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Stanford let out a small sigh, leaning back in his swivel chair in the lab he had under the Mystery Shack; the creak of the chair reminded him to buy a new one soon. He had recently just come back from a three decade trip, and getting used to the new technology (Google was the craziest thing to him), the lingo the kids used, and — in general — the world around him was hard, it was stressful . He wanted to connect, but nothing he did could get him grounded here. There was always something he did wrong or misinterpreted. He felt like he had to learn new social queues, and it wasn’t a strong suit.
“Jesus…” he softly said to himself and the lab around him, he craved a sense of activity. His head was terribly loud, and as much as he liked the quiet of the lab and as much as he loved being alone there were these urges he used to submit to trying to come back with a swift force. He hasn’t felt these since highschool, hell, university years! It made his heart jump, and he wanted to be around someone .
It almost felt comedical to him. He’s been alone for 30 years and the hours and times where he now has access to people he ignores them and shuts them off, especially when in serious dire life-threatening situations? Absolutely humorous, he chuckles a bit, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face, dropping his glasses on the desk in front of him with a groan. The sense of dread he felt wasn’t new, but he hadn't felt it in years.
It was times like this where he felt hyperaware at how alone he was, especially in his head. He hated Bill, but there were times he missed his echoey laugh, his jokes. He missed what he thought Bill was. A friend just like him.
“Thirty years clean, gone like that?” Stanford bites his lower lip, the burning sensation in the back of his throat begging for release; just a few sobs of agony. “How pathetic , Pa was always right about me…” voice wavering near the end he gets up abruptly and goes over to another desk drawer, it had mainly stationary supplies, hence the pencil sharpener in the desk. He knew how to get it out, although now that he lived on his own he simply just took it apart other than smashing it to get the blade out.
“I’ve always liked these,” he started talking, mainly to calm his nerves. “They’re smaller than paint scrapers, easier to hide.” he paused and held the blade in his hand after tossing the screwdriver on the desk in front of him. “Always so fucking easy to hide…” he paused staring at the blade, memories of when he was a teen self harming right above his brother in the middle of the night; the stifling of cries was probably the hardest part.
“Alright…” he whispered to himself. “If I get caught I’ll just say I was headed to the bathroom, I’ve done that before…” he nodded with a sense of confidence then slowly stepped down the ladder to see his brother fast asleep with a comic book on his chest, the rising and falling of his chest was a sense of comfort to him oddly enough — at least one of them was getting rest.
Stepping over some stuff on the floor and trying not to creak the floor. Stanford made his way to the desk in their room, opening the drawer and picking up a stray paint brush in the desk near a few pencils and pens. He then took a kleenex out of the box near the lamp on the desk.
“Oookaayy…” he muttered to himself trying to steady himself, he could never stay quiet when anxious. Going back up the ladder to his bed, he got in bed cuddling against the wall, holding the brush and tissue to his chest listening for soft snoring. Once there was the soft snore of a ignorant brother, Stanford popped off the top of the brush, inside the metal part of the top of the brush was a almost impressive collection of pencil sharpener blades.
“...hm…that one’s too dull…” Stanford muttered around shifting the multitude of blades in his hand trying to find one that was sharp enough to at least get some form of blood drawn. Shrugging he picks one of the sharpest he could see in the dark and took off his pajama pants, his already scarred thighs were slightly healed, although his left thigh after this would look like the aftermath of a tomato on a cutting board.
Positioning his thigh up a bit where he could cut properly he hovered the blade on it and inhaled as he went down and to the right swiftly. Soon there pooled a thinnish line of blood, it felt almost cruel to do this right above someone; the truth hung above Stanley like a noose.
“Fuck-” letting out a hiss he reared back a bit the tears slowly falling down his face. He told himself he’s going to cut too deep, too far. He ignores his own logical worries and continues despite it all. The croak of a few tears due to the burning of the cuts as he slid his pajamas back on was embarrassingly loud, he hoped Stanley didn’t hear anything. If he did he hoped that he’d think he was having a dream, sometimes he talks in them .
Stanford was heaving out sobs, he didn’t want to relapse, but here he was: pants to his ankles, blade to his left thigh. “Pathetic…” remarking toward himself with the spirit of a long dead man.
He already made a few cuts, although none to satisfy, as he pressed down he heard a voice in his head that sounded all too familiar. “You’re pathetic for this, Stanford. How old are you? Grow up. ” with the rage of an unimpressed father he swiped the hardest he’s ever had, the pain that ripped through his leg was enough to make him yelp.
