Disclaimer: Httyd. Not mine. There you go.
The house was too quiet.
He creaked open the heavy door, expecting Stoick yelling at the tv, Stoick yelling at Hiccup, crashing or banging or any other loud noise that usually accompanied his cousins house. But there was nothing.
Slowly, Snotlout walked through the house, checking every room. He walked up the stairs.
The first one creaked.
The third and fourth one creaked on the right side.
The sixth one didn't creak if you stepped on the corner.
The next three wouldn't creak under Hiccups impossibly light weight.
The twelfth one was hollow, it made a different sound to the others.
The last one was silent.
Silent like the house.
He reached Stoick's bedroom at last. The door pushed open easily, with less protest as the rest of the house. Slowly, a slither of light entered the pitch dark room. His heart nearly stopped as he saw two familiar feet.
Well foot.
One fragile, porcelain, pale too tiny looking foot, connected to a pathetically bony ankle.
One gross, mangled, pool of dark red.
He slammed the door shut, feeling the sound wave crawl through the fragile floorboards.
This was it.
He couldn't deny it anymore.
He couldn't pretend that the bruise on his eye was from his own elbow or the handprint on his wrist was a teacher. That he bruised easily because he was scrawny. That he was scrawny because he was weak, not because he was starved.
That it was cool to call him names and taunt him, not because Snotlout Jorgensen couldn't handle the truth.
Not because Hiccup Haddock was dead in the next room.
He fumbled for his phone in his jeans pocket, not quite believing what he was about to do. What did they say in movies? Uhm...
Hello this is Berk police service, how can I help you?
~Uhm... hi. I'd like to make an anonymous... tip off?
Yes ok.
~Yeh. I'm here to report a case of c..child abuse.
There. He fucking said it. Holy shit. He fucking said it!
Alright. Can you tell us the location?
~Er yes. 19 Nadder way.
We will be there shortly. Thank you for your call.
The woman's nasally voice cut off.
He stood there, shocked, numb, dumbfounded. 13 years of denial wasted by one phone call. His hand ghosted the doorknob but he retracted it, not wanting to look at his cousins corpse. Well not until a faint hitch in breath and a shaking cough resounded from inside the room.
Snotlout's eyes widened and he ran. Down the thirteen stairs, caring if they creaked or not seeming stupid and childish as he ran from the police like in some black and white movie where British officials spoke emphatically in over dramatic accents. Once he was far enough around the corner, he slowed his pace and shoved his hands in his hoodie.
As police cars rounded the corner he just ran from, the overwhelming sense of not quite reality, movie-verse hit him. Only no sirens were blaring. The cars were black and silver, not yellow and blue. Undercover. Plain clothes division. Whatever.
Hiccup is alive.
Hiccup.
Alive.
But his foot. Snotlout gulped. He had no idea just how painful that one injury must be, let alone everything else. The exact everything else he tries to deny. Deny because it is just too horrible, inhumane, plain wrong to think about.
He almost wished he was dead. He wished Hiccup would shout and scream, yell about how unfair his life is, or how shit he's being treated. Snotlout knows he deserves it. But he doesn't. He keeps that maddening fake smile on his goddamn face and bares it. His pathetic huge green eyes screaming help me and making Snotlout face his biggest fear. The truth.
Finally an ambulance shows up, blaring around that cursed corner in true textbook fashion. He's still standing there when it blares out again, frantically charging in almost childish hope to save a broken life.
A life that he broke.
So Snotlout stands there, hands in the pockets of his worn out hoodie, thinking idly about life and guilt and how this is the perfect time for rain. But nothing's ever perfect, is it?
Well... yeah. Review?