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A day or a week could have passed; Stan couldn’t tell anymore. Time had dissolved into a haze, slipping through his fingers like smoke. He allowed it though, letting himself be dragged across life.
He stood motionless before the open fridge, the cold air seeping out. The dim light inside flickered, casting pale shadows across the barren shelves. The only thing left was a half-empty ketchup bottle, its red label stark against the sterile white interior, a remnant of something used and long forgotten.
”Get a grip, Stanley” He huffed to himself.
Must’ve been more than a week since there was food in here before… Or was this his first time checking? No, no that can’t be right.
Did I make up that memory?
The disheveled man stared at himself in the streaky mirror. Greasy curly hair clung to the base of his neck where his gold chain clasped together. His bloodshot eyes, ringed with purple circles, twitched. It’s been a while since his last cigarette.
Beer, cigarettes, and… other substances were all a luxury now. There’d been times where Stan could only smoke the half used butts he’d find on the ground, start salivating at the sight of some spilled, sticky, alcohol on a diner counter. He told himself this is what he deserved, a used cigarette as a reward for a day of scamming. But that was behind him now— because he’d been cooped up in this damn shack.
Stan took a deep, shuttering, breath as he looked in the mirror. “At least it can’t get worse from here.” He opened the medicine cabinet.
Two toothbrushes stood in a cup. One green and one red, he stared at it for a moment.
Did Poindexter have a girlfriend?
The idea of Ford managing to get a girl was absurd. His chest tightened for a moment—a dull pang of guilt crept in at the idea of some poor girl finding out what had happened. No— they would’ve broken up if that was the case. Ford was threatening him when he approached the place, he would’ve scared off whatever girl he managed to swoon with knowing Pi by heart. Prolly rolled a 30 charisma, Stan smirked.
”Heh heh..”
He looked into his reflection.
”I'm so funny.”
Stan decided on the red toothbrush and started brushing, hoping it was his brother’s. We got germs right?
Once freshened up, he took his coat off the rack and kicked on his worn boots. Time to avoid the locals. With a twist, the door creaked open, and stinging cold air rushed in, cutting through the brief warmth of the cabin.
A crouching, hunched-over man is crumpled at his porch, shivering violently as snowflakes cling to his dirty blonde hair. His body was folded in on itself, arms wrapped around his shins, face buried against his knees. Of course the tweakers chose to live in this area of the woods, Stan thought to himself. Something is whistling from the wind.
“Uh.” Stanley says, dumbfounded. Not sure if he should shoo him away with a broom.
Suddenly the man’s face jerked upwards to the noise. The first emotion to flash his features was fear, which is to be expected, Stan thinks. Then another emotion took hold— brazen desperation. His hunched body stumbled forward, his knees now on the deathly cold wood. He attempts to move, to get closer to Stan, but he can’t take hold of his own body.
“Oh, Stanferd,” he reaches his hands out to Stan. “I’m sorry— I didn’t mean none of it, I—“
He grasps at something in the air then a moment later he brings his hands to grab at his head. “Lord, I… I keep forgettin’— I don’t know what I’m doing here, but I did something wrong, right?” He looked up at Stan like he was the guiding light in a sea of fog. “That’s why I feel so ter- terribibble, right?”
Stan stood frozen, but not from the cold.
“I— uh.”
He knows Stanford.
A hundred thoughts piled up in his mind, explanations of what’s up with this guy. Definitely a tweaker, but one with a backstory. Did Stanford know this guy? It’s possible he was delusional— but at the very least he knew his twin’s name.
Stan’s eyes scanned the man in front of him: ripped blue jeans, a white button-down shirt—buttoned wrong, bloodstains splattered across it, and no jacket… wait.
Reddish-brown droplets stained the right side of his shirt. Dried red flakes clung to his neck, forming a trail that led to his ear.
“Are you bleeding?” Stan pointed at the man’s neck.
The man’s expression shifted, as if snapped to reality. He turned his head, fingers brushing over the dried substance.
“It appears so,” he muttered, his voice low and brittle.
The wind howled through the silence between them.
“Uh, buddy… you got someone to help you out, or?” Stan scratched the back of his head, glancing away.
“No. Just you.” The man’s response was quick, defensive, as if accused of something.
“Listen, I—”
“I can’t do nothin’ right.” The man cut him off, voice rising. “I can’t even apologize right!” His hands shot to his hair, gripping and pulling at it violently.
“Whoa, whoa, hey!” Stan’s irritation shifted into alarm. He leaned forward, hands half-extended, unsure if he should intervene. “You’re apologizing fine! I mean, I think…” Comforting others wasn’t his strong suit. Hell, no one ever comforted him after life beat him down, so he didn’t really know how to do this.
“Ugh, I don’t— I can’t—!” The man’s voice shook, words bitten out through clenched teeth as tears started to spill.
Alright, that’s enough, Stan thought. He stepped in to gently pry the stranger’s hands from his hair.
