Chapter Text
“Stanley.” It was dark. Why was it dark?
“Stanley?”
“Huh. Coulda sworn I saw him move.”
He tried to blink. Oh, his eyes were closed. His head ached. Slowly, blearily, he opened his eyes.
“See, I told ya he was coming around. Don't ever doubt a McGucket,” a southern voice said. “Now go. Get out of here. I’ll tell ya when it’s safe.”
“Hmmm?” Stan asked eloquently.
“What's that, sugar?”
“Where…?”
“Still in my apartment, hon. Wasn't too hard to pick y’up and put ya in bed.”
“Oh…” Stan tried to sit up.
“Don't do that, you lost a lot of blood. On top of being half-starved. And sick with a 101 degree plus fever. Don't want ya blackin’ out again.”
“Sorry.” He laid back again.
“Stan, what happened to you?” Fiddleford asked again. “I can't help ya if ya don't say anything.”
“Told you. Accident.” Stan wanted to cry. But he didn't.
“It wasn't an accident, Stanley Pines.”
“What--”
“Stan...How could an accident leave you with thirty-six perfect tally marks gouged into your left leg?” The question was gentle but that just made Stan want to cry even more.
“Haven't you figured it out?” Stan mumbled.
Long hours in a closet in the dark, wondering if he’d ever see light again before he heard the door open-- “Hola, puta ,” said the Man and he struggled struggled fought bit but it was no use and it burned, it burned….
“One more push...good puta, ” the Man said and it was sickening and the knife scratched a number into his flesh and everything hurt but it didn’t matter because everything had always hurt….
He was free from the eternity and there had been so many Men but he ran and he made it and he had to find his only friend….
“It hurts,” he whimpered, rolling onto his side and curling up.
There was a long, tense silence in the room. Then, “Your brother’s out in my living room. D’you want to talk to him?”
“No. Want to sleep.”
“He’s worried sick about ya.”
“Let him worry. Never cared before.”
Fiddleford was a little startled. Ford? Not caring? That was nearly as unusual as Fiddleford himself saying an unkind word. “Stanley, I’m sure he cares about you.”
“His fault I’m here.”
“...What?”
“It’s his fault,” Stan repeated emphatically, then curled up even tighter and mumbled, “Not his fault. My fault. He’s good. I’m bad. Always bad. He’s good. My fault, my fault….”
Fiddleford didn’t want to get involved in family drama he didn’t understand, but Stan was his boyfriend’s brother, and he was family now, too. So he placed a gentle hand on Stan’s shoulder, earning a flinch and a whimper. “Sorry. I’m not...not gonna hurt ya.
“Stanley, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what you did, and I don’t know what he did. I can’t solve your problems. But I can bring Stanford in here, and I can let you two talk. Because you’re twins, and you’re not supposed to be apart. Especially not...not like this.”
The room was silent except for the sound of Stan’s breathing, heavy and fast and sometimes catching. Fiddleford rubbed a hand along Stan’s back.
They sat like that for several minutes. Finally, Stan murmured, “Alright. He can come in.”
Fiddleford’s hand lingered for half a second on Stan’s shoulder before he stood and left the room.
“Stanford, he wants to see you.”
Ford stood, his face pale, worried, sad, and...scared? That last emotion made Fiddleford grab his boyfriend’s hand. “It’ll be fine.” He kissed Ford’s cheek. “You’ll see.”
Ford nodded and walked into the room. The door closed with a certain finality.
The atmosphere in the room was quiet and very, very tense. A certain chill hung in the air. “Stanley?” Ford said with only the slightest hesitation. “What--happened to you?”
“Why do you care?” His voice was muffled but broken.
“Because you’re my brother,” Ford whispered.
“Never stopped you before.”
“I...Stanley--”
“You’ll hate me.”
“What?”
“If I tell you. You’ll hate me, if...if you don’t already.”
“Why would I--”
“I’m bad. I’m a bad brother, a bad son, a bad friend….I’m the worst person you could ever associate yourself with.”
“Stanley--”
“You shouldn’t have to see me. I bet it hurts so much. I don’t want you to hurt, you’re too good….”
“...Stanley?”
