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As he walks down the boardwalk, Stanley Pines isn’t sure the last time he was this sweaty. He’d packed his best – though, now that he’s wearing it, not the best-fitting – suit, which turns out is far more suited to an Oregon November than a New Jersey July. An ocean breeze momentarily dries the rivulets of sweat that trickle down his neck, and Stan is tempted to unbutton his suit jacket and air himself out. Not that it’ll matter. As soon as he leaves the beachside and starts down the winding alleys to his destination, he’s going to end up just as damp as before.
Worse, the humidity accentuates all the places his clothes no longer fit. Stan is intensely aware of the way the pants dig into his stomach and the jacket strains at the biceps, a combination of reasonable fitness and truly terrible diet, and mildly regrets not replacing this suit that he’s had for over a decade. Technically, he could afford it. Stan’s found a good rhythm with the Mystery Shack and business is booming. But supplies aren’t cheap (understatement of the century) and he just paid what is, to Stan, a small fortune in the way of a last-minute, cross-country plane ticket.
He considered driving.
He considered not coming at all.
It’s not even like he’d need to make up an excuse. July is peak tourist season and Stan, a seasoned businessman, would be lighting money on fire if he gave any of those days up. But apparently he’s not opposed to arson, because he’s sacrificing three days, a motel bill, and a round-trip plane ticket to be here today, sweating buckets in his ill-fitting suit.
All for someone who wouldn’t return the favor.
Stan grimaces at the thought, lingering on it for only a moment before attempting to rearrange his expression into something more palatable. Can’t be making that face in public. Not when he’s supposed to be Stanford. Unlike Stan, who had been prone to fits of temper and excitement in equal measure as a boy, his brother always did manage to be more composed. Or, probably more accurate, more reserved.
He pauses at a street corner, assessing the surroundings. Glass Shard Beach has changed a lot in the decades since Stanley was its resident, familiar roads lined with unfamiliar homes and businesses and faces. He’s supposed to take a right on Beach Street, right? Or…no, it was right at the Swank’s house, right? Was that house on Beach Street? Is that house even there anymore?
For a brief moment, Stan regrets not grabbing a tourist map from the motel. With a growl of irritation, he takes the right. It is Beach Street, but if this is the spot where the Swanks used to live, their house has been turned into a frozen yogurt shop. Funny, isn’t it? Here one second, gone the next, wiped away like it never happened. Despite the overhead sun, the thought sends a cold shiver down Stan’s spine. Gone doesn’t always mean gone. Gone can’t always mean gone.
Then again. Today it does.
Ugh. Stan literally doesn’t have time for the sinking sensation of something to the left of grief. Having overslept his alarm, he’s already running late as it is. And thanks to the red-eye, even with the unfortunately planned nap, Stan’s only operating on a couple hours of sleep, max. Definitely the state someone should be in when they’re about to impersonate their brother at a funeral.
He takes a left - pretty sure that restaurant on the corner used to be a laundromat. Stan jogs down the sidewalk, relying entirely on muscle memory as he weaves around tourists ambling towards brunch spots and beach chairs. It’s odd to think that their biggest worry today will be whether or not they remember to apply sunscreen, while Stan’s about to watch–
–anyway, as he elbows his way through a line for a donut shop that is way, way too long, Stan mildly regrets not taking Shermie up on the offer to crash at the apartment. Sure, it would have meant the unending presence of his older brother’s family, but at least he coulda taken a car to the cemetery. Or at least be woken up before the ceremony in the synagogue finished.
Deep down, Stan’s not too disappointed about missing the latter. He doesn’t have anything kind to say about Filbrick Pines, but Stanford, who bears their dad’s name, surely would. It would have been the ultimate test of Stan’s con-artist abilities, whether or not he could believably sing Dad’s praises in front of family and neighbors, and frankly, Stan’s not up for that challenge right now. It’s going to be bad enough just pretending to be Ford through all this.
As he rounds another corner, the small cemetery of Glass Shard beach slides into view. Few people live in this town and fewer still are buried here, rendering this plot of land generally untended, grass and graves alike. Stan hops the crumbling stone fence, wincing as he hears something tear ever so slightly in his pants. It’s funny that this is what nearly does him in. Something about arriving late, shirt soaked through with sweat, pants torn, just feels so incredibly, so painfully Stanley that he can hear the rebuke in Filbrick’s voice.
Except now, Filbrick’s just a cold body about to be buried in the earth and neglected just like everything else in this mediocre resting place. Stan could show up naked and covered in honey and Dad wouldn’t be able to say a goddamn thing about it. Bolstered by this thought, Stan gives his suit a final once-over – the tear isn’t even visible – before making his way to the huddle of mourners. As he approaches, they part with murmured whispers. For one horrifying moment, Stan’s worried it’s because of him, but he turns to see the box containing his father held aloft nearby.
At least he hasn’t missed the main event. In Stan’s absence, the responsibility to bear the casket has fallen largely to Shermie and – god, that must be his son, Charlie, who’s no longer the baby Stan remembers, but a fully grown man, a faint wisp of brownish-blonde facial hair on his chin. Stan’s marveling at the family resemblance when a hand curls around his wrist.
