Chapter Text
“Alright, hon. Yep, I’ll see you in an hour….No, no, you’ll be fine!...I love you….Mm-hm. Bye.”
Fiddleford hung up his phone. “Now that that’s settled….”
It was about eight in the evening in November. The sky was dark and a couple stars glittered above the Yours and Mine Cafe, where the young college student worked.
“I’ll see ya, Annie,” he said, waving to his boss as he hung up his apron and shrugged his grey felt coat on over his dark grey polo.
“Bye, Fidds,” she replied with a smile.
The door chimed happily as it swung open, then closed.
He began to head home to his apartment on the other side of the campus, already excited to see his boyfriend, maybe play some first-person shooter games together. The college student was halfway home when he saw something unusual: a homeless man on the sidewalk. He sat there miserably, holding a rain-stained cardboard sign that read, “PLEASE GIVE MONEY FOR FOOD AND GAS.” A battered baseball cap sat beside him with a couple quarters sitting forlornly inside.
The southerner took one glance at him and said, “I don’t have much money on me right now, but if you want, I can get ya somethin’ to eat.”
The hobo looked up at him with wide, hungry, shadowed eyes. “Please?” His voice was hoarse. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, poor guy. Looked kinda like Ford.
Fiddleford gave the man a tight smile before running off again. He headed straight for the pizza place around the corner and paid for two huge slices, then returned to the hobo. “Here you are,” he said cheerily, sitting down beside him. He tried to ignore how badly he smelled.
“Oh, my god,” the homeless guy breathed, and began to inhale the food.
“Hey, now, careful there,” Fiddleford warned with a laugh. “Don’t want to throw it up. Slow down, hon.”
The man looked back up at him again, then nodded and slowed down.
“That’s it. You new here?”
A nod.
“Got shelter?”
Another nod.
“Good. I’ve gotta go, but be here tomorrow, okay?” Fiddleford stood up.
Yet another nod. He finished the first slice.
“Name’s Fiddleford,” the southerner added, sticking out a hand.
“Stan.” The man grasped it. He had a good handshake.
“Alright, Stan. I’ll see ya tomorrow!” Fiddleford turned and walked the rest of the way home, feeling light but surprisingly heavy.
*
Ding. The little bell above the door chimed as Fiddleford walked into the Y and M the next day at precisely 10:50 am. “Morning, Annabelle!” he called to a chubby, grinning woman behind the counter.
Annabelle Fukui was always grinning. Her round face seemed to light up the whole atmosphere of the small golden-lit cafe. Her pink-painted nails always managed to find their way around a donut or a cookie while she worked, but nobody ever bothered to tell her to stop. “She’s Annabelle, ” somebody would reply if the fact was pointed out. That statement always seemed to end an argument.
Sometimes, a customer would be able to meet her parents--her mother, ginger and plump and cheery, and her father, short and thin and dark-haired, who only spoke in Japanese. There was a rumor that Annabelle was just a “man in drag,” but everyone at the cafe assured these customers that she was, in fact, a woman. Perhaps not a... typical woman, but a woman nonetheless.
“Good morning, Fidds!” she replied. “How are you?”
“Wonderful, thank you. Many customers this morning?”
“As always,” she chuckled. “But not your boyfriend yet.”
“I think he’s in his Physics II class today. It’s his only morning class this week.”
“Sounds like him. Put on your apron and get back here, we’ve got people to serve.”
A few hours later, when Fiddleford was on break, he took a step outside to smoke and look for Stan. He wasn’t there--perhaps he was somewhere else in town? Yes, that would make sense, he decided. No need to worry.
He didn’t show up that day, or the next. Fiddleford was starting to get worried. His boyfriend didn’t understand, but he hadn’t seen Stan that first time. Didn’t see the haunted look in his eyes, didn’t see the sharp cheekbones under the stubble-grey skin, didn’t see the desperate glee that covered his face when he was offered a meal.
