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Given that he exhaustively researched, quantified, and tabulated (and published, in the semi-reputable college newspaper) The Variety Of Ill-Advised Things That College Boys Get Up To While Drunk a few months back, Stanford is highly aware that allowing your roommate to fondle your abnormal hands (very intimately, and was Fiddleford always this warm?) does not make the list. It is, in fact, so far off the list (though the closely related item of ‘holding ordinary hands, normally’ occupies a low but still statistically significant position) that it can be considered unique, for all intents and purposes.
But, well. Anomalies, and all that. Something about them has always magnetised him, kept him in a shallow orbit.
So here they are: he and Fiddleford are sitting in their tiny dorm drinking cheap beer that his father wouldn’t even look twice at. But more important than the liquor involved is the fact that it’s college, and it’s Backupsmore at that, so it feels like coming home to a warm hearth when he says “well, you know, it’s tradition” and decides to get properly boozed up for the first time with terrible, cheap alcohol and talk about quantum physics and the theory of the honors engineering course and the trouble with trusting family until the sun shouts its way into morning again.
Alcohol had been a fringe awareness for most of his teens: growing up with Stanley as a brother meant that he’s choked down vodka (straight, the first time, and then with lemonade after that) a few sparse times, and growing up with Filbrick as a father meant that he’s had that coming-of-age ghastly sip of whiskey when he graduated high school that burned in his throat and in his eyes when he thought about how Stanley should have been coughing next to him.
He never drank for enjoyment, really, even when they did it together; it was more of a thing to do for the sake of having Stanley laughing too loud next to him, and because if he wasn’t with him, then, well, who knows what could happen? He’d lost track of how many times he pulled Stanley to the car by his wrist, citing the time (it’s past midnight, at least) and their parents (Dad would kill us, you know, and the shock of that would kill Ma, so it’d just be him left as a sour brick wall without her to smooth him down, and I don’t think the world needs or deserves that) and his disgraceful state (really, Stanley, how many have you had? You can’t be that far gone with the, what— four beers I saw you chug?) as reasons for his false-stern face and voice as he pushed a sweaty, inebriated sibling into the passenger seat. It’s the responsibility of the older brother, he’d say, just to see the rebellious curl of Stanley’s lip as he replied curtly (surprisingly so, given the glassy-eyed look of him) with by fifteen goddamn minutes, Sixer, trying to hide the smile and the frown at the same time.
It was one of those things that felt funnier at the time, Stanford reflects, like a joke that takes its humour from the unreality in the air, rather than the content of what’s being said, or anything measurable like that. When he says it to himself now, privately, it just feels like a reminder of fifteen extra minutes he’s been without a brother, and months and years growing on that, like they’ll never be able to catch up to each other and fall into step again. (It’s the responsibility of the older brother, he thinks, bitterly, to never look back, and to tell himself that a maybe-betrayal is equal to outright abandonment.)
Stanford shakes his head and brings himself back to the present, away from the hollow feeling he gets when he thinks about what was.
In a space between breaths and fingers, he reflects on how exactly he ended up here, with the blood burning in his veins (aided by the alcohol swirling through, he thinks, and it’s a testament to how far past buzzed he is that he can’t concentrate long enough to calculate his blood alcohol content). There was definitely a moment earlier in the evening where the moon had glowed silky in the window like a sign, like the beginning of the witching hour for impulsive decisions, where they’d let down their collective guard and decided to just let things happen as they happen. Interesting that the natural course of things turned out to be them sitting on the bed next to each other with their legs crossed messily and Fiddleford, half-shy and half-humming with liquid confidence, saying:
“I know you must get it a lot, but your hands are right interesting. The first time we shook hands, since we’d just met and all, I thought it’d be rude, but. Would you mind,” lovely round words softened by the beer and the moonlight, Stanford thinks, “if I asked to have a— a closer look?” And Fiddleford looks at him (a bit dead-eyed, and maybe more at a point over his left shoulder than at Stanford himself, but these things can be ignored in favour of atmosphere), and Stanford doesn’t even feel a twist of alienation in his gut when he holds out his left hand between them, palm facing the ceiling.
Fiddleford takes it gently, reverently, ghosting his fingers over the surface, and then growing bolder and actually holding it, and Stanford has to grip the edge of the mattress with his other hand to avoid passing out. “Fascinating,” Fiddleford sighs, “simply fascinating.” There’s something unspoken behind his teeth as well, that could have been just as fascinating as the man they’re attached to, but neither of them say it. The narrow dorm is very, very quiet. And—
A single dangerous moment is where things start to tip. He can feel a capitalised Something in the slow slide of Fiddleford’s fingers across his wide palm, tracing the tendons, feeling the tautness there; around each individual knuckle and his heart falls over itself in its attempt to keep pace with the pulsing air; Fiddleford pushes just so against the creased skin of his joints, extending his index finger and then bending it, like mechanics, like phases of the moon. The blur of everything— it makes the room so bright and important, right here, and it’s so much that he’s overwhelmed with it. Swallowing the memory of this (a hazy midnight with their hands twisted together, and it all glows like it’s meant to) and storing it forever in his sternum is suddenly his dire, awful purpose. At some level he knows that the lethargic tilt of the earth and the way the outline of everything is tinged with soft indigo, the colour of a smile in the dark, in his alcohol-edged mind is temporary— he won’t remember it come morning, but the shape of the memory in his eyes is so much more precious for the futility of it.
So maybe that’s why Stanford takes a breath like he won’t see oxygen for the longest time, and decides to talk about his brother. (A terrible decision, but not so much that it feels like he’s peaking early. There’s time left to make his real Bad Decision of the night, the one that legitimises getting drunk and might give him a data point for his graphs and whatnot.)
He starts with the outline: Ma, the pathological liar who honestly tried to see the good in everyone; his hard-faced and heavy-handed father who lied worse than Ma, and who squeezed every penny out of his customers and family like he was dying; and, inevitably, like re-entering the atmosphere and burning up, Stanley. (Shermy isn’t important this time; maybe, to someone else, he would be the central character. But this time it’s about the two Stans, the binary system, the two-person fall from grace or a cliff.) Sketching their childhood is so easy and so hard he almost cries; it’s so simple to settle back into the rhythm of Stan-ley-Stan-ford and talk about the beach, their future, the world they were (never) going to sail together; it’s so painful to feel everything over again, all of the joy and hope and stinging betrayal laid bare.
Once he starts, it’s like—
It’s like—
It’s like bleeding out poison that’s been curling in his veins for eighteen months and four days, like burning old photos and the images staying stark behind his eyelids, like electricity keeping his heart beating.
The sentences are messy, dizzied by drink and emotion. He sees them in vignettes, surrounded by warm darkness, words spiking into his mind:
“I, he. He was always going to be fine, that’s what Ma told me, because he has personality,” underscored by a vague wave of the hand not ensconced in Fiddleford’s, “and that’s the currency of the real world, you know? That’s what she... what she’d always say to me, before I came here. She still talks to him. She gave him my number, and, do you think it’s evil of me to want him to call j— just so I can hang up on him, and take away all of his hopes and dreams for once?”
The clock ticks so, so loudly on the washed-out wallpaper.
“I miss him, I think, because sometimes I still wait for him to finish my sentences, even though he’d never say the right words. He’d say… sandwiches, instead, probably, or something like, like— crude and sexual, just to see the look on my face. He… I remember how his face looked when he’d said something and he was waiting for me to reply, or laugh or agree or argue, so maybe. Does that mean he’s always just been fucking riding on me? Dragging… dragging me down, because he must have known that he wasn’t going anywhere. So he tried to make sure I couldn’t go anywhere either.”
He can’t see the moon or the stars from where he’s sitting, and he fancies they’re crowded at his shoulders, drinking in his words as devoted as Fiddleford is (his palms are still warm and moving across Stanford’s, awfully, scarily).
“I have to— have to believe that. I have to or it means that he’s hurt and suffering and cold, and, and, he’s probably got no decent shoes, and it means I’m a coward for not wanting to find him— God, Ma would know where he is, wouldn’t she? She— she—”
Even if the world came falling down around him, Stanford isn’t at all sure that he’d notice at this point.
