Chapter Text
No one had ever believed in Stanley Pines, and he didn’t think it was an exaggeration to say it. His father had certainly never believed in him, whether in the boxing ring or when report cards came home. He was clear that Stan was never going to amount to anything. His mother, bless her heart, had always told him he was a free spirit and didn’t need to be compared to anyone, which seemed a diplomatic way of saying the comparison wouldn’t be favorable. Even his twin brother and best friend sometimes seemed to regard his future prospects with pity or concern.
For most of his life, Stan had been right there along with them. He’d accepted from a young age that he was fated to be the dumb twin, and by the time they reached a stage where academics mattered, he knew if Stanford ever left him behind he’d be doomed. He poured all of his love and attention into the Stan-O-War because he figured it was the only chance he had at a half decent life. And then, one day in his junior year of high school, something had ended up going wrong with his schedule when it’d been put together.
“I’m supposed to have a study hall during fourth period,” he complained to his guidance counselor who, despite the name, didn’t seem to have much interest in guiding him at all. “It's the only class I’m going to have with Ford,” he added, and the guidance counselor audibly scoffed at him for that, as if the idea of them sharing any class, even study hall, was ridiculous. Instead of writing a note on Stan’s schedule and fixing the mistake he’d made, he just stared right through Stan and at the clock on the wall, waiting for him to leave.
“Listen, Stanley, there’s not really much I can do for you. I suggest you suck it up and take the class. It’s not like you would have used study hall to study anyway,” he commented, and Stan felt the back of his neck get hot with embarrassment. Of course, he hadn’t been planning to use the study hall to study, but instead to goof off with his brother and talk to girls. But who was this guy to say that? And besides, that was definitely way better than what he was supposed to take now for fourth period, which was some lame art class.
Unfortunately, Stan got the sense that he wasn’t getting anywhere, and slunk out of the room into the hall where Ford had been waiting for him. He attempted to comfort Stan by telling him that the art class would probably be easy, and even if it wasn’t maybe there’d be a cute girl or two for him to talk to. It was cold comfort for Stan, but he accepted it anyway because he didn’t really have a choice. He sleepwalked through the day until he reached his art class, upon which Stanley made a terrible discovery.
He loved the class. He loved how his teacher was a weird hippy chick who encouraged them to draw in whatever style they wanted. He loved how she called his art “stylized” instead of “crappy” like his dad normally did. He loved getting to spend an hour creating a work of art in small bits and pieces, from elaborately painted murals to sculptures which he was learning to be good at, to even sewing. By far his favorite medium however was comics. His teacher taught him to refine his art style, allowing for simplicity and strong design.
That was the first class Stanley Pines ever received an A in, and the best part was he didn’t use his brother at all. Sometimes when he’d come home he’d ask Ford to find him something weird to draw, but other than that he did it on his own. Ford was pretty good at drawing realistically, but Stan could do that too, and when it came to cartoon styles he was the king. When Stanley was little, he’d always wanted to make cartoons, and he’d spend Sunday afternoons tracing the characters in the Funny Pages.
But, his dad had insisted it was a waste of time, and that he’d never find any money in it, so eventually he stopped. He decided it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t good at it anyway. But now here someone was telling him he could be good at it, that he had raw potential. That for once, he wasn’t the one falling behind but leading the charge. The other kids in the class would even ask him for pointers sometimes, and after helping Diane Johnson with one of her projects, she’d kissed him on the cheek. It was amazing.
“So… you heard what the counselor said about West Coast Tech?” Ford had asked him one day as they were sitting on the playground. After how amazingly things had gone with his art class junior year, Stan had decided to take the advanced course his senior year, the only advanced class he’d ever been asked to take. That joy was short-lived, however, as with the counselor’s announcement of Ford’s future prospects his dad was even more clear that he was a screw-up with no future, and his brother was the only one worth anything.
“Yeah… are you going to go for it?” Stan asked, even though his first instinct was to try and make a joke and deflect. As if pretending that it wasn’t happening would mean Ford would come with him on the Stan-O-War and everything would stay the same. He had to keep it together, because if Ford knew how scared he was, and how much he wanted to cry, he’d be weak. And as their father had made clear, there was no greater crime in this world than being a weak man. Ford looked him nervously as he answered.
“It's an amazing school, Stanley… I have to at least try,” Ford offered, and for a moment the two sat in silence, the sound of seagulls and crashing waves on the New Jersey shore in early autumn filling the gaps they couldn’t. “Have you given any thought to your future?” Ford asked, and Stan wanted to ask him what future exactly he had to look forward to, but he didn’t. After all, if Stanford was checking in with him, he must have felt very guilty, and it wasn’t a good look on him. Stan stared up at the sky for a long moment before fishing something out of his pocket.
