Welcome

Growing up, they were two peas in a pod. Stanford was the brains, the cool twin with the cool extra finger and Stanley was the other one.

The two wouldn't go anywhere alone, even as toddlers it was hard to separate them when they needed to use the bathroom– eventually they learned there were just some things they had to do alone.

Still, Stan was always there to support his nerdy brother. When Ford had a presentation after school, he would skip boxing practice to make it, if Ford wanted to attend a new science club, Stan would tag along despite having no interest, Ford had some new quirky interest and wanted to ramble, Stan was there to listen always even when he didn't understand it.

The point is, Stan never really changed. He stayed the brother he always was, always sticking close just in case his twin needed someone, always there making jokes when his brother was upset and always there to punch bullies when Ford was threatened.

He didn't change. Ford did.

Suddenly, Ford didn't like when Stan distracted him from getting in too deep in his head. Suddenly, Ford found his jokes too childish. Suddenly, everything Stan did was annoying to Ford.

It was one day when he got into trouble in class for, admittedly, taking it too far that Ford seemed to finally snap. Stan had been desperate, okay? Ford hadn't been talking nearly as much with him, avoided working on the Stan O War and would roll his eyes whenever Stan suggested something nerdy just for him! So Sue him!

Stan had been getting low grades, the usual, messing about in class, in classic class clown action, and trying to get his brother to laugh just a little at him– Heck, Stan would've taken a slight huff with a smile! Then, the teacher ruined it for them all and sent Stan to the principal's office, whatever.

It was when Stan was finally free from the clutches of the principal that the trouble really began.

He raced out, catching Ford just in time to walk home together, called to him and barely managed to set his hand on his brother's shoulder before it was promptly smacked away by a– get this– six fingered hand!

“You always do this!” His brother had spun around, face screwing up into that angry owl look of his while Stan's hand was still frozen up from where it had been slapped away.

“For once in your life, can you take anything seriously?!” His brother shouted, which was rare and Stan definitely didn't like considering how much he was shouted at by adults already. He was never a fan of shouts but he simply lowered his hand, staring at his brother as he caught his breath.

A few students paused to watch and Stan could hear the whispers and snickers, his ears growing hot as he controlled his expression and bubbling embarrassment in order not to turn into self-defence fury.

Stanford surely could have waited until they got home to argue, couldn't he?

“Come on, Sixer, I was just messing around–”

“That's all you ever do, Stanley! Mess around! Mess things!” Stanford interrupted and then, with a cool and cruel voice proceeded to say “I refuse to be there to pick up after your messes anymore”

With that Stanford left, walking home alone despite the fact they had the same destination.

Okay. So maybe his attempt to get closer to his brother had been all wrong, yeah. Still, Stan was trying, Ford wasn't.

No, all Ford ever did was push him away but keep him on a leash, close enough to tug in case he needs him but making sure there is distance for God knows what.

Stanley didn't change, he stayed the same boy that Stanford would laugh, play and joke with. Stanford is the one who changed…

So why is Stanford the one who is angry here? If anything, Stanley is the one who should be angry here.

It had been nearly a week of petty harrumph and cold shoulders from Stanford and maybe a little bit of self-reflection from Stan and a lot of working in the shop or cleaning the house before Stan came to a realisation while laying in bed late that night…

He is so fucking bored.

Usually, he and Ford had things to do together from playing around, lounging together, reading (Stan reading comics), to random exploring and so on… Now everything seemed rather… stale.

It was like that time when his brother was sick and Stan hadn't been allowed near him at all. Stan had spent so long just messing around, maybe being more destructive than usual before just… deciding to sit down and space out. His mother had said it had been the greatest two days of her life, the day when Ford was slowly recovering from his fever and Stan finally managed to behave.

And maybe Stan would've been offended, maybe he was a little still, but to be honest…. Yeah. Valid. He was a nightmare as a kid.

It was during boxing that the boredom seemed to really creep in, though. The whispers of other students crawling up his spine a little more every day, the way some of the other teens would try poke him into fighting his own twin (“personally, I wouldn't let that slide”), the happy expression of his mother from having Stan behave once again, the indifferent look of his father instead of the usual scowl…

Stan stood in his usual pose, hopping foot from foot, and despite seeing the punch coming, he didn't react at all.

