Work Text:
October 2017
Since taking custody of a thirteen year old child - also known as his long-lost half sister - Dagur has felt more and more like a parent each day. Which has been... unnerving, to say the least.
It’s like someone handed him a raccoon and told him to take care of it. Only, in this hypothetical scenario, he’s never heard of a raccoon before, let alone taken care of one. And every minute, he’s afraid to do something wrong- is he being too talkative? Not talkative enough? Should he encourage her to go outside more? Or let her do her own thing - she is a teenager after all - and she reads a healthy amount anyway.
He often lies awake thinking about it at night, worries in the thousands pounding his brain. Then he stops short, because he sounds like a parent.
And he is not a parent. He has legal custody of her. He is her half brother, and - embarrassingly enough - he barely even knows her. He has yet to ask what her favourite foods, colours, flowers are, how she likes her coffee (or whether she even drinks it at that age), stuff like that.
Stuff a real brother - a better brother - should know. A brother who was there for her her whole life. That didn’t even begin to compare to the memories they should’ve shared. He is seven years older than her, for goodness’s sake, he should’ve been the overeager but loving big brother his parents pretended to roll their eyes at.
In actuality, he was the curious but discouraged big brother who decided his baby sister wasn’t important when she was taken into foster care. Oh, and his parents are dead. That too.
Still, it didn’t make up for the absence of memories between the two. He should’ve been there for the first thirteen years and four-ish months of her life!
Then, he drives past a carnival poster, and an imaginary lightbulb goes off in his brain.
The next evening, he cooks spaghetti bolognese and brings up the idea.
“A carnival?” Heather stares at him, bemused.
“Why not? I think it would be fun.”
Heather looks into the distance for a while, then back at him. “I’ve never been to one of those before.”
“Same. Not that I can remember anyway.” He’s sure his father Oswald took him sometime; he barely remembers those days before he was eleven, only a wash of anger and confusion and fear.
Heather deserves memories better than that.
They go on the second day the carnival is in town, waiting for the initial hype to die down. Luckily, it’s a nice day: not too busy, and not too sunny. Just right, like Goldilocks. Dagur remembers that story from somewhere.
As he and Heather walk through the entrance and buy a handful of tickets, he smiles to himself. He was confident. He felt prepared - two things that never usually occurred in his life. He has a set of conversation starters in his head, money for snacks, water (he refuses, on principle, to buy water), and probably anything else he could fit into his backpack there’s a tiny chance of him needing.
So he’s an overthinker. What of it? He’s fine to stand in line with Heather, and watch the ride go around until it’s their turn.
Five minutes pass, and he can hardly stand still. Maybe he overestimated himself. It feels like wasps are buzzing up and down his skin, itching to move, to run around, to maybe even climb the stupid ferris wheel and jump off it into the lake just to feel something.
He risks a glance at Heather, and she seems fine. Happy, even. She’s looking around, her eyes wild with wonder, asking questions about everything from how the rides work (“I’m afraid I don’t know.”) to whether he can buy them ice cream (“maybe, Heather. I’ll see how much it costs.”) and whether she can play a funfair game.
“Okay, definitely not,” Dagur says, shaking his head, “those things are rigged.”
“And you know that how?”
“Because I’m amazing at unrigged games, and ones at funfairs are always, always rigged.”
“So you’ve been to one of these before?” Heather raises an eyebrow.
“Oh- oh, yeah. Sorry, did I not say?”
“No.” Heather looks down at her shoes, scuffing patterns in the mud with her trainers.
“Sorry,” Dagur says, though he’s not sure what for. Heather’s feelings seem hurt either way, so he changes the subject.
“Do you have your eye on anyone at school?” Dagur asks, gently nudging her with his elbow.
“Nah, not really.”
“Well when you do, he’d better treat you right.”
“I’m gay,” she says calmly.
“Oh.” Dagur isn’t quite sure how to respond. Maybe he should apologise for assuming she was straight. Which is a bit ridiculous, being queer himself; he should know not to make heteronormative stereotypes. “That’s totally cool, by the way. Sorry for assuming otherwise. An- and I’m bi. So, like. You can talk to me. I get it.”
“Thanks. And it’s okay, you didn’t know,” Heather assures him. “But yeah, I’ll make sure she treats me right.”
“You’d better.” A new question occurs to him. “If you want to put a pride flag up or something, you can. I know a lot of teens your age do that.”
“Might do.”
“However you wanna decorate your wall, sis. Just don’t burn anything.”
She opens her mouth to reply, but the attendant beckons them forward, and the moment is lost. Dagur shrugs. It was a good moment nonetheless.
Dagur can tell from the lack of actual ride security that the ride is going to be very boring. But Heather seems excited to be there. For her sake, he tells himself.
