The cold was bitter against his skin, snowflakes drifting from the overcast sky down onto him. Stanley's breath came out in puffs and the man blew into his cupped hands in an attempt to keep warm. His car was parked in a gas station lot a few blocks away, but the engine was giving out and scouring the city dump had yielded no parts.

Sighing, the man scanned the streets. This neighborhood was small, some hick town in… Missouri? Tennessee? His crumpled map of the United States had red X's slashed over the States he was banned from and the others had become blurred long ago. There was little point, as he'd be gone in a few weeks at most, after he'd gotten all the money he could from this town and fixed the Stan-mobile.

He walked up and down the dark street, his shoulders high, keeping an eye out for any customers. The box in his hoodie pocket was burning and heavy. After being kicked out of his home, his bag prepacked, the boy had done whatever it took to survive. That ranged from theft, drug deliveries, and…

"Excuse me are you..?"

Prostitution.

Stan grinned through his pain at the timid man who kept a few paces back, anxiously shifting his weight from foot to foot.

"Looking for a good time?" He winked, standing straighter and cocking his hip out. God, he was a disgrace. He should have accepted his brother disowning him-he could still see the curtain swishing behind Ford as he turned his back on him-and let himself starve to death that first month. At least then he could have died with dignity and not the degraded, used creature he'd become.

The man nodded, "H-how much?"

Stan put an arm around the stranger and pulled him in, blinking seductively while his stomach churned. "Hundred fifty." The man nodded vigorously and checked his wallet. Amature. Stan rolled his eyes and moved away from the faceless man. "You got a motel?"

He nodded again, "right up the road."

"Lead the way, cutie."

It was an act, they both knew it; but neither acknowledged it. Stan was a dirty whore used so many times he'd lost count and this man was a pervert, and they stuck to their respective rolls. Stan flattered the man, and the man (was that a ring tan?) let himself believe the sweet words rolling off a silver tongue.

The motel's sign was flickering in winter's chill and there was a plastic Christmas tree in the drafty lobby, decorations haphazardly thrown on the branches, half of its lights burnt out. Was it Christmas time? Stan's stomach ached, mind taking him to a New Jersey kitchen, his mother bustling between the counter and stove. Bowls and pans clashed as she went about her holiday baking, pausing to ruffle Stan and Ford's hair and hand them each a freshly frosted cookie before supper.

"My little peas in a pod." She wiped their frosting covered mouths with a wet rag, a beaming expression on her exhausted face. "Go on to your room, I'll call you when dinner's ready." As her boy's scampered away she'd called out to Stanford.

The boy turned and blinked in his owlish way, pushing his glasses up. Their mother smiled. "Help your brother with his homework."

Her request had been unnecessary, as Ford helped Stan unprompted with all school work he struggled with, but Ford understood why she had asked. That day Stanley had come home with a badly bruised eye from fighting schoolyard bullies who'd thought they could pick on his six fingered brother. Stan recalled that particular night Ford had crawled into his bed, tears glistening on his cheeks. Stan had thumbed them away mutely, welcoming the smaller twin under the blankets and into a tight embrace.

After a stretch of silence, their breaths and the traffic on the street the only sounds breaching the room, Ford spoke. His voice wobbled and he buried his face in the crook of Stan's shoulder. "You got hurt because of my stupid fingers."

Stan felt tears bubble at his eyes as he held Ford closer-

He blinked rapidly, forcing the hot tears back. He swallowed thickly and accepted that he was not back home, nor was he twelve and holding his twin close, he was in a sleazy motel to sell his body. He let the man lead him to a room that was paid for by the hour.

He watched the man in amusement as his hands fluttered over Stan's body. Deciding to hurry things up he grabbed the rough hands and moved them to his hips, flipping out a condom from his pocket with two fingers. The man blushed and abruptly pushed Stan to the bed, straddling him.

Stan could have easily overpowered the man, but he did nothing to stop the trembling hands undoing his button and zipper. As it always did the act of sex became hazy, the feel of the man thrusting into him dull and distant. When it was over Stan watched the man sitting at the end of the bed, head hung between his naked legs, mildly annoyed and wishing he'd leave so he could shower. The sound of sniffing reached his ears.

