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Stan knows that it’s Ford’s birthday. Well, both of their birthdays, sure, but it’s Ford’s, really. He’s realized at the start of June, and he’s been mentally counting the days since the damning realization. It’s his first birthday at the cabin. His first birthday, in a while, at least, with somewhere to stay. A home, maybe, on a good day.
He doesn’t expect Ford to remember it.
The guy’s been through a lot. Like, literally fighting demons. And he won, they won, the Pines brothers, but it doesn’t mean Ford is just suddenly okay. Stan doesn’t need Ford to remember that it’s their birthday, doesn’t need any sort of gift, doesn’t need anything. He’s already got the best gift he can ask for. He has Ford back.
And Ford’s letting him stay. Rent free, everything free (not guilt free, but, you know). And Stan knows his very existence has been costing Ford a fortune. He doesn’t say anything or let on, of course, but two people means more groceries, a higher water bill, more space being taken up, less time to work. But Ford doesn’t say anything about it. It’s almost like he doesn’t care about these obvious issues, but that can’t possibly be it. He’s gotta care about that.
Stan got his twin brother a birthday present. It’s nothing crazy. Handmade, seeing as he really doesn’t have his own money to spend. But Stan’s always been crafty, you know? He took a mental picture of one of (in Stan’s opinion) the coolest thing in that journal of his– the Plaidypus. It’s kind of just a platypus, but… well, plaid. Using some old craft supplies deep, deep in the hall closet, one of Stan’s cut up flannels that he definitely bought and didn’t steal, and other easy to scrounge up materials, he made a weird looking sculpture of it. He’s probably a little off on the sizing, and the beak is a little lopsided, but, honestly, it’s some of his best work.
He’s not sure why he made it, though. Ford isn’t going to remember, and that’s fine. Good, probably, that he isn’t wasting time thinking about his worse half. He’s got his own shit to worry about.
Still. Just in case.
In case of what, Stan doesn’t know.
He doesn’t feel a weird sense of child-like excitement when he wakes, and he doesn’t try to shove down an old, forgotten giddiness as he pulls a sweatshirt on over his t-shirt (Ford keeps his house goddamn cold). He takes a deep breath before he opens the door. Normal day. That’s all it is. Don’t ruin things by expecting anything from him.
He’s only a few inches out of his bedroom when he hears a sneeze.
He tries not to laugh. It’s Ford, obviously, and even at nearly 30 years old, he still sneezes like a kitten. For all his brother tries, if there’s even an ounce of dust in the room, he can’t be intimidating to save his life.
There’s another sneeze, followed by a small, soft clatter. Stan barely hears a hoarse voice mutter, “Ugh, come on…”
Must've spilled the coffee or something. Stan yawns and quickens his pace. If he’s gonna be taking up space in the cabin he could at least clean up a little spill and let Ford get on with his day.
He freezes when he sees the kitchen.
He must make some sort of noise or disturbance, because Ford whips his head around, eyes widening, one foot still up on the chair.
“Oh, Stanley! You weren’t– I’m so sorry, you weren’t supposed to see anything yet, I thought I would have everything ready earlier…” Ford trails off.
Stan still can’t speak.
Ford decorated.
There’s a large, handmade, ugly, messy, wonderful banner hanging across the cabinets. Or, there would be. Only one end of it is hung up. The other end is hanging near the floor, with a tape dispenser right near it. There are streamers too, red, blue, green, purple–no yellow, never, ever yellow– hanging from the ceiling and sort of draped across the cabinets- Stan’s not really sure what Ford was going for there, but it’s stupid and it’s perfect, and it’s– it’s their birthday. It’s their birthday, their first birthday together in ten years, and Ford decorated. Ford remembered.
“Stanley?” Ford sniffles, approaching, eyes concerned. “Are you alright? I really am sorry, I meant to have everything ready, I just– I-I’m a little tired, I suppose I wasn’t going fast enough, but if you want to go back to bed and I swear, I won’t be more than ten more minutes, I–”
“Shut up, Ford.”
Ford shuts up. For about half a second.
