Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanley had three certainties when he was a child. The first was that he and his brother would be together forever. The second was that he would become famous and rich. The third was that the first two would make him have the best life ever.

The certainties of his life were shattered when he was not even old enough to drink alcohol, replaced by their distorted versions: first, Stan had to do something big and earn Ford's forgiveness and love; second, he had to make money, lots of money; third, to hell with his comfort, he would do whatever it took to fulfill the first two.

Somehow, his childhood convictions found their way back to him, like a prodigal son who, unlike Stan, returned to home.

He was sure he couldn't get rid of Ford even if he tried. Things would never be the same again as they were before Stan screwed everything up, but that’s okay. Ford looked at him like he was all that mattered, like the last ten years had been just a few bad days. He caught Ford smiling at every single thing he did, as if the mere fact that Stan was in his house was enough.

This made Stan fells uncomfortable. Ford no longer looked at him as a twin brother, sometimes Stan felt as if Ford thought of him as a younger brother who he had suddenly been given custody of. Ford is now too polite, too concerned with his stupid feelings and his refusal to explain them.

Maybe it was that monkey's paw curse that Ford liked to read about when he was a teenager. Stan gave everything he had to get Ford back, only for him to no longer be the same Ford he used to be. And the worst part? Ford hasn't changed at all.

He's still the clumsy, overconfident nerd who closed the curtains that day. He's still the loser who talks more to cryptids than to girls and whose biggest enemy is the stove. Ford hasn't changed his essence, Stan has, his brother is just reacting to the change.

Stan sometimes wants to hit Ford until he comes to his senses and starts talking to him like they're the same age, and the fact that he resists the urge is proof that the problem is definitely him.

Instead, he's been avoiding Ford, not on purpose, but perhaps in an attempt to get out from under his wing. Ford is always so worried about him, as if he's going to break at any moment. Stan makes a point of proving to Ford that he's a capable adult at every opportunity. Stan has been given a second chance, and he’s not going to waste it.

He's made it his goal to pay the water bill all by himself. He'd honestly rather stab himself than try to get a job in this weird town, but he's starting to run out of options, even though Ford wouldn't let him be alone anywhere in Gravity Falls for long (although that has less to do with overprotection and more to do with whatever the hell is going on in this place. It seems like the rule of thumb is to always have a witness with you to make sure the gnome trying to steal your trash isn't a hallucination).

For now, he's just been killing time. When he's having a good day, he'll tag along on Ford’s anomaly hunts, just like old times. Stanley can pretend they're back in Jersey, looking for the demon they let out that day.

The bad days come and Ford starts to get paranoid again. Stanley frankly thinks his illness hits Ford harder than it hits him, and while he can't blame him, he can't help but find it annoying. The last thing he needs when he's feeling useless is someone asking if he's okay every half hour.

The good thing is that after the first few months, Ford realized that keeping Stanley out of any strenuous activity is asking him to set his own room on fire just for fun, so he's been trying to include him in the chores. Plus, no matter what, Ford is still banned from the kitchen, so he gets to rub it in his face for being the reason they haven't starved to death yet.

Another thing Stan is sure of is that he wants to be an artist. It seems that this is all he has left, and as disconcerting as it may seem, the realization that his drawings are better than Ford’s gives him peace.

But it’s not just the drawings that have come to him. He finds himself scribbling melodies or, more recently, poems. It started as a joke, a way of mocking Ford’s bubbly writing, but he’s been writing prose that would make himself cry, a way of getting back at the world.

About a month ago, he, Ford and Emma-May found something extraordinary: a two-headed horse. It was an ugly little thing, with two eyes closed peacefully and a third in the middle that didn’t seem to have eyelids, but the nerds were obsessed with it.

Emma-May said the foal was clean and looked like it had walked far from the birthplace. That means it wasn’t stillborn, but survived for a few hours before lying down and never getting up again. Stanley didn't quite know what to make of the information that he - or they, since Ford explained to him that these were twins who had failed to divide - had been cared for by their mother, rocked and fed through the night.

For some reason, it stuck in Stan's mind. Maybe it was the fact that they were twins, doomed from the start just like he and his brother. Maybe it was the pain that the foal must have been feeling, but its refusal to lie down?

The melancholy that had built up inside him and peaked last year suddenly seemed beautiful. He found himself sketching that foal, alive and healthy as it should have been. As his mind wandered, he created a poem.

Stanley tries to recite it tonight, scribbling the same three-eyed foal over and over in his notebook until his hand loses its strength. He tried to concentrate on literally anything else, but there came a time when all thoughts were interrupted. Not by a voice or any of those clichés of someone going crazy, more like his brain dropped the words the same way his body dropped the notebook. 

Tomorrow, when the biologists found this anomaly, 

Ford was pacing back and forth like a headless chicken looking for a broken egg. As if he could smell his twin's pain, knowing it was only a matter of time before Stanley gave in and let himself be helped. After a little debate, it became clear that Stan wasn't going to take a shower today, but Ford managed to convince him to eat half a sandwich before they both went up to his room.

they're going to embalm his body and take it to the museum. 

Stan got out of his wheelchair and collapsed on the bed, his eyes closed and his legs stiff. Ford started opening the cabinets, grabbing everything he could. The electric shock machine Stan hated, the weighted blankets Fiddleford had gotten him for his birthday, every orthopedic device he could find. Stanley was torn between yelling at him to leave or simply letting him help.

But tonight they were alive, and eager to walk.

It was past midnight and neither of them were sleeping. Stanley was writhing, not exactly from pain, but from something strong inside him that refused to let go. The shock machine only worked so well; it couldn't be used often. The only part where the orthopedic tape worked was the wrists, and the hot water bottle was just another weight for his tired legs to carry.

One in the morning, Ford disappeared and came back with that journal and his hands full of trinkets, armed to the teeth with over five years of research.

It seemed like the perfect night:

The crystals were difficult to activate, reacting to the tension of the skin and only extending about four inches, but somehow they worked. Ford spent half an hour carefully stacking them on his legs and replacing them every time Stan knocked them over. Like a sponge, they absorbed the stiffness, leaving Stan feeling like they were used to prepare corpses.

The autumn wind,

Tension resolved, time to ease the pain. Ford tried using other crystals, but they only made the chills worse. Next he tried some concoction with chopped pink flowers. The potion not only didn't take away the pain, it also left him tingling and itching. Who knew he’s allergic to fairy vomit or whatever it was?

their mother's warmth,

Ford spent the next hour cleaning up the potion and refusing to try anything else until the effects wore off. When Stan finally fell his arms again, Ford moved on to the heavy weapons: spells.

the soft grass…

He muttered incantations, vaguely familiar words that made him feel like someone had injected hot water into his muscles. Ford's six fingers glowed dimly as he ran his hands over Stanley's body. When the spell wore off, he caught his brother laying his face in stan’s hand, the exhaustion of the last few hours catching up with them both. He closed his eyes and only opened them when the feeling of the spell passed. 

And when they looked up at the sky,

Stanley woke up, rested. His entire body roared in a mess of sweat and trembling, but the pain had finally subsided. He turned his neck to face Ford, who didn't seem to be asleep, but still lay in his hand. The sun hadn't risen yet, but the clarity outside told him it wouldn't be long.

They saw twice as many stars as anyone else.

He looked out the window, watching the first snowflakes of the season gather on the window. There was something strangely comforting about the cold, but he knew that the same thing that comforted him is what robbed his brother's peace. Winter didn't hold good memories for either of them. But he is certain that he will change this, making Ford believe that bad memories are just a bumpy road to happiness.

Despite everything, Stan smiles. He will make his third certainty come true, with or without the help of the other two. He will make his Sixer remember that absolutely no past, future or present can take that away from them.

Chapter Text

“You’re not well enough to be alone yet.”

“And you’re not rested enough to take care of me.”

“I’m fine, I can sleep this afternoon.”

“Ford, you haven’t slept in almost thirty hours.” Ford’s mouth closed, as if caught off guard by the information. Did this nerd genuinely not notice? 

Stanley didn’t feel bad, no worse than any other day. Sure, he woke up with no feeling in his feets and his left shoulder was burning, but it wasn’t like he was planning on going anywhere. They had the right to take a day off, especially Ford.

“What if you get worse? I won’t be able to sleep knowing you might need me.”

“Ford, it’s okay. I can go anywhere in the house and take my own medicine, yesterday was just a bad day.”

“Still…” Ford bit his thumbnail, and Stanley had to stop himself from stopping him.

“Why don’t we have breakfast and then figure this out?” Stanley finally sighed, calling the elevator to take him down to the kitchen.

For some reason, Ford installed the elevator before Stan even moved in, to take him down to the mad scientist basement, but Fiddleford had it expanded to the second floor after it became clear that Stanley couldn't climb the stairs.

Although embarrassed, he couldn't help but feel grateful for everything the nerds had adapted to the house for him. The ramp around the house, the furniture that had railings to lower it, Stanley's huge bathroom. But what he liked most it's the wheelchair.

It was thin and short, with small wheels and a seat that kept him perfectly still. The joystick was on the right armrest, like an Atari, made to move him easily. A handy emergency brake was necessary after Stanley chose to go down the wrong ramp, and after this Ford insisted that they replace the handles on the chair that Stan had removed so that no one would ever try to take control of his steering. On the left armrest, there are three buttons that dictate how fast the wheelchair should go.

Stanley has always been torn between keeping the wheelchair simple and risking people seeing him as a bum, or turning it into something futuristic that will make people see him as Stephen Hawking. Between being a poor thing and a nerd, Stanley has chosen to look like a car.

Just for fun, Stan put a metal plate that says STNLWLLCH on the back of the chair, but he has seriously considered taking it off. Two police officers have already tried to ticket him as if he were a car, using the argument that ‘it has an engine and a plate’. He is not sure if he will be able to convince a third officer.

Stan took both cereals and put them in their respective bowls, frowning at the brown sugar cornflakes that Ford buys. Stanley was almost going crazy having to eat it before Emma-May finally let him leave the house. The first thing Stanley did was buy his chocolate balls.

The kitchen is definitely his favorite room in the house. Ford didn’t need an excuse to replace the appliances with some nerdy, futuristic, and acessible version. The stove is now a little under two feet tall, able to be raised up on the wall until it’s comfortable for someone standing up to use it. And Fiddleford found it particularly amusing to make a refrigerator that looks like a rotating shoe rack.

Something glinted faintly inside the refrigerator, catching Stanley’s eye. It was a plastic bottle with a dropper and a blue liquid inside. He remembered this thing very well, Ford used to put it in his food to knock him out when Stan couldn’t sleep.

Before he could stop himself, he poured a few drops into Ford’s cereal, sprinkling some jelly beans on top to disguise the color. He nodded in satisfaction; it should be enough to get the nerd to sleep.

Ford must have been a little out of him from sleep, because he didn’t notice anything. Unlike Stan, he had an appetite, so his bowl was clean before Stanley finished his chocolate. When his twin mentioned going upstairs to draw a bath, Stanley finally took pity.

“You’re going to lie down and sleep whether you like it or not.” Okay, he’s not the best at being compassionate, but he doesn’t regret anything.

“I plan on going to bed early tonight, I promise,” Ford muttered, heading toward the stairs.

“I got that goblin pee in your cereal,” he confessed.

Ford stopped with his foot on the step, turning extremely slowly as if Stanley would disappear if he turned too quickly. The thought almost made him snort, as if he was known for being fast.

“What do you mean, ‘goblin pee’?” He stalked toward him, his shadow covering the entirety of the wheelchair.

Stan is sure he’s trying to look scary, whether on purpose or not, but it doesn’t work. Ford could point a weapon at his face and Stanley wouldn’t feel threatened. It’s hard to be afraid of the guy who built a kissing machine when he was fifteen.

“The little blue bottle.” He shrugged. “The one you keep in the fridge behind the yellow mushrooms.”

