Chapter Text
You haven’t seen your brother in ten years. It’s okay. He’s family.
Stan isn’t sure he knows the meaning of the word anymore. Family. Being family never stopped Pa from being a world class bastard. Never stopped Ma from letting him order the whole family around for their whole lives. Certainly never stopped Ford from closing the curtains and just watching as Pa–
Yeah. The word family doesn’t mean much to Stanley Pines anymore. He’s not sure it ever did.
The word brother did. Meant more than anything. He’s not sure what it means now.
But Ford sent the goddamn postcard, and Stan, like an idiot, came. He’s still not quite sure why, or what he’s expecting. An apology? To get his brother back? He likes to think he’s smart enough to stop hoping for that. But he’s not. Part of him, as much as he hates himself for it, will probably always hope for that, just a little. He’s still the same stupid kid, really. He won’t ever be much more than that.
He knocks.
There’s a scuffle from the other side of the door. Five distinct, heavy clicks– locks. Ford has five locks on his door. Christ.
Stan waits, arms crossed over his chest, for the door to open.
When it does, a crossbow is shoved into his face.
“WHO IS IT?! HAVE YOU COME TO STEAL MY EYES?!”
Stan yelps and jumps back, heart pounding against his ribcage. He can’t move, can’t speak, for a moment. He can only see the weapon– centimeters from his face. He has to remind himself to breathe. In. Out. He’s used to this, he tells himself. The crossbow’s new, but if there’s one thing Stan Pines is used to, it’s what it feels like to have a weapon pointed right at you. You’d think it would get old.
He’s not very concerned with the weapon alone. It’s who’s holding it.
“Stanford?” he chokes out, finally.
The weapon shakes. Lowers, slightly.
Ford’s eyes emerge from behind it. They’re wide, bloodshot, sunken in. His whole face is hollow and pale. He looks… not all here. A little deranged, though Stan would never say that out loud. He’s not that rude. At least, not to his brother.
But Stan’s not sure that whoever this is is his brother. It used to be, maybe. Now it’s something else.
“Stanley?”
Stan nods, still taking his brother in. He’s thinner than Stan remembers.
“Stanley,” Ford breathes. The weapon drops from his hand onto the wooden porch, making a thick, wood-against-wood sound. He stares for a moment. “You…”
“Yeah,” Stan mutters. “Hey.”
And then his brother is slamming into him. His arms wrap tightly around Stan’s middle, and he’s clinging to him, like a kid. He’s shaking badly as he buries his face in the crook of Stan’s neck. He’s cold.
Stan limbs freeze.
He wasn’t– of all the things he expected, a hug was not one of them. A handshake, maybe, at best. A tangled, ugly knot of worry forms in his chest, and slowly, gently, he wraps his arms around his twin brother. Ford moans quietly at the touch, squeezing tighter, like he can’t fully believe Stan is here.
“Stanley,” Ford murmurs again. His voice breaks, and he sniffles loudly. “You came– I-I didn’t think– I–” he hiccups on a weak, broken sob. “M’ so glad you’re here…”
Ford is hugging him. Ford is glad he’s here. Something is clearly wrong with Ford. Why else would he be hugging Stan? He should be angry, he should be yelling by now. If Stan knows anything about his brother, it’s that he can hold a grudge like no one else. And he’s never been touchy. Not like this. He’s curt, formal. Nerdy. He’s not supposed to be broken, or desperate, or– crying. He’s not supposed to cry. Ever.
“Er– of course I came, Sixer–”
“DON’T CALL ME THAT!!” Ford jumps back, just for a moment, eyes wild and angry and unfocused. He stares at Stan for a moment, tense, like he has no idea who he’s looking at.
“Woah, Ford, it’s– Jesus. Okay. I won’t call you that. Sorry.”
Ford blinks. “Stanley.”
Then he’s back to clinging. A louder sob breaks out of him, and his face is nuzzled into Stan’s jacket, wetting it with tears, as Stan pulls him back in, tentative. He rubs his back, slowly, hoping it’s still soothing to Ford the same way it was when they were kids.
What the hell happened to his brother?
“Thank you,” Ford sobs. “Y-You came– I-I’m so glad you– thank you…”
“I– yeah, of course.” Stan keeps rubbing Ford’s back. He realizes he’s begun drawing stars into the fabric of his trench coat. Something he used to do when they were real little to help Ford when he had nightmares. He’d get Ford talking about his favorite constellations, and, as he hugged his brother, Stan would draw the constellations into his back until he fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.
“Ford, you wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”
Ford doesn’t respond for a moment, composing himself enough to speak. He sniffles. “Don’t know– w-what to do… I– m-made a mistake…”
“That’s okay,” Stan says automatically. “Wanna tell me about it?”
Ford whimpers quietly. “Inside.”
