Work Text:
It’s a quiet Thursday evening in the dead of March. There’s nothing going on in town at this time of year; and it’s been far too cold recently for the twins to get to the beach to continue their work on the Stan O’ War.
Ford decides it’s another night in the humble confines of their bedroom directly above the pawn shop’s entrance. He might as well make himself comfortable, seeing as he’s stuck indoors…alone…again. He climbs in his bunk-bed; he finds it hard to focus hunched over his desk, especially with his back starting to hurt from his intense studies. He nestles his composition notebook between his knees and cradles a chewed-up, black-inked, ballpoint pen in his fingers. He’s hunkered down for the time-being. He sighs. The door opens in a flash and shuts with a heavy thud…Stan’s home.
“Hey poindexter, you got a sec?” Stan opens the door to their closet and yanks his black leather jacket off the coat hanger placed dead-center on the rack.
Ford writes his usual chicken-scratch between the margins of his English notebook, trying to capture any sort of magic for their latest assignment, “What do you want?”
Stan shoves his arms through the sleeves of his well-worn jacket, “You know that poem we have due for English tomorrow?”
“Yes…please don’t tell me you haven’t started it yet.”
“Okay, I won’t,” Stan zips the jacket just below his breasts, showing off enough of his t-shirt that the word “Creedence” is highlighted across his broad chest.
“Stan! The assignment is due tomorrow— and need I remind you that this poem is worth ten percent of—”
“Yeah, yeah, ten percent of our grade. I know, but who cares? Poetry’s for girls anyway…honestly, when am I gonna need it?”
“That’s not the point…”
Stan rifles through an old blue milk crate which houses their small record collection at the bottom of their closet, “I could just rip off something from one of your nerd records, I’m sure no one in our class listens to…” he slips an album out of the crate, “King Crimson.” He unfolds the cover.
“I’ll have you know King Crimson is one of the most technically proficient bands out there, and besides, I don’t think their lyrics are appropriate for a high school English class.”
“Not even from…” Stan’s eyes scan through the lyrics sheet on the inner-fold, “21st Century Schizoid Man?”
“Certainly not!” Ford protests the naïvety on full display; he scratches out his latest half-baked idea out of pure frustration.
Stan reads aloud the lyrics as follows:
“Death seed blind man’s greed
Poets’ starving children bleed
Nothing he’s got he really needs
21st Century Schizoid Man”
Stan folds the cover and returns the album to the crate, “Fuck me…you’re right about that one…” he closes the closet door quietly.
“Have you thought of anything? I’m sure the gears in your brain are covered in rust by now.”
“I stopped by Mrs. Ratched’s class during her free period.”
“So what you’re saying is you skipped your math class?”
“Well, when you put it that way…anyway, I stopped by and I asked her about some ideas that I had.”
“And what did she say?”
“That I’m not allowed to use the word ‘Nantucket.’”
“Stanley!”
“What does she expect me to do now? That was all three of my ideas!”
Ford’s eyes lift from the paper for just a split-second, catching a glimpse of Stan, and he puts his head back down. He stifles a cough, “You better think of something— and not just spitting something out during lunch tomorrow before class.”
“I know,” Stan digs his trusty comb from his inner breast pocket.
Ford’s face warms as he suggests, “If you want, I can help you tonight…that’s actually what I’m working on…”
“Yeah, that sounds great…”
Ford’s heart skips a beat, “Really!?” He’s just a little too loud.
“But unfortunately I’ve got my date with Carla tonight…going dancing and all, you know the drill.” The fine teeth of his comb course through his thick, brown, pomade-scented, locks, “How’s it look?” He stares at his reflection in the mirror hanging off their bedroom door.
Ford looks up from his notebook he’s scribbling his half-hearted musings in. He gazes intently. He’s always had a certain feeling for Stan, and he can’t quite articulate it…
Yes, he can, actually, but he couldn’t say it out loud…what he wants to say, at least…
“Stanley…you are the single most beautiful man in the entire world…I would give up my life for you just to see you smile…for you to hold me…to tell me that I’m your one and only…”
“It’s fine.” Ford goes back to his notes.
“Just fine?” Stan scrambles to find the flaw Ford’s implying. “What does that mean?”
“You look fine, Stanley. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch.”
“It’s my hair, isn’t it? Can you come down for a minute and help me fix it?” Stan returns his comb to its protective pocket.
“Damn that black leather jacket.”
Ford sticks his pen in the fold of his notebook; he snaps it closed and tosses it aside. He climbs down from his bunk and looks at Stan, doing his best to avoid meeting his eyes.
“Damn those soft brown eyes.”
“Turn around, please.”
Stan turns his back to the elder twin, “So what is it? What do you see?”
There’s nothing wrong. It’s perfect. He’s perfect.
“Well…uh…” Ford grasps desperately for some excuse. “There’s a cowlick!” He brushes his fingers through the top of Stan’s head. “It’s hard to see in the mirror…is all…I saw it from my bunk, you know…”
“I knew I could trust those eagle-eyes of yours…”
Ford’s cheeks burn with desire…
“You wanna fix it up for me?”
Ford’s silent. He nods. His fingers work delicately to not cause damage, to not allow a single strand to fall out of place.
Stan sighs sharply. Ford’s magic takes its effect.
Ford extracts himself from Stan’s mane. His fingers are slick; they’re dyed in that sharp scent.
“How’s it look now?”
Ford stares. He gulps. “Just one more thing…”
“Can you hurry up? I’m running late.”
He straightens the collar of that…that damn black leather jacket. “There…you’re perfect.”
Stan turns about-face, “Lookin’ sharp, huh? I’d say I’m quite the catch.”
Ford glares at Stan’s supple cheeks…he reaches out and cups his hand under the strong chin nestled now in his palm, “I’m inclined to agree…”
“You’re playing a dangerous game…quit while you’re ahead…”
“Ford, what’s the matter?”