God. One of those.

The man was weeping now, blubbering.

"I have a wife, a daughter."

Stan sat up and awkwardly patted the man's shoulder.

"Go home, then."

The man sucked in a shuddering breath and nodded through his tears. He gathered his belongings and lingered in the doorway, mouth opening and closing. He left Stan wordlessly, leaving him alone in the cold room. Stanley was used to the emptiness, the shame and self hatred, but as he turned the shower handle as far as it would go and the water scalded him, he wondered if anything could purify him of his sin.

His mind wandered to Ford, as it had many times over the years. Ford was twenty now. Stanley was twenty now. He wondered what his twin was doing, if he had enough food and if he was warm enough in his dorm. If he had a nice girl to bring home to Ma and Pa. Stan shook his head. He couldn't think of that. Stanford was a soft eyed angel, gifted and worthwhile. He would be disgusted if he knew Stanley's true feelings, that he had woken multiple times panting and stiff after dreaming about slim and graceful Ford. Stanley sank to the bathtub floor and let the water run until it was cold.

He dressed and inhaled the smell of sorrow and sex. Ford could never love him now, not even as a brother. The man wrapped fresh bandages around the red gashed that ran along the inside of his wrists and forearms. Another reminder that he was not only filthy.

He was a failure.

. . .

Fiddleford McGucket hummed as he walked through the convenience store. He was ecstatic to be home for Christmas, if not a bit guilty for leaving Stanford behind. If the man wanted to brood in their dorm hunched over textbooks then he could do so, but Fiddleford was a good son who loved his mamma. Heaven forbid he break the poor woman's heart. "Fiddleford you be good to the women in your life," that's what she'd always told him. He'd chuckle bashfully when she said it, running a hand through his hair, unable to tell his mother that he probably would never bring a girl home for his family to meet.

His mother, although well versed in the word of God, was kindhearted and accepting of all her children-she loved his long hair and tie dye shirts. He knew that he would never be cast from his home, door slammed behind him. His mother would love him no matter what he did. That's how she was, and Fiddleford knew he shouldn't be afraid to tell her he preferred men's company, yet the uneasiness sloshing around in his stomach refused to subside until he perished the thought.

No, his mother could believe that he would give her grandchildren for a few more years.

The college student clutched the plastic bags bulging with groceries as he hurried down the frozen sidewalk, bumping the broad shoulders of a stranger. Fiddleford McGucket went down with an unmanly yelp, sprawling on the ground with his groceries scattered around him. The man stopped, eyes wide. He mumbled an apology and gathered the fallen items, stuffing them back into their bags. Stan looked up at the man he'd bowled over, hazel eyes meeting shocked and glimmering green ones.

"Stan...ford?"

Stanley reeled as if the man has stuck him. He moved too fast and had to catch his balance before he too fell. He turned to leave, no questions asked, when the stranger's hand caught his wrist.

"Wait!" the honey haired man pulled himself up, desperately keeping his grip on Stanley. "Please, I'm sorry. You're Stanley, aren't you? Stanford's brother."

Stan nodded reluctantly, wincing when the man flung his skinny arms around his middle, squeezing with surprising strength. "Stanford's told me about you!"

Stan's eyebrows furrowed. "He… talks about me?"

Fiddleford was oblivious to his confusion. "Yes, yes!" he took a breath to compose himself. "He's told me a bit about you, and that you haven't been home for a few years. Oh jackrabbit on a hot tin roof! I can't believe this."

"Uh, what?" Stan was questioning the obscure, distinctly southern saying, but Fiddleford mistook his confusion.

"Ford misses you so much, Stanley, even if he only says it when he's asleep."

Stan's swayed, light headed. Ford… missed him. He turned to face the smaller man, his foot crushing a small box. His heart lurched, fearing he'd broken something of this man's. Lifting his foot they both saw it was not Fiddleford's. Smashed into the old, dirty snow was a box of condoms. Stan grabbed at his hoodie. Empty. He looked away, ears and face flushed red. Fiddleford didn't comment, and his smile didn't fade. He simply finished grabbing his groceries and offered Stan his arm.

