#ford is the only person they bully more than teeth

[jellyskink]

New York Isn't Weird Enough (PG2)

Teeth is the Thompson of the henchmaniacs

[popculturebuffet]

The Life and Times of Scrooge McDuck: The Buckaroo of the Badlands “It’s the Glory of Achievement that Counts”

Hello you beautiful people and WELCOME BACK. It’s been a LONG time since I returned to this series hasn’t it? But I couldn’t put it off any longer especailly with a LOT of projects to do in February, so i’m pleased as punch to bring this series back for another round. And since like last time a lot of the behind the scene’s for this one can be dolled out as we go, join me under the cut as we get into some cowboy adventures with Srooge.. and President Teddy Rosevelt.  Bully!

When we last left Scrooge almost a month ago, He’d decided, after bottoming out in riverboating, like many young men of his generation to Go West and seek his fortune and took up work on the Wabash Cannonball to do so.  So via letter we find out Scrooge eventually made enough money and has now afforded enough to take a train west, as a passenger. He’s also 15 at this point.. had to look that up because again, the comic dosen’t tell us the date.. and it’s you know been two months. He runs into a man selling square eggs who was SUPPOSED to be the professor from the Barks Story Lost in the Andes.. but he apparnelty died or something like that, and Barks was left to use another minor character in a way that didn’t make sense either it turned out and I don’t really feel like getting into. Point is the square eggs from that story make a cameo and Scrooge gets square egg all over his face after assuming the guy was just full of square chicken shit.  It’s then Scrooge runs into Jesse James, pre assasination by the coward robert ford, who shows up to the train to rob it.. but Scrooge tricks him when he and his crony take stock of Scrooge’s valuables, claming theirs jewels in the teeth of the golden dentures.. before slamming hard on them and giving the guy a bite and with their guns jammed and Scrooge prepared to beat them senseless, Jesse and goon wisely flee. Scrooge yells after them.. but the train speeds up to make distance between them and the bandits.. and accidenlty dumps Scrooge off, leaving him lost and alone in Montana. 

Thankfully it dosen’t take him long before he runs into people, specifically a cattle drive and wants to join them as a rootin tootin cowboy. Turns out the Cattle Baron and head of the drive, Murdo Mckenzie a real life cattle baron, is a fellow Scot and a nice enough guy to take Scrooge on, especially because Scrooge, due to his time on the cattle boat to get to america, has cattle experince. He just needs to ride a horse and he’s set.. but Scrooge never has.. and is put on their roughest horse the windowmaker

Thankfully in a really funny sequence, Scrooge’s money belt is clipped, so he stays on and while he looses his other clothes. So Murdo hires the naked 15 year old on a horse....

Thankfully this isn’t nearly as horrifying as it sounds as Murdo makes him put his clothes back on first, and let’s him keep the horse as he needs him for a special job. Also Scrooge calls himself Buck McDuck because it’s more of a cowboy name and not everyone can pull of cowboying without one on their first day. What i’m saying is the creed i live by every day.. not everyone can be Droopy. All you can do is try to be that cool.

The job is to guard his prized angus steer he imported for a fortune from Scotland, which it’s current handlers the McViper brothers object to, though Murdo shrugs them off. Naturally with a name like McViper they were planning on stealing it. Seriously who hires someone with the name McViper unless your planning to try and murder batman with a nest of vipers or a viper shaped tank or a buzzsaw shaped to look like your dad who never loved you enough. 

So we then get a time passing montage via a letter Scrooge wrote. Originally this was supposed to be the majority of the story.. but Rosa’s editor rightly pointed out that while showing Scrooge as inexpericed and still not quite to his full strength yet was fine.. Rosa overdid it with his gags and made him look like a moron. So the finished product wisely dialed it back to just the horse riding gag. Honeslty it was the right call as his excitment to be a cowboy and episodes with the horse show he’s still got a ways to go and is far from the duck we know now, while the earlier fight on the train shows he’s still plenty badass. he’s just not properly seasoned yet. It’s how he is for the first third of the story: an idealisic teen who is slowly learning the ways of the world and finding good reason to do what he does and learning his morals. It’s the middle part that breaks him into the man he is today and the last one is the early days of that man and the horrible mistakes that cost him quite a bit: his family, his love for adventuring and nearly his soul.   We get a few gags about crossing the planes and the reveal Donald renamed his horse after his sister hortense due to his horse’s bad temper. Hortense takes it as you’d expect.. by snapping off part of her mother’s chair with her bare beak in a rage and grumbling. 

Scrooge is finishing up another letter by the time we cut back to him, the drive having almost reach the ranch in Montana... only for the McViper’s to conk scrogoe on the head and take the steer towards the Dakota territory and the real life Dakota Badlands, because now as ever Rosa loved to set his stories in cool real life locations. After Murdo finds him and wakes him up, and fully buys his story since the McViper’s were acting suspcious.. which is kinda like saying water is wet or Rudy Guliani is a moron but regardless buck mcduck rides again and eventually makes his way to the badlands. Which are awesomely rendered and really do look like that. 

As you can see our hero finds someone in need.. and it’s Teddy Fucking Roosevelt!

As you can tell I love the guy. Really need to look into him more, but eveyr time I read his trope page or hear something about the man i’m in awe. He’s not without flaws, he was  man of the 1800′s and 1900′s, he supported eugenics.. but he was also the first “accidental” President (I.e. a vp who got the role) to formally win despite being given the roll soley to keep him out of the chair due to being a boisterous loveable maniac, invited Booker T. Washington, who I also need to look into, to the white house as the first African American to get invited to dinner there, founded so many parks they had to make the national park service, and supported women’s rights his whole political career. The man is larger than life and respecte din fiction and I intend to make a story with him as a cybernetic frankenstein one day because i’m kinda nuts too and relate to him. He also has a quote I find endlessly relevant after the last 4 years of misery. 

"This country has nothing to fear from the crooked man who fails. We put him in jail. It is the crooked man who succeeds who is a threat to this country." So yeah on top of everything else.. he’s smarter than pretty much the entirety of the modern republican party on top of that, not a HIGH bar to clear mind you but still. He cleared it. 

So naturally someone who was basically a real life Scrooge who, while not having earned his money, used it well and never stopped explorin, and also named his son Kermit for some reason, Rosa was not only a huge fan but couldn’t resisit putting him in the story as Scrooge’s mentor once he found out they were in the same area at the same time. He’s also the first one I feel changes him as a person.. his parents set down the foundation and Pothole was.. there I guess.. I mean he ran his first buiness thanks to him and had his first feelings that being rich isn’t an endgoal, But it’s Teddy who helps him realize one of his most important and lasting charactert traits: his love of adventure for the experince of it just as much as the prize. 

And we quickly get to that as Scrooge, after running into a dinosaur skeleton and then letting Teddy free, takes him along with him and finds out Teddy is rich, college graduate and former poltician too, and is out here simply because cattle ranching is way more exciting. Scrooge questions this as .. why do this? He’s rich, he dosen’t need to and Scrooge honestly wishes he was born rich instead. But Teddy shoots that down: He missed being born poor like Scrooge.. because being born wealthy is no acomplishment. You just get handed money to do whatever... but earning it with your own hands, the experinces that lead there.. that’s the real treasure and that’s why he’ll never stop. And he sees that in Scrooge, pointing out someone who didn’t LOVE adventure.. wouldn’t of leaped at a dinosaur skeleton without a second thought, all to save someone he just met. It’s what makes Scrooge likable: Sure he’s a greedy dick.. but he’s one who will never be satisfied, and who only stopped when he was close to death accoridng to Rosa, and even then i’m sure his and Goldie’s retirment wasn’t ENTIRELY peaceful or event free. HIs love of adventure and finding new discoveries and new worlds and ones lost to time... that’s infectious and what makes his stories, and the character work so well. And Rosa has him discover it beautifully, realizing that he never would’ve been satisfied even with cushy family money and that he truly does like this.. he still wants to be rich and understandably so, but he can have some fun along the way and afterwords. 

So truly changed by this Scrooge gets back to tracking and TR helps by... asking some local Native American Buffallo Hunters since he knows their expert trackers and while they haven’t seen the mcvipers they can SMELL them, and with a location , and his first apprication for other cultures, Scrooge and TR head up top to lasso em up... and while Scrooge grabs one.> TR grabs a bear and the insuing chaos, including Scrooge refusing to use up his bullets because “Do you know how much bullets cost”

So in short the mcvipers end up chased by the bear, the native americans end up chased by a buffalo with a skull on it’s head and Scrooge ends up on the Angus. Teddy sums it up best. 

It’s a great comedic set piece.. and leads to Murdo arriving and our heroes emerging, with the angus and tow and victorious. For his help and bravery, Scrooge is awarded the job as manager of the land, and while he plans to leave in a few years to find his fortune, it’s a good steady job he can help his family with and learn some skills so why not. TR leaves him with some last words of ecnouragment and says “There’s the makings of a great man” as he rides off into the susnset.. and his clothes once agian head the other way. 

Final Thoughts: Buckaroo of the Badlands is a solid chapter. After the overly long Master of the Missippi, this is a welcome return to form, with a hell of a guest star, an intresting setting and some fun slapstick. It also reminded me not EVERY chapter is super long, as most are only 13 pages but Rosa packs a LOT into them, and uses each one wisely. Overall an excellent return to the series and I hope to pick it up eveyr now and again between whatever I have scheduled for the day.. and to look into Teddy. Seriously what a man, what a man what a mighty good man. Next Time Scrooge meets another mentor, a future foe, and the lonliness of being rich Teddy warns him about here in “Raider of the Copper Hill” Until the next Rainbow, it’s been a pleasure. 

[selfindulgentpoorlywritten]

Smug (Mitch Marner Imagine)

Finally posting the first part of the Mitch imagine! It’ll be four parts, but I won’t make any promises on when the next part will be out, because that seems to curse me.

Rating: T

Pairing: Mitch Marner/Reader

Words: 1544

Warnings: None

Requested: yes/no

Summary: You meet Mitch Marner at a birthday party and, well, you’re not quite sure if he’s an asshole or not.

It’s your best friend’s birthday, is why you’re here. Well, at least insofar as you tell others. A good part of it is that you love skating with your whole heart, but you’re not quite willing to tell anyone else that you’ve loved ice skating since you were a kid (even though you’d fallen out of form over the years) and the chance to skate at the Ford Performance Center, where the Marlies and Leafs practiced, was a dream come true. It was easier to just say that you were there for Nathalie, not that you’re a hockey nerd and are excited for the opportunity to skate on the (not-so) same ice as professional teams.

No matter what your reasons are, you step onto the ice with a confidence that may have been a little unfounded with how out of practice you are. You’re still doing better than the rest of the party, finding your legs much quicker than anyone else. You’re not a pro by any means, but you’re much better than the majority of the group. You’re more than aware that Nathalie is a great skater, but both she and yourself are hanging back to help the others. You offer a hand (or two) to those who haven’t skated before, or who have far less experience than you.

You spend a good fifteen minutes, at least, helping the rest of the party find their balance, smiling and laughing along the way. Most of the group are doing slow laps of the rink, chatting and generally having a good time. You, on the other hand, are speeding around the oval, delighted to finally be back on your blades. The wind created by your speed whips your hair around, the pumping of your arms and legs making you acutely aware of the flow of blood through your body. Your heart is soaring, delighted to be back where you belong, where you feel most at home.

Later, you’re helping Nathalie’s niece figure out how to stop without running straight into the boards when it happens. It goes like this: Maria is skating toward you as you glide backward, instructing her on proper stopping technique. You stop a couple feet from the wall, and she tries to put your advice into practice as she nears you, but doesn’t quite succeed. Rather than falling, she continues in a straight line directly at you, and she looks scared, so you decide to stay in place and let her run into you rather than the unrelenting wall. Which is how you’re sent backward with all the force of an eleven-year-old skating full tilt into you. You’re only a foot or two from the wall, but you’re propelled back enough to hit it pretty solidly, except the wall says “oof” and you’re pretty sure they don’t have talking walls. Or walls with arms that wrap around you like yours did Maria. Meaning someone had gone behind you at the exact wrong time, and you hope it’s your friend Roger, because hitting anyone else like that would be embarrassing.

All of this happens in the span of a few seconds, so you don’t have much time to react when you look back to make a joke to Roger and instead find a complete stranger standing there saying “woah, careful there”. Except it’s not a complete stranger, is it? Maybe? Is someone’s stranger-status entirely dependent on whether you’ve ever actually met them in person before? Whatever the qualifications for being a stranger are, the person who just slammed into the boards definitely isn’t one of your friends, because it’s Mitch Marner. Like. The Mitch Marner. Whose smile falls from his face the second you make eye contact, replaced with a flash of something to quick to name, before coming back as more of a smirk than anything.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” you say, mortified. Of all the people in the world that you could literally run into. Jesus Christ. Maria wriggles out of your hold and skates away, throwing a quick “sorry, mister!” over her shoulder as she abandons you. Traitor.

“Can’t believe I’m getting boarded even on my off days now,” he says. He’s clearly joking, but you’re embarrassed and feel bad and what if you end up being “that chick who hit Mitch Marner”?

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, turning fully toward him, “I was trying to teach her how to stop and didn’t even realize you were there.” He looks over your shoulder and you follow his gaze to where Maria has just successfully stopped herself without the assistance of the wall.

“Looks like she’s got the hang of it to me,” he quips, laughing brightly when you whisper an awed “son of a bitch” under your breath. You turn back to him, ready to apologize again— third time’s the charm— but he just shakes his head when you open your mouth, so you close it. You’re not really sure what you’re supposed to do in this situation, so you go with your first instinct and shove your hand out toward him so firmly he startles.

“Hi, I’m Y/N, nice to meet you,” you say, because you’re a stupid idiot who doesn’t know how to act around cute guys. Fortunately, he just smiles and shakes your hand, all firm grip and rough calluses and gleaming white teeth. It’s kind of breathtaking, really.

“Hi Y/N, I’m Mitch,” he replies. His hair is slightly tousled, like he just woke up from a nap, and shines in the overhead lights. As much as you’d hoped it was just editing magic, his eyes are as clear, bright blue as in the photos and videos. His lips are pink where his smile has turned closed-mouthed and almost… smug? Only when you take in the full smug expression on his face do you realize you’re still holding his hand. How long have you been holding it? How long have you been just staring at him point blank, blatantly checking him out?

“Sorry,” you say yet again, tearing your hand away just as quickly as you’d offered it. The second you let go, your hands are suddenly freezing. You should have worn gloves.

“It’s okay,” he only looks-- well, he doesn’t look more smug so much as wolfish, “It happens more than you’d think.” Is that supposed to be comforting, or is he just full of himself? You want to say that you can’t imagine an entire city worshipping an asshole, but a Leafs player could murder someone and Toronto would probably still treat them like a god. But he just. Doesn’t seem that kind, y’know? Unfortunately (or fortunately?) you don’t have any previous experience with him to judge off of, so you’re just going to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he’s trying to be reassuring.

“Well I didn’t think it happened at all, so,” you say, not above chirping him a bit, “I’d hope this is more than I thought.” Was that mean? There’s a difference between banter and bullying, and you have trouble navigating it sometimes. He looks shocked for a moment, before laughing so hard he throws his head back and grabs at his sternum.

“You’re pretty funny, eh?”  he replies after he finishes laughing, “I like that in a girl.” What the fuck does that mean?

“Well, I like a man with a positive plus-minus,” you say, gently slapping his diaphragm with the back of your hand. He clutches that spot with both hands, looking overly-wounded, giving you big puppy-dog eyes.

“Ouch; harsh,” he says, playing it  up for a moment before he smiles again. God, that damn smile is going to be the death of you.

“I’ve got to go greet the birthday girl,” he says afterward, looking a bit… hesitant? It’s only then that you realize running into him made you the first person he met here, and you feel kind of bad, because Nathalie is a huge Leafs fan and loves Marner.

“Oh yeah, sorry,” you say, because you can’t stop fucking apologizing, “Nathalie is over there.” You point toward where she’s spinning on the ice with one of her sisters. What you’re expecting is for him to skate on over to her. What you’re not expecting is for him to take one of your hands in his own and looking so deeply into your eyes that you feel hypnotised.

“Come to a game some time,” he says, not quite an order. His big blue eyes are fixed on you and you’re helpless to do anything but nod. You don’t really know what he thinks will happen if you do come, and you’re not sure he knows you live in Toronto, which means you’ll absolutely be at a game at some point. But he asked, and well. You don’t really have any reason to refuse.

As he skates over to an ecstatic Nathalie, you can only watch him go. He doesn’t have all his pads on, so you can see the flex of his thighs and the curve of his ass, which you are absolutely refusing to acknowledge. He’s charming, sure, but you’re pretty sure he’s an asshole, and you don’t have time for that in your life. But if he asked...

[kingofthecon]

@flynnfletchr​ Stanford was doing that thing where he tried to pace a hole into the floor of their hotel room and it had become aggravating thirty minutes ago. "Ford." The slightly older twin didn't seem to hear his younger brother and continued pacing in the same spot - arms behind his back as he mumbled about whether or not he still had time to come up with a different project for the science fair. The answer? No. Not unless he could come up with something in less than twelve hours. "Ford. Please. I don't wanna knock you unconscious but so help me I will if it means we both get some sleep. It'll be fine." Stanford Pines looked towards his twin who was laying flat on his stomach at the edge of the bed with his arms beneath his head. The scowl he wore read as 'try me', and caused Stanford to slow to a stop. He looked bent out of shape, almost miserable and Stanley Pines didn't understand why. They went to several science fairs and Ford was always a shoe-in for first or second place. Maybe that was the reason why? The teenagers from Danville were competing in this particular contest of dorks and though Ford appreciated the friendly competition and the challenge that came with trying to one up the boys each year, it was clear that Ford didn't like it when he lost to them. He wasn't exactly a sore loser, but he wasn't a gracious loser either. He would put on a front, accept whatever place he'd taken, and then go back to the drawing board to hopefully come up with something even better to showcase his intelligence all while grumbling under his breath and talking like an actual super villain. Who uses the words RUE THE DAY in a legitimate conversation? "For one, you literally don't have time to come up with something else for this thing unless you decide to make a Mentos and Cola volcano using a Styrofoam cup cause that's what I have on me, and I don't think that'll even win a first grade science fair project. Secondly, you're a genius in a room full of geniuses. If you're that desperate then I can probably steal or sabotage someone's project for you which--don't look at me like that, I just wanted to make sure you weren't too far gone which brings me to bulletin three. Everyone knows that you have a high IQ. The highest IQs. The tallest mountain in the world of IQs. You don't really have to prove yourself so just relax." "Stanley, you don't understand. Phineas Flynn and Ferb Fletcher have an extensive history with their creations. I'm just a kid from Jersey who came out of nowhere." "Sixer, everyone loves the underdog. Besides, you three practically share the limelight at these things. You guys are top brass. Nothin' wrong with a little friendly competition to keep the blood flowin'." "Stanley, you're supposed to be on my side!" "I am on your side. One hundred percent. Otherwise I would have shoved you into the hallway so I could get some semblance of sleep. Instead I'm trying to talk you out of coming up with a list of junk you could make in the next like, eleven hours. You created a functioning robot girl complete with artificial intelligence and everything. You've skipped like, a hundred of these fairs to perfect Stannabelle." "She's an android and that is not her name." "The point is that you'll probably have even Tony friggin' Stark or Bruce Wayne lookin' your way. I mean, that's part of the reason why you chose this particular science fair, right? Who knows. Maybe once you're outta West Coast Tech you'll get picked up by Stark Industries or Wayne Enterprises? Oh, what about Star Labs?" "That's why this has to be perfect!" With a whine, Stanley rolled over and allowed himself to fall out of the bed. He wasn't on the floor long; rising to his feet he made his way towards the closet where the robot girl was sitting in her charging station. If anyone looked at the bot they would believe it to be a human with Stan and Ford as her big brothers. Stanley crossed his arms and presented to Ford his own creation. "Earth to nerd. The kid's perfect." "She sounds like I installed a Speak & Spell as her voice modulator." "Okay, so you missed something when you programmed her. Just, I dunno, take apart the TV if ya gotta do somethin'. Just...you need to relax. It'll be fine." He pat the android on top of her head and closed the closet door before flopping back down on the bed. "Just...you know, do it quietly? Some of us wanna walk around the Expo and sneak into places they shouldn't." "You're going to get us kicked out." "Probably yeah, so make the most of it. I'm goin' ta bed. Try not to stay up too late. Night, nerd." "Night, pain in my side brother who occasionally makes sense when it's convenient for him." "Too long. Try again." With that Stanley pulled back the covers and spread out for sleep leaving Ford to figure out what to do. He'd brought extra parts and equipment in case something went wrong so...like Stanley had suggested, he began to work on fixing the voice modulator with parts around their hotel room. ____________________________

Morning arrived way too fast and was thus slept through meaning that Stanley woke around noon. His awakening was accompanied by a terrified scream as a face way too close to his for comfort came into focus as he opened his eyes. He rolled off the bed in his attempt to get away and orient himself with his surroundings. His fall came with a one man laugh track which caused Stanley to zero in on the culprit. "Are you alright, Uncle Stan?" a little girl with the too expressive for what should have been a robot's face asked him. Stanley, a little unnerved with the realistically human sounding voice looked passed her and towards his twin who was far too proud of himself. "Peachy," he answered as his twin tried to hide his laughter behind a six fingered hand. Stanley pulled himself up so that he was kneeling against the side of the bed. More awake and aware now he realized what this meant. He turned to Ford and he grinned at him while patting his "niece" on top of her head. "This is great! So ya managed to fix the voice issue. Good job, and nice to finally meet you, kiddo." "My designation is not "Kiddo". I am Alpha 001 - SP." Stanford had such a proud look on his face while Stanley just slow blinked at the two of them before he began moving around the room to change into his clothes for the day. "Okay, but I'm calling you Allie for short. "But my designation--" "--Is a mouthful. No one is gonna call ya that except for the uppity geeks who want to sound professional and use big words all the time. 'sides, when someone has a long name like that people usually give'em nicknames. For example, Stanford over there tends to go by Ford while I, Stanley, go by Stan or Lee." The little android was silent for a moment, most likely computing the information she'd received or something before she finally nodded her head in understanding. "Very well. I will accept this as a secondary form of address. "Excellent! You've really outdone yourself, Sixer. Allie's perfect! Though I hope you slept. Anyway, I'mma go walk around the place and get breakfast." A look to the clock had him groaning. "Or brunch, apparently. You two should get ready for later this afternoon. I'll meet you at your booth or whatever." Once completely dressed with his hair and teeth brushed, the younger twin made his way from the hotel room and sighed as he headed towards his destination. Though he was happy to be here to support his brother, he didn't really feel as though he belonged. There'd been a few times in the past where he'd gotten mistaken for his brother, but once they realized the mix-up and asked him questions pertaining to his brother's project Stanley had only succeeded in making a fool of himself. He wasn't smart. He was barely above average and in a turn of crazy events he ended up being made fun of. It reminded him of the bullies back home in Glass Shard Beach, specifically Crampelter and his cronies, but back then it was never this...bad? This humiliating? Though it didn't happen often, it did happen enough that he hated coming to these things. He'd never tell his brother though. Stanford had been teased all his life for his Polydactyly and for being the smartest person in any room. Stanley could bite the bullet of being the odd one out for a change, especially when it only happened once every year or every other year. Stanley hummed to himself as he entered the elevator which went from hotel to convention center. He rocked back and forth on the heels of his feet the balls of his toes as he mentally counted the floors as they lit up. Once the doors opened and he stepped out he found himself tripping over something. He blinked as he stumbled out of the elevator. A part of him wondered if he'd tripped over some nerds project garnering the reaction of, 'oh shit!' and 'at least that'll knock out one of Ford's competitors. When he actually looked at what he'd tripped over, however... "What the heck are you s'posed to be?" He crouched in front of the teal duck bill beaver tailed...thing, and poked at it to make sure that he hadn't hurt it. "You lost and tryin' to catch the elevator, little guy? Or are you a girl? whatevenareyou?" He moved to pick up the creature just to make sure with no regards for safety (the creature could absolutely bite him after all), but his love of animals outweighed his need to be careful.

