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Chapter Text

Fiddleford was awoken by a soft kiss planted on his forehead. He opened his eyes and saw Emma May leaning over the bed, fully dressed. He smiled serenely at her.

“Jeez,” he croaked, his voice gravelly with sleep. “I was pretty tired last night. What time is it?”

“12:30,” Emma May said. “Figured you’d wanna be up to bring those records over to Mickey Orlando’s place.”

“ 12:30 ? I– I gotta do so much today! I gotta–” He scrambled out of his bed, so recklessly that he fell to the ground. Emma May laughed lightly.

“Don’t worry, baby,” she said as Fiddleford began to grab pants and a shirt. “I can help ya bring down the records and carry ya to Mickey’s house. We’ll get everythin’ done with plenty of time to spare.”

As Fiddleford looped a belt into his pants, he noticed Ford’s familiar shape slumped over his desk. He was dead asleep.

“Wow, what was he up to last night, huh?” Fiddleford murmured, smirking at his knocked out roommate.

“I think uh,” Emma May responded, also looking at Ford. “He didn’t sleep too well last night.”

Fiddleford furrowed his brow, but didn’t say anything further on the topic. 

“Well,” he said. “Let’s go bring those records downstairs.”

____________________________

Fiddleford’s prized possession was his record collection. While Ford had only one crate of various albums and 45’s, Fiddleford had five. He had been collecting them since he was fifteen or so, saving up every last penny to get every record he could possibly wish for. He had some small notoriety on campus for having such an expansive record collection due to his once-a-month radio show at the school’s radio station, which must have been why Mickey asked him to supply the music in the first place. 

Because of the large volume, Emma May and Fiddleford had to take a couple of trips up and down to carry the crates out to the car. They managed to not wake Ford up, which concerned Fiddleford a little bit. He knew that Ford was a very light sleeper so the fact that he had slept through heavy footfalls and multiple opening and closings of doors meant he had to have been exhausted .

After the records were all safely secured in the trunk, him and Emma May filed into the car. 

“Tune to 97.8 FM, Honeybun,” Fiddleford said as he started the car. “That’s the country station up here.”

She turned the dial on the car radio, and moved the red line until it landed on 97.8. The familiar country guitar sang out through the speakers; Johnny Cash’s “I Walk The Line” was playing.

“I’ve been bouncin’ a couple of ideas off of Ford recently,” Fiddleford said over the quietly played music. “I’ve been really hopin’ to get me a set up with a cassette player in here. I don’t have the funds to buy a new car radio off the market,” he laughed lightly. “But I was thinkin’ if I steal a couple parts here and there from the shop I–”

“Ford!” Emma May interjected. 

“Huh?” He responded, surprised.

“Don’t steal! If those people had to use their hard earned money to get those parts, why can’t you? Why don’t I help ya get some of the parts, hmm? And that roommate of yers certainly has at least a couple pennies he could rub together; he could help ya out too.”

Fiddleford let out a disgruntled humph . “I don’t need anybody’s help, Em. I got it under control. Besides, the shop owners owe me a few favors here and there.”

“I don’t care, Ford. Don’t be doin’ that. Yer supposed to be doin’ all this,” she waved her hands around at the surrounding campus. “To get us outta Shady Grove. Outta Tennessee.”

“This isn’t– ugh,” he said, exasperated. “I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.” 

The remainder of the car ride was silent.

They arrived at the Orlando residence. Fiddleford didn’t realize his mouth was agape until Emma May said to him quietly, “Don’t be makin’ a home fer the flies, Ford.” He promptly shut his mouth, but was still stunned. Mickey seemed to live in an ornate, massive home. It had a Queen Anne style of architecture, painted a greenish-beige color. It had a turret on the corner, and dark green trimmings all around the roof and sidings. There were two porches, set up by columns that looked like they belonged in a gingerbread house as opposed to a real home. 

They both grabbed a crate from the back and started lugging them across the sprawling front lawn toward the front door. 

“This is basically a mansion, Honeybun,” Fiddleford laughed incredulously under his breath. Emma May only nodded eagerly in response. He put the crate down and knocked the lion-shaped door knocker. He heard a bit of shuffling from the other side of the door, then was opened by a boy about sixteen years old. 

“Can I help you?” He asked, slightly irritated.

“Uh, we’re here to drop off the records,” Fiddleford said, his face feeling hot with embarrassment. “For Mickey.”

“Right, right,” he responded, his face turning from annoyed to mischievous. “Hey Mick, it’s for you!” The kid let them into the house to bring in the crates, and left them to stand in the entryway to sit on the couch, looking at a magazine. Fiddleford and Emma May attempted to not look stunned at the equally ornate and decorated inside. 

Mickey came down the stairs from the front room, still in his pajamas. “Hey guys! Thanks again for bringing the music.” He wiggled his finger in the direction of the records on the floor. “Is this everything?”

“Oh, no,” Fiddleford responded, smiling proudly. “We’ve got four more crates in the trunk.” 

“ Crazy , dude. I can help you bring them in. Bobby,” he barked at the younger boy. “Come grab the last crate.” Bobby, Fiddleford assumed to be the younger brother, jumped to his feet and followed the other three out to Fiddleford’s car. Fiddleford opened the trunk again and tried hard not to feel bashful at the dusty dirt thinly lining the car’s carpet. They each grabbed a crate and brought them back into the house. They moved them all into the living room, near the speaker system that had been set up in the corner. 

