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When he wakes up, the first thing he registers is warm. Warm and soft. In fact, he’s fairly certain it’s the most soft and warm he’s ever felt in his life. Except...he doesn’t know how he knows. He has no prerequisite, he can’t remember one. He...can’t remember much of anything, actually. Everything in his head feels like it’s blanketed by this thick white fog. That should frighten him, shouldn’t it? But it doesn’t. The fog feels familiar, like he’s dealt with it before, and in time it’ll be gone. He feels comfortable enough to wait for that. And if it doesn’t go away, he’s not sure he’d mind. He feels so content, and happy. So who cares?
His eyes open slowly, and it’s to bright sunlight. It’s streaming in from somewhere--windows? Yeah, windows to his left. Big ones, but he can’t be sure, after a certain point his vision goes totally blurry. That irks him more than the fog in his head. He grumbles a little, but quiets immediately when he feels someone shift against him. Someone is nestled up against his side; a hand is curled into his chest hair, a head is on his shoulder, a leg is thrown over his. Perhaps that should frighten him too, because he can’t remember climbing into bed with someone, let alone climbing into bed. But it doesn’t. If anything, he feels even happier with them by his side, whoever they are. His arm is around their waist, and as he feels without moving he can tell that the person he’s with is surprisingly small. The tickling on his chest must be from long hair; when he glances down, he can see white, but that’s it. He can feel their breath on his chest. He thinks they’re still asleep, so he decides to stay as still as he can. He doesn’t want to ruin this--it feels almost too good to be true.
He tries to glance around, but his limited vision is no help at all. He thinks he can make out the bedposts--and this bed is huge. He’s pretty sure he’s larger than average, and this bed dwarfs him. Everything, though, is blurred, to soft greens and warm dark browns. He looks up and he thinks the ceiling high above is painted. Wherever he--they--are, it’s very lavish. If he couldn’t tell from the surroundings, he could definitely tell from the sheets and blankets they’re wrapped in--it’s soft cotton, with silk on top. The pillows feel like heaven. Hell, he could almost fall asleep again.
...If it didn’t feel like his mouth was made of sandpaper. He must be an open-mouth breather at night (maybe he snores, seems likely), because his mouth is dryer than a desert. Saliva doesn’t do jack--he needs water. But he feels whoever he’s with shift again and internally curses. He can’t move, he’d wake them up. And he likes this far too much. So he stays.
However, it isn’t long before he realizes that the breathing he feels on his chest is uneven--not stuttering, just...not regular. And then he realizes that the person he’s holding is awake too. They were both awake, simply letting the sun and their contact warm them and enjoying the peace and quiet.
...But he is thirsty. And when he looks over to his left, he can make out a bedside table and lo and behold, a heavenly glass of fucking water. Oh god he’s so torn.
The decision is made for him; the person pulls away and sits up, yawning. He sits up too, and he immediately reaches for the glass. He almost knocks it over in his haste, but he manages to bring it to his lips and gulps it down. When he’s had his fill he sets it back down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances over--and immediately flushes red. The person--man--is staring at him amusedly.
This man. He’s staring at him with what has got to be the bluest blue eyes he’s ever seen. The white was hair, but it wasn’t head hair--the man has a long white beard, and a quite luxurious one at that. Save for a tuft of fluffy hair on the very top of his head otherwise, the man is bald. He has a long, round nose and crow’s feet that crinkle as he grins. He’s small and spindly, and although one can count his ribs he has a little pot belly to go with all of it. He. Is. Adorable.
The man watches as he coughs and scratches his neck bashfully, trying to calm his heartbeat, lest his heart give out altogether (because he has to assume he’s old, like the other man; his hands seemed wrinkly enough to prove it when he looked at them).
“Uh, ah, g-good morning, there.” He manages, awkward as all hell. The other man giggles. He wonders what the man’s name is. He can’t remember for the life of him (he can’t remember his own name either, but the other man’s seems far more important right this second).
“Mornin’.” The man answers with a giggle. Oh god, he’s southern. He really wishes he remembered the man’s name. Well, there...there’s only one way to find out. He looks away guiltily.
