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hellsquills · 16 days ago

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Reason To Believe

Man it struck me kinda funny Seemed kinda funny sir to me How at the end of every hard earned day People find some reason to believe

tw: drugs mention

Ford had been receiving mystery calls for a while. They weren't very common, but in the last seven years he had got over 50. They were all fairly similar: he would answer the phone introducing himself, then asking who was on the other side of the line, and then he'd hear some quick breathing and other assorted street noises. Whoever they were, they would always call from a phone booth, not a closed space like a house. Sometimes, especially at the beginning, Ford would wait a few moments to try to get the other person to talk; he never succeeded. Then, as time went on and he became busier with work, he would snap at the caller, demanding them to reveal themselves, because he had no time for stupid games. The worst part came later, when he was in contact with different institutions that were offering him grants and he would be forced to always pick up the phone and wait for an answer, just to be met with more sighing and silence. It was driving him crazy.

He had tried everything: he had waited patiently; he had talked into the phone in hopes the receiver would articulate a single word back; he had changed his phone number a few times and only shared them with scholars, his family and Fiddleford; he had threatened the mystery caller with calling the police, trying in vain to intimidate them... None of that ever worked. In the last few years, he simply settled for ignoring it. Not because he didn't want to know who it was, but merely because he didn't have time for another theory to solve. He had to focus on his work, and he made the stranger know just that.

“It's you again? Wonderful. Make sure you listen to me. If the next time you call I don't hear a word as soon as I pick up, I will track you down. I have the technology to do it, and I will. This is my final warning. Do you understand?”

As per usual, no answer. Ford had hung up feeling like he finally made some progress, even if that was just partially true. He had made Fiddleford aware of his situation after the previous time, in which his friend was in the room when the call came through. The taller man, as usual, had matched his curiosity and was rather interested in the mystery, and he had begun building a tracking device. With their very packed schedules it was taking longer than they initially expected, but it was coming along. It was ready just in time for the next call.

“F! Get your invention, quick!”

The aforementioned jumped out of his bed and looked under it, pulling a box with God-knows-what in it.

“Are you ready?”

“Yessir.”

“Stanford Pines speaking.”

A beat of silence. Expected.

“Stanf-”

“Sixer...”

Ford's eyes nearly popped. He couldn't believe it.

“Sixerrr... tallk t'me...”

Actually, he could believe it.

It was so obvious. Who could have access to his phone number if not the people he gave it to? Easy: someone who got it from someone he did give it to. It also had to be someone close to him: he had thoroughly insisted on keeping this number private and to not share it with anyone he didn't know about. Of course, his mother (definitely not his father) had found the legal loophole and sent it to his only brother that didn't already have it.

Now it was his time to sigh. “Stanley?”

“Heyyy... what's up, whatcha doin'? How's life?”

This was unbelievable.

“Are you serious?” he began, his tone severe but under cont– “Are you serious?!”

No more self-control. Ford had exploded, destroying any remaining patience and curiosity he had before he heard his brother's voice. Even Fiddleford had stopped in his tracks, looking at Ford like he just grew an extra head. He knew about Stanley, his friend had told him about him when he found an old picture of two identical boys on top of a boat in between all of Ford's papers. He hadn't elaborated further, and Fiddleford hadn't pried.

“It was you? All of this time, it was you who was calling me?! For what, just to play with me? Was this just a sick prank of yours?!”

“...”

“Don't you dare stay quiet now!”

“I won't... 'm sorry.”

“Yeah, I bet you are sorry. Sorry because I caught you, I presume. What sort of prank is this?”

“S-Sixer pleas’... liss'n t'me...”

“Maybe I do not want to, Stanley! I have tried to listen to you, and you would not answer! Why should I listen to you?”

The sound of a slap against flesh was his only response, followed by a loud metallic thud. For a split second, Ford's anger turned into concern.

“What was that?” No reply. “Stanley, what was that?”

“Me,” his brother said. “'m tryna stay 'wake.”

“What do you mean awake–” Ford's concern quickly dissipated. The rage that followed was like nothing he had felt in a long time. “Have you been calling me while drunk?!”

It all made sense. The sighs, the silence, the very noticeable slurring that Ford hadn't discerned due to his agitated state... and now the self-beating. His brother was drunk, very drunk, and he was dragging Ford along with him for his miserable ride. The absolute nerve.

“Are you fucking serious, Stanley?! You've been calling me for years only to say nothing, making me paranoid that someone was stalking me, making me lose sleep over this, just because you were getting drunk?! And what, you decided that being miserable on your own wasn't entertaining enough, so you would call me… for what exactly? What were you trying to achieve with this stunt? Are you that much of a coward that you wouldn't even speak as I picked up?”

