No prompts? Anyone? *sigh* Here ya go, more of me rambling: Tw: Death, don't be mad at me, this is super angsty...Suicide attempt.

1976, Gravity Falls.

Stanley sighed. Ever since losing his brother, he felt...empty.

His other half was gone. Dead. Forever.

And it was his fault.

Stanley was supposed to be there for Ford, always, and instead, he was in another freaking COUNTRY getting arrested for something he DIDN'T DO.

Stan turned around, using his entire body to knock his fist into the wall. He felt his knuckles burn and scratch. He didn't care. Everything seemed so...disconnected. Like he was just watching it from a window, and not experiencing it for himself. Yet, he would still find himself crying bitterly, or lashing out in anger every once in a while because it was all too much. Stan had paid for his mistakes, hadn't he? With ten years of starvation and cold winters, blistering hot summers without a roof over his head. With a criminal record, why did the universe had to take this away from him too? The only hope he had at being happy again, the only hope he had at making another person happy, whipped away in one fateful evening.

Why did he even try? Why did he stay?

Why did he?

Stan didn't have an answer to that question. He didn't really have a reason. He hadn't left Ford's house since he showed up there a week ago. He spent all day wandering the halls as if waiting for something, or someone.

But no one came.

So why did he stay?

Stanley looked at his hands. They weren't anything like Ford's, large polydactyl fingers, so wide yet so gentle and accurate when working or writing. They made Stan's work look like cavemen's drawings.

He made a decision just then. He didn't have a reason to stay. He was a screw-up with no one who really cared about him. No one would miss him.

He remembered finding a gun somewhere in the accursed cabin. Surely Ford wouldn't have a gun with no bullets.

As Stan walked through the house, he reminisced about his childhood. Days spent flying in the sun and nights when they snuck out to fly to the beach. He remembered the day Ford taught him to fly. They had been so close.

And Stan ruined it like he did everything else.

He found himself in Ford's old study. Digging through the desk, he found the pistol in the top drawer. Stan could tell it was fully loaded. He pressed it to his temple, not one to drag things out.

"WAIT!"

Ford was absolutely furious with himself. Why did he have to go and die like that?

He had been working on the portal, trying to dismantle it in the few days he had before Stanley showed up to take the journal when the portal started to tremble. He tried to move, he really did, but ended up getting crushed all the same. He watched as a specter as his body bled out underneath the grey sheets of metal and wire.

After that horrifying scene, Ford took time to appreciate being a ghost. So this is what it feels like? Peculiar, if only I had my journal with me...

Not sure what to do now that he was a ghost, Ford tried moving around, testing his new abilities. He found it simple. Instead of walking, he just had to think about what he wanted to do, and it happened.

Ford had studied ghosts before, but he couldn't classify himself, as if he were a different type of ghost from the ones he'd studied. Fascinating.

Time went on like this, Ford discovered he couldn't manipulate anything around him unless he was emotionally charged, which was unfortunate. Ford enjoyed not being mentally unstable for once, even if he had to die for it to happen.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when Stanley finally showed up.

Ford wasn't sure what to do as he watched his brother find his secret lab, wasn't sure how to react when Stan saw his body, wings and all, crushed beneath his own creation. He didn't know how to react when Stan forced the metal off of him, knowing full well he couldn't have been alive, but begging all the same for him to wake up, no no no! Not like this, Poindexter, c'mon wake up!

He didn't know what to do when Stan buried him in the woods inside the fairy glen, a peaceful place. He floated by uselessly as Stan cried for days on end, roaming around the house in misery.

Honestly? The crying wasn't what freaked him out. Stan may act tough, but he was a softy.

It was the silence.

Stan stopped crying after a time and got very...quiet. He sat still for hours on end, rubbing Ford's extra pair of glasses without really looking at them, his mind far away, but where Ford couldn't tell.

This freaked Ford out because Stanely wasn't ever quiet. Stanley was loud. Loud and obnoxious and weird and loved to move, move, and move some more. He was the active one, the one that did tricks in the air, nearly knocking himself to the ground as he bumped into telephone poles, dizzy from the many loops he attempted. The one that splashed water everywhere while swimming, having no limit to his energy.

This Stan wasn't like that. It was all wrong.

And Ford had no idea how to fix it. He didn't even know why he was there. Why he didn't just move on to wherever ghosts go. He tried talking to Stanley, but his words were never heard, landing on deaf ears. Stanley couldn't see him either. It had come as a bit of a shock when Ford tried to confront him and Stan just kept on walking, straight through his body.

So Ford waited. He wasn't sure for what, but he was patient. The universe figured all things out, in time.

...

Ford was ticked. No, he was beyond ticked, he was more than furious, he was enraged, red spots forming on the edge of his vision, which he did not dwell on because he was so infuriated.

Screw it. He was scared.

Stanley wasn't suicidal! No, if they could live apart for ten years, then surely Stan could move on from this?

What was he kidding? He hadn't lived those ten years they were apart. Those were the worst years of his life. He almost didn't blame Stanley for wanting to end himself.

Almost.

