Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He spent a whole decade trying to prove himself, that he could make money, that he didn’t need his family, that he could and would do great without them. However, it was a lie he repeatedly told himself to get by. Guilt ate him from the inside out and so did the fear, he had nowhere to go, and he was all alone.

The first “job” he did was treasure hunting, which wasn’t truly a job, but he decided to count it as one. In one of those days, his eyes landed on a billboard:

“TRAVELLING SALESMAN!

— be your own boss”

And he got the idea to be one, that’s how he ended up spending most of his life doing after getting kicked out. Stanley did that for many years, however not once did he truly succeed, he was more of a conman, a scammer, and many other words. He did a bit of everything, jumping from one state to another because after failures, he would be banned. In the end, he resorted to using fake identities. It became a never-ending cycle—each time he had to flee to a new state with a brand-new name.

It was a horrible period of time for him, he was so tired. Travelling around the whole country and even at times outside of it… Always a few steps ahead from the law and some other enemies he made along the way. Oh, the prison in Columbia, that one time he somehow left his country and went to another one, he made so many friends there, he didn't miss that place…, if anything he’d rather not go back.

Stanley began to spiral down an even darker path, sinking into a deeper depression. He borrowed money from loan sharks and took on even more odd jobs. For instance, he once posed for the “Hunky Drifters Catalogue” to make some quick cash—it wasn’t the worst job he had.

It wasn’t. 

Even if the job wasn't as tasteful or as classy as they had made it seen, but nonetheless it was something he gained from. He didn't have a right to complain.

Eventually, he went from smuggling drugs to using them instead. Though, he’d rather not speak about it. He doesn’t like elaborating.

Other than those minor inconveniences, he was doing perfectly fine! He didn’t miss his brother or parents at all. It’s not like he’d waste a few coins trying to call them, only to hang up right before—or just as—they answered. Definitely not!

It’s not like he was living in his car back then in poor conditions, he was in great shape, even using those little “scratch for money” things. His life was thriving, he was thriving.

Well, thriving as much as he could, as he was currently sitting in the messy bed of a cheap motel room. It was a mess, no, that was an understatement. It was basically falling apart, just like himself. The wallpaper barely hanging on the wall, the roof had cracks it was like it would fall at any moment and some liquids of dubious origin seeped through the walls, staining them. Some boxes of “Stan co”, his product, laid around the room. He didn't know at this point what was about his life; he was lost. 

A few rays of light peeked through a pair of broken Orion blinds. It was a red light, but that was due to the stupid “Motel” sign at the front. Shining brightly with those stupid neon lights.

His head hung low. He seemed lost in thought, his gaze was unfocused as he stared into nothingness. A slight frown tugged at his brow, deepening the lines on his face, as if he were struggling with a thought only he could see.

His life was a wreck.

.

.

.

Knock, knock, knock—knock, knock

The loud knocks shattered Stanley's pity party of misery, causing him to jump in his seat. He looked startled, almost scared—his face clouded with worry. He soon shifted in bed and reached behind it, looking for something.

“Just— give me a few more days, Rico!” His voice gruff, raising it a bit to be heard.

Once he got a hold of what he was struggling to grab, he pulled out a bat and raised it over his head.

“I’ll pay your goons back—I swear!” Stanley sounded a bit agitated but hid it behind his usual convincing ‘a-okay’ tone.

A letter was pushed through the mail gap, a squeaky noise sounding, showing it was rusty, and the piece of paper fell onto the fuzzy carpet. When he saw what it was, he reluctantly let go of the bat and slowly got to his feet, his hand hovering over it for a moment longer, hesitant to be far from his only self-defence weapon. Carefully, he moved toward the blue door. Standing in front of it, he pressed himself against the door and peered through the peephole, taking care not to make a sound or be fully noticeable. 

Once he saw that on the other side of the door was an old man with the uniform of a mail man walking away, he felt a sense of relief. At least today wasn’t the day he’d die. His eyes soon darted towards his feet, where the piece of paper laid. Stanley crouched and reached out to pick it up.

The front read “Gravity falls” with bold words dominating the centre. The letters, styled with a retro 3D effect, it actually gave him curiosity due to how striking the letter were. Behind the text lied a serene forest of towering evergreens, with a soft mist rolling off a distant waterfall. 

In the corner, a red postage stamp, partially obscured by faded postal markings, hints at the card’s journey. However, that curiosity soon turned into confusion, he’s never heard of this place before, nor did he know it existed. Which says a lot, given he has basically been around the entirety of the USA.

He turned the piece of paper around, seeing its content. The neat but somehow desperate handwriting instead of the usual one intrigued him. He looked on the right side and saw the name he hadn’t seen in years:

“STANFORD PINES

618 GOPHER RD

GRAVITYFALLS OR.”

He, too, saw that it was addressed to him and where he was currently staying: 

“STANLEY PINES, 

005 DEAD END FLATS

NEW MEXICO.”

As far as he could remember, his brother had a much more classy and elegant handwriting, as he took pride in all he put care into. Which brings him back to the desperate way it was written, a plea heavy with urgency, like it was done quickly and immediately sent his way.

Yet, that wasn’t the only thing that had caught his attention. It was the large text on the left side of the card that drew his eyes. He was surprised.

“PLEASE COME!

—FORD”

His twin, the one he hadn’t spoken to in a decade and perhaps a bit more, was suddenly asking him to go to him. To meet and see each other again. Stanley’s chest tightened, and he felt it become all warm and fuzzy with indescribable happiness. Yet, there was anxiousness and fear. He knew, deep in his heart, that this meeting wouldn’t be a warm and welcoming one. He had a bad inkling, yet he hopeless wished it wasn’t anything bad and that it was just his subconsciousness playing a sick joke on him.

Stanley could do nothing but silently hope for the best outcome, clinging to the last bit of sliver of optimism.

Without overthinking it, Stanley quickly resolved to leave first thing in the morning. After all, he needed at least a few hours of rest—if not, he’d risk dozing off during the long drive ahead.

.

.

.

.

Soon the next morning rolled around and around 9 am Stanley woke up. His nerves were a wreck, he was afraid of what was awaiting him in Gravity falls… Yikes, that name still gave him the creeps. He doesn’t believe that place is normal.

He was more than anxious, he didn’t feel like he was ready to meet Stanford. 

