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In the middle of the night, Stanley woke up with a dry mouth.

He rolled his tongue around between his teeth, wincing at the achy, sore feeling starting at the roof of his mouth and traveling down his throat. He tried swallowing, hoping to wash away that feeling, but that hurt too , dragging against the burning in his throat.

Letting out a tiny groan, Stanley briefly contemplated going to get his parents. But he discarded the idea almost as soon as it came to him - he was supposed to be a big boy now, and big boys don’t go crying to their parents about sore throats. He remembered what his Pa was always telling him - “Men don’t ask for help. You need to help yourself.”

He even thought about waking up Sixer, but tossed that idea out too. Waking up Sixer without alerting their parents would mean crawling up to the top bunk, and just the thought of going up so high sent Stanley’s stomach rolling in fear. Nope. No way.

So instead of telling anyone, or doing anything at all, Stanley rolled back over, pulled up his blankets, ducked his head, and did his best to ignore the feeling in his throat until he fell asleep.

𓆟

In the early morning, their Ma left.

Hair all done, luggage under one arm and a patterned scarf tied around her head and under her chin, with sunglasses perched on her nose - she looked like something right out of one of those travel magazines from the library. Like she was going on a windswept vacation to some beach somewhere, and not a funeral in some faraway, unpronounceable town.

Stanley rubbed his eyes. He had woken up with a headache throbbing underneath his skin, and the sunlight and activity was turning it from a patter to a drum against his skull. He wanted nothing more than to go back inside, but he had to be out here, to wish Ma goodbye and good trip.

At least Ma could carry her luggage all on her own - she was strong like that. Pa was relegated to hanging back with his arms crossed, frowning at all the frivolous, impractical things, like Ma’s carefully packaged presents, and the Independence day decorations on the shop two doors down, and the pink of the sunrise peeking over the sea waves. Frivolous, he’d say - absolutely frivolous.

Car sagging underneath all of her luggage, Caryn turned to the boys, manicured hands falling to their natural resting spot - hands on her hips, bony shoulders tilting in strangely as she ducked her head to look down at Stanley and Stanford. 

“You two,” she sighed, in that croaky Jersey accent of hers, face twisting into a signature, crooked smile. “What am I gonna do wit’ out my little boys to keep me entertained, huh?”

“You could take us with you,” Stanford said immediately, not for the first time.

“We could fit in yer suitcase,” Stanley agreed, voice feeling strange coming out of his throat. “The airplane people will never know we’re there. It’d be a free ride.”

“And we’d be on our best behavior the whole time,” Stanford added. “We wouldn’t run around or break anything.”

They exchanged glances. They’d miss their Ma, of course, but they were big boys, five whole years old and independent too. They hadn’t needed their Ma to make their breakfasts or give them baths since they were babies. They could take care of themselves, and each other. And their Ma would be back soon.

But the adventure of it all enticed them greatly. Stanford had read all about the sort of folklore in Eastern Europe, and he’d relayed it all to Stanley. The rusalka, Leshy, Baba Yaga - they were all so cool !

“If only,” Ma hummed, though her voice wasn’t very remorseful. She reached a hand down, fluffing Stanford’s curls. “You boys be good fer’ your Pa, you hear? Don’t get into no trouble. At least,” her smile widened, and her eyes sparkled behind her sunglasses, leaning in like she was sharing a secret, “None you can’t get out of.”

“I can get out of anything,” Stanley said, a little miffed at the implication that there was evidence to the contrary. “An’ I’d never get caught doin’ nothing neither.”

“We’ll be good,” Stanford said. “Just- are you sure we can’t come with?” He batted his eyes in what he probably thought looked very pleading and puppy-like, but really only made him look a bit ridiculous. 

Ma snorted a little. “What are we, made outta money? Plane tickets are expensive, hun. ‘sides, I don’t think it’d be as interesting as you think it would be. There’s not much left over there anymore.”

“We could find old World War Two bombs,” Stanford pointed out, “Or explore the woods in search of anom- anoma- anom-a-lies !”

Stanley made an appreciative noise. Bombs were so cool.

“Boys,” Pa interjected, voice gruff, “Quite buggin’ your Ma. She has a plane to catch, she doesn’t have time for this.”

Both boys deflated. Shame wormed at Stanley gut - don’t be a dumb kid, don’t waste time, don’t embarrass Ma and Pa.

Ma glanced up at Pa, sending him a soft, knowing smile. “Aw, hun, don’t be too hard on them. You know they mean well.” She glanced at Stanley, winking. “Most of the time.”

Stanley smiled shyly, brightening a bit.

Pa just grunted. Ma blew him a kiss, before her eyes went back down to Stanley and Stanford, gaze going all soft and fond. Bending down to a squat, she kissed both of them on their heads, causing Stanley to squirm and Stanford to get red in the face.

“I’ll be back before you know it. And maybe I’ll bring you both back a little trinket or treasure, hm?” She chuckled lightly, giving them both one last parting pat on the head before she stood, moving to the family car.

For the briefest second, Stanley wondered if he should say anything. He swallowed again, instinctively trying to ease the burning of his throat, then winced at the drag of pain that caused. His pulse beat against his skull, and it made him almost woozy.

But then Ma was getting in the front seat, turning back to wave goodbye, and the words got stuck in his aching throat. He limply raised a hand, waving with Stanford.

“I’ll see you in two weeks!” Ma  called. “Bye now!”

“Farewell!” Stanford called. “Stay safe!”

“Don’t dawdle, time is money,” Pa said.

“Bye,” Stanley said softly. Raising his voice sounded painful.

The car sputtered and coughed to a start, hacking up black smoke from the exhaust, before peeling away in a puff. Stanley watched it till it disappeared, turning around a corner and vanishing from view.

The click of footsteps alerted Stanley to Pa going back inside, no doubt to open shop for the day, but Stanley didn’t follow. He stared at the spot the car had been in for a moment, not wanting to move - his legs kinda hurt.

A moment passed in quiet. Stanley didn’t hear Stanford go inside either, waiting by his side. They stood there for a moment, locked in the corner of silence. 

Then Stanford turned to him, and Stanley was dimly surprised to see concern swimming in his brother’s eyes when he looked at him. “Are you okay? You’ve been kinda quiet.”

Part of Stanley cooed happily at his brother noticing. It meant Stanford cared, Stanford was paying attention.

Another part of him winced. Was he really that obvious?

Be tough.

He smiled faintly, trying to be comforting. Convincing. “M’ alright. Just woke up feelin’ funny.”

Stanford looked at him consideringly, before shrugging, evidently deciding to drop it. “Okay.” A smile fluttered onto his face, looking at Stanley with that warm, eager look he gave him every morning. “So, what are we going to do today?”

𓆟

“Stanley are you sure you’re okay?” Stanford asked, standing over Stanley. His shadow blanketed Stanley’s over-warm body, providing a welcome balm from the heat of the sun and summer, which was getting to Stanley more than usual today. “You’re still acting weird.”

“I’m fine, I toldja I’m fine.” Stanley grumbled, not looking up from where he was sitting on a rock, letting the waves lap gently at his feet. They were cool, nice and chill to the touch. “Just have a sore throat, s’all.”

“Let me take a look?” Stanford tilted his head thoughtfully, hand drifting towards his pocket. 

Stanley leveled him with a flat stare, the headache putting him in no mood for any of this. Even still, he obediently twisted so that he was sitting facing his brother, and dropped his mouth open wide.

Stanford fumbled to pull his little explorer’s flashlight out from his pocket, clicking it on and shining the dull light down Stanley’s throat.

Immediately Stanford’s curiously, politely worried face turned into one of outright concern, startled and a bit scared in a way that made Stanley’s own stomach squirm a little in second-hand fear that he quickly stamped back down.

Stanford leaned forward, getting a hand on Stanley’s jaw to twist him this way and that. “Stanley this looks awful!”

Stanley couldn’t exactly reply like this, with Stanford’s thumb holding his mouth open, so he settled for letting out an exasperated sigh through his nose.

“No, I mean this is actually really bad,” Stanford said nervously, wide brown eyes going all scaredy-cat like. “You have all these red spots on the top of your mouth, going all the way down your throat. And your tonsils are practically solid red!”

Stanley furrowed his brow. He’d heard the word ‘tonsil’ before, but he had no idea what they actually were, and what they did. And weren’t mouths always red on the inside?

Releasing Stanley’s jaw, Stanford put his little flashlight away and pressed the back of his palm to Stanley’s forehead. “I can’t tell if you have a fever or not,” he said anxiously. “I mean, you feel kinda warm, but that could just be your natural body heat, plus all the sun…”

Mouth now free, Stanley snapped it closed, swallowing a couple times to try and help with the aching, sandpaper-like feeling in his mouth. Then he remembered, quite painfully, why he’d been trying to avoid swallowing.

“Geez, Sixer, I’m fine,” Stanley croaked out, wincing at how his voice felt like needles dragging against his throat. “It’s not that bad, honest.”

“Don’t lie!” Stanford hissed, clearly distressed. So much for reassuring him. Stanley’s attempts at easing his brother’s worry only seemed to stoke the fire, and guilt writhed like a living thing in Stanley’s gut, making him flatten his lips into a thin line and look down, feeling strangely chastised. 

“Mrghm,” Stanley grumbled apologetically. 

Stanford pressed, “What are your symptoms? How are you feeling?”

“Throat hurts. Hurts when I swallow too. And, uh, my head hurts, and I just… feel bad.”

“You feel ‘bad’? How so?”

“I dunno! I just feel bad.  I feel gross.”

Stanford’s expression was openly uneasy, and now he was making Stanley nervous too. Was he about to die or something? “That doesn’t sound good,” Stanford said fretfully. “You’re not coughing at all though? Your nose isn’t running - you don't feel nauseous?”

Stanley shook his head, and was relieved to see some of the fear relax from Stanford’s face at the motion. “Nah, just hurts. S’ really uncomfortable.”

A thoughtful, almost determined look took a stand on Stanford’s face - he looked a picture of stubborn conviction. “Okay, you might be sick. But don’t worry! I’ll make you better!”

Hope fluttered in an odd mix with doubt in Stanley’s chest. He really didn’t like feeling like this, and if Sixer said he could fix this, then Stanley was all ears. But how could he? How would he? Stanley sure didn’t know anything.

But this was Stanford. Stanley trusted him. “Ya really think so?”

Stanford nodded resolutely. “Yes. I’ve read all about medicine, I’m sure it can’t be that hard to treat your ailment myself. I’ll be like your doctor. Doctor Pines!”

That sounded... not super trustworthy. But this was Sixer. Sixer was really smart, and Stanley trusted him. If Stanford thought he could do it, then surely that meant that could do it.

“Okay,” Stanley said, voice hoarse but still filled with hope. “What are you thinkin’?”

𓆟

“Sixer, Sixer,” Stanley wheezed, so woozy he felt like he was gonna topple over, “can I take a break now? Please?”

The treatment plan Stanford had drafted up had Stanley running laps around the beach, goin’ ‘round and ‘round and back again, all in hopes of sweating out whatever bacteria or virus was making Stanley sick. 

It certainly didn’t feel like it was helping. The pain in Stanley’s head had him almost doubling over, like his skull was cracking open underneath his skin, like there was a heavy pressure pressing unrelentingly against his head, behind his eyes.

The rest of his body had started hurting too, achy limbs and joints protesting louder and louder the more he ran and exercised. He sure was sweating, at least - and just a few laps (which was usually so easy for him, energetic as he was) had him ready to drop.

Stanford gave him a doubtful look from atop his perch on a rock nearby, where he’d been steadfastly watching over Stanley’s exercise. “You’ve barely done any laps at all, Stanley. We’re going to have to be thorough if we want to flush out your sickness.”

