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When Stan brings home his first straight ‘A’ report card, he almost looks embarrassed.
Ford watches as his brother fidgets awkwardly, sitting at the kitchen counter, picking a stray thread in the smokey-yellow tablecloth.
"I just….” He looks like he did when they were kids and he’d get caught in a lie; nervous and awkward and vaguely waiting for the other shoe to drop. “We’ve only got a year left of high-school, and… I guess i just realized that I wanted to make more of myself.”
“Hm,” Pa hums, with a... well, calling it an expression implies he's expressing something, which seems like a fundamental overstatement.
It takes a long moment before either of their parents move. They’d already gotten through their paranoia; their wondering how Stan lied his way into this one. But once they'd realized it’s real —and, honestly, Ford is still kinda wrapping his head ‘round that. But he overheard Pa’s phone call with the school earlier, and Stan can fake a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.— Ma just- moves. She rushes Stanley and pounces on him like a predator; pressing kisses to his forehead, cheeks, nose- leaving smears of lipstick as she mumbles giddily about how proud she is. And Stan laughs like a kid, squeaky and off-set.
Ford just kind of watches.
Ma puts his report card on the fridge. Rambles about getting it framed. Kisses Stan’s forehead and cheek twice more before snapping straight and exclaiming that she had to call her friends and tell them the good news, and rushes from the room.
Leaving, Stan, Ford, Pa, and the remnants of a family dinner just… sitting there.
Pa, eventually, gives a gruff nod —of acceptance and maybe even a little approval, but more importantly of dismissal— and then Stan is scampering up the stairs.
Ford, still slightly shellshocked, follows behind him a minute later.
The carpeted stairs are soft under his socked feet, and the air smells like Ma’s Old Golds and laundry detergent and home. His school-bag slips off his shoulder as he opens the door to their room, slipping to it’s spot on the hanger in a motion that’s fully muscle memory.
And on his bunk sits Stan; humming a quiet tune. A book from his schoolbag already in his lap.
Stan’s eyes slide to his from where they had been staring just over his shoulder, and Ford glances back. But all he sees is the calendar. Envisioning it from his brother's perspective, all he can probably see is the big bold year at the top, ‘1968’.
He's sitting on his bed, head tilted back, and he's smiling. It's a soft thing, filled with a nostalgia so deep Ford almost feels like he could fall into it.
He looks the same—of course he does, it's been like, thirty seconds since he last saw him—but Ford can’t help but feel like something’s irrevocably changed. And Ford is scrambling to catch up.
—If he’s honest with himself, something has seemed off for a little while now. But it was never enough to prove, never anything definitive.—
“So,” Ford says, ineloquent and stilted, “A’s, huh?”
“Relax IQ, I’m not gonna take your spot as the smart twin.”
Ford chokes and stumbles over his words for a moment. “I didn’t- I wasn’t-“
Stan laughs, leans back on his bed and just- reads. Just sits there and reads.
Ford raises a brow and comes to sit on his brother’s bunk with him. The springs in the mattress making him wobble a little.
“...What’s the real reason then?” Ford says awkwardly. Stan peers up at him, a single brow raised. —His knuckles are pale gripping the book in his hands. It's one of Ford’s; Advanced Engineering Theory. And for the first time, Ford wonders if his brother isn't just using it as a prop.—
“Cause it's definitely not what you told Pa.”
Stan stares at him for a moment.
“Come on Stan, I know you.” —Ford hates how unsure he sounds. How stilted. He wonders when this distance grew between them; wasn't he meant to be smart? Wasn’t he meant to notice?—
Stan lets out an abrupt, stilted sort of laugh, snapping the book closed and setting it aside. And just as sharply as the sound started, it cuts. Replaced with a fond, almost indulgent expression.
“Yeah I know Sixer,” Stan says. Something about it feels terribly knowing. The sound, strangely, does little to make Ford settle.
“If I'm honest… Yeah, there is an element of thinking of the future to it. Y’know I’ve never been a planner, but… I dunno.” He trails off, ever-present smile fading. Stan leans back and glances away. His jaw is set defiantly, but he’s staring into the middle distance like it owes him money.
“I guess it's spite, mostly.”
Ford pauses and waits for Stan to continue. And as always, silence is his brother's undoing.