"Come to dinner with me?"

Stan wanted to refuse, but he hadn't eaten for two days and he decided he didn't want to go for three.

They walked on, Fiddleford chattering good-naturedly.

"My names Fiddleford McGucket, by the way."

Stan nodded and let the other man continue, relieved he wasn't expected to contribute to the conversation.

"My parent's live on a farm but we always meet at my aunt's house for Christmas." He explained.

They didn't have to walk far to reach the large house, cars lining both sides of the street. Fiddleford smiled at Stanley, despite most likely having already connected the dots, despite knowing that he was a dirty street whore. For a moment Stanley was reminded of Ford, gentle and smiling at him when he needed it most.

Entering the house brought a wave of heat and laughter over them. Instantly they were surrounded by McGucket family. A soft, round woman with bright lipstick hugged Fiddleford.

"My baby! We've missed you." Fiddleford blushed and tugged at his collar, but did nothing to escape the embrace.

"Mom, this is my friend Stan-" he was cut off when the woman went for Stanley next, her plush arms pulling the young man into the same exuberant hug she'd given her son.

"I thought you'd never bring someone home."

Stanley stuttered at the implications, pulling away. He suddenly knew where Fiddleford got his hugging habit.

The nature of Stan's and Fiddleford's relationship was ignored for favor of pleasant introductions.

"Henrietta McGucket, a pleasure to meet my son's friends."

"Stan Pines." Stan leaned away from her imprisoning, perfumed arms and she released him.

She returned her affections to her son, giving another hug and holding his hands in her pudgy ones before leaving to smoother another victim.

Twenty or so people filled the house, each person as friendly and touchy as the last. While Stanley was used to people pawing at him, this parade of friendliness was unnerving.

Sensing his discomfort Fiddleford leaned over to whisper, "sorry, they're always like this. Pizza delivery guy hates us."

Stan laughed and Fiddleford grinned. He dragged Stan to a table cluttered with various dishes. He passed the groceries along, then set about fixing two plates. Dishes pilled high he returned to Stan, who'd been roped into an awkward conversation with Fiddleford's sister.

"Geez, bro. You got yourself one sweet peach." She snickered, brushing a hand along Stan's muscled arm playfully. "I won't steal yours if you don't steal mine." She winked and meandered into the crowd of relatives.

"Sorry." Fiddleford cheeks were stained pink. "My family thought I'd be alone forever."

Stanley smirked, shaking his head. "I'm not the best guy to bring home."

Fiddleford frowned, and Stan found he didn't like how it looked. As it was with Ford he hated seeing this man, this stranger, displeased.

"Don't say that, Stanley."

He didn't say anything further, smile returning to his gentle features.

The evening went on for too long, in Stan's opinion. He itched to get back to his car, no matter that it might not start. He was too accustomed to the streets; they were where he belonged and where he would eventually die. This night had been a painful reminder of what he'd lost and could never have again. Family, warmth, food, love… he didn't deserve it. Had Fiddleford and his mother not been constantly hovering just beyond his shoulder he would have already slipped out.

Finally, after many goodbye's and murmuring between Fiddleford and his mother, the man came back to Stan with his jacket on.

"Ready?" Stan gave him a look. "You can't go back out there, wherever it was, come back with me to the college."

His mouth fell open to protest, but Stan had no words to argue with. He frowned and followed Fiddleford to a faded blue Beetle sporting a peace bumper sticker.

His car was breaking down… he still had a few friends back in New Jersey he could mooch off of for a while.

His body was weighed down by trepidation he'd carried with him since the night his father had literally thrown him out of the house. Reasons to refuse and to accept the offer danced in his head. With the difficulty of wading through water he climbed into the open passenger's side.

Fiddleford drove exactly the speed limit, signaling when he turned and pausing at crosswalks. He drove into a motel parking lot. Stan thanked whatever God there was that it was not the same one from his earlier excursions.

"House is too crowded with all my relations. We'll spend the night here and go back to see everyone off." He explained, parking.

