Author's note: Just wanted to say that there's a fun little reference I make in this chapter when a certain character is walking up a stairwell, specifically the eighth and ninth step. For those who aren't familiar with Dante's Inferno, the eighth circle of hell is fraud and the ninth is treachery. Just a fun little fact ;)
Chapter 14
Adhere to your purpose and you will soon feel as well as you ever did.
On the contrary, if you falter, and give up, you will lose the power of keeping any resolution, and will regret it all your life. - Abraham Lincoln
The sound of low and gruff muttering died out as the small brass bell on the front door of the Pines family Pawnshop gave a light jingle, and the heads of the three occupants sitting in the store's main showroom almost simultaneously turned towards the noise as Stanley and Stanford filed into the cramped and cluttered entryway. A clammy autumn breeze burst in on the pair's heels causing the cheap jewelry and key chains hung up on the racks by the door to shudder slightly at the sudden forceful influx of cool air, and a few documents that had previously been lying on the counter fluttered and scattered onto the smooth wooden floor. The boys' mother made a barely audible grumble about "Lettin' in a draft." and "Makin' a mess." from her place alongside to the other two men, but both of the twins were so focused on animatedly discussing their plans for refitting some of the more worn out parts of the Stan O' War that at first they barely took any notice of the conversation they had just interrupted.
"So, obviously we're going to have to sand and smooth out the planks around the mast before we can add another coat of varnish, but once we manage to scrape away all the rotted sections of the wood I don't think it will take too…" Stanford's voice trailed off and his pencil halted in the path that it had previously been tracing up the side of the drawing as he finally caught sight of both their parents and their boxing coach lounging around near the center of the room. His eyebrow's shot up as he spared a glance at his brother, but all that Stanley could offer in return was an equally perplexed shrug of his shoulders.
"Ah, and here's the man of the hour himself." Coach Hansen pushed his slightly wide and stocky body off from the glass display case that he had been leaning on to sweep out his arm and gesture at the two boys. A large and excited grin settled itself across his stubble-ridden jaw. "We've been waiting for you to get back."
"You're late." Their father irritably barked from his own seat on one of the dusty antique couches that had been lying around unsold in the shop for so long that it had become it's own little display table of sorts. Their mother, who was perched next to her husband on the item strewn sofa with her own arm comfortably wormed through and looped around his stiffly crossed ones, also gave the boys a questioning look.
"Ah, s-sorry about that." Stanford flushed slightly in murmured embarrassment. He quickly snapped his red notebook shut and swung his backpack around to the front in order to shove the sketches in between a couple of school books before their father could spot them. Stanley shifted a little in front of his brother to help cover his efforts.
"Yeah, we just got held up after class a little." He affirmed in a tone that was a lot less apologetic than his brother's had been. He rubbed at the back of his neck nonchalantly as his face set itself into an annoyed and almost uninterested frown, and he rocked back and forth slightly on his heels before grousing out his own inquiry. "Sooo, what exactly's goin' on here anyways?"
Coach Hansen's smile stretched out even wider under his salt and pepper mustache making the long wrinkles on his old face especially pronounced. He jerked his chin to motion for the two boys to come closer and then gave a knowing look to both of their parents. "Well, that's actually what I've been waiting here to discuss with you. I'd invite you to take a seat, but this isn't exactly my home."
Stanford finished stowing his notebook away and readjusting his backpack on his shoulders, and the pair shuffled their way through the tightly packed maze of polished antiques and knickknacks to the ugly green couch that their parents were currently occupying. Stanley settled himself onto the arm of the old furniture, a small smirk plastering on his face as he obnoxiously stretched his legs out in front of him. His brother rolled his eyes a little before stepping over his feet and beginning to take a seat on the cushion next to him, but he didn't get the chance to even bend halfway down before Coach Hansen made a brief coughing noise to get their attention.
"Ah, just Stanley please."
The two twins shared surprised and calculating looks with each other for a few moments. The muscles in Stanley's jaws started tightening themselves stubbornly in preparation to argue with the request, but Stanford just eased himself back up and gave a small and hesitant smile before shaking his head dismissively. "It's fine. I'll just be… up in our room trying to catch up on the statistics lesson we slept through. I'll meet you up there when you're done."
At this, the younger twin turned and slipped agilely through of the rest of the pawnshop's obstacle course towards the stairwell leading up to the second floor. The group of now four waited in an uncomfortable silence for a couple of seconds while they listened to the teen's footfalls lightly thudding up the steps, before Stanley decided that his patience was wearing pretty thin and he wanted to figure out what was going on already.
"Am I in trouble or somethin'?" He crossed his arms sharply and gruffly hazarded a guess.
Mr. Hansen let out a small chuckle as he took in Stanley's impatient frown and guarded posture, and he shook his head before fixing the young man with a warm and amused expression. "I'm guessing that's why adults usually come over to your house and start asking for you, huh you little trouble maker? Well it looks like you're in for a bit of luck today because I'm here for just the opposite reason actually."
"What'd ya mean by opposite?" Stanley's mother's asked, her rough voice a bit barbed as she regarded Mr. Hansen skeptically.
The heavyset boxing instructor gazed proudly at Stanley for another moment or two as though he was looking upon a winning hand of cards in a high stakes poker game, before tapping thoughtfully at the side of his jaw and providing the explanation that the three members of the Pines family in front of him were waiting to hear. "Stanley, I may be going blind in my left eye, but even I can recognize raw talent like yours when it walks through my gym's doors. From the day your father first brought you in I knew you that you were something special, that you had what it took to make it all the way into the big leagues. And now, now you're gonna get a chance to prove just that."
"What d'ya mean by that?" The hard edges of Stanley's scowl were gradually melting as the same infectious excitement that was lighting up his coach's eyes started seeping its way into his own blood. His earlier caution was all but completely fading away as his mind started running through the possible meanings of Mr. Hansen's statement.
