Author's Note: So I took a little break from writing. This story isn't all that high up on my to-do list, so regular updates won't be a thing for either a very long time or ever. Also, I won't be responding to reviews this time around. Thanks for reading!


Her arms remember razor blades, fifty scars that speak of self-inflicted wounds.

-Jamie Tworkowski


Astrid sat alone at the kitchen table, her eyes glued to the clock on the wall as its ticks and tocks echoed throughout the house. The bouquet of pink roses, her mother's favorite, she had picked out on her way home from soccer practice had already lost several petals.

He was late. Again.

She had debated taking the flowers to the home on 22nd street herself, but decided against it for his sake. Now she was paying the price.

The door at the end of the hall clicked open suddenly, followed by the hollow thuds of his footsteps. Astrid straightened as her father walked into the kitchen, his hair a mess and his shirt untucked.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. They needed me to stay just a little longer tonight to fill out some paperwork," he said. "Just let me hop in the shower and we'll get going."

Astrid swallowed hard. "Dad?"

"Yes?"

"There was no paperwork, was there?" she whispered, watching with disappointment as his shoulders sagged. That was the only answer she needed.

Astrid stood and cradled the bouquet into her arms, the legs of her chair screeching against the floor. She didn't wait for him to make another poor excuse, a lie, before marching down the hallway. Her heart was torn by the emotions flowing through her.

"Astrid, just wait a minute!" Her father jogged after her, his blue eyes muddied by shame. "Just let me explain-"

"I can't believe you!" she cried. "What was it? Another woman? A night with the guys at the bar? Today was supposed to be her day and you took that from her. You took that from me."

"She's gone. There's no use in focusing on the past. You'll be forced to move on eventually, so why not now?"

Astrid scoffed. "So it was a woman," she mumbled before stepping outside. She ignored her father's pleas as she walked down the street, her skin cold and numb.

Of all days, he had chosen this day to betray her.

The trip to 22nd street was brief but cooled her temper. She opened the iron gate with her free hand before running up the steps and crossing the grass to a familiar willow tree. She knelt under it, her eyes trained on the marble angel with the inscription at its sandaled feet:

In loving memory of

Ingrid Hofferson.

May 4th 1971 - June 17th 2005

"No day shall erase you from the memory of time," Astrid read aloud. She set the roses in front of the weeping angel and touched the smooth stone gently. "Happy Mother's Day, mom."

"Dad would be here, but...you know how he is. He's, um, pretty busy with work these days. I still wanted to see you."

Astrid crossed her arms as a whisper of a breeze traveled through the cemetery, chilling her to the bone. She couldn't leave yet though, not when she might not be able to return under her father's watch for a long time.

"We miss you every single day. You were always so happy all the time, even when something was on your mind. The house isn't the same anymore without you around. Dad let me plant roses in the backyard last summer though, right next to the swing where we used to read, so I'll always have a part of you with me," she said.

"I know you would be upset, but I'm not sure I'll graduate next year. I'm really trying, but school is so hard now. I don't understand any of it and no one will slow down to explain. Maybe I'll end up like one of those dropouts, living on ramen and cigarettes."

The gates to the cemetery creaked open, followed by hushed voices.

"I should get going. Love you, mom."


The first thing Astrid noticed that night wasn't the color of his eyes, or the way his russet hair fell into his face when he grinned, or the freckles that dotted his pale skin like constellations. Sure, she took the time to observe these things as the night progressed, but they were so far from the first.

Hiccup was different.

From the plain green furniture in the living room adorned with tufts of cat hair to the way he smiled at her in the silence, she could see it. He was nothing like her and she loved that about him. To not see herself reflected in every little move-the tears, the bruises, the severed ties-was a pleasant surprise. At first she was hesitant to let the warm feeling of contentment overwhelm her, but with Hiccup's gaze on her she hadn't much choice.

Yet Astrid could still feel the odd pangs in her heart, a cold, empty feeling she had long since grown used to, and that alone worried her that maybe he wasn't as different as she thought he was. Different should have made her smile until her cheeks ached and laugh until she cried and long for just one more minute with him. She didn't feel any of that.

Broken. The word echoed in her head like a far off gunshot, close enough to send a wave of ice water through her veins but distant enough that she willed herself to choose fight over flight.

A burst of laughter snatched her attention. She glanced at the movie still playing on the TV across the room. She folded her legs under her, setting the plate on the coffee table in front of her. Hiccup glanced up at the sudden noise.

"So...how was it? Am I going to be the next Gordon Ramsay?" he asked, grinning as he took their dishes into the kitchen. She followed him, her arms draped across her chest.

"The amount of salt used was questionable," Astrid said quietly.

"What, you've never heard of a pinch? No one measures. It's all in the fingers." Hiccup set the dishes in the sink and turned to face her, amusement clear in his eyes. She reflected it with her own gaze as best she could.

Hiccup's lips twitched and then cracked into a smile as he laughed. Astrid frowned, confused. "What's so funny?" she asked.

"Your dress. The sleeve." Hiccup stepped forward, taking her right arm into his left. He grasped the sleeve of her dress, as if preparing to lift it, bearing the pale, swollen skin beneath. "There's something right-"

Astrid's eyes widened, her breath hitching in her throat. The room spun, her stomach churning uneasily. She staggered back and banged her hip on the edge of the small dining table, cradling her arm against her chest.

A heavy silence hung over the room for what felt like hours. Astrid could feel the wetness forming at the corners of her eyes as she turned away, bracing herself against one of the chairs, terrified and humiliated all at once. He knew. There was no way he couldn't after the way she reacted. She had just blown her one chance at being something close to normal again into a million pieces.

"Astrid...are you okay?" Hiccup asked softly.

She nodded, straightening up as she blinked away the tears. "Just fine. I thought…I thought I saw something."

"It's just us, Astrid. You know you can talk to me, don't you?"

"Thanks but no thanks, Hiccup. It's okay. Really. I'm sure I'll be fine after I get some sleep," Astrid said, her voice cracking suspiciously. She could feel her heart bursting in her chest, her very being shouting at her to stop, to let him hold her like her mother used to, as silly as it sounded in her head.

The floorboards creaked behind her, followed by the telltale scuffs of footsteps. "I don't like seeing you like this. I know something is wrong and it's okay for you to hurt. Everyone has their weak moments."

Weak.

Broken.

Different.

A dry sob forced its way from her lips. Her fingernails dug into her palms, but the dull sting did nothing to soothe her. Astrid could feel the remaining threads of self-control slipping away from her.

He was so close now that she could hear the gentle exhale of each breath leaving his lips.

Astrid kept her head down as she found her jacket and slipped it over his shoulders. "I need to go. Thanks for dinner," she said over her shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper. She could hear him following as she approached the front door. Then the fresh air kissed her cheeks and she was free. Tears streamed down her face as she broke into a run, her lungs as cold as ice. Far behind her, Hiccup slumped against his door, watching as she disappeared behind a dark house.