Chapter Text
Stanford Pines has got to be one of the biggest idiots in the world.
Usually, he tends to pride himself on his intelligence. It’s one of his best features and he’ll admit it too—it’s a recognizable trait of his that he actually feels pride in, unlike the other one.
But that isn’t the point. The point is, despite all of his smarts, good grades, and science projects, Ford can still find the chance to make an utter fool of himself—it’s still possible for him to make a dumb decision against his better judgment.
Especially if it involves his brother.
He thinks about what happened a few days ago.
Ford was sitting on the top of his bunk bed, working on his AP Calculus homework. It was a u-substitution—hardly his favorite method of integration, but manageable. He was almost done with the fifth question before a loud slam shattered his focus.
Ford’s eyebrows shot up, head snapping towards the door. Stan stood in the doorway, and—though Ford was hardly an expert on body language—he could practically feel the anger permeating the room.
“Woah, Stanley,” Ford said, trying to raise his hands in a placating manner. “What’s going on?”
Stan tersely threw his jacket on the floor, walking to his desk with his back facing Ford.
“Be careful, Stanley. Dad would freak out if we got another dent in the wall.”
Stan grumbled out an inaudible response, rummaging through his desk to find one of his boxes of cigarettes before he pulled one out and lit it.
Ford’s face scrunched up. “Why are you back so early, anyways? Aren’t you supposed to be on a date with—”
Stan let out a dramatic, bitter laugh. “Carla? Nah, dropped her off early.”
Ford didn’t respond for a couple of reasons: the first being that he truly didn’t know what to say, and the second was that he was actually sort of… pleased that Stan was here instead of with Carla.
He felt guilty thinking it, but it was simply how he felt. He didn’t like Carla—he never did. The way she would hang onto Stan’s arm but treat him like a complete idiot the moment she got frustrated with him, the way her sickly sweet perfume clung onto Stan’s skin for days on end, the way she’d try to convince Stan to buy her things even though they both knew he couldn’t afford it—there was a lot to dislike.
But she was what Stan wanted, for whatever reason. He remembered talking to him after they got into a nasty fight as a couple, and he never forgot what Stan had said.
“What am I meant to do, Sixer? I’m a lucky bastard to even call her my girlfriend, I just gotta take what I can get, y’know? S’not like anyone else is exactly lining up to be with me. Hell, I’m just happy that she seems to tolerate me!”
It made Ford burn with rage.
Stan didn’t deserve to be mistreated like that.
He deserved to be cherished, to be supported, to be encouraged.
To be loved.
Ford heard a lot about how the other students thought Stan was destined to be a failure, and every time he heard it he had to take deep breaths to calm down. Sure, Stan struggled in school, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good at other things.
Stan was an incredible artist. He’d draw these adorable comic strips—and they’d always make Ford laugh.
He was very handy with mechanical things and kept his car in tip-top shape. When it came to fixing up the Stan ‘o War, Stan was able to keep up with Ford in terms of skill—and he worked hard at it because he really cared.
Stan was charming, too. For better or for worse, Stan excelled at getting other people’s attention. He could light up an entire room, just by being himself—something Ford greatly envied.
And there was the fact that Stan had always been there for him. Encouraging him and praising him for his accomplishments, being by his side all the time so he wouldn’t be alone.
Stan didn’t deserve to be just tolerated.
The fact that Stan would just settle for someone like Carla because he thought that was the best he was going to get made Ford’s heart ache as much as it made him fume.
But still—he had tried to be as civil as possible, not getting as involved between them as he’d like.
She made Stan happy after all, even if Ford couldn’t understand it for the life of him.
The unpleasant stench of Stan’s cigarettes brought Ford back to the moment. He cleared his throat. “Oh? That’s too bad.”
Stan sighed before turning towards Ford and taking a drag of his cigarette.
“We got into a fight.”
Ford nodded. He kind of figured. “I’m sorry. Would you like to talk about it?”
Stan froze for a moment. His face became a dark shade of red and he turned his head slightly.
“...Not really.”
Ford raised an eyebrow at Stan. “Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
Ford hummed, nodding. “Well. Alright.” He turned his attention back to his homework.
“It’s just the fact that—” Ford bit back a smile, closing his book and turning his full attention to Stan’s incoming rant. “—she can be so impossible sometimes, y’know?”
Isn’t that the understatement of the year, Ford thought to himself.
Instead, he made a non-committal noise and nodded.
“Sometimes she just says shit that—” he shook his head, taking another drag of his cigarette. “Really fuckin’ irritates me.” A pause, before he glances down at the floor. “...Makes me feel like I’m not good enough, y’know?”
Bitterness rose within Ford. “What did she say?”
Stan shifted on his feet. “Ah, nah. It’s nothin’. Ya don’t gotta worry about it,” he said, putting his cigarette out in his ashtray.
“Stanley,” he started, not unkindly. “You know you can tell me, right? I’m not going to judge you.”
Stan sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck. “...I know. It’s just…really embarrassin’.”
“Oh, come on,” Ford scoffed, good-heartedly. “Embarrassing might as well be my middle name.” He bit his bottom lip for a moment. “I mean, don’t you remember the kissing bot I made?”
This drew a chuckle out of Stan. “Sure do. It was the only thing the school talked about for weeks. Mr. O’Donnell couldn’t even look at ya for a while.” He paused, squinting. “You hate bringing that up.”
Ford gave a half smile. “I do. But I knew it would make you laugh.”
There was an expression that passed on Stan’s face—one he couldn’t really decipher.
But as fast as it appeared, it was gone. Stan shrugged. “Well, y’know. Maybe I’m the one who needs a turn with the bot,” he said, taking a seat in his desk chair, but backward so that he was facing Ford. “According to Carla, at least,” he finished with a grumble.
Ford’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
It was quiet for a moment, Stan tapping his foot on the floor—an indication of his anxiety. But then Stan took a deep breath and finally said, “She said she didn’t like kissing me. That she didn’t wanna kiss me for a while.”
Ford blinked. “Really? Why didn’t she say anything before?”
“I asked the exact same thing, Poindexter! It just felt so sudden, it didn’t make sense to me.” Stan’s posture deflated a bit. “But she said she didn’t want to hurt my feelings, and that’s why she was so quiet about it.”
Ford tried not to make a face at that. Carla never really hesitated to hurt Stan’s feelings before this—why the change?
Stan sighed yet again, this time sounding defeated. “Just another thing I ain’t good at, I guess. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to get better at it if the one person I can do it with refuses?”
An idea started to form in the back of Ford’s mind. A very stupid idea.
“Well…you could always find someone else? To practice?”
Stan scoffed, leaning back and crossing his arms. “Yeah, okay. Who’d I even practice with? Wouldn’t that be cheatin’ anyway?”
“I mean…” he trailed off, swallowing and glancing away. “Maybe? But like you said, how else are you supposed to get better at it?”
Stan looked at him skeptically.
“Look,” Ford began again, the alarm bells ringing in his head so loudly that he’d be deaf if they were real, “I’m just saying, theoretically, if someone were to help you practice just for this specific reason—so that you can kiss Carla and she’d be happy—what’s the harm? It’s not like she has to know the details of how you got better.”
Stan seemed to ruminate on this before shrugging. “I guess, he muttered, still hesitant. “But, genius—you forgot the important question. Who the hell am I supposed to practice with?”
There were so many ways out. So many ways Ford could’ve stopped his stupid, stupid, plan from forming in actuality, so many ways he could have stopped this entire situation before it actually happened.
He shouldn’t have said it. He really, really shouldn’t have said it. He should’ve shrugged and said he didn’t know. That Stan would just have to find a different way. That maybe he and Carla just weren’t going to work out.
Ford absolutely should not have said, “I’ll do it.”
It was like time, or maybe his heart, stopped all at once.
Why did I say that???
Stan just stared at him, expressionless. “What did you just say?” he asked in an even tone.
Ford fidgeted with a loose thread on his pants, swallowing. “I mean…just practice, you know? We could practice on each other and improve for an actual partner.”
Stan looked at him with wide eyes. “But—I—we—” he sputtered, looking down before looking up at him again. “Ford…we’re brothers.”
Ford forced himself to nod, trying to appear more confident than he actually was about this idiotic plan. “Yeah. Exactly. We’re brothers, so it doesn’t mean anything, right?”
He didn’t know what he was doing. It was like something possessed him and made him talk.
Stan just stared at him for a long time.
“I just want to help you,” Ford said, half-lying. “You really don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but I don’t know how else you can practice. Besides, It’s not like I’ve ever kissed an actual person before, so you’d be helping me too. We’d be helping each other.”
His brother looked down at the floor, his expression unreadable.
The silence lasted a moment too long to be comfortable, and Ford started to backpedal. “Uh. I’m sorry, that was a really dumb idea, wasn’t it—”
“We can try it—the whole…y’know. Practicing thing.”
And that’s exactly how Ford got here, feeling like the world’s biggest idiot.
“Ya sure ya still wanna do this, Sixer?”
Ford is snapped out of his thoughts by Stan peering at him and his gentle, almost hesitant voice. It takes him a moment to process what Stan said to him.
Truthfully, Ford feels like he’s about to pass out—either that or puke. He isn’t used to this, isn’t used to sitting so close to Stan, not like this—not with him on Stan’s bottom bunk sitting cross-legged and Stan inches apart, their feet touching, and Moses, Ford can feel Stan’s breaths as he glances at his lips—
“Ford?”
He drags his gaze from Stan’s lips, back up to his eyes. They’re blown wide with…something, but Ford can’t exactly tell what.
“Uh…s-sorry,” he stumbles out, trying to shake himself out of it. “We can—we can still—”
A hand touches him gently, stopping the words from coming out of his mouth. Ford looks down at Stan’s hand intertwining with his own.
They fit perfectly, like they always do.
“Hey,” Stan says, voice quiet and serious, which is a bit odd to hear from him. “If you’re having second thoughts—”
“No,” Ford blurts out immediately. Stan's eyes grow a bit wider and he realizes his mistake, feeling his face burn up.
“Uh…I just mean…” he trails off before taking a deep breath. He looks directly back at Stan with a newfound determination.
“It’ll be a good thing for both of us. We can practice with each other and get ready for the real thing.”
Stan stares at him for a moment, Ford watching his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
It’s hypnotizing.
Then Stan is nodding. “Yeah. Sure, yeah. That makes a lotta sense.” He glances down at Ford’s lips for a split second, and Ford is really starting to question if he’s going to be able to do this without blowing his cover. “But to be fair, it’s not like I ain’t got the experience,” Stan says lowly, a teasing tilt to it.
Ford rolls his eyes. “Sure, but Carla still complained about it.”
“Hey. Watch it. At least I don’t need a robot.”
“You said you weren’t going to bring that up.”
“I say a lot of things.”
“Hey,” Ford starts, his words bearing significant weight. “Are you sure you still want to do this? We…” he hesitates, “We don’t have to.”
Stan swallows again glancing down at Ford’s lips briefly. He tries not to stare at his throat again.
He fails.
“Nah,” Stan eventually drawls, although there’s an unusual bit of shakiness to it. “Like ya said, this will only make us better at it, y’know? It was a good idea of yours.”
An idea I had with no ulterior motives whatsoever, a small voice inside Ford’s head says. He internally tells it to shut up.
There’s a moment of silence before Stan leans in closer to Ford’s space. He feels his heartbeat start to increase like crazy, and he attempts to steady his breath.
Stan places both of his hands on either side of Ford on the bed, crowding him.
This is how I die. A heart attack from kissing my own twin brother.
“C’mon, Poindexter,” Stan murmurs, his voice soft and barely louder than a whisper. It sends shivers down Ford’s spine. “Show me what ya got.”
Now it’s Ford’s turn to swallow.
He inhales deeply before he moves his shaky hands towards Stan’s face, cradling his jaw with his fingers at the back of his head.
He tries not to think about how good this feels so far even though they haven’t even started, tries not to think about how right it feels to be touching Stan like this, but it’s wrong, he shouldn’t feel like this, he shouldn’t feel this way about his own brother, he’s nothing but a disgusting little freak—
“Hey,” Stan’s voice interrupts the foggy cloud of thoughts in his head. It’s soothing and calming in a comforting, familiar way.
“Hey, hey,” Stan says again, moving one of his hands to Ford’s side, holding him. Ford tries not to jump at the sudden touch. “Relax,” Stan croons, lifting his other hand to Ford’s cheek.
And it really should be bad how grounding that is. How, at this moment, it truly feels like it’s just the two of them in the entire world.
“Relax,” Stan whispers this time, stroking Ford’s cheek with his thumb, and what can he possibly do other than positively melt under his touch?
He gazes directly into Stan’s dark eyes, and immediately, Ford knows this is it. This is the last moment he has to back out, to say no to this, and call it off without any permanent damage.
This is the last moment he has before he finds out how Stanley kisses.
Every rational part of his mind is screaming at him, telling him to turn back now, but he realizes this could be his only chance to kiss the person he’s been in love with his entire life.
Any last bit of his resolve absolutely crumbles when Stan licks his lips, making them shiny and wet. He can’t stop staring at them.
Ford leans in, finally pressing his lips to Stan’s.
He’s hesitant at first, not too sure what to do, but then Stan’s arms fully wrap around him, around his body, and his lips part a little bit and oh.
Ford can’t even bring it within himself to feel embarrassed about the small little whine that escapes him when Stan’s tongue swipes over his bottom lip, he needs more, he needs more, he needs Stan—
Their bodies draw closer together than ever, and Stan starts to press his weight against Ford as he lays down on the bed and just lets himself be kissed by his brother.
This is wrong. We shouldn’t be doing this, a small voice in Ford’s head says.
But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care—he’s laying down with Stan’s sturdy body on top of him, and Ford does not care about right or wrong at this moment.
All he cares about is making sure that this never ends.
As they keep kissing, Ford can’t help but think about how Carla is dead wrong—Stan is great at this. Sure, maybe he’s biased, and maybe he doesn’t even have anyone to compare it to, but it feels good, damn it.
It feels good when Stan nips lightly at his lips. It feels good when he soothes the spot with his tongue. It feels good to have Stan’s hefty stomach pressed against his own, slimmer one.
Fuck, it just feels good to have Stan like this.
Ford opens up more for Stan, deciding to mimic the move he made earlier, a giddy feeling rising within him when he hears Stan groan lightly in return. He wants to keep doing that, keep drawing noises out of Stan that he’d only been able to fantasize about before this.
He'll never want to let go now that he has the real thing.
And that’s the real danger of it all, isn’t it? That this is supposed to be nothing but practice. Something to help the both of them when it comes to other people.
It would be selfish of him to keep these pseudo-lessons going. Stan is with Carla, and even if they break up, Stan is going to find someone else, because he always does, he’s Stan.
It would be wrong to continue this purely because of his own desires.
Stan pulls apart from him, both of them breathing heavily. He looks down at Ford, hovering over him, and wow having Stan on top of him is going to fuel his dreams for decades to come.
“Was that…was that okay?” Stan asks, gently petting Ford’s hair with one hand, looking down at his lips again.
He should say something. He should stop this.
He needs to stop this.
But looking up at Stan like this, with his eyes blown wide open with what he can pretend is desire…Ford thinks he can be a little selfish.
At least for a little while.
He’ll let himself have this for a bit, let himself know how Stan feels against him, how he tastes, how he sounds when he’s overwhelmed by pleasure.
Ford will memorize it if he has to. He knows he will.
After all, Stan is going to end up with someone else. Someone who isn’t him.
Shouldn’t he be able to enjoy himself while it lasts?
“Sixer?”
Ford raises a hand to Stan’s face, cusping it gently even while he trembles.
“Do you think you can show me again?” he utters the question, feeling his heart beat against his ribcage.
Stan’s tongue darts out as he licks his lips, nodding. “Yeah,” he murmurs, his lingering breath hot on Ford’s mouth. He’s seemingly in some sort of daze—whether that’s a good thing or a bad one, Ford doesn’t know. “Yeah. Of course.”
There’s a bit of hesitation as Stan leans down to meet his lips again, but when Ford starts to return the kiss in full, a switch seems to flick in him. The hand in his hair grips firmer than before as Stan tilts his head, and shit, Ford feels like he’s being pulled down from the surface, drowning in the sensations and feelings of Stan kissing him and he can’t bring himself to even care.
He’d happily drown in the ocean's depths if it meant he’d keep having this.
Ford’s hand on Stan’s back itches to move, to grasp, to touch, to do something other than awkwardly lay limp there, but he knows he’s already pushing enough boundaries as it is. If he gave too much too soon, Stan would absolutely figure out what his true feelings are.
(If he hasn’t already.)
But Stan hasn’t done or said anything to confirm that he has, so Ford will assume that his secret is safe for now.
An unpleasant feeling of guilt coils in his stomach as Ford thinks about how he’s deceiving Stan—how he’s doing all of this under the guise of assistance.
A flimsy excuse that Stan will eventually find out is a complete lie.
He won’t find out if I’m careful, he thinks to himself, promising he’ll try to tone his reactions down.
Stan can’t find out. He can’t—it would surely ruin their dynamic, their closeness, their friendship.
And as much as Ford is willing to be selfish to a certain extent, he won’t dare risk all of that.
Even though he wants to continue, to keep kissing Stan like this, Ford decides to push on Stan’s shoulders a bit to signal him to stop.
It takes Stan a second as if his mind were elsewhere (imagining he was Carla, most likely), but he eventually pulls away and lifts himself over Ford by a few inches without fully getting off of him yet.
Ford sees a thin string of saliva between them, and while it would seem disgusting if he saw it between two other people, it just makes his stomach swoop with a pleasant warmth. It’s evidence of what just happened, of what they just did.
He finally raises his gaze to Stan himself, his breath catching in his throat at what he sees.
Stan’s face is flushing with a cute shade of pink, and his lips are maddeningly swollen, red, and shiny.
Ford can’t help but think, I did that. I made him look like that.
Stan seems to snap out of whatever trance he’s in, backing up a bit more. “Um. Do ya—do ya get the idea?”
Ford nods, attempting to not let his soul leave his body after what just happened. “Yeah,” he answers, voice cracking a bit. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes. I think I’m starting to understand it a bit more.”
Stan stares at him for a moment before snorting. “Only you would treat this like you’re gonna get quizzed or somethin’.”
Ford’s face grows warm. “It’s an important skill to have—might as well try to master the technique.”
Huffing out a laugh, Stan finally pulls himself up into a sitting position, letting himself sit on the bed by Ford’s feet.
Ford misses his warmth.
“Yeah, well, make sure not to use any nerd-speak in front of a girl. It’s a major turn-off.”
He rolls his eyes, lifting himself to sit as well. “Any other pieces of advice, oh wise one?”
Ford says it jokingly, expecting Stan to quip a smartass response back, but when it’s silent for a moment, he looks up to see Stan looking at him with an intense expression.
Raising an eyebrow, he asks, “What? Do I have something on my face?”
Stan opens his mouth and closes it before he looks away from him. “You can make more noises, y’know.”
His heart leaps out of his chest. “W-What?”
“I’m just sayin’,” Stan quickly cuts, in, still not looking at him, “Don’t be afraid to be loud. Girls love that shit.” He glances at Ford, before shrugging. “Most girls, anyway.”
“Oh,” he says, quite intelligently. “Um. Okay.” Ford blinks a few times. “Are you sure it won’t get…annoying?”
“Nah,” Stan says, shaking his head with a peculiar flush on his cheeks. “S’not annoying. It actually sounds—” he abruptly cuts himself off without finishing the thought. Ford watches in confused fascination as he swallows. “It’s not annoying.”
“...Okay,” Ford says again.
There’s a beat before he decides to add, “You can do that too. If you want.”
Stan lets out a scoff. “Nah, Carla doesn’t like it.”
“You just said—”
“Carla ain’t most girls,” Stan says brusquely.
Ford shuts his mouth, and Stan looks at him, softening. “Ah, sorry. Carla just—she doesn’t like my voice too much.”
She's an idiot, Ford doesn't say.
“‘Sides, s’not like I make noises too much anyway.” Stan shrugs it off, but Ford can tell this is a sore subject for him.
Stan never really liked his voice once it changed from puberty plus smoking cigarettes. He can certainly sound brash to the ears at times, but Ford has always enjoyed the gravelly aspects of Stan’s voice.
(It fueled a lot of his fantasies if he were to be completely honest.)
And that little groan that came from him today, a noise that Ford could get out of him, was enough to turn his legs into jelly.
He wanted more of those noises—to hell with what Carla doesn't like.
“Other people might like it,” Ford tries. Stan's head whips towards him and he tries to seem neutral about it all. “Other girls, I mean.”
Stan stares at him for a moment before shrugging. “Yeah.” He swallows. “Maybe.”
A silence settles between them, mostly comfortable with a hint of awkwardness before Stan speaks again.
“Welp,” Stan starts, rising to his feet and clapping his hands together once. “I'm gonna grab some toffee peanuts from that shop on the boardwalk. Ya want some jelly beans, Poindexter?”