If the twin's coach had been beaming any harder he might have risked the expression setting into the lines of his face forever, and permanently ruining his reputation as a no-nonsense, hot-blooded hard-ass. His eyes blazed brightly and his voice suddenly grew so loud and boisterous that it started ricocheting off from the walls and ceiling like a well-made bouncy ball as he made his big announcement. "Heh. What I mean is that for this Saturday's match I've invited some of the boys from the United States Boxing Federation to come and watch you take on Sergey Brook! How d'ya like them apples kiddo?"
There was a small moment of anticipation saturated silence before Stanley tilted his head and asked dumbly. "Oh. Is that a big deal or somethin'?"
Coach Hansen's brows shot up into his hairline and a muffled smack resounded through the air as he brought his hand up over his face in a disbelieving exasperation. "Oy vey. 'Is that a big deal?', he asks me. Kid, do you have any idea how many strings I had to pull and favors I had to call in just to get this group of people to come down here?" He threw his hands out wildly now and pushed himself into a standing position before pacing around energetically in the small space provided between a dusty old wardrobe and a mint condition collection of boxed Elvis Presley records. "Of course they're a big deal! These are the guys are the gatekeepers, the top dogs who can make or break your career as a professional in this sport, and they're looking for young upstarts like you to mold into champions. You're playing with the small fish right now, and blasting right through them like they're tissue paper I might add, but if you can manage to win the local title on Saturday and impress these fellas, then I can guarantee you that you'll be ranked up to the national levels by the end of the winter."
That bit of information brought Stanley's train of thought to a screeching halt. His eyes widened in a thrill of barely contained enthusiasm, and it was all that he could do not to jump up from his own seat and join his coach pacing around on the floor. As it was, he settled instead on just sitting up ramrod straight and uncrossing his arms so he could move his hands to grip tightly onto the denim covering his knees. "W-what! I-I mean… What?! You're saying that I'll be able to… I'll get to go professional? I'll be in the big leagues already? But I… that's… Holy cow!"
Even the ever impossible to please head of the Pines household perked up a little upon hearing this news. His eyebrows gradually worked their way up his forehead while the thin and stern set of his mouth loosened into something that almost resembled a very unpracticed smile. "For someone his age, that's… impressive."
Though it may have only been a minor complement, the fact that it was paid by his usually stone-faced and aloof father caused Stanley's cheeks to tint slightly red. His eyes quickly darted away from the older man's appreciative side-glance behind the pair dark glasses that he always wore, as Stanley suddenly found the zigzagged patterns on his sneakers to be extremely interesting.
"Mmm, ain't it?" Mr. Hansen clasped his hands behind his back and then managed a pretty agile three-point turn in order to face himself towards Filbrick. His gruff voice was practically overflowing with zeal as he amiably barked at the other man. "Hell, we'll probably be able to ship your boy out to their headquarters in Texas before the end of the school year so he can start entering himself in the circuits over there. If he does well in those rings, which I don't doubt that he will, he'll probably be able to push himself to become a serious contender for next season's championship matches."
"Before the end of the school year?" Their mother questioned incredulously, putting her hand up to her chin and giving her son a bit of a hesitant glance herself. "You mean, Stanley's gonna be missin' out on his education?"
"Hmm. I don't think he's going to be missing out on much." Filbrick mildly grumbled, unconcerned. "School was never really his forte anyways."
Stanley was still reeling; completely flabbergasted and disbelieving that something like this was happening to him of all people. He was now very glad that he was sitting down because if he had been standing at this point then he was pretty sure that he would have already knocked a lamp or some other breakable object over in his barely containable enthusiasm. And as he'd had the opportunity of learning on numerous occasions before, cleaning up a mess of broken glass while his father was angrily glaring over his progress wasn't exactly a fun way to spend the afternoon. His chest was swelling with something hot and bright that sent a surge of tingly nervous voltage racing through his extremities and down to the very tips of his fingers and toes. The expression on his face was shifting itself back and forth between complete bewilderment, awe, smug satisfaction, and a slowly widening, proud smile. He'd always been ambitious when in came to clearing out the competition in his matches, but this was bigger than any of that, far bigger, and as consequence he felt a lot bigger too.
Of course he knew that he was good at boxing, excellent, gifted, brilliant; everyone always told him as much. He'd even managed to hold an untarnished winning streak for himself this season, which wasn't an easy feat to accomplish by any stretch of the imagination given some of the opponents he'd faced thus far. But having official and unbiased professionals in the field take note of his skill was on a completely different level than just hearing the praises of close friends and family members. The now very real seeming possibility that the people who watched and managed fighters for a living might judge his abilities enough to push him out and onto the national stage was beyond invigorating. He couldn't help but want to start hitting things already just to blow off some of the excess energy that was sparking up inside of him.
"T-this is nuts!" He finally managed to stutter out while shaking his head and shooting his coach a wide-eyed, ear-to-ear grin. "You aren't serious are you? I'm not even gonna be eighteen till… I-I mean… Will they actually take me in that early?"
Mr. Hansen grunted and gave a small nod as he once again settled himself back against the case showing off a number of very expensive looking, and probably illegitimately acquired, Rolex watches. "Usually they wouldn't, but only complete numbskulls wouldn't see your potential and try to stake you out early on; especially considering the fight record you've managed to rack up already. And while the fella's in the federation might be all kinds of corrupt when the right amount of money is involved, numbskulls they are not."
"So what kind of figures are we talking about here." Stanley's father probed as he leaned forward a bit more attentively in his seat. His face had morphed itself back into business mode, the kind of impassive and appraising scowl he often wore when he was trying to haggle down an especially stubborn or sentimental seller.
"For someone with Stanley's level of skill?" Mr. Hansen let out a loud snort and smirked widely as he gave his fingers some apperceive rubs like he was showing off a couple of invisible bills. "Oh the way he'll probably shoot through the ranks we could easily be talking about twenty grand and upwards per prizefight, and that's just starting out. Once your boy makes a name for himself on an international level he could be making millions."
Filbrick's eyebrows shot up a little in surprised admiration, and he released a long and deliberate sigh through his nose while settling himself comfortably back into the couch. "Millions, huh."
"This is… t-this is…" Stanley finally determined at this point that it was best to just completely give up at forming intelligible sentences, and he instead stared up at the ceiling in abject wonder. "Holy cow."
