Chapter Text
Stanley’s car was loaded more full than Fiddleford had ever seen it. After they had loaded it with their luggage, gifts, and snacks, he was shocked that there was even enough room for them to sit in it. Squeezed in the back, he was still debating whether there was actually enough room for them all.
For the first leg of the journey, Stanford had called shotgun (which was met with much complaining from Stanley), whilst Fiddleford had his limbs crushed in the backseat by multiple shabby, well-worn backpacks that didn’t all fit in the trunk. As a consolation, he was hoarding a bag of Jolly Ranchers to himself as he watched the twins bicker in the front, his head swinging back and forth like he was watching a tennis match.
“Honestly, Stanley - would you turn that racket down, I can’t concentrate on the directions -“
“Mehmehmeh, you don’t gotta concentrate on the directions, Einstein, that’s what GPS is for.”
“You know full well I like following the route myself, Stanley - turn that down!”
The music alternated rapidly between destroying Fiddleford’s eardrums and being so quiet that he could barely hear it as the two brothers fought over the volume dial and spat insults at each other. And, as much as he was enjoying the Stanley-and-Stanford Show, the loud, car-shaking music was beginning to give him a headache.
“Y’all are better than TV, I swear,” He kicked the back of Stanford’s seat, which made the man splutter indignantly. “Stanford, let yer brother listen to music. Stanley - put the music at a humane volume. These speakers are makin’ my teeth rattle more than my Great Aunt Beatrice’s dentures.”
Stanley sighed with all the dramatics of a teenager but turned the music down to an almost-respectable level. Ford huffed, but seemed appeased as he looked back at where he had the route displayed on his phone.
After that, the drive was calm for several peaceful minutes. However, Fiddleford had grown up with siblings.
He knew better.
Several peaceful moments passed. Fiddleford caught Stanley’s eye in the mirror - he had a decent poker face, but there was a mischievous glint in his eye that gave him away. Fiddleford slowly shook his head, praying that Stan would just let the peace last, but this just resulted in Stan giving him an impish grin.
There was a beat, and then:
“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-bottles of -”
“No.”
The glare Stanford gave his brother was so icy that even Fiddleford shivered. Undeterred, Stanley kept singing.
“Take one down, pass it around - woah, Sixer!”
Fiddleford suddenly found himself buried by a mountain of luggage as the car swerved - Stanford had reached bodily over to the driver’s side and had taken hold of the steering wheel, causing them to swerve perilously across the (thankfully empty) road. Stan pushed his brother back with one arm whilst straightening the car up with the other.
“Alright, alright! No singing.”
“Sorry about that, Fiddleford.” Stanford brushed off his shirt haughtily. “But you must understand - with an oaf such as my brother, extreme measures must be used.”
They return to driving in silence - although, this time around, the atmosphere is considerably more tense. Somewhere in the backpack avalanche, Fiddleford’s Jolly Ranchers went missing and he felt so distraught by this that he didn’t even say ‘cows’ when they passed a field of cows.
The Diablo keeps rolling. Stanford pulls a book out from - somewhere - and starts reading. Fiddleford is insanely jealous - reading in the car has always made him carsick. He settles for looking out the window instead, watching the rolling fields pass by in waves of green. Bright blue sky stretches ahead, making him smile, and he suddenly can’t wait to get home.
Eventually, he turns his gaze away from the window and directs it to the front. His vision traces the side of Stanley’s face - the way his fluffy hair sticks out at the back, his cauliflower ear, the soft curve of his jaw. One hand rests on the stick-shift, sure and secure, the other tapping a staccato on the steering wheel.
Fiddleford thought he was beautiful.
It was a weird thought, and one that he probably would never say out loud. He certainly didn’t find Stanford beautiful, and the boys were identical. Still, there was something about Stanley that made Fiddleford’s breath catch.
