freak out of jail

I obviously don't know how to do this kind of art LOOOL

Stanley is not in the kitchen, although the smell of coffee does fill the air, so Ford knows he’s been here recently. Neither is he at the helm. Ford does not bother looking in his lab. Stanley typically avoids it unless he is harassing Ford in some manner—go to bed at a normal hour, eat real food, that’s too much coffee, please for the love of God don’t create a biohazard in this enclosed space in the middle of the ocean. Finally, Ford finds his brother up on the deck, leaning against a railing and staring out at the sun that, this far north and this late in the year, will not climb much higher in the sky today.

Ford does not think that he made much noise—certainly none that could be heard over the wind and waves—but as soon as he steps from the doorway, Stanley turns around. They’ve never been able to sneak up on each other, not once that Ford can recall, so it makes perfect sense that Stanley just knew he was there.

One look at him, and Stanley throws his head back and laughs. It’s a loud thing, from his belly, and the sound alone prevents the harsh arctic air from delivering any ill effects to Ford’s body. “Cripes, Poindexter,” Stan says, his voice full of affectionate teasing. “I know you’re a human furnace, but that ratty thing ain’t gonna cut it out here.”

He then walks right around Ford, who can only whine in complaint that his brother does not come close enough for Ford to latch onto, and disappears into cockpit. He’s back in just a moment, Ford’s bulky coat slung over his shoulder. Stanley grabs at the comforter and wrestles Ford into the proper gear for their current environment. Ford simply stands there and takes it, not at all displeased to listen to his brother’s biteless grumbling about frostbite.

Once he is properly in the coat, gloves, and knit cap, Stan replaces the comforter around Ford’s shoulders. “You actually cold or are you doing your best impersonation of a teenager who just woke up?” Stan punctuates his question with a slightly too sharp clap to Ford’s cheek.

“Ow,” Ford grumbles, although it does not hurt at all. He huffs at his brother, which only makes Stanley laugh again.

“You look like a chipmunk,” he says. “It wasn’t cute when you did that when we was kids, and it’s not cute now as a grown ass man.” But considering the way that Stanley’s eyes are sparkling, the way he looks at Ford’s puffed cheeks and wild curls not at all well contained by the knit hat, the way that his teasing smile is a bit softer at the corners of his lips, Ford must surmise that his lying charlatan brother is, in fact, at least slightly charmed by Ford’s sleepy, if a bit immature and childish, disposition.

That he has charmed Stanley stirs the always lit embers in the pit of his stomach, fanning the flames just a bit higher. However, the feeling of delighted contentment is not enough to stop him from pursuing an all too pressing manner.

“When we were kids,” Ford corrects, and Stanley groans and rolls his eyes as dramatically as possible. Ford does not bother to hide his grin, which might be crossing into dopey territory.

Stan shoves him a bit, and says, “You stop with that shit, or I’ll be forced to dump this right out into the ocean.” From seemingly nowhere, Stan holds up Ford’s thermos and waves it enticingly in Ford’s face.

“No,” Ford whines pitifully and makes grabbing hands at it.

Stan chuckles smugly. He throws an arm around Ford’s shoulders and leads him over to the railing. “Come on, Poindexter. Let’s get you caffeinated. This is pathetic.”

They settle onto the bench, and Ford takes the opportunity to press in close to his brother’s side, unfolding the comforter enough to also envelop Stan. Stan plucks his own thermos—his covered with stickers from one of Mabel’s care packages—from the nearby cup holder, and silently, comfortably, they turn their gazes back out to the horizon. Ford sips lightly at his coffee. It’s the perfect temperature, which means that Stanley must have prepared it along with his own drink when he first woke up. It has the perfect amount of sugar and cream to suit Ford’s sweet tooth. Made with love, as are all things that Stanley gives to him.

Ford drops his head onto Stan’s shoulder and asks, “Why did you get out of bed so early?”

Stan huffs a light laugh. Ford knows it would have been louder and livelier, but he’s likely reluctant to jostle Ford around. “You have less than no idea what time it is,” he says.

“Irrelevant,” Ford states.

Stan takes a long, slow sip from his thermos. “Wasn’t any reason,” he says. “Just thought it would be nice to check out the view.”

“It was nicer in the bed,” Ford grumbles, and Stanley doesn’t answer that. Ford waits a moment before shifting his head just enough that he can get a glance at his brother’s face. There isn’t any particular emotion standing out. He seems peaceful and content enough, but Ford doesn’t have the best angle to see his eyes. Stanley’s eyes have never been able to fool Ford.

