Archive of Our Own

“Sixer, c’mon, do we really gotta do this?”

Stan’s back is killing him, hiking up all these stairs—it didn’t help that they’ve practically been doing it all day, either. The stench coming off from both of them is probably enough to kill any animal or person that comes within ten feet of them, but given that they’re in some random ruins that Ford demanded they go to, the likelihood of that is slim.

“Yes, Stanley,” Ford answers, sounding chipper. He doesn’t even turn to look at Stan; he keeps climbing up the stairs at a brisk pace. He’s a few steps ahead of him on the gigantic trail of stairs that seem like they have no end in sight. “It’s imperative that we obtain that spell book—I’ve been studying it on our travels, and I would prefer to see it for myself.”

“Ah. Gotcha,” Stan drawls, sarcasm thick on his tongue, “a spell book.” He rolls his eyes, ignoring the fact that Ford can’t see it. “Does it have a spell for a new brother?”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Ford chides him, sounding like he’s talking to a child. “We’re almost there.”

When they finally reach the top after a few more minutes, Stan leans down and puts his hands on his knees, catching his breath. Ford stands near him and waits, seeming perfectly fine.

“Take your time.”

Stan shoots him a glare. “Oh…shut up.” He stands back up straight, gesturing for them to keep moving. “Ain’t my fault not all of us were built like Greek Gods.”

Ford raises a brow at this, but his lips twitch into a smirk—cocky bastard.

“Come along now, Stanley.”

Grumbling, Stan follows Ford further on the top floor of the ruins. Sure, he’d follow Ford anywhere—until the ends of the fucking earth, but you bet your ass he’s gonna bitch about it the whole goddamn time.

Besides, that’s what he’s been doing ever since they left Gravity Falls. Ford tells him to jump? He asks how high and complains before doing just that. Ford tells him they’re gonna go on a long ass hike to get some witchy, nerdy book he wants so bad? Sure, but Stan’s gonna make him his least favorite meal tonight.

If he were being held at gunpoint, though, Stan has to admit that it’s been…nice. More than nice, really. It’s been amazing.

He never thought he’d get to be close to Ford ever again—one of the few people in his life who ever truly mattered to him, along with the kids, Soos, and Wendy. Hell—Ford was the first person in his entire life to ever matter to him so much to the point it felt overwhelming. As kids, Stan would always try to impress Ford in some way, or make him laugh when he was feeling down, or spill punch on himself in solidarity at prom. He wouldn’t call himself selfless—nah, that was too much of a stretch—but Ford was a very, very close second on his list of priorities after Stan himself.

Of course, that’s when it all went to shit. Living without Ford for all those years felt like he was missing a limb. Maybe even half of himself. Because really, that’s what Ford was. Half of Stan, half of the dynamic duo that he apparently made up in his head.

Then, when he got the postcard from Ford, his hopes soared high into the atmosphere, only to get a rude awakening as they plummeted straight to the ground. And if that wasn’t enough, Ford getting sucked into the portal really cemented one fact in Stan’s head:

He lost his brother for good.

Stan couldn’t accept that as an answer. He just couldn’t. So, he studied until he felt like his eyes were about to bleed, tried to force his stupid brain to understand equations that made his brain melt, and punched walls when he got too furious with himself.

Whether it was for his lack of intellect or the fact that he was to blame for the whole situation, that’s still up in the air.

But when those kids came into his life—those annoying, bothersome, wonderful kids—Stan knew that year was going to be different.

And it was—he got Ford back, and got a punch in the face to prove it.

Before Weirdmageddon happened, Stan really thought that the summer was going to end, and he’d have to go his separate ways with Ford, even after he put so much effort into bringing him back. It hurt like a bitch, worse than a good chunk of things in his life, but he had tried to accept it. Their bond—their friendship, their dreams—just weren’t the same anymore.

It’s funny how the end of the world can change a few things.

The point is—ever since the portal, hell, ever since the project—Stan never thought he’d be doing this. He never thought he’d be living his dream life, going on adventures with his favorite person in the whole wide world.

“Isn’t this magnificent?” Ford asks, voice filled to the brim with awe and child-like wonder. It brings Stan back to the present moment, making him actually take in his surroundings.

Stan looks around himself to see different items and trinkets on pedestals, like some weird, ancient museum. There are necklaces, gauntlets, and even a crown.

“Hey, Poindexter! Look,” he points to the old, sort of rusty-looking crown. “You can be king of the nerds.”

“And you can be king of the crooks,” Ford responds, dryly. “Now, come along. Let’s continue looking.”

“What kinda spells are even in this book, huh? Anything to make me rich?” Stan asks, while also half-contemplating nabbing the pretty-looking necklace he’s currently looking at. “Or for you to be less nerdy?”

“Very funny, Stanley,” Ford says, with a tone that tells him he doesn’t find it funny at all. “If you must know, there are a variety of spells with various uses. Some general ones, to increase or decrease luck, to influence the weather, to increase the size of crops—things of that nature.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Next time I want a tomato as big as your head, I’ll make sure to nab that book from ya myself.”

They continue looking around the area, Ford taking one half of the room while Stan takes the other. Finally, Stan comes across a dusty, old-looking book.

“Uh, Sixer? Is this it?” he asks, immediately grabbing the book from the stand.

“Stanley—!”

Stan freezes, looking at him with wide eyes. Was that the wrong move? Was the whole building gonna collapse on them or something?

For a few tense moments, nothing happens.

“Huh,” Ford muses, brows furrowed in thought. “I suppose these ruins don’t have any traps after all.”

“That’s a nice change of pace.”

“And yet, you still grabbed that book as if there would be no consequences,” Ford scowls at him, crossing his arms.

“Oh, c’mon, Six,” he rolls his eyes, waving the book around. “Nothin’ happened. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“We don’t even know if that’s the correct—”

“Enchantment for hair growth,” Stan reads aloud, flipping through the pages. “Enchantment for reheating warm drinks. Enchainment for coloring hair.” He shoots an incredulous look at Ford, raising an eyebrow. “This is the book ya wanted so badly? This is the one we’ve been hiking up stairs for hours to get?”

A pink tinge appears on Ford’s cheeks. He rubs the back of his neck, glancing away. “I simply figured it would improve the quality of life for us.”

Stan snorts, continuing to flip through. “Enchantment for luck, enchantment for easing back pain, enchantment for removing stains, enchantment for removing cavities…” He settles on a page that looks a bit different than the rest.

“Huh,” Stan says, squinting at the page. “Enchantment for finding love.” He smirks. “Look, Sixer, the perfect page for you!”

“Give me that,” Ford says urgently, snatching the book out of his hands. His eyes scan the page for a few moments as Stan watches. “I do believe this is it, Stanley. This is the particular spell I was hoping to find.”

Stan’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s the one?” He lets out a loud laugh. “Didn’t peg ya as a romantic, Sixer, I’ll tell ya that. But I guess ya would need a spell to get someone to like ya, huh?” he can’t help but tease, wiggling his eyebrows at Ford.

“No, no, no, it’s nothing of that nature,” Ford says, shaking his head, although his cheeks burn into a brighter pink. “I simply find it fascinating.”

“Yeah, sure.” Stan grabs the book from his brother, ignoring his protests as he does so. “I mean, c’mon, are we even sure this shit works? This looks like bullshit to me. I mean, Abscido Populus, Fateor Amor, Falsus Amor, Falsus Amor, Adamo Falsus—”

“Stop, stop!” Ford grabs the book from him before he can finish reading. “You shouldn’t be reading that. You don’t know what power it holds.”

“Oh, please. It’s just Latin, Sixer! I doubt readin’ a dead language is gonna make anyone fall in love with me. Plus, if it did work, wouldn’t it have worked on you?”

Ford’s gaze flickers. He seems to think about it for a moment.

Stan grins. “Well? Feel any different? Wanna pucker up, buttercup?” He gets closer to Ford’s space, exaggeratedly puckering his lips and making kissy noises at him.

Ford makes a half-disgusted, half-laughing noise while shoving Stan away. “No, no, no. You’re still your irritating self—a massive pain in the ass.”

“Hey, I’m the one who found your stupid book—what would ya do without me, Poindexter?”

“I could have easily found the book myself.”

“But ya didn’t,” Stan sing-songs. “I found it first, so that means I’m the best brother in the world. That’s just a fact at this point.”

“You’re being childish,” Ford grumbles, but there’s a smile breaking on his face.

“Ohhhh, Ford just wouldn’t know what to do without Stan!” Stan says in a high-pitched voice. “He’d have to clean his own clothes, his own bedsheets, make his own dinner and eat the burnt remains—”

“That was one time—”

“—And he wouldn’t have anyone to pick out the pickles in his burgers, or anyone to chase the scary monsters away, or anyone to actually clean the kitchen on the boat—”

“I would clean!” A pause. “Eventually…”

Stan snorts, “Yeah, after a few years, maybe.” He pokes Ford in the chest, smiling ear to ear. “Just admit it, Sixer. You’d be lost without me.”

Ford rolls his eyes, but he’s fully smiling now. He looks right at Stan, and there’s a moment where neither of them say anything.

“Yes,” Ford finally says after a moment, a softness in his eyes. “Yes, I would.”

An unexpected warmth blossoms through Stan’s core, a certain giddiness that he finds addicting.

“Well, c’mon,” he says, elbowing Ford in the shoulder. “Ya got your book, so let’s go shower and grab somethin’ to eat, huh?”

Deciding where exactly to go for a late lunch (or early dinner, depending on how you looked at it) wasn’t exactly rocket science for them—hell, they were so used to seafood at this point that they’d eat anything while they were at port, they weren’t picky. Plus, they were in Italy, so Stan felt like any option would beat whatever they had in Gravity Falls.

“Anything’s better than Greasy’s, right, Sixer?” Stan asks, gesturing to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. Sure, it isn’t much to look at, but it’s not all about appearances, right? Sometimes it’s what’s on the inside that counts…or whatever those cheesy, romantic movies like to say.

It also doesn’t hurt that the prices are significantly lower than those of the nearby restaurants.

Ford hums, considering as he takes in the sad building in front of him. “I suppose.” He squints a little, scrunching his face up. “As long as they stay away from olives.”

“Atta boy,” Stan grins, patting him on the back.

They enter the restaurant, and Stan’s gotta admit, there’s a bit of a crowd in here. Definitely more than what he was expecting. The food must at least be decent enough, he thinks.

“Well, at least the likelihood of food poisoning has decreased,” Ford muses.

Stan snorts. “Who knows, maybe it comes with those prices. Kinda worth the low cost, dontcha think?”

Ford stares at him unblinkingly. “How on Earth did you survive this long?”

Before Stan can respond with a (very funny, very witty, very clever) comeback, a young, pretty hostess comes up to them. “Buonasera,” she says politely, eyeing the two of them before settling her gaze on Stan. “Due? Two?”

Stan nods, and the hostess smiles warmly, placing a hand on his back to lead them both to a small, slightly damaged booth. She places one menu on the table in front of Ford, but weirdly, she hands the other to Stan directly.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” she says with a smile, her eyelashes fluttering like crazy at him.

He frowns slightly and tilts his head. “Somethin’ in your eye, doll?”

Just as she opens her mouth to say something, Ford clears his throat. Loudly.

“Water, if you please,” Ford says, before pressing his lips together in a thin line. He’s staring directly at the hostess, not looking exactly what Stan would call…friendly.

Stan’s frown deepens. Weird.

The hostess’s smile falters. “Your server will be right with you,” she says in a saccharine tone, much too sweet to be sincere. Her smile completely disappears right before she turns on her heel and walks away.

