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You've had 30 years to mull over the words to say to your brother, should you ever happen to see him again.
Abysmally and completely hypothetical in chance, but you pride yourself in being prepared. Maybe you'll chastise him for endangering the world. Condemn him for somehow managing to ruin your life twice . Maybe you'll apologize. Tell him that you missed him.
Maybe you'll shoot him in the goddamn face.
Turns out you're not nearly as rational or collected as you thought you were to do any of those things.
Instead you settle for a punch in the face and a gun at your side.
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The demon wounds the heavens with a flit of its fingers.
The sky bleeds like a child’s knee. From it spills a million different and somehow equally nauseating hues, stunning in its intensity as it is terrifying. But you can fix this.
If everyone could just cooperate.
Leave it to your brother to be such a petty, childish stickler in the face of a fucking apocalypse . Fine. You spit out an empty comment of gratitude and he finally grabs your hand.
You also spit out a little something extra, because unfortunately you find that pettiness runs in the family. The two of you start shoving each other again (to everyone's astonishment) and what little satisfaction you garner from that is cut short by the demon’s intrusion. Apparently, this is how the world ends— not with a bang, but with a really, really stupid argument between two idiots.
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It was his idea.
You get to shoot him in the face after all.
-
He starts regaining his memories against all odds.
The day he stops talking to you like a decent person is the happiest you've been in a long time.
Because that means he remembers you. Because that means you might have a twin brother again. Gone is the mild, polite temperament meant for a stranger; right now, to him, you're his insufferable asshole of a twin. Honestly, as ecstatic as you are, it's almost cruel. He has no idea that you've slipped back into his mind, has no idea that you've been waiting for him.
You've had a lifetime to mull over the words to say to your brother, should you ever get him back.
Turns out no words, however eloquent or grammatically correct, can do your current emotions justice.
So instead you leap forward and embrace Stanley like a crying child on the playground, running back to his brother with a scraped knee.