Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Astrid broke up with me.”

Silence, one that he can practically feel on the hair of his skin. It’s as dull, sudden, and crushing as it was when it first appeared—on a day that he swears he woke with a smile. Anticipation crawls through, laying its sharp claws on each and every vessel of what is now a hollow shell of a bleak organ, rotting underneath his ribs.

Silence, one that persists for a few impromptu beats. Thud. Thud. Thud.

“Damn,” Jack says. He points at Hiccup’s fries. “Are you gonna eat that?”

Hiccup drops his fork—one of the plastic ones that he politely requested, and that Jack made fun of him for, because who eats a burger with a fork, I thought your household raised you like Vikings—and slides over the tray of fries. Jack accepts it a bit too enthusiastically for someone who had been adamant about how the potatoes they use here don’t taste like real potatoes, though he gives the red smear on the side a stink eye.

A probably-not-a-potato fry flies into Jack’s mouth. “So.” He’s speaking through his chewing, “When did this happen?”

Hiccup grabs a napkin and wipes the hot sauce off the tray as best as he can. “This morning.”

A choke, then a cough, accompanied by another choke, and probably-not-potato bits spraying all over their table. People are starting to look over them, Hiccup is finding it hard to really care. He picks up Jack’s Pepsi—it’s too light. Setting the can aside, he hands over his Coke. There’s a grimace on Jack’s face as he drinks, but they aren’t really at the time to start arguing about how they taste the same—no they do not—shut up—no you shut up. Jack finishes it anyhow with a relieved exhale. The older lady at the corner booth looks away in disgust. Hiccup waves a small apology towards her back and the concerned employee with the bucket and gloves.

“This morning?” Jack repeats. “As in, a few hours before?”

“Try an hour, but who’s counting…” He mumbles back.

Jack stares at him. Then he checks his phone. He’s back to staring at him. “And? You’re. You’re here?”

It’s Hiccup’s turn to stare right back. “We planned to hang.”

“Well. Yeah. But I wouldn’t have really minded if you cancelled to… I dunno… take a breather?”

He shrugs listlessly, picking the can of Pepsi up and sipping what’s left little inside. “I’m here now.” He licks his lips, then knocks his head back as if taking a shot, but is really just now lapping at nothing because the Coke’s all gone—the Pepsi—oh whatever. They really do taste the same.

There’s this contemplative look on Jack’s face now, accompanied by a monotonous humming and asynchronized tapping of fingers. It ends when he goes back to eating. “What did she do?”

Hiccup’s playing with the Pepsi’s tab. “Hm?”

“What did she do?”

…It’s funny. Hiccup’s never really thought about that. Really, from the moment her face fell when he started kneeling, to when she stopped him as soon as he pulled out the ring, to when her answer left her lips, and to when she eventually left.

The gentle click of the front door echoed throughout the apartment as if it were through a vacuum. Their pancakes, still on the electric stove, fizzled until it charred black. She would’ve put strawberries on them, and he’d pour the syrup and spray the whipped cream. Dab it on her chin afterwards, she’d call him stupid, smear sauce on his nose and then they’d both look stupid and they’d laugh.

They’d laugh and laugh and the apartment would be brighter and the pancakes would have sprinkles except for the red bits because they remind Hiccup of ants and then they’d cuddle on the couch with the dishes still in the sink since the pancakes would’ve made them sleepy and then Hiccup would have to start preparing to meet up with Jack and she’d smile at him with her one dimple and her squinty eyes and tell him have fun, take care. I love you.

Instead, there had been silence. After the answer left her lips, and after she eventually left.

She couldn’t even meet his eyes. 

Amidst the silence of the apartment—of the white noise of his dull, aching, cracked heart—there had really been only one other thought.

It hadn’t been about what she did.

What did I do?

Throwing away the ruined pancakes, heading for the shower. 

What did I do?

Texting Jack, getting in the car, driving to lunch.

What did I do?

Lining up, ordering burgers and fries, Pepsi and a Coke.

What did I do?

Sitting down, waving Jack over to the table as soon as he had entered through the doors, looking as if he just woke up, threw on a hoodie and some sweats, then sprinted straight over here. Smiling at that shining, lopsided grin of his once they meet gazes.

What did I do?

Hiccup snaps off the aluminum tab. “She told me we weren’t enough.” 

Silence, yet again. 

“Damn.” Jack orders them some milkshakes.

Jackson Overland saved his life.

Literally.

It was a bright and sunny day, only the smallest array of clouds decorating the vastness of the blue skies. The trees looked beautiful under the scattered rays of sunlight, leaves and branches dancing along to the unsung music of the winds. He thinks he saw a squirrel or two bouncing from one bark to another all the way over to the other side of the river, it got him a bit excited at the prospect of finding more.

Honestly, it really all could’ve really been as pleasant as it truly seemed—if it weren’t for it being that time of the year.

“Come on, Haddock, don’t tell me you’re scared!”

He never really understood why it was so important for his father to be so adamant in connecting with mayors of other cities. Surely all their focus should be on their own community—he’s pretty sure Old Man Mildew from the south came in the other day with another complaint about another bout of vandalism from Thorston’s kids. But then again, with all of Dad’s praises on Mayor Oswald’s character, there might be more boons to come in forging peace together.

Hiccup can’t say the same about his son, though.

“Dagur, stop! You shouldn’t be playing with that—“

“So you are scared! Of this? This flimsy ‘ol thing right here?”

Yes, yes, is what Hiccups wants to say, because Dagur is waving it around like it’s nothing, like it’s a toy, like it won’t go off any second now—

Dagur aims it at him.

“What if I make you my target dummy? Practice my aim, see if I can nick off your ear, eh?”

Hiccup is already a very small kid for his age, so he almost can’t believe how much smaller he feels under the weight of this manic sort of glee in Dagur’s eyes. Though it couldn’t take away the attention of how Dagur doesn’t even have the— the, uh. He forgot what his Dad called it. The safe. The safer. Safety. That one. Dagur doesn’t have it clicked up. That means he’s really going to do it. He’s really going to shoot him.

