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Are you kidding me? Why would I want anything to do with the person who sabotaged my entire future?!
No, no, no, please, please it was a mistake, it was– no, PLEASE–
Stanford? Don’t leave me hangin’.
High six?
Ford, wait, wait, please, please, come back, let me come back, PLEASE! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t, I swear, I swear I swear I swear I swear–
Stan jerks out of bed, falling instantly to his knees. He can’t breathe. He can barely see, all he hears is that awful, sputtering-coughing-choking of the machine.
He broke it. He broke it, he ruined Ford’s life, he ruined his own life, he ruined everything. That’s who he is. It’s all he can do, all he can be, all he is. A ruiner. Ford was right. Pa was right. Crampelter was right, the goddamn principal was right. He’s nothing. He’s nothing at all.
He doesn’t know where he is.
There's something beneath his knees, something soft? He doesn’t deserve soft things. He can’t have soft, he can’t be soft. Pa always said Stan was too soft, too girly. So Stan hardened up.
Where is he?
A cough tears out of his chest. He can’t breathe. The machine is done breaking over and over now, but it’s not a relief. He struggles to his feet, and hears his brother’s voice.
You couldn’t handle me going to college on my own!
No, no, that’s not what– it wasn’t like that!! It wasn’t on purpose!!
Right?
Stan doesn’t know anymore. He doesn’t know. Maybe it was; oh god, what if it was? It couldn’t have been. He wouldn’t do that to Ford.
But he did do that to Ford.
This was no accident, Stan! You did this!
He forces himself to stand. It’s dark. He can’t see– he can’t– his mind won’t focus and his eyes won’t focus and he can’t focus, damnit! He’s in a– a bedroom? Is he in a motel for the night? No, he wouldn’t spend money on a motel when he could use it to call– to call…
Oh god.
He coughs again. His stomach twists. He feels really, really sick. Okay. Breathe. Fuck. Can you at least manage that? He tears out of the bedroom-void. It’s still dark. It’s still dark, still dark, still dark, still dark! He stops suddenly.
Light.
Dim, lamplight. He’s reached a living room. A living room. There’s a couch… a sort of awkwardly shaped one, one that should really be thrown out. Another arm chair, a TV, an overflowing bookshelf. It’s familiar, he knows this place. He keeps going when he sees stairs. He’s not sure why, but he’s painting, gasping, coughing, wheezing, needing to see whatever’s at the bottom, so he rushes down, tripping over his own feet and somehow stopping himself from face-planting on the lab floor.
Fuck.
The lab. Ford’s lab, in Ford’s cabin, that Ford is letting Stan live in. He’s in Ford’s cabin, in Ford’s lab, in Ford’s life, Ford, Ford, Ford.
He still can’t breathe. Ford’s not here. He’s– he’s somewhere. Right? Right? He doesn’t know, and he can’t– he must’ve done something to drive him away, again. But he’s here, he’s here in the cabin, and Ford’s not. Stan is alone, he’s alone, he’s alone again.
But Ford is better off, probably, without Stan hovering like some sort of idiot shadow, a rain cloud that hails on his brother’s perfect head, ruining things and ruining things and ruining things. Stan gasps and coughs some more. It’s so, so, very hot. He tries to grab onto something, hold onto something. His hands reach something hard and cool, and he tries to steady himself. It’s so hard to breathe. Is it hot? He feels hot, he feels really, really hot. He might throw up. Oh god, he might throw up. He jerks to the side, and there’s a deafening shattering sound.
Time slows.
His eyes trace the floor.
Glass.
Glass and metal.
They scatter the floor.
His hands are gripping nothing more than a few shards and lids.
This was no accident, Stan! You did this!
He did it. He did it, he did it, he did it.
He broke–
Time gets faster again. Too, too, too fast. He doesn’t even know what he broke. But he falls to his knees, and everything grows blurry, and his hands dig into the shards. He can fix it. It’s a puzzle, he can’t put it back together. He can fix it, he can fix this, he has to fix this. Saltwater begins to mix into the shards. His hands clutch the sharp things tighter. He doesn’t feel it. He just has to make it right. He just got here, he just got Ford back, he can’t ruin things again! He ruined things again. Oh god. Oh god.
He presses his face into his hands and screams. He doesn’t feel it. Whatever he’s supposed to be feeling, he doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t– he can’t– oh god–
“Stanley!?”
He screams again. Coughs. Red mixes into the watery, glassy, metallic mixture. It’s angry and sharp and digging but he can't feel it, not on his hands, not on his face. It takes over the ground, like a desert. A sea of sharp, glassy memory. The blood is all over his hands. The metal is all over his hands. He can’t get it off, not even when he runs his hands on his shirt. It won’t come off.
Then he’s being pulled back and away by two strong, shaking, six fingered hands. Six fingers, six fingers. They’re Ford. They’re Ford.