The thing about the bed is that it isn’t the only one on the boat. The thing about the bed that Ford woke up in this morning—the bed that he almost always wakes up in—is that it isn’t Ford’s bed. Ford’s bed, theoretically, is the bunk above Stanley’s, the same as it was when they were kids. As soon as they were old enough for their own individual beds, they were given bunks. It was a space saver, as there was no chance they would ever be given their own bedrooms, and two growing, rowdy boys needed all the space they could get for play. Ford had always taken the top bunk. Stanley was scared of heights. Ford doesn’t even remember why—it had just always been like that—but even that little bit up the ladder had been too much for him. It was no hardship, and when they still wanted—or needed—to cuddle and be close, it was the easiest thing in the world to pull down his pillow and an extra blanket and settle into Stan’s bunk with him.

It’s what they still do now. Ford very rarely makes the climb up that ladder at the end of the night. Whether they go to bed at the same time or whether Ford has finally hit the wall after a long day of adventure and research and drags himself up from his lab, far more often than not, Ford slides under the covers of Stanley’s bunk and presses himself into his twin’s space. Stan accepts it each time without complaint. He accepts Ford simply lying there. He accepts Ford nestling himself into Stan’s side and using him as a pillow. He accepts Ford’s arms folding around him and pulling him back against Ford’s chest.

Ford thinks that it means all of the same things to Stan that it does to him, but they haven’t talked about it. For all the leaps and bounds they’ve made since setting sail four months ago, they still haven’t talked about this.

Ford knows how he feels about his brother. He has known for a very, very long time. It had, of course, been alarming back when he initially came to the conclusion that his feelings for his brother—his identical twin brother, at that—were not entirely platonic in nature, although certainly that brotherly feeling was always there as well. Of course it was alarming. He was not supposed to look at his brother and want to smash their faces together, to know the taste of his lips. He was not supposed to look at his brother and imagine trailing hands across his body, memorizing not only the sight but the feel of him. He was not supposed to look at his brother and be so overwhelmed with yearning and desire that the only thing he could possibly do to stay sane—debatable, considering how wild he always felt in the aftermath—was to take himself in hand and stroke until he exploded, Stanley’s name always on his tongue.

Alarming, but Ford is certainly capable of incredible rationalization. He was already considered a freak. What was this one new aspect? If he kept it all to himself—bottled up where it rightly belonged—it could do nothing to harm his brother. If Stanley didn’t know of Ford’s desires, he would always continue to look at Ford with his sweet, trusting, loving gaze. Ford has always been the axis around which Stan orbited. He’s always known that. He could always continue to be that if he just kept the simple secret. And even if he couldn’t, if it got out, if by some miracle Stanley felt the same way, well, they were both of the same sex. Which isn’t to say that the homosexual aspect of it all wouldn’t have given them problems, but as to its connections to the incestuous aspects, well, two men can’t procreate.

Not that Ford hasn’t had plenty of fantasies in which he does his damnedest to try, but that is neither here nor there.

As teenagers, it was never truly a pure thing. Ford had rationalized it, but he’d also been resentful. Those feelings had come into play around the same time he had begun to yearn for separation from his brother, to for once be his own person and stand on his own merits, all without a hovering shadow that shared his face. It was a complicated thing, to love Stan that much, to want to absorb him completely, all while slowly suffocating with that closeness.

And then the science fair project. And then their father kicking Stan out of the house. And then over ten years of separation. Over a decade in which Ford’s bitterness only grew in equal measure to his longing for what had once been, the opportunities squandered. And then Bill. And then the portal.

For thirty years, Ford’s life was a constant type of hell. He had lived in fight or flight mode, and he was forced to become a type of person he would have never guessed, all to survive, all to keep going until he could finally achieve his goal of ripping Bill apart molecule by molecule in revenge for everything he had done to destroy Ford’s life. But for all the very real horrors, Ford cannot find it in him to entirely hate or regret his time out in the multiverse. Around the dangers, it had been the perfect sandbox, an endless place upon which Ford could exercise his vast intellectual curiosity. Sure, he could have done without being a wanted man with alluringly high bounties on his head across multiple dimensions, but oh, the things he had learned.

And one of the more profound takeaways had been just how many dimensions did not give two flying shits about who had sex with who, no matter the circumstances.

Well, it had only further cemented into Ford’s mind that his love for his brother was perfectly acceptable the way it was. It didn’t matter the anger and bitterness that he refused to let go of. It didn’t matter that Ford had no expectations of ever laying eyes on his brother again. All that mattered was that despite it all, he did still love Stanley, was in love with him. It wouldn’t change. He was at peace with that much at least.

