#nekoaimy

Okay, not a complete cat. There's no tail, thank god - but a black headband with felt black ears was slapped on to his head and painted black whiskers were slanted on his cheeks - a little black dot on the tip of his nose.

The culprit? One Stanley Pines, worst twin (EVER) extraordinaire. Maybe a bit overdramatic, true, but this is all Stan's fault.

Ford had been minding his own business in their shared room when he'd been ambushed. What started off as a normal wrestling match between brothers resulted in Stan pinning him down, painting Ford up with their Mom's eyeliner and him begging Ford to join him at Rachel McCarthy's party.

Mainly because Stan is now eyeing Rachel after the whole Carla fiasco and why Stan wants to date anyone is beyond him.

...alright, this is not entirely true either. Ford gets why dating might be fun, but considering who he'd like to date, well...

Ford can easily say having six fingers on each hand is the least freakish thing about him. Not that Stan will ever, ever, ever, EVER know that. Nor will anyone else. Ford will take his secret shame to the grave.

Grave. Halloween. How fitting.

Regardless, Stan tossed the cat get-up on him, begged him to go to this thing, and now here Ford stands, everything full circle.

Stan, for his part, seems to be having a grand old time. Their mother's green eyeshadow is powdered all over his face and his hair has been lightly slicked down. Screw bolts have been tacked to either side of his neck to complete the monster ensemble and frankly, Ford worries about what kind of adhesive his twin used to accomplish this.

It wouldn't be the first time Stan got something almost permanently stuck to him. Ford keeps hoping for a last, but knows that will probably never happen...lovable, infuriating fool...

Ford really does need to start thinking seriously about looking into colleges. He's been playing Stan, saying he'll join him on their ship, but he knows that's a recipe for disaster.

Stuck alone on a ship with the object of his forbidden desires? Yeah, thanks but no thanks. Sure, Stan will be sour about the whole thing, but better they part then Ford potentially do something unforgivable.

Like kiss the breath out of the big, handsome, stupid-!

"Bro, what are you doing?"

Ford snaps out of his thoughts as Stan approaches him. He blinks and tries to be normal, "Nothing "

"Exactly. Nothing," Stan throws an arm around him, shakes him amiably, "Come on, join the party! You're next to the punch bowl - grab a drink, mingle, have fun!"

Ford carefully extracts himself from his brother's grip, frowning, "I agreed to come with you, Stanley. Not engage in the festivities. The punch is heavily spiked, there's no one here I wish to talk to, and this is miles from what I would constitute as 'fun'."

“Aw, don’t be like that, Sixer! Loosen up!” Stan pulls a face, bottom jaw jutting out, eyes rolling upwards as he growls, “Frankenstein say party gooood.”

“...you know you’re not Frankenstein right?”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Stan tugs at one of the bolts, “Think I did a pretty good with the costume last minute an’ all...”

“Frankenstein is the name of the main protagonist in the novel, Stanley. The doctor. The creature he creates is not, in point of fact, named Frankenstein.”

Ford once again questions how he can love someone who can give him such a blank face only to follow it up with a raspberry and an eye roll, “Yeah, like anyone past nerds’ll think of that.”

“Are you calling me a nerd?”

“I’ll call you whatever you want if, you know,” he wiggles his eyebrows, “You play it a lil’ cooler.”

Ford scoffs, “And why on earth should I do that?”

“Because you’re bringing people down, man,” Stan whispers this to him as if it’s a terrible secret, “Missy Caldwell told me that Rachel was thinkin’ about busting out some kissin’ games! You know, like Spin the Bottle and Seven Minutes in Heaven and the like. but then she saw you over here, looking like the kid picked last for dodgeball and it kinda killed the mood!”

Ford looks over to see that Rachel is, indeed, standing with Missy and a large group of girls. They are whispering to one another and looking in his direction. Rachel, in particular, is wearing a sort of judging expression. The fact that Stan would take her concerns over his...

And why shouldn’t he? His thoughts whisper. You’re his brother. You’re supposed to have his back. Be there for him as much as he’s there for you. He wants to kiss Rachel. It’s normal for him to want to kiss Rachel. He can’t know that you want to kiss him. He should NEVER know that. Should never even consider it.

Ford knows his thoughts are correct. They are smart. Logical. Everything he has always vowed himself to be. And yet...

...and yet.

“Look, just...” Stan waves at his face, “Give ‘em a smile. A little sign that you’re fine.”

Ford doesn’t feel much like smiling, but he gives it his best shot. It must be pretty bad, because Stan winces, “Yeesh.”

His lips drop, “No good?”

“You look like you just chugged the kool-aid at a cult meetin’.”

That actually gets a genuine smile, a laugh, and Stan beams, pointing at him, “See? That’s much better!”

Ford shakes his head, “What can I say? You always manage to get a rise out of me.”