Mrs. Pines, on the other hand, didn't seem nearly as taken in with the proposition that was being made as her husband and son on either side of her. After shooting the two a few looks that went completely unnoticed, her mouth twisted itself into a slight frown and her eyes darted thoughtfully to the side for a moment. Deciding to take matters into her own hands she reaffixed her gaze on Mr. Hansen to voice one of the aspects of the situation that was currently troubling her. "Well, this is certainly some pretty excitin' news, but um... what about Stanford? I mean, I know ya haven't really put him in any of your official matches yet, but he's been workin' real hard on his jabs and improvin' a lot in these past few months. Do ya think there's any chance that he might have a career here too?"
Upon hearing his mother's question Stanley was almost immediately snapped out of his semi-dazed state, and he couldn't help but wince a little in secondhand embarrassment already knowing very well the answer that she was going to receive.
He was sure that his mother hadn't meant in her request to bring to light Stanford's... less than admirable performance when it came to fighting, as it was very likely that she wasn't aware of just how badly he'd actually taken to the sport. Ma Pines was a pretty supportive parent, the type who would always cheer loudly from the stands and shout obnoxious obscenities in her thick jersey accent whenever she ended up going to one of their events. But she was also the kind who would almost always leave just after her boys were finished as she didn't really care about how other peoples' kids done and didn't have the patience to pretend or lie otherwise. Since Stanford hadn't been put in any official matches yet the only person she's ever gotten to compare his skill in the ring to was Stanley's, and he was a prodigy who was expected to do leagues better than everyone else. She'd never really seen how the average boxers in their weight class were expected to fight, and as such, probably didn't realize just how far Stanford lagged behind in those standards.
And there was more to it than that. Even if she could have somehow convinced coach Hansen to find a way to open up this opportunity for Stanford as well, the probability that his brother would even be interested in taking it up was slim to none. The only reason he'd ever gotten into boxing in the first place was because their father had made them do so in order to help toughen them up when they were younger, and the only reason that he was still sticking with it now was because it had become such a huge part of Stanley's life and Stanford wasn't overly fond of doing things or going places without his brother. Boxing was something that Stanford had always ever done for the sake of convenience rather than passion, and Stanley couldn't really imagine his brother getting a career in the field and actually enjoying it.
No, Stanford's primary interests lay in… other areas. Ones that always seemed more likely to incite mockery than admiration.
Knowing all of this, Stanley wasn't surprised in the slightest when Mr. Hansen answered his mother in the negative. However, he did find himself extremely taken aback by the unnecessarily and critical cruelty of his response.
"Mam, is that supposed to be a joke!?" The older man was barely able to choke back his rough laughter as he shot Mrs. Pines a look that suggested he was seriously taking her sanity into question. "Stanley might be a diamond in the rough, but that other boy of yours wouldn't even make it if he was two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle and competing in the featherweight division. As much as I'd like to offer you up some options concerning him, there's just nothing to offer up. The boy's a failure. He's completely talentless, unfocused, has no real work ethic, got a glass chin, hits like he can't see what's two feet in front'a him, an average amount of brains I suppose…"
"I… I just thought that maybe…" Stanley's mother trailed off and wrung her hands together in mild embarrassment, but she didn't let her determined, almost beseeching gaze waver away from Mr. Hansen. Unfortunately, the gravely voiced man didn't seem to be willing to budge in the slightest and merely gave her a dismissive wave.
"Don't even bother thinking about it. Look, there's a saltwater taffy store on the dock, and somebody's gotta get paid to scrape the barnacles off of it. Stanley has the potential to be molded into something great, he's going places. But how's anyone supposed to make anything out of his waste of a brother. Hey, look on the bright side Mrs. Pines: at least you'll have one son here in New Jersey foreve- Argh!"
Couch Hansen's dialogue was suddenly interrupted by the loud and thundering sound of a hard fist smacking against flesh and bone. Shattering glass jingled, chimed, and reverberated all throughout the small pawnshop as he was knocked backward over the display case and sent careening into the rug on the other side of the counter.
It took Stanley a moment or two to register the fact that he was now standing up instead of sitting, and that knuckles on his left hand were stinging a little after the impact that his fist had made against the older man's sturdy cheekbone. He couldn't really say he was all that surprised that his brain was trailing so sluggishly behind the rest of him. It was hard for him think when he felt as lightheaded as he did right now, with the space between his ears ringing like a steaming teakettle, and the torrid blood in veins simmering throughout his chest and face in blistering hot boil. But then, he didn't necessarily need to think when it came to defending his brother; the reaction had been pretty much automatic.
"Stanley!" His mother admonished sharply once she had managed to close her jaw, which had previously been hanging open in stunned shock. She gave him a glare that probably wasn't as disapproving as it really should have been before quickly springing off from the couch and around the broken glass of the display case to go check on Mr. Hansen.
But Stanley couldn't bring himself to feel even the slightest bit of regret for his actions. If anything he was still quite angry, and the dark and hard scowl burned into his expression like an ugly brand conveyed that truth quite profoundly. "Say that again." He just managed to grind out from between his clenched teeth." I dare ya!"
Even now his breathing was hard and ragged despite the minimal amount of physical effort that the punch had required, and his tightly clenched hands were trembling in the severity of his rage like tense coils bucking and shuttering under an immense pressure. If Mr. Pines hadn't grabbed a handful of the front of his shirt and roughly shoved his back against the wall by the stairwell, effectively pinning him down, then Stanley probably would've attempted another swing at the old boxing instructor even as his mother was helping him back up into a standing position. Stanley immediately started squirming around under his father's hand and trying to knock off the older man's grasp on his collar in an attempt to get free, but Filbrick wasn't having any of it.
"Hey!" He snapped sternly as he jerked his arm back slightly and slammed his son into the wall again to get his attention. "That's enough outta ya, you knucklehead. Cool your jets already."
"Oh, Mr. Hansen are you alright? I'm so sorry about that." Stanley's mother cooed sympathetically, placing one of her slim hands on the man's back to help balance him as he began to regain his footing.
