Archive of Our Own ^beta

On account of the possible werewolf, Stanford tended to avoid getting the mail.

Most days it was nothing of interest anyways. Ads found their way in like vermin moreso than any actual letters addressed to him, clouding his mailbox with buy our cars subscribe to our magazine order this for home today. But, as many things tended to be, there was not an infinite escape from the task. It had to be done. Unless one wanted to drive by an overstuffed box on the rare times they made their way into town for necessary things, and Ford found he’d rather avoid seeing that than avoid seeing the probably inhuman mailman.

It was as if the universe had known he’d’ve decided to finally open it up again that day, because the first letter that had fallen directly into Ford’s hands from the cramped innards of the thing was a letter addressed to Stanford F. Pines, 618 Gopher Road, Gravity Falls OR from Fiddleford H. Mcgucket, 2101 Waverley St, Palo Alto CA.

The letter itself, Ford found, was rather short in composition.

Stanford,

Hey, Buddy! I know it’s been quite a while. I reckon you've likely been busy and I’ve been quite so myself. My apologies for not having reached out sooner. I find family life to be quite the doozy.

Though before I stray too far from the point–I write this asking if you’d be inclined to want to stay over at my place from the 26th to the 28th. I know it’s quite sudden and I pray this letter doesn't take too long to get your way, but I figure me and you are long due for some time to catch up, and I know you've never been one for phone calls. Though ironically, I’d like it if you could call when you get this to let me know. My new home number’s on the back.

Hope to talk to you soon,

- F Mcgucket

He’d reread it approximately 20 times over by the time he remembered to breathe, standing stunned in front of the mailbox he barely visited with stiff legs and a long dropped jaw. In an instant his constant suspicions about the mailman’s humanity flickered off and away, drowned in the noise that took up his head at the sign of his friend’s messy handwriting. He was always a fast writer. And now he was writing to Ford.

Ford, who had not seen his best friend’s face in almost three years now. Who’d had about as many phone conversations with him in the time since his wedding then he could count on one (normal, not freakish) hand. And yet he stood with a hastily put together invitation in his hands, the mangled envelope it came from laying discarded aside. He found he couldn’t even remember the short time between him reading the sender’s name and having torn the letter rabidly from its paper prison.

He flipped the letter over, staring at the numbers on the back, eyes spinning over the curves and bends of them one by one. He hadn’t even thought that Fiddleford might’ve long moved out of the dingy apartment he’d assisted him in moving into– how many years ago? He couldn’t think properly right now. Probably somewhere between 1 and 300. That was reasonable.

He wasted no time at all, not even bothering to make the cumbersome drive back up the beaten path to where his cabin was as he rushed to the nearest payphone and dialed the number on the back in haste.

About to press the last button, he paused his impulsivity, only for a brief moment, finger twitching in nervous hesitation. He knew despite himself that if he thought about it for longer than this, he’d spend all of two days before he finally came to press the last number, so he screwed his eyes closed as he finished.

He sighed quietly in relief when not even after the second ring, the phone picked up. “Mcgucket household!”

“Fiddleford?”

“Stanford! Stanford. Wait, wait hold on…” There was an odd tone to the way he spoke. Nervous in a certain way Ford hadn’t yet caught on him before, and by god was that a marvel in itself. He found himself growing more anxious as he listened to the sound of shuffling, the reality of what he was doing settling in. Before he was left alone to stew on it for too long, though, Fiddleford’s voice came back out of the receiver. “Sorry ‘bout that. Had to…move some thingamabobs around.”

“No worries, Fiddleford, no worries at all,” Ford rushed to say, waving around his free hand as if the man could possibly see him. “I–well, I–your letter, the 26th–um. Sorry…how have you, er, been?”

Fiddleford laughed, though it sounded more strained than Ford liked. “Well, I’ve been alright, just…well, busy, you know. Lots going on here at home. Uh…and yourself?”

“Fine, fine, just–yeah, same. Work. Busy.”

“Yeah.”

This was not how their conversations went. They understood one another. They were fluid in the way they spoke, it happened so naturally between them that Ford could almost confuse himself to be someone with more charm and personality. Someone who belonged . This felt starkly like trying to small-talk with a cashier at a food chain.

“So…you got it, then?”

“The–? Yes, yes I did. I read it about 7 minutes ago. I’m, uh, actually at a payphone.” This sounded normal, yes? Probably. He hoped so. The amount of nerves that coursed through him at every sound from the other end felt utterly childish. What a fool he’d made of himself. He could feel the heat that was surely climbing its way across his complexion right now, stark for any passerby to see. He should’ve just gone to his phone at home.

“So?”

“…uh, pardon?”

“So what d'ya think, goofus?”

“It was…well, it was a very nice surprise, I was quite thrilled to have received something like that this morning. You see, I don’t like to get the mail as I suspect the mail man–”

“Ford, I’d be glad to hear your whole story there in a moment, but what I mean is what d’ya think about what was in it?” The anxiety in his voice was palpable even over the phone. Ford blinked a couple times, before the words finally registered in his mind.

“Oh, right. Sorry. I–well,” he bit his lip. “I can’t for the life of me remember if I have anything going on that weekend.” He couldn’t, which was true, but knowing him it was probably absolutely nothing. “I’m not home at the moment.”

“Ah, yes of course, well–” Fiddleford’s voice had gone to a strained sort of pitch. Ford had no clue what about this made him so worked up, but it felt so odd to hear him talking this way to him. “If you, ya know, wanna get back to me on that, then, well–”

“Er–But,” Ford interrupted him, feeling his way back into the role of the level headed one. Which he certainly wasn’t, not at the moment, but it was easy to fall into acting the part when someone else was nervous. “I’m sure that would be okay. By me, I mean. I–probably nothing going on. Don’t have meetings scheduled. Or anything.” He’d never been to a meeting.

“Oh–well, that’s great! I mean–” he sighed. It sounded like a weight being lifted off him despite the way the line distorted his voice into a slightly crackling texture. “It really is great. Really.”

Ford found it in him to chuckle. “Did you think I wouldn’t be happy to come visit?”

The other end groaned. “Ford, you can’t be playin’ that with me.”

“Alright, alright.”

The tension seemed to have eased up and out of the conversation little by little at last. Ford could feel the familiarity trickle back in with its familiar rhythm. Yes, Fiddleford was his friend. They knew one another. They were not awkward strangers. “Mind telling me why you’re asking this so suddenly?”

“How do you know it was that sudden? I coulda sent that weeks ago!”

“That’s still a little sudden. And in a letter? You could’ve called.”

“Ford,” he warned. It had no bit of bitterness to it, but the more he continued, the more off the words felt. “Well, I guess I just…you know, wanted to have some time to prepare for the response.”

Ford brushed off the odd tone. “I find that makes the anxiety worse.”

“Well, I–” Fiddleford sighed. “Whatever. What’s done’s done. And I just missed…bein’ around a friend, you know?”

Ford felt himself freeze a little bit at that. His heart throb in his chest, an uncomfortable burning blooming from within. “Don’t you have friends over there?”

“Yeah, but–it’s…just not the same.”

Ford suddenly felt the very heavy need for privacy. The urge to pace was building in his legs, but he resolved to simply fidget with the phone wire. The sound of the ba-dmp in his chest sounded like a ringing in his ears. He was missed.

“I–well, I think maybe I understand.”

“…So, that time’s good, then?”

“I’ll find a good hotel.”

“Naw, don’t give me that, ya knucklehead,” Fiddleford tutted. “You’re stayin’ here with me.”

He smiled in a private sort of way, the kind of way he’d hide from Fiddleford could he possibly hope to see his expression now. “Well, if you say so. I hope you’re not tired of me by the end.”

“Hush your mouth. Of course I won’t be.” A pause. “I’ll see you then?”

“Yes. Of course.” 

For a moment, Ford thought to say more. Here, wait, I’ll give you my home number. Call me more, please. I’m sorry I’ve been rotten at reaching out. I’m not good at these things, you know. But I miss you. More than I’d like to admit. But he resolved instead for a “see you then, Fidds.”

