#moth's asks

The scent of bleach and old mop water clung to the air, thick and biting, as Ford adjusted his glasses and carefully laid out his homework across the dingy floor. The janitorial closet was small, the kind of small that made it impossible to breathe without feeling like the walls were pressing in. Shelves lined the space, crammed with rusting cans of floor wax, half-used bottles of ammonia, and an assortment of grimy rags that looked like they’d been repurposed one too many times. Somewhere in the corner, a slow, rhythmic drip echoed, like a clock ticking down the minutes until their inevitable release.

Ford had expected to be here. This wasn’t his first time locked in the school’s basement closet. It wouldn’t be his last.

But Stanley?

Stan was a new variable.

Ford stole a glance at him—his twin, his mirror image, except where Ford was wiry, sharp angles and slouched shoulders, Stan was solid. Strong. He was still jiggling the door handle, cursing under his breath, jaw set, hair mussed from the scuffle. His lip was split, his knuckles raw, bruises already beginning to bloom on his cheekbone. Ford took a mental note to make sure he iced those later.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

Stan was never around for it. His brother had boxing practice, which gave Ford the perfect cover—if he got home late, he could just say he’d been at the library. He’d perfected the lie, worn it in like a well-loved sweater. But today, of all days, Stan had cut practice early. Just needed to hit the bathroom, he’d said. And that’s when he’d caught sight of Ford being dragged toward the basement by a pack of meat-headed morons with letterman jackets and an apparent grudge against kids who could spell "Pythagorean theorem" without stuttering.

Stan had fought. Of course, he had. Five-on-one was unfair, even for Stan, and even worse when he’d already exhausted himself running drills. They’d left him bruised for the trouble before shoving him in alongside Ford and slamming the door shut.

Trapped.

The only light came from a grimy, small window set high on the wall, barely enough to cast more than a few weak streaks of sunlight against the linoleum floor.

“Stan, just leave it,” Ford sighed, adjusting his grip on his pencil as he started scribbling in his notebook. “We’re gonna be here a while.”

Stan twisted to glare at him, his face flushed from exertion, his knuckles already bruising from the fight.

“Ma and Pa are gonna kill us if we’re gone all night,” Stan muttered.

 Ford checked his watch. “Realistically, we’ll be out by 5:45. That’s when Tony—the janitor—usually comes by to grab his supplies.”

Stan stilled, then turned slowly, squatting down in front of him with a considering look. His foot landed on one of Ford’s papers, and Ford made an irritated sound, yanking it out from under him before it could get smudged.

 Stan just grinned like an idiot and, without missing a beat, poked Ford square in the forehead. “How d’you know that?”

Ford froze.

Right. Stan didn’t know.

Didn’t know this had been happening for a while. Didn’t know how many times Ford had been shoved into this exact closet, left to sit and wait, tracing the patterns of mildew creeping up the walls while he kept his head down and his mouth shut.

Ford cleared his throat, backpedaling. “It’s just an assumption.”

Stan snorted, loudly, with all the grace of a pig choking on its own spit. “Oh, yeah? You don’t do assumptions.”

He even mispronounced it—"assump-tins"—and Ford clenched his jaw against the immediate urge to correct him. It would’ve been funny, if Ford weren’t currently feeling like he’d been caught smuggling contraband.

Ford pressed his lips together.

“This ain’t your first time in the ‘closet of the damned,’ huh?”

Ford said nothing.

“Multiple times…?”

Still, Ford didn’t answer.

Stan inhaled through his nose, exhaling slow and long, like a guy trying real hard not to yell at someone. “Y’know what? Lucky for you, I’m too tired to chew you out for not tellin’ me.” He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders. “But we’re not sittin’ here ‘til six.”

Ford pinched the bridge of his nose. “The door can’t be opened from the inside, Stanley. There’s no way out.”

“There’s always a way,” Stan shot back, determination setting in his face like stone.

Ford shook his head. “I can just tell Ma I was at the library—”

“Yeah? And what am I supposed to say?” Stan interrupted, arms crossed. “I get home before you. You think they’re gonna believe I wasn’t involved? They’ll think I got us both into trouble.”

Ford pursed his lips, but Stan wasn’t finished.