He’s being pulled into Ford’s arms, and his face is pressed against a heaving chest, but a strong, thick one. Ford. Ford is cradling him, rocking him back and forth, cooing at him. He’s not a baby, he doesn’t need to be rocked. But it feels nice.
He coughs hard against Ford’s chest. Gross. His head feels all… all fuzzy.
He starts to sob.
It comes out of nowhere.
“Ford,” he croaks, barely audible, not worth listening to. “Ford, your– I broke it– I broke–”
“Shhh. It’s okay. It’s okay. Breathe. Breathe, Stan. I’m here.”
“Don’t– I’ll fix it,” he coughs again. He can’t stop coughing. Ford rubs his back. Ford shouldn’t be rubbing his back, Ford shouldn’t be here, Stan doesn’t deserve that, he doesn’t deserve Ford’s forgiveness, he doesn’t– doesn’t deserve anything. “I’ll fix– lemme– don’t kick me out again.” He should be kicked out. “Please. Nowhere to go, I can’t–”
“Lee. Focus on breathing, alright? I’m not going to–”
“Please,” Stan sobs weakly. He can’t breathe. He tries to get away, out of Ford’s arms, they’re making it so he can’t focus. He starts to crawl away, the broken glass clinking as he falls though it like sand.
He’s so foggy. He’s so…
Damnit, he can’t… can’t think… can’t breathe. It’s so hard to breathe. He tries to wheeze. Doesn’t work.
“Ford…?”
Where did Ford go? Wasn’t he here? Just now? It doesn’t make sense…
He doesn’t understand. He keeps trying to crawl away, but he’s not sure if he’s moving anymore.
He feels arms wrap around his stomach and chest and pull him back in.
“Lee, stay with–”
Everything goes black.
“Lee? That’s it, that’s it, you’re alright. You’re okay.”
Stan coughs violently and suddenly, his body jerking upright in an instant. It won’t let up. He can barely breathe.
“Oh– easy, easy. It’s okay, Lee.” A large bowl is thrust under his chin, and he grabs it, shoving his face in just in time to make sure his vomit doesn’t hit the carpet. Ford’s carpet. Ford’s house. Ford’s life.
A steady, six-fingered hand begins to rub his back. It feels nice. The vomiting, however… you know, not so much.
But it lets up after a few minutes. Before he can say anything, the bowl is taken from his hands and set aside. Ford’s hands guide him back down. He’s on the couch. He’s covered in blankets, and he’s hot. But he’s shivering. Which seems like a bit of a contradiction.
He blinks up, eyes finally seeing his brother’s face.
Ford looks terrified. His brows are drawn in, worry written across every line in his skin. Did Stan do that? Is it his fault?
“Ford,” Stan croaks, then clears his throat. “The– I broke… I’m sorry.” He can’t get out much more. He doesn’t even know what he broke. What he ruined. “I’m so sorry.”
“Lee, what–” Something flashes across Ford’s face. “Are you talking about the crystal jars? I don’t care that they– I don’t care. Lee… you…” He sighs and shakes his head, both of his hands reaching under the blanket and grabbing one of Stan’s.
Stan’s hand is covered in bandages. And it stings. A lot of him stings, actually.
“I am sorry,” Stan insists weakly. “Didn’t mean to. I–”
“Stan, what happened?”
A beat.
“Whaddaya mean?”
“I-I mean, last night it seemed like you were getting better, your fever was going down, finally, you– I mean, I-I only left for a few minutes, just to go get some more medicine for when you woke up, and then you were gone, and I heard you in the lab, and when I got down, you were–” Ford’s voice breaks, and he squeezes Stan’s hand tighter and presses it to his lips, kissing the bandaged knuckles. After a moment, he continues. “You were shoving your face into broken glass, and you were screaming, and you could barely hear me.”
“N’ then I passed out…?”
“Yes.” Ford nods, seeming, at the least, satisfied that Stan remembers. “I brought you here. Bandaged your hands and did what I could for the cuts on your face.” There’s a tear running down his cheek. “Why– why would you ever…?”
Stan’s sure he had his reasons, in the moment. Now, he just feels stupid and sick. He’s been stupid all his life, and sick for about a week. Bad flu. Living on the road doesn’t exactly do wonders for your immune system.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, ashamed. He can’t look at Ford anymore. He sniffles.
“Well, don’t apologize, just–” Ford reaches for Stan’s face to turn it back to him, his fingers hitting the cuts. Stan flinches away, hissing. Ford’s eyes widen, and he yanks his hand away, jumping up from where he was just perching on the couch. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to–”
“Neither did I,” Stan mumbles.
It only serves to intensify Ford’s growing hysteria. “What does that mean?! What are you– Stanley, what happened? I-I mean, was all of that just because you broke a simple jar, on accident?” Ford looks horrified. Disgusted. Stan deserves that.
