Chapter Text
Winter break was fast approaching and the campus was covered in gaudy green and red decorations. Exam stress was still running high, except now it was accompanied by a background of festive music and joviality. Fiddleford was particularly excited - you can take the boy outta the country, but you can’t take the country outta the boy; as much as he loved Backupsmore, he always felt a little bit homesick, so was eager to go home and see his family again.
He was slightly concerned, however, about Ford and Stan (not a rare occurrence, he had to admit. The more he got to know the Pines twins, the more Fiddleford felt a distinct sense of sympathy for their poor mother). He knew the boys didn’t celebrate Christmas, but he also knew that their home was one filled with tension, to say the least - with Stan being kicked out, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be allowed to go back, and he didn’t know if Ford would want to go back. It hurt his heart, thinking of Ford sitting at the dinner table with his parents, missing his twin and masking his stims that Fiddleford had fought so hard to ensure that he would feel comfortable with. The alternative wasn’t a whole lot better - Stanford, in the dorm alone, on an empty campus.
Then there was Stan. Fiddleford knew that he had been kicked out, and that there was a science project involved, but he didn’t know much more than that. Frankly, he didn’t want to know much more - how a man could throw his own son onto the streets was incomprehensible to Fiddleford, especially when Stan was so… soft. He had seen the man get upset over seeing roadkill, had seen him pull faces at crying kids in public to make them laugh; how could any father be anything but proud of his son?
Fiddleford highly doubted that Stan would be invited, or even want to go home. Which comes back round to the same predicament: if Ford goes back to New Jersey, Stan is left alone (or, at least with only his weird roommate for company). If Ford stays, Fiddleford is sure that Stan will spend the entire time feeling misplaced guilt about it.
He did whatever he did when he felt a whole lotta feelings - he phoned his dad.
“Well, son,” his dad’s thick, Southern drawl was comforting and familiar, instantly putting Fiddleford at ease. “It sounds like ya really care about these fellas!”
“I reckon you’re right about that, Pa.”
“And that’s a good thing - I’m glad you got yerself some good pals up in that fancy college o’yours. But listen, you ain’t their mommy. It ain’t your job to fix all their daddy issues.”
“I just worry, is all.”
“I know you do, son. I just don’t want t’ see ya set yerself on fire just to keep others warm.”
Fiddleford sighed. “So what do I do?”
“Easy. You invite ‘em down South for the holidays - if they accept, they accept, and everyone’s happy. They say no, you support that decision, and say no more about it.”
That was easy for his dad to say - he had never met the Pines boys. Still, Fiddleford was not surprised that his dad was ready and willing to have two extra guests in their house over the break. It was just up to him to work up the courage to ask them.
Luckily, the perfect opportunity presented itself not long after his phone call with his dad. He and Stanford had found a corner of the library to study in, the table between them claimed by a spread of loose-leaf notes, laptop chargers, and takeaway coffee cups. They had been, at one point, making flashcards, but Ford got carried away with illustrating them - each card had a hyper realistic doodle to accompany it - and then the two of them got distracted by Fiddleford requesting increasingly crazy things for Stanford to sketch in that effortless way of his.
Fiddleford was using his ancient brick of a laptop to search for images of axolotls for Ford to use as a reference, their studying abandoned. Their conversation turned more light-hearted as the two of them giggled at Stanford’s creations.
“It’s not like you to slack off like this,” Fiddleford was using his highlighters to colour in an unflattering drawing of one of their more strict professors. Stanford hummed in thought.
“Yes, well. I’ll have ample time to catch up with any work missed in the next few weeks, I suppose.”
“You’re not goin’ home?” Fiddleford did his very best impression of someone who cared an appropriate amount about the response to this question.
The pencil in Ford’s hand ceased its path for a moment, before continuing as if it never stopped. “I - no. Things are, um. Complicated.” Ford kept his eyes down, avoiding Fiddleford’s gaze.
Complicated was certainly one word you could use to describe Stanford’s home life. Both Pines twins were tight-lipped about their family - though Stan often sang his mother’s praises, lamenting how much he missed her cooking (and maybe Fiddleford’s heart melted at Stan secretly being a momma’s boy - who’s to say?) - but he knew the phone conversations that Ford had with his parents left him feeling tense, and off-kilter. He knew that any allusion to their father made Stan go pale and change the subject.
“Right, of course.” Fiddleford bit back a sigh, chewing his bottom lip nervously. “Well - there’s plenty of room on the farm.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the McGucket residence has an open-door policy for friends. You’re more than welcome to come back to Tennessee with me.”
Several funny, unreadable looks flashed across Stanford’s face in a very short amount of time. His expression finally settled into a confused frown, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout and his brow furrowed slightly. His pencil tapped a staccato against the table as his throat worked, searching for something to say.
“And it probably goes without sayin’, but yer brother is welcome too, of course.”
Ford’s pencil kept tapping. His expression remained unmoving.
Fiddleford waited for a long, painful moment, before giving in.
“...Stanford?”
The tapping stopped.
Ford turned to him - he still avoided eye contact, but his expression softened into something more neutral. His voice was uncharacteristically soft as he started voicing his predictable protests: “I wouldn’t want to impose -”
“If I thought you were gonna be an imposition, I wouldn’t have asked ya, silly.”