“Right! See ya ‘round!” And his voice clicked away, leaving Ford with the sound of a passing car and a sense of absence.

Ford found himself paralyzed upon the front steps of the house, legs almost shaking with the effort of keeping himself together.

He never thought of himself as a particularly nervous man. No, a long time ago he learned how to meditate through those inconvenient emotions. But he found those methods falling short here as he stared like a deer in the headlights at the door. He felt the startling urge to run away then and there, never find out what had become of his friend after the last he saw of him, walking away with his bride to what must’ve certainly been their honeymoon, leaving him waving awkwardly with the ghost of Fiddleford’s arms still clasping around his back.

Despite himself, though, he reached up with a steady (-ish) fist and drummed his knuckles on the door.

It burst open near immediately, and he was met with a beaming grin, as if he had been known long before he announced his presence.

“Stanford!”

The man in question jolted as Fiddleford Mcgucket immediately flung his arms around him, not sparing even a mere moment. The familiarity of the spindly limbs trapping him in place and the tight, comfortable press of their chests against one another made his mind and body stutter, like something had returned from the dead long after he’d mourned and buried it.

But just as familiarity tends to bring about, moments before the shock even could subside Ford was hugging him back, smiling less with enthusiasm then he did with a deep set relief. He wondered if every hug from Fiddleford felt this entrapping, or if it was just the self imposed isolation getting to him again. 

It was over all too shortly after. Fiddleford was still beaming at him, clapping him on the shoulder as he sidestepped to allow him in. “How’ve you been, buddy?”

Ford awkwardly shuffled in, noting in the back of his mind Fiddleford had asked this before over the phone. It felt so different now, so much more languid, enough so that Ford didn’t really mind the rehash as long as it meant to hear his friend comfortable again. “Uh…well…you know how work is.”

The other man whistled at that, nodding solemnly. “Tell me about it. The good ol’ 9-5 is gonna kill me someday, I swear it.”

Ford nodded stiffly in agreement, though the awkward truth that he had practically nothing to be obligated to in terms of work schedules except his own rituals and the grant committee remained unspoken.

He was moments away from asking Fiddleford what he’s doing these days, what he’s up to recently, why he decided to tell him in writing to come over this weekend rather than calling him like any sensible person would (not that he was arguing. No, of course not. Not when his letter sat neatly by the photos from college he had in a drawer next to a rather gaudy looking pen that was clearly hand crafted.), but the interval to do such a thing was cut short with abruptness as unsteady stomping made its way closer and closer in mere moments until Ford was met with the sight of a young boy–no older than 3.

For a moment, he thought to warn Fiddleford of his fears someone had broken into the house, but mere moments before he could open his mouth to promptly shout, Fiddleford scooped up the clearly harmless young boy and held him up in his arms proudly, grinning as if he’d just figured out what was wrong with his blueprints.

“Ford, ya finally get to meet Tater Tot!”

This child was decidedly not even closely resembling a tater tot. He looked strongly human and much bigger than one. And he was sucking his thumb profusely, which is not particularly characteristic of tater tots. Midway through his rather useless train of thought, it finally clicked who he was looking at in Ford’s brain as he gawked between the two.

“Your son?” he asked with a slight awe in his voice.

Fiddleford grinned even wider, showing off his uneven teeth and the noticeable gap between his front two. Ford supposed it was odd to take such an interest in how well they fit into Fiddleford’s round face, but he was never a particularly normal man in the first place. “Who else? Say hi, Tater!”

The boy–his true name being Tate, if Ford recalled from his friends ramblings from years past–didn’t seem interested in saying “hi” as he stared at Ford silent and wide-eyed from beneath his lengthy bangs. He hadn’t expected to see him here, despite the obviousness in hindsight of the possibility. He hadn’t thought of what he pictured the boy as, but the more he got a good look at him, the more it felt right. His hair curled in brown curls the way his own did, though they were much more loose. His nose pointed down in a long curve, opposing how Fiddleford’s own pointed upward. He looked shy, regarding Ford with an apprehension he could not blame him for, yet not enough so that he had the decency to prevent his own matching stare.

Fiddleford just laughed at the sight. A real laugh this time, with true levity. It made Ford’s eyes flick back to him immediately, the corners of his mouth perking up just the slightest bit.

“Well, aren’t you two two peas in a pod?” Fiddleford chuckled wryly. “You tryna look more like his dad than me?”

Ford rolled his eyes and shoved him lightly on the shoulder, trying to avoid jostling the young boy. The boy in question continued to stare with an uncomfortable intensity. He wondered what it would take to get a little privacy.

Fiddleford apparently thought the same as he did. “Alright, Tate. It’s ‘bout time we get you to bed for the night. We’ll have fun with Ford tomorrow, okay?”

Ford hadn’t even considered the time, but as Fiddleford guided his son’s hand up to wave him a goodbye, his eyes turned to stare out the nearest window, off into the pool of ink that so heavily differed from the warm light from inside. Had it really been that dark when he got out of his car?

Fiddleford had disappeared while Ford was distracted, leaving him standing stiffly in the walkway. He wondered if he’d decorate the place nicely as an incredibly uncomfortable statue as his eyes flicked around for some kind of excuse to do something other than that. 

They found their refuge with a collection of photos hung upon the wall next to the doorway. Someone could’ve told him these were in the encyclopedia page for ideal nuclear family and he would’ve instantly believed it. The pictures were mostly of Tate, of course, but some of them contained the familiar face of his friend, his hair and dress changing slightly with every small phase of life that passed him by. He was smiling in all of them, ranging from an easy smile to a broad grin that bloomed across his whole expression. He looked happy here, in these snapshots from the past from places Ford didn’t recognize, where Ford had never seen the expression gracing his features. Times and ages Fiddleford had been that Ford would never know him as beyond the rare sound of a voice through the telephone wire. The clear-cut proof that life went on without him.

It wasn’t long, however, until Fiddleford made it well known he was here right now, in this time and at his current age. “Gettin’ a good look-see over there?”

It startled him a little, but Ford managed to play it off as he twisted to look at the other man. He managed a smile. “You’ve been busy, it seems.”

Fiddleford made a “pshhh” sound as he waved off his words. “Aw, naw, we barely got any time to be doin’ nothin’ for fun anymore. Mosta those thingamajigs are from a year or so ago. Emma’s gotten herself a job, ya know. Hard to do much between two working parents!”

The name Emma set a strange pit in his stomach, though he held no resentment for the woman. No, of course not. It wouldn’t be fair, not when she had been so kind to him at the wedding. It wouldn’t be fair for him to feel such a deep frustration at the way she went are you okay? Are you sure? You seem so nervous. It’s nice to be meeting you, Stanford. I’ve heard so much about you. Fiddleford never shuts up about you, you know. 

(What right did she have to say all that, anyway? He was fine . Obviously. He didn’t need the pity, he was a grown man in his 20s, for god’s sake.)

But it was occuring to him now that she was strangely absent from the house, apart from her place in the various photographs. He thought to ask Fiddleford where she was, but the words didn’t even consider reaching his tongue. He’d really rather not see her at the moment.

Fiddleford didn’t seem inclined on supplementing the information unprompted, so things continued as if they existed alone in a vacuum. “Come on in, I’ll get ya some dinner before we get some shut-eye.”

Ford hadn’t thought about food at all, but the idea of it sounded great once the pain in his stomach promptly made itself known. He nodded eagerly, trailing like a nervous duck behind his friend as he meekly looked around like he was walking past a trespassing sign. He couldn’t define why, but he had the odd feeling like he didn’t belong here, that he shouldn’t have come at all.

The thought subsided a little at the scent of food growing stronger, bringing his head to stare greedily at the sight of homemade fried chicken and mashed potatoes. It was by no means the most astonishing meal he'd seen, but it certainly felt that way after years of takeout and his scuffed attempts at healthier home cooking. He gave Fiddleford a look of gratitude.

Fiddleford waved him off again, his expression sheepish as he made his way over to the food on the counter. “You’d be better off heating it up, I reckon by now it’s gotten cool.”