“Wasn’t just that,” he mutters, defense weak. “Had… had a nightmare. About the, uh…” He averts eye contact. Sniffles. “Science fair. Woke up, couldn’t breathe, didn’t know where I was– I-I dunno. Got down to the lab, n’ I was tryin’ to–” His voice breaks. His throat hurts. “I’m sorry. I can fix it, I can– just gimme a chance to fix it before I have to go, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean for any of it–”
“Stop apologizing.” Ford’s voice is firm. Cold. “Just stop.”
“I’m s–” Stan stops himself, eyes fixed on the blanket. “I… yeah.”
“I’ll be right back. I need– a moment.”
Ford turns on his heel and leaves.
Ford is gone.
For a moment, Stan can’t breathe. He stares at the spot his brother just occupied. Now it’s empty, and the curtains are closed. The curtains are closed, and Ford is gone. Gone, gone, gone, gone gone gone gone gone.
He waits a moment, with the same stupid hope that maybe Ford will come back of his own accord.
He doesn’t.
Why would he?
Stanford? Don’t leave me hangin’…
“Ford, wait!!” No response. “Please, wait–” A fit of coughs overtakes him.
“Stanley!!”
A hand is guiding him to a seated position and rubbing his back until the fit subsides. Stan gasps for air, face hot and stinging.
And then Stan is crying. Crying. Like some two year old.
“I’m sorry,” Stan mumbles, tears making way to sobs. “I’m sorry I broke it, I’m sorry.”
Ford pulls him in.
Once again, he’s being cradled in his brother’s arms, being rocked back and forth, being shushed gently. He doesn’t listen.
“Ford, please–”
“Shhh. Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t leave. Don’t leave, p-please, please, I got nowhere else to go–”
“Stanley, Lee, it’s okay. It’s alright. I wasn’t– I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re mad–”
“I’m not mad!” Ford sounds so frantic. Like that one time in grade school when he got accused of cheating on a test (it was Stan who cheated, really. Ford took the fall anyways). “I’m not angry with you. I stepped away because I can’t believe– I just didn’t realize…”
Stan hiccups, forcing himself to act calmer. After a moment, he’s able to speak again through his crying. “Didn’t realize…?”
Ford is silent for a moment. He squeezes Stan tighter, like a kid clinging onto a stuffed animal.
“Ford?”
“I just…”
Shit. Stan can tell by Ford’s voice, he’s crying. “Hey, Six, s’ okay…”
“No!” Ford insists. “It’s not okay! You shouldn’t be trying to comfort me!! It’s not okay that my selfishness did this to you– is doing this to you! You shouldn’t be afraid I’ll kick you out just because you harmlessly break something! You shouldn’t–“ He chokes. “It’s my fault. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”
“S’ not your fault.”
“You have to know, Lee, I would never kick you out, and I’d never, ever, ever leave you. Ever. I wouldn’t do it. I couldn’t.”
“I know.”
“But you don’t! I mean, you–”
“Jus’ a fever dream.”
“It wasn’t. It happened. I let Pa– I…” Ford sighs. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I love you so much, Stanley. So much.”
“Love you too.” Stan coughs again. He can feel how tense Ford is as he tips Stan’s chin up and presses a soft hand to his forehead.
“Your fever is lower. But you’re still warm. Still quite sick.”
Stan sniffles. “Mhm… don’ feel good…”
“I know.” Ford’s voice swells with sympathy. “You should rest, and– we can talk more later. Right now, you– I just want you to get better, I need you to get better. I need you, Stanley.”
Stan curls up in his arms, shivering, even as Ford adjusts his grip to pull the blankets up tighter and hold Stan closer.
“You’re not mad?”
“No,” Ford answers, gentle. “Not mad.”
“Love you.”
A small, choked whimper. “Love you too.”
Ford shifts them both so that they’re more laying down. Stan feels a bit like a child in his brother’s arms. But Ford, as always, is right. Stan can feel his mind fading. He wants to sleep. He’s tired, he’s so, so tired.
“Stay…” Stan whispers, barely aware of the word leaving his lips.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ford answers immediately. He rubs Stan’s back, and, slowly, Stan wraps his arms around Ford’s middle, burying his face into Ford’s chest. They’re quite cramped on the couch, but Stan doesn’t mind the closeness, strangely. He likes hugging Ford. Ford’s good at hugging.
Stan shivers again. He really feels like shit.
“Lee?”
Stan is barely awake to answer in a small, questioning hum.
“Please get better.”
Stan nods sleepily– a promise. He’ll get better. He’ll get better, and he and Ford will be alright. He loves his brother. He’ll always love his brother.
And Ford loves him too.
Sometimes, when things get real bad, Stan can forget that. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Ford loves him, and that’s all Stan will ever need.