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It is another day on the trash-filled beach where the screams of seagulls provide an intense ambience.
Stan is lounging on the deck of his and Ford’s boat, a soda in hand, trying to cool off with the inland wind and the meager amount of shade he can get. Ford has been very secretive the last few weeks, dipping out of boat work for half an hour every day and returning with his t-shirt all weird and bulky, and he has additionally banned Stan from entering the bridge. It annoys Stan to no end, but he has respected Ford’s wishes so far.
Though now it has been too long for any healthy boy’s patience, and Stan is beginning to suspect that his brother is taming crabs in order to make a traveling circus. He can sometimes hear Ford cursing loudly through the old wooden boards, using words Stan did not think Ford even knew, and his curiosity is starting to get the better of him.
Thing is, he does not really want Ford to get his extra finger chopped off in a sacrifice to the crab god, and if he knows his brother (and he does), he would not put it past the nerd to involve eldritch beings in his business ventures. And to get a face full of clapback for the hubris, too.
He gets up, despite his skin sticking to the wood, and puts an ear to the door. Nothing at first, then tiny mumbles of “Come on,” “It’s not that hard,” and “You can definitely do better than this,” seep through to Stan’s inner ear.
He never thought Ford would have a paternal side. It fits his brother like a stranger’s shoe.
He puffs out his chest and gets ready to kick the door in and demand of Ford to set the crustaceans free – or at least let Stan in on his project and share his earnings, honestly, he would be satisfied with that – when Ford comes out and closes it swiftly behind himself. Stan arches an eyebrow at him, and Ford gives him an awkward smile and grabs a hammer to go bang on a board that does not need fixing, blocking the door with his body. Stan rolls his eyes but accepts it.
Evening sneaks up on them, and Ford is starting to show signs of getting tired. His eyelids begin dropping and his vigor is steadily fading out. He lets out a tiny yawn, stretches, and goes to put the hammer away, leaving the road free of blocks. Stan seizes the moment and rushes to finally kick the door in, loudly yelling an announcement of himself as the savior of all enslaved animals.
There are no crabs in sight.
What there is however, on the floor, is a selection of smooth glass shards in every color of an admittedly earth-toned rainbow, a huge bottle of glue, a raw wooden frame, and a half done mosaic upon a pencil sketch. Stan recognizes his own eyes in the portrait of them both, pictured on the fixed-up boat, out at sea. It is beautiful.
Ford comes up behind him, sputtering about it being unfinished and meant to be a surprise for when they graduate high school and go off together, that they can hang it above their beds in the boat, and now that has been ruined.
Stan turns around, grabs his brother, and gives him a spine crushing hug.
A single crab, its red coat almost gray in the evening light, smells impending freedom and escapes out of the open door.