Family was about watching each other's backs.

That's what Ma said and, even though she was known to be a pathological liar (not that her sons knew what it meant, of course), Stan took her words as clear, indelible gospel.

"You kids are Pines, Stannie," she told her youngest child one night, after one of the rare fights he had with his twin. "Both as tough as bark, and as stubborn, too. But under the earth, you share the same roots. You could cut down the trunk, but the tree would still keep on going. Why? 'Cause it's alive through its roots. And that's how the forest survives. That's the same with us. My roots are all twisted together with yours and Fordsie's and your pa's and Shermie's—"

Stan had tried to wriggle out of her lap, but she'd only clamped him tighter instead. "Ugh, Ma! This is way too sappy! And don't call me Stannie!" He'd paused to scrunch up his nose at her. "And I bet Ford wouldn't want to be called Fordsie either!"

Esther Pines had ruffled her son's hair. "Sure, little man. Now, are you helpin' me with dinner or are you just gonna be as useless in the kitchen as your pa and brothers are?"

Stan had jumped at the occasion then, as he did hundreds of times afterwards. He wasn't a smooth operator like big bro Shermie or an absolute genius like good ol' Sixer, but Ma said Stan could be counted on. That had to mean something, right?

My little gentleman, she'd say and Stan would shoot off to fetch her slippers or a pack of cigarette or even a cup of coffee. He would find her watching TV in the living room, among an entire posse of other women—her sisters, cousins and girlfriends. The air would be thick with tobacco smoke and the pungent smell of their perfume. Stan would then dodge dozens of hands reaching out to pinch his cheeks, before finally carrying out whatever task his mother had asked of him. The completion of his chore would earn him a chorus of delighted laughter from the ladies. You sure this is Fil's boy? they would ask Stan's mom. He's way better trained than his old man, that's for sure! Stan wasn't quite sure what they meant by that, but it sure sounded swell to his ears.

Shermie, for his part, called Stan a pain in the butt. Still, whenever the oldest of the Pines children tried to woo a new girl (which was about once a week), he would always press a penny in Stan's hand, bribing his kid brother for his indispensable cooperation. The ladies were already all over Sherm's bad boy persona, but they just could not resist when they saw him stoically keeping watch over his adorable widdle baby bro, the perfect picture of the cool, responsible older sibling. Sherm and Stan had practised this routine to near perfection. You're not half bad, for a dumb kid, Shermie would often say, before locking his brother in a noogie. You do have your uses, lil' bro.

And Stanford, of course, was Stan's best bud, his mirror image, the other half of their unstoppable duo of adventurers. Stan would move mountains for Ford, and Ford would do the same, there was no doubt. Stan wasn't very smart or nice or cool, but it was a moot point when he was with Ford: they were a team. And when they'd be out of school, the two of them would sail around the world, looking for treasures and cute girls and whatever weird things went up Ford's alley. Ford, being the Pines family's resident astronomer, would study the stars and chart their course, just like the sailors of old, while Stan would serve as the muscle, pummeling up the creeps and cryptids they would encounter on their journey with the same fierceness he displayed whenever he fought the schoolyard bullies off Ford's back.

As for Dad—

"Why are you always looking for trouble, knucklehead?" Filbrick Pines hissed to his youngest child as he sat down next to Stan just outside of the principal's office. The chair gave a hideous screech as Filbrick dragged himself closer to his son. "Did you really have to pick up a fight you couldn't win—again?"

"But they were going after Ford! I had to!"

"It's not an excuse to get yourself beaten up," Filbrick said, his face twitching in the briefest of scowls. "You're here to get good grades, not land yourself in trouble over and over again because your brother can't handle a bit of teasing. Keep acting out like that, and you'll make all of us look bad."

Stan's eyes were burning. "But I thought—I thought you said…" Filbrick had enrolled both of the twins in boxing classes so they could learn to fight off the bullies. Or at least, that's what Stan had believed. Why wasn't Dad happy, then?

"And let your brother handle his own problems, for a change. God knows he has to get thicker skin or else he'll always let others walk all over him."

Stan looked at his hands; his knuckles were chafed raw and crusty with dried blood. Most of it came from him, but some definitely belonged to Crampelter and his goons. Stan's expression darkened at the thought of the bullies. They had ganged up on Ford as soon as he'd gotten to the school courtyard. Stan had seen red when he'd stumbled onto the scene. By the time he had rushed to his brother's aid, Ford had been holding his stomach, wincing, while one of Crampelter's cronies was stomping on his glasses. Ford's possessions had been thrown in the mud. The other kids had kept their distances, no doubt unwilling to become the bullies' next target.

Stan puffed out his cheeks. "I don't think Ford would have been able to deal with those guys on his own…" There had been just too many of them.

Filbrick made a frustrated noise. "Don't give me lip, kid." The man sat straight as an arrow in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. Throughout their conversation, he had barely looked at his son, but Stan still felt the sting of his judgment upon him. "Besides, do you really think so little of your brother?"

"N-No," Stan stuttered, "that's not… I didn't mean…"

Thankfully, the door to the principal's office opened before Stan could dig himself deeper. Crampelter and his mother came out first; Stan's heart swelled with vindictive joy as she all but dragged him along by the ear. Ford and Ma soon followed suit.

Stan immediately walked up to his twin. Stanford was staring at his feet with a gloomy expression reminiscent of a kicked puppy. His nose had stopped bleeding, but the frames of his glasses were still a bit twisted. One of his eyes was swollen purple.

"Whoa!" Stan said. "Is it me or you've gotten even more ugly?"

Ford rolled his eyes. "Uglier, Stanley. It's basic grammar." Still, he could not help but return Stan's stupid smirk. "And you should see your own dumb face. You're even worse than I am!"

Stan hadn't seen himself in the mirror, but he was certain that his brother was right: every inch of his face was currently made of pure pain. It didn't stop him from grinning like his life depended on it, however.

Stan gestured subtly behind him, where a surly Crampelter was being scolded by his mother. "At least, I'm not the worst lookin' out of all of us, huh?"

Ford rubbed his hands giddily. "You really did a number on him, bro. Not that he was pretty to begin with, anyway." Then, more quietly, he added, "Thanks, Stanley. I'm—I'm sorry you had to step in and get beaten up again."

"Psh!" said Stan. "Don't sweat it, Sixer. We're bros, remember? Your roots are my roots or whatever."

"Huh…? What's that supposed to mean?"

Stan laughed ruefully. "Heh. Sounded better when Ma said it."

Ford's response was to give him a light punch on the shoulder. "Yeah! Sheesh, for a moment there, I thought you'd gone all poet on me!"

"I do get better grades than you in composition, you know…"

"Not by much!"

"Boys!" came their mom's voice. She and Dad were waiting for the twins by the door. Ma had her hands on her hips and she was tapping her foot impatiently. "If you gotta squabble, do it at home! I've had enough of this place!"

"Yes, Ma'am!" the two boys said in chorus. They both knew they had to look forward to a long week of having to do twice the chores as usual, but neither of them cared. In this one golden, fleeting moment, Stanley and Stanford Pines stood together, bruised but not out, and all was right in the world.