Chapter Text
Hiccup floats through the next two weeks.
He sits on the floor of the guest room, his room, unpacking bag after bag and pressing his clothes to his face to take in the smell. They smell like his old bedroom, must and second–hand cigarette smoke– he knows he’ll have to machine wash them at least twice more before he feels totally comfortable wearing them. He tried to give them all away, drove himself up to the thrift store in Lebanon, but they all had memories, faces, voices, attached to them, and he just– he couldn’t do it.
He manages to fold most of them within an hour, mindlessly pushing them into the drawers of the IKEA dresser Dagur bought him as an early birthday gift (“one of them,” he said, which Hiccup found hard to believe)– Hiccup thinks it’s called HAUGA, which, according to Google Translate, is Icelandic for “heap”.
But unpacking the clothes comes with unpacking a mix of emotions, cold, wobbly emotions bigger than he can deal with, so big that they explode out of him in the form of a stifled sob, a kick to his bedpost and a shirt hurled across the room. It hits one of the posters Heather helped him tack to the wall in the middle of the night, and one of the corners peels off. Hiccup sighs and buries his head in his knees– he’s been trying not to pay too much attention to the past recently. After all, it’ll be over soon. Once he falls, it will be over. Once he fails, it will be over. And he will fall, and he will fail. And–
“Are you okay?” Heather says, pulling him out of his mind. Hiccup hadn’t even realised she was there– he jumps slightly, wipes his eyes, and gives her a small smile. “Yeah. Yeah, all good. Just unpacking. Folding. All that, y’know.”
Heather stares at him, her eyes boring into him like nails into timber, and then she sits down at the foot of his bed and starts folding.
Hiccup blinks, opens his mouth to ask what she’s doing, but before he can make any noise, she says, “Where do shirts go? Top drawer?”, and he can’t do anything about it.
Something swells inside his chest. Something warm, something that moves through him and twists his intestines like pliers and paperclips, and for a few minutes, he can’t quite figure out what it is.
He realises, with a jolt, that nobody has helped him fold clothes before, that nobody has done anything so domestic for him.
He doesn’t hate it.
Dagur says there’s no shame in going to therapy.
“I go to therapy. Heather goes to therapy. Hell, therapists probably go to therapy,” he says, leaning against Hiccup’s doorframe on a Wednesday evening. Hiccup groans loudly, pulling his pillow over his head to try to block his brother’s failing argument.
It’s been about three months since he officially moved out. He’s seventeen now, after a March 1st not–birthday of stress and confusion and his dad texting him incessantly– like Hiccup hadn’t waited weeks, months, for just one tiny “hello” or “how are you?”. Now he won’t leave him alone, and Hiccup nearly feels crazy– the texts range from I’m sorry you felt hurt to why aren’t you fucking replying to CALL ME BACK YOU UNGRATEFUL BITCH and then right back to I love you. His mom didn’t even call. Maybe Hiccup’s somewhat bitter about that, although he can’t exactly say he’s surprised.
Dagur attempted to bake him a cake. It didn’t go very well, but Hiccup laughed until he cried and Toothless prowled around the spilt buttercream on the kitchen floor until Heather wiped it up with a wad of patterned per towels– it was vanilla, so no harm done. All in all, his birthday was a bit of a mixed bag.
“I’m serious. You know we’ll always be here for you, but you need professional help that we can’t give you, okay?” Dagur continues, a note of concern replacing his nonchalant tone, and Hiccup turns and looks him in the eyes. “I don’t need that.”
Dagur frowns. “You’re kidding, right?”
Hiccup stares.
Dagur throws his hands up and walks out of the room, and Hiccup waits for his footsteps to disappear to scrunch his face up like a wet cat and collapse in on himself like a star. He remembers learning about supernovae when he was about six years old, reading the Wikipedia page over and over until he could practically recite it by heart. Hiccup used to love space.
