Stanford Pines can focus on nothing but the hands on his body.
He tries to focus elsewhere; he looks away, focuses on the bricks on the wall, counting each one until the pain tears him away, and then he starts over. He tries to turn off his mind, to think of anything else, anything at all, but it's no use.
He keeps hearing shrill laughter that hurts his ears and feeling too many hands dig into his flesh and the warm stickiness of blood and the cold grip of chains and things deep inside him that make him ache and wince and he just wants it all to--
"Stop!--"
Ford wakes up, and realizes he is in his bed, on a boat, in the middle of the sea, sailing with his brother. Not with Him.
Ford sits up in his bunk, hiding his face in his hands and trying to take deep breaths. Trying to remind himself where he is. Trying to remind himself that He is gone and will never come back...
... but it's not much use when he can still feel His hands on his body, creeping closer to his most vulnerable places and squeezing and grabbing and scratching without a second thought.
Ford, against every fighting bone in his body, starts to weakly cry into his hands. His hands tense as he digs his nails into the flesh of his face, trying desperately to find some kind of control. He is gone, Ford reminds himself, dead, shattered into nothingness with a single punch. So why won't He leave Ford alone?
Ford chokes on his own sobs, curling in on himself as the hands only start to feel more real by the second. How can Ford prove they're not real? For all he knows, He is still here, still tormenting him, unwilling to ever leave. Ford is reminded of his sing-songy words on the piano when he had been trapped: I know we'll meet again some sunny day. It wasn't a sunny day, in fact, it was still pitch-black outside, but this does nothing to comfort Ford as he gags weakly in his agony.
Ford freezes as he hears the creaking of the bed beneath him, and the tell-tale groaning of his brother sitting up.
"Sixer? What's goin' on up there?"
Ford tries to hold in his sobs, to steel himself and go back to sleep. He doesn't want to burden Stanley more than he already has.
"I'm-- fine," Ford eventually replies, voice shaking. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep."
Stanley is, clearly, unconvinced, as he stands from his bed to lock eyes with Ford.
"Are you... crying?"
"No," Ford chokes out. He had never been a good liar.
"Oh, jeez, Sixer," Stan says, a bit of pity slipping into his voice. Ford hates it, he wants to curl in on himself and implode like a dying star and never be seen ever again.
He doesn't.
"Here, I... I'll go get you something to drink. Stay here," Stan adds, before retreating to the kitchen.
Ford thinks being alone may be worse. Now there's no one to protect him, no one to save him. He counts the wooden slats on the wall. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6-- the hands grab him roughly. Ford's breath hitches. He counts again. 1, 2, 3--
His counting is interrupted once more as Stan comes back into the room, offering Ford a cup of something warm.
"Hot chocolate," he clarifies simply, taking a sip of his own cup. Ford, ever so cautiously, with shaking hands, accepts his brother's offering.
"Nightmares again?" Stan asks, sitting back down in his bunk. Ford feels better now that the eyes are off him.
"Yes."
"You wanna talk about it?"
Ford considers this for a moment. Frankly, no, he would not like to talk about it, but it's also not like he will fall asleep again anytime soon, and he's never, ever told anyone about this. Maybe Stan can be trusted. Maybe he deserves to know.
"Bill," Ford replies after a long while of silence. He nearly gags saying His name. "He would... I..."
Ford sniffles, his throat feeling tight and heart beating fast. God, he shouldn't be saying this. He shouldn't be saying any of this.
"One night, when I thought He was still my friend," he continues anyway, "he suggested I have a drink. Take a break."
Stan stays quiet on the bunk below him. Ford feels sick to his stomach.
"I told Him I didn't drink. Not back then, at least. But He... He insisted. And He made this... this dream drink. And who was I to say no to my Muse?"
Ford can still taste it lingering in his mouth. Sickly sweet, with hardly any bite to it at all. Too good to be true.
"I've never... no alcohol, no substance I've ever had has been as intense as that one. I hardly even remember it. I just know that... that..."
Ford trails off, staring down at his hands, scarred and calloused. He sees the scars of all shapes and sizes that cover his arms. Scars that He made. That He was so proud of.
"I just know that I... I woke up sore. And I remember hands... and I remember begging Him to stop, but I... I couldn't speak. I couldn't move."
Ford doesn't even notice the tears as they flow down his cheeks again. He feels as if he doesn't have control now, either, his mouth moving without command, his words forming without thought.
"And that wasn't the only time. After He betrayed me, I-- I remember it being part of His mind games. Sometimes I was conscious, sometimes I wasn't."
He can hear shrill laughter and TV static in his mind.
"I remember Him holding me down, listening to me scream. I-- I remember looking at photos and video tape of all the things He did in my body when I fell asleep. I... I felt so-- so humiliated."
Ford's face feels red with embarrassment, his throat tight as he struggles to speak.
"And then... during Weirdmageddon. When He had me in His Fearamid. I... I can't get it out of my head. There were chains and... and I..."
Ford chokes out a sob that shakes his body.
"I didn't even try to stop Him."
His whole body heaves with sobs as he curls into himself.