“Stay still, you’re shaking too much! At this point, I should just shoot your head for an easier target!”

“No—“

“Let’s count down. One—“

“Please—“

“Two—“

“Dad—“

“THREE—!“

Gunshots. Are so. Loud. Fortunately, under water, the ringing is anywise subdued. Like a giant pillowcase covering the surface of a speaker on a fairly average volume setting. He tried that once, and watched in fascination how the fabric would ever so slightly pulse in time with Another One Bites The Dust. He read somewhere how, if you pour dust— sand— gravel over it, the particles would form these really nice looking patterns based on different sounds. He doesn’t have a favorite shape yet, they all looked really, really nice.

How neatly aligned they all were, as if each grain knew where it should be, and that everything would just fit. No questions asked, an absolute truth, a scientific constant, it just is. Like how the day is sunny, the trees are beautiful, gunshots are loud, the water is cold, and Hiccup is going to die. 

Because the water is cold, he doesn’t have gills, and he wants to throw up. But everything is just going in, the water is going in, it tastes like water and heavy and it stings and it’s pulling him lower and lower and the day is sunny because there are refractions in the water, light refracts in water, it bends when it hits the surface, and Hiccup can’t see the surface and Hiccup wants his Dad.

Maybe, if he closes his eyes, he’d be shaking him awake again. 

His Dad wouldn’t yank him on the collar though. When he chokes, his mouth opens, and more water goes in, and he’s choking, he’s choking, he’s going up, and up, and—

He breaks through the surface, coughing, and choking, and throwing up, and—

—grass. Green, dewy, dewy grass. It gets muddier as he digs his fingers into the dirt and coughs, and coughs, and gags, and coughs. The hand smacking his back isn’t really helping, it’s just plain painful. He tries smacking it back, but sorely missing, because he’s not really paying attention, he’s just vomiting. Or trying to. Nothing’s coming out anymore.

But then, gradually, the hand ceases its heavy hits. It becomes softer, gentler. Eventually, the hitting turns into patting, turns into rubbing. Two neat circles connected at one point, an 8.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. You can keep crying, it’s okay.”

Oh, that’s a bit embarrassing. Tears and snot and drool, to top off all this. He goes to wipe it off, but pulls back at the last second when he sees his hands are full of mud. He flinches, as another set of hands cover his, with little fingers working to wipe the dirt off.

They belong to a boy, around his age. He looks so focused on cleaning Hiccup’s hand, brow furrowing , lips pursing, the picture of unbothered by the earth under his nails. It feels wrong to accidentally break through it, when a sudden cough—dry and itchy—escapes Hiccup’s throat and expels itself onto the other’s face. The boy’s bangs shift at the gust, eyes blinking before they meet his own. They widen, so round, so blue. 

The boy shakes his head, then repeats: “It’s okay.” Like it’s a mantra now, some spell cast upon where they sit. He’s wearing a cloak, until he’s not, and now Hiccup’s wearing it. Draped over his shoulders and bunched up to his neck. It’s warm. “You stay here right here. I’ll come back for you after I chase him down!”

“What?” He’s shaking, either from the chills or the bout of frantic as the boy reaches over to the side and—oh that’s a big stick. Is that a branch? A big branch?

The boy grunts, almost stumbling as he wields the wood with both hands, pointing over his shoulder. “He ran over there! I’ll drag him back, because what he did was wrong! You shouldn’t push people—or, or hold dangerous things, or— hurt animals!”

“Hurt animals?”

It is as if the boy himself were the one who emerged soaked from the river, because the fire in his eyes quickly douses out. The tension in his form snaps and like a puppet cut off from its string, he sags. His voice, so different from the steely determination before: “He shot her.”

Her, laying a couple paces farther from where they are. Also near the riverbank, also in the grass, but smaller, fluffier, and unmoving. Thoughts about Dagur’s unsurprising poor aim for his size and age are fleeting in his mind, too distracted by the shaky intake of breath he swears didn’t come from himself this time.

Crying. But not. Because there are no tears, no snot, no drool. The boy is sad, but he doesn’t look sad—but somehow, Hiccup can tell that he’s sad. 

And then he’s running, but not towards where Dagur had gone off to, but to her. Despite the numbness in his legs, Hiccup is compelled to follow. Grass blades and pebbles kick into the air as the boy skids to a stop and drops to the ground. Hiccup kneels next to him, unaware of how his hold on the cloak grows tighter at the sight before him.

A rabbit, curled up on the ground. Red, staining its fur. Eyes, still open. 

”…Was she your pet?”

Silence. The boy is a silent crier. Or not-crier.

“She was my friend. My first friend.”

“Oh,” Hiccup says. He looks at the boy, no tears, no snot, no drool—just wide, wide blue eyes. “What’s—What was her name?”

He’s hugging the stick, the branch, to his chest. “Snowflake.”

“What’s your name?”

The stick, the branch, almost falls to the ground from the boy’s sudden loose grip, and he snaps his head towards Hiccup so quickly, it kind of scares him. He stares at Hiccup as if he’s just now realized he was next to him this whole time, which was a bit weird. Like how a rabbit being his first friend was weird, how he cleaned mud-soaked hands with his own was weird, how he thought he could beat some sense into Dagur was weird, how he cried without crying was weird, and how him being able to save Hiccup’s life as if it were something that just fell into place was weird.

“Jack,” he answers.

“I’m Hiccup,” comes the reply.

They made Snowflake a grave, covered her with fallen leaves and wayward twigs. Jack turned a stack of rocks into a headstone, and Hiccup found a flower to lay atop her. 

Chapter Text

Hiccup passes the aluminum tab over. Jack takes it and raises it up to the sky, pinched between two fingers. One eye is closed and his tongue is poking out, twisting and turning the tab over and over again in this mock version of an examination he always seems to do. For scratches and dents, he told him one time. For malleability and solubility, he said another. For the benefit of the human race, it might be infested with some shadow alien parasite that only attacks children under twelve— Hiccup had stopped asking by that point. It didn’t really matter, because in the end, he’ll always say:

“Nice,” and then pocket it.