Stanley stood in front of the dirty mirror of the motel’s bathroom. His reflection showed his appearance, which was a real mess: his hair, cut into a choppy mullet that looked more like the uneven fur of a stray dog than any deliberate style. A faint, patchy “beard” shadowed his face. He wore a stained white tank top that had clearly seen better days, and a pair of faded blue shorts that had long-lost their colour. Dark, heavy bags hung under his eyes, giving him a weary, hunted look. He seemed older than his years—like someone who’d spent more time on the run than resting. His whole appearance hinted at a life lived on the edge, worn down but still stubbornly holding on. 

He quickly washed up his face and exhaled, leaving the bathroom soon after. Stanley put on a worn and faded red stained jacket over his white tank-top. He changed into a pair of black pants and slipped his feet into a pair of brown-ish boots. Finally done getting ready, Stanley left the motel with his essentials and got inside his car, throwing the bags at the back. He sighed and gripped the wheel a bit too tightly.

“It's gonna be okay. The worst he could do is point a gun at me.” He let out a nervous chuckle, trying to reassure himself that everything would turn out alright. He took a deep breath and started the car.

“Alright Oregon… Here I come-!” Stanley wanted to sound excited, yet it sounded nervous and scared of the future. 

He pressed the gas and took off. 

Merely a few hours into the drive, Stanley came to the frustrating realization that he was more than a little off course. For someone who had travelled through countless states, his map-reading skills seemed embarrassingly rusty. He frowned, his grip tightening on the wheel as he squinted at the map, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar roads stretching before him that and to get rid of the blurriness… Maybe he should get glasses.

And as if on cue, if being lost wasn’t bad enough, his car decided to quit on him. 

With a loud clunk and a sputtering cough, the vehicle began to slow down. Stan’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his eyes darting to the dashboard in growing alarm. The engine let out one final, pitiful wheeze before going silent, leaving him stranded in the middle of nowhere.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned. He got off the car and walked to the front. Lifting the hood, he was met with lovely black smoke directed to his face. He closed it again as he coughed up and waved his hand, trying to dismiss the lingering smoke. “Why now?”

He glanced back at his convertible, as if giving it a scolding would help. 

Well, it only made the car sputter once more, releasing a thick cloud of black smoke. The noxious fumes quickly filled Stan’s lungs, forcing him into a fit of coughing as he struggled against the suffocating haze.

Stanley sighed and rubbed his temple, his luck was as bad as it had been going for the past decade, and he wasn’t surprised in the slightest. 

As he scanned his surroundings, his eyes landed on a blurry outline of a building in the distance. Squinting to get a better look, he realized it was most likely a gas station. Perhaps someone there could help him inspect his car, and he could even “buy” a snack before asking for directions.

Yup, that sounded like a plan.

With that thought, he began pushing his car toward the building. As he got closer, he could finally confirm it was indeed a gas station, and a wave of relief washed over him. He was grateful—this might just be the only good thing to happen to him in the past decade—aside from the recent postcard from his brother, that is.

Finally reaching the gas station, Stanley left his car out of the way and walked towards the building. 

A bell above the glass door jingled as he pushed his way inside. A tired look on his face as he wiped the residues of the black smoke off. Behind the counter, a bored teenager was sitting with a magazine in hand. Said teen lifted his gaze and gave Stan a somewhat bored expression.

“Welcome sir. Ran out of gas, got lost, car broke down? What is it?” The voice sounded monotone and dull, like those were the usual reasons for someone to appear, and he hit the nail with two of those.

Stan gave the teen a sheepish look as he walked up to the counter. A nervous yet mock of a confident smile planted on his face.

“Alright, ya’ hit the nail in the head with two of those, buddy,” his tone a bit playful but edged with desperation. 

“Ya’ see my hunk of junk car's out there coughing up smoke like it’s trying to start a bonfire. You got someone who can have a look at it?” Stan rubbed his hands awkwardly as he asked that, hoping for some miracle to happen in this shitty life of his.

The teen raised an eyebrow and leaned back on his stool, a bored look on his face, before a lazy smile appeared. “Depends. You got money?”

Stan hesitated for a second and touched the pockets of his jacket. He came back empty, he barely had any money. He gave a nervous look to the teen, who in turn deadpanned.

“Figured, you look like a hobo.” Plainly and flatly, it seemed the kid lacked a filter to say stuff.

Stan gave his most disarming grin, though it didn’t do much to hide his unease. He let out a sigh and tried to convince the teen to help him out.

“Listen, I might not have the cash on me right this second.” He started with, “but, I’m good for it, I swear!”

Okay… Maybe he was not gonna charm his way out of this situation, but he could try—No, he could not. Not with the teen looking at him with that bored and “your problems aren’t my concern” look.

However, by whatever luck Stanley had left the teen closed the magazine and stood up from his seat, an understanding gaze in his eyes as he nodded a bit.

“I’ll have a look. I help my old man with cars every now and then.” the teen stopped for a second, looked at Stan and added. “Free of charge, I doubt you got any of value on you.”

With that, the nice? but the condescending teen walked out to have a look at Stan’s car and see what the issue was.

The kid clearly knew what he was doing—Stanley could tell just by watching him work. They spent a good while making small talk, covering harmless topics like where Stanley was from and why he was going to Oregon—though Stanley kept his answers vague. The kid, on the other hand, chatted freely about his dad, their work, and the kind of things they do to make ends meet.

He found the interaction refreshing. It’s been a while since the last good, decent one he had with someone. Sure, it was with some random teenager, but it has been so long. He wasn’t being chased, he wasn’t being yelled at, he was… Talking.

Talking like a normal person, without fear. 

It was weird.

When was the last time he was ever treated as a person and not a criminal?

Some time later, the teen finished with the car, it took a while but at least it was ready to go now.

“That’s done. You mentioned you wanted to go to Oregon, right?” The teen asked as he dusted his hands and wiped the dirt off his cheek. Stanley nodded, hoping the kid at least knew how to point him in the right direction.

“Yeah dude… You’re ways off if you’re lost enough to end up here.” The younger sheepishly smiled as he walked back inside the store and grabbed a few snacks, scanning them and paying for them, how odd.

“You see, you can make a detour to get back on track, let me mark where exactly are you right now.”

The teen grabbed the map that Stan handed to him, and then looked for a marker. When he found it, he marked where they were and then began explaining to him the detour he has to take to make his way over there

Stanley leaned in, squinting to get a better look at the blurry sight in front of him.

“You’re here,” he said, circling a small dot with the marker. “Basically in the middle of nowhere, as you might’ve guessed, with the lack of houses and such.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Stan grumbled with some humour, crossing his arms. “So, how do I get to Oregon?”