“Uh...ummm, I--this--this is gonna sound kinda mean, but, ah, I don’t remember your name.” He mumbles.
“Oh!” The man chirps, eyes widening. His brow then knits with confusion, and he taps his chin as he thinks. Was he having trouble remembering things too? Hm. Maybe they both got drunk together, that seems like something he’d do (but again, he doesn’t remember how he knows that).
“I’m pretty sure...I’m pretty sure my name is Fiddleford.” The man looks up at him, grinning. His jaw drops.
Fiddleford. What kind of a name is that?
I love it.
“That has got to be the most ridiculous name I have ever heard.” He breathes, eyes wide and disbelieving. Something so pleasant is twisting in his chest. The man--Fiddleford--looks a little taken aback, that is until he follows with: “I think it’s really cute.”
Fiddleford still looks surprised, but the look quickly changes to a sly one, even as his cheeks tinge red.
“Well, aren’t you a charmer.”
He grins confidently, returning the look.
“Well, you’re in my bed, aren’t ya?” A thought makes him pause. “Unless this is your bed. Actually, I think this is your bed,” He runs his hand across the sheets. “I don’t think I’ve ever owned anything this nice. So--uh--let me rephrase.”
He clears his throat before leaning back on his hand, making a bit of a show of himself.
“I’m in your bed, aren’t I?”
Fiddleford actually laughs this time--his laugh is kind of a throaty cackle, and it cracks a few times, but it just makes the pleasantness in his chest twist more. He loves that laugh, it’s so honest and happy. It makes him smile wider.
“I suppose you are.” Fiddleford finally answers, shoulders still shaking. “Although I am having such a hard time recallin’ how I came by fancy stuff like this.”
“Yeah…” He swallows nervously. “Uh...speaking of...you don’t happen to remember my name, do ya?”
Again Fiddleford gets that pondering look on his face, tapping his chin.
“F...Ford--no…” He murmured aloud, “...S...Ste--no...uhm...Ste--Sta--Stan!” He cries happily, bouncing a little as he points at him. “Your name is Stan!”
Stan? Suddenly a bit of that fog dissipates. The name is familiar, familiar enough to be his...but also not his? The more he focuses on the name, the more he feels sure it’s his, but...it’s someone else’s too.
“Stan…” He says aloud, and he recognizes it even more. He grins. “Yeah! Stan! That’s...that’s familiar!”
Fiddleford claps his hands together.
“Good, good!”
“Uh, do ya--do ya remember anything else?” Stan asks. Fiddleford gazes around at their surroundings, eyes squinting.
“Oh gosh darn it, I can’t see a--oh! Glasses! We both wear glasses!” The man lurches for the bedside table closest to him. He straightens and passes something to Stan; Stan barely catches it. He only has to raise the pair of glasses to his face to realize they’re not his. They’re far too small, he doesn’t have to try them on to know that.
“I think these are you--” He cuts off as he catches sight of Fiddleford, already wearing the other pair and gazing at him with now owlishly large eyes. It’s hilarious.
“Nice try, Fiddlebird.” He laughs, not knowing where the nickname came from but enjoying the sound of it. “I think you switched ‘em up.”
“I reckon yer right, ‘cause I still can’t see a darn thing with these.” Fiddleford takes them off. They switch, and immediately their world is crystal clear.
“Woah.” Stan breathes, really taking it all in now. The term lavish was an understatement. The amount of detail in everything is astounding. He hadn’t realized before, but the silk sheets he’s lying under are intricately embroidered with flowers. The bedhead behind him is dark oak wood, carved in at the edges and curving to form an incredible carved lion at the top. He was right earlier: the ceiling is painted, a light blue sky with fluffy clouds, and several birds of paradise flying through, each painted to even further detail that he can’t make out even with his glasses. With a sudden jolt he remembers that he named the red macaw near the corner Archibald. He’s not sure why--both why he remembers that detail in particular and why he would ever name a red macaw Archibald.
Fiddleford is equally in awe, totally speechless.
