CONTENT WARNING: This fic contains descriptions and discussion about mental health, particularly about anxiety and depression. It includes talk of suicide. Please be careful, and consider clicking away if this kind of content is triggering or upsetting to you.

"And it's sad to know that we're not alone in this,
And it's sad to know there's no honest way out.

In this life we lead, we could conquer everything,
If we could just get the braves to get out of bed in the morning."

- Brave As A Noun, AJJ

"Hiccup, I think you're depressed."

"I'm not depressed," Hiccup said.

He was lying on the sofa, face pressed into one of the grooves. It was a bad idea. The whole thing smelt like mildew and felt oddly damp under his touch like it had never quite been cleaned properly. It made him shudder to think of all the things that might have gone on in this sofa – they'd met the previous residents before they'd moved in, and they certainly hadn't been the cleanest people - but he still didn't get up.

"You show all the signs," Fishlegs said.

Philip - or Fishlegs, as he liked to be called - was one of Hiccup's housemates. He was perched on the arm of the sofa, nibbling anxiously on his lower lip and drumming his fingers up and down on his arm. He squinted constantly, desperately in need of glasses - even if he assured everyone that he could see perfectly fine without them - and was covered in eczema.

"What signs?"

"Lack of interest in doing anything. No energy. You never leave the house—"

"—I go to class," Hiccup said, indignantly.

Fishlegs ignored him. "You either eat nothing at all or you eat too much."

Hiccup shunted over to the corner of the sofa and pressed a pillow over his head. "Didn't know you noticed, Mum."

"Maybe you should get some help."

"I'm not depressed," Hiccup repeated. "I've just been going through a bad patch. For twenty-one years."

"That's called depression, dumbass."

Both Hiccup and Fishlegs jumped at the new voice, muffled behind the kitchen door, which was promptly kicked open and slammed against the wall. Cami, housemate number three, was dragging an armchair through the door and lugging it into the kitchen. Though it was small for a chair, it was almost as big as Cami, who was tiny. She was red in the face and puffing out breaths as she pulled it across the carpet, grunting from the exertion.

Neither Hiccup and Fishlegs offered to help, not because they didn't want to, but because they knew it wouldn't end well for them if they did. Being able to do things by herself was a point of pride for Cami, even if it was a heavy object and she didn't have any strength in her skinny arms. They didn't question her either, not until Cami had finished squeezing it into the only available space between the kitchen and the living area, wedged between the kitchen counter and the door. She hopped into the chair with a very pleased sounding sigh, and then stretched her arms in the air and flopped backwards, as if about to take a nap. She closed her eyes, and Hiccup and Fishlegs shot a glance at each other, the two of them sharing a wordless conversation between their eyes.

Fishlegs bit the bullet. "What's that?"

Cami popped one eye open and made a shrugging motion with her hands. "It's an armchair," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"I know it's an armchair," Fishlegs said. "Why do you have an armchair?"

"I wanted one," Cami said, opening her other eye and patting the side of the chair in satisfaction. "Hiccup hasn't moved from the sofa in days—" Hiccup made an indignant sound, but he didn't get up— "and I wanted somewhere to sit."

"Where did you get it from?" Fishlegs said, gnawing against his lower lip.

Cami rolled her eyes. "I didn't steal it, if that's what you were implying."

Fishlegs swallowed. "That's hardly comforting."

"It was left outside someone's door on Woodland Terrace, with a sign that said 'please take'," Cami said with a grin.

"Cami!" Fishlegs let out a long, chastising groan.

"What?!" she said, indignantly. "I was doing them a favour by taking it!"

"You dragged an armchair across two streets?"

"Yes."

"What will the neighbours think?" he said.

"They know we're students, they already hate us," Cami said, an amused smile curling at her lips. "And that doesn't even reach the top five of weird things I've done out on our street, do you remember—"

"—Please, for love of God, do not bring up the nudity incident," Fishlegs said, his cheeks flushing bright red.

"It was the middle of the night, nobody saw me."

"I'm sure Rupert from next door saw you," Fishlegs said. "And he was already on the warpath about the birds getting into the rubbish bins."

"Rupert's a dirty liar, that's what he is," Cami said, throwing herself forward in her chair and pointing at Fishlegs. "I'm sure I put those lids on tight. And I can't take anyone named 'Rupert' seriously."

Hiccup snorted, despite himself. "I'm pretty sure he's the one who keeps putting those passive aggressive notes through our letterbox."

Cami grinned, triumphantly. "See, Hiccup agrees with me!"

"Yes, and I'm sure Hiccup's going to be leaping up off the sofa to talk to him when he comes knocking at the door like last time," Fishlegs snapped.

Hiccup frowned, his stomach squeezing.

The last time their easily annoyed next door neighbour had come to the door, Hiccup had been in the corridor, in full view. When he'd started banging on the door, that similar panic that came every time someone knocked on the door had set into his stomach, and he'd been frozen in space before he ducked in the kitchen to get away. When Cami had opened the door, Rupert had marched into the kitchen before she could stop him, and demanded angrily to know why Hiccup had ignored him.

