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The air was cool for California, crisp in the late autumn dusk. A chill clung to the breeze, just enough to raise the hair on the back of Stanley Pines’ neck as he stood outside the small house, his hand lingering in his pocket. His eyes traced over the house ahead of him, trying to take everything in—the faint smell of salt in the air, carried by the wind from the distant ocean, the sound of the rustling leaves still clinging to the trees, stubborn like him. It had been a long time since he’d been anywhere near the coast, and even longer since he’d felt this nervous.
He could feel the edges of the velvet ring box in his pocket pressing into his fingers, but he wasn’t ready to look at it yet.
The house was small, modest—just like Fiddleford would have wanted. There was a faint flicker of light behind the lace curtains, a soft blue colour that Stanley didn’t remember from before. He stared at them for a moment longer, his breath catching in his throat. Fiddleford hadn’t been one for beach-themed decor back in Indiana. He used to say he liked to be surrounded by practical things, things that made sense. Stanley wondered when that had changed.
The sky overhead was a deepening shade of purple, stars just beginning to blink into view as the sun sank below the horizon. Stanley’s fingers curled around the rings again, and he swallowed hard, his throat tight. This wasn’t how he’d pictured their reunion—standing outside a house that didn’t feel familiar, in a life that had moved on without him. But he was here now, wasn’t he? That had to count for something, right? At least, that's what those stupid self-help books he swiped from the library always said.
At least you're trying, right?
Taking a breath, Stanley stepped forward, his boots crunching against the gravel path as he made his way up to the door.
“Mirrors on the ceiling, the pink champagne on ice,” Stanley sang under his breath, the wind taking his mutterings and blowing them away to rustle through the leaves of a distant palm tree. “and she said, "We are all just prisoners here of our own device… ”
Each step felt heavier than the last, as if everything he had done was stuck in the air between him and the house. When he finally raised his hand to knock, his knuckles barely made contact before the door swung open.
And there he was. Fiddleford McGucket, standing in the doorway, his green shirt rumpled from a long day, bell-bottom jeans hanging loose around his legs. His round glasses caught the dim light from inside the house, glinting as he looked at Stan for the first time in a year.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Stanley’s heart pounded in his chest, loud enough that it drowned out everything else. Fiddleford’s mouth opened, closed, and then opened again before a breathless laugh escaped.
“Stanley,” he whispered, his voice soft with disbelief.
Stanley could barely get the words out. “Hey, Fidds.”
Without warning, Fiddleford’s arms were around him, pulling him close. Stanley didn’t even think before wrapping his own arms around Fiddleford, holding him tight, his face buried in the familiar scent of old books, machine oil, and something softer, sweeter. They laughed together, quietly at first, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep in their chests as if they couldn’t believe this was real.
And Stanley couldn’t.
He didn’t know what he expected when he drove 31 hours through 6 states to get here, but it wasn’t whatever this was. It wasn’t something that felt remarkably like forgiveness.
It felt good, right even, like they were both falling back into something familiar.
Stan closed his eyes, holding onto Fiddleford just a little tighter than necessary, letting himself sink into the familiarity of it. The scent of Fiddleford’s old cologne, the scratch of his shirt against Stan’s cheek—it was all the same, like coming home.
He was finally home.
They pulled apart, both of them flushed, and Fiddleford stepped back, opening the door wider. “Come on in, Stanley,” he said, the drawl in his voice more pronounced than Stan remembered. “Been a long time.”
Stan nodded, stepping inside the house.
The place felt different. Not bad, just… different. His eyes darted around as he followed Fiddleford into the living room. There were more decorations now, things that hadn’t been there before: a seashell on the bookshelf, a small painting of the ocean above the couch, blue lace curtains catching the breeze from an open window. It felt like a house someone else had made into a home—a home that wasn’t theirs— Fiddleford’s. His. It didn’t look like something he would have.
It couldn’t be theirs, Stanley reminded himself.
Fiddleford motioned to the couch, and Stan sat, running his hands over the fabric.
He could still smell the faintest scent of engine grease and sawdust, and it reminded him of all those nights they’d spent together in Indiana, of watching Fiddleford working on clocks or the endless machines he loved to make. Those memories felt far away now, like a dream he could barely remember.