“I... heard what ol’ comb-over said about me, in the office. An’ I just-“ —His hands ball into fists, and there’s a fury to his tone; old and bitter and cold.— “I wanted to prove ‘im wrong. Prove ‘em all wrong.”
—Ford glances away toward the pamphlet for West Coast Tech, and he feels something cold slip through his chest like a knife, like Stan’s stare is a physical object piercing through him. Something eerie and old and wrong; but, when he turns back to face Stan, nothing’s out of the ordinary at all.—
“‘Sides," Stan says, leaning back against the edge of the bunk and grinning that wide, mega-watt smile of his. “I’ve already lined up some extra-credit opportunities, and I know how much you like-“
“I’m not doing your homework for you,” Ford says sternly. And Stan laughs, like it was the set up for a joke. Like he really didn't mean it. “Besides, you're clearly capable-“
“Yeah, but it's so boringgg,” Stan bemoans.
Ford laughs. And from there, they sink into familiar territory; Stan needling him, and Ford allowing it, and generally, they move on.
But Ford can’t help but feel like, somehow, someway… Something has changed.
¶¶¶
Ford wouldn’t admit it, but there was a certain element of whiplash to the whole thing that he really has… no idea what to do with.
He loves his brother, don’t get him wrong, but lately he’d been- well, smothering feels harsh, but it also like the only word to properly encapsulate the emotion. Throughout high-school, it had often felt like Ford was the only one actually looking to the future, actually making any progress toward goals. Real goals, ones outside of their implausible, naive childhood dream of sailing around the world.
And then he’d gotten the pamphlet for West Coast Tech-
And just like that, nothing was the same.
Now, Stan was out more often than he was home; doing who knows what, who knows where. Coming back basically to shower, eat and sleep.
And then Ford finds his… stash, of course, entirely on accident. He’s sitting on his top bunk, curled up with a nice book, when Ma calls that dinner is ready, and when he reaches for his bookmark- he finds it isn’t there.
Ford pads around the bed, lifts the sheets, and- nothing. So he goes searching underneath.
Now, Stanley’s always kind of been a messy person; they both were, if he was honest. So when he finds several packs of crackers, bottles of water, and other non-perishables pressed between Stan's mattress and the wall, he assumes just that; his forgetful brother making a mess.
That assumption is decimated when, attempting to be kind —and still looking for that god damn bookmark— after he clears those away, he lifts the mattress to check underneath-
And Ford finds a brown paper bag, stained at the bottom corner, containing a eighty-two dollars in cash.
Ford’s eyes bulge at the sheer amount of money in his hand. He's pretty sure this is at least two thirds of what Stanley paid for his car. How on earth did he-
There's a knock on the door.
“Hey, Ma called-“
—Instinctually, as the door creaks open, Ford flings the money-bag underneath Stans bed.—
Stan enters the room. Blinking at Ford, who is kneeling next to his bed for… no apparent reason.
“Ford.”
“Stanley.”
“…What are you doing?” Stan says.
“I, erm- couldn’t find my bookmark,” Ford says, cheeks heating up. He shuffles to stand and dusts off his knees.
Stan pauses a beat, and frowns, hands in his pockets. A bead of sweat traces down the back of Ford's neck-
And then Stan pulls out a slightly grease-stained receipt.
“Would this work?” He offers. Laughing when Ford nods like a bobblehead and grabs for it.
Ford expects Stan to hold onto the receipt and laugh when Ford can't pull it out of his grip, or maybe to hand it over, but sling an arm around his shoulders and guide him downstairs, laughing and joking the whole way- only, he doesn’t. He just sort of… hands over the receipt, says he'll meet Ford downstairs, and leaves.
Ford doesn't know what to do; so he follows.
¶¶¶
Stan is playing the piano.
Ford hardly registered they had a piano. It’s more of a tall coffee table than anything, covered in granny’s ancient knotted doilies, family photos, a dusty, rusting menorah, pa’s papers and ma’s ash trays, as well as the occasional tchotchkes that had escaped the containment of the pawn shop downstairs.
And yet, Stan has uncovered it. Cleared and dusted the keyboard; and he’s playing it. And he's playing it... well. His fingers prod at the keys, broad hands hesitating between chords, slow, methodical. It’s not quick or elegant or masterful, but it’s... good.
Ford doesn't recognize the song. But it’s... soft, but bright. Kind of upbeat and at moments, almost ragtime in nature.