“She always said that I was special, but I think. I think we both knew she was lying, for all of our sakes. Pretend that having six fingers makes me special, like she pretended that dad wasn’t a nightmare, like we all pretended that Stanley would be fine in the real world, or how I pretended that it was suffocating—”
And he keeps talking, letting the whispers pile up around him, even after Fiddleford has slumped against the wall with his glasses askew; saying it out loud, even without someone listening, feels like opening a wound and healing it all at once. It hurts, and he keeps talking.
Until it finally, achingly, abruptly stops hurting. He shuts his mouth mid-sentence in surprise.
At the same time, he realises four things. First: Fiddleford will have a sore back in the morning if he stays propped against the wall like that. Second: Stanford’s hand is still curled between both of Fiddleford’s, and he can still feel the memories of sensations across his skin, and he briefly considers waking up his friend so they can continue. Third: Ma would know where Stanley is, and she’d be all too willing to reunite them across all the cities and states between. Fourth: he actually really needs to use the bathroom. (Granted, that last one’s not as selfless or sentimental as the other three, but important all the same.)
There’s a precise art to making decisions, Stanford thinks, as he gently extricates his hand and uses it to rearrange Fiddleford so he’s lying properly on the bed, and then covers him with the thin cotton sheet. It’s actually Stanford’s bed, but a lack of motivation to carry a tall, gangly man across a room scattered with obstacles combines with genuine concern for his friend’s comfort, and he smiles lopsidedly as he stands up. The smile, however, lasts about half a second before he remembers the vital fourth point on his list of realisations, and quickly slips away to attend to it.
The bathroom is even more cramped than the rest of the dorm, though it does let him look at himself in the mirror and give himself a silent pep talk, complete with face-splashing. It doesn’t make him feel any more sober, but going through the motions helps resolve his terrible, awful, probably genuinely Bad Decision into something solid. He stares at his blurry reflection a moment longer, then decisively staggers in the direction of the phone.
He dials the number for home, sloppily, breathing heavy into the mouthpiece as the harsh dial tone makes his head spin. For a moment, he hopes that nobody answers, so he can back out before he starts to taste regret, but then—
“Pines Psychic Readings, 99 cents an hour, no refunds on unwanted fortunes, destinies, or other magical hoo-has,” comes his mother’s voice crackling from the phone, and he remembers the psychic hotline that is still somehow running, despite the legal claims and paperwork he sat witness to as they burned in the fireplace. It’s all the same, though, because isn’t this just pleading for someone to tell him how his future is meant to go?
“Uh, it— it’s me, Ma. Stanford. Listen, I—”
“Oh god, Stanford, are you okay? Is something wrong? Why are you ringing at this time of night? Don’t you have lectures or something in the morning?” Despite everything, she’s still a mother; he can almost see her clutching the phone to her ear, bending in, nails clicking in maternal readiness.
“I’m fine, Ma, I promise! And, I think tomorrow is a free day? I hope so, because, well, I went and got myself intoxicated,” he says, precisely, “and I got to thinking about, ah. Things, you know?” He hopes his tone is light enough that it doesn’t betray the depth that things encompasses in this case. The room tilts a bit after he says that, and he wraps the cord of the phone around his little finger, absently wondering how tight he’d have to pull before it came off entirely. She doesn’t answer for a few static seconds, and then there’s a sigh from New Jersey into his spinning head.
“It’s about Stanley, isn’t it, honey?” And good god, even when she’s not putting up her psychic façade, the woman has an uncanny sense for the root of a problem.
“...Yeah, it is.” They’re both silent for a long eternity of a moment. “Do you think it’d count as a bad decision— you know, how drunk people do things like get tattoos or buy outrageous things or call people they shouldn't call— would it be one of those if I tried to talk to him?”
“Well… I think it all depends on your reasons for wanting to talk. Do you want to yell at him? Cause believe you me, if that’s the case, you are not getting his number out of me. He’s going through— he’s gone through— enough as it is.” She sounds like she wants to tell him more, but doesn’t elaborate.
“No, I— I don’t know? I won’t yell at him, I just want to… talk, I think,” he says, slurring a bit towards the end. “I haven’t heard his voice in more than a year, I— I never think about it, I never let myself think about it, but I miss him, Ma.” Tears bite at the corners of his eyes. “We’ve never been apart this long, ever, and it hurts.”
(On the other end of the line, Ma Pines might be crying as well, but she’d lie herself into her grave before she’d admit that.)
“He misses you too, Stanford. He… he was angry, for a while, after Filbrick— ah, you know. But he was never angry with you. It was always at himself.” She takes a deep breath, and lets it out past the lump in her throat. “I don’t know what it means that you have to be drunk before you’ll even entertain the idea of talking to him, though.”
And oh, that cuts Stanford deep, because he knows it’s true. Every time he told himself that Stanley had been dragging him down, it was to drown out the more rational voice that said well, maybe you were too focused on getting out of there in the first place, and maybe you were holding him back from his own life at the same time, smart guy.
“...I’m sorry, Ma.”
“Don’t say it to me, honey. You know who really deserves an apology after over a year of radio silence from his brother.” Her tone is firm, but has the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, picking him up and dusting off the reticence and setting him on the right track, dizzy and misguided as he is. She smiles through her New Jersey drawl, and gives him Stanley’s number with so much hope in each digit he can’t speak for a moment. “And if you’re going to actually do it, then do it now, before you sober up. Oh, and stay safe, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
Stanford very nearly says would you let your roommate examine your hands for hours and hours, and lose yourself in the way he looks at them, but shuts his mouth at the last second.
“I will, Ma. But… assume the worst of me, okay? We both know I’m a coward at heart,” he says, and he didn’t inherit his mother’s skills of deception, so it’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. “Love you.”
Ma hangs up with a sad, quiet laugh and a murmur of agreement so small that Stanford can’t tell whether or not it hurt him.
He leans back in the chair and presses his thumbs into his eyes until he sees stars. The number circulates in his head, and he knows he’ll forget it in the morning, and the courage it took to get it as well; Fiddleford snores quietly on the bed where Stanford left him, and he wonders if he’ll forget the profound hand-holding they did, too. (He doesn’t know if he wants to, but there’s not much choice in these things, is there?)
Everything is still, even the pounding in his head, for a moment, and when he blinks it’s like going through a tunnel, or a tear in reality. It feels momentous. Stanford breathes, slowly. Something is about to Happen, he thinks, with a capital and ornamental H.
(In another world, another time around, it Happens like this:
He passes out at the phone, with the number slipping through his fingers and forever in stasis, half-dialed, and the next time he calls home, nobody says Stanley’s name.
But this time is what matters, and this time he won’t need to look to demons for solace, and he won’t be haunted by blue lights and wormholes, and his brother’s shoulder won’t be marked with thirty years of pain and ingratitude. This time the world won’t end in fire and irrationality, and he won’t keep the weight of the world on his back and a child’s in turn, and he won’t hurt the people he loves.
This time, maybe things happen the way they were meant to.)
So this time, it Happens like this:
The phone is still warm from his sweaty palm only a few minutes ago; each number he presses feels like falling in a dream. He holds the handset against his flushed cheek as the dial tone sings either doom or redemption (they sound about the same when you’re sufficiently inebriated, Stanford has discovered). That tunnel-feeling is gone now. In hopes of continuing the metaphor, he fishes for thoughts about freeways and one-way roads, but his erratic logic is interrupted all of a sudden by—
“Hal Forrester, here to bring you the very best in the business! To inquire about purchasing some of my certified and safe products, stay on the line! Please. Please stay on the line. If you’re interested in a refund, hang up the phone and never call here again! And remember: Forrester is a name you can trust.” And it’s the same voice that was the soundtrack to most of his childhood, even with the false name and salesman act pinned over the top, and Stanford almost actually hangs up from the sharp familiarity of it. The script he recites sounds so practiced that he wonders how many times he’s had to do it. How many names he’s had that weren’t Stanley Pines, how many numbers Ma’s kept beside the fridge for eighteen months.