He watched Stanley put the pistol to his head, he watched as his finger inched towards the trigger and he couldn't stop himself.

"WAIT!"

The word ripped out of him, all his fear, anger and desperation leaking into the one exclamation that he could have sworn Stanley heard. Ford didn't have a body anymore, but if he did he would be trembling. Stanley looked around confusedly, the gun falling to the floor.

Stan was gazing in the opposite direction of him, at a wall. Ford thought himself in front of him so they could look each other in the eyes.

Ford was pulsing, his body lit up with emotion, reds, and blues and black all raging inside of him, so violently that it was visible through the veil that kept them apart. Stan gasped and backed away.

"F-Ford?" Stan choked, his face pale. Ford didn't even have the words.

Oh, wait. He did. An entire dictionary of them. He stomped up to Stan and pushed him, ignoring it when his hands fell right through,

"HOW FREAKING DARE YOU!" Ford screamed Stan's eyes widened in fear and he tried to back away further, pressing against the wall.

"HOW DARE YOU TRY AND KILL YOURSELF STANLEY, AS IF ME BEING DEAD WASN'T BAD ENOUGH!" Ford's wings beat the air, not really doing anything, but they made him all the more terrifying.

Stan's eyes were filled with tears and Ford stopped himself to take a moment and realize what was happening. Stanley could see him.

Stanley could hear him. Ford felt relief that his wait was over, joy that he could communicate again, and more anger because Stanley wasn't supposed to cry, dangit. He was screwing this up, he didn't know how long he had and he needed to talk to his twin, not yell at him for being depressed.

Ford took in a deep breath, looked back down at his brother, who was trembling from shock and felt a new emotion.

Guilt.

Ford's body swirled with new colors of purple, white and green along with the others. The additions to his color scheme made him look like a five-year-old's art project. He ignored it for now and went back to addressing his brother. Stan looked up at him in complete and utter horror and probably confusion.

"A-are you r-real?" Stan asked, tears running down the side of his face uninhibited. Ford felt his heart shatter if that were even possible. He thought himself closer to him and knelt down beside his brother, who looked like he wanted to back away more, but didn't move.

"Yes, I am real Stanley. I can assure you that, at least. No I do not know how I got to be here, yes I saw my death, and I've been here since before you showed up." Ford cleared his throat,

"Um, thank you. For the funeral that is. It was nicer than I was expecting. You chose the place I would have chosen for myself, although you surely didn't know it was the fairy glen."

Great, now he was shining with the light pink of embarrassment too. Just great.

Stanley wasn't sure what to do. He had been ready to die a moment ago, and now his 'brother' was their, more colorful than a rainbow, thanking him for a nice funeral. Stan answered the only way he could in his absolute shock.

"Uh...no problem?"

Ford seemed satisfied. It was hard to read Ford just then, considering all he was made up of was much too bright colors than hurt to look at. Stan was on autopilot, still confused and shocked, so of course, he had to ask;

" Why are you so colorful?"

He watched on, only half paying attention as his brain tried to absorb what was happening. Ford looked down at himself and then back at Stanley, who was staring intently. The pink became more prominent. So his emotions were just laid out there for Stan to see. Peachy.

"I believe that they are my emotions and it was only with incredible emotional stimulation, such as one as your attempted suicide, that allowed me to take form," Ford answered, looking completely serious.

The only thing that pierced his foggy mind was that his attempted suicide had caused Ford emotion. Ford had yelled at him for trying to die. Stan wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"Why?"

Ford rolled his eyes, "I don't know why Stanley. I don't know any more about what's going on than you do."

"No, I mean why did you care if I died or not?" Stan asked, blunt as usual.

Ford looked shocked, an angry orange replacing the pink. "What do you mean why? Of course, I cared!"

"Didn't care much when I tried two weeks ago."

"WHAT?"

Ford loved Stanley, that he had always known. The only reason he stayed away for so long was the trademark Pines stubbornness and pride. Stanley could reach out first if he wanted to talk.

Ford had been such a fool.

How many times had he nearly lost his brother, completely oblivious to it ever happening? Something about struck Ford as funny, and he started to laugh, a hysterical, self-deprecating, harsh sound that made Stan flinch back again.

Of course, he would have to die for them to talk things out. They would be that stubborn.

By the time Ford could open his eyes again, Stan was curled up in his wings, cradling the gun once more. Ford's only thought was it to be gone and it less than a second after the thought, the gun had disappeared. Stan looked up with disbelieving eyes.

"You are real. You have to be real. But I just don't- there is nothing about this that I understand."

Ford sighed. This was going to take a while.

You didn't give me prompts, so I gave you angst. Haha, so there. I always wanted to do one of these ghost au's. What did you think?

Stan: Why me?

Ford: What do you mean? I was the one who died.

Stan: Yeah, but I'm the one with mental issues.

Ford: ...true.

Fiddleford: *looks around* Why am I here? Where is the other Stan and Ford? The ones with the guitar an all?

Stan: What?

Ford: Allow me. *More nerd babble, because it's awesome*

Hope I didn't make you cry...