This physically hurts to write. Also, I think it turned into Feral Ford. Tw: For panic attacks!? IDK WHAT IT IS BUT IT HURTS TO WRITE. GAH.

He couldn't do it.

His hand shook as he tried to hold the pen in his hand. He clenched the pen tighter, trying to stop the trembling. Ink fell from the point unto the page and left a blot on the paper. He forcefully ripped the page out, letting it and the pen fall to the ground. His hands found their way into his hair and he pulled. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, even as he tugged on his hair, his nails biting into his scalp.

It wouldn't work.

He sat at his desk in the same position until he could figure it out. No problem should ever go unsolved. Yet, he was such a complicated problem. He didn't know where to start. He was broken, he had always been broken. Nothing made sense and he wasn't sure how to make it stop. Make the thoughts and the feelings and his stupid hands stop. He couldn't see the end and he had lost the start. There was no going back and no moving forward.

He was stuck.

His hands still trembling, he let them fall slowly from his head and reached down towards the fallen pen, scooping it off the floor. It shook there in his hand, nearly falling again until he closed all six fingers around it. He had done so much, had been through so many things. Why was this so hard? His breathing deepened as he focused on steadying his hand, using the other to pull the journal back towards him. He glared at the paper and pressed the tip of the pen to the paper. It shook in place, but it had lessened, if only a bit.

He couldn't do it.

Even if his hands would stop, the words wouldn't come. They were stuck, just like everything else. If he couldn't understand, how could he explain it? The pen sat on the paper, not moving and not pulling away. He sat like that until drops of water fell and soaked into the page.

I didn't want this.

The pen shattered, ink spraying unto his hand and the still empty page. He dropped the shattered pieces and looked at his black stained hand. It had stopped. He stared at it as he took in a shuddering breath and pushed himself away from the desk. Maybe he didn't need to understand. Some things didn't make sense. Love didn't make sense. Loyalty didn't make sense. They weren't just emotions, they were thought processes, they were priorities.

He didn't understand.

Stanley didn't make sense. He knew that. He knew that nothing his brother did ever did make sense because his brother had different priorities. Even in his deepest pain- because he now knew that Stanley felt pain, Stanley knew pain- Stan would come back. Stanley did more for him than anyone ever had, even when it would be better for Stan to stay away.

I didn't deserve this.

He stood up, his brow's furrowed and his jaw set in stone. He swung open the door, a sweet smell hitting him like a wall. He stood in the doorway, one hand on the wall and the other stiff at his side. He didn't mean to stop. Why wasn't he moving? Why didn't he want to leave?

Nothing makes sense here. Why would I stay?

He grimaced and stepped through the door. He didn't get to do what he wanted anymore. He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to feel because feeling made no sense.

He didn't get to do what he wanted anymore.

He walked resolutely down the hallway towards the kitchen, the smell getting stronger. He realized before he left the hallway that his face was wet. He scrubbed at his eyes and cheeks with a tired hand. He swallowed hard. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had done that. He stared at the moisture on his hand incredulously before wiping it away. It didn't matter.

Peering around the corner, he glanced into the kitchen. Dipper, Mabel, and Stanley were all gathered there, laughing and smiling as if there wasn't anything to bother them. He looked up to watched as Stanley ruffled Mabel's hair and flicked at the hat on Dipper's head. He looked so happy, there with the kids. You couldn't tell that the man had been denied a brother again just the night before.

He didn't want to do this. If he walked in, it would all be ruined. The smiles, the laughter. The room would grow could and the light and warmth coming from the small family gathered in his - Stanley's - kitchen, would be gone. He knew it just like he knew he didn't get to do what he wanted.

Because he always chose to do to what he had wanted. He always chose wrong.

I could leave. I could just walk back and no one would notice and-

I would choose myself again.

Leaving meant leaving them. Leaving them unprotected and vulnerable and even if he couldn't fix himself or directly interact with them, he couldn't leave them without protection.

Stanley could do it. Stanley had been doing fine before I came. His fists clenched and he moved to leave, but before he turned away, a thought sprang to mind, making him freeze again.

Bill. Stanley still doesn't know...

He was frozen in the hallway, eyes staring at the old floorboards without seeing them. He couldn't leave them with that monster.

He couldn't leave.

Taking a deep breath, he turned back towards the kitchen, tensing as he prepared for the change in atmosphere. He stepped quietly and stood just inside the kitchen door until Dipper looked up at him, his mouth dropping open.

"Oh, uh...Great-Uncle Ford!" Dipper exclaimed. Stan stiffened and turned abruptly. His eyes locked on Stanford and instead of speaking, he stood taller, his face settling into a hard stare.

