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Fiddleford and Stanley visit you in the hospital every day after your accident in the Backupsmore labs; sometimes separately, sometimes together. Surprisingly, you find that you prefer when Stanley visits by himself, because when Fiddleford comes by he always wants to talk, and even though it’s mostly just meaningless chit-chat, you still can barely manage to function past the fog in your head and focus on whatever he’s saying, much less contribute to the conversation. And he always looks so anxious and worried about you, his gaze flickering between your one good eye and all the bandages covering your burns, and you have to force yourself to act okay and reassure him that you’re fine when you are very obviously not.
Stanley never makes you feel like you need to talk, which seems ironic, since you two probably have the most to talk about after not seeing each other for years. He doesn’t try to force conversation, though. He’ll chide you into eating whatever tasteless meal the nurse has brought you and ask if he can have your pudding cup (you hate tapioca, so you always give it to him), but for the most part he seems okay with not talking at all. You’re grateful for the silence, and the sleep it lets you get.
Sometimes you wake up and the palm of your unburned hand feels warm and sweaty, and your fingers are tingling like someone was holding your hand far too tight, but when you look over at Stanley he’s got his hands shoved in his jacket pockets and he’s staring pointedly at the cheesy daytime soap opera playing on your room’s tiny TV.
You wonder if he knows. Does he know that what you did wasn’t an accident? Well, technically it was, you suppose, because you didn’t mean to do this much damage, but it could’ve easily been avoided altogether if you’d actually still cared enough about yourself to wear safety gear and stick to less destructive methods of coping with feeling empty inside, like drinking or smoking or whatever normal people your age do. Still, you think Stanley knows something, at least. He hasn’t mentioned anything, but it’s obvious he’s worried because he’s doing that thing where he chews at his lips until they’re chapped and bleeding. Maybe Fiddleford told him about your recent behavior, or maybe he can tell something’s fundamentally wrong with you just from the look on your face.
Of course, maybe he’s just worried about you because you’re in the hospital being treated for chemical burns.
Yeah, you think as you drift off to sleep again, you guess that one makes the most sense.
***
Fiddleford is in class on the day you get discharged from the hospital, so it’s Stanley who drives you back to your dorm and guides you to sit on the couch, and it’s Stanley who asks, in the softest, most careful tone you’ve ever heard from him, if you want him to help you change your bandages. You can only nod, staring down at your lap as anxiety sets your heart pounding.
Neither of you have seen what the burns look like yet. When the nurse changed your bandages you would send everyone else out of the room and close your eyes until it was over with. You don’t want to know what you look like but you need to know what you look like, you need to see how horribly you’ve screwed yourself up and how much more of a freak you are now.
Stanley removes the bandages with an uncharacteristic gentleness, as if he can tell that you’re about to have a breakdown if he so much as looks at you the wrong way. He must’ve been developing his poker face in the time you’ve been apart, because his expression stays completely neutral as he unwraps your hand and arm. He does react to your face, though it’s little more than a wince and a hitch of breath, and does nothing to prepare you for seeing it yourself.
You manage to look for about five seconds before you have to put down the hand mirror, screwing your eyes shut. Stanley doesn’t say anything as he redresses the burns, and you just focus on taking deep breaths and pushing down the nausea that’s bubbling up in your throat.
When he’s done, Stanley takes your good hand and squeezes it reassuringly. You can’t find the strength to squeeze back. He asks how you’re feeling, and you don’t know how to answer. Instead you mumble something about calling home to let your parents know you’re out of the hospital, and then Stanley is placing the phone in your hand and your numb fingers are dialing the number. You don’t know what you’re going to tell them or how you’re going to explain yourself, but it turns out you don’t get to anyway, as it’s your father who answers and you barely get a full sentence out before he starts ranting about hospital bills and what the hell is wrong with you and how could you be so stupid and do you know who’s going to have to pay for all of this? And then you’re not listening because you’ve completely shut down because you can’t handle this. You can’t even open your mouth to speak, to defend yourself, not that there’s any way you can, because you were so stupid stupid stupid and you think maybe you should’ve done something even more stupid so you wouldn’t still be here at all.