The ride starts, and the initial excitement is quite special. Dagur and Heather watch the floor zoom out from underneath them, the carnival shrinking to the size of a dollhouse, and...
The rider judders to a halt. Another group of people begin to get on the ride. Heather watches them. Dagur stretches his legs onto the seat opposite.
“So...” Dagur drums rhythms on his knees.
“So,” Heather says.
Heather and Dagur speak at the same time:
“This is kind of boring.”
They turn to look at each other, and burst into laughter.
For some reason, it’s the most hilarious thing in the world to both of them, and they clutch their sides as they laugh, their throats on the verge of aching.
“Shall we pick a more exciting ride?” Dagur asks, in between gasps for breath. Heather nods, her face red.
“The Clown?” She suggests when she can finally speak coherently.
“Sounds good, sis.”
Heather doesn’t respond, but he does see her smile. And that’s a win in his book.
After an agonisingly long time waiting for their carriage to get back down to the bottom, the ride finishes, and Dagur is itching for adrenaline. Heather looks eager enough (because he would never force her to ride a ride she didn’t want to go on) so they go and stand in the queue.
“So.” Dagur kicks at a stone on the ground. “What’s your favourite colour?”
“Green. Definitely. And purple or silver in second place.”
He looks at her, and he can definitely imagine her in those colours: a striking, silver skirt, or an earthy green jumper. Smokey purple eyeshadow, if she likes makeup. Maybe he should take her clothes shopping. That’s a very parent-ly thing to do. Or would it just be weird, and would she rather go with someone from school?
He decides not to worry about that for now, and asks another question:
“Your favourite food?”
“Why, are you actually cooking tonight?”
Dagur laughs sheepishly. They normally get takeout, eat out at restaurants, or eat cold food (because Dagur has to be all grossly economical and responsible sometimes ). He’s bad at using the gas stove, and getting it replaced is more trouble than it’s worth to work around it. Even though he needs to feed a teenager three good meals a day.
But he shrugs and says “might do. Only if you tell me what you want.”
“I like pasta,” Heather says. “Any kind, really. If you do plain pasta, I don’t mind.”
Dagur imagines Heather with another set of uncaring foster parents, her sullen face picking at a small bowl of dry, plain pasta, and gets a horrible swooping feeling in his stomach.
“Well I don’t have sauce, but I have soup.”
“Soup? Have you never actually cooked before?” Heather laughs.
“Honestly, no. And if chicken noodle soup can be a thing, why not other kinds of pasta in other kinds of soups?”
“Chicken noodle soup is different ,” Heather argues.
“If you insist.”
They’re still debating it by the time they get to the front of the queue, though they’re laughing, making the occasional jab at each other. Like siblings do, Dagur thinks. Like he’s seen happen in books and movies and TV shows: portals to a reality he could see and hear, but never quite touch.
“Here. Come sit next to me.” Heather says. Dagur obliges and clips himself in, kicking his legs on the seat and drumming his fingers.
Heather peers curiously at him. “Must you do that?”
“Oh. Sorry.” He stills, even though the feeling tingles under his skin.
“No, you don’t have to stop, I was just wondering,” Heather says. “What does stopping feel like?”
He shrugs, waving his hands around in a poor attempt to articulate the feeling. “Kinda like there’s sugar on my skin, and wasps underneath my skin, and the wasps are trying to eat the sugar, only they can’t because they’re under my skin, and I end up being unable to sit still because there’s this big urgency for something I don’t even know what it is half the time.”
“How do you get rid of it?”
“Sometimes I just go for a run when the feeling hits, or lift weights, and- hey , stop giving me therapy!” Dagur splutters.
Heather laughs. “Maybe I should be. I am pretty good at getting you to open up.”
“Maybe you are, but I wouldn’t dump all my bullshit on you, Heather, that’s not fair,” he says.
“I’m sure I could take it,” she says casually.
Dagur gives her a brotherly poke in the arm. “Don’t grow up too fast.”
“Might be too late for that,” Heather quips.
“Well, Mx. total-grown-up, I hope you enjoy this grown-up ride, because we’re about to go upside down!”
As the ride swings, Heather cheers, raising her hands above her head. Dagur screams in delight as the ground zooms closer, almost skimming their feet.
“ This is amazing! ” Heather yells. Dagur looks across, her face giddy with glee between the safety bars, and smiles to himself.
In seemingly no time at all, the ride grinds to a halt. Dagur and Heather climb off the ride, dizzy and giggling. He holds the fence as the world slowly stops swirling.
“That...” Heather holds her stomach with one hand, “was amazing. Maybe we should-”
“ HEY HEATHER! ” Someone Dagur doesn’t recognise calls from the queue. Another waves wildly, while the last two snicker behind their hands.