“If you’re going to do it, then do it. What are you waiting for?”
“Ford?”
“Don’t let him slip away…don’t let him slip…don’t let him…don’t let…don’t…”
“Is there something on my face?”
Ford snaps back to reality, “Huh? What? Stan?”
“Did you get it?”
Ford looks at his hand. It’s still there.
“How long has it been?”
“The spot…did you get it?”
“Fuck…fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
Ford retracts his hand back to his side; he stumbles backwards, tripping over the mound of dirty laundry at the foot of Stan’s bunk. “Ow! God damn it, Stanley!”
“Ford! I’m sorry, are you okay?” Stan extends a hand to help, but Ford slaps him away.
“Just go!”
“Look, Sixer, I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up when I get–”
“I don’t fucking care!” Ford’s on the verge of tears, he stifles the forthcoming sobs as much as he can, “Just leave me alone!”
Stan takes a step back. He feels awful, but he doesn’t want to upset his brother further. He doesn’t say another word. He opens the door; he turns around only to find the weeping teenager bellowing with his knees pressed to his chest. He slams the door behind him.
Ford yanks the pillow off of Stan’s bunk. He buries his face in the unwashed linen.
“Oh god…his smell…he’s here…please, Stanley…don’t leave…”
He screams.
They’re muffled.
They’re unheard.
He sulks; he wishes that in this moment the lights would all go out and the world around him would crumble beneath his feet, sparing him from further heartbreak. His fist knocks against the side of the pillow; he feels as if he could rip it in half with the slightest pull. He attempts…it’s futile. His hands grip the sides of the pillow and his arms tremble from his dire lack of upper body strength. His mood dissipates from anger to flat-out embarrassment at the sorry attempt of rage-filled destruction. He throws the pillow back on Stan’s bed; it slaps the wall before it thuds softly against his unwashed linen.
He gazes about the empty room. The lights are on. The building’s foundation hasn’t cracked. The world hasn’t ended…at least for now.
His fingertips pinch the frame of his glasses; he carefully lifts them off the bridge of his nose. He dries his eyes with the sleeves of his dress shirt. He breathes…for the first time in what’s felt like an eternity…he breathes. He fixes his glasses in their resting position.
He picks himself off the floor and searches for his notebook…his bed. It’s still there, just as he left it, pen snuggled in the crease and all. He reads the drivel that adorns the lined sheets, mocking him. How did he ever think he could pass this off? None of this is true; he feels no attachment to anything he’s written. He contemplates; how does he feel? His stomach flutters. His thoughts race. His heart thumps.
He closes his eyes and all he can see is Stan. All he can hear is Stan whispering sweet nothings. All he can feel are Stan’s arms wrapped around him. All he can smell is that goddamn jacket. All he can taste are Stan’s sweet—
His eyes open.
He rips the pages from his notebook. They’re meaningless. He can start fresh. A clean slate. Like an artist to their blank canvas, the emptiness of the page stares deeply into his soul. He shuts the blinds and the overhead light; he’s content with the soft ember from the desk lamp. He writes.
And writes.
And writes.
And writes.
“This is how the greats do it…how Byron crafts words…how Beethoven composes symphonies…how Monet paints masterpieces…”
He writes through the night. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t leave the room. He writes in several positions: sitting at his desk, lying in his bunk, back on the floor with his feet on Stan’s sheets, standing beside the bed using his mattress as a makeshift desk…but none of them seem to do the trick.
It’s midnight. Stan’s still not home…”the heathen.” The wastepaper basket cornered by his desk is filled to the brim with scrapped pages and chewed pens. He throws himself on Stan’s bed; he stares at the wooden planks that support the mattress above. His eyes close…they envision Stan. His heart races; his mind replays the moment on repeat…destined to relive this moment for the rest of time…unless…
He shoots upright, crashing his forehead against one of the planks. “Fuck!” It’s short…it’s direct. He rubs the swelling spot just below his hairline. It’ll bruise, but whether or not it’ll hurt more than what he’s been through already tonight, he’s not sure. He reaches across to his desk and reels in his comp notebook and pen. The notebook’s as thin as a spindle; he’s torn out more than half the pages tonight alone. He pops the cap off and puts pen to paper.
He writes slowly…methodically…but the words flow from him. He doesn’t stop to think; once his pen reaches the end of the line, it moves directly to the next. This is a new sensation. He’s never felt so relaxed in front of his homework before. The once blank canvas that ate away at his soul now bears a bright palette of colors and emotion.
This is it.
This is the one.
He closes his notebook, pen resting in the crook once more to save his place; he tosses it onto his desk beside their bed. He swings his feet over the edge of the mattress. He grabs Stan’s pillow and wanders up to his own bunk. He doesn’t bother waiting up for his truant brother any longer. He cradles Stan’s pillow against his body, and when his head hits his own, he’s out for the rest of the night.
* * *
Stan opens the door to their bedroom, half expecting to find Ford hunched over his desk, but of course, it’s 3:00 A.M., why would he be up this late? The lights are on. It’s like he never went out. The only difference is that it’s dead quiet. There’s something that’s nagging at him, but he can’t quite place it. He opens the closet and hangs up his jacket. He leaves it open. He doesn’t usually. But it’s that feeling…
He turns and sees Ford knocked out; he’s dead to the world, but what’s that he’s holding onto? Stan sees his bunk missing an important piece. He tiptoes to the bunk bed. His fingers wrap the corner of the pillow; he tugs with a slight force, but Ford won’t budge. He pulls with greater strength but Ford refuses to give up any leverage.
“Stan…”
“What was that? Did I hear that correctly?” His brain is running on fumes after the night he’s had,“It must be the liquor talking…”
He tugs once more.
