Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It felt like he was dying.

Fiddleford's heart seized so tightly he felt the only explanation could be a heart attack. What else could it be? It was so painful, his entire body froze. All he could do was wade through the waves of his complete and utter terror. His entire mind and soul screamed at him.

SOMETHING IS WRONG! SOMETHING IS VERY WRONG ABOUT THIS! SOMETHING IS WRONG!

"Are you there?"

A voice broke through the air but it hardly cut through the impenetrable fear. 

They were running out of time! They were both running out of time! Soon the portal would activate and then... What. Fiddleford didn't know. And the sensation of not knowing burned him all the way down to his core.

Ford's eyes darted around like he didn't know what to do. He cleared his throat. 

"Remember what I told you about, about meditating, why don't I just- focus on my voice. Can you focus on my voice?"

Ford tried to reach for his hand but Fiddleford jerked it away quickly. He could not stand being touched right now. He felt like a live wire.

"I'm here," Ford croaked, "I'm here, okay? I don't know what's going on with you, and I have a Psychology PHD but-" 

He was so bad at this. 

"Uh, hey, look at me," Ford drew in a shaky breath, "I'm inhaling slowly. Can you mimic that?"

Ford breathed in deeply for one second...

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Fiddleford watched him wordlessly and took in an inhale of his own.

They exhaled slowly. One second... Two seconds... Three. 

"Good, copy me."

Ford slowly drew in air again and exhaled, "are you sure your okay? You seem scared."

Ford is the one who should be scared. Any reasonable person would be.

Fiddleford just smiles and gathers his bearings. 

"Yeah," he wipes his sweaty palms on his slacks, "right as rain."

Chapter Text

"C'mon." 

Fiddleford's voice is very far away. This was all Ford's idea but all he can do is freeze with some unknown fear. He couldn't place where it came from. Normally he was fearless, now he was frozen.

The amusement parks was full of people. People had eyes that could stare. They stared at Ford and their interlocked hands, what else would they stare at?

Ford remembered just why he hated these places. But it was his idea, he did it to make Fiddleford happy. 

Stan used to love these places, he loved the balloons and cotton candy.

Back when everything was sweat.

Fiddleford's hand is sweaty but it squeezes his. 

Ford remembers he's doing this for a reason, he's doing it for the only friend he has. The only person Ford has allowed himself to get close to. Would Fiddleford betray him too in the end? Ford pictures him leaving and destroying everything. He would destroy the portal, the journals, everything they worked for.

But if Ford tries to imagine it the only image he can conjure up is so similar to his. He's covered in acne and smiles with crooked teeth. He wanted to sail away with him on a boat built from scraps.

And then Fiddleford is there and the illusion saps away.

"Let's go." He clears his throat and takes a step forward in view of all of the eyes, "let's forget about everything for a moment." 

Fiddleford's face looks different than it used to. There's a wrinkle around the corner of his eye, his face is clean shaven unlike it used to be. 

He smiles almost the same but there's a strain that wasn't there before.

Ford swears he sees two yellow eyes somewhere in the crowd but like always when he blinks they disappear. 

Chapter Text

Stan was fourteen the day he accidentally walked into his first real job.

Pa had been subtly implying he needed to start looking for work for a while now. Twelve or thirteen seemed to be the cut off age in his eyes where you stopped being a child and started being a burden. Stan was both excited by the prospect and incredibly opposed to the whole idea. His main reservation was the fact Pa almost never talked to his brother like that. Ford was fine to wait. 

"He brings something to this house and you don't."

So he really thought Pa would be proud of him for getting his first job. 

It wasn't a super glamorous or high paying job of course, he was mainly a floor sweeper. But his boss said if he worked hard, he might get promoted to Soda Jerk. 

Soda Jerk sounded like an illustrious career path at the time. At least it seemed better than scraping off barnacles. 

Pa was unimpressed as always though, but that didn't matter because Stan had money now. That made him somebody rather than nobody. American Dream and all of that, ripe for the taking. 

"The world is your oyster." 

And truthfully, he liked working more than he liked being at home. At least at work he was useful in some way instead of taking up space.

It was also a nice place to see pretty girls come and go, so hey! Stan certainly wasn't complaining about the view.

He particularly liked Penny. She was a regular who always wore her curly blond hair in a ponytail. The last time they saw each other, she gave him an extra tip and winked.

It made his heart flutter.

Stan was also fourteen the first day he spent a night in jail. 

It was as much an accident as the job itself was, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. He made the mistake of leaving the shop long after everyone else because he didn't want to go home. Stan knew his grades were bad and he didn't feel like spending a night on the lawn. 

So when money went missing he was the first suspect.

A suspect with extra money on him that he shouldn't have. 

Stan tried to explain it was just tips of course but his boss wasn't having it and the next thing he knew the cops were there. He tried to explain but they wouldn't believe him. It was the first time he felt the cold metal of handcuffs clicking around his wrists.

"Hey, hey, wait-" he rambled in the back of the car, "I didn't take nothing! I promise, these were all tips from some very nice lady- I already had this money, c'mon!" 

The worst part of the entire ordeal wasn't being arrested or sitting in a cell though. 

It was the cops calling Pa to get him out. 

He was really worried Pa would get mad, maybe even get physical. But Pa surprised him. He didn't come and break him out, he didn't yell at him. 

"Keep him there, maybe it'll be good for him." 

Pa wasn't coming. 

Nobody was coming.

Stan spent the night alone in a holding cell before they released him early the next morning leaving him to he walk the way home. 

It would be the first of many similar nights.

"Where were you?" Ford peered down at the bottom bunk, the mattress creaked under his weight, "Ma was so worried, she stayed up all night waiting for you to come home-" 

"Can-it, Sixer." 

Stan grumbled, shutting his eyes. 

"I don't wanna talk about it."

So they didn't.

Chapter Text

"Remember when Pa signed us up for boxing lessons?"

Yes, there were so many bloody noses between us. I think I lost a few teeth that way.

"I thought he was nuts at the time, but it was actually one of the best things he ever did."

Do you remember when I was on the ground wheezing, and I couldn't keep breathing.

"Yeah, I remember. I'm glad you do too now, it came in handy later." 

Ford laughs and sucks in air through his teeth. He can't remember his father's face. He thinks that's for the best.

Do you remember how I pressed ice to your black eye as you told me you wished you weren't born. 

Better for Stan to remember the good.

Chapter Text

"You seem to be in better condition than when you arrived."

There was a gurgling somewhere in his throat and his eyes rolled back in his head as Ford's mouth spilled some nonsense. 

"Your brother wants to see you. He won't stop calling to ask about you." 

"Ford!"

Ford could only shake, completely frozen in the moment with fear. 

"He's coming to get me."

He spoke through gritted teeth, "he's coming for me... He's coming for us." Ford's exhausted body curled into a tight ball. It was the only thing it could do.

"I'm gonna help you," Stan's hands trembled in a way they never did, "you need help. Don't you dare die on me." 

And no matter how hard Ford tried to explain or mention the portal in the basement: Stan did not listen. He would not accept that Ford's muse was "real", and when he saw all of the blood and scratches he listened even less. 

So he took Ford to a hospital. 

And the hospital took Ford here.

The journals and the portal were all out of reach, they forced him to take pills and called him "sick." They were all hallucinations as they said, none of it was real. All of it would go away if he would just let them help. 

Ford did not want help. He knew what he saw was real. And the greatest danger of his own creation would remain underneath them all until they finally believed him.

And he would not allow Stan to visit. 

He did not want Stan to see him like this. Stan took him here and didn't believe anything Ford said. 

He would not go down to the basement. He said there was "no basement." But how did Stan know? How did they all know Ford was making everything up?

Ford draws his knees together tightly.

"I've seen this before," Stan's eyes are tired as he watched the ativan pull the veil over Ford's eyes.

"You need help, I'm your family. Let me help you."

Some brother he turned out to be.

Chapter Text

They found him with blistered feet. His skin was red and ashen. Caryn wouldn't stop fussing and scolding him for daring to attempt such a thing but Stanley was too out of it to protest. 

He's always been a troublemaker.

Not worth the effort it takes to raise him.

Ma pulled a cold wet towel over his shoulders and fretted.