Then, finally, he was there again. Filled with an immense relief when he saw the homeless man, Fiddleford grinned and walked over. “Stan! How’ve you been?”
Stan looked up at Fiddleford, and the color drained from the southerner’s face. “Oh, my lord,” he breathed, “you look--” he stopped himself. It would probably be rude to say ‘you look like shit.’ “I mean, hey. Do you want...I can see if we still have the dregs from the homebrew back at the coffee shop. You look like you could use some caffeine.”
Stan nodded.
“Alright. I’ll be right back. Don’t you go anywhere, alright?”
Stan nodded, and Fiddleford ran.
“Annie! Annie, we still got some homebrew left?”
The girl turned to Fiddleford. Her almond-shaped eyes reflected the sunlight even as they crinkled up to smile at him. “I think so, why?”
“I found a man in need of some help. I thought some coffee would warm him up. It’s November, Annie.”
“Of course. Fidds, you’re too good for this world.” His coworker turned and poured the last of the homebrew into a cup, dumped a sugar packet in, and stuck a lid on top before handing it to Fiddleford with her pudgy, pink-taloned hands. “Here you are, hon,” she grinned. “Then you better get home, Stanford must be getting impatient.”
Fiddleford couldn’t help but smile at the mention of his boyfriend’s name. “I bet he is. Thank you so much, Annie, you’re a wonderful help.”
“No problem. Now get outta here.” She waved him towards the door. “I’ve gotta close up the Y and M.”
“Okay--bye,” Fiddleford called as he walked out the door.
Once he was outside, he walked briskly back to where Stan still sat, shivering slightly. “Here you are,” Fiddleford said gently, holding out the cup for the man.
Stan looked at the pink-and-blue cup like it was manna from heaven. “Thanks,” he mumbled before taking a huge sip. He sighed with happiness and closed his eyes.
Fiddleford sat down next to Stan again and folded his long legs, so nobody would trip on them. He didn’t look at Stan. “So,” he said after a moment, “got any family I can call?”
“Nope.”
“None at all?”
A pause. “Not sure I can call them family anymore is all.”
“Ah.” A long silence. “You wanna come live with me? I’ve got space in my apartment.”
Stan cringed. “Nah. I’m fine.”
Fiddleford shrugged. He wasn’t about to pressure Stan into something he wasn’t comfortable with. “Alright.” He checked his phone. “Would you look at the time! I have to go, my boyfriend was expecting me ten minutes ago, but I figured I could spend some time chatting. Have a nice day!”
“You too, man,” Stan replied with a half-smile. He nursed his coffee. “And thanks again.”
“My pleasure.” Fiddleford waved and continued his trip home.
*
It was an entire week later when Fiddleford next saw Stan.
It was bad. It was...really bad. That chilly, rainy day, Stan actually stumbled into the Y and M in the middle of Fiddleford’s shift, ignored the protests of customer and staff alike, and headed straight to where Fiddleford stood at the counter. “F...Fiddleford,” Stan gasped. “I...help.”
He collapsed, unable to stand.
Fiddleford darted out from behind the counter. “Stan! Stan, are you awake? Stan, stay with me. Come on, let’s get up...what happened to your coat? Your shoes? Oh, dear lord you’re soaking wet….” He took Stan’s arm and looped it over his shoulders, then hoisted the man up. He was entirely too light. The barista noticed a large blotch of blood on Stan’s left leg, and another on his belly. He tried to ignore the one on the seat of Stan’s threadbare jeans. “You’re coming home with me right now,” he said. “Annie! I’ve gotta get this guy some help!”
“Do what you need to do, sweetie,” she replied, her eyes wide. “I’ll get Seth to cover for you.”
“Thanks so much.” The pair staggered out the door and into the rain. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Fiddleford kept saying, “I wish you didn’t have to walk in the rain like this, I’m sorry….”
Stan groaned. “‘S okay. Had...worse.”
“Stan...what happened to you?”
Fiddleford felt the man’s entire body tense and stumble forward. “Accident, ‘sall,” Stan mumbled. It wasn’t very convincing.
