For Worriedeye x

"Shit! Pingu, look!"

"It- it's alright, Dan. Everyone does that at least once when they're first starting out. It looks easy but it takes time to learn."

"Well, I'm not giving him that one. You can eat that one."

"That's... fine."

"What, so now I just - Ow! Fuck!"

"Quick, just let me- no, no, no, just... You should put some water on that."

"Fine. Then I'm doing one with blue berries."

"Maybe you should just- No, you're right. Blueberries sounds great. Good idea."

The sound of the pancake sizzling in the pan and Dan's muttering drifted out from the kitchen to where Claire sat on the stairs, the letter clutched in her hand, trying to laugh as quietly as she could and wipe her eyes at the same time.

She'd come down stairs that morning in search of Harry and had had a plate stacked high with oddly shaped pancakes and a folded sheet of paper with her name on it thrust at her instead. Dan had looked like a madman, his hair sticking up wildly around his head and a look of mild panic in his eyes, and Harry had been standing behind him, his lips pursed as he tried not to smile. Harry was teaching Dan to make pancakes and she had to eat all of the slightly burnt ones apparently.

Dan had insisted that she eat first and read the letter later so she'd done as she was told, sitting at the breakfast table and watching as Harry patiently taught Dan how to make lump free, unburnt pancakes that were also cooked all the way through whilst Dan swore, burnt himself and somehow managed to get batter in his hair. They were actually quite good.

It had been funny to watch but she didn't want to make Dan any more self-conscious than he already was so she'd told him 'thank you', put her plate in the sink, and left to read her letter before Dan caught on that he was being cute.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected but a few minutes later she was sitting on the stairs like she'd used to when she was ten years old, trying to cry as quietly as she could and listening to Dan making pancakes that needed to be perfect. Because they were for Jones.

Claire,

Mum says I need to write you a letter because I'm rubbish at talking to you and when we do try to talk we just shout. And I think she's right (what am I saying, she's our mother, of course she's right). So here goes.

Sometimes, Claire, you are a little shit. Yep, that's my opening argument. But, that said, I can be a shit too. It's probably genetic. Don't tell mum. But sometimes we are shitty to each other and I don't really know why, and I am sorry for all of the times I've been horrible to you.

However, (and this bit is important so pay attention) I don't hate you, Claire. You're annoying and self-righteous and bossy and nosey but I seriously don't hate you. You're my little sister and I love you. I always have and I always will. Even when you are a shit. When you were born I thought it was the best thing ever. I had someone to play Lego with, and someone who I could hug who couldn't outrun me. It was great. I'm not exactly sure where I'm going with this but I need you to understand that I don't hate you, that I love you, and that you're important to me.

That said, taking photos of Jones and me having sex was a shitty thing to do, even if you didn't mean for Jonatton to get his hands on them (and I can't believe I actually wrote that sentence). But do you know what? Jonatton would have run that story even if he hadn't got hold of your photos, because he is was a massive dick.

But taking the photos was still a shit thing to do because I know you and I know you would have used them to blackmail me, even if it was just blackmailing me into doing the dishes, you would have tried it. And that's a bit fucked up, because when you did that you didn't think about Jones at all. When the photos were published you didn't think about Jones either. Last night at dinner you weren't thinking of Jones and he was sitting across from you at the table, in pain and feeling guilty because he thinks its his fault that I don't want to go out to some stupid restaurant.

And the thing is, I love Jones. I'm going to write that again: I love Jones. He is my boyfriend and my partner and all of that stuff and we've been together for a really long time. We didn't think it was anyone else's business and yes, I was bit nervous about coming out to my family. I was nervous about coming out to you. I'm not particularly brave. You've pointed out me that I'm a coward often enough and it's true. Quitting SugaRape was one of the bravest things I've done in my life. It probably only comes second to the night I was walking down a quiet street and saw a kid crying in front of his house and decided that I needed to do something about it.

Jones makes me brave. I wouldn't be writing this if I weren't lying beside him right now. And I'm writing all this so that you understand that for you and I to move on and be friends (and I do want us to be friends, rather than awkward acquaintances who happen to be related) then you need to see how important Jones is to me. And I'd really like you to apologise to him. I forgive you for what happened, but you haven't even offered Jones the opportunity to say that to you.

Right, well, I think that's enough sentimental over sharing, don't you? I'm going to go and hassle your boyfriend now who is, by the way, one of the only men in London who I am not horribly opposed to you dating. Well done. He's quiet and he can cook and he's not an idiot. For the love of god don't screw it up and scare him off.

Your brother,

Dan.

Claire gave a sniff, wiping her nose on her hand.

"This is why I always told you to carry a handkerchief, darling."

She jumped and went to stand but her mum just sat down next to her on the step, smoothing her navy slacks. She was dressed for work and Claire couldn't help but admire the high shine on her shoes. Her mum always looked impeccable and Claire wasn't sure how she did it. It was only eight in the morning and she was showered, dressed and even smelled professional. Claire was wearing the same pajamas her parents had given her for Christmas five years ago.

"So, what's the matter?"

Claire handed over the letter and sat nervously as it was read. Just as her mother was refolding it and sighing there was a triumphant whoop from the kitchen and the clatter of a spatula. They both looked up and Claire looked up at her mum, whose eye brows were raised questioningly.

"Dan's trying to cook Jones pancakes," she explained.