Fiddleford sat across from him, leaning back in his chair with a tired but oddly happy smile. “I can’t believe you’re here,” his voice was soft as he shook his head. “I—I don’t even know where to start.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Stanley admitted, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Been a hell of a year, huh?”
Fiddleford nodded. “More than that. I thought… I thought I wouldn’t see ya again.”
Stanley swallowed, guilt gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed it down for now. They’d get to that later—after the small talk, after the laughter. For now, it was enough to be here.
They talked for what felt like hours.
Fiddleford asked about the road, about the places Stanley had been, and Stanley told him all about the towns he’d passed through, the people he’d met, the odd jobs he’d taken to get by. It was easy, almost too easy, slipping back into conversation like they used to.
Stanley’s gaze wandered the room as they talked, picking up on the subtle changes—everything that felt like it belonged to someone else. He wondered if he was too late, if the house and the life Fiddleford had built here didn’t have room for him anymore.
But then Fiddleford laughed at one of his jokes, the sound bright and real, and for a moment, Stanley forgot about everything else. It felt normal, like the way things used to be.
He could almost pretend that nothing had changed.
Stanley leaned back on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, fingers tracing the worn fabric as Fiddleford’s voice filled the room. His words were like soft, comforting background noise—easy, familiar. But even as Stanley nodded along, his mind was elsewhere, drawn to the small details of the house around him.
The place was warm, cosy, but it wasn’t the kind of warmth Stanley remembered from Indiana. His eyes drifted across the room, lingering on the soft blue lace curtains framing the window, their delicate pattern catching the light just so. The walls, once adorned with simple paintings and family photos, now had seashells and beach scenes scattered across them—like the ocean had somehow crept in and claimed its place. It wasn’t like Fiddleford at all.
At least, not like the Fiddleford he used to know.
His stomach twisted. This was a new life. One that Fiddleford had built without him.
Fiddleford’s voice cracked through his thoughts again, and Stanley blinked, forcing himself to focus on the man sitting across from him.
“—and I thought about callin’ you, y’know?” Fiddleford was saying, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. “But… after you left, I guess I got a little angry. Didn’t know where you were half the time, and when I did try, well, it always seemed like the number didn’t work no more.”
Stanley’s throat felt dry, the guilt rising thick in his chest. “Yeah, I… I kept movin’ around a lot. Didn’t stay anywhere for too long.”
Fiddleford looked at him then, eyes soft, searching. “Why didn’t you stay, Stan? You could’ve… I don’t know, called more. Written, somethin’.”
Stanley swallowed hard.
How could he explain that he had tried, over and over, but every time it felt like he was calling into a void? “I did, Fidds. I sent letters, postcards from every place I could. Called from payphones when I had the spare change. But…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I figured you didn’t wanna talk anymore. Thought maybe you were done with me.”
Fiddleford flinched at the words, his fingers stilling. “I wasn’t. I never was, Stan. I just didn’t know what to say after you left without a word. Hell, maybe I thought you was done with me.”
Stanley felt a weight settle over him, heavy and suffocating. He hadn’t been done, not by a long shot, but he didn't know how to stay. His whole adult life, he’d been running—running from his family, his failures, and most of all, from himself. He thought Fiddleford deserved more than a guy like him, someone who couldn’t even offer stability or a future.
“I didn’t want to leave,” Stanley said, his voice quiet, rough around the edges. “I just thought… maybe you’d be better off without me.”
Fiddleford sighed, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared at the floor. “Stanley, I didn’t need ‘better off.’ I needed you.”
Stanley’s heart clenched painfully. He looked away, blinking against the burn of emotion in his chest, taking in the room again. The kitchen, the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots, the faint smell of salt in the air. It was all different now, and yet, Fiddleford was still Fiddleford. He was still the man Stanley had fallen in love with all those years ago.
Stan cleared his throat, desperate to shift the conversation before it got any heavier. “So… you like it here?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the room. “California, I mean. The ocean and all that.”
Fiddleford glanced around, a small, almost wistful smile pulling at his lips. “It’s… nice. Quieter than I expected, but the ocean’s a sight, that’s for sure.” His gaze flickered to the shells on the wall, and Stanley could tell there was something unspoken in his voice.
“Looks like you’ve really settled in,” Stanley murmured, his eyes trailing over the decorations. “Ain’t like the old place in Indiana.”
“No,” Fiddleford agreed, his voice soft. “It ain’t.”