He was sent home. Busted lip and spinning head. Coach made sure to tell his father how disappointed he was and Ford didn't even bat an eye.

Unlike the night Ford snapped, his father didn't send him to his room without dinner. However, that usual disappointed scowl returned… Stan noticed it as his mother helped clean his face up.

☆

You may think it was a one time thing but Stan may or may have not let it occur more than once. He may have sat back, listening to his father shout about how he just had to be a failure in everything, including boxing.

“Stop that” Ford muttered when he entered his room with a few too many bruises, nose stuffed with paper to stop the bleeding.

“If you think you can get pity from getting beaten up, you are very wrong, Stanley”

Stanley did not stop.

A fight at school once or twice, boxing where he'd welcome the punches, dizzy spells from when his head was knocked too hard and maybe talking back to his father once or twice before standing back to receive a beating from him as well.

“Stop that! It's distracting” his twin would whine when his father spent a good while in a screaming match with him, only silenced by a belt.

Stan did not stop.

Eventually, whatever that boredom streak was, started turning internal.

Stan found himself biting his nails too far or scratching his scalp too much, testing random limits he may have such as how long he could stay underwater or how close he can get to a flame…

It was one certain morning that the boredom finally hit like a wave, rolling him and pulling him under, hitting him against the rocks until he is stopped of anything human, that Stan looked to his notebook and thought–

“Might as well”

Stan began paying attention in class. He began actually answering the problems on the board even though he couldn't see that well and the sheets of paper, taking notes of he wasn't busy doodling.

The first time he handed the answers on a little sheet over, he got yelled at for copying Ford which got said twin covering his work with his arm and turning his body against Stan like Stan wanted to steal all his pens and notebook.

Fortunately, Stan stayed behind to ask the teacher to move seats. He's sure Ford would be ecstatic over it and like that Stan could finally see the board.

The next morning, when the teacher made him and some girl in the front change seats, Stan didn't get to see his brother's satisfaction. Although… Ford seemed far more grumpy than usual by the time he arrived home.

There was a weird vibe settling in the school between Stan and his teachers. A sort of questioning and expectation from him.

Teachers began being nicer to him, being less snappy and making less back-handed comments, they didn't call on him as much or smack his hand with a ruler, Stan even managed to catch a little appreciative nod from his maths teacher and that's like getting a nobel prize for him.

At home, no one really questioned Stan. Then again, Stan supposes they were happy with the peace and quiet for once.

At home, there wasn't anymore loud laughs or dumb jokes, no random singing trying to coax a smile from Ford or their mother into a song. It was quiet just the way everyone must have always wanted.

Sometimes, just sometimes, Stan couldn't handle the silence. He would get in his car and drive off to the piercings where he could sit and watch the sunset while wasting his battery to listen to the radio. To listen to anything, anyone talking.

Other times he stayed home, unwilling to move and just stuck reading, writing or working on homework. Drawing didn't seem as fun nowadays, it wasn't so fun when there was no one to see his creations or encourage his stupid dreams…

Speaking of dreams, he wonders how the Stan O War is doing. The old gal must be rotting from the inside out if some teens haven't found her and made it their hang out drinking spot. Stan would bet the place was covered in piss and beer cans by now… the thought made his chest tighten.

Still, it had been a nice dream, leaving Glass Shard beach. An excuse he had made in order to help Ford find somewhere where he belonged when, really, it was just Stan being selfish again and wanting the safety of Ford and no one else to hurt them.

“What are you doing?”

Stan blinked, not having processed being talked to right away. Looking up, he found his twin hovering over him, looking down at where Stan laid on his bed.

Seeing his brother's impatient expression morph into annoyance, Stan realised he should probably answer.

“Uh… reading…?” Perhaps some sass managed to come out towards the end but it was all drowned out by the confusion.

“Since when do you read?” Ford huffed as though the very idea of it offended him.

“I've always read”

“Yeah. Comics.”

What…what was going on right now? Stan didn't know what to say or how to react to this conversation. He is a little hurt with the way Ford is talking to him, if he's honest, but with how everyone talks to Stan in the same manner… he supposes it was only a matter of time.

“Is this one of your new tactics?” His brother asked, arms crossing “first you let yourself lose in boxing matches on purpose– I've seen it, by the way, you could've easily blocked a lot of those punches.”