“Okay.” Stan manages, eyeing the curtains that are an olive green and lightly embroidered, and that compliments the white fur rug that runs across most of the floor. “We are either super duper lucky, or we got plastered last night and broke into someone’s mansion.”
“I don’t think we’re criminals...although for some reason I can’t picture you as the law abidin’ type.” Fiddleford giggles, and the look in his eye is completely mischievous, not suspicious.
“Okay,” Stan decides to take the idea and run, “sooo maybe I’m a Class A thief, and this place was my new target. I was in the middle of pilferin’ the family jewels,” He begins to gesture dramatically, caught up in his story as he grins, “when all of a sudden I was detained by none other than you, pretty lil’ thing all wrapped up in a fluffy robe and ready for bed.”
Fiddleford blushes bright red at that, but Stan keeps going.
“You threaten to call the cops, but through my incredible charisma I manage to charm my way out of an arrest--and into your bed.” He winks lasciviously at Fiddleford, and the man blushes harder, although he covers his mouth to hide a laugh.
“But after a night of debauchery, we find ourselves completely endeared to one another. Oh no! The scandal!” He cries, holding his hand to his forehead melodramatically. “You, the rich and famous Fiddleford, falling for me, Master Thief Stan! I’m wanted in several states--no, countries! And you have a reputation to uphold! Whatever will we do?”
Fiddleford isn’t even trying to hide his laughter anymore, he’s laughing so hard he’s crying. He whacks Stan’s shoulder lightly as he tries to recover.
“Oh--oh Stan--Stanley you are too much!” He hoots. Something clicks with Stan though. Stanley.
“Pines.” He murmurs. He’s suddenly swept up with elation because he remembers. He waves his hands excitedly. “Stanley Pines! I’m Stanley Pines!”
“You--you are!” Fiddleford’s eyes light up with recognition, but immediately cloud with confusion. “Wait--you aren’t Stanford?”
“No, no,” Stan shakes his head fervently. But the name sounds familiar...oh my god. His jaw drops. “I have a twin brother.”
“You do?”
“I do! His name is Stanford! Why are we both named Stan?” His brow knits. Fiddleford hums as they think. Suddenly he hoots.
“You do have a twin! An’ he’s got six fingers!”
“Yeah! He’s got--” Stan cuts off, staring at his own hands. “He’s got six fingers?”
“Yeah! And he wears glasses like you do!”
“Huh. Cool. Wonder where he is…” Stan trails off. Despite remembering a little bit, it was still only a little bit. There’s still a lot he can’t remember. He can picture Stanford’s face, which is a little reassuring (god he looks like a capital ‘N’ Nerd, Stan hopes he doesn’t look that nerdy). He remembers them fighting a lot, although about what he can’t remember specifically. But he also remembers them laughing together, and them...sailing? That’s what it looks like. It looks nice.
“Well, we’re in Gravity Falls, I remember that much.” Fiddleford says. “And I doubt Stanford’s far. The more I think about it, the more I believe you two are practically insepa--insepraparable!”
The man frowns.
“Inseper--inspa--why is this word givin’ me trouble?” He slaps his knee frustratedly. Stan pats his shoulder reassuringly.
“Hey, it’s okay. Words can be hard.”
“Mmm. But I feel like I do this often--like--like big words an’ such are hard for me to say.” Fiddleford sighs. “Everything in my head feels slippery as a fish this mornin’.”
Stan lets his hand fall from the man’s shoulder, and, after swallowing nervously, takes Fiddleford’s hand in his.
“Don’t worry. It’ll--I think we’ll figure it out eventually.” He smiles--and god he feels like his heart is beating loud enough for the world to hear. “We’ve got each other, in the meantime.”
Fiddleford returns the grip and the smile.
“Yes, yes we do.”
Stan’s heart flutters as he stares and then--
“Can I kiss you?” It’s out of his mouth before he can stop it. Fiddleford’s eyes widen. Oh no. Panic time.
“I m-mean--you don’t have to! I--just--” Stan begins to stammer, face heating up. Dammit Stan, aren’t you supposed to be smooth? What is this? “--I know we don’t r-really remember each other but we are in bed together and--it’s t-totally okay if you don’t want to, it’s just, I feel r-really happy, and I feel great here with y-you and--
“Sure!”