Stanley groaned, dragging his feet as he trudged over to Stanford’s rock, slumping against it. The surface of the rock felt so cool and nice against his sweaty, overheated body, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse there and fall asleep.

But at the same time his throat felt so dry, and it burned, screaming at him every time he tried to swallow. He felt the smallest prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes.

It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to feel like this. It sucked.

“I’m thirsty, doc,” Stanley said instead, because he was a big boy and big boys didn’t cry about not feeling well.

Stanford blinked, straightening like he’d just remembered drinking was a thing people needed to do. “Right, of course! Hydration is vital to recovery.” He slid down the side of the rock, landing easily in the sand. “Come on, Stanley. Let’s go get some orange juice.”

“Orange juice?” Normally Stanley loved orange juice. Right now, though, just the thought made his throat throb and sting. “Can’t I just have some water?”

“Orange juice is very good for you,” Stanford told him. “It’s incredibly healthy, with all sorts of beneficial vitamins. I’m sure it will help with your recovery!”

Stanford beamed at him, so happy to be helping, and Stanley couldn’t argue with that. Stanford usually knew best, after all - he was the booksmart one, and Stanley was the personality , as Ma said. If Stanley listened to anyone, he listened to Stanford - that was always true.

Stanford always knew best.

𓆟

Stanley went to bed feeling worse than he did when woke up in the morning.

His throat burned, that sandpaper feeling near overwhelming. Every time he swallowed it hurt. Especially after he’d drank all that orange juice Stanford gave him - It had felt like acid boiling his throat as it went down, he swore he could hear the sizzling.

“You’ll feel better in no time, I’m certain of it,” Stanford told him. Part of Stanley wasn’t so sure, but a larger part of him felt relieved about how sure Stanford sounded. Stanford said he would be better soon, and he sounded like he believed it, so it had to be true.

Stanley made a vague grumbling sound in acknowledgement, crawling into his nice bed with cool sheets and collapsing there.

Everything hurt. His throat, his head, his whole body throbbed and ached. He pushed his face into his pillow, trying to bite back the sting of tears returning. It wasn’t fair.

Then something ran through his hair, petting him comfortingly. Stanley sighed at the pleasantness of it, peeking an eye out.

Stanford stood at his bedside, one elbow on the mattress to hold himself up, the other hand carding through Stanley’s hair comfortingly. Stanley smiled sleepily, sinking into the melting feeling in his chest, the pleasant warmth that suffused into his blood with his brother so close by.

“Don’t worry,” Stanford reassured him, “You’ll be better before you know it. You’ve got me taking care of you, so don’t worry, okay?”

“Wasn’t about to,” Stanley mumbled into the pillow, sinking into bed. Everything still hurt, his throat still burned, but the comforting, repetitive motion of Stanford’s hand running through his hair pulled on him towards the tide, gently lulling, tugging him into sleep.

“Me and you, right?” Stanford said softly. “I take care of you, and you take care of me.”

“Yeah,” Stanley agreed, breathing out. He blinked sluggishly, sinking deeper and deeper into slumber.

There was a moment of quiet.

“Are you falling asleep?” Stanford whispered, inadvertently pulling Stanley a little further away from unconsciousness. 

“Uh-huh,” Stanley said into his pillow. 

“Oh, okay. Goodnight, Stanley.” Stanford’s voice was steady and warm, and his hand didn’t leave Stanley’s hair. 

“G’night, Sixer,” Stanley said, and moments later he was asleep and breathing steadily in bed.

𓆟

Stanley didn’t feel any better in the morning, or the morning after that.

𓆟

Stanford sat on the beach, waiting as Stanley stumbled over to him, panting and sweating after another round of laps. With an encouraging smile, Sixer lifted up their adventurer’s canteen towards him, and Stanley took it wordlessly. He popped open the top and chugged it, fighting to not reflexively spit it all out when it inevitably burned his throat.

Handing the canteen back, Stanley flopped down onto the sand next to his brother. The jagged edges of glass in the sand dug into him, but he only groaned, long and drawn out. “I don’t think this is workin’, Sixer.”

Stanford frowned worriedly down at him. “You’ve only been getting worse these past couple days. I don’t want to risk anything.”

Stanley felt like crying again. None of this was fair, he didn’t want any of this. He was tired and everything hurt, he didn’t want to run laps or do jumping jacks. He just wanted to lay down.

Stanford nudged his shoulder. “C’mon, Stanley just try one more lap? I’m the doctor, remember? I really think exercise will help.”

So with a groan, Stanley pushed himself back to his feet. Because Sixer asked him to, and Sixer knew best. Sixer was trying to help.

𓆟

He didn’t feel any better. Honestly, he felt worse.

𓆟

Four days after Ma left, Stanley woke up not only as achy as ever, but itchy too.

He peeled back the blankets, dragging himself into a sitting up position. “ Sixer ,” he tried to call out - and was surprised to hear that instead of the slight roughness it’d been for the past couple days, his voice was so ragged and hoarse it barely came out, words dragging painfully against his burning throat.

The agony in his head and throat was so intense, he could hardly think over it.

“ Sixer… ”

There was the familiar, soft thump of Stanford stepping off the bunk bed ladder. Stanford turned towards him, face lighting up briefly to see him awake already. “Good morning-” he faltered, smile slipping off his face as really took in the sight of Stanley’s state, “-Stanley?”

“Euugh,” Stanley responded eloquently.

“ Holy cowabunga ! Stanley, you look horrible!” Stanford squeaked, rushing to his side, hands fluttering in the air fretfully. Fingers tentatively prodding at Stanley’s face, pressing at his cheeks, grabbing his chin and twisting his head around this way and that to get a good look at him. “Your face is all red and blotchy!”

“Itchy,” Stanley said simply, because just the one word was sending shocks of pain through his burning, ragged throat.

“You have a rash all over your face, and down your neck too,” Stanford told him, his fingers brushing Stanley’s itchy skin carefully. “It’s like touching sandpaper!”

Stanley groaned, opening his mouth to pant. He felt oddly warm. “Feels like sandpaper in m’ throat ,” he said weakly.

Stanford gasped. “Stanley, your tongue!” He grabbed Stanley’s face, pulling him closer to examine him. A trill of fear danced up Stanley’s spine - Sixer sounded scared , and if Sixer was scared, then it had to be bad. “It’s all- white and bumpy!”

White ? Stanley’s brow furrowed, pulse quickening. It’s not supposed to look like that. Why does it-

“Stay there, I need to get my flashlight.” 

Hastily, Stanford scrambled to awkwardly slide off the bed, before scurrying over to where he’d dropped his jacket. He lifted his jacket up and rooted it around in its pockets. 

“Ah-ha!” he gasped victoriously, holding a small, black and plastic object aloft. It was his flashlight. 

He hurried back to Stanley’s side, clicking the flashlight on and shining it into Stanley’s mouth.

A soft gasp escaped Stanford’s mouth, his eyes going wide. “You’re even worse than before!”

“ Hurts ,” Stanley said, closing his eyes tight, trying to take measured breaths through his nose. He opened his eyes again, cursing how bright everything seemed, the morning light burning his eyes.

“I’ll bet it does,” Stanford said, eyes round and wide with worry, still peering into Stanley’s mouth. “It’s like you have a rash down your throat! I don’t understand how you’re not getting better - have developed an allergic reaction to something we’ve been eating? Are we not exercising enough?”

Just the mention of exercise had Stanley groaning, the mere idea making the pain in his muscles and joints throb like fire.

“I just want you to get better,” Stanford told him, visibly fraught with concern and stress. “I can’t give you medicine, because I don’t actually know what you’re sick with. I don’t know what to do .”

Stanley grimaced, gritting his teeth. Emotion and physical sensation muddled into a haze, until he couldn’t tell if the squirming in his gut was pain induced nausea or the guilt of causing his brother to sound so upset. “S’ okay,” he rasped.

Stanford drew a deep breath, gathering himself. “Right. Don’t worry, I… I can- I will help. I’m the doctor. Let’s just walk around a bit, that’s exercise. And then I’ll make you a healthy breakfast, and you can take a nap, okay?”

Even just walking around sounded like a lot. His body ached, his throat was on fire - the throb in his skull made his vision blur in and out of focus with each beat of pulse, loud in his ears. Every breath dragged raggedly against his boiling throat.

But if Sixer said so…

“Okay,” Stanley whispered, shakily pushing himself up. Slipping one leg out from the disarray of blankets, he awkwardly clambered to the ground on shockingly weak feeling legs. His head throbbed, his vision blurring around the edges - but he stayed standing, breathing softly through his mouth.

It was worth it though, to see the relief in Stanford’s eyes as he smiled at him. “Good! Okay, we’ll just walk around the apartment. Don’t worry, I’ll be with you the whole time, alright?”

Around the apartment … “Pa,” Stanley croaked urgently.

Stanford looked confused for a moment. “Pa?” Then realization dawned across his face, and grasped Stanley by the shoulder and squeezed, understanding in his eyes. “Don’t worry, we woke up late today. He’s already down in the pawnshop; he won’t see us.”

Relief washed over Stanley. “‘kay.”

He really was trying super hard to be tough like Pa wanted him to be, like Pa always said he should be. But his body ached and his head and throat throbbed like sandpaper on fire, giving the feeling of being trapped in his own body, stifled in a shrinking box. It took everything in him not to burst into painful tears.

He knew he probably didn’t look very tough right now at all. And the thought of seeing Pa now , when he felt so weak and so inadequate, facing what Pa was sure to say, was enough to send his stomach rolling in fear. He didn’t want to see him, he didn’t want to be seen like this, a big baby whining about being sick.

“Can’t tell ‘im,” Stanley added softly.

“Of course not,” Stanford said, sounding mildly offended that Stanley felt the need to specify at all. “I know that.”

Stanford left his side to amble ahead, hopping over to the door. Without his brother next to him, Stanley already felt worse, weaker almost, but he tried not to let it show, just watching his brother with a dull sense of detached curiosity. 

Leaning forward till he was on his tip-toes, Stanford got a hand on the doorknob. He started to twist it, before he paused, turning back to look over at Stanley over his shoulder.

“C’mon Stanley,” he urged gently. “Let’s just walk to the kitchen, okay? Then we can make something to eat.”

Stanley nodded, setting his jaw determinedly. Right, it was just a few steps. He walked across his room all the time. It was easy.

He took one stumbling step forward, then another after that. His vision swam in front of him, but he pressed forward. One foot in of the other, it wasn’t hard. He was five years old, he knew how to walk. He was a big boy.

His legs were crumpling underneath him by the fourth step.

“Stanley!” Stanford’s voice cried from somewhere, followed by the muffled sounds of footsteps rushing towards Stanley.

Arms appeared, wrapping around him. In a few dizzy blinks, trying to fight the roaring pain in his head, he discovered it was Sixer’s arms. Sixer had caught him. Stanley’s legs were still half-bent where he’d almost fallen flat on his face.

Despite the pain in his head and the slowly fading blurriness as his vision returned, Stanley felt a trickle of embarrassment, mixed with frustration at himself. He couldn’t even make it across his room without his brother having to catch him, like he was some sort of dumb toddler.

“Are you okay?” Stanford asked fearfully. “You just crumpled, I don’t understand what- are you okay? Are you dizzy? Is that it?”

Dizzy… Stanley didn’t feel dizzy. His skull felt like someone was trying to hammer a nail into it, and everything was itchy, and his throat was like sandpaper and fire, and his stomach was starting to swirl nauseatingly, but he didn’t feel dizzy. Not really. 

Stanley just shook his head limply into Stanford’s shoulder, deciding to discard the embarrassment in favor of taking advantage of the awkward hug they’d found themselves wrapped in. He felt better just with Stanford nearby, holding him up. “Hurts…”

“Hurts? What hurts?” Stanford pressed, anxiety seeping into his voice.