Silence drifted between them, not uncomfortable, but thick with the air of things unsaid. Stanley shifted, his arm still resting over the back of the couch, closer to Fiddleford now, though neither of them moved to close the distance. For a moment, it felt like they were just there —no past, no future, just this shared space, where everything still felt like it could be fixed.
Fiddleford stood up suddenly, brushing off his pants. “You thirsty? I got some apple cider in the fridge.
Stanley chuckled, his voice lighter than it had been in years. “Cider? So, some things don’t change, huh?”
Fiddleford shot him a crooked smile, one that made Stanley’s heart ache. “Nope. Some things don’t.” He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Stanley to sit in the quiet of the living room, the sound of ice clinking in glasses drifting through the air.
Stanley rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the nerves in his chest. Fiddleford was right here. Laughing, offering a drink like nothing had changed at all. And yet, something had changed. He could feel it in the way Fiddleford carried himself, in the faint lines of exhaustion that hadn’t been there before. The man who had opened that door wasn’t the same one Stanley had left behind.
Fiddleford returned, holding out a glass, condensation trailing down the side as he handed it over. “Here ya go,” he said, settling back down beside Stanley on the couch.
Stanley took a sip, the sweetness hitting his tongue and instantly pulling him back to the autumns they’d spent together—freezing afternoons on the porch, drinking cider or cocoa, watching the sun dip below the trees. He smiled into the glass, a small, nostalgic thing. “Still the best damn apple cider I’ve ever had.”
Fiddleford’s grin widened, his eyes lighting up. “Glad to hear it.”
For a while, they sat in silence, sipping their drinks, the tension slowly unwinding as they started to talk. It was light conversation at first—about California, about how quiet the town was, about work. Stanley cracked a joke or two, earning a soft laugh from Fiddleford, and for a little while, it felt like they were slipping back into their old rhythm.
But then the conversation slowed, and Stanley found his gaze drifting toward Fiddleford again, taking in the way his hair fell slightly into his eyes, the way his lips curled when he smiled. That same old spark flared in his chest, the one he thought he’d buried. It was like muscle memory—the pull toward Fiddleford, the way they always found their way back to each other.
Before he even realised what he was doing, Stanley leaned closer, his hand brushing against Fiddleford’s knee, his voice dropping just a little. “You know, I missed this.”
Fiddleford’s breath caught, his eyes flicking to Stanley’s hand, then back to his face. “Missed what?”
Stanley smiled, his voice a soft rasp. “This.” He let out. “You. Us.”
The air shifted between them, a slow, almost imperceptible shift, but it was there. Fiddleford swallowed, his hand twitching in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with it.
Stanley reached out, fingers brushing against Fiddleford’s jaw, tentative, like he was waiting for permission. Fiddleford didn’t pull away.
That was all Stanley needed.
He closed the distance between them, their lips meeting in a soft kiss. Fiddleford’s lips were warm, familiar, and Stanley melted into the feeling, his hand moving to the back of Fiddleford’s neck, pulling him closer.
Fiddleford responded quickly, his hands coming up to cup Stanley’s face, the kiss deepening as if they were making up for lost time. It was slow at first, but soon it became more urgent, more desperate, like they were trying to hold on to something they both knew they couldn’t.
Stanley’s heart pounded in his chest as he pressed forward, his body shifting to close the gap between them entirely. Fiddleford’s fingers tangled in his hair, and Stanley let out a soft groan, his hand sliding down to Fiddleford’s waist, tugging him even closer.
Then there was a sharp sting on his lower lip.
“Ow!” Stanley jerked back, his hand flying to his mouth, feeling the sting of teeth and the faint taste of copper on his tongue.
Fiddleford gasped, his eyes wide with shock. “Oh Lord, I’m sorry! Did I—?”
Stanley blinked, and then, despite the pain, a laugh bubbled up from his chest. “You bit me!”
Fiddleford’s face flushed crimson, horror written over his expression. “I didn’t mean to—”
Stanley wiped his lip with his thumb, grinning through the faint trickle of blood. “Jesus, Fidds,” His voice was teasing, light. “You think you'd be better at this by now. Unless you really did get turned into a vampire.” He laughed.
Fiddleford blinked in surprise before a soft laugh escaped him, followed by another, until he was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Stanley joined in, their laughter filling the room as the tension broke. They sat back, both of them flushed and breathless, the kiss now a warm memory between them.