Stanford wonders when, exactly, there became one less Stan Pines in the world, and then hates himself for not knowing.
“Stanley,” is what he says, and then, “Stanley. I— Stanley.”
There’s a silence so loud he wonders whether it drowned out what he said, and whether he should say Stanley again, even though there’s only so many times one can say a name before it starts to hurt.
“...Sixer?” But there is a name that only needs one foray into the world to burn like acid, like sunlight, like love. The salesman act is dropped in favour of a stunned disbelief, undercut by a myriad of emotions even a sober Stanford would have agonised over for hours. (There’s hope, certainly, and fear and anger and pain, but also things that don’t have proper names, and if they do then they’re long lost in the beery fog of the night.) Nobody says anything for ten long seconds. The thought that he should have planned out this conversation crosses Stanford’s mind, but then his mouth takes the wheel and puts any rational reasoning on autopilot for the time being.
“I— yes, it’s me, it’s Stanford.” Good starting point, stick to the facts. No need to mess this up with emotions, now. “I thought it would be a good idea to, um. How— how are you?”
Oh, good one.
A laugh, almost hysterical. “It’s been a year and a half and you lead with a fucking how are you? I— Christ, Sixer, you haven’t changed a bit, have you?” Is it a laugh? Maybe he’s crying. Stanford can’t really tell, especially with the way the darkness seems to be pressing at the edges of his vision and hearing. “If you actually care enough to want the answer to that question, then you’d probably already know that my life is a regular cakewalk. It’s pretty easy to get banned from an entire state,” Stanley says breezily, like none of it matters at all, “did you know that? Do they teach that kind of thing at college, Stanford? Do they teach you about forging IDs and uprooting your entire life and living out of your car for months at a time? Do they teach you to play to your strengths, which happen to be lying and cheating and being a dishonest swindler, just to make enough money to survive?” Stanley’s tone bleeds bitter as he goes on, and Stanford works his mouth uselessly for a few moments. He can’t find anything to say that doesn’t taste empty and false in his throat. “Tell me this, poindexter: how long did Ma have to grind you down before you bothered to call? Lord knows she’s the only one who gives a damn in this family; and don’t just tell me that after eighteen months you suddenly up and changed your mind, because I have seventeen years of experience that tells me you’re a stubborn fucking bastard who wouldn’t just decide one night, oh, I’ve put my brother through about enough pain, so I might as well get him to come crawling back now!”
Okay, Stanley’s definitely crying now. It makes his words clipped and broken, and it seems to be electronically contagious, because all of a sudden Stanford’s crying as well. It takes him by surprise, but from a distance.
“I… I don’t blame you if you hate me, Stanley. I mean— fuck, it took a good number of shitty beers before I even got up the courage to call Ma, and she barely gave me the chewing out I deserve.” Stanford pauses, and takes a deep breath, then swallows back a bit of vomit. “I’ve been… the worst brother in the world, probably. Avoiding having to think about you, out there on your own, and I’m here whining about a vaguely subpar university? It’s— and I promise this isn’t some sort of obligation thing, or me wanting to get my guilt assuaged, it’s me calling you to say something real and genuine for the first time in fucking forever.” His attempt at a Moment is somewhat cheapened by the vomit patiently waiting its turn to be unleashed unto the floor, or the toilet, but he presses on nonetheless. “I… I’m sorry, Stanley. I’m sorry for everything that happened, and for not doing anything when Dad kicked you out, and for being too much of a coward to find you before now, and for probably being too drunk to remember this in the morning.”
Space for a few more deep breaths, and to ward off the nausea for another minute. He hopes the emotion in his voice was appropriate to the situation, and that Stanley hasn’t hung up on him already.
(He should probably hope for the worst, though. What goes around comes around, doesn’t it?)
“I don’t hate you, Stanford. I never did.” That’s all he says at first, for a long, dizzying infinity. Then: “I- haha, okay, okay, I’m trying to take this seriously, I really am!” More ambiguous laughter slash tears. Did Stanford miss out on some all-important lesson on social cues and how to navigate less-than-sober apologies? “But it’s just— you are the only person on the face of the planet who would use the word ‘assuage’ in a drunk phone call, Sixer, and still pronounce it right.” The laughter is pretty clearly laughter now.
Stanford feels something between insulted and bemused. Across the room, Fiddleford lets out a snore and rolls over; it feels like an eerily appropriate reaction to the conversation, and Stanford sends a nod of approval to his slumbering roommate.
“Ha, okay! Okay, I’m done laughing now. That was just— god, you absolute nerd, Sixer, I cannot believe you.” The silence is less oppressive this time, at least. “But— listen, I’m probably making a huge mistake here, but I never hated you. Well, except for that one time when we were seven and you knocked my front tooth out with that model rocket, and for a few seconds when you closed the curtains after Dad kicked me out. I was… I was hurt, mostly. I slept on the beach for a while, and I saw you a few times before you graduated, walking home from school. You never looked at me, and I almost hated you— but it felt pointless, you know? I could either let it fester and build until I was a crotchety old man made out of anger and body pain, or I could try to get on with my life. Or what was left of it. Anyway,” he says, with a sad echo of that earlier laugh, “I ruined my own life, didn’t I? I mean… I’m not the smart twin, I’m not the successful twin, and I destroyed the chances of the only one with any future in our family with my fuckup, as usual. So there’s no point in me hating you if it was my fault, see?”
It hurts, how much he sounds like their father.
“You don’t really believe that, do you? I— Stanley, you’re the strong twin, the brave twin, the twin who’s been able to live on his own for this long, the twin who’s relied on his street smarts to make a living! I’m the twin who was too cowardly to apologise to his brother for letting their father kick him out, the twin who doesn’t even think about the emotional hell you must have gone through— did Dad tell you that? Did he say you’re not successful? Because if you hadn’t noticed, Dad was an asshole, Stanley, and his opinion shouldn’t mean shit.” Stanford’s voice shakes dangerously, in time with the throbbing and swaying of the room around him. He grips the phone like it keeps him breathing.
“...What?”
“Don’t make me repeat that, I don’t think I’m physically capable of it right now. Alcohol really does a number on your cognitive function, you know,” he says, and thinks about vomiting again. He thinks he might need a moment to recover from the intensity of his father-rebuking.
“I… you know that the whole thing with your project— that was an accident, it really was. I’d never deliberately— do that. Sabotage you. I know how much that nerd school meant to you, and I’ve been kicking my own ass ever since for getting in the way of your dream.”
“Um.” For some reason, Stanford believes him completely. The marrow-deep pain doesn’t go away, but it loses most of its edge. Someone is crying again and he thinks it probably doesn’t matter who. “Stanley, I think I’m probably going to pass out soon, based on the way the room keeps tilting, so can I just say—”
“Sixer, I’m sorry too, I—”
“Come to college. Come live with me, in my dorm, and I can get you a real job—”
“I think both of us made some bad decisions, but I—”
Their words tangle around each other and the static of the phone line, and the darkness keeps on encroaching on the borders of Stanford’s vision as he gives directions to the university, and he becomes aware that at some point he’s slid onto the floor, shag carpeting pressing patterns into his kneecaps. He’s almost sobbing into the receiver, now.
“I’m in room 618, just— just, please, let me help you, Stanley, I miss you so much—”
Stanley just heaves a dry laugh, real and scratching and painful, and says, “I’ll see you soon, Sixer.”
And then Stanford methodically places the handset back on the cradle, leans over and throws up into the bin beside him, and falls back onto the floor and lets everything go blessedly, soothingly black.
(If he dreams, then it’s about hands and brothers and cold, cold roads.)
When he wakes up: it hurts. Quite a lot.