“And uh– here,” Fiddleford said to Bobby. He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to him. “I made a detailed list of popular songs off of any of the albums in these crates, with what album they’re on and what track number it is. That yellow crate there isn’t mine, so you’re on yer own with that one.”

“Right,” Mickey said. “And tonight, tell the guy at the front that you brought the music, and he’ll let you in.”

“Alright,” Fiddleford said. “Thanks.”

They said their awkward goodbyes and see-you-tonights, and Fiddleford and Emma May headed out.

____________________________

They drove to a nearby sandwich shop to quickly get lunch. They brought their food back out to Fiddleford’s car, and ate with the radio blasting through the speakers and windows down. They both put the seats down so they could sit cross-legged facing each other. They talked and laughed a lot; it felt good to be silly with Emma May again. The last couple of phone calls between him and her had been tense to say the least. It wouldn’t be accurate to say that Fiddleford had been avoiding her, moreso he had been caught up with schoolwork. And hanging out with Ford. But that’s what happened when you went away for college, right? He felt a little suffocated by the constant calls from Emma May in the Fall semester. He didn’t know why he did it, but he ended up staying for winter break instead of going home. He even went as far to lie to her and Ford, saying that he wanted to work hard on a personal project. In reality he got used to being around like-minded people, and dreaded going home for Thanksgiving and Christmas to hear his grandparents and aunts and uncles nag at him about when he was going to get married. The last phone call him and Emma May had before she visited was on that topic. 

Fiddleford had already been ten or so minutes late, having been completely consumed by his homework due the following day. He quickly dropped a coin into the public payphone and dialed Emma May’s phone number.

“Hey, Honeybun,” he had said, as he always said. “Sorry I’m so late, I was workin’ and got caught up in it.”

“It’s fine,” Emma May sighed. “It ain’t like it’s the first time you’ve done it.”

He didn’t respond. 

“Well,” she continued. “How've ya been?”
“Oh, y’know,” Fiddleford said, twirling the pay phone cord around in his hand. “Nothin’ new to report. I really am sorry about being late.”

She went quiet on the line.

“Em? Ya there?”

“Ford,” Emma May whispered into the phone. “What’s happenin’ with us?”

“How’d’ya mean?”

“I mean– I–” He could hear her getting flustered on the other side of the phone. “I mean us . You’re callin’ less and less. Ya never tell me anythin’ about yer week anymore, and every time I think we got a good conversation goin’ ya cut it short and hang up. What is up with you?”

Fiddleford was a little shocked by the accusation, but before he could say anything back, Emma May kept going.

“Tracy Jones got married last week. Della Martin is getting married next month. Junie, Patty, and Jamie all got kids now. We’re the last ones of our friends to not be– married.”

Fiddleford was silent. He scoured his brain to find anything to say, anything that would remotely help the situation. 

Emma May continued on. “Ford, baby, you know I really love you. I can’t think of anybody else I love more in my life, ‘cept maybe my sister. But if we ain’t gonna be married– if we– I dunno if I can– if I can stay in this–” she stifled a sob.

Say something,   he thought to himself. Say anything, Fidd. 

“Oh, Honeybun,” he said, unable to control the distress in his voice. “I’ve just been busy. You know I wanna finish up school before we take that step.”

That’s not true and you know it. Tell her why you haven't proposed.

She sniffled. “Do ya really mean it?”

Tell her you’re terrified. Tell her you want her in your life forever but you think marriage will ruin what you have (is that what you really think?) 

“Of course I do.”

You idiot.

She laughed through another sob. “Okay.”

 You’ll never say that to her, it’ll break her heart. Coward.

“Hey, I’ve got a great idea,” he said, his heart pounding. “Why don’t ya come and visit me at school? I can’t imagine Stanford will have a problem with it. I can give ya a tour of campus, I can bring ya to my favorite spots, what’d’ya say?”

“Ford?” Emma May said, snapping Fiddleford back into the present. He looked up from his sandwich and smiled at her.

“Yes, Honeybun?”
“Oh nothin’. Ya looked like you were somewhere else, that’s all.”

He leaned toward her and kissed her. “I love you, Emma May Dixon.”

“Usin’ the full name now, huh?” She laughed quietly. She brushed some of the flyaway hairs away from his forehead and held his face in her hands. “Well, I love you too, Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.”

He felt a familiar panic in his heart, similar to the night of the phone call. He pushed the feeling away, and gave her one more kiss before sitting back in the driver’s seat.

“I got an idea,” Fiddleford said. “How about we go find a park and walk around for a little while? Then we go find a bottle of whiskey to bring back to the dorm, get some dinner, and then get ready for the party.”

She nodded eagerly in response. They finished up their sandwiches, fastened their seat belts, and drove away.

They had to drive a little bit out of the city, but they eventually found a nice park with a paved trail. They walked around, quietly pointing out cute dogs they saw, and when they came upon a playground, Emma May gushed over the little kids playing and giggling. They hadn’t had a proper date in a while, it was nice. They walked around for about an hour or so, then found a park bench to sit at while they took a break. They people-watched for a bit while holding hands. Emma May rested her head on Fiddleford’s shoulder and they sat in silence. 

“Ford, I’m gettin’ a little cold. D’ya think we could head out soon?”
“Of course. Anythin’ ya want.” Fiddleford gave her his denim jacket, and they headed back for the car. They drove back toward Backupsmore and stopped by a local grocery so that Fiddleford could quickly cash a check to pay for the booze they were about to purchase. Then they went into the liquor store, found the largest and cheapest handle of whiskey they could find, and headed back towards campus.