The man leaned over Stan's lap and yanked on the door handle, wrist flicking in a way that popped the door open. "Darn things broke and I'm to broke to get it fixed."

They got out, Fiddleford lugging a suitcase from the trunk.

"Here," Stan took it, ears heating up when Fiddleford thanked him.

The motel room was like the many others Stan had taken residence in. A bed with scratchy sheets, a landscape painting and a bible in the bedside table. He set the suitcase down and crouched beside the bed, pulling up the covers.

"No bedbugs." He confirmed.

"Mercy, I hope not. Awful critters." Fiddleford surveyed the room, realizing it had only one queen size bed. "Looks like we're bunk mates."

Stanley hoped his discomfort didn't show. He slept with men for money, sleeping next to a friend of Ford's should be leagues less uncomfortable.

If Fiddleford noticed his uncertainty he didn't comment. He busied himself by unloading his luggage, pulling out pajamas and toiletries. Toothbrush and pajamas in hand went for the bathroom.

Alone, Stan sat at the edge of the bed and flipped through the T.V. channels. He settled for an old, animated Christmas movie. The characters harped on goodwill to men and the true meaning of Christmas, while still managing to be sexist bigots.

"Why did we love this?" He wondered aloud, thinking to the times he and Ford had watched the same movie with rapt attention.

"Rudolph?" Fiddleford came out, dressed in a striped, button up shirt with matching bottoms that made him look like an overgrown child.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. As a kid I never realized how awful this show is."

"Wisdom is often something we lack in youth."

Stan looked at his host strangely, but the slighter man only smiled. "We'll be up early tomorrow, and we'll leave for home about ten. I'd get some shut eye."

He climbed into bed, unbothered by the stranger beside him. It would be easy to steal this man's car while he slept, to empty his bank accounts and skip town. But the moment the idea entered Stan's head he dismissed it. Fiddleford was not a sleazy sex patron, falling asleep after pounding his cares away. He was a kindhearted man who was helping someone he didn't know except for stories he'd heard. Stan couldn't steal from this man.

So he too got under the covers, watching bad Christmas specials until his eyelids fell and sleep claimed him.

. . .

True to his word they stopped at Fiddleford's home to visit once more before getting on the road. Stan was forcefully encouraged to eat breakfast by several female relatives, the buxom women insisting he was too thin.

"Oh, honey, you wait here." An aunt, Stan thought it was an aunt, disappeared upstairs and returned with a bundle of fabric. "My own boy is off at college on a football scholarship, and he's about your size. I don't think he'll miss these."

She handed him a grey sweater and a jacket.

"Ma'am I don't think-"

"Nonsense. Nothing wrong with taking help when you need it, alright?"

Stan felt tears burning in his eyes and he nodded. "Good, now you go put those on."

When he returned, the women all looked approving.

"Such a handsome young man," the aunt said. "I wish I had some shoes, but I guess this will have to do."

"Stan, are you ready?" Fiddleford poked his head into the kitchen, blinking at the sight. "Shucks, those look good on you. Sue, are those Carl's old clothes?"

"Yes they are."

"Well they look much better on you, Stan." Fiddleford joked, grinning as his aunt huffed.

"You boys drive safe," Henrietta said from the doorway. "And call when you can."

"Okay, ma. I love you." The college student hugged her, waving as they walked to his car. He waved until they made it down the street, beginning the long journey.

Stan slept for a good portion of it, catching up on the sleep he had missed during the long nights spent selling his soul away, one man at a time.

Fiddleford didn't speak much, a drastic change from earlier. Stan had lived out of his car for three years, but during that time he would talk to himself, to the radio, and to Ford. Fiddleford kept the radio on low, its music fading into the background maddeningly. When he couldn't take the silence anymore Stan started asking questions. Simple things. What's your major? Middle name? Beer or hard liquor? Cigarettes or cigars?

The last two questions informed Stanley that, although being an atheist, Fiddleford was an extremely tame and mild mannered man who did not partake in either activity because they were "superfluous and unhealthy." Goodie two shoes.

The ride again elapsed into only the sound of the tires on the pavement.

"Stanley?"

