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Let it never be said that Stanford Pines was a slacker. Despite his utterly embarrassingly unprestigious school, and the stereotypical students who attend there, he would make sure that everyone, at least the few who cared, would recognize his genius. Hours upon hours of time daily were devoted to his studies, ensuring his scores to be loads higher than that of any other student. The few hours he was not studying or listening to every word uttered by his professors or almost drowning himself in dirt-cheap coffee, he was sleeping. And it was only a few hours at that.
He didn't care if we was perceived as “nerdy” or “geeky” or any of the other slurs used to berate the intelligent; all he cared about was proving everyone who discounted him as being anything less than a genius, especially to prove those West Coats Tec representatives, wrong. And maybe it was to peeve all of his former bullies, show them that he was, indeed, better than them. However narcissist his self confidence seemed to be, he knew that he must pride himself in this; always being the overachiever of the class. Because, if he was honest with himself, he only had his intelligence.
Unlike Stanley, who could at least get by on his charisma, Stanford’s talents lie strictly in the category which is not all that appreciated, that is when compared to the commercial things in life which seem to be globally appreciated, such as sports, (which Stanley also conveniently excelled in). Besides his smarts, Ford didn't have anything. His social awkwardness prevented him from forming any real bonds with people he has met throughout the years, (albeit it was not as though Glass Shard Beach was just teeming with soulful and readily friendly people). Instead, he poured any and all of his energy into his studies, perhaps to make up for the lack of social interaction of which he was prone.
At college, he was thoroughly disappointed throughout his entire experience and it all started when he was introduced to his roommate. A southern, stereotypical hippy who certainly belonged at this garbage of a school.
When they first met, Stanford’s “better than thou” bias fell away and he was left in a state of anxiety and panic versus the judgmental arrogance he was brandishing just a few minutes previous. Instead, he now dissolved into fear, awaiting judgment from his new peer. He had always been weary when it came to meeting new people; the cruelty and ridicule he received because of his abnormality seemed ceaseless. In spite of his worries, he still wasn’t looking to make friends, and that paired with his detached behavior enhanced by anxiety caused him to appeared rather standoffish; this would most likely result in his roommate perceiving hostility. His behavior towards his roommate could only be described as self-sabotage. In retrospect, he probably should have thought it through before damning himself to room with a man who was sure to hate him.
Lucky for Ford, the man seemed too air headed to notice any social cues such as the unsociable look on Stanford’s face, or his perturbed reaction to the man sticking out his hand for Stanford to shake in turn. It was most likely viewed as strange to the hippy, for Stanford to gaze, distraughtly, at the hand that he had stuck out for him to take. Stanford, having enough sense to realize that this was perceived as such, begrudgingly, decided to take it, hoping against all hopes that this man would not notice his extra appendage.
“Hi!” the nonconformist greeted with unrefined enthusiasm whilst shaking Stanford’s hand, “Nice tah meet ‘cha! My name is Fiddleford Hadron McGucket!” he continues to shake Fords hand for exactly the socially appropriate time before asking for Ford’s name.
Stanford, again, hesitated, finding it strange that this man so willingly treated him good naturedly even though it could not be discounted that he definitely noticed Fords body language as well as his extra finger. As an afterthought, Ford considered that he didn't comment on it maybe because the guy was also kind of weird, what with a godawful name like that and all.
“Stanford Pines…” Ford replied uneasily. At that, the man chuckled, receiving a confused look from his newly acquainted associate.
“We're both Fords,” he merely shrugged, all while still smiling.
xxx
Ford found his new hippy roommate strange. The fact that he was obviously southern, bringing along quirks that were strange to Stanford but normal to Fiddleford like playing the banjo and ham-boning at almost completely random times to convey his thoughts or to help him think. Though, weirdest of all, Ford found himself accompanied by him in almost all of his advanced classes. This was bewildering. How has this man managed that? In his advanced mathematics courses, as well as physics and engineering; it was absolutely baffling. Though, Ford assumed that he was sure to flunk out or do something of the like once the material started to become harder.
