#tw strangulation
Suffocating - Part One
This is based of the fan art and fic of the lovely @mintartem who gave me permission for this! Please check them out :)
This isn’t my best work and not quite what I imagined but I think part 2 will have more of my strengths!
Warnings: strangulation, light language
The basement was cold, and out of everything that was happening, you’d think Stanley would have had better things to be aware of.
Stanley should have been aware of the blinding light of the orb containing some sort of galaxy. Stanley should have been aware from the red-hot fury just radiating from his brother, both physically and mentally, and he was, he was!
It was just that the basement was cold. So, so, cold.
Ford’s screaming swam in and around his ears, like the waves had around that trunk, so many years ago.
The shockingly bright glow from the galaxy-decorated orb still sent waves of light around the room, like the reflections of light from the lake ripples. It laid somewhere behind Ford, having rolled before settling to a halt, space somehow angry and riled up inside it.
Ford’s figure advancing towards him, face starting to tinge pink from shouting, casted a horrible shadow over Stanley. Nothing he wasn’t used to.
“Do you have any single inkling of what you could have done?” Ford’s hair was unruly from sleep, his eyes bloodshot from what had to have been exhaustion and not hatred.
You did what, you knucklehead?
Filbrick’s eyes were unreachable, something so cold they’d freeze you to death unless protected by the saving grace of sunglasses. Not like Ford’s. Not like Ford.
Stanley took a step back with every step Stanford took towards him, keeping the safe distance (how sad was it he had to use the safe distance with his brother, that he had to think about how far away to keep from him as if he were a gangster trying to kill him) but aware of the ever-closer wall.
“Sixer, Ford, you’re kidding me, I didn’t–” Every word he tried to splutter out was drowned (like him in that trunk) and ignored (like him in the Pines household) and it only served to darken that red glint in Stanford’s eyes.
“You!” Stanford’s finger shot towards him, shaking and unsteady. “You have never respected my science. You never respected me! All my life, I’ve had to deal with your jokes and your degradation and-”
Degradation?
Stanley’s feet, wrapped in his warm slippers, froze to ice (cold cold basement’s cold cold floor, cold air drafting against his skin) and he stopped in his tracks. Stanford kept going.
Dumber, sweatier version of him, scraping barnacles off of docks and god-for nothing but racing drugs around border to border and brother of the genius and that clown and
“You’ve never been degraded in your life!”
You think you’ve got problems?
Stanley raised his own voice at him, waving an arm wildly around. “You got everything you wanted, lots of money, science stuff, damn it, Stanford, you–”
“I never got what I really wanted!” Stanford’s palms, so muscular and rough, pushed against his chest, and it was all Stanley could do to stumble without falling on his ass and feeling Ford’s foot on his chest as his shoulder burned in agony (hot in the cold, cold basement).
“I wanted somebody to understand me, somebody on my LEVEL! Who didn’t call me some sort of nerd machine whenever I brought up my interests! Who’d promise me the world and make me feel special! For God’s sake, I wanted to be acknowledged for what I was and instead, instead I was stuck with you!”
His fingers curled into a fist, red hot anger building in every muscle, old joints roaring to pounce. “Listen here, you entitled–”
Twelve fingers dug into his shoulders, ramming him into the wall that was so much closer than expected. The impact sent spikes of pain all throughout his neck and shoulders.
“You used me!” The cry was wild, unhinged, like a trapped animal. “You used me for your own personal gain!”
“THE SCIENCE PROJECT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” Stanley screwed his eyes shut and howled the words into his brother’s too-close face, but he felt himself pushed further into the wall. His feet itched to lash out and kick him in the crotch, the stomach, any soft area.
But he was small and Fil – no. No, this is Ford, his brother, he can’t hurt his brother. They just needed to roughhouse to let out steam –
“Bullshit!” Ford spat back, his wide eyes and flushed face way too close for comfort. “I just wanted to be my own person, my own happy person, and that was ripped away from me because ooh,” his voice dripped with sarcasm, “wherever we go, we go together!”
Pain tore across Stan’s body as if he’d been slapped, leaving him winded and breathless.
