Archive of Our Own

"Stan?" his twin calls, long legs traipsing through their darkened living room.

Something new and possibly threatening catches his eye off to the left. Seizing his gun automatically, he instantly spins toward the object, ready for a kill shot. Ford relaxes, arms falling slightly. It’s only a small tree sitting beside the television. After returning the piece to his holster he scratches his head. When did that get there? It’s missing some branches and quite a few needles, some curled and brown ones littering the wooden planks. What branches were present were strung with glowing rainbow fairy bulbs which are strikingly beautiful in the otherwise black room. Ford looks around, finding no sign of his brother. He'd been in the basement most of the day and hadn't seen his one and only housemate for hours. That usually wasn't a good sign. Stan was like a toddler- being left unattended for longer than five minutes usually meant he was doing something he shouldn't.

"Stan?" Ford calls again, louder this time, wondering what shenanigans he’d gotten himself into now.

Muffled white light seeps through the doorway from the adjacent room. Ford approaches slowly, boots scuffing the floor. Cautiously, he pushes the wooden door open with a squeak, instantly taken aback by the brightness. His eyes squint while surveying the space, scouring through the unnecessary light for his brother.

"Stanley?" he says once his eyes somewhat adjust. Going from almost complete darkness to a bright fairyland was hell. When Stan is finally spotted, Ford blinks, taken aback. He can't believe what he’s seeing. A lone eyebrow raises in askance.  

"What're you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doin’?" Stan quips. The man currently stands on the second-to-last ladder rung, Christmas lights strung lazily around his neck, a hand holding one end of the string while the other braces against the cabin wall. There were already fairy lights strewn around the top of the wall of the entire gift shop, save the last bit Stan had left.

Stan looks down at his brother, mouth open for an automatic sarcastic remark. The ladder wobbles dangerously when he sees his twin, bottom braces cackling against the wooden floor. Ford lunges forward, steadying the shaking ladder. Strong hands grip the sides as he prays Stan won’t fall. Spending the night in the emergency room wasn’t on Ford’s to-do list, after all.

"Are you insane? Why are you doing this without someone else present? Do you want to fall and get hurt?” chides Ford, worry disguised as anger.  

"Hey, I was fine until you walked in. Why the hell wouldja wear that thing? It looks like someone barfed all over you,” remarks Stan, face scrunched in disgust, attention directed toward Ford’s chest.

Ford looks down, not following. He was wearing an avocado-green cable knit sweater with stitched golden bars and reindeer: a festive ensemble for the fast-approaching occasion. The peeved man looks back toward Stan, not appreciating his ugly sweater being mocked, nose upturned more than necessary.

"I happen to like it."

"You would."

"I can push you off this ladder, Stanley," warns a miffed Ford. “Don’t temp me.”

"Fine.” Stan grunts, agreeing to play nice for now. He grabs the final string of lights from about his neck, stepping onto the very top rung; the one you're not supposed to use.

"Don't let me fall," Stan warns gruffly, hesitantly reaching for the last wall hook. "If you do I'll make sure to fall on ya," he adds offhandedly to lighten his own frayed nerves.

Ford stares up, watching him stretch for the hook, hands unsteady. He holds the ladder tighter, just in case, making sure Stan won't go anywhere. Part of him wonders if Stan would actually attempt to land on him if he did indeed fall. Ford wouldn’t doubt it. Stan always did hate ladders. It’s not until then that he remembers something long ago from their childhood.

“Wait, aren’t you afraid of heights?”

“I was.” Stan wobbles, hand shaking against the wall while the other attempts to hang the lights on an old hook, eyes widening in fear. “A-and I might be again,” he admits, voice a tad shaky.

Frowning, Ford stares upward, wishing he would just be done already.