____________________________

They figured drinking on an empty stomach wouldn’t be wise, so they grabbed something small to eat at the Student Union Center before arriving back at the dormitory. When they opened the door to the bedroom, they were met with an anxiously pacing Ford, rapidly passing a DDMD die between his fingers. Fiddleford held back his smile when he saw Ford doing the trick he taught him last night.

“Everything okay, Ford?” Fiddleford asked. He hoped he had gotten a little bit of sleep while they were gone. 

Ford started shaking his head and mumbling under his breath. “What was I thinking? I can’t show up to a party. Look at me! How do I even act properly at something like this? I shouldn’t go to this, this was all a–”

“What’s got ya in such a tizzy?” Fiddleford asked.

“I– I can’t go to this party.”
“What? Aw c’mon, I promise it’ll be fun. Why can’t ya go?”

Ford’s face turned beet red. “I– don’t have anything to wear,” he finally said quietly.

Fiddleford couldn’t help but laugh. “Ford, you don’t have to worry about a thing tonight,” he said. Ford glared at him. “ Including yer clothes. Look, we got some fine Tennessee whiskey to take the edge off before we head out tonight, so that takes care of that problem. As for what to wear, I’ve got a simple solution to that! It’s some good ol’ fashioned life advice that I carry with me everywhere; whether it be doin’ research for a science project or goin’ to a party it seems to work for me every time. Whenever I don’t know what to do or choose, I just pick somethin’ and see where it takes me. If it was a mistake, well I remember it to warn myself for next time. If it’s a success, then I know which direction I should go next!”

Ford’s gaze softened at the advice. “Alright,” he finally said.

“And really,” Emma May said, a grin growing on her face. “If you’re so concerned about what to wear, why didn’t ya just wait ‘til I got back to help ya out? I’m great with that sort of thing!”

They all laughed together, and began getting ready for the night’s festivities. Emma May helped Ford put together something to wear (she just had to convince him that wearing a solid gray button down shirt and pants was “cool” enough to wear to a party). Fiddleford collected three mugs from under his bed  and brought them to the center of the room with the handle of whiskey.

They all sat together in the middle of the room as they did the night prior. Fiddleford handed out the mugs and twisted the cap off of the large bottle of whiskey.
“Now, I don’t mean to offend ya when I ask this, Ford,” Fiddleford said as he began to pour. “But when was the last time ya had a drink?”

“I mean, I think it was with you,” Ford said sheepishly.

“ Three years ago? ”
“I’m a busy guy!” His face went pink, and Emma May giggled.

“Now Stanford, I think it’s best that you don’t try and keep up with this fella here,” Emma May tilted her head toward Fiddleford. “He’s got the world’s craziest tolerance, and you ain’t used to drinkin’ like that.” Ford nodded seriously, as if he was taking mental notes for a class.

Fiddleford poured three generous “shots”. They were more like doubles, or even triples.

“Fidd, that’s far too much to drink,” Ford interjected. “You’ve nearly filled half the mug!”

“Don’t worry about it too much,” Fiddleford said, a grin growing on his face. He handed a mug to Emma May and Ford, then they cheers-ed and chugged the thick amber liquid. Fiddleford secretly relished in the feeling of the whiskey burning down his throat into his stomach. 

“Jeez, Fidd,” Ford coughed hoarsely, stopping halfway through his drink. “I don’t know how fine that Tennessee whiskey is.”

They all laughed, and Fiddleford stood up to put on some background music. He had a few remaining records in the dorm. He didn’t want Bobby to get confused so he had taken most of his very country records out of the crates. Yeah, and so that you weren’t made fun of if he got curious and played it for half of the Backupsmore campus.

He tried his best to pretend that he had that thought because he needed to uphold his reputation as someone who had good taste in music, and went back to the floor to pour himself and the others another drink. He gave less to Ford this round after seeing him struggle with the first cup. They kept laughing and drinking more, the contents of the bottle diminishing quite quickly. Fiddleford noticed Emma May slowed down her intake, though he didn’t think much about it since she usually didn’t drink as much as he did. He pulled out a deck of cards and they all played a very competitive round of Go Fish.

By about 8:30 pm, the bottle had about a quarter of liquor remaining, and Fiddleford’s head was feeling a little hazy. The party allegedly started at 8, but Fiddleford was always worried about showing up to an event too early. He figured that it would take about a half an hour to walk to Mickey’s house. Arriving an hour late to a party that would likely go far into the early morning hours was good timing to be “fashionably late”. Perfect timing then.

For the amount of times he made fun of Ford for overthinking, he certainly did his fair share of it too.

“Right then,” Fiddleford said, the alcohol making his own voice sound strange to him. “I think we are prepped enough to head over to this party, yeah?” Both Ford and Emma May nodded.

“Woah,” Ford said, eyes getting wide, likely from the world spinning a little faster than normal. Fiddleford looked at Emma May and they laughed together.

“Yeah, we’re definitely ready,” Fiddleford added. 

They all got up and got their shoes on. Fiddleford searched around for the brown paper bag that the bottle had been wrapped in upon sale. Once he found it he put the bottle back in it and headed towards the door.

“Wait a minute,” Ford said, a little stunned. “You’re bringing the bottle to the party? ” 

“Well,” Fiddleford said. “They ain’t gonna let us in with it, and if we leave any left for tomorrow we will be tempted away from our glorious studies . Therefore, by scientific deduction of course, we must finish the bottle on the walk over there.” The two laughed giddily together. They made sure they all had their keys and other necessary items and left for Mickey’s house.