Aside from seeming a little shaken and sporting an angry looking welt just under his right eye that was sure to develop into a nasty bruise later on, Mr. Hansen appeared to be in relatively good health. It didn't take more than a few seconds for him to collect his composure again and start to brush off Mrs. Pines concerned fussing.
"Yeah. Yeah, don't sweat it." He muttered distractedly, tilting slightly to fight off a wave of stunned disorientation. He tried settling his hand on the counter as a means of supporting himself, but had to quickly move it away again to avoid getting cut on the shattered glass. "I wouldn't coach boxing if I wasn't capable of taking a couple'a hits here and there."
Stanley didn't get a lot of time to watch his coach recover before the grim displeasure radiating from his father's flinty glare brought his focus back to the man who was currently holding him firmly against the wall. "What the hell was that you little punk?!" Filbrick snarled lowly, grip tightening incrementally as his sharp and piercing eyes peeked out from behind the dark shade of his glasses.
But Stanley wasn't in the mood to be intimidated. If his father wanted to play ball then he was more than capable of throwing a few pitches of his own. And truth be told, he was almost as furious with his behavior, or lack thereof, as he was with his coach's. "Up yours old man!" Stanley roared back unflinchingly. He leveled his own heated glower in his father's direction, bright and wet with the ferocity of his temper and stinging sense of betrayal. "How can you possibly let someone talk about your own son like that!? You should have been at his throat even faster than I was!"
Filbrick's expression flashed dangerously like a streak of forebodingly close lightning, and he raised his booming voice so steeply that the glass of the pictures beside Stanley's head seemed to quake in the wrath of it. "I said that's enough! I don't care if he calls your brother a worthless, good-for-nothing. I wouldn't care if he called me and your mother garbage! That man holds the key to your future success, and you are going to show him the proper respect he deserves. Now apologize for your actions!"
A stubborn snarl twisted itself onto Stanley's face. "Screw you!"
"Uh… w-would you be alright with leavin' right now." Mrs. Pines asked coach Hansen apologetically as she began shuffling him through the mess of merchandise and out towards the front door. "This might take a little while to clear up, and I think we got the gist of what you were sayin' anyways. Thank you so much for giving my boy this opportunity."
"Hm. No problem. I've raised a few kids myself so I know how it can be." The man groused back affably as he tenderly rubbed at his right cheek and allowed himself to be dismissed from the premises. However, before leaving he made sure to offer the older Pines twin one last bit of parting advice over his shoulder. "Oh and Stanley, once you've cooled off a little I want you to start practicing your bobbing and weaving. I know you've always been more of the brawler type who prefers to hold his ground, but considering the strength of the opponents you'll have to face in the future that's not really going to be feasible. Might as well start re-teaching yourself now." And with that, the little brass bell on the door of Pines Pawn's gave another slight jingle as coach Hansen walked back out and into the lively autumn afternoon street.
Stanley's mother glanced at back at her husband and son before shaking her head and sighing in a tired exasperation. Her heels clacked pointedly on the polished wooden floor as she approached them and then stopped to stand a few feet away, far enough that she wasn't intruding on the father and son 'bonding moment', but also close enough that she could quickly intervene if she needed to be a mediator. A tense hush fell over the rest of the store as Stanley and Filbrick continued their vehement staring contest, waiting for the other to give in first. Immovable and stubborn object faced off against equally immovable and stubborn object. It was like two tectonic plates rubbing each other the wrong way and creating an unmatchable friction, or two turbulent storm clouds circling around a highly pressurized focal point. A natural disaster any way you looked at it.
Finally, Mr. Pines' grip on his son's shirt loosened somewhat, and the heated expression on his face cooled down into something a little more impassive and aloof. His voice was still low to convey a clear warning, but at the very least it was now an appropriate volume for inside the house rather than shouting across a football stadium. "Look kid, I get that you care about your brother a lot. And regardless of whatever you may think, I care about him too. But let's be frank here, just because I care about him doesn't change the fact that he's a complete loser."
At this Stanley's scowl deepened once more in rebellious bull-headedness as he opened his mouth to combatively protest the remark, but his father pressed him hard into the wall again before he had the chance to speak his mind. "I said listen up ya knucklehead!" He snapped sharply.
The force of the impact knocked a couple of the hanging pictures loose this time, and they fell to the ground in a series of soft clacks. Stanley's mother gave an irritated grunt and muttered something along the lines of 'haven't you boys made enough of a mess already' just under her breath.
Filbrick's glasses slipped slightly down his nose as he stared down at his son, and Stanley couldn't help but become a little more subdued as he was fixed with the full and unrelenting weight of his formidable and stern gaze. "Just because you and Stanford might not like the facts of life don't make them any less true. Your brother's a loser, he's weak, and he doesn't have the drive to do anything productive with his future. The only reason he's ever gotten anywhere is 'cause he was riding on yer coattails like some sorta parasite. I care about both of my sons, but if one decides that he wants to be dead weight like your brother clearly has then I'm not gonna let him drag my other boy down with him. You have a chance to rise up outta this little hell hole we're living in and actually make something of yourself. Don't let your brother ruin that for you."
"You're wrong." Stanley stated simply, the heat of his own voice dying down a bit as his anger began to lose energy and burn itself out. Part of it was simply due to the fact that his temper only ever seemed to come in short and violent bursts. The other reason was because of… because of something he didn't really want to admit to himself; a seed of doubt in his mind. He tried to compensate for the slight lapse in his conviction by using his natural boldness and confidence as a foundation for his words, but he couldn't quite manage to erase the slight hesitancy of it. "Y-your… Stanford's not a loser, and he's not dead weight either!"
"Oh yeah?" One of Filbrick's eyebrows shot upward in a challenge. "Tell me somethin' Stanley. Is your brother still clinging to that dumb plan the two of you made when you were kids to sail around the world on that hunk'a junk you call a boat, or has he actually bothered figuring out a real future for himself?"