Then he clears his throat, wincing. “I– happy birthday–”
Stan doesn’t let him finish. He lunges for his brother and pulls him into a tight, bone-crushing hug. Ford startles for a moment, then sniffles and hugs him back tightly. Stan clears his throat, blinking away the tears. So much fucking dust in this kitchen.
“Happy birthday, Six.”
“Happy birthday, Lee,” Ford mumbles, voice equally thick with emotion. After a moment, he pulls away slightly, but loops his hand into Stan’s, remaining connected. His cheeks are slightly red. “I am sorry that I didn’t have everything ready, I don’t–”
“Shut up.” Stan’s eyes fall on the banner. “It’s perfect.”
“But it’s not even–”
“Ford. It’s perfect.”
Ford smiles tiredly and brightly, then quickly strides across the kitchen to move the chair he was using for extra height back to the table. He coughs, then clears his throat. He turns back, beaming. Christ, he looks like a kid.
“I have a gift for you!” Worry suddenly crosses his face, and he lowers his tone slightly, rubbing at his nose. “And– I-I didn’t expect you to, er, remember our birthday, so I don’t want you to feel like– er, it’s not to say that– I just mean that you’re dealing with enough, you have enough running through your mind. I don’t want you to feel like you had to–” Ford sighs. “This is coming out wrong. I’m sorry.”
Stan can only smile. “Relax. I know what you mean.” He pauses. “I, uh, I have a gift for you too.”
Ford’s smile returns. “You do?”
“Yeah, course I do.”
“Okay!” Ford turns on his heel and begins to leave, then calls over his shoulder, “I’ll be right back!! I’m grabbing your present!”
Stan inhales shakily, then does the same, quickly running to the spare room–his room–to grab his sculpture.
He stares at it for a moment.
It feels stupid, all of a sudden.
Ford decorated the whole kitchen, he got him a gift, he’s letting him live here for free, and Stan made him a fucking arts and crafts project? Ford’s going to hate it. No, no, wait, no– worse. Worse. Ford’s going to pity him. He’s going to force a weak smile and pretend to like it and shove it in the hall closet letting it collect dust and mold and let rats eat it from the inside out and that will be better than what it deserves because how is Stan supposed to pay Ford back, how is he supposed to–
“Lee?”
Ford’s in the doorway. Shit. Stan didn’t have time to personally escort his stupid sculpture back to hell.
Ford inches closer, sniffling. “What’s that?”
Stan can’t hide it. Damnit. Damnit. Ford’s gonna think he’s an idiot. He is an idiot.
“I, uh, I saw.. one of the pages from your journal, a-and I thought I could maybe– I dunno, make it? S’ stupid, really, I just didn’t know what else I could…” Stan averts eye contact with both his brother and the Plaidypus. “I dunno. I’m sorry.”
After a moment, Stan hears a loud sniffle. He glances up. “Oh, shit.”
Ford is crying.
Does he really hate it that much?
“We can– we can burn it, I promise, I’m sorry, it’s so dumb–”
“NO!!” Ford lifts a gentle hand up to the sculpture, running one finger along the side of it. “Stanley, I–” his voice breaks. “I don’t know what to say.” He suddenly pulls Stan into a tight, warm hug. “Thank you.”
What?
“You– you like it?”
“I love it,” Ford clarifies. “I love it, and we’re not going to burn it, and I– I love it. I love it so much.”
Stan returns the embrace. “Well,” he swallows thickly, “alright, then, you big sap. If you like it that much, I guess it can stay.” Ford hums, content. “Now where’s my present?”
Ford pulls away, suddenly seeming nervous. “I– er, yes. Yes.” He reaches into his pocket and produces something small, shiny. He hands it to Stan.
“A key?”
“A– a house key,” Ford says quietly. He coughs into his arm and leans against the bookshelf. “You didn’t– you didn’t have one, and I know that neither of us even go out very often, but…” he sniffles, wiping under his nose. “It’s your home too. You should be able to come and go as you please. This cabin is yours as much as mine now. Please know that, Lee.”