Ford just nodded eagerly, snatching up the plate Fiddleford was handing him and scooping up a decent helping. His eating habits were nothing to write home about, but he figured if there was any time to get a good meal in, it was certainly now.

There was a soothing warmth that seemed to radiate throughout him as he sat down across from Fiddleford at the small kitchen table, scooping the food into his mouth as soon as he was settled. Whatever kind of fears or anxieties he’d had had dissipated into background noise.

“It’s really good,” he said after a belated moment.

“Oh, good! I was startin’ to worry!” Fiddleford chuckled, sipping on a cup of water. “I didn't stick any milk in those taters, so don't worry about that.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t keep kosher, Fidds.”

Fiddleford simply huffed at that. “It can't hurt to be considerate.”

A comfortable silence passed as Ford ravaged his food. He could feel the pressure of Fiddleford’s eyes on him, but there was something nice about it. Every time he looked up, his gaze was soft, a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He didn't dare point it out–Ford didn't want him to stop looking at him that way.

It didn't take long until he’d cleared his plate, leaving nothing but crumbs. The soft look on Fiddleford’s face disappeared, yet another grin replacing it. “Gimme that, I’ll wash it for you.”

Fiddleford arched a brow as Ford opened his mouth to object, so Ford opted to silently hand him the plate.

“You didn't have to do all this, you know,” Ford wrung his hands together awkwardly as he said it.

Fiddleford chuckled again. The more he made that noise, the more Ford missed it when it passed. “I fear it’s a little too late to be sayin’ that, Ford.”

His cheeks burned with a low heat. “Yeah, well–I–yeah, okay, but–” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to worry about me.”

“It’s just a meal and a bed to sleep in, Ford,” Fiddleford looked up to meet his eyes once he stuck the washed plate on the drying rack. “It's not like it’s any sorta trouble.”

“Still,” he insisted.

“I reckon you’d be deader than a canary in a coal mine with nobody lookin’ out for you, Ford. I’m surprised you’re still keepin’ your head up on your shoulders out there on your own!” Ford felt the strong urge to retort, to say no he definitely did not need any sort of care and he was very clearly fine on his own, mind you, but Fiddleford continued before he could squeeze it in, fixing him with a kind of look he couldn't really pin down the name of. “Just humor me, alright?” 

Ford swallowed, something making his throat slightly clenched. “Alright.”

He figured this was the part where the seriousness passed and they passed each other some friendly banter to lighten the air again, but something kept Ford silent–and from what he could tell, the same thing was happening to Fiddleford, letting the strange gravity sit in the air with them. Ford really wished he could name the kind of sensation it gave him, but he’d always been awful at these things, so it remained a nameless feeling as his heart grew loud in his ears again.

“Come on, let’s get ya to your room,” Fiddleford said, finally breaking the silence as he walked past Ford, not checking to see if he was following. Ford trailed after, feeling a little like he was underwater.

The guest room was relatively barren, the sheets neatly done on the queen sized bed that sat centered against the leftmost wall. There was a nightstand on the left of it and a door to the room’s own personal bathroom on the opposite side of the room.

“Nothing special, I know, but I hope it's good enough,” Fiddleford said, leaning on the doorframe.

Ford shook his head with vigor, turning to face away from the room and at the other man. “No, no, Fidds. It’s great. Thank you, really. This is extremely generous of you.”

“Shucks, Ford, it's really nothing! I’d much rather have you here with me than in some old hotel room.” 

“Me too.” 

If it was awkward or too honest to say something like that so meekly, Fiddleford didn't let him know. He hung by the doorframe, looking at Ford fondly–along with what he could almost think of as sadness.

It occurred to him, then, that there was a kind of faint dismal air about the place, like there was still something to be mourning, something still long buried. He’d felt it from the moment he walked in, like he was a stain upon something, like he was an intrusion someone was desperately trying to shove in when he just simply didn't fit with anything.

But Fiddleford patted him once on the back, and gave him a look like he was asking for permission. Ford had no idea what that meant, but he had nothing in him to say no, so he gave him a slight nod before Fiddleford pulled him in for another hug.

It felt a bit different, that time. The excitement of the first one was long lost to time, and now as he slowly inched his own arms over to clasp the back of his shoulders it felt like he was really hugging Fiddleford, like he’d reached through his clothes and skin to hold his bones secure and tight. Thinking he’d be indulgent, maybe a little selfish, he let his face tuck into the crook of Fiddleford’s neck inch by inch, feeling the warmth of his skin press against the curves and indents of Ford’s face. Fiddleford let his chin rest on Ford’s head. 

“Thank you for coming,” Fiddleford said, his voice more of a breath than anything else. Ford could feel the rumble of his throat as he spoke, vibrating soothingly as the words crept their way out into the open air. “Really.”

Ford didn’t know quite how to respond to that, nor the fast paced ba-dmp in his chest that the other man could certainly feel right now, so he just nodded silently as best he could.

He didn’t feel shoved unfittingly into this, nor out of place. It was like clasping two puzzle pieces together, molded and correct for one another. And so he didn't bring up how he didn’t belong in this house, and neither did Fiddleford.

He hadn't known how much time had passed by the time Fiddleford let him go, but he found that didn’t matter all that much when he found himself thinking of shared dorms and how they never used to be in separate places like this, wishing he could’ve remained like that until his last breath was drawn. But that was probably something too odd to say even for Fiddleford, so he waved politely instead, the ghost of his arms still hanging over his back as Fiddleford wished him a good night’s rest.

He found it to be nearly eleven by the time he finally rose from sleep.

Ford frowned at the digital clock on the nightstand, straightening out as a faint frustration coursed through him. He was not particularly keen on breaking his habits of getting up at a reasonable time. Perhaps he should’ve set an alarm.

Fiddleford was already out and about when Ford slowly made his exit from the guest room. He seemed to be chasing something down, confusingly enough, but he paused and beamed at Ford when he saw him.

“Mornin’! You’re just in time–I was ‘bout to make Tater lunch!”

Ah, yes. Tate. That would explain the chasing he was currently watching Fiddleford resume with haste. There were distant high pitched laughs, followed by a little shriek as Ford watched Fiddleford scoop up Tate from afar, walking him over to the dining table to set him down. Tate stayed mostly still after that, kicking his legs underneath the table but seemingly well behaved enough at this point to not restart his running around. He met Ford with a smile this time around. Ford blinked in an awkward fashion, unsure what his reaction should be. 

Fiddleford turned to look at Ford now, the light from the windows shining against his face and the freckles on his shoulders his tank top was exposing. He looked so much older now then the last Ford had seen of him, like he’d truly grown into this family life that made someone a real man. Ford could’ve thought he looked a little ethereal, but he shoved that thinking down. Certainly no place for that.

“You want anything?” He realized far too late that Fiddleford had said the words minutes ago, and they were just now reaching him, but the other man didn’t seem to be too bothered when he finally stammered to respond, only eying him with slight concern.

“I…think I’ll just get myself leftovers from last night, if that’s okay.”

“More than fine by me! Good to get ‘em out before they get old. I’m a stickler for wasting. They’re just in the fridge, you’ll see them right away.”

He was right about that much–right in the center was the remains of Fiddleford’s cooking from the previous night. As Ford grabbed them out, he made a note of the TV dinners that were stuck over the various ingredients inside. He wondered how often Fiddleford and his family heated them up rather than cooking for the night. He had no idea, of course, but it still made him feel a blooming warmth from the thought of Fiddleford going out of his way to make a fresh meal the day he came by.

He set the food by the microwave, but felt his eyes lingering elsewhere first, dancing over worn looking furniture and a boxy TV set in the living room. He wondered if Fiddleford still watched Doctor Who or Star Trek or if Ford had become the only one to keep up with the shows they’d once watched together, his old friend too swept in his family life to catch up. There was a framed photo by the set, but at the sight of the slightly familiar sight of long brown hair, he instinctively looked away, eyes setting instead on the books they kept by the couch.