“Then you start arguments with father like you have some death wish, scratch your scalp until it bleeds and now… now you read” frustrated, Ford gestures towards the book Stan is holding.

“I mean– moving seats in class, really, Stanley? Just how immature can you be? I'm the one who is upset with you, not the other way around” finally, Stan sorta understands something Ford is saying because so far Ford has just been listing random shit Stan does.

“I couldn't see the board” Stan blinks again.

“Oh yeah, sure– Suddenly you can't see the blackboard”

“I've never been able to see the board?”

To this Ford blinks at him, all annoyance gone in seconds, replaced by confusion.

“And– well, I thought you'd like the change” Stan sits up a bit to shrug.

“Why would I like the change?” Ford immediately latched onto that as a reason to be upset with Stan again “We have always sat next to each other! Always!”

Once again, Stan doesn't know what to say to whatever Ford is saying and… it's quite nerve-wracking really. He always knew what to say and what Ford meant but… right now he couldn't find the reasoning behind this conversation.

Not to mention, it was weird. Stan was sure he should be jumping at the chance to talk to Ford again, that he should be happy that Ford is talking to him, that somehow his actions dragged a reaction from his brother again.

“Wait– you've been coming to my boxing matches” Stan closes his book and apparently that's not the right thing to say because Ford's face goes a little red from anger and he makes a frustrated sound.

“NO!”

“But earlier you said–”

“Whatever! Don't bother me! I'm studying!” With that, Ford cut their conversation (somehow it felt more of an interrogation) short and sat at his desk, grumbling to himself before muttering to Stan–

He's walking through a busy market in the dimension E-Scolopax 488’6 when Ford drifts over to an exotic pets stall.

It's a bad idea before he even moves his feet. Stalls like this are exceedingly common, out here in the dimensional wastes, and Ford knows he is the sentimental type to feel compelled to open a few cages, overturn a terrarium or two if a particularly sad creature catches his eye. He may be a scientist, but he is also the same boy who cried over the shattered shells of sea snails in his youth. He can't exactly help it.

So he drifts closer, ducking around the strange-at least to him- bodies of interdimensional persons to get a closer look. The merchant at the stall is, predictably, selling their wares with the sort of loud showmanship that drives the softer eared of the crowd away, and makes the particularly naive or easily entertained lean in closer.

The merchant is holding up a weasel like thing, bright pink with a spider's worth of limbs and a long curly tail, and from what Ford's translator is picking up, apparently the creature is of a rarer variety. The crowd shifts, and suddenly Ford is towards the front of the stall, and his eyes glance around the decorated cages and tanks, each with their own inhabitant.

There is a small birdcage that hangs almost eye level from the stalls main frame, and Ford drags his eyes up to look inside.

At first, he thinks it's completely empty. The walls and floor of the cage are bare, the smooth metal tarnished and cold. The cage is small in and of itself, and Ford's eyes move on to the more distracting things to the left and to the right.

But his eyes drift back, almost magnetized.

This merchant likely wouldn't have an empty cage, front and center. Especially not one hanging in such a glaringly obvious spot. The bars of the cage are tightly knit together, implying that whatever is in said cage is small.

Ford reaches up and tilts the hanging cage, until he can more clearly see into it.

There's something very small huddled as far in the back as it can be.

Whatever it is, the creature is tiny. Ford almost needs to squint to be able to make it out, a combination of how small the thing is huddled and how far in the cage it's decided to sit. It's barely bigger than his thumb's fingernail, the way it's curled up on itself.

He tilts the cage again, just the smallest bit, and suddenly there is movement.

With the tilting cage, the creature inside starts to slide closer, and when it moves it panics and unfurls.

It's a tiny bird.

Little wings flap frantically, so quickly that it's nearly buzzing, ticking as it tries to regain its balance, but then it reaches a tiny hand out and it's not a bird at all, it's a tiny person with wings, and then the tiny person with wings makes a noise like a cut off yelp and it's not a tiny person with wings, it's a tiny child with wings, and then they turn their head up and-

And Ford freezes.

It's Stanley.

