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Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered.
"Stanley?"
He stood there for a moment before sighing as he turned to his brother, who was eyeing him with that same old worried look. The one that came with bandages and held hands and hard-won smiles.
(The truth is, he'd never really felt all that brave.)
"Yeah, yeah. I hear you, Poindexter. Whaddaya want?"
Ford didn't even huff. He just laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed while his eyes lazered in. "I want to know what's wrong."
Go figure - you give a nerd a mystery and they never shut up.
He scoffed, shrugging off that hand even though he wanted it to stay. "Nothing's wrong, 'cept maybe your prescription." He started his way back to the boat, trying to ignore the way his brother followed at his heels, tense and silent.
The cozy little restaurant they'd had lunch at was kicked to the back of his mind, where hopefully it'd never resurface again. Hey, it'd worked for the past however many years.
Of course, Ford could never leave well enough alone - he called himself a scientist, but with the way he pushed and prodded Stan couldn't help but be reminded of a shrink. Eugh. This happened often enough that they both actually had to talk about it after the third argument they got into. Stan doesn't make promises lightly, or at least ones he really means, but when Ford looks at him like that - it makes him want to try too.
He doesn't know if he has the time to change; he's already had a lifetime of last chances. All he knows for sure is he's not too old to still dream.
(They go sailing there, too. They laugh and finish each other's sentences and wrestle on the ground like raccoons. They go home together. Ford on the top bunk, Stan on the bottom; Ma's voice on the phone, Pa pawning downstairs.
Sometimes the ache is worth keeping.)
He leans on the rail, sight caught somewhere between ocean and sky. His fingers twitch at some buried instinct he's already forgotton. "Quit looming," he grumbles, and then Ford's settling into place beside him, their arms brushing. Neither of them say anythimg for a while.
It's a good thing their ship can drive herself.
"Close your eyes," his brother suddenly says, and Stan snorts.
"What?" Ford's eyebrows arch 'til he looks a little like an offended owl.
Stan waves a hand through the air. "Nothing," he replies, but he's smiling; he can always count on Ford to be socially awkward.
"Just close your eyes, knucklehead!"
Eventually, he does, grinning as Ford mutters under his breath. Then there's something in his hand, and he's opening his eyes even before his brother can finish giving him the go ahead.
"Wha - ! Stanley - !" Ford squawks, but Stan's focus is on the seashell he's holding. Blue and round, with swirls of white and grey. His fingers trace out the grooves that've left paths through some dead animal's skeleton.
And he remembers. Warm, sea salt pictures of him and his brother flashing through him 'til he's not just holding one shell - he's holding them all. That's right, he used to get so excited combing the beach for treasure - and it didn't even matter when all they found were shells, 'cause Ford would ramble on all he knew about each one. Snails, mollusks, clams, all things Stan loved to draw the remains of. He'd sit there in the sand and draw with his fingers, Sixer writing about their finds beside him.
When he looks up, Ford is smiling, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. There's something impossibly fond in that expression, something Stan doesn't want to look at. "I found it while we were docking. Seeing it reminded me of how -"
"I used to go crazy over these things, huh?" Stan interrupts. Ford just sighs, but that smile of his never goes away, even as he rolls his eyes.
"Yes, Stanley. Now, as I was saying -" Then he stops, eyes wide. "You remembered?"
Stan chuckles, hand to his neck as he looks away. "Sure. We, ah… had a lot of time on our hands."
His brother leans against the rail now too, and from the corner of his eye has turned to face him. The discomfort of eye contact burns like alcohol on a wound, but all those scars haven't killed him yet. He lets himself look.
And there it is. That look - that goddamn face Ford gets half of the time, all stupid and proud and happy and - if he lets himself believe it's real, it could go away again.
Everyone who's ever loved him has always come with conditions. Rules to follow and lines to cross. And Stan - he's never once managed to figure out how to get good enough at the game to keep winning. Eventually he loses; and hey, that's life. At least he's learned how to take a punch.
"We have the rest of our lives, now. Together," Ford tells him, sincere as anything. And the thing is, his brother is very bad at lying.
And the thing is, Stan is very good at lying.
"Heh. Alright, you old sap, shut it before you embarrass us both." He lets his body drift towards Ford's, inching just a bit closer every time.
He misses the way they used to be inseperable.
Ford wraps an arm around his shoulder. Oh.
"I'm not embarrassed to be living my childhood dream with my brother," Ford declares, in tones of certainties and absolutes.
Stan ducks his head.
Sixer squeezes him in a hug that's all heart; his mouth can't decide whether it wants to smile or cry. So he just wavers there, like the waves.
"And I'll keep repeating it until you believe me," Ford promises.
Stan just turns his head into his brother's chest. "Shut up," he chokes out, heart-wrenched and fucked up. What else is new?