____________________________

They walked crookedly up the street towards Mickey Orlando’s house, a bottle of whiskey hidden by a brown paper bag in Fiddleford’s hand. He took a swig and passed it to Ford, who snickered at the notion of drinking straight from the bottle, and copied Fiddleford’s actions. He then offered it to Emma May, who politely declined the offer (“Sorry Stanford. I only drink outta cups and glasses.”)

“That whiskey hit much faster than I anticipated it would,” Ford said, tripping on a crack in the sidewalk. “Although, I should’ve known, I didn’t exactly have a real dinner.”

“Sweet lord, Ford,” Fiddleford said. “Let’s get ya somethin’ to eat when we get inside.”

As they got closer they could hear music blaring and more college students walking around. They passed by groups of people playing beer pong and cornhole on the front lawn, and Fiddleford discreetly put the empty handle down on the grass next to an industrial folding table. When they arrived at the front door, they were greeted by a tall, very muscular man ( likely a football player ). 

“Five dollars to get in,” he grunted to the three of them.

“Uh,” Fiddleford said, feeling excruciatingly awkward despite being inebriated. “Mickey told us to tell ya we brought the music.”

The guy raised an eyebrow at the three of them, then nodded and opened the front door for them to enter.

The house was very dark, save for the weak decoration attempts with Christmas lights strewn about everywhere. All of the couches were pushed to the edges of the room to create space for a dance floor. Baba O'Riley by The Who was blaring in the living room, and maybe eight or nine people were dancing along. Fiddleford could see Bobby behind the makeshift DJ booth organizing the different records by what he planned on playing next. Fiddleford took Emma May by the hand, Emma May looped her arm through Ford’s, and they weaved their way through the crowd to end up in the kitchen. It was slightly quieter and the overhead lights were on, but it was still pretty jam packed. 

The three of them stood in a small pack together, trying to get orientation of the room.

“I need to find the men’s room,” Ford said. “I’ll be right back.” And he scurried away down a hallway. Emma May snuck her arm around Fiddleford’s waist and gave him a squeeze.

“Sweetie,” Emma May said. “That poor boy’s as nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, are ya sure he’s really gonna enjoy this?”

“Oh,” Fiddleford said, a little concerned as well. “He’ll be fine. I’ll make sure of it.”

Fiddleford looked up and recognized a group of girls chatting away near the screen door out to the backyard, and headed over to them; he knew them from one of his math classes, and they frequented many of the parties occurring on campus every weekend.

“Hey, there!” Fiddleford said to them. They all turned to him and greeted him cheerfully. 

“I want ya to meet my girlfriend here,” he pulled her in closer and she waved with a smile. “This is Emma May. Em, this is Ruthie, Georgia, Susan, Linda, and you know Barb already.” 

They all cheerily greeted her and immediately started asking her details about herself. Fiddleford paid half attention to the conversation. He then felt Ford’s presence behind him, standing  awkwardly outside of the group. Fiddleford caught his gaze and wordlessly asked do you want me to get you a drink? by pointing at him and then miming drinking from a cup. Ford smiled and nodded, then shifted his gaze to the clock above the door.

Fiddleford turned towards the main cooking area and first found a plate of cheese-and-fruit skewers to place on the side for Ford. Then, he took a survey of the endless bottles of liquor, beer, and wine on the countertop. He wondered where anyone could possibly hide this much alcohol, whether it be from parents or campus safety. But then he remembered once again that Mickey Orlando was evidently wealthy, and the likelihood was that he bought most of the stock today. He found a bottle of whiskey on the kitchen countertop and messily poured some into a cup. Even the liquor tastes fancy , he thought to himself as he downed the drink. He then poured mostly whiskey and half a can of Coke into his cup, and duplicated the same horrible cocktail for Ford.

He began to think about how Mickey Orlando could easily afford a new car radio, probably a brand new car while he was at it– when he suddenly heard an upbeat pop tune playing from the other room. He recognized it immediately; he remembered hearing it on the college radio station and loving it. But he didn’t own the album, which had to mean…

“Ford!” Fiddleford gasped, stumbling over to his roommate giddily and passed the plastic cup with his drink in it and skewers to him. “Do you own this record? I didn’t know you were a fan of BABBA, I love this song!” He saw Emma May’s appalled face out of the corner of his eye.

Ford’s face went red and took a big gulp of his drink. “Yeah, it’s one of my favorites.” 

“Oh, then this should be the song we do the McGucket Family Dance to!”

“Ford,” Emma May sneered at Fiddleford. “This ain’t the kinda song we do the dance to.”

“Y’know,” Fiddleford said affirmatively. “As a McGucket I have legal authority to say that this is a McGucket Family Dance song, and we gotta go dance right now! C’mon, Honeybun!”

She gave him a weird look, but she said nothing in return.

“Alright then, yer loss!” Fiddleford laughed like a madman. Then he grabbed Ford’s arm and ran into the dark living room.

Fiddleford pulled himself and Ford through the cramped room and found a place on the dance floor where both of them could fit. He looked to Ford, who appeared a little stressed, but was clearly enjoying being under the influence. Fiddleford smiled, then leaned in to Ford. 

“When the chorus comes in,” he said into Ford’s ear. “We start doin’ the dance, okay?” Ford nodded his head slowly and blinked hard. He's so silly when he’s drunk.

“I think I need another drink,” Ford said, somewhere between elation and hysteria.

“Jus’ keep yer eyes on me,” Fiddleford slurred back. “I’ll cue ya in when it starts.”

Fiddleford bounced his finger on the beat until… 1– 2– 1, 2, 3, 4,

“At Yorktown!”

