Note: A rewrite of my old fanfic, this time with minimal to no crossover at all
Warning: This story involves dealing with mental illnesses, several kinds. If you think I should move it to M-rated tell me
A Different Beginning
Ever since he was young, he had always been having nightmares. Dreams of pitch black skies hiding scaly wings from a sudden attack, of near deaths and death and green eyes and burning fire. He would always woke up crying and asked to sleep with his mother, whom always smiled at him and lifted up the blanket for him to crawl under. And ever since her death, he learnt not to cry anymore. Because even if he cried, his father wouldn't lift the blanket for him. "You have to be strong Harold." Stan would say. "You have to be strong for her."
He nodded as he sniffled, trying to hold back the tears.
He still dreamed about fire and flying and falling into his death. He still dreamed about black scales wrapped around him and a giant mouth gnawing at his leg until it was gone.
When he woke up he realized that he had been in an accident, and he lost his left leg because of it. It was the first time in many years he cried. Strangely, it was out of relief than grief.
His father was devastated, of course. Harold wasn't sure if it was because of the loss limb or because his son had been diagnosed with a mental illness. "It seems your son was suffering from Amputee Identity Disorder."
"Amputee– was? So he's okay now, right?" Stan leaned forward, getting in the doctor's space, as if daring her to say otherwise.
"Not in the way you think of." She replied curtly before giving an understanding smile to the son. "Now that he's an amputee, it should be alright." She began explaining how the disorder made the sufferer felt happier when they lost a certain part of their body. "Such as Harold and his leg."
He wished she didn't say that. Or maybe he shouldn't be stupid enough to have told her how he felt about the accident. Now his dad was looking at him accusingly, as if he purposefully got himself into an accident. Harold squirmed and hunched under his stare, wishing he would get smaller and smaller until he disappeared entirely from the plane of existence.
"We are going to talk about this later." Stan said firmly to his son.
The doctor frowned, "This isn't his fault."
"I know that." The Police Chief stood up from his seat. "Let's go, Harold."
"Sir, I don't think you understand the situation-"
Her words, however, was cut off with a firm, "Harold!"
The teenager flinched and jumped from his seat. Harold gave one last betrayed look at his doctor before trailing behind, struggling to catch up with his one foot and a crutch.
"Talk to me, Harold." Stan sat on the opposite side of the living room. His hands were clutching his knees rather harshly as he forced his voice to soften. "Is it because of your mother's death?"
Harold kept his head hanging low, he wasn't surprised by the conclusion his father was drawing. He thought it was that too, at first. But the fact was, "I don't know, Dad…" He hunched even further, preparing for Stan's reaction.
"What do you mean you-" Realizing the tone of his voice, he took a deep breath and leaned on the couch. "What do you mean you don't know?" He asked again, softer this time.
"Like I said, I don't know!" Frustration seeped into his voice as Harold barely kept himself together. "I thought it was because her death too! But that wasn't it… For as far as I can remember, I felt that my left leg doesn't belong to me! And it's just- it feels right, now. I feel right for once."
Stan took a sharp breath when Harold finished his sentence. The teenager thought that this was it, he finally fulfilled his destiny as the family's disappointment. Whoop-dee-doo! He had no courage to look at his father in the eyes. "Son… why didn't you tell me?"
"And make myself sound crazier?" Harold scoffed, only to regret it immediately at the sight of his father's frown. "Sorry…"
"No." Stan winced when he saw his son became tense. "No, Harold. I'm sorry." His shoulders slumped when it was obvious that Harold was confused by the apology. "I should have been a better father to you… I thought… I thought 'toughing you up' will solve the problem. But it's obvious that I am the problem."
Harold's eyes widened at the statement. "Wha- no! No you are not, Dad!"
Stan could only smile, soft and sad. "You couldn't tell me everything like you did with your mother. Instead, whenever you are around me, you try your best to avoid me… there must be something I'm doing wrong."
"Dad…" Harold whispered softly, "I just don't want to get in your way…"
The bearded man looked surprised, "In the way? Harold! You are my son! It's my job to help you along the way! I just-" He sighed, massaging his temple. "I just wish I know where I went wrong…"
"You are not wrong, Dad!" The brunet tried to stand up from his seat, forgetting that he wasn't capable of it without a crutch at the moment. He promptly fell back onto the couch. There were frustrated tears that began to form, as Harold held back his choked sobs. "It's me! I'm the messed up one!" He burst, "I wish I know where I went wrong!" Stan could only gape at his son's sudden outburst. Harold's cheeks were flushed and wet with his own tears. After calming down, he was clearly embarrassed by his own behaviour. "Sorry…"
Stan didn't reply. He didn't know how to, wasn't sure if he should. The man tried to change the conversation, offering to go out to Gar's place for dinner.
"It's fine, Dad." Harold reached for his crutch. "I'm fine now."
His dreams were made from darkness and the sound of a young boy's scream as his leg was torn apart. It wasn't always like dreams were usually much more happier than the reality he was in. Except now reality had sunk its teeth deep inside his head.
The Night Fury woke up in cold sweat and a dry throat that muffled his scream. He was thankful for that.
Pushing off the twins from his torso, the young man stood up from his makeshift and avoided stepping on anyone as he made his way out of their current place. The night air was cold and the only way for them to not freeze to death was by sleeping in a huddle.
He blew his breath into his palms, giggling a bit at the puffy mist it made. Like a dragon's breath, he thought. His expression turned solemn immediately.
Since he was young he was used to dream about being a dragon. He hardly remembered any details except for the thrill of flying.
These days after the accident, the dreams turned into nightmares.
He wouldn't be surprised if it was his subconscious telling him to own up his action.
The Night Fury, the leader of the notorious Dragon Gang, ran away like a coward after realizing that he just crashed into a student. The image of the open flesh was still fresh in his mind. He couldn't help but wanting to vomit.
Guilt was eating him alive from the inside yet he couldn't afford to apologize. He couldn't afford risking everyone else because of his mistake.
The black haired man sighed. He undone his ponytail before messing up his hair to make it even more unkempt.
The Night Fury couldn't.
But Toothless could.