#fidds only mentioned in passi g

[stwinsgstdrop]

You Ruined Yourself

Chapter 2.

The things he knows

Stan wasn’t angry. To say that would've been an understatement. Ford had seen Stan angry, but never to this degree, and specially not at him. Ford had hardly ever felt fear when he had his twin present; but at that moment, when he'd heen screaming obscenities and picking apart at every word Ford managed to say, he felt it. He shouldn’t be so shaken by it. He'd spent the whole week in fear, hearing his brother's anger shouldn’t have been his breaking point.

And yet, breaking he did indeed.

"I don't KNOW!" He's screamed back, shamefully, at his brother's question of what the hell he'd been thinking. At the bashing for meddling with ancient spells and beings of other dimensions. At his horror and anger and disgust. "I don't KNOW! I didn't know! I didn't, I swear!"

Stan had stared at him, undecipherable, but very clearly not sympathetic.

"I thought he was my friend- I swear, I didn’t mean-" Ford had fallen to his knees, trembling like a leaf, undoubtedly the strain of the past weeks catching up to him. He looked at Stan's eyes again, those judgemental, disappointed eyes, pleading. Stan had always been on his side, it was fitting he'd be his judge. The one to point the finger at his mistakes, his foolishness, his hubris. Like Icarus, Ford was falling for daring to meddle with gods. "He tricked me, Stanley. He told me he was a muse, and I- I never- It was supernatural! We've always wanted to see this sort of thing, that was my passion! He promised to help, and I- I couldn’t-"

Beyond that, Ford's memory was blurry at best. He'd cried harder, he thinks. Stan had held him, maybe. Telling him to stay calm, to stay awake. And he'd obeyed. He'd done his best. He remembered pleading with Stanley, and – as if he hadn’t embarassed himself enough – begged for him not to be mad at him, not to abandon him. Which went against the whole point of calling him there.

Ford cringed at the memory, and turned off the faucet. He needed to put on his clothes and go back to Stanley. Who was doing only God know what downstairs. He touched the fabric of the clothes and basked in the softness. It had been a while since he'd worn anything other than his coat and outing clothes. He hadn’t had the time to change.

Stan had scoured his cabin in hopes for clean clothes, only to come empty handed. He had complained and grumbled the whole time, but stopped when Ford apologized. Just told him to shut it and go get himself cleaned. These were Stanley's clothes. He'd brought clothes. He'd had expected to stay. Only now did Ford realize how things must've looked like from Stan's perspective.

He'd come hoping for reconciliation. Probably.

Ford didn’t know how he felt about that. Frankly, he didn’t know how he felt about anything. He felt empty, but strangely calm, like the shower had fogged up his feelings enough for his mind to clear up.

Stanley's clothes were soft against his skin. They were larger, too. His brother had always been larger than him. Probably because he ate like there was no tomorrow, but also because he had a lot of energy and was constantly moving. He'd focused a lot in getting bigger as a teenager too, to be strong and beat up whoever tried to mess with Ford.

It had always been like that. Even now, it seemed. Stanley had looked softly at him when he was crying. He refused to think about the moment further though, as he cringed at the slightest memory of how pathetic he must've looked.

When he finally got out of the bathroom, steam followed him to the living room. The house was warmer, and it smelled good. Stanley was cooking, surrounded with cans and packs Ford knew weren't his own. He'd also turned on the thermostat, somehow.

As he made his way to sit at the newly clean table of his kitchen with deliberate slow steps and fidgety hands, Ford felt like a child again. Like how he'd behave when he'd been a child and made a mess, trying his best not to be a nuisance to his father again. That or one of them would get the belt.

But Stanley wouldn’t hurt him physically, he thought. Would he? Maybe he would, if Ford pushed enough. They'd roughoused as kids, and sometimes fought too. That wouldn’t be a problem. But it also wasn’t the reason Ford was so shaken, and he knew it.

His twin turned off the stove, and served him some kind of stew that smelled amazing due to Ford's hunger, but that he could recognize wouldn’t have seemed nearly as good if he weren't so famined. He tried it and yep, the saltiness ended in a sweet-sour taste only canned food could provide. He remembered from his college days as a broke student.

Stanley sat down and deliberately threw Ford's journal on the table, staring directly at him. Ford flinched at the sound, and kept his eyes on the stew.

"Do ya have your marbles back?" He asked, letting his Jersey show so much Ford felt like no time had passed at all. He nodded. Stan hummed in response. "Good. Now tell me again what's goin' on with less snot and tears so I can actually understand."

Ford winced at the tone. Harsh, even for Stanley, but not unkind.

"I'm sorry about that. The lack of sleep has severely damaged my emotional faculties." Stanley raised an eyebrow and nodded for Ford to continue. "The demon I told you about... He tricked me, and... And I trusted him. Really trusted him. He told me our project would be finished quicker if we didn’t have to waste time during the night. I- He said he could take care of it."

"So you let him possess ya." Stan finished.

"Yes, basically." Ford said, and went back to his stew. He finished it in a few bites. "Whenever I sleep."

Stan didn’t look as mad as before. He stood up, served Ford more stew, and leaned on the counter, looking at his shoes. He had his thinking face. The one he often used whenever they were having tests and he couldn’t cheat his way out of it, or when they were playing riddles and codes.

"You don't know how long you've been awake, do ya?" He asked.

Ford thought for a few moments. He had been keeping score through cups of coffee, but then he fumbled it by drinking the whole kettle at one point when the exhaustion was almost winning over.

