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“Stanley, are you awake?”
That’s how it started. Ford was standing over Stan’s bed when he woke up - rambling about something like the fact that he had a criminal record. Apparently, the news was still listing crimes. Maybe they’d gotten to the bad ones by now. It was still dark out. Stan told him to knock it off and cuss him out in the morning like a sane person.
Ford didn’t let it go.
Stan brought up the tie thing - which was a mistake. That kicked off a blame game that no one was going to win.
“It was for the best. You don’t think. You never think.”
“Yeah, well, I think I would have thought building some kind of horrible doomsday portal in my basement was a bad idea.”
“Everything could have been fixed. I was handling it until you came.”
“You asked me to come!”
“And look how well that turned out!”
“Keep your voice down. You’ll wake up the kids… And you know I never meant for… any of that to happen. You know that.”
“And yet it still happened.”
“I spent thirty years trying to fix it.”
“You spent thirty years pretending to be me!”
The shouting only stopped when Stan grabbed his brother, dragging him down to the bed and covering his mouth to keep him quiet. He mostly just wanted Ford to lower his voice, not wake the whole house. Even so, Ford didn’t take it well.
“Did you just bite me?” Stan hissed, drawing his hand back and giving his brother a shove to create more distance. It was only after the fact that he realized he’d probably shoved a little too hard.
Stan caught Ford’s arm when he shoved back. He twisted it.
Ford threw a punch and landed it. Stan’s jaw stung with the impact. He cursed backhanding his brother to deflect another blow.
“You’re the most selfish, infuriating-” Ford didn’t get to finish that thought.
Stan grabbed him by the back of his turtleneck and slammed him face down on the mattress - partly because he was getting loud again, partly because he just didn’t want to hear it. “I’m selfish? Do you have any idea what I went through to get you back? Huh?”
Ford said something, but it was muffled by the mattress,
“Huh?” Stan eased up some.
Ford raised his head and repeated himself. “Not this again.” He reached back and grabbed the arm pinning him. He tried to swap their positions but there wasn’t enough room without one or both of the tumbling to the floor. Instead they just kind of sat there tense and at awkward angles - like the world’s most angry game of Twister. Ford continued, “I’m sick of you blaming your bad decisions on me, Stanley!”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Stan gawked at him. “What kind of a decision- What was I supposed to do? You asked me to help you. You threw me the journal.”
“And you read it! You knew how risky- Do you have any idea the kind of damage you could have caused? The damage you did cause?”
“I don’t care,”
“Of course you don’t care.” Ford jerked his arm from Stan’s grip. He got to his knees and turned on him. “You don’t think! You never think! You stupid-”
This time, it was Stan who threw the punch. He pinned Ford to the bed again, this time on his back, his hands around his neck. Ford bucked his hips, unable to breathe, fingers scrabbling at Stan’s wrists. “I could have been there for you, you ungrateful piece of shit. None of this had to happen. If you could have just stood to have me within ten feet of you…” Stan stopped and let go before he had a chance to do any real damage.
Ford gasped for breath. There was something he seemed to be trying to say. Apparently, he couldn’t catch his breath to say it soon enough for his liking. He slammed Stan back against the headboard. He backhanded him and not even a full breath later, kissed him. It ended in seconds. Ford took a breath, drew back, then kissed him again. Rougher this time. He bit Stan’s bottom lip, hard.
Stan drew in a sharp breath and slammed the heel of his right hand against Ford’s chest to get him away. It didn’t take. Ford pulled his turtleneck off, his cracked glasses making a plastic thud when they were knocked to the floor.
Miserably, Stan leaned forward. He couldn’t not. He kissed Ford’s chest, his shoulder. He put his hands on the soft flesh of his brother’s waist and dug in his fingers.
Ford breathed in sharp. His hand came behind Stan’s head and pulled his hair to pull him back. When their eyes met, he gave Stan a meaningful look. He nodded to the mattress.
Stan glared at his brother then turned his back to him. He got onto his knees - shouldn’t have, but did. Ford grabbed him by the back of the neck, all six fingers there to push Stan down. He let go and Stan felt Ford’s fingers pushing beneath his undershirt. It seemed unnecessary. Stan tried to swat his hand away but Ford persisted, pushing the shirt as far up as he was able without Stan’s cooperation. He felt his way up Stan’s spine until he found the brand on his shoulder. That must have been what he was looking for because he stopped then, fingers tracing a vague outline of it.