“Yes, please.”
Stan smiles at him. “You got it!” He begins to walk towards the door to their room before he stops. “Oh, uh, Ford?” he starts hesitantly, turning his head towards him but not his entire body.
“Yes?”
“...Thank you,” he says quietly after a moment. He turns his head toward the door again, speaking away from him. “We should—we should practice again. So we can both be better at it.”
Ford is certain this entire situation is going to send him to an early grave. His heart still hasn't recovered from the events prior, but the promise of more sends it into complete overdrive.
“Yeah,” Ford finally says. “Yeah, we should.”
Without another word, Stan walks through the door, closing it gently and leaving him with the empty room.
Ford flops backward onto Stan’s bed and groans.
Life moves on, as it so often does—Ford continues to work hard in school while Stan slacks off, Stan makes mechanical improvements to his car, they both work on the Stan o’ War, and Ford keeps seeing Stan and Carla talking in the hallways, the sound of her screechy laughter like nails on a chalkboard to him.
By all means, all of that is normal.
Except now, whenever both Ford and Stan had some free time at home, they’d use it to practice.
The more they did it, the more Ford felt…not exactly relaxed, but he didn’t feel like he was one move away from keeling over anymore.
If anything, the practice sessions are the highlight of his days. Even if he has a terrible day at school—if he hears his classmates snicker behind his back, if he’s shoved into a locker, or even if he sees Stan and Carla gaze at each other in a cheesy, sentimental way—it doesn’t matter, because once he comes home he knows his lips will be on Stan’s.
Exactly where they belong.
It’s been about a week and a half since they started, and Ford just can’t get enough. He half-wonders if someone can become addicted to kissing.
If so, he definitely is.
At least, he’s addicted to kissing Stan. He wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else, regardless of what he said to Stan himself when these sessions started.
It’s the feeling of Stan’s lips, the slide of his tongue into his mouth, the way he gently bites and tugs at his bottom lip, how his body feels pressed against Ford’s—all of this is enough to drive Ford completely insane.
And he knows something is going to happen. It’s bound to. There’s something in the back of his mind at all times telling him this is idiotic and that this is not going to end well. Whatever it is—a feeling, an omen, a version of himself, or a literal god, he can’t say.
(All he knows is that it’s incredibly annoying to be reminded of it when he’s trying to commit the way Stan feels to memory.)
He’s gotten better at ignoring it with each passing day, simply attempting to stay in the moment. What may or may not happen isn’t important—what is important is that Ford has this right now, and he should focus on that fact.
Because whenever he and Stan start kissing, it’s like the rest of the world melts entirely for Ford. It’s just the two of them together, alone—just as it should be.
It doesn’t matter that Stan is going to use these sessions as fuel to make out with Carla. In fact, there’s a part of him that feels quite smug about it, realizing that Carla would just have to taste him when she kisses Stan.
And the most satisfying part? She wouldn’t even know.
Ford smirks to himself as he looks down at the history essay he’s doing in their room. Well, trying to do. He hasn’t been writing anything down—too distracted by thoughts of Stan.
Speaking of which, where is he? Ford thinks as he glances at the clock.
Stan is late.
Not that the two of them actually communicated how they’d like these sessions to be done, but Ford feels like there’s an unspoken agreement between them at this point: once both of them are home from school (and if Mom and Dad are busy), they would practice.
It’s been about twenty minutes since he expected Stan to be home.
Ford bites at his bottom lip, a bit frustrated. He takes a deep breath and tries to refocus on his homework.
A few minutes later, he hears screechy laughter outside their window.
Recognizing it immediately, Ford frowns as he peers through the window, seeing Stan and Carla talking together. He isn’t able to make out what they’re saying, but Carla is smiling at Stan as he grins at her, giving her a wink.
Ford rolls his eyes at it all, about to return to doing his homework, but something interesting happens.
Stan leans forward to kiss Carla, but she stops him, putting her hand on his lips. She says something to him with a small smile before she pats him on the cheek and walks off, leaving Stan to deflate a bit as he watches her go.
Two conflicting emotions occur inside of him.
One: Carla is an absolute bitch.
Ford would normally never use that word, but he has to admit it applies too perfectly here. Just who does she think she is? What right does she have to treat his brother like that? Like he’s below her? All Stan has ever done was be good to her, and she treats him like this?
Even if Stan were a bad kisser, why wouldn’t Carla just try to practice with him? Wouldn’t doing that with the person you’re supposed to like be logical?
To leave Stan to figure it out on his own is just cruel.
However, he’d be lying if he said the second part of him wasn’t just the tiniest bit happy. He knows it’s terrible to feel that way, and just watching Stan’s face fall at the interaction is enough to make his heart ache within his chest, but…
This just means their lessons could keep continuing.
This means that Ford can continue to live in this fantasy of his—one where he’s allowed to have Stan in the way he wants.
How long are you going to keep this up? a voice within him asks, and Ford’s mouth twists unpleasantly as his stomach churns.
How long are you going to keep lying to him?
But another voice in his head chimes in, It’s not like I forced him—he agreed to practice together. If he wanted to stop, we would stop—end of story.
Ford’s thoughts are interrupted when he hears the front door open and close. He jolts in his seat a bit, looking down at his homework and trying to look busy as he hears footsteps stomp their way up the stairs.
The door to their room opens and he doesn’t turn his head right away. He hears Stan close the door and the quiet thud of his jacket hitting the floor.
“You should hang that up,” Ford finally says, still not turning his head. He writes a few words down. “And you’re late.”
He hears Stan scoff behind him. “Oh, well, sorry, Professor,” he says, and Ford hears the resulting thump of him sitting down on the bottom bunk, “I didn’t know you were takin’ attendance.”
Ford frowns, turning his head behind him to look at Stan.
Stan is slumped on the bed, having what seems to be a staring contest with the floor. He looks absolutely despondent.
She must have really upset him.
Ford tilts his head slightly. “Are you alright?” he asks, voice softer than usual.
“‘m fine,” Stan grumbles, still glaring at the floor.
Unlike the last time Stan said he didn’t want to talk, this moment feels…different. Last time, Stan was more frustrated and confused—this time Stan seems dejected entirely.
“Stanley…” Ford begins, before he trails off. Admittedly, he’s never been too great at this—at comforting others. He’s always afraid he will say the wrong things and make everything worse.
But as he looks at Stan once more and sees how miserable he looks, he knows he needs to try.
Ford stands up from his desk and walks over to Stan’s bed, sitting next to him on the edge. Stan turns his head away from him.
“Stanley,” he tries again. “Talk to me. Please?”
He feels a bit guilty that he’s probing the information out of Stan when he already in fact knows, but he does truly think it would help him to vocalize it.
Stan doesn’t budge. “Nothin’ to talk about.”
Ford sighs, attempting to remain patient. “It’s clear to me that you’re upset.”
Stan shifts on the bed. Ford looks down and notices he’s gripping the sheets on the bed tightly.
“Stan,” he tries one more time, his voice a low murmur, “What’s wrong?”
For some reason, this causes Stan to chuckle. Ford’s brows furrow together. “What’s so funny?”
This stops Stan immediately. There’s a long stretch of silence.
“Me, apparently,” he mumbles. “I’m what’s wrong.”
Ford blinks. “What?”
“It’s me, Ford!” Stan snaps, his head turning toward him. “Everythin’ about me is wrong. I can’t—I can’t get nothin’ right.”
Ford’s heart falls to the floor.
Stan holds his hand out, starting a list. “I can’t pass my classes, I can’t make it on a sports team, I can’t make my girlfriend happy—hell, I can’t make anyone happy.” He slouches down, closing his eyes. “I’m just one big fuck-up.”
Ford stares at him helplessly, not sure what to say.
That’s not entirely true. He knows what he wants to say but isn’t sure if he should. What if it’s too much?
No. That doesn’t matter.
Stan needs him.
Ford places his hand on top of Stan’s. He stops gripping the bedsheet so tightly.
“You make me happy,” he offers, voice barely louder than a whisper.
Stan’s head turns toward him with wide eyes and he doesn’t say anything.
Ford gives a half smile, stroking Stan’s hand with his thumb. “Doesn’t that count for something?”
Stan continues to stare at him wordlessly, mouth slightly agape. His gaze lingers and it makes Ford start to doubt himself.
Ford’s smile falters as Stan still doesn’t respond. Was that too much? Was he out of line? Did he just make things worse?
Ford starts to pull his hand away. “I—I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
“No!” Stan says suddenly, grabbing a hold of his wrist. Ford stares at where he’s holding him firmly before Stan clears his throat and lets go. “Uh. I just mean…It—It does. It does count for somethin’.” He swallows before turning his head away from Ford. “...I just don’t understand how y’know?”
Emotion gets caught in Ford's throat as he hesitates again, afraid that what he wants to say will be too overwhelming for Stan.
But that’s exactly why he needs to hear it. Ford never wants Stan to think of himself in this way ever again—he needs Stan to know how much he cares for him.
Ford takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He angles his body more toward Stan on the bed and takes his hand once more. “Stanley. Listen to me, because I will only say this once.”
This grabs Stan’s attention immediately, causing him to stare at him with an intense expression.
“You’re my best friend, Stanley. Nothing short of the world ending is going to change that,” he says, feeling a strange sense of dread at his own words, but he continues.
“I don’t care what anyone else says—you are not wrong. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s everyone else, alright? I don’t know why Carla is acting the way she is, but I do know this—you’re sweet to her, you dote on her—it’s clear to everyone how much you like that girl,” Ford’s heart twinges as he says it, scared to face the reality of the situation, but it’s the truth. “You’re not doing anything wrong. From what I’ve seen, you’re—” he pauses. “You’re an exceptional boyfriend.”
Stan’s cheeks grow a bit pink at that. It’s captivating, but Ford isn’t done. “You always give her your jacket when she’s cold. You try to make her laugh when she’s feeling down. You buy her an absurd amount of flowers—”
“Watch it,” Stan says, though there’s an upward quirk to his lips.
“—and you actually listen to her. Not to mention, you regularly bathe and practice personal hygiene, which is more than I can say for the other boys at our school.”
They both laugh at that. Ford’s laughter turns into a fond, soft smile that he hopes doesn’t betray all of his emotions, but he pushes onwards anyway.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you, Stan. Really. The way you care, the way you wear your entire heart on your sleeve, the way you give everything for someone you love—it’s rare. And admirable.”
As he says those words, he gets lost in Stan’s eyes, captivated by how they’re staring at him with…awe?
It makes his body go warm, thinking that he’s helping Stan feel better. He wants to memorize that expression on his face, to remember what it’s like to have Stan look at him like he just hung the moon and stars.
It makes his heartbeat race inside of his chest. A particular thrill he’s never quite felt before.
And maybe that’s why he foolishly runs his mouth and continues to talk.
“And, I mean…if it were me…If I were a girl…I’d want someone like you.”
Ford realizes he’s gone too far when Stan’s eyebrows shoot up, paired with wide eyes.
Abort! Abort! Abort!
He chuckles nervously. “Ah hah. I just—I just meant, if you think about it logically, humans gravitate toward dependable people!”
His voice raises to a higher pitch as he desperately tries to shut his mouth, but traitorous words keep flowing out of him. Stan just continues to stare at him, wide-eyed and silent.
“You—you protect people, Stan. You’re loyal, and—and it makes sense biologically that—”
WHERE AM I GOING WITH THIS?
“—that I’d theoretically find that attractive if. If I—if we—”
He doesn’t know where the hell he plans to go with that statement or what his end goal is, but luckily he doesn’t have to, because then Stan is grabbing his face and kissing him.
Ford melts instantaneously, lips parting slightly. It’s a pretty tame kiss in terms of technique but the passion remains. He’s not used to Stan kissing him so suddenly—he’s never done that before, out of the blue.
It’s…
Very attractive.
He feels warmth pool in his gut, his stomach flipping pleasantly. He runs his tongue along Stan’s bottom lip, cherishing the small gasp that he emits.
A moment later, Stan pulls back, and embarrassingly, Ford tries to chase after him for a moment without thinking. Stan’s hand is still tangled in his hair, running his fingers through it.
“Heh, I thought that’d be the way to shut ya up,” Stan says, grinning at him.
Ford blinks.
He grabs the pillow on the bed and hits Stan with it. Repeatedly.
Stan bursts into laughter, shielding himself. “Ya gotta—ya gotta admit,” he says between giggles and hits, “—it worked pretty well.”
Ford puts the pillow down. “I’m never doing anything nice for you ever again,” he grumbles, looking away. His cheeks are burning.
Stan’s laughter dies down, and after a moment, Ford feels a hand rest on his.
He looks back up at Stan, who’s smiling at him softly. “Thanks, Poindexter. Means a lot.”
Ford swallows, nodding. “Yes. Of course.”
There’s a silence that stretches for a few moments before they speak in unison.
“Did ya wanna—’
“Would you like to—”
They both laugh—a nervous and jittery energy in the air—before Ford gestures to Stan.
“I’ve done enough talking for the night. What were you going to say, Stanley?”
Stan rubs the back of his neck. “I, uh. I was just wonderin’—if this would be a good time to, y’know. Practice?”
Ford internally cheers.
“You know what they say,” he starts, scooting a bit closer to be in Stan’s personal space, leaning in. “Practice makes perfect.”
Stan huffs out a laugh, face growing more serious as he looks at Ford’s mouth. He licks his lips.
“Well,” he says, his breath ghosting Ford’s lips and making him shiver. “Let’s work our way to perfection then, huh?”
He doesn’t know who begins the kiss first but it doesn’t even matter to Ford, because Stan’s lips are on his again—their rightful place—and he simply can’t get enough of that feeling that this is what they should have been doing all along.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s a reasonable voice trying to explain that this is wrong, that this is disgusting, but how can that be true? How can that be true when it feels so good? When it feels like they fit perfectly together?
Like they were made for each other?
Ford tries to use all of their past practice sessions, using techniques and moves he remembers Stan using previously. His efforts reward him when Stan lets out a throaty groan that makes arousal blossom low in his gut.
That small sound fuels Ford’s spark of desire as he takes more charge in the kiss, starting to press his weight against Stan. He runs his fingers through Stan’s short hair, and his body jolts with a shock of pleasure as Stan lets out a whine.
They both freeze. Stan pulls apart from him, cheeks a dark red. “Ah, shit—I’m sorry—I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t be afraid to make noises,” Ford blurts out.
“But—”
“I know you said Carla doesn’t like it,” he cuts him off, “but…”
Ford looks at Stan. He takes in his worried look, brows creased together. He looks at his red, puffy lips that cause his stomach to swoop and swirl in a pleasant way.
He looks at his brother, and he wants.
“But I’m not Carla,” he finishes, voice barely above a whisper.
There’s a moment where neither of them do anything. Ford’s anxiety starts to rise within him, but then Stan grabs him by the collar of his shirt and kisses him roughly, making Ford wrap his arms around him and return it wholeheartedly.
Stan suddenly makes a noise—not out of pleasure but out of pain. Ford pulls back immediately.
“Did I—”
“Cool it, Sixer. I’m not made outta glass,” Stan says, an amused tilt to his tone. He rubs his cheek. “Your glasses just dug into me.”
“Oh, apologies. Let me—” he reaches for his glasses but stops when Stan puts his hands on the frames.
“I got ya,” Stan murmurs, his voice sending shivers up Ford’s spine. “I got ya.”
Stan slowly pulls Ford’s glasses off, making his breath hitch. The moment is somehow more intimate than their kissing.
He watches as Stan gets up and places his glasses on his desk, quickly returning to his place on the bed.
Stan reaches to cup his face, and his heart stops all over again. “Shall we continue, oh student of mine?”
The words are ridiculous, just like Stan, so maybe that’s the reason why they make adoration bloom in his chest, his heart fluttering.
“If anything we’re both students.”
Stan snorts. “Oh please. Without me, you’d still be kissing that—”
Ford cuts him off with a kiss. He feels Stan go still under him for a moment.
He pulls back and can’t help the smirk on his face. “You were right, that is a good way to shut someone up.”
Stan stares at him before barking out a short laugh. “I guess the student has become the master.”
Ford lets out a light chuckle, his laughter dying in his throat as he watches Stan lick his lips while staring at his own. “What can I say?” Ford starts to lean into Stan’s space again. “I learned from the best,” he whispers.
Ford is the one to initiate the kiss this time, and now with his glasses out of the way, it feels much better. He’s able to tilt his head more freely and deepen the kiss the way he wants, letting himself drown in the sensation of kissing Stan.
He nips lightly at Stan’s bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue, and Stan lets out a moan that Ford’s never heard before.
Something snaps within him.
Suddenly Ford pushes Stan down against the bed, pressing his weight against him. He doesn’t know where this boldness came from—but fuck, Stan looks so good underneath him like this.
Stan stares at him with wide eyes and his cheeks flushed. Ford is about to apologize and retreat but then Stan pulls him down, kissing him.
Ford lets out a groan and returns the kiss. The kiss becomes a bit sloppy but in the best possible way—and he starts to feel himself become aroused, a bit of panic rising in the back of his mind.
You need to get off of him before he notices, a voice in his mind warns him.
And that’s a fantastic, logical point to consider, he answers the voice internally while still kissing his brother, However, have you considered that I don’t want to?
And he knows it’s stupid, he knows he’s playing in dangerous territory here—they’ve never gotten this close to each other before, even in all of their practice sessions. Ford is taking it too far, and Stan will find out.
He allows himself a few more kisses before he pulls back, panting. He shifts a little on the bed, trying to prepare himself to get up, but then—
Stan moans, bucking his hips up into him before he freezes completely.
Stan is hard too.
He looks down at Stan’s face and takes in how flushed he is, how red his cheeks are. In the back of his mind behind all the shock, he notes it’s a good look for him.
They stare at each other wordlessly. The gears in Ford’s brain are working themselves so much he’s afraid something might break.
But then Ford is back on Stan again, giving everything he has into this kiss, rocking his hips into Stan and groaning at the friction.
Stan whines in response, making Ford grind against him more incessantly.
It feels so good.
We shouldn’t be doing this.
It feels so good and he never wants to stop.
This is wrong.
But Ford can’t bring himself to care—not when he has Stan underneath him like this and making noises he’s only ever dreamt about.
Stan thrusts upwards, meeting the frantic roll of his hips. They both groan.
He needs more. He needs more of Stan.
And logically, he’s not even sure Stan feels the same way about him—this could purely be a physical response to the situation, nothing at all to do with him, but Ford doesn’t care. Right now, he can pretend that this is something reciprocal, that this is something Stan wants too.
“Ford,” Stan moans in between kisses, and Moses, that’s almost enough to make Ford come right then and there. “Fuck, Stanford—”
Ford kisses him again. And again. And again and again, until he knows with no doubt in his mind that he’ll have this feeling memorized, that he’ll be able to be stuck in this moment forever—
“Boys?” Their mother calls from downstairs. “Boys, are you up there?”
“Shit,” Stan curses with wide eyes as Ford practically jumps off of him. “Wait, wait, c’mere,” he whispers, smoothing Ford’s hair.
“Go, go to your desk!” he yell-whispers, and Ford scrambles to sit at his desk, which is luckily facing away from the door. He spots his glasses and grabs them, putting them on.
Stan rushes to get a blanket over him to hide his bottom half. He flounders a bit, grabbing his ping-pong paddle he has under his bed.
The door opens.
“Oh, there you two are. It was so quiet, I wasn’t even sure you were here.” Caryn looks between Ford and Stan. “...Is everything alright?”
They speak in unison.
“Yes.”
“Yep.”
Caryn blinks. “Oh. Alright then. Stanley, your father needs you downstairs.”
“Okay, Ma. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Caryn smiles at him and closes the door.
The silence in the room is suffocating. What were they just about to do? What would have happened if they weren’t interrupted?
What does this mean for them?
Ford struggles to swallow down all these conflicting emotions inside of him. “Stanley—”
“We’ll talk later,” Stan says, not looking at him. He gets off the bed and opens the door. He pauses for a moment. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
He looks at Ford this time, his expression aggravatingly neutral. Ford isn’t sure what to make of it.
He nods. “Yes. Okay.”
Stan gives a single nod before he walks out the door, closing it quietly.
There’s nothing to be concerned about, he tells himself.
They’ll talk about it later.
Notes:
special thanks to cravingpepsimax and frondere for help with this fic!!!!! i care you both so much <3
Chapter 2
Notes:
howdy! im back with chapter 2. Apologies that this one is only about half the length as chapter 1 but i hope chapter 3 will make up for it when that gets done!
Special thank u to @The_Genderqueer_Dwarf for some suggestions on this chapter! you were a genius
truthfully ive been going through it this week (going through a break up actually. it wouldve been our second year anniversary today) but i really wanted to get this done, and i honestly had a good time writing it. it was a good distraction.
but! i hope u enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Later doesn’t come soon enough, Ford thinks.