But now, Ford has let go of the anger and bitterness. After everything that happened, after what his wonderful brother did to save the world, to save their family, how could he ever continue to cling to those awful thoughts? Because Ford has been given the utter gift and miracle of laying eyes on his brother again. And not just that. They are together again, truly together. A dynamic duo once more. It’s taken a lifetime of struggles and sorrows, but they are together on their boat, finally living out their old dreams.

Ford knows how all of this makes him feel. And he thinks he knows something of Stanley’s thoughts as well. Because he can only rationalize it one way. Yes, Stan has always orbited Ford, always deferred to him and protected him and loved him. But thirty years. Stanley spent thirty years, his every thought, his every action all poured towards the singular goal of reopening the portal and getting Ford back. He had completely lacked the education or even the innate skill set to truly understand the advanced mechanics of it all. He had ignored every single warning of the risks and dangers. Stanley Pines had locked himself completely away, put all of himself on hold, all on the slimmest glimmer of a hope that he could bring back his brother, who, by all accounts, seemed to hate him. And in those initial weeks, Ford had given him no indication otherwise, and still Stanley had been prepared to leave, to fade into the distance, to give up everything once again if that was what Ford demanded.

Love is the only conclusion that Ford can come to that offers any sort of explanation.

Not to mention the looks, the touches, the sheer tension between them. But they haven’t talked about it. And Ford does not know how to start that conversation.

They continue to sip their coffee in a comfortable silence until Stanley nudges Ford gently. “Your stomach’s been making enough noise to set off one of your monster radars,” Stan says, exaggerating, but not entirely wrong. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.”

It’s a routine they have fallen into easily. Stan whisks himself about the kitchen with ease, cracking and seasoning eggs, frying bacon, buttering toast. Ford washes their thermoses and pours fresh mugs to their individual specifications. They each take only the smallest splash of cream, but Stan makes the time to huff a laugh at how many more spoonfuls of sugar make their way into Ford’s cup compared to his.

They set the table, and Stan slides into his usual spot on the bench. Typically, Ford takes the chair on the other side of the table, but he doesn’t today. Today, the comforter still in play, he climbs onto the bench right alongside Stan, pressing in close. The only word to describe it would be snuggly.

“You’ve been—uh—you’re in a cuddly mood this morning,” Stan says, and they have been inside long enough that the pink tinge to his cheeks cannot be caused by cold, arctic winds. Still, Ford is a man of science. He needs to test that hypothesis.

“Yes,” he says, “the reason I was rather discontented to wake up alone in a perfectly cozy bed.”

Yes, Stanley does blush harder at that, his cheeks going from pink to a lovely red. Ford wants to press their cheeks together, to feel that warmth bleeding over into his own skin. He wants to kiss that gorgeous blush, to see how much redder it could get, how far could it spread down Stan’s neck, his chest.

“Of course, I see no reason why we can’t return after we eat,” Ford goes on, eyes locked onto Stanley’s. “As you’ve stated, it is a holiday. Holidays are not for working.”

“It’s New Years Eve,” Stan says, and Ford does not miss the slight warble in his gruff voice. “Really only a holiday if you’re planning to party, and we’re how many hundreds of miles from the nearest shoreline?”

Ford chuckles. “Not that far,” he says. “But still. It is my first one in this dimension in thirty years. And you are always harping on me to take it easy.”

Stan snorts. “And you’re finally listening?”

“If the result is a lazy day in bed with you, yes,” Ford says, and Stan blushes so violently that it takes nearly every ounce of Ford’s willpower to not grab his face and kiss him until neither of them can breathe. He has to force himself to simply pick up his fork and eat the breakfast that his brother has so lovingly cooked for them. “Hm, very good. Are you not hungry, Stanley?”

The choked noises that gurgle up from Stan’s throat do not contain any plainly stated curses or swears, but Ford feels their intent. Stan grabs his own fork and stabs at the eggs as if they are the cause of his flustering.

When they have eaten, Ford gathers up the dishes and drops them perhaps a little too roughly into the sink. But sue him. He’s impatient, and, wrapping his hand around Stan’s wrist when he tries to attend to the mess, he says, “They’ll keep.”

Stan turns an almost unreadable glance to Ford, and Ford could keep teasing, but he knows this is no longer the time. “Please,” he says simply, because he knows that is all it will take.