“And you think it’s fair?” Stan jabbed a finger at him. “You get to sit here in your own personal study hall—”

“This is hardly an adequate space to do homework,” Ford interjected, adjusting his glasses. “It’s just convenient.”

“—And I get stuck listening to Ma and Aunt Irina bitchin’ about God knows what all evenin’?”

Ford chuckled at that. “You really think Ma’s gossip is worse than being locked in here?”

“Yes!” Stan threw his arms up. “You don’t know what it’s like! You left me in the trenches, Ford! Irina’s a freakin’ yenta, man!”

Ford laughed,  shaking his head. “You can’t just call her that.”

Stan smirked, giving him a light shove. “Try an’ stop me.”

Ford swatted at him in return, the brotherly back-and-forth breaking through the stagnant air of the room.

Then Stan stood up, stretching, his arms reaching above his head, his muscles shifting beneath his thin, sweat-damp shirt. Ford’s eyes followed without meaning to, tracking the movement, the subtle roll of his shoulders.  Then he started pushing things aside—shoving a mop bucket, shifting a couple shelves, moving a stack of dustpans like it weighed nothing.

“We can probably get out through the window,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Ford stared. “You’re joking.”

Stan turned, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Do I look like I’m jokin’?”

“Yes.”

Stan rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Poindexter, get off your ass and help me move this crap. We got an escape plan.”

Ford sighed, collecting his papers with quick, meticulous hands. “I can’t believe this is my life.”

“Better than bein’ stuck listenin’ to Irina’s third retelling of that time she got thrown outta Macy’s.”

Ford groaned as he stood. “Point taken.”

Stan grinned. “That’s what I thought. Now help me lift this.”

Ford will not admit that Stan was right. He absolutely, categorically, in no uncertain terms, will not admit it.

That would mean admitting that their ridiculous makeshift staircase—haphazardly constructed from precariously stacked paint cans, overturned buckets, and a few wooden crates—actually worked. That it reached the window with just enough height for them both to crawl through. That, hypothetically, they could squeeze out and land on solid ground in one piece.

Moving around, however, was another ordeal entirely. The closet wasn’t made for two teenage boys, let alone two teenage boys maneuvering around each other. It meant bumping elbows, brushing against shoulders, and being uncomfortably aware of the way Stan smelled—sweat and cigarettes, the sharp musk of exertion, but also something lighter, something floral and lingering.

Carla’s perfume. God, that perfume.

It had been giving him a headache for weeks, ever since Stan had started seeing her. Or—more accurately—ever since Ford had started noticing why it bothered him so much.

Being locked in a closet with Stan was one thing. Being locked in a closet with Stan while Ford was knee-deep in questioning the nature of their relationship was an entirely different kind of torture.

He would not think about it now.

Instead, he latched onto the only thing keeping his brain from spiraling: the efficiency. The teamwork. The problem-solving. Yes. Good things.

They were working well together, moving with an almost practiced rhythm. Stan was standing back now, hands on his hips, chest puffed out as he admired their work. He flashed Ford a grin, raising both arms with a triumphant, "Ta-da!"

Ford crossed his arms, eyeing the unstable structure with suspicion. “It hardly seems… stable.” He pressed his fingers against the top paint can, which wobbled slightly, tilting downward at an unsettling angle.

Stan blew a raspberry. “It’s perfect. You’re just mad my big dumb caveman brain thought of it first.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “That is not what I said.”

Stan snickered and stepped onto the lowest shelf, testing his weight before climbing higher. The shelving creaked under him, but held. He reached the window ledge, fingers fumbling against the frame, and Ford could see at least a million and one ways this was going to go horribly wrong.

Stan could lose his footing, come crashing down onto the paint cans, split his skull open—Ford braced himself for impact, fingers twitching, heart climbing up his throat.

But then, a soft click—a creak—and a gust of icy winter air swept into the closet.

A gust of frigid air swept through the cramped closet, sharp and biting against Ford’s exposed skin. Stan exhaled triumphantly. “Woulda been frozen shut if we waited any longer,” he muttered. Then, with an awkward shimmy, he hoisted himself up, sticking his head out like a groundhog emerging from its burrow.