The words leave and he feels a whiplash of heat wash over him. Shoot! Was that too suggestive? Apparently not, because Stan’s grin just grows, “That’s my job, bro! Keepin’ you from being too stuck in the mud! Now come on...”

He puts a big arm around Ford’s shoulders and drags him over to the group of girls. Rachel appears much mollified now, as do Missy and the others. They’re all girlish giggles and coquettish smirks and Rachel sends some of the gals to collect the other boys, to set everything in order for a game of Spin the Bottle.

While she does this, Stan drags Ford to one side again, hissing, “Alright, Sixer - now’s the time I need your big brains.”

“Wh-? How-? Why?” Ford stumbles over the questions, because as far as he can tell, they’re all intrinsically linked together. Stan explains, “You can like, tell me the best way to spin the bottle. Use maths and wind velocity and science to tell me how best ta make sure it lands on Rachel.”

“I...” Ford starts, but then someone walks up to them. It’s Becky Gilmore, another girl from Rachel’s pack, and she bats her eyelashes at them as she plays with a strand of her dark hair, “Hi! Hey, uh, can-can I talk to Stanford for a sec?”

“He’s Stanford,” Stan points to him even as Ford says, “I’m Stanford.” Both sound surprised as they give this information, but Becky is unfazed, “Um, yeah - I know. Look, can I just-?”

She sneaks out one slim hand to grab at one of Ford’s wrists, dragging him away from Stan who - clearly thinking this is a good thing - gives his brother a big smile and two thumbs up. Once out of Stan’s earshot, Becky says brightly, “’Key, so, Rachel’s like, all about your brother. Like, he has acne and whatever, but she totally wants to kiss him.”

Ford does his best to parse her words, separating the good from the bad, and doing his oh, so best not to comment on the bad, because it really gets his goat, teeth on edge at the acne remark. But Becky, clueless, just continues on, “I think maybe she’s trying to make Joey jealous, ‘cause I know they broke up about three weeks ago and she’s pretty sure he’s running around with Cheryl Manchino and we all know about Cheryl Manchino-”

(Actually, Ford knows nothing about Cheryl Manchino.)

“-but my point is, we definitely need to get your brother to lock lips with Rachel, but with the way the circle’s looking that might be problematic with you there, not to mention I mean, you’re - I mean, you’re cute and all and totally smart but like, I mean, I would never want to offend you or anything, but, okay - you get what I’m saying, right?”

Ford, amazingly, does get what Becky is saying.

His face colors and he hides his hands behind his back and feels like complete trash. Becky, seeming to pick up on this somewhat, lightly taps one of his shoulders, “Aw! There, there, kitty kitty! You wouldn’t’ve enjoyed this game anyway, right?”

“...no.” his voice is so soft as to be near silent, “I suppose not.”

“Great!” Becky returns with the same amount of sparkle she uses on the cheerleading field, “Then how’s about you set your brother riiiiiight-” she drags the word out as she looks around the circle, before pointing to a certain spot, “-there! Rachel and us girls are going to make sure the bottle picks him for sure. And you can stand on the sidelines in case we need an assist, ‘kay?”

Ford nods numbly and Becky bounces off. When he returns to Stan, he does his best to play stoic.

He fails miserably.

“Whoa,” Stan breathes, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“That ain’t ‘nothing’,” Stan says pointing at his face, “That’s ‘Crampelter gave me shit’ face and he ain’t here. So? What is it?”

“I told you,” Ford hisses, “Nothing.”

“What did Becky say to you?” Stan asks and there’s such heat in the question. Anger and accusation and Ford pushes up his glasses and pours on the ice, “It’s not important. You’re going to miss out on the game, Stanley. Now, you asked for my help and considering the curvature of the bottle and the state of the floor I would suggest sitting-!”

“I suggest you tell me what she said before I make a scene,” the words sizzle out of Stan’s mouth and close to Ford’s ear, nearly scalding it and Ford can feel the barely leashed fury rolling off his brother in waves and he starts shaking his head, “You know, maybe I just don’t want to talk about it, Stanley! Did you ever think of that?”

Stan actually stands up straighter, looking startled, “Holy shit...what did she say?”

Ford lets out an aggravated breath and points to the exact spot Becky indicated, “You want your kiss? You want Rachel? SIT. DOWN. THERE. I’ll be outside!”

With that said, Ford exits the house. He starts walking down the neighborhood street, but he doesn’t get far before he’s being yanked back, Stanley’s hand turning him around roughly, “Just where the hell do you think you’re-?!”

“DO YOU WANT TO KISS HER OR NOT?!” the shout escapes Ford before he can leash it and it seems to echo in the empty streets. Thankfully Rachel’s neighbors seem to be tucked in for the night and no one left her house to follow them. 