“Everythin’,” Stanley said hopelessly, trying desperately not to burst into tears. His breath was hitching in his chest, lungs spasming, and his throat burned. “I don’t- I don’t know why-”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” Stanford said quickly, but Stanley could tell he didn’t actually believe what he was saying. He sounded scared. “How about you just lay down, okay? Let’s get back in bed. Um-”

Stanley sagged against him, not moving.

“Okay, okay,” Stanford said, faintly. “I can’t lift you, so- uh-”

He looked around quickly. Stanley just squeezed his eyes closed, fighting a losing battle against crying, trying to restrain himself from starting to shake. He didn’t think he was doing a very good job.  

Stanford’s hand landed on his back suddenly, rubbing circles against his spine. Stanley melted against him, letting out a trembling exhale of held-in air. 

“Okay, it’s okay. Why don’t you just lay down in Fort Stan, huh? It’s right here, so- you can- you can be the watchman, manning the fort while I venture forth into the unknown for resources. I’ll put down lots of pillows and blankets, so you’ll be comfortable!”

The hardwood floor would be cool against his over-hot skin. Stanley nodded gratefully into Stanford’s shoulder, breathing out shakily. Watchman. Stanley could do watchman. A watchman was useful and tough, nothing at all like the big baby Stanley felt like. 

“Okay. Heave-ho.” Stanford’s grip tightened around Stanley, bracing himself before lifting Stanley from under the arms like a cat. Stanford grunted a bit, letting out little wheezing breaths from over Stanley’s head as he pulled him up.

Stanley did his best to help, getting his feet under him and moving awkwardly as Stanford dragged his upper half. It really was just a step away, and Stanley probably could have stumbled over there himself - but something in him begged to keep his brother by his side for just a moment longer.

Everything hurt. He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted his brother to stay. 

Fort Stan was little more than an old flannel sheet strung up on a rope, a piece of paper taped to it declaring its name. Because of their shared room, it was where they had ‘sleepovers’, or where they hung out on rainy days. It was hardly comfortable, but it was theirs, and that made it everything.

Stanford carefully draped him under their fort, then scurried away. Seconds later he returned, sliding a pillow under Stanley’s head and fussily arranging some blankets over him - from both Stanley’s bunk and Stanford’s, Stanley noticed.

“There,” Stanford said, voice still shaking a little, but he’d at least calmed a little bit. Having something to do, to make him feel useful, must have set his nerves at ease. “Consider yourself quarantined, patient.”

Stanley made an acknowledging sound. It scraped against his throat as it came out.

“Right. Is it comfortable enough? I can go get more blankets, if you want-”

The floor was hard, but it was cold, a balm to his burning. The blankets and pillow were soft, and the fort’s blanket walls curtaining over him made a wordless part of him feel safe. Like a mouse in a mousehole.

“S’ good,” Stanley rasped. His voice came out weaker and smaller than he expected it to. “Hungry.”

“I’ll get you something,” Stanford promised quickly, oddly intense, almost eager. Ha. Maybe Stanley should get sick more often, if he could order his normally obstinate brother around like this. “Just sit tight, okay? I’ll be right back.”

Like Stanley was gonna go anywhere.

The sound of footsteps moving away. Stanley shut his eyes, figuring he might as well get a nap in before Sixer came back.

𓆟

The room was swimming - Stanley was swimming? Stanley was swimming.

Everything felt fever-hot, sweltering hot. The world swirled in front of Stanley’s eyes in hues of blue. He panted. Everything hurt. Everything hurt.

“ Sixer …” he called weakly, the name coming out so thin and raspy he could hardly hear it himself.

Smoke wafted lazily in the air above and around him. Blue fire was dancing along the rim of Stanley’s awareness. The ceiling was so low it scraped against the floor in places, sagging under an invisible pressure.

“Deal me another hand,” the man in the funny tie grunted as he sat down at the poker table across from Stanley, heaving himself to his seat like it took a great effort just to do so. “I’m not here for fun.”

The dealer cackled, canine teeth flashing in the low light of the lounge. His eyes were slitted, serpentine. A smoking cigar hung from his lip like a drop of venom drools from a snake’s fang. “You ain’t never gonna win, you know. House always wins.”

“Don’t tell me what I know, jackasss.” The man in the funny tie pressed the heel of his palm to his eye, groaning. “Fuck, my head’s pounding. Do you have a hit?”

“Not for free, man.”

“Fuck you,” the man in the funny tie spat, suddenly angry. “I fuckin’ hate it here, you know that? I hate this. I should be in Jersey right now.”

The mannequins around the poker table laughed like circling hyenas, like dogged vultures. The snake with the golden eyes slithered between them, from shoulder to shoulder, his own yellow eyes sparking with mirth and his black scales glinting enticingly.

“Not my problem,” said the dealer over the laughter.

“You gonna do this in front of the kid?” The man in the funny tie gestured to Stanley. “Have some fuckin’ decency. He’s just a kid.”

“Who, the fish?” The dealer laughed, the mannequins laughed again too. “He’s in his aquarium. He doesn’t know a damn thing. Just eats his flakes, like a good little fishie.”

The man in the funny didn’t look very appeased by that answer - anything, he almost looked defeated. His eyes going dull and unhappy, losing some of that bright fire underneath his skin. 

Sinking down, Stanley’s knees hit the pebbles at the bottom of the tank. “I want m’ brother,” Stanley said softly.

“Don’t we all,” the man in the funny tie sighed. He had that kind of sigh that sounded like he sighed an awful lot.

“It’s alright, dear,” the weird pink salamander beside Stanley told him sweetly. It swam leisurely circles around their tank, pink skin glittering like stars in the water. “None of this is real.”

“Or is it?” the snake with the golden eyes and grating voice said.

“Shouldn’t I get a question?” Stanley asked, sinking deeper to the bottom of the tank.

The weird pink salamander laughed. It sounded like wind chimes. “Always the shrewd one, you. I’ll do you an unweighted favor and not count that first one. Ask me anything, I’ll answer everything.”

“Don’t listen to them, squirt,” the snake with the golden eyes and grating voice said, coiling around a six-fingered mannequin’s neck. “They’re full of it, absolutely full of it.”

“You only say that because you don’t like the answer you got,” the weird pink salamander reminded him, calm and sweet as ever.

The snake with the golden eyes and grating voice hissed, snapping his teeth warningly. He didn’t lunge though, and the weird pink salamander seemed to know he wouldn’t, smiling placidly as ever over at him, black eyes swimming with galaxies.

Stanley’s eyes drifted over to the man in the funny tie, only to find him already looking back at the scene, gazing with bored curiosity. His eyes met Stanley’s, and he blinked like he was coming out of trance, awareness leaking into his eyes. 

He shrugged at Stanley in a loose and uncomfortable way, unable to make eye contact once it was returned. He looked down at his hand instead, at the card faces staring back at him. Stanley could see a Joker in his deck, and a Jack of Hearts. “Hey, don’t look at me. I don’t know either of these weirdos,” he grumbled half-heartedly. 

Stanley thought for a moment. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know what any of this was. He didn’t know anything.

The weird pink salamander waited patiently. Stanley got the sense that his question was its answer, somehow. Eye for an eye, answer for an answer. 

So he asked, “What am I?” because he thought that was probably the most important thing to know.

“A failure,” said the man in the funny tie, looking at the floor with a furrow in his brow.

“A nuisance,” hissed the snake with the golden eyes and the grating voice, body constricting around the six-fingered mannequin’s throat.

The weird pink salamander pondered the question. Swam around the tank in leisurely, thoughtful circles, the way Sixer paced their room sometimes. Finally, the answer seemed to come to mind.

“A twin. An anchor. An Icarus who flew too low. A human boy.” The weird pink salamander smiled at him. It was a kind smile, almost knowing. “And now, a warning for you: an axolotl can regrow the limbs they lose, but you might not like the new shapes you have to take.”

“Huh,” Stanley said, blinking.

“What a load of baloney,” the snake with the golden eyes and the grating voice said, and Stanley could tell that even though he was putting on a chipper act, he was shaking with anger, unconsciously tightening harsher and harsher on the windpipe he was coiled around. “You’ll just tell these suckers anything , eh Frills?”

The six-fingered mannequin started to choke. The dealer laughed loudly, clapping his hands together in appreciation for the show.

With a low growl in his throat, the man in the funny tie suddenly slammed down his cards and reached across the table instead. Meaty and scarred hands seized the body of the snake with the gold eyes and grating voice, roughly ripping the serpent off the mannequin’s neck.

“Hey man,” the man in the funny tie snarled, “if you’ve got a problem, it’s with me, not them.” 

Hissing and fangs turn to the man in the funny tie. Golden eyes narrowed to hateful slits. “You’re nothing but a deadweight to them, bootleg. And you know it.” Boiling spit jumped from the snake with the gold eyes and grating voice’s fangs, but the man in the funny tie barely flinched. “You mean nothing to them, you’re nothing but worthless, unwanted spare parts- ”

“Man, shut. Up! ” The man in the funny tie snapped, slamming his fist down on the poker table, effectively bashing the snake with the golden eyes and grating voice into the table. 

The snake with the golden eyes and grating voice let out an infuriated hiss, snapping his head around sinking his fangs into the hand of the man in the funny tie. The man in the funny tie let out a curse, jerking back. 

The chair toppled, sending both sprawling out on the ground as they wrestled, snake biting and man punching and strangling, hands around the snake’s neck and pulling him away, snake’s tail lashing and ripping the flesh of the man in the funny tie to red ribbons.

The ceiling got closer and closer. The dealer howled with laughter, one hand clutching a spasming stomach; the mannequins shrieked uproariously and applauded loudly. The snake with the golden eyes and grating voice landed a bite right above the eyelid of the man in the funny tie and couldn’t be shaken off.

Somehow the poker table ended up flipped, cards and chips all flung in the air. The dealer was laughing so hard spit frothed from the corners of his cracked mouth. The mannequins swarmed the brawl on the floor, cheering in voices that weren’t quite right.

Stanley felt himself sink to the very bottom of his tank, down into the smooth aquarium stones. He felt his breath come quick and short, fraught, watched the air bubbles rise from his mouth, above the water and up into the air. 

Even with the sound of water roaring in his ears, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene. 

Snake still lodged in his face, the man in the funny tie opened his mouth and bit down on the snake with the golden eyes and grating voice’s body whipping, writhing body, so hard Stanley could see the black scales crack and spool out golden dust like blood spurting under white teeth.

The poker table sank into the bubbling floor. The toppled chair melted like paper under water. The ground underneath the dealer was slowly giving, like carpeted quicksand, but he didn’t seem to notice.

The aquarium cracked, and the universe spilled out.

“I think we’re done here,” the weird pink salamander thing said serenely. The whole room-world was in a chaotic uproar, but somehow Stanley could hear the level and easy voice of the weird pink salamander thing just as clearly as ever. “Your boat is in the harbor. You won’t remember this, but it really was a genuine pleasure to meet you…”

“Stan,” Stanley said, when it looked like the weird pink salamander thing wasn’t quite sure of his name. “My name is Stan.”

The weird pink salamander thing laughed kindly. “Only some of the time. Only when it really matters.” The smile stretched wider. “Time to go now, Stanley.”

“Stanley”

⚛︎

“Stanley” Stanford shook his brother, hand grasping his shoulder. Stanley was slumped and asleep, breath coming in and out with a soft wheezing sound, hitching on each inhale. His face kept twitching, mumbling in his sleep, and his expression furrowed as he slowly woke up. 

