If it weren't for the fact Stan's holding onto his hand, holding to it tight like he's drowning and its his only lifeline, Ford might have made a grab for the pill. He might have tried to wrestle it away from his brother so he could throw it as hard and as far as he could, but he doesn't get the chance. That hand holding onto his keeps him from being able to do anything but hold right back, just as tight.
It's not just a habit, or an instinct. It's a rule, a law - it's an unspoken promise they've never once broken, not in all their life. You don't let go until it stops hurting. You just don't.
"Come on, Stanley." His voice hasn't cracked like that since puberty was kicking his ass up and down the stairs, but you know what that's just what having a raw, tight throat will do to you.
"Don't make me repeat all that. I will, if I have to. I'll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe it, but I think - I think you already know that. I think you want me to be telling you the truth, and--and that's why you don't think I am. Because why would anything ever go your way, right?"
It hurts, saying that. It hurts his throat and his heart and his soul, and he'll be damned if his glasses aren't fogging up as proof of it. The heat behind his eyes has built up to the point where he's genuinely surprised they haven't started melting yet, though the dampness of his lashes certainly seems to imply otherwise.
"Why...why would someone who hasn't talked to you in years suddenly care when they, when they were the one who--"
He cuts himself off abruptly, closing his eyes tight for a moment as he swallows down a pathetic, miserable sound before it can escape his throat. He is not going to cry, God Damn it, not for himself. If he's going to cry for any reason at all, it's going to be for his brother, for what's been made of him, for what he let happen to him - he refuses to allow guilt, as heavy as it might be, to be the thing that finally pushes him over the edge.
Ford swallows hard, his eyes screwed shut tight as he drags in a shaky breath though his nose and lets it out in a quite curse.
"God." He breathes. "Stanley, I'm - I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
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It's not just a habit, or an instinct. It's a rule, a law - it's an unspoken promise they've never once broken, not in all their life. You don't let go until it stops hurting. You just don't.
"Come on, Stanley." His voice hasn't cracked like that since puberty was kicking his ass up and down the stairs, but you know what that's just what having a raw, tight throat will do to you.
"Don't make me repeat all that. I will, if I have to. I'll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe it, but I think - I think you already know that. I think you want me to be telling you the truth, and--and that's why you don't think I am. Because why would anything ever go your way, right?"
It hurts, saying that. It hurts his throat and his heart and his soul, and he'll be damned if his glasses aren't fogging up as proof of it. The heat behind his eyes has built up to the point where he's genuinely surprised they haven't started melting yet, though the dampness of his lashes certainly seems to imply otherwise.
"Why...why would someone who hasn't talked to you in years suddenly care when they, when they were the one who--"
He cuts himself off abruptly, closing his eyes tight for a moment as he swallows down a pathetic, miserable sound before it can escape his throat. He is not going to cry, God Damn it, not for himself. If he's going to cry for any reason at all, it's going to be for his brother, for what's been made of him, for what he let happen to him - he refuses to allow guilt, as heavy as it might be, to be the thing that finally pushes him over the edge.
Ford swallows hard, his eyes screwed shut tight as he drags in a shaky breath though his nose and lets it out in a quite curse.
"God." He breathes. "Stanley, I'm - I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."