“The mindelanightonin?!” Ford paled, and Stanley was surprised he hadn’t mispronounced anything. “Stanley!”

“Don’t act like you’ve never done that to me.” He crossed his arms, a small sigh of pain escaping as he shifted his shoulder. “The first two months since I got back were spent with you forcing me to sleep eight hours a night.”

“The difference is, you were recovering from—”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you haven’t slept in days.”

“It’s only been a day.”

“It’s been two. Weren’t you the one who said that the brain starts eating itself if you doesn’t get enough sleep?”

“That’s hardly going to happen from a short amount of sleep. I get five hours of sleep a day, that’s enough.”

“Five? Ford, will you stop focusing so much on my health and ignoring yours? Do you really want to die early like me?”

The silence that stretched out was so long that for a few seconds he suspected that Ford had already fallen asleep. But no, he was looking deep into Stanley’s eyes, looking disappointed with himself. Stan took a deep breath, regretting saying that a little, but it must have been necessary. Only God knows how many reality checks the three nerds had to give him before he accepted the reality of his body. The problem is that it seems that Ford still hasn’t accepted it.

“It was only six drops. How many hours of sleep should that give you?”

“About three.” Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. Stan remembered that he slept for about fifteen minutes after taking the potion, so it must already be working on him.

“Three hours, much less than you need, much more than you want.” Stanley waved his hand, smiling to dispel the bad mood. “What could happen in three hours- Don’t answer!”

“I’m going to sleep anyway, but I’m not going to leave you alone.”

“Ford-”

“You might need some help, you’re still weak. I’ll have Fiddleford come over.” He looked away at Stanley’s hateful glare. “He was coming over anyway, we need to go over a project.”

“Ugh, fair enough. I’ll drug you with goblin pee-”

“Please don’t call it that.”

“And you hire the babysitting service. At least we’ll both be miserable about it.”

The two of them went upstairs to their respective bedrooms. Stanley may like Fiddleford, but he really didn’t have the energy for the nerd’s monologues and wheelchair feedback. He heard Ford calling the redneck as they both lay down on the bed for some well-deserved sleep.

There was a strange sound at his window, like someone was trying to close it without being sure how. Through blurry eyes, Stanley saw a large figure finally lowering the blinds. It looked too wide to be Fiddleford.

“Um…” He tried to sit up, the pain in his neck punishing him for sleeping without a pillow. “Ford?”

“Yeah.” The voice sounded too loud. Maybe Ford is still high from the mindelatingh.

“What time is it?” He didn’t bother looking for his clock without his glasses, instead just rubbing his eyes.

“Oh, it’s three hours after breakfast, silly.” He laughed.

Ford? Laughing? Stanley hadn’t heard his brother laugh in over a decade. Emma-May had once muttered something about Ford being in some kind of depression the last few months, and not to be offended if he seemed down.

Ford had been smiling more, but laughing was new. The reason he was so uncomfortable with the new behavior hit him like a broken bottle: that’s not Ford’s voice. Eleven years hadn’t been enough for him to forget how his twin laughed, and it definitely wasn’t like that.

Not-Ford still seemed interested in something in his room, and Stanley reached for his glasses. 7:24 a.m., they’d both slept less than half an hour. There’s no way this is his Sixer, that blue thing is strong enough for Emma-May to use as a sedative for surgeries.

Stanley slowly reached for his cane. It's pure steel, heavy enough to give someone a concussion if he hit it hard enough. And next to the cane was something that would give Ford an aneurysm if he knew Stan was carrying it: his lucky pocketknife. Stanley kept it by his bed just in case.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, big fish.” The creature turned its neck to him.

For some reason, Stanley immediately looked at his right shoulder. The tattoo on his back was only two months older than his current living arrangement. It was a yellow fish that reminded him of Pac-Man, the result of a fling with a budding tattoo artist.

Looking was the wrong move. The thing posing as Ford took advantage of the distraction to come closer, almost as if trying to touch his eyeballs. Speaking of eyes, Stan finally noticed something the creature hadn't been able to imitate: Ford's eyes.

Hard to see because of how dark Pines' eyes are, but when the light hit, Stan noticed the yellow glow, along with the slitted pupils like a cat's.

"You're not Ford," he whispered, realizing he couldn't lift the cane fast enough.

"What gave me away?" the thing asked, seeming to abandon the tone of voice that had previously sounded vaguely like Ford's. Now it sounded more like Stanley's voice was re-recordeder and over again from a dying phone.

"Like I'd say." He needs to stop, he couldn't help but tempt fate.

"Aww, no feedback on my performance?" The thing couldn't stop smiling.

Stanley could see everything, an exact replica of his brother. From his six fingers to the spot on his canine tooth from an incident with some nightmare goblin. If he had time, he would have counted the freckles, but they seemed to be the same amount as always.

"What do you want?"

"I have a mission to accomplish, and I'm going to need your help."

"Where's Ford?"

"Old Sixer is safe, for now."

"Don't call him that!" Stanley tried to get up, only for the creature to push him back onto the bed, laughing hysterically.

"You humans are so funny with your emotional outbursts." He turned around, almost in a provocation for Stan to grab him from behind. "Why don't we get out of this room, huh?"

Without any ceremony, Not-Ford kicked his wheelchair until it hit his bed, almost hitting Stan. He swallowed hard, starting to get scared of the situation. Instead of climbing up onto the chair, Stan swung his legs up onto the bed, challenging him.

“You’re dumber than I remember.” The thing rolled his eyes, or at least tried to; he didn’t seem to know how to control that face very well.

Remember when he said he could never be afraid of Ford? This was different. This thing isn’t his Sixer. The smile was so big it showed his gums, and Stan felt cold hands pinning his hands to his sides.

“If you keep disobeying me, I may not be so generous to Sixer.”

“Where is he?”

“He’s asleep, your stunt gave me the perfect opportunity for this meeting.”

No, no, no... Stanford was in danger because of what Stanley did. Again.

“Let me try to make it work for this time bomb you call a brain.” Not-Ford moved even closer, their noses touching. “He’s under my control. For all I know, he could very well fall down the stairs. Wouldn’t that be funny? The two crippled twins?”

Stan’s blood pressure dropped at the sounds of laughter, something deep inside him trembling at the tone of the voice. It was all too familiar, and not in a good way. This thing is not bluffing. 

“So how about you sit your useless ass down on the dead weight cart and come down with me?” The creature moved away, pushing his wheelchair against the bed again, this time hard enough for the cane to fall to the floor.

Stanley had no other choice, he stood up and fell into the wheelchair. The creature left his room, opening the door almost politely for him to pass. Stanley was about to change direction to Ford's room, just to test if his brother was okay, when suddenly the chair turned over. Damn it, Ford! That's exactly why he had taken the handles off the chair. Okay, maybe he hadn't thought of the situation as 'a demon like my brother is trying to use me for an evil plan', but deep down the purpose was the same. Whether it was a demon or a clueless old lady, Stan developed a fear of someone moving the chair for him.

"Why don't we go to the living room? I hear it's pretty." The chair was turned towards the stairs." Hold on!"

That was the only warning he received before he started to fall forward. The pain in his shoulder peaked as he gripped the edges of the chair, each step threatening to send him tumbling down the stairs.

When they finally reached the ground, the demon shoved the chair against the wall, forcing Stan to pull the brake before it crashed. It was just enough time for the thing to disappear into the house, near Ford's office.

Stanley didn't need another chance, he drove as fast as he could toward the door. There were three locks, two within Stan's reach and one at the top that never closed. All three were locked for the first time in months.

Looking back, Not-Ford was still fiddling with something inside. Stanley mentally braced himself and undid the first two locks as quietly as possible. Taking a deep breath, he stood up, about to turn the third key…

"Ford doesn't need that many fingers, does he?" The creature declared behind him, the shock almost making Stan fall off in the floor.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Not-Ford moved the chair, just enough for Stanley to fall on his ass. The thing’s sentence hit him as it once again took control of his direction. Ford’s safety was at stake here. He was thrown toward the couch, the creature holding a black book as it swayed from side to side, once again not looking very practiced at being human.

"The name is Bifron, your brother summoned me last year.” It flipped through the pages disinterestedly, before tossing the book at Stanley.

He now recognized it as his brother’s book of demons, similarly scribbled like all the books in the house, a large Ars Goetia on the cover. Stanley flipped through the alphabetical order until he found Bifron, supposedly the demon that's tormenting him. Stanley squinted, now noticing the glasses lying at the foot of the stairs.

Bifron is a Count who commands 60 legions of spirits. It appears in the form of a monster or lobster, but upon command from the magician it appears in human form. It makes the magician extremely skilled in astrology and geometry, as well as other arts and sciences. It also teaches the virtues of stones and wood, and changes the places of corpses, placing them in another place and lighting a light over their graves.

Without patience, the demon stuck its fingernail in the book, guiding stan's gaze to a passage ahead.

This daemon can be invoked to help identify and deal with 'dead weights', be they physical, emotional or spiritual, assisting in the cleansing of stagnant energies and the closing of cycles. Its connection to the Underworld makes it a powerful intermediary for those who wish to explore lucid dreams and spiritual communications with the dead.

“Here’s the problem, I need you to die.” Stanley looked up quickly, the book falling to the floor. “So why don’t we just get this over with, huh?”

He didn't say anything, not wanting to give Bifron the satisfaction of having shaken him. He reached down to pick up the book, but the demon in front of him simply picked it up and threw it on the couch. It seemed to want to talk now.

“You can choose how, my job is to make sure you kill yourself.”

“I'm not going to-”

“Why not?” the demon shook his head, like a curious puppy. “It's not like anyone would be surprised if you did, right?”

Bifron ran his fingernail over his exposed shoulder, the newer scars stinging at the contact. Stanley sometimes caught Ford staring at them, unsure of what was going on in his mind.

“No need to be shy.” Bifron put a six-fingered hand in his hair, and Stan held back the urge to bite him. “Go ahead, pick a way. Roof, knife, bathtub… I just need to make sure you don't get in my way anymore.”

“If you think I’m going to help you—”

“This is the fun part, big fish.” The demon shook his wheelchair, Stan’s head spinning. “You’re going to die today, whether it’s for you or me.”

“Why don't you just go ahead then?" Stan spat in Bifron's face, his eye twitching as he didn't even blink.

"Do you really want to cause this kind of trouble for your brother?" He put his hand on his chin, his head lolling to the side once more. "You can choose the scenario where your brother wakes up, finds your body, and then moves on with his life. The police will say it was suicide, he'll mourn for a while, but he'll soon be thankful for being freed from this burden."

"He didn't-"

"Shh! It's really rude to interrupt, you know? Anyway, we can also go for the scenario where I kill you and fake a suicide." The demon stepped closer to him, waving Ford's six fingers in front of his eyes. "But the cops may or may not find Sixer's little handprints at the scene. Wouldn't that be interesting? The genius gets tired of taking care of his dying brother and euthanizes him."

The man in front of him moves to the back, leaving him with a view of the photo on the wall, of him and Ford on their last birthday. Stan stood in the doorway, one arm holding his cane and the other hugging Ford, who looked like he was about to cry. Emma-May, Fiddleford, Tate, Dan, Susan; all his friends were on the left side of the photo. On the right was his family.

It was the first in a long time that he had seen his father, still the same blinded and stoic old man who had thrown him out on the sidewalk. But time had taken its toll on him, on both of his parents in fact. Filbrick had unnecessarily gray hair, and always looked in his direction with an air of regret, every sentence almost seeming to be followed by an apology. Stan also noticed that day that his mother's kleptomania had worsened along with the wrinkles on her face; she had even taken his set of keys and a jar of chili peppers.

Shermie was there, along with Adriee, his wife, and little Alex. The boy must have been about eleven, eager to run around in the woods and play with Tate. They seem like the Pines who had made it work, Sherman was the only one who had no regrets.