Once Stan succeeds at hanging up the end he sighs, happy it’s over. Now that the final lights are strung, Stan cautiously starts down the ladder. Ford stretches up, laying a steadying hand on Stan’s lower back. Jumping at the contact, Stan’s eyes stare through the wall for a moment as though Ford’s touch froze him in place. For a second, Ford’s afraid he actually did somehow.

"You, uh, you don't hafta do that,” says Stan, voice low.

Ford let's go, hand pulled back to steady the ladder. Once Stan is on wonderfully solid ground, he looks questioningly at his brother for some unknown reason, sweat glistening on his brow. After a moment he mumbles a sharp "thanks", wiping the sweaty forehead with an arm, and sets off toward the counter. Not knowing what else to do, Ford stands there simply watching, hands shoved into pants pockets.

"Need help?" he offers.

"Nah, I'm almost done. Just need to do a couple more things."

Stan grabs a sprig of mistletoe and a red cup filled with spiced rum off the counter. There’s a matching green one beside it, though empty.

"Here. I was gonna bring this to ya earlier but I wanted to get this done. It’s probably not warm anymore."

Ford nods a thanks, then takes the opportunity to survey the room, hands loosely gripping the red mug. The traditional white lights and fairly large, real Christmas tree in the corner were a vast improvement to the store's aesthetic. It gave the shack a homey, inviting feel it never really had before. Ford had to admit he liked his house covered in lights. They never did much for Christmas back home. Their father was a Scrooge and their mother a penny-pincher. He wasn't surprised Stan rebelled against their parents' beliefs.

Ford takes a weary sip of the beverage, making an approved hum at the taste. He glances down into the cozy amber color. The drink's temperature was cool yet the alcoholic bite was warm: a refreshing contrast. Is went down easy, a splash of cinnamon making it festive and quite delicious. Ford would be more impressed by the concoction if it hadn't involved things that he associated together already: Stan and alcohol. Even when they were underage Stan could hold his liquor admirably though that always worried Ford with their father’s background. Regardless of it being alcoholic, Ford found it quite delicious.

"Mhm. This is very good."

Stan huffs at the remark though he doesn't look the slightest bit angry. If anything he looks rather pleased by the honest compliment. Ford smiles at that, warmth spreading through him not caused by alcohol, glad he’s finally gotten a cheerful reaction from his brother. Since the apocalypse fiasco they were on speaking terms yet their long-strained relationship was still quite rocky. They “hugged it out” as Mabel put it, but not everything could be solved so simply. Especially not forty years of loneliness and miserable heartache.  

The younger twin stands in the middle of the gift shop, fists on hips, taking in his handwork, mistletoe gripped in one of his large hands. He was deadly quiet, not bothering to glance at his brother. The silence between them was deafening sometimes, and usually from Stan’s end. It made a hateful, slimy bottomless pit of Ford’s stomach.   

“You're sure going all out,” Ford brings up for something to say before letting another lovely sip wash down his parched throat, wary eyes never leaving Stan. "Then again, you always did love Christmas."

"Gettin’ free stuff for no reason? Who doesn't?"

Holding back a smile, Ford shakes his head. Of course that would be his brother's reasoning.

"It looks lovely. Brightens the place up."

"Ya like it?" Stan asks, finally glancing his way. It calms Ford to finally receive eye contact. Before, the room was starting to feel humid and stuffy, anxiety starting to chomp his heels, clawing and relentless.

Ford nods in answer, taking another, larger sip as he inspects the decorations further. The mug is hugged to his chest while he surveys the surroundings, noticing all the little details he had missed. Multi-flavored candy canes were haphazardly thrown onto the sparse tree branches. An obnoxious dancing Santa in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses was placed on the counter, a basket of scented pinecones beside it smelling of cinnamon and spice- festive yet subtle. White lights were wrapped around the support poles as well, resembling lighted corkscrews, creating a winter wonderland ambiance.

"Huh. Didn't think you would,” admits Stan as he clomps away. With a wondering look, Ford sets the empty mug down then follows.