“Fuck!” exclaiming he dropped the blade, examining the wound he made gasping at how he finally went too far . “Ohhhh shit, okay, uhm. I ca- I can fix this!” he attempted to stand up to get to the first aid kit, he groaned at the pain a bit, but persisted after kicking his pants fully off.
“Stanley would beat my fucking ass, oh god.” muttering worries to himself, his worst fear just attempted to open the lab door. The sound of a light beep was enough for a few familiar sounding curses to sound from the other side of it. “Ugh, god, speak of the devil…” Stanford took the gauze out of the first aid and wrapped his thigh to the best of his abilities; he was shaking like crazy. (It also didn’t help that it wasn’t stopping, it was hard to contain it and tissues with gauze can only hold so much.)
“Stanford, ya sleep yet?” Stanley’s voice inquired from outside the vending machine, Stanford’s heart leapt in his throat as he didn’t reply…maybe he’d just assume he’d fall asleep. “Poindexter?!” Stanley called out again, this time a bit more agitated. “You never sleep with the door locked, you good?”
Fuck. Letting out a sigh he rubs his face a bit under his glasses and readjusts them, fixes his hair and rushes to put on his pants. He put the blade and empty pencil sharpener in his jacket pocket as he slipped on his jacket. The warmth comforted him more than anything he just did. He grabbed one last tissue and attempted to clean up a small pool of blood on the floor, looking at his sock he scoffed at how there was a spot that it pooled at the top of it near his ankle. “He won’t notice…” raising up he shoved the tissue in his jacket pocket, then turned around putting on his best act.
“Sorry, I was engrossed with my current project!” he did his best to put on a voice, hoping his fear didn’t lace with his current one.
“Alright, well, unlock the damn door.” Stanford could visualize Stanley’s annoyance and chuckled. Arms crossed with weight shifted on the right side, reminding him of Pa.
“Yes, give me a second!” He tried to look his best, hoping that the redness could be brushed off as something else. Using his wrist band, he unlocked the vending machine, it opening with a harsh click.
“Alright, listen.” Stanley started as he walked down the stairs, Stanford sitting in his swivel chair trying his hardest to not show anxiety or worry. “Next week we start building Stan ‘O War II, ya hear? I know ya have been gettin’ adjusted ‘n all, but I wanna get this thing done .” Stanley was leaning near the base of the lab stairs.
“Ah, that’s fair! Sorry I’ve been engrossed with my own agenda, I just get caught up sometimes…you know me!” Stanford chuckles, turning around in his chair making sure to rummage around in a drawer to avoid looking at his brother's face. There were times where Pa really shined through with the twins, and Stanley being annoyed (even in a lighthearted or joking manner) was a big one.
“Sure.” Stanley stated, squinting at his brother but shrugging. Probably just stress, right? “I’m giving you another hour. Then we’re headin’ to Greasy’s…you need ‘ta eat.” Stanley states and hesitantly heads back up the stairs quietly with an uneasy feeling in his gut. Stanley knew the smell of blood, and as he started to put the pieces together he wondered if that nightmare Stanford had wasn’t all that wrong. The night chattering was one thing when he was dreaming, but Ford’s nightmare chattering was another. It was always about being caught.
“Don’t…touch it.” There was a soft pathetic whimper from Stanford as Stanley groaned a bit, taking his pillow and burying his head under it, he dunno why he did, the pillow was too thin to stifle anything.
“Poindexter I swear-” Stanley let out a sigh, this was the third time this happened this week.
“I’m sorry.” Stanford replied seemingly in response to his sigh.
Stanley chucked at this, letting out a soft grunt as he flipped the pillow over lying on his back.
“Don’t…” there was a pause “tell Pa.”
Stanley raised up out of curiosity. “What?” He sat on the edge of his bed, trying to see his own room through the dark.
“Don’t…” there was an extended silence from Stanford. “I’m sorry.”
Stanley got up and stepped up on the ladder looking at his sleeping brother, it was an obvious nightmare from how he looked like he had been crying. “Don’t what?” Stanley whispered, a sense of worry washed over him a bit. He was always the tough cookie (Ma’s words), but at nights like this he was a sensitive one. He loved his brother, and hated seeing him like this. Night’s should be peaceful.
“Tell me.” There was another pause. “You won’t.”
“Won’t what?” Stanley started to wonder if he could actually hear him or not, stepping up and sitting on the edge of the top part of the bunk bed a bit, trying not to look down all that much. (He had a fear of heights, after all.)
