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During their time at sea, Stanley would deliberately add sugar to the coffee. It began on a night when Stanford stayed up late as usual, and Stanley really didn’t want to watch him sitting stiff-backed past midnight, sketching on paper, then sleep so late that Stanley had to reheat breakfast the next day because this busybody usually didn’t leave the room until afternoon.
Back in their teenage years, it was normal for Stanford to care about how others saw him, and Stanley had protected him well. At least back then, Sixer would proudly draw that number “6” on his belly. But now… the Stanford in front of him, with terrifying dark circles and frizzy hair, was impossible to connect with the boy from decades ago who used to blush.
Clearly, in all the years they grew apart, both had “improved”:
Stanley had learned to lie to survive — he could even deceive Stanford.
And Stanford had learned thick skin and the ability to keep working unfazed under angry glares — just like now.
He chewed mechanically, like he hadn’t finished evolving. Stanley’s face was full of dissatisfaction, yet he still handed him the coffee.
“I’m guessing you need this.”
“Stanley…” Stanford didn’t touch the cup, frowning. “Why is it cold?”
He wasn’t fully awake, blinking drowsily at Stanley in confusion — it was almost comedic. Stanley opted for a gentle tone:
“Sixer, listen. You used to complain that my irregular sleep schedule would cause all kinds of disasters, and I ignored it, right? Well now I can barely get out of bed, so…”
Stanford stayed silent.
Slowly…
“No, Stanley.” He finally opened his eyes, preparing for a real conversation, already calculating Stanley’s intentions. “You can’t interfere with my schedule. You know this is worth it. Every morning I have new goals instead of wasting unnecessary time charting maps, so I choose the most efficient way—”
“This ‘efficient way’ is making your dark circles multiply tenfold?”
Stanley cut off his long-winded speech with a blank expression. He silently took back the cup, dumped the coffee out, and reheated it. The microwave hum made the atmosphere even more suffocating.
“You refused my help before.”
“Stanley, that time you mistook a biological specimen for a duck. I don’t think having you as an assistant is necessary.”
“Alright. From now on, I forbid ice cream, and you forbid coffee.”
“Stanley…”
The way Stanford said “Stanley” was full of confusion. He truly didn’t understand why his brother was so mad, even dragging “ice cream” — his beloved weakness — into the fight. This meant the topic had escalated beyond teasing.
Stanford started recalling anything he might’ve done recently to anger Stanley, or why he brought this up mid-meal.
“Your back injury again?”
“Nerd. Try using your brain for once.”
“Did the mermaids reject your flirting again? Good. Their tails could smack you several meters away.”
“……”
Stanley stared at him with a “my brother has officially gone insane” expression.
“Or do you have some other use for our room? I could do my work there. It takes far less space.”
Stanley rolled his first eye of the day — a massive one. He pointed incredulously at the man who claimed to have thirteen PhDs:
“I’d bet my life that every sip of coffee you take while I sleep makes you choke! For god’s sake, nerd, at times like this you still want to hole up alone with that stupid book? I bet the moment you hear any noise while sleeping, you want to grab a gun! Seriously, your red bloodshot eyes are terrifying!”
Stanford kept frowning. Watching Stanley grow emotional didn’t make him argue back for once. Instead, he searched for the right words, still confused.
“Two days won’t break me down that badly, Stanley. And you need rest more than I do. Bill is gone, but the aftereffects are still there. If it triggers again, your brain won’t be able to handle it, even if you said you felt fine after the experiment. So letting me handle the navigation data is the more practical solution.”
Always like this. Stanford used to — and still does — try to handle everything alone, assuming the other would comply. Stanley knew this well, which was why forcing him to sleep wasn’t a wise move — he didn’t want to listen to Stanford reading on the top bunk all night.
Stanley took a rare moment to calm himself, thinking back to Dipper and Mabel’s antics. Pushing Stanford out of his mind made him feel better. Losing his temper in front of Stanford would only make his brother calmer — and in the end, he’d be the one to lose.
So he said nothing, simply handed Stanford the reheated sandwich and coffee.
Stanford knew Stanley was only compromising temporarily, but didn’t comment. His brother’s small gesture reminded him of the old days when Stanley cleaned up after his messes. Stanford chose to ignore it and quietly bit into the sandwich.
————————
But this behavior was absolutely unacceptable to Stanford! No—
It was crossing the line!
Face darkening, he opened the cabinet beneath the counter. Nothing.
He searched every place Stanley might hide something.
That hollow sinking in his stomach told him the truth:
Go apologize to your brother.
The coffee tin was gone.
Without coffee, the sleepiness hit him like a tidal wave. Stanford finally understood Stanley’s intention. But what had he done to deserve such punishment? No logic or theory worked on Stanley.
“What did I even do wrong?” the thought flickered — then quickly mutated into a stubborn, singular need:
I want coffee.
And the desire only grew stronger.
He stepped out of the room to find Stanley. He knew this was exactly what Stanley wanted — to drag him out. But if he didn’t find him soon, he’d collapse on the floor and sleep, and then Stanley would take pictures and mock him — a scenario he’d already experienced too many times.