Stanley's frown deepened and he looked away, trying to maintain a steady and blank poker face. He didn't say anything, but it didn't seem to matter. His silence gave his father the only confirmation that he really needed anyways.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Mr. Pines ground out callously as he gave a disapproving huff. "Plannin' out a career would actually require some effort and realism on his part, and he's never shown much of an interest in either of those two departments. He's always walking 'round with his head in the clouds so he won't have to acknowledge his own general ineptitude; 'cause if he did it would mean that he might actually have to try hard and improve himself, and like the lazy coward that he is, he wants to avoid that at all costs." Filbrick shook his head as his expression morphed into something that almost seemed on the verge of disgust. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not even sure that he's capable of makin' something worthwhile out of himself at all, not with the way he goes about with those stupid fantasies of his. Most likely your mother and I are going to have to spend the rest of our lives supporting him, because I doubt he'll ever be able to do it for himself. "
Stanley silently glared at his father for a few seconds as he attempted to clear away some of the hot and hazy outrage that was still clouding up his mind. When he finally did speak again, the venom of his voice was a whole lot more quiet, more controlled and focused, than it had been previously. "Well, maybe if you cared enough about him to learn his interests you'd know that Stanford's really good at deciphering and making up codes, and he knows a lot of stuff about the supernatural-"
Filbrick seemed to bristle at that as though Stanley had said something that had offended him on a personal level, and abruptly interrupted. "Oh don't even get me started on that garbage."
"And…" Stanley pointedly ignored his father and continued plowing on forward with his tirade. "And he's a pretty great at drawing things to top it off. Maybe 'f ya tried playing to his strengths instead'a just focusing on the stuff he's bad at, then you wouldn't have such a hard time findin' value in him."
"Oh, and how does Mr. Bigshot Stanely Pines suggest I play to his strengths, huh?" Stanley's father mocked as he straightened his shoulders and shot his son a withering, condescending glance. "Send him to a fancy liberal arts college with the thousands of dollars I don't have, just so he can come back with mediocre grades and a degree that'll end up putting him behind a concessions stand anyways!"
"Once my boxing career takes off, I'll pay for him to go to college."
Filbrick scoffed dismissively at this and turned his head away, growing tired of his son's relentless stubbornness. The hardness of his eyes softened somewhat when he looked at Stanley again, and the forcefulness of his voice became a little more low, and muted. "You think that by mollycoddling him you're being a good brother, but all your really doing is making him dependent on you. Why don't you try letting him stand on his own two feet for once, eh? If he succeeds on his own, then good for him. If he fails, then let him fail. Either way it's not your problem. Unlike your brother, you're not so weak that you can't get by without someone else there to hold your hand the whole way."
Suddenly Filbrick's grip on his collar tightened again, and he pressed himself down close enough to Stanley's face that all he could smell was the overpowering and pungent odors of iron and cheap Cuban cigars. The glint in his eyes was steely and piercing. "This isn't a nice world Stanley, and it's not filled with nice people. So never forget to look out for number one first and foremost, because that's the only way you're ever going to become something great. And if the chains or the people of the world try to hold you back and keep you from your true potential, then cut 'em off. Because you don't need that. Because you don't need them. "
Stanley kept his own scowl stony and firmly in place. "Are we done here?"
Mr. Pines stared down at his son carefully for another moment or two as though he was trying to search for something in his face, before releasing the now thoroughly crumpled fabric of Stanley's shirt and taking a few steps back. "Yeah. We're done."
Filbrick then turned around and, to what must have been his mild surprise, found himself face to face with his wife's irritated grimace and tightly crossed arms. She shot a look at her son and then tilted her chin up to indicate for him to go ahead and go upstairs while the two of them hashed something out, and Stanley was more than happy to oblige his mother's request. He slipped himself around the corner an up the stairwell just as the sounds of angry and muffled muttering began to fill up the room behind him.
The stairs were small and narrow, and as such, had neither lights nor windows running along the walls making the hall a dark and shadowy place even during the middle of the day. Stanley had meant to immediately go up all the way and into the warm and bright sunlight that was streaming in from the much better lit second floor, but he inexplicably found himself stopped on the eighth step; halfway between his and Stanford's room above, and the unintelligible arguing taking place in the area just below. He felt… lost suddenly. Trapped in a kind of purgatory.
In all of the excitement he had nearly forgotten that Stanford still needed to be told all of what was going on; hadn't really considered what his reaction to this news might be. He was sure of course that his brother would be just as thrilled at the opportunity that was being presented to Stanley as he himself was at the moment. Right? Though, now that he thought about it, he wondered whether Stanford might require some time to accept it. Stanley's gaze sunk down to the step just above the one he was currently stuck on as the implications of getting acknowledged by the top dogs of the boxing world, and what that might mean for both himself and his brother, began to seep into his consciousness a bit more deeply. The more he mulled it over, the more he seriously began to doubt that his twin would actually be happy about this in any way at all.
And what was even worse was that he found himself not really caring about that as much as he felt he should have. His father's earlier words had woken up a strange and almost foreign resentment inside of him. A small seed that was now blossoming into something tangling and thorny; something that intertwined itself in the pockets of his lungs and wrapped possessively around his heart. It was savage, and severe, and suffocating.
Because when it came right down to it, and despite how harshly it had been spoken, there really was some truth to what his father had been saying. Stanford was always lagging behind and counting on his brother to continue pulling him forward all the time. When he wasn't off sulking for one reason or another, or staring wistfully out at the sea, then he was usually tagging relentlessly along his older twin's heels like a lost puppy. And wasn't Stanley allowed to get tired of that after a little while? Shouldn't he be allowed to achieve something great without having to worry about the state of his younger twin? Why should he always have to work hard while his brother just wasted his time designing imaginary things and playing around with ideas that were bound to go nowhere in the long run? Why did he have to be stuck with him? Who was forcing him to do this?
Stanley felt abruptly nauseous thinking all of this, utterly sick to his stomach. His heart sat hot and heavily in his chest like a sooty clump of smoldering coal, and it was burning a painful, glowing orange hole right through his sternum. He was angry, and hurt, and betrayed, but he didn't know by who; his father, or Stanford, or himself.
