Finding Hiccup - Modern!Au ✔️

thirty four

I've gone up a level. That's the only way I can describe it.
If I was a hero in LOC I'd have like enhanced attributes, or some extra kick-ass weapon or something. I'm stronger. I feel taller. I bounce back quicker. It's been a week since Astrid and I watched QVC and yes, I've had one bad episode, but I didn't sink quite as low. Things weren't quite as dark.
Astrid has come over a few times and we always watch QVC and just chat or whatever and it's just...Well. It's good. Now it's Friday afternoon and even though I'm not at school, I've got that end-of-week feeling. The air's warm and I can hear children playing in their gardens. From the kitchen window I watch Snotlout running round the lawn with no clothes on and a watering can in his fist.
I hear the tinkle of an ice-cream van and I'm about to call out to Mum that we should get Snotlout an ice lolly, when she comes into the kitchen. Staggers, more like. Her face is so pale it's like mauve. And she actually holds on to the kitchen countertop as though otherwise she might fall over.
"Mum?" I eye her in alarm. "Are you OK?" At once I realize this is a stupid question.

She's not OK, she's poorly. "I think you should go to bed."
"I'm fine." She gives me a weak smile.
"You're not! You've got a bug. You need rest and fluids. Have you got a temperature?" I'm trying to remember all the things she says to us when we're ill. "Would you like a Lemsip?"
"Oh, a Lemsip." She breathes out, looking like a wraith. "Yes, that would be nice."
"I'll look after Sam," I say firmly. "You go to bed. I'll bring the Lemsip up."
I flip on the kettle and am rooting around in the cupboards for the Lemsip packet, when Heather arrives home. I can tell this from the almighty crash that comes from the hall. That'll be her school bag, a sports bag, her cricket bat, and whatever other junk she's got, all being dumped from a great height onto the tiles. She comes into the kitchen, singing some tuneless song and peeling off her tie.
"All right!" She punches the air, singing, "It's the weeeeeek-end...What's for supper?"
"Mum's ill," I tell her. "She's got, like, flu or something. I told her to go to bed. You should go out and buy her..." I think for a moment. "Grapes."
"I've only just got home." Heather looks unenthusiastic. "And I'm starving."
"Well, have a sandwich and then get her some grapes."
"What good do grapes do?"
"Dunno," I say impatiently. "It's what you have when you're ill."
I've made the Lemsip and found a couple of biscuits, and I put them all on a tray.

"Get Ribena too." I say. "And whatsit. Nurofen. Write it down." I turn to make sure Heather is listening—but she's not writing anything down. She's just standing there, giving me this weird, very un-Heather look. Her head is tilted and she looks sort of fascinated, or curious, or something. "What?" I say defensively. "Look, I know it's Friday, but Mum's ill."
"I know," says Heather. "It's not that. It's..." She hesitates. "D'you know something, Hen? You wouldn't have done this when you first came back from hospital. You've changed."
I'm so taken aback, I don't know what to say. Like, first of all, I didn't think Heather ever noticed things about me. And second of all, is that true? I try to think back, but it's a bit hazy. This is a side-effect of depression, Dr. Gobber has told me. Your memory gets shot to pieces. Which, you know, can be a good thing or a bad thing.
"Really?" I say at last.
"You would have just hidden in your room. Everything got you into a state, even the doorbell ringing. But now look. You're in charge. You're on top of it." She nods at me holding the tray. "It's...well...It's good. It's cool."
"Thanks," I say awkwardly.
"No probs." She looks equally awkward. Then she opens the fridge, gets out a carton of chocolate milk and plugs in her iPod buds. I guess this conversation is over.
But as I walk to my parents room with the tray, I'm replaying it. You're in charge. You're on top of it. Just the thought gives me an inner glow. I haven't felt on top of anything for...forever.
I tap on the door and go into my parents' room. Mum's lying in bed, her eyes closed. I think she's fallen asleep. She must have been exhausted.
I put the tray down as quietly as I can, on her dressing table.