Hiccup hadn't been able to answer, all he could do was gape at the man screaming at him, like a rabbit frozen in headlights.

Fishlegs saw the look on his face. "Wait, I didn't mean that, I'm—"

"It's fine," Hiccup said, his lips pressing together. He pulled himself up off the sofa. "Think I'm gonna go take a nap."

He shuffled off to his room, leaving Fishlegs and Cami to share a concerned glance.

Safe in the confines of his room, Hiccup let out a long sigh, and dropped into his desk chair, opening up his laptop. It loaded to the front page of his art blog, the messages tab open.

From Anonymous:

Hey! Haven't seen much of you for a while. You going to be drawing anything soon? Love your work!

From DeadwoodGate:

R u taking requests?

From winemutually

Chop, chop! More art please! I live for your stuff.

Hiccup scowled, and then closed his laptop. None of them were particularly nasty or unkind messages, but even the compliments were beginning to feel like demands. He didn't know how to explain that he just wasn't that good anymore, that every time he tried to make something it ended up looking like garbage. They didn't need to know that he hadn't picked up a pencil or a paintbrush in weeks.

He lay with his head rested on his arms slumped across the desk for a few moments, blowing a raspberry. Recently, his brain had begun to feel like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, a weird static feeling, where he couldn't settle to anything and nothing was satisfying. His days had become a week full of lazy Sundays, where he couldn't bring himself to do anything in the morning, and before he knew it, it was past midnight and he had achieved nothing. He lost hours and hours to scrolling through Tumblr or Twitter, not taking anything in but needing to feel like he'd done something with the day.

Hiccup sighed and shifted upwards, opening up his desk drawer and scrabbling through it to find a scrunched-up piece of paper that he'd shoved right in the back, opening it out.

IAPT PHOBIA SCALES

Choose a number from the scale below to show how much you would avoid each of the situations or objects listed below. Then write the number in the box opposite the situation.

1) Social situations due to a fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of myself.

2) Certain situations because of a fear of having a panic attack or other distressing symptoms (such as loss of bladder control, vomiting or dizziness).

3) Certain situations because of a fear of particular objects or activities (such as animals, heights, seeing blood, being in confined spaces, driving or flying).

Fishlegs hadn't been wrong about his assertion of Hiccup's mental health. It had taken him weeks, but Hiccup had managed to get the braves to go and speak to the university counselling services, and they'd given him these forms to fill in before he went back again. That had all been well and good, but now he had to summon up the bravery to hand the forms back in, and that was only half the battle.

There was a knock on his door. Hiccup quickly shoved the forms back into his desk.

"Come in," he mumbled.

Fishlegs opened the door and hovered in the entryway. "Sorry about earlier, I shouldn't have brought it up," he said.

"It's fine," Hiccup said.

"Are sure you okay? You haven't spoken much all week," Fishlegs said, his brows furrowing together.

Hiccup sighed. "Yeah, sorry, I'm okay," he said, rubbing his fingers in his eyes and then running his hands through his hair. "Bad week, I guess. Next week'll be better."

"I hope so. God knows what Cami will bring home next," Fishlegs said.

Hiccup laughed.

"Movie night later?" Fishlegs said. "It's your turn to pick."

"I'll be there."

Fishlegs smiled and then left, closing the door behind him. Hiccup took out the forms again.

Truth be told, it wasn't just the fear scales he was scared of. There was another question he was afraid of answering honestly.

Over the last two weeks, how often have you been bothered by any of the following problems?

- Thoughts that you would be better off dead or hurting yourself in some way.

There were some things he really, really didn't want to talk about.

Saturday brought Hiccup a reason to leave the house.

In their last Skype call together, his father had insisted that he pay a visit - "haven't seen you in weeks, son, you're free Saturday, aren't you?" - and Hiccup had found himself without an excuse not to go.

The day began as most days did, with his customary-at-the-door routine.

Wallet? In the left pocket of his jeans. Keys? Right pocket. Phone? Coat pocket. Change for the bus? In his hand.

Hiccup tapped each of them in turn, and then left the house, sliding on his earphones and stepping out onto the pavement.

Wait. Had he done that check properly?

Wallet. Keys. Phone. Change.

No, he was good. They were all there.

At least it didn't matter if he was late. On university days, it was much worse. Nine o'clock starts were the bane of his existence. Campus was thirty minutes away by bus, and in order to be waiting at the bus stop half an hour before the bus came, ready to be on campus his customary half-an-hour before class, he had to wake up much earlier than he would have liked.

Every morning it was the same. He'd be at the bus stop two buses before the one he would actually need to catch, and every morning, he told himself that he would let himself sleep in just a little longer the next day. It never worked: the same fears would creep into the back of his head.

the bus will break down and you'll be late

traffic will be bad

you won't make it in time

Hiccup had made his peace with it. He'd rather be waiting for half-an-hour than enter the room five minutes late. The door would make too much noise, the lecturer would tut and all eyes in the room would be on him.

The thought made his stomach sick.

At least it wasn't a university day. It didn't matter what time he got home, just as long as he showed up.