Stan feels a large, overbearing lump in his throat and nods furiously.
“I– thanks, Six.” He runs his thumb along the key. Ford engraved it. It has Stan’s name and their birthday etched into the silver metal. “You really… you’re sure? About this?” About me?
“Of course I am,” Ford answers, voice firm and unwavering, but not unkind. Never unkind.
Stan feels hot tears running down his cheeks. He smiles up at his brother. “I love you,” he murmurs.
“I love you too,” Ford says. It comes out automatic, like breathing. He looks like he’s about to say something else when he sneezes suddenly, twice in a row. He groans softly and rubs at his nose, sniffling loudly.
“You still sneeze like a kitten.” Stan is unable to stifle the tiny chuckle that escapes him.
“I most certainly do not,” Ford bristles. He clears his throat, then rubs at it absently, wincing. For a brief moment, he squeezes his eyes shut, and his hand moves up from his throat to rub at his temples, like he’s got a headache. Stan notices for the first time how red his nose is, how he’s sweating a bit despite the cold house. He’s also… shivering, just a tiny bit. Barely perceptible. Stan tsks.
“You alright?”
“Yes, fine,” Ford says quickly. “And I do– there’s– there’s a second part to your gift.” He takes Stan’s hand and begins to pull him forward. “I have to take you there. It’s downstairs.”
Has Ford been staggering so much this whole time? He didn’t seem to be so off-balance when Stan first got up. Maybe Stan was too distracted.
“Ford, you sure you’re alright?”
“Yes, quite fine!” How is Stan just now realizing how scratchy his voice sounds? Excited, sure, but scratchy all the same. “Come on!”
Then he coughs again. Sniffles.
Ah.
Stan realizes all at once.
He’s sick.
Stan should’ve seen the signs early, they were pretty damn clear. He was just so distracted, with all the birthday stuff. I mean, Ford remembered, really remembered. And he decorated, and had a gift, and he’s apparently got a second one! But he’s also clearly got some kind of nasty cold. It makes sense, now that Stan thinks about it. He was a little clingier last night; he gets like that when he’s sick. He seemed pretty damn tired. If Stan remembers correctly, Ford was asleep by 10pm. That never happens.
“Hey, hey, wait up, would’ja?” Stan tugs at Ford’s hand, but Ford doesn’t let up, just continues to pull him down the stairs and into the lab. “Ford–”
“Okay. Close your eyes.”
“Are you serious–”
“Indulge me. It’s my birthday.”
Stan sighs fondly and closes his eyes, letting Ford lead him blindly through the lab door. He’d follow Ford blindly anywhere.
After a moment, he feels Ford’s hands release. “Alright. Open your eyes.”
Stan complies.
He’s staring at an easel.
There’s a wooden easel, clearly hand-carved– Stan knows Ford’s work by now– and there’s a giant stack of all different sizes of canvases behind it. On the shelf above it– paint. Tons of it, in colors Stan didn’t even know existed. The shelf used to have some of Ford’s weird science jars, but… Stan glances to the other side of the room. The other shelf is now cramped. Ford moved his stuff. To make room for…
“Ford… did you…”
“If you’re not interested, I won’t be offended,” Ford babbles. “But I know you really liked drawing and painting as children, and I saw the sketchbook you have now– I-I mean, there's nothing wrong with it!! I just thought… I don’t know, maybe, you could do your work down here, with me? While I do mine?”
Stan nods, tearing up. “I– yeah. Yeah, I’d love that.”
“Wonderful!” Ford takes Stan's hand and squeezes it. “Now, uh, the one thing I didn’t do was– cake. I’m not really… cooking isn’t my strong suit. So I was thinking, maybe we could do that part together?”
Ford stares at him, hopeful.
Shit.
Stan has to say no.
It’s not that he doesn’t want to, of course he wants to, Christ. But Ford is sick. Even if he refuses to admit it, which, knowing Ford, he will.
Stan sighs heavily. “Six, look–”
Ford's face immediately falls. “You’re right, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”
“No! No, o-of course I want to, Ford, I would love to!” He squeezes Ford’s hand back, tight and reassuring. Ford smiles softly. “But you look a little… you don’t look too good. Are you not feelin’ well?”