“Aw, man,” Fiddleford wiped at his eyes, still chuckling. “I’m real sorry about that, Stanley.”
Stanley shrugged, still grinning. “Hey, it’s all part of the, uh, fun, right? Things really haven't changed, huh?”
Fiddleford shook his head, smile fading a bit as he leaned back against the couch. “I guess not...”
For a while, they sat there, side by side, sharing the easy warmth of each other’s presence. They were just there, like they had always been.
Stanley leaned back against the couch, letting the laughter fade, but the easy warmth between them lingered. His lip pulsed with the remnants of the cut, but he didn’t mind. It was a small thing—a bump in the road that only reminded him how close he was to Fiddleford again. He glanced over at him, watching the way Fiddleford’s shoulders finally seemed to relax after all this time.
“You want some more cider?” Fiddleford asked, the smile returning to tug at his lips.
Stanley gave a lopsided grin. “Yeah, wouldn’t mind a refill.”
Fiddleford stood, and Stanley couldn’t help but watch him move toward the kitchen. It was the same easy, unhurried grace he remembered from years ago. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a second, just taking it all in—the faint sound of ice cubes dropping into glasses, the hum of the fridge, the cool air against his skin.
The memory of what he’d come here for pressed in again—he hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t expected to fall back into things with Fiddleford so naturally .
He wasn’t sure how he’d ever left this.
Maybe he should go with his original plan, despite the fear. Maybe it wouldn’t ruin everything, maybe he didn’t ruin everything again.
Wouldn’t it be so… perfect? Perfect in the way that Stanley only experienced when Fiddleford was around, the perfect he could never be.
Fiddleford returned, two glasses in hand, and set one down in front of Stanley before sitting back beside him. “There ya go. Fresh batch.”
Stanley took a sip, the familiar smoothness of the cider filling his mouth, but it wasn’t just the drink that felt familiar. The way Fiddleford sat next to him, close enough that their knees brushed, the soft sounds of the house around them—it was like stepping back into a memory. It was… perfect, for lack of a better word.
Fiddleford was the first to speak, his voice quieter now. “You know, it don’t feel real. You bein’ here again.”
Stanley looked over at him, his heart squeezing at the vulnerability in Fiddleford’s eyes. “How’s that?”
“I don’t know. It’s like I spent all this time tryin’ to move on, tryin’ to build somethin’ here that made sense, and now you show up out of the blue…” He trailed off, staring down into his glass, his fingers tightening around the rim. “I’m just wonderin’ what it means. What you bein’ here means for us.”
Stanley’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure what to say—there was so much he wanted to tell Fiddleford, but how could he explain everything? That he’d come back because he couldn’t stop thinking about him? That no matter how far he’d run, it always led him back to the same place: here, with Fiddleford?
He set his glass down, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I didn’t come here to make things more complicated for you, Fidds.” Stanley knew that was a lie as it slipped from his lips. “I just… I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
Fiddleford looked at him, really looked at him, and Stanley could see the hesitation in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, biting his lip like he was wrestling with the words.
Stanley exhaled slowly, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “I thought about you. Every day. Everywhere I went, I couldn’t shake it. I kept thinkin’, maybe one day I’d come back and things would be like they were before.” He paused, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “But now… it’s different. You’re different.”
Fiddleford nodded, his eyes softening. “I guess I am. A lot’s changed, Stan. You were gone for a long time.”
Stanley didn’t know how to respond to that. He’d been gone because he thought it was the right thing to do—because he thought Fiddleford deserved a better life than what he could offer. But now, sitting here, seeing the life Fiddleford had built without him, Stanley couldn’t help but wonder if he’d made the wrong choice.
But, something whispered, maybe it was the right choice. Maybe he made the right choice finally in his life, and of course it would involve leaving.
He cleared his throat anyway, forcing himself to push through the knot in his chest. “I saved up,” he said quietly, pulling a small, worn box from his jacket pocket. He held it out to Fiddleford, his hand trembling slightly. “For this.”
Fiddleford blinked, confused, as he took the box. He opened it carefully, his breath catching when he saw the two simple, matching rings inside. His eyes shot back to Stanley, wide with shock. “Stan, what—?”