The bookshelf wasn't anything that special, but in Ford’s newfound mission to map out everything about his friend's new home life, he caught himself scanning the alphabetically organized spines of each and every novel and textbook Fiddleford owned with intricacy. Such a thing couldn’t be boring when he could see his friend within its arrangement. He knew near every book he fixated upon, and if he didn’t, he at least recognized the subjects. It was about as much as he expected to see from his best friend, until his eyes caught with a stutter upon the name of a rather chunky book, the title spelled out extravagantly in cursive to inform him this was Edgar Allan Poe: A Collection of Prose.

“I didn’t take you for the melancholic type,” Ford mused aloud, turning back to meet Fiddleford’s eyes with a quizzical arch of his brow.

Fiddleford never met his gaze, busying back turned over what was presumably Tate’s lunch as Ford’s unheated meal sat abandoned nearby. “Well, ya wouldn’t be particularly wrong there. ‘S more of Emma’s thing then my own. She’s always yammering about her poetry more than a rooster at dawn!” He paused from slathering a generous amount of almond butter onto Tate’s mid-construction sandwich, thinking for a short lived moment before snapping his free hand’s fingers. “Ah, right! Tells me she’s a big fan of ‘The Telltale Heart.’ Never read it, but the guy in it sounds like Lucifer's kin, if ya ask me.”

Ford frowned at the mention of Emma-May, making a small tsking sound. Fiddleford didn’t seem to pick up on it, but he made quick work to play it off anyways.

“I never really liked that one,” he said, despite previously having no opinion whatsoever. “Too obvious.”

Fiddleford just smiled wryly at him, summoning a matching smirk from within himself he didn’t know lay dormant. “What the heck do you mean by that?”

“He’s got so many other works. People only pay attention to, like, two of them. There's much better ones.” He nodded less to Fiddleford and more to himself. Yes, the more he said it aloud, the more he agreed. Too obvious.

Fiddleford laughed and shook his head. It sounded like music, Ford noted. Loud and unapologetic and musical. “Alright, Ford. Whatever you say.”

Ford turned back to continue his inspection of the bookshelf, but from then on he saw titles he knew Fiddleford would never have any interest in, and decided it was a boring bookshelf after all.

As he returned to continue his mission to get lunch, Fiddleford set two plates by where Ford had set down the leftovers. “You mind getting me some of that too?”

“Not at all,” Ford said, dishing both plates up before sticking one in the microwave for a minute. The droning sound of it kicked on, and he looked back towards the small table to see Fiddleford bringing his son some food. Tate looked eager, grabbing the sandwich within small hands as he started to make good work of it. Ford hummed to himself thoughtfully as he looked between the two, reaching to swap in his own plate into the microwave as he handed Fiddleford the first one. 

He’d been quite astonished when Fiddleford told him that his wife had been expecting a son, he recalled. It seemed quite absurd to him until Fiddleford had explained the sperm bank, and how science really is impressive these days, huh Ford? I reckon my family wouldn't be too happy with the way we're goin’ about these things but you know as well as me that they had their time to speak their ill will at the wedding.

Ford found he couldn't understand Fiddleford’s incessant need for a son, but he’d congratulated him genuinely nonetheless. It was no small feat to get where he was with as little as he had. Ford knew that better than anyone.

Ford felt awkward as he settled down at the table with Fiddleford and Tate, but he didn't know where else to go to eat. 

(He wondered if it looked odd, seeing him settle down there instead of someone else with brown curly hair–or if he could’ve made it look right had he looked different, more in tune with the self he had been shoved into instead of forcing his way tooth and nail into being the man he was, who he’d always be regardless.)

“I was thinkin’ I’d go ahead and take Tate down to the park for today,” Fiddleford announced after gulping down a bite of potatoes, looking toward Ford and searching his expression. “I was wondering if you’d be inclined to come with?”

Ford nodded slowly, feeling the slightest amount of hesitation but resolving once he saw the expression it earned out of Fiddleford. “That sounds pleasant.”

“I oughta get ready after this, but we can walk down after if you like!” He just nodded along, not sure what time would be better anyways. Whatever Fiddleford thought was likely correct. 

It wasn't long after each plate was cleared that Fiddleford departed to do just as he claimed, leaving Ford in the room alone with Tate.

The young boy seemed to lose all interest entirely in the kitchen table with his empty plate. running over to the living room nearby instead and settling down on the floor. Ford eyed the empty plates sitting around, and decided to make some use of himself by washing them.

He absentmindedly watched the child across from him as he cleaned off the plates, expecting him to reach out to turn on the TV, but instead clambering to open a small box. Out of the box, he dumped out a large collection of Lincoln Logs, mismatched between older looking ones and newer, less worn pieces. Ford watched him with a hint of curiosity as he messed with them, starting to arrange them into what looked like the beginnings of a house with his extensive collection. He set the dishes up to dry, beginning to inch closer to get a better scope of the scene.

Tate didn't bear an extremely direct resemblance to Fiddleford. It was to be expected, of course, but he distinctly saw the presence of his friend as Tate built up what looked to be an almost-replica of the house he lived in with a laser focus. It was frankly quite impressive for a boy this young.

“I used to play with those too,” Ford tried, his words awkward and sudden. 

Tate didn't look startled, but he turned up to stare at Ford with a certain confusion. It occurred to Ford he hadn’t heard the kid speak once since he got here. Do three year olds normally talk? Wait–is he even three? What year had Fiddleford said he was born, anyways? Ford couldn't remember for the life of him.

Tate wordlessly held a log out to him, as if inviting him to come down and build with him. The action summoned a chuckle from within Ford as he moved to sit down across from him. “Sorry, kid. I’m not exactly one for those toys anymore. When you get to be my age, we don’t really do much playing…”

(But god, did he miss it–sitting cross legged from Fiddleford behind his Dungeon Master’s folder, peering down at his intricate notes and finding every session that Fiddleford would make things even more interesting for him, probing his brain in ways he didn’t consider. There was something so irreplaceable about spinning up a story for someone to join in on.)

Tate didn’t seem bothered by this at all, blinking once before he returned to his diligent work.

“Does your dad ever let you help with his projects?” he asked with a lick of hesitation, less so because talking to this kid made him feel uncomfortable– which it certainly did –and more because he had no idea what the logistics of child safety were in the field of science. Or in any field at all, really. 

“Dadda make robots,” was all the kid said. Well, that answers if he can talk or not.

As if on cue, Fiddleford walked back into the room, having pulled a dress shirt over his tank top and discarded his sweatpants in favor of a nicer pair. He crossed his arms at the sight of Tate’s construction.

“Tater tot, we're about to go outside. Can you put those up?”

“Not done,” Tate promptly responded, not looking up.

Fiddleford walked over and looked down at his son, inspecting the unfinished house with a crooked smile on his face. Ford thought it looked like pride. “Well, then how about you finish it when we get back?”

Tate seemed far more receptive to that, nodding with a small “okay” before hopping onto his feet and allowing for his father to put his shoes on.

Ford considered grabbing his trench coat from where it hung in the guest room, but opted for otherwise once Fiddleford opened the door and he could feel the air outside. It was by no means a warm day, but it would be overkill over his sweater and flannel with the current temperature.

The leaves had long changed from green into shades of orange and brown, scattered across the road. There was no sidewalk in the neighborhood, leaving them to walk in the road as Fiddleford held his son close by the hand.

“How’d ya sleep?” Fiddleford asked rather suddenly. Ford almost didn’t understand what he meant until he remembered ah, yes, sleep does tend to occur.

“I slept quite fine,” Ford said, though whether that was true or not was debatable. He slept better than most nights, yes, and sleeping in was never something he’d often done. But there was something so empty about the room that went beyond its scarce decoration. Like a space cut off from the rest of the world. “Thank you again for the room, Fidds, really.”

Fiddleford gave a jab to his elbow. “I said it’s no problem at all, Ford. You’re givin’ me a big head with all that flattery.”

Ford thought Fiddleford could use more pride then he solicited himself, but Fiddleford had heard that enough times from him to have given him the I gotta stay humble, ya goofus talk about forty times over. “I just want to be clear I’m really grateful.”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it, buddy.” Fiddleford made an exasperated sound, his smile betraying him.

The park was bigger than the one he’d used to play at on occasion back where he grew up, but it wasn’t much bigger or better, the various structures losing most of their color by now. This didn’t stop Tate from rushing forward, though, on and out to where the rest of the kids were.

