Happy (belated) new year, everyone! Here is chapter 32, in which Snotlout figures some stuff out and Hiccup is being helpful. A bit of a shorter one but I still like it! Enjoy!

Chapter 32 - The Path

Snotlout sighed and rubbed his eyes, his screen swimming out of focus. He checked his watch, disappointed at what he saw. 12:36. He wasn't even two-thirds through his shift. It had been a remarkably quiet day today, with only Jim as company, who was busy with a workout at the moment. The two of them got on really well but likely wouldn't develop a friendship outside of work, and shifts with him weren't as much fun as they were with Hiccup and Gobber. He sighed again and pulled out his phone for the probably twentieth time in this past hour. He paused when he saw a message he hadn't seen before and his stomach dropped at the sight of it. Dad. For a second, he thought he might throw up and keeled over, steadying himself on the edge of his desk. Breathe, he thought. In. Out. You're okay.

He hadn't seen or spoken to his father in more than eight months now, without so much as a single message from him asking how he was or how things were going - not that he'd expected one. If he was completely honest with himself, he'd been glad to have had absolutely no contact with the man who unfortunately had to call himself his father. To receive a message from him now, of all times, on a random Monday afternoon, was the last thing he'd been expecting. Even worse, he didn't know what to do. Snotlout absolutely hated not knowing what to do. If he clicked on the message, would that mean there was a part of him still that longed for his old life back, even though it had scarred him beyond recognition? Would his former self recognise him in the mirror if he went back now? If he never opened the message, would he regret it? Would he regret it if he did open it? What would he do if it was simply more insults, targeting his most vulnerable points, where his father would know to push so it hurt the most?

Snotlout's finger was shaking as he clicked on the message. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

Take the flat. I don't want it. Sell it if you want, it read. And then, Goodbye. Good luck.

Silent tears were running down his cheeks before he even realised it. Quickly, he raised his arm to wipe them away with his sleeve, suddenly feeling sheepish, almost like he'd been caught doing something forbidden. A part of him shook his head at the thought, knowing better by now. He thought of Stoick, who'd openly cried with him. And then he remembered his father, who hadn't even cried at his ex-wife's funeral. Snotlout had been so young then. Too young, too small, too close to his mother for a loss like that. He remembered the day he had to go back to his father, the way he'd all but pleaded with the social worker to please, let him live with his uncle. The look on the social worker's face when he'd said that parental custody was the very first port of call in a case like this. He remembered him walking away, damning him to fourteen years of on-and-off hell on earth.

The implications of this message now made his head spin. Whether he would be able to step foot into the flat, he didn't know. Well, he thought glumly. I suppose I have the afternoon to think about it.

If he did do anything about it, he wanted to just get it over with. A sickening thought struck him, clutching its icy fingers around his throat and stomach. What if his father was still there? Somehow, he had pictured him on the ferry, belongings clumsily shoved into bags, writing the message as he watched the island of Berk disappear in the distance. What if, for some reason, he wanted to get Snotlout to come back to the flat they had shared?

Maybe it's a joke, a somewhat desperate voice in his head suggested, but he knew it was reaching. Clutching, almost, to something that would absolve him of having to make a decision.

He shook his head and re-read the message. Sell it if you want. Sell it? Why would his father just willingly give him the money? Or the property, for that matter.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Snotlout knew that the only possible reason for his father's message was nothing but cold, honest, shame. And for some reason, this was the absolute last thing he wanted it to be. To think that his father would feel remorse - when this was also the one thing Snotlout so desperately needed and wanted - made him sick to his stomach. The idea that deep down, his father was a complex, conflicted, broken and traumatised person, that he was fully, honestly human, existing with flaws. Perhaps this would force him to accept that there would never be just one way of looking at his father. That it would be too easy to completely write him off as a villain in Snotlout's own personal life story. To confront the idea that they had, indeed, had good times - great times, even. That there had been times in Snotlout's life where he had had a good father - not perfect, but good enough. Good enough to not be afraid of, at least. Fear had been the intermittent factor, dropping in and out of Snotlout's life. And at one point, the fear had started to be more present than not. Those had been the worst years.

He looked at the message again. For a moment, he contemplated calling Hiccup or Fishlegs, maybe even Stoick or Gobber, who might have understood better than anyone else. After a few moments, his heart beating up to his throat, he decided against it and put his phone down.

In recent years, Snotlout had learned that there was nothing wrong with asking for and receiving help. But there were, he decided, some walks you had to take alone.

He would have to face this by himself.