[aceofstars16]

The People Who Had Your Back When the World Didn't Understand

After seeing some precious Stan protecting Ford art, I was really inspired to write some of my fave identical twins (though I’ve been inspired to write something like this for a few days now cause I love these bois hnng)

This is just a small fic about Stan and Ford having each other’s backs, specifically when it comes to bullies and fights - and also cleaning each other up afterwards. There are some feels...but...also some bro fluff...

A small physical abuse warning, just in case. I don’t go into it a lot but it’s there, as is some blood mention. 

Title is from “Back Home” aka one of the songs that ALWAYS reminds me of the Stan twins...<3

Fights. Ford had been in his fair share of them, though in reality they were just beatings; he couldn’t do much on the fighting end. Stan on the other hand, was much better at fighting back, even though he never stood a chance, especially against Crampelter.

Carefully wiping away the blood from his brother’s nose, Ford tried not to pay attention to the stinging in his cheek. Stan had already patched him up – despite having the worse injuries – but Ford knew he would have bruises for days. But that was nothing compared to Stan, who was one punch away from a broken nose.

“There.” Ford said, as he placed a band aid on the last cut.

Leaning back to survey his work, guilt crept into his heart. Stan always got beat up protecting him, it wasn’t fair, Stan didn’t deserve that, especially not when…Closing his eyes, Ford tried to push away the thought that was creeping into his mind. He didn’t want to believe it, and he couldn’t bear to dwell on it.

“Ah come on Poindexter, don’ look so down. I got in a few good punches this time!” Stan grinned at Ford, a gap showing in his teeth from where a baby tooth had been punched out a few days ago.

A small smile played on Ford’s mouth, but then it fell. “You know…Stan…you don’t have to keep jumping in like that.”

“Whacha talking about? Those jerks were beating you up! I’m not just going to stand by and do nothing!” There was indignation in Stan’s tone, and he looked genuinely angry, though Ford knew he was angry at the bullies, not him. Stan was just as protective of Ford as Ford was of him.

A warm glow grew in Ford’s chest, but he still hated seeing his brother getting hurt when it was him they wanted, not Stan.

Unable to look at his brother’s injuries anymore, Ford looked his hands, the source of all of his problems…or a lot of them. “Yeah…I know but…maybe they’ll stop if you stop?”

There was silence for a moment and then Ford glanced up to see Stan staring at him as if he was insane. “I thought you were sup’osed to be the smart twin. If I don’t do anything they’ll hurt ya even more!”

Ford couldn’t hold back a sigh. “But then you wouldn’t get so beat up. You haven’t done anything wrong, you shouldn’t get beat up because of my…” Looking at his hand, Ford closed his eyes, wishing not for the first time that he was normal.

A punch in the shoulder shook Ford out of his thoughts.

“You haven’t done anything wrong either, knucklehead! Those jerks are just jealous of your brains and extra fingers, and I ain’t going to stand by and let ‘em beat you without fighting back. We’re brothers, and we stick by each other no matter what, right?”

A mixture of guilt and affection warred through Ford’s brain as Stan spoke, but when he glanced at his brother, he saw determination glimmering in his his eyes and he found a small smile growing on his face.

“Right.”

Highschool. Ford had once been excited for it, and in some ways, it was still quite thrilling, at least when it can to the learning, but on the other hand the bullies seemed to be worse than before. At least there was an upside – Stan seemed to be getting better at fighting, though a true upside would be no need to fight in the first place. There were still many nights when Ford had to patch up his brother, but ever since that night many years ago, they never brought up the reason for the injuries. Ford couldn’t change his hand and Stan had made it clear he would never change his promise to protect Ford.

That is until he got suspended.

Ford had tried warning Stan that pranking the rival South Bend Highschool was a bad idea, but Stan had insisted it would be fine and of course it hadn’t. He had been caught and suspended for three days. Ford had a feeling the constant fights Stan got into didn’t help the length of the suspension either. And for the first time, Ford went to school without his twin.

Everything seemed fine at first. After all, the bullies couldn’t pick on him every day, and maybe they didn’t even know Stan wasn’t around. The first day went by without any incident, as did the second. Ford should’ve known his luck wouldn’t hold out.

“Seems like your idiot brother isn’t here to look after you this time, FREAK!”

Stan wasn’t the only one that had grown, Crampelter – who was now a senior – had grown even more, and Ford knew he didn’t stand a chance, but he tried. And failed. As much as wrestling helped in a fight, it didn’t do much when three people were fighting you at once, especially when they were all bigger and stronger. And of course they waited until after school so they wouldn’t get in trouble.

By the time they left him alone, Ford could barely feel anything, as if his body was numb to the pain…while throbbing uncontrollably at the same time. Tears continued to roll down his face as he stumbled home, trying to hide his face from anyone he stumbled past. He didn’t know what he would say to Ma or Pa, and he prayed he didn’t run into either before he got a chance to get cleaned up.

Sneaking in the back alley of the shop, Ford carefully opened the door before bolting up the stairs as fast as his bruised limbs could carry him, quickly rushing to the bathroom and slamming the door behind him before he could be stopped by anyone.

But he wasn’t the only person in the bathroom.

Ice froze in Ford’s veins as he saw the sight before him.

Stan was bruised just as much as he was. Blood was dripping from his nose, and his right eye was completely swollen shut. But despite his state, he was making no move to clean himself up. He was sitting on floor of the bathroom, his eyes wide as his eyes met Ford’s.

For a second, they just stared at each other, then a spark of anger flickered in Stan’s eyes and he jumped to his feet, staggering a little, but looking as if he was ready to fight anything.

“I’m going to kill them.”

“Stan…what…happened?”

“Who did this? Crampelter? Of course his was him, I’m going to…I swear.” Stan clenched his fists and took a step forward but his body seemed to remember how much pain it was in and he stumbled.

Ford quickly reached forward, trying to steady his twin, though his own legs wobbled at the effort, and after a moment he let himself slide to the ground, Stan following suit without a word between them.

“Stanley…what-?”

Stan looked at the ground, picking at the mat under them. “It’s nothing,” he muttered.

It wasn’t nothing, Ford knew it. And deep down he knew exactly what had happened. He had heard enough yelling and seen enough harsh glances to know his father didn’t hold Stan in a high regard. But he had never thought…well, maybe he had, but he hoped it would never come to this.

“He’s wrong you know.”

No movement from Stan.

“You aren’t worthless. You’re smart, in your own way. And you’re braver than anyone else I know. You stand up to anyone no matter the odds.” A fire started burning in Ford’s chest as he spoke, anger at his Pa, and anyone who thought Stan wasn’t worth anything. Sure, he wasn’t the brightest kid but heck he was the most loyal.

“And you are the best brother anyone could ever ask for. You…you are always there for me, Stanley. And I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you with-“ the word stuck in his throat, his chest tightening when he realized Stan still wasn’t looking at him.

Reaching forward, Ford gently grabbed Stan’s hand, intertwining their fingers – something they had done as kids to comfort each other but had recently fallen out of the habit of doing.

For a moment, there was nothing, then Stan glanced up at Ford, tears glistening in his eyes.

That was it. No one should make Stan cry, especially not Pa.

As gently as he could, Ford pulled on Stan’s hand. At first, he resisted, but then he let himself fall onto Ford’s shoulder as he wrapped his arms around his brother.

“You’re my best friend, Stanley. I wouldn’t trade you for all of the friends in the world. Pa just…doesn’t know what he is saying. You’re a good person. The best person I know.”

Quiet sobs shook Stan’s body and Ford held his brother close, not even caring that blood was staining his clothes – it wasn’t like a little more blood was going to do much to his torn shirt. And as tears mixed with the blood, Ford buried his head in Stan’s shoulder as well. This world was cruel, oh so cruel. But at least they didn’t have to face it alone.

The multiverse. At first, Ford had been in awe, and some days he still was. There was so much to see, to learn. But there was also so much that could go wrong, and so many people that wanted to collect the bounty on him. Lucky for him, he had learned to be quite agile when it came to running away. Unfortunately, he didn’t always get away unscathed.

Ducking into an alley way, Ford tried to steady his breathing, but his ribs still ached from the punches and his head throbbed from hitting the concrete when the thugs had first found him.

Daring a glance at the roadway, Ford couldn’t spot any of his pursuers and he let himself slide to the ground next to what smelled like a dumpster, but it smelled about ten times worse than any earthen dumpster.

With a sigh, he closed his eyes, trying not to dwell on the pain all over his body and the trickle of blood falling down his face.

“Another fine mess,” Ford muttered to himself as he opened his eyes and stared at the wall. Reaching up, he rubbed his nose and as he looked down, he saw the blood.

It shouldn’t have reminded him of anything, he had seen plenty of his blood lately, but as he stared at it, Ford was transported to his childhood again, shrinking against a wall while Stanley fought off bullies, yelling insults as he did so.

A small knot of longing lodged itself into Ford’s chest, and try as he might, he couldn’t reason it away. Yes, Stan had hurt him, a lot. Heck, he was the reason he was in this stupid dimension. All because he hadn’t listened. But once upon a time they had been close. They had been there for each other and they had always helped clean each other up. And if Ford was honest with himself, he wished Stan was there with him right now. But he wasn’t. He was alone.

“Oh man, those jerks really put up a fight, didn’t they?” Stan’s words rang with laughter as he wiped away blood from his hands.

“They probably would’ve put up a worse one if they hadn’t been so intoxicated.”

“Why can’t you just say drunk like any other normal person?” A grin lit up Stan face despite the cuts dotting it.

A smile played at Ford’s mouth and he shrugged. “It’s more accurate, they were more than drunk. I wouldn’t be surprised if they aren’t able to move when they wake up.”

“Only ‘cause they messed with the wrong people, ey?” Stan elbowed Ford and he couldn’t hold back a small laugh.

“You really should’ve let it go. I’m used to the comments by now.” As he spoke, Ford wiggled his fingers, but Stan didn’t laugh.

“I seem to recall when we were younger that I told you I’d never stand by and let people tease you, and I’m still keeping that promise.”

‘Teasing and fighting are two different things,’ Ford thought to himself, but he didn’t voice that comment, it wasn’t worthy of being said aloud. Because if he knew Stan, it wouldn’t do anything. However, the his brother’s words did bring a smile to Ford’s face - for two reasons. First, because it meant his brother’s memory really had returned for good, and even better than some people their age. And second, because, despite all of the mistakes of the past, Stan still had Ford’s back.

“Alright. Now, let’s get cleaned up, can’t be all bloody for the kid’s video chat tonight.”

Stan shrugged. “It’s not like they haven’t seen me like this before. You should’ve seen those zombies last summer.” But even as he spoke, Stan started wiping at a cut right under Ford’s eye.

And as they helped clean each other up, Ford couldn’t help but reflect on how lucky he was to be where he was. Back in his dimension, back in his own mind, and despite everything, back with his twin, his best friend who always had his back, even when he didn’t realize it. Yes, he was lucky indeed.

[hermiones-amortentia]

I didn't elaborate on that 'shitty friend' part. Here. The details how shitty Ron is.

For Harry

1. He got a family. His mirror of erised. His deepest desire.

2. Someone who was willing to sacrifice himself so that Harry could go on and defeat voldemort.

3. Stood by Harry when whole wizarding world/Hogwarts were against him. Except once in GOF

4. Gave Harry mental support when Harry endured 11 years of abuse.

5. Rescued Harry from his abusive family.

6. Saved Harry's life in Halloween by using the levitation charm on the troll. Bcz as the text says 'What Harry did was very brave yet very stupid'

7. Harry received his 1st Christmas gift bcz of him.

8. Saved Harry's life at the forbidden forest. Bcz it was his idea to fly the Ford Anglia and it saved Harry.

9. Stood against a mass murderer and told him if you are gonna kill Harry you have to kill us too.

10. Invited Harry to quidditch world cup.

11. Let Harry practice stunning spell on him.

12. Accompanied him at the department of mysteries to rescue his god father.

13. Accompanied him to the horcrux hunt.

14. Saved Harry's life.

For Hermione

1. Saved her from the troll.

2. Faced his worst fear for her at the age of 12.

3. Stood up against snivellus' bullying when no one else did. Faced detention.

4. Tried to curse malferret for hurling slur.

5. Was the 1st one to notice she had shrunk her teeth. Harry, her other best friend didn't.

6. The only person who saw she was missing from the class in 3rd year.

7. Looked after her that she was eating properly or not throughout her o.w.ls preparation.

8. Invited her to his own house to make her feel welcome in the ww.

9. Wanted to teach her Weasley family tree so that she could pretend to be his cousin.

10. When the deatheaters attacked them in the cafe his 1st instinct was to push Hermione out of way.

11. Asked scabior to leave her alone..

12. Begged bellatrix to torture himself instead of Hermione knowing full well she had tortured Neville's parents to insanity.

13. Pull her up from the broken chandelier and rescued her.

14. Hexed a beggar who tried to hurt Hermione when she took polyjuice.

15. Was willing to face freaking voldmeort and asked Harry to look after Hermione.

Now show me a list pulling out of your ass what are the stuff Harry and Hermione do for him that they are such extraordinary friends while Ron is just a shitty friend. Go on. I need more than 29 points I provided here. Take your time and make a list. I will be waiting 😘

Ron Weasley: Constantly debates with Hermione throughout all 7 books about S.P.E.W, Hallows' existence, The Grim, how to deceive the ministry workers and several other things, highly knowledgeable about wizarding world, isn't afraid to voice his opinion when he thinks she is wrong and always presents a different point of view from hers.

Some people: Ron can't hold a conversation with Hermione. He is too dumb.

Draco Malfoy: his best retorts are Potty you suck, mudblood you so ugly, Weasley you so poor, Longbottom you so dumb and my father will hear about this.

The same Fans: ThIs iS tHe gUy wHo cAN sTiMulATe heRmiONe iNteLlEcTuaLly aNd cAn aRgUe wItH hEr. 🤡��

[mythomagically-delicious]

Filbrick stubbornly clinged onto life for all these years. He’s still kicking when Ford comes out of the portal. He hasn’t worked at the pawn shop in ages. But he does have the apartment upstairs still. He rents out the space below.

He’s the one fixture of that street in Glass Shard Beach. The stores and families on either side went out of business in the late 80s. The families moved out to suburban New Jersey, away from the ocean. But Filbrick never left.

His routine has only varied slightly, because even he must bow to time and how it changes things. He wakes up at 5:30 every morning, gets dressed and ready for the day. Sunglasses in place, fedora atop his head. The same scratchy suit he’s worn for most of his adult life. He eats breakfast of burnt toast (he never could work the dam thing right. His wife had a way in the kitchen, not him). He picks up the newspaper off the stoop and reads every single article, huffing and scoffing at how flowery and unrealistic the articles are.

He makes himself a simple lunch. He yells at the golf match on tv or the birds outside his window or the kids throwing balls around in the street below, damaging the brick walls.

In the evenings he takes a short walk down to the beach, right to the edge of the sand, and stares out at the ocean. The waves are dark and choppy as the sun sets behind him. He stares until he’s cold and then he walks home, in later years with a cane, back to his colder apartment.

He’s walked to the ocean every evening since his wife passed. He still hasn’t understood what is so dam enticing about the ocean. What adventure could possibly be left? Everything’s already been seen before. But his dear’s last requests included getting to know something about their sons. He cursed himself as being weak, later. For agreeing. For letting a tear slip down his face as he promised his wife he’d do as she asked, just this once.

That he let sentiment get the best of him and now look what he’s doing. Being an old man who’ll catch his death in the cold trying to please his long-gone wife. But he hasn’t spoken to either son in too long to call them, as Cassandra surely meant for him to do. But a man’s word is his everything. So he walked to the ocean every night and tried to understand what connection the boys had with it.

For years, all he’d been able to see was some bitter water and broken glass and dirty sand. He was never one for those artistic symbols or whatever hippy-dippy junk English teachers spouted on about. So any deeper meaning or metaphors to draw on about his life relationships was lost on Filbrick.

But one day, as he was walking to the beach, stopping right at the edge of the sand, he saw something strange.

Occasionally he’d run into others at the beach. Other neighborhood fixtures like him or families coming down for the day, playing in the sand, against the waves, picking up shells and making noise. He ignored them, kids usually. And they ignored him in return.

But this evening as he went down to the beach’s edge he saw two older gentleman jumping around in the sand. Not older than Filbrick, mind, but they had to be in their fifties or pushing sixties. Yet here were two full grown men, acting like absolute children. Kicking sand at each other, cupping ocean water into hands and bringing it back to make a sandcastle. Throwing shells and exclaiming loudly over their beauty or ugliness. Dragging seaweed into strange designs. Cursing when they stepped on some of the ground up glass still visible in the sand.

Behaving like absolute children, Filbrick was astonished. He didn’t watch the ocean that night, just those two. Something seemed strangely familiar about them, though he honestly didn’t pay enough attention to the neighborhood to recognize them by sight or voice.

He was backlit by the sun, and maybe that was why he could see their expressions so clearly. For Filbrick sneezed, nose getting irritated at the salty breeze, and both men turned automatically at the sound to bless him.

The men wore twin looks of being startled. Filbrick assumed they had to be brothers. He felt a chill go down his spine as he realized they were almost certainly twins. The men, now aware they were being watched, moved closer together and started walking towards Filbrick. He resolutely ignored them and stared over their head to the ocean. He wouldn’t be intimidated from his purpose by two strangers on <i>his</i> beach.

He heard their low voices as they approached but still didn’t look at them. They stopped just before him and stared.

“Filbrick Pines?” Asked the man on the left. That startled Filbrick out of his try at ignoring them, and looked at the two men before him.

It was almost like looking into a mirror, if he could see 20-some years in the past. The men had the same nose, jaw, and set look about them that Filbrick recognized. It was strange, but not uncommon enough to mean anything.

“Yes. Who are you?” He responded briskly.

The men shared a quick, sidelong glance and then turned back to him. The man on the right stood a little straighter, while the man on the left cleared his throat.

“Stanford Pines.”

“Stanley Pines.”

They spoke at the same time and Filbrick felt his mouth run dry. He felt his legs weaken but his voice was strong, if a bit quieter than normal, when he answered.

“Impossible. Stanley’s gone. And I haven’t spoken to Stanford in years. We’re not on terms. Who are you?”

The men exchanged another glance with expressions changing too fast for Filbrick to follow.

“Pa,” the man on the left started gently, only to be interrupted as the man on the right grabbed his friend’s arm and held it in front of Filbrick’s face.

“Looky here, old man. This is your second son, and I’m your third, back from the dead, live in living color.” He dropped the man’s arm and crossed his own over his chest.

“Stan,” lefty hissed looking cross before turning back to Filbrick cautiously. “But yes, that is accurate.

Filbrick looked back and forth between the two men, jaw going slack. He shook his head as if to clear it, but the men before him didn’t disappear. His brain felt like it was short-circuiting. He didn’t understand, he didn’t know what was happening. Through his overloaded haze, one question slipped out, almost without his permission.

”<i>Why?</i>“ he asked, trembling a bit harder now. He gripped the handle of his cane tighter and tried to focus.

The men tilted their heads at the exact same time, at the exact same questioning angle.

” ‘Why’ what, exactly? There are many things you could be referring to.“ Stanford answered, ever the smart-alec as he reached up to adjust his glasses.

Stanley stared at him impassively, expression hardening slightly the longer Filbrick spent floundering for words.

"Come on. What happened to 'Frankly is the only way I speak’? Huh? You’re bein’ worst than a tourist.”

“Boys,” Filbrick started, which earned a snort and an eyeroll from Stan but he pushed on, only one thought in mind. “Why did you like the ocean so much?”

That was obviously what neither had been expecting. It was their turns to drop their jaws, to watch eyes widen and then narrow. To see them give each other those twin looks Filbrick remembered from years and years ago.

“You finally see us after thirty years,”

“And more,” added Stanley.

“And all you want to know is why we came out to the beach as kids?!”

Ford’s tone was filled with incredulity, Stan’s with anger. Filbrick shook his head but when he went to open his mouth, all he could say was, “Cass told me to ask.”

Filbrick looked down and away, embarrassed he’d let slip something so personal. He felt shaken to his core, that his sons were here in front of him, <i>alive</i>, even, and he had no idea why or where they came from or how long they’d been here.

He didn’t see Stan’s expression soften at the mention of their mother. Ford put a hand on Stan’s shoulder and Stan nodded his thanks.

“Initially I enjoyed it because it got us away from you,” Ford started, feeling Stan tense up at the casual tone he took to insult their father to his face. Ford continued on, acting oblivious to Stan’s distress, not even being able to see Filbrick’s eyes widening behind his sunglasses. “But later it became an escape from many unbearable aspects of life. Bullies especially. But most of all I liked coming to the ocean because Stan did. We found so much to do and see here, every day was an adventure, even if we kicked the same rocks every day for a year, it always felt new and fun every day. It’s where we founded our life long dream of sailing away from this dumb place, and all the terrible things about it. Like you, or schools that hated us, or children that called us freaks and losers or worthless.”

Filbrick felt each word hit him like a stone. He felt like he wanted to get angry, but everything felt so far away. Emotions did not come easily to him, but now he felt overwhelmed with everything Ford said.