The tweaker squeaked in response, “Whuh—wh—why’d—“ His hands were scarily cold, Stan wondered if hypothermia had set in yet. Maybe that’s why he’s acting like this? The thought clicked together in his brain like a puzzle piece.
“Just, uh, come inside.” He almost tacked on a please at the end.
The stranger looked at him like he’d given him the moon. “R—R—Really?”
If it was hypothermia, Stan thought, I don’t want a naked hillbilly running around on my property in the next 5 minutes.
“Get in before I take it back.” He grunted out, screwing his eyes shut as he rubbed his face.
“Oh, thank ya— thank ya S-S-Stanferd!” The man lurch forward, wrapping Stan in a shaky hug.
Holy Moses.
“Ah! Geez, you really know how to make a guy regret his choices immediately, huh?” Stan grunted as he tried pushing the man’s trembling body off him. His hands pressed against cold, bony shoulders, but the guy wasn’t budging. He clung tighter, his grip like a vice.
“Missed ya so much—Oh, Stanferd,” the stranger murmured, rubbing his face against Stan’s chest. His words came out in a muffled stream, barely audible, like he was too caught up in whatever emotion was driving him to even notice Stan’s discomfort.
Is he even hearing me? Stan thought, exasperated. The man kept mumbling, his breath warm against Stan’s shirt despite the icy touch of his hands.
Stan sighed, his arms sagging in defeat. Pushing him off clearly wasn’t working. Okay, plan B. Bracing himself, he backed up toward the door, hoping the guy would follow if he moved instead of trying to pry him off.
One step back, and the stranger stumbled forward with him, still latched on like a limpet. His feet dragged on the ground, barely keeping up with Stan’s slow retreat.
Almost there. Back against the door, Stan’s hand fumbled behind him, searching for the door handle. He twisted it and felt the door give way, opening with a creak. But the sudden shift in balance caught him off guard. The man staggered forward, and Stan, still supporting his weight, was pulled off balance.
“Whoa!” Stan yelped as he tipped backward slightly, his free hand flailing for stability. The other man nearly fell into him, barely catching himself as they stumbled awkwardly over the threshold.
Instead of catching his own balance, the man clung even tighter than before— wrapping his arms around Stan’s waist in a death grip. His breath hitched and a whimper escaped from his throat. Stan’s eyes widened, not sure what his reaction should be. At least he caught me…?
The man quickly tilted his chin up, looking at Stan in panic.
“S-Sorry!” the man blurted, his voice trembling as he tried to steady himself, but he made no move to let go. Instead, he chose to bury his face into Stan’s chest again, shaking like a leaf. Is he apologizing for the tripping or the hugging? “I didn’t mean to, I— I’m just so cold, I— I couldn’t help it.” His words came out in rushed, jumbled fragments.
Stan could feel the guy trembling, practically vibrating against him.
“I thought you were gonna leave me out there,” the man muttered into his shirt, his voice cracking. “No one ever— no one ever helps me, Stanferd.”
In a different context Stan would empathize with him, it’s a little too close to home... way too close to home, actually. Instead, Stan, still half-stumbling as the guy clung to him, let out a frustrated sigh. “Okay, alright, you gotta let go now, buddy. I can’t drag you around like this all day.”
The man’s grip only tightened, his face pressed firmly against Stan’s chest. “I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I just— I can’t let go. I’m sorry.”
Stan grimaced, patting the guy awkwardly on the back. “Yeah, I get it, but if you don’t let go, I’m gonna eventually fall on my ass, and I don’t think either of us wants that, right?”
The man shook his head against him, muttering, “No, no, I don’t wanna… I just…” His voice trailed off, but his arms stayed locked around Stan like a lifeline. If he wasn’t so cold it might feel good…
Stan inhaled sharply, trying to keep his cool. “Look, I’m not goin’ anywhere, alright? You’re inside now, safe.”
The man hesitated, his breathing shaky. “You… you promise you won’t leave?”
Stan clenched his jaw, suppressing a groan. “I promise. But I’m gonna need you to step back for a second so I can close this door and get us sorted. You’re not helping anyone by holdin’ me hostage here.”
After a long pause, the man finally loosened his grip, his hands shaking as he slowly pulled away. He looked away from Stan, clearly embarrassed. His right hand’s finger twitched like he was pulling an imaginary trigger.
“That— that was embarrassing,” the man muttered, wringing his hands. “I don’t rightly know what took over me…”
“You’re just… delirious from the cold. Don’t worry about it, bud.” Stan waved off the apology, but his eyes lingered on the man. His teeth were still chattering, and his fingers fidgeted like they were trying to shake off the cold.
Stan turned toward the closet, intending to grab a blanket, but he quickly realized the man was trailing right behind him, sticking close like a shadow. Great, now I’ve got a human duckling.
“I’m just grabbing a blanket for ya,” Stan said, throwing a glance over his shoulder.
“I see…” the man replied quietly, rubbing his hands together as he hunched over, his posture bent like a man carrying an invisible weight. His eyes darted nervously around the room, as if he expected someone to barge in and kick him out.