It’s been a few hours since Stan left their room—left him reeling in an endless storm of thoughts that won’t seem to leave him alone. He’s tried everything he could to distract himself—even bringing out his old reliable calculus workbook—but he doesn’t solve a single equation. He feels much too jittery and nervous despite trying to convince himself everything will be alright.
Because it will, won’t it? It has to be.
Surely this can’t be something that drives a wedge between them or tears them apart.
Surely.
After all, Stan was hard too. And yes, perhaps it was just a purely physical response from their activities, but what if it wasn’t?
Ford has never allowed himself one particular thing in regards to his feelings toward Stan, because he knew it would just hurt him more in the long run.
He’s never allowed himself to hope.
To hope that Stan feels the same way. To hope that he isn’t alone in this.
To hope that Stan is just as far gone on Ford as he is on him.
Even when these practice sessions started, Ford promised himself not to develop delusions of grandeur, as that would only cause his heart to break.
It worked. At least, for a little while. But after that last session today—after feeling what it was like to have Stan under him while they were kissing, feeling his hard cock against his own, and hearing him moan like that—
Maybe…
Maybe there’s a chance for them.
It’s ludicrous and insane to think, and yet, Ford has butterflies in his stomach every time he remembers what happened.
He doesn’t know how it would work. It’s bad enough that they’re two boys—but they’re also brothers.
Whenever he thinks about their future together, Ford gets the same feelings he does when he rides a rollercoaster too many times: energetic, anxious, excited, and extremely nauseated.
Because what if this is the last straw? What if, despite all the evidence, Stan comes to his senses and realizes how horrendous and unforgivable this all is?
What if Stan realizes how disgusting he is?
Ford’s stomach churns, wondering if his brother—the only one who has ever been adamant about him not being a freak—thinks differently of him now.
Truthfully, he’s not sure he can handle that. Stan has always been the one at his side, ever since they were born. They were an inseparable force, never to be parted.
Stan has always been there to protect him, to cheer him up, to make him laugh—he’s always been there for Ford, no matter what other people said about him.
He unknowingly bites at his pen while he stares at the equations in front of him, still as unsolved as before.
He jumps as his door opens, heart pounding in his chest. This is it. They’re about to talk about it.
Ford takes a deep breath, turning around to see—
His mother.
“Oh,” Ford blurts out. “I thought you were Stanley.”
His mother lets out a short laugh at that. “Sorry to disappoint, honey. But it’s funny you mentioned Stanley—I need you to look for him. Dinner’s almost ready and he hasn’t come back from the errands your father sent him on, yet. He should be somewhere on the boardwalk, finishing up making some deliveries for your father.”
Ford swallows his nerves down before nodding. “I’ll find him.”
Caryn smiles at him, coming closer to pat his cheek. “That’s my boy.”
Ford chuckles, swatting at her hand. “Mom.”
“Alright, alright,” Caryn says, backing away. She starts walking out the bedroom door. “Don’t take too long or dinner will get cold!” she calls out as she goes downstairs.
Ford looks outside the window, noticing how dark it’s starting to get. He better go now.
It's time to find Stanley.
Trying to find Stan proves to be a more difficult task than Ford originally thought it would be. In fairness, it’s not as though there’s an easy way to locate him—it’s times like these when he wishes there was a better way rather than wandering aimlessly on the boardwalk until he finds the one he’s looking for.
It’s already taken a considerable amount of time, with no luck whatsoever. He sighs.
He never takes this long to run errands for Dad. He always tries to finish as fast as he can…
Ford wonders what’s different this time but can only think of one thing.
Is it because of what happened between them?
Is he…is he purposely avoiding me?
His brows furrow together as the mere thought makes his stomach flip unpleasantly.
No. Ford knows better than to jump to conclusions without looking at the evidence. Which—there isn’t much of it to begin with.
He continues to walk down the boardwalk, half-heartedly scanning the area around for Stan as he begins to list out possible scenarios, using his fingers as he thinks.
Scenario #1: Stan is simply running late.
This is certainly possible. Stan has a knack for becoming easily distracted, no matter where he is. Ford can picture him wandering off to different shops on the boardwalk, or even going to the shore if he sees something shiny enough.
It’s true to his character, but in all fairness, he’s never been quite this late before—the timing is definitely suspicious.
Scenario #2: Stan is delaying their talk together.
His stomach sinks at the thought, but he tries to press onward. Besides, Stan delaying their talk after what occurred isn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Scenario #2a: Stan is delaying their talk together because he does in fact feel the same way.
Ford isn’t too sure he wants to list his reasonings out in his head—he can still feel that irritating buzz of hope in his chest, threatening to come out and cause even more trouble—but he knows in order to see all possible angles, he must.
Of course, Stan agreeing to this whole set of circumstances is something that sticks out to him. Yes, Ford was trying to act casually and imply it wasn’t as unusual as it actually is, but he knows Stan isn’t stupid despite what everyone else says.
So…why would he agree?
He could take their whole agreement at face value and believe that Stan wanted to become a better kisser for Carla, but that begs the question: Why are the lessons continuing?
The two have been practicing every day—sometimes multiple times a day—for more than a week. Shouldn’t that be a plentiful amount of practice?
Then again, it’s not as though Stan hasn’t tried to use his skills on someone other than Ford. Carla rejected him right outside their window, pulling away before their lips could meet.
Still, the question remains: why has this been going on as long as it has?
Stan doesn’t seem bothered by it at all anymore. The most apprehension Ford has seen from him came from that first session, and that was understandable. But now that they’ve been practicing so much, it’s become second nature for both of them.
And isn’t that strange? They’re brothers, after all.
Yes, Ford is fully aware that he has feelings for his own brother, but that’s Ford. He’s used to being an oddity, an anomaly, a weirdo, a freak.
What’s Stan’s excuse?
Is it possible that Stan might just be nervous about his own feelings? That, perhaps, he’s delaying their talk because he’s not sure how Ford feels?
Does he…is it possible he…
Even in his own mind, Ford does not dare think of the four-letter word that haunts him so intensely. While he’s never been particularly superstitious, he doesn’t want to take any chances.
Enough of this foolish fantasizing—I need to think of the other scenario.
Scenario #2b: Stan is delaying their talk together because he regrets what happened.
It pains Ford to even think about it, but he knows he needs to consider the possibility. Their practicing sessions have never, ever gotten that…involved before. While it certainly seemed as though Stan was enjoying himself in the moment, he simply could have been caught up in all the sensations that were occurring, resulting in a natural, physiological reaction.
Stan being aroused doesn’t necessarily mean he feels the same way toward Ford—he was just there and easily accessible.
A convenient practicing partner. That’s all he is.
Before these practicing sessions, Stan had given no indication that his feelings toward Ford may go beyond brotherly. Yes, they were close—close enough to want to spend the rest of their lives together on a boat looking for treasure—but Stan has always had options in terms of company.
While they both aren’t the most popular in school, Stan could work his charm when he wants to. He has a comedic way with words that, while cheesy, is…endearing in its own way. That’s (presumably) why Carla decided to start dating him in the first place, as she frequently laughs at his jokes—she finds him funny.
That’s one thing Ford can give her credit for—her taste.
The point is, Stan isn’t shy about trying to branch off to find other people to hang out with. Of course, Ford knows how important he is to Stan, it would be idiotic to disregard that fact—but when push comes to shove, Stan is going to have to make a choice.
Live a normal life, or be with his freak of a brother.
And Ford knows Stan doesn’t agree with him being a freak—he knows this. But who in their right mind would give up having a normal life to be with someone like him?
It’s not just about his fingers. They may play a big role, but it isn’t just that.
He’s socially awkward to a painful degree, too much of a weakling, too much of a coward to fight his own battles, has no attraction to women, and, the cherry on top of this vile cake is the fact he’s in love with his twin brother.
Even if he had been born without his obvious abnormality, he’d still be an outcast.
Ford wouldn’t blame Stan if this particular scenario were true—he probably came to his senses about this entire situation and wanted to get as far away from Ford as possible.
If he were Stan, he’d do the same.
Without question.
Ford is so preoccupied with his thoughts and self-loathing that he doesn’t pay attention to where he’s walking and bumps right into someone.
“Oh!” Ford says, blinking rapidly as he’s brought back down to Earth. “Pardon me.”
The person he walked into turns around and Ford’s anxiety shoots up exponentially.
Crampelter.
“Well, well, well,” Crampelter drawls, his irritating voice making Ford’s annoyance spike through the roof. “Look what the circus dragged in.”
Crampelter steps closer to him, his goons surrounding Ford in a circle. There’s nowhere to run.
“Dontcha know shoving people is rude?”
Ford can’t help but snort. “Since when do you care about being rude?”
He tries to mutter it, but Ford knows he’s made a mistake when Crampelter’s face burns red with anger.
“Hey!” Crampelter pushes him roughly with both hands, making Ford bump into one of the other bullies. “Don’t get smart wit’ me, idiot!”
Okay, Crampelter is truly leaving himself open for these.
“Well, which is it? Am I smart, or am I an idiot?”
The resulting punch to the stomach is expected, but it still hurts all the same. He groans and clutches his stomach, his knees threatening to fall to the ground.
“Ya keep talking like that and it won’t matter ‘cuz you’ll be dead.”
He tries to turn and push past one of the other cronies, but he’s just shoved back in Crampelter’s direction. He loses his balance and falls to the ground.
Crampelter and his gang start to kick him, and while it hurts like hell Ford knows the best solution at this point is to just tough it out—if he fights back anymore he’ll just make things worse.
Crampelter stops kicking him while the others continue. He crouches down to where Ford is. “You’re just a creepy little freak that no one will ever wanna come near! The only one who seems to give a damn about you is your dumb brother—he’s too stupid to realize how much of a weirdo you are.”
Even through all the pain, rage seeps in at those words about Stan.
“Maybe one day he’ll realize he’s better off without ya. Then you’ll really be all alone! A six-fingered loser who nobody will ever love, and that’s all you’ll ever—”
Crampelter is abruptly cut off as a familiar figure shoves his way in and pushes him.
“Don’t fuckin’ talk about him like that!” Stan yells, getting very close to Crampleter’s face.
“Speak of the devil!” Crampelter says loudly, smirking. “It’s the knight in shining armor, coming to save the princess!”
Ford struggles to get to his feet, his body aching all over. When he finally does, Stan looks livid.
Afraid that Stan might actually try to kill him, he places a hand on his shoulder. “Stanley, let’s just get out of here—”
“Don’t worry, Stanley,” he sneers, “I wouldn’t touch your fair maiden like that—his virtue is still intact.” Crampelter tilts his head, a nasty smile on his face. “But maybe you already took care of that. Wouldn’t surprise me after all.”
Stan freezes for a moment before squinting at him. “What the fuck are ya talkin’ about?”
Crampelter grins before he starts to sing loud and obnoxiously, “Stan and Ford, sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N—”
Stan lunges at Crampelter, practically snarling.
“Stanley!” Ford shouts, trying to use all of his strength to hold him back. “Stanley, Stanley, Stan, he’s not worth it!”
“Ya sick fuck,” Stan spits out, still trying to attack the other boy, “what the hell is wrong with ya!? When I get my hands on ya I swear—!”
“Stanley!”
Stan freezes for a moment before looking Ford right in the eyes.
“It’s not worth it,” Ford says, even though embarrassment and shame are trying to choke him.
But that isn’t what matters right now—he needs to calm Stan down. If he doesn’t, Crampelter will end up in the hospital.
Which—if Ford is being truthful, he couldn’t care less about his wellbeing—but Stan will surely face their father’s wrath if he finds out he was in another fight.
“Listen to me, Stan,” Ford continues, lowering his tone in what he hopes is a calming one. “He’s an idiot. He doesn’t know anything about us. He doesn’t matter, alright?”
Stan, still breathing heavily, glances towards Crampelter.
“No, no—look at me. Stan, look at me.”
He does.
Ford takes a significant pause. “He’s not worth it,” he repeats. He takes a long breath. “Lets just…go home.”
Ford rubs at the sore spot on his stomach, which he knows is going to bruise by tomorrow.
Stan’s eyes drop down to Ford’s hands, a conflicted expression on his face. For a moment his face scrunches up in anger toward Crampelter and Ford thinks his words didn’t work, but then Stan looks back at him and the fight in his body seems to deflate in an instant.
“Yeah,” Stan sighs out. “Let’s…let’s go back home. Fix ya up.”
Stan takes Ford’s hand and pushes the other bullies out of the way, clearing a path for them.
“Good job calling your dog off!” the irritating voice shouts, laughter erupting behind them.
He looks at Stan to make sure it doesn’t set him off, afraid he’ll turn right around and pummel Crampelter to the ground.
Stan doesn’t give a reaction other than his jaw clenching. He keeps walking.
They make it back home after a completely silent walk. Ford had been dreading their Father’s reaction, but luckily Filbrick went to bed early for the night.
After getting an earful from their mother—mostly out of concern, really—they microwaved their dinners and ate in silence.
Even now, as Ford and Stan finish eating, he feels…uneasy.
It’s a bit unsettling that Crampelter knew exactly where to hit him the hardest.
Am I that obvious?
Ford stifles a scoff at himself.
I’ve been having kissing sessions with my brother—i think it’s safe to say some things are evident, even if I’d rather they weren’t.
They clean up surrounded by a deafening silence, which Ford fears will only get worse if they don’t address it.
They head up to their room and Ford closes the door behind him. Stan shrugs his jacket off his shoulders and kicks his shoes off before sitting on the edge of his bed.
Ford neatly takes his shoes off before he sits down next to Stan, without a word.
Stan shifts a bit away from him.
“Uh—” he clears his throat. “You good, Sixer? You need me to do anything? How bad was it?”
Ford blinks before shrugging. “You and I both know I’ve had worse,” he chuckles. It’s an awkward, desperate sound.
Stan stares directly in front of him, not meeting his eyes. It’s silent for a bit, and then Stan looks at the ground.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner.”
“Stanley, please. It isn’t your fault.”
There’s another long stretch of silence.
Those are starting to become a pattern, and Ford doesn’t like it. He’d give anything to go back to how they were before—how Stan was kissing him like a starving man, how it felt to be on top of—
“I don’t think we should do it anymore.”
Ford’s entire world freezes.
“...Do what?”
Stan gives him an incredulous look. “What else, Ford?”
He doesn’t say anything. His heart is beating against his ribcage but it doesn’t feel like it did before, it feels wrong and lonely and full of dread—
Letting out a bitter-sounding scoff that cuts Ford like a knife, Stan throws his hands up. “The kissing practice! What else would I—”
“Why are you choosing to care what Crampelter thinks?”
Stan blinks at him. “...What?”
Ford stands up and faces him. He crosses his arms. “He’s an idiot. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Because that has to be what’s causing this conversation, right? Stan feels self-conscious about everything because of what that dimwit said—
Stan laughs. It’s a cold, bitter sound. “I think the scary thing is that he does for once—”
“This doesn’t mean we have to stop.”
Stan looks at him like he’s grown three heads. “Ford, what—we have to stop. We need to. It’s not—” he pauses, looking away, “—it ain’t right.”
“Isn’t right,” Ford corrects on impulse. He knows he’s going about this all wrong deep down, he knows this isn’t going well but he can’t—”And I don’t see what the problem is exactly. You didn’t have an issue before.”
“Seriously?” Stan asks as he stands up right in front of Ford. “Gee, Ford. I wonder why I’d have an issue now.”
“You didn’t seem to have an issue this afternoon while you were moaning my name.”
Ford knows it’s a low blow, but he can’t help but feel slightly satisfied when Stan’s face goes red. With anger or embarrassment, he isn’t sure.
“That’s—that’s not—” Stan stammers, looking anywhere but him. Stan turns away. “That’s not important. What’s important is that we need to stop.”
Ford moves around to force Stan to make eye contact with him. “You want to stop? Fine. But then tell me the real reason why you want to stop!”
“Why do you want them to continue so badly?”
“Just tell me why, Stanley.”
“I—I’m not—there’s not—”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I am—”
“No, you aren’t. Just tell me—”
“People don’t need any more reasons to think you’re a freak!” Stan finally snaps, breathing heavily.
Ford’s heart promptly drops to the ground and shatters.
He feels a pain that’s far worse than any of the beatings he’s ever felt before. His heart feels low and heavy in his chest, and as pathetic as it is, he feels tears start to well up in his eyes.
Stan’s eyes widen and he slaps a hand over his mouth before dragging it down in shock. “Sixer, I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”
He tries to reach out to Ford, but he shoves past him and bolts down the stairs.
“Ford! Stanford, wait, I’m sorry, please—”
He’s out the door before he realizes it, ignoring Stan’s pleas. He needs to get out of here, he needs to get out of here now.
Ford runs away, pretending the wetness on his cheeks is just sweat.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been on the shore. All he knows is that it’s late and dark out, and he really shouldn’t be out here right now.
But it doesn’t matter.
Stan’s words keep replaying over and over in his head, a painful mantra.
I should’ve known. I should have never started this.
Because really, Stan isn’t in the wrong here. Ford is. It’s always been him who’s wrong.
He couldn’t even be a normal brother—he had to mess that up too and be an absolute freak.
Ford can’t help but cringe as he thinks about the word. It has more weight to it now that Stan called him that.
He never thought Stan would call him that. Never in a million years.
Ford picks up a rock in the sand and fidgets with it. He stares out at the waves crashing on the beach.
Really, what did he expect to happen? For Stan to declare his love? For them to ride off together in the sunset?
For them to have a happy ending?
Stan isn’t the idiot—he is.
Ford wishes he could stop being this way. He wishes he could stop feeling what he feels and just let Stan live a normal life.
After all, Stan is the one that has a shot at having a normal life. Not him.
He hears footsteps behind him and he glances in that direction, only for his shame to intensify as he sees who it is.
Ford forces himself to look back at the ocean as Stan sits next to him. For a while, neither of them say anything.
“Y’know,” Stan starts. “I like comin’ here when I’m upset too. It’s calmin’. Relaxin’.
Ford stays silent.
Stan sighs. “Ford, I…About what I said before—”
“Don’t bother.” He pauses, looking down. “I’m a freak, everyone knows that.”
Even you.
“Ford, no, I—” Stan makes a frustrated sound. “I just…”
There’s a long pause. Ford waits for Stan to continue, half-expecting him to simply give up.
“...I don’t want you to get picked on even more because of me.”
Ford lifts his head up to look at Stan. He’s not looking back at him.
Stan continues. “‘Cuz, this happened because of me, right? My whole thing with Carla. I shouldn’t have—” he stops. “You tried to help me. You got too wrapped up in my bullshit. I’m sorry, Ford.”
Part of Ford wants to protest because he suggested the idea, but his tongue feels thick and heavy in his mouth.
“I just want things to go back to the way they were,” Stan says quietly before looking at him. “You’re my brother and I wouldn’t trade that for the world. Okay?”
And even though he knows it’s for the best, it really is, Ford’s heart aches at that prospect.
He’ll never know what it’s like to have Stan like that.
Not truly.
“...Me too,” Ford says, barely louder than a whisper. It hurts to even say, but after causing all of this, it’s the least he can do.
Stan nods, getting to his feet. “It’s settled then. Let’s just forget this ever happened. Okay, Poindexter?” He reaches out to help Ford up.
Ford looks at it, not taking it right away.
Stan gives him an exasperated smile. “C’mon, don’t leave me hangin’!”
A small chuckle escapes his lips and he takes Stan’s hand, rising to his feet. Stan pats him on the back before lifting a hand in front of him.
“...High six?”
Ford stares at his hand. He forces a smile.
“High six.”
The next day at school, he passes by a table full of college pamphlets.
After everything that’s happened, Ford thinks it would be a good idea to start to separate himself from Stan. He needs to get rid of his feelings, or at the very least, get away from the source.
But what about the Stan ‘O War? What about Stan? I can’t just leave him behind.
This is what’s right. This is what makes sense. This is what’s supposed to happen.
If it doesn’t, he’ll just drag Stan down with him.
Stan will be okay. He always is.
Ford looks at the table. His eyes settle on a particular one with the words West Coast Tech.
He takes a pamphlet.
Notes:
this WILL have a happy ending i prommy! Oh, and a reminder that chapter 3 and onwards will be sea grunks!
i love u all! please consider leaving a kudos/comment if you enjoyed! Toodles.
Chapter 3
Notes:
ha. ha ha.
SO. looks like this baby is gonna be 5 chapters now! And just as a reminder, these next chapters are now post canon, aka sea grunks era! And now the POV is Stan's, and will stay that way for the rest of the fic!
i have an outline for everything but i thought doing a split here was a better plan to keep things nice and smooth for the rest of the story. i hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Saving the world came with a few perks, Stan thinks.
