Those Who Stay

A/N: Okay, so this chapter is pretty bad - there's nothing, like, really outwardly wrong with it, it's just not as good as I guess it could've been (but then the name's .ryder, you guys associate subpar writing with that name by now I'd think) - but I was in a hurry because I gotta let you know before next month that I probably won't be on for likely the whole month of September. I'm working on a lot of stuff - I'm putting a book out and I want it to be on the shelf by the end of next month, but to do that I gotta really bust my ass. (Don't misunderstand, the book is WRITTEN, I'm not that masochistic, but I just have a lot of work to do on it before I can do anything with it.) But since that'll eat up most of my time, I just don't think I'll have enough left over to work on fanfiction and such. I'll still continue writing and I'll finish this fic and others, I promise - there'll just be a noticeable gap in updates. I'm gonna try and get out a chapter for Break of Dawn and Overachiever before I go, I've seriously been neglecting those, but I dunno if I'll be able. I'm sorry I'm gonna be unavailable, but at the same time, I am honestly excited for myself and I hope you guys can understand and perhaps partake in my joy. If you want to see me, though, you might catch me on my personal Tumblr (writerofberk) more often than on here. Thanks for reading, and please review!

It went without saying that Mildew was thought to be – correctly so, it must be admitted – the selfish, unapproachable kind of man, harboring a great dislike for a great many things, and with piercing pale eyes that held the power to render young children rather skittish, the self-conscious rather embarrassed, and those in between rather annoyed.

Indeed, his manner was one so repulsive and unpleasant that, upon meeting him, one might assume that spite and loathing resided in pride of place within his soul, and in this assumption, one might not be radically incorrect.

But despite all that could be said of him, the fact remained that Mildew had yet to prove the long-running suspicion that he was anything beyond human – and if he was human, well, surely, even he could not be entirely immune to those vexing little distractions most would call emotions, and the more optimistic residents of Berk had remarked, on numerous occasions, that he simply must hold something softer than hatred within his twisted old heart.

Whether these claims held even so much as a grain of truth remained unconfirmed – yet it was true that the man had found himself, sometime during the previous day, wrestling unreasonable stirrings that others might have christened guilt. They started somewhere in the region of his chest, he noted, and they were uncomfortably warm and persistent and above all, extremely distressing. He had no reason to be experiencing this sort of discomfort, he had no reason to be feeling the way he was; sure, he had hollered at the boy, but the little accident had surely heard much worse from that father of his! Their fights were the talk of the village when gossip grew scarce, and if he were to believe everything he'd heard, the child had received far harsher rebukes from the chieftain than he, Mildew, would ever consider delivering to any youngster.

And it wasn't as though the boy wasn't deserving of a good tongue-lashing – actually, he was deserving of a real lashing, if Mildew were honest with himself, but unfortunately, one could be severely punished if they were witnessed laying so much as a hand on the chieftain's heir. Rotten, unbearable, infantile little brat…

Yet even the generous amount of verbal affronts he gladly heaped upon the boy in the safety of his own mind couldn't fully dull the sharp sting of self-reproach still prominent in the old man's heart – and so it was that shame blossomed at once within him when he spotted the chief's child, small hands tightly fisted, small mouth tightly sealed. Anger was evident in every last breath, seething unchecked from every pore; it was apparent in the rigid hold of his aloft, unforgiving chin, and it was certain and appreciable, even as he knelt by the hearth and, with practiced hand, coaxed a fire with his tinder and flint, spreading a wonderful, glowing wash of heat throughout the whole building; the boy had a powerful wrath, and for the first time it occurred to Mildew that he shouldn't like to be on the receiving end of it.

Mildew stayed silent for as long as he could, those piercing pale eyes of his fixed upon the other, studying the small body striding purposefully about the forge, taking a bent, cracked sword from the pile awaiting repairs and setting to work upon it, yet there came a time when he could stand it no longer, and so he spoke, albeit rather stiffly. "It's cold." Perhaps he could appease his conscience if he simply made conversation with the boy, if he made an honest effort to put the previous day firmly in the past.

The child lifted his head, surprise evident in his bright eyes. "I…I hadn't noticed."

Mildew could hardly fail to notice the dishonesty within the words, but he did not address it. "Winter will be coming soon."

"Yes, I…I suppose it will." Despite the very odd looks the child was throwing him, Hiccup had the grace to respond with the pretense of courtesy.

"I don't think it will snow today, though." Mildew could have kicked himself; what was he thinking? Why should he engage this boy in conversation? What wrongdoing, either real or perceived, was he even attempting to make amends for? And why was he berating himself in the first place? Why did he feel guilty?

"No." The child dropped his gaze back to the weapon awaiting him. "No, it's not cold enough."