Hey, why are you so quiet?

Stanley was quiet for once. The room was quiet too. Normally Ford would feel happy about it but now it felt empty.

He took off running on the beach in the hot sun. Maybe he thought he could make it by some miracle. Or maybe he just wanted to get away somehow. 

Ford didn't ask why Stan was so quiet.

He understands why he wanted to run away.

Chapter Text

It used to make everything go away for a little while. 

That was a good compromise between everything being away for good and everything just not being.

Fiddleford remembers the cold metal of his own craftsmanship. He could save so many lives with such a thing.

And he could ruin so many lives caught in the crossfire just like he ruined his. 

But at least the deeper he goes, the less it bothers him.

The sickeningly sweet path to madness and despair is a seductive song and dance. Fiddleford doesn't even realize he has fashioned an enemy, and not a really convenient friend until he's pulling his hair out. 

But at least everything went away for a while.

Chapter Text

"Get in the car!" 

Fiddleford looked very serious, more serious than Ford had ever seen him. It was almost comical to see such a tight expression on his face, like it didn't belong there. 

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Ford's eye was caught by something interesting in the bushes. 

"I mean it!" Fiddleford reopened the car door and took ahold of Ford's arm. "I'm not messing around with you! Get in the car, now!"

Ford gave him an incredulous look. 

"I don't think a doctor can help," but his friend did not seem to listen or understand what he was saying. Ford knew with his mysterious cravings there could only be one answer.

Fiddleford stared at him blankly, "help with- What the hell are you talking about?"

Ford buckled his seat belt and spoke as if it was obvious:

"Doctors can't help if your transforming into a vampire." 

Fiddleford let out a strained noise and buried his face in his hands.

"It was a fruit bat, Ford."

If looks could kill, Ford would have been dead immediately, "you were bit by a wild bat." 

"No-" Ford tried to protest but snapped his mouth shut, "and, so.-"

"You aren't turnin' into a vampire," Fiddleford put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm trying to make sure you don't get rabies, and die." 

Well, why didn't he just say that before?

Ford thought quickly about what to say to keep things from being so awkward.

"I thought you didn't like driving."

Fiddleford's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, "I only drive if I have to." 

"Thank you," Ford cleared his throat, "for making sure I don't die."

A snort followed.

"You're welcome, pain in the ass."

Chapter Text

"Hold still!" Fiddleford hissed under his breath, "I'm trying to help you, but you gotta stay still." It reminded him too much of trying to handle a particularly wriggly piglet. 

"Owww," Ford whined, his head was pounding and he could hardly see. Everything was fuzzy. His glasses were gone, where were they? And everything, he could barely make out was full of Fiddleford, oh-

A cool wet cloth was pressed against his forehead, a red welt was slowly forming. 

Ford couldn't remember how it happened. 

"We need to get some more iron into you," Fiddleford joked, handing the cloth to Ford so he could press it against his own sore head. It was not funny. Ford was not impressed. 

"Mhmfine..." Ford whined.

This was so embarrassing. His stomach felt tight and nauseous.  

"Stanford Filbrick Pines!" Fiddleford put his hands on both hips in a mock imitation of an overly affectionate mother. "Have you been out here neglecting your health again?" 

"Nooo..."

Fiddleford gave him a look.

"A little, bit." Ford admitted.

This guy was way too good at this. He probably made a great father or- maybe more accurately. mother. 

His friend clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

"Honestly don't know how you survived out here this long."

Ford leaned back and groaned. 

He wanted to say "there were a few close calls." But it felt better to keep his mouth shut somehow.

Chapter Text

"Can you leave the light on." 

It was like a portal into a lost era where they were still little. Stan still allowed himself to feel scared about things, or at least admit when he felt afraid. Fear is a natural response, no one needs to learn it to feel it. Even when Stan woke up in the middle of the night from a bad dream, and the only sign was the sound of stifled whimpering. 

"You can be scared, it's-" 

Dipper's voice was unconventionally small, he dragged out his words as if he were unsure. Mabel sleeps like a log of course, Dipper alone remains awake.

So many sleepless nights. Ford couldn't sleep, he couldn't let himself sleep. He drank coffee until his entire body was spasming and full of twitches. It was hard to stay awake. Everything was so bright, but he needed to be awake. He couldn't let that thing win. 

"He can't hurt you now. You know that, my boy?"

It felt unnatural and strange coming from Ford's own mouth. He drew all of the courage within him and reminded himself children needed something strong.

Stan was once that strength for him. It made something in Ford's stomach ache as he realized: his brother should never have had to be.

"I know," Dipper admitted, "it sounds dumb and childish doesn't it?"

"I can't sleep," Ford felt figures grow into shapes around his eyes. His eyes were aching saucers. "I can't sleep. Don't sleep, don't know what he'll do-"

"Not at all." 

Ford flicks on the lamp.

"You know I..." He begins, bracing himself before he stops.

Dipper doesn't need to learn this right now. All of it is so ugly. Maybe one day, Ford will tell him some part of it when he's older and ready. When Dipper isn't scared to sleep and scared of being scared. 

"It's okay to be scared," Ford says, "I feel scared all the time, everyone is afraid sometimes. You know at your age, I still slept with a stuffed animal." 

"Really?" Dipper mumbles, "why? You know I'm like... Thirteen, right-" 

"Yes, yes, I know that," Ford forgot that fact for a second, but Dipper doesn't need to know. Damn, they grow up so fast don't they?

"I did, and I kept at it. Sometimes you just need small comfort to get you through hard times." 

"Here," Ford passed the small stuffed toy down to his brother. "You need this more than I do right now, so." 

"I guess so," Dipper lays his head against the pillow seeming to relax, "thanks."

"No problem," Ford lingers in the doorway, flickering the light-switch off and leaving them in only the dim light of the lamp.

Ford smiles to himself and shuts the door.

"Now get some sleep."

Chapter Text

"I CAN'T LET YOU LEAVE!"

The voice boomed through the hallow hallways. 

"I'M GOING TO KEEP YOU. RIGHT HERE, WITH ME!"

The wooden floor was ice cold beneath his legs. 

Fiddleford was tired of the cold. He used to adore snow, dreamed about a white Christmas that would never come like the ones in movies. Everyone gathered around like big happy families in movies. This is what people said was missing; big happy families. His family was big. His family was big but that didn't stop them all from eating each other like fireflies caught in a jar. 

He told Emma, he wanted a small family. Tate was a handful by himself, they didn't need anymore. He couldn't take it if history repeated itself, the thought made him sick to his stomach. No, he loved Tate but the boy was enough.

If she felt disappointed, she didn't voice it, even when he talked about making an appointment to get fixed.

"I'M NEVER GOING TO LET YOU GO!"

It cackled, ringing in his ears. Fiddleford is amazed how loudly Ford can scream until his voice is hoarse. And then he can keep going with scratched out rasps that shook the house, as if something climbed inside of his body and was trying come out.

Ford was going to regret that later, of course. Fiddleford would make tea with honey later and watch his old friend try to avoid eye contact.

They were becoming masters at hiding secrets and never letting on how much they knew. Fiddleford knew everything, he heard everything. Surely Ford was perceptive enough to pick up on that fact.

For now, Fiddleford sits in a dim room with the door locked and barricaded. It was a hastily chosen hiding spot, many things decorated the walls celebrating a "muse." It felt almost like a holy place or an ancient shrine. He was hiding in desecrated sacred ground. But this was not his god, it was no one's god now. 

"Keep praying, son." 

The coolness of the barrel of his uncle's shotgun was still pressed against his temple. It was so surreal in that moment, how he accepted he was going to die. 

"PRAY! I said! PRAY!" 

"Our Father in heaven... may... May... name be honored, may...yerkingdom come.... your..." 

Fiddleford never finished reciting the full prayer because the second he opened his eyes, his uncle was dead on the ground. There was nothing after that. 

He wasn't even sure it happened. Did any of this happen?

"YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM ME! I KNOW HOW TO PICK LOCKS! COMES IN HANDY! AND IF I CAN'T PICK THE LOCK! I CAN PUNCH THROUGH IT!" 

This was where Ford's muse led him. The demon he so lovingly devoted himself to. 