“Stanley…don’t leave me…” it’s quiet, but Stan’s sure that whatever’s going on in Ford’s mind, he must be shouting it internally. His pleads are desperate.
He attempts a final time.
“I can’t…I can’t…please…” Ford turns over and his body wraps around Stan’s pillow tighter.
“Guess I’m not getting that back tonight…” Stan’s forced to concede.
He plops himself on his bed. He kicks his shoes off toward the desk; it’s there he sees Ford’s English notebook bookmarked with his pen. He never does that; he’s always sure to put his materials in his backpack before he’s in bed for the night. Stan wonders if Ford wants him to read the contents inside, otherwise, why else would he leave it out in the open, exposed to prying eyes? He’s rationalizing, which according to the elder twin, it’s never a good sign when Stan rationalizes; it usually leads to more trouble than he’s already in. But Ford’s passed out…he’s not going to see…he’ll be quiet…
He swipes the notebook. He sits on the edge of his bed and sticks his thumb in the space occupied by the pen. He’s directed to the the final pages of the tattered composition notebook; he nestles the pen behind his ear. He reads.
And reads.
And reads.
And reads.
His eyes dart across the page, line after line, over and over, taking in the scope of the words his brother crafted with extreme delicacy. He doesn’t want to believe it, but he has to…this is him. He’s the muse that Ford wrote of. His writing: it’s somber, it’s heartbreaking, it’s hauntingly beautiful. He can’t lose this. He wants to carry this with him, but he can’t just take it; it’d be too obvious. A light bulb goes off in his head.
He reaches at the foot of his bed and yanks his backpack toward him. He rustles through the pages of wrinkled notes and overdue worksheets. His digs out his own English notebook and tosses the book-bag aside. He moves carefully into Ford’s chair and sits at his desk. He copies Ford’s words, stroke for stroke, taking care to keep his handwriting as neat as possible. At the end of each line he glanced over his right shoulder up toward the ceiling, making sure the elder twin stays asleep.
Ford’s entranced in whatever dream he’s fantasizing; his body shivers and he moans. He’s calling out again, “Stan…please…I’m sorry…” His leg kicks out and sends the blanket to flop over the edge of the top bunk. He squeezes the pillow against his body again, and Stan swears he can hear a faint weeping coming from above him.
It’s done. The pen falls from his fingers and rolls off the desk into the wastepaper basket. His hand runs through his hair, gripping tight, it hurts. His eyes water, “Fuck…Stanford…” he sniffles. He can’t imagine how Ford had to feel while writing this; it’s breaking him just copying it, but he’s not just copying, he feels this just as much as his brother…his brother…
“Oh fuck, where’s the pen?”
He scours around the floor surrounding the desk. He finds nothing but crumbs from the bags and bags of toffee peanuts he’s eaten over the years. His instinct tells him to knock the trash can over out of frustration; which he does. The pen rolls under his bunk. He’s ready to scream, but he hears another mewl from above. He takes a deep breath. It helps…slightly. He shoves his arm under the wooden frame and searches around. His fingertips plop on the pen, taking a fortunate roll toward him. He uses his index finger to guide it in the right direction.
The pen’s safely in his grasp. He returns it to the notebook, just where Ford left it…but how was his notebook placed? Was it face up? On the edge of the desk or more central? He frets, needlessly he supposes, but his brother is quite peculiar in having things precise. He recalls the fact that it was even on the desk to begin with being unlike him, so he shouldn’t worry about its exact placement. He plants his hand on his mattress as leverage to bring himself back to his feet. He sets the notebook on Ford’s desk, but a rustling of papers come from beneath him.
“Fuck…how was the trash placed in the can?…wait, he can’t be that anal…can he?”
He scoops the scattered pages into the basket and corners it between the desk and the wall. He returns his own notebook to his book-bag, burying it under the scores of papers, and zipping the bag slowly, not wanting to wake the sleeping poet.
He gets undressed, throwing the night’s clothes on top of the ever-mounting pile of dirty laundry…the laundry…
“God damn it…I said I’d take care of this…”
Stan walks quietly to the door; he turns the knob and opens, leaving it slightly ajar, just enough to fit a hand or a foot. He sorts through the mound of clothes at his feet; he cradles the mess of laundry in his arms, wanting to accomplish the task of venturing to the laundry room in one trek. Once his collection is complete, he steps softly to the door, using his foot to open it a bit further, just so he can fit through…he succeeds.
Upon his return he finds that the blanket formerly draped over Ford’s bunk has fallen to the floor. He bends down. He brings the fleece blanket to his nose, he inhales…it’s Ford’s scent alright. Ford’s still snuggling the pillow, not keen to give it up, so Stan doesn’t attempt to retrieve it. He opens the blanket fully and drapes it over the slumbering twin. He stands on the edge of his bunk, giving himself an extra foot in height, and stares intently at Ford. His hand extends out and runs through Ford’s silky brown hair. His fingernails scratch lightly at the scruff of Ford’s neck.
“You’re playing a dangerous game here, Stan…quit while you’re ahead…”
His thumb rubs against the soft, supple, flesh of Ford’s cheek…it’s wet…
“If you’re going to do it, then do it. What are you waiting for?”
He trails to the corner of his mouth…
“Don’t let him slip away…don’t let him slip…don’t let him…don’t let…don’t…”
“Stanley…”
Stan snaps back into reality, nearly falling flat on his back, which would’ve been cushioned by the ancient wood of Ford’s desk. His foot slips off his sheets and he lands firmly on the floor below.
“How long has it been?”
He looks at the clock on the desk, “4:15 A.M.”