He jumps, whirling around to come face to face with his mother. Grief has rendered her regal, makeup impeccable, white hair pulled up in an elegant bun. Tongue heavy, Stan fumbles for an excuse, but Caryn just shakes her head in a sharp jerk. “There’s still time,” she whispers, pointing to the casket, which is making its slow way to the open grave nearby.
This is the last thing Stan wants to do, but he knows his mother well enough to understand her comment is not a statement, or even a request, but a demand. Shoulders set, he walks out from the small knot of guests to approach the remains of his father. Shermie gives him a warm smile, scooting over to give Stan space to awkwardly slot himself in. Ain’t that just on the nose, huh? Can’t even fit into his own father’s funeral properly.
He’s grateful for Shermie, at least. As the eldest of the Pines kids by over a decade, Shermie was always more of a gentle reprieve than a sibling, the company during winter break, the grown-up who could be depended on to sneak the twins a dime to spend on the boardwalk or eat the broccoli off their dinner plates. Shermie’s broad-shouldered, with calloused hands from decades of welding and short-cropped hair that Stan’s alarmed to discover is now entirely gray.
As the weight of his father settles on his shoulder, Stan feels a lump grow in his throat at the injustice of it all. Filbrick has loomed heavy over Stan’s life for decades. Present in every bottle drained and dollar collected, his absence at Stan’s own funeral is made all the more glaring today, the ache just as sharp and keening as the day Stan buried his old life. No father should have to carry their child to the final resting place, but Stan will forever carry the knowledge that his father could , but decided against it.
Eyes, sunlight and ghosts beat down on Stan as he makes the agonizingly long journey to the graveside. As they lower Filbrick’s casket slowly, ever so slowly, Stan’s overcome with the desire to simply drop it, to let his father fall as far as Stanley did at 18 - alone, afraid, and abandoned. But Stan’s never been good at letting go.
When he finally sets the casket down, it is with unrecognizable gentleness.
As Stan stares down at his father’s final rest, not quite comprehending his own act of kindness, he feels a strong hand on his shoulder. “Stan—?” he croaks, stopping himself before asking the impossible ford. He knows his twin isn’t here, he does. But something about saying goodbye for the both of them has Stan feeling twisted up inside.
“Sherm,” his older brother responds apologetically, hazel eyes misty before he, ever the eldest son, guides Stan away from the grave. They stand together, flanking their mother as the funeral continues, and Stan tries not to think about the fact it doesn’t feel the same. Shermie, with his greying hair and hand intertwined with his wife’s. Shermie, with a son who looks like he might be in college. Shermie, who lived a whole life before Stan and Ford even came to be.
The bluster of this morning has evaporated in the afternoon sun. When they return home - or what had once been home, anyway - Stan numbly fields a wave of greetings and condolences as he fruitlessly pokes at a plate of lunch. Stanford, we’re so sorry for your loss. Stanford, oh how you’ve grown. Stanford, what a man you’ve turned out to be.
There’s a knot in Stan’s stomach, which he chalks up to mourning on behalf of Stanford. He isn’t sad about Filbrick passing. The old man was a stubborn ass, so caught in his own pride he didn’t even go to his son’s funeral. Filbrick didn’t care about Stanley, and Stanley sure as hell doesn’t care—
“How’s the research going?” Shermie asks as he sidles up next to Stan. His plate is nearly overflowing with food and, unlike Stan, he’s attacking it with grim determination.
“Bit hard to cram it in during the height of tourist season,” Stan sets his own plate down, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. In his experience, people don’t actually look too closely at fingers, but of all the times for the mask to slip, this weekend might just be the most inopportune of moments. “But I’m making headway on some of the interdimensional physics.”
Something warm curls in his chest when he realizes how that sounds when said aloud. Stanford, the pride of the Pines family, didn’t say it. Stanley did. And he meant it, too! He is making slow, but steady, progress on his work in interdimensional physics. But just as quickly as the pride rises, the memory of that terrible last night with Ford snuffs it out cold. Stanford should be the one here right now, telling everyone about how he’d cured cancer or invented a whole new dimension.
“Gosh, that sounds complicated,” Shermie’s mouth is half full as he speaks, “You should talk to Charlie. My, uh, my son. He’s a junior at West Coast Tech, actually. Studying computer science.”
The warmth in Shermie’s voice as he boasts about his son isn’t enough to melt the icy grip West Coast Tech - Ford’s dream school - has on Stan’s spine. This house has Stan on edge. Hell, this whole town does. He wasn’t supposed to come back here, not until he’d paid back the future he’d stolen from Ford. It’s a task so monumentally impossible that Stan’s half convinced the ghost of their father will materialize and let the whole family know as much.
“No kidding?” Stan tries to slam himself back into Ford’s shoes. He’d probably have a pang of jealousy - the kid didn’t have a brother screwing up his shot to greatness - before the excitement set in. A Pines at West Coast Tech. At least one of ‘em made it. “Must be a real smart kid you’ve got, Sherm.”
