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Tryst

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Stan had practically kicked down the door to the bedroom that he shared with his twin brother before said twin brother even knew that he was sprinting up the stairs and down the hall to him. Ford was sitting at his desk, initially, but upon hearing the door slam against the wall with enough force to tear it off its hinges and Stan scream his name, he was on the floor instead. Rubbing his head from where he’d fallen out of his seat, he glared up at his brother, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses.

“What the Hell, Ley?!” he hollered, clearly annoyed at having been so rudely disturbed from his oh-so-precious studying (which he did way too much of, in Stan’s opinion). “You could have given me a concus-”

“Sixer, this is important!” Stan interrupted, looking just as flustered as he sounded. Waving his burly arms around frantically, Ford had no choice but to pay attention to his flailing sibling. “There’s no time to waste! We need to go, now!”

 

“Here we go,” Ford thought glumly.

Stan was gonna drag him along on some stupid escapade that would inevitably result in one or both of them getting grounded for being hooligans around town.

Fool Ford once, shame on Stan.

Fool Ford twice, shame on Ford.

Fool Ford over a hundred times...Ford was a glutton for punishment.

 

But not today.

Usually he’d be all for Stan’s fun and games, but not today; they were approaching their midterms and Ford wanted to cram in as much time spent studying as possible (even if Stan didn’t reciprocate his endeavours).

 

Ford glowered at him. Using his chair to balance himself, he started hoisting himself up.

“Sorry, Stan,” he replied, already exhausted by Stan’s boundless hyperactivity. “I’d love to, but...not today. I need to get the rest of my History work done.”

He gestured to the open books on the desk that was supposed to be for the both of them to work at, but since Stan hated anything scholarly with a burning passion, it was Ford’s for the taking.

Stan barely even acknowledged his brother’s response.

“NO TIME!” he squawked again. Before Ford could offer a counter, he was scooped up by his brother’s large arms and slung over one of his broad shoulders in a fireman’s lift. By no means was Ford a small guy (he was lean enough but was pretty tall, and had been gaining a slight pinch of baby fat lately) but for Stan, he weighed as much as a ragdoll.

Stan bolted from the room at such a speed Ford had no idea he was already outside in the street until he felt the cool evening air against his face.

 

“STAN, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” Ford yelled, shamelessly catching the attention of passers-by, who glowered at them. “PUT ME DOWN!”



Stan did as he was told.

However, he followed his order by practically hurling Ford into the passenger’s seat of the Stanmobile that was parked on the curb.

Everything was going way too quickly. Ford was already buckled into the worn leather seat before he could utter another protest. It would have been silenced anyway, since the door was slammed harshly in his face before he could yell at his brother and demand what was going on. His head was reeling; what was possibly so important that Stan was behaving as though it were the end of the world?

He doubted that the apocalypse was the reason why.

 

Stan rushed around the front of the vehicle, and jumped into the driver’s seat immediately, harshly shutting the door behind him.

Ford wasted no time in berating and demanding why Stan was acting so desperate all of a sudden, even while Stan was starting the ignition and getting ready to peel away and drive off God-knows-where with a ranting, raving nerd in the passenger seat.

“You’d better tell me where we’re going right now, Stan, or I’m gonna hurl myself out of this car!” Ford threatened, half-seriously. Still, his six-fingered hand hovered dangerously over the lock on the door, wholly prepared to tumble across tarmac if it meant getting out of this madman’s vehicle.

 

In retrospect, Ford was probably overreacting a whole lot more than Stan was.

 

The car was already squealing away anyway, tearing off down the residential street. Oddly, not in the direction of the beach, which was Ford’s first idea of where Stan could potentially be taking him in such a hurry. Instead, Stan was heading for a winding road that snaked up a steep slope, between towering dark trees that were silhouetted menacingly against the golden-red sunset.

“Well?” Ford demanded angrily. He was still annoyed and confused as ever (Hell, he hadn’t even managed to put on something a little more appropriate for some unexpected outing, as he was wearing a red long-sleeved shirt and equally-as-old sneakers). But he’d calmed down considerably.

So had Stan, it seemed.

 

“I’m takin’ ya on a lil’ trip, Sixer,” Stan replied. It was the vaguest answer Stan had given him ever since he’d exploded into the bedroom and practically abducted him from their home, but it was something.

“Where?”

“Somewhere.”

 

Any and all other attempts at gleaning any information whatsoever after this point proved fruitless. Stan would respond with vague, one-word answers, animalistic grunts, sly smirks, or nothing at all. Ford gave in.

Ford scowled glumly. He unfastened his seatbelt (if their parents were in the vehicle with them right now he’d be scalped, but in Stan’s presence, he couldn’t really care less) and settled against the car door. Casual as could be, Ford resigned himself to his fate and decided to just go along with whatever Stan had in mind. It wouldn’t necessarily be a good thing (this was Stan, after all, the guy that had once tied a damn kitchen knife to a possum one time and pretended as though it were some assassin), but it beat getting tired eyes and being unable to read text in a history book.