Not just the headache (though that’s quickly becoming The Most Painful Thing in his mind, throbbing and making the late morning sunlight brighter than it has any right to be), but more so the fact that he knows two things very certainly and prominently. First: he drank himself to making a frat-boy level Bad Decision last night, and, following close behind, second: he can’t remember what, exactly, he did. The two thoughts weave around each other and through the beat of the headache, making him dizzy and increasingly frustrated, until he finally decides to get it over with and sits up properly.
He brings one hand to his forehead and clenches the other in the carpet fibers beneath him, trying for a solid hold on reality and coming closer to desperately hoping to stay conscious. Passing out on the floor hadn’t been his plan, and, continuing the morning’s trend of discovering painful things, he has that to thank for the cramp in his neck. Fiddleford lets out a quiet snore and a hum from the bed. Stanford thinks resentful thoughts at him for falling asleep first and getting the luxury of a mattress. He blinks behind the hand over his face, until the significant angle of the room resolves itself into a more sensible one. The clock tells him that it’s 11:34. He thinks resentful thoughts at the clock as well, and then at the sun for good measure.
Painkillers, then the aftermath of whatever earth-shattering decision he made last night. He may as well try to keep things in order.
In the course of getting up, he plants his hand firmly into a sticky spot on the carpet, alarmingly close to where his prone body had been. Upon observation and careful reflection, he remembers that, at some point last night, he had vomited— yes, that’s fine, that’s normal after imbibing alcohol— into the bin— the bin made out of wire mesh. The bin that doesn’t have solid walls.
Ah. Disgusting. He carefully files that away, under Messes To Deal With Later, Or Get Fiddleford To Clean Up.
Fiddleford. As if on cue, his roommate makes a noise like a cat stretching, and sits up with far too little apparent pain for someone who passed out from drinking the previous night; something in Stanford’s mind tells him that Fiddleford was part of at least one bad decision, and the inability to remember what they did is at once frustrating and relieving. If they don’t talk about it, it never happened, right?
“Mornin’, Stanford,” comes a Southern-tinged yawn from the bed. “Did you sleep on the floor? I— oh, is this your bed? Gosh, I’m surely sorry, I— I—” Fiddleford stammers and turns beet red, swinging his legs off the mattress and standing up as quickly as his hungover state allows. When he’s properly vertical, he bites his lip and taps his fingers together. “I— look, do you remember what happened last night?” His tone is unreadable, though that may just be Stanford’s brain refusing to work at anything more than the most basic of levels.
Stanford frowns, and then stops frowning because it intensifies his headache to an ungodly degree. “Um. I think I slept on the floor? I mean, I woke up here, so. And, ah, no? I don’t really… I know that we got drunk, clearly, and I think I might have made one of those really bad decisions, but I’m afraid it’s all a bit blurry.” Worry blares in his mind. “Did— was the bad decision to do with you? Did I make an ass of myself, or— or— please tell me that I didn’t ruin our friendship somehow.”
Fiddleford seems to struggle with something for a moment, then that familiar easygoing smile spreads over his face. “Nope! No, we’re fine. Well, you talked about your family a bit, and you seemed pretty, ah, torn up about it all— not that I blame you! It sounded pretty messy from what I remember. But as far as I know, no, you didn’t make an ass of yourself while I was awake.” Well, Stanford knows when someone’s lying, but he also knows when not to press too hard. Besides, he trusts Fiddleford to tell him if something really embarrassing or terrible happened, so—
Wait. “Wait. My family? I— I told you about my family? About…” It’s like he’s on the verge of a memory, about to take a deadly step backwards.
“Stanley, was it? Yeah. The way you told it, you sounded pretty conflicted about him.” Fiddleford leans on the bedpost, expertly avoiding Stanford’s panicked gaze. “Was… was that a bad decision? Telling me? Cause if it was, then I’ll forget I ever heard it. I don’t want you to feel awkward around me or anything, either, and I promise I don’t think any less of you after hearing what you said.”
“I… No, no, it’s fine. Just…” He looks at his hands. “Let me go wash up, and take some painkillers, and then I can think about last night.” Thinking about anything right now just makes his head throb. He lurches upright on unsteady legs, making sure to balance himself only on vomit-free surfaces, and wobbles in the general direction of the bathroom. Since he only hits one shoulder on the doorframe and just barely winds himself by walking into the sink, he classifies it as a success, and gets on with scrubbing his hands and splashing water onto his flushed face.
Something about the action feels familiar, in the very worst way.
He chews his lip to get rid of that uncomfortable feeling and swallows two headache tablets, after briefly considering and then waving aside the concept of a shower. When he finally feels marginally more human, he stumbles (only a little bit, and only because the sun is far too bright and in his eyes) back into the main part of the dorm, to see Fiddleford on his knees in the carpet, dutifully attacking the bile that’s probably soaked all the way through the tacky patterns. Stanford feels an uncommon pang of guilt at that, and is about to drop to the floor to help, when his still-bleary gaze falls on the table he’d been sitting at the previous night. On the chair that’s still kicked out at an angle from where it should be. On the telephone, sitting far too close to the edge of the desk.
Oh. Oh no. The phone. The bad decision. The Bad Decision. (The all-important capitals!) Calling Ma. Calling—
“Stanley. Oh shit, Stanley,” Stanford babbles, caught half-kneeling and with a hand tangled in his hair, as nearly every painful detail of the night before comes rushing and shouting back into his mind. (Only nearly, though, because there’s a distinct lack of hands in the roiling mass of hazy memories, but who can say whether that’s by design or accident?)
Fiddleford looks up from the concoction of vomit and cleaning supplies on the floor. The room smells delightfully of citrus and stomach acid. “Hm? What about him? The offer to forget all that still stands, by the way. I’m sure I could whip up some sort of futuristic mind-wiping device, as long as you give me enough time—”
“I— no! Oh god, oh god, it was— he was the Bad Decision, with capitals and everything, I called him! Shit! Oh god, what do I do? I— I think I told him to come here!” Stanford falls back on his old habit of biting at his cuticles, mouth alternately full of words and fingers. “Why the fuck did I think that was a good idea? God, I don’t even remember what I said, what if he hates me, what if—”
Quietly, Fiddleford rises and takes hold of Stanford’s wrists, pulling wolfbitten digits away from his teeth. “Hey now. It’ll be fine, Stanford. Now, I wasn’t privy to the conversation you were having over there last night, seeing as how I was out cold,” he smiles, “but here’s the way I see it: you ain’t a bad guy, and I don’t think this Stanley of yours is, either. I reckon you both made some bad decisions when you were younger, and you’re looking to right some wrongs. Right?” He waits for a wide eyed nod from Stanford before continuing with that same calming tone. “So if you told him to come here, and he agreed, then you must have been on good terms when the call ended. I mean, I don’t think he’d drop everything and drive who knows how far to have a fistfight with his estranged brother, do you?” Fiddleford really is alarmingly close to him, now. “But!” He raises a finger in mock warning. “If he comes knocking on that door this morning, and you open it and he swings a left hook at you, then I’ll be here with a crowbar to even things out.”
Stanford laughs at that, and shakily lets his hands— still with Fiddleford’s slim fingers cinched around his wrists— fall to his sides. “I… yeah. Yes. That’s… that’s true. I don’t remember much of last night, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t blow up at me,” he says, letting out a stuttering sigh. “Sorry for freaking out on you.” He looks past Fiddleford’s fond face, to the dark spot on the floor. “And for throwing up last night. Did you know that a mesh bin is really bad at containing liquids?”
Fiddleford lets go of his hands (Stanford decides not to ruminate on the jolt he feels when their skin loses contact) to cover his mouth in a laugh; he turns away and crouches again to pick up the cleaning supplies deftly. “It don’t bother me none. I like cleaning; helps clear my head, y’know? And besides, you were in a bit of a state, and it’s my room as well.”
“But it’s my stomach acid, Fidds.” The sentence sounds so absurd after he says it that he starts laughing, and then Fiddleford is laughing too, and they’re both kneeling on the carpet together laughing at disgusting messes, and then they both hear a knock at the door.
