Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stanford Pines sat at his small desk in the tutoring center of Backupsmore University, his concentration wavering between the stack of papers in front of him and the sparse, dimly lit library around him. He tapped his pen absently against the edge, scanning over the pile of notes before him. It wasn’t that he disliked tutoring...scratch that he did, but it was more a matter of tolerating it. He endured the occasional insipid comment about his six fingers from curious students, but he put on a brave face. After all, the extra income helped pay for his shared apartment with Fiddleford, and every session brought him one step closer to completing his multiple degrees.

The library’s quiet ambiance barely held his attention, broken only by his co-workers’ soft murmurs and shuffling movements. One of them, Madeline—a timid undergrad—approached his desk, clutching a printout.

“Ford, you’ve got someone scheduled last minute for today,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ford looked up, mildly interested. “Someone important?”

Madeline fidgeted with the paper, clearly uncomfortable. “The student was really persistent about getting in. I couldn’t say no. He was—well, he was a bit of a flirt.”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “A flirt, huh? You should be more confident in telling people no.”

Madeline shrugged, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I couldn’t help it. He was quite charming.”

That earned her a chuckle from Ford. “Well, now I’m curious as to who this charmer is.”

Madeline handed over the sheet, and Ford’s eyes quickly scanned the scant information. The only details listed were the course title: Bayesian Statistics and Modeling. His face contorted slightly. That professor’s reputation was nearly as infamous as the course itself—a class that left students shaken, where failing was common and passing felt like a rare miracle. But Ford himself thrived on this kind of material; for him, it was almost elementary.

“When’s he coming?” Ford asked.

She looked at her watch. “Fifteen minutes, maybe less.”

A scowl crept across his face. “Last-minute, huh? Well, guess he’s desperate.” He glanced toward the library’s main entrance as a few students wandered in. His gaze fell on one of them—a stocky guy with a mullet who looked painfully out of place here. Ford’s brow furrowed. Probably some freshman who wandered off course. He returned to his notes, dismissing the stranger from his mind.

But the mullet-wearing man meandered closer, guided by Madeline’s bright but strained attempts at friendliness. “You’re in very good hands,” she said, half an apology, half an assurance. “He's the smartest of the bunch. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.” The guy shot her a wink and moved toward Ford, his easy-going grin shifting to a more tense expression as he closed the gap.

Ford greeted him with the usual pleasantries, not yet realizing who he was. “Bayesian Stats, right? I’m sure we can—” His voice trailed off as he looked up and locked eyes with the man standing before him. His face went pale, and he felt a cold rush of disbelief.

Stan.

The air between them went rigid, and for a moment, the library’s hum vanished. Stan’s confident smirk faltered, his eyes widening with what looked like… regret? Confusion? He visibly paled, words stalling in his mouth.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ford’s voice was low, edged with venom. “Are you stalking me, or did you just come here to rub it in that I’m wasting away in this place?”

Stan’s brow furrowed. “Rub it in? I had no idea you’d be here, Ford. I’m here for help, not to pick a fight.”

Ford’s gaze narrowed, his mind racing. Why Stan, of all people? Memories of that disastrous day—the fight, the shattered dreams—flooded back, making his fists clench at his sides.

Ford’s lips curled in a humorless smile. “You, needing help? That’s rich.”

Stan shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the weight of Ford’s anger. “Look, I didn’t know it was you. Just... bad luck, I guess.”

“Bad luck?” Ford’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “You must be an expert on that.”

Stan shifted uneasily. “Look, it’s not like that. I’m a student here. Boxing scholarship,” he muttered, his shoulders dropping slightly. “I figured I’d try my hand at something real, something with some stability.”

Ford scoffed. “Right. The big bad dropout decided to become a model student. Next, you’ll tell me you’re up for valedictorian.”

Stan’s jaw clenched, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “You don’t know everythin' about me, Ford.”

Ford rolled his eyes, letting the silence linger until he felt it stretch taut between them. “Fine, enlighten me. Tell me all about your rags-to-riches transformation.”

Stan looked pained, as if the words were difficult to say. “The only person who believed I could get out of New Jersey was our old boxing coach. He gave me a place to stay, and convinced our high school to let me finish the last two months in summer school so I could get my diploma.” He took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t want to be a burden to coach, so I took the scholarship to prove I could make it on my own.”

Ford’s skepticism remained. “That’s a heartwarming story, but I’m not buying it.”

Stan ran a hand through his disheveled hair, his exhaustion evident. “I’m not here to force you to believe me, Stanford. I really need help with this class, but if you’re going to be an asshole about it, I’ll figure it out on my own again."

The last comment struck Ford with unexpected force. He wanted to retort, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he looked away, unable to meet Stan’s weary gaze.

“Good luck,” Ford said finally, leaning back in his chair with a cold smile. “You’re going to need it with that professor. Might as well give up now.”

Stan’s face fell, disappointment mingling with frustration. For a moment, it looked like he might argue, but then his shoulders slumped. Without a word, he turned and left, his footsteps fading into the quiet of the library.

Ford watched him go, a strange, unbidden ache stirring in his chest. Gritting his teeth, he turned to the computer, his fingers flying across the keys as he pulled up the university’s student database. Stanley Pines—Business and Accounting, part-time, coded as an athlete.

He stared at the profile for a long time, a shadow of regret slipping into his expression.

Almost—almost—he felt sorry.

Ford stepped through the door, tension heavy in his posture, his face a scowl he couldn’t shake off. Fiddleford’s car outside had been a relief, a familiar lifeline; maybe unwinding with his roommate would drive the taste of his encounter with Stan out of his mouth.

Fiddleford’s sharp, amused gaze met him as he entered. “Someone’s in a mood,” he teased, his voice low and lilting with that unmissable Southern charm.

“You have no idea,” Ford muttered, dropping his bag with a sigh.

Fiddleford gestured to the couch. “Come on, sit a spell. What’s got ya lookin’ like you just chewed on a lemon?”

Ford exhaled heavily. “Ran into an… old acquaintance.”

An eyebrow lifted, silent curiosity.

“My twin brother,” Ford admitted, frustration edging his tone.

Fiddleford’s eyes widened, intrigued. “Twin, huh? Didn’t think you had a brother lurkin’ around.”

“There’s a reason for that,” Ford ground out, folding his arms defensively.

“Sounds like you two had quite a tussle.”

Ford groaned, exasperated. “That’s an understatement. I haven’t seen or talked to him in almost three years. Today, I found out he’s a student here at Backupsmore.”

“Ain’t that a twist of fate.” Fiddleford chuckled, tilting his head in sympathy.

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Ford muttered bitterly.

“Gonna reach out to him?”

Ford’s expression hardened. “Not if I can help it.”

Fiddleford chuckled softly, understanding. “Family’s a funny thing. Had my own stubborn clashes, had to fight like hell to get away from the farm and head to college.”

“Well, maybe they were right to keep you back. This place is—” Ford gestured around. “A dump.”

“It ain’t so bad. Just gotta find your space.” Fiddleford’s voice was warm, a touch more serious.

“My space is supposed to be somewhere meaningful. A real school. Not here.” Ford’s tone was clipped, defensive.

“Hey, ya never know.” Fiddleford shrugged, watching him intently. “Maybe you’ll find common ground with your brother. Might surprise ya.”

“Unlikely.” Ford’s mouth twisted with irritation. “Stan’s a screw-up. Always has been. There’s no way he’ll make it here.”

Fiddleford chuckled. “Sometimes people’ll surprise ya if ya let ’em.”

Ford rolled his eyes, the conversation grating on him now. Fiddleford’s insight could be annoyingly accurate. “I’ve got work to do,” he announced curtly, letting his irritation show.

Fiddleford only smiled, unbothered. “You know where to find me if you need anything.”

Ford sighed. “Thanks, Fidds.”

He retreated to his bedroom, feeling the weight of his thoughts crowding in again. Stubborn as he was, he couldn’t shake Fiddleford’s words entirely. Perhaps there was a sliver of truth buried in them. Maybe Stan was worth a chance—maybe. But Ford wasn’t ready to entertain that tonight.

Stan was no longer his problem. He had his own future to worry about.

Chapter Text

Ford hadn’t expected to see Stan again. In fact, he was actively choosing to forget their previous encounter, burying it deep within his mind as if it had been nothing more than a bad dream. Two days had passed since the tutoring session, and Ford was back in his usual routine, heading to the library, ready to get through another tedious shift. His mind was focused on his work, on the progress of his research and how much he still needed to accomplish.

But as he walked into the quiet library, his eyes caught a glimpse of something familiar—someone familiar. Stan. Again.

Ford froze in the doorway, narrowing his eyes as he observed his brother standing at Madeline's desk. Stan’s posture was slouched, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets, and his voice, though too soft to hear clearly from this distance, had a tone of resignation.

He’s still here? Ford thought, half in disbelief. He could almost hear his own heartbeat in his ears. Wasn’t he supposed to have vanished by now, back to whatever lowlife hole he crawled out of?

Ford shifted uncomfortably, trying to avoid looking directly at the scene in front of him, but his eyes refused to comply. He watched as Stan exchanged a few words with Madeline. Stan seemed to be asking her something—Ford could guess what. The way Stan's shoulders sagged, the defeated way he glanced down at his hands, confirmed it. He was trying to get someone—anyone—other than Ford to help him.

“Is there anyone else who tutors math?” Stan’s voice carried across the room, and Ford cringed. 

Madeline shook her head. “I’m sorry. The last tutor graduated, and we don’t have enough funds for another math tutor. It’s just me for the environmental courses, and Ford here for math.” She gave a polite, apologetic smile.

Stan chuckled, but it was devoid of humor, the sound brittle. “You’d have been helpful last semester,” he mumbled, staring down at the floor, his voice low and defeated. He sighed, his entire frame seeming to collapse inward.

From across the room, Ford watched as Madeline glanced toward him, her eyes practically begging him to step in. He inhaled sharply through his nose, feeling his frustration spike.

Why should I help him? He’s been nothing but trouble. But Ford couldn't ignore that part of him—small as it was—that stirred with a sense of responsibility. Or maybe it was pity. Either way, he sighed deeply. 

Karma, Ford. You need the good karma.

With reluctance, Ford made his way over. He tapped Stan’s shoulder, causing him to flinch.

Stan turned to face him, and for the first time, Ford really took in his brother's appearance. He looked... different. Dark circles hung beneath Stan's eyes, giving him a weary, almost haunted look. His once-thick hair appeared thinner, and faint scars marred his face and neck, adding a rough edge to his otherwise familiar features. Despite the wear, Stan still had the broad, muscular build of an athlete, though Ford noticed a bit of pudge around his middle, likely a result of his current boxing training.

Yet something about him seemed worn down, as if the fight wasn’t just in the ring anymore.

“Hey,” Ford said flatly, “I don’t have anyone else scheduled today. We can use a study room if you want.”

Stan blinked, surprise flickering across his face. He hesitated, shifting his weight, finally muttering, “Yeah… study room’s fine.”

Ford led the way, his mind churning with thoughts he’d rather ignore. The small room felt stifling with Stan in it, and an uncomfortable silence settled as Stan dropped into the chair across from him, fidgeting with his papers. Ford set his bag down, keeping his face impassive.

“So,” Ford began, his tone clipped, “what’s the problem?”

Stan rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly uncomfortable. “It’s this one equation. I keep going over it, but something's not clicking.” He slid his assignment across the table, the paper crinkling in his grip.

Ford glanced at the sheet, scanning the problems. To his surprise, Stan wasn’t far off. His calculations were solid, and his reasoning was more thought-out than Ford had expected. He frowned slightly, taken aback by the effort Stan had put in. For a moment, he wondered if this was some kind of sick joke, but the frustration in Stan’s expression told him otherwise.

As they worked through the problems, Ford slipped into an old, familiar rhythm, explaining the concepts and pointing out where Stan had gone wrong. Despite himself, Ford felt a twinge of nostalgia—remnants of the days when he used to help Stan with his homework back in high school. But he quickly brushed the feeling aside, reminding himself that those days were long gone, buried in the past. This was different. They were different.

The minutes melted into hours as they worked. Ford found himself slipping into the old rhythm of explaining concepts, pointing out errors with a patience that startled him. Stan listened closely, absorbing every word, his focus so intent it was almost unsettling. Two hours vanished before Ford noticed, glancing at the clock just as Stan looked at his watch, gathering his papers with a sigh.

“I’ve got to head to work,” Stan said, packing up with mechanical movements.

Ford raised an eyebrow. “Work?”

“Yeah,” Stan muttered. “Construction.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, his gaze distant, and hesitated just long enough to say, “Thanks… I might be back next week.”

Ford didn’t have time to reply before Stan was gone, disappearing out of the room as quickly as he’d entered. For a long moment, Ford simply sat there, staring at the now-empty chair, feeling a strange, heavyweight settle over him. Something about Stan’s departure—his worn-out, defeated demeanor—left an uncomfortable knot in his chest.

He pushed it aside.

Later that night, as he drove home, the thought of Stan kept intruding, sticking in his mind like a splinter. Then his pager buzzed, jolting him out of his reverie.

741 - Fiddleford.

Ford pulled over to check the message. He recalled Fiddleford mentioning takeout for dinner, figuring now it was his turn to pick it up. As he glanced around, though, he froze. Across the street, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, was Stan’s old El Diablo convertible, parked by a construction site. The engine was off, and in the shadows, Ford could just make out Stan’s silhouette, slumped in the driver’s seat, fast asleep.

Ford stared, something twisting uncomfortably in his gut. Taking a break from work, or…?

He hesitated for a moment, but shook his head and drove away, pushing the image of his brother sleeping in his car to the back of his mind.

Ford climbed the stairs to his apartment, juggling a stack of textbooks in one hand and a bag of Chinese takeout in the other. As he approached the door, it swung open before he could reach for the handle. Fiddleford stood there, grinning.

“Well, ain't this a sight,” Fiddleford said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Ford raised an eyebrow. "How did you even hear me?"

Fiddleford put a hand to his chest with mock reverence. “I’m an all-seeing god, Fordsy.”

Ford rolled his eyes, pushing past him. “Sure you are.”

Fiddleford chuckled, stepping aside. “Well, that, and I heard you curse loud enough to wake the neighbors when you tripped.”

Ford let out an irritated huff. “Now that I believe.”

They set the food on the table and started unpacking. Fiddleford dug into his beef fried rice, while Ford opened up his lo mein, pausing as he noticed Fiddleford’s plate. A flicker of memory surfaced—a glimpse of him and Stan as kids, splitting whatever food they’d scraped together after a long day of dodging their dad’s temper. Stan had insisted, "If we split our food, we get the best of both worlds—carbs!"

Ford snorted unexpectedly.

Fiddleford looked up, puzzled. "What’s funny?"

Ford shook his head, waving it off. "Just something from my teaching assistant job. Nothing important."

Fiddleford hummed noncommittally, grabbing the TV remote. "So, what’s it gonna be tonight? Happy Days or Three’s Company?"

Ford sighed as he sat down with his plate. "Why can’t we just watch Wheel of Fortune?"

Fiddleford’s eyes widened in disbelief. "You? Watch Wheel of Fortune again? After last time when you almost threw the TV out the window because someone spelled the word wrong?"

Ford crossed his arms. “The answer was so obvious, Fidds. Who confuses i and e like that? It’s basic phonetics.”

Fiddleford gave him a long, knowing look, and Ford sighed dramatically. “Fine. Three’s Company it is.”

As the show started, they dug into their food, the warm comfort of the meal settling in. Between bites of lo mein, Ford decided to bring up something that had been on his mind. "I’ve been trying to apply for that grant we talked about for my research."

Fiddleford, eyes still on the TV, nodded. "Backupsmore grants take ages, y'know. One of my engineering buddies has been fighting through red tape for nearly a year."

Ford popped a piece of chicken into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Exactly. That’s why I’m trying to get ahead of it now."

Fiddleford chuckled. “Might help if you were more active on campus.”

Ford raised an eyebrow, looking at him as though he’d suggested something obscene. “I am present. Three classes as a TA, plus mentoring.”

“Yeah, on paper.” Fiddleford’s grin was sly. “But the students are afraid of you.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed. “They’re not.”

“Oh, they are.”

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No they're-Fiddleford, please!” Ford’s tone edged toward exasperation. “Madeline is not scared of me.”

“Yea, sweet girl. But she works with bobcats and falcons for a living,” Fiddleford deadpanned. “You’re probably about the same temperament.”

Ford gave him a pointed look, his mouth opening in protest, but no words came out. Instead, he slumped back into his seat as Fiddleford burst into laughter.

“I’m serious, Ford,” Fiddleford continued, still chuckling. “What if the grant committee asks some of your students as a reference? The same students you called ‘the intellectual equivalent of mold spores’? How you're going to be taking money from ‘this dump’?”

"Alright, alright," Ford muttered, a hint of guilt creeping in. "I didn’t mean to call the place a dump. Sorry about that."

Fiddleford waved it off, still grinning. "Don’t worry, I’m used to your tantrums by now."

A beat of silence passed between them before Ford sighed. "But seriously, how am I supposed to become more... 'active' on campus?"

Fiddleford tapped his chin in thought, then lit up. "Be welcoming, for starters. We could start small—go to a couple of games, campus events. Ya know, like a normal human being."

Ford scoffed. “I have research. Homework.”

“Then bring it along!” Fiddleford said brightly, as if it were the simplest answer in the world. “Make an appearance, study on the bleachers, kill two birds with one stone.”

Ford groaned. “What events are even on the calendar?”

Fiddleford reached for the school calendar, scanning the list. “Track, football, volleyball, gymnastics, and…” He smirked, eyes gleaming. “Boxing. That’s this Sunday.”

Ford blinked. “Boxing? I—my brother’s probably competing in that.”

“Perfect!” Fiddleford clapped his hands together, clearly delighted. “We’ll go.”

Ford stammered, caught off guard. “Fidds, I’m not—”

“Come on, you’ll get to see him. I’ve been curious about this infamous brother of yours anyway.” Fiddleford’s tone was light, playful, though Ford sensed a glimmer of something else there. “And we’ll sit in the back if it’s that bad. Good for exposure therapy!”

Ford grumbled. “That’s not how exposure therapy works, Fiddleford.”

“Sure it is! Besides,” Fiddleford added with a wink, “I’m pretty sure you don’t know how any therapy works.”

Ford opened his mouth to argue, then quickly shut it, recognizing Fiddleford’s baiting tone. Instead, he slumped forward with a groan, dragging his hands over his face.

This was going to be an utter disaster.

Chapter Text

Stan walked to the arena, his heart racing, pounding in time with the roar of the crowd outside. The fight tonight was the main event, and the crowd sounded larger than any he’d faced before. The hum of voices and bursts of laughter hit him like waves, blending with the distant echoes of cheers and music. It made his pulse jump in anticipation.

Same thing you’ve done a hundred times, he told himself, taking a deep breath. Keep calm. Focus.

As he made his way to the locker rooms, the noise dulled a bit, the walls absorbing the chaos outside. Stan took a moment to collect himself, letting the silence settle his nerves.

He changed quickly, wrapping his hands and lacing up his boots with precision, the ritualistic calm taking over. But the tension in his shoulders never quite left. It was the same feeling, the rush that came before a fight—half excitement, half dread. Once ready, Stan stepped out of the locker room and was immediately hit by the roar of the crowd again, this time louder, sharper, as if the whole arena was waiting for him.

"Introducing the next contender, Stanley Pines, from Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey!"

Stan grimaced. "Lee!" he barked, his voice cutting through the announcer's echo.

The announcer faltered mid-sentence. "What?"

Stan sighed, louder this time. "It’s Lee."

The shrug from the announcer was audible even without words. "Lee Pines. Whatever."

Well, at least it’s something, Stan thought, shaking his head.

The announcer moved on. "And now, Dan ‘Thundergun’ Corduroy, from Piedmont, California!"

The crowd erupted, a sea of applause and cheers cascading around him. Stan couldn’t help the smirk tugging at his lips. Thundergun? Really? What a clown. He lifted a hand to acknowledge the cheers, leaning into the part. But as his gaze swept over the crowd, his expression froze. Just for an instant, through the blur of faces, someone familiar emerged.

No. Can’t be. He blinked hard and turned away, shoving the creeping unease aside. Focus.

Minutes later, he was face-to-face with “Thundergun” in the center of the ring. The guy was enormous—easily a head taller, with arms like tree trunks. He glared at Stan, radiating menace, but it only hardened Stan’s resolve.

The ref raised his hands, his voice cutting through the din. "I want a clean fight. Fight until I call it, or I’ll stop it."

They nodded. The ref stepped back, and the bell rang.

They began to circle, movements measured, eyes sharp as they studied each other’s stances. Stan struck first—a feinted right hook followed by a lightning-quick left jab. Thundergun dodged, but not fast enough to avoid the punch that caught his ribs. The wince was fleeting, but Stan caught it, and his grin sharpened.

Gotcha.

He followed up with a kick to the leg, sending Thundergun stumbling. Without hesitation, Stan drove an uppercut into his jaw, the impact vibrating through his knuckles. Thundergun’s wide-eyed shock spurred him on. Another quick jab to the gut doubled the man over, and the crowd roared as Thundergun crumpled to the mat.

Stan stood over him, chest heaving, adrenaline surging as the ref started the count.

"One, two, three..."

Thundergun clawed at the mat, trying to push himself upright, but his limbs betrayed him. The count hit ten.

"The winner! Lee!"

The ref hoisted Stan’s arm high, the deafening cheers washing over him in a tidal wave of elation. For a brief, shining moment, victory burned bright. He grinned, savoring the crowd’s adulation. But as the noise ebbed and the adrenaline began to drain, the rush faded, leaving a hollow ache in its place.

Back in the locker room, Stan sank onto a bench, unwrapping his hands slowly. The fight replayed in his mind, blow for blow. He’d won, but it didn’t feel like a triumph. That nagging unease from the ring lingered, clawing at the edges of his thoughts. He shook his head, trying to dispel it.

No. Don’t think about him.

The cold shower that followed was quick, perfunctory, and did little to banish the dark spiral in his mind. He towel-dried his hair, grabbed his bag, and slung it over his shoulder. The construction site would be packed with trucks, and he was running out of places to stay.

The night stretched before him, bleak and uncertain. Maybe he’d spring for a room tonight. Or maybe the space under the bridge again—if he stretched his cash, it could last another week or two. He sighed, grateful at least for the meal his coach had packed. That’d hold him over until tomorrow.

His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as he left the locker room. And then he stopped, heart thudding against his ribs.

Standing there, in the middle of the corridor, was the last person he ever expected to see.

Ford.

Stan’s breath caught in his chest. Ford stared back, wide-eyed, as though he couldn’t believe it either.

The crowd in the arena roared, a wall of sound that rattled Ford’s nerves as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers drummed restlessly against the cover of his notebook, though he wasn’t writing anything. He still wasn’t sure why he’d let Fiddleford talk him into this—why he’d come here, of all places, to watch Stan—no, Lee—fight. Even hearing Stan bark at the ref to call him Lee had made Ford flinch, the name sharp and foreign in his ears. Another name. Another distance. Another reminder of just how far apart they’d grown.

Fiddleford leaned forward beside him, peering toward the ring. “That him?”

Ford followed his gaze and nodded stiffly. “Yes. The one with the mullet.”

“Wow. He’s huge.”

Ford tensed, his jaw tightening. “He’s always been bigger than me.”

Fiddleford snorted, not picking up on Ford’s irritation. “No, I mean built. Like he could punch through a tree trunk or somethin’.”

Ford frowned, his eyes narrowing as he studied his brother. He’d noticed the change, too—the way Stan’s shoulders had broadened, his frame packed with muscle. It was jarring, seeing him like this, a man carved by....hard years. “He’s… always been good at this sort of thing,” Ford said, trying to sound neutral.

The bell rang, pulling their attention to the fight.

Fiddleford leaned closer, grinning. “He’s got this in the bag.”

Ford didn’t answer, his eyes glued to the ring as Stan landed a brutal uppercut that sent Thundergun stumbling back. A jolt of pride sparked in Ford before it curled into something murkier—resentment? Guilt? He couldn’t quite name it. When the ref raised Stan’s arm, the arena exploded with cheers. Ford clapped politely, his expression carefully blank.

"He won," Ford said, more to himself than anyone else.

“He sure did!” Fiddleford grinned and jumped to his feet. “Let’s go say hi.”

Ford’s head whipped around so fast his glasses nearly slid off. “Wait, what? That wasn’t the plan.”

Fiddleford gave him a look that was entirely too smug. “Oh, it wasn’t? I could’ve sworn I mentioned exposure therapy.”

“Not here! Not in public!” Ford hissed, panic rising in his voice.

“C’mon, Ford, you need this.”

"No."

"Yes."

"Fidds—"

“Quit whining. It’ll be good for you two.”

"But what if—"

Before Ford could dig his heels in, Fiddleford grabbed his arm and started dragging him down the bleachers. Ford stumbled along behind him, the weight of his notebook pressed awkwardly against his chest as his protests sputtered uselessly.

“We’ll just wait for him to come out,” Fiddleford said cheerfully, stopping near the locker room door.

Ford glanced around, desperate. “There has to be another exit. Surely.”

“Nope.” Fiddleford popped the ‘p’ smugly. “I’ve been here before. That’s the only door.”

"Dammit McGucket —"

Stan stepped out, towel and bag slung over his shoulder, his damp hair pushed back. He stopped short when his gaze landed on them, his expression freezing somewhere between surprise and suspicion.

Ford’s throat went dry. He swallowed hard, trying to fight the blush that crept up his neck. “Uh… hey, Stanley—” He stopped himself, flinching. “Lee. I, uh, you did… good.”

Stan stared at him for a moment, unreadable, before offering a hesitant nod. “Thanks?”

“That was one hell of a fight!” Fiddleford interjected, ever the peacemaker. “You had us on the edge of our seats.”

Stan shrugged, his voice gruff. “It’s what I do.”

Fiddleford extended a hand towards Stan, his eyes twinkling with genuine warmth. "Name’s Fiddleford McGucket. It’s a real pleasure to meet ya."

Stan blinked, clearly taken aback, before hesitantly shaking Fiddleford’s hand. “Uh… yeah, nice to meet you.”

“Say, are you hungry? We were fixin’ to grab some food and figured you might wanna tag along. Indian place—ever had it?”

Stan froze, clearly caught off guard. “I—uh. I don’t have cash for that.”

Ford shot Fiddleford a sharp look, already preparing to step in. “We don’t have to—”

Fiddleford waved him off with an easy grin, slinging his arm around Stan. “Don’t worry ‘bout that. You earned it, champ. So? Ever tried Indian food?”

Stan blinked, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Never had it.”

“Well, here’s the address,” Fiddleford said, scribbling it onto a scrap of paper and pressing it into Stan’s hand. “Meet us there if you’re up for it.”

Stan stood there, hesitating, as though unsure of what to say. Fiddleford didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed Ford by the elbow, steering him down the hall. Once they were out of earshot, Ford turned on him, face flushed with irritation.

“Why would you do that?”

Fiddleford shrugged, perfectly unfazed. “It’s therapy. You two need to talk. This’ll break the ice.”

“If you were a licensed therapist, I’d have you reported for malpractice,” Ford shot back, his voice tight.

“Good thing I ain’t a shrink then, eh?” Fiddleford replied, his smirk unrepentant. “Trust me, Fordsy. Breaking down barriers ain’t always gentle work.”

The evening settled in as they pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant, the orange glow of streetlights cutting through the dark. Ford half-expected Stan to bail—disappear into the night and leave things unresolved—but then he saw the beat-up car roll slowly down the road, Stan’s silhouette visible through the windshield. A cigarette dangled loosely from his lips, a faint ember glowing at the end.

Ford frowned. “Those things’ll kill you.”

Stan didn’t answer. He flicked the cigarette to the pavement and ground it out with his heel before wordlessly following them inside.

The warmth of the restaurant was immediate, a stark contrast to the chill outside. The air was thick with rich, earthy spices, the kind that made Ford’s nose tingle and his stomach growl. Fiddleford dove straight into the menu with childlike enthusiasm, rattling off recommendations to Stan, who looked distinctly out of place. His brows furrowed, scanning the unfamiliar names on the page, but he nodded along anyway, his attempts to look casual almost comical.

Fiddleford smirked, shooting Ford a mischievous glance. “You know, Ford’s first run-in with spicy food was with jerk chicken. Thought he was gonna die.”

Ford bristled, glaring at his friend. “I was not—”

But Stan actually laughed—a short, genuine sound that stopped Ford cold. It was a laugh Ford hadn’t heard in years, full and unguarded. “You think that’s bad?” Stan said, smirking at Ford. “I dared him to eat a whole pepper once. He flew through the roof like a cartoon character. Spent an hour gulping milk.”

Ford’s head snapped up, his expression going cold. That soft flicker of nostalgia hanging in the air turned brittle, the warmth draining away as quickly as it had come. Stan’s smile faltered when he caught Ford’s unyielding gaze, and for a moment, the distance between them stretched wider

Stan cleared his throat, redirecting his focus toward Fiddleford. “So, uh, what do you study?”

“Engineering,” Fiddleford replied brightly. “What about you?”

Stan picked at the corner of his menu, his tone guarded. “Business Administration. Some Accounting. But for electives… I'm uh, takin' environmental classes. Bunch of filler crap.”

Ford looked up, surprised. “Environmental courses?”

Stan shrugged, his posture stiff. “Yeah, conservation stuff. Aquatic Resources. Beaches and Coasts. Intro to Oceanography. Just the easier ones.”

Ford blinked, startled by the familiarity of those words. He’d assumed Stan had buried those old dreams with everything else. Yet here he was, knees-deep in coursework that echoed their childhood aspirations. For a brief moment, Ford’s searching gaze met Stan’s, but his brother’s face gave nothing away—a mask of indifference, locked tight.

Before Ford could say anything, the waiter arrived with their food, breaking the tension.

“You must really love the ocean,” Fiddleford said offhandedly as he dug into his meal.

Stan paused, his fork hovering midair. Something flickered across his face—a hesitation Ford couldn’t quite parse. Finally, Stan muttered, “Yeah. I do.”

The conversation dwindled after that, the silence stretched thin and uneasy. Ford ate in slow, mechanical bites, his thoughts snagged on everything unsaid.

When they were nearly finished, Ford finally broke the silence. “Where are you staying these days?”

Stan’s grip on his fork tightened almost imperceptibly. “An apartment. Near the construction site I’m working at.”

Ford narrowed his eyes. He recognized the twitch of Stan’s nose—a telltale sign he was lying, a habit from when they were kids. “And the stats class? Is the tutoring helping?”

Stan didn’t look up. “Don’t know yet. I think I did okay. Stats was... a lot. My other classes are easier.”

Ford’s voice softened, though he hadn’t intended it to. “It was easy for me.”

Stan’s response was muttered, almost drowned out by the scrape of his fork. “Of course it was.”

Fiddleford, sensing the shift, stepped in. “Well, sounds like you’re makin’ it work just fine.”

Stan didn’t look convinced. “Yeah. Sure.”

The conversation faltered again, leaving them to finish the meal in strained silence. Ford excused himself to start the car, leaving Stan and Fiddleford at the table.

As Stan pushed back his chair, he glanced at Fiddleford, his voice low. “Thanks. For dinner, by the way.”

Fiddleford waved it off, his tone light and warm. “Ain’t no trouble at all, Lee.”

Stan paused, eyes darting away. “Stan’s fine too. Lee’s just… for the ring. I uh, used it when I first got to campus. For people who don’t know me.”

Fiddleford grinned like he’d just been handed a gift. “Alright then, Stan.”

They stepped out into the night, the cold air biting after the restaurant’s warmth. Fiddleford placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder, his voice calm but insistent. “I don’t know what’s goin’ on between you and Ford, but it’s clear as day y’all care about each other. Don’t let whatever it is eat ya up.”

Stan’s jaw tightened, his eyes dropping to the pavement. “I’m not so sure he cares.”

Fiddleford gave a small, knowing smile. “Trust me. He does. You just can’t see it yet.”

Stan looked away, his voice almost a whisper. “He’s stubborn.”

“And you ain’t?” Fiddleford shot back with a laugh.

Stan sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. “Maybe. Maybe I am.”

Fiddleford placed a reassuring hand on Stan’s shoulder, offering a warm smile. “You got a pager or somethin’?”

Stan shook his head. “No.”

“Tell ya what,” Fiddleford said, slipping a small piece of paper into Stan’s hand. “This here’s our number. Call if you need somethin’—a ride, a couch, whatever. Don’t be a stranger, alright?”

Stan stared at the paper, his hesitation palpable. Finally, he nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”

“Good.” Fiddleford clapped him lightly on the shoulder before walking off toward the car.

When Fiddleford slid into the passenger seat, he glanced at Ford, who was staring straight ahead, expression tight and unreadable. “Gave him our number. Told him to reach out if he needs anything.”

Ford exhaled slowly, gripping the wheel. Relief and frustration tangled in his chest. “And you think that helped?”

Fiddleford grinned, unshakable. “Chin up, Fordsy. I’d say our first exposure session went pretty well.”

Ford shot him a dry look. “Oh, did it?”

“Yep. Y’all actually talked. And I learned a few things about him.”

“There won’t be a second one.”

Fiddleford’s grin only widened as he settled into his seat. “We’ll see.”

Stan drove further from the construction site, parking his car beneath a bridge. The space felt like a small comfort, and his stomach was finally full for once. The cold air nipped at his arms as he curled up in the back seat, tucking his head against his chest. His thoughts swirled in confusion, questioning why he’d agreed to the outing. As he drifted off to sleep, a faint glimmer of hope lingered—Maybe the rift between them wasn’t beyond repair.

Chapter Text

Ford prided himself on his sharp memory, especially when it came to new environments. His first day at Backupsmore was a blur of mundane details guided by a painfully chipper orientation leader, their enthusiasm far too intense for what they were showcasing. While the others shuffled along, Ford focused instead on mapping the quickest routes to his classrooms, committing the campus layout to memory.

At one point, the leader chirped something that had barely registered at the time: “If you see someone once, chances are you’ll see them again. Who knows—maybe you’ll even become friends!”

Ford had winced, inwardly recoiling at the sentiment. It struck him as more of a threat than a friendly observation. And now, as he spotted Stan seemingly everywhere, the words echoed mockingly in his mind.

It was sickening. 

The first time he noticed Stan was through the glass-paneled door of a classroom near his own. On his way to a quantum physics lecture, Ford had glanced inside and seen him—middle row, slouched, hand raised to ask a question in some accounting class. Ford had frozen just a moment too long, eyes fixed, before forcing himself to move on.

But that wasn’t the last of it. He spotted Stan again in the café while grabbing lunch with Fiddleford, watching him inspect a water bottle and overpriced fruit with a look of indecision. Then later, driving past the logging yard, there Stan was—hauling wood like it was second nature, chatting up coworkers as if they were lifelong friends.

Even the quad wasn’t spared. Ford had trudged through it one afternoon, only to catch sight of Stan sprawled on the grass with textbooks and papers scattered around him. Hair tied up, pencil jammed between his teeth, deep in thought.

Suffocating. That’s what it was—seeing Stan everywhere. Everywhere Ford turned, there he was. It wasn’t coincidence—it felt like a cosmic joke.

Today was no exception.

Ford was engrossed in his notes, navigating by muscle memory alone, when the sudden collision jolted him back to the present. Papers scattered to the ground in a messy flurry.

“Sorry about that,” came a voice that made Ford’s stomach sink.

Stan. Of course.

“What are you doing?” Ford snapped, already crouching to gather his notes.

“Cardio,” Stan replied nonchalantly, wiping at his damp forehead as he crouched to help. “I run around campus around this time.”

Ford snatched the ones from his brother's hands, perhaps a bit too roughly, grumbling under his breath. “Great.”

Stan shifted on his heels, an awkward pause stretching between them before he ventured, almost hesitantly, “Hey, uh… I need another tutoring session. I booked one for today through the center.”

Ford closed his eyes, exhaling heavily. “Fine. I’ll see you there.”

Later, Ford sat at a corner desk in the library, idly chatting with Madeline while his mind churned over the sheer absurdity of how often Stan seemed to pop up in his life.

“Do you know anyone in classes with Lee?” Ford asked, keeping his tone casual, his eyes still on the notes he wasn’t actually reading.

Madeline squinted, tapping her fingers against the table. “Lee…oh! Your mentee. Dakota mentioned him once. Big flirt, apparently.” She smirked. “Fits, right? She said he’s one of the rare ones who’s really into marine science. You don’t see that much around here since, you know, Backupsmore’s more about forestry and agriculture.”

Ford blinked, his interest piqued. “Marine science? Why’s that so unusual?”

Madeline leaned back in her chair. “Well, it’s a rough track. Most students here go for jobs in land management—park rangers, conservationists, forestry techs, that sort of thing. It’s way easier to make connections for those fields, and the coursework is more straightforward. Marine sciences? Totally different story. Tougher material, fewer job options, and we’re not even near the coast. One professor handles the whole department. People drop out of those classes all the time.”

Ford tilted his head. “So why would he stick with it?”

She shrugged, a thoughtful crease forming on her brow. “Rumor is, he got close with the professor. Dakota mentioned him staying after class to ask about fieldwork out at sea. The prof’s got industry connections, so… maybe that’s his in. Oh! And now that I think about it, he might’ve been the dockmaster intern last year. Weird though, right? Especially since I heard he’s also studying business.” She looked at Ford, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. “What’s a guy like that doing so invested in marine science?”

It's not odd. It's just...Stan. 

Ford let the thought settle uncomfortably in his mind, replaying bits of what he’d just heard. Those classes were easy? Before he could pry further, the library door swung open, and Stan strolled in like he owned the place. He winked at Madeline, whose face turned bright pink as she mumbled an excuse and fled.

Ford groaned quietly. “Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered, noting the way Stan’s smirk faltered as he dropped into the seat across from him.

“How’d the last sheet go?” Ford asked, settling into work mode.

“Eighty-four,” Stan replied, exhaling heavily.

Ford’s brow furrowed. “Eighty-four? Give me that.” He snatched the sheet, scanning it for mistakes.

What the hell?

“The answers are all correct,” Ford said, baffled.

Stan leaned back, his arms crossed. “Yeah, well, you said it yourself. I’ll need luck to scrape through. Half the class has already bailed.”

Ford’s jaw tightened as he remembered the offhand comment he’d made during their first session. “That’s not fair,” he muttered under his breath.

Stan shrugged, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Doesn’t matter. It’s better than nothing. Probably would’ve bombed without your help.”

Ford sighed, his voice softening. “I’m glad it helped.”

Stan nodded, his gaze flicking away. “Yeah. Me too.”

Ford cleared his throat, his tone a touch awkward. “Let's... focus on the next sheet?”

As they worked, Ford couldn’t help but steal glances at his brother. The dark circles under Stan’s eyes seemed darker than usual. His hands shook faintly as he scribbled down answers.

“You sleeping?” Ford asked, trying to sound casual.

Stan’s head shot up, his expression instantly guarded. “What?”

“You look exhausted.”

Stan waved him off. “I’m fine.”

Ford’s frown deepened. “You should—”

“I said I’m fine,” Stan cut him off, his voice sharp.

Ford bit back his frustration, returning his focus to the worksheet. But Stan’s restlessness didn’t go unnoticed. He kept glancing at his watch, shifting in his seat until, finally, he stood.

“Gym closes soon,” Stan said, stuffing his things into his bag.

What about Cardio?

Ford tilted his head. “Didn’t you already work out today?”

Stan froze for half a second before forcing a laugh. “Yeah, I… just forgot something there.”

Ford nodded, though something about Stan’s quick answer unsettled him.

The unease won.  Unable to shake it, he decided to drive to the gym.

By the time he got there, the lights were off, but Stan’s car was still in the lot. Ford parked some distance away, waiting in the shadows. A few minutes later, Stan came out, wearing comfortable clothes. 

He didn’t look like someone who had just worked out. 

Ford followed at a distance, realizing with a jolt that Stan was heading toward the same construction site Ford had seen earlier. The car pulled into a far corner of the lot and stopped. Ford's breath caught in his throat as he watched Stan sit in the driver’s seat, not moving. No lights, no getting out.

Ford waited.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then twenty.

He just sat there.

Ford’s stomach twisted as the truth clicked into place.

He’s living in his car.

Ford climbed the stairs to his apartment at a sluggish pace, each step dragging like his thoughts. By the time he reached his door, his mind was still circling back to the image of Stan sitting in that dark parking lot. He pushed the door open, the dim glow from inside spilling weakly into the hallway before he shut it behind him with a quiet click.

In the kitchen, Fiddleford stood fussing with the kettle, his usual easygoing demeanor evident in his lopsided smile. “I was just about to watch Three’s Company without you,” he teased, then paused, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Ford’s face. “You’re not pulling another all-nighter at the lab, are ya?”

Ford shrugged off his bag, ignoring the question, his jaw tightening as he avoided meeting Fiddleford’s gaze.

Fiddleford leaned a little closer, his brow creasing. “What’s eatin’ at ya, Ford? Something happen?”

The tightness in Ford’s chest refused to loosen. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling gnawing at him since following Stan’s car to that construction site. It didn’t make sense—why he even cared. Stan had dug his own hole, made his own mistakes. The resentment simmering inside Ford had been there for years, a slow-burning fire he wasn’t ready to extinguish. But that image of his brother, slouched in the driver’s seat, parked in the shadows, lingered.

No one should live like that.

Finally, he spoke, his words coming out clipped and sharp, as if bluntness would make it sting less. “I think Stan’s living in his car.”

Fiddleford’s hands stilled, hovering above his teacup. “What makes ya think that?”

Ford crossed his arms, his tone defensive as the confession spilled out. “After tutoring, I followed him. He went straight to that lot, parked, and just... sat there. Didn’t even get out.” His teeth clenched at the absurdity of it. “He didn’t leave the whole time I was there.”

There. He’d said it. And now the tightness in his chest only seemed worse. Why had he even followed Stan? What was he hoping to find? He hated how tangled it all felt, the resentment warring with something softer, something he didn’t want to name.

Fiddleford studied him quietly, his expression unreadable. “You reckon he’s doin’ that every night?”

Ford hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted, though the thought made his stomach churn. He let out a frustrated huff, leaning against the wall. “It’s probably just a scam. Maybe he’s hoarding scholarship money, trying to get people to pity him.”

Fiddleford tilted his head, unconvinced. “And that’s botherin’ ya, huh?”

Ford bristled at the calm observation. “Of course not. I just—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “It’s pathetic. Scraping by in a car like some kind of....vagabond. It’s infuriating.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the words Ford had just spat out. Fiddleford didn’t say anything at first, simply leaning against the counter and watching him with that maddening patience of his. Ford hated how exposed it made him feel, like Fiddleford could see right through the anger to whatever lay underneath.

“No one should live like that,” Fiddleford said at last, his voice soft but steady. “Doesn’t matter how they got there.”

Ford flinched at the quiet truth in the statement. He knew it, deep down—had known it from the moment he’d seen Stan in that lot. But admitting it felt like crossing a line he wasn’t ready to approach. “I know,” he snapped, though the words came out weaker than he intended. His fists clenched at his sides. “I just... It’s not my problem, Fiddleford. He’s not my responsibility.”

Ford glared at the floor, his thoughts a chaotic mess. He didn’t want to care. Stan had made his bed, hadn’t he? But the image of his brother, cold and alone in a car, refused to leave him.

Fiddleford’s voice broke the silence again, calm and measured. “So, what’re ya gonna do about it?”

“Nothing,” Ford shot back, a little too quickly. “He can figure it out. He always does.” His voice dropped, quieter now. “He’s survived worse.”

God. Has he?

Fiddleford didn’t press, just nodded slowly and took a sip from his mug. The silence stretched out again, and Ford hated how heavy it felt.

“You’re a good brother, Ford,” Fiddleford said after a moment, setting his mug down with a soft clink. “Even if you don’t wanna admit it.”

Ford’s head snapped up, his glare sharp. “I’m not. And don’t start acting like I owe him anything.”

Fiddleford’s smile was small but knowing, and it only made Ford’s frustration bubble higher. “Not sayin’ you owe him anythin’. Just sayin’ maybe you care more than you think.”

Ford turned away, his gaze fixed on the worn floorboards. He didn’t reply. Couldn’t. The truth was tangled up in too many years of resentment and hurt to untangle now.

Fiddleford’s voice was gentle when it came again. “You don’t have to fix everything all at once. Start small. Maybe ask him to join us next time there’s a movie night, or swing by one of his matches. Little things like that can go a long way.”

Ford didn’t look up, but something in the suggestion sparked a flicker of possibility.

Fiddleford chuckled softly, turning back to the kettle. “For now, how ‘bout some tea? Might help clear your head a bit. Doesn’t solve everythin', but it’s a start.”

Ford hesitated, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. He didn’t have answers—not yet—but Fiddleford’s steady presence made the weight feel a little less unbearable.

Chapter Text

The pale gray light of dawn seeped through the curtains as Ford stirred, his usual sharp mind dulled from another restless night. His body wanted to stay beneath the covers, warm and unmoving, but his thoughts wouldn’t let him. Fiddleford’s words from last night looped over and over in his head like a broken record.

“It’s pathetic. He’s scraping by in a car like some goddamn drifter. It’s infuriating.” The words had slipped out before Ford even realized it, muttered while he paced the living room. Across the room, Fiddleford sipped his tea quietly, watching him with those sharp, knowing eyes. The moment the confession escaped, Ford hated it—hated the way it hung there in the air, raw and undeniable.

Why the hell did it bother him so much?

Ford exhaled sharply and threw off the blankets. Stan living in his car—that was a problem Ford didn’t want to care about. He still gripped those old resentments, all those months of betrayal and disappointment embedded like splinters in his skin. But the thought gnawed at him anyway, a wound that refused to close. No one should have to live like that.

“And that’s botherin’ ya, huh?”

Yeah. It is.

He dressed quickly, as if he could shove the lingering thoughts away by moving faster. There were more important things to focus on: his student teaching, lab work, the quantum physics calculations waiting on his desk, his literary review draft. But none of it carried the urgency it should have. On his way out, Ford couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking toward the construction site.

Stan’s car wasn’t there.

His fingers tightened on the steering wheel as he pulled out of the driveway. That empty space where Stan had parked haunted him like a ghost. Was Stan sleeping somewhere else? Had he driven off to the edge of town to god-knows-where?

Was he okay?

Ford’s thoughts churned as he navigated the streets toward campus, a mess of bitterness and guilt tangling in his chest. Stan doesn’t deserve this kind of concern. And yet, he couldn’t shake that stinging unease, a thorn left by Fiddleford’s parting words. Start small.

When Ford finally parked, he was no closer to clarity. He made his way toward the building, buying a drink from the vending machine—not from thirst, but habit. The clunk of the can was sharp, grounding. As he bent to retrieve it, two students’ voices caught his attention.

“Man, Stats is brutal,” one groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Professor threw a girl out last week. Made her cry, too.”

His friend barked a laugh. “Dude, only three people even broke an 80 on that last test. I got a 6.”

“A 6?” The first one looked horrified. “How does that even happen? Is that like... an F-minus? A G?”

“Shut up. Besides, his 80s are basically Cs anyway,” the second muttered, clearly unbothered.

Ford froze, irritation sparking hot in his chest. He gripped the drink tighter, the plastic creaking. Stan scored an 84, he thought bitterly, anger bubbling to the surface. And they’re acting like that’s worthless?

He walked past the two students, ignoring the way their conversation shifted to some new coding invention in the works coming out of New Zealand. Instead, Ford found himself moving in the direction of the statistics professor’s classroom.

The door creaked as Ford pushed it open. Inside, the professor sat hunched over a stack of papers, red pen in hand.

He didn’t bother looking up.  Typical.

Clearing his throat, Ford stepped further into the room. “I need to talk to you about one of your students.”

The professor sighed, finally glancing up with a look of faint irritation. “I’m busy.”

Ford’s voice sharpened. “I’m tutoring one of your students. He scored an 84 on your assignment, and I reviewed it—there were no mistakes.”

The professor leaned back with an air of exasperation, as though this argument had played out a hundred times before. “Distributions, averages. Some students do well, others don’t. That’s how it works.”

Ford stepped closer, his jaw tight. “Not with me. I checked the work. I know it’s right.”

The professor's eyes narrowed, but Ford noticed a flicker of something else in his expression—his gaze lingering on Ford's hands. Ford’s six fingers rested on the desk, the subtle grimace on the professor’s face sparking his already frayed nerves.

The professor’s eyes flickered toward Ford’s hands—six fingers pressed against the desk. His expression faltered, a faint grimace betraying his discomfort. Ford’s voice dropped, cold and deliberate. “You’re telling me that someone with a 4.0 and perfect test scores suddenly ‘missed’ something? Or maybe it’s your mistake.”

The professor bristled, but Ford didn’t let up. “Maybe I’ll take this to the department chair. I’m sure they’d love to hear how you treat your students—grading inaccurately, making people cry, tossing them out of class. Or is this about me? Because I’d be more than happy to argue my case in front of the chair.”

The professor’s eyes widened, his face paling. “No no, now that won’t be necessary.”

"Good. Now, I'm going to ask you again. Why did my student score an 84 on your assignment?" 

The professor blinked, thrown off. Ford watched as the man recalibrated, his stiff posture shifting. “Perhaps... I made a mistake,” the professor said, begrudgingly.

Ford’s expression didn’t soften. “Then fix it. And while you’re at it, maybe check the rest of the class for ‘mistakes’ too.”

Robin Hood tactics. Ford could live with that.

The professor's eyes darted away, his mouth set in a thin line. "Yes."

The professor muttered something resembling an agreement, but Ford didn’t linger. He turned on his heel and strode out, the door clicking shut behind him. Down the hall, a figure caught his eye.

Stan.

He was further down the hallway, slumped against a wall, dark circles under his eyes and shoulders hunched. Ford slowed, heart clenching. He looked exhausted.

Start small. That counted as small, right?

He should say something. He had just gone to the trouble of getting Stan a better grade, after all.

Ford hesitated, forcing his expression into something approaching friendliness. He was just about to speak when a student—a TA assignment—approached him with a question about a lab report. Ford’s attention shifted, answering the student automatically.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ford caught Stan looking at him, clearly unsettled by the strained pleasantry Ford wore like a mask. “Uh... hey?” Stan ventured, his tone hesitant.

Ford turned briefly, his too-sweet smile still in place. “Have a good day at class, Stan.”

Then he was gone, disappearing around the corner as quickly as he’d come. Stan stood there, baffled, watching him leave.

Stan lingered in the hallway, utterly bewildered. Did Ford really just say “have a good day”? The words bounced around in his head, strange and dissonant, as if they didn’t belong. That smile—thin, too-sweet—lingered in his mind, a fractured thing with something sharp glinting underneath. Was Ford mocking him? Threatening him? Hell, maybe both.

He shook his head hard, as if he could knock the confusion loose. Focus on class, he told himself, shoving his hands in his pockets and hurrying toward the lecture hall. Whatever weird game Ford was playing, Stan didn’t have time for it.

But as the lecture started, the nagging unease refused to let go. He shifted in his seat, scribbling half-hearted notes, his pencil scratching faintly against the paper. The professor’s voice faded in and out, and no matter how hard Stan tried, he couldn’t lock himself into the material.

Then the professor spoke again, and suddenly, everything snapped into focus.

“There seems to have been a mistake with my grading curve,” the professor said, irritation threading through his tone. “It has been brought to my attention that some assignments were miscalculated. Those errors will be corrected and updated in the system. If you have further concerns, take them to the department chair—during office hours, please.”

A low murmur rippled through the class, students exchanging glances, some whispering to each other in surprise. Stan froze, his heart pounding against his ribcage. What? The professor’s eyes swept the room—calculated and brief—pausing just a second too long on Stan before moving on.

Stan’s pencil stilled in his grip. Heat rushed to his face, and a tight knot pulled at his chest. This is because of me. It had to be. Ford must have intervened, barged in somewhere he wasn’t welcome, and Stan was now caught in the fallout.

His pulse drummed in his ears as he stared at the notebook in front of him, blank lines swimming before his eyes. Why would Ford do that? The question rattled around his brain, leaving him dizzy. He’d spent almost two years at this college keeping his head down, managing on his own—finding his way through each class, each struggle, without a hand to steady him. The last thing he wanted, the last thing, was for Ford to get involved. Now the whole semester could be turned upside down. His standing in the class felt precarious, as if it might crumble beneath him at any second.

He swallowed hard, muscles coiling with restless energy as he stared at the lecturing professor. There was no point in speaking up now—no point in doing anything except sit still and let the weight of it settle. Stan tried to push the thoughts aside, to shove down the sharp pressure pressing against his chest, but his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. What the hell is Ford playing at?

For now, he stayed where he was, his fists clenched beneath the desk, his breathing slow and deliberate. He’d process this later—figure out what to do, what to say. But the knot in his chest wouldn’t loosen.

Hours later, Ford sat hunched in the library, surrounded by stacks of papers and the scratch of his pen as he marked each page with mechanical precision. He barely noticed the sound of footsteps until fingers tapped impatiently on the edge of his desk, jolting him from his focus. He looked up, startled, to see Stan looming over him, face drawn tight with frustration.

“I didn’t realize you had an appointment today,” Ford said coolly, setting his pen down and glancing at his calendar.

“I don’t.” Stan’s voice was sharp as he grabbed Ford’s arm, yanking him up from the chair. “But we’re gonna talk.”

“Stan—what the hell! Let go!” Ford stumbled as Stan dragged him unceremoniously across the library, his protests ignored.

Stan’s grip didn’t falter as he stalked toward an empty study room. “Been trying real hard to keep things civil, Stanford,” he growled, the words rough and low. "But you’re really testing my patience."

Ford wrenched his arm free, straightening with a glare. “What are you talking about? You can’t just—”

Stan shoved him through the doorway, slamming the door behind them with enough force to rattle the thin walls. “You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

Ford’s anger flared, matching Stan’s energy beat for beat. “We’re in a library, you brute! I still work here—try showing some respect.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Stan shot back, his voice tight and low. “I’m not the one who marched into my professor’s office and threatened him.”

Ford’s expression didn’t falter, though his pulse quickened. “I didn’t—”

“You know I don’t like when you lie to me.” Stan took a step closer, his tone laced with venom. “It was you.”

The silence stretched for a beat too long before Ford finally scoffed, his voice turning cold. “Fine. So what if I did? He’s a terrible professor.”

Stan’s eyes darkened. “I didn’t ask for your help, Ford.”

“You did the second you came to me for tutoring,” Ford snapped, his voice rising. “And the work was right. I checked it myself.”

Stan’s jaw clenched, frustration flaring across his face. “I don’t need your damn pity.”

“It’s not pity,” Ford bit out. “It’s basic decency.”

Stan let out a snort, but Ford caught the flicker of vulnerability buried in his anger. “Decency? No. You’re just pissed someone made you look wrong.”

Before Ford could stop himself, the words came out in a rush. “Was it decent when you destroyed my project? When you ruined my future?"

Stan’s face shifted, the bitterness giving way to something colder. “Of course you’d bring that up. You’ve been waiting to throw that in my face since the second you saw me.” He shook his head, disbelief and anger mingling. “You could’ve believed me back then. But you didn’t. You never did.”

Ford opened his mouth to respond, but Stan barreled on, his voice steady, cutting. “I never lied to you, Ford. You just always saw me as the screw-up. And now? Seeing me here, trying to make something of myself? It pisses you off, doesn’t it?”

Ford felt the accusation like a slap, the anger burning a little hotter. “You’re the one living out of your car, Stan. Not me.”

Stan went still. The color drained from his face, his eyes wide, disbelief etched deep into every line of his expression.

Ford froze, his stomach twisting violently. Why the hell did I say that? The words felt heavier now, too late to take back.

“You followed me?” Stan’s voice was low, hurt spilling into the cracks.

Ford’s throat tightened. “I... I was worried about you.”

Stan barked a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Worried? Don’t kid yourself. You’re not worried about me—you’re just trying to clear your goddamn conscience.”

“That’s not true.”

Stan’s eyes narrowed, his voice rising again. “Then why are you doing this? Why are you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong?”

“Because I care about you, dammit!” Ford’s voice cracked like a whip through the room. The words hung heavy in the silence that followed, too raw, too real.

Stan stared at him, frozen. Ford’s breath hitched in his chest. He hadn’t meant to say that—not like that.

Stan’s expression hardened, but his voice was quieter now, the edges of his words fraying with bitterness. “You don’t get to decide what’s best for me, Ford. I’m not your charity case.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“I don’t need your help.” Stan’s voice was sharp, a finality in the words that made Ford’s chest ache. “I’m not your responsibility.”

Ford swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I never said you were.”

“Good.” But Stan’s voice cracked, betraying him.

The two of them stood there, the tension thick as smoke, neither able to look away. Ford opened his mouth, searching for something—anything—to say, but the words wouldn’t come. There was nothing he could offer that would make this better.

Stan broke first, his voice low, almost hollow. “I’ve been doing fine at this place—on my own—for almost two years. Three semesters. I don’t need you swooping in like you can fix everything. I don’t need your help, Stanford. I never did.”

Before Ford could respond, Stan turned sharply, yanked the door open, and stormed out, the echo of the door slamming behind him ringing in the small room.

Ford stood rooted to the spot, the silence settling heavy on his chest. For a long moment, he just stared at the door as if Stan might walk back through it, as if there was anything left to salvage.

By the time Ford finally moved, the library was nearly empty, the lights dimming for the night.

