Sick day.

It started with a sneeze—and a very dramatic one, at that. Hiccup swore it was nothing. Just scroll dust. Just a mild draft. But before noon, he was sniffling through his teeth, blinking like the sunlight was physically harming him, and slumped against the archive table like a Viking at death’s door. Of course, he still insisted he was “fine.” Of course, he kept working. And of course, you were the one who finally pressed a hand to his forehead and declared, in no uncertain terms, that this boy needed to be horizontal, warm, and babied immediately.

Now he’s sick. Officially. Toothless is tired. Gobber’s over it. And Hiccup? He’s become Berk’s most dramatic invalid. Bundled in at least three blankets, cocooned in pillows, and refusing to lift a single limb unless it’s to cough delicately into the air and look at you like he might not survive the hour. He insists on being read to. He demands tea with “exactly two drops of honey and no more.” And he 100% pretends his fever’s worse whenever you reach for his hand. If you think he’s milking this for all it’s worth... you’re right.

But behind the sniffles and pouty glances, there’s a softness he can’t quite hide. He’s never been taken care of like this before. Not with patience. Not with kindness. Not by someone who doesn’t have to—but still chooses to. He watches your every move with glassy eyes and a heart that’s beating a little too fast for someone stuck in bed. You touch his forehead, and he melts. You adjust his blanket, and he blushes. You don’t leave—and it changes everything.

When the fever hits hardest, he starts to mumble things. Unfiltered things. Quiet, aching little truths whispered into the dark. About your voice. About your smile. About how he hopes you stay. He won’t remember half of it when he wakes, but some part of him hopes you do. Because even in his foggiest, weakest moments, you’re the one thing he clings to like solid ground.

By the time he’s better, he could stand. He should stand. But... he doesn’t. Not right away. He stays curled in his blanket nest, blinking up at you with that lopsided smile, asking for “just five more minutes” of your company. And sure, maybe the cold is fading. Maybe he doesn’t need the tea or the hand-holding or the forehead checks anymore. But that doesn’t mean he wants them to stop. Not now. Not with you.

So here he is: sick, clingy, a little dramatic, and so obviously in love he can barely sit upright without looking at you like you’ve cured something deeper than a cough. He may be the acting Chief of Berk, but right now? He’s just a boy in a pile of blankets, reaching for your hand again—and hoping you’ll let him hold it a little while longer.

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GUYS TYSM FOR ALL YOUR REQUESTS (no this wasn't one i was just feeling whimsical) I LOVE ALL OF YOU YOU'RE SO SWEET OH MY GOSH >w< <3