Ford hadn’t just said that. He hadn’t used that promise, those words, that sacred promise, against him.
No.
“You were my best friend.”
Well, I guess you’d better come visit me on the other side of the country.
Stanley’s twin, his better half. All he had and all he wanted.
“And you were the half of me I couldn’t get rid of! I wanted to be my own person and you just wanted to be around me all the time, to be me–“
The dust in the freezing basement was getting in Stanley’s eyes, causing allergies and shit and he could feel the liquid welling up in his eyes, half-angry and half-shocked.
He didn’t mean to wake Ford up and drop his snowglobe or whatever and he didn’t want to have his half-asleep enraged brother yelling at him like this, ripping apart any shred of self-respect or self-esteem Stanley managed to keep throughout the ages.
Years of fighting off thugs in dark alleyways coursed through Stanley’s veins and his fist swung towards his brother’s chin in a solid upper hook, returning the favor that still ached on his own jaw.
Twelve fingers wrapped themselves around his throat, cutting off his precious airway.
His eyes bulged, color fleeing from his cheeks. His fist unraveled and instead clawed and scratched at Ford’s grip.
Ford’s strength pushed him higher against the wall. Stanley felt his heels lift away from the bottom of his slippers.
He only had the little breath from before the chokehold, formulating to barely more than a croak. “Ford…” He searched his brother’s face for any hint of mercy that someone who cared could provide, that a bully or father or drug lord could never. “I can’t – “ breathe.
He needed to breathe.
“This is what I always feel around you!”
The words whirled around. Black spots danced, unclear and fuzzy and sometimes grey or green, but the angry light in Ford’s eyes glowed sharp and clear, twin lighthouses in whatever sea Stanley had dragged them both to drown in.
Hot tears flooded in Stanley’s eyes. His lips moved, but he had no oxygen to spare into speech.
He kicked out as a last resort, but he willingly missed hitting his brother. He’d caused enough damage. He might have broken whatever glowy ball he dropped. He ruined Ford’s life, that nerdy little boy on the bottom bunk…
His brother started screaming at him the moment he’d popped up from his desk. Maybe he was grumpy.
Stanley’s eyes slid shut, maybe from his own will, maybe not. finally rolling streams of tears down his face. Maybe his brother was still dreaming.
Ford, wake up.
The noose of fingers around his neck vanished, and sweet, ice-cold but fresh air flooded Stan’s body.
Without anything holding him up he stumbled forward, and with the dizziness having sucked all the energy out of his lungs it was all he could do to collapse forward onto his knees and then hands, choking and gasping and coughing as if he hadn’t just been trying to get air in, and now he was coughing it out?
His back was on fire, and so was his brand, and he could feel the trunk walls around him, and suddenly Pa grabbed his shirt, and, and…
A shuddering gasp reached his awareness. He lifted his head.
Ford had backed away, hands now covering his mouth, widened eyes, darkened by shadows underneath, no longer hysteric.
“Stan,” he croaked once those twelve fingers returned to his sides, trembling. From emotion or exertion?
Stanley’s shoulders shook with wheezy laughter as he stayed down, every inhale rasping painfully in his throat around the doubtlessly bruising skin. Twelve-fingered bruise to match the six-fingered bruise on his face to match the brand on his shoulder.
“Stanley, I’m–”
“You said I looked like Dad,” rasped Stanley, pathetic attempts at laughter both breathless and humorless. He lifted his head to stare at his twin. “But you’re the one acting like him.” His cheeks glistened with moisture.
Ford’s mouth opened and closed, visibly trembling. “I… I’m…”
Stanley forced himself to his feet, pretending he wasn’t swaying and that the room wasn’t spinning and that his throat didn’t still feel choked, fleeing to the elevator.
Ford didn’t follow.
This is a great story! It temporarily sedated my stangst needs. This deserves more notes than it currently has. Can’t wait for part two, if there is one. If there isn’t, oh well. It’s a great read.
Your trauma is valid if it comes from being suffocated/strangled. There are no words to describe how terrifying this experience can be and the long lasting effects this can have. You are not alone and you are valid.