Fiddleford switches in the radio. He's missed the entire broadcast and only caught the tailend of the national anthem before it signs off for the night. 

"God help us all..."

It felt bitter. He knew if God was there, he couldn't save them now.

Chapter Text

"Did I-"

Ford pauses to clear his throat.

They were sitting on the porch speaking about old memories, re-running the reels so to speak.

Fiddleford's legs swing against the edge. He has a rabid grace the way he balances so delicately.

If no one else can see how deliberately his old friend poses himself then Ford will. 

He's doing better these days, of course. Much better since regaining his memories, he's changed of course. Anyone would change under the weight of thirty years gone by.

"I..."

Ford can't seem to get the words out, it annoys him to be so tongue tied. 

He can still see how Fiddleford was living before. The unfocused look in his eyes, his matted hair and flea-ridden clothes.

After everything, how can Ford just be forgiven like that?

"Did I ruin your life?" 

Fiddleford looks at him with a puzzled expression.

"Well, no. I'd say." 

He's spoken many times about forgiveness. Ford wishes he weren't so quick to offer it. He wishes his friend would get angry. It would be easier to deal with rightful anger and bitterness than this. 

But Fiddleford doesn't offer him bitterness. He offers him the sound of his hand tapping rhythmically against his knee.

"How can you?" Ford blurts out before he can stop himself, "how can you just. Let it go like that? When I ruined, or I helped ruin." 

His voice trails off. He doesn't need to say more.

"I forgive you," Fiddleford looks him directly in the eye as he speaks. "I forgive you, because I'd rather get to spend whatever's left of my life making peace with you. And I'd like it more than I'd like hating you or being bitter." 

He smiles but there's a crack in it like shattering glass beneath the weight of the moon.

"An' I get to chose that," Fiddleford played with his thumbs, "I spent my whole life running, Ford. And we're old now, don't know if you've noticed." 

"Still," Ford swallowed hard, "didn't I contribute to that in some way? Did I make you feel like you had to use that... That thing?" 

Something inflamed in Fiddleford's eyes at the implication of the memory gun but it settled down like dying embers. 

He shrugged. 

"Ah." 

His silence hung in the air.

"Well, I wouldn't say you never hurt me in any way..."

The wind whistled through the trees. It sped right past them, irreplaceable time no one can get back. 

"And I won't lie and say I never thought about it any. Or that it didn't hurt, or that I didn't ever feel any hard feelings about it whatsoever." 

Fiddleford closed his eyes.

"But you hardly ruined my life all by yourself," his arm was still slightly crooked. It wasn't like that before.

Ford swallowed.

"But I was the reason you saw those things, I pushed to test the portal even when you told me it was a bad idea. And I didn't even consider you or anyone. Just me."

Ford continued even as in his opinion it was devolving into rambling. 

"I called you all of the way up here to work on my stupid project. Because it was my work, and my work was so important to me. And I didn't even think about it until you told me you had an entire family. Your wife. Your son." 

The guilt was too much. It was thirty years in the past, Fiddleford could forgive him. Ford wasn't sure he could forgive himself. 

"Hey, there," Fiddleford tapped Ford's hand hoping to bring him back to the present. "I know you've had a lot of time to think about all this. But I want you to know here and now: I ruined my own life plenty. I chose to come up here for your project, I left my family behind knowing it might cause a struggle. I was the one who used the memory gun on my own head."

He paused, sighing out: "and you, sometimes I did things that hurt you too."

Ford was silent. He knew about this of course, he had long suspected it. But it was another thing to hear it directly from the source. 

"Yeah, you hurt me some in the past. But the most part." Fiddleford kicked his legs back, Ford could almost see some of his old college roommate in this peculiar little old man. It was a flickering light of course. But he could catch it going on and off.

"I ruined my life well enough on my own." Fiddleford turned his head toward Ford and laughed hoarsely, "maybe you helped at some points, but I made choices. Sometimes they were bad and I'll regret them till the day I die. But."

His gold tooth was visible. Ford felt a cool breeze brush past. Autumn was arriving in all of the splendid colors it would bring with the downing of leaves. 

"I don't blame you, besides I don't like the way that makes me feel. I'd rather spend that time being a friend."

Fiddleford seemed to relax. Whatever he wanted to say was off of his chest now, he laid with his back on the porch. 

"You get that?" 

Ford thought for a moment before he smiled. 

"Yeah," he said, watching a golden leave fall from a great tree, "I think I understand."

He was so happy to have Fiddleford as a friend.

Chapter Text

"Stan... Stan!"

Ford was here? But why? The lights were blinding. All he could see was white, white, and more white. Then burning spots, they hurt.

"Answer me! Please! Are you alright?"

No...

He could barely form any coherent thoughts through the blurriness and vertigo.

Not very alright, this time...

He hates him. Why is he here, crouching next to him like that? It isn't very funny to play with somebody's emotions like that, not very funny at all. 

"Hold on, just stay with me. I'm going to help you, I promise." 

It sounded like a different Ford, someone who the world drowned a very long time ago when it swallowed up all of their dreams. 

Stan tried to laugh but all that came out was a gurgling sound.

Why are you here now?

"Rico..." He choked out, "I can't get up right now..." 

Long fingers reached for his wrist seeming to probe him for a pulse. They did not feel like Rico's calloused fingers at all. 

"Who?" 

Ford broke through the static and silence. 

"Who is Rico?" 

It all became too much. Ford's blurry image faded behind the dark curtain of his eyelids and it became nothing all too soon.

Chapter Text

"C'mon, buddy," Fiddleford rubs his tired eyes with his thumbs, is this supposed to be soothing? Every nerve in Ford's body was on fire. He wanted to run away and explode and dissolve into a puddle all at once.

Love is a stranger in an open car

To tempt you in and drive you far away

Ooh, love is a stranger in an open car

To tempt you in and drive you far away

"Are you listening to me?" 

Ford's ears were stuffed full with the most pleasant cotton. His vision was filled with nothing but pink fluffy clouds. Everything was both real and unreal. Fiddleford took his hand and grasped it slowly as if he were unsure of the act of touching him. 

It would have hurt if Ford didn't feel so free.

And I want you

Bill's voice is still in Ford's head. Bill will destroy him and use him until there's nothing left of him. This is what love means, Ford wants to be guided so badly. He couldn't remember missing something so badly until he's had it. Love is unkind, Bill is cruel like love itself. Ford has only known the gentle retreating love... receding, so he let the monster into his head.

"Are you in danger?" Fiddleford shouldn't have to ask. He should know the answer is yes. Yes, but what else is new? 

And I want you

He's trying to get away, but he's certain the footsteps must be following him. But there were no footsteps; it was just temptation and the impulse to run away that kept him on his feet, running. 

"Are you dangerous..." 

Fiddleford should have left him far behind a long time ago.

And I want you so

Ford misses the beginning when his demon was sweeter. Maybe it was all just flattery, but that was better than a nail through his hand and the cold ache of waking up in a place he doesn't remember going.

It's an obsession

And I want you

Fiddleford was sweet too in the beginning, but Ford knows he's just as capable of messing with his head as Bill.

And I want you

Maybe that was flattery too.

And I want you so

It's an obsession

"I know what you did," Ford spat. He doesn't need to say what Fiddleford did. 

It's obvious his old friend is smart enough to pick up on the implications by the way his smile falters as he hesitates to take a sip of his coffee.

Chapter Text

In the beginning they were fine, sane enough to make promises to each other. But stupid enough to lie to each other and themselves they would make it out alive. 

Fiddleford once confided that he dreamt often about kissing Emma one last time before he went. Not just the chaste kiss he gave before they set sail. He was always holding her head with both hands and stealing away all of the air to give her something that would last. 

But when he opened his eyes, Ford took up all he could see and the lips were his. They were university students again, both dumb, and bored. 

Naive...

Naive as Fiddleford was when he agreed to set sail to such an expedition with him. It was a fool's errand, perhaps there was some part of him yearning to break free of the mundane. 

Ford wanted to see the world. Fiddleford said it was to make money even though he knew they didn't need it. They were fine, a nice house in a lovely neighborhood.

Because had everything he gave it up. All because he knew he would follow Ford anywhere. He said Ford was like a magnet; he knew just the way to draw him in.