Chapter Text

To say Stan was pissed off would be underselling it. Admitting he needed Ford’s help with a grade had already been a bitter pill to swallow, but meddling in things he didn’t understand? That was stepping over the line.

What if this backfired? What if it stirred up bad blood with the professor or—worse—put his scholarship at risk? A thousand anxieties clawed at his brain, spiraling faster and faster until he could hardly think straight.

The worst part? He wasn’t even failing the damn class. Not struggling either. A B- (rounded up, sure, but still). With two months before finals, there was plenty of time for him to handle it on his own. Now, because of Ford’s genius interference, he’d have to deal with the fallout.

For someone so smart, Ford could be a real fucking idiot.

Just thinking about it made Stan’s hand tighten around his glass.

He hadn’t lied that day in the library when he said seeing Ford on campus had caught him off guard. After storming out, he’d spiraled so badly that he’d hurled in a trash can right in front of some Residential Life social event.

Welcome back, suckers.

Still, as much as Ford’s judgmental glares grated on him, Stan couldn’t deny how much he missed his brother. Desperately. Not that he’d ever say that out loud. Having Ford back—even like this—felt good in a way he wasn’t sure he deserved.

At least one of them was moving forward. Ford, sharp as ever, in college where he belonged. That part made Stan feel... something close to pride. Enough that he could grit his teeth and endure Ford’s contempt. His brother could step on his foot and leave him limping, and Stan would still keep walking.

But pretending to care? Meddling like this?

That wasn’t something Stan could just ignore.

Which was how he ended up here, nursing his third drink at some dimly lit bar. A rowdy crowd of fraternity guys and the football team (ugh) hollered at the game playing on TV, but Stan kept to the shadows, head low, wallowing in his own misery until—

“Stanley?”

He blinked, then looked up. Fiddleford stood there, one eyebrow raised.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, already sliding into the booth without waiting for an answer.

Stan snorted. “Didn’t think you were the bar type.”

“Only come here for two reasons—celebratin’ or feelin’ like shit.” Fiddleford grinned, resting his elbows on the table.

Stan managed a half-laugh. “Which one’s tonight?”

“One of my inventions didn’t catch fire, so…” Fiddleford raised his glass in a mock toast. “Celebratin’.”

Stan nodded, lifting his own glass and taking a sip. “Lucky you.”

Fiddleford studied him a beat too long, his tone soft when he finally asked, “What brings you here?”

Stan exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I feel like shit.”

“Care to elaborate?”

He hesitated, then spilled. “Ford went behind my back. Talked to my professor about changing my grade. Didn’t even ask me first. It could’ve screwed up everything—my standing in the class, my scholarship.” He paused, swallowing hard against the lump of anger. “I could’ve handled it myself, y’know?”

Fiddleford didn’t interrupt, just nodded thoughtfully as Stan let the words spill. When the silence grew, Stan winced and muttered, “Sorry. I know you two are close. I shouldn’t be unloading this on you.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” Fiddleford waved him off. “It was a risky move, I’ll admit. But… it might be because of somethin’ we talked about recently.”

That piqued Stan’s curiosity. “What?”

Fiddleford leaned back. “Ford. He… I told you, didn’t I? He cares about you.”

Stan scoffed, hands scrubbing over his face. There was that word again.

“He’s got a funny way of showing it.”

Fiddleford’s chuckle was warm. “Yeah, seems that way.”

They sat in companionable silence for a while, the hum of the bar crowd filling the gaps. For once, Stan didn’t mind the noise. Didn’t feel the usual churn of unease being surrounded by people.

Eventually, Fiddleford glanced at the clock. “It’s gettin’ late. You shouldn’t drive back tonight.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “I’ll be fine.”

“Stan,” Fiddleford said pointedly, a knowing look on his face. “I walked here. The bar’s five minutes from my place, and it’s rush week. Cops’ll be crawling all over tonight. Best you lay low.”

Stan stiffened, suspicion flickering. “You know about my… situation.”

Fiddleford met his eyes without flinching. “I do.”

Stan grimaced, but Fiddleford pressed on. “Look, just crash at mine. No sense risking it.”

“I’ll be—”

“And you’ll need these,” Fiddleford smirked as he dangled Stan’s car keys between his fingers.

How the hell?

Stan blinked, patting his pockets before swearing under his breath. “You’re a good con artist, you know that?”

Fiddleford laughed, extending a hand. “C’mon. Promise, everything’ll be fine.”

Stan stared at him for a beat, then sighed. Finally, he took Fiddleford’s hand.

The cold air smacked them as Stan and Fiddleford stepped out of the bar. He wouldn’t admit it, but standing up had turned his buzz into something heavier, the ground swaying just enough to make him take a careful step. Still, he stayed steady, walking with Fiddleford toward his car. He needed to grab a few things before crashing at Fiddleford’s place.

Hands shoved into his jacket pockets, Stan watched his breath curl in the crisp night air like smoke. His thoughts, hazy with alcohol and frustration, drifted back to Ford. He wrung his hands, glancing sideways at Fiddleford. “Think Ford’s gonna be up?”

Fiddleford shook his head. “Nah, doubt it. He’s probably out cold by now. Heavy sleeper, that one.”

Stan frowned, eyebrow arching. “Ford? A heavy sleeper? Not when we were kids.”

Fiddleford laughed, the sound easy and warm against the quiet street. “Yeah, well, a few months of me tinkerin’ with robots and playin’ the banjo at all hours made him immune. Boy could sleep through a hurricane now.”

It was strange, hearing these pieces of Ford’s life—stories that didn’t include him. It hurt a little, but there was something comforting about it too.

By the time they reached Fiddleford’s apartment, Stan paused to take it in. It looked exactly like he’d imagined: walls covered in “nerd” posters—half of them sci-fi, the other half detailed diagrams and blueprints—interspersed with sticky notes that crawled across one wall in a messy but oddly intentional mosaic. Tiny, scribbled handwriting marked every note, no doubt filled with equations or invention plans. Or maybe Ford’s theories.

“Go sit,” Fiddleford said, nodding toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab ya some water.”

Stan shuffled to the table, slumping into a seat. His gaze wandered, landing on the fridge, and he froze.

Among the magnets and scattered papers was a photo of him and Ford. Just kids. A moment frozen in time—smiling, happy, unaware of how it would all turn out. His breath hitched, the pang sharp and unexpected.

Fiddleford followed his gaze and offered a small, knowing smile but said nothing.

Stan cleared his throat, quickly focusing on the water Fiddleford set in front of him. After a moment, Fiddleford handed him a towel and jerked his thumb toward the bathroom.

“Shower’s yours. Ain’t a gym locker, I promise you that much.”

Stan didn’t hesitate. He took the towel with a muttered thanks and made his way to the bathroom. The moment the hot water hit his skin, tension melted from his shoulders. The heat soaked deep into his muscles, chasing away the ache he hadn’t even noticed he was carrying.

He sighed, leaning a forearm against the wall and letting the water pour over him. It felt normal—good—not like the lukewarm gym showers he was used to. 

He soaked it in, hoping like hell he wasn’t about to run up some kind of outrageous water bill for Fiddleford.

He almost let himself hope Ford would be the one paying the water bill.

When he finally stepped out, towel wrapped around his shoulders, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. Running a hand through his damp hair, he muttered, “Gotta trim this mullet. Coach’s gonna kill me.”

“Want me to do it for ya?”

“Jesus Christ, Fiddleford!” Stan nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned to see Fiddleford leaning casually in the doorway, scissors and a comb already in hand.

Fiddleford just grinned. “So? A trim?”

Stan hesitated before shrugging. “Sure, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Fiddleford said, grabbing a comb and scissors from a drawer like he’d done this a hundred times. He sat on the couch, motioning for Stan to sit on the floor in front of him.

As the comb scraped through his hair, Stan grumbled, “How the hell do you know how to do this?”

“Used to help my older sister with hers,” Fiddleford replied, snipping away with practiced precision.

Stan was quiet for a beat before asking, voice softer now, “Why’re you bein’ so nice to me? Ain’t like I’ve given you a reason."

The scissors stilled for half a second before Fiddleford resumed. “My mama always said it’s easier to be kind. Called it an extension of our humanness.”

Stan snorted. “That’s... real philosophical of ya.”

Fiddleford shrugged. “Helps when ya grow up with eight sisters.”

Stan twisted to gape at him. “Eight? Any of ’em cute?”

Fiddleford tugged a little harder on his hair, playful but pointed. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Alright, alright,” Stan chuckled.

After a few more snips, Fiddleford leaned back with a satisfied nod. “There. Perfect—well, except for the bald spot in the back.”

Stan’s eyes went wide as he shot to his feet. “What?!”

Fiddleford doubled over laughing. “Kiddin’, kiddin’. You look real handsome, I promise.”

Stan scowled, but there was no fire behind it. “You’re an ass.”

Grinning, Fiddleford handed him a pillow and blanket. “Couch is all yours. I’ll wake up before Ford does, if that helps.”

Stan shifted on his feet, awkward but grateful. “Yeah… yeah, thanks. Please.”

“Not a problem. Goodnight, Stan.”

Stan sank onto the couch, pulling the blanket over himself. The hum of the quiet apartment wrapped around him like the warmth of Fiddleford’s water. For the first time in a long time, he felt still. Calm.

And maybe, just maybe, like he belonged.

Chapter Text

Ford woke up with a groggy start, the remnants of another restless night clinging to him like cobwebs. Blinking against the blur of sleep, he stared at his hands for a long, disoriented second, his mind struggling to catch up. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all.

The clock on his desk read 10 a.m.

His brain stalled.

Then panic crashed over him. He was late.

Ford shot upright, nearly tripping over his sheets as he bolted for the bathroom. With shaking hands, he fumbled for his toothbrush, brushing in frantic, haphazard circles while tugging on whatever clothes he could grab. How had he overslept? He never overslept. Ford was meticulous, and disciplined—always on top of his schedule. This felt like a betrayal of his very nature.

After managing to pull on a rumpled shirt, he darted out of his room, a blur of movement as he passed the living room. “Good morning, Fidds,” he mumbled instinctively, halfway to the kitchen. “Good morning, Stanle—”

Ford froze mid-step.

Ford blinked hard, his brain short-circuiting.

Stan. Stan was sitting at the kitchen table. Here. And not just Stan—Fiddleford was there too, both of them nursing steaming cups of coffee like this was the most normal thing in the world.

They stared at him, their expressions painted with barely contained amusement.

Ford’s eyes widened as the pieces fell together. His brows knitted tightly, confusion and irritation warring in his expression. “What... what’s going on?”

“You look like you’re about to have a coronary,” Stan deadpanned, smirking into his coffee.

Fiddleford swirled his cup lazily, his voice light and matter-of-fact. “Maybe we should tell him it’s Saturday?”

Stan snorted, his laugh breaking free before he could stop it.

It sounded....no. 

Ford stood rooted to the spot, the words sinking in like a stone. Saturday. He was late… for nothing.

“Oh.” The sound escaped him, flat and hollow.

The question came out sharper than Ford intended, and Stan flinched. For a moment, silence hung between them like a loaded gun.

But before Stan could answer, Fiddleford’s voice cut through, smooth and steady as ever. “I saw him at the bar last night. It was late, and I figured he shouldn’t be driving, so I invited him to crash here.”

Ford’s gaze flickered between Fiddleford and Stan. Something about his brother caught him off guard. For once, Stan didn’t look disheveled or rough around the edges. His hair had been trimmed—no more scraggly mullet—and his expression, though guarded, seemed… lighter. Relaxed.

Ford’s breath hitched at the realization, an unwelcome thought whispering through his mind: He looks good. Handsome, even.

Stop. 

He squashed it immediately, disgusted that the notion had even surfaced.

“You hear what I said, Ford?”

Fiddleford’s voice snapped him back into the moment. Ford blinked, realizing he hadn’t processed a single word.

Fiddleford only grinned wider, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Welcome to your second session of exposure therapy.”

Ford’s scowl deepened, irritation prickling at him. 

Stan looked equally confused, frowning into his coffee. “What the hell is exposure therapy?”

Fiddleford’s smile turned positively sunny, as if he hadn’t just detonated Ford’s entire morning. “The perfect way to deal with unresolved sibling tension.”

Stan muttered under his breath, voice low and dry, “Pretty sure I didn’t sign up for this.”

Ford’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth. His morning was ruined—completely, irrevocably ruined.

Chapter Text

Stan stayed planted in the same spot, staring blankly as Fiddleford scooped up their empty cups and wandered into the kitchen. Ford’s words echoed in his head, looping like a broken record.

There’s three people living here now.

It didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real. His throat felt tight, like he might choke if he tried to speak, but finally, he managed to croak, “Fidds… what did Ford say? The last thing.”

Fiddleford glanced over his shoulder, rinsing the cups in the sink. His tone was soft, matter-of-fact, like he was recounting the weather. “He said there’s three of us livin’ here now.”

Stan swallowed hard, his fingers twitching in his lap. “Say it again.”

Fiddleford paused mid-scrub, turning to look at him. The knowing smile tugging at his lips was kind, patient. “There’s three people livin’ here now.”

The words landed with weight, and Stan felt it again—a sharp twist in his chest, disbelief mingling with something deeper.

His voice dropped to a murmur, barely audible. “I never thought I’d have a conversation like that with Ford.”

Fiddleford hummed softly, drying the cups without a word. He didn’t push or pry, letting Stan sit in the quiet with his thoughts. He knew when someone needed space to process. Family conversations like these—they were the kind that hung heavy, reshaping the way you saw the world.

Stan’s gaze drifted to the floor, unfocused. After a long pause, his voice came again, so soft it felt fragile. “I never thought I’d have… a home again.”

The clatter of dishes stopped. Fiddleford stilled, his movements deliberate as he dried his hands on a towel. Without hesitation, he came over and sat on the floor in front of Stan, settling in easily as if he’d been there all along.

His voice was quieter now, his drawl softened by understanding. “Those thoughts,” Fiddleford said gently, reaching out to rest a hand over Stan’s, “are just that—thoughts. They ain’t reality. Not anymore.”

Stan stared down at their joined hands, his face flushing red as the contact grounded him. He didn’t pull away, but his words stumbled out, rough and low. “I don’t want to take a handout, Fidds. It’s not right.”

Fiddleford tilted his head, studying him with that same calm patience. “This ain’t a handout, Stan. You’re family. You’re not crashin’ here—you’re stayin’. Permanently.”

Stan grimaced, shaking his head like he couldn’t let himself believe it. “I can’t just live here, man. I’m not gonna take the couch. I barely make enough from construction as it is. I can’t pull my weight—”

“You’re not a burden, Stan,” Fiddleford interrupted, his voice firm but kind. “We make enough right now to cover things. And besides,” he added with a playful smirk, leaning back on his hands, “I hate that couch. Came with the place. It’s lumpy as hell. We’ll figure somethin’ out—a pull-out mattress, maybe a twin bed. Hell, stay in one of our beds. Ain’t no issue.”

Stan exhaled sharply, scrubbing his hands over his face. “I just… I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You won’t ever be a problem,” Fiddleford said, unflinching. “Quit findin’ a million and one reasons why this won’t work. It will.”

Stan fell silent, biting the inside of his cheek as he chewed on Fiddleford’s words. A bitter thought crept in, the whisper that maybe—one day—Fiddleford and Ford would take it all back. That this fragile peace would shatter, his past rearing its ugly head and ruining everything. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair.

“I’ve been on my own for a long time, Fidds,” he admitted, his voice dropping. “I’m not used to… having people who’ve got my back.”

Fiddleford’s eyes softened, his grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe you need my trusty exposure therapy too,” he teased lightly. “Got some stellar results. ‘Somewhat happy clients,’ at least.”

Stan narrowed his eyes at him, muttering, “I should sue you for malpractice for throwin’ that pillow at me.”

Fiddleford laughed, the sound warm and easy. “Couldn’t resist,” he drawled with a shrug. Then, tilting his head, his voice turned serious again. “But really—how’re you feelin’? You just had a big conversation with your brother. Gotta be a lot rattlin’ around in that head of yours.”

Stan tilted his head back, exhaling as he thought. He considered the weight that had been lifted—anger, pain, and misunderstanding finally starting to unknot, even if the process felt jagged and incomplete. At least part of it was out of the vault.

For now. 

“I feel… lighter. Right now, at least.”

Fiddleford’s grin widened, a quiet satisfaction on his face. “Good. Awkward as hell at first, I’m sure, but things’ll work out. Even if I gotta force it.”

Stan gave him a long, pointed look. “I don’t know if you’re kind or an evil genius.”

Fiddleford’s eyebrows shot up, the grin never leaving. “Yes.”

Stan blinked, thrown off. Fiddleford laughed again, pushing himself to his feet and stretching his arms over his head. “C’mon,” he said, jerking his chin toward the door. “We oughta grab your stuff from the car, get you settled in proper.”

Stan hesitated a moment before he stood, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t have much,” he muttered. “Where the hell am I even supposed to put it?”

Fiddleford shrugged easily, already leading the way. “We’ve got a coat closet we don’t use. You can have that. Least it’ll give you a little space of your own.”

The afternoon air had cooled, a sharper bite to it as they stepped outside. Stan popped the trunk of his car, pulling out three duffle bags and a rolled-up calendar. When Fiddleford reached for one, Stan quickly shook his head. “That one’s all books.”

Fiddleford ignored him and tugged it anyway—immediately grimacing at the weight. “Good grief, Stan, you weren’t kiddin’. That thing’s heavier than a mule in molasses.”

Stan snorted, the corners of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Told you. It’s from the last three semesters.”

His eyes flickered over the trunk’s contents, stalling on the pistol tucked under a blanket. His hand hovered, uncertainty clouding his features. He didn’t want to leave it there, but he didn’t want to explain it, either. With a soft sigh, he pushed it further out of view and shut the trunk.

They lugged the bags back upstairs—Fiddleford taking the lightest one and the calendar while Stan hauled the rest. Once inside, Fiddleford unrolled the calendar, grinning as he spotted a marked date. “Looks like you’ve got a boxin’ match comin’ up soon.”

Stan nodded, a proud smile tugging at his lips.“Yeah. It’s goin’ well. Backupsmore’s actually got a scholarship for it. Kinda rare these days. Few matches left this season.”

Fiddleford let out an impressed whistle. “Must’ve been tough gettin’ that scholarship.”

Stan grimaced, shaking his head. "You have no idea."

Fiddleford cleared out the coat closet—mostly empty boxes—and let Stan tuck his bags inside. It wasn’t much, but as Stan stared at the small, claimed space, it hit him harder than he expected.

He was staying.

Fiddleford gave him a friendly smile as he headed toward the kitchen table. “I’m gonna knock out some homework. How ‘bout we do a little study session while we wait for Ford to get back?”

Stan smiled faintly, nodding. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

The crash of the front door swinging open startled both Stan and Fiddleford, jerking them to their feet as Ford practically stumbled inside. Arms overloaded with grocery bags—at least twenty of them—he looked flushed, his face a mix of exertion and nervous awkwardness. His eyes darted between the two of them, already defensive, though no one had said a word.

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, while Stan just stared, dumbfounded.

“I, uh… got things I thought you might like,” Ford mumbled, his tone gruffer than he intended, like he was preemptively bracing for judgment. He shifted in the doorway, arms trembling under the weight of the bags, clearly unsure of what to do next.

Stan crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Did you just buy out the whole damn supermarket?”

Fiddleford snorted, failing to hide his laughter.

Ford shot them both a pointed glare, though the irritation lacked any real bite. “Please,” he muttered, voice low and strained, like the word was a thin shield against the absurdity of it all. There was no malice—just the frustration of someone desperately trying to bridge years of silence with an awkward, well-meaning gesture.

Without another word, Stan and Fiddleford stepped forward, relieving Ford of the bags one by one. Together, they moved into the kitchen, unloading the groceries onto the counters. The rustle of plastic filled the silence as Ford cleared his throat, voice a little too loud as he tried to fill the void.

“I got red meat and fish. We should probably eat that soon. And… uh, carbs. Easily digestible ones. For balance. For your… match.” The last part was directed at Stan, Ford’s tone softening, almost hesitant.

Mid-reach for a bag of oranges, Stan froze, blinking at him. “How do you know about the match?”

Ford turned a brilliant shade of red, ducking his head as he hastily shoved a loaf of bread into the fridge. “The stupid posters,” he grumbled, not meeting Stan’s gaze. “Your big head’s plastered all over the library. Hard to miss.”

Stan stared for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile he tried—and failed—to hide. Ford had noticed. He hadn’t just walked past those posters; he’d seen them, remembered them, cared enough to bring it up.

“Huh,” Stan said lightly. “Didn’t think you’d pay attention to those.”

Ford didn’t reply, suddenly very invested in organizing the vegetables with military precision. But the red creeping up his ears was impossible to miss.

The silence that settled over the kitchen wasn’t hostile, not like it had been before. Awkward, sure, but softer, like an unwelcome guest who’d overstayed their welcome but didn’t feel quite as unbearable as usual.

Fiddleford broke the tension with an easygoing drawl. “Tell you what—let’s not worry about cookin’ tonight. We’ll order that Indian takeout, same spot as last time. Be faster, anyway.”

At the mention of food, Stan’s stomach growled loud enough to be heard, and he quickly nodded in agreement. Fiddleford grabbed the landline phone from the living room, dialing their order and leaving Ford and Stan awkwardly alone at the kitchen table.

Stan busied himself flipping through his textbooks, while Ford fumbled with his own notebook, scribbling halfheartedly as his eyes kept drifting toward Stan’s open books. Ford’s eyes drifted—statistics...ugh. Along with.... marine science.

Ford hesitated, then ventured carefully, “How are your environmental classes going?”

Stan glanced up, clearly caught off guard. “They’re going well. I really like them.”

Ford nodded, trying to look casual, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “Madeline—the environmental tutor—mentioned the courses you’re taking are pretty difficult. Apparently, a lot of students end up dropping them.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? They’re, like, the easiest classes ever.”

Ford frowned, shaking his head with a small, skeptical huff. “That’s not what she said. Or anyone else, for that matter. Apparently, they’re a nightmare for most people.”

“Huh.”

Ford mumbled something under his breath, low enough that Stan almost missed it. Almost.

“You’ve got a natural talent for it.”

Stan stilled, the words catching him by surprise. Compliments from Ford were so rare that they almost didn’t feel real. He shuffled awkwardly, glancing away. “Thanks,” he said softly, the sincerity in Ford’s observation unsettling him more than he cared to admit.

Ford didn’t respond, but something between them shifted, the edges of their usual sharpness softening. The tension that had always simmered beneath their conversations dulled to a low hum, the silence that followed feeling less like an obligation and more like… peace.

The knock on the door came not long after, and soon Fiddleford returned to the kitchen with a grin, balancing bags of takeout in his arms. He laid the containers out across the table, the aromatic smell of spices filling the room as they grabbed plates and served themselves.

As they sat down to eat, Ford glanced toward the living room. “How about Wheel of Fortune?”

Fiddleford sighed dramatically, already sensing where this was going. “If you start fightin’ the TV, Stanford, I’m puttin’ on Three’s Company.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, halfway through his first bite of naan. “Huh?”

Fiddleford waved him off with a grin. “You’ll see.”

Soon enough, they settled in front of the TV, balancing their plates on their laps as the familiar jingle of Wheel of Fortune filled the room. The opening rounds passed quietly at first, the only sounds being the contestants spinning the wheel and the occasional scrape of silverware.

But it didn’t take long.

Ford’s composure started to crack.

Every incorrect guess, every painfully obvious botched letter made his jaw tighten, his fists clenching on the arms of the chair. He leaned forward with an intensity far too serious for a game show, muttering under his breath with increasing disbelief.

“How do they not know this?” he growled, glaring daggers at the contestants on-screen as though they could hear him through sheer force of will. “It’s so obvious. Are they illiterate?”

On the far end of the couch, Fiddleford reclined lazily, a smug smirk pulling at his lips. He watched Ford spiral, taking a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. “You know,” he said, turning to Stan, “there was a time I genuinely thought I’d have to block this channel. Just to keep Ford from pullin’ his hair out.”

Stan snorted mid-chew, nearly choking on his food. “Seriously?”

“Oh, yeah,” Fiddleford replied with exaggerated solemnity, nodding as though reliving a tragic event. “Last time, he got so worked up I thought the TV was done for. I nearly nailed it to the floor to keep it safe.”

Ford huffed, crossing his arms with all the dignity he could muster, though the red creeping up his face betrayed him. “You're exaggerating. I was not going to throw it out the window, that's absurd.”

Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head. “You were real close, though. I had to talk you down.”

“Talk me down, he says,” Ford rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. “I was perfectly calm.”

Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head. “Eat your korma, Ford. It’s gettin’ cold. It’s just a game show.”

Ford shot both of them a glare, trying to hold onto his dignity. The corners of his mouth twitched, like he couldn’t decide whether to stay mad or join in on the joke. “It’s not just a game show,” he said, a little too seriously. “It’s basic English! Spelling! How are they getting it so wrong? It’s infuriating.”

Fiddleford grinned, leaning into the joke. “Well, not everyone’s lookin’ to solve complex algorithms while they’re watchin’ TV. It’s meant to be fun. You remember what that is, don’t ya?”

Ford ignored him completely, eyes locked on the screen with laser focus. “Come on, this one’s easy…”

The wheel spun, the contestant guessed, and—

“No.” Ford’s voice pitched with incredulity, his face flushing deeper. “How?! How do you not know that word?” He turned to Stan and Fiddleford as though they could explain the contestant’s blunder, his hands thrown in the air.

Stan couldn’t hold it in anymore. He burst out laughing, clutching his plate as he doubled over. Fiddleford followed suit, his chuckles echoing through the room.

Ford blinked at them, genuinely baffled. “What? What’s so funny?”

Stan wiped at his eyes, still grinning. “It’s just… you’re getting all worked up over Wheel of Fortune, man.”

Fiddleford clapped Ford on the shoulder, feigning sympathy through his smirk. “Easy there, partner. These folks probably aren’t studyin’ the dictionary before bed like you did when we were kids.”

Ford shot him an indignant look. “I did not study dictionaries.”

“Oh, he did,” Stan interjected, grinning wide as he leaned back. “The thesaurus too. Nerd stuff.”

Fiddleford snorted, nearly choking on his samosa as he laughed even harder.

Ford groaned, his face a full shade of red by now. “I feel embarrassed when you bring up my former nightly routine, Stanley.”

“Last I checked,” Stan retorted with mock seriousness, “our second ‘exposure therapy’ session ended. I’m not usin’ those ‘I’ statements while watching you spiral over Wheel of Fortune.”

Ford scowled, trying—and failing—not to crack a smile.

The rest of the night melted into a blur of easy laughter and friendly teasing. Stan couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed this hard, or felt this relaxed sitting alongside Ford. Fiddleford kept the jokes coming, Ford threw out occasional commentary when the contestants missed another “obvious” word, and Stan found himself smiling more than he had in ages.

For the first time in years, it felt normal. Not forced. Not strained. Just… family.

As he leaned back on the couch, his plate empty and the game show still rolling on, Stan realized he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chapter Text

The scent of coffee drifted through the apartment, a warm, grounding smell that pulled Stan out of sleep. He blinked blearily at the living room ceiling, the familiar hum of the space easing the nerves that had jolted him awake. Slowly, his mind caught up with his surroundings. This wasn’t...that attic. It wasn’t his car. It wasn’t some dingy motel room he’d found at the last minute.

This was Ford and Fiddleford’s place. And now, for better or worse, it was his, too.

The thought sat awkwardly in his chest, a weight he didn’t know how to carry.

Home.

Stan shifted on the couch, his joints cracking as he sat up. Sleeping there wasn’t exactly a luxury—his neck and back were the first to tell him that—but it was miles better than anywhere he’d been in the last few years. He let out a low groan, stretching his arms until his shoulders popped, a small, self-deprecating chuckle escaping him.

Living with Ford again. After all that time. The absurdity of it made him shake his head.

With a sigh, Stan rose to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck as he wandered toward the kitchen. That’s where he found Ford—standing in front of the open cupboard, still half-asleep, wearing a rumpled sweater like he’d just thrown it on without thinking.

Stan hesitated, not wanting to disturb the fragile calm of the morning. But then Ford straightened suddenly, catching Stan’s gaze mid-turn.

They both froze for a moment, startled, before Ford muttered, “Sorry for waking you.”

Stan waved him off easily, though he caught the hesitation in Ford’s voice. “Nah, don’t worry about it.”

He glanced at the clock—6:45 AM. A smirk tugged at his lips. “What’re you doin’ up this early? It’s Sunday.”

Ford rubbed at his eyes beneath his glasses, his response more sheepish than he meant it to be. “Couldn’t sleep.” He paused, awkwardly shifting his weight before adding, almost defensively, “It’s not because you’re here. It’s just… weird. Still.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Stan snorted softly, stretching again. His back popped audibly, echoing in the quiet kitchen.

Ford frowned as his gaze slid to Stan, lingering on the long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants he was wearing. “Aren’t you hot in that?” he asked, the curiosity in his voice genuine.

Stan tensed, his tone coming out sharper than he’d intended. “Not gonna wear shorts unless I have to.”

Ford opened his mouth like he wanted to press, but something stopped him. Instead, after a beat, he nodded toward the coffee pot. “You want coffee? Or breakfast? Help yourself.”

Stan moved toward the fridge, fishing through its contents. His movements were purposeful, but his thoughts wandered, caught somewhere between the present and a distant past. He didn’t notice Ford watching him—watching the way his broad shoulders filled out his shirt, how the fabric clung to the lines of muscle Stan hadn’t had as a teenager.

Ford thought he looked…

Stan turned back suddenly, oblivious to Ford’s lingering stare. “You want French toast?”

Ford startled slightly, cheeks flushing as he fumbled for a reply. “Uh—sure. Sounds good.” He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual, though the heat in his face betrayed him.

Stan didn’t seem to notice. He set to work with practiced ease, moving around the small kitchen like he’d been doing it for years. Ford sat off to the side, hands wrapped around his coffee mug, feeling awkward and out of place as Stan took over. The kitchen wasn’t big enough for two, and Ford had no idea what to do with himself, so he watched—captivated by the familiarity in Stan’s movements.

Stan cracked eggs with a swift, practiced flick of his hand, added cinnamon with a pinch that seemed instinctive, and whisked everything together with a rhythm Ford couldn’t help but find mesmerizing. When Stan flipped the bread in the pan with a little flourish, the smell of butter and cinnamon filling the air, Ford couldn’t hold back his curiosity.

“How’d you learn to make that?” Ford asked, his voice softer than before, like he wasn’t sure he should be asking.

Stan didn’t look up from the stove. “Back in school. When I’d get suspended.” He chuckled, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Ma would put me to work in the kitchen. Said if I was gonna be home, I had to pull my weight. So, she taught me to cook. Breakfast, lunch, dinner… whatever we had.”

There was something unspoken in his words, something heavier. Stan flipped another slice of bread, his tone quieter now. “It became our thing.”

Ford blinked, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. “Pop would’ve flipped if he knew.”

“I didn’t know,” Ford admitted after a beat, his voice uncertain.

Stan didn’t respond right away, the pan sizzling quietly as he plated the golden, crispy French toast. “There’s a lot you don’t know,” he said finally, though his words weren’t bitter. Just matter-of-fact.

It was quiet, save for the crispy edges of the bread sizzling in the pan. “There’s a lot you don’t know.”

Ford felt a pang of guilt in his chest as he watched his brother move, watched the quiet competence of someone who had lived too much on his own. He wanted to say something—something meaningful—but the words wouldn’t come.

Stan slid a plate in front of Ford, the bittersweet smile on his face making Ford’s stomach twist. “Enjoy.”

Ford opened his mouth to respond, to try to make up for the silence stretching between them, but before he could, Fiddleford’s voice broke the moment.

“Well, I’ll be! French toast for breakfast? Now that’s a treat.”

Stan’s smile brightened as if someone had flipped a switch, his posture loosening. “Fiddleford! You like French toast?”

Fiddleford grinned wide, already reaching for a plate. “Don’t mind if I do! Ain’t nobody ever said no to a good plate of French toast.”

Stan handed him a serving, and the three of them settled around the kitchen table.

Ford ate quietly, though his thoughts lingered on the moment before Fiddleford had walked in. He hadn’t missed it—the brief flicker of sadness in Stan’s expression, like a glimpse of something he kept buried under jokes and easy smiles. It was like Stan had learned how to wear different faces, how to hide the weight he carried behind a well-worn mask.

And for the first time in years, Ford wondered—really wondered—if he had ever known Stan at all.

After that Sunday morning, the three of them slipped into an unspoken routine. It wasn’t planned, and no one ever acknowledged it aloud, but it worked—like pieces of a puzzle falling into place.

Stan was gone by 5 AM, long before the first hints of dawn crept over the horizon. Whether he was heading to the construction site or out for his drills, he moved quietly, slipping out of the apartment with practiced ease.

Ford, ever the disciplined early riser, would follow by 7. His bag was always neatly packed, his schedule precise—just as it had always been.

Fiddleford, in contrast, took his sweet time. He strolled out by 8, often humming a tune, as though the day had to meet his pace, not the other way around.

It wasn’t long before Ford started noticing the small things. Every morning, without fail, Stan left out coffee cups for him and Fiddleford. The cups were perfectly prepped—Ford’s black with two sugars, Fiddleford’s light and sweet. Ford had no idea when Stan had figured out their preferences—whether he’d remembered from years ago or just quietly observed them now—but the cups were always there, waiting.

Every morning, Ford would pause just a second too long, staring at his cup, something strange and unnameable settling in his chest.

Fiddleford, of course, found it endlessly amusing. “Well, I guess Stan’s on kitchen duty from now on,” he teased one morning, patting Stan’s back like he was cementing the decision into law. “Man’s got a knack for it.”

Stan didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he had accepted the role without a word of complaint. Over time, Ford realized that Stan’s presence in the kitchen had become a fixture of their evenings as well.

The one time Ford had tried cooking—a simple pasta dish—it had ended with the smell of burnt noodles and a ruined pan. Stan had nudged him—physically nudged him—out of the kitchen, laughing as he took over.

“Move over, chef. Let a pro who knows what they’re doing handle it.”

Ford had grumbled about it, but as he watched Stan work—moving around the kitchen with an easy confidence—he hadn’t really minded. The result had been far better than anything Ford could’ve managed, and though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, he’d quietly enjoyed seeing Stan in his element.

On campus, their paths occasionally crossed. Ford sometimes spotted Stan jogging across the lawn in the early morning, his pace steady and determined. Other times, he saw him in one of the common areas, a book open in his lap, his brow furrowed in focus. And then there were the lunches—moments when Fiddleford, with all the energy of a human magnet, would sling an arm around Stan’s shoulders and drag him over to their table.

Stan always protested, grumbling about being “manhandled,” but he never truly resisted. Ford still fired off sarcastic jabs from time to time—old habits were hard to break—but he caught himself holding back more often than not. He didn’t want to break the fragile comfort of their new normal.

In the apartment, Stan was quiet—eerily so. It was the kind of quiet Ford had never associated with him. He would glance up from his notes to see Stan sprawled in the beanbag chair, his legs stretched out as he flipped through a book, the occasional scribble of a pencil in the margins breaking the silence. Other times, Ford would glance toward the fire escape and spot Stan perched there, elbows resting on his knees, staring out at the city with a look Ford couldn’t quite place.

He had always associated Stan with noise, chaos, and bravado.

It was unnerving.

This Stan was… different. Introspective, Ford thought, though he wasn’t sure if that word truly fit his brother. There was a weight to him now, something deeper and quieter.

It was strange.

Foreign.

One evening, Ford sat at the small kitchen table, hunched over a stack of papers, red pen in hand. The room smelled rich and warm, the unmistakable scent of browned butter and seared scallops filling the space. Stan stood at the stove, working the pan with practiced confidence, a quiet focus etched into his face.

Fiddleford, sprawled lazily in his chair, couldn’t resist throwing in his usual commentary. “Y’know, Stan,” he drawled, rocking back slightly, “if you ever come visit my family back home, my ma’s gonna dote all over you. Especially once she sees you in the kitchen. She’ll have you makin’ biscuits before you even unpack your bags.”

Stan smirked, glancing over his shoulder to flip the scallops with a precise flick of the wrist. “Would one of your sisters dote on me, too?” he teased, his tone light, playful.

Fiddleford let out a laugh, reaching over to give Stan a light whack on the back of the head. “Keep talkin’ like that, and you’re gonna find yourself in a heap of trouble.”

Ford rolled his eyes from the table, though his voice carried a hint of reluctant warmth. “Knowing Stan, he’d charm half the town before dinner’s even served.” It was meant as a jab, but the sharpness that used to undercut his words was missing, softened by something Ford wasn’t ready to name.

Stan shot him a look, the kind of cocky smirk Ford used to find insufferable. “You think so, Sixer?”

The nickname slipped out before Stan could stop it. His smirk faltered, freezing mid-turn, as though the words had betrayed him.

Ford’s pen stopped mid-mark. His head snapped up.

“What did you just say?” His voice came out quieter than he intended, but the weight of it filled the room.

Stan stiffened, turning back to the stove a little too quickly. “Nothin’,” he muttered, stirring the scallops like they’d done something personally offensive. His movements were tense now, the ease he’d held moments earlier completely gone. “Just—uh… my boss at the construction site is lettin’ me take on more hours. Apparently, he’s been waitin’ for me to ask. Said I’m one of the only ones pullin’ my weight.”

Fiddleford quickly jumped in. “That’s great news, Stan! You’re workin’ hard, and it’s showin’. Oughta give yourself some credit.”

Stan shrugged, a little too nonchalantly, though the faint flicker of self-doubt didn’t escape Ford. “I’m just surprised I haven’t been fired yet,” he muttered, plating the scallops with a practiced hand. “But yeah, guess I’ll be able to contribute more around here. Maybe even take some classes full-time next semester. It’ll be a good distraction.”

He placed one plate in front of Fiddleford and the other in front of Ford. Ford stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, his thoughts elsewhere.

Sixer.

The word lingered, echoing in his mind with a pull he couldn’t quite name. It was like a key turning in a lock he hadn’t realized was still there—memories rising unbidden, sharp, and vivid. He could see it: a summer afternoon, sand between their toes, Stan’s voice calling out across the water as they chased each other down the shoreline.

He hadn’t heard it in years.

And God, he didn't realize he missed it.

The clink of silverware broke the silence. Ford glanced up, his plate already half-cleared as Stan dug into his meal with that same trademark ease, though his shoulders were a little stiffer now. Fiddleford was chattering away, filling the space like he always did, but Ford wasn’t listening.

Stan had steered the conversation away effortlessly, keeping it light and moving forward, but Ford could see the edges of him—the cracks beneath the grin.

The three of them ate in relative quiet, the sound of forks scraping against plates the only real noise in the room. The food was perfect—delicious, even—but the weight of that single word still hung heavy in Ford’s chest.

“Sixer.”

It was such a simple thing.

But for Ford, hearing Stan say it again stirred up something far more complicated.

Across the table, Stan stayed quiet, his eyes fixed on his plate. He didn’t look up.

Chapter Text

The morning of Stan’s boxing match arrived with the crisp bite of early winter lingering in the air. It wasn’t quite cold enough to freeze, but the chill promised the season’s early arrival. Stan barely noticed. He had one thing on his mind as he stepped into the steaming shower: preparation.

He’d done this routine a hundred times before—muscle memory guiding him through it—but today felt different. Maybe it was the clean water pounding against his back, warming his muscles and loosening the tension in his shoulders. A hot shower was a luxury now, and Stan soaked it in, breathing deep, letting the heat settle into his bones.

After toweling off, he packed his gym bag with methodical care. Gloves, mouthguard, headgear—each piece was worn but dependable, like old friends that had been through the ringer with him and still stuck around. Satisfied, he slung the bag over his shoulder and made his way into the living room, where Ford and Fiddleford were also getting ready.

Fiddleford hummed a bright, off-key tune as he tied his shoes, looking far too cheerful for the early hour. Across the room, Ford was fussing with his glasses in the mirror, adjusting them like he was trying to calculate the exact degree of precision required for proper fit. For a brief, strange second, they almost looked coordinated—like they were going somewhere together.

Stan squinted at them, confused. “Where’re you guys headin’ off to?”

Both Ford and Fiddleford froze mid-action, exchanging a glance before turning back to Stan like he’d asked the world’s dumbest question.

“Uh, your match, genius,” Fiddleford said, straightening up and giving Stan an incredulous look. “Ain’t that today?”

Stan blinked, brow furrowing. “Yeah, it’s today,” he said slowly, as though he was still piecing it together. “Didn’t think you two’d wanna come, though.”

Fiddleford scoffed loudly, shaking his head. “You kiddin’? ’Course we’re comin’! Wouldn’t miss seein’ you knock some guy’s lights out for nothin’. Plus…” He turned to Ford with a grin that could only mean trouble. “Ford doesn’t exactly have a choice.”

Ford sighed in that long-suffering way only he could manage. “It’s part of his grand plan to make me more… approachable.”

Stan chuckled, turning to his brother with a raised eyebrow. “So, you’re part of Fiddleford’s master plan now, huh?” He squinted, studying Ford for a moment before scratching his chin. “You’ve got the temperament of some kind of... weird bobcat-falcon mix."

Ford froze, mid-adjustment of his glasses, staring at Stan like he’d grown a second head. “A what?!” he spluttered, his voice breaking as he struggled to process the bizarre comparison.

Fiddleford burst into laughter, doubling over as he clutched his side. “Aw, now that’s gold! I said somethin’ like that a while back, didn’t I, Fordsy?”

Stan threw Fiddleford a cheeky grin, shrugging. “Yeah, well. Seemed pretty accurate to me.”

Ford’s face flushed crimson as he muttered under his breath, swiping his glasses back into place with a sharp motion. “Ridiculous…”

Still chuckling, Fiddleford clapped Stan on the back as they all headed for the door. “C’mon, Falcat, let’s get a move on before Stan misses his big moment.”

Stan snorted, holding the door open as Ford stalked past, still grumbling to himself about falcons and bobcats.

“Bobcon,” Stan corrected with a smirk.

Ford shot him a glare over his shoulder, but there was no real heat behind it.

By the time they reached the campus gym, the place was already buzzing with energy. The chatter of spectators packed into the bleachers blended into a dull roar, a familiar sound that settled deep in Stan’s gut. He could feel the tension coiling there, sharp and electric, as he made his way toward the locker room.

His coach was waiting by the door, arms crossed and expression sharp as he sized Stan up. “Your opponent today’s real feisty,” the coach said, leaning against the frame. “Word is, he likes to play dirty.”

Stan barely looked up as he laced his boots, his voice calm and detached. “Not worried.” The straps of his headgear tightened with a familiar snap, and Stan focused on the feel of it—solid, reliable, like everything else in his bag.

His coach’s gaze didn’t waver. “I mean it, Pines. No funny business. Keep your cool.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, then gave a mock salute. “Aye aye, Captain.”

The coach shook his head, though the corner of his mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. “Just remember what I said.”

The hum of the locker room lights buzzed faintly overhead, but Stan barely registered it. His mind was already in the ring, running through the rhythm—the punches, the dodges, the footwork. He rolled his neck until it cracked, his muscles loose and ready.

The announcer’s voice crackled faintly through the gym’s speakers, and Stan stood, the door swinging open as he stepped into the swell of sound. Cheers erupted, a low wave of white noise as he climbed into the ring. The gym lights above were harsh, casting sharp shadows on the mat, but the smell of sweat and canvas grounded him.

Stan’s opponent climbed in a moment later. He was shorter, stockier, with the kind of face that sneered even when it wasn’t trying. Stan sized him up quickly—the cocky swagger, the subtle flexing of his fists, the gleam in his eyes. Overconfident, Stan thought. That kind always played dirty.

The announcer’s voice boomed overhead, but Stan barely heard it until—

“Jack ‘The Hammer’ Tanner!”

Stan blinked. Seriously? These nicknames were awful.

The ref stepped between them, running through the standard spiel, but Stan wasn’t listening. He kept his focus on Tanner, watching the way his jaw ticked and his fists tensed.

“Touch gloves and come out fighting.”

Their fists met with a solid thud, and then the bell rang.

The first round was quick, both of them testing the waters. Stan’s footwork was sharp, his punches clean and precise. A few jabs sent Tanner reeling, but the guy was tough—predictably scrappy. Tanner fought exactly how Stan’s coach had warned: low elbows, quick shoves, cheap hits just out of the ref’s line of sight.

It pissed Stan off.

Midway through the second round, Tanner managed to land a brutal punch straight to Stan’s nose. Pain exploded across his face, hot and sharp, and instinctively, his hand flew up. Blood dripped down his chin as he tilted his head, trying to gauge the damage.

Fucking bitch.

Before Stan could fully recover, Tanner lunged, headbutting him square in the chest. The force knocked him back a step, his balance teetering for half a second. Stan’s vision narrowed, rage blurring the edges.

This asshole’s got it coming.

Without thinking, Stan retaliated. His elbow shot out—sharp, fast, and perfectly timed—connecting with Tanner’s ribs. The ref missed it, but Stan knew damn well he was playing with fire.

From the corner of his eye, he saw his coach glaring daggers at him. Great. I’m screwed.

Still, by the end of the final round, Stan’s hand was raised, the crowd roaring in approval. Blood dripped steadily from his nose, his adrenaline still pumping hard as he stumbled back toward the locker room, victory doing little to untangle the tight coil in his chest.

The moment he stepped through the door, it started.

“What the hell was that, Pines? I told you—no dirty moves!”

Definitely screwed.

Stan tuned him out, wiping the blood from his face as his mind continued to race. He did feel bad—this coach had always been straight with him.

He was....kinder. Humane.

Still, Stan wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.

“Tomorrow morning, 6:00 AM,” the coach finally growled, voice sharp and final. “Spin the wheel—burpees, barrel rolls, suicides. You earned ’em.”

Stan groaned internally but nodded, already resigned. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

His coach softened slightly, clapping a hand on Stan’s shoulder, making Stan flinch. “You did good, though. Just… stay focused next time.”

Stan didn’t bother changing out of his gym gear. Still in his shorts and t-shirt, he grabbed his bag and pushed his damp hair back, sweat dripping down his neck. Outside the gym, Ford and Fiddleford were waiting for him by the entrance.

Ford spoke first, his sharp eyes flicking to Stan’s still-bloody nose. “Did you get in trouble?”

Stan sighed, running a hand over his face. “Yeah. Kinda had it coming.”

Ford’s lips twitched slightly. “You pulled that same dirty move you used to use when we were kids.”

Fiddleford’s eyebrows shot up, his expression amused. “Y’all used to box together?”

Ford shrugged, arms crossing over his chest. “Reluctantly. He was always better at it. I didn’t exactly enjoy getting pummeled.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, didn’t stop me from gettin’ chewed out. Coach is making me do extra drills tomorrow.” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just want a smoke break.”

Ford’s face twisted into a disapproving frown. “You should really quit that.”

Stan didn’t respond. He just grunted, brushing past them toward the car, the sting in his nose sharp and throbbing as the night air hit his face.

True to his word, Stan perched himself on the fire escape, a cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers. He struck a match, the flame flickering briefly before the ember at the tip began to glow. The first exhale was slow, deliberate, the smoke curling up and disappearing into the cool evening air.

Inside, Ford and Fiddleford paused just long enough to glance back at him.

“Don't go harassin' him. Give him a bit of space,” Fiddleford murmured, squeezing Ford’s shoulder gently before heading down the hall. “He’ll come back in when he’s ready.”

Ford stayed where he was, sinking onto the couch, his eyes drifting to the window. From this angle, he could see Stan clearly—the slump of his shoulders, the way his head tilted slightly upward, staring at nothing in particular. There was something about him that seemed off. Heavier.

Ford’s mind kept wandering back to the boxing match. He replayed it like a loop—the way Stan’s jaw had tightened, his movements sharp and reckless as Tanner’s cheap shots piled up. That flash of anger, that second when Stan’s fists had clenched a little too tight, his focus darkened by something more primal.

Stan had always struggled with his temper. Ford had seen it a thousand times, years ago, when they were just kids. The way his brother would snap like a frayed wire when pushed too far. It had never been something Ford could relate to—he had always prided himself on being measured, calculated, a steady hand where Stan was pure impulse.

At least, that’s how Ford remembered it.

But now… now Ford wasn’t so sure. There was something unsettling about seeing Stan so quiet—not just still, but empty, like a fire left to burn down to embers.

That wasn’t right.

It wasn’t Stan.

The cigarette was burning close to the filter now, the orange glow bright against the darkening sky. Ford exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed himself off the couch. He’d meant to give Stan space as Fiddleford suggested, but something was pulling at him, gnawing at the back of his mind.

Maybe it’s his nose, Ford thought, his rational mind looking for something to latch onto. That punch had looked brutal, and knowing Stan, he hadn’t done anything about it yet. Ford brushed off the unease as best he could, moving toward the window with careful steps.

The fire escape’s metal frame was cold under his hands as he climbed out, but Ford barely noticed it. He started to speak—some quip about Stan’s nose or the dangers of smoking—but the words died in his throat.

He froze.

His eyes locked onto Stan’s leg.

For a second, Ford’s brain refused to make sense of what he was seeing. It was like his mind was buffering, struggling to connect the pieces. He blinked, willing his vision to correct itself, but it didn’t.

The cigarette.

Stan pressed the glowing tip firmly against his own leg.

Ford’s heart plummeted to his stomach, his chest tightening so suddenly it felt like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The ember flared briefly, bright and sharp, before Stan flicked the cigarette away into the night like it was nothing at all.

He’s hurting himself.

Ford’s pulse roared in his ears, his thoughts stumbling over each other. He felt sick—like the ground had shifted beneath him, tilting everything off balance.

“Stan?”

Stan sat on the fire escape, staring blankly into the night, his gaze fixed on the dull glow of the cigarette in his hand. Half-burned already, though he barely tasted the smoke or felt the burn in his throat. What he did feel was the anger—hot and pulsing, sharp as a second heartbeat. His leg bounced, restless energy buzzing through him like live electricity. No amount of nicotine was going to settle him down.

Should’ve been smarter. Should’ve been calmer. The words rattled around his head like stones in a jar, heavy with self-reproach. The match replayed on a loop—Tanner’s smug face, the crack of a fist against his nose, the headbutt that had sent him stumbling. Then the flash. That split second where the world bled red and anger swallowed everything else.

I knew better.

Stan dragged in another sharp breath, cigarette at his lips. But his mind wasn’t here. It was back there.

A different fight. Higher stakes. Real consequences.

He shuddered, the memory gnawing its way up from the depths, nausea curling in his stomach. If he’d lost control back there, it wouldn’t have just been a reprimand or extra drills. It would’ve been—

Stan’s stomach twisted at the memory, his chest tightening as anxiety began to claw its way up from the pit of his gut. He could feel the familiar stirrings of dread, the creeping sensation that everything was closing in, that he was losing control again. He’d fought off panic attacks before—he’d had to, countless times—but it never got easier. It never stopped feeling like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, one wrong move away from tumbling into the abyss.

Don’t lose it. Not here. Not now.

His breath hitched, shallow and fast. The last time this happened, he’d been alone in his car, hands clamped on the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. He’d almost crashed, forcing himself to ride out the spiral. He couldn’t let it happen here. Not with Ford or Fiddleford anywhere close. Not where they could see how close he was to losing it.

His hands were shaking. Damn it.

Without thinking, his fingers moved on instinct, rolling up the hem of his shorts just far enough to expose the scars crisscrossing his upper thighs—jagged and rough, old burns and cuts, reminders of worse days he rarely let himself think about.

Stan stared down at the marks, his chest rising and falling unevenly. Haven’t done this in a while.

The cigarette glowed faintly as he pressed it against his skin. The heat bit into him instantly—sharp and searing—but Stan didn’t flinch. The pain was bright and clear, slicing through the fog like a blade. It anchored him, pulled him back into the moment, where everything felt real and immediate and under his control.

He gritted his teeth, watching the burn darken into his skin, the faint sizzle lost beneath the pounding in his ears. That addictive wave of clarity washed over him, dulling the frantic buzz in his head. It was pain, but it was his—his choice, his control.

He didn’t stop. Again, he pressed the cigarette down, repeating the motion over and over, the sting biting into his skin, grounding him. Each new mark was sharp, deliberate, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the calm that followed, the quiet.

When the cigarette burned low, Stan flicked it away into the night. His hand trembled faintly, but the storm in his chest had finally started to settle. He exhaled slowly, the tightness in his ribs loosening bit by bit. The night air filled his lungs, cold and sharp, but he welcomed it. For a moment, everything felt still.

Then a voice broke through the silence.

"Stan?"

The sound hit him like a punch to the gut. Stan’s heart jumped into his throat as he whipped around so fast it nearly hurt.

Ford stood eyes wide, frozen in place as if he’d just walked into a scene he couldn’t begin to process. The look on his face—confusion mingled with something else, something harder to name—sent panic crashing through Stan’s chest.

Ford’s gaze flickered downward, landing on Stan’s leg. The faint smoke still rose off his skin, and Stan saw the exact moment the realization hit his brother. Ford’s expression shifted, his mouth parting slightly as though words had been knocked right out of him.

Shit.

“What—what are you doing?” Ford’s voice wavered, low and uncertain, and that was somehow worse. It wasn’t anger, it wasn’t yelling—it was concern, and Stan couldn’t handle that.

He scrambled for an out, forcing a casual shrug. “Smoke break,” he muttered, though the words came out rough, strained. “Like I said.”

Ford wasn’t buying it. His eyes narrowed, flickering back to the fresh burns, his frown deepening.

Stan’s pulse pounded as panic clawed its way back up, hot and thick in his throat. He needed to shut this down, get inside, change the subject—anything but this. “I, uh—” Stan stumbled over his words, standing up too fast. “Is Fidds done with the shower?” His voice cracked slightly as he turned toward the window, desperate to escape.

Ford moved before Stan could get past him, stepping into his path. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was deliberate. Ford’s face was serious now, his tone quieter. Steadier. “Stanley.”

The sound of his name—soft, with no judgment, no anger—made Stan flinch. He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching against the tangle of emotions in his chest. Why the hell did Ford care?

“Why do you pretend to care?!” The words ripped out of him before he could stop them, sharp and bitter, full of anger that wasn’t entirely directed at Ford. As soon as they were out, regret surged hot in his veins. He saw the flicker of hurt in Ford’s eyes before his expression hardened, masking it.

Ford didn’t snap back. He just stepped closer, slowly, like he was approaching a skittish animal. And then, before Stan could react, Ford placed his hands firmly on Stan’s shoulders.

Stan flinched, his whole body tensing at the unexpected contact, but Ford didn’t let go. His grip was steady, grounding.

“Sit,” Ford said softly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Stan hesitated, every instinct screaming at him to run, but something in Ford’s tone stopped him. Slowly, he let Ford guide him back down to the fire escape. They sat side by side, knees touching, the silence thick and heavy.

Ford didn’t let go.

“Stan,” Ford said again, quieter this time, his voice steady but edged with something raw. “I noticed. You’re… you’re hurting yourself.”

Fucking "I" statements.

Stan snorted bitterly, though there was no real fire behind it. “Yeah, well, thanks for noticing, genius.” His voice cracked slightly, but he kept his eyes fixed on the ground, refusing to look at Ford.

Ford stayed quiet, just watching him. Waiting.

Finally, Stan turned his head, glancing at Ford from the corner of his eye. There was no judgment on his brother’s face. Just concern. Real, steady concern.

Ford’s hand moved gently to tilt Stan’s face, his voice calm. “I’m going to fix your nose first.”

Stan barely had time to brace himself before Ford snapped the cartilage back into place. Pain flared hot and sharp, making him wince, but the pressure in his face eased almost immediately.

Ford’s hand lingered a second longer than necessary, still cupping his face.

Before either of them could speak, Fiddleford’s voice rang out from inside. “Stan, you want some tea?”

Stan shot to his feet like he’d been launched, his voice too loud as he called back, “Yeah! I’ll help you with that!” He all but dove through the window, grateful for the escape.

Ford didn’t move, still sitting there on the fire escape, watching the spot where Stan had disappeared inside. His eyes lingered on the faint smoke rising off the metal grate, his expression unreadable.

Chapter Text

For the next two weeks, Ford found himself caught in an endless loop of missed chances. He wanted—no, needed—to talk to Stan, to address what he’d seen on the fire escape. But every opportunity slipped through his fingers like water.

Stan was barely home anymore, his new work hours keeping him out late into the evening. And when he was home, he was buried in textbooks, studying for his upcoming midterms.

It wasn’t unreasonable. Ford had his own workload—papers to grade, students to tutor, exams to prep—but it felt frustratingly deliberate. Like Stan was dodging him, weaving through the cracks of Ford’s carefully planned attempts.

"Hey, Stan, can we—"

“Oh, hang on, I think I left my keys in the car,” Stan would say, already halfway out the door before Ford could get another word in.

And then, just as Ford would steel himself for another try, Fiddleford would waltz in at the perfect moment, all smiles and chatter. Just like that, Stan’s attention would shift, and Ford’s window of opportunity would slam shut again.

The worst part? It wasn’t just the interruptions.

It was jealousy.

The sharp, gnawing kind Ford couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried.

Their partnered final project had Ford feeling more left out than he’d anticipated. One of Fiddleford’s engineering courses had paired with Stan’s "Beaches and Coasts" class to tackle a project on preventing oil spills. Ford could hear them brainstorming from the living room, their voices overlapping as Fiddleford explained some technical term, while Stan excitedly talked through concepts he’d picked up in class.