He groans, shakes his head in disbelief, grabs his phone off his nightstand, shoots Snotlout a text– do you think i need therapy??. His cousin replies almost immediately with a simple skull emoji, and Hiccup registers with a jolt that he thinks I’m joking. It’s such a simple realisation, but it truly throws him for such a curve– Snotlout must think it’s so obvious that it has to be a joke.
i’m serious, he sends, his entire being trying to deny this thought. bc dagur seems to think i really need therapy but i really don’t think i do
holy shit your serious, Snotlout sends back after a moment, another skull emoji tacked onto the end. of coursde you need therapy???? dont be a dumbass
Hiccup bites his lip, feels tears well up in his eyes, he can practically hear the words in his head, and simply sends back, ok. It’s all he can manage before he explodes in a fit of silent frustration and– rage? Rage isn’t the right word, it’s– it’s despair, it’s hopelessness, confusion, that his apparent trauma is so clear to his closest friends and he barely saw it at all.
He puts his phone down, ignoring the three vibrations it emits, and reburies his head under the pillow. Snotlout can wait, and he can’t face Dagur yet. That’s fine, he decides– he doesn’t need to do it now, just as long as it happens eventually.
The next morning, when Dagur’s buttering toast and Heather’s still in the shower, Hiccup sits at the kitchen island, clenches his fists, actively tries to stop trembling, and says very softly, “Dagur.”
Dagur turns to him, slight confusion on his face. “Yeah?”
Hiccup stares, the tiny bit of courage in him vanishing immediately. “N–nothing. Nothing, don’t worry.”
Dagur sighs and turns back around. “Look, about last night– I’m sorry. I know it’s–”
“I don’t want to do it,” Hiccup interrupts, the courage surging again. Dagur hesitates before pushing the butter lid back on the tub, eyeing him as he opens the fridge. “Mhm?”
Hiccup swallows. “I really don’t want to do it. I’m– I don’t remember how it was, when I was little. And it’ll probably be different, and I’m,” scared, “hesitant, to do it. But I think– I think I might need it, and I don’t know what to do with that. So.”
Dagur gives him a small, sad smile, and Hiccup can tell he’s read between the lines. He takes a bite of his toast and stares at the ceiling, and Hiccup fixes his eyes on the glob of butter in his beard.
“Okay, I get that,” he says eventually, swallowing the last of his breakfast and looking back at Hiccup. “You know, when I first went to therapy, I showed up twenty minutes late on purpose. I just sat in my car listening to the news. I was hesitant too.”
“Okay,” Hiccup says, unsure how to react.
Dagur continues as though he hadn’t spoken at all. “My therapist was really nice about it. He had water and some really bad store–bought cookies. He told me I could show up as late as I wanted, as long as I had a reason that wasn’t– hesitancy, about therapy. I didn’t show up late again.”
“Okay.”
“My point is, of course it’s going to be weird and unfamiliar at first. But it will get better, and if it doesn’t, we can try something else.”
“… Okay.”
“Stop saying that,” Dagur says lightheartedly, and Hiccup snorts. “Sorry.”
They sit in silence for a moment, and then Dagur looks Hiccup in the eyes, his face kind and earnest. “Try one. Can you try one session, and then if you really hate it, I won’t make you go back?”
Hiccup swallows. The thought of stepping into a therapist’s office makes him sick, makes the edges of his vision blur green and purple, but Snotlout’s words echo in his head for the third time that day, and he nods. “Okay.”
Dagur grasps his hand, giving it a short squeeze before letting go. “Thank you. Now, go and tell Heather if she doesn’t get out of the shower soon I’m going to turn the hot water off.”
Later, Dagur corners Hiccup in the hallway, and says, “I wouldn’t blame you if you were scared, by the way.”
“I’m not,” Hiccup says. He says it with little insistence, and Dagur raises an eyebrow, but says nothing.
“I’m scared,” Hiccup whispers, and Dagur glances at him. “I know. Do you still not want me to come in with you?”