“Fuck…fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”
“Stanley, don’t leave…”
“He’s still asleep…thank God…”
He throws himself on his bunk. He knows he’s not getting any sleep tonight. His eyes follow the grains in the wooden planks above him, desperate that it’ll put him to sleep, but it’s hopeless. His thoughts race with the words now ingrained in his muscle memory. He contemplates; how does he feel? His stomach flutters. His thoughts race. His heart thumps.
He closes his eyes and all he can see is Ford. All he can hear is Ford calling his name in the heat of the night. All he can feel are Ford’s arms draped over his broad shoulders, his hands clutching at his shirt. All he can smell is that goddamn blanket as if it were still pressed to his nose. All he can taste are Ford’s delicate—
His eyes open.
They remain open.
* * *
The deafening chatter in the classroom irritates Ford today more than usual. He’s scribbling in his notebook, which is now down to its final two pages. His chicken-scratch is barely legible, but it’s the least of his concerns. At this point, all he needs is to get something on paper. Besides, a good chunk of his grade is the presentation portion, where the students will be called to the front of the class to read their poems aloud.
He glances up from the notebook and sees Stan rushing through the doorway just in time. The younger twin takes the seat to Ford’s right. “Where have you been?”
“Looking for you,” Stan’s mildly annoyed, “Where were you during lunch?”
“Why are you concerned at all? Didn’t you sit with Carla again, as per usual?”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I—”
“I was in here working on my poem.” The bell rings but the room’s still abuzz with the post-lunchtime energy that teenagers are full of.
Mrs. Ratched enters the room and the buzz dissipates quickly. “Good afternoon, class.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ratched,” the class chants collectively.
Mrs. Ratched has a quiet command of the room. She’s respected, which is saying something, considering most of the other teachers at Glass Shard Beach High School hardly give a second thought to the quality of the students’ education: something that Ford resents greatly. It’s for this reason that Ford feels ashamed for the quality of work he’s prepared to bring forward. It’s only a matter of time until his name is called, and he’ll be the first of the twins to present, being before Stanley both alphabetically as well as in age.
Crampelter’s poem isn’t even a poem, it’s just a re-telling of what he did throughout the course of a day, and even so, Ford feels as though this is better prepared than his. He's dead-eyed and stoic; he doesn’t notice that Stan has been swapping stares between his morose self and his perfervid poem copied in the younger twin’s notebook.
Mrs. Ratched runs through the list of students, and roughly halfway through the period, Carla is called up to present. Ford can’t wait to hear what she’s brought to the table. She’s usually one of the only other students in the class that has any creative talent. She’s got a good head on her shoulders. She clears her throat and reads from her paper, “‘What is Love?’ by Carla McCorkle.”
“Oh good grief. Stan got to her, too…” he thinks.
“What is Love?
Love is like a box of chocolates,
You never know what you you’re going to get.”
This continues for sometime. Her allusions to Stan are prevalent, comparing him to the bittersweet taste of a rich dark cocoa, implying that he’s hard to get through to at first, but soon develops into an acquired taste…a taste that Ford long since had a burning desire to devour. Her words fade, the lights dim, all that he knows before him is Stan. He’s draped in a silk robe, splayed across Mrs. Ratched’s desk, cast in a pink spotlight, and dusted with rose petals. He beckons toward the aching teen, “Take me, Stanford…I need you…it’s just the two of us…”
“Stanford Pines!”
He’s back. He looks around the room and catches the cold stare of Mrs. Ratched pierce through him. “Oh…I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question.”
A light laughter comes from a few of the students, but they quickly subside.
“I didn’t ask a question, Stanford,” Mrs. Ratched states, “it’s your turn to present your poem.”
Ford’s heart pumps fiercely. “Oh…right.” He rips the paper from the notebook’s binding, gets up from behind his desk, and walks to the front of the class. He trips over Crampelter’s leg, intentionally stuck-out, and nearly falls to the floor, catching himself by grabbing onto the back of another student’s chair.
“Oops, didn’t see you there…” Crampelter tosses one of his signature taunts his way.
Ford brushes it off and stands before the class. He, like everyone before, clears his throat and begins, “I don’t really have a title for this one…I guess it’s called ‘The Nantucket Poem,’ by Stanford Pines.” He turns to his teacher for approval, and in apology for what he’s about to say.”
His eyes move to the wrinkled paper clutched in his hands, “There once was a man from Nantucket…”
A sharp laughter erupts from the class.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake…” Mrs. Ratched whispers to herself, marking in her grade-book something negative, Ford’s assured of.
He coughs into his hand.
“Please continue with your poem, Stanford.” Mrs. Ratched rests her forehead in her hand.
Ford starts again:
“There once was a man from Nantucket
He caught his shoe inside of a bucket
He then fell down
On top of a clown
And the clown told him to ‘slag off and suck it’”
The class is in shambles. The laughter encloses Ford into a state of utter embarrassment. He turns to their teacher once more, “I’m sorry, was that okay? I don’t really know what that last line means, I just heard Stanley say it once, and I kinda needed a rhyme, and—”
“Paper. Now.” Mrs. Ratched extends her hand, and she snatches the paper Ford offers. “Sit…down…Pines.”
Ford returns to his seat. He shoves his notebook in his backpack.
“Alright, alright, settle down, children,” she stands from her desk, “that’s enough. Yes, yes, I’m sure you all found that quite amusing, but honestly, Stanford…” Ford’s head pops up from his arms. She continues, “I’m very disappointed. Although, I’m pretty sure I know what’s gotten into you,” she turns her head in the direction of the younger twin, “Stanley?”
Ford’s head is once again bogged down in his arms on the desk.
Stan chimes in, “What did I do? I didn’t do nothing, Ratched, I swear!”
“No, Stanley,” she sighs, “it’s your turn to present.”