Stanley’s heart pounded as he tried to find the words. “I was gonna ask you… well, not ask ask, ‘cause we can’t do that, but… I wanted to show you I’m serious. That I love you. I should’ve told you before, back then. But I was stupid and scared, and I thought you’d be better off if I just… if I didn’t drag you down with me.”
Fiddleford’s hand trembled as he stared at the rings, his thumb brushing over the smooth metal. “Stanley…”
Stanley’s breath caught in his throat. The way Fiddleford said his name—it was soft, raw, like there was too much behind it, too much pain.
Fiddleford’s fingers lingered on the edge of the box, but he didn’t take it.
“Stanley, I’m… I’m married.”
Stanley felt like the floor had dropped out from beneath him. The room seemed to tilt, and all the air was sucked out in an instant. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He just stared at Fiddleford, heart pounding in his chest, the box in his hand suddenly feeling too heavy, like lead.
Married.
The word echoed in his head, over and over, but it didn’t make sense. Not here. Not with the way Fiddleford had looked at him, the way they’d laughed together, the way it had felt like nothing had changed between them, they way they had kissed.
Fiddleford’s voice cracked, barely holding it together. “I married Emma-May. A couple months after you left.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes red, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “My mama… she kept askin’ when I was gonna settle down, when I was gonna find a nice girl and get married, and… I just… I didn’t know how to tell her the truth.”
Stanley’s chest tightened. His grip on the small box faltered, and he forced himself to set it down gently on the coffee table. “Fidds…” His voice barely worked. “You-I kissed you. I... You didn’t have to—”
“I didn’t know what else to do!” Fiddleford’s voice rose, desperate, and tears spilled down his cheeks. He quickly swiped at them, as though trying to pull himself together, but it was no use. “I—I thought you were gone for good. You didn’t leave a number, and I couldn’t call, I couldn’t… I didn’t know if you were ever comin’ back, Stanley.”
Stanley’s hands clenched into fists, every muscle in his body tensing with the flood of emotions crashing over him. He wanted to scream, to shout at the unfairness of it all, to tell Fiddleford he’d been stupid for thinking he wouldn’t come back, but how could he? How could he blame Fiddleford for trying to survive, for doing the only thing that seemed safe in a world that hated who they were?
How could he be mad at anyone but himself?
It was his fault, just like it always had been.
Fiddleford rubbed his eyes furiously, voice trembling as he continued. “Emma-May’s… she’s a good woman, Stan. She’s kind, and she cares about me, but—” He stopped, struggling to find the words. “I could never love her the way I love you. I wasn't thinkin' when I-I kissed you. But listen to me when I tell you I don't regret it, okay?”
"Fidds..." Stanley’s heart broke, piece by piece, as Fiddleford spoke. He knew it—he could feel it in every glance, every hesitant touch—but hearing it out loud was like a knife to the gut.
“I didn’t wanna hurt her,” Fiddleford whispered, voice cracking again. “She don’t know. She don’t know that this marriage ain’t what it should be, that… that I’m in love with someone else. That I’m in love with a man.” His shoulders shook, his face buried in his hands. “She’s pregnant, Stanley. I’m gonna be a father.”
The words hit Stanley like a freight train. His stomach dropped, his breath catching in his throat as he stared at Fiddleford, feeling like the room was closing in around him. The world outside the window seemed too far away, too distant to be real.
He hadn’t just lost Fiddleford.
He’d lost everything they could’ve had.
Fiddleford’s sobs grew quieter, but they didn’t stop. He curled in on himself, clutching his sides as if he were trying to hold himself together, trying not to fall apart. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out. “I didn’t wanna hurt you, Stanley. I just didn’t know what else to do. My mama, she kept—”
Stanley moved without thinking, his instincts driving him forward. He slid across the couch and pulled Fiddleford into his arms, holding him tightly against his chest. Fiddleford’s body trembled under his touch, and Stanley could feel the warmth of his tears soaking into his shirt.
“Fidds, stop. Stop apologising,” Stanley murmured, his voice rough, thick with emotion. “This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.” Unlike how it’s mine.
Fiddleford buried his face against Stanley’s chest, his hands fisting in the fabric of Stanley’s jacket as he clung to him, sobbing quietly. Stanley held him tighter, his own heart breaking as he tried to keep them both from falling apart.
“I didn’t want this,” Fiddleford whispered, his voice muffled against Stanley’s chest. “I didn’t want any of this.”