The teen hummed a bit, he had to think what detours would work to get him back on the right track. 

“Well, Oregon’s not too far from here—you were just going parallel in the wrong direction,” the kid said with a small smile. “You’ve got a couple of detours to deal with, though. Gotta thank the road closures this time of year. Snow’s a real killer up that way.”

He then traced a thick, winding line with the marker, starting from Stanley’s location. “You’re gonna wanna head west on Route 12 for about 20 miles (ca. 32 km), but, uh, you’ll need to turn off before you hit the junction.” The teen said as he hovered the marker over the map and tapped his fingers. “Uh, there’s a little side road here.” He drew a line on the map. “Sure, it looks a bit sketchy, but it’ll save you at least an hour if you are trying to get there quickly.” 

The teen looked up from the map after marking down the roads he needed to take with some notes.

“Okay, once you get back on the main route, stay on 7 north until you see signs for the state line. From there on, it’s impossible to get lost, dude.”  He then added, “just go straight through to Oregon. And keep an eye out for ice on the bends, we don't want you crashing against a tree, do we?”

Stan nodded, committing the path to memory. “West on Route 12, left at the fork, back on 7 north. Got it.” He paused, glancing at the man. “This better not be one of those ‘send the tourist in circles’ kind of deals, pal.”

The teen grinned, leaning back on his stool. “Relax. If I wanted to mess with you, I wouldn’t have wasted a good marker on that map and fixed your car for free.”

Stan rolled up the map, tucking it under his arm. “I guess so. Uh, thanks for the directions.”

The kid waved him off. “Safe travels, dude. And don’t forget to pray for that car of yours—it’s gonna need it, make sure another mechanic in Oregon takes a good look.”

With that, Stanley pushed the door open and headed towards his car, ready to face the snowy detours ahead.

“A wait a second, uhm, since it's a long way over there here, have these.” The teen hurried behind him and handed him the snacks he had scanned beforehand, it seemed this gas station does do charity work.

Stanley smiled, and appreciated the gesture. With a final thanks and a goodbye, he left to Oregon.

Chapter Text

The way there was long and tiring, his anxiety would only grow bigger with the passing of time. 

Stopping in the middle of the road, he let his forehead hit against the wheel, his hands softening the blow, though, not by much. He was mortified, he was going to arrive soon, and he had no idea what he was gonna tell his twin after so long of not even talking to him or seeing him.

How would it go? Would they hug, would Stanford be happy to see him? Was he as anxious and as ecstatic as he was?

Stan let out a shaky breath and raised his head, his eyes focusing on the road ahead. A much more determined look planted on his face. Gripping the wheel tightly once more, he resumed his driving. 

The scenery gradually shifted, transforming from a warm, sunlit forest into a colder, snow-covered landscape. Snowflakes began to fall, blanketing the ground and making driving increasingly challenging—and downright frustrating for Stan.

However, this weather change didn't stop Stanley, he was already aware this would happen, he continued until he reached his destination and parked in the snowy path. A hidden, shadowed cabin appeared, the shape behind the harsh falling snow reminded him of the silly model he and his brother had made when they were still kids. Long forgotten in the back of their childhood room…

He wondered if the model had been thrown away already by their pareparents.

Stanley felt a sense of warmth and bitterness, yet relief. His brother was living well, he had a roof and had a place to sleep, that made him feel good. Stanley took a deep breath and without much hesitation he reached out to grab his duffle bag. Opening the compartment, he grabbed a pair of black gloves, slipping them on and a beanie of the same colour. Lastly, he slid the hood over the beanie and got out of the car.

“Here goes nothing..” He said to himself as he began to walk towards the cabin.

Head hung low as he gripped the strip of the bag, slouched over his right shoulder. It didn’t take long until he was covered in snow, as he was reaching the cabin he took off his hood. He then took a moment to look around.

The cabin resembled a shack more with how old it looked. It has a steep, triangular roof covered in a thick layer of white, with snowflakes swirling heavily in the winter air. Antennas and wires sticking out from the roof and around the property, hinting at some kind of isolated communication setup. A satellite dish partially buried under the snow sits to the side, while barbed concertina wire lines the perimeter, giving the area a guarded and unwelcoming atmosphere. 

This, in fact, didn’t seem like a good place to live in. This made the gut feeling in Stanley to worsen, thinking the worst. Had his brother gone crazy? What had happened during the decade they haven’t talked?

Stanley looked around, and his eyes landed on a hand-painted sign:

“STAY OUT”

Said sign was nailed near the entrance, a thin line of snow covered the top, adding to the sense of isolation and secrecy. The surrounding landscape is dense with tall, snow-covered pine trees, creating a remote and forbidding feel to the entire scene.

He stared at the property a bit more before walking up to the door, once standing there he saw a small wood plank nailed against the door

“NO TRESPASSING!”

He narrowed his eyes and sighed, reaching to knock, yet stopping midway he began talking to himself.

“You haven’t seen your brother in over ten years” His voice gruff as his eyes looked away from the door, raising both hands he took a short breath.

“It’s okay!” He smiled nervously as he looked to the side, “He’s family, he won’t bite”

Stan tried to reassure himself as he looked back at the door and closed his hand ready to knock.

Knock… knock.

The door opened slightly but quick, making Stanley take a step back from the surprise. The man behind the door had almost identical facial features as Stanley. However, there were a few clear differences. For example, the man wore a pair of rectangular glasses, his hair short and thick, slightly messy, a contrast to Stanley’s mullet.

On the other hand, he was wearing a light-coloured brown jacket over a white collared shirt with a messily done black tie. The man had a grip tight on the door frame, as if he was bracing himself. His overall demeanour and expression exuded worried and craziness, with a hidden hint of fear. Stanford Pines, his twin.

“Who is it!?” The voice was similar but a bit higher than Stan’s, his eyes darted around, afraid of who was there. 

“Have you come to steal my eyes?!” He then flung the door open and pulled out a crossbow, pointing it at Stanley. A mad expression settled on his face as he frowned. A tiny detail that could have gone unperceived was the eyebags under his eyes, similar to Stanley’s which only added a more crazy look on Ford.

Stanley had a mix of surprise and concern in his face. Leaning backwards, he raised his arm to protect himself, while his other arm held tighter his bag. Then after a few minutes, a frown settled on his expression and slightly lowered his arm.

“Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome”

Stanley sounded annoyed, and his words were extremely sarcastic as he stared at Stanford. Soon enough, his twin lowered the crossbow and sheepishly looked at him.

