Chapter Text
When Stanley Pines was a child, he had big dreams. The first one he ever had was becoming a comic book writer and creator. He wanted to write stories about superheros who would save the day and get all the glory. Of heroes who somehow managed to live a double life flawlessly and without consequences. But that idea got scrapped shortly after. Then it was sailing the world alongside his twin! Exploring the world, finding tresures, and getting hot babes? Sign him up! Another silly dream that went up in flames in the worst way possible.
Then he thought, why not build his own company? Well, if the torches and mobs weren't enough of a hint as to whether or not he, perhaps Stan really was a complete lost cause. Comedy? He's good at making people laugh— people being his brothers and his mother. Or at least he used to. Although, this situation, this is comedy gold. He would laugh if he could. Well, he supposes he can, just not outloud. Not anymore. But you had to admit that the irony of it all is pretty funny. If you had told 17 year old Stanley that his life would be reduced to nothing but darkness, rotting alone in a hospital bed as he waits for his body to finally give up and end the pitiful mess he calls his life– well he probably would back away slowly and think your a druggie or something. Because him? No way! He was healthy as a horse! Sure he had a bit of baby weight on him but he boxed everyday and while he did get in trouble, he always got out of it with his brother by his side. And yet…
Stanley Pines is 25 years old, waiting to take his final breathe in a hospital thousands of miles away from his family in the middle of nowhere Colorado.
And for once in the past 8 years of his life, he almost feels content.
5 years earlier.
Stanley winces as he touches his face, now pouring bright red from his left cheek, his feet aching as he runs in kitty heels away from the bar back to his car so he can book it back to his hotel.
It was supposed to be an easy going fun night! Just go in, get buzzed, maybe even shitfaced, and go back to his motel. Earlier that week he had gotten word – aka he eavesdropped while he stuffed bags of chips into his jacket– that a new bar was opening downtown. It was no ordinary bar, too. It was supposed to be something that only people who were friends of Dorothy were allowed in. Stanley had glanced up to see a man and woman with matching wedding bands, unaware of the other "customer" that continued to overhear their conversation. He had gotten a location, a date, and more insight as to what the bar would include. Drinks, obviously, but also a safe place and stage big enough for performances that would be like no other.
Despite Stanley still not being absolutely comfortable with his quirks, he did acknowledge them and recognized them as another part of himself. He acknowledged them as parts that his dad had tried to beat out of him. Parts that came out when he put on his mom's dresses and used his face as a canvas with his mom's makeup. The parts that made his stomach twist when he stared at a man’s lips too long thinking about how different they would feel compared to a woman's. When he wondered a little too much on what it would feel like to just let go and finally listen to that little voice inside his head that begged to be let free.
It felt like a sign. Him being there in that convenience store that he wasn't even planning on stopping by, listening in to their conversation. He had gotten paid well from his last job with Rico and was thankfully quick enough to leave with a little extra bonus he had given himself before anyone had noticed. And somehow he made it to this little town in Colorado far from anything cartel related without his car breaking down once. And as a little extra cherry on the top, the motel he had gotten was almost completely bug free, and the A/C actually worked!
Not to mention that their– his birthday was coming up in two days.
Sue him, so what if finally wants to celebrate after 8 years of not doing so? It’s hard to when you no longer have your other half to share it with, when there is no cake or birthday candles to blow out and every time you make a wish it feels like its all for nothing. Because wishes don't come true, especially birthday ones, because if they did he wouldn't be here in this stupid cold freezing town in Colorado. No, instead he'd be on a boat, with a load of treasure and on talking terms with his brother. This had been a relatively good year for Stanley Pines, which meant a lot considering his track record of the last few years, and for once he just wanted to indulge himself, feel a little bit of happiness. Make this birthday at least a bit more tolerable and less lonely.
Two days later he was in the shower, with his nicest and cleanliest set of clothing sitting on the bathroom counter. He shaved his 5'oclock shadow, trimmed his mullet, and even used a bottle of cologne that some guy from Colombia gifted him as a drunk Christmas gift two years ago.