He’s walking backwards now, and Hiccup has to herd him towards the inner side of the sidewalk, slightly thankful that there aren’t that many people for Jack to potentially bump into. Jack doesn’t even look too worried about it, either. He’s slurping his drink—oreo cheesecake—with one cookie already between Hiccup’s teeth.

“Where is she now?” Jack asks.

Hiccup takes a bite from the cookie, taking it out with one hand and using the other to sip at his coffee crumble. “I don’t know. She left immediately.”

Jack stares. “Did you text her? Call her?”

Realization hits him. It’s showing on his face, he knows it, because Jack is still staring at him, but this time with a look that he can interpret pretty well yet will definitely not focus too much on for the sake of his pride and intellect, and instead sticks his unfinished cookie into Jack’s shake. His free hand, now patting his body in some muppet-like attempt of finding his phone—he’s blaming it on the sugar and caffeine.

Jack lifts his leg and gently taps his other side, almost losing balance but stabilizing once Hiccup finds his phone in the back pocket and pats his calf in thanks.

But when he goes to unlock his phone, he pauses. The notification center is empty, a void. What only stares back is her, smiling at him with that one dimple and squinty eyes. It had been snowing pretty hard the day prior, which led to the next morning being what Jack likes to call as the Golden Age for a snow day. He had invited them over to Santoff Clausen for something along the lines of a Snow-It-All Olympics, with all the younger kids playing around in snowball fights, snowman making competitions, and galleries of snow angels.

She had been roped into the snowball fight by little Sophie, and had managed to headshot Hiccup when he wasn’t paying attention. She had laughed so hard, it was impossible to not capture it. She sounded so, so, happy, that Hiccup could never even imagine ending up where he was right now.

What the hell is he doing? He’s thinking as if she’s passed away or something. She hasn’t. She’s alive. And well. Well. As well as one can be after the morning they had. But. As conscious enough as one can be to answer the phone. Probably. Hopefully. Gods.

He swipes the lockscreen away, is greeted by Jack and Toothless next before he taps the messages, taps her name, and—

He clicks his phone off. His chest, squeezing.

Jack, who has been standing there and watching him for gods know how long, tilts his head in a silent question. His bangs fall a bit further into his eyes, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Hiccup can’t breathe.

It’s a facsimile of an action, when he forcefully exhales, shaky as it is. At least his next set of breaths come easier, when Jack walks closer, reaches out, and holds the wrist near his phone. Softly, almost as if he isn’t there.

“Not yet?” His grip is a bit damp from the condensation of his milkshake.

“No,” Hiccup breathes, index blooming white as it presses harder into the phone case. The little black phone charm squishes into his palm.  “Not yet. Later. I swear. I just— I don’t know. I don’t know, Jack.”

“Okay,” Jack says. He lets him go, both hands now cupping his drink, scratching at the logo as he keeps looking up at him, gaze unwavering.

“I mean—“ Hiccup eases off his hold on the phone just the barest amount, one finger reaching out to swipe Jack’s bangs away from his eyes. “What are the chances that, uh, that she messages me, right?” The strands keep falling back.

“I dunno if it works like that, though.”

Jack should invest in a clip. “But what if, right? Maybe to explain. To, like, just— I don’t know. Explain! What did she mean, what did she exactly mean?” A hair clip. Headband. He compares one finger to a lock of hair, laying it parallel atop Jack’s forehead. Jack blinks a few times and drinks his shake. A tie, it’s getting pretty long for it, Hiccup thinks.

He takes a gulp, one big one that fills his mouth with an onslaught of sugar and cocoa. “‘Cause,” he coughs. “It’s not— It wasn’t like this was a, a, a surprise, though. The— we talked about it. A lot. Double checked everything, I swear. Take over Dad’s place, expand the Edge. The honeymoon is divided into two events, the fundraiser and a coin toss on either the Maldives or the Bahamas. She’s never been to the beach.” Oh, here comes the shivers. It’s anybody's guess on if they're from the sugar, caffeine, the cold, or the well of emotions bubbling up in the dent of his chest. “Nuffink. Nuffink, Jack. She told me.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Was—Was it a lie? Or some kind of twisted joke she thought of. Was any of it real? Was she just saying stuff for the sake of—what— indulgence? It’s six years of our lives, Jack, did she think it would eventually lead up to nothing? That’s rich, here comes Hiccup Haddock, stringing along whoever’s beside him for absolutely zero reason at all. It’s all fun and games in this town, commitment’s hilarious and there’s no such thing as a serious thought in that hard head of his. Was that all she saw in me— What did she mean when she said we weren’t enough—has the six goddamned years of our love meant nothing to her— Everything, everything, I gave for her— it’s making me think that it’d probably have been never worth it in the end.” 

Jack tilts his head again. “You don’t mean that.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t be like Meatlug.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

“No,” Hiccup says. “I don’t.”

He leans down, plucks his forsaken cookie from the froth of Jack’s milkshake between his teeth, and finishes it in one knock back.

Jack has completely peeled off the cup’s label by now. He takes one last sip on his drink and swipes Hiccup’s off his hands—‘cause there’s definitely no way he’s in any shape to take in more stimulants—and dumps both cups into the nearby trash bin. He pockets the label and yanks at Hiccup’s sleeve, leading a march.

“Let’s go see Toothless,” he says, and Hiccup follows.

He met Toothless at fifteen, when he shot him down.

Okay, well, he didn’t really mean to.

Well. He kind of did. But not really.

He’d explain it better, when things are a little less hectic. Or as less hectic as it can be, which is preferably as much as possible.

“Jack— Jack! Put it down, put it down, right now!”

“It’s down, it’s down!”

“You are doing the very opposite of that!”

“Gee, Hiccup!” Jack’s voice drips in a tone that really makes him want to whack his head. “I wonder if this would’ve been leagues easier if there weren’t a giant, black, hissing panther staring me down!”

Hiccup winces. “Well. He’s a leopard, actually.”