“How do you think he’d feel? He finds his brother dead and gets arrested for it, life in prison maybe.” Bifron continued to rub his hands through his hair, as if Stan were a cat. “I don’t think he’d ever recover from that, he’d spend the rest of his life wondering what happened.”

He’d had a serious talk with his mother that day, mostly her crying on his shoulder and making him promise to let himself be helped. The hurts of the last ten years forgotten that day. Could he really throw that away?

“Oh, and your mother? Imagine losing both her boys in the same day? That must put her in her grave in… what? Two months?”

“Shut up.” He failed to hold back a wet sob.

“Your father would understand that you couldn’t take it anymore, but Ford? Would he remain strong in the face of a death penalty?” 

Stan squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could, even though it didn’t stop the tears. He’d always been an ugly cryer, with sobs that came with the fury of being suppressed. Bifron watched him gleefully, obviously taking sick pleasure in Stanley’s breakdown. He wondered if that was what this was all about. Maybe someone just wanted to watch him get tortured.

“Well, why don’t we go look for that little knife in your room?” The demon walked away, calling the elevator. “It should be quick-”

“No.” Stanley stopped him.

If he were the master of his own destiny, he would leave however he saw fit. He ignored Bifron’s satisfied smile as he maneuvered the wheelchair toward the kitchen. How ironic would it be to die in the place that suited him best?

“Huuu, what are you going to do? Stick your head in the oven?”

“Nothing dramatic.”

The little blue pot was still on the table, along with the cereal. When he looked up, Bifron's yellow eyes were staring at him, silently urging him on.

Well, it's now or… He snorted as he opened the bottle; there was no later or never. There was no choice.

It tastes worse without any food to ease it, somewhere between dipyrone and vitamin C. Stanley drank a glass of milk quickly, trying his best to ignore his 'brother' hunting the kitchen for other poisons. Now I have fifteen minutes left.

"What do you think of this one?" Bifron unceremoniously placed the bottles on the kitchen table.

"This sleeping shit will be enough."

"Um… no." He opened an orange bottle, unceremoniously pouring green pills into the cap.

Stanley recognized it as the Prozac he takes in the morning, at Ford's request. He reached out his hand slowly... 

"Come on, big fish, I don't have all day."

That made Stanley stop. Just like the threats, this line wasn't a bluff. He genuinely didn’t have all day. Stan remembered Ford calling Fiddleford, maybe he would be here sometime? Ford would wake up in a couple of hours, Stan would go to sleep in fifteen minutes. How long would this thing keep an eye on him?

He swallowed the doubt along with the pills and more milk. Bifron didn’t stop, he kept searching through the various jars in the kitchen. A dark jar seemed to have caught his attention.

“Activated charcoal? Do you humans genuinely eat rocks?” He shook the jar in front of Stanley. Bingo.

“It’s a poison.” Stan took the bottle slowly, trying to keep his voice level. “We use it to kill parasites.”

Once again the demon opened the bottle for him, and Stanley somehow thanked him, his hands shook when he was nervous. He searched through the other medicines in front of him. If he could just roll it up enough, maybe Bifron would find just one more that would suffice.

Piperazine. Ford kept it nearby in case someone (also like Stan and how sick he got after eating a moon sunflower) caught a parasite. He remembered how sick the medicine made him, and sent it inside.

The next medicine was a russian roulette, an antihistamine that Ford uses when he gets bitten by one of those prophetic mosquitoes. It's not particularly strong, it just makes Ford sleepy. When there was only one sip left in his glass of milk, sleep began to invade Stan's mind. Bifron encouraged him to take the last paracetamols in the house.

Stan rested his forehead on the table, his mouth hanging in the air as he waited for sleep. He didn't want to die, not anymore; maybe deep down he never did. He didn't want to be himself anymore.

The last winter was a mess, a true duality of instincts. The instinct to survive was crushed by the urge to not be himself anymore, to not live the way he lived. In some twisted way, his attempt had saved his life. But now it would be the other way around, wouldn't it?

It would all be in vain, all the ten years he had spent trying to get back to his family, all of Ford's efforts to save him from himself, all the last months creating a home.

This time will be different. Stanley wasn't doing this trying to run away, he was truly facing his destiny for the first time. When he realized he could no longer open his eyes, his thoughts began to swirl like a whirlwind.

Please God, this time I swear I'll make it up to you.

Something felt strange in his stomach, he opened his mouth to breathe, but he couldn't close it.

This time it's different, this time it's for my family.

He heard a noise, followed by the relieving feeling of being alone.

I love you Ford.

He stopped feeling his own skin, the taste of milk in his mouth disappeared.

No matter the outcome of this Russian roulette, Ford will win.

There were worse ways to die, right?

Chapter Text

Ford was particularly proud of himself when he realized he had only slept for two hours and forty minutes. The first thing he did when he woke up was to write down the time in his diary, determined to find out why the time had been reduced by 21%.

He put on his shoes and went to Stanley's room. Maybe it was the extra surface area because of my fingers? The door was open, unlike usual. Was it the amount of poisons I had been exposed to?

His brother was not there. The window and curtains were closed, Stan's cane on the floor. There, at the foot of the bed, Ford recognized a piece of metal painted yellow. The blood drained from his face when he realized it was a pocketknife.

"Stanley?"

The house was silent, why? Fiddleford said he would be home in half an hour, shouldn't there be some indication of him in the house? No banjo, no arguments, no clatter of tools? He took the stairs two at a time, searching the living room for any clues. Nothing but the birthday portrait on the couch. Red flashed across his vision, Stan’s wheelchair visible in the kitchen.

“Oh, thank museness.” He took a deep breath, a small laugh escaping. “For a moment there I thought you had—”

For some reason, the first thing he noticed was the floor. Covered in what might as well have been a pint of gremloblin blood, smearing the wheels of the Stnlwllch. It took Ford’s brain a humiliatingly long time to associate the black substance with his brother’s body, and even longer before he realized that the table couldn’t possibly have had that many medicines on it.

Before he could even think of what to do, he lunged forward, lifting Stanley’s face off the table. The black liquid was still leaking from his mouth, Ford wiping it away as best he could before Stan let out a strangled sound that, while terrifying, was proof that he was still breathing.

Ford ran as fast as he could to the phone, dialing Emma-May’s number. If anyone would know what to do, it would be her.

“Emma! You need to-”

“Good morning to you too, Stanford-”

“I think Stanley tried to kill himself again!”

“...”

“You need to get here fast, he’s still breathing but I don’t know for how long.”

“Stanford, breathe.”

“There’s no time-”

“What’s going on?” He heard Fiddleford say in the background, proving that he wasn’t in the house.

“Ford.” Emma-May return “I need details.”

“I think an overdose of medication. Or poisons. Or cleaning products, I don’t know.” He got as close to the kitchen as he could without breaking the phone cord. “I think it was medication, but it looks weird.”

“Take him to the hospital. There’s nothing I can do that will help him more than that.”

“But you’re the only one who knows how-”

“I’ll be waiting for you at the hospital, come as fast as you can. Write down everything you think he took.” There was movement on the other end of the phone. “How is he? You said he’s breathing?”

“He’s passed out and his pulse is fast, but—”

“Vomiting? Seizures? Any tremors or hyperthermia?”

“He threw up black on the floor, the rest I don’t know.”

“Any chance he aspirated?”

“No, he’s far away.”

“Then come on now!” She hung up.

Ford could have called back just to torment her about this rudeness, but the reason for the call hit him like a lightning bolt. He ran, dragging Stan's wheelchair as fast as he could without letting him fall. He used the empty prozac bottle to catch a substantial amount of the black substance his brother had vomited, just in case.He stuffed the vials, all the ones he could find, into his pocket before running to the door. 

Ford had never been so happy to see the Stan-Mobile, opening the doors before picking up his twin in his arms. He weighed almost nothing and why is he so thin? His arms remained rigid, facing forward.

Despite not being religious, Ford couldn't help but say a small prayer, three fingers raised to his eye as a small reference to his muse. Looking now at the rearview mirror, Stanford remembers the despair of last winter, of his muse taking his hands and calming his mind.

"Oh, Sixer..."

Ford squeezed his brother's hand before turning to the steering wheel, renewed motivation.

"Devotion looks so good on you."

By the time Ford got to the hospital, it was too late.

The doctors had informed him, almost too coldly, that his brother, the twin brother he had shared his life with, had successfully killed himself. In a second, just a fraction of a second, he was on the floor. Fiddleford held him, screaming for the doctors for help.

He wasn’t lucky enough to pass out. He wasn’t lucky enough to die. The thought that that would be lucky filled his heart with embarrassment. How dare he consider death a good thing when it was what had taken his Stanley from him?

Ford thought about screaming. He thought about running to the window and throwing himself out, whether his punishment was death or broken bones, he deserved both. He thought about finding the doctor who had treated Stanley and killing him for not saving his brother. He thought about calling his father and throwing so many truths at him that they would have to put the old man on suicide watch.

Ford did neither. Maybe he screamed, he doesn't remember very well, but the rest he didn't do. He stood up, ignoring Fiddleford and the nurse who was tending to him, and went to the front desk and asked about the morgue.

Ford is a scientist, he relies on facts. It doesn't matter that this Jon Doe was carrying the Stanley's ID, or that he died with his brother's car keys in his pocket, or that one of the nurses crossed herself when she saw him without his glasses. It couldn't be his brother, right?

It's his brother. The morgue man paled a little at the sight of him, before his face took on a look of pity that told him he hadn't worked here in a long time.

If Ford had arrived on time like he should have, his brother would have looked restful. Peaceful, with his eyes closed and his mouth half open, just sleeping. He was too late even to see his brother resting.

Instead, they poked him and stuck tubes and fluids into his now black and blue veins. They tried to resuscitate him, if the sunken ribs and the marks around his mouth were any indication. Ford almost wished they hadn't.

He asked the coroner for the report, he didn't know why. Maybe to torture himself? He shouldn't have done that. Even though they had brought him to the hospital lifeless, his brother's time of death had been announced only fifteen minutes earlier. They managed to resuscitate him, only for his brother to die again, in pain and scared.

Something in his face must have given him away, because the coroner warned him. Brain death had occurred before they could get a new pulse, by the time they resuscitated his brother, his brain was already too damaged. His heart failed again an hour later, and this time the doctors let him go. Stan, the real Stan, had left hours ago.

Ford would never forgive himself for examining that body in front of him, the body he had demanded to see to prove it wasn't his twin. But everything told him that yes, this is Stanley.

His nose is bigger than the last time he saw him, as is his hair. There are two scars on his lip that tell a story Ford doesn't want to know, but needs to understand.

Despite being warned not to do so, Ford takes his brother's hand. Cold, hard, so rough it could be compared to leather. And his fingers, five tiny fingers with chipped nails, faded from lack of blood. Ford finds straight scars, small but deep, running up his brother's entire arm. The most recent ones weren't scars yet.

Heart attack. That's what killed his brother, all his voluntary muscles died before the involuntary ones began to shut down, in a useless and painful effort to preserve energy for his brain.

Stanford felt himself falling backwards again, this time without dizziness or the appearance of fainting. Fiddleford and the coroner guided him, much more gently than he deserved for having killed his own brother in his spite, to a bench.

Fiddleford looked sadly at his brother, and for a few seconds Ford genuinely thought he was going to punch him. What right did this country bumpkin who had only known him for ten years have to mourn Stan? The man he hadn’t even known existed an hour ago?

What right did Ford have to mourn this stranger who had been wearing his brother’s body? As far as he knew, they shared only a face and a last name, two things so strangely changeable that they might as well have been lost. Is his favorite color still red? And his favorite food? Is it still toofee peanuts? Does he still listen to Have You Ever See The Rain as if it held the answers to all his teenage angst?

Ford had no tears to waste. This wasn’t his brother.

