A/N: What's this? Badonk's already at it again with the angst and pain? That's right, folks! New-and-improved angst and pain to be exact! And let's be honest, that's the best kind.

This idea has been in my mind for much too long and it is finally time to set it loose on the rest of ya'll. I apologize in advance.

I Have Made Mistakes

"Haha, yer so lame, Poindexter!"

"You're lame!"

"Take that back, ya big, uh, bignose!"

"Stanley, we have the same nose."

"Shut it!"

Ford squealed in delight and went to hide under his covers when his brother launched at him, fingers wriggling with obvious intent to tickle. It was a futile attempt to keep himself safe, so when the inevitable spasms wracked his little body while Stanley continued the torment he only laughed. He couldn't see an end in sight until the door suddenly opened, revealing the figure of their Ma with her hands on her hips, looking decidedly unimpressed.

"Ya boys are suppose'ta be sleepin'."

Stanley froze, caught red-handed, and Stanford ducked his head to hide the flush in his face caused by both breathlessness and guilt. They had been sent to bed quite some time ago, and it was only then that he realized just how long they'd been talking and having fun.

"Sorry, Ma," Stanley said, looking at the sheets, face colored in a similar brand of shame.

"S'fine," she finally sighed, waving her hand in a dismissive manner, "Just go ta sleep now. Ya got school in the mornin'."

"Yes, mama," Ford chirped obediently. She gave them both a look that Stanford couldn't place before smiling in that gentle way she did that made the world seem like a better place.

"G'night, boys."

"Night."

"Nighty-night!"

As soon as she turned the light out and closed the door, Stanford elbowed his twin lightly in the ribs. "I told ya ya were bein' too loud."

"Wha- you were the one bein' noisy!"

Stanley huffed and Ford rolled his eyes, shoving his brother onto his back. "C'mon, we gotta sleep now. Ma's orders."

"Pfft, whatever," Stanley stuck his tongue out in defiance but made no move to get up again, and Stanford took it as cue to lay down too. He might have gone to his own bed, but he'd already gotten comfy on the bottom bunk. Besides, it hadn't been the best day at school and he didn't want to have any of the scary dreams. The ones that revolved around shadowy monsters that tried to cut off his fingers -the extra ones that Stanley said made him awesome and special. Sleeping with his twin made them stay away.

He snuggled against Stanley's side, pulling the covers up as he did. He matched the other's smile and gave his brother a little peck on the cheek. He couldn't tell if Stanley eyes were open or not, but he knew he was still awake because he wrapped his arms around him and gave him a tight squeeze.

"Goodnight, Lee."

"G'night, Sixer."

The words were said out of habit more than anything else at that point, but it still made Stanford feel lighter and warmer to hear it. Knowing Stanley was right there, always ready to echo the words back to him, it just made life all the better. It might not have seemed special to anyone else, but to them, it meant the world, and Stanford knew his twin felt the same when he thought that they would be saying that word until they got old and gross.

When life and reality took hold and their young hearts grew older, the two only assumed they'd be saying it for the rest of their lives.

Neither could pinpoint the exact moment in their lives when they started only hoping and not expecting it to be true.

Stanley knew precisely when those hopes were shattered. It took Stanford a little longer to realize the same thing.

The first time he says it after "The Incident", he nearly doesn't register it. So full of bitter rage and indignant hurt that he almost doesn't acknowledge it.

Almost.

Ford wanted to scream, to throw something, to find Stanley and punch him in the face, because it was his fault! It was all his fault! He'd ruined everything . He deserved to be thrown out. He deserved to have him be angry with him. He deserved it all, because it was his fault.

His. Stupid. Fault.

The book was hitting the opposite wall with a loud slap before Ford even realized he'd picked it up to begin with. The teen startled, staring at it for several minutes, letting his mind wander so far into itself that his thoughts became white noise to blanket the tempest of emotions he couldn't seem to control.

