The rolling waves glistened under the light of the moon, and twinkled with the lanterns where it crashed upon the cliff side. More illuminated the halls of the palace, even as most of its inhabitants had long found their rest. What few still wandered were servants working to tidy up what couldn't be done during the day, guards patrolling within and out, a handful of academics with their heads in their books, and Stan.

He kept to the shadows, ducking low under windows and waiting with bated breath at doorways whenever he heard approaching footsteps. So far he'd been able to creep through the halls unseen, but it would only take one misstep for his entire night to end in failure.

The closer he got to his target, the more obstacles appeared. The guards rotation was purposefully random here, and the servants must have volunteered to keep an eye out as well. It was the only explanation Stan could come up with, the third time he saw a maid wandering around, dusting pristine tables and looking around like hawks. Some of the doors that should have been unlocked were now barred, and those that weren't had at least one guard at the ready.

For anyone else, it would have been impossible.

Luckily Stan came prepared, and no one thought to lock the windows yet. The moment he came across his first inaccessible doorway he abandoned the halls, climbing out the nearest window and jumping into the garden below.

The chances of being seen were higher out here, but there were more places to hide as well. Stan kept under the trees, crawled under bushes, and went back inside at the first clear room he came across that brought him closer to where he wanted to be.

The next hour went like this, with Stan weaving between inside and outside, avoiding eyes and moving around halls like a ghost. It took everything in him not to jump out and try to brute force his way in, especially when he got closer, but Stan had learned patience over the last few years.

Finally, after more self control than his parents or teachers had ever thought possible, Stan stood in front of his goal. His skin itched from crawling around in the dirt and his clothes were torn and mud stained, but none of that mattered.

What mattered was he was where he wanted to be, and no one had raised the alarm.

With a grin Stan slammed open the door, breathing deeply. His mouth watered at the smell of food, and he stepped into the kitchen, already moving towards the still lingering scent of cooked meat.

Ford stared back at him, a half eaten burger already shoved into his mouth. His eyes were wide with surprise, tinged with guilt, his lips with sauce, his hands with burger and his mouth also with burger.

Stan didn't hesitate.

With a screech he lunged forwards, launching himself across the small distance between the kitchen door and the counter Ford had been hunched over. Ford tried to yell something back, but with his mouth full all he could get out was a muffled 'Hrladklaf' and a concerning chocking noise. It didn't stop Stan from tackling him to the floor, or from ripping the burger out of his brothers mouth.

Or try to. Ford pushed against Stan's chest with his legs and used one hand to swat away Stan's grasping ones, while his other seemed unable to decide if he should shove the burger the rest of the way into his already stuffed mouth or yank it out so he could breathe.

The two of them rolled back and forth across the kitchen floor, slamming into cabinets and sending parts of the burger flying. Pots and pans clattered around them, doors rattled, and loud voices were beginning to draw near. Ford's yells continued to be incomprehensible, until at last Stan jerked them to the side and slammed Ford into another cabinet. His brothers back hit it hard, forcing Ford to exhale harshly. The burger was also exhaled, its remains splattered across the floor, half chewed up muck, half floopy, sad floor burger.

Stan abandoned Ford for the floor burger immediately. Only Fords firm grip on his arms prevented him from scooping it off the floor and shoving it into his mouth.

Ford coughed, hacking up more burger bits as he tried to roll Stan away from his prize. His face was regaining color, and with one final cough he sucked in a deep breath, and yelled at the top of his lungs.

"DO NOT EAT THAT!"

His voice was hoarse, and his words nothing in the face of Stan's determination to eat the remains of Fords late night forbidden burger.

"IF YOU GET ONE, I GET ONE! THAT WAS THE DEAL!" Stan yelled back, grunting as he reached for the floor burger, "NOW LET GO!"

"NO IT WASN'T! IT'S NOT GOOD FOR YOU!"

"YOU DON'T GET TO DECIDE THAT!"

"I DIDN'T HAVE TO! BIOLOGY DID!"

Stan's only good response was to screech and make one more last ditch attempt at breaking Fords hold and grabbing hold of the burger. It's splattered remains glistened in the poor light of the kitchen, its juicy patting calling to Stan. Just one bite was all he needed. One bite, and the aching, burning fire in his blood would subside to a dull throb.

