Stan shuffles along, knowing he can walk on his own, not saying it, he wants to feel the heat of his brother next to him but the only thing he can think about is the heat in the air, that dry heat that never left, making the air all heavy, pressing down. He watches his feet shuffle, feeling that familiar limp of one shoe, one bare foot, one shoe, thinks about how he can't say no. He can't push the no, anyway, not for the reason he's really got to say it. Once one little detail stops lookin' right the whole show falls apart. Stan Pines has run a couple shows in his time, he knows how it works. You find a loose thread, you pull it, the whole thing comes apart.
He lets himself lean against the body next to him and doesn't pull at any little threads, it ain't that he's got to do this himself, he's just- shit, he's just-
"You gotta' let me drive. Don't ask me why, I- I'll see the car, I'll see 'em around quicker if I drive, 'cause they're gonna' notice ev-eventually, uh-" Talking about that makes him think about it, thinking about it makes his voice seize up for a second and, and what the hell, right, if there's someone here who'll stand up for him, just for now, if that person is safe and far away and safe, Stan can let himself have this. Just this once he can have this, he thinks, and lets the sob out when it wants to come. He don't have to let it but he does, leans against the one person he wishes, he wishes- His breath shudders out and shudders back in and his chest heaves, stretching the crusting skin across his shoulders and he sobs again, and hey, once more with a little more volume to it and Ford is here and crying's gonna' make everything okay and Ford is here, just once, just this once he don't have to hang up before he says it because no one's here to throw it back in his face and close that door on him forever, he can just say it and he can be safe and he can want, he wants-
"I want to go home," the words come out small, he hasn't said 'em before, dips his head toward that neck and shoulder next to his and they come out all dried up and cracked because words like that have been waiting around inside him for a long time, they got all old waiting around in there and Stan ain't paid enough attention to 'em to polish them up or keep 'em all shiny and new. "I wanna' go home, I'm sorry I hate you I'm sorry I can't cut it out here I'm sorry I can't make up that money I owe you, not and make it last, you gotta', you gotta'- You owe me, you owe me, you son of a-"
The sobs aren't waiting for him to let them out now they're just coming and his shoulders shake with them, that blood-drool is oozing out of his mouth at maybe a hundred gallons per second and Stan sounds stupid as hell, his swollen, ripped up mouth trying to kick around all those s's and he's "S-sor- I'm so-sorry, sorry, I, I-" and now that it's coming out it's all coming out so his mouth lets out a little wail, everything that's been all pressed up inside the dark corners of him since he was seventeen looking out the windshield of his brand new car up at the stars, everything crowding through him every time he dialed that damn phone number and breathed into it and heard that voice, in that instant before he couldn't, couldn't, and slammed the phone back down there was this, all this and it's not fair, "not fair, you never, you'll never hear, I can't, I ca-can't do this, I, I-"
His fingers are wound up in that shirt, pulling at it. "They'll catch up, some-someone will catch up to me one of these da-days before I even, and that'll be it, I'm so chicken that you'll never kn-know I-" He lets himself bend into that safe, solid body in front of him, and he lets the sobs keep shaking out and he lets himself leave the words there because an answering machine that ain't gonna' be checked don't need all the i's dotted and t's crossed, does it?
No, it don't. It don't, and he stays all bent up forward and keeps his fingers twisted in that shirt and hangs on. If this is what he has, if this is what's his, then he is going to have it.
oops i wrote a book its a book of angst
He lets himself lean against the body next to him and doesn't pull at any little threads, it ain't that he's got to do this himself, he's just- shit, he's just-
"You gotta' let me drive. Don't ask me why, I- I'll see the car, I'll see 'em around quicker if I drive, 'cause they're gonna' notice ev-eventually, uh-" Talking about that makes him think about it, thinking about it makes his voice seize up for a second and, and what the hell, right, if there's someone here who'll stand up for him, just for now, if that person is safe and far away and safe, Stan can let himself have this. Just this once he can have this, he thinks, and lets the sob out when it wants to come. He don't have to let it but he does, leans against the one person he wishes, he wishes- His breath shudders out and shudders back in and his chest heaves, stretching the crusting skin across his shoulders and he sobs again, and hey, once more with a little more volume to it and Ford is here and crying's gonna' make everything okay and Ford is here, just once, just this once he don't have to hang up before he says it because no one's here to throw it back in his face and close that door on him forever, he can just say it and he can be safe and he can want, he wants-
"I want to go home," the words come out small, he hasn't said 'em before, dips his head toward that neck and shoulder next to his and they come out all dried up and cracked because words like that have been waiting around inside him for a long time, they got all old waiting around in there and Stan ain't paid enough attention to 'em to polish them up or keep 'em all shiny and new. "I wanna' go home, I'm sorry I hate you I'm sorry I can't cut it out here I'm sorry I can't make up that money I owe you, not and make it last, you gotta', you gotta'- You owe me, you owe me, you son of a-"
The sobs aren't waiting for him to let them out now they're just coming and his shoulders shake with them, that blood-drool is oozing out of his mouth at maybe a hundred gallons per second and Stan sounds stupid as hell, his swollen, ripped up mouth trying to kick around all those s's and he's "S-sor- I'm so-sorry, sorry, I, I-" and now that it's coming out it's all coming out so his mouth lets out a little wail, everything that's been all pressed up inside the dark corners of him since he was seventeen looking out the windshield of his brand new car up at the stars, everything crowding through him every time he dialed that damn phone number and breathed into it and heard that voice, in that instant before he couldn't, couldn't, and slammed the phone back down there was this, all this and it's not fair, "not fair, you never, you'll never hear, I can't, I ca-can't do this, I, I-"
His fingers are wound up in that shirt, pulling at it. "They'll catch up, some-someone will catch up to me one of these da-days before I even, and that'll be it, I'm so chicken that you'll never kn-know I-" He lets himself bend into that safe, solid body in front of him, and he lets the sobs keep shaking out and he lets himself leave the words there because an answering machine that ain't gonna' be checked don't need all the i's dotted and t's crossed, does it?
No, it don't. It don't, and he stays all bent up forward and keeps his fingers twisted in that shirt and hangs on. If this is what he has, if this is what's his, then he is going to have it.