“Stanley…” He spoke quietly as he set the weapon beside him. 

“Did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?” Paranoid, that was the best way to describe how he acted and sounded, he was whispering as if someone had his eyes on him. Stanley furrowed his eyebrows even more, turns out his gut feeling was more than right.

“Eh.. Hello to you too, pal” Stanley was suddenly yanked by the collar of his jacket, eyes widening in surprise.

“Whoa?” A small torchlight was pointed at his eyes, blinding him for a few seconds.

“Ah, wha-hey! What is this?” Surprise and annoyance seeped through his words as it cracked a bit from the surprised. He pushed Stanford away, not wanting the light to blind him any furthermore.

“Sorry- I just had to be sure you weren’t…” Stanford took a few steps back, his expression becoming more neutral as he faced Stanley. He raised his hands, glanced around the room briefly, then returned his gaze to Stan.

 “Uhh… It’s nothing.” Ford lowered his hand as he shook his head, dismissing his train of thoughts.

Stanley was still a bit startled as his brother turned around and told him, a bit paranoid, to come in twice, as he held his jacket. After he closed the door, he walked right behind Ford, looking around the messy shack, it wasn’t that big of a contrast to the outside, but it was better.

As he walked, he took in an assortment of bizarre items—a large animal skull submerged in a fish tank, a sturdy safe, piles of books strewn across the floor, and some kind of contraption sparking with electricity in the corner. Not only that, but he walked past a strange computer with a pyramid spinning.

“Look, are you gonna explain what’s going on here?”

Honestly? Stanley gave up trying to understand the room he entered looked like, there was a skeleton there too. Paying no more attention, he shrugged and turned to look at his brother once more.

“You are acting like mum after her tenth cup of coffee.”

With his back to Stan, Stanford gathered a few items from his desk. 

“Listen, there isn't much time.” 

Ford started speaking as he turned around, clutching a red book and a stack of papers tightly to his chest. He then stepped closer to his twin, a look of guilt and anxiousness in his face.

“I’ve made a few mistakes and I don’t know who to trust any more.”

As soon as he finished, he turned the skeleton’s skull away, a frown on his face. This left Stanley confused, questioning if his brother had finally lost it. 

“Hey, uh—easy there, let’s talk this through, okay?” Stanley’s voice sounded worried, his hand reaching out and gently patting his brother’s hand, trying to bring him some sort of comfort. However, his brother turned around with a determined look.

“I have something to show you. Something you won’t believe.” 

Ford's expression was serious, and his tone matched the gravity of his words. Yet Stanley responded with confidence, unfazed.

“Look, I’ve been around the world, okay? Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

With those words said, Ford began to walk deeper into his house, it was… Interesting. His brother opened a secret passageway. They walked down a spiral staircase, he managed to catch some glimpses of the rooms they passed.

One in specific caught his eyes, a room that seemed like a shrine, badly hidden away under a worn out cloth sheet. Maybe it was some sort of bedsheet, he wasn’t all that sure. He made a mental note to ask his brother later about this room and the ones he passed by.

Well, soon he realized Ford was leading them to, what Stanley came to realize, was some sort of lab.

Stan was led further in the lab where he felt he was immediately proved wrong as he stared at a triangular, shit-something, big machine in front of him. He couldn’t even begin to understand what was he looking at.

“There is nothing about this, that I understand.”

He said, surprised as he turned to look at his brother, a bit baffled at what he just saw and was in front of him. Ford looked at Stan and felt like sighing. However, he began explaining.

“It's a trans-universal gateway. A punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension.” As he began explaining what that was, he walked closer to the portal, gesturing with his hand as if to make it clear what he was talking about.

As he continued to explain, Stanley felt more perplexed. Hearing his brother talk about unlocking the mysteries of the universe, how this could be used for destruction as well. All of this answered nothing and created more questions. He was never this smart, he was stupid and pathetic, but not to this extent, not to the point of not understanding.

Ford pulled out his red book again, seeing it more clearly, it was a bit worn out. A 6 fingered hand gold symbol plastered in the centre with the number “1” in the middle.

“That’s why I shut this down and hid my journals, which explains how to operate it.” Stanford signalled the red book, his journal. He walked towards Stan, the book held close to his chest.

“There is only one journal left, and… you are the only person I can trust to take it.” Ford’s voice had a tinge of fondness and trust, trust in his brother despite him saying to trust no one. Stanley received the journal as it was handed to him.

Ford took a deep breath and with a guilty face spoke again.

“I have something to ask of you…”

“Remember our plans to sail around the world in a boat?” 

As those words left Stanford’s mouth, Stanley’s face turned into a mix of happiness and warmth. After all these years, after all this time, him and his brother would finally fulfil their dream to travel the world? 

All this time, his gut feeling had been wrong! Finally, he would finally be with his brother again and things would go back to normal—

“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can!”

Shock overtook Stan’s expression as he heard his brother, his heart dropped at that. 

“To the edge of the earth, buried it where no one can find it.”

Ford began to walk away from his brother and towards the portal, his back facing Stan as he stood there. Eyes fixated on the machine he created. And at that moment, Stanley felt all those years of resentment surface from the depths of his heart.

“That’s it? You finally want to see me after ten years, and It's to tell me to get away as far away from you as possible?!” 

He snapped, anger bubbling in his stomach as he seemed in disbelief. Ford, on the other hand, turned around, seemingly surprised that his brother didn’t immediately say yes like a puppy.

“Stanley, you don’t understand what I’m up against. What I’ve been through!”

Ford sounded agitated as he raised his hand and walked past Stanley again, who turned around to face him. It was always like this, always looking at his brother from behind. With those words, Stanley snapped once more.

“No, no, you don’t understand what I’ve been through” 

Stan pointed at himself with furrowed eyebrows.

“I’ve been to prison in three different countries” 

He raised his hand with three fingers up, as if emphasizing his point. He took a few steps closer.

“I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car.” 

Stanley got in Stanford’s face, anger seeping with each word he spat. His brother said this in front of his face? After he went to college, has a house and more? The sheer audacity.

“You think you’ve got problems?” He pointed at him. “I’ve got a mullet, Stanford!”

Stan bit back a few colourful words, taking a step back he turned around and threw his arms up in a hasty manner. He spewed words filled with envy.

“Meanwhile, where have you been? Livin’ it up in your fancy house in the woods” 

Ford sheepishly looked away as he heard his brother talk. His shame lasting a few seconds.