Stan finally rolled back over on his back to look over at his brother. What he saw was the nine-year-old boy who’d just been called a freak. What he saw was the twelve-year-old who was just called a genius. What he saw was his best friend and his worst enemy all mashed together into an awkward, pale, teary-eyed young man who looked like he was both ready to bolt for the door and lunge at Stanley. “Stanley, I….”
“I’m sorry,” Stan choked. “I’m sorry I broke your project. I’m sorry I ruined your life. I’m sorry I made you have to go to this shit school and give up your dreams and….” He gasped for breath as his lungs constricted with despair. “I’m sorry I’m such a terrible person, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….” He curled back into himself again, shaking. His words were muffled now but Ford could still understand what he was saying. “I’m sorry I’m dirty, I’m sorry I killed people, I’m sorry I fought, I’m sorry I didn’t die….”
Ford stood up abruptly. “Stanley, stop!” he almost shouted. And then he crumpled back into the chair beside the bed and mashed his face into the palms of his hands and sobbed, “Stop. Please.”
They both cried quietly, together but alone, for what felt like an eternity.
When Stan steadied his breathing, he rolled back over to face Ford. “I...sold myself. On the streets. A lot. One of my old clients...well, he’d been more than my client I guess...he came back for me. He found me, and he and his friends….” He gulped. “Thirty-six times before I got away. That’s why there’s so many...tallies. On my leg.”
Ford looked up at his brother with wet, red eyes. “Oh, my God,” he mumbled, and threw himself at his brother. Stan flinched but Ford had already caught him up in a hug more intense than that time when somebody had cornered Ford in an alley with a knife and threatened to cut off his fingers and Stan had saved him and hugged him to soothe his panic. This hug was more intense than that.
Stan just sat there as Ford gripped him tight to his heaving body, as Ford cried silently into his bare shoulder, as Ford whispered apologies that were probably lies because he’d never done anything wrong except for being his brother.
When Ford emerged from the bedroom again an hour later, he went straight to Fiddleford and hugged him tight. Neither said a word at the moment, but Fiddleford sighed and rubbed his boyfriend’s back soothingly. Ford sniffled a few times as he collected his emotions.
“Hey,” Fiddleford said when Ford seemed to have calmed down, “you want me to make you some tea?”
Ford nodded.
“I’ll make chamomile. Is that okay?”
Another nod.
“Alright. You sit here and wait for me to get back. Get out of your wet clothes awhile, I have some extras set out for you.”
He turned and headed for his little kitchen.
“Wait,” Ford called softly. Fiddleford turned with a small smile. “Um...make some for Stanley, too?”
Fiddleford actually grinned. “Of course. I think he’d love that.” And he disappeared into the other room.
Ford shrugged out of his wet clothes and slipped his dry ones on on autopilot. He’s here he’s here he’s actually here what do I do what do I say I’m an awful brother I just let him get kicked out--
But he sabotaged my future and crushed my dreams I was going to have a life I was going to be something I was going to shake off my past and give myself a future my six fingers wouldn’t matter I would be somebody--
But that’s not what happened he’s here he’s here he was bleeding didn’t you see don’t you understand you ass he’s here and he’s hurting and he almost died and it’s your fault you let him get kicked out you let him leave you you’re twins you’re twins other half other half other half other half--
His own fault his own fault his own fault his own fault he did this to himself he did this to himself he did this to himself his own fault his own fault his own fault his own fault he did this to himself he did this to himself he did this to himself--
“Here ya’are sweetheart, some nice chamomile tea for you.” The gentle southern voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “I’ll take some in for Stan, then, too, then I’ll sit with ya.”
Ford nodded as his boyfriend nudged open Stan’s door, walked in, and closed it quietly.
There was the sound of muted voices as Fiddleford said something and Stan responded. Fiddleford said something a little louder, a little more forcefully. Stan responded in his same flat tone. There was a silence from the other side of the door. Then Fiddleford said something very quietly and left the room, shutting the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, sighed sadly, and joined Ford once more in the living room. “He’s gonna need a lot of healin’,” he said. “There’s some things that take a long time to scar over.”
Ford nodded slowly. “Do you...think he’ll want to see me again?”
“You can try, but he won’t talk to ya.”
Ford nodded again. “I’ll go back in.”