“Don’t tell Pa I hurt myself…”
Stanley stiffened up a bit, and blinked. “You what?” He didn't want to think it was true and looked at Stanford's arms and the exposed skin he had (which wasn’t much, really.) to see if there were any marks or signs of a hurt person. There wasn’t a response, if anything a few tears fell down Stanfords face. “Stanford?” Stanley said his name, a bit louder, a tone of fear escaped him.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t…apologize for that…” pausing in his speech Stanley started thinking about Stanford and how he’s been lately, he seemed fine . Sure, he has been distant lately, but…it wasn’t anything serious , was it? Stanley scoffed, it was just a nightmare …that’s all these ever are. “I really need to stop worrying about you so much…” Stanley stated before he stepped down off the top bunk.
“Love you too.” Stanford whispered it, and if anything Stanley was scared that Stanford had woken up to be a smart ass, but the light snore that followed destroyed that idea.
“Wha-Whatever…” Stanley let out an aggravated scoff, stepping down the ladder, and as he got back in the bed he couldn't fall back asleep. He was thinking about his brother hurting himself, if it was real…where was it? If it wasn’t real, why would he be having nightmares about it. Was he thinking about it instead of doing it ? Stanley sighed rolling over, the night feeling longer than usual.
“I won't tell Pa…” Stanley muttered it mainly to himself, and he never did tell Pa what happened that night. He kept it to himself since then.
“Fuck sake…” Stanford was putting antibiotics and ointment on his cuts, the gauze bled through almost to his pants. “I’m such a fucking moron.” he bitched at himself as he finally got the tedious part done. Now was the worst part (drum roll) hiding it ! He knew it was on his thigh, he knew he wore pants 24/7 it wont be that weird to wear pants constantly, but the pain was something else and considering his past he didn’t wanna be on that track with pain killers again.
With a few more curses and rolled eyes he finally got himself patched up enough to get around at least somewhat normally. He had a limp, but considering how neurodivergent this family is they probably wouldn't notice right away (He meant it lightheartedly).
“Alright Poindexter, it's been almost an hour, c’mon!” Stanley opened the door to the lab and jogged down the stairs to see Stanford writing a few things down on a sticky note.
“I’m ready, just need to write stuff down…” he states as he rips off the sticky note from the pile and sticks it inside his inside jacket pocket. Looking up he smiles at his brother a bit too genuinely for his own sake. He was genuine, sentimental, and affectionate after he cut; he considered it an apology of sorts.
“You look eager…” Stanly gives a hearty chuckle and smirks, waiting by the stairs cross-armed.
“Ah, do I?” Stanford grimaces lightly and rubs the back of his neck a bit, traveling around his red sweater neck to loosen it a bit. “I mean, I have been wanting to go to this diner. I don’t go out often…” chuckling he walks towards the stairs, hoping that eventually he could just go to bed.
There was no project Stanford was working on, he had no energy. Stanford’s energy since he came back was into staying alive. The guilt of what he thinks he’s done vs. what he’s actually done eats him up inside daily. It doesn’t help that his brother just went about his life like it didn’t happen, that it was borderline normal for this sorta stuff to happen.
“You okay?” The genuinity of Stanley's question shook Stanford out of his train of thought.
“Uh, what? Yeah, yeah!” Grinning he realized that they were almost to the diner — wait a second — did they walk ? He doesn’t remember , when did they leave?
“You sure, you look pale…” Stanley puts his hand on Stanford's lower back, trailing up to his upper back shoulder area. “Like, really pale.”
Stanford started to panic, but then took a sense of realization that he was probably still bleeding, or maybe it was just how cold it was. Was he bleeding out ? Stanford got lost in his trail of thought and wavered his stance. “Uhm, yeah…” was all he really said before Stanly huffed.
“Listen, Stanford. You’re acting so strange…” Stanley sighed and grunted picking up his brother bridal style.
“Wah!” Stanford blushed a bit, letting out an awkward laugh “Stan-Stanley let me down, haha! I can-I can walk!”
Stanley let out a chuckle as he did, realizing that to others it’d be weird, but he didn’t care. He knew Stanford couldn't walk, he saw how he was limping in the lab .
“You know…” Stanley started a bit, a sense of hesitation in his breath. “I’m not…stupid.” he bit his lip trying to find the right words.
“What?” Stanford sighed, the lightheadedness catching up to him.
“I’ve been piecing some things together lately, and we need to talk.”
“About wh-”
“You know what , Stanford.”
Stanford didn’t reply, if anything his voice was caught in his throat. Fuck .
“You’re not…” Stanley paused again, opening the Mystery Shack door and setting Stanford down inside on the chair in the living room. “In trouble…” he squinted at how he phrased it, but mentally gave himself a high-six at how Stanford lowered his shoulders and seemed less tense after saying it.
