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Stan Pines is twelve years old, bare feet barreling down Glass Shard Beach at a breakneck speed. A laugh rips from his throat, barely contained joy escaping out of his chest and dissapaiting in the breeze as he nears his prize: a small boat falling apart in front of him. The shipwreck is a beauty in the light and, Stan notes with glee, looks even better than it did yesterday. Ford’s gonna be so excited.
It was Stan’s turn to work on the ship that he and his brother shared. He didn’t understand blueprints or schematics, but he knew his way around a hammer and nails. Where Ford was whispered equations and hands fidgeting in excitement, Stan was all risky decision and hands raised in placation. And, when it came to it, a carefully aimed fist coupled with fast feet.
We need to be home before sundown, Ford reminds Stan, tugging him out of his thoughts. There was a calm rhythm to their work, to the beat of metal against wood, and Stan had zoned out enough to miss the way the sun had lowered in the sky. He can feel Ford’s hum of approval at the state of the boat and tries to ignore the swell of pride.
“We still got time, Sixer, don’t worry about it,” Stan says. He still grabs the toolbox and begins putting away his hammer. He knew that Ford was just worried. Last time they were late getting home was especially bad and Stan shuddered to think about the bruise forming on his shoulder from the interaction. Or was it Ford’s shoulder? Sometimes it was hard to keep track.
It had been like this for as long as either of them had known: Stan and Ford versus the world. Stanford Pines had been bullied for his sixth finger all his life, and if anyone discovered that “Stanford Pines” was actually Stan and Ford they’d be called even more of a freak. That’s why it was their secret.
Ford had complicated theories about them, about why they were two people in one body, but Stan didn’t really care about the why of it all. Figuring out the specifics wasn’t going to change the present, after all.
And besides, it wasn’t that bad. Ford was smart, mainly in charge of handling school and interactions with adults. He was polite, and he knew when to be silent and do what was asked, a task that Stan never understood. Stan was the opposite - he knew how to throw a punch, and was the go to when it came to fights or beatings. He also knew, when needed, how to lie, almost easier than he knew how to tell the truth. Despite this, the boat before them was a project that belonged to both of them. It was their refuge.
They found the boat the day they turned eleven, feet flying against the scorching sand as they explored the beach once more in search of adventure. Stan had led the way that day, which is why they had stopped at the cave in the first place. Ford passed the cave before, but he saw the wooden boards covering the entrance and figured it was best to look someplace else. But ever since they had seen the cave a week ago Stan had been wondering what was inside and now that he was in charge he intended to find out. Fists collided with wood, wreckage raining against the tough surface under Stan’s feet.
Maybe we shouldn’t, Ford had thought, anxiety clear. Stan breathed in deeply, ignoring the rise in their shared heart rate.
“Gonna be fine, Sixer,” Stan said. “First sign of trouble, you get us outta there. But I wanna see if there’s a corpse.”
Okay, Ford confirmed, and Stan moved forward.
The dirt inside the cave was cool against his toes. Looking around the room there wasn’t much of anything, to Stan’s great disappointment. Nothing except, of course, the wrecked sailboat in the corner.
“Woah,” the twins exhaled in unison.
Maybe it’s an explorer’s ship from far away!
“Maybe it’s an alien’s boat,” Stan replied, inching forward. Ford snorted at that. “Maybe it could take us far away.”
Ford was silent for a moment. Maybe, he all but sighed.
***
Neither of them had many friends. Partially it was because friends were dangerous - friends were people who would make fun of them, or tell someone about the two of them. Friends were people who could get them in danger. More than that, however, was that neither of them were good at making friends. Stan could be abrasive, and Ford was awkward. It didn’t really matter, though. Not when they had each other.
***
Stan packs the rest of the tools away before burying the red toolbox under the sand next to a large rock. The tradition of burying the toolbox started a few months ago, after someone stole their screwdrivers. It was partially out of necessity (how would they get replacement tools?) but it was also fun. Stan feels like a real adventurer as he covers their box. It was like he was hiding gold to find later.
He doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps until the rock hits his head.
“Hey doofus,” a familiar voice calls out.
Stan can’t help the growl that slips out of him. “Crampelter. Whaddya want?”
Crampelter stands about three feet away. He only has two goons with him today, thankfully, but Stan doesn’t count himself lucky yet.
We should just run, Ford insists, but Stan stood his ground.
“What makes you think I want something, Pines? Can’t a fella just say hi?” Crampelter replies, a malicious grin stretching across his face.
Not if the guy’s Crampelter. Stan snickers at that.
Crampelter’s face darkens. “What’s so funny, freak?”
Stan shrugs. He moves his feet just slightly, getting ready to run. “Just your face.”
Crampelter lunges forward right as Stan lunges back.
Alright, time to scram! Stan insists, and Ford suddenly feels the rough sand between their bare feet as control is shoved his way.
He could kill Stan, but first he has to avoid the fist barreling towards them.
Ford ducks, and then does what he does best, besides algebra - Ford Pines gets the hell out of there.
***
“That was stupid,” Ford mutters under his breathe. He had shaken Crampelter and his goons maybe a block back but he wasn’t going to calm completely until he was safely in their room.
C’mon, that was fine! You did great.
Ford fights a smile at that. “You’re gonna have to teach me how to do that.”
How to do what? Stan asks.
“How to stand up to bullies like that,” Ford clarifies. “Or at least how to throw a punch.”
Stan laughs. You never gotta throw a punch, poindexter. That’s why you got me.
Ford nods. He sees their house as they round the corner and braces himself to walk inside.
But, Stan says, the trick is to put your thumb on the outside so you don’t break it.
Ford smiles at that.