His grip on the hand railing tightened slightly in his distressingly growing confusion and animosity towards the whole situation. Part of him wanted to still be thrilled about the prospects of becoming a boxing legend and being regarded as a champion in the sport. The other part spitefully wished that Mr. Hansen had never come today at all. And though the former had undoubtedly started off taking up more space in his mind, the latter was exponentially more potent, and it poisoned the rest of his thoughts like a drop of viscous ink spreading out slowly into clear water. This was supposed to be something exciting. It was supposed to be the best news of his life, a dream come true, and it certainly had seemed that way when Stanley's coach had first told him about it. But now… now it just tasted bitter and unpleasant.
He shook his head tiredly in an attempt to dispel the dark and creeping malice that was crawling out from the back of his mind, though, he wasn't as successful as he would have liked to be. Stanley hated being left alone with his own thoughts; it was absolutely exhausting. He couldn't even begin to comprehend why his brother enjoyed introspectively brooding by himself so much. Thankfully, after taking a few deep breaths to help steady his turbulent and vitriolic center he was able to pull himself somewhat more together. He refocused his attention to the floor just above him and found that he was once again able to lift his previously stiff and uncooperative legs. He stepped out ominously onto the ninth stair, and from there, forced himself to quickly ascend the rest of the way up to the second story and towards the slightly cracked open door of his and Stanford's room.
He almost walked in immediately, but upon reaching the entryway Stanley found himself once again ground to a halt right before going in; temporarily stunned and blinded by a razor thin stream of warm yellow sunlight that flashed across his left eye at his approach. The slim and bright ray was seeping steadily out from the room beyond, cutting down the length of his shadowed body from the top of his head to the bottom of his shoes. The pupil in his coppery brown eye contracted in the intense light as his gaze sunk gradually to look down at his hand. At the angle that it was currently stretched across his palm, the amber beam almost looked like a sixth finger jutting sharply out just after his pinky, and the appendage trembled slightly as he closed it into an uncertain fist. A minor shiver ran up Stanley's spine as he reached out and pushed the door open, and the narrow strip of sunlight quickly widened and washed away the shadows hanging about in the hallway around him.
Stanford was sitting hunched over at his desk with his back towards Stanley, taking a moment to glance at his open math textbook before jotting something down in a few quick and concise scribbles. The bright daylight flooding in from the open window in front of the younger twin was in stark contrast to the dark shape of his body, and the particles of dust that outlined the suspended shadow he was projecting twitched and jerked fluidly in time to the movement of his handwriting.
For second or two Stanley had a hard time recognizing his brother. He couldn't exactly explain it, but he felt a little like he was looking at a complete stranger. It was something he had never really experienced before, and he wasn't sure if it had been suddenly brought about because there was something wrong with Stanford, or if it was because something had recently changed in him. Either way, it was unsettling.
Stanley slowly made his way into the room and around the side of the desk to lean comfortably against the wooden frame of his and Stanford's bunk beds. He couldn't say that he was too surprised when his brother continued working on his math homework instead of looking up and acknowledging Stanley. After all, his loud lumbering up the stairs combined with the ever-squeaky hinges of their room's door hadn't exactly made his presence here a secret, so the fact that Stanford hadn't greeted him when he first entered made it pretty obvious that he was ignoring his brother on purpose. Given the way he had moved his hand up to cover his face and hide his expression, Stanley could easily guess as to why.
Stanford had been eavesdropping in on the conversation below, and had most likely heard everything that had been said. Listening to the way their father and boxing coach had talked would be enough to make anyone upset, doubly so for someone with a self-esteem as abysmal as Stanford's already was. Stanley certainly didn't hold it against his brother for being in a less than sociable mood at the moment. If their positions had been reversed, he knew he probably wouldn't have been much different himself.
"Hey." Stanley offered quietly, his soft tone cutting through the thick silence like a cool wind streaking through fog. "So… I 'm gonna go out on a limb here and say you heard all of that, huh."
Stanford's pencil stilled as he finished writing out the number two point eleven, but he didn't look up or respond back to his brother. The awkward hush between them stretched on for almost a full minute before Stanley made another attempt to break it. "Look, I'm sorry about what our old man was-"
"You don't have to apologize for him." Stanford's noticeably shaky voice interrupted briskly. "I-its fine. I'm fine. I already know what he thinks of me."
"Ah, ya know he didn't really mean it, he's just…." Stanley tried to infuse a little assuagement into the conversation, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. The words just rang too hollow for him to feel comfortable continuing with the sentence, and a long and drawn out sigh scraped its way past his lips instead.
Stanford shifted around in his seat a little before finally lifting his head to face his brother, revealing his slightly glassy and red-rimmed eyes. The lack of tear tracks indicated that he hadn't been crying, but Stanley figured that he'd probably come pretty close to it anyways. He looked tired, and alone, and more than a little unsure. But when he peered up at his brother there was a warm hope in his expression and a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"…Stanford." The whispered name was so soft that it was rendered almost completely inaudible by the background noise filtering in from the street below the window. Stanley reached out a tentative hand and grasped his brother's shoulder firmly, his own eyes starting to moisten a little as he regarded his twin's almost palpable misery.
"Heh. Can't brush it off that easily this time, can you?" Stanford joked a little, his hunched posture gradually starting to lift itself up as he marked his page in the textbook and then gently closed it. Stanley noticed that the bookmark he ended up stuffing into there was a metal carpenter's file that the pair had planned on taking out to the Stan O'War later to help smooth the ship down, strangely enough. His attention was brought back to his brother as Stanford spoke to him again, this time while giving him an oddly sympathetic look. "Besides, in regards to his temper you're probably going to have it a lot worse than me in a few days time."
That made Stanley's eyebrows shoot up a smidgen. "Hmm? What makes ya say that?"
"Well, how do you think he's going to react when you tell him that you're not doing the whole boxing thing."
Stanley's heart plummeted down into his feet upon hearing the absolute certainty radiating through his brother's voice while he said this. He drew himself away from Stanford as he leaned stiffly back against the bedframe, and his eyes were cast downward in murky frustration and regret. After a few seconds of gathering up his resolve he managed to lift his gaze to his brother again, and released another long sigh.