Then Stanley caught his eye in the mirror again, and the illusion shattered. Fiddleford knew it was a bad sign when Stan grinned at him before saying:
“I spy with my little eye…”
Stanford growled. Fiddleford sighed.
This was going to be a long drive.
The twins eventually stopped antagonising each other, and the drive became rather pleasant. Stanley told a story about a customer at his bartending job that had both Fiddleford and Stanford wiping tears of laughter from their eyes, all of them let out a loud, pantomime Boo! As a Tesla overtook them, Fiddleford threatened to find his banjo from wherever it was hidden in the mountain of luggage if Stanley didn’t turn the music down… Normal road trip stuff.
They stopped at a service station to stretch their legs and scoff down some greasy diner food. Hilariously, the waitress seemed to have a thing for Stanford , who turned the colour of beetroot as she flirted with him, stroking a pink glittery fingernail on his arm as he passed back his menu. Fiddleford hid his giggles behind his hand - Stanley showed no such decorum, loudly declaring his brother to be a regular casanova, ignoring Ford’s flustered protests.
They left before they got kicked out - with full bellies and with the waitress's number written hastily on a napkin that got pushed into Ford’s hand.
(“Why didn’t you just tell her you’re, y’know…” Stanley flicked his wrist and mimed flipping his hair over his shoulder - Fiddleford had taken these movements to mean a flaming homosexual. Ford looked like he had just sucked a lemon.
“I - I felt too awkward. She was very… forward.” This made Stan cackle like an evil sea witch.)
They got back to the car - the Ford’s swapped seats, with Ford declaring that he loved both of them very much, but his social battery was depleted, so if everyone could just not talk to him for a bit that would be much appreciated, and he put his noise-cancelling headphones on and fished his ancient 3DS out of his bag. Stan rolled his eyes, but anyone could see it was painfully fond.
Meanwhile, Fiddleford was able to stretch his legs out in the front passenger seat, and he enjoyed the sensation of Not Being Crushed By Luggage. Without his brother to irritate, Stanley had mellowed and passed the time by asking Fiddleford about his family and his home - questions that Fiddleford was happy to answer.
The windows were rolled down a crack, letting the fresh December air in, and the scenery was becoming more and more sparsely populated the closer they got to Tennessee. They passed a field that must have been freshly mucked, the smell of manure making their noses wrinkle, but it made Fiddleford smile to himself - as weird as it was, that smell reminded him of home.
“So, run it by me one more time - how many people are going to be in your house for Christmas, exactly?”
“Well,” said Fiddleford, raising his hands to count out his family members on his fingers. “There’ll be me, you, and Stanford, of course. Pa. My younger siblings - Abigail - she’s sixteen - Harrison and Tucker - 12 and 6 - and then my older sisters Mary-Grace, Georgina, and Avery.”
“Is Mary-Grace one girl or two?”
“Oh, just the one. Then of course there’s Jackson - that’s Mary-Grace’s fiance, he’s a real gentleman - and then Uncle Oscar and Aunt Lou Anne. They’ll be bringin’ their little troublemakers - Sammy and Teddy. Aunt Josephine will be there, with her, er, friend, Mrs J. Great Aunt Beatrice - and her dentures - will be there. Uncle James, Cousin Riley. Meemaw, of course, and Granny Iris - Ma’s ma - will probably pop over at some point too.”
Stan whistled under his breath. “That’s a lotta people.”
“And that isn’t even countin’ everyone’s partners and friends and dogs that they’re sure t’bring along. It’s glorious chaos.”
“Damn. With that many people around - don’t y’all fight?”
“Eh, we bicker. Some of the lads roughhouse a bit - I was never into all that, I just kept to my whatchamacallits - but none of it is mean-spirited. We all love each other, y’know? Family’s important.”
Stanley frowned, considering this. His eyes glanced at the mirror, peering at the reflection of his brother sitting in the back, totally immersed in his console, and his face softened.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling back at Fiddleford. “Family’s important.”