“I feel fine,” Ford insists. It sounds more like a plead. “Really.”
“You sound sick.”
“Well, I’m not.”
“Then let me feel your forehead.” Stan reaches up a hand to Ford’s forehead, but Ford slaps his brother’s hand away. “If you’re really not sick, you won’t mind me–”
“I’m not sick!”
“You promise?”
Ford goes quiet.
They made a promise to each other, after everything with Bill and Stan decided to stay, that they wouldn’t lie to each other. In arguments, if things get heated–and with Stan and Ford, they often do– the same phrase is often used. Do you promise? Do you swear to me you’re not lying?
They don’t lie to each other. Not anymore.
Ford sighs heavily. The breath sounds a bit like a wheeze.
“It’s just a cold.”
“Thank you,” Stan says immediately. It’s not an easy thing, being honest; Stan knows that better than most. “M’ gonna feel your forehead, okay?” Ford nods as Stan’s hand gently presses against his forehead, leaning slightly into the touch. Stan makes a small, frustrated noise. “It might be a little more than just a cold, Six. You’re pretty warm.”
Ford rubs a hand down his face. “This really doesn’t need to be a big deal.”
“Okay, it won’t be a big deal, then. But we should get you a little bit of medicine and maybe some water, yeah? And some food, if you’re feelin’ up to it?”
“Stanley, I really don’t need–”
“You do. You’re runnin’ a fever. Let me get you to the couch, please.”
Ford nods, averting eye contact. He lets Stan take his hand and guide him gently up the stairs. Once they’re back to the living room, he stumbles over to the couch, and Stan sits him down, ruffling his hat affectionately.
“Stay there a sec. I’ll be right back.” He turns to leave, but stops at the doorway to the kitchen. “Ford? Did you hear me?”
“Mhm. Take your time.” He sounds miserable. And it’s Stan’s fault.
But he’s gone this far. He’s got to get his brother feeling better.
He grabs the only bottle of medicine they have, the bubblegum flavored stuff that has a weird, eggnog-like consistency. It’s gross, but it’ll have to do. He fills a full bottle of water too– room temperature, to be easy on Ford’s throat, then grabs the box of tissues they keep on the counter. Finally, he makes a piece of toast and puts butter and cinnamon sugar in it. Once he’s sure he has everything he needs, he heads back to the living room.
Ford hasn’t moved.
Stan sets everything on the side table, then grabs the stack of throw blankets from the basket on the other side of the couch. “You cold?”
Ford sniffles. “A little.”
Silently, Stan nods and covers Ford in four blankets, tucking each one in securely, noting that way Ford is shivering. Maybe Stan should take him to the doctor– tomorrow, though. He wouldn’t make Ford endure all that on their birthday.
“Okay,” Stan breathes, sitting beside him. He leaves a healthy amount of space. “This first.” He hands Ford a tiny cup of medicine, which Ford downs like a shot. He coughs, then hands the cup back to Stan. “Now some water.” He gives Ford the bottle, and he drinks about a fourth of it. He places it on the end table closest to him. “Good. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up to eating, but I did make you some cinnamon toast. Just if you want it.”
Ford shrugs and takes the plate. He can only get about four bites before he places it off to the side. He looks as Stan, somewhat apologetically.
“I’m not very hungry. But– thank you.”
“Not a problem.” Stan pushes the box of tissues a little closer. “Just if you need.”
Ford, seeming ashamed, takes one and blows his nose loudly, then balls it up and sets it next to the box. Stan fiddles awkwardly with his sweatshirt.
“I really do love the easel. Seriously. I’ll use it a ton.”
“I'm glad.” Ford pulls the blankets tightly around him, shivering. “I was hoping you would.”
“You know, I could make us cake. I-If you wanted. Then– I dunno, we could turn on a movie or somethin’, hang out around here.”