“Alright, now. Forgive me for being…how do you put it? Fucking annoying … Intrusive? Doesn’t matter…” Stanley picked up a chair from the table in the living room and turned it around and sat down in front of Stanford that was on the couch. “What’s going on, Poindexter?”
Stanford closed his eyes and breathed in and out, reopening them hoping he’d just be awake in his lab.
“I’m not letting you go until you tell me something .” ah, there it was… Pa.
“Yeah, yeah…” Stanford replied, sitting up on the couch a bit. “Uhm…so…” he started with baited breath. He was scared.
“You remember when Pa caught me in the bathroom “doing something stupid”” Stanford used air quotes along with a twang of sloppy impersonation of Pa to get his point across.
“Yeah, get to it…”
“Ah-” Stanford grimaced a bit, and sighed.
“I was-” he stammered about the subject trying to find the right words. “Your worries were right.” Stanford looked towards Stanley, biting his lip.
“...You’re joking.”
“...No…I wish I was…”
Stanley scoffed and took off his glasses rubbing his face in exhaustion. “Why didn’t you come to me, Ford?”
There was a long drag of silence, Stanford’s voice was stuck in his throat and Stanley didn’t know what to say.
“You told me before, ya know.”
“What?”
“You’re a sleep talker…”
Stanford’s face dropped a bit, and he remembered the dream where he confessed to Stanley that he was cutting. He pleaded with him to not tell Pa.
“I didn’t want to believe it, but…” Stanley continued looking at Stanford up and down. “Where did you do it this time ?”
Stanford had a light pink blush over his face, he didn’t wanna do this…Why couldn't Stanley just leave him alone.
“My thigh…”
“Is that why you were limping?”
“Yes”
“Did you doctor it?”
“I did”
“Does it need stitches?”
Another pause, Stanford shrugs.
“Poindexter…” Stanley gets up and heads into the bathroom, coming out with a first aid kit a few minutes later. “Lemme see it…” Stanley squats down, setting down the first aid kit next to Stanford. “Please, Ford…”
Stanford lets out a tense sigh and hesitantly takes off his pants to reveal his upper thigh, both thighs were relatively scared up, his past addiction being very evident on his thighs. The left thigh however was a mess .
“Jesus, Stanford…” Stanley gaped a bit, then blinked, getting the first aid kit taking out some more gauze and some wipes and miscellaneous things Stanford didn’t get a good look of.
Stanford broke the seemingly unending silence “I’m sorry.” muttering it through a few tears that finally broke free from that wallow of burning misery.
“Don’t be…” Stanley let out a sigh as he got done with Stanford’s thigh and patted it. “There…”
“I’m pathetic, Stanley.”
“You aren’t”
“I-”
“Don’t.” Stanley demanded, sitting next to Stanford as Stanford put on his pants again with a hiss. The silence was long, if anything it was…worrying.
“I’m fixing your food…” Stanley stated. “What do you want?”
“...Anythi-”
“Give me something .”
He was a force to be reckoned with, wasn’t he? “...Pizza…” Stanford looked towards Stanley, and a very shy grin plastered on his face, wiping his tears a bit. Pizza was a guilty pleasure food Stanford loved, but barely had. He felt like he deserved it (‘cause he does).
“Pizza, yeah..” Stanley paused… “I can do that!” Stanley huffed off the couch and headed towards the kitchen then looked in the fridge and after what felt like a few minutes of silence. “How do you cook a pizza?”
“Ah!” Stanford got up off the couch and hurried a bit into the kitchen “I’m not letting you cook a pizza ! The last time you did you almost burnt the damn Shack down!”
Stanley let out a hearty laugh then huffed a bit. “It wasn’t that bad! ”
“ Really, now?” Stanford stated with cocked eyebrows and a slight smile, then the twins both burst out in laughter.
As Stanley brought up his phone to order the twins leaned on the counter and made their perfect pizza they could share. As this was going on they realized that even through the worst and most awkward they usually always come together in the end.
“You’ll come to me next time, alright?” Stanley shut off his phone as he got done with the order, the tone shifting a bit.
“I’ll try…” Stanford bit his lip and grinned once again as Stanley side-hugged him.
“You better try hard, too…” he teased as the twins laughed again, both going towards the living room once again to watch whatever was on TV at the moment, waiting for pizza.
“You’ll get through this, Stanford.”
“Will I?”
“Yeah, you will. You’re strong, Ford.” Stanley looked at his brother with a strong sense of pride, he then ruffled his hair. “Don’t let it get to your head though.”
“He-Hey! Haha!” Stanford swatted his hand away playfully. “No promises…”
Letting out a hearty laugh Stanley then swiftly turns his attention back to the TV, the twins soon break out in conversation about the show they were watching.
Things were okay, at least for right now.