"What do you mean?"

"Ya never liked Christmas," clarifies Stan with a casual shrug as he walks, eyes staying forward. Losing Stan’s attention frustrates him. Dirty boots walk close behind, stopping when Stan pauses at the doorway between the living quarters and the souvenir shop.

"Not when we were kids, no,” Ford explains. “All I ever got were special-order gloves and not-at-all-subtle sporting equipment, which I gave to you. And then you always ate my damn candy."

"You shoulda been quicker,” Stan shrugs.

Ford sighs out seventeen years’ worth of Christmas memories.

"You didn't even like the Almond Joys; you hate coconut. Why did you eat them?"

"As alpha twin I had ta establish dominance."

Ford smacks at his shoulder, lips furling downward. Stan simply laughs at Ford's misfortune, eyes glimmering mischievously. He pokes at Ford’s stomach which pisses him off even more.

"Hey, I kept ya skinny, didn't I?"

"Not by choice,” huffs Ford, protesting arms folding at his chest.  

Stan flashes a sly smile before glancing up at the doorframe. There was already a nail there from previous years so hanging the mistletoe should be a cinch. Wide arms stretch upwards, instantly having trouble getting the blasted plant attached. Cautiously, Ford moves closer, extending an eager hand.

“Do you need help?”

“No,” Stan bites, ego knocked down a few pegs, tight frown causing wrinkles.

As he struggles, Ford continues watching, attempting not to laugh at his overly stubborn brother. Stan’s t-shirt rides up, exposing the grey hairs spattered on his curvy stomach. Ford catches himself glancing with too much interest, forcing himself to look away before his mind wanders down a dangerous path.

“Haha! Gotcha!” Stan claims triumphantly after a few seconds of cursing, mistletoe finally stuck in place. As he puts his arms down, Ford steps forward, right into his personal space.

Stan’s movements falter, arms staying in the air as he gives Ford a questioning look. With no fear, Ford leans in, chaste lips pressing against Stan’s own. Sputtering, Stan’s hand knocks the mistletoe onto Ford’s head. It plops off and hits the floor between their feet with a small thud. Apparently it wasn’t attached securely after all.

Ford steps back after a few seconds, lips disconnecting, allowing Stan his own space back. They stare at each other, not speaking, Stan barely blinking.

"What the hell was that for?” Stan sputters after a long moment, flustered and pink with embarrassment.   

"Mistletoe,” Ford states simply as though he sees no problem with what he’s just done. “That's still the custom, right?"

"Y-yeah, but... ya coulda kissed my cheek or somethin’."

Ford blinks. Obviously, he hadn't thought of that.

"Oh."

For a moment Stan stands there dumbfounded, arms still stiff in the air. He clears his throat when he realizes this, letting the long arms fall heavily by his sides, pretending not to be embarrassed. Stan looks at Ford for a while, worrying at his bottom lip like he’s contemplating something. Ford almost asks what it is when Stan grabs his neck, dry lips crushing into Ford’s. Hands shoot up in fear as Ford gasps into Stan’s mouth, eyes wide. He stares at his brother’s closed eyelids wondering what the hell is going on. Ford stays dormant as Stan attempts to get something going between them, fingertips tickling the hair of his neck, lips moving against Ford’s, little wet smacking noises filling the air as Stan tries to get Ford to respond in kind. For the life of him, Ford simply can’t. He stands stupidly still, hands up, mouth open in shock. He desperately wants to kiss back but forgets how. All he can do is stare at the man before him, glasses fogging with Stan’s spirited efforts while Ford can’t even breathe, brilliant mind shutting itself down.

Assuming Ford found the amorous pursuit highly repugnant, Stan finally steps backwards, defeated, the back of an arm wiping at his mouth as though to wash away evidence of unwanted actions. The crushed Stan stands there, stock-still, back pressing painfully against the doorframe. It leaves a red mark in his skin through the light t-shirt, yet he doesn’t move an inch.  