"I didn't even try. He-- He threatened you, and the kids, and I was so scared that I just... I just let it all happen. And He just wouldn't stop...
"I-- I already knew He had possessed Dipper, and I didn't-- what if He would hurt them like He hurt me? They're just kids, I-- I couldn't let Him...-
"Did-- did I deserve it? Did I want it all along? Why didn't I just tell Him to--"
"Stanford."
Ford stops talking immediately as he hears Stan finally speak up below him.
"You didn't want it. You didn't deserve it. Don't you ever go thinking that."
"But I--"
"Don't argue with me, Stanford. Look, I...-" Stan trails off, sounding far away. "Bill was a piece of shit, you didn't... don't blame yourself for what He did to you."
Ford sniffles. He looks down at his hot chocolate. The mug is now cold. Soggy marshmallows float around aimlessly.
"I know this... probably won't help," Stan says, breaking through the silence. "But I... I get it. It happened to me too."
Ford's heart stops. He can feel the blood drain from his face.
"Bill, He--"
"No, no. Not Bill. Just some... some guys along the way.
Stan shrugs like it's nothing, like it happens every day and rolls right off his shoulders as they come up to his ears.
"You'll do just about anything for a bed or food... or, y'know, drugs. And when you keep getting yourself into trouble and you've got people after your head...
Ford feels sick to his stomach. He thinks he can physically feel his heart breaking in two. Tears sting his eyes all over again.
"Stan I-- I'm so sorry," he manages to say. He wants to place a hand on his shoulder, or to pull him in tight and never let go; he chooses to stay in his bed, keep his hands in his lap, his nails digging into his wrists. "This is all my fault."
"What are you talking about?"
Ford curls in on himself. "If-- if I had just told Pa to let you stay--"
"Ford--"
"--if I was just brave enough to tell him no, or--"
"Ford."
"--or to forget about my stupid project altogether--"
"Stanford!"
Ford's rambling stops in an instant. He unfurls himself, looking at the wall, his eyes struggling to adjust against the darkness.
"It wasn't your fault."
"But it was--"
"Ford. Please."
Ford softens, letting out a shaky exhale and backing down.
"You're not mad at me for it?"
Stan takes a moment to consider this, looking out the window at the open sea, nothing but blue as far as the eye can see.
"I am sometimes. I was for a long time. But... you were just a kid. We were kids. And Pa would've..." he trails off aimlessly. When he finally starts to speak again, he sounds a bit lost. "You couldn't have known."
"I'm... I'm so sorry, Stanley."
Stan shrugs again, setting his empty mug to the side. Ford hadn't even heard him drinking from it.
"Yeah. I am too. But... it's all in the past now, y'know. It's us again. Out on the open ocean. So... I forgive you."
Stanford Pines feels like a little kid, the same small child on the top bunk of their childhood home in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, and all he wants to do his hug his brother.
Ford hops down from his bed. Stan looks a bit startled at the quick motion. He hardly has time to process as Ford tugs him into a hug, down on his knees next to Stan's bed, sobbing into his shoulder like they're 8 years old again.
Stanley wraps his arms around his brother, holding tight to his shirt. He buries his face in the crook of Ford's neck, breathing deep against his skin. He missed this. He missed this so much.
When Ford finally pulls away, his face is blotched with red and wet with tears. His hands shake a little as he absently scratches at the scars on his wrists.
"Hey," Stan gently chides, nudging Ford's hand off his arm. "He's gone. Okay? I know He is because I did it."
Ford nods. He knows this to be true, but...
"Remember what I said to you way back in Jersey?" Stan says, smiling at his brother. "I told you we'd sail away from that dumb town. And look what we're doing now."
Stan gestures to the window, and Ford's eyes follow it, met with the endless blue sea just outside.
"And if we can do that, after everything... we can make it through this too. Sail away from all the shit that happened in the past."
Ford's eyes trail back to Stan, who smiles defiantly at him.
"You're my brother, Stanford. I won't ever leave ya hanging."
Ford nods. "Likewise."
Stan laughs a little under his breath.
"High six?" Stanley offers, one hand lifted up weakly beside him.
"High six," Stanford replies, softly pressing his hand to his brother's. It's certainly no high-six, but the sentiment stays the same.
Stan's hand wraps around Ford's, squeezing it tight and shaking it a few times.
"We'll make it out, Sixer. I promise."
Ford smiles for the first time all night, feeling a weight finally come off his chest. He takes a long, deep breath, muscles settling and softening.
"... mind making me another hot chocolate?" Ford asks, a bit pathetically, just to fill the silence. "Mine, ah... got cold."
Stan rolls his eyes, groaning as he stands up and takes Ford's still full, and very cold mug.
"Yeah, yeah. Be right back."
...
When Stan returns minutes later with a warm mug of hot chocolate, he finds his brother tucked against the wall in his bed, snoring quietly. Stan sighs, setting the cup to the side and laying the blanket over his brother. He crawls in next to him, just like old times, pulling Ford close in his arms and settling into the thin mattress.
"I've got you, Sixer. I've got you.”