One step, two steps, three, four, five steps - they're half-way around the front of the car - six, seven, eight, nine - he's fumbling for the door handle, feeling around in the dark with one hand because the other is wrapped tight around Stan's middle and he's not about to let go of him now, maybe not ever, and goddamn it where is the fucking handle-
He jerks the door open with more force than is strictly necessary, but it's too late. It's too late to usher Stan into the car then race back to the driver's side and peel out of this empty lot like the devil himself was at their heels because Stan is - he's making this sound and all the sudden Ford can't breathe. He can't breathe, see, because his throat has gone too tight for air to get through and when he tries to drag in a breath and swallow a few times to force it down, all he gets for his trouble is the taste of salt on the back of his tongue.
Stan doesn't know what he's saying. He's just - he's on some kind of drug, maybe a whole lot of drugs, and he's just having a bad reaction. He's having a bad trip, all the chemicals in his system are making him say and feel and think things that aren't right, that are worse than what's actually -
Ford bites his lip hard enough to bruise, hard enough for his chapped skin to split worse than it already has. He can taste the bitter tang of copper on his tongue, sharp and unpleasant and familiar, and it forces his mind to harbor thoughts he doesn't want to dwell on, thoughts about how much red is spilling out of his brother's mouth, his hands, his knees, his back. He thinks about hospitals, and how the hell he's going to explain all this to whoever's working the graveyard shift at the ER. He thinks about what he's going to do if the police get involved, if he should involve them himself, if he should go after the miserable sons of bitches who did this to his brother.
He wonders what poison is wreaking havok through his brother's systems, he wonders how long he's been wandering along the road in this condition, he wonders what would have happened if it wasn't him he met at this rest stop, if it wasn't his car he tried to hotwire. He wonders how his brother even got himself in this position, in a mess like this. He wonders how in God's name things got so bad for him, if things were always this bad and he just never knew.
Stan pours his heart out against his shoulder, soaking his shirt with blood and tears and desperation, and as he stands there, sobbing brokenly with all that he is, Ford holds him back and quietly hates himself more than he's ever hated anyone.
He let this happen. He let this happen to his brother and nothing he could ever possibly do in the remaining years of his life will ever make up for that. He'll never come close.
It's that thought which finally does him in, the last blow needed to topple his already crumbling defenses. The tears welling in his eyes finally fall, and he makes no effort to stop them, nor does he try to stifle the miserable, choked noise that bobs up inside his closed throat. He turns his face towards Stan's too-long hair, tries not to think too hard about whether the wetness he feels there is Stan's blood or his own tears, and holds his brother steady with all he's worth.
He hasn't done a damn thing for him in over four years, but he can do this much. He can stand here and cry with him and hold him steady until one of them is ready to pull away - and damn if Ford's not even sure anymore who that's more likely to be.
Oops I wrote a sequal to the book - Angst Brothers 2: Electric boogaloo
He jerks the door open with more force than is strictly necessary, but it's too late. It's too late to usher Stan into the car then race back to the driver's side and peel out of this empty lot like the devil himself was at their heels because Stan is - he's making this sound and all the sudden Ford can't breathe. He can't breathe, see, because his throat has gone too tight for air to get through and when he tries to drag in a breath and swallow a few times to force it down, all he gets for his trouble is the taste of salt on the back of his tongue.
Stan doesn't know what he's saying. He's just - he's on some kind of drug, maybe a whole lot of drugs, and he's just having a bad reaction. He's having a bad trip, all the chemicals in his system are making him say and feel and think things that aren't right, that are worse than what's actually -
Ford bites his lip hard enough to bruise, hard enough for his chapped skin to split worse than it already has. He can taste the bitter tang of copper on his tongue, sharp and unpleasant and familiar, and it forces his mind to harbor thoughts he doesn't want to dwell on, thoughts about how much red is spilling out of his brother's mouth, his hands, his knees, his back. He thinks about hospitals, and how the hell he's going to explain all this to whoever's working the graveyard shift at the ER. He thinks about what he's going to do if the police get involved, if he should involve them himself, if he should go after the miserable sons of bitches who did this to his brother.
He wonders what poison is wreaking havok through his brother's systems, he wonders how long he's been wandering along the road in this condition, he wonders what would have happened if it wasn't him he met at this rest stop, if it wasn't his car he tried to hotwire. He wonders how his brother even got himself in this position, in a mess like this. He wonders how in God's name things got so bad for him, if things were always this bad and he just never knew.
Stan pours his heart out against his shoulder, soaking his shirt with blood and tears and desperation, and as he stands there, sobbing brokenly with all that he is, Ford holds him back and quietly hates himself more than he's ever hated anyone.
He let this happen. He let this happen to his brother and nothing he could ever possibly do in the remaining years of his life will ever make up for that. He'll never come close.
It's that thought which finally does him in, the last blow needed to topple his already crumbling defenses. The tears welling in his eyes finally fall, and he makes no effort to stop them, nor does he try to stifle the miserable, choked noise that bobs up inside his closed throat. He turns his face towards Stan's too-long hair, tries not to think too hard about whether the wetness he feels there is Stan's blood or his own tears, and holds his brother steady with all he's worth.
He hasn't done a damn thing for him in over four years, but he can do this much. He can stand here and cry with him and hold him steady until one of them is ready to pull away - and damn if Ford's not even sure anymore who that's more likely to be.