Stan, regardless, shushes him even as he seethes, “Not more than I want to know whatever the hell is up with you! You’ve been sulking all night, Sixer - hell, you been sulking the past couple of weeks if we’re gonna be honest about it!”

Ford looks down at his feet, kicks at the pavement even as Stan charges on, “Then Becky pulls you aside and whatever she says seems to be the last straw and I don’t get-!”

“She said I shouldn’t play, alright!” Ford snaps, “She said I should-should sit the game out and that Rachel wants to kiss you and-and...” he falters, drops off, because he doesn’t want to hurt Stan’s feelings. 

He doesn’t want to tell him about the comments on his acne or how he might just be a ploy in some plot to make someone jealous because he does want his brother to have something nice - even if it’s fleeting, “And you should go back in there and get what you want!”

“...Becky said you shouldn’t play?”

“She-she figured I-I wouldn’t enjoy it anyway and she’s...she’s not wrong...”

“No,” Stan breathes in loudly through his nostrils, his hands curling into fists, “She’s wrong. She’s very wrong and if she wasn’t a girl, I’d pound her right in the face!”

“Stanley,” Ford sighs, suddenly very, very tired, “You shouldn’t want to pound anyone in the face. Boy or girl. And certainly not for my sake.”

“Whose sake would it be for then?” Stan returns, “I’ve told you time and time again, I’m here for you. I’ll protect you, I’ll-!”

“You won’t always be there for me, Stanley.”

This remark stops Stan short. Makes his eyes widen in alarm, “What-? What does that mean?”

“...I think you know.”

“I sure as fuck don’t!”

“Language, Stanley.”

“Fuck your language!” Stan growls and comes closer. He gets in Ford’s personal space and Ford can feel the heat radiating off him. He’s very much the monster he’s dressed as - exuding power and force and deadly seriousness as he looks at him, “I will always be there for you. Always.”

Ford lets out a sad, watery sound. He looks away and there’s a restless wind that seems to rise up, to play with his hair and suddenly Stan touches his chin, directs his face back to him, “Look at me.”

The touch is clearly just meant to direct his eyes, but Ford feels it zip throughout his entire central nervous system, feels it shoot out his toes as he looks into Stan’s eyes and his twin says, “Stanford, you ain’t never got to keep anything from me. Alright? You ain’t gotta hide or-or keep to yourself. Thinkin’...thinkin’ maybe now this is why you’ve been poutin’ so much lately, huh? You think we’re going to be apart?”

“Stanley...”

“That I’m not going to be there for you? Because I will be, Sixer. Always and forever. You should know that.”

Another sigh, “Rachel...”

“She’s just some broad,” Stan promises, and then, with a chuckle, “A cute one, but just the same. She’s not as important as you are. Never will be.”

“You-” Ford swallows around a big lump in his throat, his heart aching, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not? You’re family.”

And it’s that, that last word, that helps Ford grab a hold of his senses. He gulps and lets out a shaky laugh, “Uh, yeah - yeah. I am. And, uh, as your family - I...I think you should go back in there. Get your big kiss.”

Stan seems to thinking it over, but more for show than anything, as he cracks with a laugh, “Nah, forget it. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

The breath that leaves Ford sounds as if he’s pushing off a sob. Which makes sense. Ford feels like sobbing. He feels strangely vulnerable and exposed. More so when Stan just. Keeps. Pushing. “’Sides, if they’re not going to let you play...”

“I told you,” Ford manages weakly, pathetically, “Becky wasn’t wrong. I don’t want to play.”

Stan doesn’t say anything for awhile and it’s good. It’s great. Ford can feel his lungs filling with air, can feel his sanity returning, can feel himself pushing away from the ledge of tears. Stan didn’t mean for the things he said to sound so-so romantic. So much what Ford wants to hear.

He was being a good brother.

Ford wants to do the same - needs to do the same.

But then.

“Stanford, any...any of those girls would be lucky to kiss you...”

And that’s it. 

It’s the funniest thing.

That’s the thing that breaks Ford. That’s the thing that pushes him over that ledge. That’s the thing that leads him to cry out, “I don’t WANT to kiss THEM, Stanley! I WANT-! I want-!”

And Stan’s looking at him as if he’s never seen him before. As if Ford is some stranger - raving and demonic and he is - he truly is. Because with an anguished whimper, he grabs Stan and forcibly tugs him over. He seals his lips over Stan’s.

He kisses him.

He kisses him.

Ford kisses Stanley.

The sound of pure shock that leaves Stan sears Ford’s soul and Ford catches a glimpse of Stan’s eyes - big and round and white. Startled. Stunned. Maybe even terrified. So he closes his own as he brushes his tongue against his twin’s inert mouth, as he eases just so between the seam of them to get the taste he’s always feverishly dreamed of and then-!