From the other room, Ford pretended to focus on his notes, but he couldn’t stop himself from listening—couldn’t ignore the fire in Stan’s voice, the confidence Ford so rarely saw in him. It was… impressive, Ford admitted begrudgingly. Watching his brother light up like that was a reminder of how much he’d missed over the years.

"Yeah, so if you think about it, the way oil spreads on the water's surface can be compared to the natural flow of sand on beaches. It's all connected, right? Like a system!" Stan had said once, his face lighting up as he gestured widely with his hands.

Fiddleford nodded along, smiling. “Makes sense to me. Keep goin’, Stan.”

Watching Fiddleford encourage it? Seeing the easy laughter they shared, the way Fiddleford’s praise made Stan sit up straighter?

That left something sharp and bitter lodged in Ford’s chest.

It didn’t help that every time Ford tried to step in, he somehow felt like an outsider.

One evening, as Ford wandered into the kitchen for coffee, their voices filtered through the walls, light and relaxed. When he glanced toward the living room, he froze.

They were on the new couch—a pull-out bed, no less—that they had brought in a few days ago. It replaced the old, decrepit one that Ford had mentally cursed for months. He should’ve been grateful; the old sofa was a biohazard. But watching them laugh together as Fiddleford trimmed Stan’s mullet stirred something in Ford.

Stan sat on the floor, eyes closed, humming contentedly as Fiddleford carefully snipped away at his hair. Stan sat on the floor between Fiddleford’s knees, humming contentedly, his eyes closed as they joked about boxing drills and training.

Then, as if sensing the weight of Ford’s gaze, Fiddleford looked up and caught his eye. He grinned mischievously and tilted his head. “What?” he asked, teasingly. “That counter thirsty too?”

Ford flushed, snatching a rag to mop up the mess. “I didn’t sleep well last night,” he muttered, avoiding Stan’s gaze.

“You should take care of yourself, Fordsy,” Fiddleford replied warmly, his hands still moving carefully through Stan’s hair. “Tell ya what, I’ll make you some chamomile tea before bed.”

Ford mentally cursed himself. Of course, Fiddleford was too kind—always so damn thoughtful—and it made Ford feel like the worst friend in the world.

The next time, it was an old pager Fiddleford handed to Stan—beat-up and covered in faded stickers. “It’s from my sister. Still works, though. Scratch-and-sniff stickers, too. My sis was obsessed with ‘em.”

Stan chuckled as he inspected it, turning it over in his hands like it was something precious. “Scratch and sniff?” He sniffed one of the stickers. “Banana?”

“Yup. Her favorite.”

Ford, perched stiffly at the kitchen table, rolled his eyes. “You realize those stickers are probably leaching toxic chemicals into your lungs.”

Stan flicked the banana-scented sticker with a grin. “Worth it.”

Ford scoffed but had to admit—silently—that the banana one did smell weirdly accurate.

It was like they were living in their own little world, with Ford forever on the edges, watching but never quite stepping in.

One afternoon, Ford returned from a bakery downtown, a box of apple cider doughnuts in hand. Fiddleford had been raving about them for days, swearing they’d sell out before November. Ford had, in his usual practical way, suggested they bake their own, only for Stan to quip, “You just wanna turn me into a housewife, don’t you?”

Ford had rolled his eyes, but he’d smiled, too.

When he got back to the apartment, that warmth evaporated in seconds.

Out on the fire escape, Stan and Fiddleford leaned against the railing, sharing a cigarette. Their voices carried softly through the open window, punctuated by laughter. Stan leaned in close, murmuring something that made Fiddleford roll his eyes and punch him lightly on the arm.

They were standing too close. Cheeks flushed, laughter easy—too easy.

Ford’s stomach twisted, sharp, and painful. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t the smoking that bothered him—well, maybe a little (a lot), considering he hadn’t seen Stan smoke since... since the incident.

Maybe it was the way Stan laughed. Or how Fiddleford always got it, always seemed to know exactly what Stan needed to hear. Maybe it was the fact that for all of Ford’s academic brilliance, he couldn’t seem to get through to his own brother.

Ford turned away abruptly, setting the box of doughnuts down with more force than he meant to.

The sound startled them. Moments later, Stan and Fiddleford climbed back inside, cheeks flushed from the cold—or something else entirely.

“What’d you bring, Fordsy?” Fiddleford asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Apple cider doughnuts,” Ford muttered, barely able to meet their gaze. “Figured you wouldn’t stop raving about them.”

They dove in immediately, laughter picking up again as they tore into the box.

“I’m gonna go change,” Ford said, voice tight as he turned toward his room.

He didn’t make it far before he collapsed face-first onto his bed, groaning into his pillow.

He hated this—this jealousy, this twisting, ugly feeling in his chest. Seeing Stan and Fiddleford so close felt like being slowly edged out of something Ford didn’t even know he wanted.

And the worst part was, he couldn’t figure out who he envied more: Fiddleford, for being the friend Stan seemed to trust so effortlessly, or Stan, for being the one on the receiving end of Fiddleford’s warmth.

So, in mid-November, when Fiddleford offhandedly mentioned he needed to head back to help with winter calving on the family farm, Ford was, embarrassingly, thrilled.

“You boys gonna be alright without me?” Fiddleford teased, casting a playful glance between the twins as he packed his bag.

Stan raised a brow, curious. “What’s the occasion?”

Fiddleford threw his hand to his forehead with a dramatic sigh. “Too many cows ‘bout to calve all at once. Got to get in there before the cold snap. Folks need every hand."

Ford and Stan grimaced in unison, which made Fiddleford laugh. “Ah, come on. It ain’t that bad.”

Stan smirked over his coffee. "Just bring one of your sisters back with you instead."

Fiddleford fluttered his eyelashes in mock offense and playfully swatted Stan’s head.  "Oh, I ain’t good enough for ya, Lee?"

Stan yelped, rubbing his head. “Ow, abuse!” he groaned.

With a wink, Fiddleford flipped him off and headed out the door. “Behave, you two!”

The apartment suddenly felt different—quieter. Fiddleford’s absence filled the air with a tension Ford couldn’t ignore. This was his chance—just him and Stan alone. He could finally say something, and make a move.

“Hey, uh—”

But Stan was already throwing things into a bag, stuffing in books and notebooks.

“Where are you going?” Ford asked, trying to sound casual as unease twisted in his gut.

“Library,” Stan said flatly, barely glancing up. “Got to study.”

Ford frowned, his chance slipping away again. “You could study here.”

Stan paused, his shoulders tensing. “It’s hard to study here sometimes.”

Ford stood there for a moment, weighing his options. He wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass by. He couldn’t.

“I’ll come with you,” Ford offered, surprising even himself.

Stan blinked at him, clearly thrown off. “Why? You don’t need to.”

Ford set his jaw. “Maybe we could have one of those… sessions Fiddleford’s always pushing.”

Stan gave him a skeptical look, his brows knitting together in confusion. “We usually need a mediator for that.”

Frustration broke through Ford’s calm facade. “Is it so bad that I want to spend time with my brother?”

The air went heavy, thick. Ford wished he could take back the edge in his voice. But Stan didn’t snap back. Instead, he looked at Ford, expression unreadable, before he sighed and shrugged his bag over his shoulder. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Ford’s heart skipped a beat, a strange mix of relief and anxiety washing over him. As they walked out the door together, he couldn’t help but feel like they were on the verge of something—something important—but what that was, he didn’t know yet.

The library was packed.

Ford had expected it with midterms approaching, but the sheer number of students made it hard to breathe, let alone focus. When they finally found a small table on the third floor, wedged between dusty encyclopedias, it felt like a lucky break. The table was cramped, barely fitting them both, their knees knocking together awkwardly.

Ford welcomed it. No Fiddleford, no one to interrupt—finally, a chance to talk to Stan and maybe sort things out.

But he noticed Stan’s tense posture, his brother clearly uncomfortable. Ford’s eagerness faltered. Perhaps now wasn’t the right moment.

With a soft sigh, Ford grabbed his stack of papers, pretending to focus. His eyes kept drifting to Stan, who was jabbing at his stats packet, obviously agitated.

Ford loathed that professor.

He forced himself to think. Fiddleford always told him to be patient, that pushing Stan would make things worse. So he stayed silent, his mind far from his grading.

Then he felt Stan’s leg press against his own under the table. Accidental, due to the tight quarters, but each brush sent a thrill through him, his grip tightening on his pen, warmth spreading up his neck. The casual contact scrambled his thoughts, focus shattered.

Stan was absorbed, his brow creased, jaw set in irritation, and Ford could feel the tension rolling off him.

Finally, Stan slammed the packet shut with a sigh, tossing it aside. He slouched back, rubbing his temples, obviously worn out. He reached for another book—a thick one on marine life.

Ford’s curiosity stirred. "What’s that about?"

Stan looked at the cover, seeming almost surprised by his choice. "Uh... tide pools," he muttered, tone clipped, as if expecting Ford to lose interest.

But Ford didn’t. “What about tide pools?”

Stan hesitated, guarded, but Ford’s steady gaze softened him. "Tide pools are, uh... small ecosystems left when the tide goes out. They’re like little worlds—sea stars, anemones, crabs, all that."

Ford nodded, intrigued. “And how do they survive?”

That seemed to catch Stan off guard. He stared at Ford for a moment, clearly unsure of why he was asking, but then he started talking, his voice growing more confident with each word. “Well, they’re all kinda stuck in there until the tide comes back in, so they’ve gotta be tough. Some of ‘em can go without food for a while, and others are real good at hiding from predators. It’s pretty impressive, actually. There’s this whole tiny world in there, and it’s super delicate—if something like pollution or an oil spill happens, it can wipe out the whole thing.”

And that's when the floodgates opened. Stan talked. A lot. 

Ford watched him closely, noting the way Stan’s face lit up, the passion obvious. It made Ford smile, seeing this side of his brother—one that was curious, engaged. He could listen to him forever.

“You really know your stuff,” Ford said after a while, his voice soft, admiring.

Stan shrugged, downplaying it. "I just like the ocean. It’s... cool."

Ford smirked, leaning back in his chair. “I always knew you were a nerd.”

Stan’s eyes flashed, cheeks coloring. "I’m not a nerd. Liking the ocean’s not nerdy—it’s... it’s manly!"

"Right, right," Ford teased, grin widening. "Totally cool and manly. But also kinda cute."

Stan froze, staring at him, clearly thrown. He looked away, fingers tugging at his book’s edge. "Yeah, whatever. You're the one with a bajillion degrees anyways."

Ford chuckled, letting the silence settle between them. He felt a strange pride—he’d gotten Stan to open up, even if just about tide pools. It was something. He leaned in, their legs brushing again. This time, neither moved away. They stayed that way for the next hour, studying in their cramped corner, each contact under the table sending Ford’s pulse racing. The tension between them eased, replaced by something softer.

Eventually, Stan glanced at the clock hanging on the far wall. “We should probably head home,” he muttered, though his voice was soft, almost hesitant.

Ford, reluctant to break the moment, thought fast. "I’m starving. Want to grab a bite? There’s a place near campus."

Stan looked at him, surprised, then smiled—a small, genuine one that tightened Ford’s chest. "Sure," he said, standing and grabbing his bag. "Let’s go."

Stan’s nerves still tingled from the library. The tight space, their knees tangled under the table—it had nearly driven him out the door. Each time Ford shifted, brushing against him, Stan braced himself for the usual digs: a jab about his slow stats work or that time Ford had caught him burning his thigh on a dare.

Ford loved to keep score, those little humiliations always in his back pocket, ready to remind Stan of every screw-up.

But tonight, there’d been none of that. Ford had just graded his papers in silence while Stan wrestled with statistics, and somehow, the usual tension was absent. Stan waited, certain that at any moment Ford would break the quiet with one of his barbed comments, like always.

But it never came.

Instead, Ford had surprised him—he’d asked about tide pools. Not to mock, but out of actual curiosity. Stan almost choked, uncertain if it was some weird setup. But Ford’s eyes held no malice, just interest, so Stan had started talking. Really talking. And Ford had listened—nodding, asking questions. For once, Stan didn’t feel like Ford’s idiot kid brother.

He felt smart. Even… capable.

He’d seen Ford nod with what almost looked like respect. That alone felt good. No, better than he could have imagined.

And the best part? Watching Ford get flustered every time their legs touched under the table. The first time was an accident, but Stan noticed Ford’s sharp intake of breath, the white-knuckled grip on his red pen. So he’d kept up the pressure, letting their legs bump, watching Ford’s face heat up, his ears flushing. Annoying him, or whatever that was, was pretty fucking funny.

And it wasn't like Ford tried to stop him. If anything, he seemed as thrown by it as Stan, neither of them pulling back. By the time they packed up, Stan felt… lighter. Ford hadn’t berated or needled him—he’d let him be. And then he’d suggested they grab dinner, throwing Stan completely off balance.

That invitation wasn’t anything Stan had expected, especially from Ford. Yet there was something casual, even warm, in his tone, like eating out together was the most normal thing in the world.

Sushi.

Not exactly something Stan was used to. He’d heard of it here and there, but when you’re constantly on the move, raw fish isn’t something you trust just anywhere. Yet Ford had that rare, boyish grin as he mentioned it, and Stan couldn’t bring himself to say no.

The restaurant was unlike anything Stan had ever seen before. The moment they stepped inside, his eyes were drawn to the conveyor belt of sushi plates rotating in the center of the room. It was surreal—like something out of a science fiction movie. Plates of sushi, each one a different color or shape, glided past the diners, waiting to be picked up. Stan couldn’t believe it. He’d never seen food served like this before. He stared in awe, dumbfounded by the sight of it.

"Neat, huh?" Ford said, eyes twinkling. "You just grab what you want, or we can order from a menu."

Stan nodded absently, taking it all in, unsure where to start. “Uh, yeah. Sure,” he muttered, feeling completely out of his depth.

Ford, noticing his hesitation, smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I’ll grab a few things I think you’ll like.”

Relieved, Stan let Ford take the lead, as Ford pulled plate after plate, explaining each one. Stan tried to keep up, but the names went over his head, so he simply trusted Ford’s confidence.

But then came the chopsticks. The damn things slipped from his hands over and over, each failed attempt more frustrating than the last. Ford was smirking, clearly trying to hold back a laugh.

"Don’t say a word," Stan muttered, glaring.

Ford shook his head, smiling. "Fine, fine. But really, just use your hands, it’s no big deal."

But Stan’s stubborn streak wasn’t about to let a couple of sticks beat him. After several more failures, though, he finally dropped them in exasperation, and Ford finally lost it, laughing quietly.

"I’ll ask for a fork," Ford teased, his voice light, playful.

Stan eyed the offering, a strange, warm nostalgia blooming in his chest. He remembered Ford doing things like this when they were kids, insisting on swapping sandwiches when Stan had left his at home, claiming the ham-and-cheese was meant for him anyway, or the two of them sharing a twin-scoop cone at the boardwalk, racing against the summer heat to finish it before it melted down their fingers. Ford’s expression now had that same open, easy warmth he used to wear, a familiar, steady reassurance. Stan leaned forward and took the bite.

The flavors washed over him: fresh, clean, and surprisingly… comforting. He hadn’t expected to enjoy it, but somehow, here with Ford, he did.

Ford’s eyes were intent on him, waiting. "So?"

Stan swallowed, nodding. "It’s… actually good."

Ford’s grin widened, looking satisfied. He picked up another roll, offering it with a smile. "Then try this."

And that was how the night passed, with Ford feeding him, one roll after another, never once asking for a fork when the waiter swung by. It felt oddly natural, unhurried. No tension, just the two of them, chatting about nothing, letting the silence between bites feel easy. For the first time in a long while, Stan didn’t feel like he was walking on eggshells with Ford. It felt like the old days, before things had gone so wrong between them.

When they finally finished their meal and walked outside, the air was cold and crisp. Stan shivered slightly, wrapping his arms around himself as they stepped onto the quiet street. His jacket wasn’t nearly warm enough for the night air, and he found himself thinking that he really needed to get a better one.

Ford noticed, glancing at him. "Cold?"

Stan shrugged. “A little,” he admitted, trying not to make a big deal out of it. He didn’t want Ford to fuss over him.

They walked on in silence, the crunch of their footsteps the only sound. The night felt different, lighter than usual.

"Tonight was nice," Ford said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. His tone was soft, and vulnerable.

Stan looked at him, caught off guard by Ford’s sincerity. Ford didn’t often show this side of himself.

"Yeah," Stan said, nodding. "It was."

Chapter Text

As they stepped back into the apartment, the first raindrops struck the windows, soft and hesitant before escalating into a torrential downpour.

Stan shrugged off his jacket, kicking off his shoes and stretching until a low groan escaped, muscles finally unwinding. Meanwhile, Ford paced, tugging off his sweater with that restless energy of his, as if something inside gnawed at him. Stan watched him a moment, trying to read the lines in his brother’s face, but Ford gave nothing away, just bouncing from foot to foot like he could hardly stand still.

He noticed Ford’s glance flick briefly to his thighs, but he didn’t comment. Maybe they’d settled into a truce on the subject—an unspoken agreement to leave certain things alone. Stan was grateful for the space.

There was too much between them he wasn’t ready to unpack. Not yet.

“I’ll be right back,” Ford muttered suddenly, voice clipped, almost rushed, and then disappeared into his room, the door clicking shut.

Stan stood in the quiet, watching the closed door, half-expecting Ford to stay hidden away for the rest of the night. It wouldn’t have been the first time Ford pulled back just as things started to feel real. Stan glanced toward the couch, debating whether to pull out the bed or grab a book, but instead, he just listened to the rain, letting it fill the silence Ford left behind.

Minutes slipped by. Fifteen of them, in fact. Stan felt a familiar knot tighten in his stomach, that gnawing doubt creeping back. Maybe he’d been stupid to think this peace could last. Ford was probably in there, stewing, second-guessing the entire evening. Stan wasn’t about to chase after him. Not anymore.

Just as he was about to pull out the couch bed and call it a night, Ford returned, holding two cardboard boxes, face drawn and shoulders stiff.

Stan blinked, frowning. “What’s that?”

Ford hesitated, glancing at the boxes before clearing his throat. “When I moved here, Ma packed up most of my stuff in a U-Haul and accidentally packed some of yours too.” His voice was low, careful. “I never opened them. Figured it’d... hurt too much.” He looked at the boxes, jaw tight. “But I couldn’t throw them out either.”

Stan’s heart clenched. His fingers twitched, words piling up on his tongue—something sharp, something to push back against the wave of emotion rising in his chest. But Ford looked so damn uncertain standing there, small in a way Stan wasn’t used to, so he swallowed the instinct to lash out.

“Why’d you keep them?” Stan asked softly, not quite able to meet Ford’s eyes.

Ford opened his mouth and shut it, frustration building in his face. “I don’t know,” he muttered finally, hands fidgeting around the boxes.

Stan sat down on the couch, pulling one of the boxes in front of him. The tape was worn, and easy to peel off, and as soon as the flaps opened, memories he hadn’t thought about in years spilled out. Old comics, the ones he used to read under the covers at night while Ford scolded him for staying up too late. Vinyl records they’d argued over, Ford swearing that he was going to grow up to hate rock ‘n’ roll while Stan insisted that it was the only real music out there. Important documents and photo albums, the cheap kind with plastic sleeves, filled with pictures from birthdays, holidays, and random moments when Ma had thought to snap a photo.

And at the very bottom of the box was a small, faded cookbook. He’d picked it out for Ma one year and planned to give it to her for Mother’s Day. Of course, he never got the chance. Kicked out before he could even wrap it. His throat tightened as he brushed his fingers over the worn cover, remembering the day he’d bought it, thinking he’d finally done something right for once.

Beneath the cookbook was a sci-fi novel, signed by the author. Stan laughed bitterly to himself, remembering how he’d saved it for Ford’s birthday. They’d joked about it for months, Ford insisting he’d never read it. And then everything had gone sideways, and Stan never got to give it to him.

Stan felt a lump in his throat, surprised at how much he missed these little pieces of his life, things he hadn’t let himself think about in years. He swallowed hard, pushing back the ache. It was too late to mourn what was gone.

He wasn’t a kid anymore.

Ford stayed quiet, perched on the arm of the couch, his gaze steady, like he was afraid one wrong word might shatter the delicate peace.

Stan finally opened the second box, revealing a small collection of clothes. Most of them were faded and a little small now, but they were his. His clothes, not some random junk he’d swiped from a donation bin or picked up from some charity center when he’d been living on the road—or worse, the other place. There. The thought made him wince, but the sight of these old clothes eased the discomfort. They were familiar, remnants of a time before everything went to hell. Some of the shirts probably wouldn’t fit anymore, given that he’d filled out since then, but that didn’t matter. He'd wear them, whatever fit. 

Ford’s voice was soft, hesitant. “We could, uh, get a small dresser for you or a bin for the closet. Just if… you want space for your things.”

Stan nodded, his throat tight, unable to reply. He didn’t know why Ford was doing this—being thoughtful, even kind. It threw him off, and he kept bracing for the tension to snap, for Ford to throw in a jab about his choices. But instead, Ford seemed to be offering something steady, something like home.

Stan’s fingers traced the edge of an old shirt as Ford added, “Our father wanted to throw out your stuff. I hid what I could with Ma.”

Stan snorted, the laugh escaping before he could stop it. “Surprised the old man didn’t try to sell it for a quick buck.”

Ford’s lips twitched into a rueful smile. “Yeah, well… he had his head up his ass.”

Just then, thunder rumbled outside, and the room plunged into darkness, the hum of electricity vanishing, leaving them with nothing but the sound of rain hammering the windows.

Ford muttered a curse, fumbling in the dark. Stan reached into his pocket, pulled out a lighter, and flicked it on, offering it to Ford.

Ford’s gaze lingered on the lighter, his expression tightening. Stan could practically see the wheels turning in his brother’s head, memories catching up to them both.

Stan held steady, hand extended. Ford finally took it, their fingers brushing for just a moment before Ford pocketed the lighter and lit a candle on the table, the warm glow filling the room.

Stan sighed. “I’ve got, like, seven of those in my car, y’know.”

Ford frowned but didn’t comment. The candlelight flickered between them, shadows dancing on the walls.

Stan got up and tugged the mattress out of the pull-out couch, then hesitated, glancing back at Ford. The question was on his lips before he could stop himself. “You, uh… wanna hang out here tonight?” He felt the awkwardness in his voice, that self-conscious hesitation he thought he’d left behind. “I mean, only if you’re not busy or whatever.”

Ford’s gaze met his, and for a second Stan thought he’d say no. But then he nodded. “Sure. I’ll grab a book and my sketchpad.”

Relief washed over Stan as he settled on the pull-out bed, sifting through his comics while Ford slipped back to his room. When he returned, Ford held a worn paperback in one hand and his sketchpad in the other. They sat together on the bed—Stan flipping through old comics, Ford lost in his sketches.

The steady scratch of Ford’s pencil became a backdrop to the rain, blending into the silence between them. Rhythmic, almost soothing, a sound that lulled Stan as he flipped through the comics, worn pages familiar under his fingers. Every now and then, he’d glance at Ford, absorbed in his drawing, brow furrowed in that familiar look of focus. It was strange to see him so at ease, without the usual edge between them.

Stan stretched out, sinking deeper into the pull-out bed. His fingers traced the edges of a comic book, his mind drifting. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d just been like this—without old grudges or arguments lurking. It felt too good, too easy to be real.

But the scratching of Ford’s pencil slowed, softening, until it stopped altogether. Stan looked up, glancing to the side, and saw Ford still hunched over his sketchpad—only now, his head rested on Stan’s shoulder, pencil dropped onto the open page.

Stan stifled a snort. Ford, who always insisted he didn’t snore or fall asleep in the middle of something, was out cold, his breathing deep and even.

The nerd was such a liar.

For a moment, Stan just stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Ford with the one he’d always known—the sharp, critical one who never gave Stan a break, who seemed to carry a lifetime of disappointment in every glance. But here he was, completely vulnerable, asleep on Stan’s shoulder like nothing had ever gone wrong between them.

Stan closed his eyes, letting the warmth and the quiet wash over him. He didn’t bother moving Ford, didn’t bother saying anything. He just let his brother stay there, snoring softly on his shoulder, as sleep claimed him too.

Ford woke slowly, a dull throb pulsing in his neck, blinking against the overcast light creeping through the windows. He adjusted his glasses, feeling the soreness on the bridge of his nose where they’d pressed in overnight. As sleep lifted, four things struck him, each more unsettling than the last.

First, they were lucky the apartment hadn’t gone up in flames; the candle had burned down to the wick but had miraculously extinguished on its own. Second, the power had returned, though rain still tapped against the glass, filling the room with a gentle, rhythmic hum.

But the third—and more startling—was that he and Stan had somehow ended up close.

Too close.

Their legs were tangled, and Ford’s arm had somehow slipped around Stan’s waist, his hand resting on Stan’s stomach, fingers spread against him in an intimacy that made Ford’s pulse quicken. He couldn’t remember how he’d ended up like this or why he’d let it happen, but what troubled him most was that part of him didn’t want to move away.

Then the fourth thing—the detail that froze him solid: his hand had lifted Stan’s shirt just enough to reveal faint scars, pale lines trailing across his skin. Not only on his thighs as he’d once glimpsed, but across his torso too, marking him in thin, quiet evidence of something darker.

Ford’s heart pounded as he stared at the marks, a nauseating twist in his gut. His mind raced to piece together what he was seeing. When had this started? More crucially, why had Stan done this to himself? Was it depression? It made sense—Stan had been kicked out, left with nothing but his coach and his struggles. Eventually, he ended up at Backupsmore, living out of his car, carrying the weight of unresolved trauma. Meanwhile, Ford’s biggest worry was choosing which college to attend with a full-ride scholarship. The realization made Ford’s stomach churn as he tried to understand what else he might have missed.

Stan had always been the tough one, the one who seemed to shrug off everything life threw at him with a laugh or a crude joke. He told himself Stan would be fine— that his personality if anything, would keep him afloat. But seeing those marks, seeing that undeniable proof of something so dark and hidden... It shattered Ford’s image of his brother.

Gingerly, he untangled himself, moving his arm from Stan’s waist and sliding his legs free. He swallowed the impulse to wake him, to say something, to close that looming space of unasked questions and unspoken pain. Instead, he pulled himself away to the kitchen, needing distance as much as he craved understanding.

Ford busied himself with making coffee, but his thoughts wouldn’t quiet. His hands shook slightly as he washed the mugs in the sink, anxiety creeping up on him, tightening around his chest. He didn’t know what to do. Part of him desperately wanted to confront Stan, to ask him point-blank what was going on. He wanted to fix it, to find some way to make it all better. But another part of him was terrified—terrified of saying the wrong thing, terrified of pushing Stan away even more.

He stared at the coffee pot, watching the dark liquid drip into the carafe, his mind racing. Should he bring it up? Could he even bring it up? What if Stan shut him down, closed himself off? Ford knew how stubborn his brother could be, how fiercely he guarded his emotions. He’d seen it so many times before. This was different, though. This was serious. Ford couldn’t just ignore it, couldn’t pretend like he hadn’t seen those marks.

But then again, maybe Stan would feel betrayed if Ford confronted him. Maybe Stan would think Ford was prying, that he was judging him.

Ford’s hands clenched around the edge of the counter, his knuckles whitening as he tried to steady his breathing. He wasn’t used to this kind of thing, to dealing with emotions this raw, this tangled. He wasn’t good at it. Fiddleford was better at this sort of stuff—he always had been. Ford could analyze data, solve problems, figure out complex equations, but when it came to people—when it came to Stan—he was out of his depth.

And now he had two more days without Fiddleford, two days to figure this out on his own. He should have been glad, should have been savoring the opportunity to spend time with Stan, just the two of them. 

Ford was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t even notice Stan stirring behind him until he heard his voice.

“Why do you look like you’re gonna puke?”

Ford whipped around, his heart jumping as he met Stan’s gaze. He was sitting up, hair mussed, bleary-eyed but alert, watching Ford with an expression that was somewhere between confusion and faint amusement.

Ford swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. He turned back to the coffee pot, busying his hands as if it could distract him from the knot of anxiety tightening in his chest.

Ford cleared his throat, turning back to the coffee pot to steady his hands. “I, uh… didn’t sleep well,” he mumbled. “My neck’s killing me.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Is that why you’re pacing around like a nutjob?”

Ford hesitated, heart hammering. He could brush it off, and let the morning drift back into small talk and comfortable distance. Or he could open that door, and ask the questions he’d avoided for too long.

“I… I saw something,” Ford said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Stan’s expression shifted immediately, his guard going up like a steel wall. His eyes narrowed, his body tensing as he leaned forward slightly. “Saw what?”

Ford forced himself to hold his gaze, feeling as if he were on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall with one wrong word. “The scars,” he said quietly. “I saw them. They’re not just on your legs, Stan.”

Stan’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing into something cold, defensive. His entire posture shifted, shoulders drawn, fists clenched in his lap.

“Don’t,” Stan warned, his voice low and hard. “Don’t go there, Ford.”

Ford’s stomach twisted. He’d known this wouldn’t go well. He’d known Stan would shut down, would try to push him away. But the coldness in Stan’s voice, the raw, defensive edge to it—it still hurt. Ford felt the distance between them widen, like a chasm opening up, and for a moment, he considered backing off, retreating before he made things worse.

But he couldn’t. Not this time.

“I’m not judging,” Ford said, his voice quiet but steady. “I just… I need to know. Why? How long has this been going on?”

Stan looked away, arms crossing over his chest, his jaw set in a stubborn line. “It’s none of your business,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Ford clenched his fists against the counter, the guilt like a weight in his gut. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to reach Stan through that wall of defenses he’d put up. But before he could find the words, Stan stood abruptly, heading toward the bathroom with stiff, deliberate steps. The door closed, leaving Ford alone in the kitchen, the sound of the rain filling the silence like a slow, relentless heartbeat.

He hadn’t expected it to go well, but he hadn’t expected it to feel this final either. The way Stan had shut him down so quickly, with such a cold edge to his voice—it twisted Ford’s gut, made him feel like he’d crossed a line he couldn’t uncross. The tension in the room still clung to the air like static, and Ford felt helpless, like a stranger in his own apartment.

The coffee machine sputtered, the sound startling in the silence. But the question gnawed at him: should he have just let it go? Let Stan carry his burden alone like he always did? Ford didn’t know what was worse—the fact that Stan had been hiding this from him or that he hadn’t noticed.

He could hear Stan’s voice, cold and defensive. None of your business.

It was his business, wasn’t it? Stan was his brother. They were supposed to look out for each other. But they hadn’t done that in years. Ford had let himself get too wrapped up in his own life, in his own ambitions, and now he was paying the price. Maybe they both were.

The bathroom door finally creaked open, and Ford’s breath caught in his throat as Stan re-emerged, his face unreadable. His hair was damp, as though he’d splashed water on his face to calm himself down. He avoided Ford’s eyes, moving toward the pull-out couch in stiff, measured steps.

Ford’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He wanted to say something, anything, but he didn’t know where to start. There was too much unsaid, too much between them. The weight of years of tension hung like a storm cloud over them both, thick and oppressive.

Stan sat heavily on the edge of the couch, his shoulders hunched, fingers flexing restlessly as if he wanted to punch something but couldn’t. Ford recognized that posture. He’d seen it before, years ago, back when they were kids. It was the way Stan sat when he was trying to bottle something up, when the pressure was building inside him, and he didn’t know how to release it.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The rain outside was the only sound, a soft patter against the windows, steady and relentless. Ford leaned against the counter, gripping the edge again, feeling the cold of the ceramic mug seep into his skin. He had to say something—he couldn’t let it end like this.

 “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I’ve been worried.”

Stan’s gaze dropped to the floor. “You don’t gotta worry about me, Ford.”

Ford flinched at the dismissive tone, but he couldn’t stop now. “Stan, I can’t ignore what I saw. Those scars…”

Stan let out a low, bitter laugh, cutting him off. “Yeah? Well, you’re real good at pretendin’ things didn’t happen, ain’t ya?”

Ford flinched at that, the words hitting him harder than they should have. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came. What could he say? Stan was right. He had pretended, that things weren’t as bad as they were. Pretended he didn’t need to care, didn’t need to get involved. He’d turned a blind eye to his brother’s struggles because it was easier than facing the mess their relationship had become.

Stan’s voice was raw as he spoke, gaze fixed somewhere beyond Ford. “You act like you care now, but where were you back then? When I was kicked out, living out of my car, doing whatever it took to survive? You weren’t there.”

“I did care, Stan,” Ford said, his voice trembling with frustration. “I just… I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know how to help. I told you I thought you did it on purpose. ”

Stan’s jaw worked, his gaze falling back to the floor, and Ford could see him wrestling with something—something he didn’t want to say out loud. Stan took a slow, shuddering breath and ran a hand over the back of his neck, his voice lowering as he mumbled, "You weren’t there when I was scroungin’ for food, tryin’ to find a place to sleep... or when I was forced to start sellin’ my bod—"

Ford’s breath caught, his chest tightening as the words registered. The air around them grew thick, suffocating, as the truth of what Stan was saying sunk in, pressing down on him with a weight he wasn’t ready to carry.

“What… what were you going to say?” Ford’s voice came out uneven, barely louder than a whisper, but it was enough to make Stan flinch.

Stan’s face twisted with something raw, something vulnerable, before he masked it, looking away. “Forget it,” he muttered, voice sharp, shutting Ford out.

“No,” Ford said, his tone harder than he intended. “I don’t want to forget, Stan. I don’t want to ignore it.”

Stan covered his face with his hands, and for a moment, Ford thought he was going to lash out—another biting remark, another wall going up between them. But then… Stan started laughing.

Ford blinked, startled. “Why are you—?”

The sound wasn’t right. It wasn’t humor. It was jagged, and bitter, like broken glass scraping against stone. The way Stan’s shoulders trembled beneath his hands. It wasn’t laughter. It was sobbing.

Full-on sobbing.

Ford felt a cold panic seize him. He didn’t know what to do—didn’t know how to help. His brother, the same brother who always seemed invincible, who took every hit with a shrug and a grin, was sitting here, breaking down in front of him, and Ford was at a complete loss.

It wasn’t just the sobbing that threw him—it was the sound. That rueful, confused sound only deepened Ford’s own confusion. His brother was unraveling right before his eyes, and Ford felt utterly useless. “Stan…” he started, but the words felt too small for the moment.

Stan wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sucking in a breath that caught in his throat. “You think you can just swoop back in and fix everything, but it ain’t that simple, Ford,” he choked out, his voice rough with emotion. He sniffed again, laughing bitterly through the tears. “You think you can just waltz back into my life and make it all better? I wished you were there for me, but you weren’t. Instead, you closed a curtain on me. You—”

Ford felt a flash of irritation, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at the accusation. “I’m here now, I'm trying” he shot back, though his voice sounded weaker than he intended. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to defend himself or convince himself.

Stan wiped his face with his sleeve, his breathing ragged. “Yeah, great. You’re here now. You, who’s been playin’ hot and cold with me ever since I walked into that stupid library. You show up, you get pissed, and then you act like everything’s fine, like you care, tell me to live with you, and I’m just supposed to believe it?” He shook his head, bitter laughter slipping from his throat. “Don’t pretend this isn't some noble effort.”

“I’m not giving you pity,” Ford said, his voice low, trying to take a step closer. But Stan stepped back, widening the gap between them again. “I’m giving you my time. I’m giving you me. Here. Now. I want to be here for you.”

Stan ignored the words, running his hands through his hair in frustration. He let out another bitter laugh. “You’re so perceptive, right? You even knew, didn’t you? When I told you that 'heartwarming' story about how I got here. You didn’t buy it. Hell, you called me out on it.”

Ford blinked, momentarily taken aback. He thought back to that moment—how he’d been a jerk about it, sure, but he remembered how hard it had been for Stan to tell that story, how the words had seemed to pain him.

Was...was it a lie?

Stan pointed at him, his hand shaking slightly. “You thought it was ‘cause I was desperate, huh? That I was begging for help from my perfect brother like I couldn’t do anything on my own. Of course, you thought that. Everything revolves around you, don’t it, Sixer?”

At the time, Ford had assumed it was just because Stan needed his help. But now...

“You don’t understand, Ford,” Stan continued, his voice quieter now, but no less biting. “You don’t get what it’s like. I had to claw my way here. Every damn step. Everything came so easy for you. You’re perfect, right? In every way I’m not.”

Ford opened his mouth to retort, to say something—anything—but the words failed him. Miserably, he took a step back, the ache in his chest unbearable.

Ford poured two cups of coffee and, after a moment’s hesitation, handed one to Stan, then sank to sit beside him. Stan took it, staring into the mug, his fingers tight around the handle. He waited, heart pounding, unwilling to say anything more, unwilling to push his brother away again.

Finally, Stan broke the silence, his voice hoarse and low. “If I told you everything… Ford, you’d leave. You’d kick me out. You wouldn’t want me around anymore.”

Ford’s throat tightened. He wanted to say something, anything, to reassure Stan, but the weight of those words held him in place. “I wouldn’t,” Ford whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I couldn't, Stan.”

Stan let out a low scoff, but Ford noticed his grip on the mug had softened. Summoning all his courage, Ford reached out, placing a hand on Stan’s knee, squeezing gently. “I don’t want to lose you. Not again.”

Stan was quiet, shoulders tense, but Ford thought he saw a shift, a momentary break in the wall between them. Ford forced a small, awkward smile. “Besides, if I tried to kick you out, Fiddleford would probably kill me.”

Stan snorted, the sound catching him off guard, and Ford saw a flicker of something—relief, maybe—in his brother’s eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was a start.

“Please, Stan,” Ford said, voice soft, almost pleading. “Tell me. Whatever you’re comfortable with. I want to be here.”

Stan stared at him, the weight of his gaze heavy, conflicted. Finally, he sighed, shoulders slumping as he looked away. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll tell you.”

Chapter Text

Then:

Ford stared down at the remnants of his shattered science project, his eyes wide with disbelief and anger. His jaw clenched tightly as he struggled to contain his rising frustration.

“Can you explain what this was doing next to my broken project?!” Ford's voice was sharp, his usually calm demeanor slipping away as he gestured toward the mess.

Stan’s shoulders tensed, and he raised his hands defensively. “Ho-okay, I might have accidentally been, uh, horsing around—”

Ford’s eyes blazed as he cut him off. “This was no accident, Stan; you did this! You did this because you couldn’t handle me going to college on my own!”

Stan shook his head quickly, trying to salvage the situation. “Look, it was a mistake! I didn’t mean to break it! But hey, maybe there’s a silver lining, huh? There has to be a big whig college nearby, right? We could go treasure hunting or somethin’ like we said in the meantime...”

Ford’s face contorted in fury, his patience gone. “Are you kidding me? Why would I want to do anything with the person who sabotaged my entire future?!” His shove sent Stan stumbling back onto the couch.

Before Stan could react, Filbrick stormed into the room, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he saw the chaos. He grabbed Stan by the front of his shirt, lifting him off the couch. “You did what, you knucklehead?”

Stan, wide-eyed, stammered, “Wait, no, I can explain! It was a mistake, I swear!”

Without a second thought, Filbrick threw Stan outside onto the pavement with a growl of anger. “You ignoramus! Your brother was gonna be our ticket out of this dump! All you ever do is lie, cheat, and ride on his coattails. And now, you’ve cost us potential millions! Until you make us a fortune, you’re not welcome in this household!” He tossed a duffel bag at Stan's feet with a finality that stung deeper than the gravel beneath him.

“What?!” Stan scrambled to his feet, looking toward the house in disbelief. “Stanford, tell him he’s bein’ crazy!”

Upstairs, Ford stood by the window, watching everything unfold. His eyes wavered for a moment, regret flickering in his expression as he saw his brother’s desperation. But then, his gaze landed on the West Coast Tech pamphlet sitting on his desk, the one that could still offer him a future despite everything. With a conflicted sigh, he closed the curtains, shutting out the view of Stan being thrown out.

“Stanford?! Don’t leave me hangin’!” Stan’s voice cracked, but there was no response. His chest tightened as he grabbed the duffel bag and shouted one last, defiant line into the night. “Fine! I can make it on my own! I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone! I’ll make millions, and you’ll rue the day you turned your back on me!”

Later, as Stan drove aimlessly down the highway, his anger slowly turned to numbness. The adrenaline faded, and reality set in. Pulling over to an underpass, he finally looked at the bag his father had packed for him. Fifty dollars, a few pairs of socks, a winter jacket two sizes too small, and sneakers.

Stan blinked at the meager contents, his hands shaking as it dawned on him—his dad had been planning for this, waiting for an excuse to throw him out.

Gripping the steering wheel, Stan’s vision blurred with tears. His breaths came out in ragged gasps as the weight of his situation crashed over him. He sobbed quietly, alone in the car, with nowhere to go.

When the sun finally rose, he felt the gnawing pangs of hunger in his stomach. After driving around aimlessly for a while, he pulled into the parking lot of a small diner. The bell jingled as he stepped inside, keeping his head down as he asked for a seat in the very back. He slumped into the booth, his mind still a mess of anger, regret, and uncertainty.

The clink of a glass on his table snapped him out of his thoughts. A heavy-set man in his late 50s stood there, his presence looming over the table. It was Stan’s old middle school boxing coach, Marc. The man’s gruff temperament always reminded Stan of his father, though he usually hid it better. Filbrick had pulled the Pines twins out of boxing lessons years ago, claiming they didn’t need to pay for services anymore, and that they could practice on their own. Back then, they’d thought their dad was just being cheap. Now, though, Stan remembered overhearing his ma whisper something about the coach being sleazy, though he hadn’t understood what it meant.

Marc eyed him, his gaze lingering on the duffel bag. He slid into the booth across from Stan, his voice low and gravelly.

“Well, well, look who it is,” Marc said, tilting his head. “Shouldn’t you be in school right now?”

Stan avoided eye contact, looking out the window instead. “Can’t go back right now,” he muttered.

He immediately grabbed Stan’s untouched glass of water and took a sip. Stan wrinkled his nose, watching him warily. He chuckled, setting the glass down with a smirk. “I’ve known you and your father long enough. Filbrick finally kicked your sorry ass out, huh?”

A flash of anger rolled through Stan, and he clenched his fists. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to—”

Marc raised a hand, cutting him off with an amused grin. “Your dad doesn’t care about ‘accidents,’ kid. You know that as well as I do.”

Stan looked down at his hands, his anger simmering as guilt tugged at the edges of his thoughts. Marc eyed him for a moment before leaning forward, a calculating gleam in his eye. “You still any good at boxing?”

Stan shrugged, his voice coming out quieter than he intended. “I guess. Haven't practiced in a while, though. Why does it matter?"

“Good,” Marc said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ll stay with me for now. I’ll see about getting you caught up over the summer—I’ve got connections with the high school gym instructor. Your old man probably yanked you out to pinch some pennies, huh?”

Stan winced at that, the comment striking a little too close to home.

“But if you’re gonna stay here, you’ve gotta pull your weight,” Marc continued. “Underground boxing.”

Stan frowned, his brow furrowing. He knew what underground boxing was, and he didn't like the sound of it. "What do you mean, 'earn my keep'? I'm not gonna fight people for money. Isn't that like, illegal?"

Marc scoffed. “Illegal, sure. But it pays. Entertaining too. And it’ll toughen you up real fast. Maybe even get you back on your feet.”

Stan hesitated, glancing out the window again. “I… I wanted to go to college,” he admitted quietly.

Marc snorted. “The only way you’re gettin’ to college is with a scholarship, kid. And you’re already too late for that.”

Stan perked up slightly. “What about a boxing scholarship?”

“NCAA doesn’t sanction boxing anymore,” Marc said, his voice flat.

Stan slumped, the flicker of hope dying out as quickly as it had come. He studied him for a moment, then gave a dramatic groan. “There might still be a few places that offer scholarships. I’ll ask around.”

Stan looked up, his eyes widening. Marc shrugged, taking another sip of water.

"You'll have to work for it, though. No free rides."

Stan nodded quickly, his heart racing. "Yeah, yeah, of course. I'll do whatever it takes."

Marc gave a satisfied hum, “Don’t get too excited, kid. You’re not starting college anytime soon. Not in the fall, probably not even next spring. You’re lookin’ at a year, at least.”

Stan deflated, his shoulders slumping. Marc reached over, patting him on the shoulder.

"Hey, chin up. You're not gonna get anywhere if you're moping around. Now, let's get you some food. You look like you're about to keel over."

Stan nodded, his stomach growling loudly. Marc chuckled, shaking his head and extending his hand. “Then it’s a deal.”

Stan took his hand, sealing the agreement.

By June, Marc had been true to his word, and Stan found himself staying in the cramped attic of his house. It wasn’t much—a thin mattress, a broken window that let in the cold at night, and the faint scent of mildew that clung to everything—but it was a roof. It gave him a chance to finish school, with plans to catch up on his courses by August. More importantly, it gave him distance from Ford.

Not that Ford would’ve wanted anything to do with him. But Stan had heard whispers that his brother had been accepted into another college. It left him feeling conflicted. While Ford’s rejection from West Coast Tech still gnawed at him, there was a sense of relief knowing his brother still had a future. Despite everything, Stan didn’t want his screw-ups to ruin Ford’s life.

On their graduation day, Stan sat on a hill far from the high school, just outside the stadium. He couldn’t hear much or see the stage clearly, but he knew Ford was valedictorian. He could just make out the cap and gown as his brother walked across the stage. Even though he wasn’t close enough to hear Ford’s speech, Stan imagined what he might say, knowing Ford would be brilliant.

Stan stayed there, on that hill, long after the ceremony had ended, feeling a heavy mix of pride and regret.

So, Stan focused on what he could control. He balanced schoolwork with the odd jobs Marc threw his way. Sometimes, he’d head to the beach, hoping to find something valuable, but it was mostly just trash left by tourists along the Jersey coastline. The house was always a disaster, and Stan suspected Marc kept it that way on purpose. Most days, he was cleaning up beer cans, empty bottles, and food wrappers scattered across the floor. But he didn’t complain.

At Marc’s suggestion, Stan tried his hand at door-to-door sales, pushing cheap, useless products. The result? More slammed doors and slaps than he could count. And every time he returned empty-handed, Marc would be waiting, laughing and mocking him, swaying drunkenly as he downed another beer.

Stan also ran deliveries, carrying packages to different locations with strict instructions not to open them—no matter what. The seriousness in Marc’s tone left Stan wary, eager to get rid of the boxes before curiosity had a chance to take over.

The nights were worse. Marc was his "agent," throwing Stan into almost every underground boxing match he could find. These matches weren’t like the ones he’d trained for in school. They were dirty—no rules, no fairness. The men he faced were aggressive, brutal, and far more experienced than he was. His coach had only one rule: don’t play dirty, and don’t let them rile you up.

He respected the true sport of boxing too much to let Stan ruin it with underhanded tactics.

At first, Stan tried to play by the rules, coming back from fights bruised and battered, but sometimes victorious. But as the weeks passed, the matches grew tougher, and the stakes skyrocketed. The men he faced were bigger, stronger, and meaner. They didn’t care about the rules—or his age. One night, Stan came home with a black eye, a split lip, and a cracked rib. Marc just laughed, slapped him on the back, and told him he was getting better.

Marc never helped with the injuries. He’d sit back, smoking cigars and counting the cash, tossing Stan a meager 5% of his earnings. Most nights, Stan had to patch himself up, setting his broken nose or taping up his ribs with whatever first-aid supplies he could scrounge from the grimy bathroom.

But at least he had food. Occasionally, they’d order takeout. Stan could sit with Marc and watch TV, at least until Marc got tired of him or sent him off on some other pointless errand. Sometimes, Marc would even laugh at his jokes. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He had a roof over his head, a place to shower, and a bed to sleep in. Stan kept reminding himself he had to be grateful—it was more than he’d had before.

He wasn’t….lonely. 

The months passed, and with each fight, bitterness gnawed deeper into him. The resentment toward his family festered, and every punch he threw carried the weight of being kicked out of his home. It started reflecting in his fights. He began playing dirty—small, subtle moves at first, things he thought no one would notice. An extra shove. A low hit. He didn’t care about Marc's respect for the sport. He just wanted to win, to prove he was worth something.

But Marc noticed. Of course, he noticed.

One night, after a particularly brutal match, Marc dragged him back "home", his grip tight on Stan's arm.

"You're not gonna win any fights if you keep playing dirty, kid," Marc growled.

Stan glared at him, his jaw clenched. "I'm not gonna win any fights if I don't play dirty, either. You know that."

 Marc sat him down on the worn, beaten couch in the living room. A cigar hung from his mouth, and the room filled with smoke as he stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"You think you’re slick, don’t you?" Marc said, his voice low and dangerous. "Playing dirty, sneaking in those cheap shots. I didn't take you under my wing to be some lowlife scumbag fighter."

He looked away, clenching his jaw as Marc's words grated against him. He’d heard enough of this from his father—he didn’t need it from someone else.

"Don’t you look away from me, boy." Stan felt the air shift, a tension building as Marc stood up, looming over him.

He snapped, his own anger boiling to the surface. "What does it matter to you? It’s not like you care about anything but the money!"

That’s when it happened. Marc grabbed the burning end of his cigar and pressed it against Stan’s thigh. The searing pain shot through Stan’s body, and he let out a pained whine, his teeth gritting as he jerked forward in agony. His mind scrambled, the pain so sharp and foreign that it overpowered the physical beatings he’d taken from his father. This was different. This was calculated, deliberate.

"You look at me when I’m talking to you," Marc hissed, the words cold and biting. "It’s like your father never taught you any damn manners. You'd be nothing without me, you know that? Probably dead on the fucking street."

Stan's breath hitched, and through the haze of pain, his ma’s whispered warning about Marc being “sleazy” echoed in his mind. For years, he never understood it. But now, he felt it, deep in his bones.

He was trapped.

The burn lingered, stinging sharply against his skin. Stan’s voice cracked as he forced himself to sit up, his eyes locking onto his. Anything to make the burning stop.

"I-I'm sorry," he stammered, his voice shaking.

Marc grinned, pulling the cigar away with a slow, deliberate motion. "Good. You’re payin’ attention now. You’re gonna learn to be smarter, boy. You shut your mouth and do as you’re told."

Stan nodded, his body trembling.

"Now go clean yourself up," Marc added, eyeing him with disdain. "You look like hell. Takeout’ll be here in fifteen."

Stan stumbled to his feet, his leg throbbing. He limped to the bathroom, his mind reeling. He locked the door behind him, his breaths coming out in ragged gasps. He leaned against the sink, his hands gripping the edge of the counter as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

His eyes were wide, his face pale. He looked terrified.

He was terrified. 

Things got harder—obviously. But if there was one silver lining, Stan’s boxing was improving. Every fight sharpened his reflexes, taught him how to take a punch, and most importantly, how to hit back harder. It was....addicting. The 5% of the earnings he made was next to nothing, but he saved it up where he could.

He picked up pickpocketing on the side, a skill he’d honed over time, and thankfully, it was something Marc never caught wind of. The few extra bucks Stan swiped from spectators or shady characters went straight into the floorboards of the attic where he stashed his hidden cash.

But it wasn’t just boxing that consumed his time. Stan had to prepare for the standardized tests required for college admissions. Marc didn’t care, of course—he’d scoff whenever Stan mentioned studying—but Stan knew it was the only way out of this mess. He forced himself to sit down with practice exams every night, hunched over on the thin mattress in that musty attic, battered and bruised from the ring.

The studying was... brutal in its own way. It wasn’t like boxing, where his instincts could take over. His brain refused to cooperate. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t focus, and the material just wouldn’t stick. Pages blurred together, numbers and words slipping through his mind like sand. It bored him senseless, and a gnawing frustration rose in his chest every time he looked at those test questions.

He wasn't smart. He wasn't like Ford.

But he had to try.

So, he kept at it. He forced himself to stay focused, to push through the exhaustion and the pain. He had to. Because what else could he do?

One night, while he was washing dishes, Marc leaned over, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and asked, “So, what’s the big plan, huh? What’re you gonna study if you ever make it to college?”

Stan hesitated, wiping his hands on a towel. He thought back to the afternoons he spent sneaking off to the library. Marine science had caught his eye. He didn’t know why, but something about the ocean—its mystery and depth— fascinated him. He always knew the Stan-o-War would linger in the back of his mind, but maybe, just maybe those dreams could be reality. He could almost imagine Ford there, teasing him, calling him a nerd. It brought a small, fleeting smile to his face.

But he wasn't Ford.

Marc’s laugh broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to reality.

“Marine science? You serious?” He asked, chuckling as he took a drag from his cigarette. “Kid, you ain’t gonna make a dime with that. You oughta be thinking practical—accounting. Business. that’s where the money’s at.”

Stan frowned, biting the inside of his cheek. He didn’t say anything, but the weight of Marc's words hung over him like a shadow. Was he right? Marine science wasn’t exactly the most lucrative career. But accounting? The thought of crunching numbers for the rest of his life made him feel sick.

He must’ve noticed the hesitation, because his tone shifted, darker. “What’s the matter, boy? Need a little lesson on paying attention?”

Stan’s heart skipped a beat, his muscles tensing involuntarily. He shook his head quickly, forcing a smile and giving a feeble excuse. “No, no... I was just, uh... thinkin’ about all the money I’d rake in with accounting. That’s all.”

Marc clapped him on the shoulder, his voice taking on a more serious tone.

"Look, kid, I'm just trying to help you out. You gotta think about the future. You can't live off of dreams forever."

Stan nodded, his shoulders slumping.

"Yeah, I know. Thanks."

Marc smirked, satisfied, and nodded as he turned back to his newspaper. But Stan’s mind was racing, the cold knot of resentment tightening in his chest.

In the quiet moments of the night, after the dishes were done and Marc had gone to bed, Stan lay awake on his thin mattress, staring at the ceiling. 

Marine science... Ford would’ve laughed. But maybe, just maybe, he would’ve understood too.

Chapter Text

Then:

Men came and went, looking for fast cash or a place to channel their aggression, but Stan’s presence was the one constant. He watched faces cycle through the locker rooms—bruised, bloody, desperate faces—but none of them stuck around. Not like he did. He was becoming a fixture, a familiar name in the shadows. A fighter whose losses were just as valuable as his wins, though for reasons that made his skin crawl.

It was one of those nights, when he walked into the locker room, that he felt every set of eyes lock onto him. The men—burly, scarred, and mean—were talking in low tones when he arrived, but the second he stepped through the door, their conversation shifted. The tone grew darker, the energy heavier, until Stan could feel it like a weight pressing down on him. They whistled, called him names, leered like animals sizing up prey.

"Hey, sweetheart, lookin' good tonight," one of them jeered, leaning back against the lockers with a grin that made Stan’s stomach churn.

Stan ignored it, as he always did. But he felt dirty, like their gazes were stripping him down, violating him before he even stepped into the ring. He felt like an object. Like something disposable. His hands clenched at his sides as he forced himself to keep walking, heading straight for his locker.

It wasn’t new—this gross, slimy feeling of being preyed on—but it never got easier. He hated it. Hated the way they looked at him, the way they talked about him like he wasn’t even there, just some piece of meat to be used and thrown away.

But this was all he had. Was he really better off on the streets? Probably not. He'd imagine he'd burn bridges with his failed product scams—half the states in the country would have his mugshot on file, and he probably would be on a no-fly list.

Pickpocketing wasn’t lucrative enough, and he didn’t have the guts to willingly sell drugs (though, he had a sneaking suspicion that those deliveries contained....interesting contents.). So this? This disgusting, degrading world was the only option left. And at least, in some twisted way, it helped with his anger. His rage at the world, at his father for kicking him out, at Ford for being the golden child, and at himself—for never being good enough.

He sat down heavily on the bench and began taping his hands. "One year," he muttered to himself under his breath. "Maybe a year and a half. Then I'm outta here."

Marc walked in not long after, a grin plastered on his face like always. Stan didn’t look up, but he felt the man’s eyes on him, felt the tension in the air shift as he made his way over.

"You ready for tonight, kid?" Marc asked, clapping a hand on Stan's shoulder. "This one’s a big deal. Got some good money ridin' on you."

Stan grimaced, not breaking his focus on his hands. "Yeah, I’m ready."

Marc chuckled, his grip tightening for a second. "Good. We’ve got a lotta eyes on you tonight. You make sure you don’t mess this up."

Stan nodded, though his stomach turned at the thought. "I won't."

The fight that night was brutal. Stan had fought dirty opponents before, but this one seemed intent on breaking him. He barely dodged a few low blows, his muscles aching, and for a moment, he thought he had him—he thought he could win. But in the final round, his legs gave out, and the guy landed a hit that sent him sprawling.

By the time Stan dragged himself back to the locker room, his ribs were on fire, his face swollen, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. He half-expected Marc to meet him with a sneer, some snide comment about his performance, but instead, the man stood waiting with a strange grin on his face.

“You did good today,”  Marc said, surprising Stan. “Made me a decent pile of cash.”

 
Stan frowned, confusion replacing the sting of defeat. "How? I didn’t even win."

Marc shrugged, his smile widening. "Doesn't matter. You put on a good show, and that's what matters."

Stan didn't understand. He didn't understand why Marc was so happy, why the other guys were giving him knowing looks, or why the locker room felt so different.

He started pulling his things together, feeling an uneasy knot forming in his stomach. “We heading out?” he asked, trying to steer the conversation.

“Not quite yet,” Marc replied, voice smooth, almost too casual. “Got a slight change of plans tonight.”