“No,” he insists– the only thing worse than laying himself bare in front of a stranger would be to do it in front of somebody he has to go home with. “No, it’s fine. Go hang out in Starbucks or something.”
“Are you kidding me?” Dagur scoffs. “We’re going there afterwards. I’m going shopping.” He tosses his head back, a hair flip without the hair, and Hiccup can’t help but laugh. “Have fun.”
They pull up outside the building, and Hiccup bites his lip. He looks at Dagur for some sort of support, and his brother gives him a warm smile. “It’s going to be okay. You’ve got your phone, if it really sucks, call me and I’ll come back straight away.”
Hiccup nods, returns the smile in a blank, halfhearted sort of way. He clutches his phone in his jeans pocket, opens his door, and gets out of the car.
The first thing he notices once he gets inside the building is the smell. He’s wearing a mask, of course, but this smell permeates the air like smoke– it’s flowery, dusty, and he can’t quite place it. He says hello to the receptionist, smiles beneath his mask, observes the sad beige walls and the orchids on the front desk, taps his knee nervously as he waits for his phone to turn twelve o’clock.
Finally, the door to his left clicks open, and a woman walks out. She gives him a gentle smile. “Hiccup?”
“Hi,” Hiccup says awkwardly, standing up, and the woman beckons him to the office. He scans her face– she has long, flowing black hair, and her skin is a cool tan, while her eyes are hazel and her nose is slightly hooked. She is not wearing a mask, and Hiccup internally prepares to walk out of there before they’ve even started. “I’m Nadia. It’s good to meet you.”
“You too,” Hiccup replies quietly– the smell is stronger in here. Nadia gestures for him to take a seat, and he does so, glancing behind him like he always does. He fidgets with his fingers, and Nadia says, “You look nervous. Are you?”
Hiccup startles, the bluntness of the question catching him off–guard, and he says tentatively, “Um. A little?”
Nadia smiles, chuckling slightly. “That’s understandable. Don’t worry, we’re not going to do any real therapy stuff today– for the first session I usually like to get to know my clients. Is that okay with you?”
“Okay,” Hiccup agrees, his joints loosening as the danger he was so sure of dissipates ever so slightly.
“You can take your mask off if you’d like,” Nadia says. “I have HEPA filters on each side of the room, the windows are open, and I have twenty minutes between appointments– it’s up to you.”
“No,” he says firmly, although he wavers; she’s clearly made an effort, and that’s more than most people do– hell, that’s more than his family ever did. Still, he bounces his leg and fixes her with his most judgemental stare until she tilts her head and asks, somewhat amused, “Would you be more comfortable if I wore a mask?”
Hiccup blinks, the offer unexpected, and gives her a small nod. “Yeah. Uh, yes. Please.”
“Okay, that’s fine. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” Hiccup eyes her as she takes a P2 out of her handbag, and decides this might not be so bad.
Nadia picks an iPad and a stylus up off the side table and continues, “So. Tell me about yourself.”
So Hiccup tells her about drawing, and his art blog on Tumblr, and Toothless, and all the bands he likes, and how he wants to be an engineer, and how MIT used to be his dream university, and then UCB, but now he just wants to get the hell out of this state. Wherever his friends go, he tells her, and she writes something down. She asks about his leg, and his relationship with his parents, and he tells her it’s none of her business, and she laughs, short yet genuine, but doesn’t press it.
He does not tell her why he moved out. He does not tell her about his depression, or how he can barely eat without feeling sick and selfish, or about hot showers and his obsession with pleasing everybody.
He tells her about piano lessons, and Astrid, and how Dagur and Heather have made him feel safer in six months than his biological family ever has in seventeen years. About being trans, about how he’s not even sure if he’s straight or bi or anything like that, about (what used to be) his favourite food, about how The Office got him through years of being left alone at home and he can recite nearly every episode by heart. She asks his favourite episode, and he tells her it’s Nepotism, but only because of the cold open. She says hers is Koi Pond, and Hiccup feels a sudden, intense hatred that can only last a second before she asks him another question.