"I'll return, don't you worry!" 

Ford had plans. Fiddleford trusted his friend until almost the end.

Even as he begged Ford to seek the shore, that the weather seemed bad and they would strand themselves. A dream wasn't worth all of this but Ford wouldn't listen. There was a star in the sky compelling him forward and he was determined to follow it.

"You'll die!" 

Fiddleford pleaded.

"You'll die, and get us both killed!" 

When Ford finally stepped foot on dry land with trembling legs, he was alone. The bones with the scratches of teeth were deep in the ocean by now. They were unable to tell a story no one would ever know. 

His eyes caught his animalistic expression in the water.

He was alone as he knew he would be.

Chapter Text

As the dust settled, Stan became aware how heavy his hips felt.

It was like the entire lower half of his body wasn't attached anymore. His legs swung uselessly like a door connected to a broken hinge. He could drag himself but only slowly. 

"I hate to say it, but..." He rasped, it was a losing battle trying to keep himself moving. "I need some help over here..." 

The bruises on his arms were still mostly invisible, only beginning to surface and turn into large yellow splotches. 

"Lay down," Ford's hands hovered around him as if he were unsure what to do with them. "Lay down here, don't you dare move a muscle!" 

Stan didn't need to be told twice, he allowed himself to be guided onto his back against a stiff plastic board. 

"Are you in pain anywhere?"

Ford looked him over trying to scope out the injury. "How bad does it hurt? And where? Please be honest with me."

No, strangely nothing hurt. It just felt wrong. It all happened so fast. Stan knew something must be twisted around down there but the pain didn't register.

"No..."

The air smelled like powder, "it's just... Heavy. At my waist, I can't feel anything. Also don't you dare call an ambulance, Ford!"

"I might have to, Stan," Ford suddenly placed his ear to Stanley's chest. "You might have punctured a lung... I'm sorry, I hate hospitals as much as you do." 

"Great." Stan sucked in air, "I'm costing a bunch of money again..."

"I don't care about money right now! I'd rather you be alive! Don't talk like that!"

Ford's hands were clammy and sweaty as they gave Stan's hand a squeeze. 

It was going to be a long night. Stan could tell. It was less traumatic than it was annoying.

Chapter Text

Within the bunker, it was neither still nor silent. The backup generators hummed as cockroaches dawdled across the concrete floor. The cooling system gurgled and shook itself to life beneath droning fluorescent lights.  

In the old days, mice and other tunneling creatures enjoyed descending old, creaking stairs into a concrete rodent paradise. A brave few attempted to chew through the walls; few succeeded. The skeletons of the foolish collected dust on the tile floors; they too were far from motionless. Under the surface, fungi and bacteria made a meal of the remains.

If any organism were to make the trip now, they would find themselves disappointed. The stairs have been swallowed by a thick layer of sediment.

Turned over on its side, mildew grows in the fabric of the old cot. Formerly it sat proudly in the middle of the room, but this hasn’t been the case for nearly a hundred years. Generations of widow spiders made homes between its rusty metal legs, yet only traces of their once proud webs still linger. Perhaps next season, a new species of spider will make its way through the weathered cracks in the ceiling and make a home in the corner. It will feast on fruit flies who live off the vegetation that has snuck its way into the crevices. Countless unlucky creatures have given in to the temptation to fly or crawl into the room with the blocks.  

Not a single one made it through or lived to tell the tale. In the good days of scavenger heaven, those who stayed in the first room could feast freely on a well-stocked pantry. Chipmunks and mice nested within the walls and lived well until the food depleted and they had to look elsewhere. There was nothing to be found there now.

Past the room with the blocks, a collection of leaking dials and broken glass gathered dust. An office chair lay broken on the floor. 

The fraying leather invited in the inevitable mold and digestion and insects. Plastic arms and wheels were too old, too broken down to put up a complaint anymore. It hosted a completely new species of small beetles with enormous antennae who made the old, discarded piece of furniture their world. The beetles were evolving into a new species altogether, completely unknown to man’s eyes. In a broken dial, a cellar spider busily spun a web.

They lived in the lull of the cooling system and in darkness, for there were no working lights in this room. It had been many years since any living thing knew the purpose of so many switches and dials and why beings would create such strange tubes along the ceilings and walls. If the reasons were written down somewhere or lost, no one was around to decipher the language. The remains had to speak for themselves.

Behind the heavy doors, worn down by time and weather, the final room was the noisiest. The pipes groaned and shook with great elderly tremors, and the cooling system gurgled and choked as it had for nearly two hundred years. The temperature control was still working, keeping the complex a suitable climate for most life, but it was clearly on its last leg. Perhaps the more sensitive creatures on the upper floors were oblivious to this encroaching catastrophe. Out of every species living here, it was the beetles who would be fine; they were adaptable.

The walls were solid bedrock and reinforced with the best steel this intelligent species could offer. In the near total darkness, glass tubes cast a glowing shadow across the dust and desolation. Even after all of this time, they remained frozen and cold to the touch. Suspended in the stillness, two creatures curled up in their icy tombs. Perhaps they were waiting to be revived in the event of a catastrophe. Perhaps they forgot there would be no one to wake them after it was over.  

Chapter Text

They used to yell and scream at everyone a lot. 

Not always. Sometimes they settled for angry glares, like they wanted to wipe them off the face of the earth like a mother swiping a speck of dirt from her child's nose. One movement of her thumb, and they would be no more than an unpleasant memory.

Frankly, Stanley would be damned if he gave anyone the satisfaction. 

"You did what you had to do." 

He can hardly grasp his brother's trembling hands.

"Stanley, how could you say that?" 

"They attacked first. It was self defense." 

Stanford's chest heaved fast, brown eyes blown wide and red with tears.

"Stanley, they are dead."

Youths were a plague that made everyone sneer. His brother could hide behind a thin curtain of being "good" or well behaved (though this was far from true.) Stanley had nothing of the sort. He was the worst of the worst. He was a surly, and arrogant little boy, who was barely a man, who found pleasure in parading himself around like a peacock. 

When the schools were built they were cobbled together in a hurry, like no one expected there to be so many children. Pa only wanted two at most, but whichever son was the spare shifted.

When Stanley won a match, he was the wanted child. When Shermie won a badge or honor or did something good, he was the most beloved son. When Stanford did... Most things. When he wasn't getting his ass kicked by someone, enjoyed his time in the spotlight. 

Today it was none of the children. The parents seemed entirely disinterested. Those days where you "go play and make yourself useful." 

Math was spent listening to yelling and screaming. The Algebra teacher called in sick and the substitute had a giant meltdown after someone threw a pencil at the ceiling to see if it would stick. English was also a lot of screaming about how shallow and materialistic the current generation can be. Stanley skipped school after second period so he missed how the yelling and screaming ended. 

As a rule, if Stanley leaves early he will wait for Stanford to get out too before going home. It is safer for both of them if they walk home in pairs to stand a fighting chance if they were ganged up on. So Stan spends most of his time bumming around in the streets nearby trying not to get noticed by the neighborhood's most annoying traffic cop. 

He appeared just in time to look as if he never left. Stanford took his place by his side, thinking this was just any day they could walk home together. Maybe they took the wrong corner, maybe they dawdled for too long on a certain spot, or perhaps it was fate.

They did not make it home that day.

"Do you feel nothing at all?" 

Stanley shrugs. 

"Why should I?" 

Stanford did not cry. He stayed emotionless.

"Stanley, they are dead."

"So?" 

Stanley kicks a can across the road. 

"Those suckers are dead, and we're still alive." 

Chapter Text

Even in complete silence, a room cluttered only with chairs where inmates used to sit and try to speak to one another.

When Stanford was not permitted to speak to Stanley directly, he would tap out messages with the tip of his foot. Usually they were funny. He knew funny messages were risky, but it was the best way to make sure Stanley knew he was here.

If he was going crazy, or he had to be alone for a short time it wouldn't be forever because Stanford was there. He was always there.

Always.

This felt wrong.

Stanley can still hear his voice.

"I could have been someone if I wasn't here!"

With me...

Stanley thought. 

If he wasn't stuck here with me. 