Ford’s eyes stay on her as she leaves.

“Hey,” Stan says, getting Ford’s attention. “What the hell was that all about?’

“I can’t say I know what it is you’re speaking of,” Ford says, flipping through the menu nonchalantly. Stan squints.

“Why were you actin’ rude to her?” Stan leans against the table, keeping his voice low. “She’s just doin’ her job.”

Ford scoffs, putting down his menu as if it personally offended him. “I can’t recall a hostess ever touching a patron as part of her job.”

Stan blinks. Sure, that was a bit weird, not something he’s really used to, but…”So what? No harm in bein’ friendly.”

Ford stares at him like he has three heads.

“What?” he asks, shifting in his seat a bit. He starts touching his face blindly. “Somethin’ on my face?”

“Do you—” Ford starts, blinking rapidly like he usually does when a problem stumps him, or when someone says something especially stupid.“—really not understand what she was doing? Of all people, I imagined you’d be the most aware of it.”

Stan leans back a bit, trying to let the words sink in. “She was…bein’ nice?”

Ford stares at him for a long time. “She was flirting with you, Stanley.”

The way he says it, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, kinda pisses Stan off a bit. “Oh, come on,” he says, opening the menu with a bit of force, “Ya really think a pretty young thing like that would be flirtin’ with me?” he waves a hand dismissively while rolling his eyes. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Ford works his jaw a bit at his words. “That’s precisely what she was doing!” he whispers harshly, leaning toward Stan. “Be serious, Stanley. Touching your back? Staring at you? Fluttering her eyelashes?” Ford exaggeratedly flutters his eyelashes, mocking the hostess. “She was clearly interested in you.”

And, okay, maybe now that he’s thinking about it and Ford is pointing it out, it makes a bit of sense. Maybe he’s onto something.

“I mean…when you put it like that,” Stan concedes, shrugging reluctantly.

Ford gives him a flat look.

“Hey! It ain’t my fault—I haven’t exactly been on my A-game since we’ve been travelin’ and adventurin’,” he grumbles. “Besides, it’s not like I usually got suitors linin’ up my door or whatever,” Stan says, crossing his arms. “The fact that she’s even interested in me at that age is an anomaly in and of itself.”

Ford’s eyes linger on him before he shakes his head and looks back at the menu. “If you say so, Stanley.”

A thought occurs to him suddenly. “Okay, fine, she was flirtin’ with me—but why did it bother you so much?”

Ford suddenly stills. “Well…well, I—”

“Hello, gentlemen,” a waitress interrupts Ford, placing two waters on the table. She looks older than the hostess, probably in her late forties if Stan were to guess. She has dark hair with streaks of gray running through her ponytail, and she looks—for lack of a better way to put it—like she’s the walking dead with how tired she seems.

Still, she pulls out her notepad. “My name is Laura, and I will be your server,” she says, looking at Ford, and then at Stan, doing a double take before softening and smiling radiantly at him. Suddenly, that worn-down look she was wearing is gone in an instant. “What can I get for you today, handsome?”

Okay, so not only did the hostess flirt with him, but their waitress is calling him handsome now?

Huh.

“Pasta, and a lot of it,” Stan settles on, ignoring the whole handsome thing. “Maybe linguini with some champagne sauce, if ya got it?”

“Of course,” Laura purrs, writing his order down. “A big, strong man like you needs the energy,” she says, winking at him.

Stan chuckles, a bit forced, but tries not to show it. “Oh, strong? I dunno about that,” he points a thumb in Ford’s direction. “My brother here can beat me in a fight, easily.”

“Mmm, I don’t know,” Laura hums in thought, looking Stan up and down with a smile. “Those arms of yours look like they could do a lot of lifting. Maybe you can show me after my shift.”

Do ladies in Italy just have lower standards, or something? “Uh, sorry doll, but no can do—got things to do, places to see,” he laughs awkwardly. “Gotta get back to the boat with my brother.”

She perks up. “You have a boat? You’re a sailor?”

Stan rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I—”

“We share a boat,” Ford supplies for him, tone strangely even. “As well as a room, for that matter.”

Laura’s expression deflates. “Ah. I see. Another time then,” she says, giving a half smile, clearly disappointed. “I’ll put your order in right away.” She collects Stan’s menu before starting to turn and walk toward the kitchen, but then—

“Hey?” Stan calls out. “Hey, Laura?”

At the sound of her name, Laura turns back to their table. When she sees that Stan called her, she straightens up with a newfound perkiness. “Hmm?”

Stan points at Ford. “Ya didn’t take his order.”

“O-oh,” Laura says, sinking into herself a bit. “Sorry about that.” She turns towards Ford, ready to write in her notepad. “What would you like?”

“Chicken cacciatore,” Ford grits out, probably a little peeved that he was forgotten. He hands her the menu. “No olives.” A beat. “Please,” he adds, like it physically pains him to say it.

“Sure,” she takes his menu. “Sorry about that again,” she smiles apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it, doll,” Stan smiles politely back at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Ford twitch in his seat.

Laura beams at him. “I’ll put both of your orders in right away,” she says, before leaving their table and heading towards the kitchen.

Stan watches as she leaves, not too sure how to feel about the whole thing. He blinks a few times. “Huh,” he says, a bit dumbfounded by it all. “Well. That ain’t somethin’ ya see every day.”

“Women being interested in you?” Ford asks, his tone dry as the desert. “Yes, I would agree—it’s quite unusual,” he says, his lips twitching into a sly smile. “It’s unthinkable, really.”

Stan rolls his eyes, but feels an embarrassing amount of heat on his cheeks. “Shut up,” he says, just as another server comes by to drop off bread and olive oil at the table. Ford says his thanks while Stan immediately digs in. “It just means I still got it,” he says with his mouth full.

Ford stares at him in disgust as he stuffs his face. “Weren’t you the one to say that someone finding you attractive was an ‘anomaly in and of itself’? Perhaps you’re correct if they’re finding you to be this charming.” He pauses for a moment, ripping off a piece of bread and dipping it into the olive oil. “Maybe I should ask them some questions, note of this rare, abnormal occurrence in my journal—”

“Oh, please—” Stan interrupts him, rolling his eyes. “It ain’t a rare occurrence for someone to find me charming! It just ah—” he falters, “—doesn’t usually happen twice in a day.”

Ford takes a bite of his newly-dipped bread, chewing slowly. He swallows and then raises an eyebrow at Stan. “So, you agree? You agree that this is odd?” he asks with a glint of smug satisfaction in his eyes.

“Hey! I didn’t say that,” Stan grumbles, grabbing even more bread. “Quit puttin’ words in my mouth.”

“If I were to fit words in your mouth, they wouldn’t fit with how much bread you’re stuffing in it,” Ford says flatly, giving him an unimpressed look.

“It’s good bread! What’s a man ‘sposed to do, huh?”

Ford’s expression changes a bit. It goes from exasperation to something…else. Something that almost seems fond, if Stan didn’t know any better.

Stan watches as Ford opens his mouth, about to say something, but then Laura comes back with a plate of meatballs. He looks down a bit in confusion.

“Uh—”

“On the house, hon,” Laura says warmly. “From the chef himself,” she says, pointing behind her.

Stan’s eyes look to where she’s pointing, only to see a man’s face, about thirty years old or so, bald, and a bit on the thicker side. Their eyes meet, and the chef’s face turns beet red as he lets out a squeak, before disappearing back into the kitchen.

“I hope you enjoy!” Laura chirps, giving Stan a pat on his shoulder before she goes back to the kitchen herself.

Stan blinks a few times. Italy’s weird.

But to be honest—it also feels…nice? It feels good to be wanted, even on a superficial level. He used to get treated like this back in the day when he was younger, had more hair, was thinner, and in general, easier on the eyes. Of course, that came with its own issues too at the time—but Stan’s gotta say, he’s missed it a bit.

Out of the two of them, Ford is the more attractive one. That isn’t even him being self-deprecating; it’s just a simple fact, like the sky being blue, or the grass being green. Ford is built nicely, especially for an old man, and has that silver-fox look that people go crazy for. He’s strong, can handle himself in a fight, and has a cute, dorky charm to him that can be hard to resist. He’s usually the one being hit on by people, not Stan.

Pleased with everything, Stan grabs his fork and cuts into a meatball, taking a bite. He hums in delight, savoring the flavor of the meat and sauce together.

“Ford,” he points at the dish as he looks at his brother, “ya gotta get in on this. It’s pretty damn good.”

Ford’s expression twists into a scowl as he glares at the table. “No, thank you,” he grinds out.

There was that weird bitterness again. Stan frowns.

“Really? It’s free food. That makes it taste even better.”

This just makes Ford’s look on his face sour even more. He doesn’t say anything, just takes another piece of bread without making eye contact.

Stan shrugs and goes back to his appetizer. He can’t read his mind—maybe Ford will tell him what’s making him so pissy later.

For a few moments, there’s a weird intensity in the air—something heavy and uncomfortable that makes him want to squirm in his seat.

“Should I expect any visitors tonight?” Ford asks coolly, still avoiding Stan’s eyes.

Stan falters a bit, his hand holding the fork pausing in mid air. “Uh, no? Why the hell would ya ask somethin’ like that?”

“With all these individuals interested in you, I’d figure you’d want to…get to know them better,” Ford says—and the way he says it, devoid of any emotion, makes Stan feel like he did something wrong.

Maybe Ford misses the attention? Stan would be surprised, since he never, ever seemed to have any interest in anyone who flirted with him in the past. But maybe he still misses how it felt?

“Sixer,” he sets his fork down before leaning in closer to him. “I ain’t doin’ that. I ain’t gonna sleep with a random stranger while I’m adventurin’ with you, let alone bring ‘em back to the boat.”

It was such an unthinkable thing, really—the boat is theirs. It’s a symbol of their relationship, of how far they’ve come. Stan wouldn’t taint that by bringing some floozy on board.

Ford finally looks at him, eyebrows pinching in confusion. “Why? You seem to be enjoying the attention.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Ford. Just because I like someone callin’ me strong and givin’ me free food doesn’t mean I wanna sleep with ‘em. I’m just, y’know,” he waves his hand around vaguely, trying to find the word. “…indulging.”

Ford raises an eyebrow. Stan sighs.

They’ve been working on this more—actually communicating. Stan would say they’ve made a good amount of progress, even! Less fights, more conversations, and actually talking shit out.

Still, though—sometimes all this ‘talking about your feelings’ stuff gets exhausting, no matter how much better you get at it.

“Ya said it yourself, Six—this is a rare fuckin’ thing. And I am enjoyin’ it.” He glances away, hesitating before saying the next part. “It’s…nice to feel like someone actually finds me handsome or even sexy, especially at this age. And—I’ve kinda missed it. Feelin’…y’know. Desired.”

He chances a glance at Ford. His expression, once sour and pinched, softens with an emotion Stan can’t place. He looks away again, ignoring the heat burning on his cheeks.

“But just because I’m enjoyin’ it doesn’t mean I’m gonna follow through,” Stan continues, like a man on a mission. He looks directly at Ford, into his eyes that are studying him like he’s some equation he can’t quite figure out. “I wouldn’t do that to ya. Not just because it’d make things really fuckin’ awkward, but just—I don’t really see the point. “ He gestures at Ford, shooting him a half smile. “The only person I wanna be spendin’ time with on that boat is right here.”

Ford’s eyes widen slightly, a pink dusting on his face, and his lips parting a bit in shock. Stan stares at them for a moment too long, drawn to them for some reason, but then he looks back up at Ford.

“So yeah,” he finishes, directing his attention back to his meatballs and taking another chunk. “Even though it is nice—I ain’t just ditchin’ ya to get my dick wet.”

