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If Filbrick had known what his life would become when he met Caryn Romanoff he never would have approached the beautiful centaur. Sure life was hard as a horse headed minotaur, but if given the chance he would have gone back and slugged himself across the face, told the younger, brasher version of himself that life could be so much worse than a few second glances and horse based humor sent his way.
As it was, no version of himself appeared, and Filbick Pines sauntered up (as much as Filbrick could), gazed up at the dark haired woman and started chatting her up in the small, magically patroned bar they found themselves in. There weren’t many minotaur and centaur accepting establishments, so they kept meeting up over and over again, until one day Filbrick asked his future wife to go see a new horror movie (at a drive-in theatre, of course).
In a classic move done by men everywhere, Filbrick (who’d had to sit in a high chair to reach his then girlfriend shoulders even with her sitting) threw an arm around her, smirked as she shrieked from a scare, then made off in the night, both of them glowing the next day.
The glow turned to pale exhaustion nine months and a rushed wedding later, when their first son came out into the world neighing and crying in turns, with six legs, four hands, and a body so haphazardly designed the midwife threw up and one of the nurses fainted. Sherman Caryn Pines (or Shermie, for short) was born with the hands and arms of a man, attached to a horse torso in the way legs should be, with a neck that led to a human torso, two more arms that ended in hooves, a horse head, and two human ears.
It was a nightmare teaching him to walk, then a nightmare watching it. His human ears moved like a horses, his hand-feet patted on the ground in a way Filbrick learned not to dread, he grew a mustache at five years old that would regrow the next day, and his peers ran away screaming for the first few years until the school had to stage an intervention and forced every kid to have a one on one conversation with Shermie until they realized he wasn’t a horse god come to claim their souls. Every year more and more issues came up, from appropriate wear (everything had to be custom made, and half the time Sherimie went around naked), to shoes (also custom, and never worn), to potential career options (what could Shermie even do?).
Nothing any kind of parenting guide could help with, and not a single one of them normal.
Then, when Shermie was ten years old, the nightmare happened again. Caryn was pregnant, and she refused to terminate. Despite the hardships of raising and looking at Shermie, she loved her son and already loved the child growing inside her. Filbrick laid awake at night, dreading every new problem a second Shermie would bring, then laid awake at night trying not to contemplate the eight limbed horror growing in his wife after the first ultrasound. How many hands? Or feet? Were they about to bring about some spider horse monstrosity? Was their relationship a crime against the natural order?
On the day of his second and third son’s birth Filbrick cried tears of happiness at the sight of his sons for the first and last time. The first, who he named Stan Filbrick Pines, was a healthy human-looking baby boy, who the midwife had to lunge to grab so he wouldn’t bash his infant brain on the ground. The only sign of his horse heritage was his wailing cry, that would occasionally change into high pitched neighing. The second, who he named Stan Filbrick Pines, was a brown and white foal in every way except for the cry of an infant that came out between his high-pitched neighing.
Caryn smacked him in the head and added Ford and Ley to the ends, calling him a block head for giving their sons the same name. His remark that they could call them Human Stan and Horse Stan was met with a similar smack.
Unfortunately, his joy was short lived, for even though his twin sons looked like a human and a horse, they very much were still half-minotaur and half-centaur. Stanford was walking around much faster than any normal human baby (and had an extra finger on each hand, something that had been missed in the neighborhood celebration of two non-horse horror children), was talking much sooner than any normal human child, and, they learned after trying solid foods and rushing him to the hospital, had the stomach of a horse. When school started, he had to have a special diet plan in place, was bullied for his extra fingers and horse brother, and excelled so far past his peers the school strained trying to keep up with him.
Stanley came with his own problems, walking much later than a horse would, talking much like a horse wouldn’t, and needing glasses much like no pairs were designed. Caryn and Filbrick had to take time out of working to homeschool him, as his lack of hands made school impossible, but his human intelligence made it necessary. Unlike his brother, Stanley could eat anything a human could, which made his lack of hands a disaster during dinner.
So, when they were in high school, Shermie long since moved out and married and with a son of his own(his wife terrified Filbrick. The thought of anyone wanting to marry Shermie and have a child with him also kept Filbrick up at night), and Stanford was offered the opportunity of a lifetime that was ruined by his brothers bumbling, Filbrick pounced.
Finally. A normal problem. Something unrelated to his children’s strange biology or inability to participate in society like functional adults.