—There’s a thread of cold, cold dread spilling through him that he can’t place.—
“Since when can you play piano?”
Stan breaks from his trance suddenly, jarring the keys in several sour notes as he jolts to face Ford; who raises his hands in a combination silent apology and peace-offering.
“I, er, I dunno,” Stan says, looking strangely abashed. “Just kinda thought I’d give it a shot.” He twists on the bench. “When did you get home?"
“Approximately,” —Ford checks his watch— “Three and a half minutes ago.”
He had been moving quickly in hopes to get some time to talk to Stan, actually. Not that he had the nerve to outright say that.
“Listen, Ma n’ Pa are still out, right?” Ford says. Stan nods. “Well, if you want, I was thinking we could go work on the Stan o’ War a bit…?” He says. And he’s not sure why, but he feels oddly- nervous. And yeah, maybe it's because, when he'd asked Stan to study with him, he'd been blown off. But- But that was understandable; Ford knew he could be... intense, when it came to studying. And even if Stan had been turning his grades around, he probably didn't want to think about how much catching up he had to do. But... the Stan O' War is theirs. And it's been a month since they’d even gone to the beach together, let alone worked on the ship. And Stanley had always been so invested in it…
But then the short pause drags out.
“You… don't gotta do that anymore, ya know," Stan says.
“What?”
“Pretend,” Stan says, gaze cast low and shoulders suddenly stiff. "Indulge me like- like some kid.”
And Ford… has no idea what he did wrong.
“What?” Ford repeats, retracing the conversation in his head. Trying to figure out where he went wrong, what he did that Stan looks so uncomfortable.
“You’re goin’ off to that fancy school of yours, right? East-whatever-Tech?”
“West Coast Tech,” Ford corrects instinctively. And then flushes because really, what a great way to convince Stanley he’s not invested. Way to go smart guy.
“Exactly!” Stanley says obliviously. Snapping his fingers.
“B-But I’m not entirely decided,” Ford tries. He sits down on the bench next to Stan, pressing the seams of his slacks down and wiping away the sweat on his palms. "I mean- if I don't get in-"
Stan outright laughs at that. And the heat in Ford’s face continues to burn. Stan places a hand on his shoulder; firm, broad and warm. He smells like the beach, salty wind and crisp water.
“Ford, you’re the smartest guy I know,” he says, earnestly. "If you don't get in, I’ll eat my fez.”
“You don't own a fez…?” Ford says confusedly.
"Fine, I’ll buy a fez, and I’ll eat it. Happy?”
Ford laughs, mostly at the absurdity of the statement. But honestly- he's not happy. And Ford isn't sure why.
"I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was a fun dream for us as kids but… it's not very realistic, is it?"
It’s like Stanley plucked the words right out of his head. And yet- it hurts.
“No, it’s not,” Ford admits quietly.
Silence lingers for a long beat after that, and Ford stares down at the carpet. The room smells like dust and rotting wood, undercut by that detergent-smell that will always remind him of home. He tries to puzzle out what he's feeling, how to- to make sense of any of it-
“Boys!” Ma’s voice yells from somewhere just outside. “Come n’ help ya mother with the groceries!”
“Be right there Ma!” Stan calls back, without hesitation. And he stands.
"Ugh, that bench hurts my butt,” Stan grumbles, rubbing at his lower back. And Ford cracks a smile that he doesn’t really feel.
“C’mon,” Stan says, smiling, “lets help Ma.”
By the time Ford joins them, Stan and Ma have already brought everything in, tall brown bags creating a forrest of groceries in their kitchen. So Ford joins them for the easy job of putting things away. And as he does, he thinks.
And well- Stanley’s always been better with the whole social-cue thing than he was. Maybe- well maybe Stan knew. Maybe Ford was letting off some kind of subliminal signals he hadn’t even noticed. Or maybe, completely independently, Stan decided the Stan O’ War wasn't worth it anymore.
The idea makes his heart sink.
But… the puzzle pieces begin to click. It would make sense. Stan always had a work-ethic when it came to the Stan o’ War, he was always so determined. And maybe… maybe without the distraction of that childish dream, he’s focusing on more realistic opportunities.
Maybe that’s why he's turning his grades around. Maybe that's why he's got that stash of money. Maybe- maybe he has some other dream in mind now. Something that doesn’t include Ford.