Stan nods as Ford begrudgingly peels himself away. He grabs Stan’s sleeve and pulls him inside, slamming the door shut and carefully locking each deadbolt. He starts to lead Stan forward, but stumbles on air, swaying precariously. Stan wraps an arm around his shoulders, and he leans into it, blinking rapidly.
“Maybe you should sit down.”
“Can’t sit down. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep, he– he’ll–”
“I didn’t say you had to sleep,” Stan mutters. “But you look like you’re gonna pass out.”
“Can’t.” Ford presses his face into Stan’s shoulder. “Can’t pass out, can’t sleep.”
“Christ. Okay.” Stan looks around and spots a large armchair, covered in books and loose paper, and– well, that spot might be mold, but he’s choosing to ignore that. He leads Ford over to it, cleans it off to the best of his abilities, and sits him down, pressing his shoulders against the cushions. Ford doesn’t seem to process any of it.
“You got a kitchen in here?”
Ford nods, dazed.
“Kay. You got coffee?” Another foggy nod. “I’m gonna go make you a cup, then you can tell me what’s goin’ on.”
Stan heads down the first hallway he sees without waiting for an answer. For what feels like the first time in his life, his instincts proved trustworthy– he’s in the kitchen. He spots the coffee maker immediately. His chest tightens when he realizes it’s the same brand they had in Jersey. He tries not to think about it.
Ford’s on drugs, right? How else would you explain the obvious paranoia, his total mess of a house, his– all of it? And the locks on the door… he must’ve gotten mixed up with some real bad people. That’s gotta be it.
I made a mistake, he said.
Christ, Ford, what did you get yourself into?
When the coffee’s done, Stan rummages through the fridge and finds a carton of milk. But, seeing as his instincts are on a roll, he checks the expiration date. Two months ago. It expired two months ago. He tries not to gag as he tosses it into the garbage can, and resigns himself to black coffee.
“Here.”
Back in the living room, he hands one of the two steaming mugs to his brother. Ford takes it, immediately taking a large, gulping sip, despite the fact that it’s practically boiling.
Stan parks himself on the floor. “Okay. Tell me what’s going on.”
Ford sniffles, one hand rubbing at his eyes. “I– I m-made– a mistake.”
“Yeah, you said. What happened?”
Ford is silent for a moment.
Then the mug of coffee slips from his hand to the floor. The liquid coats the carpet, steam rising, as Stan jumps up to avoid it getting on his (only) clothes.
“Christ, Ford, I–”
He’s cut off by a sob. His tears his eyes from the spilled coffee to his brother, who’s shoved his face in his trembling hands.
“Ford, hey…” His voice is gentler than it’s been in ages, a sort of gentleness he doesn’t have the ability to tap into unless he’s speaking to his brother. “Look, whatever’s goin’ on, we can– we’ll figure it out. I promise.”
Ford makes a growling, animal kind of noise and shakes his head furiously. He pulls his face up from his hands, eyes scanning the room until they land on his twin’s face. One of his hands reaches out and grips Stan’s for dear life. He’s shaking again.
“I-I don’t know what to–” he begins to shift, attempting to stand, but the effort immediately pulls him to his knees. His legs buckle and hit the coffee-stained carpet. He seems swallowed by his coat. Stan follows him to the floor, kneeling in front of him, unsure what to do. He can’t make things worse. He won’t.
“Lee,” Ford sobs. The nickname sends a stabbing pain through Stan’s chest. Lee.
He never thought he’d hear it again.
Something in him breaks for his brother, and for himself. He brings a hand up to cup the back of Ford’s head, and pulls him in. Ford’s face finds Stan’s shoulder again, and his hands pull desperately at the fabric of his twin’s jacket. He sobs in earnest, and Stan holds him, tight and secure, drawing constellations in his back while he rocks him gently. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He shushes him, gently. Not the sort of shush to silence him, a shush to comfort. Not don’t cry, but it’s okay to cry. I’m here.
After a while, Ford, still unmoving, murmurs, “That’s– Ursa Major…?”
“Yeah,” Stan breathes, completing the constellation on his back. “What about this one?” He traces another cluster of lines.
Ford inhales shakily, focusing on the touch. After a moment:
“…Centarous.”
Stan hums, confirming the answer.
“That one was–” a pause as Ford hiccups, “y-your favorite…?”
“You’re right.” Stan takes a shuddery breath. “Good job.”
Ford makes a quiet, wounded sound. “…Don’t go.”
Stan blinks. A lump rises in his throat, a heavy but warm feeling settling over his chest. A feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time, one that he couldn’t describe even if he tried. He sniffles, but the weak tears begin to leak out anyway. Through the fog, the heavy, warm, safe, Ford feeling, he chokes out:
“Yeah. Not goin’ anywhere.”