Jack yells at him, and he probably deserved that, but the aforementioned giant, black, hissing panther—Thor above, leopard—definitely wasn’t amused by it. Because the hissing has turned into growling, which has turned into getting ready to lunge—

“Heyheyheyheyhey—! Nononononono—!!” Hiccup has to wrap his arms around the snout, the soles of his shoes digging into the dirt as he pushes back with all his strength. Yes, one lanky teenager whose knees end up wobbling after six flights of stairs versus a hundred pounds of pure muscle and fur. It’s amazing what adrenaline can do for your body, really. 

Though, again, this isn’t at all what’s highly preferable of the situation. Gods, why did Jack have to follow him into the forest now out of all times?

His voice comes out strained, “Jack.” It probably sounded worse than he thought, with how sudden Jack’s attention snaps towards him. The fear, caution, confusion in his eyes—they all immediately evaporate that Hiccup wonders if he’s hallucinated all that. What only lies there is concern, worry not for himself anymore. The switch up of such a look squeezes at Hiccup’s chest that he almost loses footing against the very agitated wild feline behind him. “Do you trust me?”

A few beats pass, with only vague noises of growling poking and prodding at the tense atmosphere. And maybe the sounds of his own heart running a whole marathon, the stress of it all pounding at his temples. Or is that something else? Has Jack’s fear somehow transferred into him? Why is he the one suddenly so terrified, when he’s the one who is literally holding back the mountain of power behind what every single person has been calling fishbones. The shrimp, the runt, an outlier, whispers following the back of his neck— Oh Gods, Stoick’s brought him over again—Why does the Chief even bother—We all know how this is gonna end up—Should’ve left him behind, left him alone—Fishbones, shrimp, runt, outlier, weird, weird, weird, WEIRD—

—a gods-be-damned hiccup —

“Of course I do,” Jack answers. No questions asked, an absolute truth, a scientific constant.

The clench in his heart eases.

“Then please.” He jerks a bit at the nudging pressure behind him, giving out a couple of reassuring pats behind the ears that have been folded back. “Put the stick down.”

There’s a quirk on Jack’s lips, lopsided and familiar and much more like his best friend.

“Well. It’s a staff, actually.”

Thor above. Hiccup feels his own answering smile stretch.

“Toothless, huh?”

“Mm.” He’s a bit winded, still. Sat beside him is a scene that has a stark contrast from several minutes ago. No complaints, though! It’s. It’s just.

Really, really … Cute.

Purr the equivalent of a geiger counter—Jack had balked when he first heard it. Is your giant cat radioactive?— Toothless languidly presents his stomach. There’s a laugh, bouncing along the barks of the plethora of trees around them if not in Hiccup’s dazed head, before Jack complies with the desired belly rubs. He looks ecstatic, the danger neatly metamorphosing into the laziest feline in history.

Though noticeably not really, well, toothless. Given by the giant yawn showcasing a complete set of very, very sharp fangs.

It catches Jack’s attention, because he spares Hiccup a glance. Head tilted, smile curious, bangs in the way. They reach just a bit past his brows.

“Hic?”

“Y-Yeah. Well, uh, not anymore, I guess. Just met him when he was, uh, well, teeth—toothless.” The reminder of seeing those bare gums for the first time is like cold water pouring onto his shoulders. “He was probably a few months young. But all his teeth were gone. I think—” He pauses. Jack’s gaze softens, and of course Toothless also starts noticing the change in his tone, sitting up from his lazy lounge before eyeing Hiccup. He dislodges himself from Jack’s hold and crawls closer, plopping his big head on Hiccup’s lap. A warble leaving his snout. Hiccup’s hands reflexively move to pat him. “I think it was hunters.”

Said it like he was ripping out a band-aid. Like it’s a curse, like he doesn’t know about it, or lived with it, or was born into it. Their little community, from years and years, inside and out—a culture that lays as a lump in his throat.

Jack nods, solemn and understanding. He pats at Toothless’ flank, scratching here and there. Then, his hand finds the Toothless’ hind, the left side. His frown deepens, grazing gentle fingers at the gleaming metal. “Did they do this too?”

Hiccup winces, back to feeling sheepish. “O-oh, no. Uh.” Great, he can feel Toothless’ judgemental stare. And hear his equally judgemental huff of breath. Thanks. “...I did that. BUT—” He frantically waves at Jack’s incredulous look— “BUT! There’s a but, I swear! I regret it, I really, really do. So, I built this—”

Knock, knock, knock on the makeshift prosthetic. Gobber had asked him what in Freyja’s bosoms was he doing up at 4am in the workshop, but he took oh Transformers: Beast Wars was so nostalgic, hey have you ever thought of what a lifesized Cheetor would look like pretty well and left him alone. Not without a vaguely disturbed pinch in his face, but Hiccup’s used to that.

Granted, the leg isn’t an exact replica, and there’s unwanted dents in some areas and it has to be tweaked every few months ‘cause Toothless can’t stay a cub —but it does its job! Toothless can walk, he can sit, he can bend. He can’t really run as fast or jump as high into the trees, but there’s no more idling next to the river bend under the pouring rain and clashing thunder anymore, and that’s a huge win in Hiccup’s book. 

He says so in his explanation to Jack, who listens intently about all the modifications he’s made over the months. Jack hums and nods at appropriate pauses in his babble, whenever there were any to begin with, since Hiccup’s well aware of the stream of sentences just pouring out of him nonstop. There’s always the possibility that Jack is just letting the words wash over him, voice going in one ear and out the other.

But then Jack starts asking questions. He comments on his words. He gives feedback, not necessarily about the technicalities—but updates and progress, results, the pros and cons, which material worked with which purpose. Things that make Hiccup spill everything, he has half the mind that Jack’s deliberately talking back just for that.

Thor above, Hiccup’s chest hurts. It’s probably because he ended up talking about future plans.

And with future plans, comes the knowledge of what he himself also has been told to do, the deadline approaching day by day, time almost blurring in its haste.

No. Not now. He doesn’t want to think about that now. Not with Jack. Who had finally followed him into the forest—albeit with the strangest of timings—and now they’re sitting here together again.

“How about you?” He pivots. Maybe a bit too suddenly, seeing the raised brow Jack gives him. He trudges through though, because he’s then hit with a sudden thought that makes his own concern bubble up: “How’s Flee?”