“Right, right.” Ford spoke under his breath, almost to himself. With a sigh, Fiddleford took pity on him.
“Look, Ford. You don’t hafta make a decision right away, and you don’t gotta be worried that I’ll be offended if you say no. Just - the offers there, alright? Why don’t ya take a few days, talk to Stanley, and then come back to me?”
Ford seemed to deflate, all the nervous energy leaving him like air from a balloon. He blinked rapidly, before nodding and giving Fiddleford a shaky - but genuine - smile.
“I think I can manage that,” he said, and Fiddleford grinned.
“Attaboy.” He held up two highlighters. “Now - what colour should I make this koala - neon pink, or fluorescent yellow?”
After much deliberation (and a lot of suspicion from Stanley), the final plan was this: the twins would head to Tennessee with Fiddleford for the first week of the break and celebrate Christmas with the McGucket’s. For the second week, the twins will head back up to Backupsmore - Stan could only book so much time off from work, so would head back to the college to get back to his handyman and bartending jobs. It was a reasonable compromise, one that ensured that the Pines twins actually had some time away from their workaholic tendencies. Fiddleford was buzzing with excitement - he was eager to show his friends around his home and introduce them to his family.
(He was also panicking. Just a little bit. Having the boy he was head over heels with in his space - in his home - was more than a little bit intimidating. He was anxious to see how he would react to his family, his hometown, and his childhood bedroom.)
Until then, it was business as usual - Fiddleford and Stanford spent their time either stressing about exams, going to exams, or passing out at their desks whilst cramming for their exams. Less of their time was spent with Stanley, who was still working hard on campus and would send them texts full of encouraging emojis on days when he knew they had papers due. Embarrassingly, Stanford had caught Fiddleford on more than one occasion smiling down at these emojis like a schoolgirl with a crush.
“You’re entirely hopeless,” he would say, shaking his head. Fiddleford would turn pink, unable to disagree.
And, of course, Stanley had very kindly offered to drive them all to the McGucket residence. Which meant that Fiddleford would have to spend several hours shut in a very small, confined space with the object of his inescapable fantasies.
Lord love a duck.
“What about this?” Stanley was holding up a particular ugly sweater that seemed to incorporate a colour that Fiddleford could only describe as murky. Fiddleford rolled his eyes.
“Somehow, I don’t think yer brother would appreciate a vomit-inspired sweater. But thanks for the suggestion.”
The two of them were enjoying a rare day off from college and work respectively, and Fiddleford had decided to use it to do some Christmas shopping. He had dragged Stanley with him for some semblance of moral support - unfortunately, all Stan seemed to be good for was pointing out increasingly horrendous items and suggesting that they get it for Ford. Fiddleford really didn’t know what he expected.
“Hey, I don’t know how all this Christmas crap works. For all I know, buying each other ugly jumpers is a sacred Gentile tradition.” He shoved the jumper back on the rack and wandered further into the store, Fiddleford following with a fond eye roll. “Ford’s not gonna care what you get him. He’s 99% sap - if you got him matching BFF bracelets he’d probably cry.”
Fiddleford sighed. “Remind me again why I brought you with me?”
“For my dazzling personality, obviously, ” Stan grinned, all teeth, and fluttered his eyelashes. “That, and that chick with the pink hair in the food court always gives me a discount, and you wanna scrounge off of me.”
That much was true. There was a lass in the food court with faded pink hair that seemed to be permanently grumpy, but Stan had somehow wormed his way into her good graces and whenever she was on shift, they managed to finagle a discount on burritos. Whenever Fiddleford asked Stan what he did to receive such an honour, the twin would leer at him and tap the side of his nose mysteriously.
“Right, of course. I need you for your enchilada benefits.”
“Speaking of - I’m starving. We should go get something to eat.”
Fiddleford looked down at the clothing rack he was rummaging through and sighed. He hadn’t had much success on today’s shopping trip, and part of him wanted to keep going. However, he also figured that nothing would be accomplished on an empty stomach, and Stan was obviously getting bored trailing after him as he failed to find a present for Ford.
“Okay, fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “But you have to help me brainstorm gift ideas as we eat.”
“Deal,” Stanley grinned, before grabbing Fiddleford’s arm and dragging him towards the food court.
“Clothes are out. How about… books?”
Stanley groaned, throwing his head back dramatically.
“Please tell me you did not bring me out here just to shop for books. ” He slurped his coke aggressively.
“Fine, fine. How about -” Fiddleford looked around the mall from where he sat, hoping that inspiration might strike him. “Stationery?”
Stan levelled an unimpressed look towards him and said nothing.
“ Ugh, I know. I know! All these ideas - they’re all terrible, aren’t they?” He buried his face in his hands, his elbows narrowly avoiding a pot of extra guacamole. Stan reached out a salsa-stained hand to pat his forearm sympathetically.
He knew he may be blowing things out of proportion here - realistically, Fiddleford was more than aware that his friendship with Stanford did not hang on the balance of whether or not he could find the man a suitable Christmas present or not, especially as Stanford didn’t even really celebrate the holiday to begin with.
“Hey,” Stanley said, all of a sudden sitting up straight and putting down his food. “Wasn’t he going on about the new Dungeons, Dorks, and More Dungeons update the other day?”
Fiddleford stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Stanley Pines. You. Are. A. Genius.”