And it's all my fault.

By the time Ford parked (aka pulled the car as close to the entrance as he could without hitting a pillar), a horde of medics were already ready with a stretcher and pulling Stanley out of the car for him. He felt useless, running after the medics, like a child trying to keep up with the adults.

He spotted Emma-May leading the way, in a lab coat and a hair tie keeping her hair out of her eyes, and immediately placed her gloved hands on Stanley. She checked something he wasn’t sure what it was before marching towards Ford. He didn’t need a word from her to know what he needed to do.

“Paracetamol, there were about three tablets. Between ten and fifteen tablets of prozac.” He took the bottles out of his pocket, keeping the prozac's bottle in his fingers. “5 milliliters of concentrated Visinocturna Cobalorum Fungus extract, piperazine, a little less than twenty-five grams, half a vial of carbinoxamine. It happened sometime in the last three hours.”

“You said the vomiting seemed strange?”

“See for yourself.” He handed the vial to Emma, ​​who quickly turned to the medical team.

“5% glucose serum in 50 miniliters, as slowly as possible, add 0.9% saline solution. Check the reflexes and abdominal motility, the patient has reflex differences that must be taken into account, in addition to being in sedative overdose. Be careful with bronchoaspiration, he is still in gag reflex." She pulled out a bag definitely full of medical instruments. “Do not apply anything and do not perform any invasive procedures without my permission. Keep the oxygenation at 15 miniliters per minute. If the oxygenation decreases, increase to 20 miniliters."

And… disappeared into the offices. Ford turned to his brother’s side, the doctors moving him around as they prodded and examined him. Ford could hear the doctors murmuring, hooking him up to the machines in the trauma bay and preparing tubes and medications for Emma-May’s return.

Ford couldn’t pay attention to what they were saying, he couldn’t even get close enough to his brother to hold his hand or help him.

347 days; it had been less than a year since his brother died. He thought he had saved him, but it leaves him wondering if he was just delaying the inevitable.

Is love really letting go? Ford can't tell if Stan was really as miserable as he seemed. He was always so... cheerful, a contrast to an existence of chaos.

Did Stanford played God and in doing so condemned his brother to a life of pain, fatigue and regret? How could he do that? How is he managing to do this now?

If Stan really wanted to leave so badly, even with all the love and treatment and forgiveness, was there anything Ford could do that would help him? Something that would change once and for all this cursed fate to which they were condemned.

Stanley didn't even bother to say goodbye. No closure, no explanation, nothing to help Ford understand what was going on in that aching heart.

It didn't get any easier.

At some point while they were still in the hospital, Fiddleford fell asleep. Stanley was still where they had left him, in a freezer in the basement. Stanford was suddenly overcome with guilt at being the only one who knew about the situation. The only person in the family who had spoken to Stan in years had no idea that her son would never call again.

The kind man at the morgue let him use the phone, handing it to him and walking away to give him privacy. Ford sighed, thinking of what to say. How do you tell a mother that her youngest son is no longer breathing? He dialed the numbers with shaking fingers, hoping she wouldn’t answer. It must be ten o’clock at night in New Jersey.

Thump…

Thump…

Thump…

“Caryn Pines…” He heard her yawning on the other end, unconcerned. “Psychic and clairvoyant service, how can I help you?”

“Ma?”

“Stanley?”

Ford tried not to cry, but the tears kept leaking from his eyes. Did my and Stanley's voices sound that similar? He tried not to despair at the realization that he simply didn't know what his brother's voice sounded like.

“No, Ma.” He sniffed as quietly as he could. “It's me, Stanford.”

“Oh, Ford, dear.” She laughed, oblivious to the tragedy that awaited her on the other end of the phone. “Sorry, I thought it was Stanley. He always calls me late when he misses calls.”

“I…” Ford took a deep breath. “There's something I need to tell you.”

“Go ahead, dear. How long must it be in Oregon?”

“I'm in Montana.” He mumbled before he could stop himself.

“Oh, what are you doing there? Did you meet any girl? You must be close to Stanley, your brother told me he was going there to-”

“Ma!” He let out a loud sob. “Stanley…”

Stanley was hurting. Stanley was in pain, so much emotional pain that it was becoming physical. Stanley had nothing and no one. Stanley was a child.

“Ford, dear, you’re worrying me.”

“Stanley is…”

Stanley is dead. Stanley lay on the snowy ground with the car keys in his pocket. Stanley, by his own choice, chose hypothermia over life. Stanley will never speak or move or eat or-

“Please tell me what I think happened didn’t happen.”

“Ma, Stanley…” Something snapped inside Ford. “Stan tried to kill himself.”

Ford heard her gasp for air, and for a second he feared she was having a heart attack. For a second he feared he was having a heart attack, even though he remembered his muse warning him that he wouldn’t have one until he was 92.

“H-he couldn't finish, did he?”

“No.” Fuck “He’s still alive, just… very sick.”

All the words that followed were involuntary, words of comfort and promises to take care of her brother, assurances that she didn’t need to come all the way across the country just yet.

When her crying had calmed and he promised to call when Stanley was stable enough for visits, Ford hung up. It was already nine o’clock at night, but Ford’s mind was racing.

A plan flashed in his brain. A brilliant, unholy plan, a white whale that would destroy him if he followed through with it. Icarus didn’t flap his wings hard enough, but I will.

He marched out of the morgue, toward the chairs in the entryway where his lab partner slept.

“Fiddleford…” He shook him.

“Um…” He mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Ford? What time is it?”

“I need you to get me a cold storage. As soon as possible.”

“What?” The blond put on his glasses, standing up.

“A cold storage. At least 28° fahrenheit, a little less than 6'1.” Ford began to tidy up his surroundings, grabbing Fiddleford’s jacket.

“Ford, what’s going on?” The man looked worried. “If this is about your-"

“Fiddleford…” Ford turned to his friend, hands on his bony shoulders. “Do you trust me?”

There was a time when Ford would never trust anyone with his research. That was before Fiddleford, before he realized he had it in the palm of his hand. The man turned to him, blue eyes suddenly full of determination.

“I trust you with my life.”

“Then please, do as I ask.” Ford looked away, handing his friend the yellow jacket. “I’ll make it up to you later, I just need you to get me a cold room as soon as possible.”

Fiddleford nodded, pulling on the jacket and heading towards the elevator. Before pressing the button, he turned, staring at Ford for an uncomfortable moment before giving a small smile.

“Emma-May is a biologist, you know? She specializes herself in human biology and cell theory.”

Ford’s eyes widened, realizing that Fiddleford knew what was going on in his mind. He can decipher Ford faster than his Rubik’s cubes.

“Please.” Ford grabbed his coat, already pulling out his wallet. “We’re going to need her."

Half an hour. Ford spent half an hour watching the doctors stabilize Stan while waiting for Emma-May. She came running back, immediately taking the lead and ordering different applications.

It was too late for gastric lavage, at this point the measure was to force the body to dilute the medication. The ingestion of mindelanightonin worried them both, Stanley was completely sedated and it was impossible to tell if his lack of reaction was exclusively due to that.

Emma-May circled the room, checking numbers and twisting her mouth the way she always does when she comes to a stressful equation; a mixture of boredom and impatience. She marched over to Ford, writing furiously on the clipboard with her favorite pen.

“Ford, how much activated charcoal was in your house?”

“I haven’t used it since you left that package at my house.”

“How much? 150 grams?” She leaned over to a short nurse. “One and a half milligrams of physostigmine.”

“Why?”

“He took activated charcoal with what I believe was milk,” Emma-May said, neatly breaking a vial before aspirating it with the needle. “It wasn’t enough to prevent anticholinergic syndrome, but it did slow down the intoxication. The problem is that 150 grams is much more than his body can handle at that weight, and although much of it was eliminated, there’s no way of knowing—”

A loud beeping sound. Emma-May paled, a nurse pulling Ford away so her friend could work. Bronchospasm, a side effect of the medication’s antidote. Stanley was too sedated to breathe again and needed to be intubated.

Ford leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. Once again he compared himself to a child, Stanley always got impatient and sat on the floor at the supermarket while the adults sorted everything out. He felt ashamed of himself.

No matter what people said, Stan wasn’t an idiot. He was the one who asked Emma-May to bring them activated charcoal, afraid that Ford - or worse still, Tate - would poison himself with one of his experiments. He knew the kind of things Stanley had been involved in; his brother was the more skilled of the two in medical emergencies.

Stanley wanted to live

For the first three days, Ford wandered around the house like a ghost. When he was awake, he spent the entire day taking care of his brother's room. Keeping the temperature and bacteria levels as low as possible, writing plans and calculations, making dioremas of everything he needed to cure.

He set alarms to wake up, and when he didn't need to be conscious, he immediately took two pills and fell into unconsciousness. His muse was waiting for him in the realm of dreams.

Bill, stars bless him, tried his best to comfort him, even though he didn't understand silly human concepts like grief and longing. Saudade. His muse held him in her arms, talking tirelessly about calculations and portals to distract him from the reality of his life.

On the fourth day, Fiddleford returned to Gravity Falls, along with his wife. Emma-May was a stoic woman, with her curly hair covering piercing green eyes. Somehow, she agreed with his delusional ambitious plans.

After exactly a week since his brother’s death, Ford and Emma-May had reached the key point of reversing death. Fiddleford seemed to come and go, and it wasn’t until the weekend arrived that Ford realized Tate had come along. He ignored it, time was of the essence in this situation.

In week two, they started experimenting. They successfully revived dead pigs under medication, and then moved on to something that frankly made Ford sick: deaths from hypothermia.

The problem was that half the pigs weren’t coming back, and they couldn’t find the pattern. They were basically back to square one, with Ford turning to his muse for comfort. It was during one of Bill’s speeches about human bodies that he realized the problem: the heart.

Stanley died of ventricular fibrillation, which caused a heart attack. The pigs’ hearts were too damaged to function again, the tissues dead from lack of blood. It’s not something that can be reversed.

Stanley needed a new heart as soon as possible. Not only that, but he was at risk of rejection. Emma-May even suggested trying to engineer pigs to have human hearts, but the gestation period could last four months, and the pig could take a full year before it was big enough for a transplant. For now, Stan would have to wait.

“Stanford!”

Fiddleford came into view, disheveled as if he’d been running down the block. A nurse was guiding him, looking away awkwardly when she saw him on the ground. Ford’s chest heaved with anger.

“You!” He closed the distance between them, poking his finger into Fiddleford’s bony chest. “You were supposed to be taking care of Stanley! You assured me!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I called you! I asked you to come to my house, you said you’d be there in half an hour!”

“You called me yourself and canceled the appointment!” Fiddleford shouted, before cringing under the curious stares. “You said Stanley had plans in town and that you’d be too sleepy for us to continue our project.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Ford wiped his glasses, trying not to let the angry tears escape. “I called you when you were almost asleep, there was no way I could call you again.”

“But you called. You said you thought better of it, that you’d call me back later, and that—” Fiddleford’s shoulders relaxed, his mouth hanging open in understanding. “Stanley.”

“Yes, that’s what we’re doing here, Stanley tried-”

“No, no, Ford, it wasn’t you who called. The tone was the same but it sounded more like…”

“Him.”

“Yes.”

Look there, another corner for me to die inside. Stanford crawled to a spot on the floor, right in a corner where the wall merged with the pillar. Fiddleford sat on the nearest bench, which Ford silently thanked him for. He didn’t think he could handle people getting within a meter of him.

His gaze kept returning to his brother. Was it planned? Or just a quirk of fate? Was there a trigger? Was it the falling snow that brought back bad memories? Should I call Ma and once again warn her what’s going on? What do I do that won’t make things worse?