“Oh…” now Stan’s feels the shame his brother emits into the room. He pushes his chair back and begins his trek up to the front of the class, paper in hand. He kicks his leg forward and strikes Crampelter’s knee as the bully attempted to trip the second twin from the other side of his desk. “Oops, didn’t see you there…”
Stan turns about to face the roomful of his peers. His eyes wander directly to Ford, who hasn’t budged an inch since his reprimand.
“Oh, this oughta be good…” a student whispers to his friend.
This sets off a series of comments that his fellow classmates share with each other.
“Children!” Mrs. Ratched snaps.
They halt.
He reads from his paper, “This is called, ‘Eternal Summers: An Exploration of Forbidden Love…’”
Ford shoots upright in his seat. His heart sinks into his stomach. “No fucking way…that fucker…I’m gonna strangle him…”
Stan swallows the fear coursing through his bloodstream. “I hope you like it…”
“For now that you are gone, I dream you, just;
And though my mind should know better than so,
It’s drunk with love and visions, that, of lust;
it tells my heart, that without you, to go.
For what I see, it all comes back to you:
The ocean, flowers, and the birds beneath
the sun
All take your form, and it is true:
As soon as you appear, alas, you’re gone.
For every song I sing and sound I hear—
Your voice carries a quite peculiar tune—
It swings my heart to rhythms that are dear,
And sings my troubles shall be over soon.
And though I should be respite from my fears,
I cannot help but scream into the void:
That without you there’s nothing for me here;
So what you see before’s a lonely boy.”
The class is silent. There’s no jeering, there’s no words of praise, there’s nothing. That is until Ford grabs his backpack, tears streaking down his face, and rushes out of the classroom. Stan turns to their teacher. He gently sets his poem on her desk.
“See me after class,” she whispers to him whilst marking her grade-book.
He returns to his seat; not a word comes from him.
Mrs. Ratched watches on, “Thank you, Stanley. That was…excellent…” She holds the paper in her hand. It’s his handwriting alright. Her eyes move to the class roll, “Alright…Miss Rogers, it’s your turn.”
Stan puts his notebook away. He’s still in his seat; he wishes the floor beneath his desk would open up and swallow him whole, casting him down to the depths of Hell, where hopefully his soul would finally know peace…at least understanding. Alas, it doesn’t, and Stan’s still in fifth period english, and Ford’s nowhere to be found.
“Fuck, what did I do?” he’s far beyond disinterested in the current poetry slam that’s taking place in front of the chalkboard. “Nice going, Stan…why do you have to fuck everything up? Maybe dad was right…what good am I to the family anyway? If I could just show him how I feel…say it somehow…but is it even worth it? He’s gonna resent me for the rest of his life…”
The bell rings. It signals the remainder of the herd to move on with their lives…to go about as if this were simply another day wasted within these shallow halls, but Stan must endure the harsh reality of his plan-gone-awry. His classmates are gone and the room is empty. He’s embedded in his chair.
“Stanley, would you see me at my desk?” Mrs. Ratched calls for him.
His fingers wrap around the left strap of his backpack; he slings it over his shoulder. He marches, slowly, to the front of the room. With every step he takes, his legs grow heavy and his feet root him to the Earth. He sits in the desk immediately before her desk, “You wanted to see me?”
“We don’t have long, I want to make sure you get to your next class on time.”
“Then why don’t we wait ‘till after school?”
“I’ll be brief,” she sorts through the pile of papers on her desk. She uncovers both his and Ford’s poems. “I want to discuss…I don’t even know.”
“Look, if this is about my poem—”
“I wanted to ask you about yours and your brother’s poems, yes. It’s…Ford’s seems to be so poor, for his standards…and yours is—”
“Too good…I know,” Stan drops his backpack at his feet, knowing he’ll be stuck for more than a moment.
She glances at Stan’s poem once more, still enamored and befuddled at its lyrical complexity. “Stanley, I say this with all due respect, but you had to have stolen it from somewhere. Something like that doesn’t just come to you in a dream. Does it? If so, I think you might have a great talent at your disposal.”
“Actually…you’re right. This isn’t mine…it’s Ford’s.” Stan closes his eyes in preparation for a reprimand that never comes.
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you…you know…upset? Aren't you gonna tell Principal Johansen about this? The superintendent? The PTA?”
“What are you going on about?”
“You know, because I…cheated…” Stan rubs the back of his head.
“I’m surprised you’re admitting to this so…openly, is all. How did this come about?”
“It’s our notebooks, see…they got switched. I guess he must’ve grabbed mine from our desk this morning and only noticed when he got up to read his poem in front of the class, and by that time was too embarrassed to say anything, so he read mine instead.”
“And so you then read Ford’s? Carrying on as if it were your own?”
Stan sighs, “That’s right.”
She picks up her red-inked pen and opens her grade-book. “That’s mighty honest of you to admit that, but if that really is your poem that Ford read aloud, I have to remind you that I specifically told you not to write a limerick, let alone using the old “Nantucket” format. You do realize this means your grade will go down?”
He hangs his head, “Yes ma’am…I understand…”
“But…”
Stan perks up at the slim glimmer of hope.
“…because of your honesty, I’ll bump you up an extra five percent.”
Stan practically leaps from the desk, “Oh, thank you! Thank you, Mrs. Ratched!” Stan shakes her hand fervently.
“Of course, Stanley.”
Stan releases her hand once he realizes that he’s lingered for a hare too long. “Heh, sorry about that.”
“It’s alright.” She returns to her grade-book, adjusting their grades accordingly.
Stan picks up his backpack off the unswept tile flooring, “I should get going…”
“Before you go,” Mrs. Ratched sets her pen down. “I hope you and Stanford can work this out. You two are quite the pair…you’re practically inseparable. I would hate for something as petty as this to drive you apart.”
Stan smirks, briefly, “Thanks…I just hope he listens.”
