Missing Hiccup

A/N: Hey, guys, this is my new story. It's so angsty even I got downhearted while writing it, but ehh...I didn't get the idea myself, I originally got it from an HTTYD video somebody did for Hiccup walking the world in death and then I thought...what if...? The message of the story, nor the plot, nor the song or anything was found in the video. Just the idea is where I got it from.

The song I imagine would go well with this story is called 'Missing' by Evanescence. It reminds me of death. Anyway, here's my new story, it's angsty as heck and...well, I'm proud of it :D

I hate those books that tell you death is painless. I hate it when they say, 'death really isn't as painful as you might think'.

How would somebody dead be writing a book, huh? That's what I'd want to know.

And no, you're not reading this and I'm not writing it, so it doesn't count. I'm saying it to you. Can't you hear my words? Do you feel my breath?

Most importantly…are you missing me?

You'd be the first to miss me, actually.

Gobber acted like he missed me when he found my body and saw me hanging there, but after a few days, the regular hustle and bustle of the forge seemed to set him straight.

My dad never even batted an eye upon hearing the news. He went back to being his chiefly self and I was the forgotten boy and though I was missing, I was missed by no one.

My absence wasn't missed.

Word spread through the village and I remember walking by the teens at one point, talking in a cluster, whispering about something that had gone on and as I leaned closer to hear, I realized they were talking about me.

They talked about my suicide as if it was exciting, intriguing, positively thrilling and I was disgusted.

I wanted to be remembered – but not in that way.

I wandered after people and tried to make them see me, but the biggest blow was when I realized my dad didn't miss me.

There's an old Viking legend – ghosts can only be seen by those who truly miss them and want to see them again.

I walked noiselessly in front of my dad and waved a little. "Hi."

He didn't show any sign of recognition; he just glanced down at his untouched plate of food and sighed.

"So," I coughed, sitting down next to him. We ghosts don't float and we most certainly don't glide through things, the way all the old stories say we do – I learned that the hard way when I tripped and nearly embedded my teeth in one of the stairs shortly after my death. We sit and we stand and we walk, just like ordinary people. So it's like living…but being dead at the same time.

There are perks to being dead.

I get to do whatever I want. I can walk around Berk and just goof off, as opposed to before, when I was always trapped in the forge.

When I died, I suddenly felt lighter and freer, like I'd dropped the burden of my dad's disappointment and Snotlout's cruel words.

It felt great. Death is painful as hell, but once the actual 'dying' part is over, you're free and you feel great.

I did the normal dead people stuff at first, like try to haunt people, which consisted of following Ruffnut and Tuffnut around and giving off creepy little "ooohs" at random intervals throughout the day, but that got boring really quickly, so I cut that out.

I tried to scare the living by phasing through walls, like I'd heard ghosts could do and I just ended up with a really bad headache.

I tried to see if I could do ANYTHING ghostly, but turns out, I'm as bad at being dead as I was at being a Viking when I was alive.

I've heard ghosts are graceful and mysterious and sexy; meet the opposite of all that.

I've heard ghosts follow their living family and friends around and feel so terrible because they're dead and they can't talk to their friends, but as no one missed me, I didn't care.

That's what led to this awkward dinnertime conversation, because I wondered if Dad missed me at all.

"Hey, Dad," I greeted. I waited for him to speak, to acknowledge that I'd spoken. "Dad?" I repeated.

He sighed and pushed his untouched plate of food away, picking up his mug and taking another sip out of it.

Then he hurled the mug halfway across the room and it smashed against the wall, the wood showing definite cracks, the liquid sloshing out and onto the wooden floor.

"Dad?" I edged towards him. Now I was really beginning to believe those old tales about the ghosts who felt terrible for the living. "Are you okay?"

He put his head in his hands as he slowly sank back down in his chair and I heard him making a strange sound, almost like he were crying, but he couldn't be, because Vikings never cried…right?

"Dad!" I practically yelled and when he didn't look up, I put my head in my hands, too, and whether or not he was crying, I cried, too.

I sank slowly to the ground, hands still covering my face. I'm not sure if I really cried, if ghosts even could cry, but I was miserable and lonely and so I sobbed into my hands that night.

I wonder why I'm even still here. I walk aimlessly around Berk, wondering if this is karma, if I did something bad, if I deserve this.

I can't think of anything I did, besides being a hiccup, but that's not technically my fault, so that's dismissed.

I look out my bedroom window and see that the moon is shining brightly down over Berk and I hear snippets of conversation from downstairs.

Since nothing matters about what I do anymore – as if it ever did in life – I sometimes use my old room.

Ghosts can get tired, but only if they try to do stuff like appear to people – that is one ancient myth these people got right.

I sigh as I push open my bedroom door and go downstairs to see Gobber sitting at the table with my dad, who's crying. Actually crying.

"I can't do this anymore, Gobber," Dad confesses in a voice thick with tears. "I can't go on."

"Stoick," Gobber says firmly and I sense both a bit of sympathy and a healthy dose of tough love coming his way, "your village needs you. Especially at a time like this. Even I could understand what you went through, but the boy…he's been gone, Stoick. Please. Keep living, if for nothing else then for the village."

Dad drew a rattling breath and Gobber continued. "It would break his heart if you were to die because of him."

Dad swallows and swipes at his eyes. "I'm trying so hard," he whispers. "But I just miss my son."

He said it. Did he say it?

I heard it. Did I hear it?

He misses me. Does he miss me?

Does he?

I know that the sudden, brief happiness I feel is wrong; I shouldn't like it that my dad is upset and I don't. I'm just glad he misses me. That I'm not unimportant to him.

I shouldn't be glad he's breaking down.

And then it hits me: he's breaking down because of me.

I was the cause of all this, wasn't I? Those sleepless nights where I thought I heard him sobbing – I didn't want to believe that they were from grief over me, because – sick and twisted and horrible as I know it is – I didn't want to get my hopes up.

My dad is crying for the second time I can remember seeing him cry and I realize how stupidly selfish of me my last act as a living, breathing person was.

I left my dad alone, with no family or anybody to be there for him.

First my mom and now me. He must feel as if he's cursed to lose everyone.

In that moment, I want to reach out to him, to hug my dad and tell him 'I love you' because I never dared to do it in life and now he's crying because damn it, he misses me and I can't do anything.

I fall back against the wall and cry, our tears falling in perfect sync, because I'm away from him and he's away from me and though I can do nothing about it, I want a second chance because I know now that I'm dead that he misses me.

I know now that he loves me and if I had had that knowledge in life, I might have found the courage to love him in real life.

But now I'm loving him and he's missing me and we're both crying. Gobber sits there between us, just looking at my dad sadly from across the table, because he knows he has no power over it, either.

He misses me and I miss him.

In life, I could have bounded across the room to him and hugged him. I could've thrown myself in his arms and felt his strong Viking hands around my body, encasing me and embracing me and helping me through, loving me.

In death, I sit here crying, stuck in an icy cold body, unable to hug him, separated from him by a whole world and he is missing me.

He misses me and I miss him.

Even though we're right there beside each other, we may never be together again.