The people of Gravity Falls smothering him and his family with gifts? That was one of them. It got to the point that he and Ford had to leave some of them behind when they finally moved into the Stan ‘O War II—giving some to the kids and Soos, of course. Stan did try to fight the good fight, even though he knew his brother was going to be a logical nerd about it.
“Stanley,” Ford sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we don’t have any use for a blender.”
“Yet!”
“Stanley…Stanley? Stan, get back here! We’re not taking the blender! Stanley!”
Good times.
Even now, when Stan is humming to himself as he makes a cup of coffee in the ship’s little kitchen, he smiles at those memories.
Sure, his memory is a bit like a slice of Swiss cheese nowadays—too many holes needing to be filled and not even in a fun way—but Ford’s been doing a good job at helping him.
Right after the Weird-Apocalypse or whatever the fuck Ford likes to call it, it was hard to even get out of his brother’s sight. Ford dedicated those few weeks solely to Stan and helping him, and hell, isn’t that something?
He wasn’t used to it, at all. Even when he did mostly remember who Ford even was, it was a little unnerving having his twin who had been more than a little cold toward him and—okay, let’s face it, a bit of a bitch since he came back from the dimension’s asshole—be so kind to him.
It wasn’t just the kindness either. If Stan went as far as to—gasp—leave the living room to take a quick piss while Ford was snoring like a chainsaw, he’d come back to Ford’s sad puppy-dog eyes.
“You could have woken me up to inform me,” Ford muttered, practically pouting at him. He was standing up from where Stan left him on the loveseat in the living room. “I wasn’t cognizant of your whereabouts.”
Stan rolled his eyes, although he did feel a warm, weird, fuzzy feeling that Ford cared that much. “Gee, Sixer, can’t a man piss in peace?”
Ford stared at him, unblinking, mouth slack.
Stan shifted on his feet. “...What? What is it?”
Ford blinked a few times, shaking himself out of it. “Oh, no. It’s just—” he cut himself off, a small, bittersweet smile on his face. “That was the first time you called me that since you lost your memory.”
That…wasn’t what he expected. Honestly, he didn’t even think about it, it just slipped out. It felt right.
Natural.
But then he remembered Bill.
“Do you—I don’t gotta call you that if…if you don’t want me to,” Stan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “If there’s—y’know—bad memories or somethin’—”
“Stanley,” Ford approached him, making very direct eye contact. “I do appreciate the sentiment, but it was your name for me first.” He put a hand on Stan’s shoulder.
It was warm.
Ford smiled at him, soft and comforting. It was a sight that Stan wasn't ever able to get used to—when it was directed at him at least. “I enjoyed hearing you call me that. You don’t have to stop on my account.”
Stan’s heart skipped a beat in his chest. “Bring back good memories, huh?”
And while it was true that Stan didn’t have all of his memories of those days back, he knows the basics:
They were some of the happiest moments of his life.
Ford’s expression melted into something even more vulnerable, but Stan couldn’t place what it was exactly. He could have sworn he caught Ford’s gaze dipping lower toward his lips.
“The best,” Ford uttered out.
He was probably just seeing things.
Stan huffed out a laugh. “Sap. And to think this all started with me takin’ a piss.”
Ford made a face. “Must you say it like that?”
“You’re the one who wants my pissin’ schedule.”
“That—that is not what I said.”
Not all of his recovered memories were good ones. Stan remembers Ford telling him a bit about their past—everything that happened between them. The good, the bad, and of course, the butt-ugly.
He was pretty mopey on that day when Ford reminded him. Felt like it was better forgotten, but Stan knows that isn’t true. It hurt—Moses did it hurt—but he knows he needed to remember all that stuff to really appreciate how far they’ve come.
And sure, maybe Stan still hates himself for going to the school that damned night in the first place and messing everything between them up, causing a domino effect that gave him 40 years of loneliness but…
At least they made their way to each other in the end.
Better late than never, Stan thinks.
He lets out a bit of a sigh, not fully sad or happy, but some nasty gray in between. Grabbing his freshly poured mug of coffee, he takes it outside on the deck and takes a seat, enjoying the morning breeze.
It’s been a long, fucked-up journey for the both of them, but they’ve made it.
…Even if Stan did have some questions that never really got answered.
“So. Let me get this straight,” Stan started, trying to wrap his head around the bucketload of information dumped on him, “we weren’t in contact with each other for ten whole years? Until you sent that postcard? Because of the…project?”
They were sitting at the kitchen table in the shack. The twins were pretty damn persistent about giving them space, so Stan figured it was important.
And it was.
Ford was looking away from him as he nodded. “Correct.”
Stan scratched his head, humming. Then he said, “Really? That was it?”
The speed with which Ford’s head shot up to look at him made for a nice breeze on Stan’s skin in the summer heat. “What? What do you mean?”
Stan shrugged. “I just…I know ya wanted to go to that school real bad, but ten years?” He felt like he was missing something. Something big.
He couldn’t place it.
A thought struck Stan suddenly. He felt hollow. “Didja…didja really not miss me all that time?”
Ford blinked at him, flinching as though he’d just been punched in the face. “Wha—”
“I can’t think of any other reason,” Stan grunted out, letting his pain masquerade itself as anger. “Ya really didn’t give a rat’s ass about where I was or what I was doin’, didja? Didn’t think about me at all, livin’ it up at college and havin’ the time of your life because I wasn’t—”
Ford slammed his hand down on the table. Hard.
It shut Stan up immediately, the word’s dying in his throat. He looked directly at Ford, staring at his clenched jaw.
“Don't—” Ford gritted out before taking a breath. “Don’t say that. I—” There was conflict written all over his face, the reason why being unclear to Stan.
Whatever internal battle was happening inside of his brother came to a finish as Ford deflated a bit, the fight leaving his body. Stan watched in silence as he took his glasses off and rubbed a hand over his eyes and face. When he withdrew his hand, it looked like he aged ten years.
Ford sighed, before looking him right in the eyes. “There are no words in all of the dimensions I’ve been in to describe how much I missed you during that time.”
“But—”
“I was…angry, yes,” Ford conceded, before continuing. “But even while I was angry with you…” He trailed off, his lips pressing together in a thin line. “I thought about you constantly. I missed you constantly—even when I didn’t want to.” A beat. “And I was a fool for not wanting to.”
Stan didn’t know what to say. He knew Ford was sincere—he could tell. There was a deep, heavy pain as he said those words. But surely it wasn’t that bad, right?
As if he could read his mind, Ford reached over the table to grab Stan’s hand. The dull, familiar ache of yearning spread throughout Stan’s chest as he stared at their intertwined hands.
“Stanley. You were like a phantom haunting me all those years. Please, do not say that I didn’t miss you, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
Stan swallowed down his emotions, his throat feeling sore with it. “...Okay. I believe you.”
They sat there for a bit, the air charged with…something. With what, Stan wasn’t sure.
But they were still holding hands.
He cleared his throat, withdrawing his hand and shifting in his seat. “So, uh…A phantom, huh?” A smirk crept on his lips. “Betcha I’d make a great ghost.”
Ford’s face paled in an instant. “Please do not put the idea of your death in my mind right after I was forced to shoot you.”
Stan couldn’t help it. He busted out laughing.
Ford wasn’t impressed.
“Stanley, it’s not funny!”
“It’s a little funny—you might be the ghost with how white you turned! And that’s a record for your pasty ass!”
Ford’s lips twitched. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re twins. Our complexion is identical. Meaning, you also have a “pasty ass” as you put it.”
Stan waggled his eyebrows. “Ya wanna see?”
As quickly as Ford’s face became white, his face became beet red at this moment. “Wh—I—Stanley!”
He laughed until his cheeks were sore. Once his laughter died down, he decided to return to the subject, sobering up a bit.
“But there really wasn’t somethin’ leading up to it? No fight or anythin’?”
Ford stared at him for a long, long moment. He opened his mouth but then closed it. His expression suddenly became closed off when he let out a dry chuckle. “Well. You know how we both are. Stubborn as mules,” he said, standing up and patting Stan on the back. His tone went back to normal, or something that could pass as it
“The important thing is that we’re here now. Let’s focus on that, shall we?”
Ford smiled at him as he said it, but his eyes looked…dull. Empty.
He was hiding something.
But Stan knows better than to push Ford on shit he doesn’t wanna talk about, and if Ford’s decided that it’s not important to know, then it’s not.
…Right?
A loud clearing of the throat shakes Stan out of his thoughts, thankfully not when he’s sipping his coffee.
“Are you planning on actually finishing that coffee, or are you just conducting an in-depth, existential study on caffeine evaporation?” Ford asks, leaning on the door that leads to the main cabin. He has an amused look on his face, raising an eyebrow at Stan’s very full cup of coffee.
Stan snorts, trying to hide his smile in his next sip. He takes his time with this sip, slurping loudly and slowly while looking directly at his brother. Ford rolls his eyes at him, but Stan catches the way his mouth curves upwards.
Deciding he’s been annoying enough, he sets the mug back down with a satisfied ah. “Nah, just waiting for it to tell me all the secrets of the universe. So far, all I got is ‘don’t trust decaf’ and ‘don’t put six spoonfuls of sugar in your coffee’,” he says, giving a pointed look at Ford.
Ford looks the tiniest bit offended. “I’ll have you know that is a perfectly reasonable amount. I’m a supertaster, Stanley! Otherwise, the coffee is far too bitter for me,” he grumbles, making Stan bark out a laugh.
“Yeah, supertaster,” he says, the disbelief heavy on his tongue, “like those are a thing.”
Ford gives him a flat look. “Supertasters are legitimate, Stan. Additionally, you’ve seen countless supernatural entities—how can you not believe in something this mundane?”
“Simple. Supernatural shit tried to kill me a fuckton of times—you just can’t handle a real brew.”
“Your real brew tastes like ass.”
Stan perks up a bit, not being able to contain his shit-eating grin. He raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? And how would you know what that tastes like, Sixer?” he leans close like he’s about to hear a secret. “Didja get down and dirty with your superhero tastebuds?”
Ford’s lips twitch and he looks at Stan like a challenge, and he’s not backing down. He tilts his chin up and says, “Perhaps I have, Stanley. Is it a crime to be a giving lover?”
Stan’s brain is immediately filled with the types of thoughts and questions he swore he was gonna keep buried once they got on the boat—like who was it and did you use your fingers too and yes it actually is a crime if it’s not me so can you show me—
No.
No. Nope. Nada. Negative. Do not pass go, do not collect $200, do not have dirty incestuous thoughts about your brother.
He is not going down this road right now. He’s already fucked in the head for having these thoughts before, but now? Now that they’re actually on the damn boat and living their dream together? Stan can’t let his mind wander.
He can’t risk losing this.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between them, and Ford’s smug look flickers. Stan clears his throat, trying to internally wave all these damn thoughts away from his sick brain. “Okay, okay. Enough of that.” He glances toward Ford just in time to catch him frowning, but Stan continues. “Didja have somethin’ ya wanted to tell me before you started critiquing my coffee?”
“Ah. Yes,” Ford says, blinking a few times at Stan. He clears his throat, too. “I just wanted to inform you that we’re on course for Sicily. We should make it to the port in a few days, even with some of the storms that are coming our way.”
Stan lets out a huff. “Great, more storms. The last one was no joke, Poindexter—thought I was gonna fall off the ship and drown. Be eaten by mermaids or somethin’.”
“Yes, I’m aware, Stanley. You’ve brought it up countless times,” Ford says, tone wry. “Don’t worry—this isn’t going to be as bad as the prior one. The waves might get a bit choppy, is all.”
“Choppy my ass. I’m gonna go flyin’ off the deck.”
Ford rolls his eyes, though there’s a tilt to his lips that Stan is momentarily transfixed by. “Don’t concern yourself with it—I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” A beat, and Ford’s eyes on him get heavy with…something that he can’t quite place.
“I can’t let my little brother get hurt on my watch, can I?” Ford asks with a fond expression, his voice softer than it has any right to be.
Because Stan is a sick, sick man, hearing Ford say it like that immediately makes him feel like he just got electrocuted—less in a death way and more like a oh fuck why is that so hot way.
Stan swallows, trying not to squirm under Ford’s intense gaze. “Hey,” he warns in a flat tone, “we’re twins. I ain’t your little brother.” He looks away from Ford, hoping his bravado is strong enough to hide the fact that his face is flushed.
Ford shrugs, smirking. “Technically, you were born—”
“Alright, alright,” Stan gets up from his chair, grabbing his half-full coffee mug. “I know as soon as ya bring out the technicalities it’s time for me to get the hell outta dodge.” He opens the door to the main cabin and walks into the kitchen, hearing Ford follow behind him. He goes to the sink and immediately starts cleaning the dirty dishes in there (which seem to have doubled since the last time he looked, thanks to Ford).
“I’m gonna try to make this place not look like a sty, so don’t make it worse, ya filthy animal,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. Cleaning usually gets his mind off shit anyways, so this is just what he needs right now. It’ll help distract him from…unwanted thoughts.
Not exactly unwanted, is it? You’re just burying it down. It’s gonna come out eventually, a traitorous voice in his head says.
Stan pauses. He tries to shake off and scrub the dirty plate even harder, as if its stains were specifically responsible for his sick, twisted, disgusting—
“Stanley?”
Ford’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts.
“Yeah?” he asks, not turning around.
“Are you…are you certain the temperature of the water is alright? It looks…quite hot.”
He blinks. Looking up from where he’s scrubbing, he sees that there’s steam surrounding the area.
Oh, wow. It is pretty hot, actually.
“Ah, fuck.” Stan curses, somehow only now feeling the pain. He draws his hand away from the sink and shakes it out a bit. He adjusts the temperature of the water, making sure it isn’t scalding. “Thanks, Sixer.”
But then Ford is right in his space, gently but firmly taking his wrist to inspect his hand.
“Hey!”
Ford hums while looking over his hands, turning the water to a colder temperature. “Here,” he says, bringing his hands underneath the running water and holding them there. “This should help with the pain.”
Stan swallows. They’re pretty close, and this is not helping his thoughts. Hell, he can smell the scent of Ford’s shampoo. It’s usually a comforting thing, but not when he’s trying to dodge incestuous thoughts like he’s in the damn Matrix.
The cool water is actually helping to soothe his mildly burned skin, but he can’t really focus on it—not when he’s trying so damn hard to be a normal brother for once in his goddamn life.
“—okay?”
Stan blinks, bringing himself down to Earth in the present. Ford is peering at him like he’s something that might collapse in on itself any second from now, his face creased with worry.
“Uh, sorry. What didja just say?”
The worry in Ford’s face just intensifies. “I asked, are you okay? You seem…troubled.”
Fuck. He noticed. “Uh, yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” Stan says, brushing Ford off. He takes his hands from the sink, shutting it off. He quickly wipes his hands on his shirt. “Thanks. For the—y’know. Hand thing.”
Ford frowns at him, and Stan forces himself to look away. Still, he can feel those eyes bore into him.
He clears his throat, still looking away. “I’m gonna—I’ll do the dishes later,” Stan says quietly. He’s gotta get outta here before he does something stupid.
Stan steps to the side of Ford, but because he’s the universe’s favorite punching bag, that exact moment is when some rough waves are crashing into the side of the boat. The ship tilts, and Stan loses his footing while he steps, tripping and falling.
Right into Ford.
Ford lets out a yelp as Stan takes him down with him, and Stan thanks the universe at least for not making him push his brother into the edge of the counter, because fuck that would hurt, but also cursing it because now he’s looking down at Ford.
Because he’s on top of him. On the ground.
And the way Ford is looking at him—wide-eyed and cheeks slightly pink—is enough fuel for his sick brain to last a lifetime.
Fuck. I could just kiss him right now. Lean over and just plant one right on him.
He wants to be able to recoil at a thought like that. He wants to be able to keep pushing it down, burying it where the sun don’t shine, but he can’t help it. It sounds so good to him.
But then he blinks, and he’s somewhere else instantly.
He’s in his childhood bed on the bottom bunk, but that’s not what startles him.
Ford’s under him—except it’s a younger Ford, the Ford he remembers from his teenage years. A young Ford that is looking at him with half-lidded eyes and something that he convinces himself is want—and all Stan can think about is how good he looks like this, how he wants him like this all the time, how he wants to keep kissing him until his lips become all red, swollen, and puffy, wants to keep hearing the little noises he was just making, wants to make sure he can make this last as long as he possibly can—
And Stan blinks again, and he’s back. Ford is still under him, but it’s the Ford he knows all too well by now—the Ford that aged like a fine wine, but still aged.
“...Stanley? Are you alright?”
And fuck, the concern in his voice—like Stan is actually worth caring about despite him being a sick, twisted, little pervert, like he didn’t just fantasize about not only his twin brother—his flesh and blood, but a younger, underaged version of his brother—
Stan gets up to his feet in a rush. “I gotta—I gotta go,” he says, before making a beeline to the bathroom and closing the door in a quick slam, locking it immediately.
His breaths are heavy, and when he looks down, his hands are shaking.
What the actual fuck was that?
Ford gives him some space after that, thank fuck. He busies himself with cleaning the main cabin while Ford is in his lab—which is a good thing. Stan doesn’t exactly know how to explain yeah, so I had some weird vision of us kissing, except you were 16 years old. Not weird at all! Don’t worry about it!
He loses himself in an ocean of self-loathing as he cleans, secretly hoping that all these chemicals that he inhales will somehow clean his dirty, perverted brain. Sure, he knows that’s not how it works, but maybe if he breathes it in enough, he’d give himself some brain damage.
That would be a hell of a lot better than this.
Despite the fact his mind has been put in the shredder, Stan knows this for sure: he’s always been in love with Ford.
He can’t say exactly when it started, if it even did start somewhere. Part of him is convinced he just came out like that—fresh out of the womb and in love with his other half.
A lot of the details are murky now—a majority of his past is, and Stan isn’t sure if he wants to know any more than he has to—but that’s the one constant in his life. Wanting to be with Ford at all times. Wanting to protect him. Wanting to sail away together with him.
Wanting him.
Even if he doesn’t remember it all, he knows his younger self didn’t take it the best when he realized. Not only did he have to deal with oh fuck I wanna fuck boys but oh fuck I wanna fuck my brother, too.
So, Stan figures his younger self just did everything he could to suppress it, to an extent. He knows now that he can never stop loving Ford—that’s just a part of Stan at this point—but he probably tried to throw himself into other things to try to distract himself from it. Boxing, fixing shit, and maybe even a girlfriend.
He knows for sure he dated some girl—can’t remember her name no matter how hard he tries, but he does remember glimpses of some things. Flashes of images, shadows of certain emotions that don’t always feel great.
But other than that, Stan can’t really remember much about her other than liking her, which isn’t exactly helpful in the grand scheme of things.
It probably doesn’t matter. Ford would’ve mentioned it to him if she was really important, right? Plus, it’s been ages—Stan doubts they’re even still in contact with each other.
But that’s not really important right now—what is important is the fact that when Ford asked him to go sailing with him, Stan promised himself he’d be starting over. That he would try to be a normal brother, not some creepy one who’s in love with his twin. That he’d chase away any line of thinking that isn’t squeaky clean and kosher. That he’d stop fucking feeling this way.
Stan snorts as he washes his hands after he’s done cleaning. Guess that was too much of an ask for me, he thinks.
After cleaning himself up and making sure his hands don’t smell like bleach anymore, Stan realizes how tired he’s gotten. It’s only late afternoon, around 3 o’clock or so, but hell—after everything, he thinks he deserves a nap.
He walks into their shared cabin on the boat. Taking his glasses off, he sets them back in their case and puts them in the top drawer of the dresser. He settles down into his bed and gets comfortable.
Yup, this is just what he needs: some good ol’ shut-eye to help calm his nerves and stop him from thinking.
Stan sighs, relaxing. He lets the sways of the boat lull him to sleep.
“You know what they say,” Ford said as he moved closer into Stan’s space, leaning in. “Practice makes perfect.”
God, what a fuckin’ dork he was. Stan would do anything for him—including these sessions that were gonna ruin him one way or another.
It would be worth it, though. Hell, almost anything was worth being able to feel his brother’s lips on his.
That was why he kept finding himself here, time and time again, despite knowing it was a bad idea.
Stan let out a laugh, his gaze being drawn to Ford’s perfect, soft lips that were just begging to be ruined. He licked his own. “Well. Let’s work our way to perfection then, huh?”
Stan knew that it didn’t matter how many times they’d done it so far—every time he kissed Ford he swore he saw fireworks. It didn’t matter to him that Ford was a bit inexperienced—it was Ford.
These were the moments he could pretend that Ford actually loved him back. That Ford actually wanted him.
And even though he knows this whole thing was set up so they could be better at kissing other people, Stan let himself get lost in it. It was an addicting rush, of feeling Ford move against him like this, of hearing him make the sweetest little sounds that sent warmth straight into his gut—
Ford suddenly ran his fingers through his hair and took charge of the kiss, and Stan let out a noise that was something closer to a whine rather than his usual groans.