"Stan, there's, uh, th-there’s no mistletoe above us now," reminds a frazzled Ford, pointing between their feet without looking down, lips still tingling. His eyebrows furrow while he wonders if he wantonly dreamt the whole thing, confused eyes boring into Stan’s sorrowful yet guarded face.

Stan won’t look at him.

"I know,” he admits after a beat in a disheartened tone, eyes downcast.

Ford doesn't know what to say, though he desperately wants to find the right words. Apparently he won’t get the chance because Stan takes off, shoulders squared, resembling a pouncing panther. Ford stands in the doorway, sadness drilling holes into his chest while he watches him flee. Even to the socially-oblivious man it was obvious Stan did not want to be followed. It was always one step forward, two steps back with them.

Ford watches Stan disappear, relentless gravity pulling him toward the floor. The mistletoe sits at his feet, silently mocking him. Ford glares down, not bothering to rehang it. Hot blood surges through thin veins, angry at himself for messing up a perfect opportunity to express his ardent desires.

Heavy feet turn as he glances around the room, boots making a scuffing sound on the wood. He frowns in misery at the cheerful decorations all around, contrasting his bruised demeanor.

The lights don’t seem as beautiful anymore.

+++++++

A few extremely awkward days later was the big day: Christmas. It was the twins’ first one together since they were teenagers. Things had been weird between them since the “incident” but they stayed civil and ignored their problems like most families do. They had decided earlier the previous day to meet in the living room that morning; Ford already dressed in his usual attire, minus the trench coat. Stan entered the room a few minutes later with ruffled hair, wearing a plain white t-shirt, blue flannel pajama bottoms, and an etched frown, holding a steaming cup of coffee.

“Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Stan grabs their simple stockings off the fireplace mantle –his green with red trimming and Ford's red with gold. Body tense, Stan walks toward his brother who sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning casually against the new couch. Stan raises an eyebrow at the bizarre choice of sitting arrangements but joins him regardless. Grunting at the effort, Stan kneels to the floor carefully, shoving Ford’s stocking into his chest before settling beside him.

“Merry Christmas,” says a gruff voice like he doesn’t actually mean it.

“Merry Christmas, Stanley,” Ford smiles sadly back, fairly pleased that they’ve been in the same room for more than twenty seconds and Stan hasn’t bolted yet.

They’d filled each other’s stockings this year so they at least had something to do for Christmas since the kids were still a state away. Otherwise, it would be just another normal day at the shack with two grumpy old men acting cross at each other for no good reason.

Wasting no time, Stan tips his stocking upside-down, letting the contents fall haphazardly to the white area rug. Ford raises an eyebrow at the movement, choosing to pick out each item separately unlike his impatient brother. By his rushed actions he assumes Stan would rather be anyplace else. Ford can’t say he shares that desire.

Picking over the goodies, Stan finds a lump of actual coal which he throws at Ford’s leg, getting no reaction. All of his favorite candies were there, mostly chocolates and a few assorted-flavor candy canes along with one orange which Stan frowned at, knowing it was meant as a jab in the side to eat healthier. Overall, it was mostly junk food, though. Ford knew him well. Stan stuck a mint chocolate candy cane in his mouth, sucking at it and turning toward Ford with mild interest.

As for Ford, he was currently pulling out a dark green pair of six-fingered gloves. They earn an amused snort. Stan figured they would probably piss him off, especially after their earlier conversations about Christmas as kids. There were already a pair of green wool socks –because somehow Ford was constantly cold— and a couple peppermint candy canes sitting on the rug beside him. Since his feet were currently frigid, Ford pulls off his current thin socks and replaces them with the new wool ones, getting a feel for them. Toes wiggle happily after a few moments, socked feet now warming in the thick material. Ford smiles down at them, appreciative of the thoughtful and practical gift. Ford isn't much for practicality himself –not when it comes to gift-giving– which Stan would find out soon enough.