He almost regrets saying it aloud, with how Jack’s face shutters. But then it quickly loosens, blue eyes blinking back into awareness. Hiccup tries really hard to temper the concern welling inside him, but Jack’s always been able to read him—and it’s absurdly him who gives Hiccup a reassuring smile. 

He’d reach up to—he doesn’t know—pat? Hold? Give a friendly nudge? Whatever he’d had done, it isn’t really possible with Toothless slumped over him. Jack chuffs a silent laughter. Letting go of his fidgeting on Toothless’ tail, he leans to grab his staff and reaches over to poke Hiccup on the shoulder. Hiccup guides the staff to poke Jack back twice, on his arm and on his stomach. The stomach poke makes him chuckle again.

They’re playing an absentminded version of tug of war with the staff. Or push of war. Nudge of war. Something. “She’s… she’s okay,” Jack says. “She was able to sit up yesterday, for maybe thirty minutes or so. That’s progress.”

“Good, good,” Hiccup replies. “Today?”

Jack isn’t looking at him. “Couldn’t see her.”

With Jack focused on twirling his staff, Hiccup spares a moment to glare at the general direction behind them. He quickly turns back before Jack resumes in poking him, on the leg this time.

Toothless startles a bit at the pressure, but then is quickly enamored by the twisting and twirling of the staff above him, batting at it with his paws. Hiccup almost cooes at the sight. Jack proudly does.

A laugh, more subdued than the one before. “You’re like a gigantic housecat. With a metal leg. Oh, Flee would absolutely flip if she met you.”

“Introduce them.”

Jack widens his eyes at him, brows raised so judgmentally it’s almost insulting. “You can’t even enter the estate, what makes you think Toothless will? Flee coming here is out of the question, we are deep into the woods.”

Hiccup’s shoulders rise to his ears. “W-Well, yeah, of course. I meant like, like, pictures or something.”

“I don’t have a phone.”

“I do.” Hiccup teeters to the side, hand digging into his pants for his mobile, a hand-me-down that his Dad tossed over to him, and to which Gobber chortled about because he definitely could’ve made his own. It was true, Hiccup’s already added three types of lasers into it. Toothless likes them a lot. “Here. Take the pictures, sneak it back to your place, and return the phone tomorrow.” He opens up the camera, points at the button that’s supposed to be pressed and passes the device over. 

Jack stares at the phone suddenly in his hand with this glaze in his eyes. Hiccup leaves him to it as he wiggles himself out of Toothless’ weight, lightly chiding the leopard when he warbles out his complaints. He gets to his feet and Toothless follows at his persuasion, albeit more reluctantly. An attempt at pacifying the grumpy lug comes at Hiccup pressing his thumb at his snout.

Toothless sneezes. 

On his face.

“Augh, Toothless! You know how much that smells! Eugh!”

A click.

Hiccup snaps his head towards the sound, and gapes at the lopsided, familiar, and warm smile aimed at him, Jack holding the phone in his direction.

Hiccup glares at him, can only muster it half-heartedly at the rising glee. “Pictures of Toothless. She already knows who I am.”

“Screw that!” Jack leaps to a stand, vibrating in his shoes. “We’re having a photoshoot!”

“Hey now, that only has limited storage.”

“Then let’s make the most of it! We are filling this thing up with the greatest images known since the Moon was a baby!” Jack bounces closer, tossing the phone back to Hiccup before crouching and wrapping his arms around Toothless. “Say ‘cheese’, Toothless!”

Toothless is a leopard. He does not understand the social implications of what to do in front of a camera. Nonetheless, it’s endearing to imagine that he does as he looks straight at Hiccup with an inquisitive sort of stare, tilting his head to one side, mirroring Jack—who is tilting because he wants to snuggle closer to the furry mass, bright grin shining under the sunlight dispersed by the leaves above. There’s this compulsion to copy the smile. Hiccup lets it grow on his lips, adjusting the angle and taking the picture.

“Nice!” Jack says as he’s shown the picture. “Now, come on, this next shot should be of you riding Toothless like he’s this noble stallion, I can tell Flee that you’re on your way to face the biggest threat to Berk yet, a giant creature, one hundred feet and ten tons! We got four legs, six eyes, two wings, and its tail can club fleets  of battleships right into the deep end ocean! And, and, it breathes these plumes of volcanic fire, they call it the Red Death—!“  

And it’s Jack who starts to steamroll sentences, gesturing all over the place as he narrates this grandiose fable that weird imagination of his conjured up. Not that Hiccup minds at all.

Not at all, even when Jack directs him how to pose for the camera.

When he joins in and pretends to play fight with Toothless using his staff.

When the pictures gradually become less and less about Toothless, and more of Jack’s smiles and Hiccup’s embarrassing mid-blink stares.

When here and there, he’ll remember the future, he’ll remember the weighted hand on his shoulder and his father’s words—it’s time, son. Time for you to finally be one of us— and the gun in his hand, and the stares in everyone’s faces, and the growling and hissing and screeching from within the cages—

Because he’ll simply just turn around, and watch Jack laugh as he goads Toothless to chase after him, keeping pace for the metal leg.

Because he can always leave it to tomorrow’s Hiccup to think about all that, to think about being like them. Today, he’ll just focus on being with Jack and Toothless.

Chapter Text

He does feel a little bit better. Granted, he supposes that’s the intended effect of having a giant cat smother your entire being. Consensually. He can very well count the number of times he’s been unceremoniously tackled on all his fingers and toes—even with the peg leg. Well.

“Would you count a peg leg as five toes?”

“Depends on the circumstances. If you want, we can see it as more of a… quality-over-quantity kinda situation.”

“…So one toe?”

“One quality toe.”

This calls for further discretion. He has to pat Toothless on the side a few times for him to finally let him up. Even if the big furry baby grumbles about it. Compensation arrives in the form of Hiccup reaching for his shoe, the left one, and tossing it beyond the barrier, rustling a few bushes. Immediately, Toothless excitedly bounds for it, followed by a much more giddy demeanor of two of the little cubs. 

