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Stan sat on the edge of Ritter’s bridge, flinging pebbles and watching them fall into the inky water below. He had driven aimlessly for a while, after being tossed out of the house like yesterday’s trash. Drove until his eyes, red and throbbing from tears and exhaustion, had distorted his vision and forced him to pull over.
Now, sitting in the cool evening air, his eyes were bone-dry. He didn’t think he could cry if he tried. Maybe he was in shock.
“Well, if it ain’t ole Stupid and Sweaty," a jibing voice called from behind Stan’s back. He turned, slumping with recognition at the familiar trio of bullies. "How’s it hangin’, Tweedle Dumb?”
“But wait a sec,” another joined in. “Where’s Tweedle Dork? You two are usually a matching pair.”
“Maybe he ditched him,” the third offered as an explanation, when Stan remained silent. The knots in his stomach tightened at how close to the truth it hit.
The first bully snorted. “I would, if I had this worthless hack for a brother.”
That was the last straw. Stan swung his legs around, planted his feet on the floor, marched straight up to the kid who’d spoken, fist raised to deliver his usual response to such insults and -
Did nothing. His fist, suspended in midair, refused to move. His heart simply wasn’t in it. There seemed to be no fight left in him. Slowly, he retracted his hand.
Stan returned to his perch, not moving a muscle as the bullies took their leave - an unresponsive target was no fun, after all. He sighed as they departed, yet the sting of their words lingered.
On any other day, it wouldn’t have bothered him as much, accustomed as he was to the harassment. But tonight of all nights, the taunts cut deep, poking at tender, raw wounds that were already festering.
Dad kicking him out. Getting rid of him. Stanford watching, doing nothing, closing the curtains.
And suddenly, it was as if Stan could see his whole, unfulfilling future ahead of him. Who was he kidding? What chance did he have at earning millions? All of his earlier bravado crumbled in the face of cruel reality - he was just the dumb, sweatier version of his brother. The liar, the loser.
The extra kid, unwanted. Stan knew his parents hadn’t planned on twins; and he was under no illusions as to which child Dad considered the accident. No wonder he finally threw him out. He was a burden to the family, dragging them down, Ford especially. He was-
Stan stared at the water beneath his dangling feet, strangely calm, as a damning revelation took hold.
Dead weight.
_ _ _ _
Stanford couldn’t sleep.
The bedroom felt entirely too empty without its usual two occupants. Hell, Ford felt foolish just lying on the top bunk with nobody beneath him; but it was his spot, as much as the bottom bunk indefinitely belonged to Stanley.
Moreover, it was much too quiet for him to relax, as odd as that sounded. But after seventeen years, you get used to the sounds of your bunk-mate, comforted even. Now there were no familiar snores, no sleepy mumbling. Just him and his thoughts. His regrets.
Stan’s face as he beseeched him from the sidewalk, so hurt and hopeful. His devastation as Ford shut him out. Who knew where he was now? If he was warm. If he was safe. If he was, God, if he was-
Ford flung the blankets off, staggering out of bed. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t sit back and hope for the best. No matter how furious he was, he had to know that his brother was okay, at least. If only to gain some peace of mind.
Creeping out of his room, Ford paused by his parent’s bedroom door. Muffled voices echoed from within, sounding like an argument. It allowed him to slip from the house, unnoticed.
He must have wandered on foot for an hour straight, and still, not a trace of Stan in sight. It wasn’t until he walked past the rusty old bridge on Schaal Avenue that he noticed the Stanley Mobile parked on the corner - next to a fire hydrant, no less - sans driver. Frantically, Ford scanned the street, searching for any sign of his brother.
The only thing he saw was a figure on the edge of the bridge.
“Stan?” he muttered aloud, frowning. What was going on? As he walked closer, Ford’s heart leapt: It was Stan. Stan, standing on the ledge, on the other side of the railing, eyes downcast, head bowed in resignation…
Horror lurched up his throat, comprehension dawning like a spike of fear, and Ford broke into a sprint, running faster than he ever had in his life.
“Stanley, stop!” The shout startled Stan, a jolt which nearly sent him over the edge - but Ford had reached him by then, wrapped his arms around his brother and yanked him back with all his might, sending them spiraling to the concrete below.
They landed in a heap, with Stanley sprawled on top of him, locked in Ford’s unyielding grasp. For a few seconds, they remained that way, the pressure and adrenaline inhibiting Ford’s ability to breathe.
“I’ve got you,” he rasped, not daring to let go. He kept repeating it, like a prayer, a reminder. “I’ve got you.”
“F-Ford?” Stan stuttered out, seemingly dazed with disbelief. “What’re you…”
“Stopping you from doing something insanely imprudent!” Ford practically yelled, the words leaving in a frenzied rush. “Christ, Stan, don’t you ever - ever do that again.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, palm wet from tears that had begun to fall, borne of terror and frustration. Body shaking, he wept while Stan looked on, blank-faced, like he couldn’t understand what he was seeing.
“What were you thinking? Were you thinking? Why would you-” He paused, throat tightening. Gripping his brother’s shoulders, he cried, “Damn it, Stan! Say something, please.”
Pleading seemed to do the trick, puncturing his brother’s indifference. “I was trying to correct a mistake,” he mumbled quietly, to Ford’s surprise and dismay.
“Mistake?”
Stan nodded despondently. “It’d be better if I’d never been born,” he continued matter-of-factly. Like he’d fought long and hard against the argument yet had finally given up. “Family would have more money, you’d be an only child. ’M just a worthless, good-for-nothing idiot that’ll never amount to anything.”
Ford’s face hardened indignantly. “Who told you that?” he demanded, hands clenched by his side.
“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t make it any less true,” Stan spoke listlessly, pulling himself away, slouching against the bridge with his knees curled to his chest. “Even Dad said so. All I’ve ever done is lie, cheat and ride off your coat-tails. You’re better off without me.”
“Stanley, enough,” he snapped, desperate to reassure his brother. “Don’t talk like that!”
“Or what?” Stan shot back, though it lacked any bite. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Me outta your life?”
“Not like this!” Ford cried. Then he blanched, realizing what he’d said, seeing his brother’s stricken expression. Shit. “S-Stan, I didn’t meant that…”
“S'okay,” Stan whispered forlornly. “I’d be mad, too. I’m a screw up. I screwed up my life, now yours.”
“Y-You didn’t-” Ford tried, taken-aback, the protest not quite escaping right. The resentment of his missed chance still burned in his gut, unpleasant and roiling, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his chest that resonated as though his brother’s anguish was his own.
He swallowed, bringing his sibling in for a hug, grateful when he didn’t protest. “It’s not like you ruined my life, Stan,” he replied earnestly.
“But you-” Ford shushed him, tightening the embrace.
“…Granted, it’ll be more difficult now. Doors won’t open like they would’ve at West Coast Tech. But,” and as he spoke, he realized that it was true, all of it, “there will be other schools. Other opportunities.”
Laying a hand on his brother’s back, Ford felt the steady thrum of his heartbeat through the fabric of a shirt.
“I only have one brother, though,” he conveyed, understanding what was important now. Funny how near-death catastrophes could put life into perspective. “I don't know what I’d do without you, Stan.”
And he hoped he would never have to find out.