For Stanford, it feels like the world is ending, even as the smile is still etched on his face and the last breath of a chuckle dies in his mouth. It’s the gravity of his decisions finally catching up with him. It’s his hypothesis hanging unproven in the air, waiting for the final result to be dutifully noted down.
(For Fiddleford, it’s more of an interruption to a rare spark of courage, and he thinks that if Stanley hadn’t come into the equation at that very moment, he might have made a Bad Decision, like kissing your roommate when you’re both still dizzy from a hangover. He can’t say whether he feels lucky or not.)
Stanford shoots up rapidly— too rapidly, and ends up propped against the wall, babbling. Again. “Oh god! Oh, fuck, oh, what do I do?” He casts his eyes frantically around the room, searching for something to help— an excuse— an escape route, even. “The window— Fidds! Give me a boost, we can pretend nobody’s home—”
He’s cut off by a frankly startling look from Fiddleford, somewhere between reprimand and amusement. “First of all, this dorm is on the second floor, and I don’t feel like breaking any limbs today. Second, we literally just had this conversation! It’ll be fine, Stanford. If things really go badly then by all means jump out the window, but at least try confronting the situation first!” Somehow his hands find themselves around Stanford’s wrists again, and they both burn subtly red and don’t mention it. “I’ll be right here. I’ll open the door for you if you like, but you have to talk to him, okay?”
Deep breath, in and out. “I… okay. Yeah. Okay. I don’t think I have the dexterity to work a doorknob yet,” says Stanford with a crooked, shy smile. The knock sounds again, louder than before. Fiddleford rests a placating hand on his roommate’s shoulder as he edges around a stack of precariously balanced books and reaches the door. Stanford pales visibly, but he doesn’t make any movement toward the window, at least.
“I’m gonna open the door now, alright? Don’t go defenestrating yourself, Stanford,” smiles Fiddleford, but the warning has a genuine edge to it. He grips the doorknob firmly. Stanford wants to throw up again.
A gravelly voice finds itself from the other side of the door while it’s being opened. “Sixer, if you gave me the wrong address, I’m gonna— oh.” And there’s Stanley, in the flesh, with the same vulnerable hope on his face that he had on that night eighteen months ago. (There’s also an out-of-place-looking goatee and the hint of a moustache, but facial hair isn’t as important as raw emotion here.) He’s wearing a shabby-looking suit that probably used to be bright red, but is now leaning towards something more elderly-sounding like burgundy, and a threadbare duffel bag is slung over his broad shoulders. An air of false success hangs in the tense line of his jaw and joints.
The silence is painfully, unavoidably awkward. Nobody seems to know quite what to do: Stanford slides very slowly down the wall, fingers twitching and eyes still flicking towards the window a few feet away; Stanley remains stock-still in the doorway, probably tracking mud into the carpet; Fiddleford stands between them, tapping the stack of books next to him in a rapid pattern. It all feels very anticlimactic. Maybe they missed the proper turnoff to the climax, and they’ve skipped ahead too far, and nobody knows their scripts.
Maybe they’re just all really bad at this prodigal thing.
It’s Fiddleford who breaks the silence at last, with an over-enthusiastic clap of his hands. “Well! We may as well get introductions over with. I’m Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, engineering major, roommate of Stanford Pines, lover of well-cooked pie. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Stanley.” He takes the hand of a speechless Stanley and shakes it politely. “I’ve heard bits and pieces about you, but I’d like to get the proper experience of meeting you, if you don’t mind.”
Stanley gapes for a moment, then blinks. “Uh. Stanley Pines. Nice to meet you too. What… what kinds of ‘bits and pieces’ have you heard? Should I be worried?” His eyes dart around the room, skating over his brother more than once.
“Mm, well, nothing too bad, Stanley. Now, I believe you two have met each other already?” Fiddleford continues with a light tone, attempting a joke. It comes out fairly humourless.
“I. Um, ah.” Eloquent as ever, Stanford thinks to himself as he fumbles for the right words. “Stanley,” is what he ends up falling back on, in some bizarre callback to last night. “Stanley. What kind of a fake name is Hal Forrester, Stanley? Why do you even have a fake name?”
Stanley laughs, clearly, but nervously. “Nice greeting, Sixer. But, ah, let’s not talk about that here, hey?” He glances to the side with a practiced fear. “Never know who could be listening, especially in a government building.” And after four awkward-sodden minutes of standing in the doorway, he finally moves into the dorm proper; Fiddleford has to sidle away to allow him room, and the movement brings him to Stanford’s side. Instinctively, Stanford grabs at the taller man’s arm, and frowns slightly at his brother’s quirked eyebrow when he says, “Roommates, huh? Is that—”
“Don’t, Stanley. Not now.” Stanford lets go of Fiddleford’s arm and steps forward. (Maybe thinking about how Fiddleford held his wrists earlier got him to thinking about hands and holding and all that, and what it might have meant, but he isn’t ready to process that. Not yet.) “Listen. I... last night is a bit of a blur, to be honest, and I can’t remember exactly what I said, or what you said, but I probably meant it. Alcohol… inhibitions, and whatever.” He bites his lip and makes eye contact with the poster of Carl Sagan on the wall, hoping to bolster his confidence through dreamy scientists. “So… if I apologised, then it’s still valid, and if I didn’t, then I should probably apologise anyway.”
Stanley tilts his head and smiles. “Well, do you remember leading with how are you, and then using the word assuaged when you were off-your-face drunk? Because those were probably the highlights for me.” There’s a flicker of sincerity and vulnerability in his eyes, then, and he continues. “Well. Aside from when you shut down everything Dad ever said about me, and you said you were sorry, and that you missed me.” Oh, he’s doing the crying-laughing thing again, thinks Stanford, this is terrible. This just goes to show I can’t even figure out social conventions when I’m sober. “I… I drove for nine hours to get here, you know, don’t I get a proper hello? A…” he trails off, uncertain. Hopeful.
Fiddleford looks between them rapidly. Stanford notices that the air is getting thicker with atmosphere, though that might just be the cleaning products still sitting on the floor.
“A what, Stanley? A kiss on the cheek?” he says, anxiously. Everything he’s done this morning has felt tinged with anxiety to some degree or another, though.
There’s silence for another few moments. Stanley smiles like he’s about to fall off a building. “A… high six?” And then it all breaks perfectly and the awkwardness is gone, and they’re kids again, fitting beside each other perfectly, and they're embracing (and maybe crying a bit, but that’s beside the point) and laughing and together, and—
And in that moment, with Stanley in his arms and Fiddleford smiling fondly (tearily, maybe, or woozily from the fumes) at them from the corner of his vision, Stanford feels like things might just be okay.
One of the perks of being a university’s star student (their best student, though he’s not conceited enough to say it out loud), Stanford has found, is that professors and staff will fall over themselves to keep him studying there. (One lecturer actually pulled him aside after a lesson and said, in a low voice, that he knew people who could get rid of any problems for him, you know what I mean, eh eh? It was alarming, and Stanford kept catching tiny nods from shady characters in alleyways for weeks afterwards.)
After his first semester, it became clear to everyone involved that Stanford Pines was incredibly overqualified for Backupsmore. His marks from the very first day were exemplary, his professional manner impeccable (though his personal hygiene and mastery of casual social interaction less so), and his overall worth as a student could be calculated to be more than the university building itself. Of course, as a model student, he’s always been well aware that opportunities exist to be used, and so he does; for once, though, he’s using what’s afforded to him for someone else’s advantage. Generosity like this feels foreign, but he wants— he needs— to know it better.
When he notifies the school that, oh, by the way, a close relative is going to be living in the dorm as well, and he’d absolutely love a job around the university, and you don’t mind, do you, because if you do I’m sure that one of the other prospective universities would find appropriate accommodations for us both, hmm, they have a choice between allowing a non-student to live and work on campus (not regulation, but then again, it is Backupsmore) or losing their brightest student in twenty years— and, well, the decision is unanimous. Stanley gets an unused bed from one of the vacant dorms and a decent pay for manual labour around the college; the fact that it’s so far below standard works in his favour, since every building and facility in need of repairs means a little extra profit in his pocket each month. He has an honest job for the first time in his life, even if it does involve exterminating roaches in the older buildings.
