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There is a house in the woods in Gravity Falls that is unlike anywhere else in Earth. In that house live many boys and men with an identical appearance, like the intimate reflections of mirrors facing each other. They are the happiest people you will ever meet, wrestling playfully, running barefoot from the house to the lake and back, appearing to the citizens of the Oregon town like idealistic sprites (not uncommon in a town like this). They are of every age, from the youngest, gap toothed boy with scraped knees and freckles on his sun red skin to a man with a face rough with everpresent stubble and a greasy, unkempt mullet and the more rare man of forty or fifty with a lined face and wisping, whitening hair. Each is blissful and radiates the naive serenity of the untried.
Today is their birthday, they share one as brothers. They are especially joyful, the youngest stealing sweets and chased playfully by the older ones. Beer is flowing freely and everyone enjoys.
Today is a special day for all of the brothers are together to greet their benefactor, the man that created them.
The man is old but strong and clever. He is their center; their father, their brother (and perhaps lover, but such depravity is antithesis of perfection).
In fact the house in the woods is not perfect, no place is. It is only the brothers that make the house a haven; they understand having and wanting and make peace with it all. The older brothers understand the price of contentment and accept it; they forgive and guide the younger ones who do not yet understand. (They will, of course, in time come to understand but for now they are the darlings of the brothers.)
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Stan is one of the youngest Stans and he's okay with that. It means he gets more candy and more toys, more attention. He gets to run barefoot through the forest, jumping from one golden splash of sunlight to another and balancing on rough tree roots until he reaches the pebbles and sand that make up the shore of the lake and he soaks his feet until they're shriveled and numb. He pulls off his shirt and shorts and splashes in the modest waves until one of the teen Stans find him. He's too tired to walk but he still wrestles and kicks when the Stan slings him over his shoulder and calls him a “knucklehead.” Stan will wiggle and climb until he is astride the Stan’s shoulders. (If the Stan has silly mullet Stan will pull it like reins until the Stan grumbles and puts him down to walk the rest of the way.)
They always squeeze into the House in the heart of the forest, and the Man will come out of the Basement and they have dinners of pizza or tuna salad or whatever Stan makes that day. (It's always good because Stan always knows what Stan wants.)
The first time Stan saw the Man he thought he was a Stan but he's different (well, the first time he remembers, all Stans meet the Man when they’re born). He's got a silly butt chin and glasses that only the older Stans wear and when the Man first hugged Stan he saw that the Man had six fingers on each hand.
Stan thought it was the coolest thing he'd ever seen.
Stan is shy around the Man even though he’s nice and funny and takes Stan sailing and fishing and they hunt monsters. The Man tells him to call him Ford.
Stan loves Ford. He can't not love Ford. Ford is everything; being around Ford is like eating a tub of ice cream but without the tummy ache. He loves it when Ford hugs him, lifts him in the air, lets him sit in Ford's lap when he works. Stan loves when Ford pets his hair; when they take baths together. (Stan does all that stuff with the other Stans but Ford is the BEST.)
Ford plays with the other Stans, too. And they do adult things. Like sex. And thanks to one horrible Stan cornering him he knows EXACTLY what that is (after that horrible talk, Mr. Pituitary and suck an arm pit). He understands sex and he understands things like “jacking off” and that those things feel good. And feeling good is awesome but he doesn't really get the more than one person feel-good.
Sometimes he walks in on Ford and Stan or Ford and multiple Stans having sex and he doesn't care, and neither do they (besides the teasing “hey, show ain't free, pipsqueak!”)
Sometimes Ford isn't around. Like now.
“Ah, ah, ah ! Oh, please. Please don't stop.”
“I got you sweetheart, I got you.”
“ Ford .”
“Did you really?”
“Oh, like you weren't, fuck , don't stop--”
Stan can’t help but listen and his heart picks up and he thinks the Stans will hear him but they just keep making those noises that make Stan blush and he gets hard and scurries away.
“Oh, come on! The kitchen? We eat here!” Stan jumps, hand still on mini Stan, when a Mullet Stan slams multiple bags of groceries on the table.
“There were, like, three of you on it last week!” Stan’s face is bright red.
“Not me.” The mulleted Stan mutters and makes a face at the table. “Anyway, scram, I have a fu-- a lot of Stancakes to make.” Stan grumbles and waddles away from the kitchen. He doesn't stay gloomy for long when he walks outside and sees streamers and lights and toffee peanuts .
He immediately launches himself into the enormous bowl.
He crashes painfully into the table and winds up wearing the bowl and toffee peanuts fly everywhere.
“Oh, come on!”
“Damn it, kid.”
A big hand flips the bowl off his head. He winces and rubs at his bruises.
“Aw, kid,” an older, greyer Stan smirks at him, old clouding eyes crinkling. “Ya got all marked up.” The Stan tsks while he picks Stan up and puts him on the ground. “And on Birthday.”
“Oh. Oh ! It's today?” Stan bounces, bruises forgotten.
“Yeah, and now we got no peanuts.” A Stan mutters, mournfully picking a sticky peanut from the ground. He looks like he's gonna eat it anyway.
“We don't need peanuts for Birthday,” another Stan says, patting the grieving Stan on the back.
“Alright, go on.” The grey Stan sends Stan away. “Ford's looking for ya anyway.” Stan perks up immediately.
“Really!?” Stan can hardly hold still, bouncing in place, ready to run.