Stan’s hand froze on his gym bag. “Change of plans?” he echoed, trying to keep his tone steady.

“Yeah,” Marc nodded, already turning toward the door. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

Stan hesitated but followed. His legs were aching, and every fiber of his being was screaming at him to be on guard. They wound through the hallways of the dingy venue until Marc led him to a small back room. The second Stan stepped inside, he felt something was wrong. A man from before—one his coach had been whispering to during the match—was sitting on a shabby couch, grinning at him.

“This is gonna be fun,” the man said, his voice oozing with a sick pleasure.

Stan’s pulse quickened. He turned back toward the door, but Marc was already stepping out, the lock clicking into place behind him.

“Hey, wait—what the hell is this?” Stan called out, panic seeping into his voice as he rattled the handle. But the door wouldn’t budge.

The man stood up, his eyes dark and hungry.

"You know, I've been watching you for a while now," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "And I gotta say, you're a real pretty boy. Took a helluva lot of time to convince the big man, but he came around real quick."

Stan's stomach dropped. He backed away, his heart pounding in his chest.

"W-what are you talking about?"

The man grinned, his teeth stained yellow. "I'm talking about how much I'd love to see you on your knees."

And that was when it started. He fought—he tried so damn hard to get free—but it didn’t matter. He was already exhausted, overpowered. And when he woke up, bruised and aching, he wasn’t even sure how long he’d been unconscious. He was back at Marc’s house, lying in his bed, lower body sore, his clothes soaked with sweat, smelling metallic and wrong.

It became routine after that. Every time Stan lost, there was "punishment." A new man, a high-stakes offer, and Stan's dignity on the line. Each time, dread welled up in his chest, suffocating him. He tried not to think about it, to detach himself when they touched him, when they forced him to look them in the eye. But no matter how much he tried, each encounter left him feeling filthier, more hollow.

Marc, however, was manipulative, painting himself as both punisher and provider. After certain 'fights', he’d praise Stan, telling him he’d done a good job, even buying him a decent meal or some slightly better clothes. He had even surprised Stan with a nicer mattress, trying to convince him that things weren't as bad as they seemed. As hard as Stan fought against it, a small part of him wondered if Marc wasn’t all bad. He wrestled with the thought: what would have happened if he hadn’t accepted Marc's deal? Would he be forced to go through this while homeless? 

It made Stan feel conflicted. The cash was decent, enough to keep him off the streets, but the price was everything else. Sometimes, he’d imagine what Ford would say if he knew. A cruel, judgmental version of Ford that lived in his head would tell him he deserved it, that this was karma for everything he’d screwed up. He could almost hear the belittling tone, see the look of disgust in his brother's eyes.

But then, there was the other Ford—the kinder one—who’d sit with him as he tried to sleep, whispering that things would get better, that he didn’t deserve what was happening. That someday, he’d be on his own in a good way. He'd never have to look back. Stan clung to that voice, hoping it was right.

But sometimes, when he’d stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, all he could see was the other Ford, staring back with disappointment.

Marc thrived on this dynamic. Each time Stan walked out of one of those rooms, bruised and feeling more like an object than a person, Marc would be waiting, that sickening, self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. They’d head to the car, and Marc would casually count the money, thumbing through the bills with total disregard for what had just happened.

"Made a good haul tonight," Marc would say, tossing a stack of cash onto Stan’s lap as if it was a reward.

Stan would stare at the money, his stomach churning. He wanted to throw it back at Marc, to scream, to tell him how revolting he was. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Because he knew that if he did, Marc would throw him out, and he’d be back on the streets.

So, he kept his mouth shut and took the money. 

After a while, Stan started trying to make himself less appealing, desperate to do anything that might make the men lose interest. He’d seen the kinds of marks Marc left on his body when he talked back—and he figured if he added more, maybe it would turn them off. Maybe it would make him look too damaged, too ugly, for their tastes.

He’d go into the bathroom late at night and press the end of a lit cigarette to his skin, watching it sizzle and blister. Sometimes, he’d cut himself with a razor, leaving small, angry red lines across his legs and stomach. Ford's reflection would look at him, grimacing - one out of disgust, the other out of pity. It hurt, but the pain was better than the alternative. It made him feel in control like he could reclaim some part of himself in the midst of all the filth.

But it didn’t work.

If anything, the men seemed more interested. They liked it. They’d run their fingers over the burns and cuts, whispering disgusting things about "adding to it," about how broken he looked. Stan would shut his eyes and try to block it out, trying to imagine he was anywhere else. But their hands always pulled him back to reality, their voices demanding his attention.

Eventually, Stan began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he could flip the script. If he could take control of this situation on his own terms, make more money without relying on Marc’s disgusting schemes. The idea turned his stomach at first, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So, one night, after another fight, Stan drove out to Manhattan. He found himself in a dingy bar, the kind of place where no one asked questions, where the people sitting at the counter were just as lost as he was. He waited. Watched. And eventually, someone took the bait.

It was a man, older than him, with a gruff voice and a hungry look in his eyes. He was drunk, but not too drunk to notice the way Stan was looking at him.

"You lookin' for a good time, love?" the man asked, his voice low and rough.

Stan swallowed, his heart pounding in his chest. "Yeah," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm lookin' for a good time."

The man grinned, his eyes roaming over Stan's body. "Well, then, let's get outta here."

It was a business transaction, nothing more. Stan named his price, and they agreed. They went back to the man's apartment, and Stan did what he had to do. And, for the first time in what felt like forever, he was the one in control. He wasn’t the one being used—he was the one charging for it. The power felt intoxicating at first, a rush that made him feel alive, if only for a brief moment.

Afterward, the man gave him a wad of cash and told him to come back anytime. 

He didn't go back.

Sometimes, the people he met in those bars were nice about it. They weren’t all monsters like the men from the ring. Hell, sometimes it was even women—soft-spoken, kind women who didn’t look at him like a broken thing. But most of the time, the people he met were just as desperate and lonely as he was. They were looking for a release, a way to escape the harsh realities of their lives, and he was happy to provide that.

But, no matter how many times he did it, no matter how much money he made, Stan always felt dirty afterward. He would go home, take a shower, and scrub his skin until it was raw.

After yet another sleepless night, Marc slapped a stack of pamphlets down on the kitchen table with a grunt. The sound jolted Stan out of his foggy morning daze, his stomach clenching at the sight of Marc’s stern expression.

"Here," Marc said, his voice gruff as usual. "These are the colleges you could try and get into. Better start lookin’, unless you’re happy with where you are."

Stan eyed the pamphlets, his face carefully blank as he reached out to grab the pile. A part of him wanted to ignore them, to shove them off the table and say he didn't need Marc’s help, but another part—a quieter, desperate part—urged him to look. As he flipped through the pamphlets, Marc rambled on about how this was his one shot, how he better not screw it up. Stan’s mind, however, was already tuning him out.

He skimmed the glossy papers without much interest until one of them caught his eye: Backupsmore University. His breath hitched as he spotted it in the list of course offerings. Marine Science.

His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic rhythm that drowned out Marc’s droning voice. Marine Science. It was there, clear as day, staring back at him like a tiny beacon of hope. For a split second, he felt a rush of excitement—his dream hadn’t slipped through his fingers just yet.

But almost instantly, two familiar voices materialized in his mind, both belonging to Ford.

One of them grasped his shoulder, eyes wide with an optimistic gleam. “This is it! This is your chance, Stan! You have to take it! It’s perfect!” This Ford bounced on his feet, practically vibrating with excitement, his energy infectious. 

But then, the other Ford cut in, his voice sharp and dripping with disdain. “Are you serious? Backupsmore?” He scoffed, arms crossed. “What makes you think you could get into a four-year private university? You, the guy who ruined my chance at one? And for this dump?” That version of Ford was always there, lurking in the back of Stan’s mind, ready to remind him of every single mistake, every ounce of guilt he carried on his shoulders.

Stan’s stomach twisted at the conflicting voices in his head. He wanted to scream, to tell them both to just shut up for a second so he could just think for himself, but instead, he forced himself to push those feelings down. This was a chance—his chance—and he wasn’t going to let it slip away, no matter how many versions of Ford told him otherwise.

"This one," Stan said, holding up the pamphlet. His voice came out steadier than he felt.

Marc barely glanced at it, his expression bored and unimpressed. "Backupsmore? You serious? That place ain’t got much goin’ for it. What’s the angle, business or somethin’?"

"Yeah," Stan lied quickly, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “Don’t mention marine science,” he scolded himself. “Don’t give him a reason to shoot it down.” He took a shaky breath. "Business and Accounting. Two-in-one deal."

Marc’s eyes flicked up from the pamphlet, narrowing slightly. For a second, Stan’s heart thudded with fear that he’d seen through the lie, but then Marc just nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good. I’ll talk to my guy, see if he can get you in for a boxing tryout."

"How long do you think that’ll take?" Stan asked, trying to keep his voice casual, though tension wound tightly in his chest.

Marc shrugged, already losing interest. "It's summer, so its prime scouting time. But, it could be a while. Just don’t hold your breath, kid. You ain’t exactly top-tier material." He turned away, heading to the fridge for a beer as if the conversation was already over.

Stan clenched his jaw, fingers tightening around the pamphlet until the edges crumpled. “You ain’t exactly top-tier material.” The cruel Ford in his mind nodded in agreement, a smirk playing on his lips. “He’s right, you know. You’re lucky anyone’s giving you a chance at all. Especially since you do 'more' than just boxing. It's honestly disgusting. Imagine if they found out!”

Stan shoved his chair back and left the kitchen without another word, the pamphlet still clutched in his hand. As he trudged down the hallway to the attic, the hopeful Ford in his mind tried to speak up, his voice wavering but determined. “You can do this. Don’t listen to him. This is your shot. You can turn things around.”

He pushed open the door to his room and closed it behind him, leaning his back against the cool wood. His eyes dropped to the pamphlet in his hands, focusing on the words Marine Science printed in neat, bold letters. He crossed the room to his bed and sank onto it, feeling the mattress creak under his weight.

“You can do this,” the hopeful Ford urged again, settling beside him, and putting a supportive hand on his shoulder. Stan wanted so badly to believe it, to hold onto that glimmer of optimism, but the other Ford’s voice cut through, harsh and bitter. “You’re deluding yourself, Stan. What makes you think you deserve this? After what you did?”

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the pamphlet in both hands.“This is my chance,” he reminded himself, over and over, as if saying it enough would make it true.

Chapter Text

Then:

Stan stepped into the gym in August, the light catching on the polished hardwood floors. This wasn’t the grimy, underground setup he’d grown used to; this place was pristine, with neatly arranged equipment and a proper boxing ring right in the center. A thrill surged through him—a mix of nerves and excitement—as he scanned the room, looking for Coach Daniel.

Unlike the men Marc usually paraded him in front of, Daniel seemed different. He was calm, observant, not the leering type Stan was used to. Daniel was a friend of a friend of a friend, someone Marc had contacted in a last-ditch effort to “move Stan forward.” Despite how horrible Marc was, he always kept his word, and that consistency made Stan’s stomach twist. But to Stan, this meeting felt like a crack in the cage he’d been trapped in.

"Let’s see what you’ve got, son," Daniel called out, nodding toward the ring.

Stan didn’t hesitate. He climbed into the ring, settling into his stance as other fighters and gym-goers glanced his way. He moved through his routine, punches snapping through the air, footwork precise and sharp. Every jab and cross, every dodge, was a testament to the grueling hours he’d endured. And for once, he wasn’t surrounded by jeers or scorn; this was legitimate.

Daniel stood at the edge of the ring, arms crossed, nodding occasionally as he jotted down notes. Being watched with something like respect—real, honest respect—sent a jolt through Stan. He pushed harder, ignoring the burn in his muscles.

Finally, Daniel motioned for him to stop. Stan hopped down, chest heaving, and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from his face.

"Not bad," Daniel said, a small smile forming. "You’ve got good instincts. Fast, too."

Stan beamed. It was the first genuine compliment about his boxing he could remember. Marc’s words were always manipulative, backhanded at best. But this—this felt real.

"So," Daniel continued, tucking his notepad under his arm, "here’s what happens next. You’re gonna fill out an application for the university. There’s a fee you’ll need to pay upfront; nothing crazy, but it’s there."

Stan nodded, trying to absorb every word. He’d known there would be costs, but hearing it made it all the more real.

"You planning on taking out a loan?" Daniel asked, raising an eyebrow.

Stan’s stomach tightened. He shook his head. "No… I don’t have my documents. They’re back... at home," he muttered, bitterness creeping into his voice.

Daniel studied him for a moment, then nodded as if he understood more than Stan had said. "Alright, paying upfront is your best bet. Probably easier if you start part-time. Once you’re in, you can talk to the Billing Department."

Stan nodded again, though it all sounded daunting. Yet, for the first time, it felt possible.

Daniel stepped closer, placing a firm hand on Stan’s shoulder. "You seem like a good kid. I don’t know how you got mixed up with...him, but I’ll do what I can to help you." He glanced toward the door where Marc had wandered off. "Marc’s got a reputation. But you’re not him, Stan. You’re better."

Stan felt his breath catch. How much does he know about Marc? About me...what I do? Part of him wanted to ask, to dig for answers, but he kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t safe to talk openly. Not yet.

Daniel slipped a card into Stan’s hand. "Here’s my number. If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to call."

For the first time in the past 17 months, he felt like he might have a real shot at something better. Not just scraps thrown his way to keep him satisfied. Not just false promises dangled in front of him by people like Marc.

But something real.

By late September, reality had set in. Stan sat hunched over the rickety desk in the attic, his calculations sprawled across the pages.

 Six thousand dollars. It loomed like a mountain, towering and unmovable, and the longer he stared at the numbers, the more they blurred, making his temples pound.

He tapped his pencil against the paper in a steady rhythm, the soft thunk the only sound breaking the silence of the attic. He’d mapped it all out: tuition, fees, books, and even the "technology" bullshit the university tacked on to the bill. A fee for this, a fee for that—Stan snorted under his breath. Every time he looked closer, there seemed to be a new one. Activity fees, a special charge for business majors, and then a stupid "general" fee on top of it all. And the “technology fee”? Seriously? Who the hell charges you for tech just to study? He shook his head bitterly. And none of that included what he’d need just to live—food, rent, gas for the car. Not to mention the drive from New Jersey to Indiana, which churned his stomach just thinking about it.

Six grand for the first year alone. And he knew it wouldn’t stop there. Three, maybe four years of this. It felt suffocating, like a weight pressing down on his chest.

There was a sliver of hope, however small. The scholarship Daniel had mentioned could cover some of the expenses—books, equipment, even travel for games. If he could somehow enroll as a full-time student, he might get a bit more support too. But right now...he just couldn’t afford to think about being a full-time student.

And then there was health insurance — it covered that too. God knows he needed it, given all he’d been through. But that opened up a whole other can of worms. How could he even begin to explain to the nurses and doctors what had happened to him?

There were also those vague mentions of financial aid, whispers that they might be able to help him get new documents—things that could let him apply for a loan. That glimmer of relief surfaced for a moment before reality came crashing back down, reminding him of how far off that possibility really was.

And yet, despite all of it, he’d somehow scraped enough together to cover at least the first year, but he needed more. Stan gripped the pencil tightly, jaw clenched. I guess getting beaten to a pulp and touched by weird old men can be profitable, he thought darkly. Blood money scraped together from endless fights, slipped into hidden spots Marc would never think to check. He’d stashed what he could—floorboards, vents, even the back of a broken mirror in the bathroom.

But after that first year? He was on his own.

Stan bit his lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as he ran through the numbers again. No matter how many times he looked, the math didn’t change. At this rate, he’d be lucky to make it to the spring semester Daniel had talked about. Fall? That was a pipe dream. His hands clenched into fists as frustration bubbled up inside him. He’d come this far and clawed his way through every obstacle, but even now, the future seemed just out of reach.

He gritted his teeth and made the decision that he really didn’t want to make. Asking Marc for help was like dancing on the edge of a cliff—you never knew when he’d push you over. But the alternatives were scarce, and time was running out. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he found Marc slouched on the couch, flipping through a TV guide.

“Marc,” Stan started, clearing his throat. His voice wavered just enough to make Marc glance up, one eyebrow cocked. “I need some extra cash. Got any... recommendations?”

“What happened to those ‘deliveries’ I had you do?” Marc asked an air of nonchalance in his voice. Stan clenched his jaw. The package drop-offs had been risky enough; he’d hated every second of it. Always looking over his shoulder, wondering if he was about to get caught in something way over his head.

Hell, one of them hissed at him.

“I need something more... lucrative,” Stan replied, the words almost sticking in his throat. Marc stared at him for a long moment, and Stan could feel the man’s eyes boring into him, dissecting every last piece of his desperation.

Marc sighed dramatically as if Stan had just asked him to pull a miracle out of thin air. “Lucrative, huh? Well, aren’t you ambitious?”

Stan’s stomach twisted. He hated that look; it usually meant Marc was considering something dangerous or, worse, a new form of “punishment” for his insolence.

“Look, kid, you want something big, you gotta be willing to get your hands dirty,” Marc said, leaning back into the couch, crossing one leg over the other. “I do know a guy who's been harassing me for some... assistance.”

Stan’s heart pounded faster, a mixture of curiosity and dread building within him. “What kind of assistance?” he asked cautiously.

Marc didn't mince words. “Cartel work.” He watched Stan carefully as he let the words sink in as if daring him to flinch. Stan blinked, his throat going dry, but he didn’t react the way Marc might have expected.

“Yeah,” Marc continued, waving a hand dismissively, “I know you’ve got morals or whatever. But morals don’t fill your pockets. It’s big bucks, kid. You want to get out, do your college thing, live the life you want? Might be a good idea. Of course,” he added, glancing at Stan with a mocking grin, “you could always play more matches. Or, you know...” He trailed off, his eyes gleaming as he let the implication hang in the air. “Entertain some of the clients I’ve got in mind.”

Stan’s stomach churned violently, a wave of nausea nearly bringing him to his knees. “I-I’ll... think about the first offer,” he stammered, trying to keep his voice steady. Marc shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other. To him, it was all just a game.

“Well, you know where to find me,” Marc said with a smirk before turning his attention back to the TV guide, ending the conversation as if they’d just discussed the weather.

Stan turned on his heel, retreating back to his room. He closed the door behind him, the silence pressing in around him like a vice. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he paced back and forth, his mind racing. Cartel work? Was that really what he was about to consider? Why the hell couldn't Marc know NORMAL people? Some dog breeders? Pyramid schemes? Hell, a mechanic?

He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. He felt like he was staring into a Pandora’s box, the kind that could either destroy him or offer a path out of this nightmare.

And that's when the Fords populated his mind. 

The first voice was harsh, sharp, and relentless, cutting through his thoughts with a biting edge. "This is a terrible idea, Stanley. You’ve barely managed to survive this long, and now you’re thinking about getting involved with the cartel? Are you out of your mind? You know better than this—Marc is setting you up for a fall, and you're walking right into it." 

Stan squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his temples. He didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to acknowledge how true that voice might be.

The second voice, though softer, wasn’t any kinder. It carried the same weight of disappointment, though with a more measured tone. "Do you really think this ‘opportunity’ will lead to anything good? You have a future with Daniel. Don’t throw it away." It spoke with a tinge of regret, as if already seeing the path Stan was headed down.

He waved his hand dismissively as if he could physically push those voices out of his head. "I don’t have any other options!" he muttered under his breath, frustration bubbling up from deep inside him. 

He sighed. “What the hell am I getting into?” 

He didn’t know if he could answer that question. All he knew was that he was desperate.

November came, and Stan stood outside a payphone, shivering in the cold. He inserted his last quarters, the metal icy against his skin. This was it. He’d mailed his application earlier that morning. Now he was calling Daniel.

“Hello?” Daniel’s voice was warm, curious, and—thankfully—unfamiliar to Marc. Stan exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cold air, before clearing his throat.

“Hey, Coach Daniel,” Stan started, clutching the phone like a lifeline. “It’s uh, Stan. Stanley Pines. You evaluated me in August. New Jersey? I just wanted to let you know I mailed out the application.”

There was a brief moment of silence, and Stan’s heart sank. Maybe I shouldn’t have called… Maybe he’s busy. Does he even know my name? — His thoughts were cut off by a sudden, loud whoop from the other end.

“I knew you’d do it!” Daniel’s voice rang out, full of excitement and pride. Stan blinked, momentarily taken aback by the man’s enthusiasm. It had been so long since someone had been genuinely happy for him. “That’s great, Stan. I’ve already put in a good word with the admissions office. Told them you’d be a great addition to the team.”

Stan’s heart fluttered, and he found himself grinning like an idiot. “Y-Yeah?” he stammered, fumbling in his pocket for his notebook and pencil. “So, what happens now?”

"Well, since you missed the deadline for the upcoming spring semester," Daniel explained, "you’ll be in the candidate pool for the fall and next spring. But hey, that’s not a bad thing. It gives you more time to get things in order."

He nodded to himself before realizing Daniel couldn’t see him. “Yeah… Yeah, that’s fine. Gives me more time to prepare, y'know?”

“Exactly,” Daniel replied, sounding pleased. “If all goes well, you could start in the fall. You might even have the chance to take some summer classes and get a head start before the season begins. You mentioned being unsure about payment, but once you're here, you can go to the Billing office and see if they can help you with future payments. They can probably help you find some third-party scholarships as well, they won't be much, but it'll give nice chump change. Oh! And I'll help you practice in the meantime. We’ll make sure you’re ready.”

 He quickly scribbled down all the additional information in his notebook, his handwriting messy but legible.  Daniel continued, “Now, about your major. Have you given that any thought?”

Stan tensed, his heart skipping a beat. Marine science. He could see the words right there in his mind, as clear as day. He could almost feel the salty sea breeze on his face, the thrill of exploring what lay beneath the waves. But Marc’s shadow loomed large, his threats and punishments lurking in the background of his thoughts. If Marc found out... Stan swallowed hard, feeling a tightness in his chest.

“Uh, business and accounting,” he forced out, his voice almost robotic.

There was a moment of silence before Daniel hummed thoughtfully. “Business and accounting, huh? That’s pretty common among athletes, so you'll be in good company,” he said, his tone neutral. “Makes sense, though. It’s practical. But, just so you know, you’ll have to take electives as part of the degree program.”

Stan blinked, the unexpected twist catching him off guard. “Electives? Like... what kind?”

“It’s part of the university’s way of making students ‘well-rounded,’” Daniel explained, and Stan could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “Basically, you can take classes outside your major. You know, art, humanities, history, science....honestly anything you'd be interested in. Keeps you there longer, if you ask me." 

"Wait, so… I can take any kind of elective?" Stan asked, his heart beginning to pound for a different reason. Could he really? The idea of slipping in a marine science class without Marc knowing…

"Essentially, yeah," Daniel answered. "If you ever decide to go full-time, you could even double major, though it’ll cost more."

Stan gripped the phone, a rush of hope surging through him. He could feel a grin spreading across his face, one that he had to force himself to suppress. “That... that’s good to know,” he stammered, his brain racing. This was it. A chance to make a plan, to escape Marc’s grasp. Maybe he could actually do this. “Thanks, Coach. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Stan. And remember, if you need help with anything else, just call me,” Daniel said warmly. “You’re on the right track. Keep your head up.”

Stan hung up the phone, slipping it back onto the hook as he tucked his notebook into his jacket. His breath hung in the air, visible in the cold, as Ford’s voices surged forward in his mind like a familiar tide. 

Chapter Text

Then:

Stan really, really didn’t know what he was getting himself into. Every alarm in his brain had gone off, screaming at him to bail while he still could, yet here he was, three days later, parked outside an abandoned factory near Randall’s Island. The building loomed against the sky, casting a shadow over him that matched the pit in his stomach. He leaned back against the seat, staring out the grimy windshield as he tried to calm his nerves. The wind howled through the cracked windows, filling the car with the sharp scent of the East River. It was cold, damp, and everything about it screamed, bad idea.

His fingers drummed a restless beat on the steering wheel, a subconscious attempt to steady his nerves. In his jacket, he felt the weight of the brass knuckles he had bought for himself a while back. Just in case. Beneath his seat was a pistol, the one Marc had “generously” given him as a favor. Favor, his ass. Marc probably wanted him armed so he wouldn’t be easy pickings. When Marc handed over the gun, he’d rolled his eyes, acting like he was doing Stan some grand courtesy, but Stan had taken it anyway.

He wasn’t stupid.

He knew what kind of people he was dealing with now. And as much as he hated to admit it, having the gun made him feel a little less helpless.

The doubts gnawed at him, though. Part of him just wanted to turn the key, slam the gas, and peel out of there, leaving this whole mess behind. This was reckless—insane, even. He didn’t know Rico, didn’t know what the plan was beyond vague instructions to "drive." But the other part of him, the one that had learned to survive off the adrenaline of bad decisions and high-stakes risks, felt something else—a thrill. Maybe it was the idea of a car chase. He’d read comics about this kind of thing, and seen movies where the hero races through city streets, dodging bullets and bad guys. Not that he thought of himself as some kind of hero. But the thought of outrunning danger in a high-speed chase gave him a buzz. His life was already a series of gambles, so what was one more?

Then again, he reminded himself, this wasn’t a comic book. There were no guarantees he’d come out of this unscathed. If anything, he was here for the money, plain and simple. That’s what mattered. It was his ticket out of Marc’s grasp, out of the sickening cycle he was stuck in. It wasn’t about adrenaline or proving anything—it was about getting the cash to buy himself a new start.

A sudden thunk against the trunk startled him, sending his heart leaping into his throat. He spun around, eyes wide as he caught sight of Rico standing by the car, glaring at him with impatience. The man’s eyes were sharp, assessing Stan like he was some sort of inconvenience rather than the getaway driver. Stan’s heart hammered as he fumbled for the trunk release, hoping Rico hadn’t noticed the way his hands were shaking.

The trunk creaked open, and Rico tossed his horde inside before slamming it shut with a force that made Stan wince. But he knew better than to say anything. Rico wouldn’t care, not about his car, not about him. The man’s expression was all business, his dark eyes cold and calculating.

Rico stalked over to the passenger side and hopped in, closing the door behind him with a sharp click. “If you want to live till tomorrow, you better hurry the hell up,” he sneered, his lips curling into a twisted grin.

Stan fought the urge to snap back. He turned the key, the engine roaring to life as he threw the car into reverse. “It’s quiet,” he muttered, his eyes scanning the desolate surroundings. “How could we have possibly been follo—”

The sharp, cracking sound of gunfire shattered the air around them. The bullet whizzed past the rearview mirror, missing it by inches. Every muscle in Stan’s body went rigid, his heart slamming against his ribcage. He barely registered Rico cursing in rapid Spanish, shouting at him to move.

“¡Mueve, pendejo! Drive!” Rico’s voice was harsh, grating against his ears.

“I’m working on it!” Stan shot back, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He slammed his foot on the gas, the tires squealing as the car lurched forward. Another bullet ricocheted off the trunk, the sound echoing in his ears.

Rico cursed again, his voice laced with venom. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a pistol before rolling down the window.

Stan glanced over, eyes wide. What the hell was he doing?

Rico leaned out, firing off a few shots. The gunshots were deafening in the cramped space.

Stan swerved, narrowly missing a pothole. Rico ducked back inside, his expression grim, and shot Stan a sharp look.

Stan swallowed, his throat dry, feeling the weight of Rico's gaze.

"What?" he snapped, his voice unsteady.

"You're a really shitty driver," Rico replied flatly.

"Oh, excuse me," Stan shot back, dripping with sarcasm. "I'm a little busy trying not to get us killed !"

Rico snorted but said nothing more.

Stan glanced in the rearview mirror, his gut twisting as he counted six cars in pursuit. Six. He gritted his teeth, eyes flicking between the road and the mirror. “Road safety laws, prepare to be ignored,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

More shots rang out, and Stan ducked instinctively as the back window shattered. Pain seared across his arm—a bullet had grazed him. He hissed, eyes stinging as he fought to keep control.

Rico fired another round before ducking back into the car. His gaze shifted to Stan’s arm, his eyes gleaming with a mix of anger and amusement.

“You’re lucky,” Rico said, his voice low and steady. “Could’ve been a lot worse.”

Stan’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the lucky type,” he muttered.

Rico chuckled darkly, sending a chill down Stan’s spine. “You might want to reconsider that.”

Stan swerved, weaving between cars and obstacles, trying to lose the tail. Rico was shouting something again, but Stan could barely hear him over the chaos in his mind. He needed a plan, and fast.

Rico leaned out the window, firing more shots. One of the cars behind them veered off, crashing into a lamppost.

Rico let out a triumphant laugh. “¡Perdí uno! Now lose the rest, gringo!”

Stan gritted his teeth. How? His mind raced. The Lincoln Tunnel was coming up—maybe he could fake them out, act like he was going for it, then swerve toward the Holland Tunnel at the last second. Risky, but it was all he had.

“Here goes nothing,” he muttered, jerking the wheel left to feign toward Lincoln. At the last second, he swerved right, cutting across lanes toward Holland. The cars behind scrambled, three of them veering off in the wrong direction.

Rico whooped, adrenaline surging through his voice. Stan’s heart pounded as he caught sight of the tunnel’s glowing lights ahead. They were almost there.

Rico fired a few more shots, and another car crashed. His laughter echoed in the car as he finally settled back into his seat, casually running a hand through his hair as though they weren’t in the middle of a high-speed chase. “Who would’ve thought? A gringo with brains,” he chuckled. “Thought I’d have to kick your corpse out and finish the job myself.”

Stan grimaced. “Thanks,” he muttered dryly, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

They sped through Jersey, the city’s skyline shrinking in the rearview mirror as they merged onto the highway. The adrenaline buzzed through Stan’s veins, blurring the lines of fear and exhilaration. He didn’t dare look at Rico, who sat beside him, oddly calm. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, calculating something Stan didn’t want to know about. As the reality of what he’d just done started to sink in, his thoughts turned inward.

What are you even doing? he thought, heart pounding against his ribs. 

And then, almost predictably, that other voice—Ford's voice—crept into his mind. Cold, analytical, and condescending. Stanley, you idiot, it sneered. Did you ever think for a second what you’re risking here? Your life for a pocketful of cash? You should have run the other way the second Marc introduced you to that psychopath.

Stan grit his teeth, his jaw locking tight. Shut up, he barked back internally. He didn’t need this, didn’t need the echo of his brother’s judgments following him even now. But it was there, lingering like a specter in the passenger seat.

He had to keep his eyes on the prize: the money. The chance at a new life.

Rico broke the silence, his voice cutting through the hum of the engine. “You did good back there,” he said, almost lazily, as if the car chase had been just another Tuesday for him. “Got us clear out of the city, no problem.”

Stan glanced sideways at him, still tense. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “I had some practice.” He wasn’t about to go into the details of his past car scams or the way he’d learned to navigate tight city streets for his pickpocket schemes. Rico didn’t seem to care, anyway. The man was already rummaging through his jacket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a flick of his wrist.

“Practice is one thing,” Rico said through a cloud of smoke, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “But surviving this kind of work? That’s another. You got a lot to learn if you’re planning to stay in the game.” He took a long drag, the orange glow briefly lighting up his face, casting sharp shadows that made him look even more menacing.

Stan's stomach twisted at the implication. Stay in the game? Hell no. This was a one-and-done job. He just needed to get Rico to North Carolina, get his cash, and disappear.

“Nah,” he replied, keeping his tone as nonchalant as possible. “This is a one-time gig. I’ve got other plans.” He tried to keep his voice steady, confident, as if he actually had some grand scheme beyond this.

Rico turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Other plans? Like what? Running away to play house in some quiet town?”

His voice dripped with mockery, as if the idea was laughable. “Listen, chico, there ain’t no running away in this business. You’re in it, or you’re out. And once you’re in…” He let the words hang in the air, the silence filling in what he didn’t say.

Stan forced his grip to relax on the wheel, even as his mind churned. Ford’s right, a nagging part of him whispered. You’re stuck in a cycle, and it’s only getting worse. But then, that other, louder part of him—the part that had kept him alive this long—flared up in defiance. I’m not stuck. I’m just passing through.

Rico didn’t press the issue, merely shrugged as if Stan’s delusions were his own to indulge. He flicked the cigarette out the window, its ember snuffed out before it even hit the road. “Your funeral,” he muttered, turning his gaze back to the highway. “Just keep driving.”

The miles passed in tense silence. They just hit Baltimore, the grimy skyline shrinking behind them, and Stan’s fingers were still drumming anxiously on the steering wheel. The highway stretched out before him, seemingly endless, but a sense of dread gnawed at him. We gotta be safe by now, right? he wondered aloud, his voice trying and failing to sound casual.

Rico let out a sharp laugh, the kind that didn’t belong in a situation like this. “¿Seguro?" he snorted. “Don’t get your hopes up, lumpkin. We ain’t even close.”

Stan frowned but said nothing, his stomach tightening with the uneasy feeling that maybe Rico was right. It didn’t help when Rico reached over, fiddled with the dial on the car radio, and turned on some crackly station, cutting through the tense silence with static-filled tunes. Stan shot him a look of annoyance. The last thing he needed was distractions. But then Rico, as if the chaos around them wasn’t enough, casually pulled out a small Sudoku book and started filling in squares like this was just another day.

Stan couldn’t believe it. “You’re seriously doing a puzzle right now?”

Rico barely looked up. “What? It helps me think.”

He’s crazy, fucking insane, Stan thought, rolling his eyes. He was navigating the 495 through Maryland, tapping the steering wheel every so often just to keep himself awake. The bullet graze on his arm throbbed, the bleeding slowing but still very much a reminder of how real this was. The pain kept him alert, though the adrenaline was starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his focus.

He haphazardly checked the rearview mirror, more out of habit than anything else, when something caught his attention. A car was speeding up behind him, going faster than it should. His instincts flared. He moved into the right lane, figuring it would pass, but then it switched lanes too, following him like a shadow. Stan’s breath caught, and then he saw two more cars, fanning out behind him like wolves circling prey.

His heart jumped into his throat. “Rico, look alive. We’ve got company.”

Rico cracked his neck and popped his knuckles, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Finally,” he muttered, tossing the Sudoku book onto the dash. “I thought this was gonna get boring.”

The car jerked suddenly as one of the vehicles behind him attempted a pit maneuver, clipping the tail of his car. Stan felt the back end of his car sway violently, the tires nearly losing traction. He gritted his teeth, knuckles white as he slammed on the gas, speeding up just in time to avoid flipping over.

“How the hell am I supposed to lose them?” Stan yelled, panic seeping into his voice.

Rico, who was now rolling down the window, calmly replied, “That’s your job, gringo. Don’t ask stupid questions.” He was already halfway out of the window, gun in hand, like a maniac from an action movie. Stan barely registered it, his mind whirling. He had to think fast.

They flew past a road sign: Manassas National Battlefield Park, Next Exit.

An idea popped into Stan’s head. It was reckless, and crazy, but maybe that was exactly what he needed. “I’m cutting through the battlefield,” he muttered to himself, glancing at Rico.

“What was that?” Rico asked, still firing rounds out the window, looking once again oddly thrilled by the whole situation.

“Nothing!” Stan shouted, his mind racing. If I can make it through the park, maybe I can lose them in the trees, or at least slow them down. It was a wild gamble, but if there was one thing Stan knew, it was how to gamble. He veered hard to the right, nearly skidding as he took the exit, heading straight toward the park.

The cars behind them followed, determined not to let them out of sight. Stan’s car rattled as they barreled down the narrow road, speeding toward the dense tree line surrounding the battlefield. The historical markers and wooden fences blurred past as Stan’s tires screeched, fighting for traction on the uneven, gravely road.

“You better know what the hell you’re doing!” Rico shouted over the roar of the engine and the gunfire.

“I don’t!” Stan yelled back, panic lacing his words, but there was a flicker of excitement deep down, something primal that enjoyed the thrill of the chase. What would Ford think of me now? the thought crossed his mind, almost bitter. 

Ford’s voice echoed in his head again. This is exactly what I’d expect from you, Stanley. Reckless, impulsive, destined to fail.

Shut up, shut up, shut up! Stan mentally screamed back, pushing the car harder as they tore into the park’s main road. He weaved between trees, the headlights barely cutting through the darkness. Behind them, the pursuing cars struggled to keep pace on the rugged terrain, but they were still gaining.

“Get ready to shoot, Rico,” Stan barked, his voice strained. He wasn’t sure how long this insane plan would hold.

Rico grinned, steadying himself on the open window, his gun poised. “With pleasure.” He started firing again, aiming at the tires of the closest car. One of the shots hit, and the car swerved violently, smashing into a tree with a loud crash. The other two cars were still on them, but they had slowed down, clearly struggling to keep control on the rough road.

Stan felt a grim sense of satisfaction but knew it wasn’t over yet. “We need to ditch the last two,” he muttered, scanning the road ahead for something, anything he could use. His eyes caught sight of a narrow, nearly hidden trail off to the left, winding through thicker trees and rough terrain.

“Hold on,” he warned, jerking the wheel sharply, sending the car veering onto the trail. It was barely wide enough for his vehicle, the branches scraping the sides like claws, but the pursuing cars had no choice but to follow.

The rough terrain jolted the car violently, making Stan’s teeth clack together as he fought to keep control. He felt his tires slip in the mud, the back of the car fishtailing wildly, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. The sounds of the other cars crashing through the forest behind them were getting closer.

“¡Más rápido!” Rico shouted, but Stan couldn’t hear him over the pounding in his own ears.

Suddenly, up ahead, he saw a steep incline, leading to an old stone bridge. It was narrow and crumbling, barely able to support a car.

“Shit,” Stan muttered. He had no choice. He floored the gas, racing toward the bridge with the two cars still hot on their trail. As they hit the incline, he felt the car lurch, tires spinning as it fought to get up the hill. The bridge loomed ahead, a dark, crumbling outline against the night sky.

They hit the bridge at full speed, and for a brief second, Stan thought the whole thing was going to collapse under them. But they made it across, just barely, the car bouncing wildly as they landed on the other side.

The first of the pursuing cars wasn’t so lucky. As it hit the bridge, the old stone structure gave way with a loud crack, sending the car plummeting into the ravine below.

Stan didn’t look back, just kept driving, heart pounding as he heard the last car finally give up the chase.

Rico let out a loud whoop, punching the air. “Jorge would’ve loved this!” he shouted, his grin feral in the pale dawn light.

Stan glanced sideways at him, confused. Who the hell is Jorge? But he didn’t care. There was a strange sensation clawing at his chest—something that made his heart pound and his skin tingle. Anxiety, maybe, but he wasn’t about to acknowledge it. Not now. Not when they were so close. He pushed it down, swallowing hard as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white from the strain.

They barely made stops, maybe three or four in total, just enough to refuel the car and for Rico to check the contents of the trunk. Each time they stopped, Rico gave Stan a quick energy drink, something to keep him alert while they powered through the night. Stan’s eyelids felt heavy, the world around him blurring in the early morning haze, but he forced himself to stay awake. They were almost there.

"Raleigh," Rico said finally, pointing to the exit sign. “We’ll find a place to meet the other driver there.”

Stan nodded sleepily, barely processing the words. His entire body was worn out from the adrenaline rush and lack of sleep. He needed to collapse soon, but they weren’t safe yet. He couldn’t drop his guard now, not when things could go south at any second.

Rico guided him through the streets of Raleigh, directing him to an old, abandoned parking lot, tucked away behind crumbling buildings. It was the kind of place that gave Stan a bad feeling, too open and exposed, but he bit his tongue. He didn’t like questioning Rico. It wasn’t like he had a better plan, anyway.

They parked, and Rico told him to wait. Stan’s eyes darted around the lot, scanning for anything unusual. It was too quiet. He was about to ask how long they’d be here when another car pulled up, its headlights flashing once before going dark. Stan tensed, his gut telling him this could go wrong in a hundred different ways. He looked at Rico, searching for some kind of reassurance.

Rico smiled, that unsettling grin again. “C’mon, help me out.”

Stan scrambled to get out of the car, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. He opened the trunk, and his breath caught in his throat. Rico wasn’t lying when he said the stuff back there was worth more than his life. The sight of the crates and bags, packed tight with god-knows-what, sent a shiver down his spine. God forbid the cops get involved, Stan thought, his mind spinning. How long would I even be in jail for this?

In his head, he heard Ford’s voice again, mocking him. Decades, you idiot. Probably life. This is exactly why you shouldn't have done it. You always did get yourself into these messes. Maybe this time, you should learn your lesson.

Stan grit his teeth, shaking the voice away as he helped Rico with the transfer. They moved quickly, making sure the contents were safely loaded into the other car. Every so often, he glanced around, half-expecting flashing lights or something worse. But nothing came. The world around them was eerily still, as if it hadn’t noticed the chaos they’d just survived.

As they finished, Rico turned to him, his face oddly relaxed for the first time. “You've been...tolerable,” he said, tossing a briefcase toward Stan. It hit his chest with a thud, almost knocking the wind out of him.

Stan caught it, blinking at the weight of it. His payment. He couldn’t believe he was actually walking away from this, but then again, the Ford in his head would say that it wasn’t over until he was truly out. Don’t count your chickens yet, Stanley.

“I hope to never see you again,” Stan muttered under his breath, his voice thick with exhaustion.

Rico laughed, that sharp, dangerous sound again. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.” He disappeared into the other car without another word, the engine roaring to life as the vehicle sped off into the fading night.

Stan stood there for a moment, briefcase in hand, the silence wrapping around him like a heavy blanket. He let out a long breath, the weight of what just happened sinking in.

He’d done it.

Stan found a rundown motel just off the highway, the kind of place that looked like it’d seen better days in. It was cheap, anonymous, and most importantly, far enough away from the chaos of the city. His legs felt like lead as he dragged himself up the stairs, each step harder than the last. The door to his room groaned open, and Stan wasted no time in throwing his bag and the briefcase onto the floor. His bed, rough and lumpy as it was, might as well have been the softest thing he’d ever touched. He collapsed onto it, the exhaustion pulling him down into a heavy sleep within seconds.

When he finally blinked awake, it was already late. 9:00 PM? He squinted at the cheap clock on the nightstand, the glowing red numbers taunting him. Groggily, he shifted, feeling the dull ache in his arm. He’d slept through the entire day, not surprising considering the adrenaline crash from the night before. He rubbed his eyes, groaning as he sat up and stretched. His muscles felt stiff, but his mind was sharper now. His gaze drifted to the briefcase resting beside him on the bed.

Was it real?

For a second, he hesitated. The last time someone had promised him money like this, it had been Marc, and he’d learned the hard way how that played out. But Rico didn’t seem like the type to mess around, not like Marc. Still, Stan braced himself for disappointment as he flipped the case open. Inside, bundles of cash sat neatly stacked. Holy shit.

A flood of relief hit him, so strong he almost laughed out loud. Rico hadn’t lied, and for once, Stan allowed himself to trust that small mercy. Rico wasn’t like Marc. He wasn’t in the game of screwing people over for fun, especially when there was money involved. 

Thank God Marc owes Rico, he thought, slumping back against the headboard. At least they can't conspire against me or something.

But Marc? Marc wasn’t going to forget this. Marc was never going to let something like this slide, and Stan knew that even though he’d managed to slip through the cracks this time, he wasn’t out of the woods yet. His mind drifted to the worst-case scenarios—Marc finding out, coming after him, taking everything. He tried to shake it off, but it lingered, that familiar feeling of impending doom he’d grown used to.

He stood, shaking his head as he grabbed the single change of clothes he brought. He needed a shower. His skin felt sticky from the hours spent driving and the sweat of near-death encounters. The bathroom light flickered as he stepped inside, peeling off his shirt.

The bullet graze from earlier was ugly—already crusted over with blood and grime. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it’d definitely scar. Stan snorted, running a finger along the wound. Another scar. Another reminder of how deep he was in this life.

He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror, dark bags under his eyes, his hair longer than he’d realized. Maybe I should grow it out, he mused. Change things up, especially before college. The thought of a fresh start almost felt real now. He turned on the shower faucet, steam quickly filling the tiny bathroom.

College. It was hard to believe things were finally falling into place. If he played his cards right, he could be out of the ring soon, out of Marc’s grasp. He just needed a bit more cash. A little more, and he could find somewhere decent to stay, somewhere he wouldn’t have to keep fighting for scraps. He could leave Stanley Pines behind in New Jersey, let him rot there. Maybe I could just go by Lee.

It sounded nice. A clean break.

But then reality smacked him in the face. His car, his baby. Shit. The bullet holes, the scuffed paint, the tire he’d shredded speeding out of Manhattan—it all needed fixing. He couldn’t risk driving it around like that, not when he’d come this far.

He ran his hand through his hair, thinking. Maybe he could find some suckers here in Raleigh to pickpocket, or—hell, maybe he could even hustle up some cash with other means. There were always people desperate enough to pay for a good time, right?

That’s how he ended up standing outside a bar the front desk had recommended. It was packed, a line of bikes parked along the curb. Perfect, he thought. Crowds were easy to blend into, and if he played his cards right, he could get a few drinks and maybe some extra cash.

The inside of the bar was buzzing with energy. People laughed, glasses clinked, and the jukebox was blasting some classic rock. He was able to swipe some wallets—god, he should've come down South sooner, these people really don't pay attention—and felt at ease as he leaned against the bar, ordering himself a drink.

He scanned the room, trying to pick out other easy marks when someone caught his eye.

He was big—bigger than Stan, with broad shoulders, a blonde mullet, and a horseshoe mustache that somehow made him look rugged rather than ridiculous. Stan couldn’t help but notice how handsome the guy was, in that rugged, biker way. It was weird, but not unwelcome. He never gave much thought to his preferences before; what he did was mostly transactional (or... forced), but this guy? He liked him.

The guy sauntered over, sitting next to him. “You look like you’ve had a hell of a day,” the man said, his voice deep and casual.

Stan chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. “You could say that.”

“What do you do, then?” the guy asked, turning to face him. “You don’t look like the nine-to-five type.”

“I’m a boxer,” Stan said, the words slipping out before he even thought about it. “Low-scale. Trying to make my way to college soon.”

The guy raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “College, huh? Ain’t you a little young to be in a place like this then?”

Stan smirked, feeling a flicker of confidence return. “Old enough in the ways that matter.”

The man blinked, then grinned. “I like you. Name’s Jimmy.” He held out his hand.

Stan hesitated for a moment before taking it. “Lee,” he replied, deciding on the name in an instant.

Jimmy grinned wider. “You wanna get out of here, Lee?”

What followed was a night that Stan didn’t expect. He got a burger and milkshake and had a really good time out of it too. It was weird to just… enjoy it. Jimmy was different. And now, lying in Jimmy’s bed, six rooms down from his own, Stan found himself feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time—content.

They were lounging, watching TV in comfortable silence. Stan never stayed after, but Jimmy had insisted. It felt strange but nice. Jimmy broke the silence, chuckling. “You’re too young for this shit, Lee.”

Stan tilted his head, confused. Jimmy waved a fry in the air, smirking. “Surprised you didn’t name your price. Guys like you always do.”

Stan flushed, ready to defend himself, but Jimmy waved him off, laughing. “You remind me of me when I was younger. Pushed into things you weren’t meant for.”

Stan scoffed, shaking his head. “You don’t know anything about me.”

But Jimmy hit the nail on the head, and they both knew it. He had that easy confidence, and it rattled Stan in a way he wasn’t used to. Jimmy asked about college, and Stan mentioned Indiana, maybe in the fall or spring of next year. Jimmy hummed, casually mentioning a cousin out there who worked construction, offering to put in a word for Stan. Stan frowned, wondering why the guy would do that for him. He wasn’t looking for handouts.

Jimmy just grinned. “Consider it payment. I like ya, Lee. You’re cute.” He stretched again, saying normally he’d kick a one-night stand out by now, but for some reason, he wasn’t doing that tonight.

Stan wrung his hands, unsure how to respond. Jimmy commented on hitting the road with him if he ever wanted, but Stan shook his head. “I need more money first,” he said.

Jimmy nodded, understanding. He yawned, saying he was going to sleep, and that Stan was welcome to stay.

For once, Stan did.

In the morning, Stan woke up to the sound of the shower running. Jimmy emerged from the shower, fresh and relaxed, his blond mullet damp from the steam. "Morning, kitten," he said, his voice teasing but gentle. Stan blinked groggily, still half-asleep, as Jimmy tossed a towel over his shoulder and mentioned that he and his guys were heading out to Pennsylvania soon.

Jimmy handed Stan his number, along with a knowing grin. “Call me if you need anything, yeah?” he said, the offer lingering in the air like an open door.

Stan nodded, gripping the slip of paper tightly. “Yeah… thanks,” he muttered, feeling awkward. He never expected kindness, especially not from someone like Jimmy. But he took it, pocketing the number and forcing himself to stand.

“I should probably get going,” Stan said, stretching. His muscles ached, but it wasn’t the same exhaustion he felt before. There was a strange comfort here, but it was fleeting. He needed to stay focused.

Jimmy waved him off with a lazy grin. “Take care of yourself, Lee.”

Stan paused, the name hanging in the air. Lee. That was him now, wasn’t it? He liked the way it sounded—new, different, someone who wasn’t tied down by his past.

Chapter Text

Then:

Stan’s luck must’ve run dry the second Rico handed him that damned briefcase. Maybe he’d pissed off God. Maybe the universe just wanted to say, Happy New Year, you’re fucked. Whatever it was, by the time Stan rolled back into New Jersey, everything had returned to its usual, twisted version of “normal.”

Marc, of course, had questions about the money. Stan saw it coming, the lie already coiled on his tongue. He told Marc that Rico would send someone later, delivered it with just the right amount of indifference—like he didn’t care one way or another. And Marc, ever half-interested and distracted, bought it.

That was.... a relief.

Stan stashed the cash with the rest of his college fund, a slow but promising pile—enough for two years of tuition, at least. All he needed now was to scrounge up living expenses. He figured he could make it work, could live like his old man had: stingy, scraping by on the bare minimum, surviving on nothing but spite.

Then there was the car—his baby. Seeing it nearly broke him. The damage from his escape with Rico was far worse than he’d realized: bullet holes peppering the frame, a shattered mirror, scuffed paint, a shredded tire. It looked like it had survived a war. So Stan did what he always did: he fought. Took every match Marc lined up, let the bruises become part of the routine. By the tail end of January, the car was running again, smooth and steady.

Just in time for everything to go to hell.

Marc had set up what he called a “big deal.” Stan should’ve known trouble was lurking the moment Marc said those words, smiling that smug, greasy smile that always meant something ugly lay underneath.

“Just make it look good,” Marc murmured, leaning in close like he was sharing a secret. “But don’t win. We’ve got heavy hitters tonight. Big buyers. They want a show. And a good time after, y’know?”

A cold wave of disgust washed over Stan. Marc wasn’t even pretending anymore. The fights were one thing, but the real money—the real payoff—came after. He wanted Stan to play along, to let himself be sold off like a cheap thrill.

“I’ll think about it,” Stan said, voice tight, steady, though his mind screamed no. He needed the money. He couldn’t afford Marc’s bad side. Not when he was this close.

That night, the place was suffocating. Stan had never seen so many bodies crammed together: sweat-slicked, reeking of smoke and desperation. He sat in the locker room, ten fighters ahead of him, his thoughts an anxious blur. He didn’t watch the ring, didn’t care. He just tried to breathe, to focus.

Then he heard it. Sirens.

At first, he thought it was nothing. Another car chase, the usual city noise. But then the shouts came: “Police! Everybody down! You’re under arrest!”

Chaos erupted. The crowd scattered like roaches, bodies shoving and trampling each other in blind panic. Stan’s heart slammed against his ribs. The locker room flooded with frantic men, all desperate for escape.

I can’t get caught. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

He peeked through the door and saw Marc, already pinned to the ground, running his mouth like a man possessed, trying to sweet-talk his way out of the cuffs. It wasn’t working. Stan’s gut twisted. There was no way out for Marc.

How the hell am I going to get out of here?

Then he remembered: the room. The one Marc had locked him in before, the one that stripped away his last shred of dignity. It had a window. That was his way out.

Stan shoved through the frenzied crowd, choking on his breath as the walls seemed to close in. He made it to the room, slammed the door behind him, and locked it—just like Marc had done to him. The couch was still there, blocking the wall below the window.

He shoved it aside with trembling hands and punched through the glass, ignoring the bite of shards slicing into his skin. Crawling through the frame, he hit the pavement hard, his knees buckling, but there was no time to stop. He bolted down the alley, lungs burning, legs screaming.

By the time Stan reached Marc’s house, his hands were shaking so badly he could barely work the back door. The lock jammed, but he slammed his shoulder into it, stumbling inside, gasping for air.

If they got Marc, they might come here.

He couldn’t stay. He couldn’t risk it. He had to go.

Stan ran to the attic, grabbing three duffel bags, the cash he’d stashed around the house, and Rico’s briefcase. He ripped through cupboards, filling the bags with non-perishables—anything Marc had stockpiled. Then, he stopped outside Marc’s room.

His hand hovered on the doorknob. He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.

Fuck it.

He kicked the door open, tearing through the room. Emptied drawers, flipped the mattress, anything worth taking. He found Marc’s pistol—Rico’s parting gift—along with a small stack of bills hidden beneath the floorboards. Stan didn’t bother counting. He pocketed the gun, grabbed the cash, and hauled the bags over his shoulders.

Stan didn’t look back.

He couldn’t afford to.

For as much as Stan hoped Marc was rotting in some cell—if he was even in one—his own life hadn’t gotten any simpler. By month four, the weight of it all pressed down hard. No address. No stability. No real plan beyond the fragile hope holding his college dreams together. Reality was sinking in: without an address, everything fell apart—forms, correspondence, all the paperwork that kept his future intact needed a place he no longer had.

It was almost laughable, thinking of how much he relied on Marc. 

After weeks of avoiding it, Stan finally broke down and called Coach Daniel. It wasn’t easy. Daniel was the last tie he had to a future that didn’t involve hustling marks or getting his face punched for scraps. As soon as Daniel picked up, Stan’s stomach knotted.

“Stan?” Daniel’s voice was heavy with concern and suspicion. He already knew. “Heard about Marc. You weren’t part of that mess, were you?”

Stan froze. The question hit harder than expected, cracking open something he’d tried to bury. He thought about lying, coming up with a smooth excuse, but all that came out was a shaky, “No.” Even he didn’t sound convinced.

A long silence followed. Stan couldn’t see Daniel’s face, but he could imagine the deep frown and narrowed eyes. Finally, Daniel sighed. “Well, I’m glad you’re out of it.”

Stan let out a breath, but relief didn’t follow. Marc might have been out of his life, but his fallout was still everywhere, choking him.

Still, Stan pushed forward. After a lot of convincing, Daniel agreed to let Stan use his address for mail. It wasn’t a favor he offered lightly. Stan could tell Daniel was uncomfortable with it. “This has to be temporary, Stan. Teacher-student boundaries, y’know? I could get in trouble. This is it.”

Before hanging up, Stan added, “If something comes through, can you call this number? I might not be able to check in too often.” He gave Daniel Jimmy’s number, and Daniel, to his relief, agreed without asking too many questions.

The moment the call ended, Stan dialed Jimmy. It rang longer than usual, and for a moment, he thought Jimmy might not pick up. Then, finally—

“Who’s this?” Jimmy’s voice was sharp, relaxed, like he wasn’t expecting much.

“It’s Lee,” Stan said, his voice steady.

Silence. Then a low chuckle hummed through the receiver. “Well, hey there, kitten. Lucky I was home this time. You thinkin’ about takin’ me up on that offer?”

Stan hesitated. He didn’t really have a choice, did he? “Yeah, I think I am.”

He added, smirking despite himself, “Oh, uh...gave someone important your number. Hope that’s cool.”

Hope that's cool?! Stan, get it together. 

Jimmy’s laugh was deep, amused, like none of this was as dire as it felt. “You owe me for that, kitten.”

Stan chuckled, playing along. “I can think of a few ways to say sorry.”

Jimmy laughed again, warm and easy, the kind of sound that made everything feel a little less bleak for a minute.

But the truth was, the next few months were some of the hardest of Stan’s life. He fell in with Jimmy’s crew, crisscrossing the Midwest, leaning into the one thing he was good at: being a con man. Meals became luxuries. Routine was nonexistent. Survival meant hustling, swindling, and grinding out every last dollar.

Money was always tight. Enough for gas, cigarettes, and occasionally food. Stan refused to touch the college fund, no matter how desperate things got. That money was sacred—his lifeline out of this hell. Motels became rare moments of reprieve. He savored the smallest comforts: a hot shower, rough but clean sheets, the free shampoo. He scrubbed his clothes in sinks and stole fleeting moments of cleanliness.

Marc’s shadow never left him. The punishments, the dirty deals—they clawed at his thoughts. Guilt dug deep, curling like smoke in his mind until it made him sick. Sometimes, the anxiety got so bad, he punished himself the same way Marc used to. A cruel cycle, one he didn’t know how to break.

Jimmy, for what it was worth, never pushed him into anything he didn’t want to do. That small mercy made it bearable.

By September, everything shifted. One night, Jimmy got a page. He made a quick call, then walked back into the room grinning like he’d won the lottery.

“Guess what, kid? You got your acceptance letter. Startin’ in the spring.”

Stan’s heart nearly stopped. After all of it—the chaos, the running, the hustling—it had actually happened. College. It was real.

Jimmy clapped him on the back, roughing up his hair. “Now we just gotta figure out how to get you to Indiana.”