“All...alright.”
They kept going. The rain poured down. Stan’s movements grew weaker. Fiddleford’s body wearied. “Almost there. Come on, you can do it,” he muttered, half to Stan and half to himself.
When he finally found himself at the door to the apartment complex, he sighed in relief. “Okay. We can take an elevator up to my floor. Let’s go.”
Inside the elevator, Stan sagged against one wall and Fiddleford the other. “‘M sorry,” Stan muttered after a period filled only with their frigid, panting breaths. “Shouldn’t have...disturbed things like that.”
“You’re fine.”
Ding. “Now let’s get you warmed up and dried off, and take care of all that blood.” He gave a tentative smile, and Stan responded by slinging his arm over his friend’s shoulders again and making a massive effort to support himself as they maneuvered towards Fiddleford’s door. It wasn’t locked, so the southerner just stepped inside.
Stan collapsed in the nearest chair, panting hard. “Hurts….”
“I know. Let’s take care of those wet clothes first.”
“No….”
“Relax. They’re old anyway. I can lend you some of my boyfriend’s stuff, you’re about the same build. You can get out of that stuff, then I’ll take care of where it’s bleeding and you can take a bath and a nap.”
Stan stubbornly shook his head. “Don’t want you to see me….”
Fiddleford frowned. It seems I have to call for backup. “Give me a sec, hon, I’ll be right back.”
He walked into the next room, fished his phone from his pocket, and dialed his boyfriend. “Hello? Stanford Pines.”
“Darlin’? We’ve got a bleedin’ hobo here who looks just like you. Could you come help, please? He won’t listen to me.”
“Hey, you’re better than me at talking to people...what do you mean, ‘looks just like you’?”
“I mean, his face is almost the same as yours!”
He heard his boyfriend gasp, then the phone dropped to the floor with a clatter and a burst of static. “Ford?”
Distantly, he could hear Ford exclaim, “Stanley!”
*
You’re better than me at talking to people, Ford had said. Well, Fiddleford sure hoped that was true. He had several minutes before Ford could make it over there, so instead, he walked back out into his tiny living area where Stan still sat, shivering and wet, on a small blue loveseat. “Stan,” he said as gently as he could, crouching a little so he didn’t loom over the homeless man too much. “Stan, I need you to get out of your clothing. You could get sick--sicker than you are--and I need to assess the damage done to your body.”
Stan actually cracked a smile. “You sound just like my brother. A nerd.”
Fiddleford returned the smile weakly. “I think you’d like my boyfriend, then, if you like ‘nerdy’ talk. He’s somethin’.”
“Oh, really? What’s ‘is name?”
“Stanford, but he wanted me to call him Ford. It’s funny, ‘cause that’s the nickname I used to go by. I offered to call him Stan, but he wasn’t very comfortable with that. So I compromised. Calls me ‘Fidds’.”
“S-Stanford? Stanford Pines? ”
“Y-yes. Do you know each other?”
Stan laughed harshly. “Know each other? We’re brothers! Twins, actually. Or...we were, at least.”
Fiddleford’s mouth dropped open. “Twins--how did I not think of that?”
“‘Cause it was unlikely we’d turn up together here, and you didn’t want to think about Ford’s brother being a hobo who couldn’t even ask him for help.”
“W-why--”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Alright...do you want to get a bath first?” Fiddleford decided a subject change was in order.
A small smile. “Yeah. That sounds amazing.”
“Bathroom’s through there.” Fiddleford pointed down a short, dim hallway. “Need help?”
“Uh...yeah. Just to get there. I can handle it from there.”
“Okay.” Supporting Stan, the pair managed to sloppily make it to the bathroom. “Shout if you need anything, alright?”
“Gotcha.” Stan flashed an obviously-fake grin and shut the door.
Fiddleford waited tensely on his little loveseat for his boyfriend to arrive. “C’mon, hon,” he muttered, taking off his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose wearily. “I can’t do this without ya.”