Ford cringes, but Stan sees his lips lift into a half-smile. “It was almost a nice moment until you said that.” His expression grows more relaxed, calmer, happier. “I appreciate it, Stanley.” Ford gives a rueful smile. “I…apologize for my behavior earlier.”

Stan waves a hand. “Nah, don’t mention it.”

Ford grabs his fork and reaches over to cut into a meatball. Stan yelps an offended hey as Ford takes his bite.

“What happened to not wantin’ any?” Stan grouses. “This is mine.”

"I changed my mind.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Why not? You offered earlier.”

“Well, I ain’t offerin’ now!”

“I don’t believe you can take back your offers.”

“The hell you mean I can’t? They’re my meatballs.”

“Ah, apologies. I didn’t realize you made them.”

Stan glares at Ford, but he’s fighting back a smile. “You’re such a little shit, you know that?”

Ford smiles from ear to ear. “I believe you may have mentioned it once or twice, yes.”

Stan shakes his head, his smile breaking through. He pushes the plate so that it’s more centered between them, and the two of them share the appetizer.

Moses, he’s missed this.

After a good night’s sleep, the two of them decided to catch the sunrise on the nearest beach the next morning.

It was the perfect weather—not too hot, not too cold, and just breezy enough to feel good on his skin. Since it was so early, Stan didn’t care that he was shirtless—nobody else would be coming to the beach for a while, probably.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit self-conscious, especially in front of his brother. The same brother who keeps glancing at Stan whenever he thinks he isn’t looking.

Stan kinda gets it. He’s let himself go, for sure—a round, fat tummy, pecs that might as well be tits, and thick chest hair that’s probably gross to look at. Stan half-wonders if Ford’s embarrassed by him, but he’d rather swallow his own tongue than be that emotionally vulnerable for a second.

When he feels Ford’s gaze on him from the beach chair as Stan sets up his fishing gear, he shoots a glare at him. “Take a picture, Poindexter, it’ll last longer.”

Ford sputters for a second, cheeks going pink in a way that almost looks cute, probably because he got caught staring. “A-ah,” he manages out, glancing away. “Apologies, Stanley. I must not be fully awake yet.”

Stan snorts in disbelief, but doesn’t say anything else. It seems like a good morning so far, and he doesn’t want to ruin it with a fight.

They continue like that for a while, basking in the morning light and alternating between idle conversation and cracking jokes to comfortable, easy silence.

Eventually though, it’s late morning, and other visitors start to come.

Stan largely ignores them, trying not to feel too embarrassed over the fact that he has no shirt on. That only goes so far when he starts to get the weird feeling that there are eyes on him, watching. He tries to push through, to solely focus on the waves of the beach and the salty tang in the air, but eventually, he finally looks around him.

Stan’s guess was correct—people are staring at him—but not in disgust. At least, it really doesn’t seem to be?

Women and men alike are looking at him appreciatively—some are winking, some are giggling, but one fact remains clear: they’re checking Stan out.

And look, yeah, okay, maybe there should be some alarm bells ringing in his head. Maybe he should listen to the little voice that’s telling him something’s not right. But listen—when you grow to be old like him, old, fat, and ugly, to be specific—you learn to take what you can get. And Stan hasn’t gotten anything like this in a long ass time.

So, he shoots his most charming Mr. Mystery smile at the little crowd around them, giving them a wave. There’s a burst of giggles from everyone around them, as well as people waving back, and hell, Stan feels good.

He glances at Ford, hoping this doesn’t put him in a sour mood again, and as expected, Ford is frowning—but there’s something more to it this time. Less bitter, and more…contemplative, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle or math problem.

Eh, whatever. Stan’s not gonna bend over backwards just to figure out what’s going on in his head.

Two middle-aged women come up to him, smiling and twirling their hair. Stan flashes them both a showman’s smile. “Ladies,” he greets. “How are ya two doin’ on this fine day?”

“Stanley,” Ford suddenly says, stern enough to grab his attention, but apprehensive enough to let Stan know something’s going on with him. He cuts in between Stan and the two ladies, eyes glancing around in a nervous, twitchy way. “A word?”

A flicker of annoyance passes through Stan. Still, there’s probably a reason for Ford acting this way.

“Fine,” Stan responds, before looking at the two women. “Be right back, ladies.”

Ford leads him to a stretch of beach where there’s nobody around. He’s fidgety, playing with his fingers and double, no, triple-checking that there’s no one else around them. Stan’s starting to get a bit worried.

“Alright, alright, what’s got you so worked up, huh? Did ya have too much coffee or someth—”

“The spell,” Ford cuts in, interrupting him.

Stan blinks. “Huh?'“

Ford sighs, running fingers through his hair. “Stanley, I—I regret to inform you that I suspect the spell you read in the ruins is, ah. Working.”

Stan blinks again. “What the hell are ya talkin’ about?”

Ford makes a frustrated noise. “The love spell, Stanley! I suspect that is the source of why—” he gestures around them, “—all of this is occurring.” He takes a breath before he takes hold of Stan’s wrist. “We need to get you away from these people and—”

“Wait,” Stan shrugs Ford off. “Wait, wait, wait.” He takes a second, trying to wrap his head around what Ford is saying. “Ya think—that all the people that been flirtin’ with me are—under the effects of some stupid spell? A spell I didn’t even fully read?”

“I…started to suspect last night at the restaurant, if I’m being entirely truthful,” Ford says, glancing away, guilty, “but now I would say it’s fairly obvious.”

Stan’s stomach drops a bit. Something like anger starts to simmer in his veins.

“Obvious,” Stan repeats in a flat tone.

Ford shifts on his feet. “Well…yes. It’s quite obvious to me, now.”

And for some reason, the simplicity of Ford’s answer—the way he’s so matter-of-fact about it, the way Ford is the one saying it—stings so much worse than a cut from a knife.

“Nice,” Stan grits out. “Real fuckin’ nice, Ford,” he spits.

Ford just frowns, like he doesn’t get why Stan is getting angry. This just makes him angrier.

Stan chuckles, but there’s no humor to it at all. “Ya think people showin’ actual interest in me means there’s gotta be some—some—supernatural reason for it?” he asks sharply, hoping the acid of what Ford’s implying stings him, too. He gets into Ford’s space and pokes him right in the chest, hard. “Fuck you, Stanford.”

“Stanley, I—I didn’t—that’s not—” Ford opens his mouth, closes it. A million different emotions appear on Ford’s face, and Stan can’t identify them all, until finally the one he’s most familiar with settles on his face.

Anger.

“Well, you have to admit it’s abnormal,” Ford says slowly, tone filled with annoyance. He crosses his arms. “This is out of the ordinary—you can’t deny that.”

“Out of the—” he laughs in bitter disbelief. “I knew you were jealous, Ford, but this is gettin’ out of fuckin’ hand.”

The anger in Ford seems to subside, even just for a second. “Jealous?” he asks carefully.

“Yeah!” Stan points at Ford. “You’re just fuckin’ jealous that’s it’s me for once, right? You’re the one who’s always gettin’ attention—the one everyone fuckin’ loves—and now that I’m gettin’ a turn in the fuckin’ spotlight, you can’t fuckin’ stand it,” he hisses.

Ford reels his head back. “What? Stanley, that’s not—”

“Nah, shut it, Ford.” Stan snaps, “Just because you can’t seem to wrap your head around that people might actually fuckin’ like me, doesn’t mean it’s a love spell.”

There’s a part of Stan—a part that’s detached from him and observing the fight—that wonders why he’s so fucking angry. It’s not like Stan wants to be with any of these people. He made that clear last night.

If he were better at the whole diving-into-his-feelings thing, Stan could recognize that Ford being the one to say that—to think that it was obvious—was a big part of what got him upset.

Ford doesn’t seem to see him as worthy of anything like that, and that fucking hurts, even if Stan isn’t exactly sure why.

“Fine!” Ford barks, the fire inside him reigniting. “You want to live in your delusional world? You want to pretend that this is normal? Be my guest!” Ford yells before he turns on his heel and starts stomping away. “I’ll be on the boat when you come back to your senses.”

“Go fuck yourself!” Stan yells back.

He wants Ford to stay, to keep arguing with him—it’s what he knows, it’s familiar territory—but Ford doesn’t even respond to him. He just keeps walking away.

Stan clenches his jaw and turns back toward where the crowd is. He starts walking, trying to erase what just happened out of his head.

So much for not fighting.

Whatever, Stan thinks as he gets back to where he and Ford were settled on the beach. He doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ about.

“Sorry, ladies,” Stan says, flashing a smile at them and wrapping his arms around them both. “Thank you for waiting.”

Stan starts talking with them, and they both introduce themselves to him. If he were being honest, though, he’s not really paying attention. There’s too much going on in his head—all to do with Ford.

What a jerk. What does he even know about romance and shit like that? Nothing, that’s what.

He doesn’t know how long he stays on the beach, talking to those two ladies. He flirts with them relentlessly, trying to fill that weird hole in his heart that appeared when Ford left, but it’s not really working.

Stan is on the beach towel he and Ford laid out, one woman on either side. The one on his right is giggling and tucking herself in closer to him, while the woman on his left is feeling up his muscles.

He feels numb.

Still, he tries to relax and let himself enjoy it. “Isn’t this nice, ladies? Just the three of us on the beach, gettin’ to know each other.”

Righty giggles even more. “Yes, it’s quite nice.” She sighs dreamily. “I keep thinking about how nice our special day will be.”

This makes Stan pause. “Our what now?”

“Oh, you know! Our wedding day,” She clarifies, as if she hadn’t just said something batshit insane.

Stan freezes. “Uh.”

Lefty tightens her grip. “Your wedding day? He’s supposed to be marrying me!”

“Oh, back off, Denise,” Righty snaps, clutching onto Stan painfully tight.

“Shut it, Deborah! He’s mine!”

“Ladies? Uh, you’re kinda—ow, ow, ow!”

Deborah and Denise start throwing punches at each other while Stan is still in the middle. He scrambles to his feet, staring in shock.

“Hey, are you alright?” A deep voice asks.

Stan turns to see a man, probably in his thirties. He has fluffy brown hair, brown eyes, and thick glasses on his face.

The man looks at the two women fighting. “Oh, wow. Uh, here, come with me!” he takes Stan’s hand and leads him to a more secluded area, away from the two crazy women.

“Whew, thanks, kid,” Stan says, patting the man on the back. The man blushes a cute pink, biting his lip, and oh, he’s pretty damn adorable.

“No problem,” the man says, licking his lips. Stan chuckles at the lack of subtlety.

To be honest, this is the first person out of everyone who’s hit on him that Stan is actually considering. There’s just something about him, a weird sort of familiarity that is kinda comforting. Not to mention, hot.

“Hey, you wanna get out of here?” the young man asks breathlessly.

Stan thinks about it. Part of him kinda wants to, partially because he sort of wants to rail this kid into next Tuesday, and partially out of spite because of everything that happened with Ford.

Stan’s gut churns.

Ford. He said all of that to Ford last night, and it was true. Even if Stan’s pissed at him right now, that doesn’t mean he’s gonna go back on his word. It doesn’t mean he’s going to go back on his brother.

Stan sighs. “Look, kid—”

“There he is!” a shrill voice yells.

Stan looks up and sees Denise and Deborah, looking all worn and beat up, march directly towards him.

“Uh oh,” Stan mutters.

“Which one are you gonna marry?” Denise demands, hands on her hips. “It’s me, right?”

“No! Marry me!” Deborah shouts.

“Ladies, ladies,” Stan chuckles nervously, “I—”

The man wraps an arm around him. “He’s going to marry me.”