The moment cracked. Reality crept back in, heavy and unforgiving. Stan didn’t have a place to stay. His car was all he had, and living out of it while trying to juggle college sounded like a slow, miserable disaster waiting to happen. Jimmy must’ve caught the look on his face because his grin softened, thoughtful.

“Hey, don’t worry,” he said, clapping Stan’s shoulder again. “Talked to my cousin. The construction job’s yours if you want it. You can crash at the site for a bit, at least till you get on your feet. Just keep the car outta sight. Legalities, y’know?”

Relief hit like a wave. Stan grinned, feeling lighter than he had in months. “Deal.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the future didn’t feel so far away. It was close, solid, real—finally within reach.

Now:

Stan felt like he was in some sort of confessional, waiting for judgment—though the comparison didn’t quite sit right with him. He didn’t know much about Catholicism, but he’d seen enough movies to picture the dark, wooden booth, the faceless priest on the other side of a lattice, listening quietly. Except here, there was no booth, no priest, and no absolution. Just Ford, sitting across from him, watching. Silent. Waiting. And that gnawing feeling in Stan’s chest grew heavier.

He’d never told anyone everything before—not like this. Every grimy, ugly piece of his past spilled out, one story tumbling into the next, and Ford just sat there. Three hours. Nearly three hours, and he hadn’t said a word. His stare was unrelenting, absorbing each confession like it could be dissected, each silence pressing against Stan’s nerves like a thumb against a bruise.

With Jimmy, it had been easier. No questions. No prying. Stan could share a memory or two in the warm haze of a bottle and leave the rest where it belonged—buried.

Safer.

Easier.

But now it (well, most of it, at least) was out there—laid bare—and Ford’s silence felt like punishment. Seconds dragged, thick and endless. Stan swore he could almost hear some unseen clock ticking away, counting down the moment Ford would finally pass judgment.

Desperate to break the tension, Stan let out a shaky laugh. “Y’know… ever since we were kids, I could never lie to you. You’re the only one who always saw right through me. Must be some kinda twin-intuition, huh?”

Nothing. The joke crashed and burned in the stillness.

His stomach twisted. “Look, I get it,” he began, his voice sharper than he meant. “You think the things I did were vile—disgusting. And they were. But… sometimes I—” He faltered, his words tumbling out too fast, like a car rolling downhill without brakes. “Sometimes I liked it, okay? And I know I shouldn’t have.” The admission scraped against his throat, raw. “Men liking men—it’s weird. I get that. Another way I managed to screw up, right? Another reason to be the family’s disgrace, right?”

Ford’s face paled, his mouth pressing into a thin, bloodless line. Stan could see his brother’s knuckles clenching white against his lap.

Something in Stan snapped. Anger boiled, hot and bitter in his gut, and he sat up, his voice rising. “What? You’re just gonna sit there? Say something! Do something! Yell at me—kick me out—something!” His chest heaved, words pouring faster and faster until they threatened to choke him. The silence was too much. He couldn’t take it.

Ford’s lip trembled. His eyes looked glassy, on the verge of tears.

Stan froze. No. No, there was no way Ford was about to cry. “Oh, come on!” he shouted, throwing his hands up. “You’re making this about you? What the hell, Ford? There’s nothing to cry about—it’s over. I lived through it. It’s done.”

Still, Ford said nothing.

Stan’s patience shattered. “You wanna know why I didn’t come back? Why I didn’t call?” His voice cracked. “Why the hell would you—or anyone—want the screw-up son back? The one who failed a test and got tossed out for a couple bucks? The one who did…” His hand cut through the air in a wide, bitter gesture, all this. “You want that back, huh?”

Ford’s face was stricken, but when he spoke, his voice was tight and fragile. “Stan, if we had known—”

“Known what? That I was getting my ass beat by some underground boxing promoter? That I was pickpocketing, selling myself—doing whatever I had to just to survive?” Stan’s laugh was cold, sharp. “You think Ma and Pops would’ve wanted me back after all that?”

Ford’s eyes darkened as he stood, his energy matching Stan’s now. “Yes! They wouldn’t have stood for you being abused—not for a second. If they knew—if I knew—I would’ve found you. I would’ve—”

“Oh, sure.” Stan scoffed, crossing his arms tight over his chest. “Everything would’ve been perfect if I’d come crawling back, right? I’m sure they’d have loved hearing about what I did to get by.”

Ford’s face hardened, his voice cold. “You’re acting like you didn’t have a choice. You could’ve—”

“Could’ve what, Ford?” Stan’s laugh was jagged, like broken glass. “Walked out like some ‘bigger person’? You think it was that simple?” His voice cracked, emotion raw and bleeding through every word. “I was trapped. Backed into a corner with no family, no home. You wouldn’t get it. The golden child never had to fight like that!”

Ford flinched, but his voice didn’t waver. “You could’ve called. You could’ve reached out.”

“To who?!” Stan scoffed. “To you? To Ma? You really think anyone would’ve looked at me—after everything I did—and said, ‘Yeah, he’s worth saving’? Don’t kid yourself.”

Ford’s voice dropped, almost pleading. “We’re your family, Stan. We would’ve done.... something.”

Stan’s laugh was icy and hollow. “Something? Like Pa' did when he kicked me out? Or Ma, when she pretended I didn’t exist? That’s your ‘something,’ Ford. Look what happened to Shermie. They didn’t care. And neither did you.”

“That’s not true,” Ford whispered, his voice shaking.

“Who’s always had your back, huh? Who stood up for you every time someone pushed you around?” Stan stepped closer, poking Ford's chest, his voice a low growl. “It was me. And you—you couldn’t even stand up for me.”

Ford’s eyes flashed with anger. “I never asked you to fight my battles! May I remind you, that I grounded myself every time you got into trouble, too? That was your own damn temper, Stan.”

Stan barked a bitter laugh. “Oh, my temper, huh?”

Ford’s voice turned sharp, clipped. "Yes, the very one you inherited from our—"

“Don’t you fucking say it,” Stan’s voice was low, dangerous, trembling like a wire pulled too tight. "’Cause I swear, you’re just as cold-hearted as he was."

The silence between them was deafening, filled only by their ragged breathing. Stan’s hands shook, and the weight of the last three hours crashed into him all at once. Ford swallowed hard, his voice quieter now. “Stan… this isn’t about him. It’s about us.”

For a moment, Stan couldn’t speak. The adrenaline burned away, leaving him hollow and exhausted. He looked at Ford—really looked at him—and something regretful twisted in his chest. Before he could say anything, Ford grabbed the empty mugs from the table and walked into the kitchen. The clink of ceramic hitting the sink echoed through the room.

Stan’s heart sank. He didn’t want to push Ford away again. He was so damn tired of fighting. When Ford came back, sitting close enough for their knees to brush, Stan braced himself for another lecture. Instead, Ford reached out, gently taking Stan’s shaking hands into his own.

The touch surprised him. Stan looked up, his defenses faltering.

Ford’s voice was soft, steady. “Stan… what happened to you—it shouldn’t have been like that. And I’m sorry. For not being there. For making assumptions. For all the what-ifs.” He squeezed Stan’s hands, his thumbs brushing gently over his knuckles. “But we can focus on now. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Stan scoffed, though his voice was shaky. “You don’t have to… it’s just stupid stuff. I’m fine.”

Ford’s hand moved to cup Stan’s cheek, turning his face so they were looking at each other. His gaze was intense, and Stan couldn’t bring himself to look away. “It’s not stupid, Stan. You went through hell, and you didn’t deserve any of it.”

Stan blinked, his vision blurring. His voice cracked as he muttered, “Why the hell am I crying?”

Ford smiled softly. “Because you don’t have to hold it all in anymore.”

Stan let out a shaky breath, managing a half-smile. “Yeah. Great. I’m a big baby.”

Ford chuckled. “Maybe. But sometimes being vulnerable—it’s the strongest thing you can do.”

Stan rolled his eyes, but for the first time in hours, he felt… lighter. “Yeah, sure. Tons of fun.” He sniffed, wiping his face one last time before looking over at Ford. "'M sorry for losing it. Can we just… stop fighting?"

Ford gave a small nod.

Ford slowly removed his hands from Stan’s face, the lingering warmth fading faster than Stan wanted. For a moment, neither of them moved. That brief, grounding touch had steadied him, and now, without it, he felt untethered, vulnerable all over again. Ford stood up, fidgeting as if unsure what to do with himself, and the distance between them stretched like a taut wire. Stan felt it snap when he blurted, harsher than intended, “Where are you going?”

Ford turned back, startled by Stan’s tone, but his expression remained soft, almost gentle. “It’s almost five,” he said quietly. “I thought we might get some fresh air, but it looks like it’s going to rain again. I was going to order some Chinese food—it’s just down the corner.”

Stan stared at him, feeling a surge of anxiety he couldn't place. Was this it? Was Ford retreating now that he knew everything? Before he could let his thoughts spiral further, Ford moved back toward him. He placed a hand on Stan’s shoulder, firm but steady. “I’m not going anywhere, okay?” The words were simple, but Ford’s voice—steady, sure—grounded him again. He squeezed lightly, like a promise.

Stan gave a stiff nod, not trusting his voice. Ford seemed satisfied, though, and turned to grab the landline, dialing the restaurant. The casual click of the buttons, the faint murmur of Ford placing their order—it all felt surreal. Like nothing had happened. Like Stan hadn’t just spent hours spilling secrets he’d sworn to take to the grave. The knot in his stomach stayed put as he drifted into the kitchen, needing distance, something cold and solid to tether himself to. He grabbed a glass and opened the fridge, the burst of chill momentarily cutting through the haze.

Why’d I tell him everything? Why couldn’t I shut up? The familiar voice that lived in the back of his head returned, hissing doubt and guilt into every empty corner of his mind. He doesn’t want you here. He’s just pretending to be nice.

The glass trembled in his hand as he filled it with water. He stared at the stream as if it might drown out the thoughts swirling inside him. Before it could spiral too far, Ford’s voice interrupted, pulling him back.

“I got chicken lo mein and beef fried rice,” Ford said, walking in behind him. His voice was light, trying too hard to sound normal. “Hope that’s okay.”

Stan turned, forcing a half-smile. “Best of both worlds,” he replied, the words automatic, coming out before he’d really thought them through.

Ford’s brow lifted, and they both said it together: “Carbs.”

The corner of Stan’s mouth twitched into a genuine grin, even if it was fleeting. Ford smiled back, pleased that at least something still connected them, however small.

By the time the food arrived, they’d moved to the living room floor. Ford spread the cartons out between them like some makeshift feast, chopsticks in hand and digging into noodles like a starving man. Stan, meanwhile, mostly pushed his food around with a fork, the tightness in his chest making it impossible to feel hungry. Every now and then, Ford glanced at him with concern, but Stan avoided his gaze, staring down at his barely touched plate.

“You’re not eating,” Ford said after a while, his voice laced with quiet concern.

Stan shrugged, still staring at the mess of noodles. “Not hungry.”

Ford paused mid-bite, chopsticks still halfway to his mouth. He studied Stan for a beat, and Stan could feel the weight of that look even without meeting it. He hated how easy it was for Ford to see through him—like he’d inherited some damn microscope for people’s souls. Finally, Ford set his chopsticks down with a soft clink. “Does it… bother you?” he asked carefully.

Stan looked up, brow furrowed. “What?”

Ford’s gaze didn’t waver. “That you told me everything.”

The question hit harder than Stan expected, and he blinked at Ford like he’d been sucker-punched. He swallowed thickly, fingers tightening around his fork. “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It’s like… it’s not even real, y’know? Like maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“About what?” Ford’s voice stayed calm, patient, like he was coaxing something out of Stan.

Stan dropped his fork with a clatter and ran a hand through his hair. “About me,” he muttered. “About liking....about everything. I mean, come on, Ford. I told you stuff no one should have to hear. Stuff no one should know about me. And you’re just—what? Fine with it?”

Ford was silent for a moment, and Stan immediately regretted saying anything. Here it comes. The judgment. The disgust. He braced for it like he used to brace for a punch, teeth gritted, shoulders tense.

“I’m not fine with it,” Ford said softly, leaning forward just enough to meet Stan’s eyes. “I’m not fine with what happened to you. I’m not fine with you having to go through it alone. But I’m here now, and that’s not going to change.”

Stan’s chest tightened at the quiet conviction in Ford’s voice. He looked away, suddenly finding the carpet intensely interesting. “You say that now,” he muttered.

“I’ll keep saying it,” Ford replied, firm this time. “As many times as you need to hear it.”

There was a pause, the kind that seemed to hover on the edge of something heavier.

Then Ford continued, a little more thoughtfully. “And biologically speaking… there’s nothing unnatural about that other aspect.” His voice took on that familiar scholarly rhythm, a safe place for Ford when things got heavy. “Same-sex pairings occur in numerous species. Hermaphroditism, for example, is common in fish and plants—”

“Herma-what-ism?” Stan interrupted, brow furrowing.

Ford laughed, shaking his head. “Never mind. The point is, there’s nothing wrong with...with liking men. It’s natural. Society’s just messed up enough to make people think it’s not.” He paused, watching Stan closely. “There’s nothing wrong with who you are, Stan. Not even a little.”

They ate in relative quiet after that, the soft clink of chopsticks and forks filling the space where words didn’t need to be. By the time they’d packed the food away and washed the plates, the sky had darkened. Rain tapped softly against the windows, a steady rhythm that matched the heavy quiet between them. This silence wasn’t suffocating—it was just… heavy. Like they were too tired to say anything anymore.

Stan lingered in the hallway, eyeing the pull-out couch, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He hated the thought of lying alone in the dark, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts waiting like vultures to pick him apart. Before he could talk himself out of it, Ford’s voice broke the quiet.

“Stan, wait.”

Stan turned, half expecting Ford to tell him to leave. Here it comes. He’s telling me to get out.

But Ford stood there, awkward and hesitant in a way that made him look almost vulnerable. “I was just…” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away. “Would you mind staying with me tonight? In my room?”

Oh.

Stan blinked, taken aback. He glanced at the couch, then back at Ford, searching his face. Ford looked sincere—earnest, but cautious, like he wasn’t sure how Stan would react.

After a moment, Stan nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly, the word carrying more weight than he intended. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Ford’s shoulders relaxed, a small, tentative smile tugging at his mouth. “Thanks.”

At the threshold of Ford’s bedroom, Stan hesitated a moment before stepping inside. It was exactly what he expected—nerdy posters plastered across the walls, stacks of books threatening to spill from every surface, and paperwork scattered across a desk that was probably organized in Ford’s mind if nowhere else. Then his gaze snagged on something near the corner.

Wait. Is that my old record player? The bastard.

Ford lingered awkwardly in the center of the room, clearly unsure of what to do next. “I just… I didn’t want to leave you alone tonight,” he admitted, his voice quieter, more hesitant. Then, as if scrambling to justify the confession, he added quickly, “Plus, I slept really well last night with you. On the pull-out couch, I mean. Though long-term, it’s not feasible—we should really get you—”

Stan raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “You slept well, huh?”

Ford flushed instantly, suddenly very interested in the far corner of the room. “Yes. I did.”

Stan snorted, his smirk widening. “Yeah, I could tell. You were snoring like a damn chainsaw. And you were as hot as a furnace.”

Ford’s arms crossed defensively, eyes narrowing. “I don’t snore.”

Stan flopped onto Ford’s bed, groaning in surprise as he sank into the softness. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, genius.” He patted the space beside him, eyes twinkling with challenge. “You gonna join me, or are you just gonna stand there looking awkward?”

Ford sighed heavily, as if resigning himself to some great defeat, before climbing onto the bed. Without thinking, Stan reached over, mussing Ford’s hair with exaggerated condescension. “There, there. After all your big-brain analyzing of my screwed-up life. Princess needs his beauty sleep.”

Ford wasn’t one to let a joke slide. He leaned over and bit Stan’s arm—just enough to make a point. “Shut up,” he mumbled, clearly embarrassed.

Stan laughed, yanking his arm back and clutching it in mock outrage. “Hey, no biting! What are you, five?” He nudged Ford lightly, voice softer now. “Go to sleep, nerd.”

Ford grumbled under his breath but settled deeper into the blankets, his face still faintly pink. Despite the teasing, the air between them had shifted. The tension of the day had eased, replaced by something warmer—comfortable, familiar, safe. Stan lay back, staring up at the ceiling as his thoughts began to quiet. The weight he’d carried for so long felt a little lighter.

It was strange, this closeness after years of distance. But as Stan pulled the blanket up over both of them, Ford’s steady, even breathing beside him lulled him into something resembling peace. For the first time in a long time, Stan let himself close his eyes, feeling that faint rhythm anchor him as sleep pulled him under.

Stan woke up slowly, warmth pressing against him like a heavy blanket. He shifted a little, groggy, his limbs feeling weighed down—but not uncomfortably. His mind fought to catch up to his surroundings, until a realization jolted him awake: Ford was draped over him.

Not just close. Really close.

Sometime during the night, Ford had turned, flipping their positions entirely. Now, one of Ford’s hands rested flat against Stan’s stomach—on bare skin where his shirt had bunched up around his ribs—while the other hand tangled itself into Stan’s hair. Ford’s head was tucked just above Stan’s chest, his slow, steady breaths brushing faintly against him.

Stan’s first reaction wasn’t anger or embarrassment—it was more like a resigned realization. No wonder he noticed my scars the other day. He’s a damn handsy sleeper.

He glanced down at the hand resting on his stomach, the heat of it seeping into his skin. It wasn’t a bad feeling—not really.

It was just... strange.

The kind of strange that made his chest tighten in ways he didn’t know how to handle. There was a part of him, buried deep, that craved this: someone close, someone holding onto him.

And it wasn’t just anyone. It was Ford.

The thought made something unnameable twist uncomfortably in Stan’s gut. He didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know how to process it. But before he could spiral further, Ford shifted, fingers flexing lightly against Stan’s skin as he started to wake.

Ford blinked, eyes heavy with sleep as they adjusted to the room. For a second, he looked completely out of it, but then his gaze drifted to his hand on Stan’s bare stomach. And then to his other hand in Stan’s hair.

The horror on Ford’s face was immediate.

“Oh—uh—” Ford stammered, shooting upright in a panicked scramble. In his haste, he tangled himself in the blankets, lost his balance, and tumbled backward off the bed with a loud thud.

The impact echoed through the room. Stan, still sprawled lazily across the mattress, propped himself up on one elbow and peered over the edge with a raised eyebrow. “Good morning to you too,” he drawled.

Ford scrambled to his feet, glasses askew, cheeks bright pink as he tried to regain some shred of dignity. “I—uh—I didn’t mean—” he stuttered, adjusting his glasses with shaking hands. “That wasn’t—I wasn’t—”

“Relax,” Stan cut him off, sitting up and stretching until his back popped. “You’re a grabby sleeper. Big deal. It ain’t the end of the world.”

Ford’s flustered expression didn’t budge. He looked mortified, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “I… I didn’t mean to invade your personal space,” he mumbled stiffly, like he’d committed some unforgivable crime.

Stan rolled his eyes, waving him off. “You’re too uptight, Ford. Take a breather.” He stretched again, the muscles in his back loosening as he glanced at his brother. “How’d you sleep?”

Ford blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. “I… I slept fine,” he mumbled, still avoiding Stan’s gaze.

Stan eyed him for a moment, then grinned. “Good to know.” He moved toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “You want breakfast? I’m feeling generous today.”

Ford hesitated, glancing toward the stove. “You don’t have to cook,” he said, almost too quickly.

Stan paused in the doorway, eyebrow raised. “You sayin’ that ‘cause of yesterday? Or are you actually not hungry?”

Ford opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word out, his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl. Both of them stood there for a moment in silence before Stan burst out laughing.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He stretched again, missing the way Ford’s eyes flicked down as his shirt lifted slightly. “C’mon, let’s brush our teeth. I’ll make omelets.”

Stan hummed softly to himself as he chopped vegetables at the stove, Ford perched on the counter nearby, his feet swinging like they used to when they were kids. Every now and then, Stan caught Ford eyeing the broccoli he was chopping with pure disdain.

“You still don’t like your greens, huh?” Stan teased, catching Ford’s expression as he dropped the broccoli into the eggs.

Ford sniffed indignantly as if he couldn’t believe Stan had the audacity to mock his vegetable preferences. “There are scientific reasons for disliking certain flavors, you know,” Ford said, trying to sound factual.

Stan grinned, stepping closer and wedging himself between Ford’s knees, leaning in just enough to tease. “Oh yeah? What’s your excuse, Mr. Genius?”

Ford flushed, his composure faltering as he stammered, “W-well, uh, it’s genetic. Some bitter compounds are more intense for certain people—”

“Sure, sure,” Stan interrupted, patting Ford’s knee with a smirk. “Blame it on genetics. You’re just picky.”

Ford opened his mouth to argue, but the proximity of Stan—standing so close, teasing him with that infuriating grin—left him flustered. His brain seemed to short-circuit for a moment, and he quickly cleared his throat, looking away. “You, uh… you should probably flip the omelets now.”

Stan blinked, momentarily confused, before realizing the eggs were on the verge of burning. “Right. Food.” He turned back to the stove, shaking his head as he plated the breakfast.

They sat at the kitchen table, sunlight streaming in through the window, the quiet filled with nothing but the sound of forks against plates. It felt... normal. Or at least, as normal as things could get after the conversations they’d had the night before.

Stan was halfway through his omelet when the sound of keys jingling in the lock caught his attention. He glanced up at Ford, noticing a slight frown on his brother’s face just as the door swung open.

Before Stan could ask what was wrong, Fiddleford stepped inside, grinning as he set his bag down by the door.

“Well, would ya look at that? I leave for two days, and the twins didn’t kill each other!” Fiddleford’s voice was warm, his Southern drawl more pronounced after his trip home. He kicked off his boots and walked into the kitchen with a smile.

“Hey, Fidds!” Stan greeted, setting his fork down. “If I’d known you were coming back early, I’d’ve made you something too.”

Fiddleford waved him off with a chuckle. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that. I wasn’t expectin’ the winter calvin’ to go as fast as it did.” He held up a couple of bags with a wide grin. “But I did bring back some food. Week’s worth of home cookin’ for you boys.”

Stan’s eyes lit up as he and Ford rifled through the bags, peeking at the labeled containers. There were homemade casseroles, soups, and even a few desserts, all carefully packed.

Fiddleford patted Stan’s shoulder, giving him a knowing look. “My sister packed your share, Stan. Special delivery.”

Stan grinned, flashing his teeth. “Oh yeah? Didn’t wanna pack it yourself? I'm kinda hurt honestly.”

Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head. “Who do you think helped make it?”

Stan laughed, enjoying the playful banter, but as he glanced over at Ford, he noticed something off. Ford was quieter than usual, his grip on his fork tightening as he watched the interaction.

Without a word, Ford stood, gathering their plates and walking over to the sink to wash them, his face unreadable.

Stan frowned slightly but said nothing, the atmosphere suddenly feeling heavier.

Fiddleford sighed contentedly. “Well, it’s good to be home.”

Fiddleford began putting the food containers away, whistling a soft tune under his breath. As he carefully stacked the labeled meals in the fridge, he glanced back at Stan and Ford with a warm smile. “Made some progress on that project of ours, Stan. Got a couple of the kinks ironed out while I was home. I reckon you’re gonna be pretty happy with how it’s comin’ along.”

Stan’s face brightened at that, genuine relief washing over his features. “Really? Thanks, Fidds. I was worried I’d be behind because of stats.”

Fiddleford waved him off with a laugh. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about, partner. We’re makin’ good time on it.” He paused for a moment, looking between the twins as he leaned back against the counter. “So, what’d y’all get up to while I was gone?”

There was a brief, awkward silence. Ford shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure how to answer, and Stan hesitated as well, though he was quicker to recover.

“Uh, we went to the library for a bit,” Stan started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, and I tried sushi for the first time—didn’t hate it, surprisingly. But other than that, we mostly just stayed inside ‘cause of the rain.”

Fiddleford nodded, glancing out the window at the gray clouds still hanging over the town. “Yeah, I figured the weather wasn’t too kind while I was away. It was dreary as all get-out in Tennessee too. Thought for sure the roads’d get closed off with all that rain.”

As he finished putting the last of the food away, Fiddleford straightened up and turned to face the twins again. “By the way, my family wanted me to pass along an invitation. They said y’all are welcome to join us for Christmas. I know y’all didn’t really celebrate growin’ up, on account of bein’ raised Jewish, but Mama wanted to know if y’all’d be interested. She's already mad I'm not goin' home for Thanksgiving, but I told her we all had to study for finals.”

Stan smiled a little and shrugged. “Christmas might be nice. Not like our dad even cared to celebrate any sort of holiday in the first place.”

Ford’s frown eased as he nodded, a bit of tension leaving his shoulders. “Sounds good to me too.”

“Well, alright then! I’ll let Mama know. She’ll be happier than a pig in mud,” Fiddleford said with a grin.

Stan stood up, stretching his arms over his head. “I think I’m gonna head to the gym for a bit. Get some practice in before the day gets away from me.”

Ford watched Stan as he grabbed his gym bag, his eyes trailing after him with a mixture of concern and something else—something more protective. Stan waved as he left, throwing a casual “See ya later” over his shoulder before disappearing out the door.

Once the door clicked shut, Fiddleford turned to Ford, raising an eyebrow. “Everything really go okay while I was gone?” His tone was gentle but probing.

Ford hesitated for a moment, running a hand through his hair as he glanced toward the door where Stan had just exited. “I... I think so,” he admitted, his voice quiet. He frowned slightly, his thoughts clearly muddled. “We talked about some things. Important things.”

Fiddleford nodded, his gaze steady. “That so? You don’t sound too sure.”

Ford sighed, rubbing at his temple. “I’m not. Stan opened up about... a lot. More than I ever expected him to. It was... hard to hear.”

Fiddleford gave him a sympathetic look. “Well, sounds like you two are makin’ progress. That’s somethin’, right?”

Ford nodded slowly but didn’t say anything, his mind still reeling from everything Stan had shared. There was a heaviness in his chest, a mixture of guilt and relief that he couldn’t quite reconcile.

Fiddleford watched him for a moment longer before speaking softly. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now, Ford. Just keep showin’ up for him, and he’ll see that you’re tryin’.”

Ford glanced up at his friend, the weight of Fiddleford’s words sinking in. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m trying.”

Chapter Text

Stan had given him the rundown of those twoish lost years—the years when Stan had dropped off the map. Ford had listened, trying to maintain his usual analytical calm, but the deeper Stan delved into his experiences, the more Ford felt each word cut like a blade. He’d made the mistake of telling Stan he “had options,” that he could’ve called, reached out, done something. As soon as he’d said it, Ford knew how stupid it sounded. It was never that simple. He knew that, deep down. Yet he still wished it were. Wished it could all be reduced to black and white. But it couldn’t.

Ford was still angry, though—wasn’t he? At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. Mad at Stan for the reckless decisions he’d made, mad at the way he’d disappeared. That anger was comfortable, reliable, like an old coat he could pull on when everything else felt too messy to handle. But the longer Stan talked, the more the anger unraveled into something else. Guilt, maybe. A gnawing, twisting kind of remorse Ford wasn’t ready to admit to himself.

And then there was Fiddleford.

Stan and Fiddleford had finally wrapped up their project, and Ford had watched them celebrate with that faint, persistent twinge of jealousy. He’d known Fiddleford for what felt like forever now—Fidds was solid, dependable, the reasonable one who kept Ford grounded. But seeing him with Stan was...different. It wasn’t just the easy camaraderie they shared or the way Fiddleford brought out something lighter in Stan. It was the fact they’d done something. Together. Something Ford hadn’t been a part of. Watching them laugh, clapping each other on the back, left Ford with a strange mix of pride and an unsettling sense of being left behind.

It was... complicated.

Stan’s coming out had rattled Ford, even if he thought he’d handled it well enough. But now, as he watched Stan and Fiddleford grow closer, something ugly coiled in Ford’s chest. The thought hit him like a whispered threat—what if Stan does like Fiddleford? Or someone else? And then, quieter still: What if Ford could be the only one Stan ever really cared about?

It was a stupid, selfish thought. Irrational. Ford knew that. But it clung to him anyway.

At least grading papers had offered him some reprieve. Ford buried himself under stacks of lab reports, each more dismal than the last. His students couldn’t grasp even the fundamentals of advanced physics, let alone the complex formulas. It was mind-numbing work, and it wore him thin, his frustration simmering just under the surface. But his thesis draft was in. The semester was nearly over. The end was in sight.

In the midst of it all, Stan began drifting closer. Not overtly—never that—but like a quiet presence Ford couldn’t ignore. He’d appear in doorways or hallways, poking his head in to ask when Ford had last eaten, mentioning what he and Fiddleford had been up to. Ford would respond with a polite nod, a half-smile that never quite reached his eyes. Their conversations were brief and to the point, but Stan kept showing up.

Sometimes, Ford would catch Stan’s gaze lingering as he passed. Other times, Stan looked like he was on the edge of saying something—his mouth opening, brow furrowing—but then he’d stop. Each time, Ford found himself waiting, half-hoping, half-dreading that Stan would just say it.

He never did.

Until, finally, a knock came at his door.

Ford glanced up, pen still in hand, and found Stan leaning against the doorway. He held a few records in his hands, cradled like a half-hearted peace offering.

“Uh, hey,” Stan started, voice lighter than his expression. He glanced around the room, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome. “Can I grab the record player?”

Ford blinked at him, still halfway in grading mode. “What for?”

Stan shifted slightly, his tone quieter now. “Picked up some new records this week. Fidds and I hit a couple thrift shops, found a few good ones. Thought I’d give ‘em a listen.”

The mention of Fiddleford made Ford’s grip on his pen tighten involuntarily. He fought the familiar pang of irritation. It’s just a trip to the store, he told himself.

Stan noticed Ford’s change in demeanor and straightened a little, defensive. “You know, it was my record player to begin with.”

Ford snorted, shaking his head. “So you keep reminding me. You could play them in here too, if you want. Just leave the door open.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but didn’t argue. He just nodded.

Ford hesitated, then added, more softly, “Or you could hang out in here for a bit. Sit on the bed, if you want.”

For a moment, Stan looked taken aback—like he hadn’t expected the offer—but then a grin broke across his face. A real grin, wide and boyish, so familiar that it tugged something loose in Ford’s chest. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

Ford waved him off, trying to sound casual. “Of course not. It’s your record player, isn’t it?”

“Damn right it is.” Stan’s grin widened as he ducked out to grab his things. He returned moments later with his records and a small stack of papers, making a beeline for the record player.

Ford watched him struggle with the knobs for a few seconds, the furrow of frustration creasing Stan’s brow. Without thinking, Ford got up and moved beside him. “Here, let me help.”

Stan glanced up at him, his expression softening. Ford’s hand brushed Stan’s as he guided the settings, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Stan’s face flushed slightly, and he muttered, “Thanks.”

As the music started, Stan dropped onto the bed, spreading out his papers in front of him. He bobbed his head to the beat, humming softly under his breath.

“Purple haze, all in my brain…” Stan sang, his voice low and unpolished but content. “Lately things don’t seem the same…”

Ford sat back at his desk, watching Stan lose himself in the music. It was such a simple thing, but it felt like a window into something Ford hadn’t seen in years. Stan—relaxed, humming, happy. Ford didn’t dare break the moment. He turned back to his work, letting Stan’s singing fill the room like an unexpected gift.

“Excuse me while I kiss the sky…” Stan murmured, his pencil tapping softly in rhythm.

The knock that came later startled them both. Fiddleford poked his head in, grinning. “Hope I’m not interruptin’, but y’all hungry? I got some leftovers heated up.”

Ford’s stomach rumbled in response. “I could eat,” he said.

Stan nodded in agreement, though he didn’t look up from his work. “Yeah, I could use somethin’.”

Fiddleford entered with two plates, setting one on Ford’s desk and the other on the bed next to Stan. He surveyed the scene with a grin. “Glad to see y’all actually gettin’ along for once.”

Ford rolled his eyes but smiled back. “We always get along,” he said, half-joking.

Stan snorted. “Right. Sure we do.”

As they ate, the conversation turned casual, with Fiddleford pulling the bean bag chair into the room and plopping down between them. Stan gave him an approving nod. “You comin’ to hang out with the cool kids now?”

“Always was one of the cool kids,” Fiddleford shot back, grinning.

Fiddleford moved to change the record, and soon the twang of Sweet Virginia filled the room. Stan rolled his eyes, but there was a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, you’d pick that one.”

Fiddleford threw him a playful glare and tossed a crumpled sticky note at his head. “What’s wrong with a little Stones?”

Stan caught the note mid-air, still grinning. “Nothing. Just a little predictable, don’t ya think?”

“You just don’t appreciate good music,” Fiddleford teased, reclining into his bean bag with a sigh. “Man, I wish I had my banjo with me.”

Ford groaned, “I’m glad you don't have it with you.”

Stan booed at him, shaking his head. “You’re missing out! I’d love to hear Fidds play.”

“It’s loud,” Ford muttered. “That’s what it is.”

Fiddleford, unfazed, shot a grin at Stan. “Don’t worry, I’ll play for you all you want during winter break.”

Stan’s grin widened. “My own personal musician? I’ll have to figure out how to tip you.”

Ford’s jaw tightened, the tension creeping into his voice. “I’m sure you’ll find a way,” he quipped dryly. Stan blew a raspberry and tossed the sticky note at Ford, who pulled it out of his hair, shooting them both an exasperated look.

God, he hated it. He felt so out of place. He wanted Stan’s attention, but more than that, he wanted all of it.

Stan and Fiddleford were singing along in their mismatched voices, and Ford, despite himself, hummed quietly along.

As the night stretched on, Fiddleford yawned, standing to leave. “Don’t stay up too late now, y’all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stan waved him off.

When Ford looked up again, it was past midnight. Stan had fallen asleep, sprawled on his stomach, pencil still in hand. Drool dampened the pillow where his face had relaxed into something almost innocent. Ford stood quietly, turning off the record player and gathering Stan’s papers, pausing to brush his brother’s shoulder lightly.

“Go back to sleep,” Ford murmured. “You can stay here tonight.”

Stan mumbled something incoherent, shifting to get comfortable, his breathing evening out again.

Stan figured the first two times sleeping next to Ford were just coincidences. The first had been when it was pouring rain, the power had cut out, and they’d both fallen asleep on his pull-out couch. They’d stayed there, too lazy to move, letting the rhythm of the rain against the windows lull them into a rare kind of quiet.

The second time had been heavier. Stan had unloaded everything—his trauma, Marc, the weight he’d been carrying for years. After that, Ford hadn’t wanted him to be alone. Fine. Okay. It made sense. It was the first time in years Stan had opened up like that (or even actually talked about what he went through, at that) and Ford had been worried.

Which was another can of worms Stan didn’t have the energy to deal with.

But now, here they were again. The third time.

Stan woke to the low, sleepy coo of mourning doves outside the window, their sound blending perfectly with the warmth pressed against his side. And, in typical Ford fashion, he was handsy. Again.

Somehow, their bodies had ended up facing each other, Ford’s head tucked snugly into the crook of Stan’s neck. His breath tickled Stan’s ear in a soft rhythm that should’ve been soothing but instead felt like a weird, unintentional form of torture. Their legs were tangled in a way Stan’s groggy brain couldn’t decipher, and the blanket had been kicked away entirely—not that it mattered. Ford radiated heat like a goddamn furnace.

Damn koala, Stan thought irritably, shifting against Ford’s vice-like grip around his neck. He tried to move, but Ford’s hold was relentless, as if he were a human boa constrictor in his sleep.

“Ford,” Stan whispered in the dim light, his lips twitching into an amused smile despite himself. “C’mon, man. Let go. I gotta get ready for practice. Stats, drills, the whole shebang…"

Ford grumbled something unintelligible, his voice low and rough with sleep. Then, clearer: “Fuck stats.”

Stan bit back a laugh. “Yeah, I agree. But I’ve got double drills today, and Coach Daniel’s gonna chew me out. Especially since you embarrassed me in front of my professor—I’m already in the doghouse.”

Ford only muttered something incomprehensible about “starting small,” his face nuzzling against Stan’s chest as he fell deeper into sleep.

“Starting small?” Stan echoed, baffled and faintly amused. He shook his head. Ford’s nonsense could wait—Stan had more immediate concerns, like escaping without waking him. With careful precision, Stan began to untangle himself, lifting Ford’s arm and easing himself out from under it. When he was free, he grabbed the nearest pillow and stuffed it into Ford’s grasp as a stand-in.

Ford latched onto the pillow instantly, pulling it tight like it was the real deal. Stan stepped back, rubbing his sore neck as he surveyed the scene. Ford, face smushed against the pillow, looked deceptively innocent. Better it than me, Stan thought with a snort, quietly padding out of the room.

In the bathroom, Stan stared at his reflection as he splashed cold water on his face. It didn’t take long for his mind to circle back to the question lingering in the back of his head.

Why did this whole arrangement feel so... normal?

It had to be the time they spent apart. Some subconscious need to reconnect. That was all. He wasn’t about to psychoanalyze himself—it wasn’t his style—but the thought gnawed at him anyway. Shaking it off, Stan brushed his teeth, changed into his gym clothes, and wandered into the kitchen. Muscle memory took over as he brewed coffee and poured out two extra mugs—one for Ford, one for Fiddleford—like it was second nature.

By the time Stan returned late that afternoon, Fiddleford was the only one home. Stan was mid-stretch, preparing for his second-to-last game of the season, when Fiddleford ambled out of his room, a container of leftovers in hand. He leaned against the doorframe with his usual easy smile.

“Hey,” Fiddleford greeted.

“Hey yourself,” Stan replied, rolling his shoulders. He caught the look Fiddleford was giving him and straightened up, raising an eyebrow. “What? What’s so funny?”

Fiddleford shook his head, still smiling. “Nothin’. Just… you’ve looked better since stayin’ here with us.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “What, I was ugly before?”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “You know that ain’t what I meant.”

“Yeah, but you’re not denying it,” Stan teased, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. “So what, you think I’m good-looking now?”

Fiddleford huffed in mock frustration. “Lord, you’re just as insufferable as Ford sometimes.”

Stan barked out a laugh, leaning deeper into his stretch. “Ouch. Right in the ego.” He straightened, shaking out his legs. “You and Ford comin’ to the game tonight?”

“Yep,” Fiddleford said, finishing off his leftovers. “Though Ford’s stuck with lab work, so we’ll be late. That a problem?”

“Nah, there’s a few matches before mine. No big deal.” Stan stood up, shaking out his legs.

Fiddleford lingered, his gaze thoughtful as he studied Stan. “Y’know, you’re lighter these days. More animated, if that makes sense.”

Stan blinked, the comment catching him off guard. Animated. He hadn’t felt that way in years. Maybe Fiddleford was right—after all, he’d cracked open the Pandora’s box of trauma he’d buried for so long. And it felt... better. Lighter, even.

Shrugging, he tried to play it off. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m just getting better at pretending to be a functional human.”

Fiddleford snorted, pushing off the doorframe and ruffling Stan’s hair as he passed.

Stan swatted his hand away, laughing. “Careful, or I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

Fiddleford smirked, pausing just long enough to shoot back, “Might be somethin’ to that. Can’t blame a guy for appreciating the view. You keep gettin’ all fit and charming, I might have to stake my claim before someone else does.”

Heat flooded Stan’s face as he fumbled to play it cool. “Yeah, right. Like you’d ever compete for me.”

Fiddleford grinned, unbothered. “Never underestimate a Southern gentleman, Lee. I’m full of surprises.”

Stan rolled his eyes, but the smile lingering on his lips was impossible to hide. The banter was easy, familiar, but there was always an edge to it. Something that could be...more.

He liked flirting with Fiddleford.

Hell, he really liked Fiddleford.

Fiddleford was fun—sharp-tongued, real, and impossible to bullshit. But there was more to it than that. He was good company. Stan liked being around him.

And then, out of nowhere, a stray thought knocked the wind out of him.

Fiddleford was kinda like Ford. If only...

Wait.

What?

Stan froze, his brain skidding to a stop like a car hitting black ice. What the hell was that?

Thankfully, Fiddleford didn’t seem to notice the sudden shift. He was already heading back to his room, leaving Stan standing there, frowning as he tied his hair back.

“I’m, uh… I’m gonna head to the gym early,” Stan mumbled, his voice a little off. “See you tonight, yeah?”

“Don’t wear yourself out,” Fiddleford called with a whistle, vanishing into his room.

Stan raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, his mind buzzing.

What the hell was that thought? He shook his head, scrubbing at his face like he could wipe it away. The confusion stayed, clinging like cobwebs as he grabbed his bag and walked out the door, his chest tight with a feeling he couldn’t name.

“Stan,” Coach Daniel’s voice cut through the haze, firm but not unkind. “It’s your turn. Get your head in the game.”

Stan blinked, snapping out of his daze. “Of course, Mr. President,” he said with a mock salute and an easy wink for good measure. Daniel raised an unimpressed eyebrow, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed his amusement. Chuckling to himself, Stan tugged his gloves tighter and headed toward the ring.

The walk down the narrow hallway leading to the stadium felt familiar—the hum of energy building in his chest, that buzz sitting somewhere between exhilaration and dread. Not nerves exactly, just the feeling.

Mixed with...the other new thing.

The lights hit him hard when he stepped into the arena, momentarily blinding. The air was thick with sweat, chalk, and the electric pulse of the crowd’s anticipation. Voices echoed off the concrete walls as Stan scanned the bleachers out of habit.

And there they were—Ford and Fiddleford.

Ford sat near the back, predictably hunched over a textbook, pencil behind his ear, like he’d wandered into the wrong place and hadn’t noticed. Stan couldn’t help the smile tugging at his lips, warmth flaring in his chest. And then there was Fiddleford, perched beside Ford, grinning like a fool, arms crossed as he shot Stan an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

The bell rang, jerking Stan into focus. His opponent loomed across the mat—taller, broader—but that didn’t bother him. Stan knew how to move. Knew how to read people.

The ref’s voice echoed as he called out their names. The crowd’s roar turned into a dull hum as Stan fell into the rhythm of the fight. His body moved on autopilot—dodge, weave, jab. Muscle memory carried him, his feet light, punches sharp. But even as his fists flew, part of his mind drifted.

Why the hell was he comparing Fiddleford and Ford?

And that’s all it took.

A hard punch slammed into the side of his head, snapping everything into a white-hot blur. Pain burst behind his eyes, and his vision doubled. Stan stumbled back, blinking against the fog, but now there were two opponents in front of him. Great, he thought, staggering back into his stance. Fighting twins. Just what I need.

His pulse hammered in his ears, but he focused, forcing his eyes on the middle figure. He wasn’t going down that easy. The next few minutes blurred into a flurry of punches, grunts, and dodges—both fighters landing solid hits. By the end of the round, they were tied, sweat dripping from Stan’s face as he tried to ignore the pounding in his skull.

Then he saw it—his opponent’s guard dropped.

Stan didn’t hesitate. He landed a brutal punch to the jaw, watching as the man crumpled to the mat. The ref’s whistle blew. The crowd exploded into cheers, but Stan barely registered it. He stood there, panting, swiping his glove across his damp face, the world still tilting at odd angles.

Back in the locker room, Stan all but collapsed onto the bench, his limbs heavy and aching. Coach Daniel hovered nearby, arms crossed, frowning.

“You look gnarly, kid.”

Stan grunted, shrugging as he fumbled with his gloves. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. “’M fine,” he muttered, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“You’re not fine,” Daniel replied, placing a firm hand on Stan’s shoulder. “You’re skipping drills for the rest of the week. Hell, maybe two weeks.”

Stan’s head snapped up, a protest forming on his lips. “I don’t—”

Daniel’s gaze was steady as he shook his head. “Not a suggestion, Pines. I’m doing us all a favor.”

Stan huffed, but the fight left him. His head throbbed too much to argue. He focused instead on pulling at the straps of his gear, but his fingers wouldn’t cooperate.

The creak of the locker room door made him pause. Stan looked up, blinking as the first thing he saw was four versions of Ford and Fiddleford swaying slightly in his line of sight.

“How’d you... get here?” Stan asked, his voice slurred and heavier than he intended.

Fiddleford stepped forward with an easy grin, his tone light. “Your coach let us in. Figured you’d need a hand.”

Ford narrowed his eyes at Stan, immediately scanning him for any signs of injury. “Stanley, you don’t look good.”

Stan waved him off, attempting to sit up straighter but only managing to sway a bit. “I’m fine, Ford. Look—see? How many fingers are you holdin’ up?” He gestured toward Ford, clearly convinced he was nailing this whole “not concussed” thing. “Easy. Six. Six fingers.”

Ford furrowed his brow. “Stan… usually I have to put up my hand for that.”

Stan blinked, frowning in confusion. “Well, I can count,” he mumbled as though that settled it.

“Sure can, champ,” Fiddleford said with a smirk.

Ford sighed, glancing at Fiddleford. “He’s really out of it.”

Fiddleford chuckled softly, already moving to help Stan out of his gear, his touch careful and gentle. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Together, Ford and Fiddleford hauled Stan to his feet, steadying him when his legs wobbled beneath him. Ford’s grip on Stan’s arm was firm, his voice low and worried. “You shouldn’t sleep on the pull-out couch tonight. You need to be somewhere comfortable.”

“Take my room,” Fiddleford offered easily. “Won’t be a bother.”

Stan, still dazed, mumbled without thinking, “Just… sleep with Ford again.”

The room froze. Fiddleford stopped mid-step, eyebrows raised in blatant interest as his gaze flicked between the twins. “Again, huh?” he drawled, smirking.

Ford shoved his glasses higher on his nose in a fruitless attempt to look composed. “It’s not—he fell asleep in my room last night. I left him there! He was drooling everywhere—dead weight. Completely unintentional.” Ford paused, glaring as Fiddleford’s smirk widened. “Stop looking at me like that, McGucket, I swear—”

“Ish… was three times,” Stan mumbled from where he leaned heavily against Ford, a loopy grin on his face. “He’s a koala.”

Ford groaned, exasperated. “Sweet Moses…”

Fiddleford bit back a laugh, nudging Ford in the ribs. “Ain’t that somethin’? Never pegged you for the cuddlin’ type.

Ford scowled, his face still flushed. “Let’s just get him to the car.”

Together, they maneuvered Stan toward the exit. He leaned heavily on Ford, his feet dragging slightly. As they guided him outside, the cool air hit his face, but the pounding in his head persisted.

Through the haze, Stan felt the steady grip of Ford on one side and the warmth of Fiddleford’s steady support on the other. Despite the ache in his skull, a lazy, contented smile tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t the worst way to end a fight.

Chapter Text

They hauled Stan up the stairs, their arms hooked under his shoulders as his feet dragged limply across the floor. His head lolled, his eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, and his words slurred into incomprehensible fragments. Ford strained to make sense of the scattered phrases tumbling from his brother’s mouth.

“Didja see that last hook…? Knocked 'im flat,” Stan muttered, his head wobbling from side to side as Fiddleford huffed under the weight, clearly struggling.

Ford shot Fiddleford a concerned look, his lips pressed into a tight line as they finally reached the apartment. The door clicked shut with an echo that seemed louder in the late hour. Together, they half-dragged, half-guided Stan toward the couch, easing him down as he nearly toppled over, catching himself at the last second. Ford wiped the sweat from his brow, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath.

“I just wanna shower,” Stan mumbled, “Shower, sleep… done.”

“You’d think he got walloped with a two-by-four,” Fiddleford muttered, glancing over at Ford with a worried frown. 

Ford knelt down, removing Stan's shoes with careful precision, then shrugged off his brother’s coat, tossing it toward the closet. "He’s been boxing for years, Fidds. Symptoms shift, they get worse."

Fiddleford’s frown deepened as he shrugged out of his own coat. “Yeah, well,” he grumbled, “ain’t there somethin’ we can do?”

Stan interjected, his words heavy with frustration as he swatted weakly at their hands. “Stop talkin’ like I’m not right here. It's just a concussion.”

Stan's attempt to stand on his own ended in a stumble, his body teetering unsteadily. Ford shared a quick look with Fiddleford—silent but full of meaning. They both had the same thought: Stan in the shower like this?

It could only end badly.

Stan's gaze flickered between them, his face flushing angrily. “What the hell are you two lookin’ at?”

Fiddleford let out a small, nervous snort, trying to ease the tension. “Nothin’, just thinkin’ you might need a little help there, sport.”

“I can shower on my own, damn it,” Stan shot back, waving them off dismissively.

Ford crossed his arms, his brow furrowing. “We’re not saying you can’t. Just… it’d be safer if one of us stayed close. In case—”

Stan cut him off with a sharp wave, rolling his eyes. “Fine! Fine. One of you can sit on the damn toilet and listen to see if I collapse and die. Happy?”

Ford ignored the sarcasm, giving him a pointed look. “No need to be dramatic.”

Meanwhile, Fiddleford rummaged through the cabinet, muttering to himself. “Ain’t got no acetaminophen. I could run to the pharmacy before it closes—still got ‘bout 20 minutes.”

Ford waved him off. “I’ve got this. Go. I’ll make sure he’s fine.” Fiddleford hesitated for a moment, casting one last glance at Stan before nodding and slipping out the door.

Ford turned back to Stan, gently guiding him toward the bathroom. “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Stan staggered forward, but the moment they stepped into the cramped bathroom, he froze. The light was harsh, glaring almost like a hospital’s, and Stan winced as it hit him. His gaze drifted to the mirror, where his reflection stared back through a fog of exhaustion. He reached for the hem of his shirt, but his movements were slow, clumsy. Ford watched him for a moment, the awkward silence between them stretching as Stan fumbled, clearly disoriented by the brightness.

“Uh… you need help with that?” Ford asked softly.

Stan’s glare was immediate and fierce. “I got it,” he growled. But after another minute of fumbling, Stan let out a frustrated grunt. His shoulders slumped as he sank onto the toilet lid, his hands lifting in silent surrender, eyes turned away in embarrassment.

Ford’s lips twitched into a small, sympathetic smile. He stepped forward, carefully lifting the shirt over Stan’s head, making sure to keep his gaze from lingering on the scars that ran jagged across his brother’s torso. He could feel the tension in Stan’s body, the quiet humiliation.

“You want help with the, uh—” Ford started, motioning to Stan’s shorts, but before he could finish, “Got it,” Stan quipped, cutting him off, his hands fumbling with the waistband of his sweats. “Just turn around.”

Ford nods quickly and turns his back, awkwardly occupying himself by gathering towels from the cabinet, stacking them neatly even though he’s aware of how absurdly over-prepared it seems. Why is he being so awkward about this? He’s seen Stan undressed before, so why—

The sound of the shower turning on interrupts his spiraling thoughts, followed by the soft thud of Stan stepping in. Ford perches on the toilet lid, his fingers tapping restlessly on his thigh. The steam curls in the air, clinging to the tiles and mirrors, and for a moment, the silence feels too thick. Ford clears his throat again.

“Stan?”

There was a pause, followed by a low, mumbled reply. “I’m fine. Just... thinking.”

Ford frowned. “Thinking about what?”

"None ya."

Ford exhales through his nose, puffing his cheeks slightly in irritation but doesn’t push further. He falls back into silence, the sound of water splashing against tiles the only thing filling the space between them.

After a little while, Stan mumbles, "I’m done."

Ford hands him a towel, instructing, “Wrap it around your waist. I’ll help dry your hair so you don’t have to move your head too much.”

Stan steps out of the bathroom slowly, water dripping from his hair and down his chest, steam rising off him in thin wisps. Ford tries not to stare but finds his gaze lingering longer than he intends. Stan’s body, looking slightly gauntly a couple of months ago, looks different now—healthier and stronger from living under Fiddleford's and Ford's care. His arms and chest are thicker, muscles hardened beneath a layer of soft pudge around his midsection.  That slight roundness suits him, giving him a rugged, almost earthy look, especially with his chest hair and the happy trail leading down to his waist. His mullet hangs wet and heavy against his neck, adding to the rough, unpolished edge he carries.

And his scarring...the skin is less inflamed than before, the scars less angry, but Ford makes a mental note to get something to help them heal better. Cocoa butter? Vitamin-E oil? Maybe something silicone-based? Fiddleford burns himself from time to time from his experiments—he might know a good brand...

Before Ford can think further, Stan catches his lingering gaze and scoffs, pulling the towel tighter around his waist. "I get it. I’m fat. Quit starin’."

Ford blinks, startled. "That’s not what I was thinking."

"Yeah, sure," Stan mutters, looking away, clearly unconvinced.

Ford frowned but didn’t argue, handing Stan a second towel and motioning for him to sit again. “Sit down. I’ll dry your hair.” He gently patted Stan’s head with the towel, careful not to jostle him too much. Stan leaned into the touch, almost without realizing it.

Once Stan’s hair was mostly dry, Ford grabbed a bottle of lotion from the counter. He squeezed a small amount into his hands, warming it between his palms before reaching for Stan’s face. “Hold still. Your skin’s dry.”

Stan grimaced as Ford smoothed the lotion over his cheeks. “I hate this stuff. It’s sticky,” Stan grumbled, his eyes narrowing but not pulling away from Ford’s hands.

“Stop complaining. Your skin’s already cracking around your nose,” Ford replied, carefully brushing the lotion over the bridge of Stan’s nose and along his jawline. He worked slowly, mindful of the bruises forming on Stan’s face. “You’ll thank me later.”

Stan rolled his eyes but didn’t resist. His face softened as Ford’s fingers traced slow circles along his chin, ensuring the lotion absorbed. Ford could feel Stan’s steady breath against his wrist, warm and calming.

When Ford’s thumbs brushed over Stan’s lips, he paused, feeling the softness beneath his fingertips. Something electric zipped through him, and he lingered for just a moment longer than he meant to. Just as he was about to pull away, Stan’s tongue flicked against his thumb.

Ford flinched slightly, blinking in surprise. “Gross,” Stan muttered, scrunching his nose in distaste. “Tastes like chemicals.”

“It’s not meant to be eaten,” Ford mumbled, feeling silly even as the words left his mouth.

Stan cracked one eye open, giving Ford a half-lidded, unimpressed look. “Thanks, genius. Thought it was dessert.”

Ford huffed, but a small smirk tugged at his lips. He flicked Stan lightly on the forehead. “Just sit still, alright?”

Stan grinned lazily, the corner of his mouth curling in that familiar way that always disarmed Ford. “Gotta give you a hard time while you’re playing nurse,” he teased, his tone soft, as if the touch had calmed something inside him.

Ford snorted but didn’t argue, focusing on regaining his composure as he finished applying the lotion. Stepping back, he surveyed his work. 

“You’re done,” Ford said, clapping his hands lightly as if finishing a chore.

Stan opened his eyes slowly, as though waking from a deep sleep. Stan’s face looked cleaner, a little more alive, but there was still a distant fog in his eyes. He looked up at Ford, something unreadable passing between them—a quiet acknowledgment of the strange, charged energy lingering between them.

Too tired to hunt down Stan’s clothes, he moved to the closet and grabbed one of his own T-shirts and a pair of sweats, handing them over. “Here. Let me know if you need help getting dressed.”

Stan took the clothes, dressing slowly while Ford turned around. When Ford glanced back, Stan was pulling the shirt over his head, moving more easily now.

Ford asks, “Are you feeling lightheaded?”

“No. Just… the light’s too bright.” Stan squints at the bathroom light, looking irritated.

Ford frowns, moving to switch off the bathroom light and flick on the dimmer hallway one instead. “Better?”

Stan exhales softly, the tension in his body releasing a little. “Yeah. Better.”

They stand in an odd silence for a moment before Stan asks, almost shyly, “Could you brush my hair out? It’s gonna be a mess tomorrow if I don’t.”

Ford looks surprised but nods, grabbing the comb from the cabinet. He wedges himself awkwardly between the shower wall and the toilet, his front practically pressed against Stan’s back as he carefully starts combing through the thick tangles. The fit was tight—too tight. The bathroom is still humid, and the heat combined with the proximity makes Ford a little lightheaded himself.

Ford starts working the comb through Stan’s damp hair, careful to avoid pulling too hard on any tangles. Stan sighs, the sound a little too soft, a little too breathy, and Ford’s hand stalls for a second.

Does he make those noises when Fiddleford does his hair?

He frowns.

"You're doing a good job," Stan mumbles after a moment, voice low, almost sleepy. "Fidds takes forever to deal with my knots."

Ford gives a small, uncertain smile, his fingers stilling for a second before resuming their steady work. "Yeah?" he says, his voice quiet as he focuses on gently untangling the strands.

"Yea." Stan hums, his head dipping slightly as if he’s starting to nod off.

When Ford finished, he tossed the loose hair into the trash and stood up to put the comb away. As he turned, he found Stan standing right in front of him, closer than expected. For a brief second, their eyes met, and Ford noticed the way Stan’s gaze flickered to his mouth, then back to his eyes, almost like he was waiting for something—waiting for a question neither of them knew how to ask.

Ford swallows, his throat suddenly dry.

"Stan?" Ford breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Ford," Stan murmured at the same time, the tension between them palpable.

Ford’s heart skipped, his entire body stiffening as the space between them seemed to vanish. Had Stan leaned in? Or was it him? Or both? The question spun in his mind, lost in the heat that built between them. His gaze slipped to Stan’s mouth—a reckless, magnetic pull, an anomaly in itself. Ford’s mind raced with the need to study, to understand, to claim this impossibility standing right in front of him.

