AN: Y'all really like suffering.
Fiddleford has to be the Fully Functioning Teen for Bella and Stan.
DENIAL
"No no no no! Sixer? Ford! Wake up! Come on!"
"I'm sorry about your brother."
"Thanks," Stan repeated for what felt like the hundredth time.
He wished people would stop bringing it up sometimes. That way he could act like it didn't happen. Like his twin brother was just home sick with some sort of bug. Like he would go home and fall on top of his brother, who would be laying on his bed, and recount the school day like it was the worst thing ever. Like he would then give Ford the homework and then voice how if he was the one who was sick, he would refuse to do any work until the next day.
"Hey, Stan," a girl greeted him at lunch, about to sit beside him. "I'm sorry about-"
"You can't sit there," he blurted out before he could stop himself. The girl raised an eyebrow and stood back up. "That's Ford's seat."
"Oh... ok..." the girl stood awkwardly. "Sorry."
And she left to go sit with her friends.
The next day- you wouldn't believe it, the timing of the thing- a new kid began going to the school. Stan entered the classroom and saw the kid sitting at Ford's desk.
"Hey," Stan said shortly. "That's my brother's desk."
"Oh," the boy picked up his stuff. "Sorry. Where is he?"
"He's..." Stan felt his throat tighten, and he shook his head. "It's not important. That's his desk. Move."
"Alright," the boy looked at him weirdly before moving to a different seat.
"His twin just committed suicide a few days ago," another student murmured to the new kid. "He used to sit there."
"Oh gosh..."
No, Stan thought. No. Ford's just at home. He's fine. He's just sick.
Stan looked at the homework board and wrote down what was written. Just like he always did when Ford was sick.
Stan laid down that night, staring across the room at Ford's bed. He hadn't let his mom remove the blankets and sheets. It was just as messy as always.
"Night, Sixer," Stan spoke, staring at the pillow.
Night, Lee, he could hear him reply. Just as always.
ANGER
"No! You don't get it! Just leave me alone!"
Stan stood in front of it, his hands deep in the pockets of the stupid dress pants. Tears filled his eyes as his mouth formed an angry frown. He growled and kicked at the dirt.
"Come on, Sixer," he grumbled angrily. "Really. What'd you go and do this for? We were supposed to go together. On the Stan O' War. You promised."
He stared at the grave for a few more seconds before giving a short yell and stopping off.
"And you broke that promise."
The funeral was almost over.
"Sweetie, it's time to go home," Ma spoke softly, reaching to rub Stan's shoulder.
"Don't touch me," he grumbled, shrugging her hand off. He stomped towards the car, waiting outside of it when he found out it was locked.
"Hey, Stan," Bella murmured, walking over with Fiddleford. They were matching. Typical. "...you good?"