Stan looked up and responded as well. “I liked the beach because I felt free down here. The happiest memories I got left of this place was that little strip of sand. Pulling a derelict boat out of a cave and promising my best friend that one day life wouldn’t kick us in the teeth anymore.”

Filbrick looked down, and slowly pulled off his sunglasses. He folded them and put them in his suit pocket. He took a hesitant step forward and, for the first time in all the years he’d been coming to the beach, he actually stepped foot on the sand. Stan and Ford watched him, muscles tensed as if ready for a fight.

Filbrick didn’t intend on giving them one. But he smiled a small bit and looked between his sons. “I like it because it’s nice, down here. It’s cold and it’s crunchy but with the sun behind me, it’s not half bad.”

Stan and Ford looked at him like he was crazy. Hell, maybe he was. But he had finally been able to fulfill his promise to Cass. He shivered as the night air swept over him, and he started to turn back to walk home. Before he did he paused, and looked at his sons.

“Good luck, out there. On the ocean. You don’t deserve to be kicked in the teeth. You probably never did.” And he turned away.

He walked slowly back to his apartment. He made a small dinner and ate it. He got ready for bed and was asleep by 10 o'clock.

The next morning he woke up at 5:30 in the morning. He went about his routine in silence. And when evening came, he walked outside and to the beach, right to the edge of it. He toed off his shoes and socks, and walked onto the beach proper, feeling the sand squish between his toes and watching out for any shells or shards of glass. He walked right up to the water and let it wash over his feet, getting the bottom of his slacks wet.

He didn’t care. He let four tears fall, one for each son, and one for Cassandra. In the distance he saw a boat pushing out to sea. He had no proof, for many boats took this route, but something in him told him that was his sons.

“I finally get it, Cass. For you, I finally get it.”

Filbrick clinged to life for another three years before passing alone in his house over the newspaper he read every day. After that night he’d only returned to the beach on the anniversary of his wife’s death.

Filbrick Pines was a stubborn man. Too set in his ways of silence to try and find his sons again before he passed. But he finally felt like he understood something about them. And despite how hippy-dippy it felt, he thought he learned something about himself, too.

[illbefinealonereads]

Today, the Don’t Read the Comments blog tour is stopping by illbefinealone reads. Keep scrolling to learn more about the book, as well as read an exclusive excerpt.

Don't Read the Comments Eric Smith On Sale Date: January 28, 2020 9781335016027, 1335016023 Hardcover $18.99 USD, $23.99 CAD Ages 13 And Up 368 pages

Slay meets Eliza and Her Monsters in Eric Smith’s Don't Read the Comments, an #ownvoices story in which two teen gamers find their virtual worlds—and blossoming romance—invaded by the real-world issues of trolling and doxing in the gaming community.

Divya Sharma is a queen. Or she is when she’s playing Reclaim the Sun, the year’s hottest online game. Divya—better known as popular streaming gamer D1V—regularly leads her #AngstArmada on quests through the game’s vast and gorgeous virtual universe. But for Divya, this is more than just a game. Out in the real world, she’s trading her rising-star status for sponsorships to help her struggling single mom pay the rent.

Gaming is basically Aaron Jericho’s entire life. Much to his mother’s frustration, Aaron has zero interest in becoming a doctor like her, and spends his free time writing games for a local developer. At least he can escape into Reclaim the Sun—and with a trillion worlds to explore, disappearing should be easy. But to his surprise, he somehow ends up on the same remote planet as celebrity gamer D1V.

At home, Divya and Aaron grapple with their problems alone, but in the game, they have each other to face infinite new worlds…and the growing legion of trolls populating them. Soon the virtual harassment seeps into reality when a group called the Vox Populi begin launching real-world doxxing campaigns, threatening Aaron’s dreams and Divya’s actual life. The online trolls think they can drive her out of the game, but everything and everyone Divya cares about is on the line…

And she isn’t going down without a fight.

Buy Links: Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Dont-Read-Comments-Eric-Smith/dp/1335016023 Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/dont-read-the-comments-eric-smith/1131303425#/ Books-A-Million: https://www.booksamillion.com/p/Dont-Read-Comments/Eric-Smith/9781335016027?id=7715580291810 Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/don-t-read-the-comments Indie Bound: https://www.indiebound.org/book/9781335016027 Google Play: https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Eric_Smith_Don_t_Read_the_Comments?id=Go6PDwAAQBAJ

Eric Smith is an author, prolific book blogger, and literary agent from New Jersey, currently living in Philadelphia. Smith cohosts Book Riot’s newest podcast, HEY YA, with non-fiction YA author Kelly Jensen. He can regularly be found writing for Book Riot’s blog, as well as Barnes & Noble’s Teen Reads blog, Paste Magazine, and Publishing Crawl. Smith also has a growing Twitter platform of over 40,000 followers (@ericsmithrocks).

Author website: https://www.ericsmithrocks.com/ Twitter: @ericsmithrocks Instagram: @ericsmithrocks Facebook: @ericsmithwrites

Genre: Young Adult, Contemporary

Rating: 4/5 stars

Review: Don’t Read the Comments tackles some heavy subjects, cyber bullying as one of the main ones. But it’s done beautifully, and though the subject matter is that way, it didn’t make me feel heavy while I was reading it. Eric Smith does an absolutely marvelous job at writing from a first person female POV. His excellent writing style, as well as the pace that perfectly suited the story, made the book unputdownable. I really enjoyed the characters. They felt fresh as they were developed excellently. The dialogue is excellent, it felt natural and flowed really well. All of it put together kept the book feeling dynamic, and entertaining throughout. This is a read that you definitely shouldn’t skip.

Excerpt:

1 Divya

Mom. We’ve been over this. Don’t read the comments,” I say, sighing as my mother stares at me with her fret­ful deep-set eyes. They’re dark green, just like mine, and stand out against her soft brown skin. Wrinkle lines trail out from the corners like thin tree branches grown over a life­time of worrying.

I wish I could wash away all of her worries, but I only seem to be causing her more lately.

“I’m just not comfortable with it anymore,” my mom coun­ters. “I appreciate what you’re doing with…you know, your earnings or however that sponsor stuff works, but I can’t stand seeing what they’re saying about you on the Internet.”

“So don’t read the comments!” I exclaim, reaching out and taking her hands in mine. Her palms are weathered, like the pages of the books she moves around at the library, and I canfeel the creases in her skin as my fingers run over them. Bundles of multicolored bangles dangle from both of her wrists, clinking about lightly.

“How am I supposed to do that?” she asks, giving my hands a squeeze. “You’re my daughter. And they say such awful things. They don’t even know you. Breaks my heart.”

“What did I just say?” I ask, letting go of her hands, trying to give her my warmest it’s-going-to-be-okay smile. I know she only reads the blogs, the articles covering this and that, so she just sees the replies there, the sprawling comments—and not what people say on social media. Not what the trolls say about her. Because moms are the easiest target for those online monsters.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of that sign in your room with your slo­gan regarding comments,” Mom scoffs, shaking her head and getting to her feet. She groans a little as she pushes herself off the tiny sofa, which sinks in too much. Not in the comfortable way a squishy couch might, but in a this-piece-of-furniture-needs-to-be-thrown-away-because-it’s-probably-doing-irreversible-damage-to-my-back-and-internal-organs kind of way. She stretches her back, one hand on her waist, and I make a mental note to check online for furniture sales at Tar­get or Ikea once she heads to work.

“Oof, I must have slept on it wrong,” Mom mutters, turn­ing to look at me. But I know better. She’s saying that for my benefit. The air mattress on her bed frame—in lieu of an ac­tual mattress—isn’t doing her back any favors.

I’d better add a cheap mattress to my list of things to search for later. Anything is better than her sleeping on what our family used to go camping with.

Still, I force myself to nod and say, “Probably.” If Mom knew how easily I saw through this dance of ours, the way we pretend that things are okay while everything is falling apart around us, she’d only worry more.

Maybe she does know. Maybe that’s part of the dance.

I avert my gaze from hers and glance down at my watch. It’s the latest in smartwatch tech from Samsung, a beautiful little thing that connects to my phone and computer, controls the streaming box on our television… Hell, if we could af­ford smart lights in our apartment, it could handle those, too. It’s nearly 8:00 p.m., which means my Glitch subscribers will be tuning in for my scheduled gaming stream of Reclaim the Sun at any minute. A couple social media notifications start lighting up the edges of the little screen, but it isn’t the unread messages or the time that taunt me.

It’s the date.

The end of June is only a few days away, which means the rent is due. How can my mom stand here and talk about me getting rid of my Glitch channel when it’s bringing in just enough revenue to help cover the rent? To pay for groceries? When the products I’m sent to review or sponsored to wear—and then consequently sell—have been keeping us afloat with at least a little money to walk around with?

“I’m going to start looking for a second job,” Mom says, her tone defeated.

“Wait, what?” I look away from my watch and feel my heartbeat quicken. “But if you do that—”

“I can finish these summer classes another time. Maybe next year—”

“No. No way.” I shake my head and suck air in throughmy gritted teeth. She’s worked so hard for this. We’ve worked so hard for this. “You only have a few more classes!”

“I can’t let you keep doing this.” She gestures toward my room, where my computer is.

“And I can’t let you work yourself to death for… What? This tiny apartment, while that asshole doesn’t do a damn thing to—”

“Divya. Language,” she scolds, but her tone is undermined by a soft grin peeking in at the corner of her mouth. “He’s still your fath—”

“I’ll do my part,” I say resolutely, stopping her from saying that word. “I can deal with it. I want to. You will not give up going to school. If you do that, he wins. Besides, I’ve…got some gadgets I can sell this month.”

“I just… I don’t want you giving up on your dreams, so I can keep chasing mine. I’m the parent. What does all this say about me?” My mom exhales, and I catch her lip quivering just a little. Then she inhales sharply, burying whatever was about to surface, and I almost smile, as weird as that sounds. It’s just our way, you know?

Take the pain in. Bury it down deep.

“We’re a team.” I reach out and grasp her hands again, and she inhales quickly once more.

It’s in these quiet moments we have together, wrestling with these challenges, that the anger I feel—the rage over this small apartment that’s replaced our home, the overdrafts in our bank accounts, all the time I’ve given up—is replaced with something else.

With how proud I am of her, for starting over the way she has.

“I’m not sure what I did to deserve you.”

Deserve.

I feel my chest cave in a little at the word as I look again at the date on the beautiful display of this watch. I know I need to sell it. I know I do. The couch. That crappy mattress. My dwindling bank account. The upcoming bills.

The required sponsorship agreement to wear this watch in all my videos for a month, in exchange for keeping the watch, would be over in just a few days. I could easily get $500 for it on an auction site or maybe a little less at the used-electronics shop downtown. One means more money, but it also means having my address out there, which is something I avoid like the plague—though having friends like Rebekah mail the gad­gets for me has proved a relatively safe way to do it. The other means less money, but the return is immediate, at least. Several of the employees there watch my stream, however, and con­versations with them are often pretty awkward.

I’d hoped that maybe, just maybe, I’d get to keep this one thing. Isn’t that something I deserve? Between helping Mom with the rent while she finishes up school and pitching in for groceries and trying to put a little money aside for my own tuition in the fall at the community college… God, I’d at least earned this much, right?

The watch buzzes against my wrist, a pleasant feeling. As a text message flashes across the screen, I feel a pang of wonder and regret over how a display so small can still have a better resolution than the television in our living room.

  THE GALAXY WAITS FOR NO ONE,

YOU READY D1V?

—COMMANDER (RE)BEKAH

  I smile at the note from my producer-slash-best-friend, then look up as my mom makes her way toward the front door of our apartment, tossing a bag over her shoulder.

“I’ll be back around ten or so,” Mom says, soundingtired. “Just be careful, okay?”

“I always am,” I promise, walkingover to give her a hug. It’s sweet, her constant reminders to be careful, to check in, especially since all I generally do while she’s gone is hang out in front of the computer. But I get it. Even the Internet can be a dangerous place. The threats on social media and the emails that I get—all sent by anonymous trolls with untraceable accounts—are proof of that.

Still, as soon as the door closes, I bolt across the living room and into my small bedroom, which is basically just a bed, a tiny dresser, and my workstation. I’ve kept it simple since the move and my parents split.

The only thing that’s far from simple is my gaming rig.

When my Glitch stream hit critical mass at one hundred thousand subscribers about a year and a half ago, a gaming company was kind enough to sponsor my rig. It’s extravagant to the point of being comical, with bright neon-blue lighting pouring out the back of the system and a clear case that shows off the needless LED illumination. Like having shiny lights makes it go any faster. I never got it when dudes at my school put flashy lights on their cars, and I don’t get it any more on a computer.

But it was free, so I’m certainly not going to complain.

I shake the mouse to awaken the sleeping monster, and my widescreen LED monitor flashes to life. It’s one of those screens that bend toward the edges, the curves of the monitor bordering on sexy. I adjust my webcam, which—along with my beaten-up Ikea table that’s not even a desk—is one of the few non-sponsored things in my space. It’s an aging thing, but the resolution is still HD and flawless, so unless a free one is somehow going to drop into my lap—and it probably won’t, because you can’t show off a webcam in a digital stream or a recorded sponsored video when you’re filming with said camera—it’ll do the trick.

I navigate over to Glitch and open my streaming application. Almost immediately, Rebekah’s face pops up in a little window on the edge of my screen. I grin at the sight of her new hairstyle, her usually blond and spiky hair now dyed a brilliant shade of blood orange, a hue as vibrant as her personality. The sides of her head are buzzed, too, and the overall effect is awesome.

Rebekah smiles and waves at me. “You ready to explore the cosmos once more?” she asks, her voice bright in my computer’s speakers. I can hear her keys clicking loudly as she types, her hands making quick work of something on the other side of the screen. I open my mouth to say something, but she jumps in before I can. “Yes, yes, I’ll be on mute once we get in, shut up.”

I laugh and glance at myself in the mirror I’ve got attached to the side of my monitor with a long metal arm—an old bike mirror that I repurposed to make sure my makeup and hair are on point in these videos. Even though the streams are all about the games, there’s nothing wrong with looking a little cute, even if it’s just for myself. I run a finger over one of my eyebrows, smoothing it out, and make a note to tweeze them just a little bit later. I’ve got my mother’s strong brows,black and rebellious. We’re frequently in battle with one another, me armed with my tweezers, my eyebrows wielding their growing-faster-than-weeds genes.

“How much time do we have?” I ask, tilting my head back and forth.

“About five minutes. And you look fine, stop it,” she grumbles. I push the mirror away, the metal arm making a squeaking noise, and I see Rebekah roll her eyes. “You could just use a compact like a normal person, you know.”

“It’s vintage,” I say, leaning in toward my computer mic. “I’m being hip.”

“You. Hip.” She chuckles. “Please save the jokes for the stream. It’s good content.”

I flash her a scowl and load up my social feeds on the desktop, my watch still illuminating with notifications. I decide to leave them unchecked on the actual device and scope them out on the computer instead, so when people are watching, they can see the watch in action. That should score me some extra goodwill with sponsors, and maybe it’ll look like I’m more popular than people think I am.

Because that’s my life. Plenty of social notifications, but zero texts or missed calls.

The feeds are surprisingly calm this evening, a bundle of people posting about how excited they are for my upcoming stream, playing Reclaim the Sun on their own, curious to see what I’m finding… Not bad. There are a few dumpster-fire comments directed at the way I look and some racist remarks by people with no avatars, cowards who won’t show their faces, but nothing out of the usual.

Ah. Lovely. Someone wants me to wear less clothing in thisstream. Blocked. A link to someone promoting my upcoming appearance at New York GamesCon, nice. Retweeted. A post suggesting I wear a skimpier top, and someone agreeing. Charming. Blocked and blocked.

Why is it that the people who always leave the grossest, rudest, and occasionally sexist, racist, or religiously intolerant comments never seem to have an avatar connected to their social profiles? Hiding behind a blank profile picture? How brave. How courageous.

And never mind all the messages that I assume are supposed to be flirtatious, but are actually anything but. Real original, saying “hey” and that’s it, then spewing a bunch of foul-mouthed nonsense when they don’t get a response. Hey, anonymous bro, I’m not here to be sexualized by strangers on the Internet. It’s creepy and disgusting. Can’t I just have fun without being objectified?

“Div!” Rebekah shouts, and I jump in my seat a little.

“Yeah, hey, I’m here,” I mumble, looking around for my Bluetooth earpiece, trying to force myself into a better mood.

This is why you don’t read the comments, Divya.

  Excerpted from Don’t Read the Comments by Eric Smith, Copyright ©2020 by Eric Smith. Published by Inkyard Press.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine fic - “The Ties that Bind: Chapter 3 - An Unintended Foursome” (Rated NC17)

Blaine and Kurt are dating, in a long-term relationship, with New York City as their playground. Everything is as close to perfect for the two of them as can be, especially for Blaine, who’s living the dream as a songwriter beside his up-and-coming designer boyfriend, both of them without a care in the world. Until one night, he’ll find himself connected in a bizarre way to seven other human beings he’s never met, trying to solve a mystery - the hunt for a killer and to save a life, all while trying to come to terms with his new forced membership into the collective.

(This is a re-write that I got several requests for, based off of the Netflix series Sense8, with a little loose interpretation on some of the specifics - i.e., how the collective get their powers and why, what they need to accomplish as a collective, and the fact that all the players aren’t necessarily spread all over the world. Quite a few of them are in NY. Also, this story is going to focus on Kurt and Blaine, with the other characters being satellite to the story, though their stories may end up being explored deeper in one-shots. YOU DON’T NEED TO BE FAMILIAR WITH THE SHOW SENSE8 TO FOLLOW THIS. THIS STORY EXPLAINS IT ALL.) Warning for violence, blood, psychic abilities, psychic bonds, angst, anxiety, sex work, and death (not Kurt or Blaine).

Read on AO3.

Chapter 1 - In the Beginning

Chapter 2 - Abandoned Warehouses in My Mind

Chapter 3 (2559 words)

Blaine can’t sleep.

He shakes all over, shakes too much, like he has caught a chill beneath his skin that he can’t ward away, even huddled under Kurt’s thick comforter, with his boyfriend’s arms around him. His mind is fractured, his thoughts scattered. He finds it hard to keep track of them, or to hold on to a single one. Thinking about simple things that should keep him grounded – his phone number, his address, his middle name - become painful. And then, in the middle, he recoils. Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking of those things, things that could be used to identify him, locate him. Not when God knows how many people have access to his head.

He tries to empty it, make it blank. But every time he finds quiet, a moment of nothing, something interrupts – a thought, a memory, a voice, a conversation - and none of it belongs to him. He thinks about going for a jog, figuring the cold air and physical exertion will clear his head, but he doesn’t want to run into any other ghosts … or worse, the men Jake spoke of. Apparently, the thugs who beat Kitty, raped Kitty, and shot her through the skull aren’t the big baddies. There’s someone else Blaine has to worry about out there, someone he doesn’t know exists.

Someone he has yet to see.

How does he defend himself, and Kurt, when he doesn’t know who’s after them? Or why?

What if these other people have psychic abilities, too? Does Blaine really have psychic abilities? Nothing like this has ever happened to him before, so he isn’t exactly sure what to call it. Conveniently, Jake disappeared before he could relay that information. Blaine tries to summon him back. He thinks about Kitty, pictures her eyes, her face, her voice, her murder, and uses those to try and lure Jake into his mind. He even tries calling out for Kitty, the prospect of actually making contact with her scaring him half to death. But he has no luck on either account, and he feels defeated.

Then there are the others – the people Jake spoke about, the ones that Kitty gave him. Jake had been the first, that black lady a sort of second, but they wouldn’t be the last. There are more than just them. Blaine can feel them, and they could show up at any time - in Blaine’s apartment, at his work, while he’s in the toilet. Or he could be zapped to wherever they are. And then what? What would happen? And when would that be? The uncertainty is maddening. Blaine hears them, their existence a low hum throughout his body. Sometimes they laugh, one of them even screams, but then they’re gone. For hours, there’ll be silence, and then another will come back. He sees things he’s sure aren’t meant for his eyes. He sees the moon, but not over New York City. He sees a restaurant kitchen, smells veal and garlic cooking.

Then nothing.

For over an hour, everything goes back to normal except that he’s not, and he knows it. He’s finally ready to try and sleep when he feels a touch on his shoulder. He thinks it’s Kurt. He’s about to say something to him, but he blinks, and suddenly he’s staring into the face of a beautiful Latina, with shining brown eyes, smiling at him … but not at him. It lasts less than a second, and then she’s gone.

Well, he was right before. He’s not going to sleep, and he doesn’t want to be alone. Not that he is alone. He’s destined not to be alone, for however long that lasts. But he needs his boyfriend. He doesn’t just need the distraction; he needs Kurt. He needs the connection he has with him, a connection to a person he chose.

A connection that belongs to him alone.

He turns in Kurt’s arms, feeling guilty that he’s waking up his boyfriend, who’s been blissfully dead to the world this whole time. At least, that’s what Blaine thought. But the reality has been much different, hidden from him while he’s had his back turned. Kurt might be lying still, but he doesn’t look calm - his brow drawn in at the center, his teeth clenched, his jaw tensed from the pressure he’s putting on it. His lips move, angrily telling someone in his head what for. What happened tonight was horrible and frightening for Blaine, but watching him go through it, helpless to stop it, must have been as bad for Kurt.

Blaine remembers feeling that same way when Kurt was attacked a few years back. Walking home from a dinner date with a friend, he came across two homophobic assholes beating up a gay man, and Kurt ran to his rescue. The victim ended up ditching Kurt, leaving Kurt to get beat up instead. Blaine received the call at home when Kurt was en route to the hospital. He ran out so quickly, he almost forgot to put on his jacket or lock the loft door. But along the way, he got caught in a net of unfortunate mishaps. His bus got stuck in traffic. The train he diverted to broke down. The taxi he caught after that ended up behind a three car pile-up. It was a mess, and the whole time, Blaine felt too far away.

Useless.

Kurt is a force of nature, fiercely protective of everyone in need, especially the people he loves. Looking at Kurt, his eyes closed, feverishly defending Blaine to the voices nagging his brain, Blaine knows Kurt is the most wonderful, most compassionate, most caring man that he has ever met. The irony of their relationship, though, is that the two of them met while Kurt was being bullied at school. It had gone on daily for years, and no one seemed to notice. The few people who did notice, didn’t seem to care. Kurt wasn’t actively searching for a safe space at the time. In fact, he’d given up hope that he could find some peace and normalcy in his life. But he ended up finding that at Dalton.

Along with finding Blaine.