Ford realized he had no idea what the adults were supposed to do here. He hadn’t stepped anywhere near a playground since he was around 10 and finally found better things to do then pray he’d avoid Crampelter or another cruel child around his age long enough to have some semblance of fun. Though when Fiddleford waved him over to an empty bench away from other people, in hindsight it seemed pretty obvious.

He sat across from Fiddleford, stiff and awkward in his new position here. He was yet again receiving the feeling that he was trespassing.

“You good there, man?” Fiddleford asked, nudging his foot with his own.

Ford fiddled with his thumbs, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yes.”

Fiddleford looked unimpressed.

“I’ve never done anything like this.”

“Ya nervous then?” It was less of a question then it was a statement. “I get it. Trust me, you shoulda seen me the first time I tried takin’ him down here. Hell, you shoulda seen the first anything I did with Tater!”

“You seem to have picked it up well, though.”

“Aw, thanks! But trust me, it ain’t easy.” Fiddleford ran a hand through his hair, his expression going grim. “I’m more stressed than a hog without supper.”

Ford eyed him momentarily, trying to see the look that passed through his eyes, but he was turned back towards him and clearly focused on a different train of thought now. “So, how’s life up in the woods?”

“It’s been…” Lonely, I think. Look, I know I said all those times back then I was relieved to be finally out of the house, I know I wanted to be independent, but sometimes I wonder if this is really what it’s supposed to be like when you’re out on your own, or if I should’ve– “…great, really. I’m making all kinds of new discoveries up there. They’d blow your mind.”

“Do I get to hear about any?” Fiddleford asked, arching a brow.

“You’d never believe me.”

“Try me,” Fiddleford said, leaning back. “I hear your mailman freaks you out?”

“Ah, yes. He’s very hairy.” Ford leaned forward, getting more into the conversation. “ Abnormally so.”

Fiddleford looked at him incredulously. “So you don’t like your mailman. Because he’s hairy?”

“No, because he’s a werewolf.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I never see him in town–” he conveniently left out how he never went into town, “–and never once has he delivered during a full moon. Even in the daytime, he remains strangely absent! And with the hair thing–”

“Ford, I think people can just be abnormally hairy sometimes.”

“And with the hair thing,” he continued despite Fiddleford’s snickers and eyerolls. “I swear, you should see it because it’s the thickest I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ve seen a hairy guy before, Ford.”

“Well,” Ford huffed, crossing his arms. “Regardless of if he is a werewolf or not, the amount of hair he has is quite impressive.”

“I wish I could see it. You’ll have to give me a call if you ever find out the truth. Ten bucks he’s some normal guy. Bet?”

Ford was almost bold enough to open up his mouth and say you could come up there, you know. Maybe even bring the kid. I’ll learn how to child-proof stuff, I swear. But someone was calling for Fiddleford from a ways away, someone who’d just let their kid run off to play too, and Ford was reminded that he was out of place.

There was something about seeing Fiddleford here, living the married life, that felt so odd to him. It made him reminisce on the way that Fiddleford's face looked each and every time his parents nagged him some way at getting married off to some man, making a family, wondering when this college thing would be over with so he could come back home. He’d been so adamant on running away from all of that back then, his weight sunk into the side of Ford's arm as he mumbled I can’t be any of that, any of what they want me to be.

Is this what he had wanted the whole time? Ford had thought he intended to ditch the script entirely, not rewrite it. He’d always made it sound like the farm or the white picket fence was never his dream–never had been, never will be. Ford had thought he’d finally found someone who understood it, finally found someone who was just too off and different for the 9-5 job and the suburbs and the country clubs and the droning on towards the same thing every day. When Ford had felt the grow up, get married, have kids sentiment drilled into him, he felt like it was a prison he couldn’t escape. Even before he was who he was now, before he was even Stanford , he knew it wasn’t right. None of that was right for him. He couldn’t be any of it. Any of what they wanted him to be.

Fiddleford was here, and he fit so very well with his son, but everything else felt off in taste. It was so…normal. It didn’t feel like Fiddleford . He grit his teeth, watching Fiddleford converse stiltedly with another husband, another father, and felt some petty semblance of betrayal at the sight.

Fiddleford clearly didn’t realize this though, because he turned back to smile awkwardly at Ford before gesturing between the two. “Sam, this here’s my friend Stanford. Knew him way back in college. We were roommates!”

The man, who Ford immediately detested, held out his hand to shake. “A pleasure! I live a few blocks down from Mr. Mcgucket.”

Ford didn’t offer him a hand. He knew that now, two worlds that shouldn’t collide were crashing into one another, and he was not about to physically inform this man of the sheer truth of that fact. He opted to stonily nod. “Hi.”

He didn’t catch the look on the man’s face, but Fiddleford’s brow furrowed in his direction in something like concern.

“Say, Fiddleford, where’s Emms at?”

“Ah–” Fiddleford stammered at that, his eyes widening just by the slightest degree. Ford stared at him. “Well, She’s…currently on a business trip. Her work is really coming along great lately.”

Sam did not seem to pick up on any discomfort whatsoever, simply nodding. “Ah, of course. Great for her! We should get together again soon, let the kids play in the backyard.”

“Yeah…”

The conversation was so stilted after that that Sam made up some excuse about checking on his kid, walking away to leave the two of them there alone again, silent.

Fiddleford cooked dinner that night too, serving the three occupants of his house dishes of pasta and meatballs. Ford didn’t spare this plate any sort of graces either, ripping through the meal significantly faster than either Mcguckets.

Fiddleford just laughed, fixing him with that same soft sort of look he’d given him the other night, but this time he met his eyes. They shined with a personal sort of joy. Ford felt his heart pound again. 

“Ford, you’re gonna give Tater tot a bad example.”

Ford felt his face flare with embarrassment, furrowing his brow as he reached for a napkin to wipe the sauce off his face. “…at least I’m enjoying the meal?”

“I couldn’ta guessed.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You oughta be ‘round more people! You’re forgettin’ your manners.”

“My work keeps me plenty company.” This was a lie.

“Your work ain’t tellin’ ya how to eat properly.”

Ford rolled his eyes, but he did make an effort to eat a little less ravenously despite the novelty of actually good home cooking. He supposed that perhaps the man had a point.

The sun had long begun climbing back down the sky to rest below the horizon again by the time they were all done. Ford managed to convince Fiddleford to let him handle the dishes again, leaving the other man to take the opportunity to help Tate clean up the mess he had made with the Lincoln Logs, picking apart and stowing away the finished replica of the house. There was a certain way Ford’s heart started to ache at the sight of Fiddleford behaving so domestically not too far away from him. Just out of reach.

By the time he had finished, Fiddleford was walking Tate off to his bedroom, asking the young boy yet again to say bye to Ford. This time, Tate actually waved, earning a beaming look from Fiddleford. He looked up at Ford, grinning with a brightness he couldn’t help but requite. He went to settle down on the couch while he waited for Fiddleford to return, looking out towards where he had left like a dog waiting for its owner. Is that weird? Is that pathetic? He was relieved when Fiddleford returned before he could decide.

“He’s a smart kid,” Ford commented. “He’s a lot like you.”

“It’s funny you say that,” Fiddleford said, leaning over the couch to look down at Ford and smiling tiredly. “I always thought he was a whole lot like you.”

Ford’s eyes widened at that, genuine surprise settling into his chest in the stuttering of his heart. There was something awfully sweet about it in a way that made him almost immediately think I certainly don’t deserve that.

Fiddleford seemed to think the space they had between them was an issue, so he swung around and settled down on the couch next to Ford. There still remained a foot of space between them–logically.

(But Ford could still feel his arms slung around his back, the heat of his neck, the rumbling when he spoke, and Ford wished he’d scoot just a little closer. Enough to be in reach this time.)

“I got Tater a babysitter for tomorrow,” Fiddleford said slowly, a little bashful. “I wanted you to meet him, ‘course, but…y’know.”