The third one lays on Jack’s lap, snoozing as if next to a cozy fire. Which isn’t really the right metaphor to be thinking of, since Jack is always for some reason running as cold as an icicle. For some other reason though, that factor never took away the comfortability levels one receives when laying on said lap. It is quite cozy, anyhow. So good job on that one, little Ruffrunner, good job.

Where was he? Discretion.

He looks at his leg, one of the newer models he made. It curves off, one single plane. There’s a few stickers plastered around in some secret pattern that Jack promises represents some ancient code from the Golden Age, and the fact that it looked phallic was because it was obviously Greek, duh Hiccup.

Though, one of the markings isn’t a sticker.

Drawn in faded ink, a little doodle of an eagle. Lines of squiggles around it because she’s flying, I swear. 

Oh, they’re not worms?

Don’t go all ‘art critic’ on me, Picasso. 

No, I think that’s you. I’m more of a Van Gogh guy myself—ow, ow, okay, okay—!

Yeah. Ow. Hiccup covers the drawing with one palm, eyes stinging at the sudden urge in him to build a new leg. Blank, free of any markings of any kind. Though in less than a week’s time, Jack’s probably going to slap another sticker on it. Another dick-shaped masterpiece, with no slanted eagle drawings this time. Or pancakes in the morning, or midnight movie marathons, weekly gym sessions, invites to her axe-throwing competitions, waking up and their smiles being the very first thing they see for the day. Good morning. Morning.

He grips his leg tighter, wishing and wishing and wishing he could feel the dig of his nails into the material. “Is it always going to feel this way?”

Jack is holding Ruffrunner’s paws up, making him do a little dance. The cub is practically dead to the world, not even aware it's doing the macarena. “It’s what it looks like now.”

“8AM, I couldn’t even try to hide my excitement— I was humming in the kitchen. It’s an hour into the afternoon, and I can’t even smile anymore.”

“So much can change in little time, is what they always say.”

“I marked this day on my calendar. Drew a little eagle in light blue.”

“You were really excited.”

“Mom texted me, she’s asking for updates. I haven’t replied.”

“She can wait a little longer.”

“Snotlout joked that this would happen. But that’s what it was supposed to all be—a joke. Not a prediction.”

“That’s uncanny.”

“Okay, what the hell?” Hiccup turns to him. Jack doesn’t even deign to look back, Ruffrunner’s doing gangnam style. “Aren’t you supposed to be the Guardian of Fun? This—“ He gestures. To him, to Jack, to the space between it all. “—Nothing is feeling very fun right now.”

Jack raises a brow. “Is that why you wanted to hang out with me?”

“Of course not,” Hiccup snaps. “I wanted to see you.”

By this point, Ruffrunner is stirring awake. The little thing yawns, dislodging one paw from Jack’s hold to rub at his furry face. His sister pounces in, nipping at his ear and now there are three cubs and one behemoth all playing tug of war with a shoe he personally made sure to craft sturdy enough to withstand the might of these damn cats.

Hiccup finally notices Jack staring at him again, directly at his countenance with that steady, deep gaze he sometimes has. The one that makes him look older than he is, the one that has Hiccup wanting to crack open his own skull just to have even a glimpse of what Jack’s so focused on. “What.”

Jack only blinks, unperturbed at his aggression. “As the Guardian of Fun—certified expert, trust me, it’s on paper, I can email you a softcopy—“

“—You already did—“

“—I know very well when it’s not the time for it.” Jack shifts his legs, kicking away a stray pebble on the ground as he settles an arm on his knee—head resting on it. Bangs covering one eye. “Dial it back. Meet the girl, fall in love: fun. Years pass by, it’s going well: fun! Getting serious, confirm the future: fun. Make it official, get rejected, discover discrepancies, get dumped, slip on that wet spot someone really should’ve mopped in the lobby: at which point should the fun be here?”

Hiccup drags a hand down his face, his voice barely audible in his palm. “When feeling like shit?”

“Wrong. You’re supposed to feel like shit. And then you feel shittier. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll feel the shittiest.”

In between his fingers, he glares at Jack. “I’m halfway there.”

“Good.” Jack props his chin on his fist. “Be sad, be mad, be sad again. Don’t even think about anything fun when like this, because there’s nothing that really should be fun about any of this. And that’s okay. You’ll be happy soon, when things hurt a little less.”

The stinging in his eyes returns. Hiccup doesn’t want to blink. His vision’s blurring. “Sooner can’t come any quicker?”

And that steady, deep, olden, skull-cracking look in Jack’s eyes lets up—like cold mist dissipating from the lands. “Not like this, Hiccup. But you just have to believe— believe— that it will come, it’s just not here right now.”

“Because it hurts.” He’s sniffling. “A lot.” Toothless heard him, there’s a tiny whine coming before him. “And I’m sad.” The leopard nuzzles his head, licks at his hand, pushes his arm just a tad bit to the side to settle his big furry head on his lap. Staring up at him with those big green eyes so full of confusion and concern when Hiccup’s face crumples like a wet tissue.  “I’m—I’m really sad.”

Jack already has his arm wide open when Hiccup falls on him. He doesn’t want to think about how he’s always been a gross crier, and making Jack’s neck and collar all damp and sticky isn’t doing anyone any favors. Even Toothless surely must have a smidgen of discomfort for being wedged between them like a life-sized stuffed toy.

But. Hiccup can’t really think about that anyhow.

All he can muster up in his brain is hurt.

Hurt, it hurts, this is hurting and it sucks and he’s so sad and he should probably read up on the dictionary but whatever, that doesn’t matter at all right now because everything sucks, this day sucks, yesterday feels like a lie and tomorrow is so terrifyingly ambiguous because of how much of a trainwreck today had been and it’s not even 3PM. Dad’s house remains empty, Mom’s texts unanswered, Snotlout’s going to laugh at them, and Hiccup feels like his insides have been scraped up and smeared into the jagged formations of the enclosure—with the talons of a badly drawn flying eagle in faded blue.

“I love her,” Hiccup mumbles, voice tapering off. “I really, really love her, Jack.”