Ford sticks his hand back inside the stocking, pulling out a miniature Almond Joy. His expression lights up instantly. Finally giving in, Ford dumps out the stocking to find the bottom had been practically overflowing with his favorite chocolatey treat. His pleased expression directs itself toward Stan, warming his once-cold expression.

“Thank you, Stanley,” Ford says, grinning wide.

"Don't be too happy; I ate some of ‘em."

Expecting no less from his twin, Ford chuckles.

“Time to open presents?” suggest Stan, becoming an eager and excitable child, aura brightening.

Ford doesn’t answer. Instead, he unwraps a candy bar, popping it into his mouth. While chewing he leans toward their second Christmas tree –which he had learned Stan cut down from the back forest because he was too cheap to buy one— and grabs one of two presents from underneath the sappy needles.

"Here, open mine first," urges Ford, savoring the chocolatey coconut flavor melting in his mouth, handing Stan a well-wrapped, small and shiny box with little penguins on sleds and polar bears with hats. Frowning at the cute wrapping, Stan rips it open none-too-gently. He pulls off the box lid, hand freezing in midair before the package when he realizes what’s inside. Eyes soften immensely as a shocked mouth opens at the beautiful object before him. It was a diamond-encrusted gold watch. The piece was gorgeous: shimmering diamonds contrasting the shining gold. It was beyond striking, leaving Stan literally breathless. It must have cost Ford a small fortune.

"We said we wouldn't go all out this year," scolds Stan, voice hushed, eyes never leaving the entrancing beauty.

"I didn't. What do you think?"

"It's too much," swallows Stan, still not trusting himself to touch the gift. He stares at the watch as though it was the eighth wonder of the world.  

"Nonsense," urges Ford, waving away the preposterous thought. "Do you like it?"

"’Course I do, but..."

"But, what?"

"I don't deserve this,” Stan admits, eyes commanding Ford’s full attention, looking completely honest.

Ford blinks, deflated. How could Stan believe such a foolish thing?

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you do. Come on, try it on."

Delicately, Stan sets the tiny box on his lap, carefully taking the absurdly expensive item in-hand like holding a newborn baby for the first time.

"This must've cost a fortune."

"Well, I broke your other watch so I figured I owed you one." Ford still refused to tell him the story behind that disaster. What Stan didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, especially since the problem behind it was now contained securely in their basement… Probably.

"Not like this one. Mine was a cheap knockoff. Somebody would cut my hand off for this."

"No, they wouldn't," Ford rebukes, finding the statement preposterous.  

"I would.”  

Ford skips a beat, absently scratching the back of his head at the seriousness of his voice.  

"I'll, uh, pretend you didn't say that." 

Stan stares admiringly down at the golden beauty clasped around his wrist, face growing forever brighter, becoming their third Christmas tree. Ford takes the opportunity to scooch closer while Stan is paying him no mind, finally having the courage he’d inconveniently lost several days prior.

Eventually, Stan looks up, not noting the lessened space between them, twinkling eyes settling on Ford.

"Thank you,” Stan beams honestly.  

It's the most sincere thanks Ford has ever received, and one of the only times he remembers Stan saying those words.

"You're welcome."

Stan reaches over Ford, knee touching his thigh momentarily, grabbing a larger wrapped package. It's green with red stripes, a big, golden bow stuck atop it that reflects light from the Christmas tree. He hands it to his brother, fidgeting.

"I don't even wanna give that to ya now."

Ford stops inspecting the wrapping and blinks, wondering if it might explode in his hands.

"Why? Is it dangerous?" His ear goes to the package as though it might start ticking. Stan looks at him like he’s an idiot before scratching the back of his head.  

"No, I... It's just not as good as your gift.”

Ford didn't know what to say. His twin looked so self-conscious Ford could have hugged him, though he usually wasn’t much for initiating contact, fearing it would be unwise.

