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Stan leans heavily against the side of the boat, watching as the harbor gradually becomes further and further away. In the back of his mind, he notes what a peculiar sight it is, to see the city shrink each second. It wasn't shrinking - nothing was. The boat was just re-entering the Atlantic Ocean, leaving the harbor and all of its inhabitants behind. Other people fascinated Stan. When he was younger, it was stemming from his social butterfly tendencies. As he aged, he looked at other people like a puzzle. It was intriguing, to see all the possible ways Stan could have turned out. The lives of others, working or going to school, parenting or just getting by. People just like Stan, with thoughts in their own minds and their own agendas. It was what Ford could never understand. A ghost of a smile flickered on Stan's face. Ford could tell you the diameter of an artery in a Gobblewanker's lower spine region like it was the answer to 2+2, but he would never understand people in general.
Not that that was a bad thing, per se. Ford has his skills, more than stars in the sky, but talking to people was Stan's thing. It was what Stan could do that Ford could not. And he didn't hold this above his brother's head, either. There was no point. It was just nice, he had to admit, to have something that belonged exclusively to him.
Behind him, the sun inches closer to the waterline, spilling out hues of yellow and pink and orange on the ocean like dropped jars of ink, seeping all over. The caps of the ways glistened, and sea salt hung heavily in the air like a fragrance. It smelled like home. Even on Jersey's coldest days, Stan insisted on having the window open, much to his brother's annoyance, to beckon the scent in. In retrospect, he supposed it was a way to remind himself that their future of sailing was still waiting for them. Well, perhaps it came several decades too late, but it waited, and now, everything Stan ever dreamed of and more was in his hands. No more waiting and yearning and wishing. His reality was his. Maybe there were days when he looked at his brother like he wasn't sure where he came from, and days where he looked at his own reflection and only saw a stranger, but he wouldn't trade it for the world. If this was the price to pay for sailing, so be it.
Stan's hand found his way to his navy blue coat pocket, and he dug around in it until he found what he was looking for. Stan gazed down at the box of red Marlboro cigarettes in his palm, running his thumb over the plastic wrap that concealed it. To anyone else, the box wouldn't have felt like it held any weight at all. But to Stan, it weighed a ton, weighing himself down along with it. Hairs on the back of his neck pricked up, the way they always did when he felt he was doing something wrong. Which was fucking stupid. Stan wasn't fourteen stealing one of his dad's cigars anymore. He was a grown ass man who made his own grown ass man decisions, and that's what he did when he asked the young cashier for a pack of red Marlboro cigarettes. But he asked her to pitch the receipt, and crammed the box deep in his pocket when Ford approached. Damn, he was absolutely pathetic.
Fishing around his other pocket, Stan unearthed a lighter and a nickel. He tucked the nickel away, then turned his attention to unravelling the plastic wrap. It crinkled when it was pushed away. His index finger and thumb fiddled with the box, tearing open the plastic and pulled out a cigarette. He slipped the box away.
Stan toyed the orange and white roll between his index and middle finger mindlessly. He hasn't had a cigarette since that May, because Soos and Wendy insisted on taking them away before Dipper and Mabel arrived, in plenty of time for the worst of the cravings to subside by the time they arrived. Maybe he didn't say it outright, but he was grateful, even if the cravings were intense. They always struck at night, when he was down with his brother's handwriting and blood-stained journal pages for company, his mind wandering too far in his remorse. Tight in his chest, and he often considered driving to the grocery store to buy a pack, seeing if he could go through it in the night. He knew he could. He knew he could because he used to go through a pack a day when he was drifting in his thirties. Snow would pelt the windows, and he would be forced to pull over and turn off the heat to conserve his dwindling gasoline, and cigarettes were his only company and warmth.
Smoking was just something Stan did, ever since he swiped his dad's first cigar at fourteen. He remembered sitting on the harbor, swinging his legs above the water as he fumbled with a lighter, trying to catch it. When he took his first puff, he coughed like his lungs were capsizing and breaking away inside of him. He sputtered, not understanding how his father could endure something so putrid as often as he did. Stubbornly, Stan puffed again. And again, and again. It wasn't for another decade that Stan finally understood. It wasn't enjoyable after a while. It was just something he did. Made him feel something. Even through his coughing fit, Stan could remember the slight buzz that went from the crown of his head to the rest of his body. Brief, a few seconds at most. But it was a jolt, a euphoric jolt, and he finally understood.
Poising the lighter beneath the cigarette, he flicked it, letting it light. He tucked the lighter away and took a long drag, letting the smoke inflate his lungs. Swirling inside him, he sighed, the feeling startling after months of having gone without a trace of nicotine for so long. He closed his eyes as he exhaled, releasing the smoke back into the air. That damn buzz was all over, and he let himself bask in it. For the kids, Stan would sacrifice just about anything. Letting go of the cigarettes, though, was a challenge. It was only then did he remember that he's been smoking for fifty some years. That habit doesn't abate after a month. And he had to admit, he was glad to be able to let loose a little after the summer ended. Inviting the kids to Gravity Falls was a real 180 on all of Stan's usual mannerisms. Watching his language, drinking habits, when he gambled and how much, anything that most people deemed "unsuitable for children," and all that bullshit. He was no saint around them, but it was a relief to feel less on-edge.
Footsteps reached Stan's ears before he could process them. The hatch swung upward, and Ford was on the deck in an instant. Stan took a drag, envying his brother's agility that reminded him practically every second that Stan aged like shit. "Stanley?" Ford asked. When he looked at Stan, he stopped, whatever he meant to ask dying on his tongue. Stan feigned nonchalance. "Oh," his brother said finally.
"Oh, what?"