Stanley closed his eyes, his hand gently running through Fiddleford’s hair, trying to soothe him, even though every word tore through him like glass. “I know. I know, Fidds.”
The silence between them stretched on, punctuated only by Fiddleford’s quiet sniffles and the sound of their breathing, tangled together like they always had been. Stanley couldn’t let go—not now, not yet. He didn’t know if he ever could.
Eventually, Fiddleford pulled back just enough to look at Stanley, his face streaked with tears, his eyes reddened and swollen. “Stan… I should’ve waited for you. I should’ve known you’d come back. I… I still love you. I never stopped.”
Stanley’s chest ached, the truth of those words both a comfort and a curse. He lifted a hand to gently cup Fiddleford’s cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear. “I love you too.”
For a long moment, they just sat there, eyes locked, the pressure of everything that had happened hanging between them. Stanley wanted to kiss him, wanted to close that final gap and lose himself in the feeling of Fiddleford’s lips again, but he knew it wouldn’t fix anything. It wouldn’t make the pain go away. It wouldn’t change the fact that Fiddleford had a family now.
It wouldn’t change the fact that Stanley wasn’t a part of his life anymore.
Fiddleford reached up, his hand covering Stanley’s. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his voice breaking.
Stanley’s throat tightened. “I don’t either.”
They were stuck, teetering on the edge of what could have been and what would never be. And as much as Stanley wanted to stay here, to hold onto Fiddleford and never let go, he knew it couldn’t last.
Nothing lasts.
Nothing lasts forever unless it’s bad. Nothing lasts forever unless you’re Stanley Pines, where the misery is never out, and your luck is never in.
“I know it’s too late now,” Stanley said after a while, glancing at the neglected velvet box resting quietly on the table. “You’re married. You’ve got a life here. And I… I don’t want to mess that up. But I… I’m glad I told you anyway. I wanted you to know. I wanted you to have that.”
Fiddleford’s eyes glistened as he reached over to the box, taking it and handing it back to Stanley. “I can’t take it.”
Stanley’s heart sank. He hadn’t really expected him to, but hearing the words still felt like a punch to the gut. He shoved the box back into his pocket, his chest tightening with a pain he couldn’t quite put into words. “Yeah. Yeah, I get it. You don’t have to say anything else,” Stanley said quietly. “I’m happy for you. Really. You deserve to be happy.”
Fiddleford stared at him for a long moment, his face full of sorrow and regret. “I don’t feel all that happy right now.”
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and painful. Stanley didn’t know what to say—there was nothing he could say to fix this. He had made his choices, and Fiddleford had made his. And now, they were both living with the consequences.
After a long silence, Fiddleford spoke again, his voice soft. “I wrote you letters. After you left.”
Stanley blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
Fiddleford stood up and disappeared into the next room, returning with a small, worn stack of letters tied together with string. He held them out to Stanley. “I never sent ‘em. Didn’t know if you’d even get ‘em. But I wrote ‘em anyway.”
Stanley stared at the letters, his heart pounding. Slowly, he reached out and took them, his fingers brushing against Fiddleford’s as he did. “Why didn’t you send them?”
Fiddleford shook his head, his voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know. I guess I was scared. Scared you wouldn’t want to hear from me. Scared I’d be too late, scared they’d never even get to you.”
Stanley’s heart shuddered painfully as he looked down at the letters, everything they’d been through pressing down on him. “I would’ve wanted to hear from you,” he said quietly. “I wanted to hear from you every damn day.”
Fiddleford hesitated for a moment before he stepped closer, his hand resting on Stanley’s shoulder. “I never wanted this,” he whispered. “Not like this.”
Stanley looked up at him, his heart breaking all over again. “Me neither.”
For a moment, they just stood there, staring at each other. “I love you, Stanley,” Fiddleford whispered, his voice cracking. “I always will.”
Stanley’s eyes closed, his voice barely a whisper. “I love you too.”
They stayed like that for a long moment, neither of them moving, neither of them speaking. The world outside the house seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of them, holding on to the only thing they had left—each other.
Eventually, Stanley looked at the envelopes, his hands shaking as he held them. Each one was carefully creased, the paper worn with time, words and stamps pressed into it but never sent. He couldn’t even think to open and read them—he couldn’t bear to—but the sight alone shattered something deep inside him.