Chapter Text

If a man knew how to speak the language the men in suits lazing around the
table wanted to hear, he could very well feel like one of them. Sure, Stanley could not
resist the urge to fidget and his veins itched like mad, the temptation to scratch them
was becoming almost unbearable. This morning he smoked away the last of his
cigarettes from the stress, he wasn't often invited to meetings such as this. Men of this
sort liked to keep a small select circle. They did not enjoy outsiders intruding on what
they perceived to be "personal business" and if this “business” truly was what Andrew
suspected it could be then he wanted nothing more than to leave them to it.

His former boss sat at his right, picking his fingernails, a small tell that he too was
feeling nervous. If Stanley hadn’t spent so much time around him he would have had no
idea. Not only was Leroy Salt anxious he was so unnerved he consciously avoided
showing just how nervous he was. God he wanted a cigarette, god if you're listening it’s
me, Stanley. Give me a fucking cigarette.

Salt wasn’t his boss anymore, he hasn’t been his boss since Andrew quit working
in the shipyard nearly six years ago. Mr. Salt tried everything he possibly could to keep
Stanley away from the business, he described in graphic detail on multiple occasions
once as sticky syrup swimming with angry bullet ants, another as sticking your fingers
into a pie that stains your hands with cherry red evidence of everything horrible you’ve
ever done. Out of all explanations, Andrew thought ink made the most sense.

Though he wasn't that stupid, he knew he needed to keep uncharacteristically still. If he
moved too quickly or showed any sign of fidgeting... there were consequences he didn't
want to imagine.

Likely, he could not imagine it. Long gone were the days he could carelessly
drape his arm around the arm of a giggling stranger and let her collapse against him.

They would rub their noses together and he would call her his "little peanut" while she
pretended to like it. My little peanut, my little tootie... my little...

Don Valentine cleared his throat. He was a prudent man, he liked to get down to
business and he had no time to dawdle. From what Andrew gathered, though, the man
never explicitly spoke about his family in his presence. He was one of those men who
preferred to keep a line of separation between his two lives.

If Andrew hadn't become practiced in the art of keeping his thoughts and
curiosities to himself and repressing the memories that made his heart drag up old
troubling emotions, and made him want to curl up into a ball under the table and never
come out, he would admit he was so jealous of these perfectly spotless silk shirts it
made him sick. Stanford called yesterday. The phone rang thirty-seven times before it
went silent. Andrew was too busy to answer. He didn't want Stanford in this life.

If keeping him safe meant losing him, so be it. If it meant silk shirts and comfortable white sheets... 

So be it.

Chapter Text

Tears dripped down his nose. Thunder. Thunder, it was everywhere. He could not hear anything above the shrieking. If he must die, why must he die to the soundtrack of man's best intentions gone awry? Is this how the world ends. If there was whispering, he could not hear it. 

He collapses onto the deck. It shudders with life. It is alive. They won't be for long. It will stay alive, the ocean. 

"You were always a walking contradiction, Stanley Pines."

"Really?" He laughs hard. He chokes. "That's rich coming from you."  

They press together to stay warm. They hide from a world that wants them to die lonely deaths. If they must die (and they must) they die together. 

"I can't believe it..." Stanford gasps in fear, "I can't believe it. I'm here." His eyes are wide. "With you!" 

The sky split into stars. The waves swallowed the bodies. There would be nothing left to bury. Shoes washed up on the shores without feet. This was how they died.

There will be no gods coming to save them. They were the sons of scared men trying to be brave. 

Stanley squeezes his hand so tightly it hurts. 

Chapter Text

He has left: the lab coat McGucket draped over his shoulders lies discarded on the floor. He took his long shadow on the basement floor with him as his footsteps faded. He quit; not once did he look back. 

“I don’t need you!” Ford shouts, shrouded in the blue glow of a coffin of his own creation. Light appears once more across the floor, he wonders briefly if he changed his mind, if he will come back. “I don’t need anyone!” 

The door closes shut, leaving him alone—no, not alone. Voices bounce off the walls. He wasn’t alone, just in every way that matters. 

This is how the world is going to end: he will pick himself off the floor and return upstairs to brew himself another cup of coffee. He will ignore the dirty coffee mugs in the sink that are not his and the dishes he promised to finish. His partner was too anxious about the test. He joked his hands were so shaky he would break a plate. Ford promised to take care of it. He forgot. 

The house slippers Fiddleford wore on off days lay forgotten in the corner since his muse wisely advised him to eliminate distractions. They stayed where he left them, worn at the bottoms and covered in a layer of dust. 

See, Ford thinks, he left his slippers; he has to come back. What about his favorite coffee cups and lab coat and his toothbrush and his pocket knife and his favorite jacket? Pa forgot to pack them into the duffel bag. He’s going to notice they are missing. Then he’s coming back. He has to. He never went anywhere without them. 

“He has to come back."

He says out loud to no one in particular. 

“He needs me,” he says, and it seems true.

Chapter Text

When he falls to his knees in the snow, don't just stand there.

Don't watch him, the cold metal of a weapon still in your hands. Prom night strawberry punch leaking out. The bowl shattered; the red plastic cups weren't sturdy after all. So easy to crush in your fist. Stained with cherry red paint, not his, yours. You haven't touched him.

Before your body feels more like your own again, before you can shock sense into yourself and realize what you have done, it's too late. White powdery flakes pepper your hair and cover the body of your brother, still and cold in the snow.

What have you done?

When the body goes limp in the snow, you don't do anything. You don't cradle him like he was once something precious, like you were ever there through the cold and the silence.

Don't pick him up in your trembling arms and position him with great care in the passenger's seat of his car. Don't wrap a blanket around his shoulders like it will do any good, like blood doesn't pool and stick into the leather seats he used to be so proud of keeping clean. Don't start the car and drive through the peeping trees, tires skidding on ice.

How did he make it through all of this snow? All of this snow just to die. 

You don't feel your eyes start to droop shut. You don't see the man before you hit him. The impact knocks you backward. You don't shield the body of your brother from hitting the dashboard. He makes no sound. You want to sob, but you can't. You don't cry. 

Don't step out of the car. Don't look down and see the heap of a man groaning and crying out in animal agony. He screeches at you, but you don't understand him. He bites, and claws, and gnashes his teeth, and screams, but you don't mind him. You pick him up and tuck his trembling body away into the backseat. You all go home.

At the end of the day, only one voice speaks to you softer than any other. Warm like the heat lamp of an incubator. He was waiting for you. He knew you would come around eventually.

This time when you take him in your own necrotic blood-crusted hands, it feels like the last. Everywhere, there is only you, scattered torn-up papers, coffee cups, and snow tracked in under your boots melting into puddles on the floor.

You wonder what kind of man they will think you were. You hope they don't think of you at all. The bodies stare back, ignorant and hollow as you are in the ruin of what used to be your life.

It isn't your life anymore. If he wants it so bad, he can have it. 

Chapter Text

On the ocean everything moved with a fragile, desperate motion. There was nowhere to go but forward in search of something to sustain the functions of life. 

Stanley's brother tosses the fish heads picked clean after yesterday's meal into the ocean.

He says without a doubt they will be seen again. New skin, new flesh, and new bones unmarred by flat human teeth. 

They wake up in the morning. Stretch their aching bones, greet the dawn with creased skin dog-eared like well-loved paperbacks someone intended to finish before they set it down, forgotten, never to return. 

They are battle-worn and guilt-ridden. They stand with their shoulders barely touching each other. This is the closest they have been in years without biting back the bitter bile of anger. No clenched fists or grinding teeth. Just fish, the ocean, his brother, and another day vanishing. 

Nothing can exorcise these ghosts:

Even the setting sun eyes from the clouds. 

Stanley thumbs his nose at it.

Chapter Text

"I can't sleep!" 

"Just close your eyes, and don't talk anymore." 

"I can't!"

The burning tugging at the corners of his eyes. It was just an allergic reaction. He was just tired. His eyes were washing out dust from the day. 

He was fine. 

"Sure you can. Just shut your eyes and lay there long enough." 

"When I die," he says, "make sure my name is printed in the front of the paper, not the back."

She talked about it with such vitriol. The names hidden in the back, where most people stop reading, unknown and forgotten. 

Fiddleford raises an eyebrow. 

"When you die?" 

"If I die." 