He stood, more determined than last time, and confidently entered the bedroom. But as soon as he closed the door, he deflated and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “Hi, Stanley,” he said softly. “Did you want your tea?”
No response.
“Alright, that’s okay. Do you want to talk to me?”
Still no response.
“That’s okay, too. Um…” he thought. “Remember when we were little, and when one of us had a nightmare the other would climb into bed with them?”
Stan shifted slightly under the blankets, like a shrug.
Ford hesitated, then carefully lifted the blankets and slipped under the covers, laying on his side beside his brother and making sure to keep a little bit of distance between them. Letting Stan decide.
Stan moved back a little bit after an initial shiver of fear. This was his brother. He was safe.
Ford, in response, moved closer, gently draping an arm over his twin protectively. And even though it was only nine in the evening, they both soon fell asleep.
Until Fiddleford shook Ford’s shoulder and whispered, “Sweetheart, you haveta get up.”
“...Mmmh?”
“Classes! Come on, we have to get ya out the door!”
Ford sat straight up in bed, yanking off the covers and thus also waking up his twin. “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed. “And I have a test in Physics today!”
“Huh?” Stan mumbled, blinking. “Wha’ happen?” He looked at Ford, who had leapt out of bed and was proceeding to try to both comb his hair and change his shirt at the same time. “Sixer?”
Ford froze. It had been so long since he’d heard that nickname….
“ Stanford! You’re going to be late!” Fiddleford shouted.
“Coming! Sorry!” Ford shouted.
“What is he, your mother?” Stan mumbled.
“My boyfriend. I need to go. I’ll see you after school, Stan. Feel better!” Ford called as he dashed from the room, grabbing a small grey bookbag and yanking on his shoes as he stumbled out the door.
“Wait, Stanford, before you go!” Fiddleford said urgently as Ford put a hand on the apartment’s doorknob. The southerner put a hand under Ford’s chin, gently kissed him, then yanked the door open and practically shoved the student out. “Go!”
Stan rubbed his eyes, sitting up in bed. “What about you, Fiddlenerd?” he muttered. “Don’t you have school or something, too?”
“Skipping classes today so I could look after a certain somebody,” the man grinned. “Oh, that reminds me, how are you feeling?”
“Everything hurts. But like I could eat a...what are those big horse things with the long necks?”
“A giraffe?”
“Yeah, that. Feel like I could eat...four of ‘em. At once.”
Fiddleford laughed. “Well, I can’t get you giraffes, that’s illegal--but I can make you some frozen waffles.”
Stan’s eyes grew huge. “Oh, my God. Really?”
“Yeah, of course.” Fiddleford smiled again. “I’ll get that for you. And some painkillers.”
“Thanks.” Stan gave a slight smile. “You’re the greatest.”
“Ah, horsefeathers,” Fiddleford laughed. “Just doin’ what my momma taught me to do.”
“Makes you better’n me,” Stan muttered. “Least you listened to your mom.”
“Aw, hon, don't be like that. Ya did what ya had to.”
“You don't know what I had to do.” Stan’s voice began to take on its previous flat edge, something Fiddleford did not fail to detect.
“Alright, hon, none of that. Let's get some food and medicine in ya and then we can talk.”
Stan nodded.
A few long-legged steps brought the lanky southerner into his kitchen. He stuck a couple frozen eggos into the microwave and waited for the timer to go off. As the appliance sang, he thought. What can I do to help the poor guy out? Should I take him to the hospital? Get him some therapy? Goodness, I don’t know how to help a rape victim. He paused. What would I do if Theo was… He shuddered, then continued. What would I do if my brother was assaulted? Horrifying, but...what would be the best way to help him recover? He thought about it. Don’t know. I’ll ask Annie later.
The microwave stopped with a sickly clatter. He really needed a new one; this one was probably diseased. “Lukewarm waffles, comin’ right up,” he muttered, cursing at the appliance as he retrieved his guest’s meal. “Hey, Stan?” he called from the kitchen. “How do you like ‘em?”
“Just give ‘em to me!”
Fiddleford grinned. “Alright. Might not be as warm as y’like, though.”
“I really don’t care.”
Fiddleford snagged a bottle of acetaminophen bills from the counter as he passed and headed for the bedroom. “I’ll be right back with a glass of water for ya,” he said as he handed Stan the plate and set the pills on the small nightstand, and walked out again.