Admittedly, the dorm was never meant to house more than two people, but Stanley and Stanford are used to living together, and Fiddleford adapts and bends easily, and it only ruffles a few feathers when they trip over each other, or knock heads in the doorway once or twice. It’s a special kind of rhythm that they find, brother-brother-friend, and it’s comfortable. It feels like home, Stanford thinks, and Stanley thinks the same, and so does Fiddleford, quietly and at night.
And when they fall back into step beside each other, Stanley starts to notice things.
He’s more perceptive than people might expect: as a conman he honed his already admirable people-reading skills, and when living in close proximity to people, especially when one of those people is your twin brother and the other is a naive open-faced burst of sunshine, it’s inevitable that he sees certain things, and knows what they mean.
Like the way Stanford’s hand might linger in contact with some part of Fiddleford’s body or clothing, tethering him to the earth; or how Fiddleford is able to bring Stanford down from the precipice of a breakdown by holding his wrists and talking calmly into his frantic face; or how the casual usage of that fond nickname Fidds (that’s really just a butchered attempt at distancing their names, since Stanford goes by Ford just as easily) makes Fiddleford bloom red like poppies. He observes from across rooms and hallways and courtyards, and lets his mouth curl up in a smile.
His brother may be insufferably smart, but he’s also the most oblivious person Stanley’s ever known. Trust Stanford not to notice something like his roommate being in love with him. Or, for that matter, the feelings being requited.
Well, Stanley thinks, standing in the student cafe, cracking his knuckles and watching his brother and his friend chatter away over overpriced coffee as they no doubt use five-syllable words and talk about science. Absolutely disgusting. I guess it’s up to me to bring some romance into their sad, nerdy lives, before they catch on fire from all the red cheeks. He takes a moment to thank the stars that he’s never had any serious entanglements with romance (a messy affair, in his personal opinion, but he can recognise it for something good in others) and then sets to making a plan. A devious, conniving plan. A Plan, with a capital, because important things should have capitals.
(Stanley follows this train of thought for half an hour while he walks back to the dorm, writes ‘The Plan’ in thick marker on a piece of scrap paper, and then forgets to actually write anything of the Plan itself. He still makes sure to enunciate the capital P in his thoughts, though.)
He’s still sitting on the floor an hour later when Stanford and Fiddleford return from the lecture they had together. His face is screwed up in concentration, and he barely looks up at the sounds of the door opening and a friendly argument.
“...No, no, I’m just saying, Fidds, that Carl Sagan is objectively more attractive than your engineering TA,” Stanford is saying, with a light blush colouring his cheeks. “His nose is too small, it’s terrible, and he gets that condescending look on his face whenever someone asks a question— give me big noses and humility any day.”
And Stanley does look up at that, because maybe Stanford is the devious one here. Is he just playing the long game? Surely he can’t be that oblivious to what’s in front of him, right? But no, Stanford’s face is clear (if slightly pink) and the only one reacting properly to what he said is Fiddleford, who’s turning an unattractive shade of puce while probably replaying those words inside his head over and over. Stanley contemplates following suit, in terms of going unattractive colours.
“I— gee, but Dylan has that whole strong jaw thing going on, you know?” Fiddleford manages to choke out, after a few seconds of incredulous blinking. “Though I will admit Carl Sagan has more aptitude in the fashion department,” he says, looking like he’s baring his soul, and maybe he is, “because I always have been a bit weak for turtlenecks.”
Stanley can’t have taken all of the perceptive genes, can he? Isn’t there a limit on how unobservant an aspiring scientist is allowed to be?
Stanford smiles as he sets down his impossible stack of books. “Oh, yes! I like to think my own wardrobe is inspired by his, in fact.” He crosses the room, stepping over Stanley, to tenderly stroke the poster that benevolently watches over them all. “Hello, by the way, Stanley. You might want to check that Fidds got all of the vomit out of the carpet, because you’re sitting right where I threw up, and it might still be crusted in a bit.” His Sagan-fondling lasts a blessedly short ten seconds, and then he leans down to see what Stanley’s actually doing on the floor. “What’s this plan of yours?”
Even though there’s nothing written on the paper aside from the bold title, Stanley still scrambles to cover it up. “First of all, privacy, Sixer! And second, I’ll thank you to say it right. It’s The Plan. You have to say the capitals properly.” Fiddleford still seems to be stuck in the doorway, mouthing turtlenecks to himself in disbelief.
Stanford blinks. “Uh. Okay. What’s The Plan, then?” This time he places careful stress on the capitals, and Stanley nods approvingly. “Please don’t tell me you’re pulling a con, Stanley,” he says, half-disappointed and half-joking. “Because as much as I love you, I’m not being an accomplice again. Not after what happened with those puppies in tenth grade.” He shudders. Their father had been furious, and it was Stanley’s fault they’d been caught, anyway— when smuggling something, it’s generally accepted that you shouldn’t stop to play fetch with your illegal goods.
“Hey! That would have worked, if you hadn’t got cold feet at the last second! My contact was right there, but you had to stand around looking all nervous and suspicious, so— whatever. No, I’m not pulling a con, because I am a changed man,” he announces, puffing out his chest. The atmosphere of the room is decidedly unamused. He deflates slightly. “Well, I don’t do big jobs anymore. Pickpocketing doesn’t count as long as it’s a jerk you’re stealing from, right? See, Robin Hood is my role model. He is way more attractive than Carl Sagan or this weedy Dylan guy, I think.”
All three of them contemplate the situation for a moment; Stanford crouched over his brother, chewing on the inside of his cheek and wondering what representation of Robin Hood Stanley is judging by; Stanley hunched on the floor and seriously considering eating the evidence of his plotting to get Stanford off his back; Fiddleford still replaying Stanford’s transparent words in his mind and absently tapping out a rhythm on the wall. They’re discussing attractive men and talking about Plans in a two-person dorm, and—
It all feels horribly domestic, they all realise separately.
Stanford pulls away and turns to sorting out his textbooks, to give his hands something to do. “Anyway, you never answered my question, Stanley. Should I be concerned about The Plan and its capitals? I mostly want to know whether to expect police at my door, so you don’t need to give me any details if you don’t want to.” He also wants to ask which interpretation of Robin Hood exactly is supposed to be better-looking than Carl Sagan, but he recognises a nonsensical thread of conversation when he sees one.
Stanley hems and haws for a moment, and then says, “Well, it’s not illegal, but I can’t divulge anything further. Trade secrets, sensitive information, all that.” He taps the side of his nose, and then his head as well, in emphasis. “Plus, you’d probably get mad at me.” With that, he heaves himself to his feet and, after sending a very deliberate wink at Fiddleford and giving a well-placed nudge to Stanford’s stack of books, dodges deftly around them both and through the door. If Stanford hadn’t known better, he could have sworn that his brother was heading in the direction of the library.
He looks at Fiddleford, finally, scarlet in the doorway and still mumbling something, and then at his toppled books, and then again at the retreating figure of his brother.
“I don’t like this,” he says. “Stanley and capital P Plans shouldn’t be in the same room.”
Fiddleford collects himself enough to reach his bed, where he collapses with a sigh of turtlenecks. “I agree,” he says, at length. “Do you think something’s going to explode?”
The Plan:
LOCK EM IN A ROOM!!!!!!
“Have I lost my touch?” Stanley asks himself, feeling very foreign as he sits at a table in the library. All of the students around him are reading, or studying, or otherwise being productive members of society, and it makes him feel a bit dizzy. The librarian shoots him a distrustful glare and continues to hover nearby.
The Plan, as it turns out, has progressed no further than one heavily punctuated sentence; Stanley has been thinking for hours, but every convoluted scheme he comes up with is quickly shot down, either by its dubious legality or the inevitable roadblock of his brother’s monumental uselessness. He rubs at his temples. Maybe the shortest route is his best bet. It’s the simplest, definitely, and has the least scope for ruination by Stanford’s obliviousness. The main problem is that it’s just as likely to end up with Stanley murdered by a rampaging and embarrassed twin brother, but, well, love will have its sacrifices.
