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It’s high time the twins should be on their way back to board their vessel as they have an early departure back to the mainland for supplies. The crescent moon hammocks above the calm waters on the horizon, and the sky above them dances with millions of stars; incomprehensible distances away from them, yet they feel close enough to reach out and hold. The wind sways the branches of the limber trees behind them, rustling freshly bloomed leaves, leading the soft symphony of natural harmonies.
Stan wraps his arm around the small of Ford’s back as they bask in the unimaginable view on the banks of some channel island off the European coast. His hand courses along the cotton carnet turtleneck, eventually burrowing itself in a back pocket of Ford’s black pants, offering a gentle caress of the soft flesh corralled behind the lining. He’s slow enough, and deliberate enough, to where the amorous action doesn’t startle the elder twin.
“The moon’s just about to dip beneath the sea; if my calculations are correct,” Ford postulates as if they’re set to land on the shores of Plymouth by high tide, “it should be about 7:30, give or take a couple minutes.”
“Can’t you for once just enjoy the view?”
“Who says I haven’t been enjoying myself?” Ford turns his head and pecks Stan’s stubbly cheek with pursed lips. “Any time you have your hands in my pockets is a good time for me.”
“Dad used to say the opposite.”
“Because you were only interested in his wallet.”
“And who says I’m not after yours?” Stan raises an eyebrow.
“Because you know full well I keep mine in my front-left pocket…not my back-right,” Ford’s arm slings around Stan’s shoulder bringing him in tighter. Heads turn and mouths meet for a short kiss. Lips part only briefly as each twin takes their obligatory swipe across their partner’s teeth.
“The night’s young, Sixer,” Stan’s hand offers a more firm grasp, “we’ll have plenty of time to ‘rock the boat’ before sunrise.”
“We’ve collected all the samples we needed; the beakers are secured in my bag, as are my journal and—”
“How about we take a midnight stroll?” Stan doesn’t want to waste time hearing Ford list every item on his person. “Well, not midnight, as it’s only 7:30.”
“I’d like that.” Ford bends down, forcing Stan’s hand to retreat from his back pocket, and grabs his messenger bag. “Where do you suppose we go?”
“We have the whole island to ourselves,” Stan reaches down and grabs his rucksack, “let’s just see where the night takes us.”
They turn their backs on the picturesque scene, their hands meet, and they wander down the trail through the thick of the trees, heading in the direction of their vessel.
“Isn’t this what we used to dream about?” Stan’s voice cuts through the chill of the night.
“It’s not the treasure hunting and babes you used to proclaim it would be,” Ford laughs softly, unsure if that remark was appropriate for this situation, but he can’t take back what’s already in the air. “I mean, you’re right in some ways; I remember we used to dream about sailing the uncharted seas until our dying days.”
“It’s a shame we began so late.”
“That may be, but we have all the time in the world, just the two of us.”
Stan’s eyes gleam under the rich starlight cascading through the trees, “We used to have our nights at the Juke Joint, tapping our toes to whatever was on the jukebox, watching the young couples dance…”
“And how we could never join them for fear of ridicule and scorn by the watchful eyes around us…” Ford’s fingers separate from Stan’s; he continues forward, but the younger twin remains behind, stoic in his emotions. “Stanley…?” Ford looks back and sees the younger twin rustling through his backpack.
“You keep on going, I’ll be right behind you.” He continues fishing through the amalgamation of junk he’s collected from their months abroad at sea, “Where are you, you piece of junk? Good for nothing…”
“What are you looking for? Maybe I can help—”
“I got a handle on it, you just keep walking,” Stan’s feet march forward as his eyes remain cast inside the various compartments of his bag.
Ford waits until Stan returns in line with him; their trek continues. Every minute or so Ford stops in his tracks for Stan to catch up, and after five attempts of keeping their paces matched, the elder twin gives up and moves on. “Do you have any idea where we’re going yet?” Ford’s voice carries a bit of unintentional aggravation, “The island’s not that big…we’ll probably reach the Stan O’ War in a few minutes time.” He stops once more and turns around; Stan zips closed the last open pocket of his backpack before slinging it over his right shoulder.
“I got an idea!” Stan dashes ahead past Ford, “Just beyond this patch of trees…I remember!”