Blaine helped Kurt confront his high school bully. He helped Kurt overcome the stigma of being the only out gay person at his school. Blaine was there for Kurt, held his hand, stood up for him, transferred schools to be with him, and it felt good. Blaine loved being his boyfriend’s protector. But more and more, Kurt has grown beyond the need to have Blaine protect him. He’s become stronger, more confident, more secure with who he is, his identity, and how he presents that identity to others. He doesn’t need to hold Blaine’s hand anymore. In fact, there have been several times when Kurt has forded ahead and led the charge when Blaine would have stood fast and waited.

Kurt is a fearless, self-sufficient man. He isn’t a delicate flower who needs his boyfriend to protect him.

He doesn’t rely on Blaine.

But ever since they moved to New York, Blaine has begun to rely on Kurt.

He’s relying on Kurt now, to get rid of the fear within him. He needs to have the one person that belongs only to him.

He kisses Kurt on the cheeks, on the eyelids, on the mouth. Kurt’s lips stop moving, his tirade over, and his eyelids pop open.

“Oh God!” He laughs, gasping as if his heart stopped and restarted in the space of those kisses. “Blaine! You’re awake. You scared the crap out of me!”

“Did you think it was someone else?” Blaine kids, but Kurt doesn’t buy into the façade. He sees through Blaine’s attempt at humor. He knows that Blaine’s not okay. He felt him tossing and turning, heard him mumbling in his sleep, calling out names Kurt didn’t recognize.

He heard Blaine crying.

Kurt puts a hand to Blaine’s cheek. “Baby, what’s wrong? Please, tell me.”

“Nothing,” Blaine lies. “Nothing’s wrong.”

But Kurt knows better.

“Blaine, you know that whatever it is, whatever’s bothering you, no matter how it sounds, you can talk to me.”

“I know,” Blaine says, pulling Kurt against him, “but I … I don’t want to talk right now. I just need …” He kisses Kurt’s forehead, his hairline, the bridge of his nose, hoping his actions will speak for him because his mind just wants to shut down.

Kurt moves to fit better against him, returning kisses to his chin, traveling along his jaw to his neck. “It’s all right. I understand.”

Kurt throws a leg over Blaine’s hip and rolls on top of him, but Blaine pushes back, pins him to the mattress, and Kurt lets Blaine have him the way he needs him. Blaine undresses Kurt, kissing his way down his body. He moves so slowly, he’s gone beyond taking his time, but Kurt doesn’t argue, and he doesn’t tease him.

He doesn’t say anything when Blaine’s breathing hitches, when it sounds like he’s choking down a sob.

Blaine makes his way back to Kurt’s chest, up the column of his neck, and kisses Kurt’s mouth with his eyes open. He doesn’t want Kurt to disappear. He doesn’t want to end up somewhere else. He needs to live in this moment, needs to figure out a way to keep the magic/spirits/hallucinations from taking over without his permission.

“Oh, God … Blaine,” Kurt moans when his boyfriend’s fingers explore, toy, dip inside and scissor before slipping out and venturing elsewhere. “Oh, yes, Blaine. Oh God …”

“… Santana …”

It rings in Blaine’s head, clear as the sunlight seeping in below the curtains, but it’s more than that. It’s imprinted in his blood, turns everything inside him to ice. Blaine’s first instinct is to stop when he hears a woman’s voice moan that name inside his head - not Kitty’s voice, one of their voices - but he keeps going for Kurt’s sake. He doesn’t want Kurt to know anything is wrong. Kurt will want to talk about it for certain, and Blaine can’t risk that. He moves quickly - spreads Kurt’s legs, lubes up, and buries himself inside his boyfriend’s body. Kurt yelps in surprise, but as Blaine doesn’t seem to be taking his time about things anymore, Kurt winds his legs around his boyfriend’s hips and holds on tight.

“Oh, God …”

“… Santana … oh, Santana …”

“Blaine, I … I love you …”

“Santana …”

“I ...”

“… want you …”

“… Blaine …”

“… Santana …”

“Fuck!” Blaine grunts, squeezing his eyes shut and shoving his head into the pillow beside Kurt’s left ear. Kurt moans, locking his legs tighter, under the impression that Blaine is close to cumming, and he lets himself go with it.

Blaine takes a breath and holds it. He focuses on his physical presence, and tries to let his body run the show without him while he gets his mind straight, but he made the mistake of closing his eyes … which means he’ll have to open them again. And when he does, Kurt might not be there. But Blaine can’t hide. The ghosts or whatever will find him eventually.

It’s only a matter of time.

He opens them slowly, a sliver with each inhale of breath, hoping he’ll glimpse the unexpected before he has to come face to face with it. He suspects he already knows. He can feel it by way of a peculiar buzzing in his head, a pinging in his body that wasn’t there before, announcing its arrival.

When his eyes open, Kurt is gone.

He can still hear Kurt’s voice - his sweet, high moans; his breathy pants; signs that he’s so, so close - but beneath Blaine is a woman, her long, blonde hair spilling over the pillow; blue eyes wide with alarm, but not frightened. She’s completely naked, and he knows that wherever she is, she has to be having sex with someone – with Santana – right at this moment. She gasps when she sees him, surprised, but completely turned on. She’s not Kitty.

She’s one of them.

“Blaine,” she whispers.

He shakes his head, muttering, “No, no, no,” and she disappears. He’s looking at Kurt again, head thrown back, hands locked on Blaine’s forearms, pounding his hips against Blaine’s body, siphoning the ecstasy from his stilled hips. Blaine holds on to this image, keeps his eyes open till they burn. He can’t leave Kurt. Kurt can’t disappear.

Kurt swoops up to kiss him, but before their lips touch, Blaine sees the blonde woman, and this time, he’s kissing her. She moans into his mouth. It’s delicious, sinful, fulfilling, but he feels himself backing away.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to. He really wants to.

But he doesn’t want to.

Not because he feels like he’s cheating, though he kind of does, even with Kurt right there, unaware of anything going on. This woman doesn’t feel like a separate entity. She’s a part of Blaine, somewhere inside him. She’s in his head, in his body, flowing through his veins like blood and filling up his lungs like oxygen. She’s in his thoughts, her fantasies aligning with his until not only are he and she having sex on his bed, but somewhere in between what’s real and what’s illusion, Kurt and Santana are making love, too, in this blonde woman’s room, somewhere in California.

Which means that she’s fucking Kurt, and Blaine doesn’t want that. He wants Kurt for himself. He wanted to keep this one thing for him and him alone. But now that’s gone, too, and he didn’t have a choice. None of this was his choice. This woman, Brittany (he knows because of Kitty’s voice in his head, and her partner enthusiastically calling out her name with every bang of her headboard against some distant wall) is with him, while having an intimate moment of her own, which is why the universe, or whatever, chose this moment to connect them.

Fuck!

“Blaine?” Kurt’s brow wrinkles with concern. “Are you alright? I don’t think you’re cumming, baby.”

“I am,” Blaine lies, and he hates that it’s becoming a habit.

“Blaine” – Kurt runs a hand up Blaine’s arm – “you’re trembling! Are you sure you’re …”

“Can we not talk about this?” Blaine begs, moving when he realizes he’d stopped and Kurt’s been doing most of the work. “Please, just … not right now.”

“Okay. Okay.” Kurt pulls Blaine down to his body. “We won’t talk about it.”

Blaine nods, thankful that he doesn’t have to explain more than that.

That he doesn’t have to lie again.

He wraps his arms around Kurt’s torso and hugs him till he’s finished, finding too late the closeness that he craved.

He can’t let Kurt know. Kurt can never know. This is going to be Blaine’s secret, Goddammit, no matter what it costs. He’s going to take it with him to his grave.

Kurt cums with his teeth in Blaine’s bicep and, “I love you,” on his lips, starry-eyed and sated in Blaine’s arms. But Blaine’s orgasm is weak, his head too wrapped up in complicated scenarios and worries and fear. He can’t be carefree with Kurt like this. Not yet. Not with all these people he’s carrying with him.

Maybe not ever again.

[dereknursey]

When he turns to study the person sitting next to him, he jumps when he comes face to face with none other than River Bullard, River the Bully, River the Harajuku Barbie—Jon shakes his head a little when their eyes meet. Today is taking a toll on his mental health.

“What can I get you, baby?” Greta asks sweetly, returning to the counter. She smiles at Bully. “And what can I get for your very handsome friend?” Jon feels all the heat leave his face.

“I need a cheesecake snowball, please. Double the cheesecake.” He leans over the counter to whisper the last part, but if the laugh Bully lets out is any indication, it was heard by all present parties anyway. “And he’s not my friend.”

Finally, Bully speaks up, smiling at Greta. Jon wants to kick his perfect teeth in. “I just want some crawfish juice, please.” Greta nods and takes the menu from in front of him, sending a lingering glance Jon’s way, which he decidedly ignores.

Him and Bully fall into silence for a long moment, Bully taking the time to look around the small deli. “What do you want?” Jon finally asks, trying not to cringe at how childishly annoyed he sounded. It had been a very long day, in his defense, filled with more human interaction than he had probably had in all four years of high school. Bully considers him for a long moment, like he’s not quite sure what he’s looking at, and Jon adds, “If you’re not gonna say anything can I have my face back?” He rolls his eyes and takes the plastic cup Greta gives him the snowball in when she returns, immediately digging his fork in to find some cheesecake. Lactose intolerance be damned.

“Your sister said you’d be here. The, uh,” Bully puts his hand about Aadi’s height from the ground. Jon makes a mental note to hide all the gummy bears in the house from her for at least a week. “Not as little one.” They fall into silence again, until Jon makes a face asking if that’s the end of the conversation. “Well, anyway, I just wanted to tell you, I really am flattered—”

Jon gives him a hard look, cutting him off without opening his mouth. “Are you really complimented so little you dwell on it for an entire day everytime it happens?” He finally replies, deadpan, and Bully looks startled.

Then he laughs, a loud thing that booms over the deli. “I’m sorry, I get compliments, but not of the,” Bully screws his face up like he’s thinking, but little giggles are still coming out. “My eyes look like ‘perfect chocolate orbs’ variety.” Jon puts his head in his hands and Bully laughs louder. Bully’s letter had probably been the least reread out of all of them, and he had completely forgotten he was going through a serious Wattpad Harry Styles moment at the time it was written.

“It’s not a big deal.” They stare at each other again and Jon finds himself confessing, “I’m more worried about the other letters.” He thinks he can see Bully’s ears literally perk up.

“Other letters? Mine wasn’t one of a kind?” Then, he pulls it out of his back pocket and opens it loudly. “So I’m not the only guy you want to, ‘kiss until your foot pops’?” Jon cringes. Too much Princess Diaries. Bully keeps an almost straight face through all of this, the humor he’s finding dancing behind his eyes instead.

“Afraid you’re one of five. Justin Nolastname from camp, Derek Nurse—“ Bully nods like he understands. In fifth grade, everyone had been in love with Derek. “You, Louis, and Ford.” The Native American boy rolls his eyes at the very mention of Ford’s name. Huh, Jon thinks, so the animosity wasn’t one sided.

“Well, I’m feeling a bit used, then.” He replies, taking a long sip of juice and making a squeaky noise as he moved his straw in and out of the styrofoam cup.

“Look, I wrote that letter when I was in seventh grade. I was coming off of a very gay week and you were my first kiss.” Bully’s face screws up.

“At that party?” Jonathan nods while spooning more of his snowball into his mouth, silently hoping this conversation ends in the next 20 seconds. Today has been more emotionally draining, embarrassing, and life changing than almost any other day before it. It makes him wish Dad was here. He’d know what to do. Just as he thinks this, Bully continues. “And, what, it was so good you needed a second dose today?”

“Fuck you,” Jon says, and means it, grabbing his bag and getting up from the table. He pushes the hot sting of tears down as he pushes open the back door, and ignores the guilt he feels for not saying goodbye to Greta. Annoyingly, Bully follows, even reaching out and grabbing Jon’s forearm so he turns around. The black boy snatches his arm back. “Look, I’m sorry you had to read my embarrassing letter about a crush I had in middle school, but I promise I don’t have posters of you hanging in my room and I don’t know where you live. I only kissed you so Ford wouldn’t try to talk to me.” Bully’s bottom lips curls up in distaste at Ford’s name, making everything about what’s happening right now that much worse. “Trust me, she feels the same.”

Just then, the streetcar comes bumbling by, merrily continuing past Jon’s stop. He groans and stomps his left foot against the payment, taking in two fistfuls of hair. “Fuck me!” He offers eloquently, sliding into some of the outdoor seating of the deli. Bully regards him for a long moment, like always, stoic in his stare. Jon considers if he has the mental capacity or physical strength to choke him out.

“Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

who wants to read my completely self-indulgent bully/hops to all the boys i luved before au

[stanuary]

Excerpt from "A Summer of Two Stans" (fanfic I write)

(submitted by @haloessence111)

Stanuary Week 2- Protect

(Link to whole fanfic: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11848163/1/A-Summer-of-Two-Stans)

This is my personal headcanon of how the twins got into boxing, since it was never really made clear in the show. It starts at Ford’s POV then goes into Stanley’s, and it has a lot of angst. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The evening was warm and humid, darkening ever so slightly as Stan and Ford walked out of the theater. Ford hadn’t much cared for the movie; there was absolutely no story and the scenery in it was unrealistically clean. But at least it had taken his mind off of… the person whose name he refused to think about. Not like Stanley was ever going to let him forget about her anytime soon.

 Ford checked his watch; 7:10, almost time for dinner. They had better be heading home.

 As they passed The Happy Cavity sweet shop, Stan stopped to look in the window. He licked his lips and turned to Ford.

 “Wait here a minute, I’ll be right back.” he said. “You want anything?”

 “Sure.” Ford replied, tossing his twin a quarter. “Just get me some jelly beans or something.”

 Stanley nodded and headed inside, leaving Ford alone outside. After several minutes of being bored with nothing to do, he walked over to the second hand bookstore a few doors down, browsing around the book stand in front of the shop. Propped on it’s side in the heap of novels, a beat up paperback entitled War of the Worlds caught his eye. Eagerly, he picked it up and began to read, squinting through the dim evening light. He had barely finished the first page when he felt a hard tap on his shoulder.

 Must be Stan… about time. He thought, smiling as he peered up over the top of the book. To his horror, his eyes did not meet with the familiar bright brown ones that belonged to his brother. Almost covered beneath a mop of yellow hair, a pair of watery gray eyes viewed down at him from nearly half a foot up.

 “Well, well, if it ain’t loser twin number one.” sneered Crampelter. “Long time, no see.”

***

Stanley sauntered through the candy aisles, searching for a bag of toffee peanuts. He had already picked out a package of jelly beans for Ford, so all that was left to buy was his snack. He knew that he should hurry up, as the shop was closing in only fifteen minutes. The movie he and his brother saw was okay, just one of those beach party flicks with no plot; but hey, it had cute girls in bikinis and and some dancy songs, so Stan was satisfied.

 He didn’t think he could say the same for Ford, though. His brother had always preferred the serious, action-adventure sort of thing, instead of just having a little mindless fun every now and then. Weirdo. Anyways, who wanted to listen to those boring, brainy types for two hours in a dark theater? Stand would fall asleep in about five minutes.

 Stan eventually found his toffee peanuts and purchased that and the jelly beans, then exited the shop. Trying his best to look casual, Stanley fervently searched the street for his twin. In between every store was an alleyway for the dumpsters and other related effects. It wasn’t too unusual at night to hear a racoon scuffling through the trash cans, or to see shady figures arguing in hushed tones. So when Stan passed between the bookstore and the grocer’s and saw a group of tall boys laughing, he didn’t think much of it. That is, until he heard a very familiar whimper.

 Peeking into the alley curiously, Stan ducked behind the green metal dumpster and crouched down, careful not to be seen or heard.

 “C’mon, fingers, try and hit me. Go ahead, I dare you.”

 “Get…offa…me!”

 A sneering cackle rang out, chilling Stan to the bone. Those.. those… buttheads were messing with his brother! Oooh, were they gonna get it…

 Disregarding any caution, Stan stepped out from behind the dumpster and ran at a bully with a black leather jacket, tackling him to the ground.

 “LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BIG JERKS!” shouted Stan, trying to punch every inch of the kid he had jumped on. This didn’t last long, as the boy was almost a head taller and much stronger. Quickly, he pinned Stan’s arm behind his back and slammed him against the hard brick wall. Stanley tried to squeeze out of the boy’s grasp, but to no avail.

 “Whaddaya know, the dumb one’s come to protect his nerdy brother. That’s cute.” said Crampelter, crossing his arms.

 Stanford was laid out on the cement, a short, heavy-looking boy sitting on top of his stomach. He tried to push the boy off, but he must’ve weighed too much, because the kid only laughed at his attempts.

 “Whaddya think, boys, should we have a little fun with ‘em?” said Pelter, to the agreement of his cronies. Both twins understood all too well what they meant, and tried even harder to wrestle out of each of their captor’s grip.

 Stan couldn’t budge, but out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ford wiggling out from under the chubby boy’s backside. Taking him by surprise, Stanford kicked the boy off, knocking him to the ground. He ran for his brother, attempting to pry him away from the leather-clad bully. Stanley wanted to tell him to watch out behind him, but Ford didn’t see Crampelter’s fist grab him until it was too late.

 “Now, just what do you think you’re doing, fingers?” sneered Pelter, lifting Ford up by the scruff of his collar. “Trying to be a hero? Well, tough luck, braveheart, ‘cause you just entered a world of pain.”

 Crampelter grinned, then punched Stanford right in the face. He cried out in pain, and his glasses clattered to the ground. The smaller crony laughed and stomped hard on the glasses until they smashed.

 Stan watched in frozen horror as the enormous blond boy continued to strike blow after blow on his trembling and moaning twin, cackling nastily after every clout. Pelter threw Ford down, sending him skidding out on the alley. He next seized Stanley, punching him three times in the stomach and once in the nose before Stan tried to punch back. Pelter simply took hold of his tiny fist and twisted it behind his back.

 “Say ‘uncle’, loser boy, and maybe I’ll let you go.” he jeered. Stan’s eyes watered with the pain, but he was determined not to crack.

 “I said, say uncle!” Pelter twisted harder, and Stanley felt his arm might break with the strain. Eventually, it became just too much, and Stan had to succumb.

 “Alright, alright! Uncle! Uncle-uncle-uncle! Lemme go already!”

 Crampelter laughed, hurling him down next to his twin, Stanley’s elbows scraping upon impact. His thin arms throbbed with discomfort, but he managed to sit up, shaking, tears streaking down his bruised cheeks. Ford was still face down on the ground, quivering; he too was crying softly, although much more audibly than Stan.

 “Aww, did I make the wimpy wittle babies cwy?” snorted Pelter, hands on his hips. Stanley’s face burned in humiliation.

 Crampelter jerked forward, snagging the front of Stanford’s collar once again. Ford lifted his swelling and tear-streaked face up to meet Pelter’s, looking absolutely terrified.

 “Listen close, wise guy,” hissed Crampelter, simpering cruelly. “I want ya to remember this the next time you feel like you’ll ever be anything but a wimpy, worthless little six-fingered freak who will never make a single friend. Ya understand?” said Pelter, shaking Ford until his teeth rattled.

 “I-I-I…” Tears flowed freely down Stanford’s face.

 Pelter grinned, then punched Ford right in the eye, knocking him again to the cold cement ground. Stanley watched in loathing as Pelter and his cronies ran off, laughing and shouting insults. He had half a mind to run after them, make them sorry they had ever messed with him or his twin. Low, echoing sobs snapped Stan out of his rage. Next to him, Ford attempted to stand up, but was trembling so violently that it was impossible to maintain balance; Stan had the feeling that it wasn’t from getting punched. Stanley managed to pull himself together. Taking a closer look at his brother’s face, he could see his eyes and cheeks swelling into purple and black bruises.

 “Come on, sixer, let’s go home and get some ice or something.” said Stan, standing up and reaching out a hand to help up twin. Ford took it, still shaking intensely.

 “Y-your nose is bleeding.” he said simply.

 It was? Stan touched the bottom of his nose, and sure enough, his hand came back wet with hot, sticky blood. He hadn’t even noticed.

 Suddenly a thought came into his head. “Ford, what about your glasses?” he asked, remembering that they had been broken.

 Ford’s eyes widened. “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap… Dad’s gonna kill me…” he moaned, slapping his forehead but quickly recoiling from the pain.

 Stan picked up the mangled frames and a few of the larger bits of glass. “It’s okay, Ford, we, uh, just need glue. Lots of it. And probably some tape or something, too… but we can fix them! They’ll be good as new in no time.”

 Ford shook his head sadly. “No, Stan, I don’t think they can be fixed. Some of the glass was crushed practically to dust, and I don’t think all the glue and tape in New Jersey could fix them.” He took the frames and put them on, as some cracked, but reasonably sized bits of lens were still in the frame. Stan didn’t want to say anything (as he knew that his twin was feeling bad enough), but the smashed glasses only made him look worse.

 “Come on, it’s getting dark. Ma’ll be wondering where we are.” The brothers walked out of the alley leaning on each other for support. Stan winced slightly at the pains in his stomach where Pelter had hit him, but knew that now was the time to just suck it up and deal with it.

 By the time that they had managed to get home, the sun was dipping into the horizon, the last bits of the day fading. The shop had closed and the front was locked, but a Ford kept a spare key in his jacket. As they walked upstairs, Stan could hear chattering and the clanking of shot glasses. It was poker night, and their father was hosting. Great. Just what they needed, a bunch of Dad’s drunk friends seeing them all roughed up. He and Ford exchanged knowing glances; they could not be seen.

 They quietly slipped off their shoes at the bottom of the stairs, tiptoeing upstairs in their sock feet, skipping the many squeaky steps. The poker game was in the dining room, and by some small miracle, their father had his back facing them, so Stan and Ford were able to sneak past him.

 Too bad the same thing couldn’t be said about their mother.

 She was in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of coffee. When she saw her boys creeping past the open kitchen door, she gave a strangled shriek and nearly dropped the coffee pot.

 “What on earth…? Boys… oh my land…” She rushed to her sons and clutched them by their shoulders, examining their bruised and bloody faces. Realization swept over her, and she rubbed the bridge of her nose in exasperation.

 “You got beaten up again, didn’t ya?” she said, barely audible.

 “Um, well, see-”

 “Didn’t ya?”

 The twins looked at each other, then their mother. Solemnly, Stan gave a few quick jerks of the head, feeling slightly ashamed now. He could see Ford staring down at his feet, eyes glimmering at the edges.

 She sighed walking back into the kitchen, the boys following her, and opened the cupboard above the sink. She pulled out their frequently used first-aid kit, containing peroxide, cotton balls, and plenty of bandages. As Ford looked the worst, he was the first to be treated, him climbing up on top of the counter. Their mother worked in silence, grimacing when she took off his glasses.