"…Stanford." He started hesitantly, still struggling to weigh his own stormy and agitated feelings against those of his brother. "Stanford, look I… I really like boxing, all right. I like hearing the crowd screaming my name. I like the rush of adrenalin that I always get runnin' through my veins. I like hittin' people, and I don't even really mind all that much that I get hit back either. This is something I love doing, and it's something that I'm really good at too. And… and it's… Well, it's not everyone who can succeed at this sport, especially to the point where they can make a full-blown career out 'f it." Stanley paused to bite the inside of his cheek a little, hoping that he could somehow get his brother to understand; wishing that his words would make him see reason. "Stanford, I have a real shot at this. You heard what coach was sayin', I can make it into the big leagues. This… this isn't an opportunity that I can just pass up."
Stanford's face was stunned and disbelieving as though he had just been slapped, and he suddenly became very still. "What about our plans to sail around the world on the Stan O' War?" He questioned, his eyes narrowing in a silent accusation as the speed and volume of his voice rose slightly. "What about investigating supernatural anomalies across the globe and becoming international treasure hunters? If you're busy with your boxing career, then when are you going to have time for m-"
The younger twin's mouth snapped shut quickly in an attempt to cut himself off, but by that point he had already said too much. It wasn't exactly difficult for Stanley to figure out what word he had originally been aiming for.
Stanford looked down, cheeks flushing lightly in shame and embarrassment, before he continued with his amended statement. "When are you going to have time for that?"
The previous bitterness that Stanley had felt in the stairwell started to rise again like a swelling wave of scorching, heated air at his brother's remark, and his patience finally fractured in exasperated irritation. He could scarcely believe that his brother was going to try and use that of all arguments.
"Ah Ford, for Pete's sake!" He scowled deeply, trying to keep his frustration at bay and crossing his arms firmly in front of his chest. "Will ya get with the times already! Everyone keeps sayin' that it's never gonna work, that it's a real childish and naïve goal for the future. And ya know what, they're right. They're all absolutely right. If we try and do this stupid thing we're not gonna end up as world-famous adventurers or anythin' like that. More than likely we'll probably just spend the rest of our lives as a couple of drifting sea hobos. That dream we had about sailing around the world was fine when we were kids, gave us something to do when we got bored, but now…"
Stanley's tirade faded off a little, and the hard expression on his face softened dramatically. The stern and unyielding glint in his eyes, however, remained unchanged. "Stanford, we're almost done with high school." He implored. "We're practically adults now. We really gotta start thinking seriously about what we wanna do with our futures."
Stanford answered in a quiet coldness. The way he glared at Stanley was strange and desperate, seemingly torn between wanting to speak his mind, and wanting to simply withdraw himself back entirely into his dark and frigid shell. "I already had my whole future planned out. I've already known exactly what I've wanted to do since I was ten years old. We both… I-I thought we both…" Stanford winced, his voice hitching slightly before he abruptly stood up, causing his chair to scrape harshly against the wooden floor, and leveling an accusatory scowl back at his brother. "This…this isn't something wrong with me. You're the one who's changing things up suddenly."
"I'm not- I haven't changed suddenly." Stanley hotly defended. "I've always loved boxing and you've known that!"
"Weren't you the one who was just saying earlier that no matter what happens we would always look out for each other first and foremost." Stanford reminded, his eyes shining with a waning hope that was slowly transforming into fear. His slightly curled hands began trembling on the desk where they rested.
Stanley's voice cracked in heated aggravation as he sharply gestured with his arms. "Holy cow Stanford, will you take a chill pill! You're actin' like I'm abandoning you or somethin'."
"Isn't that exactly what you're doing!?" The younger twin shot back lightening fast, the volume of his words spiking steeply in his growing anxiety. "If you pursue this boxing career then you're going to be moving all the way out to Texas before the school year even ends. How are you supposed to have my back when you're thousands of miles away?!"
"It's not like you don't have a car Ford. You're just… just gonna have t'drive out and visit me sometime. And I'll be coming back home every now and then too." Stanley tried, wincing a little at how feeble the argument sounded even to his own ears.
Stanford scoffed as his eyes turned cold and bitter. "You really think we're going to be able to meet up that often? Yeah, but I'm the one you're accusing of being naïve." His gaze dropped back down to the desk, and he started mumbling almost more to himself than to his brother. "We… we've always spent every moment together, and now we're hardly going to see each other at all."
Stanley's own stare darted away weakly at this. In truth, it was something that was also bothering him a little too because he knew that once he ended up in Texas he would miss his brother, miss all of his family and friends, quite fiercely. But some part of him also kind of liked the idea of being out on his own as well; anticipated the freedom that would be granted when he didn't have to take orders from his father anymore, or when he no longer had to constantly look out over his shoulder and keep watch of his brother. It would be nice, he thought, to be able to hang around people and not have to worry about how they might react to Stanford's sensitivity or zealous love for the strange.
The two contradicting feelings were battling within Stanley's chest as though they were a pair of gale force winds sharply twisting and mutilating the flesh of his heart, and the uncertainty of his words clearly displayed that disharmony. "I-I don't…Well. I mean, look…"
But it didn't seem to matter because Stanford was paying very little attention to what his brother was saying anyways. He wasn't even looking at Stanley, instead lost somewhere in his own dejected hurt and self-doubt. His eyes were locked onto some empty and nonexistent space on the edge of their desk, and his dark glare froze his face into a mask of remote and frigid sorrow. "And what am I exactly supposed to do while you become a world famous boxer, huh?! Well, I mean besides taking my long predestined place as the family defect and disappointment. Am I just supposed to accept that I'm going to end up scraping barnacles off the bottom of the docks for the rest of my life? I'm not like you Stanley; I'm not good at anything. I'm not talented like you are. I can't make friends to save my life. I try to work hard, I-I really do, but… but nothing just… clicks with me. People are always looking down on me for my…" His fist on the desk unclenched itself a little, and six long fingers splayed out across the smooth wooded surface. Hesitantly, Stanford brought his hand up and stared at it like he himself barely recognized it, like it was a foreign concept, or someone else's hand that had been mistakenly attached to his body. He unconsciously flexed them a little, and the dazed blankness of his expression crumpled away completely revealing desolate despair and humiliation. "Everyone just thinks I'm a screw up, and I'm not really sure that they're wrong."
