Chapter Text
As was to be expected of a December evening, outside was dark and cold. Despite that, Stanford found himself feeling pleasantly warm as he and Fiddleford slowly made their way back to their shared dorm. He attributed that partly to the lovely drinks they’ve just had, the cinnamon that had been sprinkled over his coffee still fresh on his tongue, and partly to the great company. Fiddleford laughed, and even though Stanford had somewhat lost the thread of their conversation, the sound alone made him chuckle along.
For the first time in a long while, they didn’t have to worry about any impending exams. Winter break had come both quicker and later than expected, somehow, and they were finally able to relax. Though there were some tests set in January, Stanford was trying his best not to spend all of their supposed free time studying, mostly at Fiddleford’s insistence.
“Maybe the city folk had a point about sitting ‘round in cafés all along,” Fiddleford wondered aloud, walking at a comfortable pace. “It was quite nice.”
“Unreasonably expensive, though,” Stanford pointed out. “Nearly two dollars for a coffee, no matter how fancy, will never make sense to me.”
Fiddleford made a rather passionate noise of agreement, immediately going off on a tangent about the prices of everyday items in general. Stanford nodded along. He’d heard almost that exact string of words many times before, but he didn’t mind listening to Fiddleford once again. It was always nice to see him speak so fervently – it made Standford feel understood, to witness someone else care so deeply about a topic.
He glanced to the side while Fiddleford spoke, eyes catching on some of the snowflakes falling peacefully all around them. While he didn’t consider winter to be anything special, Stanford did have to admit he had a soft spot for snow. He used to love staring out of the window after a night of snowfall, admiring the cold blanket that had covered the world. It made everything look calm and peaceful, a little sleepy. Stepping into it felt inherently wrong, like he was disturbing something sacred and not meant to be tampered with. Stanley never had such reservations, running wildly into the snow and getting soaked within seconds. It was a wonder how he didn’t get sick from it.
Stanford felt his own expression fall at the thought of his twin brother. It had been a couple of years since Stanley’s betrayal, but the wound was still tender. His best friend – only friend back then, really – sabotaged his future, made him look a fool on the most important day of his life thus far, and when confronted with the fact had the audacity to act as if that were actually a good thing.
He'd been furious back then. Still was, to be fair, but there were many things about that night he wished he could change. He wished Stanley would have given him a proper explanation of what had happened, instead of the half-baked version of events he got from him. He wished he could have punched Stanley in the face, a little. Most of all, though, Stanford wished he could have kept his damn voice down.
For all his anger, Stanford never thought kicking Stanley to the curb was a reasonable decision on their father’s part. He’d turned away from his brother that night, even if Stanley’s hopeful plea for support pulled painfully at his heartstrings. He wanted him to see just how badly that hurt, for the one person you thought you could trust to be so cruel. Stanley was supposed to be back the following morning, maybe in two days if he’d wanted to act particularly childish, hiding away and sulking only to come back groveling once he came to his senses. But then he wasn’t back – not for the next week, not for the next month, not for the next year. Stanford’s twin brother was well and truly gone, at least partially because he couldn’t have waited a bit to talk things out outside of their father’s earshot.
Stanford shook his head, as if to dispel the thought. Now was not the time to reminisce about the past. Fiddleford either didn’t notice him getting completely lost in thought or politely chose not to point it out – regardless of which was the case, Stanford was grateful that he didn’t need to explain himself. He tried to focus back on what Fiddleford was saying, looking around as they came to a crosswalk.
The road was void of any drivers, the only cars in the area being the ones parked on the side of the road, gradually getting covered with snow. One in particular caught his attention, its bright red colour a stark contrast to the pure white powder. Stanford’s eyes wandered to the license plate, and he stopped dead in his tracks once he actually comprehended what he’d just read.
Stanley’s car.
He blinked a little dumbly. It was still there.
“Stanford?” he turned at the sound of his name being called. Fiddleford looked back at him, a confused smile on his face. “I know there ain’t a soul ‘round besides us but maybe don’t stop in the middle of the road.”