The night started out great. Bright lights, good songs, and hot babes all around. The drinks were hard and burned his throat in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. People shared blunts and danced all along the open floor, a few feet away from the stage where glamorous queens sang their hearts out. His blood was pumping and his body pressed against soft curvy and hard rough ones. At some point he had gotten tired, a bit thirsty for something actually hydrating.
He stumbled to the bar chugging a few glasses of water. There he met a drag queen, Shooting Star. Her hair was wild with all types of star shaped clips on her head; the pink eye shadow and bright red lipstick contrasted the classy white dress she wore with stilettos. She was beautiful in way Stan’s hazy mind couldn’t comprehend to its full extent. Intoxication was a dangerous thing around the wrong people, something Stanley had come to know all to well. But not with her, it felt safe. Safe like hiding in a fort inside a shared room as the rain patters against the window, safe like a beat up rotting sail boat where two teenage boys laid with a bottle of stolen alcohol from their parent's liquor cabinet. The way she carried herself screamed that no matter what, her kindness wouldn't falter, wouldn't judge or pity but rather uplift. He opened up, about his family, about the parts of himself that he had no one to talk to about; about Ford. She smiled, offering him a hug and a chance to go on stage. No strings attached.
And he believed her.
Stanley had taken many identities over the years. Each more unsavory than the last. This one was his favorite.
In a matter of what felt like minutes but was perhaps an hour, Stanley was glammed up, her hair was done in an updo all bouncy and big. Her lipstick was the same shade of red as the dress she wore with blue eye shadow and black eyeliner adding an extra pop of color onto her almost sickly pale skin. Her ears, pierced long ago, held big hooped earrings. She couldn’t help but admired herself in the mirror, she looked nothing like the miserable lonely man from this morning, instead she looked like-
“You look incredible.” Shooting Star said.
Stanley touched the mirror. She looked like her ma.
She went on stage, stumbling with kitten heels that were a size too big and performed like no other. She sang her heart out to It’s A Party, her arms extended as the crowed cheered for her. People raised their cups as they demanded an encore. A smile broke out on her face, she felt free, she felt seen. People looked at her without judgement but instead with amazement, with wonder. They didn't see Stanley Pines, the boy who got bullied in school, the boy who hurt his brother, the man who ran away from his problems, the man who had sold his dignity and life away for any money he could get his hands on. They didn't see the pathetic failture he was but rather someone to cheer for. Someone worth while. Stanley Pines was on top of the world. But you know what they say, the higher you are, the harder you fall.
Thirty seconds was all it took, she ran backstage to talk to Shooting Star when a loud bang was heard. Officers shouted, yelling at people to put their hands up. They were raiding the place. Stanley looked around, trying to find Shooting Star, but she was nowhere to be found. Panic swelled in his chest as he peaked through the velvet curtains. Officers yelled slurs, some pulled people out into the street, others grabbed peole, throwing them to the ground landing blow after blow with no mercy. Some people ran, others fought back. Stanley did the only thing he knew best, and he ran. He ran backstage grabbing his clothes and his other belongings. Quickly and as discreetly as possible, he snuck through the back door, making a run for his car, cursing and thanking himself for leaving it at another location.
It would be a longer run but at least there would be less risky, less police.
One of the first lessons he learned after being on the run for so long was to never look back. Literally and metaphorically. Even when you hear the screams and please, when you feel the flames growing bigger burning into your back, you don't turn, you don't look back. Because sometimes that the only way you made it out alive. But he couldn't help it. It he glanced back It was utter chaos, people were shoved down onto the dirty sidewalks, handcuffed, and beaten. A familiar voice rang out, cursing those pigs for the violence. Shooting Star sported a black eye, pushed into a police car. They made eye contact.
There was a burst of pain on his left cheek, a man in uniform grabbed at him before slamming him down on pavement. Stanley groaned. And it was like he blacked out, one moment he was on the floor, the next he was running towards his vehicle, his cheek bleeding from a missed bullet and far more bruises then he had that morning.