Ford sighs. His next words come out a hoarse, miserable whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“I– I had plans for us, today. I mean– not that you had to just go along with whatever I wanted, I just mean that… I don’t know. I was hoping I could make it a fun day for you, I-I mean, it’s the first birthday we’ve had together in– i-in ten years. And you deserve to have a good birthday, for once, you deserve–”
“It’s your birthday, too, don’t forget that.”
Ford scoffs. “I’ve had enough birthdays for a lifetime. It’s yours, really.”
“No, it’s not,” Stan insists. “Don’t say that.”
“Doesn’t matter now. I’ve ruined it anyways.”
“Hey, hey, c’mon, you didn’t ruin anything, Ford.”
“Didn’t I?” Ford sniffles. “You’re being forced to wait on me hand and foot on your birthday–”
“Our birthday.”
“Because I had to go and get sick.” Ford’s voice breaks slightly, and he turns away. “I'm sorry. I just wanted to give you a nice birthday. I'm so sorry.” He sniffles quietly, one hand coming up to scrub furiously at his eyes.
Stan’s heart nearly crumbles in sympathy. “Ford–”
“And now,” Ford mumbles through tears, “I’m making it about myself. Again.”
“Ford–”
“I'm so sorry, Stanley–”
“Ford.” Stan’s voice is firm. Ford startles and turns, eyes wide and desperate for comfort. Stan grabs his twin’s hand and squeezes it. Ford squeezes back, lip trembling, still wiping at tears with his free hand. “You didn’t ruin anything. I promise. Look, I–” Stan inhales shakily. “I didn’t think– I didn’t think I’d ever spend another birthday with you. I didn’t think I’d ever have– a goddamn place to stay, much less–” his voice breaks, “my own house key. Don’t go and act like you ruined anything. I like hangin’ out with you, and that’s– I dunno. It’s a gift in its own weird way. Bein’ with you is all I want. All I need. I don’t care if you’re sick. Believe it or not, I kinda missed takin’ care of you.”
Ford blinks owlishly. “You did?”
“Course I did. I– I missed you, Ford. You know that.”
Ford smiles softly. “I missed you too.”
“Now, can you just let me take care of my brother on our birthday?”
Silently and suddenly, Ford collapses into him, nuzzling his head into Stan’s chest. Stan startles, but lets Ford pull him down until they’re curled into each other, with Stan holding Ford like a big, brother-shaped cat. Ford makes a rumbly, scratchy, throaty hum (a purr, really, though Stan would never say it and embarrass the guy further) and wraps his arms loosely around Stan’s stomach, his smile growing when Stan returns the embrace. Ford adjusts the blankets so that they’re covering the both of them, and Stan is insanely relieved by this, because holy fuck this house is so cold. And Ford’s hot against Stan’s chest, making Stan’s whole body feel, for lack of a better word, warm and fuzzy. He can feel himself smiling, one hand rubbing his brother’s back absently.
“Lee?” Ford mumbles sleepily.
“Yeah, bud?”
“M’ tired.”
Stan ruffles his hair affectionately. “You can sleep. If you want.” He’s never too pushy about Ford sleeping. He can’t force it.
“Mmm… okay.” Ford yawns, surprisingly open to the idea. A clearly visible example of just how sick he must be feeling. But, if Stan’s not mistaken, he seems happy. Good. He deserves to be happy. He deserves it more than anyone else in the world. “G’night.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get some sleep.” Stan gives him a gentle squeeze. Man, he could hug Ford for the rest of their lives and it still wouldn’t ever feel like long enough.
Ford makes a sleepy noise. “Would you really make birthday cake later?”
Stan can’t help the emotion in his voice when he answers. “You bet I can.”
“Red velvet?”
Stan snorts. “You know that shit’s just chocolate in red food coloring, right?”
“No,” Ford slurs, practically talking in his sleep. “S’ different.”
“Yeah, sure, whatever you say.”
“It is,” Ford insists. Then, all at once, Stan feels his twin fade into unconsciousness, slumping into sleep against him.
Stan brushes a stray hair out of Ford’s face and adjusts the blanket, heart swelling.
“Night, Six. Happy birthday.”