He signaled to Ford and they started to dance side by side. Their shoulders brushed as they tapped their feet, then back front step step step together turned to the beat. A wide grin was plastered on his face when he realized other people started joining in, clumsily picking up the choreography. By the end of the chorus, everyone on the dance floor was doing the dance with them. 

“I knew the minute I backed down, that our love would be world-renowned!”

Fiddleford looked to Ford to see him smiling from ear to ear, having the time of his life. Everyone sang along in unison to the pop song, doing the Mcgucket Family Dance. Fiddleford was beyond pleased. When the song ended, everyone cheered and continued to dance to the next song. Fiddleford and Ford kept dancing afterwards with everyone too, and he tried not to think about Emma May in the other room. 

Eventually a slower song came on, and when the couples came out of the woodwork to dance together, Fiddleford and Ford took it as an opportunity to get more alcohol. When they got back to the kitchen Fiddleford didn’t see Emma May or any of the girls in there anymore. The two returned to the counter and found two shot glasses, and Ford finished eating the remaining snack Fiddleford had brought to him earlier. Fiddleford filled both shot glasses to the brim and carefully cheers-ed his roommate. 

“L’chaim,” Ford slurred.

When he finished, he quickly poured another for himself and drank another.

“Woah, be careful there,” Ford laughed. “I guess Emma May was right about your tolerance, huh?”

“What can I say, I like to have fun.” Fiddleford hiccuped. “Did’ya like the last drink I made? Do ya wannanother?” Ford nodded, and Fiddleford began mixing another for him.

They headed back into the living room, and Fiddleford found a spot on the couch for him to sit down. Ford was leaning against the couch’s armrest with a new drink in his hand, when Mickey stumbled over to him.
“Heeeey,”  he slurred. “How’re you enjoying the party, huh?” 

“It’s been fun so far,” he responded politely. 

“Yeah, I agree, though I thought the music would be better. Like this song, what is this hillbilly garbage anyways?” Fiddleford’s face got hot with embarrassment. 

“Mickey, this is The Eagles,” Ford said indignantly, before Fiddleford could say something first. “This is, like, regular rock and roll.” 

“Yeah, whatever. Still terrible.” 

“Mickey, you wouldn’t know good music if it hit you in the head.” 

Fiddleford was shocked. Before Mickey could respond, Ford walked away muttering something about “begging for good music and kvetching about The Eagles” and headed to the DJ booth and quickly flipped through his yellow crate of records. He pulled out a small record sleeve, likely a 45, and handed it to Bobby. He said something to him but couldn’t discern it. Then he walked back over to where Mickey and Fiddleford were standing. He ignored Mickey’s affronted face and leaned into Fiddleford. 

“I think you’ll really like this song,” he said into his ear.

“Okay guys,” Bobby said into the mic, interrupting the chatter in the room. “We have a song request up next. This is uh,” he squinted in the dim lighting at the sleeve. “‘Blinded By The Light’ by Bruce Springsteen.”

The needle hit the vinyl and a guitar riff sang out through the speakers. Fiddleford watched Ford close his eyes as he nodded along to the song. Then Ford did something that completely caught Fiddleford by surprise: he grabbed his hands and pulled him to the dance floor. He then watched Ford start to clumsily jump to the rhythm, swinging his arms around like a fool, having the time of his life. Fiddleford tilted his head back with laughter, and joined in with him.

Fiddleford watched Ford in awe. This was a brand new side of him; it felt like he caught a glimpse of a younger version of Ford, one that was starry-eyed and much less stressed than usual. Fiddleford danced along to the unfamiliar music. Then Ford grabbed his hands to dance with  him, and it felt like Fiddleford’s world crashed in on him. He saw every shape and shadow on his face change under the multicolored lights. It was riveting. He didn’t know someone could look so… beautiful like that. Ford looked him in the eyes and Fiddleford’s face went hot; he was glad the lights were low so he couldn’t see the red on his face. For a moment he had completely forgotten what Mickey said about his music, about him. He couldn’t even remember what he was thinking about a minute prior, a combination of the dancing and the alcohol making him aggressively live in the present in front of Ford.

Fiddleford hadn’t noticed the crowds of people that came into the living room to dance to the song until someone behind him accidentally pushed him from behind, directly into Ford. Ford caught him, and when they made eye contact Ford stared softly at him for a moment. Their heads were very close. Then Ford let go of him and continued to bounce along to the music.

The song ended, and being slightly sweatier than before, Fiddleford and Ford left the dance floor to find a couch on the other side of the room empty. The two sat down and took a break. The room quickly filled up even more because “Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” was playing. The people in the room all stepped in rhythm with the music and were shouting along to all of the words. It was very entertaining to watch, but Fiddleford turned to Ford to see him looking very overwhelmed. 

“Hey,” he said gently into his ear. “D’ya wanna go somewhere quieter?”

Ford simply nodded gratefully. Fiddleford got up and offered his hand out to Ford to help him off the couch. They headed toward a new room, but not before Fiddleford caught Emma May’s eyes from across the room. Her expression was full of grief, her eyes watering. Barb ran up to her and said something to her that he couldn’t understand. Then she gave her a hug, and put her arm around her to walk her into another room. Fiddleford looked away and followed Ford down the hallway. 

They found a door at the end of the hall on the left and went in. They were greeted with a warmly lit study, with walls covered in shelves filled with books. The hardwood floors were blanketed by a beautiful persian rug, and there was a large, ornate mahogany desk at the back of the room with a bar cart next to it. In the left corner there was a record player with a small selection of albums in a bin underneath. The room was much quieter than the rest of the house, and when Fiddleford closed the door behind himself practically all the noise outside was blocked out. 