A sharp breath escaped him before he could stop it. He tried to hold it back, but the tears were already welling up, blurring his vision as he clutched the stack of letters to his chest. His body trembled, and when he looked back up at Fiddleford, it was all too much.
“I’m sorry,” Stanley croaked, his voice breaking for the first time. “I’m so sorry, Fiddleford. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve been there, but I—I was scared. I really thought you’d be better off without me. I thought…” His breath hitched, and the dam inside him burst. His face crumpled, and before he could stop himself, the tears came in heavy, uncontrollable sobs. “I didn’t know it’d end like this.”
Fiddleford didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He simply reached out and pulled Stanley into a tight embrace, holding him as his body shook with years of guilt and regret. Stanley’s fingers clutched desperately at Fiddleford’s shirt, his face pressed into his shoulder as he cried harder than he ever had in his life.
It was one of the few times he’d ever let anyone see him like this.
It was the last time he’ll ever let anyone see him like that.
Fiddleford’s hands gently rubbed his back, his breath warm and steady against Stanley’s ear. He didn’t try to speak, didn’t try to fix it. He just held Stanley, letting him fall apart in his arms. It felt as if he was telling him that it was okay to break, just this once. Just this one last time, Stanley would allow himself to be vulnerable again.
After all, what did it matter anymore?
It wasn’t like he’d ever see him again.
After what felt like hours, Stanley’s sobs quieted, though the pain still lingered through his limbs, heavy and raw. He pulled back slowly, wiping at his swollen eyes with the back of his sleeve.
“I—I should go,” Stanley muttered, his voice hoarse and unsteady. He swallowed, trying to push down the lump that remained in his throat. “I don’t want to cause any more trouble.”
Fiddleford nodded silently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes still shimmered faintly. Without a word, he stepped aside as Stanley made his way to the door.
Stanley paused on the porch, the cold night air biting at his skin. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but when he turned back toward Fiddleford, the feeling in his chest only grew heavier. The door to the house remained open, and there Fiddleford stood, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
They just stood there, staring at each other in silence, the things they wanted to say lingering like a heavy fog. Stanley’s heart raced, and for the briefest second, he thought about what could have been, about everything they’d lost.
Everything he lost.
Everything.
But before he could say anything, before he could go over his regrets even further, Fiddleford was moving toward him. His steps were slow, deliberate, and as he reached Stanley, he grabbed his jacket collar with one trembling hand and walked him backward until Stanley’s back hit the wooden pole of the porch.
Fiddleford kissed him.
It was rough, desperate, their lips crashing together in a way that felt like both an apology and a goodbye, which is what it was, wasn’t it? Stanley’s hands found Fiddleford’s shoulders and hair clutching at him as if he’d slip away if he let go. Their tears mingled between the kiss, both of them faintly crying because, deep down, they knew.
They knew this was it.
The last time.
Neither of them would say it out loud, but the knowledge hung between them, a painful, silent truth.
The kiss slowed, softened, but neither of them pulled away. Fiddleford’s forehead rested against Stanley’s, both of them panting softly in the cold night air, the quiet filling the space between them.
For a long time, they just stared at each other, breathless, taking in every detail of the other’s face, as though trying to memorise this moment, knowing it would be the last.
It was freezing. The wind picked up, tugging at the edges of Stanley’s jacket, but neither of them moved.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Fiddleford broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s a shame, ain’t it?” He said. “S’nice night. Stars are out.”
Stanley’s chest ached at the sound of those words. His gaze drifted upwards toward the sky, where the stars shimmered faintly against the backdrop of the night. They were beautiful—too beautiful for a moment like this. He swallowed hard, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill over again.
“Yeah,” Stanley whispered. “They are, they’re pretty.”
The silence stretched between them again, but it was different. The inevitable loomed over them, and for the first time, Stanley couldn’t bring himself to fight it.
Fiddleford’s voice was soft, almost regretful. “We should stop.” His eyes flickered down for a brief moment, then back to Stanley. “Emma-May’ll be home from work soon.”
Stanley’s heart clenched at the reminder, but he nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“Wait.” Fiddleford said, holding his hand out as if to pause the moment. He disappeared inside the house again for a while before returning with a clock in his hands.
“What’s this?” Stanley asked softly, sniffling as he took it.
“I made it for you, a bit after ya left.” Fiddleford explained. “It’s a, uh, a cuckoo clock. Made it so you could sell it— um, could you… not?”