“My teacher… Ms Denver said I should look into this. I thought she was joking but, then she started talking to me about putting together a portfolio and other weird stuff like that, so I just nodded and took it so she’d leave me alone,” Stan lied as he handed the paper to his brother. When she’d given him the pamphlet, he’d asked a million questions, and late at night he stayed up reading it using the light from their window while Ford slept. He’d even started talking to the guidance counselor about retaking his standardized tests, though he’d been less than helpful.
“West Coast Arts? Stan, this is a great idea! You’d do great at this school,” Ford said as he flipped through the pamphlet, which boasted the amazing cartooning alum which had gone through their halls. The artist's facilities, the world-class staff, and their direct connections to everyone from animation studios to newspaper magnets were quite impressive. Stanford didn’t say it, but it wasn’t lost on him how close the college was to West Coast Tech. Stan snatched the pamphlet back from him and began to brush the subject off.
“Did you hit your head or something, Sixer? There’s no way I’d ever get into a school like this. My grades are crap, my test scores are garbage, my art is only barely decent and even if by some miracle I did get in… it's way too expensive. There’s no way I’d ever get a scholarship, so I’d never be able to afford it. It's just a dumb pipe dream,” Stan said before standing up from the swing and staring at Ford seriously. “You’ve got to promise not to tell dad about this, okay? He’d flip if he knew I was wasting my time on fantasies like this,” Stan added.
“Stanley, I think you’re selling yourself short. But, I won’t tell on one condition,” Ford offered, and Stan perked up at his comment. “You at least try. I’ll help you study to retake your test, and you put together a portfolio and apply,” he offered and before Stan could object he added something. “Just imagine, the Kings of New Jersey take the West Coast,” he said, and Stan shook his head, gave him a playful punch on the arm and the two walked home, having silently formed an agreement to give it a shot.
It was no surprise when Stanford got into West Coast Tech on a full scholarship, and with his college plans secured early in his senior year, he had plenty of time to help Stanley work on retaking his test. Stan meanwhile burned the candle at both ends to try and put together a decent portfolio, proving he was worthy of acceptance. When he started skipping boxing practices to draw, of course his father had found out and was furious. Stan’s explanation of wanting to go to art school, of course, didn’t help his case.
“You knuckleheads better have a good reason for dragging us down here. I don’t appreciate wastes of my time,” he’d complained as Stan dragged the family down to the school early one Saturday to get his test results. Stanford had retaken the test too, just for fun. When the results came out, at first he’d been given Ford’s, which predictably had a perfect score. Stan read over his results out loud, feeling like he was going to pass out at any moment. He’d only gotten two questions wrong. “Don’t think this means I’m paying for your college,” he said, and Stan tried to hide his disappointment.
“It came, it's here!” Stan said as he burst into the house one fateful spring morning, having gotten the mail. His mother stopped puttering around the kitchen and Ford stopped tinkering to join him at the kitchen table, where he was going to open the most important letter of his life. His father didn’t even bother looking up from his newspaper. Stanley could feel his hands shaking as he tore open the envelope, but he screwed his eyes shut before he could read it, shoving the letter in Ford’s hands instead.
“Dear Stanley, thank you for your application to the West Coast Arts School of Cartooning. We are delighted to inform you of your acceptance for the upcoming semester-” and that was all Stanford managed to get out because Stan was cheering and hugging his mom and pumping his fists in the air until his father finally told him to be quiet. Stan didn’t care that it was going to be expensive, or far away, or that there was no money in drawing comic strips. He was going to the school no matter what it took.
And he’d managed to do it despite every odd stacked against him. He’d saved up over summer, and got an on campus job once he’d arrived. He joined the school newspaper and made satirical comics about everything from modern culture, to their sister school right across the street. Speaking of the proximity to West Coast Tech, himself and Stanford might as well have been duel enrolled for how often they hung out in each other’s dorms. Stan always insisted Ford come out with him and his crew on Saturdays so he could teach a nerd like him how to party.
His junior year, while Ford was already working on his eight PhD, Stanley got an internship drawing comics for his hometown paper, the New Jersey Star, and he’d framed the first edition which had been printed with his comic in it. He’d managed to make such an impression on them that they offered him a job once he graduated, which he happily accepted. His comic strip was a simple story of twin brothers getting into all sorts of trouble in his beloved home state. It was four panels on weekdays and seven on Sundays, and very popular.
Mostly because, despite pushback from the higher ups at the newspaper, the kids spoke like kids and that meant abundant swearing (censored of course) and discussions about sex with girls and other taboo subjects. The parents hated it, but the kids loved it and orders of the paper skyrocketed whenever his comic, named Jersey Devils, was running. His father was, of course, unimpressed, even though Stan was making good money and his comics were very popular.