Emma-May began prepping Stanley for the scans, and Ford took that as his cue. He stood up, feeling the car keys in his pocket, and headed toward the Stan-Mobile. The car was where he’d left it, in front of the hospital entrance, a fine waiting to happen. Ford timidly maneuvered it into the nearest spot in the thankfully empty parking lot, taking a few breaths to slow his heartbeat. He bent down, feeling under the seat.

The sound of the door opening, along with the weight of the car shifting, made Ford jump, hitting the back of his head on the steering wheel. The door closed as quickly as it had opened, barely giving Ford time to run a hand over his aching neck.

“What are you doing?” Fiddleford’s voice was strangely cold, almost disappointed.

“I’m calming down.”

“Not like that. Get out of the car.”

Ford frowned, glancing at Fiddleford through the rearview mirror. His friend's blue eyes seemed too awake, but without the nervousness that usually accompanies him. Is there anything more stubborn than a redneck?

"You have nothing to do with this."

"I'm not going to let you do this to yourself."

"I'm not going to do anything, I just need to sleep."

"Now?" Fiddleford scoffed, crossing his arms. "What a convenient time to sleep."

"Said the man who shoots radiation into his own brain!" Ford finally turned to his partner, mockingly staring at the gray strands that invaded his blond hair in just one specific spot. "I don't need to be saved, I need to go to sleep."

"Lie down and sleep, I'm not stopping you." Fiddleford replied, unharmed by Ford's cruel comment.

"I need privacy to fall asleep."

"No, you need privacy to stuff yourself with medicine and go back to square one. And I'm not going to let that happen while your brother fights for his life in the hospital."

“Fuck Fiddleford, I’m not asking you for anything!”

Ford tried to open the door, but the moment he pulled on the handle, the lock fell back down. He turned just enough to see Fiddleford holding the car key in his hand, silently daring him to drop this conversation. Ford didn’t even see him reach for the key.

“I’m not drinking, I’m not shooting up, I’m not snorting coke.” Ford said coldly, gripping the steering wheel. “Fuck, I’m not doing anything. Is that what you want? For me to do something? Do you want me to slit my wrists or —ough— or stop eating? Is that it?”

“I don’t want you to do anything. That’s the point.”

“Let me do it, just this once. I’m not going to overdo it or anything, I just need a few hours of sleep.”

“You said that when I found out, you said that last spring, you said that on your birthday. You don’t know how to not overdo it, Stanford. Do you want to add another overdose to the Pines’ history for today?”

“I haven’t slept in a long time, Fiddleford. Let me at least get some sleep.” Ford muttered in defeat, hoping to overcome him with exhaustion.

“You’ve slept for three hours, Stanford. You just woke up. Don’t treat me like I’m an idiot.” Fiddleford turned his body toward the window, still keeping a watchful eye out for Ford to duck. “I may not be a biology genius like you and Emma-May, but I understand how addiction works.”

“You don’t understand my ‘addiction’. It’s different."

“Funny, that’s what I said when I pointed that damn gun at your head.”

“When was that?!”

“Exactly! You think this shit only affects you, but one day you’re going to look in the mirror and realize it’s a black hole, Stanford. You drag everyone down when you give in to addiction, no matter how harmless and individual it may seem.”

“I’m not using it on anyone but myself.”

“For God’s sake, Ford, Stanley drugged you with a concentrated sedative that you keep in the fridge! That sedative you used like a madman on him because you think everyone is as crazy for a night’s sleep as you are.”

“I’m not crazy.”

“Healthy people don’t threaten to slit their own wrists.” Fiddleford muttered, looking away. “You can’t afford that luxury, not now. Because if you decide to do it just this once because you’re too stressed, you’ll do it all the time. Stanley needs you, all of you.”

Silence filled the car. Ford sometimes really hates how well Fiddleford knows him. Hates that he found out about his bad habits. Hates how convincing the man is at setting an example of where Ford could end up. But most of all, he hates being grateful, with his insides screaming ‘save me, save me’.

“Are you going to tell anyone?”

“Not if you stay sober.”

“You’re not going to, like, throw it away?”

“No, for the same reason I never destroyed the memory gun. Temptation is necessary. If I don’t let you have a safe alternative, you’ll go after a dangerous one. But you can’t give in to that, Stanford. All you’re looking for in addiction are things your body will solve for itself. You can sleep without those pills. I can forget things without the gun.” The man finally turned to Ford, his hands shaking as he adjusted his glasses on his nose. “That’s why it stops working. Your body stops doing it for you. One day you wake up in a cold sweat, your memories more vivid than ever, and you realize it didn’t work. On the contrary, in addition to making the problem worse, you now also have to deal with the side effects.”

Ford took another deep breath, leaning back in his seat. There wasn’t a shred of sleep in his body, just tiredness. And hunger. The last thing he ate was his spiked cereal that morning.

“Come on, let’s have lunch in the cafeteria. It’s easier to sleep on a full stomach.”

It was during one of his days sadly leafing through his diary that Ford found the solution: The Leprecorn. It is a Perissodactyla much closer to the Euarchontoglires than to pigs, and can be considered a pest that grows near waterfalls.

The gestation period is about a month, with the pups reaching maturity in two months. They naturally have a heart of about 200 grams, so he would only need to use the growth crystals to adapt them to carry their brother's heart.

With that solved and the next three months busy, Ford turned to reconnecting Stanley's neural functions, reversing brain death. There would be no point in trying to return the body if his Stan would no longer be there.

When the modified pups were finally born, Fiddleford discovered something that would solve everything: Percepshrooms. They helped the neurons to connect temporarily, although they lost strength as they were used. They needed enough to reconnect the neurons without getting the dependency or reboot effect that the few samples caused in the brain-dead pigs.

Three of the five leprecorn pups made it to the one-month mark, with one in particular looking very promising. Ford spent the next month ‘convincing’ Bill to help him reconnect Stanley’s mind properly. His muse may not know how humans work, but he has wired Ford's mind before, he knows how neurons work. 

Finally the big day arrived, the leprecorn was ready and Stan was ready to go. Ford was careful to resuscitate the body first, not wanting his brother’s mind in a dying body.

First, they reversed the tissue death by electrically forcing the cells to divide, followed by enough radiation to prevent cancerous mutations. Then they warmed the body, just enough for a human being to survive. They replaced the old blood with about five liters that came mostly from Ford. The bone marrow, the plasma, the platelets, the red blood cells… all replaced to get rid of the dead cells.

Then they began replacing the damaged heart. It was particularly difficult with just the three of them, but Emma-May had hands of titanium, and Ford was armed with desperation. He always did better under pressure.

And it worked. Now Stanley, at least his body, was alive, with a heart identical to his that had been grown inside a leprecorn. The next two weeks would be critical, and Ford promised himself that if this time it didn’t work, he wouldn’t try again. His brother deserved to rest.

With him now alive, Ford finally called his family, telling them that Stan had been transferred to his home. Ma and Pa caught the first plane straight to Oregon, with Fiddleford picking them up at the airport. 

He doesn’t know how he managed to stand up with his mother crying under Stan, believing that her little boy was in a coma and not dead. His father even took off his sunglasses, sitting in the corner of Stan’s room with his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it was about to break.

Shermie visited him the next day, just him. Ford figured it made sense, why drag a kid across the country just to meet his dying uncle? Shermie seemed to understand something both of his parents didn’t: this was a goodbye. The new heart could fail at any moment, and even if it didn’t, there was a chance Stanley’s mind would never come back.

His parents stayed at the house for a week, Shermie stayed for three days before heading back to California. When the heart stabilized and the blood pressure approached that of a person in a normal coma, Ford began working on his brother’s brain.

The percepshrooms were administered carefully, slowly to avoid overloading or activating too many neurons. The neurons that couldn’t reproduce but could be reborn were brought back with good old-fashioned electricity;

But it didn’t work. All the tests indicated that Stan was no longer brain dead; he was even breathing without a ventilator. Stanley was simply catatonic.

When spring ended, Stanley finally reacted, waking up with a start and staring around the room as if he’d just come back from hell. Ford was quick to talk to him, comfort and calm him down, and ask Stan to talk.

But Stan just stood there, staring at him in fear and confusion, completely paralyzed.

Chapter Text

IT wasn’t planned. Stanley hadn’t spent the entire week preparing for his death or anything like that. But somehow, he couldn’t call his death impulsive either.

The day had been uneventful in a good, calm, pleasant way. And the night? Honestly, it had been good. That’s the problem, apparently.

He danced at the bar that night, allowing himself an amarula drink in celebration of the money he’d recently won in a raffle. Leaving the bar earlier than usual, not wanting to get drunk, he noticed the movie theater was still open. Time Bandits, a funny movie that made him feel soft inside and filled him with nostalgia.

He got back to his car at three in the morning, still happy and feeling the cool breeze on his face. It was wrong. He couldn’t do this anymore. He couldn’t go on. He felt happy, truly happy, for the first time in months, and it was suffocating. He couldn’t help but overreact.

This was his life? Feeling pain and sadness and boredom, waiting for rewards, only for happiness to drown him in the end? Something was wrong, something had been wrong for too long and he couldn't fix it.

Sleeping had become a pain lately, he would do anything to never have to fall asleep again, much less tonight. He didn't want to eat anymore, didn't want to talk anymore, didn't want to move anymore.

Usually the old pocketknife solves this anxiety, but it wasn't working anymore. Even if it worked, he didn't want it. It wasn't as worth it as it had been years ago, now he pathetically did it out of habit, not because of the feeling faded by years of use.

When neither opening the window nor the car door helped to stop the suffocation, Stanley sat on the ground, ignoring the dampness of the snow.

There was no one around, he was genuinely alone. The cold was really getting to him, and he allowed himself to find it beautiful. But what was the point of seeing the beauty of life if he couldn't enjoy it?

As far as he could see, life required skills and luck that Stan didn't have. He looked up, small snowflakes threatening to fall into his blurred vision. For the middle of winter, the night wasn't as cold as it should be. Stanley had always felt his anger as if it were a blue fire consuming his body. It was time to put out this arson.

Stanley had always been a man of few words; nothing he could write would be able to translate the hurricane in his mind. Somewhere in his head, he feared that he would give up if he managed to explain himself. His emotions made no sense, nor should they; he was a crazy person, he knew that very well.

His mother told him that Stanford was in Oregon, just one state away. Even though it was selfish, Stanley really wanted his brother to be with him; he didn't have the courage to see him before he died, but maybe Ford would be kind to his body.

He hoped to be cremated, but he thought it best not to demand it. His family would be the ones who would suffer; they could deal with their grief in the better way; even if they had to confine his body in the earth, and not release him into the ocean as he wished. Instead of a note, he wrote Ford's number on the back of his ID, hoping that would be enough.

He looked up at the moon, hoping it would help him sleep just this one last time, and lay down in a pile of snow. Honestly, it hurt, but he didn't want to do anything too dramatic or expensive. He hoped his mother would think he died peacefully, without pain or regrets.

He just... went to sleep. Maybe the next life would be a little kinder to him. He didn't believe in heaven or hell, but he did believe in the past lives his mother always talked about. She used to say that you keep reincarnating into the same family over and over again, until you reach your goal.

He hopes to be someone important to Ford. Maybe he'll be born as a little six-fingered genius that Ford will love unconditionally. It would be nice to be held in his parents' arms again, even as a grandson, maybe this time he won't mess it up.

When it started to get unbearably hot, he lifted his head out of the falling snow and looked up at the stars. His vision was too blurry to see them, so Stanley just pretended they were there.

He didn't know if his eyes were still open or if they had already closed, but it didn't matter. He continued to see the constellations William and Gemini. When the heat began to subside, he allowed himself to see the Big Dipper being crossed by a shooting star. He almost smiled at that.

IT was born in a parking lot next to a red car, although IT doesn't know exactly how IT knows the name of the place. IT just sat there, sitting on the ground, waiting for the man in ITs front wake up. IT doesn't know who this man is, but he's the only person around, so maybe he'll give ITs some explanation.