He made it to the end of the road, (wallet keys phone change), and then crossed to go sit at the bus stop, his leg drumming up and down while he waited.

Leaving the house was such an effort that sometimes he wondered why he ever bothered to leave at all.

Home didn't really feel like home anymore.

After two years of university, coming home had begun to feel like a chore more than anything else, and although Hiccup relished going back to his childhood bedroom - the only safe place - coming home meant seeing his father.

Hiccup loved his father, he really did, but he wanted more than Hiccup could offer. Adulthood had come like a sharp drop at the end of a cliff, and though Hiccup had tried very, very hard, it never seemed quite enough. He started to dread coming back home, walking on eggshells around questions like - have you thought about what you're going to do after university?

Hiccup didn't have the heart to tell his father that he didn't think there would be a time after university.

He let himself in the house, hanging up his coat on the rack beside the door, and crept into the hallway. "Dad?" he called out, hesitantly.

Something was wrong. Hiccup knew as soon as he saw his father, mouth pressed into a thin line, hands held in front of him, eyes downcast, that he hadn't been called home for a social call.

It took about ten minutes of small talk, making tea and nibbling the end of a biscuit for his father to start talking.

"Son," his father said, "we need to talk."

Hiccup felt his heart speed up. If there was a phrase he wished he could banish from the English language, it was we need to talk. Nothing ever good came out of we need to talk. It was the line that began all the difficult conversations. Conversations that began with we need to talk and ended with, you're not trying hard enough, or we need to break up, or your mother is dead.

Hiccup tried to still his already quivering hand - his hands always seemed to shake the moment he began to feel anything more than mild apathy - and pressed his lips together. "What about?" he asked, trying for nonchalant, but no matter how hard he might try, he couldn't stop his voice from wobbling.

His father sighed. "I'm worried about you."

"You don't need to worry about me," Hiccup said, with a weak smile, bringing his cup of tea to his lips. "I worry enough for myself."

His weak attempt at humour did nothing to placate his father, who was still looking at him that concerned expression. "This is serious, kid."

This is serious. Another sentence that deserved to be banished. This serious came before tellings off, nasty wake-up calls and conversations that never ended well. This is serious is what his ex had said before she'd dumped him over messenger.

"I'm worried about you," his father repeated. "I'm worried that you're not eating properly, you don't leave the house—"

"—I go to class," Hiccup said, indignantly.

"You only go to class."

Hiccup puffed out his cheeks, looking away from his father. This conversation was feeling horribly familiar. "Have you been talking to Fishlegs?" he said, accusatory.

"Once or twice."

Hiccup scowled. "I'm having words with him."

"He did the right thing by coming to me," his father said. "I'm the one that should be dealing with this stuff, not him."

"I'm not making him deal with this stuff," Hiccup said, resentment burning in his chest.

"Yes, but he feels like he needs to deal with it, Hiccup."

Hiccup looked away from his father, his lips pursed sourly.

His father sighed. "Look," he said. "I didn't want to have to ask this of you, but I need you to get a job."

Hiccup's eyes snapped up at him. "What?"

"I know you're finding things difficult, but things have been— well, we're fine, we're okay, but I could use some help," his father said. "And what with me paying for you, Cami and Fishlegs to live in that house, money's starting to spread a little thin."

Guilt burned in Hiccup's stomach and clogged in his throat. "Dad, I—" he began, and then stopped. "Are we in trouble?"

"Not at all. I promise you, we're fine, Hiccup, work will pick up like it always does," he said. "It's not just that. I'm worried about how you're going to function after you leave university."

I'm not, Hiccup thought to himself, but he didn't say it.

"I just need to know you're trying, son," his father said. "I need to know that you're actually trying to beat this thing."

Hiccup stared down at his fingers. He wanted to say no. He wanted to list all of the reasons why he couldn't get a job, why his father just didn't understand, and maybe, he'd admit how he'd really been feeling, but he couldn't. The guilt was almost too much for him to bear, and there was a voice in the back of his head, ever present and strong:

You're selfish.

He was. He was really selfish. Here he was, trying to get out of adult responsibility, all because he was a little bit afraid.

But, another voice told him in his head, it's more than just fear.

That was true, too. It was more like paralysis, a horrible nasty terror, that kept him stuck in bed, that made him freeze when strangers talked to him, that made his mind go blank when a teacher asked him a question, that made his palms sweat and his heart pound, that made a simple trip to the shops feel like climbing a mountain, that made going to his seminars feel like facing off a monster. It kept him stuck in the house. It kept him from making friends. How could you make friends when you were so afraid of other people? How could you get a job when even the thought of an interview had your heart racing?

Still, the first voice in his head said, that doesn't make you any less selfish.

Hiccup's thoughts were a nasty cycle, and he never seemed to get a reprieve.

How could he explain to his father that he wasn't going to make it outside of university? How could you live a proper life when he could barely make it outside the door most days? There wasn't any hope for him.

But he couldn't express that to his father - not without worrying him terribly - so instead, he pressed his mouth into a thin line, and nodded.

"Okay," he said. "I'll try."