#trans stan

From that point on, Ford had been lost.

Every time he saw—or even thought of—his brother, he couldn't help but picture himself kissing every inch of his broad stomach. He was plagued by visions of running his hands through the thick hair that constantly taunted him, peeking over the neckline of his suit or that ridiculous tank top he wore around the house. He imaging groping his large, tempting chest, suckling there until Stan was whining and begging for more.

It was a nightmare.

Ford had tried everything to quell his newfound attraction to his brother, but it was useless. Stan had grown into exactly his type. His soft, round stomach and generous coating of body hair were constant distractions as Ford tried to focus on containing the rift that had been left over from the use of the portal. Mostly, Ford had simply tried to avoid him. 

In the wake of the apocalypse, he came to regret that mistake–not only because it might have made a difference in stopping Bill, but because he had missed out on opportunities to bond with his brother. 

Which is why he found himself desperate, despite his shameful attraction, to spend more time with Stan. In proposing their adventure on the high seas, Ford was accomplishing this goal as well as fulfilling a life-long dream for himself and Stan. 

Admittedly, however, Ford did not think through the consequences of living in close quarters with the object of his increasingly-frequent fantasies. Sleeping in the same room again, sharing their meals together, and getting to know one another again should have been a wholesome, comforting experience. And it was. But it was also made difficult by the fact that, as they grew closer again, Stan became more comfortable. 

Again, it should have been a good thing. Stan was more affectionate with him, reaching out to pull him into a hug or touch his arm as he handed him his morning coffee. It was slowly driving Ford wild with desire each time he felt his brother’s plush and supple body pressed up against his. 

Still, he was maintaining an appropriate distance between them, never drawing too near or  acting too content in his embrace. Ford was (mostly) certain he could have kept up this performance indefinitely, if it hadn’t been for a small port town in Chile. 

They had stopped to resupply on their way to the next anomaly, and Stan had succeeded in convincing Ford to go out to a local bar for a drink to unwind. However, it seemed that Stan was interested in more than just a beer to “unwind.”

Ford sat, scowling, at the table as Stan stood at the bar with their drinks. He’d been there, talking to the woman standing next to him, for the past 10 minutes. Ford could see their beers sweating on the counter as they warmed in the open air. 

Stan leaned forward and placed a hand on the woman’s arm and Ford could feel the growing tension within him snap. He stood from his seat and walked to the counter, reaching in front of Stan to grab his drink and chug it down. He could see Stan and the woman turn to look at him questioningly from the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. Ford slammed the empty mug back on the counter. “I’ll be on the boat.” 

Stan might have said something in reply, but Ford was already walking away. 

This was ridiculous. He shouldn’t be jealous of some strange woman taking his brother’s attention in a bar. They spent all of their time together now, and Stan deserved to take some time for himself, to flirt with whomever he wanted. Logically, Ford knew there was no reason to be upset. Yet, he was. 

Visions plagued his mind the entire walk back to the Stan O’ War II: her hands on Stan’s hirsute chest, Stan’s plush lips kissing her neck, her fingers digging into Stan’s broad back as he ground against her.

Ford pulled open the door to their bedroom with a huff. He shouldn’t be thinking about this. It was Stan’s business, and Ford had no right to care. He just hoped they didn’t come back to the boat for their… rendezvous.

As soon as the unnerving thought appeared in his head, Ford heard footsteps on the deck of the boat. With a groan, Ford pulled open the door, preparing to make himself scarce, but Stan was already standing on the other side.

“Hey,” Stan said. “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” Ford responded, attempting to move past him. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

Stan put a hand on Ford’s shoulder and forced him back into the room. “Slow down. What are you talking about?”

“Well, presumably you don’t want me here while you entertain your… lady friend.” He felt his face flush against his will, but powered on. “So I will go elsewhere.”

“‘Entertain my lady friend?’ What's that ’spose to mean? You think I would bring some girl back here for sex?”

Ford shrugged, feeling off balance in this conversation. “We’ve never discussed it.”

“Ford, we’ve never discussed it because, even if I was enough of a jackass to bring someone back to our boat–where we share a bedroom–for sex, who the hell would I bring?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean, ‘who?’ Anyone you want.”

“Right,” Stan snorted, “’cause people are just lining up to sleep with a disgusting, fat, hairy, old man whose tits are almost as big as they were before top.” Stan shook his head with a laugh. “Trust me, ya don’t gotta worry about that.”

Ford stared at his brother. He had been laughing, yes, but he seemed to be serious. Did he really think that way about himself? “Now I’m unsure what you’re talking about. Stan, you’re a very handsome man.”

Stan wrinkled his nose. “You have to say that. But we’re talking about people who might be attracted to me. You’re my brother. No offense, but I don’t think your opinion counts.”

He stared at the floor. “No, perhaps it shouldn’t.” It shouldn’t, he thought. It really shouldn’t. “I think it does, though.” 

Ford could hear Stan’s sharp inhale. “Wha- You don’t-”

“I apologize. I never intended for you to find out, but I just- Stan, you must know it isn’t true. There are plenty of people who would love to be with you–that woman from the bar was certainly one of them. And you are not ‘disgusting’ by any stretch of the imagination. You’re-”

Stan’s hand pressed against his mouth. “Stop talking.” 

Ford nodded.

“You’re into me? Like, into me?”

Ford rolled his eyes, but nodded.

“Since when?”

Stan’s hand was still covering his mouth. Ford looked down at it pointedly, and Stan finally removed it, stepping back. “Since you brought me back.”

“So, you weren’t…? You didn’t…?”

Ford knew where he was going with this. “I’m gay,” he replied. 

“Oh.” 

They stared at each other silently, unsure how to proceed with this information in the open. 

Ford could feel his discomfort settling back in. “Of course, I understand if you would like some time alone to process or… if you would like to call off our trip altogether, certainly, that-”

“No!” Stan cut him off. “Ya gotta know I'd never want that. I just… fuck, Sixer, I've always kinda had a thing for you. Heh, growin’ up, I was so confused ’cause I thought I wanted to be just like you. I was always lookin’ at you with stars in my eyes. For a while, a long while, I told myself it was just because you were everything I wasn't: so smart and handsome and… manly.” Stan snorted. “Funny now to think I was jealous of scrawny little teenage Ford's manliness. But that wasn't it. At least, that wasn't all of it.” Stan looked away. “I don't think a normal sibling would’ve done the things I did. Y'know?”

Ford smiled, hope blossoming in his chest. "I do."

"I still don't understand, though… Ya really thought I was bringin' that girl from the bar back here?" Stan looked at him as if he couldn't possibly fathom a reality where that was a possibility. "My manners aside, she was probably half our age! I mean, really, Poindexter?"

He felt himself flush again. "I- You were talking to her and… and touching her. What was I supposed to think?"

Stan let out a huff. "I dunno, Six. Maybe that a sad, drunk woman at a bar saw an old man and wanted some old man advice?" He shook his head. "I was just comforting her." Stan winked playfully. "No need to be jealous. What else would a girl like that want with a guy like me?"

"Plenty," Ford insisted. "I wish you wouldn't talk about yourself like that. Moses, Stan. If you knew the things I want with you…"

He had said too much, perhaps. He could see Stan swallow hard, could see a faint flush painting his cheeks. He should apologize for being so forward.

"And what exactly is it that you want with me?"

Ford froze. Stan's voice had been low and sultry, making him shiver. Maybe he shouldn't apologize, then.