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"Fuck!"
A punch landed on solid metal, angry and damning.
"God-fucking-dammit!"
A soft thud on dirt as Stan fell to his knees.
Fiddleford watched piteously as the other man buried his head in his hands, tugging at his greasy, tangled hair. The portal, dark and silent and dead, stood in front of them, mocking in its inactivity.
"I thought—fuck, I thought we had it this time!" Stan cried through gritted teeth. "We did everything we were supposed to! It was supposed to work!"
They hadn't, and it wouldn't have.
Stan, much like this brother, had been almost delirious in his optimism at their chances of starting the portal back up, but Fiddleford knew better. The scattered fragments that were his memories of Ford managed to barely piece together a loose outline for what they'd need to power up the portal, but it wasn't enough.
Hadn't there been others? A team of people that built the portal besides him and Stanford? What had they done? What had he done?
He couldn't remember. All that did remain was the feeling of dread that accompanied him every time he came down to the basement, the cold, relentless fear that made his hands shake and his heart jump into his throat, despite not fully knowing why.
Stan's groans turned into a scream that echoed in the silence as it was ripped from his throat, his hands clawing desperately at the dirt. Fiddleford didn't intervene, didn't tell him to calm down, didn't tell him some rose-tinted lie that everything would be okay, that they'd definitely get Stanford back, don't you worry a bit, alright?
As much as he wanted to walk over and cup Stan's face, take his hands and stroke them soothingly, rub his tears away with his thumbs and press their foreheads together, he resisted.
Stan needed to feel this; Fiddleford knew firsthand that he wasn't a stranger to negative emotions. In fact, Stanley was quicker to anger and swinging his fists than anyone else Fiddleford had ever met ("I ain't a Southern belle like you, Fidds," he'd snarked once when Fiddleford had called him out on it, "I'm a Jersey boy, a left hook to the face is basically our way of sayin' hi.")
But these emotions, this grief and anguish and raw despair, were things that Stan seldom allowed himself to express. Normally, he'd mutter a curse under his breath, chuckle way too loudly for way too long, and assure Fiddleford that they'd get it right next time, they had to get it right.
Fiddleford would give him a half-smile of his own in return, matching Stan's insincerity. He'd never tell Stan how relieved he felt every time they pulled the lever and were met with...nothing. Not Stanford, not a blinding light and uncontrollable gravitational pull, not even so much as a spark. Stan would let out a shuddery sigh of defeat; Fiddleford would finally relax his shoulders and release the tense, anxious breath he was holding.
He wanted his friend back, of course. At least, he was pretty sure he did—that corner of his memories still seemed to be the foggiest. Even now, his past with Stanford was something he kept from Stanley, shameful as it was.
What good would it do, with the state his mind was in? What were those memories worth to Stan if Fiddleford could hardly recall what Stanford's equations were, or even what his voice sounded like?
Stanley would hate him for walking away from his brother. He'd surely blame him for his part in the portal's creation, and how would Fiddleford argue with him when he couldn't remember how much of a part he'd even played?
No, whatever hazy scraps were left from his partnership with Stanford were better kept close to his chest. Any useful information he happened to remember was casually brushed off as something he learned in college, or an old job as a lab assistant in Tennessee.
As far as Stanley knew, Stanford had built the portal and lived his life in Gravity Falls alone. Fiddleford was nothing more than a stranger.
It was better for both of them that way.
As Stan's sobs quieted to hiccups and sniffles, Fiddleford walked over to him and put a hand on his shoulder. Placating, but cautious, in case Stan was still in no mood to be touched (as he usually was, Fiddleford had noticed. Though, he had his suspicions that it was less of a genuine dislike for physical affection and more of a front Stan put on whenever he felt especially vulnerable).