Stanley groaned softly, eyes fluttering blearily open, blinking, gaze taking a moment to focus on Stanford. Some delirium still fogged his expression, clinging stubbornly to his awareness. He didn’t seem all there, and Stanford knew he had to be careful right now. 

Stanford made himself smile, trying to look reassuring. That’s a thing doctors were supposed to do, right? Put their patients at ease?

“Hey,” he said, dropping his voice into a gentler tone. “I made you some cereal. Um, I would’ve made eggs, but I accidentally dropped the carton, and then when I tried to get the milk I just spilled it and- well, it doesn’t matter. We ran out of the good stuff, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to have plain cornflakes.”

At least Stanley didn’t seem to mind. He picked up the bowl and started pouring it all down his mouth, taking no care to the amount he was spilling everywhere.

“Stanley” Stanford yelped, grabbing Stanley’s hands and pulling the bowl lower. “You have to go slow! You don’t want to start choking, do you?”

With a grumble and an eyeroll, Stanley did as he asked, obligingly taking slower, smaller bites, using his spoon and everything. Stanford nodded approvingly. Good, good. 

He watched his brother like a hawk to make sure he finished every last bite. Once he deemed the bowl suitably empty, he gently took it from Stanley’s hands and set it aside. “Okay. Now are you ready for a check-up?”

Uncharacteristically, Stanley said nothing. Just shuffled forward, leaning towards Stanford biddingly. Stanford swallowed down the knot of anxiety that tangled in his chest at that. It was probably nothing. Maybe Stanley was just trying to make things easier for him. 

Reaching over to the small collection of medical-looking things he had scavenged from around the house, Stanford picked up the thermometer. “Let’s take your temperature,” he said. “Open your mouth for me?”

Stanley dropped his jaw, allowing Stanford to carefully place the thermometer underneath his white tongue.

“Close your mouth,” Stanford instructed. “We have to keep that there until it’s done. Then we’ll know your temperature, and I’ll be able to deduce if you have a- a, uhm, a fever or not.”

Stanley nodded in acknowledgement, sinking back down into their makeshift nest of blankets and pillows they’d made under Fort Stan.

“Are you still comfortable down there? We could try moving you back to bed if you want,” Stanford offered, even though he didn’t really think he actually could. He liked to think if he really tried hard enough he could do anything, but he hadn’t been able to lift Stanley before. Still, he could try and find a way. Maybe with a system of wheels and that fulcrum thing he’d read about, he could-

“M’ fine,” Stanley’s small, hoarse voice eeked out. He sounded awful - his talking sounded painful, like it had to be clawed out from a fraying throat. “Feels… safe.”

Stanley exhaled slowly, the sound wheezing softly through him.

“S’ ours. Fort Stanley an’ Stanford. Right?”

“Right!” Stanford rushed to assure him. “And you can stay there if you want to! I just want you to be comfortable. I’m prescribing you lots of bedrest, so just make yourself comfortable, okay?”

Stanley nodded sluggishly.

“I think it’s been long enough for the thermometer. Can you-” Stanley’s jaw rolled open, the little glass medical instrument hanging out from his mouth the way their Pa smoked his pipe. Stanford reached over and plucked it out. “Thank you.”

Stanford read the thermometer as Stanley got comfortable again, burrowing into his blankets. One eye peeked out to peer up at Stanford. 

Stanford blinked. Pulled it closer to his face and squinted, trying to parse the blurry symbols. 

103 ° Fahrenheit .

“…I don’t know what temperature you’re supposed to be at,” Stanford realized aloud. “I… don’t actually know whether or not this is good or bad.”

Stanley huffed softly in amusement, half-lidded and sleepy eyes staring up at Stanford warmly. Stanford wasn’t really sure Stanley actually comprehended any of what he said. That was… fine. That was probably fine. 

“We’ll just have to play it by ear. You just rest, okay? I’ll handle everything. I’m taking care of you.” Stanford reached a hand down, grasping Stanley’s and squeezing tightly. Trying to squeeze out all the fear, all of the uncertainty, and leave behind a Stanford who knew what to do. A Stanford who knew how to help his brother.

He didn’t. Not at all. But Stanley’s gaze held nothing but unwavering trust, and Stanford wasn’t sure if that was reassuring, or just made the guilt of unworthiness and the fear of loss in his chest even worse. But he had to be worthy of it. He had to be.

⚛︎

Stanford cleaned the carnage he’d created in the kitchen in his attempts to make breakfast. For lunch, he didn’t repeat the same mistakes - he decided on simple crackers and one of the applesauce cups they had in the pantry, and poured a glass of cold water.

Gently pushing the door open, Stanford padded into their bedroom, letting the door shut softly behind him. He set the plate and cup down on the floor, beside the nest of blankets under Fort Stan.

Stanley was sleeping again, just as fitfully as before. Stanford carefully shook him awake.

“Stanley c’mon, it’s time to eat. You havta get up. You’ve been sleeping since breakfast.”

Food was important, so was hydration. Stanley was hot to the touch - even hotter than before. Stanford frowned worriedly, running a hand through Stanley’s hair. It was damp with sweat, Stanley’s scalp radiating a sickly heat. Much worse than before.

With a soft groan, Stanley groggily woke up, blinking at the world like he was seeing it with new eyes. Stanford retracted his hand, pushing the plate and cup towards Stanlr.

“I brought you some food. Nothing that’ll be too hard on your stomach - you haven’t been feeling nauseous, have you?”

Stanley made a ‘so-so’ gesture with one hand, reaching for a cracker and carefully placing it in his mouth, chewing slowly. Stanford hoped it was just because he remembered the mess with the cereal before.

“I’ll make sure to bring you stuff that’s easily digestable, then. And maybe a bucket, just in case.” Having something to do made him feel better. Somewhere good to put all of the anxious energy buzzing underneath his skin. “How are you feeling other than that?”

Stanley picked up another cracker, chewing thoughtfully. He swallowed, saying raspily, “Throat hurts. Head hurts. Swallowing hurts. Talking hurts.” He reached for the glass of water, taking a long sip. This time, Stanford didn’t miss the slight way his brow pinched in pain as he swallowed. “Everythin’ hurts. Feel really hot. Head is… weird. Weird dreams.”

Stanford frowned thoughtfully. He didn’t know how to fix ‘everything hurts’. He didn’t even know what was wrong - it didn’t sound the same as the few, scattered other times they’d gotten sick before. And he didn’t know what to do with ‘weird dreams’ either.

Stanford didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know how to help.

He inhaled shakily, put on what he hoped looked like a reassuring smile. “It’s alright. You’ll be better in no time, with Dr. Pines here to take care of you.”

He didn’t know what to do.

⚛︎

Stanley rested, didn’t sleep, head pillowed on Stanford’s lap as Stanford slowly ran a damp, cool towel across his over-heated skin. Folds and joints and other places, everywhere skin brushed against skin there was an even darker, more angry red than the rest, a rash that protested every movement Stanley made.

His tongue had peeled - the white coating was gone, and its place was a surface red as a strawberry and studded with coarse bumps - still faraway from the normal smooth and faintly textured pink. The same red and bumpy rash had spread down Stanley’s body too - bright and angry skin, burning fever-hot to the touch.

Stanford took care to be as gentle as he could be as he ran the towel over Stanley’s rashy skin. Every time he was too rough, Stanley would tense minutely, a stiff, quiet inhale of breath his only verbal acknowledgement of pain.

Stanford wished his brother would loudly protest every smallest pain like he normally did. Stanford wished his brother was acting like he usually did, loud and brash and unapologetic. He didn’t like this quiet, withdrawn version of his brother that had emerged.

He tangled his free-hand in one of Stanley’s, holding it comfortingly, running a thumb up and down the back of Stanley’s palm.

The towel moved to brush gently against Stanley’s face, his red cheeks. He sighed softly.

“Feels nice,” he rasped. “Thanks, Sixer.”

“Don’t mention it. Just, ah, doing my doctoral duties, and all.” Stanford forced a laugh, which came out much more stiff and awkward than he intended it to.

At least Stanley was nice enough to make a soft, amused sound at that.

This was the least Stanford could do.

⚛︎

Pa was working late, and had told Stanford that he and Stanley needed to ‘fend for themselves’ in regards to food. Stanford was grateful for their luck in that department. There was no way they were going to be able to get through a dinner with Pa without raising suspicion.

So instead, dinner was baby carrot sticks from the fridge, plain toast, and another glass of water. Lackluster, but Stanford was running out of ideas. And available foods.

He pushed open their bedroom door with his foot, then shut it behind himself. “Dinner, Stanley,” Stanford called softly, not really expecting a reply.

“ Sixer ?”

Stanley’s hoarse voice was tense with a fear that blind-sided Stanford. He froze in place. “…Stanley? Is something wrong?”

“S-Sixer-” Stanley stuttered, voice hitching. Stanford could see him hastily pushing himself into a sitting position, looking around with wide, unseeing eyes.

It felt as though Stanford’s heart dropped to his feet at the sight, leaving him reeling with vertigo, and the only feeling to replace it was the sharp irrationality of fear rushing to fill the hole rationality had left.

Quickly setting the plate and cup aside, Stanford hurried to his brother’s side, dropping to his knees and grasping his shoulder in one hand. “Stanley What’s wrong?”

Stanley’s face was flushed a bright red, making the rash that had traveled to his cheeks look even worse - he was sweating, but shivering hard too, panting a little. His eyes were dazed and confused, like he wasn’t all there, wasn’t quite seeing right.

“Sixer- Sixer, I can’t-” he was wracked with shivering intense enough that if he was standing, it would have knocked him clean off his feet, even though under the dying light coming through their bedroom window Stanford could see the clear sheen of sweat. “Sixer, it’s so cold .”

“Cold? Stanley you’re burning up,” Stanford said, voice shaking. “I need to take your temperature again, I think your fever has gotten worse-”

“Don’t leave me here,” Stanley begged, not seeming to hear him. “Sixer please, please, I didn’t- I don’t want-”

“Hey, it’s okay-” Stanford tried, but his voice was trembling so bad even he could tell it was a lie.

“I wanna go home,” Stanley sobbed, hoarse and cracking. “Please, please, I don’t wanna- I wanna go home, please -”

“You are home, Stanley. I’m right here!” Stanford grabbed his brother by both shoulders, unable to stop the way his hands squeezed in fear. “Please calm down-”

But Stanley wasn’t calming down. He was shaking so hard and Stanford didn’t know why, and his eyes were wide and fearful and totally unseeing. His breathing was unnatural and labored, too quick and unevenly paced, even though Stanford knew there wasn’t anything wrong with his lungs, no phlegm or mucus clogging his system, so he shouldn’t be having trouble, and-

And Stanford didn’t know what to do.

“I want m’ brother,” Stanley whispered raspily, barely able to get the words out. His voice had gone all small, the way it hadn’t been since they were both really, really little. “I want Sixer.”

“I’m right here,” Stanford said desperately. “Can’t you see me? I’m right here, Stanley.”

“Don’t leave me,” Stanley whined weakly. “Sixer. Sixer, I dunno what’s happenin’ to me-”

One hand fumbling for the thermometer, Stanford tried his best to steady his brother, even though his heart was beating so hard he could even his own whirlwind-rush of thoughts. They were barely comprehensible anyway. “It’s okay, Stanley you’re okay, you’re just sick, I’ll make it better-”

“Everythin’ hurts,” Stanley sobbed, and the sound stabbed through Standord’s chest and rended him completely. “I hate it, s’ not fair, make it stop- please, Sixer, Sixer, make it stop-”

Stanford couldn’t listen to this. An uncontrollable sound ripped itself out of his chest, raw and pained, feeling his own throat seize and his eyes water. “I know . L-let’s just take your t-temperature, okay? I-I’ll make it better, I’ll find a way, I promise .”

