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November 18th, 1981.
Cool water ran over his back, sizzling as it washed over the still glowing rune on his shoulder. His fists clenched as it continued to burn. The cold water was doing nothing to soothe the pain.
After several more non-successful minutes, he gave up. He turned off the faucet with a sigh and stepped out of the shower. Using one hand to towel off his hair, he craned his neck to try and glance at his back in the mirror. His fingers pulled at the skin on his shoulder, bringing the wound closer into his field of vision. The burn didn't like that. He only managed to see a glimpse of yellow before giving up again.
He ran a tired hand over his face as he pulled on his last pair of clothes. This had been the third time he had tried to relieve the constant stinging with cold water in the last three days. It hadn't worked either time before. In fact, he could have sworn the pain only worsened with each attempt.
He tumbled out of the bathroom, leaving the towel and discarded clothing behind him. It wasn't like there was anyone to complain about his mess, so why bother cleaning it up?
As he clomped down the stairs, the short hallway seemed to sway. He wasn't doing so well health-wise. He hadn't been sleeping and the brand, always burning, made his shirts smoke. Which wouldn't be a problem, but it irritated his lungs. {Once he thought about it, he considered going shirtless unless he was outside.}
It had been four days since the incident. Since then he hadn't eaten, slept or otherwise taken care of himself, apart from the showers. He...couldn't. Any time he tried, his stomach churned and his chest tightened to the point of pain. So he didn't. Instead, he poured over the pages of his brother's journal, until the sun came over the horizon. Passing out at his brother's desk when it did.
He stumbled off the last step and had to catch himself before he fell onto the ground. He caught the rail, pulling himself up and brushed it aside, dragging himself into the kitchen. The light flicked up with a click and almost immediately he faced a jumbled mess. He had to traverse several suspicious items before he reached his destination. The kitchen cupboard.
In his defense, the kitchen had been a mess before his arrival.
Grabbing at the last bag of saltines, he pulled away from the cupboard and walked back into the living room. He had stuffed three crackers into his mouth by the time he realized his throat was bone dry.
Ya know as one does.
In his defense, he had been in the shower. One would think this would be hydrating.
He sighed as he threw himself onto the couch. Dust flew up into the air and he sneezed, the force of it almost making him jump.
Darn allergies.
The bag of crackers sat at his side and he stared at them. Who thought that making something that tasted like salted cardboard was a good idea? Who woke up one day said to themselves, "I'm going to make ambiguous salted squares and sell them to everyone."
Whoever they were, he envied them. At least their dumb idea worked. They must have lived out the rest of their days with a house and at least a few friends and, of course, food to eat.
He had none of that. He had a may-be-dead-may-not-be-dead brother in another dimension. He had that brother's identity, his brother's house. He had a dry throat and pure fatigue that sat like lead in his bones.
There was no money to keep said house. There were no friends connected to said identity. There was nothing.
Yet he had everything he'd ever missed, didn't he? He had a roof over his head {that wasn't his car}. He had a purpose. He had a chance.
He gazed at the walls, covered in strange jars and metal trinkets. At that moment, something snapped together in his mind. His eyes glinted as he swooped down and picked up the first book he saw off the floor.
So this wasn't exactly what he'd asked for.
But no one, not even the universe, could tell Stan Pines what he can and can't do.