Based around a comic by morningmark on Tumblr

I Want to Come Home

Stanley Pines stumbled out of a bar so seedy it couldn't even be classified as a dive, one hand clenched around a bottle of beer and the other pressed against his mouth. At twenty years old and not even legal to drink, it was still a necessary distraction to numb himself of the things he had to do just to keep gas in his car.

Tonight's distraction brought to you by 'What Stan Pines Would Do for Twenty Bucks in the Men's Bathroom'.

He tipped back the bottle, draining the rest of the sour-tasting swill down his throat, before tossing it to the side, not bothering to see where it landed as he staggered to his car, tugging on the back door handle, only to find it was locked. Not fully registering in his drink-dulled mind, he tried the handle several more times, only getting the same result.

No. Not this, not tonight, not on top of everything! He tugged harder before leaning against the car, a hiccupped sob caught in his throat.

He couldn't do this anymore. The failed breaks, the seven month stints in prison, the degrading, desperate things he did for money—it was enough. He couldn't handle it anymore.

Stan pushed off from the car, almost losing his balance as he stumbled backwards and almost crashed into a payphone in the parking lot. He groped around until he took the phone off of the hook, digging around in his pockets for the spare change he always kept on hand, shoving the quarters into the slot. Even in his drunken haze, his fingers found the number he knew from heart and could punch in blind.

Several states over in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, Filbrick Pines looked up from his TV show when the phone rang. It was too late in the evening for anyone to be calling. His wife was away visiting her parents with Shermy, and Stanford never called in the evening. He reached over and picked up the receiver. "Hello, this is Filbrick Pines."

"….Pa…."

Filbrick's body tensed up, recognizing the voice he hadn't heard in almost three years even in one word. Even how soft it was spoken. He hadn't been prepared for this, and honestly had no idea of what to say.

Three years had been enough time to go over every detail of that day, and let it sink in. Stanford never spoke of it, but Filbrick noticed that several of Stanley's things were hoarded in with Stanford's when came time to clean out their room after Stanford went to college. His wife had been vocal enough for two, disapproving of having one of her babies be kicked out with such an impossible condition to return home. She hardly spoke to him for a month after that.

Filbrick honestly expected Stanley to call within the month and admit defeat and beg to come home. But day after day came without a phone call and only pictures in the house reminded him that Stanley even once existed.

And now, out of nowhere, comes this call.

"…..Stanley," he replied, his voice as neutral as always. "Why are you calling at this hour—"

"Pa….I….I wanna come home…" Filbrick's hand twitched when Stanley spoke again, now hearing a slurred, almost pained tone. Was he drunk? It would make sense Stanley would call in a drunken stupor. He was about to tell Stanley to call back when he was sober when Stan spoke again.

"I…I cant do it anymore, Pa….I'm….I'm tired….I'm hungry….I feel sick—" A brief interruption that sounded like retching. "….cant….get that taste outta my mouth…" A soft sob. "….hate…hate what I gotta do for some money…"

Filbrick's hand was shaking, his body going cold at the implications of what Stanley was saying. "Stanley—"

"I wanna come home, Papa!" Stanley sobbed, his voice hitting a more hysteric pitch. "I'm sorry! I'm—I'm sorry I ruined Ford's future! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! I wanna come home…please, Papa, please…!"

"Stanley, where are you?" Filbrick found himself saying as he got out of his chair, holding the phone tightly to his ear. "Just tell me where you are!" He was met with silence. "Stanley? Stanley!"

Several states over, Stanley slumped to the ground, exhaustion and drunkenness pushing him into unconsciousness, not even hearing the panicked voice coming from the receiver. He was passed out long before the line went dead.

Filbrick kept shouting into the phone until he heard the line cut off, and just stood there in the living room, listening to the drone of the dial tone that seemed to drown out every other sound in the world. After a few long minutes, he put the phone back on the hook, sat back down in his chair, and buried his face in his hands, wishing, not for the first time, that he never told Stanley to not come home.

Stanley groaned as he came to, rubbing his throbbing head. He HAD to stop drinking himself into unconsciousness. The hangovers and puking wasn't worth it, no matter WHAT drove him to do it.

He finished emptying his stomach of what little was inside, wondering why he hadn't dropped to sleep in his car instead of on the ground as he fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He fumbled around until his fingers found the $20 in his pocket, heaving a relieved sigh of relief that he at least wasn't mugged last night.

First things first, toast and coffee from the diner down the road. That left enough for a full tank of gas and lunch for later. He started the car and drove off, having never noticed the phone that was still hanging off the hook.