At one point, Nadia stops and goes on a long tangent about client confidentiality, which is essentially a roundabout way of saying that she’ll rat him out if he’s planning to kill himself. Hiccup doesn’t mind this– he’s never told anyone about his suicidal thoughts before, so this won’t make much of a difference. She asks if he’s comfortable discussing his mental health briefly before they end the session, and Hiccup says he’s doing well. It’s not exactly a lie– he hasn’t cut himself since before he moved out, and although he misses it, his vampiric thirst for blood has been replaced with an equally sickening desire for bruises and burns.
He doesn’t tell her that, though. He keeps it brief, like she said.
And when Dagur picks him up, when they’re sitting in the car with their Starbucks order on the dashboard, when Hiccup is staring down his straw at the mountain of whipped cream the barista thought his iced chocolate needed, he keeps it brief. He tells Dagur therapy was okay, I guess, and when his brother cautiously asks about the prospect of going back next week, he says, as casually as he can manage, “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Dagur smiles at him like Hiccup has given him a gift, and tells him, “I’m really proud of you.”
Hiccup cries into his hands. His banana bread is salty.
Hiccup sits outside on a Saturday morning, his book laying open on his lap. There’s a bird perched on the back fence, its head cocked as if waiting for an answer to an unspoken question. Toothless hisses at it, and it startles, flying into the neighbours’ garden and crash–landing on their patio table. Hiccup rolls his eyes, beckoning Toothless. “Stop being mean to birds,” he murmurs, and the cat flicks his tail.
He went back to school a few weeks after starting therapy– Nadia said he deserves to surround himself with people who love him. Hiccup once saw somebody on Twitter say that one’s first time crying in therapy is a turning point, but really, Hiccup felt nothing but embarrassment as she handed him a box of tissues and offered to get him a glass of water.
School isn’t even that bad, Hiccup finds. It’s more exciting than home– now that Dagur’s on the night shift and Heather has taken a part–time job at the grocery store down the road, Hiccup’s life has become a fairly solitary affair. He tells Nadia about the guilt he feels when Heather boasts her paycheck, how he cannot go back to the café, how it’s stupid because I’ve been working there since I was like five years old how could a place like that be so uncomfortable all of a sudden. She says it might be something to do with the memories associated with it, how his dad is so close with the owner, and Hiccup stares at his knees for the rest of the session.
No, school is– school is fine. His friends are gentle– Fishlegs brings him a chocolate bar every day, claiming to have accidentally bought two, but Hiccup heard Tuffnut loudly proclaim, “Dude, you have got to stop. How do you keep buying two every time, Jesus Christ,” saw Fishlegs shoot him a look, and Hiccup feels pink spread across his face briefly– people care, he is loved, and, unfortunately, this fully registers a couple of hours later in social studies. And he bites the inside of his cheek, a somewhat dazed smile sneaking up on him before he can stop it. The girl next to him furrows her brow, and he ignores her. He’s warm. It’s a nice feeling.
His dad hasn’t called since his birthday. Hiccup doesn’t mind– in a weird, guilt–ridden sort of way, he’s nearly ready to leave that part of his life behind. Obviously, there’s legal guardianship, and also the question of whether or not Dagur will be charged with kidnapping or something– and that’s scary, that lies dormant in the back of Hiccup’s mind and shoots up every time he gets to class two minutes late. But Hiccup’s nearly sure Stoick won’t do anything– politics is more important, he’s constantly reminded, and as much as that used to hurt, it works out in his favour this time.
The bird darts back onto the fence, and Toothless narrows his eyes. Hiccup scratches the cat’s neck, stop being mean to birds, and he purrs, his attention drifting from his avian enemy. Something falls inside, presumably a pot or pan, and Dagur swears loudly. Hiccup rolls his eyes, electing to ignore it, and he smiles to himself. A chosen family, Tumblr had called it. A found family.
A family. He’s home. He’s safe.
Hiccup is home.