“Oh, hey, those kids seem like they know you,” Dagur observes. “Are they from school?”
“Yeah.” Heather sharply turns her back. “Let’s go. I want food.”
Confused, Dagur lets her march to the hot dog stand, and waits in line while she reads the menu over at least three times.
He gives her three whole minutes before saying “okay, no one takes that long to decide what kind of crappy food they want.”
“I’ve never had mustard before- should I have it?” Heather says quietly.
“I think you should tell me what’s going on?”
“Not until you answer my question.”
“Fine. Mustard tastes a bit like capers.”
“I don’t know what those taste like either.”
“Tangy and sour. I like mustard, but not many people do. Now tell me what’s wrong, Heather.”
She stares sullenly at the ground.
I’ve messed everything up, and Heather will never want to speak to me again, Dagur thinks for a heart stopping moment.
“Fine.” To his surprise, Heather leans tiredly on him, her cheek on his shoulder. “The people you saw back there are bullies. They’ve never bullied me - I made sure of that.”
Something in her voice thrills Dagur to the core. He feels just a shred more connected to her than before. He’d thought his fierce temperament was something to be ashamed of- nothing but a nuisance at best, destruction at worst. Never once had he considered Heather may share the same fiery streak as him.
“But they still bully other kids?”
“Yeah.” Heather turns to the food vendor. “Two hot dogs please. One ketchup and one mustard and ketchup.”
“Got it.”
“Can you not tell the principal?” Dagur asks.
Heather swipes the cardboard containers containing their hot dogs and fries off the counter. “No.”
“Why not?” Dagur follows her across the grass to the picnic tables.
“I don’t like him,” Heather says darkly. “He’s one dickheaded piece of shit who only cares about dress codes and stuff. And he yells at his students. Pretty much everyone hates him.”
If there is ever a time to pass on some brotherly wisdom, now is the time, Dagur decides.
Dagur puts one hand on each of Heather’s shoulders, and says “that’s because adults can be bullies too. And you should never, never , turn a blind eye to bullying happening to you - or anyone else.”
“I won’t.”
Dagur looks at her, and sees nothing but raw determination in her eyes. The true, fearless spirit of her youth.
Though, he has to wonder why - and to whose fault - on Earth she wound up that way. Who wasn’t looking out for her when they should’ve been, leaving her to swallow her fear and grow rocky edges over her heart?
It was him.
“Dagur? Is something wrong?” Heather peers at him.
He sniffs, wiping his nose with a tissue, and realises his cheeks are damp. “Nope! All good here. How are you-”
Heather looks distinctly unimpressed. “Don’t give me that.”
Suddenly, it all spills out of him. “I should’ve been there for you, Heather! I should have tried to be a better brother.”
“ Oh. ” Heather’s eyes widen with understanding. “C’mon.” She takes his hand, leading him towards a bench in the shade of a tree. They sit. Heather leans her head on Dagur’s shoulder.
“I’ll admit. When I found out I had a brother all this time I was in shitty foster care homes, I was angry. I did resent you for the shortest time-”
“That’s... fair.” Dagur gives her a watery smile.
“ But ,” she gives him a pointed look, “that was before I actually met you. You were only twenty. You had only just stopped being a teenager. If I thought about it, you only would’ve had two years at most you could’ve looked after me.”
“Wait, so you thought I was an actual adult?” Dagur laughs incredulously.
“Yeah, sorta.” Heather smiles. “When I found out there’s not much either of us could’ve done to prevent the situation, the logical part of me was satisfied.” She ends the sentence like a question.
“But...”
“ But, ” Heather sighs heavily. “The emotional part of me wasn’t as rational. I still hated how you abandoned me. I lived with my mom until she killed herself.” Dagur flinches. It’s never easy hearing it.
“And you got to live with your aunt until you turned seventeen and moved out. And- and a part of me wanted to throw the blame on you. That would’ve be the easier thing to do,” Heather says sagely. “But it wasn’t not the right thing to do. None of it was your fault.”
“It’s always someone’s fault. Right?” Dagur says dejectedly.
“Actually, I used to think that. But I really don’t think it’s anyone’s fault. Sometimes, bad situations just happen, and no one can control it-”
She’s suddenly cut off as Dagur yanks her into a hug. Startled, she freezes for a second, but relaxes into it, gripping him tight.
“You’re- you’re a good sis.” Dagur’s voice cracks, more tears leaking down his face.
“And you’re the best brother in the world.”
Heather pulls away, wiping her own face clear. “What do you say- one more ride, brother?”
She stands, and he joins her, squeezing her hand three times to say ‘I love you’ .
“Sounds perfect.