Two oneshots in one day?! You better believe it!
This was written months ago, after the series' finale. There's not really much to say, except that the tone is more experimental than how I usually write. Also, there are some dark themes, so please read with caution.
Enjoy!
The end of the summer is bittersweet, mostly for Stan but for him as well. The great niece and nephew he grew to love have left, leaving two holes in his and his twin's hearts. Yet, even with that, it is still sweet, still full of sweetness.
The boat floats in the waters, sails furling and the golden colors of the sunset touching it. He can feel the wind in his hair, and he breathes it in, closing his eyes. Such bliss. Bliss that he has not felt in such a long time. Bliss that fills him so much that it starts to hurt.
He opens his eyes, and his brother is there. For a split second, he can see him as the man he once was, this man with a mullet, but with determined eyes and a wide grin. But the image disappears, leaving the same eyes and smile; but now gray hair and wrinkles adorn his face. Stan reaches out his hand then, reaches out as a sign of reconciliation, and Ford takes it.
But as the hands clasp, it seems as if all turns black; and they stand in time, just like that. And a chill passes through Ford's heart, penetrating it like a spear. He realizes then, that it isn't over.
But Ford shrugs it off, always shrugs it off, and lets go and comes into the boat, like the good little boy that he is supposed to be. The boy that is truly a man, scars and burns proving the loss of innocence. It's so funny, the way that Stan had looked horrified the first time he saw them. He would have laughed, if it weren't for the tears that were spilling.
But that was then, and this is now. The boat awaits, the promise of a future. That is what it always came down to. This is their destiny. Stan deserves this destiny, even if Ford doesn't.
And so they sail, they sail deeper and deeper into the ocean. There is strangeness, there is mystery. And there is bliss, pure bliss.
But only for Stanley.
Ford grabs his forearm, tightening it until his knuckles turn white. He is alone in the cabin; Stan is lazing in the sun. Ford curses under his breath. It doesn't matter if the guilt stirs up inside him; it doesn't matter if he can't be happy. Stan deserves this, he deserves this and much more, after all the times Ford has broken him. After all the times Stan has broken himself.
Ford deserves this pain, but he deserves it in the dark.
Ford peers out from the cabin through a crack in the door. That everlasting sunset spreads out before him. It reflects off his glasses; it stings his eyes. But Stan stands out on the deck, taking in the brilliance. He seems to radiate. Stan deserves to radiate, Ford thinks as Stan smiles and breathes in the sea air. Not me.
And so Ford forms a habit.
It isn't a deep habit, nor a strong one. It is every once in a while. He takes a sharp object and does the unthinkable. It comes across his arms, sometimes his legs. But not at the wrists. Of course, that's where most people are said to do it; he makes sure not too. If he does, then he would need help. But he doesn't need that. He deserves this, just as much as Stan deserves the sunlight.
And so it will be, Ford in the cabin and Stan in the sun, a dichotomy of brothers. The dark and the light. And Ford works on his habit. Just one swipe, then he will go back to writing. Two swipes, he swears, then he will continue researching. Five swipes, then he is too numb and dull to make an excuse, to care for one. But then clarity springs forth through the numbness, and he will take out the first aid kit and repair the damage that is done. But it never really fixes him; just covers it. And he adds an extra covering with the fabric on his sleeves. Funny, Stan would make fun of him wearing sweaters in Gravity Falls. But now, when he needs it most, the cold Arctic air makes it impossible for Stan to think anything odd. But whether Ford wants Stan to know or not, he cannot say. Every fiber of his being fights, his inner core thinking This is wrong; I need help. But his consciousness strokes the wounds, conforming the notion that this is what he deserves.
This is what I deserve.
He might have gone too far, he belatedly thinks, when he is sprawled on the floor covered in crimson. Yet he does not move. The dizziness prevents him. And yet, he almost wishes that he would black out forever. But that wish isn't granted, and the furious din of Stan's cries and worries fill the air. Ford could dimly see Stan's knees as they fall down next to him. He is flipped onto his back, and he witnesses the the tearful eyes of his brother.
Ford smiles softly. "Don't cry," he tries to placate, but Stan furiously rubs his face and says to can it. Stan makes preparations, cleans away the Crimson from his arms, wraps the gauze around the wounds, and says that everything's going to be ok. Nothing fills Ford's heart.
Ford sits in the back, head dizzy and vision blurry, as Stan guns the boat to the nearest port. All Ford can remember then is the gurney, the hallway of lights, and the murmur of nurses.
Next thing he knows, he's in the hospital bed. Stan is sprawled next to him, asleep, but soon wakes up (his movements are the cause). Stan yells, he screams, he cries, asking why. And Ford just replies,
"I deserve it."
He closes his eyes, and it all fades to black.
The next time sunlight shows through (truly show through, not the half-done excuse of the light that the sun produces every day. The true sunlight, the kind that makes you feel alive) is when he and Stan stands on their boat again, looking at the ocean. The sunset is there, the glorious hues that touch Ford's soul again, like it did in his childhood. The bandages are said to come off tomorrow; the scars are healing. He hasn't done his habit since he left the mental hospital weeks ago. Yes, it's hard. Yes, there are times where Ford is convinced he deserves it. And maybe he does. But as Stan looks at him, wraps an arm around his shoulder and laughs with all the fondness in the world, those feelings are washed away. "Because you deserve it as much as I do," Stan says. "You deserve the sun."
And Ford can only smile in awe of the warmth of his brother, and fall into it. Because after forty years, that is the only place he wants to be.