Fords grip slipped, and Stan's spirits soared as his fingers brushed against the top of the improvised bun. There weren't any actual burger buns here, so Stan (and then Ford, once the staff caught onto Stan's dinning habits and forbidden him from stepping foot into the kitchen) had made do with a halved plain bread roll. The texture wasn't right and it was too dry, but it was better than eating a burger patty plain. The only people who did that were people who didn't like good things. like Puritans. Or Catholics.

Unfortunately, it was not to be. Before he could curl his fingers around his prize, hands materialized out the shadows. They wrapped around his arms and yanked him back, while more appeared over the burger and started clearing it away.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!" Stan wailed, clawing at his disappearing late night snack. Its delicious smell was calling back to him, begging him to save it from whatever grim fate the servants were sentencing it to by shoving it into his mouth and sending it to his stomach.

In short order there was no sign the burger had been on the floor, and the only evidence it had existed at all was the smear of juice still across Fords face.

Stan smashed down the urge to lick his brothers face. He was desperate, but not that desperate.

Yet.

Ford rolled to his feet with a groan. He dusted himself off and looked around at the pots and pans scattered across the floor with distaste. A servant quickly appeared at his elbow and whispered something Stan couldn't hear, and with a sigh and a nod Ford stepped around the bustling servants and sat down at a low table near the door.

It was meant to be a rest spot for weary staff, somewhere they could grab a quick bite between rotating shifts. Now it was Stan's designated lectured spot whenever anyone caught him eating things they kept telling him he wasn't supposed to be eating.

"Stanley," Ford said hauntingly, as the servants sheepishly ushered Stan into a seat next to him while they continued to tidy the mess the brothers made in their scuffle, "We talked about this. Now I know I said I would support you through these changes, but you have to understand-"

"Oh I understand," Stan hissed, skin buzzing and mouth numb from lack of burger, "I understand you're a lying liar that lies. I can't believe you didn't actually go vegan with me."

"Vegetarian Stanley, and I-"

"Were scarfing down that burger like your life depended on it. Don't even try to lie, I can see it all over your face. Literally."

With a sniff Ford wiped his face with a napkin that had appeared at their elbows, along with a bowl of fruit, and a solemn promise of eggs by a haggard looking chef. Stan turned to see someone already heating up a pan, and another maid entered holding a small bowl of brown eggs, along with various vegetables.

It wasn't enough to soothe the gnawing in his stomach or the jitter in his bones, but he'd take it. Eggs were some kind of protein after all, even if the ones here tasted weird.

They also aggravated Ford to no end, like most animals and plants in this world. Something about how what was the point of chickens laying eggs in the first place if they couldn't reproduce that way in the first place. Stan's argument that maybe chickens laid eggs for people to eat them was met with a four hour rant about evolution and a six hour argument with one of the scholars about the arrogance of assuming all things were made exclusively to serve human needs. Stan had been stuck listening for all ten hours, and vowed to never give Ford his opinion on how anything here worked.

Something soft was smushed into his cheek, and he turned to glare at Ford. His brother was holding a pink fuzzy peach out and waving it around with a knowing look. It was pressed wordlessly to Stan's lips a few more times before he caved and opened his mouth.

The juice burst in his mouth, sweeter than anything from home and softer than fruit had any right to be. It melted across his tongue and fell apart under his vigorous chewing, annoyingly delicious.

Ford let go with a self satisfied smile, leaning back so the servants could continue to pile small platters of food at the table. The fruit was joined by bread rolls, cookies, nuts, and two mugs of warm milk.

No meat of any kind was anywhere to be seen, and Stan's stomach curled all the more for it.

"There, are you feeling better?" Ford asked, once Stan had finished his peach and started nibbling on some of the cookies.

"No." Stan muttered mulishly, still glaring. Ford sighed, picking up his own peach from the bowl and biting into it.

Or he tried to. Before Ford could lift it to his mouth Stan snatched it out of his hand, taking his own bite with a glare.

Ford stared back, unimpressed. The silent battle continued for several seconds, broken only when a servant set down the promised eggs at Stan's elbow. They'd made some attempt at an omelette, although the egg was fluffier and the vegetables diced finer than how his ma made them.