He pushed the thermometer into Stanley’s mouth, sticking it under his tongue. Stanley just looked confused, like he didn’t understand what was going on.

“Wh- I don’t want-”

“It’s to help you,” Stanford interjected. He didn’t think he could listen to his brother’s scared, confused rambling anymore. “I just have to take your temperature, so I know how quickly your fever is rising. I, uh, I don’t know what the numbers mean, but…”

He bit down on the inside of his cheek, feeling a burst of helpless frustration towards himself. He had to help his brother - what good was any of his alleged intelligence if he couldn’t?

“…but rates are important,” he finished shakily. “So I know how fast I have to act.”

One unsteady hand came up to pet Stanley’s sweaty hair, brushing six fingers through his damp curls. Trying to be comforting.

Some of the panicked energy was slipping from Stanley now, eyes going noticeably calm. A blanket of static elapsing his senses - Stanford pressed his cheek into Stanley’s sweaty hair, fighting back the wetness encroaching in his own eyes.

“…everybody loves the Black Rider,” Stanley was mumbling, “But nobody wants Doc…”

“…Are you talking about the Black Rider comic?” Stanford asked quietly, incredulous and struggling to understand where Stanley’s head was at.

Stanley blinked sluggishly. “Doc does his best. But ‘e’s a coward. Everyone hates cowards. A coward is a… is a… is a type of, um, lettuce.” Stanley laughed weakly, like he’d just told a really funny joke. “Nobody wants Doc.”

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Stanford said cautiously, eyeing the thermometer. “The Black Rider wouldn’t be able to exist without Doctor Masters.”

Stanley squinted at nothing. “Nobody wants Doc, ‘cause he’s a- a failure, nuisance, cowardly piece a’ cabbage.” His eyelids lowered, eyes going hazy, like he was about to fall asleep. “But Sixer wants me.”

Something in Stanford’s chest squeezed. “I do.”

He gently took the thermometer from Stanley’s mouth. This time, Stanley barely reacted, and Stanford was free to read the number, still with a squirming feeling of wrongness writhing in his gut.

104 ° Fahrenheit .

“You’re getting worse.” Despair overwhelmed Stanford. The thermometer shook in his hands. His breath was short, dizzyingly quick. “Stanley, I don’t know- I don’t know how to-”

He snapped his mouth shut, grinding his teeth. Keep it together. You’re supposed to be grown. Stanley needs you to be grown.

“ Sixer…” Stanley rasped faintly, head falling to thump softly against Stanford’s chest. “Please, make it stop…”

He didn’t know what to do.

⚛︎

He didn’t know what to do.

“T-try these, Stanley.” Stanford pushed his open hand towards Stanley, two small white tablets sitting on his open palm. “I d-don’t know what they’re for, but they’re Pa’s, so they have to be good for you!”

Pills were supposed to be good for you. These would surely help. Stanley was flushed and sweating, glazed eyes and shivering hard, bright red tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth. He looked at Stanford like he wasn’t entirely seeing him. Stanford had to fix it.

He didn’t know what to do.

Pushing the pills into Stanley’s mouth, helping him tip back a glass of water to flush them down. Holding him while gags and dry heaves, rubbing his back.

He didn’t know what to do.

“Tastes like metal,” Stanley said in a garbled, hoarse voice. He squinted at the space over Stanford’s shoulder. “Metal flavored candy.”

“It’s going to make you feel better,” Stanford lied. He didn’t know anything.

He didn’t know what to do.

⚛︎

105 ° Fahrenheit .

Stanley retched onto the floor, throwing up spit and bile and dinner. Stanford cleaned it up, himself trying not to gag at the putrid smell, the way the vomit smeared on the floor, underneath the towel.

I can fix this, he lied to himself. He didn’t even believe it.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” Stanford chanted almost mindlessly after he’d thrown the ruined towel away, running his hand through Stanley’s sweaty hair, squeezing his palm, fingers intertwined. “You’re okay, you’re okay-”

He didn’t know what to do.

⚛︎

106 ° Fahrenheit .

Stanford woke up in the middle of the night to choked sobbing, loud and unrestrained.

His subconscious woke up before his conscious mind did. He was climbing off where he’d curled up on his sentry post on Stanley’s abandoned bunk without even thinking about it, rushing to his brother’s side. He wrapped his arms around him, one hand fumbling to find Stanley’s.

Fingers intertwining. A comfort for the both of them. It was almost enough, or maybe it should have been.

“Sixer,” Stanley sobbed like a little kid, “Sixer-”

“I’m right here,” Stanford said quickly, fully awake in seconds. “I’m here, I won’t leave, you’re okay-”

“Sixer, don’t go,” Stanley sobbed, “It’s- the fish tank, it’s gonna break-”

“You’re being irrational.” Stanford squeezed him, feeling like if let go for even a second his brother would disappear. “There is no fish tank. It’s just us, okay? It’s just us, I’m taking care of you. I’m not leaving you. I won’t leave you.”

“It’s gonna crack, I’m gonna fall,” Stanley repeated mindlessly, eyes wide with fear. He was burning, Stanford noticed - skin red and so much hotter than it had been just that morning. “I- I know it. I can tell.”

“Nothing’s going to break, Stanley,” Stanford said desperately, helplessly. He didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to do. “You’re- you’re hallucinating. You’re okay. I’m here.”

Six fingers intertwined with five, squeezing his brother’s hand. Arms wrapped around him, holding him while he shook and wheezed in fear and panic.

107 ° Fahrenheit .

“Six- Sixer…”

“You’re okay, you’re-”

Stanley tensed suddenly, everything muscle tightening. Stanford froze.

“…Stanley?”

Every muscle in Stanley’s body seemed to suddenly, arms and legs stiffening against Stanford embrace. His hand, still held in Stanford’s, abruptly went stone-still.

One of Stanford’s own hands pulled away, grasping Stanley by the shoulder and squeezing softly, shaking him gently. “Stanley? What’s wrong?”

Stanley trembled, letting out a low groan. His chest started convulsing, making strange retching and choking noises. The telltale sound of something coming up was the only warning Stanford got before the entire front of his shirt was suddenly soaked and stinking.

“Stanley!” Stanford yelped, pulling back. There was vomit down his shirt, boiling hot and already starting to soak through the fabric and sticking to Stanford’s skin.

Grimacing, he peeled his shirt off, throwing it to the side. It flopped onto the ground with a wet noise.

“You could have at least warned me, Sta- Stanley?” Stanford started, then faltered.

Without Stanford to hold him up, Stanley had fallen forward limply, head knocking onto the ground with a painful sounding thunk.

He laid there motionless for a moment, like a doll, almost- limbs stiff, joints locked. For a brief second, he was completely still.

“Stanley…?” Stanford ventured, some instinct in him telling him this isn’t right . It was like sensing an oncoming storm - the hairs on the back of his neck raised, there was the slightest shift of pressure.

He cautiously reached out, shaking hand moving towards Stanley’s utter still, stiff body.

But Stanley didn’t stay still.

One moment everything was quiet. Then in the next, Stanley started convulsing .

Every muscle pulled taut, and- and twitching , but twitching wasn’t quite the right word for it. Too mild. Jerking, maybe.

“ Stanley?!” Stanford cried, lunging towards his brother and pulling him up, lifting his head to look into his face. “Stanley, what are you- stop that!”

Stanley’s eyes were rolled up into his head , only the whites visible, and he was convulsing. Limbs and body tense and rattling together - spasming, Stanford’s mind supplied. Joints locked, mouth open and spittle frothing out of the corners, face twitching. He looked possessed. He looked like- he looked like-

Rigor mortis. Stanford had read about it.

It didn’t matter in the moment that that didn’t make any sense. The mere thought of Stanley and dead were enough to send him into a frenzy.

“Stop! You- you’re going to hurt yourself!” Stanford couldn’t catch his breath. He couldn’t hear anything except his heartbeat, his pulse roaring in his head, his thoughts spiraling whirlpool circling downward, an endless mantra of what do I do what’s going on Stanley Stanley Stan-

He didn’t know what to do.

Grabbing Stanley by the shoulders, shaking him. Stanley’s eyes were wide and unseeing, Stanford couldn’t quite hold him right, body kept convulsing out of his hands. One arm knocked into Stanford’s side - a leg kicked and tangled in the mess of blankets. And Stanford couldn’t do anything.

He didn’t know what to do.

No response. Stanford let out a noise he didn’t know he could make - strange and keening and panicked, just holding onto Stanley. He didn’t respond when Stanford called his name, didn’t react when Stanford cried and shook him by the shoulders.

He didn’t know what to do.

Stanley’s eyes were rolled up, only the whites visible.

He didn’t know what to do.

There was spit foaming out the side of Stanley’s mouth.

He didn’t know what to do.

Stanley was seizing.

Stanley was seizing.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to do.

He didn’t know what to do.

“S-Stanley- Stanley, I don’t- please -”

He didn’t know what to do.

“I-I don’t- I-”

He didn’t know what to do.

Shaking legs standing up. Stanford stumbled to his feet and lunged for the door, pulling it open and throwing himself out. He raced down the hallway, and all he could hear the panicked wheeze of his own breath, the ocean roaring, his thoughts slamming together in the uncontrollable current.

He didn’t know what to do.

There was a blue light filling the living room, the distinct reek of an open bottle and the sound of static voices talking on the television, but he ignored it, rushing straight to the telephone.

He didn’t know what to do.

Grabbing the phone, his shaking hands punched in the three digit number.

He didn’t know what to do.

The phone rang loudly in the dark. From the living room he could hear the T.V. suddenly falling into a hush. Stanford’s breath was so loud in the stilted quiet, hidden only by the dial-up sound.

He didn’t know what to do.

There were heavy footsteps approaching him from behind.

“Stan…ford? What are you doing up?” Pa’s low voice rumbled out behind him, sending a rush of cold fear darting down Stanford’s spine. “…are you making a phone call?”

His hand tightened on the telephone.

This was the last resort.

This was the best he could do.

“For the love of- do you know how much a call from Belarus would cost ? I don’t care if you had a nightmare, work it out yourselves like adults.” Pa reached for the phone. “Men don’t need their Ma to baby them every time they get a night terror. You boys need to learn that the world’s not going to coddle-”

“911. What’s your emergency?”

“Are you calling 911 ?!”

This was the best he could do.

Pa snatched the phone, yanking it out of his hands. Stanford tried to hold on, but he was utterly powerless- helpless . The phone slid right out of his hands with barely a hint of resistance. Pa was so much stronger than he was.

“Pa, please!” Stanford wailed, desperately trying to grab the phone, their one last resort. The only thing he could think of to save his brother.

“You half-wit- what do you think you’re doing , messing around like this?!” Pa’s voice was a deep boom - it seemed to rattle the very walls of their apartment, dark and angry. “This isn’t a game- some toy you can mess around with!”

Fear griped Stanford. Instinct begged him to cow, to make himself small and beg forgiveness. To tell his Pa he was just messing around, he didn’t mean it, please don’t-

But the image of Stanley convulsing on their bedroom floor was stronger than any fear.

“I-I- I’m not m-messing around! Pa, please, there’s something wrong with Stanley, I think he’s- ”

Pa let out a wordless growl, sparking with an anger so hot Stanford flinched back.

“There’s no emergency,” Pa snapped into the phone, “Just my idiot son playing pretend.”

“ Pa! ” Stanford screamed, flinging himself at his father and tugging on his pants legs. Fists yanking on the fabric in utter desperation, tears burning at the corners of his eyes.