Okay. Maybe Stan can start to see why Ford thought this was abnormal.

He carefully takes the man’s hand off him. “Uh, flattered, really! But I—I don’t even know your name. I can’t—I don’t wanna marry you.”

“Yeah, and it doesn’t even matter since he’s gonna marry me!” Deborah yells.

“Oh, shut up, Deborah! He likes me way more than you.”

“No, he doesn’t! He adores me!”

“And he likes me way more than either of you!”

The three of them keep yelling at each other, arguing over who he’s gonna marry. Stan slowly backs out of there with wide eyes. He bumps into someone behind him.

“O-oh,” Stan stutters, “Sorry, sorry.”

A man his age winks at him. “Don’t be sorry, Handsome. Say, you wanna get outta here?”

Stan blanches. Ford was right. He was totally, absolutely, completely right.

He does the only rational thing he can think of. He fucking books it back to the boat.

“You were right,” is the first thing Stan says when he gets back on the boat, his usual hesitation to admit that he was wrong about something gone like the last shred of his dignity. He sees a glance of Ford as he walks in, but immediately turns around to lock the main cabin door for any unwanted visitors. Since Stan is so popular because of this stupid fucking spell, who knows what kind of crazies they’ll get from that.

“Stanley—”

“I don’t—” Stan turns around towards Ford, chest heaving from running, feeling an embarrassment that’s deep in his bones. He puts his hands up, stopping Ford in a I don’t wanna hear it way, “Don’t tell me I told you so—I don’t know if I can handle that shit right now,” he breathes in shakily, running a hand through his hair. He refuses to look Ford in the eyes right now.

Stan’s mortified. Not because of the moral implications of everything—that shit is whatever, to be honest—but it’s the fact that all of it isn’t real. That the attention he enjoyed and loved so much was so fake, so out of the norm, so otherworldly, but Stan was none the fucking wiser.

Not for the first time in his life, he feels like a complete idiot.

But Ford knew. Ever since last night, Ford apparently suspected. And that fact fucking stings like a bitch.

That Ford was able to pick up on it—that, to Ford, Stan being wanted by someone was so outlandish that he had to suspect that something supernatural was going on.

He tries not to let on how much he’s actually hurt by everything, so naturally, he uses some humor to deflect. “Should’ve known somethin’ was up when we got free shit—no business is that nice.” He leans against the locked cabin door.

Ford stares at him from where he’s sitting before he makes a noise that’s a cross between a chuckle and a sigh. “For what it’s worth, it was quite subtle at times. Besides, those meatballs were tasty.”

A laugh escapes from Stan, covering up that sour, curdled feeling in his chest. “They were, weren’t they? Too bad we didn’t get seconds.” His smile starts to fade. He rubs the back of his neck, shifting on his feet. “I uh—sorry I didn’t listen to ya, Sixer.” He glances down at the floorboards, feeling too damn exposed to look his brother in the eye right now. “It’s been a while since that happened. I got too caught up in the feeling. I feel pretty damn stupid, now.”

He hears Ford sigh. “You’re not stupid.” Stan looks up at Ford, giving him a look of disbelief.

“Yeah, just gullible—which is worse.”

Ford’s face twists into a frown. “I can’t say I blame you.” There’s a hint of grief on his face, like he just crossed paths with a ghost. “I know what it’s like to be fooled by flattery." He gives a half-smile—a sad, brittle sort of thing. “At least yours didn’t almost bring about the end of the world.”

Stan’s heart aches for a moment, wanting to reach out to Ford. His hand twitches by his side.

“Ford—”

“Stanley,” Ford begins, glancing down before looking back at him again. “I—I’m sorry. For my callousness. I should have—I should have worded it better. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Ford stares at him with those big brown eyes in a way that makes his heart twitch inside his chest a little bit. He almost looks like a puppy here, and really, even if Stan were still mad, this would kill all the anger inside him in an instant.

“Nah,” Stan steps towards where Ford is sitting, taking the seat across from him at the little dining table they have. “You were just—you were just lookin’ out for me, and I didn’t wanna hear it.”

Ford gives him an apologetic smile. “Still. I could have gone about it a bit more…gracefully.”

Stan snorts. “You? Being graceful with your words? I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Ford gives him a flat look. “I’ve written a nationally ranked thesis—I’m plenty graceful.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “You and I both know writin’ nerd shit, and talkin’ to a real life human being are two different things.”

“I beg to differ.”

A smirk makes its way on Stan’s lips. “Then beg.”

Ford laughs softly, and it’s quiet for a moment.

“For what it’s worth, Stanley…” Ford starts, a war of sorts on his face, battling against whatever he’s thinking about saying. “Before today, there would be moments where others would look at you appreciatively, their gazes lingering. It’s been known to happen from time to time.” He gives a half smile, tilting his head down slightly. “You have more admirers than you think.”

Part of Stan wants to laugh, deflect, do literally anything else rather than take Ford’s words in—but there’s something about the way he says it that makes Stan’s heart leap outside of his chest. It’s thoughtful, sincere, and hell—it’s sweet. Stan swallows thickly.

“Thanks, Sixer. I appreciate it.” He gives a small smile, the two of them looking each other in the eyes for a moment. Ford gazes downwards for a second, tongue darting out and wetting his lips. Stan can’t stop looking for some reason, absolutely transfixed for a moment.

Stan clears his throat suddenly. “So,” Stan starts, “How the hell do we undo the spell?”

It takes a second for Ford to snap out of whatever daze he was in, but then he perks up. “Oh! Right, the spell,” he says, rising to his feet and walking towards their shared cabin. He comes back with the accursed book, setting it down on the table. Stan glares at it, even though it isn’t really…alive.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

“So,” Ford suddenly says, “I’m afraid that I…haven’t exactly figured out a way to undo the effects of the spell.” Stan groans. “Yet!” Ford clarifies, “I haven’t found a way to undo the spell yet. Need I remind you that we finally came to this conclusion today?”

Stan makes some kind of grumbling noise. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know.” He sighs, “But there ain’t like…some way to just…reverse it? Like readin’ backwards or somethin’? Or some kind of whiteout spell equivalent where it just undoes any magic?”

Ford grimaces. “I’m afraid not. Magic like this doesn’t really work like that, unfortunately. However,” Ford continues, “I’ve been doing everything I can to research this particular spell.”

Stan sighs yet again, running his hand through his hair. “Thanks. I really wish I hadn’t read the damn thing…hey, maybe if I just hide here for a while it’ll wear off?” Stan asks, the hope soaking through his words.

Ford winces a bit.

His hope crumbles to the floor. “Now, what?”

“Well, that’s part of the problem—this particular spell doesn’t naturally go away until…the goal is achieved,” Ford says gently, the same way someone might be delivering unfortunate news. “In this case, it would be you finding romantic love.”

Stan groans, taking his glasses off the rub his face with his hands. “Great. And this is affectin’ everyone?”

“Yes,” Ford answers, before hesitating. “Well, practically—from the research I’ve gathered, those who were communicating in a long-distance form, like letters, were not affected. However, everyone else that the target encountered in person acted madly in love with them, yes.”

Stan lets out a sigh of relief. At least he can call the kids, Soos, and Wendy, without worrying too much. “There’s that, I guess.”

Moses, where would he be without Ford? At least Ford’s being himself.

Wait.

“Hey,” Stan says suddenly, squinting at Ford. “You ain’t feellin’ any different, are ya?”

Ford raises an eyebrow. “No? I feel the exact way I normally feel.”

For some reason, a pit of something heavy and unpleasant settles in his stomach. “Oh.” Stan thinks about this for a moment, feeling a bit…sad?

Huh.

“I wonder why you aren’t under the spell,” Stan muses, wondering if Ford found that out yet.

For a split second, there’s a flash of something on Ford’s face. It’s so quick, so slight, that Stan thinks it might’ve been a trick of the light—or maybe it was just his imagination.

“O-oh, the answer to that is simple, really,” Ford says, pushing his glasses up his nose a bit. “It’s because we’re related—that’s why the spell didn’t work on me.”

Stan lets out a breath he wasn’t too sure he was holding—well, it’s more that he deflates with this information, the pit in his stomach getting heavier. “Oh,” he says intelligently. “That’s good,” he says, despite feeling strangely empty.

An awkward silence falls between them, the two of them not looking at each other.

“Oh, Stanley?” Ford suddenly asks. “Did you—did you happen to leave our beach supplies at—”

“Oh shit,” Stan curses, remembering. “Uh, yeah, I did. Sorry. I was too busy tryin’ to, y’know, run—”

“Of course, of course,” Ford assures him. “I completely understand. I was just wondering if someone should go back to get those back—that someone being me, of course—”

“Oh, um—I don’t mind, I can go back—”

Ford places a hand on his shoulder, giving him a bit of a look, but there’s a twitch of a smile there. “I think it’d be best if it were me. You’d have a mob following you back.”

It’s weird how some of the strange energy in the room lifts a little once Ford touches him. Stan laughs. “Right, right—yeah, you should go.”

“I’ll be right back,” Ford says, patting him with a smile. He heads his way to the main cabin door. “Keep the door locked, don’t open it for anyone else.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright, mom.”

Then Ford’s out of the door, closing it. Stan gets up out of his seat and locks the door as he was told. After he locks it, he just kinda stands there, a bit lost in thought.

Why do I feel so…weird right now? Why do I feel like I just watched the Ducktective finale for the first time?

He needs some fresh air. He opens the sliding door and goes out on the deck.

Stan breathes in the fresh, salty air of the ocean, trying to settle the storm inside his head. He walks up to the railing, leaning against it.

Honestly, the fact that Ford isn’t affected by the spell is making him feel like it’s a bit unfair—everyone else is under the spell, why should he get a free pass? And, really, out of everyone, Stan would much rather Ford act that way than some random strangers.

Then it finally hits him what that weird pit in his stomach is.

It’s disappointment.

But why would he be disappointed about this? Shouldn’t he be relieved that his brother isn’t acting in love with him? Shouldn’t he be happy that Ford isn’t affected?

Stan realizes a part of him kinda is—because he wouldn’t want Ford to suffer like that—but another part of him desperately wants to see it. He wants to see Ford smiling at him like he’s the hottest thing since sliced bread, wants to see Ford stumbling over his words and blushing furiously while he’s talking to him, wants to see him look at Stan like he hung the moon and stars, wants to see Ford flirt with him shamelessly, wants to see Ford all love struck because of him.

He’s always been desperate for approval from Ford, desperate for his attention—he guesses this isn’t so different. Right?

But, no. That’s crazy. What is he even thinking right now? He wants Ford to be under this spell and in pretend love with him? That’s insane.

I don’t want to see him like that because of a spell, Stan suddenly thinks, before ice fills his veins

Wait. What?

Stan thinks about it. He really, really thinks about it—about Ford doing all those things. He pictures Ford being a little more touchy than usual with him, a little handsy—gentle touches on his shoulder, his waist, his face. He pictures Ford blushing at him, tongue darting out as he looks at Stan like he’s something he’s wanted for the longest time. He pictures Ford laughing at some dumb, stupid joke he said, before looking at him with adoration. He pictures Ford holding him close, pressing his forehead against his as they sway to cheesy, romantic music. He pictures Ford cupping his face gently, his thumb caressing his bottom lip just before he leans in.

Stan pictures Ford being in love with him, and he wants.

Stan wants that. He wants Ford to be in love with him—but he doesn’t want it to be because of a spell.

He wants Ford to love him in actuality. He wants Ford to truly love him.

As gentle as a strike of lightning, Stan realizes that he’s in love with his brother.