Ford understood. Or he hoped he did. Either way, he nodded, tilting his head a little to better fix his gaze on Fiddleford. There was the strange urge to move closer to him, something that felt like the ghost of hands. He resolved to disguise moving a singular centimeter closer as him shifting in place.

“I thought maybe you’d wanna drive out to the beach. It’s not too far. There won’t be hardly anyone at this time of year. I reckon we’d be mostly alone.”

“It sounds perfect,” Ford said genuinely, smiling at the other man. He could still remember being in shock that Fiddleford had never even seen the beach with his own eyes. It was such an odd thing to think that now he lived so close by.

“Glad ya think so!” Fiddleford said, the gap between his teeth showing yet again. “You’ll like it there, I tell ya. I doubt you’re gettin’ much beach time off in that cabin of yours anyhow.”

“I must admit, it’s something I’ve felt homesick for,” Ford confessed, nodding along. “It’ll be nice to go back. I always liked hiking around with you.”

Fiddleford groaned. “Hiking. Yeah, right. I’m not doin’ that.”

At some point, Fiddleford had been jostled just the slightest bit closer, his knees coming to criss-cross on the couch and leaving one in range for Ford to almost touch. It was becoming awfully distracting, that faint need to feel that connection yet again growing into more of a desperation. Even if it was weird or pathetic, Ford found an urgent need to feel the warmth of another person again, of Fiddleford again, to feel that raw sort of company before he lost the opportunity.

Fiddleford shot up onto his feet though, and yet again he was out of reach. “Well, I figure I oughta hit the hay if we wanna go adventurin’ tomorrow. I’ll see ya in the mornin’ Ford!”

“Ah–yes, it’s gotten rather late.” It had. He felt embarrassed for not having noticed it. “Goodnight, Fidds.”

As they parted ways yet again for the night, Ford felt a distinct cold trace his body as he retreated once more into loneliness.

The sleep of the night before must’ve cursed him somehow, because Ford had barely managed to keep himself under for a couple hours before he had woken up again, staring at the ceiling with a frustrated glare.

It was this damn room again, he was sure of it. There must be some kind of property to it that makes the person inside extra uncomfortable, because he felt the same unease from before but with new volume. Perhaps overnight, something had been amplified to make things worse. Maybe if he got up now, he could investigate it, track down the source of his sleeplessness.

He had just rolled over to do so when he heard the sound of a light knock on his door, making him freeze. He wasn’t given much time to wonder what it was before a “hey Ford…ya still up?” came from beyond it.

He thought for a moment, getting the feeling that he was stepping into uncertain territory. He hadn’t heard that tone on Fiddleford’s tongue before. It made him feel like he was feeling Fiddleford’s bones again, the way he’d hugged him the night before.

And of course, he said “yes.” And of course, when Fiddleford hesitantly called “ya mind if I come in?” Ford said “of course.” Because there was no other answer then of course. It would always be of course when it was Fiddleford Mcgucket.

In the moonlight hanging through the window, Fiddleford looked rather miserable. Bags hung under his dreary eyes and yet a striking anxiety kept him twitching in place. Ford sat up, his brow knotted with worry.

“Did something happen?” he asked.

“No,” Fiddleford breathed shakily. Whether it was a lie or not, Ford couldn’t discern. “Nothin’ happened.”

They were there in silence for a long moment, staring hard at one another like a trance they couldn’t break.

“Is there something I can do?” Ford asked, whispered in a small tone that so rarely came from him anymore.

“I can’t go back,” Fiddleford muttered. “To my room, I mean.”

Ford felt his heart throb into his throat as the meaning slowly caught on, though he could never be so sure about these things, so he asked anyway. “You…you want to stay here? It’s–well, it’s fine with me.”

“You don’t have’ta.”

“I’m offering it.”

He must’ve run out of the fight he had in him then, because Fiddleford finally fully gave into whatever he was hesitantly pursuing and inched closer to the bed, standing over the other side of it before Ford pulled the sheets back to properly invite him in.

And Ford did not think of himself as a nervous man, but as his friend crawled in by him under the safety of the covers, he almost came to realize that he had never stopped being the anxious boy he once knew himself as. He did not know if this was anything even remotely within normal to be doing, or okay, or whatever other things he would double check within his limited scope of social normaties, but Fiddleford was by him now and he found despite the distance between them at the moment, the feeling of being beneath the covers with someone felt so much closer than sitting a couple inches apart on a couch ever did.

“Are you gonna sleep?” he asked–quiet, but not in a whisper.

“Not sure,” Fiddleford sighed. “Not for a minute.”

“…are you sure nothing happened?”

Fiddleford said nothing for a long moment. “Dunno. Just haven’t been gettin’ good rest. Got shit rest last night too. I…just wanted a change, for once.”

Ford didn’t know what anything like that meant, but he nodded anyway. 

They were silent for a long moment–somewhere between a few minutes and an eternity, Ford predicted–but the things nagging at him in the back of his head made him curious, and as always did, he let it get the best of him.

“Fidds?”

“…hm…?”

“Where’s your wife at?”

Another bout of silence overcame them. “Ford, ya gotta promise me you wouldn’t say a single word to nobody about it.”

“I think you overestimate the amount of people I’m inclined to–”

“Ford.”

Ford snapped his mouth shut tight before speaking again. “…okay, I promise.”

Fiddleford sighed, and from the corner of his vision, Ford watched him run a hand through his curly blonde hair again. “She’s not exactly on a business trip right now. We…well, we needed a break. From each other. Big fight happened a couple’a weeks back. She went to clear her head and I said I’d take care of Tate.”

A fight. “I–you two need that much space? Because of a fight?”

“It ain’t the first fight, Ford,” Fiddleford hissed. “Things haven’t been good. Not for a hot minute.”

He wasn’t sure what to say for a moment. “…Fidds?”

“Yeah?”

“Does she know I’m here right now?”

The silence answered better than anything could.

Ford sat up at that, flipping over to look down at Fiddleford from across the bed. “Fiddleford.”

“I–Look, I know it’d be better to have told her, but–”

“So that’s why it was a letter? So she wouldn’t have the chance to hear you talking about it over the phone?”

Fiddleford held his face in his hands, pressing his head back into the pillow. “I–I just can’t be dealin’ with that right now, alright? She was gonna go off and get all sad ‘n upset cause I called up someone to come visit the minute she went off and left. I can’t deal with it. Isn’t it just easier–it’s just easier not to tell her. Nobody’s gotta be upset over nothin’. And I–I just–” The hands came off his face, revealing his knotted eyebrows and deepening grimace. “I couldn’ta handled it here alone, not when–” he looked toward Ford. Ford felt his face grow hot, unsure of what to feel or even expect at this rate. “…I just needed somethin’ comfortable.”

Ford wondered if it might’ve made him a better sort of person to insist he leave early tomorrow instead of saying until the end, wondered if he would’ve maybe been more moral to say none of that rationalization made it fine, he wanted no part in that thank you very much; but there was no greater drug then being needed, so he sunk back into the sheets and let himself stay.

“I never really thought of myself as comfortable.”

Fiddleford chuckled a little bit at that. Ford found it still sounded like song. “Well, not to make your head any bigger than it already is, but I reckon you’re the only person who ever understood me.”

Ford thought that might be it for a moment, but Fiddleford was inching just a little closer in small increments, as if it was his turn to wish Ford was in his reach. Ford pretended he didn't notice at first, before finally looking over, his wide eyes meeting the blurry visage of Fiddleford. “What are you doing?”

“It’s cold in here.” It was a horrible lie. It was quite fine in the room, under the sheets–in fact, it was a little bit hot at this point, with the shared body warmth, but Ford found himself nodding in agreement anyways. And so it was too cold, and that was why Fiddleford Mcgucket ended up illogically close, illogically only a few inches away, illogically in reach–under that pretense, it could be allowed to make sense. Fiddleford reached over hesitantly, asking silent permission to replace the ghost that had been clutching to Ford’s back since last night, and he nodded without another thought. And if Ford felt a shiver run through him as Fiddleford held him, then that was because of the cold too–save the fact that his whole body felt warmer and more shaky then ever.