“Oh!” their surroundings seemed to come back into focus. Stanford jogged a bit awkwardly to catch up with Fiddleford. “Sorry, I just… got distracted.”
Fiddleford didn’t respond, already knowing that Stanford wanted to say more. He turned towards the car once again, biting his lip as he mulled over the idea. Stanley hadn’t contacted him in years, and he’d never exactly been one to sit issues out silently. It was as clear of a message as any – I don’t want anything to do with you. Logical to assume that that were the case, yet it left a sour taste in Stanford’s mouth. When had anything to do with his brother been clear-cut and fully logical?
Stanford steeled himself, bouncing slightly in place as he prepared to make a, possibly, very stupid decision. “Actually, can you give me a second? I need to, uh, check something. Feel free to go ahead without me, it really is freezing today.” He wasn’t thrilled at the idea of possibly facing Stanley with no backup, but imagining Fiddleford listen to them argue wasn’t particularly better.
“Nah, I can wait for ya. Startin’ to kinda like the cold, anyhow,” Fiddleford said, hands in pockets and waiting for Stanford to lead the way.
As they walked over to the vehicle Stanford squinted at the license plate one more time, just to make sure it hadn’t been his imagination. The text stubbornly remained the same, and he didn’t know whether that was disappointing or encouraging.
There was a decent coat of snow covering the car, indicating that it had been parked there for at least a few hours. The windows had begun frosting over, obscuring the view of the inside slightly. That seemed very unlike Stanley, to simply leave the car unprotected from the elements – his brother might have been careless in many ways, but not when it came to cars. Stanley was quite the skilled mechanic, considering his lack of professional training or education, and he took special care of the so-called ‘Stanmobile’. The Stanley Stanford remembered would have never let his car be potentially damaged by low temperatures.
Stanford huffed a warm breath onto the passenger side window, rubbing at it lightly to have a look inside. He didn’t know what he was hoping to see. Frankly, he wasn’t thinking much of anything at the time.
The interior of the car had been kind of a wreck. Wrappers, empty take-out boxes, and half-drank bottles of various liquors littered what little of the backseats he could see. The leather car seats appeared significantly more worn than when he’d last seen them. There were a few pieces of clothing strewn around the car, Stanley’s duffle bag sat on the passenger seat, only partly zipped up.
Fiddleford had been standing idly by, silently letting Stanford snoop around while pretending to be invested in a nearby wall. Curiosity did get the better of him eventually, though, and Stanford felt him lean into the window right beside him.
“Whose car is this?” he asked, hands cupped on the side of his face to get a better look inside. “And what are we hopin’ to achieve here?”
Stanford hesitated. He’d never mentioned Stanley before – for all Fiddleford knew, Shermie was his only sibling. The bitter resentment had still been fresh when they first met, and then it just… never came up, he supposed.
“It belongs to someone I know,” he muttered. “And I’m… not entirely sure, frankly. I haven’t spoken to or seen them in a while. Something just compelled me to come closer, I reckon.”
Fiddleford huffed a quiet laughter, only chuckling louder in response to the indignant noise Stanford made. “Sorry, sorry, just a tad funny to hear ‘reckon’ comin’ out of your mouth.”
Stanford sighed, feigning annoyance. “What can I say, you’re a terrible influence on my vocabulary,” he teased, smiling just a bit wider when Fiddleford elbowed him lightly.
“Er, any chance you might know where that friend o’ yours is at the minute?” Fiddleford asked, suddenly sounding worried.
Stanford tried not to bristle at the word friend. “I’m afraid not,” he turned his gaze away from the car, looking at Fiddleford quizzically. “Why?” Fiddleford pointed at something inside of the car. Stanford turned back around, squinting and trying to see what he’d missed.
“Probably shouldn’t leave keys out in the open,” Fiddleford said, just as the metallic shine of an item sitting on the dashboard caught Stanford’s eye.
