He hates that it works even a little, but Ford's hands over his do help. His brother's here, for the first time in forever he's here, and the reminder steals some of that precious anger away from him. It's gone from his tone now and from his expression and leaves whatever it is that's under there totally exposed, and Stanley swallows again. "You know what else they said? They said, uh, you can't be alone. People like you, they, uh. They seem totally normal 'till, 'till they, uh. Till they're cuttin' the shit outta' themselves in f-fuckin' bathrooms."

Stan sniffs, makes an effort to keep at least a little of his dignity together. He was done with that last night, it was stress crying, he got it out of his system. His fists are loose in Ford's shirt, and he keeps them there.

"You're actin' n-normal now but, uh. But it could, the second I turn my back, an' you wouldn't even tell me. You didn't even want me to know." This is the hard part, the very hardest and most confusing part, and Stan stares into his brothers face, trying to figure out what's goin' on behind there and failing, failing completely. "God, all of this. Just, all of it. Why didn't you just ask me for help? I'm your brother."

He can get through this conversation without losin' it. He can. See him doin'- uh, almost, almost doin' it? Stanley blinks hard a few times and clenches his jaw, taking sharp breaths through his nose. That's right. He is keeping a handle on his shit.