It was the next morning. Sunlight stabbed into his eyes, forcing him to shield them with a hand. The seagulls cried overhead, the sea fizzed like soda — all of it made him even more drowsy.
Stanley probably wanted him to enjoy the view with him, Stanford thought.
“Stanley—!”
He began calling through the ship, feeling ridiculous — usually this was Stanley’s role.
With each step, the sea wind brushed his eyelids. He leaned against the wall, too tired to shout. Physically strong was great — except during sleep deprivation. Even the toughest warrior would lose patience.
His brain started spinning, like he was stuck on a carousel. He coughed, surprised by the raw pain in his throat — when had it gotten this bad? His thoughts splintered and scattered.
Suddenly—
“Well? Nerd, it won’t kill you to eat breakfast before passing out.”
Stanley’s signature gravelly voice exploded behind him, making Stanford jump.
Stanford widened his eyes — the dark circles made him look frightening. His ragged breathing and disheveled state stunned Stanley for a second.
…
“Whoa… I didn’t expect it to be that dramatic…” Stanley muttered awkwardly. He only wanted Stanford to sleep — not to torture him. Even the way Stanford’s pupils shrank while glaring made him flinch.
Scary.
That was Stanley’s first thought.
“…Stanley.” Stanford’s voice was heavy, dissatisfied. “You can’t do this.”
“Huh?” Stanley’s defiant attitude snapped back instantly. He was about to retort when — under his jacket — the outline of the coffee tin shifted.
Only then did Stanford understand.
Stanley had hidden it on himself—
And “Stanley” as a person was exactly the one thing Stanford tended to overlook.
Stanford stepped forward before Stanley even opened his mouth. The hungry, desperate way he moved made Stanley instantly alert. He stepped back, ready to run.
Stanford’s gaze locked on the metal cylinder under Stanley’s clothes. He lunged, trying to tackle him. The speed was so sudden that Stanley barely dodged, reacting like prey escaping a pouncing leopard. It reminded him of his debt-collection days — those guys could sprint for blocks without tiring. Stanley knew that well.
So—
He bolted.
The sea wind roared dramatically, granting Stanley an opening — the sudden gust hit Stanford’s eyes, halting him.
The wind slammed into Stanford’s face, salt and moisture forcing his eyes shut. He staggered. His attempt to grab the coffee tin was cut short.
“Damn it!” Stanford growled, shielding his eyes, trying to locate the fleeing figure.
Stanley didn’t waste the chance.
Agile as a fish, he dashed forward, laughing over his shoulder:
“Hey, nerd! Running from loan sharks wasn’t for nothing! Want coffee? Catch me first!”
Stanford shook his head, clearing the dizziness. Spots danced in his vision. The dryness in his throat burned with every breath. Stanley’s taunt stabbed right into his weakened nerves, stirring a final burst of stubborn rage.
He needed that coffee.
“Stanley… stop!” he rasped, each word strained. He forced himself into a run — but his legs felt like they were filled with cement. His sprint deteriorated into a clumsy charge.
Stanley slowed down, turning back.
Stanford’s expression was unfocused, his steps robotic, his face pale beneath the shadows of exhaustion.
Even Stanley was startled.
“Whoa… honestly, Sixer, you look awful…”
“Coffee…”
Stanford wasn’t listening. His world narrowed to the metal outline under Stanley’s jacket. With his last bit of strength, he lunged one final time.
Stanley meant to dodge — but Stanford’s desperate, unhinged momentum threw him off guard.
They collided.
Hard.
Both lost balance and toppled onto the cold deck. Stanley saw stars as pain shot up his spine.
“Ow—! Sixer! You maniac—” he groaned, instinctively shielding the coffee tin while trying to push Stanford off.
But the expected tug-of-war didn’t happen.
Stanford, heavy as a boulder, lay on top of him…
Completely still.
Stanley glanced sideways. Stanford’s cheek rested against his jacket, lips parted slightly, breathing deep and even. Exhaustion, sleep deprivation, caffeine withdrawal — all slammed into him the moment he touched Stanley and the solid floor.
He had fallen asleep.
Instantly.
Next to the “enemy,” inches from the coffee tin.
The wind howled; the seagulls cried.
Stanley lay flat on the deck, brother on top of him, coffee tin clutched to his chest.
He blinked, staring at Stanford’s unguarded, almost childlike sleeping face — if you ignored the terrifying dark circles. Anger, frustration, humor, concern — all mixed into helpless disbelief.
“Jesus…” Stanley muttered, exasperated. “I swear, I just wanted you to sleep — not literally crash on top of me…”
He tried to move, but Stanford’s fingers were tightly gripping his jacket, even in sleep.
Stanley sighed, defeated, giving up the struggle.
He looked up at the bright blue sky, feeling the warmth of Stanford’s breathing and the cold tin in his arms.
Goal accomplished — maybe a bit too dramatically.
He chuckled helplessly.
“Sleep, nerd,” he whispered, shifting to make Stanford lie more comfortably.
“When you wake up, then we’re gonna have words.”