It's not his Stan. Ford knows exactly, painfully, what his own dimensions Stan looks like. This is Stanley, but this version has wings, this version is identical to the ruddy cheeked twin of Ford's childhood, looking no more than nine, maybe ten.

This Stanley is tiny.

Ford can't even force himself to breathe.

Stanley-tiny, with wings, no more than ten years old- is looking at him fearfully. Wide, wet eyes and a horrible shiver that doesn't speak of cold, but instead of terror. This Stanley curls up again, tucking his head down to his chest and hugging his knees, folding his wings around himself as protection.

Protection from him. From the cage.

Without a thought, and as if in a trace, Ford unlatches the cage door.

The door is barely big enough for his six fingered hand to reach through, and the metal hinges bite into his gloves, but when Ford reaches this tiny version of his twin, his hand is gentle.

He slides his fingers along the bottom of the cage and corners the small huddled figure, cupping his hand around Stan's back and pushing, every so slightly with his thumb, until Stan slides into his palm, as gently as he possibly can. He curls his fingers down, until his brother is securely held, all in one smooth motion.

Against the glove, he can feel Stan's wings flap and flutter in that sickening panicked way, like a rat caught in a trap or a cat in a cage. Ford drags his hand back, prize safely cupped in his palm, back out of the cage.

He's safe now. Ford has him, Stanley is safe now.

Predictably, however, the merchant managing the stall does not take kindly to someone stealing his wares.

The merchant is yelling at him, loud screeching waves, and Ford fully intends to simply hurry away, off to find a quiet corner somewhere to further inspect and calm the treasure in his hand, but then the merchant makes a mistake.

They reach a clawed hand around Ford's wrist, the one holding his brother, and jostle Ford's arm enough that he almost loosens his hold.

Ford shoots the merchant without hesitation.

The crowd surrounding the recently unmanned stall, predictably, panics.

People are running and screaming to get away, the entire wave pushing and shoving to get away from Ford, to get away from the shot of a quantum destabilizer firing. Someone will alert the market's security, and Ford needs to move, now.

In his final act in this dimension, with his free hand Ford unlatches, breaks, and overturns as many cages, tanks and baskets full of exotic animals as he can. The weasel creature from earlier scatters in with the crowd, another bug-like thing flies over the heads of panicking people, and using the distraction, Ford hits a button on his interdimensional transportation device and hops through the created rift without missing a beat.

His stomach scoops, that ever present feeling of a changed atmosphere washes over him, and the world goes quiet.

There is still the tiny weight in his hand, and through his curled fingertips, Ford can feel the movement of breath, of life.

Very carefully, Ford rotates his hand palm up, and slowly opens his hand.

Immediately Stanley dives sideways, wings stretched and bolting for escape, and Ford nearly drops him into the dirt.

“It's okay!” He says, catching his brother, his baby brother, by cupping both hands together. Stan continues to squirm, but something must be wrong with his wings, he doesn't fly, he can't, but he's trying anyway, making these horrible fearful noises as he tries.

“It's alright,” Ford tries to soothe. “I am not going to hurt you Stanley, I'm not going to hurt you.”

In his hand, Stanley stills his escape attempts.

Ford lets out a small sigh of relief. “It's alright,” he says again. “You're safe, I promise, you're safe now.”

Stan turns his head up, gazing up, up into Ford's face, looking smaller than he's ever looked.

Perhaps that's because he is, physically, smaller, and also a child, but it twists something in Ford's heart all the same.

Stan's head is on a swivel, looking around and over the side of Ford's hand, to the new world they've found themselves in, back again to Ford's face, and then he pauses, stares.

Ford recognizes the exact moment that Stanley counts his fingers. Counts them again.

Slowly, Stan looks back up.

In a tiny voice, just as young as Ford remembers, Stan speaks. Hesitant, surprised and disbelieving.

Opening his eyes, Stanford Pines found himself out in the street, near the beach. He was in his pajamas, flashlight in hand and still sleepily rubbing his eyes as he made his way down to the sandy floors.

“Stan?” His young voice called as he began to search for his twin in their little boat, the Stan O War.

Stanford already knew his brother wasn't there but the memory played out as usual.

It wasn't the first night this had happened, as Stanford grew up he couldn't help curse his brother's sleep walking tendencies though, feeling them to be a burden. His father had told him to just let him roam free after the third time it happened in a single week but this young Stanford was unable to leave his brother be. They were siblings, twins…he couldn't just leave him.