He’s right. A little sigh, a shake of his head, and a fond smile, and Stan agrees, “All right, you lazy bastard. Let’s fucking cuddle.”

Although the generator and all the mechanics on the boat are in excellent order—personally built by Ford and McGucket—and outperform anything else commercially available by leaps and bounds, this far north, this late in the year, there is always some cold that seeps inside. But Ford can’t feel any of it around the heat in his stomach, flames spreading and crackling like a merry campfire. He can’t feel anything but warmth and comfort as he drags Stanley off to their bed—theirs, theirs, theirs—and envelops his brother in his arms, rubbing gentle knuckles across Stan’s scalp until they are both lulled into blissful sleep.

The nap is overly indulgent and lazy. One might consider it excessive. Every time Stan attempts to move, Ford latches on tighter. When he tries to get up—“Christ, Stanford, can a guy not take a quick piss?”—Ford pouts and complains. Stanley surrenders quickly enough, understands that this is his fate today. He will stay in this bed with his brother. He will stay warm and snuggly and tucked into Ford’s chest, his ear right over his heart, listening to the steady thump and at least somewhere in the depths of his mind knowing that it pumps solely for him.

They lounge for nearly the entire day. Sometimes one of them is sleeping, sometimes both. If they are both awake, they talk in low whispers, and it reminds Ford of childhood innocence, a time he once felt only like he does now. A time when he could not have imagined a world or a circumstance in which he wanted to be parted from his brother.

Finally, late into the evening, Stanley finally puts his foot down and bodily wrestles his way out of the blankets. “We’re getting up,” he says. “Even if it’s just to fucking cook dinner. You’re eating dinner, you maniac.”

Ford lets him out, but he does not allow Stan any space. “Freaking koala,” Stan grumbles, but he also surrenders to this treatment, attempting to maneuver about the kitchen with Ford all but clinging to his back and effectively using him as an oversized teddy bear.

“Ok, knock it off,” Stan says when he truly does need to be released to complete their meal. “And don’t give me none of that fake pouting,” he adds when Ford puffs his cheeks at him.

“I assure you, Stanley, this pouting is entirely sincere,” he says, and Stanley laughs a loud and beautiful sound.

“Shut up and make us something to drink,” Stan says, still laughing.

There isn’t any champagne, of course. It’s not a beverage either of them would drink with any sort of regularity, so Ford sets about heating a kettle and pulling out whiskey and honey. Stan already has a lemon sliced on the counter.

Again, they both slide onto the bench to eat. Ford allows a bit more space between them this time, even as he does tangle their legs together under the table. As he refills their hot toddies, Stanley’s phone lets out an obnoxious oink. It’s the text tone for Mabel.

“Oh shit,” he says with clear delight. “We got a signal.”

“You would always have a signal if you were using the communication device that I built for us,” Ford says, and Stan just waves him off. He snatches up his phone and pulls up the message. Laughing, he shows it to Ford.

The first part of the message is an image—Ford has heard them all refer to as a selfie—of the twins. In true Mabel fashion, she is wearing a sweater unique to the occasion. Little bursts of fireworks have been knitted in brilliant colors, and all of the bursts are decorated with either glitter paint or real, working lights. Her earrings are glowing as well, clearly miniature versions of the Time Square ball. Her headband is a mess of curled streamers. Beside her, Dipper is far more subdued, although he is wearing a silly set of glasses displaying the new year. Each of the kids is blowing on a noise maker, their arms slung around each other.

Behind them, on the wall, is a clock, displaying something very close to the current time—nearly 10:30 in California—but there are messy scribbles over it attempting to erase the actual time and instead show it to read midnight.

Under the image is a text message. “Totally and 100% made it! Not even a little tired!! Party all night long!!!!”

“Oh, they are going to be dead asleep in under five minutes,” Stan says, completely oozing affection for their niblings. “Completely unconscious. End of the world wouldn’t wake ‘em up.”

“Agreed,” Ford says, feeling all that same affection as he laughs at the purposefully sloppy editing.

Another burst of pictures comes through. The twins running around their neighborhood street with sparklers. Toasting each other with plastic flutes full of sparkling juice. Mabel dancing in front of the television with some celebrities that Ford has less than no clue the identify of during their part of the live performance in New York. A very blurry shot of Dipper trying to snatch a piece of paper from Mabel’s hands—likely an in-depth resolutions list that has more than its fair share of embarrassing points.

“God, I miss them,” Stan says.