 “Oh, Stanford,” she said, disappointed. “This is the fifth pair since September!”

 Ford hung his head, looking guilty. Stan felt horrible; this was all his fault… if only he hadn’t left Ford alone outside that candy shop…

 Suddenly, the door to the dining room banged open, and a heavily muscled man with a white undershirt, red suspenders and a porkpie hat sauntered into the kitchen, holding an empty beer can and laughing at a joke someone told. He turned to the boy’s mother, who was just finishing rubbing peroxide over Ford’s cheeks.

 “Hey Louise, got any more whisk-” He stopped abruptly at the sight of the roughed up twins, staring at them for a bit, then chortled lightly.

 “Wha’ happened to you, kid? Loossse a fight?” he said to Stanley, who was sitting at the table and glaring at him.

 “Not now, Frankie. Go back to the game.” said ‘Louise’ rather coldly, continuing to patch up Stanford. Frankie ignored her and gawked at the twins, chuckling irregularly. Stan could smell his breath from a mile away; the man was obviously drunk.

 “Bet it wasss a big kid, eh? Didja fight back, squirt?” Frankie poked Stan in the forehead a few times. It took all his willpower not kick Frankie in the shins.

 “Betcha lost, dincha, kid? Was anyone makin’ bets? Heh, heh. They’d lose their money, the sssuckers. Heh, nice sneezer ya gots there. Hey, hey Filbrick! Hey Filbrick, your kid got in a fight! Commin’ see!”

 “What’re ya talking about, my kids ain’t even home!” called a gruff voice from behind the swinging door.

 “Yeah they is, ‘en this one’s got one heckuva shnozz…”

 The door opened, and their father walked in, accompanied by one or two of his poker buddies. He took one look at his sons and froze. Filbrick’s gaze shifted from Stan to Ford, and his mustache twitched. Fists clenched, he turned to his wife.

 “What the devil happened here?”

 She sighed. “Filbrick, please don’t lose your temper.”

 “I asked you, what happened here?”

 “I ain’t too sure myself. All I know is that they came home looking like this, dunno why, ‘en that they need to get cleaned up ‘fore it all gets infected. Please don’t lookit me like that, hon.”

 He grunted, glaring at his boys. Then, he wheeled around to face his friends, who were eyeballing the twins like they were an interesting exhibit at the zoo.

 “Game’s canceled. Take your money and go home. We’ll resume next week.”

 “Ah, what? Is this ‘cuz your brats got beat up or sompin’?” said a tall, wiry man with a limp cigarette hanging out of his mouth. “ ‘Snot our fault they look like they lost an argument with a wood chipper, Brick.”

 Filbrick didn’t answer, instead just glaring at the men fiercely. They got the message and left the kitchen, grumbling. Stan could hear them gathering their things as loudly as possible, then finally slamming the back door. Their father then turned to the twins. Stan felt very hot under the collar all of a sudden, the feeling he got whenever he was caught misbehaving. Was Dad going to ground them? Send them to their room? Stanley desperately hoped that he wasn’t getting a spanking. He hadn’t been belted in two years and preferred to keep it that way.

 “Explain to me,” he said, low and dangerous. “Why you two come home every other week looking like you got hired to be some neanderthal’s punching bag?”

 Neither of the boys answered. For years before, they had managed to hide the fact that they were outcasts at school, and that neither really had any other friends besides each other. It was easy, hiding the pain of the words shot at them, and if Dad ever witnessed someone teasing them, he never seemed to care much, just shrugging it off as ‘kids will be kids’. But ever since the bullies had taken to using the twins as a way to sharpen their knuckles, about a year or two ago, it had been steadily growing harder to conceal the abuse, especially with the costs of buying Ford new glasses every time they broke- which was often.

 Dad paced back and forth across the small kitchen, hands behind his back, mustache bristling. Stan began to sweat in anxiety; he hated it when his father acted like this, delaying their disciplinary fate. He suddenly became very interested in his feet, not daring to look at his father.

 “That’s it.”

  Stanley found the courage to look up and almost said something, but his mother got there first. “What’s it? What’re ya talking about, Filbrick?”

 “I’ve had enough. I don’t know how you kids keep ending up like this, but I don’t care, it ends now.”

 Stan was very confused. How did he expect it to end, just like that? His father often made steep demands, but this was nuts.

 “Honey, you ain’t making sense. Whaddaya mean, ‘it ends now’?”

 “I mean, it ends now. I’m sick of paying for new glasses and first-aid kits. If you boys can’t stay out of trouble, the least you’ll be able to do is learn to defend yourselves.”

 Now Stan was really puzzled. What did he think was going to happen, they’d just read up on Kung Fu or something and suddenly be unstoppable? (okay, maybe Ford could do that, but definitely not Stanley.)

 “And just how do you suggest we make that happen?” said Mom crossly, folding her arms in front of herself defensively.

 “Same way I learned it. Starting Monday, you two are learning to box, and I don’t care if it takes all summer to toughen you up. Heck, I don’t care if it takes ten years.”

 The color in their mother’s face drained away. “… Boys, go to your room.”

 “B-but Mom-”

 “Your room!”

The twins obeyed, scurrying off to their shared bedroom. Curiosity won them over, and they couldn’t help but listen at the door. Their parent’s voices were slightly muffled, but still within earshot.

 “Whaddaya thinking, Filbrick? They already come home hurt every other week, I don’t wanna have them get beat up every day!”

 “They won’t get beat up if they learn to defend themselves!”

 “They’re only children!”

 “They’re thirteen, Louise! That’s old enough to learn how to fight!”

 “But-”

 “End of discussion! If those little wimps don’t toughen up now, they’ll be weak for the rest of their lives!”

 She sighed. “Filbrick…”

“No, Louise. I’m putting my foot down. Those kids are going to learn to fight if it’s the last thing they do.”

[badonkodank]

Who We Are, Who We Want To Be

ao3

A/N: Requested by reviewer: AvengeTheCap 

People assumed a lot of things about the Pines twins.

They assumed because Stanley looked bigger, bulkier, he must be the older one.

They assumed because Stanford was smart, he must also be an overbearing know-it-all.

They assumed because Stanford was the nerd, Stanley must be the jock; that if Stanley was strong, Stanford must be weak.

And because Stanford was a genius, they assumed he must look down on his brother and think him a moron. Because if Stanford was brilliant, Stanley had to be dumber than a stack of bricks. They assumed nothing ever bothered Stanley, because he was too stupid to realize he should be upset.

That was so far off the mark it might have been hilarious if it wasn’t so detrimental to the way the brothers were treated.

It wasn’t something Stanford had immediately picked up on, of course; he may have been smart, but with that intelligence came the awkwardness of trying to hold a normal conversation with his peers. They wanted nothing more than to ignore him, because they assumed he was going to flaunt his intellect and treat them like illiterates. It made picking up on a lot of social assumptions and cliches that had been thrown onto him and Stanley rather difficult.

Granted, those assumptions were hard to miss on days like today, when people made no attempt to veil the true meaning behind their words. Ford tried not to wince as he set the book he’d been reading down on the bleachers to watch Stanley walk out of the locker room with their coach looking annoyed, speaking in that harsh tone that echoed throughout the, by now, empty gym.

“...I don’t care if he looked like a baby or an adorable bunny rabbit! When someone steps in the ring opposite ya, ya take ‘em out! I don’t care how inexperienced they look, that’s how they get ya! Do ya understand me?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Ya old man ain’t gonna have it if ya lose. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it up an’ I just might ‘ave Stanford ‘ave a go.”

“He doesn’t wan-”

“Least he wouldn’ta looked like an idiot.”

“... Yeah.”

“A’ight, get outta here. Fix ya face.”

Ford might have attempted replacing his frown with something lighter when his brother came over to grab his backpack, but seeing that their coach had been right in saying Stanley needed to do something about his injury, he couldn’t bring himself to wipe away the displeased expression. He had paid attention to the fight, of course he had, but seeing how he’d been in one of the back rows he hadn’t been able to make out the extent of the damage. Stan had played it off as nothing in the ring and since Ford hadn’t been able to get a proper glimpse of his face, he’d figured that it must really have been nothing to worry about.

After all, the guy he’d fought had been small in terms of… well about everything.  It had been a win for Stanley, as everyone had assumed it would be the moment they saw the kid, but just barely, and it hadn’t been as easy as they’d expected either. That was probably why it had been so surprising when his brother had let his guard down in the first few seconds and allowed his opponent the opportunity to strike. Ford had been worried for half a second when that had happened, but when Stanley had recovered as if it had been no more than a subtle breeze that had hit him, he’d decided his brother was fine.

And while the split lip and black eye Ford now stared at certainly weren’t the worst he’d seen him sport after a match, they still looked painful and in need of a good icing when they got home. At least Pa hadn’t been there to watch, otherwise Stanley would’ve had to worry about dealing with more than just a short chewing-out from their coach.

His brother was probably thinking along the same lines, because when he spoke he asked Ford if he would back him up in saying the other guy was huge when their father inevitably asked how it had gone.

Whenever the man asked, Ford always had to swallow his waspish retort of, “if you wanted to know so badly you might actually come to a match once in awhile.”, that would do more harm than good in the end if spoken aloud. It was just so upsetting, seeing Stanley win in the ring nearly every time he stepped into it, and knowing Pa would only ever be showing up to the big, “important” ones. The man had practically forced Stanley into the sport, and now he couldn’t even be bothered to leave the shop long enough to support him.

Meanwhile, here Ford was, coming to every fight, whether it was practice or a real thing, big or small, because he cared about Stanley and was truly proud his brother had carved out a place in the school that was just his.

The pleased glint in Stanley’s eye whenever he landed a proper, solid blow, and the grin that would spread his face when he won made it worth it every time. And Ford would never say at times he thought himself better than their father, but… he did think that.

The proof was in the puddin’, as Ma would say, and there was an abundance of proof that supported the notion of his father not being as good a person as him when it came to Stanley. Perhaps that was conceited, but Ford didn’t care. The fact of the matter was he came to his twin’s events, he listened to him when he needed to talk, he helped Stanley with school, and Pa did none of those things. Ford cared about Stanley and showed it. Their father just didn’t.

Which was why he nodded in response to his brother’s request.

“What do you mean “pretend”, Stanley? The guy was at least half a foot taller than you.”

“Haha, that’s what I was sayin’!”

Ford could see some of the tension in Stanley’s shoulders bleed away and smiled softly as they made their way to their lockers where he’d left his backpack. He was always pleased when he was able to cheer his brother up, even a little, especially after someone had made him feel bad.

Lately Stanley got irritated when he tried to jump into a conversation in order to defend him, so Ford had resorted back to their usual form of comfort that did more to avoid the problem than anything else. This time Ford wished he had jumped in, because the smile his brother wore didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the reasons behind it were easy enough to deduce; even if Stan denied that Coach’s words had stung, he knew better.

He wished he’d just jumped in and told the man to back off, because everyone had their off days, even his brother. It wasn’t Stanley’s fault, anyway. Not really. That opponent kid had definitely used his youthful and slight appearance to his advantage, and it wasn’t like Stanley enjoyed hurting people.

He just liked feeling powerful, and brave. That was all. Ford could understand that.

“Coach doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about, you know.”

The heavy sigh Stan released had Ford wincing even before he heard his brother’s reply. That sigh always meant nothing good would be coming out of his mouth.

“He knows exactly what he’s sayin’, I screwed up today,” Stan said with a shrug, “It happens.”

“But-”

“Can we just drop it?”

“I…” Stan glanced back at him, an almost pleading look in his eyes that had Ford snapping his mouth shut, nodding tersely.

There was no point trying to tell his brother something when he clearly didn’t want to hear it, and he knew how quickly his encouragement could turn to gentle berating if he was allowed to go on. It was just so frustrating when Stan refused to listen when he tried to make him feel better. Sometimes it felt like he didn’t want to feel better.

Ford supposed he could understand that; he liked to feel sorry for himself too- more often than his brother, at any rate. That didn’t make it any less upsetting though.

When they stopped in front of their lockers Ford knelt and got to work with the combination. He sensed more than heard the approach as he pulled his pack out of the container.

When Crampelter spoke, he sighed so heavily he feared it might have echoed throughout the entire hall.

“Sup, Four-Eyes. Sweaty.”

“Oh my God, don’t you have anythin’ better ta do?” Stan’s eyeroll could be heard in his exasperated tone and Ford stifled a snort.

The bully’s harrassments were biweekly by now and the brothers had become more or less fed up with him. It had started to show, too. Crampelter didn’t seem to appreciate their defiance either, if the beating he’d arranged last week had been any indication. Apparently that still wasn’t going to stop Stanley from being difficult.

Ford stood swiftly, scowling at the junior in silent support of his brother. Crampelter only scoffed and turned his attention back to Stan.

“Heard ya almost lost to a wimpy half-pint.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t,” Stan said.

“Ya really sucked out there.”

“Mm.”

“Coach is pissed.”

“I know.”

Crampelter frowned when Stan shrugged, confusion taking hold of his features, and Ford couldn’t exactly laugh at him because he himself couldn’t believe how nonchalant his brother was being.

“W-Well, he’s probably gonna call your parents and let em know how ya messed up.”

Ford bit his tongue to keep from snapping at the older teen. What kind of cheap shot was that supposed to be?

“What’s your point?” Stan sounded more tired than anything by then and Ford narrowed his eyes at Crampelter, daring him to elaborate.

The only thing the other knew about their family life was what he heard his own father gossip about with his officer buddies, but if he was hinting at what Ford assumed he was hinting at, he wanted to hear him say it to their faces.

He couldn’t imagine why the bully would go at anything from that angle today, especially so suddenly and when they’d done nothing to provoke him… but he could be unpredictable.

And oh, Ford dared him.

Go ahead. Say it. Give Stan a reason to knock your teeth out.

“Nothin’. Just bet yer pop ain’t gonna be happy.”

“Probably not, but he never is, so...” Stan shrugged once more and lazily hooked his thumbs into his pockets. “You done?”

Crampelter seemed at a loss for words and Ford tried not to let his own shock show. He always had a comeback… though, Stan was also usually riled up more, which gave him something to work with.

Actually, come to think of it, why wasn’t he more upset? Usually talk like this got him red in the face and ready for a fight. Was something wrong or had he actually decided to heed his advice and not give Crampelter a reaction?

Whatever the reason, Stan’s apathetic responses had the effect Ford had hypothesized they would, and the older teen scoffed and walked away, muttering under his breath words that were better left ignored.

“Yeesh, what was his problem? Am I right?”

Ford started when Stan barked a harsh laugh, but quickly recovered with a light chuckle of his own.  “Yep. He has issues.”

“You could say that again.”

The sudden change in his demeanor made Ford relax, his smile smoothing out into something more genuine when Stan threw an arm around his shoulders and ruffled his hair. So he had just been taking his advice on ignoring Crampelter, then. Good.

A yelp escaped him when Stan exclaimed suddenly and turned to drag him towards the nearest exit. Ford opened his mouth to ask what the hurry was about, but stopped himself when he remembered it was Friday; he should have known Stanley would want to move as quickly as humanly possible. Honestly, his memory was better than that.

Ever since they’d found the broken-up craft they’d dubbed the Stan’O’War at age 12 the two had made a commitment to always work on it every Friday after school, whether they had homework or not. The only times they could temporarily pause that commitment were when their parents said they couldn’t go out, or when they were both so tired they agreed they’d do it Saturday. Both pause options were rarely ever needed after they’d hit 14, and now, two years later, Ford was pretty sure they’d only missed a week’s worth of boat work in total. Which was sort of impressive when he thought about it.

But then, it was his and Stanley’s favorite thing to do, their special pet project, so of course they would keep to the schedule.

Though, apparently they were stopping by their house first, since his brother was heading in the opposite direction of the beach. Ford didn’t question the choice, as it was pretty self-explanatory; Stan was usually hungry after a match, and he’d want to grab some ice for his eye as well.

Okay, actually, he wanted to get some ice for Stan’s bruises. His twin didn’t actually care whether his injuries were seen to or not. That was something that always worried Ford, but he never said anything if for no other reason that to avoid annoying him. Stan got awfully touchy whenever he was shown proper care nowadays. It was never something he’d enjoyed, sure, but he didn’t used to make such a fuss over it like he did lately. Ford didn’t know why exactly that was, but it saddened him all the same.

**

When they got home Stanford sighed at the throng of people they had to push past in the shop to get upstairs. Weekends during the fall and winter months were usually busy, but honestly, it was a little ridiculous that they had to struggle to get into their own house some days. At least the crowd meant their Pa was busy and wouldn’t notice them getting back.

They should be able to sneak in and out without being noticed.

Ma was on the phone upstairs and Ford flashed her a quick smile when she waved at him and Stanley as they made their way to the small kitchen. As suspected, snacks were the first order of business in his brother’s mind. Stanley made a beeline for the cupboard that had been dubbed “theirs” and rummaged around a moment before producing his last bag of toffee peanuts and a sack of jelly beans. After that it was straight to the fridge to retrieve some water and Pitt Cola.

Ford opened up his backpack when Stanley came over with the goods and allowed him to deposit them beside his notebooks. The routine was a familiar one and the brothers worked like a well-oiled machine, with Ford double checking that they had everything needed for the pen and paper aspect of the boat and Stan grabbing the few tools they had to bring home every week from under the sink.

Normally the time doing everything was passed with casual conversation about the day, some playful jabs thrown into the mix because why not, but today, it was different. Stanley was… awfully -uncharacteristically- quiet.

Ford wanted to ask what that was about, but feared he already knew the answer, and that he wouldn't be able to fix it, so he stayed silent. It was better to say nothing then to say something wrong, right? He thought so.

When they finished with that, Ford grabbed a packet of ice from the freezer that Ma always kept on hand for instances such as these, and handed it to his brother. Stanley fought it for maybe a second before relenting and placing it over his eye- probably to get him off his back. Ford would take it either way.

They were on their way back downstairs when Ma’s voice stopped them.

“So, Stanley, how’d that match go?”

Stanley barely missed a beat before answering, his tone bright and falsely cheerful in a way that made Ford cringe.

“Good! I won.”

“I figured ya would, Peanut. Good job.”

“Thanks, Ma,” Stan said, the smile on his face a little softer then, more genuine. “Sixer an’ I are headed out now, ‘kay?”

“A’kay, be back before ten, ya hear?”

“Gotcha!” Stan gave a mock salute despite the fact that their mother couldn’t see it, before quickly heading out once more.

While there were fewer customers downstairs than when they’d first arrived, there were still enough to keep their pop from noticing them and the two were able to get back outside without any further holdups, something for which Ford was immensely thankful.

Besides, he’d ask Stanley about the match, and unlike Ma, he’d want details. Ford never looked forward to seeing his brother so down after those conversations. It was better to avoid those situations altogether.

They walked to the beach in a silence that was both peaceful and tense at the same time, and Stanford wished he could ignore the latter feeling, but with every step it became worse. Still, he didn’t say anything to Stanley about it because he knew his brother was only trying to forget all the crappy things that had happened earlier in the day- if the way he kept shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders was any indicator, he was having some mental conversations with himself again.

Stanford knew the shiner his twin sported would be a sore and embarrassing subject should it be brought up -much like his grades were for him when he didn’t get 100%- so he knew to keep away from that line of conversation. Instead, he began thinking up things they could talk about when they got to the boat; things that would make his brother laugh and put the match and the homework looming over his head out of mind for the night.

It wouldn’t be too difficult considering Stanley already didn’t want to dwell on his own thoughts, he just had to make sure the transition back into talking was casual. Then again, even if it seemed forced, his brother would appreciate the effort and roll with it. That was just one of the great things about Stanley.

“So, Stanley, what do you wanna work on today?”

“Hmm?”

Ford repeated the question and sighed inwardly in relief when Stanley hummed in thought.

“I dunno… We finally got most a’ the hull finished up last week, so… mast?”

“Heh, I was actually thinkin’ along the same lines.”

“Cool.”

“Right,” Ford said as they stopped in front of the craft in question. She was starting to look fantastic, if he did say so. In fact, he bet it would only be another year or two until she was ready to be out on the water. He knew Stanley was looking forward to that day as much as he was.

It wouldn’t be too long after that that they would be able to leave that town behind and go on the adventures they’d only ever dreamed about before. The older they got, the harder it became to work out the logistics of how they’d do it, but thus far Ford had been able to. Sure, it would cost some extra cash they didn’t have at the moment, but Stanley was working on getting a job at the garage, and Ford was sure he’d be able to pick up some jobs around town for the library and school. They were always good for some extra cash, and they loved him.

It would take some time, but thankfully, that was something they had on their side.

“Oi, Poindexter, quit zonin’ out!”

Stanford blinked when Stanley dragged him out of his daydreaming. His brother was already on the boat and he laughed a little at how deep into thought he’d fallen that he hadn’t even noticed the teen move.

“Sorry.”

Ford climbed up the ladder they kept leaned against the Stan’O’War for ease of access and went to stand by him.

“So, what’s the first order a’ business?”

Ford didn’t bother giving that too much thought before jumping into the plan he’d worked up earlier in the day. He knew Stanley was feeling down, but experience had taught him that if anything would pull him from his stupor, it would be working on their baby. Stanley just needed a distraction for a little while, and Ford was all too happy to provide him that for the rest of the night.

Ma calling them down for breakfast was what finally roused Stanford from his comfortable sleep. He combed his fingers through his hair briefly -a habit developed after the insane, gravity-defying bedhead had warranted teasing from Stanley- before rolling off the top bunk with a groan. He proceeded to flop gracelessly onto his brother, effectively waking him too.

“Aw wha’th’hell?!”

Stanley shoved weakly at him until Ford relented and got off, dragging the blankets off as he went before the younger teen could pull them over his head.

“C’mon, Stanley, Ma called us down.”

“Uuuuugh, fine.” His brother sat up and took his sweet time stretching, eliciting an eyeroll from the other. When he finally got out of bed, a few minutes had passed and Ford had gone to the bathroom to change his clothes, brush his teeth and properly fix his hair.

He met Stanley at the stairs and frowned when he noticed the tight grip his brother had on the banister.

“Stanley?”

“Ma and Pa are talkin’. We should probably wait until they’re done.”

Ford tilted his head in confusion then. His twin was rarely concerned with interrupting people when they were in the middle of a conversation on a normal day, so what was different now?

He went to ask his twin that but got his answer when he heard their father’s voice raise enough that his words could be heard clearly.

“He ain’t tryin’ hard enough and you know it.”

“He’s doin’ ‘is best, Filbrick!”

Oh. So it was going to be one of those mornings. But… what had brought it on? Stanley hadn’t done anything bad, their report cards hadn’t come in yet, so what…? No matter how much Ford wracked his brain, he couldn’t find a reason Pa would be upset with his brother.