* * *
"Blood rack, barbed wire
Politicians funeral pyre
Innocents raped with napalm fire
21st century schizoid man"
The visceral descriptions of war crimes committed in the harsh jungles of ‘Nam blast through the speakers; though at a lower volume as the pawn shop sits directly beneath their bedroom. Ford’s sunk into Stan’s mattress. He would be in the safety and security of his own bunk if he didn’t have to climb down every twenty-or-so minutes to flip the record over on the turntable. As for now, he’s wrapped in Stan’s sheets— the harsh scent of whiskey emanates strongly from the fibers, evidence of the younger twin’s late-night escapades.
A knock.
“Ford?” Stan’s voice muffles through the door. “You in there?”
“Of course I’m in here,” Ford chides, albeit to himself in thought. “You hear the music, don’t you? Who else would be in here?”
The rattling door knob cuts through the piercing guitars.
“Ford, unlock the door. I just wanna talk.”
“You’ve already said enough today!”
Stan pounds on the door, off-rhythm of the lightning-fast drums…but then again, where’s the downbeat exactly? Stan’s yet to figure that out. “Ford, I’m gonna bust the door down if you don’t let me in.”
“Good luck explaining that one to pops!”
“Oh, it’s gonna be like that, is it? Maybe I’ll tell him that you’re acting like a spoiled brat, huh? I’m going downstairs. Don’t try to stop me.”
”He wouldn’t…he’s gotta be bluffing.” The guitar fades, but the cacophony of wailing saxophones rip through him as if he were caught in a wood-chipper. “What if he tells dad about the poem? What if he outs me? Fuck fuck fuck…” He flings himself out of Stan’s bed and unlocks the door. He nearly tears the door off its hinges only to find Stan front and center, backpack dangling off his left shoulder, leaning against the door to their bathroom across the hallway. “I should’ve known…”
Stan blows by Ford before the elder twin has the chance to lock him out again. He darts to the turntable and switches the power off, halting the record in its tracks.
It’s quiet.
It’s tense.
Ford’s ready to attack.
Stan’s ready to defend. “Ford…”
Ford climbs up to his bunk, “Stan, whatever half-hearted apology you’re about to fake, I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I won’t accept it.”
“Good…”
Ford sits on his pillow, his back against the wall, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Stan slings the weathered rucksack off his shoulders. He unzips the main compartment and rifles through its contents, “I know you too well. I figured an apology was useless, and besides, I’m not gonna apologize for what I did.”
“You embarrassed me in front of the entire class!”
“What do you mean? They loved it! They were hooked, even Mrs. Ratched had nothing but great things to say about it.” Stan pulls free his English notebook.
“Oh god…oh god damnit, Stanley…”
Stan tosses his book-bag at the foot of his bed, “And what was with you writing that ‘Nantucket’ bullshit anyway? Didn’t I tell you that we weren’t allowed to—”
“No, she told you not to use it. There’s a difference. All you do is fuck around…and it’s clearly reflected in your grade point average.”
“You’re lucky I even covered for you! I stayed after class and explained the whole thing, even knowing doing so would drop my grade further.”
Ford sinks further into his bed, “How could you…why did…Stanley, I feel totally violated! How did you even find it?”
Stan sits at Ford’s desk, “I may have snooped through your notebook last night after you passed out…”
“But I tore it out the next morning before you woke up…how did…?”
“Before I went to bed…I copied it…in my notebook.”
Ford is desperate to scream into his constricting blankets, “Do you have any idea what that poem was even about?!”
“Me.” Stan doesn’t dance around the subject. “I know that poem was about me.”
“I…Stanley, I’m so…fucking…if you knew that, then why did you—!?”
“Because I feel the same way!” Stan leaps from the chair, leaving the notebook on Ford’s desk. He paces around, to the closet, to the record player, back to the desk, “Stanford, you don’t understand. I’ve felt this way about you for months, and months, and months, and I didn’t even know that that was how I felt, but it wasn’t until I read your words that…I don’t know…you took the words straight from my heart.”
Ford weeps; he’s quiet. He removes his glasses and places them beside him, getting lost in the fleece blanket. His cheeks flush, a tear streaks down; he sniffles.
“I did some thinking…” Stan traverses to the desk in retrieval of his notebook. He flips through the mostly doodled pages, “I went to the library after school…I needed a quiet place to just…think.” He finds the page. “This isn’t an apology…this is just how I feel…”
Ford sits back up. He tosses the blanket over and sits on the edge of the mattress; his legs hang off, feet pressed against the wooden planks beneath his bunk, “Stan…what are you—?”
“Loving You*: by Stanley Pines…” he begins,
"Loving you is not a choice
It’s who I am
Loving you is not a choice
And not much reason to rejoice
But it gives me purpose
Gives me voice
to say to the world:
This is why I live
You are why I live.
Loving you is why I do
The things I do
Loving you is not in my control.
But loving you, I have a goal
For what's left of my life...
I would live,
And I would die for you."
Stan breaks. The notebook falls from his hands. He drops to his knees. His hands palm the hardwood floor in front of him; his head hangs as he sobs, trying to keep any composure, but his cries escape him as if his heart’s bursting through his chest.
Ford, carefully, slides himself off the bed. His feet thump softly as his socks hit the rug beside Stan’s bunk. “Stanley…” he meets Stan’s level, stroking his hand along Stan’s back, “I’m so sorry…I had no idea. I hate myself for doing this to you.”
Stan can’t hear him.
“Stan…will you please look at me?”
Stan pounces on the elder twin, wrapping himself around him, crying into his shoulder. He breathes roughly. He trembles on every exhale.
Ford returns the sorrowful embrace. “It’s okay, Stan…take your time.” He pets behind his ear. His hand runs through Stan’s hair again, triggering the painful memories of last night. He couldn’t do it; he couldn’t bear the thought of losing Stan due to his own callous decisions, and where is he now? He’s back to square one…losing Stan to his own callous decisions. He’s not gonna let him slip away. “Please…Stanley…will you look at me?”