Ford slides from the booth, pulling Stan after him. “Come on,” he says. “We should send them something back.” They move quickly to dress in their coats and hats and gloves, and Ford pours their drinks into their thermoses and darts to the bedroom to snatch up the comforter again. “We don’t have sparklers,” he says as they step out onto the deck, “however—“ And he points up at the Northern Lights dancing across the sky.

It is not the first time they’ve seen them, but Stan still stares up in awe. “Yeah,” he says lowly. “They’ll love that.”

They take two pictures. One of the sky alone, allowing the aurora and stars and moon to shine all on their own. A second of the two of them, cheeks pressed together, arms around each other, just as the kids had sent. They have no noise makers, but Stan holds up his thermos for Mabel to see the collection of stickers.

They don’t have as many pictures to send, so Stanley pulls off his gloves and sets to typing out a longer message. Ford takes the comforter and wraps it around them both, hooking his chin over his brother’s shoulder to read along. It’s a rambling message, full of spelling and grammatical errors, but it’s warm and affectionate, and no one who ever read it could ever for a second doubt just how much Stan loves those two perfect children. It’s overwhelming, and Ford loves him all the more for it.

Stan sends everything off, and the messages go through, but there is no response, which confirms to Ford’s mind Stanley’s prediction that the kids have indeed passed out from the long day’s excitement.

Stan puts the phone into his pocket, and when his hand emerges, he has a cigar. He waves it under Ford’s nose with a grin. “I wouldn’t say no,” Ford says, and with a quick, well practiced clip and flick of a lighter, Stan takes the first puff before passing it to Ford. It’s a nice Churchill, one that will take them a good deal of time to smoke, even together. Ford is perfectly amenable to that.

And so they stand there together for a long time, the only noise the light splashing of waves against the side of the boat. They pass the cigar, slowly sip at their warm drinks, and watch the sky dance. Stanley has stronger opinions on cigars than Ford, and although Ford would be just fine with taking the cigar down to the foot, he accepts Stanley’s assessment of, “Last pull,” before plopping it down into the railing’s cup holder to allow it to die its natural death.

Immediately, Ford regathers the comforter and tucks himself into Stanley’s back, wrapping his brother in a hug. He nuzzles at Stanley’s neck. Back to cuddling they go.

“You’re ridiculous,” Stanley says. “Seriously, what’s been with you today?”

Ford only holds him tighter, presses Stan’s back so close to his own chest that he can feel Stan’s heart beating right alongside his. His chin is already hooked over Stan’s shoulder, resting comfortably, but even that is not enough. He tilts his head, presses as much of their faces together as he can. “I’m happy,” he says simply.

“Oh,” Stan says, a small noise, so tiny, but so full. His hand—the right one—moves slowly, moves across Ford’s forearm, moves until he can slot their fingers together. Six around five, as they are meant to be.

For a long time, they stand on the deck, wrapped up in each other, staring up at the brilliant lights that color the sky above them. Their breath curls in puffs of fog, and yes, it is cold, but it’s also so perfectly warm surrounded by each other and the simple blanket.

Ford notices the second that Stanley comes to some sort of mental conclusion. He doesn’t exactly go tense, but there is a certain rigidity that was not there a moment ago. His fingers twitch minutely between Ford’s. Ford can feel the quickening of his pulse. But he doesn’t urge him on, doesn’t rush him. He can wait until Stanley is ready.

And when he is, he does not step away. He just turns in Ford’s arms and locks their gazes together. Identical, as are so many aspects of their physical appearance, but Ford has always considered Stanley’s eyes warmer. The same shade, there is no difference there, but perhaps it’s just that Stanley has always worn his emotions so openly on his sleeve. He’s always felt so much, and in his eyes, it’s always so plain. Ford can—and has—gotten lost in them. He would be glad to do so for years to come.

“I’m gonna be a real sap for a minute here, so can you just let me get through it,” Stan asks, and Ford can only nod and wait, nearly trembling, for Stan to properly gather his thoughts. It’s difficult, especially when part of the process is Stan grabbing tight to the front of his coat, clinging to Ford as a means to ground himself.

They have been wrapped up in each other all day, but Ford knows that it is different in this moment.

Even under the collar of his sweater, Ford can see the way Stan’s throat works, swallowing thickly against what is clearly overwhelming emotion. His eyes are wet behind his glasses, and he blinks rapidly to try to contain it. Ford knows that whatever it is that Stan has to say will only be good, but it still sends some pang through his chest to see his brother struggle in this way. Ford moves quickly, tugging off his gloves. He doesn’t care about the cold. He only cares that he can touch the wind-kissed pink of Stanley’s cheeks, skin to skin. He only cares that his hands can be there to catch and wipe away any of those tears that might escape Stan’s eyes. “It’s all right,” he says lowly. “Take your time.”