"Ah. Well. It is a lovely letter."

"He called me a shit," Claire frowned but couldn't stay angry when her mother started chuckling softly.

"Yes he did. And you took the photos of him having sex?" Claire winced at that and nodded with her eyes tight as shut as they would go but her mum just sighed heavily in the traditional parental way that meant 'kids these days...'

"Sorry."

"Good," she said bluntly, but then her voice softened and she pressed a kiss to Claire's tangled hair. "He also said he loved you though. And he does. I remember the way he used to cuddle you too. He was such a cuddly little boy but he didn't like the part when he had to let go. He just used to cling to people until they managed to wriggle themselves free. The other children learnt not to let him hug them. They used to run away and it used to make him cry."

Claire had never heard her mum sound so melancholy. Her mum was all business and reason and Claire had never heard her talk like this before. And she couldn't imagine Dan running after the kids in his class in a one sided game of hug chasey. She had a hard time remembering him without scruffy facial hair to be honest and the thought of Dan as a cuddly child was hard to process.

"I didn't know that," she said, when the silence had started to stretch out.

"Hmm," her mum replied, leaning her shoulder on Claire's. "That was part of the reason he loved you so much. I mean, he loved you anyway, he was nuts about you but," she chuckled again and Claire felt a strange surge of affection fill her, listening to her mum talk like they were friends instead of mother and daughter. "You were late to walk, probably because Dan just carried you everywhere, but when we told him to put you down and let you do things on your own he refused because he liked that you couldn't run away when he hugged you. Your father used to worry that he'd have your head off, the way he hugged you. He used to wrap his little arms around your head and squeeze and rock you and we always expected you to burst into tears but you didn't. Not when it was Dan. But then you did learn to walk and that was it. You were the most independent child. And an absolute chatterbox, which drove Dan a bit mad, I think. But he adored you. He loves you so much."

Claire felt a tear trickle down the side of her nose.

"He's got a bloody strange way of showing it," she sniffed.

"So do you, dear," was her mother's droll reply.

Claire nodded at that. Things weren't brilliant between her and Dan but she knew he'd tried really hard in his letter. And he liked Harry.

"So what should I do for him?"

"Well," her mother said slowly.

"Do you have a list?" Claire cut in incredulously.

"Actually, yes. One - talk to Jones, he's part of this family now. Two - I don't want to hear you yelling for the rest of your stay. It's not nice and if it keeps on I'll be confiscating every bottle of wine just to keep us all from arguing."

"What?"

"We get snippy. And, three -" she continued, counting the numbers on her fingers, "please consider staying a little longer. Just to help the boys get to the shack."

She sounded sad again and Claire felt bad, but she still didn't really want to stay.

"I just don't think I can, mum," she grumbled. "Harry's starting a new job and I'll be needing a job too. And I want to get my film done. And..."

"Weekends?" her mother murmured. "Leeds isn't that far. We haven't seen either of you in years. And... I'm not sure how well we're going to get on, getting them both out there, just your dad and I. We could use your help. I'm getting old, I can't throw Dan over my shoulder anymore. "

"Did you ever?"

The laugh her mother let out sounded so dark and wicked that Claire couldn't help but giggle but the sound brought Dan limping from the kitchen suspiciously.

"What are you two laughing about?" he asked, his eyes going so narrow Claire could hardly see them at all. "Mum, I've made you pancakes."

"Oh, love!" she said standing and Claire tried not to pout at how easily impressed their mother always was by whatever Dan did.

"They're a bit burnt but I'm saving the good ones for Jones."

"Oh, love."

Claire's heart melted a little at that, because Dan being sweet and wanting to do something nice for his boyfriend was unbearably cute. Their mum walked forward and gave him a careful kiss on the cheek, avoiding his batter covered tracksuit as she did, before heading into the kitchen to find her pancakes. He saw her smiling and his frown deepened. He looked like he wanted to tell her to shut up and was only just holding himself back, which only made her smile more.

"You read it?" he asked, tilting his chin in the direction of the letter and she nodded seriously.

"Yeah."

"Right, well," he looked down at his plastered foot and Claire realised that her big brother really wasn't good at human interaction, but that he was trying really hard. "I told you not to tell mum but I'm guessing you let her read it."

"Yeah, sorry."

" 's fine," Dan shook his head. "She knows everything anyway. Except - oh, god! Now she has proof that I'm having sex! Fuck - But... it's all true. I mean all the stuff about you and me... Jones... And..."

"You're so in love aren't you?" she said in mock disgust and Dan let out a laugh, the tension breaking around them like sugar glass.

"Afraid so," he told her, his face splitting into the wolfish grin that meant he was up to no good.

"Gross," she told him but she smiled and when Dan poked his tongue out at her she actually felt like she had a proper big brother again.

"Right," he said, ducking into the kitchen and re-emerging with a plate of golden pancakes drizzled with honey and a mug of freshly brewed coffee, holding them like they were priceless artifacts. "Wish me luck."

"Oh please," she told him, grinning over his shoulder at Harry and her mum, who were watching from the doorway. "You could serve him burnt grilled cheese and he'd still love you."

"I've done that actually," he muttered, then looked up at Claire, actually making eye contact and allowing her to see his hope and worry and affection. "Thanks, Claire."

"Yeah," she said as he limped up past her toward the stairs, moving slowly so that he didn't slop the coffee. "You too."