He made it to his car, his hands shaking making it almost an impossible task to start the car. Cursing, he sped out the parking lot back to his motel, ignoring the sounds of sirens and cries that dwindled down as he continued to drive. Once inside he couldn't stop but stare at himself. His makeup had smudge off and been mixed with blood, sweat, and tears. His hair resembled a rats nest more than the bouncy piece of art that once graced him. His dressed now had blood stains on it, ripped at random places exposing the freshly bruised skin. He stepped back, allowing himself a better look of not only his appearance, but the motel.
It’s yellow stained walls, clearly caused by years of indoor smoking and lack of care. The dark blue carpet emitted the smell of trapped moisture that could never be taken out; The window had a thin curtain that looked closer to a rag found at the bottom of trashcan than an actual curtain. The twin size bed with covers that had definitely not been washed, stained with questionably colored substances. There was a nightstand with a small lamp that flickered, refusing to stay on, but also refuse to give out. Besides it was a telephone he knew he would not use, and a bible with a God he doesn't believe in. His old dufflebag– now being held together by stitches and duck tape laid haphazardly on the floor. One of his only belongings. This dingy old hazard of a motel was the best he could do. Stanley looked back at his ruined self.
This was the best he could do.
And in that moment, something broke inside Stanley. Something that could never be fixed, because how do you fix someone like him? How do you fix someone who can only cheat and lie in life to get anything, and that even when he does the best he could do is scraps? How do you even begin to fix someone that can only be happy when they can pretend to be anyone but themselves? Who even is Stanley Pines? Where does Stanley Pines end and where does this stranger that stares in the mirror begin?
How do you fix a failure?
How do you fix someone that only brings misfortune where ever he goes?
Stanley stares at himself for a few more minutes, his tears dry and crusting on his face. Slowly, he drags his feet towards the bathroom. He washes the makeup and blood off his face, careful not to reopen the cut. He strips off the dress and tosses it to the trash, its no longer needed. The earrings are taken off and left on the bathroom sink. Water drips down his face onto the floor, feeling the last bits of adrenaline fade, leaving him too exhausted to grab a towel. to dry off. He grabs the last of his clean clothes and puts them on before digging through the bag.
Just his luck, his cigarettes are nowhere to be found making him groan in response.
On one hand, he’s exhausted and just wants to sleep and forget about this whole day. Preferably his whole life, but he knows that won’t happen any time soon. On the other hand, although he’s exhausted, he feels the anxiety coursing through his veins in a way only a ciggarette or two could fix. He shifts on his feet, rubbing his face. He makes his decision and makes his way to the door. Fuck it, it’s his birthday. Let him indulge.
The walk is calming at first. He can feeling the buzz of his anxiety dying down. The air feels cool on his skin, and the crickets are chirping a nice melody. But suddenly it’s quiet, too quiet, which means his mind is the opposite. He’s not fully sober. His thoughts begin to race and with each passing moment it gets worse. His skin is crawling and he wants to tear it off, his nails dig into his forearm. Was this really what his life has come to? Where even on his birthday he has to somehow fuck it up by being at the wrong place and the wrong time and just being the wrong person? Why did his existence be wrong? Why was he born wrong?
His breathing is quickening and his hands are shaking in a way that makes his nails dig deeper into his flesh. He wants this to end, he wants this stupid nightmare to end.
He wishes it would all just end.
When he was a child he remembers his mom talking about an out of body moment, when you see the world around you but not in the way you would usually. No, it's like your watching through someone else's eyes, you have the ability to watch yourself, kind of if you were watch a character on TV.
And that's what this feels like. He hears the screeching of tires, the thump of his body hitting the metal, and the crack of his neck when he hits the ground.
He sees his body the moment it lands on the ground like a rag doll. It's sickening, he knows his body is not supposed to twist that way. He says a drunk man stumble out the vehicle, his hands on his head as he sees Stanley's body. Passersby walk by and one runs to the nearest store to call the ambulance.
He feels the warm trickle of blood leaving a path of red on his face, leaving a cold clammy feeling behind. Red pools around him and suddenly he feels like he returns to his body.
Stanley’s eyes close.
Happy birthday to him.