But, Stan found he didn’t really care. He got his own small apartment in his hometown, and for nearly five years he made his comics, watching them grow in notoriety and eventually be syndicated to national papers. Before he knew it, every kid in the country was reading his work. And that was when things really ended up going downhill. With the comics on a national stage, concerned parents were breathing down the neck of the papers, and the papers were breathing down his neck to make the comics more sweet and saccharine.
“No, you listen to me Ronnie, either you print the comic like I wrote it or don’t print it at all,” Stan said, in yet another fight with his editor because apparently the idea of thirteen-year-old boys talking about “necking” was just too risqué for the fine sensibilities of the people who ran the paper. “Did you get a chance to look at that new comic outline I sent over?” Stan asked, and his editor mumbled out some crap about sticking with what works, which made him furious enough to hang up. The reality was, Stanley Pines was at a crossroads.
With several studios fighting for the rights to make animated specials, and the comic still going strong, Jersey Devils was more popular than ever, and every kid seemed to know about it. But at the same time, as it got bigger and bigger, Stanley felt like he had less control over his product than ever. The tone of the comic, the setting and rules all seemed nowadays to be at the whims of people who weren’t him. He was sick of the comic, and wanted to write something new, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what.
He had this idea in his head for a comic about two twin girls, but he didn’t have a concept for it yet, and his editor refused to even consider it. Apparently, he didn’t think Stan had the chops to write girl characters, and he was afraid female leads would alienate audiences of young boys who loved the last comic. In Stan’s opinion, gaining a new audience was the whole point. But what did he know; he was just the guy who wrote the damn thing. Even outside of that, Stan wanted to find a studio to do Jersey Devils justice in animation before starting something new.
“What do you want, Ronnie?” Stan asked into the receiver, assuming it was his editor calling him back. Stan never did well with the whole boss employee structure, and even though Ronnie wasn’t his boss, he sure seemed to talk to him like he was. Stan needed to vent about how creatively stagnant he was feeling, but he didn’t really have anyone to talk to. His art school friends would have killed for the career he had, his mother would just agree with whatever he wanted to do, and his father would just disagree. And as for Ford, while he did complain to him sometimes, he could tell he was far too invested in his research to give a damn about Stan’s feelings about his cartooning job.
“Stanley? It's me,” Ford spoke through the phone, and Stan let out a sigh of relief that he wasn’t going to have to go back to arguing with his editor. “I’ve got a favor to ask you… a big one.” Stanford said, and now Stanley was confused. Ford was terrible at asking for help and while the two were still close, living on opposite coasts while Ford continuing collecting degrees like baseball cards meant they didn’t talk as often as they used to. Ford took a deep breath before he finally spoke again. “I would like for you to move with me to Oregon,” he said seriously.
“Okay, what’s the actual favor Sixer?” Stan asked, assuming his brother was joking. After all, that was a crazy thing to ask someone over the phone, especially someone who lived so far away without any sort of context. However, when Ford said nothing, Stan got the impression that maybe he was more serious than anticipated. “Stanford, you are joking, aren’t you?” he asked and Ford let out a cough as neither of them said anything for a long while. Stan would have assumed the line was dead, until Ford cleared his throat and offered an explanation.
“I was just given a grant of over a hundred thousand dollars to do my own research, no questions asked. Of course, I’ll give a chunk of it to the family, but as for the research, I believe a huge proportion of anomalies in the world are located in a small town in Oregon, and as I don’t know anyone there, and your job is flexible enough to be done somewhat remotely, I’d like you to come with me.” Ford admitted, and Stan took a long moment to think about what he was going to say next. He honestly was still expecting that Ford was pulling some weird prank.
“You know you sound absolutely crazy, right?” Stanley asked because he truly did. Asking his brother to pick up his entire life and drop it down in Oregon, so Ford didn’t get lonely doing his studying… though it wasn’t like Stan wasn’t lonely too. After all, despite living so close to his parents he couldn’t really talk to them honestly, not like he could with Ford. And maybe if he was farther away from New Jersey, it’d be harder for editors and people like that to get on his back. The more he thought about it, the more plausible, even exciting, it seemed.
“I remember you telling me about wanting to make a new comic about two twin girls. Well, perhaps whatever anomalies and paranormal creatures we discover could be useful for your work. Maybe that could be your concept, these two girls interacting with the supernatural. I’m sure you’re talented enough to get some material out of that,” Stanford offered and Stan tried not to feel a rush of emotion over the fact that, despite outward appearances, his brother had in fact been listening when he talked about his work. He’d even complimented him.
“Okay, you got me Sixer. When do we leave?” Stan asked, and he swore he could hear Ford beaming over the phone. He wrote down the details he told him on a piece of paper, including the name of the town, Gravity Falls. Stanley couldn’t help but think that it’d make a good name for his comic, and he kept it in mind. He thought about how he’d tell Ronnie and the studio execs he was moving, and to contact his new number. He hadn’t realized it, but this was exactly what he needed. Now he’d have a new premise, a fresh start, and his brother by his side.