He hadn't meant to say it, it had just slipped out without him thinking. It had gotten dark, and he'd been tired, and it had just… escaped him.

Why that mattered so much, he tried not to contemplate. Tried and failed.

He knew exactly why it mattered. It mattered because he'd almost gotten through the whole day being able to pretend that it didn't matter that Stanley wasn't there, that his bro-that he wasn't worth the time of day, and all that progress had been ruined- shattered all because of a stupid word.

It mattered because he shouldn't have been missing Stanley, and yet he was. Under the layers of betrayal and pain, anger and denial, Stanford could feel the ache in his chest that Stanley used to occupy. He knew he shouldn't have felt that way, because he was completely justified in being mad at Stanley, who had crossed a line and ruined everything, yet still Ford couldn't make it go away.

He'd been doing his best to ignore it, occupying himself at any given moment to distract from the hole that had begun to widen as the day had dragged on and the weight of what had happened truly sunk in.

He still couldn't understand why Stanley had done it. What purpose could there have possibly been in destroying his future? He'd had to have known he wouldn't have been thanked for it. He had to have known how idiotic he'd been. How… just…

Ford shook his head roughly and climbed off the top bunk of the bed they had yet to take apart. It didn't matter! It didn't have to make sense. The point was that Stanley had done it, and now he was gone. He'd screwed over not only Ford, but the rest of the family as well, and unless he proved his worth to their father… well.

Picking up the discarded book, Ford went and sat at their desk- his desk. His. He flipped the cover open, letting his eyes briefly roam over the pages before slamming it closed again when the lines of text blurred together to form incoherent blobs of black and white. It was useless to try and read at that point, he knew. He couldn't focus on anything other than the uncomfortable churning in his gut that seemed to make his anger burn so fiercely it could rival the sun.

Stupid Stanley. Stupid, foolish idiotic moron!

Something warm and wet hit his hand and Ford glared down at the spot before wiping his sleeve across his eyes. When that seemed to only encourage the tears to flow harder the teen growled in frustration. This was ridiculous! He didn't want to cry! He wasn't sad, he was angry!

He was angry because he didn't want to care. He was angry because his heart hurt and he didn't know what to do. He was angry because he'd lost two incredibly important things within the same day, one which he would never get back, and the other he didn't even know whether or not he wanted back. He couldn't forgive Stanley for what he'd done, but at the same time he couldn't be like Pa and pretend he'd never existed. That was what made him more angry than anything.

It wasn't fair! He'd finally had the chance to get out and make something of himself, and without any effort, Stanley had taken that away because… because… he didn't know, but it didn't really matter.

But, he'd only ever loved and supported him, and until yesterday he'd always thought Stanley reciprocated the sentiment. Ford shouldn't have cared about Stanley one way or the other anymore, but he did, at least enough to miss him, and that's what it boiled down to.

"Dammit!" Ford hissed past the small sobs wracking his body and making it hard the breathe. He was thankful it was at least late enough in the night that he knew his parents would be asleep and wouldn't stumble upon him, but wished more than anything he knew how to stop the frankly pathetic display.

How could something as simple as an accidental whisper of "goodnight" turn him into such a mess?

He's all too aware of the word coming out of his mouth the first time he says it after "The Fuckup". It hurts more than he anticipates it would, but otherwise, it has about the effect he expected it to.

Stanley dropped his head against the steering wheel, startling when the horn sounded in response before settling once more. He'd been sitting there in his car for what had to have been hours, listening the waves beat against the sand and waiting for something he knew was never coming

Stanford wouldn't be going anywhere near the beach or Stan'O'War if there was the slightest chance he might run into him; he knew his brother better than anyone else and even if he eventually stopped being mad at him, there was no way he would come to him first. When they were younger, the case would have been entirely different.

But then, when they were little, he wouldn't have done something so incredibly stupid to make Stanford hate him.

The thought sent a painful jolt through him and Stan groaned, closing his eyes tightly against the the sudden onslaught of voices that screamed at him, reminding him of just how badly he'd screwed things up. Reminding him that he had nobody but himself to blame for Ford's hate.