"If I say yes, will you quit your yammering and go to bed?" 

"Yes, but only if I see it in writing." 

Stanford can just close his eyes. Bill will appear during sleep after all, he should just rest. Nothing more. 

Chapter Text

“You want tea? I made tea. The good stuff this time.” 

“No thank you.” 

“You want water?” 

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” 

“Are you sure? You need water. If you don’t drink enough fluid, you’ll stink up the bathroom. The whole toilet. I’ve seen you boys and-” 

“I don’t enjoy tea, that’s all.” 

“Nonsense. I told you, it’s good stuff.” 

“Is it raspberry? I’m afraid I cannot have it, I’m allergic.” 

“No you aren’t. Who told you that?” 

“No one needed to, I grow red bumps around my lips and I have headaches.” 

“Pfft, you're just saying that because it’s your brother’s favorite.” 

“What? Stan always preferred blueberries, he hated raspberries-” 

“Not him, your other brother. Sherman.” 

“Ah.” 

“Why are my drawers all yanked out and picked through?” 

“I was looking for the phone book.”

“What do you need that for?” 

“I have to quit my job at the library, I’m leaving for college in two weeks.” 

“College? Since when were you leaving for…” she snapped her fingers. “I knew I was missing something! You were going to… what was that place called? West Coach..."  

“Can we talk about something else?”

“See, your father, he’s a traditional man. You need to understand, it’s not his fault, he grew up in a different time. When he talks about staying close to family, he means what he would have needed. Me? I understand, you're a young man. You need to live your own life without your parents all over you. If California is where you gotta go, you should go.” 

“I’m not going there. They rejected me, I didn’t get in.” 

“Oh, that’s right. I remember now.”

Chapter Text

"Don't worry, I am a doctor after all." 

Stanford was trying to be reassuring, in his own way. It was a pain to move the man into a chair, and just Stan’s luck to trip, fall, and injure himself at the end of human civilization on earth.

"Oh?" 

Ford’s readiness to pull out a scalpel (where did he find that thing anyway?) and dissect something never ceased to amaze him. "You never told me you graduated from medical school."

"I almost did."

Stanford waved his very sharp scalpel around to emphasize his point. “I’m basically a doctor… or at least the next best thing.. At least, the closest thing you have." 

"Weren't you… expelled and you never told me what you were expelled for-"

Chapter Text

Just yesterday McGucket was working on a presentation on the benefits of washing out gutters before they get full. Mentally of course. 

He wasn't particularly passionate about the topic. But neither was he completely neutral about the topic either. Gutters do become filled with dirt and leaves and need cleaning. Someone has to do it. That person has to be convinced to do it.

Usually through monetary compensation. Money is a scam. Everyone knows money is a scam but they want to get their hands on it anyway.

Not everyone knew money was a scam until things in the world got worse. Now everyone with a brain knows.

Fiddleford Hadron McGucket is old enough to reflect on his past thoughts and actions and feel guilty about the very real fact: he did not always know or think this.

The invisible presentation audience will never see it. He doesn't know any gutter cleaners, and he doesn't have gutters of his own in the lonely space. Where slept in, and collected piles of garbage in the cheapest motel available on the outer limits of town. 

He might have used his time more wisely on a presentation about the benefits of throwing away beer cans. Way before they clutter your floors and make it hard to walk without feeling the vulgar crunch of aluminum under bare feet. 

He doesn't know. He's lived too long and is tired far too much to question the state of his floor and whatever got him here.

Roommates. 

He should get roommates. Right? Roommates were practical, as long as the roommates themselves were logical and practical themselves. Really he should congratulate himself for considering his personal finances so thoroughly. 

That and the encroaching state of loneliness he had been fighting off for years. 

Enough to remind him. 

Remind him of the places he took him. Where men like haggard scarecrows shamble around lawns spewing poison in the form of the twentieth century’s toxic specialty. Breathing in the fumes of lingering toxicity he could almost allow himself to be whisked backward in time holding the yellow pages in one hand; as Mary and her army of garden gnomes glared at him from the greenery.

They never explained what he did to displease them.

Chapter Text

It was absolutely nuts! Bystanders wondered how Stanford could possibly know what he knew? 

They guessed it had to be some innate thing. If it weren't something inherent, something he was born with just as much an abnormality as his disfigured hands, how could he know it and they could not? It was unnatural, creepy even. They asked how he knew that, Ford learned better than to truthfully answer because that wasn't what anyone wanted. They wanted to believe it was all foundational. 

Truthfully, no one really asked this question, at least not very many people. It was just those incidents where it came up that stuck with him. Because it was funny, it made for good conversation, it was easy to laugh about. There weren’t many things about him that were comical. People don’t like a person who is self serious, they like a person they can elbow and joke around with.

The year Stanford stopped reading Asimov was the year he turned eighteen. When he went through his shelves and gave away everything which seemed fantastical and childish. The copy Hobbit they both read cover to cover until the back cover fell off and three of the pages were missing needed to go, Watership Down had to go, and Asimov had to go. 

If he opened the Hobbit one last time just to look at the place they scribbled their names one more time, that was nobody’s business but his own.

He became a cinder block. Instead of a mirror his papers and desk became his perfectly reflective pull he couldn’t run away; he kept gazing at it until he withered away into dust.

If he only tried hard enough they would never see him for the fraud he was, the way he needed them to talk about how good he was or he felt he would die. Ford would bend himself backwards and contort his body in shapes like a pretzel just so the effort of slowly killing himself would draw some eyes. Then he would hate the eyes. He would spring his spine back into its normal S curve and burn with resentment at the audacity for them to look at his display.

 “I used to read that science fiction stuff as a teenager.” 

Stanley could hardly subdue the urge to scoff, “I don’t have the time for it anymore.” 

A hobbit can’t fill up his car with gas just like a rabbit on a page won’t make him any less hungry.

The world was filled with good old fashioned lies. Stan couldn’t judge, he made a living from lies too. His lies just weren’t the kinds of baloney that made a bestseller.

And they both dreaded loneliness. They both felt dead in isolation, they wanted someone to look at them. Then they simmered with resentment when anyone did. 

“Look! I work my butt off! I got a car that drives and I get to push and shove all the other losers out of the way to get to the gas first!” 

They begged. 

“I gave myself a fancy haircut and nicked my ears with the fancy new red scissors. I feel no fear, I pop a pill because my stomach hurts. What more do you want from me? I’m not a circus act by choice!” 

And when someone did look at them they felt a sickening relief and a vexing discomfort deep in their gut they could never swallow away.

Ford chewed his lip until he could taste the pungent salt of blood on his tongue and decided he liked it that way. Because who is he if not a set of glasses, papers, and a haircut? Certainly not a man..

He kept scrubbing a dish. It was still dirty, always dirty. 

Chapter Text

Not everyone who gets the poliovirus ends up in an iron lung. It's just the unlucky ones that do. And cancer doesn’t make your hair fall out, it's the drugs that do it. So sometimes Ford has to walk on by like the girl in the iron lung at a state fair.

The familiar looking vehicle was just any vehicle. The man who slept inside it and his haggard face could have no resemblance to his own reflection on the shop windows. Mom taught him the best solution was to walk on by. 

At least of them needed to be warm. What good would it do if they were both cold?

It wasn’t his father who taught him that lesson. It was mom. They were walking back home after a visit to her sister. Mom often went behind Dad’s back to borrow sums of money from her. She always made them promise not to tell their father. Winking, she would say “it’s our little secret.”

It was a particularly cold evening. A man was huddled in the corner with a small blanket around his shoulders. He caught their eyes and Ford stared back at him. Mom pretended he wasn’t there at all. 

“Isn’t he cold?” 

Ford struggled to keep up with her. It felt wrong to leave the man there, or treat him as if he was invisible. And weren’t they supposed to help people? They mentioned it when they talked about that guy Ford wasn’t sure was real.

“Just keep walking, honey” Mom didn’t turn her head. The snow was beginning to fall softly like ashes from the end of a cigarette. “If you rip off half your coat for some guy then you’ll both be cold.” She squeezed his small hand through his mittens. “Isn’t it better if at least somebody stays warm?” 