Filbrick didn't tell his wife or Stanford about the call. The last thing he wanted to do was sent his wife into hysterics over whatever trouble Stanley might be in, and letters from Stanford indicated he was absolutely focused on maintaining his perfect grades with this new thesis paper of his. Filbrick didn't want to put any guilt on Stanford's shoulders on top of academic stress.

Still, he knew he looked incredibly suspicious when he would practically bolt for the phone whenever it rang, desperately hoping that it was Stanley calling back.

It went on for months, well into Stanford's Christmas vacation home. In the middle of Stanford telling them about his upcoming move to somewhere in Oregon for a research project, the phone rang and like many times before, Filbrick immediately got up to answer it, moving faster and with more urgency than Stanford ever witnessed.

Stanford glanced over at his mother, who was quietly feeding Shermy like she was used to it already. "…Is Dad alright?" he asked. She nodded.

"I'm sure," she said. "Now, tell me about this town you're moving to."

As Stanford explained his reasons for moving up north, Filbrick politely wished his cousin a Merry Christmas before hanging up the phone, lingering in the living room and looking at the picture on the shelf of the last photo taken of the whole family together. How happy Stanley looked just being around his family. How Stanford looked so relaxed and carefree. His twins, together.

Filbrick sighed, rubbing his eyes for a moment before heading back into the dining room, hoping and praying that Stanley was warm and well-fed this Christmas.

It was early July several years later that he heard the news, given to him by a family friend who looked in the newspaper on July 4th and sent a clipping.

STAN PINES DEAD

Filbrick read the headline over and over again, unwilling to let it process.

STAN PINES DEAD

His wife had seen the clipping. He was just thankful Shermy had been visiting his grandparents at the time because the owners of the café next door had run over to see what the hysterical screaming was about. It was all he could do to hold her while she screamed and sobbed that her baby was gone.

STAN PINES DEAD

There was apparently nothing left from the fiery wreckage to even bury, so a memorial service was all that was actually needed. But Filbrick commissioned a burial plot and tombstone. He wasn't going to add further insult to his son's memory by pretending he didn't exist.

STAN PINES DEAD

Stanford hadn't come to the service. It was nearly impossible to get a hold of him since the phone number had been disconnected for the better part of a year. Only the occasional letter or postcard let them know the other twin was alive. It was coincidentally the day of the memorial service that they got a letter in, saying the phone lines were back up even though nobody was answering the phone calls.

Filbrick picked up the phone and quietly dialed the number, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It rang three times before someone picked up.

"Hello?"

"Stanford, this is your father."

"Yeah, this is Stanford…" Filbrick absently noticed a rougher, more gruff tone in Stanford's voice, but didn't linger on it.

"Stanford…your brother is dead."

A beat of silence.

"I know," came the uncomfortable reply. "A car accident, I think."

Filbrick swallowed hard. So Stanford knew. If only he'd come down for the service, just to be there. The Stanford he knew back when the man was in high school would have come instead of staying up in Middle-of-Nowhere, Oregon. Hell, the Stanford then refused to even stay in school if it meant his twin would be somewhere else, hurt for some reason or the other.

Oh, and may God help whoever would keep Stanley away when Stanford was hurt...that loyal, loving, stupid little boy who made more enemies friends with how protective he was of his family…

"…I knew the idiot would end up dying like this…" he found himself saying, picking his favored picture up and looking at it, feeling tears well up in his eyes.

"Yeah…" came the uncomfortable reply. "…Look Dad, I gotta go, how about—"

"It's all my fault."

Finally. Those words he had been thinking since that first and last phone call from Stanley came out. Whatever pain Stanley had been put through before and after that call and up to his death, was HIS fault.

"Dad?"

"I'm the one who kicked him out….now he's never coming back...what kind of father am I?" Filbrick felt tears run down his face, looking down at the last time he ever saw Stanley's smile. In his mind, he heard the last words Stanley spoke to him.

"I want to come home."

"I just…" His voice broke for a beat. "…I wish I could tell him how sorry I am…" He pressed his hand to his face, the phone in his other hand shaking.

The line was quiet for a moment before he heard a soft sigh on the other end.

"Dad…it's okay."

For a moment, Filbrick could have sworn he was hearing Stanley's voice, and it only made him choke up harder.

"I think…I think he already forgave you."

It was almost too much hearing Stanford say that, and Filbrick muttered a quick 'goodbye' before hanging up the phone and burying his face in his hands.

There was no more feeling the need to run for the phone with the hope it was Stanley wanting to come home. There was no use paying the small storage unit to keep Stanley's things ready for when he wanted to come home and reclaim them. No more rehearsed speeches of what to say when he saw Stanley again.

His son was gone. And he wasn't coming home.