Stan looked at the painted wooden house in his hands and then back up at the man in front of him. “Not sell it?”
Fiddleford shook his head, pushing his glasses up. “I want you to keep it. If ya need to sell it, go right ahead, but…”
“I know what you mean.”
“Think of me.” Fiddleford said. “R-remember me when it goes off, I guess. I dunno. I just wanted you t’have it…”
Stanley nodded faintly.
“Thank you.”
They lingered there for a moment longer, neither of them quite ready to say goodbye. But eventually, Stanley stepped away, forcing himself to let go. His unpreoccupied hand brushed lightly against Fiddleford’s arm as he turned toward the steps.
“Goodbye, Fiddleford,” Stanley said, his voice quiet, strained.
Fiddleford swallowed, his voice barely holding together. “I'll see you soon, Stanley.”
He paused, nodding.
They always said that.
"See you s-soon." Stanley’s legs felt like they were made of lead as he walked toward his car. Each step was slow, deliberate, as if his body was trying to delay the inevitable. His heart pounded in his chest, a steady, aching rhythm that matched the crunch of gravel beneath his boots.
When he reached the car, he hesitated, his hand visibly trembling as it hovered over the door handle. He could still feel Fiddleford’s warmth against his lips, the taste of him lingering on his tongue. His throat hurt like he had a cold, and he blinked hard, trying to push back the rising wave of emotion threatening to choke him.
But it was no use.
With a shaky breath, Stanley finally opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, setting the clock on top of the pile of clothing in the passenger’s. The leather was cold beneath him, the familiar scent of his old car somehow comforting, but it wasn’t enough to ease the knot twisting inside his chest. His hands gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white as he tried to steady himself, but everything felt wrong. The silence in the car was suffocating, too heavy, too thick.
It felt familiar.
Stanley’s gaze flicked up to the rearview mirror. His breath hitched when he saw Fiddleford still standing on the porch, just a shadow now against the dim porch light, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. He wasn’t moving—just standing there, as if frozen in place, waiting for something, anything to change.
In the dim, distant light, Stan could see the glint of the wedding ring that wasn’t his on Fiddleford’s finger.
Stanley squeezed his eyes shut, trying to burn the image into his memory, but it hurt too much.
His hand reached into his jacket, fingers brushing the edges of the letters Fiddleford had given him. They crinkled softly, a reminder of everything that could have been, everything that would never be. The knot in his chest tightened, and a sob clawed its way up his throat. He clenched his jaw, fighting to hold it back, but his hands shook violently on the steering wheel.
“Damn it,” he whispered, voice cracking, barely audible in the silence of the car. His vision blurred, tears spilling over and running down his face in hot, silent streams. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. The dam broke again, and his body trembled as the tears came in ragged, uneven sobs, the kind that tore through him, leaving him gasping for breath. He hadn’t cried this much since New Jersey.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to end. He had come here to fix things, to make things right, but all he’d done was lose the one person he truly loved. It was too late.
He was too late.
Stanley wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, sniffing hard as he tried to pull himself together. He had to leave. He couldn’t stay here.
He wasn’t needed anymore.
He turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life with a low growl. The headlights flared on, casting long, sharp shadows over the driveway. Stanley gripped the steering wheel tighter, taking one last look in the rearview mirror.
Fiddleford hadn’t moved. He was still there, standing in the same spot, watching as Stanley prepared to drive away. His figure seemed so small, so fragile, as he stood there alone on the porch, his shoulders hunched slightly.
It was nothing like the man Stanley knew.
He wondered if this would last, if he ruined another life.
Stanley swallowed thickly, his heart twisting painfully in his chest.
He forced his gaze forward, gripping the wheel tightly. The car lurched forward slowly, the tires crunching over the gravel as he pulled away from the house. Every inch he put between them felt like a knife twisting deeper into his gut, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
He never could.
The night air outside the car was freezing, and even though the heater was on, it did nothing to thaw the coldness spreading inside Stanley. He drove in silence, the soft hum of the engine the only sound, but his mind was too loud. Every thought was a whirlwind, a tornado of regret and heartbreak crashing against him.
He glanced at the rearview mirror one last time before he turned the corner. Fiddleford was still standing there, his figure growing smaller and smaller, a silhouette now, barely visible through the haze of tears in Stanley’s eyes.
And then he was gone.