It wasn't an everyday thing. More often than not, Ford would find his brother snoring loudly like a walrus peacefully in his bed, the snores only having begun after his smoking addiction did.

As teens, when Stanford tried to ignore his brother but ultimately failed, he'd take his time getting dressed and putting on shoes rather than the uncomfortable sandals his brother opted for. He would then walk over to the beach, barely spare their childish project a glance as he headed for the water where his brother usually stood, water up to his knees as he stared off into the distance.

“Alright” he'd sigh tiredly, used to it by then “let's get you back to bed” and just like that, he'd carefully take his brother's hand and walk him back home.

Now, however, or rather- Before, as he was still a preteen in this dream… Stanford would look around the beach in confusion, freezing at the sight of a familiar silhouette.

“Stanley?”

Stanley was standing in the water, waist deep and getting his pajamas, that he was so excited to match Ford with, all wet. He seemed to be still walking towards the pitch black ahead.

“Stan?” Ford called again, hesitation just a step away from the waves and taking a step back any time they got too close.

“Stan, what are you doing?” The boy was too confused, shining the light towards his twin and still not seeing where the sky and water ended “this isn't funny, pa will be so mad when he sees you”

But Stanley just kept on walking and walking until-

“Stan!”

His brother slipped, a dip in the sand where the waves usually hit. Stanford knew as that's usually the area their mother told them to not swim in rare days she came to the beach with them to sunbathe

“I don't want to have to keep worrying about you twos drowning while I'm relaxing” she'd nag. Stanley and Stanford always loved to swim past the area when she wasn't around, a reef with different fishes hidden just a little further out was waiting for them every time.

“Lee!!” Ford cried out, dropping his flashlight in a panic and rushing in the water after his twin. In hindsight, he should've taken the light with him so he could see where his brother was in the dark depths of the water but all he could think about was getting to his brother’s side, to keep him close and safe. All he could think about was losing his twin at that moment.

Blindly he searched…and Stanford knows how that memory ends, he knows he ends up feeling around far too long for his brother and he knows he struggled with the weight that comes with swimming with clothes. He also knows the moment he felt a hint of skin against his hand and freaked out a bit, worried it was some sea monster rather than his brother but had grabbed on anyway until his hands felt around enough to conjure a picture in his head of a leg he had grabbed.

Stanford remembers how he thought he saw a pair of eyes shine in the darkness like a lighthouse before they drifted closed and the feeling of bubbles waved past his face. He remembers wrestling in the water to turn his brother upright so he could bring them both back to land…

Stanley would cough as he hit the ground of the beach with Stanford, Stanford had never been more happy to be a nerd and having learnt CPR.

Stanley had ended up confused and disoriented when he woke up to Stanford yelling and crying at him, demanding to know why he thought a night swim was a good idea-

“Why am I here?” He'd ask Stanford instead.

Then they'd go home at last, both shaky from the panic of the moment and the night breeze hitting their cold bodies, they'd huddle close to each other for warmth and open the front door to find their mother.

Their mother in no way was cruel, she was never as bad as their father… but in that moment, the moment Stanley opened the door for them as Stanford’s hands couldn't stop shaking and his head couldn't stop spinning from the little air that entered his lungs, he saw her. Arms crossed, shawl over her shoulders keeping her warm, eyes out the window she liked to sit by when she received calls…. She looked awake. She looked as though she had been awake for a while.

Stanford knew the window had a perfect view of the beach.

“Your brother is broken” she said, eyes distant… and she never clarified which of them she meant.

Instead of continuing the memories as it should, Stanford’s dreams end with him in the darkness of the water and the feeling of bubbles hitting his face. Nightmares of his brother drowning following him when he isn't awake taking his hand to bring him home.

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼

Like most days, when Stanford has such nightmares, he wakes up with a headache.

“Mornin’, Stanford” Fiddleford McGucket, his lab assistant and old college friend, greets him in the kitchen and Stanford manages a tired smile at the scent of coffee that greets him as well.

“Good morning” he sighs, pouring some coffee for himself as well. As usual, Fiddleford seems to notice his exhaustion but doesn't comment on it, instead he takes a sip of his own coffee before asking-

“You ready to head on over north?”