Ford exhaled deeply. “Thank you,” he said. “I needed this.”

Fiddleford smiled at him, struggling to maintain eye contact from the alcohol making his vision blurry. He turned to look at the books. Most were boring and meaningless to him; they were various editions of business textbooks and marketing tactics, nothing remotely close to engineering. 

“Hey,” Ford slurred from across the room, also looking at books. “Have you ever read this one?” He pulled a book off the shelf to show it to Fiddleford. As he got closer he read the title: it was The Martian by Ray Bradbury.

“Can’t say I have,” Fiddleford responded sheepishly. “I have read Fahrenheit 451 though.”

Ford paused. “Well, I own a copy, you can borrow it. I mean– only if you wanted to read it.”

“Fer you? Course I would read it!”

Ford smiled bashfully. Fiddleford spun on his foot to crookedly walk toward the bar cart. It had various liquors of nice nature, with plenty of glasses to pour their contents into. Fiddleford, however, was enraptured by the crystal decanter filled with a mysterious auburn liquid. No reason not to try it, right? He did bring the music tonight, and he would only taste a little…

He looked at Ford mischievously. 

“What are thu yinking– what are thu–” Ford giggled over his uncontrollable spoonerism. “What. Are. You. Thinking. Now, Fidd?” he finally spat out.

“I’m jus’ thinkin’,” Fiddleford drawled. “That this here might be the most expensive thing I ever drank.” He then took the top off and took a swig straight from the decanter. It was nice, really nice. The burn was paired nicely with its indiscernible taste, and it was almost sweet. Ford laughed at him, giddy. Fiddleford moved the decanter toward Ford to offer him some. “I think I must decline,” he responded. “I think I’ve reached my limit.”

“Suit yerself,” Fiddleford shrugged. He took one more taste of the liquor and carefully put it back on the bar cart. 

Fiddleford then moved to the corner of the room with the record player. He plopped himself on the ground to go through the various records in the bin below. They were mostly old jazz standards and a couple of doo-wop singles, but then he saw one he truly recognized and gasped quietly.

“Ford! D’ya know this song?” He lifted the red album in his hands. “Moon River by Frank Sinatra. I haven’t thought about this song in years! This was the song Emma May and I danced to at our junior prom.” He felt his chest get tight at the thought of Emma May.

Ford squinted at the album. “Can’t see,” he said.
“Don’t matter, I’m puttin’ it on.”

The thought of Emma May crying somewhere else in the house weighed heavily on him. If he thought more about it than he already was he was going to start freaking out. He really didn’t want his nerves to get the better of him, especially when he felt responsible for making sure Ford was okay. He felt so guilty leaving Emma May with someone that should’ve been him. But the emotions he was feeling were far too complicated for him to unpack in that moment, so he buried them deep down instead.

He put the record on as carefully as he could, and when the music started playing he got up and turned to face Ford. To Fiddleford’s surprise, Ford was swaying along to the music. He felt his face get warm watching him dance to the Frank Sinatra song. 

“Wowie,” Fiddleford chuckled. “Turns out the only thing I needed to get ya to dance was a whole lotta whiskey.”

Ford laughed at the comment. “I suppose I can– understand why you like to do it so much.”

“Oh, pardon me,” Fiddleford said, feigning surprise. “Was that you admitting I was right about something?”

Ford rolled his eyes and said nothing in return. Fiddleford laughed.

The conversation paused for a moment, the music still playing. Fiddleford leaned against the mahogany desk and watched Ford slowly move around the room; not necessarily dancing anymore, just moving in rhythm with the music. 

“I wanted to ask,” Fiddleford said. “Who was that artist ya played? Springsteen, was it? Where’d ya get that music from?”

Ford looked away smiling almost melancholically. “Bruce Springsteen,” he said. “He’s from Jersey. My–” the smile disappeared from his face. “Someone I used to know would sneak out at night and go to all of his bar shows.” His eyes lifted to meet Fiddleford’s, his smile returning. “He’s really a legend, I think you’d like his other music too.”

“Yeah, I reckon I would.” Fiddleford decided right then and there he would find a way to buy all of Bruce Springsteen’s music, no matter what it cost him. Maybe even learn some of the songs on the banjo to play.

Ford’s grin returned to his face. “I might dance a lot when I’m drunk, but your accent gets so thick when you’re just a little tipsy!”

Fiddleford laughed maniacally. “Sure do! Take the boy outta the country, can’t never take the country out the boy.” He pondered on a thought that flew into his head. “Say, why don’t ya have a New Jersey accent? I thought I’d’ve heard even a little twang by now!” Ford’s face froze. 

When he didn’t immediately respond Fiddleford felt guilt rush through his body. “I– I didn’t mean to hit a nerve there, Ford. Y’don’t have to answer if yer uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

“No, no,” Ford said. “Don’t be sorry, Fidd. I just–” he laughed awkwardly.  “I used to have one. When I was younger. But I wanted to, I dunno, sound smarter. So I taught myself to not have an accent.”

“Oh.”

“Not that you– ugh, I know it’s ridiculous. I just needed to get out of there . I needed to improve my chances as much as I could, especially if I was trying to impress big universities. I–”

“Ford,” Fiddleford smiled. “You don’t have to explain yerself. I understand.”

They stood there for a moment, music still playing quietly from the corner. Fiddleford broke their shared gaze and headed back over to the record player, attempting to ease the tension. Ford turned and plopped himself into one of the armchairs.

