For that prompt thingy, how about 14, or 8, with Stan and Ford? I just need some good ol' Stangst right now. (Also I really REALLY like your GF fics and character analyses! They are very well-thought of as well as well-written! Great job! 💙)
Hey, thanks! I felt like every idea I came up for these two on the prompts looked weird. I hope this is good and angsty for you, though! <3
8. “Yeah, go on. Walk away. It’s not like I haven’t been alone before. I’m used to it by now.”
“Yeah, go on. Walk away. It’s not like I haven’t been alonebefore. I’m used to it by now.”
Ford had been on his way out of the room to do just that.But something in Stan’s tone caught him. His brother was the kind to push andpunch and fight when he was mad. And that argument they’d just had could be onefor the books. Not as terrible as being pushed into a portal, but a lot gotthrown around in their argument. Old wounds brought up and scabs ripped off andpouring figurative blood once more.
But something about Stan’s tone wasn’t the anger-fueledvoice he’d been using during their argument. There was something tired behindit. Something Ford couldn’t quite place. He turned back and looked at hisbrother, catching him in a moment he was sure his brother didn’t mean for himto see. (His back had been turned after all, and when had Ford ever turned backfor Stan after shutting himself away?)
His brother had one hand up to his cheeks, wiping tears thathad fallen there soundlessly. Stan wasn’t looking at him, gaze fixed on thefloor, shoulders defeated. Just seconds ago his fists had been raised andraring for a fight. Now it was as if it had been drained out of him. Like aswitch had ben flipped. Thinking now, Ford realized how low Stan’s voice hadbeen. He probably hadn’t intended for his brother to hear those final words.
But Ford has had thirty years dimension hopping to sharpenhis survival instincts, and everything that goes with that. Including hishearing. Stan’s voice had carried across the basement as Ford was stompingaway, clear to his ears and had made him stop, turn, and witness his brother’svulnerability.
“Stanley?” Ford asked, hesitating on his way out of thebasement. He hadn’t seen his brother cry in years—since long before gettingkicked out, definitely. It was off-putting, especially on his old face. Itlooked wrong.
Stan’s head jerked at his name, looking up in surprise at seeingFord still there. His shoulders were shaking and Ford couldn’t tell if it wasthe embarrassment at being caught, the prior emotion displayed, or anger. Inany other case, Ford would have guessed anger, but Stan still hadn’t answeredhim and his brother’s eyes were darting around as if looking for escape.
“What? You wanna stay now? Don’t wanna see your pitifulbrother make you feel bad? Wanna fix meeven more, Ford?” Stan said, trying to bring back his stand-offish tone frombefore.
But Ford could hear the tremor in his tone. He could seethat Stan wasn’t quite making eye contact with him. His brother who neverbacked off from a fight couldn’t square off against him now, despite the harshwords they’d sparred with moments before.
The tears had shook Ford. It pierced through the cold angerhe’d been shrouded in before. He’d madehis brother cry, he thought to himself. Wefight, we don’t cry. We’re Pines men, we’re tougher than that. The wordsechoed in Ford’s mind, and he knew there was more Filbrick in them than his ownmind, pushing through his brain as he struggled to form a response.
(He knew those thoughts were a lie. He cried after Stan gotkicked out, two weeks later when he calmed down enough and didn’t know how toface school without his brother. He cried when Fiddleford quit the project,quit their friendship. He cried when he was pushed into the portal when he wasfirst able to catch his breath. He cried when he met Jheselbraum. “The Pinesmen don’t cry” had followed him for years and called him weak for breakingdown, had let himself believe he was weak for crying, but he couldn’t controlit, even when he desperately wanted to. Those thoughts were a lie. The Pinesmen did cry, he was looking at Stan right now.)
“What, Ford? Are you staying or leaving? I’ll be fine on my own, I’ve been there athousand times. Hell, I’ve been there a milliontimes. You-you don’t need to—“Stan’s breathing was breaking, uneven, and helooked so mad at himself for not being able to choke those thoughts outstraight. “You don’t gotta stand another second with me. Hell, you just said you can’t stand another secondwith me. What are you doing now? H-huh? W-what are you doing?” Stan’s voice gotworse as he yelled at Ford, who still had no answer. Stan turned away,shoulders hunched further in on himself, hiding himself away.
Ford felt stuck, rooted to his spot. He couldn’t go over andcomfort Stanley. He tried moving and found his muscles locked up. His brain wasrunning ten different ways, trying to process everything. Their fight, theirprior words, Stan’s final reactions, his most recent words, the tears he could still see in Stan’sprofile, that his brother was desperately trying to hide.
In the end, when he heard Stan sniffle loudly, unable tokeep a hold on his reactions, Ford took one step back, and then another,turning away from Stanley and practically running to the stairs leading awayfrom this situation.
Stan heard a quiet, almost certainly meant to be unheard, “I hate change,” as his brotherdisappeared, his boots making soft thuds against the ground as his brotherraced away from him. Once he heard the elevator doors close, he broke down inearnest, loud sobs echoing off the basement walls, echoing back to him in the achinglylonely space.
“Yeah, go on. Walk away. I-I’m used to it by, huhh, used to it b-by now. I g-guess Ihate change, hate change too.”
And Stan cried alone, just like he has for the last fortyyears of his life, wishing he wasn’t used to feeling weak like this. Wishing hewasn’t alone, just this once. Wishing change wasn’t so dam hard.