More silence, only broken by a nearby motorcycle.

“You're unbelievable. Utterly unbelievable. Almost ten years and you haven't had the guts to call me once, to apologize, to even start a conversation. And now it turns out you only do not care to speak to me, but also that this is some sick joke to you!” Once again, Ford's anger was turning into something else, and he knew what it was. He tried to focus on his rage rather than on the tight feeling that was taking over his whole heart. “I don't know what compelled you to do this dozens of times, but whatever you just drank, I need you to sober up and listen: Stop. Calling me. I was already mad at you and I was already mad at the mystery caller. But knowing that you're the same person is just too much. If you want to spend your time making poor decisions and ruining your life go ahead, but don't rope me into this no more! So for the last time, what do you want?!”

Ford's ears were ringing. He didn't think he had it in him to blow up like he did, but there it was; the accumulated frustration he had been feeling for almost a decade, let loose in a few minutes. He was furious, not only at the situation, but also because he didn't want this. He didn't want to explode like that. He didn't want his brother to be the mystery caller. And, above all, he didn't want to know Stanley was only calling him while intoxicated. Like their relationship was something so unimportant that a drunken conversation would do. Like he cared so little that a drunken joke was his way of entertainment.

For as much as he wanted to hate his brother, he couldn't. He could be angry, but not hateful. He had tried for years, but just imagining Stanley stopping by his college to apologize and make up was enough to give him hope. Such useless thing, hope.

“I jus' wanna say goodbye.”

What was that? “What?”

“Goodbye, Ford.”

A chill ran down Ford's spine. He should be angry, why was Stan's voice worrying him?

“What do you mean 'say goodbye'?” His voice was way less demanding than he would've liked. Ford looked up, only to see Fiddleford staring at him with his eyes fully open. At least he wasn't the only one taken aback.

“You won't hear from me again, doncha worry.”

“Stanley, clear your drunken mind for a second and speak. What are you talking about?” Stan said he'd leave him alone, why hadn't he hung up on him already?

“'m dead, Sixer. They're gonna kill me.”

Great. Just what he needed, a paranoid drunk brother.

“Stanley, for god's sake, you're just–”

“I'M NOT DRUNK, SIXER!” Stan screamed, loud enough that even Fiddleford on the other line flinched. “They... they found me... they gave me some'ing... but I ran. I'm out.”

Ford couldn't speak. If this was his brother's last attempt to gain his pity, it was working. He wanted to believe this was some drunken delusion, but Stan sounded incredibly scared. Stan was never scared. And if he was, he wouldn’t show it. In the very offhand chance that he was right...

“They'll find me. The car's outta fuel, and I... I can't even think. Whatever they put in my arm, it's strong. I can't go anymore. I'm so tired.”

A gentle hand on his knee brought him back to his senses. Fiddleford, who was sitting right in front of him on the floor, mouthed the words what's happening?.

“'m so sorry, Ford,” Stan said all of a sudden, and Stanford's heart fully broke. His twin was crying. His brother never cried, not even when he tricked people as kids. When was the last time he'd seen Stan…? Oh. Oh, no. “For everythin'. You're right, always, like always. I tried, I really did, I promise, but I just... I couldn't even be the only thing I was born to be... a brother.”

Ford opened his mouth, only to close it again at the sound of another, harder slap on the other side of the line.

“Listen, I put all ma money on this call, so please... please don' hang up.” Stan's voice was the slightest bit clearer after that second slap, but Ford could only focus on the way his voice was raspy, shaking, and pleading. He couldn't find a single trace of lying.

I won't, he said, only to himself.

“'m so sorry for everything. Everything. Not only whatcha thinkin' 'bout.” Even through the phone, Stan could read him like a book. “'m sorry for not being enough, ever. I wasn't smart 'nough to go study with ya, or strong enough to defend ya from all those assholes at school, or rich enough to get us both outta New Jersey like we wanted.” Ford was trying to make a mental note of everything his brother was saying, and he restrained himself from denying Stan’s words. “I always knew I was useless, but... you were still with me. And I would think it was because we're just twins, but... but you would tell me you liked having me around. Even if I was useless, you wanted me by your side.” Ford could almost see his brother smile while talking about him. “I didn't get it, and I still don't. I know it's different now, and I promise, I know that you want nothing to do with me, but I... I needed to call you before I'm gone, 'cause... I love you. I love you, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry...”

With his brother openly sobbing on the other side of the line, it shouldn't have surprised Ford to find a tear running down his cheek, but it did. It was a wakeup call, a sign that time was still ticking.

“... I'm sorry, I love you, Sixer, I–”

“Stanley, where are you?”