The man glanced at the driver, whose attention was seemingly devoted to the road. Had he imagined him speaking?

"You really should put some disinfectant on those wounds."

Stan grimaced, shrinking in his seat. Not what he had been expecting.

Fiddleford waited to give Stan an opportunity to respond. When he didn't the college student continued. "They're probably infected, and it could turn into blood poisoning." His voice was even. "Stanley?"

The man refused to answer. Sighing, Fiddleford pulled up to an underwhelming campus. "We're here."

Stan jolted and stared in awe at the building. "We're here…" He said it softly to himself. Fiddleford allowed himself a smile and parked, stretching his legs happily. He watched Stan expectantly, and the man realized he'd been staring slack jawed for well over five minutes.

He hadn't been feeling confident about this before, but now that they were here his stomach had withered away entirely. He couldn't face Ford; not after ruining his life. Ford was beautiful and perfect. Stan would only taint him. He had to-

Fiddleford was gripping his shoulders, staring him in the eyes. Emerald locked with amber-hazel orbs.

For a moment time didn't exist; it was suspended around them, tangible. Stan took a sharp breath. It shattered.

He peeled himself from the ridiculously small car. If Ford spat in his face and hated him, he deserved it. But there was a chance, however slim, that Ford had missed him. The thought of Ford hating him-even though he'd assumed it so for years-was devastating.

If he did resent him, well… his forearms ached.

Stan breathed deeply.

There was always an out.

Fiddleford held his hand gently. They walked through a grassy courtyard to a door that led to student housing.

This was it. Stan gulped. Now or never.

Fiddleford sorted through his keys and turned the lock unbearably slowly.

It swung in.

Stan's eyes widened, his heart stuttered and he stood frozen to the spot. There, slumped on a desk, hand raking through his chestnut hair, was Stanford.

"What is it?" He turned irritably, voice suddenly failing him. The twins stared at each other with mirrored expressions of shock, Fiddleford worrying his lower lip as he watched them.

"...Stanley."

Stanley's foot slid back reflexively. Ford rose quickly and sent his chair to the floor. Stan turned, preparing to run far and fast. Ford was faster.

He grabbed Stan by his jacket and the brothers again froze.

Stan guiltily faced his twin…

And was surprised to see tears rather than rage. Ford launched himself at Stanley, hugging him harder than anyone else had over the past few days.

"Stanley…" he smiled and let out a choked laugh. "Stanley you're here."

Stan hesitantly put his arms around the shaking man. Instinct kicked in and he returned the embrace, stroking his brothers hair.

"It's okay, Sixer." he soothed, tears falling from his eyes without his noticing.

Ford ripped away from the comfort, brows turned down. "Where have you been?" His voice held no real anger.

Stanley's weak smile crumbled and he looked at his threadbare shoes.

"Oh, God, Ford." His legs decided not to support his weight. Ford followed him to the floor, clutching Stan close. "God Ford, don't touch me, I'm so dirty."

"Stan what do you..?" Ford glanced to his roommate, who looked on sympathetically. "Stan… Stan you should have called me… I-I thought you would call me if you need help."

"I'm so disgusting, you shouldn't touch me." he repeated. Ford growled and held him closer.

"Stan, don't worry. You're safe now."

Fiddleford crouched beside them, smiling kindly. "Yeah Stan, you didn't think we'd kick ya out did ya?"

Stan sniffed, eyes everywhere but their faces. Ford pulled Fiddleford into the hug. "You're not leaving again, Stanley. I can't lose you again. Please?" His voice cracked and Stan looked at him, automatically reaching to wipe the tears away. Ford put his hand over Stan's and held it against his cheek. "I love you, Stanley."

It wasn't a confession of incestuous romance, but it was infinitely more than what Stan had expected or hoped for.

The younger brother threw himself at Ford. Ford felt his ribs and cried harder.

Fiddleford left them to their reunion, their catching up on the years lost. He saw what the Pines twins did not, but none of them were ready for that.

There was a long journey of healing ahead of the three of them.

As he watched the brothers rejoice, he knew everything would work out one way or another.

A/N: This fic is also posted on my AO3 account.