“ I see ,” the operator’s voice came through the telephone line, bored and exasperated. “ Always troublesome, children. I have my own at home, they’re always messing around like this. ”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Pa slammed the phone back into the cradle, something plastic snapping and cracking loudly under the pressure. Pa paid it no mind - he didn’t even look at it. He shook Stanford off, letting him drop to the ground roughly. “What has gotten into you?!”

“ Stanley’s gonna die! ” The words burst out of Stanford before he could think better of them, rushing forward with all the force of a broken dam as he hastily jumped back to his feet. “There’s something wrong- he’s sick, and now he’s- he’s-”

Something flickered across Pa’s face for the briefest moment - but then his expression hardened, stony as ever and anger chiseled into every crevice. He groaned, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “For the love of… what, did he sneeze a little too hard?”

“Pa, please, we have to call 911!” Stanford begged. Telling Pa was a bad idea but he knew now and Stanford was desperate.

He wasn’t sure before but he knew now, reality hitting him with all the force of a comet smashing into him. Stanley’s going to die. He’s going to die.

In the low light, with Pa’s sunglasses, it was impossible to see just what expression he hid behind those dark lenses. But even Stanford could see the way he shook his head, the head motion he made when he was rolling his eyes. “You don’t know what dying looks like,” Pa huffed. “In my day-”

There was a crash from Stanley and Stanford’s bedroom.

Stanford was turning and darting back down the hall before he could even think about it. Adrenaline hit him like a shot - he couldn’t hear anything except the pound of his own heart in his ears. Careening down the hall, he threw himself at their bedroom door and yanked it open.

Fort Stan had collapsed. The toy phone that always sat on the top of their dresser had crashed to the ground, broken, and the magic 8-ball still sitting up there was teetering dangerously close to the same fate.

All the blankets had tangled together - Stanford couldn’t even see Stanley anymore, lost to the mess, but he could see the movement. That sickening convulsing, still going. Still going.

There was the soft thump of footsteps moving behind him, but Stanford barely even noticed it. He rushed over to the collapsed pile of blankets, hands frantically pulling and tugging at the tangled sheets, barely even sure what he was trying to accomplish-

Again the thump of footsteps moving through the room, making a stiff path towards him. “Just what in the damnation is going on in here?”

Stanford finally succeeded in untangling the blankets just enough to reveal Stanley.

That spit had dried a trail down the side of his mouth. The blankets were ensnared around his legs, looped around and around in a mess. His eyes were still rolled up - his limbs were twitching, but they’d curled, losing that death-like stiffness, but the jerky movements had only worsened. His white eyes blinked rapidly at nothing, neck arched and head tipped up in an unnatural angle.

“Stanley-” Stanford tried, voice cracking with despair.

“Stanley?!” His Pa barked from behind, startling Stanford. His Pa’s voice- he almost sounded scared. But that wasn’t right- Pa wasn’t scared of anything. Pa couldn’t be scared.

A large hand pushed Stanford aside, leaving him to fall to the side with a thump. Pa dropped to his knees where Stanford had been and grabbed Stanley, large palms encompassing Stanley’s shoulders as he shook him roughly.

“ Cut that out, boy! ” Pa commanded. Stanford couldn’t make sense of it- he couldn’t understand the way his Pa’s voice cracked along the edge of panic. The way his hands that grasped Stanley tightly, shaking him like a limp, convulsing doll, were white-knuckled and trembling themselves.

Stanley, now held halfway to sitting up, made a low, strange noise, something between a wheeze and a groan. His chest hitched on what was almost a cough, almost a retch - little flecks of bile sizzled out of Stanley’s frothing, gagging mouth. He convulsed harshly, eyes wide, chest struggling to expand and contract the way it was meant to.

Pa turned him around in his hands, so that Stanley’s back was to Pa and his unseeing eyes to the floor. One arm wrapping around so Stanley’s weight was held in the crook of Pa’s arm, Pa raised a hand, fingers curling into a fist, and roughly pounded on Stanley’s back.

“ Pa !” Stanford cried, lunging forward without thinking about it. “You’re hurting him!”

All of his reservations, all of his fear of his father disappeared completely for a moment, leaving him to claw frantically at his Pa, thinking only he’s hurting him he’s hurting Stanley-

Another harsh, grating noise of retching, and suddenly Stanley was vomiting, spit and bile and stomach contents all flooding out of Stanley’s mouth and onto the floor.

Stanford faltered, going completely still.

Pa stopped hitting Stanley, free hand coming to help balance him, grabbing his shoulder and man-handling him so that he was facing him again.

“Boy,” Pa’s voice was gruff and tense, words grinding out haltingly, hand tightening on Stanley’s shoulder, “are you done?”

Stanley didn’t respond. His eyes slid closed.

Pa’s jaw tense minutely, muscles bunching. He didn’t look away from Stanley, gritting his teeth, brow furrowing. Not for the first time, Stanford wondered what laid behind those dark lenses.

“Stanford,” he started, causing Stanford to stiff a little, an instinctive chill of fear sparking down his spine, his stomach worming uncomfortably. But Pa didn’t turn his head to look at him - his gaze stayed firmly on Stanley. “Go over to Knuckle Sandwiches and tell Mr. Benowitz we need to borrow his truck.”

Stanford lingered, uncertain. He itched to rush to his brother’s side, to pull him away from their Pa.

“ Now, boy!” Pa snapped, voice raising in volume as his head snapped around to glower sternly at Stanford.

Springing to his feet, Stanford ran for the door.

𓆟

Everything felt fuzzy and strange.

There were black spots blurring in his eyes and Stanley blinked awake - when had he fallen asleep? Everything felt hazy, almost- like reality was a thin wisp of smoke that kept dissipating as it passed between his fingers.

He was being held, he realized - something solid and warm underneath and around him, lifting him up. The feeling was all funny in a way a bed wasn’t, filled with odd angles and strange dimensions, and moving too.

Somebody was holding him then. Stanley blinked, shifting a little so he was more comfortable. This was nice, he supposed.

His thoughts were slow like molasses dripping down. He smacked his lips, wincing slightly at the gross taste and feeling in his mouth. His brain felt sluggish, almost leaden. His senses slowly ebbed and flowed, in and out, his brain a’swirl.

There was a rumbling underneath them, and chatter of voices coming in and out of frequency. The running of a motor, someone telling someone else to turn the radio off.

The weird pink salamander swam leisurely around, somehow unaffected by the way the world around it seemed to blur and sway like the rocking of a tilted boat, up and down, in and out of the water.

“ Hey… ” Stanley tried, but his voice was so raspy and soft it was barely there at all. His head felt really funny, his throat burned in a new and an old way, and talking hurt.

But despite Stanley’s near silent volume, that pink head still turned towards him, pin-sized black eyes falling gently onto him. The weird pink salamander tilted its head, smiling sweetly down at him. “Hello again, Stanley.”

The arms holding him shifted, prodding his face. The voices floated in and out of Stanley’s ears, impossible to fully grasp. They rumbled with anger underneath him and fear to the side of him, two blurry forms mashed into watercolor smears in his awareness.

“Fever of 107, and you didn’t… playing pretend... are you trying to kill…?!”

“No, I… so sorry… I swear I.… Pa, please...!”

“You don’t need to listen to this, Stanley,” the weird pink salamander spoke over the floaty voices, so solid and present as compared to everything else. It drifted closer, circling Stanley’s head, twisting its head in a sort-of silly, sort-of creepy way, keeping black eyes firmly locked on Stanley.

Stanley smacked his lips, furrowing his brow and squinting up at the weird pink salamander, head still pillowed in the arms that held him. He reached up, arms feeling weak as he tentatively brushed his fingers against the scratchy yellow fabric around him. “Is this…?”

“That is your father holding you, yes.” The weird pink salamander’s eyes drifted over to where Pa’s must be, smiling sweet and placid as ever as it examined his face. “You’ve given him quite a scare, you know. He’s hasn’t been this scared since he found-” it cut itself off, blinking. “Hm. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you that. You’re a bit young for that information.”

Maybe Stanley should have been offended at that, the obvious way the weird pink salamander called him a little kid (he was big! Five whole years old!) but he couldn’t really focus on it.

He couldn’t get a pin down on anything, not thought nor word, not even reality - everything felt gelatinous, shifting away from him. His thoughts were curdled like milk in his boiling head. He could taste the spoil on the roof of his mouth, coating his tongue.

All sounds felt like they were underwater, his head pounding under ocean leagues of pressure. He was burning alive. He was burning alive.

“You might want to get some sleep, Stanley,” the weird pink salamander told him serenely. “You’ll only scare yourself, staying up.” It’s eyes sparkled with something almost like mischief. “You might see things you don’t want to see.”

Stanley couldn’t imagine sleeping now.

The truck hummed around him, vibrating him softly. Metal rattling and clanking. Stanley was held gently in its steel jaws, its teeth held carefully inches above his arteries. Like those photos of crocodiles from Stanford’s books, mothers holding babies in their mouths.

Yellow plaid swirling like a nauseating whirlpool underneath him. Trying to swallow him. Trying to rend him apart, pull him away from the cold steel and smoke of reality, of this truck.

Stanley scrabbled weakly to pull himself free of the quicksand-like waters, his head pounding with even the faintest effort. Black spots grew like mold in the corners of his vision, creeping further inwards.

Flinging one hand free of the plaid-patterned waters, he fumbled blindly around for the first buoy his mind went to for help.

“Sixer, Sixer-” he slurred, words frothing out of his mouth like rabies spittle. He sometimes felt like a rabid dog, but now he felt like a sick one more than anything. His bones were surely showing through his patchy fur. The kind of dog you put down with a round to the head, releasing all the pressure straining against his skull…

Cool fingers and hands like a balm find his, wrapping around. A voice he could tell was talking to him but he couldn’t make out the words, the only thought in head was that their hands fit. Six fingers cradling his five, utterly secure and protected. They squeezed his with all their might.

Oh. Safe.

The rattle and rumble of the truck’s engine washed back over him like blissful static in his ears, because Sixer was here. Sixer was gonna keep his head above water, keep him floating. Stanley could lean on him, for a little while. At least until he could float on his own ( don’t drag him down with you ).

“ …Stanley…? ” Stanford’s voice was faraway, but also right beside Stanley.

The black spots were enveloping his vision, slowly swallowing him whole. The weird pink salamander drifted down, settling beside Stanley. In its black eyes Stanley could see matter created and destroyed, atoms made from nothing and crushed into non-existence. An entire galaxy in lightless pools of water.

It watched him placidly, big smile still yawning across its face.

Stanley looked away, eyes settling instead on Stanford’s hands, focusing there as the dark overwhelmed him.

He got the sudden, distinct feeling that he might not wake up again.

“Night-night, Six,” he slurred out, voice raspy and thin.

Then his eyes slid shut, and the mounting wave went crashing down, and left nothing of him remaining.

𓆟

His next moments came to him quick and fleeting as single heartbeat. Brief and bleary, never lasting long enough before Stanley slipped back under the static water again.

It was a lot like being caught under the waves. One minute you’re gasping for air and the next minute you’re crashing back under again, water roaring in your ears. Stanley emerged for only momentary seconds before being pulled back under again, up and down, in and out of consciousness.

Voices like a storm at sea, waves crashing together above his head, his cheek pillowed in the crook of an arm. Somebody lifting him. Movement. Pain swirled like a vortex in his head, his throat and body burning and boiling.

For the briefest flash that’s all he knows. But there was a small, six-fingered hand in his, and that was all the reassurance of safety he needed to let himself glide under again, into the soft respite of unconsciousness.

𓆟

Chaos roared around him. All Stanley could do was hold on, six fingers keeping him anchored, stable.

Voices all talking over each other, the cacophony even worse than before. Stanley couldn’t hold all the words in place in his head, couldn’t get a grip on them. He thought he could hear in his Pa, somewhere in the storm, but he wasn’t sure. He could only catch the snippets that floated close enough to make out.