It got a little boring after a while. The snow had almost completely covered the man, only his face visible. The sight was kind of funny, like he was just a head hanging loose in a pile of rice.

The snow had already stopped when a black and white car stopped near them, and a guy dressed in blue got out with a flashlight in his hand. The man knocked on the car, apparently expecting an answer, before turning around the car and freezing, staring at the ground.

IT smiled shyly, lying down next to the sleeping man and trying to make a snow angel. It didn't work, the snow must have been too hard to leave a mark, but it couldn't hurt to try, right? The blue man knelt down, pushing the snow away from the sleeping man and holding his arms for some reason.

"Possible 10-56 in the Seadrop movie theater parking lot, I need an ambulance and a tow truck on scene." The blue man mumbled into something black near his neck. "I don't know, the body is too frozen to be sure... uhm... I'll try."

It was kind of funny to see the blue man talking to himself, even with two people for him to talk to, but IT was probably no one to judge. The blue man went over to the red car, opening it and taking out a blanket from inside. He placed it on the ground, and then dragged the sleeping man in there. It was curte, like a little bed.

The blue one took some things out of the sleeping man's pocket and began to hug him tightly to his chest, before... Kissing him? Maybe they knew each other? That would be a good explanation as to why the blue one was ignoring IT. Okay, maybe, IT wasn't really in the mood to talk.

IT watched him do this for a long time, a strange feeling running through ITs during the kisses. It was like ITs insides were twisting, IT felt like IT was going to vomit or something. The blue one didn't stop even when IT pulled his sleeve, trying to get him away from the sleeping man.

Two new cars arrived, with about four people getting out of the big one. The blue man walked away while these people put the sleeping man on a bed and put him in the white car. IT decided to get in the car with him, maybe it would be better to help the sleeping man. Who knows, maybe he would let ITs  sleep at his house?

The sleeping man's house is very big and white, with a lot of people crowded around him. Maybe he's a king or something? It looks like a castle. No one stopped ITs from entering, so IT can live here, right?

IT wandered around the castle for a while, observing the King's subjects; they were dressed in similar clothes. IT didn't really know what IT looked like, but then again no one bothered by ITs appearance, so maybe IT looked like them.

For some reason IT made ITs way to the rooms of two children. The room was cute, full of little books and colorful papers on the walls. It was strange, the two children were copies of each other, but IT could tell them apart by their hair; one of them had none and the other had long orange hair.

IT spun around the room, observing people dressed funny being represented by the papers. The only person who looked like the King's subjects - specifically the ones in colorful clothes who were usually lying down - was a man holding a pen. Stan Lee was written right above his smile. He looked important.

Stan is a stupid name, it can't be the King's name, can it? Probably not, the man on the poster was quite different. But IT liked the name Lee; simple and light. The man wouldn't mind if he took that name, would he?

Lee continued walking through the castle, bumping into subjects. They didn't look happy, the ones that weren't angry looked scared, or sad. Maybe the King isn't very nice? Or maybe they're like that because the King fell asleep and, considering Lee keeps coming back and checking on his progress, never woke up again?

It could be a curse. Maybe that explains the blue man's kiss, he might have tried to wake him up like in the fairy tales. Now his subjects are trying to wake him up in other lesser known ways, like putting those white things in his mouth or when they put him in the big machine that made noise.

Lee started to feel a little bad, though. The more they touched the King, the more he felt that strange nausea he had felt when the blue man kissed the King. He even tried to vomit, but he couldn't. In fact, he wasn't even sure what vomiting would be, he just thought it would make him feel better.

Zum

Lee felt a shock of pain run through his body, and for some reason he looked at the sleeping King. One of the subjects was holding two pots in his hand that were attached to a TV by strings. He said something and touched the King again.

Zum

The feeling again, this time so strong that Lee screamed. No one paid him any attention and the pain grew. Lee saw the man with the pots bring them closer to the King again.

"Stop it!" He reached for the man, trying desperately to push him away. "You're hurting us-"

ZUM

I remember. Oh my god I remember! Stanley Caryn Pines, that was his name. Not Lee or IT.

He couldn't see anything, not even black. There was absolutely nothing around him, just a veil of emptiness. Had his eyes frozen?

He tried to listen but couldn't, he couldn't even hear his own breathing or his heart. He couldn't perceive anything. It was worse than being Lee, Lee was free and light. He's trapped and didn't know what was holding him back, he couldn't feel anything. He tried to feel his body and couldn't.

He had no fingers, no face, no heart, nothing. It was just him, alone in the empty veil devoid of any sensation. His grandmother always preached about hell, could that be it?

That's it. He killed himself hoping to be reincarnated and now he's trapped in hell. What the hell were his hours as a ghost then? The devil giving him a taste of freedom before trapping him?

He no longer had a mouth. He couldn’t scream and he couldn’t shut up. He didn’t have the air or lungs to take a deep breath, but he thought of himself breathing. It couldn’t be forever, could it? Maybe it was like the hell his father had talked about, where you only stayed long enough to pay for your sins.

He tried to think of his brothers, realizing he hadn’t even thought about Shermie. They’d had a huge fight before Stan was kicked out, and his big brother had never tried to help him or fix what had happened. No one had.

He began to recite stories from his childhood, pretending to be performing for an audience. Stanley had always been afraid of being alone, so afraid that it had become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

One time, when Sixer and I were ten, I stole Dad’s favorite locket…

Lee was back at the King's side, feeling even lighter and dizzier than before. He could hear a cacophony of sounds, screeching like demonic songbirds.

“Time of death, 19:43.” A man in white said, turning off the noisy machine.

“Has the family been contacted yet?” A light blue woman asked, covering the King's face with the blanket.

“Yes, his brother is on his way here from Springfield.”

“Are you sure it's not better to try to bring him back? Maybe give him some closure?”

“Brain death was confirmed even after the hypothermia was reversed, he didn't respond to any of the tests.” The white man took off his glasses, sitting up. “It would be cruel to force the heart again, the ischemia was treated too late.”

“Are you okay, Hunter?”

“He's my age, Barb. What would drive a boy that age to kill himself like that?”

For some reason, seeing them talk about it made Lee sad. He sat down next to the King, resting his head on the bed. Why didn't he want to wake up?

A little while later, two people dressed in gray arrived, starting to unplug the King from all the TVs and remove the white stuff from his body. Lee followed as they moved the King's bed to a big metal box, apparently transported to a cold, silver room.

"Identification?"

"Stanley Pines, death by cardiac arrest caused by hypothermia." A woman in gray spoke, starting to remove the King's clothes. Maybe this is his room? "An autopsy wasn't required, he was upstairs long enough for them to do the toxicology tests."

"June 15, 1954, he's about 27 years old then." A man in gray approached, his hands white. "Malnourished, multiple scars. Recent injuries appear to be self-induced..."

"It was suicide."

“Got it.”

Okay, this was getting boring again. Lee was about to sit on the floor again, not sure what to do, but one thing caught his attention: a girl in the corner of the room was staring at him. A real change from everyone ignoring him.

“Hello?”

The girl jumped, before sliding down the wall and sitting on the floor, starting to cry. Lee wasted no time in going over to her. She is chubby, with curly brown hair tied in a ponytail and front teeth as big as a rabbit. 

“I really am dead, aren’t I?” 

“I don’t know. What’s dead?”

“You are too. Don’t you remember?” The girl looked at him strangely.

“No.”

“I remember. Droga, I didn’t want to die.” She started crying again, her face buried in her arms.

“Why did you die then?”

“I didn’t want to, okay? I was on the trail and, and suddenly something bit my foot and I was alone.”

“So you came to the King’s castle?”

“I think they brought me to the hospital too late.”

Lee doesn’t really know what she’s talking about, and she clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Still, it’s good to talk to someone, he thinks. The King was nowhere to be found, only the man in gray remained.

“Want to play?”

The girl’s name is Mariana and she’s been in the castle for a while now. She said she came from a kingdom called Mexico with her family, who still don’t know where she is. Despite that, she’s actually very good at thumb wrestling, and she seemed to laugh a lot while Lee told her about his day.

When they were in battle number twelve, the door opened and two men came in, looking even sadder than the man in white. Mariana interrupted their thumb wrestling, watching as the King was pulled out of the wall.

“Stanley…” one of the men, chubby and small in comparison to the other, murmured.

Mariana stood up, coming closer to them and looking sadly at the sleeping King. She looked deeply from Lee to the smaller man, and Lee suddenly realized that this man and the King were the same look. 

“I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“What’s a brother?”

“Do you really not remember anything?” Lee shook his head. “A brother is the closest person to your family. You share your life with them.”

“And how do you know he’s my brother?”

“You’re the same.” She sighed, pointing at the King.

Maybe he was the sleeping King’s brother, but would that make Lee a prince? And the man next to the King? Is he a prince too? 

"I have a sister too. Her name is Angelica, and she’s the only person I have left. But I don’t think I’m that to her. She has a daughter and her husband, she doesn’t need me anymore.” Mariana walked over to one of the drawers, absently fingering the Mariana Ramirez label. “She wanted to move to Oregon, leave me behind. I was so mad, I swore I’d never speak to her again. Now I really won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Are you listening to me? I’m dead. She can’t see me or hear me or anything anymore. She’ll grow up, my niece will grow up, my sister will have grandchildrens and forget about me.”

“Why would that stop you?”

Mariana frowned, and looked ready to snap at him. But then she looked away from the men, seeing his possibly brother run six loving fingers over the King's hand. She cringed, staring at Lee as if he held all the answers.

“You’re right. She’s all I have left, and if I couldn’t be there for her and support her in life, I’ll do it in death. I’ll try to find her.” She smiled, punching Lee’s arm. “You should do the same, you know? Why don’t you follow your brother?”

“Is that what you’re supposed to do?”

“Better than staying in this dungeon, isn’ t it?”

Lee is starting to think his brothers are magician kings. Or at least the six-fingered one, he's definitely a wizard.

Lee has discovered that the King's name is Stanley, and that the wizard's name is Stanford. He finds it funny, the three of them have names that go together when connected. The King's name seems to be Lee's name mixed with the beginning of Stanford's name. He had fun mixing up the words, especially when he discovered that the skinny man's name is Fiddleford. There are probably four brothers then, if the name was any indication.

Fiddleford was always with a woman named Emma-May, but he doesn't think she's their brother. Mainly because Fiddleford kisses her, and they both get pretty gross sometimes. Lee has followed them back to his house and regretted it a little. But the kid is cool.

Now, his brother Stanford spends all day with his brother Stanley. He put him in some kind of glass bed full of wires and smoke, definitely practicing some kind of spell. Maybe he's trying to break the curse that makes Stanley sleep, and maybe that's the curse that makes it impossible for him and Mariana to be seen by his brothers or her sister.

When Stanford isn't cleaning Stanley's room, he takes a magic potion and goes to sleep. At these times, the house gets sooooo boring, especially when it's just the three of them. Lee has tried to sleep to imitate his brothers, but he couldn't. Plus, the pigs scare him.

So he decided to explore the city. It's a really cool place actually, it makes sense that a wizard would come to live in the forest. And there are actually a lot of people under the curse that Lee and Mariana suffer from.

For example, when Lee was wandering around the city and met three teenagers. They were funny, a little different from other people, with completely white bodies and floating legs.

But they were also mean. As a group, they surrounded him and started asking him a lot of questions and laughing at his answers, calling him a repentant and a scientist of the forest. It wasn't a laugh like Mariana's, they kept asking the same thing over and over again just for the laugh.

Oddly enough, the ones who saved him were an old couple who chased the jokesters away. They seemed oddly relieved that he was an adult, despite Ma whispering to Pa that Lee was as innocent as a child.

They invited him to their house, a huge place full of food, and began to tell their story. Lee doesn't know what a heart attack is, but he's heard that word constantly, from the King's castle to his brothers.