“Hmm,” he murmurs, “yes, okay, that’ll have to do,” and, taking one last look at the clock— 7pm! He’s never been around books this long, they’re clearly rotting his brain— gives it up as a lost cause. He walks out of the library with The Plan clutched in one hand, the other raised in a lazy farewell to the thin-lipped librarian. (She visibly relaxes when he finally leaves, and collapses into her chair, and wonders whether it’s possible or ethical to preemptively ban someone from the library based on a feeling you get when they walk in the door.)
It’s a short walk back to the dorm, and he ruminates as he goes. The dorm itself probably won’t work, and neither of them have evening lectures that would take them past convenient hallway closets— no, it’ll probably have to be the bathroom. Stanley taps his chin thoughtfully, then looks at the paper again for guidance. Simple enough: shove them in, shut the door (he could probably drag the desk in front of it too, for additional reinforcement), shout a conversation-starter— something like ‘sort out your feelings, nerds’ or ‘please do the world a favour and don’t come out until you’ve come out, eh eh, geddit’ will do nicely— and then retreat to a safe distance where he won’t suffer the adverse effects of being exposed to smart-person romance. Or romance in general, really; another day, he’ll have to sit down and think on his personal feelings towards the matter, but today is not that day. Today is the day— he looks around and adopts a heroic stance in the empty corridor, all the better to proclaim his intentions with— today is the day he throws his brother into the deep end of love, and teaches him to swim. Or maybe in this metaphor it’s Fiddleford teaching him? Or something about instinctual knowledge.
He’s not very good at metaphors, really.
Luckily, when he bursts back into their room, Stanford is already in the bathroom; Stanley can hear the sound of the shower spray and his brother’s awful singing— and is that really Disco Girl he’s belting? Awful. He briefly reconsiders the disservice he’ll be doing Fiddleford by setting them up together, and then he remembers that the other man yodels in the shower, and comes to the conclusion that they probably deserve each other. Well, he thinks, at least I only have to manhandle one nerd today. Fiddleford looks up from a book with far too many colons and commas in its title and gives him a slightly worried smile.
“Hey, Stanley. Ah… what’s got you all worked up?” He sounds vaguely panicked. “You look like you’re about to pounce on something. There’s…” The sentence trails off into a bitten lip. “Look, I don’t expect you to tell me what this whole Plan is,” he says, heavily emphasising the capital, “but can I just ask if there’s explosives involved? Or anything that could cause bodily harm?” He wrings his hands while he talks and taps out a pattern on his palms. The shower goes quiet, but Stanford’s singing continues.
“Psh, do you really think I’d do something as ridiculous as get my hands on explosives?” Stanley says, waving a hand dismissively, and then his face goes carefully sober. “I mean. Hypothetically, I do know a guy, but I promise nothing’s going to explode this time. And the only one at risk of grievous injury is me.” His eyes light up with mischievous glee. It looks dangerous. Fiddleford thinks back to when Stanford wanted to jump out of the window to avoid his brother, and finds himself sympathising. “But,” Stanley adds, with a smile. “There will— hopefully, if everything goes according to Plan— be fireworks.”
That sounds dangerous, and Fiddleford is suddenly terrified of all fireworks, figurative or otherwise.
“Um. Okay. Well.” Fiddleford closes the book with a snap and pushes out from the desk nervously. “I… all the same, I think I might vacate the premises. Just in case.”
Stanley’s hand is on his narrow shoulder before he can blink. “Hold on just a moment,” he says, steadily, but with a grin. “Oh, Stanford!” he calls, cupping his free hand around his mouth with a flourish (which is entirely superfluous, as the bathroom is only a few steps away, and Stanford can hear him perfectly well). “Are you decent?”
“Uh, yes? I’ll be out in a moment, what do you need?” Stanford’s voice is suspicious. Stanley feels momentarily hurt that both of his roommates could think so little of him, and then remembers that (this time, at least) it’s deserved, and feels proud of himself instead.
He steps forward, pulling Fiddleford— who seems to be frozen in apprehension, and, judging by the redness of his face, dawning realisation— to his feet and dragging him to the bathroom door. “Oh, no, nothing. Don’t rush yourself in there, I have a feeling you might be a bit— held up!” And on the last two words he wrenches the door open, shoves a stricken Fiddleford into the tiled room, and slams the door shut; he holds it with his body weight before either of them can react, and immediately pulls the heavy oak desk across to block the opening.
Part one of The Plan— achieved. (Really, there is only one part, but that’s beside the point.)
There’s a moment of stunned silence. He can hear a rattling as one of them tries fruitlessly to open the door, and then Stanford starts hammering on it. “Stanley! What are you doing? Why did you barricade us in here?”
“Shout all you like, Sixer, I’m not letting you out until you— shit, I had a really good line before.” He curses under his breath and clicks his fingers, trying to remember his earlier stunning wit. “Uh, something about getting out— no, coming out— Oh! You can come out of there when you’re ready to come out,” he says, thickly accentuating the entendre, “or, if you’re too smart to get what I mean, just ask Fiddlenerd. I’m pretty sure he knows what The Plan is by now.” Stanley smiles, even though the target of said smile is behind a door and a desk. “Don’t you, Fidds?”
God, he is an absolute genius. Maybe college is worth a try, after all.
On the other side of the door, feeling like he’s stepped into a parallel universe where Stanley has Plans that involve locking people in bathrooms, Stanford fumes. He’s bright red, but only because he’s angry. And because the bathroom is still steamy from the shower, yes. (Not because he caught Fiddleford when he was unceremoniously thrown inside, or because they’d lingered for a moment like that, or because he thinks he knows what Stanley meant when he— no, no, he can’t. For one, Stanley’s not that smart, and for another, Stanford is smarter. He’d have noticed things. He would have, he tells himself, surely he would have.) Still red, he turns to Fiddleford, saying, “I am so sorry about this, he usually doesn’t— um. Are you okay?” The apology trails off, however, because Fiddleford is even redder than he is, and shaking.
“I— oh god, he knows? He knows! He— he— Stanley Pines, you absolute bastard!” he shouts, futilely covering his face with trembling hands. “This is The Plan? What in hell possessed you to think this was a good idea?” He slides down the condensation on the wall, leaving a trail. Stanford hopes that he isn’t about to cry or laugh, or both, because he’s positive by now that he is not equipped to deal with tearful laughter. The only window in the bathroom is small and flat, and he’s not positive he’d fit through it.
Stanley laughs in response, the sound barely muffled by the door. “I know it’s a good idea, okay? Trust me for once. Cons and fake IDs aside, when have I ever led you astray?” There’s a short silence. “I’m winking, by the way. You can’t tell, but I am.”
“I… Fidds, what is he talking about? This is the— sorry, The Plan?” Stanford asks, gently. He reaches for Fiddleford’s wrists without thinking, and jumps back at the startled movement it elicits. “What does he know?”
Fiddleford looks at him, pale blue eyes in a sea of flushed red, with the air of someone staring death in the face. Then he looks at him, again, but differently— deeper, or more meaningfully, and Stanford steps closer. Stanley’s gone very deliberately quiet.
“He… oh my God, do I have to say it out loud, Stanley?” Fiddleford quails at the door.
“Yes! Listen to me, okay, I know what I’m doing here!” Stanley calls back, impatiently. “If you don’t say it, then I will, and I think you’re probably better with words than I am, so make a decision!”
The two in the bathroom, too-white tiles hemming them in, lock eyes again. The space feels ever smaller. They’re standing very near to each other; Stanford’s hand found a slender wrist at some point and slipped around it comfortably, familiar and warm; if either of them moved forward, their knees would knock together. Strangely, though, it’s not claustrophobic. It’s— it’s the same feeling Stanford gets when he thinks about summer days and the smell of old books, cliché as it is. He appreciates the moment of silence and drinks it in.
