Rainy Nights
So smolaro made an AU in which Stanley actually did die in a car crash, on the night he was kicked out, and there’s sadness and Stanley learning how-to-ghost.
And while she is doing an official story for it, I asked permission to write this and received it.
Summary “When he tucked his head into Stanley’s pillow and blocked the rest of the world out, he could swear there was still the littlest bit of his brother’s smell clinging to the pillowcase. It made the effort of breathing just a little bit easier.”
Warnings: Suicidal thoughts, sad stuff with optimistic ending
His hands shook as he hugged the pillow closer to his chest.
The wind howled outside, heeding the rampant storm on the way.
Stanford couldn’t bring himself to focus on the weather, nor on the fuzzy static of the television just on the other side of the paper thin walls.
Somewhere in their apartment the dull thud of a glass bottle, probably recently drained of alcohol, dropped to the tile floor of the kitchen.
He could practically feel his mother on the other side of the door. Her hand hovering over the knob as she debated trying to get him out of their (his, it will always be his now, no more ‘their’) room for anything but going to the bathroom, and occasionally eating a handful of pretzels and a sip or two of water when his stomach hurt too much to ignore his hunger.
He was willing to barricade the door if necessary, but usually if he just didn’t acknowledge her she’d get frustrated and leave.
His father never even tried. Once Upon a Time Stanford may have tried not to hold that against him, but now he silently called Filbrick a few names that would get his ear yanked if he spoke them aloud.
He didn’t want his father’s pity and guilt, He didn’t want his mother’s worries.
He just wanted his brother.
He buried his head into the pillow and inhaled deeply.
He’d been sleeping in Stanley’s bunk lately, and not only because he couldn’t muster the energy to climb up the ladder to his bed. The weight of what he’d done threatened to crush him, and the terrible thought of ‘what could happen now’ even worse. How could he live his life knowing that in his final moments his brother thought he hated him? How could he live a life without his twin? He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to try.
Whenever Stanford had been too worked up over something, and Stanley’s humor wasn’t enough to get him to laugh, there had always been one thing he could do.
Stan had just...held him tightly and didn’t say a word until he’d calmed down. For all he jokingly complained about his brother stinking, when he had those rough days there was nothing more calming than his brother’s scent completely encompassing him. There were some perks about being the smaller twin.
So when he tucked his head into Stanley’s pillow and blocked the rest of the world out. And he could swear there was still the littlest bit of his brother’s smell clinging to the pillowcase, It made the effort of breathing just a little bit easier.
The rain pounded hard against the shoddy clay shingles of the roof. The light ratta-tatta reminding him of a old machine gun.
The water felt sharp and clean against his face as he leaned out of the window; Glasses removed and eyes closed. The chill of the air and the whip of the wind enough to make him almost numb beyond the cold needles of water pricking his skin.
He’d just done this because he wanted to know if he could still feel anything beyond the crushing guilt and the crippling lethargy that had encompassed him since that day in the morgue.
Now he was kind of angry with himself to discover that yes, he certainly could. A puddle grew beneath him as the rainwater dripped down his soaked cotton shirt and onto the ground. A few papers from before, old blueprints about that stupid science fair project that started all of this, grew soggy from the water, but he wasn’t about to close the window any time soon.
He’d probably get himself sick if he kept up with this and didn’t dry off, he might even catch hypothermia.
That’d be a thought.
He had never been one for musing aloud, he’d always used Stanley as a soundboard, it felt wrong to voice his thoughts without his brother’s sassy remarks.
But then again nothing had felt right since they’d gotten that call from the hospital.
“Your engine exploded in the crash Stan… Your death was sealed in the heat.” He folded his arms beneath him and rested his chin. The murky clouds above held no indication of stopping, the deluge would surely last all of today and most of the next day.
But maybe that was what he wanted.
“Maybe I should die in the cold.” Of course, he didn’t expect for that to work out just by leaning halfway through the windowsill. Maybe he could sneak out when their parents (his parents) finally went to bed, and just, spend the night and the entirety of tomorrow in the rain and cold.
It’d be just like falling asleep, and the best dream of them all would be waiting for him.
Can ghosts sail ships? They could probably just fly around the world if they couldn't.
The windowsill wobbled once before dropping on his head.
The curse that came out of him was ugly and tinged with nothing but surprise as he yanked his head away and the window fell shut with a clatter.