The sound of the front door opening cut through the air, and Fiddleford’s voice echoed down the hallway. “I’m back! Got the acetaminophen, hope y’all haven’t—"

Ford jerked back instinctively, nearly knocking the lotion bottle over in his haste. His heart pounded as he turned toward the door, calling out in a too-steady voice, “We’re coming!”

He blinked, dazed. How did they get so close? W-who moved first? Were they really about to…?

Stan stood there, his brows furrowing as he stared down at his feet. The moment, whatever it was, had passed. Ford felt the absence of it like a cold wind rushing in after a door slammed shut.

“Let’s get you that water and medicine,” Ford muttered, clearing his throat and avoiding Stan's gaze as he helped him up.

Stan mumbled a quiet “Yeah,” but there was something distant in his tone, as if he, too, was processing what had almost happened.

Stan woke up cold, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes as his body shifted under Ford's covers. Everything felt heavy—his limbs, his head, even the air in the room. He blinked blearily, trying to make sense of the fragments of yesterday that lingered in his mind. The boxing match. He won. Duh. Had a concussion. Again. His brain throbbed like it was protesting against the very thought of it. No more practice for a while—that was for sure.

As he groaned softly, dragging a hand over his face, another thought popped into his mind, one that jolted him awake far faster than the pounding headache could manage. He almost kissed Ford.

His breath caught in his throat, a flush rising to his cheeks as the memory hit him in jagged flashes. Ford was waiting for him while he showered. Lotioned his face, brought him clothes... brushed out his hair...then— Stan froze, his pulse quickening. He shot upright, too fast. Pain exploded through his skull, making him gasp and clutch his head, grimacing as the room tilted sharply.

“Whoa, easy there, tiger,” a voice cut through the haze, light and laced with amusement. Stan blinked through the pain, his vision clearing just enough to see Fiddleford sitting at Ford’s desk.

Fiddleford turned in his chair, smiling warmly. "Good afternoon. How ya feelin', champ?"

Stan blinked again, sluggishly processing the words. He felt disoriented like he’d woken up in a different body—his own, but with all the screws loose. “Uh…” His throat was dry, his voice rough. “What time is it?”

“’Round noon,” Fidds replied casually, eyes flicking back to the device he was fiddling with. “You slept through the whole mornin'. Not that it’s surprising, given the state you were in. We kept checking up on you throughout the night.”

Stan’s body still felt like it was anchored down by weights, each movement slower than he wanted it to be. He rubbed his hands over his face again, trying to scrub the fog from his mind. But as the dull ache in his head persisted, so did that awful, nagging thought.

He had thought about kissing Ford.

Ford.

His brother.

Why did his brain have to latch onto that out of everything? It wasn’t like he meant it… right?

Right?

Stan's stomach turned over at the thought, a rush of guilt and embarrassment making his skin prickle. But no matter how hard he tried to push it away, the memory kept flashing back—Ford’s hands on his face, his thumbs brushing his lips. Staring directly at Ford's lips. God. What was wrong with him? Stan groaned under his breath, trying to shake the thought away, but it clung to him like a bad hangover.

Fiddleford didn’t seem to notice the internal battle going on. He was too busy tinkering with… something. Stan squinted at it, trying to make sense of the parts and wires.

“What’re you working on?” Stan muttered, needing a distraction. Anything to get his mind off the awful pit growing in his stomach.

Fiddleford glanced up, a grin tugging at his lips. “Oh, this?” He held up the half-finished contraption. “Just tryna figure out how to make terminal portable. Somethin' that doesn't need a whole desk to operate.”

Stan blinked, his mind struggling to process the concept. A portable computer? That sounded like something out of a science fiction movie. “That’s… too much to think about right now,” he muttered, wincing as his head pounded in protest.

Fiddleford chuckled, a warm, light sound. “I reckon it is, in your condition.” He set the device down on the desk, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Someone else is probably going to beat me at this rate, this thing exploded on me five times now.”

Stan’s gaze shifted around the room...Ford's room. Where was he? Was that why it was cold?  Something tight gripped his chest.

“Where’s Ford?” Stan’s voice sounded rougher than he expected, almost strained.

“He’s sleepin’ on the pullout bed,” Fiddleford replied easily. “We’ve been takin’ shifts checkin’ on ya. You were pretty restless last night. Ford didn’t want to leave you alone, but he finally passed out 'round sunrise.”

Stan gripped the sheets tighter, his knuckles turning white. “Oh.”

Of course, Ford didn’t want to sleep next to him. Not after… whatever that was last night. Did Ford remember? Was that why he stayed on the couch? The thought made Stan’s stomach flip. Did I make him uncomfortable? Did I do something wrong? Did he think I wanted… Stan swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. His chest felt tight, a thousand insecurities clawing their way to the surface.

Does he want me to leave?

Fiddleford, still oblivious to Stan’s internal spiral, chuckled again. “You were shufflin' around so much in your sleep, we almost thought about tyin' you down to keep you still.”

Stan let out a weak laugh, trying to mask the swirl of nerves in his gut. “I probably would’ve liked it,” he muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Fiddleford flushed at that, his eyes widening just a little before he quickly looked away, stammering, “Now now, don’t be startin’ with that kinda talk.” His accent thickened in his embarrassment, and it was almost enough to distract Stan from his own worries.

Almost.

Fiddleford cleared his throat, composing himself. “You hungry? I can make somethin’ for ya.”

Stan ran a hand over his face again, the tension in his chest still coiling tighter. “Yeah. I could eat. Somethin' simple...farina?”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow but nodded, grinning. “Farina, huh? That can be arranged.”

As Fiddleford stood to leave, the door creaked open, revealing Ford shuffling in, looking like a sleep-deprived zombie. His hair stuck out wildly beneath the blanket draped over his head, and his half-lidded eyes were clouded with exhaustion. Without a word, he stumbled over to the bed and collapsed beside Stan, burying his face into the pillow with a low, muffled groan.

Fiddleford glanced back with a smirk. “Well, Ford, today’s ‘lunch special’ is farina.”

Ford groaned into the pillow. “Make mine extra sweet,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

With a chuckle and a shake of his head, Fiddleford left, leaving Stan alone with Ford in the quiet room. The silence was deafening, each second stretching out longer than the last.

Ford peeked up from under the blanket, his voice groggy and still half-asleep. “How’re you feeling?”

Stan hesitated. He wanted to brush it off, tell Ford he was fine and that it wasn’t a big deal, but the ache in his skull made it hard to keep up that front. "I’m fine," he said, though even he could hear the strain in his voice.

Ford frowned. "Fine isn’t good enough. I called your...workplace. They know you're off for the next few days. And definitely no boxing for at least a week. You took a bad hit, Stan. You most likely have a concussion, symptoms can be—"

Stan waved him off, too tired to deal with the lecture. “I know, I’ve dealt with concussions before. It’s not a big deal.” He rubbed at his temples, feeling the dull throb of pain intensify. “I’ve been through worse.”

Ford’s eyes darkened at that, his lips thinning into a tight line. “Marc doesn’t count as a reference point,” he said quietly, his tone colder now. “Just because you’ve been through worse doesn’t mean you should push yourself. This could get serious if you don’t take care of it.”

Stan shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of Ford’s gaze on him. “I’m telling you Ma, it’s fine. The first two-ish days are the worst, then it gets better. I know how to handle it.”

Ford didn’t look convinced. He rolled over onto his back, sighing heavily, as though he was already too exhausted to argue.

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. His mind kept circling back to how close they had been, how he had been the one to lean in, to make things weird. His stomach churned with the memory, heat creeping up his neck.

He should’ve known better.

He always ruined things.

After a bit more silence, he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Are we okay?” The question slipped out before he could stop it, rough and uncertain. He winced at how vulnerable he sounded but he had to know.

Ford, sitting beside him, visibly tensed. His brow furrowed as he shot Stan a quick glance. “What do you mean?”

Stan swallowed, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. “Last night… I was out of it, I know, but… I don’t know, it feels like something’s off.”

Ford’s eyes widened, just for a second, before discomfort flickered across his face. "You were in a daze," he said, too quickly. His voice sounded too rushed, too certain. "You weren’t feeling well, Stan. Don’t worry about it. You were just… not yourself."

Stan blinked, thrown off by Ford’s sudden jumpiness. He hadn’t expected that. “Right,” he muttered, his chest sinking. “Not myself… that’s what it was.”

The words sat bitter on his tongue, leaving a hollow feeling in his gut. What had he expected Ford to say? Maybe something that didn’t feel so… dismissive. But who was he kidding? Maybe he was overthinking it. Of course, he was. Ford wouldn't think that he was leaning into...whatever thoughts those were. Things are perfectly fine.

Normal, even.

Before he could dwell on it further, Fiddleford reappeared with three steaming bowls of farina, setting them down on the nightstand.

“It’s still hot,” Fiddleford said with a grin, his usual cheerful tone filling the space. "But lunch is served."

The memory played in Ford's mind, sharper now in the daylight, unrelenting. He was certain it had been him. He had leaned in. Not Stan, who had been concussed and out of it, eyes half-lidded with confusion and exhaustion. Stan had needed help that night—simple, clear assistance to get to the couch or maybe even Ford's bed. And yet, Ford had misread everything in that moment, interpreting the vulnerable look on his brother’s face as something else entirely.

A knot twisted in Ford's gut every time the image replayed. He had looked at his disoriented brother, barely coherent, and assumed… assumed that look meant something it never should have. What kind of person was he?

Ford squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shove the thought aside. It didn't work. The realization that he had wanted it—he wanted whatever he thought that moment could become—hit him like a cold wave. Worse, he had moved closer for it. He clenched his fists, the rough texture of the pull-out mattress grounding him, but it did nothing to chase away the sick feeling. What if Fiddleford hadn’t come back? What if he had done something irreversible? The fear of that unknown lodged itself deep inside him, festering.

Thank God, Stan had been mostly quiet after that, even cooperative, letting them both take care of him with minimal complaints. Sure, there were occasional bouts of thrashing and restless mumbling, but Ford brushed it off as typical behavior for someone as stubborn as Stan.

Ford had taken more shifts caring for Stan than Fiddleford, almost as if it were penance. He told himself it was only right, that he owed it to his brother, even if he couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was guilt. But Ford found himself hovering—staying up late, checking Stan’s pulse when he thought Fiddleford wasn’t looking. He’d even called Stan’s construction crew to let them know he wouldn’t be coming in for a few days, much to their crass disappointment. The phone call still echoed in his mind: "You better take care of him, pretty boy," one of the guys had said. “Yeah, Mr. Mystery’s the only one who keeps things lively ‘round here! He better be back soon!” another had shouted. Ford had grimaced but replied stiffly, “I’m planning on it.”

Ford had crashed on the couch after checking on Stan early that morning, only to wake to Fiddleford offering to cook in the kitchen. It should have felt like any other day. And then Stan had asked, “Are we okay?”

Ford’s breath hitched at the memory. How was he supposed to answer that? His mind had been racing with too many questions.

Was I imagining things, or were we about to kiss?

Was that magnetic pull real, or did I just want it to be?

Am I really jealous of Fiddleford because I want something more from you?

The questions were absurd, unthinkable.

So Ford took the easy way out. He told Stan he was fine, that his head had been muddled, and blamed everything on the concussion. He reassured him not to worry. Ford thought he sounded confident, but deep down, he knew he’d failed. He saw it in Stan’s face—the way something delicate had cracked and fallen away.

Stan didn’t argue. He just stared into his bowl, shoulders hunched, shrinking into himself. Ford had seen the hollow look in his brother’s eyes, the way his posture drooped, but he ignored it, choosing the safer, more logical path.

It was the right thing to do, wasn’t it? Ford couldn’t risk losing Stan again—not over something like this. Maybe what they both needed was some distance. Maybe time would help Ford figure out whatever was tangled up inside him.

But now, two weeks later, as Ford stood by the apartment door, he couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that he had been wrong. Maybe if he’d just been honest, if he’d admitted that he didn’t understand what that moment had meant either, they could’ve worked through it together. Instead, he’d taken the coward’s route, letting everything settle into an uncomfortable silence.

And now, as he walked through the living room, Ford found himself staring at the record player that had somehow migrated there—an object out of place, much like everything between them.

Chapter Text

For as normal as Stan had hoped things would be over the next two weeks, he quickly realized he was wrong. Very wrong. It was almost like Ford had never met him before, like that awkward first time in the library where everything between them felt strained and distant. Ford was cold, snippy, and kept to himself. Sure, it was finals season, Stan and Fidds had practically resorted to pleading with Ford to eat—a bowl of cereal, for crying out loud—and Ford just kept scribbling equations on the damn windows like some kind of madman. 

But what really stung was how Ford seemed dismissive whenever it came to anything involving Stan directly. Any time they were one-on-one, Ford brushed him off, gave half-answers, or flat-out ignored him. It was like he was trying to avoid Stan, and it didn’t help Stan’s current state of mind. Every night, he went to sleep only to have that incident in the bathroom replay in his head. It haunted him. Worse, sometimes those dreams took a frustratingly... vivid turn, forcing him to wake up and take care of…things.

He winced at the thought and slouched further into the beanbag couch as Fiddleford tinkered with something beside him. At least Fidds didn’t treat him like he had the plague. Hell, Stan had only one final exam coming up—stats—and his last game had been pushed to January, leaving him with way too much free time and not nearly enough distractions. So, he focused on what he could control. Maybe, just maybe, if he built a stronger friendship with Fiddleford—maybe something more—he could just ignore that feeling once and for all. Ford would come to his senses after the semester ended, and things would be…whatever their version of normal could be.

Stan knew he couldn’t keep poking the bear. He didn’t want to lose Ford again. It was already starting to feel like he was slipping away. Besides, he genuinely liked Fidds, so it wasn’t like he was settling or anything.

It was a win-win.

Or at least, that’s what Stan kept telling himself, as he furrowed his brow, staring blankly at the statistics packet in his lap. He was so lost in thought that he didn’t even realize Fiddleford had been talking to him until a paper airplane landed squarely in his mullet. Stan blinked, shaking himself out of his daze, and turned to see Fiddleford laughing, already folding another sheet of paper.

"Staring at that packet ain't gonna fill it out," Fiddleford teased, snorting as he set down his tools.

Stan rolled his eyes, grabbing a can of Pitt Cola from the coffee table. “I wish it would. Cumulative exams suck.” He took a long sip, pretending it would take away the creeping sense of frustration that clung to him like a shadow.

Fiddleford nodded in agreement, moving to tinker with something that looked like a bizarre mix of wires and metal scraps. Stan squinted at it, suddenly curious. “What the hell is that mad scientist doing?” he muttered, not realizing he’d spoken aloud until Fiddleford snorted again.

“Planning world domination,” Fiddleford replied dryly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Stan blinked, leaning forward slightly. “Wait, you serious?”

Fiddleford laughed, shaking his head. “Nah, reckon I don’t have the right temperament to rule the world. But I could probably start a cult or somethin’.” He scratched his mustache with a smirk.

Stan chuckled. “Yeah, no one would suspect a cowboy hippie. You could probably alter memories or something, and no one’d notice.”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking. “Funny you say that. I actually sketched out a blueprint for a memory-wiper once.”

Stan choked a little on his drink, sputtering. “You’re jokin’, right?”

Fiddleford laughed, a warm, low sound that somehow made Stan relax a little. “No joke, though I reckon it’s not exactly ethical.” He turned back to his work, screwing in a bolt with precise movements.

Stan shook his head, laughing despite himself. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.” He eyed the blueprint Fiddleford had spread out in front of him—a weirdly terrifying creature that looked like a badger mixed with a robot. “What’s that monstrosity, though?”

“Robotics final,” Fiddleford sighed. “I’m supposed to help design a prototype animatronic for some bizarre-themed restaurant. Can’t say I’m thrilled with the assignment.”

Stan leaned closer, peering at the crude sketch of the badger-like creature. “That’s more terrifying than ruling the world, man. What kinda restaurant needs a thing like that?”

Fiddleford gave a rueful grin. “Ain’t that the truth.”

Stan hesitated for a moment, then set his stats packet aside. “You need help with it?”

Fiddleford tilted his head, his expression thoughtful, almost catlike. “You sure? Ain’t you supposed to be studyin’?”

Stan shrugged. “I’m bored, and this beats staring at statistics all day.”

Fiddleford chuckled, tossing a wrench to Stan. “Fair enough. Just don’t go slackin’ on your work.”

Stan caught the wrench, glancing at the nuts and bolts scattered across the table. “Yeah, yeah. I know, I know. I just—” He paused, fiddling with a bolt. “I’ve never been a good test taker. Stuff doesn’t stick sometimes.”

Fiddleford tightened a screw, not looking up as he said, “Why don’t you ask Ford for help?”

Stan froze, his hand tightening around the bolt he was holding. “Ford’s got a lot on his plate,” he said carefully, feeling his throat tighten. “It wouldn’t be fair to pile more on him.”

Fiddleford looked up then, eyeing Stan with quiet curiosity. “Yeah, I suppose that makes sense,” he said, his tone soft. “But if you need help, I could lend a hand.”

Stan blinked, surprised. “Yea..?”

Fiddleford grinned, nodding. “Took statistics as an elective my sophomore year. Couldn’t hurt to brush up. Consider it a trade for helpin’ me dominate the planet with weird animatronic badgers.”

Stan couldn’t help but laugh at that. He reached out, offering Fiddleford a mock handshake. “Deal.”

There were more moments like that, small and fleeting, but enough to keep Stan grounded. He figured it was better than sitting around waiting for Ford to stop acting like a total jerk. Like today, for example—Ford had been weirdly quiet the entire morning walk across campus, just kind of hovering behind them while he and Fidds chatted. Stan could feel Ford’s eyes on him, watching, burning, almost, but any time Stan turned around to say something, Ford’s attention shifted elsewhere, like he was studying the sky or the ground.

After a while, Ford split off to go to his office hours. Not a word. Not even a 'see ya'. Stan watched his brother walk away, feeling the familiar frustration creep in.

"Guess Ford’s got his hands full, huh?" Stan muttered, turning back to Fidds, who just smiled at him, unfazed.

“Yeah, he's got finals and office hours. Probably frazzled,” Fidds replied, as though he hadn’t noticed Ford’s coldness at all.

Stan sighed, forcing a grin. “Man, you’re pretty popular, though. Everyone and their mother’s sayin’ hi to you. What are you, some kind of campus celebrity?”

Fidds snorted, rolling his eyes. “Hardly. Half of ’em were my residents when I was an RA. It’s like being a glorified babysitter with paperwork.”

“Babysitting, huh? Must’ve been wild times,” Stan joked, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets as they walked. But his mind was elsewhere. 

Fidds kept talking about the bed bugs and all the parents freaking out, but Stan’s thoughts were elsewhere, chewing over Ford’s odd behavior. He took a peek at Ford’s calendar – he finished 3 out of his 12 exams. Surely his attitude should improve? Right? 

Or maybe it was something Stan did. Stan thinks. Honestly, for how messy they were as kids, Stan’s probably the cleanest out of both of them now. It probably had to do with cleaning up after Marc, and always feeling dirty, but, he never left anything a mess or out of place. He kept his things in his corner like he was given, and made sure NOT to touch any of Ford's belongings. Hell, he picked fights with Fidds just to clean the damn apartment because he liked doing it. So what exactly did he do wrong…

“Man, Ford and I used to have to sneak into the dorms to study without gettin' harassed. Had to play charades just to get our work done, imagine trying to figure out spin quantization from Ford throwin' himself against the wall in different angles,” Fidds said, laughing.

Stan blinked, realizing he’d missed half of Fidds’ story. He forced a chuckle. “Charades, huh? Well, you always were good at making things up on the spot.”

“Exactly. Kept life interesting, right?”

It was little moments like this—easy conversation and shared laughs—that helped keep Stan grounded. So when Fidds had invited him out for coffee, promising a puff pastry, Stan agreed without much hesitation.

And then there were times Fiddleford just wouldn’t take no for an answer—like that one afternoon when Fiddleford had barged into the living room, hands on his hips, looking like a man on a mission. "We’re goin' shopping," Fiddleford had declared, his tone leaving no room for debate.

Stan had raised an eyebrow, lounging on the couch. “Huh? I just went grocery shoppin’. I told y’all to add to the list.”

“Not bread and cup noodles. You need clothes,” Fiddleford had retorted, shaking his head. “You’re practically bustin’ outta half the stuff in your closet. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that leather jacket hangin’ there untouched.”

Stan had made a show of musing, “Is this your way of callin’ me fat or admittin’ you like my muscles?”

“You wanna find out what a foot up your ass feels like?” Fiddleford shot back, unimpressed.

Chuckling, Stan had gotten up, shuffling over to grab his sneakers. “Alright, alright. No need to get feisty. I’m movin’.”

He was halfway through lacing up his shoes when Ford emerged from his room, and just like that, Stan’s brain screeched to a halt.

Ford was standing there, looking like his usual disheveled self—except for the fact that he was wearing the shortest, brightest green shorts Stan had ever seen in his life.

Holy hell.

He swallowed hard, his hands fumbling with his laces as he desperately tried to look anywhere but in Ford's direction.

But his eyes kept drifting back to those ridiculous shorts, and suddenly, his entire brain felt scrambled. This was Ford, his brother, the one currently ignoring him, mind you. Why was his heart doing somersaults over something as stupid as shorts?

Ford, oblivious to the chaos in Stan’s mind, frowned. Stan wasn’t sure if it was at him, or just his usual scowl at the world, but it still made his palms clammy. He cursed inwardly, willing his mind to focus.

Think of something else, think of something else, think of—

“You wanna come with us, take a break from studyin’?” Fiddleford asked, oblivious to the fact that Stan’s mind was spiraling into a pit of confusion.

Ford barely looked up, muttering, “I have to study evolutionary genetics.”

Fiddleford shook his head. “Well, make sure you eat somethin’ and drink water. And open a window—it’s probably stifling in there.”

Without a word, Ford grabbed a can of Pitt Cola and disappeared back into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Stan exhaled slowly, feeling like the air had just returned to the room. He stood up, mentally forcing himself not to think about Ford’s shorts and the way they hugged his legs—nope, not going there. He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wipe the feelings away. 

Fiddleford turned to him, a knowing look in his eyes. “You good?”

Stan cleared his throat, tugging his jacket on. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with before I change my mind.”

By the time they were done, Stan had new shirts, a winter coat, and even a pair of work boots with fur lining. Begrudgingly, he had to admit that the boots were nice. But Fiddleford had insisted on paying for everything, which led to a nearly heated argument at the register. Stan wasn’t about to let Fiddleford pay for all that, no way in hell. After a lot of back-and-forth, they compromised—Stan paid for half, though in Stan’s mind, he’d hardly call it a compromise.

Once they packed up the car, Stan sighed, turning to Fiddleford. “You all set?”

Fiddleford grinned like a fox. “Sure am. Oh, and I got you somethin'.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Cowboy boots.”

Stan stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Sweet Moses, you didn’t.”

“I did.” Fiddleford grinned wider. “You’ll need ‘em for when we visit the farm.”

Stan groaned. “You’re lucky you’re tolerable, y’know that?”

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the hum of the road filling the air. Then Stan shifted awkwardly in his seat, feeling a weight settle in his chest. “Hey, Fidds… thanks. For this.”

Fiddleford waved it off like it was nothing. “Ah, it’s no big deal. What’re friends for?”

A few days later, Stan sat at the table, staring at the paperwork in front of him, his mind swimming in uncertainty. He had enough saved for a full semester in the spring, but the process confused the hell out of him. He glanced across the kitchen at Ford, watching his brother make coffee in complete silence.

Stan hated it. Hated the way things had slipped back into this awkward, cold space between them. After everything they'd been through, Ford still couldn’t bring himself to talk to him. And now, as Ford walked out the door without even a glance his way, another chance to reconnect slipped through Stan's fingers.

Moments later, Fiddleford came in, still half-asleep, and plopped down at the table with a lazy yawn. “Whatcha workin’ on, Stan?”

Stan sighed, rubbing his temples. “Trying to figure out how to apply full-time, but all this paperwork’s makin’ my head spin.”

Fidds blinked, then grinned. “Why don’t we swing by the admissions office? They can help you out, save you some trouble.”

“You think they’ll do that?”

“Sure thing. A friend of mine works there.” Fidds gave Stan's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We can go before I head to work.”

Stan hesitated but then nodded. “Yeah… okay.”

Later that day, Stan found himself signing the paperwork to officially become a full-time student. Fiddleford had even helped him fill out a few smaller scholarship applications. As they left the office, a sense of relief washed over Stan, but a familiar thought lingered: I wish Ford was here.

Would he be proud? Would he even care?

That evening, Fiddleford returned just as Stan was finishing up dinner—seared scallops, the smell of butter and garlic filling the small kitchen. When he heard the door click open, Stan glanced up with a smile. “Right on time.”

Fidds grinned, slipping behind Stan to grab some plates. “Well, ain’t you just full of surprises? Let me help you with that.”

Stan chuckled, ears turning pink.

He liked it.

As he stirred the sauce, he realized that maybe, just maybe, this break from Ford wasn’t the worst thing. Sure, it stung, but it had given him time to get closer to Fiddleford—closer than they’d ever been when they were swamped with work and projects. And the truth was, Fidds cared. Genuinely. Not in that hollow way people sometimes pretended to when they wanted something from him.

It was different from Jimmy, but no less significant. He could picture a future with Fiddleford, which stirred something both hopeful and confusing inside him.

Still, no matter how good it felt, the nagging thought of Ford crept back in, muddying the peace he'd found. The hell’s wrong with me? Ford's absence, his silence—it all made things worse, even if this time with Fidds felt... safer. Definitely healthier.

Right?

After dinner, with the plates set aside, Stan lay stretched out on the couch, his head resting in Fiddleford’s lap. They were watching some overly dramatic TV show neither of them cared about, the noise in the background more soothing than anything else. Fiddleford’s fingers combed through Stan’s hair, gentle and reassuring.

They chatted here and there, light and easy conversation, until Stan found himself asking, “You ever think about your future with someone?”

Fidds’ fingers stilled for a moment as he thought it over. “Well, my family gave it plenty of thought for me, that’s for sure. But honestly? I like livin’ in the present. Feels more manageable that way.”

Stan nodded, staring at the TV without really seeing it. “Yeah, I get that.” He hesitated, then added, “I never really thought about it either. Me and Ford used to say we’d sail the world, find treasure, and have babes follow us everywhere.”

Fidds snorted, shaking his head. “Oh, Lord, that’s somethin’.”

Stan waved him off. “Yeah, it was stupid. But we never really gave it much thought, y'know? Figured we’d just… figure it out.” He let out a dry laugh. “Guess that’s my style. Not thinkin’ ahead.”

Without warning, Fiddleford flicked him on the nose. “Now don’t start beatin’ yourself up. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with takin’ things day by day.”

Stan blinked, rubbing his nose. “Hey, that’s a sensitive spot!”

Fiddleford chuckled, but there was a pause, heavier than their usual teasing. Then, almost at the same time, they both spoke up.

“I like you a lot,” they said, Stan in a rushed tumble of words, Fidds quieter, softer—but his sentence had a clear ending: “but.”

Stan’s chest tightened, the air leaving him as if he’d been sucker-punched. His face fell, and he felt the familiar weight of rejection creeping in. Fidds, noticing the shift, cupped Stan’s cheek gently.

"Now don’t give me that look," Fiddleford said, his thumb brushing lightly against Stan’s skin. "Let me explain myself."

Stan swallowed, his heart pounding as he waited for Fidds to speak.

"I never really thought about…all this," Fidds began quietly, his eyes flickering with a mix of emotions. "I grew up in a very religious household, and while my mama always taught me to love everyone equally, there’s still that stigma. Especially where I’m from, this stuff is practically a heartstopper to some folk ." He sighed, his voice thick with the weight of old habits. "I still like women, but... well, some men too. And you’re the some in this case." He gave a small, wry smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Stan nodded, staying quiet, his hands fiddling with the hem of Fidds' sweater. He got it. The world wasn’t kind to people like them. He’d seen it up close in New York—the bars, the raids, the constant danger. It made sense. Hell, it was logical, unfortunately. Times were changing, sure, but things like this don't happen overnight.

It didn’t make it any easier to hear.

Fiddleford continued, "It’s not a 'never,' Stan. Just a 'not now .' My family's a bit too close for comfort, and they still help me out, y'know? I don’t want you waitin’ around for me, though. That wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve had a tough run of things, and you deserve to make a good life for yourself. And I’ll be right there, every step of the way, with you and Ford. Y’all are practically my family."

Stan’s chest tightened again, but this time with something softer, more bittersweet. He nodded, swallowing down the emotions building in his throat. "Yeah. I get that."

"Did I ever make you uncomfortable?" Stan asked, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.

Fiddleford snorted. "Stanley, you've raised my blood pressure more times than I can count with your terrible flirtin'."

Stan scoffed, playfully punching Fidds in the shoulder. "Terrible? I’ll have you know I picked up plenty of folks with that charm! Do you know how much money—"

Fidds just waved him off with a chuckle. "Sure, sure."

After a beat, Fiddleford's expression softened, and he asked, "We good?"

Stan nodded, offering a small smile. "Yeah. I’m glad I got it off my chest, y’know? I’ll just have a bruised ego for the next hour or two, no big deal."

Fidds’ eyes twinkled with mischief. “Well, I happened to pick up a strawberry shortcake from the bakery. That might speed up your recovery.”

Stan shot up from Fiddleford’s lap, his eyes wide. “Why the hell didn’t you say so?!”

They burst into laughter, the weight of the conversation lifting as dessert took over. But as Stan grabbed the plates, that nagging thought about Ford crept back in, lingering quietly in the background.

Chapter Text

Ford didn’t say a word as he made a beeline for the fridge, yanking out the pasta Stan had made the night before. The sharp way Ford slammed the dish onto the counter made Stan flinch. He watched as Ford angrily shoveled some onto a plate, his movements stiff, the clatter of silverware unnecessarily loud in the small space.

Stan tried to ignore it, scribbling another answer on his worksheet, but the atmosphere was gnawing at him. Setting down his pen, he let the silence hang for a moment before he finally spoke up.

“Seriously, what’s your deal ?” he asked, his voice edged with frustration as he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

Ford didn’t even look at him. “Nothing.”

Stan huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

Ford’s posture stiffened, but he kept quiet, scooping more pasta with a force that made the utensils clang against the dish.

“Come on, man.” Stan leaned forward, voice firmer now. “I’ve been walking on eggshells for two weeks. I don’t know what I did wrong. I’ve left you alone, been spending most of my time with Fidds anyway—”

Ford’s hand faltered at that. Stan caught it—the slight twitch of his mouth, the bitter flash in his eyes. He might’ve tried to hide it, but it was all over his face. Stan's grin turned triumphant.

Gotcha.

“Aha! I knew it,” he said, pointing at Ford.

Ford frowned, his expression hardening. “Knew what?”

“It’s Fidds,” Stan replied smugly, sitting up straighter. “You think I’m stealing your friend.”

Ford’s back straightened, and he let out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “You’re being childish.”

“No, you’re being childish,” Stan shot back, disbelief creeping into his voice. “You’ve been distant, and I’ve noticed how weird you get when me and Fidds hang out. Especially lately. You think I don’t see it?”

Ford clenched his jaw but stayed silent, his back still turned.

Stan wasn’t going to drop it. He got up, crossing the room, and planting himself in Ford’s line of sight. “What, you mad because he helped me with stats? That was one time. We’ve been doing normal stuff—studying, grocery shopping, buying winter clothes—” Ford stiffened again, but Stan didn’t catch it. “—and he helped me register for my classes.”

That got a reaction. Ford froze, slowly turning to face him, his expression paling. “Wait. What?”

Stan was caught off guard by Ford’s intensity. “Yeah, I got my scholarship approved. Full-time now. Fidds knew people in Admissions, made it easier to get through the hoops. I was going to ask you, but you’ve been such an ass lately that you left before I could even bring it up.”

Ford’s expression was unreadable, his face hardening with every word that left Stan’s mouth. The tension in the air thickened, and for a moment, Stan didn’t understand why Ford was acting this way. What was the big deal?

Stan let out a frustrated groan. “Look, man, Fidds can’t have two friends? He’s got plenty of people on campus that hang with him. Every time the three of us are in the same room, someone’s always stopping by.”

Ford scoffed, setting his plate down with deliberate calm. “I wouldn’t consider you and Fidds ‘friends.’”

That stung. Stan’s eyebrows shot up, and he took a step back, his arms falling to his sides. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Ford’s gaze was sharp, cutting. “You spend all this time together, you might as well—” His voice faltered, and he looked away, shaking his head, refusing to finish.

Stan’s eyes widened. “Wait…hold up.” He stepped closer, his pulse quickening. “You think me and Fidds are—what?”

Ford’s jaw tightened, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Ohhhh, I get it now,” Stan said, something clicking into place. He reached out, putting a hand on Ford’s shoulder, though the gesture was more serious than it was comforting. “You think I’m breaking some kind of ‘bro code,’ don’t you? You like him .”

Ford tensed beneath his grip. “Stan, that’s not—”

“I’m not gonna out you,” Stan interrupted quickly, raising a hand. “But you could’ve said something. How was I supposed to know? It’s not fair to make me guess.”

Ford flushed, his breath quickening, but he slapped Stan’s hand off, eyes flashing. “That’s not what this is about, you idiot.”

 “Then what the hell is it about then?” Stan snapped, frustration leaking into his voice as he leaned in closer, refusing to back down.

Ford’s eyes darted to the side, refusing to meet his gaze. His fingers flexed at his sides, and for a long moment, the silence stretched so tight it felt like the air might shatter. When Ford finally spoke, his voice was low, and tight, like he was trying to hold something back.

“It’s about us.”

Stan’s heart skipped. “Us?” he echoed. “What do you mean, ‘us’?”

Ford ran a hand through his hair, the movement jerky, frustrated. “That night, in the bathroom. When you were concussed and we were about to—” He stopped, cutting himself off.

Stan felt the pieces slot into place, his stomach flipping. “What were we about to do, Ford?”

Ford swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, but he stayed quiet. Stan reached out again, this time grabbing his brother’s face with one hand, forcing Ford to look at him. His grip wasn’t rough, but it wasn’t gentle either—Stan was done with this game, this back and forth that Ford kept dragging him through.

“Tell me, Ford,” Stan said, his voice raw with something like desperation. “Don’t pull this shit again. You brushed me off back then, and told me it was nothing. You can’t keep doing this, pretending like nothing happened. Were we….were we thinking the same thing?”

Ford’s face flushed as he wrenched away, backing toward the counter, his breathing shaky. His fingers gripped the edge, knuckles white.

“It’s not that simple,” Ford muttered hoarsely. “You don’t understand.”

Stan clenched his fists. “Then make me understand.”

For a moment, Ford stood there, his back still to Stan, his breath rapid and shallow. When he finally spoke, his voice was so low it almost didn’t reach him.

“I thought you needed help that night,” Ford said, his voice thick with guilt. “But then, when you looked at me like that, I thought—no, I wanted it to be something more. And I hate myself for it.”

Stan’s breath caught. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, the ground crumbling beneath him. But instead of backing away, he stepped closer.

Ford finally turned back around, his face pale, but his expression was filled with raw honesty now like he’d stripped away the last bit of pretense. “You were concussed, Stan. You weren’t in your right mind. And I—” Ford’s voice broke slightly, and he looked away, his jaw clenched tight. “I almost let myself do something. I almost let it happen. If Fiddleford hadn’t come back—” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, but Stan knew what he was getting at.

Stan's hand tightened on Ford's shoulder as he turned his brother to face him, locking eyes with a desperation he couldn’t suppress. The room felt suffocatingly quiet, the tension between them electric, charging the air like the calm before a storm. 

Stan swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I really hope I’m not taking this the wrong way,” he muttered, voice low, raw. He exhaled sharply, almost laughing at himself. “But screw it.”

Before he could second-guess himself, before Ford had the chance to pull away again, Stan leaned in and pressed his lips to Ford's. It wasn’t rough or forceful—just a soft, tentative kiss, a question more than anything. For a heartbeat, Ford didn’t move, didn’t respond, and panic flared in Stan’s chest. He was frozen, waiting, dread creeping up his spine.

He pulled back abruptly, panic already flooding his veins. His brother was standing there, shell-shocked, and now he’d ruined everything. 

I messed up. Oh God. I’m gonna have to disappear, maybe drop out, find some other place to hide. Can I even afford that? He’s never gonna look at me the same again. Maybe I’ll find a nice hole to die in.

Stan stumbled over his words, trying to salvage the situation. “Shit—Ford, listen, uh—Europeans, right? It’s like a handshake, nothing serious. God, what the hell am I even saying—?”

Before he could embarrass himself further, Ford kissed him.

At first, Ford’s lips were hesitant, awkwardly pressing against Stan’s, but it didn’t take long for the awkwardness to dissolve. Ford’s grip tightened, pulling Stan closer, and suddenly the kiss was anything but tentative. A surge of hunger passed between them, and Stan responded instinctively, matching Ford’s intensity. As Ford leaned in, pushing against him with deliberate pressure, his hips grinding forward, Stan’s body reacted instantly—arching into Ford’s touch, a low groan slipping from his throat.

Stan’s head spun, his heart pounding in his chest as Ford deepened the kiss. The sensation of Ford’s fingers tangling in his hair, tugging just enough to sting, only fueled the fire burning between them. A shiver ran down Stan’s spine, and the soft gasp that followed sent Ford over the edge. He tugged harder, testing boundaries, and when Stan moaned, it was all the encouragement Ford needed. He pressed forward, rolling his hips again, drawing another breathless sound from Stan.

Stan barely registered the cabinet pressing against his back as Ford crowded him, their bodies flush now, the heat between them nearly unbearable. Stan’s hands found their way under Ford’s sweater, fingertips brushing against Ford’s burning skin, and he couldn’t help the thought that flashed through his mind— Why the hell did Ford come out of the shower wearing so many damn layers? But before he could follow that thought any further, Ford's knee slid between his legs, nudging up, and suddenly all Stan could think about was the pressure, the sensation, the way it made him gasp and swear under his breath.

Instinctively, Stan wrapped a leg around Ford’s waist, grinding against him in a frantic attempt to alleviate the aching tension building inside him. Their movements fell into sync, bodies moving together with a rhythm that only heightened the friction between them. Stan’s mind was a blur, lost in the sensation of Ford against him.

It was almost too much—overwhelming and addictive all at once. The way Ford moved, pressing into him in all the right places, sent electric jolts of pleasure through Stan’s body. He groaned, his head tipping back and hitting the cabinet with a loud thud. The sudden burst of pain cut through the haze.

“Fuck!” Stan cursed, his voice louder this time, the sting from his still-healing concussion yanking him back to reality.

Ford froze immediately, his hands shooting up to cradle the back of Stan’s head. The gentleness of it made Stan’s heart race even faster, the dizziness mixing with the raw intensity of the moment. Ford pulled back just enough to break the kiss, their lips parting with a gasp, a thin thread of saliva still connecting them.

“Shit!” Stan hissed, nearly jumping out of his skin. He shoved Ford back like he’d been burned, frantically smoothing out their clothes, wiping his lips with his sleeve, and shoving Ford’s dinner into the microwave—all in a blur of motion. Ford, still dazed, blinked slowly, like he hadn’t quite processed what had just transpired.

“Wha…what are you—?” Ford finally managed, his voice rough and confused.

Before Stan could respond, the door swung open, and Fiddleford strolled in, whistling a cheerful tune. “Evenin’, boys!” he called, oblivious. “Smells like pasta in here.”

Stan plastered on a grin, shooting Ford a quick side-eye. “Hey, Fidds,” he said, a little too casually. “Just, uh, heating up dinner.” He cast another glance at Ford, who still looked like he was trying to process everything.

Fiddleford paused, his eyes flicking between them with a raised eyebrow. “Y’all okay?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “You’re both makin’ the same face.”

“What face?” Ford and Stan blurted in unison, their voices a tad too high-pitched.

Fiddleford snorted, clearly not buying their act. He crossed his arms, leaning against the counter. “I dunno, somethin’ about how y’all are lookin’ like cats that got into the cream. Did somethin’ happen?”

Stan scratched the back of his neck, offering an exaggerated grin. “Nope, nothing happened, just… uh, had an exposure therapy session. You know, workin’ on those boundaries.”

Ford choked on nothing. “Right—uh, boundaries… that,” he stammered, his voice cracking horribly.

Stan elbowed him in the ribs, hoping to snap him out of it. Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, whatever gets y’all comfortable with each other,” he said, clearly entertained.

Ford was beet red, his whole body stiff as he retrieved his plate from the microwave, avoiding Fiddleford’s gaze. Stan let out a weak laugh, shrugging. “Yeah, you know. Whatever works.”

If Fiddleford noticed the tension still hanging between them, he didn’t comment. Instead, he casually grabbed a seat at the table, flipping through one of Stan’s practice sheets. “Y’know, there’s a few events comin’ up on campus before the semester ends,” he said, fixing one of Stan’s equations with a quick scribble and giving a thumbs-up for the rest. “But I might head out a bit early to Tennessee. My ma’s fixin’ up the place, wants to make it ‘presentable’ for y’all.”

Stan sat down across from him, trying to focus on Fiddleford’s words even though his mind was still buzzing from the kiss. Ford, meanwhile, was hyper-focused on his plate of pasta, trying his best to disappear.

“Presentable?” Stan asked, grateful for the distraction.

“Yeah,” Fiddleford grinned. “She’s excited to meet both of y’all, but, uh, fair warnin’—you’re probably gonna have to share a bed. Unless one of ya wants to sleep on some hay.”

Stan heard Ford choke on his pasta, his brother sputtering as he tried to regain composure. Stan bit back a laugh, shaking his head. “Nah, shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, shooting Ford a sidelong glance. “We’ll figure it out.”

Ford looked like he might keel over from embarrassment, but he kept his head down, shoveling another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

“So,” Stan said quickly, desperate to change the subject before Ford imploded. “What’s this project you’re working on for your engineering final, Fidds? Got any new invention that’s gonna blow us all away?”

As the conversation shifted back to easier topics, Stan gave Ford one last look, the kind that said, we’ll deal with this later.

Ford had found himself in his bedroom for the rest of the night. He'd played it off, saying he needed alone time to study, which was believable enough, especially since Fiddleford and Stan were occupied with one of Fidds' contraptions. Something inspired by Tom Binford, and as much as Ford was genuinely interested—Binford had a knack for robotics that bordered on genius—he needed to clear his head. He could always ask Fiddleford about it during break.

Five hours later, Ford was still at his desk, but his progress had been abysmal. His jaw ached from gnawing on the end of his pencil, his mind wandering everywhere except the pages in front of him. He rubbed his face aggressively, planting it into his open textbook, exhaustion creeping up on him. But it wasn’t just the studying that drained him—it was the thoughts swirling around Stan, a mounting confusion that seemed to cling to him like a suffocating fog.

"Didn’t realize eating your notes was a study method," Stan’s voice cut through the silence like a crack of thunder.

Ford jumped, lifting his head in surprise. A piece of paper was stuck to his face, which he hurriedly peeled off, glaring at his brother. “What are you doing here?” he snapped, trying to steady the rush of panic in his chest.

Stan stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. "Fidds went to bed a while ago," he said with a shrug. "I figured I’d give you space… y’know, since that’s what you’ve been doin’ to me for the past two weeks." His tone was sharp, though his face remained neutral, except for the pointed look in his eyes.

Ford’s glare deepened, though he was more upset by the truth in Stan’s words than by his brother’s presence. Stan, completely unfazed, made his way across the room and threw himself onto Ford’s bed, sprawling out like he owned the place. His eyes lingered on Ford’s face, watching the tension there, before he finally spoke again.

“Why do you look like you’re about to kill me when you’re the one who went back in for the kiss?” Stan’s voice was casual, but his eyes narrowed, probing Ford’s every reaction.

Ford’s face flushed hot, and his stammer came before he could stop it. “I-I didn’t—It’s not—”

Stan, still sprawled lazily on the bed, raised a brow and cut him off with the bluntness only Stan could manage. “You’ve been a real dick lately, y’know that? You gotta stop with these confusing signals, man.”

Ford felt his chest tighten, his anger rising—not at Stan, but at himself, at the impossible mess they were in. “Confusing?!” he spat, his fists clenching at his sides. “Who wouldn’t be confused about wanting to—” He cut himself off sharply, the words lodging in his throat.

Kiss their own brother.

Ford felt the heat rise to his cheeks, and he hated how out of control he felt, how disarmed Stan could make him with just a few words. Stan didn’t flinch. Instead, he grabbed a pillow from behind him and threw it at Ford, the cushion bouncing off Ford’s chest before it hit the floor. “We’ll get to that later. Right now, let me talk.”

Ford stood there, jaw clenched, his hands trembling. He could feel the weight of everything bearing down on him, but Stan’s calm demeanor made it feel worse, made Ford feel small in his anger.

Stan sat up, his voice softer now. “I thought we were good,” he began, his tone steady but with an edge of frustration. “Or at least our version of going to be good? We were hangin’ out, I told you about Marc and everything, and I thought things were finally on track. Then you went all quiet again. And come to find out, it's cause we were thinking of the same thing.”

Ford opened his mouth to argue, but Stan kept going, holding up a hand to stop him. “I know Pa didn’t raise us to be vulnerable, and I get it—we ain’t built for all this emotional crap. But this?” He gestured between them, his eyes locking onto Ford’s. “This is cruel, Ford. Mean. You bottlin’ things up, not talkin’. It’s gonna tear you apart. Hell, it already is.”

Ford scoffed reflexively, though the bite behind it wasn’t there. He shot back, weakly, “Yeah, like you’re one to talk.”

Stan leaned back against the headboard, shrugging. “Maybe not, but someone’s gotta act like the mature one. And it sure as hell ain’t you, genius.”

Ford puffed out his cheeks in frustration, his fingers twitching as he stared at the floor, the tension simmering just under the surface. He turned away, refusing to meet Stan’s gaze as the silence stretched between them.

Stan shifted slightly, reaching up to pick at one of the posters above Ford’s bed. “Is that what you meant to do?” he asked, his voice softer now, a tone that made something tighten in Ford’s chest. “The kiss? Did you mean it?”

Ford swallowed, the weight of the question heavy. He fiddled with the hem of his sweater before muttering, “I... I think so.”

Stan nodded slowly, repeating Ford’s words under his breath as if trying to make sense of them himself. The quiet between them grew heavy, the air thick with unsaid things. After a moment, Ford finally spoke again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Fiddleford would’ve been the logical choice… the sensible one.”

Stan snorted at that, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, funny thing—Fidds rejected me.”

Ford’s head snapped up, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What?”

Stan shrugged, still picking at the poster like the conversation wasn’t unraveling him. “Yeah, we talked about it. He doesn’t mind the flirtin’, and he even said he liked me. But his family’s all… y’know, bible-thumpers. He’s still figuring it out, and he can’t just risk his relationship with them. I’m not gonna mess that up for him. Fidds is like family to us, y’know? No biggie.”

The words “no big deal” echoed in his head. But the way Stan said it, like it was something that didn’t hurt, something that didn’t matter, it was... unsettling. 

Stan stuck his hands out toward Ford, gesturing for him to come over. With hesitation, Ford crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, facing his brother.

“You wanna talk about it?” Stan asked, his voice careful now.

Ford stared at his lap, picking at the hem of his sweater. “I don’t know what to talk about,” he admitted after a long pause. “It’s… wrong.”

Stan shrugged, leaning back against the wall. “Yeah, maybe. Probably. But there’s gotta be some kinda scientific reason for it, right? Twin intuition, or somethin’. Maybe we’re just....wired weird.”

Ford snorted at that, despite himself. “That’s...not how that works.”

“Sure it is,” Stan teased, flashing a grin. “You’re the genius, not me. So figure it out.”

Ford’s mind raced, trying to make sense of his emotions, his thoughts, and everything that had happened tonight. Stan broke the silence first. “Wanna… try again? See what happens and then leave it at that, at least for tonight?” He shrugged, looking down at his hands. “We still got the semester to get through, y’know. And I have stats tomorrow. Doesn’t have to be a big deal. We can just take it slow.”

Ford’s hands stilled, and he met Stan’s gaze. His heart was racing, his mind still a mess, but something about Stan’s presence was steadying, reassuring. He knew, deep down, that Stan wasn’t pushing—just offering a way to slow things down. “I... I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t seem like it back in the kitchen, genius. You were the one grinding against me, remember?”

Ford’s face flushed deep red. “Can you not—”

But Stan grinned wider. “And you were pulling my hair, too. Tongue? Oh yeah, you definitely—”

Ford surged forward, silencing him with a quick, slightly clumsy kiss, pushing Stan back against the pillows. Stan hummed, amused, his hand coming to rest lightly on Ford’s shoulder. "You’re pretty good at that. Shutting me up, I mean." He grinned, eyes twinkling. "You sure you haven’t done this before? Or did you practice on that kiss bot you made in high school? Wasn't it a leafblower?"

Ford buried his face into Stan’s neck, his weight pressing down on him as he mumbled, "Shut up."

Stan chuckled, his fingers threading through Ford’s hair. "You’re not gonna shut me up from down there."

Ford grumbled something incoherent against Stan’s skin, but he reluctantly lifted his head. Their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them moved, neither spoke. Stan’s hand cupped the back of Ford’s neck, pulling him in for another kiss.

This one was longer, and slower, their mouths moving in sync as they explored the unspoken feelings between them. They kissed again, and again, finding a rhythm that felt right, even if it was still new and uncertain. Each kiss was a tentative step into uncharted territory, but neither of them pulled away.

When they finally did break apart, they were breathless, their faces flushed and their eyes hazy.

"Sleep," they both muttered at the same time, exchanging a quiet laugh at the unintentional synchrony.

Ford reached over to turn the lamp off, but Stan tugged him back, his voice a soft, teasing whisper. "You better keep a loose grip on me tonight, genius, so I can sneak out in the morning."

Ford mumbled into the crook of Stan’s neck, "No promises." His arm draped over Stan’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his brother’s breathing, his own thoughts still swirling but quieter now. For tonight, that was enough.

Stan stirred, feeling Ford shift beside him, a bit earlier than the alarm was set to go off. Half-asleep, he barely cracked an eye open, catching Ford’s silhouette as his brother sleepily reached out, fumbling to pull Stan closer.

Stan grumbled through his drowsiness, “Loose grip.”

Ford paused, hand hovering mid-air like he wasn’t sure what to do next, before muttering, “Damn it,” in a raspy, almost-whisper. His arm dropped to the mattress with a soft thud, but Stan could hear the amused frustration behind the grumble. When the alarm finally blared, Ford groaned low, irritated, as he leaned over Stan to shut it off, his elbow brushing Stan’s side.

Stan stretched with an exaggerated yawn, rubbing his face like he could wipe away the last traces of sleep.

“Morning,” they both muttered in unison, their voices thick with sleep.

Ford squinted, still groggy, but a hint of playfulness sparked beneath the tiredness. “You ready for it?” he asked, the question pulling Stan’s attention.

Stan tilted his head, his mind still foggy. “Ready for what?”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Your exam.”

Stan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

Ford reached over to pluck a stray lint ball off Stan’s sweater, examining it with mock seriousness before flicking it away like it had personally offended him. “You know,” he said, voice laced with false innocence, “I could still get him fired if you want.”

Stan waved him off, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Nah, I’ll take the C like a champ.”

Ford let out a dramatic, disapproving sigh, though the softness behind it didn’t go unnoticed. As Stan swung his legs over the edge of the bed, getting ready to head out, Ford called after him, his voice quieter this time. “Hey.”

Stan turned, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

Ford hesitated, his gaze flickering downward for a moment before he met Stan’s eyes. “Come to the library when you’re done with the exam, okay?”

Stan nodded. "Yeah, alright."

That exam sucked.

Stan couldn’t help the thought running through his mind as he stared at the last page, scribbling down his answers with a mixture of guesswork and strained memory. He swore the professor had made some kind of pact with the devil just to craft something this sadistic. Even one of the top students looked like he was on the verge of collapsing.

Stan sighed, rubbing his neck as he scrawled the last answer, shoulders tight with frustration. “Well, that’s in God’s hands now,” he muttered to himself, slamming the booklet shut.

By the time he made his way to the library, the afternoon light was filtering through the windows in warm, golden streaks. He wandered toward the tutoring center, where Ford usually was, but found the desk empty. Instead, he spotted Madeline, chatting animatedly with a girl wearing a Women’s Lacrosse hoodie, her posture more relaxed than usual. Stan squinted—he recognized the lacrosse player from the gym, one of the regulars during his workout hours.

She leaned against the desk, saying something that made Madeline laugh, and Stan couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. As the girl slung her bag over her shoulder and headed out, she gave Stan a nod, which he returned with a casual wave. When he looked back, Madeline was in a daze, her cheeks still flushed.

Stan sauntered over, leaning on the desk. “She’s pretty damn good-looking, huh?”

Madeline, still in a bit of a daze, murmured dreamily, “Yeah…”

Realizing who she was talking to, she blinked rapidly, flustered. “Oh, Lee! Sorry! I—I didn’t see you there. Did you...uh...need something?”

Stan shrugged, looking down at the paperwork she was playing with. “Ford asked me to meet him here.”

“Oh! He’s in the archives basement. He said he might be there for a while, but I can take you there if you want?”

Stan nodded, and they headed out of the tutoring center toward the lower levels. His hand trailed along the ridges of the wall as they walked, the rough texture keeping his thoughts from wandering too far. "That girl’s name is Ainsley, right?" he asked, his tone casual but curious.

Madeline’s face flushed a bit as she stammered a quiet "yeah."

Stan gave a knowing nod. "Seems you two are...close."

Madeline glanced away quickly. "We’re just friends."

Stan whistled softly, a playful grin tugging at his lips. "That girl’s a firecracker. I’ve seen her giving the guys a hard time in the gym. She’d probably eat them alive like a praying mantis."

Madeline laughed, flustered but amused, and Stan gave her a small, encouraging smile. "You should go for it."

She looked at him, wide-eyed, and Stan mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key. "But, hey, what do I know?"

Madeline gave him a shy smile. "Yeah… maybe."

They reached the door to the archives, and she waved him off, her cheeks still flushed. "See you around, Lee."

Stan stepped into the dim, cool air of the archives. Shelves of books, boxes, and various artifacts surrounded Ford, who was hunched over a pile of old posters, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. When the door clicked shut, Ford looked up, his face lighting up with a small smile.

“How’d the exam go?” Ford asked, brushing his hand through his hair, already anticipating Stan’s answer.

Stan shrugged, slumping into a chair. "It’s in God’s hands now."

Ford sighed, but his smile didn’t falter. "Well, I suppose we’ll have to hope for divine intervention."

Stan glanced at the chaos surrounding Ford, raising an eyebrow. “So, what’s all this?”

Ford shuffled his feet, looking a bit sheepish. “I, uh, wanted to make it up to you. For being a ‘dick,’ as you so eloquently put it.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

Ford brightened slightly, his eyes lighting up as he shifted into lecture mode. “So, I’ve been spending a lot of time in the library’s archive lately. They’re renovating the chemistry department, and I’ve been bringing materials over. While I was there, I started thinking of things you might find interesting. Turns out, environmental sciences is filed under ecology, which, for some bizarre reason, is stuck in the veterinary science section. Can you believe that? Whoever organized this clearly has no understanding of proper categorization—”

“Ford.” Stan interrupted, giving him a look. “The point.”

Ford paused, then gestured to the stack of things beside him. “Right, sorry. I found some old marine taxidermy guides, figures, books on tide pools, boating manuals—stuff like that. The archive was going to toss most of it, so I figured we could grab what we could. I started going through it, but thought you’d want to take a look yourself.”

Stan smiled, genuinely impressed. He glanced at Ford, who was watching him with an almost nervous, hopeful expression, waiting for validation. Without a second thought, Stan moved in and wrapped his arms around Ford’s neck, pulling him into a tight hug. Ford froze for a moment, his hands hovering awkwardly near Stan’s waist.

Stan pulled back slightly, feeling like he might have overstepped. “Sorry, I—”

Before he could finish, Ford grabbed Stan’s hands, holding them firmly in his own. His voice was soft, reassuring. “It’s fine,” he said, giving Stan a small smile that lit up his face. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

Stan’s breath hitched at the warmth of Ford’s hands around his. They were big, a little calloused, but steady and comforting. As Ford guided him toward the stack of books, Stan couldn’t help but focus on the simple, natural feel of Ford’s touch.

“Look,” Ford said, gesturing toward the open pages and species in lucite resin. His excitement was contagious, and Stan found himself leaning in, listening as Ford explained the process of preservation.

For the next thirty minutes, they sifted through the books together, pulling out the ones Stan found interesting, their quiet banter filling the space. Eventually, they had a cartload of material, and despite Ford insisting they should put it in his car, Stan refused.

“No way I’m putting all this cool shit in a Colt,” Stan said with a grin.

Ford rolled his eyes but didn’t argue further.

Back at the apartment, they settled on the couch, Ford quietly studying while Stan flipped through one of the marine biology books. The comfort of the moment, the calmness between them, felt like a much-needed balm. Stan glanced at Ford, catching him deep in concentration.

“Thanks, Sixer,” he muttered quietly.

Ford didn’t look up, but Stan saw the smile tug at the corners of his lips.

Chapter Text

Ford wasn’t going to ignore Stan anymore—no, that phase was over. He made it clear he’d just be busy, focusing on his work, especially as he approached a critical point: defending his research to see if he could move forward with one of his… many… PhDs. Honestly, his lack of tact in situations like the one with Stanley was probably the reason he didn’t get the RA position when both he and Fiddleford had applied. Fiddleford had a knack for managing relationships, especially interpersonal ones, which Ford decidedly...