And then Stanley is grabbing the phone out of your white-knuckled grip and he’s yelling back at your father, all how dare you talk to your son like that and don’t even think about blaming him for this and how about you show a little compassion for once in your goddamn life, with a few more choice expletives thrown in for good measure, and some emotion flickers in your chest at hearing him stick up for you again like he would when you were kids—and to your father, no less—but you can barely even comprehend what it is you’re feeling right now, much less respond to it.
Stanley slams the phone down on its base with a final “screw you,” and you still can’t speak or even bring yourself to look at him or at anything that isn’t your violently trembling hands. You’re focusing all of your energy on holding yourself together, but when Stanley puts a hand on your shoulder, the dam breaks. A sob tears its way out of your throat, loud and ugly and painful, and before you know it, your brother has pulled you into his arms and you’re blubbering incoherently into his shoulder. He smells kinda bad and you wonder when the last time he showered was, but decide it doesn’t matter anyway because you can’t remember when you last showered either. At least he’s here. Your father may not care about what happened to you, but Stanley still does, and that’s all that matters right now. Stanley drove from who-knows-where to see you and make sure you’re okay, even after you cut him out of your life, and boy that’s another stupid thing you did, isn’t it? It’s a wonder he doesn’t hate you. But he cares about you, he always has. He stood up to your father to defend you, that’s how much he cares. That’s the kind of support you should’ve given him years ago. Maybe he wouldn’t have been kicked out then.
“I’m sorry,” you croak, your voice cracking pathetically on the word. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—” And you don’t really know what exactly you’re sorry for—pushing Stanley away? dragging him back? making him worry? doing this to yourself (or maybe not doing enough)—but you can’t stop saying it anyway, until Stanley hugs you a bit tighter, shushing you softly.
When your sobs quiet to whimpers you can hear his gentle repeated murmurs of “it’s okay, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” as he rocks you back and forth, and it’s almost enough to make you start crying anew.
“I-I’m so s-s-stupid,” you stutter against him. “I s-should've—I should’ve just—!” Your voice raises and cuts off awkwardly, unsure of how or even if you want to end that sentence at all. “I’m sorry,” is what you say again instead, as if Stanley can read your mind and know where your thoughts were headed.
“Hey. You’re not stupid,” Stanley says firmly, “and I forgive you.” For what, you want to ask, because it certainly can’t be everything, but you keep quiet, and Stanley keeps talking. “And it’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna get better, Ford, I promise. Whatever you need me to do for you, just tell me, okay?”
You nod shakily, and choke out a weak “help me,” because it’s all you can think to say. “Just—help me. Please.”
“You got it, Sixer.”
***
You go to therapy.
It’s hard at first, talking about how you’ve been feeling and what you’ve been thinking, when all you can hear is your father’s voice telling you to suck it up and stop being such a weakling because you’re supposed to be better than this, but by the end of the first session you’ve got a written prescription for an antidepressant in your hand and tear tracks on your cheeks and another appointment scheduled for the same time next week, and you feel… well, admittedly, not that great. But at least you got some things off your chest, even if it’s only a fraction of the overall weight.
It's gonna be okay. You’re gonna get better, Stanley’s words echo in your mind, and you can almost believe them.
Stanley and Fiddleford look up at you with concerned expressions when you walk out into the waiting room, so you give them a small, reassuring smile, the only thing you can manage right now. Their faces light up in response. Fiddleford gives you a hug and Stanley claps you on the shoulder, giving you a lopsided grin and a “proud of you, Sixer,” and you smile a little wider.
Getting better is about as difficult as you expected to be. It takes time, and you have your ups and downs, and sometimes you still can’t manage to get out of bed or make yourself eat anything, and sometimes Fiddleford or Stanley will find you crying on the bathroom floor, overwhelmed with grief because you caught a glimpse of your burns in the mirror and remembered what you did to yourself. You’ve taken the rest of this semester off to recover—Fiddleford had insisted you take as much time as you needed, and when you voiced your concerns about disappointing your teachers, or worse, your father, he promised to make life hell for anyone who gave you a hard time about it—so thankfully, you don’t have to think about classes or assignments or too many people looking at you with disgust or pity. Thankfully, Stanley and Fiddleford never look at you like that, even though they do sometimes treat you like you’re made of glass.