“How on Earth…” His first instinct had been to blame the wind, but he knew for a fact that gusts of wind, no matter how powerful, did not have a downward enough force to shut a window like that.
As though in response to his confusion, a dark, faded, black leather jacket fell from it’s place on the top bunk of the bed. Suspicions creeping into his gut, Stanford edged a bit closer, just enough so he could reach over and grab the jacket.
It was Stanley’s. He’d been playing with the idea lately of trying on his brother’s clothes, while they were much too broad to fit him, He was slowly losing the last vestiges of Stan’s scent in the pillow and blankets. He had been growing a bit desperate before this storm started giving him better ideas.
His heart leaped into his throat as he looked back to the window, fumbling with his glasses in hand to see clearly.
His dim reflection stared back at him, hair pushed back from a hand he didn’t remember running through it, rainwater still clinging to his body making his chest look somehow bigger against his shirt, his cheeks were puffed up a bit from the cold, making it easy to simply overlook his jaw being a bit too square, easy to ignore the cleft in his chin.
He almost looked like…
“Stanley?” He clutched the jacket tighter against him and resisted burying his face into the garment and pretend like he was far away. He had to be sure.
The window had started collecting mist from the moment it had been shut, and before Stanford knew it, small little drips coagulated together to form a blocky, if somewhat wobbly, ‘F’.
He watched in dazed amazement as this process continued for a bit, spelling out ‘O’, ‘R’, and ‘D’
His eyes were blurry again, but for a different reason. He almost hadn't noticed until now, but he’d only cried that first night. Sure, it had been practically nonstop for a good three days, but after that he hadn’t shed a single tear.
Until now.
“Stanley..!” A sob started to build in his throat as he tried to find the words. “I.... You have to know... I could never hate you. I-I Should have stopped Dad from kicking you out, I can’t believe I was being so petty! I can’t believe I let you think you ruined my dreams!... I am so sorry...” He choked on the last sentence. He couldn’t bring himself to keep his eyes on the misty windowsill any longer, it was the only hint that his brother was still there.
And he couldn’t look Stanley in the eye after what he did, after what he’d let happen.
“I don’t think I even want to go to college at all anymore.” He admitted quietly. “I just want to see you again. I want to be where you are.” His shoulders trembled as he finally gave in to the urge to press his brother’s jacket against his face, chasing down the last bits of his calming scent there were left in the world.
Maybe it was the fact that his skin was still so sensitive and there was some sort of leak in the window again; but he could have sworn he felt something brush up against his cheek. No more than a gentle puff of air from the highpoint of his cheekbone, to the top of his head. A type of warmth exploded in his stomach that he hadn’t felt before.
Well... he’d felt it once before.
The day they’d put Stanley in the ground.
As the preacher had started his sermon, talking about the firecracker that was his brother, his knees had gone weak and he’d fallen from his chair. His mother had rushed to help him back up, but he’d scurried out of her grasp, half dragging himself to his brothers coffin. He’d felt it then. When he’d leaned his forehead against the hardwood and started rambling in a hush. Just memories of a happier time, but he could have sworn back then that someone had put a hand on his shoulder. Even as there was no one around. It was the last time he’d felt warm since.
He’d chalked it up to his loss making him feel things, but there was no denying it this time.
His head darted up to the windowsill again and he felt the beginning of what could have been a smile pull at the corners of his mouth when he saw the wobbly heart that had been doodled on the glass.
“I… yeah... I love you too.” The shadow of what looked like a handprint pressed into the mist. Slowly, afraid to disturb the easel connecting them beyond life, he pressed his hand against the handprint. Extra pinky spreading just a little further than the mark had presented.
“High Six.”
When his mother finally gathered the courage to open the door and check on him, Stanford was curled up underneath the windowsill; sitting in a puddle of rainwater and Stanley’s jacket held tight to his chest. But, for the first time in weeks, he was peacefully sleeping.
He caught a nasty cold, but held the bowl of chicken soup his mother had made up to the window so the steam could collect on the glass. A weak smile was on his face and black jacket pulled warmly around his pajama’d shoulders as he eagerly waited for the steam to grow thick enough to write in.
The writing on the window spelled out ‘dumbest nerd ever’ and, for the first time in what felt like eons, Stanford found himself laughing.