Ford doesn't let go until Stan does first, and if some festering sore inside him finally feels some relief at that, well, he sure as shit isn't gonna tell.
The rest of the day goes by fine. It's the usual routine of dorky nerd brother getting distracted by something new and other, much more badass brother deciding that they're already so off course that one little detour ain't going to change much.
(Truth be told, the only person alive who remembers the way a little boy wearing glasses used to decide what he and his brother were going to do everyday is probably him. He still feels himself smile whenever his brother announces a new anomaly to chase, and Stan always, always responds, "Aye, aye, Captain!")
Stan checks the sails and equipment. He takes inventory, cooks a meal or two, bothers his nerd of a brother into eating with him. He fishes, and thinks up new bad jokes. He practices them on Ford until his brother begs for mercy with an annoyed groan. And he maps out their route by hand even though there's no need to; something about the way the lines flow from hand to paper never fails to calm him down.
It's a routine for a life he's dreamed of for every year he's been alive. And it's all been worth it, just for this - just for Stan and Stan to be together again.
He's finally living again, feeling a little like a kid at age sixty something (who likes to think about their own impending demise? Birthdays are for suckers!). Giddy when he wakes up to the sound of the ocean in his ears - except for once, he's not holding a shell up and wishing. This is real.
That's when the past washes away, washes him clean. Stan watches the sun set from the crow's nest (hell on his back but the view's good enough to charge for) feeling brand new.
Like the tide, the feeling comes and goes. Sometimes he's high, other times he's low; that's how it'll be 'til he dies, he thinks. That's how it's always been.
(There's a little boy who wakes up crying and heaving from a nightmare. He tries to climb up the ladder to his brother, closes his eyes and chants, "Don't look down!" But can't help being too scared to move, either up or back down.
His brother wakes up and holds out a hand. "I've got you, Lee!"
And a pair of twins fall asleep in a pile of blankets and snores.)
That's the gamble of having one foot in the air and one on the ground.
Stan's spent a lot of time falling. Here and now, he listens to the water and the wind, and tries to believe he's safe.
That he has a home, one that wants him back now - a family that even loves him.
How lucky do you have to get before you see the smoke? Stan is made up of cheap tricks and broken mirrors, but just this once, he wants to be more than broken parts.
Please, he thinks, knuckles white on the wood, let this be real.
Since when has hoping ever done him any good?
(Since you got your brother back. Since a little girl looked at you with tears in her eyes and said, "I trust you." Since every day after you forgot, waking up to find you're not alone.)
Stan sighs, and then he goes down to find his brother.
They end up under the covers, all light and shadow and whispering secrets like they never grew up. For all that Ford never judges him for it, Stanley still feels ashamed of how childish he can be, and how comforting these old patterns are to fall into.
"Are you alright?" His brother asks, quiet but intent. Patient, when usually he's not. The squirming worm that tunnels through his heart for a living slows down.
Stan breathes. And Ford watches, fingers not once twitching. For once he's glad to have his eyes staring back.
"At the restaurant, I saw… a couple. Real classy lady and her man. They were obnoxiously in love and happy about it, hah…" he trails off.
Ford tilts his head. "Was one of them someone you used to know, perhaps? Did they… bring up any bad memories?" Left unsaid is the fact his brother will rain hell down on anyone who's ever done him wrong, et cetera, et cetera.
Stan grins for a moment before it falls away as he admits, "Nah. Nothing like that."
"Hmm. Oh."
Stan raises a brow. "What?"
Ford tries to look encouraging, but really just ends up looking kind of sad. "Of course you'd realize you want someone like that. Someone to give you that kind of relationship."
What?
"Uh, who, me?" He ends up asking dumbly, in shock.
Ford smiles, but it's a small, half wilted thing. "It's alright, Stanley, there's no need to spare my feelings on the matter. The fact is, if you want something like that, I'm in full support of you! Though… marriage takes longer than a year to achieve, surely?"
Nervous amd rambling, Ford falls into the statistics of marriages ending in divorce and the causes.
Stanley just comes out with it. "I was worried you were gonna realize you wanted that!"
They both stare at each other, dumb struck.
Ford breaks first. "Me? Really, Stanley?"
He puts an arm over his eyes and groans.
"How did you even - where is this coming from?" Ford sounds completely bewhildered.
In the quietest little mumble imaginable, Stan confesses, "One day you'll find someone cooler than me."
Shaking Stan by the shoulder until he emerges from his self induced prison, Ford looks him dead in the eye and demands, "Explain."
Eugh. "Fine," he grumbles, rolling over until his face is buried in the nerd's stomach.
Alright. Alright, just say it already, man.
"One day you'll meet some guy or gal who's interesting, and you'll want to know them. You'll be friends and then fall in love and I'll…"
"You'll what, Stanley?"