The kick out of the door and slam happened so fast and felt so triumphant, Filbrick didn’t realize until three days later that there was no way a horse could get a job.
But then it was too late, and he was so tired from it all, that he sighed deeply and moved on.
Stanford Pines was born a human (looking) child in a family of horses. By the time he entered first grade he knew more horse facts than any horse obsessed girl could ever dream of knowing. His ability to copy horse sounds made him the most popular kid in class for a whole week until someone finally noticed his hands, realized he had a picture in his backpack he proudly showed off as his twin brother, and realized that his older brother was Shermie, who gave half the kids nightmares when he walked home every day.
His popularity plummeted faster than lightning struck a metal rod in an open field.
Not that it was his brothers fault. Shermie couldn’t help being horrifying to anyone who wasn’t raised with him, and Stanley’s lack of hands meant he had to stay home and learn from ma and pa (and spent his time frolicking in the fields, carefree and lacking any kind of pressure as the only kid who looked-).
As Stanford grew, and his intelligence made him shine and pushed him past any neighsaying (hah!) and negative remarks, he stopped dreading school and began to look forwards to what new things he’d learn, what new way would he impress everyone around him, prove he was more than a kid with a horse family.
It meant less time with Stanley, but his brother got to spend all his time running around, going across the fields outside of town and playing pretend adventures. Besides, Stanley had shot down all of Fords suggestions to try and get his own trophies. As a horse with human intelligence, Ford knew he’d excel in any horse-based events, and Ford could finally be the one cheering him on. Ford wasn’t going to let his brother’s laziness stop him from proving everyone wrong, from proving himself to the world as the genius he was.
So, when Stanley, in a careless stumble, wrecked Fords project (schools had never been designed for horses after all) and ruined his chances to finally be his own human looking person, Ford couldn’t help but be heartbroken. He looked away as Stanley neighed, then dashed into the night, certain his brother would sneak in during the night, or would be found running around the fields the next day.
That first night, cold and alone on their shared bed in their shared stallroom, Ford clutched his blankets and tried not to think about the missing weight at his side. Then he did the same thing the next night, and the one after.
Stanley was gone.
Stanford didn’t see him again, not for two years and a different college later, when his roommate turned the channel in their new apartment to a horse racing competition. He recognized his brother immediately, watched open mouthed as a simmering fury began to grow inside him. There was Stan, on TV and running, racing the way Ford had begged him to do with him for years and years, and doing it with some stranger.
It was betrayal, pure and simple. Two years Stanford had been desperately searching for his brother, trying to him and drag him home, and there he was, doing the one thing he’d told Stanford he’d never do. The one thing Stanford had ever wanted to do with him, to do together.
A click of the remote changed the channel, and Ford Pines angrily went back to his studies. Stan was just fine after all, he didn’t need Ford looking for him.
(If he lingered on the channel afterwards, and always followed where Stan went, memorizing every horse related channel in Oregon, figured out his schedule and who his opponents were, paid enough attention to figure out Stan was cheating and throwing the game, that was no one’s business but his own)
Stanley Pines was born a horse in a world of humans. This wasn’t a problem for the first few years of his life, where he’d wobble after his smaller twin brother and the two of them would play and roll in the grass, Stanford eating it and Stanley pretending to (grass only did so much for him after all).
The Stanford started school, and Stanley’s own lessons were so infrequent and all over the place he never stood a chance on keeping up. Pa taught him math with shop finances and history with every antique, while ma taught him how to talk to people, how to lie, how to read, and eventually how to run like the wind. No one taught him science, or anything further than what was needed in a shop.
He was a horse after all, a talking one, but a horse nonetheless. Why teach a horse how to write, or what to look for in a job, or anything at all when his parents ran out of what they knew. Stanford helped when he could, but it sounded so strange and none of it made sense with Stanley patchy foundation, that by the time high school rolled around no one taught Stanley anything.
Instead, he ran around, parents too busy and brothers studying or moving on with their lives. Stanley made up his own adventures, ran to the shore and watched the boats glide across the water, pretended he had hands, could grab things, could be anything than what he was.
A horse.
It got harder in high school when his brother came home with a flyer for a local horse race, prattling on and on about trophies and awards. It hurt Stanley’s heart, hearing his brother compare him to other, actual horses, to think so little of him he thought he should compete with animals.
To learn Stanford was trying to get away from him, to abandon him here in town, stuck with no one to talk to, no one to run with, no one who thought of him as anything other than ‘the Horse Pines.’