He’s in love with Stanford Pines.

He stumbles back from the railing, blinking rapidly and breathing harshly. It explains so much. It explains too much—it explains pretty much everything in his life. It explains why he held onto Ford so fucking tight to the point where it was a wonder he could even breathe—and maybe that’s why Ford wanted to leave for college in the first place.

But really, how could it be any other way? Ford is—Ford is amazing. He’s smart in a way that Stan will always be in awe of, he’s dorky in a really cute way, the way he bonds with Dipper and Mabel melts his heart, the way he laughs so hard until he starts wheezing that makes Stan feel like his heart is about to burst, the way he still puffs his cheeks whenever he’s mildly upset even though he’s an old man makes him giggle, the way he helped him through his amnesia makes him so grateful, the way he’s been trying so damn hard with Stan even though he knows he’s frustrating as all hell makes him so thankful, the way Ford is just Ford makes him so happy.

Stan wants to kick himself. It seems so obvious now, especially why he was so upset earlier. He wants Ford to see him like these people do. He wants Ford to act like that—and the fact that Ford thought it was so unrealistic hurt Stan so much, but now he knows why.

He can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes him. Of course. Of course, everyone else on the fucking Earth would fall in love with him, but not the actual person he wanted.

Shit, this is such a mess. It’s wrong—he knows it’s wrong. He shouldn’t be feeling this way for his brother. Hell, even the spell knows it’s wrong.

But now that Stan has realized the truth, there’s no going back. He feels this way, and now he’s going to feel it with every fiber of his being and be aware of it.

Sure, he’s a freak—but if these feelings are what motivated him all his life, even if he didn’t know it, if these feelings are what helped him bring Ford back from the portal, if these feelings are what helped bring Ford back to him—then he’d proudly be a freak any day.

His thoughts are interrupted as he hears a knocking on the door. A bit in a daze, he goes back through the sliding door, walks to the cabin door, before pausing.

“Ford?” he asks. “Is that you?”

“Yes, please open the door.”

He unlocks the door, opening it. Ford brought everything back just like he said he would. Stan helps him carry all of it inside the boat.

“Thank you,” Ford says as they place the supplies down. Stan looks at him.

It’s weird. Everything is totally different, yet everything is totally the same. The only difference is that he’s aware now.

“Stan? Stanley?”

Ford’s voice shakes him out of it. He sees Ford frowning at him. “Is everything alright?”

Stan takes a moment to stop staring. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just—” he falters a bit. “It’s just been a long day, y’know? Maybe I should just hit the hay.”

Ford nods at him in understanding. “Go ahead. I’ll let you know if I find any more information about the spell.”

Stan smiles softly at him, although his heart aches a bit at the reminder of what he’ll never have. “Thanks.”

He makes his way to their room, and he sighs deeply. He lies down on his bed, all the events of the day swirling in his mind.

Fuck.

Life does what it always seems to do—it moves on, earth-shattering realizations be damned. A couple of days pass while Stan hunkers down on the boat, not going out at all, trying to pretend that everything is normal and business as usual.

Which. Has been pretty damn difficult.

Look, it’s not Stan’s fault—sometimes Ford just says things and Stan’s stupid, traitorous heart grabs what can and milks it for all it's worth, despite Ford not meaning it in any other way besides brotherly.

For example, the day after they finally realized what was going on, Stan asked Ford something.

“Hey,” Stan started, arching an eyebrow in curiosity. “Why did ya wanna have this spell book in the first place? Ya said you’ve been researchin’ it.”

Ford froze. “Well,” he said after a moment, scratching his chin, “I originally wanted this particular book for its other spells.”

This answered nothing. “What other spells?” A mischievous grin grew on Stan’s face. “Enchantment for hair growth?”

Stan winced when Ford hit him lightly. “Oh, please. My hair is just fine.”

“Okay…” Stan drawled. “Then what?”

Ford opened his mouth, closed it. There was a light shade of pink appearing on his cheeks. It made Stan want to kiss them.

“You had been complaining about your back pain,” Ford finally said after a long moment. “And, as you saw, there was a spell in the book meant to help with that,” he finished, glancing anywhere but Stan.

Stan’s heart skipped a beat. “Wait…you don’t mean…”

“That was the original reason why I was interested in finding that book,” Ford said.

Affection blossomed in his chest like buds on a tree in spring. The surge of love was too much, too powerful, that Stan felt like he might end up choking on it.

Ford cleared his throat. “Of course, after doing quite a bit of research about this spell book, I found out that there was a love spell. I didn’t intend on using it, obviously, but I was fascinated nonetheless.”

Stan swallowed thickly. He tried to shake himself out of it, tried to act normal. “Well, now ya get to see it up close and personal, huh? No need to thank me.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Thank you for making our lives so much more difficult,” he said flatly, sarcasm thick on his tongue.

Stan flashed his teeth in a wide smile. “You’re welcome.”

Really, as much as Stan tried to play it off, the fact that Ford mainly wanted to get the spellbook to help him warmed his heart. It wasn’t the grandest gesture in the world, but it wasn’t exactly small either. Stan found it pretty sweet.

Too bad Ford was just trying to be a good brother.

Stan tries to resist the urge to scream into the sky. He just has to ruin everything, doesn’t he? He had to fool around at the ruins, and now they’re in this mess. On top of that, this mess is what made him realize he felt more than brotherly toward his twin.

Well, he thinks, the feelings were always there; I just didn’t know what they were.

From where he’s sitting on the lounge chair on the deck, he hears movement in the main cabin.

Stan rises from his chair, sliding the door open, walking inside, and closing it. He sees Ford pouring himself a cup of coffee in his thermos.

“Hey,” Stan greets. “Any luck?” he asks, looking at Ford a little expectantly.

Ford shoots a glare at him. “The answer is the same as it was the last time you asked, Stanley, which was about thirty minutes ago.” He turns around, grabbing creamer from the fridge and adding a hefty amount to his cup. “I told you, as soon as I found out any new information, I would let you know right away.”

Stan sighs, running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly. “I just—” he pauses, trying to figure out how to say it. “I’m just gettin’ a lil stir crazy in here, y’know? I mean, how many more days do I have to hide out in here? A man needs to stretch his legs.”

And a man needs to get away from the object of his incestuous affections before he ruins everything.

Ford’s expression softens, like a marshmallow next to a bonfire. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Stanley, but these people—this spell—they’re unpredictable. The last thing I’d want to happen is for someone to hurt you.”

Deep down, Stan knows Ford is right. On the first day, people wanted to marry him—who knows what would happen the longer this spell goes on.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighs again, slumping a bit. “I guess it’s another day of fishin’ for me.”

He goes to turn back towards the deck before Ford speaks up again. "Stanley?”

“Hmm?”

“Why don’t I pick up some breakfast for us at a cafe?” Ford offers, giving him a gentle smile. “I think some good food could take your mind off of things, at least a little bit.”

Can it take away my feelings for you, too? Stan doesn’t say. Instead, he flashes a smile. “That’d be great. Thanks, Sixer.”

Ford’s smile grows in response. He closes the lid to his thermos and puts the creamer back in the fridge. “I’ll be back. The usual?”

“Yeah, extra bacon too.” A flash of Mabel appears in his mind like a warning. “…Please.”

Ford chuckles. “Alright.” He starts heading towards the door. “I’ll be back. Remember, don’t—”

“Answer the door to anyone but you,” Stan answers automatically, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the schtick by now, Sixer.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles again, putting his hands out in mock-surrender. “I’ll be back,” he says one more time, like a promise, and then he’s out the door.

Stan feels himself relax a bit once Ford is out the door. He walks up to it and locks it before sitting down in one of the cushioned chairs they have in the main cabin. He blows a raspberry of air, ready for another boring day.

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

Stan frowns. It’s around 8 am in Italy right now—out of everyone back home, who’d be up right now?

He takes his phone out of his pocket and slides the screen open. He squints at the message.

Shermie [8:09 A.M.]: Morning, Sailor! Got any plans today?

A little before Stan and Ford set sail, they knew they should try to talk to Shermie about everything regarding, well, the two of them. That Stan was alive, for starters, and that he pretended to be Ford for years, too, while he was lost in between dimensions.

It…was a lot. Dipper and Mabel were there to help provide proof (and moral support) because to anyone outside of Gravity Falls, all of that would sound batshit crazy. And while it definitely took a lot of explaining, Shermie eventually understood pretty much everything—well, the important bits at least.

Stan still remembers when Shermie, teary-eyed, tackled the two of them into a hug once it sank in that they were both really there—alive and well.

Truthfully, he was never really the closest to Shermie growing up—mostly due to the pretty large age difference, and the fact that while he was in his late teens, Shermie was already in the army. Shermie wasn’t a bad brother by any means, but Stan just never really got to see him.

Once he was kicked out, Stan didn’t see him for a long time. And the next time he did see him, he was pretending to be Ford.

Honestly, Stan’s happy that they’re able to have an actual relationship now, without Filbrick looming over their heads. It’s nice, and Stan enjoys talking with him.

It doesn’t explain why Shermie was texting him this late in his time zone, though.

Me [8:10 A.M.]: What are you doing up? Ain’t it past your bedtime?

Stan hits send. He jumps a little when his phone starts to buzz with a phone call from the man himself.

“Hello?” Stan cautiously asks, half-wondering if there’s an emergency or something.

“It’s wrong to be rude to your elders, y’know,” Shermie’s voice says on the other end, sounding amused.

“It ain’t that rude when I’m an elder myself, dumbass,” Stan replies, but there’s no real bite to it. “Everything alright? Ain’t it pretty late by ya?”

“Oh, yes, yes. Everything is fine, no need to worry,” Shermie assures him. He’s acting real weird. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Do you and Stanford have any plans today? Are you free?”

Besides the whole staying-prisoner-on-the-boat and trying to figure out how to undo the spell, Stan would say they’re pretty free. “Yeah, you could say that. Why?”

Shermie hums, an appreciative noise. “Good,” he says. Then there’s a click. The call ends.

Stan stares at his phone. What the hell?

There’s a knock on the door.

Huh. Weird-ass coincidence. “Ford?” he calls out in habit, walking to the door already to unlock it.

“Not quite,” the voice on the other side says. The same voice he just heard on the phone.

“Wh—” Stan unlocks the door without thinking, opening and seeing— “Shermie!?”

Shermie smiles widely at him, stretching his arms out. “Surprise!”

“What—where—how—” Stan’s brain tries to catch up, processing, before he just laughs and pulls his older brother in a hug. “You’re insane,” he says, still laughing. “How the hell did ya even know where we were?”

“Oh, y’know,” Shermie starts, somewhat shy, “It pays to bribe your grandchildren to find out some information sometimes.”

Stan barks out a laugh. “Don’t I know it—those kids can get some really good intel from time to time.”

Shermie grins. “Right? It’s not just me.” There’s a quiet moment, and Shermie looks at him expectantly. “Are you going to let me in?”

Stan moves to do just that, before something stops him—the spell.

Then he remembers what Ford said—the spell didn’t work on him because they’re related—and he relaxes instantly.

Stan gestures for him to come inside the cabin. Shermie follows him, and Stan shuts the door. “Sixer’s just getting us some breakfast; he should be back soon.”

“No worries,” Shermie smiles, “gives you and me some one-on-one time, huh?” he jokes, patting Stan on the arm and winking.

Stan chuckles, and the two of them sit down side by side on the comfy chairs in the middle of the cabin. “So, how have ya been? How was the journey gettin’ here, ya stalker?”

Shermie laughs. “Oh, it was fine. Long-ass flight, though. Thought this old geezer was finally gonna kick the bucket.”