He froze. He could just hear Carla’s disappointment now—scolding him for making a sound like that.
Ford probably felt the same “Ah shit,” Stan started when they pulled apart, “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t—”
“Don’t be afraid to make noises,” Ford blurted out. Stan’s breath hitched, and he tried to protest, but Ford held firm.
“I know you said that Carla doesn’t like it, but…”
Ford looked at him straight in the eye, a deathly serious expression on his face.
“But I’m not Carla,” he murmured.
Stan couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.
He’d been so used to getting little scraps of affection from people and cherishing them like they gave him the world. He’d never had someone be this sincere with him, so open, so…
Loving.
Stan wasn’t dumb. He knows there’s no way in hell this was gonna work out. Something was gonna happen—some shit will go wrong and they’ll be ruined forever. Stan was gonna lose Ford no matter what, in some shape or form.
But at that moment? At that very special, precious moment? Stan didn’t fucking care.
Stan grabbed Ford by the collar of his shirt and pulled, kissing him roughly. He needed to show how much he appreciated Ford, how much he wanted Ford, how much he—
But then he opened his eyes, and he was at the Glass Shard beach, watching the waves from afar, and everything was wrong.
Everything was so, so wrong.
He saw Ford in the distance, sitting closer to the shore, and fuck, Stan didn’t want to do this.
He really didn’t want to do this.
Stan knew he already hurt Ford before—he fucked up bad because he couldn’t get a hold of his anger and fear.
Anger at Crampelter for being a dick and basically seeing right through them. Anger that the son of a bitch ever placed his hands on Ford. Anger at the bullying they both had to face from him.
But mostly, anger at himself for letting it get this far. Stan knew it was gonna be tricky from the moment Ford suggested the practicing idea—but he never thought in a million years it would go this far.
And Stan can’t do that to Ford. He can’t taint him like this. He can’t get him all confused just because Stan is fucked in the head in the first place for having feelings for his own brother.
Ford had an actual future ahead of him, unlike Stan.
Stan only had one choice. He had to call this whole thing off for good.
It was gonna kill him. He got so close to the thing he wanted—having Ford like that—and now he had to end it. He got too close to the sun, and Moses, did it fucking burn.
He wished he could do it one more time. A kiss goodbye. That’d be real poetic, wouldn’t it?
“Stanley?”
But Stan had been selfish this entire time. It was about time he started actually doing things that would help Ford and his future—and ending this was the first thing on that list.
“Stan? Stanley, wake up.”
It was time. He had to end this.
“Stanley!”
Stan wakes up with a jolt, extremely disoriented and confused. It takes him a moment to blink at what he’s seeing in front of him—a very well-aged Ford standing by his bed and peering closely.
“Moses!” Stan yells, jolting again.
It all comes back. He’s on the boat with Ford after they defeated Bill, they’ve been sailing for a while, and they’re going to Sicily. They’re both in their sixties, and Ford really should not be doing this to him at this age.
Stan sighs, grumbling. “What is it? It better be fuckin’ important.”
“Oh, it is,” Ford answers helpfully. “It’s dinner time.”
Stan glares at him.
Ford rolls his eyes. “Dinner is important, Stan. You need to eat.”
Rolling his eyes, he sighs again. “Alright, alright. Sheesh. I’ll be up in five minutes.” He pauses. “Ya better not have made too much of a mess. I just cleaned.”
“Don’t be concerned about that. I’ll handle it.” Ford says, before looking at Stan again. He frowns. “Are you…alright?”
He doesn’t have the brain capacity to unpack everything in his brain right now. “Yep. Just, uh. Tired, is all,” he lies.
Ford stares at him for a moment longer. “You’re certain?”
“Yup,” he said, popping the ‘p.’ He sniffs the air for a second, smelling something…burning. “Uh, Sixer…?”
“Shit,” Ford says, running out the doorway.
Stan practically sighs in relief for his brother’s mediocre cooking skills.
Thank Moses. That was one fucking dream I didn’t want to explain.
There’s something so fucked up with him. At the same time, he’s mildly impressed that his brain could come up with a dream that specific.
Stan sighs for what seems like the millionth time, getting his ass out of the bed. He stretches a bit, and starts walking to leave the room, but does a double take when he passes the mirror.
There are tear streaks on his face. He’d been crying.
Did I cry over a dream? Really?
He lifts a hand to his wet face, staring at his reflection.
It’s weird that a dream caused him to cry. He’s never been one to have emotional dreams unless they were—
He freezes.
…a memory.
“Stanley?” Ford’s voice calls out, “Dinner is ready.”
Stan blinks at himself in the mirror and forces himself to move despite feeling like his world just got flipped upside down.
No. No, Ford wouldn’t—he’d tell me if something like that happened.
He’d tell me.
…Right?
Notes:
if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a kudos and/or comment!
toodles!!
Chapter 4
Notes:
im BAAAAAAACK
okay, first i wanna say HUGE HUGE HUGEEEEEE shoutout to Frondere, they helped me SO MUCH with this chapter. thank you so much moth, i am kissing u so so sloppy. u are the light of my lifeeee
now, i had some second thoughts about this chapter bc i was afraid it was gonna be like...a nothing burger of a chapter??? but then i was like. maybe i should actually finish it first, LMAO. but yeah, i decided to keep 4 and 5 separate!!
WE ARE ALMOST THERE FOLKS! Enjoy!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The dreams continue, much to Stan’s annoyance.
They’re not always the same as the one he had before, sure, but they always had two things in common: kissing Ford, and feeling like the scum of the earth for it.
If the dream had just been a single, weird, and highly inappropriate incident, it would be a hell of a lot easier to chalk it all up to his imagination going wild again. He’s had fantasies about Ford his entire life—what’s different about it now?
But Stan knows what’s different. He knows these aren’t the norm.
It’s really fucking weird that he’s in his sixties and dreaming about them both being in their teens, for starters. Yeah, this body has a lot of issues, and he wishes he kept it in better shape—but to think about him and Ford as teenagers again while he’s this old? Stan doesn’t have a whole lot of morals, but there are some, damn it.
That wasn’t the only out-of-place thing, either. If it really is just his sick brain creating fantasies, why the hell are they so damn specific? And why are they sad?
They’re realistic—well, as realistic as any dreams of Ford kissing him—in the sense that they don’t have a happy ending. All Stan dreams about are the makeout sessions in their room, followed by some kind of big fight that makes him feel like he’s about to puke all over the place. And then, some kinda bittersweet making up at the beach, all while feeling like he just lost a piece of himself.
Stan knows that however this ends for him, it’s not gonna go well. Let’s face it—he knows that he’s either gonna be pining for his brother until his final light is snuffed out, or if he has some kinda mental breakdown and tells him, well. He’d probably end up dead anyway.
And really, between the two, Stan would rather have his final memories of his brother be pleasant, even if it hurts like hell. Even if it feels like a part of him is missing, like a limb—a part of him always longing for something he just can’t have.
So that brings the argument: if Stan’s brain wanted him to fantasize—to imagine crack-pot scenarios that would never happen—wouldn’t they be happy? Wouldn’t his imagination come up with something unrealistic, like the two of them getting down and dirty on the boat, or Ford saying that he loves Stan? Something entirely outside the realm of possibility?
But these dreams are jam-packed into that realm—they start with so much hope that it only makes sense that it’s all crushed by the end.
They’re filled with so much despair and heartbreak that it feels plausible. Practical. Authentic.
They’re so upsetting that they’d make sense if…
If they actually happened.
Stan sighs, taking a sip of his tea as he looks off the deck. It’s a bit windy out tonight, but the hot drink in his hands helps warm him up. He glances at his watch—It’s a little after two o’clock in the morning.
He usually doesn’t drink tea, but he also usually doesn’t stay up this late, either. There’s no way in hell he’d be able to have coffee at this hour—not if he wanted any chance of sleeping tonight.
But then again, he’s kinda been avoiding it altogether.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Stan tries not to go rigid at the sound of hearing Ford behind him. It’s pretty fucking stupid—it’s not like he can avoid him, they’re stuck on a boat together after all—but it still freaks him out a bit after all the crap he’s been thinking about.
“Somethin’ like that,” Stan replies, not even turning around. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ford sit down in the chair next to his. His body tenses up without his permission, trying to prepare itself for a million questions aimed right at him.
They don’t come.
The silence rocks between them like the boat itself. Swaying from comfortable to uncomfortable in minute movements.
Stan feels his eye twitch. “If you’re gonna say somethin’, then say it already, Sixer.”
The silence lulls between them a bit longer. Ford shifts in his chair. “I was…attempting to give you space.”
Stan snorts. “If ya really wanted to give me space, ya wouldn’t be sittin’ right next to me.”
There’s a beat before Ford gives an amused huff. “I suppose that’s true.” Stan glances at his brother as his hald-smile turns into something more concerned. “You’ve been distant, Stanley.”
Stan shifts a bit, glancing away. “What? Can’t a man just enjoy his alone time?”
He knows it's a pathetic, weak excuse, and Ford's look tells him he knows it too. “Stan—”
“I can handle it by myself, Ford.” He feels his gaze fall to the ground before he can stop himself. “It’s what I’m used to,” he mutters.
The silence returns with a vengeance. Stan refuses to look toward Ford. He honestly half-expects him to leave.
He doesn’t.
“Perhaps,” Ford finally says after a moment. “But just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean you necessarily want it like that.”
His eyes snap to his brother. “What’s your point?”
Ford sighs. “My point is…if you decide you don’t want to handle it on your own…” he raises his hand and places it on Stan’s shoulder, causing his body to feel all too warm at once, “I’m here for you, if you need me.”
And then Ford smiles at him, and Stan feels like he’s about to throw up his dinner.
Because this is all he ever wanted—Ford being there for him, Ford offering comfort and support—but not like this. Not when he’s having these fucked up dreams that actually might be memories.
But what is he supposed to do? He can’t tell Ford. What would he even say? Hey, by the way, did we ever mack on each other multiple times as teenagers, or was I just havin’ inappropriate dreams about you again? Don’t worry ‘bout it, though!
Then again, what difference does it make whether the dreams are real or not? What if Ford never mentioned it for a reason? He probably doesn’t want to remember an experience so taboo and disgusting, if they are real.
He probably just wants to forget.
Shouldn’t Stan just leave well-enough alone? Shouldn’t he let them just be happy with what they have instead of wanting something that’s just completely impossible?
Because what are his options? Confront Ford about the memories and cause a fight between them, whether it’s real or not? Destroy everything they fought to have together after all these years, just because Stan can’t let go of this?
Stan has spent enough of his time feeling sorry for himself and chasing after some happily-ever-after with Ford that’s never gonna happen. It’s time for him to move on.
It’s just not fair to anyone involved—not fair to him to ruin one of the few good things that have ever happened to him, and sure as hell not fair to Ford, to have a bombshell dropped on him like that.
Stan needs to stop harping on things that don’t matter in the long run. He needs to forget about those stupid dreams/memories, and he needs to appreciate what he has with Ford now.
Stan looks at Ford who’s still looking at him with a worried expression and his hand on his shoulder. He feels his lips tug upwards as he makes his decision.
Eh, it’s alright. As long as I’m with him, it’s enough of a happy ending for me.
Stan sighs, but his expression turns into a soft smile as he places his own hand on top of Ford’s resting on his shoulder. He squeezes it, and to him, it’s a bit like a goodbye of sorts.
A goodbye to all his dreams and the hope of becoming more than what they are. A goodbye to the impossibilities and dreams he’s sought out for his entire life. A goodbye to the love of his life—his other half.
While Stan knows he will never stop loving Ford, he needs to stop being delusional and hoping for more in secret. He needs to let go of what will never be and finally become what Ford needs.
A brother.
“Thanks, Stanford,” he finally says, letting go of it all. Of all his anxieties and hopes, of all his dreams and fears. What’s important now is to cherish what he does have and make the most of it. “I guess my mind was all over the place. Ya don’t need to worry about it.”
Ford takes a long, hard look at him before he tilts his head at him with a hesitant smile, but still concern in his eyes. “You’re certain?”
Stan lets his eyes rake over Ford in that moment, memorizing how the moonlight washes over his face, softening his features. He wants nothing more than to just kiss the worry off of Ford’s expression, to kiss his creased brow and assure him that he’s fine.
Stan nods once, feeling some of the tension in his body leave. It isn’t surrender—it’s acceptance.
“Yep,” Stan says, popping the p. “I uh—I appreciate it, though. Thanks, Sixer.” He squeezes Ford’s hand on his shoulder one last time before he moves it back to his side.
Ford follows suit, looking at him with an intense expression that Stan can’t really decipher. “Of course, Stanley.”
There’s a quiet moment between them, and honestly, it’s kinda nice. There’s something to be said about finally accepting something for what it is—to finally be at peace with it.
Stanley Pines is always going to be in love with his brother, and he will never return those feelings. That’s just the way it is. That’s the way it’s always gonna be.
And that’s okay.
“So,” Stan finally says, ready to keep moving forward. “How are we doin’ on time? We almost to those ruins you wanted to see in Sicily?”
This makes Ford light up right away. “Oh, yes! I meant to tell you about that—we should be arriving at Marinella di Selinunte tomorrow morning. It’s a beautiful village with spectacular views and beaches—I’m positive you’ll love it there. Oh,” Ford suddenly exclaims, “That reminds me—before we go look at the temples, I was thinking that we could walk around, do a bit of sightseeing. I know there are plenty of restaurants and knick-knack shops—although I know none of them are quite as, ah, charming as the Mystery Shack,” Ford smirks at him, elbowing him lightly in his side. “However, I concluded that we can laugh about how inferior they are together.”
Stan’s face scrunches up a bit. “What? Don’t ya hate shops like that?”
Ford shrugs. “I wouldn’t necessarily say hate—I simply don’t quite understand making fictional creatures when there are so many—” At Stan’s flat look, Ford gets the hint. “Right. Not the point.” He takes a breath, before his face turns a bit more…open. Vulnerable.
“I noticed you’ve been a bit…reserved lately, and…” He stops for a moment, looking away and swallowing. Then he looks directly back at Stan.
“I wanted to do something that would make you laugh. I—” he hesitates, “I miss hearing it,” he confesses, before his voice turns softer. “I miss hearing you laugh.”
And fuck, if that isn’t something that makes his heart soar like those cheesy romantic comedies that Mabel loves so much.
It doesn’t mean anything, though. Ford just means it as a good brother—his twin that wants to make sure he’s alright. Just because he misses Stan’s laugh doesn’t mean there’s anything more to it than that.
Even if the way he said it made Stan’s heart flutter.
“Well,” Stan says after a moment, tone serious as a heart attack, “maybe that’s your cue to develop a sense of humor, Sixer.”
“Hey! I do have a sense of humor,” Ford says, defensively crossing his arms. “It’s not my fault that you don’t know how to appreciate how funny I am.”
Stan tsks, trying to hide his smile. “Ya just admitted ya miss my laugh. Guess ya just gotta try harder.”
Ford raises his chin a bit, looking at him like that’s a challenge. He hums. “Maybe I will.” He pauses for a moment, looking out at the sea. “The Greek gods always did like making humans work for their rewards.”
“Ya callin’ me a Greek god, Poindexter? I’m flattered, really.”
“Well, why not? You could be the god of being a royal pain in the ass.”
“I will push you overboard.”
Ford’s eyes sparkle with mischief in the moonlight. “No, you won’t,” he says confidently.
Stan takes that moment to really soak up the moment, to take it all in. Even though there’s gonna be a part of him that always wants more, he can be satisfied with this.
He can live with this.
“No,” Stan agrees, taking a sip of his tea. “I won’t.
They make it to Marinella di Selinunte the next morning, just like Ford said they would, and it’s as beautiful as Stan could have possibly imagined. As beautiful as it is though, Stan’s grateful that it’s not at the top of the list for most tourists—makes it less busy that way.
Doesn’t mean there aren’t any tourists, mind you. Based on the prices of the gift shops they’ve been walking in and out of, there’s enough suckers to keep a business afloat.
“Thirty bucks for a keychain?” Stan’s voice echoes in the mostly empty hole-in-the-wall store, louder than he means it to. “Sheesh. What is it, made outta gold?”
Ford hums, an amused quirk to his lips. He grabs the keychain in question and inspects it closely. “Unlikely,” he says, twirling it around in his fingers. “Although, if I were to be truthful, they do look at least well-made.” Giving a conspiratory look to Stan, he grins. “Not like someone simply glued two different things together.”
“I have no clue what you’re implying, Sixer.” Stan lifts his hands, wiggling his fingers. “Anything these babies make is gold. I’m an artist. A master of his craft.” He gestures to the shop employees behind him with his thumb. “These guys can take some lessons from me.”
“Lessons of ripping innocent tourists off? Definitely.”
They continue looking around in the store, a back and forth between them that makes Stan comfortable. The shop doesn’t really have too much that catches his eye—until he sees a stuffed toy of a slice of pizza.
“Mabel would love that,” they both say at the same time. They share a smile.
Stan feels his heart warm inside his chest. He knows from experience how quickly those kids can crawl under your skin and make themselves special to you, but seeing his brother feel so much affection for them is still nice. Ford doesn’t really show his softer sides that easily—he tends to cover them up, hiding in his shell of indifference and haughtiness as a defensive maneuver—but trust those two knuckleheads to draw those softer, vulnerable sides out of him.
It’s nice to see. Endearing, even.
After checking out of the store (and nearly getting kicked out after Stan said something about stealing the stuffed toy), they decide to take a walk in the nearby village, where they can look at an outdoor marketplace.
“I concluded that this would be the perfect opportunity to get all of our grocery shopping done,” Ford says as they stroll through the different stands and shops, leisurely. “We can have some fresh produce for once, instead of eating from a can all the time.”
“Hey,” Stan warns, “I cook almost every night—you tryin’ to say somethin’?”
“Well, it wouldn’t hurt to add more vegetables to both of our diets.”
Stan waves a hand dismissively. “We’re so old I’m not even sure if they help anymore.”
“A well-balanced diet always helps, Stanley.”
“Oh, yeah? Then why don’t ya ever eat?”
Ford pretends not to hear him.
The rest of the afternoon goes like that—both of them exploring and sightseeing what this place has to offer, outside of all the ruins and ancient architecture that drew Ford here in the first place. They make casual conversation, but for the most part, it’s a comfortable silence.
Eventually though, Stan starts to get bored.
“Stan. Stanley,” Ford hisses in a warning tone as Stan stows the goods he just swiped in his pockets. “Someone is going to catch you.”
“Nah,” Stan says confidently as he bumps into a man just to quickly grab his wallet, “got the magic touch.”
“Wait,” they overhear the man say from behind them, “I can’t find my wallet.”
They walk faster. Ford glares at him the entire time.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, Poindexter. Relax. It’s fineeeee,” Stan assures him. He opens the wallet, takes all the cash out of it, and stuffs it in his pockets. Then he drops the wallet on the ground. “The man’ll find it, and we’ll all be on our merry way.”
“Stanley,” Ford utters out like he’s ten seconds away from strangling him, “I don’t want a repeat of Paris.”
Stan’s expression grows dark. “That mime had it comin’ and you know it.”
“Regardless,” Ford says pointedly, “I don’t want to have to break you out of anywhere again.”
“Weren’t you the one sayin’ you wanted me back to my old self?” And okay, yeah, maybe he’s using this as a distraction to his problems, but what’s the harm? “There ain’t nothing more Stan Pines than this.”
“Stanley—”
“Nope.” Stan grins, an idea forming. “Ya wanna stop me? Ya gotta catch me first.”
And then he bolts.
“Stan!”
Alright, so maybe running after a guy announces he’s missing a wallet isn’t the smartest thing to do—it makes him look suspicious for sure, if anybody’s even paying attention. But eh, if it backfires, at least it gives him something else to think about.
The day with Ford was nice so far, really. It’s just—
Moving on seems to be a bit harder than he thought.
Don’t get him wrong, he’s accepted that nothing is ever going to happen between them, but he didn’t expect to still feel that constant ache every time his brother cracked an awful joke, or when he showed his fondness for his kids, or when he was acting like Ford.
How do you stop loving someone when it’s all you’ve known for your entire life?
Finally a ways ahead of Ford, Stan allows himself to slow down, take in the sights. He goes toward a cliff area with a railing, looking out at the orange-pinkish sky of the setting sun.
By now, he’s pretty used to seeing sunsets and sunrises over an ocean, but damn, it’s still such a sight to see. It lets him take a moment to pause, to absorb everything happening to him.
Maybe it’ll just take time for the pain to stop. Because it has to, right?
Or is he gonna die aching for something he can never have?
He sighs, feeling pathetic. Feeling wrong. Feeling like, maybe in an alternate universe where he isn’t a pervert, he could actually be truly happy with all of this.
Shifting on his feet, he stops when he accidentally bumps into something with his foot. He looks down, seeing a red leather wallet on the ground.
Well, Stan thinks, his mood picking up a bit, don’t mind if I do.