Stan clicked his tongue, an old habit when he was trying not to snap. “Just go sit down on the sofa, alright? You look like you’re about to keel over any second.”
The man hesitated, then cautiously shuffled over to the sofa, his steps unsteady. When he finally sat down, it was awkward, like he hadn’t sat on a piece of furniture in years. His knees jutted up slightly, his body stiff, perched on the edge as if ready to bolt at any moment. He glanced at Stan, wide-eyed, like a stray animal that wasn’t sure if it had truly been invited inside.
Stan rummaged through the closet and pulled out a thick wool blanket. It was heavy, the kind that could practically smother you, but it was warm. He walked over to the man and tossed the blanket onto his lap with a dull thud, the weight of it pressing the man back slightly into the sofa.
”There ya go, now…” Stan readied himself to explain. Explain that he wasn’t Stanford, that he didn’t know where Stanford was, that he may have killed Stanford… Oh shit. This guy couldn’t take that, could he?
“Listen, I, uh— I— I’m not exactly myself,” Stan started awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. His heart pounded in his chest as he braced for the reaction. “Wh-what’s your name again?”
The man’s gaze flickered upward, confusion clouding his face like a fog. “Fiddleford…” he said quietly, almost like he wasn’t sure of it himself. “I’m yer partner?”
Stan swallowed hard, Partner? That threw him off balance for a moment. “Right, right,” he said, nodding, trying to play along. His mind scrambled for a way out of this. Sixer is…. ah who cares— If I tell him I’m not Stanford, what are the odds he’s gonna bolt out that door?
His eyes darted to the door as the thought sank in. He couldn’t afford to lose the guy to another panic spiral. He forced a half-hearted smile and lied through his teeth. “I got in an… accident. Don’t got much memory of anything…” He shifted uncomfortably, avoiding Fiddleford’s gaze as guilt gnawed at him. What the hell am I doing?
But instead of panic, Fiddleford perked up, his expression brightening with recognition. “You too?”
Stan blinked. Huh?
“I made somethin’,” Fiddleford continued, his voice quickening with nervous energy. “Something to help with the… bad stuff.” His hands began patting down his jeans, searching frantically for something. “I don’t— I didn’t want to feel like myself anymore.”
Stan’s stomach dropped as he watched Fiddleford’s face shift from hopeful to terrified. His eyes widened, and his breathing hitched. “I—I must’ve left it!” Panic flooded his features as he threw off the blanket and staggered up, clearly intent on bolting.
“Shit.” Stan cursed under his breath. I’m losing him. He lunged forward, grabbing Fiddleford by the shoulders to steady him, keeping his grip firm but not forceful. “Hold on, cowboy,” Stan said quickly, trying to come up with something—anything—that would keep the man from running off into the cold. His mind raced. “I, uh… I’ve got one too, so… you don’t need to get yours.”
What the fuck am I doing? Stan wasn’t confident in his lie, but it seemed to work. Fiddleford’s panic visibly eased, his face softening with relief.
Stan gently pressed down on his shoulders, guiding him back to the couch. Fiddleford let out a shaky breath and sat with the push, his legs almost giving out as he settled back into the sofa. Stan grabbed the blanket that was on the floor, then set it back onto his lap. The other man looked straight at him the whole time.
“I need to get groceries for us, uh, Fidds,” Stan said, the words tumbling out awkwardly. He didn’t want to sound like he was plotting an escape, but Fiddleford’s intense stare was making him sweat.
Fiddleford’s expression shifted instantly, his brow furrowing as if Stan had just said the worst thing imaginable. “So you’re leaving?” His voice wavered, a thin thread of panic creeping in.
Wuh-oh. Stan’s mind raced. “No— no,” he said quickly, holding his hands up like he was trying to calm a skittish animal. “I’ll come back. I live here, so why’d I leave? But you gotta stay here, alright? Like, right where you are. Don’t move an inch, kay?”
Fiddleford didn’t look convinced. He leaned forward, eyes wide with a pleading look that Stan really wasn’t equipped to deal with. “Well, I can go with ya!”
“The car heater doesn’t work.”
“I’ll manage!”
Stan’s stomach clenched at the thought. No way in hell. The image of this bloodied, hypothermic, and clearly delirious man staggering through town was a disaster waiting to happen. There’d be questions. Lots of them. Ones he didn’t have answers to.
He tried to keep his tone light but firm. “No, you need to take a nap, Fidds. You’re worn out.”
Fiddleford’s stare hardened, almost like he was trying to see through the excuse. The silence stretched on, the tension thick in the air.
Stan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck again. C’mon, work with me here. He crouched down in front of Fiddleford, looking him straight in the eye. “Just do it, for me? Take a nap. Rest. I’ll be back before you know it. Promise.”
Fiddleford’s frown didn’t disappear completely, but after a long pause, he gave a reluctant nod. “Alright… I guess I could rest for a bit.” His voice was small, hesitant.
Stan sighed a quiet, ”Thank you.”
Fiddleford’s eyes lit up at the words, yeesh.