Barely.

 

The drive was an unfamiliar one; he and Stan had only ever been outside of town on a few occasions. He could count them on both his hands (with fingers to spare). But this route was one he didn’t recognise. Maybe it was because it was approaching night-time, and the trees were way too dark to pick out any discernible landmarks, but Ford couldn’t help but feel like something was twisting up in his gut a little bit.

It wasn’t a wholly bad feeling. In fact, it made him feel a little excited.

Butterflies, he rationalized them as. Paranoia was something totally different.

 

With nothing better to do while he waited for Stan to reach their destination (wherever that was), and since Stan was being the worst conversationalist in the world, Ford decided to just be observant. He watched the trees rushing past for a while, then tried making a game out of counting the faded creases in the worn leather of his seat. The radio, upon turning it on to break the tension, was way too obtrusive, so Ford turned it back off again before a cheesy love song could begin playing.

Stan seemed to dampen a bit at that, but Ford couldn’t figure out why.

He studied his brother for a while, and noticed something odd about Stan. He hadn’t had enough time to take in his twin’s appearance back in their house, but now that they were in such close proximity to each other, Ford couldn’t help but stare at Stan’s new features.

 

“Stan?”

“Mm-hm?” It was the closest thing to a response Ford had gotten out of Stan in a while.

“Why are you wearing a dress shirt?”

It was a definite step-up from his usual sweaty vest, though it was a stark and unexpected one. The snappy blue look really suited Stan, however. Really defined his shoulders and the unbuttoned collar exposed the sharp line of his clavicle.

Stan side-eyed him incredulously. “Ya serious?” he gruffed.

“Why would I not be?” Ford inquired, quirking a bushy eyebrow. What was his deal?

“C’mon, Sixer; even you can’t be that dumb,” Stan snarked, trying to jog his brother’s memory.

That was certainly the pot calling the kettle brown, but Ford let it slide just this once.

“What day is it, dummy?”

 

Ford thought for a few seconds more, then abruptly remembered.

The sound of Ford’s six-fingered palm colliding with his forehead could be heard for miles around, he was sure of it.

“Sweet Saints, I’m a dumbass,” he grumbled, internally kicking himself.

 

It was Valentines’ Day.

How on Earth could he have forgotten? He’d marked it down in the calendar and everything! Their very first Valentines’ Day...as a couple, and he’d gone and forgot it like an amnesiac.

 

Through his guffaws at the expense of his dumbass of a smartass of a brother, Stan managed to wheeze out: “For a nerd yer pretty unobservant, Sixer! Can’t even remember the most important day of ta year - second only ta our Birthdays, a’course.”

Ford, cringing so hard to the point he was certain he would become a singularity, tried his hardest to not burst into tears.

“God, Stan - I am so sorry,” he apologized profusely. “I really am, I- I really did forget, I have no idea how but- Please forgive me Stan-”

Stan chortled.

“Don’ sweat it, bro,” he cackled. Despite his laughter, he sounded sincere. “It’s fine. At least ya remembered before I tried jumpin’ ya bones.”

 

If Ford wasn’t flustered already, he certainly was now.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. If the burning in his cheeks was of any indication, he was as red as a firetruck right now. Stan laughed even harder, punching him playfully in the shoulder.

“We’re almost there,” Stan announced, and Ford squinted between his fingers. They were approaching some kind of rural parking lot. It was bordered by black trees and was totally deserted, save for a few squirrels that scattered when the headlights of the Stanmobile illuminated them in the dusk. The El Diablo convertible pulled in to one of the lots, and Ford recognized the area.

 

“Is this-”

“Makeout Point?” Stan interjected with a wicked, yet shamelessly seductive, grin on his face. “Ya bet your ass!” Stan started to get out of the car, but stopped long enough to make another wisecrack.

“It wouldn’t be the first time!”

Ford felt fit to bursting.

Sweaty, red-faced, and quivering with anticipation of what was to come, he followed his brother’s lead and stepped out of the car himself. He shut the door behind him as he left, and peered around curiously. He was honestly surprised that they were the only ones there that night, of all nights.

Ford had never been to Makeout Point before, since...he had nobody to go there with. But now he did. And that person was...his twin brother.

On second thoughts, Ford was glad there were no horny teenagers around to catch the two of them getting up to whatever mischief Stan had in mind for them.

He didn’t want “redneck brotherfucker” on his tombstone.

 

Ford waited around awkwardly, alternating his attention between Stan as he rummaged around in the backseat of the car and the view from the Point. It was admittedly beautiful. The sea stretched out as far as the eye could see, only interrupted by small motorboats zipping up and down the dark water, leaving wakes of white foam. The sun was low in the sky, almost kissing the horizon. Its blazing orange rays illuminated the heavy purple clouds billowing across the sky, and Ford spied tiny stars twinkling high high up, as well as the ghostly crest of the moon peeking out.