North. Right… They had planned to take their boat further out to research some new species of seaweed they had discovered that had been carried by the current.

They were meant to have started the previous week when they set off from the river to sea but the sight of sandy beaches had brought the nightmares back to Stanford.

“Yes, I will grab my coat” Stanford sighed. Somehow, even far away, Stanley managed to disrupt his plans.

Fiddleford had some vague idea of what his nightmares were about, every once in a while Ford would have them again and his friend would find him on their dorm couch staring into nothing in particular.

On worse nights Stanford would wake him up with his crying, feeling foolish for missing the person that betrayed him.

“He used to sleepwalk” he whispered in the dark of the living room, surprised to hear himself talking, especially since his friend hadn't probed him to talk about it this time.

The rummaging in the kitchen had stopped, as though F had been surprised himself. It continued soon after and Ford had felt it was easier to go on when his friend wasn't looking at him or giving him much attention.

“He'd always go down to the beach…first time it happened he–” he choked on his own words and shook his head “he nearly had–” he couldn't even say it and wasn't that pathetic? It had been years…Stanley hadn't seemed as traumatised as Stanford had been with it.

“Before he left…was kicked out-” Stanford corrected “he was still having those episodes. Walking to the beach, through the water…” Ford went on in a hushed tone as his friend returned with a steaming mug of tea in each hand.

“Sometimes I…I worry”

The mug was hot as he took it, both his freakish hands wrapping around the ceramic, letting themselves burn to root himself to the present.

“I worry he still sleep walks…” he whispered into the darkness, glad he couldn't see his friend's expression. Not that he was looking at him…

“and I'm not there to pull him out of the water”

Stanford never did tell Fiddleford who ‘he’ was but Fiddleford never really did ask after that.

As he came to the deck of their little research boat, Ford with his heavy long coat lined with fake fur underneath as he wore some wool undergarments and a thermo cup in his gloves hand, Fiddleford soon joined him with his own coat made of real animal pelt that Stanford unfortunately had the pleasure to witness being gifted one Christmas he had spent with his friend. He never did spend another Christmas with the McGuckets after that.

The two went over their notes as they sipped their coffee, the cold icy wind hitting their faces. According to their research, this new species of seaweed could be quite nutritious and used for medicine…there is just one problem-

“It seems to be coming from this direction” his friend pointed to a white area on the map.

The seaweed was coming from frozen areas.

This is a problem, how? Well; first, they wouldn't be able to obtain it as it would be under the freezing waters, and second, the seaweed itself would most likely be frozen in unachievable areas.

Stanford sighed. How did he end up here? Researching weeds of all things… He should be out there, exploring the extraordinary, the weird! He should be researching things like him… Anomalies.

He had taken this assignment because- well- it would get him closer to his dream of researching anomalies. There are countless sea stories talking about them, afterall, the fact that he has to sail around with a friend has nothing to do with his choice at all.

It's not like he wishes Stanley was here. That would be foolish.

“Perhaps its best we dock” Fiddleford recommend “there is land pretty close to here, three days out”

“Yes” Stanford sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to ease the headache away “we can decide on a new plan then”

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼

Norway was as cold as any of them expected, the grounds damp from the constant rain that comes and goes.

The people there seemed polite, happy to help when asked but also seeming to run from interactions. As they set up camp to take a night off from the constant sway of the waves, Stanford couldnt help but think about the legends of trolls… it was nighttime, if they were real surely he would see one.

Did he want to see one?

Fiddleford was going off about their surroundings, commenting on how lovely it is to have moss everywhere rather than the dry, almost hay-like, grass everywhere to make you struggle to sleep with. Each rock covered in moss lump played with Stanford’s imagination and he found himself sketching little ideas of what a troll may look like based off each shape while his friend photographed anything and everything to have some sort of evidence to show about their studies to their college.

Their campfire cast shadows around them, making their surroundings appear much darker and scary than it actually was.

“Fish cake?”

“Yes, thank you” Stanford thanked, taking the offered snack as he kept doodling the weird lump on the ‘beach’ - it could hardly be called a beach really, there was barely any sand and the water was surrounded by volcanic rocks. It was honestly more mountain and boulders with nearby water than a beach.