And he realized then, as he let Fiddleford crane his head to rest on Ford’s chest, that the issue with this whole damn room was that it had been so devoid of him from the moment he got here, not even spared the presence of his personality in decoration. And perhaps it was okay that it was cut off from the rest of the world, existing in its own vacuum, then nobody would ever have to see how tightly Ford held onto the other man, how he quietly stroked the blonde curls that bloomed on his head, and nobody would need to know how deeply his heart longed to hold on forever.

“Don’t say nothin’ about this in the morning,” Fiddleford whispered, his voice thick with what sounded like tears Ford knew better than anyone he wouldn’t let himself shed. He felt his warm breath through his flannel pajamas. 

He thought if he spoke, he might betray himself and confess something he shouldn't. So he opted for nodding, and remained silent until he fell asleep.

The roads were quiet the next day, a surprisingly little amount of traffic flowing through Palo Alto as Fiddleford steered the car towards the babysitter’s house. 

He’d informed Ford as they buckled in that this was a family friend with a child of their own, and Tate seemed to be excited to play with them from the way he was kicking his legs and occasionally blabbering something that Ford only half listened to. Ford tried to focus on the road as it flew by the passenger seat window as they drove, but it was getting quite hard to not think about the night prior. Fiddleford had disappeared when he woke up late for the second time this stay, so Ford had almost convinced himself it had been all his imagination.

(He really would’ve been, if it weren’t for the look Fiddleford spared him that morning, like he had both hung up the moon and killed a man; and with that, Ford couldn’t be more positive it had happened.)

Fiddleford did not let the two worlds collide this time, leaving Ford in the car as he took Tate to the front door. The woman who answered did not look over to his car, did not see Ford in the passenger's seat, and when Fiddleford reentered Ford could’ve sworn it was like they crossed into a different plane of existence.

Fiddleford grinned as he shifted the car into reverse. “I was thinkin’ a bit when I was constructifyin’ Tater tot some breakfast, and I remembered there was this ice cream parlor down near the beach we’re headed to. I figured I’d ask if you wanted some on the way there?”

“Is that even a question?” Ford said wryly, scoring another laugh out of Fiddleford. At this point, he was beginning to think it was nothing like music. It was uneven and elated and cut through the air like a saw. No–it didn’t deserve that descriptor. It was far better than music. 

The radio was on–blasting bluegrass, of course. Fiddleford was singing along loudly, as if something had been lifted off his shoulders and he could finally be free. The sound of his subpar singing talent made Ford feel a similar kind of carefree energy, letting him feel free to hum along to the songs he remembered from the records Fiddleford managed to snag back in their shared dorm. They’d spent the whole of freshman year saving up for a record player–it now sat in Ford’s thinking parlor for hours when he felt tired enough to admit it was just a normal living room.

Some song neither of them cared too much for came on, leaving the car in a comfortable almost-silence for a moment, before Fiddleford turned to smile at Ford. “Feels like a good long while since we went on any sorta road trip!”

Ford nodded. “Sure does. You remember when we drove all the way to that amusement park in Missouri over summer break?”

“Sure do! You kept on complainin’ about your damn knees the whole way there even though I was the one drivin’.”

Ford scoffed. “And yet you threw up on the first roller coaster.”

“We’d just had some taters! How was I supposed to not?”

“We’d spent 45 whole minutes at the blacksmith shop, Fidds. I’m sure that’s plenty of time to digest.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “What do you know?”

“A lot, actually.”

“Okay, Dr. Pines. I’m drivin’ the car and can crash it if I so please.”

Ford couldn’t stop himself from snickering, his laughter picking up as he watched Fiddleford miserably attempt to keep his face in a scowl while his clear amusement fought tooth and nail against him.

“We maybe should’ve gone down to Missouri more often in college,” Ford mused. “Or Oklahoma. We could’ve managed a couple more day trips.”

“Can’t argue there. It was boring as hell in that town. Only one good barbeque.”

“Can’t have shit in Arkansas.”

Fiddleford nodded gravely. “Can’t have shit in Arkansas.”

Ford watched his friend quietly as he steered the wheel, turning up the radio again as another favorite came on. He looked so carefree, his shoulders loose and his blue eyes a pool of shining enthusiasm. Ford wondered rather indulgently if he had helped at all to make this a reality the night before.

(Though he pushed away this thinking rather quickly–it would be a little too indulgent to believe that he was that important just the way he was.)

It wasn’t long before they pulled up to the parlor, the name Marianne’s Ice Cream accompanied by the location just below it, informing him that they’d gone from Palo Alto to Santa Cruz in the time they’d driven. The place was rather jam-packed, but the line was reasonable. They loaded out of the car and went inside together. Somehow, despite crossing back into society, Ford could almost still imagine they existed within their own pocket dimension.

“My old man never liked going to these places,” Ford said, leaning in so Fiddleford could hear him better. “Said there were too many teenagers.”

Fiddleford snickered. “That fella always seemed like an odd one.”

“He certainly had his quirks.”

“Pa always said we should be makin’ this stuff ourselves with the fresh cow milk, the way real Americans did it,” Fiddleford mused, tapping his chin. “Don’t think he quite realized none’a us even knew how to go about it. My brothers always just ended up drivin’ up to the shop when he was busy. Snuck me a cone once. Pa caught ‘em one time–they were pickin’ weeds for 2 weeks straight after that. I used’ta think it was ‘cause he hated the stuff, but really they were just pickin’ outta his wallet whenever they bought some.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Yeah, well, they’re real boring these days,” Fiddleford drawled, examining the flavors posed. “Two of them were at the wedding. You remember the guy who spilled punch everywhere at the afterparty?”

Ford could remember little to nothing about the afterparty but the bottom of a cup and the taste of whiskey hanging wet in his mouth. “Yup.”

“That was Bramblejohn. He always drove the car.”

“Damn.”

The subject changed to getting their ice cream soon after that, to Ford’s relief, leaving Fiddleford with a scoop of strawberry while Ford licked at his chocolate.

“Surprising so many people are here in the fall,” Ford noted.

“Sure is!” Fiddleford chirped, opening his mouth wide before taking a huge bite out of his ice cream.

Ford stared. “I always forget you do that.”

“Do what?” His voice was muffled by the ice cream in his mouth. Ford could only laugh.

Their desserts lasted a short amount of time, leaving them walking back to the car and chattering about whatever nonsense came to mind. The beach wasn’t long from there–before he knew it, Fiddleford was off buying them both entry passes–he insisted he pay for Ford as well despite his protests.

Ford hadn’t expected a walk, but was pleasantly surprised when Fiddleford guided him to the trailhead. “It ain’t too far from here, so don’t worry none. ‘Round this time of year we get a couple of monarchs. Ya might see ‘em.”

Ford perked up. “Monarchs, huh?”

He barely registered the nod that fiddleford gave him, suddenly very caught up in a search for the insects wherever they might be. He’d always had a certain fascination for bugs–particularly the winged kind, always looking through the books at the library that contained diagrams of their wings. His sketchbooks had quickly filled with them in their pages. He felt a pang of disappointment he’d forgotten his today.

A flash of orange caught itself within his peripheral vision after a few minutes of looking around, causing his head to dart instantaneously to the side. His vision caught upon a rather large set of wings, covered in a vivid shade of orange with webs of black and white dots. It was the only one in sight, landing with a flutter onto a nearby tree.

Fiddleford sighed as he watched Ford inch slowly nearer to it, careful not to scare it away as he traced its every feature with his eyes. “Ford, I’m beggin’ you not to keep us here too long looking at that thing. This cooler is heavy as all hell.”

Ford mumbled something about only needing a minute, waving the concerns off with a halfhearted gesture. He did not move for about five minutes, and only was coaxed back into walking when Fiddleford grabbed him by the arm and began dragging him down the path. Ford would have complained, but the moment his eyes landed themselves upon the view, the thought dissipated in a puff of smoke.

The ocean glittered in the sunlight, just as cerulean and wide as Ford remembered it. The place was barely occupied, only a few other visitors poking around the arches of stone. There were two of them, wide and mighty and tall, stretching over the water like towers. Ford gawked at them from afar, his eyes mapping out every inch he could see.