It was breathtaking, truly.

 

The sound of Stan clearing his throat caught Ford’s attention, and he turned to see his brother offering him a bottle of beer he’d somehow managed to smuggle out of the house without their parents noticing. Or without Ford noticing it in the backseat, too.

“I’m really not that perceptive,” Ford humoured himself.

Gratefully taking the bottle, Ford smiled warmly at his brother. Stan grinned back that cocky grin that he loved so much.

“I still feel bad for forgetting Valentine’s Day,” he lamented sadly. “This was our first. It should have been special.”

The two of them had only been secretly dating for several months now, and had been taking things pretty slowly. Well, slowly in Stan’s terms. It went without saying that a week into the relationship, Stan was aching to get at Ford in ways brothers never should.

 

Stan waved his hand dismissively, and opened up his bottle of beer with a sharp fizz as the cap popped off. “Like ‘a said, don’ sweat it, Sixer,” Stan insisted coolly. “Hell, I woulda forgot it myself if...ya know, I wasn’t bonin’ ma bro.”

Ford blushed even more, and tried to chuckle to make himself feel a bit less awkward about Stan’s blatant flirting. Taking a swig of his beer (and grimacing at the unexpected burst of flavour), Ford decided to take a seat on the hood of the Stanmobile. He hoped that Stan wouldn’t mind. He didn’t; taking a seat next to Ford was enough confirmation that a couple scratches meant nothing to his brother.

Their hands met.

Ford’s soft, six-fingered one curled comfortably around Stan’s smaller, calloused one. One thing that Ford enjoyed about their hand-holding, as pure and innocent as it was, was how his extra finger supported Stan’s pinkie, interlocking their hands in perfect synchronicity. It was like they had been moulded for one another, fated to hold one another in such a tender and loving way.

 

They sat there for a while, taking sips from their beers and ghosting over each other’s flesh with their thumbs. Enjoying the moment. Embracing the peacefulness and the tranquility that accompanied such a rarity.

 

“I really appreciate you taking the time to do this, Stan,” Ford said after a while. The sun had dipped a little lower now, casting dark shadows across the Point. When Ford turned his head to look at Stan, he noticed how the fiery orange rays brought out the twinkle in his eyes. It illuminated his gelled hair, and cast small shadows on all the perfect imperfections in his acne-scarred face. It was a wonderful sight, and a sight that Ford would never take for granted.

Stan smiled at him, showing teeth that had been adjusted after years of wearing ugly braces that made his perfect smile a little less perfect.

“Don’t mention it.”

Stan held out his bottle, and clinked it against Ford’s.

 

Ford suddenly thought of something, and found himself chuckling at it. Stan hummed quizzically.

“Well, why did you make such a big deal earlier when you literally man-handled me out of our house to the car?” he asked, still chuckling. It may have been the booze giving him the giggles, since Ford never could hold his drink very well, but it didn’t really matter. “You could have just told me that you had something planned for Valentines’ Day and I would have been a lot more compliant.”

Stan thought about that for a few seconds, then shrugged casually. “Couldn’ really say that in fronta Ma and Pops, could I?” he grumbled. “They woulda strung us both up if they heard their sons fuckin’ away upstairs.”

Ford burst out laughing at that. It wasn’t even that funny of a joke, if it was even a joke at all, but it was a contagious laugh, as Stan joined in and cackled along with him. After their laughing fit, they calmed down, and resumed watching the sunset in comfortable silence.

 

They sat there for a while longer. Ford, feeling a little bold after drinking the beer and being so unabashed in public displays of affection with his brother, decided to try his luck with a line he’d been pondering over for a while.

“Hey...um…”

Stan looked at him.

“Wanna...show me why this place is called ‘Makeout Point’?”

 

It was corny, it was cheesy, it was disgustingly romantic.

But Ford felt giddy saying it; he enjoyed speaking in a way he rarely ever could. Stan’s eyes lit up at that, and he flashed that heart-melting grin that made Ford go weak at the knees.

 

“Sure.”

The huskiness in Stan’s voice was enough to make Ford practically melt under his touch. Since Stan was almost always the instigator of their trysts, he was the one that leaned in first, and pressed his lips against Ford’s.

Forget the sunset; this kiss had more passion and more of a brilliant, unstoppable glow than any star, than any supernova, than any other astronomical beauty.

Stan’s lips were plush and warm, most likely from the booze. He tasted of beer and of those rancid toffee peanuts that Ford hated. But on Stan’s lips, they tasted like heaven. It was an addictive taste that Ford craved more of; he deepened the kiss, lapping at his brother’s palate. He was like a starved animal, craving that rich ichor that only Stan could provide him with.

 

Ford wished that this moment would last forever.

As Stan’s broad, calloused hands began to embrace Ford’s smaller frame, pulling him close enough to be considered a shameful and indecent embrace, Ford knew that this would be ingrained in his mind for as long as he lived.

And he was going to make the most of every second of it.