What he did know, though, was that the words were hurting Stanley, and that he would not stand for.

“Hey,” Ford grabbed his twin’s hand, pulling him out of wherever his mind had wandered, “They’ll live. C’mon, I’m hungry.”

Stanley resisted for half a second before following him down. Ford wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be encouraging. As soon as their parents heard them they quieted, and the two took their respective spots at the table. Ford knew it was a foolish to hope they’d get through the meal without conversation, but he still found himself flinching when their father finally opened his mouth.

“Coach Rogers called last night.”

“... He did?”

“Said ya almost lost. Again.”

“Wha- no I didn’t! I got hit but I didn’t almost l-”

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Pa snapped and Ford winced, the secondhand discomfort acute as Stanley hunched his shoulders as if he was trying to curl into himself.

“You been slackin’ again, Stanley, and it’s unacceptable.”

“But-”

“I’m tired a’ your excuses too, so shut it!”

“‘Kay.”

Ford glanced over and upon seeing Stanley’s defeated expresion, bit his lip until he tasted copper. This wasn’t fair. At all... But then, Pa’s lectures rarely were. As unfortunate as it was, they’d just have to ride it out like they always did.

“You been failin’ your classes. I ain’t havin’ you failin’ this too when it’s the only thing you got goin’ for you, understood?”

Stanley nodded dully.

“I mean, this is just ridiculous, Stanley! You need to straighten up and do the work. You ain’t gonna be livin’ here forever, and the world don’t accept failures.”

Ford wasn’t sure he managed to contain the scowl that wanted to settle on his face when that last word came from their father’s mouth. He hated that word, especially when it was directed at Stanley. It hurt his twin every time and made Ford’s blood boil.

He’s not a failure! He wanted to scream, but kept silent; yelling would get them nowhere but in deeper trouble. That fact rankled him even more. How come nobody else could see what Ford saw? That Stanley was really smart in his own way- That he was great!

Not that he expected their father to ever see, of course. He never saw anything unless it was staring him in the face. Unless he saw Stanley winning, he assumed he was failing, and nothing else was ever good enough for him.

But why didn’t Stanley stand up for himself? If anyone else were to be speaking to him like this, Ford knew they’d be on the floor sporting a bloody nose, and while he couldn’t imagine his brother raising a hand against Pa, he also almost wished he would. At least then he’d be doing something other than responding to the grilling with a whispered, “I know.”

And the words sounded so hollow, so distant and pained, and that was the last straw for Ford. Without knowing exactly what he was doing, he huffed to grab Pa’s attention.

“He did win. I would know; I was there.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

The cold anger suddenly radiating from the man made Ford step back involuntarily, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked at the floor. Funny… he hadn’t meant to ``stand up. He also hadn’t meant for his tone to sound so accusatory...

“Nothing. J-Just that- I mean, Stanley has been workin’ really hard in boxing. Yesterday was an accident… I, uh, distracted him, that’s why he got hit.” Ford could feel his brother’s eyes on him but he didn’t dare look while he continued, “He’s been doin’ his best in school too. We did some studying last night and he’s workin’ really hard… That’s all I was sayin’.”

Their father scrutinized him for another second before humming under his breath and nodding tersely. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again, you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” Ford swallowed audibly and sat back down, forcing his breath to remain steady when he glanced over to see Stanley staring intently at his food, picking at it but not actually eating.

He wanted to do something to reassure him, but aside from nudging him with his foot, there was nothing he could do with Pa breathing down their necks. Besides, it didn’t sound like the man was done talking yet, and the last thing Ford wanted to do was make it seem like he wasn’t paying attention.

“An’ if that’s true, Stanley, then I expect you to be workin’ hard for all your classes from now on.”

“‘Kay.”

Stanley’s voice was steady but Ford could tell he’d just barely managed to keep it that way. It seemed to appease Pa, though, who went back to eating and reading the paper as if nothing had happened- as if he hadn’t just essentially told his son he was a huge disappointment and that he’d eventually be thrown into the adult world without his parents to back him up.

Stanford kept a tight lid on his anger towards the injustice of it all. He’d almost been hoping Stan would tell Pa to shove it where the sun don’t shine. Almost. He wasn’t dumb enough to think that doing so wouldn’t have ramifications, which was why he was glad his brother hadn’t, but… it never sat well with him when the teen just took the verbal beatings without so much as a scowl.

He’d gotten so used to them.

It wasn’t the first time Ford had acknowledged that fact, but he still felt sick to his stomach at the thought all the same.

The teen pushed his plate away without a word in the same moment his brother got up, excusing himself and heading out of his line of sight. The sound of his footsteps heading downstairs had Ford hastily standing and thanking Ma for breakfast, giving her a peck on the cheek as he did (she wasn’t the one he was upset with, after all) before going after Stanley.

They arrived at the beach without a hitch and Ford took his time catching up, giving his twin time to calm and gather whatever thoughts were bouncing around his head.

Stanley was leaning against the swing set they’d long ago claimed as their own, looking out at the crisp blue ocean with what Ford could imagine were eyes glazed over with misery as he played their father’s cruel words over in his head. To anyone passing by it would have looked like he was simply enjoying the scenery, but after so many years of being there to comfort his brother, Ford knew differently.

The way his brother’s shoulders drooped lower than normal, how he kept clenching and unclenching his fists slowly and shoving his hands into his pockets only to remove them a second later, it all screamed “NOT OKAY”.

“Hey,” he said softly, standing beside his twin.

He didn’t reply. In fact, if Ford was seeing things correctly, he shifted away from him. The movement was subtle, but it had him frowning nonetheless. “What is it?”

Once again, his twin said nothing, not even making eye contact as Ford narrowed his eyes, his earlier irritation towards their father resurfacing and directing itself outward.

Why was Stanley acting upset with him? He’d been the one to get Pa off his back.

“What? What did I do this time?”

“What didn’t ya do?”

The words dripped bitterness and Ford was taken aback by them even as he rose to his own defence. “You’re not seriously making this about me.”

“Technically you’re the one who made it about yourself.”

“I did not!”

“I’m sorry, what was that ‘what did I do’, then?”

Ford glowered at his brother and crossed his arms over his chest. It wasn’t often that his brother got like this. He swallowed the urge to yell at Stanley when his pulse spiked as his frustration levels rose; they wouldn’t get anywhere if he let the anger get to him. He acknowledged that he’d already made a mistake in conversation and steeled his expression as he asked his brother what was wrong.

“Ya had no right, Stanford!”

Ford startled at the sudden volume, his arms tightening their hold on his sides. He hated being shouted at, even when he understood, logically, that his twin was only yelling at him because there was nobody else to yell at. Still, it didn’t stop the stinging and confusion that the words brought on.

“What are you talking about?”

Stanley glared hard, his jaw clenching as he elaborated for him. “I didn’t need your help.”

“Wait, seriously? You’re mad at me for getting Pa off your back?”

His genuine bewilderment must have been evident because Stanley’s glare shifted into a less enraged scowl and he muttered, “I can handle myself.”

And that was a laughable statement if Ford had ever heard one! He didn’t laugh though- couldn’t find it in himself to do so. However, he did allow himself a small scoff before he spoke, looking past his brother so he wouldn’t have to see how the words affected him.

“Right, that looked like you were handling it.”

He knew it was a low blow before he’d spoken, and the way Stanley tensed out of the corner of his eye was all he needed to know he probably shouldn’t have said it at all. Never let it be said that he thought everything through completely before he spoke.

Ford braced himself for the cuss-out he knew he deserved, then, and frowned when it never came. All he got was a growled order to shut up.

Oh. All… right…

“Seriously, what’s wrong? You’ve been so… so passive these last few days.”

The reaction was immediate, if the complete opposite of what he’d had been hoping for. He turned away once more to stare at the waves beating against the shore, his entire frame tense. Ford scratched the back of his neck then, at a loss for what to do next. All he could think to do was stay quiet and hope his brother would eventually come out of it and talk to him… or prod at him until he gave in.

One of the options would be slower and might not yield any result, the other had the potential to make his twin angrier, yet it promised some form of answer.

In the end it wasn’t any sort of real contest.

“I’m sorry, Stanley. I’m not trying to make you mad, it’s just… I’m not used to seeing you this way. You know what I mean? You’re usually so… you, and recently you haven’t been.”

His brother’s stance sagged a little and Ford felt relief flood his system. Good, he was saying something right, at least, even if it was coming out less than eloquently. He wasn’t too keen on speaking from the heart without any sort of “nerdy stuff” (as Stanley liked to call it) backing him up, but at least his twin knew he was being sincere.

“You’re worryin’ me, Stanley, and I’m sure you’re not meanin’ to. I just… Aside from defendin’ you, did I do something?”

“What- no,” Stanley shook his head vehemently before leaning against the swingset, as if using solid weight of it beneath his hands to summon the courage to keep speaking. “I don’t know what it is. Lately…”

“Lately?” Ford nudged gently. He could tell he wanted to keep going, but just like he wasn’t great at speaking from the heart properly, his twin had trouble putting words to how he was feeling.

“Lately I just don’t see the point in tryin’ anymore.” Stanley sighed when Ford frowned, his confusion evident, “I mean, I wanna do better, but what good is trying when nobody cares anyway?”

“I care!” Ford ignored the pang in his chest with the knowledge that Stanley thought he wouldn’t and continued, “Of course I care, Stanley! Why wouldn’t I? And- wait, why didn’t you tell me when you started feeling like this?”

Stanley shrugged and scuffed the toe of his shoe on the sand. “Didn’t want you to think ‘m a loser.”

The admission was so quiet the ocean sounds almost drowned them completely, but Ford caught them, as well as the unspoken “like Pa”. He swallowed the lump that suddenly tried to form in his throat. He really thought he’d think so low of him? Why? Had he ever given his brother an indication that he could ever think that?

Oh, Moses, what if I did? When could that have been? Every conversation they’d ever have tried to spring to mind then and Ford nearly missed his brother’s next words as he searched through his own memories.

“Also didn’t wanna get your hopes up. Y’know, like Pa. Expectin’ somethin’ more from me even though I got nothin’ to give.”

“That’s not true,” Ford cursed the hoarse edge in his voice but powered through, “I don’t know where you got that idea, Stanley, but it’s not true. What made you think it was?”

The question was met with silence and Stanford wanted nothing more than to see his brother’s face then. Stanley could be his own worst enemy when he wanted to be, and if he’d really been feeling this way about himself for as long is it sounded, he was in a bad spot. Ford would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit he felt awful for not noticing sooner.

Had Stanley been that good at hiding… or had he just not seen because he assumed he was fine?

Ford waited a couple more seconds for something, anything, that might tell him how his brother was doing. When he received nothing, he stepped forward so he was in front of Stanley; it was driving him insane, not knowing what was going through his head.

The sight of tears swimming in Stanley’s eyes was not what he’d been expecting, and it was enough to make Ford feel like he’d been punched in the gut. He bit his lip as his twin stared back at him, looking as scared as he’d seen him in a long time, and Ford’s hands shot out to grab his brother’s shoulders, steadying him even though he didn’t need it. He didn’t know what else to do.

Just how long had this been bothering him?

“Lee?”

His soft inquiry had Stanley closing his eyes tight and shaking his head. Ford’s heart clenched painfully in his chest. He hated this. This… he couldn’t even fully comprehend what “this” was, but it was awful.

Oh, Lee. I’m sorry.

Without putting much thought into his actions, Ford brushed Stanley’s not-yet-gelled hair out of his face, gentle even though he didn’t need to be. When he spoke again, he kept his voice soft.

“What makes you think you have nothing to give?”

Stanley shook his head once more, a shaky sigh escaping him. “It’s stupid.”

“If it’s upsettin’ you, it’s not stupid,” Ford countered immediately. Stanley needed to understand that, believe that, even if he didn’t believe anything else Ford ever said. If there was one thing he’d always cared about more than anything else in the world, it was his brother, and Ford couldn’t see that ever changing.

Stanley’s throat bobbed as he gulped. “Pa’s right. I’m never goin’ anywhere. And I don’t want you to be disappointed cuz of me. I know ‘m not smart.”

“Of course you’re smart!” Ford gaped and leaned back in his surprise, “Why would you say that?”

Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say, though, as Stanley wrapped his arms around his middle and looked back down at the ground. “Told you you’d think it’s stupid.”

“No, no, Stanley, I’m sorry,” Stanford ran a hand through his hair, forcing himself to slow down. If he wanted his brother to keep talking, he knew he had to be fair and not continually interrupt him. It was just hard not to, when he was beating himself up. He wasn’t used to hearing him talk like that.

“S’fine,” Stanley sighed after a minute, “I know what you mean. But… I’m right. ‘M not smart- at least not in the way you are,” he quickly added when Ford opened his mouth to object again, “Not in the way that counts. An’ I never will be, so what’s the point in… in tryin’?”

As Stanley continued Ford noted with growing alarm that his voice sounded closer to breaking with every word he said, and that he had no idea what to do if he started crying. It was rare for his brother to shed tears -which was odd, considering how he wore his heart on his sleeve- and the fact that this was all coming out after a typical, if unnecessarily harsh, scolding from their father meant Stanley had probably been letting these thoughts fester for some time. It wasn’t a comforting realization.

“Sure, I got boxin’, and at least I can do that- or, at least I could - but people expect that. Why try any harder at anything else when everyone’s only gonna care about what they want you to do?

I… I bet I would do good in school, but… why bother? Nobody believes I can do it, and if I do, they assume I cheat, because you’re the smart one- a-and that’s not a bad thing! You’re a genius and you deserve to have people know it. But… I don’t know. I guess, I’m not goin’ anywhere in life, so it doesn’t matter what I do.

I could try to change, but at this point… it’d be pr-pretty useless. Ya know? They’ll never see me any different. I’m the spare, the idiot wh-who can’t do anything right… and I… Sixer, at this point I don’t even wanna have the option of being anything more than what they think I am.”

Stanley choked on the last word and Ford felt his heart shatter several times over. He hadn’t realized... hadn’t even considered… How could he have missed so much? How had he not seen that Stan was so torn up inside? He… he was his twin, his best friend, and he hadn’t noticed how much everyone’s words had been affecting him…

He didn’t even know what to say; how could he begin to apologize or make things better for his brother, but he found himself speaking anyway.

“You’re not stupid, Lee. I wish you would stop sayin’ you are.”

The whimpering noise that came from the back of Stan’s throat kept him going, filling the silence in hopes that he’d say something that would make his brother stop hurting so badly.

“Lee, you try harder than anyone I know- myself included. I don’t care if nobody else believes that so long as you do. You need to remember that. I know you try, I know how great you are. And, Lee, you are smart. Really smart! Sure, maybe not in the same way I am, but who says that’s a bad thing?”

“Uh, everyone?” Stan scoffed and Ford shook his head and gripped his twin’s shoulders once more.

“No. Forget everyone else. If they think you’re stupid, then that’s their problem, and they’re the real idiots. And, c’mon, I’m dumb in a bunch of ways myself-”

Stanley took a turn shaking his head and Ford couldn’t contain a harsh laugh before he pushed on. “Please, Stan, I can’t talk to anyone outside our family without sounding like a pretentious jerk- not to mention I don’t know how to talk to girls at all! Lee, I once had my wallet stolen by a kid who asked to see my library card!”

That pulled a little chuckle from his twin and Ford could’ve wept with joy.

“Exactly! I’m dumb in plenty of ways, if simply not knowing something is your definition of that word. So… you aren’t stupid. And… anyone who thinks you are just because you aren’t brilliant the same way I am, they’re morons- Pa included. Screw expectations, Stanley! Out of everyone in town, you’re the one who’s always saying, what was it? ‘Rules and expectations are for nerds and squares’? Those are things for people like me, Lee, not you, and that’s what makes you so amazing!”

Stanley’s head shot up in surprise and Ford thanked his stars that he was pulled back enough to avoid collision. His brother stared at him, eyes wide and damp and he took the momentary shock to keep going, rambling less as he realized what he wanted to say. What he needed to say. Stan needed to know just how special he was, and damn it all if he wasn’t going to do his best to be the one to get him there.

“Yes, you’re amazing! You think outside the box and you get things done in creative and sometimes downright brilliant ways because of it.” A frown marred his twin’s face at that and Ford huffed under his breath before a memory struck him upside the head.

“Hey, remember back in ninth grade, when we had to make that presentation on genetic functions, and I had been putting way too much thought into it, to the point where I was making myself anxious?”

His brother nodded slowly.

“I had been overthinking it, remember? You were the one who came up with the solution to it for me. I got an ‘A’ on that because of you. Just because you don’t think in ways considered conventional doesn’t mean you’re dumb. And you know what? Pa’s wrong if he thinks you’re gonna end up a failure, cuz you’re not. You’re going to go so far in life. You, Stanley Pines, are one of a kind!”

Stanley sagged forward then, dropping his forehead into the crook of his neck. Ford was quick to wrap his arms tightly around his brother, smiling softly when he felt Stan give him a light squeeze.

“And you could never disappoint me,” He added in little more than a whisper.

When his twin’s shoulders shook as a damp spot formed on the collar of his shirt, Ford shushed him quietly, rubbing small circles into his back until he calmed down. He wiped at his own eyes with his free hand before Stan pulled back, eyes red-rimmed but otherwise looking… Ford almost dared say, better. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Either way, he didn’t look nearly as miserable as he had minutes prior.

“Heh,” Stanley chuckled, doing away with the silence as he gave Ford’s shoulder a light punch. “I still have to get good grades now cuz a’ you, you jerk.”

A smile overtook his own expression and Ford rolled his eyes. “I can help you. Besides, if all else fails, you can just copy off my work… at least enough to keep Pa off your back.”

“Alright, I guess I’m pacified,” Stanley nodded, going to take a seat on his designated swing.

“‘Pacified’, huh? That’s a new one for you,” Ford nudged him lightly in the ribs as he took his place on the opposite seat. Stan only sent an unimpressed raised brow in response, which served to make Ford snigger.

They sat like that for some time, until the sun was high in the sky and they both knew they should’ve been doing homework or chores, or something equally as productive. Ford hadn’t realized how long it had been since they’d both been that relaxed until that moment. Naturally, in the past he’d assumed that Stan was just as at peace as he, but now, after finding out all that he had, he could look back on those moments and see that his brother had always been… out of it.

Now, though, with nothing weighing down so heavily upon him, Stan seemed to genuinely be enjoying the quiet.

Or, perhaps not, if the way he shattered it meant anything.

“I still can’t believe ya actually thought that kid wanted to see your library card.”

“Wha- I didn’t- I mean-he was ten and looked innocent enough, and we’d been talking about books, it was an honest mista- Stanley knock it off.”

Ford huffed indignantly, his cheeks coloring as Stan’s booming laughter echoed around them. Yeah… that had not been one of his finer moments, he supposed. And, honestly, thinking back on it, Ford really could see the humor behind his blunder; it was no wonder his twin found it so funny.

At least Stanley knew he wasn’t lying when he said he could be a real moron. They both knew firsthand how true of a statement that was. The real amusing part of that memory, though, was how they’d gotten the wallet back by having Stan con the kid. To this day Ford wasn’t even sure he understood how his brother had done it so smoothly, but it still managed to impress him whenever he thought about it. He’d even convinced the kid to give them ten bucks for the trouble.

And Stanley thought he wasn’t smart.

[ismael37olson]

Chaucer, Rabelais, BALZAC: A Music Man Glossary

Meredith Willson’s The Music Man contains dozens of words and phrases that most of us have never used or even heard, many of them things that Willson himself must have heard growing up in turn of the century Iowa. I so often get emails asking about one or more of these, so I figured, let's get them all together in one list. The movie version changed some of these references, fearing the audience wouldn't know them. But as the show proves, it's not important for the audience to know every reference -- it's just important for this world we create onstage feels honest and authentic to the audience. As long as the actors know and understand all the references, it will contribute to the "reality" of this fictional version of 1912 Iowa. Below is a list of those oddities and what they mean, along with some other references you may not know... Enjoy! Kibitzing -- talking, joking, chitchatting Notion salesman -- a guy who sells small personal items Button-hook -- a small metal hook for pulling buttons through buttonholes. Hard goods & soft goods -- Hard goods are durable merchandise, like cars, machinery, furniture, appliances, etc. Soft goods are merchandise that isn’t as durable, like clothing, rugs, and other textiles. Noggin -- a small cup or mug of wine, usually a quarter-pint. Piggin -- a small bowl with a ladle for serving cream. Firkin -- a small wooden tub for butter or lard. Hogshead -- a large container holding sixty-three gallons of wine. Cask -- a bottle of any size, but usually one holding liquor. Demijohn -- a large wine bottle with a narrow neck and usually a wicker enclosure around the bottom. Model T Ford -- a very popular car. In 1912, U.S. auto makers were manufacturing 115,000 new cars a month, about a quarter of them Ford Model Ts. Ten years later, 50% of the cars in America were Model Ts.

Uneeda Biscuit -- soda crackers introduced in 1889 by National Biscuit Company (now better known as Nabisco), the first crackers to be sold packaged with a brand name instead of just out of a cracker barrel. This marketing experiment paid off and by 1900, Uneeda Biscuits were selling more than ten million packages a month, while all other brands of packaged crackers combined totaled only 40,000 packages a month. Mail Pouch – a brand of chewing tobacco Teirce -- a wine cask holding forty-two gallons. Mandolin -- a stringed instrument (like a very small guitar) shaped like a pear Jews-harp – a small metal musical instrument you hold between your teeth and pluck Tarred and feathered -- covered with tar and feathers (which is often deadly) as punishment Rode out on a rail -- banished from a community, as punishment (often after being tarred and feathered), often literally carried out on a fence rail Two-bit -- cheap (literally twenty-five cents) Thimble-rigger -- con man or thief Hawkeyes -- residents of Iowa Livery Stable -- stable where horses are kept and hired out Billiards -- a table game like pool, without pockets Horse sense -- practical common sense Three-rail billiard shot -- a shot that banks off three sides of the billiards table Balkline game -- billiards Pinch-back suit -- a suit with a coat that is gathered in the back, the sign of a city slicker Jasper -- slang word for a (usually) a white guy who is simple or naive

Dan Patch -- a champion harness racing horse at the turn of the century, at a time when the jockey rode behind the horses in a cart, not on them Frittern -- frittering – wasting time Beefsteak -- a slice of beef for frying Cistern -- a tank for storing water that had to be kept full (by pouring water into it manually) for the family to use, before people had indoor plumbing Knickerbockers -- knee pants that gather at the knee, worn by young boys at the turn of the century. Bevo -- a brand of non-alcoholic near-beer, from Anheuser-Busch, but it wasn't introduced till four years after our story is set... Cubebs and Tailor-mades -- various kinds of hand-rolled cigarettes. Cigarettes were illegal (and considered highly immoral) in Iowa at that time. Sen Sen -- a popular breath freshener, very small but very strong. Arm'ry -- armory -- headquarters for a National Guard unit Libertine -- morally or sexually unrestrained Scarlet -- adulterous. It refers to Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel The Scarlet Letter. Ragtime -- syncopated jazz music, popular at the turn of the century, so called because of "ragged" (off-the-beat) style Dime Novel -- cheap, paperback adventure novels, in vogue from the 1850s through the 1920s.