Stan smiles at him, and the only thing Ford can see is love. His. Stan’s. Theirs.

The reassurance, the physical contact, it does what it needs to for Stan. It calms him enough to let him speak. “This is corny as hell, I know, but fuck it, right? We’ve got the right be corny after everything. Forty years. That’s fucking insane. Forty years completely apart, when I spent the first seventeen feeling like I’d crawl out of my skin if we were separated for just fifteen minutes.”

The choice of the number fifteen is not lost on Ford at all. The number of minutes between their first breaths in this world. The number of minutes that is impossible for Ford to actually recall, but what he always assumed must have been the longest of his life, waiting for his other half to join him again. A small number, truly, but to them an insurmountable time to be forced apart, the absolute longest either of them could stand before they were ready to make it a problem for everyone else around them.

“I just—“ Stan licks at his chapped lips, and Ford doesn’t know if he’d rather lose himself staring at that or the shining reflection of the lights in Stan’s warm eyes. “I don’t care, you know. This is insane, but I don’t care. I don’t care that it was so hard. I don’t care how much it hurt. Because we’re here now right. Fucking new year, new us. I’d do it again, if I had to.”

“No,” Ford says. “No, you will never have to, Stanley. We are never going to be parted again. Never.” He steps closer, unwilling to take his hands from his brother’s face but still needing more of the minuscule distance between their bodies negated. If he could, he would open his rib cage and draw Stanley inside of himself, or he would crawl into Stan’s. Either option, so long as they are joined. “I simply will not allow it.”

Stan huffs a laugh, and one tear manages its escape. Ford is quick to wipe it away. “Yeah, you’re a stubborn old goat,” he says.

“Takes one to know one,” Ford retorts.

They both laugh and then just stand there, so, so close, just staring at each other, just together. And Ford’s watch lets out a tiny little beep. The same beep it lets out each hour. It’s midnight. It’s midnight crossing over into the new year.

Corny. Sappy. Sure, it is all those things. But it’s also tradition, and as Stanley stated himself, new year, new them.

Ford closes the remaining distance between them and slots his lips over Stanley’s. The reaction is immediate and electrifying. Stan’s mouth opens in a gasp, and Ford doesn’t waste a second of the opportunity presented to him. He pushes his tongue into Stan’s mouth, and Stanley reacts so perfectly, just as Ford has always dreamed. He clings tighter, pulls Ford flush against him, and kisses him back as if to do anything less would shatter him apart.

The kiss lights Ford on fire, sets him completely ablaze and then rebirths him immediately from the ashes. Stanley fits so perfectly against him, so perfect in his arms. They belong like this, made for each other like this. This was the true reason Ford was put on this earth, to kiss Stan, to hold him, to love him.

When they finally pull back from each other, gasping, it’s not very far. Stan’s body remains pressed against him, his fingers clinging to Ford’s shoulders like a vice. Ford’s hands are still cupping Stanley’s cheeks, protecting him from the cold night wind. Their noses and foreheads touch, and they breathe in each other’s air. In the darkness, the only light coming from the aurora borealis and the nearly full moon, Stan’s eyes should not look so bright, but they practically glow. Ford has so much to say, but he can’t bring himself to speak. Still, Stanley’s eyes bore into him, searching, finding all of it on open display, every part of Ford there for him, only for him, if he wants it.

And Ford can see, Stanley does want it. He wants Ford in all the ways that Ford has always wanted him. He loves Ford as Ford loves him.

Ford surges forward, one hand sliding around to cup the back of Stan’s neck and pull him the rest of the way to kiss him again. It’s not as deep this time, no tongues involved, just the slide of their lips together. Still, he tingles everywhere they touch. “I love you,” he says, finally finding his voice. He sounds devastated in the best possible way.

And now Stan’s cold hands are on his cheeks. “I love you, too,” Stan says. Another gentle kiss. “I love you.” Another. “This is insane,” he says, but this time he’s smiling, almost giggling. Ford grins at him, so wide that his face hurts. He feels manic, ready to burst at the seams. He never wants this feeling to stop. Stan starts to back away, but Ford tightens his arms around him. Stan laughs, his fingers sliding into Ford’s hair. “Stanford,” he says against his lips, and Ford shudders.

“Stay here,” Ford requests, begs. “Stay with me.”

“Always,” Stan answers.