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Stanley feels like he's been run over by a train.
Was he hungover? Nah, this is worse than that. He would take waking up hungover under a puddle of his own vomit (which has already happened quite a few times) before this. He feels like utter shit. He either did way more than just drink alcohol, or he caught something. Ah, just great.
He struggles to open his eyes, but when a flash of light hits his face and makes his head pound in protest, he closes them again. Everything hurts. His body is burning, but at the same time he is shivering. He feels around for his jacket, only for his fingertips to be met by the soft feeling of a quilt, instead of the leather of a car-seat or the roughness of a pavement.
That confuses him. He tries to make an effort to remember what happened last night, but all his mind can focus on is the miserable pain all over him, so he brushes it away. He is probably in some motel with one of his clients anyway. Maybe whatever bug he caught was this goddamn client's fault.
His body is so heavy that Stan has to make great effort to lift his hand and wipe at his face. He is sweating all over and it is gross. He groans weakly. Maybe he could try sleeping this one off. But his client would return anytime soon and he'd get kicked out...
The door opens, and Stanley tries once again to force his eyes open. It takes a while for them to focus on the person standing in the room. Stanley can’t see his face that well but he can recognize that it is an old man. Must be his client, then. He hopes this was the type of old fart to have a lot of money, but right now he couldn't remember anything about him. Did the bastard drug him, perhaps? It wouldn't be the first time someone pulled that shit with him.
The man is talking and talking. Stanley hears him as if he were underwater. He opens his mouth to try and say something, maybe beg him to let him sleep a couple more minutes until he feels capable of standing up. But all that leaves him is a weak cough. His eyes close again, keeping them open is a lot of effort.
He hears footsteps. The man is approaching him. He feels a hand against his forehead, and it feels so pleasantly cold against his skin that he leans against it, before a weak voice in the back of his head reminds him this is his client, and he recoils back in disgust.
But the hand doesn't leave him. Stanley feels two hands on him now. They yank the quilt away from him, and then attempt to go for his pants. What...? Did the man really want to do this now? Stanley tries to stand up or kick away, but he is too weak.
"I..." Stanley forces himself to talk. His speech is slurred, hazy. "Can't do this now... S'rry.."
No one ever listens to him. If he asks for it to be slower, gentler, if he asks for a moment to catch his breath, no one ever listens to him. Why would they? Stanley learnt his lesson but he still tries. He really can't do this. The man can kick him out if he wants, and keep the money for his services. But he can't do this right now.
"Keep yer money..."
But the hands are still over him, fighting and tearing at his clothes. No, no, no, he can feel the pleads slipping off him. Stanley tries to fight. He manages to lift his hands, and they weakly grab the man by the wrists and try to push him away, but it doesn't work, it doesn't work. Stanley feels nauseous and it's for many reasons at once.
The man speaks again. Stanley cannot hear him properly. He begs again.
"Please... I can't... it h'rts..."
The effort of fighting only made him more tired. His eyes are burning. He feels as if he can't breathe. The hands stop this time, but Stanley knows it won’t be for long. And he is exhausted. So he uses the remaining of his strength to shift his position so he is lying in his stomach.
"J'st... dn't be too rough..."
If he is compliant, it ends quicker. At least he can bury his face in the pillow in this position. Stanley does so, struggling to breathe and feeling even more uncomfortably hot, but at least it takes away some painful stimuli, like the lights. At least he can cry this way.
He waits, waits, waits... but nothing happens. He doesn't even feel the hands on him anymore. Stanley feels himself slowly slipping off consciousness. He's confused. Is the man waiting for him to be asleep to do it?
His ears strain to listen to something before sleep takes over. The last thing he can hear is a soft sob.
Stanford only wanted to break his fever, cool him off. The clothes were sweaty and stinky anyway. He had told him. He had told him it was just that. So why was Stanley acting like that..? Why was he... Why didn't he....
Stanley had freaked out. Can't do this now, it hurts, he had said. Don't be too rough. Just as Stanford was trying to undress him. Had fought in his weak state like a wounded animal, whining and keening.
What did he think he was going to do? What did he think he would do to his brother ? He couldn't really think it was Stanford, right?
He should know Stanford would never in a million years do... what Stanford thought Stanley meant. He felt sick. He would cut his arm off before harming him, he would never in a million years do such twisted things and Stanley should know that. He should.
Why would Stan jump to that conclusion anyway? Has this happened before...? Had... had someone done that to his brother? Was that why Stan was so scared? Because some sick fucks had implanted those fears into his head?
He would hunt them down. The people that made his brother scared like that. All of them, no matter how many, no matter how long it took.
Stanford would get names whether Stanley liked it or not and he would hunt them down.
That was his fucking baby brother. How dare they. Why would they.
...He had no idea, did he? He had no idea of what had happened to Stanley. He didn't know the extent of it. And he hated himself for it.
He is used to his brother’s memory lapses. But he will never get used to being mistaken for other people. Awful people that make Stan scream and fight and cry. He has had to dodge punches and flying objects. It makes his chest burn with anger. Who hurt you? Why do you think I’ll hurt you? Why can’t I know what’s making you feel like this?
There is no room to breathe in this place. Stanford storms off to the deck, paying no mind to the salty tears slipping down his cheeks.