Thankfully, rather than shrugging his hand off, Stan visibly relaxed at the touch, instinctually leaning into it, yet did not raise his head. Fiddleford kept his hand where it was and walked around to face his partner—lover? Boyfriend? They'd never put a name to what they were, but Fiddleford didn't mind. As long as he fell asleep to large hands wrapped around his waist and woke up having to spit out long, messy curls that got in his mouth, Fiddleford was content.
He brought his other hand to Stan's chin and gently tilted it up.
"Hey," Fiddleford said softly, stroking Stan's stubble. An unspoken plea to return his gaze. For a moment, Stan continued staring at the ground, before raising his eyes to meet Fiddleford's.
His stomach lurched at how broken Stan looked, how much pain was hidden behind those brown eyes. How different he looked now, compared to the hopeful, borderline-hysterical man he'd been when they first met. The man who was damn-near jumping for joy when Fiddleford had told him he wasn't crazy, portals like this weren't as uncommon as you'd think (technically not a lie, he reckoned), that Fiddleford was plenty familiar with working with this type of otherworldly technology.
"You serious? You can really help me, you're not just fuckin' with me?" Stan had asked him, looking him in the eye with such fierce desperation that Fiddleford couldn't bring himself to refuse.
"'Course I can," he'd replied, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt, "How difficult could powerin' up a multidimensional portal be?"
Mighty difficult, it turned out. That was almost eight months ago, and they were still no closer to getting Stanford back. Fiddleford did what he could, told Stanley where to procure a sizable amount of radioactive waste (stealing from the government was concerningly easy for him, like he'd been familiar with it, but Fiddleford figured Stan was entitled to his secrets just as he was), took a wrench to it here, a blowtorch there.
But with only a third of Stanford's notes and his own schematics and equations reduced to ashes and thrown in the trash, their chances of pulling this off were slim to none.
"He's—He's not comin' back, is he?"
Stan's voice cracked as he spoke. Fiddleford knelt down to his level with a sigh.
"I...can't say for certain, dear," he said honestly, brushing some of Stan's bangs out of his face.
Pet names and terms of endearment came naturally for Fiddleford, a byproduct of his upbringing, no doubt. He thought there were blurry memories of Stanford politely yet firmly telling him to stop using them on him, as they'd made him uncomfortable, but thinking too much about it made his head hurt.
Stanley, on the other hand, seemed to revel in even the smallest displays of affection. They disarmed him, and made him practically melt into Fiddleford's touch. There was something about this fragility, this lack of true tenderness that Stan had apparently become accustomed to, that made Fiddleford want to shield his lover away from the world.
He fought the urge to grill Stan on who was responsible for making him feel like he was unworthy of love, mainly because he knew he wouldn't be able to resist building something that would make them rethink ever treating him that way. Even more worrying was that, knowing Stan, he would probably fully support Fiddleford's plans of revenge and destruction.
He tucked the idea away for the time being.
"What I do know," Fiddleford continued, cupping Stan's face, "is that you haven't gotten a wink of shuteye in two days. Why don't we fix that, hm?"
The bags under Stanley's eyes were even worse than when they'd first met, and that was saying something. Fiddleford wanted nothing more than to forget about this hopeless project, leave the portal behind for good, and snuggle up to Stanley in their cramped, shared bed. He wanted to make Stanley's coffee in the morning, go fishing with him at the lake, drink some booze until they were both floaty and giggly, leave handprints on Stan's hips, bite marks on his neck, and fall asleep with his fingers carding through Stan's hairy chest.
But Stanley was nothing if not stubborn, and Fiddleford was prepared to fight him on it if he refused to come to bed. However, Stan nodded numbly, resting his cheek into Fiddleford's bandaged hand.
"Yeah," he agreed, voice hoarse from screaming, "Yeah, I think you're right, Fidds. Usually are."
Fiddleford pulled Stan to his feet and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"'Usually'?" He teased, and felt his heart swell at the first smirk Stan had cracked all day. Stan ruffled his hair playfully.
"Eh, don't push it."