Fiddleford speaks first. “Look, I’m hoping against hope that your brother knows what he’s doing,” he says pointedly at the door, and then looks at Stanford again. “So I’m just going to say it, and then you can decide if you want to— hate me or squeeze out the window or punch Stanley, whatever. But, um, you see,” he fumbles, “I— I— fuck, I really like you, Stanford, and I’ve been pining after you since nearly the day we met.” His eyes dart away. “Pun not intended, by the way.”
Stanford didn’t even register the pun, which ordinarily would have counted as a criminal offence in his mind and would have called for at least ten minutes of sad head-shaking, because his head is still spinning with the way Fiddleford’s voice shook when he said “I really like you.”
I really like you.
I really like you.
Oh. Oh.
“Oh.”
And that’s all he says for a moment, still holding Fiddleford’s wrist in a death grip.
(The little touches, the way they both burned crimson when their gazes met, the times he caught himself looking at Fiddleford in the middle of a laugh, the—
The hand-holding, even. The profound hand-holding.
It all joins like constellations and fingers and heartbeats.)
“Oh,” he says, again.
Fiddleford looks away. “Well, I said it, so my part here is done. Stanley, feel free to let us out anytime—”
“No!” Stanford cuts him off, finally finding a word besides oh. “No, no, I— oh my God, I cannot believe I didn’t see it before— when we were drunk, the night I called Stanley— and even before that, I— you— Stanley, you are a fucking bastard but you’re a perfect bastard and Fiddleford I really like you too and—” he rambles, eyes wide. “I didn’t even realise before now, but it’s true, I know it is, and if it’s perfectly alright I think I’d like to kiss you and then punch my brother.”
(Stanley doesn’t even squawk a protest to that, because he is nearly catatonic with glee on the other side of the door. There’ll be time for other things later— protests, and plenty of teasing, and prodding, and self-assured smiling, but for now he sits on top of the desk and proclaims The Plan a success. Silently.)
Now it’s Fiddleford’s turn to say “Oh.” He opens and closes his mouth soundlessly for a moment, then says, “I, well, yes, please. Only don’t punch Stanley too hard, because despite everything, he did make the kissing part possible, you know.”
Stanford murmurs, “Okay, but only because you asked so nicely,” and then everything goes so, so silent, like the depths of space, and he isn’t even thinking about Carl Sagan’s handsomeness as they spin in zero gravity; time slows in accordance with their orbit and they move closer, barely breathing for fear of breaking the spell, and then, well—
They kiss in space and on top of mountains and in dark forests and with chemicals and equations and metaphors running through their minds; Stanford feverishly attempts to quantify the feelings and sensations but loses track and finds that it’s easier to just fall into it entirely.
Maybe it’s a few seconds—
Maybe it’s until the inevitable heat death of the universe—
But when they finally pull away and their eyes meet, it feels like, finally.
And then Stanley knocks politely on the door, saying, “I really hope you two are finished, because I really need to take a piss and I’d prefer not to do it while my brother and his boyfriend make out in the corner,” and they fall over themselves laughing, and they both glow in the shabby bathroom lighting, and it feels so good and real and right that they kiss again, lightly, and laugh in the space between their mouths.
Stanley wrenches open the bathroom door with a hand over his eyes and a cry of “Please tell me that you are both fully clothed!” Stanford is torn momentarily between the desire to deck his brother in the face and an overwhelming wave of genuine love, and gives in to the softer side at a look from Fiddleford. He laughs, and laces his fingers with Fiddleford’s— his partner, really and truly. After a peek from beneath his hand (and a blessed sigh) Stanley laughs and throws an arm around Stanford’s shoulders. “See, I told you that this was a good Plan! You should trust me more often, Sixer, because without me, you never would have gotten those sweet, saucy nerd kisses.” It’s almost sweet, and then he makes some obscene kissing noises and sticks his tongue in Stanford’s eye.
“Um, ugh, first of all. Please never describe me or Fiddleford as saucy ever again.” Stanford seems a bit queasy at the concept. “And, well, yes. Thank you, Stanley, for seeing what I was, ah,” he says, still quite red, “unable to see, apparently. Though I do have to say that locking people in a bathroom together isn’t terribly romantic.”
“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” retorts Fiddleford, with a shy smile. “Thank you for being a headstrong bull of a man, Stanley, because I sure wasn’t getting anywhere with my approach, and I don’t know if Stanford even knew what he was feeling before now.” Stanford has the grace to smile at that, and tilt his head in to rest it against Fiddleford’s.
“So, Fiddlenerd… was I right? Was there— fireworks?” murmurs Stanley, with a lopsided grin, and Fiddleford and Stanford look at each other, and they hate to be so cliché as that, but—
Well, a cliché isn’t inherently bad writing.
They stand together, sharing space, feeling like a real and whole and natural family with their arms and futures woven comfortably together.
And then Stanley raises an eyebrow and says, “I wasn’t kidding about the piss, by the way,” because he is a terrible, awful, disgusting mood ruiner, and Stanford smiles and shoves at him and says, “I love you, Stanley,” and leaves the bathroom with Fiddleford’s hand still curled in his.
Being domestic isn’t so terrible, Stanford thinks to himself, because domesticity means there’s some sort of family, and he’s almost forgotten how much a family fills your heart with electricity and warmth and life.
Later (much later, after weeks and months of the strange new rhythm-step they’ve found inside themselves), they’re arranged easily in the room— Stanford sitting on the bed, Fiddleford leaning against his knees on the floor, and Stanley across the room, leaning back in the chair— and talking about anomalies , because Stanford is predictable like that.
“Listen, when I finish this PhD, we could really do it, I think!” he’s saying, making emotive gestures with his left hand; the other is resting steadily on Fiddleford’s shoulder, in the way they always seem to be connected. “It’s always been such an interest of mine, for obvious reasons, and I’m sure I could weasel a research grant out of the university— and I’ve made a map! I made a map of the most concentrated areas of weirdness in the States, so we could follow that and find the source, or at least study incidents— and, you know, there’s nobody I’d rather go anomaly hunting with than you two.”
“Ugh! Gross, Sixer. Warn me before you say sappy shit like that, I gotta prepare myself for it,” Stanley smirks, landing firmly with a bang on all four chair legs. “But, you know, same back at you. Seeing as I have the misfortune of calling you two nerds my family, it’s a good thing I can tolerate you.”
“Mm. Me too, darling,” says Fiddleford, distractedly. The constant weight of Stanford’s hand on his shoulder is so warm and comforting; he’s fallen asleep like this more than once, and been teased for it by Stanley just as much. “And I love you too, Stanley, you sweaty disgusting beast. Where exactly would we be going, by the way, to look for this weirdness?”
Stanford smiles and strains to reach his bedside table while also maintaining contact with Fiddleford; when he succeeds and grasps the map in one hand, he shakes it out, and only reluctantly lifts his other hand to hold it steady. “Ah, well… there’s plenty in Florida, and the south is always interesting, but the most saturated area seems to be a small town in Oregon called,” he purses his lips, “Gravity Falls. I love the name.”
Gravity Falls. It tastes like adventure, like somewhere he can feel at home and out of his depth all at once.
Across the room, Stanley smiles, and leans precariously back on the chair again. “Well, I haven’t been banned from Oregon yet, so that’s a good start,” he says, and they all laugh at something that’s not quite a joke. “So when you’re finished with this round of nerd studies, I’m happy to go trooping across the country to go hunt monsters in the Pacific Northwest. As long as we stay somewhere with more than one room,” he adds, “because as much as I care about you both, there’s only so many times I can see my brother kissing a hillbilly before I start getting migraines.”
“We could be the Mystery Trio,” Fiddleford says, taking care to enunciate the capitals, and the two Stans echo him; one smiles and one rolls his eyes, but both reactions have good humour in them, and their future feels fresh and terrifying and exciting and inevitable all at once, and they’ll always have each other, and they’ll always have capitals.
Capitals are important in these things, in Bad Decisions and Plans and Trios, in all the things that form them and push them and string their lives together and along.