Through the months leading up to finals, Stanford was happy to say that despite the unlikeliness of it, he and the strange hillbilly had become somewhat of friends. They would eat together in the dining hall when they were there at the same time, (though at the beginning of the year it was mainly because both of them were intimidated by the thought of having to eat alone). Despite Fiddlefords outgoing personality, that trait seems to be explicit to only the times when he was at parties and nonexistent otherwise, so he didn't make many friends and Stanford was too absorbed in his studies to even attempt such a thing. They also found that they were both fans of games like Dungeons Dungeons and more Dungeons; they even joined a club for it, not that Stanford showed up that often; he was far to concerned with studying for every and all apparent tests that were to come. Their unlikely friendship resulted in them becoming rather fond of each other, and not in a way the was necessarily confined to being strictly friendly.
Sometimes when he was just waking in the morning, or walking away from one lecture hall only to transverse to another, or even after a particularly long study session that occurred at the latest of hours and bled into early morning, he would find that his thoughts often flittered to those about his roommate. He would unintentionally start thinking about how sweet he had been when he had brought him coffee from the little shop down the way when they had ran out in their dorm, or when he noticed how stressed Stanford was to write a paper on time so he offered to go attain the books for him and save Ford a trip to the library, or when--shit. He was doing it again. This was becoming a problem. Stanford hated himself for letting this happen; he couldn’t let something as elementary as a, a, a crush get in the way of his schooling! He couldn't let himself become distracted!
Despite this, Ford found himself going out of his way to try to converse with and/or be around the man, even if it was just for a short second;
like
“Hey, Fidds! I noticed that you were low on pencils, want to borrow one of mine?”
or
“Hey, Fiddleford! Do you mind if you help me carry these books back to the dorm? I just got back from the library, ya know? Heh heh heh…”
And if he was feeling extra confident
*Stanford, purposely ACCIDENTALLY, drops something near Fiddleford* “Opps! Heh, sorry . Just gotta, uh, pick up my book I dropped! I’m so clumsy! So, uh, what are you doing tonight?”
Maybe because of his crush, Stanford was becoming increasingly worried that Fiddleford would be dropped by the college after he failed finals. If he did, that would mean that he couldn't see him again and he’d be forced to get a new roommate and it would just be terrible , so he tried convincing Fidds to actually care about his grades and about college. Dreading what might happen when he failed, Stanford took it upon himself to convince Fidds.
“Hey, Fiddleford!” he started, with little confidence. Fiddleford was sitting on his bed, parallel to Stanford who was studying on his side of the room. Fiddleford was lazily strumming his banjo in a way that Stanford didn’t entirely find to be unpleasant. (At least he wasn't singing . Dear god he loved that man but he was not blessed with anything remotely resembling a good singing voice). “So, I uh, I was thinking that maybe you could-- a, and in no way do I really have a say in this and I'm not trying to tell you what to do or--”
“Ford?”
“Yeah?”
“Get on with it.”
“Right, uh, sorry ,sorry,” he cleared his throat ungracefully, “So I was uh, I was thinking that maybe you could try to,” he gulped, “actually try and show up for class more often?” God. Why did he phrase it that way?!
He heard a long sigh from across the room, and he only then considered that Fiddleford was probably high.
“Ford, jus’ cus’ you study all o’ th’ time d’s’n’t mean that I need ta,’ ‘kay?”
“Y, yeah I, I know that I was just thinking that it might benefit you to actually try especially because midterms is coming up and--”
“Ford?”
“Yeah?”
“I manage my schooling jus’ fine without yur’ help.”