"...I stopped counting at day 3." He said and looked away, embarassed. He was feeling it. The pressure in his eyes, his slowing thoughts. Yes, he remembered. Staying dirty and in outing clothes had been a tactic to stay uncomfortable enough not to fall asleep in them, and hungry because being tired but hungry could keep him equally awake. But now he was wearing his brother's soft, soft clothes, and eating his second serving of stew, and it was catching up to him.

"Shit," mumbled Stan. "Is there anything else you can tell me about this... triangular dude?"

"His name is Bill."

"Oh, great. The entity's name is fucking William. Well, that's underwhelming." Ford almost laughed. Stan could still turn any situation into a funny one, that much hadn’t changed. Stan looked him with undecipherable eyes, and pulled out a small notebook from his pocket. It was blue, with a flower logo, but it looked professional.

Stan flickered through some pages and made a tsc sound with his mouth.

"Do you have chalk around here? Maybe a candle or somethin'?" He asked. Ford furrowed his brows, but got him what he asked. He had many candles, as Bill was prone to messing with the power in his house, and chalk for... well. He was still a scientist. He needed chalk to make equations in big boards. Stan didn’t ask any of it, and didn’t explain what he was going to do.

Ford obeyed when Stan told him to sit on the floor, because his twin seemed focused. He wondered what his brother was doing as Stan drew a circle around him, placing four candles opposite each other on the line of the circle. Something in his mind told him he should move. Lock himself in his lab and stay there forever. But that was probably the sleep talking.

"What... what're you doing?" He said, words slurring slightly due to the exhaustion. Stan didn’t stop whatever he was doing as he spoke.

"You said he gets ya when you sleep, right?" He asked, without waiting for an answer. "That's when he's got space. There ain't any space when you're awake in that big brain of yours."

"...What are you talking about?" Stan held his hand gently, and then swiftly made a cut on his index finger. Ford yelped. "What was that for?!"

"He can't ocupy that space if ya get a roomate. Means the empty's got somethin' to ward him off." Stan continued as if nothing weird was happening, as if he wasn’t writing symbols in blood on the floor. He cut his own hand and pressed against the symbol, letting the blood seep in. Ford felt the hairs of his neck rise in dread. What was Stan doing? "Luckily for us, I've got a few favors to call in. They're not too dangerous, and can't break a contract, so it's gonna be fine."

"Stan, what the hell are you doing? Why does this look like some kind of ritual?!" Ford asked, raising to his feet and immediatly swaying. Stan steadied him and smiled, relaxed, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

"Relax Sixer, 's nothin' I haven't done before. You'll survive. I'd advise you to shut your ears and hold your breath, the smell's weird if you're not used to it. Now, open your mouth." He didn’t wait for compliance before pushing some sort of seed into Ford's mouth, judging by the taste, and guiding Ford's hands to shut his ears. He took a few steps back, looked back at the notebook and nodded to himself. "Yeah, that'll do it."

Stan put a seed in his own mouth and bit on it, motioning for Ford to mimick him. Which he did, despite his raising fear. Was he hallucinating? Had he fallen asleep already and this was just a dream? Maybe Bill had already possessed him. It was the only explanation.

Only, Stan spit out the seed and suddently the power went out. The candles were wiped off, and the temperature dropped. Ford gasped and accidentally swallowed the seed, the bitter taste making him gag and cough.

He felt something rise from underneath, a huge, dark figure. Shapeless, but perfectly formed. He could feel it talking, but not understand its words – not with his hands on his ears. Stanley, in the middle of it, looked unfazed, even pleased with himself. He said something, and by the shape of his lips as he spoke, it seemed spanish. Why was Stanley speaking Spanish to an entity? A putrid stench filled the room, and he struggled to keep himself from heaving or gagging.

He felt the cut in his hand burn, and yelled, pulling his hands away from his ears to check. It was sealing itself back, but burning in the process. He screamed. In the back of his mind, he heard a name. He couldn't pronounce it, couldn’t comprehend it, but he could recognize it. It was his now, for however long it stayed.

" Gracias por dejarme quedarme, amigo. Mantendré las pesadillas alejadas. "

What the fuck?

And then it all went back. The lights came back on, the candles lit up again, and the sound silenced. Only the stench of dead plants and rust remained, slowly fading with the rest of that experience.

Ford looked at Stanley, who was examining him like he'd grown a seventh finger.

"What the hell did you just do?" He asked, half yelling, half rasping. He stepped out of the circle and fell, his body heavy and weak all of a sudden.

"Woah, there, Six. 'S alright, they're just feeding on your tiredness." Stan said.

"Who are 'They', Stanley? What did you DO?!"

"Just a temporary solution to our problem. You gotta sleep, I gotta do some stuff, they gotta rest somewhere. Everybody wins." He said, shrugging, and dragged Ford towards the couch. "I mean, you were dealing with a dream demon. A sleep eater is hardly the worst of your options."

"A Sleep- WhAT?" Ford was spiralling. How was this possible? Was he dreaming? This didn’t feel real. He could feel something in his mind. Something adjusting, moving, taking things, adding others "How did you know how to do that- why- why is it MOVING?" He screamed.

"Yeah, it does that. You're gonna be disoriented for a few hours." Stan replied, unbothered, batting Ford's hands away and tucking him into the couch. "Which won't be a problem, as you'll be sleeping."

"No, I- I can't-" Ford was about to say something, but started seeing doubles. Everything was heavy, even his tongue, his mouth, his eyelids. "W-wha's... goin' on..."

"Shh, just sleep, Sixer. Imma take care of things now." Stan soothed, soft, gentle. A contrast to his earlier outrage. "You can trust me."

"Trust... you..." Ford couldn’t keep hold of his counsciousness anymore.

Ahí lo tienes, listo. Descansa, te tengo cubierto.

And dark engulfed him.

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