He had kept his spare key in his wallet the whole time. As he fumbled for it, hands shaking, he was painfully reminded that this would be the first time in almost ten months that he would unlock his father's front door - which, he supposed, would technically be his front door now. The thought of it made his stomach turn again and as the key turned in the lock with a click and the door swung open, the smell of his old home hitting him, he briefly doubled over, fighting the urge to throw up. Once the moment had passed, his shaking hands left the doorframe and reached to slowly push open the door further. He was met with a distinct whisky and musty dust smell, layering over the familiar smell of the flat.

Snotlout took a small step into the flat and stopped dead in his tracks, his gaze pulled downwards. He'd stepped on a giant pile of newspapers, junk flyers, and letters. He sighed. Of course. He bent to pick them up and immediately separated the obvious rubbish from the more important-looking letters, hoping to find evidence of his father's mortgage. He had realised he'd never actually bothered to ask if the flat had already been paid off.

Surely it must be, he thought. Unless this is just some kind of elaborate scheme to have me go through all the trouble and then get barely any money for it.

He sighed again and put the letters down, deciding to deal with this later, ignoring the fact that the thought of his father planning on Snotlout getting stuck with all the effort and hardly any reward seemed very on-brand but was perhaps playing into his villain perception of his father. He made his way into the mess of a living room. The first thing he did was tear open the blinds. The grey light revealed several empty pizza and takeaway boxes and bottles of half-empty beer. His father's favourite poison, whisky, also made an appearance with numerous empty bottles strewn across the small room. The smell was almost rancid, and he covered his nose with his sleeve to try and block the smell out - to no avail. Snotlout let out a frustrated groan and tore open the window, hoping that might help. As he stood in the mess of a living room, he realised he'd truly come completely unprepared - both emotionally and logistically. He had brought no bin bags, no cleaning supplies, no nothing. Then again, why on God's earth would he go through the effort of cleaning any of it?

"I wanna smash something in here," he muttered and stuck his head out of the window, breathing in the fresh air.

The longer he spent in here, the more his chest started to hurt, his heart being suffocated in his chest. The smell did not help. Whisky had always been the worst. Still, he couldn't smell it without starting to shake. And so he stood there, leaning out of the window, his eyes screwed shut, desperately trying to calm down.

He waited. Two minutes, three, four, five - his heart just wouldn't calm down, nausea threatening to overwhelm him and the cold, clammy, suppressive feeling of being here threatening to win. Snotlout let out a few curses, hitting the window frame. That also didn't help.

"Fuck this," he mumbled, pushed himself off of the floor, and made his way back into the hallway and out of the door. He pulled out his phone and dialled Hiccup's number. His cousin was the only person he knew for a fact right now would be off.

"Hey, Snot, what's up?" Hiccup's voice floated out of his phone's speaker. He sounded quite cheerful. Sorry I'm about to ruin that, Snotlout thought and said all he could muster, "Hey, I'm ... I need your help."

Despite having been caring for Astrid the past few days, Hiccup must have dropped anything and whatever he'd been doing immediately to come help him, Snotlout realised, as his cousin turned the corner onto the street Snotlout was on within the next fifteen minutes. He was panting slightly when he got there and pushed his hair out of his face, waving as he spotted Snotlout, who tentatively waved back.

"Do you want to explain?" Hiccup asked him as he came to a halt in front of him, his face open and, like always, Snotlout thought affectionately, without any judgement.

Instead of answering, he handed Hiccup the letter, who took it and scanned it, brows furrowed. His eyes widened. The words seemed to escape him.

Then came, "Are you going to sell it?"

Snotlout shrugged and leaned against the wall of the building. "I don't know. I don't wanna live in it, that's for sure." And then the words just started spilling out, and he couldn't have stopped them even if he'd wanted to. "I never thought I'd ever see this place again, let alone have to step a foot back into it. To be honest, I guess I was just kind of hoping he'd never ask me to do anything with it. I thought he'd just ... keep living here, I guess. I don't think I could live in it, and I don't think Fishlegs could either if we ever moved in, knowing what he knows. To be honest, I just kind of ... I just wanna throw it all out. Get a huge bin and throw everything away. All of it."

Hiccup looked at him, his expression not quite decipherable. Then, after a pause, he simply said, "Then let's do it."

Snotlout blinked. "What?"

Hiccup shrugged. "Well, let's organise a tip and let's throw it all away. Today. And then you never have to look at any of it ever again if you don't want to. If that is what you want."

For what felt like the first time that day, Snotlout managed a small grin.

"You know what, that sounds good. Do you think we could do it in a day?"

Hiccup grinned at his cousin as he pushed up his sleeves and made his way towards the house. "Only one way to find out."

Hope you enjoyed this one! Let me know what you think! I hope that you have a good day. If you didn't, take this virtual hug and make a hot beverage for yourself, you got this 3