Ford doubted that but throughout the months, Fiddleford’s grades were just with the pace of the rest of the class, not below nor above, albeit, that was to change soon, since finals were coming up. And Ford was sure Fiddleford was to fail; during the lectures, during the small portion of time when he would actually bother to show up to class anyway, he was either totally inebriated, or would just sleep through them. Ford wondered why he even bothered to show up if he wasn't going to pay attention. Ford acknowledged with causation that Fiddleford was, in fact, going to fail finals.
xxx
When the first exam came around, Stanford considered himself well equipped and was determined and convinced that he would pass with flying colors. As endearing as he had found his roommate to be, Stanford acknowledged that he was going to miserably fail the midterms. He had tried to convince Fiddleford so many times to take school seriously, that he should actually try , but he would just wave him off and then go light a blunt.
Stanford knew everything there was to know about the test, one of those increments of knowledge being that it should take at least an hour to finish. While he was only on the 6th question, he we saw Fiddleford, from across the room, stand up to turn in his paper. It had only been twenty minutes! Stanford felt dread tingle its way into his guts. His friend was to fail for sure! He reminded himself that he had to focus on the task at hand, and not become distracted by thinking about the potential loss of his friend. Stanford then attempted to continue his test taking with confidence, sure for his grade to prevail above those who had done a lack of studying.
When Ford saw Fiddleford back at their dorm, he decide to inquire his thoughts about the exams. Seeming a bit dazed and distracted, (dear god was he high again?? He had never pegged himself as one to fall for a drug addict!), Fiddleford took a minute to reply.
“Hmm? The test? oh , ya’ know, it was fine.”
xxx
When time came for them to receive their test scores, Stanford was worried; even though he knew that he had definitely scored well , his score had to be perfect for anyone in the scientific community to take him seriously some day. He was nervous for himself, but he was also nervous for Fiddleford. He would just die if Fiddleford was kicked out because his scores were too low, that and his lack of attendance; it was not looking too good for him. And it would hurt all the more; not only because Fiddleford had become Stanford's “object of admiration,” but also because he was Stanford's friend. ONLY friend to be exact. It didn’t pain Ford that much to think that he only had one friend because that's all he had ever had at a time. He confided in Fiddleford, and when Stanford was really anxiety ridden, Fiddleford would take some of his time and just listen to his grievances, and Ford did the same for him. They truly were a great team and Stanford really couldn't afford to lose him.
All of these thoughts and more were swirling around in his head as the professor passed out the papers which would define how the rest of his week--and maybe even month--would go, depending on if it was a good score or not. Stanford mentally prepared himself as he willed his shaking hands to unfold the document. 88. He got 88%. Stanford’s heart stopped. This wasn’t even and A. He could feel the beginnings of tears start to prick at his eyes. He could not cry in class, he could not cry in class, he could not cry in class, he could not--standing up, a gathering of things, footsteps, and the the shutting of a door. By the time Ford made it out of the classroom, he was full on bawling. He couldn't cry all the way to his dorm, and he wasn’t even thinking straight anyways, so he ran to the nearest bathroom, throwing his stuff onto the counter and locking himself in a stall.
How could this have happened? He thought, staring at the now tear stained paper which he held crumpled in his fists. He had studied basically nonstop. He genuinely wanted to die. How pathetic was he? Just standing in a random bathroom stall crying his eyes out because he failed the one thing he was supposed to be good at. He had nothing else. He didn’t have any second options. He just stood there, depressed, and now staring at the paper, hopelessly. What was he going to do now?
Suddenly, he heard the door open. In his frantic state he hadn't even considered that someone might come in and see his stuff strewn about the bathroom vanity, or hear him pathetically sniffiling in a proverbial corner. He mentally slapped himself and tried to get his shit together. But then he heard his voice, nervous, yet laced with care and good intent.
“Uh, Stanferd? Ya in here? I jus’ uh, I jus’ saw ya come in ‘ere and ya’ looked pretty upset so I wanted tah check on ya,” Stanford waited as he saw the man shuffle outside of the stall that Ford was in. Stanford tried to respond, as well as make it sound as if he hadn't been crying for the past 10 minutes straight.
“Uh, HI FiddleFOrd,” he hated out uneven his voice sounded.