As if on cue, the door burst open and there stood Ford, panting, dripping wet, and frantic. “What happened?” he gasped, leaning against the doorframe. “Is it...Stanley?”
“I don’t know. He wants me to call ‘im Stan. He’s skinny as a straw and fell over like a newborn colt when he came into the Y and M. Poor fella’s been through...well, a lot, I think.”
Ford’s face went very pale and very drawn. He sunk slowly into the seat next to Fiddleford and looked down at his six-fingered hands. “My brother was kicked out of the house two years ago for sabotaging my way to West Coast Tech. He did this to himself. It wouldn’t be like this if he wasn’t so...selfish.” He sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
Fiddleford stretched out a hand to touch Ford’s dripping shoulder but decided against it. “We’ll work this out,” he said instead.
They heard the shower start, the sound of water not masking the immediate, quiet noises of somebody crying but trying to hide it. Ford crumpled. “Oh, God,” he whimpered.
Fiddleford decided now was the time to gather his boyfriend into his arms and hold him, so he did, rocking back and forth and making quiet shushing noises to still Ford’s sniffling sobs. He considered telling Ford about his day in the Y and M to keep his mind off of his twin, but decided that would be insensitive. So instead he asked quietly, “Do you think you’ll be able to handle seeing him?”
His boyfriend cringed. “I don’t know.”
The shower kept running. The apartment was quiet. Everything felt a little chilly, even though Fiddleford had the heat on way higher than his bill normally permitted. It was like the two brothers had created a frigid atmosphere at the moment of their reconvergence. Fiddleford shivered a little. Twins were a scientific oddity he never wanted to study.
The moment the water stopped, Ford’s entire body tensed. He sat there rigidly, half-propped up by Fiddleford who watched the bathroom door.
When it swung open, a cloud of steam curled out like the tendrils of some ghostly eldritch beast. “Hey, uh, Fiddlesticks,” Stan’s voice said, “I need a little help.”
“Wait here,” Fiddleford whispered to his boyfriend before getting up. An arm was slung over his shoulder and then the pair staggered out into the hall. “Were you okay in there?” he muttered to Stan. “You took a long time.”
“Eh,” Stan replied easily, “tryin’ to take a shower with only one leg, and that one’s shakin’ somethin awful...not exactly the easiest way to go about things.”
Fiddleford nodded. “He’s here,” he added quietly, stopping before the end of the hallway. “Just thought I’d warn ya. He’s not...taking it very well, either.” The southerner reached up his free hand to rub at the bridge of his long nose. “You sure you can do this?”
“Yeah, sure,” Stan smiled. He didn’t meet his friend’s eyes. “How bad can a reunion be?”
“Pretty bad,” Fiddleford muttered before taking the first step into the miniature living room.
And Stan froze. Fiddleford looked up to see the man staring at his twin brother like...well, like he’d just found his long-estranged twin brother. “Stanford?” Stan finally managed to say.
Fiddleford’s eyes flicked to his boyfriend.
“S-Stanley,” Ford choked. “Stanley, what--you’re hurt, you’re...so thin, are you...what happened?” His head dropped to his chest. “What did I do?”
Stan wrenched himself out of Fiddleford’s grip and stumbled over to his brother, flinging himself beside the college student. “Ford, Stanford, it’s not your fault,” he said with a half-smile. “I knew you’d blame yourself, though, you drama queen.” He flung his arms around his brother. “I’m just...glad I found you before something really crazy happened.”
“But something really crazy did happen!” Ford wailed. “Look at you! You’re bleeding out onto Fidds’ couch!” He paused, then his eyes grew very large. “Stanley, you’re bleeding out onto Fidds’ couch.” He stretched out a hand.
“Oh, sorry, I don’t want to stain--” Stan began, standing up.
Standing up too fast.
Falling over.
“Stanley? Stanley!”
Ford knelt beside his twin, shaking his shoulder, and trying to hold back the tears that started when his brother didn’t respond.
His brother didn’t respond.