“I know, Hiccup,” Jack answers. Rubbing figure 8s on his back. “I know.” 

Astrid Hofferson is one of the most amazing people he knows.

He wouldn’t say he idolized her, but sometimes he thinks it’s a near-thing.

How could he not? When she was the literal embodiment of what it truly meant to be a Berkian?

Strong as hell, as quick as a predator in action. Her proficiency in weapons knows no bounds—from guns, to traps, to her all time favorite axes. Half of the mantles in the Hofferson residence boast of her achievements. Especially as the sole girl of an unruly household of men. She alone had most likely saved their name from the shame Finn Hofferson cursed upon them several years prior, when the mere presence of a badger rendered him frozen in place.

She always looked like she knew what had to be done, so sure of herself and her place in the world, that of course Hiccup found himself falling for her.

It’s in the way his gaze lingers whenever she walks by, standing tall and straight without a single worry in her frame. When she helped put out that fire on the Ingerman’s house and he froze under her sudden gaze on him. When they spoke for the first time in Gobber’s hunting classes, he couldn’t help but become a stuttering mess. When Snotlout kept flirting with her that one time and she looked so put out by it, frustration welling up inside Hiccup at the sight.

By the riverside, lounging on Toothless’ side, he wondered aloud what it would have been like to become a person worthy of someone like her?

Jack replied that there was no harm in finding out.

But then she rejected him. And that was it, really.

“So, I got a job.”

He really means no offense by it, but Hiccup can’t help the way his face just exudes complete shock. Though, he doesn’t drop the boxes in his arms! Sort of lost his footing along the way, but he’ll pretend that’s just him getting used to the leg. Nevermind the three years of experience—he did have to adjust it to match his height a few hours ago. It feels like Toothless growing as a cub all over again: modification after modification. Jack even called him his beanstalk once.

“...Legally?”

Jack gives him a look at that. What? It’s a valid question! Because—again, no offense at all! —how on earth can Jack be able to afford a job despite his… well. Uh.

“I know, I know,” Jack says, responding to the train of thought steaming through Hiccup’s ears at the moment. “But in all fairness, the recruitment had been… unconventional.”

“Jack, that doesn’t reassure me at all.”

“Relax. It’s not like they stuffed me in a sack and threw me through a magic portal.”

Hiccup bumps him a bit, taking care not to jostle either of their stack of boxes. “That is the least of my concerns.”

Jack bumps him back. “That’s rude. I think it warrants a bit of concern.”

“I can’t help but notice you didn’t answer my question.”

The smile he gets holds a very suspicious amount of mischief in it, he has to shake his head before being drawn too much into it. It’s debatable if he should give Jack a bit of credit as he visibly tries to reign it in, teeth biting his lip down.

Hiccup leans the weight in his arms to one side, reaching out his free hand to thumb at Jack’s chin. He’d bite the skin off, otherwise.

Jack ducks his head down, dislodging Hiccup’s hand. The picture doesn’t ease any of the lingering worry at all. Gods, what on earth has Jack gotten himself into? Should he have pushed harder for his employment at the Edge? How bad are things? What can he do? He could ask for the Defender’s assistance, maybe the Berserker’s too. Dagur owes him a few favors, and he suddenly doesn’t find it in himself to feel bad about possible delays for the wedding. He’d have to find another way to apologize to Mala, she’d understand.

“I don’t really know how to explain it. I guess the forefront of it all is that we’re dealing with kids. Legally,” Jack emphasizes with a pointed look. Then some more, to drill it into Hiccup’s head. “Safely. Non-predator-like-y. Think of it like a summer camp, except the kids don’t really stay for that long, and it’s open throughout the whole year. Easter’s coming up, so it’s all hands-on deck, I’ve been told.“

“You don’t sound so sure?”

Jack shrugs, follows through with the motion to pull his stack closer to his chest. “It’s just confusing, is all. The way they handle things is a bit… Is disjointed the term for it? Detached? No, that’s not right either. They clearly love what they’re doing. It’s when it comes to the kids, maybe. Seems off. Awkward. Like unpracticed, somehow. Which is strange, because they call themselves the Guardians of Childhood and their whole thing is for the children— I don’t know, Hic.”

He adjusts his staff, spins it up in the air before catching it by his elbow.

“They’ve got a few sticks up their asses, probably hired me to pull it all out. Now, just how to do it… I’m thinking of unwarranted karaoke sessions by The Warren, a flash mob from the girls at The Tooth Palace, and a do-or-die snowball war around The North Pole. Unfortunately, I’d have to consider The Island of Sleepy Sands as neutral territory. I’m not a monster, geez, let those kids sleep.” Jack looks at Hiccup, and blinks. “What?”

“What?” Hiccup blinks back.

Jack stares. Glances down, then up. Then turns away. “Nothing.”

Before Hiccup could ask for any clarification, something blares out in the area, echoing along the blank walls. They both jump at the suddenness, with Hiccup quickly letting out a put-out groan once he recognizes the melody.

“Did you change my ringtone again?” He accuses, dumping his stack of boxes unto Jack, who already has his arms out to accept it.

Jack only smiles at him before making his way back into the lobby, humming under his breath: “Nananana give you up… let you down… run around and… desert you.”

Shaking his head at his retreating figure, Hiccup spares only a moment to let his smile quirk up. He takes his phone out and glances at the name.

Astrid Hofferson is calling.

“Hey,” he greets, with only a minimal amount of trepidation. There’s only so much one can think of as to why someone has to be calling this late into the night, after all.

“Hey, are you at Dragon's Edge? I see the lights are open.”

He hums an affirmative, making his way to the front entrance. He has to sidestep Jack a bit, as the other has apparently begun this impromptu dance number to Rick Astley in the very center of the lobby. His staff is the microphone.

Parked in the street is a familiar Honda, the faded blue looking almost gray under the spotlight. He waves at it and ends the call, making his way over, with the bell above the door letting out a stark chime. It’s muffled behind him, as the sound of the rain overhead becomes clearer. 

