A/N: So this one is formally titled "my poor beb oh god dip", but call it whatever you want, lmao. Written for the lovely DipperPinesVEVO on Twitter (who can also be found on Tumblr as dorkybipper), who prompted me with "Angsty teenage Dipper," and nearly nothing makes me angstier than sucky school days, so.

Dipper sighed heavily as he got off the bus, Mabel not too far behind. Sure, he liked learning, but this much homework was an attack on his personal happiness.

The brunet slung his backpack over his shoulder, wincing as the bulging bookbag knocked the air out of his lungs. If he was being completely honest with himself, he mused while his twin nattered on behind him, the obscene amount of weekend assignments wasn't the only reason he was upset.

It was only the second week of freshman year, and already things were not going his way. His new high school had a dress code, which meant no hats. No hats meant only a thin layer of fluffy chestnut bangs separated his birthmark from the rest of the gossipy public's hungry eyes. Preschool had been difficult enough, and he couldn't even recall the number of times Mabel had gotten sent to the principal's office for punching out bullies in grade school. It was a new school—a clean slate, a fresh start—and he wanted to keep it that way. For the time being, that meant not brushing his hair (which he was okay with) and keeping his hair much longer than usual (which he was not).

Despite not wanting his embarrassing namesake visible, the biggest struggle had been getting the teachers to call him "Dipper." His birth name was Not An Option, but the mountains of paperwork still being sorted in the office left Dipper fumbling to explain that no, it wasn't a joke; no, it sounds nothing like the name on the roster; yes, it's my preferred name; and no, you can't ask why it's my nickname. It was exhausting. Nearly every teacher seemed determined to give him hell over this one thing. It wasn't like he was rude about it, or that he was a disruptive student—and even then, that still wouldn't be an excuse.

Then there was P.E. He was quite convinced that gym class was designed to be a living hell. Sure, he wasn't a complete noodle child anymore, but he still lacked the coordination for competitive sports. Dodgeball and capture-the-flag were manageable. Football and hockey were not. Always being picked last and the jeering that accompanied his team's inevitable loss were beginning to wear on his nerves.

And then there was the showers. Puberty seemed to have decided that constant voice-cracking and gangly limbs were all Dipper needed. He still had only a single chest hair, and he only came up to the chin of the second shortest boy in the class. The older kids would pal around, making raunchy jokes Dipper could only pretend to understand and flexing muscles he wasn't sure he'd even developed yet. The lack of virility seemed to bait more bullies, and more often than not, he'd find himself skipping the shower till he went home, lest he find himself shoved into a locker, whipped with wet towels, or locked out of the locker room sans clothing.

It had been a hellacious two weeks. The actual schoolwork was bearable (if tedious), but every other aspect of high school made Dipper Pines want to curl up in a ball for the remainder of the semester.

The brunet tensed as a hand reached into his bag, but he soon relaxed as locks of glittery pink-streaked hair fell across his face and a familiar chin nestled itself into his hair.

"Gimme the keys, bro-bro! I gotta get inside and feed Waddles before he starts gnawing on Dad's loafers again!" Mabel shifted her weight forward and leaned into her brother. "Keys or I crush you with my superior Alpha Twin strength!"

He scoffed and pulled the item from his pocket. "Here. Don't feed him the leftover meatloaf. That's for dinner."

"Dipper! I would never! ...He already ate the rest last night!" She barged into the house and tripped up the stairs, calling the name of her precious pig. Dipper cracked a weak smile and dumped his bag at the door before he followed, slipping into his room and locking the door behind him.

He took two steps before giving up, slumping to the floor mere inches from his bed and curling up as tightly as possible. Maybe next week would be better. Maybe he could transfer. Maybe he would stop crying himself to sleep every night.