And hell, maybe you are made of glass, or maybe you’re more like a broken ceramic object that’s being held together by elementary school arts-and-crafts glue, feeling like you’re liable to fall apart at a moment’s notice. Like when it finally sinks in that you’ll never regain sight in your left eye, or like when the doctors tell you the only thing they can do for your burns would be skin graft surgery that you know you’ll never be able to afford. You don’t know how you manage to keep all your pieces together a lot of the time, but you’re sure the two people beside you have something to do with it.
Medication is another challenge, and you go through several pills and alterations of dosage strengths and a hodgepodge of frustrating, life-disrupting side effects—ranging from insomnia to nausea and light-headedness to mood swings that at their worst manifest in an impulse to walk out into oncoming traffic and make you wish for the days where you barely felt anything again—before you finally find something that works for you. You start having more good days after that; days where you wake up at a regular hour and have an appetite and eat three square meals and brainstorm project ideas with Fiddleford and take walks around campus with Stanley and play games of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons with both of them.
Distantly, you wonder if this is what “better” feels like. You think it is. You hope it stays.
***
Stanley stays. You never asked him to, but you never told him to leave either, so he stays. He gets a job washing windows, and you quietly worry about how he can do that with a fear of heights until he tells you that it’s mostly indoor work, and that he’ll gladly deal with being up on a 6-foot ladder a few times a week if they keep paying him like they do. With the money he makes he buys you hoodies and sweaters and scarves, all made out of soft material that doesn’t irritate your skin. He even buys you a pair of gloves, too. They’re custom-made and fit perfectly and are even your favorite color and you almost ask how much they cost because you know you don’t deserve things as nice as these right now, but Stanley stops you before you can say anything. He tells you he doesn’t like you covering up your scars, that you shouldn’t worry what people think, that they really don’t look that bad now that you’ve had time to heal, but also that he understands why you want to, and that he’d do anything to help you feel better, no matter how much it costs. You hug him as tight as you can, too choked up to form words. You hope he knows how thankful you are.
Stanley has scars, too. Some you can trace back to childhood incidents, but there are other, deeper scars on his arms and hands that you don’t remember and can’t explain away as easily. You don’t know how he got them, nor do you think you want to know. You don’t think he’d tell you the truth if you asked, anyway. At least they appear to be too randomly placed to be self-inflicted, though that thought doesn’t reassure you much. He doesn’t make any effort to hide them, though, and doesn’t seem to care when he catches you staring. It’s the scar you see when you accidentally walk in on him shirtless—the one that looks like what you can only imagine was once a bullet hole in his side, right under his ribcage—that he scrambles to cover. Despite the fact that you shared a room with him for most of your life and have naturally seen him shirtless before, you quickly excuse yourself, stumbling over awkward apologies, a wave of nausea and worry and guilt washing over you and making your knees buckle because someone shot your brother.
But he doesn’t talk about it, so neither do you.
He has nightmares, and you can’t help but wonder if they’re related to the cause (causes?) of his scars, but you don’t ask about them either, don’t say anything when you hear him wake up with a choked-off yell. Briefly, during your period of insomnia, his bad nights would coincide with your sleepless nights, and you’d both wind up sitting on the couch, watching TV at four in the morning, sometimes talking quietly or reminiscing about things from your childhood—the good things, mostly; safe topics that won’t start arguments. Usually, though, you’d just end up making fun of the weird programs on so late at night and trying to stifle your laughter so you don’t wake Fiddleford, until you both finally fall asleep.
***
Your mother calls once a week to check up on you. You appreciate the calls—and the fact that she never mentions your father—but you quickly realize that telling her too much about the ups and downs of your recovery makes her worry, so instead you fall into a routine of giving her the same basic, minimally-detailed rundown every time, regardless of how you’re actually doing: I’m feeling okay this week; the medication is helping; the burns are healing; I miss you too; yes, I’ve been eating well; yes, Stanley’s doing fine too, do you want to talk to him?
“I’m so glad you two are getting along again,” she says every week, sometimes with emotion making her voice waver.