Something was wrong. Stanford glared at the keys, eyebrows furrowed as he tried to connect some sort of puzzle in his head. His hand practically flew to the handle, blood running cold when he found the car unlocked. Something was very, very wrong.
He quickly closed the door and began looking around frantically, headed in no particular direction, with no plan. Stanford vaguely registered Fiddleford saying something, but he’d been too preoccupied to fully comprehend the words. This wasn’t right. Stanley might not have been the brightest, but he wasn’t this stupid. He would not have intentionally left his car unlocked, and he most certainly would not have just left the keys behind.
Stanford ran as quickly as the frozen sidewalk allowed, nearly slipping multiple times. He looked up and down the road, finding no sign of another human being. The previously cosy quiet had become eerie, the only sounds which broke the perfect silence being Stanford’s unsteady footsteps and breathing. Stanley had to be around there somewhere – Stanford simply refused to entertain any other possibility.
He looked down every alley he passed, scanning for any indication of his brother’s presence. Nothing after nothing, only litter and stray animals scattering at the sight of a distraught human. He’d almost passed by another alley without sparing it a glance, frustration making him careless, but a glimpse of red in Stanford’s peripheral vision made him backtrack. He came to a sudden stop and just barely managed to keep his balance.
There, sprawled on the ground and getting progressively more covered with snow, was a person. Stanford’s mind was completely blank as he began to cautiously approach them, only able to focus on the red-stained patches of snow. He swallowed. It may have been a couple of years, but Stanford would recognise his brother anywhere.
He scrambled to his knees, shaking the snow off of Stanley’s body clumsily. Stanford tried to think rationally, but panic began clouding his judgment. His hands hovered over Stanley a little uselessly, afraid of accidentally hurting him further. There were multiple nasty cuts and bruises across Stanley’s face, his knuckles in a similar state. He was so small and silent, and Stanford had never felt quite this sick before.
“Stanford? Where—” Fiddleford came to a halt somewhere behind him. Stanford turned around, watching his friend lean against the wall and try to stabilise his breathing.
“Gosh, ya scared me! I, uh,” he huffed. “I got the keys ‘n locked the car, just in case.” He looked up, still breathing somewhat shakily, and gave Stanford the best smile he could muster.
Stanford could pinpoint the exact moment Fiddleford noticed Stanley. The smile was gone in an instant, his whole posture changed. Stanford hadn’t seen him look this stiff and pale since their last class presentation. A hysteric bit of laughter bubbled out of him at the thought.
“Oh, dear,” was all he said, voice faint.
“Fiddleford, please, I-I don’t…” he barely got the words past the lump in his throat.
“Okay, let’s, um...” Fiddleford stumbled a little as he approached them, bracing himself on Stanford’s shoulder as he slowly sank down to the ground. “He’s breathing – shallow, but still – that’s good,” he pointed out quietly, mostly for Stanford’s peace of mind. “Have ya checked his pulse?”
Stanford shook his head, feeling incredibly stupid.
“That’s alright, don’t worry,” he reassured, already reaching for the side of Stanley’s neck. After a moment Fiddleford nodded, apparently satisfied with what he’d found. Stanford stared as Fiddleford examined Stanley’s injuries, only breaking out of his stupor when his friend started to stand.
“What— Fiddleford, we can’t just leave him here!” he said, alarmed.
“I'm not,” Fiddleford replied defensively, Stanford’s anxiety making him anxious in turn. “There’s a telephone booth right ‘round the corner, I was just gonna call for an ambulance—"
“No, don’t!” he insisted. “I-I can’t afford a hospital bill right now. Please, don’t.”
Fiddleford looked conflicted, eyes shifting back and forth between Stanford and Stanley. Their families both struggled with money, especially during the holiday season. Stanley didn’t appear to have any life-threatening injuries – the worst they had to worry about was probably hypothermia – but the hospital could charge them an abysmal amount for just about anything.
Fiddleford sighed, then sat back down. “Alright. Whaddya wanna do, then?”
With the nice evening already down the drain, Stanford decided that a second stupid choice couldn’t possibly make things much worse.