“-critical condition- can I get a nurse over here?!” One voice yelled way too close to him to be comfortable, grating on his ears and sharpening the pain in his head to a dagger-point.

The thunder of footsteps, shuffling around him. The world was bleach, sterile white and filled with faces and shapes Stanley didn’t recognize.

“Wait!” cried someone else, a voice Stanley would recognize from anywhere. Sixer . He was choked and sharp with desperation, and that, more than anything else, had the beginnings of panic stirring in Stanley’s chest. “Wait, please, I have to go with him!”

Six fingers fumbled to keep hold of his, as Stanley was pulled away. Stanley tried to hold on too, fear seizing his chest at the thought of being separated now, when Stanley needed Stanford most. But his body was being moved away, caught and swept up in the storm of chaos all around them.

Stanford’s hand slid out of his.

“Stanford-” Pa’s voice, gruff with an undercurrent of emotion that Stanley had never heard in his father and certainly wasn’t ready to understand now, tried.

“Stanley!”

Stanford tried to run after him, but Pa quickly caught him around the waist, pulling him back.

“You’ll get to see him in a minute, boy, just wait . The doctors have to-”

“ Stanley! ” Stanford screamed, round face getting red and blotchy with tears as Stanley was carried farther and farther down the white hall. His features became more and more muddled and blurry in Stanley’s vision the farther away he became, but Stanley could still see him, somehow, in perfect clarity - memory substituted for reality.

Stanley could see his brown eyes welling with tears, could see the desperation in his face that he could hear from in his voice.

“Sixer…” he whined softly, his heart thundering a rabbit-like pace of fear, wrenching and squeezing the farther away his brother became. He tried to reach out for him, but his hand met nothing but air, empty air.

The weird pink salamander swam along beside Stanley, watching the scene placidly. But Stanley paid it little mind, thinking of nothing but how far away his brother was becoming.

“Don’ leave me,” he tried, weak voice hitching around a despairing noise.

But Pa was holding Stanford back, yellow plaid arms cinched firmly, unshakably around him as Stanford kicked and punched and wailed, clawing at his arms like a wild animal with a frenzy Stanley had never seen in his brother.

Stanford could only yell his name down the hall, echoing into Stanley’s ears as the last thing he heard before he gave back in to the darkness creeping in at the corners of his vision.

Without his brother, the unconsciousness that enveloped him felt less like a blanket drawn up snugly around his shoulders, and more like a curtain closing.

The last feeling he had before the dark overwhelmed him was the wordless feeling of finality.

⚛︎

Stanford clawed at his Pa’s arms, sinking to the ground in great big heaving sobs as he watched the doctors whisk his brother away.

He felt like a piece of himself had been ripped out, some deep and intrinsic organ which a hand had callously invaded where he kept the most treasured pieces of himself.

Stanley needed him. Stanley needed him but they wouldn’t letting Stanford come with, even though that was his brother, his twin, who was sick and hurting and needed Stanford to keep him afloat.

And Stanford certainly felt like he needed Stanley . He was so scared , scared of everything that could be happening to his brother without him there to watch. He needed to see that his brother was alright, he needed to stay by his side, holding his hand, for both of them. Because Stanford was so petrified of everything, of all of this, and he knew his brother must be too. Stanford had to be there, he had to be.

But Pa’s grip around him barely faltered as Stanford struggled. He just held on, wordless as ever, stoic and cold as stone.

For the first time (but certainly not the last), Stanford was certain he hated his father.

“ Stanley !” he screamed, pounding too-small fists on the plaid-cloaked arms that restrained him, body shaking with the force of his own sobbing. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks, his vision blurring with them, hands too busy clawing at his Pa’s arms to wipe them away.

“Damn it, boy, you’re making a fool of yourself,” Pa growled, voice shaking slightly. “Get it together. Nothing gets solved by childish crying - what are you, a girl?”

Any other time those words would have meant something to Stanford, but now he couldn’t imagine a world in which they would. A world in which Stanford cared more about his Pa’s opinion than his own brother.

“They took him!” Stanford cried, voice choking on the words. “Th-they took him and they didn’t let me come with, an’, an’ he’s gonna be so scared and I’m not there to make sure he’s okay, an’ what if I never see him again -?!”

Stanford snapped his mouth shut, stilling suddenly, shocked at those four words, having not fully conceptualized them until he’d said them.

Never see him again. What if I never see him again?

“He’ll be fine, for Pete’s sake stop yer crying-”

“ You don’t even care! ” Stanford suddenly snapped, the shout wrenching its way out of his throat for the most painful part of himself. Maybe it was the shock of the outburst, or maybe Stanford finally found the strength - Stanford ripped himself out of his Pa’s arms, throwing himself away from him. “Stanley could- could die and you don’t even care !”

Pa’s face was still with shock for a moment, before it morphed into a look of pure fury. He rose to his feet to loom over Stanford, hands curling into fists as he took on an authoritative stance. His voice was low, words gathering like a storm. “You have no right to speak to me that way, boy-”

A ragged sob tore its way out of Stanford’s body, loud and unrestrained. His entire body hitched on the force of the noise, tears rolling like a downpour. “Why- why don’t you care?”

Stanford made wet noise, gasping for breath.

“…would you even care if he died?” he said, in a voice so very small.

Pa had no response for that. He opened and closed his mouth, expression torn between thunderous and shocked. His fists tightened, hands twitching slightly.

Stanford just stood there, waiting for a moment, though he wasn’t even sure what he was waiting for. He didn’t expect an explanation, he certainly didn’t expect anything in the form of an apology.

He only waited, the only noises he made the soft, wracked breathing of someone trying very hard not to sob outright, and failing miserably in doing so.

He wanted his brother.

Every atom of his being screamed at him to turn and run down the hall, to rush to Stanley’s side, wherever that was, but some invisible force held him in place.

Stanford was beginning to think he might be a coward. He knew Stanley wouldn’t have hesitated to race down that hall straight to him if it had been Stanford in an unfamiliar hospital bed.

If, if-

An ugly noise convulsed out of Stanford, hands finally coming up to scrub at his tear-soaked cheeks futilely. It was no use - he just couldn’t stop crying, and the tears just wouldn’t stop coming.

Stanford shook his head, making his watery vision swim. “I don’t- I…” he swallowed, sniffling. “Just leav’ me alone.”

He turned and darted back to the lobby before his Pa could respond. It was sparse in there, and Stanford was able to duck underneath one of the chairs against the wall, crawling on the floor and pulling himself into a small ball. Knees to his chest, dropping his head, hands tangling in his hair and eyes screwed shut against the tears he couldn’t stop, he let himself cry openly.

In the dark, his thoughts closed in.

What if Stanley died?

He couldn’t even fathom the thought. He was five years old, and he’d never spent a day without his brother, hardly ever been split up for more than an hour or two. The thought of a world without Stanley was as difficult to comprehend as a world without sunlight, or without air. He couldn’t imagine himself living while Stanley was dead.

But Stanley wasn’t going to die, Stanford told himself, trying to make the thought sound firm and certain. Stanley would not die.

He couldn’t.

Stanley couldn’t die because Stanford didn’t think the world would be able to keep turning without his brother there. Surely the sun wouldn’t rise in the morning without Stanley’s grin to light up the dark, surely the waves wouldn’t crash on the beach without Stanley to play in them.

Stanley couldn’t die, because if he did, would that mean it was-

Stanford stilled.

Would that mean it was Stanford’s fault?

Stanford was the doctor. Stanford promised his brother he’d take care of him. So, did that mean… did that…

A high, stilted sound whined from somewhere near him, and it took Stanford a moment to realize the sound had come from him .

No. No.

Stanford loved his brother. He would never- he would never!

But he couldn’t get the images out of his head. Stanley’s tongue and throat, discolored and painful looking. The full body rash, the feverish sweats. The convulsing-

Stanford curled up into an even tighter ball on the floor, limbs squeezing into himself. The fetal position, he remembered, was a somewhat common stress position. It reminded some part of the brain of the safety of before they were born. ( He wondered if twins were the same, or if everyone else felt that ache of a missing piece too. )

“Mr. Pines, can I speak to you for a moment?”

Stanford lifted his head just a bit, blinking as his teary vision readjusted to the blinding fluorescent light of the waiting room.

A woman had approached his Pa, clipboard in hand, expression pinched into a well-practiced, sympathetic look. No. No, no-

“The hell do you want?” Pa snapped, voice something of a croak, though Stanford couldn’t fathom why, what would’ve put that hoarseness there. Pa adjusted his sunglasses, brow furrowing into a glare in the nurse’s direction.

“I just have some questions about your son,” the nurse said evenly. “If you could follow me?”

Surprisingly, Stanford’s Pa did so with barely a grumble. He stiffly followed the nurse into a side hall, giving the two of them some thin illusion of privacy.

Stanford was shakily pushing himself to his feet and creeping after them without even having to think about it.

Normally he left the creeping and sneaking up to Stanley, since he was better at it. But Stanley couldn’t right now, so he needed Stanford to do it for him.

If Pa and the nurse were talking about Stanley, then Stanford had to know.

Pressing his back flush to a wall, he inched along it until he could peek around the corner, finding his Pa and the nurse there, talking.

The nurse had her head bowed, eyes fixed on her clipboard and she scribbled away at it, barely even glancing at Pa.

“…discharge patients without insurance. However, since he’s the age he is, and given the state he’s in, it’d be against policy-” and here she glanced up from the clipboard and at Pa, raising one eyebrow slightly in a dry sort of way “-and our morals - to do anything but insist we hold him here for a full stay.”

“Right,” Pa growled, “for your morals. Doesn’t have anything to do with our wallets, huh?”

She frowned at him, eyebrows ticking into an irritated look. “With all due respect, Mr. Pines, we’re the ones keeping your son alive . If you’d waited any longer to bring him here, he might not have made it.”

The nurse looked at Pa meaningfully.

“He’s incredibly lucky to have made it this far.”

He might not have made it. He might not have made it.

Stanford’s breath caught in his throat. The world spun around him; he suddenly felt lightheaded. Stanley might not have made it.

Pa didn’t have any response for that, either. A moment of tense, waiting silence passed, before the nurse sighed and looked back down at her clipboard.

“His fever is incredibly high. For a child his age and size, that could have been a death sentence. Your son is incredibly resilient, Mr. Pines.” She sighed tensely, marking something down on her clipboard. “He’s in triage right now, but we’ll be moving him to a proper hospital room as soon as we’re able. He’s stable for now, and he’s been given some medication for the fever, but we’ll have to see how his body takes to that, and-”

“For fuck’s sake, is he going to live or not?!” Pa snapped suddenly, voice cracking. The nurse startled a bit, looking up at Pa with wide eyes. “Tell me straight, damn it! I’m grown fucking man, I don’t need your damn kid gloves. Quit pussy-footing around and tell me if my son is going to make it or not!”

Stanford stiffened, eyes going wide.

Pa breathed heavily, going low. “…just- just tell me if I need to call my wife and tell her our son died while his father was supposed to be watching him.”

The nurse looked startled. “…I- hm.”

A beat of quiet passed between them. The nurse sighed, adjusting her glasses.

“…look, I’m not in the business to give anyone false hope. But between you and me? He seems like a tough kid. And we’ll do everything we can to help him, okay? Because that’s our job. ” She took a steadying breath, looking down Stanford’s Pa firmly. “He’s in good hands, Mr. Pines. So I’d say he has a pretty good shot.”

There were more words exchanged, but Stanford stopped listening.

Could die. Could have died.

And it would have been Stanford’s fault, wouldn’t it?

