whatever it takes • gravity falls

sweaters and the multiverse

Infinite dimensions meant infinite possibilities.

It meant there was an infinite chance of Stanford meeting another Stanford in his travels.

He didn't realize this until many years after he was first pushing into the portal. It was hard for him to think about. It makes his existence feel all the smaller.

The first time Stanford met a Stanford from another dimension, he almost cried. He had just recently lost track of how long he's been in the wrong side of the portal and was caught off guard. His mind had first went to pain and distrust and science fairs and mostly bug-free dorms and the ocean and a swing set and

and

Sta

No, Stanford couldn't afford to be distracted.

He had shook his head, swallowed his paranoia of Trust no one, not even yourself and walked forward. He and himself (weird) and shared a smile and a six fingered handshake. They had found a small corner of the vast market place and spoke together for hours.

The Other Stanford looked older than he was, scars dancing up his arms, cut across with tattoos that were in languages Stanford couldn't understand. He said we was a dimension known as 98!-. They traded stores and the only difference they could find in dimensions is that the Other Stanford had no idea what a yo-yo was.

The Other Stanford had said that two of the same people from different dimensions should never touch when in a dimension. The market place in which they had met laid in-between dimensions so they were lucky to have met here.

(He also said something about dimensions that consisted only of one person's alternate selves. He said these were very annoying.)

Soon, they parted ways and Stanford went on.

He learned that his own dimension was called 36#). He learned that he really doesn't like the taste of Gantraz meat. He learned that head surgeries really hurt afterwards. He learned that he can't go more than five days without eating. He learned that the sunsets on Magrathea were beautiful. He learned he really misses the ocean. He learned that red looks good on him. He learned.

The next time Stanford saw himself was when he stepped through a naturally occurring portal and found himself in a place that very much looked like his own dimension.

He stood in front of his own house, a heavy blizzard obscuring his view of looking at it too much. He tightened his hood around his greying hair and walked forward. His boots crunched against the snow, seeping in slightly through the worn soles.

He brings his knuckles to the door that sends a heartbeat of ache bleeding through him and knocks a sturdy three knocks. A quick few heavy footsteps followed, getting progressively louder before the door is swung open, a crossbow making him go cross eyed and a wave of deja-vu rolling over him.

A younger version of himself is staring back at him, looking terrible. He has heavy bags under his eyes, looking horribly thin, shaking with wide eyes. His voice is harsh, stabbing. "What is the meaning of this?"

Over the Other Stanford's shoulder, Stanford can see his house in a total disarray. There was paper everywhere; books and trash littering every surface. That was broken glass and experiments and crossed out eyes. And there was Stanley.

Stanley had been standing amongst it all, nervous hands fumbling in front of him. Mullet and all, looking very young.

Him and this Other Stanley had locked eyes and confusion was drawn over Stanley's face. He then walked forward and pushed his Stanford away with a gentle shove. "Sixer?"