He’s about to fetch an umbrella when, across the street, Astrid gets out of her car and waves him over. She doesn’t look too distraught nor too pleasant to be awake at such an hour, but the combination of rain and darkness honestly doesn’t help in pinpointing the expression on her face.

“This is the only place I could think of to go,” she says, hints of urgency in her voice. “I know you guys usually deal with wildcats or deers, foxes, boars, whatever the hell Meatlug is, but—“ Then, she swings open the door to the backseat.

An eagle stares him down, gaze sharp and penetrating. It should’ve been intimidating, if it were not for the very fluffy sweater it’s well nested in.

And the bloody, bent wing.

It should’ve put him off, the hovering. How every few seconds, there’s this little click of metal on the tray, the unused forceps tapping in some uncoordinated rhythm. She spilled most of the cotton on the floor and almost did the same with the disinfectant, until she caught herself with a mumbled curse.

“S-Sorry,” she stumbles.

Hiccup doesn’t think it’s because of being drenched from the storm. Maybe it’s because of that , that this whole display doesn’t bother him at all. It happens with Jack sometimes. About his sister, about Toothless. About him.

“Hey,” he softly calls out. Over his shoulder, he sees her perk up. He nods with his head, beckoning her closer.

As Astrid makes her way, silent in her steps, he double checks the body wrap—It looks like a figure 8—Slowly, he releases his hold on the eagle. He had to change his gloves a few times, with her little beak poking and prodding back at his fingers as he checked the damages, but thankfully no blood has been drawn.

Once she’s near, he tells her, “Look.”

Astrid stares at the eagle, her eyes darting everywhere. From the splinted wing to the faded stains on the feathers. Faded blue. “Is there something wrong? Do we need anything else? More cotton? I can drive.”

“Astrid,” he cuts through her thoughts, though without the snappish tone he usually reserves for the twins when in the boar pit. “I’m telling you to look, because I want you to see that she’s okay.”

“Oh,” she says. It was said so softly, so unlike her. Even when, slowly, she reaches out a hand. A bit shaky, a bit fickle. He finds no need to warn her for any incoming pecks, because the eagle only closes its eyes, and reaches its beak out in turn. A gentle nudge, from both parties. “Good,” she whispers. “That’s good.”

And like a gentle flap in the wind, the tension flows out from her frame.

Wow. Truly, just wow.

“What? Why’re you smiling at me?” Ah, well, there’s the Astrid he’s more familiar with. A bit rough around the edges, with a certain snark that reminds him of the slice of air.

Sue him, he smiles wider. “You care.”

She lifts a brow. “Should I not? Are you revoking your Beast Master title?”

“No, no, no, it’s just—” He shrugs, balling his rubber gloves up and setting them on the tray. “Just. Nice. It’s nice. I didn’t really take you as the kind for all—” A gesture, around the room, “— this. I mean, sure, you did volunteer a few times, but I’ve always thought it was for the extra credit, you know? And maybe a bit for the pocket money, once we started that partnership with the Defenders. Last I remember, you called the conservation center an entire flaming pile of stinking shit.”

“Yeah, when we were fifteen.” There’s a note of humor in her tone, he thinks. “After I stepped on an entire pile of stinking shit on my—what, second, third shift here?” Yes. That’s definitely humor, because she’s returning a smile now too.

“That had definitely been the twins’ fault. I’m a hundred percent positive that I told them to clean after Barf and Belch, named appropriately of course. Thank Odin there aren’t three of them. Imagine that: Barf, Belch, and Bowel.”

A laugh. Bright and sudden, but gone too soon. He’d think he’d been stunned into place if it weren’t for the playful punch on his arm knocking him a tad bit back.

She sighs, this mock exasperation in her posture. “Can I be honest?” Hiccup gestures for her to continue. “I think it’s because of you.”

“Me?”

“This is going to sound a bit creepy,” she waves her hand out a bit, too stiff to be considered natural. “But. All these years… I’ve sort of been. Watching you? Since the day of your First Hunt, with Toothless barging in to protect you from that rabid lion, and of course with everything that came after— You became a totally different person.

“As if you finally knew where your left and right foot were. Braver, headstrong, going against the Chief to advocate for all this and winning . Took over this abandoned warehouse and turned it into something Berk wouldn’t have dreamt of building and helped hundreds if not thousands of wild animals with all your strange inventions. Toothless sprints faster than a car, Meatlug can actually breathe through her lungs, Barf and Belch play around freely and safely despite being conjoined. I spoke with Snotlout recently, he says Hookfang’s burn scars have been hurting less because of you. And now?”

Her fingers ghost over the feathers before them, a gentle swipe along the body wrap around the wing.

“Stormfly,” she gives him a lightly chiding look, as if prepared to bite back if he ever so much as comment on the newly dubbed name for the eagle. “Won’t have to suffer anymore. You did all this, because you cared. I couldn’t help but think back to that dorky confession when we were younger, and it was definitely dorky , don’t you try to defend yourself—”

Hiccup acquiesces with a nod, putting his raised finger down.

Astrid’s lips quirk, as if she’s trying to suppress a smile. Though, as the words leave her, she sobers up. “I found myself thinking, what does someone so compassionate and kind and gentle see in someone like me?”

There’s a pounding in his head, stuttering and stumbling.

“And, I guess all that watching and volunteering and getting to know you more and all that… I guess you rubbed off on me. A bit. Eventually, I started feeling…”

She trails off, and Hiccup’s breath hitches. “I thought—”

“Yeah,” she cuts in. “I know. Me too. It’s…” She glances at the door, Hiccup too, for a brief moment. Jack hasn’t come back with their water yet. 

Then, there’s a touch. On his wrist, then his hand. Hiccup looks back into her eyes. So round, so wide, so blue.

“You make it so easy to love,” she tells him.

She says it like gospel. Her tone and cadence hold so much belief, trust, and assurance in such a breathtaking statement. The words echo in his ears, racing through his veins to take hold of his beating heart. Squeezing and clenching, before embracing. Hopeful, tender, and everything Hiccup had wished for.

To not be a burden, not be an embarrassment. To belong, to be cared for. To become someone you can just love.

Truly, Astrid is amazing.