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When the water is calm and the night breaks chill over the sea, Stan strips down to the truth of his naked skin and climbs into the bed he shares with his brother.
"Stan," Ford says sleepily as Stan pulls the blankets back and slips underneath. He presses a leg between Ford's hairy thighs and curls an arm around Ford's trim waist. His fingers dip into the dimpled hollows at the base of Ford's spine.
"Shh," Stan shushes gently as he settles on their economical bed. The mattress is too narrow and too firm to be completely comfortable, but Stan forgets these thing when their old and weary bodies are entwined. "Gonna take care of you."
Wordlessly, Ford hums. His eyes are half-lidded, caught between wakefulness and rest, and as dark as the deep ocean around and below them. Stan cannot help but press a reverent kiss to each eyelid; the shape and size of Ford's eyes reflect Stan's own, but the contrasting colors of their irises—Ford's dynamic blue versus his steady brown—have fascinated him since they were young.
"I know what you're thinking," Ford murmurs as Stan stares. The wrinkles in the corners of Ford's eyes deepen with his smile and Stan is unable to stop himself from kissing those too. "You old sap."
"Yeah," Stan breathes, the truthful answer easy in the dark. "Guilty as charged."
Stan's mouth travels down the flat, stubbled plane of Ford's cheek to the hollows of his throat. Ford twitches beneath the caress; his hands curl into fists where they lay against Stan's chest; and he tilts his head back in a silent request for more. Unable to resist, Stan sinks his teeth into the meaty curve of Ford's trapezius. He is rewarded with a gasp as Ford's body shudders from the sudden intensity.
"Again," Ford demands when Stan pulls away. "Stan, I want—"
"Shh," Stan soothes, rubbing his nose against his brother's soft, pale skin. Ford smells like sea water and clean sweat. It is a strange combination of the known and unknown, of the clear present and a half-remembered past. "Said I was gonna take care of you."
Stan bites Ford again and revels in the way Ford squirms, his cock already hard against the swell of Stan's thigh. Ford had been easy to rile up when they were teenagers; it's nice to know that despite their age and the time they've spent apart, there are things that have remained unaltered.
"Stanley," Ford moans, his voice high and needful. "Stanley, I swear—ahhh—!"
The noise Ford makes as Stan's teeth graze the long tendons of his throat is the same. The way Ford's fingers unfurl and dig into Stan's chest is the same; the way Ford seeks Stan's mouth for a kiss in the forgiving darkness is the same; and the way his hips buck in a silent and unconscious command against Stan's body is the same. Even the soft whimper Ford releases when Stan wraps his callused hand around his sensitive dick is unchanged, as clear now as it once had been.
"Never thought I'd have this," Stan murmurs as a bittersweet wave washes over him. Every word causes Stan's lips to scrape against Ford's skin. "Never thought I'd—not again."
Ford reaches up and presses one wide palm against the nape of Stan's neck. Stan cannot see the details of his brother's face—the lantern had been dimmed hours ago, and the moon is too thin to cast enough light into the lower cabin—but that matters little. What does matter is the way Ford's voice cracks when he answers, the way the old yet unforgotten pain chokes him too.
"Me neither," Ford whispers. "I believed that I would—" Ford pauses to clear his throat, to thread his free hand through Stan's thick hair. "I am glad I was wrong."
The honesty is easy. It is the greatest difference between their past and their present. Even in the height of their youth, they were never as close as they are now. Back then they had loved each other blindly and recklessly, but not completely; they had kept secrets they should not have kept, and inevitably paid the steep price of separation.
Stan can still feel the echoes of that long loneliness in the cavern of his chest. He knows Ford can feel them, too. However, these emotions are easy to dispel when they are tucked together like two halves of a greater whole. After all they have been through and all they have faced, Stan knows he and his brother will never be parted again. It is this surety that banishes the ache beneath Stan's sternum and allows him to pull back and press a tender kiss to Ford's prickly cheek.
"Now who's the old sap?" Stan teases. The question makes Ford laugh, light and sweet, and brings brevity back into the thin space between them.
"Still you," Ford replies.
"Just me?" Stan slides his thumb across Ford's damp cockhead. His rough knuckles drag against the wiry hair that grows low on Ford's abdomen. "Are you sure?"
"Y-yeah," Ford stutters. "I'm sure."
Stan jerks Ford the way Ford likes it best: slow and drawn-out, his grip tight and dry to the point of being unbearable. Ford trembles in Stan's embrace and squirms in a futile attempt to be closer; they are already pressed as close as they can be. Quick gasps and plaintive mewls escape Ford's mouth whenever Stan changes pace or pressure. The sounds Ford makes are small, but Stan can still hear them clearly over the deep thrum of the ocean and the low static of the boat's monitoring equipment.
"Stan," Ford sobs when he's close. "Stan—Stanley—"
"Yeah," Stan murmurs soothingly, torn between looking at the tear dampened curl of Ford's eyelashes or the tremulous moue of his mouth. "Come on, Sixer. Come on."
Save for the sharp rush of an inhale, Ford is silent when he obeys Stan's gentle command. The sheets rustle as his body tenses and the slick warmth of his release pulses over Stan's fingers. He shakes; Stan makes a wordless sound of comfort, and mouths gently at the damp swell of Ford's bottom lip until the euphoria mellows into content.
"Good?" Stan asks once Ford's heartbeat settles.
"Yeah." Ford shifts and feels that Stan is still hard against his hip. He tilts his pelvis forward. "Are you?"
Stan grunts. He wipes his come-covered hand clean on the sheet before he curls his palm low on Ford's hamstring, directly above the back of his knee. He grinds his dick against Ford once—twice—three times—a slow and heavy drag that gives just enough friction to take the edge off. Then, with a small, self-deprecating huff, Stan lets go of Ford and rolls onto his back.
"Tired," Stan slurs. Now that he is no longer focused on Ford, he is unable to ignore the heavy droop of his eyelids. He makes another scoffing noise as he closes them. "Goddamn, 'm gettin' old."
Ford curls into Stan's side. He tucks his right arm between Stan's side and his own torso, while the left brackets Stan's chest. Then he throws one of his legs over Stan's thigh and bends the other leg so he can press both of his cold feet against Stan's calf.
"I'll make it up to you tomorrow," promises Ford.
"Nothin' to make up," Stan tells him.
"I know," Ford answers. "But I want to care of you, too."
The cabin is warm and dark, and the sway of the boat is nearly imperceptible. Stan can feel the softness of Ford's breath against his throat and, when Stan reaches for his brother's hand, Ford meets him halfway. They tangle their fingers together and let them rest entwined above Stan's steadily beating heart.
"Already do, Sixer," Stan says. "You already do."