Did not.

He groaned inwardly, wanting to slap himself for not being able to provide even the briefest of explanations. He could’ve said he was avoidant because of academics—sure, Stan might’ve rolled his eyes, but at least it would’ve cleared the air. Then again, if he’d chalked it up to just that, the issue would have dragged on longer. Rubbing his neck absently, his mind drifted back over the last few days: the argument with Stanley, the revelation that they were both battling the same confusing feelings, the kiss, the way he’d tried to make it up to Stan in the library archives.

Though honestly, Stan deserved more than that. So much more.

"Communication is the key," Ford thought to himself, but inwardly acknowledged how hard it had been. Harder than any equation he’d ever solved, harder than understanding the complexities of quantum mechanics. His thoughts were pulled back to reality as a hand waved in front of his face.

His inner monologue was abruptly interrupted by Stan waving a hand in front of his face. “Earth to Stanford.”

Ford blinked, pulling himself out of his spiraling thoughts. “What?”

Stan stood before him, grinning, holding up something from behind his back. He whipped out a shark jaw—one of the many oddities Stan had picked from their library trip—and held it triumphantly.

“I was askin’ if I could hang this in the bathroom,” Stan said, his tone all innocence and feigned obliviousness.

Ford stared at him, deadpan. “Absolutely not.”

Stan’s face twisted into an exaggerated whine. “Why not?”

Ford flipped one of his study cards over, his mind automatically answering the question on it. Hans Bethe’s theories—child’s play. He grabbed the next one. “Because,” he said, not bothering to look up, “I already have to look at that seahorse you framed in there. The one with the googly eye you glued onto it.”

Stan laughed, a wide grin spreading across his face. “It’s funny, though. Admit it.”

Ford flipped the next card, feigning deep thought. “No.”

Stan, undeterred, sauntered over to the living room, holding the shark jawbone above the television. “Alright, what about here then? The living room could use some, uh, ambiance.”

Ford made the mistake of looking up. The sight of Stan, all bright-eyed and excited, holding up that ridiculous shark jaw with a smile that made him look almost boyish—it was endearing. The word "cute" echoed in Ford's mind, and that realization hit him like a freight train.

He was weak. He knew it. They hadn’t done much since their first kiss—talking, yes, lingering touches here and there, a brush of fingers, or a passing shoulder bump that lingered a bit too long. Nothing more. But right now, all Ford wanted to do was drag Stan back to the room and—

“You’re staring,” Stan interrupted, breaking Ford’s reverie with a smirk.

Ford quickly glanced back at his cards. "I... was thinking."

Stan gave a low chuckle, setting the shark's jaw on the coffee table. "I’m taking your silence as a yes, by the way. Glad someone appreciates my creative eye."

Ford sighed. "Sure."

Just then, the door to Fiddleford’s room opened, and their friend emerged with a suitcase in hand. Stan perked up immediately, smiling as he leaned back on the couch. “Heading out, Fidds?”

“Yup, got that robotics presentation. Gonna hit the road after. Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

Stan grinned wider. “Just don’t bring back any creepy animatronics.”

Fiddleford laughed. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Ford flipped another card. Equation of motion for Aμ, easy once again, where’s the challenge?

He couldn’t quite remember Fiddleford mentioning leaving today.

Stan seemed to read his thoughts, smirking. “He mentioned it a few days ago, remember? You were choking on pasta.”

Ford gave him a flat look but didn’t argue. Fiddleford approached, ruffling Ford’s hair. “Don’t overdo it, Ford. And, Stan, make sure he eats and sleeps.”

Stan gave a mock salute, and Fiddleford shot one last look at both of them, as if ensuring everything was in order. “And don’t forget to bring your shoes!”

As the door clicked shut behind Fiddleford, Stan turned to Ford with a raised brow. “He got you cowboy boots too, huh?”

Ford sighed, putting down his flashcards. “Sophomore year.”

Stan snorted, throwing himself onto the couch next to Ford, settling in far too comfortably. “Well, guess it’s just the two of us for the next few days.”

And that’s when it hit Ford: Fiddleford wasn’t going to be around. No buffer, no interruptions. It was just going to be him and Stan. And whatever might happen between them.

Ford wasn’t sure if the thought was exhilarating or terrifying.

“So,” Stan interrupted his internal spiral, “what do you want to eat? I’m thinkin’ I’ll whip up some brain fuel for ya.”

Ford thought for a moment, his mind still half-absorbed in physics formulas and the warmth radiating off Stan. “Do we still have salmon in the freezer?”

“Sure do,” Stan replied easily. “I’ll see what I can do with that.”

Ford nodded, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stan still staring at him with a small, almost tender smile on his lips. For a brief moment, Ford fumbled with the flashcards, his mind turning to mush as that same smile started twisting into something more wolfish.

“I’ll get started on that,” Stan said as he hopped off the couch.

Ford could only nod, flipping another flashcard, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore. The next question might as well have been written in an alien language because his mind was far too distracted now.

Stan had been lazily flicking through channels, trying to find something to watch while his mind wandered, when he stumbled upon an old cooking show. The host, some guy named Paul Prudhomme, was enthusiastically talking about a recipe for blackened fish. Stan wasn't sure what it was about the way the man seasoned and cooked that salmon, but it had him practically drooling.

Before the show ended, Stan quickly grabbed the nearest sticky note from the wall and scribbled down what he could catch—"blackened fish," "paprika," "cayenne," "thyme"—the list was rushed, messy, and probably missing half the important steps, but he figured he'd wing it. He tucked the sticky note into his back pocket with a self-satisfied grin. Save that for later.

Well, later was now, he thought as he stood in front of the stove, salmon fillets thawed and ready to go. It wasn’t the exact recipe from the show, but he figured he could improvise. Stan carefully reached into the cabinet for the seasonings he’d bought earlier—paprika, thyme, cayenne pepper—dumping them into a bowl, trying to remember how the TV guy had done it. His mind drifted again as he measured out the spices, thinking about the past few days.

It had been three days since the kiss. Three days of what Stan could only describe as a strange, almost unsettling new “normal” between them. Ford had finally decided to stop playing the emotionally constipated robot, actually talking to him—talking, not grunting or dodging. He’d explained that he wasn’t going to ignore Stan or pretend nothing happened, but that he’d be busy for the next few days with exams and papers. Honestly, it was more than Stan had expected.

Stan sprinkled a little too much paprika into the mix, his hand pausing as he remembered Ford’s words. Not that he thought his brother was incapable of emotional honesty—Ford had always been complicated like that. But for once, he didn’t have to drag it out of him. Ford hadn’t put up a fight or acted like he was too busy solving the mysteries of the universe to deal with feelings. It had been... surprisingly pleasant.

He moved to grab the cayenne, but a small voice in the back of his mind started to nag at him. This won’t last long , it whispered. Ford’ll get tired of you, realize you’re too broken, and things will go back to the way they were. Maybe worse.

Stan stilled, his hand frozen over the bowl. Where the hell did that thought come from? He furrowed his brow, shaking it off. That wasn’t true… right? Ford had kissed him. They’d both felt it. And sure, things hadn’t gone beyond that, but a kiss like that meant something. 

Right?

Lost in his thoughts, Stan didn’t even notice Ford until he felt a presence behind him, a warm breath near his shoulder.

“What’re you making?” Ford’s voice was curious, soft.

Stan blinked, snapping out of his thoughts, and grinned. “Oh, uh, saw somethin’ on TV. Figured I’d try my hand at it.”

Ford chuckled lightly, glancing over Stan’s shoulder at the makeshift recipe in progress. “That can’t be good.”

Stan shot him a look and blew a raspberry right in Ford’s face, causing his brother to flinch back with a grin. “It’s gonna be great. I’m 97.5% sure it’ll be good. And 100% sure it’ll be edible. I’m putting my blood, sweat, tears, and other fluids into this.”

“That sounds delightful .” Ford asserted, nodding as he passed by to grab something from the fridge. His hand brushed casually against Stan’s lower back as he moved by—just a simple, fleeting touch, but it made Stan’s heart skip a beat.

Ford emerged with a Pitt Cola in hand, and without a word, he brought his study materials over to the dining table. Stan, busy rinsing the salmon fillets, called out after him with a teasing grin, “You just move to the table so you can watch me cook?”

Ford, not missing a beat, shot back, “Maybe. Can’t blame me for wanting to admire you.”

Stan nearly dropped the fillet he was holding, his brain short-circuiting. Is he…flirting ? It wasn’t that he didn’t know Ford could be sly when he wanted to, but this was different. And, hell, Stan wasn’t prepared for it.

He was snapped back to reality by Ford’s voice, calm but amused. “Stan, the water’s still running.”

“Shit!” Stan fumbled to turn off the faucet, the sound of Ford’s quiet laughter behind him not helping his sudden fluster.

He shook it off, focusing on seasoning the fish, rubbing the spice mixture into the fillets, and getting them ready for the pan. The whole thing took about twenty minutes—searing the salmon, preparing a quick side salad, and plating it all together with a squeeze of lemon for good measure. Stan wiped his hands on a dish towel and brought two plates over to the dining table, sliding one in front of Ford before sitting across from him.

Stan leaned back, watching Ford expectantly as he took his first bite. He tried to keep cool, but he couldn’t help holding his breath a little, waiting for Ford’s reaction.

Ford chewed thoughtfully, his expression unreadable for a moment before his eyes lit up. “100%,” he said, going in for another bite. “It’s good.”

Stan grinned, feeling a ridiculous amount of pride swelling in his chest. “Glad ya like it.”

They ate in comfortable silence for a while, Stan’s foot slowly nudging Ford’s under the table. He didn’t mean to be so obvious, but the contact felt... nice. Ford didn’t move his leg away, instead continuing to eat with that same intense focus he always had when he enjoyed something.

Stan smiled to himself as he chewed, thinking back to that nagging voice in his head earlier.

Maybe things were different now.

Ford had moved to clean up after their meal, despite Stan’s half-hearted protests that it wasn’t necessary. Stan had gotten used to being the one to handle things like dishes and cleaning up, but Ford, stubborn as ever, had waved him off and taken over the task anyway. Stan watched him from his spot at the table, smirking as Ford scrubbed the plates with an intensity that seemed more suited for a scientific experiment than simple kitchen duty.

Once the dishes were done, Ford dried his hands and grabbed one of his study sheets, scribbling something on it before stuffing it in a ziplock bag with a piece of tape over it. Stan shot him a puzzled look, eyebrows raised in question.

Ford glanced over, catching Stan’s expression. “I’m gonna shower and study—best of both worlds,” Ford explained with a ramble. “Some people get their best ideas in the shower, y’know. It’s all about how the brain works. I’ve been meaning to test the effects of focus in different environments, and considering you and Fidds keep mentioning I smell like I’ve been trapped in a lab for three days…”

Stan snorted, shaking his head. “That’s probably ‘cause you’ve been wearin’ the same shirt for three days straight. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.”

Ford waved him off, heading toward the bathroom. “Washing clothes is a waste of time, I'm a busy guy.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Besides, I’m pretty sure the smell is more mental than physical.”

“Just save me some hot water,” Stan called after him.

Ford smiled faintly before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving Stan with a growing sense of warmth in his chest. It was small moments like this, the easy banter, that made Stan feel like things were almost normal. Or, at least, their version of normal.

With the kitchen now clean, Stan wandered over to their record player, flipping through their modest but growing collection of records. He snorted when his fingers landed on one of Fiddleford’s contributions—Frank Sinatra. Of course, Fidds had a soft spot for Ol’ Blue Eyes. Stan shrugged and plopped the record on the player, letting the smooth crooning of Sinatra fill the room as he wiped down the countertops and finished tidying up. 

“And then I go and spoil it all by sayin’ something stupid like I…” Stan sang under his breath, swaying slightly as he wiped down the last of the counters.

He didn’t realize Ford had come out of the shower until he turned around, flushed from the warmth of the water, and caught Ford standing there, watching him with an amused expression. Stan’s face immediately flushed, heat crawling up his neck as he froze, mid-movement.

“Uh—how long you been standin’ there?” Stan stammered, feeling like he’d just been caught doing something embarrassing.

Ford’s lips quirked into a smile, his damp hair curling at the ends. “Long enough to see you butcher Sinatra,” he said, though his tone wasn’t critical. If anything, he sounded...fond.

Stan’s brain sputtered to a halt. A. Ford was a lot more fit than Stan had given him credit for, not nearly as bulky as Stan, but definitely toned in a way that was noticeable, especially with those stupid green shorts Ford insisted on wearing. B. Ford was wearing those green shorts again. His brain blanked for a second, lost in the sight before he snapped out of it.

The record player had stopped, and Stan quickly moved to turn it off, fumbling with the buttons.  “I saved you some hot water if you wanna shower,” Ford offered, leaning casually against the counter.

Stan nodded, setting down the paper towel and spray he’d been holding. “Yeah, thanks.”

As Stan turned to head toward the bathroom, Ford’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “Hey...will you come to bed with me after?”

Stan whipped his head around, eyes wide in surprise. Ford was looking at him expectantly, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Uh… yeah, sure,” Stan replied, the words leaving his mouth before he could really process them.

Ford blinked, as if he hadn’t expected that answer, but then he smiled, looking a little more relaxed. “Okay. I’ll be studying while you’re in the shower, then.”

Stan’s heart was beating a little faster than it should’ve been, but he played it cool, giving Ford a nod before disappearing into the bathroom.

The shower was quick, though Stan took a moment to let the hot water relax him, feeling the tension from the day melt away. When he was done, he changed into a pair of sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, his mind still lingering on Ford’s question. Come to bed with me—it wasn’t the first time they’d shared a bed, but its weight felt different now.

When Stan emerged from the bathroom, Ford’s door was open. Stan peeked in to see Ford sitting on the bed, his back against the wall, textbooks and flashcards scattered around him. Ford looked up when Stan entered, his face slightly flushed, though whether it was from the warmth of the shower or something else, Stan couldn’t be sure.

“I’ll probably be a while,” Ford said, gesturing to his study materials. “But I can dim the lamp if you want.”

Stan waved him off, grinning. “Nah, it’s fine.” He plopped down next to Ford, leaning slightly against his brother’s lap as Ford continued flipping through his flashcards. The warmth of Ford’s presence, combined with the soft rustling of paper, made Stan feel drowsy in no time.

He drifted off quickly, lulled by the comfort of being close to Ford. Just before sleep took him completely, he thought he heard Ford murmur something softly, something that sounded suspiciously like “Love you.”

Stan’s lips twitched into a sleepy smile as he sank deeper into the haze of sleep, feeling warm and secure in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Ford’s footsteps echoed as he walked back from campus, the last rays of sunbathing the road in warm, golden light. The final exam was over, and his oral defense was done. Yet his mind wasn’t settling like he thought it would. It was racing, filled with thoughts far removed from his research or academic goals. Instead, his mind circled back to Stan—constantly to Stan.

 Ever since that first night when Fiddleford had left, they’d fallen into a strange, comfortable rhythm. Ford felt like he should knock on every piece of wood in sight, hoping not to shatter whatever it was they had going. It was domestic, Ford mused, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Certainly not with Stan, not since they were kids. It was bizarrely comforting.

Ford remembered that first night vividly. He hadn’t been sure what he was expecting. And judging by Stan’s reaction, neither had he. They had danced around each other, testing boundaries in a way that was cautious yet undeniably charged. Ford had decided to be bold. That’s what he kept telling himself. It felt like the right word, though, in hindsight, he wasn’t entirely sure. Asking Stan to sleep with him had felt risky—maybe too fast—but Ford had wanted to see if Stan would take the bait.

And to his surprise, he had.

Stan’s reaction had been genuine. The surprise in his eyes, the tentative agreement—Ford still remembered the way Stan had hesitated before slipping into bed that night. It was awkward at first, fumbling and unsure, but by now it had become routine. Almost every night, one of them asked to share a bed, as if they were both tiptoeing around something unspoken. Ford still held on with what Stan had teasingly dubbed a “koala grip.” For all of Stan’s complaints about it, he never once pushed Ford away.

Each night, whether they spent it in Ford’s room or lazily spread out on the living room couch, they coexisted in a way that felt effortless. Stan helped Ford study sometimes, sitting beside him and listening as Ford rambled on about complex theories and equations, talking through his notes. Even when Stan didn’t understand half of it, he still stayed, offering the occasional sarcastic remark or joke to keep the mood light. The company was all Ford needed.

But now, walking back to his car after his final exam, Ford realized that the semester was almost over. Soon, they would be heading to Fiddleford’s place in Tennessee, and as excited as Ford was for the trip, there was a growing knot of anxiety in his chest. What would happen after that? Would this strange, delicate thing between them continue? Or would it unravel?

He sighed, trying to push the thoughts away. Tonight was supposed to be a celebration, not a time for overthinking. Ford decided to stop by town on the way home, figuring he could pick up something to mark the end of the semester. As he wandered through a liquor store, scanning the shelves, his mind drifted to Stan. He wasn’t sure what Stan liked to drink—hell, Ford wasn’t sure what he liked to drink, really—but the wine seemed like a safe bet. Classy enough, but not pretentious. Something that wouldn’t taste like punishment.

After picking a bottle that looked fancy enough, Ford stepped out of the store and caught sight of a toy shop across the street. Something in the window made him pause—a little something that brought a smile to his face. He chuckled to himself, tucking the idea away for later as he headed home.

By the time he opened the door to their apartment, the evening had fully set in. Stan was sprawled upside down on the couch, his feet kicked up over the armrest, and he was munching on a bag of toffee peanuts. Ford made a face.

“I thought they stopped making those.”

Stan grinned around a mouthful of peanuts. “They probably make ‘em just for me. I always manage to find a bag.”

Ford snorted, shaking his head as he moved toward the kitchen. “Or no one else buys them, so they’re always left on the shelf.”

Stan rolled his eyes, swinging his legs down to sit properly. “How was the exam?”

Ford shrugged, setting the wine bottle down on the counter. “Exams were fine. The committee still has to review my PhD research, so it’ll be a while before I hear back.”

Stan tilted his head, wiping his hands on a napkin. “I’m gonna pretend like I know what that means.”

Ford let out a short laugh, reaching for two glasses. “Well, to celebrate finishing the semester, I picked something up.” He held up the bottle with a small flourish. “Wine. I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I figured this would be... fine.”

Stan gave the bottle a once-over, letting out a low whistle. “Can’t even pronounce that. Looks expensive.”

Ford waved him off, moving to open the bottle. “It’s just a little something to celebrate. Plus, it’ll go well with the leftover chicken. Unless you don't want...?”

Stan chuckled, leaning back on the couch. “I’m not gonna waste money. I’m stupid, not crazy.”

Ford shot him a pointed look, but he smiled as they settled onto the pull-out couch. Before long, they were both a few glasses in, leaning against each other as The Twilight Zone flickered on the TV. By their third glass, Ford was feeling pleasantly tipsy, his thoughts drifting lazily as Stan babbled on about the ocean’s midnight zone, throwing in random facts about Otis Barton and deep-sea exploration.

Ford nodded along, though he wasn’t really listening. Instead, his senses were hyper-focused—he could smell Stan’s scent, something warm and distinctly him: a mix of salty sea air, sun-warmed sand, and a hint of something that was just... New Jersey. It was comforting in a way that Ford couldn’t quite explain.

Then, something else hit him. A sharp scent cutting through the pleasant haze—tobacco.

Ford frowned, shifting slightly, which caused Stan’s head to slide into his lap. Stan glanced up, surprised, but kept talking, unbothered. Ford peered down at him, interrupting. “Were you smoking today?”

Stan immediately sat up, wiping his hands on his pants. “No,” he said, far too quickly.

Ford raised an eyebrow, leaning forward to poke Stan’s nose gently. It twitched under his finger. “You’re lying.”

Stan huffed, flopping back down on the couch and staring at the ceiling. “Though' today was supposed to be a good.”

Ford sighed, his hand resting on Stan’s chest as he lay beside him. “It is a good day. I’m not trying to ruin it. I just want to know why.”

Stan’s shoulders sagged, and he reached for his glass, downing the rest of the wine in one go. “I don’t know. Just felt… retrospective or somethin', I guess.”

Ford snorted. “That’s a big word for you.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “I know.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if searching for something. “I just… don’t know how long this lasts, y’know? Us bein’ good.”

Ford’s chest tightened at the vulnerability in Stan’s voice. His brother sounded almost… lost. Ford didn’t have an answer either. He didn’t know how long this could last, or what it even meant. But he knew one thing for sure—he didn’t want to lose it. Whatever this strange, confusing thing between them was, it felt like the first real connection they’d had in years, maybe even since they were kids.

Ford hesitated for a moment, then rested his head on Stan’s chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it too,” he admitted quietly, his words slurring a little from the wine. “It’s not… exactly normal. We can’t just pretend it’s okay.”

Stan let out a bitter laugh, his hand coming up to rest on Ford’s shoulder. “Yeah. I know.”

Ford paused, listening to the quiet rhythm of Stan’s heartbeat. His mind was a mess, spinning with thoughts he couldn’t fully articulate. How were they supposed to move forward from here? What did this mean for them? But at the same time, this—them—felt more right than anything had in a long time.

“It’s one of the few things that feel right',” Ford mumbled, pressing closer. “As right as a sierpinski triangle looks.”

Stan snorted, looking down at him. “You lost me.”

Ford chuckled, unable to resist the pull between them anymore. He leaned in, closing the distance and kissing Stan softly. It wasn’t rushed; it wasn’t desperate. It was deliberate, and slowly, it deepened, as if everything in the world clicked into place when they were together like this.

Ford’s hands found their way into Stan’s hair, pulling him closer as the kiss became more heated, more urgent. Stan’s breath hitched, and before Ford knew it, they were pressed together, a tangle of limbs, the heat between them rising with each passing second. It was as if everything Ford had been holding back came pouring out all at once.

But Stan was the first to pull away, panting slightly, his forehead resting against Ford’s. “Are we… drunk?” he asked, his voice raspy.

Ford nodded, still catching his breath. “Definitely.”

They both spoke at the same time: “Bedroom?

They grinned at each other, tipsy and breathless, stumbling off the couch as they made their way down the hall, their hands never quite leaving each other.

The wine was forgotten.

Chapter Text

Stan came to slowly, the weight of the night lingering in his skull like a dull, unrelenting throb. The curtains barely let in enough light to be considered morning, but what little seeped through stabbed at his eyes. Something heavy and warm was draped over his chest. He glanced down, squinting, only to find Ford sprawled over him. His brother's head nestled against his sternum, mouth slack and—ugh—drooling onto his shirt.

Stan grimaced, gingerly peeling Ford’s head to the side with two fingers. "Gross, Poindexter," he muttered, brushing away the wet spot with little success. Ford didn't stir, deep in whatever alcohol-induced dreamland he had wandered off to. Stan allowed himself a small chuckle at the absurdity—both of them giggling like idiots the night before, kissing like horny teenagers who couldn’t get enough.

His fingers brushed the skin near his nose, a nervous habit as the blurry fragments of the previous night started to piece themselves together. The way they crashed into the room, drunk and reckless. Ford’s glasses askew, his nose bumping against Stan’s, their mouths colliding with a desperate sort of hunger. God, they were so far gone. Falling into bed together, limbs entangled, the heat between them scorching through their clothes.

Stan could still feel Ford’s weight pinning him down, his lean body pressing flush against his own. There was a fleeting thrill in that memory—Ford on top, his hands fumbling to pull Stan’s shirt off—and that’s where it went south. The booze just had to kick in for all the wrong reasons. Things blurred, and all that lightheaded joy curdled into something else. Stan felt his gut twist even now, remembering the wave of embarrassment that crashed over him. 

Living with Fiddleford and Ford had been a luxury in some ways—he could eat comfortably without worrying about rationing food or fighting for scraps. Living with Marc had been a whole other beast: bare minimum meals, mostly as compensation after being used. And as much as Stan loved those wild months with Jimmy on the road, he took what he could get. Food was fuel, and that’s all there was to it. It wasn’t like he could call those his prime years, but...it seemed to be when people liked his body the most. Lean, sharp, hard edges, not this round, soft version of himself. 

Ford had seen the scars before too, sure. But this? This felt different. This wasn’t just about the scars. This was him, exposed, laid out with every imperfection on display.

But Ford, God bless him, had been too drunk to notice the shift. He mumbled something incoherent before collapsing right there on Stan’s chest, snoring softly. Stan almost cheered. It was a temporary reprieve, a chance to gather himself before facing... whatever this was.

Now, with the morning light creeping in, Ford stirred. He rubbed at his eyes, groaning softly like a kid waking from a nap. "Mornin'," he rasped, voice thick with sleep.

Stan smiled despite himself, running a hand through Ford’s wild hair. "Morning," he murmured, still feeling the lingering warmth from Ford's weight on him.

Ford grumbled something about his head feeling like it was going to split open, and Stan chuckled. "Yeah, no kidding."

Then Ford blinked, his eyes focusing on the door like it held all the answers to last night's mysteries. “We didn’t… do anything else, right?” he asked, voice cautious, almost hesitant. “Other than kissing?”

Stan’s grin widened. He couldn’t help it. “Nope,” he drawled with a smirk. “You fell asleep on my lips.”

Ford groaned, the tips of his ears going pink. "I did not."

"You absolutely did," Stan countered, leaning in to plant a loud, sloppy kiss on Ford’s cheek for emphasis. The wet smack made Ford recoil in mock disgust.

"Ugh, you’re the worst," Ford muttered, wiping at his cheek, though the faint twitch of a smile betrayed him.

Stan stretched, his muscles protesting as he reached his arms above his head, groaning with satisfaction. He let the silence hang between them, comfortable and easy, until Ford stood up, looking a little more awake now, though his gaze was still unfocused. "Good," he muttered, heading out the door. "I'm glad we didn't... y'know... do more. I’d rather, uh, savor that moment."

Stan’s heart did a weird little flip at that, a warm heat creeping up into his cheeks. He turned over onto his side, hiding his face in the pillow, biting back a stupid grin. Ford returned, toothbrush in his mouth, mumbling something about packing up soon since they had to hit the road. Stan nodded vaguely in response, still grinning like a dope into the pillow.

When Stan finally dragged himself to shower, the hot water did little to quell the heat rising in his cheeks. Ford’s words played on a loop in his mind, leaving him feeling... jittery. Like a schoolboy with a crush. It was ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

He stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulders, and heard the sharp clatter of the landline being slammed down. He followed the noise, finding Ford standing by the phone, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration.

"Telemarketer?" Stan guessed, eyebrow raised.

Ford grunted, nodding. “Uh…Yeah! You ready to head out?”

“Just gotta grab my stuff,” Stan replied, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was on Ford’s mind. “You good?”

Ford hesitated for a beat before answering. “Mhm... just need to make a quick stop in town. You don’t have to come in or anything—it’ll be quick.”

Stan shrugged. “Sure, whatever you need.”

True to his word, Ford was in and out of the store within minutes, clutching a small brown paper bag as he climbed back into the passenger seat. Stan shot him a curious glance. “What’d you get?”

Ford fidgeted awkwardly before mumbling, “Banjo strings.”

Stan blinked. “Banjo strings?”

Ford cleared his throat. “For Fiddleford. Figured... it’s Christmas, and he’s bringing his banjo next semester. Thought he’d like some new ones.”

Stan started the car, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. “You always said his banjo playing was annoying. What, changing your mind now?”

Ford looked out the window, trying to hide the blush creeping up his neck. “Nothing changed. Just... figured you’d want to hear him play.”

Stan snickered. “Aw, look at you, doing it for me.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Eyes on the road, idiot.”

The hum of the road beneath the tires was the only sound for miles. Stan kept his hands loose on the wheel, sneaking glances Ford's way every now and then. Ford had his head leaned against the window, eyes half-lidded, lost in the blur of trees rushing by. The quiet between them wasn’t heavy—it was the kind of silence that felt earned. Comfortable. No biting words, no tension running under the surface. Just... them.

Stan's voice cut through the stillness. "Ever meet Fidds' folks?"

Ford didn’t move his head, just shook it slowly. "No. He heads back home on break, and I was always stuck near campus."

Stan shifted in his seat, raising an eyebrow. "What, you full-timers don’t get summer and winter off? Bet you had time."

Ford’s lips tightened, and his eyes stayed on the road beyond the glass. "Didn’t need to go. I was fine where I was. Living with Fidds and all... Then you showed up, and now it’s the three of us." A slight hesitation hung in the air. "No point in heading back when home's here."

"Plus," Ford added, more casually, "I was working twice as hard. I have so many degrees now, I lost count."

Stan could catch it, just beneath the surface: Ford's small flick of pride, maybe even amusement. He gave a slow nod, but something about the way Ford’s voice trailed off made him grip the wheel a little tighter. A part of him still braced for Ford to lay blame, like he always had before, but nothing came. Relief slinked into Stan’s chest, unexpected but welcome.

"Makes sense," Stan muttered, the words sitting light between them.

Ford shifted against the window, almost like he noticed the change in Stan's breathing. "Ma ever call you?" Stan asked, softer now.

"Sometimes. At first. Think she gave up on me picking up, though."

Stan exhaled through his nose, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

The silence stretched again, easier this time, until Stan nudged things sideways with a grin. "Think Fidds'll try setting me up with one of his sisters? Gotta be at least one of 'em with that crazy streak he’s got. My type."

Ford barked a real, honest laugh. "Yeah, right."

Stan waggled his eyebrows, playing up the mischief. "What? You jealous?"

That’s when Ford’s hand dropped onto Stan’s thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. The touch was easy, casual—and dangerous. Stan’s grip jerked on the steering wheel, the car swerving just a little.

"Hardly," Ford murmured, smirking as he tapped his fingers against Stan's leg, slow and deliberate. Stan glared at him out of the corner of his eye, the kind of glare that was more grin than scowl, and he knew Ford savored it, drawing out the moment.

The road shifted beneath them, snow gathering on the edges as they rolled into the farm’s driveway. The old farmhouse glowed warm against the night, light pouring out from the windows. They hadn’t even cut the engine before the door flew open, and there was Fiddleford on the porch, hollering towards the door.

And then the girls burst out—five of them, all screeching like wild things, between the ages of six and fifteen. Stan blinked, realizing all at once just what Ford had meant.

He grumbled, "You didn’t tell me this is what you meant about not being worried."

Ford stifled a laugh. "You never asked their ages. You’ll survive." He glanced over, mischief dancing in his eyes. "The eldest three are married off somewhere on the East Coast, by the way."

Stan muttered under his breath, playing along. "I could wait ten years."

"You wanna crash this car into a tree?"

Stan raised both hands in mock surrender. "Point taken."

Ford gave a satisfied nod, a grin tugging at the edges of his mouth. "Thought so. Now let’s go inside. I'm freezing ."

“Ma and Pa are out back with the animals,” Fiddleford explained, brushing snow from his sleeves. “Dinner’s runnin' late. Got a little... sidetracked tryin’ to wrangle this lot.”

Both of them rolled their eyes, stifling laughter before darting up the porch steps. They followed slowly behind, Ford watching his brother with an amused glance as Stan hesitated on the threshold, like stepping into someone else’s life might swallow him whole.

Then, it began—those curious, wide-eyed stares from the girls, whispering behind their hands as if Stan were some myth they’d conjured up on a dare.

"Hi," Stan offered awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, that bashful charm peeking through the cracks.

A chorus of giggles followed. One girl, reached out, fingers already curling into the ends of Stan’s hair. "Can we braid it?" she asked, eyes gleaming with the kind of innocent mischief that had disaster written all over it.

Stan hesitated, glancing at Ford and Fiddleford as if pleading for help. But before he could even form a coherent sentence, his duffel bag was ripped from his grip, and he was being dragged up the stairs by the gaggle of girls. Ford bit back laughter, shaking his head as Stan disappeared around the corner.

Fiddleford sighed dramatically, hands on his hips. “At least they’re not crawlin' all over me this time,” he muttered with a half-smile, gesturing for Ford to follow.

“If they get him sittin’ still, we might not see him again 'til supper.” He dropped Stan’s bag by the bed with a grin. "Lucky for you two—down here’s a whole lot quieter. Upstairs turns into a stampede come morning."

Ford smirked. “Stan might not make it through the night.”

“Eh, he’ll manage,” Fiddleford said with a grin that hinted at fondness, clearly happy with how smoothly Stan had slipped into the family dynamic. “Now, let’s get the kitchen in order before Ma sees the mess I left."

The next hour passed in a comfortable blur—dishes rinsed, stray flour swept up, light chatter threading between the clink of utensils. Ford found himself drifting as the both of them babbled on about unfinished projects and experiments, the kind that never seemed to get past the blueprint stage. 

At some point, Fiddleford gave Ford a sly glance. “So,” he asked, half a grin creeping across his face, “how was it? Just the two of you? No bloodshed?”

Ford paused, caught off guard, the dish towel twisting between his hands. A strange warmth bloomed in his chest as he thought back on the past few days. “It was… good,” he admitted, a little surprised at the honesty in his own voice. “Better than I expected.”

Fiddleford hummed, clearly impressed. “Good good? Or ‘we only fought twice instead of five times’ good?”

Ford rolled his eyes, setting the dish towel aside. “A little of both, maybe.” His fingers drummed on the countertop. “But… it feels different this time.”

“Different’s good.” Fiddleford’s voice was softer now, understanding slipping between the words.

The back door banged open, and Ford turned just in time to see Fiddleford’s parents bustling inside, snow clinging to their coats and boots. They greeted Ford like an old friend, pulling him into warm, crushing hugs.

“Where’s the other one? You did say there were two of ‘em, right?” Fiddleford’s mom asked, glancing around.

Fiddleford chuckled, ladling soup into bowls. “Yeah, Ma, Stan’s upstairs. The girls got to him.”

His mom sighed, “Bless his heart. They’re probably terrorizing that poor boy. Why don’t you go fetch him so I can give him a proper hello?”

Fiddleford tapped the spoon against the pot before nodding. He and Ford headed upstairs, where they were immediately greeted by the sound of giggling and the low hum of a TV.  When they peeked inside, they found Stan sitting cross-legged on the floor with the girls huddled around him. Two of them were carefully painting his nails a soft pink, another was braiding his hair, one was lounging on the floor watching the T.V., and the youngest, curled up in his lap, was fast asleep.

Stan looked up just as they entered, holding a pink bow to his forehead with mock seriousness. “Does this one match?” he asked, the barest hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

Ford and Fiddleford burst into laughter, unable to hold it back. Stan shot them a look that was half-annoyed, half-amused. "What’s so funny?"

“Nothing, nothing at all,” Fiddleford barely managed between laughs. “You, uh, you look great. Real fashion-forward.”

The girls huddled closer around the small TV, a black-and-white film flickering across the screen. One of them pointed at the screen eagerly. "This is the best part!"

"Y’all wouldn’t understand what Sturly Stembleburgiss is goin’ through,” Stan said with a grin, waving them off.

The girls shrieked with laughter, slamming the door behind them with a dramatic flourish. A Barbie doll sailed through the air, smacking Ford squarely in the stomach just before the lock clicked shut.

Ford heard Stan chuckle from the other side of the door. "Nice shot, sweetheart," Stan said, high-fiving one of the girls.

By the time they made it downstairs for supper, the youngest girl was perched comfortably on Stan’s shoulders, his hair still half-braided, clips, and...glitter? Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, and Stan gave him a cheeky grin. 

Dinner was a lively, chaotic affair, filled with laughter and noisy chatter. Fiddleford’s sisters dominated the conversation, chattering about everything and nothing all at once. Stan fit right in, charming his way through the meal with the ease of someone born for moments like this.

Fiddleford’s father leaned back in his chair, watching Stan with a smile. “You sure got a way with kids, son,” he said approvingly.

Stan shrugged, a humble grin on his lips. “They’re easy once you figure ‘em out.”

Fiddleford’s mom shifted, her eyes twinkling with gentle nosiness. “Fidds gave us a bit of a run-down,” she said, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “But I’d love to hear it straight from y’all. It’s always nice meeting his friends.”

Ford noticed Fiddleford’s ears turn pink, and he ducked his head, shoveling a spoonful of stew into his mouth like it might shield him from further embarrassment. Stan’s grin stretched wide, that familiar glimmer in his eyes—like he knew exactly how to twist the moment to his advantage.

Stan leaned back in his chair, chuckling softly. “Yeah, Fidds is tolerable,” he said, shooting their friend a sideways glance. “When he’s not trying to burn down the apartment.”

Fiddleford’s mom let out a hearty laugh, clapping her hands together. “Oh, I can believe that! You should’ve seen the contraptions he built for our chickens—thought I was gonna lose my mind with that boy.”

Ford tried to relax, but before the conversation could roll forward, Fiddleford’s father spoke up, his tone quieter, more deliberate. “Curious, though. How come we never heard about Stan before now?” His sharp gaze flicked between them. “Fidds wrote about you, Ford. But not Stan."

Ford’s fingers tensed around his fork, the metal cool and biting against his skin. He hated moments like this—when questions dipped beneath the surface, poking around the edges of things better left unsaid. The room felt too quiet, and Ford could see it—the slight hitch in Stan’s grin, the way he hesitated just a second too long.

Stan cleared his throat, slipping into a smooth, practiced laugh, like he's done it a thousand times. “Yeah, I’m kind of a late bloomer,” he said casually, like it didn’t matter. “College wasn’t really on my radar for a while.”

Fiddleford’s mom tilted her head, sympathy flickering in her expression. “That’s alright,” she said kindly. “My cousin’s boy took his sweet time, too. He’s tryin' to make it as a jazz musician.” She chuckled. “Bless his heart, but he’s got some ways to go.”

Ford could see the tension still clinging to the corners of his smile. “Yeah, I just did odd jobs here and there,” Stan added, the words sounding easy—but Ford knew better.

The irritation sparked low in Ford’s chest, smoldering. Stan had to fold his messy history into neat little stories, smoothing out the sharp edges so it fit into polite conversation. Ford's mind began spiraling, running through all the ways he should have done more, been better, fought harder. Maybe then Stan wouldn’t have had to scramble like this, wouldn’t have needed to bury parts of himself under half-truths.

Then, before Ford could sink any deeper, he felt it: a squeeze on his thigh, firm but subtle. He blinked, startled, and when his gaze met Stan’s, there it was—that steady reassurance, quiet but unshakable. Like Stan could see through every jagged thought and was telling him, It’s okay. We’re okay.

Just as smoothly, Stan shifted gears with a grin. “I even thought about being a biker for a while,” he joked, leaning back. “Got the jacket to prove it.”

The eldest girl, wide-eyed and full of wonder, giggled. “A bad boy?” she whispered dreamily.

Her father grumbled in response, shooting her a warning glance. “None of that now. Don’t go getting any ideas.”

The conversation drifted forward easily from there, the awkwardness dissolving. Fiddleford’s mom gave a thoughtful nod, like she’d reached some quiet conclusion. “Well, I’m glad you found your way here, Stan,” she said warmly. “Sounds like you boys have been good for each other.”

Later, back in the room, Ford watched as Stan lazily stretched out, pulling the last of the bows from his tangled hair. Glitter clung stubbornly to his curls, catching the dim light. “Might have to keep this new look,” Stan said with a grin, turning to Ford. “Whaddya think?”

Something tight and unspoken swelled in Ford’s chest—a strange knot of fondness and sadness that he couldn’t quite unravel. Instead of answering, he stepped closer and pressed a kiss to Stan’s forehead, soft and deliberate.

Stan blinked, caught off guard. “What was that for?” His voice was quieter now, tinged with something Ford couldn’t name. Vulnerability, maybe.

Ford smiled, a little sad and a little grateful. “Just because.”

Stan scoffed, trying to shake off the tenderness. “Don’t get soft on me now. I’ve got this bad boy copacetic to maintain.” He jabbed a finger at Ford’s glasses, smirking.

Ford snorted, reaching up to pull a stray hair clip from Stan’s curls. “It’s aesthetic, not ‘copacetic’.”

Stan rolled his eyes, the grin still tugging at his mouth. “Whatever. I make it work.”

With a lazy yawn, Stan stood and stretched again. “I’m hittin' the shower. I swear there’s glitter in places it has no business being.”

Ford collapsed onto the bed, the distant sound of water running in the next room blending with the quiet hum of the house. The faint murmur of family life filled the background, comforting and far-off. When Stan finally returned, damp and grinning, Ford wordlessly lifted the edge of the blanket. Without a word, Stan slipped beneath it, and they pressed close, their bodies naturally tangling together in the silence.

Over the next five days, life settled into a comfortable rhythm. When Stan wasn’t being whisked away by Fiddleford’s sisters, he and the boys passed the time with board games, binge-watching Star Trek (though Stan rarely made it through an entire episode without dozing off), sneaking homemade treats from Fiddleford’s mom, or competing to see who could sculpt the best snowman version of themselves. Stan took on the role of judge with brutal honesty—though he did feel a little guilty not giving Ford the win. Fiddleford’s snowman had a snow banjo for crying out loud—but Stan figured his stolen kisses made up for it, so it was a win-win.

When Christmas Day finally rolled around, Stan almost expected it to be louder. He and Ford hadn’t grown up celebrating holidays—not only because they were raised Jewish, but also because their dad always said they got gifts for their birthdays and already had the greatest gifts: food and shelter. Holidays were just another excuse for lazy people to indulge, according to Filbrick Pines. 

Stan shifted on the bed, glancing down at Ford, who was nestled against him, breathing softly against his neck, with one arm lazily draped across his waist. As Ford stirred, slowly waking, Stan muttered with a low grumble, “I think this is the part where I’m supposed to say ‘Merry Christmas’?”

Ford cracked an eye open and let out a small huff. “Christmas is just a corporate scam to line companies' pockets.”

Stan chuckled, brushing a hand through Ford’s messy hair. “Shoulda gone into that racket myself, then.”

Ford smiled sleepily, stretching. “Think everyone’s up?”

The sound of Fiddleford’s sisters yelling down the hall answered that question. Stan grinned as they rolled out of bed, pulling on clothes to join the family.

Downstairs, coffee in hand, Stan and Ford watched the familiar chaos of gift-opening unfold with amusement. Wrapping paper flew everywhere as Fiddleford’s family dove headfirst into the excitement. At one point, Stan leaned over and handed Fiddleford a vinyl with a sly grin. “I’m gettin’ real tired of hearin’ the Stones on repeat. Maybe give this a spin for a change.”

Fiddleford chuckled, giving Stan a light punch to the shoulder. “You just don’t know good music, Stanley.”

Ford, a bit more reserved, awkwardly offered a small packet of banjo strings. “Uh… I thought maybe you could play for us instead of just listening to records.”

Fiddleford’s face lit up, his wide grin making Ford’s ears turn pink with embarrassment. Stan noticed, suppressing the urge to poke fun at his brother—it was rare to see Ford this earnest, and he wasn’t about to ruin the moment.

Fiddleford wasn’t empty-handed either. He gave Ford a pair of crocheted, six-fingered gloves—“impossible to find in stores,” Ford exclaimed—and for Stan, a beanie. "I’m tired of seein’ you freeze outside without a hat. Put this on before you catch your death."

The day unfolded easily, filled with laughter and music. Fiddleford tested out his new banjo strings with a few lazy chords while the girls tore through wrapping paper. By evening, the house was bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, quiet and content.

Stan shifted his weight awkwardly. “Uh, right. So… today’s a corporate scam, Fidd's family kinda felt like a Charlie Brown movie, yadda yadda yadda, right? But I felt weird not getting you anything.” He cleared his throat, feeling the heat rise to his face. “Fiddleford told me a story about you two trying to build a robot to ‘DM’ your dumb nerd game. Said the thing caught fire—”

“The engineering department catches everything on fire.”

“Yeah, well.” Stan huffed. “I remembered that game was important to you or whatever. So, I got it.”

He pulled a brown bag from behind his back and shoved it into Ford’s hands, avoiding his gaze as his heart hammered in his chest. Ford stilled as he pulled out a box of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons. Stan rushed to fill the silence.

“The guy at the store tried to sell me expansion packs or some crap. Guess that’s how they milk nerds like you. Anyway, I hope I grabbed the right one.” He fidgeted, nerves getting the best of him. “And there’s this other thing…”

He pulled out a red leather-bound notebook, scratching the back of his neck. “You used to keep notes on plants or whatever, when we were younger. Thought you might like a new one.”

Ford stared at the gifts in his hands, his expression unreadable, and Stan felt panic rise in his chest. Maybe this was a mistake—maybe this kind of thoughtfulness just wasn’t his thing.

But then Ford spoke softly. “Stan…”

Stan’s stomach dropped. “What?”

Ford looked up, his gaze warm and disbelieving. “This...this is perfect. You didn’t have to get me anything.”

Stan scoffed, flustered. “Of course I did. Besides, I’ve gotten used to hearing Fidds grumble about you needing to lighten up every once in a while. Figured I'd help.” He tried to play it off casually, but his hands were shaking, so he stuffed them into his pockets to hide it.

Ford smiled softly—God, that stupid smile. It was rare to see it so genuinely, especially directed at him. “Well, I got you something too.”

Stan blinked, his brows furrowing. “Ford, you didn’t have to—”

“Don’t give me that,” Ford interrupted, as he handed Stan a bag he was hiding under the bed. “Like you didn’t just put on a whole song and dance for what you got me.”

Stan felt heat rise to his cheeks as he took the bag, fumbling with it. He didn’t know why this felt so intimate. Maybe it was the fact that Ford had noticed something about him—something that mattered.

Stan pulled out the first item and froze. New boxing gloves. They were sleek, black, and clearly top-of-the-line. His throat tightened. He’d been using the same gloves since his days with Marc. He swallowed hard as Ford spoke, carefully.

“I figured they were probably the same ones you used… back then.” Ford trailed off, clearly referencing Marc. Stan nodded stiffly, feeling a lump form in his throat, but Ford’s next words were softer. “Fiddleford helped me pick them out.”

Stan swallowed hard, emotions bubbling up too fast to manage. “Yeah?” he whispered.

“There’s one more thing,” Ford added, pulling out a ship in a bottle, the name Stan-o-War painted carefully across its side.

“I was gonna keep working on it,” Ford mumbled, “but I thought it might be a nice reminder. You know… of us. Starting over.” He hesitated. “Maybe one day we can build the real thing. After....after all of my research. Once we’re stable.”

Stan’s chest clenched. There was something so damn earnest in Ford’s expression—like he was trying to hand over more than just a model ship. For a moment, Stan’s brain flatlined, overwhelmed by the sheer sincerity of it. He caught the nervous flicker in Ford’s eyes and saw the way he started to backpedal.

“I-It was a dumb idea. I shouldn’t have—”

Stan didn’t let him finish. In a heartbeat, he closed the distance and kissed him hard, hands clutching Ford’s shirt like letting go wasn’t an option. Ford melted into it, his lips soft and warm beneath Stan’s, and the tightness in Stan’s chest finally gave way. He rained kisses down on Ford, murmuring between each one, “It’s perfect... It’s perfect... I love it. You really mean it?”

Ford tried to answer, but Stan was relentless, brushing his lips over every inch he could reach. Eventually, Ford broke into a breathless laugh, gently easing him back enough so they could catch their breath. “Yes,” Ford whispered, fixing his glasses, cheeks flushed. “I mean it. There’s... a lot I want to do first, but yes. Definitely. Absolutely. I mean it.”

Stan grinned, his heart lighter than it had felt in years. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait. Finish all your nerd shit—I’m not going anywhere.”

Ford rolled his eyes, but the warmth never left his gaze. They shifted against each other, Stan leaning closer until Ford’s back was pressed into the bedframe. With deliberate slowness, Stan kissed along the curve of Ford’s neck, drawing out soft, breathless sounds—each one sweeter than the last.

“Please,” Ford whispered, his voice a shaky plea that sent shivers down Stan’s spine. He pressed his lips harder, intent on dragging every ounce of need from Ford—until they both froze at the sound of shouting from outside.

It was followed by the unmistakable bleating of…a lamb?

They peeked out the window, listening to the chaos of two of Fiddleford’s sisters yelling for a lamb to stop running, followed by the eldest shouting, “Y’all better catch it, or I’m tellin’ Ma and Dad, and you’ll be grounded for twenty-five Sundays!”

For a beat, the two of them stared at each other in stunned silence—then dissolved into helpless, gasping laughter.

“Well,” Ford wheezed between chuckles, “we are on a farm.”

Stan groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “I’m so tired of these goddamn interruptions.”

Ford smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair from Stan’s forehead with a gentle hand. “There’s a time and place for everything.” He leaned over, plucking the Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons box from the nightstand. “Now’s the perfect time to teach you how to play.”

Stan gave him a long, suffering look. “You’ve officially lost it.”

Ford stole another kiss, grinning against Stan’s lips. “You’ll live.”

Chapter Text

Ford leaned against the passenger door, stealing glances at Stan, who wore a small smile as he waved off Fiddleford’s sisters through the open window. Their pleas for him to stay tugged at the corners of Stan’s grin, but he just shook his head. Reality waited and didn’t care about snow days or borrowed time.

Stan had responsibilities—materials that had been shipped in for work following the new year and practice for his final game. Ford had his shifts at the tutoring center to prepare for, winter course deadlines breathing down his neck. And Fiddleford, lucky bastard, would be back just in time for the new semester, all smiles and fresh energy. Life moved on, as it always did, but these moments they stole together—made the return to routine feel almost bearable.

But they were still them. Which meant 'arguments', of course.

“Ford, I swear, I’m not watching Wheel of Fortune with you again, Fidds was right, you get mean.” Stan had said one evening, crossing his arms like that would somehow make his stubbornness more effective.

Ford had barely glanced up from the remote. “I don’t get mean. I get competitive.”

“Uh-huh,” Stan deadpanned, shaking his head with exaggerated disbelief.

And then, the damn taxidermy. One morning, Ford had stumbled into the kitchen only to find a horseshoe crab propped upright on the table like it belonged there. He stared at it, spoon halfway to his mouth, his patience already unraveling.

“Stanley,” Ford groaned, glaring at the offending crustacean. “I’ve told you, stop putting these things around the house. I do not need to look at a preserved sea creature while eating. It’s deranged.”

Stan had shrugged, lips twitching like he was fighting off a grin. “It adds character.”

The thought of it made Ford chuckle now, even as he sat in the quiet library, skimming through the winter schedule for his mentees. The routines—their routines—were starting to settle in. Even their bickering felt like part of the rhythm. Familiar. Comfortable. He liked it more than he cared to admit.

That's when Madeline approached, an athlete he didn’t recognize by her side. Ford nodded politely as she greeted him and introduced her friend as Ainsley, then launched into logistics for the winter and spring semesters.

“Oh, by the way—are you seeing Lee anytime soon?”

Ford blinked, caught off-guard by the abrupt shift. “Yes,” he said slowly, tilting his head.

Madeline practically bounced on her heels as she fished something out of her bag—an ivory-colored pamphlet. “Tell him...I went for it! I’m really glad I did.”

It took Ford a beat too long to connect the dots. His gaze flicked toward Ainsley, who smiled warmly at Madeline. His face grew warm with the sudden understanding.

"Of course," Ford muttered, and Madeline handed him a pamphlet.

“This group reached out to me, and I figured he might be interested,” Madeline added, clearly pleased. “Potluck and everything. Tell Lee there’s no pressure, but having allies is super validating, you know? It's also pretty underground, so there won't be any prying eyes. You can join too...” She paused, a flicker of uncertainty creeping into her voice. “Not to assume, uh… anything about—”

“It’s fine,” Ford interrupted gently, raising a hand. He offered her a reassuring smile. “You’re fine. Don’t worry about it.”

As Madeline visibly relaxed, Ford stared down at the pamphlet. The invitation lingered in his mind, turning over and over like a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve. He couldn’t put a name to whatever it was between him and Stan—labels felt irrelevant, and certainly, not something that they could explain to anyone else. 

Messy and strange, waiting to strike them with that one glaring word.

But, it was theirs. No one else's business.

Still, Fiddleford had told him to build rapport, to show some presence on campus. “Seem active,” Fiddleford had said, as if Ford wasn’t already an anomaly just for existing. What would it hurt, to go to the meeting? It was already hidden, only mentioned in hushed whispers. He could ask questions under the guise of curiosity, maybe make it seem like he was gathering information for Stan. He would be at work, after all. No big deal. Just another way to be methodical about something that was anything but.

Two days later, Ford found himself sitting at the club meeting, feeling surprisingly at ease. Madeline greeted him with a bright grin, and he spotted a few of his own students, who awkwardly pretended not to notice their TA’s unexpected presence. Ford couldn’t help but smirk, pressing a finger to his lips in a silent shh gesture that earned a few stifled chuckles.

The atmosphere was warm, and the conversations were easy. Ford found himself settling into it, even enjoying the way everyone teased him about taking notes during casual discussions. It was all part of the game—playing the “I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing” role. But for Ford, this was reconnaissance. He played along, feigning cluelessness as he scribbled in his notebook—his mind already sorting through strategies, preparing for future moments with Stan.

When he finally returned to the library, he gathered a few books before heading home, feeling unexpectedly... lighter. There was a quiet sense of validation in the experience, an understanding that he hadn’t realized he was craving. As he entered the house, awkwardly juggling his belongings, Stan shifted to help him. Ford quickly waved him off, insisting he was fine—just needed to sort through a few things alone. Stan shrugged, unfazed, and mentioned that dinner would be ready in an hour.

Ford hurried to his room, shutting the door behind him before laying the books out on his bed.

At the top of a fresh page, he scribbled. Then, with a frown, he crossed it out. Too ridiculous. He needed something better. Something more appropriate.

 It was about making sure Stan knew he was cared for in all the ways that mattered—beyond the teasing and the flirting. Ford had always been better with research than raw emotion, so this was his way of preparing, of showing Stan that he was willing to put in the effort.

If nothing else, Ford was always methodical in his approach.

Stan had a weird pit in his stomach. Not the kind that screamed “something bad is going to happen”—no, that was always there in the background—but the “someone is up to no good ” kind, and that someone was Ford. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something had been off ever since Ford came home two days ago from the tutoring center, lugging his briefcase and a stack of books. Stan had moved to help, but Ford squeaked—actually squeaked—that he had it under control, running to the room with a suspicious speed.

Weird.

Weirder still was how those books disappeared. Stan had gone into their room later that night expecting to find Ford’s usual mess—open notebooks, papers stacked unevenly, books scattered in neat piles across the desk—but those specific books? Gone. Like they’d never existed. For someone as compulsively neat-in-a-messy-way as Ford, there was no chance in hell he’d cleaned them up that quickly. Ford wasn’t the "hide-everything-perfectly" type. He was more of a "this-stack-of-papers-is-organized-by-an-arcane-system-only-I-understand" kind of guy. So where had those books gone?

Now, as Stan jammed the key into the door, something else was off. The scent of Indian food hit his nose, followed by the unmistakable sound of Simon & Garfunkel playing on the record player. Ford wasn’t a fan of their music when Stan threw it on, always muttering something about their estrangement that struck a nerve. Yet here he was, seemingly listening to "The Only Living Boy in New York" without complaint.

Stan’s frown deepened as he followed the smell to the kitchen. Sure enough, there was Ford, standing by the stove.

“Whatcha doin’?” Stan asked, crossing his arms.

Ford didn’t even turn around. “Before you say anything, I’m not cooking,” he said quickly, a little too quickly for Stan’s liking.

Stan arched a brow. “Good. You shouldn’t be allowed in here without supervision.”

Ford huffed, grumbling, “I’m just heating up dinner. It came earlier.”

Stan wandered over, peering over Ford’s shoulder. Sure enough, the food was already plated, neat and tidy like it had come from a restaurant. His stomach grumbled despite his lingering distrust. He narrowed his eyes at Ford. “You’re bein’ weird.”

Ford glanced at him, feigning confusion. “How so?”

Stan shrugged, but the gnawing feeling in his gut only tightened. “I dunno… just got a feelin’. What did you do?”

Ford straightened, looking defensive. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Did you get rid of the pufferfish hanging near the bookshelf?”

“No,” Ford groaned. “But since you brought it up, we really need to talk about this habit of yours—”

“Aha! So that’s what this is about!” Stan grinned triumphantly.

“No, I just wanted to do something nice, alright?”

Nice. Stan echoed it in his head, letting it roll around suspiciously before repeating it aloud, “Nice, huh?” He sat down at the table with a soft huff, his curiosity only growing as Ford finished plating the food and handed him a drink. His fingers tapped a soft rhythm against the table as he mulled it over. What’s this really about? 

Still, his stomach growled again, and he shrugged it off. Fuck it. He dug into the food.

To his surprise, the evening rolled along easier than expected. They slipped into conversation like they always did—banter, teasing, light-hearted jokes—and by the time they’d moved to the couch, Stan had almost forgotten about the weirdness. Almost. Ford’s hand found its way into his hair, fingers lazily playing with his mullet as they watched M*A*S*H on TV. Stan was just starting to get comfortable when Ford leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

One kiss turned into two, then three, each one more lingering than the last until Stan found himself breathless. “If you wanted to do that, ya didn’t have to buy me dinner first.”

Ford’s laugh was breathless. “I know,” he murmured between kisses. “But... tonight, I wanted us to have no interruptions.”

Stan’s brain did a slow rewind, replaying those words over in his mind, and then it clicked. “Oh,” he managed to grunt out, body stiffening as the weight of Ford’s intentions sank in.

Ford must’ve felt it, too, pausing and pulling back slightly, his eyes wide, worried. “I— I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just thought, maybe...”