Stanford felt his throat closed with fear. His eyes were burning and his heart was beating wildly. He couldn't look Stanley in the eyes. He looked too much like Filbrick, with that suit and the coldness that pierced into Ford. He had never seen that look on Stan before.

He hoped he never would again.

"Great-Uncle Ford?" Mabel looked up at him in concern. She pulled at the sleeves on her sweater, fidgeting. Dipper was watching him, waiting for Ford to say something. Say anything. When Ford didn't move or speak, they looked up at Stanley. Ford felt himself relax just slightly when the eyes fell off him. He watched Stan's stare fall away and a smile replace it as he told the kids to take their food into the living room.

Mabel had seen the stare. She moved without question, pulling on Dipper's hand when he seemed reluctant to leave. She knew something was coming. She could feel it as if it was in the very air. They stumbled past Ford and Stan stiffened again until they entered into the living room, chattering beneath their breaths.

"What are you doing?" Stan rumbled, arms folding over his chest. Stanford could feel his hands trembling again.

He could do it. Because he had to. There was no going back. But what was he going to say? He didn't understand, all he knew was that he hurt and it was more painful than all his scars, more painful than that horrible mistake of a tattoo on his neck. It was more painful than the anger. Anger was usable, it drove him forward.

This- this made him feel so, so stuck. And it hurt. His breath picked up speed and his throat hurt. Why would his throat hurt!? Why was his chest constricting with so much fear? That was the only thing that made sense. Fear was normal in his life. He was afraid of failure. Of Bill. Of Dying. But this fear was still worse. This fear mixed with that painful feeling and made something he couldn't describe. His hands flew right back up into his hair and his hands balled into fists, pulling again because he needed to say something. To make Stanley understand so that he could explain it to him because Ford didn't understand.

A shock ran up his legs as he fell to his knees. Why did he do that? Why weren't his legs working? His hands and everything else was trembling as he kept pulling.

"Help."

Stanford gasped through his closed off throat and he tried to look up. There was something on his neck that was keeping him from moving. He pushed against it and it went away and Ford's eyes flew open when he realized it was an arm. He looked up into Stan's eyes, Stan's brown focused eyes and he felt a weight on his chest. It was warm. It was Stanley's hand? The hand left and Ford sat trembling, but limp as Stan took Ford's hand and placed it on his chest.

"Breathe, Ford. Breathe." Stanley whispered. He could feel Stanley breathing underneath his hand and he tried to match it, but everything still hurt and knowing that this was the first non-violent contact they've had in over thirty years seemed to make it worse.

"I-" Ford's own lack of breath cut him off but Stanley spoke after him.

"Just breathe, Ford." He repeated, taking a deep breath. Ford knew that he wasn't breathing properly. He still didn't know why. He needed to tell Stanley that he couldn't do it, that he needed to tell him something, but he couldn't do it because-

"I don't understand." Ford rasped. His free hand shot toward the arm on his shoulder. Stan had been holding Ford's shoulder. He held unto Stan's arm and looked him right in the eyes, resisting the urge to look away. Stan stared right back.

Stan didn't look like he was going to murder Ford anymore, and it was confusing, just like everything else. Ford focused on the feeling beneath his hand and felt his own breathing even out. When it had, he was struck with a very loud thought.

I hurt Stanley. It made me hurt.

Ford had a name for that. He didn't want to think about it, because that feeling was hard. Ford had rarely ever worked with it and when he did it hurt, just like it did know.

It had been so long.

Guilt.

He abruptly stopped breathing and using one foot, kicked off the ground and lunged into Stan, knocking them both to the ground. Stan's yell of surprise was cut off as Ford knocked the breath out of Stan and they both slid on the floor. Ford's arms curled around Stan's torso and he held on tight, letting his head fall on Stan's shoulder. Stan was lying down completely, Ford clinging to his side. Stan blinked in shock for a moment before he took in a deep breath. Ford felt himself breathe in at the same time.

Stan's arm slowly fell over Ford's shoulders and Ford held on tighter until Stanley laughed, making Ford tense and almost pull away.

"Ford, what the crap was that!?" Stan blurted. Stan felt Ford relax and hold on tighter as he laughed again. Holding Ford tighter, Stan brought his other hand to his head to push his hair out of his eyes. He laughed, staring at the ceiling.

"What has gotten into you, Ford!?" He pulled Ford closer and Ford sighed, but the sound of it was shaky.

"I'm sorry." Ford coughed out the words. His throat was sore and tired, despite having been barely used. His eyes clenched shut and he sobbed harshly into Stan's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Stanley."

...

