That's the Beauty of Broadway [Hiccunzel]

(Five) Sunbeams

//A.N. Sooo. Yeah! Hi! Heheh... whoa, it's been... seven months, eh?

*crickets chirp*

More than half a year!

*crickets chirp*

Anyway. Thank you so much for reading. I know it's been a while, but here's the latest installment. It's short, almost a filler, but I'm in the process of writing the NEXT one (yes, the Rapunzel one) as we speak. This seemed pretty long already anyway, though, so I decided not to mix it up w/ the chapter I'm currently writing anymore. Enjoy.. if you can forgive me.

(Five) Sunbeams

If Hiccup could just patch things up with his dad, everything in his life would be pretty much awesome.

—Wait. No. That wasn't going to happen. Not there, not then. Not any time soon. Hiccup had gotten the first step of his play done, but until he was sitting in his future mansion, counting his money with maybe even a "significant other," he would have absolutely nothing to do with Stoick "The Vast" Haddock.

As Hiccup lay in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, he decided that he would eventually try to contact his dad—he wasn't that headstrong--when his career was up high enough, of course. Turning over and pulling the covers closer to himself, he shook the unsettled feeling off and drifted into an uneasy sleep.

*

Sunbeams was coming along beautifully—even Evan seemed to be enjoying himself. By now, Hiccup was practically jumping out of his skin to watch the entire play onstage with lights and a bit of smoke machine.

Opening night couldn't come fast enough.

*

Even if this was just a high-school play, Hiccup was still anxious. After all, it was his play. His words, his songs, his dances being put together and shown to the public. He had a right to be anxious.

This was the first chapter of what—with a little bit of blooming luck—would become a long and glorious career. So what if Eliza still needed to work on singing? By the time their play was over, they would come out stars.

Well, maybe not stars.

Meteors, yeah. They would come out meteors. 

*

Practice, practice, practice. That was all the teenagers were doing, day and night, night and day. Hiccup could see the determination in their eyes. It was just lovely, but he could tell some of them were already longing for the journey to be over. Well, that was the way some people were—not meant to be performers.

Some of them were meant to be playwrights, Hiccup thought as he left their practice one chilly afternoon.

Like him.

*

It was a strange and lovely thing for Hiccup to watch his play reenacted by teenagers. They weren't professional actors and actresses, sure, but they were pretty wonderful nonetheless. Dancing, singing, acting, the whole package. Music washed over Hiccup like a waterfall. The dancing put him on top of the world. And the emotion seemed about as real as taxes—in other words, very much real.

And then came the best part—the fruit of his labors, the big reward... the applause as the curtain closed. The parents clapped considerably loudly. Some whistled. Others even stood up. Although Hiccup knew that they were clapping for their children, who had put so much time and effort into getting everything in the play more or less right—not the playwright, who had put so much time and effort into creating everything in the play itself—it didn't take away the happy feeling inside his chest.

It was beautiful.

Hiccup thought he would explode from happiness.

But he couldn't do that.

He still had bigger fish to fry.

*

Hiccup's first cast party was probably one of the best parties he'd ever had the privilege to attend. He, the teachers, and the students had their fun backstage, digging out from big boxes of pizza. Now was the time to finally approach the boy he'd been loking for.

"Hey, Evan." Hiccup took a seat next to the freckled teenager, who despite being cast a main role, stayed by himself for the most part.

"Hello."

"So... I heard you like writing."

Evan's face turned red as the pajamas the author was wearing right now. "Um... yeah. How did you know?"

Whoa—he is a lot like me.

"Mulan told me." Hiccup inched forward, and made eye contact. He wasn't used to doing this—usually, he was the one who needed an intimate talking-to, but he wanted to make a connection with this boy. They shared something. "I'm a huge—like, huge fan of writing, too. Uh—what do you like to write about?"

Evan looked down. "War."

Hiccup paused. "War?"

"Blood. Gore. Endless hours of ruthless training." Evan seemed to be gazing at something far away in the distance. It was a while before he spoke again.

"It's not for everyone."

Hiccup knew that look too well; it was the look of a person who had been shut down countless times for what he liked.

Hiccup wanted to say something to him, to let him know that he loved war stories too, that he shouldn't listen to the people who brought him down (whoever they were), that he was probably an incredibly talented writer.

None of the three sentences would work. He didn't like war stories—not much, anyway. He didn't know whether or not Evan was an incredibly talented writer, and above all things he didn't want to lie. And if he simply told him, "Don't let them bring you down for what you like," well—it would sound so fake, so empty, so overused... like a self-esteem poster on the walls of a school in a principal's office.

Hiccup decided on a sentence that was as truthful and helpful as his brain would allow:

"I'd be interested in reading it. —Uh, if it's okay, of course."

Evan looked up. Hiccup couldn't read his eyes anymore.

"Thanks."

It was a simple word.

But it was a good one.

"Just... let me know if you need an editor, okay?"