His brother's breath is still shaking and that's hard enough, listening to Ford like that and knowin' he's got to play it cool, but when Ford wraps his arms around himself not reaching over and doing something about that almost actually hurts, gives him that same feeling in his chest you get when you wrap your ribs up a little too tight and know you won't be able to take it off for a good long while.

That feeling gets worse a second later. If he's him, Ford said. Ford doesn't even know if it's Stanley, his own brother, jesus, how far gone is he? Jesus.

His chest is tight, his jaw wants to clench, his gut feels like it actually is clenching, and bad enough that Stan's glad he ain't had nothin' to eat just recently. But Stanley Pines plays it cool, damn it. Stanley Pines is cool. For his brother, Stanley Pines can be unflappable.

"You said you trusted me. And then uh, somethin' about not burnin' the house down so you didn't want me to cook. An' then you went right to sleep."

Stanley wants to add something else, he's not sure what. Something comforting, something funny. He plays it cool. He plays it safe, and calm, and cool. You could say Stan is comfortable with risk, maybe even settled down and painting white picket fences with it, but he ain't takin' risks here. Not with this.