“Selfishly hoarding your college money because you only care about yourself.” 

Stanley finished his speech of jealousy while pushing Ford with his finger. On the other hand, Stanford furrowed his eyebrows in a matter of seconds he was filled with anger.

“I’m selfish?” His voice small as he pushed Stanley away.

“I’m selfish Stanley? How can you say that after costing me my dream school?”

He sounded baffled when he heard his brother calling him selfish. Bringing up that accident from their high school days once more. The sole reason as to why Stan got kicked out of the house in such harsh manner.

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

Each word screamed “useless” to Stanley, that whatever he has done and gone through was for nothing. That he has done nothing of his life, it wasn’t a lie though, but it annoyed that all of his experiences were watered down to… that.

“Well, listen to this. You want me to get rid of this book?” 

Stanley questioned as he pulled out a lighter from his pocket, and flicked it on.

“Fine, then I’ll get rid of it right now!”

As the flame neared the book, Ford was quick to try to snatch it back from Stan’s grasp. Refusing to lose all of his hard-earned research. He couldn’t afford to let go of the one thing he was deeply proud of, could he?

A fight broke out between the twins, Ford threw himself on top of Stanley to take his journal back which in return when he pulled away, his brother tripped him. Stan quickly stood up and ran to pick it up. 

“Stanley, give it back!”

Ford, who was now behind him, pushed Stan inside the lab with force. Switches were flicked as Stanford pushed Stanley against the panel control, to which in change turned the portal on. Flickers of electricity began to swirl around the machine, cackling noises were heard in the background.

“You left me behind, you jerk. It was supposed to be us forever”

Stanley began talking as he struggled back and forth with his brother for the book. Bickering in the dangerous place.

“You ruined my life.” He let out to his twin in anger and hurt, the resentment he had built for the past ten years surfacing for who knows what time today. 

“You ruined your own life!” Stanford repeated in his it of anger as he kicked Stan away from him, pushing him against a hot metal that engraved a symbol on his brother’s right shoulder, making him scream in pain.

Stanley fell to the ground, holding the place where he was hurting.

“Stanley, oh my gosh!” Ford was quick to stand up, guilt overtaking his anger as he worried for his brother.

“I’m so sorry, are yo—” 

He was cut off by his brother getting up and punching him right in the face. Making Stanford stumble back and falling on the level that would activate the portal.

Some mean words were said on Stan’s part as he pushed Ford with his journal past the safety line, telling him that he could have it. Ford started to levitate, fear in his face as he was being pulled by the gravitational force. 

Ford began calling out for him, for him to do something, anything at all. The pleading in his twin’s voice drove him crazy, filling him with anxiousness as he tried to reach out and pull him back. He watched his brother afraid and like when they were still little kids, free from the responsibilities that had fallen upon them, he wanted to protect him and keep him safe.

Everything happened so quickly that Stanley couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment Ford had tossed the journal back to him. He didn’t know when the portal had shut off or when he had begun frantically yanking the lever back and forth, desperately trying to reactivate it. For the second time, Stanley had lost his brother and he didn’t know what to do.

It all went into a blur as he walked back upstairs, laying in Ford’s couch as he stared at the ceiling. His brother’s glasses held gently against his chest, thumb caressing the frame, the last bit of comfort of what was left of his brother.

Ten years, a whole decade had passed since he last saw his brother and when he gets contacted again to meet, all of this happens. In the end, turns out his gut feeling had been correct from the start, he was validated to feel the anxiety he had in the depth of his heart back in the motel and on his way here.

It was all his fault. If only he had listened to his brother, if he had kept his temper in check. If he had calmly told him “it’s okay Ford, we can calmly talk about this” To hear what he had to say.

But no, he was the “extra” Stan, the watered-down version of Ford, the foolish twin, perhaps, if he wasn’t all that then maybe his brother would still be here, with him.

Then perhaps they could have talked things out, he could have been of help for whatever his brother had been going through that pushed him to the edge. If he hadn’t let his anger get the best of him, if he hadn’t tried to bite back and be violent, then they could have sailed together, right?

Maybe if he wasn’t an aggressive dog…

However, the “what ifs” won’t fix the situation in front of him. 

What was he meant to do? Well, bring his brother back, that was clear. But the question was: how would he accomplish that? 

He had no understanding of this stuff—despite flipping through every single page, he still couldn’t make sense of half the things written in there. He barely finished high school, and he never went to college. Stan was only good for lying, for tricking others and use things to his advantages.

Tears started to fill his eyes as the realization that this time he might never see his brother ever again, hit him. Was he alive or was he dead? What if his brother was scared, what if he was calling for Stanley, and he was here laying down in the puddle of misery he had created for himself?

All those thoughts filled him with shame and a sense of determination.

No matter what, he will bring his brother back home, even if it's the last thing he ever does in his life. Whatever it takes, he will save his brother, he will do something.

Chapter Text

Stanley spent the rest of the night reading his brother’s journal. He wondered if Ford was in the right state of mind when he drew and wrote all about these creatures. 

I mean, he looked pretty paranoid.

Was his brother schizophrenic?

Stanley shook his head, it wouldn’t explain the weird things he’d seen from the corner of his eyes on the way here… Or at least he thought that, they were mostly some blurry figures. 

Each drawing was unique and intricate, but some were straight up gruesome and disturbing. Causing Stan to recoil in disgust. Not only that, but there were strange codes in some pages, ones he couldn’t decipher.

His eyes finally landed on the last few pages, where they would stay the longest. The neat blueprints, how each stroke made with a pen was straight and clean, classy and elegant. 

This was something he admired from his brother the most; his perfectionism. Always clean and organized when it came to his work, it made him jealous how he couldn’t do the same.

Unlike his twin, he was messy, disorganized. He lacked elegance, and he was more careless, if this were to be his journal each sketch would unintelligible. The blueprints would be jagged and crooked, lacking the tiny details Ford would have done. His would be chaotic and all over the place.

His brother was flawless, basically perfect, while he was nothing but a collection of flaws stitched together.

The more Stanley stared at the journal, the more despair he felt. He was missing stuff, stuff he didn’t know how to search for. Stanford had mentioned he had other journals that he had scattered across somewhere, but how many of them were out there? Where do they lie? 

He ran his hand through his hair before yanking at his locks in frustration. 

Maybe if he was as smart as his brother, he would have figured out stuff faster. 

Stanley bit his lip, drawing a bit of blood. He needed to figure stuff faster. This was his fault, so he needs to fix it.