So Stanley shut down any talk of competing, racing, or doing anything that involved sticking Stan with a bunch of animals and trying to outdo them. He wasn’t going to let himself go down that road, not if he could help it.
Which is why, a year or so after getting kicked out, it was with his head hung low that he approached the closest back-alley horse rigging racer and offered them the deal of a lifetime. What better than a horse that could talk after all? One that could understand the instructions given, play the game better than any animal.
No one would suspect the horse being in on it after all (and it had taken a while to assure the guy that no, he wasn’t on drugs and yes, Stan was a talking horse).
For nine years Stan lived the most humiliating life possible, slowly but surely raising his savings, little by little with every thrown race, every pat on the side, every chuckle by stable hands who thought he was nothing more than an animal. Most of his earnings went into getting him food and a place to rest, and more and more often Stan sighed at his lot in life and forced himself to keep going, even as the idea of going home a millionaire horse became more of a fantasy than a goal.
Then the post card came, changing everything. The stable hands had read it off as a joke, but Stan got one glimpse of the hand writing and knew.
Ford needed him.
Breaking out of a stable was child’s play for a horse who actually knew how doors worked and had had to figure them early in life, when Pa refused to buy custom doorknobs for the house. Stan was out and in the streets before anyone could raise an alarm, and headed to Oregon before any kind of search party could get organized.
It was hard, running across the country in winter and unable to buy a jacket, but Stan was determined. He’d been waiting for ten years for any sign his brother still cared about him, and this was it.
Fords house, when he finally found someone who wouldn’t scream when he asked for directions, was deep in the woods, in the middle of a clearing. It was one floor, with wide windows and doors, a porch large enough for two horses to stand on, and door handles big enough for any hoof.
Their dream house, pure and simple. Like a dream come true.
Stan coughed, shuffled his hooves on the porch, then reached forwards and tapped one on the door.
“Relax,” Stan muttered to himself, trying to calm his nerves, “Sure it’s been ten years, but he’s your brother. He’s family.”
Family that answered the door with a crossbow apparently.
“Who is it!” Ford yelled, eyes wild and looking at Stan’s chest,“Have you come to steal my eyes!”
Then Ford froze, crossbow still clenched in his hands as his head tilted backwards. Stan looked down at him, unimpressed.
“Well-”
Before he could continue his sarcastic quip, Ford was grabbing his neck and tugging him inside, then pushing him in and slamming the door behind them. Stan pranced in the front entryway, eyeing the wide, horse sized hallways that were full of clutter.
“Stanley,” Ford said, locking the door behind them, “did anyone follow you? Anyone at all?”
“Hello to you too pal-wah!” Stan nearly reared at the flashlight that was jabbed into his eye when Ford suddenly grabbed his face and held it down, prancing more instead, “What is this!?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Ford said, petting his nose and looking around nervously, “I just had to make sure you weren’t- uh. It’s nothing, never mind.”
Stan shook his mane as Ford let go and started pacing in front of him. His brother looked terrible, and smelled worse. Dark bags hung below his eyes, his unshaven face had a weird white spot that matched Stan’s horse patterns to an eerie degree, and he was twitching like crazy, hands gripping and pulling his coat tightly, while every howl of the wind made him flinch.
“Look, you gonna explain what’s going on here,” Stan said, following his brother into what looked like a living room, if a living room had been designed by a mad scientist, “you’re acting like ma after her tenth cup of coffee.”
“Listen,” Ford said, hunched over a desk and rummaging around, “There isn’t much time, I’ve made huge mistakes, and I don’t know who I can trust anymore.” Ford turned to walk back towards Stan, then paused to turn what he hoped was a plastic skeleton’s skull around.
“Hey,” Stan paused, but Ford didn’t even twitch at the joke, so he moved on, “Lets talk this through, OK?”
Stan lowered his head and nosed Fords side, and his brother slumped into him, taking a deep breath, before pulling away. He had a red book in his hands, and he held it tightly as he looked into Stan’s eyes.
“I have something important I need to ask you,” Ford said, “Do you remember running through the fields, watching the boats over the cliffs?”
Stan’s heart stopped in his chest. He did remember. So many runs they’d done, talking about all the wonderful places they’d see, racing out into the world together, finding someplace they could belong as brothers.
“I need you to take this book, get on a boat, and sail to the ends of the Earth! As far away as possible, bury it where no one can find it!”
With that Ford shoved the book into his chest and let go, and they both watched it flop to the ground. Stan poked at it with a hoof, fury starting to build in his chest as Ford gaped at down at it.
