#and watched either really crappy horror movies to laugh at or some of Stan's favorite dramas

[lunardevistation]

I never do this, but damnit do I want to for this so here goes

Stan holds onto the six fingered hand of his twin like a lifeline, as though it were the only thing keeping him from drowning in the storm that wracked his brain.

Six.

Six was good.

Six was safe.

Six was the port he desperately sought shelter from the storm in.

Six could help.

Stan could barely hear his brother's voice through the noise in his head. He couldn't make out the words, but he could hear the tone.

Ford was keeping calm, asking him questions.

Stan wished he could answer them , wished he could hear them, but he couldn't. He was fighting enough to hear his brother at all at this moment.

He felt another six fingered hand, the one he didn't currently have crushed in his grip, carefully place a feather-light touch on his shoulder.

Stan leaned forward, drawn closer to his twin by the hand that slowly and carefully wrapped itself around his shoulders until his head rested against Ford's shoulder.

He could hear his brother breathing.

Slowly, deeply, and with purpose.

Stan tried to match the breath, his brother's free hand reaching up to comb through his hair.

It helped.

The touch, the action helped.

It soothed his brain, he felt he could focus on what he was trying to do.

He was finally able to catch his breath, the storm finally started to subside.

Stan was safe.

Six was here, he could relax.

He could breathe.

Stanford never did like his hands but as he sits here in front of his panicking twin, who is experiencing a PTSD attack of sorts, he can't help but be thankful to them.

Stanley was refusing anyone touching him, kept acting like some wild animal and his shallow rapid breaths were worrying Stanford-

"Six..." he mutters as his eyes fall upon Ford's hand and just like that he reaches for his hand like a lifeline, holding it so tight Ford can feel his bone creaking together but he'd be damned if he let go.