You’re sure she says the same thing to Stanley, because he’ll pause in his own script with her—I’m doing great, Ma; I’ve been making some good money with this job; the car’s still running fine, just changed the oil this week; I miss you too; yes, I’ve been eating well—and his mouth will twitch into a small, almost hesitant smile, and he’ll reply, softly, “I’m glad too.”
But there’s a faint nervousness in his tone, like he’s caught in a lie he doesn’t quite believe, and you find you don’t know how to feel about it.
***
And you talk about Stanley in therapy, slowly but surely working on getting past your stubborn, lingering issues in 45-minute increments. Your therapist wants you to talk things out with him, and part of you agrees you should, but you don’t know what to say or how to bring it up or if it’s even worth bringing up. To your surprise, you find it’s incredibly easy to put the past out of your mind when Stanley’s doing everything in his power to be helpful. For the most part, your relationship with him has already started to repair itself surprisingly fast, even despite the years you’ve spent apart. Of course, there are still days where you have to struggle to not lash out and start arguments or let your bitter feelings consume you, because you really don’t want to stay angry at him but you just don’t know how to move on.
Would talking and dredging up old grievances really do anything to help?
You’re sitting on the couch late one night pondering this, the TV droning quietly in the background, when you hear Stanley shuffling around in the other room. Maybe he’s had another nightmare, you think, and he’ll come out and sit with you and you’ll be able to find some opening to start talking about what’s on your mind.
You hear Stanley come out, his deliberately soft footsteps coming up behind you, and you open your mouth to ask him to sit next to you, but when you turn to look at him the words die in your throat. Because he’s wearing his jacket and he’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and he’s looking at the floor and not looking at you and something is wrong.
“Hey,” he says, awkwardly.
“…Hey,” you reply, weakly.
“So, uh, I’m.” He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m leaving.”
It takes a few seconds for the words to register and connect with the sight of the duffel bag, the same one his things were packed in the night he got kicked out, and you feel like your brain just short-circuited because this doesn’t make sense.
“What?” you finally ask, your mouth suddenly dry.
“I’m leaving,” he says. “Was gonna leave a note. Didn’t think you’d be awake.”
“Oh.” You blink up at him, eyes wide with shock and confusion. This is a dream, right? This has to be a dream, because there’s no way he would just leave—
Stanley shifts, looking uncomfortable, but your brain interprets the motion as him moving towards the door and you half-shout “Wait!” before you can stop yourself, making him freeze in place.
Only now you have no idea what else to say, so you fumble over your words trying to get your brain and mouth to cooperate. “I—Just… wait. Can… can you just. Sit down for a minute? We should… talk about this?”
“Um. Yeah, okay, I guess we probably should… talk.” Stanley drops his bag and sits at the other end of the couch. He rests his elbows on his knees and looks exceptionally tense and anxious, legs jittering like he’s about to bolt for the door any second.
Neither of you seem to know what to say at first, and a few moments pass in painfully awkward silence until Stanley finally speaks.
“I, uh, I lost my job,” he says quietly.
“Oh,” you say. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
You both fall silent again for another moment, before you force yourself to speak up.
“Is… Is that the only reason you’re leaving?” you ask. “Because you can always find another job. Fiddleford says there’s places hiring around here all the time. We can—”
“It’s not just that,” Stanley says, cutting you off. “It’s, well… you’re gonna be starting classes again soon, and it’ll probably be better if I’m not taking up space around here when you do. I’m sure Fidds’ll be glad I won’t be eating all his food anymore. And…” He looks away then, the end of that sentence sounding bitter but spoken too low for you to hear.
“What was that?”
“I said you probably don’t want me around anyway!” he says, loud enough to make you flinch, and then he’s on his feet, wringing his hands as he paces around the room. “I know I wouldn’t! Who’d want to live with the person who ruined their life? You wouldn’t even be at this school if it wasn’t for me. If I hadn’t broken your project, you’d be at the better school, the one you wanted. You’d’ve been happier there, and none of… this—” He makes a vague, all-encompassing hand gesture, his voice wobbling, “—would’ve happened.”
