Chapter Text
Mabel liked to think herself an authority in regards to the old, complicated art of self-esteem, continuously weaving a web of methodical analogies and well-concocted responses within her mind when faced with the intricate conversational detours that were all too common amidst her inner circle. For all the simplicity the topic brought, like a metaphorical suitcase to unpack, there was a fine line between diving and drowning, the thin, imperceptible difference between the ticking seconds that made a difference, that much she could discern. Mabel continued to brush her brother’s hair, diligent and firm in her task, movements gentle yet automatic in their nature, virtually instinctive, as their back-and-forth resumed in the background. She did not have an answer for everything—quite the contrary, matter of fact—but it was in Mabel’s nature to press forth no matter how unfavorable the circumstances, odds tilted against her favor, unwavering and determined. Dipper, bless his heart, wasn’t as resolute, his conviction dwindling with the passing minutes.
“It makes you special.”
He blanched.
“I don’t wanna be special.”
For the briefest of moments, Mabel stilled, her movements steadily trickling to a close. She caught herself and resumed, the hard, unyielding bristle delicately tugging at her brother’s tangled bedhead. One of her hands grazed his golden lock of hair, to the left, an evident oddity amidst his tawny curls, as she gingerly tucked it behind his ear; out of sight, out of mind.
“Don’t be silly.”
“I’m not.”
“Debatable.”
“Ouch.”
“It’s distinctive, it’s cool, it’s pretty. What I’d give to have a blonde curl like that.”
“Don’t steal my hair, Bee.”
“Wasn’t really planning to,” Mabel responded, nonchalant and composed, a twinge of playful mirth creeping into her voice as she spoke, “but I’m glad you’ve decided to give me that much-needed vote of confidence, bro-bro.”
“Sorry.”
“Nah, it’s fine, I was just joking around.”
Dipper chewed on the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowed, ruminating on this rueful predicament.
“Should I cut it off?”
“Think you tried that twice and it didn’t work.”
“Third time’s the charm?”
Mabel shrugged, indifferent. “If you wanna waste an afternoon, maybe.”
“Ugh.”
The pause that lay untold between the pair was as awkward as it was suffocating in its purpose, like the turning tides of war befallen upon them. Mabel clicked her tongue, a question at the ready as usual, her resolve inexorable despite sounding unsure. It was, admittedly, a silly, inconsequential topic, a blossoming argument that’d been peeking through Dipper’s dilapidated psyche for the longest time like the decaying roots of a tree making their way to the surface, yet they couldn’t help but indulge in this squabble that refused to die.
“Does it bother you that much?” Mabel inquired, earnest.
Dipper thought about it.
“I don’t think so.”
“Then why get rid of it?”
“You know I hate attention, and it stands out too much.”
“Does it?”
“I guess.”
“You could always wear a hat.”
A pause. It clicked.
“Huh.”
“‘Huh’?”
“Huh, just… huh,” Dipper admitted, taken aback by the simplicity of it all, “never really thought of that.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mabel was met with resistance when she found one particularly entwined curl that seemingly refused to budge under her combing. She tugged at it firmly in a moment of uncharacteristic harshness, unaware of the consequences as the sudden spike of pain coursing through Dipper’s scalp forced a yelp out of him, his surprise not a pleasant one; this action was followed by a covert grimace and a low hiss, bordering a whisper. Mabel winced in sympathy, having been there before. Her countenance mirrored her apologetic tone.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
The silence resumed for a brief period of time, inexplicably serene, before splintering entirely as Mabel’s babbles rose to the surface under the pressure.
“She didn’t mean it.”
“Huh?”
“Mom. She didn’t mean it. You know she didn’t.”
An exhale, slow and steady, if not a tad desperate, a tad supplicant.
Dipper stifled his utter disdain for the topic, knowing his sister came from a place of love in her meddling, misguided as her attempts may have been. Their mother’s animalistic caterwaul when faced with the news had been branded onto his mind like hot iron on tender skin, the wails of loss and despair reverberating throughout the frail palisades of his cortex like an intrusive thought. It wasn’t his fault, Dipper told himself, not at all confident in his own assertion. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“I know.”
“She’ll come around,” Mabel said.
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Well, here’s hoping.”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“Hey, I have an idea, what if I—”
“No, Bee,” Dipper said, firm in his tone yet equally as weary, having long gone through this same argument before and steadily growing tired of this process, the one he was well-aware he would inevitably be forced to repeat, “you cannot put glitter on my hair.”
“Aw.”
“It’ll never come off.”
“Not even a teensy weensy bit?”