"Stanford-"
"Sailing around on the Stan O' War may seem like a stupid dream to you, but it's all that I… i-it's all that I…" Stanford brought his hand back down and closed his eyes tightly. His whole frame shivered almost imperceptibly, causing his shallow breath to hitch. He almost seemed to be begging Stanley, imploring, as he lifted his head to look his brother in the face again and tried to put a little more desperate strength in his timid voice. "It's the only hope that I've got. The only hope of having a future that's worth reaching towards. A future that's worth anything. It… it was supposed to be us forever. I never planned on it being any other way."
Stanley was forced to look away from his brother; he couldn't help it. He felt more torn now than he ever had before in his entire life. His whole torso was heating up unbearable as though it was just a rocky pocket for the small pool of scorching hot magma that was boiling, and spurting, and heaving inside of him, and the torrid pressure it caused wrapped itself tightly around his lungs making it hard to breath. He didn't want to cause his brother pain or hurt, he had lived most of his life trying to accomplish just the opposite. But he… he just… why couldn't he just.
Wasn't Stanley allowed to want something for himself for once?
"Stanford, I can't just… we'll figure something out for you, alright." He offered as softly and considerately as he could, still unable to move his gaze from a pair of dirty roller-skates that were laying haphazardly with their laces tangled in the right-hand corner of the room. He tried mentally untying the strings to keep his eyes occupied, anything to avoid looking back at his brother's heartbroken grimace. "You're good at drawing and stuff so maybe… Ugh. I don't know." He took a deep, unsteady breath, and then finally convinced himself to stop being such a coward. He gave his twin his full and complete attention. He needed to make him understand. "Look, this is one of the best opportunities that I've ever gotten or will probably ever get again. How many people actually get the chance to live out their dream, huh."
"Well, thanks to you I guess I'll never get the chance to understand anything about that, will I?" Stanford spat back harshly, his own temper spiking to an arctic fever pitch in the wake of his wounded and failing trust.
"Will you stop it! W-will you just-argh." Stanley yelled as he snapped even more caustically. A loud bang caused Stanford to flinch slightly as his twin abruptly slammed his fist against the frame of the bed in his growing indignation and ire. The older of the brothers ran a slow, shaking hand through his hair in an attempt to curb his anger, before fixing the younger with the full weight of his heated glare and speaking lowly." Why are you tryin' t'make me feel guilty about this, huh? Why are you trying to ruin this for me!? Why can't you just be happy for me! Ford, I've always protected you from bullies. I've always stuck up for you. I've always been on your side. Can't you just be on my side for once?" The sharp tilt of Stanley's brows relented a bit as he leveled his own hurt and accusing scowl at his twin. "I'm your brother. Don't you care about what I want at all?"
As soon as Stanley had said that, he desperately wished that he hadn't.
Stanford had always been very single-minded when it came to his plans for the future. He just wanted to get away from it all. To sail far away from this town and leave all the rest of the jerks in it behind as mere figments or specters of his past. To escape the mockery and belittlement of others. To explore, and discover, and look at the world in a way that no one had ever looked at it before. It had been his passion ever since they had been little kids, the task that he had poured his heart and soul completely into for almost seven years. It was the promise that he had muttered to himself after a bad dream in the middle of the night, or when someone teased him for his extra finger, or all those times their father shot him a disappointed glance.
And he couldn't do it alone; they both knew that. Stanford was a lonely person as it was. Without his brother there sailing at his side, pulling him from the dark doubts of his own mind, cracking his shell open when he retreated away, he would most likely cut himself off from the world altogether, and as consequence, slowly unravel, and fall apart.
Stanley's own indictment was bounced back at him harshly; reflected in his brother's inky black, downcast gaze behind his brightly gleaming spectacles, in the hopeless emptiness of his expression, in the bitter hurt of his almost unnoticeably trembling shoulders.
'I'm your brother. Don't you care about what I want at all?'
Stanley's head was reeling. He felt sick, like he was going to throw up all of his internal organs onto the polished wooden floor. He needed air, just wanted to get out of there and stop thinking about all of this. "I'm gonna go…." He started weakly. "I'm gonna go help Carla out with her car. I'll be back in a little bit."
Stanley shifted himself off from the frame of the bunk bed and began making his way out of the room, his feet feeling heavy and oddly uncooperative beneath him. He only made it two-thirds of the distance to the door before Stanford's voice rang out and shot an icy comment from over his shoulder. "You should take the opportunity to go dancing with her tonight. I mean, it's not like we're going to be working on the Stan O' War ever again, so I guess Tuesday and Sunday nights are freed up for you now." Stanley turned half way around to face his brother, but Stanford's stiff and unreadable back gave nothing away. "You can do whatever you want."
A dark look passed across Stanley's face while he once again swiveled and started walking out of the room, but just as he reached the doorframe he was forced to pause. His breath caught in his throat as a wave of hazy lightheadedness suddenly overcame him completely. His body felt strangely numb beneath him, beyond the realm of his control as he tried unsuccessfully to get his loosened and disconnected limbs working again. He staggered and crashed into the wall, his sense of balance inexplicably abandoning him, and the next thing he knew he was laying face down on the ground with his brother grabbing his arm and worriedly looming over him.
"Stanley! Stanley are you alright? What's going on?"
"Mmm. Fine'm fine." He managed to mumble, wincing as the world around him tilted and began dissolving away. He blinked sluggishly as he looked out into the empty blackness, its dark tendrils peeking out from behind the thickly layered web of crimson glowing symbols that the wallpaper was transforming into. Stanley shook his head slightly to try and dispel the hallucination. "I just… Just got a little lightheaded there for a minute."
Stanford opened his mouth and started to say something, but then quickly snapped it closed and looked up as something out in the hallway caught his attention. His eyes widened in a mixture of surprise, wonder, and guarded caution. "W-who are you? What are you?"
Stanley turned his own head a little as he tried searching the dark corridor to figure out what his brother was talking to. He couldn't see anything at first, but as his eyes adjusted he began to make out some vaguely blacker shape standing up against the wall. Once Stanley's line of sight was fully able to trace out its outer edges, his blood ran ice cold.