Ford shuffled awkwardly. "I was gonna ask why it smelled like dad," Ford's voice was soft. Stan wanted to slap himself when his shoulders flinched. But it was a statement with merit. Cigarette smoke and dust was their father's signature scent. Sometimes, late at night, Stan thought he could catch flickers of the smell, but only for a moment. He imagined it was his dad watching him screw-up, even now as an old man. The thought made him squirm.
Clearing his throat, Ford reached for the back of his neck and rubbed it absently, a habit Stan wasn't sure Ford was even aware of. "I, uh, I didn't know you smoked."
Stan shrugged. "Haven't with the kids," he said plainly. "Soos and Wendy took 'em away a month or so before they got there, I think. I dunno, memory's rusty." Stan clenched his jaw, speaking more to the smoking cigarette in his hand than to Ford. "But yeah. Yeah, I smoke."
He didn't understand why Ford looked so confused. So surprised. Wasn't this common knowledge? Stan smoked, Stan drank. It was just what he did. Not that he was around to know that. He cringed at the thought. Suddenly, his brother's surprise made much more sense. Ford likely didn't know, Stan realized. How could he? They've only been sailing for a month. Forty years of being without each other didn't equate to understanding the other person like the back of your hand as soon as your on the ocean together. Stan took a breath. "I thought you knew."
"I didn't." Ford's tone wasn't sharp, but not easy, either. One of those confusing Ford things that Stan wasn't always sure how to understand. For a moment, the urge to get defensive surfaced. Stan counted in his head, waiting for the thought to slide away. It wasn't necessary. The brothers weren't on icy terms, but the tension ran thick sometimes. Stan didn't want to risk pushing it and sending them to awkward co-existing. "Sorry," was all he had to offer.
Ford's eyes trailed to the sunset for a moment, the light touching all his features with care. Illuminating every line of age and wrinkle, the cleft in his chin and the way his brow furrowed in thought. it probably all made sense now. The way Stan coughed hard, or wheezed when he got winded. "I don't like the idea of you doing that."
Stan laughed, but it merged with his own scoff. "I'm a grown man, six."
"I'm aware," was Ford's clipped reply. "But I just..." he trailed off, then turned away from the sunset with a sigh. "Forget it."
Damnit, that is not what Stan meant to do. "No no, hey." He crossed the deck to his brother. "None of that pullin' away shit. Come on, say it. We promised to be more open with each other, remember?" he offered a smile. Ford mimicked it, but it hung unsure on his face. Well, it was a start. His brother bit his lip, tugging absently on his sleeve. "They're just... not good for you, you know?" the suggestion was slight and timid. Of course, Stan knew that. Knew that well. But for a long time, it didn't matter. Why should it? Stan was just a con artist in the woods with no family left. Let it be what did him in. But then the kids arrived, and that changed.
Ford's voice drew him back like a fish on a line. "I don't want you getting sick after I just got you back." The admission seemed to make him feel vulnerable. All his telltale signs were on full display. Shuffling his feet, playing with his sleeve, looking anywhere but at Stan. And in that moment, damn did he feel like an ass. Getting sick never mattered before. He himself didn't give two shits what happened to him. As long as he lived to get Ford back, whatever happened, happened. "I don't know what I would do."
"I mean..." Stan trailed off. What could he say to that? Someone cared, and it didn't make an ounce of sense. He wanted to shy away from it, back to the seclusion where Stan could drive recklessly and not give two shits because it didn't matter. Neglect his health because time was his own gamble. Could he quit? He didn't know. He did, temporarily, but he was able to comfort himself with the knowledge that he'd do it again eventually. That it was for a good cause. But put it down forever? Stan wasn't confident in that at all. He looked down at the cigarette in his fingers, uncertain. "I don't know if I even could at this point, you know?" he admitted. "It's just normal for me. Has been, for a good while now." He racked his brain. "I don't think I remember a point without it before the kids."
Ford raised his hands, palms out. "I can't make you do anything you don't feel like doing," he said. "I'm just saying... I don't know. Perhaps I was sheltered in my youth, but the shit they can do to a person..." he trailed off. Stan bristled, remembering listening to his mother urge for Filbrick to quit his nasty habits through the paper thin walls to their bedroom. Something about the ill effects on his blood pressure and breathing. Stan didn't care to hear much on how his father was doing after getting kicked out, but his mother dropped comments on their secret calls, all up until he finally kicked it. Lung cancer. Stan couldn't find that surprising, in hindsight. He wasn't there to see it. But Ford was.
His twin dared a step closer, holding out his hand. Robotically, Stan reached into his pocket and unearthed the Marlboro box, passing it off to Ford. It was almost comical, the way Ford analyzed the box like it was a specimen of study. Everything seemed to be to his twin. Then, Ford's eyes met Stan's, unspoken words flitting between them. Stan sighed, not out of annoyance, but more so to try to expel the weight of his next action from his shoulders. He brought the roll to his lips, savoring the inhale and taste, before dropping the cigarette on the ground and extinguishing the flame with the toe of his boot. Paper crumbled beneath it, smoldering when he moved his boot away.
When he looked up, Ford was smiling, and before Stan could blink, Ford threw his arms around his twin. "I don't think I have the words," he began, "to thank you for doing that. That had to have been incredibly difficult."
Stan scoffed. "You?" he asked. "Not having words? You read the dictionary for fun at nine years old, nerd."
Ford's chest bounced as he laughed against Stan's body. "I'm proud of you, really."
Stan looked out to the water. The sun had retired, the moon rising in its place, and stars speckled the deep blue that blanketed the water. He felt oddly empty, the last effects of the buzz from the smoke abating. But there was something else, swirling in the void, that he couldn't quite place. "I think I can learn to be proud, too."