"Let me be the judge of that,” Ford urges, not as lightly as intended.

Apparently that wasn't the right thing to say at all. Stan’s legs draw closer to himself, back pressing hard against the sofa, accidentally pushing it back a few centimeters. Ford's attention turns toward the gift instead, not trusting his mouth to work properly while desperately hoping Stan won’t walk away this time. His hands pull off the scotch tape, sticking the individual pieces on the rug, little bits of paper still stuck to them. Carefully, he runs one finger up the middle, seam breaking it open like a human letter opener. Stan is getting impatient beside him, fingers tapping his knees.

"Just open the damn thing, will ya?"

Ford does so, taking off the paper and setting it neatly beside the tape strands. He takes one look at the contents and simply laughs. When Ford glances over, Stan is taken aback, hurt by the reaction. Ford doesn’t notice his insecurity.

"Did you make this?" Ford inspects his gift, looking at all the little details. It's a knit, light blue sweater just like one he had as a teenager before he spilled butyraldehyde all over it. His science teacher almost had a heart attack that day.

"You don't like it," says a hushed Stan, no questioning in his tone.    

Ford blinks.

"I didn't say that."

"You laughed."

"Because you got me clothes. We were just talking about how every Christmas Mom gave me clothing. Now, tell me: did you make this?" he repeats, honestly wondering.

Stan shrugs, not wanting to admit whether he did or didn't. Ford watches for a minute, knowing he upset him but unsure how to make it right. His fingers grab at the sweater he's currently wearing, pulling it up and over his head, throwing it on the couch cushions behind them. The new, thick sweater pulls easily over his head, feeling instantly snug. It's soft and inviting, like a warm hug. Ford grins, looking down. He inspects what he can see, happy with the results.

"It's lovely Stan; thank you. Very comfortable."

Stan looks over hesitantly. Seeing Ford in the sweater puts him on edge. Ford catches the wariness this time.

"You did make this, didn't you?"

Hesitant, Stan looks from Ford's eyes to the sweater and back again.  

"So... you like it?"

Without even trying, Ford smiles, warmth seeping in naturally. He bumps his shoulder into Stan’s for some sort of contact, leaning against him momentarily, not knowing what else was appropriate and wouldn’t spook his brother. Ford pulls back without wanting to, purposely locking eyes with Stan, gaining his full and unwavering attention.

“I love it,” Ford admits.  

A smile tugs at Stan, both of them finally happy at the same time.

"Good.” Stan bites at his lip. “And, yeah, I made it for ya.”  

"Well, aren't you full of surprises. I didn't know you could knit."

"It's pretty girly, huh?" Stan says self-deprecatingly. He's embarrassed, not wanting to express pride in his accomplishments for the first time that Ford can recall.  

"I think it's a very good skill,” Ford reassures. “There's nothing unduly feminine about knitting. You made something with your own two hands. That shows skills and dedication."

Stan beams at the honest praise. Glad to receive such an expression, Ford does the same, not often having the right words to earn such a lovely gesture.   

"Thanks again for the present," Ford says after a beat, hand stroking the soft material. He’s had homemade sweaters before but never one he knew he would cherish as much as this.

"Don’t mention it. I know blue’s your favorite color, plus it compliments your eyes," admits Stan, the admission surprising them both. Ford’s eyebrow shoots up, watching the embarrassed man who he realizes is now only half a foot away. Their outer thighs are almost touching and the thought distracts him. Ford gulps, wondering what the meaning was behind the sudden statement. As for Stan, he seems to be contemplating something, gaze flicking to Ford’s lips. Slowly, he leans toward his brother in askance. Ford sits there dumbly, confused and forgetting every courageous thought he had minutes prior.

"What are you doing?" Ford asks, shattering the moment and Stan’s courage.