Distraught, he pushed the chair away from the desk and got up. He had been sitting there for who knows how many hours, perhaps a lot, given that the sun was finally rising. Stan walked through the space of the cabin until he reached the door that would lead him to the basement, remembering the code, he put the pin in.

As he walked downstairs, a hollow feeling of emptiness settled over him. Just days ago, he had descended these very same steps with his brother, but now he was all alone. The space felt different—emptier, almost desolate.

It was always the same sensation, he despised feeling like this whenever he had to go downstairs.

When he reached the lab, he once again gave it a good look. A dark and aged control panel covered with various buttons, switches, and screens. The metal surface is scratched and worn, rust covering the bottom of it. There are three old-fashioned levers lined up at the bottom left. To the right, there's a large, blank monitor screen, framed by metal that’s seen better days. The lighting is dim, with only a faint glow from a single purple light on the panel.

The events were freshly etched deeply into his heart and mind. 

Taking a deep breath, Stanley sat down in the chair and hissed once his shoulder made contact with the seat back.

“Shit.” 

He gulped and leaned forward, avoiding any contact with the wound. Maybe he should really go and have someone have a look at it.

He shook his head.

“I don't have time for this.”

Ignoring his pain, he began reading the notes left behind by his brother, if he wanted to fix this mess, he would need to find the journal #2, its continuation.

With this, he stayed in the lab. The last place where he saw his brother.

It’s been a few days since the incident, and all Stanley had been doing has been studying and overworking himself to the brink of exhaustion. 

Eating whatever his brother had in his fridge, which wasn’t much left, or that could even be considered proper food. It was like a strange creation his twin had done.

He scratched his head as he stared at the cluttered desk filled with books, notes, and scattered items. At the centre is an open book, its pages filled with symbols and diagrams marked in red ink, showing his intense study and code analysis, circles and crosses, showcasing his errors and re-tries. 

Nearby were loose sheets of paper with similar markings, and crumpled notes are strewn about. He lost track of how many he has used and even wondered where he had gotten them.

To his left, a book titled “Code Breaking” is prominently visible. And on his right, a white empty mug sits beside another book titled “Theoretical Physics Made Stupid,” adding a hint of humour to the otherwise serious situation. During his stay in gravity falls, he had gone to the library to get some books that could help him understand better what he was working with.

He had read quite the good amount, and was currently studying some of the notes he found cluttered around in the lab by his brother. He thanked whatever reason was behind his lack of order and need to keep every bit of his work with him.

“Okay, Stanley, you are a smart guy…” His tone was sarcastic and tired as he looked at the book in front of him. It had an example that he was meant to solve. “You can figure this out–”

He squinted his eyes, it was a bit blurry, but he could still read bits of it. However, no matter how hard he tried, the problem might as well have been written in code, and even when he read the solution, it did nothing to help. Frustrated, he raked a hand through his hair and let out an exasperated sigh.

“Why is this so hard to understand?” His eyes wandered to the scribbled notes beside him—all of which were half-formed, unintelligible ideas, some poorly drawn diagrams of the portal’s structure, and some equations he’d copied without fully understanding. It would all be easier if he was just as smart as his brother was.

But he was always the dumber twin, the extra Stan, he was like those extra fingers Ford had, only ever acknowledged for being his twin. This should be enough to sadden him, to make him depressed, but he needed this to work. Not for himself, but for Ford.

The terrified look on his brother as he begged him to do something was etched in his mind. Something he sees and hears every time he closes his eyes. 

In a way, it felt like it was someone else who was forcing him to dream of this, like a third party invading his brain to make him dream of that moment over and over again to force him to work on the portal even more. Yet he dismissed that thought as quickly as it came due to how dumb it sounded.

He exhaled and looked back at the contents in the book once more. Hoping that for some miracle, he finally understood what was in there. His pen tapped the surface quietly as he thought of how to proceed. Stan tried once more to solve the problem, only to scrap his equations moments later when he realized it didn’t make sense, once again.

Stan wasn’t used to feeling this helpless and stupid, he was smart, in his own way, but he was. Fixing things with his hands? That was easy, he could fix his convertible with the right materials and leave it like new. He could patch up cars, repair appliances, and even rig up a quick fix for a busted generator. He could scam people and even smuggle drugs, he’d rather not speak about that last bit. But rebuilding a machine as complicated as a trasndimensional portal?

Yeah, no. That required a level of knowledge he just didn’t have, and doubted his brother actually had at all. Maybe he did, it wasn’t the first time he’d built a machine…

His high school project…

Stan rubbed his temples. His gaze flickered to the framed old photo of him and Ford sitting on top of the machine, back when life was simpler—before everything fell apart over his dumb actions.

That picture was back when they were both doing box lessons, his brain too muddy to remember what exactly was it, but he was sure it was a tiny celebration.

Taking a deep breath, he looked away.

“I’ll get this right,” he said softly, his voice tinged with determination and a hidden tinge of doubt. “I have to.”

With a heavy sigh, Stanley leaned over the desk once more, staring at the incomprehensible textbook. The words blurred slightly, his exhaustion catching up to him, but he wasn’t going to stop. Not yet.

However, it was to no avail, he really couldn’t wrap his head around this. No matter how hard he tried to understand what was in the text, he just couldn’t figure It out.

He felt the sting of tears welling up in his eyes, a tightness building in his throat as he continued to dwell in misery. Yet, he refused to let them fall.

He ended up letting go of his pen, which rolled away and settled along various stacks of papers and files, all illuminated by dim lighting that enhanced the sense of his messy, obsessive, research. Stan feels both chaotic and useless, deeply engrossed in cracking the equations and such. 

Giving up on the studying part, he stood up and walked further in the lab to the portal room. Maybe he could make it work without bothering with all the equations and instructions.

Stanley had always been good at figuring things out on the fly, trusting his instincts over a manual. If he could just piece things together, perhaps he could bypass all the brainy nonsense his twin had done. 

He walked to the portal and began looking at the cables, he moved a few and thought about getting welding materials. Walking away towards his tool box, he pulled out a red screwdriver.

With one in hand, he kneeled in front of the lever and began tweaking some parts. He stood up, and a frown settled on his face as he pulled the lever…to no avail.

Stanley let out a frustrated sigh and tossed the screwdriver aside, burying his face in his hands. No matter how much effort he put in, he just couldn’t make it work on his own. 

He was well aware of this. After all, during this time at the cabin, he had discovered that his brother hadn’t done it solo—he had gotten outside help.