He picks up the wallet off the ground, immediately opening it. He’s about to check how much cash is in there, but—
The ID catches his eye for some reason. It’s a woman with tanned skin and medium-length brown graying hair, with brown eyes that make him feel slightly uneasy. Nervous. And maybe a bit guilty? He frowns at the picture before looking at the name.
Carla McCorkle.
“Excuse me?” a woman’s voice calls. “Oh! I think that’s mine!” the woman laughs as she gets closer. Stan finally looks up.
The thing is, not every memory is stretched out or detailed when it comes back to him—sometimes it feels like a shock to his system, overloading with information.
He remembers now. His first girlfriend. The girl who made him feel a whole wide range of emotions, going from good to, uh, not so good.
The girl who caused a domino effect, all because she wouldn’t kiss him.
No, we don’t know that for sure, Stan reminds himself, but he has to admit, the pieces are starting to fall into place.
“Carla?” Stan asks in a quiet voice.
Carla’s smile vanishes in an instant. Her eyes widen before she covers her mouth with a hand, in shock. “St-Stan? Stanley Pines?” she whispers. “Is that you?”
Stan gives a sheepish smile and rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah. The one and only.”
Carla starts to laugh, then, out of joy, and before he knows it, she’s wrapping her arms around him.
“I thought you died!” And, oh. Yeah. Right.
Sometimes Stan forgets about that tidbit.
He chuckles, returning the hug. “Eh, maybe. But I got better.”
Carla pulls away, scowling at him and giving him a light smack on the shoulder. “Don’t you dare, Stanley Pines! I was—” she gets choked up, before taking in a breath. “I’m really happy you aren’t dead,” she murmurs, hugging him again.
And it’s a bit surprising for her to be this affectionate with him, given how she acted in the past, but hey, he was legally dead.
That would shake most people up.
“Do ya finally forgive me for crashing your boyfriend’s car, then?” Stan tries with a smirk. “How’s that old hippie Thistle Down doin’ anyway?”
Carla rolls her eyes. “I wouldn’t know, I’m not with him anymore. Have you finally gotten better with your jealousy issues?”
Stan thinks about everything with Ford.
“O-oh, yeah. Sure. Definitely.”
Carla grins at him. “I can still tell when you’re lying, you know.”
“She’s still got it, folks!”
She laughs, and soon Stan joins in. But then he hears a familiar voice.
“Stan? Stanley?”
Ford comes closer, looking directly at Stan. “I can’t believe you. Why did you leave me behind like that?” he puffs out his cheeks, and honestly, it’s pretty damn cute that he still does that.
“Oh my gosh, Stanford’s here too?” Carla asks, “What are the chances?”
Ford glances at Carla, does a double-take, and stills. His face goes pale and painfully neutral. “Carla,” he says in a flat tone. “You’re…here.”
She smiles knowingly. “Good to see you too, Ford. Nice to know that some things never change.”
Ford opens his mouth before snapping it shut and clenching his jaw. He looks down, with a faint red color to his cheeks.
“So, hey,” Carla starts, turning toward Stan, “how long are you here for? There’s a cafe not too far from here, cute and cozy. Would you wanna catch up, have a cup of coffee?”
Stan blinks, the offer catching him by surprise. “Oh. Yeah, that sounds…nice,” he says, sincerely.
Carla beams at him. “Great! See you there at 2 p.m. tomorrow,” she says, turning and going off on her way.
Stan watches her walk away, his mind still processing everything that’s just happened. “Damn,” he mutters, still partially in shock. “Out of all the places to run into each other, and we do it here. Ain’t that just somethin’, Ford?” No response. “Ford?”
He turns to see Ford walking away at a brisk pace, away from him and back in the direction of the boat.
“Woah, hey, Ford, hey!” Stan calls out, doing a little jog to catch up to him. “Hey, what’s up? What is it? What’s goin—”
“I need some space,” Ford says brusquely, not even sparing him a glance.
“What? Ford—” he goes in front of Ford’s path, stopping him in his tracks. He looks less than pleased, and that’s an understatement. “Is this about me ditchin’ ya? It was just a joke, I didn’t mean it!”
“I’m going back to the boat,” he grits out. “I’ll see you later.” He moves to start walking again, and Stan stops him once more.
“Moses, can you just talk to me once in your life?”
Ford stares at him, letting out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you. You wouldn’t even tell me what was going on the other night, and you expect me to tell you everything?”
“Well, one of us has to start!”
Ford pushes through, bumping Stan out of the way. “Well, it’s not going to be me. Not right now.” He walks a few more steps before stopping. “I’ll be at the boat, Stanley.”
And then he walks off without another word.
“What about the shoppin’? Do ya just expect me to do everything?” he shouts out after him, knowing the answer.
He wants to tear out his hair. As much as he loves the guy, he can be really fucking irritating when he wants to be.
I just wish he would let me in.
With another sigh as well as a curse, Stan turns his way back to the marketplace.
Stupid groceries. Stupid tomatoes. Stupid Ford, Stan thinks as he tries to balance all the bags of stuff he got as he walks toward the boat.
“Real nice,” Stan mutters to himself, glaring at the empty night like it owes him rent. “Woulda been nice to have another set of hands, if someone hadn’t stomped off like a melodramatic sea witch with a PhD.”
No answer, of course. He’s talking to the air. Because that’s who’s listening.
He stumbles into the galley with the grace of a man who’s been mugged by produce, elbowing the door open, the paper bags thumping down onto the nearest surface with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Home sweet floating home,” he grumbles, kicking the door shut behind him. “Stanley Pines, bringing the joy of overpriced tomatoes to a boat near you.”
No response. Nothing but the humming of the overhead lights and the creak of wood settling like old bones. He starts unloading the bags with methodical irritation, pulling out celery like it’s personally wronged him. “Hey Ford, hope you’re enjoyin’ your little hissy fit. Just me, your loyal brother, reorganizing the fuckin’ galley single-handedly, no big deal.”
The shopping was fine—wanted, even. It provided a nice distraction as he tried not to fume over what had happened. Sure, this wasn’t even one of their worst fights (not even close), but for some reason that just made him even more pissed.
Maybe it’s the fact that they haven’t had an argument like that in a while. Not ever since sailing off together, that is. Hell, they were getting along pretty damn well ever since Weirdmageddon ended.
And maybe that just reminds Stan that things aren’t as perfect as he wants them to be. Putting aside all the incest crap, even as brothers they can’t even communicate with each other without some kind of world-ending shit happening. Part of him knows that’s just how they are, just how they were raised, but fuck if it isn’t frustrating.
That’s when he hears it—the tell-tale sound of creaking wood, the pressure of weight against the floor, walking toward him. Stan doesn’t even look up.
“Well, well, well,” Stan drawls, putting the last of the tomatoes in the fridge. “Look who decided to grace us with his presence after leavin’ me to the grocery shoppin’. Are ya done with whatever the fuck that was?” he asks, slamming the fridge a bit too harshly.
There’s no immediate answer, and Stan rolls his eyes. “Fine. So that’s how you wanna play it, huh? The silent treatment?” he finally turns around, taking a look at his brother—
Who is currently downing a bottle of wine like his life depends on it.
“Woah, Sixer, easy!” Stan rushes over to Ford, yanking the bottle out of Ford’s hands. He must’ve yanked a bit too hard because Ford starts to stumble and lose his balance.
“Ford!” Stan yelps, trying to keep him upright. “Moses, how long have ya been doin’ this for?”
Ford scrunches his face up in thought. “How long have you been gone?”
“Jesus,” Stan says under his breath. “Guess you’ve been partyin’ without me.”
What comes out of Ford’s mouth is pretty much a mumbled, incoherent mess, but it almost sounds like, “Not much of a party without you.”
“What was that?”
Ford licks his lips, blinking owlishly at the ceiling fan. “Do you think,” he begins, solemn as a priest, “that cursed souls, drawn together across lifetimes, recognize each other by scent alone? Or by... the sound of their curses?” He sways closer. “Like foul-smelling magnets. Tragic, pungent fate.”
Stan stares at him. “What in the holy fuck are you talking about?”
Ford doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he tips sideways, and Stan has to lunge to grab him by the arms. “Whoa! Easy there, Nostradamus. You wanna maybe sit your ass down before you crack your skull open like a melon?”
Ford hums, “Mmm. Melons sound nice.”
Stan snorts, starting to drag him to a nearby seat. “Not when the melon is your brain, dumbass.”
He sets Ford down on the chair—well, he tries to. Ford kinda…slants.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this wasted before,” Stan thinks out loud. Half of it is worrying, since he doesn’t even know why Ford decided to get like this, but the other half is…weirdly kinda nice.
When they were teens, Ford never really drank. Stan imagines that most of that probably came once he went to college—something he never got to personally see.
It’s almost like he’s getting a peek into what he missed out on.
Then Ford’s stomach growls. Loudly.
“Hey, braniac,” he starts flatly. “Did ya drink on an empty stomach?”
Ford’s lack of an answer and glance to the side says everything he needs to know.
Stan rolls his eyes. “The best I could do for ya is a good ol’ fashioned PB&J. Don’t wanna hear any complainin’.”
Ford nods, licking his lips. Stan focuses on them for a bit too long before he starts moving again.
He takes out the ingredients that he needs—bread, peanut butter, and of course, the jelly—and starts getting to work. Sometimes he glances up to check in on Ford, making sure he hasn’t passed out or anything yet, but his brother watches him with a focused eye.
“Tell me, Stanley,” he murmurs, solemn and slurring slightly. “Have you ever considered the plight of the jelly?”
Stan squints, stopping in his tracks. “The what now.”
“The jelly,” he repeats, as if it clears up any of Stan’s confusion. “It’s soft. It’s vulnerable. It doesn’t ask to be sticky or sweet or made from fruit that’s past its prime. And peanut butter—peanut butter has options. Bananas. Fluff. Celery, if you're into some sort of....culinary masochism? But the jelly, Stanley...” He pulls back, eyes glistening with some eldritch half-baked symbolism. “The jelly only ever pairs right with one thing.”
Stan raises a brow, putting the two halves of the sandwich together. “Bread?”
“No! You--” Ford sways, gestures dramatically, nearly clocking Stan in the face as he approaches with the accursed sandwich. “Peanut butter! But what happens when peanut butter finds another match? Leaves jelly behind? What happens to the jelly then, huh?”
Stan exhales through his nose, long and slow. “It... goes in the fridge?”
Ford levels him with a stare that could drown a poet. “It gets left on the shelf. Forgotten. Expired. Molded over with the gray fuzz of...of....abandonment.”
“You’re getting all of this from a sandwich I made you, Sixer?”
Ford stares down at the sandwich, like it personally offended him.
“Eat.”
He lifts up the sandwich, taking a careful bite. He chews solemnly. “I am the jelly.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
It takes more convincing, but eventually Stan can get Ford to eat the whole sandwich. He grabs him some water too and makes him drink the whole glass.
He’s fed now. Rehydrated, sort of. Still tragic. Stan’s patience is gone like last summer’s sun. He yanks Ford up by the arm and half-drags him down the hallway. “You’re going to bed before you start crying about soup stock.”
“Rude,” Ford mutters, stumbling up the stairs. “I’m not a child.”
“No,” Stan says, catching him by the back of the shirt before he eats the wall, “you’re a disaster. Which is worse.”
They finally get to Ford’s cabin, with Ford tripping and falling half on the bed, half on the ground.
“Oh boy,” Stan sighs, trying to grab him and put him fully on the bed, but then Stan is falling.
They both fall on top of the bed, Stan hovering over Ford and being way too close for comfort. Stan’s heart stutters. He tries to move, to get off of his brother like this, because fuck, he can feel his warmth, can see his damn eyelashes flutter so prettily, and he needs to leave, now.
But when he tries, Ford’s grip on him tightens.
Stan’s attention turns back to Ford as he looks at him with wide eyes. Ford stares at him, an intense and almost melancholy expression on his face. He looks like he wants to say something.
“Ford…?”
And then Ford is leaning in even closer, looking downcast toward Stan’s face.
“I miss you,” he says, staring right at Stan’s lips.
And in that moment Stan feels like he just got punched in the gut, like he was in boxing classes again and just got walloped on. “What…?” he breathes out, heart hammering in his chest.
But Ford’s eyes start to flutter shut, and he’s out for the count, falling asleep with a soft, vulnerable expression on his face.
Stan stares at him wordlessly, trying to process what the hell just happened. His mind is going a mile a minute, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on, but he’s interrupted by Ford snoring loudly.
He quickly shifts into gear, gently taking off Ford’s glasses and placing them on his bed stand. Lifting the blanket, he makes sure its covering Ford completely. Stan knows how much he hates being cold.
Stan takes one last look at a sleeping, carefree Ford before he decides to go to his own room.
He plops on the bed, mind still spinning from all the events of today. The day out with Ford, seeing Carla, Ford getting wasted—he deserves a good night’s sleep after everything.
But he can’t help but pause.
“I miss you,” Stan repeats the words slowly and carefully, like he’s drinking them in. “What the hell is that ‘sposed to mean?”
He sighs, taking his glasses off and setting them on the nightstand. He rubs at his face, his hand stopping at his lips.
“I miss you.”
Stan wants to make conclusions, wants to be able to solve this, but—
He’s afraid. What if he’s wrong? What if he messes up everything?
Stan closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what Ford meant by that, and he isn’t gonna cost himself another night of sleep to try to work out a whole conspiracy in his head.
Maybe he’ll find out what Ford meant one day.
Notes:
let me know what you think! Kudos and/or comments are much appreciated :3 mwah!
Edit8/4/2025: lol i had to change the time carla suggested because of time zone horrors for the next chapter.
Chapter 5
Notes:
hiiiiii
lol, remember when i thought this fic was gonna be two chapters? hilarious.anyways, i basically did like. a big chunk of this chapter today, i feel like i was working on it ALL DAY LMAO. so i really hope its okay! every time i post a final chapter of a multihap im scared about expectations 😭
but whatever. go, my scarab.SPECIAL SPECIAL THANK YOU TO FRONDERE. YOU HAVE BEEN SUCH A BIG HELP WITH THIS FIC! YOU LIGHT UP MY LIFE!!!! MWAH!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Getting ready for the meet-up with Carla wasn't as difficult as Stan thought it would be. Ford was still down for the count, passed out and snoring like a chainsaw on his bed, so he thankfully didn't have to worry about dealing with his moody ass. No soliloquy about ham and cheese sandwiches or whatever the fuck that was last night.
It's also the day of the week when Stan and Ford have their weekly chat with the kids—he just hopes Ford doesn't sleep through it.
And that they don't fight right before it.
Still, as Stan walks to the cafe that he's pretty sure Carla gestured to yesterday, he can't help but get lost in his thoughts about the night before.
He isn't a complete idiot. He's aware enough to know that Ford was using peanut butter and jelly of all things as a metaphor for…something. Something about jelly not having options? Stan can't remember all the details; he was a little preoccupied with Ford not falling and splattering his brains everywhere.
But the thing that made Stan stop in his tracks was the fact that Ford thought of himself that way. That he didn't have options.
Acidic bitterness that he can't control rises in his throat. How the hell was Ford the one without options? Someone as smart and wonderful as him has options and opportunities up the wazoo.
Now Stan—Stan is the one without options. With being as much of a fuck up as he is, not a lot of people want to be near him. Hell, he got kicked out because he was one big mistake. He was homeless and alone—forever drifting on the streets to find some sense of belonging, some sense of home, but it felt all too hopeless.
So to hear Ford think that he didn't have options, well. Excuse him if he got a little chip on his shoulder from that.
In a way, his annoyance with Ford was a blessing in disguise. He didn't have to think about the meeting with Carla and how he feels like there's a beehive in his bloodstream.
What are they even gonna talk about? Sure, Stan doesn't remember absolutely everything about their relationship, but he can tell it was complicated, at least on his end. Feeling like he was never good enough, that she secretly hated him, that he was disgusting.
That something was wrong with him.
And sure, that's how he felt about himself his whole life in every aspect, in every category, but for some reason, he has the feeling that his relationship with Carla just amplified everything to the max. That no matter how doting a boyfriend he tried to be, he still didn't measure up.
He was still unwanted.
He shouldn't care. He really shouldn't. After all, it's not like he still has feelings for her—those have been long gone for decades now. So what if she made him feel like there was something wrong with him? So what if she hurt him? It's all in the past. It shouldn't matter.
"Stan?"
Stan whips his head up at the voice that breaks him out of his thoughts. Speak of the devil. Carla stands near the entrance of the cafe, sporting a raised eyebrow along with a slightly concerned look on her face. "You alright there? You look like you're a million miles away."
With his best salesman smile, he says, "Nah, don't worry about it. Some caffeine is just what the doctor ordered."
Carla smirks as he approaches her. opening the door for the two of them. "I don't think any doctor would order that."
"Stranger things, Carla."
They take their seats at a table by a window, letting Stan take in the sight of Sicily. It truly was a beautiful place, the sunlight making the water glisten like jewels down below. It's a calming sight, romantic even. The view from the cafe lets him drink in all of its beauty, making him think one thing.
He wishes Ford were here with him.
As soon as he thinks that, he scowls directly at the menu, reading the words on the surface but not taking them in.
His irritation with what happened just comes bubbling up to the surface. Ford ditches him in the middle of the day and acts all prissy for no apparent reason, gets shitfaced drunk off his ass, makes Stan take care of him, laments about how he doesn't have options (whatever that means), and after all that, Stan still yearns for the guy?
Well. He guesses it's not all that surprising, given his track record of devotion to Ford.
Moses, he wishes he could just stay mad at the motherfucker—
"Stan?"
He makes an inquisitive grunt without looking up from the menu.
"Are you sure you're alright? You look like someone pissed in your coffee."
Stan snorts. "We haven't ordered yet. Don't give 'em any ideas."
This makes Carla bark out a short laugh. Stan feels the corner of his mouth twitch. Even with all the insecurities he had in his relationship with her, he felt confident in the way he was able to make her crack up.
Someone then comes by to take their orders, with Carla speaking Italian pretty flawlessly, and Stan stumbling over the very little he knows. It was simple enough, though. He just wanted a plain black coffee—nothing like the monstrosities Ford drinks with so much cream and sugar it might as well be a dessert.
He frowns. And now I'm thinking about him again. Jesus Christ on a stick, I'm hopeless.
"Stan."
He gives her a pointed look. "Y'know, if ya keep saying my name, you're gonna wear it out."
She raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile on her face. "And if you keep deflecting without telling me what's wrong, I'll wear it down until it's dust."
Fuck. "Deflecting?" he scoffs, letting out a nervous laugh and waving a hand dismissively. "Who's deflecting? What does that even mean, deflecting? I don't deflect. Not me. No deflecting here. Haven't even heard of it."
Carla stares at him flatly. Stan stares back. Silence passes between them like dripping molasses.
What a great conversation.
"Stan," Carla starts again.
"Carla," Stan says back.
"You know," Carla begins, a strange tilt to her voice. "I was going to say you haven't changed in all these years, but…" she suddenly trails off, leaning back in her chair and glancing down at the table. She looks back up at him in such an intense way that it almost makes him flinch. She studies him for a long, dreadful moment.
"What," Stan grunts out, shifting in his seat. "Somethin' on my face?"
"You've definitely changed, Stanley Pines," she eventually says, with a finality that makes him nervous.
Uh oh. Time to bring out the charm. "Aged like a fine wine, have I?" he asks, smirking and giving a wink.
"Maybe not a fine wine," she says under her breath with a bit of a smile, which, ouch, "but there's…a certain maturity about you now? I can't really explain it."
Stan blinks. "You. What? Ya think I'm—" he blinks some more before letting out a laugh. "I sure fuckin' hope so. Didn't wanna be this age without some maturity in there."
Carla shakes her head. "That's not what I meant." And there's an odd gentleness to her voice, a sense of carefulness that scares him for what she's gonna say. "There's a certain…pain in your eyes. Like you've been through a lot of shit."
Stan's smile dies instantly. Carla looks at him patiently, but also as if he's fragile. Like he's made of glass and might break at any moment.
Stan doesn't like it.
He isn't used to this. Being vulnerable. Hell, he's rarely vulnerable in front of Ford. He didn't expect to have a heart-to-heart with his ex-girlfriend from decades ago when he walked into this cafe, or frankly, ever.
Thankfully, the waiter chooses that moment to come with their coffees, making Stan think for a brief moment that maybe he isn't cursed on this planet. He says thank you, maybe a little too loudly, and immediately takes a sip of his coffee—anything to avoid this conversation.
He feels Carla's eyes on him. Stan's scared that if he looks up, he'll find them filled with pity.
"Good coffee, huh?" Stan asks, looking off to the side.
"Stan."
"Better than anything in the States, that's for sure."
"Stan."
"You can really taste how different it is, like they actually give a damn—"
"Stan."