He turned, hair wind-mussed, looking down at Ford. “You just gonna sit there, genius?”

Ford sighed, shoved their bags up first, and squared his shoulders. Stan extended his arm, and Ford hesitated—only for a second—before gripping his brother’s hand.

He had just enough upper body strength to haul himself up. His occasional, reluctant participation in Stan’s boxing lessons hadn’t been completely for nothing, apparently. He scrambled up onto the ledge, feeling the strong pull of Stan’s grip, the muscle flex under his fingers.

But what he hadn’t accounted for—

Was the ice.

Or the fact that Stan had pulled just a little too hard.

Or the undeniable, inarguable momentum of it all.

His sneakers skidded the second they hit the frozen ground. The momentum of Stan pulling him out was just strong enough that instead of landing cleanly, he crashed right into his brother.

Thud.

For a second, he didn’t understand. His brain blanked, skipping like a broken record, stuttering over the scene in front of him.

Then he looked down.

Oh.

He was straddling Stan.

His knees were planted on either side of Stan’s hips, hands braced beside his head in the frost-dusted grass. The press of their bodies was unavoidable, warmth bleeding through layers of winter clothes. Stan was looking up at him, wide-eyed, his cheeks darkened—probably from the cold, right?

Ford could feel the heat pooling in his stomach, coiling like something hungry, something dangerous.

This was doing horrible things to his brain. His logical, analytical, very intelligent brain, which had, at this moment, decided to betray him completely by memorizing this position. Burning it into his mind like a red-hot brand.

They were staring at each other.

Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Ford could feel the way Stan’s chest rose and fell beneath him, fast, uneven.

Could feel the way their hips—

Stan coughed.

The sound was rough, a little strained. His voice came next, also rough, and Ford could swear he was struggling to get the words out.

“Uh. You… gonna get off, or what?”

"Right—yes—"  Ford scrambled so fast to untangle himself that he nearly slipped again. “Yep. Off. Definitely off."

His knee knocked into Stan’s side as he jerked back, and Stan sucked in a sharp breath.

No. No.

Stan wasn’t—he wasn’t, right?

Ford did not have time to think about it.

Not when Stan abruptly reached for his duffle bag, very deliberately positioning it over his lap. Not when his cheeks were still pink, and his eyes were darting anywhere but at Ford. Not when, after a beat of tense silence, Stan suddenly fished something out of his bag and chucked it at Ford’s head.

A scarf.

Ford barely caught it in time, his fingers clenching around the soft wool. “Oh,” he blurted. His voice came out high, too high, and he had to clear his throat before managing a stiff, “Uh. Thanks.”

Stan nodded. Nodded.

Didn’t say anything.

Just adjusted his sweater. Lowered it slightly.

Then, finally, mercifully, changed the subject.

“C’mon, nerd. Let’s get home before we both freeze.”

The walk home was surprisingly easy.

Their legs were stiff from the cold, their breath puffing white into the evening air, but neither of them brought up what happened. Not the janitor’s closet. Not the window. And definitely not—

Ford swallowed hard, tugging his scarf tighter around his neck.

By the time they got home, Ford had convinced himself things were normal.

Normal enough, anyway.

Sure, he had to sit through Aunt Irina’s latest tirade—this time about their cousin Eugene, who was apparently ruining his life again doing God-knows-what. Their mother balanced the phone between her shoulder and ear, her expression flat with practiced patience as Irina’s screeching rang through the receiver.

Stan, meanwhile, had made a beeline for the fruit basket.

He grabbed an apple, bit into it with a loud crunch, and locked eyes with Ford across the kitchen. Then, without missing a beat, he mouthed yenta at him.

Ford snorted, biting back a laugh.

This felt normal.

Except they weren’t.

Because later, during dinner, Ford found himself staring blankly at his plate, his fork resting uselessly against his palm. He blinked—and suddenly, he was back in the snow. On top of Stan.

His heart kicked against his ribs, a flash of heat rolling through his gut as the image burned fresh in his mind.

His weight pressing Stan down. His hands caging Stan in. The frozen air thick with silence, with heat, with….something that coiled tight between them.