Pa wasn’t going to say it for some reason, but Stanford knew. He was the one who held off on calling for help until the very last second. He was the one who thought he could play doctor with his brother.

It didn’t matter that Stanford hadn’t realized how bad it was. It didn’t matter that Stanford thought he was helping. His brother could have died because of him.

Stanford was struck by the sudden need to see his brother, more than ever before. He needed to see that Stanley was alright. He needed to see that he hadn’t killed him-

He needed to find his brother.

Detaching from the wall, he wandered out of the lobby and down one of the other halls. People moved around him in faceless droves, but none of them gave any mind as he wove and ducked away. Benefits of being small.

The low chatter of voices, pained sounds and beeping machines enveloped him, setting his nerves on edge as he turned the corner with a sign promising the ‘triage’ the nurse had spoken of.

What he found was a long, tall room, white overhead lights and a bunch of beds, all lined up in neat rows, with pathways of wire holding curtains to provide some paltry sense of privacy for each little bed.

And the beds were not all unoccupied.

Many of them were, of course. But plenty still had people in them, sprawled out on dirty hospital beds, hooked up to beeping machines.

Something in Stanford’s chest squirmed uncomfortably at the sight of one, glassy eyed, wrapped in bloody bandages and staring back at him.

Stanford quickly looked away.

He scanned every bed hastily, not wanting to let his eyes linger too long on any one patient. Most, if not all, were adults, hooked up to machines and unconscious, or awake and looking uncomfortable.

One bed had another person, a visitor, bent over it, murmuring to the patient, holding their hand comfortingly. A nurse futzed with one of the machines connected to another, idly adjusting the pillow under the patients head.

Stanford took it all in and discarded it, restless until-

Until there he was.

Stanley looked awfully small in the hospital bed. Stanford almost didn’t recognize him at first, ridiculous as that was - he hadn’t even been put into a hospital gown yet, but something about the image of him felt so off.

His eyes were open, but glassy, staring, squinting slightly at nothing. His mouth was open and moving, but no discernible sound was coming out, mouthing words which only he himself could know.

Then he blinked suddenly, like he was coming out of a haze. His eyes shifted suddenly, landing on Stanford.

The way his gaze just lit up at the sight of Stanford was a sight that Stanford would never forget. Stanley beamed, speaking inaudibly again, but this time Stanford could tell exactly what he was saying.

“Sixer, Sixer-”

“I’m here, Stanley,” Stanford said, moving closer. He felt as though he was being drawn in, either by instinct or some magnetic force it didn’t matter, because Stanford wasn’t resisting.

Stanley made grabby hands for him. “C’mere.”

And Stanford couldn’t fathom a world where he’d refuse that. He crawled up onto Stanley’s hospital bed, digging his nails into the scratchy, plastic-y fabric and hauling himself up.

As soon as Stanford was situated on the bed Stanley wiggled over to him, burrowing into his side like a little animal into its home. Stanford instinctively went to wrap his arms around him, his hand finally finding its home in Stanley’s again, as Stanford fought the sudden urge to cry.

“Missed ya,” Stanley told him, tucking his face under Stanford’s chin. His voice was still scratchy, raspy, but Stanford could feel his small smile against his skin. “Where’d ya go?”

Stanford blinked at him, nonplussed. “You- do you know where you are?” Stanford asked.

“Right next to you,” Stanley answered immediately, like that was the most important thing, and nothing else except that mattered to him.

“You’re in a hospital,” Stanford told him, because it was important to him that Stanley knew that.

“A hospital,” Stanley echoed, brow furrowing a little like that didn’t make sense. He lifted his head a bit and looked around the room, suddenly confused. His eyes went hazy again, grasping for blurry memory he apparently didn’t recall. “Whuh- why…?”

“You’re sick, Stanley. You-” Stanford voice cracked, feeling the rush of hot tears suddenly leaping up to rush through the fracture in his composure, “ You almost died. If we hadn’t- if I was just a little too late, you woulda been-”

Stanford sucked in a sharp breath, choking a little. He’d cried so much today, he didn’t understand how he kept being able to find more tears left to weep. Surely they should have dried out by now. His eyes still burned from the last time but here the fresh wave was again, uncaring and uncontrollable as the last.

A small hand touched his cheek, trying to scrub away his tears for him, but it only make him break down more as Stanley tried to reassure him in his weak voice, words so gentle in a way Stanford was beginning to think he surely didn’t deserve, “Hey, don’ be sad. Y’re okay-”

“ It’s not okay !” Stanford burst out, gasping through the renewed sobbing that wracked him. “It’s not okay at all! You could have died, Stanley, and it woulda been all my fault !”

“Hey!” Stanley said, voice raising slightly, grabbing Stanford by the shoulders and shaking him. “M’ not dead! Not dead. I’m… floating? I’m floating, but y’re holdin’ me down, Sixer, Six, bro-bro… not gonna die, boat needs n’ anchor. Me. You. Me needs you needs me.”

Stanford shook his head, unable to process what any of that meant. Hearing his brother mumbling near-gibberish only made him feel worse .

“You could still die,” He gasped out. “The nurse said-”

“Nurse?” Stanley huffed, like Stanford was the one being absurd. “Don’t need no nurse. Got you.”

Stanford just shook his head, speechless. He wiggled back into Stanley’s side, and Stanley let him, holding him there with one hand coming up to rest in his curls.

Stanley’s skin was still warm, not as hot as before but still feverish, his skin still red and bumpy with a rash. Despite what he said, Stanley was still sick, and he didn’t look that much better than he did earlier. Stanford could still lose him.

“I’m sorry,” Stanford whispered, tears rolling down his face. “M’ sorry Lee, m’ so sorry -”

“Not yer fault,” Stanley cut him off again, tired and firm. “Why would it be your fault?”

At least that made some modicum of sense. “I didn’t- I was supposed ‘ta take care o’ you,  b-but I just made everythin’ worse! I didn’t call for help like I shoulda, I was too busy playin’ doctor, and I- and now you’re dying, Stanley!”

“I’m not dying, ” Stanley said, having the gall to sound the slightest bit annoyed at having to say that again. “I toldja I’m not gonna die. Wanna know how I know?”

Stanford sniffled, looking up through teary eyes. 

Stanley was staring back at him, with a clarity in his eyes so sudden and sharp and intense it scared Stanford.

“Wh- why?” he whispered. 

“The fish told me so,” Stanley said with utter seriousness, like that wasn’t the most absurd logic Stanford had ever heard. “And ’cause I have you lookin’ after me.” he tapped a finger on Stanford’s nose. “You help me.”

Stanford shook his head, choosing to ignore the fish comment. “No. No, I don’t. I think you were asleep, but what Pa said when we were in the car- and the nurse-”

“Botha’ those guys aren’t me , Sixer. They don’t know me.” Stanley pulled Stanford closer, cuddling up to his side. “All I need ‘s you. Simple as that.”

Stanford let out a soft, disbelieving laugh at that. “Sure. Because I was so much help to you earlier, Stanley.”

“Oh, shuddup. I’m fine, woulda been fine,” Stanley dismissed, with far too much flippancy than made Stanford comfortable.

“The nurse said-”

“Didn’t I already tell ya not to listen to her?” Stanley huffed at him. “We don’t need nobody else, Sixer. Besides, I bet she was really mean too.”

Stanford stayed quiet, looking away.

“Knew it,” Stanley huffed, victorious.

“It doesn’t matter that she was mean. If you died-”

“-I ain’t gonna die , for the love of-”

“- If you died, ” Stanford continued firmly, before his voice softened as he went on, “I… I wouldn’t know what to do with myself, Stanley.”

He sucked in a shaking breath, screwing his eyes shut, wishing he could just stop remembering. Remembering what Stanley had looked like, collapsed on the bedroom floor, twitching. Remembering how he’d thrown up. Remembering the fevered delusions and hallucinations.

Remembering how close he’d come to losing his brother.

“I… I need you,” he whispered finally.

Stanley sighed, combing his hand through Stanford’s curls. “I know, Sixer. That’s why I’m not gonna die, okay?”

Stanford sniffled, tightening his hands on the back of Stanley’s shirt. “…alright,” he relented finally, voice barely anything more than a whisper, feeling the insurmountable weight on his back ease slightly with the admission, the mere concept of allowing himself to stop worrying, even if only for a moment. “Okay.”

Stanley shifted them so they were both lying down, bodies elevated slightly by the one, singular pillow at the head of the hospital bed. Face-to-face, nose-to-nose, Stanford looked into Stanley’s eyes, seeing the bright, burning star of life that he’d always seen in his brother’s eyes. Alive. Alive.

“I love you, Stanley,” Stanford whispered, one hand rubbing at his cheeks, streaked with drying tears, his eyes and throat starting to burn a little from all the crying. “You really scared me. I really thought…”

He trailed off, not sure if he wanted to finish the thought, much less speak it aloud.

The images of everything - images of Stanley being carried away from him, of Stanley, sprawled out on the floor and convulsing (and Stanford still didn’t understand what that had been, and it scared him, and he couldn’t stop seeing it) - those images were going to stick with him for a long, long time.

He didn’t really want to think about it.

Stanley didn’t push. Stanley just pulled the blanket up over them, tucking them both in up to their chins. He held Stanford close, resting his cheek on his shoulder, sighing softly through his nose. “Love ya too, Sixer. Sleep time now, for me and you?”

“But…”

“I’m gonna sleep too,” Stanley assured him. “Me and you. Me and you. I’m tired . You wouldn’t make your poor, hop- hop-spill-”

“-hospitalized-”

“-that noise. You wouldn’t make your poor, sick n’ not-dying bro stay up late with ya, wouldja?”

Stanford huffed, tilting his head so that his cheek was pressed into Stanley’s hair. “Don’t joke about that.”

Despite his protests, the day was quickly catching up with. It was probably technically morning by now - this had all started in the middle of the night, after all - but that didn’t stop the exhaustion from feeling bone-deep and all encompassing.

It seemed that the minute Stanford had stopped actively panicking, his body betrayed him by then immediately demanding he sleep. Hmph.

“Yeah, yeah, buzzkill,” Stanley blew a raspberry at him, just a small one.

“Oh- eww, Stanley! You’re slobbering all over me!” Stanford whisper-yelled.

“Mleh mleh mleh.”

“You’re so immature,” Stanford whispered huffily.

“ Wooow , great next to bed manners, Sixer. Sooo… nice-nice.”

“I’m going to bed now. Goodnight, Stanley,” Stanford said firmly, ignoring Stanley. He wormed his way closer, taking comfort in Stanley’s arms around him and his arms around Stanley as he shut his eyes with finality.

With Stanley holding him; mumbling nonsense above him but still, at least, still so clearly living; and their two hands intertwined, sleep came far easier than expected for Stanford.

Just so long as he had his brother beside him, he could believe that everything might just be able to turn out alright.

𓆟

Stanley wasn’t an idiot.

He knew how close death had crept up to him. He’d felt its cold fingers brush along his scalp, sending chill down his spine. He’d felt the heavy eyes watching him, smelt the fresh dirt of a recently dug grave, waiting for him to fill it. And some part of him, while it didn’t exactly look forward to it , had been at peace with that.

But then Stanford had showed up, had crawled into bed beside him, crying and holding on to Stanley. Stanford had needed him, and Stanley had to be there for him.

Stanford needed comforting. Stanford needed someone to tell him everything was gonna be alright. And that someone was Stanley, because it was Stanley’s job to take care of his brother.

For as long as Stanford needed him, Stanley would remain. So he pushed through the cold sting of the encroaching end, and shoved himself into the sunlit warmth of his brother’s arms, and life.

Stanley could not die, not while his brother still needed him.

And if there was ever a time where Stanford didn’t need him, where he stopped needing him-

Well.

Then that would be the end of that.