He wasn't sure how long his brother would be hating him, but he could only hope it wouldn't be forever. Though, if it was, Stanley wasn't sure he could blame him. He'd… well, he'd ruined things for him, hadn't he? Thinking he'd ever go through with their plan to sail around the world on a boat really had been his stupid mistake.

Because of course Ford would want to go bigger. He always pushed the limits with smart people things, he supposed it shouldn't have come as a shock to find out he'd wanted to ditch the Stan'O'War in order to go to West Coast whatever. But the fact that their lifelong dream had turned into a backup plan for his brother in less than a day… it had hurt. It still hurt.

And it hadn't just been the dream that Ford had turned away. No, by admitting that he'd wanted to go to that fancy college, he'd agreed with everyone who had ever told Stan he was nothing and going nowhere. He was agreeing with the principle's saying that their parents had at least one kid going somewhere. All the times his brother had ever told him he was just as equally smart, had just as bright a future ahead of him, had been erased when Ford had said if all else failed he'd "do the treasure hunting thing".

He hadn't just abandoned the dream, he'd abandoned Stanley.

Bumping his head roughly against the wheel once more, Stanley sniffled and thought back to everything that had happened the night before. He'd really thought Ford's little gizmo would be fine. Sure, there had a small, selfish part of him that hoped it might not work, or that the college people wouldn't like it, but it was a part that was drowned out by his desire for Ford to be happy.

He hadn't wanted his brother to leave, but he'd already decided that if it meant Stanford feeling special in a place where he felt he belonged, he wouldn't keep him from it. He'd fully expected his brother to come home that night with a grin on his face and a story about how much the guys loved his work.

He hadn't realized he'd actually broken the machine.

He hadn't realized what that would mean for Stanford.

He hadn't realized something so seemingly small would completely destroy their relationship. If he had, he would've done something! He would've called Ford and told him about the machine losing a few screws so he could fix it. He would've done something, anything , to ensure that they would be okay.

But, would-haves weren't going to make anything better now. It had happened, and unless time machines were going to be a thing in the near future, it wasn't something he could fix. That didn't mean he didn't want to fix it. Oh, he wanted to fix it more than he'd ever wanted anything before, but Stan knew if he came within a foot of the house, he'd have to get through Pa… yeah, that wasn't gonna happen.

He knew he could go to school and try to talk to Ford then, but… the idea was terrifying. Ford would surely reject him, pretend he wasn't there, because when his brother was angry, he was cold and distant, and… well, Stanley couldn't say he would stay calm in the face of that dismissive behavior.

No, he didn't want to see someone who would pretend he didn't exists. If there was ever something that would hurt more than being kicked out of the house by an upset and indifferent parent, it was that. He didn't need to see how much Ford was trying to pretend he didn't care.

(He didn't want to find out that Stanford really didn't care)

Stanley sniffled again, opening his eyes to glare at his lap when the tears he should have felt refused to form. It had been like that all day.

He'd cried so much the night before, he wasn't sure he would shed a tear again for some time. He felt like he needed to -felt it so keenly it almost hurt- yet nothing but ragged gasps would be allowed to be pulled from him. The tightness in his chest persisted, the shaking in his hands grew increasingly worse, and he felt like he might as well curl up under the docks and die, yet he couldn't cry.

Stanley dragged himself upright, looking past the windshield at the moon and stars hanging over the water. They seemed duller than usual and he wasn't sure if that was because of his own mood warping perception or clouds. It didn't matter either way; Stanley enjoyed stargazing but Ford was the one who cared about astronomy.

Maybe he'd been looking at the sky earlier, thinking the same things. Maybe he hadn't been. Maybe he hadn't looked yet but would.

Stanley hoped he would- not that hoping had done much in the past. He hoped that when his brother saw the stars, he would think of him, if only briefly, and would somehow hear his softly spoken "goodnight".