Ford let out a breath he must have been holding. Stan felt it warm against his back, then he felt the blunt edges of Ford’s nails dig in. With his other hand, he reached down. There was the sound of unbuttoning pants and then he was pulling at the elastic of Stan’s boxer shorts.
Stan groped for the drawer in his nightstand before Ford could do anything hasty. There was hand lotion in there. Not ideal but Ford wasn’t slowing down and, hell, it was better than nothing.
It had been a while. And, God, everything hurt. He still tasted blood and his joints rebelled when he leaned down, burying his face in his arms. His pride hurt more. Ford’s slicked fingers had all the sexual prowess of a doctor you’d pissed off. Worse, it was actually making him hard.
Ford had an erection too. Stan could feel it on the back of his thigh. He felt Ford’s hand slide from his back to guide it in. Stan grit his teeth and dug his fingers into the mattress. There was no escalation. Ford started hard and held that pace. The bed jerked. One hand held too hard to his left hip, the other roamed the underside of his slumped body. Stan bit his own forearm, face burning as the blunt nails from before scraped down his chest and across his gut. Stan groaned and that prompted one from Ford, too - a miserable sound, like he was choking again.
Ford brought his hand between his brother’s legs with the obvious intention of ending this. He gripped his cock, stroking it in time with a final thrust and- It was horrible how fast he came.
Ford came, too. A small consolation. He pulled out and away from Stan, sounding out of breath.
Stan pulled his undershirt down and his boxers back up before rolling himself over to lean against the headboard. Ford was buttoning his pants back up. His posture was slouched and his breathing was still staggered. Stan couldn’t be sure in the dark and without his glasses, but his cheeks looked wet.
The anger still knotted in Stan’s chest didn’t dissolve so much as it gave way to a more primal emotion - the kind he’d felt when they were kids, when he couldn’t just punch the thing that had made his brother sad.
“Hey,” said Stan, reaching out and touching Ford’s wrist.
Ford winced. He took a deep and shuddering breath.
“Hey,” Stan began again, hearing his own voice tremble this time. He pulled his hand away from Ford but Ford caught it and squeezed it. He crumpled over it, then over Stan - letting himself collapse against his chest.
Stan hugged his brother. The will to hurt him was gone but he still probably held him too tight. He knew he was crying. He buried his face against Ford’s shoulder to hide the fact even though it was pointless. Ford’s bare skin was growing damp beneath his cheek.
There was so much to say and neither of them could say anything.
There was only so long a person could just sit there any cry. It might have been minutes or hours when they finally untangled themselves from one another. They probably should have talked about what happened, but they didn’t.
All the same, Ford showed no desire to leave the room. Stan didn’t make him. Though, he did get up and make sure the door to his room was locked. Meanwhile, Ford took off his pants to sleep in his boxer shorts - a pair that were too big on him. He’d clearly stolen them from Stan’s drawer at some point instead of just asking where his brother had packed up his clothes in his absence. It wasn’t like Stan had thrown them out. He hadn’t thrown anything out.
The bed was small. They tried sleeping back to back, but it was no good. Wordlessly, they ended up in each others’ arms, with most of Ford’s weight on top. It was uncomfortable, but they both slept easier that way.
***
Ford woke to Stanley telling him they needed to get up.
“Why?”
“Kids’ll be up soon if they’re not already. They can fix their own breakfast, but… eh… It’s a gamble, honestly.”
“I repaired the smoke alarm. It can wait.” All the same, Ford forced his eyes to stay open. Waking up more fully, he realized just how sore he was. His whole body ached. He turned his head to look at Stanley.
At Ford’s mention of smoke alarms, he’d evidently closed his eyes again. There was blood on the corner of his mouth and bruises starting to form if you knew where to look. Ford imagined he must look much the same.
What had they done to each other? Ford took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ he wanted to say. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t find you after dad kicked you out. I’m sorry I didn’t ask for your help sooner. I’m sorry things turned out this way.’
“I’m sorry,” said Ford.
Stanley opened his eyes, brows drawn together as he looked over to his brother. “Huh?”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you last night. I’m sorry I hit you. I’m sorry I called you stupid.”
Stanley’s mouth quirked into a weary smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”
“Dad never…” It didn’t feel like enough. “You’re impulsive, but you’re not stupid. I’m…” He trailed off, even though it still didn’t feel like enough.
Stanley sighed and put a hand to the back of Ford’s head, ruffling his hair, giving him a thoughtful look. “Thanks,” he said - which Ford realized was another thing he wanted to say, but couldn’t.
Somewhere in the house, almost certainly the kitchen, a smoke alarm went off.