Stan hums, scratching his chin. “Yeah. I haven’t been on an airplane in a long time—I don’t exactly miss it.”

They chat for a while—switching between small-talk and genuine conversation. Stan asks about California, about the kids, about their parents. It’s genuinely a nice thing to be able to catch up.

But then it starts to get…weird.

“So, what about you?” Shermie asks, shifting his body a little more toward him. “How’s it going with you and Stanford?”

Stan tries to keep his expression relatively normal. It’s going pretty well—if you ignore the spell and the fact that Stan is head over heels in love with his twin brother. Stan feels like it’d be better if he didn’t say all of that, though. “Oh, y’know. It’s been good, real good.”

“Yeah?” Shermie asks softly. He looks Stan up and down for a moment, and the vibe in the air…shifts. “You know, you look good.” He leans forward and places a hand on his leg, making Stan tense a bit. “You’ve been working out?”

Uh.

Stan moves his leg a bit to see if Shermie will take the hint and take his hand off his thigh. He doesn’t.

Stan chuckles nervously. “Who, me? Workin’ out? Have ya met me, Sherman?”

The coy look in Shermie’s eyes intensifies. He starts caressing his thumb against Stan’s thigh, moving up and down.

Okay, this definitely ain’t normal.

“Maybe you wouldn’t work out in a normal way, sure,” Shermie says, and it almost sounds like a purr. “But I can think of other ways to burn off some calories.”

There’s no mistaking it now—Shermie is flirting with him. Shermie is being affected by the spell.

Did Ford lie to me?

Maybe Ford didn’t know? Maybe he genuinely thought that the spell didn’t work on him because they were related?

But then why doesn't the spell work on Ford?

“How about it, Stanley?” Shermie says softly, checking him out and inching his hand further up his thigh, “Wanna burn some calories?”

God, this is giving him the heebie jeebies. Okay, yeah, he’s already in incestuous love with his twin brother, but that doesn’t mean he wants to get with all of his family members. Hysterically, he thinks Ford would be actually kinda happy that he’s special in that regard.

“Uh—”

The door suddenly opens, and Stan realizes he didn’t lock it. His heart drops for a moment, thinking it might be some random lady dead-set on marrying him or something.

“Stanley? Why didn’t you lock the door?” Ford’s voice calls out, sounding mildly frustrated. “I told you—”

Both Stan and Shermie look toward Ford. Ford stops when he sees Shermie, and his eyes grow wide. His gaze trails down to where Shermie’s hand is on Stan’s thigh. He stares.

Stan tries to tap into that twin-telepathy they’re supposed to have.

HELP ME. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, HELP ME, FORD.

Ford just keeps staring at Shermie’s hand.

Believe me, pal, I don’t want it there either, Stan thinks. He clears his throat.

This gets Ford’s attention. He blinks a few times. “Shermie…” he starts, voice high-pitched with the struggle of trying not to panic. “This—this is a surprise.”

Shermie hums, and when Stan glances over, he realizes Shermie was back to staring lovingly at him. He tries to suppress a shudder.

“Well,” Ford says loudly, chuckling with a nervous tinge. “I do not have breakfast for you, Shermie. Apologies. Maybe we should do this another time? Another day, perhaps? Why don’t we reschedule?”

He says it with a sense of urgency, with a sense of panic that a man who was caught doing something wrong would have.

In this moment, Stan realizes Ford knows—Ford knows Shermie is affected by the spell.

Does this mean nobody is truly immune? Does this mean that Ford has really been affected all this time but tried to bury it deep down so Stan wouldn’t notice?

Stan’s stomach sinks to the ground with the realization that Ford lied to him, but whatever—that’s not important right now. They’ll talk about it later if they can ever pry Shermie off of him.

At what Ford said, Shermie just giggles. “Oh, it’s fine, I don’t mind.” He smiles and leans just a little closer toward Stan. Stan backs up further into his chair. “I’m just happy to be here with my Stanley.”

From across the room, Stan sees Ford clench his jaw so tightly that he’s sure it hurts like a bitch. “Alright then,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’ll put your breakfast on a plate, alright, Stanley?” he asks, taking their food out of the carry-out bag.

“Uh—yeah, yeah, that’s fine,” Stan says, voice a higher pitch than usual. “Just catchin’ up with good ‘ol Shermie here—”

If it were even possible, Shermie somehow gets even more into Stan’s personal bubble, feeling up his arm and the muscles there. “Are you sure you don’t work out? I think you’d easily be able to beat me in a fight—I can see you throwing my weight around like it’s nothing.”

There’s a crash in the kitchen.

“Everything alright, Ford?” Stan asks, voice strangled.

“Yes,” Ford answers in a weird tone. “Yes, everything is…just fine.”

Shermie continues to stroke his arm up and down when an idea strikes Stan. “Hey, Sherm?” he asks gently, putting a bit of his charm into it. “Can you do me a favor, doll?”

Another loud noise from the kitchen. Stan ignores it for now.

“Yes?” Shermie asks, breathlessly.

Gross.

“There’s a little cafe by the clock tower in town—they have the best croissants. I mean, absolutely to die for. Could you be a doll and go grab me a few?”

Shermie nods vehemently, already getting up. “Of course, Stanley! I’m on it,” he promises, giggling a bit. “I’ll be back before you know it!”

Then he’s out the door, and Stan sags in relief. “Thank fuckin’ Moses,” he breathes out, putting his head in his hands.

“There’s no clock tower in town,” Ford says, frowning. He still has a nervous, jittery energy to him.

Stan raises his eyebrows, his lips twitching a bit. “Yeah. I know.”

Ford lets out a huff of laughter. “Good thinking.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll find him later.”

There’s a tense, quiet moment. Stan looks over to where Ford is standing. He’s avoiding his eyes as he fumbles with the sandwiches.

Stan slowly gets up. “So,” he starts carefully, like tiptoeing over broken glass. “Are we gonna talk about all that?”

Stan watches Ford’s throat work as he swallows. “What would you like to talk about?” he asks with the same inflection as someone with a gun to their head. He’s still paying attention to his hands as he unwraps the sandwiches—his beautiful, usually-focused hands that seem to be shaking ever so slightly right now—and continues to not look Stan in the eyes.

He walks to where Ford is standing in the kitchen, watching him tense up even more the closer he gets. He even sees Ford give him a bit of a side-eye without fully looking at him.

Stan’s seen this look before. He’s scared shitless and doesn’t want to show it.

There’s something entirely off about these last few days—the way Ford’s behavior has been weird since the very beginning, and how it stayed weird even after they found out about the spell. Ford isn’t telling him something, and Stan will be damned if he doesn’t find out what that is.

“Alright, let’s address the elephant in the room, huh?” Stan starts, trying not to spook Ford too much, but needing to know the truth. “I thought ya said relatives wouldn’t be under the spell?”

Ford pauses for a moment before he’s finally able to take the sandwiches out of their wrappers. “Yes, well, it was a hypothesis. I had no way of knowing that Sherman would be…so affected.

There’s a flash of annoyance in Stan. “Oh, bullshit, Ford! Ya weren’t surprised at all, and ya even looked guilty as hell when ya saw him here.”

Ford places the sandwiches on the plates and picks them both up, walking to the dining table. Stan follows him. “Well, imagine my surprise when I saw someone in here after I specifically told you not to let anyone in but me.”

Stan lets out a laugh of disbelief. “And imagine my surprise when my older brother, who’s supposed to be immune to this damn love spell, starts feeling me up and suggestin’ we fool around!”

Ford puts the plates down with force. “Which wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t let him in in the first place,” he hisses, finally looking at Stan with a fire in his eyes. “I gave you very specific instructions, and yet you still—”

“And you specifically told me that relatives wouldn’t start tryin’ to get with me!” Stan argues, crossing his arms. “I was operatin’ under the information you gave me from your stupid research—”

“I wouldn’t need to do this research if you hadn’t read the spell in the first place—”

“Oh, real mature, keep tossin’ the blame to me—”

“I don’t understand why you insist on an answer anyway,” Ford says sharply. “Isn’t it a good thing that I’m not under the spell?” he asks, his voice a desperate, delicate thing. “Why should we question what grace the universe has given us?”

A pang of guilt, along with hurt, hits Stan’s stomach with the force of a punch. Grace, Ford says. It’s a grace that he’s not stuck being forced to love Stan.

He pushes on, despite the ache in his chest. “It’s not about me wantin’ to know right now—it’s about the fact you lied to me!” he steps closer into Ford’s space, who instinctively takes a few steps back. Ford glances at the ground, and Stan can read the expression from a mile away.

Guilt.

“A-ha! So you did lie to me—”

“Only to protect you,” Ford hisses, an intensity behind his expression that Stan hasn’t seen in a while. “I was trying to protect you!”

Stan reels his head back a little, as if he’d been slapped. “Protect me from what?”

Ford’s expression becomes grave, a shadow of despair passing over it. He ducks his head as if he’s battling with himself internally—like he isn’t sure if he should say what he was planning to say.

There’s a moment of silence before Ford looks him right in the eyes. “The truth,” Ford says, voice deathly serious. “I was protecting you from the truth of all this.”

Stan blinks, trying to wrap his head around whatever the fuck that could possibly mean.

He must have some type of look on his face, because Ford softens a bit. “Believe me, it’s better this way, Stanley. You don’t want to know. Trust me. Now, can you please drop it?” he gestures to their sandwiches. “Let’s eat instead of arguing over something this ridiculous.”

Part of Stan almost wants to give in. Ford’s kinda right—there’s no real reason Stan needs to know why Ford isn’t under the influence of the spell—but he also doesn’t like the fact that Ford is hiding something from him.

“Let me decide if it’s ridiculous,” Stan says, stubborn as ever. “I don’t need ya to protect me from the truth, Ford—”

“Stanley—”

“No,” Stan raises his voice—not to an outright yell, they haven’t gotten there yet, but his irritation is definitely rising. “I ain’t some fragile little soul, ya shouldn’t have to lie to me because you think that’ll protect me—”

“I’m protecting myself, too!” Ford suddenly snaps, shutting Stan up.

Stan stares at him, some of his anger turning into straight-up confusion. “What is that ‘sposed to mean?”

Ford seems to catch up on what he just said. His eyes widen before he falters a bit. “I mean, us. I’m protecting us.” He explains, looking away from Stan. “I don’t want this to ruin us,” he says softly, a certain fragility to it—like the idea of something tearing them apart from each other is enough to break Ford in two.

Stan’s heart aches. Is it really that bad, whatever it is? If Ford was willing to lie to him like that, it might be.

But at the same time, they’ve been through so much together. They’ve been to hell and back and came back even stronger. Stan’s pretty sure they could work through almost anything at this point.

The only thing that could possibly break them is Stan’s feelings, but Stan is never, ever going to tell Ford.

“C’mon, it can’t be that bad,” Stan reasons, trying to be gentle again. “Is it somethin’ that’s gonna hurt my feelings?”

“I…” Ford looks down at the floor intently. “I don’t know.”

Stan thinks about what it could possibly be. “…Did you wanna be the one to try out the spell first? Did you want that attention?”

Ford’s head whips back up in shock. “What!? No, of course not!” he looks at Stan incredulously. “Do you seriously think I would want this for myself?”

Stan raises his hands in defense with a light chuckle. “Hey, hey. I’m just' guessin’ here.”

Ford scowls at him. “It wasn’t a very good one.”

“Alright, alright,” Stan concedes, but he rolls his eyes. Stan feels like there might be steam coming out of his ears from how hard he’s trying to think. “You’re so embarrassed and disgusted by the thought of me that the spell took pity on you?” he asks it in a lighter tone, but he wonders if there’s any truth to it at all.

