Wish I May…

by Aoikami Sarah

Chapter Two

.x. Monday Morning .x.

"Stanford!?" Stan shouted, then clenched his teeth and hissed. The gaps in his memory gave him a heightened state of alertness, surging him onward despite the throbbing pain that shot through his limbs and up to the space between his eyes. "Damnit, ya give me a new body but ya leave the hangover? Thanks a million." He ducked into his brother's room. There was a blanket on the couch, but no sign of the man. Stan could not find him anywhere in the house or basement, not even the attic. He must have left the building. Was that the slamming door he'd heard earlier? Had something happened to him as well? A new fear crept up into his abdomen, bringing with it a wave of nausea as he flung the back door open and looked out at the yard. The Stanley Mobile stood parked where he'd left it. He sighed with relief.

"G-good mornin' Stanley," a voice he didn't recognize greeted him. Stan turned and stared at the man sitting to his left on the porch wrapped in a blanket and holding a mug full of steaming hot tea. His mug. Stan blinked at him.

"Looks like we got ourselves a mighty fine mornin' at that." He smiled a toothy grin up at Stan. He was clean shaven and wore round glasses.

Stan frowned. "Who the hell are you and where's my brother?"

The man blinked. "Well there's a fine how'ja do. I recognize you but… oh. Well, I suppose that makes sense." He laughed lightly and took a sip of his tea. "Name's Fiddleford Hadron McGucket. Ring a bell?"

Stan took an unsure step backward. "McGucket. You too? Then, Stanford…?"
McGucket put the mug down and stood, looping the blanket over his shoulders. "Reckon so. Looks like she got all three of us. Don't that beat all."

"She?"

"You didn't see her? Did you make a wish?"

"McGucket, I don't remember jack shit from last night."

He paused and the smile fell from his lips. "Oh. Oh dear. We best get inside and have a chat." He scooped up the mug. "You want anythin' ta eat? I'm starvin'."

Stan swallowed another wave of would-be puke down and shook his head. McGucket told him he'd cook something up for him anyway, maybe some toast or eggs and Stan detoured to the bathroom where he remained for several minutes.

When he entered the kitchen, the smell of toast greeted him, lighting up his brain with warmth and comfort. Sure, he'd have a slice. No butter. No milk—god no milk. Water. Tea ain't his thing. He thanked McGucket and watched the skinny young man before him delicately eat some scrambled eggs (which smelled pretty good now that the toast was going down ok).

Stan drained the glass of water McGucket gave him and rolled it between his hands, searching for a way to start the conversation he dreaded having. "How old you figure we are, now?"
"Twenty-seven," McGucket answered, confidently.

"How you figure that?"

"I wished to go back to before things went so wrong fer me. I was twenty-seven at the time, so was Stanford, and thereby, so were you."

Stan gave him a half-lidded, blank look. "Wished. You tellin' me we got wishes granted? By what?"
"A Blue Fairy."

Stan stopped playing with the glass and set it down slowly. "Go on…"

"A legendary sprite known to bestow wishes on unfortunate souls who cry out to a blue star on special nights like last night."

"Fantastic," he groaned. "Not that I'm complaining about having a killer bod again," Stan smirked and flexed his pectoral muscles for emphasis. "But don't wishes usually come with catches?"

McGucket waved his fork. "I was about to get to that. You ever seen Pinocchio?"

Stan's lids descended again. "The cartoon?"

"Disney, yes. Remember Jiminy Cricket?"

"Vaguely."

"Well, the Blue Fairy granted Geppetto's wish to make Pinocchio a real boy and she assigned Jiminy Cricket to be his conscious—to help steer him on the right path."

"Didn't he get turned into a donkey?"

"Almost. But with Jiminy's help he was able to right himself an' turn into a real boy for good."

"So where's the cricket?"

He smirked, waggled his eyebrows, pointed his fork towards himself and took another mouthful of eggs.

Stan sighed, frowned, and scooped up a bite from McGucket's plate with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. "So you're tellin' me we got wished younger and we gotta be good or we don't get to keep it?"

He pushed his glasses up and looked away. "Essentially, that's what I seem to understand, though my memory of it is a might hazy."

"You and me both, brother."

He looked back as if to ascertain if that was true. "But I do remember what happened last night."

They stared at each other for a beat in silence. Stan's mind played back a jagged snippet of his brother screaming, his deep voice cracking. 'Because it's wrong!' He shuddered. "Lay it on me. I gotta bad feelin' I'm the reason he took off."

McGucket made a humming sound and patted his mouth with a napkin. Stan noticed for the first time that any trace of his lunacy had completely disappeared. "It all started with a few too many beers."

