Stan knew how crazy he must have looked. If you saw a person laughing and mumbling to themselves you’d raise an eyebrow, maybe call the cops, but throw in the fact that he was limping along the side of a darkened street, face bloodied and hair matted down with sweat, and that maybe his laugh was kind of maniacal -- sure, he could see where his life had gone off the rails a little.

But Thistle Downe had deserved it.

“Oh, Stanley, you didn’t.”

Worry had met him at the door, but it was disappointment that now marred his brother’s face. Stan shrugged and continued to rifle through the medicine cabinet, eventually finding the worn bottle of iodine. Years of continuous bodily injuries had been met with the bottle, but Stan had never once witnessed their mother replacing it. 

“He stole my girl, Ford.”

“So you thought driving his car into a ravine was going to fix things.” Oh, that dry wit. Ford crossed his arms and leaned against wall, making faces while Stan peeled tattered strips of t-shirt from his skin.

“No,” Stan frowned. No one could stick up for his flash in the pan, brilliant ideas but himself. “But I thought it’d at least send a message.”

“What, that you’re an insane person?”

“No! That he shouldn’t have messed with me!”

Ford made a noise that Stan recognized, since it was the same disapproving grumble their mother made when she caught him doing something dopey. Stan knew that Ford was probably gearing up to tell him off, so he distracted himself with first aid. He dabbed a little more water on his skin, then slowly opened the bottle and began to pour.

He shrieked, and Ford rolled his eyes.

“Hey, tough guy.” Ford snatched the bottle from his hand and pointed to the tub. “Go sit down.”

“I can take care of myself,” Stan groused, but Ford was insistent. And he had to admit that Ford knew what he was doing better. He’d cleaned up more of Stan’s scraped knuckles and busted lips than he could even count, and he was good at it now. Stan barely felt the sting of the iodine as his wounds were flushed out. 

“What are you going to tell Ma and Pops?”

Stan frowned. “That I got into a fight. It’s not really a lie.”

“I still don’t know why you did it. You could have been arrested, or you could have killed yourself.”

“Because.”

He looked down at his hands, pummeled from clawing at the ground to keep himself from somersaulting off the ridge right along with Thistle Downe’s car.

“Because…?”

Stan’s frown grew deeper, more desperate. He could feel guilt welling up in his chest, then regret. He inhaled to keep himself together, but he knew he was cracking on the edges.

“Because it’s not fair,” he finally whispered. He curled his hands into fists and banged them on his thighs -- once, twice, a third time, Ford’s hands quickly reaching out to prevent him from hitting himself a fourth. “I know I’m a screw up, Ford, but Carla...I thought I was doing okay there. Me and her, I thought we had something special. She made me feel special.”

He tried to strike himself again, because stupid, he was so stupid, now Carla would never love him, but Ford held fast.

“I mean, maybe you’d always be the smart one,” he lamented, feeling hot tears beginning to roll down his cheeks, “But at least I’d be good with the ladies, and Carla...I thought we had something there. Something real. I loved her, and I thought she loved me.”

While he’d been talking - rambling, more like - Ford had kept hold on his hands.

“Maybe she did, Stanley,” he finally said, oh-so-measured and careful. “I mean --I don’t pretend to know anything about girls, but maybe she did.” 

Ford blushed, like he always did when he was talking about dating or babes, and shook Stan’s hands firmly. “But you don’t need validation from a girl, especially a girl that’ll leave you for a guy like Thistle Downe, in order to feel special. Because you...you are. You just are. And if she can’t see that, then, well...she and Thistle Downe deserve each other.”

Stan sniffled and pulled his hands back, rubbing his face until he saw stars behind his eyelids. “I know you’re just saying it, but…” He sighed, finally starting to feel the ache in his bones.  The adrenaline must have finally worn off. “Thanks, Sixer.”

“Welcome,” Ford murmured. “I know it hurts now, but I’m sure you’ll find someone who’ll treat you right some day.”

Ford had this funny look on his face -- even more so than usual. Stan knew he was staring, because through a face full of red Ford offered him a small smile. That was his brother though, so terrible with the ladies that he couldn’t even talk about them without getting flustered. He laughed and hooked his arm over Ford’s shoulder, bringing him near with a soft hack.

“I’m sure I will, Poindexter. I’m sure I will. And hey, until then I’ve got you.”

Ford’s smile grew a little wider, and he shook his head and pushed him away. “Yeah. You’ve got me.” He toed the shredded shirt on the floor.  “At least until prison catches up with you.”

Stan grinned. “Nah, I’ll be on the straight and narrow, so long as I’ve got you.”

“You’ve got me forever.” 

Stan eyed him, head half-cocked as he watched the smile on his face get a little bashful again. Stanford Pines, best friend. Stanford Pines, partner in crime (but not literally). Stanford Pines, soul mate?

He’d think about it long into the night, and then for some weeks after - the deepest Stanley had ever thought about something before. The inevitable blow that would come when Carla rejected him was softened by it, the desperate feeling that he’d be alone forever gently eased by Ford’s words. 

Ford was his, and he was Ford’s, and maybe the world wasn’t so bad. Maybe being special in the eyes of your best friend was enough.

The event itself had been a point of contention throughout town for weeks.  Manly Dan Corduroy had let it be known that no one else ought to bother competing, since his own legendary russet pelt knew no rival since the elder Pines twins’ departure to sail the seven seas.

But when Toby Determined broke the news that an international anti-doping agency had investigated Dan for consumption of a banned animal extract the field suddenly seemed wide open.  

Durland launched a flyer campaign for Sheriff Blubs.  Rumors spread that cash-strapped Preston Northwest might strip down.  Bookmakers murmured about Farmer Sprott being a contender, and talk around the post office suggested they had a ringer as long as the contest didn’t happen during a full moon.

But the familiar rumble of a 1965 El Diablo convertible -- and the accompanying cheers of the citizenry who ran alongside it -- dashed the dreams of all the hirsute hopefuls.

But Ford, Ford, Ford...  Sure, the fandom is split on who’s the hot twin.  But did you really think the CrossFit and paleo body was enough to lure the judges’ gazes from the magnificence of your twin’s transcendent torso?

Now I’ll be the first to say this photo captures a moment that neither brother should take much pride in.  No one likes a sore winner, and no one likes a sore loser.  My guess, though, is that they worked things out before they finally fell asleep that night.