Time to ruin your hearts. (with typos. probably.)
DON'T OWN, but idea, yes, def own.
She started to worry when two hours had passed and he still hadn't arrived at the school-he did have a knack for disappearing, but never for something as important as this, and never if it involved her (which, by extension, meant his parents had taken to inviting the fiery blonde to any upcoming important social gatherings to dissuade the brunet from coming up with excuses to not go).
She wanted to run and find him-punch him, mostly, for freaking her out-but as the sole representative for their joint project, there was no possible way she could bolt out the exhibition hall.
The twins started worrying when it was noon and the winners were being announced, and he still wasn't there, and he still hadn't answered their voicemails. Tuffnut scrounged up his information trolls and ordered a town-wide search, alleyways and deserted streets and all. Ruffnut sent out mass texts to all known Berkians with any possible connection to the boy (excluding her twin and Astrid, because, let's face it, her friend did not need any more reasons to freak out).
They found no trace of Hiccup in the school or town, even conducting their own search by driving around his residence and all roadways entering the school. They were left crouching by the Academy's gate, praying and hoping and praying that the guy would show his stupid face already.
(They cared almost as much as Astrid did, and since she cared a heckuvalot, they were dying inside.)
Astrid smiled uncomfortably as the judges pinned the red and gold ribbon to their project and took a picture of her with it. They'd asked her where her partner was, and she'd replied that she honestly didn't know, and they said to "congratulate him" when she got the chance.
(She hoped there was still a chance of a chance, before proceeding to mentally slap herself for being such a pessimist. He'd taught her better.)
She'd checked her phone a billion times within the hour, and still nothing; none of her calls or texts were returned or answered (not even from his parents), and by the time the school let out she and the twins had made a mad dash to their car-Ruffnut didn't trust Astrid to be behind a wheel in her current state-driving straight to Hiccup's house with every intention of bashing him up if he turned out to be alright.
He did not turn out to be alright.
It was explained like this:
He was driving at a fair speed, not quite under and not quite over, and he was in the right-that is, correct-lane, and witnesses reported that the truck came out of nowhere and the driver was probably asleep, seeing as that's always how it was with those beasts of the road, and it was fast and it swerved.
Someone said the old, black Corolla had jumped up a few feet.
Another said it turned turtle, but only halfway.
The people in charge of the case said it might've skidded, but no, it hadn't rolled, and yes the boy was in intensive care, and yes, the driver was reprimanded.
Stoick and Valka were unavailable until the evening, caught up in more meetings than one could count, and stuck in areas with no cellular service. They'd taken the news as terribly as one might've thought, with both sobbing all through the first had made it a habit to encouragingly talk to his son through the glass every morn and eve, and Valka worried and Stoick encouraged and both were strong and broken at the same time.
The twins reacted as violently as ever, yelling at doctors and policemen with tear-stained faces, asking, "What are you doing here, then?! HELP HIM! Help him, or so help me-"
They screamed at the sky after being kicked out of the hospital time and time again. They screamed at the trees and the ground and the empty cars parked outside because all they saw was the crushed black four-door the photos had portrayed, and the rage, the pure rage in their souls.
Then there was the blonde.
The fire and life she had ten minutes before she'd learned what happened-when she was ready to knock her boyfriend senseless for worrying them-was, simply put, extinguished.
She did not eat. She did not sleep.
She'd stared blankly at the news that night as the reporter delivered the same notes she'd heard from the cops just hours before. When her parents came to console her and offer support, they found the shell of their daughter. They found shock at its finest, and love at its worst.
After three days she'd finally snapped out of it-with help from the twins-and gotten around to the next stage of her grieving process: anger.
She joined the twins in their rowdy tantrums, throwing rocks at the sea and running their bodies to the ground under the guise of "training" and "staying in shape over winter". They raced each other on the indoor field at the village center, running small marathons and yelling and running; running from everything clouding their minds and running from the inevitable and oh, did they wish it wasn't the inevitable, because they wouldn't and they couldn't be able to handle that quite as well as they were handling this.
And it wasn't that he was "her everything", that she'd designed her life around him in that short almost-month (though, arguably, she'd liked and admired him for years). No, she wasn't that cross-eyed-that dependent on another human being.
But it was the shock-it was the shock that killed her inside. That he was just there-she'd heard his voice and it was okay and they would see each other soon. He was just there, and at any moment she could get The Call, and he wouldn't be-he wouldn't be back, and she...
She said she would "be fine". She said, she swore, that "if it happened", she would mourn, but she "would be fine".
She would live and be herself again and there wouldn't be an empty hole in her chest because she was Astrid Hofferson, and Hoffersons rose above, and she had lied.
Because she knew the past few weeks were a culmination of everything they'd fought against for four years, and she knew it was supposed to last much longer than three. measly. weeks.
Astrid Hofferson was a smart, smart girl, and she knew what she was feeling was something permanent and immortal and bigger than what her heart could handle at 18 years of age, and she hated herself for hanging up so early.
She hated herself for not saying it.
Day eight was his parents looking through prosthetics. It was Toothless confused when they'd made the trip home for supplies and once again were without their son and his partner, and he was confused.
Day eight was her crying uncontrollably as she threw more rocks and ran more laps and tried to breathe. Day eight was Tuffnut driving and Ruffnut hugging and her parents finally getting her to sleep.
Day twelve was her being calm enough to do more than stare through the glass. She'd whispered the words and hoped he could somehow hear her. Day twelve was the twins behaving because their classmates were visiting; it was Snotlout realizing it was real and very bad, and visiting, genuinely concerned and plenty ashamed.
Day twelve was his parents being exhausted and falling asleep on the plastic seats for the twelfth night in a row.
Day fifteen was losing him for a couple of minutes.
It was her nightmare and theirs, and her pain and theirs. It was the Thorstons bashing the hospital walls and Astrid unsure if she wanted to join them or stop them.
Day fifteen was the day she hated the most, because it was an ultimatum and an inconceivable truth-that if he was gone, she was, too.
(She'd started whispering a lot louder that night, because if he was going to leave her she wanted him to at least know.)
The nineteenth night was like a revival in tandem; he had moved, and she had breathed.
Ruffnut had ordered pizza and Tuffnut had bought ice cream and the three of them decided that at this point they might as well eat away their feelings, because forget it, they weren't doctors. Astrid had ranted about Hiccup's stupid arm movements and his hair and his all-around sappiness, and she ranted about how she was ranting, and she bawled. And the twins were amazed at how hard she had fallen and how fast and how it was actually perfect, and, "You know what? He'll be fine. Because if he isn't, you'll kill him."
And somehow it was three weeks, and the doctors moved him out of the ICU, and he was "going to be okay" and "he's a fighter".
(The kids had celebrated by sleeping a full eight hours, waking up in a hospital room-a real one that was just for him, where they could stay 24/7 and talk to him, and where Astrid could whisper in his ear about how much she cared, and where the twins could talk to him for hours about absolutely nothing.)
Then it was four days to Christmas, and emerald green met pristine blue.
What? I'm not like, pure evil.
r&r&r&r eY