“Uh, hey. Ya wanna come outta there, buddy?”
“N, no,” Stanford said as he closed his eyes in defeat. He then felt the tears coming back, silently streaming down his face as he unlocked the door and practically fell into Fiddleford’s chest, crying.
“There, there. let it all out,” Fiddleford comforted. Stanford continued to cry as his friend engulfed him in a warm hug, contrasting the cool air that he brought with him from outside.
“Now what in th’ world have ya gotten yerself so worked up o’er?” he asked sweetly but with concern. Not breaking away from the hug, Stanford showed him the now ruined paper.
“Oh,” Fiddleford replied, looking over the paper; he really felt for Stanford. No one had worked harder for a top grade than him. Fiddleford’s heart panged with worry for his friends well being.
“Hey, now junebug, ya don’ gotta fret over somthin’ like this! It’s only the first score o’ the term! Ya still got lots o’ time to make up for it!” Stanford had stopped sobbing and now just stood, like a void, holding onto Fiddleford like he was holding on for dear life.
“But- but I worked so hard and--”
“Stanford, I know that you worked so hard and I know that your real disappointed that you didn’t perform as well as ya’ hoped ya’ would but ya don’ have to be so sad! I promise ya tha’ yer gonna do way better on th’ next one an--”
“Bu-but it’s not just that!” Stanford said, pulling out of Fiddleford’s arms quickly, returning back to his native Jersey accent the more upset he became, “Y, your going to get kicked out of college because you didn't study and I just can't lose someone, I, I can’t lose someone again,” and with that he was crying all over again. All of the emotions that he never thought about and had just buried down had finally resurfaced. His unproportionate reaction to getting 88% on his first test was then justified. It wasn't just about the score; it was what it represented; if he got a bad score, then what was he worth? If he got a bad score, him going to college, and him not standing up for Stanley, it all would have been for nothing. He would have lost Stanley for nothing but his own selfishness and his inflated idea of his own intelligence. If he got a bad score with all of the studying he did, then what score would Fiddleford get with him not studying at all, or minimal studying at that? Fiddleford was going to flunk out. And all of the time Stanford spent fruitlessly studying could have been spent with him getting to know the man better, if Ford was just going to get a bad score anyways. He realized that he wasn't just crying because he got an 88% score on his first test of the term; he was crying because of loss. He had lost so much the first time, losing Stanley, and now he was going to lose Fiddleford too, the only other person in this world who he actually cared about.
Through his tears, Ford saw Fiddleford hug him again, this time tighter and with more feeling.
“Ford, I’m not flunkin’ out of this school, an’ yer not loosin’ me anytime soon, okay?”
“O, okay,” Stanford’s breath was shaky and his words were muffled and he didn’t even entirely believe what he had just said, but Fidds heard him say it.
“Okay then,” Fiddleford said, pulling away from their hug, “How’s about we go get some coffee and then go back to the dorm and jus help ya calm down som’ more? Maybe we can even play a round or two of D, D, and more D if yer up for it?” Ford laughed slightly at that, wiping some of his tears away with his sleeve.
“Yeah, that, that sounds nice.”
It had started heavily raining in the afternoon, when Ford and Fiddleford finally left from the bathroom. Ford could only imagine the sight he made for; eyes red and puffy from crying, salt tracks of dried tears on his face, school supplies thrown haphazardly into his bag, and looking pretty roughed up in general. Glad that he was only scheduled for one class that day, Ford and Fidds walked to a small coffee vendor before returning to their dorm, becoming thoroughly drenched by the time they made it back. Though in contrast to their dampened appearances and the bite of the cool air, their bright smiles kept them warm and their spirits high as they ran through thick sheets of rain to reach their destination, laughing as they went. Stanford was still more than disappointed about his performance on his test, and it was a grievance that was soon to be revisited but, at least for now, Stanford decided to spend some time with Fiddleford, losing himself in the fantasy-roleplaying game as he smiled and laughed with his best friend.
xxx