with it just yet – and places the box on his lap. He carefully pushes himself towards the van, watching the kitten wailing in pain and confusion.
The poor thing... he shushes it, and pats the top of his tiny head with his index finger. It recoils, and Hiccup draws his finger away like it electrocuted him.
He realises then, that this weird, ugly creature needs a name.
I’ll think about it, he decides, and waits for Fishlegs to open the van door, before he places the box inside –
And comes to a devastating conclusion.
Hiccup has to drive, because Fishlegs can’t due to his seizures. And Fishlegs doesn’t want to risk catching germs from the animal, or its box. Even a minor disease can cause serious issues for his weakened immune system (which, in fairness, is something Hiccup should be thinking about too).
But he can’t leave this kitten to die. He can’t strip it of its chance to live its life before it’s even begun.
.o0o.
The drive back home is possibly one of the most stressful experiences Hiccup has ever been through. And considering his life experiences, that is saying something.
It’s a new feeling, for sure. Holding the fate and wellbeing of a tiny, delicate creature in his hands twists his already unstable stomach into painful knots, and he has to restrain himself from turning away from the road just to check the kitten is okay.
Though he makes Fishlegs peer over once or twice, and his answer is always the same:
“He’s fine, Hiccup,” with a slightly exasperated sigh, but a smile in his words, every time, without fail.
“Who said it’s a he?” Hiccup asks at one point.
Fishlegs shrugs. “Just a guess.”
“It feels right. He,” Hiccup says after a moment. “I have to stop calling him ‘it’ anyway.” He chuckles. “What shall we name him?”
“We don’t know enough about him yet,” Fishlegs reasons. “It took me three weeks to name Meatlug.”
“And that was only after she stole a piece of raw chicken when you were cooking.”
They both chuckle, and for a moment, Hiccup can forget the stress of the day. He can hardly believe an hour ago, all he could think about was practising with his new power attachment.
Now... he could be responsible for a real life creature, a living, breathing, baby kitten. It terrifies him.
Before they even make it back to The Edge university, they stop off at the vet.
They park in the only disabled parking space – only to discover there’s a step going inside.
“I’ll stay here,” Fishlegs says.
“You sure?” Hiccup raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah.”
With that, Hiccup pulls on his 3M respirator, gets out of the van, and grabs the cardboard box off the backseat, with a twinge of guilt in his chest.
His symptoms aren’t so bad today; the only reason Fishlegs could even come was because he could stay in the cool van the whole time. Bringing back and dealing with a newfound stray animal was already not on the cards.
He is lucky enough he can physically do without his wheelchair on this particular day. Fishlegs’s chronic fatigue is always worse in the hot Arizona summer.
Hiccup goes inside, walking backwards to get the door open, and immediately heads for the receptionist.
She coughs several times, and looks up rather boredly. “How can I help?”
“Uh... I found this cat on the side of the road.” Hiccup carefully put the box on the countertop, and the receptionist wrinkled her nose.
“I'll call a vet,” she says.
“He– he was out in the hot sun for a long time,” Hiccup says urgently. “I think he needs urgent care–”
“Someone will be with you, sir.” The receptionist goes back to tapping on her computer. Hiccup snatches the box from the counter, and goes to sit on a waiting chair.
Or course, it's uncomfortable and plastic and horrible. He shifts around, trying to get comfortable, but it doesn't work.
He should know by now, that it never works.
No. Good fortune, it seems at times, is a diamond in the rough. He knows it’s ungrateful, deep down, to the many wonderful things he does have. The countless ways in which he is unbelievably privileged.
But then comes a horrific flare up, where Hiccup is bedbound for the day, and he wonders what he did to deserve the body he has.
And he sees it in creatures like Toothless, too. A tiny, helpless kitten, who couldn’t have stood a chance at ensuring his own survival alone in the scorching, arid conditions.
It hits Hiccup then, how lucky it is Hiccup found him when he did. Otherwise, it would almost certainly be dead.
Just like Hiccup, if he didn’t have someone fighting for him like his dad.
He can feel it now– burning in his chest like the torch Stoick carried, sharing the flame so that Hiccup might carry his own too. It’s like the symbolism in Snotlout’s poetry books. Hiccup has been taken care of, and now he’s ready to take care of others. (It’s why Snotlout says he can never have children). The care won’t end; his dad will always carry his torch.
But Hiccup is ready to take his torch. He’s ready to care for this creature. He’s ready to love it, and cherish it, and feed it, and keep it warm.
He’s ready. So he will.
Hiccup gently hums to the kitten while he waits – Brahms’ Lullaby, and Brahms’ Waltz in A flat, both melodies from when he was very young and struggling to sleep, humming on his father’s lips. Beginner piano tunes from when he learned the piano for a year or two. Crooning Nirvana ballads that earn him a nod of nostalgia from the old lady sitting with her turtle closest to him.
And he hums until his throat’s sore, and his breath condenses on the inside of his mask, prickling his skin, and he has to stop.
The kitten alternates between sleeping, and stumbling around its cardboard box. Its eyes are still shut; clearly a very young animal. The mere thought that someone could abandon something so young and innocent makes Hiccup want to pummel his fist into a wall.
It’s as his father always told him. “You have your hands, son. You can use them to hurt, or to heal. It’s up to you.”
The kitten needs to learn there’s kind hands in the world.
It’s risky. The kitten could still have germs. Hiccup could get sick– and he’s normally incredibly careful with himself.
But there is always going to be risk in the world.
And today, he makes his choice.
The kitten rubs against his palm, yawning with its little open mouth.
And Hiccup notices something else. It has no teeth. It’s–
“Toothless,” he whispers.
The kitten gives another yawn, as if to say, yes!
“Hey, Toothless.” Hiccup gently rubs the creature behind its ears. “That’s your name. And we’re gonna be best friends, you and me. We’re gonna take on the world together.”