“... what?”

“Where are you, Stanley, come on.”

“I... why?”

“Just tell me!” The anger was there, but it had definitely shifted. His worry was taking over. If what his brother was saying was true, he had to go get him right now. If he was lying... at least he could go and spit in his face in person. Unfortunately, everything in the last five minutes was telling him it wasn't a lie. “Please, before the call cuts. Tell me.”

“What, you're gonna come pick me up?” Stanley laughed humorlessly, and Ford's mind replayed some moments back in their teen years in which Stan would scoff exactly like that.

“What, you're gonna come sleep in my bed?” That time when they were 12 and Stan had such a panic attack that he would not fall asleep.

“What, you think he's wrong?” That time when they were 14 and a teacher screamed and called Stan everything under the sun for not being able to read a text out loud.

“What, you think I didn't deserve it?” That time when they were 16 and Ford learned for the first time that their father had been hitting Stan since they were little.

All those times, Ford had surprised Stan by telling him the opposite of what we was thinking: yes, I'll sleep in your bed if it helps you stop shaking; yes, I think it's wrong that a teacher insults you because you have trouble reading; no, I don't think you deserve to be beaten up by your father. His brother had been shocked to hear those words every single time, like anyone in their right mind wouldn't say the same thing. Or maybe he was shocked that it was Ford who said them. Either way, he had always reminded Stan that he had his back.

When did that turn into this?

“Do you want me to?”

“...”

“Stan, I'm going. If what you're telling me is true and you really are in danger, I'm going.”

“...”

“Stanley, don't fall asleep!”

“'m not...” Stanley's voice was tired, too tired. Ford wasn't sure who would give up first, him or the phone. “Six', I... 'm already dead. It's not worth it. I'm not worth it, and y'know it. Deep down.”

Ford closed his eyes tightly. This self-loathing wasn't new, but it was terrible timing. His brother would shut down whenever he was like this and he wouldn't speak another word on the topic. He couldn't afford that. He needed to make him talk.

“Stan.”

“Yeah.”

“You said you love me, right?”

“...”

“Stan.”

“... more than anything, Six.”

“Then if this is our last talk, please, tell me. Where are you?

“'m... in New Mexico.”

“Okay, New Mexico, good. I need you to be more specific. Albuquerque? Santa Fe? Las Cruces?”

“I don't... I can't remember...”

“Stanley, you have to. Where was the last place you went to?”

“I... was on the run. From Mexico.”

“Mexico and New Mexico are not–” Seriously Stanford? Is this the time for a lecture? “Listen, are you positive you are in the US?”

“Yeah, 'm sure.”

“Alright, so if we've established that, I need you to focus, okay? What city is closer to you?”

“I don't know, I don't know Ford.” Stan's voice was getting increasingly weaker, and now the panic was seeping through.

“Okay, Stan, listen to me.” Stanford's mind was screaming at him to comfort his brother now; he could hear Stanley's breath getting faster, and his voice was getting higher. He was seconds away from a paralyzing panic attack, and he knew for a fact that a 'calm down' would not work on him. He just had to get him to talk, answer his questions, and nothing else. “How much does your payphone charge per minute?”

“Uhh... 15 cents.”

“How much did you put in?”

“I don't know, I think... like four bucks?”

“Okay, good, we have some time.” They did not have time. “After you left Mexico, do you recall the name of any city?”

“Some... they were mostly in Spanish.”

“Okay, good. You were good at languages, I bet you know what they meant. Which ones do you remember? What did they mean?”

“El Paso. The Step… Oscuro. Dark... Corona. Crown... Estancia. Stay.”

“Alright, and the one you're in right now, is it in Spanish?”

“No, this... I stopped here... because I knew the name.”

“What name was it?”

“It's... from a book. I book you read to me.”

“What book?”

“I thought... it was funny. And I stayed here. Before the car broke down.”

“Stan, what book was it?”

“Ford...”

“Tell me the book, come on.”

“I... I can't see.”

“Stan, just tell me the book, or the name, anything! Please, just anything!”

“It's... fine. I'm sorry, Ford.”

“Wait, Stan!”

On the other side of the line, a loud thud was heard against the pavement. Ford shouted his brother's name urging him to stand up, to wake up, to please say something. It only lasted a minute, though, until the signal went dead.

#hells writes #stan twins #stangst #if i keep looking at this any longer i won't post it so here you go! hope you enjoy it #the song is Reason to Believe by Bruce Springsteen (specifically the meadowlands arena live version what a MASTERPIECE)#gravity falls #stanley pines #stanford pines #stan pines #ford pines #gravity falls fanfiction #gravity falls fanfic #tw drugs #cw drugs

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