From whom? He still didn’t know that.

____________________________

Stanley stared at the yellow sticky notes. They were a chaotic medley of emotions, each scrawled in distinct handwriting. The ones written in blue ink ranged from bold, jagged letters to one that shouted frustration; while the ones written in black ink ranged from bold loopy, playful script teased with sarcasm to a scratchy, uneven lines screaming hysteria.

Both a clear contrast to one another. However, they had one thing in common, they were both neat handwriting.

The context of the notes filled him with confusion, he recognized his brother’s writing, but not the other one. He wondered if this was why Stanford had been so paranoid about. After all, two sticky notes had caught his eyes:

“THAT’S BECAUSE I’VE BEEN KNOCK-KNOCKING YOUR SKULL AGAINST THE WALL!!”

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH”

Whoever had written those notes seemed utterly unhinged, yet the exchange left him puzzled. Why would someone interact with another in this way? Why would they write as if they had some bizarre control over their twin's body, as though they were two minds fighting for the same flesh?

Stanley scratched his head, letting out a quiet sigh as he carefully gathered the sticky notes and arranged them neatly. Despite the unsettling nature of the messages, he couldn’t bring himself to throw away anything that had belonged to his brother.

Right, but that wasn’t the only strange thing in this dammed cabin.

In the hidden lab he had encountered something… interesting, the room he had caught a glimpse before in that day.

He wondered how he even missed the contents inside, and then realized it was because he tore away the covers. The room was dimly lit, illuminated only by the flickering light of his lantern. At the centre of the room lies a ritualistic rug in the shape of an octagon, a triangle in the middle of it with a prominent eye symbol. Around the rug stand triangular prisms, their surfaces catching the lantern’s light and casting a very faint rainbow reflection. 

The walls are adorned with dark tapestries featuring an ominous triangle, similar to the one in the rug. However, this one had a black top hat and a bow-tie, the image standing there like an all powerful creature. 

“Gee… was my brother in some kind of cult or something?” Stanley muttered to himself, his voice tinged with confusion and dry sarcasm. As his gaze wandered across the strange room, his expression softened, a bitter edge creeping in as his face showed a defeated expression. He let out a quiet sigh, the thought gnawing at him—he had wanted to ask Ford about this place before everything went south. Now, it was too late, and this was by far the least of his worries.

Stanley, with heavy steps, picked up the blanket then carefully began to cover the place once more. With that done, he made his way to the spiral staircase. He turned around to give a final glance.

The overall setting felt secretive and occult, he wasn’t sure in what type of shit his brother had got himself involved, and he wondered if this was what he meant by discovering the mysteries of the world.

Stanley wondered if this room and its secrets were part of the reason Ford had seemed so distant—why he had acted the way he did. 

He sighed, his shoulders slumping, though the weight on his chest remained. Dwelling on it wouldn’t help him; getting his brother back was all that mattered.

As he began to climb the stairs, each step started to feel heavier than the last. 

The realization left him a disgusting taste on his tongue—Ford had gotten involved in something far bigger than he could handle, something that had driven him to the brink of paranoia, anxiety, and obsession to the point of contacting his estranged brother. 

It had left him as a fractured man, a shadow of the confident, passionate brother Stanley once knew. 

The more he thought about it, the more it weighed on him. He wasn’t there to help his brother before he descended in this madness, he wasn’t there to support him. 

With his free hand, he clenched his t-shirt by the chest and lowered his head.

Tears prickled his eyes as they silently fell.

He was alone, there was no reason why he shouldn’t be able to cry.

Stanley was allowed to, right?

…

However, when was the last time he even cried?

____________________________

Thinking back, Stanley felt a shiver run down his spine. That room gave him the creeps, it was like he was being watched, and truly made him question even more his twin’s mental estate and how that room felt like a shrine to some triangular god.

Really, thinking about it gave him an uncomfortable feeling.

Shaking his head, he stood up from the ground and went to pick up the screwdriver before going back upstairs. He still had things he needed to figure out: like the mortgage, his identity and some more.

…

Right… He was still deep in debt, too. He barely had any money to spare for food, and he was in dire need of help to fix the portal.

Stanley exhaled as he rubbed his temple, currently sitting in his brother’s couch, avoiding leaning on it. He began to think.

First there was the identity issue. 

He had to find a solution—changing identities was absolutely out of the question. Rico and his goons would find out, he didn't doubt that. They would search for him even if he changed identities because they would know he is still alive…

Alive?

Stanley suddenly had a great—maybe not so great—idea.

He should totally fake his death!

That seemed like the perfect solution. Not only would it throw those guys off his trail for good, but it would also free him from the mountain of debt that had been suffocating him for the past few years.

And with that, he began to formulate his plan, sure, he still needed to figure out the second and third issue: money and the portal.

But that could come in for later. As of now, his main focus laid on the identity.

After all, the longer he remained stuck like this, the higher the chance that those people would catch up and get rid of him for failing to pay his debts. He knew he was running out of time, and the thought of them finding him sent a shiver down his spine. 

It really was between dying for real or faking it. And he couldn’t afford to let the first one happen—he still needed to bring his brother back first.

No matter what the cost is.

Chapter Text

At some point, Stanley had drifted off on the sofa, as exhaustion finally caught up to him after today’s events.

However, said sleep didn’t last him one bit, he was jolted awake in the middle of the night by the sharp, searing sensation that radiating from his right shoulder. His teeth clenched instinctively as he squirmed, his body tensing against the relentless pain.

It stung.

He fought back the overwhelming urge of scratching the area in itself. His hands clenched tightly around the journal in his hand as he curled up, trying to ride out the pain he was currently in.

Now that the adrenaline has completely worn off, and he was exhausted from the past couple days, the raw and excruciating agony, only sent waves of discomfort through his entire body.

Stanley felt the pain seep deep into his bones, a never-ending ache that only continued to spread through him as beads of sweat began forming in his forehead. Despite all that, he refused to get up and let go of the only comfort he had left in his hands at the moment.

The stupid journal Ford refused to let go of days ago…

Yeah, it was a stupid journal. 

Another stupid and dumb thing that cost him something important once again.

He really deserved this, didn’t he? The current puddle of pain he was currently drowning in. That familiar feeling that never once left him not even when he was a child, his life was—-it was perfect—or as perfect as he’d always pretend it was. 

Paying the price for the mistakes etched deep in the past. Like always, he bore the weight of his penance. It was a cruel irony—atonement for failing, once again, the one person he had vowed to shield from harm, the only one he promised to protect.