"What?" Stan finally snaps, causing a few other people in the cafe to turn their heads. He tries to lower his voice a bit. "What do ya expect me to say, Carla? Oh sure, let's catch up and have you interrogate me over my feelings as if ya have any business in my fuckin' life—as if I was ever more than a nuisance to ya."
Carla's face finally creases into something like hurt. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The memories start flooding in clearly now that he's not trying to fight it. "I was never good enough for ya—couldn't even kiss ya right. You'd complain about how I sounded, about my voice, about everything! Everything about me was wrong in your eyes."
Carla stares at him in silence, eyes glancing down toward the ground.
Shame hits him like a truck—that was years ago, why is he still so hung up on it?
Stan sighs, taking a few deep breaths. "I'm…I'm sorry. I don't know why I even still care about this. It was years ago. It doesn't matter, it's stupid." He rubs his face with his hand.
"It's not stupid."
Stan stills, looking at Carla in silent question.
Now it's Carla's turn to sigh. "I…I didn't treat you right when we were together. I have enough self-awareness to recognize that." She eyes Stan warily. "You have to understand, I—I had a lot of shame back then."
This makes Stan pause. He tilts his head. "Shame about what?"
There's a heavy silence between them, like Carla is preparing herself for what she's about to say.
"I…I hope you don't see me differently. I tried to hide it for so long because I thought that was my only option—it wasn't safe, not during that time—"
"Carla," Stan says gently but urgently, "out with it."
"I'm a lesbian."
Stan blinks.
Even with all the background chatter in the cafe, it's like all those voices faded into nonexistence to welcome complete silence between them.
"Huh," Stan finally says, dumbly. He leans back in his chair, letting it sink in. "Well. It definitely, uh. Explains a lot."
All the times she didn't want to hear his (deep, raspy) voice, all the times she would crinkle her nose in distaste if he smelled the slightest bit, all the times she would refuse to kiss him—it all finally added up.
He blinks again. Who knew?
Carla bulldozes right through his moment of reflection with wide, panicked eyes. "I'm sorry. I wish I could've told you, but—you have to understand—it was so dangerous for people like me back then, I mean, you remember what it was like, right? It was like a death sentence in those days—"
"Carla."
"—and I had no clue how you would've reacted, hell, I don't know how you're reacting now, and my parents flipped when I eventually told them way down the line, so can you imagine if I told anyone then? They would've kicked me out—"
"Carla."
"—ugh, I'm sorry, I'm making it all about me, I'm not trying to, but fuck, Stan, I'm so sorry, even though I was scared I shouldn't have treated you that way, not as your girlfriend, and especially not as your friend, I just hope you know it wasn't anything personal, it wasn't anything about you, you would've made a great boyfriend for someone else—"
"Carla!"
She finally looks at him. For a moment, she looks like a teenager again.
A teenager scared shitless.
He reaches a hand out to her. After a moment, she takes it hesitantly. "It's okay. I get it."
"But you don't understand." She looks down at the table in shame. "I always knew I liked girls and I still—"
"Ya did what ya had to, to survive. I know what that's like." He gives a smile that has a twinge of sadness to it. "You're not the only one who had secrets like that, y'know."
Carla whips up her head so fast that he feels a nice breeze. "You—you're—?"
Stan takes his other hand to rub at his neck, sheepish about this particular topic. "Uh, well, both? I like both." He retracts his hand from Carla's, letting out a cough. He still isn't the best at talking about all this shit. "So, uh, yeah. Believe me. I get it."
Based on her expression, it looks like that revelation tilted her world a little bit. "Huh," Carla says.
There's a moment of silence—not quite comfortable, not quite awkward either, but more…curious. Like they're both processing the information given to them.
"Did you ever meet anyone else down the line?" Carla eventually asks, taking a sip of her coffee.
Stan takes a moment. "A couple of people, I guess. Even got married at one point—didn't last though," he muses. "Then there was Jimmy. Wonder how the old bastard is doing," he says, his lips twitching into a soft smile. "He uh…"
Stan pauses, not sure how much he wants to share. On one hand, sharing things about his drifter days makes him want to crawl out of his skin. On the other hand, Carla was brave just a second ago—maybe he should take a crack at it too.
He takes a breath. "…he helped me a lot, after my old man kicked me out. Rough on the outside, but a complete softie underneath." Stan remembers his face, their first kiss, and it's like he's there all over again. Sure, it didn't work out, but in those days it helped him keep going, at least for a little bit.
Carla's eyes twinkle a bit. "Sounds like someone else I know."
"Alright, alright," Stan rolls his eyes, but there's a smile on his face.
They share a laugh for a moment until Carla's expression turns more grave. "I did wonder what happened to you, you know. Your mother told me some of it, maybe left out some details, but God, Stan."
He expects her to say I'm so sorry, something along those lines, so Stan says, "Yep. I know," before taking a sip of his own.
But Carla doesn't miss a beat. "Filbrick Pines, I hope you rot in hell."
And it's so sudden, so unexpected from Carla of all people, that it makes him choke on his sip, some of it dripping out of his mouth as he starts to laugh. She joins in too, with a chuckle. Her eyes shimmer with that specific type of mischief that Stan fell for all those years ago.
"You know," Carla starts as their laughter dies down, "I hope you know that you were—are—really special to me. You were my best friend at the time, honestly. I'm sorry I couldn't be what you needed." Her smile starts to fade. "When I heard about the car accident, I—" she swallows hard. "I was heartbroken about it, but I was guilty too. Because I think you really deserved better, Stan. Even if you never believed that. Even if you don't believe it now."
And the way she's looking at him, her eyes full of sincerity and sorrow for what she did, damn. It honestly makes him start to tear up, but he tries to blink it away as fast as he can before she notices.
Stan swallows down the emotions. "I…thank you, Carla."
"I'm not going to ask about what exactly happened, even though I'm dying to, believe me," Carla says, leaning in on that last part, "but, man. I'm so glad I was able to run into you here. Really clears up my conscience, you know?" she winks, smiling playfully.
Stan snorts, "Glad to know I'm of use." He's smiling as he says it though, because in a way this clears up some of the guilt he was feeling too.
Slow down there, cowboy, he scolds himself, you don't know if all that shit with Ford actually happened.
Still, even as he thinks it, he feels a wave of shame crash inside of him. Like he's lying to himself.
He clears his throat. Gotta focus. Gotta stop thinking about his damn brother. "Pretty weird we ran into each other here of all places, huh? Whatcha doin' here anyway?"
"Oh, me?" Carla asks oh-so-innocently. "I'm just here on my honeymoon." She flashes the ring on her left hand, something Stan is surprised he missed before.
Stan whistles at the size of that rock. "Nabbed a good one, eh? Too bad I split up your time with her."
Carla rolls her eyes. "Oh, please. She was actually the one who encouraged me to talk to you—I almost backed out of it." Her expression grows dreamy. "She nagged me, but in the best possible way. She knows how to push my buttons—how to get me out of my comfort zone." She pauses. Then, in a hushed tone, "She's the love of my life."
This makes Stan smile—a real, authentic smile. He's always been a romantic at heart, after all. "I'm glad ya both have each other."
Carla's smile brightens with the strength of the sun. "Me too."
The conversation continues for god knows how long, and fuck, it's like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. They talk about how Carla and her wife met, and later on, Stan gushes about Dipper and Mabel, showing all the pictures he keeps of them in his wallet. They swap stories for what feels like hours, making Stan realize this is the most comfortable he's ever felt with her in his entire life.
A little while later, Carla brings up a new topic.
"So. You and Ford made up after your big falling out, huh? How's that going? You see each other often nowadays?" she asks, taking a sip of her coffee to seem casual, but Stan knows her well enough—he knows by the tone of her voice and the sharp attention in her eyes that she's dying to know what's going on.
Stan clears his throat. Shifts in his seat a little. Starts to casually rise from his seat."Y'know, maybe I should get goin'—"
"Oh, no you don't," Carla says, pushing him back down.
"Ow!"
"I'm so happy you two made up, but I need to know how it happened and what's going on now. So spill."
Stan rubs the area on his shoulder where Carla pushed him. "That's, uh. The how it happened part is gonna be complicated for a ton of reasons," Stan mutters, before cursing again. "You've definitely gotten stronger since high school, shit."
She snorts. "I would hope so, Stan. I'm not a teenage girl anymore. And don't think you whining like a pussy will get you out of this."
Stan sighs, but gives an improvised, edited version of events. "Well. For 30 years, he was in trouble. I helped him out, with the help of the kids, but he was…kind of a dick," he lets out a small laugh. "Wouldn't thank me for shit. Then uh—" he pauses. "Then all hell broke loose," he decides on. Images of Bill flash in his mind, putting him on edge. "But I had to protect my family. So I gave up something important to get them out of danger."
Stan knows that was vague as all fuck, but what is he supposed to do? Tell the truth and have her think he lost his entire mind? Yeah, okay.
Carla stares at him for a moment. She hums, taking a sip of her third cup of coffee. Finally, she says, "And now?"
His mouth twitches. She decided not to push—smart girl.
"Well, uh. I don't know if ya remember, but me and Ford had this plan as kids to travel the ocean, and uh—"
"You're sailing together." She says with finality, a knowing smile on her lips.
Stan can't help but smile back. "Yeah."
"And? How's it been?"
Stan thinks about everything that's happened recently. "Good. Great. Amazing, even," he says, maybe a bit too quickly
Carla's eyes narrow.
Stan lets out an exasperated sigh. "Okay, so it was goin' pretty well—"
"But?"
"We just—Carla, I can't even explain it."
And then he goes into the fight they had last night—explaining it in excruciating detail.
"—and then he says he's the jelly! Can ya believe that crap? Someone with enough PhDs to make any idiot cry and shit their pants, and he says he's the jelly. Unbelievable."
Expecting a sound of agreement or even a hum, Stan is disappointed when he doesn't hear anything. He looks up, finding Carla with a somewhat…pitying look on her face.
"What?" Stan asks, a bit defensively. "What is it?"
"Stan," she begins in a gentle tone.
"Uh oh."
"Stanley." Fuck. Full naming him.
She leans more into the table, more towards him. "I get where you're coming from, but have you considered that maybe he meant it in a different way?"
Stan squints, crossing his arms. "What do ya mean?"
"Well…how do I put this…" Carla bites her lip for a moment, thinking about the question. "Ever since I've known you two, you and Ford were inseparable. Joined at the hip, practically. And I know your family praised Ford for his intelligence, but have you ever thought that maybe there are some areas you outshine him in?"
Stan blinks. Then blinks again. "Ya lost me."
"Stan," she scolds, "I'm serious. You were always the more social one out of the two of you. You went to parties, made some friends, even had a girlfriend—"
"But—" he starts, preparing to say the obvious.
"—and yes, I know the girlfriend you had ended up being a beautiful, fantastic lesbian, but still! You put yourself out there way more than your brother ever did."
"Okay…" Stan drawls out. "I still don't see how it goes back to—"
Carla lets out a groan of frustration. "Think about it, Stan! You two have been sailing around for a while now, just you and him. You bumped into an old flame who, for all he knew, could've still been into you. You agreed to go on something that looks like a date with her. He got shitfaced drunk. He lamented in metaphors about being abandoned." She stares at him with exasperated, wide eyes. "What do you think this means?"
Stan blinks pointedly.
"Oh my God!" Carla throws her hands up in the air. "He's jealous, Stanley! He's scared of losing you! Motherfucking Jesus Christ on a—"
As Carla's cursing goes on and on, it fades into the background as Stan processes this.
Jealous? What? No, that was…crazy. Right?
And he was scared of losing Stan? As if Stan hadn't sacrificed years of his life to get him back, as if Stan wouldn't do anything for his brother?
As if Stan wasn't completely, madly, insanely in love with him?
But then he thinks about how upset Ford was, how strangely bitter he seemed after bumping into Carla, how tragic his whole speech was last night, how he said I miss you—
"…he thinks I'm gonna up and leave him," Stan says, the dawning realization hitting him like a ton of bricks.
Carla wears the same sad expression as before. "Yeah."
Stan tries to wrap his head around this. "But I—Carla, look. We've lost each other before, I don't even think he gave a damn I was gone. It's always been like that. I've always been way more afraid of losing him than him losing me—"
"Do you really think that?" Carla interrupts, tone sharp as a blade.
"I…" he trails off, unsure. "I don't know."
"Stan," Carla begins, before Stan's phone starts to ding a few times.
"One sec," he says, pulling it out. He slides open the screen and sees messages from Ford. Speak of the devil (again).
Sixer [4:55 P.M.]: Where are you?
Sixer [4:55 P.M.]: We have the call with Dipper and Mabel in just a few moments.
Sixer [4:56 P.M.]: You better not have forgotten because of your date, Stanley.
The specific phrasing definitely strikes him, but—shit. It honestly did slip his mind a bit for a minute there.
Me [4:57 P.M.]: i'll be right there. don't start without me
"Sorry, Carla," he gives an apologetic smile, putting his phone away. "Gotta wrap it up here. Forgot we have a call with the kids."
"Aw, I get it. I should be getting back too, honestly." Carla says, smiling in understanding before her tone turns into a scolding one. "But don't think we're done talking about you and Ford."
He huffs. "I gotta go, I don't have time for—"
"Let me just say this," she interrupts. "Shit would just be a lot easier if you just…I don't fucking know, talked to each other? I know it's easier said than done, but trust me. As someone on the outside of your dynamic, I've noticed some things."
Stan reels back a little, about to ask what the hell that means, but she just quickly shoves a napkin with a phone number written on it in his face. "Don't be a stranger, okay? And do the world a favor and talk to your brother for once, alright? It might stop the world from ending one day. Who knows?"
Stan takes the napkin. He snorts, smiling. It already has. "Yeah. Who knows?"
They both stand up from their seats. Carla starts to walk a few steps towards the door before she stops and turns around. She bites her lip, and the next thing Stan knows, Carla is hugging him.
"Oof!"
"I'm really, really glad you aren't dead, Stan," she says softly. "And I'm really glad we talked."
While his insecurities are still there, Stan feels like all those wounds he tried to hide back when he was dating her are mending themselves as they speak. Carla didn't hate his guts, didn't think he was disgusting. She was a scared kid going through her own shit, afraid to be who she really was. Stan can relate to that more than anything.
And even if her being his girlfriend left some things to be desired, at least she's a good friend.
"Yeah," Stan murmurs, hugging her back tighter. "Me too."
He leaves the cafe with a little bit of a confidence boost, as well as some understanding about where Ford was coming from last night. Sickly-sweet, rotten hope starts to ripen inside of his chest, and he tells himself not to get too excited.
You're the closest family he's got. He's just scared of losing you—as a brother.
He finally gets back to the boat, more than a little late.
"About time," Ford immediately says from the dining table as he walks in, laptop opened up. His tone is jagged and…bitter?
"Sorry," Stan says, and he actually feels bad about it. He's never been more than a few minutes late to a call with them—20 minutes feels like a complete betrayal. "Didn't mean to, I promise. Was just having a good time, is all."
Ford crosses his arms and glares. "I wasn't aware you found romance more important than your own family," he spits out.
Stan feels his eye twitch, trying to keep his temper at bay. He takes in a deep breath. "Ford, you know me. You know that ain't true."
Giving a skeptical look, Ford just continues, raising his brows. "Do I know that, Stanley? From how it appears, it seems like it may be. After all, this is a tradition we have now, and you have never broken it once before, but as soon as she comes barreling back into your life—"
"Stanford," Stan snaps loudly. This surprisingly gets Ford to shut up for a moment.
Stan closes his eyes. Takes a moment and tries to remember what he and Carla were talking about. Ford is probably just lashing out, scared he's gonna lose Stan. He isn't just being a dick.
"Look," Stan says, finally taking a seat next to Ford at the table. "I'm late enough as it is, I don't wanna fight right now. Let's just talk to the kids, alright? Let's drop it."
Ford stares at him for a very long time, nostrils flaring. It's almost as if he wants to keep going, to keep verbally attacking him, and for a moment Stan thinks he will, until he finally deflates. "Fine," he bites out. "Click the call button," he says, waving a hand aggressively towards the laptop.
Stan clicks the call button. It's answered almost immediately.
"Yay! Finally!" Mabel's voice comes through, her grin practically brightening up the screen.
"Took you guys long enough," Dipper says, but he's wearing a smile. "Did you get the times mixed up or what?"
"Or what," Stan grumbles, pretending to make himself seem Grunklier than usual. And to hide some of his guilt, of course.
The call goes well—so well that he starts to physically feel Ford's body tension evaporate. Stan gets it. Talking to these little gremlins calms him down, too.
They discuss different topics like school in general, Mabel's new crush of the week, and then Dipper gushes about a film class he's taking. Ford brightens up a bit when Dipper says he's gonna use what he learns in that ghost-hunting show he wants to make, which makes Stan feel a bit better from before.
Of course, that's when things go wrong.
"So, Grunkles," Mabel starts, putting on a serious, fancy-sounding voice, "we would like to inquire as to why you were late to our meeting. It's a serious offense."
"Very serious," Dipper says, nodding sagely.
"And we need to know if a punishment is necessary," Mabel continues, "so spill!"
Damn kids. Too smart for their own good.
He sighs. "It won't happen again, I promise."
"He pleads guilty," Ford smugly supplies.
Stan elbows him with a glare. "Watch it."
Ford gives him a look that matches his perfectly. A look that could be played off as part of their usual behavior, but they both know it's more weighty than that.
"Grunkle Stan!" Mabel exclaims, dropping the voice and pointing at the camera. "Do you have something to confess to us?"
He rolls his eyes. "It's nothing that crazy, really—I just bumped into an old friend, is all—"
"His ex-girlfriend," Ford says flatly, not looking at him or the screen.
Mabel lets out a screech. Dipper winces and covers his ears.
"EX-GRILFRIEND?"
"Mabel, Mabel, you don't need to scream, it's 8:30 in the morning—" Dipper says, cringing at her voice.
"Sorry! Sorry." She clears her throat. Then she peers closely at the camera. "When did you two date? Were you in love? Is she pretty? Are you two going to get back together? How did you two meet? Is she a bajillion years old like you two are?"
Stan can't help but let out a laugh. "Whoa, pumpkin. Breathe. You're gonna faint if you keep shooting questions off like that," he says. "But to answer one of your questions, she was my first girlfriend—we met in high school. Carla McCorkle."
Dipper squints at the camera. "Wait, that sounds familiar. Is that the girlfriend who left you for the hippie?"
"Yep."
"What! How didn't I hear about this?" Mabel turns to Dipper. "How do you know about this?"
Dipper shrugs. "I think you were busy seeing a boy band, or something?"
"Ohhhh," Mabel says in sudden understanding. "Okay, whatever, not important. What is important is that I need to know EVERYTHING!"
Stan chuckles. "Not much to know, really. Helped her when some schmucks tried stealing her purse. Then we just hit it off—she actually laughed at my jokes."
"Couldn't imagine why," Ford mumbles, sounding bored.
Stan kicks him under the table. "Anyway, she was my first girlfriend. First kiss, too," he muses.
Mabel perks up. "Ooh! First kisses are soooooo important. I still remember my first kiss with Mermando," she says, tone and expression all dreamy. Then it turns into something more mischievous. "He was Dipper's first kiss too, you know."
"That didn't count!"
"Yes, it totally did!"
"No, it didn't!"
"Whatever, ugh!" Mabel groans, annoyed. "I'm glad you were able to see her, Grunkle Stan! Even if she made you 20 minutes late. I forgive you both!"
"I don't know…" Dipper starts. Mabel shoves him. "Fine, fine, all is forgiven."
Stan smiles. "Thanks, kiddos."
"Did it go well, at least?" Dipper asks.
Stan's smile grows, thinking about his talk with Carla. "Yeah. Yeah, it did."
When he says that, he feels Ford's intense stare on him.
"Hey," Mabel starts, "Grunkle Ford, who was your first kiss?"
He immediately feels Ford go rigid beside him. When Stan glances at him, he's as pale as a ghost.
"I…er…I don't—" Ford flounders for a moment, and for a millisecond it looks like his eyes dart directly to Stan.
Even though he's not the one under fire, Stan's heartbeat starts to pick up.
"Aw, c'mon, Mabel," Dipper cuts in, "you know Ford is above stuff like that! I'm sure it wasn't important to him."
Ford opens his mouth. Closes it. "Of course. Right. It wasn't," he finally says, an air of…something in his tone. Something off. "Nonsense like first kisses weren't important to me," he rushes out with a half-laugh. He quickly clears his throat. "In fact, the importance of—as well as the meaning of—kisses in general is something that fluctuates between dimensions. On some planets, a kiss is a declaration of war. On others, it's how you pay your cab fare, or, heck, leave a tip for a favorable haircut. Cultural context is everything."
Ford goes on to talk about how hugs are different too, just rattling off space babble while both of the kids listen closely, but Stan can't bring himself to pay attention to the words themselves. He's heard Ford go on and on about this type of stuff before—hell, he can give a lecture on just about everything and anything, but this was…
Different.
