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Stan let his arm dangle over the edge of the porch so that his blood didn’t stain the wood. It dripped slowly onto the grass below, beautiful red beads welling from the fresh cuts he had made. His body was a canvas for his artwork. Ugly artwork, but art nonetheless in Stan’s opinion. What was one more scar on his already marred skin?
Carefully, he slid his blade through the flesh of his forearm again, then immediately took a drag from his cigarette. The combination of sweet pain and nicotine made his head swirl, and Stan let out a satisfied groan.
It was euphoric.
The sensation brought a calm to him, soothing the nerves he’d been feeling since Ford begrudgingly allowed him to stay at his house. Stan knew it was only a matter of time before he messed something up. Before he ruined things and Ford kicked him out again. But until that moment Stan was going to stick around; Ford was still getting his feet back under him after dealing with the whole Bill situation, and Stan was determined to help in any way he could.
Even if sticking around meant he couldn’t shoot up or drink himself stupid. At least he was still able to do this. Ford didn't complain too much about his smoking habit and he’d never find out about—
"What are you doing?!”
The unexpected shout startled Stan, and he fumbled his grip on the knife, the blade gouging deeper than intended into his arm. He swore colourfully as blood began to liberally flow, tamping his hand over the wound to try and slow it.
"Stanley! Oh, Moses!”
The sound of hurried footsteps approached, and Ford appeared right next to him, brows pinched. He reached out for Stan.
Stan scowled, tucking his arm close to his body, face flushing in shame. “Why are you awake?” he demanded, anger trying to cover fear and embarrassment.
"Why am I awake? Why are you awake?” Ford shot back. “What are you even doing?! Why would you do this?!” He grabbed at Stan despite Stan smacking him away. “You need to come inside. I’ll grab the first aid kit.”
Logically, Stan knew he did need to clean his arm up. That last one had cut deeper than he’d wanted and it needed to be taken care of. Despite that, he still tried to push Ford away, not wanting his brother to see him anymore than he already had.
“I don’t ‘need’ to do anything! You need to leave me alone and mind your own business!”
The look Ford gave him was incredulous and offended. “You think I’m going to mind my own business after seeing my brother take a knife to himself? What is wrong with you?!”
Stan didn't know how to answer that. Instead he said, “I would’ve been fine if you hadn't interrupted me!”
"What’s fine about this?!” Ford shouted, shaking Stan by the shoulders. His tone was angry but his face was twisted in worry, eyes roving over every cut and scar currently visible on Stan’s skin. “Look at you. Oh, Stanley…”
Stan turned his head away so he didn’t have to see Ford anymore. He let go of his bloody arm to take another desperate drag from the stub of cigarette he had left, trying to soothe himself.
Ford grabbed it right from his mouth and threw it on the porch, furiously stomping it out. Even as Stan made a noise of outrage, Ford snatched the knife from him as well and chucked it out into the yard with extreme prejudice.
“Hey!” Stan complained.
“Get inside. I’m going to patch you up.”
“I don't want your help!”
“You need it, and I am going to help you whether you want it or not,” Ford said hotly.
And, well. Stan was out of cigarettes and knives, and he didn't really want to be out of blood anytime soon. So he reluctantly let Ford manhandle him inside and to the bathroom. He allowed Ford to clean out his wounds and bandage them up, tuning Ford out the whole time and trying to hold onto the remnants of that calm high he’d had.
When it was all said and done, Ford cradled Stan’s bandaged arm in his hands more gently than Stan deserved. Shaking fingers traced over old scars, Ford’s shoulders drooping.
“Why?” he asked quietly.
It was worse than if he’d yelled. Stan flinched.
“…I don’t know,” he mumbled.
It wasn’t even fully a lie, really. He’d been doing it for so long he couldn’t clearly remember when he’d started. His whole life was a reason why, but there hadn’t been a specific catalyst for it. Just Stan being the useless trash he was and finding another way to deal with it.
“I think you do know,” Ford said, and Stan flinched at being so blatantly called out. His brother stared him down with watery but fierce eyes. “You've obviously been doing this for a long time. There’s no way you don’t know why you do it.”
Stan tried to pull away. He couldn't bear Ford seeing him like this. He couldn’t bear his shame being so openly on display.
“Stanley, look at me. Please.”
He couldn’t.
Two insistent hands took his face and turned it back to Ford, holding him there carefully. Too carefully. Stan didn’t deserve such consideration.
Ford’s gaze searched him for answers. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but I can't stand to see it. It’s okay if you aren’t ready to talk to me about it, but you can't keep doing this. I won't let you.”
Stan scoffed, but it was a tired thing. “You can’t stop me.”
“I want to help you,” Ford emphasized.
The concern in his eyes was too much for Stan, but Ford didn’t let him look away again.
“I don’t need help with it because it’s not a problem,” Stan denied. “It’s—it’s a solution.”
He didn’t know why he said that.
Ford shook his head in bewilderment. “A solution? To what?!”
Stan closed his eyes. The feeling of Ford’s hands holding his face made his skin tingle. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been touched kindly.
“It makes me feel better.”
“I… I don't understand,” Ford admitted.
“I hope you never do.”
Stan would never want Ford to feel the way he does.
But that had been the wrong thing to say, as Ford let out a shaky breath that verged on a dry sob. He surged forward and tugged Stan into his arms, holding him tightly as if Stan would fade away should he let go.
“Let me help you,” he practically begged Stan. “Whatever it is, this isn’t the answer. I can’t watch you destroy yourself like this.”
Stan shook his head, biting his lip fiercely to prevent the tears in his eyes from spilling over.
“Please,” Ford implored him. “You came running in my time of need and helped me, now let me help you in yours. Let me in, Stanley. Let me help you.”
Stan hadn’t wanted to be helped. He knew that his habits would eventually kill him. He knew his addictions would one day get the best of him. But no one was supposed to care. Ford wasn’t supposed to care. And Stan didn’t know what to do with the fact that he did.
His arm throbbed. Stan wanted to squeeze the fresh cuts, craving that sharper burst of pain. Instead he fisted his hands in the back of his brother’s shirt and desperately held on.
“Okay,” he choked out. “Okay. If it—if it makes you feel better.”
“It would. But this is going to be about you feeling better.”
It soured Stan’s stomach to think he’d be taking up so much attention. Ford was the important one. But if… if Stan feeling better (whatever that meant) would make Ford feel better, then maybe it was worth trying.
“Okay,” he repeated quietly.
Ford heaved a sigh of relief, burying his face in Stan’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
Stan had no interest in getting clean for himself. He wasn’t worth the trouble. But for Ford? He was willing to give it a try.