“Stanley!” Ford adjusts his bag to a more comfortable height, “Wait for me…”
He catches up to his younger counterpart; they stand in the center of a small clearing. The sky’s opened up above them from the swaths of branches that obscured them along the trail. Ford can only saunter delicately through the grass, his mouth slightly ajar, collecting heavy breaths from the sudden exercise.
“Power…on…” a feminine voice pierces out from Stan’s direction.
“Shut up…” Stan quietly growls.
Ford watches his brother fidget with a couple items in his hands, his large fingers having a troubled time maneuvering around them. He’s not sure exactly what Stan’s messing around with, but figures it’s in his best interest not to pry too deeply.
A short buzz from the device in his hands vibrates Stan’s chubby fingers, “Gotcha,” he smirks, he’s victorious in this specific battle with technology. “Hey Sixer, c’mere a minute, won’t you?”
Ford obeys. “Whatcha got there?” His inquisitive nature shows.
“You remember what you said about watching the people dance at the Juke Joint?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry if I upset you with my brazen remark.”
Stan slides his rucksack off his shoulders, allowing to to fall freely into the soft field beneath their feet. “I figure since we have this place to ourselves, why don’t we make that dream a reality?”
A soft click emits from the palm-sized speaker before a series of chords, strumming through the night as if it’s been sent down from the heavens, blare across the clearing.
“I was a little too tall, coulda used a few pounds
Tight pants points, hardly renowned”
Stan sets the music player and speaker in the cool, damp, grass. “Stanford Pines…may I have this dance?” He extends his hand before him, hoping that his invitation is met with humble acceptance.
“It would be my honor…” Ford’s supple fingers wrap around Stan’s calloused palm, gripping the thick-skinned hand tightly against his.
Stan reels him into position; his free hand hooks into Ford’s sweater once again, deftly placed against his waist, as Ford’s hand flutters through the crisp springtime air, landing on Stan’s broad shoulder.
The band joins in as the groove sets in motion.
Their hips sway, their feet tap, their hands cling for dear life. They let Bob Seger’s raspy tenor timbre flow through their bodies as the present world around them melts away.
The stars join together, their brightness intensifies, illuminating them in a warm, incandescent glow. The rich smells of grease, and salt, and smoke fill the air, replacing the humid breeze blowing in from the sea. The soft bed of grass below them hardens, molding into a cold, hard, laminate surface, allowing them to know where the pressure points on their feet are at all times.
“Workin’ on our night moves
Trying to make some front page drive-in news
Workin’ on our night moves”
“I don’t wanna let you go, Fordsie…” Stan whimpers against the backdrop of “Sweet summertime’s.”
“I don’t want you to let me go…”
They each take a single step in, their stomachs lightly graze each other.
“We could’ve had it all…we could’ve…but I—”
“We have it now…I’m right here Stanley…I’m not going to leave you ever again.”
“I used her, she used me, but neither one cared
We were gettin’ our share”
Their motions halt. Stan leans forward and buries his tongue between Ford’s cheeks, forcing himself against his brother’s wanting mouth. The faint taste of peppermint gum stimulates his tongue…but Ford hasn’t chewed gum since…
Ford’s hand slips from Stan’s shoulder, around the back of his neck, and his fingers graze Stan’s mane. The globs of product coat Ford’s nimble digits, but Stan hasn’t used pomade since…
“I remember
Lord, I remember
Lord, I remember
Yeah yeah yeah yeah”
The music fades.
The lights dim.
The breeze quells their burning bodies.
They step back.
Their eyes open.
A new song plays.
“Day is night in New York City
Smoke, like water, runs inside”
Neither of them speak. Their jaws hang open, grasping at breaths, but they don’t speak. Not at first. They feel themselves. Are they real? Where are they now? Who were the men they just danced with? Were they real?
“How did…the music…what is…?” Ford deflects immediately from the topic at hand.
“Mabel…she showed me how to…” Stan joins.
Ford’s heart thumps against his chest at a hundred miles an hour, “How sweet of her to show you…do you think…you can show me?”
“I’d love to…”
Stan fumbles with the electronics in the grass, unplugging the music player directly, causing the music to cut out, leaving the twins in deafening silence.
“So," Ford speaks softly, "about your offer earlier…?”
“In due time…” Stan throws the devices in the front pocket of his backpack.
They each sling their bags over their shoulders in unison.
Ford approaches; each step seems as though he’s traveling across the voids of space and time.
Hands extend.
Fingers interlock.
Minds and bodies wander.