When he came back again, he carried a banjo in one hand and the glass in the other. After giving Stan the glass, he sat down in the wicker chair in the corner and began to tune up the instrument. The homeless man began to wolf down his breakfast, and Fiddleford began to play.
His fingers flew across the strings, plucking out an intricate melody and humming along before starting to sing. The lyrics were sweet and certain, unwavering in their devotion, and it was obvious to whom it was addressed.
“...Your hands, your hands
Are works of art
Your hands, your hands
They hold my heart
Your eyes, your eyes
Encase my soul
Your eyes, your eyes
Make me feel whole
Your laugh, your laugh
It brings me joy
Your laugh, your laugh
Makes me your boy
I don’t know how you’re so perfect
I don’t know how you’re so right
I don’t know how you’re so perfect
But I can’t let you out of my sight.”
Stan listened as the southerner sang. When the song finished, he immediately moved on to another one.
“Well, I saw you in a cafe
With your head stuck in a book
I knew you were my soulmate
From the moment that I looked
Who am I without you, baby
Who am I without you, baby
Who am I without you, baby
I’m nothin’ but a man.”
“Woah,” Stan said when Fiddleford finished the song. “You write that?”
“Hmmm? Oh, yeah.” Fiddleford grinned. “I really love him,” he added with a lovestruck smile. “He’s amazin’.”
“He--he is, isn’t he?” Stan agreed.
“Oh, yeah. Handsome, well-read, good singer, loves stargazin’--everythin’ I love in a guy.” He chuckled quietly, a soft hum of adoration, before continuing. “He’s not perfect, of course--but neither am I. And I guess that makes us both perfect, in our own way.” He strummed a chord, idly picking at the strings. “How about you? Got anybody?”
“Eh, nah. Never had time.” Stan shrugged. “I’m...glad, for you both. He deserves somebody like you.”
Fiddleford raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, you make him happy. And you’re...real good. You’re just a real good person and I’m glad he has somebody as great as you to love him.” Stan didn’t make eye contact.
Fiddleford was silent for a moment, then he went back to quietly playing. “There’s a lot of people what say that about me,” he said after a bit. “Say I’m too good for this world, or that the world needs more people like me, or something. But, if you’ll let me tell ya a secret, I’m not as great as everybody thinks. For one thing,” and here he leaned forward, “I’m a terrible liar.”
Stan looked up at Fiddleford there.
“It’s true.” Fiddleford grinned. “All these customers come in and they’re real rude to me or the other baristas. I tell them, ‘Hope you have a nice day!’ but ya know what?” He stopped playing and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I always secretly hope that they get stuck in traffic for an hour, or they spill their coffee on their suit, or they’re late for their date.” He shook his head and sat back again. “It’s dreadful of me.”
“Are you kidding?” Stan burst out laughing. “That’s the worst you’ve ever done? Buddy, I’m nineteen and I’ve been to prison! I’ve been banned from two states, I’ve shoplifted, I’ve sold drugs, I’ve been selling my body on the streets--hell, yesterday I killed two guys! And you’re saying that wordlessly wishing minor inconveniences on people is horrible?”
Fiddleford stared at Stan for a moment. Then, very seriously, he looked over the tops of his tiny round glasses and said, “Yes.”
And they both cracked up.
Ford came directly to his boyfriend’s apartment after classes, and was shocked to see that Fiddleford had somehow, miraculously, gotten Stan out of bed, eating food, watching television, and laughing. “Hello, you two,” he said, setting down his bag and shoving the pair over so he could sit between them. He leaned over to give his boyfriend a kiss, then nudged his twin. “You okay?”
“Nah. But I’ve been worse, so this is good.” Stan offered his brother a slight smile. “Your boyfriend can sing, by the way.”
Ford blushed. “I know.”
“He’s got a whole buncha cheesy songs written for ya.”
Ford blushed harder. “I know. ”
“He--”
“Will you two shut up? Gordon Ramsay is swearing at the couple and I want to hear what he’s saying!” Fiddleford exclaimed.
The twins fell silent, but kept exchanging awkward and companionable glances.
Everything definitely was not okay, but things were looking as if they were going to be.
And really, in the grand scheme of things, that was all that mattered.