“Do you want me to look like a disco ball?”
“That’d be a good look on you.”
Dipper looked nonplussed. “This isn’t a good argument.”
“Pfft,” Mabel tittered in response, waving a free hand insouciantly, “like you ever come to me for that.”
“You’re right, that was my mistake.”
“Well, you know what they say: when you assume, dear brother, you make an ass out of you and me.”
“Where did you learn that?”
“Saw it in a Dream Boy High movie once, don’t really remember which one, and I’ve been itching to use it on you ever since.” Mabel squinted, tongue out in concentration, parting a section of her brother’s mane as she swept to the right in small ripples. “It lives rent free in my head. Thank you for this opportunity.”
Dipper looked deeply pained.
“Glad you got that out of your system.”
“Call me crazy if you dare,” Mabel said, “but you don’t sound all that glad about it.”
“It’s very bittersweet.”
“I get that.”
“Do you?”
“Not really, but I wanna make you feel better.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
Withdrawing her hand, the one that held the comb, Mabel admired the fruits of her labor.
“I’m done! My best work just yet.”
“It’s hair, Bee.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t be considered art, bro. You have no idea what I do with my fallen clumps of hair these days.”
“I’d rather you didn’t tell me.”
“Your loss.”
Hopping off her brother’s bed with a hearty, cheerful ‘hup!’, Mabel casually put the brush away, deep within the dim confines of their shared dresser, before moving to her own bed, skipping all the way. While the room would be alit with their banter under normal circumstances, the two ended up marinating in the suffocating silence that kept them bound like a snare instead, not a word uttered, as though fried alive by the unforgiving hands of unease. Something had to be done.
“So…”
“So…?”
Mabel inched forth, legs crossed and hands on her knees, as something came to mind. “You wanna watch a movie?”
“Can I choose it this time?”
“Aw, no fair, you always end up choosing those boring documentaries instead!”
Dipper looked woebegotten.
“I don’t wanna see ‘Sparkly Men School, The Musical’ again.”
“Excuse you, it’s ‘Dream Boy High’.”
“What’s the difference.”
A gasp of great offense escaped Mabel’s lips.
“Dipper!”
“Fine,” he said, finding himself relenting, “how about we choose something different instead?”
“Roll a dice?”
“That never works in my favor.”
“That’s why I suggested it.”
“Cruel.”
“I like to think of it as self-preservation.”
“I don’t think you know what that word means.”
“Yup.”
And, in the end, nothing was decided.
“You know, Bee…”
Dipper smiled, sincere, meaning every word.
“I’m glad you’re my sister.”
“And I’m glad you’re my little bro, Dippin’ Sauce.”
“Five minutes, Bee.”
“Still counts!”
“Mabel.”
“C’mon, Dip, let me have this,” Mabel said, not above pleading, “it’s all I have left.”
“Aren’t you being a bit dramatic?”
“It’s one of the many arrows in my quiver, yes.”
A sigh.
“Alright, I concede.”
“Thank you for your sacrifice.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Pfft, wouldn’t dream of it.”
And thus their back-and-forth gave way to the quietude that followed. Dipper’s lips pressed into a thin line as he was cruelly reminded of his grim reality, like clockwork. He curled in on himself, tugging at his golden lock like a nervous tick, unable to prevent himself from dwelling on the subject any further, a futile exercise in misery that would do him no favors. He wished he could stop, yet the topic continued to knock at the doors of his mind, looming above his head like a charged cloud—a thunderstorm in the making, just beyond the allegorical horizon of his life. If Mabel had noticed his change in demeanor, she found it best not to comment on it. It wouldn’t be necessary. Dipper couldn’t keep his doubts to himself.
“… What if she hates me?”
“Hm?”
“Mom,” Dipper clarified, every word feeling like poison on his tongue, “what if she hates me now?”
“Why would she?”
“Because I… you know… don’t wanna be a girl anymore…”
“Does that matter?”
“It matters to her.”
“I don’t think it does.”
Silence.
“Even if she hates you, which I doubt,” Mabel said, resolute, “I’ll always be by your side, bro-bro.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Dipper looked on, unfocused, his gaze empty. Mabel pressed forth.
“What about you?”
“Huh?”
She said, not at all forceful in her inquiry, “Will you always be here for me?”
“Of course.”
“Then that’s settled.”
“Is it?”
“It is.”
“I’m glad.”
Mabel smiled, glad her brother’s consternations had, at last, come to a close; coincidentally enough, so had hers.
“And so am I.”
A bond forged in blood, and nothing more.