"My fault."

"How ya figger?" McGucket quoted him.

"I wanted to loosen him up. I just wanted him to talk to me for once so I kept puttin' fresh ones down as soon as they were near empty."

"Yes, well, when we ran outta beer, we started in on the whiskey."

"That explains a lot." He rubbed his temples.

"And I gotta apologize to ya as I did Stanford. I had been drinking much harder stuff fer years. I drank y'all under the table pretty early on."

Stan raised a brow. "Ah. So… did Stanford get…?"He wanted to say 'pissed', but that wasn't right.

"He got his feathers ruffled harder than he's 'customed to, I think."

Stan steeled himself. "Over what?"

McGucket winced in anticipation of delivering the blow. "You insisted that the two of you could work it out and he insisted that it was wrong—that he was broken and you'd be better off without him."

"Don't leave!" Stan heard himself scream, his memory unlocked by McGucket's words. He stomped his foot down to emphasize each word that his brother was clearly not hearing. "You don't have to go anywhere!"

"I don't fit here, Stanley!" Stanford slurred. "You do! You stay, I'll go, and that's that!" He sucked down the last of his sixth beer and slammed it down on the table. "Frankly, I've had enough abuse for one night," he grumbled, quickly stood, and pushed his chair back. "G'night Fiddleford, I'm sorry you had to hear all that." He doffed an invisible hat toward his former employee and turned to go.

"Stanford, I love you, don't go."

He froze in place and his head snapped toward his brother. Stanley stood, balled his hands into tight fists and glared at him. "You heard me. I love you. I have always loved you and if you go I feel like I might actually die. Do. Not. Go."

McGucket's eyes grew wide but he kept quiet and made his posture as small as he could.

Stanford looked at him as if his head were on fire. "You can't."

"I do."

"You can't!" Stanford shouted, his face already reddened from drink now glowing crimson.

"Too bad! I love you! I love you I love you I love you, you asshole, and I know you love me."

Stanford flinched as if someone had peeled a bandaid off too quickly. "No, I don't."

"Yes, you damn well do."

McGucket's eyes flicked from man to man. Slowly, he reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels in the middle of the table and stealthily drained a few shots into his gut.

Stanford grit his teeth. "We can't."

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong, Stan!" Stanford's were a little slurred, but his anger had given him focused clarity. "There's no way it can work! It never could! I've tried so hard for decades to scrub that from my mind, and now you want to fan the flames?"

"I love you and I don't give a fuck what anyone thinks about it!"

"You can't!"

Seeing tears in his brother's eyes, Stan pushed. "But I do!"

Stanford growled and pushed him against the wall. Stan's head hit the plaster and stars came to his eyes. "No, Stan. No! We are not children! This is not a game! We can't!" He gripped his shoulders and shoved him again. "Let it go!"

"Never. You love me, I know you do, damn it. I know you do!"

Stanford looked off to the right.

"Stanford. Look at me. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't love me." Stan reached up and put his hands over his.

When Stanford's eyes darted back to Stan's they were full of tears and anguish. His lips trembled. "But we can't…" he whispered.

Stan remembered that the pained expression on his brother's face tore at his heart so fiercely that he moved involuntarily, reaching out, pulling his face close and covering his mouth with his. Stanford let a small moan of distress escape as they kissed and it almost seemed as if he would reciprocate and for a split second, Stan thought, hurray, I've won. It'll all be ok, now.

Then Stanford punched him in the gut.

Stan didn't see the look on his face because Stanford had turned and fled the room so quickly. He doubled over, his knees gave out, and he slid down the wall to the floor in contorted pile of hurt. He cried out after him but he was gone. When he was finally able to right himself, Stan was surprised to find McGucket had taken a seat beside him on the floor, the bottle of Jack in his hand. Stan blinked at him for a moment, unable to comprehend how this man had sat through the entire exchange without fleeing the room, then swiped the bottle, took a long pull and handed it back.

"He'll come 'round," McGucket said quietly. "Love's a funny thing. It don't die, no matter how much ya try ta kill it."

"...and then ya pounded on his door a while afore I was able to drag ya off to bed." McGucket concluded. "I checked on Stanford and he was a might reticent, but hurtin' just the same. I'm sure he'll come 'round." He waggled his eyebrows. "Mebbe now that we're all three of us young bucks again, he'll be more amenable to your charms."

"You really think so?"

McGucket smiled compassionately. "Well, there is still the matter of y'all bein' twin brothers to git over, but at least now ya got a good piece a time to work on it!"

Stan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're a good guy, McGucket, ya know that?"