Catching Stars

A/N: Feeling shitty again.

Hiccup had noticed something about stories.

Most of the time, when people told them, they had some sort of opening line, some clever way of drawing the audience in – even if it was a casual anecdote spoken over champagne, all the stories he'd ever heard had a sort of opening to them, recalled, repeated, rehearsed.

Many of the stories he'd heard, their opening was simple, similar to the last. Well could he remember them.

It started with a look. A few too many. A thunderstorm. A smile. A second glance.

He wondered distantly how he'd begin his own story, were he ever to recount it. Were he ever to stand up at a party, solo cup clutched in a freckled hand, painted, practiced smile fixed in place, yellowing teeth bared in the grin he faked so well, how would he begin? It could be simple, like sharing news.

"I don't eat."

He could drag it out, tell them he had something to say. Wait to make sure everyone was listening before he started. "I made a mistake. I looked in the mirror. Now I don't eat."

Maybe he'd begin with an opening line, like other people did.

It started with a plate…and a question.

A plate of scentless scrambled eggs and crisp bacon gathered in a greasy pile on the side. A sleepless night spent tossing and turning and staring at the moonlight pouring weak silvery rays down upon his blanket, making bars on his ceiling, and the words in his brain, pounding and inescapable in his sore skull. What would happen if I disappeared?

Of course, it was a silly question, childish and pointless. And yet he could not get it out of his mind. When the teacher swept his gaze over Hiccup's desk, pale blue eyes never stopping, never faltering, as if his seat was empty, his desk unoccupied, like he wasn't there, and when he stumbled and fell onto the classroom floor and the other students turned their gazes from his fallen body as if the sight burned them, he wondered. What if I disappeared?

And when his father's stormy gray eyes raked unseeingly over his son's body, Hiccup had set his fork down without eating an egg, pushed away his plate without a bite of bacon.

And his father never noticed.

For a week after, he hadn't eaten breakfast. He'd pretended he was busy or that the eggs didn't taste right or make some excuse; sometimes, he'd rake it in the garbage with no explanation, green eyes fixed intently on his father's face every second.

And the other never looked up. The man took a calm sip of coffee and picked up his fork. And he never noticed at all.

That first week, Hiccup hadn't really thought it meant anything; it was more of a game to him than anything, a kind of vague, amusing morning entertainment. Will Dad notice if I don't eat today? It was a game, he told himself, and it didn't matter if his father looked or not.

Really, he'd meant to resume his ordinary routine when the man finally glanced up from his own empty plate and noticed his son's loaded one.

That was the thing, though.

He was still waiting.