Ford shakes his immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“What then?” he demands, reaching for the most outlandish theory as a joke, “You were already in love with me?”

He knows he’s playing it risky when he asks it rhetorically—it’s something Ford most definitely does not want to hear, and something that he wouldn’t know how to naturally respond to, which would inevitably crush Stan’s soul. As soon as he says it, he expects it, really—Ford answering him back with outrage and disgust, with a how dare you even imply that, Stanley!?

Stan does not, however, expect Ford to freeze deathly still and for his face to go very, very pale.

Stan freezes too—something like treacherous hope gripping his heart close.

No, that can’t be…

But Ford refuses to look at him at all right now. He’s staring directly at the ground, clenching his fists.

“Ford…” Stan breathes out, trying to look at Ford to see if there’s any sign, any clue that this could actually be true. “You were already in love with me?” he asks, his voice quiet in a way he hasn’t heard himself be in years.

Just like that, all the fight leaves Ford’s body—not in a good way, though. He exhales, and his shoulders slump down like he’s just been gutted.

“I’m sorry,” Ford says—no, begs. He’s still refusing to meet Stan’s eyes. “I didn’t want you to find out.”

Stan stands there speechless, absolutely shocked. He feels like his heart might beat outside of his chest with how intensely it’s pumping.

“And—and I’m sorry for lying,” Ford rushes out, finally looking at Stan, but he’s looking at him like a man pleading for his life. “But—the spell—and I knew it would be suspicious that I wasn’t affected under the spell, so I came up with a lie that sounded reasonable enough—”

“Sixer—”

“But then he came here, and I knew—I knew it was only a matter of time until you and that brilliant brain of yours finally came to the correct conclusion—”

Stan’s heart skips a beat at brilliant brain of yours. “Sixer, just—”

“And I’m sorry, Stanley, I am—” Ford says, eyes wet and voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry you had to find out. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, especially,” he shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “But I’m not sorry for loving you. Nothing could ever make me sorry for doing such a wonderful thing.”

Everything in the room is still. Stan can’t breathe.

“I know it’s wrong—I know it’s immoral and disgusting—but you—” Ford’s voice breaks, and so does Stan. “You make loving you—as wrong as it is—so incredibly easy.”

His breath hitches. “Ford—”

“I’ve felt this way for—” he laughs wetly, “who knows how long. Most likely since I was a boy. Definitely since we were teenagers.” He swallows, taking his time with his words. “Of course, after the incident with the project, I had convinced myself that it was simply a phase—a result of a messy childhood and teenage hormones pushing me right to you,” Ford explains, laughing like it was such an absurd idea, now. “That wasn’t the case. In college, you were like a missing limb—it hurt to be away from you that long, and it only became worse over time. Even when you got me back from the portal, while I was angry with you, I—I missed you more than anything,” he confesses, staring at Stan with such reverence that his emotions get stuck in his throat.

“After Weirdmageddon, I had realized how close I was to losing you, and I vowed to treat you better. To be a better brother to you.” Ford laughs humorlessly. “Although I can’t imagine I’m the prime example of a good brother when I’m in love with you.”

Stan feels like he’s been sucker punched. Here he was, in agony over realizing his feelings for Ford a couple of days ago, and yet Ford loved him all this time?

“It kills me to see you dislike yourself as much as you do—and, apologies, I’m most likely about to disgust you—but let me say this, and I promise I’ll never say anything like it again.”

“Ford, just—”

“No,” Ford says firmly, stepping into Stan’s space. Stan lets him, his breath hitching when Ford lifts his hands to hold his face. “Just—let me say this. Please.”

Stan stares at him. His heart is racing inside his chest.

“You are an incredible man, Stanley Pines,” Ford starts, voice soft like the hands on Stan’s face. “You care deeply for your family—you have done so much for us, even when you haven’t gotten much in return. Even if I didn’t love you in the way I do, I’d be able to tell you that. But you—you astound me. The way you never give up, the way you never give up on me, I—” Ford swallows thickly, searching Stan’s face. “Your stubborn determination is as charming as it is frustrating,” he chuckles weakly.

“It’s more than that. You’ve been there for me all of my life, even when I was angry with you. Losing you left a void in my life that I searched desperately to fill, but to no avail. Even Bill, who had come the closest to being your replacement, could never truly replace you. I know that now.”

“You’ve said before that nobody wants you—that you aren’t used to feeling wanted,” Ford says. “And you had no idea how hard it was to refrain from kissing you, from telling you how wanted you truly are, because I do, Stanley,” he whispers, looking at Stan in a way he’s never looked at him before. “I always have, and I always will.”

In this moment, Stan realizes, no, he has seen traces of this look from Ford before—he just hadn’t seen it in its entirety. Ford has finally decided to stop hiding it, to stop keeping it contained.

There’s a tense moment where Stan finds he can’t move—he can’t speak. He’s only realized he loved Ford a few days ago, yet he knows now that this is everything he’s ever wanted to hear from his brother. He’s feeling so much adoration and affection that he feels like he might pass out.

“Ford,” he begs.

What he’s exactly begging for, Stan isn’t too sure.

Whatever possessed Ford to be this raw and open with him seems to vanish. Ford blinks a few times, letting go of his face as if he’s been burned. “Of course, I understand—you don’t want that, and the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable—”

“Ford, let me—”

“Really, I—I apologize sincerely, I overstepped your boundaries and, while I’m pleased that you know how much I truly care for you, I didn’t consider how disgusting that must be for—”

Stan interrupts him by pulling him into a bruising kiss. Ford makes a muffled noise of surprise.

Their glasses clink together. There’s a hint of teeth. It’s awkward, messy, and maybe a little painful.

And yet, it’s the best damn kiss Stan’s ever had, because it’s with Ford.

Ford shivers into the kiss, adjusts the angle, and oh.

Stan moans when Ford swipes his tongue over his bottom lip relentlessly—something he might find a bit annoying if it were any other partner—but it just shows him how much Ford has wanted this, has needed this.

Stan opens his mouth, deepening the kiss and letting Ford in, shuddering pleasantly at the resounding moan he hears from him. Ford grabs him by the waist and tries to pull him closer, causing them both to stumble into each other.

Eventually, they need to breathe, and they pull apart from each other. Ford looks at him in awe before his gaze flicks to his lips, back to him. “You…you also…?”

“Honestly, I only realized a few days ago,” Stan answers, feeling a little embarrassed that it took him this long. “Don’t get me wrong, the feelings were always there. I just didn’t get my head outta my ass until I realized how badly I wanted to see you under the spell.”

Ford stares at him for a moment before letting out a breathy laugh. He tightens his grip on Stan’s waist, pulling him even closer, if it were even possible at this point. “I don’t need a magic spell to be captivated by you,” he murmurs, his lips nearly touching Stan’s.

Fuck, he loves this loser. “You’re a fuckin’ nerd,” is all he says before he kisses Ford again, and again, and again. He realizes at this moment that all of this agony he was in for these past few days—the self-made torture labyrinth in his head, filled with thoughts that this would never, ever happen—was nothing but a piece of pure fiction.

They’re here now. It took them God knows how many years to get here, but they’re here, damn it. And now Stan has Ford, he’s never going to let him go.

Stan deepens their kisses, grabbing handfuls of Ford’s ass and relishing the sharp intake of breath he hears when they pull apart. “Stan—Stanley—”

“Shh,” Stan coos, thinking about how this must be for Ford. Ford—wonderful, amazing, patient Ford who’s felt this way for so fucking long. He brings his hands to cup Ford’s face, caressing his cheeks with his thumbs. “I’m sorry it took me so long. I love you—I don’t want anyone else, I just want you.”

The look on Ford’s face goes from awestruck to ravenous. His eyes darken, and he pushes Stan against the nearest wall. “You have me,” Ford promises, voice in a low murmur. He starts pressing kisses on Stan’s face, trailing down to his cheek, his jaw, until he starts kissing Stan’s throat. “And now I have you.”

Stan moans as Ford nips at his neck before soothing it with his tongue, knowing there’s gonna be a mark there. He shivers, realizing how much he likes that—how much he likes being Ford’s. He starts to think about how Ford acted when other people seemed interested in him, and something tells him Ford likes it just as much.

“You’ve got a possessive streak, huh?” Stan asks, before moaning at the kisses and licks on his throat. “Ya like me being yours? Ya like being the only one to touch me like this?” Ford groans in response, positioning his leg to grind against Stan’s crotch. Stan shudders.

“Fuck, Ford—” Stan breathes out, letting himself get lost in the sensation of it all, in the fact that his brother is making him feel this good. “There was a guy down there, in his thirties, and I was thinking about fucking him brainless—” he lets out a whine when Ford bites down a bit harder at that, enjoying the sting along with Ford wanting him this much, “and I didn’t realize until now that he fuckin’—he fuckin’ looked like ya.”

The animalistic growl that escapes Ford makes his cock twitch. Ford pulls back, staring at his throat, looking over his handiwork. Then his gaze trails to Stan and to his lips. He lifts his hand, placing it on Stan’s cheek as he swipes Stan’s bottom lip with his thumb, stroking it gently.

“Your lips are incredibly swollen and red from kissing—from kissing me,” Ford says, his voice like molten lava. He says it like he’s still in disbelief, like he’s still wrapping his mind over the fact that this is actually happening. “I’ve pictured this so many times. I’ve dreamt of this so many times,” he confesses, like a man at the altar. He stares at Stan like he’s something worth savoring, something worth worshiping—and Stan can’t get enough of it. “And yet, none of those dreams measured up to the real thing.”

Ford’s thumb catches on the inside of his lip, and Stan takes his chance to take it in his mouth and suck on it, closing his eyes with a hum. He hears Ford’s breath hitch.

“Such a good boy,” Ford whispers, sending an electric thrill up Stan’s spine. He continues sucking and licking, toying with Ford’s thumb with his tongue.

Stan opens his eyes again, only to see Ford look at him with dark, half-lidded eyes. Ford looks at him with a ravenous hunger he’s never seen from his brother before—and the fact that he’s the only one fills Stan with a giddy anticipation.

“So good for me,” Ford says quietly, practically purring—before he takes his thumb out of Stan’s mouth. Stan can’t help the little whine that escapes him, mourning the loss, but then Ford takes two of his fingers and puts them right into his mouth as if they belong there.

Stan takes them in stride, moaning as he sucks and sucks, swirling his tongue around them. “My baby brother,” Ford whispers reverently, voice tinged with awe and lust. “My beautiful, perfect baby brother.”

Fuck, that’s hot.

Stan takes Ford’s fingers even deeper into his mouth, keeping eye contact with Ford as he does. Ford inhales sharply before he takes his fingers out of Stan’s mouth, a string of saliva connecting them. Ford kisses him hungrily, a new wave of want rushing into Stan.

“Stanley, I—” Ford gasps out, his breath hot on Stan’s mouth. “I need you. I need to be inside of you, please, please—”

Stan shudders, resting his forehead against Ford’s. “Fuck, Ford. Ya wanna fuck me? Ya wanna fill me up?”

“Please,” Ford begs, like he might die if he doesn’t get it. “Please, Stanley, please—I need it, I need you—”

Stan nods, too horny and cock-hungry to make fun of his brother’s neediness right now. “Bedroom,” he murmurs, like a promise. A promise to Ford to take him, a promise to Ford that he belongs to him.

They can’t get there fast enough, stumbling through the hallway, interrupting their path with kisses. When they finally get there, Ford immediately starts taking Stan’s clothes off, practically ripping them off of him.

