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Hiccup sits, his legs crossed and his hands twisting together, under the covers of the guest bed. Dagur watches him from the armchair next to the desk, his chin resting in his hands, strands of his ginger beard poking out from between his fingers. He is waiting for something. He has been waiting for something for the past twenty minutes. Hiccup doesn’t know exactly what.
Eventually, Hiccup takes a deep breath in, looks down at his lap, and says quietly, “I don’t have any money.”
Dagur nods silently, almost thoughtfully. “Mm.”
Hiccup waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. So, impulsively, he continues, “I don’t really have anything.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s true.”
Hiccup glances up to see Dagur’s vibrant green eyes practically boring a hole into his soul. He looks back down, waiting for the older man to elaborate.
After a couple of seconds, he does. “You have a lot of things. You have your friends. You have your skills– art, and photography, and stuff, right? You have Toothless. You have me.”
Hiccup sighs. “I don’t– that’s not what I– I don’t have anything to give you.”
Dagur cocks his head. “Give me for what?”
“For– for letting me stay here?”
At this, Dagur grins, seeming to suppress a laugh. “Hiccup,” he says, his tone nearly amused, “you’re sixteen. You don’t need to give me anything for letting you stay here.”
Hiccup swallows. “I– but– I’m freeloading. It’s been, like, half a week. I’m just– I’m just here , not– not doing anything.”
Dagur sighs, his expression growing serious. “You’re sixteen. You’re a kid– a kid in trouble. You’re allowed to accept help without giving something in return.”
“But–”
“When the time comes,” Dagur interrupts, “I would love for you to contribute to the household in a similar way to Heather. Chores like cleaning, cooking dinner sometimes, taking the trash out… teenager chore things. I don’t, under any circumstance, want you to pay rent.”
“… When the time comes?”
“When you’re better,” Dagur clarifies. “Right now, you’re sick, and traumatised, and recovering. I want you focusing on that. Maybe in a month or two–”
Hiccup feels a sudden sense of dizziness, and he grasps at the sheets. “A– a month or two?”
“If you need more time, that’s okay too.”
“No– I just–” Hiccup sighs in slight frustration, his grip on the sheets tightening. “… I can’t stay here forever. Aren’t you going to, um– send me back?”
Something unintelligible flashes across Dagur’s face, and he leans forward, his arms resting on his knees. “Hiccup,” he says, gentle yet firm, “I will never send you back. You never have to go back. I would never, ever, in good conscience, send a child back to their abuser . You can stay as long as you need– or want.”
Hiccup doesn’t respond, a slight lump in his throat, and Dagur moves to sit next to him on the bed. “Hiccup? Do you understand me?”
He swallows, feeling the lump grow, tears stinging his eyes. He nods jerkily, his vision blurring a little, and Dagur clicks his tongue. “Hey. Come here.”
Hiccup feels hot, salty tears slip down his cheeks and onto his lap, and he lets Dagur pull him closer into a tight, secure hug. His shoulders shake as he curls in on himself, humiliation and shame spreading outwards from his chest like frostbite. He doesn’t hug Dagur back, he doesn’t say anything, he just sits there like a useless– oh, useless – lump until his throat stops burning and his hands stop trembling.
Dagur pulls away to look into his eyes, scanning his tear–streaked face, brushing his hair from his forehead. “You’re gonna be okay. Trust me. I’ll make sure of that.”
For once, Hiccup lets himself believe it.