Stan lifts his head from Ford’s shirt.
Ford cups Stan’s chin, rubbing his thumb on Stan’s cheek. It’s wet…it’s hot…he pulls him in.
Their lips meet.
Ford’s unsure of what he’s doing. He’s hoping Stan will take the bait and show him the way. He mouths at Stan’s slightly chapped lips, begging him to take control…to dominate him.
Stan’s tongue prods out, and forces entry into Ford’s wanting mouth. His hand glides up Ford’s body, cradling the back of his head in his palm. He brings him in tighter.
Their breathing becomes more rapid…more desperate for oxygen as they refuse to part from one another.
“Fuck…Stanley…” Ford’s lips hum against Stan’s as he begs for him, “I need…need you…”
Stan responds by shoving himself further inside, swiping at the back of Ford’s warm throat. His right legs protrudes between Ford’s thighs…they slip up and rub Ford…feeling Ford’s length prod against his leg.
“Stan…please…use me…”
Stan peels himself off Ford slowly, intentionally, methodically.
Their eyes meet.
Stan’s out of focus being so close to Ford’s face. Ford’s eyes struggle to adjust.
“Close your eyes, Fordsie…let me take care of you…”
Ford obeys.
Stan plants soft kisses all over Ford’s face. His forehead…the bridge of his nose…his lips…his cheek…moving down to the crook of his neck…he mouths at the succulent flesh. He opens the top two buttons of Ford’s dress shirt, exposing more skin. His lips suckle at the tight skin just above the bare shoulder…teeth scraping gently…tongue lapping the salty flavor emitting from Ford. His leg, once more, drives against Ford, who thrusts his hips in anticipation.
He lifts himself up and straddles his elder. He rips through the remaining buttons on Ford’s shirt. His rests his hand on Ford’s midriff. Ford draws in a long breath; it shakes out of him as Stan’s fingers trace down his trail of hair leading to the treasure contained below his belt. Stan works over the buckle; he struggles slightly, but he expels a sigh of relief when the metal latch falls flat out of the hole, freeing the “genuine” leather to slip out.
“Stanley…” Ford gasps out.
Stan’s fingertips pinch the zipper. The sound reverberates throughout the dead-silent room.
“I need you to answer me…please…” Ford pleads quietly through bated breath. “Do you want this?”
Stan pops the button open, “More than anything…”
Ford writhes on the hardwood in heat, his leg lifts slightly to return the tease to Stan, “Where do you want me?”
“On my bed…” Stan lifts his left leg over, allowing Ford to move about. He tears the t-shirt off his back, feeling the late-winter air feather briskly around his steaming body.
Ford stands on the rug before Stan. He steps out of his dress pants; he tosses them at the foot of Stan’s bunk, draping over Stan’s book-bag. His cock throbs against the soft cotton briefs. A small wet-patch has grown whilst the twins wrestled tongues on the floor. The stain clearly defines his excitement and wanton desire for his brother. Stan’s fingers line the inside of his briefs, teasing him slightly, tugging at the elastic band softly, before he’s finally able to breathe. His cock extends out after being confined against his inner thigh, swinging slowly…tantalizingly…
Stan’s eyes move in sync as Ford’s cock lists about mere inches from him. It’s gorgeous to see up close and personal. He cradles it in his hands; it’s a perfect fit. The tip rests just beyond his wrist. His hand, once conformed to Ford’s shape, releases tension as his ring and pinkie fingers cup Ford’s tightening ballsack. He gives a firm, yet gentle, squeeze, and Ford’s hips instinctively thrust forward a single time.
Ford’s vision remains blurred for the time being, but he can make out a couple nods of Stan’s head; that’s his cue to let his brother take the reins. He feels behind him, below him, and he finds the soft, well-worn, mattress. The blazing warmth from his cheeks disperse into the comparably cold sheets spread beneath him. A pair of strong, tender, loving hands burrow into his thighs and spread his legs apart. Hot breaths coat his length; Stan’s so close…he’s needy…
“Your smell…” Stan stuffs the tip of his nose in the space between Ford’s sack and thigh. He’s completely smooth below the waist; the small trail of hair cuts off just shy of his belt line. The intoxication of sweat Ford’s produced sends hints of musk flows through Stan’s body from each deep inhalation, stoking the coals built-up in him even fiercer. His tongue darts out to taste…it’s divine. He laps hungrily at Ford, aching to taste every inch of him, to express his undying love and unwavering passion.
Ford’s knuckles fade into pure white; his fingers dig into the cotton sheets as he hangs on for dear life. He’s never felt so hot…so vulnerable…so pleasured…so loved. “Ah- Stanley…please…”
Stan’s tongue courses along the length of Ford’s shaft; he starts from the base and takes long swipes upward, pressing his tongue firmly, feeling the elder twin throb at even the most subtle of movements. He reaches the tip; his tongue prods the slit open, dipping into the devilishly sweet precum the leaks out upon retreat. His right hand finds its way through the open dress shirt, up Ford’s bare chest, and settles on his erect nipple. His thumb circles the hardened teat, which must be hard-wired directly to the cock resting on his lips, as every pulse spurts another drop of precum.
Ford’s voice quavers through the thick solace of their bedroom, “Take me, Stan…” He’s on the verge of tears, “I won’t last much longer.”
Stan retrieves his hand from Ford’s chest. He kisses the fiery head, his eyes cock up at his aching brother and shoots a warm smile his way. His left hand grapples Ford’s thigh for leverage, as his right wraps around the base, guiding toward his parting lips. He licks his chops…swallows the last of his hesitancies…and seals his warm, wet, mouth around Ford’s pulsing head. He sinks another inch, his tight lips curl downward to protect the sensitive skin from receiving any teeth.