You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. You’re stunned speechless by the force of Stanley’s outburst. He’s upset, yes, that much you expected, but you thought he’d start an argument. You weren’t expecting to have none of his anger aimed at you, to see him direct all the blame to himself, and you don’t know how to react or how to calm him down.
Stanley looks at you, no doubt expecting some sort of response, but upon seeing your stupefied expression he just sighs, anger dissipating. He flops back down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding suddenly exhausted. “I made one stupid mistake and it screwed up both our lives and I regret it every day. I’d take it all back if I could, just so you could be happy. Having you live on the other side of the country would be better than having you hate me. And I know saying all this now probably doesn’t mean anything, but… I’m sorry.”
Slowly, his words chip away at the last bits of bitterness you hold in your heart. He made a mistake. He regrets it. He’s sorry. He wants you to be happy.
You believe him.
“It…” you start, finally finding your voice, “It means a lot, actually. And I don’t hate you.”
“You don’t?” he asks, sitting up straight and looking at you. The sheer disbelief in his voice sends a pang of guilt through your heart.
“No, Stanley, of course not,” you say, “I—I never hated you. I never wanted to hate you. I was just… angry. But I’m tired of being angry now; I’m tired of holding this grudge. And… I don’t want you to leave.”
“Really?”
“Really,” you confirm. “I didn’t realize at first, how much I missed you. But I did. Do, rather. I… I still miss you a lot. And I—Stan, are you… crying?”
“No,” Stanley says petulantly, looking away as he wipes his eyes. “Just—Just got some dust in my eye is all. It’s nothin’.”
You scoot down towards his end of the couch, wrap an arm around his shoulders, and pull him into a hug. He doesn’t resist it, hugging you back tightly.
“I miss you,” you say again.
“I-I miss you too,” he says. You feel your shoulder growing wet with tears.
“I want to help you,” you say. “You’ve done so much for me, even when I felt like I didn’t deserve it. So I want to do the same for you now. I’m sure Fiddleford does, too. We can help you apply for jobs or get your GED, and you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, or we can find you an apartment of your own if that’s what you’d prefer. Not that I’m forcing you to stay around here or anything if you don’t want to, I just…” You trail off, mind wandering to the ragged state Stanley was in when he showed up at the hospital every day, and how he never looked like he’d slept enough or showered, and how Fiddleford later told you that he had no idea where Stanley had been staying while you were in there, and how he has nightmares and so many scars that you can’t explain now. “I don’t want you to go back to whatever you were doing,” you say. “I don’t want you to disappear again. I want you to stay in my life. You’ve spent so much time helping me get better. I… I want us to get better now.”
“I… Okay,” Stanley says, nodding against your shoulder. “I'll—I’ll stay.”
“Good,” you say, pulling back from the hug. You’re both smiling, misty-eyed.
“So, uh, are we… okay now?” he asks, leaning back on the couch and turning his gaze to the TV infomercials that have still been playing all this time.
You relax next to him, close enough that your shoulders touch. “I think we still have some things we should talk about,” you say, cautiously, because even you have enough sense to know that not all of your problems will be solved by one brief heart-to-heart. “But we’re getting there. We’re better than before, at any rate.”
Stanley hums in agreement, and when you lapse into silence again, it’s peaceful, not awkward.
At least, until a familiar face shows up on your TV screen.
“Hi, I’m Steve Pinington! Are you sick of bandages that are hard to remove? Then what you need is the Rip Off!”
You turn to Stanley, eyebrow raised, your expression a cross between confused and amused. “Steve Pinington?”
“Um. Okay look, I uh, I couldn’t use my real name, alright?” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck as his face and ears turn red with embarrassment. “Anyway they’re not even supposed to be playing this anymore!”
“Please tell me that mustache is fake.”
“Unfortunately, it’s not.”
“Oh my god,” you say, unable to stop a laugh from bubbling out of you. “You looked like you glued a broom to your face! How on Earth is that thing real? You couldn’t even grow peach fuzz when we were teenagers!”
“Oh, can it, Poindexter!” Stanley grumbles with mock annoyance, shoving you playfully. You flop onto your side, couch cushions muffling your giggles as Stanley finally starts to laugh too, and for the first time in a long while, you think, and really truly believe—
It's gonna be okay.