Ford grumbled as he woke up. Everything from his face to his legs hurt. He blinked and was immediately met with a void of black. He jerked up and stumbled to find his footing. Light flooded his vision and he pushed up his glasses as his eyes adjusted. He stared at the walls of the living room and found he was on a couch. His legs were still sprawled across it since he hadn't been expecting such a soft surface and his arms were behind him, holding him up.

"Welcome to the conscious world, sleeping beauty." Ford snapped his head around towards the other end of the couch where Stan was sitting, holding a Rubix cube. Ford's eyes flickered to the toy for a moment and Stan nodded.

"Yeah, I know, not exactly what people would expect to be my sorta thing, but they're fun. Guess kinda pointless after you learn the trick though." Stan looked at it the toy and took a moment to mix it up again before tossing it towards Ford.

Ford fell back unto the cushions as he caught it on instinct, one of the hands keeping him from falling coming out from beneath him as he caught it. He wordlessly stared at Stan as he used his legs to push him up again and started solving the small toy automatically. The rhythmic movement settling his nerves and focusing him. Stan watched him silently.

Ford curled his knees inward and held them close to his chest, hiding the small toy behind them. He glanced up over his knees several times to see Stan waiting patiently on the other side. He hid behind his legs as he worked, slumping into the couch.

His brows furrowed as he turned the cube for what should've been the last time. He growled when one square still didn't match. He turned it again and again, but it just didn't fit. As if the maker had given it an extra white square.

Wait. Ford stopped for a moment and he stared at the toy as he thought.

Fiddleford. This had been Fiddleford's cube. The cube he had rigged to be unsolvable. Ford stared at it in nostalgia and wonder. He whispered past the pain in his throat.

"Where did you find this?" He glanced up at Stan and Stan shrugged.

"Found it lyin' around the house." Stan raised a brow. "Why?"

"It's not mine." Ford held it close to his heart and moved his legs to the side so he could see Stanley better. "It's not...mine." He repeated. He wasn't sure what else to say. Stanley smiled softly.

"Yeah? Well, I'm sure you can keep it for whoever it belongs too. Been here this long." Stan huffed. Sitting up, Stan looked Ford in the eyes and Ford didn't move as Stan turned towards him.

"Are you alright?"

Ford blinked at the question. He was immediately flooded with memories of not being alright and he coughed, turning away.

"Hey, woah!" Stan shook his head. "None of that! I already know you weren't alright, but how do you feel now?"

Ford felt his ears burn and his neck crawl with shame. He'd been so weak. All he had to do was- well at the time he wasn't sure what he'd been trying to do, but all he didn't have to go and freak out, only to then tackle Stan to the floor! Ford had been through a lot in the portal, but he could still recall that attacking people trying to help you wasn't acceptable. {In this dimension.} He pulled his legs back towards him, his head falling on his knees. He hugged unto his legs, still holding the three decades old toy in his hands.

Stan rolled his eyes. "Um, that's exactly what I said not to do?" He mumbled. Pushing himself off the couch he clomped over towards Ford {Why was this couch so long?} making his footsteps as loud as possible so Ford knew he was coming. He slowly sat down beside Ford, leaning back.

"c'mon Ford, it's okay." Stan hesitantly pulled his hand through Ford's hair.

Ford winced, but he didn't pull away further, nor move to stop it. It hurt slightly as the hairs rustled on his head. Pulling on them had left his entire scalp aching.

Stanley moved closer. Close enough to wrap his arm around Ford's back and pull Ford into his side. Ford growled, but he once again didn't pull away, instead, he felt himself relaxing into his brother's side.

Ford's felt his eyes burn again and he stared at the opposite wall. "Stanley?"

Stan grunted. "Yeah?"

Ford fiddled with the cube and he nodded to himself.

"Thank you." Ford nodded again and completely fell against his brother's side. "Thank you, Stanley."

Stanley grunted. "Yeah, okay nerd."

Ford smirked. He could hear the grin in his brother's voice.

I finally did it.

THIS ISN'T WHAT I WAS PLANNING ON WRITING. But like I got lost in more gravity Falls art and videos and songs and I just needed some hugs with my boys, but like I made it angsty BECAUSE I HAVE A PROBLEM. My heart is eating a moose. What. That's not what I mean to type either but I'm leaving it like that because why not.

Stan: CANADA.

Ford: What?

Stan: I don't know, the moose just reminded me of Canada. Great place. Perfect for uh...well criminals.

Ford: ...now I really want pancakes?

Stan: Road trip?

Ford *nodding*: Road trip.

MWHHAHA IDK. LOVE YA GUYS DON'T DIE!