Stan blinks then rethinks his plan, believing he misread signals again, forcefully lounging back sulkily in his rightful place like he hadn’t done a thing out of the ordinary.

"Nothing," he blurts much too quickly. Even Ford isn’t that oblivious. He knows what that means.

"Were you going to kiss me?" he asks, lips starting to curl, a flower blossoming inside his soul.

Stan crosses his arms.

"Psht. No."

But his defensive posture is a dead giveaway. Ford leans toward him, attempting to take action but frightening Stan in the process. Gently, Ford places a hand to the back of Stan's head, pulling him forward slowly, allowing him the chance to back away if he chooses.  Stan watches Ford's lips with curiosity, letting himself be guided forward. Cautiously, Ford’s lips settle against Stan's, repeating what they'd done days before.

It starts soft and sweet, hesitantly expressing everything they cannot yet find words for. After a moment, Stan brings a hand to Ford's waist, letting it sit there comfortably on the sweater he had made as their wet lips press together. Stan tastes faintly of mint and chocolate from the eaten candy cane, which Ford quite enjoyed. Momentarily, Ford wondered if he, in turn, tasted of coconut. Knowing Stan hated that flavor, Ford almost breaks them apart, wanting to make sure Stan was alright with his taste. When Stan's tongue pushes between his lips, asking for entrance, Ford sputters. Apparently that was his answer.

He opens his mouth slightly, not really sure what else he should do. French kissing was never a skill he had mastered. Ford let Stan take control since he was experienced enough for the both of them. Ford allows his hands to wander up as they kiss, palms cupping the matching square jaw, thumbs rubbing against grey stubble, creating a delicious friction against soft fingertips. Stan’s tongue glides over Ford's, the taste of chocolate stronger now. The heady slide of tongue against tongue sparks Ford’s interest elsewhere. Breaking the peaceful silence, Ford accidentally moans at the wonderful sensation. It caught them both off guard: Stan's eyes flutter open as Ford's hesitantly do the same, ashamed at the noise he made. When their eyes lock, Stan's shimmer at his ego being stroked, pleased with the rewarding reaction.

They resume their kiss like nothing happened, which Ford is thankful for; Stan’s tongue somehow sliding deeper. Ford gasps, tongue automatically stroking back, loving the wet slide as their mouths moved against one other. The kiss was slow and savored, no destination in mind, just curious exploration now that it was happily permitted. Both were glad for the laziness of it all, soaking in the euphoria as the shack stayed quiet and peaceful on the cold Christmas morning.

When they separate they pull away slowly, not wanting to part. They wear matching expressions, both feeling quite sated, a warmth spreading behind Ford's eyes and settling at the tips of his ears. It was a type of pleasure he hadn't felt in a very long time and was immensely glad he got to share it with someone he deemed special. He could still taste and feel Stan on his tongue, mouth wet from sharing the space. He wanted to savor that sensation for as long as possible.

Now that he can watch what he’s doing, curious hands slide down Stan's sides, settling on his waist then hips, mimicking where Stan’s currently are on his own body, feeling a little adventurous now that he’s been granted silent permission. The flannel is surprisingly soft under his palms. His hands slide up and down, loving the inviting heat from underneath, cozy material tickling his palms. They don't venture too far backwards or forwards, not being quite that comfortable with his explorations yet. Stan seems to appreciate it all the same, not pressuring for more, like he knows Ford prefers it that way for the time being. Stan's sides felt squishy and inviting, intriguing the thin man. His plump, familiar body grounds him, allowing Ford to feel more at home than merely the shack or Gravity Falls ever did. They bask in the new delightful excitement, letting the heat simmer between them. Eventually, Ford pulls back, knowing they can’t stay there forever. He smiles at Stan, content and adorably dopey.

"I didn't think you'd wanna do that again," admits Stan, almost bashful.

"Why wouldn't I?"

Stan shrugs like he doesn't actually have an idea. Ford doesn't believe him one bit. He knows the reason. It’s because of his own stupid mishap after the mistletoe. Their step backward was on his shoulders.

