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He hadn’t expected it to be the lightning.
There were plenty of things, frankly, it could’ve been. The sharp blade of the razors set lined up neatly by the bathroom sink intimidated him enough to opt for other options ( any other options). He kept his eyes closed in the shower, eyes closed when he changed, eyes closed especially around Stanley. Eyes closed at the doctors, if he ever went to the doctors. It could’ve been the doctors. It could even have been sleep itself, the steady tick-tick-tick of the clock keeping him up past ten cups of coffee into the night, but no. It wasn’t the sleep, either, as much as his insomnia raged.
It was the lightning.
When Ford was young, rainy days had been a blessing and a joy. They made Stanley unbelievably grumpy, torn from the throes of adventuring lest Pa have his neck for tramping mud through the house, but they made him unbelievably joyful; a chance to read, a chance to write, a chance to work on math or theories or any of the things most eleven year olds didn’t work on but he finally had the excuse to. The rain against the windows was comforting, the roll of the thunder a relaxing presence to fall asleep to, the flashes of lightning through the sky fascinating to look at, the tingle of static the beach brought to his skin tickly, but not alarming.
Not tonight.
The first bolt of lightning cut through the air at 8 PM, and it meant nothing. By the time the second bolt comes, there is a trail of static electricity across his arms which begs curiosity; it was always harsh, next to the beach, but never in inland Oregon; it’s back, now, that they’re on the sea. Bolt three and four decrease the static from the sentiment of static electricity ; bolt five is garish, and lights up the cabin in whites that turn to yellows that turn to pinks, an ugly mosaic of His flavor of lighting. Bolt Six-- Come on, Sixer-- brings in His voice, and it's the last thing that nudges its way in before Stanley comes to join it.
“Ford?”
The way Stanley says his name sort of indicates this isn’t the first time he’d said it; which, he comes to realize, might’ve been the case. He’s too far gone, but he barely realized that either. All he’s aware of is his mind bouncing around like a pinball in some greater scheme of consciousness. Breath comes in, one after the other, and he’s counting them--He is desperate to make him lose consciousness, and counting the breaths helps; one in one out, two in two out, three in three out. Faster isn’t better, and he may at this point by hyperventilating, but it’s something. He runs his hands against opposing arms, feeling his fingernails scrape against skin; he digs in. It’s painful, but less so, and it’s real. A hand grasps his wrist, maybe. It’s his own hand, maybe. Stanley is saying something else, now, but as soon as he gets his words in his brain, they’re drowned out.
He’s not coming! Nobody is coming for you, Sixer! There’s nobody left! Just ONE equation, Fordsi-
“Ford. Ford!”
There’s a hand on his shoulder. There’s a presence, hard and real, but it's not one he gave himself, it’s not one he invited in, and he jumps, lurching back. “No.” He presses, words spilling from his lips faster than he can control them, faster than he can comprehend them; it makes his breath shorter, but there’s something he needs to press through. “No, no, no you can’t have it—“
Silence. Blissfully, there’s silence. He doesn’t know the reason for it, but it’s a relief nonetheless. No Stanley (not coming, he’s not coming, you’re alone I’m alone and He’s going to kill me I’m going to die here and what about the childr), but no Bill either. Just a singular, blissful moment of stormless silence, and it’s enough that it hooks and drags him, and he hears, cutting through the electric fog—
“Oh, Ford.”
He’d figured it out (so that’s what he was doing in the silence), and that’s enough. In the moment, it’s enough. “Stanley—” he got out; he sobbed out. When had he started crying? (And for a moment there’s a don’t let Him see you cry, but—gone, it’s gone.) It’s gone, and there’s a firmer pressure than just a hand on his shoulder. It’s a blanket, he’s forced to reconcile with the new and unfamiliar. And it’s warm, and it’s safe, and it keeps the static out, and it’s joined by Stanley’s arm; around his shoulders, this time. He’s close, and secure, and safe. The blanket moves, a bit, as he trembles. He’s trembling. He didn’t notice that he was doing that, either, but he’s shaking like a leaf in the wind, and Stan’s hand around his shoulders rubs his arm, obviously trying to reign it in. “Stanley--” He repeats, voice quivering around the edges as he buries his head in his hands. If he doesn’t look up, he doesn’t have to see Bill, and he can bear not to, now that Stanley is here.