How had everything fallen apart so completely?

“Ack—! F..fuck.” 

Cursing through gritted teeth, he trembled, curling further into himself and settling into a fetal position. The sudden breeze from the cold weather had caught him off guard, its chill biting into his wound. What should have been a soothing relieve for the burn, was, instead, another painful sensation that made him want to crawl out of his own skin.

The ache in his shoulder was more than just pain now. It was an infection, the festering result of days of neglect. He really didn’t know how to clean it, and he didn’t have the money or the head to explain how he even got this weird symbol engraved in his shoulder. 

It has been quite some time, but now the wound was swollen and hot, truly a grotesque testament to his stubborn refusal. He was aware that it was finally time to clean it, and put a bandage around his shoulder or at least patch the area.

 Reluctantly, he forced himself to sit up, the motion sending a fresh wave of agony through his shoulder. He bit down on his lip to stifle a groan, his free hand clutching the edge of the sofa for support. This feeling would serve him as a reminder of what he was working for and will forever be a mark of the consequences of his actions.

Stanley took a sharp yet deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Trying to distract himself from both the emotional and physical pain.

His mind, on the other side, had a different idea. Memories surfaced yet again, unbidden and unwelcome. The fight with Ford. The split-second decision that had changed everything.

His brain was really out to get him, right?

A bitter chuckle escaped Stan. If only he’d done things differently. If only he’d listened.

But “if only” didn’t matter now, just like the “what if”. The damage was already done. And the pain—both in his shoulder and in his chest—was a constant reminder of just how far he’d let things go.

He’d lost his brother again.

Does everything he touches is meant to break and rot away? His relationships never lasted because of that.

He huffed.

Now, in the silence of the night, with nothing but his thoughts and the incessant throb of his infected wound for company, he was losing himself.

The minutes ticked by, each one dragging on endlessly as Stanley fought to keep still. He thought that, maybe, sitting down would ease the pain. But he knew that if he didn’t do something soon, it would only get worse.

“Okay…” he muttered through gritted teeth, his voice shaky. “Aight, you big idiot. Time to… time to patch this.”

With a lot of effort, he pushed himself to his feet and grunted. Supporting his weight with an injured and definitely infected wound was, in fact, a bad idea. 

His legs felt like jelly, and his head throbbed in time with his shoulder, but he forced himself to move. One step. Then another. Slowly and carefully, he left the room, making his way to the bathroom, each movement felt like an annoying trial of endurance.

He should have really dealt with this injury that day.

The bathroom light flickered to life as he fumbled for the switch, its harsh glare making him wince. 

Was this light always that fucking bright?

He questioned as it started to make his head hurt. Stan leaned heavily against the sink, he stared at his reflection. He looked like hell. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair a damp, matted mess.

“Wow, have I always…” He stopped mid-sentence, his voice barely above a whisper. He had always looked like a mess, but today he looked specially worse. That dammed wound.

Stanley gingerly took his white t-shirt, he hadn’t realized until now, but it was as if the cloth had glued itself on the wound. He felt as if he was peeling the fabric off his skin, and perhaps he was. 

It stung and hurt like hell. Once he managed to fully take it off, he looked at the piece of clothing and gagged. God, it was disgusting, not only did it actually tore a bit of his skin, it was covered in blood and something else.

With a bit of fear, he half turned around to see the back of his shoulder and immediately wince. What lay in front of him made his stomach churn. The burn was an angry, inflamed mess, the edges dark and blistered. Yellowish fluid oozed from the centre, a telltale sign of infection. To make matters more disgusting, there was blood mixing in with that other fluid.

“Great,” he muttered bitterly. “Just fucking great.”

He turned on the tap, letting the cold water run over his hands before splashing some on his face. The coolness was a brief reprieve, but it did little to dull the throb in his shoulder. 

Gritting his teeth, Stanley looked around until his eyes laid on a towel meant or drying his hands. He grabbed it and wet it, then pressed it gently to the wound. The contact made him hiss in pain, his body jerking involuntarily.

Hand away from the wound, he recoiled as he tightly held the edge of the sink.

“Easy, easy,” he muttered to himself, his voice shaky. “Just clean it up. You’ve dealt with worse.”

“Like.. The missing organ or the prison in Columbia.”

At this point, he was helplessly trying to compare any experience to ignore the current pain he was currently in.

But the pain was almost unbearable, and every time he dabbed at the wound, it felt like his shoulder was being set on fire all over again and like he was being stabbed. From how hard he’d started to grit his teeth, he thought they would shatter.

Somehow, he managed to scrounge up some antiseptic from the cabinet on top of the sink, but the thought of applying it made him want to crawl out of his skin. Still, he knew he didn’t have a choice. He poured the antiseptic onto the cloth.

“This is going to sting like a bitch” his words seeped through gritted teeth, “… one… two… three…”

Quickly, Stan pressed it to the wound. The pain was immediate and excruciating, a white-hot lance that shot through his entire body. He let out a strangled cry, his free hand gripping the edge of the sink, to the point that his knuckles turned white.

“God, fucking, dammit!” he snarled, tears streaming down his face as he forced himself to keep going. 

By the time he was done, he was shaking, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he leaned heavily against the sink. Just from how painful it was, there was snot falling off his nose and a bit of drool. He coughed a bit before spitting, then grabbed some toilet paper and cleaned the snot.

The wound was now as clean as it could be, but it still looked awful. The redness around the edges and the blisters told him this makeshift, pathetic attempt of treatment wouldn’t be enough. 

What he really needed was proper medical care—antibiotics, proper disinfection, maybe more. But at that moment he was more than aware he, for one, couldn’t afford it and two, he wouldn’t be able to explain how he got it to this state and how he did this wound.

Stanley wrapped the wound as best as he could, his movements clumsy and uncoordinated. The bandage was crooked and loose, but it was still better than to let it marinate and exposed a few more days like he has. 

He sank to the floor, his back avoided touching the wall as he let his injured arm rest without being touched, exhaustion washing over him in waves.

“This is fine,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Everything’s fine. Just… peachy.”

But it wasn’t fine. And deep down, he knew it.

The wound would need to be cleaned every day and bandaged up properly or as best as he could from now on. He surely didn't want this infection to worsen more. Now that he thought about it, it was strange how he didn't get a fever.

Slowly, he pushed himself off the floor and began to walk out of the bathroom, he turned off the light and felt relief that the blinding light was gone.