The lump moves with the light of the fire and Stanford chuckles to himself as he munches on the awful texture of the fishcake. He is sure Stanley would've pulled a prank to scare him by now or began making stories about trolls approaching them…

He's also sure Stanley would've sleep walk right into the waters as soon as he let his guard down… messing their travels like he messes up everything else.

‘It's not his fault’ Stanford thinks he hears a young naive voice say and quickly shakes his head, instead focusing on the advancing lump.

He turns to watch his friend set up his camera to photograph the stars, a telescope right by its side and-

Stanford does a double take. He looks at the lump. The one that's wobbling towards them.

Flabbergasted, all Stanford can do is blink at the dark shadow that's shuffling up the beach and towards the forest area where they are camping. It couldn’t be….could it?

Quickly, Stanford grabbed a flashlight and stood, coat fluttering in the wind from where he left it open to lounge. His eyes widened with wonder, his heart raced. Yes…it must be…

A troll!

“I'm going to the beach” he announced in a hurry, already running down to the beach, not listening to Fiddleford's scolding or complaints- he had important things to do! Those things were called: Science!

Slowing down to a jog, Ford panted as he turned on the flashlight and pointed it around, trying to find the moving creature in the darkness.

There!

Stanford gasped as the light squared in on the….the…

Seal.

A regular seal. Well- a baby seal, specially… one with white fluffy fur and big black pupils that look up at him all shiny and adorable and-

The baby seal flopped over and began to slap at its chubby belly. Stanford stood by, watching.

“Uh…” he looked around for the baby's parents but saw no other seal but the adorable fluffball.

SLAP SLAP SLAP SLAP

“I can assure you, I am no threat” Stanford tried, lifting his hand to show he was unarmed. Perhaps it was not good to teach a young pup that humans were safe… Stanford hears they are hunted for their coats often…

“Well…excuse- I- I didn't mean to bother you-aand I'm talking to a seal” he realised, immediately dropping his hand and allowing the disappointment of finding a seal and not a troll roll in.

“I need sleep” he sighed and turned around to walk back up to camp, walking away from the seal pup.

Glancing back, Ford noticed the seal roll back onto its belly and huff through its nostrils, a nice curt nod that made it seem as though it was saying “that's right walk away”. Stanford chuckled, shaking his head.

“Nice beach walk?” Fiddleford asked, not looking away from the peephole of his telescope, only doing so to take notes of what he saw. Ford looked up at the bright night sky, taking in the stars.

“I suppose” Stanford’s reply was laced with disappointment "I thought I had seen something but turns out it was just a baby seal”

There was a crash and the fluttering of paper, Stanford jumped and looked to his friend. His friend who looked back at him. Wide eyes and looking ready to squeeze his eyes out.

“You saw a baby seal?! And didnt tell me?!”

“Im telling you now-”

“And why do you sound so dissapointed?!”

“Well-”

“ARE THEY STILL THERE?” Fiddleford squinted into the distance, hand on his forehead

“I guess-”

And there he goes. The man sure can run when he wants to. Stanford stood by, watching his friend run to shore before turning to look at his hand where he held the flashlight.

“Hm… I’m sure he'll come back for it”

It was later when he was cozy writing in his journal, in his little sleeping bag inside their tent, that Fiddleford returned looking just as disappointed as Stanford had earlier.

“There was no baby seal, Stanford” he whined “and even if there was, it was too dark for me to see”

“I'm sure I saw one” Ford lift a brow at his friend's drama, watching him unroll his own sleeping bag just to collapse on it and sulk “and I doubt a seal could move away that fast on land, you probably just didn't look hard enough”

He got a middle finger in response so Stanford showed Fiddleford all his four middle fingers in return.

𓇼 ˚𓆝 ⋆｡𓆟 ⋆｡𓆞˚ 𓇼

There was some rummaging going around. Stanford groaned, covering his head with the extra blanket he packed.

“Fiddleford, keep it down” he complained loud enough for his friend to hear it outside.

There was movement next to him. A squeaky yelp that Stanford recognised.

Someone shook his shoulder, Stanford quickly sat up to find his friend still in his sleeping bag, eyes wide. Stanford’s own eyes widened.

“I thought that was you” he whispered as the noise outside continued “if it's not you then…who..?”