There was an edge to his words, a desperation to avoid, like he's cowering behind every example, every damn syllable. He wants to provide a distraction, but why?
A sense of dread looms over him, striking exactly where it hurts. Everything clicks into place.
It was real. It was all real.
It had to be.
His dreams—the memories—of kissing Ford as teenagers had to be real. It's the only thing that makes sense with the way Ford is avoiding the topic, like he'd rather forget it altogether.
Like he's ashamed.
So ashamed that he wouldn't even tell Stan the truth about their falling out. How it actually started a domino effect of events that led to years of misery.
"—Stan? Grunkle Stan?" Mabel says, frowning at the camera.
Stan shakes himself. Snap out of it. Not in front of the kids, he thinks.
"Huh? What?"
"Mom is taking us out to breakfast, so we have to go," Dipper supplies. "We just wanted to say goodbye, but you seemed distracted."
"Ah. Sorry, kiddos. It's just been a long day." He forces a smile. "Why dontcha let us old-timers rest up a bit, huh? We'll talk to you next week."
They say their goodbyes and end the call. Stan's mind is reeling.
"Well," Ford gets up from his seat so quickly that you'd think he got burned. "I'm off to do…research. The exploration for additional knowledge never rests," Ford says, not even sparing a single look at him. "I…" he pauses awkwardly. "Goodnight, Stanley," he says, making a quick turn towards the door.
And that should be it.
Stan should let the past be buried, because Ford obviously doesn't want to talk about it. He should let go of the memories that have been haunting him for days now—let go of the hope that maybe, just maybe, all those kisses meant something more. He should give up on this ridiculous mystery and investigation, hoping he'd find his happy ending. He should give up on them being anything more than what they are.
But he can't.
"It was me," Stan says quietly, "wasn't it?"
Stan doesn't dare look up from where he's staring right in front of him. He hears Ford's footsteps stop abruptly.
"A-apologies," Ford stammers, "What did you say?"
"I said," Stan starts, standing from his seat, looking right at Ford. "It was me. Wasn't it, Ford?"
He doesn't say it like a question, because he's confident in his answer. He's confident that Ford had been hiding this bombshell of a secret this entire time, just so they wouldn't have to rehash it.
And based on Ford's expression—lips parting in shock and eyes widening before he looks away in shame, Stan is pretty damn sure he hit the nail on the head.
But Ford is a stubborn bastard, just like him.
"I—what are you talking about, Stanley?" he asks in a pinched voice, letting out a forced laugh. "Are you certain you aren't confused?"
The absolute fucking nerve of this guy, acting like he doesn't have a clue what Stan's talking about. After everything Ford had put him through yesterday. After everything Ford had put him through this entire trip.
Stan knows Ford has insecurities; he knows Ford had his reasons for throwing a fit last night. Carla shed light on the fact that Ford is jealous for whatever reason, but fine, Stan can excuse all that.
But what he's having a bit more trouble excusing is that Ford had known the entire time—Ford left him struggling in the ocean without a life vest in sight with all those thoughts and memories, with absolutely nobody he could talk to about it.
He left him all alone.
That makes Stan's blood start to boil. "Cut the crap, Ford. You ain't gettin' out of this that easy." Stan stares right into him, watching him glance everywhere else. "I remember now. I was your first kiss."
Ford's fake smile drops. "…I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do!"
When he shouts, it surprises Stan as much as it seems to surprise Ford. He realizes how much agony he's feeling, how much guilt this whole thing has been causing him, and Ford wouldn't even tell him the damn truth.
This whole time—this whole fucking time, he thought he was perverted, dirty, disgusting for having those dreams, but Ford never told him that it was all real. And hell, even if it were uncomfortable to talk about, it didn't have to come down to a screaming match—they could've joked about it, laughed about it, but Ford had to hide it from him.
"I was your first kiss," Stan continues, voice raised. "Don't you fucking try to bullshit me, Stanford—I remember now. Carla complained about my kissin', and you had the brilliant idea of practicing together. We were 'sposed to help each other get better. Don't fuckin' lie to me again."
Ford stumbles back in shock. Then, quietly, "So you really do remember."
He storms closer to Ford. "How long were ya gonna let this play out, huh? Were you ever going to tell me? Were you just gonna keep lyin' to me, keep me questionin' my own fuckin' sanity? Is that it? Huh?" he shoves at Ford. "Huh?"
"I—that wasn't my intention—"
"Fuck your intentions, Ford!"
Ford looks at him in shock, eyes drifting down his face. "You're crying," he says, voice barely louder than a whisper.
Stan's hand instinctively goes to his face. He is. But he can't bring himself to care.
"Stan—Stanley," Ford says in a desperate way, like a man on trial. "Listen to me, I didn't—I didn't mean to hurt you or make you question anything. I—I didn't plan on this."
"Plan on what?" Stan croaks, voice straining with his volume and emotions. "You didn't plan on me findin' out? You didn't plan on lyin' to me?"
"I didn't plan on you remembering!" Ford finally yells, his eyes widening as soon as he says it.
Stan stumbles back, feeling like he just got punched in the face again.
It's quiet for a long, agonizing moment. Stan lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Nice, Stanford," he says lowly, his voice dripping with acid, "Real fuckin' nice.
"Stan—"
"What else have ya been lyin' to me about? Ya got any other secrets up your sleeve?"
"Stanley—"
"Or are ya just gonna try to rely on my fuckin' memory that you got rid of?"
"That's not fair," Ford raises his voice. "You can't use that against me—"
"Oh, really? 'Cuz you seem to be using my fucked up mind to your advantage with no problem—"
"I simply didn't think it was relevant," Ford shouts, "I thought you'd be better off forgetting! I thought I was doing you a favor."
And it's that, it's that sharp reminder that makes some of the fight leave Stan's body. He's hurt beyond most things he's ever felt in his entire life, because fuck, he wanted those days to mean something. He didn't want to be alone in how he feels.
But he is, isn't he?
He always has been.
It didn't mean anything to Ford. It never has. He's been imagining things this entire time.
Stan slumps a bit. "You're right," he sighs, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his face for a moment. He feels older than he looks; a tiredness runs deep in his bones. He puts his glasses back on.
"I just wish you would've told me. I mean, it's not like they were that important," Stan forces the lie out, which feels like swallowing glass.
Ford stays silent, staring at the floor.
"Those kisses don't matter anyway—they didn't mean anything, right?" Stan continues, more to himself than to Ford. "We should just move on from 'em."
"But I just—I don't even fuckin' know why you kept it a secret," Stan continues, just saying whatever comes to mind, because if he doesn't stop talking, he doesn't have to confront the pain he feels that those sessions meant so little to Ford that he wouldn't even tell him. "it's not like it mattered. It was just practice! It's not like it meant anythin—"
"It meant everything."
The words die in Stan's throat immediately as Ford grits those words out, his knuckles a pale white with how tightly he's clenching his fists.
His words catch up to Stan. He must've heard wrong.
"…what?"
The fight in Ford's body seemingly disappears into thin air, too, as he sighs and closes his eyes.
"I…do sincerely apologize, Stanley. You…you weren't supposed to find out this way. To be more specific, you weren't supposed to find out at all."
Stan's expression creases together in confusion. "I thought you said you didn't plan on me rememberin'?"
"I didn't plan on you remembering the sessions, yes," Ford says, sounding exhausted beyond his years. "But you were never supposed to find out…the rest of it. How I felt about them. How I felt about you."
Stan can't move. He can barely breathe. "What—what are you tryin' to say?"
Ford opens his eyes, looking straight at him. The lighting in the cabin must be making Stan see things because it almost looks like Ford's eyes are wet.
"Those days…" Ford begins, voice oddly small and hesitant, "those days were some of my happiest. It let me live my greatest wish. It let me pretend for a little while."
And there's that feeling again, that foul hope blooming inside of his chest. "Let you pretend what?" he utters out softly.
Ford lets out a dry chuckle. There's a bitterness to it that leaves an awful taste in Stan's mouth.
"It let me pretend that you loved me too."
The entire world stills. It even feels like the boat stops swaying entirely.
He didn't… he didn't hear that right. Did he?
Stan tries to say something, anything, but he's frozen solid. Ford looks at him with pleading eyes.
"Stanley, I…I'm sorry. I know I should have told you the moment you asked me if there was anything more to our fight, but—" Ford stops abruptly, swallowing hard. "I didn't want to…complicate things. Truthfully, I…I was terrified that you would have changed your mind about joining me."
All Stan can do is stare back at him.
Ford looks down at the floor. "That was quite selfish of me, wasn't it? I should have told you the truth as soon as possible, no matter the consequences. I would have deserved it, after all." He looks back up at him, shame in his eyes.
But now Stan realizes it wasn't shame at them. It was Ford's shame towards himself. Towards his feelings.
"I need you to know, while I'm sorry I ruined everything between us with my idea—with my feelings for you—I…" Ford trails off, looking away. Then a bittersweet smile appears on his lips. "I can't say I regret it in the slightest."
Stan never thought this would happen. Ever. He never thought he'd ever get closure for what happened between them, never thought that Ford would be right here, confessing his love for him.
"Ford," he chokes out.
"I know. I know, Stanley. It's wrong of me, it's—it's highly inappropriate. You're my own flesh and blood, you're my brother, I shouldn't feel this way about you. And yet…" Ford looks at him. Really looks at him, takes him all in, and Stan can see the adoration in his eyes. He doesn't know how he's missed it all this time. "…I know it couldn't have been anyone but you. My first friend. My first love. My first heartbreak."
"Ford—"
"I'm sorry," Ford winces. "I'm making you uncomfortable. I need to stop prattling on about—" his voice cracks, and so does Stan's heart. "—how madly in love with you I am, but I can't seem to stop."
"Ford, just—"
"I didn't want it to come to this. This is precisely why I didn't tell you—I didn't want to lose you. I lost you too many times in my life for comfort. I didn't know if I could survive another." He shuts his eyes, as if he can't look at Stan as he says the next part. "But I'll leave the boat to you, and you can continue to go on these adventures without me if that's what you wish to do—"
"Ford!"
Ford's eyes open in an instant as he looks at him with fear.
"You…you weren't."
Brown eyes blink at him, taken aback by his response. "I wasn't what?"
Stan tries to swallow down all the emotions swirling inside of him. He feels like he might just burst at the seams with all of them.
"Pretendin'," he clarifies, stepping closer to Ford until their faces are inches apart. "You weren't pretendin' that I loved you back, 'cuz I did."
Ford freezes, just like how he did before. "You…" he breathes out, "you loved me?"
And he asks it in such a small tone that it takes Stan right back to his teenage years, whenever Ford was scared to death about something. He was so insecure, so uncertain about himself in those days, and Stan can hear that boy right now.
Stan nods, stepping even more into Ford's space. Ford's gaze dips to his lips, and Stan can hear his breath hitching.
"And…and now?"
Stan chuckles, resting his forehead against Ford's. "What do ya think, brainiac?"
He hears Ford inhale sharply.
Stan pulls back, looks at his brother, and does something he hasn't done in over 40 years.
He kisses him.
Ford gasps into the kiss, a soft, hesitant, delicate thing, and returns it after a moment, matching the exact energy.
It was like going back to where he belonged. Going back home.
Because that's what Ford is to Stan.
They pull away from each other, a fluttering energy in the cabin. Their eyes meet.
Everything changes in an instant.
Stan doesn't know who initiates the second kiss, just that they're suddenly on each other like a couple of horny teens (again) and that it's hungrier and more desperate than the last. Their hands are grabbing anywhere they can touch, almost in disbelief that they can have this. That they're allowed this, now. The kiss deepens within seconds, and oh, Stan was wrong before; this is like coming home, feeling Ford's tongue slide against his own.
Ford moans into the kiss that keeps going and going and going, making Stan lightheaded, but he doesn't give a fuck, he wants to keep doing this, wants to keep doing this forever—
"Stan," Ford gasps out between kisses, "Stanley—"
Stan moves forward, pushing Ford against the wall. "Less talking, more kissing," Stan mumbles against his lips, tilting his head and—
Clink.
Their glasses crash into each other.
They both pause.
Stan snorts. "Didn't have to worry about that last time," he says, pulling back to get a better look at Ford and—
He freezes immediately. Ford's crying.
"Sixer, did I—did I read this wrong? What is it, what's the matter—?"
Ford shakes his head, giving him a hint of a smile. "No, no, it wasn't you, I—" Ford then fully embraces Stan, tucking his head in between his neck and shoulder. "I never thought I would ever have this again."
Stan returns the hug, sinking into it. "I know. I know. Me neither."
They stay like that for a few moments, just holding each other. Mourning what they've lost, but celebrating what's to come.
Ford starts pressing kisses against his neck. They're soft, chaste things at first, but they soon become anything but.
"A-ah, fuck," Stan moans out when Ford starts to suck on his throat, leaving marks.
"Mine," Ford growls out, "you're all mine."
And fuck, if that isn't something that immediately puts him in the mood.
"My bedroom or—shit—yours?"
Ford keeps kissing his neck, ignoring him, and cops a feel of his ass. Stan shivers. "We were idiots to have separate rooms," Ford grumbles.
"We can lament about that later, huh?"
Ford doesn't move an inch.
"F-Ford, c'mon, if you wanna do anything sexy we gotta be in a bed—"
"Are you sure I can't just have you right here, right now?" Ford purrs.
A bolt of heat rushes through him. "As hot as that sounds, you'd break my back."
That finally gets Ford to move, detaching himself from Stan and leading the way to Stan's room, which is closer.
"Strip," Ford orders as soon as they're inside, doing the same thing himself.
Stan's cock gives a twitch at the order. "Sir, yes, sir."
As soon as Stan is left in nothing but his boxers (and once they both place their glasses to this side), Ford pounces on him, pushing him back on the bed. It lets Stan take a good look at Ford, and sure, he's seen him topless before, but he'll never get over that rush he feels—especially now that it's in this context.
Little does Stan know, Ford is doing some ogling himself.
"Stan," Ford says, hands on either side of his body, hovering over him. He sounds breathless. "You're gorgeous."
His traitorous heart skips a beat. "H-huh? Me, gorgeous?"
Ford smirks, letting his gaze trail down every inch of his body slowly. "Is there anyone else here?"
Stan gulps at the hungry look in Ford's eyes. "Can we go back to the kissin' part or what?"
Ford chuckles, leaning down to kiss him. Stan melts against him immediately.
"I'm going to make you realize how gorgeous you are, just you wait, Stanley," Ford mumbles against his lips. "But next time. For now, I believe we're both in need of a quick solution for our problem after waiting so long, of course."
He reaches down to stroke Stan through his boxers.
"Fuck," Stan chokes out, eyes closing.
"Do you have any idea what it was like," Ford starts, Stan hardening more and more underneath his touch, "to pretend that every kiss, every touch, every noise you made during our practice sessions meant nothing to me?"
"I—I might have some idea, yeah—"
Ford leans down to kiss his neck some more, all while he's still teasing Stan's cock. "I love your voice, Stanley. I love hearing all the noises you make while you're overwhelmed with pleasure." He finally shoves Stan's boxers down, letting his hard, weeping cock jut out in the open air. He takes his own pair off too, making Stan salivate at what he sees.
Stan starts to move, starts to get up to do something—
"No," Ford says, pushing him back down. "You gave me those lessons all those years ago—let me show you what I've learned over the years. Let me take care of my little brother," he croons, and goddamn it, Stan's cock jumps at that.
Ford's mouth is on his again, hot, wet, and hungry, and Stan groans when he feels Ford's hard cock against his. Ford starts rocking his hips forward, driving Stan up a wall.
"Ford, fuck—" he whines, "You feel—you feel so fuckin' good—"
"Is this everything you wanted, Stanley?" Ford asks, panting against his mouth. Ford lets out a few delicious noises himself, and Stan knows that this moment is going to live in his head forever. "In college, I would think about our kisses—how it felt to have our bodies so close to each other, how it felt to feel your cock straining against me as we kissed—"
It's the confession, really, that makes him sob. "Ford, Sixer, please—"
"God, Stanley—" he starts rocking into him faster, harder, making Stan see stars. "I'm never going to let you go ever again, you're mine—"
"Yours," Stan echoes, feeling tears start to fall from his eyes. Ford starts to slow down, but— "No, no, don't stop, please don't stop, Ford, please—keep goin', keep goin'—"
That seems to set Ford into overdrive, humping harder against him and letting out these noises that sound a lot like low growls. "Beautiful," Ford gasps out before leaning down and licking at Stan's tears, making Stan let out a wounded sound. "All for me, my beautiful baby brother, my other half—"
Ford reaches down and takes Stan's aching cock in his perfect six-fingered hand, stroking madly.
"I can't wait to watch you fall apart in my hands, Stanley, please, please show me what I've dreamed of all these years, come, come for me—"
And Stan does, all over Ford's hand and their stomachs, crying out for Ford, for his brother.
"Ford, fuck, Stanford, I love you, I love you—" he sobs out as Ford keeps stroking him, cum continuing to spurt out of his cock.
Ford watches him, mesmerized. "Beautiful, absolutely stunning—"
Once it starts to get too much, Stan lets out a pathetic-sounding whine, and Ford lets go of him immediately. Stan starts to reach towards Ford, but it seems he has other ideas.
"Can I—can I mark you with my come?" Ford asks, eyes wild and wide. "Please? Please tell me I can, Stanley, please, please—"
"Do it," Stan says in between breaths, "mark me as yours, come all over me."
Ford lets out a keen at that, going on his knees on the bed and stroking himself fast and desperate over Stan's body. "You're going to look beautiful all covered in me, covered in my come—mine, mine, all mine—" Ford chokes out, and then he's coming all over Stan's wide, round stomach, sobbing Stan's name over and over again like a mantra.
Ford continues to stroke himself in his aftershocks until finally, he runs dry. He plops down beside Stan, their heavy breaths filling the room.
"I can't believe," Ford gasps out, "that took us 40 years to finally do."
Stan snorts. "I can."
Ford lightly smacks him.
"Hey! Watch the merchandise!"
"I just came all over the merchandise."
"You come on it, it's yours."
Ford hums, snuggling against him. "That's what I like to hear." Stan sighs happily, wrapping his arms around him.
It's quiet as they embrace until Ford finally speaks up after a few moments.
"I am sorry, you know," Ford starts, voice low. "For letting you question yourself. I should have told you sooner."
Stan gives him a bittersweet smile, "Nah, don't beat yourself up too much about it." He kisses Ford's temple. "We got here, right? That's what matters." Ford gives a weak smile in return.
"And for what it's worth, Sixer," Stan continues. "I'm sorry about calin' it off all those years ago. I was—really fuckin' confused, for one. And two, I didn't wanna…taint ya with what I was feeling. Didn't wanna bring ya down with me."
"But that's exactly where I want to be. With you," Ford says, holding out his hand for Stan to take. He does. "That's what started this whole problem to begin with."
Stan waits for Ford to explain, looking at him patiently.
"I promised myself that I'd cherish any and every part of you that you would give me, even if it didn't last…But I should have known that once you taste an apple so sweet, it's hard to stop yourself." Ford strokes his thumb over Stan's hand, before bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to it.
"Sap," Stan teases, trying to downplay how touched he is about all of this.
"Erm," Ford suddenly begins, looking a bit distressed. "I just remembered. What about Carla?"
Stan squints at him. "What do ya mean, what about Carla?"
Ford looks at him like he's lost it. "You had a date with her this morning, didn't you?" and even as he asks it, his eyes darken at the word date.
Stan can't help it. He starts laughing.
"What? What's so funny?"
"She was right. You were jealous."
Ford blinks at him.
"It wasn't a date, dumbass. She's a lesbian."
Ford blinks again.
Stan stares at him.
"O-oh," Ford says, clearly processing this information. "That. Hmm. That explains quite a bit."
"That's what I said!"
They share a laugh.
Stan gazes at Ford as their laughter dies down, and it finally sinks in for him.
This is it. This is his happy ending. He's finally allowed to have it—finally allowed to have what he's wanted all these years:
His brother.
"What is it?" Ford murmurs, noticing Stan's gaze.
"Oh, nothin'. Just wonderin' if we could start practicin' blowjobs next."
Ford lets out a huff of laughter before kissing the corner of his mouth. "I'd love nothing more. Practice makes perfect, as they say," he says huskily.
Stan hums, kissing Ford.
"It doesn't even have to count," Stan teases with a shit-eating grin, "since, y'know, we're brothers."
Ford scowls. "I hate you."
Stan kisses his cheek. "No, ya don't. "
Ford lets out a long sigh, before turning his head back towards him.
"No," he agrees, smiling softly. "I don't."
Notes:
i do hope you enjoyed this crazy journey!!!!!!!! please consider leaving a kudos and/or comment if you have.
i love you guys, see you next time! <3
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