Ford unleashes a heavy groan from the wonderful, brand new, sensation; his hips buck forward, unintentionally pushing his cock halfway down Stan’s throat. He feels a stifled cough as his tip prods deeper than his brother had anticipated. He backs out fairly quickly, not sure if he’s overcorrecting by pulling out. His cock slaps against his stomach; he looks down at Stan, petting his hair, scratching behind his ear.
The younger brother nuzzles along Ford’s shaft, coating his cheek with his saliva that had dribbled down the length. He meets Ford’s gaze, “I’m okay…you wanna keep going?”
Ford nods.
“I love you, Ford…”
Ford nods. “I love you, too, Stan…”
Stan’s eyes return to the task in-hand. His lips purse once more and he takes the first couple inches easily. His cheek muscles ache to form a smile, but his mouth holds steady around Ford’s length. Ford’s having the time of his life, he knows, as signaled by the salacious moans coming from above him. Whispered “fucks” fill the room, joining the symphony of pleasurable sounds Stan lets out against the cock filling him. His hand pumps steadily at the base; his tongue swirls around the tip, feeling it swell in anticipation, knowing Ford won’t last too long. He knows time is limited, so the decision of where to take it weighs on him pressingly.
“Ahhh…Stan…”
Stan braces himself. His left hand grips Ford’s leg tighter, nails clawing at the bare flesh. His right hand jerks faster, his index finger slaps against his lips repeatedly, until the elder twin swats his arm, demanding his hand be removed. Stan obeys and wraps his hands around Ford’s waist, breathing heavily through his nose…the first jet splashes the back of his throat.
“Hmph…hmmm…” Ford growls, no time to warn his twin before he spent himself. His fingers gripping Stan’s mane, he thrusts forward again, but this time the man beneath him is prepared. Every time his head pulses against the soft palate, it feels as if he’s releasing years-worth of pent-up pressure, spurting an immeasurable amount of teenage seed into Stan’s willing throat. His legs tremble, his heel bangs on the soft rug, his toes curl as they burrow into the fibers, all from the extreme high his body’s experiencing. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever replicate this exact feeling, but he knows he wants to spend the rest of his life trying.
Stan happily receives the profuse load Ford offers him, letting the warmth fill his mouth. He refrains from swallowing until necessary; he wants to savor not only the taste and feeling, but to enjoy the moment, with a somewhat somber understanding that he’ll never have Ford’s “first” again.
Ford’s load fades into a small dribble. His hands, still wrapped in Stan’s hair, comb through the strands and lightly scratch his scalp in approval.
It’s over.
Neither of them want to make the first move post-orgasm.
Ford eases the tension in his fingers; Stan takes the bait. A soft, wet, *pop* follows.
Stan sits back on his knees and swallows. His lips part wide-open, to showcase his good behavior, to invite the elder twin to join him once again…Ford takes the bait.
Ford slumps off the mattress; he meets Stan at eye level. His hands rifle through the locks of luscious brown hair, diving in for a taste of his own medicine. His flavor is strong; it permeates even the deepest recesses of the used mouth he feasts upon. His body pushes further into the young lover, their chests meld, their hearts beat in-time; they fall to the floor, this time Ford controls the high ground. He breaks the kiss. Too soon? Perhaps…but he could go on forever, and he would never tire. He snuggles up under Stan’s shoulder; wrapped securely for the evening, he plants a soft kiss on Stan’s chest.
“Stan…” the first word he’s spoken since they’ve consummated, “that was the most incredible…I can’t…how did you know what to do?” A thought…maybe a realization… “You haven’t done…this…before, have you?”
“This? No, can’t say I have, Sixer.”
Ford’s hand combs through the small patch of fur between Stan’s breasts, “Then…how did you—?”
“It was easy. I just thought about what made it feel good for me, and I tried to replicate that on you. You know, who better to know what a man wants than another man?”
When Ford thinks about it, Stan really does have a strong head on his shoulders. What he said shouldn’t have made sense, but somehow he finds it more comforting than any logical explanation he could theorize.
“You okay?”
“Huh?” Ford’s caught overthinking again.
“You’re awfully quiet…was it something I said?”
“No!” That was louder than he intended. “I mean, not at all. I’m just trying to find the right words to say…”
Stan flicks away the wispy bangs sheltering Ford’s forehead. It’s there…the souvenir from last night. “How come you didn’t tell me about this bruise?” It’s black and blue, just a tad swollen, appearing worse than it feels.
“It’s alright, Stan.”
“Did Crampelter do this to you? You gotta tell me if he—”
“No, no, he had nothing to do with it…it’s my fault. From yesterday.”
“When you tripped over my laundry?” Stan’s guilt from the events of last night creep back into his head. “I’m sorry, but you see I took care of it when I got home…like I promised.”
“It’s not your fault either. Please, don’t worry about it.”
Stan rubs his thumb across the slight bump, “Does it hurt?”
“It did…”
“Come here…” Stan plants a small smooch on the discoloration. “I love you, Fordsie…” Another feathered kiss graces his brother. “Feel better now?”
“Much better,” Ford lays his head on Stan’s chest once more settling into his comfort place. “Thank you, Stan…for everything.”
“Don’t sweat it, Fordsie. I’m honored you chose me as your first.
“Yes…you were my first. And…I want you to be my last.”
Stan laughs softly, sincerely, “I’ll see what I can do, Sixer.”
Ford’s content to spend the rest of the night, the rest of his life, on the rug if it meant that he and Stan would be together. He reflects about how just twenty-four hours ago, the timespan of a mere revolution of Earth’s axis, he clung to only the memories of what he knew in the form of Stan’s pillow.
As for now, in this moment, and for what he hopes will be several more, he cherishes the knowledge that he has the real thing.