Soon enough the shivering man was a mere speck at the end of the street until he disappeared. He disappeared from Ford’s mind too, as if he never existed. It was easier to bury the guilt in his chest, so new he hadn’t known it was guilt. 

Mom taught him to keep on walking. Life was hard for everyone. Vae victis, as they say.

Chapter Text

Stan realized they were the villains long before Ford.

“So you certify yourself as insane?”

“For sure, I’m certifiably loony ma’am. The Army won’t take me, they say I’ve got “exemptionitis...” it's a very rare condition, nobody’s seen it before."

“I thought you stated before they granted you a deferment due to the fact you were schizophrenic?” 

“Also a homosexual, don’t forget that one.”

Chapter Text

Six years old. Ford doesn't look both ways before he crosses to the other side of the street. No one's gonna tell him that no one's gonna come barreling down the streets to knock him down without stopping. He takes it as a given. When the thought would pass through his mind he would assure himself they would move out of the way in time.

Five year old Ford never knew this fear. He dashed across behind his brother and didn't think twice about it.

Ten years old. No one likes a know-it-all so they don't like him. He tries to hold a girl's hand but she runs away screaming. He tries not to remember all of those names people called him. 

Ford’s brother takes him to a freak show. Only when he identifies with the freaks, holding up all twelve fingers does anything work out for him. The tattooed lady grins with seven missing teeth. He sees his future in her. It scares him.

Stanley talks about sailing away on a rusty piece of scrap metal. He's still missing two of his baby teeth.

A year from now Pa will sign them both up for boxing lessons. Stanley is a better fighter, he grins at Ford with a swelling black eye and a bloody nose. His teeth are crooked.

Fifteen and now sometimes people like a know-it-all. He enters every spelling bee, every science fair, and he wins. Being smart means people like him, so he isn’t just a freak anymore. He means something. 

Stanley is still talking about sailing away. Maybe he just wants to escape.

Chapter Text

“I’m giving you a chance to do the first worthwhile thing you’ve done in your life, and you won’t even listen!”

His heart was beating far too quickly for comfort, Stanford could not let his weakening body control him. There was such limited time, his eye twitched. God the twitching was annoying. He put the world in danger and now it was his job to save it, his solemn duty.

Could no one see that? Stan couldn’t or he wouldn’t be starting this petty argument while the world was at stake! How could he?

“And what have you ever done with your life, Stanley? You lied, stole. What good have you ever done for the world?”

The words tumbled from Stanford’s mouth, they felt like a mass of jumbled up syllables. God he was tired. 

He expected his brother to shout back, to do something rash or violent. Punch him, push him around, burn up all the love Stanford ever had for the man he once called his only friend. 

“Well?” Stanford hid his hands behind his back, “are you listening to me?” 

Stan’s expression was stone cold like he was calculating all of the decisions leading up to this point. Good, maybe he was finally feeling the remorse he should. After this was all over they could make up and… Stanford doesn’t truly believe that.

It’s wishful thinking. He knew that from the moment he sent the postcard. He knows it now when he realizes Stan’s eyes are filled with such hurt. Dark circles underneath. He looked tired. They had something in common. 

“You never wanted me.” 

Ford snaps out of his thoughts. 

“Excuse me?”

“You never wanted me back in your life,” Stanley turns the journal over in his trembling hands. “I thought we were going to make up, we could be brothers again.” His shoulders sagged. “I guess I was wrong, huh?” 

Stanford stares at him. 

“What? The world is at stake, Stanley!” he can’t help exasperation from seeping into his voice. “The entire world, and everyone in it! Don’t you think there are more important things?” 

“What has that world ever done for me?” Stan scoffs, “but toss me out and call me trash, worthless. Like you and everyone else?” 

“I should have expected this.” Ford wants to tear out his hair from the roots. “I should have expected you to be this selfish, I knew you would do this. I don’t know why a part of me expected you to be better.” 

He feels a bit triumphant. Running off on Stanley and saying all of these things while Stan stands a few feet away from him. Finally he can hear all of it. Everything he needs to hear. Maybe he will take it to heart and change. 

“I’ll take your journal,” Stan says flatly, his footsteps heavy against the basement floor.  “But don’t expect to see me again, you don’t want me in your life? Fine.” 

“That’s fine." 

Stanford almost believes it. 

Chapter Text

"See... See, look!"

Stanford recited rhythmically, like a school primer. Simple sentences. Look at this. Look at Mom. Look at Dad. A hole is to dig. Mashed potatoes are to have enough.

"Look, look. Do you see it?" 

He knew the eyes in front of him were dry, red, and empty. They said talking to a wall would've been a better use of his time. Nothing got across to him. It started to die somewhere in his ears, and is vaporized in the acid soup he had for brains. 

Stanford twisted the string tight around his fingers. It hurt at first. They went numb after a while. 

"See the cradle? See, see? Look, look. See?" 

Stanley died as they knew he would. Waving his arms around trying to look tough. He looked stupid. He cried in the end. It was the last thing Stanley ever did except die. 

"Look, look, see?" 

Chapter Text

Mist—Stanford can’t see, can’t move in the direction of his boots waiting patiently by the door.

His snow shoes are two tennis rackets fixed to the bottom of his soles with rope, nothing fancy, but they would do. The power has been out, the backup generators failed, the house is impossibly large, empty, and unbearably cold. 

The embers of his fireplace, where he braced himself and curled up to sleep under every blanket in the house, still shivering, teeth chattering so hard he feared they would break in his skull, and oh- did he hate dentists, doctors, the whole lot of them. Prodding and picking at him as if they knew better. No, he had no need for their “expertise.” 

Yesterday his orange bottle was officially empty. He doesn’t need it. He’s doing just fine. Perhaps there was never a need for pills anyway. They did not cure him. They only allowed him to manage through the winter with slightly more ease and less temptations. Horrible thoughts. 

“Today I will go into town.”

He says to himself. 

“I will look for somewhere warm to weather the storm.” 

No matter how many sour looks they gave him.

“If I stay here. I will turn into a human freeze pop.”

That would not do. 

“I’m close enough already.” 

His eyes drift closed. His fingers buzzed with unearned energy, and chills. He rubs them together hoping to save some sensation. It’s no use. He shivers. Every atom within him ached, rebelled against his meager lazy death, too cold and heavy to move and save himself. 

His muse appears in his dreams. He scolds, asks him if he’s trying to freeze to death. Stanford can’t answer. Over, and over, he shakes his head. No, he wasn’t trying to die. It was just so cold. So lonely. So hard to move. 

When he wakes, a fire is burning.

He huddles close. Silently thanks his muse, his savior, his light in a storm. There’s a new cut on his finger. He takes it into his mouth to taste warm blood.

Chapter Text

Caryn has two sons. 

She is often reminded of this fact, as if she could forget. 

Stanley was placed onto her chest, screaming into life. He looked almost nothing like her. He had his father's ears, nose, and temper. The only thing she gave him was life, a gift no one thanks you for. She's only just woken up from anesthesia.

He is settles in her arm. The doctor looks down at her, his balding pink head and white hairs barely hanging on. She asks, before he can answer. 

"You had two sons "

The doctor echoed, as if she hadn't just pushed them out of her.

"I had two sons," she says, "where's the other one?" 

"One of them is normal, the other is. Different." 

"Different?"

Her blood ran cold. 

"Different how?" 

"He is alive, and healthy, just born with a minor defect on his hands. We took him to run a few tests to be sure-" 

"Let me see him then." 

"Ma'am, I understand this may be distressing news to hear-" 

"If he's alive and healthy, then what's the big deal? Bring him to me. I don't want you, doctors using my son like some kinda lab experiment."

Stanford is brought to her. He settles next to his brother, quiet and curiously extending his tiny arms to grasp her with all six fingers. 

"S'that what you were worried about?" She chuckles, "just extra fingers?" 

Delicate hairs cling to their heads, deep brown like her sisters, faces pink and flushed like her mother's. Twelve fingers, just like her brother. Just like him.

"There is a procedure, to have them removed if you would like to discuss options."

Her nose wrinkles. She just got him back. Her twelve fingers just like the strong hands that held hers at train stations so she wouldn't feel scared. Now so small, they wrap around her pinky finger with ease when they once dwarfed her entire hand. People were cruel,

Stanley answers with a high pitched wail. She chuckles and draws him closer to her chest. 