Shermie’s beaming. Stan wonders what it’s like to have a son. Wonders what it’s like to have anyone.
“The smartest,” Shermie agrees, skewering an entire hard-boiled egg on his fork. “Sometimes I can’t believe he came from me. I was always the steady one, you were the smart one, and Stanley…” he trails off. Stan leans in closer, curious what his brother thinks of him. “...he was so young.”
Ah. Young.
Young is what you call someone who didn’t have any other prospects. Young is what you say when there wasn’t any visible potential. They were so young meant they could have been something, but they weren’t. And now won’t ever be. No matter what he achieves in this life now, Stanley Pines will never be anything more to his family than a streak of wasted possibilities. He balls his fists in his pockets, trying not to let the hurt show on his face.
Shermie sets down his fork and watches Stan with wide, sad eyes. “Sorry. I know you two were closer. I–” he pauses, then sighs. “I should have tried harder. You two were just so much younger, and you always had each other, and…” he waves a hand at the house, “You know how home was with Dad.”
Yeah, Stan knew that pretty damn well. Silence falls between them as they both remember you’re not really supposed to be speaking ill of the dead on the day of their funeral.
“How long has it been now?” Shermie asks softly. “Since Stanley...”
“4,539 days,” Stan knows he knows that number too readily, a steadily growing weight on his shoulders. To reassert some normalcy in this conversation about his own death, he adds, “Twelve years.”
“‘m sorry, Stanford,” Shermie murmurs. “Were you close, at the end?”
Stan looks away. Today has been a mix of his own responses and what he’s assumed Stanford would say, but he’s answering for both of them now. “I don’t know.”
They chat a little longer, Stan steering the conversation back to Shermie’s family at every turn. With past and present clashing so violently in this house, in this town, in this situation, Stan’s desperate for anything that’ll let him focus on someone else’s future for a change.
The rest of the afternoon goes on without much incident. Stan shuffles from conversation to conversation, trying to ignore just how small his childhood home seems - like Stan is a brute risking destruction at every turn. He misses his home, misses the way the pines and cedars make him feel small in their vastness. Stan’s traded clear mountain air for walls stained with the lingering scent of cigarette smoke and disapproval and it’s choking him.
Assured Ma and Sherm are occupied, Stan slips out the front door with a neighbor, feeling just as much as guest as they are. He’s not sure where to go, he just knows he can’t be there any longer.
Instinct leads him to the ocean. The secluded beach where he and Ford ruled as tiny kings of a tiny domain has, in their absence, been colonized by a handful of tourists. Stan ignores them, tugging off his tie and kicking off his shoes to cool his feet in the water. The waves curl around his pant legs, the chill comforting and familiar as he stares out into the endless blue. How many times had he looked out on these waters and imagined running away? He planned on a life of hunting for treasure, not redemption.
Smells of salt and sunscreen tug Stan to that distant past. It feels like he’s come back to his boyhood, like when the sleeping world dissolves gently into wakefulness. He’ll blink and the last three decades will evaporate, leaving only the vitality and wonder of youth in their place. Out of habit, Stan turns to look for his brother as though to tell him “ I just had the weirdest dream! ”
The absence is abrupt and unyielding.
Tears threaten the corners of his gaze, but once again, the feeling in Stan’s chest is only something like a neighbor to sorrow. He scrubs a hand across his face, wiping away the nostalgia glow to inspect the reality of it all: he’s on a shitty beach to try to mourn the shitty funeral of a shitty man. He’s at a home that doesn’t exist anymore, pretending to be someone who is equally absent.
Stanley’s not sure how Stanford would grieve. Better than Stan, surely. He’d be on time, greet all the guests, keep a stiff upper lip to Stan’s expression of constipation and Shermie’s morose frown. God, he wishes Ford was here instead. Not for the first time, Stan wonders if it would have mattered if he’d gone through that damn portal instead – after all, he’s only the “it’s a shame he died so young” twin.
A hand on Stan’s shoulder breaks the self-pitying reverie. Stan swears, whipping around to find himself face to face with his mother. Her bun’s come loose after a full day of mourning, white wisps blowing in the ocean breeze. It’s the first time they’ve really interacted one-on-one since…well. Since the last funeral.
“There you are,” she says, reaching a tentative hand to Stan’s cheek. It’s a motherly gesture foreign to both of them, and she ultimately pulls away to tug him into a tight hug instead. Stan tries not to think about how much smaller she feels against him, like a brittle twig that’ll snap if he hugs too tightly.
“You know,” she whispers, her breath hot on Stan’s ear, “Your father was so proud of you.”
Oh.
“He loved you, Stanford.”
Oh.
Something breaks inside of Stan, the what-ifs and if-onlys rising like the tide until only grief remains, lapping at his ankles, his hips, his shoulders. He presses his face against the nape of Caryn’s neck like he did as a child, bracing as he’s pulled under the waves, drowning in the absence of a brother, of a father, of a family. For the first time since he stepped foot in his haunted hometown, Stanley Pines cries.