“Off, off,” Ford says in a rush in between kisses, “I need to see you, I need to feel you.”

Stan starts grabbing at Ford, too, trying to yank his clothes off. “Need to see ya, too. Fuck, Ford—”

Their lips crash into each other again and again, and Stan already finds he’s half-hard, which is quite the feat at his age. It’s crazy to think that days ago, he had no idea what his true feelings were—that he had no idea in just a few more days, he’d be panting at the thought of Ford fucking him senseless.

When they’re both finally naked, clothes scattered on the floor, Stan’s gaze lingers on Ford. He sees all his scars, all his tattoos, just his damn beautiful body in general, and Stan wants.

He realizes Ford is staring at him, too, and he strangles the urge to hide himself. He tries to laugh it off. “I know I ain’t much, but—”

Ford doesn’t let him finish. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve imagined this?” Ford asks, stepping closer to Stan, looking at him like he might eat him up. “You’re beautiful, Stanley.”

And the way Ford says it, the way it’s filled with pure, absolute desire and want, makes Stan’s knees go a bit weak. He wants to protest, wants to deny that he’s—beautiful—but the words die on his tongue when Ford crashes into him with a heated kiss, before pushing him onto Stan’s bed.

“I’m going to make you mine,” Ford growls, in between kisses, making Stan’s cock throb. “I’ll make sure everyone knows you belong to me, your brother, your twin—”

Stan moans when Ford grinds down on him, both at the friction and his delicious, delicious words. “Just yours,” Stan promises. “Only yours, Ford. Do ya have lube?”

Ford stops, a pink tinge appearing on his cheeks. “Ah…yes, I do, actually. One moment.” He gets off of Stan, walking to his side of the cabin, and grabs lube from one of his drawers.

Stan’s jaw drops. “How—how the hell did I not know about this? Where did ya even find the time?”

Ford blushes even harder, glancing away. “You’re…you’re quite the heavy sleeper.”

The idea that Ford was getting himself off while Stan was sleeping just five feet away from him sets his insides ablaze with desire.

“Yeah?” Stan hums as Ford returns with the bottle. “And what were ya thinkin’ about?”

Ford gives him a flat look. “What do you think, Stanley?”

Stan hums again, not impressed. “I want details, wise guy. I know you were probably thinkin’ about fuckin’ me, but how? Fuckin’ me like this, fuckin’ my mouth, fuckin’ me in my sleep—?”

Ford makes a choked noise at that.

Stan grins. “We can try that later.”

Ford swallows. “I…is all of the above an option? Really, throughout the years, it’s been practically anything and everything, as long as it was with you. And, I do have this one fantasy where—” he stops himself abruptly, eyes widening. “Never mind.”

Stan smiles wolfishly. “Nuh-uh—ya wanna fuck me? Tell me what that fantasy of yours is.”

Ford’s face darkens from pink to a crimson red. He shakes his head. “It’s quite absurd, really—”

“Ford,” Stan says seriously, reaching to grab his wrist. “I ain’t gonna judge ya.”

Ford looks at him for a long moment before sighing. “I do…have this one fantasy where…I know it’s not physically possible, but…” he trails off, before looking Stan right in the eyes. “I impregnate you.”

Stan inhales a sharp breath, and his cock twitches. Ford’s eyes flick down.

“Oh,” Ford breathes out. “You…you like it? The idea of it?”

Stan doesn’t even feel ashamed; he just nods, licking his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I do,” he whispers, feeling needier than he ever has before. “I like the idea of you fillin’ me up like that,” he confesses, licking his lips. It’s not anything he’s thought about until now, but fuck—the idea of it, the idea of his stomach all swollen because Ford just couldn’t resist him, wanted him so bad that he bred him—is too damn good.

He looks into Ford’s eyes, giving him a look that’s almost daring him to do it. “Do it, Ford. Knock your baby brother up, fuck—”

“You’re perfect,” Ford murmurs, springing into action as he spreads Stan’s legs apart. “Look at you,” he presses his thumb against his hole, not pressing inside yet. “Made just for me. You’re gorgeous, Stanley.”

Stan feels his body burn—with desire or embarrassment, he doesn’t know. “Just—just get on with it.”

Ford opens the bottle of lube, squirting some onto his fingers and slicking them up. He moves his hand, pressing one finger into Stan’s hole. “Easy,” Ford says quietly as he opens him up, making Stan’s breath hitch. It’s been a while.

Ford whispers sweet nothings as he preps Stan, saying how beautiful he is, how gorgeous, how he can’t wait to fill him up. He adds another finger, working two into him, and finds Stan’s prostate.

“Fuck!” Stan gasps out, cock jumping. "Ford, shit, please, just—”

Ford shakes his head, smirking. “You’re ready when I say you’re ready,” he says, pressing against Stan’s prostate again, making him moan Ford’s name loudly. “I wish you could see what I see,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to one of Stan’s knees as he continues to finger Stan. “A gorgeous, wonderful, beautiful man falling apart right before my very eyes.” He adds another finger in, making Stan groan. He continues to fuck Stan with his fingers, and he brings his other hand to Stan’s stomach.

“I can’t wait to see you swell up with our child,” Ford continues, his fingers continuously brushing up against Stan’s prostate, making Stan keen and whimper. “I won’t stop until you’re completely filled with my seed—until there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that you’re pregnant with my child.”

There are tears in the corner of Stan’s eyes from just how overwhelmed he is already. “Ford—Ford—please fuck me already, please—” he babbles, turning into a desperate mess. “Need ya to fill me up, I want it, I want it—”

“Shh,” Ford shushes him, withdrawing his fingers from Stan, making him whine from the loss. “I’ll take care of you, Stanley. My Stanley,” he says, the words tinged with wonder. He slicks his hard cock with lube, pressing the tip against Stan’s hole. “My Stanley,” he repeats. “Mine, nobody else.”

“Then make me yours,” Stan begs, impatient, trying to grind down where Ford’s dick is pressed against him.

Ford lets out an animalistic noise and starts to push in slowly. Stan gasps at the stretch, at the feeling of his brother’s cock filling him up, and fuck, the fact that it’s Ford—that it’s his brother, his twin—filling him up makes him want to come right then and there.

“Stan, Stan, Stanley—” Ford moans as he continues to enter Stan, leaning down and pressing kisses to his mouth, jaw, and neck. “You feel—fuck, Stan,” he whimpers into Stan’s shoulder.

Once Ford is fully inside, he stills, breathing heavily already. “Are you—”

“Ford,” Stan grits out, “Move.”

Ford shudders and starts to rock his hips slowly into him. “So tight—so perfect—I can’t—I’ve waited—” he lets out a noise close to a sob in between his babbling. “I can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

Stan moans, “I’m yours, I’m yours, Ford, c’mon, make me yours—”

Ford increases the pace, letting out a snarl. Stan makes these wounded little noises every time Ford hits his prostate, his cock twitching whenever he does. This just seems to spur Ford on even more, snapping his hips into Stan ruthlessly. “Mine, mine, mine—” Ford pants, “Won’t stop until everyone knows, won’t stop until you’re pregnant, stuffed full with my cum—”

“Fuck—the mouth on ya, holy shit—Ford, Ford—”

“I’ll tie you up to the bed and keep filling you with my seed until it takes,” Ford rambles like a madman, continuing his brutal pace, fucking Stan into the mattress. “I don’t care that it’s not possible, I’ll keep going, keep coming inside of you repeatedly, I’ll try again, and again, and again—”

The thought of that—the thought of Ford stopping at nothing to get him pregnant, biology be damned, makes him whine. “I want that so bad—I want it so bad, Ford, please—please, touch me, please—”

Ford wraps his hand around Stan’s leaking, aching cock and starts pumping his hand. “My beautiful Stanley, the beautiful mother to our children—” Stan wails. “I’ll make sure you’re pregnant all of the time—that’s what you’re made for—to be mine, to carry my children—”

“Ford, Ford, Ford—” Stan sobs in pleasure, unable to say or think of anything else for a moment. “I’m close, I’m gonna—I’m gonna—”

“Stanley, please—” Ford begs, eyes looking directly at him like a starving man. “I need to see it, I need to see my baby brother come on my cock—come for me, Stanley—my beautiful, wonderful, gorgeous little brother—I love you, I love you—”

Stan comes with a cry of Ford’s name, his cum splashing on his chest and both of their stomachs. Ford continues to pump his fist, trying to get every last drop out of Stan. “Beautiful, absolutely beautiful, fuck, Stanley—”

“Come inside me, Ford, I wanna feel it, fuckin’ do it, fuckin’ breed me—”

Ford thrusts once, twice, until he fully buries himself inside Stan and comes inside him. Stan moans at the warmth pooling inside him, at the feeling of Ford filling him up with his cum.

Ford rocks his hips a little in the aftershocks, moaning as he comes down from his high. He finally stops, leaning down to capture Stan in a kiss.

Stan kisses back, nice and slow. Ford pulls back a bit, and they just stare at each other for a moment.

“Holy shit,” Stan says.

Ford hums, smiling. “I agree with that sentiment.”

A laugh escapes from Stan. “You’re such a dork.” He tries to shift a bit, realizing Ford is still inside of him. “Hey, mind gettin’ outta me? I’m gonna start chargin’ ya rent.”

“Hmm?” Ford blinks at him, in what seems to be a happy daze. The words catch up to him, and he looks down, eyes widening. “Oh! Right, right, of course.”

Ford slips out of him, eyes darkening a little as he watches some of his cum drip out of Stan. “What a sight,” Ford murmurs, absolutely transfixed.

Stan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “What a fuckin’ horndog ya are. I had no clue,” Stan laughs. “Tying me up and fuckin’ me until there’s no doubt in your mind that I’m pregnant? Damn, Sixer!”

Ford’s face turns a bright red. “Ah. I may have gotten a bit carried away there…” he says, embarrassed, as he lies down next to Stan.

“Are ya kiddin’? That was great—I had no clue ya had it in ya, honestly.”

“Well,” Ford muses, holding Stan even closer to him, “I suppose I’ve had such a long time to think about it—I’ve fantasized about it quite a lot.”

Stan’s smile flickers a bit. “Ah, yeah—I’m sorry I…I’m sorry it took me this long, Six,” he says quietly, feeling horrible that Ford was waiting for him all this time. “I can’t believe out of everything, it took a spell for me to realize I wanted you as bad as I do.”

Ford looks at him like he has three heads. “Are you serious? Stanley, I never in my life imagined you would feel the same way about me as I do you—please do not apologize to me.”

Stan raises a brow in disbelief. “Ya really don’t care that we only got this as old men?”

“No, I don’t.” Stan relaxes a bit, and Ford softens. “Better late than never, as they say—and I would never have wanted to rush you into something you weren’t ready for. I will simply have to cherish our time together, now.” He says, like it’s a matter of fact.

Stan smiles softly at him. “You’re such a romantic, ya know that?”

Ford smiles back at him, pressing his lips to his cheek. “Only for you.”

They lie like that together, basking in the afterglow for a bit. A thought occurs to Stan.

“So, does this mean the spell is…complete?” Stan asks, tilting his head a little. “Y’know, since I found my love or whatever cheesy crap it was.”

Ford hums, frowning in thought. “Honestly, I would assume so? Theoretically, everyone should go back to normal by now.” A pause. “Including Shermie.”

Stan winces. “I almost forgot about him. I guess I should make sure he didn’t get kidnapped or somethin’ huh?”

There’s a knock on the boat’s door. They both freeze.

“Um…” Shermie’s voice is muffled from the other side of the door. “Hi. I got your croissant, or whatever it was.” There’s a beat of silence. “Any chance we could all collectively forget about this?”