Ford is broke from his revelry when Stanley makes tusks out of carrots and calls himself ‘Tusky from Tuscany’, portraying himself as a walrus with a thick —and highly inaccurate— accent.
And Ford laughs, despite himself; only to suddenly be swept with a wave of sadness by the realization that he may not have this with his brother forever. Hell- he may not have it for more than a few months.
So he does what he always does when he needs to cope: he excuses himself, and sinks into his work —this time on his science fair project— and blocks out the world.
¶¶¶
Caryn knows her little Stanley protects his brother. She knows. She’s proud of him for that; so, so proud.
But this… doesn't feel like an injury he got from sticking up for someone.
“Ouch, Ma-” Stan grimaces as she swabs the gash with alcohol.
"Yeah, well, serves you get for try'na climb through a window with a fuckin' stab wound,” Caryn snarls fretfully. Intensely focused on her task.
“’S not a stab wound, ma. 'S barely a scratch,” Stan says, for what is probably the third or fourth time. And to be fair, she might be exaggerating. Just a little. But who can blame her?! Her baby is injured! Sure, it’s more of a gash than anything, a long, narrow thing just along his ribs that's bleeding sluggishly, but-
“S'ides, a boat can’t stab you,” Stan says, "it doesn’t even got arms.” He snorts like it’s a joke.
And that's the other thing Caryn doesn't know what to do with. This- this cover story of his.
As soon as Caryn had yanked him in through the hall window he’d been sneaking through—and really, she loves her boy, but he truly can be an idiot at times— she had demanded answers. More so when she’s noticed him bleeding all over the place, of course.
Stiltedly, after being towed over to the couch and gently convinced —'I swear to god Stanley if you move from that spot, I will not hesitate to wake your father so he can hold you down’— to spill, he’d stiltedly explained that he was messin’ about on that old beached boat —the ‘Stan o’ War’, the twins always called it. How cute— but that he’d slipped and cut himself on an old piece of wood jutting from the hull. There are no splinters in the wound though; she'd grabbed the tweezers out of their well-loved first-aid kit just in case and double checked with a flashlight. But there isn't any. The gash is clean and straight; making it awfully easy to clean and bandage.
While Caryn is good at reading people, she’s far better practiced at telling them what they want to hear. That’s not to say she’s got no spine; she’s jewish after all, its practically a mitzvah to argue.
But her little boy is hurt; was attacked, even…
The truth of it all is: Caryn knows what a knife wound looks like. She knows how to patch ‘em, how important it is to clean 'em because you never know who else has met the business end of that thing. She knows from experience —after all, between a pawn shop and psychic business, lets just say you can find yourself with some unhappy customers— but she can’t exactly come out and say that without giving something away, now can she? And she thinks Stan knows that.
She tries one more time to get him to talk. Pushes one more time.
“Don’ worry Ma, I’m fine on my own,” her little boy says, as his eyes search Caryn face as if he can find the answers she seeks written in her wrinkles; just so he can parrot back what she wants to hear. —He is so desperately his mother's son.— And then he smiles.
“Takes more than a lil’ boat accident to keep me down,” he grins, chipped-toothed and charming. Caryn takes that smile and locks it away for later, for any future moments where she needs to remind herself that while her baby Fordsy may have had the intellect, Stanley seems to have gotten something… quieter. That at some-point, her little boy had mastered a conman's smile; and no one even batted an eye.
He’s nearly out of the room when Caryn gathers the courage to speak her mind.
“You’re lying,” she says simply; it comes out properly stern, but soft too. Quiet.
She expects Stanley to brush it off, or backpedal, or get defensive about it. Maybe all three. But instead, after a beat of staring at her over his shoulder, her boy hums softly to himself, a thoughtful little sound, and stares forward into the middle distance.
“Don’t take it personally,” he says, eyes hidden in shadow. “I lie to everyone.”
He glances back to her. His eyes glint in the light.
"After all; I learned from the best.”
She watches him take the stairs. How he camouflages a wince in a yawn; a well practiced move. —She wonders if she would have even noticed, had she not been the one to patch him up; she wonders how many times she hasn't already.—
Caryn ashes her smoke, and goes to bed that night in a daze. Sure of one thing and one thing only:
Something has changed.