“‘S’okay, Sixer.” The Sixer nickname makes him flinch for a moment-- Bet you wish you were dead right about now, huh Sixer?-- but no. It's’ Stanley’s voice. Stanley is present, and solid, and grounding. Stanley’s voice is safe. Stanley is safe.
“That’s not real, alright? I’m real. And I’m right here.”
He nods, because nodding is easier than speaking, right now; but he nods a lot, because he wants Stan to see that he’s nodding, to see that he’s in the present. “I’m gonna go close the blinds, okay? Keep that around you.” Stan tucks the blanket a bit further around his shoulder, and it’s soft, like the giant parka Stan used to lend him on chilly nights, and it’s warm, like the radiator by the top bunk that Stan broke back to fix when Pa couldn’t be bothered, and it’s safe, like Stanley swearing to protect him in a school bathroom. Stanley, he realizes, has been the warmth and safety in his life since day one.
Why did he let that go?
The Fearamid starts to trickle away with the lightning as the shade pulls down, and his shoulders relax, and breathing starts to even out, just a bit. Stan lifts his chin a bit, and he forces his eyes open; they’re swollen from the crying, from him forcing them shut, and just that action alone tires him out. “Hey, take it easy, Sixer.” Stan mutters, and that time the nickname is comforting, and he closes them again, nodding. He feels the back of a hand against his forehead, the dampness he hadn’t realized was on it, hears the click of a tongue; Stanley has always been the caretaker of the family, ever since he was old enough to do the job properly. Too young. “You should get some sleep.” Stan mutters, and he shakes his head no, but does so sleepily.
“Yes.” Stan chuckles, patting the pillow, and though he groans, he at least lays down, focusing upwards behind closed eyelids. “I’m goin’ to get some stuff, you’re running a pretty nasty fever.” To that he nods--not entirely uncommon to get those awful hot chills when he panics. He still feels a rush of relief when Stan returns a few minutes later, handing him a cold glass. “Hydrate, will you?” There’s a familiar irritation in his voice, and he chuckles, sitting up some to drink. “And take all these layers off.”
Stan knows he likes the security (and privacy ) long sleeves and turtlenecks give, but he knows that his scars are safe around his brother, and also that Stan’s probably right, with the fever. So he takes off his sweater and the woolen undershirt underneath it and changes into the lighter shirt Stan brought instead. Then, he lays back down and lets Stan fuss for a few more minutes, because he know it’ll make him feel better; he flips off the light and turns to go back to his own bed after laying a cool washcloth against his forehead, but something in him that he doesn’t know how to place speaks for him; “Wait.”
And it breaks around the edges and it’s all embarrassing and he wishes he could take it back, but the concern in Stan’s eyes when he turns around moves something else in him, so he keeps going. “Can you...stay here?” That’s not the most uncommon thing either--it’s just not common enough to be a norm. But Stanley, as he knew he would, cracks immediately, climbing under the covers and wrapping both arms around him. Maybe that’s manipulation. It’s also what he needs. And then Stan fusses a bit more, combing out knots in his hair and fixing the blankets 80 times, but eventually his head is on his brother’s chest and he’s breathing steadily and Stan has an arm around his shoulders and things are---good, really.
“Storm’s dying down.” Stanley whispers, stilling the motion of his hands in his hair for a moment. “Good sign, right?”
“Mmmm.”
“Think you’ll sleep through the night?”
He doesn’t answer. It’s because he wants to make Stan think he’s already asleep, and lo and behold, it works. He’s able to enjoy that silence for a few minutes, listen to the storm die down, feel the warmth of the blankets and Stanley. And he would, of course, tell Stan he loves him too, by the time Stan says it, but he’s already asleep when it comes.