It tasted better, and yet still nowhere near as good as the omelettes of his childhood.

Not that he'd had many omelettes as a kid. Ma preferred quick breakfasts that got them out the door quick and required the least amount of clean up.

Stan used an offered chopstick to stab it and shove it into his mouth, ignoring the servants wince. He couldn't ignore Ford though, no matter how hard he tried. From the corner of his eye he saw his brother grab another peach. Ford rolled it in his hands a few times, six fingers leaving six bruises across its fragile skin when he paused and sighed.

"I'm sorry."

"Hmm. What was that?" Stan said around his eggs, hunching over his plate and glaring harder at Fords sad eyes and softish voice, "I couldn't hear you over the sounds of betrayal."

"I said I'm sorry Stanley," Ford repeated, setting the peach down and resting his hands over each other on the table, "I promised to show my support by matching my diet to yours, and I couldn't even last a week."

"A week? Seriously?" Stan took another, slower bite of his eggs, churlish mood fading as he filled his stomach (Fords apology, of course, had nothing to do with it), "Stanford, you made that promise two months ago. Are you tellin' me you've been sneaking down here for late night burgers since then?"

He wanted to be angry, but he couldn't blame Ford for it. Despite his brother's promise, he'd also been trying (and sometimes succeeding, much to everyone else's displeasure) to get his hands on any meat hidden away in the palace walls after only a few days.

He didn't tell Ford this of course. Right now it was Fords time to feel bad for breaking his promise of solidarity. Admitting to similar defeat would just get a smug 'Aha!' and more lectures about his diet.

"Yes," Ford admitted, staring intently down at his interlocked fingers, "I know its not exactly the same, me being human and you, well- but I should have been stronger."

Something in Fords voice caught Stan's attention. It was starting to get quieter, and he'd started gripping his own hands so hard they were starting to pale. His tone was spiraling down from reprimand and regret towards defeat, his shoulders rising towards his ears as Ford bent forwards over them, guilt clear on his face.

"If I can't even support you in this, then-"

Stan cut him off. As much fun as it was to watch Ford throw a pity party over eating a burger, it was just as much heart-wrenching watching Ford slip back into thinking he had no purpose here. It hadn't been fun the first week, when everything was confusing and new and Stan had been wracked with terror every other second and Ford hadn't been able to understand half of what was going on, and it wasn't fun now, months later as the world slowly started making sense again.

"Hey, don't sweat it. S'like you said, I shouldn't be eating it anyway. Really, you should be eating more," Stan bumped his shoulder against Ford and snagged the peach his brother had abandoned, "In my name even! Maybe that'll finally get you to start eating regularly. Hey wait, is that why you've been skipping meals? You've been down here eating secret meat dishes?"

Ford opened his mouth, either to protest or admit to his meal crimes. Stan shoved the peach into his mouth first, ducking under a reflexive smack with a chuckle. Some of the nearby servants gasped, and Stan rolled his eyes.

Even after a few months, the people here were still horrified with how Ford treated Stan. To them the very idea of trying to strike him was nearly sacrilegious (as far as he understood it), and Fords easy willingness to rough house and drag Stan around despite not being the king or anyone of import made their heads spin. Anyone else who tried to put the Noble Houki in a headlock would have had their own chopped off, and the fact that Ford didn't think twice about it made it worse.

Ford either didn't care what they thought (likely) or didn't realize (more likely), because his brother continued to act as he always did, punching him in the arm whenever the mood caught him and pulling Stan away from important meetings to show off some obscure law or lore he'd discovered.

In another world, one where Stan had been born as he was supposed to, and Ford was nothing more than a human from another world, then maybe he would have been just as irritated and offended at the behavior.

As it was, Stan eagerly leaned into it. Once Ford stopped choking on his peach the two of them got into a brief tussle over their spread, shoving food into each others mouths (getting it into hair and clothes more often than not) while trying not to fall out of their chairs. When most of it was either in their stomachs or on the floor Stan bolted, leaping into a sprint through the still open kitchen doors and down the hall with a cackle. He could hear Ford stumble to his feet after him, calling out with a laugh of his own.

It was the middle of the night. No one else would be happy with the two of them racing through the halls, yelling at the top of their lungs, dashing through the gardens, and causing a ruckus.