Wait what.
“Wait what?”
“You can kiss me!” Fiddleford chirps. He’s blushing too, but he seems calm and unperturbed by the nervous mess that is Stan.
“I can--I can--wait really?” Stan fumbles. Fiddleford nods.
“Well, I ain’t gonna turn down a handsome fella like yerself.” Fiddleford winks, although Stan notes that when the eye reopens it’s become lazy. Fiddleford continues, a little more shyly, “And...and I feel the same way too.”
The only word Stan can think of to describe how he feels is floaty. He feels light as a goddamn feather.
“Uh...okay…” He murmurs awkwardly, leaning in a little. He slowly brings his free hand up to Fiddleford’s cheek and after a shuddery breath their lips connect.
It’s soft, softer than he thought it would be, and--fuck, it’s sweet . It’s so good, God, the way Fiddleford moves against him, deepening the kiss, he loves when Fiddleford does that, he loves the feel of his beard-
Stanley, it’s late, we should be getting to bed.
Lee, do you remember where the phillip’s head is?
Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Fidds, you’ll never guess what we found! NEVER!!
Oh god, you need a shave, you silly ol’ pirate.
So is the rock actually a face?
Dude, you’ll like, never believe what just happened.
You underestimate my power, old man!
Stan, did you hide my glasses again?
Grunkle Stan, can we keep it? Pleaassseee?
I love you, Stanley.
Stanley.
“Stanley?”
The onslaught of information makes his head scream under the strain--he didn’t even realize he had shoved Fiddleford away.
“Gah, shit, fuck, my head,” He groans, shuddering as everything sorts itself into place.
“Stanley, Stanley are you alright?” The voice makes his head snap up. There’s so much swirling in his head and he knows his headache will likely last for hours but he can’t care less because Fiddleford Hadron McGucket is looking at him with so much concern it’s making his heart melt.
“Fiddleford.” He hisses, quickly becoming more animated. “Oh my god, I do remember you! You’re a mechanic! You--”
He can’t help it, he tugs Fiddleford forward and begins peppering every inch of skin he can find with kisses. He hates the fact that he forgets what this feels like, what every inch of Fiddleford’s skin feels like to him. He rambles through his kisses.
“God, you--fuckin’--inventor, you genius--and Ford and Mabel--Stan O’ War, all done up--shit, ikh libe ir--azoy fil-- Soos in that dumb suit--Ma’s latkes--I punched a cornchip in the face--Dipper lookin’ for trouble--I remember it, r’member it all--remember you--goddamn nerd --sheyn zheni--I love ya--love ya so much--”
“Stanley! Ah! That tickles!” McGucket laughs underneath it all, hardly able to fight the onslaught. He lets Stan have his way with him until soft, calloused palms are on Stan’s cheeks, halting his rant by dragging him into a real kiss. Stan immediately reciprocates. His hands slide to the man’s hips and heft him easily into his lap. Fiddleford squeaks against his lips but doesn’t stop. His hands move past Stan’s cheeks and thread into his hair. The sharp little tugs make him moan, but a tidbit of memory clinks into place and he breaks the kiss.
“ Fuck, you’re a millionaire.” That’s all he can say before Fiddleford pulls him back in. Moses, how could Stan ever forget this? It’s too perfect to ever lose sight of. The kiss goes on until Stan breaks it again. Another realization has dawned.
“I’m a trophy husband.” Again, that’s all that gets said before Fiddleford has him again. God is the man persistent. And good, just, so good, and so beautiful, Stan loves him so much.
And he breaks the kiss again.
“Oh my god, I’m a trophy husband.” That makes the mechanic laugh, it’s said in such a bewildered fashion. Fiddleford pushes him back and he falls into the silk heaven of the bed. Stan would laugh himself, but he’s having the life kissed out of him, and he loves every second of it. Stan hates forgetting, but sometimes remembering has its own rewards.
Stan groans as Fiddleford moves against him in all the right ways, all too willing to let the man make his world fall apart as quickly as he had made it come together.