“Yeah,” Stan said, voice low and trying to control the urge to hit his brother, “I can do that. Let me just grab this book with the hands I have, then sail a boat with my hands, and get a shovel to dig, with my hands. Great plan here, so glad I could help you out- oh wait!”
“I DON’T HAVE HANDS!” Stan yelled, kicking the book and backing up when Ford yelled and lunged for it, “Was that all you wanted! Just to- to see me, then send me away? Like some kind of- of pony express!”
“No, wait!” Ford yelled, book clutched to his chest and breathing rapidly, “This was- this was supposed to work! To fix everything!”
“What was!” Stan yelled back, backing up every time Ford tried to get closer, “What, did you think I’d magically grow hands or something! That you could use me as a mail delivery! I’M NOT AN ANIMAL STANFORD!”
Stan shook his head and backed up further as Ford reached out a hand, eyes panicked and breathing becoming even more haphazard. Stan had seen what a horse’s hoof could do to a human, and as angry as he was, he didn’t want to risk lashing out and hurting Ford permanently.
Ford made that goal difficult enough as it was.
“Of course not!” Ford said, still trying to grab at Stan’s face, “You-You’re my brother, but I- I needed! It has to be you, you can do it! Or-or, but no, he could get- could take over- It has to be Stanley.”
Ford started pacing again, one hand clutching his stupid book while the other grabbed his head, tugging at it.
“Maybe a saddle? But that could fall off, and then where would- and sailing. You need money, but- Stanley, don’t you have money? I’ve seen you, on TV, you could hire someone, couldn’t you?”
“No Stanford,” Stan said, trotting out of the way when Ford reached for him again, still agitated, “I don’t. You know how expensive taking care of a horse is? Most of my winnings go to the stable.”
“But you’re not a horse?” Ford said, looking lost, “You’re- you’re Stanley?”
“Yeah, tell that to the world Stanford,” Stan said, rolling his eyes, “At this point I’m not even sure I have a bank account. It’s not like I could go around buying stuff, so what’s the point of paying a horse.”
Ford seemed to deflate, like Stan admitting he got nothing but housing for all his hard work was a physical blow. He wobbled, then pressed the book to his forehead and wheezed.
Stan sighed, anger crumbling to embers. Of course Ford didn’t want to actually see him, all he wanted was an errand horse and was too keyed up to remember horses needed riders to deliver anything. Ford muttered and mumbled, hands pale from how hard he was gripping his book and starting to curl into a ball.
With careful slowness, Stan walked over to his brother, each step slow and deliberate. Once he was close enough, he slowly started laying down, shoving Ford slightly until he fell over so Stan could quickly lay his neck on top of him.
“Stanley,” Ford groaned, wiggling underneath him and shoving at his head, “I don’t have time for this, I need-I need to figure something else out. I can’t… I can’t….”
“Well, I can,” Stan said, shuffling so he was more comfortable, “I just ran a thousand mile in the middle of winter. My legs are killing me and I’m freezing. Good thing I’ve got this convinent pillow right here.”
“Imnot a-” Ford yawned, then weakly hit him in the head with the book, “-not a pillow. Getoff.”
“No can do,” Stan said with a yawn of his own. Then he shook his head out, making Ford sputter and squishing him further, “My legs stopped-”
A deep breath made him pause, and he lifted his head to see Ford, eyes closed and one hand gripping Stan’s mane. Stan rolled his eyes, then moved so he had one leg flung over his sleeping brother as well as his entire neck.
It was something he’d done a thousand times back in high school, dragging Ford to bed and laying on top of him to get him to sleep. This was barely a new record, and Stan sighed deeply before closing his eyes.
He hadn’t been lying about being exhausted, and hopefully some rest would put Fords head on straight.
(When Bill awoke in Fords body, grin splitting his face and eyes bright, he found himself crushed under a horse and barely breathing from the weight. Any attempt at pulling the horses mane resulted in further crushing, and trying to crawl backwards out form under the horse was like trying to crawl backwards out from under a horse.
Useless.
He spent an hour trying anyway, cursing the giant snoring beast and vowing to turn it into glue. Then he wrote an angry note to Ford in his journal and spent the rest of the night rearranging his vocabulary. When Ford awoke the next morning, fully rested but unable to say anything he meant, Bill’s triumph was thwarted by the brothers speaking to each other entirely in horse.
Fords horse vocabulary had been untouched after all.)