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His back was lit aflame and he screamed. Stan thinks he has every right to scream, to yell, to cry. He could feel his skin weld to metal and cloth before he tore it away from the hot iron. Stan had felt worse pain than this, he was sure. But he guessed pain felt different when it came from your own brother.
"Stanley! Ohmygosh, I'm so sorry, are you alright?!" Ford stumbled to remove his foot from Stan's chest as he stood, and Stan had half a mind to punch is bastard of a brother right here and now. Instead, he got up with a wince, clutching his shoulder. He didn't punch Ford. No matter how much he wanted to, he wouldn't. Stan was done. He was so fucking done with Ford and his dumb, creepy nonsense. Stan didn’t know why he had bothered to expect anything else.
One of Ford's hand's was out like he wasn't sure what to do, while the other clutched his journal tightly. "I-I-I have ointment upstairs. I can fix it. I can fix this." He said in a rush.
And Stan glared with a rage he knew had been building for years and years. Ford looked more struck than when Stan had actually hit him.
Stan huffed and turned away, "Forget it, I'm fine." He said as he started to make his way to the upstairs elevator.
"Stanley?" Ford said weakly from where he stood frozen, like a scared child. "Where are you going?"
"Away. Isn't that what you wanted?" Stan didn't look at him as he pressed the up button.
"Stanley, no—well yes—but!—, I'm sorry, please. I-I can fix this. I can."
"Fix your damn portal. I'm done." He wouldn't cry here, he wouldn't grieve here. It was only his everything that was spat out and mangled before him. Not the first time, and probably not the last.
"Stanley!" Ford cried out, panicked, as Stan stepped into the elevator. "Stanley, please!"
Stan didn't want to look. He didn't want to see the defeat or fear or any sort of pained expression on his brother's face, and he hated himself as he hesitated.
Stan didn't look at his brother as he put his hand out.
Ford looked at it confused, "Wha—"
"Your dumb book, Ford!" Stan snapped. "I'm going. Give it to me." Then softer than he would have liked, he added, "I…I won't burn it."
Ford's mouth opened and closed for a moment, confusion and hurt were still painted on his face as he slowly handed his journal to Stan, but he didn't let go when Stan grabbed it. Ford looked at Stan, his eyes searching and glossy. He opened his mouth again, but no words came out. "Call me when…when it's safe." He finished lamely.
Stan stared at him for a moment. "Okay, Stanford. Okay." Ford let his hand slide off his journal as Stan stepped fully into the elevator. Stan let his poker face drop as the elevators doors closed. Leaving Ford's last view of his brother being a burned shoulder and an aching grief etched into his face.
And then, Ford was alone.