Captain Billy’s Whiz Bang -- a racy monthly humor magazine first published in 1919, which reached a circulation of 425,000 in 1923. (Technically, this reference is a mistake, since the show is set in 1912.) Balzac -- Honoré de Balzac, a French novelist (1799-1850) Paul Bunyon -- a giant from American folklore Saint Pat -- St. Patrick, the patron saint of Ireland, a missionary who brought Christianity to Ireland Noah Webster -- American essayist and lexicographer, who created one of the earliest American dictionaries Cross-hand -- a piano piece that requires one hand crossing over the other to play a note or chord This Ruby Hat of Omar Kay-ay-ay- -- The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, erotic Persian poetry Stereopticon -- a slide projector with two light sources, so the pictures appear to fade from one to the next. Also, a hand-held device that lets the user look at two identical pictures at the same time, giving it a three-dimensional effect. Tablow -- tableau -- a grouping of people in costumes to create a still "picture" Springfield Rifle -- a brand of rifle Ruffian -- a bully or lawless person Crick -- dialect for “creek” Pest House -- a hospital or house for people infected with pestilential diseases (bubonic plague, for example) Pompy-eye -- Pompeii, an ancient city buried in the ash of an erupting volcano Gilmore -- Patrick S. Gilmore (1829-1892), a famous Irish-American bandleader who wrote “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again” (under a pseudonym). Liberati -- Alessandro Liberati (1847-1927), an Italian born cornet player, bandleader, and composer, who came to the U.S. in 1872 and played with many bands, including Gilmore's. He had his own touring band from 1889 to 1909, and was active in music (opera, other bands, teaching) until his death Pat Conway -- (1867-1929) a conductor, bandleader, and teacher, who directed several bands from the 1890s until his death and was the founder of the Air Force Band in World War I. Conway and Sousa were friends, and their bands often performed together.

The Great Creatore -- Giuseppe Creatore (1871-1952), an Italian conductor and composer who brought a band to the U.S. in 1902 to tour. He was active as a conductor through the 1930s. W.C. Handy -- (1873-1958) a famous American blues composer and bandleader, who wrote “St. Louis Blues.” John Philip Sousa -- (1854-1932) a world-famous bandleader and composer, who was known as “the March King” for writing many of the famous marches that marching bands play today. (Harold's comment in the intro to “76 Trombones” about all these famous musicians coming to town on the same day, appears to be a joke, although an obscure one. The joke is that it would have been essentially impossible for all these extremely famous men of widely varying ages to actually come to one small town, especially all on one day. Hill is just throwing out names that sound impressive, names that the River City townspeople might know from their piano sheet music.) Cornet -- a different version of a trumpet, shorter in length (the same amount of tubing, just wrapped around more), with a longer bell and a somewhat darker sound. Tympani -- big bass drums Horse platoons -- military units of horses (in this case, used for a parade) Euphonium -- like a baritone, which is itself like a small version of the tuba, but the euphonium has a larger opening in the bell and produces a mellower sound and better low notes than the baritone. Harch -- variant of “march”

Frank Gotch and Strangular Lewis -- two early 20th-century American wrestlers Jeely Kly -- exclamation, variant of “Jesus Christ” Taggin’ -- tagging – following Perpetual Motion -- the theoretical ability of a mechanism to continue to move forever by itself without any loss of energy or speed. The joke here is that Tommy thinks he “nearly had” perpetual motion a couple times, which is impossible. class of aught-five -- class of 1905 canoodlin' -- slang for romantic activity Diana -- the Roman goddess of the hunt and the moon faun -- mythological creature that is a man with ears, horns, tail and hind legs of a goat Hester -- Hester Prynne, the heroine of Nathaniel Hawthorne's novel The Scarlet Letter, who had to wear a red “A” in punishment for her adultery. agog -- highly excited on the que veev -- on alert, watchful, a corruption of “qui vive,” French for “who goes there?” pianola -- a brand of player pianos

Delsarte -- François Delsarte (1811-1871), a French musician and dance teacher who taught a dance and acting method based on the mastery of certain bodily attitudes and gestures. Gilt-edge -- of the highest quality, literally edged with gold Chaucer -- Geoffery Chaucer (1340-1400), English author and poet who wrote the very racy Canterbury Tales Raballaise -- François Rabelais (1490-1553), a French satirist and humorist, who wrote the very racy Gargantua and Pantagruel, which many thought was obscene and blasphemous Balzac -- Honore de Balzac (1799-1850), the notorious French novelist who wrote Droll Stories, a racy collection of thirty short stories malfeasance -- wrongdoing. The joke here is that implication that Harold could get a permit for malfeasance. flugel horn -- like a cornet, but with a larger opening in the bell. Minute Waltz -- famous waltz by Chopin that, if played very fast, takes less than a minute Quaker -- a member of The Society of Friends, a religion that rejects luxuries, modern technology, and anything that isn’t mentioned in the Bible. St. Bridget -- an Irish saint, who founded the first nunnery in Ireland O'Clark, O'Mendez, O'Klein -- comic reference to three famous musicians who were not Irish, the famous cornet player Herbert L. Clarke, the famous Mexican trumpet player Rafael Mendez (another anachronism, since he was born only six years before our story), and apparently the famous Jewish trumpet player Manny Klein (but again, he was born only four years before our story). St. Michael -- an Irish saint, who first brought formal education to Ireland in the fifth century hod -- a portable trough Mavorneen --mavourneen -- Irish word for “sweetheart” Tara’s Hall -- a music hall in Dublin Hodado -- dialect for “how do you do” Epworth League -- a Methodist youth organization, founded in 1889 Black Hole of Calcutta -- a small prison in India in which the more than a hundred Europeans were killed in 1756.

Wells Fargo Wagon -- a stagecoach delivery service started in 1851, which allowed mail order sales to flourish mackinaw -- a thick, blanket-like coat, usually plaid, named for a kind of blanket that northern and western native Americans made. double-boiler -- a small pot that fits into a bigger pot. Water is boiled in the bigger pot to cook things in the smaller pot. D.A.R. -- The Daughters of the American Revolution, a patriotic women’s organization Minuet in G -- very famous classical piece by Ludwig von Beethoven Tempus fugits -- hurry up. It’s a Latin phrase meaning “time flies” Frazolagy -- phraseology, or choice of words Rustle of Spring -- turn-of-the-century piano piece written by the Norwegian composer Christian Sinding, that was very popular in the US Grecian Urn -- the ladies are doing interpretive dance, based on the poem “Ode on a Grecian Urn” by John Keats. Shipoopi -- this is just a nonsense word Capulets -- one of the warring families in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Mississippi sturgeon -- a fish Galileo -- Galileo Galilei (1564-1642), Italian physicist and astronomer, who figured out that the earth revolves around the sun and not the other way around. Columbus -- Christopher Columbus (1446-1506), Italian navigator who is credited with discovering America. Bach -- Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750), famous classical composer whose work is the basis for modern music theory. Well-Tempered Clavichord -- refers to a famous piece of music by Bach. A clavichord is an early version of a piano. Redpath Circuit -- one of several vaudeville circuits in the U.S., a group of theatres to which performers would travel Criminee -- a slang expression of dismay, a corruption of  "Christ" Tintype -- an old-fashioned photograph Hector Berlioz -- (1803-1869), French classical composer. (Harold couldn’t be getting a cable from him, since he had been dead for almost forty years.) Cat-boat -- a small boat with one mast and one large sail.

Buster Brown -- a comic strip character Privy -- outhouse Shropshyre sheep -- English sheep known for very white wool and good meat From time to time, I'm contacted by a dramaturg who wants to work with us, but I love doing this kind of research. As I write this, we recently closed the amazing Sweet Smell of Success, which was just loaded with 1950s New York references. It was so much fun discovering what they all meant and sharing that with the actors. Like I said above, understanding all that stuff is so key for the actors. Right now, I'm reading everything I can about the culture and pop culture of the 1930s, as I start thinking about our upcoming production of Anything Goes later this season. One of the great joys of this blog is being to share cool stuff like this with so many people. Hope this list is entertaining and/or helpful... Long Live the Musical! Scott from The Bad Boy of Musical Theatre http://newlinetheatre.blogspot.com/2017/09/chaucer-rabelais-balzac-music-man.html

[badonkodank]

Better Kept Secret

ao3

Chapter Two: Security Of’en A Fallacy

The days that followed that conversation were uneventful, with Ford discussing with his brother what supplies they would need once they stopped in the nice seaside town of Tofino, British Columbia, where the various items Gravity Falls didn’t have were located, if his memory served him correctly (and it always did).

Stan had actually suggested a lot of logical things to assist on their trip and listened when Ford told him of a few specific things to be on the lookout for so that he could make a few extra magic barriers around the Stan’O’War II, which left both twins feeling more relaxed around the other again, even if there was some residual tension and upset neither attempted to address.

It wasn’t always easy to get back into the groove of things after a fallout in communications, however brief, and this case was no exception, especially where Ford was concerned. Although it wasn’t as bad as some of the ones preceding it, which came as a surprise and a relief to the man.

Ford supposed it had something to do with how quickly Stan had come to apologize this time, which was something everyone and their dog knew was a rare occurrence for his brother. Getting Stan to admit he was wrong about something was like pulling teeth, so when he came running to say he was sorry it was extremely difficult to stay bitter towards him. And if Ford was going to be honest with himself, it didn’t altogether matter how angry he got with his brother or why, because Stan could hurt and vex him left and right and Ford would end up forgiving him eventually. Stanley would do the same for him after all- had more times than he could count. It was comforting to know that no matter what he’d done during and before their trip thus far, Stan wasn’t judging him.

For the first couple weeks Ford had been terrified of letting his brother know he had been having any problems readjusting to the world, and while doing so now still set him on edge, he could do it because he knew that somehow Stan got it.

It had taken even longer to talk about his affiliation with Bill Cipher, but even now, after his twin had unthinkingly used it against him and dug up old feelings of betrayal, Ford felt at peace with his past decisions, because at least now Stan knew. And recent events aside, his brother had never pushed too hard, never told Ford he was being irrational (even when he himself knew he was), never tried to belittle him when the panic dug too deep and left him huddled in a dark corner, growling like an animal whilst Stan tried to calm him down and convince him to come out.

Stan just… accepted everything about him, good and bad, weird and weirder, as if nothing had ever happened between them even when there was a silent understanding that there was a difference between forgiving and forgetting.

Stan was the one person Ford could always turn to, the one who tried to never make snap judgements (which always struck him as entertaining, considering how his brother jumped down other people’s throats within seconds normally), always listened to his stories up to the end before asking questions (unless something wasn’t making sense with the way Ford worded it, but that was just Stanley), always helped him, always… well, took care of him, even when Ford had been at his worst around the house. And he never showed any resentment for it.

Stan was the only person he could truly trust when Dipper and Mabel weren’t around, and Ford knew that… but he also knew everyone had a snapping point; a spot where they drew the line and if anyone crossed it, that was it, they were done. Stan continually edged close to his, but somehow knew when to step back before he could toe over every time. That meant his brother was aware of what set Ford off and what didn’t, though, which gave him the advantage over the older twin in that aspect of life, because Ford had no idea where Stan’s was.

In this case, though… Ford didn’t need to know in order to be aware that if he were to answer the one question his brother had asked numerous times (albeit in different, sometimes creative ways), that would be it. He would cross over Stan’s invisible line and Ford would never be able to look him in the eye again. Stanley would never look at him the same way, and all the progress they’d made would be for naught.

Because Stanley didn’t understand, and Ford wasn’t about to fault him for that. It was good, actually, that Stan knew so much and yet so little about him that he’d been unable to figure out the things Ford was hiding.

His brother was indeed intelligent, more intelligent than Ford would ever have guessed. That was one of the first things he’d had begrudgingly admitted after coming out of the Portal after 30 years and finding Stan had redone everything by himself, even before Dipper and Mabel had found the other two journals. His little brother was anything but stupid like everyone used to say growing up, but Ford still didn’t think Stan would be able to grasp the concept, the enormity, of the things he was asking of him.

So he had said no, that it wasn’t important. There hadn’t been anything else he could think to tell Stan then, and he stood by that decision now, even when he knew it upset his brother. If Stan knew what Ford was saving him from, he would thank him. Nobody wanted to hear those things, even when they thought they did.

It was that resolution that had him able to brush off his chagrin whenever he caught Stan looking like he was having an internal battle with his curiosity and his respect for Ford’s privacy. No, he didn’t like having to keep secrets from his brother, but he also knew this was one of those things that had to be done for the greater good. Whatever nightmares plagued him as a result of that wouldn’t compare to the abject horror that would be written across Stanley’s face if he really knew the things he’d done to survive in the worlds beyond the portal. He wouldn’t let his twin find out what he’d become. He had managed to keep that thing under wraps during Weirdmageddon and during his more recent bouts of flashbacks, somehow, and Ford was confident he could continue to do it the rest of his life if it meant protecting Stan. He didn’t trust that side of himself anymore, it wasn’t meant for a world like this.

As it stood, Stan was trying to leave it be and managing it well. His brother went back to his usual self, teasing Ford about his reckless nerdiness whenever he had to be dragged away from an anomaly that may or may not have been trying to kill them because he’d been intent on studying as much of it as he could. With that light-hearted banter came the return of a calm atmosphere they both had sorely missed, and the knowledge that dry land was going to be added to the mix soon left both of them in much higher spirits.

Ford still wasn’t sure if all in regards to their argument had been completely forgiven, but seeing the hurt and honest, gut wrenching remorse on his brother’s face when he’d apologized had made it hard for him to stay mad. It helped that he didn’t want to be upset with his brother too, knowing his words, no matter how much pain they’d caused, had come from Stan’s own well of hurt that Ford had unintentionally caused, had helped the man come to his senses faster.

Everything was starting to look up again, because after the incident at the end of the summer he’d realized how stupid and petty it was to hold grudges. It was a hard habit to break, but one he’d found easier and easier to leave behind every time Stan upset him (which was frequently) and he had to forgive him and let it go.

At least now Stan was acting like his typical self, no longer walking on eggshells around him while simultaneously trying to doing whatever he could to have Ford feeling better -something he always seemed to do when he was feeling guilty-, which admittedly, meant he was only a little less funny and a whole less skittish.

Ford actually preferred him that way. He still appreciated the efforts, though, feeling equal parts annoyed and wistful every time as it reminded him of the days of bunkbeds and school bullies, when the two of them had still managed to get on the others nerves despite the fact that they never really had any friends outside each other, so fighting was counterproductive, leaving them running back to apologizing within the space of a few hours, or in the bad cases, days.

“Hey, earth to Nerd. What’re you smiling about?”

Ford hadn’t even noticed his mouth had shifted without his permission or that Stanley had been so close, staring at him intently. The man gave a noncommittal shrug and pushed away from the railing he’d been leaning against in order to go check on the navigation panel, not wanting to divulge his inner musings at the moment and needing to see how things were doing anyway.

They could see land approaching swiftly, but Ford still felt the need to make sure they were headed to the correct place, even if Stan was adamant that it didn’t matter what tiny town they ended up in so long as he could get fed and take a shower. Ford knew his brother was technically right, but sometimes he just needed that kind of control in his life. Sometimes he needed to go to a specific part of Canada and make sure their craft listened, dammit. It didn’t have to make sense to anyone except him.

“Hey! Poindexter, answer me.”

Ford rolled his eyes, Stan’s petulant demand coaxing another smile onto his face even as he released a long-suffering sigh that was sure to leave his brother squinting. “What is it, Stanley?”

“What’s with the dopey smile?”

“Nothing, and it’s not dopey.”

“Pfft, sure,” Stan smirked, coming over and throwing an arm around Ford’s shoulders, “Anyway, how much longer we got?”

“Well, if you’d been listening earlier, you would know,” Ford ducked out of his brother’s reach to jab at a few buttons, ignoring Stanley’s whine, “We have about an hour so long as the weather stays clear.”

“Damn, I want it now!” Stan bemoaned, his voice muffling as he went below deck to no doubt grab something for lunch since he’d been complaining about an empty stomach earlier.

Ford would be grateful for something to eat too, considering his last meal had been dinner the night before. He’d skipped breakfast in favor of finishing up a journal entry while the information was still fresh in his head, and Stanley had glared at him disapprovingly the entire time while he pretended not to notice; his brother at least remembered to not make any attempts to stop his writing.

It had been a good entry, too, when Ford considered the fact that he hadn’t expected to see anomalies so close to civilization, much less one belonging to the Merpeople. The Mermaid they’d encountered had indeed been a charming one, not at all like the stories prefered to depict her kind (it seemed Mabel was right about that), answering most of the questions Ford asked her without asking for any payment in return, and positioning herself in such a way he was able to get an accurate reference sketch done.

She’d told them the safest routes to take where the waters were calmest too, letting Stan flirt with her the entire time and even giving his brother a peck on the lips before she’d gone. Ford chuckled at the memory of how red Stan had gotten, realizing it had most likely been awhile since anyone had laid one on his twin. Yes, she certainly had not been what either of the men expected.

Galene... Enchanting.

“... Yeah, so all we have are crackers and beans, and I don’t know about you, but I’m already tired of beans.”

“And it hasn’t even been a month yet,” Ford sighed. “Stanley, you’re the one who insisted we take so many, because they were “something nobody could ever get bored of”.”

Stanley shrugged and ripped open a packet of aforementioned crackers, handing a few to Ford before stuffing one in his mouth. “Eh, I lied. Y’really shouldn’t be surprised by that still.”

Ford rolled his eyes even as he nodded. He really should have known his brother would complain about the food, considering he groused about everything else he had assured he would be fine with, like the numerous devices Ford had brought with them that took up much of their cabin space whenever they were taken out for use. Yes, Stanley was nothing if not a whiner when he wanted to be.

“Well, it’s a good thing we will have access to a store then, isn’t it?”

Once the ship had been brought in and the brothers had gotten onto land once more, Stanley had insisted they go to the nearest joint and get something to eat, an idea Ford had to admit he found more enticing with every step they took towards the diner his twin had pointed out.

Greasy food hadn’t been something Ford had particularly enjoyed during his younger days, but after his “attitude adjustment period” he’d become a lot less picky, and actually found he liked the meals he’d once labeled disgusting. Thankfully his eating habits hadn’t been one of the things Stan remembered with perfect clarity, so when they sat down and Ford ordered a burger along with his brother he got no strange looks.

There were actually a lot of little things about him that Stan didn’t remember clearly. Not that Ford was complaining, because in some ways it made life easier since Stanley didn’t know how he like and reacted to certain things anymore. Though, what was lost because of time and what was lost because they were just simple things that hadn’t made it back after the memory wipe, Ford wasn’t sure. The good thing was that anything he had forgotten was never a subject labelled as “important”.

The entire time they ate the twins stayed quiet, enjoying the companionable silence for the time being instead of trying to fill it with redundant conversation about what they needed to do now that they were here. They’d already gone over the plan a few times now and Ford could tell Stan was as tired of hearing it as he was saying it.

After the meal the two had searched around for a place to stay, finally agreeing on a motel close to the docks after several minutes of “discussing” the pros and cons of their choices. The place was decent enough, as far as cheap establishments went.

Once checked in, the brothers went about their business, with Stanley washing up first while Ford made sure all the locks worked, proceeding to add some extra security to them when he decided they weren’t completely satisfactory (you couldn’t be too careful nowadays). Afterwards, Stanley went to watching TV while Ford took his turn to shower.

Which was how he found himself standing in front of the small mirror in the room they’d paid for, brushing out his hair and cursing the salt air of the past week for making it curl so much. Stanley’s content sigh when he stretched out on one of the beds reached his ear and made him chortle, glad his brother was enjoying himself.

“See? Told ya this was a good idea.”

Ford hummed under his breath in affirmation as he set the brush down and went over to where Stan was, plopping down heavily beside him and nudging the man with his knee. “Now we have to get supplies, though.”

“Nah, we can do that tomorrow.”

Stan rolled onto his back and draped an arm over his eyes as he spoke, which had Ford resisting the childish urge to push him off the bed. Instead he got to his feat in order to turn off the TV his twin had left on since he wasn’t watching it anyway. Stanley shot up then to glare at him.

“ Hey, I was-”

“Come on, Stan,” Ford said, ignoring his brother’s protests as he grabbed the room keys and Stanley’s wallet, “You said you would help, and the sooner we do this, the sooner you can relax. So get up.”

The man grumbled loudly but got to his feet in the end, and Ford kept his snickers to a minimum, though, only to avoid being smacked. A tired Stan was always a grumpy Stan, and normally Ford would’ve left him alone, but he knew his brother wasn’t truly ready for sleep yet and the moment he quit whining he’d be fine.

Ford led them outside where the sun was still in the sky and people, tourists and natives alike, milled about. The smell of salt and fish was everywhere but neither brother noticed, having been at sea long enough already to have grown accustomed to the scents. Stanley stopped his griping instantly as Ford had known he would, more intent on looking around and figuring out where everything was than annoying his twin.

Ford did his best to ignore the bodies around them as he and Stan made their way down the street, but doing so became increasingly difficult when they frequently bumped into him by accident or seemed to let their eyes linger too long.

Ford felt his jaw clench tighter and tighter every time something like that happened and he had to force his unease down after a time, knowing it would do no good to grow agitated when there was no real reason. Logically he understood that after 30 years of relative solitude it made sense to be reacting this way to crowds, especially when he factored in how long it had taken to get used to the small population of Gravity Falls, but the frustrated part of him wished he could just be fine with it already. It had been long enough that people shouldn’t bother him this much, right?

Besides, it had been his idea to head out. He had to see it through if for no other reason than the fact that he was stubborn… and didn’t want to have Stanley knowing he still wasn’t completely back to his “usual” self- whatever that was supposed to mean.

However, when he had to suppress a shudder after catching someone staring at him (That was just a trick of the light. Calm down) Ford began to wonder why he’d been so adamant about getting supplies now instead of waiting until dark. Why hadn’t he let Stan nap and waited for there to have been fewer civilians out so they could go about their business faster, without having to look over their shoulders? But you don’t have to do that. Nobody is out to get you. Relax.

Ford wanted to listen to that voice, knew it was right and reasonable, but it was still hard, because no matter how ridiculous, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being watched by someone or something that he couldn’t see no matter how hard he looked.