"A scientist who lives in the forest recently invaded a ghost party club, and classified us into ten categories," Ma told him, moving the furniture around. "But only the younger ones have been using that classification, some of us don't spend our time haunting cabins."

"So he ended up leaving several types of ghosts out of his research. But recently he's stopped leaving his house." Pa shrugged, shooing a few bearded puppies away from the window. “There’s a rumor that he died and became a ‘type 1’ ghost, although I prefer to call them pet ghosts, but no one has confirmed that rumor so far.”

Lee smiled and nodded, although he really didn’t understand what they were talking about. What was a scientist or a ghost, really? He stayed at their house until nightfall, and then went back to his brothers’ house.

The first thing he noticed was that his brothers’ pet pigs were scattered around the outside, some running off into the woods and others running around the house. A huge chunk of the fence that kept them quiet and close together was missing. Walking into the house, he could hear Fiddleford yelling at Stanford. The two of them were in the living room, and Stanford seemed to still be asleep, his glasses abandoned somewhere.

“You didn’t even wake up until I forced you to! Do you have any idea how much danger you’ve been in?” Fiddleford ran his hands through his blond hair, strands of it falling loose. “Do you have any idea how irresponsible you’ve been?”

“How was I supposed to know there was a werewolf on the loose, Fiddleford?” Stanford asked softly, still lying down.

“It’s one thing to not know there was a werewolf on the loose. It’s another thing to have a werewolf attack your house, eat two pigs, and you don't even realize it!”

“I was just sleeping, okay? I have that right.”

“It’s seven o’clock at night! The cameras caught him destroying the fence at five in the afternoon.” Fiddleford stopped in the middle of the room, as if struck by lightning. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“You know damn well what I’m talking about, Stanford!” He walked right past Lee, shivering as he walked up the stairs.

Stanford took a deep breath, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and pulling himself into a more sitting position. The noises upstairs in the house became louder and louder, with objects falling and being dragged.

The noises stopped suddenly, followed by the man storming down the stairs. Ford's eyes widened as they landed on the orange vial in Fiddleford's hand.

"Amobarbital of 75 mg, Stanford? Seriously?" He waved the vial like a knife. "How many did you take?"

"Fiddle-"

"How many did you take?!"

"Four, okay? But not four at once."

Fiddleford walked past Lee again, this time so angry he didn't even flinch. Straight to the kitchen, he made a point of dragging the trash can as close to the door as possible, opening the vial and throwing everything in.

"No, no-" Stanford finally seemed to wake up, trying to get up quickly.

"A young in Springfield died less than a week ago from taking five of these." He threw the empty bottle to the floor with a crash. "Is that what you want? Do you want to die, Stanford!?"

A loud sob rang out through the room as Stanford gave up on his feet, collapsing onto the floor. The silence that followed was enough to make even Lee uncomfortable. Fiddleford moved closer to the couch, looking out at the last of the snow falling.

“I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.” Stanford sniffed, hiding his head in his arms. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. It hurts sooooo much. Every day, I spend the whole day thinking about Stanley and why he did it.”

“I think everyone who’s ever lost someone like this has that question, why."

“That’s not the scary part. It’s the fact that I understand his decision.” He slumped against the couch. “Is that what he was feeling? Because if it is, I can’t help but think that it’s obvious what he did. It’s like he died for what is only a third of my pain, you understand?”

“I’m worried about you, Stanford.” Fiddleford sat on the floor next to him. “You clearly need help, real help. Emma-May and I could see the signs of suicidal behavior in you.”

“I can’t die.” Stanford wiped his nose on his sleeve, his face empty of emotion. “Not until I get Stanley back.”

Fiddleford opened his mouth, but said nothing. Lee sat on the floor next to them, as if to provide moral support. Fiddleford picked at his thumb until a sharp sliver of nail came off, seeming to finally remember a speech.

“I had a cousin, you know? Her name was Annabelle. A beautiful girl, well-mannered, with a great future. But I think her first child changed her outlook on life, because she started to get really sad.” Fiddleford wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “You remind me a lot of her, actually, with your love of discovery. And just like you, she started to shut down. She stopped eating, she stopped taking care of the house, she stopped teaching her literature classes. The only thing she really did was take care of her son and sleep.”

“Just like I take care of Stanley.”

“I worried about her a lot, she was like a big sister to me. She promised me she would never go too far because no matter how dark her mind got, she had to take care of her little boy.”

Stanford looked out, avoiding the conversation. From the window he could see the broken piece of fence perfectly, reinforcing Fiddleford’s thesis about how he must have seen the werewolf attacking the pigs.

“One day she woke up in the night and realized she hadn’t fed her son since the day before. And I think something broke, you know?” Fiddleford took off his glasses, apparently tired of wiping his tears. “You have a motivation to not die, but what happens when that motivation stops making sense? All it takes is a lapse of conscience, a paranoia, a disillusionment. One day you live for your son and the grace of the Lord, the next you’re hanging in the kitchen.”

“Just let me do this, please. I need to sleep.”

“When you first said that, I thought you were fine. You’re having a hard time, and I know how hard it is for you to sleep. But not like this, Stanford. You’re no different than when I begged Emma-May to give me my gun back.”

“What gun?”

Fiddleford sighed wearily. He awkwardly wiped his glasses on his shirt, putting off the subject as long as possible.

“You know how a few days ago I completely forgot Emma-May’s Christmas present, and you had to get me one before she realized?”

“Yeah, I don’t know how you forgot your wife’s, but you got me two.”

“I was only going to get you one, actually. I bought the snow globe, wrapped it, and forgot about it.” He laughed, tugging absently at his hair. “Then I’d see the wrapped present and forget I didn’t get Emma-May’s because I thought it was hers.”

“And you say you’re worried about me…” Ford rolled his eyes.

“I’m worried about that.” Fiddleford picked up the book Stanford always carried with him, opening it and flipping through the pages absently.

Stanford opened his mouth to protest, but was quickly silenced. Fiddleford handed it over, holding up  a specific section. Ford’s eyes widened as he He noticed the drawing there.

“Emma-May made me do a series of tests the other day, thinking I had Alzheimer’s or something. It turned out that the result was Early Frontotemporal Dementia, and the doctors believed they had found a new subtype, which affects memory in the early stages.” He took a deep breath. “I had to confess. By God in heaven, I hadn’t realized. I, a scientist with an IQ of almost 150, missed all the side effects of an invention that was made to cure.”

“Bu-but what now?”

“Emma-May confiscated the gun and has been treating me like an alcoholic.” He laughed, without any humor. “We’re waiting to find out if I really developed Frontotemporal Dementia or if using the gun mimics the symptoms.”

Stanford bit his lip, uncomfortably. He leafed through his journal, trying to remember the last time he wrote in it. It must have been a little while after Stanley had died, because he could barely remember its contents.

“I think our stubborn genius is a big disadvantage in this regard, we can find a thousand excuses for our vices-”

“I found it.” Stanford interrupted him, running his fingers over a page.

“What?”

“I found the solution to Stanley’s heart.”

“Are you sure they’re an irrational animal?” Fiddleford finally asked. “The fact that they wear clothes makes me uncomfortable about doing these tests.”

“As far as Stanford and I can tell, they mimic leprechauns.” Emma-May said, stroking the head of the chosen specimen with her gloved hands. “Leprechauns make clothes and eventually abandon them. Leprecorns then wear them for safety and warmth, much like crabs do with their shells.”

“Plus they don’t live long enough to pass on knowledge to their generations; they only live for about five months,” Stanford added, writing incessantly in his book. “And the gnomes have confirmed to me that they’re pets at best and mice at worst.”

The mother leprecorn is very cute, with a beautiful rainbow mane and her little green dress. According to his brothers, she was expecting five little babies who would help Stanley in some way.

The snow outside had melted. The pigs had been taken away by a farmer, leaving a giant area in the yard that Lee used to play, either alone or with the few cursed ones he found around the property.

The babies were finally born, and they were ugly little things. No clothes, almost no hair, and their eyes were closed. But the mother leprecorn seemed to like them a lot, trying to gore his brothers with her horn when they picked them up.

When Lee went back to check on them the next day, there were only four of them. He doesn't know what happened to Elmo, the smallest leprecorn, and he probably never will. The other leprecorns didn't seem to notice his absence, leaving Lee to wonder if there were really five.

Anyway, Stanford seemed much happier. He still talked to that golden statue that filled Lee with a sense of doom and still drank his potions, but less now. Most of the time he devoted to his journals and his babies. Every now and then, he would make a bag of red liquid appear, which they treated as if it were a very unstable and important potion. Stanford would go a few days without taking any potions before creating these bags, so Lee assumes that they were made by magic.

Fiddleford and the child one day brought back a very strange mushroom, which seemed to make both of his brothers very excited. It made Stanford sleep much more often. But Lee realized why his brother took the magic potions to sleep: he would sometimes come back with the solution. He would wake up and immediately spend the next few hours writing spells and magic concoctions to try to undo the curse. So maybe the potion helped his intelligence in exchange for its magic?

Grover, the first baby leprecorn born, disappeared from their house a little before they were a month old. The mother leprecorn seemed very upset after that, whining and scraping her paws against the glass of her house. But nothing she did seemed to be able to bring Grover back.

Lee saw him from time to time, walking awkwardly near the house, but none of his siblings seemed to notice him. At least Lee had a new playmate, he was a lot of fun. A little while later, the child of the house sewed cute little clothes for the little ones with Emma-May.

Lee was playing with Grover one day when the mother leprecorn suddenly appeared in the yard, seeming to like Lee a lot for some reason. He never saw her inside the house again, so maybe his siblings released her into the wild. They probably did this with all the other babys then, freeing them after they helped Stanley. 

When the babys were two months old, the mood in the house got heavier. Stanley's room went from slightly scary to overwhelming, full of machines and boxes. Lee didn't like being in the room that day at all, but he felt restricted from going. It seemed important.

They brought giant machines near Stanley, which made a loud noise. The second machine looked even scarier, no one but Lee and Stanley were inside the room when it was turned on.

His brothers came back, but Emma-May went to another room with Oscar in her hands. He looked bigger than the last time Lee saw him. Emma-May freed him into the wild that day, and came back to the room with a cart full of smoke and tiny machines beeping.

When they started hooking Stanley up to even more machines and tubes and those bags of red potion, Lee left the house. He doesn't know why but it was making him sad, worried. It was like something really bad was about to happen.

Even with the four leprecorns happily playing in the forest near his house, Lee went straight through. He went through the trees, past rocks and animals and creatures and went straight as far as his heart told him to. Could this be the heart attack that had awakened the curse on his brother and the old couple?

When he finally stopped, there was a lake. It was huge, blue, surrounded by mountains and waterfalls. Lee looked at the dock, remembering his brothers' child. The boy loved this place, and for some reason, Lee did too. He bent down, for some reason running his hand through the water, before dipping his feet in and jumping in.

Maybe Lee was some kind of mermaid, because he really liked the water. He floated down there, seeing everything the surface didn't let them see. The island his brother was so afraid of has a face, the fish seem so happy flying around him, even the world seems quieter.

The feeling of something being wrong got worse as night fell. Lee started to feel sadder, as if he was embarrassed. He had forgotten something, he knows that. This lake doesn't have the same feeling of... of what? He once belonged to something, to someone, to some place, but he doesn't know.

The lizard that lived inside the lake gave him a strange look, as if it were cursed too. More than that, he seemed to be homesick, just like Lee. He doesn’t know what home he’s talking about, but he knows it’s not his brothers’ house, or the King’s castle, or the parking lot where he was born. Was there something before this? A life before his curse?

The moon was full when Lee emerged from the lake, shining brightly like it did the last time. Lee missed the cold, missed the hunger, missed the pain. Why was this happening? Why to him? Why now?