“Yeesh. Calm down a little, yeah?” A teen Stan ruffles his hair, pinning him in place.
“Hey, leggo!” Stan takes a swing at him but misses.
“He's in the living room, geez, ya little knucklehead.” The Stan holding him noogies him for good measure before releasing him and he's off, but not without blowing a wet raspberry at all of them in retaliation.
He doesn't see the grim resignation of the others.
Ford is waiting for him in the living room and Stan launches himself again and this time he connects with a firm, warm body in rough jeans and a jacket like canvas.
“Oof, you're getting too old for this!” Ford hugs him anyway, ruffling his hair and letting his hand linger. Stan likes it when Ford does that. “Actually,” Ford goes to one knee to look at Stan better. “That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I've got chest hair!” Stan pulls at his shirt, revealing the barest peach fuzz.
“Remarkable!” Ford coos and Stan starts to blush and tugs his shirt back into place.
“Yeah, well, it ain't like yers.” He mumbles. Ford chuckles as he stands.
“Give it time, Stanley,” Ford rests his hand against Stan’s shoulders and gently guides him to the Basement door.
“Ford?”
“There's something I need to show you, Stanley.” Ford enters the code, and the Basement door swings open and Stan feels a little nervous but doesn't wanna be a wimp in front of Ford. Still, when Ford reaches down to hold his hand, Stan squeezes back.
There are a lot of stairs and an elevator, too, to get to the Basement. It's scary down there, even with the bright lights and beeping and whirring. It should look goofy, like something out of an old Batman episode, but it’s cold instead. Different from the warmth of the house and Stans.
Ford takes him to a large, metal door and stops.
“Stanley,” he says slowly. “You trust me, don't you?” Ford looks down at him, still holding Stan’s hand even though Stan is getting sweaty and gross.
“Yeah!” Stan's voice is startlingly loud and squeakier than intended. “Someone say different? Someone being mean? I'll punch ‘em!” Ford laughs, drops to his knee again to hug Stan and kiss his hair. Stan blushes and shoves at Ford halfheartedly.
“Stanley, you’re amazing everytime,” Ford sighs. “I hate doing this,” Ford stands and takes Stan’s hand again.
“What d’ya mean?” Stan looks nervously at the door. He doesn't like this.
“Trust me, Stanley.” Ford opens the big metal door and has to pull Stan into the room.
It's gloomy, a thick half-dark that Stan can feel. The heavy door swings shut behind them and Stan jumps at the noise and presses into Ford, fear starting to crawl up his chest and into his throat. He thinks he might scream.
Then the lights turn on. They're pale and orange and make the dappled linoleum look dirtier than it is. There is a huge glass window on the wall opposite the door; it's dirty, too, and smeared with oily, filthy handprints. He struggles a little when Ford pulls him toward it.
“Stanley,” he chides gently. “Don't be afraid. You trust me.” And Ford pulls again and this time Stan follows.
The window is low enough that Stan can see through it easily. On the other side is a room with a dirt floor and huge, machine standing like a fish bitten in half, the guts hanging out.
“Ford, I wanna go back.” Stan tugs at Ford's hand.
“I know,” Ford says. “But look.” Stan watches and he sees something move, something filthy that pulls away from the dangling wires.
There is an old man in the room. He is naked and covered in dirt and urine and feces and mechanical oil until his skin has broken into raw sores that weep pus and thin, watery fluids. Stan starts to tremble, shake his head. He tries to pull away, but he can’t, Ford's is too strong.
“Look.” Ford says. Stan shakes his head, closes his eyes. He yelps when his is pulled to stand in front of Ford, either of Ford's hands framing his face so he can't turn away.
The man starts to pace, starts to pull at his hair. He collapses to the dirt floor and starts to claw at it wildly, like he’s digging for something. He leaps up and rushes to the window. Stan screams.
“FORD!” The man bangs the window and Stan can see his cloudy, leaking eyes; he can see the man’s toothless gums.
“Don’t worry,” Ford squeezes one arm around Stan, the other pets back his hair. “He can’t see us.”
“Ford! Sorry!” The man is wild and weeping. He spasms suddenly, collapses to the ground and starts to puke. It’s weirdly pink. “Sorry,” the man sobs.
“Ford, I w-wanna go,” Stan stutters, clutches Ford’s arm.
“It's awful,” Ford says and runs his fingers through Stan’s hair. Stan squeezes his eyes shut. “Everything we have, Stanley. Our food, our home, our happiness. It all exists because of that man.” Stan's eyes blink open to let tears fall. The man is dry heaving pink froth. “Nothing in this world is truly free, Stanley. There is not justice.”
“Why?” Stan's voice is so small.
“There are many reasons.” Ford keeps petting his hair. “I can not tell you them all.” Ford wraps his arms around Stan. “This man is serving a noble purpose but he is dying and he will need to be replaced.” They stand in silence and watch the old man cry. It makes Stan feel ugly. Disgusted.
“Is that Stan?” Stan asks. He feels Ford move.
“Yes.” Ford says softly, like he's ashamed.
“It's not fair.” Stan starts crying again.
“It isn't. That's why we must cherish each other.” Ford pulls away from Stan, and Stan can't watch anymore.
“Please, Ford. Can we go?” Stan tugs of Ford's sleeve. Ford smiles at him.
“Of course,” Ford reaches down to hug to his chest. Stan hugs him back tightly. “We have Birthday!” Ford opens the heavy door, and the last Stan sees is the Stan in the glass silently screaming.