He shook his head, and said, voice thick, "I'll be best man at your wedding, and tell embarrassing stories for my speech, and get you the best housewarming gift you've ever seen -"
Ford dug his knuckles into Stan's skull. "Ow!"
"So you're saying one day I'll wake up and decide that you're not important anymore?"
Stan bites his lip. "…can't say it's never happened before."
For a moment, Ford's face was the textbook definition of grief.
"Sorry."
His brother untangled a knot from his long hair, saying, "No. You're right. I'm sorry, Stanley, that I left you behind. You're my brother, and I closed the curtains like you were - !"
Two hearts were still stumbling over puzzle pieces, years later.
Ford took his hand and squeezed. "The point I'm trying to make is that we're different people. Of course we're going to have different interests and hobbies, and yes, friends too. But that doesn't mean my family will ever not be the most important thing in my life. Please don't ever think you don't matter, or that… that I don't care! Because I do. Very much."
Stan sat up and hugged his brother, trying to hide the wet in his eyes. Ford made no such attempt, and simply let his tears trace tracks over his skin.
"You're not just my brother; you're my best friend. Even if I theoretically ever fell in love one day, that still wouldn't change. If my hypothtical partner doesn't want you in their life, then I don't want them in mine!"
Stanley chuckled, throat all choked up. Held tight here in his brother's arms, he wondered just when Sixer had become so… reliable. "Cool your jets, I hear you. And, uh. You know, it's the same for me."
They smiled at each other.
Still, he couldn't help but ask, "Has there ever…?"
Ford snorted, adjusting his glasses. "Oh, Moses no. The closest thing I ever came to a date was when a siren attempted to seduce me. She, ah… had no affect."
He must have interpreted Stan'a confusion right, cause he went on, "That is, for the longest time my romantic ideal was someone who lived with me but who only spoke to me every six months or so." Fiddling with Stan's fingers, he face palmed with his other hand, peeking out to finally finish with, "You know, the science of romance is much more interesting to me than any of its practical applications."
"In English, nerd?"
Ford sighed. "I don't think I'm ever going to fall in love, Stanley." But he smiled as he said it.
"Huh. Makes sense," he shrugged.
"But what about you? I know you've at least had past romances… You were quite enthusiastic about falling in love as a boy, if I remember correctly." There was a teasing glint in his eye.
Stan lunged, but his brother held him back with just one arm. Unfair.
Ford laughed. "Yes, you pretended those period romances were comics. Really, Stanley, you thought I never noticed?"
"Aw, shuddup! You don't got nothin' on me when you're the one who made a kissing ma - !"
They entered an all out brawl. There were no winners, but both panted when it ended, laying stretched out side by side. When they looked over at each other, they both burst out laughing.
And Stan thought about all those failed relationships, those marriages long dissolved and how every time he'd ended up with the question: what's wrong with me?
Never once had he ever had a successful romance. There'd been Brenda, who cheated on him. Stacey, who'd broken things off after sex. Tom had been 'experimenting'. And the less said about Marilynn amd Goldie, the better.
He'd always been so jealous of happy couples. What do they got that I don't? Why do they get to be happy when I'm not? How come no matter how hard I try, I'm not enough?
All this time, and all he'd wanted was someone to talk to.
Heh. Pathetic.
He blew out a breath and thought to himself, fuck that. "Ah, listen to you, Poindexter. I think you're right."
Ford hummed curiously.
He chuckled. "I was never happy, living for other people. I guess it's about time for me to start living for myself." He glanced over at Ford, who was smiling. He couldn't help but smile back.
"What do you think, is it too late?"
Ford beamed. "On the contrary, I think you're just in time. After all, we're still here."
"Heh, still alive and still kickin'," Stan raised his hand.
Ford did too. "High six?"
Stanley reached back. "High six!" He cheered, and for a moment he was that little boy laying on his belly in their room, coloring in the panels of a new comic.
His brother grinned back, and all the years unwound 'til it was that dorky little punk who'd proclaimed ownership of the entire boardwalk staring back.
Yeah, sometimes he wonders why he even tries, but then he'll remember his brother, the kids, Soos, Wendy, all those weird people in that weird little town.
If thirty, if forty years wasn't enough to get him to stop loving somebody, you'd better bet big that nothing else in the world ever will be. He's man enough to admit it, and fuck Pa.
"Love ya, bro," he grins, safe and warm here on their boat, in the middle of Nowhere, Pacific Ocean.
No secret codes needed this time.
Ford echoes it back. "I love you, too." Easy as anything.
He still buys lottery tickets, and worries over the money even though they got plenty in savings. He's a fat old man who aches and cracks in strange places. He's out of shape and out of breath and he's never been happier.
He believes it this time. You gotta win big at least once, (twice, three times, how's about a fourth) right?
As he falls asleep to the sound of his twin talking about their next adventure, Stan thinks he's been pretty lucky after all.