"I should leave." Mildew rose suddenly from his seat, and the wooden structure creaked alarmingly behind him; no, he could not stay here another minute, he could not bear the child's puzzled looks and his own shame, burning determinedly in his breast, and he could not bear the fire crackling within and the wind howling without, and he could not bear the solemn responses he was receiving, as unexpected and unsettling as the guilt chewing and gnawing upon him like a starving cretin. Hopefully, the child would forget; hopefully, within the hour, he would not recall this strange instance, and they could return to despising each other and then the chief could return, and they could go their separate ways and he would never stray back into this horrible village and life could go on as it was…

"Okay." The boy never once looked at the man, standing by the door; his gaze was fixed always upon the sword in his hand, and when he next spoke, the words left his lips so very softly that the other nearly missed them. "It's kind of cold out, though, like you said – so if you want to…you know, take a minute to…to warm up by the furnace or something, go ahead. I'm not stopping you."

For a moment, it seemed to the old man as if the boy had stolen all the air from the smithy with these words, or perhaps he just could not think to breathe; everything about him suddenly locked, legs refusing to carry him any distance in either direction, fingers falling limp and lips crashing closed until not a thing moved save his eyes. He glanced firstly at the furnace, radiating the admittedly tempting light and heat; then he looked to the chair he had just vacated, the aged wood glowing faintly orange from the light of the flames; and then he turned to the child – reddish brows raised in silent question and round, freckled cheeks pinched in bafflement.

The boy had invited him to stay.

Oh, how he would have loved to respond; how he would have loved to accept, how everything in him longed to fall back into the chair and offer the child a smile and simply sit, simply let the other speak, just to feel the words washing over him like an icy ocean wave, how he would love to nod, to open his lips and allow words of sincerity and gratitude pass through them, how he would love to stay…yet he simply couldn't find it within himself to move.

"Seriously, though," the boy's voice broke through his thoughts, "please talk about something other than the weather." The words held a light, teasing undertone, clearly intended as jest; yet when Mildew laughed, he was not quite certain it was true amusement that triggered it. It was disbelief, perhaps; possibly amazement, or even simply a shield against every last bit of his previous shame; or perhaps, he concluded, perhaps it was honest pleasure or mirth. All the old man really knew was just how long it had been since he had last laughed; and he realized now how desperately he had missed it.

And that was when the child did something truly incredible.

Despite the shock coloring every last inch of his face; despite the wide-eyed look he sent the old man, brows rising so high they nearly disappeared amidst wayward auburn strands, despite the clear astonishment in his features, he composed himself and, unbelievably, his lips pulled up into a small, genuine smile. "Well, c'mon, then, if you're coming!" He motioned to the furnace as he spoke. "Don't just stand there. Your sheep would be a nice subject change," he added thoughtfully. "What's his name again? Fungus? Why isn't he here, anyway?"

Slowly, very slowly, Mildew took his aged hand away from the door and crossed the room with slightly shaking legs. "Yes. Fungus, that's right." It sent a kind of thrill through him to speak the words; he could not remember the last time he had opened his lips without the intent to hurt. "He's a bit ornery in the winters, and won't leave the house unless I carry him down the hill, if you can believe that…" Yet he wondered, as he lowered himself into the abandoned seat, how long this would go on; how long, he wondered, before something hurtful tumbled from his tongue, and the moment disappeared as if it had never been?

Mildew had a plan.

Now, whether or not the plan in question was precisely a good one definitely remained to be seen, but the point, the old man told himself, was that he had one, regardless of the quality. He had come to the startling conclusion that he needed a plan only the previous night, and had concocted it as swiftly as possible – which was quite swiftly indeed. He must simply enter the smithy, say his piece, and depart as speedily as circumstances would allow. He must do it – must go inside the warm little building and must speak to the child, he must…he wasn't certain what had caused the boy's sudden kindness; all he knew was that he must not allow it to continue. And so he would go, he would go into the smithy and he would be so vicious and cruel, so brutal and cold-hearted that the boy would soon forget he had ever been anything more. If he could just aggravate or enrage the child beyond endurance, then he could leave and they wouldn't ever see each other again, they could avoid each other for the rest of their natural lives…

The previous statement stands: whether or not the plan in question was precisely a good one remained to be seen.

The old man was so lost in his thoughts – so preoccupied with all the possibilities, he nearly missed the bit of torn paper nailed clumsily to the smithy door; but when his piercing, pale eyes fell upon the crumpled sheet fluttering wildly in the frigid autumn breeze, the elderly Viking paused, and placed two fingers against the bottom end in hopes of reading the messy, hastily-penned words.

OUT TODAY

COME BACK TOMORROW

"That damn kid!"