This one time, when he was just a kid, Ford had a real bad time in the boxing ring. He had a lot of those, bad times that is, but this one always stood out in his mind as particularly awful. There he was - getting his ass kicked like usual, because that's just what happens when you throw a ten year old in the ring with someone two weight classes above them - and he's standing there with blood pouring out his nose, and he can feel a few baby teeth wiggling around behind his mouth guard, knocked loose from a particularly hard hit.
One eye's swollen shut, he wants to just throw in the towel because he lost this round before it even started, but his dad is over there watching in the corner and if he gives in he'll never hear the end of it, so he just stands there and takes it even though every fiber of his being aches and all he wants to do is leave.
That's more or less how he feels now, only this is worse somehow. It's worse because there's no one kicking the shit out of him, it's just his brother standing there like he doesn't know who he is, like he doesn't think he's real, and there's nowhere for him to run where that image won't follow him.
So he stands there, frozen, his expression that of a man who doesn't know whether to be horrified by what he's seeing, or deny that he's seeing it all in order to preserve his sanity and emotional well being. Eventually the former response wins out, and that queasy, jittery feeling that he was gonna be sick comes back with a vengeance.
"Jesus. Jesus Christ, Stanley, what are you -" He stumbles forward, damn near triping over himself to scramble over towards his brother before he can - Ford doesn't even know. He doesn't know what Stan is doing, or what he's doing himself. All he knows is that he has to get over to his brother now, and the rest he can figure out later.
no subject
One eye's swollen shut, he wants to just throw in the towel because he lost this round before it even started, but his dad is over there watching in the corner and if he gives in he'll never hear the end of it, so he just stands there and takes it even though every fiber of his being aches and all he wants to do is leave.
That's more or less how he feels now, only this is worse somehow. It's worse because there's no one kicking the shit out of him, it's just his brother standing there like he doesn't know who he is, like he doesn't think he's real, and there's nowhere for him to run where that image won't follow him.
So he stands there, frozen, his expression that of a man who doesn't know whether to be horrified by what he's seeing, or deny that he's seeing it all in order to preserve his sanity and emotional well being. Eventually the former response wins out, and that queasy, jittery feeling that he was gonna be sick comes back with a vengeance.
"Jesus. Jesus Christ, Stanley, what are you -" He stumbles forward, damn near triping over himself to scramble over towards his brother before he can - Ford doesn't even know. He doesn't know what Stan is doing, or what he's doing himself. All he knows is that he has to get over to his brother now, and the rest he can figure out later.