Stan shut him up with a quiet grunt, waving his hand dismissively. “No, no. I mean...” He sighed, feeling like an idiot. “I wanted to. Remember, before we went to Fidds’ place? I wanted to then... and I still want to now. But…” His voice trailed off, and Ford picked up on the hesitation, echoing his ‘but’ softly, gently, urging Stan to continue.

Stan ran a hand through his hair, rubbing the back of his neck in that awkward way he did when the words didn’t come easily. “I’m not... I’m not like I was before, y’know?” He huffed a humorless laugh. “Thicker, scars, and all that shit. I mean, you’ve seen them, but up close, I just— It’s not pretty. I don't want you to be….disappointed? Or something. When the clothes come off. If that makes sense."

Ford’s gaze sharpened, his brow knitting together in that familiar stubborn way that Stan both loved and hated. “Stan,” he said, dead serious. “You just look more like yourself. You look better.”

Stan blinked, heat flooding his face despite himself. “You’re just saying that,” he grumbled, but Ford shook his head.

“No, it’s true. When we went to your first game, Fidds said you look like you could knock over a tree, and after he said it, I couldn’t stop.. thinking about it.” Ford’s voice softened, and Stan’s ears burned as he felt the genuine admiration there, the quiet awe.

He couldn’t help but tease back, trying to deflect. “Wait... both of you were checking me out this whole time?”

Ford rolled his eyes, but Stan could see the amusement in his expression. They fell into silence, Ford gently stroking the side of Stan's face. Stan's heart skipped a beat as Ford leaned forward, brushing his lips over his, and for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

“I…I want to show you how much I care. If you’ll let me.”

Stan felt a pull deep in his gut, something vulnerable and tender stirring under Ford’s gaze. “Yeah. Okay,” he muttered, swallowing the lump in his throat. 

By the time Ford dragged him toward the bedroom, his head was swimming, and not just from the food or the familiar warmth of Ford’s presence. Ford’s hands had been everywhere, and now here they were, the both of them tangled up, just as handsy as they’d been the night with the wine. The only difference now?

They were sober.

And Ford had lit a damn candle.

Stan only realized it once he was lying back against the bed, the soft flicker of the flame casting a warm glow across the room. He blinked, taking in the subtle scent of sandalwood with just a hint of something sweeter. “ Did you…?” He sounded more incredulous than he meant to. 

Ford was kissing along his jaw, pausing to speak between each brush of his lips. “It’s sandalwood… with a touch of vanilla,” he murmured. “Stop overthinking it.”

Stan snorted, half laughing and half trying not to melt under the feel of Ford’s hands running down his sides. “Stop overthinkin’ it? You’re the one who—”

“Candles,” Ford continued, like he hadn’t heard him, “offer ambient lighting. It triggers a biological response that promotes relaxation and reduces stress.”

That did it. Stan started laughing, his chest shaking as he looked up at Ford with a raised brow. “Did you prepare a guide or somethin’?”

Ford didn’t even miss a beat. “Yes,” he said, pressing a kiss to Stan’s eyebrow, soft and careful. “We’re on like, version two of my plan.”

Stan’s heart stuttered in his chest, both from the ridiculousness and from something warmer, deeper. He couldn’t help but snicker. “So that’s why you were hidin’ those books. You’ve been doin’ your homework.”

Ford flushed, the telltale pink spreading across his cheeks as he nodded. “I was… doing some research.”

Stan shook his head, feeling lighter despite himself. “What kinda ‘ research ’ you gotta do for this, huh?”

Ford’s eyes flickered with a mix of bashfulness and determination. “I’ll show you,” he said, leaning in close, his voice dropping lower. “Tonight’s about you.”

And there it was again—that strange tug of warmth in Stan’s chest. The words felt silly and yet… endearing. Ford, the man who struggled with opening up, with emotional intimacy, had been trying. He was really putting in the effort, and Stan couldn’t help but find it both sweet and a little ridiculous. He chuckled under his breath, reaching up to cup Ford’s cheek. “Lead the way, Professor Pines.”

Ford’s eyes flashed for a moment, and he corrected, “That’s Doctor Pines.”

Stan couldn't stop the chuckle that escaped, but the laughter quickly turned into a breathless sound as Ford’s mouth found his neck again, nipping lightly. It was a slow burn—the way Ford’s hands slipped under his shirt, his fingers brushing against his scars, and Stan sucked in a sharp breath, his pulse racing. Ford hesitated, waiting for permission, and when Stan gave a quick nod, Ford slid his shirt off entirely.

Stan felt exposed—like Ford was dissecting him with those sharp, analytical eyes. But it wasn’t clinical. It was reverence, his hands gliding over the rough skin of Stan’s chest, his stomach, tracing the lines of old wounds with tenderness. 

“You don’t have to be so gentle,” Stan muttered, his voice tight. “I’m tough as nails, remember?” 

Ford nipped at his skin, sharp enough to sting but not enough to hurt. “Hush,” he said, his voice firm. “I know what I’m doing.”

Stan swallowed hard, his head spinning. He didn’t think Ford had ever looked at him like this before, and it left him breathless. Ford paused, then, looking up at him. “What do you want, Stan?” Ford’s voice was soft, almost shy, and Stan realized with a jolt that Ford wasn’t entirely sure how to proceed either.

He smirked, despite himself. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

Ford’s face flushed, his brow furrowing in mild annoyance. “I’ve got... six variations of my step-by-step guide.” He grumbled under his breath, and before Stan could laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, Ford added, “But it’s up to you to decide which route we’re taking.”

Stan couldn't help it. He kissed Ford, cutting off whatever other silly plan Ford had because it was so damn stupid, but so perfectly them .

Ford offered his hands or mouth next, and Stan’s brain short-circuited for a moment, eyes fixed on Ford’s hands—those big, strong hands, with the extra finger. His throat felt dry as he stared, and when he managed to croak out a “Yeah,” Ford laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that sent heat rushing through Stan’s body.

Ford knew exactly what he was doing now.

Ford’s lips moved over Stan’s neck, the kisses deep and lingering, each one setting his nerves ablaze. His hands were everywhere, roaming deliberately, squeezing the hard lines of muscle, tracing the scars like they were something precious. Every inch of Stan’s body was explored with an intensity that left him breathless.

Stan’s breaths came in rough, jagged huffs as Ford’s fingers skimmed down his torso, hovering near the waistband of his pants. The air between them crackled, tension winding tighter with every second Ford didn’t move lower. Stan’s body felt like it was on fire, every nerve a live wire, begging for release. "You gonna keep teasing or—"

Ford cut him off with a low, almost smug sound, his voice rumbling against Stan’s skin. “Patience, Stanley.”

Stan growled, ready to throw out some sarcastic comment, but it died in his throat as Ford’s hands finally moved, unbuckling his belt with maddening slowness. Each deliberate tug made Stan’s heart pound harder, made him feel like he was being unwrapped like something fragile. The raw hunger in Ford’s eyes was at odds with his careful movements, and it drove Stan wild, the anticipation gnawing at him.

Ford tugged Stan’s pants down, leaving him exposed, and for a moment, Stan just lay there, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable. He’d never been self-conscious, not really, but something about the way Ford was looking at him—like he was something sacred, something to be worshipped—kept him silent. Ford’s hands moved with reverence, massaging the thick muscles of his thighs, brushing over sensitive skin in a way that made Stan’s spine arch slightly off the bed.

“You’re... beautiful,” Ford whispered, his voice filled with awe, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Stan blinked, his chest tight, caught off guard by the sheer weight of that word. He wasn’t beautiful, never had been. Rough, scarred, thick maybe—but not that. He felt the heat rise to his face, but before he could come up with some dumb joke to break the tension, Ford was moving again, his lips trailing down Stan’s chest, pausing every so often to place warm, wet kisses that left Stan squirming.

When Ford’s mouth reached his stomach, Stan let out a bark of laughter, the sensation ticklish and foreign, but he felt Ford smile against his skin, not stopping, just continuing to make his way down, until he reached the heat of where Stan was hardest.

“Fuck,” Stan muttered, his voice rough as gravel, his body tense. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Ford interrupted, his voice steady, hands steady as they held Stan’s waist down, his mouth edging closer to the place where Stan needed him most. “Let me take care of you.”

Stan’s head hit the pillow, breath leaving him in a rush, ready to protest again, to crack a joke, but then Ford’s mouth was on him, hot and wet and so much more tender than Stan had expected. The sensation of Ford’s lips wrapped around him almost too much, the inexperience endearing in a way that left him on the edge. Ford’s rhythm stuttered occasionally, but every flick of his tongue, every time he hollowed his cheeks, sent sharp bolts of pleasure up Stan’s spine. He was trying to keep quiet, but Ford stopped, pulling off with a slick pop, looking up at him with a glint in his eyes.

“I don’t want you to be quiet,” Ford said, voice low and serious. “I need to hear you, Stan. I like hearing you.”

That comment alone was enough to rip a groan from Stan’s throat, his hips bucking up into Ford’s hand, mind buzzing with the sheer thrill of it. Ford’s hand joined in, stroking him in time with his mouth, and the extra finger—the sixth one—did something to Stan that he hadn’t expected. It felt different, more somehow, and he really wanted to know how that would feel inside him.

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud until Ford’s head lifted slightly, eyes wide, asking quietly, “Do you want that?”

Stan swallowed hard, his heart racing, every nerve in his body screaming yes. “Fuck, yes,” he rasped, his voice rougher than before.

Ford reached over to the nightstand, grabbing lube, and Stan chuckled despite himself, asking, “This in your guide too?”

Ford snorted, rolling his eyes. “Why do you have to be so mouthy all the time?” he muttered, squeezing some of the lube onto his fingers, watching as it slicked between them. Stan watched, feeling his body flush hotter, his breath catching in his throat.

Ford was back over him, eyes sharp but soft. “You need to tell me if you need me to stop,” he said, his tone serious, and Stan waved him off, more desperate now than he was willing to admit. “Just do it,” he muttered.

The lube was cold, and Stan shivered when Ford’s fingers first touched him. He could feel Ford laugh against his thigh, placing a quick kiss there before pressing the first finger inside. Ford’s hand was large—Stan had always been a little envious of that, growing up thinking his own hands were too small in comparison—and the stretch, while slight at first, was something Stan hadn’t felt in a long time.

Ford’s movements were slow, careful, asking how he was doing, and Stan gritted out, “Good, really good.” He needed more, though. “Add another,” he groaned, and Ford obliged, slipping a second finger in, then leaning back down to take Stan into his mouth again.

The dual sensations left Stan gasping, his mind reeling. Ford was better at this than Stan had expected, his fingers moving inside him with purpose, his mouth working him in tandem. Stan couldn’t think, couldn’t focus on anything other than how good it felt. He was babbling now, barely coherent, praising Ford, telling him he was perfect, that he was doing great.

When Ford added a third finger, it was a slow burn, a steady stretch that made Stan wince slightly, but then Ford curled them, hitting something deep inside that made Stan’s entire body jerk off the bed. “Holy—!” Stan’s shout was almost a growl, his hand shooting out to grip Ford’s hair, holding him steady. Ford looked up, concern flashing in his eyes, but Stan’s grip was tight, his voice breathless as he apologized. “Fuck—don’t stop. Whatever you just did, do it again.” His voice was raw with need. "Please ."

Stan’s body was on fire, every nerve crackling as Ford’s fingers curled inside him again, hitting that spot that had Stan seeing stars. He was barely holding on, his body shaking, breath coming in ragged gasps as Ford worked him over—his mouth, his hand, everything was too much, too good, and Stan felt the build, the pressure coiling tight, ready to snap. 

One more curl of those fingers, and that was it. His orgasm hit him, his body arching up from the bed as he groaned loud and low, spilling into Ford’s mouth, hot and thick. Ford didn’t stop, didn’t pull back, swallowing it all down with steady determination, only pulling off when Stan’s body finally sagged back into the mattress, spent and trembling.

Ford lingered for a moment, his lips red, slick with Stan’s release, panting like he’d just run a marathon. Stan didn’t waste any time pulling Ford up from where he hovered at the lower half of the bed. His hands were firm, dragging him in for a kiss, rough and demanding. Ford groaned into it, his hands fisting into Stan’s hair, trying to match the intensity, but Stan was relentless, kissing him harder, teeth scraping his bottom lip in a way that made Ford shudder.

Stan’s hands were already moving, knowing damn well Ford needed help with the aching hardness pressed between them. When he pulled back, Ford looked dazed, his lips slick and swollen from the kiss, his breath ragged. “You don’t—” Ford started, the words faltering as his chest heaved, as if Stan hadn’t already seen it.

Stan’s grin widened at Ford’s weak attempt to deny it. “You gonna tell me you’re not fucking aching right now?” he teased, his voice low and rough, fingers already moving to the waistband of Ford’s pants. 

Ford opened his mouth to protest, but Stan didn’t give him the chance. With one swift motion, he flipped them over, Ford landing on his back with a soft grunt, eyes wide with surprise.

“Stan—”

“You’re soaked,” Stan grinned, his voice almost smug as he palmed Ford’s cock, feeling the wetness already slicking him up. “Fuck, look at you.”

He didn’t waste time, leaning down and taking Ford into his mouth in one smooth motion. Ford gasped, his body going rigid as he felt Stan’s mouth stretch wide, taking him in inch by inch. His breaths came in short, ragged pants, barely able to string together a coherent sentence. 

Stan felt a surge of pride at reducing Ford to this—a man who was usually so composed, so put together, now panting beneath him, lost in pleasure. He reached out, searching for Ford’s hand, guiding it to his mullet. He lifted his head just long enough to meet Ford’s wide, dazed eyes. “Go on,” he murmured. “Take control. I can handle it.”

Ford’s grip on his hair was hesitant, barely there, and Stan popped off his cock with a wet sound, glaring up at him. “Don’t baby me,” Stan said with a cocky grin. “You’ve got some iteration of that in your guide, right?”

Ford hesitated for only a second before something in him snapped. His hand tightened in Stan’s hair, and he began to thrust, slow at first, then harder, his voice a low growl as he muttered, “You and that fucking mouth of yours. ”

Stan groaned around Ford’s cock, the vibration of it making Ford’s grip tighten, his hips moving faster. Ford was different now—less the soft, doting man who had been worshipping Stan just moments ago, and more dominant, more commanding. 

It was… 

Hot.

Hotter than Stan had expected. Ford’s voice deepened, roughened with lust, his words spilling out as his pace quickened. “You love this, don’t you?” Ford grunted. “You look so good right now. You don’t need anyone else, Stanley. I won’t let you do this with anyone else.”

A wounded, desperate noise tore out of Stan’s throat, and Ford’s eyes darkened at the sound. The way Stan responded, the way he submitted so easily, only made Ford thrust harder. His hips snapped forward, faster, more erratic, as he chased his release. The way Stan’s throat constricted around him, the lewd, wet sounds of his mouth, had Ford teetering on the edge.

Stan wanted it— needed to make Ford come badly. He hollowed his cheeks, taking Ford as deep as he could, his jaw aching, but the need to make Ford fall apart overrode everything. Ford’s body shuddered, his breaths coming in ragged, uneven bursts. “Stanley—fuck, I’m... I’m gonna—”

Stan didn’t pull away, didn’t stop. He kept going until Ford’s entire body tensed, and with a sharp groan, Ford came, spilling into Stan’s mouth. The warmth of it hit the back of Stan’s throat, and he swallowed greedily, not stopping until Ford’s hand loosened in his hair, signaling him to pull back.

When Stan finally lifted his head, Ford was staring down at him, flushed and panting, his glasses fogged, his eyes wide with disbelief. He opened his mouth, the first question spilling out on reflex. “Are you okay? Was that too much? You were being so—Sweet Moses, I'm sorry, I didn’t—”

Stan grinned, capturing Ford’s lips in a kiss, rough and needy, his body heavy as he collapsed on top of Ford like dead weight.

Ford groaned, squirming under him. “Ow, off you, brute,” he muttered, and Stan laughed, rolling off him and onto his back. They both lay there, staring up at the ceiling, still catching their breath, still trying to wrap their heads around what had just happened.

“Did your guide prepare you for that?” Stan finally asked, voice dripping with amusement.

Ford groaned dramatically, covering his face with his hands. “You really need to stop harping on that,” he muttered, sounding like a petulant child. “I’m never doing anything sweet again.”

Stan chuckled, poking Ford’s side. “Oh yeah? You threatening to throw away my taxidermy next?” he teased, his voice light.

Ford huffed, still flustered. “The puffer fish, specifically.”

Stan winced, rolling over and peppering Ford’s face with playful kisses. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmured between kisses, each one softer than the last.

After a few moments, Stan broke the kiss with a sigh, leaning back onto the pillows. “I’m starving.”

Ford brightened instantly like he’d been waiting for that cue. “That was in the guide,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “After an orgasm, the parasympathetic nervous system takes over, making you feel hungry or sleepy—”

Stan stared at him in disbelief, his jaw hanging open. “You did not just say that.”

Ford grinned, undeterred. “I got some stuff from that bakery you like. Or I could just have it myself…?”

Stan couldn’t help but laugh again, grabbing Ford by the back of the neck and kissing him, rough but grateful. “I take it back, you’re a fucking genius.”

Chapter Text

Stan never thought he'd sleep as well as he did that night. Post-blowjobs with Ford? Definitely top five, easy. Maybe top two if he was honest. The only night that topped it was him crashing their couch for the first time, back when the world felt a little less heavy on his shoulders.

Warmth.

Safety.

That rare feeling that he wasn’t bracing for the next disaster.

And now, waking up to the soft light filtering through the blinds, tangled in Ford’s sheets, he couldn’t help but think how right everything felt. Like that Sierpinski triangle Ford had rambled about one night. Stan didn’t get the math, but the feeling? The feeling of being right here, Ford beside him, the air thick with the remnants of last night’s intimacy—that was infinite in its own way.

Of course, it was all bound to go downhill from there.

They’d slept in. Ford had almost launched himself out of bed the second he realized the time, muttering something about needing to study. Stan just groaned, grabbing him by the waist and yanking him back down. “Shut up,” he mumbled, “we got no damn priorities today. You planned for this in your sex guide.”

Ford kneed him, muttering under his breath about how he was never gonna live that down, before settling back into Stan’s arms, warmth sinking back into his bones. They’d fallen asleep again, only stirring hours later when a knock sounded at the door.

Stan groaned, cracking one eye open. “You expectin’ somethin’? Fidds ain’t supposed to be back for three more days.”

 Ford, half-buried under a pillow, muttered something about Sky & Telescope magazines he’d ordered. “Just leave it and come back, ‘M cold” Ford mumbled, voice muffled, before Stan leaned in, half-grinning, ready to kiss him.

Ford recoiled instantly, throwing his hand in front of his face. “ Germs Stanley!” he exclaimed, looking at him like he’d just committed a crime.

The knocking persisted, and Stan sighed, stretching his arms above his head before sitting up. “I’ll go see what’s up,” he muttered. Ford peeked out from under the pillow, still watching him with a sleepy smile. 

He hopped out of bed, a small grin pulling at his lips as he thought about maybe getting Ford for round two after breakfast. He did a quick glance at himself in the mirror—his hair was a disaster, a tangled mess from the night before. He tried smoothing it down as he called out, “I’m comin’! Hold yer horses!”

 He reached the door, his mood light, ready to bark at whoever was so insistent—

It was like the room dropped twenty degrees, his stomach twisting violently. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, and for a second, he thought he might throw up.

Behind him, Ford's voice floated out of the hallway, oblivious, still talking like nothing had changed. “Did you get the mail? I was thinking maybe french toast for breakfast—”

Stan couldn’t move. His mother’s face lit up, her voice annoyingly chipper as she clasped her hands together. “Stanford! And Stanley ! What a nice surprise!” She stepped forward, arms outstretched for a hug.

Stan took a step back, recoiling out of instinct. His skin crawled. He couldn’t take this— them —right now. Not after last night, not when everything had been so... right. And now they were here, threatening to undo all of it.

His mother huffed, stopping short of hugging him. “Is that any way to greet your mother ?” she scolded.

Stan didn’t say anything, his throat too tight to speak, but his father cut in, eyes raking over him like he was something dirty. “Christ, you look like shit.” His father turned to Ford, his voice dripping with disdain. “How long are you going to let Stanley mooch off of you, son?”

Stan’s blood ran hot, boiling under his skin. “I’m not mooching off anyone,” he snapped, his hands clenched into fists. “I work in the area. I go to the same damn college Ford does.”

Their father gave a dismissive snort, moving to sit on the couch like he owned the place. Ford, looking frazzled and way out of his depth, quickly stepped forward, trying to smooth things over. “Wha—why are you here? I told you not to come.”

He what? Stan’s eyes snapped to Ford, heat rising in his chest.

Ford looked at him, eyes pleading, but their mother cut in, brushing past the tension like it didn’t exist. “We’re on our way to visit Shermie’s wife and your nephew,” she said, giving Ford a quick kiss on the cheek—the same cheek Stan had tried to kiss earlier. “And we thought we’d stop by to see you. I didn’t know you two were keeping in touch! Ford, why didn’t you say anything? ”

Ford stood there, visibly wilting under the pressure, his voice strained as he tried to reason with their mom. “Shermie’s abroad and I told you not to come. I explicitly told you I wouldn’t be free. I have classes and mentoring—”

“Nonsense. His wife agreed after we talked it over,” their mother insisted, her tone making it clear she wasn’t leaving anytime soon. “We thought it would be nice to see you, too. You’ve got time now, right?”

“It looks like you’ve got time now,” their father grumbled from the couch, his tone mocking as he gestured to the empty apartment. Ford’s ears burned pink, and he stared down at the ground, completely thrown off balance.

Stan’s blood boiled. “He told you he didn’t have the damn time,” he snapped. But his father didn’t even look at him, dismissing him as their mother wandered into the kitchen. “Ford, dear, can I fix you some coffee? I heard you wanted breakfast. I’ll whip something up for you boys.”

Ford looked at his mom like a kid again, helpless. “Okay,” he said softly, and Stan wanted to scream. 

“I’m glad you two made up,” she called over her shoulder, her tone bright and syrupy sweet. “Oh my free-spirit Stanley, you always had been the rebellious one, but it’s nice to see that’s out of your system now. We can be a family again.”

Stan’s hands twitched at his sides, a surge of anger flooding through him. He turned sharply, muttering something about needing to use the bathroom, slamming the door behind him before he could say something he couldn’t take back.

In the bathroom, he gripped the sink, his knuckles white as the water ran cold. His mind raced, piecing it together. When? When could they have called? He’d been with Ford the whole damn time. And then it hit him—the day they were headed to Fiddleford’s. Ford had taken a call, said it was a telemarketer, and slammed the phone down.

He lied. Why would he lie?

His hands were shaking now, twitching uncontrollably under the cold water. He stared down at them, feeling the familiar bile rise in his throat. Everything felt like it was crumbling, and all he could do was grip the edge of the sink, watching as his fingers trembled.

Ford stood in the kitchen, guiding his mom to the pots and pans, his mind racing. He needed to get to Stan—needed to explain, to make him understand why he’d kept quiet. Sure, maybe technically he had lied, but it wasn’t like he had much of a choice. The day they were heading to Fiddleford’s, Stan had casually asked if it was a telemarketer on the phone. Ford had gone with it, a logical guess, something that wouldn’t derail their whole day. He wasn’t about to say, Hey, our mother’s calling, and she wants to hang around for a week-long visit. Not after they’d finally solidified whatever it was between them. Not after all the shit Stan had gone through living under Marc’s control, and later, drifting aimlessly, trying to piece his life back together.

Their family didn’t deserve to see Stan’s growth, his resilience. They hadn’t earned the right to waltz back into his life and pretend everything was fine. Hell, they hadn’t even bothered to look for him. And Ford wasn’t about to let them in.

But now, his mother was here, humming in the kitchen like nothing was wrong, and Stan—he was likely fuming. Ford hesitated for a second, glancing at his mom’s back as she clanged the pots together. He couldn’t deal with her right now. He had to fix this before it got any worse. He quickly muttered something about making themselves at home, before bolting to the bathroom. Each step felt heavier, like the floor was dragging him down.

He knew Stan was going to be pissed at him.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

The knob turned easily under his hand. Unlocked. He stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him and turning the lock with a soft click. He heard the sound of water running but couldn’t see Stan right away. As his eyes adjusted, he spotted him—sitting on the ledge of the tub, up on top of the shower curtain, staring down at the floor. The sink was still running, and Stan looked tense, coiled like a spring ready to snap.

Ford’s heart sank. He opened his mouth to say something, but the moment their eyes met, Stan's expression darkened, his gaze sharpening with fury. Before Ford could even whisper, "Okay, hold on—"

Stan cut him off, voice low but harsh, slicing through the small bathroom. “What the fuck, Ford? Why wouldn’t you say anything? How could you just—” The words tumbled out in a rush, his frustration palpable. “I knew something was off with that whole telemarketer bullshit. I’m not stupid.”

Ford pressed a finger to his lips, panicked. “Shh, just—”

“Don’t fucking tell me to shut up !” Stan snapped, eyes narrowing, but his voice dropped a little. 

Ford’s mind raced, searching for a way to fix this, to explain. He stared at his brother, desperate. “I didn’t know... I didn’t know they’d actually show up,” he said, the words stumbling out in a rush. “I had a whole argument with Mom on the phone. I told her I wouldn’t be free, that Fiddleford and I didn’t have room for guests. I didn’t think she’d—” His voice faltered. “I didn’t think she’d just come unannounced.”

Stan’s eyes flicked toward the running water, his voice quieter but still filled with anger. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” he muttered. “I could’ve been pissed the whole car ride to Tennessee and gotten over it. Maybe even prepared myself. But now? Now I have to fucking live through this.”

Ford exhaled, leaning against the door. “I didn’t want to ruin things. We were finally getting good again, Stan. I didn’t want you to have to think about them.”

Stan leaned back against the shower curtain, rubbing his hands through his messy hair. “It’s not fair, Ford. They can’t just show up, look at me like I’m some... some fuck-up that ran off for two years. They don’t know shit.”

Ford’s chest tightened at the raw pain in Stan’s voice. He knew. God, he knew. “That’s part of why I didn’t keep up with them either,” Ford admitted, sliding down against the bathroom door, his back hitting the wood with a thud. 

“When I first came back to campus, I was furious at you. I fed on that anger, fueled it. It was almost like grief. And they—” He swallowed, his voice bitter. “They just pretended like you didn’t exist.”

Stan looked up, brow furrowed, and Ford forced himself to continue. 

“Mom started small at first. Packed your things in the two boxes I gave you, like it was nothing. Then, more obvious—removing you from family photos, never mentioning your name in conversation. It was like you were gone to them, like Shermie and I were their only kids.”

Stan didn’t say anything, his eyes now focused on the framed seahorse with googly eyes hanging on the bathroom wall. Ford’s fingers twisted in his lap, his throat tightening as he spoke. “They always acted like I was the golden child. Like I could save them, strike it rich, pull the family name out of the gutter. But our father...” Ford’s voice wavered. “He never really saw me that way. Never thought I could live up to both brains and brawn.”

He glanced over at Stan, whose jaw was tight, still staring at the ridiculous seahorse. “And you... what you went through... I didn’t–I don’t know how to handle it. I thought if I didn’t mention them, didn’t bring them into our lives, it would be better. But now I’ve just made things worse.”

Ford looked down at his hands, rubbing his thumb over the ridge of his extra finger.

 He didn’t know how to fix this. 

Stan sighed, long and slow, his head tilting back against the curtain. “You fucked up, Ford.”

Ford winced, but before he could respond, Stan extended his hand toward him, offering to help him up. “But I’m not gonna let you sit here moping on the bathroom floor while they’re still out there. Come on.”

Ford grabbed his brother’s hand, letting him pull him to his feet. Stan’s lips twitched into a grin, though there was still a flicker of frustration in his eyes. “I’m still mad at you. Not accepting any apologies—don’t even try.”

Ford opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say anything, Stan leaned in and gave him a sloppy, wet lick across the cheek—messy and gross.

“Stanley!” Ford sputtered, recoiling, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Stan snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “Didn’t brush my teeth yet,” he said with a wicked grin. “Now go entertain them, Doc. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Ford sighed, wiping his cheek again, but despite everything, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Stan sat stiffly at the table, watching his mother move around the kitchen with a kind of efficiency that made his stomach twist. She’d set down plates of eggs, French toast, and bacon like they were back home. The smell was nostalgic, but the taste—when he finally forced himself to take a bite—wasn’t what he remembered. It was missing something, some warmth or seasoning that used to make him feel cared for. Now it just felt mechanical.

"So, Stanley," his mother chirped, sitting down with her own plate, "what are you doing here in Indiana? It’s been so long since we’ve caught up.”

Stan poked at his eggs, shrugging. "Told you. Enrolled in college. Studying business and accounting."

"Oh, isn’t that something!" she beamed, glancing at Ford like this was some great family reunion. “It’s fate, really, that you two ended up at the same school.”

His father snorted, barely looking up from his plate. “Fate, my ass. He’s just following Ford around like a lost puppy.”

Stan’s grip tightened on his fork, but he kept his voice even. "I got here on a boxing scholarship, actually."

That made his father pause, raising an eyebrow. “Boxing? Thought the NCAA disbanded in 1960. You’re telling me there’s still scholarships for that?”

Stan nodded, forcing himself not to bristle under his dad’s scrutiny. "Few colleges still have programs, yeah. It’s more about the connections you make, though. I’ve got some good ones."

His father’s mouth twisted in a half-smirk, half-grimace. “Connections, huh? There weren’t many good connections in Jersey for boxing. Except maybe your middle school boxing instructor. What was his name again?” He pretended to think hard, but Stan could feel the trap closing in.

Their mother piped up, unhelpfully. “Wasn’t it Marc?”

“Yeah,” his dad grunted. “That’s the one.”

Stan’s whole demeanor shifted. His chest tightened, the memories crashing into him like a tidal wave. His voice dropped, hard and cold. “I didn’t go through Marc.”

Their mother tried to steer the conversation back to Ford as if nothing had happened. She started asking him about his mentoring program, and the tutoring he did, but Stan barely heard it. His mind was spinning, trying to block out the name, the memories.

Then his father’s voice broke through the haze again, sharp and cold. “Still,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his voice dripping with casual cruelty, “I can’t help but wonder what you did with all that time after screwing the family over.”

Stan opened his mouth to speak, but Ford jumped in first, his tone pleading. “Can we just—”

“I worked,” Stan cut in, his voice hard. “Odd jobs. Saved up enough for my first two years on my own.”

His father let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “Odd jobs, huh? You’re a regular entrepreneur, Stanley.”

Stan gritted his teeth, staring down at his plate. The conversation carried on, light, but every so often his father’s eyes would flicker toward him, as if waiting for the right moment to strike. And then, almost too casually, his father leaned back in his chair, laughing to himself.

“It’s funny, though. Marc’s finally getting what’s coming to him, huh? Heard he’s on trial now. Sleazy bastard.” He looked to Ford. “Your mother always said he was bad news. Guess karma caught up to him, huh?”

Ford’s voice was clipped. “Yes, well, I don’t know why you’re bringing him up now.”

Their father shrugged, a cruel smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, I’m just curious. Last spring, two detectives stopped by, asking about a young guy—early twenties—who disappeared under Marc’s ‘care.’” He made air quotes with his fingers, the mockery sharp. “Turns out Marc was arrested for all sorts of shit—gambling, drug distribution, larceny... procuring.”

Their mother, halfway through buttering a piece of toast, frowned in confusion. “What on earth is procuring?”

Stan’s father didn’t miss a beat. “A pimp. Selling stupid, gullible people for cash. Never found much use for the girls, but the boys...” He let the sentence hang, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

Stan’s stomach twisted violently. Before he realized it, his hand had already grabbed his glass of apple juice, downing it in a desperate swig. The acidic taste bit into his tongue, but it couldn’t quell the rising bile in his throat.

“Of course,” his father continued, voice dropping into a sneer, “I told those detectives I only have two living sons—Shermie and Stanford. And they sure as hell wouldn’t be caught dead being faggo—".

A chair screeched painfully as Stan stood, the sound grating in his ears. His muscles trembled with tension, his hands shaking from the force of what he wanted to do—what he needed to do—but he couldn’t find the words.

Ford’s face paled, eyes widening as he began to stand. “Stan—”

Stan’s hand shot up, cutting him off sharply. “Thanks for the meal, Ma,” he said, his voice flat and tight. His gaze locked with his father’s, burning with barely controlled fury. “Good thing your living sons don’t fit into that ‘lifestyle,’ huh?

He turned on his heel, storming out of the apartment, his father’s sneering gaze burning into his back. The door slammed behind him, and he barely registered Ford’s voice, raised in anger, as he flew down the stairs, his heart pounding in his chest.

By the time he reached his car, his hands were shaking uncontrollably, his breath coming in shallow, jagged bursts. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, staring blankly at the dashboard. His mind spiraled, crashing through memories and half-formed thoughts.

How much did his father know? How much had he pieced together? Had he always known he was there? 

Marc is at least...where he belongs. But...Rico....What if Rico’s looking for him, waiting to collect? Marc owed him, and Stan knew too well what Rico was capable of. Would he come after him, expect him to pay off Marc’s debt? Or worse—take whatever he wanted from Stan?

Stan’s chest tightened, the panic creeping in like a flood. He had no real family now, no one but Ford and Fiddleford. His father’s words echoed in his mind, twisting the knife deeper. What if....what if he found out about him and Ford? The very idea made Stan’s stomach churn violently, his pulse quickening. What would his mother think if she knew the truth?

Ford didn’t deserve to be the last Pines son without a family. Maybe Filbrick was right. Maybe he was dragging Ford down with him. 

Maybe...

His thoughts hit like a blow to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. His trembling hand reached for the glove compartment, fumbling as the latch finally gave way. A cigarette pack and the lighter tumbled to the floor. He snatched it up, hands shaking as he tried to light it, the flame flickering weakly before catching.

It would be so easy, small and quick, just to ground himself.  But then Ford’s face flickered into his mind. That look of disappointment. 

Stan let out a shuddering breath and slammed the lighter shut, forcing his hand back down. Instead, he took a long drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the steering wheel, staring out the windshield, watching people walk by like nothing was wrong, like his whole world wasn’t collapsing.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, lost in the haze of his thoughts, the panic still buzzing under his skin, when the low, familiar roar of engines reached his ears. Motorcycles, rumbling past.

He lifted his head, catching sight of the familiar group of bikes as they tore down the street. Jimmy. Of course, Jimmy would be around. He had family nearby.

For the first time since the morning, something like relief washed over Stan. He stubbed out his cigarette and tossed it out the window before stepping out of the car. Maybe Jimmy could help him clear his head, and calm him down, just for a little while.

Chapter Text

The bar was packed, even for one of the hole-in-the-wall spots that Fiddleford and Stan only visited every once in a while. The place was filled with the loud voices of Jimmy’s gang, who’d taken over nearly half the tables, heckling the poor waitress as she tried to balance orders of beer, wings, and whatever greasy foods they’d ordered in bulk.

Stan had to squeeze past tables and fist-bump a few familiar faces on his way to Jimmy who was hunched over a map, stirring his drink as he traced something with his finger. When he finally got to Jimmy’s booth, he leaned in. “This seat taken?”

Jimmy didn’t even look up, a small smile curling at the edge of his lips. “Now it is.”

Stan slid in across from him, and Jimmy glanced up, his eyes flickering with approval. “Damn, Lee—you’re looking good. Better, actually.”

“That’s what showering daily and eating three square meals a day does to you.”

Jimmy waved him off, chuckling. “Still got that smart-ass mouth on you, though, huh?”

“Thought you liked my mouth?”

Jimmy’s lips curved into a grin. “It’s useful, at least, when it’s not bitchin’ and complaining.”

Before Stan could respond, the waitress arrived with a plate of fries, setting them down with a sigh of relief before heading off to deal with the rest of the rowdy tables. Stan grabbed a fry, popping it in his mouth as Jimmy watched, eyes half-lidded and amused. “So, college boy, how’s school?”

Stan shrugged, still chewing. “Pretty okay. Mostly B’s, got two A’s, one C.”

Jimmy gave him a lazy grin. “B’s stand for ‘Better than nothing.’ You’ve come a long way, kitten.” He eyed Stan’s hand reaching for more fries. “I’ll let it slide, though you know I usually don’t.”

Stan gave a smug grin. “Like you’d stop me anyway.”

Jimmy’s boys were competing now, egging each other on to see who could handle the spiciest wings, their laughter and groans filling the bar. Stan watched them, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Forgot how entertaining they were.”

“God, they’re a pain in my ass,” Jimmy muttered, shaking his head. “So what the hell are you doing here? Thought you’d be hitting the books.”

“I could ask the same,” Stan said, leaning in to grab another fry.

“Planning on headin’ up to Washington and Oregon, scouting out some land my cousin bought, and the boys have been hounded me for a trip to Seattle.”

Stan nodded, glancing over at the map on the table. But then he felt Jimmy’s eyes on him, and when he looked up, Jimmy was studying him with that intense stare that had always made it hard to hide anything.

“Something’s wrong,” Jimmy said, crossing his arms. 

Stan froze, fry halfway to his mouth. His mind scrambled, and he popped it into his mouth quickly, shrugging. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.” Jimmy’s voice was firm, and he pointed a finger at him. “I’ve got a gut feeling, remember? Just like Colorado—told you idiots to use those socks as gloves, and Thomas ended up needing to see one of ‘em doc in a boxes. And what’d you say then? You told me I was full of shit —”

Stan rolled his eyes. “That’s ‘cause it was 15 degrees at night, Jimmy. And last I recall, he only got there ‘cause I made a fake insurance card.”

Jimmy flicked him on the forehead, making Stan flinch. “Regardless, you’ve got that look. Like you baked someone cookies and they spat on ‘em.”

Stan laughed bitterly. “Christ, Jim. You’ve got some imagination.”

Jimmy threw his hands up, feigning exasperation. “So, college didn’t drain the sass outta you. Still got that mouth, kitten.”

They fell silent for a moment, Jimmy watching him with that focused, unblinking look that always made Stan feel like Jimmy was reading every thought in his head. Finally, Jimmy leaned forward, his tone more serious this time. “Look,” he said, quieter now, “you don’t have to tell me Lee, but if you’re in trouble ...I’ve got people. Ed’s still got that lawyer friend—”

Stan cut him off, his voice sharp. “It’s not that kind of trouble.” He forced a grin, though he could feel the familiar twist of frustration and anger in his stomach. “It’s... dumb.”

“Dumb, huh?” Jimmy gave him a sideways look. He could feel the lie sitting heavy between them—he wasn’t about to tell Jimmy the truth, that this was Ford, his own brother. The one he was... seeing. This wouldn’t be the first time he twisted things, so he leaned into it.

“Well…” Stan started, picking his words carefully. “Back in Jersey, there was a…close friend—Ford. Real close, like family, and we were inseparable growing up. But…we had a falling out, and it dragged our folks into it, too. Mine were waitin’ for an excuse to toss me out, and that was all they needed.”

Jimmy’s brow furrowed. “It got that serious?”

Stan gave a half-shrug, looking down. “Guess I was just selfish. Scared of gettin’ left behind, y’know?”

Jimmy frowned, his hand loosely resting on his glass. “Hell, you were a kid. That ain’t selfish; it’s human. ”

Stan just shook his head. “Maybe. But my dad was lookin’ for any excuse to cut me loose. It was just easier to…let it happen.”

Jimmy nodded, taking it in. “And now…?”

“Ford's on campus with me now,” Stan went on, “and we realized... we wanted something more.” He felt his face heat as he admitted it. “We, uh... did some stuff last night.”

Jimmy’s mouth spread into a wide grin, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Well, well, my little Lee’s growing up. Finally got some action?” He made a mock-pouting face. “I’m jealous. Miss doing stuff with you myself, kitten.”

Stan could feel the heat rising in his face, and he shifted in his seat, feeling the familiar pull toward Jimmy but forcing it back down. He cleared his throat.  “Shut up,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth tugged up.

“Alright, alright,” Jimmy teased, waving it off. “So you finally got a taste, huh? What’s got you all worked up?”

“Last night was... perf-don’t make that face. Stop! Things were…good. Really good, ‘til today. His folks showed up—didn’t know they were comin’. And they knew all this crap about me, about…when I was in Jersey with Marc.”

Jimmy made a soft “mhm” sound, swirling the ice in his drink. He waved over the waitress for another round, and Stan could feel the weight of Jimmy’s gaze as he waited, patient and steady. “Then what?”

Stan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I tried to sit through brunch at the apartment, but it got to be too much. So now I’m here.”

Jimmy gave him a sidelong look. “So what’s the plan now? You gonna do the thing?”

Stan frowned, confused. “The thing?”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “The ‘bottle everything up’ thing.”

Stan huffed, knowing it was a weak lie even as he said it. “I never do that.”

“Right.” Jimmy’s voice was dry. “And if you did, then what? So Ford’s bad at explaining himself? People don’t always know what to say.” Jimmy leaned back, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “Hell, it sounds like you both are the worst with this domestic shit. But I’m happy for you. You needed this—not the argument. Just… having someone.”

Stan gave a short laugh. “You’re  not made for this stuff either.”

“Yea yea, we’re not talkin’ bout me here though. You should take some space for yourself tonight. Do something to take your mind off things.” Jimmy cocked his head. “You got your own place?”

Stan shook his head. “No, I’ve… been staying with Ford and his roommate. They got a pull-out mattress, though.” He hesitated, glancing away. “Past few weeks, we’ve been uh sleeping… together.”

Jimmy gave him a knowing look, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Uh-huh. ‘Convenient,’ right?”

Stan rolled his eyes. “It’s… yeah.”

Jimmy grinned. “You’re not fooling anyone, kitten.” He tapped the rim of his glass thoughtfully. “You gots to be the bigger person, or at least lean into the conversation if he brings it up.” Jimmy took a long drink, then set his glass down, his tone softening. “Look, if you keep running away from problems, they’re just gonna keep showing up. Eat away at your days. It’s only been a few months, right? You two are still figuring it out. It’s normal for problems to bleed into everything, make you bitter if you let it.”

Something clicked in Stan, a small but sharp reminder that maybe he was rushing things. Jimmy was right; it had only been a few months since they reconnected. 

Stan forced a smile. “Insightful for a guy who spends half his life on a bike.”

“Don’t ask for more or I’ll start charging,” Jimmy shot back, smirking as he lifted his glass.

Stan took a swig, letting the warmth of the alcohol settle in his chest. Jimmy’s eyes flicked over him, playful again. “So, Ford. He cute or what?”

Stan choked, sputtering into his drink. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Jimmy grinned. “Just curious if you’re replacing me, kitten.”

Stan rolled his eyes, throwing a fry at him. “In your dreams.”

Jimmy shrugged, his eyes glinting with something a little darker, a little dangerous. “Well, if you ever want to, y’know, have a little fun with the both of us…”

Stan barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Ford wouldn’t.”

“Never say never,” Jimmy replied with a wink, letting it hang in the air before turning his attention back to his drink.

The conversation drifted into easier territory then—reminiscing about old times, catching up on what Jimmy had been up to, and what few embellished stories Stan had from school that didn’t make him sound completely soft. 

After a bit more catching up, Jimmy checked his watch, glancing back at the group of bikers. “Alright, come on, I’ll drive you home. Feels like I’m chaperoning a damn high schooler.”

Stan snorted, giving Jimmy a shove as they got up. “You’re only thirty-three, Jim. You’re not ancient.”

“Tell that to my knees,” Jimmy muttered, stretching with a grunt as they walked toward the door.

The noise of the bar dulled as they stepped into the crisp night, and for the first time since that morning, Stan felt like he could breathe.

Three hours, forty-six minutes, thirty-three seconds, and counting—Ford kept track with exacting precision as the minutes stretched on, waiting for Stan to return. The second Stan had stormed out, he’d torn into his father like a wound that had been festering for years.

“You have no right to make those assumptions about him,” Ford spat. “Stan’s been through hell, and I didn’t even know he was here until the fall. At least I’m learning to forgive him. I’m the only one who’s actually tried to see him for who he is, not whatever picture you painted of him in your head.”

His father scoffed, muttering something under his breath, and their mother agreed, nodding tightly. “We always knew he was troubled, Ford, but we didn’t know he was that... troubled,” she said, her tone dripping with implication.

Filbrick twitched at that, his mouth twisting as he spoke in a low, angry voice. “After everything I’ve done for you, that’s how you see it?”

“‘Everything you’ve done’? Like treating me like a stranger in my own home? Yes, thank you, for everything,” Ford sneered, his own voice strained and raw. He turned to his mother, whose eyes were welling up with tears, but he forced himself to stay focused, relentless. “And don’t look at me like that. You know this is what he wanted all along. He had Stan’s bags packed long before he ever threw him out.”

The room went still, his mother’s face frozen, and his father’s sneer slipping into something more dangerous. His mother wiped her tears and turned to his father, her voice unsteady. “What is he talkin’ about?”

Ford almost felt the urge to bolt, memories flashing before him—the two of them, him and Stan, hiding after some childhood mischief, his father’s leather belt snapping in his grip. The old fear, that suffocating dread, clung to the back of his mind, and for a split second, he wasn’t sure he could stand there, facing them. 

His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts again, sharper now. “Filbrick, what is Stanford talking about?”

“If Ford was so smart, maybe he should have shaped his brother to be something better,” Filbrick said, crossing his arms. “It’s not my fault Stan turned out like he did. I did everything I could to shape this family into what it should’ve been.”

Ford’s eyes narrowed, the resentment he’d buried for so long bubbling over. “Right. Congratulations, Dad, for thinking that ‘shaping the family’ meant dumping all the responsibility onto the one child who kept you at arm’s length. Maybe it’s time for you to grow up.”

His mother opened her mouth as if to say something, turning toward Filbrick, but Ford didn’t stick around to hear it. He took a step back, his voice cold. “I think it’s time you two hit the road. Go harass Shermie and his family for a change — I’m sure they’d love your company.”

Ford practically pushed them out the door, ignoring his mother’s tearful look, and his father’s muttering. He shut and locked the door behind them, letting himself slide down to the floor, the sound of their muffled argument echoing down the stairs as they left. His head throbbed, and for a moment, he simply stared into space, his mind circling back to Stan.

Where the hell did you go?

He got up after a moment, peeking out the fire escape. Stan’s car was still there, but there was no sign of him anywhere nearby. Ford paced the apartment for a few minutes, feeling his frustration twist tighter with each second before he finally headed out to look for him. He checked campus, the gym, and the construction site Stan sometimes worked at, but each place was empty, with no sign of him.

At last, he stopped by a payphone near the apartment, taking a deep breath, his fingers hovering over the buttons as he considered calling Fiddleford. People aren’t my expertise, he thought with a tired bitterness, and never will be.

He was just about to dial when he heard the sound of a revving engine, and he turned, heart pounding as he spotted a motorcycle coming down the street. Stan was there, on the back of the bike, gripping the shoulders of a guy Ford had never seen before—an older man with a weathered face that suited him. 

Stan pulled off the helmet, rubbing his fingers through his hair, laughing as he said something that made the man chuckle and reach out, ruffling Stan’s hair affectionately. Ford felt an unfamiliar twist of jealousy, watching as the man rubbed his thumb against Stan’s cheek, making Stan lean into it with a small, contented sigh.

Stan’s face lit up, but a moment later he shifted, shoving the guy playfully as he hopped off the bike and waved the man off, his gaze moving to their apartment building. Stan turned, spotting Ford standing there. He quirked his mouth up in a half-smile as he approached the building, looking unfazed. 

“Where’ve you been?” Ford asked, his voice tighter than he’d intended.

Stan shrugged. “Saw an old friend. Caught up a bit.” He hopped up the front steps to the apartment lobby, shrugging as if he hadn’t been gone for hours.

Ford’s jaw tightened as he followed him, his mind still reeling from everything that had happened, both with their parents and whatever this was between Stan and the older man. “Was it… Jeff?” Ford asked, struggling to keep the accusation out of his voice.

Stan glanced at him, correcting without elaboration, “Jimmy.” He left it at that, saying nothing else as he took the steps two at a time, clearly in no mood to share more.

Back in the apartment, Stan went straight to the couch, letting out a sigh as he collapsed onto the cushions. Ford wanted to press, to demand where he’d been, what he’d been doing, but Stan’s exhaustion was plain, and he just sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“I just want to decompress,” Stan muttered, shifting in his seat. “I’ll be in here looking over some syllabi my professors sent over. Let me know if you need anything.”

Ford stood there, frozen in the threshold between the kitchen and living room, his hand twitching at his side, torn between reaching out and giving Stan the space he’d asked for. 

So, he drifted into the kitchen. They’re gone now, he told himself. Their presence shouldn’t be here, lingering over everything. He went to the sink, pulling on the gloves, and grabbing a sponge, furiously scrubbing the plates they’d used. He moved onto the counter, disinfecting every surface he could think of, hoping that maybe, if he scrubbed hard enough, he’d erase the memory of their presence entirely.

All the while, he stole glances at Stan, who was at the coffee table in the living room, actually going over his syllabi. Ford had noticed he’d taken more marine courses this semester, no doubt preparing for a full-time schedule. Stan’s brow was furrowed as he jotted down notes, scratching things off his calendar. Ford didn’t know why it bothered him, but something about the studious focus Stan showed tonight—after everything—tugged at him, leaving him unsettled.

Finally, after he’d dried his hands, Ford felt calm enough to risk breaking the silence. He glanced over at Stan and asked, “Mind if I sit with you to read?”

Stan gave a noncommittal “Mhm,” not looking up. Ford’s stomach twisted at the indifference, but he sat down anyway, picking up a book he barely glanced at as he settled in beside him. The room fell into a silence that might have felt comfortable any other day, but tonight, Ford found himself stealing glances, hoping to catch some hint of Stan’s thoughts, some sign that they could talk. Stan’s face was blank, his eyes focused on his notes. He wasn’t cold, but he wasn’t himself, either, and Ford found himself wishing he’d just say something, anything, even if it was bitter or harsh.

After a while, Stan glanced up at the clock, stretching his arms and yawning. “I’m kinda exhausted.”

Ford tilted his head, trying to keep his voice even. “Yeah, we can sleep early if you want.”

Stan nodded, acknowledging him without much feeling. Then, after a brief pause, he added, “I think I’ll stay on the pull-out tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Stan said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “With Fidds coming back soon, probably best.”

Ford’s mind raced for something to say, but all that came out was a stuttering, “Right. Best. No worries.” He forced a smile, feeling his cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I’ve got work to do at my desk anyway. See you tomorrow.”

“Right… tomorrow,” Stan murmured, barely looking at him.

Ford closed the bedroom door behind him, leaning against it as the truth of the situation crashed over him. Something was definitely wrong, and Stan was pushing him away. He didn’t know why, and that helplessness gnawed at him, leaving him drained. He groaned, rubbing his forehead as he threw himself onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes drifted to the poster above his head, and he reached up to peel back the corner out of habit, trying to distract himself.

The room grew darker as the night dragged on, but Ford lay there, unable to sleep. Hours passed, and the silence of his room felt suffocating, mocking. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Why was Stan pulling away now, after everything? It was just their parents—it was unpleasant, yes, but not something they hadn’t survived before. Frustrated, he sat up, grabbed his notebook from his desk, and started scribbling, trying to find some logic in the chaos.

Eventually, Ford left his room, shuffling down the hallway louder than he meant to, his mind too busy spiraling over equations and models to care about the noise. He paused in the living room, spotting Stan on the pull-out couch, lying on his back, one arm stretched out as he snored lightly. Ford’s footsteps creaked on the floor as he tiptoed closer. The weight of the mattress shifted as he sat down, the noise rousing Stan, who choked on a snore and blinked, squinting up at him.

“Ford?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. “What… what’re you…what’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Ford muttered, waving his notebook in the air. “I’ve been working on it all night, but I’m… I’m cold and exhausted. It’s not adding up.”

Stan blinked, looking half-dazed, like he hadn’t quite processed the words. “Adding up? Fidds keeps extra blankets in the closet if the radiator crapped out again—”

Ford huffed, shaking his head. “No not that.” He opened his notebook, pointing at a section he’d written in frantic handwriting.

 “I tried following Discrete Probability Theory, then thought maybe predator-prey models in ecology or oscillatory models in physics. None of them work.” His voice turned pleading. “Stan, the math doesn’t add up. There’s no reason for us to be fighting so soon—there’s no frequency pattern of arguments to expect, not within the next four to six years. And not that I’m planning for it, but it’s good to be mindful. Arguments can be predicted in lowercase omega here—”

Stan groaned, throwing the blanket over his head. “Ford, ‘m not doin’ math at four in the damn mornin’, especially math that’s ten times more complicated than anythin’ I know.”

Ford scowled, tugging the blanket down slightly. “That’s why I’m explaining it. You could at least try to follow along.”

Stan swatted the book out of Ford’s hand.  “I took stats last semester, and I barely survived it. Unless you’ve got notes about fish or something, can we just sleep? Why are you even out here?”

Ford puffed out his cheeks, looking down as he fidgeted with the corner of the notebook. “I didn’t want to go to sleep without saying anything. And you… you’re not saying anything. You’re sleeping out here now, and I don’t understand it.”

Stan snorted, shaking his head as he sat up, his hair a mess of curls and tangles that made Ford’s face heat up. He wanted to kiss him, but his brain was too scrambled to think beyond that urge.

Stan gave a small, tired laugh. “Ford, I told you I needed to decompress. I wanted to talk about it in the mornin’, when I had a better grip on what to say. I didn’t want to reopen wounds when I was still… raw.” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t tryin’ to run. I just needed space. Well… maybe running is kind of my specialty.” He gave a half-smile, then shook his head. “I guess I did kinda run if you count seeing Jimmy as that, but I wasn’t gonna sit there and take it, y’know?”

Ford felt a flicker of relief, nodding as he let out a laugh. “I… I get it. I wish you’d told me, though.”

Stan rolled his eyes, jabbing Ford’s forehead lightly with his index finger. “Kinda like how I wish you’d told me our parents were coming?”

Ford huffed, looking away. “I didn’t know.”

“Uh-huh,” Stan waved him off, smirking.

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet settling over them like a blanket. Ford shifted, fidgeting with his hands. “I don’t like sleeping alone anymore.”

Stan groaned, rolling his eyes. “God, I’ve conditioned you like… like Padlock’s dog.”

Ford couldn’t help a chuckle. “Pavlov’s dog.”

Stan raised an eyebrow, grinning lazily. “You really think correcting me’s gonna get you a spot on the couch?”

Ford’s face flushed, and he quickly shook his head. “No, no, I take it back. Please, let me stay.”

Stan snorted and shifted over, muttering under his breath. “Fine. But if you drool on me, I’m kicking you back out.”

Ford climbed onto the pull-out beside him, letting out a breath of relief as he finally settled into the mattress. Just as he began to drift, he felt the warm weight of Stan’s blanket being tossed over him, Stan’s arm brushing against his.

Ford’s mouth opened, a quiet apology hovering on his lips, but before he could say a word, Stan’s hand found his, lifting it up and pressing his knuckles to his lips. He gave Ford’s hand a quick, gentle kiss, then whispered, “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Ford squeezed Stan’s hand, his heart finally slowing, a calm easing through him as he whispered back, “Goodnight.”

Chapter Text

Morning hit Stan like a slow burn, the weight of everything that had happened settling into his chest as he rummaged through the fridge. He wasn’t really hungry—too emotionally exhausted to bother with something solid—but he needed something. His eyes landed on a too-ripe banana and a pack of berries tucked in the back. He grabbed them, setting them on the counter beside the blender. Sleeping next to Ford last night had been….

Grounding.

That was a word Ford would probably liked to use, and yeah, it fit. Even if the nerd snored like a broken engine.

Stan peeled the banana with one hand, his other scratching at the back of his neck. The semester was creeping closer, and with it came the realization that they’d need to figure out how to break the news to Fiddleford. Not the kissing part, or the sex part. God, not that part. Just... that they were sleeping in the same bed. 

Two brothers. 

Totally normal. 

Completely platonic.  

Fidds didn’t have to know about the touching. Or the looks. Or—

He shut the fridge with his elbow and turned, pointing the fruit at Ford like it was a loaded weapon. “I’m still mad at you.”

Ford was perched on the counter, his face haggard but calm, arms crossed. He didn’t even flinch at the banana-wielding accusation. “I know.”

Stan snorted, peeling the fruit and grabbing a knife. “And we gotta figure out what to say to Fidds.” He sliced into the banana, watching Ford from the corner of his eye.

Ford sighed, nodding. “I know,” he repeated, his voice softer this time.

The banana pieces dropped into the blender cup one by one. Stan glanced at Ford again, noting the way his brother looked away, lips pressed tight, his face puffed like a kicked puppy.

 It was almost cute.

“You gonna tell me what happened after I left yesterday?” he asked, grabbing blueberries and strawberries from the counter.

Ford blinked, caught off guard. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Stan washed the berries under the faucet, his voice muffled as he answered, “I said last night I’d...lean into talkin' about it today, didn’t I?”

Ford hesitated, clearly expecting the usual back-and-forth. When Stan didn’t bite, he straightened. “I called them out,” he said, his tone measured, like he was testing the weight of the words.

“Oh yeah?” Stan dumped the berries into the blender, adding a splash of water.

Ford nodded. “Before I kicked them out, I told our Father off… Told Ma’ the truth about him packing your bags before he even threw you out. She didn’t know. Then I told him to grow up.”