There's a bunch of framed photos on the polished wood, and I linger, looking at them all. Mum and Dad on their wedding day...me and Heather as babies...and one of Mum with all her workmates, winning some award. She's wearing a pink jacket and clutching a Perspex trophy and beaming, and she looks totally vibrant.
Mum is a freelance brand consultant, which means that she does projects all over the country. Sometimes she's really busy and sometimes she has weeks off, and that's how it's always been. She came to my school and talked about her job once, and showed us this supermarket logo redesign she'd worked on, and everyone was really impressed. I mean, she's cool. Her job is cool. Only now I'm looking at this photo I'm wondering: When did she actually last work?
She was on a project when I got ill. I can vaguely remember hearing her talking to Dad about it, hearing her say, "I'm pulling out. I'm not going to Manchester." All I felt then was relief. I didn't want her to go to Manchester. I didn't want her to go anywhere.
But now...
I look at the photo again, at Mum's happy, shiny photo face—and then down at her tired, asleep, real-life face on the bed. It hadn't occurred to me that Mum had stopped working completely. But ever since I've been at home, I realize, she hasn't gone to her office once.
I feel like I'm slowly coming out of a fog and noticing things I didn't before. What Dr. Gobber said is true: you get self-obsessed when you're ill. You can't see anything around you. But now I'm starting to see stuff.
"Henry?"
I turn to see that Mum is pushing herself up on her elbows.

"Hi!" I say. "I thought you were asleep. I brought you some Lemsip."
Mum's face cracks into a smile, as though I've made her year.
"Sweetheart," she says. "That is so kind."
I bring the tray and watch as she sips the hot drink. Her face is so distant that I think she might be falling asleep again, but suddenly she focuses on me.
"Henry," she says. "This Ally."
I feel my defenses rise at once. Not Ally. This Ally.
"Yes?" I say, trying to sound casual.
"Is she...?" She trails off. "Are you...? Is she a special friend?"
I can feel myself squirming inside. I don't want to talk about Astrid to Mum.
"Kind of." I look away. "You always say I need to make friends. So. I did."
"And that's great." Mum hesitates. "But, Henry, you need to be careful. You're vulnerable."
"Dr. George says I need to push myself," I counter. "I need to begin building relationships outside the family again."
"I know." Mum looks troubled. "But I suppose I'd rather you began with...Well. A boy friend."
"Because boys are so cool and awesome and lovely," I retort, before I can stop myself, and Mum sighs.
"Touché." She takes a sip of Lemsip, wincing. "Oh, I don't know. I suppose if this Ally is a nice girl..."
"She's very nice," I say firmly. "And her name isn't This Ally. It's Ally."
"What about Nathan?"
Nathan. A tiny part of me shrivels automatically at the name. But for the first time in ages, I can also feel a kind of longing. A longing for the friendship we had. For friendship, full stop.

There's quiet in the room as I try to pick through my muddled thoughts. Mum doesn't push me. She knows it sometimes takes me a long time to work out what I think. She's pretty patient.
I feel like I've been on this massive long, lonely journey, and none of my friends could ever understand it, even Nathan. I think I kind of hated them for that. But now everything's feeling easier. Maybe I could see Nathan sometime? Maybe we could hang out? Maybe it wouldn't matter that he can't understand what I've been through?
There's a photo on Mum's dressing table of Nathan and me dressed up for last year's Year 9 prom, and I find my eyes swiveling towards it. Nath's in a black velvet suit and I'm in blue. We're laughing and pulling party poppers. We did that picture about six times to get the party poppers just right. They were Nath's idea. He has funny ideas like that. I mean, he does make you laugh, Nath.
"Maybe I will call Nathan," I say at last. "Sometime." I look at Mum for a reaction, but she's fallen asleep. The half-full Lemsip is tilting dangerously on the tray, and I grab it before it can spill. I leave it on her bedside table in case she wakes up, then tiptoe out of the room, full of a kind of new energy.
"Heather," I demand as I enter the kitchen. "Has Mum given up work?"
"Yeah, I think so."
"For good?"
"Dunno."
"But she's really good at her job."
"Yes, but she can't go out, can she?"
She doesn't say it, but I know what she means. Because of you.

Because of me, Mum is hanging around at home, worrying and reading the Daily Mail. Because of me, Mum looks all tense and tired instead of shiny and happy.
"She should work. She likes work."
Heather shrugs. "Well. I expect she will. You know..."
And again, the unspoken hangs in the air: When you get better.
"I'll go and get the grapes," she says, and ambles out of the kitchen. And I sit, staring at my blurry reflection in the stainless steel fridge. When I get better. Well then. It's up to me to get better.