"Stan, I wanted to kiss you that night otherwise I wouldn't have done it."

"You did?" Stan says, face stony and not believing him.  

"I do," stresses Ford. “I just… When you kissed me I was taken off-guard and I didn’t know how to respond. But I did want to kiss you back.”

"Oh." Stan stares forlornly toward the Christmas tree. "You sure?"

A glowing smile grows over Ford while he peers giddily at Stan, struggling through his next words.

"Well, perhaps not. I, uh…I believe I require more stimuli. We'll have to kiss some more to test that theory."

Stan snorts at his not-even-remotely-smooth brother.

"I think I can handle that kind of science experiment. Especially if it involves anatomy."

Ford gulps, understanding his thought process completely.

"O-okay."

Stan smiles devilishly, tables turning in his direction. He looks confident now, flirting with Ford, in his own element.

"Maybe you can unwrap another present later,” offers Stan, elbowing his arm, eyebrows wiggling.

"We said we'd only give each other one present this year," states Ford, tone completely serious, not understanding the meaning.

Stan rolls his eyes at his socially-dim brother.

"Me. I meant you could unwrap me, Sixer. Yeesh. You don’t get out much, do ya?"

It took a moment for the thought to fully register. Once it did, Ford’s cheeks turned red, resembling cranberry sauce. He hadn’t blushed like that in years.

"O-oh. Um, alright. I wouldn’t be opposed to that."

Stan practically giggles at his twin’s embarrassment which frustrated the oblivious genius to no end.  

"I was kiddin’ but, hey, if you're offering..."

Ford gulps, glancing away timidly.

"Maybe... maybe after New Year’s."

"Yeah, better not rush into it," Stan agrees, tone still somewhat frisky.

His face sobers slightly after a few moments pass, watching his twin’s nervousness radiate. An arm drapes around Ford’s tense shoulders. He pulls him close in a sideways hug, squeezing tight in reassurance.

“Now, how ‘bout we have some breakfast? I’m starvin’.”

“I figured you’d just eat all your sweets,” admits Ford, gradually gaining some confidence back.

“Hey, I’m not a kid anymore,” Stan pouts, slightly offended.

“You eat ice cream for breakfast,” Ford reminds him, face set firm, arms crossing in front of his chest.

Stan blinks, thinking that over.

“Hey, there’s an idea. Let’s have ice cream.”

The man stands, instantly excited for an ice-cold sugary treat in the middle of frigid winter. It was cold enough they could set the half-gallon tub of ice cream outside and it would stay colder than in their freezer. Ford simply makes a face at Stan, wondering for the hundredth time in their life how they were possibly identical.  

“How are we twins?”

Stan shrugs with one shoulder, chastising comment sliding off easily. He extends a helping hand which Ford takes even though he doesn’t need it. The strong arm pulls him to his feet, leaving both men standing in front of each other before the couch. Neither knows what to do at first, standing in awkward silence, relationship shift too new for there to be much confidence in their actions.  

“Did you ever hang that mistletoe back up?” Ford asks for something to say, itching hands wanting to reach out yet hesitantly staying put by his sides.

A smile blossoms over Stan’s mouth, gears turning in his brain while he skims Ford like an old, worn book he’s read many times. He steps forward, chests almost touching when they breathe, waiting for Ford’s reaction. He simply stands there, gulping once as his eyes unknowingly flicker to Stan’s lips. It’s all the reassurance Stan needs. Large hands curl around Ford’s sides as he cautiously leans forward, noses grazing. They breathe each other’s air, the only place in Oregon that’s warm and humid. The closeness makes Ford nervous yet he doesn’t pull away. Stan angles his head, mouth almost grazing Ford’s. Before their lips meet again, Stan finally answers, serious yet playful.

“Nah, but I don’t think we need it anymore.”