He didn’t make it back home until sunrise. Even when he did, he sat on the ground and petted and played with the leprecorns. Fiddleford drove off in his car, returning with the child. Normally that would be enough to keep Lee entertained, but not today. In fact, the next few days continued the vicious cycle of hating home but not being able to stay away from his brothers.

They changed Stanley’s room again. The big machines were gone, replaced by smaller ones. For some reason this scared Lee even more, Stanley looked a lot like he did when they were in the hospital castle.

More than that, Stanley was moving. Lee had never noticed before, but he had never seen Stanley's chest move like his brothers'. Stanford was doing it, he was going to undo the curse. Is that why Lee was so sick? Was Lee's curse being undone too?

It should have been a good thing. But it wasn't. Because Stanford was getting more and more nervous every day, because Kermit and Abby disappeared from the house and weren't released into the wild. Because Lee was getting angrier and sadder every day. Was he the one who cast the curse? He remembers something like that, having the choice at his fingertips. 

The days became a boring joke.

Lee no longer had the energy to try to stop any of them. Over the course of these days his routine consisted of watching the humans around him fold around Stanley, and each day he felt weaker, felt sadder.

Ever since Ma, Pa and Shermie left, Lee has been lying in the same corner. Pretending to sleep, pretending to eat, pretending to be seen. Was this what he missed? Was he mourning his death or his life? He still doesn't understand what death or life is, but those two words have been spinning around in his head like a spinning top fight.

Stanford brought back the big machines, and this time Lee couldn't even pull away. There was a bag, a bright blue IV being fed into the tubes surrounding Stanley. Lee felt sicker and sicker with each drop that dripped.

Emma-May turned on a TV, connected to some kind of fat pen or camera that Stanford was now slowly moving over Stanley's now naked head. The images scared him, he knew they were from Stanley's brain. He had no idea he was so… asleep.

“Sector 067b203-1981, fifty millivolts.” She brought what looked like a silver colored pencil close to Ford’s camera and turned it on.

I danced that night. Arm in arm with Vanessa, we ran and twirled on top of the tables to the sound of Have You Ever See the Rain. She laughed as we got off, each of us fulfilling our pact to forget each other as soon as we left the bar.

“Sector 316t584-1980”

Desperation. My nose itched, begging me to give it mercy and stop for the night. My mind was asking for something different. I slowly took off my shirt, looking at the white package on the table so I wouldn’t have to look them in the eye.

“Sector 482g739-1979.”

Rico’s hands gripped my hair, the barrel of the gun burning my left ear. It had been fired recently, Rico knew that. It was supposed to leave a mark. A lesson. A reminder.

“Sector 907l126-1978.”

It was my twenty-fourth birthday. Stanford always said that your cells completely renewed themselves every seven years. What did that mean to me? Every cell that had ever hugged Ford or kissed Ma’s cheek or been petted by Pa or touched Shermie was gone. The milk was expired, the marshmallow cereal must have been more than two months old. With any luck I would die of diabetes before I turned thirty-one.

“Sector 248r803-1977.”

I kept calling Stanford, I couldn’t help it. My twin’s voice sounded pristine, untainted by the cigarettes and beers that had accompanied me since the -F incident.

“Sector 531m472-1976.”

Marilyn accelerated the car, but she hadn’t counted on my desperation. I threw myself at the windshield, forcing her to step on the brakes or crash us both into the hotel’s flagstones. The Stan-mobile is something I would go to hell to get back.

“Sector 684p219-1975.”

A camera in front of me, a truck behind me. With each click they stripped me more, of clothes or dignity, it doesn’t matter. So if I smiled, I would earn the money.

“Sector 759j364-1974”

It wasn’t on purpose, I shouldn’t be here. Too white, too noisy. Someone was convincing me of something different every day. The moon landing was faked, God died in the Cold War, nurses lobotomized you. I stopped pretending not to believe that it wasn’t worth throwing Thistle’s car into a shack.

“Sector 193k587-1973.”

I didn’t understand anything, everyone around me was conspiring in a language I didn’t know. A man in the cell next door who called me Gringo Útil threw a Spanish/English dictionary at my head while I was sleeping. That black eye probably saved my life.

“Sector 826n403-1973.”

It was raining, everyone formed a circle around me. Every time a punch sent me to one side, the prisoners pushed me back. It wasn’t every day that an 18-year-old boy ended up with them. It was a spectacle.

“Sector - - -_- - -1972.”

Enough, Enough!

The memories kept coming, Stanley incessantly banging his head against the walls, the floor, the machines, Ford. It was no use. He was nothing more than a corpse. His wandering spirit permeated everything.

He was trapped, trapped outside his body, incapable of doing anything. How had he not realized before that he had no voice? He opened his mouth to scream and nothing happened. The silence bounced off the walls and came back at him.

He needed to take his anger out on something, but there was nothing. He didn't exist, he was just the echo of a suicidal soul punished endlessly for the audacity of not waiting for a slower death. He couldn't touch anything, he couldn't even touch the walls. All he had left was the floor, like a dying dog choosing to die on the carpet.

He couldn't die. He was dead. He managed to ruin the only chance he had of silencing all those fires that burned his brain and suffocated his emotions. He died alone, frozen in a parking lot. He died again, intubated and brain dead in a hospital more than four thousand kilometers from home. And he will die once again here, in his brother's house, without even his heart, clothes or hair.

The electricity continued to pulse in his brain, with each word Emma-May spoke, a sharp pain and his memories came back. He could feel it now. The tube around his throat tasted like plastic, like a cheap faucet.

There was a relentless pain in his chest, Stanley could feel the stitches that Ford had carefully closed between his ribs. The blood felt strange circulating under his body so long after his death. It wasn't even his blood, it was Ford's.

But mostly, he really needed to change position, his butt hurt from lying so long, sitting up. Had Ford never heard of bedsores? The bed was the softest he had ever had the displeasure of lying on, but still. He really needed to move those legs.

"Let's give the brain some time to recover, but after that we need to test the reflexes."

Being a ghost wasn't so bad. IT was a childish and confusing thing, but Lee was happy. Whatever god had taken pity on him and decided to erase his painful memories, he would probably pray to that entity tonight. Lee was the best version of Stanley that ever existed, before Ford replaced his heart with that of a freak.

But now Lee was deader than Stanley. And without the fascination and imagination that allowed him to play, Stanley was tired and bored. And worse: he was feeling every test Ford threw at him.

He hit his joints with a small hammer, making both the ghost and the body jump with a start. He poured water into his ear, blinded him with a flashlight and seemed very happy that his pupils had shrunk, made Emma-May hold his eyes open while shaking his head from side to side.

Despite being very nervous, Ford finally turned off the ventilator that was getting on Stanley's nerves. He could feel the air being forced into his lungs like a party balloon. When it was proven that he could suck air in through his nose, they finally removed the plastic tube from his throat.

At some point, Ford did a strange test: he lifted Stanley’s leg in the air and let go. Stanley braced himself for it to hit the bed, maybe bounce, but instead it hung there in midair. This seemed to both scare and excite Ford. Ford mentioned catatonia, which Stanley had heard about back in his loonie days.

As if it wasn’t humiliating enough that his brother would clean his useless body while Stanley watched. Sometimes he wanted to wake up, come back to life just to stop Ford from giving him another bath. Or at the very least, make Emma-May look away during these more intimate moments. He knows they’re both acting professionally, but so are the photographers for the diaper rash, and that never stopped Stanley from feeling humiliated.

He also got really uncomfortable with Ford’s long, emotional conversations. While Emma-May talked to him the same way she talked to and petted the leprecorns, Ford had endless monologues with his body.

Apologies for scuffles that had lasted over twenty years, explanations for why he had brought him back, updates on his family. He even had the courage to hold the house phone up to his body's ear, just so Ma could talk to him.

Stanley's patience was running out. If he did nothing, he would be in this limbo forever, he knew that. Neither dead nor alive, just enough of each to suffer. Feeling hungry without being able to eat, missing without being able to touch, and he would frankly do anything to be able to sleep again.

More than anything, he knew that a ghost could not die. If he wanted to finish the job and finally achieve peace, he would have to have a body. He didn't know if he still wanted to die or if it was just the memories that were too fresh, but he knew he couldn't stay like this.

Stanley waited for the beginning of summer, gathering strength. Every day he felt his body grow stronger, and his soul grow weaker. It was only a matter of time. He walked over to his body, touching his icy fingers. Small cold scars covered his entire body, but the ones on his hands felt worse. It was as if he had dipped his hand in oil instead of snow. He focused on that sensation of touch.

The world went black and white, the air seemed to have been replaced by helium. Stanley felt a presence, a thousand times worse than the golden statue his brother prayed to. Slowly, as if to not scare a predator, he turned around.

“Hello, Mr. Stanley!” a triangle greeted him, taking off its top hat. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Hey.”

Okay? He saw unicorns that imitated leprechauns, ghosts that were just floating keys, saw his brother applying all sorts of spells to his icy body in an attempt to give him a little more normality. But a one-eyed triangle is new.

“Bill Cipher, genius consultant and mentor.” He waved a friendly hand. “Sixer has told me a lot about you.”

“You know Ford?”

“We’re old friends, so to speak.” Stanley wasn’t sure how a triangle could smile with just one eye. “He asked me to come check on you from the other side.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Stanley looked away sharply, uncomfortable. “I’m going back to my body now.”

“About that…” He stepped between Stanley and his body, forcing him to take a step back. “It’s not a good idea to go back now. Your body isn’t ready to receive your soul.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“Stanford did the math, it’ll be a few weeks before you can get back in. Trying now will be pointless.”

“It’s worth trying.” He tried to go right, and Bill stopped him again.

“Your new heart won’t hold up, you risk rejecting it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

“Stanford said I could wake up at any moment. If I wasn't supposed to wake up, he would have sedated me. So either you’re crazy or you’re lying.”

The triangle laughed again, this time without mirth. Stanley really didn’t like the way the atmosphere in the room had gotten heavier.

“Well, it’s not like we can stop each other.” Bill shrugged. “Look, I didn’t give Sixer a good enough equation to reconnect your brain to your soul, you know that, right? So I just want you to cooperate. Sixer will try to wake you up, fail, and then go back to building the portal to access the 'dimension of weirdness' to help you."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"What part of 'your soul is disconnected from your brain, which I've done only the bare minimum to fix' don't you understand? You're not waking up, even if you tried you'd be in the brain-dead hell I saw you tossing and turning in last time."

Bill's eye flashed an image of his body in the hospital bed, the doctors testing his every reflex and him failing every single one. Stanley felt like his stomach was full of rocks as he remembered the agonizing hour he'd spent trapped in his dead brain.

"Sixer is going to open the portal to try to fix you, so that'll be my cue. Maybe I'll fix that rotten brain of yours if he does what I tell him to do, but it doesn't matter, you won't remember anything anyway." Bill shrugged, looking very amused. "Helloooo, you've been dead for months. Do it my way and don't try any funny business, or you'll end up completely paralyzed in a dying body, and this time I doubt Ford would give up if he lost his pulse like the doctors."

Would that be... bad? He's always been an impulsive person, why would these decisions be any different? He needs to get moving, do something about all this.

"Well, I have more important matters to deal with right now, but if I were you I'd listen to my advice." Bill shook his cane at him, as if scolding him. "Byyye."

The world returned to color just in time for Ford to enter the room. But that wasn't what caught Stanley's attention. Right there, a few inches away from his body, was a triangle with an eye and a tie. It was on the table, made of duct tape. Stanley has no idea who put it there, he wants it gone.

He stared at his catatonic body, making a decision. He would go back, even if he had to communicate for the rest of his life by blinking his eyes. Bill would not go near his brother. That tape on the table will be his oath. He knows Bill wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't remember anything, but Stanley knows. The moment he sees a triangle like that, he will remember, he knows it. And if Bill was so desperate for him not to try, it means he can do it.

Bill underestimated him, and he will regret it.