“Woah,” was all he mustered.

Fiddleford was grinning at the look on his face. “Cool, yeah? The novelty’s worn off on me a little by now.”

He grinned back, eyes lit up. “Glass Shard Beach is put to shame next to this.”

“I can imagine. Something called ‘glass shard’ anythin’ sounds like an instant letdown.”

Ford rolled his eyes before allowing them to scan elsewhere, turning away from the stone monoliths.

“Oh, I know what’ll get ya excited!” Fiddleford declared. “Come lookie here, they got tide pools all ‘round over here.”

As if he couldn’t perk up more already, Ford’s eyes glittered as he trailed behind Fiddleford, trying to get a good eye of what was up ahead of them.

It was of no disappointment. He let out a small gasp as he crouched over the small pockets of water. Small creatures dotted the insides like scarce splotches of color, a tiny little world of life inside a liquid looking glass. 

“Pretty cool, yeah?” Fiddleford asked. When Ford looked up, he felt his face go a little hot, the sun behind Fiddleford framing him with a ring of light.

“Certainly,” he said, the excitement in his voice so potent one might taste it. He beamed, shooting up on his feet to crouch over the next nearby one, scanning for its contents.

“I reckon we’ll be here till sundown, then?” It was a joke, but Ford almost had enough heartlessness to doom Fiddleford to the answer of yes.

He had no idea how much time was spent examining the tide pools, but even by the time they began their trek to the arches Ford felt he could’ve spent hours longer there eying for signs of life. The arcs themselves were nothing to scoff at either, impressive in every sense.

“Hold on, I brought my polaroid camera,” Fiddleford said, digging through his backpack.

Ford arched a brow. “That old thing?”

“Works good as it always did!” Fiddleford whipped it out, looking the old thing up and down before looking back at him. “Back up for me. I want you in front of ‘em.”

Ford felt himself become a little sheepish at the attention, but he did as he was told nonetheless, hanging onto each instruction Fiddleford gave for his positioning. Eventually, Fiddleford became satisfied, nodding accomplishedly at him as the unfinished photo spilled from the camera’s printer. The other man held it securely, looking it over like it was worth millions.

After a while spent exploring and chattering and laughing, the two finally settled down, the cooler Fiddleford had hauled in his bag open and between them.

“Here,” Fiddleford said, handing Ford a bottle from it he hadn’t yet seen.

“I thought the cooler was for water,” Ford said, raising a brow.

“Well, if you wanna take a reach, in all technicality it is water,” Fiddleford said, giving him a sly look. “Just with some meaningless additions to it.”

“Uh–huh,” Ford said skeptically. Nonetheless, after a moment of eying the bottle in deep thought, he popped the beer open and took an introductory swig. The taste was as horrendous as he remembered.

Fiddleford snickered. “The look on your face is always so funny when you drink.”

Ford jabbed him with his elbow. “You shut up.”

They sipped from their bottles in silence for a long moment, drinking in the surroundings in a momentary silence. The air grew thick with it fast, and Ford was left to silently think about how their arms were pressed together, their heat mingling with the contact. Fiddleford was so much colder than he was. He thought of heat transfer–if Fiddleford was capable of giving so much warmth in the mundane sort of way, maybe the heat from Ford’s skin coursing into Fiddleford’s body was at least some semblance of repayment for all the taking Ford had been doing.

(He thought of how right it felt too, just to be peacefully so close to one another–and wondered if Fiddleford found that too, or if he was thinking of someone with longer curly brown hair then he had.)

“Ya ever think of what comes after that research of yours?” Fiddleford asked after a moment, fidgeting with his half-empty bottle.

Ford blinked, turning a little to meet Fiddleford’s eyes. Their faces were incredibly close. “I…don’t know. I guess maybe I’d go back to New Jersey.”

Fiddleford snorted. “Really?”

Ford sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, I know, I know. Just for a little while. To figure out where I go from there.”

“Ya ever think of settlin’ down with a little tyke or two?”

Ford could only scoff. “I think we both know that’s not a possibility.”

“Hey, I could do it!” Fiddleford said, nudging him. “So can you!”

But the thing is, Ford thought, closing his eyes for a moment. I never really wanted to be normal like you did. I thought you were the same.

Fiddleford whistled. “Well, you’re always welcome down here, ya know. You could figure yourself out here.”

Ford was quiet for a long moment, silence and the sound of waves droning on like white noise. “I don’t think I belong here, Fiddleford.”

Fiddleford turned to look at him with a startled expression. “What?”

He didn’t know what else to say, just fixing Fiddleford with a resigned look on his face, eyebrows arched in a tired kind of sadness. Fiddleford looked conflicted for a moment, but he seemed to understand what he meant soon enough, looking back at the ocean.

“Do you think you belong here, Fidds?”

“I like it here,” he said. He tapped his bottle against his leg. “I make due with fittin’ right in. Neighbors like me. I like them.” 

Ford looked away, biting his lip from the inside. He took another swig despite some kind of sickness trying to deter him from it.

“But,” Fiddleford said, sighing as he did the same. “…honestly, no. Some days I don’t think I ever really belonged anywhere.”

Ford stared at his friend for a long moment, something like empathy passing onto his expression, before tilting his head up toward the darkening sky.

“Fidds?”

“M–hm?”

“I think you’re the only person who ever understood me, too.”

If Fiddleford felt offended that Ford broke his promise not to bring anything from that night up in the morning, or even if he considered that a form of that, then he didn’t say, opting to slump on Ford’s shoulder instead as he fit his skull into the crook of it.

Intimate was the word for the feeling that draped over the air, Ford found. Maybe it had been that the whole time. 

Yet, at the same time, it was a trap. They could never truly be close enough–not for Ford, not the way it was, when things would revert back to the way they were so soon. It was borrowed time–mourned before death, minutes numbered.

His heart ached. His eyes felt raw with the urge to cry, but he shut the tears out, never letting them pass. If only they really had existed on some other plane, then maybe Fiddleford wouldn’t try so hard to shove himself where he didn’t belong the way he’d shoved Ford in the whole time he’d been here. Maybe they’d both belong there. Maybe then, Ford wouldn’t have to stay on that barrier, longing for more than he’d ever have the opportunity to grasp for.

I missed you, he wanted to say. So much. But he didn’t know how to. His mouth hung limply, then closed–the words lost on the breeze forever.

“You’ll call when you get home, yeah?” Fiddleford asked. “I wanna make sure ya didn’t get eaten by wolves."

“Yes, Fiddleford. As I said before, the last ten times you asked.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “I’ll be, a man can’t be concerned for his friend anymore!”

Ford was standing quite awkwardly in front of his car door, knowing it was more than time to get inside, but feeling the strong urge to stay in place. Maybe try and convince himself that Fiddleford was right to have him here, just so the man could give him the illusion he fit for a while longer.

The more selfish temptation lay within him to ask him to come back with him–maybe just to think about it, maybe just to remember the offer, maybe a full throttle I can’t go back there without you anymore. I think I need you here.

But even though he hung on the words of his friend earlier, wanting so badly to show him somewhere maybe he’d feel at home too, he opted to spread his arms out instead, asking silent permission.

Fiddleford granted it near immediately, slamming into him with a startling hug. It was tight and desperate. Enough so that Ford wondered if he asked, if Fiddleford would come with him.

But the hug wasn’t minutes long, or even a whole night’s rest–it ended moments after it began. And the ghost of the feeling hung heavier than ever.

“Take care,” Fiddleford said. “Please.” And that was his cue to open the door.

“You too, Fidds.” And that was his cue to get inside.

They waved as Ford revved up the car, awkwardly with a kind of anticlimacticness that Ford almost laughed at. He figured if he did, it might sound a little hysterical. Fiddleford watched him carefully as he backed out of the driveway, positioning his car to ride home at last, never taking his eyes off him while Ford could still see him, creeping forever out of reach. He looked back, wondering if he could see the sort of miserable desperation in his eyes.

I love you, his heart chanted. It was completely lost behind the noise of the engine.

When he looked one more time out the rearview mirror, Fiddleford had already gone back inside.