Ford swallowed hard, shifting in his seat, gripping his fork like it might anchor him to reality. He wished—God help him, he wished—the position had been reversed.

His appetite vanished.

And it didn’t stop.

Not when they finished eating, not when they cleaned up, not even when Stan stepped out of the shower, his skin damp, hair mussed, smelling like—

Himself.

Not smoke, not sweat, not artificial strawberry, or any other trace of Carla. Just Stan.

Ford gritted his teeth against the thought, burying himself in his work, ignoring the way his pulse felt too heavy, too loud. It didn’t help that Stan was right there.

Not in any meaningful way—he wasn’t hovering, wasn’t watching Ford, wasn’t doing anything suspicious—but Ford was still hyper-aware of him.

Stan sat cross-legged on his bunk, surprisingly doing his homework, head bent over his notebook, twirling a pencil between his fingers.

He shifted slightly, watching Stan through the metal reflection of their pencil sharpener. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast warm shadows over his face, highlighting the bruise still darkening along his cheekbone.

Ford frowned.

Without thinking, he got up, padding quietly to the kitchen.

Their father had already retired to bed, which was a relief—less chance of him asking questions. Their mother, still half-distracted by her soaps, didn’t even glance up as Ford dug around in the freezer until he found—aha.

Two Italian ices. Lemon and Cherry.

He was fairly certain they’d been in there since two summers ago, but they’d serve their purpose.

He grabbed them both, heading back to their room. Without a word, he tossed one at Stan, who caught it with a raised brow.

“For your cheek,” Ford muttered, settling back at his desk and tearing the lid off his own.

Stan chuckled, pressing the frozen treat against his face. “What, no bag of peas?”

“Would you prefer the bag of peas?”

“Nah,” Stan grinned. “This one’s got flavor.”

They both sat in comfortable silence, scraping their wooden spoons against the ice, the occasional skrrk the only sound between them.

Then—“Why didn’t you tell me?” Stan’s voice was even, but there was an edge to it—something quiet, simmering just beneath the surface.

Ford didn’t look at him. He stared at his Italian ice, willing himself to sound neutral. “Tell you what?”

Stan gave him a look. 

“Didn’t need you worrying about it,” Ford said eventually, keeping his voice even. “It only just started happening.”

Stan gave him a flat look. “Bullshit.”

Ford clenched his jaw.

“Being shoved around is one thing, ” Stan continued, voice low. “ But getting left there?” He shook his head. “That ain’t right.”

“That isn’t right.”

Stan shot him a sharp, unimpressed glare.

“God, you’re insufferable,” Stan muttered, shaking his head before taking another bite of his ice.

“There wouldn’t have been any way to tell you, anyway,” Ford continued. “You have practice. You’re always busy.”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Busy with what, exactly?”

Ford’s spoon scraped his ice just a bit harder. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Maybe Carla or something.”

“Sure,” Stan said, drawing lazy circles against the plastic cup with his thumb. “But you know you’re my priority, right?”

Ford nearly dropped his ice.

His breath caught—his pulse hammered—his whole body locked up for a fraction of a second, his fingers stiff around the frozen plastic. He forced himself not to react. Not to think about what that meant. Not to want it to mean something it didn’t.

Stan stretched his arms, the muscles in his back flexing slightly beneath his shirt. “Not like I even see Carla that much anyway. She’s got French lessons, clarinet crap—” He made a vague gesture. “She’s been on my ass a lot lately. Annoyin’.”

Ford bristled before he could stop himself. His grip tightened around his spoon, but he forced himself to keep his tone even. “She’s probably just—” he cleared his throat, “—invested. Just give her time.”

God, what else was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to think?

Carla wasn’t even—she wasn’t a bad person.

She was smart. She was capable.

If Ford had any sense, he’d be interested in someone like her.

But the thought of her expecting something from Stan, of wanting something from him that Ford couldn’t even acknowledge wanting—

He hadn’t even realized Stan was looking at him until he turned his head slightly, catching the faintest trace of something unreadable in his brother’s eyes.

Stan searched his face for a second—long enough that Ford felt like he was waiting for something, some kind of reaction, some kind of tell—but whatever he was looking for, he must not have found it.

Because after a second, he just shrugged.