“I can see why Mickey wanted us to bring our music,” Fiddleford said. “If this is the only stuff they got in the house, I wouldn’t wanna throw a party either!” 

His eyes landed on one album in particular; it was odd that it was grouped in with the rest of these albums. The most recent album in the bin was from 1964 and it was a jazz album, so why was Elton John in here?

“Would’ya look at that!” He said excitedly. “They got Your Song.”

“My song?” Ford asked, slightly confused.

“No, silly. Elton John. Oh Ford, I love this song. Do ya know it?”

“I think I’ve probably heard it on the radio before,” he responded. “Put it on!” 

Fiddleford put the record on. He sauntered away as the piano filled the room. He closed his eyes and began to sway with the music, his arms flowing in rhythm. He started to hum to the lyrics, and offered a hand out to Ford. Without saying a word, he took it, and they began to sway together. Why was he doing this? Fiddleford didn’t want to think about it.

“ I don’t have much money, but boy if I did ,” Fiddleford sang louder than the other lyrics. “ I’d buy a big house where we both could live. ” 

Ford laughed, and Fiddleford felt understood. Their eyes met for a brief second. Ford was looking at him like he was the sole person responsible for hanging every star in the sky. For one moment, everything felt good .

And then suddenly everything immediately felt terrible. Fiddleford felt his stomach growl. “Oh, no,” he said, and couldn’t control the vomit that entered his mouth. His cheeks puffed up as he pursed his lips as tightly as possible to prevent any of it getting anywhere in the study. He covered his mouth, and Ford immediately slid under his arm to support him.

“Okay, let’s get you to the bathroom,” he said, and they quickly left the room, the record still on the turntable. 

____________________________

It was always a gamble when one drank as much as Fiddleford did. There was a very fine line between having a fun time being drunk and alcohol poisoning. Unfortunately, Fiddleford had crossed the line and had to deal with the consequences. Ford shuffled him quickly down the hallway and into the bathroom. He turned the seat up and Fiddleford vomited into the toilet bowl. He felt a gentle pat pat on his back from Ford, then heard him rummaging around in the medicine cabinet. When he stopped, Fiddleford felt him pull back his hair and tie it back with a hair tie. 

“Thanks,” Fiddleford coughed. He spewed more into the toilet. It smelled terrible .

“Alright, I promise I will be right back,” Ford said. “I’m going to find Emma May.” The bathroom door closed behind him and Fiddleford was left alone. 

He went in and out of consciousness, his head still in the toilet. He flushed it in an attempt to get rid of the sour smell. It was quiet, and he felt like going to sleep. Maybe he could shut his eyes for just a few minutes. But he was interrupted by throwing up more. He groaned and wondered where Ford was. Wasn’t he here just a minute ago? He tried to stand up but his legs were too shaky. 

“Fooord,” Fiddleford moaned. He curled up into a ball and tried to take his mind off his upset stomach. He felt tears welling in his eyes. This was a bad idea, very bad.

As his stomach gurgled to indicate more projectile vomiting, the door to the bathroom opened. Before he could look at who entered he retched into the toilet again. His head swung to the left to see Emma May standing over him, looking concerned.

“Hi, Honeybun,” he said, a small smile on his face. “Where’ve ya bee–” he heaved and threw up more. It tasted like dinner and bile, and he gagged at the thought. 

“Sweet lord, he’s a mess,” Emma May mumbled. She squatted down next to him and rubbed his back. He was breathing heavily. 

“I’m so tired,” Fiddleford whined.

“I know baby, but ya gotta stay awake now,” Emma May responded. Her hand left his back and she stood up.

“Ugh, he ain’t no count like this,” Emma May sighed exasperatedly.

“He what?” Ford responded.
“He’s useless,” she clarified. Ford didn’t say anything in return.

“What am I supposed to do now?” She continued, Fiddleford retching behind her. She sighed again. “I’m just really tired.”

“I can take care of him,” he offered. 

Emma May raised an eyebrow. “You think I can’t take care of my own boyfriend, Stanford?”

“I didn’t mean it like that at all,” he quickly replied, his tone of voice slightly higher. “I was– just offering. I dunno.”

Emma May sighed. “Barb offered to stay at her place tonight. I said yes, but now I think I gotta stay. And after everything I talked about with this boy too…” she trailed off.

“I can stay. I have nothing better to do. And I am accustomed to staying up late anyways, I’m practically nocturnal at this point.”

“Are you sure,” she said, a warning tone in her voice. “I can figure it out just fine, y’know.”

“I know you can,” he said. “But you’re tired, and I’m not. It all works out that way. I’ve had plenty of practice taking care of people who have had too much alcohol.”

She paused. “Okay,” she finally said. Fiddleford turned his head to look at the two of them.

“He’ll be okay,” Ford said. “I promise.”

Emma May nodded, and turned for the door. “Emma May,” Ford said abruptly. She turned to him. “I’m– I’m sorry.”

She looked defeated. “What could ya possibly be sorry for, Stanford?” And without another word, she left the bathroom.

Ford then turned on the sink and filled a cup with water. He sat down cross-legged next to Fiddleford and passed him the cup.

“I know it’s not likely going to stay down,” he said. “But try to take little sips.”

____________________________

As Ford expected, Fiddleford threw the water up instantly. They continued to flush the sour stench every ten minutes or so, until Fiddleford’s stomach stopped feeling queasy and he was able to hold a little bit of water down. Ford looked in the cabinet under the sink and found cleaning supplies to wipe the toilet and the surrounding area, and handed Fiddleford a tissue for his face. It always baffled Fiddleford how vomit managed to get everywhere . 