"Well you heard him."

They look like him but they are hers. 

Oddballs ran in her side of the family, not the Pines.

Caryn held her sons in both arms. Two of them. One on each arm. 

"Absolutely not, we won't."

She has two sons. No one needs to remind her of that fact.

She knows. 

Chapter Text

Stay calm—no, calm, calm…

That’s it, good 

In out    In out

Out       in 

No, that’s wrong. Sorry, that’s not how it goes.

No, I’m not any good at this...

So far south, so far, near the edge of the earth.

Arctic waters tenderly hold the boat of dreams.

In the night, like a mother, soothing

her fussy children.

Wait, no no...

That’s not right.

This is not right.

How do I

Remember the way

To console you? 

I can’t even forget, 

my own bad dreams 

There are beers under the desk, and 

So many unspoken, unwritten secrets, only

 A slap on the back

A punch on the arm

To settle the loss

Why, out of all possible universes, 

Why did we survive?

Good, that’s 

That’s the 

way. Keep 

it up.

I knew you,

could do it.

We can make it.

They voted him most paranoid. 

They did not know. 

He was watched. 

He couldn’t have known.

From his first steps 

From the millisecond

His tiny, disfigured hands

Could reach up to grasp that symbol 

On the mobile above his crib 

He was watched. 

In out 

In out

In out 

In 

Out 

When do we stop trying to forget?

When do we stop looking for an exit?

In that old saying,

The child unloved by his village

Warms himself by the flames of its undoing

He wanted to return. 

More than he wanted them to burn

He wanted them to love him.

He knew he would have to become

Something, unlike himself and 

The anomalies of the forest 

His kindred spirits were a temporary alliance. 

To gain what he craved,

The deer grazing in the clearing 

The children of his street, who grew up, married,

Became paper people.

They were fine without him. 

He tore up the pages of an unflattering reflection.

to watch as he went up in smoke.

Time to find a new dream.

This one isn’t worth it. 

It never was. 

There is nothing.

There has always been nothing

kind, for you here in

The intercession you called home.

When do I stop,

Looking for excuses?

To run away from myself? 

If, in decades' time, 

I will become a collection.

Of ink and paper 

Unknown to everyone 

Not a villain 

Not a hero 

Only myself

I would like

To be humble

Like the caterpillars 

Who climb my windows 

Do they know what they become? 

Are they free because 

They have no need.

To wonder?

In out

In out 

Out 

In

He sleeps. 

Chapter Text

What? You want to wake up and realize the past forty years were a dream? When we were young, and there were no halves of a whole—just the whole, as we once were?

So together, in sync, we needed no explanations, no words. No one hiding under beds, no one left alone out there in the cold, one eye open. A crumpled picture of two little boys by the sea pinned to the mirror? No one out there farther than any man has ever been, under a sky with too many moons and all the wrong stars?

We were wanderers from the beginning—do you remember? We depended on one another.

Photographs don’t capture the soul, they are the engravings of longing to preserve what matters in the eye of the beholder.

When we could see each other and want nothing but what we were, what we had, and nothing more. Two children playing on the shore—making it on our own was as ludicrous to imagine as was settling down.

Chapter Text

I literahly love yoh...

Love yuuh

Unnnn….

He cannot move. He cannot see.

Lips move above him.

Then sometimes the demon disappeared.

Noises garbled and incomprehensible from thin lips, heady and foul like cigarettes and chocolate chip cookies, disappeared and there was only pain. Blinding, blissful. Until reality would funnel into heavy darkness, then nothing, and then?

There was no “then” only nothing, after nothing, after pain. Something poked and prods his arms, it promises to take away his pain if only he lets it.

Pain subsides, he begins to form a sense of awareness, this darkness was not bliss, it was a trap. If he allows himself to stay in this inky lagoon, he will never be able to climb out and he will never be found.

The light, light is what he needs. Like the sun of the beach, he used to run along as a boy, Stanley used to dare him to reach one side of the shore faster. He remembers the freeing feeling of the sand beneath his feet and the wind in his hair, how vast the ocean yet how familiar and comforting it was- that vastness.

Before the pain, before that was all he knows. A sinking feeling, like being picked off the ground or carried out of a car while pretending to be asleep, when his father and brother saw they were young enough to spare such small indulgences, to carry their half sleeping bodies to bed.

When the pain resumes, when light fills everything, he knows he has not died.

He wishes he had. Then he could feel no more pain, forever. He should not be here alive. He should not be in pain; he should sink into nothingness and the oblivion after. What is keeping him here against his will? His body is so tired, every atom bracing itself through hissed teeth with the effort of survival.

He is alive.

I can keep up. He thought. Wait for me, I can keep up. I can keep up, wait for me.

Then the blackness began to fade to grey. He stayed home sick from school, blankets piled all around him. Sometimes it would stop. Then he wouldn’t exhale, couldn’t inhale, became aware this was it and his brain panicked. No, he wanted to live. Now that he would die, he wanted to live more than anything.

What was this all for? If he was only to die! 

"C'mon, c'mon..." 

Please... Please, let me go. 

He begged silently.

Allow me to die.

Chapter Text

Were he not born a man, Stanford would have been told the rules from the beginning.

Keep your head up, don't make eye contact, but make eye contact when needed, show you are not to be messed with, you have a destination and a determination to get there. If someone grabs you, beat them over the head until they let go and shout about fire, they won't care if you shout for help, baby. They want to know about fire, fire burns the rest of us, if you die we just keep going like business as usual. Don't show low self esteem, they like that, they see a chance with that. Don't let him take you anywhere no one can see you.

They did not think he would need them, they thought if some sick bastard came to mess with him then a decade away from the boxing ring he could finish the fight with a strong left hook, he wasn't the brother with the strong upper cut- that was Stanley. Stanford was far from helpless, he was confident, assured if he distanced himself far enough from everyone who could hurt him then everything would be just fine. 

He wouldn't need to learn the rules of survival. The only monsters he needed to watch out for were the ones created in his own head or outside in the woods, magical creatures who held no personal grudges just the will to live. 

In those days, no one felt the need to warn about strangers. There was a sense of trust or perhaps just naive indifference. No one wanted to take their kids. Who would want the little brats anyway? If some sicko wanted to snatch em up, as his father gracefully put it, then let em come and take them. It would just be one more mouth for them to feed, and boy did they eat a lot. Dad reminded them how much they ate often. 

Stanford tried to be smart and joke he would try to prevent himself from requiring food to live, Dad solved his smart mouth with a swift backhand. Don't get smart with me, he said, you might be smart but I'm big and that's what matters in this world. Don't you become a smart ass, more than you are already. 

He bit his lip. He sucked to taste the blood. It tasted good. 

He told him how much he loved Stanford's work even after everyone else laughed and laughed and told him to take a hike. What a freak, they said, a freak and crazy. Stanford was ready to pack it up and drive his car into the lake when he arrived. He said he saw something special in him. Stanford had potential, he could be something and all of those losers who laughed at him would be nothing but bones and dust. 

But the two of them, they were special.

Chapter Text

Yet again he has returned. 

There is no defensible reason for him to be there, no classes to attend, no one to meet, he is not lost- he is never lost. He knows where he's going or where he's supposed to be and he knows the way to get there. So why does he linger? The humming of lights overhead fills him with a sense of dread. He can't describe it. It isn't like he's surprised to see him there, he could reach out or say hello, or something, anything would be better than standing there in dull stunned silence. He has a new scab to occupy his hands. That works. Not very flattering. 

He must go, he has places to be while he's still living. That has to count for something right? No one thought he would go anywhere 

In some way they must have known he could never live up to all of his dreams. He would crash and burn. He never wanted to fulfill any body's fantasy but his own. Maybe it was selfish. He was selfish. Everyone was selfish, they only dressed up their self interest with altruism. It wasn't altruism and they hated him because he of all people was smart enough to see right through the facade. 

Stan caught a glimpse of his unshaven chin on the window. Shaving soon, he thought to himself, the irritating business of shaving. He had no more razors. He threw them all out on a self preserving impulse only to forget the very thing he needed them for in the first place. Shame curdled in his gut. He crumpled it up into a little paper ball and cast it into the ether.