A sharp tug at his sweater made Ford’s attention snap to check behind him, posture stiffening immediately before he realized it was only Stanley and nobody else. Just his brother getting his attention after he’d likely taken notice of his darting, suspicious gaze. Just Stan. Everything was fine.

His brother was pointing out a little building advertising food products as well as various sailing equipment, as nearly every establishment in the town sold, and he suggested they start there to see if any of the ingredients to the “magic science stuff” was available. Ford relaxed with the small gesture along with the reassurance that nobody was trying to attack him.

Stanley’s idea also allowed Ford to bring himself back onto the task at hand, which served to ease the distress that had been rising in his chest. The man gave a tight, thankful smile that Stanley was quick to shrug off, the unspoken “don’t worry about it” evident in the gesture.

As soon as they stepped into the store Ford felt himself breathe easier and he immediately pulled out the supply list he’d made earlier in the day, burying his mind in its quest to find the needed ingredients for his spells.

Stan seemed to notice how engrossed he’d become in the task, since he walked off to the other end of the aisle, putting cans of soup and other various non-perishables into a small cart he’d grabbed, as Ford knew he would. He stood far off enough that Ford could think but close enough that he wouldn’t worry about his brother’s whereabouts.

He appreciated the efforts Stanley took to calm him and he briefly entertained the idea of going over and telling him what he was on the lookout for, but decided against it rather quickly; not only was he going to take the social reprieve his twin was granting him, but he was going to assume Stanley remembered the items he’d told him to be on the lookout for. Stan wasn’t stupid.

When they finally exited the store with roughly half the things they’d been looking for, the sun was setting and Ford seemed more like himself again, suggesting with bright eyes that once they’d dropped their purchases back at the motel they should go further into town and see some of the sights.

Unfortunately for his brother, all Stan wanted to do was go to the bar and take a breather. He hadn’t told Ford, but sleep had been evading him since their fight, which left him in a constant flux state of being exhausted but not being able to stay asleep and being over-tired to the point he had jitters that prevented sleep. It shouldn’t have been that big a deal, but Stan couldn’t stop berating himself whenever he was left alone with his thoughts. He hated being such a screw up and knowing he had nobody else to blame but himself. But, he supposed that was just life; he ruined everything, so he shouldn’t have been surprised.

It wasn’t helping any when the fact that he’d been feeling uncomfortable about their stopping before they’d even stepped onto the docks of the town was added to the picture. Why he felt that way, Stan had no clue, but when paired with his lack of rest it was starting to take it’s toll on both his physical health and mental stability (he could practically feel the next flashback). However, with the knowledge that they wouldn’t be staying long and Ford had placed alarms and extra locks in the motel room to keep them safe, Stan was sure he could get a couple hours shuteye at the very least… that is, if he some alcohol in his system to help relax his mind first.

He knew it wasn’t something he could make habit of again, but just one night wouldn’t hurt.

Still, the uneasy feeling persisted, and it was strange, but ever since they’d left the diner earlier that day Stan swore he felt eyes watching them, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Every time he looked around, though, he never saw anyone who appeared to wish them any ill will.

The paranoid feeling was beginning to grate on his psyche, and though Ford hadn’t noticed yet, Stan was sure if the night went on like this he would, which meant the sooner he got a drink and calmed down, the better it would be for both of them.

He said nothing to Ford, though, knowing he was probably just being silly and not wanting to add unneeded stress to his twins plate. He kept quiet on their way to their motel instead, content to listen to his brother make plans and answer his own questions seconds after he asked them, the words blurring together until all Stan really heard was the changing tones.

Focusing on Ford helped to soothe the anxiety that had him looking over his shoulder every couple of minutes to search for something that wasn’t there, and Stan didn’t realize how wrapped up in his twin’s voice he’d become until Ford was opening the door to their room and he realized he hadn’t even registered entering the building.

“... And so we’ll just leave everything here and go back out. Does that sound good?”

“Wha- yeah sure, sounds like a plan.”

Stan shot out the reply only to mentally smack himself a moment later when he remembered what “going back out” meant in Ford’s eyes. He set his bags down on the otherwise empty desk by the window and added to his answer before his brother could say anything further, “But, I was thinking bar instead of more stores. Whaddya think?”

Ford sent him a look that told Stan exactly what he thought about the suggestion and the younger twin quickly continued, hoping reasoning it out might convince Ford it was a good idea.

“I mean, we’ve been movin’ around all day. I was just thinkin’ it might be nice to just, y’know, take the night off.”

His brother narrowed his eyes and Stan resisted the urge to retract the idea. He knew Ford was just mulling it over in his mind, weighing the pros and cons before he gave a response, but he wished for just once the man could say something without having to concern himself with every little detail. It wasn’t hard. Did he want to go, yes or no?

“Okay.”

Stan jumped, not having expected the answer so soon and so perfectly timed with his thoughts, as if his brother had read his mind. He was pretty sure Ford had seen the startled movement, given that he was staring at him with a smallest look of concern, and Stan slapped on a smile before the man could ask about it.

“Great! Let’s go then.”

Without waiting to see if Ford was following behind, Stan headed out, not needing to pay attention to where he went because he felt confident that, even though he could only remember spotting the place once during their entire time there, he knew exactly where he was going. It was almost like he’d visited that bar before, which Stan shook his head at because he would remember something like that, considering everything from his life had flooded back into his mind a few months back. Then again… a bar is trivial enough that I might have remembered it and just don’t remember remembering it. Ugh, don’t think like that, it’s confusing.

How he knew or not didn’t matter in the end for Stan when the next corner they turned revealed a neon sign in the window of the sought out establishment that blinked blue and red with the word “Open”. He smirked at his navigation skills and threw an arm around Ford’s shoulders as they walked through the small parking lot and into the building, his mask of being perfectly fine and happy slipping on easily with the promise of spirits close.

“Mmm, smell that, Ford?”

“Body odor and intoxication?”

Stan laughed at his brother’s deadpan humor and released his hold on him. “Not sure how you can smell that, but sure!”

There weren’t many people in the bar, but that was to be expected on a Wednesday since most responsible adults were likely still at work or just getting off. Still, there were enough that Ford and Stan didn’t feel awkward just standing in the middle of the room laughing before they got to the counter and Stan ordered them some bourbon.

He remembered Ford mentioning a few weeks back that he hadn’t had any in a long time, and by now Stan knew that “a long time” translated to “30 plus years”, which was not acceptable in his eyes.

“So, what’s put you in a good mood?” Stan turned to his brother and Ford shrugged a shoulder. “Nothing, as far as I’m aware. It’s been a nice day.”

“Heh, guess so,” Stan agreed while accepting the drinks that were placed in front of them.

“What about you?”

“Huh?” Stan tilted his head, not following Ford’s line of question.

“What put you in this mood?”

Stan resisted the urge to scowl at the way his twin had worded the question, aware that Ford likely had not meant to sound suspicious or accusing, and it had just been one of his reflex tones. He was probably referring to Stan’s desire to come here instead of sleep like he’d been not-so-subtly hinting to earlier in the day, wanting to know what had made Stan change his mind. That was all. He was only working out what Stan was thinking. Chill out.

“Nothin’ much, just thought comin’ here might be fun.”

He took a sip from his tumbler and focused on the wall past Ford’s shoulder so he wouldn’t have to stare directly at his twin’s skeptical expression. The man expected the next words from Ford to be along the lines of “what’s wrong” or better yet “stop lying”, but all Ford did was swirl the glass of liquid in his hand in a contemplative manner. Stan took his brother’s momentary silence as an opportunity to toss the last of his drink back, the burn making him hiss a bit before ordering another.

A glance back in Ford’s direction had Stan catching something akin to amusement in the older twin’s eyes and he quickly narrowed his own in suspicion even as he tried to make a joke of it. “Why’re ya lookin’ at me like that? I got something on my face?”

“Enjoying yourself?”

Stan nodded, sure Ford took it as acknowledgement even though he’d been doing it towards his own thoughts; with that question coming from seemingly nowhere, Stan figured Ford must have been studying him, not unlike he would one of his anomalies or books, reading him to assess where the behavior was stemming from.

It meant his brother had noticed his off attitude even when he’d tried to hide it, and Stan wanted to face-palm over his loss of deception skills… or his inability to hide things from Ford. Damn. He hadn’t meant to make it so obvious, since after all he was just being silly and fidgety from lack of proper sleep and his brother needn’t have been concerned.

“This was a good idea, actually. Coming here,” Ford said after the silence stretched a little too long, gesturing to the room around them with the glass Stan only now realized was empty. “It’s rather relaxing. I wasn’t expecting that..”

Stan snorted in spite of himself and Ford raised an eyebrow at the noise. “Mm, I was pretty surprised my first time coming here too.”

“Here?”

“Ah, well, not here, here, just a bar in general.”

“Gotcha,” Ford inclined his head before processing what Stan had said. Then he straightened up on his stool a bit more, an affronted look on his face, “Wait a minute, this is not my first time in a bar.”

Stan snorted at that and reached over to punch his brother lightly in the shoulder. “I’ll believe that when ya can finish more than one glass in ten minutes.”

“Are you kidding me? Stanley, one glass is more than enough for the first ten minutes!”

“Shows what you know, Bar Virgin.”

Stan bit his tongue to hold his laughter when Ford’s face flushed and he started sputtering for several seconds before regaining control of his mouth.

“I am not a ‘Bar Virgin’!” He hissed, unconsciously ducking lower in his seat as if the hunched posture would make it harder for people to hear. It was beyond hilarious, seeing his serious, brooding brother acting like a flustered teenager over the word “virgin”.

“Pfft, sure, okay, Ford, I’ll believe that… after ya tell me about your first time!”

“You’re acting like a child.”

“What was that? Didn’t sound like a story.”

If it was possible, his twin went redder and Stan doubled over, smacking the counter while his shoulders shook with silent mirth that left Ford glaring. The small twitch at the corner of his lips let Stan know he hadn’t actually upset him though, which helped him to calm faster, wanting to hear what his twin had to say.

“It was in college. I was twenty-one-”

“Ugh, law abiding citizen! Lame!”

“Do you want to hear the story or not?”

Stan crossed his arms with a huff but quieted down so Ford would continue. After staring at him in a way that let Stan know if he interrupted again the story would be done, the man went back to his recounting of his younger days.

“As I was saying… Ah, right: I was twenty-one and finals week had just finished. Fiddleford-” Stan tilted his head, the name not ringing a bell immediately. “-Oh, right, Mcgucket…” Ford squinted at the use of the hillbilly’s name, clearly not used to saying it as often, “He thought we deserved a break and suggested we celebrate the end of the school year with drinks. We went to a place downtown. I… got drunk… I don’t really remember much of that night-”

“Holy shit, you got plastered?!” Stan couldn’t stop himself from blurting it out, the shocked disbelief evident in his voice. It made Ford roll his eyes. “That is what “drunk” is, yes. It shouldn’t be so hard to bel- stop smiling like that!”

Stan shook his head, the shit-eating grin refusing to leave his face. At that point he wasn’t sure he could remove it if he’d wanted to; it was just too good! His Sixer, wasted in the middle of town, probably having to be pulled back home by his buddy- it was hysterical!

That was, until the tables turned on him.

“What about you? When was your first time in a bar?”

Stan sobered in the blink of an eye, his defensive walls shooting up faster than they had in awhile. He played the change in demeanor off as best he could, tossing his head back and giving a short bark of laughter. “Jeez, Sixer I don’t remember.”

Anger flared behind Ford’s eyes then, and while Stan knew it was caused by his accidental use of the childhood, Bill-tainted nickname, he still felt suddenly uncomfortable, and before he knew it he was fixing his answer. He didn’t want Ford to be mad at him, and if that meant he had to throw a little truth out, he could. He’d just have to try and be as vague about it as he could manage.

“Alright, alright, I had just turned eighteen.”

Stan checked to see Ford staring expectantly, waiting for more. When the man said nothing further his brother sighed in exasperation. “And?”

“And what? I was eighteen when I went into a bar for the first time.”

“Oh come on, Stanley! I gave you more than that, extend the same courtesy.”

Stan really didn’t like his twin sometimes. He didn’t want to tell him where he’d been that first time, and knew if he tried to lie Ford would know. He could lie and make things up on the fly easily when it came to things like feelings, or why he’d woken up so early, or how he understood what his brother was talking about, but it was hard to stare Ford in the eye and lie; he knew most of his tells when it came to that sort of thing. Argh! It isn’t fair! Ford can keep everything from me, so why am I not allowed to keep anything away from him?!

Stan knew why already but that didn’t mean he liked the answer right at that moment.

Because you want to please him. You care about him and want him to trust you.

“Fine,” Stan sighed, resignation ringing heavily in his words, “ya win. You remember that dive place just outside of town in… uh, Glass Shard Beach? That was my first bar experience.”

Ford’s eyes widened and Stan could understand why. After all, they hadn’t gone over everything regarding their fallout from what felt like a lifetime ago. Apologized, sure. They’d both apologized till they were blue in the face, but they still hadn’t heard everything, so this had probably felt like a little bombshell revelation to Ford. Stan could only hope his brother didn’t catch what his being eighteen at that time meant, though how he wouldn’t when he was so smart, Stan didn’t know. Wishful thinking?

“You stayed in town… until our birthday?”

Yup. There it was. Stan rubbed the back of his neck, not wanting to have that conversation right now, yet at the same time knowing there wasn’t a way out of it. Yet, anyway. He’d find one. The man cleared his throat awkwardly and stared at the tawny liquid in his glass intently just to avoid his brother’s face. “Uh, no. I left for a little bit. Came back. Thought maybe I’d catch ya… you weren’t home anymore.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Backupsmore. S’where ya were about then, right?”

Ford hummed faintly and the conversation fizzled out, leaving the brothers in an extremely uncomfortable silence for the second time that week just as Stan had known it would. He cursed inwardly at the stupidity of it all. They were grown - hell, old - men for pete's sake, they shouldn’t have been letting the tension of decades passed make things weird. They should have been able to talk about it as casually as they would talk about the weather, yet here they were, silenced over the smallest mention of that area of their past.

It was stupid but… they’d avoided talking about it whenever possible, not because it made them upset with each other like it used to, not even because it was a sore spot anymore (because the apologies had made it better), but more because Stan didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. He just had no clue where to begin or if Ford would even want him to. What was he supposed to say?

“Yeah, I stopped by, hoping you’d still be there, but it turns out you ran off without looking back like we’d always planned on doing together, so that’s… yep. ” Again, they’d already said their ‘sorrys’ and Stan wasn’t bitter about it anymore. So really, there was no need for Ford to be bothered by it. Yet he was...

“Stan-”

“Nonspecific excuse!”

Stan interrupted Ford, wincing apologetically when his brother twitched at the abrupt declaration but not taking his words back because he couldn’t stay there. He knew Ford was going to try and apologize again, and Stan already felt bad enough -both because he’d just had an off day and because he’d now upset his brother- that he didn’t want to sit through Ford’s mushy gushing that had the possibility of leading to tears… on his part.

Stan knew Ford would understand. He probably could probably use the space too. Either way he received a small nod from his twin.

Stan got up and exited the bar as fast as he could without giving the appearance of running away. He just needed a few minutes alone, that was all. He wouldn’t abandon his brother and Ford knew it, which could probably be factored into why he hadn’t seemed concerned. Uncertain maybe, but not concerned, since after all, if experience had taught them one thing it was that Stan always came back to Ford.

A quick breath of crisp night air and a few minutes to get his thoughts to calm down once more and he’d return to a more relaxed atmosphere again, where he could proceed to see if he couldn’t get his twin wasted.

That had been the plan anyway, however it became clear to him within the first minute of his being outside that it was not going to happen. The sound of someone approaching made the man groan under his breath. “Ford, I told you, I’m getting some-”

“Stanley Pines?”

The unfamiliar voice made Stan whirl around and tighten his hands into fists reflexively, even if he couldn’t think of any reasons as to why he might suddenly be in danger. As soon as he saw the man he’d briefly mistaken for his brother, Stan felt his heart rate pick up and warning bells began ringing in his mind, though why he wasn’t sure, because the face he stared at didn’t seem familiar. Yet something in Stan said he knew the man, which only served to alarm him further.

“Yes,” Stan answered warily, checking him over for any weapons while also studying his face to see if he could get his mind to supply the recollection he assumed he had. The man looked no younger than him and stood perhaps an inch or two taller, but he looked as plain as anyone else in the town - plain clothes, cropped gray hair, solid build, nothing special, even if he did appear a bit more sinister than most, though, that judgement was solely based on the way he was currently staring at him. Overall, nobody Stan could remember ever having run into.

“Who’re you?”

The man smirked, the expression devoid of humor and sending a spike of unwelcome dread along Stan’s spine.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Damn, is that really him?”

Stan jerked around when another voice echoed from across the lot, this one looking much younger than the guy whom Stan was still watching carefully as his arms began twitching, trying to decide whether he would need to bring them up or not. It wasn’t hard to tell something was wrong about what was going on, but he still could not think up why the men would have a problem with him. He’d never done anything wrong in Canada, as far as he could recall.

“He’s way old, dude. You sure it’s him?”

“Yeah, he’s right, those pictures were from way back when, how can ya be sure?”

“It’s Pines. I never forget a face, especially not this one. Although,” The first man narrowed his eyes in Stan’s direction, “I’m not sure how he’s even here.”

Stan tried to quell the rising panic in his gut when the two new voices joined the fray, and he barely refrained from glaring at the one staring at him, the one who was obviously in charge. Who were these people and how did they know him? Better yet, how did he not know them?

It was driving Stan nuts and he could feel his head spin as he tried to process what was being said, what was happening around him, and tried to figure out what he was supposed to do; with these guys gathering around and standing in front of all visible escapes it was clear they meant some form of business. Business that he wanted no part in.

Even with those thoughts running rampant through his head Stan found it easy to slip into his charismatic, relaxed persona. He forced a small smile onto his face even as his brows pulled together in clear confusion. “Look, I’m gonna risk of soundin’ redundant here and ask again: Who are you?”

The man pursed his lips, appearing to contemplate giving an proper answer. When he spoke his voice deepened, taking on a darker sort of amusement that had Stan fighting off a shudder.

“Nobody, as far as the rest of the world is concerned. Kind of like you, Pines, ‘cuz according to our records from, what, couple decades ago, you died.”

Stan forced himself to breathe carefully and not give away how anxious he suddenly was. Okay, so they know about the whole faked your death thing… and they don’t seem too happy about it. That’s probably not good. But that still doesn’t help! Who are they and how do they know you faked your death?! Stan wracked his brain and could think of no instances in which he’d ever come across any of the men around him.

“Paolo, are you sure he even remembers? He’s old enough he might be sen-”

“Shut it, Rickie, he’s no more senile then I am. He remembers.”

Paolo. Stan froze in place, a sharp pressure slamming behind his eyes, making him dizzier than before, and he had to widen his stance to keep from falling over. It felt as if a barrier had been broken open and things finally started clicking into place as he was flooded with brand new information from memories he hadn’t realized were there.

Faces flew past his mind’s eye and and Stan hissed under his breath when things slowly became clearer. That was right, Paolo. Another plan gone wrong. More dealings with mobs and... “The Rizzuto Family.”

“See? He remembers just fine.”

Paolo stepped forward and Stan backed up, making an effort to keep an eye on the other three that followed their boss’s lead and began closing in as him. But then suddenly it wasn’t three, it was four, five, eight- Where did they come from... Had he not counted right? No, Stan swore he’d only heard four people talk in total and he shook his head in an attempt to rid his vision of the others, but they persisted. Dammit, this was all his fault! - No, wait, why was it his fault?

“Heh, and judging by the look on your face I bet you remember why you’re still on the list.”

Stan sensed the first man before he saw him and jumped back to narrowly avoid the fist intending to connect with his head. He brought his hands up to protect his face as well as fight back, and when he landed a blow on his assailant’s jaw he desperately wished he had his knuckledusters, which would have sent the guy to the ground instead of stumbling back a few steps.

Another lunged for him and Stan growled, swinging quickly and aiming for the woman’s stomach. Only the blow never landed.

Stan yelped when he swung right through the lady’s image as if she were a ghost, the momentum of his punch sending him stumbling and letting his mind catch up enough to realize what was going on. He cursed loudly and picked himself up before anyone could jump at him, his eyes blowing wide when he found that even though he was aware his memories were bleeding into reality, they weren’t going away like he was usually able to get them to do.

Stan looked around until met Paolo’s gaze. The man stared back, bewildered by what he’d seen and Stan could only imagine how he looked to all of them.

Mabel and Dipper had been initially spooked by the whole thing too, when they had found him talking to thin air only to find out a moment later that he had thought he’d been talking to them. Ford hadn’t been able to find a nerd word that fit the problem but had said he was sure it was all right since it was just part of Stan’s remembering. Stan thought it just made him look like a lunatic.

No. Dammit, no! Why now? I thought I was done with these!

Stan cried out when pain blew up behind his eyes and he found himself back on the hard ground from a blow he hadn’t seen coming. A second later his attacker was digging the toe of their boot into his stomach, effectively knocking all the air from his lungs. Instinctively, Stan curled in on himself, doing his best to protect his head while a few more well placed kicks were delivered and he could tell he would be sporting some decent sized bruises.

He tried to think of a way out of his situation. Knowing the feds had likely abandoned him and that nobody else was going to help, Stan couldn’t see any way out, even if he did feel like he was forgetting something important. Didn’t I have someone other than the cops? Coulda sworn there was another guy-

His thoughts were cut short when the guy Paolo had called Rickie grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked up. The sharp discomfort had Stan following quickly before his scalp could start bleeding from the abuse. It would’ve been stupid not to comply at that point anyway; they had already taken his knife, he could taste too much blood and everything hurt. If Stan hadn’t been sure his associates had left him to die before, he was now, because there was no way they’d risk getting caught in the crossfire just to save him. In fact, part of Stan wondered if him winding up dead had been a part of their plan all along.

Stan desperately wished Ford would realize something was wrong and come out to help him. Wait… Wait. A. Minute.

“FO -ah!” Stan gasped, bile hitting the back of his throat when an especially well aimed kick was delivered to his abdomen. Stan took a shallow breath and swallowed hard, fighting the short wave of nausea before he opened his mouth again, determined to call Ford before they could do any more to him. The name sat dead on his lips when Stan felt cool metal press against his neck.

Paolo smiled down at him, all teeth and malice and hatred that Stan did and didn’t understand at the same time, and when Stan felt the blade bite into his skin he bit his tongue to keep from making any noise that could be interpreted as fear or weakness, knowing from experience that those got you dead faster.

“Nobody’s gonna save you this time, snitch.”