Though he was still drunk, he was more consistently lucid. He sat leaning against the bathtub with his legs tucked into his chest as Ford cleaned.

“Lemme help ya,” Fiddleford said hoarsely.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ford said softly, re-rolling his sleeve up to continue scrubbing.

“I’m sorry,” Fiddleford said.

“You don’t need to be sorry, Fidd. This kind of thing happens all the time.”
“But I ruined the night,” Fiddleford whined.

Ford laughed lightly. “No, you didn’t. This was actually very fun. I had a lot of fun with you tonight.” Fiddleford smiled, then leaned his head on the wall.

The music was still playing loudly when Ford finished cleaning. He left the bathroom for a moment to tell Mickey that they would come back sometime tomorrow to pick up the records. When he came back, he picked Fiddleford up to help him to stand. Fiddleford’s legs were very wobbly, so Ford held Fiddleford’s arm around his neck for stability. They headed out of the house, no one noticing their departure.

____________________________

Leaning on Ford, Fiddleford focused on trying to get the smell of vomit out of his nose. He reckoned he had never been that close to Ford before. He smelled like cedar wood and aftershave. It was nice.

“Wait a minute,” Fiddleford said, weakly pushing at Ford and looking around.  “Where’s Emma May?”

“You–” he paused, then sighed. “She’s staying at Barb’s tonight.”

“Oh, okay. Well I’ll see her tomorrow.”

They talked and laughed quietly all the way back to the dorm. Ford ended up talking about some recent science articles that he had read.

“Do ya ever wish ya didn’t study this?” Fiddleford asked Ford. “I mean, ‘course I always knew I wanted to build and create things, but d’ya ever think about the different lives ya could’ve led if ya didn’t pick this? Like, imagine bein’ a poet or somethin’. I dunno.”

“Oh no,” Ford said certainly, a glint in his eye. “I always knew I wanted to do something in the sciences. I figured physics would be best for me because it was broad enough that I could decide later what I specifically wanted to do with it. Besides, the poets misconstrue what entropy is all the time, and why would I want to do that?”

Fiddleford laughed at the statement. “How d’ya mean?” He asked.

“I mean, they heard about the concept for the first time and went ‘Oh, so it must mean chaos and randomness. This is good for a story I can write because the chaos of life is universal.’” He did air quotes with his free hand and spoke with a dumb voice. Fiddleford chuckled.

Ford smirked at him fondly and kept going. “While certainly true, the real meaning of entropy is far more interesting to me. See, entropy deals with temperature, right? Our most basic understanding of temperature is tactile: touch it and see if it’s hot or cold. But we can’t actually quantify temperature from just this. And despite countless equations and proofs and theorems, we actually don’t actually know what temperature is . Temperature defined with statistical mechanics is actually the classical interpretation of entropy; potential energy divided by temperature. What’s even crazier is when you push potential energy to infinity, it makes the limit approach zero, thus maxing out entropy. At first I was confused by this because, if you’re making energy infinitesimally small, how is entropy maxed? But then I realized it was about potential energy. Potential. All that can happen. ”

“I’m tryin’ my best to follow, but I don’t think I am,” Fiddleford said sheepishly.

“That’s okay,” Ford said lightly. “I just think that the poets would have a field day if they knew the statistical mechanical definition of entropy. The true physicist’s definition. That it’s really a measurement of what we don’t know. How paradoxical it is, in and of itself. And that for as much as the physicists try, there is no way to anticipate what is certainly going to happen, much less being able to understand everything in our universe. We can always guess statistically what might happen, but anomalies always occur. Random improbabilities still persist. You might be the only engineer on the planet that gets that, Fidd.” He gently patted Fiddleford’s arm and laughed. Though he was only half paying attention to Ford’s conversation, Fiddleford focused on the excitement and flow of his voice. And for all of the critique of poets, Ford had said something quite lovely in his inebriated state. It made all of Fiddleford’s leftover queasiness dissipate. 

By the time they returned to their room, Fiddleford had sobered up enough to walk on his own. Ford unlocked the door, and Fiddleford stumbled toward his bed and turned on the lamp. 

“Ugh,” he groaned. “My shirt smells like vomit.” He changed into a sleep shirt and pajama pants. Ford poured a cup of water for him and passed it to him. “Thanks,” he said, sitting on his bed as he took a sip of water. Ford changed into his pajamas and began to remove his blanket from his bed to put it on the floor.

“What’re you doin’?” Fiddleford asked.

“Well, if I’m uncomfortable, I won’t sleep well. Then I can check on you to make sure you’re not dead.”

“Ford, that’s unnecessary.”

But he continued setting up his makeshift sleeping arrangement on the floor. Fiddleford, still very drunk, hopped off his bed and walked closer to Ford. He wrapped his arms around Ford and pulled him into a hug. 

Ford’s shoulders tensed a little. “What’s this for, huh?” He laughed awkwardly.

“Oh, just thankin’ ya for takin’ care of me,” Fiddleford said. Ford relaxed into his arms and reciprocated the embrace. They stood like that for a little while, the world slowly melting away. When Fiddleford finally moved away he felt Ford’s arms linger around his chest a little longer. Fiddleford felt an unfamiliar ache in his heart but separated from the embrace nonetheless. He walked back over to his bed and tucked himself in, Ford doing the same. He smiled one more time at Ford, then turned off the light. 

And before Fiddleford drifted to sleep, the thought crossed his mind that maybe things would work out.