“Or what” Stanford quickly reached for his glasses, blinking rapidly as his world focused once again. The light of the rising sun peeked through the small gaps of their tent and the thin layer.

Outside, galumphing about, was the same seal as yesterday- No no, wait. That’s not a seal…

Two extremely human (and normal) tiny hands poked out from the fur, wriggly fingers readying to dig into their backpack. Stanford watched, vaguely aware of his partner’s panicked whispers as he watched the seal(?) with human hands(??) go through their things.

“What is it?” Fiddleford finally let his own curiosity win past his fear, pushing his head against Ford’s to take a look outside as he fixed his own small glasses.

The anomaly outside curved in a way no seal should be able to, both men watching in horror as it grew two small feet, tiny toes poking out of the fur as it shoved its head inside of their bag. Suddenly-

“Hurra!” the anomaly popped back up, two arms holding up one of their lunch boxes, their head falling off to reveal brown curls and a wide smile on a-

“It’s a child” Fiddleford gasped as the kid rearranged themselves to sit propped up against the bag, legs stretched out in a way it was so obvious they were wearing seal-fur that it made Stanford feel like an imbecil.

Stanford squinted as the child struggled to open the tupperware, slamming tiny fists at it when their tiny fingers couldn’t pry it open before using their all too sharp teeth, gnawing at the plastic like an overly excited puppy. Slowly, Stanford crept out of the tent, waving off Fiddleford’s hushed warnings to not scare the child (“You’re no good with children, Ford! Let me”) as he wondered if he should let the infant know there was a latch on the lunchbox.

The infant stopped, freezing as soon as they noticed Stanford. Two big brown eyes lifted towards him, teeth still around a corner of the plastic box.

Now that he was closer, Stanford could make out the details of the child’s face. Such as how their nose curved downwards and their full cheeks were covered in freckles that stretched and became more of spots towards their ears that were smaller and more round than any human ear should be or how their tanned skin glistened in the first rays of the Norwegian sun, brown curls dusted in white from dried sea water.

Stanford could also make out how they were more masculine than feminine, probably a boy, and how sharp his teeth were or his small hands had a darker tint than the rest of him, sort of like the spots near his ears.

Curious of all was how similarly this anomaly resembled him when he was younger… Although with the way the kid was acting, the sun-kissed and freckled skin Stanford never quite achieved during his summer breaks, and how casually he seemed to act despite stealing Stanford’s things right in front of him, resembled someone else entirely. Resembled Stanley.

With a quiet gasp, the boy scrambled to his bare feet (isn’t it freezing?), dropping Stanford’s tupperware and puffing up his chest in a way that made his round cheeks puff up adorably with it. Then, suddenly, the anomaly/boy began to drum his belly rapidly, the thick fur of his coat muting the sound to be less potent in comparison to the seal’s yesterday. Stanford blinked.

“Uhh..”

THUMP THUMP THUMP

Unsure on what to do, Stanford finally glanced back to Fiddleford for help. His friend seemed to have already been in the process of leaving the tent, sighing as though he knew this would happen.

THUMP THUMP THUMP

“Hello” Fiddleford’s voice was a pitch higher, his hands resting on his knees as he crouched a bit to the anomaly’s height “What are you doing here, little boy? Aren’t you cold?”

“Way to be creepy” Stanford muttered to the side, crossing his arms

THUMP THUMP THUMPTHUMPTHUMP

“I am not creepy!” Fiddleford turned his way with a hiss

“What are you doing here all alone, oh little boyyy” Stanford made a bad imitation of a witch from the fairytales, it was, admittedly, childish.

THUMPTHUMP … THUMP THUMP

“I did not sound like that!”

THUMP

“Debateable”

THUMP ?

As the two of them argued, the small anomaly’s little belly slaps grew weaker before they came to a stop completely, his head spinning from Fiddleford to Stanford as they got into another of their little childish quarrels.

Stanford ignored the ache in his chest as he remembered such fights with his twin… Their last fight had been far from childish though.

He found himself missing said fights.

Somewhere in between their quarrel, the small anomaly must have decided this was the green light for them to go on with biting the tupperware. They casually took a seat, propped themselves back against Stanford’s bag and began gnawing at the lid once again.